Collected works of j s f.., p.39
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 39
So the men, with much approval, went for their staves, and prepared to carry out my father’s wishes.
Now, as it happened, Parson Drumbleforth had gone home a good three hours before that, but Jack had remained to sleep at our house, and he and I had lurked in a dark corner of the barn to hear what my father said to the men. When we heard of the proposed expedition against Rupert Watson’s horses, nothing would content us but that we must go; and knowing that if we asked leave we should not get it, we waited till all had left the barn, and then ran away into the fields, and hid under a hedge until my father and his men came along, behind whom we followed in the moonlight until we reached the debateable strip of land, and saw the horses, twelve in number, cropping the grass. We had expected that some spy would have been sent by Rupert Watson to watch over the horses, in case of an attack; but he, fancying we should all be busy with the harvest-supper, had left them alone, and our men had no difficulty in surrounding them and driving them away. Then Jack and I ran home as hard as possible, and had only just retired to bed when my father came in to tell my mother that the younger men had taken the horses to the pinfold at Darrington.
The next day passed away peacefully enough with us, but towards night came one from Darrington, who told us that at noon Rupert Watson had ridden up in a great passion, and had demanded his horses of the pinder, and threatened all manner of violence against those who had impounded them. To whom the pinder, being in the right, and having the law behind him, made answer that he knew nought of the rights or wrongs of the dispute ‘twixt Dales and Watsons, but that the horses being come into his pound, should not go thence until the pinning-fee were paid. Which fee Rupert Watson was forced in the end to disburse, and so departed, vowing vengeance on us Dales root and branch. When my mother heard this she was troubled, but my father bade her be of good cheer.
On the Saturday morning, I accompanied my father to market, my mother staying at home, which, as events proved, was a fortunate thing, for she would have been sore put about by the scene which followed our arrival in the market-place. It was rather late when we reached the town, and, after putting up our horse and cart, went into the street to do our business, and the frequenters of the market were already gathered in full force about the Butter Cross and the Beast Fair. My father had said, as we came along, that he should probably have some words with Rupert Watson if they met, and I was therefore on the lookout for our enemy, but for a long time I saw nothing of him. In such a small place, however, we were bound to meet him, and meet him we did, as we went to dine at the ordinary. For there he stood on the steps of the inn, a tall, dark-faced man, with a look of anger and hatred on his countenance, which reminded me of his son Dennis.
Rupert Watson saw us coming along the street, and I saw him square himself so as to fill the doorway of the inn. There were some twenty or thirty farmers standing round, and they, knowing what had taken place, looked on with much curiosity as my father drew near.
“Keep by me, Will,” said my father; “thou shalt come to no harm — nor shall I for that matter.”
When we were a few yards from him, Rupert Watson broke out upon my father in a loud voice, so that men came running along the market-place and from the shambles to see who it was that caused such a commotion.
“So, Master Dale!” shouted Rupert Watson; “so you dare to show your face here after your work t’other night! It were better, perhaps, that you were in gaol for a horse-thief. A pretty jest, to steal another’s cattle and clap them into pound! An you and your men had not been drunk with your rioting, I would take the law of you!”
Then my father stood squarely in front of him, and looked Rupert’ Watson in the face. “Master Watson,” said he, “when you talk of jest and riot, I understand you not. What I do understand is this — that you turned your horses upon my land, from whence I removed them to the parish pound. And I warn you, Master Watson, in the presence of these gentlemen, that this I shall do again if ever you offend in like manner.”
Then the cloud on Rupert Watson’s face grew black indeed, and he poured upon my father a torrent of vulgar abuse. “Thy land!” quoth he. “Land of thine or thy fathers it never was. And I will turn my cattle upon it this night, and if thou, or any of thy men, dare to set foot upon the land, I will shoot the trespassers through the head!”
“Master Watson,” said my father, “I care nothing for your threats. What I can do for myself, I will do; what I cannot do, the law shall do for me.”
“Ay, ay,” said some one in the crowd; “law is a good word. Your two families have disputed this matter for generations; why not go to law, and have done with it?”
“As for shooting of men through the head,” said another, “’tis poor talk, and I trow the magistrates would have somewhat to say to it.”
“Who asked thy counsel?” said Rupert Watson. “A man hath a right to defend his own, hath he not? The land, I say, is mine.”
“I neither know nor care whose the land is,” said an old farmer at our elbow; “but this I do know, Rupert, that thou hast never put cattle on it since Castle Hill came into thy hands. Why hast suddenly fallen in love with it. ’Tis but an acre or two at most.”
“The land, I say, is mine,” said Rupert Watson once more. “And mine it shall be. So look to yourself, William Dale, for if I find you or yours setting foot upon it I will shoot you, I say, as I would a dog!”
“I care not for your threatening, Master Watson,” answered my father. “You may take your own course. But if ever I find cattle of yours on my land again, into the parish pound they will go. And now stand aside, and let me and my lad pass.”
And therewith he strode up on a sudden, and Rupert Watson, with one glance at his great form and determined face, slunk out of the doorway, and we went inside the inn, and dined at the ordinary. And while we were dining, I saw Rupert Watson enter, and retire into a corner with a little person whose manners reminded me of a weasel. My father told me this was Lawyer Sharp, of Wakefield.
“’Tis the most unscrupulous attorney that ever lived, Will, boy,” said my father, “and I doubt not he and Watson are contriving some scheme against me, which they are welcome to do. I care for nothing of their invention.”
It was vastly to my liking that most of those to whom we spoke that day sided with my father, and condemned Rupert Watson, both for turning out his horses on the debateable piece of land, and likewise for creating a disturbance at the inn-door. For though no man, not even the oldest, could rightly say if the land belonged to Dales or to Watsons, they yet remembered that for fifty years the trouble had been allowed to rest, and that it was now revived through no fault of my fathers.
“Rupert Watson,” said the old farmer who had spoken at the inn-door, “is in the wrong this time. Let sleeping dogs lie, say I. Now he has stirred the dog up, and must not complain if it show its teeth. But mind you, Master Dale, I know not if the land be yours or his.”
“It has always been held to be ours in our family,” said my father.
“Ay, marry, and to be theirs in their family. My advice is, go to law, if ye can settle it in no different fashion. Though law is but a parlous method of deciding a question like yon. Whether ye lose or win, the lawyers will have your money.”
“It is for him to decide,” said my father; “I shall do nothing — only this, that if he sends his cattle on the land again, I shall again put them into pound.”
So we went home that Saturday, and that evening, and for many a following evening, strict watch was kept upon the narrow strip of meadow-land, for my father was determined that every inch of his acres should be protected. But Rupert Watson made no further movement, and the weeks passed by till it was October, and we heard no more of the matter.
Nevertheless our enemy — for I can call him by no other name, considering his deeds — was not idle in his efforts to vex and annoy us. For one Saturday, early in October, as I was talking to Jacob Trusty in the fold, there came riding in at our gate a man on a brown mare, whose face was strange to both of us, and who immediately hailed us with an inquiry if this were Dale’s Field? I said, “Yes”; whereupon he consulted a paper which he drew from his vest, and then asked if William Dale were about, to which I answered that my father was at market, and would not be home until five or six o’clock.
“Then I must needs get off my horse, lad,” said the stranger, “and wait his return. Dost think a feed of corn could be found for my horse? He has carried me four and twenty miles this morning, and needs a rest.”
I handed the horse over to one of our lads, and conducted the stranger into the house, where he was received by my mother, to whom he made a very polite bow.
“Master Dale, mistress, is not at home, I understand, but will return anon. With your permission I will rest myself until he comes, for I cannot go away until I have seen him. I am a sheriff’s officer, and have a writ to serve upon him at the suit of one Rupert Watson.”
So it seemed that our enemy was going to have the law of us after all.
CHAPTER VII.
OF OUR COMING FROM YORK.
My mother, woman-like, was somewhat disturbed at the idea of having aught to do with law matters, and she looked exceedingly grave when the sheriff’s officer announced his mission. But my father, coming home a little later, made light of the matter, and bade the man sit down and eat and drink, and conversed with him on the weather and similar matters, so that the bearer of Rupert Watson’s writ presently departed much fortified in mind and body.
“It is the best thing that could have happened,” said my father, talking to my mother about the matter, “for now the question will be decided and done with. If the law says the land is mine, mine it will be for ever; if ’tis Rupert Watson’s, then the law will say so. And perhaps the old enmity between us will die out. I have no wish to live in strife with any man.”
“For all that,” said my mother, “you will never be friendly with Rupert Watson. For he has a bad heart, and is a cruel man, and with such I am sure you will never agree.”
“Friends, perhaps not,” answered my father. “But it might come to us exchanging a good-day like Christians, instead of riding by on the high-road as if we were sworn enemies. However, if this matter be settled, our children may live at peace and even friendship, if Rupert and I never do.”
Now I knew that could never be, because Dennis had sworn that he would hate me for ever, and I knew he meant it. Nothing, I felt sure, would ever make Dennis forgive me for thrashing him, and I, on my part, felt no desire to make friends with him. I had an instinctive dislike for Dennis, and felt that oil and water would mix sooner than he and I. However, I said nothing of this to my father or mother.
When Jacob Trusty heard of the law proceedings, he exercised much thought upon the matter, and often discussed it with me of a Saturday afternoon.
“That the land is ours,” said Jacob Trusty, “is certain, and yet it would sore puzzle and moyther my head to give good reason for thinking so. Thy great-grandfather and thy grandfather, William, always claimed that land, and thy father claimed it after them. But then the grandfather of this black-faced Watson likewise claimed it. Wherefore the difficulty was the same in those days. Ah! many a bloody head there hath been over that strip of meadow-land. For sixty years ago either Dale or Watson was for ever driving cattle on it; and if it were a Dale, then a Watson came forth and drove them off; and if it were a Watson, he had to reckon with a Dale; and first there were words, and then there were blows, and then there was a stiff fight, and if there were no heads broken, ’twas not for want of hard hitting. Howbeit, in thy grandfather’s time and in thy father’s, matters have been quiet and peaceable.”
“Shall we win the day, do you think, Jacob?” I asked.
“Nay, lad, who can tell? One thing I can tell thee without doubt, and that is, that the men who will profit by this matter are the lawyers. Whether thy father win or lose, or Rupert Watson lose or win, the lawyers will fill their pockets. Wherefore, William, boy, as thou goest through the world, mark one thing, namely, that whenever two men fall out, there will always be a third man whose interest it will be to keep up the strife. For while John and Thomas are disputing as to which of them shall have the egg, Richard comes up and eats it out of hand. Such is law, out of which thou wilt do well to keep.”
Nevertheless, it was necessary that my father should enjoy the services of an attorney, and he therefore placed his case in the hands of Lawyer Hook, who had managed all his difficult matters for many years. Mr. Hook was considerably exercised in his own mind over this dispute ‘twixt the Dales and Watsons, for he could not lay his hands on anything which served to decide the matter in our favour. Neither was he able to see how judge and jury could settle the matter. “For indeed, Master Dale,” said he, having ridden over one afternoon to talk with my father, “the evidence for and against is as conflicting as any I ever knew. You say on your side that your family hath always claimed the land, and you bring half a score of ancient gaffers and gammers to say the same. Now, Rupert Watson saith that it hath always been matter of certainty in his family that the land is theirs, and he too bringeth various old folk to support him. However, we shall, maybe, find light somewhere. In any case, I fear it will cost you a pretty penny, and unless you have some great love for the land— ’tis, I understand, but a narrow strip — I would let it go.”
But my father would not hear of that. He had no mind to throw away his money in law, but he would not yield a yard of the land his fathers had left him. He must fight Rupert Watson on this point, whatever it cost.
A few nights after that we were sitting round the fire in my mother’s parlour, and my father was telling us of some incident at the market, from which he had just come, when one of our maids came in and said that Jacob Trusty was in the kitchen, and wanted to speak to the master. My father would have risen and gone to him, but just then Jacob himself appeared and stood within the doorway, having first pushed the girl out and closed the door.
“Master and mistress,” said Jacob, “there are some things best said without hearers, so I make bold to come in here where are no lads and lasses to hear us, save only your own, which have a right to hear all.”
“Sit down, Jacob,” said my father. “Say thy say, man.”
Jacob, however, remained standing, leaning on his thick staff. “Master,” said he, “I have been thinking about this matter of the land. Also the other day Lawyer Hook met me on the turnpike, and asked me some questions, and I could see that he had little confidence. Now it came to me to ask you if there are no papers. Papers always go with land, so I’ve heard.”
“Whatever I have, Jacob, are with Mr. Hook,” said my father. “And old as they are, they are no good on this point.”
“That brings me to what I want to say,” said Jacob. “I served your grandfather first when I was a lad ten years old. There were four of us, Tom Hodge, Anthony Boone, Dick Simpson, and myself, all slept in that chamber against the apple loft. There was an old chest in that chamber full of books and papers, and as never a one of us could read we used to wonder at them. Why not look in there, master?”
“The box is still there,” said my mother.
“But the papers were taken out when I was a lad,” said my father. “Mr. Hook has them now. However, ’tis good counsel, Jacob, and I’ll look in the box again.”
While Jacob went into the kitchen to drink a mug of ale, my father told me to get a candle and accompany him upstairs to the chamber mentioned, which was quite in accordance with my desires. So we ascended to the chamber, which was in a remote corner of the house, and had long been given up to the storing away of ancient lumber. Thus there was in it old saddles of curious fashion, and rusty bits and stirrup-irons, together with quaintly carved chairs, broken and whole, and many other odds and ends accumulated in a house which has stood the brunt of some three hundred years. Amidst this mass of dust-covered lumber stood the oak chest spoken of by Jacob Trusty.
“It is empty, I fear, Will,” said my father, pulling it into the middle of the floor; “but we will examine it to please old Jacob, who means well. Ah! you see there is nothing at all in it.”
Nor was there, as far as we could see, for the interior was bare and empty, save for a thick coat of dust. I looked at the ancient chest curiously, holding the candle where the light would fall on its quaint carvings and the grotesque figures on the ends.
“My great-grandfather kept his papers and valuables in this chest, Will,” said my father. “See, here are drawers to put money in. And there is a secret drawer. See if thou canst find it, lad.”
But I could not, and did not make out where it was until my father drew out a drawer which had a false bottom, and this being removed, a small receptacle was laid bare.
“It is not very large,” said my father, “but it sufficed to store anything especially worth the keeping.”
Having admired the ingenious manner of the contrivance, I essayed to put the drawer in its place again, but found that it would not fit into the cavity prepared for it. Something seemed to lie in the way, and prevent the drawer from fitting properly. Putting my hand into the hole to discover the reason, my fingers encountered a thin packet of paper which I immediately drew out and held up to my father’s wondering gaze.
“What is this, lad?” said he. “Papers? They must have been placed in the secret drawer or behind it, and slipped underneath. ’Tis an ancient-looking packet, too.”
That indeed it was, for the cover was yellow with age, and the handwriting upon it was of such an ancient fashion that neither my father nor myself could decipher it. So we carried it downstairs, and having called Jacob Trusty into the parlour to see what his counsel had procured for us, my mother took the packet to see what she could make out of it. Having stripped off the cover, she found some large papers with seals attached to them, but despite her clerkship she could make naught out of any of them, save that on the margin of one there was somewhat written which appeared to be of more recent date than the body of the writing. This, after some pains, she made out to be as follows: “Ye cloase lying next to Wattson’s land at Castle Hill ys myne by this deede. W.D. 1510.” Which we took to show that one of our ancestors at least had something more than supposition to rest on when claiming the narrow strip of land. My father fastened up the papers again, and having charged us all to say nothing to any one about them, the next day he carried them over to Lawyer Hook, and told him how we had come across them. Lawyer Hook, after having with much labour read various of the papers, and particularly the one bearing the marginal note, was much pleased, and informed my father that we now had a perfect case, and should give Masters Watson and Sharpe such a surprise as they had not reckoned for.
