Rebecca was in the hall, as it chanced, plying her broom as if it were a flail she wielded against the Garsykes Men.
“What is it, Master?” she asked, standing in a dust-storm of her own making.
“It’s this, Rebecca. You take her to Brant’s hut to-morrow of your own will, or by mine.”
“Afraid they’ll burn the roof over your head? They’ve tried it twice—and we’ll teach ’em that the third time pays for all.”
“Are you a fool altogether, woman? There’s Causleen in the house.”
“Aye, it’s her place. She’d be a poor sort o’ wife for Logie, if she left you at the pinch.”
Hardcastle was in no mood for argument. He told her—simply and with command—that she must take Causleen to Brant’s hut to-morrow. And Rebecca grew submissive on the sudden.
“It’s as well she should be away,” she admitted, “if only for your peace of mind.”
The next day, however, when Hardcastle came down to breakfast, he was met by Causleen with news that Rebecca could not stir from her bed and sent word to the Master that she was “twisted with rheumatics.”
“She has chosen the worst time she could,” snapped Hardcastle. “If the woman must have luxuries of that sort let her have them when you’re safely up at Brant’s, the two of you.”