Mrs Ogilvy rose from her bed after the little conversation which had
roused her more effectually than anything else could have done, more
than half ashamed of having slept, and a little feverish with her sudden
awakening and Robbie’s strange demand: and though it was late--more
like, indeed, the proper and lawful moment for going to bed than for
getting up and making an unnecessary toilet in the middle of the
night--put on her cap again, and her pretty white shawl, and went
down-stairs. She had put on one of the fine embroidered China
crape-shawls which were for the evening, and, to correspond with that, a
clean cap with perfectly fresh ribbons, which gave her the air of being
in her best, more carefully dressed than usual. And her long sleep had
refreshed her. When she went into the dining-room, where Janet was
removing the remains of the supper from the table, she was like an image
of peace and whiteness and brightness coming into the room, to which,
however, carefully Janet might arrange it, the two men always gave a
certain aspect of disorder. Mrs Ogilvy had tried to dismiss from her
face every semblance of agitation. She would not remember the request
Robbie had made to her, nor think of it at all save as a sudden impulse
of reckless generosity on his part to his friend. The two young men,
however, were not equally successful in composing their faces. Robbie
had his pipe in his hand, which he had crammed with tobacco, pushing it
down with his thumb, as if to try how much it would contain; but he did
not light it: and even Lew, usually so careless and smiling, looked
grave. He it was who jumped up to place a chair for her. Janet had so
far improved matters that the remains of the meal were all cleared away,
and only the white tablecloth left on the table.
“I think shame of myself,” said Mrs Ogilvy, “to have been overtaken by
sleep in this way: but it is very seldom I go in to Edinburgh, and the
hot streets and the glaring sun are not what I am used to. However,
perhaps I am all the better of it, and my head clearer. I doubt if, when
it’s at its clearest, it would be of much service to you--men that both
know the world better than I do, though you are but laddies to me.”
“Yes; I think we know the world better than you do,” said Lew. “We’ve
been a bit more about. This is a sweet little place, but you don’t see
much of life; and then you’re too good, mother, to understand it if you
saw it,” he said.
“You are mistaken, Mr Lew, in thinking there is little life to be seen
here: everywhere there is life, in every place where God’s creatures
are. Many a story have I seen working out, many a thing that might have
been acted on the stage, many a tragedy, too, though you mightn’t think
it. The heart and the mind are the same wherever you find them--and
love, that is the grandest and most terrible thing on this earth, and
death, and trouble. Oh, I could not tell you in a long summer day the
things I have seen!”
“Very different from our kind of things, mother,” said Lew, with a
laugh. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen anything like the fix we’re in at
present, for instance: the police on our heels, and not a penny to get
out of the way with--and in this blessed old country, where you’ve to go
by the railway and pay for all your meals. These ain’t the things that
suit us, are they, Bob?”
Robert was standing up, leaning against the securely closed and
curtained window. The night was very warm, and the windows being closed,
it was hot inside. His face was completely in shade, and he made no
reply, but stood like a shadow, moving only his hand occasionally,
pressing down the tobacco in the over-charged pipe.
“I have told you, Mr Lew,” Mrs Ogilvy said, with a slight quiver in her
voice, “that whatever money you may want for your journey, and
something to give you a new start wherever you go, you should have, and
most welcome--oh, most welcome! I say, not for my Robbie’s sake, but out
of my own heart. Oh, laddie, you are but young yet! I have said it
before, and I will say it again--whatever you may have done in the past,
life is always your own to change it now.”
“We will consider all that as said,” said Lew, with the movement of
concealing a slight yawn. “You’ve been very kind in that as in
everything else, putting my duty before me; but there’s something more
urgent just at present. This money--we must go far, Bob and I, if we’re
to be safe----”
“Not Robbie, not Robbie!” she cried.
“We must go far if we’re to be safe, not back where we were. It’s a pity
when a place becomes too hot to hold you, especially when it’s the place
that suits you best. We’ll have to go far. I have my ideas on that
point; but it’s better not to tell them to you: for then when you are
questioned you can’t answer, don’t you see.”
“But Robbie--is not pursued. Robbie, Robbie! you will never leave me!
Oh, you will not leave me again, and break my heart!”
Robbie did not say a word: his face was completely in the shadow, and
nothing could be read there any more than from his silent lips.
“Going far means a deal of money; setting up again means a deal of
money. If we were to open a bank, for instance,” said Lew, with a short
laugh--“a respectable profession, and just in our way. That’s probably
what we shall do--we shall open a bank; but it wants money, a deal of
money--a great deal of money. You would like to see your son a
respectable banker, eh? Then, old lady, you must draw your
purse-strings.”
“I do not think,” said Mrs Ogilvy, “that Robbie would do much as a
banker--nor you either, Mr Lew. You would have to be at office-desks
every day and all the day. To me it would seem natural, but to you that
have used yourselves, alack! to such different things---- And then it is
not what you call just money that is wanted. It is capital; and where
are you to find it? Oh, my dear laddies, in this you know less, not
more, than me. You must get folk to trust in you by degrees when you
have showed yourselves trustworthy. But a bank at once, without either
character--alack, that I should say it!--or capital. Oh no, my dears,
oh, not a bank, not a bank, whatever you do!”
“You must trust us, mother--we know what we’re talking about: a
bank--which is perhaps not just exactly the kind of thing you are
thinking of--is the only thing for Bob and me; but we must have money,
money, money,” he said, tapping with his hand upon the table.
“Capital,” said Mrs Ogilvy, with a confident air of having suggested
something quite different.
“It’s the same thing, only more of it; and as that lies with you to
furnish, we shall not quarrel about the word.”
“There is some mistake,” said Mrs Ogilvy, with dignity. “I have never
said, I have never promised. Mr Lew, I found out to-day what was the
passage-money of the farthest place you could go to, and I have got the
siller here in the house.”
The dark figure at the window stirred a little, raising a hand as if in
warning: the other listened with a sudden, eager gleam in his eyes,
leaning forward. It made his face shine to hear of the money in the
house.
“Yes,” he said, joyfully, “that’s something like speaking. I love a
practical mind. You have got it here in the house?” There came a certain
tigerish keenness into his look, as if he might have snatched at her,
torn it from her. The shadow against the window stirred a little, but
whether in sympathy with the keen desire of the one, or touched by the
aspect of the other, it was impossible to tell. Meanwhile Mrs Ogilvy,
suspecting nothing, saw nothing to fear.
“It is in the house. I got it even in English notes, that you might have
no trouble. There will be a hundred pounds,” said Mrs Ogilvy. She spoke
with a little pride, as of one announcing a great thing, a donation
almost unparalleled, but which yet she gave like a princess, not
grudging. “And thirty besides,” she added, with a little sigh, “that
when you get there you may not be without a pound in your pocket. I give
it you with all my heart, Mr Lew. Oh, if the money, the poor miserable
siller, might maybe be the means of calling you back to a steady and to
an honest life!”
Lew said nothing in reply: his hungry eyes, lighted up by such a gleam
of covetousness, gave one fiery glance at Robbie standing, as it seemed,
imperturbable, immovable, in the shade. Then he began to beat out a tune
on the table with his fingers: but he made no other answer, to Mrs
Ogilvy’s great surprise.
“I believe,” she said, with hesitation, “that will pay a passage even to
India; but if you should find that it will need more----”
He went on with his tune, beating on the table, half whistling to
accompany the beats of his fingers. Something of the aspect of a fierce
animal, lashing its tail, working itself up into fury, had come into his
usually smiling pleasant looks, though the smile was still on his face.
“I fear,” he said, with the gleam in his eyes which she began to
perceive with wonder, “that it is not enough. They will be of no use to
us, these few shillings. I thought you would have done anything for your
son; but I find, mother, that you’re like all the mothers, good for
everything in words, but for a little less in money. You will have to
give us more than that----”
Mrs Ogilvy was much surprised, but would not believe her ears. She said
mildly, “I have told you, Mr Lew: it is not for my son, but chiefly out
of a great feeling I have for yourself, poor laddie, that have nobody to
advise you or lead you in a better way.”
“You may preach if you like,” he said, with a laugh, “if you’re ready to
pay; but no preaching without paying, old lady. Come, let’s look at it a
little closer. Here are you rolling in money, and he there, your only
son, sent out into the world----”
“Not Robbie,” she cried, with a gasp, “not Robbie! I said it was for
you----”
“We do not mean to be parted, however,” he said. “You must double your
allowance, mother, and then see how much you can add to that.”
She looked at her son, clasping her hands together, her face, amid the
whiteness of her dress, whiter still, its only colour the eyes, so
bright and trustful by nature, looking at him with a supreme but
voiceless appeal. Whether it touched him or not, could not be seen: he
stirred a little, but probably only as a relief from his attitude of
stillness--and his face was too deep in the shade to betray any
expression for good or for evil.
Then Mrs Ogilvy rose up trembling to her feet. She said, clasping her
hands again as if to strengthen herself, “I have been very wishful to do
all to please you--to treat you, Mr Lew, as if you were--what can I
say?--not my own son, for he is but one--but like the son of my friend.
But I have a duty--I am not my own woman, to do just what I please. I
have a charge of my son before the Lord. I will give you this money to
take you away, for this is not your place or your home, and you have
nothing ado here. But my son: Robbie, all I have is yours--you can have
it all when you like and how you like, my own boy. But not to go away
with this man. If you will forsake your home, let it be well considered
and at another time. To take you away with this man, fleeing before the
pursuer, taking upon you a shame and a sin that is not yours---- No! I
will not give you a penny of your father’s money and my savings for
that. No, no!--all, when you will, in sobriety and judgment, but nothing
now.”
Her smallness, her weakness, her trembling, were emphasised by the fact
that she seemed to tower over Lew where he sat, and to stand like a rock
between the two strong men.
“You’re a plucky old girl,” said her antagonist, with a laugh--“I always
said so--game to the last: but we can’t stand jabbering all night, don’t
you know. Business is business. You must fork out if you were the
Queen, my fine old lady. Sit down, for there’s a good deal to say.”
“I can hear what you have to say as I am, if it is anything reasonable,”
Mrs Ogilvy said. She felt, though she could scarcely keep that upright
position by reason of agitation and fear, that she had an advantage over
him as she stood.
He sprang to his feet before she knew what was going to happen, and with
two heavy hands upon her shoulders replaced her in her chair. I will not
say forced her back into it, though indeed that was how it was. She
leaned back panting and astonished, and looked at him, but did not rise
or subject herself to that violence again.
“I hope I did not hurt you--I didn’t intend to hurt you,” he said: “but
you must remember, mother, though you treat us as boys, that we’re a
pair of not too amiable men--and could crush you with a touch, with a
little finger,” he added, looking half fiercely, half with a jest, into
her eyes.
“No,” she said very softly, “you could not crush me--not with all your
power.”
“Give that paper here, Bob,” said his chief.
Robert scarcely moved, did not reveal himself in any way to the light,
but with a faint stir of his large shadow produced a folded paper which
had been within the breast of his coat. Lew took it and played with it
somewhat nervously, the line of white like a wand of light in his hands.
“You are rolling in wealth,” he said.
She made as if she had said “No!” shaking her head, but took no other
notice of the question.
“We have reason to suppose you are well off, at least. You have got your
income, which can’t be touched, and you have got a lot of money well
invested.”
She did not make any reply, but looked at him steadily, marking every
gesture.
“It is this,” he said, “to which Bob has a natural right. I think we are
very reasonable. We don’t want to rob you, notwithstanding our great
need of money: you can see that we wish to use no violence, only to set
before you what you ought to do.”
“I will not do it,” said Mrs Ogilvy.
“We’ll see about that. I have been thinking about this for some time,
and I have taken my measures. Here is a list which we got from your
man--the old fogey you threatened us with--or at least from _his_ man.
And here is a letter directing everything to be realised, and the money
paid over to your son. You will sign this----”
“From my man--you are meaning Mr Somerville?” Mrs Ogilvy looked at the
paper which had been thrust into her hand, bewildered. “And he never
said a word of it to me!”
“Don’t let us lay the blame where it isn’t due,” said the other,
lightly: “from his man. Probably the respectable old fogey never
knew----”
“Ah!” she cried, “the clerk that was Robbie’s friend! Then it was Robbie
himself----”
“Robbie himself,” said Lew, in the easiest tone, “as it was he who had
the best, the only, right to find out. Now, mother, come! execute
yourself as bravely as you have done the other things. Sign, and we’ll
have a glass all round, and part the best friends in the world. When you
wake in the morning you’ll find we’ve cleared out.”
“It was Robbie,” she said to herself, murmuring, scarcely audible to the
others, “it was Robbie--Robbie himself.” She took no notice of the paper
which was placed before her. All her mind seemed occupied by this.
“Robbie--it was Robbie, my son.”
“Who should it be but Bob? Do you think that information would have been
furnished to me? What did I know about it? It was Bob, of course; and
don’t you think he was quite right? Come! here’s pen and ink ready.
Sign, and then it will be all over. It goes against me, mother, to ask
anything you don’t like--it does, though you mayn’t believe me. Now, one
moment, and the thing will be done.”
He spoke to her, coaxing her, as to a child, but there was a kindling
devil in his eye. Robbie never raised his head or opened his mouth, but
he made to his comrade an imperative gesture with his hand. The tension
was becoming too much to bear.
“Come, mother,” said Lew, “sign--sign!”
This time she did not rise up as before. She had a faint physical dread
of provoking his touch upon her person again; but she lifted her head,
and looking at him, said steadily, “No.”
“No?--you say this to us who could--kill you with a touch?”
“I will not do it,” she said.
“Do you know what you are saying, old woman?--tempting me, tempting him,
to murder? You needn’t look to the door: there is not a soul that could
hear you--Andrew’s fast asleep, and you wouldn’t call him, to bear
witness against your son.”
“No,” she said, “I would not call him to bear witness--against--my son.”
“Sign! sign! sign!” cried Lew; “do you think we’ll wait for you all
night?”
“I will not sign.”
“Old woman! you wretched old fool, trusting, I suppose, to that fellow
there! Better trust me than him. Look here, no more of this. You shall
sign whether you will or not.” He seized her hand as he spoke, thrust
the pen into it, and forced it upon the paper. Her little wrist seemed
to crush together in his big hand. She gave a faint cry, but no more.
Her fingers remained motionless in his hold. He was growing red with
impatience and fury, his eyes fierce, his mouth set. She looked up at
him for a moment, but said not a word.
“Will you do it? will you do it?--at once!--when I tell you.”
“No.”
He let her hand go and seized her by the shoulders. He had by this time
forgotten everything except that he was crossed and resisted by a feeble
creature in his power. And in this state he was appalling, murder in his
eye, and an ungovernable impulse in his mind. He seized her by her
shoulders, the white shawl crumpling in soft folds not much less strong
to resist than the flesh beneath in his hands, and shook her, violently,
furiously, like a dog rather than a man.
“Do what I tell you, woman! Sign!”
“No.”
She thought that she was dead. She thought it was death, her breath
going from her, her eyes turning in their sockets. Next moment a roar of
rage seemed to pass over her head, she was pushed aside like a straw
flung out of the fiery centre of the commotion, the grip gone from her
shoulders, and she herself suddenly turned as it were into nothing, like
the chair at which she clutched to support herself, not knowing what it
was. She had a vision for a moment of Robbie, her son, standing where
she had stood, tearing and tearing again in a hundred pieces a paper in
his hands, while Lew against the opposite wall, as if he too had been
dashed out of the way like herself, stood breathing hard, his eyes
glaring, his arm up. Next moment she was pushed suddenly, not without
violence, thrust out of the room, and the door closed upon her. All was
dark outside, and she helpless, broken, bleeding she thought, a wounded,
lacerated creature, not able to stand, far more unable in the tumult and
trouble of body and soul to go away, to seek any help or shelter. She
dropped down trembling upon her knees, with her head against that closed
door.