One evening, Malcolm thought he would pay Joseph a visit, but when he reached Scaurnose, he found it nearly deserted: he had forgotten that this was one of the nights of meeting in the Baillies’ Barn. Phemy indeed had not gone with her father and mother, but she was spending the evening with the laird. Lifting the latch, and seeing no one in the house, he was on the point of withdrawing when he caught sight of an eye peeping through an inch-opening of the door of the bed-closet, which the same moment was hurriedly closed. He called, but received no reply, and left the cottage wondering. He had not heard that Mrs Mair had given Lizzy Findlay shelter for a season. And now a neighbour had observed and put her own construction on the visit, her report of which strengthened the general conviction of his unworthiness.
Descending from the promontory, and wandering slowly along the shore, he met the Scaurnose part of the congregation returning home. The few salutations dropped him as he passed were distant, and bore an expression of disapproval. Mrs Mair only, who was walking with a friend, gave him a kind nod. Blue Peter, who followed at a little distance, turned and walked back with him.
“I’m exerceesed i’ my min’,” he said, as soon as they were clear of the stragglers, “aboot the turn things hae taen, doon-by at the Barn.”
“They tell me there’s some gey queer customers taen to haudin’ furth,” returned Malcolm.
“It’s a fac’,” answered Peter. “The fowk’ll hardly hear a word noo frae ony o’ the aulder an’ soberer Christi-ans. They haena the gift o’ the Speerit, they say. But in place o’ steerin’ them up to tak haud upo’ their Maker, thir new lichts set them up to luik doon upo’ ither fowk, propheseein’ an’ denuncin’, as gien the Lord had committit jeedgment into their han’s.”
“What is ’t they tak haud o’ to misca’ them for?” asked Malcolm.
“It’s no sae muckle,” answered Peter, “for onything they du, as for what they believe or dinna believe. There’s an ’uman frae Clamrock was o’ their pairty the nicht. She stude up an’ spak weel, an’ weel oot, but no to muckle profit, as ’t seemed to me; only I’m maybe no a fair jeedge, for I cudna be rid o’ the notion ’at she was lattin’ at mysel’ a’ the time. I dinna ken what for. An’ I cudna help wonnerin’ gien she kent what fowk used to say aboot hersel’ whan she was a lass; for gien the sma’ half o’ that was true, a body micht think the new grace gien her wad hae driven her to hide her heid, i’ place o’ exaltin’ her horn on high. But maybe it was a’ lees—she kens best hersel’.”
“There canna be muckle worship gaein’ on wi’ ye by this time, than, I’m thinkin’,” said Malcolm.
“I dinna like to say ’t,” returned Joseph; “but there’s a speerit o’ speeritooal pride abroad amang ’s, it seems to me, ’at’s no fawvourable to devotion. They hae taen ’t intill their heids, for ae thing—an that’s what Dilse’s Bess lays on at—’at ’cause they’re fisher-fowk, they hae a speecial mission to convert the warl’.”
“What foon’ they that upo’?” asked Malcolm.