He was seated by himself in the little room which was specially his own, in the heaviness of the afternoon. Dinner was over, and the air was still conscious of the whisky and water which had accompanied it. A peat fire burned with an intense red glow, and his chair and shabby writing-table were drawn close to it. No wonder then that Drumcarro dozed when he retired to that warm and still seclusion. Marg’ret took care not to go too soon, to wait until the afternoon nap was over; but the laird’s eyes were still heavy when she came in. He roused himself quickly with sharp impatience; though the doze was habitual he was full of resentment at any suspicion of it. He was reading in his room; this was the version of the matter which he expected to be recognized in the family: a man nowadays would say he had letters to write, but letters were not so universal an occupation then. A frank or an opportunity, a private hand, or sure messenger with whom to trust the missive were things of an occasional occurrence which justified correspondence; but it was not a necessity of every day. Mr. Douglas made no pretence of letters. He was reading; a much crumpled newspaper which had already passed through several hands was spread out on the table before him. It was a Glasgow paper, posted by the first reader the day after publication to a gentleman on Loch Long, then forwarded by him to Inveralton, thence to Drumcarro. Mr. Pyper at the Manse got it at fourth hand. It would be difficult to trace its wanderings after that. The laird had it spread upon his table, and was bending over it, winking one eye to get it open when Marg’ret pushed open the door. She did not knock, but she made a great deal of noise with the handle as she opened it, which came to much the same thing.
“Well,” he said, turning upon her snappishly, “what may ye be wanting now?”
“I was wanting—just to say something to ye, Drumcarro, if it’s convenient to ye,” Marg’ret said.
“What do ye want? That’s your way of asking, as I know well. What ails ye now, and what long story have ye to tell? The sooner it’s begun the sooner it will be ended,” he said.
“There is truth in that,” replied Marg’ret sedately; “and I canna say I am confident ye will be pleased with what I am going to say. For to meddle between a father and his bairns is no a pleasant office, and to one that is but a servant in the house.”
“And who may this be,” said Mr. Douglas grimly, “that is coming to interfere between a father and his bairns,—meaning me and my family, as I’m at liberty to judge?”
Marg’ret looked her master in the face, and made him a slight but serious curtsey. “’Deed, sir, it’s just me,” she said.
“You!” said the laird with all the force of angry indignation which he could throw into his voice. He roused himself to the fray, pushing up his spectacles upon his forehead. “You’re a bonny one,” he said, “to burst into a gentleman’s private room on whatever errand—let alone meddling in what’s none of your concerns.”
“If ye think sae, sir,” said Marg’ret, “that’s just anither point we dinna agree about; for if there’s a mair proper person to speak to ye about your bairns than the person that has brought them up, and carried them in her arms, and made their parritch and mended their clo’es all their life, I’m no acquaint with her. Eh, me, what am I saying? There is anither that has a better right—and that’s their mother. But she’s your wife, puir lamb, and ye ken weel that ye’ve sae dauntened her, and sae bowed her down, that if ye were to take a’ their lives she would never get out a word.”
“Did she send ye here to tell me so?” cried Drumcarro.