Opposite the dining-parlour was a much smaller apartment, heavy and dark with books. Into the sombre twilight of this room no stray sunbeam wandered. High trees closed it round without, and great book-cases, dusty and crowded, oppressed the wall within. A single old print of some obscure Stirlingshire divine, long since forgotten, hung over the mantel-piece, and a much-worn leathern chair stood before a little writing-table in front of the fire-place. A window-seat, cushioned and covered with hard crimson moreen, occupied the recess of the window; but from this window you only looked out upon the damp outline of a neglected flower-bed, covered with rank vegetation, and upon the close screen of trees, which bent round it on every side.
“Man, I dinna envie ye the land!” exclaimed the harmless Dragon of Allenders, “but I div envie ye the books; and being a callant, ye’ll no ken how to make a right use of them. Now isna this a grand room? I’ll warrant ye never were in a muckle house like this afore?”
“It is light we want—nothing but light. It is the gloom which makes these rooms look so dreary,” said Charteris, sympathetically beholding the chill which again fell over Harry.
Harry went to the window, and looked out. Why they would be buried here—and the good fortune was a piece of penance after all.
“You should give me another five hundred a-year for consenting to live in this place, Mr. Lindsay,” he said in almost an irritated tone.
Poor Harry had a weakness of thinking that disagreeable things were somebody’s fault. He was quite impatient with Lindsay and Charteris. He felt as if they had deluded him.
“Dr. Allenders in Stirling would not think so,” said Lindsay, in his turn a little offended. “I dare say you might find a Jacob among them eager enough to bargain for the birthright.”
“See, my man, here’s the book,” said the old servant, shuffling up to Harry. “Ye needna say onything to the minister about it, if ye should happen to fall in with him, for, maybe, he mightna think it very richt for a man of my years; and I’ll put it ben the house on the hob to kindle the fire when I’m done reading it; but it’s awfu’ entertaining. See, look at it; but I canna ca’ ye Allenders—Allenders was an auld man, and you’re only a laddie. What do they ca’ ye by your christened name?”
“My name is Harry Muir,” was the instant reply, for Harry had unconsciously a feeling of disgust now at the very sound of Allenders.
“Hairy! What garred them ca’ ye Hairy? it’s no a canny name for a laird of Allenders; and there’s never ane been called by it since the time the lady was lost; but I hope ye’ll come to nae skaith, for you’re no an ill lad, judging by your looks. And ye have leddies coming, have ye? what right has the like of you to leddies?”