“Give him sleep instead. It’s worth more than all the eggs and bacon ever reared in Logie Dale.”
He unbarred the door and beckoned her out into the nipping air that was like balm after the indoors warmth.
“I’m glad I stepped up last night,” he said, “though naught’s happened to Logie, after all. You’re a sensible sort of lass, I fancy.”
He was so downright that Causleen could only laugh—a wan little laugh plucked out from hardship.
“A sensible lass, and not as hard as Rebecca. Well, then, I’ve a warning for you. The Master, as I told you, held his head up to the very minute dawn stepped in. That meant no Garsykes sort would come. Daylight and they were never friends.”
“Yes, Michael?”
“Then he fell back in his chair, and sleep came on him like a wolf. He’s doing too much these days.”
“Is that news to me? The grey cobwebs run across his face. Sometimes he falters in his stride as he comes up Logie-lane, for very weariness.”
“Aye, and he’ll break, one day soon, if he’s not looked after. He never rests by day—riding, or shooting, or what not—and he seldom sleeps o’ nights, by the look of him. No man born o’ woman can carry it for long.”
Causleen remembered the weeks gone by. Her pride had resented Hardcastle’s aloofness, his fits of moodiness. Now she understood, and lifted a child’s penitent face.