It was a great surprise to her to see that Robbie was looking out for her at the door. Her alarm jumped at once to the other side. Something had happened. She was wanted. The fact that she was being looked for, instead of pleasing her, as it might have done in other circumstances, alarmed her now. She hurried on, not lingering any more, and reached the door out of breath. “Is anything wrong? has anything happened?” she cried.
“What should have happened?” he answered, fretfully; “only that you have been so long away. What have you been doing in Edinburgh? We thought, of course, you would be back for dinner.”
“I could not help it, Robbie. I had to wait till I saw—the person I went to see.”
“And who was the person you went to see?” he said, in that tone half-contemptuous, as if no one she wished to see could be of the slightest importance, and yet with an excited curiosity lest she might have been doing something prejudicial and was not to be trusted. These inferences of voice jarred on Mrs Ogilvy’s nerves in the weariness and over-strain.
“It is of no consequence,” she said. “Let me in, Robbie—let me come in at my own door: I am so wearied that I must rest.”
“Who was keeping you out of your own door?” he cried, making way for her resentfully. “You tell me one moment that everything is mine—and then you remind me for ever that it’s yours and not mine, with this talk about your own door.”
Mrs Ogilvy looked up at him for a moment in dismay, feeling as if there was justice, something she had not thought of, in his remark; and then, being overwhelmed with fatigue and the conflict of so many feelings, went into her parlour, and sat down to recover herself in her chair. There were no “jolly voices” about, no sound of the other whose movements were always noisier than those of Robbie; and Robbie himself, as he hung about, had less colour and energy than usual—or perhaps it was only because she was tired, and everything around took colour from her own mood.
“Is he not with you to-day?” she said faintly.
“Is he not with me?—you mean Lew, I suppose: where else should he be? He’s up-stairs, I think, in his room.”
“You say where else should he be, Robbie? Is he always to be here? I’m wishing him no harm—far, far from that; but it would be better for himself as well as for you if he were not here. Where you are, oh Robbie, my dear, there’s always a clue to him: and they will come looking for him—and they will find him—and you too—and you too!”