In the summer evenings Mrs Ogilvy sat on the bench outside the parlour window. I have never forgotten the sort of rapture with which the long summer evenings in Scotland impressed my own mind when I rediscovered them, so to speak, after a long interval of absence. The people who know Scotland only in the autumn know them not. By that time all things have grown common, the surprises of the year are over; but in June those long, soft, pearly, rosy hours which are neither night nor day, which melt by indescribable degrees out of the glory of the sunset into everything that is soft and fair, through every tint and shining colour and mingling of lights, until they reach that which is inconceivable—surround us with a heavenly atmosphere all their own, the fusion of every radiance, the subdual of every shade. There are no shadows in that wonderful light any more than there is any sun. The midnight sun must be a very spectacular sort of performance in comparison. To people who live in it always, however, it will probably appear no such great thing.

Mrs Ogilvy was not aware that there was anything that was not most ordinary in these June nights. She loved them, but knew no reason why. She sat in the sweet air, in the silence, sometimes feeling herself as if suspended between air and sky, floating softly in space with the movement of the world: and in her thoughts she was able even sometimes to detach herself from Then and Now, those two dreadful limits of our consciousness, and to catch a glimpse of life as it is rounded out, and some consciousness of the beginning and the end, and the sequence and connection of all things. Sometimes: but perhaps not very often, for these gleams of discovery are but gleams, and fly like the flashes of lightning which suddenly reveal to us a broad country, a noble city lost in the darkness. On such occasions the great sphere overhead, the great landscape stretching into distance, the glimpses of houses, great and small, amid the warm surrounding of the trees, the murmur of the Esk low in the glen, filling all the air with sound, affected her with an extraordinary calm. She used to think sometimes that this was the Peace that passeth understanding which descended upon her, hushing all her thoughts, stilling every sigh. It came but seldom in that height of blessing, but often in a less perfect way, as she sat and pondered upon the great still world revolving round, and she an atom in the boundless breadth of being, which by-and-by would drop, while the world went on.

But at other times it appeared to her more strange still that in all these miles and miles of distance, of solid earth and growing trees, and the hopeful harvests that were coming, there was one little thing, so little in fact, so insignificant in the midst of all, that was throbbing and throbbing and disturbing the quiet, unmoved by the peace of the sky and the earth and all the beautiful things between them—thinking its own small thoughts, and troubling, and living—till all the quiet throbbed and thrilled with it, the one thing that was out of harmony. The centre of her thoughts, or rather the cause of them all, night and day, was a thing that had happened fifteen years ago, a thing that most people had forgotten—a small matter to the world—just the going away of a heedless young man. It was not that she was always thinking of him, for her thoughts rambled and wandered through all the heavens and earth; but that he was the centre of all, the pivot on which they turned, the beginning and the end of everything. He had gone away—he had left his home, having already erred and strayed—and he had been heard of no more. She was not complaining or finding fault with God for it: she would sometimes wonder with a little wistfulness why God never listened to her, did not somewhere seize that wandering boy and bring him back—to satisfy her before she died. But then there were many things to be considered, Mrs Ogilvy knew and acknowledged to herself in the philosophy that had grown out of her much thinking. Robert was not a bairn, nor was God a mere benevolent patron, to seize the lad without rhyme or reason, and set him back there, because she wearied Him with crying. She had wanted God to be that, many times in her long period of trouble; but by dint of time and thought a different sense of things had come to her. God was not a good fairy: He was the great God of heaven and earth. He had Robert to think of as well as his mother, and thousands and millions of other things. Often in the weariness of her heart she asked nothing for Robert, said nothing, but sat there before the Lord with the boy’s name on her heart put before Him. And that was all she was doing now.

Of all that landscape there was one point to which her eyes turned the oftenest, and, which drew her away out of herself, as if by some charm of movement and going. And that was the piece of road which lay at the foot of the brae, with her own garden-gate opening into it, and the two lines of the holly-hedges on either side. Often she would be drawn back from her thinking by the sight of a figure on the road, which turned out to be a very common figure,—sometimes a beggar, or a man with a pack, a travelling merchant, or, more familiar still than that, a postman on his way home, or a lad that had been working later than usual. But whatever the man was, the sight of him always gave Mrs Ogilvy a sharp sensation. “At any moment!” she had said to herself so long that it had entered into her very soul. “At any moment!”—she was conscious of this night and day. Through all that she was doing she had always one ear listening for any new step or sound. And you may think how much more strong that habitual watchfulness was when she looked out in the evening, the time when everybody comes home, upon the road by which he must come, if he ever came. A hundred times and a hundred more she had watched that road, with her eyes

Often and often she had seen a man detach himself from the white strip of the road, and heard her own gate click and swing, and watched a head moving upward over the line of the hedge. But it never was any one except the most simple, the most naturally to be expected visitor—perhaps the minister, perhaps Mr Miller from the paper-mill, perhaps some friend of Andrew’s and Janet’s. Her heart beat in her ears, in her throat, for a dreadful moment, and then stood still. It was not he: how should it? She rose up with no heart at all, everything stopped and hushed, and said, “How are you to-night, Mr Logan? What a bonnie evening for a walk,” or “How are you, Mr Miller; sit down and take a rest after your climb.” She said nothing about her disappointment; and, indeed, who could say she was disappointed? It just was not Robbie: and she had no more reason to think that it would be him than that the night would suddenly turn into day.

On this particular evening it was Mr Logan, the minister, who gave her this thrill of strong expectation, this disappointment—which was not a disappointment. He found nothing that was out of the way in her peaceful looks, neither the one sensation nor the other, but sat down beside her, pleased with this conclusion to his summer evening’s walk, and the delightful air and pleasant view, and the calm of the Hewan, in which everybody said there was such an atmosphere of repose and peace. Mr Logan was a country minister of what is now called the old school. He was not a man who had ever thought of making innovations or disturbing the old order of affairs. His services were just the same as they had been when he was ordained some thirty years before. He had baptised a great part of his parishioners, and married the others, so that there were only the quite old folk, patriarchs of the parish, who could remember the time when he was first “placed” at Eskholm, and opposed by some, though always “well likit” by others. He was considered by Mrs Ogilvy and many ladies of the parish to be a very personable man, comely in his grey hair, with a good presence and a good voice, and altogether a wyss-like man. This description, which is so common in Scotland, has nothing to do with the wisdom of the person described, who may be very wyss-like without being at all wise. Mr Logan sat down and stretched out discreetly his long legs. He had the shadow, or rather the subdued light, of a smile hovering about his face. He looked as if he had something agreeable to tell.

“And how is Susie?” Mrs Ogilvy said.

“Susie,” he said, with a change of expression which did not look quite so genuine as the lurking smile. “Oh, Susie, poor thing, she is just in her ordinary; but that is not very well——”

“Not well! Susie? But she has just been wonderful in her health and her cheery ways.”

“Ay, ay! she has kept up to the outside of her strength; but I have never thought she was equal to it. You will do me the justice to remember that I always said that. These big boys are too much for her; and now that they’re coming and going to Edinburgh every day, and all the trouble of getting them off in the morning, with sandwiches for George who is in his office, and a piece for Walter and Jamie who are at the school: and the two little ones all the day at home, and me on the top of all, that am perhaps accustomed to have too much attention paid to me——”

The lurking smile came forth again, much subdued, so that nobody could ask the minister brutally, “What are you smiling at?”

“Dear me,” said Mrs Ogilvy, “I am very much astonished. I have always thought there was nobody like Susie for managing the whole flock.”

“She is a good girl, a very good girl; but it’s too much for her, Mrs Ogilvy. I’ve always said so. She takes after her mother, and you know my—wife was far from strong.”

The little pause he made before that simple word wife was as when a man who has married a second time says “my first wife.”

Mrs Ogilvy was startled and stared; but she did not take any notice of this alarming peculiarity. She said, “I cannot think Susie delicate, Mr Logan. She has none of the air of it. And her mother at her age——”

“Ah, her mother at her age! I must take double care that nothing interferes with Susie. It is an anxious position for a man to have a family to look after that is deprived of a mother’s care.”

“It is so, no doubt,” said Mrs Ogilvy; “but with Susie——”

“Poor thing! who just strains every faculty she has. There are some women who do these kind of things with no appearance of effort,” said Mr Logan, shaking his head a little. “You will have heard there was a marriage in the parish yesterday. They would fain have had it in the church, in their new-fangled way. But I said our auld kirk did not lend itself to that sort of thing, and I would like it better in their own drawing-room, or if they preferred it, mine.”

“Yes, yes,” said Mrs Ogilvy, “I heard of it. The English family that have taken the little house near the Dean. I did not think it was big enough to have a drawing-room.”

“Well, an English family is rather a misnomer: they can scarcely be called English, though they come from the south—and a family you can call it no longer, for this was the last daughter, and there’s nothing but Mrs Ainslie herself left.”

“She’s a well-put-on, well-mannered woman, and well-looking too: but I know nothing more about her,” Mrs Ogilvy said.

“She is all that,” replied the minister, with a little fervour unnecessary in the circumstances. “We were at the little entertainment after, Susie and me. Everything was just perfectly done, and nobody neglected, and without a bit of fuss or flutter such as is general in these cases——”

“Do you think it is general?” said Mrs Ogilvy, with that natural and instantaneous impulse of self-defence which is naturally awakened by excessive praise bestowed upon the better methods of a stranger. “We are maybe not much used to grand entertainments in a landward parish like this, where there are not many grand folk.”

“Oh, there was nothing particularly grand about it,” said the minister, with the air of lingering pleasantly in recollection over an agreeable subject. “These simple sort of things are so much better; but it takes a clever person to see just what is adapted to a country place. I was saying to Susie this morning it’s a grand thing to bring people together like you—and no expense to speak of when you know how to go about it——”

“And what did Susie think?” Mrs Ogilvy asked.

“My dear lady,” said the minister, “nobody will say I am one to take down the ladies or give them a poor character; but they are maybe slower of the uptake than men—especially when it’s another lady, and one with gifts past the common, that is held up for their example.”

“I thought you were too wise a man to hold up anybody for an example.”

“You’re always sensible, Mrs Ogilvy. That is just what I should have remembered: but perhaps I am too open in my speech at all times. I’ve come to speak to Susie as if she knew things and the ways of the world just as well as me.”

Mr Logan was a little vague about his pronouns, which arose not from want of grammar, but from national prejudice or prepossession.

“And so she does,” said Mrs Ogilvy, with a little surprise. “She’s young still, the dear lassie; but it’s very maturing to the mind to be in a position like hers, and she is just one of the most reasonable persons I know.”

“Ah, yes,” said the minister, with a sigh, which did not interrupt the lurking smile; “but it’s a very different thing to have a companion of your own age.”

At this she began to look at him with more attention than she had as yet shown, and perceived that there was a little flush more than ordinary on the minister’s face. Had he come to make any revelation? Mrs Ogilvy had all the natural prejudices, and she was resolved that at least she would do nothing to help him out. She sat demurely and looked at him, while he, leaning forward, traced lines upon the gravel with the end of his stick. The faint imbecility of the smile about his lips, made of vanity and pleasure and a little shame, always irritating to women, called forth an ironical watchfulness on her part.

“There is but one way of having that,” he continued; “a man’s a sad wreck in many cases when he’s left a widower, as you may say, in the middle of his days—

This is not the usual sense in which the words are used, but it just comes to that. You will know by yourself, Mrs Ogilvy. You were widowed young.”

“I have never taken myself to be a rule for other folk,” she said.

“Well, you don’t do that; but still how are you to judge of other folk’s feelings but according to what you feel yourself?”

The lady made no reply. No, she would not help him! if he had any ridiculous thing to say to her, he should muddle through it the best way he could. She would not hold out a little finger to help him up to dry land.

“Well,” he said, after a pause, with a little sigh, “to return to Susie. She’s not equal to her present charge, not equal to it at all. Three big boys on her hands, and the two little ones, not to count all the family correspondence with the others in India and Australia, and all that. There is a great deal of care connected with a large family that people never think of.” He paused for sympathy, but it was not a point upon which his present listener could speak: he went on with a slight and momentary feeling that she was selfish not to have entered into this trouble, notwithstanding that it was so different from her own. “And these growing laddies want a firm hand over them—they want authority—not just a sister that they can tease and fleech—— I maybe ought from the first,” he said, slowly and tentatively, “to have taken the burden more upon myself.”

“It would have left less burden upon Susie; but I think for my part she is quite equal to it,” Mrs Ogilvy said.

When a man condescends to blame himself, he expects as his natural due that he should be reassured. Mr Logan felt that his old friend and parishioner, to whom he had come half for sympathy, half for encouragement, was not nearly so sympathetic a person as he thought.

“I see we’ll not agree in that; and I am sure I hope you’re the one that is in the right. Well,” he said, getting up slowly, “I’m afraid I must be going. This is a long walk for me at this hour of the night; and they’ll be waiting for me at home.”

“You’ll let me know,” Mrs Ogilvy said, as she walked with him along the little platform round the plot of grass. “You’ll let me know—when things have gone further.”

“When things have gone further?” he cried, with a sudden redness and look of surprise: then added, shaking his head, “What things there are to go further, and how far they can go, is a mystery to me. You must be referring to something in your own mind.”

And the good-night was a little formal with which he went away.

It was time to go in. The light was fading at last, growing a little paler, and ten had struck on the big clock. The lamp had been lighted in the drawing-room for Mrs Ogilvy to read the chapter by, though there was no real need for it. Janet, who had come out for her mistress’s work and her footstool, lingered, as was her wont, before she “cried upon” Andrew for that concluding ceremonial of the day.

“Did you ever hear that there was any word of the minister——? But perhaps I should not speak on the small authority I have,” Mrs Ogilvy said.

“Speak freely, mem; I can aye bear it—and better from you than from some other folk.”

Andrew had strong Free Church inclinations. He was given to disrespectful speech of the ministers of the Auld Kirk in general, and of Mr Logan in particular, calling him a dumb dog that could not bark—which roused Janet to her inmost soul. She was not satisfied even with her mistress, though she had never forsaken the Kirk of her fathers. Janet bore her burden, as the only perfectly orthodox person in the house, with great solemnity and a sense of suffering for the right. “Say what you will, mem; you may be sure I will have heard worse. I can put up with it,” Janet said.

“You are just a very foolish person to speak in that tone to me. Am I one to find fault with the minister without cause? Nor am I finding fault with him. He has a right to do it if he likes. I would not say that it was expedient.”

“Eh, mem, if ye would but put me out of my pain! What is it? He is a douce man, that would do harm to nobody. What is he going to do?”

“Indeed, Janet, I cannot tell. It is just some things he said. Was there ever any lady’s name named—or that caused a silly laugh, or made folk speak?”

“Named!” said Janet,—“with our minister? ’Deed, and that there have been—every woman born that he has ever said a ceevil word to. You ken little of country clashes, mem, if you’re surprised at that. Your ainsel’ for one, and we ken the truth there is in that.”

“They were far to seek if they named me,” said Mrs Ogilvy, drawing herself up with dignity; “but there is a lady he is very full of. I do not ask you to inquire, for I hate gossip; but if it should come your way from any of the neighbours, I would like to hear what they say. Poor Susie! he says she is not able for so much work, that he is feared she will go like her mother. Now, she’s not like her mother either in that or any other thing. There’s trouble brewing for my poor Susie—if you hear anything, let me know.”

“And you never heard who the leddy was?” Janet said.

“I have heard much more—a great deal more,” Mrs Ogilvy cried, very inconclusively it must be allowed, “than I had any wish to hear!”