Then came afterwards the quiet, half-awed return to usual life that follows death in any house. Rebecca and the brindled cat got to their friendship’s bickerings. The Master rode abroad on business of his lands, or brought game home for the larder. And, as if the skies were in league with peace, the long warmth-in-winter held.
Causleen began to fret—not for the father who had ended bravely and in happiness—but for Hardcastle. He grew lean and gaunt, ate as if he must, with no relish for what lay on his plate, and left the wine scarce tasted. Try as she might, she could get no answer to the riddle of his moodiness, until, one morning near November’s end, he strode restlessly about the breakfast chamber, and came to a sharp halt before her.
“Causleen,” he said. “I want you to go up to Shepherd Brant’s. It’s a rough lodging—but it’s safe.”
And now she understood; and, for very gladness, she made pretence of doubt.
“Tired of me already?”
“Don’t jest, child.” He was hard, peremptory. “You must go to-day.”
“And if I will not?”
“I shall set you on pony-back and take you there.”
“What is amiss with you?” she asked—knowing, but longing for the spoken word.
“Fear,” said Hardcastle.