The two men stood with the background of dark figures behind, while the
inspector who was at the head of the party advanced towards them.
Robbie, with his long beard and his cloak over his shoulder, was the one
upon whom all eyes were fixed. One of the policemen held him firm by the
arm. His countenance was dark, his air sullen, like a wild beast taken
in the toils. The other by his side, almost spruce in his loose coat,
his clean-shaven face seeking no shadow, facing the enemy with a
half-smile upon it, easy, careless, fearing no evil--produced an effect
quite contrary to that which the dark and bearded brigand made upon the
officers of the law. Who could doubt that it was he who was the son of
the house, “led away” by the truculent ruffian by his side? There was no
mention of Robbie’s name in the warrant. And the sight of Robbie’s
mother, and her defence of her threshold, had touched the hearts even
of the police. To take away this ruffian, to leave her her son in peace,
poor old lady, relieving her poor little quiet house of the horror that
had stolen into it--the inspector certainly felt that he would be doing
a good service to his neighbour as well as obeying the orders of the
law.
“The one with the beard,” he said, looking at a paper which he held in
his hand--“that is him. Secure him, Green. Stand by, men; be on your
guard; he knows what he’s about---- ah!” The inspector breathed more
freely when the handcuffs clicked on Robert Ogilvy’s wrists, who for his
part neither resisted nor answered, but stood looking almost stupidly at
the scene, and then down upon his hands when they were secured. The
other by his side put up a hand to his face, as if overwhelmed by the
catastrophe, and fell a little backward, overcome it seemed with
distress--as Robbie ought to have done, had this and not the ruffian in
the beard been he.
Mrs Ogilvy had been leaning on Susie’s shoulder, incapable of more, her
heart almost ceasing to beat, all her strength gone; but when the words,
“the one with the beard,” reached dully and slowly to her comprehension,
she made but one bound, pushing with both arms every one away from her,
and with a shriek appeared in the midst of the group. “It is my son,”
she cried, “my son, my son! It is Robbie Ogilvy and no one else. It is
my son, my son, my son!” She flung herself upon him, raving as if she
had suddenly gone mad in her misery, and tried to pluck off with her
weak hands the iron bands from his wrists. Her cries rang out, silencing
every other sound. “It is my son, my son, my son!----”
“I am very sorry, madam; it may be your son, and still it may be the man
we want,” the inspector said.
And then another shrill woman’s voice burst forth from behind. “You
fools, he’s escaping! Don’t you see?”--the speaker clapped her hands
with a sound that rang over their heads. “Don’t you see! It’s easy to
take off a beard. If you waste another moment, he’ll be gone!”
He had almost got beyond the last of the men, retreating very softly
backwards, while all the attention was concentrated upon Robbie and his
mother. But he allowed himself to be pushed forward again at the sound
of this voice, as if he had had no such intention. A snarl like that of
a furious dog curled up his lip at the side for a moment; but he did not
change his aspect--the game was not yet lost.
“There are folk here,” cried Mrs Ogilvy, still plucking at the
handcuffs, while Robbie stood silent, saying nothing--“there are folk
here who have known him from his cradle, that will tell you he’s Robert
Ogilvy: there are my servants--there is the minister, here present God
knows why or wherefore: they know--he’s been absent from his home many a
day; but he’s Robert Ogilvy: no the other. If he’s Robert Ogilvy he is
not the other: if he’s my son he’s not that man. And he is my son, my
son, my son! I swear it to you--and the minister. Mr Logan, tell
them----”
Mr Logan’s mind was much disturbed. He felt that providence itself had
sent him here; but he was slow to make up his mind what to say. He
wanted time to speak and to explain. “I have every reason to think that
is Robert Ogilvy,” he said; “but I never saw him with a beard; and what
he may have been doing all these years----”
“Mr Inspector,” cried Mrs Ainslie, panting with excitement, close to the
officer’s side. “Listen to me: as it chances, I know the man. There is
no one here but I who knows the man. It shows how little you know if you
think that idiot is Lew. I’m a respectable lady of this place, but I’ve
been in America, and I know the man. I’ve seen him--I’ve seen him tried
for his life and get off; and if you drivel on like that, he’ll get off
again. _That_ Lew!” she cried, with a hysterical laugh,--“Lew the devil,
Lew the road-agent! That man’s like a sheep. Do you hear me, do you hear
me? You’ll let him escape again.”
Now was the time for Robbie to speak, for his mother to speak, and say,
“That is the man!” But Mrs Ogilvy was absorbed tearing in vain at the
handcuffs, repeating unconsciously her exclamation, “My son, my son!”
And he stood looking down upon her and her vain struggle, and upon his
own imprisoned hands. I doubt whether she knew what was passing, or was
conscious of anything but of one thing--which was Robbie in those
disgraceful bonds. But he in his dull soul, forced into enlightenment by
the catastrophe, was very conscious of everything, and especially that
he was betrayed--that he himself was being left to bear the brunt, and
that his friend in his character was stealing away.
Janet had been kept back, partly by fright and astonishment, partly by
the police and Andrew, the last of whom had a fast hold upon her gown,
and bade her under his breath to “Keep out o’t--keep out o’t; we can do
nothing:” but this restraint she could no longer bear. Her desire to be
in the midst of everything, to be by her mistress’s side, to have her
share of what was going on, would have been enough for her, even if she
felt, as Andrew did, that she could do no good. But Janet was of no such
opinion. Was she not appealed to, as one whose testimony would put all
right? She pushed her way from among the men, pulling her cotton gown,
which tore audibly, out of Andrew’s hand. “Sir, here am I: let me
speak,” she said. “This is Mr Robert Ogilvy, that I’ve known since ever
he was born. He came home the 15th of June, the same day many weary
years before as he ran away. The other gentleman is Mr Lewis, his
friend, that followed him here about a month ago at the most, a real
fine good-hearted gentleman, too, if maybe he has been a little wild.
Our gentleman is just as he was when he came out of the deserts and
wildernesses. We’re not a family that cares a great deal for
appearances. But Mr Lewis, he’s of another way of thinking, and we’ve
had a great laughing all day at his shaving off of his beard.”
“That’s what I told you!” said Mrs Ainslie, in her excitement pulling
the inspector’s arm. “I told you so! What’s a beard? it is as easy to
take off as a bonnet. And he would have got clean off--look at him, look
at him!--if it hadn’t been for me.”
“Look after that man, you fellows there,” said the inspector’s deep
voice. “Don’t let him get away. Secure them both.”
No one had put handcuffs on Lew’s wrists; no policeman had touched him;
he had been free, with all his wits about him, noting everything, alert,
all conscious, self-possessed. Twice he had almost got away: the first
time before Mrs Ainslie had interfered; the second when Janet with her
evidence had come forward, directing all attention once more to
Robbie--during which moment he had made his way backward again in the
most cautious way, endeavouring to get behind the backs of the men and
make a dash for the door. Almost! but what a difference was that! The
policemen, roused and startled, hustled him forward to his “mate’s”
side, but still without laying a hand upon him. All their suspicions and
observation were for the handcuffed criminal standing silent and gloomy
on the other side. Lew maintained his careless attitude well, nodding at
the inspector, with a “Well, well, officer,” as if he yielded easily but
half-contemptuously to punctilio. But when he saw another constable draw
from his pocket another pair of handcuffs, he changed colour; his eyes
lighted up with a wild fire. Mrs Ainslie, who had got beyond her own
control, followed his movements with the closest inspection. She burst
into a laugh as he grew pale. Her nerves were excited far beyond her
control. She cried out, without knowing, without intending, “Ah, Lew!
You have had more than you meant. You’ve found more than you wanted.
Caught! caught at last. And you will not get off this time,” she cried,
with the wild laugh which she was quite unable to quench, or even to
restrain.
Whether he saw what no doubt was true, that every hope was over, and
that, once conveyed to Edinburgh, no further mistake was possible, and
his fate sealed; or whether he was moved by a swift wave of passion, as
happened to him from time to time--and the exasperation of the woman’s
voice, which worked him to madness--can never be known. He was still
quite free, untouched by any one; but the handcuffs approaching which
would make an end of every independent act. His tall figure, and
clean-shaven, unveiled face seemed suddenly to rise and tower over every
other in the heat and pale glow of passion. “You viper, Liz!” he
thundered out. “Music-hall Liz!” with a fierce laugh, “here’s for
you--the traitor’s pay!” And before any one could breathe or speak,
before a hand could be lifted, there was a sudden flash and report, and
in a moment he had flung himself forward upon the two or three startled
men in front of him, with a rush for the open door, and the pistol still
smoking in his hand. Two steps more, and he would have been out in the
open, in the fresh air that breathed like heaven upon him, among the
dark trees that give hiding and shelter, and make a man, with his wits
about him, a match for any dozen. Two steps more! But rapid as he was,
there were too many of them to make such an escape possible. Before he
had reached that open way, half-a-dozen men were upon him. The struggle
was but for a moment--a wild sudden tumult of stamping feet and loud
voices; then there was again a sudden flash and report and fall. The
whole band seemed to fall together--the men who had grappled with him
being dragged with him to the ground. They gathered themselves up one by
one--everybody who could move: and left the one on the ground who would
never move again.
He had so far succeeded in his rush that his head fell outside the open
door of the Hewan, where his face caught the calm line of the moonlight
streaming in. The strange white radiance enveloped him, separating him
from everything round--from the men who, struggling up to their feet,
suddenly hushed and awe-stricken, stood hastily aside in the shadow,
looking down upon the prisoner who had thus escaped from their hands. He
lay right across the threshold in all his length and strength of
limb,--motionless now, no struggle in him, quenched every resistance and
alarm. It was so instantaneous, that the terrible event--that sudden,
incalculable change of death, which is of all things in the world the
most interesting and tremendous to all lookers-on--became doubly awful,
falling, with a solemn chill and horror which paralysed them, upon the
astonished men around. Dead! Yet a moment since flinging off the
strongest, struggling against half-a-dozen, almost escaping from their
hands. He had escaped now. None of them would willingly have laid a
finger on him. They stood trembling round, who had been grappling him a
minute before, keen for his subjugation. The curious moon, too still and
cold for any ironical meaning, streamed on him from head to foot in the
opening of the doorway, displaying him as if to the regard of men and
angels, with a white blaze upon his upturned face, and here and there a
strong silver line where an edge of his clothing caught the whiteness in
relief. Everything else was in shadow, or in the trembling uncertainty
of the indoor light. The pistol, still with a little smoke from it,
which curled for a moment into the shining light and disappeared, was
still in his hand.
This was the end of that strange visit to the little tranquil house,
where he had introduced so much disturbance, so strange an overturning
of every habit. He had taken it for his rest and refuge, like a master
in a place where every custom of the tranquil life, and every principle
and sentiment, cried out against him. He had made the son his slave, but
yet had not made the mother his enemy. And yet a more wonderful thing
had happened to Lew. He, whom nobody had loved in his life, save those
whose vile affections can be bought for pay, and who dishonour the
name--and for whom nobody would have wept had he not strayed into this
peaceful abode and all but ruined and destroyed it--had tears shed for
him here. Had he never come to the Hewan--to shed misery and terror
around him, to kill and ruin, to rob and slay, as for some time at least
he had intended--there would have been no lament made for the
adventurer. But kind nature gained him this much in his end, though he
no way deserved it. And the moonlight made him look like a hero slain in
its defence upon the threshold of the outraged house,--the only house in
the world where prayer had ever been said for this abandoned soul.