“Oh, my laddie!” she cried, and hurried to the bell but did not ring it, and then to the door. But before she could reach the door, Janet came in with the lamp. She came unconscious that any one was there, with the sudden light illuminating her face, and making all the rest of the room doubly dark to her. She did not see the stranger sitting in the corner, and gave a violent start, almost upsetting the lamp as she placed it on the table, when with a half laugh he suddenly said, “And here’s Janet!” out of the shade. Janet turned round like lightning, with a face of ashes. “Who’s that,” she cried, “that calls me by my name?”
“We shall see,” he said, rising up, “if she knows me better than my mother.” Mrs Ogilvy stood by with a pang which words could not describe, as Janet flung up her arms with a great cry. It was true: the woman did recognise him without a moment’s hesitation, while his mother had held back--the woman, who was only the servant, not a drop’s blood to him. The mother’s humiliation could not be put into words.
“Janet,” she said severely, mastering her voice, “set out the supper at once, whatever is in the house. It will be cold; but in the meantime put the chicken to the fire that you got for to-morrow’s dinner: the cold beef will do to begin with: and lose not a moment. Mr Robert,”--she paused a moment after those words,--“Mr Robert has arrived suddenly, as you see, and he has had a long journey, and wants his supper. You can speak to him after. Now let us get ready his food.”
She went out of the room before her maid. She would not seem jealous, or to grudge Janet’s ready and joyful greeting. She went into the little dining-room, and began to arrange the table with her own hands. “Go you quick and put the chicken to the fire,” she said. Was she glad to escape from his presence, from Robbie, her long absent son, her only child? All the time she went quickly about, putting out the shining silver, freshly burnished, as it was Saturday; the fresh linen, put ready for Sunday; the best plates, part of the dinner-service that was kept in the dining-room. “This will do for the cold things,” she said; “and oh, make haste, make haste with the rest!” Then she took out the two decanters of wine, the port and the sherry, which nobody drank, but which she had always been accustomed to keep ready. The bread was new, just come in from the baker’s, everything fresh, the provisions of the Saturday market, and of that instinct which prepares the best of everything for Sunday--the Sabbath--the Lord’s day. It was not the fatted calf, but at least it was the best fare that ever came into the house, the Sunday fare.