Thus he lied for God, pleading his cause on the principles of hell. But the eye of his wife was single, and her body full of light; therefore to her it was plain that neither the theatre nor his conscience concerning it was the cause of the change: it had to do with his feelings towards Malcolm. He wronged his friend in his heart, half knew it, but would not own it. Fearing to search himself, he took refuge in resentment, and to support his hard judgment, put false and cruel interpretations on whatever befell. So that, with love and anger and wrong acknowledged, his heart was full of bitterness.
“It’s a’ the drumblet (muddied, troubled) luve o’ ’im!” said Annie to herself. “Puir fallow! gien only Ma’colm wad come hame, an’ lat him ken he’s no the villain he taks him for. I’ll no believe mysel’ ’at the laad I kissed like my ain mither’s son afore he gaed awa’ wad turn like that upo’ ’s ’maist the meenute he was oot o’ sicht, an’ a’ for a feow words aboot a fulish play-actin’. Lord bliss us a’! markises is men!”
“We’ll see, Peter, my man,” she said, when the neighbour took her leave, “whether the wife, though she hasna been to the ill place, an’ that’s surely Lon’on, canna tell the true frae the fause full better nor her man, ’at kens sae muckle mair nor she wants to ken? Lat sit an’ lat see.”
Blue Peter made no reply; but perhaps the deepest depth in his fall was that he feared his wife might be right, and he have one day to stand ashamed before both her and his friend. But there are marvellous differences in the quality of the sins of different men, and a noble nature like Peter’s would have to sink far indeed to be beyond redemption. Still there was one element mingling with his wrongness whose very triviality increased the difficulty of long-delaying repentance: he had been not a little proud at finding himself the friend of a marquis. From the first they had been friends, when the one was a youth and the other a child, and had been out together in many a stormy and dangerous sea. More than once or twice, driven from the churlish ocean to the scarce less inhospitable shore, they had lain all night in each other’s arms to keep the life awake within their frozen garments. And now this marquis spoke English to him! It rankled!
All the time Blue Peter was careful to say nothing to injure Malcolm in the eyes of his former comrades. His manner when his name was mentioned, however, he could not honestly school to the conveyance of the impression that things were as they had been betwixt them. Folk marked the difference, and it went to swell the general feeling that Malcolm had done ill to forsake a seafaring life for one upon which all fishermen must look down with contempt. Some in the Seaton went so far in their enmity as even to hint at an explanation of his conduct in the truth of the discarded scandal which had laid Lizzy’s child at his door.
But amongst them was one who, having wronged him thus, and been convinced of her error, was now so fiercely his partisan as to be ready to wrong the whole town in his defence: that was Meg Partan, properly Mistress Findlay, Lizzy’s mother. Although the daughter had never confessed, the mother had yet arrived at the right conclusion concerning the father of her child—how, she could hardly herself have told, for the conviction had grown by accretion; a sign here and a sign there, impalpable save to maternal sense, had led her to the truth; and now, if anyone had a word to say against Malcolm, he had better not say it in the hearing of the Partaness.
One day Blue Peter was walking home from the upper town of Portlossie, not with the lazy gait of the fisherman off work, poised backwards, with hands in trouser-pocket, but stooping care-laden with listless-swinging arms. Thus Meg Partan met him—and of course attributed his dejection to the factor.
“Deil ha’e ’im for an upsettin’ rascal ’at hasna pride eneuch to haud him ohn lickit the gentry’s shune! The man maun be fey! I houp he may, an’ I wuss I saw the beerial o’ ’im makin’ for the kirkyaird. It’s nae ill to wuss weel to a’ body ’at wad be left! His nose is turnt twise the colour i’ the last twa month. He’ll be drinkin’ byous. Gien only Ma’colm MacPhail had been at hame to haud him in order!”
Peter said nothing, and his silence, to one who spake out whatever came, seemed fuller of restraints and meanings than it was. She challenged it at once.
“Noo, what mean ye by sayin’ naething, Peter? Guid kens it’s the warst thing man or woman can say o’ onybody to haud their tongue. It’s a thing I never was blamed wi’ mysel’, an’ I wadna du ’t.”