Collected works of j s f.., p.40
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 40
“For this deed, Master Dale,” said he, “proves that in the reign of Henry the Seventh the Watson of that day did sell to the then William Dale this bit of land in exchange for three acres of land which had belonged to your yeomanry, but was somewhat inconvenient of access to you, but easily come at by him. So now rest content, Master Dale, and say naught to any one of this, and let Sharpe gather together what evidence he can, and when we are called on for our defence, we will produce our deed, and come away from the Assizes victorious.” So the time went by until December, and in the second week of that month the judges came to hold the Assize at York, and it was necessary for my father to attend. Now, he had made me a promise just before the dispute with Rupert Watson, that the next time business took him to York he would carry me with him, so that I might see the great city and its Minster. You may be sure that I neglected not to remind him of his promise, now that I knew he was bound to go to York. And though it yet wanted a fortnight of the holidays, he stood to his word, and begged leave of Dr. Parsons to take me away from school earlier than usual, which leave the doctor granted when he heard whither we were bound.
On the 14th day of December, then, we set out for York, my father mounted on his brown mare and I riding Dumpling. We had but twenty-four miles to travel, and I was much set up at the prospect of riding along the Great North Road and forming one of the never-ceasing procession which was continually passing and repassing to or from London and York. So we said goodbye to my mother and Lucy and rode away, and having dined at Sherburn, which lies almost halfway between Dale’s Field and York, we journeyed forward to the city in the afternoon, and arrived there long ere darkness had set in. As I had never seen York before, I was much impressed by my first sight of that fair and beautiful city, which lies like a jewel in the midst of the rolling meadows and moors of Yorkshire, and I could do naught else but admire and wonder at its various sights. First, there was the Minster, which struck me with the most profound astonishment, being of such immensity in size and conception, that our church at home, though a fine one, seemed quite small in comparison. Then there were the city walls and the bars, through which we passed to enter the town, with their portcullises and guards and spikes over the towers, on which still stood the grisly heads of some that had been executed awhile before. And though the Minster seemed vast enough to hold all the people in the county, there were churches everywhere, some of them of exceeding great age. What with the Minster, and the churches, and the city walls, and the fine houses and people, I was thrown into a whirl of amazement, which did but increase the next day when Lawyer Hook conducted us to the Castle, where the Assizes were opened, and it was necessary for us to attend. There did I first behold the majesty of the law, and saw a judge sitting on the bench in scarlet robes and ermine, with many lawyers before him arguing and disputing, and the twelve honest men in the jury-box wondering which was right and which wrong. Now, indeed, I need say little about our case, which was not called for some three days after we had reached York, there being many matters to deal with before we could be attended to. When it came on at last it was speedily over, for when Rupert Watson’s side had put before judge and jury all they knew or could invent, our counsel produced the ancient deed, and the matter was settled, and the land ours for ever without dispute. And the judge having said some sharp words about hastily rushing into litigation, ordered Rupert Watson to pay all the costs we had been put to, the business was over, and we were free to go where we pleased. I could have well done to stay awhile in York and see more of the city at my leisure, but my father was anxious to reach home and tell my mother of our success. So having dined at our inn and paid the score for ourselves and our beasts, we mounted the latter and set out homewards, well pleased with the result of our journey.
It was well on into the afternoon when we left York, and having paused awhile at Sherburn to give the horses a feed, the darkness came on suddenly and speedily surrounded us. This by itself was no great matter, for the brown mare and Dumpling could both have taken their way homeward blindfold. But as Providence ruled it, there came upon us a heavy snowstorm as we descended the hill from Byram into Ferrybridge, and this confused our cattle, so that progress was slow, Dumpling in particular objecting to the snow, which drove right against us as we pressed along and made our faces tingle with its sharpness. However, we gained Ferrybridge, and after a short stay there entered upon the last three miles of our journey, it being then eight o’clock in the evening and the snow coming down faster than ever.
Now the road ‘twixt Ferrybridge and Barrington is a lonely one, and never over pleasant to ride along at any time of night. There were no carriages or coaches going along on this night, and we met nothing but a post-chaise going north. The snow increased at every step, and the beasts beneath us groaned with their efforts to keep their footing and persevere on their homeward way.
“’Tis a wild night, Will,” said my father, who rode on my right hand;— “and thy mother will be anxious for us. We shall be home in half an hour an’ we keep at it. Shake Dumpling up, lad; she is half-afraid of the snow, and will—”
I never knew what more my father would have said. As he spoke, a figure seemed to rise up out of the storm right in our path. I heard a sharp report of firearms and saw the flash. My father fell from his horse without even a groan.
CHAPTER VIII.
OF THE SORROW THAT CAME AFTER.
I WAS too much horrified by the sudden attack upon my father to cry out or even to move. I sat for what seemed an age without even drawing my breath. Dumpling quivered beneath me; I heard the mare shaking at her side. It seemed to me like some awful dream, from which I should presently awake to find myself in my little sleeping-chamber at Dale’s Field. And then I suddenly realized the horror that had come to overwhelm me and mine, and my heart seemed to burst into one terrible cry.
“Father, oh, father!”
Alas! there was no response. Trembling with fear I got down from Dumpling’s back and felt my way through the darkness to the mare’s bridle. She was shivering and quaking all over, and pushed her nose against my arm as if to ask protection. I fastened her by the bridle to Dumpling and bade them stand still. Poor brutes, what with the storm and the sudden attack they were thoroughly cowed and affrighted, and they huddled together and held their heads to the ground, as beasts only will when they are completely yielded up to fear. And then I began to search about in the snow, and presently stumbled over my father’s body.
He was dead — I knew that as soon as I touched him. I knew it by the awful stillness that lay over him, by the perfectly rigid manner in which his tall form was extended on the snow. I laid my hands on him, on his face, breast, arms, and suddenly felt them bathed in something that ran fast and warm from his heart. And the touch of his blood overwhelmed me, and thinking of my mother waiting for us at home, and of Lucy and myself without a father, I broke down and threw my arms about him, and sobbed like any girl, while the poor beasts at my side sniffed at me and seemed to sorrow with my sorrow.
And then all of a sudden I sprang to my feet with a mad fierce thought newborn in my heart. My father had been murdered! This was no ordinary highway affair, no stoppage of unoffending travellers by highwayman or footpad. The man who had come upon us out of the darkness had discharged his deadly missive and fled away as swiftly as he came. He had not waited to rob and plunder, as he might well have done for aught that I, a lad, could have done to prevent him. It was no murder for the sake of spoil, but committed out of hatred and envy. And in all the world my father had but one enemy, and that was Rupert Watson. It must have been his hand that had shot my father down; it could be none but his. And with this conviction strong in mind I knelt down in the snow and laid my hand on my dead father’s breast again, and swore solemnly never to rest until I had brought his murderer to a fitting end.
When I looked up again, perplexed as to what I must do next, I saw a light drawing near along the road from Ferrybridge. From the way in which it danced up and down in the darkness I took it to be carried by a horseman. I raised my voice and shouted loudly through the storm, and presently two men, cloaked to the chin, came cautiously up and turned the light upon me as I stood in the way, with the still figure behind me and the horses smelling at it in fear and wonder.
“God’s mercy!” said one, “what is this? Here seems foul work.”
They were looking past me at the group behind.
“Sir,” I cried, “my father is dead — murdered! We were coming home from York — a man rode up to us here — he fired — my father fell — he is dead, dead!”
Before I had finished they were off their horses, and one was kneeling in the snow at my father’s side. The other turned the lantern’s light upon his dead face. I turned away; it was more than I could bear, to see that.
“He is dead,” said the first. “He has been shot through the heart. A foul business. Somehow, methinks I know him.”
“It is William Dale,” I said. “William Dale of Dale’s Field.”
“And thou art my little friend Will,” said he, rising from his knees. “I thought I knew thee, poor Will. What, dost not remember me?”
Then I looked at him and saw that it was Philip Lisle. He laid his hand on my head, and patted it affectionately.
“Poor lad, poor lad!” said he. “I would we could have had a merrier meeting. This man, Will, where went he after he had fired upon thy father?”
“I cannot say,” I answered. “He seemed to ride upon us all in a moment, and I saw his pistol flash, and by the light of it he was a tall — man — on a great — horse, but — he was gone — as quick as the — flash when — it was over.”
“What! stayed he not to rob? Then, Will, this is no common murder. Thy father, had he any enemies?”
“Yes, sir, one, and one only — Rupert Watson, of Castle Hill.”
“Ah! I have heard somewhat of that old dispute. Lad, doubt not that whoever hath killed — thy — father will — be punished in the end. — And — now let us — see how we — can get him home. Where is the nearest house?”
“There is a farmstead across the fields,” I answered. “We can get a cart there.”
“Then go there with me, Will, and my friend Captain Ready here will keep watch over thy father till we return. Stay, let us lift him to the hedge-side. Steady, Jack, thou and I have strong arms. Poor William Dale, ’tis a sad end for him, but I had rather be he than his slayer. And now for this farmstead.”
So we ploughed our way across the field, leaving Philip Lisle’s companion watching by my father, and after some difficulty we procured a cart, and a man to drive it, and returned, and the men lifted the body in, and we set off along the turnpike in the direction of Dale’s Field, I riding Dumpling and leading the mare by the bridle. At first as we went along Philip Lisle and Captain Ready conversed in low whispers, but presently the former came over to me and laid his hand on my arm.
“Will,” said Philip Lisle, “some one must needs ride forward and break this bad news to thy poor mother. What think you, Will, shall we leave him with Ready and ride onward? It will be well for her to have thee at hand when she hears this sad matter.”
So we rode forward through the falling snow, and the cart came rumbling after us with Captain Ready riding at the side. And as we rode along I could say nothing at all. I knew naught, and saw naught. Only there was a mist of red all about me and a fierce, burning desire to lay hands upon the murderer who had robbed me of a father and my mother of her husband. It was late when we reached the open gate at Dale’s Field and rode through it into the fold. They heard our horses’ feet in the house; the door opened, warmth and light came through it from the cheery kitchen. I saw my mother standing in the open doorway to welcome us, and Lucy peeped out from behind her gown, and beyond them was Jacob Trusty holding a mug of ale in his hand. And at the sight of the old familiar place the tears came rolling fast and hot and very bitter from my eyes.
“Be brave, Will,” whispered Philip Lisle. “Be brave, lad. Remember thy mother and be a man.”
We advanced into the light. My mother came a step forward to meet us with a cry of joy at our return. And then she suddenly stopped, for she caught sight of Philip Lisle’s face where she had expected to see her husband’s. And at that I could bear it no longer, but ran forward and threw my arms about her, and burst into such tears as I had never shed before and have never shed since.
“Will!” she said. “Will! what is it, my dear? Your father?”
“Oh, mother, mother, mother!” was all I could say.
I felt her arms suddenly tighten about me, and I knew she was looking at Philip Lisle.
“Madam,” said Philip Lisle. “Madam—”
“Speak out, sir,” she said, “there is some evil happened. Tell me all, I pray you.”
“God in Heaven knows, madam,” said he, “I would have suffered aught rather than bring you this news. I pray you be brave to endure it.”
“I am brave, sir,” she answered. “Tell me it all. My husband — is he dead?”
But Philip Lisle could say no more. He bowed his head and turned away to hide his own emotion.
My mother took the fearful blow bravely. She went indoors and sat down, still holding me in her arms and striving to comfort me. Never to the day of my death shall I forget that scene. My mother sat by the fire, and I leaned my head against her, striving to keep down the great sobs that seemed like to choke me, and Lucy had stolen up and was weeping softly at my mother’s side, and before us at the table stood Jacob Trusty, still holding his mug of ale, and one of the maids stood behind him, and the doorway into the back kitchen was filled with the scared faces of the ploughmen and boys, and through the door into the parlour I could see the table set with prodigal fulness in anticipation of our return. And in the middle of the kitchen stood Philip Lisle, his long black cloak spangled with snowflakes.
At last my mother raised her head and looked at him. “Tell me how it came about,” she said, in a calm, steady voice that frightened me, because it seemed so unnatural at that time. “Tell me, sir.”
But Philip Lisle shook his head and pointed to me. “Your son, madam, can best do that. Take him inside and let him tell you his news, and suffer me to make some preparations, for they are bringing Master Dale here and will soon arrive.”
And so we went into the parlour, and as soon as I could I told my mother all the sad story. And yet she could not weep, but held my hands between her own, and sometimes they gripped mine tightly, and sometimes they were hot and then cold, and there was a look came into her eyes and in her face which I had never seen there before. But soon they called for her instructions, and she had to go about and give orders, and presently came Captain Ready with the cart, and they carried my father across his own threshold, and — But of that night I will write no more.
When it was noised abroad the next day that William Dale had been foully murdered on the highway between Ferrybridge and Darrington, there was such a commotion in the neighbourhood as no one ever remembered. Philip Lisle and his friend Ready had remained at the inn at Darrington, and they were questioned on all sides.
As for our house, it was besieged all day, for my mother’s friends came from neighbouring villages, and men on horseback rode up to inquire if the bad news were true, and Parson Drumbleforth walked over early in the morning to comfort my mother. I think that all of us would have been happier if my mother had broken down and wept, but she maintained a calm spirit; only those who knew could see from her white face and fixed eyes that she was suffering more than any one could imagine. Nevertheless, she kept her sorrow down, and comforted me and Lucy, and made arrangements for the burying of my father’s body, and did things so thoroughly that all admired her bravery.
“Nevertheless, lad,” said Jacob Trusty, who was talking with me on the second day, “I like not to see it, for ’tis not natural. If she would cry now, it would be a comfort and a thing to praise God for. I pray she may break down when they take him away. For it is a bad thing, William, boy, to keep ones grief bottled up as it were. ’Tis like a dove which you may prison in a cage, and which will make no murmur, but will die silently. Howbeit, she will feel it badly when they fasten him up for burial.”
Jacob had felt my father’s death very keenly. When I could bear it he had taken me on one side and asked me the manner of it, and I had told him all I could think of. Jacob’s face grew grave and thoughtful as he listened, and he shook his head often.
“What do you think of it, Jacob?” I said at last.
“Nay, lad, nay, what can I think? Thy father had but one enemy in all the world. See how befriended he was! Have they not been here this past two days, gentle and simple, high and low, so that the doorstep hath never cooled of them? Hast hearkened how they praised him, how all had a good word for him? Nay, weep not, William, lad. Be proud that all men thought so well of thy poor father. But, William, one man hath not come, and only one of all the neighbourhood.”
