Hardcastle watched the lamplight flicker in the draught, looked on the old, familiar furnishings with new vision—the bell-mouthed blunder-busses of his father’s time, the pewter polished to dim lustre by what was known to Rebecca as “elbow grease”—the pike that had given every son of Logie pause when he was minded to be less than the men who marched to Flodden long ago.
He knew what Donald hoped for, and with wry humour he recalled the way of Causleen since he saved her from the snow—her avoidance of him, or mockery such as she had showered on him from her window when he came by to-night.
“You would have me guard her? Nothing but marriage could give me that right.”
“I have watched you, and the laid-by folk see much. It seemed that you cared, and hope grew apace. That is why I tell you what her proper station is. My girl would not shame Logie’s pride.”
There was something wistful in the pedlar’s eagerness, his dignity. He longed for Causleen’s safety, but would not cringe for it.
“She will have none of me, Donald—so how can I ease your mind? I’ll ask no woman twice.”
A great joy shone in the pedlar’s face. He had had no inkling, till now, that Hardcastle had forestalled his keen desire.
“Second thoughts are sometimes best—especially a maid’s. She thought you offered marriage out of pity, maybe.”
“Yes. I could not persuade her from it.”
“You will,” said Donald softly, and drew a long breath of thankfulness, and dozed awhile.