It had, however, as all such rooms have, various points of contact with the immediate present, in the shape of low chintz-covered easy-chairs and other modern vanities. Uncle Charles’ chimney-corner was formed by placing an arm across the long settee fitted to the wall, thus leaving him a roomy triangular seat at the end, where his lean limbs got all the benefit of the warmth. He was a man of nearly sixty, with scanty fair hair, scarcely touched with grey, a forehead which wrinkled up in folds or smoothed itself miraculously out according to his moods as he talked, and a pair of light yellowish grey eyes with scanty eyelashes, also light in colour, over which he puckered his brows continually, being shortsighted. He was one of the thinnest of men, as light and agile as many a boy, and sat with his long legs crossed in the acutest of angles.
His brother stood with his back to the fire, older by two years, and heavier by at least six stone. He was dressed in grey morning clothes, with boots and leather gaiters, and an atmosphere of the fields and free air about him. Indeed, he had just come in from his home-farm, which he managed very carefully, and by which he proudly declared he had never lost a penny. There was no one else in the room. The walls were painted gray-green and hung with family portraits. The round table at the east end—for in this part of Scotland everything is spoken of geographically—was laden with books; and in the west end the room blossomed out into a deeply recessed bay window, half veiled with lace curtains, within which stood one easy-chair and small table. This recess, and indeed the air of the place generally, betrayed the habitation of a woman, and one whose tastes and “ways” were very influential—but no woman was present. The aspect of the room was south and west, so that the sharp east wind then blowing outside did not affect so much as might have been feared the temperature within. An east wind in Fife is not always the grey and withering misery it is in other places; under some peculiar modifications of the atmosphere it makes the sea blue and the sky clear, and such was the effect on this particular morning. This it may be imagined was an effect most deeply to be desired at Pitcomlie, which so far, at least, as the drawing-room was concerned, was like a ship at sea, seeing little besides the water; but as the Hay-Heriots had all been, so to speak, born and bred in an east wind, they were more indifferent than most people to its penetrating power.
“I have another letter from Tom,” said Mr. Heriot, sighing and raising his arms with his coat tails under them.
“Always wanting something?” said Uncle Charles, with a shrug.
“Well, when all’s done and said, he is the first to be considered,” said the laird, with a faint glimmer as of incipient resentment. “It is to him that everything must come; he must carry on the name like his fathers before him. Being a younger son yourself, Charlie, you have your prejudices, as is but natural. Your word is always for the others—never for Tom.”
Uncle Charles gave another shrug of his lean shoulders. “Tom cares little for my good word,” he said, “and has little need of it. You’re quite capable of spoiling your son yourself, so far as I can see, without me to help. The girls are my thought; young men can shift for themselves, and it was always the way of our family to let them; but the girls, Thomas—there’s two of them. There’s my niece Marjory, as fine a young woman as any in the county—”
“Oh, ay, May; she’s the first in your thoughts. But girls are neither here nor there,” said Mr. Heriot, “they have their pickle money, more or less, and there’s an end of them. What’s Marjory to do with money? What can she do at her age—”
“Marry, I suppose, like the rest,” said Uncle Charles.
“Marry!” said the father. “I don’t see any necessity for my part; she’s a great deal better as she is, with you and me.”
“That may be or mayn’t be,” said Uncle Charles; “but at least you are not the man to say so; you married twice yourself.”