When one struck on the big kitchen clock, with an ominous sound like a
knell, Janet, trying to reduce her big step to an inaudible footfall,
came “ben” again. She found her mistress sitting still idly as if she
were dead, the lamp burning solemnly, not the sound even of a breath in
the room. “No stocking in her hands, not even reading a book,” Janet
said. For a moment, indeed, with a quick impulse of fear, the woman
thought that Mrs Ogilvy had died in the new catastrophe. “Oh, mem, mem!”
she cried, and in an instant there was a faint stir.
“Well, Janet,” Mrs Ogilvy said in a stifled voice.
“Will ye sit up longer? A’ the trains are passed, and long passed. He
will be coming in the morning; he must just--have missed the last.”
“I am not going to my bed just yet,” the mistress said.
“But, mem, you will be worn out. You have just had no meat and no sleep
and no rest, and you’ll be weariet to death.”
“And what would it matter if I was?” she answered, with a faint smile.
“Oh, dinna say that; how can we tell what may be wanted of you, and
needing a’ your strength?”
Mrs Ogilvy roused herself at these words. “And that’s quite true,” she
said. “You have more sense than anybody would expect; you are a lesson
to me, that have had plenty reason to know better. But, nevertheless, I
will not go to my bed yet--not just yet. I can get a good sleep in this
chair.”
“With the window open, mem, in the dead of the night, after all Mr
Robert said!”
“Do you call that the dead of the night?” said the mistress. And the two
women looked out silenced in the great hush and awe of that pause of
nature between the night and the day. It was like no light that ever was
on sea or land, though it _is_ daily, nightly, for watchers and
sleepless souls. It was lovely and awful--a light in which everything
hidden in the dark came to life again, like the light alone of the
watchful eyes of Him who slumbereth not nor sleeps. They felt Him
contemplating them and their troubles, knowing what was to come of them,
which they did not, from the skies--and their hearts were hushed within
them: there was silence for a moment, the profound silence that reigned
out and in, in which they were as the trees.
Then Mrs Ogilvy started and cried, “What is that?” Was it anything at
all? There are sounds that enhance the silence, just as there are
discords that increase the harmony of music--sounds of insects stirring
in their sleep, of leaves falling, of a grain of sand losing its balance
and rolling over on the way. Janet heard nothing. She shook her head in
her big white cap. And then suddenly her mistress gripped her with a
force that no one could have suspected to be in those soft old hands.
“Now, listen! There’s somebody on the road, there’s somebody at the
gate!”
I will not describe the heats and chills of the moment that elapsed
before the big loose figure appeared on the walk, coming on leisurely,
with a perceptible air of fatigue. “Ah, you’re up still,” he said, as he
came within hearing. Janet had flown to open the door for him, undoing
all the useless bars, making a wonderful noise in the night. “I could
have stepped in through the window,” he said. “You’ve walked from
Edinburgh,” cried Janet; “you must be wanting some supper.” “I would not
object to a little cold meat,” he said, with a laugh. His tone was
always pleasant to Janet. His mother stood and listened to this colloquy
within the parlour door. She must have been angry, you would say,
jealous that her maid should be more kindly used by her son than she,
exasperated by his heedless selfishness. She was none of all those
things. Her heart was like a well, a fountain of thankfulness welling up
before God: her whole being over-flooded with sudden relief and sweet
content.
“How imprudent with that window open--in the middle of the night; how
can you tell who may be about?” were the first words he said, going up
himself to the window and closing it and the shutters over it hastily.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” he said afterwards. “I missed the last train, and
then I think I missed the road. I’ve been a long time getting here.
These confounded light nights; you’ve no shelter at all, however late
you walk.”
“You will be tired, my dear.” He had brought in an atmosphere with him
that filled in a moment this little dainty old woman’s room. It was
greatly made up of tobacco, but there was also whisky in it and other
odours indiscriminate, the smell of a man who had been smoking all day
and drinking all day, though the latter process had not affected his
seasoned senses. Of all things horrible to her this was the most
horrible: it made her faint and sick. But he was, of course, quite
unconscious of any such effect, nor did he notice the paleness that had
come over her face.
“Yes, I am tired,” he said; “Janet’s suggestion was not a bad idea. I
have not walked so far for years. A horse between my legs, and I would
not mind a dozen times the distance; but I’ve got out of the use of my
own feet.” He spoke more naturally, with a lighter heart than he had
shown yet. “I have not had a bad day. I looked up some of the old
howffs. Nobody there that remembered me, but still it was a little like
old times.”
“Wouldn’t you be better, Robbie, oh my dear, to keep away from the old
howffs?” she said, trembling a little.
“It was to be expected that you would say that. If you mean for the
present affair, no; if you mean for general good behaviour, perhaps yes;
but it is early days. I may surely take a little licence the first days
I am back. There are some of your new clothes,” he added, tossing down a
bundle, “and more will be ready in a day or two. I’ve rigged myself out
from head to foot. But I wouldn’t have them sent out here. I’m not too
fond of an address. I promised to call for them on Saturday.”
The poor mother’s heart was transfixed as with a sudden arrow. This,
then, would be repeated again; once more she would have to watch the day
out and half the night through--and again, no doubt, and again.
“There’s Janet as good as her word,” he said, as the sound of her
proceedings in the next room became audible. And he ate an immense meal
in the middle of the night, the light growing stronger every moment in
the crevices of the shutters. I don’t know what there is that is
wholesome, almost meritorious, in the consumption of food. Mrs Ogilvy
forgot the smell of the tobacco and the whisky in the pleasure of seeing
the roast beef disappear in large slices from his plate. “It was a
pleasure to see him eating,” she said afterwards to Janet. Yes, it is
somehow wholesome and meritorious. It implies a good digestion, not
spoiled by other pernicious things; it implies (almost) an easy mind and
a peaceful conscience, and something like innocence in a man. A good
meal, not voracious, as of a creature starving, but eaten with good
appetite, with satisfaction,--it is a kind of certificate of morality
which many a poor woman has hailed with delight. They have their own way
of looking at things.
And thus the evening and the morning made a new day.
The next day, before she left her room, Mrs Ogilvy took the newspaper,
which she had laid carefully aside, and read for the first time--locking
her door first, which was a thing she had scarcely done all her life
before--the story of the crime which had thrown a shadow over her son,
and had made him “cut and run,” as he said, for his life. She had to
read it three or four times over before she could make out what it
meant, and even then her understanding was not very clear. For one
thing, she had not, as was natural, the remotest idea what “road agents”
were. Mercifully for her: for I believe, though I know as little as she,
that it means, not to put too fine a point upon it, highwaymen, neither
more nor less. A party of these men--she thought it must mean some kind
of travelling merchants; not perhaps a brilliant career, but no harm in
it, no harm in it!--had been long about the country, a country of which
she had never heard the name, in a half-settled State equally unknown,
and at length had been traced to their headquarters. They had been
pursued hotly by the Sheriff for some time. To Mrs Ogilvy a sheriff
meant an elderly gentleman in correct legal costume, a person of serious
importance, holding his courts and giving his judgments. She could not
realise to herself the Sheriff-Substitute of Eskshire riding wildly over
moss and moor after any man; but no doubt in America it was different.
It was proved that the road agents had sworn vengeance against him, and
that whoever met him first was pledged to shoot him, whether he himself
could escape or not. The meeting took place by chance at a roadside
shanty in the midst of the wilds, and the Sheriff was shot, before his
party had perceived the other, by a premeditated well-directed bullet
straight to the heart. Who had fired it? The most likely person was the
leader of the band, of whom the Western journalist gave a sensational
history, and to secure him was the object of the police; but there were
half-a-dozen others who might have done it, and whom it was of the
utmost importance to secure, if only in the hope that one of them might
turn Queen’s evidence. (I don’t know what they call this in America,
nor, indeed, anything but what I have heard vaguely reported of such
matters. The better instructed will pardon and rectify for themselves.)
Among these, but at the end--heaven be praised, at the end!--was the
name of Robert. The band had dispersed in different directions and fled,
all but one, who was killed.
When she had got all this more or less distinctly into her mind, she
read the story of the captain of the band, Lewis or Lew Winterman, with
a dozen aliases. He was a German by origin, though an American born. He
spoke English with a slight German accent. He was large and tall and
fair, of great strength, and very ingratiating manners. He had gone
through a hundred adventures all told at length. He had ruined both men
and women wherever he took his fatal way. He was a hero of romance, he
was a monster of cruelty. Slaughter and bloodshed were his natural
element. He was known to have an extraordinary ascendancy over his band,
so that there was nothing they would not do while under his influence;
though, when free from him, they hated and feared him. Thus every man of
the party was the object of pursuit, if not for himself, yet in hopes
of finding some clue to the whereabouts of this master ruffian, whose
gifts were such that, though he would not recoil from the most
cold-blooded murder, he could also wheedle the bird from the tree. Mrs
Ogilvy carefully locked this dreadful paper away again with trembling
hands. It took her a little trouble to find a safe place to which there
was a lock and key, but she did so at last. And when she went
down-stairs it was with a feeling that Mr Somerville’s prayer to steek
her doors, and Robbie’s concern for the fastening of all the windows,
were perhaps justified; but what would bring a man like that over land
and sea--what would bring him here to the peaceful Hewan? No, no; it was
not a thing for any reasonable person to fear. There were plenty of
places in the world to take refuge in more like such a man. What would
he do here?--he could find nothing to do here. America, Mrs Ogilvy had
always heard, was a very big place, far bigger than England and Scotland
and Ireland put together. He must have plenty of howffs there. And if
not America, there was Germany, which they said he came from, or other
places on the Continent, far, far more likely to have hiding-holes for a
criminal than the country about Edinburgh. No, no. No, no. Therefore
there was no fear.
When Robert came down-stairs, which was not till late, he was a little
improved in appearance by a new coat, but not so much as his mother had
hoped. She was disappointed, though in face of the other things this was
such a very small matter. He was just a backwoodsman, a bushman,
whatever you call it, still. He had not got back that air of a gentleman
which had been his in his youth--that most prized and precious thing,
which is more than beauty, far more than fine clothes or good looks.
This gave her a pang: but then there were many things that gave her a
pang, though all subsided in the thought that he was here, that he had
come back guiltless and uninjured from Edinburgh, notwithstanding the
anxiety he had given her. But was it not her own fault that she was
anxious, always imagining some dreadful thing? After his breakfast
(again such an excellent breakfast, quite unaffected by his late hours
or his large supper!) he came to her into the parlour with the
‘Scotsman,’ which Janet had brought him, in his hand. “I thought you
would like to hear,” he said, carefully closing the door after him. “You
remember that man I mentioned to you?”
“Yes, Robbie,”--she had almost said the man’s name, but refrained.
“There is no word of him,” he said. “That was one thing I was anxious
about. There are places where--communications are kept up. I had an
address in Edinburgh to inquire.”
“What has he to do with Edinburgh?” she cried in dismay.
“Nothing; but there’s a kind of a communication, everywhere. Nothing has
been heard of him. So long as nothing is heard of him I can breathe
free. There’s no reason he should come here----”
“Come here! For what would he come here?”
“How can I tell? If you knew the man----”
“God forbid I should ever know the man,” she cried with fervour.
“I say Amen to that. But if you knew him, you would know it’s the place
that is least likely which is the place where he appears.”
“It may be so,” Mrs Ogilvy said; “but a place like this--a small bit
house deep in the bosom of the country, and nothing but quiet
country-folk about----”
“What is that but the best of places for a hunted man? He said once that
if I ever came home he would come after me--that it was just the place
he wanted to lie snug in, where nobody would think of looking for him.
You think me a fool to be so anxious about the bolts and the bars; but
the room might be empty one moment, and the next you might look round,
and he would be there.”
Though it was morning, before noon, and the safety of the full day was
upon the house, with its open windows, he cast a doubtful suspicious
glance round, as if afraid of seeing some one behind him even now.
“Robbie,” said Mrs Ogilvy, “there is no man that has to do with you,
were he good or bad, that I would close my doors upon, except the
shedder of blood. He shall not come here.”
“There is nothing I can refuse him,” cried the young man. “I would say
so too. I say, Curse him; I hate his very name. He’s done me more harm
than I can ever get the better of. I’ve seen him do things that would
curdle your blood in your veins; but him there and me here, standing
before each other--there is nothing I can refuse him!” he cried.
“Robbie, you will think I am but a poor old woman,” said his mother,
with her faltering voice. “I could not stand up, you will think, to any
strange man; but the shedder of blood is like nothing else. It shall
never be said of me that I harboured a shedder of blood.”
“Oh, mother! how can you tell--how can you tell?” he cried, “when I that
know tell you that I could not refuse him anything. I am just his slave
at his chariot-wheels.”
“But I am not his slave,” said Mrs Ogilvy, with a glitter of spirit in
her eyes. “I can face him, though you may not think it. He shall never
come here!”
He flung himself down into a chair, and put the newspaper between her
and himself, making a semblance of reading. But this he could not keep
up: the stillness, and the peace, and the innocence about him affected
the man, who, whatever he was now, had been born Robbie Ogilvy of the
Hewan. He made a stifled sound in his throat once or twice as if about
to speak, but brought forth no certain sound for some five minutes, when
he suddenly burst forth in a high but broken voice, “What would you say
if I were to tell you----?” and suddenly stopped again.
“What, Robbie?” she said, quivering like a leaf.
“Nothing,” he replied, looking up with sudden defiance in her face.
And there was a silence again in the room--the silence of the sweet
morning: not a sound to break the calm: the birds in the trees, the
scent of the roses coming in at the window--there was no such early
place for roses in all Mid-Lothian--and the house basking in the sun,
and the sun shining on the house, as if there was no roof-tree so
beloved in all the basking and breathing earth. Then the voice of the
little old lady uplifted itself in the midst of all that peace of
nature--small, like her delicate frame; low--a little sound that could
have been put out so easily,--almost, you would have said, that a sudden
breath of wind would have put it out.
“Robbie, my son,” she said, “there is nothing you could tell me, or that
any man could tell me, that would put bar or bolt between you and me.
What is yours is mine, if there is any trouble to bear; and thankful
will I be to take my share. There is no question nor answer between you
and me. If you’ve been wild in the world, my own laddie, I’ve been here
on my knees for you before the Lord. Whatever there is to tell, tell it
to Him, and He will not turn His back upon you. Then, do you think your
mother will? But that’s not the question--not the question. My house is
my own house, and I will defend it and my son, and all that is in
it--ay, if it were to the death!”
He looked at her for a moment, half impressed; but the glamour soon went
out of Robert’s eyes. The reality was a very quiet feeble old woman,
with the strength of a mouse, with a flash of high spirit such as he
knew of old his mother possessed, and a voice that shook even while it
pronounced this defiance of every evil thing. Short work would be made
with that. He could remember scenes in which other old women had tried
to protect their belongings, and short work had been made with them. He
had never, never laid a finger on one himself. If he had ever dared to
make his penitence, and could have disentangled his own story from that
of those among whom he was, it might have been seen how little real
guilt there ever was in his disorderly wretched life; but he could not
disentangle it, even to himself: he felt himself guilty of many things
in which he had had no share. Even in the confusion of the remorse that
sometimes came upon him, he believed himself to have executed orders
which were never given to him. The only thing he was not doubtful about
was where these orders came from, and that if the same voice spoke them
again suddenly at any moment, it would be his immediate impulse to obey.
And after this he took up the ‘Scotsman,’--that honest peaceable paper,
with its clever articles, and its local records, and consciousness of
the metropolitan dignity which has paled a little in the hurry and flash
of the times--the paper that goes to every Scotsman’s heart, whatever
may be his politics, throughout the world, which everywhere, even in
busy London, compatriots will offer to each other as something always
dear. Wild as his life had been, and distracted as he now was, the sight
and the sound of the ‘Scotsman’ was grateful to Robert Ogilvy. The paper
in his hands not only shielded his face from observation, but gradually
calmed him down, drew back his interest, and, wonder of wonders,
occupied his mind. He had himself said he could always read. After this
scene, with its half revelation and its overmastering dread, he in a few
minutes read the ‘Scotsman’ as if there had been neither crime nor
punishment in the world. And Mrs Ogilvy had already taken up her
knitting; but what was in her heart, still throbbing and aching with the
energy of that outburst, and how much less quickly the high tide died
down, I will not venture to say.