It was upon the
vindication to himself of Ian Rullock.
It was made to work hard.... Its old task used to be to keep asleep
upon the subject. But now for a considerable time this had been its
task. Old feeling, old egoism, awakened up and down, drove it hard! It
had to make bricks without straw. It had to fetch and carry from the
ends of the earth.
Emotion, when it must rest, provided for it a dull place of
listlessness and discontent. But the taskmaster now would have it up
at all hours, fashioning reasons and justifications. The soonest found
straw in the fields lay in the faults of others--of the world in
general and Alexander Jardine in particular. Feeling got its anodyne
in gloating over these. It had the pounce of a panther for such a
bitter berry, such a weed, such a shameful form. It did not always
gloat, but it always held up and said, _Who could be weaker here--more
open to question?_ It made constant, sore comparison.
The lake gleamed below him, the herded mountains slept in a gray
silver light. How many were the faults of the laird of Glenfernie!
Faults! He looked at the dark old plains of the moon. That was a light
word! He saw Alexander pitted and scarred.
Pride! That had always been in the core of Glenfernie. That has been
his old fortress, walled and moated against trespass. Pride so high
that it was careless--that its possessor could seem peaceable and
humble.
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