At breakfast, Sir Archibald was again the subject of conversation. “He is still late to his breakfast,” said Lady Arandale, “and when he does come he will tack but one cup o’ coffee, without sugar, cream, or bread; so totally have his excesses destroyed his stomach!”

“How dreadfully broken down he is in appearance, since I last saw him!” observed the General.

“Well,” said Lord Arandale, “poor Oswald was once, I think, the handsomest fellow in Scotland! Do you remember how well he used to sing, General?”

“His voice is still peculiarly melodious,” said Lady Susan, who was looking as grave as she had done at dinner the day before; though Edmund was seated next to her, and, seemingly, paying her very solicitous attention.

“How poor Maria could have given St. Aubin the preference,” continued his lordship, “I cannot imagine; Oswald, however, married a very elegant woman—one of the Ladies Allan. Your friend, Lord Fitz-Ullin’s first wife,” he added, turning to Edmund, “was one of the sisters. The Fitz-Ullin family seem to have modelled their conduct towards poor Lady Oswald, by that of her own more immediate relatives: indeed it is not improbable that they may have by this time forgotten her very existence; for the death of her sister, and Lord Fitz-Ullin’s second marriage, have, for many years, sundered the connecting link: while a feeling of pride, very natural, I allow, but which Lady Oswald certainly ought to have sacrificed to the good of her child, has hitherto, I apprehend, prevented her making any direct claim on their notice.”

The mention of Lord Fitz-Ullin’s family as connected with the Oswalds, made a lively impression on Edmund’s mind. That the friendless, destitute boy, whom he had been planning to protect and assist with all the limited means he could command, should possess legitimate claims on his powerful and kind patron, and on his young friend, Oscar Ormond, opened new and flattering prospects for the son of poor Sir Archibald, of which Edmund was determined not to lose sight. The friendless, the destitute seemed to him as more peculiarly his brethren than the rest of mankind. Nor was this a parade of sentiment with Edmund, even to his own heart; it was rather an involuntary emotion, upon the impulse of which he frequently acted before he had considered what were his motives. His affectionate and gentle nature yearned for the tender family sympathies of which his peculiar circumstances deprived him; and he sometimes took a melancholy pleasure in thinking that he thus belonged to a large family, namely, the unfortunates. Henry entered the breakfast-room looking very pale.

“There is no one missing now but poor Sir Archibald,” observed Lady Arandale. The butler came in with a supply of hot rolls. Her ladyship enquired if any one had been in Sir Archibald’s room this morning. The man answered that he believed Sir Archibald had left the castle, as he had gone out very early. “If he has gone off in this sudden manner,” observed Lord Arandale, “it is probable that a lucid interval has arrived; for at such times he always hastens to his miserable retreat in the island; avoiding most especially those old friends and associates whose society he seeks when his mind is in an unsettled state. I do not know that I have ever seen on his countenance that expression of utter woe, unmingled with cheating phantasies, which it wore last night, except on the approach of reason; before which it is feasible to suppose that all the airy visions of the madman flee away, reducing our poor friend to the unalleviated consciousness of his actual situation. Young men!” continued the Earl, looking round at his nephews, who were busily engaged in eating cold pie, “surely I need not, no one need preach against gambling in this neighbourhood while such a beacon light is placed on high to warn all off the rock on which poor Oswald became a wreck! Aye, a piteous wreck indeed!” he added, murmuring to himself, and moving his head slowly from side to side, as Mrs. Montgomery sometimes did, for it was a family symptom. Then, after a moment’s pause, addressing Edmund in particular, he said: “This will make some little alteration necessary in the arrangements we concerted last night. You have breakfasted, I believe, Captain Montgomery?” Edmund assented. “Will you come with me, then, to my study?” Edmund arose and accompanied his lordship. Most of the party quitted their seats about the same time; and Frances said to Julia, as they walked together towards a window: “It seems Edmund has got over all his mighty objections to matrimony!”

“Yes—they are in a wonderful hurry, it would appear,” said Julia. “But what can Sir Archibald’s going away have to do with their arrangements?”

“I cannot imagine,” replied Frances. “Perhaps Edmund is about to turn out to be Sir Archibald’s son.”

“Sir Archibald’s son, you know,” returned Julia, who had inwardly studied the subject in all its bearings, “is mentioned as a boy; besides, he is living with Lady Oswald in the Isle of Man; and never was lost or found in infancy, as Edmund was.”

“That is true!” answered Frances, “that won’t do—but he must be some way related to Sir Archibald, (for what my uncle said, must mean something,) and in that case, I dare say, they will consent to the marriage.”

Julia looked at Lady Susan, and again wondered why she did not look happy.

“That is a good lad, that Captain Montgomery,” observed Lady Arandale. (Lad is a term applied by elderly Scotch ladies to all men of all sizes and ages, not quite as old as themselves.) “He has made a good sum of money, it seems,” continued her ladyship, “and will make a very good use of it, I dare say.” Lady Susan coloured slightly, and told Henry he had eaten no breakfast. “Are you all prepared for the race-course, young ladies?” inquired Lady Arandale. “We had better arrange how the carriages shall be filled.”

“There is my barouche for any one that likes,” said Lady Morven, “for I shall positively go in the curricle with Graham.”

“We can accommodate two ladies,” said Julia, “if Henry and Captain Montgomery ride.” It was the first time she had named Edmund, Captain Montgomery, and the sound of her own voice pronouncing the words, startled her.

“There is no scarcity of carriages, my dear,” replied Lady Arandale; “there is my barouche, and my lord’s chariot, and the family coach, and the General’s barouche, and all the young men’s curricles and nondescripts; I only mean to plan how the several parties may like best to be disposed of. As for my Lady Morven’s barouche, I advise that none who regard their necks may trust themselves with her horses.”

“La! ma’am,” interrupted Lady Morven, “who would drive any thing but blood-horses!”

“I fancy, my dear,” returned Lady Arandale, “my Lord drives as good horses as your ladyship; though they are not mad ones! It was but the last races, you know, that one of your ladyship’s leaders killed an unfortunate boy.”

“I beg your la’—ship’s pardon a thousand times,” observed Mr. Graham, “but that certainly was the boy’s own fault.”

“How so, pray?”

“Why, the boy should have staid at home, and, I will venture to affirm, that Lady Morven’s leader would never have hurt him! Really such creatures should keep themselves from under the feet of people of fashion.”

“It happened on the king’s highway,” retorted Lady Arandale, “and people of fashion have no right to infest that with animals dangerous, or even inconvenient, to the poorest of his Majesty’s subjects. And as for my Lady Morven, if she takes my advice, she will appear on the ground in my barouche, rather than in an open carriage with any gentleman.”

“La! ma’am,” cried Lady Morven, “if I had used my own barouche, I should have sat in the dicky seat with Graham, and made him drive!”

“Well, my dear, if your husband chooses to give you your own way,” said the old lady, “I shall not interfere.”

“I give Morven his own way, and he gives me mine. That’s all fair, you know.”

Lady Arandale, without vouchsafing further reply, desired her daughter and nieces to get ready, as the carriages would all come round in half an hour.