Now, during that winter I had other matters to think of than the war, for I was much exercised in my mind over the peculiar conduct of Dennis Watson. I have said little of Dennis and his father lately, for indeed they have not come within my history, I having seen little of them since my father’s death. True, I constantly saw them at the markets, never holding speech with them nor being in their company, for I regarded them both with exceeding bitter feelings, being convinced that Rupert Watson was the murderer of my dear father, and not liking what I knew of Dennis. Many an hour did I pass in thinking over the events of that fatal night when my father was shot down at my side, and at such times my fingers itched to grasp his assassin’s throat and crush the breath out of him. But with all my thinking I could never get any nearer the heart of the matter, and so was fain to let it rest as it did. And yet I had no doubt that it was Rupert Watson who committed that foul deed, and I have often stood in Pontefract Marketplace watching his dark face and longing that I could fasten the full guilt upon him and bring him to task for his crime.
By this time Dennis Watson was grown up to manhood and took his full share in the affairs of his father’s business. He was a tall, fine-looking man, not by three inches as tall as myself, but exceedingly well proportioned and handsome in countenance, so that the maidens in that neighbourhood were used to say he was the best-looking fellow in the county. Yet for all his good looks there was something about his face, whether in eyes or mouth I cannot say, which made me feel that I could never have trusted or liked him, even if he had not been a Watson and therefore my rightful enemy. Some people may say that I had a prejudice against him, and that my dislike to him arose therefrom; but, as events proved, I was right in what I thought. For he was not only false and treacherous, but cruel and revengeful, as you will see in the course of this history. Yea, I think that if his father were possessed of bad qualities, they were increased and multiplied in Dennis.
It was drawing near to the end of winter, when I had occasion one Saturday to go to Doncaster market, instead of proceeding, as was my wont, to the market at Pontefract, and in consequence of this it was somewhat late in the evening when I reached home again, being further delayed by a heavy storm of snow, which came upon me as I rode between Barnsdale and Wentbridge. Now, when I came into the kitchen I found the two girls, Lucy and Rose, busied in drying many garments of female attire at a great fire, as if they had been out in the storm, like myself, and had got wet through, which I was not, being protected by my great cloak that has kept me dry and warm in all sorts of weather for half a century. So when I came to question them, it appeared that they had desired to go into Pontefract market that afternoon and had walked thither by way of Darrington. And there, as girls will, they had tarried so long looking at the goods exposed for sale in the mercers’ shops, that the darkness came upon them ere they were out of the town, and, to make matters worse, the snowstorm overtook them as they came over Swanhill.
“But there,” said Rose, who had told me all this news, “a good Samaritan was riding by in his light cart, and seeing our plight, he offered us a lift and brought us home to the very orchard gate, which was a kind thing to do, for we had been wet through else.”
“And who was your cavalier?” I asked.
“Nay,” she answered, “I know him not, but so far as one could see he was a handsome young man, and very well spoken, too, and did for us all that he could.”
“Did you know him, Lucy?” I inquired, turning to my sister, who was busied with some article of finery at the fire.
“Yes,” said Lucy, with something of reluctance I thought. “Yes, I knew him, Will, but I fear you will be angry if I tell you his name. For it was Dennis Watson, brother, who gave us a ride home.”
“Dennis Watson!”
“You need not look so much astonished,” said Lucy, who was half ready to weep. “If you had seen what a plight we were in you would have excused us.”
“Why,” said Rose, “for what are we to be excused, pray? Is there any harm, Master Will, in two young women accepting such timely help?”
“You do not understand,” I said. “This Watson is our deadly enemy, and Lucy knows that she should never have so much as speech with him. For shame, Lucy! You should have walked through a wilderness of snow rather than accepted help from him.”
Now, I spoke so sharply that poor Lucy, who was very tenderhearted, and had been completely spoiled for aught but soft speeches by that simpleton, Ben Tuckett, began to shed tears and otherwise exhibit much emotion. Of which conduct I took no need, continuing to upbraid her sharply, until I saw Mistress Rose’s cheeks grow red and her eyes bright, and presently she turned upon me very fiercely and looked at me so indignantly that I became silent.
“Go your ways, Master Dale,” she said. “You are too
