If Mrs Ogilvy had been at home, it is almost certain that none of these things could have happened—if she had not been kept so long, if Mr Somerville’s other client had not detained him, and, worst of all, if she had not been beguiled by the unaccustomed relief of a sympathetic listener, a friendly hand held out to help her, to waste that precious hour in taking her luncheon with her old friend. That was pure waste—to please him, and in a foolish yielding to those claims of nature which Mrs Ogilvy, like so many women, thought she could defy. To-day, in the temporary relief of her mind after pouring out all her troubles—a process which for the moment felt almost like the removal of them—she had become aware of her own exhaustion and need of refreshment and rest. And thus she had thrown away voluntarily a precious hour.

She met Susie and Mrs Ainslie at her own gate, and though tired with her walk from the station, stopped to speak to them. “We found the gentlemen at their dinner,” Mrs Ainslie said, her usual jaunty air increased by a sort of triumphant excitement, “and therefore of course we did not go in; but I rested a little outside, and the sound of their jolly voices quite did me good. They don’t speak between their teeth, like all you people here.”

“My son—has a friend with him,—for a very short time,” Mrs Ogilvy said.

“Oh yes, I know—the friend with whom he takes long walks late in the evening. I have often heard of them in the village,” Mrs Ainslie said.

“His visit is almost over—he is just going away,” said Mrs Ogilvy, faintly. “I am just a little tired with my walk. Susie, you would perhaps see—my son?”

“I saw Robbie—for a minute. We had no time to say anything. I—could not keep him from his dinner—and his friend,” Susie said, with a flush. It hurt her to speak of Robbie, who had not cared to see her, who had nothing to say to her. “We are keeping you, and you are tired: and me, I have much to do—and perhaps soon going away altogether,” said Susie, not able to keep a complaint which was almost an appeal out of her voice.

“She will go to her own house, I hope,” cried Mrs Ainslie; “and I hope you who are a friend of the family will advise her for her good, Mrs Ogilvy. A good husband waiting for her—and she threatens to go away altogether, as if we were driving her out. Was there ever anything so silly—and cruel to her father—not to speak of me——”

“Oh, my dear Susie! if I were not so faint—and tired,” Mrs Ogilvy said.

And Susie, full of tender compunction and interest, but daring to ask nothing except with her eyes, hurried her companion away.

Mrs Ogilvy went up with a slow step to her own house. She was in haste to get there—yet would have liked to linger, to leave herself a little more time before she confronted again those two who were so strong against her in their combination, so careless of what she said or felt. She thought, with a sickness at her heart, of those “jolly voices” which that woman had heard. She knew exactly what they were—the noise, the laughter, which at first she had been so glad to hear as a sign that Robbie’s heart had recovered the cheerfulness of youth, but which sometimes made her sick with misery and the sense of helplessness. She would find them so now, rattling away with their disjointed talk, and in her fatigue and trouble it would “turn her heart.” She went up slowly, saying to herself, as a sort of excuse, that she could not walk as she once could, that her breath was short and her foot uncertain and tremulous, so that she could not be sure of not stumbling even in the approach to her own house.

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!”

“What’s the meaning of all this fuss, mother—me too, as you say?”

“Well,” said Mrs Ogilvy, “it is perhaps not extraordinary—my only son; but I’ve no wish that harm should come to him—oh, not in this house, not in this house! If he would but take warning and go away where he would be safer than here! I’ve been in Edinburgh to ask my old friend, and your father’s friend, and your friend too, Robbie, what could be done—if there was anything that could be done.”

“You have gone and betrayed us, mother!”

“I have done no such thing!” cried Mrs Ogilvy, raising herself up with a flush of indignation—“no such thing! It was Mr Somerville who brought me the news first, before you appeared at all. He was to hurry out to that weary America to defend you—or send a better than himself: that was before you came back, when we thought you were there still, and to be tried for your life. I was going—myself,” she said, suddenly faltering and breaking down.

“You would not have gone, mother,” said Robbie, with a certain flash of self-appreciation and bitter consciousness.

“Ay, that I would to the ends of the earth! You are my Robbie, my son, whatever you are—and oh, laddie, you might be yet—everything that you might have been.”

“Not very likely,” he said, with a half groan and half sneer. “And what might I have been? A respectable clod, tramping to kirk and market—not a thought in my head nor a feeling in my heart—all just habit and jog-trot. I’m better as I am.”

“You are not better as you are. You are just good for nothing in this bonnie world that God has made—except to put good meat into you that other folk have laboured to get ready, and to kill the blessed days He has given you to serve Him in, with your old books, and your cards, and any silly things that come into your head. I have seen you throwing sticks at a bit of wood for hours together, and been thankful sometimes that you were diverting yourselves like two bairns, and no just lying and lounging about like two dogs in the warmth of the fire. Oh, Robbie, what it is to me to say that to my son! and all the time the sword hanging over your heads that any day, any day may come down!”

“By Jove, the old girl’s right, Bob!” said a voice behind. Lew had become curious as to the soft murmur of Mrs Ogilvy’s voice, which he could hear running on faintly, not much interrupted by Robbie’s deeper tones. It was not often she “preached,” as they said—indeed she had seldom been allowed to go further than the mildest beginning; but Rob had been this time caught unprepared, and his mother had taken the advantage. Lew came in softly, with his lips framed to whistle, and his hands in his pockets. He had already picked his comrade out of a sudden Slough of Despond, caused by alarm at the declaration of the visitor, which, to tell the truth, had made himself very uneasy. It would not do to let the mother complete the discouragement: but this adventurer from the wilds had a candid soul; and while Robert stood sullen, beat down by what his mother said, yet resisting it, the other came in with a look and word of acquiescence. “Yes, by Jove, she was right!” It did not cost him much to acknowledge this theoretical justice of reproof.

“The difficulty is,” he added calmly, “to know what to do in strange diggings like these. They’re out of our line, don’t you know. I was talking seriously to him there the other day about doing a stroke of work: but he wouldn’t hear of it—not here, he said, not in his own country. Ask him; he’ll tell you. I don’t understand the reason why.”

Mrs Ogilvy, startled, looked from one to another: she did not know what to think. What was the stroke of work which the leader had proposed, which the follower would not consent to? Was it something for which to applaud Robbie, or to blame him? Her heart longed to believe that it was the first—that he had done well to refuse: but she could only look blankly from one to another, uninformed by the malicious gleam in Lew’s eyes, or by the spark of indignant alarm in those of Robbie. Their meaning was quite beyond her ken.

“If you will sit down,” she said, “both of you, and have a moment’s patience while I speak. Mr Lew, I am in no way your unfriend.”

“I never thought so,” he said: “on the contrary, mother. You have always been very good to me.”

He called her mother, as another man might have called her madam, as a simple title of courtesy; and sometimes it made her angry, and sometimes touched her heart.

“But I have something to say that maybe I have said before, and something else that is new that you must both hear. This is not a safe place for you, Mr Lew—it is not safe for you both. For Robbie, I am told nobody would meddle with him—alone; but his home here gives a clue, and is a danger to you—and to have you here is a danger for him, who would not be meddled with by himself, but who would be taken (alack, that I should have to say it!) with you.”

“I think, Bob,” said Lew, “that we have heard something like this, though perhaps not so clearly stated, before.”

He had seated himself quite comfortably in the great chair which had been brought to the parlour for Robbie on his first arrival,—and was, as he always was, perfectly calm, unruffled, and smiling. Robbie stood opposite in no such amiable mood. His shaggy eyebrows were drawn down over his eyes: his whole attitude, down-looking, shifting from one foot to the other, with his shoulders up to his ears, betrayed his perturbation and disquiet. Robbie had been brought to a sudden stop in the fascination of careless and reckless life which swept his slower nature along in its strong current. Such a thing had happened to him before in his intercourse with Lew, and always came uppermost the moment they were parted. It was the sudden shock of Mrs Ainslie’s announcement, and his friend’s apparently careless reception of it, which had jarred him first: and then there was something in the name of mother, addressed to his own mother by a stranger—which he had heard often with quite different feelings, sometimes half flattered by it—which added to his troubled sense of awakening resistance and disgust. Was he to endure this man for ever, to give up everything for him, even his closest relationship? All rebellious, all unquiet and miserable in the sudden strain against his bonds, he stood listening sullenly, shuffling now and then as he changed from one foot to another, otherwise quite silent, meeting no one’s eye.

“Well,” said Mrs Ogilvy, her voice trembling a little, “I am perhaps not so very clear; but this other thing I have to say is something that is clear enough and new too, and you will know the meaning of it better than me. I have been to-day to the gentleman who was the first to tell me about all this—and who was to have sent out—to defend my son, and clear him, if it was possible he should be cleared. Listen to me, Robbie! That gentleman has told me to-day—that there is an American officer come over express to inquire—— It will not be about Robbie—they will leave him quiet—think, Mr Lew!—it will be for——”

“For me, of course,” he said, lightly. “Well! if there’s danger we’ll meet it. I like it, on the whole—it stirs a fellow’s blood. We were getting too comfortable, Bob, settling down, making ourselves too much at home. The next step would have been to be bored—eh? won’t say that process hadn’t begun.”

“Sir,” said Mrs Ogilvy, “you will not say I have been inhospitable, or grudged you whatever I could give——”

“Never, mother,” he said. “You’ve been as good as gold.” He had risen from his seat, and begun to walk about with an alert light step. The news had roused him; it had stirred his blood, as he said. “We must see about this exit of yours—subterraneous is it?—out of the Castle of Giant Despair—no, no, out of the good fairy’s castle, down into the wilds. You must show me this at once, Bob. If there’s a Yank on the trail there’s no time to be lost.”

“There is perhaps no time to be lost—but not for him, only for you. My words are not kind, but my meaning is,” cried Mrs Ogilvy. “It is safest for you not to be with him, and for him not to be with you. Oh, do not wait here till you’re traced to the house, till ye have to run and break your neck down that terrible road, but go while everything is peaceable! Mr Lew, you shall have whatever money you want, and what clothes we can furnish, and—and my blessing—God’s blessing.”

“Don’t you think,” he said, turning upon her, “you are undertaking a little too much? God’s blessing upon a fellow like me—that has committed every sin and repented of none, that have sent other sinners to their account, and wronged the orphan, and all that. God’s blessing——!”

He was standing in the middle of the room, in which he was so inappropriate a figure, with his back to the end window, which was towards the west. It was now late in the afternoon, and the level rays pouring in made a broad bar across the carpet, and fell upon one side of his form, which partially intercepted its light and cut it with his tall outline. Mrs Ogilvy put her hands together with a cry.

“What is that? What is it? Is it not just the blessed sun that He sends upon the just and the unjust—never stopping, whatever you have done—His sign held out to you that He has all His blessings in His hand, ready to give, more ready than me, that am a poor creature, no fit to judge? Oh, laddie—for you’re little more—see to Him holding out His hand!”

He had turned round, with a vague disturbed motion, not knowing what he did, and stood for a moment looking at the sunshine on the carpet, and his own figure which intercepted it and received the glory instead. For a moment his lip quivered; the lines of his face moved as if a wind had blown over them; his eyes fixed on the light, as if he expected to see some miraculous sight. And then he gave a harsh laugh, and turned round with a shrug of his shoulders. “It’s pretty,” he said, “mother, as you put it: but there’s no time to enter into all that. I’ve perhaps got too much to clear up with God, don’t you know, to do it at a sitting; but I’ll remember, for your sake, when I’ve time. Eh? where were we before this little picturesque incident? You were saying I should have money—to pay my fare, &c. Well, that’s fair enough. Make it enough for two, and we’ll be off, eh, Bob? and trouble her no more.”

But Robbie did not say a word. It was not any wise resolution taken; it was rather a fit of temper, which the other, used to his moods, knew would pass away. Lew gave another shrug of his shoulders, and even a glance of confidential criticism to the mother, as if she were in the secret too. “One of his moods,” he said, nodding at her. “But, bless you! when one knows how to take him, they don’t last.” He touched her shoulder with a half caress. “You go and lie down a bit and rest. You’re too tired for any more. We’ll have it all out to-night, or at another time.”

“I am quite ready now—I am quite ready,” she cried, terrified to let the opportunity slip. He nodded at her again, and waved his hand with a smile. “Come along, Bob, come along; let us leave her in quiet. To-night will be soon enough to settle all that—to-night or—another time.” He took Rob by the arm, and pushed his reluctant and half-resisting figure out of the room. Robert was sullen and indisposed to his usual submission.

“Let me go,” he said, shaking off the hand on his arm; “do you think I’m going to be pushed about like a go-cart?”

“If you’re a go-cart, I wish you’d let me slip into you,” said the other. It was not a very great joke, but Robert at another moment would have hailed it with a shout of laughter. He received it only with a shrug of his shoulders now.

“I wish you’d make up your mind and do something,” he said.

“I have: the first thing is to see who that woman is——”

“A woman! when you’ve got to run for your life.”

“Do you think I mean any nonsense, you fool? She’s not a woman, she’s a danger. Man alive, can’t you see? She’ll have to be squared somehow. And look here, Bob,” he said suddenly, putting his arm through that of his friend’s, who retained his reluctant attitude—“don’t sulk, you ass: ain’t we in the same boat—get all you can out of the old girl. We’ll have to make tracks, I suppose—and a lot of money runs away in that. Get everything you can out of her. She may cool down and repent, don’t you see? Strike, Bob, while the iron’s hot. The old girl——”

“Look here, I’ll not have her called names; neither mother, as if you had any right to her—nor—nor any other. We’ve had enough of that. I’ll not take any more of it from you, Lew!”

“Oh, that’s how it is!” said the other coolly, with a sneer. “Then I beg to suggest to you, my friend Bob, that the respectable lady we’re talking of may repent; and that if you’re not a fool, and won’t take more energetic measures, you’ll strike, don’t you see, while the iron is hot.”

Rob gave his friend a look of sullen wrath, and then disengaged his arm and turned away.

“You’ll find me in Andrew’s bower, among the flower-pots,” Lew called after him, and whistling a tune, went off behind the house to the garden, where in the shade Andrew kept his tools and all the accessories of his calling. He had no good of his ain tool-house, since thae two were about, Andrew complained every day.