She had probed to the core of him, as she had meant; and a great need came to her, out of the weary years behind, to speak of the tribute asked of Donald and herself—which had been denied in face of odds as great as he was facing.
“Two pedlars came to your door,” she said, with a flash of the old grievance. “You counted us as such, and no more.”
“And shall never be forgiven.”
“I’m tired and out of heart, and you have been kind—kinder than you need have been. And we still intrude.”
“No,” said Hardcastle.
That was all; but his denial had a new ring of truth about it, though she could find no reason for the change.
“We had lands of our own once,” she went on by and by—“lands and a house like yours. But they went.”
There was a tearless grief, too deep for Hardcastle to fathom, in those three words, “But they went.” Logie was going, unless a miracle arrived; but he would die with the house, when the last onset of the Garsykes Men prevailed. He had no such parting to face as Causleen had gone through—exile from a homestead whose every stone and draughty corridor was loved like a second self. Logie and he, when their time came, would face the Trump o’ Doom together.
“Tell me more,” he said.
While she halted, fearing that grief would get the better of her, Rebecca came down the passage with a martial tread. The brindled cat was on her shoulder, his fur raised in warlike challenge, too.