“And the dear old house, Master Cobbe? There is sandstone waiting in the quarry to be borne here, and thou hast oaken timber enough cut to build it up. When wilt begin to repair thy loss?”
“Never,” cried the founder fiercely. “Parson Peasegood, I’ll work and toil and invent and strive day and night to keep things going here, but it is for others’ sake, not mine.”
“Nay, nay, but the house must be restored.”
“Never,” cried the founder; “never, Master Peasegood; never, Gil Carr. I care nothing for the words of that reviling old woman and her curses. Punishments come from Heaven, not from Hell, and, if she be a witch, ’tis devil’s work she does; but no hand shall touch yon heap, neither stone nor ash shall be disturbed. The flowers may spring up again, and the grass will grow, but to touch it would be to me like disturbing my poor child’s grave. Our dear old home died with my darling. Let them rest.”
He turned away and walked firmly across the planks towards the lane where Tom Croftly’s cottage stood, followed by the parson and Gil, who stepped back as the founder rapped upon the cottage door.
“Tom,” he said, as the door was opened, and the light of a rush-candle shone upon his deeply-lined face, “go round to the men and bid them light the big furnace in the morning, and you see about the mixing up of another batch of powder.”
“Hurray, master,” cried the man. “Give me my hat, wife. Dal me! but that’s good news again.”
“Thou’lt go on making powder again—so soon?” said Master Peasegood, as the founder joined them, and they went down the lane.
“Yes,” said the founder firmly. “Gil, when thou com’st back, my lad, there will be some score barrels of the best and strongest make. I want to show people that an old hag’s curses are as light as wind.”
“Ay, and that a bad mishap is not to be taken as a judgment, because a would-be soothsayer says ’tis so,” cried Master Peasegood. “Thou’rt right, Master Cobbe. I thank Heaven I spoke to you both as bravely as I did, for my heart misgave me all the while.”