The Railway Man and His Children

by Mrs. Oliphant

“I saw my wife,” he said to Mrs. Brown briefly, with whom he had exchanged a silent greeting; “I saw my wife in the street, and followed her here. I know no business she could have here. I should apologise for the intrusion.” He took no notice of his son, who had instinctively drawn aside. “It surprises me very greatly, Evelyn, to see you here.”

“Oh Jims! sae did it me; but your bonny leddy has none but a good motive for coming: I can see that noo.”

“I do not wonder,” said Evelyn calmly: she was not afraid of her husband; “but you will soon understand. I am surprised also to see you. Did you get my telegram, James?”

“I got no telegram,” he cried angrily, “and I thought I had forbidden any intercourse with—with—”

“Oh, no,” she said, “you could not have done that: first because you have too much respect for your wife to give her an order which was unworthy: and because you could not interfere with my own judgment. On the contrary, I came here—to bring our boy home.”

“I gave no authority for any such mission,” Rowland cried, “and I will not have it! I will not have it!” He was trembling behind his anger, which was like a veil thrown on to disguise the strange movements and agitations in his mind. What did she mean? She had not disturbed herself, except for a moment, and still lay back in the big chair pale with weariness, yet smiling in his face the more dark he looked. What had she in her mind to make her smile so? Why did she say she had come to bring the boy? She said our boy. What, oh what was the meaning of it all? Archie stood dark as a thundercloud, dumb, taking no more note of his father than his father did of him. (They both saw every movement of each other, every change of countenance, every turn, had it been of a finger.) And Jane had evidently been crying, and was ready to burst out again at any moment. It was she that interposed now.

“Jims,” she said, “your bonny leddy is just aff a journey; she’s been travelling all night. I can’t tell where ye have been yoursel’, but you look very wearit too. You can see her cup o’ tea standing by her that she hasna touched. I poured it out, but I hadna the grace to hold my tongue, and just was mad at her, and abused her sae that the darlin’ creature, as she is, never swallowed a drop, and her faintin’ for want. But I’ve been convicted out of my ain very mouth,” cried Jane, “every word that I spoke has come back upon me: for I threepit up against her that I would have done this and that. Me! a bonnie person to set up for a pattern! and it turned out that everything I said she had done, and mair. And now you come bursting in, just as unreasonable. Say out, man, what ye would have her to do, and you’ll find she has done it—and mair! But for ainy sake,” cried Jane, sobbing, with her apron to her eyes, “Let the bonny leddy get a moment’s peace, and tak’ her cup o’ tea.”

“Dear Mrs. Brown,” cried Evelyn, between laughing and crying, “you’re a good friend! and I do want a little tea. And I am not afraid of him nor any of you. If you have not been home, nor got my telegram, you will want a full account of me, James, for I have been in London by myself, ever since you went away. Yes, it is true, I took advantage of your absence to go away. A wicked woman could not have done more. As soon as you had gone I set out. It would not be wonderful if you suspected me. But I do not know of what,” she added, with a low laugh. There was something in her laugh that overcame altogether her middle-aged angry husband. He was not angry: all that was a pretence; nor did he know what he suspected her of. At this moment he suspected her justly of what she had done, of having found some way, he could not tell how, of making an end of the trouble which was growing at his heart. When he had left Rosmore there was something in her eye that had made him believe she would do this. He had given her no permission, yet he had a confidence that she would act somehow—he could not tell how—and clear everything up. It had been a horrible disappointment to him coming back with that confidence in his mind, to find that she was absent, to be told that she had gone to ask advice—on his affairs. And here he had been utterly perplexed, and had not known what to think. That was the history of his many changes. Suspect her? No, he did not know, any more than she did, of what. He had never suspected her—unless it was of failing to fulfil that wild hope of his suffering heart. But something told him now that she had not failed. He stood by as grave as a whole bench of judges, and watched with a solemn countenance while she took her tea. There had been a little struggle with Mrs. Brown, who protested that it must be cold, and that she must make more. But Evelyn had been triumphant in this, and now sat eating and drinking before them all, while they looked on with solemnity. There was something of the highest comic absurdity in the aspect of the father and son, one more serious than the other, standing watching her at her simple meal. Mrs. Brown hovered about her, imploring her to take this and that—an egg, some scones, a chop that could be got in an instant, marmalade, that was considered very good, of her own making—and many things beside. But the two men stood in portentous silence, never moving a muscle, as grave as if her little piece of toast was a matter of life and death. Archie was agitated vaguely, he knew not how: but his father’s mind was like a great flowing river, held by a thread of ice, which the first ray of sunshine would clear away. He bore the aspect of anger still; the cloud hung upon his brow; but all restraint was ready to be swept away, and the full tide to flow forth. He stood, however, black as night, and watched his wife at her breakfast. The strangest, humorous, nay comic sight.

And Evelyn was worn out with all her exertions. She was so weak, with her nerves all so relaxed after their long tension, that they were able to resist no temptation. She watched her husband and his son with a growing sense of the ludicrous. They were so solemn, watching her like doctors over a case, as if the manner in which she set down her tea-cup, or put her morsel of bread into her mouth, were symptoms of the gravest kind. She watched them as long as nature would hold out. It was not until she had finished her cup of tea, and ate her last morsel. She put her plate away with her hand, and they both moved slightly with the touch, as if this were the signal for some revelation. And this in her weak condition was too much for Evelyn. She burst out with a laugh of such hilarity that all the silent room echoed. She laughed till the tears flowed down her cheeks.

“Oh James, forgive me,” she cried, “you are like an owl, serious as midnight and the dark: and Archie is just like you, as like you as—what is the word? two peas. Archie, come here and give me your hand. Do you remember that I once told you I believed every word you said?”