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
