“Who is it? Who is the man?” she said. She followed every change of his face, every movement, every question, with eyes large with panic and terror.
What he said first, he had the grace to say under his breath out of some revived tradition of respect, “Would you be any the wiser if I told you a name—that you never heard before?” he said.
“No, Robbie, no. But tell me one thing, is it a man you have wronged? Oh Robbie, tell me, tell me that, for pity’s sake!”
“No!” he shouted with a rage that overcame all other feelings. “Damn him! damn him! it’s he that has never done anything but hunt and harm me.”
“Oh, God be thanked!” cried his mother, suddenly rising and going to him. “Oh Robbie, my dear, the Lord be praised! and God forgive that unfortunate person, for if it’s him, it’s not you!”
He submitted unwillingly for a moment to the arm which she put round him, drawing his head upon her breast, and then put her not ungently away. “If there’s any consolation in that, you can take it,” he said: “There’s not much consolation in me, any way.” And then he reached his large hand over the table to her little bookcase, which stood against the wall. “I can always read a book,” he said, “a story-book; it’s the only thing I can do. You used to have all the Scotts here.”
“They are just where they used to be, Robbie,” she said, in a subdued tone. She watched him, still standing while he chose one; and throwing himself back in his chair, began to read. It added a little sense of embarrassment, of confusion and disorder, to all the heavier trouble, that he had thrown himself into her chair, the place in which she had sat through all those years when there was no one to interfere with her. Glad was she to give up the best place in the house to him, whatever he might please to choose; but it gave her a feeling of disturbance which she could not explain, not being even aware at first what it was that caused it. She did not know where to sit, nor what to do. She could not go back to fetch her open Bible, nor sit down to read it, partly because it would be a reproach to him sitting there reading a novel—only a novel, no reading for Sabbath, even though it was Sir Walter’s; partly because it would seem like indifference, she thought, to occupy herself with reading at all, when at any moment he might have something to say to her again.
CHAPTER VII.
Perhaps it would be well for Janet’s sake not to inquire into the history of that Sabbath afternoon. Friends arrived from Edinburgh, as Mrs Ogilvy had divined, carefully choosing that day when they were so little wanted. There were some people who walked, keeping up an old habit: the walk was long, but when you were sure of a good cup of tea and a good rest at a friend’s house, was not too much for a robust walker with perhaps little time for walking during the week: and some—but they kept a discreet veil on the means of their conveyance—would come occasionally by the wicked little train which, to the great scandal of the whole village, had been permitted between Edinburgh and Eskholm in quite recent days, by the direct influence of the devil or Mr Gladstone some thought, or perhaps for the convenience of a railway director who had a grand house overlooking the Esk higher up the stream. It may well be believed, however, that nobody who visited Mrs Ogilvy on Sunday owned to coming by the train. They could not resist the delights of the walk in this fine weather, they said, and to breathe the country air in June after having been shut up all the week in Edinburgh was a great temptation. They all came from Edinburgh, these good folks: and there was one who was an elder in the Kirk, and who said that the road had been measured, and it was little more, very little more, than a Sabbath-day’s journey, such as was always permitted. Sometimes there would be none of these visitors for weeks, but naturally there were two parties of them that day. Mrs Ogilvy, out in the garden behind the house, sat trembling among Andrew’s flower-pots in his tool-house, feeling more guilty than words could say, yet giving Janet a certain countenance by remaining out of doors, to justify the statement that the mistress just by an extraordinary accident was out. Robert was in his room up-stairs with half a shelfful of the Waverleys round him, lying upon his bed and reading. Oh how the house was turned upside down, how its whole life and character was changed, and falsity and concealment became the rule of the day instead of truth and openness! And all by the event which last Sabbath she had prayed for with all the force of her heart. But she did not repent her prayer. God be thanked, in spite of all, that he had come back, that he that had been dead was alive again, and that he that had been lost was found. Maybe—who could tell?—the prodigal’s father, after he had covered his boy’s rags with that best robe, might find many a thing, oh many a thing, in him, to mind him of the husks that the swine did eat!
Meantime Janet gave the visitors tea, and stood respectfully and talked, now and then looking out for the mistress, and wondering what could have kept her, and saying many a thing upon which charity demands that we should draw a veil. She had got Andrew off to his kirk, which was all she conditioned for. She could not, she felt sure, have carried through if Andrew had been there, glowering, looking on. But she did carry through; and I am not sure that there was not a feeling of elation in Janet’s mind when she saw the last of them depart, and felt the full sweetness of success. The sense of guilt, no doubt, came later on.