chatting, circuit round the room – ”hoping and fearing, Mrs. Bairnsfather? Is it about these happy-looking young people of ours, and the future matches that may spring from their pairings – eh, Mrs. Coulter?”
Mrs. Coulter smiled, and glanced over to where Walter Foreman lingered by her Jeanie’s side. They were a handsome couple, and Walter had a nice little improvable property, inherited from his mother. There was no saying what might come to pass.
“No, Mr. Ambler,” said Mrs. Bairnsfather, “we were speaking of poor young Strathoran;” and, from the depths of her fat bosom there came a mysteriously pathetic sigh.
“Strathoran! what’s happened to the lad?” exclaimed Mr. Ambler. “Lewis Ross left him well and merry – no accident I hope; but Lewis has not been a week at home yet: there is little time for any change in his fortunes.”
“Ah, Mr. Ambler,” said Mrs. Bairnsfather, “it is not aye well to be merry. I have heard from those who know, that young Mr. Sutherland’s gay life is putting his lands in jeopardy; they say he’ll spend a whole year’s income sometimes in a single night, poor ill-advised lad! I happened to mention it to Mrs. Catherine, but she turned about upon me, as if I was to be any better of Strathoran’s downfall, which I am sure I never meant, nor anything like it.”
“Bless me!” said Mr. Ambler, “I am concerned to hear that – I am grieved, do you know, to hear that. Is it possible? Why, I always thought Archie Sutherland was a wise lad – a discreet lad of his years.”
Mrs. Bairnsfather shook her head.
“Archibald Sutherland ruined!” continued Mr. Ambler, “no, it’s surely not possible – it must have been an ill-wisher that said that. Why, Strathoran is as big as Falcon’s Craig and Smoothlie put together – ay, and even ye might slip in a good slice off Merkland. Ruined! it’s not possible. When I came home from India I heard of old Strathoran saying – I do not recollect the amount, I always had a bad memory for figures – but a great sum every year. It must be a false alarm, Mrs. Bairnsfather.”
“Very well, gentlemen,” said Mrs. Bairnsfather, “it’s no concern of mine; but a little time will show that I am correct.”
“Bless me!” repeated Mr. Ambler, “then the lad must go to India, that is clear – he may do great things in India. You see when I was there myself, there was the best opening for a lad of talent that could possibly be; but I had a yearning for home. I was always uncommonly fond of home, and so I am only a country Laird, when I might have been a Nabob. But if he were once in India I would have no fear for him – he would soon get up again.”
“India, Mr. Ambler!” exclaimed Mr. Coulter, “no doubt there are fortunes to be made in India; but I fancy it’s a shame to us to send our sons away to seek gold, when it is lying in our very fields for the digging – agriculture – ”
“What’s that you’re saying, Mr. Coulter?” exclaimed the Laird of Smoothlie. “Gold! where is’t man? we’ll all take a hand at that work, if it were but for poor auld Scotland’s sake, who has ever been said to have but a scanty providing of the precious metal.”
“There are harvests lying in the cold breast of the great Strathoran moor,” said the agriculturist, energetically, “of more import to man, Mr. Ambler, than if its sands were gold. If what we hear of Archibald Sutherland is true, he may never be able to do it now; but a sensible man, with sufficient capital, might double the rent-roll of Strathoran.”
Mr. Ambler looked slightly contemptuous.
“Well, well, Mr. Coulter, I’ll not gainsay you; but to tell the truth, I’ve no notion of making young lads of family and breeding amateur ploughmen – I beg your pardon, Mr. Coulter, I mean no affront to you – you look upon it as a science, I know, and doubtless so it is; but – you see if Archie Sutherland could fall in with such an opening, as was waiting ready for me when I went to India, he might be home again, a wealthy man, before your harvests were grown.”
“James,” interposed Mrs. Coulter, “you are not looking at our young people – how happy they all seem, poor things. I do not think you have seen my Ada, Mr. Ambler, since she returned from Edinburgh.”
Mr. Ambler adjusted his spectacles, with a smile. “No, I dare say not. Is that her with Lewis Ross? No, that’s Mrs. Catherine’s little friend. Ay, ay, I see her – like what her mother used to be, in my remembrance. Mrs. Coulter, you must have great pleasure in your fine family.”
Mrs. Coulter smiled, well pleased.
“Do you know, Mr. Ambler,” said Mrs. Bairnsfather, “who that Miss Aytoun is?”
“Who she is? No, indeed, except a very bonnie little girlie. She is that, without dispute; but Mr. Foreman will know. Mr. Foreman, can you tell Mrs. Bairnsfather who that young lady is, at Lewis Ross’s hand?”
“Miss Aytoun, ma’am, a relative of Mrs. Catherine’s,” said the lawyer.
“We know that,” said Mr. Ambler. “Is that all her history? Aytoun – Aytoun – I have surely some associations with that name myself.”
“Very likely,” said Mr. Foreman, dryly. “She comes from the south country; her mother lives in Edinburgh, I believe, and is of a good family. I do not know anything further of the young lady, Mrs. Bairnsfather; that is, nothing at all interesting.”
“Which means,” said Mrs. Coulter aside to her husband, as their little group increased, and the conversation became more general, “that Mr. Foreman knows something very interesting about that pretty little girl. Mrs. Catherine is a client of his. Perhaps he thinks of Miss Aytoun for Walter. James, will you call Jeanie to me?”
And so, in quiet talk, in that bright drawing-room, these ladies and gentlemen – all possessing their average share of kindliness – had decided upon the ruin of Archibald Sutherland, who sat this same night in yonder brilliant Parisian saloon, with the fatal dice trembling in his hand, in all the wild, delirious gaiety of a desperate man; and in their flood of easy conversation, had touched upon another centre of crime and misery, darker and more fatal still, the facts of which lingered in the lawyer-like memory of Walter Foreman’s father, and even attached some dim associations, in Mr. Ambler’s mind, to Alice Aytoun’s name. Strange domestic volcano, over which these slippered feet passed so heedlessly! How often, in quiet houses, and among quiet people, are mighty sins and mighty miseries passed by as lightly!
CHAPTER V
SLEEPY, weary, and uncomfortable, the household of Merkland reluctantly bestirred itself next morning. Mrs. Ross rose ill-humored from very weariness. Duncan, and May, and Barbara, were all more than ordinarily stupid; and Mr. Ambler, of Smoothlie, with all his neatness and finicality, was still in the house. The imperturbable Mr. Ambler was first in the breakfast-parlor, joking Anne on her pale cheeks, and Lewis on his last night’s conquests – fully prepared to do justice to the edibles of the breakfast-table, and not, in any degree, inclined to forgive the sleepiness which had mangled these delicate Oran trout, and sent up the eggs hard-boiled; for Mr. Ambler, by right of his comfort-loving old bachelorship, was excused everywhere for discussing matters of the table more minutely than ordinary strangers were privileged to do, and had besides, as Lewis Ross’s guardian, a familiar standing at Merkland.
“Bless me, Madam,” said Mr. Ambler, “your cook must have been up all the hours of the night. Sleepy huzzies! Why, I myself was not in bed till two o’clock, and here I am, as fresh as ever I was. And just look at this trout – as beautiful a beast as was ever caught in water – broken clean in two! It’s quite shocking!”
“Are
