“Oh,” cried Mrs Ogilvy, “how little do we know, when it comes to that, what’s true and what’s not true! He’s not what you would call a hardened criminal,” she said, with a pleading look.
“It’s not a small matter,” said the lawyer, “to kill a man.”
“Oh, it is terrible! I am not excusing him,” said Mrs Ogilvy, humbly.
These young men had disturbed all the quiet order of her life. They had turned her house into something like the taverns which, without knowing them, were Mrs Ogilvy’s horror. Nobody could tell what a depth of shame and misery there was to her in the noisy nights, the long summer mornings wasted in sleep; nor how much she suffered from the careless contempt of the one, the angry criticism of the other. It was her own boy who was angrily critical, treating her as if she knew nothing, and made the other laugh. One of these scenes sprang up in her mind as she spoke, with all its accessories of despair. But yet she could not but excuse the stranger, who had some good in him, who was not a hardened criminal, and make her fancy picture of Robert, who had been “led astray.” The sudden realisation of that scene, and the terror lest something might have happened in the meantime, something from which she might have protected them, seized upon her once more after her moment of repose. She accepted with trembling Mr Somerville’s proposal to come out to the Hewan to see Robbie, and to endeavour to persuade him that his friend must be got away. “It is just some romantic notion of being faithful to a friend,” said the old gentleman, “and the prejudice which is in your mind too, my dear mem, in favour of one that has taken refuge in your house—but you must get over that, in this case, both him and you. It is too serious a matter for any sentiment,” said Mr Somerville, very gravely.
In the meantime things had been following their usual routine at the Hewan. The late breakfast had been served; the three o’clock dinner, arranged at that amazing hour in order to divide the day more or less satisfactorily for the two young men, had followed. That the mistress should not have come home was a great trouble and anxiety to Janet, but not to them, who were perhaps relieved in their turn not to have her anxious face, trying so hard to approve of them, to laugh at their jests and mix in their conversation, superintending their meal. “Where’s your mother having her little spree?” said the stranger. “In Edinburgh, I suppose,” said Robbie. “Eh! Edinburgh? that’s not very good for our health, Bob. She might drop a word——” “She will never drop any word that would involve me,” said Robert. “Well, she’s a brick of an old girl, and pluck for anything,” said the other. And then the conversation came to a stop. Their talk was almost unintelligible to Janet, who was of opinion that Mr Lewis’s speech was too “high English” for any honest sober faculties to understand. Mrs Ogilvy’s presence, though all that she felt was their general contempt for her, had in fact a subduing influence upon them, and the mid-day meal was generally a comparatively quiet one. But when that little restraint was withdrawn, the afternoon stillness became as noisy as the night, and their voices and laughter rose high.
It was while they were in full enjoyment of their meal that certain visitors arrived at the Hewan—not unusual or unfamiliar visitors, for one of them was Susan Logan, whose visits had lately been very few. Susie had been more wounded than words could say by Robbie’s indifference. He had been now more than a month at home, but he had never once found his way to the manse, or showed the slightest inclination to renew his “friendship,” as she called it, with his old playfellow. Susie, whose fortunes and spirits were very low, who was now aware of what was in store for her, and whose mind was painfully occupied with the consideration of what her own life was to be when her father’s second marriage took place, was more than usually susceptible to such an unkindness and affront, and she had deserted the Hewan and her dearest friend his mother, though it was the moment in her life when she wanted support and sympathy most. “He shall never think I am coming after him, if he does not choose to come after me,” poor Susie had said proudly to herself. And Mrs Ogilvy, without at all inquiring into it, was glad and thankful beyond measure that Susan, whom next to her son she loved best in the world, did not come. She, too, wanted sympathy and support more than she had ever done in her life, but in her present fever of existence she was afraid lest the secrets of her house should be betrayed even to the kindest eye.
Susie was accompanied on this occasion by Mrs Ainslie, her future stepmother, a very uncongenial companion. It was not with her own will, indeed, that she made the visit. It had been forced upon her by this lady, who thought it “most unnatural” that Susie should see so little of her friends, and who was anxious in her own person to secure Mrs Ogilvy’s countenance. They did not approach the house in the usual way, but went up the brae through the garden behind, which was a familiarity granted to Susie all her life, and which Mrs Ainslie eagerly desired to share. The way was steep, though it was shorter than the other, and the elder lady paused when they reached the level of the house to take breath. “Dear! the old lady must have company to-day. Listen! there must be half-a-dozen people to make so much noise as that. I never knew she entertained in this way.”
“She does not at all entertain, as you call it, Mrs Ainslie: though it may be some of Robbie’s friends.” Susie spoke with a deeper offence than ever in her voice; for if Robbie was amusing himself with friends, it was more marked than ever that he did not come to the manse.
“Entertain is a very good word, Miss Susie, let me tell you, and I shall entertain and show you what it means as soon as your dear father brings me home.”
“I shall not be there to see, Mrs Ainslie,” said Susie, glad to have something which justified the irritation and discomfort in her mind.