III
Nita turned at last, when he was out of sight, and went down the track to Garsykes. Heart she had none to be wounded, but vanity was touched to the quick. Hardcastle would never be moved by her spells from this to the Crack o’ Doom, and with the knowledge came a passionate gust of hate.
It was in this mood that she encountered Will o’ Wisp, lumbering to the inn on heavy feet.
“You’re not your own merry self,” she said. “What ails you?”
“Nita Langrish ails me. I get no rest for wanting of you.”
“Why do all the men go daft for the little basket-weaver? I never ask it, Will o’ Wisp.”
“Maybe,” he growled, “but the lord Harry knows you maze us. I could throttle you where we stand, Nita—just for love of doing it.”
“You couldn’t. I’d put a hand on your arm—like this—and I’d ask you to be gentle with little Nita. And, see, you could not hurt me.”
The man stood there, smiling foolishly, and lost to all but the girl’s low, pleading voice. And she began to play on his infirmities, as skilled fingers might touch a fiddle’s strings, till she brought him to her purpose. It was true that she had checked the Wilderness Men in their second plot to fire Logie. It had been true, till her meeting with Logie’s Master, that she had crooned happily to herself as she wove her baskets, and planned the long do-little time which should break Hardcastle’s spirit and his pride before they broke his body. But now she could not wait.
Vanity, restless and impatient, cried for solace to its wounds.
“Why do I fret you so, Will o’ Wisp?”
“That’s past my wits to say. Happen you know yourself, and happen you don’t.”
“There’s Hardcastle of Logie, and not one in Garsykes dares bring him down—for my sake.”
“For your sake?”
“Yes. You’re half-men, all of you, or we’d be rid of him. I met him up the pastures awhile since, and he—he was not kind. If I’d had you with me, Will o’ Wisp—but you were drinking strong ale, likely, instead of being at my side.”
“I was lad-mooning up and down the fields, sick of my fancy for you. And naught ever comes of it.”
“Lad-moon no more, Will. Be up and doing.”
“How?” he asked bluntly.
“You’re not his match in strength—but little folk are given nimble wits. He took a pistol to you once.”
“He did,” muttered Will, urged now by a rancour Nita had fostered diligently.
“And it’s turn and turn about in this life. Borrow Murgatroyd’s fowling-piece to-morrow——”
“And creep up to Logie with it?”
“There’s no need. All gossip comes to little Nita, and I can tell you the way home Hardcastle will be taking, near dusk. It lies yonder, where the track dips down from Pengables—and, when you’ve fired, Will o’ Wisp, you’ve no more to do than slip home to Garsykes for your welcome.”
“What sort of welcome?”
“You’d find me, for one. What I’d give the man who rid Logie-side of Hardcastle—but, then, you’re only half-man, maybe, like the rest.”
With that, Will o’ Wisp was in the toils again; and as they went down to Garsykes, the basket-weaver nestled close against him.
Hardcastle, meanwhile, had taken his own grim way to Logie—over the bridge of many memories and up the winding steep of the road. His gate, when he reached it, held memories, too, and he fingered the arrow-head left there as a token before the autumn trees were stripped. He kept it in his pocket nowadays, for luck.
A stable-lad, sweeping the lane, touched his forelock as Hardcastle came by.
“There’s been Farmer Draycott to see you, Master, but he couldn’t wait till you came back. You promised to go to Broken Firs to-morrow about repairs, and he stepped up to remind you.”
“I’d not forgotten,” said Hardcastle carelessly—“though it’s a long message for you to carry, William.”
The lad grinned sheepishly. “It did twist the few wits I’ve got; but I just kept on saying it over and over—not letting go in a manner o’ speaking, like as if I stuck to a rope.—And, Master——”
“Well?”
“I’d not go if I was you.”
Hardcastle glanced at him with gruff kindliness; for all Logie humoured this lad of the strong hands and the lame wits.
“You wouldn’t go?”
“Not if Guytrash yelped behind and druv me forrard. I’d choose Trash, I would, instead o’ Broken Firs. Why d’ye go, Master?”
“Because I said I’d go—so fret no more, William, and take this hare up to the kitchen.”
He missed the wistful, dog-like glance that followed him up the lane. He was thinking of Nita Langrish—of Causleen, who was a guest thrust on him against his will. Donald the pedlar wearied him, too, though he hated himself for the thought that pensioners lingered in their dying. Surely there was enough to face these days, without useless burdens to carry on one’s back! What did he owe Donald and his girl? Why were they here, when Logie asked for all his strength, and no weaklings in the house?
Yet, when he came under his own roof, he was aware of loneliness. Donald, as he glanced into the room, was sleeping tranquilly. Rebecca, far down the passage, seemed to be at war with Jonah, the brindled cat.
“A vagabones I call you, lapping cream all day and doing naught,” came the shrill voice.
Again Hardcastle wearied of it all. Peril, of the stealthy kind that he was fighting, had made his body lean and nagged at his spirit till it was raw with wounds. Something was absent—something he had come to look for on returning—and he grew restless and impatient.
Rebecca came down the passage by and by, Jonah perched on her shoulder after the last of their soon-over quarrels. With swift and savage intuition she knew what ailed the Master.
“The pedlar does well enough. Are you worrying about him?”
“No,” said Hardcastle, tall and sombre.
“As for his girl, she came in awhile since like a child o’ Belial. After she’d seen to Donald, she was frost and venom. She wouldn’t speak—I could have thoyled it better that road—but flounced about in her quiet, proud way, till I could have bitten her. Then she went out o’ doors—at this time o’ night, and with all Garsykes stirring for aught we know—and she’s not come back.”
Hardcastle turned to the rack, reached for a fowling-piece and looked to the priming. Then, without a word to Rebecca, he went into the soft November night and stood listening for the cry of one in trouble. None came. A sickle moon lay cradled in the tree-tops, shining on a land of misty quiet; and in that moment Hardcastle learned something of the heart he had thought walled-up for ever.
He called, and silence answered. Crying louder and louder still, he went up and down the pastures, through the home-spinney and out into Chantry Meadow where the cowslips grew in spring. He began to weave pictures of Garsykes Men surrounding her from every corner of these empty wastes, and quickened pace, and went circling hither and thither like a man distraught. Gusty anger found him, passionate question why she had left Logie’s shelter—fear reached him, of a kind unknown till now—and again his cry rang out—his heart’s cry of Causleen.
A bunch of sheep, huddled under the wall, got up and ran bleak-witted past him. That was the only answer. And now his own littleness appalled Hardcastle. Measured by the striding loneliness of Logie-land, he seemed small and of no account. He must get back, and saddle a horse, and rouse the country-side. If they found Causleen safe—if they found her safe—his mind stayed there awhile, glad to believe it till he was half-way back to Logie.
Then his mind raced forward. If they found her dead, or worse, he’d gather his roving company into a band that would burn Garsykes from one end to the other of its styes. Hardcastle, the magistrate who once had scrupled to carry a gun against the Lost Folk, was growing fast these days.
He came to his own door, wrath and fear between them making havoc of him. And there stood Causleen, looking quietly out across the trees.
“Surely you heard me call?” snapped Hardcastle, with quick relief.
“I heard.”
“Then why the devil, child, didn’t you answer? I’ve been sick with fear for you.”
“Is that true?” she asked. “There’s no other could make you sick with fear of that sort?”
Hardcastle was no easy man to live with these days. His temper was brittle as a file, and here was the pedlar’s girl, cross-questioning him after the turmoil he had gone through.
“I was a fool,” he said.
“And why?”
“To get my heart into my mouth because——”
“Because, Hardcastle of Logie?”
“Rebecca told me you’d gone out alone, as if there were no Wilderness Men skulking round the house.”
“And you cared to go in search?”
“I was a fool,” said Hardcastle again.
She glanced at him once, in the light of the young, keen moon—and laughed at him with quiet derision—and went indoors, to find Rebecca waiting.
“Back, are you? Well, it’s time. The Master’s been daft about you—and Jonah sits atop o’ your shoulder now, instead o’ mine—so I’m getting jealous all ways. What made you go?”
“The owls were hooting in Logie Wood. They seemed to call me,” said Causleen, aloof and cold.
“Pack o’ nonsense. Why couldn’t you let the hullets get on with their decent hunting? It was the dratted voles and rats they were crying for. And now you’ll want supper, on top of my hard day’s work.”
“I—I could not eat, Rebecca. So you’re spared that trouble.”
Rebecca, noting the girl’s sudden pallor, was grimmer than before.
“Spared more from your pack o’ nonsense, am I? I’ll see to that. It’s a good, square meal you need, my lass.”
Causleen faced her with a dignity so aloof that it daunted even tough Rebecca. “I eat as little as may be of your Master’s food.”
With that she was gone up the windy stairway, like a Highland storm across her own far moors; and presently Hardcastle came in, dour and stubborn.
“William brought you the hare?” he asked, finding Rebecca still in the hall, chewing the cud of her defeat at Causleen’s hands.
“Aye, and more. He prayed me draw you back from going to Broken Firs to-morrow.”
“What of that? William’s wits were never strong.”
“But his far-sight is. Suppose he’s right, Master—and suppose you knew he was right—would you still go up to Michael Draycott’s?”
“What else should I do?”
A lean, hard smile wrinkled the woman’s lips. “Aye,” she said. “Aye. That’s Logie, through and through.”