The death of Archbishop Laud was a perfect Godsend to him, for on no less than three occasions was he able to bring news-books describing from different points of view the last sad scene on Tower Hill.
Hilary shed tears at the thought of the poor feeble old man brought out to die on that cold January day, and forgetting that Gabriel, though disapproving his system, would probably regret his execution, let her heart grow hot with wrath at the thought that he was allied to the party which had carried out the sentence, and hated him with the sort of hatred which can in some natures follow love. Norton’s sympathy and his real distress at the sight of her grief drew her much closer to him; she began to reflect that his companionship was the chief pleasure of her life just at present, and to own to herself that a visit from him was a wonderful relief in the grey monotony of that sad winter.
Norton quickly perceived the hold he was gaining on her, and was about to venture on a little very cautious love-making, when to his annoyance the Vicar, for whose return he was nominally waiting, strode into the room. He greeted him gravely, but from his agitated manner the Colonel at once perceived that something serious had occurred.
“Colonel Norton has brought another account of the Archbishop’s execution, sir,” said Hilary, rising to give him the news-book.
He took it absently and laid it down on the table among his fossils.
“The most horrible scene has just been enacted,” he said, in a voice that was tremulous with indignation; “and your soldiers from Canon Frome, sir, were the perpetrators of the outrage.”
Norton looked concerned; he had in truth more than once spared the inhabitants of Bosbury because he wished to keep his footing at the Vicarage.
“What hath chanced, sir?” he inquired.
“I walked to an outlying house in my parish,” said the Vicar; “Old Mutlow’s farm at Swinmore, Hilary, you know the place. To my horror, when I got there it was in flames, the poor old man half frantic, but far too infirm to attempt to save his goods, and your men, sir, protesting that they had the right to burn his home because he had not paid his contribution.”
“Well, sir,” said Norton, “I confess your tale relieves me. I feared that in my absence the men might have waxed as cruel as General Gerrard’s men t’other day in Montgomeryshire, who not only burnt the farm, but the mother and the children inside it. I am glad this old peasant fared better. As you will understand, we must punish those who refuse their aid, and we are bound to get money somehow.”