“It’ll not do—it’ll not do, Lew, here; I won’t have it,” cried Robbie, getting up from his supper and pacing about the room. “I never could bear that part of it, you know. It seems something different in a wild country, where you never know whose the money may be—got by gambling, and cheating, and all that, and kind of lawful to take it back again. No, not here. I’ll give myself up, and you too, before I consent to that.”
“I’ve got a bit of a toy here that will have something to say to it if any fellow turns out a sneak,” said Lew, with that movement towards his pocket which Mrs Ogilvy did not understand.
“Does this look like turning out a sneak?” said Robbie, looking round with a wave of his hand. “You’ve been here nearly a month: has any one ever said you were not welcome? Keep your toys to yourself, Lew. Two can play at that game; but toys or no toys, I’m not with you, and I won’t follow you here. Oh, d—— it, here! where there’s such a thing as honesty, and a man’s money is his own!”
“My good fellow,” said the other, “but for information which you haven’t to give, and which I could get at any little tavern I turned into, what good are you? You never were any that I know of. You were always shaking your head. You didn’t mind, so far as I can remember, taking a share of the profits; but as for doing anything to secure them! I can work without you, thank you, if I take it into my head.”
“I hope you won’t take it into your head,” said Robbie, coming back to the table and resuming his chair. “Why should you, when I tell you I can get anything out of my mother? And with right too,” he continued, “for I should have been sure to spend it all had I been at home; and she only saved it because I was not here. Therefore the money’s justly mine by all rules. It isn’t that I should like to see you start without me, Lew, or that I wouldn’t take my share, whatever—whatever you might wish to do. But what’s the good, when you can get it, and begged to accept it, all straight and square close at hand?”
“For a squeamish fellow you’ve got a good stiff conscience, Bob,” said Lew, with a laugh. “I like that idea,—that though it’s bad with an old fogey trotting home from market, it ain’t the same with your mother. In that way it would be less of a privilege than folks would think to be near relations to you and me, eh? I’ve got none, heaven be praised! so I can’t practise upon ’em. But you, my chicken! that the good lady waits up for at nights, that she would like to tie to her apron-strings——”
“It’s my own money,” said Rob; “I should have spent it twice over if I had been at home.”
And presently they fell into their usual topics of conversation, and this case of conscience was forgotten.
Meanwhile Mrs Ogilvy fought and struggled with her thoughts up-stairs. She had all but divined that there had been a quarrel, and had many thoughts of going down, for she was still dressed, to clear it up. For if they quarrelled, what could be done? She could not turn Lewis out of her house—and indeed her heart inclined towards that soft-spoken ruffian with a most foolish softness. He might perhaps scoff a little now and then, but he was not unkind. He was always ready to receive her with a smile when she appeared, which was more than her son was, and had a way of seeming grateful and deferential whether he was really so or not, and sometimes said a word to soothe feelings which Robbie had ruffled, without appearing to see, which would have spoiled all, that Robbie had wounded them. Of the two, I am afraid that Mrs Ogilvy in her secret heart, so far down that she was herself unconscious of it, was most indulgent to Lew. Who could tell how he had been brought up, how he had been led astray? He might have been an orphan without any one to look after him, whereas Robbie—— Her heart bled to think how few excuses Robbie had, and yet excused him with innumerable eager pleas. But the chief thing was, that life was intolerable under these conditions: and what could she do, what could she propose, to mend them?—life turned upside down, a constant panic hanging over it, a terror of she knew not what, a sensation as of very existence in danger. What could be done, what could any one do? Nothing, for she dared not trust any one with the secret. It was heavy upon her own being, but she dared not share it with any other. She dared not even reveal to Janet anything of the special misery that overwhelmed her: that it was possible the police might come—the police!—and watch the innocent house, and bring a warrant, as if it were a nest of criminals. It made Mrs Ogilvy jump up from her seat, spring from her bed, whenever this thought came back to her. And in the meantime she could do nothing, but only sit still and bear it until some dreadful climax came.
She had a long struggle with herself before she permitted herself the indulgence of going in to Edinburgh to see Mr Somerville, who was the only other person who knew anything about it. After many questions with herself, and much determined endurance of her burden, it came upon her like an inspiration that this was the thing to do. It would be a comfort to be able to speak to some one, to have the support of somebody else’s judgment. It is true that she was afraid of leaving her own house even for the little time that was necessary; but she decided that by doing this early in the morning before the young men were up, she might do it without risk. She gave Janet great charges to admit no one while she was away. “Nobody—I would like nobody to come in. Mr Robert is up so late at night that we cannot expect him to get up early too; but I would not like strange folk who do not know how late he has to sit up with his friend, to come in and find him still in his bed at twelve o’clock in the day. There’s no harm in it; but we have all our prejudices, and I cannot bide it to be known. You will just make the best excuse you can——”