Peter made no answer, but the words Vengeance is mine
began to ring in his mental ears instead of The Lord
is a man of war.
Before Mr Graham left them, and while Peter’s
soul was flourishing, he would have simply said that
it was their part to endure, and leave the rest to
the God of the sparrows.. But now the words of
men whose judgment had no weight with him, threw him
back upon the instinct of self defence—driven
from which by the words of his wife, he betook himself,
not alas! to the protection, but to the vengeance
of the Lord!
The next day he told the three commissioners that
he was sorry to disappoint them, but he could not
make common cause with them, for he could not see
it his duty to resist, much as it would gratify the
natural man. They must therefore excuse him if
he left Scaurnose at the time appointed. He hoped
he should leave friends behind him.
They listened respectfully, showed no offence, and
did not even attempt to argue the matter with him.
But certain looks passed between them.
After this Blue Peter was a little happier in his
mind, and went more briskly about his affairs.
It was a lovely summer evening, and the sun, going
down just beyond the point of the Scaurnose, shone
straight upon the Partan’s door. That it
was closed in such weather had a significance—general
as well as individual. Doors were oftener closed
in the Seaton now. The spiritual atmosphere of
the place was less clear and open than hitherto.
The behaviour of the factor, the trouble of their
neighbours, the conviction that the man who depopulated
Scaurnose would at least raise the rents upon them,
had brought a cloud over the feelings and prospects
of its inhabitants—which their special
quarrel with the oppressor for Malcolm’s sake,
had drawn deeper around the Findlays; and hence it
was that the setting sun shone upon the closed door
of their cottage.
But a shadow darkened it, cutting off the level stream
of rosy red. An aged man, in Highland garments,
stood and knocked. His overworn dress looked
fresher and brighter in the friendly rays, but they
shone very yellow on the bare hollows of his old knees.
It was Duncan MacPhail, the supposed grandfather of
Malcolm. He was older and feebler, I had almost
said blinder, but that could not be, certainly shabbier
than ever. The glitter of dirk and broadsword
at his sides, and the many coloured ribbons adorning
the old bagpipes under his arms, somehow enhanced
the look of more than autumnal, of wintry desolation
in his appearance.
Before he left the Seaton, the staff he carried was
for show rather than use, but now he was bent over
it, as if but for it he would fall into his grave.
His knock was feeble and doubtful, as if unsure of
a welcoming response. He was broken, sad, and
uncomforted.
A moment passed. The door was unlatched, and
within stood the Partaness, wiping her hands in her
apron, and looking thunderous. But when she saw
who it was, her countenance and manner changed utterly.
