Doggy Dick in due time gave up being a bandit; not from any repentance, but because the life was to him a hard one. He had found brigandage in Italy not quite so safe, nor even so pleasant, as poaching in England.
He was stupid enough to return both to the country and the practice, now and then varying the latter with a job of burglary or garotting. The consequence was, getting his own neck into a noose as tight as ever he had twined for any of his victims. It was a halter he had already earned—by the deed of blood done before going abroad.
From the contemplation of such a dark character, let us turn to those of lighter and pleasanter complexion.
Tommaso—the wronged, misguided Tommaso—is no more either wronged or misguided. As head groom at Beechwood, he may be seen every day about the yard, or the stables, of that splendid establishment—faithful as ever to the man he rescued from captivity, and to the woman he was instrumental in saving from dishonour. To him is the writer of this tale indebted for a knowledge of much of the brigand life it has depicted.
Through the influence of his new client—the squire of Beechwood Park—Lawson père has succeeded in obtaining a seat in Parliament, and Lawson fils expects some day to tread in the footsteps of his father.
It is an agreeable task to record the after-fate of those who have agreeably interested us when we can speak only of their prosperity. And we can testify to this in the case of Luigi Torreani, his pretty wife, and his worthy father.
The three, after a prolonged sojourn among the Chiltern Hills, returned once more to their home upon the Parana—their home not only by adoption, but from choice. There they are still residing; the old Italian sindico playing patriarch, on his estancia; his son still living a life, part planter, part painter; while his daughter-in-law keeps house for both.
It is not improbable that, some day, his son-in-law and daughter may seek them there, for more than once has Henry Harding been heard to say—Lucetta joyfully listening to it—that he was never so happy as in his South American home!
And this, too, in the midst of wealth, power, and splendour! To the true heart, there is no wealth to compare with contentment—no power so enjoyable as that of free physical strength—no splendour of our so-called civilisation comparable to the savage charm of an American scene—be it forest, prairie, or pampa!
There lies the future of Freedom! There points the “Finger of Fate!”