“You are a very plucky old lady,” he said, “and you pay me a compliment. I’m not sure that I’m a gentleman in your meaning, but I’m proud that you think I look like one. Sit down and let us talk. There’s no pleasure in sitting at one’s ease when a lady’s standing: and, to tell the truth, I’m too tired to budge.”
“I will cry upon my man Andrew——”
“Not if you’re wise, as I’m sure you are.” The stranger’s hand made a movement to his pocket, which had no significance for Mrs Ogilvy. She was totally unacquainted with the habits of people who carry weapons; and if she had thought there was a revolver within a mile of her, would have felt herself and the whole household to be lost. “It will be a great deal better for Andrew,” said this man, with his easy air, “if you let him stay where he is. Sit down and let’s have our talk out.”
Mrs Ogilvy did not sit down, but she leant trembling upon the back of her chair. “You’re not a tramp on the roads,” she said, “that I could fee with a supper and a little money—nor a gentleman, you say, that will take a telling, and refrain from disturbing a woman’s house. Who are you then, man, that will not go away,—that sit there and smile in my face?”
“I’m a man that has always smiled in everybody’s face,—if it were the whole posse, if it were Death himself,” he replied. “Mother, sit down and take things quietly. I’m a man in danger of my life.”
A shriek came to her lips, but she kept it in by main force. In a moment the vague terror which had enveloped her became clear, and she knew what she had been afraid of. Here was the man who was like Robbie, who was Robbie’s leader, his tyrant, whose influence he could not resist—provided only that Robbie did not come back and find him here!
“Sir,” she said, trembling so that the chair trembled too under the touch of her hand, but standing firm, “you are trying to frighten me—but I am not feared. If it is true you say (though I cannot believe it is true), what can I do for you? I am a peaceable person, with a peaceable house, as you see. I have no hiding-places, nor secret chambers. Where could I put you that all that wanted could not see? Oh, for the love of God, go away! I know nothing about you. I could not betray you if—if I desired to do so.”
“You would never betray anybody,” he said, quite calmly. “I know what is in a face. If you thought it would be to my harm, though you hate me and fear me, you would die before you would say a word.”
“God forbid I should hate you!” cried Mrs Ogilvy, with trembling white lips. “Why should I hate you?—but oh, it is late at night, and you will get no bed any place if you do not hurry and go away.”
“That’s what I ask myself,” he said, unmoved. “Why should you hate me, if you know nothing about me?—that is what surprises me. You know something about me, eh?—you have a guess who I am? you are not terrified to death when a tramp comes in to your grounds, or a gentleman strays: eh? You call for Andrew. But you haven’t called for Andrew—you know who I am?”