When Mrs Ogilvy reached, somewhat breathless, the height of the little
brae on which her own door, standing wide open in the sunshine, offered
her the usual unconscious welcome which that modest house in its natural
condition held out to every comer, it was with a pang of disappointment
she heard that Robert had gone out. For a moment her heart sank. She had
been looking forward to the sight of him. She had felt that to-day,
after her short absence, she would see him without prejudice, able to
make allowance for everything, not looking any longer for her Robbie of
old, but accustomed and reconciled to the new--the mature man into which
inevitably in all these years he must have grown. She had hurried home,
though the walk from the station was rather too much for her, to realise
these expectations, eager, full of love and hope. Her heart fluttered a
little: the light went out of her eyes for a moment; she sat down, all
the strength gone out of her. But this was only for a moment. “To be
sure, Janet,” she said, “he has gone in to Edinburgh to--see about his
luggage. I mean, to get himself some--things he wanted.” Janet had a
long face, as long as a winter’s night and almost as dark. Her mistress
could have taken her by the shoulders and shaken her. What right had she
to take it upon her to misdoubt her young master, or to be so anxious as
that about him--as if she were one that had a right to be “meeserable”
whatever might happen?
“Could he not have gane with you, mem, when you were going in yoursel’?”
“He was not ready,” said Mrs Ogilvy, feeling herself put on her defence.
“You might have waited, mem, till the next train----”
“If you will know,” cried Mrs Ogilvy, indignant, “my boy liked best to
be free, to take his own way--and I hope there is no person in this
house that will gainsay that.”
“Eh, mem, I’m aware it’s no for me to speak--but so soon, afore he has
got accustomed to being at hame--and with siller in his pouch.”
“What do you know about his siller in his pouch?” cried the angry
mistress.
“I saw the notes in his hand. He’s aye very nice to me,” said Janet,
not without a little pleasure in showing how much more at his ease
Robert was with her than with his mother, “and cracks about everything.
He just showed me in his hand--as many notes as would build a kirk. He
said: ‘See how liberal----’” Janet stopped here, a little confused; for
what Robert had said was, “See how liberal the old woman is.” She liked
to give her mistress the tiniest pin-prick, perhaps, but not the stab of
a disrespect like that.
“I wish to be liberal,” said Mrs Ogilvy. “I am very glad he was pleased:
and I knew he was going,--there was nothing out of the way about it that
you should meet me with such a long face. I thought nothing less than
that he must be ill after all his fatigues and his travels.”
“Oh, no a bit of him,” said Janet--“no ill: I never had ony fears about
that.”
Mrs Ogilvy by this time had quite recovered herself. “He will have a
good many things to do,” she said. “He will never be able to get back to
his dinner. I hope he’ll get something comfortable to eat in Edinburgh.
You can keep back the roast of beef till the evening, Janet, and just
give me some little thing: an egg will do and a cup of tea----”
“You will just get your dinner as usual,” said Janet, doggedly, “as you
did before, when you were in your natural way.”
When she was in her natural way! It was a cruel speech, but Mrs Ogilvy
took no notice. She did not fight the question out, as Janet hoped. If
she shed a few tears as she took off her things in her bedroom, they
were soon wiped away and left no traces. Robbie could not be tied to her
apron-strings. She knew that well, if Janet did not know it. And what
could be more natural than that he should like to buy his clothes and
get what he wanted by himself, not with an old wife for ever at his
heels? She strengthened herself for a quiet day, and then the pleasure
of seeing him come back.
But it was wonderful how difficult it was to settle for a quiet day. She
had never felt so lonely, she thought, or the house so empty. It had
been empty for fifteen years, but it was long since she had felt it like
this, every room missing the foot and the voice and the big presence,
though it was but two days since he came back. But she settled herself
with an effort, counting the trains, and making out that before five
o’clock it would be vain to look for him. He would have to go to the
tailor’s, and to buy linen, and perhaps shoes, and a hat--maybe other
things which do not in a moment come to a woman’s mind. No; it could not
be till five o’clock, or perhaps even six. He would have a great many
things to do. She would not even wonder, she said to herself, if it were
later. He would, no doubt, just walk about a little and look at things
that were new since he went away. There were some more of these statues
in the Princes Street Gardens. Mrs Ogilvy did not care for them herself,
but Robbie would. A young man, noticing everything, he would like to see
all that was new.
A step on the gravel roused her early in the afternoon--the swing of the
gate, and the sound of the gradually nearing footstep. Ah, that was him!
earlier than she had hoped for, knowing she would be anxious, making his
mother’s heart to sing for joy. She watched discreetly behind the
curtain, that he might not think she was looking out for him, or had any
doubts about his early return. Poor Mrs Ogilvy! she was well used to
that kind of disappointment, but it seemed like a blow full in her face
now, a stroke she had not the least expected, when she saw that it was
not Robbie that was coming, but the minister--the minister of all
people--who had the right of old friendships to ask questions, and to
have things explained to him, and who was doubtless coming now to ask if
she had been ill yesterday,--for when had it happened before that she
had not been in her usual place in the kirk? She sat down faint and
sick, but after a moment came round again, saying to herself that it
would have been impossible for Robbie to get back so soon, and that she
richly deserved a disappointment that she had brought on herself. When
Mr Logan came in she was seated in her usual chair (she had moved it
from its old place since Robert seemed to like that, placing for him a
bigger chair out of the dining-room, which suited him better), and
having her usual looks, so that he began by saying that he need not ask
if she had been unwell, for she was just as blooming as ever. Having
said this, the minister fell into a sort of brown study, with a smile on
his face, and a look which was a little sheepish, as if he did not know
what more to say. He asked no questions, and he did not seem even to
have heard anything, for there was no curiosity in his face. Mrs Ogilvy
made a few short remarks on the weather, and told him she had been in
Edinburgh that morning, which elicited from him nothing more than a
“Dear me!” of the vaguest interest. Not a word about Robbie, not a
question did he ask. She had been alarmed at the idea of these
questions. She was still more alarmed and wondering when they did not
come.
“I had a call from Susie--the other day,” she said at last. Was it
possible that it was only on Saturday--the day that was now a marked
day, above all others, the day that Robbie came home!
“Ay!” said the minister, for the first time looking up. “Would she have
anything to tell you? I’m thinking, Mrs Ogilvy, Susie has no secrets
from you.”
“I never heard she had any secrets. She is a real upright-minded,
well-thinking woman. I will not say bairn, though she will always be a
bairn to me----”
“No, she’s no bairn,” said the minister, shaking his head.
“Two-and-thirty well-chappit, as the poor folk say. She should have been
married long ago, and with bairns of her own.”
“And how could she be married, I would like to ask you,” cried Mrs
Ogilvy, indignant, “with you and your family to look after? And never
mother has done better by her bairns than Susie has done by you and
yours.”
“I am saying nothing against that. I am saying she has had the burden on
her far too long. I told you before her health is giving way under it,”
the minister said. He spoke with a little heat, as of a man crossed and
contradicted in a statement of fact of which he was sure.
“I see no signs of that,” Mrs Ogilvy said.
“I came up the other night,” he went on, “to open my mind to you if I
could, but you gave me no encouragement. Things have gone a little
further since then. Mrs Ogilvy, you’re a great authority with Susie, and
the parish has much confidence in you. I would like you to be the first
to know--and perhaps you would give me your advice. It is not as to the
wisdom of what I’m going to do. I am just fairly settled upon that, and
my mind made up----”
“You are going--to marry again,” she said.
He gave a quick look upward, his middle-aged countenance growing red,
the complacent smile stealing to the corners of his mouth. “So you’ve
guessed that!”
“I have not guessed it--it was very clear to see---- both from her and
from you.”
“You’ve guessed the person, too,” he said, the colour deepening, and the
smile turning to a confused laugh.
“There was no warlock wanted to do that; but what my advice would be
for, I cannot guess, Mr Logan, for, if your mind’s fixed and all
settled----”
“I did not say just as much as that; but--well, very near it. Yes, very
near it. I cannot see how in honour I could go back.”
“And you’ve no wish to do so. And what do you want with advice?” Mrs
Ogilvy said.
She was severe, though she was thankful to him for his preoccupation,
and that he had no leisure at his command to ask questions or to pry
into other people’s affairs.
“Me,” he said; “that’s but one side of the subject. There’s Susie. It’s
perhaps not quite fair to Susie. I’ve stood in her way, you may say.
She’s been tangled with the boys--and me. There’s no companion for a
man, Mrs Ogilvy, like the wife of his bosom; but Susie--I would be the
last to deny it--has been a good daughter to me.”
“It would set you ill, or any man, to deny it!” cried Mrs Ogilvy. “And
what are you going to do for Susie, Mr Logan? A sister that keeps your
house, you just say Thank you, and put her to the door; but your
daughter--you’re always responsible for her----”
“Till she’s married,” he said, giving his severe judge a shamefaced
glance.
“Have you a man ready to marry her, then?” she asked, sharply.
“It’s perhaps not the man that has ever been wanting,” said the
minister, with a half laugh.
“And how are you going to do without Susie?” said Mrs Ogilvy, always
with great severity. “Who is to see the callants off to Edinburgh every
morning, and learn the little ones their lessons? It will be a great
handful for a grand lady like yon.”
“That’s just a mistake that is very painful to me,” said Mr Logan. “The
lady that is going to be--my wife----”
“Your second wife, Mr Logan,” said Mrs Ogilvy, with great severity.
“I am meaning nothing else--my second wife--is not a grand lady, as you
all suppose. She is just a sweet, simple woman--that would be pleased to
do anything.”
“Is she going to learn the little ones their lessons, and be up in the
morning to give the boys their breakfasts and see them away?”
Mr Logan waved his hand, as a man forestalled in what he was about to
say. “There is no need for all that,” he said--“not the least need. The
servant that has been with them all their days is just very well capable
of seeing that they get off in time. And as for the little ones, I have
heard of a fine school--in England.”
Mrs Ogilvy threw up her arms with a cry. “A school--in England!”
“Which costs very little, and is just an excellent school--for the
daughters of clergymen--but, I confess, it’s clergymen of the other
church: it is not proved yet if a Scotch minister will be allowed----”
“A thing that’s half charity,” said Mrs Ogilvy, scornfully. “I did not
think, Mr Logan, that you, that are come of well-kent folk, would demean
yourself to that.”
“She says--I mean, I’m told,” said the poor man, “that it’s sought after
by the very best. The English have not our silly pride. When a thing is
a good thing and freely offered----”
“You will not get it, anyway,” said Mrs Ogilvy, quickly. “You’re not a
clergyman according to the English way. You’re a Scotch minister. But if
all this is to be done, I’m thinking it means that there will be no
place for Susie at all in her father’s house.”
“She will marry,” the minister said.
“And how can you tell that she will marry? Is she to do it whether she
will or not? There might be more reasons than one for not marrying.
It’s not any man she wants, but maybe just one man.”
Mrs Ogilvy thought she was well aware what it was that had kept Susie
from marrying. Alas, alas! what would she think of him now if she saw
him, and how could she bear to see the wonder and the pain reflected in
Susie’s face?
“I thought,” said Mr Logan, rising up, “that I would have found sympathy
from you. I thought you would have perceived that it was as much for
Susie I was thinking as for myself. She will never break the knot till
it’s done for her. She thinks she’s bound to those bairns; but when she
sees they are all provided for without her----”
“The boys by the care of a servant. The little ones in a school that is
just disguised charity----”
“You’re an old friend, Mrs Ogilvy, but not old enough or dear enough to
treat my arrangements like that.”
“Oh, go away, minister!” cried the mistress of the Hewan. She was
beginning to remember that Robbie’s train might come in at any moment,
and that she would not for the world have him brought face to face with
Mr Logan without any warning or preparation. “Go away! for we will never
agree on this point. I’ve nothing to say against you for marrying. If
your heart’s set upon it, you’ll do it, well I know; but to me Susie and
the bairns are the first thing, and not the second. Say no more, say no
more! for we’ll never agree.”
“You’ll not help me, then?” he said.
“Help you! how am I to help you? I have nothing to do with it,” she
cried.
“With Susie,” he repeated. “I’ll not quarrel with you: you mean well,
though you’re so severe. There is nobody like you that could help me
with Susie. You could make her see my position--you could make her see
her duty----”
“If it is her duty,” Mrs Ogilvy said.
She could scarcely hear what he said in reply. Was that the gate again?
and another step on the gravel? Her heart began to choke and to deafen
her, beating so loud in her ears. Oh, if she could but get him away
before Robbie, with his rough clothes, his big beard, his air of
recklessness and vagabondism, should appear! She felt herself walking
before him to the door, involuntarily moving him on, indicating his
path. I think he was too deeply occupied with his own affairs to note
this; but yet he was aware of something repellent in her aspect and
tone. It was just like all women, he said to himself: to hear that a
poor man was to get a little comfort to himself with a second wife
roused up all their prejudices. He might have known.
It was time for Robbie’s train when she got her visitor away. She sat
down and listened to his footsteps retiring with a great relief. That
sound of the gate had been a mistake. How often, how often had it been a
mistake! She lingered now, sitting still, resting from the agitation
that had seized upon her till the minister’s steps died away upon the
road. And as soon as they were gone, listened, listened over again, with
her whole heart in her ears, for the others that now should come.
It was six o’clock past! If he had come by this train he must have been
here, and there was not another for more than an hour. He must have been
detained. He must have been looking about the new things in the town,
the new buildings, the things that had been changed in fifteen years,
things that at his age were just the things a young man would remember;
or perhaps the tailor might be altering something for him that he had to
go back to try on, or perhaps---- It would be all right anyway. What did
six o’clock matter, or half-past seven, or whatever it was? It was a
fine light summer night; there was plenty of time,--and nobody waiting
for him but his mother, that could make every allowance. And it was not
as if he had anything to do at home. He had nothing to do. And his first
day in Edinburgh after so many years.
She was glad, however, to hear the step of Janet, so that she could call
her without rising from her seat, which somehow she felt too tired and
feeble to do.
“Janet,” she said, “you will just keep back the dinner. Mr Robert has
been detained. I’ve been thinking all day that perhaps he might be
detained, maybe even later than this. If we said eight o’clock for once?
It’s a late hour; but better that than giving him a bad dinner, neither
one thing nor another, neither hot nor cold. Where were you going, my
woman?” Mrs Ogilvy added abruptly, with a suspicious glance.
“I was just gaun to take a look out. I said to mysel’ I would just look
out and see if he was coming: for it’s very true, you say, a dinner in
the dead thraws, neither hot nor cauld, is just worse than no dinner at
all.”
“Just bide in your kitchen,” said her mistress, peremptorily. “I’ll let
you know when my son comes.”
“Oh, I’ll hear soon enough,” Janet said. And then the mother was left
alone. But not undisturbed: for presently Andrew’s slow step came round
the corner, with a clanking of waterpots and the refreshing sounds and
smell of watering--that tranquil employment, all in accord with the
summer evening, when it was always her custom to go out and have a talk
with Andrew about the flowers. She did not feel as if she could move
to-night--her feet were cold and like lead, her cheeks burning, and her
heart clanging in her throat. Nevertheless the bond of custom being on
her, and a strong sense that to fulfil every usual occupation was the
most satisfying exercise, she presently rose and went out, the pleasant
smell of the refreshed earth and thirsty plants, bringing out all the
sweetest home breath of the flowers, coming to meet her as she went
forth to the open door.
“It’s very good for them, Andrew, after this warm day.”
“Ay, it’s good for them,” Andrew said.
“You will mind to shut up everything as soon as my son comes home,” she
said.
“Oh ay,” said Andrew, “there was plenty said about it yestreen.”
“The sweet-williams are coming on nicely, Andrew.”
“Ah,” said Andrew, “they’re common things; they aye thrive.”
“They are very bonnie,” said Mrs Ogilvy; “I like them better than your
grand geraniums and things.”
“There’s nae accounting for tastes,” Andrew said, in his gruff voice.
By this time she felt that she could not continue the conversation any
longer, and went back to her chair inside. The sound of the flowing
water, and even of Andrew clanking as he moved, was sweet to her. The
little jar and clang fell sweetly into the evening, and they were so
glad of that refreshing shower, the silly flowers! though maybe it
would rain before the morning, and they would not need it. Then
Andrew--though nobody could say he was quick, honest man!--finished his
task and went in. And there was a great quiet, the quiet of the falling
night, though the long light remained the same. And the time passed for
the next train. Janet came to the door again with her heavy step. “He
will no be coming till the nine train,” she said; “will you have the
dinner up?” “Oh no,” cried Mrs Ogilvy; “I’ll not sit down to a big meal
at this hour of the night. Put out the beef to let it cool, and it will
be supper instead of dinner, Janet.”
“But you’ve eaten nothing, mem, since----”
“Am I thinking of what I eat! Go ben to your kitchen, and do what I tell
you, and just leave me alone.”
Janet went away, and the long vigil began again. She sat a long time
without moving, and then she took a turn about the house, looking into
his room for one thing, and looking at the piles of books that he had
carried up-stairs. There were few traces of him about, for he had
nothing to leave behind,--only the big rough cloak, of a shape she had
never seen before, which was folded on a chair. She lifted it, with a
natural instinct of order, to hang it up, and found falling from a
pocket in it a big badly printed newspaper, the same newspaper in which
Mr Somerville had showed her her son’s name. She took it with her half
consciously when she went down-stairs, but did not read it, being too
much occupied with the dreadful whirl of her own thoughts. Nine o’clock
passed too, and the colourless hours ran on. And then there was the
sound all over the house of Andrew fulfilling his orders, shutting up
every window and door. When he came to the parlour to shut the window by
which she sat, his little mistress, always so quiet, almost flew at him.
“Man, have you neither sense nor reason!” she cried. It was more than
she could bear to shut and bar and bolt when nobody was there that
either feared or could come to harm. No one disturbed her after that.
The couple in the kitchen kept very quiet, afraid of her. Deep night
came on; the last of all the trains rumbled by, making a great crash in
the distance in the perfect stillness. There had been another time like
this, when she had watched the whole night through. And midnight came
and went again, and as yet there was no sound.