Now, this story did but serve to increase our resentment against Dennis Watson, and Captain Trevor regretted that he could not accompany us homewards and go with us to do justice upon our enemy. And we had indeed been glad of his company, and were sorry to part with him and his men at Doncaster, where they went southwards to Newark, while we pursued our journey along the Great North Road.
It was far into the evening when we arrived at Dale’s Field and gave Rose into the hands of my mother and Lucy, who were so overjoyed to see her that they laughed and cried at the same moment, and made a great to-do in the way of preparing a feast for our refreshment. But, tired as I was, I had no mind for rest or food until I had settled my account with Dennis Watson. And, indeed, I dare say my dear love wondered that I had so little to say to her at that time, but the truth was that I was so full of hatred and revenge that I could neither eat, sit, sleep, nor talk until I had done somewhat to satisfy my heart. Wherefore we had no sooner arrived than I sent off one of my men on horseback to Darrington, bidding him find three trusty friends of mine there, whom he was to bring back with him on the instant. While he was gone I went into the yard and talked with Jacob Trusty, who was very bitter against the Roundheads that night, a party of them having ridden into the fold on the previous day and seized two of my best bullocks.
“Yea, marry,” said Jacob, “and had the assurance to sing psalms over the poor beasts as they drove them along the road! Oh, an I had had my old musket I would have given them a taste of cold lead. For thou knowest, William, I had meant those bullocks for Doncaster market, and now, I suppose, they are roast meat. However, ’tis a world of disappointments.”
Presently my messenger returned from Darrington, bringing with him my three friends, who were all stout and sturdy young farmers. I led them into the house, where Philip Lisle was eating his supper, and to him and them I shortly explained what I wished to do. To settle with Dennis Watson, I said, was my affair, and I desired no man to be with me in the matter. But so that we might come at him, I proposed to go in a body to Castle Hill and there oblige him to come forth and account to me for his doings. And having said this, I begged my friends to refresh themselves, and meanwhile I went out and provided my four ploughmen with a stout cudgel apiece, so that there were nine of us ready to seek Dennis Watson. Presently, then, we set off, leaving Jacob Trusty and Timothy Grass looking wistfully after us, for they would have much liked to go with us but for their increasing infirmities.
Now, the farm at Castle Hill lieth beyond the Stapleton woods on a rising ground halfway between Darrington and Kirk Smeaton. Why it is called Castle Hill I know not, unless it is because there was at some time a fortified tower on the spot where now stands the farmstead tenanted by the Watsons. It is a lonely place, being surrounded by deep woods, and the house itself is old and gloomy and here and there in a ruinous state. As we left the woods and drew near to it that night, the moon shone clearly on its roofs and chimneys and lighted us beneath the trees to the door. There was no light to be seen in any of the windows, and we saw no men about the yard, so that the whole place looked deserted and dreary.
We left our little force within easy call, while Philip and I went up to the door and knocked loudly at it. The noise echoed through the house inside with a hollow and empty sound, and no one answered our summons. We had knocked three times in this way and received no response, when an old woman came round the corner of the house and asked fearfully what we wanted.
“We want Master Dennis Watson,” I answered. “Where is he, dame?”
“Alack, master!” she answered; “that I cannot say. He was here this morning, yea, indeed, but he rode away before noon, and since then his father hath been well-nigh mad, so that I pray you go your ways, lest he come out and do you an injury.”
But at that moment the door was flung open and Rupert Watson himself appeared on the threshold, a tall, weird-looking figure with white hair and beard. I had not seen him for many a year, and it startled me to see the change that had come over him, for in former days he had been a sturdy, square-shouldered man, but now was old and somewhat bent and looked fiercer than a wolf.
“Who are ye?” he asked. “Is this a time to come knocking at honest men’s doors?”
“Ay,” I answered, “if there be such excuse as we have, Master Watson.”
And I stepped back a pace or two so that the moon shone full upon my face and figure. He started as he saw me, and I knew that he noted the resemblance to my father.
“William Dale’s lad!” he said. “William Dale! What should a Dale want of me?”
“Your son, Master Watson.”
He lifted his hands and shook them in the moonlight, and his eyes gleamed through his bushy eyebrows.
“My son? I have no son! Son? He that was my son hath robbed me—me, his father! A thousand guineas that I had saved and hidden—do you hear?—he hath taken them all and fled, like a thief. My son—my only son. Begone, William Dale, begone. Nay, stand there, stand there, and hear me curse him!”
We stood silent and horrified, watching the
