XIX
Of the Remarkable Conduct of Dennis Watson
During the next few months we heard little news of Philip Lisle and Jack Drumbleforth, for the war made but small progress, the rival armies being for the most part in safe quarters for the winter. Now and then, indeed, we had letters from both our adventurers, but they had little to tell us, nor could they give us any information as to what time we might expect to see them again. So matters went on during that winter, and there were many who prophesied that before spring the sad difference ’twixt King and Parliament would be adjusted, and the nation restored to peace and tranquillity. But there were others, men of keener sight and perception, who knew that the unhappy quarrel now in existence would only be terminated by the complete overthrow of one side or the other. Amongst these men, who proved the true prophets in the end, there were none more sagacious than Oliver Cromwell, the man of whom Jack Drumbleforth had spoken in his letter, and who afterwards came to enjoy great power, so that he ruled England for many years with sterner hand than any king had ever exercised. This Cromwell was a yeoman of Huntingdon, a man of the most surprising powers, so that those who favoured his views looked upon him as nearly divine, and obeyed him as surely no king was ever obeyed. As for his generalship, none will dispute that he was the central figure of this sad war, for he and his Ironsides turned the fortunes of the fight many a time when things were going against the Parliamentarians. Now, during that winter this Cromwell was training his men with a skill and conviction which speedily made his troop unrivalled for bravery and prowess in the field. Such a general, I suppose, never lived, for he refused to have men under him who fought not from conviction, so that his regiment became a body of troopers who struck each blow under the firm belief that their strength was increased by the powers of Heaven. Men who fought for fighting’s sake, old soldiers who fought because to fight was their profession, he would have none of; his Ironsides were men like himself, animated with the sense of a mission from on high. How these men did succeed in the Civil War all England knows at this present time. And though I could never side with them, being by conviction a Royalist, and believing that popular government is much more tyrannical than ever monarchical has been or can be, I did yet see enough of them to know that they were true Englishmen, and impelled to what they did by a sense of real patriotism.
Now, during that winter I had other matters to think of than the war, for I was much exercised in my mind over the peculiar conduct of Dennis Watson. I have said little of Dennis and his father lately, for indeed they have not come within my history, I having seen little of them since my father’s death. True, I constantly saw them at the markets, never holding speech with them nor being in their company, for I regarded them both with exceeding bitter feelings, being convinced that Rupert Watson was the murderer of my dear father, and not liking what I knew of Dennis. Many an hour did I pass in thinking over the events of that fatal night when my father was shot down at my side, and at such times my fingers itched to grasp his assassin’s throat and crush the breath out of him. But with all my thinking I could never get any nearer the heart of the matter, and so was fain to let it rest as it did. And yet I had no doubt that it was Rupert Watson who committed that foul deed, and I have often stood in Pontefract Marketplace watching his dark face and longing that I could fasten the full guilt upon him and bring him to task for his crime.
By this time Dennis Watson was grown up to manhood and took his full share in the affairs of his father’s business. He was a tall, fine-looking man, not by three inches as tall as myself, but exceedingly well proportioned and handsome in countenance, so that the maidens in that neighbourhood were used to say he was the best-looking fellow in the county. Yet for all his good looks there was something about his face, whether in eyes or mouth I cannot say, which made me feel that I could never have trusted or liked him, even if he had not been a Watson and therefore my rightful enemy. Some people may say that I had a prejudice against him, and that my dislike to him arose therefrom; but, as events proved, I was right in what I thought. For he was not only false and treacherous, but cruel and revengeful, as you will see in the course of this history. Yea, I think that if his father were possessed of bad qualities, they were increased and multiplied in Dennis.
It was drawing near to the end of winter, when I had occasion one Saturday to go to Doncaster market, instead of proceeding, as was my wont, to the market at Pontefract, and in consequence of this it was somewhat late in the evening when I reached home again, being further delayed by a heavy storm of snow, which came upon me as I rode between Barnsdale and Wentbridge. Now, when I came into the kitchen I found the two girls, Lucy and Rose, busied in drying many garments of female attire at a great fire, as if they had been out in the storm, like myself, and had got wet through, which I was not, being protected by my great cloak that has kept me dry and warm in all sorts of weather for half a century. So when I came to question them, it appeared that they had desired to go into Pontefract market that afternoon and had walked thither by way of Darrington. And there, as girls will, they had tarried so long looking at the goods exposed for sale in the mercers’ shops, that the darkness came upon them ere they were out of the town, and, to make matters worse, the snowstorm overtook them as they came over Swanhill.
“But there,” said Rose, who had told me all this news, “a good Samaritan was riding by in his light cart, and seeing our plight, he offered us a lift and brought us home to the very orchard gate, which was a kind thing to do, for we had been wet through else.”
“And who was your cavalier?” I asked.
“Nay,” she answered, “I know him not, but so far as one could see he was a handsome young man, and very well spoken, too, and did for us all that he could.”
“Did you know him, Lucy?” I inquired, turning to my sister, who was busied with some article of finery at the fire.
“Yes,” said Lucy, with something of reluctance I thought. “Yes, I knew him, Will, but I fear you will be angry if I tell you his name. For it was Dennis Watson, brother, who gave us a ride home.”
“Dennis Watson!”
“You need not look so much astonished,” said Lucy, who was half ready to weep. “If you had seen what a plight we were in you would have excused us.”
“Why,” said Rose, “for what are we to be excused, pray? Is there any harm, Master Will, in two young women accepting such timely help?”
“You do not understand,” I said. “This Watson is our deadly enemy, and Lucy knows that she should never have so much as speech with him. For shame, Lucy! You should have walked through a wilderness of snow rather than accepted help from him.”
Now, I spoke so sharply that poor Lucy, who was very tenderhearted, and had been completely spoiled for aught but soft speeches by that simpleton, Ben Tuckett, began to shed tears and otherwise exhibit much emotion. Of which conduct I took no need, continuing to upbraid her sharply, until I saw Mistress Rose’s cheeks grow red and her eyes bright, and presently she turned upon me very fiercely and looked at me so indignantly that I became silent.
“Go your ways, Master Dale,” she said. “You are too bad and too cruel, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself for speaking to poor Lucy in this unmanly fashion. A pretty thing indeed that we may not accept a little gallantry without being spoken to in this fashion!”
“Indeed, Mistress Rose,” I said, “I am not addressing myself to you, but to Lucy there, who knows—”
“Lucy knows that if we had not accepted Master Watson’s kindness we should have caught our deaths of cold,” she answered; “but that perhaps would have suited you better, so that your naughty pride should not be injured. For shame, Master Dale! And now go away and let me comfort Lucy. You should have Master Drumbleforth to lecture you for your unkindness to your sister.”
And therewith she made up to Lucy and put her arms round her, turning her own pretty face towards me with such a look of injury that I was completely subdued, and stumbled out of the kitchen, wondering how it is that a woman can beat a man nine times out of ten. For there was not a man in all Yorkshire could have scolded me with impunity, and yet I dared not say a word to Mistress Rose Lisle. So away I went to my chamber to change my own damp garments, and returning after a little time found Rose alone in the great kitchen, Lucy having gone to assist my mother in some household duty. Now, they had left to Rose the task of giving me my supper, so there she was ready to wait upon me, which she did very dutifully. Perhaps I looked somewhat ashamed of myself for my recent conduct (though indeed, upon reflection, I know not what there was to be ashamed of), and Rose, seeing it, thought to give me some comfort, for presently, while I was eating and drinking, and she sitting near busied with some woman’s work of sewing or shaping, she gave me a timid glance and said that she feared she had spoken too sharply but a little while ago, and begged my pardon for doing so.
“Though indeed, Will,” she continued, “you were too hard upon poor Lucy, who meant no ill. Do you really think she did wrong to accept Master Watson’s help?”
“Yes,” I said shortly, meaning not to be forced from my position on any account. “Yes, because she knew that the man is our enemy.”
“To have heard him speak,” she said, “I should not have thought him to be anyone’s enemy.”
“I know not how he speaks,” I answered. “Rough-spoken or soft-spoken, our enemy he is.”
“But why should you be enemies?” she asked. “Surely it is best to be at peace with all, is it not?”
“I cannot answer that, Mistress Rose. I suppose Parson Drumbleforth would say that it is, and therefore I ought to say so too; but, you see, the Dales and Watsons have always been at enmity, and always will be.”
“Nay,” she said, “why should they? Must strife go on forever? Why do you not heal your differences and be at peace?”
“Mistress Rose,” I said, “did you never hear tell of my father’s foul murder? Slain he was, as cruelly as ever man was slain—shot down on the high-road as if he had been a dog.”
“Yes,” she said, “I have heard of it.”
“And did you not know that we believe Rupert Watson, the father of this Dennis, to have been the murderer? Yea, that we do! And now you know why these Watsons are our enemies, and why we must have neither part nor lot with them.”
She was silent for a little time after that, and sat diligently plying her needle.
“But, Master Dale,” she said after a time, “do you really think that this Master Rupert Watson killed your father? Can any man be so cruel as to commit such a deed? Might it not have been the work of some robber who was alarmed at the coming of others, and rode away after firing upon your poor father? It seems so hard to think that any man could foully slay another like that.”
“It may seem so to one like yourself,” I said; “but so far as I have seen, a man will do anything for revenge. And Rupert Watson had need of revenge.”
“But if he did it,” she said, “his son had naught to do with the wickedness. And it is so much better to be at peace with one’s neighbours that it would seem more kind not to visit the father’s faults on the son. It is not right, is it, to blame one for what another has done, nor to think the son is bad because the father was?”
“I know not whether it be right or wrong, Mistress Rose,” I answered; “but this I do know, that Dennis Watson comes of a bad stock and is our enemy, and will always be.”
So after that she said no more, only she seemed to think that I was one of an unforgiving temper. But I could not find it in my heart to think well of any Watson.
Now, the next morning was fine and frosty, and in accordance with our usual custom we walked along the high-road to the morning service at Darrington church. And we had not long been seated in the church when I caught sight of Dennis Watson, who occupied a seat near our own, and who was looking boldly upon Rose. Thereat a thought struck me which sent me first hot and then cold, and made my blood tingle in my veins. What if this ancient enemy of mine had seen Rose Lisle only to covet her and wish to win her for himself? Indeed, there was no reason why he should not fall in love with Rose Lisle if his heart inclined that way. But I felt that if such a thing should ever come to pass as that he should win her, then—But there I thought no more of it, only I made a great vow that Rose should be mine and mine only, whatever might come.
Dennis Watson, however, had evidently some project in his mind, for no sooner was the last “Amen” said than he hurried out of church and stood waiting us when we came through the porch, where he stood bowing and scraping to the two girls, who were going out first. He was dressed very fine, and his grand clothes looked gay and modish in comparison with my own sober garments. When I came up with them, he was already addressing the girls, Rose accepting his remarks with a polite air, but Lucy shrinking back as if frightened, as indeed she was, knowing that I was behind her.
“I was but too glad to be able to do a little service to two ladies,” Dennis was saying as I strode up behind. “Mistress Lucy, I trust, was—”
But there I spoke myself.
“Mistress Lucy Dale, sir, is grateful for the service you did her, as I expect she told you at the time, so that I know no need for more to be said.”
And with that I drew Lucy’s arm within my own and turned away. But I saw the same dark flush rise to Dennis Watson’s face and the same look come into his eyes which I remembered of old when we were schoolboys together.
“As you please, Master Dale,” said he. “You seem inclined for enmity rather than friendship.”
“Between you and me,” I answered, “there can be no friendship, Master Dennis Watson. There is blood between us.”
Now, I would not have said that upon reflection, but it had slipped my lips ere I was aware. His face went pale and he glared at me angrily.
“So you accuse us of murder, do you?” he whispered, walking close to my side. “There shall be more blood between us if you like. Meet me in Went Woods tomorrow at sunrise and let us settle our difference, Master Dale. The sooner the better, to my mind.”
“As you will,” I said, and walked onward. He had spoken in a low voice and the girls had not heard him. But I had heard, and comprehended, and now there I was face to face with the ancient quarrel, which it seemed that nothing could stamp out.