‘I say,’ resumed the secretary, in a slow,
impressive way; ’we can’t tell what may
come to pass; and if we should be obliged, against
our wills, to have recourse to violence, my lord (who
has suffered terribly to-day, as far as words can
go) consigns to you two—bearing in mind
my recommendation of you both, as good staunch men,
beyond all doubt and suspicion—the pleasant
task of punishing this Haredale. You may do as
you please with him, or his, provided that you show
no mercy, and no quarter, and leave no two beams of
his house standing where the builder placed them.
You may sack it, burn it, do with it as you like, but
it must come down; it must be razed to the ground;
and he, and all belonging to him, left as shelterless
as new-born infants whom their mothers have exposed.
Do you understand me?’ said Gashford, pausing,
and pressing his hands together gently.
‘Understand you, master!’ cried Hugh.
’You speak plain now. Why, this is hearty!’
‘I knew you would like it,’ said Gashford,
shaking him by the hand; ’I thought you would.
Good night! Don’t rise, Dennis: I would
rather find my way alone. I may have to make
other visits here, and it’s pleasant to come
and go without disturbing you. I can find my way
perfectly well. Good night!’
He was gone, and had shut the door behind him.
They looked at each other, and nodded approvingly:
Dennis stirred up the fire.
‘This looks a little more like business!’
he said.
‘Ay, indeed!’ cried Hugh; ‘this
suits me!’
‘I’ve heerd it said of Muster Gashford,’
said the hangman, ’that he’d a surprising
memory and wonderful firmness—that he never
forgot, and never forgave.—Let’s
drink his health!’
Hugh readily complied—pouring no liquor
on the floor when he drank this toast—and
they pledged the secretary as a man after their own
hearts, in a bumper.
While the worst passions of the worst men were thus
working in the dark, and the mantle of religion, assumed
to cover the ugliest deformities, threatened to become
the shroud of all that was good and peaceful in society,
a circumstance occurred which once more altered the
position of two persons from whom this history has
long been separated, and to whom it must now return.
In a small English country town, the inhabitants of
which supported themselves by the labour of their
hands in plaiting and preparing straw for those who
made bonnets and other articles of dress and ornament
from that material,—concealed under an
assumed name, and living in a quiet poverty which
knew no change, no pleasures, and few cares but that
of struggling on from day to day in one great toil
for bread,—dwelt Barnaby and his mother.
Their poor cottage had known no stranger’s foot
since they sought the shelter of its roof five years
before; nor had they in all that time held any commerce
or communication with the old world from which they
had fled. To labour in peace, and devote her
labour and her life to her poor son, was all the widow
sought. If happiness can be said at any time
to be the lot of one on whom a secret sorrow preys,
she was happy now. Tranquillity, resignation,
and her strong love of him who needed it so much,
formed the small circle of her quiet joys; and while
that remained unbroken, she was contented.
