“Robert, we—we are in sore trouble,” he confessed, his face anxious and troubled.
“Trouble!” echoed Rob blankly. “What is wrong, brother?”
“I cannot hold Mossgiel any longer,” he replied, dejectedly. “The farm is but a wretched lease, as ye know, an’ I canna’ weather out the remaining year. Without assistance, Robert, I canna’ hope to hold our little family together any longer.”
Robert’s heart sank within him as he heard the direful news. He glanced at Squire Armour apprehensively. “And Squire Armour?” he interrogated with an angry glance at that gentleman, who stood with a sneering smile on his harsh face, taking in the evidences of poverty that surrounded them. And with never a word of love or pity, nor of greeting to his daughter who sat there with white face and longing eyes, waiting to hear some news from her stern, implacable father, of her loving mother at home.
“I have bought the lease of Mossgiel,” he growled, “an’ if your brother canna’ pay up the back rent, which is long past due, I shall seize everything and turn the whole lot of them out, every one.”
Robert looked at him a moment in scornful silence. Presently he spoke, and the cutting sarcasm of his voice caused the old Squire to wince and drop his eyes.
“Ye are a most just, square, God-fearin’ man, Squire Armour,” he said. “The Kirk should be proud of ye.” Turning to Gilbert, he asked him the amount of his debt.
“Only a matter of £4, brother,” he replied, “but ’tis a fortune to me at present.”
“An’ I must have the money to-day or the farm, I care not which.”