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.
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