“There will still be time; but I will have to hurry away,” said the old gentleman reluctantly, “to Edinburgh by the next train.”
And then there ensued a struggle in the mind of the hostess, to whom hospitality was second nature. “I did not think of that; and you’ve had a hot journey out here, and nothing to refresh you. Forgive me, that have been just wrapped up in my own concerns. You will stay and take—some dinner before you go back.”
“No, no,” he said; “it’s a terrible thing for you to refuse a dinner to a hungry man. You never did the like of that in your life before. But it’s best I should go. There’s a train in half an hour. I’ll take a glass of the wine you would not take, and I’ll be fresh again for my walk to the station. It’s not just so warm as it was.”
“You will stay to your dinner, Mr Somerville.”
“No; I could not swallow it, and you could not endure to see me eating it and losing time.”
“Then Andrew shall put in the pony, and drive you down to Eskholm,” Mrs Ogilvy said. This was a relief to her, in the unexampled contingency of sending a visitor unrefreshed from her house—a thing which perhaps had never happened in her life before.
She went out to her habitual place outside a little later, at her usual hour. She was not capable of saying anything to Janet, who followed her wistfully, putting herself forward to bring out her mistress’s cushion, her footstool, her book, her knitting, one after another, always hoping to be told what Mrs Ogilvy had promised to tell her after. But not a word did her mistress say. She did not even sit down as she usually did, but walked about, quickly at first, then with gradually slackening steps, sometimes pausing to look round, sometimes stooping to throw away a withered leaf, but always resuming that restless walk which was so unlike her usual tranquillity. She had her hand pressed upon her side, as one might press a handkerchief upon a wound. And indeed she had the stroke of a sword in her heart, and the life-blood flowing. Robert Ogilvy, Robbie Ogilvy, the bonnie name! and after the silence of fifteen years to hear it now as in the ‘Hue and Cry,’ at the end of all that long string of awful nicknames. It was only now that she had full time to realise it all. Yesterday at this time what would she not have given for any indication that he was living and where he was! She would have said she could bear anything only to know that he was safe, and to have some clue by which he could be found. And now she had both, and a wound gaping in her heart that required both her hands to cover it, to prevent her life altogether from welling away. Robert Ogilvy, Robert Ogilvy—oh, his bonnie name!
After a while, her forces wearing out, she sat down in her usual place, but not with her usual patience and calm. Was that what could be called an answer to her prayers?—the sudden revelation of her son, for whom she had cried to God for all these years night and day, in anguish and crime and danger? Oh, was this an answer? Her eyes wandered by habit to the landscape below and the road which she had watched so often, the white road, white with summer dust, upon which every passing figure showed. There was a passing figure now, walking slowly along as far as she could see. On another day she would have wondered who the man was. She took no interest in him now, but saw him pass and pass again as if it were the merest accident. It was not until she had seen him pass three or four times that her attention was roused. A big figure, not one she could identify with any of the usual passers-by, strangely clad, and carrying a cloak folded over one shoulder. A cloak? what could a man like that want with a cloak—an old-fashioned cumbrous thing. Whatever he wanted, he kept his face towards the Hewan. Sometimes he passed very slow, lingering at every step; sometimes very fast, as if he were pursued. Other figures went and came—the farmers’ gigs, a few carriages of the gentry going home. It was late, though it was still so light. What was that man doing loitering always there? Her attention was more and more drawn to the road. At last she saw that nobody except this one man was within sight, not a wheel audible, not a creature visible. The figure seemed to hesitate, and then all at once with a dart approached the gate, which swung at his touch. Was he coming here? Who was he? Long, long had she watched and waited. Was he coming home at last this June day,—this night of all nights? And who was he, who was he, the man that was coming? It will only be some person with a message—it will only be some gangrel person, Mrs Ogilvy said to herself.
CHAPTER V.
The footstep came slowly up the sloping path. The holly-hedges were high, and for some time nothing more was visible than a moving speck over the solid wall of green. There is something in awaiting in this way the slow approach of a stranger which affects the nerves, even when there is little expectation and no alarm in the mind. Mrs Ogilvy sat speechless and unable to move, her throat parched and dry, her heart beating wildly. Was it he? Was it some one pursuing him—some avenger of blood on his track? Was it no one at all—some silly messenger, some sturdy beggar, some one who would require Andrew to turn him away? These questions went through her head in a whirl, without any volition of hers. The last was the most likely. She waited with a growing passion and suspense, yet still in outward semblance as the rose-bush with all its buds showing white, which stood tranquilly in the dimness behind her. It was growing dark; or rather it was growing dim, everything still visible, but vaguely, as if a veil had dropped between the eye and what it saw. When the man came out at the head of the path, detached and separate from all the trees and their shadows, upon the little platform, a thrill came over the looker-on. He seemed to pause there for a moment, then advanced slowly.