XLV
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 amusing 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 gray; 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 snuffbox 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 bedclothes 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 anyone being the wiser.”
So into the little parlour we went, and closed the door, and the clergyman, who was old and gray, 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 thickheaded, 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.”
“I think of naught else, Master Dale, and it is because his sin hath been so great that I plead for your great forgiveness. Will you not die easier yourself for the knowledge that you forgave all your enemies?”
Before I could answer him there came a great knocking at the door, and the hostess entered, looking very scared, and begged us to go up to the man at once, for he was at his last gasp.
We entered the room, I with such feeling at my heart as I cannot describe. The man lay gasping for breath; his eyes were closed, and his face was covered with great drops of sweat. We bent over him; he suddenly opened his eyes and saw me, and across his features there came the same look of awful fear. He half raised himself in his bed and made as if he would speak; then he fell back dead, and so passed to his great account.
That night Master Brewer told me such particulars as the dead man had desired him to make known to me, and thus I learnt the true history of my father’s murder. The man in his youth had been a wild and lawless character, and had committed many crimes, for which the law had punished him in various ways. At the York assizes, whereat our case with Rupert Watson was tried, he had been charged with horse-stealing, and had gotten off. Riding southward from York, he had fallen in with Rupert, who found him a willing abettor of the foul plot he had devised as he followed my father homeward. At Ferrybridge Rupert had shown him the man he wished to slay, and thereupon the murderer rode forward to the lonely piece of road, where he lay in wait for and slew my father, being at that time of such a disposition that murder was naught to him. But if all that he confessed to Master Brewer were true, he had been punished hard enow for his sins in the years that followed that horrible deed.