“And a great deal I have made by it,” said Mr. Heriot, with a mixture of complaint and discontent. “My first wife was an excellent creature, an excellent creature, as you know; but she was taken away from me just when I and the bairns wanted her most. Providence is very queer in some things. Just when May was a growing girl, and Tom at the age when a woman is of use, their mother was taken away. It is not for us to complain, but it’s a strange way of acting, a very strange way of acting. I could not take the responsibility of guiding my hinds in such a manner. Well, and then I married poor Jeanie, hoping she would keep everything in order, and set the house to rights—and what does she do but slip away too, poor thing, leaving me with a helpless bit baby on my hands? A great deal I have made by it that you should quote my example. What would Marjory do to marry? She is far better as she is, mistress and more of this house, petted as no husband would ever pet her, getting her own way in everything. Bless my soul, man, what would you like for her more?”
“Well, a house of her own,” said Uncle Charles, no way daunted, “and a good man. I have not your experience, Thomas, but I suppose that’s the best for a woman. She is more of your way of thinking than mine, but it’s our duty to think for her, you know. We’re old now, and Tom’s extravagant—and she’s not precisely growing younger herself.”
“Toots, she’s young enough,” said the laird; and then he began to walk up and down the room, still with his coat-tails under his arms. “To tell the truth,” he said, “Marjory’s marriage would be the worst thing that could happen for us. I would not stand in her way if it was for her good. When there’s a family of daughters, of course it becomes of consequence; what else can they do, poor things? but Marjory is in a very different position. Poor little Milly is not ten, and what would you and I do, left in a house like this, with a bit creature of ten years old? Her sister is her natural guardian; and what can be more natural than that May should take care of her father’s house and keep everything going? What can a woman want more? A house of her own! isn’t this house her own? and as nice a house as any in Fife; and as for a man—if she knew as much about men as I do, Charlie, or you either for that matter—”
Uncle Charles gave a half-stifled, chuckling laugh. The humour of this remonstrance overcame his graver sense; and that Marjory’s marriage would have been as great a drawback—perhaps a greater misfortune—to himself than even to her father there could be no doubt.
“I don’t say but what that’s an indisputable argument,” he replied; “she might get a bonny bargain, and repent it all her days. But there’s the luncheon bell, and where is she? I don’t think I ever knew her to be late before.”
“Are you not going to wait?” said the laird.
Mr. Charles had hoisted himself up at the sound of the bell; he had folded his newspaper and laid it down upon his seat. He had picked up his shortsighted spectacles, which lay as they always did, when he was reading, on the edge of the wainscot, which was high and served him as a stand; and he had lifted the poker to administer, as he invariably did at this hour, a farewell poke to the fire before leaving it. He turned round upon his brother, looking at him over his shoulder with the poker in his hand.
“Wait!” he said. It was altogether a new idea. Marjory was punctuality itself, trained to it from her earliest years, and time was inexorable at Pitcomlie, waiting for no man or woman either.
“Wait?” he repeated, laying down the poker. “Thomas, my man, you’re not well.”
“Bah!” said the laird, taking up the poker which his brother had dropped, and applying such a blow to the coal as sent blazing sparks all over the hearth-rug. It was exactly what might have been expected, but his brother stood helplessly and looked at him, feeling that chaos itself had come, until the smell of the burning wool startled them both. Mr. Heriot stooped down, which did not agree with him, to pick up the smouldering sparks with his hands, out of which the morsels of fire tumbled again, sprinkling little pin-points of destruction all over the Turkey rug. Mr. Charles ran and opened the window, which let in a steady strong blast from the Firth, enough to wither up the very soul of any man not to the manner born. “Bless my soul!” they both said, between the fire and the cold, in confusion and discouragement. It was entirely Marjory’s fault. Why was not Marjory at home? What did she mean by staying out at an hour when she was so much wanted? Mr. Heriot spoke quite sharply when old Fleming, the butler, came to answer the bell. “Where is Miss Marjory?” he said. “Come and pick up these cinders, and don’t stand and stare at me. Where is Miss Marjory, I ask you? What do you mean by ringing the bell when she’s not here?”