Mr Somerville was engaged with another client, and it was a long time before Mrs Ogilvy could see him. She had to wait, trembling with impatience, and dismayed by the passage of time, following the hands of the clock with her eyes, wondering what perhaps might be happening at home. She was not, perhaps, on the face of things, a very strong defensive force, but she had got by degrees into the habit of feeling that safety depended more or less upon her presence. She might have perhaps a little tendency that way by nature, to think that her little world depended upon her, and that nothing went quite right when she was away; but this feeling was doubly strong now. She felt that the little house was quite undefended in her absence, that all the doors and windows which she could not bear to have shut were now standing wide open to let misfortune come in.

When she did at last succeed in seeing Mr Somerville, however, he was very comforting to her. It was not that he did not see the gravity of the situation. He was very grave indeed upon the whole matter. He did not conceal from her his conviction that Robert stood a much worse chance if he were found in the company of the other man. “Which is no doubt unjust,” he said, “for I understood you to say that your son had a great repugnance to this scoundrel who had led him astray.” Mrs Ogilvy responded to this by a very faltering and doubtful “Yes.” Yes indeed—Robbie had said he hated the man; but there was very little appearance on his part of hating him now—and Mrs Ogilvy herself did not hate Lew. She hated nobody, so that this perhaps was not wonderful, but her feeling towards the scoundrel, as Mr Somerville called him, was more than that abstract one. She felt herself his defender, too, as well as her son’s. She was eager to save him as well as her son. To ransom Robbie by giving up his companion was not what she thought of.

I do not know whether she succeeded in conveying this impression to Mr Somerville’s mind. But yet it was a relief to her to pour out her heart, to tell all her trouble; and the old lawyer had a sympathetic ear. They sat long together, going over the case, and he insisted that she should share his lunch with him, and not go back to the Hewan fasting after the long agitating morning. Even that was a relief to Mrs Ogilvy, though she was scarcely aware of it, and in her heart believed that she was very impatient to get away. But the quiet meal was grateful to her, with her kind old friend taking an interest in her, persuading her to eat, pouring out a modest glass of wine, paying all the attention possible in his old-fashioned old-world way. She was very anxious to get back, and yet the tranquil reflection gave her a sense of peace and comfort to which she had been long a stranger. There were still people in the world who were kind, who were willing to help her, who would listen and understand what she had to bear, who believed everything that was good about Robbie,—that he had been “led away,” but was now anxious, very anxious, to return to righteous ways. Mrs Ogilvy’s heart grew lighter in spite of herself, even though the news was not good—though she ascertained that there was certainly an American officer in Edinburgh whose mission was to track out the fugitives. “He must not stay at the Hewan—it would be most dangerous for Robert: you must get him to go away,” the old gentleman said.

“If I could but get him to do that! but, oh, you know by yourself how hard it is for the like of me, that never shut my doors in my life to a stranger, to say to a man, Go!—a man that is a well-spoken man, and has a great deal of good in him, and has no parents of his own, and never has had instruction nor even kindness to keep him right.”

“Mrs Ogilvy, he is a murderer,” said Mr Somerville, severely.

“Oh, but are you sure of that? If I were sure! But a man that sits at your table, that you see every day of his life, that does no harm, nor is unkind to any one—how is it possible to think he has done anything like that?”

“But, my dear lady,” said Mr Somerville, “it is true.”

“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.

“Oh yes, you will,” said the lady. “You shan’t make a stolen match to get rid of me. I have set my heart on marrying you, my dear, like a daughter of my own.”

To this Susie made no reply; and Mrs Ainslie having recovered her breath, they walked together round the corner, which was the dining-room corner, with one window opening upon the shrubbery that sheltered that side of the house. Susie’s rapid glance distinguished only that there were two figures at table, one of which she knew to be Robbie; but her companion, who was not shy or proud like Susie, took a more deliberate view, and received a much stronger sensation. Immediately opposite that side window, receiving its light full on his face, sat the mysterious inmate of Mrs Ogilvy’s house, the visitor of whom the gossips in the village had heard, but who never was seen anywhere nor introduced to any visitor. Mrs Ainslie uttered a suppressed exclamation and clutched Susie’s arm; but at the same time hurried her along to the front of the house, where she dropped upon one of the garden benches with a face deeply flushed, and panting for breath. The dining-room had another window on this side, but the blinds were drawn down to keep out the sunshine. This did not, however, keep out the sound of the voices, to which she listened with the profoundest attention, still clutching Susie’s arm. “My goodness gracious! my merciful goodness gracious!” Mrs Ainslie said.

Susie was not, it is to be feared, sympathetic or interested. She pulled her arm away. “Have you lost your breath again?” she said.

Mrs Ainslie remained on the bench for some time, panting and listening. The voices were quite loud and unrestrained. One of them was telling stories with names freely mentioned, at which the other laughed, and at which this lady sitting outside clenched her fist in her light glove. After a minute Susie left her, saying, “I will go and find Mrs Ogilvy,” and she remained there alone, with the most extraordinary expressions going over her face. Her usual little affectations and fine-ladyism were gone. It must have been an expressive face by nature; for the power with which it expressed deadly panic, then hatred, then a rising fierceness of anger, was extraordinary. There came upon her countenance, which was that of a well-looking, not unamiable, but affected, middle-aged woman in ordinary life, something of that snarl of mingled terror and ferocity which one sees in an outraged dog not yet wound up to a spring upon his offender. She sat and panted, and by some curious gift which belongs to highly-strained feeling heard every word.

This would not have happened had Mrs Ogilvy been at home—the voices would not have been loud enough to be audible so clearly out of doors; for the respect of things out of doors and of possible listeners, and all the safeguards of decorum, were always involved in her presence. Also, that story would not have been told; there was a woman in it who was not a good woman, nor well treated by Lew’s strong speech: therefore everything that happened afterwards no doubt sprang from that visit of Mrs Ogilvy’s to Edinburgh; and, indeed, she herself had foreseen, if not this harm, which she could not have divined, at least harm of some kind proceeding from the self-indulgence to which for one afternoon she gave way.

“No, Miss Susie, the mistress is no in, and I canna understand it. She went to Edinburgh to see her man of business, but was to be back long before the dinner. The gentlemen—that is, Mr Robert and his friend—are just at the end o’t, as ye may hear them talking. I’ll just run ben and tell Mr Robert you are here.”

“Don’t do that on any account, Janet. Mrs Ainslie is with me, sitting on the bench outside, and she has lost her breath coming up the hill. Probably she would like a glass of water or something. Don’t disturb Mr Robert. It is of no consequence. I’ll come and see Mrs Ogilvy another day.”

“You are a sight for sore een as it is. The mistress misses ye awfu’, Miss Susie: you’re no kind to her, and her in trouble.”

“In trouble, Janet! now that Robbie has come home!”

“Oh, Miss Susie, wherever there are men folk there is trouble; but I’ll get a glass of wine for the lady.”

Janet’s passage into the dining-room to get the wine was signalised by an immediate lowering of the tone of the conversation going on within. She came out carrying a glass of sherry, and was reluctantly followed by Robert, who came into the drawing-room, somewhat down-looked and shamefaced, to see his old companion and playmate. Janet, for her part, took the sherry to Mrs Ainslie, who had drawn her veil, a white one, over her face, concealing a little her agitated and excited countenance. The lady was profuse in her thanks, swallowed the wine hastily, and gave back the glass to Janet, almost pushing her away. “Thanks, thanks very much; that will do. Now leave me quiet a little to recover myself.”

“Maybe you would like to lie down on the sofa in the drawing-room out of the sun. The mistress is no in, but Mr Robert is there with Miss Susie.”

“No, thanks; I am very well where I am,” said Mrs Ainslie, with a wave of her hand. The conversation inside had ceased, and from the other side of the house there came a small murmur of voices. Mrs Ainslie waited until Janet had disappeared, and then she moved cautiously, making no sound with her feet upon the gravel, round the corner once more to the end window. Cautiously she stooped down to the window ledge and looked in. He was still seated opposite to the window, stretching out his long legs, and laying back his head as if after his dinner he was inclined for a nap. His eyes were closed. He was most perfectly at the mercy of the spy, who gazed in upon him with a fierce eagerness, noting his dress, his thickly grown beard, all the peculiarities of his appearance. She even noticed with an experienced eye the heaviness of his pocket, betraying something within that pocket to which he had moved his hand without conveying any knowledge to Mrs Ogilvy. All of these things this woman knew. She devoured his face with her keen eyes, and there came from her a little unconscious sound of excitement which, though it was not loud, conveyed itself to his watchful ear. He opened his eyes drowsily, said something, and then closed them again, taking no more notice. Lew had dined well and drank well; he was very nearly asleep.

She crept round again to the front and took her seat on the bench, again pulling down and arranging the white veil, which was almost like a mask over her face. Susie and Robert came out to her a few minutes after, she leading, he following. “If you will come in and rest,” said Robert, “my mother will probably be back very soon.”

“Oh no, it is best for us to get home,” said Mrs Ainslie. “Tell your dear mother we were so sorry to miss her. You were very merry with your friend, Mr Robert, when we came up to the house.”

“My friend?” said Robbie, startled. “Yes—I have a friend in the house.”

“All the village knows that,” said the lady, “but not who he is. Now I have the advantage of the rest, for I saw him through the window.”

Robert was still more startled and disturbed. “We’re—not fond of society—neither he nor I. I was trying to explain to Susie; but it sounds disagreeable. I—can’t leave him, and he knows nobody, so he won’t come with me.”

“Tell him he has an acquaintance now. You will come to see me, won’t you? I’ve been a great deal about the world, and I’ve met almost everybody—perhaps you, Mr Robert, I thought so the other day, and certainly—most other people: you can come to see me when you go out for your night walks that people talk of so. Oh, I like night walks. I might perhaps go out a bit with you. Dark is very long of coming these Scotch nights, ain’t it? But one of these evenings I’ll look out for you.” She paused here, and gave him a malicious look through her veil. “I’ll look for you, Mr Robert—and Lew.”

Robert stood thunderstruck as the ladies went away. Susie’s eyes had sought his with a wistful look, a sort of appeal for a word to herself, a something to be said which should not be merely formal. But Robbie was far too much concerned to have a thought to spare for Susie. She had not heard Mrs Ainslie’s last words: if she had heard them, she would have cared nothing, nor thought anything of them. What could this woman be to Robbie? was she trying to charm him as she had charmed the innocent unconscious minister? Susie turned away indignantly, and with a sore heart. She saw that she was nothing to her old comrade, her early lover; but yet she did not know how entirely she was nothing to him, and how full his mind was of another interest. He hurried back into the dining-room with panic in his soul. Lew lay stretched out on his chair as Mrs Ainslie had seen him; the warm afternoon and the heavy meal had overcome him; his long legs stretched half across the room; his head was thrown back on the high back of his chair. His eyes were shut, his mouth a little open. More complete rest never enveloped and soothed any fat and greasy citizen after dinner. Robert looked at him with mingled irritation and admiration. It is true that there was no thought of peril in the outlaw’s mind—this long interval of quiet had put all his alarms to sleep—but he would have been equally reckless, equally ready to take his rest and his pleasure, had he been consciously in the midst of his foes.

“Lew,” said Robert, shaking him by the shoulder, and speaking in a subdued voice very different from the noisy tones which had betrayed them,—“Lew, wake up—there’s spies about—there’s danger at hand.”

“Eh!” cried the other. He regarded his friend for an instant with the half-conscious smile of an abruptly awakened sleeper. The next moment he had shaken himself, and sat up in his chair awake and intelligent to his very finger-points. “Spies—danger—what did you say?”

His hand stole to his pocket instinctively once more.

“Oh, there’s no occasion for that,” said Robert. “All that has happened is this,—there is a woman here—that knows you, Lew——”

“A woman—that knows me!” Perhaps it was genuine relief, perhaps only bravado to reassure his comrade—“Well, Bob, the question is, is she a pretty one?”

“For heaven’s sake,” cried Robert, “be done with nonsense—this is serious. She’s—not a young woman. I’ve heard of her: she’s a stranger, but has got some influence in the place. She saw you as she passed that window.”

“I thought I saw some one pass that window—it’s a devil of a window, a complete spy-hole.”

“And she must have recognised you. She invited me to come to see her when we were out on one of our night walks,—and to bring Lew.”

Lew gave a long whistle: the colour rose slightly on his cheek. “We’ll take her challenge, Bob, my fine fellow, and see what she knows. Jove! I’ve been getting bored with all this quiet. A start’s a fine thing. We’ll go and look after her to-night.”