“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?”