“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.