The next day was such a Sunday as had never been passed in the Hewan
before. Mrs Ogilvy did not go to church: consequently Sandy was not
taken out of the stable, nor was there any of the usual cheerful bustle
of the Sunday morning, the little commotion of the best gown, the best
bonnet, the lace veil taken out of their drawers among the lavender.
Nobody but Mrs Ogilvy continued to wear a lace veil: but her old, softly
tinted countenance in the half mask of a piece of net caught upon the
nose, as was once the fashion, or on the chin, as is the fashion now,
would have been an impossible thing. Her long veil hung softly from her
bonnet behind it or above it. It could cover her face when there was
need; but there never was any reason why she should cover her face. Her
faithful servants admired her very much in her Sunday attire. Janet,
though she was so hot a churchwoman, was not much of a churchgoer.
Somebody, she said, had to stay at home to look after the house and the
dinner, even when it was a cold dinner: and to see the mistress sit down
without even a hot potatie, was more than she could consent to: so
except on great occasions she remained at home, and Andrew put a mark in
his Bible at the text, and told her as much as he could remember of the
discourse. It was a “ploy” for Janet to come out to the door into the
still and genial sunshine on Sunday morning, and see the little
pony-carriage come round, all its polished surfaces shining, and Sandy
tossing his head till every bit of the silver on his harness twinkled in
the sun, and Andrew, all in his best, bringing him up with a little dash
at the door. And then Mrs Ogilvy would come out, not unconscious and not
displeased that the old servants were watching for her, and that the
sight of her modest finery was a “ploy” to Janet, who had so few ploys.
She would pin a rose on her breast when it was the time of roses, and
take a pair of grey gloves out of her drawer, to give them pleasure,
with a tender feeling that made the little vanity sweet. The grey gloves
were, indeed, her only little adornment, breaking the monotony of the
black which she always wore; but Janet loved the lustre of the best
black silk, and to stroke it with her hand as she arranged it in the
carriage, loath to cover up its sheen with the wrapper which was
necessary to protect it from the dust. Nothing of all this occurred on
the dull morning of this strange Sabbath, which, as if in sympathy, was
grey and cheerless--the sky without colour, the landscape without
sunshine. Mrs Ogilvy came out to the door to speak to Andrew as he
ploughed across the gravel with discontented looks--for to walk in to
the kirk did not please the factotum, who generally drove. She called
him to her, standing on the doorstep drawing her white shawl round her
as if she had taken a chill. “Andrew,” she said, “I know you are not a
gossip; but it’s a great event my son coming home. I would have you say
little about it to-day, for it would bring a crowd of visitors, and
perhaps some even on the Sabbath: and Mr Robert is tired, and not caring
to see visitors. He must just have a day or two to rest before everybody
knows.”
“I’m no a man,” said Andrew, a little sullen, “for clashes and clavers:
you had better, mem, say a word to the wife.” Andrew was conscious that
in his prowl for victuals the night before he had spread the news of
Ogilvy’s return,--“and nae mair comfort to his mother nor ever, or I am
sair mistaen”--far and wide.
“Whatever you do,” Mrs Ogilvy said, a little subdued by Andrew’s looks,
“do not say anything to the minister’s man.”
She went back, and sat down in her usual place between the window and
the fireplace. The room was full of flowers, gathered fresh for Sunday;
and the Bible lay on the little table, the knitting and the newspapers
being carefully cleared away. She took the book and opened it, or rather
it opened of itself, at those chapters in St John’s Gospel which are the
dearest to the sorrowful. She opened it, but she did not read it. She
had no need. She knew every word by heart, as no one could do by any
mere effort of memory: but only by many, many readings, long penetration
of the soul by that stream of consolation. It did her a little good to
have the book open by her side: but she did not need it--and, indeed,
the sacred words were mingled unconsciously by many a broken prayer and
musing of her own. She had gone to her son’s room, to the door, many
times since she parted with him the night before; but had heard no
sound, and, hovering there on the threshold, had been afraid to go in,
as she so longed to do. What mother would not, after so long an absence,
steal in to say again good-night--to see that all was comfortable,
plenty of covering on the bed, not too much, just what he wanted; or
again, in the morning, to see how he had slept, to recognise his dear
face by the morning light, to say God bless him, and God bless him the
first morning as the first night of his return? But Mrs Ogilvy was
afraid. She went and stood outside the door, trembling, but she had not
the courage to go in. She felt that it might anger him--that it might
annoy him--that he would not like it. He had been a long time away. He
had grown a man almost middle-aged, with none of the habits or even
recollections of a boy. He would not like her to go near him--to touch
him. With a profound humility of which she was not conscious, she
explained to herself that this was after all “very natural.” A man
within sight of forty (she counted his age to a day--he was
thirty-seven) had forgotten, being long parted from them, the ways of a
mother. He had maybe, she said to herself with a shudder, known--other
kinds of women. She had no right to be pained by it--to make a grievance
of it. Oh no, no grievance: it was “very natural.” If she went into the
parlour, where she always sat in the morning, she would hear him when he
began to move: for that room was over this. Meantime, what could she do
better than to read her chapter, and say her prayers, and bless him--and
try “to keep her heart”?
Many, many times had she gone over the same thoughts that flitted about
her mind now and interrupted the current of her prayers, and of the
reading which was only remembering. There was Job, whom she had thought
of so often, whose habit was, when his sons and daughters were in all
their grandeur before anything happened to them, to offer sacrifices for
them, if, perhaps, in the carelessness of their youth, they might have
done something amiss. How she had longed to do that! and then had
reminded herself that there were no more sacrifices, that there had been
One for all, and that all she had to do was but to put God in mind, to
keep Him always in mind: that there was her son yonder somewhere out in
His world, and maybe forgetting what his duty was. To put God in
mind!--as if He did not remember best of all, thinking on them most when
they were lost, watching the night when even a mother slumbers and
sleeps, and never, never losing sight of them that were His sons before
they were mine! What could she say then, what could she do, a poor small
thing of a woman, of as little account as a fly in the big world of God?
Just sit there with her heart bleeding, and say between the lines, “In
my Father’s house are many mansions”--and, “If a man love me, my Father
will love him, and we will come unto him, and make our abode with him:”
nothing but “my Robbie, my Robbie!” with anguish and faith contending.
This was all mixed up among the verses now, those verses that were balm,
the keen sharpness of this dear name.
She was not, however, permitted to remain with these thoughts alone.
Janet came softly to the door, half opening it, asking, “May I come
in?” “Oh, who can prevent you from coming in?” her mistress said, in the
sudden impatience of a preoccupied mind, and then softly, “Come in,
Janet,” in penitence more sudden still. Janet came in, and, closing the
door behind her, stood as if she had something of the gravest importance
to say. “What is it, woman, what is it?” Mrs Ogilvy cried in alarm.
“I was thinking,” said Janet, “Mr Robert brought nae luggage with him
when he came last night.”
“No--he was walking--how could he bring luggage?” cried Mrs Ogilvy,
picking up that excuse, as it were, from the roadside, for she had not
thought of it till this minute.
“That is just what I am saying,” said Janet: “no a clean shirt, nor a
suit of clothes to change, and this the Sabbath-day----!”
“There are his old things in the drawer,” said Mrs Ogilvy.
“His auld things!--that wouldna peep upon him, the man he is now. He was
shapin’ for a fine figger of a man when he went away: but no braid and
buirdly as he is now.”
Janet spoke in a tone of genuine admiration and triumph, which was balm
to her mistress’s heart. His bigness, his looseness of frame, had indeed
been one of the little things that had vexed her among so many others.
“Not like my Robbie,” she had breathed to herself, thinking of the slim
and graceful boy. But it gave her great heart to see how different
Janet’s opinion was. It was she who was always over-anxious. No doubt
most folk would be of Janet’s mind.
“I was thinking,” said Janet, “to take him a shirt of my man’s, just his
best. It has not been on Andrew’s back for many a day. ’Deed, I just
gave it a wash, and plenty of stairch, as the gentlemen like, and ironed
it out this morning. The better day the better deed.”
“On the Sabbath morning!” said Mrs Ogilvy, half laughing, half crying.
“I’ll take the wyte o’t,” said Janet. “But I can do nae mair. I canna
offer him a suit of Andrew’s: in the first place, his best suit, he has
it on: and I wouldna demean Mr Robert to a common man’s working claes;
and then besides----”
“If you’ll get those he’s wearing, Janet, and brush them well, that’ll
do fine. And then we must have no visitors to-day. I know not who would
come from the town on the Sabbath-day, except maybe Miss Susie. Miss
Susie is not like anybody else; but oh, I would not like her to see him
so ill put on! Yet you can never tell, with that ill habit the Edinburgh
folk have of coming out to Eskholm on the Sunday afternoon, and then
thinking they may just daunder in to the Hewan and get a cup of tea. The
time when you want them least is just the time they are like to come.”
“We’ll just steek the doors and let them chap till they’re wearied,”
said Janet, promptly. “They’ll think ye’ve gane away like other folk,
for change of air.”
“I’m loth to do that--when folk have come so far, and tired with their
walk. Do you think, Janet, you could have the tea ready, and just say I
have--stepped out to see a neighbour, or that I’m away at the manse,
or----? I would be out in the garden out of sight, so it would be no lee
to say I was out of the house.”
“If it’s the lee you’re thinking of, mem--I’m no caring that,” and Janet
snapped her fingers, “for the lee.”
Neither mistress nor maid called it a lie, which was a much more serious
business. The Scottish tongue is full of those _nuances_, which in other
languages we find so admirable.
“Oh, Janet!” cried Mrs Ogilvy again, between laughing and crying, “I
fear I’ll have but an ill character to give you--washing out a shirt on
Sunday and caring nothing for a lee!”
“If we can just get Andrew aff to his kirk in the afternoon. I’ll no
have him at my lug for ever wi’ his sermons. Lord, if I hadna kent
better how to fend for him than he did himsel’, would he ever have been
a man o’ weight, as they say he is, in that Auld Licht meetin’ o’ his,
and speaking ill o’ a’ the ither folk? Just you leave it to me. Bless
us a’! sae lang as the dear laddie is comfortable, what’s a’ the rest to
you and me?”
“Oh, Janet, my woman!” said the mistress, holding out her hand. It was
so small and delicate that Janet was seized with a compunction after she
had squeezed it in her own hard but faithful one, which felt like an
iron framework in comparison. “I doubt I’ve hurt her,” she said to
herself; “but I was just carried away.”
And Mrs Ogilvy was restored to her musing and her prayers, which
presently were interrupted again by sounds in the room overhead--Janet’s
step going in, which shook and thrilled the flooring, and the sound of
voices. The mother sat and listened, and heard his voice speaking to
Janet, the masculine tone instantly discernible in a woman’s house,
speaking cheerfully, with after a while a laugh. His tone to her had
been very different. It had been full of involuntary self-defence, a
sort of defiance, as if he felt that at any moment something might be
demanded of him, excuse or explanation--or else blame and reproach
poured forth upon him. The mother’s heart swelled a little, and yet she
smiled. Oh, it was very natural! He could even joke and laugh with the
faithful servant-woman, who could call him to no account, whom he had
known all his life. If there was any passing cloud in Mrs Ogilvy’s mind
it passed away on the instant, and the only bitterness was that wistful
one, with a smile of wonder accompanying it, “That he could think I
would demand an account--me!”
He came down-stairs later, half amused with himself, in the high collar
of Andrew’s gala shirt, and with a smile on his face. “I’m very
ridiculous, I suppose,” he said, walking to the glass above the
mantelpiece; “but I did not want to vex the woman, and clean things are
pleasant.”
“Is your luggage--coming, Robbie?” she ventured to say, while he stood
before the glass trying to fold over or modify as best he could the
spikes of the white linen which stood round his face.
“How much luggage do you think a man would be likely to have,” he said
impatiently, standing with his back towards her, “who came from New York
as a stowaway in a sailing-ship?”
She had not the least idea what a stowaway was, but concluded it to be
some poor, very poor post, with which comfort was incompatible. “My
dear,” she said, “you will have to go into Edinburgh and get a new
outfit. There are grand shops in Edinburgh. You can get things--I mean
men’s things--just as well, they tell me, as in London.”
She spoke in a half-apologetic tone, as if he had been in the habit of
getting his clothes from London, and might object to a less fashionable
place--for indeed the poor lady was much confused, believing rather
that her son had lived extravagantly and lavishly than that he had been
put to all the shifts of poverty.
“I’ve had little luggage this many a day,” he said,--“a set of flannels
when I could get them for the summer, and for winter anything that was
warm enough. I’ve not been in the way of sending to Poole for my
clothes.” He laughed, but it was not the simple laugh that had sounded
from the room above. “What did I ever know about London, or anything but
the commonest life?”
“Just what we could give you, Robbie,” she said, in a faltering tone.
“Well!” he cried impatiently. And then he turned round and faced
her--Andrew’s collars, notwithstanding all his efforts, giving still a
semi-ludicrous air, which gave the sting of an additional pang to Mrs
Ogilvy, who could not bear that he should be ridiculous. He confronted
her, sitting down opposite, fixing his eyes on her face, as if to
forestall any criticism on her part. “I’ve come back as I went away,” he
said with defiance. “I had very little when I started,--I have nothing
now. If you had not kept me so bare, and never a penny in my pocket, I
might have done better: but nothing breeds nothing, you know, mother.
It’s one of the laws of the world.”
“Robbie, I gave you what I had,” she exclaimed, astonished, yet half
relieved, to find that it was she who was put on her defence.
“Ay, that’s what everybody says. You must have kept a little more for
yourself, however, for you seem very comfortable: and you talk at your
ease of a new outfit, while I’ve been glad of a cast-off jacket or an
old pair of breeks that nobody else would wear.”
“Oh Robbie, Robbie!” she cried in a voice of anguish, “and me laying up
every penny for you, and ready with everything there was--at a moment’s
notice!”
“Well, perhaps it’s better as it is,” he said: “I might just have lost
it again. You get into a sort of a hack-horse way--just the same round,
and never able to get out of it--unless when you’ve got to cut and run
for your life.”
“Robbie!”
“I’ll tell you about that another time. I don’t know what you’re going
to do with me, now you’ve got me here. I’m a young fellow enough yet,
mother--a sort of a young fellow, but not good for anything. And then if
this affair comes up, I may have to cut and run again. Oh, I’ll tell you
about it in time! It’s not likely they’ll be after me, with all the
loose swearing there is yonder, and extraditions, and that kind of
thing; but I’m not one that would stand being had up and examined--even
if I was sure I should get off: I’d just cut and run.”
“Is there any danger?” she said in a terrified whisper.
He burst out laughing again, but these laughs were not good to hear. “Of
what do you think? That they might hang me up to the first tree? But
till it blows over I can be sure of nothing--or if any other man turns
up. There is a man before whom I would just cut and run too. If he
should get wind that I was here”--he gave a suspicious glance round.
“And this confounded house on a level with the ground, and the windows
open night and day!”
“Who is it? Who is the man?” she said. She followed every change of his
face, every movement, every question, with eyes large with panic and
terror.
What he said first, he had the grace to say under his breath out of some
revived tradition of respect, “Would you be any the wiser if I told you
a name--that you never heard before?” he said.
“No, Robbie, no. But tell me one thing, is it a man you have wronged? Oh
Robbie, tell me, tell me that, for pity’s sake!”
“No!” he shouted with a rage that overcame all other feelings. “Damn
him! damn him! it’s he that has never done anything but hunt and harm
me.”
“Oh, God be thanked!” cried his mother, suddenly rising and going to
him. “Oh Robbie, my dear, the Lord be praised! and God forgive that
unfortunate person, for if it’s him, it’s not you!”
He submitted unwillingly for a moment to the arm which she put round
him, drawing his head upon her breast, and then put her not ungently
away. “If there’s any consolation in that, you can take it,” he said:
“There’s not much consolation in me, any way.” And then he reached his
large hand over the table to her little bookcase, which stood against
the wall. “I can always read a book,” he said, “a story-book; it’s the
only thing I can do. You used to have all the Scotts here.”
“They are just where they used to be, Robbie,” she said, in a subdued
tone. She watched him, still standing while he chose one; and throwing
himself back in his chair, began to read. It added a little sense of
embarrassment, of confusion and disorder, to all the heavier trouble,
that he had thrown himself into her chair, the place in which she had
sat through all those years when there was no one to interfere with her.
Glad was she to give up the best place in the house to him, whatever he
might please to choose; but it gave her a feeling of disturbance which
she could not explain, not being even aware at first what it was that
caused it. She did not know where to sit, nor what to do. She could not
go back to fetch her open Bible, nor sit down to read it, partly because
it would be a reproach to him sitting there reading a novel--only a
novel, no reading for Sabbath, even though it was Sir Walter’s; partly
because it would seem like indifference, she thought, to occupy herself
with reading at all, when at any moment he might have something to say
to her again.