CHAPTER XI.
A COLD RECEPTION.
Roland found himself somewhat ceremoniously ushered into a drawing-room with which he was familiar, and which was known as the Red Room, where he was left at leisure for a few minutes, to look about him and reflect.
The second Mrs. Lindsay had been too wise, he could perceive, to remove much of the ancient furniture of the manor house, but she had interspersed it with much that was modern; large easy seats and rich hangings, gipsy tables, Chippendale chairs, and great rugs, Parian statuary, and one or two antique classic busts, had caught Roland's eye as he passed along; but all old portraits were banished to the staircases and corridors, for it had seemed to the intruder on their domains that the grim old Lindsays in ruff and breastplate, with hand on hip and sword in belt, with their dames in hoops and old-fashioned Scottish fardingales, had rather scowled upon her.
The Red Room of Earlshaugh had been one of the 'show places' in the East Neuk, for nearly all its furniture was of red lacquer work, brought from Japan by a Lindsay in the close of the last century. The walls were hung with stamped leather, the golden tints of which had faded now, though the gilding gleamed out here and there, and against this sobered background the richly tinted furniture, with its painted suns, moons, and stars, grotesque monsters, and queerly designed houses and gardens, stood out redly and boldly, with bronzes, marbles, and ivory carvings now yellow with age.
It was noon now, and through the open and deeply embayed windows the perfume of many flowers stole in from the gardens below, mingling with that from roses and others that were in the jardinières, and to Roland it all seemed as if he had stood there only yesterday.
There was a sound; he turned and found himself face to face with his stepmother, whom he had last seen and known as his own mother's useful, bland, suave, apparently patient and always obsequious companion.
'Welcome, Roland, at last,' said she; but there was no welcome either in her voice or eye, though she accorded him her hand, and a kiss that was as cold as the expression of her face, though it was apparent that she was trying to get up a pathetic look for the occasion; in fact, she felt the necessity for a little acting—of assuming a virtue, if she had it not—and Roland saw and understood the whole situation at once, for after a few commonplaces, and he had flung himself into a chair that had once been a favourite one of his father, she asked:
'How long does your leave of absence from the regiment last?'
'So shortly,' replied Roland with an undisguised sneer, 'that I won't mar your pleasure or spoil your appetite by telling its duration.'