The day after this was one of the days on which Robert chose to go to
Edinburgh, which were days his mother dreaded, though no harm that she
could specify came of them. He had not seen Susie on that afternoon, but
was angry and put out when he heard of her visit, and that she had seen
him asleep in his chair. “You might have saved me from that,” he said,
angrily; “you need not have made an exhibition of me.” “I did not know,
Robbie, that she was there.” “It is the same thing,” he cried: “you keep
all your doors and windows open, in spite of everything I say. What’s
that but making an exhibition of me, that am something new, that anybody
that likes may come and stare at?” She thought he had reason for his
annoyance, though it was no fault of hers: and it pleased her that he
should be angry at having been seen by Susie in circumstances so
unfavourable. Was not that the best thing for him to be roused to a
desire to appear at his best, not his worse? He went to Edinburgh next
day in the afternoon, after the early dinner. There was no question put
to him now as to when he should be back.
During that afternoon Susie came again, and was much disappointed and
cast down not to see him. Perhaps it was well that Susie’s first sight
of him had been at a moment when he could say or do nothing to diminish
or spoil her tender recollection. None of those things that vexed the
soul of his mother affected Susie. The maturity of the man, so different
from the boy; the changed tone; the different way of regarding all
around him; the indifference to everything,--all these were hidden from
her. The only thing unfavourable she had seen of him was his personal
appearance, and that had not struck Susie as unfavourable. The long,
soft, brown beard, so abundant and well grown, had been beautiful to
her; his size, the large development of manhood, had filled her with a
half pride, half respect. Pride! for did not Robbie, her oldest friend,
more or less belong to Susie too. She had dreamt already of walking
about Eskholm with him, happy and proud in his return, in the
falsification of all malicious prophecies to the contrary. He was her
oldest friend, her playfellow from her first recollection. There was
nothing more wanted to justify Susie’s happy excitement--her
satisfaction in his return.
“And he is away to Edinburgh, and has never come to see us! That is not
like Robbie,” she cried, with a trace of vexation in her eyes.
“Susie, I will tell you and no other the secret, if it is a secret
still. He had fallen into ill company, as I always feared, in that
weary, far America.”
“How could he help it?” cried Susie, ready to face the world in his
defence, “young as he was, and nobody to guide him.”
“That is true; and we that live in a quiet country, and much favoured
and defended on every side, we know nothing of the lawlessness that is
there. You will read even in the very papers, Susie: they think no more
of drawing a pistol than a gentleman here does of taking his stick when
he goes out for a walk.”
Susie nodded her head in acquiescence, and Mrs Ogilvy went on: “Where
that’s the custom, harm will come. Men with pistols in their hands like
that, that sometimes go off, even when it’s not intended, as you may
also read in the papers every day----. Oh, Susie! it happened that there
was an accident. How can we tell at this long distance, and so little as
we know their manners and their ways, the rights of it all, and what
meaning there was in it, or if there was any meaning! But a shot went
off, and a man was killed. I am used to it now,” said Mrs Ogilvy, her
lip quivering, her face appealing in every line to the younger woman at
her side not--oh! not--to condemn him; “but at the first moment I was
as one that had no more life. The stain of blood may be upon my son’s
hand.”
“No, no!” cried Susie. “No, I will not believe it--not him, of all that
are in the world!”
“God bless you, my bonnie dear, that is just the truth! But the shot
came out of the band, he among them. There is another man that was at
the head who is likely the man. And he is like Robbie, the same height,
and so forth. And he has kept hold of him, and kept fast to him, and
never let him go.”
“I am not surprised,” said Susie, very pale, and with her head high.
“For Robbie would never betray him. He would never fail one that trusted
in him.”
“And the terror in his heart is--oh, he says little to me, but I can
divine it!--the terror in his heart is that this man will come after him
here.”
“From America!” said Susie; “so far, so far away.”
“It is not so far but that you can come in a week or a fortnight,” said
Mrs Ogilvy; “you or me would say, impossible: but naturally he is the
one that knows best. And he does not think it is impossible. He makes us
bolt all the windows and lock the doors as soon as the sun goes down.
Susie, this is what is hanging over us. How can he go and see his
friends, or let them know he is here, or take the good of coming
home--with this hanging over him night and day?”
The colour had all gone out of Susie’s face. She put an arm round her
old friend, and gave her a trembling almost convulsive embrace. “And you
to have this to bear after all the rest!”
“Me!” said Mrs Ogilvy; “who is thinking of me? It is an ease to my mind
to have said it out. You were the only one I could speak to, Susie, for
you will think of him just as I do. You will excuse him and forgive him,
and explain it all within yourself---- as I do, as I must do.”
“Excuse him!” cried Susie; “that will I not! but be proud of him,
because he’s faithful to the man in trouble, whoever he may be!”
Mrs Ogilvy did not say, even to Susie, that it was not faithfulness but
panic that moved Robert, and that all his anxiety was to keep the man in
trouble at arm’s-length. Even in confessing what was his problematical
guilt and danger, it was still the first thing in her thoughts that
Robbie should have the best of it whatever the position might be. They
were walking up and down together on the level path in front of the
house--now skirting the holly hedges, now brushing the boxwood border
that made a green edge to the flowers. Susie had come with perplexities
of her own to lay before her friend, but they all fled from her mind in
face of this greater revelation. What did it matter about Susie?
Whatever came to her, it would be but she who was in question, and she
could bear it--but Robbie! Me! who is thinking of me? she said to
herself, as Mrs Ogilvy had said it, with a proud contempt of any such
petty subject. It was not the spirit of self-sacrifice, the instinct of
unselfishness, as people are pleased to call such sentiments. I am
afraid there was perhaps a little pride in it, perhaps a subtle
self-confidence that whatever one had to fear in one’s own person, what
did it matter? one would be equal to it. But Robbie---- What blood could
be shed, what ordeal dared to keep it from him!
“You will feel now that I am always ready,” said Susie, “to do anything,
if there is anything to do. You will send for me at any moment. If it
were to take a message, if it were to send a letter, if it were to go to
Edinburgh for any news, if it were to--hide the man----”
“Susie!”
“And wherefore not? it’s not ours to punish. I know nothing about him:
but to save Robbie and you, or only to help you, what am I caring? I
would put my arm through the place of the bolt, like Katherine Douglas
for King James. And why should I not hide a man in trouble? Them that
went before us have done that, and more than that, for folk in trouble,
many a day.”
“But not for the shedder of blood,” said Mrs Ogilvy.
“They were all shedders of blood,” cried Susie; “there was not one side
nor the other with clean hands--and our fore-mothers helped them all,
whichever were the ones that were pursued: and so would I any man that
stood between you and peace. If he were as bad a man as ever lived, I
would help him to get away.”
“We must not go so far as that, Susie. We will hope that nothing will
need to be done. Robbie and me, we will just keep very quiet till all
this trouble blows over. I have a confidence that it will blow over,”
said Mrs Ogilvy, with a shadow in her eyes which belied her words.
“Certainly it will,” cried Susie, with an intensity of assent which,
though she knew so little, yet comforted the elder woman’s heart.
And Susie once more left her friend without saying a word of the
anxieties which were becoming more and more urgent in her own life. She
had not yet been told what was the true state of the case, but many
alarms had filled her mind, terrors which she would not acknowledge to
herself. It did not seem credible that she should be dethroned from her
own household place, which she had filled so long, to make way for a
stranger, “a strange woman,” as Susie, like Mrs Ogilvy, said; nor that
the children should be taken out of her hands, and her home be no longer
hers. But all other apprehensions and alarms had been confusedly
deepened and increased, she could scarcely tell how, by the sudden
interference of her father in behalf of an old lover long ago rejected,
whose repeated proposals had become the jest of the family, a man whom
nobody for years had taken seriously. Mr Logan had suddenly taken up his
cause, and pressed it hotly and injudiciously, filling Susie with
consternation and indignant distress. The minister had naturally
employed the most unpalatable arguments. He had bidden her to remember
that her time was running short, that she had probably out-stayed her
market, that a wooer was not to be found by every dykeside, and that at
her age it was no longer possible to pick and choose, but to take what
you could get. Exasperated by all this, Susie had rushed to her friend
to ask what was the interpretation of it. But the appearance of Robert
had driven every other thought out of her mind, and now again, more than
ever, his story, the danger he was in, the reason why his return was not
published abroad and rejoiced in. To Susie’s simple and straightforward
mind this was the only point in the whole matter that was to be
deplored. She found no fault with Robbie’s appearance, with his mid-day
sleep, with the failure of his career--even with the ill company and
dreadful associations of which Mrs Ogilvy’s faltering story had told
her. She was ready to wipe all that record out with one tear of
tenderness and pity. He had been led away; he had come back. That he
had come back was enough to atone for all the rest. But there should be
no secret, no concealing of him, no silence as to this great event. She
accepted the bond, but it was heavy on her soul, and went home, her mind
full of Robert, only vexed and discouraged that she must not speak of
Robert, forgetting every other trouble and all the changes that seemed
to threaten herself. Me! who is caring about me? Susie said to herself
proudly, as Mrs Ogilvy said it. These women scorned fate when it was but
themselves that were threatened by it.
When she was gone, Mrs Ogilvy continued for a while to walk quietly up
and down the little platform before the door of her peaceful house. She
had almost given up her evenings out of doors since Robert’s return, but
to-night her heart was soothed, her fears were calmed. Susie could do
nothing to clear up the situation. Yet to have unbosomed herself to
Susie had done her good. The burden which was so heavy on herself, which
was Robbie in his own person, the most intimate of all, did not affect
Susie. She was willing to take him back as at the same point where he
had dropped from her ken. There was no criticism in her eyes or her
mind,--nothing like that dreadful criticism, that anguish of
consciousness which perceived all his shortcomings, all the loss that
had happened to him in his dismal way through the world, which was in
his mother’s mind. That Susie did not perceive these things was a
precious balm to Mrs Ogilvy’s wounds. It was her exacting imagination
that was in fault, perhaps nothing else or little else. If Susie were
pleased, why should she, who ought to be less clear-sighted than Susie,
be so far from pleased? Nothing could have so comforted her as did this.
She was calmed to the bottom of her heart. Robbie would be very late
to-night, she knew; but what harm was there in that, if it was an
amusement to him, poor laddie? He had no variety now in his life, he
that had been accustomed to so much. She heard Andrew come clanking
round from the back-garden with his pails and his watering-pots. She had
not assisted at the watering of the flowers, not since the day of
Robbie’s return, but she did so this calm evening in the causeless
relief of her spirit. “But I would not be so particular,” she said,
“Andrew; for it will rain before the morning, or else I am mistaken.”
“It’s very easy, mem, to be mistaken in the weather,” said Andrew; “I’ve
thought that for a week past.” “That is true; it has been a by-ordinary
dry season,” his mistress said. “Just the ruin of the country,” said the
man. “Oh,” cried she, “you are never content!”
But she was content that night, or as nearly content as it was possible
to be with such a profound disturbance and trouble in her being. She had
her chair brought out, and her cushion and footstool, her stocking and
her book, as in the old days, which had been so short a time before and
yet seemed so far off. It was not so fine a night as it had usually
been, she thought _then_. The light had not that opal tint, that silvery
pearl-like radiance. There was a shadow as of a cloud in it, and the
sky, though showing no broken lines of vapour, was grey and a little
heavy, charged with the rain which seemed gathering after long drought
over the longing country. Esk, running low, wanted the rain, and so did
the thirsty trees, too great to be watered like the flowers, which had
begun to have a dusty look. But in the meantime the evening was warm,
very warm and very still, waiting for the opening up of the fountains in
the skies. Mrs Ogilvy sat there musing, almost as she had mused of old:
only instead of the wistful longing and desire in her heart then, she
had now an ever-present ache, the sense of a deep wound, the only
partially stilled and always quivering tremor of a great fear.
Considering that these things were, however, and could not be put away,
she was very calm.
She had been sitting here for some time, reading a little of her book,
knitting a great deal of her stocking, which did not interfere with her
reading, thinking a great deal, sometimes dropping the knitting into her
lap to think the more, to pray a little--one running into the other
almost unconsciously--when she suddenly heard behind her a movement in
the hedge. It was a high holly hedge, as has been already said, very
well trimmed, and impenetrable, almost as high as a man. When a man
walked up the slope from the road, only his hat, or if he were a tall
man, his head, could be seen over it. The hedge ran round on the
right-hand side to the wall of the house, shutting out the garden, which
lay on the other slope, as on the left it encircled the little platform,
with its grass-plot and flower-borders and modest carriage-drive in
front of the Hewan. It was in the garden behind that green wall that the
sound was, which a month ago would not have disturbed her, which was
probably only Janet going to the well or Andrew putting his
watering-cans away. Mrs Ogilvy, however, more easily startled now,
looked round quickly, but saw nothing. The light was stealing away, the
rain was near; it was that rather than the evening which made the
atmosphere so dim. The noise had made her heart beat a little, though
she felt sure it was nothing; it made her think of going in, though she
could still with a slight effort see to read. It was foolish to be
disturbed by such a trifle. She had never been frightened before: a
step, a sound at the gate, had been used, before Robert came back, to
awaken her to life and expectation, to a constantly disappointed but
never extinguished hope. That, however, was all over now: but at this
noise and rustle among the bushes, which was not a footstep or like any
one coming, her heart stirred in her, like a bird in the dark, with
terror. She was frightened for any noise. This was one of the great
differences that had arisen in herself.
She turned, however, again, with some resolution, to her former
occupations. It was not light enough to see the page with the book lying
open on her knee. She took it in her hand, and read a little. It was one
of those books which, for my own part, I do not relish, of which you are
supposed to be able to read a little bit at a time. She addressed
herself to it with more attention than usual, in order to dissipate her
own foolish thrill of excitement and the disturbance within her. She
read the words carefully, but I fear that, as is usual in such cases,
the meaning did not enter very clearly into her mind. Her attention was
busy, behind her back as it were, listening, listening for a renewal of
the sound. But there was none. Then through her reading she began to
think that, as soon as she had quite mastered herself, she would go in
at her leisure, and quite quietly, crying upon Janet to bring in her
chair and her footstool; and then would call Andrew to shut the windows
and bar the door, as Robbie wished. Perhaps a man understood the dangers
better, and it was well in any case to do what he wished. She would
have liked to rise from her seat at once, and go in hurriedly and do
this, but would not allow herself, partly because she felt it would be
foolish, as there could be no danger, and partly because she would not
allow herself to be supposed to be afraid, supposing that there was. She
sat on, therefore, and read, with less and less consciousness of
anything but the words that were before her eyes.
When suddenly there came almost close by her side, immediately behind
her, the sound as of some one suddenly alighting with feet close
together, with wonderfully little noise, yet a slight sound of the
gravel disturbed: and turning suddenly round, she saw a tall figure
against the waning light, which had evidently vaulted over the hedge, in
which there was a slight thrill of movement from the shock. He was
looking at his finger, which seemed, from the action, to have been
pricked with the holly. Her heart gave a great leap, and then became
quiet again. There was something unfamiliar, somehow, in the attitude
and air; but yet no doubt it was her son--who else could it be?--who had
made a short cut by the garden, as he had done many a time in his
boyhood. Nobody but he could have known of this short cut. All this ran
through her mind, the terror and the reassurance in one breath, as she
started up hastily from her chair, crying, “Robbie! my dear, what a
fright you have given me. What made you come that way?”
He came towards her slowly, examining his finger, on which she saw a
drop of blood; then enveloping it leisurely in the handkerchief which he
took from his pocket, “I’ve got a devil of a prick from that dashed
holly,” he said.
And then she saw that he was not her son. Taller, straighter, of a
colourless fairness, a strange voice, a strange aspect. Not Robbie, not
Robbie! whoever he was.