“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——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
