Lindsay opened quickly, and with the air of one thoroughly acquainted with the house, which, however, he had only once seen before, one of the dim oak doors which opened into the hall. Within was a wainscoted parlour of good dimensions, with one small window in the great blank of its side wall, and one squeezed into a corner beside the fire-place. The carpet was so worn that pattern and colours were alike indiscernible, and dark curtains of faded purply-crimson hung over the dingy windows. A long dining-table, polished and glimmering, caught one ray of the sunshine without, and carried it down the narrow length of the apartment to the old-fashioned sideboard at the end; but save for this, the place looked as desolate as could be imagined. Lindsay turned round at the door with the air of an exhibitor, and something of the feeling; for though himself, at the first glance, had thought all this very chill and miserable, he looked unconsciously for satisfaction from Harry. Harry did not say a word. Alas! the house of enchantment—the fairy palace! The reality was a very different thing from the dream.
Cuthbert went quickly to the nearest window, and drew away with more energy than was needful the jealous curtain.
“Another window here to keep this one company, and some pictures on these grim panels, and brighter furniture—you will make this room the pleasantest of winter parlours, Muir. One can have no idea of what it will be, from its appearance just now.”
“Anither window!” exclaimed the old man, who had followed them. “Would ye break the guid wall, ye wasterful prodigal? Mr. Lindsay, is’t this ane?” and he pointed his finger wrathfully at Cuthbert.
“No, no,” said Harry Muir, with restored good-humour; “we must take your counsel since you like the walls so well. But what is your name? What did you call him, Mr. Lindsay?”
“They ca’ me Dragon,” said the warden of Allenders, vacantly. “That is, I’m meaning my name’s Edom Comrie; but I never hear onybody have the civility to ca’ me aught but Dragon. Put in anither window! What would ye do that for, I would like to ken? Do ye mean to say that what was licht enough for the auld Allenders, is no licht enough for the like of you? You can wear spectacles if your vision is failing. I do it mysel’; but what for wad ye break the guid bonnie wa’ that might withstand the French, for a nonsense window? And there’s a bonnie bush a’ fu’ o’ white roses, in their season, leaning on the house close by there. Would ye tramp down my bonnie lady rose for your mason work? Mr. Lindsay, is’t no again the law?”
“But what if we brought a bonnie Lady Rose to sit at the new window, and look out upon the flowers!” said Cuthbert with a quick blush. “When Allenders brings his family home, he’ll bring ladies here; and flowers, you know, never thrive without light. You would not show yourself a dragon to the ladies, Adam—the first time they heard of you, too.”
The old man chuckled a strange laugh.
“He thinks I’m heeding about ladies—me! and you’ll nane of you be learned, I reckon; for if ye were, there’s routh o’ grand books ben the house—I whiles read in them mysel, and they are a’ guid reading and profitable. When I come on an ill ane, I kindle my fire wi’t. I laid my hand on ane yestreen, that’s nae better than it should be, in my judgment; but it was uncommon diverting, and I just laid it by again, for my ain carnal pleasure—for I’m no abune the like o’ that, though I’m auld. Come away, Allenders—if you are Allenders; I’ll let you see the book, and like a guid laddie, ye’ll take nae heed of yon birkie and his windows.”
The young men followed their conductor in high good-humour. He had quite neutralized the melancholy appearance of the house.