Collected works of j s f.., p.68
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 68
I was busied with these matters during the next two days, but on the 2nd of February, being the third day after the King’s execution, I said farewell to Master Goodfellow and his wife and set forth upon my journey homeward, being well satisfied to depart from London, which great city I admired vastly, but had no very pleasant memories of. You may be sure that I was glad enough at the thought of seeing Dale’s Field and my dear love again, and as I rode along the road I made up my mind that we would waste no more time, but call Parson Drumbleforth’s services into requisition and be married out of hand. And that done I would leave my home no more, neither for King nor Commons, but would attend to my business and find my pleasure in my own land and my own house as a yeoman should. For by that time I had had enough of war and turmoil and of adventures here and there, and it seemed to me that there was naught like a quiet life. And therewith I fell at meditating on what General Cromwell had said to me about there being other folk than myself that did desire to live peaceably on their farms but were called to other things, and I decided that such were more to be pitied than envied.
I spent the first night of my homeward journey at Hitchin, and went forward the next day to Huntingdon, where I slept the second night, and until this point I met with no adventure worth recording. As for the talk at the inns, it was of naught but the King’s death, respecting which every man was willing to converse, but few to venture an opinion. I said naught on the matter, being anxious to escape questions which would certainly have been showered upon me if I had admitted that I was present at the scene before Whitehall. That scene indeed was never out of my mind, and I dreamed of it more than once during the next few weeks.
On the third day of my journey, when I was drawing near to Peterborough, I saw before me on the roadside the figure of a man who lay stretched out on the bank as if he were ill or dead, while his horse stood near him cropping the grass. It was a cold, raw afternoon, and I immediately concluded that the man had fallen from his horse and was now insensible, or he would never lie there in such peril of his life. So I rode up to him, and, dismounting, bent down to see what it was that ailed him. There was something familiar in his countenance, but I took little heed of it at the moment, for the man was insensible and blue with cold, and looked death-like to my mind. Now, I had in my saddle-bag a small flask of strong waters which Mistress Goodfellow had pressed upon me, and I immediately produced this and poured a little of its contents between the man’s lips. At first there seemed to be no effect, but presently he sighed deeply and opened his eyes somewhat, so that I redoubled’ my exertions and strove hard to bring him to. While I was thus engaged I had leisure to study his face, and then I saw that he was the man who had knocked at the door of the wayside inn between Aberford and Castleford, and had manifested such uneasy symptoms at sight of me.
In a few minutes the man opened his eyes and looked at me. The light was already failing, but it was sufficiently strong to allow of his recognizing me, and again I saw the horrified look come into his face which I had first seen when I opened John Sanderson’s door to him that morning after my release from the Parliamentarians’ camp before York. It was a look of such fear as I never saw on any other man’s face, and was all the worse to me because I did not understand it.
“Come, master,” said I, “there is no need to look so frightened; I am neither thief nor cut-throat, and desire naught but your good. Have you fallen from your horse that you lie here like this?”
“Ay,” said he, faintly. “I am ill, dying, sir, I think, this three days. Ride on, good sir, and leave me.”
“Nay, friend,” I answered, “I shall not leave you till you are in some safe hands. Come, we are but a mile or two out of Peterborough, so let me help you to your horse and I will walk by your side till we reach the town.”
And therewith I raised him up and made him take another drink of the strong waters, and so got him to his horse at last, and walked by his side to support him, leading my own horse by the bridle. In this way we went forward to Peterborough, the man now and then groaning with pain, and at times looking at me with the same look of fear in his face which had come there as soon as he had opened his eyes and seen me bending over him.
CHAPTER XIII.
OF THE STRANGE MAN’S CONFESSION.
BY the time we reached the inn where I had stayed when I passed through Peterborough on my journey to London, the stranger’s illness was much increased, so that it was all I could do to keep him upright upon his horse. The host of the inn was at first opposed to admitting him; for the man, he said, looked like death, and he wanted no death in his house. Upon my promising to pay him well for whatever trouble he and his were put to, he altered his tone, and we presently carried the sick man to a chamber which they had hastily made ready for him, and there he was laid in bed while the ostler went to seek the apothecary.
Having thus seen my charge comfortably disposed of, I made my way to the inn parlour and gave orders for my supper, for which I had gotten a keen appetite. While they made it ready I fell a-musing by the hearth, my mind being full of the strange events of the last few days. Never had I passed through such exciting incidents as those which occurred on the day of the King’s execution. To see His Majesty suffer was terrible enough, but I think the death of Dennis Watson had moved me even more than the scene before Whitehall. For bitterly as he had wronged me, and bound as I was to punish him, I could not help reflecting upon the change which had come over him since the time he left his father’s house. In the old days he had been a fine-looking man, whom the maidens were wont to admire for his handsome countenance, and at that time I do not think he would have run away from me or from any other man. But when I saw him dead at my feet I noticed that his good looks were gone, and his face was worn and discoloured by hard living and drinking, and his hair was thickly shot with grey; and I reflected that he had not had spirit to meet me fairly, but must needs fly from me like a thief, whereby he met his ignominious death. Yet his old craft and malice had been strong in him till the end, for he had striven to shoot me as I followed him down the dark alley. However, he was now dead, and had come to his end in a shameful manner, and so he would never more trouble me or mine.
While I thus mused the apothecary came downstairs from visiting the sick man and made his way to me. He was a short, stout gentleman, carrying a snuff-box in his hand, the lid of which he frequently tapped while he was speaking. He took a seat near me and spread out his plump legs to the fire.
“Your friend, sir,” said he, “is very sick. How long hath he been in his present state?”
“Indeed, sir,” I answered, “I know little more about him than you do. I found him lying by the roadside two miles away, with all his senses gone, and had hard work, I assure you, to get him to his horse again.”
“Then he is no friend of yours?” said he.
“No,” said I. “I once saw him, some four years ago, at a wayside inn, but more than that I know not. I neither know his name nor where he comes from, nor where he was going.”
“Ah,” said the apothecary. “Well, sir, the man is going to die. He will be dead before the afternoon is over.”
“Yea,” said the landlord, who had come over to where we sat. “That is just what I said. However, master, you will see that I am paid for my trouble?”
“I shall keep my word,” I answered, and set to work at my supper, which was just then placed before me.
“I can do naught for the man,” said the apothecary. “So if you will pay me my fee, master, I will go home again.”
And therewith, having got his money, away he went, and I was left with the sick man on my hands and the prospect of being delayed a day or two on my journey. This was not agreeable to my wishes, but I remembered that I could not have left the man on the roadside to die, so I ate my supper in peace and resolved to see the matter out.
When the apothecary had gone his ways, I had persuaded the hostess to go up to the sick man’s chamber and stay with him, for it seemed hard to me that he should be left alone when death was so near him. So away she went, but came back before I had finished eating to tell me that the man was in a sad way and wished to speak with me at once.
Upon entering the chamber in which we had put him to bed I found the sick man sitting upright against his pillow. His senses had now come back to him, and he seemed as much alive to what was going on around him as I was. But when I drew near to the bedside and inquired what I could do for him, the same look of horror and fear came into his eyes which I had noticed on other occasions, and he shrank away from me as though he feared that I was going to strike him.
“Now, friend,” said I, speaking as kindly as I knew how, because he was a dying man, “what can I do for you?”
He opened his lips to speak, and then closed them again and gasped for breath, his eyes all the time keeping themselves fixed on me with the same frightened look.
“Come,” I said, “there is no need for fear. Tell me what you want and I promise you shall have it.”
“Alas, Master Dale,” said he, “you are very kind to me, and I deserve none of your kindness. Sir, fetch me some clergyman and let me talk to him. I cannot die until I have eased my mind.”
“If that be all,” I answered, “your wishes shall be gratified on the instant;” and I went down to the host and told him what was desired.
“Why, now,” said he, “let me see, there is Master Budgett and Master Brewer, that are both godly men and have their churches close at hand.”
“Let it be Master Brewer,” said the hostess. “’Tis an elderly man and hath the prettiest way with him, sir, at a deathbed. La, now, our Marian shall run for his reverence in a trice, and I lay he will come at once, whether he be at prayers or meat.”
So the girl ran straightways for good Master Brewer, and I went back to the sick man, who sat plucking at the bed-clothes with his fingers.
“There,” said I, “we have sent for a clergyman and he will come to you presently, so you may make yourself easy on that score;” and therewith I sat down in the window to wait until the parson came, so that the man might not be alone. But all the while I sat there he said no word, only his eyes continually rested on me, and his fingers never ceased plucking at the sheets.
Now, the girl Marian let no grass grow under her feet, but ran quickly to Master Brewer’s vicarage, which was not many hundred feet away, so that but a few minutes passed before the hostess came up the stairs and ushered the worthy vicar into the sick man’s presence.
“This way, your reverence,” quoth she. “Alas! the poor gentleman hath been very particular to see your reverence and talk with you for his soul’s health. Pray God he make a good end — as indeed he cannot fail to do with your reverence to attend him. But here is the poor gentleman — how do you find yourself now, sir? — so I will leave your reverence to talk with him for his benefit.”
“Good mistress,” said I, for she showed no signs of suspending her remarks, “let us go downstairs, as you say, and leave this good gentleman and the sick man alone together;” and therewith I got her out of the chamber and conducted her downstairs, so that the parson and the stranger should be private.
“Alack!” quoth she, as we reached the parlour, “I fear me the poor man is not long for this world. Will it be a crowner’s quest matter, think you, master?”
“Nay, mistress, I cannot say. The man is not dead yet.”
“An a hath not death in a’s face I never saw one that had,” said the host. “Yea, and may think a’s self lucky that a’ died not by the roadside.”
While the clergyman was occupied with the sick man I sat in the chimney-corner and smoked a pipe of tobacco, which habit I had contracted during my stay in London, having been inducted into it by Master Goodfellow. For many a time when I was in that great city I felt lonely and needed something to warm my heart, for which complaint Master Goodfellow recommended tobacco-smoking as being a capital remedy. And such I truly found it, and carried home with me a great supply of that blessed herb, which is one of man’s chiefest treasures, whatever King James may have said to the contrary.
Now, Master Brewer was engaged with the dying man for a long time, so that I smoked two pipes, and was just thinking of filling a third, when he came down the stairs and approached me. Then I noticed that his face was very grave, and that he looked at me narrowly, as if he wished to know what manner of man I was.
“Let us go into some private room, Master Dale,” said he. “I have something of consequence to say to you.”
“Come you into the little parlour, your reverence,” said the landlady. “I warrant you might talk secrets there for a month o’ Sundays without any one being the wiser.” So into the little parlour we went and closed the door, and the clergyman, who was old and grey, and not unlike our own parson in soberness of appearance, turned to me.
“Master Dale,” said he, still looking gravely at me, “Master Dale, I trust you are a Christian man.”
“Why, sir,” said I, “I trust I am, though I dare say there is room for improvement in me. Certainly I have always tried to do my duty.”
“You will need to exercise a very Christian virtue,” said he, “when you hear what I have got to tell you.”
“What virtue is that, your reverence?”
“The virtue of forgiveness, Master Dale. Yon poor soul, that is near drawing his last breath, would have you forgive him before he goes before his Great Judge.”
“Would have me forgive him, sir? Alas! the poor soul, he is out of his mind. He hath never injured me.”
“Are you so sure of that? Is there no wrong ever done to you and yours which presents itself to your mind?”
“No, sir,” I said, shaking my head. “I cannot say that there is — at least, not that this man could have aught to do with. The poor man must be out of his mind, your reverence. I have seen him but twice in all my life, and upon each of those occasions he manifested lively fear of me — why, I know not.”
“Master Dale, look back. Is there nothing in your past life that is as yet an unsolved riddle? Did it never strike you that this man had some reason for showing such signs of fear when he set eyes upon you?"
"Sir,” I answered, “I am, I dare say, very stupid and thick-headed, and, to tell the truth, I troubled myself very little about the man and his fancies.”
“Did it never strike you that he feared you because of your extraordinary resemblance to some other person?”
“The only man, sir, that I resemble was my own father, who was my very image. But why should that make the man afraid? I dare say he has seen my father at some time or other, but why should my resemblance to him frighten the poor soul?”
“Why, indeed? Because of a guilty conscience. Master Dale, be strong to hear what I have to tell you. The man who is dying in yonder chamber is — your father’s murderer!”
My father’s murderer! The words sounded in my ears as if they were not real. The walls seemed to fall away from me, my brain went round in a sickening whirl. I stretched out my arms to save myself from falling.
“Come, Master Dale, be brave, and quit you like a Christian man. Oh, I promise you this most unfortunate wretch hath paid dearly for his fell crime.”
“Sir, sir!” I cried. “I cannot believe it — it seems impossible. What had my father done to offend this villain?”
“Alas! naught. Master Dale, the man upstairs was paid to murder your father by one who was your father’s enemy — Rupert Watson.”
At last! Thank God, the secret was out at last! Now I knew whom I had to thank for the foul deed that made me fatherless and my mother a widow. Whose hand it was that fired the fatal shot mattered little: I knew at last, after all those years of waiting, whose devilish malice it was that prompted the deed; I knew in whose evil mind the devilish plans were worked out and put in operation. It was as I had always thought. There was no surprise in my mind at the news. But at last I knew my enemy without doubt or question, and could go to my revenge with a clear purpose.
My mind was clear once more, my nerves strung themselves like quivering steel. I moved to the door.
“Where are you going, Master Dale?” asked the clergyman.
“To the magistrate, sir, ere yonder villain dies.”
“Master Dale, bethink you. This is no time for earthly feelings of revenge. The man is dying.”
“Sir, if he were at the very gates of hell, and the evil one were waiting to receive him, he should not escape me now! On my dead father’s body I swore to God in Heaven that whoever had part or lot in that foul murder should account to me for it with their lives. Shall I forget my vow? God forbid!”
“Alas! Master Dale, your words are hard. Oh, my son, think, I pray you, of the terrible bar before which this unhappy wretch must shortly plead. What is any earthly tribunal in comparison with that of God? What good purpose can you serve by tormenting your father’s murderer for an hour or two before death seizes him? Master Dale, this unhappy man hath made full confession to me of his whole life, and hath charged me with the duty of imploring your forgiveness. Already you have heaped coals of fire upon his head by your good treatment of him.”
“Sir,” said I, “an he had been my worst enemy, Rupert Watson himself, I should have done no less for him. But justice must surely be done on such as he. Think of the foul deed he did.”
