Mrs Ogilvy went in, feeling as if she were going to her doom. She took her little packet to the table, and put it down before him. The room was filled with clouds of smoke; and that bottle, which was so great a trial to her, stood on the table; but these details had sunk into absolute insignificance. She had taken the trouble to get the money in English notes and gold--the latter an unusual sight in the Hewan, where one-pound notes were the circulating medium. In the tremor of her nerves and commotion of her feelings she had added twenty pounds which were in the house, of what she called “her own money,” the money for the housekeeping, to the sum which she had told him was to be for him. It was thus a hundred and fifty pounds which she put before him--hastily laying it down as if it burned her, and yet with a certain reluctance too.
“Ah!” he said, and threw a look across the table to Robbie; “another twenty pounds--and more where that came from, mother, eh?”
“I have no more--not a farthing,” she said, hastily; “this was my money for my house. I thought I would add it to the other: since you were not pleased--last night.”
It was evidently an unfortunate movement on her part. “You will perhaps find some more still,” he said, with a laugh, “before this night. It’s not very much for two, and one your only son; but there will be plenty of time to settle that to-night.”
“Robbie,” she said, breathlessly, “is not going--he is not going: it is for you.”
Robert said not a word in reply--he sat with his head supported on his hands, his elbows on the table: and his countenance was invisible--he made no movement or indication of what he meant to do.
“I have no more,” said Mrs Ogilvy, with a trembling voice; for she was afraid of the look, half fierce, half mocking, with which he met her eyes. “It would perhaps have been better if I had--money in the bank, and could draw a cheque like most people now; but I have always followed the old-fashioned way, and all I have is in the hands of----”
She broke off with a quavering, broken sound--seeing over again the scene of last night, and the paper with Mr Somerville’s name upon it,--she remembered now, suddenly, that Mr Somerville’s name was upon the paper which they had wanted her to sign. What had become of Mr Somerville that he had not come, as he promised, to speak to Robbie, to persuade the other one to go away? It was difficult to recall to herself the fact that it was only two days since she had gone to Edinburgh and poured her trouble into his sympathetic ears. Perhaps it would have been better if she had not done this, or opened her heart to any one. Mr Somerville would never betray them, he would not betray Robbie; but still it seemed that something had happened between that time and this, a greater sense of insecurity, the feeling that something was going to happen. Things had been better before, when that strange life which she had felt to be insupportable was going on: now it was more than insupportable, it was almost over, and after----? A great chasm seemed to have opened at her feet, and she felt herself hurrying towards it, but could not tell what was below. After? what was to happen after, if Robbie drifted away again, and she saw his face no more?