“What! stayed he not to rob? Then, Will, this is no common murder. Thy father, had he any enemies?”
“Yes, sir, one, and one only—Rupert Watson, of Castle Hill.”
“Ah! I have heard somewhat of that old dispute. Lad, doubt not that whoever hath killed thy father will be punished in the end. And now let us see how we can get him home. Where is the nearest house?”
“There is a farmstead across the fields,” I answered. “We can get a cart there.”
“Then go there with me, Will, and my friend Captain Ready here will keep watch over thy father till we return. Stay, let us lift him to the hedge-side. Steady, Jack, thou and I have strong arms. Poor William Dale, ’tis a sad end for him, but I had rather be he than his slayer. And now for this farmstead.”
So we ploughed our way across the field, leaving Philip Lisle’s companion watching by my father, and after some difficulty we procured a cart, and a man to drive it, and returned, and the men lifted the body in, and we set off along the turnpike in the direction of Dale’s Field, I riding Dumpling and leading the mare by the bridle. At first as we went along Philip Lisle and Captain Ready conversed in low whispers, but presently the former came over to me and laid his hand on my arm.
“Will,” said Philip Lisle, “someone must needs ride forward and break this bad news to thy poor mother. What think you, Will, shall we leave him with Ready and ride onward? It will be well for her to have thee at hand when she hears this sad matter.”
So we rode forward through the falling snow, and the cart came rumbling after us with Captain Ready riding at the side. And as we rode along I could say nothing at all. I knew naught, and saw naught. Only there was a mist of red all about me and a fierce, burning desire to lay hands upon the murderer who had robbed me of a father and my mother of her husband. It was late when we reached the open gate at Dale’s Field and rode through it into the fold. In the house they heard our horses’ feet; the door opened, warmth and light came through it from the cheery kitchen. I saw my mother standing in the open doorway to welcome us, and Lucy peeped out from behind her gown, and beyond them was Jacob Trusty holding a mug of ale in his hand. And at the sight of the old familiar place the tears came rolling fast and hot and very bitter from my eyes.
“Be brave, Will,” whispered Philip Lisle. “Be brave, lad. Remember thy mother and be a man.”
We advanced into the light. My mother came a step forward to meet us with a cry of joy at our return. And then she suddenly stopped, for she caught sight of Philip Lisle’s face where she had expected to see her husband’s. And at that I could bear it no longer, but ran forward and threw my arms about her, and burst into such tears as I had never shed before and have never shed since.
“Will!” she said. “Will! what is it, my dear? Your father?”
“Oh, mother, mother, mother!” was all I could say.
I felt her arms suddenly tighten about me, and I knew she was looking at Philip Lisle.
“Madam,” said Philip Lisle. “Madam—”
“Speak out, sir,” she said, “there is some evil happened. Tell me all, I pray you.”
“God in heaven knows, madam,” said he, “I would have suffered aught rather than bring you this news. I pray you be brave to endure it.”
“I am brave, sir,” she answered. “Tell me it all. My husband—is he dead?”
But Philip Lisle could say no more. He bowed his head and turned away to hide his own emotion. My mother took the fearful blow bravely. She went indoors and sat down, still holding me in her arms and striving to comfort me. Never to the day of my death shall I forget that scene. My mother sat by the fire, and I leaned my head against her, striving to keep down the great sobs that seemed like to choke me, and Lucy had stolen up and was weeping softly at my mother’s side, and before us at the table stood Jacob Trusty, still holding his mug of ale, and one of the maids stood behind him, and the doorway into the back kitchen was filled with the scared faces of the ploughmen and boys, and through the door into the parlour I could see the table set with prodigal fullness in anticipation of our return. And in the middle of the kitchen stood Philip Lisle, his long black cloak spangled with snowflakes.
At last my mother raised her head and looked at him. “Tell me how it came about,” she said, in a calm, steady voice that frightened me, because it seemed so unnatural at that time. “Tell me, sir.”
But Philip Lisle shook his head and pointed to me. “Your son, madam, can best do that. Take him inside and let him tell you his news, and suffer me to make some preparations, for they are bringing Master Dale here and will soon arrive.”
And so we went into the parlour, and as soon as I could I told my mother all the sad story. And yet she could not weep, but held my hands between her own, and sometimes they gripped mine tightly, and sometimes they were hot and then cold, and there was a look came into her eyes and in her face which I had never seen there before. But soon they called for her instructions, and she had to go about and give orders, and presently came Captain Ready with the cart, and they carried my father across his own threshold, and—But of that night I will write no more.
When it was
