“They’re rough quarters, I know,” he would begin.
“That does not trouble me,” she would answer gently.
“And, of course, there’ll be only an old shepherd-man up there, and you’d want another woman with you. Rebecca can go.”
“And what would you do here without her?”
“Fend for myself.”
“If we can persuade Rebecca to it, I will go,” she said, her glance inscrutable and grave.
And now, as time dragged slowly by, Hardcastle learned much of the ways of women, and more and more he was reminded of the slant, drooping flight of plover when their nests are threatened.
Rebecca’s mind had been his own—to get the girl into safety—till Causleen’s heart to endure had captured her grim liking. If the Master must find a wife—and it was time there was an heir to Logie—he might go further and fare worse.
“I cannot thoyle it, Jonah,” she would grumble to the brindled cat, “but I’ve got to. Me and you watching the Master’s goings out and his comings in—slaves, as you might say, to his will—and a slip of a lass making all as if it had never been. But she’s hill-born, with a spirit of her own. That’s so much to be thankful for.”
When the second week was nearing its end, Hardcastle grew so weary of the peace brooding like thunder-weather over Logie, so sick with dread for Causleen, that he strode into Logie like a hurricane.