Robert said not a word in reply—he sat with his head supported on his hands, his elbows on the table: and his countenance was invisible—he made no movement or indication of what he meant to do.
“I have no more,” said Mrs Ogilvy, with a trembling voice; for she was afraid of the look, half fierce, half mocking, with which he met her eyes. “It would perhaps have been better if I had—money in the bank, and could draw a cheque like most people now; but I have always followed the old-fashioned way, and all I have is in the hands of——”
She broke off with a quavering, broken sound—seeing over again the scene of last night, and the paper with Mr Somerville’s name upon it,—she remembered now, suddenly, that Mr Somerville’s name was upon the paper which they had wanted her to sign. What had become of Mr Somerville that he had not come, as he promised, to speak to Robbie, to persuade the other one to go away? It was difficult to recall to herself the fact that it was only two days since she had gone to Edinburgh and poured her trouble into his sympathetic ears. Perhaps it would have been better if she had not done this, or opened her heart to any one. Mr Somerville would never betray them, he would not betray Robbie; but still it seemed that something had happened between that time and this, a greater sense of insecurity, the feeling that something was going to happen. Things had been better before, when that strange life which she had felt to be insupportable was going on: now it was more than insupportable, it was almost over, and after——? A great chasm seemed to have opened at her feet, and she felt herself hurrying towards it, but could not tell what was below. After? what was to happen after, if Robbie drifted away again, and she saw his face no more?
He avoided her all day, while she watched for him at every corner, eager only to get a word, to ask a question, to put forth a single prayer. The afternoon was terribly long: it went over, one sunny hour after another, hot, breathless, terrible. It was clear by all those signs that a thunderstorm was coming, and the most appalling roll of thunder would have been a relief; but even that delayed its coming, and a dead stillness hung over heaven and earth. There was not a breath of air, the flowers languished in the borders, the leaves hung their heads, and all was still indoors. She did not know what the young men were doing, but they made no sound. Perhaps the weather affected them too—perhaps, another storm coming, which they had been long looking for, had overcome their spirits. Perhaps they were making preparations for their departure. But what preparations could they make, unless it were a bundle on the end of a stick like the tramps? She said to herself they, and then with anguish changed it in her mind to he, but did not believe it even while she did so. No! she had a conviction in her heart that Robbie would go. What was there to keep him back? Nothing but dulness and the society of an old woman. What was that to keep a man at home? She was not angry with him, nor intolerant, but simply miserable. What was there in her to make a young man happy at home? to keep him contented without society or any amusement? No, no, she could not blame Robbie. He wanted movement, he wanted life at his age. He was not even like a young lad who sometimes has a great feeling for his mother. She could not expect it of him that he should stay here for his mother. Even the flight, the excitement of being pursued, the difficulty of getting away—Mrs Ogilvy had heard that such things were more attractive than quietness and safety at home. It was natural—and, what was the chief thing above all other, Robbie was not so much, not so very much, to blame.
She was still wandering about when the day began to wane into evening, like an unquiet soul. Where were they? what were they doing? The quiet of the house became dreadful to her. She who had loved her quiet so, who had felt it so insupportable to have her calm solitude so spoiled and broken!—but now she would have given much only to hear the scuffle of their feet, the roar of their loud laughter. She went about the house from one room to another, avoiding only the bedrooms where she supposed they were. She would not drive them out of that last refuge. She would not interfere there, be importunate, disturb them, if, perhaps, it was the last day.
And then she went outside and gazed right and left for she knew not what. She was looking for no one—or was it the storm she was looking for? Everything was grey, the sky, like some deep solid lid for the panting breathless world, stealing down upon the earth, closely hiding the heavens: it seemed to come closer and closer down, as if to smother the universe and all the terrified creatures on it. The birds flew low, making little agitated flights, as if they thought the end of the world was at hand. So did she, to whom, as far as she knew, everything was hastening to a conclusion—her son about to disappear again into the unknown, if he had not already done so, and her life about to be wound up for ever. For she knew well there would be no second coming back. Oh! never, never again would she sit at her door, and listen and hope for his step on the path. If he left her now, it would be for ever. It might be that for the sake of the money he would have seen some violence done to his mother; but no money, if it were ten times as much, would bring him back again—none! none! not if it were ten times as much. If he went now, he would never come back; and how could she keep him from going now?
About seven o’clock the windows of heaven were opened, and torrents of rain fell—not the storm for which everybody had been looking, but only the tail of the storm, which sounded all round the horizon in distant dull reports, like a battle going on a dozen miles away, and the tremendous downpour of rain. She said to herself, “In such a night they can never go,” with a mingled happiness and despair—happiness to put off the inevitable, to gain perhaps a propitious moment, and supplicate her son not to go; and despair in the prospect of another twenty-four hours of misery like this, the dreadful suspense, the terror of she knew not what. When the first darkening of the twilight began, Mrs Ogilvy began to think of another night to go through, and Lew’s laughing threats, and the devil in his eyes. He had said there would be time to talk of that to-night. Perhaps he would murder her to-night; and all the country-side would believe it was her son, and curse him, though it would not be Robbie—not Robbie, who had saved her once, but perhaps might not again. She asked herself whether it would not be better to go away somewhere, to save herself and, above all, them, from such a dreadful temptation. But where could she go, exposing the misery of her house? and how did she know that something might not happen which would make her presence a protection to them? She gazed out from the window through the rain, and it occurred to her that she could always run out there and hide herself among the trees. They would not think of looking for her there. She would be safe there, or at least—— This idea gave her a little comfort. How could he find her in the dark, in the heavy rain, among her own trees?
The rain had driven her indoors, and in the parlour where she was, she heard them overhead. They seemed to be moving about softly, and sometimes crossed the passage, as if going from one room to another. They had shared the clothes with which Robbie had liberally provided himself on his return—and the thought that they were busied only with so homely an occupation as packing brought back a little comfort to her. A man does not fash about his clothes, she thought, who has murder in his head. She shook off her terror with a heat of shame flaming over her. Shame to have done injustice to her neighbour, how much more to her son! They were thinking of no such dreadful things: it was only the panic of her own imagination which was in fault. She said to herself that if it must be so, if Robbie left her, she would get from him a sure address, and there she would send him the money he wanted, or whatever he wanted—for was it not all his? This was what she would do: she had nothing to give him now. Perhaps, perhaps he might be deterred by that and wait till she could get it for him, while his friend went on. What a thing this would be, to get him alone, to talk to him, to represent to him how much better to take a little time, to think, to give himself a chance. She thought over all this, and shook her head while she thought; for, alas! this was what Robbie would never do.
Suddenly, it seemed in a moment, the rain stopped, the distant thunder came to an end, the battle in the skies was over. And after all the tumult and commotion of the elements, the clouds, which had poured themselves out, dispersed in rags and fragments of vapour, and let the sky look through—the most serene evening sky, with the stars faintly visible through the wistful lingering daylight—the sweetest evening, with that clearness as of weeping, and radiance as of hope returned, which is in the skies after the relief of the rain, and in a human countenance sometimes when all its tears have been shed, and there are no more to come. Was it a good omen, or was it only the resignation of despair which shone upon her out of that evening sky?