Robert went in again to Edinburgh a few days later, with results very
similar. Mrs Ogilvy once more waited for him half through the night: but
she sat with her window closed, and with a book in her hand, reading or
making believe to read, and with no longer any passion of tears or panic
in her heart, but a vague misery, a thrill of expectation she knew not
of what, of bad or good, of danger or safety. He came in always,
sometimes a little earlier, sometimes a little later, with a kind of
regularity which she had to accept, which, indeed, she accepted, without
remonstrance or complaint. The atmosphere about him was always the same,
tobacco and whisky, to both which things the little fragrant feminine
house was getting accustomed, to which she consented with a pang
indescribable, but which had no consequences to make any complaint of,
as she acknowledged with thankfulness. When he did not go to Edinburgh,
he remained quietly enough in the house, doing nothing, saying not very
much, taking his walks in the darkening, when it was quite late, and
consequently keeping her in a sort of perennial uneasiness, only
intensified on those occasions when he went to Edinburgh. On no evening
was she sure that he might not come in, in a state of alarm, bidding her
extinguish every light, and watching from the chinks of the window lest
some one clandestine might be roaming round the house; or that he might
not appear with another at his elbow, the man whom he hated yet would
obey, the shedder of blood, as she called him; or, finally, that he
might never come back at all,--that the man who had so much influence
over him might sweep him away, carry him off, notwithstanding all his
unwillingness. It is not to be supposed that much comfort now dwelt in
the Hewan, in the constant contemplation of so many dangers. Yet
everything was more or less as before. The mistress of the house gave no
external sign of trouble. To anxious eyes, had there been any to inspect
her, there would have appeared new lines in her countenance; but no eyes
were anxious about her looks. She pursued her usual habits, as careful
as always of the neatness of her house, her dress, her garden,
everything surrounding her. Her visitors still came, though this was her
hardest burden. To them she said nothing of her son’s return. He
withdrew hurriedly to his room whenever there was the smallest sign of
any one approaching; and few of them were of his time. The neighbourhood
had changed in fifteen years, as the face of the country changes
everywhere. There were plenty of people in the neighbourhood who knew
Robert Ogilvy, but these were not of the kind who go out in the
afternoon to tea. The habit had not begun when he left home. There were
wives of his own contemporaries among the ladies who paid their visits
at the Hewan, but Robert was not acquainted with them. Of those whom he
had known of old, the elder ladies were like his mother, receiving their
little company, not going forth to seek it, and the younger ones
married, bearing names with which he was not acquainted, or perhaps gone
from the country-side altogether. “I know nobody, and nobody would know
me,” he said; which was a great mistake, however, for already the rumour
of his return had flashed all over the neighbourhood, and was hotly
discussed in the parish, and half of the visitors who came to the Hewan
came with the determination of ascertaining the truth. But they
ascertained nothing. He was never visible, his mother looked “just in
her ordinary,” the house seemed undisturbed and unchanged. Sometimes a
whiff of tobacco was sensible to the nostrils of some of the guests; but
when one bold woman said so, Mrs Ogilvy had answered quietly, “There is
at present a great deal of smoke about the house,” with a glance, or so
the visitor thought, at her rose-trees, which Andrew fumigated
diligently against the greenfly in that simple way. The greenfly is a
subject on which all possessors of gardens are kin. The questioner
determined that she would have it tried that very evening on her own
rose-bushes, for Mrs Ogilvy’s buds were uncommonly vigorous and clean;
and so the smell of tobacco ceased to be discussed or perceived, being
accounted for.
This secrecy could not, of course, have been maintained had Mrs Ogilvy
taken counsel with any one, or opened her mind on the subject. It could
not have been maintained, for instance, had Mr Logan, the minister, been
in his right mind. I do not know that she would have naturally consulted
on such a subject her legitimate spiritual guide. But the intimacy
between the families was such that it could not have been hid. Even had
the boys been at home instead of going to Edinburgh every day, some
large-limbed rapid lad would no doubt have darted into the house with a
message from Susie at an inopportune moment, and found Robert. Susie
herself was the only person now whom Mrs Ogilvy half dreaded, half hoped
for. The secret could not have been kept from her--that would have been
impossible; and from day to day her coming was looked for, not without
a rising of hope, not without a thrill of fear. In other circumstances
Mrs Ogilvy would have been moved to seek Susie, to discover how she was
bearing the complications of her own lot. Susie was the only creature
for whom Mrs Ogilvy longed: the sight of her would have been good: the
possibility of unburdening her soul, even if she had not done it, would
have been a relief, to the imagination at least. Her complete separation
from Susie for the time, which was entirely accidental, was one of the
most curious circumstances in this curious and changed life.
If she did not see Susie, however, she saw the woman who was about to
change Susie’s life and circumstances still more than her own were
changed,--the lady from England who carried an indefinable atmosphere of
suspicion about with her, as Robbie carried that whiff of tobacco. Mrs
Ainslie took upon her an air of unwarrantable intimacy which the
mistress of the Hewan resented. “I thought you would have come to see
me,” the visitor said, in a tone of flattering reproach.
“I go to see nobody,” said Mrs Ogilvy, “except old friends, or where I
am much needed. It’s a habit of mine that is well known.”
“But you must excuse me,” said the other, “for not knowing all the
habits of the people here” (as if Mrs Ogilvy of the Hewan had been but
one of the people here!). And then she made a pause and put her head on
one side, and regarded the old lady, now impenetrable as a stone wall,
with cajoling sweetness. “He has told you!” she said.
“If you are meaning the minister----”
“Oh, why should we play at hide-and-seek, when I am dying for your
sympathy, and you know very well whom I mean? Who could I mean but----
And oh, dear Mrs Ogilvy, do wish me joy, and say you think I have done
well----”
“Upon your marriage with the minister?”
“Oh,” cried the lady, holding up her hands, “don’t crush me with your
minister! I think it’s pretty. I have no objections to it: but still you
do call him Mr Logan when you speak to him. Poor man! he has been so
lonely ever since his poor wife died. And I--I have been very lonely
too. Can any one ever take the same place as a wife or a husband? We are
two lonely people----”
“Not him,” said Mrs Ogilvy; “I can say nothing for you. Very good
company he has had, better than most of the wives I see. His own
daughter just the best and the kindest--and that has kept his house in
such order--as it will take any strange woman no little trouble to do.”
“Oh, don’t think I shall attempt that,” said the visitor. “I have
promised to be his wife, but not to be his drudge. Poor Susan has been
his drudge. Not much wonder, therefore, that she could not be much of a
companion to him. One can’t, my dear Mrs Ogilvy, be busy with a set of
children, and teaching the a b c, all day, and then be lively and
amusing to a man when he comes in tired at night.”
“I have nothing to say to it one way or another,” said Mrs Ogilvy. “I
wish you may never rue it, neither him nor you, and that is just all
that will come to my lips. If she is a lively companion or not, I cannot
say, but my poor Susie has been a mother to these bairns; and what he
will do with the little ones turned out of the house, and Susie turned
out of his house----”
“You are so prejudiced! The little girls will be far better at
school--and Susie is going to marry, which she should have done ten
years ago. Her father has no right to keep a girl from making a happy
marriage and securing the man of her heart.”
“And where is she to get,” said Mrs Ogilvy, with a slight choke in her
throat, “what you call the man of her heart?”
“Oh, my dear lady, you that have known Susie all through, how can you
ask? He proposed to her when she was twenty, and I believe he has asked
her every year since----”
“So he has told you that old story; but he had not the courage, knowing
a little more than you do, to speak to me of the man of her heart. Oh
no, he had not the boldness to do that! And is Susie aware of the
happiness you are preparing for her, her father and you?” the old lady
said, grimly.
“Mr Logan,” said the lady, “has a timidity about that which I don’t
understand. I tell him he is frightened for his daughter. It is as if he
felt he had jilted her.”
“Indeed, and it is very like that,” Mrs Ogilvy said.
“He thought you, perhaps, dear Mrs Ogilvy, as such a very old friend,
would tell her,--and then, when he found that you were disinclined to do
it, he--well, I fear he has shirked it again. Nothing so cowardly as a
man in certain circumstances. I believe at the last I will have to do it
myself.”
“Nobody could be better qualified----”
“Do you really think so? I’m so glad you are learning to do me justice.
It’s all for her good--you know it is. To marry and have children of her
own is better than acting mother to another person’s children. Oh yes,
they are her own brothers and sisters now; but they will grow up, and if
Susie does not marry, what prospect has she? Those who really love her
should take all these things into account.”
Mrs Ainslie spoke these sensible words with many little gestures and
airs, which exasperated the older woman perhaps all the more that there
was nothing to be said against the utterance itself. But at that moment
she heard a step that she knew well upon the gravel outside, and of all
people in the world to meet and divine who Robert was, and publish it
abroad, this interloper, this stranger, who had awakened a warmer
feeling of hostility in Mrs Ogilvy’s bosom than any one had done before,
was the last. She sat breathless, making no answer, while she heard him
enter the house: he had been in the garden with his pipe and his
newspaper--for it was still morning, and not an hour when the Hewan was
on guard against visitors. His large step, so distinctly a man’s step,
paused in the hall. Mrs Ogilvy raised her voice a little, to warn him,
as she made an abstract reply.
“It’s rare,” she said, “that we’re so thankful as we ought to be--to
them that deal with us for our good.”
“Do you hear that step in the passage?” cried Mrs Ainslie. “Ah, I know
who it is. It is dear James--it is Mr Logan, I mean. I felt sure he
would not be long behind me. Mayn’t I let him in?”
She rose in a flutter, and rushing to the door threw it open, with an
air of eager welcome and arch discovery; but recoiled a step before the
unknown personage, large, silent, with his big beard and watchful
aspect, who stood listening and uncertain outside. “Oh!” she cried, and
fell back, not without a start of dismay.
Mrs Ogilvy’s pride did not tolerate any denial of her son, who stood
there, making signs to her which she declined to notice. “This is my
son,” she said, “the master of the house. He has just come back after a
long time away.”
“Oh--Mr Ogilvy!” the lady faltered. She was anxious to please everybody,
but she was evidently frightened, though it was difficult to tell why.
“How pleased you must be to have your son come back at last!”
He paused disconcerted on the threshold. “I did not mean to--disturb
you, mother--I did not know there was anybody here.”
“Don’t upbraid me, please, with coming at such untimely hours,” she
cried. Mrs Ainslie was in a flutter of consciousness, rubbing her gloved
hands, laughing a little hysterically, but more than ever anxious to
please, and instinctively putting on her little panoply of airs and
graces. “I had business. I had indeed. It was not a mere call meaning
nothing. Your mother will tell you, Mr Ogilvy----” She let her veil drop
over her face, with a tremulous movement, and almost cringed while she
flattered him, with little flutterings and glances of incomprehensible
meaning.
The woman was trying to cast her spells over Robbie! There flew through
Mrs Ogilvy’s mind a sensation which was not all disagreeable. “The
woman” was odious to her; but she was a well-looking woman, and not an
ignorant one, knowing something of the world; and Robert, with his big
beard and his rough clothes, had given Mrs Ogilvy the profoundly
humiliating consciousness that he had ceased to look like a gentleman;
but the woman did not think so. The woman made her little coquettish
advances to him as if he had been a prince. This was how his mother
interpreted her visitor’s looks: she thought no better of her for this,
but yet the sensation was soothing, and raised her spirits,--even though
she scorned the woman for it, and her son for the hesitating smile which
after a moment began to light up his face.
“However,” said the lady, hurriedly, “unless you wish for the minister
on my heels, perhaps I had better go now. No? you will not be persuaded,
indeed? You are more hard-hearted than I expected. So then there is
nothing for it but that I must do it myself. There, Mr Ogilvy! You see
we have secrets after all--mysteries! Two women can’t meet together, can
they, without having something tremendous, some conspiracy or other, for
each other’s ears?”
“I did not say so,” said Robert, not unresponsive, though taken by
surprise.
“Oh no, you did not say so; but you were thinking so all the same. They
always do, don’t they? Gentlemen have such fixed ideas about women.” She
had overcome her little tremor, but was more coquettish than ever. While
she held his mother’s hand in hers, she held up a forefinger of the
other archly at Robert. “Oh, I’ve had a great deal of experience. I know
what to expect from men.”
She led him out after her to the door talking thus, and down towards the
gate; while Mrs Ogilvy stood gazing, wondering. It was one of her
tenets, too, that no man can resist such arts; but the anger of a woman
who sees them thus exerted in her very presence was still softened by
the sensation that this woman, so experienced, still thought Robbie
worth her while. He came back again in a few minutes, having accompanied
the visitor to the gate, with a smile faintly visible in his beard. “Who
is that woman?” he said. “She is not one of your neighbours here?”
“What made you go with her, Robbie?”
“Oh, she seemed to expect it, and it was only civil. Where has she come
from? and how did you pick such a person up?”
“She is a person that will soon be--a neighbour, as you say, and a
person of importance here. She is going to be married upon the minister,
Robbie.”
“The minister!” he gave a low whistle--“that will be a curious couple;
but I hope it’s a new minister, and not poor old Logan, whom I--whom I
remember so well. I’ve seen women like that, but not among ministers. I
almost think I’ve--seen her somewhere. Old Logan! But he has a wife,”
Robert said.
“He had one; but she’s been dead these ten years, and this lady is new
come to the parish, and he has what you call fallen in love with her.
There are no fules like old fules, Robbie. I like little to hear of
falling in love at that age.”
“Old Logan!” said Robert again. There were thoughts in his eyes which
seemed to come to sudden life, but which his mother did not dare
investigate too closely. She dreaded to awaken them further; she feared
to drive them away. What memories did the name of Logan bring? or were
there any of sufficient force to keep him musing, as he seemed to do,
for a few minutes after. But at the end of that time he burst into a
sudden laugh. “Old Logan!” he said; “poor old fellow! I remember him
very well. The model of a Scotch minister, steady-going, but pawky too,
and some fun in him. Where has he picked up a woman like that? and what
will he do with her when he has got her? I have seen the like of her
before.”
“But, Robbie, she is just a very personable, well-put-on woman, and
well-looking, and no ill-mannered. She is not one I like,--but I am
maybe prejudiced, considering the changes she will make; and there is
no harm in her, so far as we have ever heard here.”
“Oh, very likely there is no harm in her; but what has she to do in a
place like this? and with old Logan!” He laughed again, and then,
growing suddenly grave, asked, “What changes is she going to make?”
“There are always changes,” said Mrs Ogilvy, evasively, “when a man
marries that has a family, and everything settled on another foundation.
They are perhaps more in a woman’s eyes than in a man’s; I will tell you
about that another time. But you that wanted to be private,
Robbie--there will be no more of that, I’m thinking, now.”
“Well, it cannot be helped,” he said, crossly; “what could I do? Could I
refuse to answer her? Private!--how can you be private in a place like
this, where every fellow knew you in your cradle? Two or three have
spoken to me already on the road----”
“I never thought we could keep it to ourselves--and why should we?” his
mother said.
He answered with a sort of snort only, which expressed nothing, and then
fell a-musing, stretched out in the big chair, his legs half away across
the room, his beard filling up all the rest of the space. His mother
looked at him with mingled sensations of pride and humiliation--a
half-admiration and a half-shame. He was a big buirdly man, as Janet
said; and he had his new clothes, which were at least clean and fresh:
but they had not made any transformation in his appearance, as she had
hoped. Was there any look of a gentleman left in that large bulk of a
man? The involuntary question went cold to Mrs Ogilvy’s heart. It still
gave her a faint elation, however, to remember that Mrs Ainslie had
quite changed her aspect at the sight of him, quite acknowledged him as
one of the persons whom it was her mission in the world to attract. It
was a small comfort, and yet it was a comfort. She took up her stocking
and composed herself to wait his pleasure, till he should have finished
his thoughts, whatever they were, and be disposed to talk again.
But when his voice came finally out of his beard and out of the silence,
it was with a startling question: “What do you mean to do with me,
mother, now I am here?”