There was a considerable pause – at length, Mrs. Catherine started from her seat and resumed her quick pacing of the room.
“Wherefore are we losing time – send a message home, to Woodsmuir to bid them put up a change of apparel for you; ride into Portoran and get what siller will be needful – do not be scrupulous – and go your ways this very day, or, if it be too far spent, at the latest the morn, to the prodigal. I would go myself, but the witless youth, as I see by his letter, is feared for me, and you can maybe travel with less delay. Bring him home. Strathoran can shelter him no longer, but the dwelling-place of Sholto Douglas can never be closed upon Isabel Balfour’s son. I say to you, lose no time, Robert Ferguson.” Mrs. Catherine rang the bell energetically. “Write to your wife about the needful raiment. Archie Sutherland has slept in young Robert’s cradle. She will not grudge the trouble.”
Mr. Ferguson did not wait to reflect, but with all speed, drew paper and ink towards him and began to write.
“Let Andrew or Johnnie be ready in a moment to ride to Woodsmuir,” said Mrs. Catherine, as Jacky appeared at the door; “and tell your mother to send in refreshments for Mr. Ferguson. Begone, you imp – what are you waiting for?”
“If you please,” said Jacky, “it’s Mr. Foreman himsel in the gig – will I bring him in?” and, without waiting for an answer, the girl disappeared.
“Mr. Foreman himself,” repeated Mrs. Catherine. “What new trouble is coming now? – they are ever in troops.”
Mr. Ferguson raised his head uneasily and paused in his writing. The excited curiosity of both suggesting some further aggravation of the great misfortunes they already knew.
Mr. Foreman entered the room gravely, and with care in his face – greeted Mrs. Catherine in silence, and starting, when he saw Mr. Ferguson, asked; “It is true, then?”
“True? – Ay, beyond doubt or hoping,” said Mrs. Catherine, bitterly. “The prodigal has made an end of his house and name. I was right, Mr. Foreman, and you were wrong. The hairy fool had been sent on no less an errand than to see the value of the prey. Grant me patience! – how am I to see daily before me, some evil animal, such as could herd with cattle like you, reigning in the house of the Sutherlands?”
“How have you heard, Mr. Foreman?” said the factor, anxiously. “Has Mr. Archibald written to you himself?”
“No,” said Mr. Foreman, “I have got my information from a most disagreeable source. I received a letter to-day from the solicitors of Lord Gillravidge, touching the conveyance of the property. Have you the intelligence direct from Mr. Sutherland? I came up immediately to let Mrs. Catherine know.”
“I have a letter,” said Mr. Ferguson. “It is indeed all over. He has lost everything except the entailed lands of Loelyin and Lochend, and the farm of Woodsmuir, upon which my own house stands, and it, you know, is mortgaged to its full value. All the rest is gone. Mr. Archibald is ruined.”
There was a pause again, broken only by the sound of Mrs. Catherine’s footsteps, as she walked heavily through the room. – These grave, kind men, Archibald Sutherland’s factor and agent, who had known him all his life, were almost as deeply affected with his sin and misfortune as though he had been an erring son. Mr. Foreman broke the silence by asking:
“What do you intend to do?”
“Mrs. Catherine advises me to start immediately for Paris,” said Mr. Ferguson. “We all of us know how bitterly Mr. Archibald will reproach himself, now that all self-reproach is unavailing. I will endeavor to bring him home – to the Tower, I mean; and then – I do not well know what we are to do. But we must try to rouse his mind (it is a vigorous one, if it were but in a purer atmosphere,) to shape out for itself another course. I was about to ride into Portoran to make immediate preparation for my journey.”
“Your letter, Mr. Ferguson,” said Mrs. Catherine, as Jacky again appeared at the door. “Let Andrew – is it Andrew? – lose no time! Here, you elf! Have you anything else to advise, Mr. Foreman? I myself would start in a moment, but that I think Mr. Ferguson would do it better. The lad’s spirit is broken, doubtless, and I might be over harsh upon him. Give me Archie’s letter.”
Mrs. Catherine’s large grey eyelid swelled full again, and she seated herself at the table.
“I have nothing else to advise,” said Mr. Foreman, abstractedly. “I think it is very wise, and you should start at once, Mr. Ferguson. But – ” The lawyer paused. “Is it not possible to do anything? Could no compromise be made? Better mortgage the land (it was mortgaged heavily enough in his grandfather’s time – I remember how old Strathoran was hampered by paying them off,) than suffer it to pass altogether out of his hands. Could nothing be done? Mrs. Catherine, if such an arrangement were possible, would you not lend your assistance?”
Mrs. Catherine raised her eyes from the letter.
“To what end or purpose? That he might have the freedom of losing the land again, if it were won back to him by the spending of other folks’ substance? George Foreman, it is not like your wisdom to think of such a thing. A penniless laird – a shadow, and no substance – with a false rank to keep up, and nothing coming in to keep it up withal? I will not hear of it! Gentlemen, I have made up my mind; out of yon hot unnatural air of artificial ill, the lad must come down to the cold blast of poverty, if he is ever to be anything but a silken fule, spending gear unjustly gotten, in an unlawful way. I say I will have no hand in giving back plenty and ease to Archie Sutherland, till he has righteously wrought and struggled for the same. Bring him back to my house, Robert Ferguson. He has lost the home and the lands of his fathers. Let him see them in the hands of an alien, and then let him gird his loins to a right warfare, and win them back again. With God’s blessing, and man’s labor, there is nought in this world impossible. I hope to live to see him win back his possessions, as I have seen him lose them. If he does not, he deserves them not.”
“Write to him so,” said Mr. Ferguson, eagerly. “It is the spur he needs. Let me have a letter, so hopeful and encouraging, to carry with me, Mrs. Catherine. Mere reproach would do evil, and not good. You are perfectly right. A struggle – a warfare – that is the true prescription. Write to Mr. Archibald yourself – it will have more effect than anything I can say.”
Mr. Foreman sighed, and felt almost inclined to withdraw his adherence from those reformers who aim at the abolition of entails. At length, and slowly, he signified his consent.
“Yes – yes: Mrs. Catherine is right. I believe it is the wisest way. But – ”
Mr. Foreman paused again. A strange master in Strathoran – the kindly union of the country broken in upon by one who, if they judged rightly, had done grievous ill to Archibald Sutherland. A painful film came over the lawyer’s eyes. It seemed like treason to the trust reposed in him by “Old Strathoran” thus to suffer his son’s downfall.
“You are losing time,” said Mrs. Catherine. “Robert Ferguson, the day is wearing on. Ye will not be able to leave Portoran the night. Start with the first coach the morn’s morning. Do not tarry a moment. Mind how long the days will be to a spirit in despair; and come to me when you are returning from Portoran if there is time. I will write to the unhappy lad.”
Thus dismissed, both gentlemen took their leave, the factor receiving a parting adjuration to “take sufficient siller – be not scrimpit. Ye will have many charges in so long a journey; and, as I have said, Robert Ferguson, lay out a pound of your own siller upon this dyvour at your proper peril! I will visit your iniquity upon the head of your young advocate, if ye venture to do such a thing. – Mind!”
Mrs. Catherine seated herself at her library table as the factor and the lawyer rode away together, and began to write to Archibald Sutherland – a hurried letter, swiftly written. It ran thus:
“I have heard of your transgression and calamity, Archibald Sutherland, and write as I need not tell