When she turned and saw him there, shame and pride took fire together. She glanced at the hair which ran loosened to her knees, and hated him for the surprise. She glanced, too, as Donald had done, at the pike above the mantel; her voice was cold and hard.
“We shall not trouble you for long.”
A great anger flamed in Hardcastle. “Am I such a churl as that?”
“You were a churl last night.”
“How should I know he was an ailing man? There’d have been no doubt of your welcome then.”
“In our country all benighted guests are welcome; but you’re a harsher folk in Yorkshire.”
He glanced again at Donald. “Shall I send Rebecca to you?”
“There is no need.”
The Master turned without a word. She chose to be at war with him, and he was content enough; better that than the pity she had roused. When a man began to pity any woman, he had one foot already in the marshes.
He had reached the door, and was closing it behind him, when she recalled him. “You, too, were ill last night. Have you recovered?”