XLVI
Of Our Preparations for the Wedding
I entered upon the final stages of my homeward journey with very different feelings from those which had filled me when I left London. When I rode away from Master Goodfellow’s house I thought of little else than the gladness of being at home once more with the dear familiar faces of my friends around me. But when I left Peterborough I had no thought of them, or of the joys of reaching home again. All I wanted and all I thought of, was to come at Rupert Watson and settle my account with him. My heart was filled with impatience because of him. Every mile seemed the length of three miles, and never until then had I dealt so unsparingly with my horse. I pushed forward at a quicker rate than when I had ridden southwards; and though I was forced to stay one night at Newark, I got no benefit from it, for I spent the hours in walking my chamber floor, and was in the saddle again long before the people of the inn were stirring.
Until that time, indeed, I had never known what it was to be so completely filled with the passion of revenge that there was no room for any other feeling or thought in my heart. So resolved was I to do justice to my father’s murderer that I put everything else out of my mind. I thought of the sorrow brought upon me and mine by that foul deed. I recalled every incident of the horrible scene on the snow-covered highway, until the picture became present to my eyes, and would not be shut out. I saw my father laid rigid and lifeless in the snow, myself bending over him in an agony of fear and grief, while the horses stood by with their heads bent towards us as if they shared in my sorrow. I saw my mother standing in the open doorway with the warm firelight glowing behind her, and remembered the awful woe that stole like a shadow across her face as she heard the news of her husband’s murder. These matters filled my mind to the exclusion of every other thought as I rode homewards, and above them rose a fierce determination to meet Rupert Watson and pay him the debt I had owed him for all those years.
It was about the middle of the afternoon when I got my tired horse up the hill out of Wentbridge, and came in sight of the tall chimneys of my house. I had grown in impatience as I drew near home, but my horse, wearied by the hard work I had given him, had turned lame, and it was all I could do to push him forward over the last two or three miles. If I had never met the strange man, and had never learnt his secret, I should have had no other thought, on the nearing my house, but of my sweetheart, and the pleasure of reaching home again. But with that story in my breast, I could think of none of those things. Not a single thought of Rose nor of homecoming was in me as I drew near to Dale’s Field. My heart was dead to all but its one desire.
I drew rein at the orchard gate and dismounted. As I lifted the latch Ben Tuckett, who was busied in the fold, caught sight of me, and came over the wall to welcome me.
“Well met, lad!” said Ben, his face all aglow at the sight of me. “Thou art come at a good time. There is Parson Drumbleforth in the house, and it is not five minutes since we were all talking of thee, and wondering when thy travels would come to an end. All is well, thank God, and we have been as quiet as mice since thou didst ride away. And now let me take thy horse and get thee into the house. Hah! thou seest the lasses have already caught sight of thee.”
And so they had, and now came running out of doors to meet me, with the Vicar following in their rear. Then for one moment I forgot the black sorrow that was eating out my heart, for what man could resist loving looks and the welcome of rosy lips and bright eyes? But when I had greeted them all round and followed them into the house, the passion that filled me asserted itself again, for it seemed to me that the place was filled with memories of my dead father, and that his ghost cried in my ears for vengeance on his murderers.
Presently in came Ben, full of talk as usual, and began to question me. But quick as his tongue wagged, I heard naught of it, being lost in those sad memories, so that at last he ceased to speak, and sat staring at me in wonder. Then I saw that the girls were watching me with surprised looks, and that Parson Drumbleforth regarded me with a wistful glance, as if he wondered what ailed me.
“Beshrew me, Will!” said Ben, suddenly breaking the silence, “what is the matter with thee? Hast not had a smile for one of us since thou didst ride in at the gate, nor a word either. Here we have been talking to thee, and questioning thee, and begging for news of what thou hast seen and heard, and there thou standest and takest no heed. Hast seen a ghost, man, that thou lookest so strangely!”
Then I came to my wits, and begged their pardon, and told them that I was glad enough to see them all again, and would tell them all my news when I had gotten a terrible weight off my mind. And then, while they all stood round with wondering faces, I told them all that I had learned concerning my father’s death.
“So now,” I said, when I had come to the end of my story, “you see why I looked and behaved in such a manner. Indeed, I can neither eat nor drink nor sleep until I have met my father’s murderer face to face. Let me see my vengeance satisfied and I shall be myself again.”
“Lad, lad!” said Parson Drumbleforth, “remember what is said in Holy Writ: ‘Vengeance is Mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.’ Truly He will give to every man according to his deeds.”
I turned my face away impatiently. I was in no mood for conversation of that sort. Holy Writ or no Holy Writ, nothing on earth should cheat me of my revenge.
“That is all very well, sir,” I answered somewhat impatiently, for I was in no mood for counsel. “But I vowed to God at my dead father’s side that I would avenge his murder, and now no power in heaven or earth shall prevent me.”
“God forgive thee thy impious words, lad,” said the old man. “Thou art young and of hot blood, and dost not think of what thou art saying. Will, Will, what can vengeance of thine do? Can it bring the dead to life? Can aught that thou canst invent of torture equal the horrors of conscience which yonder guilty wretch hath carried in his bosom all these years? Remember, lad, that we are commanded to forgive all our enemies, even as we would be forgiven.”
“Sir, sir!” I cried, being well-nigh stung to madness by the conflicting passions in my breast, “you are asking more of me than man can do. If I were a saint I might forgive, but I am a man. Forgive? Not till I have seen him suffer for his crime. Yea, and then it would be harder than I could bear.”
“Canst thou not, then, trust in God to punish thy enemy?”
“Let God make me the means! Sir, you mean well, but I will not be put off from my work. Whether it be the will of God or not, naught but death shall stay me from this matter.”
I moved towards the door, but before I reached it I turned back. Over the great fireplace hung the pistols which my father had carried on that fatal ride from York. One of them was stained with his blood. I took it down and loaded it carefully, while the rest stood round with never a word to say. Then I put it inside my coat and turned to the door.
With my hand on the latch there came a touch on my arm. I looked down and saw Rose looking pleadingly at me. Her eyes were full of entreaty.
“For my sake, dear Will! Listen to what the Vicar says. For my sake!”
She had never looked one half so beautiful as at that moment, and the touch of her gentle hands about me almost drove me to repent of my fierce anger. But then my hand touched the pistol stained with my father’s blood, and my passion welled up again with tenfold force. I put her from me gently, but firmly.
“Not even for thy sake, dear heart!” I groaned. “Not even if thy love were the price I must pay.”
And with that I raised the latch and would have left them and gone on my mission, for my feelings had overpowered me and turned me into a murderer. But the Vicar cried “Stay!” in a loud voice, and I paused and stood staring at him.
“Lad,” said he solemnly, lifting his hand as he spoke—“lad, thou couldst not trust in God to avenge thee. Learn, then, that while thou wert speeding hither to wreak thy vengeance, God’s hand hath forestalled thee. The vengeance of God hath already fallen. Rupert Watson is beyond thy reach!”
“Dead!”
I scarcely knew my own voice as I cried out. It was a voice of baffled rage, of passion that had fed on itself and found itself baulked of its purpose.
“Dead to thee. Dead to repentance. Dead—unless God give him grace to any chance of atoning for his sins. Go, Will—go across yonder woods to Castle Hill. Ask for thy enemy. Thou wilt find an old man, blind, deaf, and mad. He hath lost sight, hearing, and senses.”
Then a mist swam before my eyes, and I sank into a seat and hid my face. Truly the hand of God had been beforehand with me, and had taken from me the work I had set myself to do. And so my father was avenged; and I learnt that, whether men believe it or not, there is naught done in this world, either good or evil, the results of which do not in time come back to the doer.
After my return home some weeks passed by in an uneventful manner. The Royalists were still defending Pontefract Castle against General Lambert and the Parliamentarians, having proclaimed Charles II as soon as they heard of the death of Charles I. Jack Drumbleforth was with them, and naught had been seen or heard of him since I set out for London. By the beginning of March in that year—1649—the defenders of the Castle saw that they had no chance of holding out against the Roundheads, and they began a series of negotiations with the besiegers, the result of which was that the Castle was finally surrendered to the Parliament before the end of the month. It was the last place in England to hold out for the King, and after its surrender the victorious army resolved that it should no more be available against their cause, for they demolished it with no mercy, so that it is now naught but a great heap of ruins.
So now the land in our neighbourhood was fairly quiet, and the townsfolk in Pontefract began to repair the damage done to their property during the course of the siege. Things began to assume their old appearance, and life was pretty much what it was before the war broke out. Then Ben Tuckett grew restless and uneasy, and finally declared that he would go home and repair his house, and buy in a new stock, and devote himself to his own trade once more.
“And when my house is all ready, Will,” said he, “we will be married, and I will take Lucy home, for, indeed, it is high time we were settled down to the sober business of life. I think the wars are safely over, and that I may dig up my money from under the hearthstone.”
So it was duly settled amongst us that we would be married on the coming Easter Monday, and thereupon everything was bustle and preparation for the wedding. As for Ben, he went away to his home in the Marketplace at Pontefract, and inspected the damage it had suffered during the siege, which was not quite so great as he had feared, though a cannon-shot had indeed passed through the roof and caused much falling of bricks and mortar. Honest Ben, however, set to work with a right good will, and laboured so hard that his house speedily resumed something of its ancient air of solid respectability. When the outside was finished and the whole place made weathertight, Ben moved into it his furniture, which had been carried over to Dale’s Field when he went into the Castle, and with it were sent such things as my mother had promised Lucy against her marriage, these being matters of chairs and tables and bedding, together with such piles of linen as you would have thought they could never wear out. Then there was much arranging of chambers and parlours, and Lucy and Rose were at Ben’s house for a day together, so that finally Ben was in a grand state of readiness to receive his bride.
As for me, there were no great preparations to make at Dale’s Field, for the house was already fitted for its new mistress. There was not a corner of it that she did not know by that time, nor an acre of the surrounding fields and meadows that she had not crossed in company with me. The old place was as familiar to her as to me, and when she came home from church with me on the wedding-day it would only be in name that there would be any difference in the new mistress of Dale’s Field. Yet those last few weeks before our marriage seemed long to me, who had waited a long time for my love and had often been parted from her for long intervals. Bit by bit, however, they slipped away, and at last the day drew near which was to make us one.
Now, all that week before the wedding they were as busy as bees at Dale’s Field, for there was the wedding dinner to think for and provide, and Jacob Trusty insisted on having the great barn cleared for a dance and a supper to the men and their families, and Timothy Grass worked hard to have the garden put in order, and the maids scrubbed and swept until neither Ben nor I could find a corner wherein to rest our weary limbs. Much of that week, indeed, we spent at Pontefract with the tailor, who was making us exceeding fine raiment wherein to be married. The tailor, indeed, was as busy a man as you could have found in the three kingdoms that week, for he was also making new garments for Jack Drumbleforth and Tom Thorpe, who were going to act as best men. But with all this business and preparation it was a long week, and seemed to move with tender feet until Easter Sunday dawned upon us.