Gil’s hand was laid in the heavy palm of the parson of Roehurst, and they joined in a close firm grip without another word.
“When shall these fires be going again, Master Cobbe,” continued the parson; “when shall the busy wheel turn plashing round? Come, come, promise me that thy mourning shall not be quite out of bounds.”
The founder had turned his back, and remained gazing away from them at the blackened heap.
“You will be up and doing, will you not, Master Cobbe?” continued the parson, urging him on. “Come: for thy child’s sake. Would’st have this place left a ruin? Come, promise me thou wilt.”
A deep sigh seemed to tear itself from the founder’s breast, and he turned to gaze in the direction of his works.
“Thou art right, parson,” he said; “it is not fair that the workmen I brought here to feed and furnish with hard labour should suffer for my sake. The fires shall be lit again.”
“Ay, that’s well,” said Master Peasegood earnestly. “It will be glad news for many a heart. Then I shall see the axe busy again as the leaves fall, and the glow of the charcoal fire in the woods; and meantime thy men will delve for iron, and the furnaces go roaring on. Is it not so?”
“Yes.”
“Bravely spoken, brave heart,” said Master Peasegood; “and thou, Gil Carr, off to thy ship once more, and bear away her freight. Come back to us laden with the pale yellow brimstone and the grey-white salt. Tut, tut, tut, of what am I speaking?” he muttered, as Gil shuddered. “You will go, my brave lad, eh?”
“I suppose so: yes,” said Gil slowly; and the parson laid his hand upon the founder’s shoulder once more.