This is a modern-English version of Lorna Doone: A Romance of Exmoor, originally written by Blackmore, R. D. (Richard Doddridge).
It has been thoroughly updated, including changes to sentence structure, words, spelling,
and grammar—to ensure clarity for contemporary readers, while preserving the original spirit and nuance. If
you click on a paragraph, you will see the original text that we modified, and you can toggle between the two versions.
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LORNA DOONE,
A Romance of Exmoor
by R. D. Blackmore
[Click on map to enlarge to full size]
[Click on the map to enlarge it to full size]
CONTENTS
PREFACE
PREFACE TO THE SIXTH EDITION
PUBLISHERS' PREFACE
PREFACE BY MISS KATHARINE HILLARD
CHAPTER I -- ELEMENTS OF EDUCATION
CHAPTER II -- AN IMPORTANT ITEM
CHAPTER III -- THE WAR-PATH OF THE DOONES
CHAPTER IV -- A VERY RASH VISIT
CHAPTER V -- AN ILLEGAL SETTLEMENT
CHAPTER VI -- NECESSARY PRACTICE
CHAPTER VII -- HARD IT IS TO CLIMB
CHAPTER VIII -- A BOY AND A GIRL
CHAPTER IX -- THERE IS NO PLACE LIKE HOME
CHAPTER X -- A BRAVE RESCUE AND A ROUGH RIDE
CHAPTER XI -- TOM DESERVES HIS SUPPER
CHAPTER XII -- A MAN JUSTLY POPULAR
CHAPTER XIII -- MASTER HUCKABACK COMES IN
CHAPTER XIV -- A MOTION WHICH ENDS IN A MULL
CHAPTER XVI -- LORNA GROWING FORMIDABLE
CHAPTER XVII -- JOHN IS BEWITCHED
CHAPTER XVIII -- WITCHERY LEADS TO WITCHCRAFT
CHAPTER XIX -- ANOTHER DANGEROUS INTERVIEW
CHAPTER XX -- LORNA BEGINS HER STORY
CHAPTER XXI -- LORNA ENDS HER STORY
CHAPTER XXIII -- A ROYAL INVITATION
CHAPTER XXIV -- A SAFE PASS FOR KING'S MESSENGER
CHAPTER XXV -- A GREAT MAN ATTENDS TO BUSINESS
CHAPTER XXVI -- JOHN IS DRAINED AND CAST ASIDE
CHAPTER XXVII -- HOME AGAIN AT LAST
CHAPTER XXVIII -- JOHN HAS HOPE OF LORNA
CHAPTER XXIX -- REAPING LEADS TO REVELLING
CHAPTER XXX -- ANNIE GETS THE BEST OF IT
CHAPTER XXXI -- JOHN FRY'S ERRAND
CHAPTER XXXII -- FEEDING OF THE PIGS
CHAPTER XXXIII -- AN EARLY MORNING CALL
CHAPTER XXXIV -- TWO NEGATIVES MAKE AN AFFIRMATIVE
CHAPTER XXXV -- RUTH IS NOT LIKE LORNA
CHAPTER XXXVI -- JOHN RETURNS TO BUSINESS
CHAPTER XXXVII -- A VERY DESPERATE VENTURE
CHAPTER XXXVIII -- A GOOD TURN FOR JEREMY
CHAPTER XXXIX -- A TROUBLED STATE AND A FOOLISH JOKE
CHAPTER XL -- TWO FOOLS TOGETHER
CHAPTER XLII -- THE GREAT WINTER
CHAPTER XLIV -- BROUGHT HOME AT LAST
CHAPTER XLV -- A CHANGE LONG NEEDED
CHAPTER XLVI -- SQUIRE FAGGUS MAKES SOME LUCKY HITS
CHAPTER XLVII -- JEREMY IN DANGER
CHAPTER XLVIII -- EVERY MAN MUST DEFEND HIMSELF
CHAPTER XLIX -- MAIDEN SENTINELS ARE BEST
CHAPTER L -- A MERRY MEETING A SAD ONE
CHAPTER LI -- A VISIT FROM THE COUNSELLOR
CHAPTER LII -- THE WAY TO MAKE THE CREAM RISE
CHAPTER LIII -- JEREMY FINDS OUT SOMETHING
CHAPTER LIV -- MUTUAL DISCOMFITURE
CHAPTER LV -- GETTING INTO CHANCERY
CHAPTER LVI -- JOHN BECOMES TOO POPULAR
CHAPTER LVII -- LORNA KNOWS HER NURSE
CHAPTER LVIII -- MASTER HUCKABACK'S SECRET
CHAPTER LIX -- LORNA GONE AWAY
CHAPTER LX -- ANNIE LUCKIER THAN JOHN
CHAPTER LXI -- THEREFORE HE SEEKS COMFORT
CHAPTER LXII -- THE KING MUST NOT BE PRAYED FOR
CHAPTER LXIII -- JOHN IS WORSTED BY THE WOMEN
CHAPTER LXIV -- SLAUGHTER IN THE MARSHES
CHAPTER LXV -- FALLING AMONG LAMBS
CHAPTER LXVI -- SUITABLE DEVOTION
CHAPTER LXVII -- LORNA STILL IS LORNA
CHAPTER -- JOHN IS JOHN NO LONGERLXVIII
CHAPTER LXIX -- NOT TO BE PUT UP WITH
CHAPTER LXX -- COMPELLED TO VOLUNTEER
CHAPTER LXXI -- A LONG ACCOUNT SETTLED
CHAPTER LXXII -- THE COUNSELLOR AND THE CARVER
CHAPTER LXXIII -- HOW TO GET OUT OF CHANCERY
CHAPTER LXXIV -- BLOOD UPON THE ALTAR
CHAPTER LXXV -- BLOOD UPON THE ALTAR
List of Illustrations
002.jpg John Ridd's School Desk
019.jpg Great Coach and Six Horses Labouring
026.jpg Said It Was But a Pixie
029.jpg He Rode at the Doone Robber
030.jpg Father Was Found Dead on the Moor
034.jpg Here is a Lady, Counsellor
045.jpg Won Skill in Target Practice
058.jpg A Long Pale Slide of Water
105.jpg Uncle Ben in Our Warm Chimney-corner
114.jpg Farmer Snow Sat up in the Chair
129.jpg Let Annie Scold Me Well
131.jpg The Meadow Ruffled in The Breeze
132.jpg Willow-bushes over the Stream
145.jpg The Devil's Cheese-wring
153.jpg Fields Spread With Growth
157.jpg Here Be Some Mistress Lorna
162.jpg I Went to Wipe Her Eyes
163.jpg Jewels Lately Belonging to Others
172.jpg She Led Me in a Courtly Manner
182.jpg Spring Was in Our Valley
197.jpg Jeremy Kept Me in Jokes
204.jpg Westminster Hall, 1650
213.jpg His Lordship Busy With Letters
253.jpg Maidens Are Such Wondrous Things
271.jpg Thatching of the Ricks
283.jpg At Last Then, You Are Come John
290.jpg Gotten the Best of Mother
294.jpg Poor Ruth Huckaback Herself
296.jpg She Had Tears in Her Eyes
304.jpg Nevertheless, I Went Warily
361.jpg None Can Tell What the Labour Was
383.jpg Set All My Power Against the Door
387.jpg In the Settle Was My Lorna
401.jpg He Clad Her over the Loins
407.jpg “Master Faggus,” Began My Mother
411.jpg Something Fell on My Head
413.jpg Tom Faggus Took It Eagerly
419.jpg With a Wave of his Hat
437.jpg I Took Him by the Beard
440.jpg Annie Bound the Broken Arm
474.jpg Snug Little House Blinked on Me
502.jpg In a Shower of Damask Roses
531.jpg Little Ruth Was at the Bridle
534.jpg Master Huckaback Cast Back his Coat
541.jpg Never Had Seen the Like Before
567.jpg Dulverton Church and Street
572.jpg What is Your Advice to Me?
582.jpg Waved a Blue Flag Vehemently
645.jpg John Ridd Admiring his Coat of Arms
660.jpg Volley Sang With a Roar
663.jpg Having Pipes and Schnapps
CONTENTS
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CHAPTER I -- ELEMENTS OF EDUCATION
CHAPTER II -- AN IMPORTANT ITEM
CHAPTER III -- THE WAR-PATH OF THE DOONES
CHAPTER IV -- A VERY RASH VISIT
CHAPTER V -- AN ILLEGAL SETTLEMENT
CHAPTER VI -- NECESSARY PRACTICE
CHAPTER VII -- HARD IT IS TO CLIMB
CHAPTER VIII -- A BOY AND A GIRL
CHAPTER IX -- THERE IS NO PLACE LIKE HOME
CHAPTER X -- A BRAVE RESCUE AND A ROUGH RIDE
CHAPTER XI -- TOM DESERVES HIS SUPPER
CHAPTER XII -- A MAN JUSTLY POPULAR
CHAPTER XIII -- MASTER HUCKABACK COMES IN
CHAPTER XIV -- A MOTION WHICH ENDS IN A MULL
CHAPTER XVI -- LORNA GROWING FORMIDABLE
CHAPTER XVII -- JOHN IS BEWITCHED
CHAPTER XVIII -- WITCHERY LEADS TO WITCHCRAFT
CHAPTER XIX -- ANOTHER DANGEROUS INTERVIEW
CHAPTER XX -- LORNA BEGINS HER STORY
CHAPTER XXI -- LORNA ENDS HER STORY
CHAPTER XXIII -- A ROYAL INVITATION
CHAPTER XXIV -- A SAFE PASS FOR KING'S MESSENGER
CHAPTER XXV -- A GREAT MAN ATTENDS TO BUSINESS
CHAPTER XXVI -- JOHN IS DRAINED AND CAST ASIDE
CHAPTER XXVII -- HOME AGAIN AT LAST
CHAPTER XXVIII -- JOHN HAS HOPE OF LORNA
CHAPTER XXIX -- REAPING LEADS TO REVELLING
CHAPTER XXX -- ANNIE GETS THE BEST OF IT
CHAPTER XXXI -- JOHN FRY'S ERRAND
CHAPTER XXXII -- FEEDING OF THE PIGS
CHAPTER XXXIII -- AN EARLY MORNING CALL
CHAPTER XXXIV -- TWO NEGATIVES MAKE AN AFFIRMATIVE
CHAPTER XXXV -- RUTH IS NOT LIKE LORNA
CHAPTER XXXVI -- JOHN RETURNS TO BUSINESS
CHAPTER XXXVII -- A VERY DESPERATE VENTURE
CHAPTER XXXVIII -- A GOOD TURN FOR JEREMY
CHAPTER XXXIX -- A TROUBLED STATE AND A FOOLISH JOKE
CHAPTER XL -- TWO FOOLS TOGETHER
CHAPTER XLII -- THE GREAT WINTER
CHAPTER XLIV -- BROUGHT HOME AT LAST
CHAPTER XLV -- A CHANGE LONG NEEDED
CHAPTER XLVI -- SQUIRE FAGGUS MAKES SOME LUCKY HITS
CHAPTER XLVII -- JEREMY IN DANGER
CHAPTER XLVIII -- EVERY MAN MUST DEFEND HIMSELF
CHAPTER XLIX -- MAIDEN SENTINELS ARE BEST
CHAPTER L -- A MERRY MEETING A SAD ONE
CHAPTER LI -- A VISIT FROM THE COUNSELLOR
CHAPTER LII -- THE WAY TO MAKE THE CREAM RISE
CHAPTER LIII -- JEREMY FINDS OUT SOMETHING
CHAPTER LIV -- MUTUAL DISCOMFITURE
CHAPTER LV -- GETTING INTO CHANCERY
CHAPTER LVI -- JOHN BECOMES TOO POPULAR
CHAPTER LVII -- LORNA KNOWS HER NURSE
CHAPTER LVIII -- MASTER HUCKABACK'S SECRET
CHAPTER LIX -- LORNA GONE AWAY
CHAPTER LX -- ANNIE LUCKIER THAN JOHN
CHAPTER LXI -- THEREFORE HE SEEKS COMFORT
CHAPTER LXII -- THE KING MUST NOT BE PRAYED FOR
CHAPTER LXIII -- JOHN IS WORSTED BY THE WOMEN
CHAPTER LXIV -- SLAUGHTER IN THE MARSHES
CHAPTER LXV -- FALLING AMONG LAMBS
CHAPTER LXVI -- SUITABLE DEVOTION
CHAPTER LXVII -- LORNA STILL IS LORNA
CHAPTER -- JOHN IS JOHN NO LONGERLXVIII
CHAPTER LXIX -- NOT TO BE PUT UP WITH
CHAPTER LXX -- COMPELLED TO VOLUNTEER
CHAPTER LXXI -- A LONG ACCOUNT SETTLED
CHAPTER LXXII -- THE COUNSELLOR AND THE CARVER
CHAPTER LXXIII -- HOW TO GET OUT OF CHANCERY
CHAPTER LXXIV -- BLOOD UPON THE ALTAR
CHAPTER LXXV -- BLOOD UPON THE ALTAR
List of Illustrations
002.jpg John Ridd's School Desk
019.jpg Great Coach and Six Horses Labouring
026.jpg Said It Was But a Pixie
029.jpg He Rode at the Doone Robber
030.jpg Father Was Found Dead on the Moor
034.jpg Here is a Lady, Counsellor
045.jpg Won Skill in Target Practice
058.jpg A Long Pale Slide of Water
105.jpg Uncle Ben in Our Warm Chimney-corner
114.jpg Farmer Snow Sat up in the Chair
129.jpg Let Annie Scold Me Well
131.jpg The Meadow Ruffled in The Breeze
132.jpg Willow-bushes over the Stream
145.jpg The Devil's Cheese-wring
153.jpg Fields Spread With Growth
157.jpg Here Be Some Mistress Lorna
162.jpg I Went to Wipe Her Eyes
163.jpg Jewels Lately Belonging to Others
172.jpg She Led Me in a Courtly Manner
182.jpg Spring Was in Our Valley
197.jpg Jeremy Kept Me in Jokes
204.jpg Westminster Hall, 1650
213.jpg His Lordship Busy With Letters
253.jpg Maidens Are Such Wondrous Things
271.jpg Thatching of the Ricks
283.jpg At Last Then, You Are Come John
290.jpg Gotten the Best of Mother
294.jpg Poor Ruth Huckaback Herself
296.jpg She Had Tears in Her Eyes
304.jpg Nevertheless, I Went Warily
361.jpg None Can Tell What the Labour Was
383.jpg Set All My Power Against the Door
387.jpg In the Settle Was My Lorna
401.jpg He Clad Her over the Loins
407.jpg “Master Faggus,” Began My Mother
411.jpg Something Fell on My Head
413.jpg Tom Faggus Took It Eagerly
419.jpg With a Wave of his Hat
437.jpg I Took Him by the Beard
440.jpg Annie Bound the Broken Arm
474.jpg Snug Little House Blinked on Me
502.jpg In a Shower of Damask Roses
531.jpg Little Ruth Was at the Bridle
534.jpg Master Huckaback Cast Back his Coat
541.jpg Never Had Seen the Like Before
567.jpg Dulverton Church and Street
572.jpg What is Your Advice to Me?
582.jpg Waved a Blue Flag Vehemently
645.jpg John Ridd Admiring his Coat of Arms
660.jpg Volley Sang With a Roar
663.jpg Having Pipes and Schnapps
PREFACE
This work is called a “romance,” because the incidents, characters, time, and scenery, are alike romantic. And in shaping this old tale, the Writer neither dares, nor desires, to claim for it the dignity or cumber it with the difficulty of an historic novel.
This work is called a “romance” because the events, characters, time, and setting are all romantic. In putting this old story together, the Writer neither wants to nor tries to elevate it to the seriousness or burden it with the challenges of a historical novel.
And yet he thinks that the outlines are filled in more carefully, and the situations (however simple) more warmly coloured and quickened, than a reader would expect to find in what is called a “legend.”
And yet he believes that the outlines are filled in more carefully, and the situations (even though simple) are more vividly portrayed and animated than a reader would expect to see in something referred to as a “legend.”
And he knows that any son of Exmoor, chancing on this volume, cannot fail to bring to mind the nurse-tales of his childhood—the savage deeds of the outlaw Doones in the depth of Bagworthy Forest, the beauty of the hapless maid brought up in the midst of them, the plain John Ridd's Herculean power, and (memory's too congenial food) the exploits of Tom Faggus.
And he knows that any son of Exmoor who comes across this book can't help but remember the stories from his childhood—the brutal acts of the outlaw Doones deep in Bagworthy Forest, the beauty of the unfortunate girl raised among them, the incredible strength of plain John Ridd, and (a favorite topic of reminiscence) the adventures of Tom Faggus.
March, 1869.
March 1869.
PREFACE TO THE SIXTH EDITION
Few things have surprised me more, and nothing has more pleased me, than the great success of this simple tale.
Few things have surprised me more, and nothing has pleased me more, than the great success of this simple story.
For truly it is a grand success to win the attention and kind regard, not of the general public only, but also of those who are at home with the scenery, people, life, and language, wherein a native cannot always satisfy the natives.
For it’s truly a great achievement to gain the attention and appreciation, not just of the general public, but also of those who are familiar with the surroundings, the people, the lifestyle, and the language, which a local may not always be able to impress upon their fellow locals.
Therefore any son of Devon may imagine, and will not grudge, the Writer's delight at hearing from a recent visitor to the west that '“Lorna Doone,' to a Devonshire man, is as good as clotted cream, almost!”
Therefore, any son of Devon can picture, and won’t mind, the Writer's joy at hearing from a recent visitor to the west that "'Lorna Doone,' to a Devonshire man, is as good as clotted cream, almost!"
Although not half so good as that, it has entered many a tranquil, happy, pure, and hospitable home, and the author, while deeply grateful for this genial reception, ascribes it partly to the fact that his story contains no word or thought disloyal to its birthright in the fairest county of England.
Although it's not as good as that, it has found its way into many peaceful, happy, pure, and welcoming homes, and the author, while truly thankful for this warm reception, credits it in part to the fact that his story includes no word or thought disloyal to its heritage in the most beautiful county of England.
January, 1873.
January 1873.
PUBLISHERS' PREFACE
In putting this new and somewhat elaborate edition of “Lorna Doone” upon a market already supplied with various others, some of them excellent in quality, we ask the literary men and women of the country to give us their kind support for the reasons set forth herewith.
In releasing this new and somewhat detailed edition of “Lorna Doone” into a market that already has several others, some of which are quite good, we ask the writers and readers of the country to show us their support for the reasons outlined below.
In the first place, it seems to us that of the countless thousands of books that have been written in all the various languages, and during the many ages since first man took to scribbling, no one has ever yet appeared which is the equal of this in its delicate and beautiful touches of both nature and human nature. We have had, in various ways, abundant proof that our feeling in this respect is not individual to ourselves, and we desire to thank heartily the many friends who have sent us their words and letters of encouragement, sympathy, and interest during the past year as they have by chance become aware of our plans.
First of all, it seems to us that out of the countless thousands of books written in various languages throughout the ages since humans started writing, none have matched this one in its delicate and beautiful portrayal of both nature and human nature. We have seen, in many ways, plenty of evidence that our feelings about this are shared by others, and we want to sincerely thank the many friends who have sent us their encouraging words and letters of sympathy and interest over the past year as they learned about our plans.
While there were creditable editions already published, the fact that none existed just such as we ourselves wished for our own library was our primary incentive in undertaking this task. The labor upon which we entered was in short, one of love, and great as has been the expenditure of time, trouble, and money in the preparation of this book, we have faith to believe that there are a sufficient number of lovers of the peerless maiden, Lorna, to greet her appearance in this new dress with an enthusiasm that will in time repay us.
While there were good editions already available, the fact that none matched what we wanted for our own library was our main reason for taking on this project. The work we began was, in short, a labor of love, and although we’ve invested a lot of time, effort, and money into preparing this book, we believe there are enough fans of the incredible maiden, Lorna, who will welcome her in this new form with enthusiasm that will eventually reward us.
We earnestly hope that our judgment in the selection of artists, means, and materials has been, in the main, at least, wise, and that such, will be the verdict of book-lovers. Also, we hope that our lack of experience as publishers will disarm the critic, and that he will examine the book regarding only the excellences which he may find, and passing over its defects.
We sincerely hope that our choices in selecting artists, methods, and materials have been generally wise, and that book lovers will agree. We also hope that our inexperience as publishers will soften any criticism, and that reviewers will focus on the strengths they find, while overlooking any shortcomings.
One special feature we wish particularly to call to the attention of all, and that is the beautiful map of the country we have introduced. This may be regarded by some as an innovation in a romance, but we hope that it will be found such a manifest convenience as to be its own sufficient excuse.
One special feature we want to highlight for everyone is the beautiful map of the country that we've included. Some might see this as unusual for a romance, but we hope it's obvious enough to be a valuable addition that justifies itself.
In this place it seems to be a duty, also, to call attention to the sympathizing and intelligent interest that has been so freely shown by the noble band of workers, artists, printers, engravers, etc., who have assisted us upon this work. To Mr. Henry Sandham, Mr. George Wharton Edwards, Mr. Harry Fenn, Mr. William Hamilton Gibson, Mr. W. H. Drake, Mr. Irving R. Wiles, Mr. George E. Graves, Mr. Charles Copeland, Mr. Harper Pennington, Mrs. Margaret MacDonald Pullman, Miss Harriet Thayer Durgin, Mr. A. V. S. Anthony, Mr. George T. Andrew, Goupil & Co. of Paris, Mr. Kurtz, The Wright Gravure Co., Mr. Fillebrown, Mr. William J. Dana, and our very able printers, Messrs. Fleming, Brewster & Alley-to them all we therefore extend our cordial acknowledgment of our indebtedness for their services. The fine map is the work of Messrs. Matthews, Northrup & Co.
In this place, it's important to acknowledge the thoughtful and compassionate support that has been generously provided by the remarkable group of workers, artists, printers, engravers, and others who have contributed to this project. We would like to thank Mr. Henry Sandham, Mr. George Wharton Edwards, Mr. Harry Fenn, Mr. William Hamilton Gibson, Mr. W. H. Drake, Mr. Irving R. Wiles, Mr. George E. Graves, Mr. Charles Copeland, Mr. Harper Pennington, Mrs. Margaret MacDonald Pullman, Miss Harriet Thayer Durgin, Mr. A. V. S. Anthony, Mr. George T. Andrew, Goupil & Co. of Paris, Mr. Kurtz, The Wright Gravure Co., Mr. Fillebrown, Mr. William J. Dana, and our talented printers, Messrs. Fleming, Brewster & Alley. We sincerely express our gratitude and appreciation for their efforts. The beautiful map is created by Messrs. Matthews, Northrup & Co.
Very respectfully,
Sincerely,
The Burrows Brothers Co.
The Burrows Brothers Company
PREFACE BY MISS KATHARINE HILLARD
Author Of “The Doones Of Exmoor,” In “Harper's Magazine,” Vol. LXV. Page 835.
Author Of “The Doones Of Exmoor,” In “Harper's Magazine,” Vol. LXV. Page 835.
A novel that has stood the test of time so well as Mr. Blackmore's charming story of “Lorna Doone” scarcely needs a preface. Certainly no word of introduction is necessary to testify to its exquisite humor, its dramatic force, its under-current of poetic feeling, its fine touches of landscape-painting, and the novelty and interest of its subject. Since it first appeared in 1869 all these have become as household words, only, perhaps, all the admirers of “Lorna Doone” have not had the good fortune to wander through the romantic and picturesque region where the scene of the story is laid. To travel in North Devon, and over its border into Somerset (“the Summerland,” as the old Northmen call it), is to be confronted with the scenes of the novel at every turn; for Mr. Blackmore has so successfully woven the legends of the whole countryside into his story that one grows to believe it a veritable history, and is as disappointed to find traces of the romancer's own hand here and there as to find the hills and valleys laid bare of the forests which adorned them in the time of the Doones.
A novel that has stood the test of time as well as Mr. Blackmore's charming story of “Lorna Doone” hardly needs an introduction. Clearly, no preface is required to highlight its exquisite humor, dramatic intensity, poetic undertones, beautiful landscape descriptions, and the unique and captivating subject matter. Since it was first published in 1869, all these elements have become widely recognized, though perhaps not all fans of “Lorna Doone” have had the chance to explore the romantic and picturesque area where the story takes place. Traveling through North Devon and crossing into Somerset—referred to as “the Summerland” by the ancient Norse—immerses you in the scenes from the novel at every corner. Mr. Blackmore has skillfully woven local legends into his narrative, making it feel like a true historical account, and one is often disheartened to find signs of the author's own touch here and there, just as one would be to discover the hills and valleys stripped of the forests that once adorned them in the days of the Doones.
It is a singular country, this Devonshire coast, made up as it is of a series of rocky headlands jutting far out into the sea, and holding between their stretching arms deep fertile wooded valleys called combes (pronounced coomes), watered by trout and salmon streams, and filled with an Italian profusion of vegetation, myrtles and fuchsias, growing in the open air, and the walls hidden with a luxuriant tapestry of ferns and ivies and blossoming vines. Even the roofs are covered with flowers; every cranny bears a blossom or a tuft of green. Then above, long stretches of barren heath (with a few twisted and wind-tortured trees), where the sheep pasture and the sky-lark sings, and in and out of the red-fronted cliffs the querulous sea-gulls flash in the sunshine, and make their plaintive moan. Near Lynton there is the famous Valley of Rocks, where the wise woman, Mother Melldrum, had her winter quarters under the Devil's Cheese-wring.
It's a unique place, this Devonshire coast, consisting of a series of rocky headlands that extend far into the sea, cradling deep, fertile wooded valleys called combes (pronounced coomes). These valleys are fed by trout and salmon streams and are filled with an Italian-like abundance of vegetation, with myrtles and fuchsias thriving outdoors, while the walls are adorned with a lush tapestry of ferns, ivy, and flowering vines. Even the roofs are covered in blooms; every nook contains a flower or a patch of greenery. Above, there are long stretches of barren heath dotted with a few twisted, wind-swept trees where sheep graze and skylarks sing. The red-fronted cliffs are home to noisy sea-gulls that flash in the sunlight and cry out plaintively. Near Lynton lies the famous Valley of Rocks, where the wise woman, Mother Melldrum, spent her winters beneath the Devil's Cheese-wring.
The irregular pile of rocks that goes by this name is wrongly called Cheese-ring (or scoop) in some editions of “Lorna Doone,” instead of Cheese-wring or (press), which it somewhat resembles in shape. Southey began the fortune of Lynton as a watering-place, and wrote a glowing description of the village and the Valley of Rocks. Of the latter he says: “A palace of the pre-Adamite kings, a city of the Anakim must have appeared so shapeless and yet so like the ruins of what had been shaped after the waters of the flood subsided.” Great bowlders, half hidden by the bracken, lie about in wildest confusion; the remains of what seem to be Druidic circles can be traced here and there, and it is hard to persuade one's self that the ragged towers and picturesque piles of rock are not the work of Cyclopean architects.
The uneven pile of rocks known by this name is incorrectly referred to as Cheese-ring (or scoop) in some editions of “Lorna Doone,” instead of Cheese-wring or (press), which it somewhat resembles in shape. Southey kickstarted the development of Lynton as a resort town and wrote an enthusiastic description of the village and the Valley of Rocks. About the latter, he says: “A palace of the pre-Adamite kings, a city of the Anakim must have looked so formless and yet so much like the ruins of what had been shaped after the waters of the flood receded.” Huge boulders, partly concealed by bracken, are scattered around in wild disarray; remnants of what seem to be Druidic circles can be seen here and there, making it hard to convince oneself that the jagged towers and scenic rock formations aren't the creations of Cyclopean architects.
“Our home-folk always call it the 'Danes,' or the 'Denes,' which is no more, they tell me, than a hollow place, even as the word 'den' is,” says John Ridd. “It is a pretty place,” he adds, “though nothing to frighten any body, unless he hath lived in a gallipot.” The valley is well protected from the wind, and “there is shelter and dry fern-bedding and folk to be seen in the distance from a bank whereon the sun shines.” Here John Ridd came to consult the wise woman toward the end of March, while the weather was still cold and piercing. In the warm days of summer she lived “in a pleasant cave facing the cool side of the hill, far inland, near Hawkridge, and close over Tarr-steps—a wonderful crossing of Barle River, made (as every body knows) by Satan for a wager.” But the antiquarians of to-day assert that the curious steps were made by the early British.
“Our locals always call it the 'Danes,' or the 'Denes,' which they tell me is just a hollow spot, like the word 'den,'” says John Ridd. “It's a nice place,” he adds, “not scary at all, unless someone has lived in a jar.” The valley is well sheltered from the wind, and “there’s cover and dry fern bedding, and you can see people in the distance from a sunny bank.” Here John Ridd came to see the wise woman toward the end of March, while the weather was still cold and biting. In the warm summer days, she lived “in a nice cave facing the cool side of the hill, far inland, near Hawkridge, and close to Tarr-steps—a remarkable crossing of the Barle River, made (as everyone knows) by Satan for a bet.” But today’s historians claim that the unique steps were made by the early British.
Not far beyond the Valley of Rocks are the grounds of Ley Abbey, a modern mansion, but occupying the site of Lev Manor, to whose owner, Baron de Whichehalse, John Ridd accompanies Master Huckaback in search of a warrant against the Doones. In fact, all the way from Barnstaple over the parapet of whose bridge Tom Faggus leaped his wonderful mare, every nook and corner of the countryside teems with legends of the Doones. From Lynton we drive over the border into Porlock, in Somerset that quaint little village where Coleridge wrote his “Kubla Khan,” and where Lord Lovelace brought Ada Byron to his seat of Ashley Combe.
Not far beyond the Valley of Rocks are the grounds of Ley Abbey, a modern mansion built on the site of Lev Manor. Its owner, Baron de Whichehalse, is the same person that John Ridd is accompanying along with Master Huckaback in search of a warrant against the Doones. In fact, all the way from Barnstaple, where Tom Faggus jumped his amazing mare over the parapet of the bridge, every nook and cranny of the countryside is filled with legends of the Doones. From Lynton, we drive across the border into Porlock, a charming little village in Somerset where Coleridge wrote his “Kubla Khan,” and where Lord Lovelace brought Ada Byron to his home at Ashley Combe.
It was while riding home from Porlock market that John Ridd's father was murdered by the Doones, and from Porlock we drove in a pony-trap over the high moors to Malmsmead, in search of the ruined huts of the Doones.
It was while driving home from the Porlock market that John Ridd's father was killed by the Doones, and from Porlock we took a pony cart over the high moors to Malmsmead, looking for the abandoned huts of the Doones.
Over the heights of Yarner Moor, and past Oare Ford (now bridged over), the road lay past the old church of Oare, where Lorna Doone and John Ridd were married, and then into the deep flowery lanes that are the glory of Devon and Somerset. Malmsmead proved to be a little cluster of heavily thatched cottages, nestled under overhanging trees, where stood an ancient signboard with “Badgworthy” on one of its arms, pointing the way we should go. This d on the old sign-board accounted for the local pronunciation of Badgery, as the river is always called.
Over the heights of Yarner Moor and past Oare Ford (which is now bridged), the road went by the old church of Oare, where *Lorna Doone* and *John Ridd* got married, and then into the deep, flower-filled lanes that are the pride of Devon and Somerset. Malmsmead turned out to be a small group of cottages with heavy thatched roofs, nestled under overhanging trees, where there was an old signboard with “Badgworthy” on one of its arms, pointing the way we should go. This *d* on the old signboard explained the local way of pronouncing *Badgery*, which is the name always used for the river.
At Malmsmead the road ends, and thence one must proceed on foot. Several deep and flowery lanes lead one at length to the river where a lonely stone cottage stands on its further brink. This is Clowd Farm, and here all paths cease. Two hundred years ago, in the time of the Doones, the narrow valley through which the Bagworthy now dances in the open sunshine was filled with trees; but now, with the exception of a withered and stunted old orchard and grove near the farm, there is not a tree to be seen, and the Bagworthy, a lonely but cheerful trout stream, rattles along in the broad sunshine through a deep valley, whose sides slope steeply upward.
At Malmsmead, the road comes to an end, so you have to go on foot from there. Several deep, flowery lanes eventually lead you to the river, where a solitary stone cottage sits at its edge. This is Clowd Farm, and here all paths stop. Two hundred years ago, during the time of the Doones, the narrow valley that now allows the Bagworthy to flow freely in the sunshine was filled with trees; but now, aside from a gnarled, old orchard and grove near the farm, there isn't a tree in sight, and the Bagworthy, a quiet yet lively trout stream, rushes along in the bright sunlight through a steep, deep valley.
After walking about three miles into the heart of the wilderness, another deep glen, shut in by the same sloping heather-covered hills, suddenly opens to the right. There are no cliffs, no overhanging trees, not even a bush, but all along the stream, “with its soft, dark babble,” lie heaps and half-circles of stone nearly buried in the turf, and almost hidden by the tall ferns and foxgloves. And this is what we went out for to see! These are the ruins of the Doones'' huts. There could not be anything more disappointing. Two hundred years have effectually destroyed all distinctive traits, and they might have been sheep-folds or pig-sties, or any other innocent agricultural erection for aught that we could tell. “Not a single house stood there but was the home of murder,” says their historian. The suns and rains of two hundred and odd years have effectually washed out their blood-stains, and there is nothing left there but peace.
After walking about three miles into the heart of the wilderness, another deep valley, surrounded by the same sloping hills covered in heather, suddenly appears to the right. There are no cliffs, no overhanging trees, not even a bush, but all along the stream, “with its soft, dark babble,” lie piles and half-circles of stones nearly buried in the grass and almost hidden by the tall ferns and foxgloves. And this is what we came out to see! These are the ruins of the Doones' huts. There couldn't be anything more disappointing. Two hundred years have completely erased any distinctive features, and they could have been sheep pens, pig sties, or any other harmless agricultural structure for all we could tell. “Not a single house stood there but was the home of murder,” says their historian. The suns and rains of over two hundred years have effectively washed away their bloodstains, and all that remains is peace.
Some way beyond the ruins stands a small stone cottage of the most modern order. We found it to be the abode of a shepherd, away with his flock on the hills, but his wife, no shepherdess of the Dresden china order, but a hearty and substantial dame, gave us a cordial welcome. She was in a state of intense delight at our disappointment about the ruins, and discussed the situation in that soft Somersetshire accent that gives such breadth and jollity to the language. “E'll not vind it a beet loike ta buik,” she said, with her cheery laugh. “Buik's weel mad' up; it houlds 'ee loike, and 'ee can't put it by, but there's nobbut three pairts o't truth. Hunnerds cooms up here to se't,” she added, with a chuckle.
A bit beyond the ruins stands a small stone cottage that's quite modern. We discovered it belonged to a shepherd who was out with his flock on the hills, but his wife, who was no delicate Dresden china type but rather a hearty and substantial woman, gave us a warm welcome. She was genuinely delighted by our disappointment about the ruins and talked about it in that soft Somersetshire accent that adds such warmth and cheerfulness to the language. “You won't find it a bit like the book,” she said with a cheerful laugh. “Books are well made; they hold you like, and you can’t set them aside, but there’s only three parts of the truth. Hundreds come up here to see it,” she added with a chuckle.
The fact is that the traditional and the ideal are as inextricably mixed in this charming story of “Lorna Doone” as the thousand varieties of seeds in the fairy tale which the princess was expected to sort out, and it would be almost as difficult to separate them. Perhaps the best way, after all, is—not to try.
The truth is that the traditional and the ideal are as closely intertwined in this delightful story of “Lorna Doone” as the countless types of seeds in the fairy tale that the princess was supposed to sort out, and it would be nearly as tough to separate them. Maybe the best approach, after all, is—not to attempt it.
Katharine Hillard.
Katharine Hillard.
CHAPTER I
ELEMENTS OF EDUCATION
If anybody cares to read a simple tale told simply, I, John Ridd, of the parish of Oare, in the county of Somerset, yeoman and churchwarden, have seen and had a share in some doings of this neighborhood, which I will try to set down in order, God sparing my life and memory. And they who light upon this book should bear in mind not only that I write for the clearing of our parish from ill fame and calumny, but also a thing which will, I trow, appear too often in it, to wit—that I am nothing more than a plain unlettered man, not read in foreign languages, as a gentleman might be, nor gifted with long words (even in mine own tongue), save what I may have won from the Bible or Master William Shakespeare, whom, in the face of common opinion, I do value highly. In short, I am an ignoramus, but pretty well for a yeoman.
If anyone wants to read a straightforward story told plainly, I, John Ridd, from the parish of Oare in Somerset, a farmer and churchwarden, have seen and been part of some events in this area, which I will try to write down in order, with God granting me life and memory. Those who come across this book should remember that I am writing not just to clear our parish from bad reputation and slander, but also to acknowledge something that will likely come up often—namely, that I am just an ordinary, uneducated man, not well-read in foreign languages like a gentleman might be, nor skilled with fancy words (even in my own language), except for what I might have learned from the Bible or from Master William Shakespeare, whom, despite popular belief, I hold in high regard. In short, I’m not educated, but I’m doing alright for a farmer.
My father being of good substance, at least as we reckon in Exmoor, and seized in his own right, from many generations, of one, and that the best and largest, of the three farms into which our parish is divided (or rather the cultured part thereof), he John Ridd, the elder, churchwarden, and overseer, being a great admirer of learning, and well able to write his name, sent me his only son to be schooled at Tiverton, in the county of Devon. For the chief boast of that ancient town (next to its woollen staple) is a worthy grammar-school, the largest in the west of England, founded and handsomely endowed in the year 1604 by Master Peter Blundell, of that same place, clothier.
My father was well-off, at least by Exmoor standards, and owned one of the best and largest of the three farms in our parish (or at least in the cultivated part of it). He was John Ridd, the elder, a churchwarden and overseer, who greatly valued education and was able to write his name. He sent me, his only son, to be educated at Tiverton, in Devon. The main pride of that historic town (after its wool trade) is a respected grammar school, the largest in the west of England, founded and generously funded in 1604 by Master Peter Blundell, a clothier from the same town.
Here, by the time I was twelve years old, I had risen into the upper school, and could make bold with Eutropius and Cæsar—by aid of an English version—and as much as six lines of Ovid. Some even said that I might, before manhood, rise almost to the third form, being of a persevering nature; albeit, by full consent of all (except my mother), thick-headed. But that would have been, as I now perceive, an ambition beyond a farmer's son; for there is but one form above it, and that made of masterful scholars, entitled rightly “monitors”. So it came to pass, by the grace of God, that I was called away from learning, whilst sitting at the desk of the junior first in the upper school, and beginning the Greek verb
By the time I was twelve, I had moved up to the upper school and was confidently tackling Eutropius and Caesar—with the help of an English translation—and managing about six lines of Ovid. Some even said that I might, before reaching adulthood, get close to the third form, since I was determined; although, everyone agreed (except my mom) that I was pretty thick-headed. But looking back, I realize that was an ambition that exceeded what a farmer’s son could achieve; there’s only one level above it, and that’s made up of top students, properly called “monitors.” So it happened, by the grace of God, that I was called away from my studies while sitting at the desk of the junior first in the upper school, just as I was starting the Greek verb.
My eldest grandson makes bold to say that I never could have learned
My oldest grandson boldly claims that I could never have learned
ten pages further on, being all he himself could manage, with plenty of stripes to help him. I know that he hath more head than I—though never will he have such body; and am thankful to have stopped betimes, with a meek and wholesome head-piece.
ten pages further on, which is all he could handle, with plenty of stripes to assist him. I know he has more brains than I do—though he'll never have a body like mine; and I'm grateful I stopped in time, with a humble and healthy mindset.
But if you doubt of my having been there, because now I know so little, go and see my name, “John Ridd,” graven on that very form. Forsooth, from the time I was strong enough to open a knife and to spell my name, I began to grave it in the oak, first of the block whereon I sate, and then of the desk in front of it, according as I was promoted from one to other of them: and there my grandson reads it now, at this present time of writing, and hath fought a boy for scoffing at it—“John Ridd his name”—and done again in “winkeys,” a mischievous but cheerful device, in which we took great pleasure.
But if you doubt that I was there, because I remember so little now, go check out my name, “John Ridd,” carved on that very form. Indeed, from the time I was strong enough to open a knife and spell my name, I started carving it into the oak, first on the block where I sat, and then on the desk in front of me, as I was promoted from one to the other. My grandson reads it now, at the time I'm writing this, and he even got into a fight with a boy for making fun of it—“John Ridd his name”—and did it again in “winkeys,” a playful but fun trick we really enjoyed.
This is the manner of a “winkey,” which I here set down, lest child of mine, or grandchild, dare to make one on my premises; if he does, I shall know the mark at once, and score it well upon him. The scholar obtains, by prayer or price, a handful of saltpetre, and then with the knife wherewith he should rather be trying to mend his pens, what does he do but scoop a hole where the desk is some three inches thick. This hole should be left with the middle exalted, and the circumference dug more deeply. Then let him fill it with saltpetre, all save a little space in the midst, where the boss of the wood is. Upon that boss (and it will be the better if a splinter of timber rise upward) he sticks the end of his candle of tallow, or “rat's tail,” as we called it, kindled and burning smoothly. Anon, as he reads by that light his lesson, lifting his eyes now and then it may be, the fire of candle lays hold of the petre with a spluttering noise and a leaping. Then should the pupil seize his pen, and, regardless of the nib, stir bravely, and he will see a glow as of burning mountains, and a rich smoke, and sparks going merrily; nor will it cease, if he stir wisely, and there be a good store of petre, until the wood is devoured through, like the sinking of a well-shaft. Now well may it go with the head of a boy intent upon his primer, who betides to sit thereunder! But, above all things, have good care to exercise this art before the master strides up to his desk, in the early gray of the morning.
This is how to make a “winkey,” which I’m writing down here so that my child or grandchild doesn’t try to do it on my property; if they do, I’ll know the mark right away and deal with them. The scholar gets a handful of saltpeter, either through prayer or by paying for it, and then, instead of using the knife to fix his pens, he scoops out a hole about three inches deep in the desk. This hole should be shaped with the center raised and the edges dug deeper. Then, he fills it with saltpeter, leaving a small space in the middle for the wood’s knot. On that knot (the better if a wood splinter sticks up) he puts the end of a candle made from tallow, or as we called it, a “rat's tail,” lit and burning steadily. Soon, while reading by that light, he looks up occasionally, and the candle’s flame ignites the saltpeter with a spluttering noise and sparks flying. At that point, the student should grab his pen and stir it up, not worrying about the nib, and he’ll see a glow like burning mountains, rich smoke, and sparks dancing around; it won’t stop, as long as he stirs wisely and has plenty of saltpeter, until the wood is consumed like a well drying up. It could go very badly for the boy focused on his primer sitting underneath! But most importantly, be sure to practice this skill before the teacher comes to his desk in the early morning.
Other customs, no less worthy, abide in the school of Blundell, such as the singeing of nightcaps; but though they have a pleasant savour, and refreshing to think of, I may not stop to note them, unless it be that goodly one at the incoming of a flood. The school-house stands beside a stream, not very large, called Lowman, which flows into the broad river of Exe, about a mile below. This Lowman stream, although it be not fond of brawl and violence (in the manner of our Lynn), yet is wont to flood into a mighty head of waters when the storms of rain provoke it; and most of all when its little co-mate, called the Taunton Brook—where I have plucked the very best cresses that ever man put salt on—comes foaming down like a great roan horse, and rears at the leap of the hedgerows. Then are the gray stone walls of Blundell on every side encompassed, the vale is spread over with looping waters, and it is a hard thing for the day-boys to get home to their suppers.
Other customs, equally notable, are part of Blundell's school traditions, like the burning of nightcaps; but while they have a pleasant charm and are nice to think about, I can't take the time to mention them, except for the memorable one when the flood comes in. The schoolhouse sits next to a small stream called Lowman, which flows into the wide Exe River about a mile downstream. This Lowman stream, although it doesn’t enjoy fuss and violence like our Lynn, tends to swell into a powerful torrent when rainstorms hit; especially when its little partner, Taunton Brook—where I’ve gathered the best watercress anyone could ever sprinkle salt on—comes rushing down like a massive roan horse, rearing up at the hedgerows. At that point, the gray stone walls of Blundell are surrounded on all sides, the valley is covered with winding waters, and it becomes quite difficult for the day students to make it home for dinner.
And in that time, old Cop, the porter (so called because he hath copper boots to keep the wet from his stomach, and a nose of copper also, in right of other waters), his place is to stand at the gate, attending to the flood-boards grooved into one another, and so to watch the torrents rise, and not be washed away, if it please God he may help it. But long ere the flood hath attained this height, and while it is only waxing, certain boys of deputy will watch at the stoop of the drain-holes, and be apt to look outside the walls when Cop is taking a cordial. And in the very front of the gate, just without the archway, where the ground is paved most handsomely, you may see in copy-letters done a great P.B. of white pebbles. Now, it is the custom and the law that when the invading waters, either fluxing along the wall from below the road-bridge, or pouring sharply across the meadows from a cut called Owen's Ditch—and I myself have seen it come both ways—upon the very instant when the waxing element lips though it be but a single pebble of the founder's letters, it is in the license of any boy, soever small and undoctrined, to rush into the great school-rooms, where a score of masters sit heavily, and scream at the top of his voice, “P.B.”
And during that time, old Cop, the porter (so named because he has copper boots to keep water off his legs, and a copper nose as well, due to the other waters), his job is to stand at the gate, managing the flood boards that fit together, and to watch the rising torrents to avoid being washed away, with the hope that God helps him keep that from happening. But long before the flood reaches that level, while it's still growing, certain boys on duty will keep an eye at the drain holes and are quick to look outside the walls when Cop is taking a break. Right at the front of the gate, just outside the archway, where the ground is beautifully paved, you can see a big P.B. made of white pebbles in bold letters. Now, it's both the custom and the rule that when the invading waters, either flowing along the wall from below the road bridge, or rushing sharply across the meadows from a stream called Owen's Ditch—and I have seen it come both ways—at the very moment when the rising water touches even a single pebble of the founder's letters, any boy, no matter how small or untrained, is allowed to dash into the big schoolrooms, where a bunch of teachers are sitting heavily, and yell at the top of his lungs, “P.B.”
Then, with a yell, the boys leap up, or break away from their standing; they toss their caps to the black-beamed roof, and haply the very books after them; and the great boys vex no more the small ones, and the small boys stick up to the great ones. One with another, hard they go, to see the gain of the waters, and the tribulation of Cop, and are prone to kick the day-boys out, with words of scanty compliment. Then the masters look at one another, having no class to look to, and (boys being no more left to watch) in a manner they put their mouths up. With a spirited bang they close their books, and make invitation the one to the other for pipes and foreign cordials, recommending the chance of the time, and the comfort away from cold water.
Then, with a shout, the boys spring up or break away from standing still; they throw their caps up to the dark-beamed ceiling, and maybe even the books after them; and the older boys stop bothering the younger ones, while the younger ones stand up to the older ones. Together, they rush off to see the benefits of the water and the trouble with Cop, and they're eager to kick the day-boys out, using not-so-nice words. The teachers glance at each other, having no students left to watch, and in a way, they raise their mouths. With a loud bang, they slam their books shut and invite each other to smoke pipes and enjoy drinks, suggesting it's a good time to relax away from the cold water.
But, lo! I am dwelling on little things and the pigeons' eggs of the infancy, forgetting the bitter and heavy life gone over me since then. If I am neither a hard man nor a very close one, God knows I have had no lack of rubbing and pounding to make stone of me. Yet can I not somehow believe that we ought to hate one another, to live far asunder, and block the mouth each of his little den; as do the wild beasts of the wood, and the hairy outrangs now brought over, each with a chain upon him. Let that matter be as it will. It is beyond me to unfold, and mayhap of my grandson's grandson. All I know is that wheat is better than when I began to sow it.
But, look! I'm getting caught up in little things and the early days like the pigeons' eggs, forgetting the tough and difficult life I've been through since then. If I'm not a hard person or overly stingy, God knows I've faced enough challenges to toughen me up. Yet, I can’t help but think that we should hate each other, keep our distance, and close off our own little spaces, like the wild animals in the woods and the hairy creatures brought over here, each chained up. Let that be whatever it is. It’s too complicated for me to figure out, maybe for my grandson's grandson to understand. All I know is that the wheat is better than when I first started planting it.
CHAPTER II
AN IMPORTANT ITEM
Now the cause of my leaving Tiverton school, and the way of it, were as follows. On the 29th day of November, in the year of our Lord 1673, the very day when I was twelve years old, and had spent all my substance in sweetmeats, with which I made treat to the little boys, till the large boys ran in and took them, we came out of school at five o'clock, as the rule is upon Tuesdays. According to custom we drove the day-boys in brave rout down the causeway from the school-porch even to the gate where Cop has his dwelling and duty. Little it recked us and helped them less, that they were our founder's citizens, and haply his own grand-nephews (for he left no direct descendants), neither did we much inquire what their lineage was. For it had long been fixed among us, who were of the house and chambers, that these same day-boys were all “caddes,” as we had discovered to call it, because they paid no groat for their schooling, and brought their own commons with them. In consumption of these we would help them, for our fare in hall fed appetite; and while we ate their victuals, we allowed them freely to talk to us. Nevertheless, we could not feel, when all the victuals were gone, but that these boys required kicking from the premises of Blundell. And some of them were shopkeepers' sons, young grocers, fellmongers, and poulterers, and these to their credit seemed to know how righteous it was to kick them. But others were of high family, as any need be, in Devon—Carews, and Bouchiers, and Bastards, and some of these would turn sometimes, and strike the boy that kicked them. But to do them justice, even these knew that they must be kicked for not paying.
Now, the reason why I left Tiverton school and how it happened is as follows. On November 29, 1673, the exact day I turned twelve and had spent all my money on sweets, which I shared with the younger boys until the bigger boys came and took them, we finished school at five o'clock, as we did every Tuesday. As was our tradition, we chased the day students in a wild rush down the path from the school porch all the way to the gate where Cop lived and worked. It didn’t matter much to us, and it helped them even less, that they were our founder’s citizens and possibly his grand-nephews (since he left no direct descendants), nor did we really care about their background. For a long time, we who lived in the house and chambers had decided that these day students were all “caddes,” as we called them, because they didn't pay a penny for their education and brought their own food. While enjoying our meals in the hall that barely satisfied our hunger, we let them talk to us freely while we ate their provisions. However, once the food was gone, we felt these boys needed to be kicked off the premises of Blundell. Some of them were the sons of shopkeepers, young grocers, fellmongers, and poulterers, and to their credit, they seemed to understand that it was fair to kick them. But others came from high families, like the Carews, Bouchiers, and Bastards, and occasionally some of them would turn around and hit the boy who kicked them. Yet, to be fair, even these boys knew they deserved to be kicked for not paying.
After these “charity-boys” were gone, as in contumely we called them—“If you break my bag on my head,” said one, “how will feed thence to-morrow?”—and after old Cop with clang of iron had jammed the double gates in under the scruff-stone archway, whereupon are Latin verses, done in brass of small quality, some of us who were not hungry, and cared not for the supper-bell, having sucked much parliament and dumps at my only charges—not that I ever bore much wealth, but because I had been thrifting it for this time of my birth—we were leaning quite at dusk against the iron bars of the gate some six, or it may be seven of us, small boys all, and not conspicuous in the closing of the daylight and the fog that came at eventide, else Cop would have rated us up the green, for he was churly to little boys when his wife had taken their money. There was plenty of room for all of us, for the gate will hold nine boys close-packed, unless they be fed rankly, whereof is little danger; and now we were looking out on the road and wishing we could get there; hoping, moreover, to see a good string of pack-horses come by, with troopers to protect them. For the day-boys had brought us word that some intending their way to the town had lain that morning at Sampford Peveril, and must be in ere nightfall, because Mr. Faggus was after them. Now Mr. Faggus was my first cousin and an honour to the family, being a Northmolton man of great renown on the highway from Barum town even to London. Therefore of course, I hoped that he would catch the packmen, and the boys were asking my opinion as of an oracle, about it.
After those “charity boys” left, as we mockingly called them—“If you break my bag on my head,” one of them said, “how will I eat tomorrow?”—and after old Cop banged the double gates shut under the stone archway, where some Latin verses were engraved in low-quality brass, a few of us who weren’t hungry and didn’t care about the supper bell, having already had our fill of the cheap food at my only place—not that I was ever rich, but because I had been saving up since my birth—we were leaning at dusk against the iron bars of the gate, maybe six or seven of us, all small boys, and not very noticeable in the fading light and the fog that rolled in at night, otherwise, Cop would have chased us up the hill, since he was grumpy with little boys when his wife had taken their money. There was plenty of space for all of us, as the gate could fit nine boys packed in tight, unless they were particularly smelly, which was unlikely; and now we were looking out at the road, wishing we could get out there and hoping to see a good line of pack horses come by, with soldiers to guard them. The day boys had told us that some on their way to the town had stayed that morning at Sampford Peveril and should arrive before nightfall, because Mr. Faggus was after them. Mr. Faggus was my first cousin and a source of pride for the family, being a well-known Northmolton man who made a name for himself on the highway from Barnstaple even to London. So naturally, I hoped he would catch the packmen, and the boys were asking my thoughts on it as if I had special insight.
A certain boy leaning up against me would not allow my elbow room, and struck me very sadly in the stomach part, though his own was full of my parliament. And this I felt so unkindly, that I smote him straightway in the face without tarrying to consider it, or weighing the question duly. Upon this he put his head down, and presented it so vehemently at the middle of my waistcoat, that for a minute or more my breath seemed dropped, as it were, from my pockets, and my life seemed to stop from great want of ease. Before I came to myself again, it had been settled for us that we should move to the “Ironing-box,” as the triangle of turf is called where the two causeways coming from the school-porch and the hall-porch meet, and our fights are mainly celebrated; only we must wait until the convoy of horses had passed, and then make a ring by candlelight, and the other boys would like it. But suddenly there came round the post where the letters of our founder are, not from the way of Taunton but from the side of Lowman bridge, a very small string of horses, only two indeed (counting for one the pony), and a red-faced man on the bigger nag.
A certain boy leaning against me wouldn’t give me any elbow room, and he hit me right in the stomach, even though his own was full of my lunch. I found this so unkind that I immediately punched him in the face without thinking it over. He then lowered his head and slammed it into my waistcoat so hard that for a minute or more it felt like my breath had left me, and my life seemed to stop from the intense discomfort. Before I could collect myself, it was decided that we would move to the “Ironing-box,” which is what we call the patch of grass where the paths from the school porch and hall porch meet, and where we usually settle our fights; we just had to wait until the horses had passed by, then form a circle by candlelight, and the other boys would enjoy that. But suddenly, coming around the post where the founder’s letters are, not from the Taunton side but from the Lowman bridge side, was a very small string of horses—only two, actually (counting the pony as one)—and a red-faced man on the bigger horse.
“Plaise ye, worshipful masters,” he said, being feared of the gateway, “carn 'e tull whur our Jan Ridd be?”
“Please, honored masters,” he said, afraid of the entrance, “can you tell where our Jan Ridd is?”
“Hyur a be, ees fai, Jan Ridd,” answered a sharp little chap, making game of John Fry's language.
“Here you go, it’s fine, Jan Ridd,” replied a feisty little guy, poking fun at John Fry's way of speaking.
“Zhow un up, then,” says John Fry poking his whip through the bars at us; “Zhow un up, and putt un aowt.”
“Show him up, then,” says John Fry, poking his whip through the bars at us; “Show him up, and put him out.”
The other little chaps pointed at me, and some began to hallo; but I knew what I was about.
The other little kids pointed at me, and some started yelling; but I knew what I was doing.
“Oh, John, John,” I cried, “what's the use of your coming now, and Peggy over the moors, too, and it so cruel cold for her? The holidays don't begin till Wednesday fortnight, John. To think of your not knowing that!”
“Oh, John, John,” I called out, “what’s the point of you showing up now, with Peggy over the moors, and it being so freezing for her? The holidays don’t start until Wednesday in two weeks, John. I can’t believe you didn’t know that!”
John Fry leaned forward in the saddle, and turned his eyes away from me; and then there was a noise in his throat like a snail crawling on a window-pane.
John Fry leaned forward in the saddle and looked away from me; then there was a sound in his throat like a snail sliding on a windowpane.
“Oh, us knaws that wull enough, Maister Jan; reckon every Oare-man knaw that, without go to skoo-ull, like you doth. Your moother have kept arl the apples up, and old Betty toorned the black puddens, and none dare set trap for a blagbird. Arl for thee, lad; every bit of it now for thee!”
“Oh, we all know that well enough, Master Jan; I bet every oarsman knows that without going to school like you do. Your mother has kept all the apples safe, and old Betty turned the black puddings, and no one dares set a trap for a blackbird. All for you, lad; every bit of it is now for you!”
He checked himself suddenly, and frightened me. I knew that John Fry's way so well.
He suddenly stopped himself, and it scared me. I knew John Fry's style so well.
“And father, and father—oh, how is father?” I pushed the boys right and left as I said it. “John, is father up in town! He always used to come for me, and leave nobody else to do it.”
“And dad, and dad—oh, how's dad?” I pushed the boys to the right and left as I said it. “John, is dad in town? He always used to come for me and wouldn’t let anyone else do it.”
“Vayther'll be at the crooked post, tother zide o' telling-house.* Her coodn't lave 'ouze by raison of the Chirstmas bakkon comin' on, and zome o' the cider welted.”
“Vayther will be at the crooked post, the other side of the tavern.* She couldn't leave the house because of the Christmas bacon coming up, and some of the cider spilled.”
* The “telling-houses” on the moor are rude cots where the
shepherds meet to “tell” their sheep at the end of the
pasturing season.
* The “telling-houses” on the moor are simple huts where the shepherds gather to “tell” their sheep at the end of the grazing season.
He looked at the nag's ears as he said it; and, being up to John Fry's ways, I knew that it was a lie. And my heart fell like a lump of lead, and I leaned back on the stay of the gate, and longed no more to fight anybody. A sort of dull power hung over me, like the cloud of a brooding tempest, and I feared to be told anything. I did not even care to stroke the nose of my pony Peggy, although she pushed it in through the rails, where a square of broader lattice is, and sniffed at me, and began to crop gently after my fingers. But whatever lives or dies, business must be attended to; and the principal business of good Christians is, beyond all controversy, to fight with one another.
He looked at the horse's ears as he said it; and knowing John Fry's ways, I could tell it was a lie. My heart sank like a lump of lead, and I leaned back against the gate, no longer wanting to fight anyone. A kind of heavy feeling surrounded me, like the threat of an approaching storm, and I dreaded hearing any news. I didn’t even feel like petting my pony Peggy, even though she poked her nose through the bars where the wider lattice is, sniffing at me and gently nibbling my fingers. But no matter what happens, business must be taken care of; and the main business of good Christians is, without a doubt, to argue with each other.
“Come up, Jack,” said one of the boys, lifting me under the chin; “he hit you, and you hit him, you know.”
“Come on, Jack,” said one of the boys, lifting me by the chin; “he hit you, and you hit him, you know.”
“Pay your debts before you go,” said a monitor, striding up to me, after hearing how the honour lay; “Ridd, you must go through with it.”
“Pay your debts before you leave,” said a monitor, walking up to me after hearing how things stood; “Ridd, you have to see it through.”
“Fight, for the sake of the junior first,” cried the little fellow in my ear, the clever one, the head of our class, who had mocked John Fry, and knew all about the aorists, and tried to make me know it; but I never went more than three places up, and then it was an accident, and I came down after dinner. The boys were urgent round me to fight, though my stomach was not up for it; and being very slow of wit (which is not chargeable on me), I looked from one to other of them, seeking any cure for it. Not that I was afraid of fighting, for now I had been three years at Blundell's, and foughten, all that time, a fight at least once every week, till the boys began to know me; only that the load on my heart was not sprightly as of the hay-field. It is a very sad thing to dwell on; but even now, in my time of wisdom, I doubt it is a fond thing to imagine, and a motherly to insist upon, that boys can do without fighting. Unless they be very good boys, and afraid of one another.
“Fight, for the sake of the junior first,” shouted the little guy in my ear, the smart one, the top of our class, who had made fun of John Fry and knew everything about aorists, trying to teach me too; but I never got more than three spots up, and even then it was by accident, and I went back down after dinner. The boys were all urging me to fight, even though I wasn’t really feeling up to it; and being pretty slow to catch on (which isn’t my fault), I looked from one to another of them, hoping to find some solution. Not that I was scared of fighting, since I had been at Blundell's for three years, fighting at least once a week all that time, until the other boys started to recognize me; it’s just that the weight on my heart didn’t feel as light as in the hayfield. It’s a really sad thing to think about; but even now, at my age of wisdom, I wonder if it’s naive to think, and a bit motherly to insist, that boys can get by without fighting. Unless they are very good boys and fearful of one another.
“Nay,” I said, with my back against the wrought-iron stay of the gate, which was socketed into Cop's house-front: “I will not fight thee now, Robin Snell, but wait till I come back again.”
“Nah,” I said, leaning against the wrought-iron support of the gate, which was set into Cop's house front. “I won't fight you now, Robin Snell, but I’ll wait until I come back.”
“Take coward's blow, Jack Ridd, then,” cried half a dozen little boys, shoving Bob Snell forward to do it; because they all knew well enough, having striven with me ere now, and proved me to be their master—they knew, I say, that without great change, I would never accept that contumely. But I took little heed of them, looking in dull wonderment at John Fry, and Smiler, and the blunderbuss, and Peggy. John Fry was scratching his head, I could see, and getting blue in the face, by the light from Cop's parlour-window, and going to and fro upon Smiler, as if he were hard set with it. And all the time he was looking briskly from my eyes to the fist I was clenching, and methought he tried to wink at me in a covert manner; and then Peggy whisked her tail.
“Go ahead and hit him, Jack Ridd,” shouted half a dozen little boys, pushing Bob Snell forward to do it; because they all knew well enough, having fought me before and realized I was their boss—they understood, I say, that unless something major changed, I would never put up with that disrespect. But I barely paid attention to them, staring in dull amazement at John Fry, and Smiler, and the blunderbuss, and Peggy. I could see John Fry scratching his head and turning blue in the face, in the light from Cop's parlor window, pacing around Smiler as if he was struggling with it. Meanwhile, he was glancing quickly between my eyes and the fist I was clenching, and I thought he was trying to wink at me secretly; and then Peggy flicked her tail.
“Shall I fight, John?” I said at last; “I would an you had not come, John.”
“Should I fight, John?” I finally said; “I wish you hadn't come, John.”
“Chraist's will be done; I zim thee had better faight, Jan,” he answered, in a whisper, through the gridiron of the gate; “there be a dale of faighting avore thee. Best wai to begin gude taime laike. Wull the geatman latt me in, to zee as thee hast vair plai, lad?”
“Christ's will be done; I think you had better fight, Jan,” he answered in a whisper through the bars of the gate; “there's a lot of fighting ahead of you. It's best to start at a good time like this. Will the gatekeeper let me in, to see how you have fair play, lad?”
He looked doubtfully down at the colour of his cowskin boots, and the mire upon the horses, for the sloughs were exceedingly mucky. Peggy, indeed, my sorrel pony, being lighter of weight, was not crusted much over the shoulders; but Smiler (our youngest sledder) had been well in over his withers, and none would have deemed him a piebald, save of red mire and black mire. The great blunderbuss, moreover, was choked with a dollop of slough-cake; and John Fry's sad-coloured Sunday hat was indued with a plume of marish-weed. All this I saw while he was dismounting, heavily and wearily, lifting his leg from the saddle-cloth as if with a sore crick in his back.
He looked skeptically at the color of his cowskin boots and the mud on the horses, since the sloughs were really nasty. Peggy, my sorrel pony, being lighter, wasn't too caked with mud over her shoulders; but Smiler (our youngest sledder) had been well in over his withers, and no one would have thought he was a piebald, except for the red and black mud covering him. The big blunderbuss was jammed with a clump of mud, and John Fry's dull-colored Sunday hat had a decoration of marsh weeds. I noticed all this while he was getting off, heavily and tiredly, lifting his leg from the saddle cloth as if he had a sore back.
By this time the question of fighting was gone quite out of our discretion; for sundry of the elder boys, grave and reverend signors, who had taken no small pleasure in teaching our hands to fight, to ward, to parry, to feign and counter, to lunge in the manner of sword-play, and the weaker child to drop on one knee when no cunning of fence might baffle the onset—these great masters of the art, who would far liefer see us little ones practise it than themselves engage, six or seven of them came running down the rounded causeway, having heard that there had arisen “a snug little mill” at the gate. Now whether that word hath origin in a Greek term meaning a conflict, as the best-read boys asseverated, or whether it is nothing more than a figure of similitude, from the beating arms of a mill, such as I have seen in counties where are no waterbrooks, but folk make bread with wind—it is not for a man devoid of scholarship to determine. Enough that they who made the ring intituled the scene a “mill,” while we who must be thumped inside it tried to rejoice in their pleasantry, till it turned upon the stomach.
By this time, the whole idea of fighting was completely out of our control. A few of the older boys, serious and respected figures, who had taken great pleasure in teaching us how to fight, block, parry, feint, and counter, and how to drop to one knee when no trickery could outsmart the attack—these masters of the art, who would much rather watch us younger ones practice than get involved, came running down the curved path, having heard that there was about to be a “little fight” at the gate. Now, whether that term comes from a Greek word meaning a conflict, as the most knowledgeable boys claimed, or whether it's just a metaphor, like the beating arms of a mill I've seen in places without rivers where people make bread using wind—it’s not for someone without education to decide. The important thing is that those who formed the circle called the scene a “fight,” while we who had to take the hits inside it tried to laugh along with their joke, until it became hard to stomach.
Moreover, I felt upon me now a certain responsibility, a dutiful need to maintain, in the presence of John Fry, the manliness of the Ridd family, and the honour of Exmoor. Hitherto none had worsted me, although in the three years of my schooling, I had fought more than threescore battles, and bedewed with blood every plant of grass towards the middle of the Ironing-box. And this success I owed at first to no skill of my own; until I came to know better; for up to twenty or thirty fights, I struck as nature guided me, no wiser than a father-long-legs in the heat of a lanthorn; but I had conquered, partly through my native strength, and the Exmoor toughness in me, and still more that I could not see when I had gotten my bellyful. But now I was like to have that and more; for my heart was down, to begin with; and then Robert Snell was a bigger boy than I had ever encountered, and as thick in the skull and hard in the brain as even I could claim to be.
Moreover, I now felt a certain responsibility, a duty to uphold, in front of John Fry, the manliness of the Ridd family and the honor of Exmoor. Until now, no one had defeated me, although in the three years of my schooling, I had fought more than sixty battles, leaving blood on every blade of grass around the middle of the Ironing-box. I first owed this success to no skill of my own; until I got better at it, because up to twenty or thirty fights, I struck as instinctively as a spider in a lantern's heat, completely clueless. But I had won, partly due to my natural strength, the toughness of Exmoor in me, and even more so the fact that I couldn't tell when I had had enough. But now I was likely to face that and more; starting with the fact that my heart was low, and then there was Robert Snell, a bigger boy than I had ever faced, just as thick-headed and hard-headed as I could claim to be.
I had never told my mother a word about these frequent strivings, because she was soft-hearted; neither had I told by father, because he had not seen it. Therefore, beholding me still an innocent-looking child, with fair curls on my forehead, and no store of bad language, John Fry thought this was the very first fight that ever had befallen me; and so when they let him at the gate, “with a message to the headmaster,” as one of the monitors told Cop, and Peggy and Smiler were tied to the railings, till I should be through my business, John comes up to me with the tears in his eyes, and says, “Doon't thee goo for to do it, Jan; doon't thee do it, for gude now.” But I told him that now it was much too late to cry off; so he said, “The Lord be with thee, Jan, and turn thy thumb-knuckle inwards.”
I had never mentioned these frequent struggles to my mother because she was gentle-hearted; nor had I told my father since he hadn’t noticed. So, seeing me still an innocent-looking child with fair curls on my forehead and no bad language, John Fry thought this was the very first fight I had ever faced. When they let him in at the gate “with a message to the headmaster,” as one of the monitors told Cop, and Peggy and Smiler were tied to the railings until I finished my business, John came up to me with tears in his eyes and said, “Don’t go through with it, Jan; please don’t do it, for goodness’ sake.” But I told him it was way too late to back out now, so he said, “The Lord be with you, Jan, and turn your thumb-knuckle inward.”
It was not a very large piece of ground in the angle of the causeways, but quite big enough to fight upon, especially for Christians, who loved to be cheek by jowl at it. The great boys stood in a circle around, being gifted with strong privilege, and the little boys had leave to lie flat and look through the legs of the great boys. But while we were yet preparing, and the candles hissed in the fog-cloud, old Phoebe, of more than fourscore years, whose room was over the hall-porch, came hobbling out, as she always did, to mar the joy of the conflict. No one ever heeded her, neither did she expect it; but the evil was that two senior boys must always lose the first round of the fight, by having to lead her home again.
It wasn't a very large piece of land at the corner of the causeways, but it was definitely big enough to fight on, especially for Christian kids, who loved to be right up close to each other. The older boys stood in a circle around the area, feeling important, while the younger boys were allowed to lie flat and peek through the legs of the older boys. But while we were still getting ready, and the candles hissed in the fog, old Phoebe, who was over eighty and lived above the hall-porch, came hobbling out, as she always did, to spoil the fun of the fight. No one ever paid her any attention, nor did she expect them to; but the downside was that two of the older boys always ended up losing the first round of the fight because they had to take her home again.
I marvel how Robin Snell felt. Very likely he thought nothing of it, always having been a boy of a hectoring and unruly sort. But I felt my heart go up and down as the boys came round to strip me; and greatly fearing to be beaten, I blew hot upon my knuckles. Then pulled I off my little cut jerkin, and laid it down on my head cap, and over that my waistcoat, and a boy was proud to take care of them. Thomas Hooper was his name, and I remember how he looked at me. My mother had made that little cut jerkin, in the quiet winter evenings. And taken pride to loop it up in a fashionable way, and I was loth to soil it with blood, and good filberds were in the pocket. Then up to me came Robin Snell (mayor of Exeter thrice since that), and he stood very square, and looking at me, and I lacked not long to look at him. Round his waist he had a kerchief busking up his small-clothes, and on his feet light pumpkin shoes, and all his upper raiment off. And he danced about in a way that made my head swim on my shoulders, and he stood some inches over me. But I, being muddled with much doubt about John Fry and his errand, was only stripped of my jerkin and waistcoat, and not comfortable to begin.
I wonder what Robin Snell was feeling. He probably didn’t think much of it, since he was always the loud and wild type of boy. But my heart was racing as the other boys came around to take off my clothes; I was really scared of getting beaten, so I warmed up my knuckles. Then I took off my little cut jerkin and placed it on my cap, along with my waistcoat, and a boy was happy to look after them. His name was Thomas Hooper, and I remember how he looked at me. My mom had made that little cut jerkin during quiet winter evenings, and she took pride in tying it up in a stylish way. I really didn’t want to get it dirty with blood, especially since I had some nice hazelnuts in the pocket. Then Robin Snell came up to me (he’s been the mayor of Exeter three times since then), standing very confidently and looking straight at me, and I didn’t take long to look back at him. He had a kerchief around his waist holding up his pants, light shoes on his feet, and he was shirtless. He was dancing around in a way that made my head spin, and he was taller than me by a few inches. But I, feeling confused and worried about John Fry and what he was up to, had only taken off my jerkin and waistcoat, not exactly ready to start.
“Come now, shake hands,” cried a big boy, jumping in joy of the spectacle, a third-former nearly six feet high; “shake hands, you little devils. Keep your pluck up, and show good sport, and Lord love the better man of you.”
“Come on, shake hands,” yelled a big kid, jumping with excitement at the scene, a third-grader nearly six feet tall; “shake hands, you little rascals. Stay strong and show good sportsmanship, and may the best man win.”
Robin took me by the hand, and gazed at me disdainfully, and then smote me painfully in the face, ere I could get my fence up.
Robin grabbed my hand, looked at me with disdain, and then hit me hard in the face before I could defend myself.
“Whutt be 'bout, lad?” cried John Fry; “hutt un again, Jan, wull 'e? Well done then, our Jan boy.”
“What's it about, kid?” shouted John Fry; “do it again, Jan, will you? Good job then, our Jan boy.”
For I had replied to Robin now, with all the weight and cadence of penthemimeral caesura (a thing, the name of which I know, but could never make head nor tail of it), and the strife began in a serious style, and the boys looking on were not cheated. Although I could not collect their shouts when the blows were ringing upon me, it was no great loss; for John Fry told me afterwards that their oaths went up like a furnace fire. But to these we paid no heed or hap, being in the thick of swinging, and devoid of judgment. All I know is, I came to my corner, when the round was over, with very hard pumps in my chest, and a great desire to fall away.
For I had answered Robin now, with all the weight and rhythm of a dramatic pause (which I know the name of, but could never really understand), and the fight started in a serious way, and the boys watching were not misled. Even though I couldn’t make out their cheers while the punches were landing on me, it didn’t really matter; John Fry told me later that their curses were rising like a furnace fire. But we paid no attention to that, being caught up in the heat of the moment, and lacking any sense. All I know is, I got to my corner when the round ended, feeling very out of breath and a strong urge to collapse.
“Time is up,” cried head-monitor, ere ever I got my breath again; and when I fain would have lingered awhile on the knee of the boy that held me. John Fry had come up, and the boys were laughing because he wanted a stable lanthorn, and threatened to tell my mother.
“Time’s up,” shouted the head monitor before I could catch my breath; and when I wanted to stay a bit longer on the knee of the boy holding me. John Fry had come over, and the boys were laughing because he wanted a stable lantern and threatened to tell my mom.
“Time is up,” cried another boy, more headlong than head-monitor. “If we count three before the come of thee, thwacked thou art, and must go to the women.” I felt it hard upon me. He began to count, one, too, three—but before the “three” was out of his mouth, I was facing my foe, with both hands up, and my breath going rough and hot, and resolved to wait the turn of it. For I had found seat on the knee of a boy sage and skilled to tutor me, who knew how much the end very often differs from the beginning. A rare ripe scholar he was; and now he hath routed up the Germans in the matter of criticism. Sure the clever boys and men have most love towards the stupid ones.
“Time's up,” shouted another boy, more eager than authoritative. “If we count to three before you come, you’re done for and have to go to the girls.” It felt like a lot to handle. He started counting, “One, two, three”—but before he finished saying “three,” I was already facing my opponent, hands up, breathing heavily and determined to wait it out. I had found myself on the lap of a wise boy who was great at teaching me, someone who understood that the end often turns out very differently from the beginning. He was a rare and knowledgeable scholar, and now he has outsmarted the Germans when it comes to criticism. It’s true that the smart boys and men tend to love the less clever ones the most.
“Finish him off, Bob,” cried a big boy, and that I noticed especially, because I thought it unkind of him, after eating of my toffee as he had that afternoon; “finish him off, neck and crop; he deserves it for sticking up to a man like you.”
“Finish him off, Bob,” shouted a big kid, and I noticed it, especially because I thought it was rude of him after enjoying my toffee that afternoon; “finish him off, completely; he deserves it for standing up to a guy like you.”
But I was not so to be finished off, though feeling in my knuckles now as if it were a blueness and a sense of chilblain. Nothing held except my legs, and they were good to help me. So this bout, or round, if you please, was foughten warily by me, with gentle recollection of what my tutor, the clever boy, had told me, and some resolve to earn his praise before I came back to his knee again. And never, I think, in all my life, sounded sweeter words in my ears (except when my love loved me) than when my second and backer, who had made himself part of my doings now, and would have wept to see me beaten, said,—
But I wasn’t done for yet, even though I could feel a numbness in my knuckles, almost like they were frostbitten. The only thing that still worked were my legs, and they were strong enough to help me. So I fought this round carefully, keeping in mind what my smart tutor had told me, and I was determined to earn his praise before I returned to him. And I don’t think I’ve ever heard sweeter words in my life (except when my love was with me) than when my supporter, who had become part of my fight and would have cried to see me lose, said,—
“Famously done, Jack, famously! Only keep your wind up, Jack, and you'll go right through him!”
“Great job, Jack, great job! Just make sure to keep your energy up, Jack, and you’ll get right past him!”
Meanwhile John Fry was prowling about, asking the boys what they thought of it, and whether I was like to be killed, because of my mother's trouble. But finding now that I had foughten three-score fights already, he came up to me woefully, in the quickness of my breathing, while I sat on the knee of my second, with a piece of spongious coralline to ease me of my bloodshed, and he says in my ears, as if he was clapping spurs into a horse,—
Meanwhile, John Fry was wandering around, asking the boys what they thought about it and whether I was likely to be killed because of my mother's worries. But realizing then that I had already fought in sixty battles, he approached me with a worried expression, as I was catching my breath while sitting on my second's knee, holding a piece of soft coral to help with my wounds, and he whispered in my ear, as if he was urging a horse forward,—
“Never thee knack under, Jan, or never coom naigh Hexmoor no more.”
“Never go under, Jan, or never come near Hexmoor again.”
With that it was all up with me. A simmering buzzed in my heavy brain, and a light came through my eyeplaces. At once I set both fists again, and my heart stuck to me like cobbler's wax. Either Robin Snell should kill me, or I would conquer Robin Snell. So I went in again with my courage up, and Bob came smiling for victory, and I hated him for smiling. He let at me with his left hand, and I gave him my right between his eyes, and he blinked, and was not pleased with it. I feared him not, and spared him not, neither spared myself. My breath came again, and my heart stood cool, and my eyes struck fire no longer. Only I knew that I would die sooner than shame my birthplace. How the rest of it was I know not; only that I had the end of it, and helped to put Robin in bed.
With that, it was all over for me. A low buzz filled my heavy head, and a light pierced through my eyes. I set both fists again, and my heart felt like it was stuck to me with glue. Either Robin Snell would kill me, or I would take him down. So I charged in again, feeling brave, and Bob came at me smiling for victory, which made me hate him even more. He swung at me with his left hand, and I hit him with my right between the eyes, and he blinked, clearly not pleased. I didn't fear him, nor did I hold back, and I didn't spare myself either. I caught my breath again, my heart was steady, and my eyes no longer sparked with anger. All I knew was that I'd rather die than bring shame to my hometown. I don’t remember the rest; all I know is that I got to the end of it and helped put Robin to bed.
CHAPTER III
THE WAR-PATH OF THE DOONES
From Tiverton town to the town of Oare is a very long and painful road, and in good truth the traveller must make his way, as the saying is; for the way is still unmade, at least, on this side of Dulverton, although there is less danger now than in the time of my schooling; for now a good horse may go there without much cost of leaping, but when I was a boy the spurs would fail, when needed most, by reason of the slough-cake. It is to the credit of this age, and our advance upon fatherly ways, that now we have laid down rods and fagots, and even stump-oaks here and there, so that a man in good daylight need not sink, if he be quite sober. There is nothing I have striven at more than doing my duty, way-warden over Exmoor.
The road from Tiverton to Oare is really long and challenging, and honestly, a traveler has to make an effort, as the saying goes; because the road is still rough, at least on this side of Dulverton. However, it’s less dangerous now than it was when I was in school; nowadays, a good horse can make it through without too much trouble, but when I was a kid, the spurs would often fail right when you needed them most because of the muddy conditions. It’s a positive sign of this age and our progress from the past that we’ve set down poles and bundles of branches, and even stump-oaks here and there, so that a person in good daylight doesn’t have to worry about sinking, as long as they’re completely sober. There’s nothing I've worked harder at than fulfilling my duties as way-warden over Exmoor.
But in those days, when I came from school (and good times they were, too, full of a warmth and fine hearth-comfort, which now are dying out), it was a sad and sorry business to find where lay the highway. We are taking now to mark it off with a fence on either side, at least, when a town is handy; but to me this seems of a high pretence, and a sort of landmark, and channel for robbers, though well enough near London, where they have earned a race-course.
But back then, when I came home from school (and those were good times, full of warmth and cozy comfort that are now fading away), it was a tough task to figure out where the highway was. Nowadays, we’re starting to line it with a fence on both sides, at least when there’s a town nearby; but to me, that feels pretty pretentious, like a landmark and a route for thieves, even though it's not too far from London, where they’ve created a racecourse.
We left the town of the two fords, which they say is the meaning of it, very early in the morning, after lying one day to rest, as was demanded by the nags, sore of foot and foundered. For my part, too, I was glad to rest, having aches all over me, and very heavy bruises; and we lodged at the sign of the White Horse Inn, in the street called Gold Street, opposite where the souls are of John and Joan Greenway, set up in gold letters, because we must take the homeward way at cockcrow of the morning. Though still John Fry was dry with me of the reason of his coming, and only told lies about father, and could not keep them agreeable, I hoped for the best, as all boys will, especially after a victory. And I thought, perhaps father had sent for me because he had a good harvest, and the rats were bad in the corn-chamber.
We left the town of the two fords, which is said to be its meaning, very early in the morning after spending a day resting, as the horses needed it due to sore feet and exhaustion. I was also glad to rest, feeling achy all over and covered in bruises; we stayed at the White Horse Inn on Gold Street, right across from the memorials of John and Joan Greenway, which are displayed in gold letters, since we had to head home at dawn. Yet, John Fry remained tight-lipped about why he had come, only making up stories about my father that didn't quite add up. Still, I hoped for the best, as all boys do, especially after a victory. I thought maybe my father had sent for me because he had a good harvest and was dealing with a rat problem in the corn chamber.
It was high noon before we were got to Dulverton that day, near to which town the river Exe and its big brother Barle have union. My mother had an uncle living there, but we were not to visit his house this time, at which I was somewhat astonished, since we needs must stop for at least two hours, to bait our horses thorough well, before coming to the black bogway. The bogs are very good in frost, except where the hot-springs rise; but as yet there had been no frost this year, save just enough to make the blackbirds look big in the morning. In a hearty black-frost they look small, until the snow falls over them.
It was noon when we finally arrived in Dulverton that day, close to where the river Exe meets its bigger counterpart, the Barle. My mother had an uncle who lived there, but we weren’t going to visit him this time, which surprised me since we needed to stop for at least two hours to properly rest our horses before tackling the black bog road. The bogs are pretty solid in frost, except where the hot springs bubble up; however, there had been no frost this year, just enough to make the blackbirds appear larger in the morning. During a strong frost, they look smaller until the snow covers them.
The road from Bampton to Dulverton had not been very delicate, yet nothing to complain of much—no deeper, indeed, than the hocks of a horse, except in the rotten places. The day was inclined to be mild and foggy, and both nags sweated freely; but Peggy carrying little weight (for my wardrobe was upon Smiler, and John Fry grumbling always), we could easily keep in front, as far as you may hear a laugh.
The road from Bampton to Dulverton wasn’t too rough, really—nothing to complain about, just a bit muddy in some spots. The day was kind of mild and foggy, and both horses were sweating a lot; but since Peggy wasn’t carrying much weight (my clothes were on Smiler, and John Fry was always grumbling), we could easily stay ahead, at least as far as you could hear a laugh.
John had been rather bitter with me, which methought was a mark of ill taste at coming home for the holidays; and yet I made allowance for John, because he had never been at school, and never would have chance to eat fry upon condition of spelling it; therefore I rode on, thinking that he was hard-set, like a saw, for his dinner, and would soften after tooth-work. And yet at his most hungry times, when his mind was far gone upon bacon, certes he seemed to check himself and look at me as if he were sorry for little things coming over great.
John had been pretty bitter with me, which I thought was a sign of bad manners when coming home for the holidays; still, I made some allowances for John since he had never been to school and would never get the chance to eat fry, provided he could spell it. So, I kept riding on, thinking he was really hungry for his dinner and would ease up after some food. Yet, even during his most hungry moments, when he was clearly daydreaming about bacon, he seemed to hold back and look at me as if he regretted letting small things overshadow the bigger picture.
But now, at Dulverton, we dined upon the rarest and choicest victuals that ever I did taste. Even now, at my time of life, to think of it gives me appetite, as once and awhile to think of my first love makes me love all goodness. Hot mutton pasty was a thing I had often heard of from very wealthy boys and men, who made a dessert of dinner; and to hear them talk of it made my lips smack, and my ribs come inwards.
But now, at Dulverton, we ate the most exceptional and delicious food I've ever tasted. Even now, at my age, just thinking about it makes me hungry, like thinking about my first love sometimes makes me appreciate all that's good. Hot mutton pie was something I had often heard about from wealthy boys and men, who treated dessert as part of dinner; just hearing them talk about it made my mouth water and left me wanting more.
And now John Fry strode into the hostel, with the air and grace of a short-legged man, and shouted as loud as if he was calling sheep upon Exmoor,—
And now John Fry walked into the hostel, carrying himself with the confidence and style of a short man, and shouted as loudly as if he were calling sheep on Exmoor,—
“Hot mooton pasty for twoo trarv'lers, at number vaive, in vaive minnits! Dish un up in the tin with the grahvy, zame as I hardered last Tuesday.”
“Hot meat pie for two travelers, at number five, in five minutes! Serve it up in the tin with the gravy, just like I ordered last Tuesday.”
Of course it did not come in five minutes, nor yet in ten or twenty; but that made it all the better when it came to the real presence; and the smell of it was enough to make an empty man thank God for the room there was inside him. Fifty years have passed me quicker than the taste of that gravy.
Of course it didn't arrive in five minutes, or even ten or twenty; but that made it all the more satisfying when it finally showed up; and the aroma alone was enough to make a hungry man thank God for the space within him. Fifty years have gone by faster than the flavor of that gravy.
It is the manner of all good boys to be careless of apparel, and take no pride in adornment. Good lack, if I see a boy make to do about the fit of his crumpler, and the creasing of his breeches, and desire to be shod for comeliness rather than for use, I cannot 'scape the mark that God took thought to make a girl of him. Not so when they grow older, and court the regard of the maidens; then may the bravery pass from the inside to the outside of them; and no bigger fools are they, even then, than their fathers were before them. But God forbid any man to be a fool to love, and be loved, as I have been. Else would he have prevented it.
It's typical for good boys to not care about their clothes and not take pride in their appearance. Honestly, when I see a boy fussing over how his pants fit or worrying about the wrinkles in his trousers, wanting to dress nicely instead of practically, I can’t help but think that God intended for him to be a girl. That's not the case when they get older and seek the attention of girls; then their inner beauty may show on the outside too, and they turn out to be just as foolish as their fathers were. But God forbid any man to be a fool in love and to want love, like I have. If He wanted to, He could have stopped it.
When the mutton pasty was done, and Peggy and Smiler had dined well also, out I went to wash at the pump, being a lover of soap and water, at all risk, except of my dinner. And John Fry, who cared very little to wash, save Sabbath days in his own soap, and who had kept me from the pump by threatening loss of the dish, out he came in a satisfied manner, with a piece of quill in his hand, to lean against a door-post, and listen to the horses feeding, and have his teeth ready for supper.
When the mutton pasty was ready and Peggy and Smiler had eaten well too, I stepped outside to wash up at the pump, since I was a fan of soap and water, risking everything except my dinner. John Fry, who didn’t care much about washing except on Sundays with his own soap, had kept me away from the pump by threatening to take my dish. He finally came out looking satisfied, holding a piece of quill, leaning against the doorframe to listen to the horses eating and get ready for supper.
Then a lady's-maid came out, and the sun was on her face, and she turned round to go back again; but put a better face upon it, and gave a trip and hitched her dress, and looked at the sun full body, lest the hostlers should laugh that she was losing her complexion. With a long Italian glass in her fingers very daintily, she came up to the pump in the middle of the yard, where I was running the water off all my head and shoulders, and arms, and some of my breast even, and though I had glimpsed her through the sprinkle, it gave me quite a turn to see her, child as I was, in my open aspect. But she looked at me, no whit abashed, making a baby of me, no doubt, as a woman of thirty will do, even with a very big boy when they catch him on a hayrick, and she said to me in a brazen manner, as if I had been nobody, while I was shrinking behind the pump, and craving to get my shirt on, “Good leetle boy, come hither to me. Fine heaven! how blue your eyes are, and your skin like snow; but some naughty man has beaten it black. Oh, leetle boy, let me feel it. Ah, how then it must have hurt you! There now, and you shall love me.”
Then a lady's maid stepped outside, and the sun shone on her face. She turned to go back but put on a better expression, adjusted her dress, and looked directly at the sun so the stable hands wouldn’t laugh at her for losing her complexion. Holding a long Italian glass delicately in her fingers, she approached the pump in the center of the yard, where I was rinsing the water off my head, shoulders, arms, and even part of my chest. Although I had caught a glimpse of her through the spray, it startled me to see her, especially since I was just a kid and in such an exposed position. But she looked at me without any embarrassment, seeing me as a child, as a woman in her thirties might do, even with a much older boy when they catch him on a haystack. She spoke to me in a bold way, as if I were nobody, while I tried to hide behind the pump, eager to put my shirt back on, “Good little boy, come here to me. Good heavens! your eyes are so blue and your skin like snow; but some naughty man has bruised it. Oh, little boy, let me feel it. Ah, it must have hurt you so! There now, and you shall love me.”
All this time she was touching my breast, here and there, very lightly, with her delicate brown fingers, and I understood from her voice and manner that she was not of this country, but a foreigner by extraction. And then I was not so shy of her, because I could talk better English than she; and yet I longed for my jerkin, but liked not to be rude to her.
All this time she was lightly touching my breast with her delicate brown fingers, and I could tell from her voice and manner that she wasn’t from this country but was a foreigner. I felt less shy around her because I could speak better English than she could, yet I still wanted my jerkin, though I didn’t want to be rude to her.
“If you please, madam, I must go. John Fry is waiting by the tapster's door, and Peggy neighing to me. If you please, we must get home to-night; and father will be waiting for me this side of the telling-house.”
“If you don’t mind, ma'am, I really have to go. John Fry is waiting by the bartender's door, and Peggy is calling for me. If you don’t mind, we need to get home tonight; and Dad will be waiting for me this side of the telling-house.”
“There, there, you shall go, leetle dear, and perhaps I will go after you. I have taken much love of you. But the baroness is hard to me. How far you call it now to the bank of the sea at Wash—Wash—”
“There, there, you’ll go, little dear, and maybe I’ll follow you. I've grown quite fond of you. But the baroness is tough on me. How far do you think it is to the seaside at Wash—Wash—”
“At Watchett, likely you mean, madam. Oh, a very long way, and the roads as soft as the road to Oare.”
“At Watchett, I assume you mean, ma'am. Oh, it's quite a distance, and the roads are as soft as the road to Oare.”
“Oh-ah, oh-ah—I shall remember; that is the place where my leetle boy live, and some day I will come seek for him. Now make the pump to flow, my dear, and give me the good water. The baroness will not touch unless a nebule be formed outside the glass.”
“Oh-ah, oh-ah—I will remember; that's the place where my little boy lives, and someday I will come to find him. Now, make the pump flow, my dear, and give me the good water. The baroness won't touch it unless a bubble forms outside the glass.”
I did not know what she meant by that; yet I pumped for her very heartily, and marvelled to see her for fifty times throw the water away in the trough, as if it was not good enough. At last the water suited her, with a likeness of fog outside the glass, and the gleam of a crystal under it, and then she made a curtsey to me, in a sort of mocking manner, holding the long glass by the foot, not to take the cloud off; and then she wanted to kiss me; but I was out of breath, and have always been shy of that work, except when I come to offer it; and so I ducked under the pump-handle, and she knocked her chin on the knob of it; and the hostlers came out, and asked whether they would do as well.
I didn't understand what she meant by that, but I pumped for her quite enthusiastically and was amazed to watch her throw the water away into the trough over and over, as if it wasn't good enough. Finally, she found the water acceptable, with a foggy appearance outside the glass and the sparkle of a crystal underneath it. Then she curtsied to me in a teasing way, holding the long glass by the stem to avoid removing the cloud, and then she wanted to kiss me. I was out of breath and have always been awkward about that kind of thing, except when I'm the one offering it, so I ducked under the pump handle, and she bumped her chin on the knob. The stable hands came out and asked if they would do just as well.
Upon this, she retreated up the yard, with a certain dark dignity, and a foreign way of walking, which stopped them at once from going farther, because it was so different from the fashion of their sweethearts. One with another they hung back, where half a cart-load of hay was, and they looked to be sure that she would not turn round; and then each one laughed at the rest of them.
Upon this, she stepped back up the yard with a certain dark dignity and a unique way of walking that instantly made them stop in their tracks, as it was so different from how their girlfriends moved. They all hesitated together, lingering by a half cart-load of hay, making sure she wouldn’t turn around; then each one laughed at the others.
Now, up to the end of Dulverton town, on the northward side of it, where the two new pig-sties be, the Oare folk and the Watchett folk must trudge on together, until we come to a broken cross, where a murdered man lies buried. Peggy and Smiler went up the hill, as if nothing could be too much for them, after the beans they had eaten, and suddenly turning a corner of trees, we happened upon a great coach and six horses labouring very heavily. John Fry rode on with his hat in his hand, as became him towards the quality; but I was amazed to that degree, that I left my cap on my head, and drew bridle without knowing it.
Now, up to the end of Dulverton town, on the north side, where the two new pig pens are, the Oare people and the Watchett folks have to walk together until we reach a broken cross where a murdered man is buried. Peggy and Smiler went up the hill as if nothing could be too much for them after the beans they had eaten, and suddenly, turning a corner of trees, we came across a large coach with six horses working really hard. John Fry rode on with his hat in his hand, as was proper with the higher-class people; but I was so surprised that I left my cap on my head and stopped my horse without even realizing it.
For in the front seat of the coach, which was half-way open, being of the city-make, and the day in want of air, sate the foreign lady, who had met me at the pump and offered to salute me. By her side was a little girl, dark-haired and very wonderful, with a wealthy softness on her, as if she must have her own way. I could not look at her for two glances, and she did not look at me for one, being such a little child, and busy with the hedges. But in the honourable place sate a handsome lady, very warmly dressed, and sweetly delicate of colour. And close to her was a lively child, two or it may be three years old, bearing a white cockade in his hat, and staring at all and everybody. Now, he saw Peggy, and took such a liking to her, that the lady his mother—if so she were—was forced to look at my pony and me. And, to tell the truth, although I am not of those who adore the high folk, she looked at us very kindly, and with a sweetness rarely found in the women who milk the cows for us.
In the front seat of the coach, which was half-open because it was a city model and the day was warm, sat a foreign lady who had met me at the pump and offered me a greeting. Next to her was a little girl, dark-haired and quite remarkable, with a rich softness about her as if she always got her way. I couldn't look at her for more than two glances, and she didn’t look at me at all, being such a small child and occupied with the hedges. But sitting in the prominent spot was a beautiful lady, warmly dressed and with a delicately lovely complexion. Close to her was a lively child, two or maybe three years old, wearing a white cockade in his hat and staring at everything and everyone. When he saw Peggy, he took such a liking to her that the lady, who I assumed was his mother, had to look at my pony and me. Honestly, even though I don’t usually idolize the upper class, she looked at us with genuine kindness and a sweetness that's rarely found in the women who milk our cows.
Then I took off my cap to the beautiful lady, without asking wherefore; and she put up her hand and kissed it to me, thinking, perhaps, that I looked like a gentle and good little boy; for folk always called me innocent, though God knows I never was that. But now the foreign lady, or lady's maid, as it might be, who had been busy with little dark eyes, turned upon all this going-on, and looked me straight in the face. I was about to salute her, at a distance, indeed, and not with the nicety she had offered to me, but, strange to say, she stared at my eyes as if she had never seen me before, neither wished to see me again. At this I was so startled, such things being out of my knowledge, that I startled Peggy also with the muscle of my legs, and she being fresh from stable, and the mire scraped off with cask-hoop, broke away so suddenly that I could do no more than turn round and lower my cap, now five months old, to the beautiful lady. Soon I overtook John Fry, and asked him all about them, and how it was that we had missed their starting from the hostel. But John would never talk much till after a gallon of cider; and all that I could win out of him was that they were “murdering Papishers,” and little he cared to do with them, or the devil, as they came from. And a good thing for me, and a providence, that I was gone down Dulverton town to buy sweetstuff for Annie, else my stupid head would have gone astray with their great out-coming.
Then I took off my cap to the beautiful lady without asking why, and she raised her hand and kissed it, probably thinking I looked like a kind and good little boy; people always called me innocent, though God knows I never was. But then the foreign lady, or maybe her maid, who had been busy with her little dark eyes, turned to all the commotion and looked me straight in the face. I was about to greet her from a distance, not as formally as she had with me, but strangely, she stared at my eyes as if she had never seen me before and didn't want to see me again. This startled me so much, since I had never encountered such a reaction, that I also startled Peggy with the strength of my legs, and she, fresh from the stable and the mud scraped off with a cask hoop, broke away so suddenly that I could only turn around and lower my cap, now five months old, to the beautiful lady. I soon caught up with John Fry and asked him all about them and how we had missed their departure from the hostel. But John wouldn't say much until he had a gallon of cider, and all I could get from him was that they were “murdering Papishers,” and he had little interest in them or where they came from. It was a good thing for me, and a stroke of luck, that I had gone down to Dulverton town to buy sweets for Annie; otherwise, my foolish mind would have been distracted by their grand appearance.
We saw no more of them after that, but turned into the sideway; and soon had the fill of our hands and eyes to look to our own going. For the road got worse and worse, until there was none at all, and perhaps the purest thing it could do was to be ashamed to show itself. But we pushed on as best we might, with doubt of reaching home any time, except by special grace of God.
We didn't see them again after that, but we took a side path, and soon had enough to occupy our hands and eyes to focus on our own journey. The road kept getting worse until there was no road at all, and maybe the only respectable thing about it was being too ashamed to show itself. But we pressed on as best as we could, doubting we'd get home anytime soon, unless by some special blessing from God.
The fog came down upon the moors as thick as ever I saw it; and there was no sound of any sort, nor a breath of wind to guide us. The little stubby trees that stand here and there, like bushes with a wooden leg to them, were drizzled with a mess of wet, and hung their points with dropping. Wherever the butt-end of a hedgerow came up from the hollow ground, like the withers of a horse, holes of splash were pocked and pimpled in the yellow sand of coneys, or under the dwarf tree's ovens. But soon it was too dark to see that, or anything else, I may say, except the creases in the dusk, where prisoned light crept up the valleys.
The fog settled over the moors thicker than I’ve ever seen; there was no noise at all, and not a whisper of wind to lead us. The short, stumpy trees that stood here and there, like bushes with wooden legs, were soaked with moisture and had drops hanging from their tips. Wherever the end of a hedgerow rose from the low ground, like the spine of a horse, patches of mud were dotted all over the yellow sand of rabbit holes, or beneath the little trees’ nests. But soon it got too dark to see anything, I’d say, except for the outlines in the twilight, where trapped light crept up the valleys.
After awhile even that was gone, and no other comfort left us except to see our horses' heads jogging to their footsteps, and the dark ground pass below us, lighter where the wet was; and then the splash, foot after foot, more clever than we can do it, and the orderly jerk of the tail, and the smell of what a horse is.
After a while, even that was gone, and the only comfort left us was seeing our horses' heads bobbing with each step, and the dark ground sliding beneath us, lighter where it was wet; and then the splash, hoof after hoof, more skillful than we could manage, and the steady flick of the tail, and the scent of a horse.
John Fry was bowing forward with sleep upon his saddle, and now I could no longer see the frizzle of wet upon his beard—for he had a very brave one, of a bright red colour, and trimmed into a whale-oil knot, because he was newly married—although that comb of hair had been a subject of some wonder to me, whether I, in God's good time, should have the like of that, handsomely set with shining beads, small above and large below, from the weeping of the heaven. But still I could see the jog of his hat—a Sunday hat with a top to it—and some of his shoulder bowed out in the mist, so that one could say “Hold up, John,” when Smiler put his foot in. “Mercy of God! where be us now?” said John Fry, waking suddenly; “us ought to have passed hold hash, Jan. Zeen it on the road, have 'ee?”
John Fry was slumping forward, about to fall asleep in his saddle, and I could no longer see the wetness on his beard—he had a bold, bright red beard styled into a whale-oil knot because he was newly married—though I had often wondered if I would ever have a beard like that, beautifully adorned with shiny beads, small on top and larger below, from the rain. But I could still see the tilt of his hat—a Sunday hat with a brim—and some of his shoulder sticking out in the mist, so that it was easy to say, “Hold up, John,” when Smiler stepped in. “Good heavens! Where are we now?” John Fry said, waking abruptly; “We should have passed hold hash, Jan. Did you see it on the road?”
“No indeed, John; no old ash. Nor nothing else to my knowing; nor heard nothing, save thee snoring.”
“No, definitely not, John; no old ash. And nothing else that I know of; I haven't heard anything, except you snoring.”
“Watt a vule thee must be then, Jan; and me myzell no better. Harken, lad, harken!”
“Wow, what a fool you must be then, Jan; and I'm no better myself. Listen, kid, listen!”
We drew our horses up and listened, through the thickness of the air, and with our hands laid to our ears. At first there was nothing to hear, except the panting of the horses and the trickle of the eaving drops from our head-covers and clothing, and the soft sounds of the lonely night, that make us feel, and try not to think. Then there came a mellow noise, very low and mournsome, not a sound to be afraid of, but to long to know the meaning, with a soft rise of the hair. Three times it came and went again, as the shaking of a thread might pass away into the distance; and then I touched John Fry to know that there was something near me.
We pulled our horses to a stop and listened, straining through the humid air, with our hands cupped over our ears. At first, there was nothing to hear except the horses' heavy breathing, the gentle dripping of water from our hats and clothes, and the quiet sounds of the lonely night, which made us feel things we tried not to think about. Then, a soft, mournful noise broke the silence—something not frightening but intriguing, stirring a feeling that raised the hair on our arms. It came and went three times, like a thread fading into the distance; then I nudged John Fry to let him know there was something nearby.
“Doon't 'e be a vule, Jan! Vaine moozick as iver I 'eer. God bless the man as made un doo it.”
“Don’t be a fool, Jan! It’s the same silly music I always hear. God bless the man who made him do it.”
“Have they hanged one of the Doones then, John?”
“Have they hanged one of the Doones, then, John?”
“Hush, lad; niver talk laike o' thiccy. Hang a Doone! God knoweth, the King would hang pretty quick if her did.”
“Hush, kid; never talk like that. Hang a Doone! God knows, the King would hang pretty fast if he did.”
“Then who is it in the chains, John?”
“Then who is in the chains, John?”
I felt my spirit rise as I asked; for now I had crossed Exmoor so often as to hope that the people sometimes deserved it, and think that it might be a lesson to the rogues who unjustly loved the mutton they were never born to. But, of course, they were born to hanging, when they set themselves so high.
I felt my spirits lift as I asked; I had crossed Exmoor so many times that I hoped the people sometimes deserved it and thought it might serve as a lesson to the crooks who unfairly loved the sheep they were never meant to have. But, of course, they were destined for hanging when they set themselves so high.
“It be nawbody,” said John, “vor us to make a fush about. Belong to t'other zide o' the moor, and come staling shape to our zide. Red Jem Hannaford his name. Thank God for him to be hanged, lad; and good cess to his soul for craikin' zo.”
“It’s nobody,” said John, “for us to make a fuss about. He belongs to the other side of the moor and came sneaking over to our side. Red Jem Hannaford is his name. Thank God he’s going to be hanged, lad; and good riddance to his soul for talking like that.”
So the sound of the quiet swinging led us very modestly, as it came and went on the wind, loud and low pretty regularly, even as far as the foot of the gibbet where the four cross-ways are.
So the gentle sound of the quiet swinging guided us subtly, as it came and went on the wind, loud and soft at regular intervals, even to the base of the gallows where the four roads meet.
“Vamous job this here,” cried John, looking up to be sure of it, because there were so many; “here be my own nick on the post. Red Jem, too, and no doubt of him; he do hang so handsome like, and his ribs up laike a horse a'most. God bless them as discoovered the way to make a rogue so useful. Good-naight to thee, Jem, my lad; and not break thy drames with the craikin'.”
“Great job here,” cried John, looking up to make sure, because there were so many; “here’s my own name on the post. Red Jem, too, no doubt about it; he hangs so nicely, and his ribs are almost like a horse’s. God bless those who found a way to make a scoundrel so useful. Good night to you, Jem, my friend; and don’t ruin your dreams with the noise.”
John Fry shook his bridle-arm, and smote upon Smiler merrily, as he jogged into the homeward track from the guiding of the body. But I was sorry for Red Jem, and wanted to know more about him, and whether he might not have avoided this miserable end, and what his wife and children thought of it, if, indeed, he had any.
John Fry shook his arm holding the reins and patted Smiler happily as he started the way home. But I felt sorry for Red Jem and wanted to learn more about him, whether he could have escaped this sad fate, and what his wife and kids thought about it, if he had any.
But John would talk no more about it; and perhaps he was moved with a lonesome feeling, as the creaking sound came after us.
But John wouldn’t say anything more about it; maybe he felt a bit lonely as the creaking sound followed us.
“Hould thee tongue, lad,' he said sharply; 'us be naigh the Doone-track now, two maile from Dunkery Beacon hill, the haighest place of Hexmoor. So happen they be abroad to-naight, us must crawl on our belly-places, boy.”
“Shut your mouth, kid,” he said sharply. “We're close to the Doone track now, two miles from Dunkery Beacon Hill, the highest point of Hexmoor. They might be out tonight, so we have to crawl on our bellies, boy.”
I knew at once what he meant—those bloody Doones of Bagworthy, the awe of all Devon and Somerset, outlaws, traitors, murderers. My little legs began to tremble to and fro upon Peggy's sides, as I heard the dead robber in chains behind us, and thought of the live ones still in front.
I immediately understood what he meant—those notorious Doones of Bagworthy, feared throughout Devon and Somerset, outlaws, traitors, murderers. My little legs started to shake on Peggy's sides as I heard the dead robber in chains behind us and thought about the live ones still in front.
“But, John,” I whispered warily, sidling close to his saddle-bow; “dear John, you don't think they will see us in such a fog as this?”
“But, John,” I whispered cautiously, moving closer to his saddle; “dear John, you don't think they'll spot us in this thick fog, do you?”
“Never God made vog as could stop their eyesen,” he whispered in answer, fearfully; “here us be by the hollow ground. Zober, lad, goo zober now, if thee wish to see thy moother.”
“Never did God create a fog that could stop their eyes,” he whispered in response, fearfully; “we are here by the hollow ground. Zober, boy, go sober now, if you want to see your mother.”
For I was inclined, in the manner of boys, to make a run of the danger, and cross the Doone-track at full speed; to rush for it, and be done with it. But even then I wondered why he talked of my mother so, and said not a word of father.
For I was tempted, like boys often are, to take a risk and dash across the Doone-track as fast as I could; to go for it and get it over with. But even then, I found myself wondering why he spoke of my mother that way and didn't say anything about my father.
We were come to a long deep “goyal,” as they call it on Exmoor, a word whose fountain and origin I have nothing to do with. Only I know that when little boys laughed at me at Tiverton, for talking about a “goyal,” a big boy clouted them on the head, and said that it was in Homer, and meant the hollow of the hand. And another time a Welshman told me that it must be something like the thing they call a “pant” in those parts. Still I know what it means well enough—to wit, a long trough among wild hills, falling towards the plain country, rounded at the bottom, perhaps, and stiff, more than steep, at the sides of it. Whether it be straight or crooked, makes no difference to it.
We had arrived at a long, deep “goyal,” as they call it on Exmoor, a word whose source and meaning I’m not concerned with. I just remember that when some little boys laughed at me in Tiverton for mentioning a “goyal,” a bigger boy whacked them on the head and said it was in Homer and meant the hollow of the hand. One time, a Welshman told me it probably referred to something similar to what they call a “pant” in those parts. Still, I understand what it means well enough—it’s a long trough among rugged hills, sloping down toward the flatlands, rounded at the bottom and more upright than steep on the sides. Whether it's straight or crooked doesn’t really matter.
We rode very carefully down our side, and through the soft grass at the bottom, and all the while we listened as if the air was a speaking-trumpet. Then gladly we breasted our nags to the rise, and were coming to the comb of it, when I heard something, and caught John's arm, and he bent his hand to the shape of his ear. It was the sound of horses' feet knocking up through splashy ground, as if the bottom sucked them. Then a grunting of weary men, and the lifting noise of stirrups, and sometimes the clank of iron mixed with the wheezy croning of leather and the blowing of hairy nostrils.
We rode carefully down our side and through the soft grass at the bottom, listening as if the air were a speaker. Then, excitedly, we urged our horses up the incline and were nearing the top when I heard something and grabbed John's arm. He cupped his hand to his ear. It was the sound of horses' hooves squelching in the muddy ground, as if the earth were pulling them in. Then I heard tired men grunting, the sound of stirrups being lifted, and sometimes the clinking of metal mixed with the wheezy creaking of leather and the snorting of hairy nostrils.
“God's sake, Jack, slip round her belly, and let her go where she wull.”
“Come on, Jack, just slide around her belly and let her go wherever she wants.”
As John Fry whispered, so I did, for he was off Smiler by this time; but our two pads were too fagged to go far, and began to nose about and crop, sniffing more than they need have done. I crept to John's side very softly, with the bridle on my arm.
As John Fry whispered, I followed his lead since he was off Smiler by this time; however, our two horses were too exhausted to go far, and they started to wander and graze, sniffing more than necessary. I quietly crept to John's side, with the bridle on my arm.
“Let goo braidle; let goo, lad. Plaise God they take them for forest-ponies, or they'll zend a bullet through us.”
“Let go, brother; let go, man. God willing, they’ll think they’re just wild horses, or they’ll shoot us.”
I saw what he meant, and let go the bridle; for now the mist was rolling off, and we were against the sky-line to the dark cavalcade below us. John lay on the ground by a barrow of heather, where a little gullet was, and I crept to him, afraid of the noise I made in dragging my legs along, and the creak of my cord breeches. John bleated like a sheep to cover it—a sheep very cold and trembling.
I understood what he was saying and released the reins; the mist was lifting, revealing the dark group below us against the skyline. John was lying on the ground by a mound of heather, near a small stream, and I cautiously moved toward him, worried about the noise I made dragging my legs and the creaking of my corduroy pants. John let out a bleat like a cold, shivering sheep to mask the sound.
Then just as the foremost horseman passed, scarce twenty yards below us, a puff of wind came up the glen, and the fog rolled off before it. And suddenly a strong red light, cast by the cloud-weight downwards, spread like fingers over the moorland, opened the alleys of darkness, and hung on the steel of the riders.
Then, just as the leading horseman passed, barely twenty yards below us, a gust of wind came up the valley, and the fog cleared away before it. Suddenly, a bright red light, cast down by the heavy clouds, spread like fingers over the moorland, revealing the dark areas and glinting off the riders' metal.
“Dunkery Beacon,” whispered John, so close into my ear, that I felt his lips and teeth ashake; “dursn't fire it now except to show the Doones way home again, since the naight as they went up and throwed the watchmen atop of it. Why, wutt be 'bout, lad? God's sake—”
“Dunkery Beacon,” whispered John, so close to my ear that I could feel his lips and teeth tremble; “I can’t light it now except to show the Doones the way home again, ever since that night when they went up and threw the watchmen off it. Why, what’s wrong, man? For God’s sake—”
For I could keep still no longer, but wriggled away from his arm, and along the little gullet, still going flat on my breast and thighs, until I was under a grey patch of stone, with a fringe of dry fern round it; there I lay, scarce twenty feet above the heads of the riders, and I feared to draw my breath, though prone to do it with wonder.
For I couldn't stay still any longer, so I wriggled out from under his arm and crawled along the narrow passage, still lying flat on my stomach and thighs, until I was underneath a grey patch of stone, surrounded by a fringe of dry ferns; there I lay, barely twenty feet above the heads of the riders, and I was afraid to breathe, even though I wanted to out of amazement.
For now the beacon was rushing up, in a fiery storm to heaven, and the form of its flame came and went in the folds, and the heavy sky was hovering. All around it was hung with red, deep in twisted columns, and then a giant beard of fire streamed throughout the darkness. The sullen hills were flanked with light, and the valleys chined with shadow, and all the sombrous moors between awoke in furrowed anger.
For now, the beacon was shooting up into the sky like a fiery storm, its flames flickering in waves, while the heavy sky loomed above. All around it were deep red hues draped in twisted columns, and then a massive stream of fire flowed through the darkness. The gloomy hills were lit up, and the valleys were cloaked in shadow, while all the dark moors in between stirred with a furrowed rage.
But most of all the flinging fire leaped into the rocky mouth of the glen below me, where the horsemen passed in silence, scarcely deigning to look round. Heavy men and large of stature, reckless how they bore their guns, or how they sate their horses, with leathern jerkins, and long boots, and iron plates on breast and head, plunder heaped behind their saddles, and flagons slung in front of them; I counted more than thirty pass, like clouds upon red sunset. Some had carcasses of sheep swinging with their skins on, others had deer, and one had a child flung across his saddle-bow. Whether the child were dead, or alive, was more than I could tell, only it hung head downwards there, and must take the chance of it. They had got the child, a very young one, for the sake of the dress, no doubt, which they could not stop to pull off from it; for the dress shone bright, where the fire struck it, as if with gold and jewels. I longed in my heart to know most sadly what they would do with the little thing, and whether they would eat it.
But most of all, the blazing fire jumped into the rocky mouth of the valley below me, where the horsemen passed in silence, hardly bothering to look around. They were heavyset men, tall and reckless with their guns or how they sat on their horses, wearing leather jackets, long boots, and iron plates on their chests and heads, with loot piled behind their saddles and flagons hanging in front of them. I counted more than thirty ride by, like clouds against a red sunset. Some had sheep carcasses swinging, still skinned, while others carried deer, and one had a child thrown across his saddle. I couldn’t tell if the child was dead or alive, but it hung upside down there, taking its chances. They had taken the kid, a very young one, for the clothing, no doubt, which they didn’t stop to take off; the outfit shimmered brightly where the fire hit it, as if it were made of gold and jewels. I deeply longed to know what they would do with the little one and whether they intended to eat it.
It touched me so to see that child, a prey among those vultures, that in my foolish rage and burning I stood up and shouted to them leaping on a rock, and raving out of all possession. Two of them turned round, and one set his carbine at me, but the other said it was but a pixie, and bade him keep his powder. Little they knew, and less thought I, that the pixie then before them would dance their castle down one day.
It really moved me to see that child, a target among those vultures, that in my foolish anger and rage, I stood up and shouted at them, climbing onto a rock, completely losing my mind. Two of them turned around, and one aimed his gun at me, but the other told him it was just a pixie and advised him to save his ammo. Little did they know, and even less did I realize, that the pixie standing before them would one day bring their castle down.
John Fry, who in the spring of fright had brought himself down from Smiler's side, as if he were dipped in oil, now came up to me, all risk being over, cross, and stiff, and aching sorely from his wet couch of heather.
John Fry, who in the spring of fear had come down from Smiler's side, as if he were covered in oil, now approached me, all danger passed, grumpy, stiff, and sore from his damp bed of heather.
“Small thanks to thee, Jan, as my new waife bain't a widder. And who be you to zupport of her, and her son, if she have one? Zarve thee right if I was to chuck thee down into the Doone-track. Zim thee'll come to un, zooner or later, if this be the zample of thee.”
“Thanks a lot, Jan, since my new wife isn’t a widow. And who are you to support her and her son, if she has one? You'd deserve it if I threw you down into the Doone-track. I’m sure you’ll come to us sooner or later, if this is how you behave.”
And that was all he had to say, instead of thanking God! For if ever born man was in a fright, and ready to thank God for anything, the name of that man was John Fry not more than five minutes agone.
And that was all he had to say, instead of thanking God! Because if any man had ever been scared and ready to thank God for anything, that man was John Fry just five minutes ago.
However, I answered nothing at all, except to be ashamed of myself; and soon we found Peggy and Smiler in company, well embarked on the homeward road, and victualling where the grass was good. Right glad they were to see us again—not for the pleasure of carrying, but because a horse (like a woman) lacks, and is better without, self-reliance.
However, I didn't say anything at all, just felt embarrassed; and soon we found Peggy and Smiler together, happily on the way home and feeding where the grass was nice. They were really glad to see us again—not for the joy of carrying, but because a horse (like a woman) is weak and better off without self-reliance.
My father never came to meet us, at either side of the telling-house, neither at the crooked post, nor even at home-linhay although the dogs kept such a noise that he must have heard us. Home-side of the linhay, and under the ashen hedge-row, where father taught me to catch blackbirds, all at once my heart went down, and all my breast was hollow. There was not even the lanthorn light on the peg against the cow's house, and nobody said “Hold your noise!” to the dogs, or shouted “Here our Jack is!”
My dad never came to see us, whether at the storytelling house, by the crooked post, or even at the linhay at home, even though the dogs were making such a racket that he must have heard us. On the home side of the linhay, under the ash hedge, where my dad taught me to catch blackbirds, I suddenly felt my heart sink, and I felt completely empty. There wasn't even a lantern light on the hook by the cow shed, and no one told the dogs to stop barking or called out, "Here comes our Jack!"
I looked at the posts of the gate, in the dark, because they were tall, like father, and then at the door of the harness-room, where he used to smoke his pipe and sing. Then I thought he had guests perhaps—people lost upon the moors—whom he could not leave unkindly, even for his son's sake. And yet about that I was jealous, and ready to be vexed with him, when he should begin to make much of me. And I felt in my pocket for the new pipe which I had brought him from Tiverton, and said to myself, “He shall not have it until to-morrow morning.”
I glanced at the tall gateposts in the dark, like my father, and then at the door of the harness room where he used to smoke his pipe and sing. I figured he might have guests—people lost on the moors—who he couldn’t just leave alone, even for my sake. Still, I felt jealous about that and was ready to be annoyed at him when he started to pay more attention to me. I reached into my pocket for the new pipe I had brought him from Tiverton and told myself, “He’s not getting it until tomorrow morning.”
Woe is me! I cannot tell. How I knew I know not now—only that I slunk away, without a tear, or thought of weeping, and hid me in a saw-pit. There the timber, over-head, came like streaks across me; and all I wanted was to lack, and none to tell me anything.
Woe is me! I can't explain it. How I knew, I don't remember now—just that I crept away, without a tear or thought of crying, and hid in a saw pit. There, the timber above me came down in stripes; and all I wanted was to be alone, with no one to tell me anything.
By-and-by, a noise came down, as of woman's weeping; and there my mother and sister were, choking and holding together. Although they were my dearest loves, I could not bear to look at them, until they seemed to want my help, and put their hands before their eyes.
Before long, I heard a sound that was like a woman's crying, and there were my mother and sister, clutching each other and sobbing. Even though they were my closest loves, I couldn’t bear to look at them until it seemed like they needed my help and covered their eyes with their hands.
CHAPTER IV
A VERY RASH VISIT
My dear father had been killed by the Doones of Bagworthy, while riding home from Porlock market, on the Saturday evening. With him were six brother-farmers, all of them very sober; for father would have no company with any man who went beyond half a gallon of beer, or a single gallon of cider. The robbers had no grudge against him; for he had never flouted them, neither made overmuch of outcry, because they robbed other people. For he was a man of such strict honesty, and due parish feeling, that he knew it to be every man's own business to defend himself and his goods; unless he belonged to our parish, and then we must look after him.
My dear father was killed by the Doones of Bagworthy while riding home from the Porlock market on Saturday evening. He was with six other farmer friends, all of them very sober; my father wouldn't associate with anyone who drank more than half a gallon of beer or a single gallon of cider. The robbers had no personal grudge against him; he never mocked them or made a big deal about their robberies of others. He was a man of such strict honesty and community spirit that he believed it was everyone’s responsibility to defend themselves and their belongings, unless they were part of our parish, in which case we took care of them.
These seven good farmers were jogging along, helping one another in the troubles of the road, and singing goodly hymns and songs to keep their courage moving, when suddenly a horseman stopped in the starlight full across them.
These seven good farmers were jogging along, assisting each other with the challenges of the road, and singing uplifting hymns and songs to keep their spirits high, when suddenly a horseman appeared in the starlight, blocking their path.
By dress and arms they knew him well, and by his size and stature, shown against the glimmer of the evening star; and though he seemed one man to seven, it was in truth one man to one. Of the six who had been singing songs and psalms about the power of God, and their own regeneration—such psalms as went the round, in those days, of the public-houses—there was not one but pulled out his money, and sang small beer to a Doone.
By his outfit and weapons, they recognized him, and by his height and build, highlighted against the shine of the evening star; and although he appeared to be one man against seven, it was really just one man against one. Of the six who had been singing songs and hymns about God's power and their own rebirth—those kinds of hymns that circulated in the pubs back then—not a single one hesitated to pull out their money and toast with cheap beer to a Doone.
But father had been used to think that any man who was comfortable inside his own coat and waistcoat deserved to have no other set, unless he would strike a blow for them. And so, while his gossips doffed their hats, and shook with what was left of them, he set his staff above his head, and rode at the Doone robber. With a trick of his horse, the wild man escaped the sudden onset, although it must have amazed him sadly that any durst resist him. Then when Smiler was carried away with the dash and the weight of my father (not being brought up to battle, nor used to turn, save in plough harness), the outlaw whistled upon his thumb, and plundered the rest of the yeoman. But father, drawing at Smiler's head, to try to come back and help them, was in the midst of a dozen men, who seemed to come out of a turf-rick, some on horse, and some a-foot. Nevertheless, he smote lustily, so far as he could see; and being of great size and strength, and his blood well up, they had no easy job with him. With the play of his wrist, he cracked three or four crowns, being always famous at single-stick; until the rest drew their horses away, and he thought that he was master, and would tell his wife about it.
But Dad believed that any man who was comfortable in his own coat and vest didn't deserve anything more unless he fought for it. So, while his friends took off their hats and shook with what was left of them, he raised his staff above his head and charged at the Doone robber. With a quick move of his horse, the wild man narrowly escaped the sudden attack, though it must have amazed him that anyone would dare to resist him. Then, as Smiler was swept away by the speed and weight of my father (not being trained for battle, nor used to turning except in plow harness), the outlaw whistled on his thumb and raided the rest of the farmers. But Dad, pulling on Smiler's head to try to turn back and help them, found himself surrounded by a dozen men who seemed to emerge from a turf stack, some on horseback and some on foot. Nevertheless, he fought fiercely as far as he could see; being large and strong, and with his adrenaline pumping, they had a tough time taking him down. With a flick of his wrist, he knocked out three or four of them, being well known for his single-stick skills, until the rest pulled their horses away, and he thought he was victorious and would tell his wife about it.
But a man beyond the range of staff was crouching by the peat-stack, with a long gun set to his shoulder, and he got poor father against the sky, and I cannot tell the rest of it. Only they knew that Smiler came home, with blood upon his withers, and father was found in the morning dead on the moor, with his ivy-twisted cudgel lying broken under him. Now, whether this were an honest fight, God judge betwixt the Doones and me.
But a man out of the staff's view was crouching by the peat-stack, with a long gun resting on his shoulder, and he took aim at my poor father against the sky, and I can't tell you what happened after that. All that was clear was that Smiler came back home with blood on his back, and my father was found dead on the moor in the morning, with his ivy-twisted club broken underneath him. Now, whether this was a fair fight, only God can judge between the Doones and me.
It was more of woe than wonder, being such days of violence, that mother knew herself a widow, and her children fatherless. Of children there were only three, none of us fit to be useful yet, only to comfort mother, by making her to work for us. I, John Ridd, was the eldest, and felt it a heavy thing on me; next came sister Annie, with about two years between us; and then the little Eliza.
It was more about sadness than amazement during those violent days, as my mother realized she was a widow and her children were fatherless. There were only three of us kids, none of us able to be of much help yet, only able to comfort our mother by making her work for us. I, John Ridd, was the oldest, and it weighed heavily on me; then there was my sister Annie, who was about two years younger than me; and finally, little Eliza.
Now, before I got home and found my sad loss—and no boy ever loved his father more than I loved mine—mother had done a most wondrous thing, which made all the neighbours say that she must be mad, at least. Upon the Monday morning, while her husband lay unburied, she cast a white hood over her hair, and gathered a black cloak round her, and, taking counsel of no one, set off on foot for the Doone-gate.
Now, before I got home and discovered my heartbreaking loss—and no boy ever loved his father more than I loved mine—my mother did an amazing thing that made all the neighbors say she must be mad, at least. On Monday morning, while her husband lay unburied, she put on a white hood over her hair, wrapped a black cloak around herself, and without consulting anyone, set off on foot for the Doone-gate.
In the early afternoon she came to the hollow and barren entrance, where in truth there was no gate, only darkness to go through. If I get on with this story, I shall have to tell of it by-and-by, as I saw it afterwards; and will not dwell there now. Enough that no gun was fired at her, only her eyes were covered over, and somebody led her by the hand, without any wish to hurt her.
In the early afternoon, she arrived at the empty and desolate entrance, where there was really no gate—just darkness to step into. If I'm going to continue this story, I'll have to discuss it later, as I saw it afterward; I won't focus on it now. It's enough to say that no gun was fired at her; her eyes were simply covered, and someone held her hand, with no intention to harm her.
A very rough and headstrong road was all that she remembered, for she could not think as she wished to do, with the cold iron pushed against her. At the end of this road they delivered her eyes, and she could scarce believe them.
A very rough and stubborn path was all she remembered, because she couldn't think as she wanted to with the cold metal pressed against her. At the end of this path, they handed her back her eyes, and she could hardly believe it.
For she stood at the head of a deep green valley, carved from out the mountains in a perfect oval, with a fence of sheer rock standing round it, eighty feet or a hundred high; from whose brink black wooded hills swept up to the sky-line. By her side a little river glided out from underground with a soft dark babble, unawares of daylight; then growing brighter, lapsed away, and fell into the valley. Then, as it ran down the meadow, alders stood on either marge, and grass was blading out upon it, and yellow tufts of rushes gathered, looking at the hurry. But further down, on either bank, were covered houses built of stone, square and roughly cornered, set as if the brook were meant to be the street between them. Only one room high they were, and not placed opposite each other, but in and out as skittles are; only that the first of all, which proved to be the captain's, was a sort of double house, or rather two houses joined together by a plank-bridge, over the river.
She stood at the edge of a deep green valley, shaped like a perfect oval and surrounded by towering sheer rock cliffs, eighty to a hundred feet high; from where they ended, dark wooded hills rose toward the skyline. Beside her, a small river flowed gently out from underground, making a soft, dark murmur, unaware of the daylight; then it brightened, meandered away, and spilled into the valley. As it moved down the meadow, alders lined both banks, grass was sprouting up, and yellow clumps of rushes swayed, watching the rush of water. Further along, on both sides of the river, there were houses made of stone, square with rough corners, positioned as if the brook was meant to be the street between them. They were only one story tall and not directly across from each other, but staggered like bowling pins; the first one, which turned out to be the captain's, was a sort of double house, or more accurately, two houses connected by a plank bridge over the river.
Fourteen cots my mother counted, all very much of a pattern, and nothing to choose between them, unless it were the captain's. Deep in the quiet valley there, away from noise, and violence, and brawl, save that of the rivulet, any man would have deemed them homes of simple mind and innocence. Yet not a single house stood there but was the home of murder.
Fourteen cots my mother counted, all very similar, and there was nothing to distinguish them, except for the captain's. Deep in the quiet valley, away from noise, violence, and fighting, except for the sound of the stream, anyone would have thought they were homes of simple minds and innocence. Yet not a single house stood there that wasn’t the scene of murder.
Two men led my mother down a steep and gliddery stair-way, like the ladder of a hay-mow; and thence from the break of the falling water as far as the house of the captain. And there at the door they left her trembling, strung as she was, to speak her mind.
Two men guided my mother down a steep and slippery staircase, like the ladder of a hayloft; and from there, they went from the edge of the waterfall all the way to the captain's house. At the door, they left her shaking, ready to share her thoughts.
Now, after all, what right had she, a common farmer's widow, to take it amiss that men of birth thought fit to kill her husband. And the Doones were of very high birth, as all we clods of Exmoor knew; and we had enough of good teaching now—let any man say the contrary—to feel that all we had belonged of right to those above us. Therefore my mother was half-ashamed that she could not help complaining.
Now, after everything, what right did she, a regular farmer's widow, have to be upset that men of status decided to kill her husband? The Doones came from a very noble background, as all of us common folks in Exmoor knew; and we had enough understanding by now—let anyone argue otherwise—to feel that everything we had rightfully belonged to those above us. So, my mother felt a bit ashamed that she couldn’t help but complain.
But after a little while, as she said, remembrance of her husband came, and the way he used to stand by her side and put his strong arm round her, and how he liked his bacon fried, and praised her kindly for it—and so the tears were in her eyes, and nothing should gainsay them.
But after a while, as she mentioned, memories of her husband surfaced, and how he used to stand by her side and wrap his strong arm around her, and how he preferred his bacon fried, always complimenting her for it—and so tears filled her eyes, and nothing could change that.
A tall old man, Sir Ensor Doone, came out with a bill-hook in his hand, hedger's gloves going up his arms, as if he were no better than a labourer at ditch-work. Only in his mouth and eyes, his gait, and most of all his voice, even a child could know and feel that here was no ditch-labourer. Good cause he has found since then, perhaps, to wish that he had been one.
A tall old man, Sir Ensor Doone, walked out with a billhook in his hand, wearing hedger's gloves up to his arms, as if he were just a worker in the ditches. But anyone could see, just by looking at his mouth, eyes, gait, and especially hearing his voice, that he was no ordinary ditchworker. Maybe he has found good reason since then to wish he had been one.
With his white locks moving upon his coat, he stopped and looked down at my mother, and she could not help herself but curtsey under the fixed black gazing.
With his white hair swaying above his coat, he paused and glanced down at my mother, and she couldn't help but curtsey under his intense black stare.
“Good woman, you are none of us. Who has brought you hither? Young men must be young—but I have had too much of this work.”
“Good woman, you’re not one of us. Who brought you here? Young men have to be young—but I’ve had enough of this.”
And he scowled at my mother, for her comeliness; and yet looked under his eyelids as if he liked her for it. But as for her, in her depth of love-grief, it struck scorn upon her womanhood; and in the flash she spoke.
And he frowned at my mother for being attractive; yet, he glanced out from beneath his eyelids as if he appreciated her beauty. But for her, in the depth of her heartache, it felt like a blow to her womanhood; and in that moment, she spoke up.
“What you mean I know not. Traitors! cut-throats! cowards! I am here to ask for my husband.” She could not say any more, because her heart was now too much for her, coming hard in her throat and mouth; but she opened up her eyes at him.
“What you mean, I don't know. Traitors! Cut-throats! Cowards! I'm here to ask for my husband.” She couldn’t say anything more because her heart was overwhelming her, pounding hard in her throat and mouth; but she opened her eyes wide at him.
“Madam,” said Sir Ensor Doone—being born a gentleman, although a very bad one—“I crave pardon of you. My eyes are old, or I might have known. Now, if we have your husband prisoner, he shall go free without ransoms, because I have insulted you.”
“Ma'am,” said Sir Ensor Doone—born a gentleman, though a very poor one—“I apologize to you. My eyes are old, or I might have recognized you. Now, if we have your husband as a prisoner, he will be set free without any ransom, because I have disrespected you.”
“Sir,” said my mother, being suddenly taken away with sorrow, because of his gracious manner, “please to let me cry a bit.”
“Sir,” my mother said, suddenly overwhelmed with sadness because of his kind demeanor, “please let me cry for a moment.”
He stood away, and seemed to know that women want no help for that. And by the way she cried he knew that they had killed her husband. Then, having felt of grief himself, he was not angry with her, but left her to begin again.
He stood back, sensing that women didn't want any help with that. From the way she cried, he understood they had killed her husband. After experiencing grief himself, he didn't feel angry with her, but instead chose to let her start over.
“Loth would I be,” said mother, sobbing with her new red handkerchief, and looking at the pattern of it, “loth indeed, Sir Ensor Doone, to accuse any one unfairly. But I have lost the very best husband God ever gave to a woman; and I knew him when he was to your belt, and I not up to your knee, sir; and never an unkind word he spoke, nor stopped me short in speaking. All the herbs he left to me, and all the bacon-curing, and when it was best to kill a pig, and how to treat the maidens. Not that I would ever wish—oh, John, it seems so strange to me, and last week you were everything.”
"I'm so sorry," said mom, wiping her tears with her new red handkerchief and looking at its design. "I truly would hate to unfairly accuse anyone, Sir Ensor Doone. But I have lost the best husband God ever gave to a woman. I knew him when he was just at your belt height and I was barely up to your knee, sir; he never spoke an unkind word to me or cut me off when I was talking. He taught me everything about the herbs, how to cure bacon, when it was the right time to kill a pig, and how to care for the maidens. Not that I would ever want to—oh, John, it feels so strange to me, and just last week you were my whole world."
Here mother burst out crying again, not loudly, but turning quietly, because she knew that no one now would ever care to wipe the tears. And fifty or a hundred things, of weekly and daily happening, came across my mother, so that her spirit fell like slackening lime.
Here, Mom started crying again, not loudly, but quietly turning away, because she knew that no one would care to wipe her tears anymore. And all sorts of things, from the weekly and daily grind, weighed on my mom, causing her spirit to drop like loosening lime.
“This matter must be seen to; it shall be seen to at once,” the old man answered, moved a little in spite of all his knowledge. “Madam, if any wrong has been done, trust the honour of a Doone; I will redress it to my utmost. Come inside and rest yourself, while I ask about it. What was your good husband's name, and when and where fell this mishap?”
“This needs to be taken care of; I’ll handle it right away,” the old man replied, shifting slightly despite all his wisdom. “Ma’am, if any harm has been done, you can count on the honor of a Doone; I will do everything I can to fix it. Please come inside and rest while I look into it. What was your husband’s name, and when and where did this happen?”
“Deary me,” said mother, as he set a chair for her very polite, but she would not sit upon it; “Saturday morning I was a wife, sir; and Saturday night I was a widow, and my children fatherless. My husband's name was John Ridd, sir, as everybody knows; and there was not a finer or better man in Somerset or Devon. He was coming home from Porlock market, and a new gown for me on the crupper, and a shell to put my hair up—oh, John, how good you were to me!”
"Goodness," said mother, as he pulled out a chair for her very politely, but she refused to sit in it; "On Saturday morning, I was a wife, sir; and Saturday night, I was a widow, and my children were left without a father. My husband's name was John Ridd, sir, as everyone knows; and there wasn't a finer or better man in Somerset or Devon. He was coming home from Porlock market, with a new dress for me on the back, and a shell to put my hair up—oh, John, you were so good to me!"
Of that she began to think again, and not to believe her sorrow, except as a dream from the evil one, because it was too bad upon her, and perhaps she would awake in a minute, and her husband would have the laugh of her. And so she wiped her eyes and smiled, and looked for something.
Of that she started to think again, and didn’t want to accept her sadness, seeing it only as a nightmare brought on by some evil force, because it felt too heavy for her to bear. She thought maybe she would wake up any moment and her husband would be laughing at her. So, she dried her tears, smiled, and looked for something.
“Madam, this is a serious thing,” Sir Ensor Doone said graciously, and showing grave concern: “my boys are a little wild, I know. And yet I cannot think that they would willingly harm any one. And yet—and yet, you do look wronged. Send Counsellor to me,” he shouted, from the door of his house; and down the valley went the call, “Send Counsellor to Captain.”
“Ma'am, this is a serious matter,” Sir Ensor Doone said kindly, showing genuine concern. “I know my boys can be a bit unruly, but I can't believe they would intentionally hurt anyone. Still—and yet, you do seem upset. Send Counsellor to me,” he shouted from the door of his house, and his voice echoed down the valley, “Send Counsellor to Captain.”
Counsellor Doone came in ere yet my mother was herself again; and if any sight could astonish her when all her sense of right and wrong was gone astray with the force of things, it was the sight of the Counsellor. A square-built man of enormous strength, but a foot below the Doone stature (which I shall describe hereafter), he carried a long grey beard descending to the leather of his belt. Great eyebrows overhung his face, like ivy on a pollard oak, and under them two large brown eyes, as of an owl when muting. And he had a power of hiding his eyes, or showing them bright, like a blazing fire. He stood there with his beaver off, and mother tried to look at him, but he seemed not to descry her.
Counsellor Doone came in before my mother was fully herself again; and if anything could surprise her when she had lost her sense of right and wrong due to the heaviness of the situation, it was seeing the Counsellor. He was a solidly built man of great strength, but a foot shorter than the Doones (which I will describe later). He sported a long grey beard that hung down to the leather of his belt. His thick eyebrows loomed over his face like ivy on a pollard oak, and beneath them, he had two large brown eyes that resembled those of an owl in the twilight. He had a knack for either hiding his eyes or making them shine brightly, like a blazing fire. He stood there with his hat off, and my mother tried to look at him, but it seemed as if he didn't notice her.
“Counsellor,” said Sir Ensor Doone, standing back in his height from him, “here is a lady of good repute—”
“Counselor,” said Sir Ensor Doone, standing tall before him, “here is a lady of good reputation—”
“Oh, no, sir; only a woman.”
“Oh, no, sir; just a woman.”
“Allow me, madam, by your good leave. Here is a lady, Counsellor, of great repute in this part of the country, who charges the Doones with having unjustly slain her husband—”
"Excuse me, ma'am, if you don't mind. Here is a lady, Counselor, who is well-respected in this area and accuses the Doones of having wrongfully killed her husband—"
“Murdered him! murdered him!” cried my mother, “if ever there was a murder. Oh, sir! oh, sir! you know it.”
“Murdered him! murdered him!” cried my mother, “if there was ever a murder. Oh, sir! oh, sir! you know it.”
“The perfect rights and truth of the case is all I wish to know,” said the old man, very loftily: “and justice shall be done, madam.”
“The only thing I want to know is the absolute rights and truth of the situation,” said the old man, with great pride. “And justice will be served, ma'am.”
“Oh, I pray you—pray you, sirs, make no matter of business of it. God from Heaven, look on me!”
“Oh, I beg you—please, gentlemen, don’t make a big deal out of it. God in Heaven, look at me!”
“Put the case,” said the Counsellor.
“Present your case,” said the Counsel.
“The case is this,” replied Sir Ensor, holding one hand up to mother: “This lady's worthy husband was slain, it seems, upon his return from the market at Porlock, no longer ago than last Saturday night. Madam, amend me if I am wrong.”
“The situation is this,” replied Sir Ensor, raising one hand to the mother: “This lady's respectable husband was killed, it appears, on his return from the Porlock market, just last Saturday night. Madam, correct me if I'm wrong.”
“No longer, indeed, indeed, sir. Sometimes it seems a twelvemonth, and sometimes it seems an hour.”
“Not anymore, really, sir. Sometimes it feels like a year, and other times it feels like an hour.”
“Cite his name,” said the Counsellor, with his eyes still rolling inwards.
“Say his name,” said the Counsellor, with his eyes still rolling inward.
“Master John Ridd, as I understand. Counsellor, we have heard of him often; a worthy man and a peaceful one, who meddled not with our duties. Now, if any of our boys have been rough, they shall answer it dearly. And yet I can scarce believe it. For the folk about these parts are apt to misconceive of our sufferings, and to have no feeling for us. Counsellor, you are our record, and very stern against us; tell us how this matter was.”
“Master John Ridd, as I understand. Counselor, we’ve heard about him often; a good man and a peaceful one, who doesn’t interfere with our responsibilities. Now, if any of our boys have been disrespectful, they will pay for it. And yet I can hardly believe it. The people around here are quick to misunderstand our struggles and have no empathy for us. Counselor, you are our witness, and very strict against us; tell us how this situation unfolded.”
“Oh, Counsellor!” my mother cried; “Sir Counsellor, you will be fair: I see it in your countenance. Only tell me who it was, and set me face to face with him, and I will bless you, sir, and God shall bless you, and my children.”
“Oh, Counselor!” my mother exclaimed; “Sir Counselor, you are kind: I can see it in your expression. Just tell me who it was, and let me confront him, and I will thank you, sir, and God will bless you, along with my children.”
The square man with the long grey beard, quite unmoved by anything, drew back to the door and spoke, and his voice was like a fall of stones in the bottom of a mine.
The tall man with the long gray beard, completely unfazed by anything, stepped back to the door and spoke, and his voice was like rocks falling at the bottom of a mine.
“Few words will be enow for this. Four or five of our best-behaved and most peaceful gentlemen went to the little market at Porlock with a lump of money. They bought some household stores and comforts at a very high price, and pricked upon the homeward road, away from vulgar revellers. When they drew bridle to rest their horses, in the shelter of a peat-rick, the night being dark and sudden, a robber of great size and strength rode into the midst of them, thinking to kill or terrify. His arrogance and hardihood at the first amazed them, but they would not give up without a blow goods which were on trust with them. He had smitten three of them senseless, for the power of his arm was terrible; whereupon the last man tried to ward his blow with a pistol. Carver, sir, it was, our brave and noble Carver, who saved the lives of his brethren and his own; and glad enow they were to escape. Notwithstanding, we hoped it might be only a flesh-wound, and not to speed him in his sins.”
"Just a few words will do for this. Four or five of our best-behaved and most peaceful gentlemen went to the little market at Porlock with a chunk of money. They bought some household supplies and comforts at a very high price, and made their way home, avoiding rowdy party-goers. When they stopped to rest their horses near a peat stack, with the night being dark and sudden, a robber of significant size and strength rode right into their midst, intending to kill or intimidate. His boldness and confidence initially took them by surprise, but they weren’t about to give up the goods they were entrusted with without a fight. He knocked three of them out cold, as his strength was frightening; then the last man tried to defend himself with a pistol. It was Carver, our brave and noble Carver, who saved both his fellow men and himself; and they were very glad to have escaped. Nevertheless, we hoped it was just a flesh wound and wouldn’t lead him to his doom."
As this atrocious tale of lies turned up joint by joint before her, like a “devil's coach-horse,” * mother was too much amazed to do any more than look at him, as if the earth must open. But the only thing that opened was the great brown eyes of the Counsellor, which rested on my mother's face with a dew of sorrow, as he spoke of sins.
As this awful story of lies unfolded piece by piece in front of her, like a "devil's coach-horse," my mother was so shocked that she could only stare at him, as if the ground should swallow him up. But the only thing that opened was the Counsellor's big brown eyes, which looked at my mother with a glimmer of sadness as he talked about sins.
* The cock-tailed beetle has earned this name in the West of England.
* The cock-tailed beetle got its name in the West of England.
She, unable to bear them, turned suddenly on Sir Ensor, and caught (as she fancied) a smile on his lips, and a sense of quiet enjoyment.
She, unable to tolerate them any longer, suddenly turned to Sir Ensor and thought she caught a smile on his lips, along with a feeling of quiet enjoyment.
“All the Doones are gentlemen,” answered the old man gravely, and looking as if he had never smiled since he was a baby. “We are always glad to explain, madam, any mistake which the rustic people may fall upon about us; and we wish you clearly to conceive that we do not charge your poor husband with any set purpose of robbery, neither will we bring suit for any attainder of his property. Is it not so, Counsellor?”
“All the Doones are gentlemen,” the old man replied seriously, looking as if he hadn’t smiled since he was a baby. “We are always happy to clarify any misunderstandings that the local people may have about us, and we want you to understand that we don’t accuse your poor husband of any intent to rob, nor will we sue for any claim against his property. Isn’t that right, Counselor?”
“Without doubt his land is attainted; unless is mercy you forbear, sir.”
“Without a doubt, his land is cursed; unless you show mercy, sir.”
“Counsellor, we will forbear. Madam, we will forgive him. Like enough he knew not right from wrong, at that time of night. The waters are strong at Porlock, and even an honest man may use his staff unjustly in this unchartered age of violence and rapine.”
“Counselor, we will hold back. Madam, we will forgive him. He probably didn’t know right from wrong at that late hour. The waters are rough at Porlock, and even an honest man might misuse his staff in this uncharted age of violence and robbery.”
The Doones to talk of rapine! Mother's head went round so that she curtseyed to them both, scarcely knowing where she was, but calling to mind her manners. All the time she felt a warmth, as if the right was with her, and yet she could not see the way to spread it out before them. With that, she dried her tears in haste and went into the cold air, for fear of speaking mischief.
The Doones talking about robbery! Mom's head spun so much that she curtsied to both of them, barely aware of her surroundings, but remembering her manners. All the while, she felt a warmth, as if she had the right on her side, yet she couldn’t figure out how to express it to them. With that, she quickly wiped away her tears and stepped out into the cold air, worried about saying something wrong.
But when she was on the homeward road, and the sentinels had charge of her, blinding her eyes, as if she were not blind enough with weeping, some one came in haste behind her, and thrust a heavy leathern bag into the limp weight of her hand.
But when she was on her way home, and the guards were watching over her, blinding her eyes, as if she weren't already blinded by tears, someone hurried up behind her and shoved a heavy leather bag into her weak grip.
“Captain sends you this,” he whispered; “take it to the little ones.”
“Captain sends you this,” he whispered, “take it to the kids.”
But mother let it fall in a heap, as if it had been a blind worm; and then for the first time crouched before God, that even the Doones should pity her.
But Mom let it drop in a pile, like it was a blind worm; and then for the first time, she crouched before God, hoping that even the Doones would feel sorry for her.
CHAPTER V
AN ILLEGAL SETTLEMENT
Good folk who dwell in a lawful land, if any such there be, may for want of exploration, judge our neighbourhood harshly, unless the whole truth is set before them. In bar of such prejudice, many of us ask leave to explain how and why it was the robbers came to that head in the midst of us. We would rather not have had it so, God knows as well as anybody; but it grew upon us gently, in the following manner. Only let all who read observe that here I enter many things which came to my knowledge in later years.
Good people living in a lawful society, if there are any, might judge our area unfairly due to a lack of understanding, unless they see the whole picture. To counter this bias, many of us want to explain how and why the robbers ended up among us. We would have preferred it to be different, as God knows just like everyone else; but it gradually unfolded in the way I will describe. Just let everyone who reads this note that I include many things I learned in later years.
In or about the year of our Lord 1640, when all the troubles of England were swelling to an outburst, great estates in the North country were suddenly confiscated, through some feud of families and strong influence at Court, and the owners were turned upon the world, and might think themselves lucky to save their necks. These estates were in co-heirship, joint tenancy I think they called it, although I know not the meaning, only so that if either tenant died, the other living, all would come to the live one in spite of any testament.
Around the year 1640, when tensions in England were reaching a breaking point, large estates in the North were suddenly seized due to family feuds and powerful influence at Court. The owners were cast into the world and considered themselves fortunate to save their lives. These estates were held in co-ownership, what they called joint tenancy, although I’m not sure what that means. All I know is that if one tenant died while the other was still alive, everything would pass to the surviving one, regardless of any will.
One of the joint owners was Sir Ensor Doone, a gentleman of brisk intellect; and the other owner was his cousin, the Earl of Lorne and Dykemont.
One of the co-owners was Sir Ensor Doone, a man of sharp intellect; and the other owner was his cousin, the Earl of Lorne and Dykemont.
Lord Lorne was some years the elder of his cousin, Ensor Doone, and was making suit to gain severance of the cumbersome joint tenancy by any fair apportionment, when suddenly this blow fell on them by wiles and woman's meddling; and instead of dividing the land, they were divided from it.
Lord Lorne was a few years older than his cousin, Ensor Doone, and he was trying to end the complicated joint ownership with a fair division when suddenly, through tricks and a woman's interference, they found themselves separated from the land instead of sharing it.
The nobleman was still well-to-do, though crippled in his expenditure; but as for the cousin, he was left a beggar, with many to beg from him. He thought that the other had wronged him, and that all the trouble of law befell through his unjust petition. Many friends advised him to make interest at Court; for having done no harm whatever, and being a good Catholic, which Lord Lorne was not, he would be sure to find hearing there, and probably some favour. But he, like a very hot-brained man, although he had long been married to the daughter of his cousin (whom he liked none the more for that), would have nothing to say to any attempt at making a patch of it, but drove away with his wife and sons, and the relics of his money, swearing hard at everybody. In this he may have been quite wrong; probably, perhaps, he was so; but I am not convinced at all but what most of us would have done the same.
The nobleman was still doing well, even though he had to be careful with his spending; but as for the cousin, he was left a beggar, with many people asking him for help. He believed that the other man had wronged him and that all the legal troubles were due to his unjust claim. Many friends advised him to try to get support at Court; since he had done no wrong and was a good Catholic—unlike Lord Lorne—he would likely be heard and might even receive some favor. However, he, being very hot-headed, although he had been married to his cousin's daughter for a long time (whom he still didn’t like any more for that), refused to consider any attempt to mend things. Instead, he left with his wife and sons, taking what little money he had left, cursing at everyone. He might have been completely wrong in this; probably, he was; but I’m not at all convinced that most of us wouldn’t have done the same.
Some say that, in the bitterness of that wrong and outrage, he slew a gentleman of the Court, whom he supposed to have borne a hand in the plundering of his fortunes. Others say that he bearded King Charles the First himself, in a manner beyond forgiveness. One thing, at any rate, is sure—Sir Ensor was attainted, and made a felon outlaw, through some violent deed ensuing upon his dispossession.
Some people say that, out of anger from that injustice, he killed a gentleman from the Court, whom he thought was involved in robbing him of his wealth. Others claim that he confronted King Charles the First in a way that could never be forgiven. One thing is certain—Sir Ensor was declared guilty and became a criminal outlaw due to some violent act that occurred after he lost everything.
He had searched in many quarters for somebody to help him, and with good warrant for hoping it, inasmuch as he, in lucky days, had been open-handed and cousinly to all who begged advice of him. But now all these provided him with plenty of good advice indeed, and great assurance of feeling, but not a movement of leg, or lip, or purse-string in his favour. All good people of either persuasion, royalty or commonalty, knowing his kitchen-range to be cold, no longer would play turnspit. And this, it may be, seared his heart more than loss of land and fame.
He had looked everywhere for someone to help him, and he had good reason to be hopeful, since in better days he had always been generous and friendly to anyone who asked for his advice. But now, all those people gave him plenty of solid advice and reassured him, but not a single one of them moved a leg, or a lip, or opened their wallets for him. Good people from all walks of life, both royals and commoners, who knew his situation was dire, no longer showed any willingness to help. And this, perhaps, hurt him even more than losing his land and fame.
In great despair at last, he resolved to settle in some outlandish part, where none could be found to know him; and so, in an evil day for us, he came to the West of England. Not that our part of the world is at all outlandish, according to my view of it (for I never found a better one), but that it was known to be rugged, and large, and desolate. And here, when he had discovered a place which seemed almost to be made for him, so withdrawn, so self-defended, and uneasy of access, some of the country-folk around brought him little offerings—a side of bacon, a keg of cider, hung mutton, or a brisket of venison; so that for a little while he was very honest. But when the newness of his coming began to wear away, and our good folk were apt to think that even a gentleman ought to work or pay other men for doing it, and many farmers were grown weary of manners without discourse to them, and all cried out to one another how unfair it was that owning such a fertile valley young men would not spade or plough by reason of noble lineage—then the young Doones growing up took things they would not ask for.
In deep despair, he decided to settle in some remote area where no one would recognize him; and so, on a bad day for us, he arrived in the West of England. Not that I think our part of the world is particularly remote (since I’ve never found a better place), but it was known to be rough, vast, and empty. Here, he found a place that seemed almost perfect for him—so secluded, so protected, and hard to get to. Some local people brought him small gifts—a side of bacon, a keg of cider, some hung mutton, or a brisket of venison—so for a while, he was quite honest. But as the novelty of his arrival started to fade, our good people began to think that even a gentleman should either work or pay others to do it, and many farmers grew tired of dealing with someone who didn’t engage with them. They all complained to each other about how unfair it was that, despite owning such a fertile valley, young men wouldn’t dig or plow just because of their noble heritage—then the young Doones, as they grew up, started taking things without asking.
And here let me, as a solid man, owner of five hundred acres (whether fenced or otherwise, and that is my own business), churchwarden also of this parish (until I go to the churchyard), and proud to be called the parson's friend—for a better man I never knew with tobacco and strong waters, nor one who could read the lessons so well and he has been at Blundell's too—once for all let me declare, that I am a thorough-going Church-and-State man, and Royalist, without any mistake about it. And this I lay down, because some people judging a sausage by the skin, may take in evil part my little glosses of style and glibness, and the mottled nature of my remarks and cracks now and then on the frying-pan. I assure them I am good inside, and not a bit of rue in me; only queer knots, as of marjoram, and a stupid manner of bursting.
And let me just say, as a solid guy, the owner of five hundred acres (whether it's fenced or not, that's my business), churchwarden of this parish (until I end up in the churchyard), and proud to be called the parson's friend—I've never known a better man when it comes to tobacco and strong drinks, nor anyone who can read the lessons as well as he does, and he’s also been to Blundell's—let me declare once and for all that I am a committed supporter of Church and State and a Royalist, no doubt about it. I mention this because some people might judge a sausage by its skin and take my little stylistic flourishes and occasional humor the wrong way, along with the mixed nature of my comments and jokes every now and then. I assure them that I'm good on the inside, and there's not a trace of bitterness in me; just some peculiar bits, like marjoram, and a silly tendency to burst.
There was not more than a dozen of them, counting a few retainers who still held by Sir Ensor; but soon they grew and multiplied in a manner surprising to think of. Whether it was the venison, which we call a strengthening victual, or whether it was the Exmoor mutton, or the keen soft air of the moorlands, anyhow the Doones increased much faster than their honesty. At first they had brought some ladies with them, of good repute with charity; and then, as time went on, they added to their stock by carrying. They carried off many good farmers' daughters, who were sadly displeased at first; but took to them kindly after awhile, and made a new home in their babies. For women, as it seems to me, like strong men more than weak ones, feeling that they need some staunchness, something to hold fast by.
There were no more than a dozen of them, including a few retainers still loyal to Sir Ensor; but they soon grew and multiplied in a surprisingly rapid way. Whether it was the venison, which we consider a hearty meal, or the Exmoor mutton, or the fresh, soft air of the moorlands, the Doones increased much faster than their integrity. Initially, they had brought some respectable ladies with them, known for their kindness; and then, over time, they expanded their numbers by taking. They kidnapped many good farmers' daughters, who were very upset at first; but eventually, they grew fond of them and created new lives with their children. It seems to me that women prefer strong men over weak ones, sensing that they need something solid to rely on.
And of all the men in our country, although we are of a thick-set breed, you scarce could find one in three-score fit to be placed among the Doones, without looking no more than a tailor. Like enough, we could meet them man for man (if we chose all around the crown and the skirts of Exmoor), and show them what a cross-buttock means, because we are so stuggy; but in regard of stature, comeliness, and bearing, no woman would look twice at us. Not but what I myself, John Ridd, and one or two I know of—but it becomes me best not to talk of that, although my hair is gray.
And of all the men in our country, even though we are a sturdy bunch, you could hardly find one in sixty who would match up to the Doones without looking like just a tailor. We could probably stand up to them man for man (if we gathered everyone around the edges of Exmoor) and show them what a true challenge looks like, because we are so tough; but when it comes to height, looks, and presence, no woman would glance at us twice. Not that I, John Ridd, or a couple of others I know don’t have our merits—but it’s probably best if I don’t go into that, even though my hair is gray.
Perhaps their den might well have been stormed, and themselves driven out of the forest, if honest people had only agreed to begin with them at once when first they took to plundering. But having respect for their good birth, and pity for their misfortunes, and perhaps a little admiration at the justice of God, that robbed men now were robbers, the squires, and farmers, and shepherds, at first did nothing more than grumble gently, or even make a laugh of it, each in the case of others. After awhile they found the matter gone too far for laughter, as violence and deadly outrage stained the hand of robbery, until every woman clutched her child, and every man turned pale at the very name of Doone. For the sons and grandsons of Sir Ensor grew up in foul liberty, and haughtiness, and hatred, to utter scorn of God and man, and brutality towards dumb animals. There was only one good thing about them, if indeed it were good, to wit, their faith to one another, and truth to their wild eyry. But this only made them feared the more, so certain was the revenge they wreaked upon any who dared to strike a Doone. One night, some ten years ere I was born, when they were sacking a rich man's house not very far from Minehead, a shot was fired at them in the dark, of which they took little notice, and only one of them knew that any harm was done. But when they were well on the homeward road, not having slain either man or woman, or even burned a house down, one of their number fell from his saddle, and died without so much as a groan. The youth had been struck, but would not complain, and perhaps took little heed of the wound, while he was bleeding inwardly. His brothers and cousins laid him softly on a bank of whortle-berries, and just rode back to the lonely hamlet where he had taken his death-wound. No man nor woman was left in the morning, nor house for any to dwell in, only a child with its reason gone.*
Maybe their hideout would have been stormed, and they would have been driven out of the forest, if honest people had only agreed to confront them right when they started their thieving. But out of respect for their status, sympathy for their misfortunes, and maybe a bit of admiration for the justice of God—since those wronged men were now robbers—local squires, farmers, and shepherds initially did nothing more than complain quietly, or even joke about it, each considering the others' plight. Eventually, they realized the situation had gone too far for laughter, as violence and brutal crimes stained the act of robbery, causing every woman to hold her child tightly, and every man to turn pale at the mention of Doone. The sons and grandsons of Sir Ensor grew up with foul freedom, arrogance, and hatred, holding utter contempt for both God and man, and displaying cruelty towards helpless animals. The only good thing about them, if you could call it that, was their loyalty to one another, and their fidelity to their wild home. However, this only made them more feared, given how mercilessly they punished anyone who dared to attack a Doone. One night, about ten years before I was born, while they were robbing a wealthy man's house not too far from Minehead, a shot was fired at them in the dark, which they barely noticed, and only one of them realized that any harm had been done. But as they made their way home, without having killed anyone or burned down any houses, one of their group fell from his horse and died without a sound. The young man had been wounded but chose not to complain, perhaps not even realizing the severity of his injury while he was bleeding internally. His brothers and cousins gently laid him on a bank of whortle-berries and rode back to the lonely village where he had received his fatal wound. By morning, no man or woman remained, nor was there a house left for anyone to stay in, only a child who had lost their sanity.
*This vile deed was done, beyond all doubt.
*This terrible act was definitely committed.
This affair made prudent people find more reason to let them alone than to meddle with them; and now they had so entrenched themselves, and waxed so strong in number, that nothing less than a troop of soldiers could wisely enter their premises; and even so it might turn out ill, as perchance we shall see by-and-by.
This situation led sensible people to think it was better to leave them alone rather than interfere; and now they had set themselves up so well and grown so large in number that only a group of soldiers could safely enter their territory; and even then, it might not end well, as we might see later.
For not to mention the strength of the place, which I shall describe in its proper order when I come to visit it, there was not one among them but was a mighty man, straight and tall, and wide, and fit to lift four hundredweight. If son or grandson of old Doone, or one of the northern retainers, failed at the age of twenty, while standing on his naked feet to touch with his forehead the lintel of Sir Ensor's door, and to fill the door frame with his shoulders from sidepost even to sidepost, he was led away to the narrow pass which made their valley so desperate, and thrust from the crown with ignominy, to get his own living honestly. Now, the measure of that doorway is, or rather was, I ought to say, six feet and one inch lengthwise, and two feet all but two inches taken crossways in the clear. Yet I not only have heard but know, being so closely mixed with them, that no descendant of old Sir Ensor, neither relative of his (except, indeed, the Counsellor, who was kept by them for his wisdom), and no more than two of their following ever failed of that test, and relapsed to the difficult ways of honesty.
Not to mention the strength of the place, which I'll explain more when I visit, every one of them was a strong, tall man, built to lift four hundred pounds. If the son or grandson of old Doone, or one of the northern followers, couldn't, at twenty years old, touch the top of Sir Ensor's door with his forehead while standing barefoot, and couldn't fill the doorframe with his shoulders, he was taken to the narrow path that made their valley so difficult and sent away in disgrace to fend for himself. The measurements of that doorway are—or rather were—six feet and one inch in height and just under two feet in width. However, I have not only heard but know firsthand, since I am so closely connected with them, that no descendant of old Sir Ensor, nor any of his relatives (except for the Counsellor, who was kept around for his wisdom), and only two of their followers ever failed that test and fell back into the tough path of honesty.
Not that I think anything great of a standard the like of that: for if they had set me in that door-frame at the age of twenty, it is like enough that I should have walked away with it on my shoulders, though I was not come to my full strength then: only I am speaking now of the average size of our neighbourhood, and the Doones were far beyond that. Moreover, they were taught to shoot with a heavy carbine so delicately and wisely, that even a boy could pass a ball through a rabbit's head at the distance of fourscore yards. Some people may think nought of this, being in practice with longer shots from the tongue than from the shoulder; nevertheless, to do as above is, to my ignorance, very good work, if you can be sure to do it. Not one word do I believe of Robin Hood splitting peeled wands at seven-score yards, and such like. Whoever wrote such stories knew not how slippery a peeled wand is, even if one could hit it, and how it gives to the onset. Now, let him stick one in the ground, and take his bow and arrow at it, ten yards away, or even five.
Not that I think highly of a standard like that: if they had put me in that doorframe at the age of twenty, I probably would have walked away with it on my shoulders, even though I wasn’t at my full strength then. I’m just talking about the average size in our neighborhood, and the Doones were much bigger than that. Plus, they were trained to shoot with a heavy carbine so skillfully that even a boy could hit a rabbit's head from eighty yards away. Some people might not think much of this, being more accustomed to making longer shots with their mouths than with their arms; however, to do what I mentioned is, in my opinion, pretty impressive if you can be sure you can pull it off. I don’t believe a word of the stories about Robin Hood splitting peeled wands at 140 yards and such. Whoever wrote those tales didn’t know how slippery a peeled wand is, even if you could hit it, and how it gives way on impact. Now, let him stick one in the ground and see if he can hit it with his bow and arrow from ten yards away, or even five.
Now, after all this which I have written, and all the rest which a reader will see, being quicker of mind than I am (who leave more than half behind me, like a man sowing wheat, with his dinner laid in the ditch too near his dog), it is much but what you will understand the Doones far better than I did, or do even to this moment; and therefore none will doubt when I tell them that our good justiciaries feared to make an ado, or hold any public inquiry about my dear father's death. They would all have had to ride home that night, and who could say what might betide them. Least said soonest mended, because less chance of breaking.
Now that I've written all this and everything else a quicker-minded reader will notice (who catches more than I do, like a man sowing wheat with his dinner left too close to his dog), you’ll likely understand the Doones much better than I ever did, or even do at this moment. So, no one will doubt when I say that our good justiciaries were too afraid to make a fuss or hold any public inquiry into my dear father's death. They all would have had to ride home that night, and who could say what might happen to them? The less said, the better, since there’s less chance of it getting broken.
So we buried him quietly—all except my mother, indeed, for she could not keep silence—in the sloping little churchyard of Oare, as meek a place as need be, with the Lynn brook down below it. There is not much of company there for anybody's tombstone, because the parish spreads so far in woods and moors without dwelling-house. If we bury one man in three years, or even a woman or child, we talk about it for three months, and say it must be our turn next, and scarcely grow accustomed to it until another goes.
So we buried him quietly—all except my mother, of course, because she couldn’t stay quiet—in the sloping little churchyard of Oare, as peaceful a place as you could find, with the Lynn brook flowing down below. There aren’t many tombstones around because the parish stretches so far into the woods and moors without any houses. If we bury one man in three years, or even a woman or child, we talk about it for three months, always wondering if it will be our turn next, and hardly get used to it before another one passes away.
Annie was not allowed to come, because she cried so terribly; but she ran to the window, and saw it all, mooing there like a little calf, so frightened and so left alone. As for Eliza, she came with me, one on each side of mother, and not a tear was in her eyes, but sudden starts of wonder, and a new thing to be looked at unwillingly, yet curiously. Poor little thing! she was very clever, the only one of our family—thank God for the same—but none the more for that guessed she what it is to lose a father.
Annie wasn't allowed to come because she cried so much; but she ran to the window and saw everything, mooing like a scared little calf, so frightened and so alone. As for Eliza, she came with me, one on each side of Mom, and not a tear was in her eyes, just sudden moments of wonder, something new that she looked at hesitantly but with curiosity. Poor little thing! She was very bright, the only clever one in our family—thank goodness for that—but it didn't help her understand what it means to lose a father.
CHAPTER VI
NECESSARY PRACTICE
About the rest of all that winter I remember very little, being only a young boy then, and missing my father most out of doors, as when it came to the bird-catching, or the tracking of hares in the snow, or the training of a sheep-dog. Oftentimes I looked at his gun, an ancient piece found in the sea, a little below Glenthorne, and of which he was mighty proud, although it was only a match-lock; and I thought of the times I had held the fuse, while he got his aim at a rabbit, and once even at a red deer rubbing among the hazels. But nothing came of my looking at it, so far as I remember, save foolish tears of my own perhaps, till John Fry took it down one day from the hooks where father's hand had laid it; and it hurt me to see how John handled it, as if he had no memory.
I don't remember much about the rest of that winter since I was just a young boy then, and I missed my dad the most when we were outside, whether it was bird-catching, tracking hares in the snow, or training a sheepdog. Many times, I stared at his gun, an old piece he found in the sea, just below Glenthorne, which he was really proud of, even though it was just a match-lock. I thought about the times I held the fuse while he took aim at a rabbit, and even once at a red deer hiding among the hazels. But nothing came of my staring at it, as far as I remember, except maybe some pointless tears of my own, until one day John Fry took it down from the hooks where Dad had left it; and it hurt to see how John handled it, as if he had no memory of it at all.
“Bad job for he as her had not got thiccy the naight as her coom acrass them Doones. Rackon Varmer Jan 'ood a-zhown them the wai to kingdom come, 'stead of gooin' herzel zo aisy. And a maight have been gooin' to market now, 'stead of laying banked up over yanner. Maister Jan, thee can zee the grave if thee look alang this here goon-barryel. Buy now, whutt be blubberin' at? Wish I had never told thee.”
“Bad job for him since he hadn't gotten thick like her when she came across the Doones. I reckon Varmer Jan could’ve shown them the way to kingdom come, instead of just going so easy on her. And he could be going to market now, instead of lying banked up over there. Master Jan, you can see the grave if you look along this here gun barrel. But now, why are you crying? I wish I had never told you.”
“John Fry, I am not blubbering; you make a great mistake, John. You are thinking of little Annie. I cough sometimes in the winter-weather, and father gives me lickerish—I mean—I mean—he used to. Now let me have the gun, John.”
“John Fry, I’m not crying; you’re making a big mistake, John. You’re thinking of little Annie. I cough sometimes in the winter, and my dad gives me lollipops—I mean—I mean—he used to. Now let me have the gun, John.”
“Thee have the goon, Jan! Thee isn't fit to putt un to thy zhoulder. What a weight her be, for sure!”
“You've got the gun, Jan! You're not fit to put it on your shoulder. What a weight it is, for sure!”
“Me not hold it, John! That shows how much you know about it. Get out of the way, John; you are opposite the mouth of it, and likely it is loaded.”
“Don’t hold it, John! That shows how little you know about it. Step aside, John; you’re standing in front of the opening, and it’s probably loaded.”
John Fry jumped in a livelier manner than when he was doing day-work; and I rested the mouth on a cross rack-piece, and felt a warm sort of surety that I could hit the door over opposite, or, at least, the cobwall alongside of it, and do no harm in the orchard. But John would not give me link or fuse, and, on the whole, I was glad of it, though carrying on as boys do, because I had heard my father say that the Spanish gun kicked like a horse, and because the load in it came from his hand, and I did not like to undo it. But I never found it kick very hard, and firmly set to the shoulder, unless it was badly loaded. In truth, the thickness of the metal was enough almost to astonish one; and what our people said about it may have been true enough, although most of them are such liars—at least, I mean, they make mistakes, as all mankind must do. Perchance it was no mistake at all to say that this ancient gun had belonged to a noble Spaniard, the captain of a fine large ship in the “Invincible Armada,” which we of England managed to conquer, with God and the weather helping us, a hundred years ago or more—I can't say to a month or so.
John Fry jumped around more energetically than when he was doing regular work, and I leaned my mouth against a cross rack piece, feeling a warm sense of confidence that I could hit the door across from me or, at least, the wall beside it, without causing any damage in the orchard. But John wouldn't give me the link or fuse, and honestly, I was glad he didn't, even though I was acting like boys do. I had heard my father say that the Spanish gun kicked like a horse, and since he had loaded it himself, I didn't want to mess with it. But I never found it to kick very hard, as long as it was properly loaded. In fact, the thickness of the metal was almost impressive, and what our people said about it might have been true, even if most of them are such liars—well, I mean, they make mistakes, just like everyone does. Perhaps it wasn't a mistake at all to say that this old gun had belonged to a noble Spaniard, the captain of a large ship in the "Invincible Armada," which we in England managed to defeat with God's help and favorable weather, over a hundred years ago or so—I can't pinpoint the exact month.
After a little while, when John had fired away at a rat the charge I held so sacred, it came to me as a natural thing to practise shooting with that great gun, instead of John Fry's blunderbuss, which looked like a bell with a stalk to it. Perhaps for a boy there is nothing better than a good windmill to shoot at, as I have seen them in flat countries; but we have no windmills upon the great moorland, yet here and there a few barn-doors, where shelter is, and a way up the hollows. And up those hollows you can shoot, with the help of the sides to lead your aim, and there is a fair chance of hitting the door, if you lay your cheek to the barrel, and try not to be afraid of it.
After a little while, when John had shot at a rat with the charge I held so dear, it seemed natural for me to practice shooting with that great gun instead of John Fry's blunderbuss, which looked like a bell with a handle. For a boy, there's probably nothing better than a good windmill to aim at, like I've seen in flat areas; but we don’t have windmills on the great moorland, just a few barn doors here and there, where there's cover and a way up the hollows. And up those hollows, you can shoot, using the slopes to guide your aim, and there's a decent chance of hitting the door if you rest your cheek on the barrel and try not to be afraid of it.
Gradually I won such skill, that I sent nearly all the lead gutter from the north porch of our little church through our best barn-door, a thing which has often repented me since, especially as churchwarden, and made me pardon many bad boys; but father was not buried on that side of the church.
Gradually, I got good enough that I sent almost all the lead from the gutter of our little church's north porch through the best barn door, something I’ve regretted often since, especially as the churchwarden. It made me go easy on a lot of troublemakers, but my father wasn’t buried on that side of the church.
But all this time, while I was roving over the hills or about the farm, and even listening to John Fry, my mother, being so much older and feeling trouble longer, went about inside the house, or among the maids and fowls, not caring to talk to the best of them, except when she broke out sometimes about the good master they had lost, all and every one of us. But the fowls would take no notice of it, except to cluck for barley; and the maidens, though they had liked him well, were thinking of their sweethearts as the spring came on. Mother thought it wrong of them, selfish and ungrateful; and yet sometimes she was proud that none had such call as herself to grieve for him. Only Annie seemed to go softly in and out, and cry, with nobody along of her, chiefly in the corner where the bees are and the grindstone. But somehow she would never let anybody behold her; being set, as you may say, to think it over by herself, and season it with weeping. Many times I caught her, and many times she turned upon me, and then I could not look at her, but asked how long to dinner-time.
But all this time, while I was wandering over the hills or around the farm, and even listening to John Fry, my mother, being much older and having dealt with her troubles longer, stayed inside the house or among the maids and chickens, not wanting to talk to most of them, except when she occasionally expressed her grief about the good master we had all lost. The chickens didn’t pay her any mind, except to cluck for barley, and the maids, even though they liked him a lot, were busy thinking about their boyfriends as spring approached. Mother thought it was wrong of them, selfish and ungrateful; yet sometimes she felt proud that none of them had as much reason to grieve for him as she did. Only Annie seemed to move quietly in and out, crying by herself, mostly in the corner where the bees and grindstone were. But somehow, she never let anyone see her; it was like she needed to think it over by herself and let her tears season her thoughts. Many times I caught her, and many times she turned away from me, and then I couldn’t look at her but asked how long until dinner.
Now in the depth of the winter month, such as we call December, father being dead and quiet in his grave a fortnight, it happened me to be out of powder for practice against his enemies. I had never fired a shot without thinking, “This for father's murderer”; and John Fry said that I made such faces it was a wonder the gun went off. But though I could hardly hold the gun, unless with my back against a bar, it did me good to hear it go off, and hope to have hitten his enemies.
Now, in the middle of winter, what we call December, my father had been dead and buried for two weeks. I found myself out of gunpowder for practice against his enemies. I never fired a shot without thinking, “This is for my father's murderer,” and John Fry said I made such faces it was a miracle the gun actually fired. Even though I could barely hold the gun unless I braced my back against something, it felt good to hear it go off and hope I had hit his enemies.
“Oh, mother, mother,” I said that day, directly after dinner, while she was sitting looking at me, and almost ready to say (as now she did seven times in a week), “How like your father you are growing! Jack, come here and kiss me”—“oh, mother, if you only knew how much I want a shilling!”
“Oh, mom, mom,” I said that day, right after dinner, while she was sitting there looking at me, almost ready to say (like she did seven times a week), “You’re getting so much like your dad! Jack, come here and give me a kiss”—“oh, mom, if you only knew how badly I want a shilling!”
“Jack, you shall never want a shilling while I am alive to give thee one. But what is it for, dear heart, dear heart?”
“Jack, you’ll never be short of cash while I’m around to give you some. But what do you need it for, my dear, my dear?”
“To buy something over at Porlock, mother. Perhaps I will tell you afterwards. If I tell not it will be for your good, and for the sake of the children.”
“To buy something over at Porlock, Mom. I might tell you later. If I don’t, it will be for your benefit and for the kids’ sake.”
“Bless the boy, one would think he was threescore years of age at least. Give me a little kiss, you Jack, and you shall have the shilling.”
“Bless the boy, you’d think he was at least sixty years old. Give me a little kiss, Jack, and you’ll get the shilling.”
For I hated to kiss or be kissed in those days: and so all honest boys must do, when God puts any strength in them. But now I wanted the powder so much that I went and kissed mother very shyly, looking round the corner first, for Betty not to see me.
For I hated kissing or being kissed back then: and like all decent boys should, when God gives them any strength. But now I wanted the powder so badly that I went and kissed my mom very shyly, glancing around the corner first to make sure Betty wouldn’t see me.
But mother gave me half a dozen, and only one shilling for all of them; and I could not find it in my heart to ask her for another, although I would have taken it. In very quick time I ran away with the shilling in my pocket, and got Peggy out on the Porlock road without my mother knowing it. For mother was frightened of that road now, as if all the trees were murderers, and would never let me go alone so much as a hundred yards on it. And, to tell the truth, I was touched with fear for many years about it; and even now, when I ride at dark there, a man by a peat-rick makes me shiver, until I go and collar him. But this time I was very bold, having John Fry's blunderbuss, and keeping a sharp look-out wherever any lurking place was. However, I saw only sheep and small red cattle, and the common deer of the forest, until I was nigh to Porlock town, and then rode straight to Mr. Pooke's, at the sign of the Spit and Gridiron.
But Mom gave me six, and only one shilling for all of them; and I couldn't bring myself to ask her for another, even though I would have taken it. I quickly ran away with the shilling in my pocket and got Peggy out on the Porlock road without my mom knowing. Mom was terrified of that road now, as if all the trees were out to get me, and she wouldn’t let me go even a hundred yards on it alone. To be honest, I was scared about it for many years; and even now, when I ride there at night, a man by a peat-rick makes me shiver until I go and confront him. But this time I was very brave, carrying John Fry's blunderbuss and keeping a sharp lookout for any hiding spots. Still, I only saw sheep and small red cattle, and the common deer of the forest, until I got close to Porlock town, and then I rode straight to Mr. Pooke's at the sign of the Spit and Gridiron.
Mr. Pooke was asleep, as it happened, not having much to do that day; and so I fastened Peggy by the handle of a warming-pan, at which she had no better manners than to snort and blow her breath; and in I walked with a manful style, bearing John Fry's blunderbuss. Now Timothy Pooke was a peaceful man, glad to live without any enjoyment of mind at danger, and I was tall and large already as most lads of a riper age. Mr. Pooke, as soon as he opened his eyes, dropped suddenly under the counting-board, and drew a great frying-pan over his head, as if the Doones were come to rob him, as their custom was, mostly after the fair-time. It made me feel rather hot and queer to be taken for a robber; and yet methinks I was proud of it.
Mr. Pooke was asleep, having not much to do that day; so I tied Peggy to the handle of a warming pan, and all she did was snort and blow. Then I walked in confidently, carrying John Fry's blunderbuss. Timothy Pooke was a peaceful man, happy to live without any thoughts of danger, and I was already tall and big for my age. As soon as Mr. Pooke opened his eyes, he suddenly ducked under the counting board and pulled a big frying pan over his head, as if the Doones had come to rob him, which they usually did after the fair. It made me feel a bit hot and strange to be mistaken for a robber, but I’ll admit I felt a bit proud of it.
“Gadzooks, Master Pooke,” said I, having learned fine words at Tiverton; “do you suppose that I know not then the way to carry firearms? An it were the old Spanish match-lock in the lieu of this good flint-engine, which may be borne ten miles or more and never once go off, scarcely couldst thou seem more scared. I might point at thee muzzle on—just so as I do now—even for an hour or more, and like enough it would never shoot thee, unless I pulled the trigger hard, with a crock upon my finger; so you see; just so, Master Pooke, only a trifle harder.”
“Wow, Master Pooke,” I said, having picked up some fancy words at Tiverton; “do you really think I don’t know how to handle firearms? Even if it were the old Spanish match-lock instead of this reliable flintlock, which can be carried for miles without misfiring, you couldn’t look more frightened. I could aim it at you—just like I'm doing now—for an hour or more, and it probably wouldn’t shoot unless I pulled the trigger really hard, with a bit of pressure from my finger; so you see, Master Pooke, it's just a little more effort.”
“God sake, John Ridd, God sake, dear boy,” cried Pooke, knowing me by this time; “don't 'e, for good love now, don't 'e show it to me, boy, as if I was to suck it. Put 'un down, for good, now; and thee shall have the very best of all is in the shop.”
“God's sake, John Ridd, God's sake, dear boy,” cried Pooke, knowing me by this time; “don't, for heaven's sake, don't show it to me, boy, as if I was supposed to suck it. Put it down, for good, now; and you shall have the very best of everything in the shop.”
“Ho!” I replied with much contempt, and swinging round the gun so that it fetched his hoop of candles down, all unkindled as they were: “Ho! as if I had not attained to the handling of a gun yet! My hands are cold coming over the moors, else would I go bail to point the mouth at you for an hour, sir, and no cause for uneasiness.”
“Hey!” I responded with a lot of disdain, and turning the gun around to knock down his hoop of unlit candles: “Hey! Like I haven’t learned how to handle a gun yet! My hands are cold from coming over the moors, otherwise I’d bet I could aim it at you for an hour, sir, and there'd be no reason for worry.”
But in spite of all assurances, he showed himself desirous only to see the last of my gun and me. I dare say “villainous saltpetre,” as the great playwright calls it, was never so cheap before nor since. For my shilling Master Pooke afforded me two great packages over-large to go into my pockets, as well as a mighty chunk of lead, which I bound upon Peggy's withers. And as if all this had not been enough, he presented me with a roll of comfits for my sister Annie, whose gentle face and pretty manners won the love of everybody.
But despite all the reassurances, he clearly just wanted to be rid of my gun and me. I bet “villainous saltpetre,” as the famous playwright calls it, has never been cheaper than it was then. For my shilling, Master Pooke gave me two big packages that were too large to fit in my pockets, along with a hefty piece of lead, which I tied onto Peggy's back. And as if that wasn’t enough, he also gave me a bag of candies for my sister Annie, whose sweet face and lovely manners charmed everyone.
There was still some daylight here and there as I rose the hill above Porlock, wondering whether my mother would be in a fright, or would not know it. The two great packages of powder, slung behind my back, knocked so hard against one another that I feared they must either spill or blow up, and hurry me over Peggy's ears from the woollen cloth I rode upon. For father always liked a horse to have some wool upon his loins whenever he went far from home, and had to stand about, where one pleased, hot, and wet, and panting. And father always said that saddles were meant for men full-grown and heavy, and losing their activity; and no boy or young man on our farm durst ever get into a saddle, because they all knew that the master would chuck them out pretty quickly. As for me, I had tried it once, from a kind of curiosity; and I could not walk for two or three days, the leather galled my knees so. But now, as Peggy bore me bravely, snorting every now and then into a cloud of air, for the night was growing frosty, presently the moon arose over the shoulder of a hill, and the pony and I were half glad to see her, and half afraid of the shadows she threw, and the images all around us. I was ready at any moment to shoot at anybody, having great faith in my blunderbuss, but hoping not to prove it. And as I passed the narrow place where the Doones had killed my father, such a fear broke out upon me that I leaned upon the neck of Peggy, and shut my eyes, and was cold all over. However, there was not a soul to be seen, until we came home to the old farmyard, and there was my mother crying sadly, and Betty Muxworthy scolding.
There was still some daylight here and there as I climbed the hill above Porlock, wondering if my mom would be scared or not even know I was gone. The two big packages of powder, strapped to my back, banged so hard against each other that I was afraid they might spill or explode, sending me flying off the wool blanket I was sitting on with Peggy. My dad always liked a horse to have some wool on its back when going far from home, especially when it had to wait around, hot, wet, and panting. He always said that saddles were meant for grown men who were heavy and slow, and no boy or young man on our farm would dare to get in a saddle because they knew the master would throw them off pretty quickly. As for me, I had tried it once out of curiosity, and I couldn't walk for two or three days because the leather chafed my knees so badly. But now, as Peggy carried me along, snorting every now and then into the chilly night air, the moon suddenly rose over the hill, and both the pony and I were a bit glad to see her and a bit scared of the shadows she cast and the shapes around us. I was ready to shoot at anyone, having great confidence in my blunderbuss, but hoping I wouldn’t have to use it. As I passed by the narrow spot where the Doones had killed my father, I was suddenly gripped by fear, leaning against Peggy's neck, closing my eyes, and feeling cold all over. However, there was no one in sight until we got home to the old farmyard, where I found my mom crying sadly and Betty Muxworthy scolding.
“Come along, now,” I whispered to Annie, the moment supper was over; “and if you can hold your tongue, Annie, I will show you something.”
“Come on, Annie,” I whispered as soon as dinner was over; “and if you can keep quiet, I’ll show you something.”
She lifted herself on the bench so quickly, and flushed so rich with pleasure, that I was obliged to stare hard away, and make Betty look beyond us. Betty thought I had something hid in the closet beyond the clock-case, and she was the more convinced of it by reason of my denial. Not that Betty Muxworthy, or any one else, for that matter, ever found me in a falsehood, because I never told one, not even to my mother—or, which is still a stronger thing, not even to my sweetheart (when I grew up to have one)—but that Betty being wronged in the matter of marriage, a generation or two agone, by a man who came hedging and ditching, had now no mercy, except to believe that men from cradle to grave are liars, and women fools to look at them.
She jumped up on the bench so suddenly and blushed so deeply with joy that I had to look away and make Betty look past us. Betty thought I was hiding something in the closet behind the clock, and she became even more sure of it because I denied it. Not that Betty Muxworthy, or anyone else for that matter, ever caught me in a lie; I never told one, not even to my mother—or, which is even more significant, not even to my girlfriend (once I grew up to have one)—but because Betty had been wronged in marriage a generation or two ago by a man who was deceitful, she now had no mercy and believed that men are liars from birth to death, and that women are foolish to pay them any attention.
When Betty could find no crime of mine, she knocked me out of the way in a minute, as if I had been nobody; and then she began to coax “Mistress Annie,” as she always called her, and draw the soft hair down her hands, and whisper into the little ears. Meanwhile, dear mother was falling asleep, having been troubled so much about me; and Watch, my father's pet dog, was nodding closer and closer up into her lap.
When Betty couldn’t find any wrongdoing on my part, she pushed me aside in an instant, as if I didn’t matter at all; then she started to sweet-talk “Mistress Annie,” as she always referred to her, caressing her soft hair with her hands and whispering into her tiny ears. Meanwhile, dear mom was dozing off, having worried so much about me; and Watch, my dad's favorite dog, was leaning closer and closer into her lap.
“Now, Annie, will you come?” I said, for I wanted her to hold the ladle for melting of the lead; “will you come at once, Annie? or must I go for Lizzie, and let her see the whole of it?”
“Now, Annie, will you come?” I asked, because I needed her to hold the ladle for melting the lead. “Will you come right away, Annie? Or do I have to go get Lizzie and let her see everything?”
“Indeed, then, you won't do that,” said Annie; “Lizzie to come before me, John; and she can't stir a pot of brewis, and scarce knows a tongue from a ham, John, and says it makes no difference, because both are good to eat! Oh, Betty, what do you think of that to come of all her book-learning?”
“Honestly, you won’t do that,” Annie said. “Lizzie comes before me, John; she can’t even stir a pot of soup and hardly knows the difference between a tongue and a ham, John, and she says it doesn’t matter because both are good to eat! Oh, Betty, what do you think of that coming from all her book learning?”
“Thank God he can't say that of me,” Betty answered shortly, for she never cared about argument, except on her own side; “thank he, I says, every marning a'most, never to lead me astray so. Men is desaving and so is galanies; but the most desaving of all is books, with their heads and tails, and the speckots in 'em, lik a peg as have taken the maisles. Some folk purtends to laugh and cry over them. God forgive them for liars!”
“Thank God he can't say that about me,” Betty replied tersely, as she never liked to argue unless it was her point of view; “thank God, I say almost every morning, never to lead me astray like that. Men are deceitful and so are women; but the most deceitful of all are books, with their covers and the ideas inside them, like a peg that’s got the measles. Some people pretend to laugh and cry over them. God forgive them for being liars!”
It was part of Betty's obstinacy that she never would believe in reading or the possibility of it, but stoutly maintained to the very last that people first learned things by heart, and then pretended to make them out from patterns done upon paper, for the sake of astonishing honest folk just as do the conjurers. And even to see the parson and clerk was not enough to convince her; all she said was, “It made no odds, they were all the same as the rest of us.” And now that she had been on the farm nigh upon forty years, and had nursed my father, and made his clothes, and all that he had to eat, and then put him in his coffin, she was come to such authority, that it was not worth the wages of the best man on the place to say a word in answer to Betty, even if he would face the risk to have ten for one, or twenty.
Betty was so stubborn that she never believed in reading or thought it was even possible. She insisted until the end that people first memorized things and then pretended to read from patterns on paper just to impress honest folks, like magicians. Even seeing the minister and the clerk wasn’t enough to change her mind; all she said was, “It doesn’t matter, they’re just like the rest of us.” After being on the farm for nearly forty years, taking care of my father, making his clothes, preparing all his meals, and eventually laying him to rest, she had gained so much authority that it wasn’t worth the best worker’s pay to contradict her, even if he was willing to risk it all to do so.
Annie was her love and joy. For Annie she would do anything, even so far as to try to smile, when the little maid laughed and danced to her. And in truth I know not how it was, but every one was taken with Annie at the very first time of seeing her. She had such pretty ways and manners, and such a look of kindness, and a sweet soft light in her long blue eyes full of trustful gladness. Everybody who looked at her seemed to grow the better for it, because she knew no evil. And then the turn she had for cooking, you never would have expected it; and how it was her richest mirth to see that she had pleased you. I have been out on the world a vast deal as you will own hereafter, and yet have I never seen Annie's equal for making a weary man comfortable.
Annie was her love and joy. For Annie, she would do anything, even trying to smile when the little maid laughed and danced for her. Honestly, I don't know how it happened, but everyone was enchanted by Annie the very first time they saw her. She had such charming ways and manners, a kind look, and a sweet, gentle light in her long blue eyes full of trusting happiness. Anyone who looked at her seemed to become a better person because she knew no evil. And her talent for cooking was unexpected; her greatest joy came from seeing that she had made you happy. I've traveled a lot in the world, as you'll see later, and yet I've never met anyone like Annie when it comes to making a weary man comfortable.
CHAPTER VII
HARD IT IS TO CLIMB
So many a winter night went by in a hopeful and pleasant manner, with the hissing of the bright round bullets, cast into the water, and the spluttering of the great red apples which Annie was roasting for me. We always managed our evening's work in the chimney of the back-kitchen, where there was room to set chairs and table, in spite of the fire burning. On the right-hand side was a mighty oven, where Betty threatened to bake us; and on the left, long sides of bacon, made of favoured pigs, and growing very brown and comely. Annie knew the names of all, and ran up through the wood-smoke, every now and then, when a gentle memory moved her, and asked them how they were getting on, and when they would like to be eaten. Then she came back with foolish tears, at thinking of that necessity; and I, being soft in a different way, would make up my mind against bacon.
So many winter nights went by in a hopeful and pleasant way, with the hissing of the bright round bullets splashing into the water and the sizzling of the big red apples that Annie was roasting for me. We always managed our evening tasks in the chimney of the back kitchen, where there was enough room to set up chairs and a table despite the fire burning. On the right side was a huge oven, where Betty playfully threatened to bake us; on the left hung long strips of bacon from favored pigs, getting very brown and inviting. Annie knew all their names and would occasionally dart through the wood smoke, whenever a tender memory hit her, to check on them and ask when they'd like to be eaten. Then she would come back with foolish tears at the thought of that necessity, and I, feeling soft in a different way, would resolve to not eat bacon.
But, Lord bless you! it was no good. Whenever it came to breakfast-time, after three hours upon the moors, I regularly forgot the pigs, but paid good heed to the rashers. For ours is a hungry county, if such there be in England; a place, I mean, where men must eat, and are quick to discharge the duty. The air of the moors is so shrewd and wholesome, stirring a man's recollection of the good things which have betided him, and whetting his hope of something still better in the future, that by the time he sits down to a cloth, his heart and stomach are tuned too well to say “nay” to one another.
But, honestly! it was pointless. Every time breakfast rolled around, after three hours on the moors, I completely forgot about the pigs, but paid plenty of attention to the bacon. Because ours is a hungry county, if such a thing exists in England; a place where people need to eat and are quick to take care of that. The air on the moors is so sharp and refreshing, reminding a man of the good things he’s experienced, and sharpening his hope for something even better ahead, that by the time he sits down at the table, his heart and stomach are too well aligned to say “no” to each other.
Almost everybody knows, in our part of the world at least, how pleasant and soft the fall of the land is round about Plover's Barrows farm. All above it is strong dark mountain, spread with heath, and desolate, but near our house the valleys cove, and open warmth and shelter. Here are trees, and bright green grass, and orchards full of contentment, and a man may scarce espy the brook, although he hears it everywhere. And indeed a stout good piece of it comes through our farm-yard, and swells sometimes to a rush of waves, when the clouds are on the hill-tops. But all below, where the valley bends, and the Lynn stream comes along with it, pretty meadows slope their breast, and the sun spreads on the water. And nearly all of this is ours, till you come to Nicholas Snowe's land.
Almost everyone knows, at least in our area, how pleasant and gentle the landscape is around Plover's Barrows farm. Above it, there are strong, dark mountains covered in heath and desolation, but near our house, the valleys provide warmth and shelter. Here you find trees, vibrant green grass, and orchards full of happiness, and you can barely catch sight of the brook, even though you hear it everywhere. In fact, a good stretch of it flows through our farmyard and sometimes swells into a rush of waves when the clouds gather on the hilltops. But down in the valley, where the Lynn stream flows along, lovely meadows slope gently, and the sun glimmers on the water. Nearly all of this is ours, up until you reach Nicholas Snowe's land.
But about two miles below our farm, the Bagworthy water runs into the Lynn, and makes a real river of it. Thence it hurries away, with strength and a force of wilful waters, under the foot of a barefaced hill, and so to rocks and woods again, where the stream is covered over, and dark, heavy pools delay it. There are plenty of fish all down this way, and the farther you go the larger they get, having deeper grounds to feed in; and sometimes in the summer months, when mother could spare me off the farm, I came down here, with Annie to help (because it was so lonely), and caught well-nigh a basketful of little trout and minnows, with a hook and a bit of worm on it, or a fern-web, or a blow-fly, hung from a hazel pulse-stick. For of all the things I learned at Blundell's, only two abode with me, and one of these was the knack of fishing, and the other the art of swimming. And indeed they have a very rude manner of teaching children to swim there; for the big boys take the little boys, and put them through a certain process, which they grimly call “sheep-washing.” In the third meadow from the gate of the school, going up the river, there is a fine pool in the Lowman, where the Taunton brook comes in, and they call it the Taunton Pool. The water runs down with a strong sharp stickle, and then has a sudden elbow in it, where the small brook trickles in; and on that side the bank is steep, four or it may be five feet high, overhanging loamily; but on the other side it is flat, pebbly, and fit to land upon. Now the large boys take the small boys, crying sadly for mercy, and thinking mayhap, of their mothers, with hands laid well at the back of their necks, they bring them up to the crest of the bank upon the eastern side, and make them strip their clothes off. Then the little boys, falling on their naked knees, blubber upwards piteously; but the large boys know what is good for them, and will not be entreated. So they cast them down, one after other into the splash of the water, and watch them go to the bottom first, and then come up and fight for it, with a blowing and a bubbling. It is a very fair sight to watch when you know there is little danger, because, although the pool is deep, the current is sure to wash a boy up on the stones, where the end of the depth is. As for me, they had no need to throw me more than once, because I jumped of my own accord, thinking small things of the Lowman, after the violent Lynn. Nevertheless, I learnt to swim there, as all the other boys did; for the greatest point in learning that is to find that you must do it. I loved the water naturally, and could not long be out of it; but even the boys who hated it most, came to swim in some fashion or other, after they had been flung for a year or two into the Taunton pool.
But about two miles down from our farm, the Bagworthy water flows into the Lynn, creating a real river. From there, it rushes away with strength and a forceful current beneath a bare hill, heading back to rocks and woods, where the stream is shaded and dark, with heavy pools that slow it down. There are plenty of fish in this area, and the further you go, the bigger they get, thanks to deeper waters where they can feed. Sometimes in the summer, when my mom could spare me from the farm, I'd come down here with Annie to help (since it was quite lonely), and I would catch almost a basketful of tiny trout and minnows using a hook with a bit of worm, a fern web, or a blow-fly hanging from a hazel stick. Out of all the things I learned at Blundell's, only two stuck with me: the skill of fishing and the art of swimming. They had a pretty rough way of teaching kids to swim there; the older boys would take the little ones and put them through a process they grimly called “sheep-washing.” In the third meadow from the school gate, heading up the river, there’s a nice pool in the Lowman where the Taunton brook flows in, and they called it the Taunton Pool. The water flows down with a strong, sharp current, then takes a sudden turn where the small brook trickles in; on that side, the bank is steep, about four or maybe five feet high, hanging over like a cliff, while on the other side, it’s flat, pebbly, and good for landing. So, the big boys take the little boys, who cry out for mercy and probably think of their mothers, and with hands firmly placed on the backs of their necks, they bring them to the top of the bank on the eastern side and make them strip off their clothes. The little boys fall on their bare knees, crying up helplessly, but the big boys know what’s best for them and won’t listen to their pleas. They throw them into the splash of the water one by one, watching them sink to the bottom, then come up fighting for air, blowing and bubbling. It’s quite a sight when you know there’s little danger because even though the pool is deep, the current will wash a boy up against the stones at the shallow end. For me, they only had to toss me in once because I jumped in on my own, not thinking much of the Lowman after the powerful Lynn. Still, I learned to swim there, just like all the other boys, because the main point of learning that is realizing you have to do it. I loved the water naturally and couldn’t stay out of it for long; but even the boys who hated it the most eventually learned to swim in some way after being tossed into the Taunton Pool for a year or two.
But now, although my sister Annie came to keep me company, and was not to be parted from me by the tricks of the Lynn stream, because I put her on my back and carried her across, whenever she could not leap it, or tuck up her things and take the stones; yet so it happened that neither of us had been up the Bagworthy water. We knew that it brought a good stream down, as full of fish as of pebbles; and we thought that it must be very pretty to make a way where no way was, nor even a bullock came down to drink. But whether we were afraid or not, I am sure I cannot tell, because it is so long ago; but I think that had something to do with it. For Bagworthy water ran out of Doone valley, a mile or so from the mouth of it.
But now, even though my sister Annie came to keep me company and wasn't going to be kept away from me by the tricks of the Lynn stream, since I would carry her on my back whenever she couldn't jump over it, or help her gather her things and navigate the stones, it turned out that neither of us had been up the Bagworthy water. We knew it brought down a good stream, full of fish as well as pebbles, and we thought it must be beautiful to create a path where none existed, where even a cow wouldn’t come to drink. But whether we were afraid or not, I honestly can’t say, because it was so long ago; still, I think that played a part in it. Bagworthy water flowed out of Doone valley, about a mile or so from its mouth.
But when I was turned fourteen years old, and put into good small-clothes, buckled at the knee, and strong blue worsted hosen, knitted by my mother, it happened to me without choice, I may say, to explore the Bagworthy water. And it came about in this wise.
But when I turned fourteen and was dressed in nice short pants, buckled at the knees, and sturdy blue woolen stockings knitted by my mom, I found myself exploring the Bagworthy water without even planning to. Here's how it happened.
My mother had long been ailing, and not well able to eat much; and there is nothing that frightens us so much as for people to have no love of their victuals. Now I chanced to remember that once at the time of the holidays I had brought dear mother from Tiverton a jar of pickled loaches, caught by myself in the Lowman river, and baked in the kitchen oven, with vinegar, a few leaves of bay, and about a dozen pepper-corns. And mother had said that in all her life she had never tasted anything fit to be compared with them. Whether she said so good a thing out of compliment to my skill in catching the fish and cooking them, or whether she really meant it, is more than I can tell, though I quite believe the latter, and so would most people who tasted them; at any rate, I now resolved to get some loaches for her, and do them in the self-same manner, just to make her eat a bit.
My mom had been sick for a long time and wasn't able to eat much, and nothing scares us more than when people lose their appetite. I remembered that during the holidays, I had brought my sweet mom a jar of pickled loaches from Tiverton, which I had caught myself in the Lowman River and baked in the oven with vinegar, a few bay leaves, and about a dozen peppercorns. She had said that in her entire life, she had never tasted anything that compared to them. Whether she said that to flatter me for my fishing and cooking skills or if she genuinely meant it, I can't say, though I believe she truly did, and so would most people who tried them. At any rate, I decided to catch some loaches for her and prepare them the same way, just to get her to eat a little.
There are many people, even now, who have not come to the right knowledge what a loach is, and where he lives, and how to catch and pickle him. And I will not tell them all about it, because if I did, very likely there would be no loaches left ten or twenty years after the appearance of this book. A pickled minnow is very good if you catch him in a stickle, with the scarlet fingers upon him; but I count him no more than the ropes in beer compared with a loach done properly.
There are still many people today who don’t really know what a loach is, where it lives, or how to catch and preserve it. I won’t share all the details, though, because if I did, it’s likely there wouldn’t be any loaches left ten or twenty years after this book comes out. A pickled minnow is pretty tasty if you catch it in a stickle and it has those red fingers, but I see it as nothing compared to a properly prepared loach.
Being resolved to catch some loaches, whatever trouble it cost me, I set forth without a word to any one, in the forenoon of St. Valentine's day, 1675-6, I think it must have been. Annie should not come with me, because the water was too cold; for the winter had been long, and snow lay here and there in patches in the hollow of the banks, like a lady's gloves forgotten. And yet the spring was breaking forth, as it always does in Devonshire, when the turn of the days is over; and though there was little to see of it, the air was full of feeling.
Determined to catch some loaches, no matter what it took, I set out without telling anyone on the morning of St. Valentine's Day, 1675-6, I believe. Annie shouldn’t come with me because the water was too cold; winter had dragged on, and there were patches of snow here and there in the low spots along the banks, like forgotten lady's gloves. Still, spring was starting to emerge, as it always does in Devonshire, once the days begin to change; and even though there wasn’t much visible, the air was full of promise.
It puzzles me now, that I remember all those young impressions so, because I took no heed of them at the time whatever; and yet they come upon me bright, when nothing else is evident in the gray fog of experience. I am like an old man gazing at the outside of his spectacles, and seeing, as he rubs the dust, the image of his grandson playing at bo-peep with him.
It’s strange to me now that I remember all those early impressions so vividly, even though I didn’t pay any attention to them back then. Yet they come to me clearly when everything else is lost in the dull fog of experience. I feel like an old man looking at the lenses of his glasses, and as he wipes away the dust, he sees the image of his grandson playing peek-a-boo with him.
But let me be of any age, I never could forget that day, and how bitter cold the water was. For I doffed my shoes and hose, and put them into a bag about my neck; and left my little coat at home, and tied my shirt-sleeves back to my shoulders. Then I took a three-pronged fork firmly bound to a rod with cord, and a piece of canvas kerchief, with a lump of bread inside it; and so went into the pebbly water, trying to think how warm it was. For more than a mile all down the Lynn stream, scarcely a stone I left unturned, being thoroughly skilled in the tricks of the loach, and knowing how he hides himself. For being gray-spotted, and clear to see through, and something like a cuttle-fish, only more substantial, he will stay quite still where a streak of weed is in the rapid water, hoping to be overlooked, not caring even to wag his tail. Then being disturbed he flips away, like whalebone from the finger, and hies to a shelf of stone, and lies with his sharp head poked in under it; or sometimes he bellies him into the mud, and only shows his back-ridge. And that is the time to spear him nicely, holding the fork very gingerly, and allowing for the bent of it, which comes to pass, I know not how, at the tickle of air and water.
But no matter how old I am, I can never forget that day and how bitterly cold the water was. I took off my shoes and stockings and put them in a bag around my neck; I left my little coat at home and tied my shirt sleeves back to my shoulders. Then I grabbed a three-pronged fork tied to a rod with string and a piece of canvas with a lump of bread inside it, and I waded into the pebbly water, trying to think about how warm it was. For more than a mile down the Lynn stream, there was hardly a stone I left unturned, as I was well-versed in the tricks of the loach and knew where it hid. Being gray-spotted and transparent, somewhat like a cuttlefish but more solid, it will remain still where a patch of weeds is in the current, hoping not to be noticed, not even bothering to wag its tail. When disturbed, it flips away like a whalebone from a finger and quickly hides under a stone shelf, poking its sharp head in; or sometimes, it burrows into the mud, exposing only its back ridge. That’s the perfect moment to spear it carefully, holding the fork delicately and accounting for the bend in it, which happens, I know not how, with the touch of air and water.
Or if your loach should not be abroad when first you come to look for him, but keeping snug in his little home, then you may see him come forth amazed at the quivering of the shingles, and oar himself and look at you, and then dart up-stream, like a little grey streak; and then you must try to mark him in, and follow very daintily. So after that, in a sandy place, you steal up behind his tail to him, so that he cannot set eyes on you, for his head is up-stream always, and there you see him abiding still, clear, and mild, and affable. Then, as he looks so innocent, you make full sure to prog him well, in spite of the wry of the water, and the sun making elbows to everything, and the trembling of your fingers. But when you gird at him lovingly, and have as good as gotten him, lo! in the go-by of the river he is gone as a shadow goes, and only a little cloud of mud curls away from the points of the fork.
Or if your loach isn't out and about when you first come looking for him, but instead is cozy in his little home, you'll see him come out, surprised by the movement of the gravel. He'll look at you for a moment and then dash upstream like a little gray flash. You need to try to keep track of him and follow carefully. Then, in a sandy spot, you sneak up behind him so he can't see you, since his head is always upstream. There you’ll find him resting quietly, clear, gentle, and friendly. As he looks so innocent, you make sure to poke him well, despite the swirling water, the sun casting shadows on everything, and your trembling fingers. But just when you go to reach him affectionately and feel like you've almost caught him, poof! He vanishes like a shadow, leaving only a tiny cloud of mud swirling from the point where he was.
A long way down that limpid water, chill and bright as an iceberg, went my little self that day on man's choice errand—destruction. All the young fish seemed to know that I was one who had taken out God's certificate, and meant to have the value of it; every one of them was aware that we desolate more than replenish the earth. For a cow might come and look into the water, and put her yellow lips down; a kingfisher, like a blue arrow, might shoot through the dark alleys over the channel, or sit on a dipping withy-bough with his beak sunk into his breast-feathers; even an otter might float downstream likening himself to a log of wood, with his flat head flush with the water-top, and his oily eyes peering quietly; and yet no panic would seize other life, as it does when a sample of man comes.
A long way down that clear water, cold and bright as an iceberg, went my little self that day on humanity's chosen mission—destruction. All the young fish seemed to know that I was someone who had taken out God's permit and intended to get my money's worth; every one of them understood that we deplete the earth more than we refill it. A cow might come and look into the water, dipping her yellow lips down; a kingfisher, like a blue arrow, might dart through the dark passageways over the channel, or perch on a bending willow branch with its beak tucked into its breast feathers; even an otter might float downstream, comparing himself to a log, with his flat head level with the water surface, and his oily eyes peering quietly; yet no panic would grip other creatures, as it does when a human is nearby.
Now let not any one suppose that I thought of these things when I was young, for I knew not the way to do it. And proud enough in truth I was at the universal fear I spread in all those lonely places, where I myself must have been afraid, if anything had come up to me. It is all very pretty to see the trees big with their hopes of another year, though dumb as yet on the subject, and the waters murmuring gaiety, and the banks spread out with comfort; but a boy takes none of this to heart; unless he be meant for a poet (which God can never charge upon me), and he would liefer have a good apple, or even a bad one, if he stole it.
Now, let no one think that I considered these things when I was young, because I had no idea how to approach them. And I was genuinely proud of the widespread fear I instilled in those lonely places, where I would have been scared myself if anything had approached me. It's all very nice to see the trees full of hope for another year, even if they haven't said anything about it yet, and the water cheerfully murmuring, with the banks providing a sense of comfort; but a boy doesn’t really pay attention to this unless he’s meant to be a poet (which I could never be accused of), and he would much rather have a good apple, or even a bad one, if he could steal it.
When I had travelled two miles or so, conquered now and then with cold, and coming out to rub my legs into a lively friction, and only fishing here and there, because of the tumbling water; suddenly, in an open space, where meadows spread about it, I found a good stream flowing softly into the body of our brook. And it brought, so far as I could guess by the sweep of it under my knee-caps, a larger power of clear water than the Lynn itself had; only it came more quietly down, not being troubled with stairs and steps, as the fortune of the Lynn is, but gliding smoothly and forcibly, as if upon some set purpose.
When I had traveled about two miles, occasionally feeling cold and stopping to rub my legs for some warmth, I was mostly fishing here and there because of the rushing water. Suddenly, in a clearing where the meadows spread out, I discovered a nice stream flowing gently into our brook. As far as I could tell by the way it moved under my knees, it carried more clear water than the Lynn itself; but it flowed down more quietly, not being disrupted by drops and steps like the Lynn does, instead gliding smoothly and powerfully, as if it had a specific purpose.
Hereupon I drew up and thought, and reason was much inside me; because the water was bitter cold, and my little toes were aching. So on the bank I rubbed them well with a sprout of young sting-nettle, and having skipped about awhile, was kindly inclined to eat a bit.
Here, I paused to think, feeling a lot of reasoning within me; the water was painfully cold, and my little toes were throbbing. So, on the bank, I rubbed them well with a young nettle sprout, and after jumping around for a while, I felt ready to eat something.
Now all the turn of all my life hung upon that moment. But as I sat there munching a crust of Betty Muxworthy's sweet brown bread, and a bit of cold bacon along with it, and kicking my little red heels against the dry loam to keep them warm, I knew no more than fish under the fork what was going on over me. It seemed a sad business to go back now and tell Annie there were no loaches; and yet it was a frightful thing, knowing what I did of it, to venture, where no grown man durst, up the Bagworthy water. And please to recollect that I was only a boy in those days, fond enough of anything new, but not like a man to meet it.
Now, all the twists and turns of my life rested on that moment. But as I sat there munching on a piece of Betty Muxworthy's sweet brown bread and a bit of cold bacon, kicking my little red heels against the dry soil to keep them warm, I had no idea what was happening above me. It felt sad to think about going back and telling Annie that there were no loaches; yet, considering what I knew, it was terrifying to venture into Bagworthy water where no grown man would dare go. And please remember, I was just a boy back then, curious about anything new, but not brave enough to face it like a man.
However, as I ate more and more, my spirit arose within me, and I thought of what my father had been, and how he had told me a hundred times never to be a coward. And then I grew warm, and my little heart was ashamed of its pit-a-patting, and I said to myself, “now if father looks, he shall see that I obey him.” So I put the bag round my back again, and buckled my breeches far up from the knee, expecting deeper water, and crossing the Lynn, went stoutly up under the branches which hang so dark on the Bagworthy river.
However, as I kept eating, my spirits lifted, and I remembered what my father had been like and how he had told me a hundred times never to be a coward. I felt warm inside, and my little heart was embarrassed by its rapid beating, so I told myself, “If my father sees me, he will know that I’m following his advice.” I slung the bag over my back again, fastened my pants high up above the knee, anticipating deeper water, and boldly made my way under the dark branches that hung over the Bagworthy River as I crossed the Lynn.
I found it strongly over-woven, turned, and torn with thicket-wood, but not so rocky as the Lynn, and more inclined to go evenly. There were bars of chafed stakes stretched from the sides half-way across the current, and light outriders of pithy weed, and blades of last year's water-grass trembling in the quiet places, like a spider's threads, on the transparent stillness, with a tint of olive moving it. And here and there the sun came in, as if his light was sifted, making dance upon the waves, and shadowing the pebbles.
I found it heavily tangled, twisted, and ripped with thick brush, but not as rocky as the Lynn, and more likely to flow smoothly. There were bars of worn stakes stretched from the sides halfway across the water, along with light strands of soft weeds and blades of last year's water grass trembling in the calm spots, like spider threads, on the clear stillness, with a hint of olive moving through it. And occasionally, the sun broke through, as if its light was filtered, causing it to dance on the waves and cast shadows on the pebbles.
Here, although affrighted often by the deep, dark places, and feeling that every step I took might never be taken backward, on the whole I had very comely sport of loaches, trout, and minnows, forking some, and tickling some, and driving others to shallow nooks, whence I could bail them ashore. Now, if you have ever been fishing, you will not wonder that I was led on, forgetting all about danger, and taking no heed of the time, but shouting in a childish way whenever I caught a “whacker” (as we called a big fish at Tiverton); and in sooth there were very fine loaches here, having more lie and harbourage than in the rough Lynn stream, though not quite so large as in the Lowman, where I have even taken them to the weight of half a pound.
Here, even though I was often scared by the deep, dark places and felt like every step I took might lead me to never being able to go back, I mostly had a great time catching loaches, trout, and minnows. I forked some, tickled some, and drove others into shallow spots where I could bail them out. Now, if you've ever been fishing, you’ll understand why I got so caught up in it, forgetting all about the danger and losing track of time, shouting like a kid whenever I caught a “whacker” (that’s what we called a big fish at Tiverton). And indeed, there were some really nice loaches here, having more hiding spots and shelter than in the rough Lynn stream, although they weren't quite as big as those in the Lowman, where I’ve even caught them weighing half a pound.
But in answer to all my shouts there never was any sound at all, except of a rocky echo, or a scared bird hustling away, or the sudden dive of a water-vole; and the place grew thicker and thicker, and the covert grew darker above me, until I thought that the fishes might have good chance of eating me, instead of my eating the fishes.
But in response to all my shouts, there was never any sound at all, except for a rocky echo, a frightened bird flapping away, or the sudden splash of a water vole; and the area became denser and denser, with the cover above me getting darker, until I felt that the fish might have a better chance of eating me instead of me eating the fish.
For now the day was falling fast behind the brown of the hill-tops, and the trees, being void of leaf and hard, seemed giants ready to beat me. And every moment as the sky was clearing up for a white frost, the cold of the water got worse and worse, until I was fit to cry with it. And so, in a sorry plight, I came to an opening in the bushes, where a great black pool lay in front of me, whitened with snow (as I thought) at the sides, till I saw it was only foam-froth.
For now, the day was quickly disappearing behind the brown hilltops, and the trees, bare and stiff, looked like giants ready to attack me. And every moment as the sky cleared for a white frost, the cold of the water became more unbearable, making me feel like crying. So, in a miserable state, I reached a gap in the bushes, where a large black pool stretched out in front of me, appearing to be covered in snow (as I initially thought) on the edges, until I realized it was just foam.
Now, though I could swim with great ease and comfort, and feared no depth of water, when I could fairly come to it, yet I had no desire to go over head and ears into this great pool, being so cramped and weary, and cold enough in all conscience, though wet only up to the middle, not counting my arms and shoulders. And the look of this black pit was enough to stop one from diving into it, even on a hot summer's day with sunshine on the water; I mean, if the sun ever shone there. As it was, I shuddered and drew back; not alone at the pool itself and the black air there was about it, but also at the whirling manner, and wisping of white threads upon it in stripy circles round and round; and the centre still as jet.
Now, even though I could swim easily and comfortably, and didn’t fear any depth of water when I was in it, I had no desire to dive into this big pool, feeling cramped, tired, and cold enough as it was, even though I was only wet up to my waist, not counting my arms and shoulders. The sight of that dark pit was enough to keep me from jumping in, even on a hot summer day with sunshine on the water; assuming the sun ever shone there. As it was, I shuddered and stepped back; not just because of the pool itself and the dark air surrounding it, but also because of the swirling motion and the wisps of white threads moving in striped circles around and around; while the center remained still as jet.
But soon I saw the reason of the stir and depth of that great pit, as well as of the roaring sound which long had made me wonder. For skirting round one side, with very little comfort, because the rocks were high and steep, and the ledge at the foot so narrow, I came to a sudden sight and marvel, such as I never dreamed of. For, lo! I stood at the foot of a long pale slide of water, coming smoothly to me, without any break or hindrance, for a hundred yards or more, and fenced on either side with cliff, sheer, and straight, and shining. The water neither ran nor fell, nor leaped with any spouting, but made one even slope of it, as if it had been combed or planed, and looking like a plank of deal laid down a deep black staircase. However, there was no side-rail, nor any place to walk upon, only the channel a fathom wide, and the perpendicular walls of crag shutting out the evening.
But soon I understood the reason for the commotion and the depth of that massive pit, as well as the roaring sound that had puzzled me for so long. As I cautiously made my way around one side, feeling uneasy because the rocks were tall and steep, and the ledge at the bottom was so narrow, I was suddenly struck by a sight that took my breath away, something I had never imagined. There I was, at the base of a long, pale slide of water, flowing smoothly towards me without any breaks or obstacles, for over a hundred yards, flanked on both sides by sheer, straight cliffs that shimmered. The water neither rushed nor fell, nor did it splash dramatically; it formed a perfect, even incline, like it had been smoothly planed, resembling a plank of wood laid down a deep, dark staircase. However, there were no railings, nor any place to walk, just a channel about a yard wide, with the steep rock walls blocking out the evening light.
The look of this place had a sad effect, scaring me very greatly, and making me feel that I would give something only to be at home again, with Annie cooking my supper, and our dog Watch sniffing upward. But nothing would come of wishing; that I had long found out; and it only made one the less inclined to work without white feather. So I laid the case before me in a little council; not for loss of time, but only that I wanted rest, and to see things truly.
The atmosphere of this place felt really depressing, frightening me a lot, and making me wish I could be home again, with Annie cooking dinner and our dog Watch sniffing around. But I knew wishing wouldn’t change anything; I had figured that out a long time ago, and it just made me less motivated to work without encouragement. So, I gathered my thoughts and had a little meeting with myself; not to waste time, but because I needed a break and wanted to see things clearly.
Then says I to myself—“John Ridd, these trees, and pools, and lonesome rocks, and setting of the sunlight are making a gruesome coward of thee. Shall I go back to my mother so, and be called her fearless boy?”
Then I said to myself, “John Ridd, these trees, pools, lonely rocks, and the way the sun is setting are turning you into a scared coward. Should I go back to my mother like this and be called her fearless boy?”
Nevertheless, I am free to own that it was not any fine sense of shame which settled my decision; for indeed there was nearly as much of danger in going back as in going on, and perhaps even more of labour, the journey being so roundabout. But that which saved me from turning back was a strange inquisitive desire, very unbecoming in a boy of little years; in a word, I would risk a great deal to know what made the water come down like that, and what there was at the top of it.
Nevertheless, I can honestly say that it wasn’t any strong sense of shame that made my decision; in fact, there was almost as much danger in going back as there was in moving forward, and maybe even more effort, since the journey was so convoluted. But what kept me from turning back was a strange curiosity, which was quite inappropriate for a boy of my age; in short, I was willing to risk a lot just to find out why the water flowed down like that and what was at the top of it.
Therefore, seeing hard strife before me, I girt up my breeches anew, with each buckle one hole tighter, for the sodden straps were stretching and giving, and mayhap my legs were grown smaller from the coldness of it. Then I bestowed my fish around my neck more tightly, and not stopping to look much, for fear of fear, crawled along over the fork of rocks, where the water had scooped the stone out, and shunning thus the ledge from whence it rose like the mane of a white horse into the broad black pool, softly I let my feet into the dip and rush of the torrent.
So, seeing the tough struggle ahead of me, I tightened my pants again, pulling each buckle one hole tighter because the damp straps were stretching, and maybe my legs had shrunk from the cold. Then I wrapped my fish around my neck more snugly, and without stopping to look too much, out of fear, I crawled over the rocky outcrop where the water had worn away the stone, avoiding the ledge that jutted out like the mane of a white horse into the deep black pool. Gently, I lowered my feet into the current and rush of the water.
And here I had reckoned without my host, although (as I thought) so clever; and it was much but that I went down into the great black pool, and had never been heard of more; and this must have been the end of me, except for my trusty loach-fork. For the green wave came down like great bottles upon me, and my legs were gone off in a moment, and I had not time to cry out with wonder, only to think of my mother and Annie, and knock my head very sadly, which made it go round so that brains were no good, even if I had any. But all in a moment, before I knew aught, except that I must die out of the way, with a roar of water upon me, my fork, praise God stuck fast in the rock, and I was borne up upon it. I felt nothing except that here was another matter to begin upon; and it might be worth while, or again it might not, to have another fight for it. But presently the dash of the water upon my face revived me, and my mind grew used to the roar of it, and meseemed I had been worse off than this, when first flung into the Lowman.
And here I had underestimated my host, even though I thought I was pretty clever; it was almost like I was about to go down into the big dark pool and never be heard from again. That would have been my end, if it weren't for my trusty fish fork. The green wave crashed down on me like huge bottles, sweeping my legs away in an instant, and I didn't have time to scream in amazement, only to think of my mom and Annie and sadly bang my head, which made everything spin so that my thoughts were useless, even if I had any. But suddenly, before I knew anything else, except that I had to get out of the way and that water was roaring around me, my fork, thank God, got stuck in the rock, and I was lifted up by it. I felt nothing except that this was something else to deal with; it might be worth it to fight for my life again, or maybe it wouldn't. But soon the splash of water on my face brought me back, and I got used to the sound of the roar. It seemed to me that I had been in a worse situation when I was first thrown into the Lowman.
Therefore I gathered my legs back slowly, as if they were fish to be landed, stopping whenever the water flew too strongly off my shin-bones, and coming along without sticking out to let the wave get hold of me. And in this manner I won a footing, leaning well forward like a draught-horse, and balancing on my strength as it were, with the ashen stake set behind me. Then I said to my self, “John Ridd, the sooner you get yourself out by the way you came, the better it will be for you.” But to my great dismay and affright, I saw that no choice was left me now, except that I must climb somehow up that hill of water, or else be washed down into the pool and whirl around it till it drowned me. For there was no chance of fetching back by the way I had gone down into it, and further up was a hedge of rock on either side of the waterway, rising a hundred yards in height, and for all I could tell five hundred, and no place to set a foot in.
So I slowly pulled my legs back, like reeling in a fish, stopping whenever the water surged too strongly against my shins, and moving carefully so the waves wouldn't grab me. This way, I found my balance, leaning forward like a workhorse, using my strength to stay steady with the ashen stake behind me. Then I thought to myself, “John Ridd, the sooner you find a way out of here, the better for you.” But to my great fright and dismay, I realized I had no choice but to somehow climb this wall of water, or be swept down into the pool, spinning around until I drowned. There was no way to go back the way I had come, and further up was a wall of rock on either side of the waterway, rising at least a hundred yards high, maybe even five hundred, with no place to set my foot.
Having said the Lord's Prayer (which was all I knew), and made a very bad job of it, I grasped the good loach-stick under a knot, and steadied me with my left hand, and so with a sigh of despair began my course up the fearful torrent-way. To me it seemed half a mile at least of sliding water above me, but in truth it was little more than a furlong, as I came to know afterwards. It would have been a hard ascent even without the slippery slime and the force of the river over it, and I had scanty hope indeed of ever winning the summit. Nevertheless, my terror left me, now I was face to face with it, and had to meet the worst; and I set myself to do my best with a vigour and sort of hardness which did not then surprise me, but have done so ever since.
Having said the Lord's Prayer (which was all I knew), and done a really poor job of it, I grabbed the loach-stick under a knot, steadied myself with my left hand, and with a sigh of despair, began my trek up the terrifying torrent. It felt like at least half a mile of rushing water above me, but in reality, it was just over a furlong, as I later found out. It would have been a tough climb even without the slippery muck and the force of the river over it, and I had very little hope of ever reaching the top. However, my fear faded away now that I was facing it directly and had to confront the worst; I prepared to give it my best effort with a strength and determination that didn't surprise me at the time, but has since.
The water was only six inches deep, or from that to nine at the utmost, and all the way up I could see my feet looking white in the gloom of the hollow, and here and there I found resting-place, to hold on by the cliff and pant awhile. And gradually as I went on, a warmth of courage breathed in me, to think that perhaps no other had dared to try that pass before me, and to wonder what mother would say to it. And then came thought of my father also, and the pain of my feet abated.
The water was only six inches deep, maybe up to nine at most, and all the way up I could see my feet looking pale in the dimness of the hollow. Here and there, I found spots to rest, gripping the cliff to catch my breath for a bit. As I kept going, I felt a growing sense of courage, thinking that maybe no one else had dared to attempt this path before me, and I wondered what my mom would think about it. Then I thought of my dad too, and the pain in my feet eased.
How I went carefully, step by step, keeping my arms in front of me, and never daring to straighten my knees is more than I can tell clearly, or even like now to think of, because it makes me dream of it. Only I must acknowledge that the greatest danger of all was just where I saw no jeopardy, but ran up a patch of black ooze-weed in a very boastful manner, being now not far from the summit.
How I moved slowly, one step at a time, keeping my arms out in front of me and never daring to straighten my knees is hard for me to explain clearly, or even to think about now, because it makes me reminisce. I can only admit that the biggest risk was exactly where I didn't notice any danger, as I confidently strolled up a patch of black ooze-weed, being now close to the top.
Here I fell very piteously, and was like to have broken my knee-cap, and the torrent got hold of my other leg while I was indulging the bruised one. And then a vile knotting of cramp disabled me, and for awhile I could only roar, till my mouth was full of water, and all of my body was sliding. But the fright of that brought me to again, and my elbow caught in a rock-hole; and so I managed to start again, with the help of more humility.
Here I fell really hard and almost broke my knee, and the rushing water grabbed my other leg while I was focusing on the hurt one. Then a terrible cramp hit me, and for a while all I could do was scream until my mouth was full of water, and my whole body was slipping. But the shock of that brought me back to reality, and my elbow got stuck in a rock crevice; so I managed to push forward again, with a bit more humility.
Now being in the most dreadful fright, because I was so near the top, and hope was beating within me, I laboured hard with both legs and arms, going like a mill and grunting. At last the rush of forked water, where first it came over the lips of the fall, drove me into the middle, and I stuck awhile with my toe-balls on the slippery links of the pop-weed, and the world was green and gliddery, and I durst not look behind me. Then I made up my mind to die at last; for so my legs would ache no more, and my breath not pain my heart so; only it did seem such a pity after fighting so long to give in, and the light was coming upon me, and again I fought towards it; then suddenly I felt fresh air, and fell into it headlong.
Now I was in a state of sheer terror, so close to the top, with hope racing inside me. I struggled hard with my arms and legs, moving like a machine and grunting. Finally, the rush of the waterfall pushed me into the middle, and I got stuck for a moment, my toes gripping the slippery weeds. Everything around me was green and slippery, and I couldn't bring myself to look back. I then resolved to give in and accept death; that way, my legs would stop hurting, and my breath wouldn't stab at my heart. But it felt like such a waste after fighting for so long to give up, especially with light shining down on me. I fought my way toward it again, and suddenly, I felt fresh air and plunged into it.
CHAPTER VIII
A BOY AND A GIRL
When I came to myself again, my hands were full of young grass and mould, and a little girl kneeling at my side was rubbing my forehead tenderly with a dock-leaf and a handkerchief.
When I came to my senses again, my hands were full of fresh grass and dirt, and a little girl kneeling beside me was gently rubbing my forehead with a broad leaf and a handkerchief.
“Oh, I am so glad,” she whispered softly, as I opened my eyes and looked at her; “now you will try to be better, won't you?”
“Oh, I’m so glad,” she whispered softly as I opened my eyes and looked at her. “Now you’ll try to be better, right?”
I had never heard so sweet a sound as came from between her bright red lips, while there she knelt and gazed at me; neither had I ever seen anything so beautiful as the large dark eyes intent upon me, full of pity and wonder. And then, my nature being slow, and perhaps, for that matter, heavy, I wandered with my hazy eyes down the black shower of her hair, as to my jaded gaze it seemed; and where it fell on the turf, among it (like an early star) was the first primrose of the season. And since that day I think of her, through all the rough storms of my life, when I see an early primrose. Perhaps she liked my countenance, and indeed I know she did, because she said so afterwards; although at the time she was too young to know what made her take to me. Not that I had any beauty, or ever pretended to have any, only a solid healthy face, which many girls have laughed at.
I had never heard such a sweet sound as the one that came from her bright red lips while she knelt there, looking at me. I had also never seen anything as beautiful as her large dark eyes focused on me, filled with pity and wonder. And then, being a bit slow and perhaps a little dull, I let my gaze drift down her black hair, which looked like a dark cascade to my tired eyes; where it fell onto the grass, I spotted the first primrose of the season, like an early star. Since that day, whenever I see an early primrose, I think of her through all the tough times in my life. Maybe she liked my face, and I know she did because she said so later, even though at the time she was too young to understand why she was drawn to me. It’s not that I had any real beauty or ever pretended to; I just had a solid, healthy face, which many girls have laughed at.
Thereupon I sate upright, with my little trident still in one hand, and was much afraid to speak to her, being conscious of my country-brogue, lest she should cease to like me. But she clapped her hands, and made a trifling dance around my back, and came to me on the other side, as if I were a great plaything.
I sat up straight, still holding my little trident in one hand, and I was really nervous to talk to her because I knew my accent might turn her off. But then she clapped her hands and did a silly little dance around me, coming over to the other side as if I were a big toy.
“What is your name?” she said, as if she had every right to ask me; “and how did you come here, and what are these wet things in this great bag?”
“What’s your name?” she asked, as if she had every right to question me; “and how did you get here, and what are these wet things in this big bag?”
“You had better let them alone,” I said; “they are loaches for my mother. But I will give you some, if you like.”
“You should probably leave them alone,” I said; “they're loaches for my mom. But I can give you some if you want.”
“Dear me, how much you think of them! Why, they are only fish. But how your feet are bleeding! oh, I must tie them up for you. And no shoes nor stockings! Is your mother very poor, poor boy?”
“Goodness, you think about them so much! They’re just fish. But look at your feet, they're bleeding! I need to bandage them for you. And you don’t have any shoes or socks! Is your mom really poor, poor kid?”
“No,” I said, being vexed at this; “we are rich enough to buy all this great meadow, if we chose; and here my shoes and stockings be.”
“No,” I said, feeling annoyed by this; “we're wealthy enough to buy this entire meadow if we wanted to; and here are my shoes and socks.”
“Why, they are quite as wet as your feet; and I cannot bear to see your feet. Oh, please to let me manage them; I will do it very softly.”
“Why, they are just as wet as your feet, and I can’t stand to see your feet. Oh, please let me take care of them; I’ll be very gentle.”
“Oh, I don't think much of that,” I replied; “I shall put some goose-grease to them. But how you are looking at me! I never saw any one like you before. My name is John Ridd. What is your name?”
“Oh, I don't think much of that,” I replied. “I’ll just put some goose grease on them. But why are you looking at me like that? I've never seen anyone like you before. My name is John Ridd. What's your name?”
“Lorna Doone,” she answered, in a low voice, as if afraid of it, and hanging her head so that I could see only her forehead and eyelashes; “if you please, my name is Lorna Doone; and I thought you must have known it.”
“Lorna Doone,” she replied quietly, almost as if she feared it, lowering her head so that I could only see her forehead and eyelashes; “if you don’t mind, my name is Lorna Doone; and I figured you must have known that.”
Then I stood up and touched her hand, and tried to make her look at me; but she only turned away the more. Young and harmless as she was, her name alone made guilt of her. Nevertheless I could not help looking at her tenderly, and the more when her blushes turned into tears, and her tears to long, low sobs.
Then I stood up and touched her hand, trying to make her look at me; but she just turned away more. Young and innocent as she was, her name alone made her feel guilty. Still, I couldn't help but look at her with tenderness, especially when her blush turned into tears, and her tears turned into long, quiet sobs.
“Don't cry,” I said, “whatever you do. I am sure you have never done any harm. I will give you all my fish Lorna, and catch some more for mother; only don't be angry with me.”
“Don’t cry,” I said, “whatever you do. I’m sure you’ve never done anything wrong. I’ll give you all my fish, Lorna, and catch some more for Mom; just please don’t be mad at me.”
She flung her little soft arms up in the passion of her tears, and looked at me so piteously, that what did I do but kiss her. It seemed to be a very odd thing, when I came to think of it, because I hated kissing so, as all honest boys must do. But she touched my heart with a sudden delight, like a cowslip-blossom (although there were none to be seen yet), and the sweetest flowers of spring.
She threw her little soft arms up in the heat of her tears and looked at me so sadly that I just kissed her. It seemed really strange when I thought about it, since I hated kissing, like all decent boys do. But she touched my heart with a sudden joy, like a cowslip blossom (even though there weren’t any around yet), and the sweetest flowers of spring.
She gave me no encouragement, as my mother in her place would have done; nay, she even wiped her lips (which methought was rather rude of her), and drew away, and smoothed her dress, as if I had used a freedom. Then I felt my cheeks grow burning red, and I gazed at my legs and was sorry. For although she was not at all a proud child (at any rate in her countenance), yet I knew that she was by birth a thousand years in front of me. They might have taken and framed me, or (which would be more to the purpose) my sisters, until it was time for us to die, and then have trained our children after us, for many generations; yet never could we have gotten that look upon our faces which Lorna Doone had naturally, as if she had been born to it.
She didn't encourage me at all, like my mom would have; in fact, she even wiped her lips (which I thought was kind of rude) and pulled away, smoothing her dress as if I had overstepped my bounds. I felt my cheeks turn bright red, and I looked down at my legs and felt ashamed. Even though she didn’t come across as a proud girl (at least not on her face), I knew she was from a background far beyond mine. They could have put me, or even my sisters, in a frame and raised our kids after us for generations, and we still could never have had that effortless look that Lorna Doone had, as if it was just part of who she was.
Here was I, a yeoman's boy, a yeoman every inch of me, even where I was naked; and there was she, a lady born, and thoroughly aware of it, and dressed by people of rank and taste, who took pride in her beauty and set it to advantage. For though her hair was fallen down by reason of her wildness, and some of her frock was touched with wet where she had tended me so, behold her dress was pretty enough for the queen of all the angels. The colours were bright and rich indeed, and the substance very sumptuous, yet simple and free from tinsel stuff, and matching most harmoniously. All from her waist to her neck was white, plaited in close like a curtain, and the dark soft weeping of her hair, and the shadowy light of her eyes (like a wood rayed through with sunset), made it seem yet whiter, as if it were done on purpose. As for the rest, she knew what it was a great deal better than I did, for I never could look far away from her eyes when they were opened upon me.
Here I was, a farm boy, completely a farm boy, even when I was naked; and there she was, a lady by birth, fully aware of it, dressed by people of high status and taste, who took pride in her beauty and showcased it well. Although her hair had fallen loose because of her wildness, and part of her dress was damp from tending to me, her outfit was pretty enough for the queen of all angels. The colors were bright and rich, and the fabric was luxurious yet simple and free from anything flashy, matching beautifully together. From her waist to her neck, it was white, tightly plaited like a curtain, and the dark, soft strands of her hair along with the shadowy shimmer in her eyes (like a forest lit by sunset) made it seem even whiter, almost as if it were intentional. As for everything else, she understood it all much better than I did, because I could never look away from her eyes when they were looking right at me.
Now, seeing how I heeded her, and feeling that I had kissed her, although she was such a little girl, eight years old or thereabouts, she turned to the stream in a bashful manner, and began to watch the water, and rubbed one leg against the other.
Now, seeing how I listened to her and realizing that I had kissed her, even though she was just a little girl, around eight years old, she turned to the stream shyly and started to watch the water, rubbing one leg against the other.
I, for my part, being vexed at her behaviour to me, took up all my things to go, and made a fuss about it; to let her know I was going. But she did not call me back at all, as I had made sure she would do; moreover, I knew that to try the descent was almost certain death to me, and it looked as dark as pitch; and so at the mouth I turned round again, and came back to her, and said, “Lorna.”
I, feeling frustrated with how she treated me, gathered all my things to leave and created a scene to let her know I was going. But she didn’t call me back at all, even though I was sure she would; plus, I realized that trying to go down was practically a death sentence for me, and it looked completely dark. So, at the entrance, I turned around, went back to her, and said, “Lorna.”
“Oh, I thought you were gone,” she answered; “why did you ever come here? Do you know what they would do to us, if they found you here with me?”
“Oh, I thought you left,” she replied. “Why did you come here? Do you know what they would do to us if they found you here with me?”
“Beat us, I dare say, very hard; or me, at least. They could never beat you.”
“Go ahead, I bet you can hit me really hard; or at least me. They could never hit you.”
“No. They would kill us both outright, and bury us here by the water; and the water often tells me that I must come to that.”
“No. They would kill us both right away and bury us here by the water; and the water often tells me that I have to face that.”
“But what should they kill me for?”
“But why should they kill me?”
“Because you have found the way up here, and they never could believe it. Now, please to go; oh, please to go. They will kill us both in a moment. Yes, I like you very much”—for I was teasing her to say it—“very much indeed, and I will call you John Ridd, if you like; only please to go, John. And when your feet are well, you know, you can come and tell me how they are.”
“Because you made it up here, and they could never believe it. Now, please go; oh, please go. They will kill us both any moment now. Yes, I like you a lot”—I was teasing her to say it—“a whole lot, and I’ll call you John Ridd, if that works for you; just please go, John. And when your feet are better, you can come and tell me how they are.”
“But I tell you, Lorna, I like you very much indeed—nearly as much as Annie, and a great deal more than Lizzie. And I never saw any one like you, and I must come back again to-morrow, and so must you, to see me; and I will bring you such lots of things—there are apples still, and a thrush I caught with only one leg broken, and our dog has just had puppies—”
“But I tell you, Lorna, I really like you a lot—almost as much as Annie, and way more than Lizzie. I've never seen anyone like you, and I have to come back tomorrow, and you should too, to see me; and I’ll bring you so many things—there are still apples, and I caught a thrush with only one leg broken, and our dog just had puppies—”
“Oh, dear, they won't let me have a dog. There is not a dog in the valley. They say they are such noisy things—”
“Oh man, they won't let me have a dog. There's not a single dog in the valley. They say they're just so noisy—”
“Only put your hand in mine—what little things they are, Lorna! And I will bring you the loveliest dog; I will show you just how long he is.”
“Just put your hand in mine—how little those things are, Lorna! And I'll bring you the most adorable dog; I'll show you exactly how long he is.”
“Hush!” A shout came down the valley, and all my heart was trembling, like water after sunset, and Lorna's face was altered from pleasant play to terror. She shrank to me, and looked up at me, with such a power of weakness, that I at once made up my mind to save her or to die with her. A tingle went through all my bones, and I only longed for my carbine. The little girl took courage from me, and put her cheek quite close to mine.
“Hush!” A shout echoed down the valley, and my heart was racing, like water shimmering after sunset. Lorna's face changed from playful to terrified. She pressed against me and looked up at me with such a fragile vulnerability that I instantly resolved to save her or die trying. A shiver ran through my entire body, and I desperately wished for my carbine. The little girl found courage in me and leaned her cheek against mine.
“Come with me down the waterfall. I can carry you easily; and mother will take care of you.”
“Come with me down the waterfall. I can carry you easily, and Mom will take care of you.”
“No, no,” she cried, as I took her up: “I will tell you what to do. They are only looking for me. You see that hole, that hole there?”
“No, no,” she yelled as I picked her up, “I’ll tell you what to do. They’re just looking for me. Do you see that hole, that hole over there?”
She pointed to a little niche in the rock which verged the meadow, about fifty yards away from us. In the fading of the twilight I could just descry it.
She pointed to a small nook in the rock at the edge of the meadow, about fifty yards away from us. In the fading twilight, I could just make it out.
“Yes, I see it; but they will see me crossing the grass to get there.”
“Yes, I see it; but they will see me walking across the grass to get there.”
“Look! look!” She could hardly speak. “There is a way out from the top of it; they would kill me if I told it. Oh, here they come, I can see them.”
“Look! Look!” She could barely speak. “There’s a way out from the top; they would kill me if I told you. Oh, here they come, I can see them.”
The little maid turned as white as the snow which hung on the rocks above her, and she looked at the water and then at me, and she cried, “Oh dear! oh dear!” And then she began to sob aloud, being so young and unready. But I drew her behind the withy-bushes, and close down to the water, where it was quiet and shelving deep, ere it came to the lip of the chasm. Here they could not see either of us from the upper valley, and might have sought a long time for us, even when they came quite near, if the trees had been clad with their summer clothes. Luckily I had picked up my fish and taken my three-pronged fork away.
The young maid turned as pale as the snow on the rocks above her. She looked at the water and then at me, exclaiming, “Oh no! Oh no!” Then she started to cry, being so young and unprepared. I pulled her behind the willow bushes and down close to the water, where it was calm and gently sloped down before the edge of the chasm. From this spot, they couldn’t see either of us from the upper valley, and they might have searched for us for a long time, even when they got close, if the trees had been in full bloom. Luckily, I had picked up my fish and taken my three-pronged fork with me.
Crouching in that hollow nest, as children get together in ever so little compass, I saw a dozen fierce men come down, on the other side of the water, not bearing any fire-arms, but looking lax and jovial, as if they were come from riding and a dinner taken hungrily. “Queen, queen!” they were shouting, here and there, and now and then: “where the pest is our little queen gone?”
Crouching in that hollow nest, like kids gathering in a small space, I saw a dozen tough men approach from the other side of the water. They weren’t carrying any weapons but looked relaxed and cheerful, as if they had just come back from riding and had eaten a hearty meal. “Queen, queen!” they shouted, here and there, and now and then: “Where the heck has our little queen gone?”
“They always call me 'queen,' and I am to be queen by-and-by,” Lorna whispered to me, with her soft cheek on my rough one, and her little heart beating against me: “oh, they are crossing by the timber there, and then they are sure to see us.”
“They always call me 'queen,' and I’m going to be queen soon,” Lorna whispered to me, resting her soft cheek against my rough one, her little heart beating against me: “oh, they are crossing by the trees over there, and then they are sure to see us.”
“Stop,” said I; “now I see what to do. I must get into the water, and you must go to sleep.”
“Stop,” I said; “now I see what to do. I need to get into the water, and you need to go to sleep.”
“To be sure, yes, away in the meadow there. But how bitter cold it will be for you!”
“To be sure, yes, over in the meadow there. But how freezing it will be for you!”
She saw in a moment the way to do it, sooner than I could tell her; and there was no time to lose.
She realized right away how to do it, faster than I could explain; and there was no time to waste.
“Now mind you never come again,” she whispered over her shoulder, as she crept away with a childish twist hiding her white front from me; “only I shall come sometimes—oh, here they are, Madonna!”
“Now just remember, don’t come back,” she whispered over her shoulder, as she sneaked away with a playful gesture to hide her white front from me; “but I will come sometimes—oh, here they are, Madonna!”
Daring scarce to peep, I crept into the water, and lay down bodily in it, with my head between two blocks of stone, and some flood-drift combing over me. The dusk was deepening between the hills, and a white mist lay on the river; but I, being in the channel of it, could see every ripple, and twig, and rush, and glazing of twilight above it, as bright as in a picture; so that to my ignorance there seemed no chance at all but what the men must find me. For all this time they were shouting and swearing, and keeping such a hullabaloo, that the rocks all round the valley rang, and my heart quaked, so (what with this and the cold) that the water began to gurgle round me, and to lap upon the pebbles.
Barely daring to look, I slipped into the water and lay down in it, with my head between two stones and some debris floating over me. The dusk was deepening between the hills, and a white mist was lying on the river; but since I was in the channel, I could see every ripple, twig, rush, and the fading light above as clearly as in a picture; so to me, it seemed impossible that the men wouldn’t find me. All this time, they were shouting and swearing, making such a racket that the rocks all around the valley echoed, and my heart raced, so (between that and the cold) the water started to swirl around me and lap against the pebbles.
Neither in truth did I try to stop it, being now so desperate, between the fear and the wretchedness; till I caught a glimpse of the little maid, whose beauty and whose kindliness had made me yearn to be with her. And then I knew that for her sake I was bound to be brave and hide myself. She was lying beneath a rock, thirty or forty yards from me, feigning to be fast asleep, with her dress spread beautifully, and her hair drawn over her.
Neither did I actually try to stop it, feeling so desperate between the fear and the misery; until I caught a glimpse of the young girl, whose beauty and kindness made me long to be with her. And then I realized that for her sake I had to be brave and keep myself hidden. She was lying under a rock, about thirty or forty yards away from me, pretending to be fast asleep, with her dress spread out beautifully and her hair draped over her.
Presently one of the great rough men came round a corner upon her; and there he stopped and gazed awhile at her fairness and her innocence. Then he caught her up in his arms, and kissed her so that I heard him; and if I had only brought my gun, I would have tried to shoot him.
Right now, one of the tough guys came around the corner and spotted her; he paused to admire her beauty and innocence. Then he picked her up in his arms and kissed her loudly enough for me to hear, and if I had brought my gun, I would have tried to shoot him.
“Here our queen is! Here's the queen, here's the captain's daughter!” he shouted to his comrades; “fast asleep, by God, and hearty! Now I have first claim to her; and no one else shall touch the child. Back to the bottle, all of you!”
“Here’s our queen! Here’s the queen, here’s the captain’s daughter!” he shouted to his friends; “totally asleep, damn it, and strong! Now I have first dibs on her; and no one else can touch the girl. Back to the bottle, all of you!”
He set her dainty little form upon his great square shoulder, and her narrow feet in one broad hand; and so in triumph marched away, with the purple velvet of her skirt ruffling in his long black beard, and the silken length of her hair fetched out, like a cloud by the wind behind her. This way of her going vexed me so, that I leaped upright in the water, and must have been spied by some of them, but for their haste to the wine-bottle. Of their little queen they took small notice, being in this urgency; although they had thought to find her drowned; but trooped away after one another with kindly challenge to gambling, so far as I could make them out; and I kept sharp watch, I assure you.
He lifted her small frame onto his broad shoulder and held her delicate feet in one hand, marching away triumphantly with the purple velvet of her skirt brushing against his long black beard, and her silky hair flowing like a cloud behind her in the wind. This way of moving annoyed me so much that I jumped up in the water, and I might have been seen by some of them if they weren't so focused on the wine bottle. They hardly paid attention to their little queen in their rush, even though they had expected to find her drowned; instead, they followed one another, playfully challenging each other to gamble, as far as I could tell, while I kept a close watch, I assure you.
Going up that darkened glen, little Lorna, riding still the largest and most fierce of them, turned and put up a hand to me, and I put up a hand to her, in the thick of the mist and the willows.
Going up that darkened valley, little Lorna, still riding the biggest and fiercest of them, turned and raised a hand to me, and I raised a hand to her, in the thick of the mist and the willows.
She was gone, my little dear (though tall of her age and healthy); and when I got over my thriftless fright, I longed to have more to say to her. Her voice to me was so different from all I had ever heard before, as might be a sweet silver bell intoned to the small chords of a harp. But I had no time to think about this, if I hoped to have any supper.
She was gone, my little dear (though tall for her age and healthy); and when I got past my pointless fear, I wished I could say more to her. Her voice was so unique to me, like a sweet silver bell ringing with the gentle strings of a harp. But I didn’t have time to think about that if I wanted to have any dinner.
I crept into a bush for warmth, and rubbed my shivering legs on bark, and longed for mother's fagot. Then as daylight sank below the forget-me-not of stars, with a sorrow to be quit, I knew that now must be my time to get away, if there were any.
I snuggled into a bush for warmth, rubbed my shivering legs against the bark, and wished for my mother's firewood. As daylight faded beneath the forget-me-not of stars, feeling a sadness to let go, I realized that now was the moment for me to escape, if there was any chance to do so.
Therefore, wringing my sodden breaches, I managed to crawl from the bank to the niche in the cliff which Lorna had shown me.
Therefore, squeezing out my soaked pants, I managed to crawl from the riverbank to the spot in the cliff that Lorna had pointed out to me.
Through the dusk I had trouble to see the mouth, at even the five land-yards of distance; nevertheless, I entered well, and held on by some dead fern-stems, and did hope that no one would shoot me.
Through the dusk, I struggled to see the entrance, even from just five yards away; still, I made my way in and clung to some dead fern stems, hoping that nobody would shoot me.
But while I was hugging myself like this, with a boyish manner of reasoning, my joy was like to have ended in sad grief both to myself and my mother, and haply to all honest folk who shall love to read this history. For hearing a noise in front of me, and like a coward not knowing where, but afraid to turn round or think of it, I felt myself going down some deep passage into a pit of darkness. It was no good to catch the sides, the whole thing seemed to go with me. Then, without knowing how, I was leaning over a night of water.
But while I was hugging myself like this, in a boyish way of thinking, my joy was about to turn into deep sadness for both me and my mom, and maybe for everyone honest who loves to read this story. Because I heard a noise in front of me, and like a coward, not knowing what it was but scared to turn around or think about it, I felt myself slipping down a dark passage. It was pointless to try to grab onto the sides; everything felt like it was moving with me. Then, without realizing how, I found myself leaning over a dark body of water.
This water was of black radiance, as are certain diamonds, spanned across with vaults of rock, and carrying no image, neither showing marge nor end, but centred (at it might be) with a bottomless indrawal.
This water had a black sheen, like some diamonds, surrounded by rock arches, with no reflection, showing neither edge nor end, but seemingly centered with a bottomless pull.
With that chill and dread upon me, and the sheer rock all around, and the faint light heaving wavily on the silence of this gulf, I must have lost my wits and gone to the bottom, if there were any.
With that coldness and fear weighing on me, surrounded by sheer rock, and the faint light flickering unsteadily in the silence of this abyss, I must have lost my mind and sunk to the bottom, if there even was one.
But suddenly a robin sang (as they will do after dark, towards spring) in the brown fern and ivy behind me. I took it for our little Annie's voice (for she could call any robin), and gathering quick warm comfort, sprang up the steep way towards the starlight. Climbing back, as the stones glid down, I heard the cold greedy wave go japping, like a blind black dog, into the distance of arches and hollow depths of darkness.
But suddenly a robin sang (as they tend to do after dark, toward spring) in the brown fern and ivy behind me. I took it for our little Annie's voice (since she could call any robin), and feeling a quick warmth of comfort, I jumped up the steep path toward the starlight. As I climbed back, with stones sliding down, I heard the cold, greedy wave splashing, like a blind black dog, into the distance of arches and hollow depths of darkness.
CHAPTER IX
THERE IS NO PLACE LIKE HOME
I can assure you, and tell no lie (as John Fry always used to say, when telling his very largest), that I scrambled back to the mouth of that pit as if the evil one had been after me. And sorely I repented now of all my boyish folly, or madness it might well be termed, in venturing, with none to help, and nothing to compel me, into that accursed valley. Once let me get out, thinks I, and if ever I get in again, without being cast in by neck and by crop, I will give our new-born donkey leave to set up for my schoolmaster.
I can assure you, and I'm not lying (as John Fry always used to say when he was telling his biggest stories), that I scrambled back to the mouth of that pit like the devil was after me. And I deeply regretted all my childish foolishness, or madness, in daring to venture into that cursed valley with no one to help and nothing forcing me. I thought, once I'm out of here, if I ever go in again without being thrown in by my neck and my crop, I’ll let our new donkey take the role of my teacher.
How I kept that resolution we shall see hereafter. It is enough for me now to tell how I escaped from the den that night. First I sat down in the little opening which Lorna had pointed out to me, and wondered whether she had meant, as bitterly occurred to me, that I should run down into the pit, and be drowned, and give no more trouble. But in less than half a minute I was ashamed of that idea, and remembered how she was vexed to think that even a loach should lose his life. And then I said to myself, “Now surely she would value me more than a thousand loaches; and what she said must be quite true about the way out of this horrible place.”
How I managed to stick to that resolution will be revealed later. For now, it’s enough to share how I escaped from that dark place that night. First, I sat down in the small opening that Lorna had pointed out to me and wondered if she had meant – as it bitterly crossed my mind – that I should run down into the pit, drown, and cause no more trouble. But within less than half a minute, I felt ashamed of that thought and recalled how upset she was at the idea of even a small fish losing its life. Then I told myself, “Surely she values me more than a thousand loaches; and what she said about the way out of this awful place must be true.”
Therefore I began to search with the utmost care and diligence, although my teeth were chattering, and all my bones beginning to ache with the chilliness and the wetness. Before very long the moon appeared, over the edge of the mountain, and among the trees at the top of it; and then I espied rough steps, and rocky, made as if with a sledge-hammer, narrow, steep, and far asunder, scooped here and there in the side of the entrance, and then round a bulge of the cliff, like the marks upon a great brown loaf, where a hungry child has picked at it. And higher up, where the light of the moon shone broader upon the precipice, there seemed to be a rude broken track, like the shadow of a crooked stick thrown upon a house-wall.
So I started to search very carefully, even though my teeth were chattering and my whole body was aching from the cold and damp. Before long, the moon appeared over the mountain's edge and through the trees at the top. I then noticed some rough, rocky steps that looked like they had been made with a sledgehammer—narrow, steep, and quite spaced out, carved here and there into the entrance side, then around a bulge in the cliff, resembling the marks on a big brown loaf where a hungry child has picked at it. Higher up, where the moonlight spilled more broadly on the cliff, there seemed to be a rough, broken path, like the shadow of a crooked stick cast on a wall.
Herein was small encouragement; and at first I was minded to lie down and die; but it seemed to come amiss to me. God has His time for all of us; but He seems to advertise us when He does not mean to do it. Moreover, I saw a movement of lights at the head of the valley, as if lanthorns were coming after me, and the nimbleness given thereon to my heels was in front of all meditation.
Here was little encouragement; and at first, I felt like just lying down and giving up; but that didn't feel right to me. God has His timing for all of us; yet He often makes it known to us when He doesn’t intend to act. Also, I noticed some lights moving at the end of the valley, as if lanterns were coming after me, and the quickness in my steps took over all my thoughts.
Straightway I set foot in the lowest stirrup (as I might almost call it), and clung to the rock with my nails, and worked to make a jump into the second stirrup. And I compassed that too, with the aid of my stick; although, to tell you the truth, I was not at that time of life so agile as boys of smaller frame are, for my size was growing beyond my years, and the muscles not keeping time with it, and the joints of my bones not closely hinged, with staring at one another. But the third step-hole was the hardest of all, and the rock swelled out on me over my breast, and there seemed to be no attempting it, until I espied a good stout rope hanging in a groove of shadow, and just managed to reach the end of it.
Right away, I stepped into the lowest stirrup (as I might call it), clinging to the rock with my nails and working to jump into the second stirrup. I managed that too, with the help of my stick; although, to be honest, I wasn’t as agile as younger, smaller boys since I was growing bigger than my age and my muscles weren’t keeping up, and my joints felt loose, almost like they were staring at each other. But the third step was the hardest of all. The rock jutted out against my chest, and it seemed impossible to attempt it until I spotted a sturdy rope hanging in a shadowy groove, and I barely managed to grab the end of it.
How I clomb up, and across the clearing, and found my way home through the Bagworthy forest, is more than I can remember now, for I took all the rest of it then as a dream, by reason of perfect weariness. And indeed it was quite beyond my hopes to tell so much as I have told, for at first beginning to set it down, it was all like a mist before me. Nevertheless, some parts grew clearer, as one by one I remembered them, having taken a little soft cordial, because the memory frightens me.
How I climbed up, crossed the clearing, and found my way home through the Bagworthy forest is more than I can recall now, because I experienced the rest of it like a dream due to complete exhaustion. It was really beyond my expectations to recount as much as I have, because when I first started writing it down, it all felt like a fog in front of me. Still, some parts became clearer as I remembered them one by one, after having taken a little comforting drink, since the memory scares me.
For the toil of the water, and danger of labouring up the long cascade or rapids, and then the surprise of the fair young maid, and terror of the murderers, and desperation of getting away—all these are much to me even now, when I am a stout churchwarden, and sit by the side of my fire, after going through many far worse adventures, which I will tell, God willing. Only the labour of writing is such (especially so as to construe, and challenge a reader on parts of speech, and hope to be even with him); that by this pipe which I hold in my hand I ever expect to be beaten, as in the days when old Doctor Twiggs, if I made a bad stroke in my exercise, shouted aloud with a sour joy, “John Ridd, sirrah, down with your small-clothes!”
For the effort of navigating the water, the risk of struggling up the long waterfall or rapids, the shock of encountering the beautiful young woman, the fear of the attackers, and the desperation to escape—all of these things still matter to me, even now, when I’m a sturdy churchwarden, sitting by my fire after enduring many far worse adventures, which I hope to share one day, God willing. The only problem with writing is that it requires so much effort (especially when it comes to grammar, challenging a reader on parts of speech, and hoping to keep up with them); that with this pipe I’m holding in my hand, I always expect to fall short, just like back in the days when old Doctor Twiggs would shout with a bitter smile, “John Ridd, you rascal, pull up your breeches!”
Let that be as it may, I deserved a good beating that night, after making such a fool of myself, and grinding good fustian to pieces. But when I got home, all the supper was in, and the men sitting at the white table, and mother and Annie and Lizzie near by, all eager, and offering to begin (except, indeed, my mother, who was looking out at the doorway), and by the fire was Betty Muxworthy, scolding, and cooking, and tasting her work, all in a breath, as a man would say. I looked through the door from the dark by the wood-stack, and was half of a mind to stay out like a dog, for fear of the rating and reckoning; but the way my dear mother was looking about and the browning of the sausages got the better of me.
Let that be as it is, I definitely deserved a good beating that night after making such a fool of myself and ruining good fabric. But when I got home, dinner was all set, and the men were sitting at the white table, while my mother, Annie, and Lizzie were nearby, all eager and ready to start (except for my mother, who was looking out the door). By the fire was Betty Muxworthy, scolding, cooking, and tasting her food all at once, like a man would say. I peeked through the door from the dark by the woodpile and thought about staying out like a dog, scared of the scolding I would get; but the way my dear mother was looking around and the smell of the sausages got to me.
But nobody could get out of me where I had been all the day and evening; although they worried me never so much, and longed to shake me to pieces, especially Betty Muxworthy, who never could learn to let well alone. Not that they made me tell any lies, although it would have served them right almost for intruding on other people's business; but that I just held my tongue, and ate my supper rarely, and let them try their taunts and jibes, and drove them almost wild after supper, by smiling exceeding knowingly. And indeed I could have told them things, as I hinted once or twice; and then poor Betty and our little Lizzie were so mad with eagerness, that between them I went into the fire, being thoroughly overcome with laughter and my own importance.
But nobody could get me to say where I had been all day and evening; even though they bothered me a lot and really wanted to shake me apart, especially Betty Muxworthy, who just couldn’t learn to back off. Not that they made me lie, though it would have been deserved for poking into other people’s business; I just kept quiet, hardly ate my supper, and let them throw their taunts and jabs at me, driving them almost crazy after dinner by smiling like I knew something they didn’t. And honestly, I could have told them things, as I suggested a couple of times; and then poor Betty and our little Lizzie were so eager that I ended up in a fit of laughter, completely caught up in my own importance.
Now what the working of my mind was (if, indeed it worked at all, and did not rather follow suit of body) it is not in my power to say; only that the result of my adventure in the Doone Glen was to make me dream a good deal of nights, which I had never done much before, and to drive me, with tenfold zeal and purpose, to the practice of bullet-shooting. Not that I ever expected to shoot the Doone family, one by one, or even desired to do so, for my nature is not revengeful; but that it seemed to be somehow my business to understand the gun, as a thing I must be at home with.
Now, I can’t really say what was going on in my mind (if it was even functioning at all, or just mimicking my body), but the outcome of my experience in the Doone Glen was that I started dreaming a lot at night, something I hadn't done much before. It also motivated me, with much greater determination and focus, to practice shooting. Not that I ever imagined I would shoot the Doone family one by one or even wanted to, because I’m not the vengeful type; it just felt important for me to understand the gun and become comfortable with it.
I could hit the barn-door now capitally well with the Spanish match-lock, and even with John Fry's blunderbuss, at ten good land-yards distance, without any rest for my fusil. And what was very wrong of me, though I did not see it then, I kept John Fry there, to praise my shots, from dinner-time often until the grey dusk, while he all the time should have been at work spring-ploughing upon the farm. And for that matter so should I have been, or at any rate driving the horses; but John was by no means loath to be there, instead of holding the plough-tail. And indeed, one of our old sayings is,—
I could hit the barn door perfectly well now with the Spanish matchlock, and even with John Fry's blunderbuss, from a good ten yards away, without resting my gun. And what was really unfair of me, though I didn’t realize it at the time, was that I kept John Fry there to praise my shots, often from lunchtime until dusk, when he should have been working on spring plowing at the farm. And honestly, I should have been too, or at least driving the horses; but John was more than happy to be there instead of holding the plow. In fact, one of our old sayings is,—
“For pleasure's sake I would liefer wet,
Than ha' ten lumps of gold for each one of my sweat.”
“For the sake of pleasure, I would rather be drenched,
Than have ten lumps of gold for every drop of sweat I’ve spent.”And again, which is not a bad proverb, though unthrifty and unlike a Scotsman's,—
And again, it's not a bad saying, even if it's wasteful and not like a Scotsman’s—
“God makes the wheat grow greener,
While farmer be at his dinner.”
“God makes the wheat grow greener,
While the farmer is having dinner.”And no Devonshire man, or Somerset either (and I belong to both of them), ever thinks of working harder than God likes to see him.
And no one from Devon or Somerset (and I’m from both) ever thinks about working harder than what God would want to see.
Nevertheless, I worked hard at the gun, and by the time that I had sent all the church-roof gutters, so far as I honestly could cut them, through the red pine-door, I began to long for a better tool that would make less noise and throw straighter. But the sheep-shearing came and the hay-season next, and then the harvest of small corn, and the digging of the root called “batata” (a new but good thing in our neighbourhood, which our folk have made into “taties”), and then the sweating of the apples, and the turning of the cider-press, and the stacking of the firewood, and netting of the woodcocks, and the springles to be minded in the garden and by the hedgerows, where blackbirds hop to the molehills in the white October mornings, and grey birds come to look for snails at the time when the sun is rising.
Nevertheless, I worked hard with the gun, and by the time I had sent all the church-roof gutters, as far as I could honestly cut them, through the red pine door, I started wishing for a better tool that would make less noise and shoot straighter. But then came sheep-shearing, followed by hay season, then the harvest of small corn, and the digging of the root called “batata” (a new but good thing in our neighborhood, which our folks have turned into “taties”), and after that, the sweating of the apples, turning the cider press, stacking firewood, netting woodcocks, and taking care of the springles in the garden and by the hedgerows, where blackbirds hop to the molehills on white October mornings, and grey birds come looking for snails when the sun is rising.
It is wonderful how time runs away, when all these things and a great many others come in to load him down the hill and prevent him from stopping to look about. And I for my part can never conceive how people who live in towns and cities, where neither lambs nor birds are (except in some shop windows), nor growing corn, nor meadow-grass, nor even so much as a stick to cut or a stile to climb and sit down upon—how these poor folk get through their lives without being utterly weary of them, and dying from pure indolence, is a thing God only knows, if His mercy allows Him to think of it.
It's amazing how quickly time flies when all these things and many others weigh him down the hill, making it hard for him to stop and take a look around. I honestly can't understand how people who live in towns and cities, where there are no lambs or birds (except in some shop windows), no growing corn, no meadow grass, and not even a stick to cut or a stile to climb and sit on—how these poor people manage to get through life without being completely bored and dying from sheer laziness, is something only God knows, if His mercy lets Him think about it.
How the year went by I know not, only that I was abroad all day, shooting, or fishing, or minding the farm, or riding after some stray beast, or away by the seaside below Glenthorne, wondering at the great waters, and resolving to go for a sailor. For in those days I had a firm belief, as many other strong boys have, of being born for a seaman. And indeed I had been in a boat nearly twice; but the second time mother found it out, and came and drew me back again; and after that she cried so badly, that I was forced to give my word to her to go no more without telling her.
I don’t know how the year flew by, only that I spent my days outdoors, either hunting, fishing, taking care of the farm, chasing after some lost animal, or hanging out by the beach near Glenthorne, amazed by the vast ocean, and dreaming of becoming a sailor. Back then, I really believed, like many other adventurous boys, that I was meant to be a seaman. I had been in a boat nearly twice; but during the second time, my mom found out and came to bring me back home. After that, she cried so much that I felt I had to promise her I wouldn’t go out again without telling her first.
But Betty Muxworthy spoke her mind quite in a different way about it, the while she was wringing my hosen, and clattering to the drying-horse.
But Betty Muxworthy expressed her thoughts on the matter quite differently while she was wringing out my trousers and clattering to the drying rack.
“Zailor, ees fai! ay and zarve un raight. Her can't kape out o' the watter here, whur a' must goo vor to vaind un, zame as a gurt to-ad squalloping, and mux up till I be wore out, I be, wi' the very saight of 's braiches. How wil un ever baide aboard zhip, wi' the watter zinging out under un, and comin' up splash when the wind blow. Latt un goo, missus, latt un goo, zay I for wan, and old Davy wash his clouts for un.”
“Zailor, it’s crazy! I can’t handle him right. He can’t stay out of the water here, where I have to go to find him, just like a big old toad flipping around, and I’m exhausted just looking at his pants. How will he ever be able to stay on board the ship, with the water splashing under him and coming up when the wind blows? Let him go, missus, let him go, I say, and old Davy can wash his clothes for him.”
And this discourse of Betty's tended more than my mother's prayers, I fear, to keep me from going. For I hated Betty in those days, as children always hate a cross servant, and often get fond of a false one. But Betty, like many active women, was false by her crossness only; thinking it just for the moment perhaps, and rushing away with a bucket; ready to stick to it, like a clenched nail, if beaten the wrong way with argument; but melting over it, if you left her, as stinging soap, left along in a basin, spreads all abroad without bubbling.
And Betty's talk was more effective than my mom's prayers at keeping me from leaving, I’m afraid. I couldn’t stand Betty back then, just like kids usually can’t stand a grumpy servant and often get attached to a phony one. But Betty, like many strong-willed women, was only unpleasant because she was frustrated; she thought it was justified in the moment and would rush off with a bucket, ready to stick to her position like a stubborn nail if you argued against her. However, she’d soften if you just left her alone, like stinging soap left in a basin, spreading out without any bubbles.
But all this is beyond the children, and beyond me too for that matter, even now in ripe experience; for I never did know what women mean, and never shall except when they tell me, if that be in their power. Now let that question pass. For although I am now in a place of some authority, I have observed that no one ever listens to me, when I attempt to lay down the law; but all are waiting with open ears until I do enforce it. And so methinks he who reads a history cares not much for the wisdom or folly of the writer (knowing well that the former is far less than his own, and the latter vastly greater), but hurries to know what the people did, and how they got on about it. And this I can tell, if any one can, having been myself in the thick of it.
But all of this is beyond the kids, and honestly, it's beyond me too, even with all my experience; I never really understood what women mean, and I probably never will, unless they tell me, if they can. Let’s move past that question. Even though I’m in a position of some authority now, I’ve noticed that no one ever listens to me when I try to enforce rules; instead, everyone waits with open ears until I actually enforce them. So, I think anyone reading history doesn’t care much about the writer’s wisdom or foolishness (since they know the writer's wisdom is way less than their own, and his foolishness is much greater), but they’re eager to learn what people did and how things went down. And this I can share, if anyone can, since I was right in the middle of it.
The fright I had taken that night in Glen Doone satisfied me for a long time thereafter; and I took good care not to venture even in the fields and woods of the outer farm, without John Fry for company. John was greatly surprised and pleased at the value I now set upon him; until, what betwixt the desire to vaunt and the longing to talk things over, I gradually laid bare to him nearly all that had befallen me; except, indeed, about Lorna, whom a sort of shame kept me from mentioning. Not that I did not think of her, and wish very often to see her again; but of course I was only a boy as yet, and therefore inclined to despise young girls, as being unable to do anything, and only meant to listen to orders. And when I got along with the other boys, that was how we always spoke of them, if we deigned to speak at all, as beings of a lower order, only good enough to run errands for us, and to nurse boy-babies.
The scare I got that night in Glen Doone stuck with me for a long time after; I made sure not to go out even in the fields and woods of the outer farm without John Fry with me. John was really surprised and pleased by how much I valued him now; until, caught between wanting to boast and the urge to talk things through, I slowly revealed to him almost everything that had happened to me; except, of course, about Lorna, which I couldn't bring myself to talk about out of a sort of shame. Not that I didn't think about her and wish I could see her again; but I was just a boy back then, and so I was inclined to look down on young girls for not being able to do anything and just being there to take orders. And when I hung out with the other boys, that’s how we always talked about them, if we bothered to talk at all, as if they were beneath us, only good for running errands and taking care of little boys.
And yet my sister Annie was in truth a great deal more to me than all the boys of the parish, and of Brendon, and Countisbury, put together; although at the time I never dreamed it, and would have laughed if told so. Annie was of a pleasing face, and very gentle manner, almost like a lady some people said; but without any airs whatever, only trying to give satisfaction. And if she failed, she would go and weep, without letting any one know it, believing the fault to be all her own, when mostly it was of others. But if she succeeded in pleasing you, it was beautiful to see her smile, and stroke her soft chin in a way of her own, which she always used when taking note how to do the right thing again for you. And then her cheeks had a bright clear pink, and her eyes were as blue as the sky in spring, and she stood as upright as a young apple-tree, and no one could help but smile at her, and pat her brown curls approvingly; whereupon she always curtseyed. For she never tried to look away when honest people gazed at her; and even in the court-yard she would come and help to take your saddle, and tell (without your asking her) what there was for dinner.
And yet my sister Annie meant so much more to me than all the boys from the parish, Brendon, and Countisbury combined; although at the time, I never thought about it and would have laughed if someone had told me. Annie had a lovely face and a very gentle manner, almost like a lady, some people said; but she had no pretensions, just wanting to please everyone. If she ever felt she didn't succeed, she'd cry quietly, thinking it was all her fault when most of the time, it wasn’t. But when she did make you happy, it was wonderful to see her smile, and she had a special way of stroking her soft chin, which she always did to remind herself how to do the right thing for you again. Her cheeks were a bright, clear pink, her eyes as blue as the spring sky, and she stood as straight as a young apple tree. No one could help but smile at her and pat her brown curls approvingly, and she would always curtsy in response. She never shied away when honest people looked at her, and even in the courtyard, she'd come over to help with your saddle and would tell you (without you even asking) what was for dinner.
And afterwards she grew up to be a very comely maiden, tall, and with a well-built neck, and very fair white shoulders, under a bright cloud of curling hair. Alas! poor Annie, like most of the gentle maidens—but tush, I am not come to that yet; and for the present she seemed to me little to look at, after the beauty of Lorna Doone.
And later, she grew into a very beautiful young woman, tall with a graceful neck and fair white shoulders, framed by a bright cloud of curly hair. Sadly, poor Annie, like many gentle girls—but wait, I'm not there yet; for now, she seemed less impressive to me compared to the beauty of Lorna Doone.
CHAPTER X
A BRAVE RESCUE AND A ROUGH RIDE
It happened upon a November evening (when I was about fifteen years old, and out-growing my strength very rapidly, my sister Annie being turned thirteen, and a deal of rain having fallen, and all the troughs in the yard being flooded, and the bark from the wood-ricks washed down the gutters, and even our water-shoot going brown) that the ducks in the court made a terrible quacking, instead of marching off to their pen, one behind another. Thereupon Annie and I ran out to see what might be the sense of it. There were thirteen ducks, and ten lily-white (as the fashion then of ducks was), not I mean twenty-three in all, but ten white and three brown-striped ones; and without being nice about their colour, they all quacked very movingly. They pushed their gold-coloured bills here and there (yet dirty, as gold is apt to be), and they jumped on the triangles of their feet, and sounded out of their nostrils; and some of the over-excited ones ran along low on the ground, quacking grievously with their bills snapping and bending, and the roof of their mouths exhibited.
It happened on a November evening (when I was about fifteen years old, quickly outgrowing my strength, my sister Annie just turned thirteen, and after a lot of rain had fallen, flooding all the troughs in the yard, washing down bark from the woodpiles into the gutters, and even turning our water shoot brown) that the ducks in the yard started quacking loudly instead of marching off to their pen in a line. So, Annie and I ran out to see what was going on. There were thirteen ducks, with ten pure white ones (as was the style back then), not twenty-three in total, but ten white and three brown-striped ones; and without worrying too much about their color, they all quacked quite distressingly. They pushed their gold-colored bills around here and there (though they were dirty, as gold often is), and they hopped on the tips of their feet, making noises from their nostrils; some of the overly excited ones ran low to the ground, quacking loudly with their bills snapping and bending, showing the roof of their mouths.
Annie began to cry “Dilly, dilly, einy, einy, ducksey,” according to the burden of a tune they seem to have accepted as the national duck's anthem; but instead of being soothed by it, they only quacked three times as hard, and ran round till we were giddy. And then they shook their tails together, and looked grave, and went round and round again. Now I am uncommonly fond of ducks, both roasted and roasting and roystering; and it is a fine sight to behold them walk, poddling one after other, with their toes out, like soldiers drilling, and their little eyes cocked all ways at once, and the way that they dib with their bills, and dabble, and throw up their heads and enjoy something, and then tell the others about it. Therefore I knew at once, by the way they were carrying on, that there must be something or other gone wholly amiss in the duck-world. Sister Annie perceived it too, but with a greater quickness; for she counted them like a good duck-wife, and could only tell thirteen of them, when she knew there ought to be fourteen.
Annie started crying “Dilly, dilly, einy, einy, ducksey,” to the tune they seemed to have accepted as the national duck anthem; but instead of calming down, they just quacked three times louder and ran around until we got dizzy. Then they shook their tails together, looked serious, and went in circles again. Now, I really love ducks, both roasted and alive, and it’s a great sight to see them waddling one after another with their toes pointed out like soldiers marching, their little eyes looking in all directions, and the way they peck with their bills, splash around, lift their heads in joy, and then share their discoveries with the others. So, I could tell right away from their behavior that something was definitely wrong in the duck world. Sister Annie noticed it too, but faster; she counted them like a good duck keeper and could only find thirteen, when she knew there should be fourteen.
And so we began to search about, and the ducks ran to lead us aright, having come that far to fetch us; and when we got down to the foot of the court-yard where the two great ash-trees stand by the side of the little water, we found good reason for the urgency and melancholy of the duck-birds. Lo! the old white drake, the father of all, a bird of high manners and chivalry, always the last to help himself from the pan of barley-meal, and the first to show fight to a dog or cock intruding upon his family, this fine fellow, and pillar of the state, was now in a sad predicament, yet quacking very stoutly. For the brook, wherewith he had been familiar from his callow childhood, and wherein he was wont to quest for water-newts, and tadpoles, and caddis-worms, and other game, this brook, which afforded him very often scanty space to dabble in, and sometimes starved the cresses, was now coming down in a great brown flood, as if the banks never belonged to it. The foaming of it, and the noise, and the cresting of the corners, and the up and down, like a wave of the sea, were enough to frighten any duck, though bred upon stormy waters, which our ducks never had been.
So we started to look around, and the ducks ran ahead to guide us, having come that far to get us. When we reached the bottom of the courtyard where the two big ash trees stand by the little stream, we understood why the ducks seemed urgent and sad. There was the old white drake, the father of all, a bird of fine manners and bravery, always the last to eat from the grain pan and the first to confront any dog or rooster that got too close to his family. This noble bird, a key part of our community, was now in a terrible situation, yet he quacked loudly. The brook, which he had known since he was a young duckling, where he often looked for newts, tadpoles, caddis-worms, and other treasures, was now rushing down in a huge brown flood, as if it had never belonged in its banks. The foaming water, the noise, the churning corners, and the ups and downs, like a wave from the sea, would scare any duck, even one raised in rough waters, and our ducks had never experienced that.
There is always a hurdle six feet long and four and a half in depth, swung by a chain at either end from an oak laid across the channel. And the use of this hurdle is to keep our kine at milking time from straying away there drinking (for in truth they are very dainty) and to fence strange cattle, or Farmer Snowe's horses, from coming along the bed of the brook unknown, to steal our substance. But now this hurdle, which hung in the summer a foot above the trickle, would have been dipped more than two feet deep but for the power against it. For the torrent came down so vehemently that the chains at full stretch were creaking, and the hurdle buffeted almost flat, and thatched (so to say) with the drift-stuff, was going see-saw, with a sulky splash on the dirty red comb of the waters. But saddest to see was between two bars, where a fog was of rushes, and flood-wood, and wild-celery haulm, and dead crowsfoot, who but our venerable mallard jammed in by the joint of his shoulder, speaking aloud as he rose and fell, with his top-knot full of water, unable to comprehend it, with his tail washed far away from him, but often compelled to be silent, being ducked very harshly against his will by the choking fall-to of the hurdle.
There’s always a hurdle that's six feet long and four and a half feet deep, hanging from a chain on either end from an oak laid across the channel. The purpose of this hurdle is to keep our cows from wandering off to drink during milking time (because, honestly, they’re quite picky) and to prevent strange cattle or Farmer Snowe's horses from coming down the brook bed, uninvited, to steal our things. But now this hurdle, which hung a foot above the trickle in summer, would have been submerged more than two feet deep if not for the force against it. The current was raging so fiercely that the chains, fully stretched, were creaking, and the hurdle was almost flattened, covered (so to speak) with debris, going back and forth with a discouraging splash on the murky red waters. But the saddest sight was between two bars, where a tangle of rushes, flood debris, wild celery stalks, and dead crow’s foot formed a fog—who did we see but our old mallard wedged in by the joint of his shoulder, making noise as he rose and fell, his top-knot full of water, unable to make sense of it, with his tail far away from him, yet often forced to be quiet, being harshly dunked against his will by the crashing fall of the hurdle.
For a moment I could not help laughing, because, being borne up high and dry by a tumult of the torrent, he gave me a look from his one little eye (having lost one in fight with the turkey-cock), a gaze of appealing sorrow, and then a loud quack to second it. But the quack came out of time, I suppose, for his throat got filled with water, as the hurdle carried him back again. And then there was scarcely the screw of his tail to be seen until he swung up again, and left small doubt by the way he sputtered, and failed to quack, and hung down his poor crest, but what he must drown in another minute, and frogs triumph over his body.
For a moment, I couldn't help but laugh because, lifted high and dry by the rushing water, he gave me a look with his one little eye (he lost the other in a fight with a turkey) that was full of desperate sorrow, followed by a loud quack to emphasize it. But the quack didn't come out right, I guess, because his throat got filled with water as the current pulled him back. After that, you could barely see the tip of his tail until he swung back up again, and it was clear, judging by how he sputtered, couldn't quack, and hung his poor crest down, that he was about to drown in a minute, leaving the frogs to celebrate over his body.
Annie was crying, and wringing her hands, and I was about to rush into the water, although I liked not the look of it, but hoped to hold on by the hurdle, when a man on horseback came suddenly round the corner of the great ash-hedge on the other side of the stream, and his horse's feet were in the water.
Annie was crying and wringing her hands, and I was about to jump into the water, even though I didn’t like how it looked, but I hoped to grab onto the hurdle when a man on horseback suddenly came around the corner of the big ash hedge on the other side of the stream, and his horse’s hooves were in the water.
“Ho, there,” he cried; “get thee back, boy. The flood will carry thee down like a straw. I will do it for thee, and no trouble.”
“Hey there,” he shouted; “go back, kid. The current will sweep you away like a piece of straw. I’ll take care of it for you, no problem.”
With that he leaned forward, and spoke to his mare—she was just of the tint of a strawberry, a young thing, very beautiful—and she arched up her neck, as misliking the job; yet, trusting him, would attempt it. She entered the flood, with her dainty fore-legs sloped further and further in front of her, and her delicate ears pricked forward, and the size of her great eyes increasing, but he kept her straight in the turbid rush, by the pressure of his knee on her. Then she looked back, and wondered at him, as the force of the torrent grew stronger, but he bade her go on; and on she went, and it foamed up over her shoulders; and she tossed up her lip and scorned it, for now her courage was waking. Then as the rush of it swept her away, and she struck with her forefeet down the stream, he leaned from his saddle in a manner which I never could have thought possible, and caught up old Tom with his left hand, and set him between his holsters, and smiled at his faint quack of gratitude. In a moment all these were carried downstream, and the rider lay flat on his horse, and tossed the hurdle clear from him, and made for the bend of smooth water.
With that, he leaned forward and spoke to his mare—she was the color of a strawberry, a young and beautiful creature—and she arched her neck, seeming to dislike the task, but trusting him, she decided to try. She stepped into the water, her dainty front legs reaching further out, her delicate ears alert, and her large eyes growing wider. He kept her steady in the turbulent current by pressing his knee against her. Then she looked back, curious about him, as the force of the water intensified, but he urged her to keep going; and she did, the foam rising over her shoulders, lifting her lip in defiance as her courage began to build. Just as the rush of the current swept her away and she paddled with her front feet downstream, he leaned from his saddle in a way I never would have thought possible, reached down with his left hand to grab old Tom, placed him between his saddlebags, and smiled at his weak quack of thanks. In an instant, they were all being carried downstream, and the rider lay flat on his horse, tossed the hurdle aside, and aimed for the smooth stretch of water ahead.
They landed some thirty or forty yards lower, in the midst of our kitchen-garden, where the winter-cabbage was; but though Annie and I crept in through the hedge, and were full of our thanks and admiring him, he would answer us never a word, until he had spoken in full to the mare, as if explaining the whole to her.
They landed about thirty or forty yards lower, right in the middle of our kitchen garden, where the winter cabbage was growing. But even though Annie and I sneaked in through the hedge and were full of thanks and admiration for him, he didn't say a word to us until he had fully spoken to the mare, as if he was explaining everything to her.
“Sweetheart, I know thou couldst have leaped it,” he said, as he patted her cheek, being on the ground by this time, and she was nudging up to him, with the water pattering off her; “but I had good reason, Winnie dear, for making thee go through it.”
“Sweetheart, I know you could have jumped over it,” he said, patting her cheek as he sat on the ground, and she nudged up to him, water dripping off her; “but I had good reason, Winnie dear, for making you go through it.”
She answered him kindly with her soft eyes, and smiled at him very lovingly, and they understood one another. Then he took from his waistcoat two peppercorns, and made the old drake swallow them, and tried him softly upon his legs, where the leading gap in the hedge was. Old Tom stood up quite bravely, and clapped his wings, and shook off the wet from his tail-feathers; and then away into the court-yard, and his family gathered around him, and they all made a noise in their throats, and stood up, and put their bills together, to thank God for this great deliverance.
She replied to him kindly with her gentle eyes and smiled at him affectionately, and they understood each other. Then he took two peppercorns from his waistcoat and made the old drake swallow them, gently trying him on his legs where the main gap in the hedge was. Old Tom stood up boldly, flapped his wings, and shook off the wet from his tail feathers; then he headed into the courtyard, where his family gathered around him, making sounds in their throats, standing tall, and bringing their bills together to thank God for this great rescue.
Having taken all this trouble, and watched the end of that adventure, the gentleman turned round to us with a pleasant smile on his face, as if he were lightly amused with himself; and we came up and looked at him. He was rather short, about John Fry's height, or may be a little taller, but very strongly built and springy, as his gait at every step showed plainly, although his legs were bowed with much riding, and he looked as if he lived on horseback. To a boy like me he seemed very old, being over twenty, and well-found in beard; but he was not more than four-and-twenty, fresh and ruddy looking, with a short nose and keen blue eyes, and a merry waggish jerk about him, as if the world were not in earnest. Yet he had a sharp, stern way, like the crack of a pistol, if anything misliked him; and we knew (for children see such things) that it was safer to tickle than tackle him.
After going through all that trouble and finishing that adventure, the gentleman turned to us with a nice smile, as if he found himself a bit amusing, and we approached to look at him. He was somewhat short, around John Fry's height, maybe a little taller, but very strong and springy, as his stride clearly showed, even though his legs were bowed from all the riding, making it seem like he spent his life on horseback. To a kid like me, he seemed quite old, being over twenty and well-bearded; but he was actually only twenty-four, looking fresh and ruddy, with a short nose and sharp blue eyes, and a cheerful, playful demeanor, like he didn’t take the world too seriously. Still, he had a sharp and stern manner, like the crack of a pistol, if something displeased him; and we knew (since kids notice these things) that it was better to tease him than to confront him.
“Well, young uns, what be gaping at?” He gave pretty Annie a chuck on the chin, and took me all in without winking.
"Well, kids, what are you staring at?" He gave pretty Annie a playful poke on the chin and sized me up without blinking.
“Your mare,” said I, standing stoutly up, being a tall boy now; “I never saw such a beauty, sir. Will you let me have a ride of her?”
“Your mare,” I said, standing tall, being a big kid now, “I’ve never seen such a beauty, sir. Can I take her for a ride?”
“Think thou couldst ride her, lad? She will have no burden but mine. Thou couldst never ride her. Tut! I would be loath to kill thee.”
“Do you think you could ride her, kid? She’ll carry no one but me. You could never ride her. Come on! I wouldn’t want to hurt you.”
“Ride her!” I cried with the bravest scorn, for she looked so kind and gentle; “there never was horse upon Exmoor foaled, but I could tackle in half an hour. Only I never ride upon saddle. Take them leathers off of her.”
“Ride her!” I shouted with mock bravery, because she seemed so kind and gentle; “there has never been a horse born on Exmoor that I couldn't handle in half an hour. I just never ride with a saddle. Take that stuff off her.”
He looked at me with a dry little whistle, and thrust his hands into his breeches-pockets, and so grinned that I could not stand it. And Annie laid hold of me in such a way that I was almost mad with her. And he laughed, and approved her for doing so. And the worst of all was—he said nothing.
He looked at me with a little dry whistle, shoved his hands into his pockets, and grinned in a way that drove me crazy. Annie grabbed onto me in a way that nearly made me lose it. He laughed and seemed to support her for doing that. The worst part of it all was that he didn't say a word.
“Get away, Annie, will you? Do you think I'm a fool, good sir! Only trust me with her, and I will not override her.”
“Go away, Annie, will you? Do you think I'm an idiot, sir! Just trust me with her, and I won’t go against her.”
“For that I will go bail, my son. She is liker to override thee. But the ground is soft to fall upon, after all this rain. Now come out into the yard, young man, for the sake of your mother's cabbages. And the mellow straw-bed will be softer for thee, since pride must have its fall. I am thy mother's cousin, boy, and am going up to house. Tom Faggus is my name, as everybody knows; and this is my young mare, Winnie.”
“For that, I’ll vouch for you, my son. She's more likely to talk you into it. But the ground is soft to fall on after all this rain. Now come out to the yard, young man, for your mother's cabbages' sake. And the soft straw bed will be easier for you since pride has to take a hit sometimes. I’m your mother’s cousin, boy, and I’m heading up to the house. My name is Tom Faggus, as everyone knows, and this is my young mare, Winnie.”
What a fool I must have been not to know it at once! Tom Faggus, the great highwayman, and his young blood-mare, the strawberry! Already her fame was noised abroad, nearly as much as her master's; and my longing to ride her grew tenfold, but fear came at the back of it. Not that I had the smallest fear of what the mare could do to me, by fair play and horse-trickery, but that the glory of sitting upon her seemed to be too great for me; especially as there were rumours abroad that she was not a mare after all, but a witch. However, she looked like a filly all over, and wonderfully beautiful, with her supple stride, and soft slope of shoulder, and glossy coat beaded with water, and prominent eyes full of docile fire. Whether this came from her Eastern blood of the Arabs newly imported, and whether the cream-colour, mixed with our bay, led to that bright strawberry tint, is certainly more than I can decide, being chiefly acquaint with farm-horses. And these come of any colour and form; you never can count what they will be, and are lucky to get four legs to them.
What a fool I must have been not to realize it right away! Tom Faggus, the famous highwayman, and his young mare, the Strawberry! Her reputation was already spreading, almost as much as her owner's, and my desire to ride her grew tenfold, but so did my fear. It wasn't that I was afraid of what the mare might do to me, whether through fair play or trickery, but the thought of the honor of riding her felt too overwhelming for me; especially since there were rumors going around that she wasn’t a mare at all, but a witch. Still, she looked like a filly, incredibly beautiful, with her graceful stride, gentle slope of her shoulder, shiny coat glistening with water, and striking eyes full of gentle spirit. Whether this was due to her Eastern Arab blood recently imported, and whether the cream color mixed with our bay resulted in that bright strawberry hue, is definitely something I can’t say for sure, since I mostly know about farm horses. And they come in all colors and shapes; you can never predict what they'll look like, and you’re lucky if they at least have four legs.
Mr. Faggus gave his mare a wink, and she walked demurely after him, a bright young thing, flowing over with life, yet dropping her soul to a higher one, and led by love to anything; as the manner is of females, when they know what is the best for them. Then Winnie trod lightly upon the straw, because it had soft muck under it, and her delicate feet came back again.
Mr. Faggus winked at his mare, and she followed him gracefully, full of energy and vitality, yet her spirit seemed to rise to a higher place, guided by love toward whatever was best for her, just like women do when they know what's good for them. Then Winnie stepped lightly on the straw, since it had soft muck underneath, and her gentle feet returned.
“Up for it still, boy, be ye?” Tom Faggus stopped, and the mare stopped there; and they looked at me provokingly.
“Still up for it, boy, are you?” Tom Faggus stopped, and the mare stopped right there; and they looked at me tauntingly.
“Is she able to leap, sir? There is good take-off on this side of the brook.”
“Can she jump, sir? There’s a good spot to take off on this side of the brook.”
Mr. Faggus laughed very quietly, turning round to Winnie so that she might enter into it. And she, for her part, seemed to know exactly where the fun lay.
Mr. Faggus chuckled softly, turning to Winnie so she could join in. And she, for her part, seemed to know exactly where the humor was.
“Good tumble-off, you mean, my boy. Well, there can be small harm to thee. I am akin to thy family, and know the substance of their skulls.”
“Good tumble-off, you mean, my boy. Well, there can be little harm to you. I am connected to your family and understand the nature of their heads.”
“Let me get up,” said I, waxing wroth, for reasons I cannot tell you, because they are too manifold; “take off your saddle-bag things. I will try not to squeeze her ribs in, unless she plays nonsense with me.”
“Let me get up,” I said, getting angry for reasons I can’t explain because there are too many; “take off your saddlebag stuff. I’ll try not to crush her ribs unless she messes with me.”
Then Mr. Faggus was up on his mettle, at this proud speech of mine; and John Fry was running up all the while, and Bill Dadds, and half a dozen. Tom Faggus gave one glance around, and then dropped all regard for me. The high repute of his mare was at stake, and what was my life compared to it? Through my defiance, and stupid ways, here was I in a duello, and my legs not come to their strength yet, and my arms as limp as a herring.
Then Mr. Faggus got fired up by my bold speech; and John Fry was running up the whole time, along with Bill Dadds and a few others. Tom Faggus glanced around, then completely ignored me. The reputation of his mare was on the line, and what was my life worth compared to that? Because of my defiance and foolishness, here I was in a duel, with my legs still weak and my arms as floppy as a fish.
Something of this occurred to him even in his wrath with me, for he spoke very softly to the filly, who now could scarce subdue herself; but she drew in her nostrils, and breathed to his breath and did all she could to answer him.
Something like this crossed his mind even while he was angry with me, because he spoke very softly to the filly, who could barely keep herself in check; but she flared her nostrils, matched her breathing to his, and did everything she could to respond to him.
“Not too hard, my dear,” he said: “let him gently down on the mixen. That will be quite enough.” Then he turned the saddle off, and I was up in a moment. She began at first so easily, and pricked her ears so lovingly, and minced about as if pleased to find so light a weight upon her, that I thought she knew I could ride a little, and feared to show any capers. “Gee wug, Polly!” cried I, for all the men were now looking on, being then at the leaving-off time: “Gee wug, Polly, and show what thou be'est made of.” With that I plugged my heels into her, and Billy Dadds flung his hat up.
“Not too hard, my dear,” he said. “Just let him down gently onto the manure pile. That should be enough.” Then he took off the saddle, and I was up in a moment. She started off so easily, pricked her ears up happily, and moved around as if she liked having such a light weight on her back, making me think she knew I could ride a bit and was afraid to misbehave. “Come on, Polly!” I shouted, since all the men were watching, just as they were about to finish for the day. “Come on, Polly, and show what you can do.” With that, I dug my heels into her, and Billy Dadds threw his hat up in the air.
Nevertheless, she outraged not, though her eyes were frightening Annie, and John Fry took a pick to keep him safe; but she curbed to and fro with her strong forearms rising like springs ingathered, waiting and quivering grievously, and beginning to sweat about it. Then her master gave a shrill clear whistle, when her ears were bent towards him, and I felt her form beneath me gathering up like whalebone, and her hind-legs coming under her, and I knew that I was in for it.
Nevertheless, she didn’t show any anger, even though her eyes were terrifying Annie, and John Fry grabbed a pickaxe for safety; but she swayed back and forth with her strong forearms tensed like coiled springs, waiting and trembling anxiously, and starting to sweat from it. Then her master gave a sharp, clear whistle, and when her ears perked up toward him, I felt her body beneath me tightening up like whalebone, her hind legs coming underneath her, and I knew I was in for it.
First she reared upright in the air, and struck me full on the nose with her comb, till I bled worse than Robin Snell made me; and then down with her fore-feet deep in the straw, and her hind-feet going to heaven. Finding me stick to her still like wax, for my mettle was up as hers was, away she flew with me swifter than ever I went before, or since, I trow. She drove full-head at the cobwall—“Oh, Jack, slip off,” screamed Annie—then she turned like light, when I thought to crush her, and ground my left knee against it. “Mux me,” I cried, for my breeches were broken, and short words went the furthest—“if you kill me, you shall die with me.” Then she took the court-yard gate at a leap, knocking my words between my teeth, and then right over a quick set hedge, as if the sky were a breath to her; and away for the water-meadows, while I lay on her neck like a child at the breast and wished I had never been born. Straight away, all in the front of the wind, and scattering clouds around her, all I knew of the speed we made was the frightful flash of her shoulders, and her mane like trees in a tempest. I felt the earth under us rushing away, and the air left far behind us, and my breath came and went, and I prayed to God, and was sorry to be so late of it.
First, she reared up in the air and hit me square on the nose with her comb, making me bleed worse than Robin Snell ever did; then she went down with her front feet deep in the straw, her back feet kicking up toward the sky. Finding that I clung to her like glue, since my spirit was just as high as hers, she took off with me faster than I had ever gone before or since, I swear. She charged straight at the cobwall—“Oh, Jack, jump off,” Annie yelled—then she turned like lightning, just when I thought I would crush her, and slammed my left knee against it. “Help me,” I shouted, since my pants were torn, and short words worked best—“if you kill me, you’ll die with me.” Then she vaulted over the courtyard gate, knocking the words right out of my mouth, and leaped over a quickset hedge as if the sky was just a breath to her; and off we went to the water-meadows, while I lay on her neck like a child at its mother’s breast, wishing I had never been born. We sped away, right into the wind, scattering clouds around her; all I knew of our speed was the terrifying flash of her shoulders and her mane flying like trees in a storm. I felt the ground beneath us rushing away, the air left far behind, my breath coming and going, and I prayed to God, regretting that I was so late to do so.
All the long swift while, without power of thought, I clung to her crest and shoulders, and dug my nails into her creases, and my toes into her flank-part, and was proud of holding on so long, though sure of being beaten. Then in her fury at feeling me still, she rushed at another device for it, and leaped the wide water-trough sideways across, to and fro, till no breath was left in me. The hazel-boughs took me too hard in the face, and the tall dog-briers got hold of me, and the ache of my back was like crimping a fish; till I longed to give up, thoroughly beaten, and lie there and die in the cresses. But there came a shrill whistle from up the home-hill, where the people had hurried to watch us; and the mare stopped as if with a bullet, then set off for home with the speed of a swallow, and going as smoothly and silently. I never had dreamed of such delicate motion, fluent, and graceful, and ambient, soft as the breeze flitting over the flowers, but swift as the summer lightning. I sat up again, but my strength was all spent, and no time left to recover it, and though she rose at our gate like a bird, I tumbled off into the mixen.
All that time, without any real thought, I hung on to her back and shoulders, digging my nails into her sides and my toes into her belly, feeling proud that I could hold on for so long, even though I knew I would lose. Then, in her frustration of feeling me still there, she charged at a different tactic and jumped sideways across the wide water trough, back and forth, until I was completely out of breath. The hazel branches hit me hard in the face, and the tall briars grabbed at me, making my back ache as if I were being twisted like a fish; I longed to give up, thoroughly defeated, and just lie down and die in the weeds. But then I heard a sharp whistle from up the hill, where people had gathered to watch us; the mare stopped abruptly, as if shot, then took off for home with the speed of a swallow, moving as smoothly and silently. I had never imagined such graceful movement, fluid and elegant, gentle like a breeze sweeping over the flowers, yet fast as summer lightning. I sat up again, but I was completely exhausted, with no time to recover, and even though she leaped at our gate like a bird, I fell off into the muck.
CHAPTER XI
TOM DESERVES HIS SUPPER
“Well done, lad,” Mr. Faggus said good naturedly; for all were now gathered round me, as I rose from the ground, somewhat tottering, and miry, and crest-fallen, but otherwise none the worse (having fallen upon my head, which is of uncommon substance); nevertheless John Fry was laughing, so that I longed to clout his ears for him; “Not at all bad work, my boy; we may teach you to ride by-and-by, I see; I thought not to see you stick on so long—”
“Well done, kid,” Mr. Faggus said with a friendly smile; everyone had gathered around me as I got up from the ground, a bit unsteady, muddy, and embarrassed, but otherwise okay (having fallen on my head, which is quite tough); still, John Fry was laughing, and I wanted to smack him for it; “Not bad work at all, my boy; I can see we might teach you to ride eventually; I didn’t expect you to stay on for so long—”
“I should have stuck on much longer, sir, if her sides had not been wet. She was so slippery—”
“I should have held on much longer, sir, if her sides hadn’t been wet. She was so slippery—”
“Boy, thou art right. She hath given many the slip. Ha, ha! Vex not, Jack, that I laugh at thee. She is like a sweetheart to me, and better, than any of them be. It would have gone to my heart if thou hadst conquered. None but I can ride my Winnie mare.”
“Boy, you’re right. She’s slipped away from many. Ha, ha! Don’t be upset, Jack, that I’m laughing at you. She’s like a sweetheart to me, even better than any of them. It would have hurt me if you had won. No one but me can ride my Winnie mare.”
“Foul shame to thee then, Tom Faggus,” cried mother, coming up suddenly, and speaking so that all were amazed, having never seen her wrathful; “to put my boy, my boy, across her, as if his life were no more than thine! The only son of his father, an honest man, and a quiet man, not a roystering drunken robber! A man would have taken thy mad horse and thee, and flung them both into horse-pond—ay, and what's more, I'll have it done now, if a hair of his head is injured. Oh, my boy, my boy! What could I do without thee? Put up the other arm, Johnny.” All the time mother was scolding so, she was feeling me, and wiping me; while Faggus tried to look greatly ashamed, having sense of the ways of women.
“Shame on you, Tom Faggus,” cried Mom, suddenly showing up and surprising everyone since they had never seen her this angry. “How could you put my boy, my boy, in harm's way, as if his life means no more than yours! The only son of his father, an honest and quiet man, not some wild, drunken thug! A real man would have taken your crazy horse and you, and thrown you both into the nearest pond—yes, and what's more, I'll make sure it happens now if he gets so much as a single hair hurt. Oh, my boy, my boy! What would I do without you? Raise your other arm, Johnny.” While Mom was scolding like this, she was checking on me and wiping me down, as Faggus tried to look properly ashamed, knowing how women can be.
“Only look at his jacket, mother!” cried Annie; “and a shillingsworth gone from his small-clothes!”
“Just look at his jacket, Mom!” Annie exclaimed; “and a shilling missing from his pants!”
“What care I for his clothes, thou goose? Take that, and heed thine own a bit.” And mother gave Annie a slap which sent her swinging up against Mr. Faggus, and he caught her, and kissed and protected her, and she looked at him very nicely, with great tears in her soft blue eyes. “Oh, fie upon thee, fie upon thee!” cried mother (being yet more vexed with him, because she had beaten Annie); “after all we have done for thee, and saved thy worthless neck—and to try to kill my son for me! Never more shall horse of thine enter stable here, since these be thy returns to me. Small thanks to you, John Fry, I say, and you Bill Dadds, and you Jem Slocomb, and all the rest of your coward lot; much you care for your master's son! Afraid of that ugly beast yourselves, and you put a boy just breeched upon him!”
“What do I care about his clothes, you silly goose? Take that, and pay attention to yourself a bit.” And mother slapped Annie, sending her crashing against Mr. Faggus, who caught her, kissed her, and kept her safe, and she looked at him sweetly, with big tears in her soft blue eyes. “Oh, shame on you, shame on you!” cried mother (even more upset with him because she had hit Annie); “after everything we've done for you, saving your worthless neck—and you try to kill my son for me! No more of your horses will enter this stable, since this is how you repay me. You deserve no thanks, John Fry, nor you Bill Dadds, nor you Jem Slocomb, or any of your coward crew; you care so little for your master's son! Scared of that ugly beast yourselves, and you put a boy just out of breeches on him!”
“Wull, missus, what could us do?” began John; “Jan wudd goo, now wudd't her, Jem? And how was us—”
“Well, ma'am, what could we do?” began John; “Jan would go, wouldn’t she, Jem? And how were we—”
“Jan indeed! Master John, if you please, to a lad of his years and stature. And now, Tom Faggus, be off, if you please, and think yourself lucky to go so; and if ever that horse comes into our yard, I'll hamstring him myself if none of my cowards dare do it.”
“Sure thing, Jan! Master John, if you don’t mind, for a kid his age and size. And now, Tom Faggus, get lost, if you would, and consider yourself fortunate to leave like that; and if that horse ever comes into our yard, I’ll cut his tendons myself if none of my cowards have the guts to do it.”
Everybody looked at mother, to hear her talk like that, knowing how quiet she was day by day and how pleasant to be cheated. And the men began to shoulder their shovels, both so as to be away from her, and to go and tell their wives of it. Winnie too was looking at her, being pointed at so much, and wondering if she had done amiss. And then she came to me, and trembled, and stooped her head, and asked my pardon, if she had been too proud with me.
Everyone turned to mom, surprised to hear her speak that way, especially considering how quiet she usually was and how nice it felt to be deceived. The men started to lift their shovels, wanting to get away from her and go tell their wives about it. Winnie was also watching her, feeling self-conscious from all the attention and wondering if she had done something wrong. Then she approached me, trembling, lowered her head, and asked for my forgiveness if she had been too proud with me.
“Winnie shall stop here to-night,” said I, for Tom Faggus still said never a word all the while; but began to buckle his things on, for he knew that women are to be met with wool, as the cannon-balls were at the siege of Tiverton Castle; “mother, I tell you, Winnie shall stop; else I will go away with her, I never knew what it was, till now, to ride a horse worth riding.”
“Winnie is staying here tonight,” I said, since Tom Faggus hadn’t said a word the whole time; he just started packing his things because he knew dealing with women was like facing cannonballs in the siege of Tiverton Castle. “Mom, I’m telling you, Winnie is staying; otherwise, I’ll leave with her. I never realized until now what it really meant to ride a good horse.”
“Young man,” said Tom Faggus, still preparing sternly to depart, “you know more about a horse than any man on Exmoor. Your mother may well be proud of you, but she need have had no fear. As if I, Tom Faggus, your father's cousin—and the only thing I am proud of—would ever have let you mount my mare, which dukes and princes have vainly sought, except for the courage in your eyes, and the look of your father about you. I knew you could ride when I saw you, and rarely you have conquered. But women don't understand us. Good-bye, John; I am proud of you, and I hoped to have done you pleasure. And indeed I came full of some courtly tales, that would have made your hair stand up. But though not a crust have I tasted since this time yesterday, having given my meat to a widow, I will go and starve on the moor far sooner than eat the best supper that ever was cooked, in a place that has forgotten me.” With that he fetched a heavy sigh, as if it had been for my father; and feebly got upon Winnie's back, and she came to say farewell to me. He lifted his hat to my mother, with a glance of sorrow, but never a word; and to me he said, “Open the gate, Cousin John, if you please. You have beaten her so, that she cannot leap it, poor thing.”
“Young man,” Tom Faggus said, getting ready to leave, “you know more about a horse than anyone else in Exmoor. Your mother can be proud of you, but she didn’t need to worry. As if I, Tom Faggus, your dad's cousin—and the only thing I’m proud of—would ever let you ride my mare, who has been sought after by dukes and princes, if it weren’t for the courage in your eyes and the look of your father in you. I knew you could ride the moment I saw you, and you rarely back down. But women don’t get us. Goodbye, John; I’m proud of you, and I wanted to make you happy. I even came with some captivating stories that would have amazed you. But even though I haven’t eaten a crumb since yesterday, having given my food to a widow, I’ll go starve on the moor before I eat the best dinner ever made in a place that has forgotten me.” With that, he sighed deeply, as if it was for my father, and weakly climbed onto Winnie’s back, who came to say goodbye to me. He tipped his hat to my mother with a sad glance, but didn’t say a word; then to me he said, “Please open the gate, Cousin John. You’ve worn her out so much that she can't jump it, poor thing.”
But before he was truly gone out of our yard, my mother came softly after him, with her afternoon apron across her eyes, and one hand ready to offer him. Nevertheless, he made as if he had not seen her, though he let his horse go slowly.
But before he was really out of our yard, my mom quietly followed him, with her afternoon apron covering her eyes and one hand ready to wave at him. Still, he pretended not to see her, even though he let his horse walk slowly.
“Stop, Cousin Tom,” my mother said, “a word with you, before you go.”
“Hold on, Cousin Tom,” my mom said, “I need to talk to you before you leave.”
“Why, bless my heart!” Tom Faggus cried, with the form of his countenance so changed, that I verily thought another man must have leaped into his clothes—“do I see my Cousin Sarah? I thought every one was ashamed of me, and afraid to offer me shelter, since I lost my best cousin, John Ridd. 'Come here,' he used to say, 'Tom, come here, when you are worried, and my wife shall take good care of you.' 'Yes, dear John,' I used to answer, 'I know she promised my mother so; but people have taken to think against me, and so might Cousin Sarah.' Ah, he was a man, a man! If you only heard how he answered me. But let that go, I am nothing now, since the day I lost Cousin Ridd.” And with that he began to push on again; but mother would not have it so.
“Wow, I can’t believe it!” Tom Faggus exclaimed, his face so transformed that I honestly thought someone else had jumped into his clothes. “Is that my Cousin Sarah? I thought everyone was too embarrassed to help me since I lost my best cousin, John Ridd. He always said, ‘Tom, come here when you’re feeling down, and my wife will take good care of you.’ ‘Yes, dear John,’ I’d reply, ‘I know she promised my mom that, but people have started to see me differently, and I thought Cousin Sarah might too.’ Ah, he was truly a man, a real man! If only you heard how he used to talk to me. But forget that, I’m nothing now since the day I lost Cousin Ridd.” And with that, he started to move on again, but my mother wouldn’t let that happen.
“Oh, Tom, that was a loss indeed. And I am nothing either. And you should try to allow for me; though I never found any one that did.” And mother began to cry, though father had been dead so long; and I looked on with a stupid surprise, having stopped from crying long ago.
“Oh, Tom, that was a real loss. And I feel like nothing too. You should try to consider me, even though I’ve never met anyone who did.” And mom started to cry, even though dad had been gone for a long time; I just watched in stunned silence, having stopped crying ages ago.
“I can tell you one that will,” cried Tom, jumping off Winnie, in a trice, and looking kindly at mother; “I can allow for you, Cousin Sarah, in everything but one. I am in some ways a bad man myself; but I know the value of a good one; and if you gave me orders, by God—” And he shook his fists towards Bagworthy Wood, just heaving up black in the sundown.
“I can tell you one that will,” shouted Tom, jumping off Winnie in an instant, and looking kindly at his mother; “I can understand everything about you, Cousin Sarah, except for one thing. In some ways, I’m a bad man myself; but I recognize the value of a good one; and if you gave me orders, I swear—” And he shook his fists towards Bagworthy Wood, which was rising dark against the sunset.
“Hush, Tom, hush, for God's sake!” And mother meant me, without pointing at me; at least I thought she did. For she ever had weaned me from thoughts of revenge, and even from longings for judgment. “God knows best, boy,” she used to say, “let us wait His time, without wishing it.” And so, to tell the truth, I did; partly through her teaching, and partly through my own mild temper, and my knowledge that father, after all, was killed because he had thrashed them.
“Hush, Tom, hush, for God's sake!” And Mom meant me, without pointing at me; at least that’s what I thought. She had always steered me away from thoughts of revenge and from wanting judgment. “God knows best, boy,” she would say, “let’s wait for His timing, without wishing for it.” And so, to be honest, I did; partly because of her guidance and partly because of my own gentle nature, and my understanding that Dad was killed because he had punished them.
“Good-night, Cousin Sarah, good-night, Cousin Jack,” cried Tom, taking to the mare again; “many a mile I have to ride, and not a bit inside of me. No food or shelter this side of Exeford, and the night will be black as pitch, I trow. But it serves me right for indulging the lad, being taken with his looks so.”
“Good night, Cousin Sarah, good night, Cousin Jack,” yelled Tom, getting back on the mare. “I have a long way to ride and nothing in my stomach. There’s no food or shelter until Exeford, and the night is going to be pitch black, I bet. But I guess I deserve it for spoiling the boy and getting caught up in his looks.”
“Cousin Tom,” said mother, and trying to get so that Annie and I could not hear her; “it would be a sad and unkinlike thing for you to despise our dwelling-house. We cannot entertain you, as the lordly inns on the road do; and we have small change of victuals. But the men will go home, being Saturday; and so you will have the fireside all to yourself and the children. There are some few collops of red deer's flesh, and a ham just down from the chimney, and some dried salmon from Lynmouth weir, and cold roast-pig, and some oysters. And if none of those be to your liking, we could roast two woodcocks in half an hour, and Annie would make the toast for them. And the good folk made some mistake last week, going up the country, and left a keg of old Holland cordial in the coving of the wood-rick, having borrowed our Smiler, without asking leave. I fear there is something unrighteous about it. But what can a poor widow do? John Fry would have taken it, but for our Jack. Our Jack was a little too sharp for him.”
“Cousin Tom,” Mom said, trying to speak quietly so Annie and I couldn’t hear, “it would be really sad and unkind for you to look down on our home. We can’t host you the way the fancy inns on the road can, and we don’t have much food. But the men will head home since it’s Saturday, so you’ll have the fireplace all to yourself and the kids. We have a few pieces of venison, a ham just taken from the smoker, some dried salmon from Lynmouth weir, cold roast pig, and some oysters. And if none of that sounds good, we could roast two woodcocks in half an hour, and Annie would make toast to go with them. The kind folks made a mistake last week while heading up country and left a keg of old Holland cordial in the woodpile after borrowing our Smiler without asking. I worry there’s something wrong about that. But what’s a poor widow to do? John Fry would have taken it, if it weren’t for our Jack. Our Jack was a bit too clever for him.”
Ay, that I was; John Fry had got it, like a billet under his apron, going away in the gray of the morning, as if to kindle his fireplace. “Why, John,” I said, “what a heavy log! Let me have one end of it.” “Thank'e, Jan, no need of thiccy,” he answered, turning his back to me; “waife wanteth a log as will last all day, to kape the crock a zimmerin.” And he banged his gate upon my heels to make me stop and rub them. “Why, John,” said I, “you'm got a log with round holes in the end of it. Who has been cutting gun-wads? Just lift your apron, or I will.”
Yeah, that was me; John Fry had it, like a stick tucked under his apron, heading out at dawn, as if to start his fire. “Hey, John,” I said, “that's a heavy log! Let me take one end.” “Thanks, Jan, but no need for that,” he replied, turning his back to me; “the wife needs a log that will last all day to keep the pot simmering.” And he slammed his gate on my heels to make me stop and rub them. “Come on, John,” I said, “you've got a log with round holes in the end. Who's been cutting gun wads? Just lift up your apron, or I will.”
But, to return to Tom Faggus—he stopped to sup that night with us, and took a little of everything; a few oysters first, and then dried salmon, and then ham and eggs, done in small curled rashers, and then a few collops of venison toasted, and next to that a little cold roast-pig, and a woodcock on toast to finish with, before the Scheidam and hot water. And having changed his wet things first, he seemed to be in fair appetite, and praised Annie's cooking mightily, with a kind of noise like a smack of his lips, and a rubbing of his hands together, whenever he could spare them.
But, getting back to Tom Faggus—he stopped to have dinner with us that night and tried a bit of everything; he started with some oysters, then moved on to dried salmon, followed by ham and eggs, cooked in small, curled slices, then a few pieces of toasted venison, and after that some cold roast pig, and finally a woodcock on toast to top it off, before having some Scheidam and hot water. After changing out of his wet clothes, he seemed to have a good appetite and praised Annie's cooking a lot, making a smacking sound and rubbing his hands together whenever he could spare them.
He had gotten John Fry's best small-clothes on, for he said he was not good enough to go into my father's (which mother kept to look at), nor man enough to fill them. And in truth my mother was very glad that he refused, when I offered them. But John was over-proud to have it in his power to say that such a famous man had ever dwelt in any clothes of his; and afterwards he made show of them. For Mr. Faggus's glory, then, though not so great as now it is, was spreading very fast indeed all about our neighbourhood, and even as far as Bridgewater.
He put on John Fry's best clothes because he said he wasn’t good enough to wear my father's (which my mother kept just to look at), nor man enough to fill them. In fact, my mother was very happy that he declined when I offered them. But John was too proud to miss the chance to say that such a famous man had ever worn any of his clothes; afterward, he showed them off. Mr. Faggus's reputation, though not as huge as it is today, was already spreading quickly throughout our neighborhood and even as far as Bridgewater.
Tom Faggus was a jovial soul, if ever there has been one, not making bones of little things, nor caring to seek evil. There was about him such a love of genuine human nature, that if a traveller said a good thing, he would give him back his purse again. It is true that he took people's money more by force than fraud; and the law (being used to the inverse method) was bitterly moved against him, although he could quote precedent. These things I do not understand; having seen so much of robbery (some legal, some illegal), that I scarcely know, as here we say, one crow's foot from the other. It is beyond me and above me, to discuss these subjects; and in truth I love the law right well, when it doth support me, and when I can lay it down to my liking, with prejudice to nobody. Loyal, too, to the King am I, as behoves churchwarden; and ready to make the best of him, as he generally requires. But after all, I could not see (until I grew much older, and came to have some property) why Tom Faggus, working hard, was called a robber and felon of great; while the King, doing nothing at all (as became his dignity), was liege-lord, and paramount owner; with everybody to thank him kindly for accepting tribute.
Tom Faggus was a cheerful guy, if there ever was one, not bothered by little things and not looking for trouble. He had such a love for genuine human nature that if a traveler said something nice, he would return their purse. It's true that he took people's money more by force than by trickery; and the law (which was used to the opposite approach) was harsh against him, even though he could cite examples. I don’t really get these things; having seen so much theft (some legal, some illegal), I can barely tell one crow's foot from another. It's beyond me to talk about these topics; and honestly, I really like the law, especially when it works in my favor and when I can interpret it to my liking, without harming anyone. I'm also loyal to the King, as any churchwarden should be; and I'm ready to make the best of him, as he usually expects. But still, I couldn’t understand (until I got older and gained some property) why Tom Faggus, working hard, was labeled a robber and a serious criminal, while the King, doing absolutely nothing (as was fitting for his position), was the lord and main owner; with everyone thanking him nicely for collecting taxes.
For the present, however, I learned nothing more as to what our cousin's profession was; only that mother seemed frightened, and whispered to him now and then not to talk of something, because of the children being there; whereupon he always nodded with a sage expression, and applied himself to hollands.
For now, though, I didn’t find out anything more about what our cousin did for a living; I just noticed that Mom seemed scared and occasionally whispered to him not to mention something, since the kids were around; to which he always nodded knowingly and focused on his drink.
“Now let us go and see Winnie, Jack,” he said to me after supper; “for the most part I feed her before myself; but she was so hot from the way you drove her. Now she must be grieving for me, and I never let her grieve long.”
“Now let's go see Winnie, Jack,” he said to me after dinner; “usually, I feed her before I eat, but she was so worked up from the way you drove her. She must be missing me, and I never let her feel sad for long.”
I was too glad to go with him, and Annie came slyly after us. The filly was walking to and fro on the naked floor of the stable (for he would not let her have any straw, until he should make a bed for her), and without so much as a headstall on, for he would not have her fastened. “Do you take my mare for a dog?” he had said when John Fry brought him a halter. And now she ran to him like a child, and her great eyes shone at the lanthorn.
I was more than happy to go with him, and Annie followed us quietly. The filly was pacing back and forth on the bare floor of the stable (since he wouldn't let her have any straw until he made a bed for her), and she wasn't even wearing a headstall because he didn't want her tied up. "Do you think my mare is a dog?" he had said when John Fry brought him a halter. And now she ran to him like a child, her big eyes shining in the lantern light.
“Hit me, Jack, and see what she will do. I will not let her hurt thee.” He was rubbing her ears all the time he spoke, and she was leaning against him. Then I made believe to strike him, and in a moment she caught me by the waistband, and lifted me clean from the ground, and was casting me down to trample upon me, when he stopped her suddenly.
“Go ahead, Jack, hit me and see how she reacts. I won’t let her hurt you.” He was rubbing her ears while he spoke, and she was leaning against him. Then I pretended to hit him, and in an instant, she grabbed me by the waistband and lifted me off the ground, preparing to stomp on me, when he suddenly stopped her.
“What think you of that, boy? Have you horse or dog that would do that for you? Ay, and more than that she will do. If I were to whistle, by-and-by, in the tone that tells my danger, she would break this stable-door down, and rush into the room to me. Nothing will keep her from me then, stone-wall or church-tower. Ah, Winnie, Winnie, you little witch, we shall die together.”
“What do you think of that, boy? Do you have a horse or a dog that would do that for you? Yeah, and even more than that she will do. If I were to whistle later, in the tone that signals my danger, she would break down this stable door and rush into the room to me. Nothing will stop her then, not a stone wall or a church tower. Ah, Winnie, Winnie, you little witch, we’re going to die together.”
Then he turned away with a joke, and began to feed her nicely, for she was very dainty. Not a husk of oat would she touch that had been under the breath of another horse, however hungry she might be. And with her oats he mixed some powder, fetching it from his saddle-bags. What this was I could not guess, neither would he tell me, but laughed and called it “star-shavings.” He watched her eat every morsel of it, with two or three drinks of pure water, ministered between whiles; and then he made her bed in a form I had never seen before, and so we said “Good-night” to her.
Then he turned away with a joke and started to feed her gently, since she was very picky. Not a single grain of oat would she eat if it had been breathed on by another horse, no matter how hungry she was. He mixed some powder into her oats, taking it from his saddle-bags. I couldn’t figure out what it was, and he wouldn’t tell me, but he laughed and called it “star-shavings.” He watched her eat every bite, giving her two or three drinks of fresh water in between; then he made her bed in a way I had never seen before, and that’s how we said “Good-night” to her.
Afterwards by the fireside he kept us very merry, sitting in the great chimney-corner, and making us play games with him. And all the while he was smoking tobacco in a manner I never had seen before, not using any pipe for it, but having it rolled in little sticks about as long as my finger, blunt at one end and sharp at the other. The sharp end he would put in his mouth, and lay a brand of wood to the other, and then draw a white cloud of curling smoke, and we never tired of watching him. I wanted him to let me do it, but he said, “No, my son; it is not meant for boys.” Then Annie put up her lips and asked, with both hands on his knees (for she had taken to him wonderfully), “Is it meant for girls then cousin Tom?” But she had better not have asked, for he gave it her to try, and she shut both eyes, and sucked at it. One breath, however, was quite enough, for it made her cough so violently that Lizzie and I must thump her back until she was almost crying. To atone for that, cousin Tom set to, and told us whole pages of stories, not about his own doings at all, but strangely enough they seemed to concern almost every one else we had ever heard of. Without halting once for a word or a deed, his tales flowed onward as freely and brightly as the flames of the wood up the chimney, and with no smaller variety. For he spoke with the voices of twenty people, giving each person the proper manner, and the proper place to speak from; so that Annie and Lizzie ran all about, and searched the clock and the linen-press. And he changed his face every moment so, and with such power of mimicry that without so much as a smile of his own, he made even mother laugh so that she broke her new tenpenny waistband; and as for us children, we rolled on the floor, and Betty Muxworthy roared in the wash-up.
Afterward, by the fireside, he kept us really entertained, sitting in the big chimney corner and playing games with us. He was smoking tobacco in a way I'd never seen before, not using a pipe but rolling it in little sticks about the length of my finger, blunt on one end and sharp on the other. He would put the sharp end in his mouth, light the other end, and then draw a thick white cloud of smoke, and we never got tired of watching him. I wanted to try it, but he said, “No, my son; it’s not meant for boys.” Then Annie puckered up her lips and asked, with both hands on his knees (since she was really fond of him), “Is it meant for girls then, cousin Tom?” But she probably shouldn't have asked, because he let her try it, and she shut her eyes and took a puff. One breath was more than enough, though, as it made her cough so hard that Lizzie and I had to thump her back until she was almost crying. To make up for that, cousin Tom started telling us stories that were pages long, not about his own adventures, but oddly enough, they seemed to concern almost everyone else we had ever heard about. He didn’t pause for a single word or action; his stories flowed freely and brightly like the flames climbing the chimney, full of all sorts of variety. He spoke in the voices of twenty different people, giving each person their own mannerisms and the right spot to speak from, causing Annie and Lizzie to run around searching the clock and the linen press. He changed his expression constantly and had such a knack for mimicry that, without even smiling, he made mother laugh so hard she broke her new tenpenny waistband; as for us kids, we rolled on the floor, and Betty Muxworthy hollered in the wash-up.
CHAPTER XII
A MAN JUSTLY POPULAR
Now although Mr. Faggus was so clever, and generous, and celebrated, I know not whether, upon the whole, we were rather proud of him as a member of our family, or inclined to be ashamed of him. And indeed I think that the sway of the balance hung upon the company we were in. For instance, with the boys at Brendon—for there is no village at Oare—I was exceeding proud to talk of him, and would freely brag of my Cousin Tom. But with the rich parsons of the neighbourhood, or the justices (who came round now and then, and were glad to ride up to a warm farm-house), or even the well-to-do tradesmen of Porlock—in a word, any settled power, which was afraid of losing things—with all of them we were very shy of claiming our kinship to that great outlaw.
Even though Mr. Faggus was smart, generous, and famous, I can’t really tell if we were mostly proud to have him in our family or if we felt a bit embarrassed. Honestly, I think it depended on who we were with. For example, when I was with the boys at Brendon—since there isn’t a village in Oare—I was really proud to talk about him and would boast about my Cousin Tom. But when I was around the wealthy clergymen in the area, or the justices (who visited occasionally and were happy to stop by a cozy farm), or even the affluent shopkeepers in Porlock—in short, anyone who had established power and was worried about losing their status—we were quite hesitant to mention our connection to that famous outlaw.
And sure, I should pity, as well as condemn him though our ways in the world were so different, knowing as I do his story; which knowledge, methinks, would often lead us to let alone God's prerogative—judgment, and hold by man's privilege—pity. Not that I would find excuse for Tom's downright dishonesty, which was beyond doubt a disgrace to him, and no credit to his kinsfolk; only that it came about without his meaning any harm or seeing how he took to wrong; yet gradually knowing it. And now, to save any further trouble, and to meet those who disparage him (without allowance for the time or the crosses laid upon him), I will tell the history of him, just as if he were not my cousin, and hoping to be heeded. And I defy any man to say that a word of this is either false, or in any way coloured by family. Much cause he had to be harsh with the world; and yet all acknowledged him very pleasant, when a man gave up his money. And often and often he paid the toll for the carriage coming after him, because he had emptied their pockets, and would not add inconvenience. By trade he had been a blacksmith, in the town of Northmolton, in Devonshire, a rough rude place at the end of Exmoor, so that many people marvelled if such a man was bred there. Not only could he read and write, but he had solid substance; a piece of land worth a hundred pounds, and right of common for two hundred sheep, and a score and a half of beasts, lifting up or lying down. And being left an orphan (with all these cares upon him) he began to work right early, and made such a fame at the shoeing of horses, that the farriers of Barum were like to lose their custom. And indeed he won a golden Jacobus for the best-shod nag in the north of Devon, and some say that he never was forgiven.
And sure, I should feel sorry for him, as well as criticize him, even though our lives were so different. I know his story, which makes me think we should sometimes leave judgment to God and focus on offering pity instead. Not that I would excuse Tom's outright dishonesty—there's no denying that it was shameful for him and brought no honor to his family. It just happened without him intending any harm or realizing how wrong he was, even if he gradually became aware of it. Now, to avoid any more trouble and address those who criticize him without considering the context or hardships he faced, I will recount his story as if he weren't my cousin, hoping to be taken seriously. I challenge anyone to say that any part of this is untrue or biased by family ties. He had plenty of reasons to be bitter toward the world, yet everyone found him very friendly, especially when he was doling out cash. Time and again, he paid the toll for the carriages that followed him, having emptied their pockets, to avoid causing them any more inconvenience. By trade, he was a blacksmith in Northmolton, Devonshire, a rough place at the edge of Exmoor, to the astonishment of many who wondered how someone like him could come from there. Not only could he read and write, but he also had real substance: a piece of land worth a hundred pounds and rights to common land for two hundred sheep and fifteen cattle. Left an orphan with all these responsibilities, he started working early and earned such a reputation for shoing horses that the farriers in Barnstable were at risk of losing business. In fact, he won a gold Jacobus for the best-shod horse in northern Devon, and some say he was never forgiven for it.
As to that, I know no more, except that men are jealous. But whether it were that, or not, he fell into bitter trouble within a month of his victory; when his trade was growing upon him, and his sweetheart ready to marry him. For he loved a maid of Southmolton (a currier's daughter I think she was, and her name was Betsy Paramore), and her father had given consent; and Tom Faggus, wishing to look his best, and be clean of course, had a tailor at work upstairs for him, who had come all the way from Exeter. And Betsy's things were ready too—for which they accused him afterwards, as if he could help that—when suddenly, like a thunderbolt, a lawyer's writ fell upon him.
I don’t know much more about that, except that men can be jealous. But regardless, he got into serious trouble within a month of his victory, just when his business was starting to thrive and his girlfriend was ready to marry him. He was in love with a girl from Southmolton (I think she was the daughter of a currier, and her name was Betsy Paramore), and her father had given his approval. Tom Faggus, wanting to look his best and be clean, had a tailor working upstairs for him, who had come all the way from Exeter. Betsy's things were ready too—something they later blamed him for, as if he could have done anything about it—when suddenly, out of nowhere, a lawyer’s writ hit him like a thunderbolt.
This was the beginning of a law-suit with Sir Robert Bampfylde, a gentleman of the neighbourhood, who tried to oust him from his common, and drove his cattle and harassed them. And by that suit of law poor Tom was ruined altogether, for Sir Robert could pay for much swearing; and then all his goods and his farm were sold up, and even his smithery taken. But he saddled his horse, before they could catch him, and rode away to Southmolton, looking more like a madman than a good farrier, as the people said who saw him. But when he arrived there, instead of comfort, they showed him the face of the door alone; for the news of his loss was before him, and Master Paramore was a sound, prudent man, and a high member of the town council. It is said that they even gave him notice to pay for Betsy's wedding-clothes, now that he was too poor to marry her. This may be false, and indeed I doubt it; in the first place, because Southmolton is a busy place for talking; and in the next, that I do not think the action would have lain at law, especially as the maid lost nothing, but used it all for her wedding next month with Dick Vellacott, of Mockham.
This was the start of a lawsuit with Sir Robert Bampfylde, a local gentleman, who tried to kick him off his land and harassed his cattle. Because of that legal battle, poor Tom was completely wiped out, as Sir Robert could afford to throw around a lot of money for legal fees. In the end, all his belongings and his farm were sold, and even his blacksmith shop was taken away. But he managed to saddle his horse and ride off to Southmolton before they could catch him, looking more like a madman than a skilled farrier, as people who saw him said. However, when he got there, instead of finding help, he was met with a closed door; the news of his downfall had already reached ahead of him, and Master Paramore was a sensible and influential member of the town council. It's rumored they even asked him to pay for Betsy’s wedding clothes, now that he was too broke to marry her. This might not be true, and I actually doubt it; first, because Southmolton is known for its gossip, and second, I don’t think that claim would hold up in court, especially since the girl didn’t lose anything and was using it all for her wedding next month to Dick Vellacott from Mockham.
All this was very sore upon Tom; and he took it to heart so grievously, that he said, as a better man might have said, being loose of mind and property, “The world hath preyed on me like a wolf. God help me now to prey on the world.”
All of this was really hard on Tom, and he took it to heart so deeply that he said, much like a wiser person might have said, feeling lost and without resources, “The world has hunted me down like a wolf. God help me now to take my turn on the world.”
And in sooth it did seem, for a while, as if Providence were with him; for he took rare toll on the highway, and his name was soon as good as gold anywhere this side of Bristowe. He studied his business by night and by day, with three horses all in hard work, until he had made a fine reputation; and then it was competent to him to rest, and he had plenty left for charity. And I ought to say for society too, for he truly loved high society, treating squires and noblemen (who much affected his company) to the very best fare of the hostel. And they say that once the King's Justitiaries, being upon circuit, accepted his invitation, declaring merrily that if never true bill had been found against him, mine host should now be qualified to draw one. And so the landlords did; and he always paid them handsomely, so that all of them were kind to him, and contended for his visits. Let it be known in any township that Mr. Faggus was taking his leisure at the inn, and straightway all the men flocked thither to drink his health without outlay, and all the women to admire him; while the children were set at the cross-roads to give warning of any officers. One of his earliest meetings was with Sir Robert Bampfylde himself, who was riding along the Barum road with only one serving-man after him. Tom Faggus put a pistol to his head, being then obliged to be violent, through want of reputation; while the serving-man pretended to be a long way round the corner. Then the baronet pulled out his purse, quite trembling in the hurry of his politeness. Tom took the purse, and his ring, and time-piece, and then handed them back with a very low bow, saying that it was against all usage for him to rob a robber. Then he turned to the unfaithful knave, and trounced him right well for his cowardice, and stripped him of all his property.
And it really did seem, for a while, like fate was on his side; he made a killing on the highway, and soon his name was as good as gold anywhere this side of Bristol. He studied his trade day and night, with three horses constantly in use, until he built a solid reputation. Once he had that, he could take a break, and he had plenty left over for charity. I should also mention that he enjoyed high society; he genuinely loved it, treating squires and noblemen (who really liked his company) to the best meals at the inn. They say that once the King's Justices, while on their circuit, accepted his invitation, joking that if they had never found him guilty, the innkeeper was now worthy of a charge. So the landlords did; he always paid them well, and they all appreciated him and competed for his visits. Whenever it was known in any town that Mr. Faggus was relaxing at the inn, all the men flocked there to toast him without spending a dime, and all the women came to admire him; meanwhile, the kids were posted at the crossroads to alert of any officers. One of his first encounters was with Sir Robert Bampfylde himself, who was riding down the Barum road with just one servant trailing after him. Tom Faggus pointed a pistol at his head, feeling the need to be forceful since he lacked a reputation; while the servant pretended to be far off around the corner. The baronet quickly pulled out his purse, trembling from the rush of being polite. Tom took the purse, along with his ring and watch, then handed them back with a deep bow, stating that it was against all custom for him to rob a robber. He then turned to the unfaithful servant and gave him a good beating for his cowardice, taking everything he had.
But now Mr. Faggus kept only one horse, lest the Government should steal them; and that one was the young mare Winnie. How he came by her he never would tell, but I think that she was presented to him by a certain Colonel, a lover of sport, and very clever in horseflesh, whose life Tom had saved from some gamblers. When I have added that Faggus as yet had never been guilty of bloodshed (for his eyes, and the click of his pistol at first, and now his high reputation made all his wishes respected), and that he never robbed a poor man, neither insulted a woman, but was very good to the Church, and of hot patriotic opinions, and full of jest and jollity, I have said as much as is fair for him, and shown why he was so popular. Everybody cursed the Doones, who lived apart disdainfully. But all good people liked Mr. Faggus—when he had not robbed them—and many a poor sick man or woman blessed him for other people's money; and all the hostlers, stable-boys, and tapsters entirely worshipped him.
But now Mr. Faggus kept only one horse to avoid having the Government take them, and that horse was the young mare Winnie. He never revealed how he acquired her, but I believe she was gifted to him by a Colonel, a sports enthusiast and knowledgeable in horses, whose life Tom had saved from some gamblers. It's worth noting that Faggus had never committed any acts of violence (his intimidating gaze and the sound of his pistol at first, along with his solid reputation, ensured that everyone respected his wishes), and he never robbed the poor nor insulted women. He was quite generous to the Church, held strong patriotic views, and was always full of jokes and cheer, which explains his popularity. Everyone despised the Doones, who lived separately and contemptuously. But all the decent folks appreciated Mr. Faggus—unless he had robbed them—and many poor sick people blessed him for helping them with other people's money; all the stable hands, stable boys, and bar staff completely admired him.
I have been rather long, and perhaps tedious, in my account of him, lest at any time hereafter his character should be misunderstood, and his good name disparaged; whereas he was my second cousin, and the lover of my—But let that bide. 'Tis a melancholy story.
I’ve been pretty lengthy, and maybe a bit boring, in my description of him, to make sure that in the future his character isn’t misinterpreted and his reputation isn't tarnished; after all, he was my second cousin and the love of my—But let’s set that aside. It’s a sad story.
He came again about three months afterwards, in the beginning of the spring-time, and brought me a beautiful new carbine, having learned my love of such things, and my great desire to shoot straight. But mother would not let me have the gun, until he averred upon his honour that he had bought it honestly. And so he had, no doubt, so far as it is honest to buy with money acquired rampantly. Scarce could I stop to make my bullets in the mould which came along with it, but must be off to the Quarry Hill, and new target I had made there. And he taught me then how to ride bright Winnie, who was grown since I had seen her, but remembered me most kindly. After making much of Annie, who had a wondrous liking for him—and he said he was her godfather, but God knows how he could have been, unless they confirmed him precociously—away he went, and young Winnie's sides shone like a cherry by candlelight.
He came back about three months later, at the start of spring, and brought me a beautiful new carbine because he knew I loved that sort of thing and really wanted to shoot well. But my mom wouldn't let me have the gun until he promised on his honor that he had bought it honestly. And I'm sure he did, as honestly as someone can who spends money made in a questionable way. I could barely take the time to make my bullets in the mold that came with it; I had to rush off to Quarry Hill, where I had set up a new target. He also taught me how to ride bright Winnie, who had grown since I last saw her, but remembered me fondly. After giving a lot of attention to Annie, who really liked him—and he claimed to be her godfather, but who really knows how that could be unless they confirmed him way too early—he left, and young Winnie's sides sparkled like a cherry by candlelight.
Now I feel that of those boyish days I have little more to tell, because everything went quietly, as the world for the most part does with us. I began to work at the farm in earnest, and tried to help my mother, and when I remembered Lorna Doone, it seemed no more than the thought of a dream, which I could hardly call to mind. Now who cares to know how many bushels of wheat we grew to the acre, or how the cattle milched till we ate them, or what the turn of the seasons was? But my stupid self seemed like to be the biggest of all the cattle; for having much to look after the sheep, and being always in kind appetite, I grew four inches longer in every year of my farming, and a matter of two inches wider; until there was no man of my size to be seen elsewhere upon Exmoor. Let that pass: what odds to any how tall or wide I be? There is no Doone's door at Plover's Barrows and if there were I could never go through it. They vexed me so much about my size, long before I had completed it, girding at me with paltry jokes whose wit was good only to stay at home, that I grew shame-faced about the matter, and feared to encounter a looking-glass. But mother was very proud, and said she never could have too much of me.
Now I feel like I don't have much more to share about those boyhood days because everything went on quietly, just like life usually does. I started working seriously on the farm and tried to help my mom, and when I thought of Lorna Doone, it felt more like a distant memory, almost like a dream. Who really cares how many bushels of wheat we grew per acre, or how the cows were milked until we ate them, or what the seasons were like? But I often felt like the biggest creature on the farm; with so much to manage the sheep and always being hungry, I grew four inches taller and about two inches wider every year I worked, until there wasn't anyone of my size to be found anywhere on Exmoor. But let that go: who cares how tall or wide I am? There’s no Doone's door at Plover's Barrows, and even if there were, I could never fit through it. They teased me so much about my size, long before it was finished growing, making stupid jokes that were only funny at home, which made me feel embarrassed and afraid to look in the mirror. But my mom was very proud and said she could never have too much of me.
The worst of all to make me ashamed of bearing my head so high—a thing I saw no way to help, for I never could hang my chin down, and my back was like a gatepost whenever I tried to bend it—the worst of all was our little Eliza, who never could come to a size herself, though she had the wine from the Sacrament at Easter and Allhallowmas, only to be small and skinny, sharp, and clever crookedly. Not that her body was out of the straight (being too small for that perhaps), but that her wit was full of corners, jagged, and strange, and uncomfortable. You never could tell what she might say next; and I like not that kind of women. Now God forgive me for talking so of my own father's daughter, and so much the more by reason that my father could not help it. The right way is to face the matter, and then be sorry for every one. My mother fell grievously on a slide, which John Fry had made nigh the apple-room door, and hidden with straw from the stable, to cover his own great idleness. My father laid John's nose on the ice, and kept him warm in spite of it; but it was too late for Eliza. She was born next day with more mind than body—the worst thing that can befall a man.
The worst part about feeling embarrassed about holding my head so high—a thing I couldn’t change, because I could never lower my chin, and my back would stiffen like a gatepost whenever I tried to bend it—was our little Eliza. She could never grow to a decent size, even though she received the wine from the Sacrament at Easter and Allhallowmas; she remained small and skinny, sharp but oddly clever. It wasn’t that her body was misshapen (since it was probably too small for that), but her wit was full of sharp edges, strange and uncomfortable. You could never predict what she might say next, and I don’t like those kinds of women. Now God forgive me for speaking this way about my own father's daughter, especially since my father couldn’t help it. The right approach is to face the truth and regret it for everyone. My mother had a bad fall on a slide that John Fry had made near the apple-room door, which he covered with straw from the stable to hide his laziness. My father pressed John's nose into the ice and kept him warm despite it; but it was too late for Eliza. She was born the next day with more mind than body—the worst fate a person can have.
But Annie, my other sister, was now a fine fair girl, beautiful to behold. I could look at her by the fireside, for an hour together, when I was not too sleepy, and think of my dear father. And she would do the same thing by me, only wait the between of the blazes. Her hair was done up in a knot behind, but some would fall over her shoulders; and the dancing of the light was sweet to see through a man's eyelashes. There never was a face that showed the light or the shadow of feeling, as if the heart were sun to it, more than our dear Annie's did. To look at her carefully, you might think that she was not dwelling on anything; and then she would know you were looking at her, and those eyes would tell all about it. God knows that I try to be simple enough, to keep to His meaning in me, and not make the worst of His children. Yet often have I been put to shame, and ready to bite my tongue off, after speaking amiss of anybody, and letting out my littleness, when suddenly mine eyes have met the pure soft gaze of Annie.
But Annie, my other sister, was now a lovely fair girl, beautiful to see. I could sit by the fireside and look at her for an hour, as long as I wasn’t too tired, and think of my dear father. She would do the same with me, only waiting between the flames. Her hair was pulled up in a knot at the back, but some strands fell over her shoulders, and the way the light danced was beautiful to see through a man’s eyelashes. No one ever had a face that reflected feelings, as if her heart was a light unto it, more than our dear Annie's did. If you looked closely at her, you might think she wasn’t focused on anything, but then she would notice you watching her, and her eyes would reveal everything. God knows I try to be simple enough to understand His meaning in me and not make the worst of His children. Yet, I often feel ashamed and want to bite my tongue after saying something wrong about anyone, letting my smallness show, when suddenly my eyes meet Annie's pure soft gaze.
As for the Doones, they were thriving still, and no one to come against them; except indeed by word of mouth, to which they lent no heed whatever. Complaints were made from time to time, both in high and low quarters (as the rank might be of the people robbed), and once or twice in the highest of all, to wit, the King himself. But His Majesty made a good joke about it (not meaning any harm, I doubt), and was so much pleased with himself thereupon, that he quite forgave the mischief. Moreover, the main authorities were a long way off; and the Chancellor had no cattle on Exmoor; and as for my lord the Chief Justice, some rogue had taken his silver spoons; whereupon his lordship swore that never another man would he hang until he had that one by the neck. Therefore the Doones went on as they listed, and none saw fit to meddle with them. For the only man who would have dared to come to close quarters with them, that is to say Tom Faggus, himself was a quarry for the law, if ever it should be unhooded. Moreover, he had transferred his business to the neighbourhood of Wantage, in the county of Berks, where he found the climate drier, also good downs and commons excellent for galloping, and richer yeomen than ours be, and better roads to rob them on.
As for the Doones, they were still thriving, with no one to challenge them; except for some complaints that were made from time to time, both from the wealthy and the poor (depending on who got robbed), and a few times even to the highest authority, namely, the King himself. But His Majesty just laughed it off (not intending any harm, I think), and was so pleased with himself that he completely overlooked the trouble. Besides, the main authorities were far away; the Chancellor didn’t have any cattle on Exmoor; and as for the Chief Justice, some thief had stolen his silver spoons, which made him swear that he wouldn’t hang another man until he had that one caught. So, the Doones continued to do as they pleased, and no one dared to interfere. The only person who might have had the guts to confront them, Tom Faggus, was himself wanted by the law if it ever came looking for him. Plus, he had moved his operations to the area around Wantage, in Berkshire, where he found the weather better, good hills and commons ideal for galloping, wealthier farmers than ours, and better roads to rob them on.
Some folk, who had wiser attended to their own affairs, said that I (being sizeable now, and able to shoot not badly) ought to do something against those Doones, and show what I was made of. But for a time I was very bashful, shaking when called upon suddenly, and blushing as deep as a maiden; for my strength was not come upon me, and mayhap I had grown in front of it. And again, though I loved my father still, and would fire at a word about him, I saw not how it would do him good for me to harm his injurers. Some races are of revengeful kind, and will for years pursue their wrong, and sacrifice this world and the next for a moment's foul satisfaction, but methinks this comes of some black blood, perverted and never purified. And I doubt but men of true English birth are stouter than so to be twisted, though some of the women may take that turn, if their own life runs unkindly.
Some people, who should have focused more on their own problems, said that since I was grown and could shoot pretty well, I should do something about the Doones and show what I was made of. But for a while, I felt really shy, trembling when suddenly called on, and blushing like a girl; my strength hadn’t fully come to me yet, and maybe I had just grown in front of it. And although I still loved my father and would get angry just hearing his name, I didn’t see how harming those who wronged him would actually help him. Some groups are vengeful and will chase their grievances for years, sacrificing this life and the next for a moment’s twisted satisfaction, but I think that comes from some dark nature that’s never been cleansed. I doubt that truly English men are so easily twisted, although some women might go that way if their own lives are treated harshly.
Let that pass—I am never good at talking of things beyond me. All I know is, that if I had met the Doone who had killed my father, I would gladly have thrashed him black and blue, supposing I were able; but would never have fired a gun at him, unless he began that game with me, or fell upon more of my family, or were violent among women. And to do them justice, my mother and Annie were equally kind and gentle, but Eliza would flame and grow white with contempt, and not trust herself to speak to us.
Let that go—I’m not great at discussing things beyond my understanding. All I know is that if I had encountered the Doone who killed my father, I would have happily beaten him up, assuming I could; but I would never have shot at him unless he started that fight with me, attacked more of my family, or was violent towards women. To be fair, my mother and Annie were just as kind and gentle, but Eliza would get angry and turn pale with contempt, and wouldn’t trust herself to talk to us.
Now a strange thing came to pass that winter, when I was twenty-one years old, a very strange thing, which affrighted the rest, and made me feel uncomfortable. Not that there was anything in it, to do harm to any one, only that none could explain it, except by attributing it to the devil. The weather was very mild and open, and scarcely any snow fell; at any rate, none lay on the ground, even for an hour, in the highest part of Exmoor; a thing which I knew not before nor since, as long as I can remember. But the nights were wonderfully dark, as though with no stars in the heaven; and all day long the mists were rolling upon the hills and down them, as if the whole land were a wash-house. The moorland was full of snipes and teal, and curlews flying and crying, and lapwings flapping heavily, and ravens hovering round dead sheep; yet no redshanks nor dottrell, and scarce any golden plovers (of which we have great store generally) but vast lonely birds, that cried at night, and moved the whole air with their pinions; yet no man ever saw them. It was dismal as well as dangerous now for any man to go fowling (which of late I loved much in the winter) because the fog would come down so thick that the pan of the gun was reeking, and the fowl out of sight ere the powder kindled, and then the sound of the piece was so dead, that the shooter feared harm, and glanced over his shoulder. But the danger of course was far less in this than in losing of the track, and falling into the mires, or over the brim of a precipice.
Something strange happened that winter when I was twenty-one, something very odd that frightened the others and made me uneasy. It wasn’t that it harmed anyone, but no one could explain it, except by saying it was devilish. The weather was surprisingly mild with hardly any snow; in fact, none stayed on the ground, even for an hour, in the highest part of Exmoor. I had never seen that before or since, as long as I can remember. The nights were incredibly dark, as if there were no stars in the sky, and all day long, mist rolled over the hills and down them, like the whole land was a laundry. The moorland was bustling with snipe and teal, curlews calling, lapwings flapping heavily, and ravens circling around dead sheep; yet there were no redshanks or dottrell, and hardly any golden plovers (which we usually had plenty of), but instead, vast lonely birds that cried at night and stirred the air with their wings; yet no one ever saw them. It was both grim and dangerous for anyone to go bird hunting (which I had enjoyed a lot that winter) because the fog rolled in so thick that the gun's barrel was steaming, and the birds were out of sight before the powder ignited, and then the sound of the shot was so muffled that the shooter feared harm and looked over his shoulder. However, the danger was far less compared to losing the path and ending up in the marshes or over the edge of a cliff.
Nevertheless, I must needs go out, being young and very stupid, and feared of being afraid; a fear which a wise man has long cast by, having learned of the manifold dangers which ever and ever encompass us. And beside this folly and wildness of youth, perchance there was something, I know not what, of the joy we have in uncertainty. Mother, in fear of my missing home—though for that matter, I could smell supper, when hungry, through a hundred land-yards of fog—my dear mother, who thought of me ten times for one thought about herself, gave orders to ring the great sheep-bell, which hung above the pigeon-cote, every ten minutes of the day, and the sound came through the plaits of fog, and I was vexed about it, like the letters of a copy-book. It reminded me, too, of Blundell's bell, and the grief to go into school again.
Still, I have to go out, being young and pretty clueless, and scared of feeling scared; a fear that a wise person has long set aside after realizing the many dangers that always surround us. Besides this foolishness and wildness of youth, maybe there was something, I can’t quite put my finger on, about the thrill we find in uncertainty. My mother, worried I wouldn’t come home—even though I could smell dinner through a hundred yards of fog when I was hungry—my dear mom, who thought of me ten times more than she thought of herself, ordered the big sheep bell that hung above the pigeon coop to be rung every ten minutes throughout the day. The sound cut through the fog, and it annoyed me, like the letters in a copybook. It also reminded me of Blundell's bell and the sadness of having to go back to school.
But during those two months of fog (for we had it all the winter), the saddest and the heaviest thing was to stand beside the sea. To be upon the beach yourself, and see the long waves coming in; to know that they are long waves, but only see a piece of them; and to hear them lifting roundly, swelling over smooth green rocks, plashing down in the hollow corners, but bearing on all the same as ever, soft and sleek and sorrowful, till their little noise is over.
But during those two foggy months (which lasted the whole winter), the saddest and heaviest thing was standing by the sea. Being on the beach, watching the long waves roll in; knowing they were long waves, but only seeing a part of them; hearing them rise smoothly as they swelled over the shiny green rocks, splashing into the hollow corners, yet still pushing forward as always, soft and sleek and filled with sadness, until their little sounds faded away.
One old man who lived at Lynmouth, seeking to be buried there, having been more than half over the world, though shy to speak about it, and fain to come home to his birthplace, this old Will Watcombe (who dwelt by the water) said that our strange winter arose from a thing he called the “Gulf-stream”, rushing up Channel suddenly. He said it was hot water, almost fit for a man to shave with, and it threw all our cold water out, and ruined the fish and the spawning-time, and a cold spring would come after it. I was fond of going to Lynmouth on Sunday to hear this old man talk, for sometimes he would discourse with me, when nobody else could move him. He told me that this powerful flood set in upon our west so hard sometimes once in ten years, and sometimes not for fifty, and the Lord only knew the sense of it; but that when it came, therewith came warmth and clouds, and fog, and moisture, and nuts, and fruit, and even shells; and all the tides were thrown abroad. As for nuts he winked awhile, and chewed a piece of tobacco; yet did I not comprehend him. Only afterwards I heard that nuts with liquid kernels came, travelling on the Gulf stream; for never before was known so much foreign cordial landed upon our coast, floating ashore by mistake in the fog, and (what with the tossing and the mist) too much astray to learn its duty.
One old man who lived in Lynmouth, wanting to be buried there after traveling more than half the world, though he was shy to talk about it and eager to return to his hometown, this old Will Watcombe (who lived by the water) said that our unusual winter was caused by something he called the “Gulf-stream,” which rushed up the Channel suddenly. He said it was hot water, almost warm enough for a man to shave with, and it pushed all our cold water out, ruining the fish and their spawning season, with a cold spring following. I enjoyed going to Lynmouth on Sundays to listen to this old man talk, because sometimes he would engage with me when no one else could get him to open up. He told me that this powerful surge would hit our west coast pretty strongly, sometimes once every ten years, and other times not for fifty, and only the Lord knew what it meant; but when it did come, it brought warmth, clouds, fog, moisture, nuts, fruit, and even shells; and all the tides got disrupted. When it came to nuts, he winked and chewed on a piece of tobacco, but I didn’t fully understand him. Later, I learned that nuts with liquid kernels came traveling on the Gulf Stream; because never before had so much foreign produce washed up on our shore, accidentally brought in by the fog, too lost to know its purpose.
Folk, who are ever too prone to talk, said that Will Watcombe himself knew better than anybody else about this drift of the Gulf-stream, and the places where it would come ashore, and the caves that took the in-draught. But De Whichehalse, our great magistrate, certified that there was no proof of unlawful importation; neither good cause to suspect it, at a time of Christian charity. And we knew that it was a foul thing for some quarrymen to say that night after night they had been digging a new cellar at Ley Manor to hold the little marks of respect found in the caverns at high-water weed. Let that be, it is none of my business to speak evil of dignities; duly we common people joked of the “Gulp-stream,” as we called it.
People, who are always too eager to gossip, said that Will Watcombe knew more than anyone else about the direction of the Gulf Stream, where it would land, and the caves that caught the current. But De Whichehalse, our esteemed magistrate, confirmed that there was no evidence of illegal importation; nor was there any good reason to suspect it during a time of Christian charity. And we knew it was disgraceful for some quarry workers to claim they had been digging a new cellar at Ley Manor night after night to store the small tokens found in the caverns during high tide. Let that go; it's not my place to speak ill of those in authority. We ordinary folks humorously referred to it as the “Gulp-stream,” as we called it.
But the thing which astonished and frightened us so, was not, I do assure you, the landing of foreign spirits, nor the loom of a lugger at twilight in the gloom of the winter moonrise. That which made us crouch in by the fire, or draw the bed-clothes over us, and try to think of something else, was a strange mysterious sound.
But what really shocked and scared us wasn’t the arrival of foreign spirits or the sight of a small boat appearing at dusk under the winter moon. What made us huddle by the fire, pull the blankets over us, and try to distract ourselves was a strange, mysterious sound.
At grey of night, when the sun was gone, and no red in the west remained, neither were stars forthcoming, suddenly a wailing voice rose along the valleys, and a sound in the air, as of people running. It mattered not whether you stood on the moor, or crouched behind rocks away from it, or down among reedy places; all as one the sound would come, now from the heart of the earth beneath, now overhead bearing down on you. And then there was rushing of something by, and melancholy laughter, and the hair of a man would stand on end before he could reason properly.
At dusk, when the sun had set and no red remained in the west, and with no stars appearing, suddenly a wailing voice rose through the valleys, along with the sound of people running. It didn’t matter whether you stood on the moor, crouched behind rocks, or were down among the reeds; the sound would come as one, sometimes from deep within the earth below, other times from above, pressing down on you. Then there would be a rush of something passing by, a sad laughter, and a man’s hair would stand on end before he could even think straight.
God, in His mercy, knows that I am stupid enough for any man, and very slow of impression, nor ever could bring myself to believe that our Father would let the evil one get the upper hand of us. But when I had heard that sound three times, in the lonely gloom of the evening fog, and the cold that followed the lines of air, I was loath to go abroad by night, even so far as the stables, and loved the light of a candle more, and the glow of a fire with company.
God, in His mercy, understands that I'm pretty clueless and not the quickest to catch on. I could never convince myself that our Father would allow the evil one to take control over us. But after hearing that sound three times in the lonely, dark evening fog, and feeling the chill in the air, I was hesitant to go outside at night, even just to the stables. I preferred the warmth of a candle and enjoyed the glow of a fire with others around.
There were many stories about it, of course, all over the breadth of the moorland. But those who had heard it most often declared that it must be the wail of a woman's voice, and the rustle of robes fleeing horribly, and fiends in the fog going after her. To that, however, I paid no heed, when anybody was with me; only we drew more close together, and barred the doors at sunset.
There were a lot of stories about it, of course, all across the moorland. But those who heard it the most often insisted that it had to be the wail of a woman's voice, the sound of robes rushing away in terror, and monsters in the fog chasing after her. I didn’t pay much attention to that when anyone was with me; we just huddled closer together and locked the doors at sunset.
CHAPTER XIII
MASTER HUCKABACK COMES IN
Mr. Reuben Huckaback, whom many good folk in Dulverton will remember long after my time, was my mother's uncle, being indeed her mother's brother. He owned the very best shop in the town, and did a fine trade in soft ware, especially when the pack-horses came safely in at Christmas-time. And we being now his only kindred (except indeed his granddaughter, little Ruth Huckaback, of whom no one took any heed), mother beheld it a Christian duty to keep as well as could be with him, both for love of a nice old man, and for the sake of her children. And truly, the Dulverton people said that he was the richest man in their town, and could buy up half the county armigers; 'ay, and if it came to that, they would like to see any man, at Bampton, or at Wivelscombe, and you might say almost Taunton, who could put down golden Jacobus and Carolus against him.
Mr. Reuben Huckaback, who many good folks in Dulverton will remember long after I’m gone, was my mother's uncle, being her mother's brother. He owned the best shop in town and had a great business in soft goods, especially when the pack-horses arrived safely at Christmas. As we were his only family (except for his granddaughter, little Ruth Huckaback, who no one paid much attention to), my mother felt it was her Christian duty to keep in touch with him, both out of love for a nice old man and for the sake of her children. And truly, the people of Dulverton said he was the richest man in town and could buy up half the local landowners; yes, and if it came to that, they would like to see anyone from Bampton, Wivelscombe, or even Taunton who could match him with gold Jacobus and Carolus.
Now this old gentleman—so they called him, according to his money; and I have seen many worse ones, more violent and less wealthy—he must needs come away that time to spend the New Year-tide with us; not that he wanted to do it (for he hated country-life), but because my mother pressing, as mothers will do to a good bag of gold, had wrung a promise from him; and the only boast of his life was that never yet had he broken his word, at least since he opened business.
Now this old gentleman—that’s what they called him because of his wealth; I've seen plenty worse, more aggressive, and less rich—he had to come spend New Year’s with us that year; not that he wanted to (he actually despised country life), but because my mother, like mothers often do with a good chunk of money, got him to promise it; and the only pride he had in his life was that he had never broken his word, at least since he started his business.
Now it pleased God that Christmas-time (in spite of all the fogs) to send safe home to Dulverton, and what was more, with their loads quite safe, a goodly string of packhorses. Nearly half of their charge was for Uncle Reuben, and he knew how to make the most of it. Then having balanced his debits and credits, and set the writs running against defaulters, as behoves a good Christian at Christmas-tide, he saddled his horse, and rode off towards Oare, with a good stout coat upon him, and leaving Ruth and his head man plenty to do, and little to eat, until they should see him again.
Now it made God happy that during Christmas time (despite all the fog), a decent group of packhorses made it back safely to Dulverton, and what’s more, with their loads intact. Almost half of what they were carrying was for Uncle Reuben, and he knew how to take full advantage of it. After balancing his accounts and starting legal actions against those who owed money, as a good Christian should during Christmas, he saddled his horse and rode off toward Oare, wearing a warm coat and leaving Ruth and his foreman plenty to do and not much to eat until he returned.
It had been settled between us that we should expect him soon after noon on the last day of December. For the Doones being lazy and fond of bed, as the manner is of dishonest folk, the surest way to escape them was to travel before they were up and about, to-wit, in the forenoon of the day. But herein we reckoned without our host: for being in high festivity, as became good Papists, the robbers were too lazy, it seems, to take the trouble of going to bed; and forth they rode on the Old Year-morning, not with any view of business, but purely in search of mischief.
We had agreed that we should expect him shortly after noon on the last day of December. Since the Doones were lazy and loved to sleep in, like most dishonest people, the best way to avoid them was to travel before they were up and about, that is, in the morning of that day. However, we had underestimated the situation: being in high spirits, as good Papists do, the robbers were apparently too lazy to go to bed at all; instead, they rode out on New Year’s morning, not with any intention of doing business, but purely looking for trouble.
We had put off our dinner till one o'clock (which to me was a sad foregoing), and there was to be a brave supper at six of the clock, upon New Year's-eve; and the singers to come with their lanthorns, and do it outside the parlour-window, and then have hot cup till their heads should go round, after making away with the victuals. For although there was nobody now in our family to be churchwarden of Oare, it was well admitted that we were the people entitled alone to that dignity; and though Nicholas Snowe was in office by name, he managed it only by mother's advice; and a pretty mess he made of it, so that every one longed for a Ridd again, soon as ever I should be old enough. This Nicholas Snowe was to come in the evening, with his three tall comely daughters, strapping girls, and well skilled in the dairy; and the story was all over the parish, on a stupid conceit of John Fry's, that I should have been in love with all three, if there had been but one of them. These Snowes were to come, and come they did, partly because Mr. Huckaback liked to see fine young maidens, and partly because none but Nicholas Snowe could smoke a pipe now all around our parts, except of the very high people, whom we durst never invite. And Uncle Ben, as we all knew well, was a great hand at his pipe, and would sit for hours over it, in our warm chimney-corner, and never want to say a word, unless it were inside him; only he liked to have somebody there over against him smoking.
We delayed our dinner until one o'clock (which I found disappointing), and there was going to be a festive supper at six o'clock on New Year's Eve. The singers would come with their lanterns and perform outside the parlor window, then enjoy hot drinks until they felt dizzy after devouring the food. Although there was no one left in our family to serve as the churchwarden of Oare, it was generally accepted that we were the rightful holders of that honor. While Nicholas Snowe held the title, he only managed it with my mother's guidance, and he made quite a mess of things, making everyone eager for a Ridd again as soon as I was old enough. Nicholas Snowe was expected to arrive in the evening with his three tall, attractive daughters—strong girls who were skilled in dairy work. The whole parish buzzed with a silly idea from John Fry that I would have fallen for all three if there had been just one of them. The Snowes were definitely coming, and they did, partly because Mr. Huckaback enjoyed seeing pretty young women, and partly because Nicholas Snowe was the only one around who could still smoke a pipe, except for the very elite, whom we would never dare to invite. Uncle Ben, as we all knew well, loved his pipe and would sit for hours over it in our cozy fireplace corner, rarely saying a word unless prompted; he just liked having someone there across from him smoking.
Now when I came in, before one o'clock, after seeing to the cattle—for the day was thicker than ever, and we must keep the cattle close at home, if we wished to see any more of them—I fully expected to find Uncle Ben sitting in the fireplace, lifting one cover and then another, as his favourite manner was, and making sweet mouths over them; for he loved our bacon rarely, and they had no good leeks at Dulverton; and he was a man who always would see his business done himself. But there instead of my finding him with his quaint dry face pulled out at me, and then shut up sharp not to be cheated—who should run out but Betty Muxworthy, and poke me with a saucepan lid.
Now, when I came in before one o'clock, after taking care of the cattle—since the weather was worse than ever, and we needed to keep the cattle close to home if we wanted to see them again—I fully expected to find Uncle Ben sitting by the fireplace, lifting one pot after another, as he liked to do, and making smacking sounds over them; he loved our bacon, especially since there were no good leeks in Dulverton, and he was the kind of man who always wanted to handle his business himself. But instead of finding him with his quirky, dry face looking at me, then quickly shutting up to avoid being fooled—who should come running out but Betty Muxworthy, poking me with a saucepan lid.
“Get out of that now, Betty,” I said in my politest manner, for really Betty was now become a great domestic evil. She would have her own way so, and of all things the most distressful was for a man to try to reason.
“Get out of that now, Betty,” I said in my politest way, because honestly, Betty had become a real problem at home. She was determined to have her way, and the most frustrating thing for a man was trying to reason with her.
“Zider-press,” cried Betty again, for she thought it a fine joke to call me that, because of my size, and my hatred of it; “here be a rare get up, anyhow.”
“Zider-press,” shouted Betty again, thinking it was funny to call me that because of my size and my dislike of it; “this is quite a setup, anyway.”
“A rare good dinner, you mean, Betty. Well, and I have a rare good appetite.” With that I wanted to go and smell it, and not to stop for Betty.
“A rare good dinner, you mean, Betty. Well, I’ve got a really good appetite.” With that, I wanted to go and take a whiff, without stopping for Betty.
“Troost thee for thiccy, Jan Ridd. But thee must keep it bit langer, I reckon. Her baint coom, Maister Ziderpress. Whatt'e mak of that now?”
“Cheer up, Jan Ridd. But you’ll need to hold on a bit longer, I guess. She's not coming, Master Ziderpress. What do you make of that now?”
“Do you mean to say that Uncle Ben has not arrived yet, Betty?”
“Are you saying that Uncle Ben still hasn't arrived, Betty?”
“Raived! I knaws nout about that, whuther a hath of noo. Only I tell 'e, her baint coom. Rackon them Dooneses hath gat 'un.”
“Raved! I know nothing about that, whether it’s true or not. All I can tell you is, she hasn’t come. I think those Doones have got her.”
And Betty, who hated Uncle Ben, because he never gave her a groat, and she was not allowed to dine with him, I am sorry to say that Betty Muxworthy grinned all across, and poked me again with the greasy saucepan cover. But I misliking so to be treated, strode through the kitchen indignantly, for Betty behaved to me even now, as if I were only Eliza.
And Betty, who hated Uncle Ben because he never gave her a penny and she couldn't eat with him, I’m sorry to say that Betty Muxworthy grinned widely and poked me again with the greasy saucepan lid. But not liking the way I was being treated, I walked through the kitchen indignantly, because Betty was still treating me like I was just Eliza.
“Oh, Johnny, Johnny,” my mother cried, running out of the grand show-parlour, where the case of stuffed birds was, and peacock-feathers, and the white hare killed by grandfather; “I am so glad you are come at last. There is something sadly amiss, Johnny.”
“Oh, Johnny, Johnny,” my mother cried, running out of the fancy living room, where the case of stuffed birds was, along with peacock feathers and the white hare that Grandfather had killed; “I’m so glad you finally made it. Something is seriously wrong, Johnny.”
Mother had upon her wrists something very wonderful, of the nature of fal-lal as we say, and for which she had an inborn turn, being of good draper family, and polished above the yeomanry. Nevertheless I could never bear it, partly because I felt it to be out of place in our good farm-house, partly because I hate frippery, partly because it seemed to me to have nothing to do with father, and partly because I never could tell the reason of my hating it. And yet the poor soul had put them on, not to show her hands off (which were above her station) but simply for her children's sake, because Uncle Ben had given them. But another thing, I never could bear for man or woman to call me, “Johnny,” “Jack,” or “John,” I cared not which; and that was honest enough, and no smallness of me there, I say.
Mother had something really beautiful on her wrists, like a fancy accessory, which she had a natural flair for, coming from a well-to-do family and being more refined than the average farmer. Still, I could never appreciate it. Partly because it felt out of place in our nice farmhouse, partly because I disliked showiness, partly because it seemed unrelated to Dad, and partly because I just couldn't pinpoint why I hated it. Yet, the poor woman had put it on, not to show off her hands (which were more elegant than what you'd expect) but simply for the sake of her children, because Uncle Ben had given them to her. And there’s one more thing—I could never stand it when anyone called me “Johnny,” “Jack,” or “John,” I didn’t care which; and I think that’s honest enough, with no smallness on my part.
“Well, mother, what is the matter, then?”
"Well, Mom, what's wrong?"
“I am sure you need not be angry, Johnny. I only hope it is nothing to grieve about, instead of being angry. You are very sweet-tempered, I know, John Ridd, and perhaps a little too sweet at times”—here she meant the Snowe girls, and I hanged my head—“but what would you say if the people there”—she never would call them “Doones”—“had gotten your poor Uncle Reuben, horse, and Sunday coat, and all?”
“I’m sure you don't need to be mad, Johnny. I just hope it’s nothing to be upset about instead of being angry. You’re really kind-hearted, I know, John Ridd, and maybe a little too nice sometimes”—here she was referring to the Snowe girls, and I hung my head—“but what would you think if the people there”—she would never call them “Doones”—“had taken your poor Uncle Reuben, his horse, and Sunday coat, and everything?”
“Why, mother, I should be sorry for them. He would set up a shop by the river-side, and come away with all their money.”
“Why, mom, I'd feel sorry for them. He would open a shop by the river and take all their money.”
“That all you have to say, John! And my dinner done to a very turn, and the supper all fit to go down, and no worry, only to eat and be done with it! And all the new plates come from Watchett, with the Watchett blue upon them, at the risk of the lives of everybody, and the capias from good Aunt Jane for stuffing a curlew with onion before he begins to get cold, and make a woodcock of him, and the way to turn the flap over in the inside of a roasting pig—”
"Is that all you have to say, John? My dinner is perfectly cooked, and the supper is ready to eat, so there’s nothing to worry about, just enjoy it and be done! All the new plates are from Watchett, with that Watchett blue on them, risking everyone's lives, and Aunt Jane's special order for stuffing a curlew with onion before it cools down, and turning it into a woodcock, and how to flip the flap inside a roasting pig—"
“Well, mother dear, I am very sorry. But let us have our dinner. You know we promised not to wait for him after one o'clock; and you only make us hungry. Everything will be spoiled, mother, and what a pity to think of! After that I will go to seek for him in the thick of the fog, like a needle in a hay-band. That is to say, unless you think”—for she looked very grave about it—“unless you really think, mother, that I ought to go without dinner.”
“Well, mom, I'm really sorry. But let's have our dinner. You know we promised not to wait for him after one o'clock, and you're only making us hungry. Everything will be ruined, mom, and what a shame to think about! After that, I'll go look for him in the thick fog, like trying to find a needle in a haystack. That is, unless you think”—she looked very serious about it—“unless you really think, mom, that I should go without dinner.”
“Oh no, John, I never thought that, thank God! Bless Him for my children's appetites; and what is Uncle Ben to them?”
“Oh no, John, I never thought that, thank God! Thank Him for my children's appetites; and what is Uncle Ben to them?”
So we made a very good dinner indeed, though wishing that he could have some of it, and wondering how much to leave for him; and then, as no sound of his horse had been heard, I set out with my gun to look for him.
So we made a really nice dinner, even though we wished he could have some and were trying to figure out how much to save for him; then, since we hadn’t heard any sound from his horse, I grabbed my gun and went out to look for him.
I followed the track on the side of the hill, from the farm-yard, where the sledd-marks are—for we have no wheels upon Exmoor yet, nor ever shall, I suppose; though a dunder-headed man tried it last winter, and broke his axle piteously, and was nigh to break his neck—and after that I went all along on the ridge of the rabbit-cleve, with the brook running thin in the bottom; and then down to the Lynn stream and leaped it, and so up the hill and the moor beyond. The fog hung close all around me then, when I turned the crest of the highland, and the gorse both before and behind me looked like a man crouching down in ambush. But still there was a good cloud of daylight, being scarce three of the clock yet, and when a lead of red deer came across, I could tell them from sheep even now. I was half inclined to shoot at them, for the children did love venison; but they drooped their heads so, and looked so faithful, that it seemed hard measure to do it. If one of them had bolted away, no doubt I had let go at him.
I followed the path on the side of the hill, starting from the farmyard, where the sled tracks are—because we don’t have wheels on Exmoor yet, and I doubt we ever will; although a foolish man attempted it last winter and ended up breaking his axle badly, nearly breaking his neck in the process. After that, I walked along the ridge of the rabbit cleave, with the stream trickling at the bottom; then I jumped across the Lynn stream, climbed up the hill, and made my way to the moor beyond. The fog was thick all around me when I reached the top of the high ground, and the gorse in front and behind looked like someone crouched down, waiting to pounce. But there was still a decent amount of daylight since it was barely three o'clock, and when a group of red deer crossed my path, I could easily tell them apart from sheep. I was tempted to shoot at them because the kids loved venison; but they held their heads low and looked so trusting that it felt wrong to do it. If one of them had darted away, I definitely would have taken the shot.
After that I kept on the track, trudging very stoutly, for nigh upon three miles, and my beard (now beginning to grow at some length) was full of great drops and prickly, whereat I was very proud. I had not so much as a dog with me, and the place was unkind and lonesome, and the rolling clouds very desolate; and now if a wild sheep ran across he was scared at me as an enemy; and I for my part could not tell the meaning of the marks on him. We called all this part Gibbet-moor, not being in our parish; but though there were gibbets enough upon it, most part of the bodies was gone for the value of the chains, they said, and the teaching of young chirurgeons. But of all this I had little fear, being no more a schoolboy now, but a youth well-acquaint with Exmoor, and the wise art of the sign-posts, whereby a man, who barred the road, now opens it up both ways with his finger-bones, so far as rogues allow him. My carbine was loaded and freshly primed, and I knew myself to be even now a match in strength for any two men of the size around our neighbourhood, except in the Glen Doone. “Girt Jan Ridd,” I was called already, and folk grew feared to wrestle with me; though I was tired of hearing about it, and often longed to be smaller. And most of all upon Sundays, when I had to make way up our little church, and the maidens tittered at me.
After that, I stuck to the path, trudging along really well for almost three miles, and my beard (which was starting to get long) was full of big drops and prickly, which I was quite proud of. I didn't have even a dog with me, and the place felt harsh and lonely, with the rolling clouds looking really desolate; if a wild sheep ran across my path, it was scared of me like I was an enemy, and I couldn’t figure out the meaning of the marks on it. We called this part Gibbet Moor, since it wasn’t in our parish; but even though there were plenty of gibbets there, most of the bodies were gone for the sake of the chains, or so they said, and to train young surgeons. But I wasn’t afraid of any of that, as I was no longer a schoolboy but a young man who knew Exmoor well, and the clever art of reading signposts, which let a man who blocked the road now open it both ways with his finger bones, as far as rogues would allow. My carbine was loaded and freshly primed, and I knew I was a match in strength for any two men of the size around our area, except in Glen Doone. They were already calling me "Girt Jan Ridd," and people started to fear wrestling with me; though I was tired of hearing about it and often wished I were smaller. Especially on Sundays, when I had to walk up to our little church, and the young women giggled at me.
The soft white mist came thicker around me, as the evening fell; and the peat ricks here and there, and the furze-hucks of the summer-time, were all out of shape in the twist of it. By-and-by, I began to doubt where I was, or how come there, not having seen a gibbet lately; and then I heard the draught of the wind up a hollow place with rocks to it; and for the first time fear broke out (like cold sweat) upon me. And yet I knew what a fool I was, to fear nothing but a sound! But when I stopped to listen, there was no sound, more than a beating noise, and that was all inside me. Therefore I went on again, making company of myself, and keeping my gun quite ready.
The soft white mist wrapped around me more densely as evening fell, and the peat stacks scattered around and the summer bushes were all distorted in its twisting. Eventually, I started to question where I was or how I got there, not having seen a gallows recently; then I heard the wind blowing through a rocky hollow, and for the first time, fear hit me like a cold sweat. Still, I realized how foolish I was to be afraid of nothing but a sound! But when I paused to listen, there was only a heartbeats noise, and that was all in my head. So, I continued on, keeping myself company and staying ready with my gun.
Now when I came to an unknown place, where a stone was set up endwise, with a faint red cross upon it, and a polish from some conflict, I gathered my courage to stop and think, having sped on the way too hotly. Against that stone I set my gun, trying my spirit to leave it so, but keeping with half a hand for it; and then what to do next was the wonder. As for finding Uncle Ben that was his own business, or at any rate his executor's; first I had to find myself, and plentifully would thank God to find myself at home again, for the sake of all our family.
Now, when I arrived at an unfamiliar place where a stone stood upright, marked with a faint red cross and worn from some struggle, I mustered my courage to pause and think, having rushed along the road too quickly. I leaned my gun against that stone, attempting to let go of it, but still keeping a slight grip; then I wondered what to do next. As for locating Uncle Ben, that was his own concern, or at least his executor's; first, I needed to find myself, and I would be extremely grateful to find my way home again, for the sake of our entire family.
The volumes of the mist came rolling at me (like great logs of wood, pillowed out with sleepiness), and between them there was nothing more than waiting for the next one. Then everything went out of sight, and glad was I of the stone behind me, and view of mine own shoes. Then a distant noise went by me, as of many horses galloping, and in my fright I set my gun and said, “God send something to shoot at.” Yet nothing came, and my gun fell back, without my will to lower it.
The thick mist rolled in around me (like huge logs of wood, heavy with sleepiness), and in between them, all I could do was wait for the next one. Then everything disappeared from view, and I was relieved to feel the stone behind me and see my own shoes. Suddenly, I heard a distant noise, like many horses galloping, and out of fear, I raised my gun and said, “God, let there be something to shoot at.” But nothing emerged, and my gun fell back down, despite my lack of intention to lower it.
But presently, while I was thinking “What a fool I am!” arose as if from below my feet, so that the great stone trembled, that long, lamenting lonesome sound, as of an evil spirit not knowing what to do with it. For the moment I stood like a root, without either hand or foot to help me, and the hair of my head began to crawl, lifting my hat, as a snail lifts his house; and my heart like a shuttle went to and fro. But finding no harm to come of it, neither visible form approaching, I wiped my forehead, and hoped for the best, and resolved to run every step of the way, till I drew our own latch behind me.
But just then, while I was thinking, “What an idiot I am!” a long, mournful sound rose up from below my feet, making the great stone tremble, like the wail of a lost spirit unsure of what to do. For a moment, I was frozen, standing there without the ability to move, and my hair started to crawl, lifting my hat like a snail lifting its shell; my heart raced back and forth. But seeing no danger or anything approaching, I wiped my forehead, hoped for the best, and decided to run every step of the way until I pulled our latch behind me.
Yet here again I was disappointed, for no sooner was I come to the cross-ways by the black pool in the hole, but I heard through the patter of my own feet a rough low sound very close in the fog, as of a hobbled sheep a-coughing. I listened, and feared, and yet listened again, though I wanted not to hear it. For being in haste of the homeward road, and all my heart having heels to it, loath I was to stop in the dusk for the sake of an aged wether. Yet partly my love of all animals, and partly my fear of the farmer's disgrace, compelled me to go to the succour, and the noise was coming nearer. A dry short wheezing sound it was, barred with coughs and want of breath; but thus I made the meaning of it.
Yet here again I was disappointed, for as soon as I reached the crossroads by the dark pool in the hole, I heard through the sound of my own footsteps a rough low noise very close in the fog, like a hobbled sheep coughing. I listened, feeling scared, but I listened again, even though I didn’t want to hear it. Being in a hurry to get home, and with my heart racing, I was reluctant to stop in the dusk for the sake of an old wether. Yet partly because of my love for all animals and partly because of my fear of the farmer's anger, I felt compelled to help, and the noise was getting closer. It was a dry, short wheezing sound, interrupted by coughs and gasps for breath; but this was how I understood it.
“Lord have mercy upon me! O Lord, upon my soul have mercy! An if I cheated Sam Hicks last week, Lord knowest how well he deserved it, and lied in every stocking's mouth—oh Lord, where be I a-going?”
“Lord, have mercy on me! O Lord, have mercy on my soul! And if I cheated Sam Hicks last week, Lord knows how much he deserved it, and lied in every stocking—oh Lord, where am I going?”
These words, with many jogs between them, came to me through the darkness, and then a long groan and a choking. I made towards the sound, as nigh as ever I could guess, and presently was met, point-blank, by the head of a mountain-pony. Upon its back lay a man bound down, with his feet on the neck and his head to the tail, and his arms falling down like stirrups. The wild little nag was scared of its life by the unaccustomed burden, and had been tossing and rolling hard, in desire to get ease of it.
These words, with many pauses between them, came to me through the darkness, followed by a long groan and a choking sound. I moved toward the noise as best as I could guess, and soon I was confronted directly by the head of a mountain pony. On its back lay a man tied up, with his feet resting on the neck and his head near the tail, his arms dangling down like stirrups. The wild little pony was terrified by the strange load and had been bucking and rolling hard, desperately trying to shake it off.
Before the little horse could turn, I caught him, jaded as he was, by his wet and grizzled forelock, and he saw that it was vain to struggle, but strove to bite me none the less, until I smote him upon the nose.
Before the little horse could turn, I caught him, tired as he was, by his wet and scruffy forelock. He realized it was useless to fight, but still tried to bite me all the same, until I hit him on the nose.
“Good and worthy sir,” I said to the man who was riding so roughly; “fear nothing; no harm shall come to thee.”
“Good and worthy sir,” I said to the man who was riding so roughly; “don’t worry; nothing bad will happen to you.”
“Help, good friend, whoever thou art,” he gasped, but could not look at me, because his neck was jerked so; “God hath sent thee, and not to rob me, because it is done already.”
“Help, good friend, whoever you are,” he gasped, but couldn’t look at me because his neck was jerked so; “God has sent you, and not to rob me, because that’s already been done.”
“What, Uncle Ben!” I cried, letting go the horse in amazement, that the richest man in Dulverton—“Uncle Ben here in this plight! What, Mr. Reuben Huckaback!”
“What, Uncle Ben!” I exclaimed, releasing the horse in shock, that the richest man in Dulverton—"Uncle Ben here in this situation! What, Mr. Reuben Huckaback!”
“An honest hosier and draper, serge and longcloth warehouseman”—he groaned from rib to rib—“at the sign of the Gartered Kitten in the loyal town of Dulverton. For God's sake, let me down, good fellow, from this accursed marrow-bone; and a groat of good money will I pay thee, safe in my house to Dulverton; but take notice that the horse is mine, no less than the nag they robbed from me.”
“An honest hosier and draper, serge and longcloth warehouseman”—he groaned from side to side—“at the sign of the Gartered Kitten in the loyal town of Dulverton. For God's sake, let me down, good man, from this cursed marrow-bone; and I’ll pay you a good coin if you safely take me to my house in Dulverton; but keep in mind that the horse is mine, just like the nag they stole from me.”
“What, Uncle Ben, dost thou not know me, thy dutiful nephew John Ridd?”
“What, Uncle Ben, don’t you recognize me, your devoted nephew John Ridd?”
Not to make a long story of it, I cut the thongs that bound him, and set him astride on the little horse; but he was too weak to stay so. Therefore I mounted him on my back, turning the horse into horse-steps, and leading the pony by the cords which I fastened around his nose, set out for Plover's Barrows.
Not to drag it out, I cut the straps that held him down and put him on the little horse, but he was too weak to stay there. So, I carried him on my back, turned the horse into walking mode, and led the pony by the straps I tied around its nose as I headed for Plover's Barrows.
Uncle Ben went fast asleep on my back, being jaded and shaken beyond his strength, for a man of three-score and five; and as soon he felt assured of safety he would talk no more. And to tell the truth he snored so loudly, that I could almost believe that fearful noise in the fog every night came all the way from Dulverton.
Uncle Ben fell fast asleep on my back, worn out and shaken beyond his strength for a man of seventy-five; and as soon as he felt safe, he stopped talking. Honestly, he snored so loudly that I could almost believe that scary noise in the fog every night came all the way from Dulverton.
Now as soon as ever I brought him in, we set him up in the chimney-corner, comfortable and handsome; and it was no little delight to me to get him off my back; for, like his own fortune, Uncle Ben was of a good round figure. He gave his long coat a shake or two, and he stamped about in the kitchen, until he was sure of his whereabouts, and then he fell asleep again until supper should be ready.
Now as soon as I brought him in, we settled him into the cozy chimney corner, looking comfortable and spiffy; and I felt quite relieved to be rid of him for a while because, like his own luck, Uncle Ben was quite a hefty guy. He gave his long coat a couple of shakes and stomped around the kitchen until he got his bearings, then he dozed off again until supper was ready.
“He shall marry Ruth,” he said by-and-by to himself, and not to me; “he shall marry Ruth for this, and have my little savings, soon as they be worth the having. Very little as yet, very little indeed; and ever so much gone to-day along of them rascal robbers.”
“He's going to marry Ruth,” he said to himself, not to me; “he's going to marry Ruth for this reason, and get my little savings as soon as they're worth anything. Very little right now, very little indeed; and so much of it is gone today because of those damn robbers.”
My mother made a dreadful stir, of course, about Uncle Ben being in such a plight as this; so I left him to her care and Annie's, and soon they fed him rarely, while I went out to see to the comfort of the captured pony. And in truth he was worth the catching, and served us very well afterwards, though Uncle Ben was inclined to claim him for his business at Dulverton, where they have carts and that like. “But,” I said, “you shall have him, sir, and welcome, if you will only ride him home as first I found you riding him.” And with that he dropped it.
My mom made a huge fuss about Uncle Ben being in such a tough spot, so I left him in her and Annie's care, and soon they took really good care of him while I went out to make sure the captured pony was comfortable. And honestly, he was worth catching and served us really well later on, even though Uncle Ben tried to claim him for his business in Dulverton, where they deal with carts and stuff. “But,” I said, “you can have him, no problem, if you just ride him home the way I first found you riding him.” And with that, he dropped the argument.
A very strange old man he was, short in his manner, though long of body, glad to do the contrary things to what any one expected of him, and always looking sharp at people, as if he feared to be cheated. This surprised me much at first, because it showed his ignorance of what we farmers are—an upright race, as you may find, scarcely ever cheating indeed, except upon market-day, and even then no more than may be helped by reason of buyers expecting it. Now our simple ways were a puzzle to him, as I told him very often; but he only laughed, and rubbed his mouth with the back of his dry shining hand, and I think he shortly began to languish for want of some one to higgle with. I had a great mind to give him the pony, because he thought himself cheated in that case; only he would conclude that I did it with some view to a legacy.
He was a really strange old man, short in personality but tall in stature, happy to do the opposite of what anyone expected from him, and always watching people closely, like he was afraid of being tricked. This surprised me a lot at first because it showed he didn't understand what we farmers are like—an honest bunch, as you can see, hardly ever cheating unless it's market day, and even then, only as much as necessary because buyers expect it. Our straightforward ways puzzled him, as I often told him; but he just laughed and rubbed his mouth with the back of his dry, shiny hand, and I think he soon started to crave someone to haggle with. I really considered giving him the pony because he thought he got cheated in that situation; but then he'd probably think I was doing it to get something in return later.
Of course, the Doones, and nobody else, had robbed good Uncle Reuben; and then they grew sportive, and took his horse, an especially sober nag, and bound the master upon the wild one, for a little change as they told him. For two or three hours they had fine enjoyment chasing him through the fog, and making much sport of his groanings; and then waxing hungry, they went their way, and left him to opportunity. Now Mr. Huckaback growing able to walk in a few days' time, became thereupon impatient, and could not be brought to understand why he should have been robbed at all.
Of course, it was the Doones, and nobody else, who had robbed good Uncle Reuben; then they started having a bit of fun and took his horse, a particularly calm one, and tied him on a wild one, saying it was just for a little change. For two or three hours, they had a blast chasing him through the fog and laughing at his groans; then, getting hungry, they moved on and left him to his fate. Now, Mr. Huckaback, being able to walk again in a few days, became impatient and just couldn't understand why he had been robbed in the first place.
“I have never deserved it,” he said to himself, not knowing much of Providence, except with a small p to it; “I have never deserved it, and will not stand it in the name of our lord the King, not I!” At other times he would burst forth thus: “Three-score years and five have I lived an honest and laborious life, yet never was I robbed before. And now to be robbed in my old age, to be robbed for the first time now!”
“I’ve never deserved this,” he muttered to himself, not really knowing much about Providence, except maybe in a casual way; “I’ve never deserved this, and I won’t accept it in the name of our lord the King, I won’t!” At other times, he would say, “I’ve lived an honest and hard-working life for seventy-five years, and I’ve never been robbed before. And now to be robbed in my old age, to be robbed for the very first time now!”
Thereupon of course we would tell him how truly thankful he ought to be for never having been robbed before, in spite of living so long in this world, and that he was taking a very ungrateful, not to say ungracious, view, in thus repining, and feeling aggrieved; when anyone else would have knelt and thanked God for enjoying so long an immunity. But say what we would, it was all as one. Uncle Ben stuck fast to it, that he had nothing to thank God for.
Of course, we would tell him how truly grateful he should be for never having been robbed before, especially after living in this world for so long, and that he was being very ungrateful, if not downright rude, by feeling sorry for himself and upset; when anyone else would have knelt and thanked God for such a long time without having to deal with it. But no matter what we said, it made no difference. Uncle Ben was adamant that he had nothing to thank God for.
CHAPTER XIV
A MOTION WHICH ENDS IN A MULL
Instead of minding his New-Year pudding, Master Huckaback carried on so about his mighty grievance, that at last we began to think there must be something in it, after all; especially as he assured us that choice and costly presents for the young people of our household were among the goods divested. But mother told him her children had plenty, and wanted no gold and silver, and little Eliza spoke up and said, “You can give us the pretty things, Uncle Ben, when we come in the summer to see you.”
Instead of focusing on his New Year's pudding, Master Huckaback went on and on about his big complaint, to the point that we started to think there might be some truth to it, especially since he insisted that valuable gifts for the kids in our household were among the things taken away. But Mom told him that her children had enough and didn't need any gold or silver, and little Eliza chimed in and said, “You can give us the nice things, Uncle Ben, when we come to visit you in the summer.”
Our mother reproved Eliza for this, although it was the heel of her own foot; and then to satisfy our uncle, she promised to call Farmer Nicholas Snowe, to be of our council that evening, “And if the young maidens would kindly come, without taking thought to smoothe themselves, why it would be all the merrier, and who knew but what Uncle Huckaback might bless the day of his robbery, etc., etc.—and thorough good honest girls they were, fit helpmates either for shop or farm.” All of which was meant for me; but I stuck to my platter and answered not.
Our mom scolded Eliza for this, even though it was her own fault; and to please our uncle, she promised to ask Farmer Nicholas Snowe to join our meeting that evening. “And if the young women could come without worrying about fixing themselves up, it would be even more fun, and who knows, maybe Uncle Huckaback would be grateful for his lucky day, etc., etc.—and they were all good, honest girls, suitable partners for either a shop or a farm.” This was all directed at me, but I just focused on my plate and stayed silent.
In the evening Farmer Snowe came up, leading his daughters after him, like fillies trimmed for a fair; and Uncle Ben, who had not seen them on the night of his mishap (because word had been sent to stop them), was mightily pleased and very pleasant, according to his town bred ways. The damsels had seen good company, and soon got over their fear of his wealth, and played him a number of merry pranks, which made our mother quite jealous for Annie, who was always shy and diffident. However, when the hot cup was done, and before the mulled wine was ready, we packed all the maidens in the parlour and turned the key upon them; and then we drew near to the kitchen fire to hear Uncle Ben's proposal. Farmer Snowe sat up in the corner, caring little to hear about anything, but smoking slowly, and nodding backward like a sheep-dog dreaming. Mother was in the settle, of course, knitting hard, as usual; and Uncle Ben took to a three-legged stool, as if all but that had been thieved from him. Howsoever, he kept his breath from speech, giving privilege, as was due, to mother.
In the evening, Farmer Snowe arrived, leading his daughters behind him, like show ponies ready for a fair; and Uncle Ben, who hadn’t seen them the night of his accident (because word had been sent to keep them away), was really happy and friendly, in his typical town style. The girls had been around good company and quickly got over their nervousness about his wealth, and they played a bunch of cheerful pranks on him, which made our mother quite envious of Annie, who was always shy and timid. However, once the hot drink was finished, and before the mulled wine was ready, we packed all the girls into the parlor and locked the door on them; then we gathered close to the kitchen fire to hear Uncle Ben's proposal. Farmer Snowe sat in the corner, not really interested in anything, just smoking slowly and nodding off like a sleepy sheepdog. Mother was in her usual spot on the settle, knitting away as always; and Uncle Ben took a three-legged stool, as if everything else had been stolen from him. Nevertheless, he kept quiet and let Mother take the lead in the conversation.
“Master Snowe, you are well assured,” said mother, colouring like the furze as it took the flame and fell over, “that our kinsman here hath received rough harm on his peaceful journey from Dulverton. The times are bad, as we all know well, and there is no sign of bettering them, and if I could see our Lord the King I might say things to move him! nevertheless, I have had so much of my own account to vex for—”
“Master Snowe, you can be sure,” said mother, blushing like the furze when it catches fire and burns, “that our relative here has faced serious trouble on his peaceful journey from Dulverton. Times are tough, as we all know, and there’s no sign that they’ll get any better. If I could just speak to our Lord the King, I’d have things to say that might sway him! Still, I have my own issues to worry about—”
“You are flying out of the subject, Sarah,” said Uncle Ben, seeing tears in her eyes, and tired of that matter.
“You're getting off-topic, Sarah,” Uncle Ben said, noticing tears in her eyes and feeling worn out by the whole situation.
“Zettle the pralimbinaries,” spoke Farmer Snowe, on appeal from us, “virst zettle the pralimbinaries; and then us knows what be drivin' at.”
“Settle the preliminaries,” said Farmer Snowe, in response to us, “first settle the preliminaries; and then we know what we're getting at.”
“Preliminaries be damned, sir,” cried Uncle Ben, losing his temper. “What preliminaries were there when I was robbed; I should like to know? Robbed in this parish as I can prove, to the eternal disgrace of Oare and the scandal of all England. And I hold this parish to answer for it, sir; this parish shall make it good, being a nest of foul thieves as it is; ay, farmers, and yeomen, and all of you. I will beggar every man in this parish, if they be not beggars already, ay, and sell your old church up before your eyes, but what I will have back my tarlatan, time-piece, saddle, and dove-tailed nag.”
“Forget the preliminaries, sir,” shouted Uncle Ben, losing his cool. “What preliminaries were there when I got robbed? I’d like to know! Robbed in this parish, which I can prove, bringing eternal shame to Oare and scandal to all of England. And I hold this parish responsible for it, sir; this parish will make it right, being a den of thieves as it is; yes, farmers, and yeomen, and all of you. I’ll ruin every man in this parish, if they aren’t already broke, and sell your old church right in front of you, but I will get back my tarlatan, timepiece, saddle, and dove-tailed horse.”
Mother looked at me, and I looked at Farmer Snowe, and we all were sorry for Master Huckaback, putting our hands up one to another, that nobody should browbeat him; because we all knew what our parish was, and none the worse for strong language, however rich the man might be. But Uncle Ben took it in a different way. He thought that we all were afraid of him, and that Oare parish was but as Moab or Edom, for him to cast his shoe over.
Mother looked at me, and I looked at Farmer Snowe, and we all felt bad for Master Huckaback, raising our hands in solidarity so that nobody would bully him; because we all knew what our community was like, and strong language didn't change that, no matter how wealthy the man was. But Uncle Ben saw it differently. He believed that we were all intimidated by him, and thought of Oare parish as nothing more than a place for him to dismiss.
“Nephew Jack,” he cried, looking at me when I was thinking what to say, and finding only emptiness, “you are a heavy lout, sir; a bumpkin, a clodhopper; and I shall leave you nothing, unless it be my boots to grease.”
“Nephew Jack,” he shouted, looking at me while I was trying to think of something to say and coming up blank, “you’re a big oaf, a country bumpkin, a klutz; and I won’t leave you anything, except maybe my boots to polish.”
“Well, uncle,” I made answer, “I will grease your boots all the same for that, so long as you be our guest, sir.”
“Well, uncle,” I replied, “I’ll polish your boots regardless, as long as you’re our guest, sir.”
Now, that answer, made without a thought, stood me for two thousand pounds, as you shall see, by-and-by, perhaps.
Now, that answer, given without thinking, cost me two thousand pounds, as you will see, eventually.
“As for the parish,” my mother cried, being too hard set to contain herself, “the parish can defend itself, and we may leave it to do so. But our Jack is not like that, sir; and I will not have him spoken of. Leave him indeed! Who wants you to do more than to leave him alone, sir; as he might have done you the other night; and as no one else would have dared to do. And after that, to think so meanly of me, and of my children!”
“As for the parish,” my mother shouted, unable to hold back, “the parish can take care of itself, and we can trust it to do so. But our Jack isn’t like that, sir; and I won’t let him be talked about. Leave him alone! Who wants you to do anything more than just leave him alone, sir; like he could have the other night; and like no one else would have had the guts to do. And after that, to think so poorly of me and my kids!”
“Hoity, toity, Sarah! Your children, I suppose, are the same as other people's.”
“Haughty, Sarah! I assume your kids are just like everyone else's.”
“That they are not; and never will be; and you ought to know it, Uncle Reuben, if any one in the world ought. Other people's children!”
“That they aren’t; and they never will be; and you should know it, Uncle Reuben, if anyone in the world should. Other people’s kids!”
“Well, well!” Uncle Reuben answered, “I know very little of children; except my little Ruth, and she is nothing wonderful.”
“Well, well!” Uncle Reuben replied, “I don’t know much about kids; except for my little Ruth, and she’s nothing special.”
“I never said that my children were wonderful Uncle Ben; nor did I ever think it. But as for being good—”
“I never said that my kids were amazing, Uncle Ben; nor did I ever think that. But when it comes to being good—”
Here mother fetched out her handkerchief, being overcome by our goodness; and I told her, with my hand to my mouth, not to notice him; though he might be worth ten thousand times ten thousand pounds.
Here, mother pulled out her handkerchief, overwhelmed by our kindness; and I told her, with my hand over my mouth, not to pay attention to him, even though he might be worth a hundred million pounds.
But Farmer Snowe came forward now, for he had some sense sometimes; and he thought it was high time for him to say a word for the parish.
But Farmer Snowe stepped up now, because he had some good sense every now and then; and he thought it was about time for him to say something for the parish.
“Maister Huckaback,” he began, pointing with his pipe at him, the end that was done in sealing-wax, “tooching of what you was plaized to zay 'bout this here parish, and no oother, mind me no oother parish but thees, I use the vreedom, zur, for to tell 'e, that thee be a laiar.”
“Master Huckaback,” he started, pointing his pipe at him, the end covered in sealing wax, “regarding what you just said about this parish, and no other, keep in mind no other parish but this one, I’m taking the liberty, sir, to tell you that you're a liar.”
Then Farmer Nicholas Snowe folded his arms across with the bowl of his pipe on the upper one, and gave me a nod, and then one to mother, to testify how he had done his duty, and recked not what might come of it. However, he got little thanks from us; for the parish was nothing at all to my mother, compared with her children's interests; and I thought it hard that an uncle of mine, and an old man too, should be called a liar, by a visitor at our fireplace. For we, in our rude part of the world, counted it one of the worst disgraces that could befall a man, to receive the lie from any one. But Uncle Ben, as it seems was used to it, in the way of trade, just as people of fashion are, by a style of courtesy.
Then Farmer Nicholas Snowe crossed his arms, resting the bowl of his pipe on the upper one, and nodded to me, then to my mother, to show that he had done his duty and didn’t care what the consequences might be. However, we didn’t thank him much because the parish meant nothing to my mother compared to her children's well-being. I thought it was unfair that my uncle, who was also an old man, should be called a liar by a visitor at our fireplace. In our rough part of the world, we considered it one of the worst shames for a man to be insulted in that way. But Uncle Ben seemed to be used to such things in trade, much like fashionable people are with their style of courtesy.
Therefore the old man only looked with pity at Farmer Nicholas; and with a sort of sorrow too, reflecting how much he might have made in a bargain with such a customer, so ignorant and hot-headed.
Therefore, the old man only looked at Farmer Nicholas with pity, and also with a kind of sadness, thinking about how much he could have gained in a deal with such an ignorant and hot-headed customer.
“Now let us bandy words no more,” said mother, very sweetly; “nothing is easier than sharp words, except to wish them unspoken; as I do many and many's the time, when I think of my good husband. But now let us hear from Uncle Reuben what he would have us do to remove this disgrace from amongst us, and to satisfy him of his goods.”
“Now let’s not go back and forth anymore,” said Mom, very kindly; “sharp words are easy to throw around, but wishing they hadn’t been said is even harder; I find myself doing that a lot when I think about my good husband. But now let’s hear from Uncle Reuben what he wants us to do to clear this disgrace from our lives and to settle things with him about his belongings.”
“I care not for my goods, woman,” Master Huckaback answered grandly; “although they were of large value, about them I say nothing. But what I demand is this, the punishment of those scoundrels.”
“I don’t care about my things, woman,” Master Huckaback replied grandly; “even if they were worth a lot, I won’t say anything about them. But what I demand is this: the punishment of those crooks.”
“Zober, man, zober!” cried Farmer Nicholas; “we be too naigh Badgery 'ood, to spake like that of they Dooneses.”
“Listen, man, listen!” shouted Farmer Nicholas. “We're way too close to Badgery Wood to talk like that about those Doones.”
“Pack of cowards!” said Uncle Reuben, looking first at the door, however; “much chance I see of getting redress from the valour of this Exmoor! And you, Master Snowe, the very man whom I looked to to raise the country, and take the lead as churchwarden—why, my youngest shopman would match his ell against you. Pack of cowards,” cried Uncle Ben, rising and shaking his lappets at us; “don't pretend to answer me. Shake you all off, that I do—nothing more to do with you!”
“Bunch of cowards!” Uncle Reuben exclaimed, glancing at the door first; “I see no chance of getting any justice from the courage of this Exmoor! And you, Master Snowe, the very person I expected to rally the community and take the lead as churchwarden—my youngest shop assistant could stand up to you. Bunch of cowards,” Uncle Ben yelled, standing up and shaking his cuffs at us; “don’t even try to respond. I’m done with all of you—nothing more to do with you!”
We knew it useless to answer him, and conveyed our knowledge to one another, without anything to vex him. However, when the mulled wine was come, and a good deal of it gone (the season being Epiphany), Uncle Reuben began to think that he might have been too hard with us. Moreover, he was beginning now to respect Farmer Nicholas bravely, because of the way he had smoked his pipes, and the little noise made over them. And Lizzie and Annie were doing their best—for now we had let the girls out—to wake more lightsome uproar; also young Faith Snowe was toward to keep the old men's cups aflow, and hansel them to their liking.
We knew it was pointless to answer him, so we shared our thoughts with each other without bothering him. However, when the mulled wine was served and we had consumed quite a bit of it (since it was the season of Epiphany), Uncle Reuben started to feel he might have been too harsh with us. Additionally, he was beginning to genuinely admire Farmer Nicholas for the way he smoked his pipes with little fuss. Lizzie and Annie were trying their best—since we had finally let the girls join in—to create a cheerful commotion; meanwhile, young Faith Snowe was making sure the old men’s cups were full and to their liking.
So at the close of our entertainment, when the girls were gone away to fetch and light their lanthorns (over which they made rare noise, blowing each the other's out for counting of the sparks to come), Master Huckaback stood up, without much aid from the crock-saw, and looked at mother and all of us.
So at the end of our show, when the girls had gone to get and light their lanterns (making quite a racket as they blew each other's out to count the sparks that followed), Master Huckaback stood up, without much help from the crock-saw, and looked at my mother and all of us.
“Let no one leave this place,” said he, “until I have said what I want to say; for saving of ill-will among us; and growth of cheer and comfort. May be I have carried things too far, even to the bounds of churlishness, and beyond the bounds of good manners. I will not unsay one word I have said, having never yet done so in my life; but I would alter the manner of it, and set it forth in this light. If you folks upon Exmoor here are loath and wary at fighting, yet you are brave at better stuff; the best and kindest I ever knew, in the matter of feeding.”
“Don’t let anyone leave this place,” he said, “until I’ve said what I need to say; for the sake of avoiding bad feelings among us and promoting happiness and comfort. Maybe I have gone too far, even crossing the line into rudeness and beyond proper decorum. I won’t take back anything I’ve said, as I’ve never done that in my life; but I’d like to change how I expressed it and present it in a different light. If you people here in Exmoor are hesitant and cautious about fighting, you’re still brave in other ways; the best and kindest I’ve ever known when it comes to sharing food.”
Here he sat down with tears in his eyes, and called for a little mulled bastard. All the maids, who were now come back, raced to get it for him, but Annie of course was foremost. And herein ended the expedition, a perilous and a great one, against the Doones of Bagworthy; an enterprise over which we had all talked plainly more than was good for us. For my part, I slept well that night, feeling myself at home again, now that the fighting was put aside, and the fear of it turned to the comfort of talking what we would have done.
Here he sat down with tears in his eyes and asked for a little mulled wine. All the maids, who had just come back, rushed to get it for him, but Annie was, of course, the first. And this was the end of the expedition, a dangerous and significant one, against the Doones of Bagworthy; an endeavor we had talked about more than was good for us. As for me, I slept well that night, feeling at home again now that the fighting was over and the fear of it had turned into the comfort of discussing what we would have done.
CHAPTER XV
QUO WARRANTO?
On the following day Master Huckaback, with some show of mystery, demanded from my mother an escort into a dangerous part of the world, to which his business compelled him. My mother made answer to this that he was kindly welcome to take our John Fry with him; at which the good clothier laughed, and said that John was nothing like big enough, but another John must serve his turn, not only for his size, but because if he were carried away, no stone would be left unturned upon Exmoor, until he should be brought back again. Hereupon my mother grew very pale, and found fifty reasons against my going, each of them weightier than the true one, as Eliza (who was jealous of me) managed to whisper to Annie. On the other hand, I was quite resolved (directly the thing was mentioned) to see Uncle Reuben through with it; and it added much to my self-esteem to be the guard of so rich a man. Therefore I soon persuaded mother, with her head upon my breast, to let me go and trust in God; and after that I was greatly vexed to find that this dangerous enterprise was nothing more than a visit to the Baron de Whichehalse, to lay an information, and sue a warrant against the Doones, and a posse to execute it.
The next day, Master Huckaback, acting a bit mysterious, asked my mother for an escort into a dangerous part of the world, due to his business. My mother replied that he was more than welcome to take our John Fry with him; at which the good clothier laughed and said that John wasn’t nearly big enough, and another John would be needed, not just for his size, but because if anything happened to him, there would be no rest until he was brought back from Exmoor. Upon hearing this, my mother turned pale and came up with a hundred excuses for why I shouldn’t go, each one more convincing than the real reason, as Eliza (who was jealous of me) whispered to Annie. However, I was determined (as soon as it was mentioned) to see Uncle Reuben through with this; it boosted my confidence to be the protector of such a wealthy man. So, I quickly convinced my mother, with her head on my chest, to let me go and trust in God; and afterward, I was quite frustrated to discover that this dangerous venture was nothing more than a visit to the Baron de Whichehalse to provide information and file a warrant against the Doones, along with a group to carry it out.
Stupid as I always have been, and must ever be no doubt, I could well have told Uncle Reuben that his journey was no wiser than that of the men of Gotham; that he never would get from Hugh de Whichehalse a warrant against the Doones; moreover, that if he did get one, his own wig would be singed with it. But for divers reasons I held my peace, partly from youth and modesty, partly from desire to see whatever please God I should see, and partly from other causes.
As foolish as I've always been, and probably always will be, I could have easily told Uncle Reuben that his trip was just as pointless as that of the men of Gotham; that he'd never get a warrant from Hugh de Whichehalse against the Doones; and even if he did, it would only end up causing him trouble. But for various reasons, I kept quiet—partly because I was young and modest, partly because I wanted to experience whatever it was that God intended for me to see, and partly for other reasons.
We rode by way of Brendon town, Illford Bridge, and Babbrook, to avoid the great hill above Lynmouth; and the day being fine and clear again, I laughed in my sleeve at Uncle Reuben for all his fine precautions. When we arrived at Ley Manor, we were shown very civilly into the hall, and refreshed with good ale and collared head, and the back of a Christmas pudding. I had never been under so fine a roof (unless it were of a church) before; and it pleased me greatly to be so kindly entreated by high-born folk. But Uncle Reuben was vexed a little at being set down side by side with a man in a very small way of trade, who was come upon some business there, and who made bold to drink his health after finishing their horns of ale.
We traveled through Brendon town, Illford Bridge, and Babbrook to avoid the steep hill over Lynmouth. The day was nice and clear again, and I couldn't help but chuckle to myself about Uncle Reuben and all his precautions. When we got to Ley Manor, they welcomed us warmly in the hall and treated us to good ale, some collared head, and the remnants of a Christmas pudding. I had never been under such a fine roof (unless it was a church) before, and it really pleased me to be treated so kindly by people of high status. However, Uncle Reuben was a bit annoyed to be sitting next to a man who was just a small-time trader, there for some business, and who took the liberty of toasting to his health after finishing their mugs of ale.
“Sir,” said Uncle Ben, looking at him, “my health would fare much better, if you would pay me three pounds and twelve shillings, which you have owed me these five years back; and now we are met at the Justice's, the opportunity is good, sir.”
“Sir,” said Uncle Ben, looking at him, “my health would be much better if you paid me three pounds and twelve shillings that you’ve owed me for the last five years; now that we’re here at the Justice's, it’s a good opportunity, sir.”
After that, we were called to the Justice-room, where the Baron himself was sitting with Colonel Harding, another Justiciary of the King's peace, to help him. I had seen the Baron de Whichehalse before, and was not at all afraid of him, having been at school with his son as he knew, and it made him very kind to me. And indeed he was kind to everybody, and all our people spoke well of him; and so much the more because we knew that the house was in decadence. For the first De Whichehalse had come from Holland, where he had been a great nobleman, some hundred and fifty years agone. Being persecuted for his religion, when the Spanish power was everything, he fled to England with all he could save, and bought large estates in Devonshire. Since then his descendants had intermarried with ancient county families, Cottwells, and Marwoods, and Walronds, and Welses of Pylton, and Chichesters of Hall; and several of the ladies brought them large increase of property. And so about fifty years before the time of which I am writing, there were few names in the West of England thought more of than De Whichehalse. But now they had lost a great deal of land, and therefore of that which goes with land, as surely as fame belongs to earth—I mean big reputation. How they had lost it, none could tell; except that as the first descendants had a manner of amassing, so the later ones were gifted with a power of scattering. Whether this came of good Devonshire blood opening the sluice of Low Country veins, is beyond both my province and my power to inquire. Anyhow, all people loved this last strain of De Whichehalse far more than the name had been liked a hundred years agone.
After that, we were called to the Justice-room, where the Baron himself was sitting with Colonel Harding, another justice of the peace, to assist him. I had seen the Baron de Whichehalse before and wasn't afraid of him at all, having gone to school with his son, which made him very nice to me. In fact, he was kind to everyone, and all our people spoke highly of him; especially since we knew the family was in decline. The first De Whichehalse had come from Holland, where he had been a significant nobleman over a hundred and fifty years ago. Persecuted for his religion when Spanish power was dominant, he fled to England with whatever he could salvage and bought large estates in Devonshire. Since then, his descendants had intermarried with old county families, like the Cottwells, Marwoods, Walronds, Welses of Pylton, and Chichesters of Hall; several of the women brought them substantial additional property. About fifty years before the time I’m writing about, there were few names in the West of England that were held in higher regard than De Whichehalse. But now they had lost a lot of land, and therefore that which comes with land, just as fame is tied to the earth—I mean a high reputation. How they lost it, no one could say; except that while the first descendants had a knack for accumulating wealth, the later ones seemed to have a talent for squandering it. Whether this was because of good Devonshire blood mixing with Low Country traits is beyond both my ability and responsibility to investigate. In any case, everyone adored this latest branch of De Whichehalse far more than the name had been appreciated a hundred years ago.
Hugh de Whichehalse, a white-haired man, of very noble presence, with friendly blue eyes and a sweet smooth forehead, and aquiline nose quite beautiful (as you might expect in a lady of birth), and thin lips curving delicately, this gentleman rose as we entered the room; while Colonel Harding turned on his chair, and struck one spur against the other. I am sure that, without knowing aught of either, we must have reverenced more of the two the one who showed respect to us. And yet nine gentleman out of ten make this dull mistake when dealing with the class below them!
Hugh de Whichehalse, a gray-haired man with a noble presence, had friendly blue eyes, a smooth forehead, and a beautifully shaped aquiline nose (like you'd expect from someone of high birth), along with thin lips that curved delicately. This gentleman stood up as we entered the room, while Colonel Harding turned in his chair and clinked his spurs together. I'm sure that without knowing anything about either of them, we respected the one who showed us respect even more. Yet, nine out of ten gentlemen make this boring mistake when interacting with those they consider below them!
Uncle Reuben made his very best scrape, and then walked up to the table, trying to look as if he did not know himself to be wealthier than both the gentlemen put together. Of course he was no stranger to them, any more than I was; and, as it proved afterwards, Colonel Harding owed him a lump of money, upon very good security. Of him Uncle Reuben took no notice, but addressed himself to De Whichehalse.
Uncle Reuben made his best effort and then walked up to the table, trying to act like he wasn’t aware that he was richer than both gentlemen combined. He wasn’t a stranger to them, just like I wasn’t; and as it turned out later, Colonel Harding owed him a substantial amount of money, backed by solid security. Uncle Reuben ignored him and spoke directly to De Whichehalse.
The Baron smiled very gently, so soon as he learned the cause of this visit, and then he replied quite reasonably.
The Baron smiled kindly as soon as he found out the reason for the visit, and then he responded fairly.
“A warrant against the Doones, Master Huckaback. Which of the Doones, so please you; and the Christian names, what be they?”
“A warrant against the Doones, Master Huckaback. Which of the Doones, if you please; and what are their first names?”
“My lord, I am not their godfather; and most like they never had any. But we all know old Sir Ensor's name, so that may be no obstacle.”
“My lord, I’m not their godfather; and they probably never had one. But we all know old Sir Ensor's name, so that shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Sir Ensor Doone and his sons—so be it. How many sons, Master Huckaback, and what is the name of each one?”
“Sir Ensor Doone and his sons—fair enough. How many sons does he have, Master Huckaback, and what are their names?”
“How can I tell you, my lord, even if I had known them all as well as my own shop-boys? Nevertheless there were seven of them, and that should be no obstacle.”
“How can I tell you, my lord, even if I had known them all as well as my own shop boys? Still, there were seven of them, and that shouldn’t be a problem.”
“A warrant against Sir Ensor Doone, and seven sons of Sir Ensor Doone, Christian names unknown, and doubted if they have any. So far so good Master Huckaback. I have it all down in writing. Sir Ensor himself was there, of course, as you have given in evidence—”
“A warrant for Sir Ensor Doone and his seven sons, whose first names are unknown, and some question if they even have any. So far, so good, Master Huckaback. I've written everything down. Sir Ensor himself was there, of course, as you've testified—”
“No, no, my lord, I never said that: I never said—”
“No, no, my lord, I never said that: I never said—”
“If he can prove that he was not there, you may be indicted for perjury. But as for those seven sons of his, of course you can swear that they were his sons and not his nephews, or grandchildren, or even no Doones at all?”
“If he can prove he wasn’t there, you could be charged with perjury. But about those seven sons of his, are you sure you can swear they are his sons and not his nephews, or grandchildren, or even not Doones at all?”
“My lord, I can swear that they were Doones. Moreover, I can pay for any mistake I make. Therein need be no obstacle.”
“My lord, I promise you they were Doones. Plus, I can cover any mistake I make. There’s no reason for that to be a problem.”
“Oh, yes, he can pay; he can pay well enough,” said Colonel Harding shortly.
“Oh, yes, he can pay; he can pay just fine,” said Colonel Harding shortly.
“I am heartily glad to hear it,” replied the Baron pleasantly; “for it proves after all that this robbery (if robbery there has been) was not so very ruinous. Sometimes people think they are robbed, and then it is very sweet afterwards to find that they have not been so; for it adds to their joy in their property. Now, are you quite convinced, good sir, that these people (if there were any) stole, or took, or even borrowed anything at all from you?”
“I’m really glad to hear that,” replied the Baron pleasantly; “because it shows that this robbery (if there was one) wasn’t as devastating as it seemed. Sometimes people believe they’ve been robbed, and it’s a relief to later find out that they weren’t; it only increases their joy in what they own. Now, are you completely convinced, good sir, that these people (if there were any) actually stole, took, or even borrowed anything from you at all?”
“My lord, do you think that I was drunk?”
“My lord, do you think I was drunk?”
“Not for a moment, Master Huckaback. Although excuse might be made for you at this time of the year. But how did you know that your visitors were of this particular family?”
“Not for a second, Master Huckaback. Although there might be some excuse for you at this time of year. But how did you know that your visitors belonged to this particular family?”
“Because it could be nobody else. Because, in spite of the fog—”
“Because it could only be them. Because, despite the fog—”
“Fog!” cried Colonel Harding sharply.
“Fog!” shouted Colonel Harding sharply.
“Fog!” said the Baron, with emphasis. “Ah, that explains the whole affair. To be sure, now I remember, the weather has been too thick for a man to see the head of his own horse. The Doones (if still there be any Doones) could never have come abroad; that is as sure as simony. Master Huckaback, for your good sake, I am heartily glad that this charge has miscarried. I thoroughly understand it now. The fog explains the whole of it.”
“Fog!” said the Baron, emphasizing his point. “Ah, that clears everything up. Of course, now I remember, the weather has been so thick that a person couldn’t even see the head of their own horse. The Doones (if there are still any Doones around) could never have come out; that’s as certain as anything. Master Huckaback, for your sake, I’m really glad this accusation didn’t work out. I understand everything now. The fog explains it all.”
“Go back, my good fellow,” said Colonel Harding; “and if the day is clear enough, you will find all your things where you left them. I know, from my own experience, what it is to be caught in an Exmoor fog.”
“Go back, my good man,” said Colonel Harding; “and if the day is clear enough, you’ll find all your stuff where you left it. I know, from my own experience, what it’s like to get caught in an Exmoor fog.”
Uncle Reuben, by this time, was so put out, that he hardly knew what he was saying.
Uncle Reuben was so upset by this point that he barely knew what he was saying.
“My lord, Sir Colonel, is this your justice! If I go to London myself for it, the King shall know how his commission—how a man may be robbed, and the justices prove that he ought to be hanged at back of it; that in his good shire of Somerset—”
“My lord, Sir Colonel, is this your idea of justice? If I go to London myself for this, the King will know how his commission works—how a person can be robbed, and the justices claim that he deserves to be hanged for it; that in his beloved county of Somerset—”
“Your pardon a moment, good sir,” De Whichehalse interrupted him; “but I was about (having heard your case) to mention what need be an obstacle, and, I fear, would prove a fatal one, even if satisfactory proof were afforded of a felony. The mal-feasance (if any) was laid in Somerset; but we, two humble servants of His Majesty, are in commission of his peace for the county of Devon only, and therefore could never deal with it.”
"Excuse me for a moment, good sir,” De Whichehalse interrupted him; “but I was just about to mention something that could be a problem, and I’m afraid it could be a serious one, even if there was solid proof of a crime. The wrongdoing (if there was any) occurred in Somerset; however, we, two humble servants of His Majesty, are only authorized to maintain peace in the county of Devon, so we couldn’t handle it."
“And why, in the name of God,” cried Uncle Reuben now carried at last fairly beyond himself, “why could you not say as much at first, and save me all this waste of time and worry of my temper? Gentlemen, you are all in league; all of you stick together. You think it fair sport for an honest trader, who makes no shams as you do, to be robbed and wellnigh murdered, so long as they who did it won the high birthright of felony. If a poor sheep stealer, to save his children from dying of starvation, had dared to look at a two-month lamb, he would swing on the Manor gallows, and all of you cry 'Good riddance!' But now, because good birth and bad manners—” Here poor Uncle Ben, not being so strong as before the Doones had played with him, began to foam at the mouth a little, and his tongue went into the hollow where his short grey whiskers were.
“And why, for the love of God,” Uncle Reuben shouted, now completely beside himself, “why couldn't you have said all this from the start and saved me all this time and the hassle of my temper? Gentlemen, you’re all in this together; you all cover for each other. You think it’s fair game for an honest trader, who doesn’t resort to your tricks, to be robbed and nearly killed, just because those who committed the crime come from good families. If a poor sheep stealer, trying to keep his kids from starving, dared to look at a two-month-old lamb, he would hang on the Manor gallows, and all of you would cheer, 'Good riddance!' But now, because of good breeding and bad behavior—” Here poor Uncle Ben, who wasn’t as strong as he used to be before the Doones had messed with him, started to foam at the mouth a bit, and his tongue slipped into the space where his short grey whiskers used to be.
I forget how we came out of it, only I was greatly shocked at bearding of the gentry so, and mother scarce could see her way, when I told her all about it. “Depend upon it you were wrong, John,” was all I could get out of her; though what had I done but listen, and touch my forelock, when called upon. “John, you may take my word for it, you have not done as you should have done. Your father would have been shocked to think of going to Baron de Whichehalse, and in his own house insulting him! And yet it was very brave of you John. Just like you, all over. And (as none of the men are here, dear John) I am proud of you for doing it.”
I can’t remember how we got out of that situation, but I was really shocked at confronting the gentry like that, and my mother could hardly process it when I explained everything to her. “You were definitely wrong, John,” was all I could get from her; but what had I done except listen and tip my hat when I was addressed? “John, believe me, you didn’t handle it the way you should have. Your father would have been appalled at the thought of going to Baron de Whichehalse’s home and insulting him there! But still, it was very brave of you, John. That’s just like you. And (since none of the men are here, dear John) I’m proud of you for doing it.”
All throughout the homeward road, Uncle Ben had been very silent, feeling much displeased with himself and still more so with other people. But before he went to bed that night, he just said to me, “Nephew Jack, you have not behaved so badly as the rest to me. And because you have no gift of talking, I think that I may trust you. Now, mark my words, this villain job shall not have ending here. I have another card to play.”
All the way home, Uncle Ben was really quiet, feeling frustrated with himself and even more with everyone else. But before he went to bed that night, he said to me, “Nephew Jack, you haven’t treated me as badly as the others have. And since you’re not much of a talker, I think I can trust you. Now, remember what I say, this nasty business isn’t over yet. I have another move to make.”
“You mean, sir, I suppose, that you will go to the justices of this shire, Squire Maunder, or Sir Richard Blewitt, or—”
“You mean, sir, I guess you’re going to the local justices, Squire Maunder, or Sir Richard Blewitt, or—”
“Oaf, I mean nothing of the sort; they would only make a laughing-stock, as those Devonshire people did, of me. No, I will go to the King himself, or a man who is bigger than the King, and to whom I have ready access. I will not tell thee his name at present, only if thou art brought before him, never wilt thou forget it.” That was true enough, by the bye, as I discovered afterwards, for the man he meant was Judge Jeffreys.
“Oaf, I don’t mean anything like that; they would only turn me into a joke, like those Devonshire folks did. No, I’ll go straight to the King himself, or to someone even more powerful, someone I can easily reach. I won’t tell you his name right now, but if you ever meet him, you’ll never forget it.” That was true enough, by the way, as I found out later, because the man he was talking about was Judge Jeffreys.
“And when are you likely to see him, sir?”
“And when are you going to see him, sir?”
“Maybe in the spring, maybe not until summer, for I cannot go to London on purpose, but when my business takes me there. Only remember my words, Jack, and when you see the man I mean, look straight at him, and tell no lie. He will make some of your zany squires shake in their shoes, I reckon. Now, I have been in this lonely hole far longer than I intended, by reason of this outrage; yet I will stay here one day more upon a certain condition.”
“Maybe in the spring, maybe not until summer, because I can't just go to London for no reason; I'll only go when my work requires it. Just remember what I said, Jack, and when you see the guy I'm talking about, look him straight in the eye and don't lie. He’ll make some of your goofy squires tremble, I bet. I've been stuck in this lonely place way longer than I planned because of this mess; still, I’ll stay one more day, but only on one condition.”
“Upon what condition, Uncle Ben? I grieve that you find it so lonely. We will have Farmer Nicholas up again, and the singers, and—”
“On what condition, Uncle Ben? I’m sorry to hear that you’re feeling so lonely. We’ll invite Farmer Nicholas over again, and the singers, and—”
“The fashionable milkmaids. I thank you, let me be. The wenches are too loud for me. Your Nanny is enough. Nanny is a good child, and she shall come and visit me.” Uncle Reuben would always call her “Nanny”; he said that “Annie” was too fine and Frenchified for us. “But my condition is this, Jack—that you shall guide me to-morrow, without a word to any one, to a place where I may well descry the dwelling of these scoundrel Doones, and learn the best way to get at them, when the time shall come. Can you do this for me? I will pay you well, boy.”
“The stylish milkmaids. I appreciate it, but leave me be. The girls are too loud for me. Your Nanny is enough. Nanny is a good kid, and she’ll come and visit me.” Uncle Reuben always called her “Nanny”; he said that “Annie” sounded too fancy and French for us. “But here’s the deal, Jack—that you’ll take me tomorrow, without telling anyone, to a spot where I can clearly see the home of those scoundrel Doones, and figure out the best way to approach them when the time comes. Can you do this for me? I’ll pay you well, kid.”
I promised very readily to do my best to serve him, but, of course, would take no money for it, not being so poor as that came to. Accordingly, on the day following, I managed to set the men at work on the other side of the farm, especially that inquisitive and busybody John Fry, who would pry out almost anything for the pleasure of telling his wife; and then, with Uncle Reuben mounted on my ancient Peggy, I made foot for the westward, directly after breakfast. Uncle Ben refused to go unless I would take a loaded gun, and indeed it was always wise to do so in those days of turbulence; and none the less because of late more than usual of our sheep had left their skins behind them. This, as I need hardly say, was not to be charged to the appetite of the Doones, for they always said that they were not butchers (although upon that subject might well be two opinions); and their practice was to make the shepherds kill and skin, and quarter for them, and sometimes carry to the Doone-gate the prime among the fatlings, for fear of any bruising, which spoils the look at table. But the worst of it was that ignorant folk, unaware of their fastidiousness, scored to them the sheep they lost by lower-born marauders, and so were afraid to speak of it: and the issue of this error was that a farmer, with five or six hundred sheep, could never command, on his wedding-day, a prime saddle of mutton for dinner.
I quickly promised to do my best to help him, but of course, I wouldn’t take any money for it, since I wasn't that poor. So, the next day, I got the men to work on the other side of the farm, especially that nosy busybody John Fry, who would dig up almost any gossip just for the fun of telling his wife. Then, with Uncle Reuben riding my old Peggy, I set off westward right after breakfast. Uncle Ben refused to go unless I took a loaded gun, and it was always smart to do so back in those turbulent times; especially since lately, more than usual, our sheep had disappeared. This, I should mention, couldn't be blamed on the Doones, as they always claimed they weren’t butchers (though opinions on that could vary); their method was to make the shepherds do the killing, skinning, and quartering for them. Sometimes, they would even send someone to the Doone-gate with the best of the fatlings, to avoid any bruising that could ruin the presentation at the table. The worst part was that uninformed people, not realizing the Doones' picky nature, attributed their lost sheep to lower-class thieves, and so they were too scared to mention it. As a result of this misunderstanding, a farmer with five or six hundred sheep could never have a prime saddle of mutton for dinner on his wedding day.
To return now to my Uncle Ben—and indeed he would not let me go more than three land-yards from him—there was very little said between us along the lane and across the hill, although the day was pleasant. I could see that he was half amiss with his mind about the business, and not so full of security as an elderly man should keep himself. Therefore, out I spake, and said,—
To get back to my Uncle Ben—and he really wouldn’t let me go more than three yards away from him—there wasn’t much conversation between us as we walked down the lane and across the hill, even though it was a nice day. I could tell he wasn’t quite right in his head about things, and wasn’t as confident as an older man should be. So, I spoke up and said,—
“Uncle Reuben, have no fear. I know every inch of the ground, sir; and there is no danger nigh us.”
“Uncle Reuben, don’t worry. I know every bit of this land, sir; and there's no danger near us.”
“Fear, boy! Who ever thought of fear? 'Tis the last thing would come across me. Pretty things those primroses.”
“Fear, kid! Who even thinks about fear? It's the last thing that would cross my mind. Those primroses are beautiful.”
At once I thought of Lorna Doone, the little maid of six years back, and how my fancy went with her. Could Lorna ever think of me? Was I not a lout gone by, only fit for loach-sticking? Had I ever seen a face fit to think of near her? The sudden flash, the quickness, the bright desire to know one's heart, and not withhold her own from it, the soft withdrawal of rich eyes, the longing to love somebody, anybody, anything, not imbrued with wickedness—
Immediately, I thought of Lorna Doone, the young girl from six years ago, and how my imagination was captured by her. Could Lorna ever think of me? Was I just a clumsy fool, only good for catching minnows? Had I ever seen a face worthy of being near hers? The sudden spark, the urgency, the intense desire to understand one's feelings while also sharing her own, the gentle retreat of her beautiful eyes, the yearning to love someone, anyone, anything that wasn't tainted by evil—
My uncle interrupted me, misliking so much silence now, with the naked woods falling over us. For we were come to Bagworthy forest, the blackest and the loneliest place of all that keep the sun out. Even now, in winter-time, with most of the wood unriddled, and the rest of it pinched brown, it hung around us like a cloak containing little comfort. I kept quite close to Peggy's head, and Peggy kept quite close to me, and pricked her ears at everything. However, we saw nothing there, except a few old owls and hawks, and a magpie sitting all alone, until we came to the bank of the hill, where the pony could not climb it. Uncle Ben was very loath to get off, because the pony seemed company, and he thought he could gallop away on her, if the worst came to the worst, but I persuaded him that now he must go to the end of it. Therefore he made Peggy fast, in a place where we could find her, and speaking cheerfully as if there was nothing to be afraid of, he took his staff, and I my gun, to climb the thick ascent.
My uncle interrupted me, clearly uncomfortable with the heavy silence around us, surrounded by the bare woods. We had arrived at Bagworthy forest, the darkest and loneliest place that keeps out the sun. Even now, in winter, with most of the trees bare and the rest a dull brown, it wrapped around us like a cloak that offered little comfort. I stayed close to Peggy's head, and Peggy stayed close to me, her ears twitching at every sound. However, we didn’t see much around us, just a few old owls and hawks, and a solitary magpie, until we reached the hillside where the pony couldn't climb. Uncle Ben was really reluctant to get off, since he felt the pony provided company and thought he might be able to gallop away on her if things got bad. But I convinced him that he needed to go all the way. So, he tied Peggy up in a spot where we could find her, and speaking cheerfully as if there was nothing to fear, he took his staff, and I took my gun, to tackle the steep climb.
There was now no path of any kind; which added to our courage all it lessened of our comfort, because it proved that the robbers were not in the habit of passing there. And we knew that we could not go astray, so long as we breasted the hill before us; inasmuch as it formed the rampart, or side-fence of Glen Doone. But in truth I used the right word there for the manner of our ascent, for the ground came forth so steep against us, and withal so woody, that to make any way we must throw ourselves forward, and labour as at a breast-plough. Rough and loamy rungs of oak-root bulged here and there above our heads; briers needs must speak with us, using more of tooth than tongue; and sometimes bulks of rugged stone, like great sheep, stood across us. At last, though very loath to do it, I was forced to leave my gun behind, because I required one hand to drag myself up the difficulty, and one to help Uncle Reuben. And so at last we gained the top, and looked forth the edge of the forest, where the ground was very stony and like the crest of a quarry; and no more trees between us and the brink of cliff below, three hundred yards below it might be, all strong slope and gliddery. And now for the first time I was amazed at the appearance of the Doones's stronghold, and understood its nature. For when I had been even in the valley, and climbed the cliffs to escape from it, about seven years agone, I was no more than a stripling boy, noting little, as boys do, except for their present purpose, and even that soon done with. But now, what with the fame of the Doones, and my own recollections, and Uncle Ben's insistence, all my attention was called forth, and the end was simple astonishment.
There was now no path at all, which only boosted our courage while taking away some of our comfort because it showed that the robbers didn’t usually come through here. We knew we couldn’t get lost as long as we tackled the hill in front of us, since it formed the border of Glen Doone. But honestly, I used the right word for how we climbed; the ground was so steep and covered with trees that we had to throw ourselves forward and work hard like we were using a heavy plow. Rough, loamy chunks of oak roots stuck up above our heads, and thorns seemed to jab at us, using more teeth than words; sometimes big, rough stones, like giant sheep, blocked our way. Finally, even though I really didn’t want to, I had to leave my gun behind because I needed one hand to pull myself up and the other to help Uncle Reuben. Eventually, we reached the top and looked out from the edge of the forest, finding the ground very rocky, like the top of a quarry, with no more trees between us and the cliff below—about three hundred yards down, all steep and slippery. For the first time, I was struck by the appearance of the Doones' stronghold and understood what it was. When I had been in the valley and climbed the cliffs to escape around seven years ago, I was just a teenager who noticed little, as boys do, except what was immediately in front of them, and even that was quickly forgotten. But now, with the reputation of the Doones, my own memories, and Uncle Ben's insistence, all my attention was captured, and all I felt was pure astonishment.
The chine of highland, whereon we stood, curved to the right and left of us, keeping about the same elevation, and crowned with trees and brushwood. At about half a mile in front of us, but looking as if we could throw a stone to strike any man upon it, another crest just like our own bowed around to meet it; but failed by reason of two narrow clefts of which we could only see the brink. One of these clefts was the Doone-gate, with a portcullis of rock above it, and the other was the chasm by which I had once made entrance. Betwixt them, where the hills fell back, as in a perfect oval, traversed by the winding water, lay a bright green valley, rimmed with sheer black rock, and seeming to have sunken bodily from the bleak rough heights above. It looked as if no frost could enter neither wind go ruffling; only spring, and hope, and comfort, breathe to one another. Even now the rays of sunshine dwelt and fell back on one another, whenever the clouds lifted; and the pale blue glimpse of the growing day seemed to find young encouragement.
The ridge of the highland we were standing on curved to our right and left, maintaining a similar height and topped with trees and bushes. About half a mile ahead of us, looking close enough to throw a stone at any person standing on it, another crest similar to ours curved around to meet it but was interrupted by two narrow gaps, only the edges of which we could see. One of these gaps was the Doone-gate, with a rocky portcullis above it, and the other was the chasm where I had once entered. Between them, where the hills receded in a perfect oval shape, crossed by a winding river, lay a bright green valley, bordered by sheer black rock, as if it had sunk down from the harsh heights above. It appeared that no frost could enter, nor could winds disturb it; only spring, hope, and comfort seemed to communicate with one another. Even now, sunlight lingered and reflected back on itself whenever the clouds lifted; and the pale blue glimpses of the approaching day appeared to gain a youthful encouragement.
But for all that, Uncle Reuben was none the worse nor better. He looked down into Glen Doone first, and sniffed as if he were smelling it, like a sample of goods from a wholesale house; and then he looked at the hills over yonder, and then he stared at me.
But despite everything, Uncle Reuben was neither worse nor better. He peered down into Glen Doone first, taking a sniff as if he were assessing it like a product from a supplier; then he glanced at the hills over there, and finally, he stared at me.
“See what a pack of fools they be?”
“Look at what a bunch of fools they are!”
“Of course I do, Uncle Ben. 'All rogues are fools,' was my first copy, beginning of the alphabet.”
“Of course I do, Uncle Ben. 'All rogues are fools' was my first copy, starting with the alphabet.”
“Pack of stuff lad. Though true enough, and very good for young people. But see you not how this great Doone valley may be taken in half an hour?”
“Pack it up, kid. It's definitely true and really good for young people. But can't you see how this big Doone valley can be crossed in just half an hour?”
“Yes, to be sure I do, uncle; if they like to give it up, I mean.”
“Yes, I definitely do, Uncle; if they want to give it up, I mean.”
“Three culverins on yonder hill, and three on the top of this one, and we have them under a pestle. Ah, I have seen the wars, my lad, from Keinton up to Naseby; and I might have been a general now, if they had taken my advice—”
“Three cannons on that hill over there, and three on top of this one, and we’ve got them under control. Ah, I’ve seen the wars, my boy, from Keinton to Naseby; and I could have been a general by now, if they had listened to my advice—”
But I was not attending to him, being drawn away on a sudden by a sight which never struck the sharp eyes of our General. For I had long ago descried that little opening in the cliff through which I made my exit, as before related, on the other side of the valley. No bigger than a rabbit-hole it seemed from where we stood; and yet of all the scene before me, that (from my remembrance perhaps) had the most attraction. Now gazing at it with full thought of all that it had cost me, I saw a little figure come, and pause, and pass into it. Something very light and white, nimble, smooth, and elegant, gone almost before I knew that any one had been there. And yet my heart came to my ribs, and all my blood was in my face, and pride within me fought with shame, and vanity with self-contempt; for though seven years were gone, and I from my boyhood come to manhood, and all must have forgotten me, and I had half-forgotten; at that moment, once for all, I felt that I was face to face with fate (however poor it might be), weal or woe, in Lorna Doone.
But I wasn’t really paying attention to him, suddenly distracted by a sight that had never caught the sharp eyes of our General. I had noticed the small opening in the cliff long ago, the one through which I had made my escape, as I mentioned before, on the other side of the valley. From where we stood, it looked no bigger than a rabbit hole; yet out of all the scenes before me, that one (maybe because of my memories) drew me in the most. While staring at it, thinking of everything it had cost me, I saw a small figure approach, pause, and slip inside. It was something very light and white, quick, smooth, and graceful, vanishing almost before I realized someone had been there. My heart raced, my face flushed, and I felt pride clash with shame, and vanity battle with self-contempt; for even though seven years had passed, and I had moved from boyhood to manhood, and everyone must have forgotten me, and I had almost forgotten too; at that moment, I felt like I was facing my fate, whether good or bad, in Lorna Doone.
CHAPTER XVI
LORNA GROWING FORMIDABLE
Having reconnoitred thus the position of the enemy, Master Huckaback, on the homeward road, cross-examined me in a manner not at all desirable. For he had noted my confusion and eager gaze at something unseen by him in the valley, and thereupon he made up his mind to know everything about it. In this, however, he partly failed; for although I was no hand at fence, and would not tell him a falsehood, I managed so to hold my peace that he put himself upon the wrong track, and continued thereon with many vaunts of his shrewdness and experience, and some chuckles at my simplicity. Thus much however, he learned aright, that I had been in the Doone valley several years before, and might be brought upon strong inducement to venture there again. But as to the mode of my getting in, the things I saw, and my thoughts upon them, he not only failed to learn the truth, but certified himself into an obstinacy of error, from which no after-knowledge was able to deliver him. And this he did, not only because I happened to say very little, but forasmuch as he disbelieved half of the truth I told him, through his own too great sagacity.
After checking out the enemy's position, Master Huckaback questioned me on the way home in a way that was quite uncomfortable. He noticed my confusion and my eager look at something he couldn’t see in the valley, and decided he needed to know everything about it. In this, though, he partly missed the mark; even though I wasn't very good at deception and wouldn’t lie to him, I managed to stay quiet enough that he went down the wrong path. He went on bragging about his cleverness and experience, laughing at my simplicity. However, he did learn one thing correctly: I had been in the Doone valley several years before and could be persuaded to go back under the right circumstances. As for how I got in, the things I saw, and what I thought about them, he not only failed to uncover the truth, but he also stubbornly clung to his mistakes, which no new information could correct. He did this not only because I said very little, but also because he disbelieved half of the truth I shared with him due to his own overconfidence.
Upon one point, however, he succeeded more easily than he expected, viz. in making me promise to visit the place again, as soon as occasion offered, and to hold my own counsel about it. But I could not help smiling at one thing, that according to his point of view my own counsel meant my own and Master Reuben Huckaback's.
Upon one point, though, he succeeded more easily than he expected, which was in getting me to promise to visit the place again as soon as I could, and to keep it to myself. But I couldn't help smiling at one thing: from his perspective, my own counsel meant my own and Master Reuben Huckaback's.
Now he being gone, as he went next day, to his favourite town of Dulverton, and leaving behind him shadowy promise of the mountains he would do for me, my spirit began to burn and pant for something to go on with; and nothing showed a braver hope of movement and adventure than a lonely visit to Glen Doone, by way of the perilous passage discovered in my boyhood. Therefore I waited for nothing more than the slow arrival of new small-clothes made by a good tailor at Porlock, for I was wishful to look my best; and when they were come and approved, I started, regardless of the expense, and forgetting (like a fool) how badly they would take the water.
Now that he was gone, as he left the next day for his favorite town of Dulverton, leaving behind a vague promise of the mountains he would do for me, my spirit started to yearn for something to dive into. Nothing seemed braver or more exciting than a solo trip to Glen Doone, using the risky path I discovered in my childhood. So, I just waited for the slow arrival of new clothes made by a good tailor in Porlock, wanting to look my best. When they arrived and I approved them, I set off, not caring about the cost and forgetting (like a fool) how poorly they would handle the water.
What with urging of the tailor, and my own misgivings, the time was now come round again to the high-day of St. Valentine, when all our maids were full of lovers, and all the lads looked foolish. And none of them more sheepish or innocent than I myself, albeit twenty-one years old, and not afraid of men much, but terrified of women, at least, if they were comely. And what of all things scared me most was the thought of my own size, and knowledge of my strength, which came like knots upon me daily. In honest truth I tell this thing, (which often since hath puzzled me, when I came to mix with men more), I was to that degree ashamed of my thickness and my stature, in the presence of a woman, that I would not put a trunk of wood on the fire in the kitchen, but let Annie scold me well, with a smile to follow, and with her own plump hands lift up a little log, and fuel it. Many a time I longed to be no bigger than John Fry was; whom now (when insolent) I took with my left hand by the waist-stuff, and set him on my hat, and gave him little chance to tread it; until he spoke of his family, and requested to come down again.
With the tailor pushing me and my own doubts in play, it was once again time for St. Valentine’s Day, when all the girls were caught up in romance, and all the guys looked silly. None looked more awkward or naive than I did, even though I was twenty-one and not too scared of men but terrified of women, especially if they were attractive. What scared me the most was my own size and the awareness of my strength, which felt like a burden I carried daily. Honestly, it puzzled me (and often does when I mix with more men) that I was so ashamed of my build in front of a woman that I wouldn’t even put a piece of wood on the fire in the kitchen. Instead, I let Annie scold me lightly with a smile, while she lifted a small log and added it to the fire with her own plump hands. Many times, I wished I could be no bigger than John Fry, whom I now could grab by the waistband with my left hand, put on my hat, and give little chance to step down until he talked about his family and asked to come down again.
Now taking for good omen this, that I was a seven-year Valentine, though much too big for a Cupidon, I chose a seven-foot staff of ash, and fixed a loach-fork in it, to look as I had looked before; and leaving word upon matters of business, out of the back door I went, and so through the little orchard, and down the brawling Lynn-brook. Not being now so much afraid, I struck across the thicket land between the meeting waters, and came upon the Bagworthy stream near the great black whirlpool. Nothing amazed me so much as to find how shallow the stream now looked to me, although the pool was still as black and greedy as it used to be. And still the great rocky slide was dark and difficult to climb; though the water, which once had taken my knees, was satisfied now with my ankles. After some labour, I reached the top; and halted to look about me well, before trusting to broad daylight.
Now seeing this as a good sign, since I was a seven-year Valentine, even though I was way too big to be Cupid, I picked a seven-foot ash staff and attached a fork to it, to make it look like I used to. I left a message about some business, then headed out the back door, through the little orchard, and down the noisy Lynn-brook. Not being as scared now, I walked across the thick brush between the meeting waters and came upon the Bagworthy stream near the big black whirlpool. I was most surprised by how shallow the stream seemed to me now, even though the pool was still as dark and greedy as it had always been. The large rocky slide was still dark and hard to climb; however, the water, which had once reached my knees, now only reached my ankles. After some effort, I made it to the top and paused to take a good look around before trusting the bright daylight.
The winter (as I said before) had been a very mild one; and now the spring was toward so that bank and bush were touched with it. The valley into which I gazed was fair with early promise, having shelter from the wind and taking all the sunshine. The willow-bushes over the stream hung as if they were angling with tasseled floats of gold and silver, bursting like a bean-pod. Between them came the water laughing, like a maid at her own dancing, and spread with that young blue which never lives beyond the April. And on either bank, the meadow ruffled as the breeze came by, opening (through new tuft, of green) daisy-bud or celandine, or a shy glimpse now and then of the love-lorn primrose.
The winter, as I mentioned earlier, had been really mild; and now spring was around the corner, bringing a touch of warmth to the banks and bushes. The valley I was gazing at looked beautiful with early signs of life, sheltered from the wind and soaking up all the sunshine. The willow bushes by the stream hung like they were fishing with golden and silver tassels, bursting open like bean pods. The water flowed between them, laughing like a girl enjoying her own dance, shimmering with that fresh blue that only lasts till April. On either side of the bank, the meadow stirred with the breeze, revealing budding daisies and celandines through new clumps of green, and occasionally offering a shy glimpse of the love-sick primrose.
Though I am so blank of wit, or perhaps for that same reason, these little things come and dwell with me, and I am happy about them, and long for nothing better. I feel with every blade of grass, as if it had a history; and make a child of every bud as though it knew and loved me. And being so, they seem to tell me of my own delusions, how I am no more than they, except in self-importance.
Though I might not be the sharpest, or maybe because of that, these small things come to me and make me happy, and I don’t desire anything more. I connect with every blade of grass as if it has a story; I see every bud as a child that knows and loves me. Because of this, they seem to reveal my own delusions, showing me that I’m just like them, except for my inflated sense of self.
While I was forgetting much of many things that harm one, and letting of my thoughts go wild to sounds and sights of nature, a sweeter note than thrush or ouzel ever wooed a mate in, floated on the valley breeze at the quiet turn of sundown. The words were of an ancient song, fit to laugh or cry at.
While I was forgetting a lot of things that cause harm and letting my thoughts wander with the sounds and sights of nature, a sweeter melody than any thrush or ouzel ever used to attract a mate drifted on the valley breeze at the calm of sunset. The words were from an old song, perfect for laughing or crying.
“Love, an if There Be One,
Come My Love to Be,
My Love is for the One
Loving Unto Me.
Not for me the show, love,
Of a gilded bliss;
Only thou must know, love,
What my value is.
If in all the earth, love,
Thou hast none but me,
This shall be my worth, love:
To be cheap to thee.
But, if so thou ever
Strivest to be free,
'Twill be my endeavour
To be dear to thee.
So shall I have plea, love,
Is thy heart and breath
Clinging still to thee, love,
In the doom of death.”
“Love, if there is such a thing, Come, my love, to me, My love is for the one Who loves me truly. Not for me the show, love, Of a sparkling delight; Only you must know, love, What my worth is right. If on all the earth, love, You have none but me, This will be my value, love: To be cheap for thee. But if ever you strive To break yourself free, It will be my goal To be precious to thee. Then I will have a reason, love, If your heart and breath Are still clinging to me, love, Even in the face of death.”
All this I took in with great eagerness, not for the sake of the meaning (which is no doubt an allegory), but for the power and richness, and softness of the singing, which seemed to me better than we ever had even in Oare church. But all the time I kept myself in a black niche of the rock, where the fall of the water began, lest the sweet singer (espying me) should be alarmed, and flee away. But presently I ventured to look forth where a bush was; and then I beheld the loveliest sight—one glimpse of which was enough to make me kneel in the coldest water.
I absorbed all of this with great enthusiasm, not really caring about the meaning (which is probably an allegory), but for the power, richness, and softness of the singing, which seemed way better than anything we ever had in Oare church. But the whole time, I stayed tucked away in a dark corner of the rock, where the waterfall started, so the sweet singer wouldn’t spot me and get frightened and run away. Eventually, I mustered the courage to peek out from behind a bush, and then I saw the most beautiful sight—just one glimpse of it was enough to make me kneel in the cold water.
By the side of the stream she was coming to me, even among the primroses, as if she loved them all; and every flower looked the brighter, as her eyes were on them, I could not see what her face was, my heart so awoke and trembled; only that her hair was flowing from a wreath of white violets, and the grace of her coming was like the appearance of the first wind-flower. The pale gleam over the western cliffs threw a shadow of light behind her, as if the sun were lingering. Never do I see that light from the closing of the west, even in these my aged days, without thinking of her. Ah me, if it comes to that, what do I see of earth or heaven, without thinking of her?
By the stream, she was walking towards me, surrounded by primroses, as if she cherished them all; and every flower seemed to shine brighter when she looked at them. I couldn’t see her face because my heart was so stirred and trembling; all I noticed was her hair flowing from a crown of white violets, and her movement was as graceful as the first windflower. The soft light over the western cliffs cast a shadow of illumination behind her, as if the sun was hesitating to set. Even now, in my old age, I can’t see that light fading in the west without thinking of her. Oh, if it comes to that, what do I see in this world or the next without thinking of her?
The tremulous thrill of her song was hanging on her open lips; and she glanced around, as if the birds were accustomed to make answer. To me it was a thing of terror to behold such beauty, and feel myself the while to be so very low and common. But scarcely knowing what I did, as if a rope were drawing me, I came from the dark mouth of the chasm; and stood, afraid to look at her.
The shaky excitement of her song lingered on her open lips, and she looked around as if expecting the birds to respond. For me, it was terrifying to witness such beauty and realize how ordinary I felt in comparison. Yet, without really understanding why, as if being pulled by an invisible string, I emerged from the dark mouth of the chasm and stood there, afraid to meet her gaze.
She was turning to fly, not knowing me, and frightened, perhaps, at my stature, when I fell on the grass (as I fell before her seven years agone that day), and I just said, “Lorna Doone!”
She was about to take off, not knowing who I was, and maybe scared by my height, when I collapsed on the grass (just like I did in front of her seven years ago that day), and I simply said, “Lorna Doone!”
She knew me at once, from my manner and ways, and a smile broke through her trembling, as sunshine comes through aspen-leaves; and being so clever, she saw, of course, that she needed not to fear me.
She recognized me immediately by my mannerisms, and a smile appeared on her trembling face, like sunshine peeking through aspen leaves; and being so perceptive, she understood that she didn’t need to be afraid of me.
“Oh, indeed,” she cried, with a feint of anger (because she had shown her cowardice, and yet in her heart she was laughing); “oh, if you please, who are you, sir, and how do you know my name?”
“Oh, really,” she exclaimed, with a fake hint of anger (because she had revealed her fear, and yet deep down she was laughing); “oh, if you don’t mind me asking, who are you, sir, and how do you know my name?”
“I am John Ridd,” I answered; “the boy who gave you those beautiful fish, when you were only a little thing, seven years ago to-day.”
“I’m John Ridd,” I replied; “the kid who gave you those beautiful fish, when you were just a little thing, seven years ago today.”
“Yes, the poor boy who was frightened so, and obliged to hide here in the water.”
“Yes, the poor boy who was so scared and had to hide here in the water.”
“And do you remember how kind you were, and saved my life by your quickness, and went away riding upon a great man's shoulder, as if you had never seen me, and yet looked back through the willow-trees?”
“And do you remember how nice you were and saved my life with your quick thinking, and then left riding on a big guy's shoulder, as if you’d never seen me, but still glanced back through the willow trees?”
“Oh, yes, I remember everything; because it was so rare to see any except—I mean because I happen to remember. But you seem not to remember, sir, how perilous this place is.”
“Oh, yes, I remember everything because it was so rare to see any except—I mean because I happen to remember. But you don’t seem to remember, sir, how dangerous this place is.”
For she had kept her eyes upon me; large eyes of a softness, a brightness, and a dignity which made me feel as if I must for ever love and yet for ever know myself unworthy. Unless themselves should fill with love, which is the spring of all things. And so I could not answer her, but was overcome with thinking and feeling and confusion. Neither could I look again; only waited for the melody which made every word like a poem to me, the melody of her voice. But she had not the least idea of what was going on with me, any more than I myself had.
For she had been watching me with her large, gentle eyes that shone with warmth and dignity, making me feel like I would always love her but also always feel unworthy. Unless their own eyes were filled with love, which is the source of everything. So, I couldn't respond to her; I was lost in my thoughts, emotions, and confusion. I couldn't bring myself to look again; I just waited for the sweet sound of her voice, which turned every word into poetry for me. But she had no clue what was happening with me, just like I didn't really understand it myself.
“I think, Master Ridd, you cannot know,” she said, with her eyes taken from me, “what the dangers of this place are, and the nature of the people.”
“I think, Master Ridd, you can’t know,” she said, looking away from me, “what the dangers of this place are, and what the people are like.”
“Yes, I know enough of that; and I am frightened greatly, all the time, when I do not look at you.”
“Yes, I know enough about that; and I’m really scared all the time when I’m not looking at you.”
She was too young to answer me in the style some maidens would have used; the manner, I mean, which now we call from a foreign word “coquettish.” And more than that, she was trembling from real fear of violence, lest strong hands might be laid on me, and a miserable end of it. And to tell the truth, I grew afraid; perhaps from a kind of sympathy, and because I knew that evil comes more readily than good to us.
She was too young to respond to me in the way some young women would have; I mean in the manner we now refer to as “coquettish.” Moreover, she was shaking with genuine fear of violence, worried that strong hands might be put on me, leading to a terrible outcome. To be honest, I started to feel afraid too; maybe it was out of sympathy, and because I understood that bad things tend to come more easily than good ones.
Therefore, without more ado, or taking any advantage—although I would have been glad at heart, if needs had been, to kiss her (without any thought of rudeness)—it struck me that I had better go, and have no more to say to her until next time of coming. So would she look the more for me and think the more about me, and not grow weary of my words and the want of change there is in me. For, of course, I knew what a churl I was compared to her birth and appearance; but meanwhile I might improve myself and learn a musical instrument. “The wind hath a draw after flying straw” is a saying we have in Devonshire, made, peradventure, by somebody who had seen the ways of women.
So, without further delay or taking any advantage—though I would have liked to kiss her (without any intention of being rude)—it occurred to me that I should leave and not say anything more to her until my next visit. This way, she would think about me more and not get tired of my words and the lack of variety in me. I knew I was pretty uncouth compared to her background and looks; but in the meantime, I could work on improving myself and learning to play an instrument. “The wind has a pull for flying straw” is a saying we have in Devon, probably made up by someone who understood women’s ways.
“Mistress Lorna, I will depart”—mark you, I thought that a powerful word—“in fear of causing disquiet. If any rogue shot me it would grieve you; I make bold to say it, and it would be the death of mother. Few mothers have such a son as me. Try to think of me now and then, and I will bring you some new-laid eggs, for our young blue hen is beginning.”
“Miss Lorna, I'm leaving”—believe me, I thought that was a strong word—“because I don't want to cause any trouble. If some fool shot me, it would upset you; I dare say it, and it would break my mother’s heart. Not many mothers have a son like me. Try to think of me from time to time, and I’ll bring you some fresh eggs, since our young blue hen is starting to lay.”
“I thank you heartily,” said Lorna; “but you need not come to see me. You can put them in my little bower, where I am almost always—I mean whither daily I repair to read and to be away from them.”
“I really appreciate it,” said Lorna; “but you don’t have to come see me. You can just leave them in my little bower, where I’m almost always—I mean where I go every day to read and get away from them.”
“Only show me where it is. Thrice a day I will come and stop—”
“Just show me where it is. I'll come and stop by three times a day—”
“Nay, Master Ridd, I would never show thee—never, because of peril—only that so happens it thou hast found the way already.”
“Nah, Master Ridd, I would never show you—never, because it's dangerous—only that it seems you’ve already found the way.”
And she smiled with a light that made me care to cry out for no other way, except to her dear heart. But only to myself I cried for anything at all, having enough of man in me to be bashful with young maidens. So I touched her white hand softly when she gave it to me, and (fancying that she had sighed) was touched at heart about it, and resolved to yield her all my goods, although my mother was living; and then grew angry with myself (for a mile or more of walking) to think she would condescend so; and then, for the rest of the homeward road, was mad with every man in the world who would dare to think of having her.
And she smiled in a way that made me want to cry out, but only to her dear heart. Instead, I only cried out to myself for anything at all, having enough man in me to feel shy around young women. So, I gently touched her white hand when she offered it to me, and (thinking that she had sighed) felt something deep in my heart about it, deciding to give her everything I had, even though my mother was still alive; then I got angry with myself (for a mile or more of walking) for thinking she would lower herself to that; and then, for the rest of the way home, I was furious with every man in the world who dared to think about having her.
CHAPTER XVII
JOHN IS BEWITCHED
To forget one's luck of life, to forget the cark of care and withering of young fingers; not to feel, or not be moved by, all the change of thought and heart, from large young heat to the sinewy lines and dry bones of old age—this is what I have to do ere ever I can make you know (even as a dream is known) how I loved my Lorna. I myself can never know; never can conceive, or treat it as a thing of reason, never can behold myself dwelling in the midst of it, and think that this was I; neither can I wander far from perpetual thought of it. Perhaps I have two farrows of pigs ready for the chapman; perhaps I have ten stones of wool waiting for the factor. It is all the same. I look at both, and what I say to myself is this: “Which would Lorna choose of them?” Of course, I am a fool for this; any man may call me so, and I will not quarrel with him, unless he guess my secret. Of course, I fetch my wit, if it be worth the fetching, back again to business. But there my heart is and must be; and all who like to try can cheat me, except upon parish matters.
To forget about my luck in life, to forget the burden of worry and the fading of youthful hands; not to feel, or not to be affected by, all the changes in thought and emotion, from the passionate warmth of youth to the sinewy lines and dry bones of old age—this is what I must do before I can ever make you understand (even as one understands a dream) how I loved my Lorna. I can never truly know; I can never grasp or treat it as something rational, nor can I picture myself living in the middle of it and think that this was me; and I can’t stray far from constantly thinking about it. Maybe I have two sets of pigs ready to sell; maybe I have ten stones of wool waiting for the dealer. It doesn’t matter. I look at both, and what I say to myself is this: “Which would Lorna choose?” Of course, I’m a fool for this; any man can call me that, and I won’t argue with him, unless he guesses my secret. Of course, I bring my mind, if it’s worth anything, back to business. But that’s where my heart is and must be; and anyone who wants to try can deceive me, except when it comes to parish matters.
That week I could do little more than dream and dream and rove about, seeking by perpetual change to find the way back to myself. I cared not for the people round me, neither took delight in victuals; but made believe to eat and drink and blushed at any questions. And being called the master now, head-farmer, and chief yeoman, it irked me much that any one should take advantage of me; yet everybody did so as soon as ever it was known that my wits were gone moon-raking. For that was the way they looked at it, not being able to comprehend the greatness and the loftiness. Neither do I blame them much; for the wisest thing is to laugh at people when we cannot understand them. I, for my part, took no notice; but in my heart despised them as beings of a lesser nature, who never had seen Lorna. Yet I was vexed, and rubbed myself, when John Fry spread all over the farm, and even at the shoeing forge, that a mad dog had come and bitten me, from the other side of Mallond.
That week, I could do little more than dream and roam around, trying to find my way back to myself through constant change. I didn’t care about the people around me or enjoy food; I just pretended to eat and drink and got embarrassed when anyone asked questions. Being called the master, head farmer, and chief worker irritated me because I didn’t like anyone taking advantage of me; yet everyone did as soon as they heard that I was acting strangely. They couldn’t understand the depth of what I was going through. I don’t blame them too much; sometimes, the best thing to do is laugh at people we don’t understand. I, for my part, ignored it, but deep down, I looked down on them as lesser beings who had never seen Lorna. Still, I was annoyed, especially when John Fry spread around the farm and even at the shoeing forge that a rabid dog had bitten me from the other side of Mallond.
This seems little to me now; and so it might to any one; but, at the time, it worked me up to a fever of indignity. To make a mad dog of Lorna, to compare all my imaginings (which were strange, I do assure you—the faculty not being apt to work), to count the raising of my soul no more than hydrophobia! All this acted on me so, that I gave John Fry the soundest threshing that ever a sheaf of good corn deserved, or a bundle of tares was blessed with. Afterwards he went home, too tired to tell his wife the meaning of it; but it proved of service to both of them, and an example for their children.
This feels small to me now, and it probably would to anyone; but at the time, it really fired me up with anger. To turn Lorna into a wild card, to compare all my strange thoughts (which were unusual, trust me, as my mind wasn't really working properly), and to think of lifting my spirit as being no more significant than rabies! All this affected me so much that I gave John Fry the hardest beating that any good crop ever deserved, or any bundle of weeds ever benefited from. Later, he went home too exhausted to explain it to his wife, but it ended up being useful for both of them, and a lesson for their kids.
Now the climate of this country is—so far as I can make of it—to throw no man into extremes; and if he throw himself so far, to pluck him back by change of weather and the need of looking after things. Lest we should be like the Southerns, for whom the sky does everything, and men sit under a wall and watch both food and fruit come beckoning. Their sky is a mother to them; but ours a good stepmother to us—fearing to hurt by indulgence, and knowing that severity and change of mood are wholesome.
Now the climate of this country, as I see it, is designed not to push anyone to extremes; and if someone does push themselves too far, the changing weather and the necessity of taking care of things will pull them back. We shouldn’t be like those in the South, who let the sky do everything for them, sitting idly by as food and fruit come to them effortlessly. Their sky feels like a nurturing mother; ours is more like a strict stepmother—cautious about being too indulgent, understanding that discipline and mood swings can be beneficial.
The spring being now too forward, a check to it was needful; and in the early part of March there came a change of weather. All the young growth was arrested by a dry wind from the east, which made both face and fingers burn when a man was doing ditching. The lilacs and the woodbines, just crowding forth in little tufts, close kernelling their blossom, were ruffled back, like a sleeve turned up, and nicked with brown at the corners. In the hedges any man, unless his eyes were very dull, could see the mischief doing. The russet of the young elm-bloom was fain to be in its scale again; but having pushed forth, there must be, and turn to a tawny colour. The hangers of the hazel, too, having shed their dust to make the nuts, did not spread their little combs and dry them, as they ought to do; but shrivelled at the base and fell, as if a knife had cut them. And more than all to notice was (at least about the hedges) the shuddering of everything and the shivering sound among them toward the feeble sun; such as we make to a poor fireplace when several doors are open. Sometimes I put my face to warm against the soft, rough maple-stem, which feels like the foot of a red deer; but the pitiless east wind came through all, and took and shook the caved hedge aback till its knees were knocking together, and nothing could be shelter. Then would any one having blood, and trying to keep at home with it, run to a sturdy tree and hope to eat his food behind it, and look for a little sun to come and warm his feet in the shelter. And if it did he might strike his breast, and try to think he was warmer.
Spring was arriving early, so a pause was necessary; and in early March, the weather changed. A dry east wind halted all the young growth, making faces and fingers burn while digging ditches. The lilacs and woodbines, just starting to bloom in small clusters, were ruffled back, like rolled-up sleeves, and brown at the edges. In the hedges, anyone with keen eyes could see the damage being done. The young elm blooms were forced to retreat, having pushed out, and turned a tawny color. The hazel's catkins, having shed their pollen to form nuts, didn’t unfurl and dry as they should have, but shriveled at the base and fell off, as if cut by a knife. Most noticeable, especially in the hedges, was the trembling of everything and the shivering sounds among them toward the weak sun, similar to how we react to a struggling fire when several doors are open. Sometimes, I pressed my face against the soft, rough maple trunk, which felt like a red deer’s foot; but the relentless east wind cut through everything, shaking the leaning hedge until its limbs knocked together with no shelter to be found. So anyone with blood, trying to stay warm indoors, would run to a sturdy tree, hoping to eat their meal behind it, searching for a bit of sun to warm their feet in the shelter. If it did, they might clutch their chest and try to convince themselves they felt warmer.
But when a man came home at night, after long day's labour, knowing that the days increased, and so his care should multiply; still he found enough of light to show him what the day had done against him in his garden. Every ridge of new-turned earth looked like an old man's muscles, honeycombed, and standing out void of spring, and powdery. Every plant that had rejoiced in passing such a winter now was cowering, turned away, unfit to meet the consequence. Flowing sap had stopped its course; fluted lines showed want of food, and if you pinched the topmost spray, there was no rebound or firmness.
But when a man came home at night after a long day’s work, aware that the days were getting longer and his worries were piling up, he still found enough light to see what the day had done to his garden. Every ridge of freshly turned soil looked like the muscles of an old man, hollowed out and lacking vitality, dry and crumbly. Every plant that had thrived through such a winter was now withering, turning away, unprepared for the consequences. The sap that used to flow had stopped; the striped lines showed a lack of nourishment, and if you pinched the topmost sprig, there was no bounce or stiffness.
We think a good deal, in a quiet way, when people ask us about them—of some fine, upstanding pear-trees, grafted by my grandfather, who had been very greatly respected. And he got those grafts by sheltering a poor Italian soldier, in the time of James the First, a man who never could do enough to show his grateful memories. How he came to our place is a very difficult story, which I never understood rightly, having heard it from my mother. At any rate, there the pear-trees were, and there they are to this very day; and I wish every one could taste their fruit, old as they are, and rugged.
We often think quietly when people ask us about them—about some impressive pear trees, grafted by my grandfather, who was highly respected. He got those grafts by sheltering a struggling Italian soldier during the time of James the First, a man who could never do enough to express his gratitude. The story of how he ended up at our place is quite complicated, and I never fully understood it, having heard it from my mother. In any case, those pear trees were there, and they still are today; I wish everyone could taste their fruit, even though they’re old and gnarled.
Now these fine trees had taken advantage of the west winds, and the moisture, and the promise of the spring time, so as to fill the tips of the spray-wood and the rowels all up the branches with a crowd of eager blossom. Not that they were yet in bloom, nor even showing whiteness, only that some of the cones were opening at the side of the cap which pinched them; and there you might count perhaps, a dozen nobs, like very little buttons, but grooved, and lined, and huddling close, to make room for one another. And among these buds were gray-green blades, scarce bigger than a hair almost, yet curving so as if their purpose was to shield the blossom.
Now these beautiful trees had taken advantage of the west winds, the moisture, and the promise of spring to fill the tips of the branches and the ends of the sprays with a bunch of eager blossoms. They weren't in bloom yet, nor even showing any white; it was just that some of the cones were starting to open along the sides where they were pinched. If you looked closely, you could count about a dozen little nobs, like tiny buttons, but grooved and lined, huddling together to make room for each other. Among these buds were gray-green blades, barely bigger than a hair, curving as if their purpose was to protect the blossom.
Other of the spur-points, standing on the older wood where the sap was not so eager, had not burst their tunic yet, but were flayed and flaked with light, casting off the husk of brown in three-cornered patches, as I have seen a Scotchman's plaid, or as his legs shows through it. These buds, at a distance, looked as if the sky had been raining cream upon them.
Other spur points, standing on older wood where the sap wasn't as eager, hadn't opened their tunics yet, but were stripped and flaked with light, shedding their brown husks in three-cornered patches, like a Scottish plaid or as his legs show through it. From a distance, these buds looked like the sky had been raining cream on them.
Now all this fair delight to the eyes, and good promise to the palate, was marred and baffled by the wind and cutting of the night-frosts. The opening cones were struck with brown, in between the button buds, and on the scapes that shielded them; while the foot part of the cover hung like rags, peeled back, and quivering. And there the little stalk of each, which might have been a pear, God willing, had a ring around its base, and sought a chance to drop and die. The others which had not opened comb, but only prepared to do it, were a little better off, but still very brown and unkid, and shrivelling in doubt of health, and neither peart nor lusty.
Now all this beautiful view and tasty promise were ruined by the wind and the biting night frost. The opened cones were brown in between the button buds and on the stems that held them; meanwhile, the bottom part of the cover hung down like rags, pulled back and quivering. And there, the little stalk of each, which could have been a pear, if God allowed, had a ring around its base and was trying to find a way to drop and die. The others that hadn’t opened yet, but were getting ready to, were a bit better off, but still very brown and unhealthy, shriveling in uncertainty, neither ripe nor vigorous.
Now this I have not told because I know the way to do it, for that I do not, neither yet have seen a man who did know. It is wonderful how we look at things, and never think to notice them; and I am as bad as anybody, unless the thing to be observed is a dog, or a horse, or a maiden. And the last of those three I look at, somehow, without knowing that I take notice, and greatly afraid to do it, only I knew afterwards (when the time of life was in me), not indeed, what the maiden was like, but how she differed from others.
Now, I haven’t shared this because I know how to do it—I don’t—and I’ve never met anyone who does either. It's amazing how we observe things and don’t even think to really notice them; I’m just as guilty as anyone, unless what I’m observing is a dog, a horse, or a young woman. With the last one, I somehow look without realizing it, and I’m really nervous about doing so, but I later recognized (when I was old enough) not exactly what the young woman was like, but how she was different from others.
Yet I have spoken about the spring, and the failure of fair promise, because I took it to my heart as token of what would come to me in the budding of my years and hope. And even then, being much possessed, and full of a foolish melancholy, I felt a sad delight at being doomed to blight and loneliness; not but that I managed still (when mother was urgent upon me) to eat my share of victuals, and cuff a man for laziness, and see that a ploughshare made no leaps, and sleep of a night without dreaming. And my mother half-believing, in her fondness and affection, that what the parish said was true about a mad dog having bitten me, and yet arguing that it must be false (because God would have prevented him), my mother gave me little rest, when I was in the room with her. Not that she worried me with questions, nor openly regarded me with any unusual meaning, but that I knew she was watching slyly whenever I took a spoon up; and every hour or so she managed to place a pan of water by me, quite as if by accident, and sometimes even to spill a little upon my shoe or coat-sleeve. But Betty Muxworthy was worst; for, having no fear about my health, she made a villainous joke of it, and used to rush into the kitchen, barking like a dog, and panting, exclaiming that I had bitten her, and justice she would have on me, if it cost her a twelvemonth's wages. And she always took care to do this thing just when I had crossed my legs in the corner after supper, and leaned my head against the oven, to begin to think of Lorna.
Yet I’ve talked about spring and how it failed to keep its promise, because I took it to heart as a sign of what would come for me in the early years of my hopes. Even then, I was overwhelmed and filled with a foolish sadness, and I felt a bittersweet pleasure in being destined for disappointment and loneliness. Still, I managed (when my mother insisted) to eat my meals, scold someone for being lazy, ensure the ploughshare was working properly, and sleep at night without dreaming. My mother, half-believing and clinging to her affection, thought what the parish said was true about a mad dog biting me, but she also argued it couldn’t possibly be true (since God would’ve stopped it). So, she didn’t give me much peace when I was in the same room with her. Not that she bothered me with questions or looked at me any differently, but I knew she was secretly watching whenever I picked up a spoon; and every hour or so, she would casually set a pan of water beside me, almost as if it were an accident, and sometimes even spilled a bit on my shoe or coat sleeve. But Betty Muxworthy was the worst; she had no worries about my health, and turned it into a terrible joke. She would burst into the kitchen, barking like a dog and panting, claiming I had bitten her, and that she would get justice against me, even if it cost her a month’s wages. And she always chose to do this right when I had crossed my legs in the corner after dinner, leaning my head against the oven, starting to think about Lorna.
However, in all things there is comfort, if we do not look too hard for it; and now I had much satisfaction, in my uncouth state, from labouring, by the hour together, at the hedging and the ditching, meeting the bitter wind face to face, feeling my strength increase, and hoping that some one would be proud of it. In the rustling rush of every gust, in the graceful bend of every tree, even in the “lords and ladies,” clumped in the scoops of the hedgerow, and most of all in the soft primrose, wrung by the wind, but stealing back, and smiling when the wrath was passed—in all of these, and many others there was aching ecstasy, delicious pang of Lorna.
However, there’s comfort in everything, as long as we don’t search too hard for it; and now I found a lot of satisfaction, in my awkward state, from working for hours on the hedging and ditching, facing the bitter wind directly, feeling my strength grow, and hoping that someone would be proud of it. In the rustling of every gust, in the graceful sway of every tree, even in the “lords and ladies” clustered in the hollows of the hedgerow, and especially in the soft primrose, battered by the wind but coming back and smiling when the storm passed—in all of these, and many others, there was a deep ecstasy, a lovely pang of Lorna.
But however cold the weather was, and however hard the wind blew, one thing (more than all the rest) worried and perplexed me. This was, that I could not settle, turn and twist as I might, how soon I ought to go again upon a visit to Glen Doone. For I liked not at all the falseness of it (albeit against murderers), the creeping out of sight, and hiding, and feeling as a spy might. And even more than this. I feared how Lorna might regard it; whether I might seem to her a prone and blunt intruder, a country youth not skilled in manners, as among the quality, even when they rob us. For I was not sure myself, but that it might be very bad manners to go again too early without an invitation; and my hands and face were chapped so badly by the bitter wind, that Lorna might count them unsightly things, and wish to see no more of them.
But no matter how cold it was or how hard the wind blew, one thing (more than anything else) worried and confused me. I just couldn’t figure out how soon I should visit Glen Doone again. I really didn’t like the deception of it (even against murderers), sneaking around, hiding, and feeling like a spy. What worried me even more was how Lorna might view my visits; I didn’t want to come across as a clumsy and rude intruder, just a country boy who didn’t know how to act among the upper class, even if they were robbing us. I wasn’t even sure if it would be considered bad manners to visit again too soon without an invitation. Plus, my hands and face were so chapped from the biting wind that Lorna might find them unpleasant and not want to see me again.
However, I could not bring myself to consult any one upon this point, at least in our own neighbourhood, nor even to speak of it near home. But the east wind holding through the month, my hands and face growing worse and worse, and it having occurred to me by this time that possibly Lorna might have chaps, if she came abroad at all, and so might like to talk about them and show her little hands to me, I resolved to take another opinion, so far as might be upon this matter, without disclosing the circumstances.
However, I just couldn’t bring myself to ask anyone around here about it, or even mention it close to home. But with the east wind sticking around all month and my hands and face getting worse, it occurred to me that Lorna might have chapped skin too if she went outside at all, and she might like to talk about it and show me her little hands. So, I decided to seek another opinion on this matter without revealing the details.
Now the wisest person in all our parts was reckoned to be a certain wise woman, well known all over Exmoor by the name of Mother Melldrum. Her real name was Maple Durham, as I learned long afterwards; and she came of an ancient family, but neither of Devon nor Somerset. Nevertheless she was quite at home with our proper modes of divination; and knowing that we liked them best—as each man does his own religion—she would always practise them for the people of the country. And all the while, she would let us know that she kept a higher and nobler mode for those who looked down upon this one, not having been bred and born to it.
Now, the wisest person around was considered to be a certain wise woman, well-known throughout Exmoor as Mother Melldrum. Her real name was Maple Durham, as I found out much later; she came from an old family, but not from Devon or Somerset. Still, she was very familiar with our local methods of divination; knowing we preferred them—just like everyone has their own religion—she would always practice them for the locals. At the same time, she made sure we understood that she had a higher and more refined method for those who looked down on these practices, not having been brought up in it.
Mother Melldrum had two houses, or rather she had none at all, but two homes wherein to find her, according to the time of year. In summer she lived in a pleasant cave, facing the cool side of the hill, far inland near Hawkridge and close above Tarr-steps, a wonderful crossing of Barle river, made (as everybody knows) by Satan, for a wager. But throughout the winter, she found sea-air agreeable, and a place where things could be had on credit, and more occasion of talking. Not but what she could have credit (for every one was afraid of her) in the neighbourhood of Tarr-steps; only there was no one handy owning things worth taking.
Mother Melldrum had two houses, or rather she had none at all, but two homes depending on the season. In summer, she lived in a pleasant cave on the cool side of the hill, far inland near Hawkridge and right above Tarr-steps, a remarkable crossing of the Barle River, created (as everyone knows) by Satan, for a bet. But during the winter, she preferred the sea air, a place where she could get things on credit, and more chances to chat. Not that she couldn’t get credit (everyone was scared of her) near Tarr-steps; it was just that there wasn't anyone nearby who owned anything worth taking.
Therefore, at the fall of the leaf, when the woods grew damp and irksome, the wise woman always set her face to the warmer cliffs of the Channel; where shelter was, and dry fern bedding, and folk to be seen in the distance, from a bank upon which the sun shone. And there, as I knew from our John Fry (who had been to her about rheumatism, and sheep possessed with an evil spirit, and warts on the hand of his son, young John), any one who chose might find her, towards the close of a winter day, gathering sticks and brown fern for fuel, and talking to herself the while, in a hollow stretch behind the cliffs; which foreigners, who come and go without seeing much of Exmoor, have called the Valley of Rocks.
So, when autumn arrived and the woods became damp and uncomfortable, the wise woman always headed towards the warmer cliffs by the Channel, where there was shelter, dry fern bedding, and people visible in the distance from a sunny bank. I learned from our John Fry, who had consulted her about rheumatism, troubled sheep, and warts on his son young John’s hand, that anyone who wanted could find her toward the end of a winter day, gathering sticks and brown ferns for firewood while talking to herself in a hollow area behind the cliffs. This place, which tourists who pass through without really seeing much of Exmoor have named the Valley of Rocks.
This valley, or goyal, as we term it, being small for a valley, lies to the west of Linton, about a mile from the town perhaps, and away towards Ley Manor. Our homefolk always call it the Danes, or the Denes, which is no more, they tell me, than a hollow place, even as the word “den” is. However, let that pass, for I know very little about it; but the place itself is a pretty one, though nothing to frighten anybody, unless he hath lived in a gallipot. It is a green rough-sided hollow, bending at the middle, touched with stone at either crest, and dotted here and there with slabs in and out the brambles. On the right hand is an upward crag, called by some the Castle, easy enough to scale, and giving great view of the Channel. Facing this, from the inland side and the elbow of the valley, a queer old pile of rock arises, bold behind one another, and quite enough to affright a man, if it only were ten times larger. This is called the Devil's Cheese-ring, or the Devil's Cheese-knife, which mean the same thing, as our fathers were used to eat their cheese from a scoop; and perhaps in old time the upmost rock (which has fallen away since I knew it) was like to such an implement, if Satan eat cheese untoasted.
This valley, or goyal, as we call it, is small for a valley and is located west of Linton, about a mile from the town, heading towards Ley Manor. The locals refer to it as the Danes or the Denes, which is just a term for a hollow place, much like the word “den.” But I’ll skip the details since I don’t know much about it; the place itself is lovely, though there's nothing terrifying about it unless someone has lived in a jar. It’s a green, uneven hollow that bends in the middle, with rocky edges on both sides, and it has some slabs peeking out from the brambles. On the right side, there’s a steep crag known as the Castle, which is easy to climb and offers a great view of the Channel. Opposite this, from the inland side and the bend of the valley, an odd old formation of rocks rises, stacked boldly behind one another, enough to scare someone if it were just ten times bigger. This is called the Devil's Cheese-ring or the Devil's Cheese-knife, which mean the same thing, as our ancestors used to scoop their cheese with such tools; perhaps in the past, the topmost rock (which has crumbled away since I first saw it) resembled such a utensil, if Satan ever ate cheese without toasting it.
But all the middle of this valley was a place to rest in; to sit and think that troubles were not, if we would not make them. To know the sea outside the hills, but never to behold it; only by the sound of waves to pity sailors labouring. Then to watch the sheltered sun, coming warmly round the turn, like a guest expected, full of gentle glow and gladness, casting shadow far away as a thing to hug itself, and awakening life from dew, and hope from every spreading bud. And then to fall asleep and dream that the fern was all asparagus.
But the center of this valley was a peaceful place to relax; to sit and reflect that troubles didn’t exist unless we chose to create them. To be aware of the sea beyond the hills, but never actually see it; only hearing the sound of waves and feeling sympathy for the sailors working hard. Then to watch the warm sun come around the bend, like a welcomed guest, radiating gentle light and happiness, casting shadows far away as if to embrace itself, and bringing life from the dew, and hope from every budding flower. And then to fall asleep and dream that the fern was all asparagus.
Alas, I was too young in those days much to care for creature comforts, or to let pure palate have things that would improve it. Anything went down with me, as it does with most of us. Too late we know the good from bad; the knowledge is no pleasure then; being memory's medicine rather than the wine of hope.
Unfortunately, I was too young back then to care about creature comforts or to appreciate things that could improve my taste. I accepted anything, just like most of us do. Only later do we realize the difference between good and bad; but that knowledge brings no joy at that point—it's just a remedy for memories instead of the drink of hope.
Now Mother Melldrum kept her winter in this vale of rocks, sheltering from the wind and rain within the Devil's Cheese-ring, which added greatly to her fame because all else, for miles around, were afraid to go near it after dark, or even on a gloomy day. Under eaves of lichened rock she had a winding passage, which none that ever I knew of durst enter but herself. And to this place I went to seek her, in spite of all misgivings, upon a Sunday in Lenten season, when the sheep were folded.
Now Mother Melldrum spent her winters in this rocky valley, sheltered from the wind and rain within the Devil's Cheese-ring, which significantly boosted her reputation because everyone else for miles around was too scared to go near it after dark or even on a gloomy day. Under the overhang of moss-covered rocks, she had a winding passage that no one I knew ever dared to enter except her. And so, despite my worries, I went to find her on a Sunday during Lent, when the sheep were gathered.
Our parson (as if he had known my intent) had preached a beautiful sermon about the Witch of Endor, and the perils of them that meddle wantonly with the unseen Powers; and therein he referred especially to the strange noise in the neighbourhood, and upbraided us for want of faith, and many other backslidings. We listened to him very earnestly, for we like to hear from our betters about things that are beyond us, and to be roused up now and then, like sheep with a good dog after them, who can pull some wool without biting. Nevertheless we could not see how our want of faith could have made that noise, especially at night time, notwithstanding which we believed it, and hoped to do a little better.
Our minister (as if he knew what I was thinking) had given a powerful sermon about the Witch of Endor and the dangers of messing carelessly with unseen forces. He specifically talked about the strange noises in the neighborhood and criticized us for lacking faith and for various other shortcomings. We listened to him intently because we enjoy hearing from those who are wiser about things we don’t fully understand, and we like to be stirred up every now and then, like sheep guided by a good dog that can take some wool without biting. Still, we couldn't see how our lack of faith could have caused that noise, especially at night, but we believed it anyway and hoped to do a bit better.
And so we all came home from church; and most of the people dined with us, as they always do on Sundays, because of the distance to go home, with only words inside them. The parson, who always sat next to mother, was afraid that he might have vexed us, and would not have the best piece of meat, according to his custom. But soon we put him at his ease, and showed him we were proud of him; and then he made no more to do, but accepted the best of the sirloin.
And so we all came home from church, and most of the people had lunch with us, like they always do on Sundays, because it was too far for them to go home with just conversation. The pastor, who usually sat next to my mom, was worried he might have upset us and didn’t want to take the best piece of meat, as he usually did. But soon we reassured him and showed him we were proud of him, and then he relaxed and accepted the best cut of the sirloin.
CHAPTER XVIII
WITCHERY LEADS TO WITCHCRAFT
Although wellnigh the end of March, the wind blew wild and piercing, as I went on foot that afternoon to Mother Melldrum's dwelling. It was safer not to take a horse, lest (if anything vexed her) she should put a spell upon him; as had been done to Farmer Snowe's stable by the wise woman of Simonsbath.
Although it was almost the end of March, the wind howled fiercely and cut through me as I walked that afternoon to Mother Melldrum's house. It was safer not to take a horse, in case she got angry and put a spell on it, like what happened to Farmer Snowe's stable by the wise woman of Simonsbath.
The sun was low on the edge of the hills by the time I entered the valley, for I could not leave home till the cattle were tended, and the distance was seven miles or more. The shadows of rocks fell far and deep, and the brown dead fern was fluttering, and brambles with their sere leaves hanging, swayed their tatters to and fro, with a red look on them. In patches underneath the crags, a few wild goats were browsing; then they tossed their horns, and fled, and leaped on ledges, and stared at me. Moreover, the sound of the sea came up, and went the length of the valley, and there it lapped on a butt of rocks, and murmured like a shell.
The sun was setting behind the hills by the time I arrived in the valley, since I couldn’t leave home until I took care of the cattle, and it was at least seven miles away. The shadows of the rocks stretched far and deep, the brown dead ferns were fluttering, and brambles with their dry leaves swayed back and forth, showing a reddish tint. In patches under the cliffs, a few wild goats were grazing; then they raised their heads, took off running, jumped onto ledges, and watched me. Additionally, the sound of the sea echoed through the valley, gently hitting the rocks and murmuring like a conch shell.
Taking things one with another, and feeling all the lonesomeness, and having no stick with me, I was much inclined to go briskly back, and come at a better season. And when I beheld a tall grey shape, of something or another, moving at the lower end of the valley, where the shade was, it gave me such a stroke of fear, after many others, that my thumb which lay in mother's Bible (brought in my big pocket for the sake of safety) shook so much that it came out, and I could not get it in again. “This serves me right,” I said to myself, “for tampering with Beelzebub. Oh that I had listened to parson!”
Taking everything into account and feeling all the loneliness, with no one by my side, I really wanted to turn back quickly and return at a better time. When I saw a tall gray figure moving at the lower end of the valley, where the shade was, I was hit with such a wave of fear, after so many others, that my thumb, which was stuck in my mother's Bible (which I had brought in my big pocket for safety), trembled so much it popped out, and I couldn't get it back in. “This is what I get,” I told myself, “for messing with Beelzebub. Oh, if only I had listened to the preacher!”
And thereupon I struck aside; not liking to run away quite, as some people might call it; but seeking to look like a wanderer who was come to see the valley, and had seen almost enough of it. Herein I should have succeeded, and gone home, and then been angry at my want of courage, but that on the very turn and bending of my footsteps, the woman in the distance lifted up her staff to me, so that I was bound to stop.
And then I stepped aside; not wanting to completely run away, like some people might label it; but trying to appear like a traveler who had come to see the valley and had seen almost enough of it. I would have succeeded in this, gone home, and then been frustrated with my lack of courage, if it weren't for the fact that just as I turned and began to walk away, the woman in the distance raised her staff towards me, making it impossible for me to keep going.
And now, being brought face to face, by the will of God (as one might say) with anything that might come of it, I kept myself quite straight and stiff, and thrust away all white feather, trusting in my Bible still, hoping that it would protect me, though I had disobeyed it. But upon that remembrance, my conscience took me by the leg, so that I could not go forward.
And now, by God’s will, I found myself confronted with whatever might come of this. I held myself upright and stiff, pushing away any cowardice, still trusting in my Bible, hoping it would protect me even though I had disobeyed it. But remembering that, my conscience held me back, making it impossible for me to move forward.
All this while, the fearful woman was coming near and more near to me; and I was glad to sit down on a rock because my knees were shaking so. I tried to think of many things, but none of them would come to me; and I could not take my eyes away, though I prayed God to be near me.
All this time, the terrified woman kept getting closer to me, and I was relieved to sit down on a rock because my knees were trembling so much. I tried to think of a lot of things, but nothing came to mind; and I couldn't take my eyes off her, even though I prayed for God to be with me.
But when she was come so nigh to me that I could descry her features, there was something in her countenance that made me not dislike her. She looked as if she had been visited by many troubles, and had felt them one by one, yet held enough of kindly nature still to grieve for others. Long white hair, on either side, was falling down below her chin; and through her wrinkles clear bright eyes seemed to spread themselves upon me. Though I had plenty of time to think, I was taken by surprise no less, and unable to say anything; yet eager to hear the silence broken, and longing for a noise or two.
But when she got close enough for me to see her features, there was something in her expression that made me not dislike her. She seemed like someone who had been through a lot of trouble and had felt each one deeply, yet still had enough kindness in her to care about others. Long white hair fell down on either side of her face, and her clear bright eyes seemed to shine through her wrinkles as they looked at me. Even though I had plenty of time to think, I was still surprised and couldn’t say anything; yet I was eager for the silence to be broken, longing to hear some noise.
“Thou art not come to me,” she said, looking through my simple face, as if it were but glass, “to be struck for bone-shave, nor to be blessed for barn-gun. Give me forth thy hand, John Ridd; and tell why thou art come to me.”
“You're not here to see me,” she said, looking through my plain face as if it were just glass. “You're not here to talk about trivial things or to get my blessing for some minor matter. Give me your hand, John Ridd, and tell me why you've come to see me.”
But I was so much amazed at her knowing my name and all about me, that I feared to place my hand in her power, or even my tongue by speaking.
But I was so amazed that she knew my name and everything about me that I was afraid to put my hand in her grasp, or even to speak.
“Have no fear of me, my son; I have no gift to harm thee; and if I had, it should be idle. Now, if thou hast any wit, tell me why I love thee.”
“Don’t be afraid of me, my son; I can’t harm you; and even if I could, it would be pointless. Now, if you’re smart, tell me why I love you.”
“I never had any wit, mother,” I answered in our Devonshire way; “and never set eyes on thee before, to the furthest of my knowledge.”
“I never had any wit, mom,” I replied in our Devonshire style; “and I’ve never seen you before, as far as I know.”
“And yet I know thee as well, John, as if thou wert my grandson. Remember you the old Oare oak, and the bog at the head of Exe, and the child who would have died there, but for thy strength and courage, and most of all thy kindness? That was my granddaughter, John; and all I have on earth to love.”
“And yet I know you just as well, John, as if you were my grandson. Do you remember the old Oare oak, the bog at the head of Exe, and the child who would have died there if not for your strength, courage, and most importantly, your kindness? That was my granddaughter, John; and she is all I have on earth to love.”
Now that she came to speak of it, with the place and that, so clearly, I remembered all about it (a thing that happened last August), and thought how stupid I must have been not to learn more of the little girl who had fallen into the black pit, with a basketful of whortleberries, and who might have been gulfed if her little dog had not spied me in the distance. I carried her on my back to mother; and then we dressed her all anew, and took her where she ordered us; but she did not tell us who she was, nor anything more than her Christian name, and that she was eight years old, and fond of fried batatas. And we did not seek to ask her more; as our manner is with visitors.
Now that she mentioned it, I remembered everything clearly about that incident from last August. I realized how foolish I was for not finding out more about the little girl who had fallen into the dark pit with a basket full of blueberries and could have drowned if her little dog hadn’t spotted me in the distance. I carried her on my back to my mom, and then we got her cleaned up and took her wherever she wanted to go. However, she didn’t tell us who she was or anything beyond her first name, that she was eight years old, and that she loved fried sweet potatoes. We didn’t ask her anything more, as is our way with visitors.
But thinking of this little story, and seeing how she looked at me, I lost my fear of Mother Melldrum, and began to like her; partly because I had helped her grandchild, and partly that if she were so wise, no need would have been for me to save the little thing from drowning. Therefore I stood up and said, though scarcely yet established in my power against hers,—
But as I thought about this little story and saw the way she looked at me, I lost my fear of Mother Melldrum and started to like her; partly because I had helped her grandchild, and partly because if she were so wise, there wouldn't have been any need for me to save the little one from drowning. So, I stood up and said, even though I wasn't fully confident in my ability to stand up to her yet,—
“Good mother, the shoe she lost was in the mire, and not with us. And we could not match it, although we gave her a pair of sister Lizzie's.”
“Good mother, the shoe she lost was in the mud, and it wasn't with us. And we couldn't find a match for it, even though we gave her a pair of sister Lizzie's.”
“My son, what care I for her shoe? How simple thou art, and foolish! according to the thoughts of some. Now tell me, for thou canst not lie, what has brought thee to me.”
“My son, why should I care about her shoe? How naive and foolish you are! at least according to some. Now tell me, since you can’t lie, what has brought you to me.”
Being so ashamed and bashful, I was half-inclined to tell her a lie, until she said that I could not do it; and then I knew that I could not.
Being so ashamed and shy, I was tempted to lie to her, but then she said that I couldn't do it; and that made me realize that I really couldn't.
“I am come to know,” I said, looking at a rock the while, to keep my voice from shaking, “when I may go to see Lorna Doone.”
“I’ve come to understand,” I said, looking at a rock to keep my voice steady, “when I can go to see Lorna Doone.”
No more could I say, though my mind was charged to ask fifty other questions. But although I looked away, it was plain that I had asked enough. I felt that the wise woman gazed at me in wrath as well as sorrow; and then I grew angry that any one should seem to make light of Lorna.
No more could I say, even though my mind was buzzing with a hundred other questions. But even as I looked away, it was clear that I had asked enough. I sensed that the wise woman was looking at me with both anger and sadness, and that made me frustrated that anyone could seem to underestimate Lorna.
“John Ridd,” said the woman, observing this (for now I faced her bravely), “of whom art thou speaking? Is it a child of the men who slew your father?”
“John Ridd,” said the woman, noticing this (since I was now facing her bravely), “who are you talking about? Is he a child of the men who killed your father?”
“I cannot tell, mother. How should I know? And what is that to thee?”
“I can’t say, mom. How would I know? And why does it matter to you?”
“It is something to thy mother, John, and something to thyself, I trow; and nothing worse could befall thee.”
"It means something to your mother, John, and it means something to you, I believe; and nothing worse could happen to you."
I waited for her to speak again, because she had spoken so sadly that it took my breath away.
I waited for her to say something else because her previous words were so sad that they left me breathless.
“John Ridd, if thou hast any value for thy body or thy soul, thy mother, or thy father's name, have nought to do with any Doone.”
“John Ridd, if you care at all for your body or your soul, your mother, or your father's name, stay away from any Doone.”
She gazed at me in earnest so, and raised her voice in saying it, until the whole valley, curving like a great bell echoed “Doone,” that it seemed to me my heart was gone for every one and everything. If it were God's will for me to have no more of Lorna, let a sign come out of the rocks, and I would try to believe it. But no sign came, and I turned to the woman, and longed that she had been a man.
She looked at me seriously and raised her voice when she said it, until the whole valley, curved like a giant bell, echoed “Doone,” and it felt like my heart was lost to everyone and everything. If it was God's will for me to have no more of Lorna, then let a sign come from the rocks, and I would try to accept it. But no sign came, and I turned to the woman, wishing she had been a man.
“You poor thing, with bones and blades, pails of water, and door-keys, what know you about the destiny of a maiden such as Lorna? Chilblains you may treat, and bone-shave, ringworm, and the scaldings; even scabby sheep may limp the better for your strikings. John the Baptist and his cousins, with the wool and hyssop, are for mares, and ailing dogs, and fowls that have the jaundice. Look at me now, Mother Melldrum, am I like a fool?”
“You poor thing, with your bones and blades, buckets of water, and door keys— what do you know about the fate of a girl like Lorna? You might treat chilblains, and clean up wounds, ringworm, and burns; even scabby sheep might get better from your efforts. John the Baptist and his relatives, with their wool and hyssop, are meant for horses, sick dogs, and birds with jaundice. Look at me now, Mother Melldrum, do I look like a fool?”
“That thou art, my son. Alas that it were any other! Now behold the end of that; John Ridd, mark the end of it.”
"That you are, my son. I wish it were someone else! Now look at the end of that; John Ridd, take note of the end."
She pointed to the castle-rock, where upon a narrow shelf, betwixt us and the coming stars, a bitter fight was raging. A fine fat sheep, with an honest face, had clomb up very carefully to browse on a bit of juicy grass, now the dew of the land was upon it. To him, from an upper crag, a lean black goat came hurrying, with leaps, and skirmish of the horns, and an angry noise in his nostrils. The goat had grazed the place before, to the utmost of his liking, cropping in and out with jerks, as their manner is of feeding. Nevertheless he fell on the sheep with fury and great malice.
She pointed to the castle rock, where a fierce fight was happening on a narrow ledge between us and the rising stars. A plump sheep, with a friendly face, had carefully climbed up to nibble on a patch of fresh grass that was now covered in dew. From a higher crag, a thin black goat came rushing down, leaping and butting with its horns, making angry noises. The goat had already eaten this spot to its heart's content, grazing with quick movements as they usually do. Still, it charged at the sheep with fury and malicious intent.
The simple wether was much inclined to retire from the contest, but looked around in vain for any way to peace and comfort. His enemy stood between him and the last leap he had taken; there was nothing left him but to fight, or be hurled into the sea, five hundred feet below.
The simple ram was very tempted to back out of the fight, but looked around in vain for any way to find peace and comfort. His opponent was blocking his path back to the last jump he had made; he had no choice but to fight or be thrown into the sea, five hundred feet below.
“Lie down, lie down!” I shouted to him, as if he were a dog, for I had seen a battle like this before, and knew that the sheep had no chance of life except from his greater weight, and the difficulty of moving him.
“Lie down, lie down!” I yelled at him, like he was a dog, because I had seen a fight like this before and knew that the sheep had no chance of survival except due to his heavier weight and the struggle of moving him.
“Lie down, lie down, John Ridd!” cried Mother Melldrum, mocking me, but without a sign of smiling.
“Lie down, lie down, John Ridd!” yelled Mother Melldrum, teasing me, but without a hint of a smile.
The poor sheep turned, upon my voice, and looked at me so piteously that I could look no longer; but ran with all my speed to try and save him from the combat. He saw that I could not be in time, for the goat was bucking to leap at him, and so the good wether stooped his forehead, with the harmless horns curling aside of it; and the goat flung his heels up, and rushed at him, with quick sharp jumps and tricks of movement, and the points of his long horns always foremost, and his little scut cocked like a gun-hammer.
The poor sheep turned at the sound of my voice and looked at me so sadly that I couldn’t bear to watch any longer; I ran as fast as I could to try to save him from the fight. He knew I wouldn't make it in time because the goat was already jumping to attack him, so the good wether lowered his head, with his harmless horns curling to the side. The goat kicked up his heels and charged at him, moving quickly with sharp jumps and tricks, his long horns always pointing forward and his little tail raised like a gun hammer.
As I ran up the steep of the rock, I could not see what they were doing, but the sheep must have fought very bravely at last, and yielded his ground quite slowly, and I hoped almost to save him. But just as my head topped the platform of rock, I saw him flung from it backward, with a sad low moan and a gurgle. His body made quite a short noise in the air, like a bucket thrown down a well shaft, and I could not tell when it struck the water, except by the echo among the rocks. So wroth was I with the goat at the moment (being somewhat scant of breath and unable to consider), that I caught him by the right hind-leg, before he could turn from his victory, and hurled him after the sheep, to learn how he liked his own compulsion.
As I sprinted up the steep rock, I couldn't see what was happening, but the sheep must have fought really hard in the end and gradually gave up ground, and I almost hoped I could save him. But just as my head reached the top of the rock, I saw him thrown off backward with a sad, low moan and a gurgle. His body made a quick noise in the air, like a bucket dropped down a well, and I couldn't tell when it hit the water, only by the echo among the rocks. I was so furious with the goat at that moment (a bit out of breath and unable to think straight) that I grabbed him by the right hind leg before he could celebrate his victory and hurled him after the sheep to see how he liked his own fate.
CHAPTER XIX
ANOTHER DANGEROUS INTERVIEW
Although I left the Denes at once, having little heart for further questions of the wise woman, and being afraid to visit her house under the Devil's Cheese-ring (to which she kindly invited me), and although I ran most part of the way, it was very late for farm-house time upon a Sunday evening before I was back at Plover's Barrows. My mother had great desire to know all about the matter; but I could not reconcile it with my respect so to frighten her. Therefore I tried to sleep it off, keeping my own counsel; and when that proved of no avail, I strove to work it away, it might be, by heavy outdoor labour, and weariness, and good feeding. These indeed had some effect, and helped to pass a week or two, with more pain of hand than heart to me.
Although I left the Denes right away, having little interest in asking the wise woman more questions and being afraid to visit her house under the Devil's Cheese-ring (to which she kindly invited me), and even though I ran most of the way, it was very late for farmhouse time on a Sunday evening by the time I got back to Plover's Barrows. My mother was eager to hear all about it, but I couldn't bring myself to scare her with the details. So, I tried to sleep it off, keeping my thoughts to myself; when that didn’t work, I attempted to work it off through heavy outdoor labor, exhaustion, and hearty meals. These did help a bit and allowed me to get through a week or two, with more strain on my hands than in my heart.
But when the weather changed in earnest, and the frost was gone, and the south-west wind blew softly, and the lambs were at play with the daisies, it was more than I could do to keep from thought of Lorna. For now the fields were spread with growth, and the waters clad with sunshine, and light and shadow, step by step, wandered over the furzy cleves. All the sides of the hilly wood were gathered in and out with green, silver-grey, or russet points, according to the several manner of the trees beginning. And if one stood beneath an elm, with any heart to look at it, lo! all the ground was strewn with flakes (too small to know their meaning), and all the sprays above were rasped and trembling with a redness. And so I stopped beneath the tree, and carved L.D. upon it, and wondered at the buds of thought that seemed to swell inside me.
But when the weather really changed, the frost was gone, the southwest wind was blowing gently, and the lambs were frolicking with the daisies, I found it hard to stop thinking about Lorna. Now the fields were full of life, and the waters sparkled in the sunshine, with light and shadow playfully moving over the grassy hills. The sides of the hilly woods were dotted with green, silver-grey, or russet colors, depending on how the trees were starting to bud. Standing under an elm, if you looked closely, the ground was covered with tiny flakes (too small to understand), and the branches above were buzzing and vibrating with a reddish hue. So, I paused under the tree, carved L.D. into it, and marveled at the thoughts that seemed to be swelling inside me.
The upshot of it all was this, that as no Lorna came to me, except in dreams or fancy, and as my life was not worth living without constant sign of her, forth I must again to find her, and say more than a man can tell. Therefore, without waiting longer for the moving of the spring, dressed I was in grand attire (so far as I had gotten it), and thinking my appearance good, although with doubts about it (being forced to dress in the hay-tallat), round the corner of the wood-stack went I very knowingly—for Lizzie's eyes were wondrous sharp—and then I was sure of meeting none who would care or dare to speak of me.
The bottom line was this: since no Lorna came to me except in dreams or my imagination, and because my life felt meaningless without her constant presence, I had to go out again to find her and express what a man can’t easily say. So, without waiting any longer for spring to arrive, I dressed in my best clothes (as best as I could manage) and, even though I was unsure about my appearance (having to dress in a hayloft), I confidently went around the corner of the woodpile—since Lizzie’s eyes were incredibly sharp—and I was sure I wouldn’t run into anyone who would care or dare to talk about me.
It lay upon my conscience often that I had not made dear Annie secret to this history; although in all things I could trust her, and she loved me like a lamb. Many and many a time I tried, and more than once began the thing; but there came a dryness in my throat, and a knocking under the roof of my mouth, and a longing to put it off again, as perhaps might be the wisest. And then I would remember too that I had no right to speak of Lorna as if she were common property.
It often weighed on my mind that I hadn’t shared this story with dear Annie; even though I could trust her completely and she loved me wholeheartedly. Many times I tried, and more than once I got started on it, but I would feel a dryness in my throat, a pressure in my mouth, and a strong desire to postpone it again, which might be the smartest choice. And then I would also remember that I had no right to talk about Lorna as if she were just anyone.
This time I longed to take my gun, and was half resolved to do so; because it seemed so hard a thing to be shot at and have no chance of shooting; but when I came to remember the steepness and the slippery nature of the waterslide, there seemed but little likelihood of keeping dry the powder. Therefore I was armed with nothing but a good stout holly staff, seasoned well for many a winter in our back-kitchen chimney.
This time I really wanted to grab my gun and was almost set on it; it felt so unfair to be shot at without being able to shoot back. However, when I thought about how steep and slippery the waterslide was, it seemed unlikely that I could keep the gunpowder dry. So, I went with nothing but a sturdy holly stick that had been seasoned over many winters in our back-kitchen chimney.
Although my heart was leaping high with the prospect of some adventure, and the fear of meeting Lorna, I could not but be gladdened by the softness of the weather, and the welcome way of everything. There was that power all round, that power and that goodness, which make us come, as it were, outside our bodily selves, to share them. Over and beside us breathes the joy of hope and promise; under foot are troubles past; in the distance bowering newness tempts us ever forward. We quicken with largesse of life, and spring with vivid mystery.
Although my heart was racing with the idea of an adventure, and the fear of meeting Lorna, I couldn't help but feel happy about the nice weather and the welcoming atmosphere all around. There was a powerful sense of goodness everywhere, making us feel connected to something greater than ourselves. All around us was the joy of hope and promise; beneath our feet lay past troubles; and in the distance, the allure of new beginnings constantly beckoned us forward. We were energized by the abundance of life and sprang forth with vibrant mystery.
And, in good sooth, I had to spring, and no mystery about it, ere ever I got to the top of the rift leading into Doone-glade. For the stream was rushing down in strength, and raving at every corner; a mort of rain having fallen last night and no wind come to wipe it. However, I reached the head ere dark with more difficulty than danger, and sat in a place which comforted my back and legs desirably.
And honestly, I had to jump, and there was no doubt about it, before I finally got to the top of the rift leading into Doone-glade. The stream was rushing down strongly, and it was roaring at every turn; a huge amount of rain had fallen last night and no wind had come to clear it away. Nevertheless, I reached the top before dark with more effort than danger, and sat in a spot that pleasantly supported my back and legs.
Hereupon I grew so happy at being on dry land again, and come to look for Lorna, with pretty trees around me, that what did I do but fall asleep with the holly-stick in front of me, and my best coat sunk in a bed of moss, with water and wood-sorrel. Mayhap I had not done so, nor yet enjoyed the spring so much, if so be I had not taken three parts of a gallon of cider at home, at Plover's Barrows, because of the lowness and sinking ever since I met Mother Melldrum.
Feeling so happy to be back on solid ground and looking for Lorna, surrounded by beautiful trees, I ended up falling asleep with the holly stick in front of me and my best coat resting on a bed of moss, mixed with water and wood-sorrel. Maybe I wouldn't have felt this way or enjoyed the spring as much if I hadn’t drunk about three-quarters of a gallon of cider back at Plover's Barrows, due to feeling low ever since I met Mother Melldrum.
There was a little runnel going softly down beside me, falling from the upper rock by the means of moss and grass, as if it feared to make a noise, and had a mother sleeping. Now and then it seemed to stop, in fear of its own dropping, and wait for some orders; and the blades of grass that straightened to it turned their points a little way, and offered their allegiance to wind instead of water. Yet before their carkled edges bent more than a driven saw, down the water came again with heavy drops and pats of running, and bright anger at neglect.
There was a small stream gently flowing beside me, trickling down from the upper rocks, using moss and grass like it was afraid to make a sound and didn’t want to wake its sleeping mother. Occasionally, it seemed to pause, scared of its own drops, waiting for some kind of signal; and the blades of grass that stood up for it turned their tips slightly and pledged their loyalty to the wind instead of the water. But before their jagged edges bent more than a saw being pushed, the water surged down again with heavy drops and splashes, bright and furious at being ignored.
This was very pleasant to me, now and then, to gaze at, blinking as the water blinked, and falling back to sleep again. Suddenly my sleep was broken by a shade cast over me; between me and the low sunlight Lorna Doone was standing.
This was really enjoyable for me, occasionally looking up, my eyes fluttering like the reflections on the water, and then drifting back to sleep. Suddenly, my sleep was interrupted by a shadow overhead; Lorna Doone was standing there between me and the soft sunlight.
“Master Ridd, are you mad?” she said, and took my hand to move me.
“Master Ridd, are you crazy?” she said, grabbing my hand to pull me along.
“Not mad, but half asleep,” I answered, feigning not to notice her, that so she might keep hold of me.
“Not mad, just half asleep,” I replied, pretending not to notice her, so she would hold on to me.
“Come away, come away, if you care for life. The patrol will be here directly. Be quick, Master Ridd, let me hide thee.”
“Come on, come on, if you value your life. The patrol will be here soon. Hurry, Master Ridd, let me hide you.”
“I will not stir a step,” said I, though being in the greatest fright that might be well imagined, “unless you call me 'John.'”
“I won’t move an inch,” I said, even though I was completely terrified, “unless you call me 'John.'”
“Well, John, then—Master John Ridd, be quick, if you have any to care for you.”
“Well, John, then—Master John Ridd, hurry up, if you have anyone who cares about you.”
“I have many that care for me,” I said, just to let her know; “and I will follow you, Mistress Lorna, albeit without any hurry, unless there be peril to more than me.”
“I have a lot of people who care about me,” I said, just to make it clear; “and I will follow you, Mistress Lorna, but I won’t rush, unless there’s danger to others besides me.”
Without another word she led me, though with many timid glances towards the upper valley, to, and into, her little bower, where the inlet through the rock was. I am almost sure that I spoke before (though I cannot now go seek for it, and my memory is but a worn-out tub) of a certain deep and perilous pit, in which I was like to drown myself through hurry and fright of boyhood. And even then I wondered greatly, and was vexed with Lorna for sending me in that heedless manner into such an entrance. But now it was clear that she had been right and the fault mine own entirely; for the entrance to the pit was only to be found by seeking it. Inside the niche of native stone, the plainest thing of all to see, at any rate by day light, was the stairway hewn from rock, and leading up the mountain, by means of which I had escaped, as before related. To the right side of this was the mouth of the pit, still looking very formidable; though Lorna laughed at my fear of it, for she drew her water thence. But on the left was a narrow crevice, very difficult to espy, and having a sweep of grey ivy laid, like a slouching beaver, over it. A man here coming from the brightness of the outer air, with eyes dazed by the twilight, would never think of seeing this and following it to its meaning.
Without saying another word, she led me, glancing nervously towards the upper valley, to her little hideaway where the opening through the rock was. I'm pretty sure I mentioned before (though I can't recall exactly, and my memory is just a faded thing) a certain deep and dangerous pit where I almost drowned myself out of youthful haste and fear. Even then, I was really puzzled and annoyed with Lorna for sending me into such a reckless place. But now it was clear that she had been right and the fault was entirely mine; the entrance to the pit could only be found by looking for it. Inside the niche of natural stone, the most obvious thing to see, at least in daylight, was the stairway carved from the rock, which was how I had escaped, as I mentioned earlier. To the right of this was the mouth of the pit, still looking quite intimidating; though Lorna laughed at my fear of it, as she got her water from there. But on the left was a narrow crack, hard to spot, with a tangle of gray ivy covering it like a lazy beaver. A person coming in from the brightness of the outside world, their eyes adjusted to the dim light, would never think to notice this and follow it to its significance.
Lorna raised the screen for me, but I had much ado to pass, on account of bulk and stature. Instead of being proud of my size (as it seemed to me she ought to be) Lorna laughed so quietly that I was ready to knock my head or elbows against anything, and say no more about it. However, I got through at last without a word of compliment, and broke into the pleasant room, the lone retreat of Lorna.
Lorna lifted the screen for me, but I had a hard time getting through because of my size. Instead of being proud of my height (which I thought she should be), Lorna chuckled softly, making me feel frustrated enough to bump my head or elbows against something and just move on. In the end, I managed to squeeze through without any compliments and stepped into the cozy room, Lorna's personal space.
The chamber was of unhewn rock, round, as near as might be, eighteen or twenty feet across, and gay with rich variety of fern and moss and lichen. The fern was in its winter still, or coiling for the spring-tide; but moss was in abundant life, some feathering, and some gobleted, and some with fringe of red to it. Overhead there was no ceiling but the sky itself, flaked with little clouds of April whitely wandering over it. The floor was made of soft low grass, mixed with moss and primroses; and in a niche of shelter moved the delicate wood-sorrel. Here and there, around the sides, were “chairs of living stone,” as some Latin writer says, whose name has quite escaped me; and in the midst a tiny spring arose, with crystal beads in it, and a soft voice as of a laughing dream, and dimples like a sleeping babe. Then, after going round a little, with surprise of daylight, the water overwelled the edge, and softly went through lines of light to shadows and an untold bourne.
The chamber was made of uncut rock, roughly round, about eighteen or twenty feet across, and filled with a vibrant mix of ferns, moss, and lichen. The ferns were either dormant for winter or getting ready for spring; meanwhile, the moss was thriving, some was feathery, some shaped like goblets, and some had a red fringe. Above, there was no ceiling except the sky itself, dotted with little white clouds drifting in the April air. The floor was soft with low grass, mixed with moss and primroses, and in a sheltered nook, delicate wood-sorrel grew. Along the sides, there were “chairs of living stone,” as some Latin writer describes, whose name I can’t quite recall; and in the center, a tiny spring bubbled up, with crystal beads forming in it, making a soft sound like a gentle laugh, and dimpling like a sleeping baby. Then, after exploring a bit in the surprising daylight, the water overflowed the edge and flowed softly through beams of light into the shadows and an unknown destination.
While I was gazing at all these things with wonder and some sadness, Lorna turned upon me lightly (as her manner was) and said,—
While I was staring at all these things with a mix of wonder and sadness, Lorna turned to me playfully (as she usually did) and said,—
“Where are the new-laid eggs, Master Ridd? Or hath blue hen ceased laying?”
“Where are the new-laid eggs, Master Ridd? Has the blue hen stopped laying?”
I did not altogether like the way in which she said it with a sort of dialect, as if my speech could be laughed at.
I didn't really like the way she said it, with a kind of accent, like my way of speaking was something to be mocked.
“Here be some,” I answered, speaking as if in spite of her. “I would have brought thee twice as many, but that I feared to crush them in the narrow ways, Mistress Lorna.”
“Here are some,” I replied, sounding almost defiant. “I would have brought you twice as many, but I was afraid of crushing them in the narrow paths, Mistress Lorna.”
And so I laid her out two dozen upon the moss of the rock-ledge, unwinding the wisp of hay from each as it came safe out of my pocket. Lorna looked with growing wonder, as I added one to one; and when I had placed them side by side, and bidden her now to tell them, to my amazement what did she do but burst into a flood of tears.
And so I laid out two dozen on the moss of the rock ledge, unwinding the strands of hay from each as it came out of my pocket. Lorna looked on with increasing wonder as I added one by one; and when I had lined them up side by side and asked her to count them, to my surprise, she suddenly burst into tears.
“What have I done?” I asked, with shame, scarce daring even to look at her, because her grief was not like Annie's—a thing that could be coaxed away, and left a joy in going—“oh, what have I done to vex you so?”
“What have I done?” I asked, feeling ashamed, hardly able to look at her because her sadness was different from Annie's—something that couldn’t be eased and left behind with joy. “Oh, what have I done to upset you so?”
“It is nothing done by you, Master Ridd,” she answered, very proudly, as if nought I did could matter; “it is only something that comes upon me with the scent of the pure true clover-hay. Moreover, you have been too kind; and I am not used to kindness.”
“It’s not anything you did, Master Ridd,” she replied, quite proudly, as if nothing I did could matter; “it’s just something that hits me with the smell of fresh, pure clover hay. Besides, you’ve been too nice, and I’m not used to kindness.”
Some sort of awkwardness was on me, at her words and weeping, as if I would like to say something, but feared to make things worse perhaps than they were already. Therefore I abstained from speech, as I would in my own pain. And as it happened, this was the way to make her tell me more about it. Not that I was curious, beyond what pity urged me and the strange affairs around her; and now I gazed upon the floor, lest I should seem to watch her; but none the less for that I knew all that she was doing.
I felt a kind of awkwardness because of her words and tears, as if I wanted to say something, but I was afraid I'd only make things worse. So I stayed silent, just like I would with my own pain. Ironically, this encouraged her to share more with me. It wasn’t that I was overly curious, beyond what my pity and the unusual situation demanded; I just looked at the floor so it wouldn’t seem like I was watching her. Still, I knew exactly what she was doing.
Lorna went a little way, as if she would not think of me nor care for one so careless; and all my heart gave a sudden jump, to go like a mad thing after her; until she turned of her own accord, and with a little sigh came back to me. Her eyes were soft with trouble's shadow, and the proud lift of her neck was gone, and beauty's vanity borne down by woman's want of sustenance.
Lorna walked away for a bit, behaving like she didn’t want to think of me or care about someone so careless; and my heart suddenly raced, wanting to follow her like crazy; until she turned around on her own and let out a little sigh as she came back to me. Her eyes were filled with a soft sadness, the proud lift of her neck was gone, and the beauty’s vanity weighed down by a woman’s need for care.
“Master Ridd,” she said in the softest voice that ever flowed between two lips, “have I done aught to offend you?”
“Master Ridd,” she said in the softest voice that ever flowed between two lips, “have I done anything to offend you?”
Hereupon it went hard with me, not to catch her up and kiss her, in the manner in which she was looking; only it smote me suddenly that this would be a low advantage of her trust and helplessness. She seemed to know what I would be at, and to doubt very greatly about it, whether as a child of old she might permit the usage. All sorts of things went through my head, as I made myself look away from her, for fear of being tempted beyond what I could bear. And the upshot of it was that I said, within my heart and through it, “John Ridd, be on thy very best manners with this lonely maiden.”
It was tough for me not to run over and kiss her, especially with the way she was looking at me; but it hit me in that moment that it would be taking unfair advantage of her trust and vulnerability. She seemed to sense what I was thinking and was really uncertain about whether, as someone from her past, she could allow that to happen. A flood of thoughts raced through my mind as I forced myself to look away from her, afraid I would be tempted more than I could handle. In the end, I told myself, “John Ridd, behave your best around this lonely girl.”
Lorna liked me all the better for my good forbearance; because she did not love me yet, and had not thought about it; at least so far as I knew. And though her eyes were so beauteous, so very soft and kindly, there was (to my apprehension) some great power in them, as if she would not have a thing, unless her judgment leaped with it.
Lorna appreciated me even more for my patience; because she didn’t love me yet and hadn’t considered it, at least not that I was aware of. And even though her eyes were beautiful, so gentle and warm, I sensed a strong power in them, as if she wouldn’t accept anything unless her judgment agreed with it.
But now her judgment leaped with me, because I had behaved so well; and being of quick urgent nature—such as I delight in, for the change from mine own slowness—she, without any let or hindrance, sitting over against me, now raising and now dropping fringe over those sweet eyes that were the road-lights of her tongue, Lorna told me all about everything I wished to know, every little thing she knew, except indeed that point of points, how Master Ridd stood with her.
But now she was completely on my side because I had acted so well; and being someone who was quick and eager—qualities I admire, as they are a nice contrast to my own slowness—she, sitting across from me, occasionally raising and then dropping the fringe over her beautiful eyes that sparkled with her words, Lorna shared everything I wanted to know, every little detail she had, except of course that crucial point about how Master Ridd felt about her.
Although it wearied me no whit, it might be wearisome for folk who cannot look at Lorna, to hear the story all in speech, exactly as she told it; therefore let me put it shortly, to the best of my remembrance.
Although it didn't tire me at all, it might be tiring for people who can't see Lorna to hear the story all in words, exactly as she told it; so let me summarize it, as best as I can remember.
Nay, pardon me, whosoever thou art, for seeming fickle and rude to thee; I have tried to do as first proposed, to tell the tale in my own words, as of another's fortune. But, lo! I was beset at once with many heavy obstacles, which grew as I went onward, until I knew not where I was, and mingled past and present. And two of these difficulties only were enough to stop me; the one that I must coldly speak without the force of pity, the other that I, off and on, confused myself with Lorna, as might be well expected.
No, forgive me, whoever you are, for seeming changeable and rude to you; I have tried to tell the story in my own words, as if it were someone else’s fate. But, look! I was immediately faced with many heavy obstacles that grew as I continued, until I didn't know where I was, mixing up the past and present. And just two of these difficulties were enough to stop me; one was that I had to speak coldly without any feeling of pity, and the other was that I often confused myself with Lorna, which was to be expected.
Therefore let her tell the story, with her own sweet voice and manner; and if ye find it wearisome, seek in yourselves the weariness.
So let her share the story in her own charming voice and style; and if you find it tiring, look within yourselves to find the fatigue.
CHAPTER XX
LORNA BEGINS HER STORY
“I cannot go through all my thoughts so as to make them clear to you, nor have I ever dwelt on things, to shape a story of them. I know not where the beginning was, nor where the middle ought to be, nor even how at the present time I feel, or think, or ought to think. If I look for help to those around me, who should tell me right and wrong (being older and much wiser), I meet sometimes with laughter, and at other times with anger.
“I can’t sort through all my thoughts to explain them clearly to you, and I’ve never really reflected on things to create a narrative. I don’t know where it all started, where the middle should be, or even how I feel right now, or think, or should think. When I seek guidance from those around me, who are supposed to tell me what’s right and wrong (being older and wiser), I’m met with laughter sometimes, and other times with anger."
“There are but two in the world who ever listen and try to help me; one of them is my grandfather, and the other is a man of wisdom, whom we call the Counsellor. My grandfather, Sir Ensor Doone, is very old and harsh of manner (except indeed to me); he seems to know what is right and wrong, but not to want to think of it. The Counsellor, on the other hand, though full of life and subtleties, treats my questions as of play, and not gravely worth his while to answer, unless he can make wit of them.
“There are only two people in the world who actually listen and try to help me; one is my grandfather, and the other is a wise man we call the Counsellor. My grandfather, Sir Ensor Doone, is very old and strict (except with me); he seems to know what's right and wrong, but he doesn’t seem interested in thinking about it. The Counsellor, on the other hand, while full of energy and cleverness, treats my questions lightly, as if they aren’t serious enough for him to answer unless he can turn them into a joke.”
“And among the women there are none with whom I can hold converse, since my Aunt Sabina died, who took such pains to teach me. She was a lady of high repute and lofty ways, and learning, but grieved and harassed more and more by the coarseness, and the violence, and the ignorance around her. In vain she strove, from year to year, to make the young men hearken, to teach them what became their birth, and give them sense of honour. It was her favourite word, poor thing! and they called her 'Old Aunt Honour.' Very often she used to say that I was her only comfort, and I am sure she was my only one; and when she died it was more to me than if I had lost a mother.
“And among the women, there’s no one I can talk to since my Aunt Sabina passed away, who put in so much effort to teach me. She was a woman of high standing and noble ways, knowledgeable but increasingly troubled by the roughness, violence, and ignorance around her. Year after year, she tried in vain to get the young men to listen, to teach them what was fitting for their status, and to instill a sense of honor in them. That was her favorite word, poor thing! They called her 'Old Aunt Honour.' She often said that I was her only comfort, and I know she was mine; when she died, it felt more like losing a mother to me.”
“For I have no remembrance now of father or of mother, although they say that my father was the eldest son of Sir Ensor Doone, and the bravest and the best of them. And so they call me heiress to this little realm of violence; and in sorry sport sometimes, I am their Princess or their Queen.
“For I don’t remember my father or mother now, although they say my father was the eldest son of Sir Ensor Doone, and the bravest and best of them. So they call me the heiress to this little realm of violence; and sometimes, in a sad joke, I’m their Princess or their Queen.”
“Many people living here, as I am forced to do, would perhaps be very happy, and perhaps I ought to be so. We have a beauteous valley, sheltered from the cold of winter and power of the summer sun, untroubled also by the storms and mists that veil the mountains; although I must acknowledge that it is apt to rain too often. The grass moreover is so fresh, and the brook so bright and lively, and flowers of so many hues come after one another that no one need be dull, if only left alone with them.
“Many people living here, like me, might be really happy, and maybe I should be too. We’ve got a beautiful valley that’s protected from the winter chill and the summer heat, and it’s not bothered by the storms and fog that cover the mountains; although I admit it does rain a bit too much. The grass is so fresh, the brook is vibrant and lively, and flowers of all different colors bloom one after another, so no one has to feel bored, as long as they’re just left alone with them.”
“And so in the early days perhaps, when morning breathes around me, and the sun is going upward, and light is playing everywhere, I am not so far beside them all as to live in shadow. But when the evening gathers down, and the sky is spread with sadness, and the day has spent itself; then a cloud of lonely trouble falls, like night, upon me. I cannot see the things I quest for of a world beyond me; I cannot join the peace and quiet of the depth above me; neither have I any pleasure in the brightness of the stars.
“And so in the early days, maybe when morning surrounds me, and the sun is rising, and light is everywhere, I’m not so far from everyone that I’m living in shadow. But when evening comes, and the sky is filled with gloom, and the day has exhausted itself; then a cloud of lonely troubles falls, like night, over me. I can’t see the things I seek in a world beyond me; I can’t join the peace and calm of the depths above me; and I don’t find any joy in the brightness of the stars.”
“What I want to know is something none of them can tell me—what am I, and why set here, and when shall I be with them? I see that you are surprised a little at this my curiosity. Perhaps such questions never spring in any wholesome spirit. But they are in the depths of mine, and I cannot be quit of them.
“What I want to know is something none of them can tell me—what am I, and why am I here, and when will I be with them? I see that you are a bit surprised by my curiosity. Maybe these kinds of questions never come from a healthy mind. But they’re deep within me, and I can’t shake them off.”
“Meantime, all around me is violence and robbery, coarse delight and savage pain, reckless joke and hopeless death. Is it any wonder that I cannot sink with these, that I cannot so forget my soul, as to live the life of brutes, and die the death more horrible because it dreams of waking? There is none to lead me forward, there is none to teach me right; young as I am, I live beneath a curse that lasts for ever.”
“Meanwhile, all around me is violence and theft, crude pleasure and brutal suffering, careless jokes and inevitable death. Is it any wonder that I can’t sink to their level, that I can’t forget my humanity enough to live like an animal and die a death even more terrifying because it dreams of waking? There’s no one to guide me forward, no one to show me what’s right; as young as I am, I bear a curse that lasts forever.”
Here Lorna broke down for awhile, and cried so very piteously, that doubting of my knowledge, and of any power to comfort, I did my best to hold my peace, and tried to look very cheerful. Then thinking that might be bad manners, I went to wipe her eyes for her.
Here Lorna broke down for a while and cried so heart-wrenchingly that, doubting my ability to help or comfort her, I did my best to stay quiet and tried to look really cheerful. Then, realizing that might come off as rude, I went to wipe her eyes for her.
“Master Ridd,” she began again, “I am both ashamed and vexed at my own childish folly. But you, who have a mother, who thinks (you say) so much of you, and sisters, and a quiet home; you cannot tell (it is not likely) what a lonely nature is. How it leaps in mirth sometimes, with only heaven touching it; and how it falls away desponding, when the dreary weight creeps on.
“Master Ridd,” she started again, “I feel both embarrassed and annoyed by my own childish foolishness. But you, who have a mother who thinks (you say) so highly of you, and sisters, and a peaceful home; you probably can’t understand what it feels like to have a lonely nature. How it can be joyful at times, with only the sky to connect with; and how it can fall into despair when that heavy sadness sets in.”
“It does not happen many times that I give way like this; more shame now to do so, when I ought to entertain you. Sometimes I am so full of anger, that I dare not trust to speech, at things they cannot hide from me; and perhaps you would be much surprised that reckless men would care so much to elude a young girl's knowledge. They used to boast to Aunt Sabina of pillage and of cruelty, on purpose to enrage her; but they never boast to me. It even makes me smile sometimes to see how awkwardly they come and offer for temptation to me shining packets, half concealed, of ornaments and finery, of rings, or chains, or jewels, lately belonging to other people.
"I don't often show weakness like this; it’s even more embarrassing to do so when I should be entertaining you. Sometimes I’m so filled with anger that I don’t trust myself to speak about things they can’t hide from me; you might be surprised to know how much reckless men want to keep a young girl in the dark. They used to brag to Aunt Sabina about their looting and cruelty just to get a rise out of her; but they never brag to me. It even makes me smile sometimes to see how clumsily they come and try to tempt me with shiny packages, half-hidden, filled with jewelry and fancy items—rings, chains, or gems that used to belong to someone else."
“But when I try to search the past, to get a sense of what befell me ere my own perception formed; to feel back for the lines of childhood, as a trace of gossamer, then I only know that nought lives longer than God wills it. So may after sin go by, for we are children always, as the Counsellor has told me; so may we, beyond the clouds, seek this infancy of life, and never find its memory.
“But when I try to look back at the past, to understand what happened to me before my own perception formed; to reach back for the threads of childhood, like a delicate trace, I only realize that nothing lasts longer than God allows. So may time pass after sin, for we are always children, as the Counselor has told me; so may we, beyond the clouds, search for this early stage of life and never find its memory."
“But I am talking now of things which never come across me when any work is toward. It might have been a good thing for me to have had a father to beat these rovings out of me; or a mother to make a home, and teach me how to manage it. For, being left with none—I think; and nothing ever comes of it. Nothing, I mean, which I can grasp and have with any surety; nothing but faint images, and wonderment, and wandering. But often, when I am neither searching back into remembrance, nor asking of my parents, but occupied by trifles, something like a sign, or message, or a token of some meaning, seems to glance upon me. Whether from the rustling wind, or sound of distant music, or the singing of a bird, like the sun on snow it strikes me with a pain of pleasure.
“But I’m talking about things that never come to me when I’m focused on any work. It might have been good for me to have had a father to knock these wandering thoughts out of me; or a mother to create a home and teach me how to manage it. But being left with neither—I think; and nothing ever comes from it. Nothing, I mean, that I can hold onto with any certainty; nothing but faint images, and curiosity, and wandering. But often, when I’m not digging into memories, nor asking my parents, but distracted by little things, something like a sign, a message, or a hint of some meaning seems to brush against me. Whether it’s from the rustling wind, the sound of distant music, or the singing of a bird, it hits me with a joyful pain like sunlight on snow.”
“And often when I wake at night, and listen to the silence, or wander far from people in the grayness of the evening, or stand and look at quiet water having shadows over it, some vague image seems to hover on the skirt of vision, ever changing place and outline, ever flitting as I follow. This so moves and hurries me, in the eagerness and longing, that straightway all my chance is lost; and memory, scared like a wild bird, flies. Or am I as a child perhaps, chasing a flown cageling, who among the branches free plays and peeps at the offered cage (as a home not to be urged on him), and means to take his time of coming, if he comes at all?
“And often when I wake up at night, and listen to the silence, or wander far away from people in the gray of the evening, or stand and look at calm water with shadows over it, some vague image seems to hover at the edge of my vision, constantly changing shape and position, always darting away as I try to follow. This movement stirs and overwhelms me with eagerness and longing, so much so that I completely lose my chance; and memory, frightened like a wild bird, takes off. Or am I like a child, maybe, chasing after a flown cage bird, who plays and peeks among the branches, free from the cage (which is a home that shouldn’t be forced upon him), and intends to take his time in returning, if he even decides to come back at all?”
“Often too I wonder at the odds of fortune, which made me (helpless as I am, and fond of peace and reading) the heiress of this mad domain, the sanctuary of unholiness. It is not likely that I shall have much power of authority; and yet the Counsellor creeps up to be my Lord of the Treasury; and his son aspires to my hand, as of a Royal alliance. Well, 'honour among thieves,' they say; and mine is the first honour: although among decent folk perhaps, honesty is better.
“Often I find myself wondering about the whims of fate, which made me (powerless as I am, and loving peace and reading) the heiress of this crazy place, the refuge of immorality. It’s unlikely that I’ll have much authority; and yet the Counsellor is trying to become my Lord of the Treasury; and his son aims to marry me, as if it were a royal alliance. Well, ‘honor among thieves,’ they say; and I have the highest honor: although perhaps among decent people, honesty is better.”
“We should not be so quiet here, and safe from interruption but that I have begged one privilege rather than commanded it. This was that the lower end, just this narrowing of the valley, where it is most hard to come at, might be looked upon as mine, except for purposes of guard. Therefore none beside the sentries ever trespass on me here, unless it be my grandfather, or the Counsellor or Carver.
“We shouldn’t be so quiet here, safe from interruption, that I have to ask for this privilege instead of just commanding it. I wanted the lower end of the valley, the part that’s hardest to reach, to be considered mine, except for guarding purposes. So, no one besides the sentries comes here without my permission, unless it’s my grandfather, the Counsellor, or the Carver."
“By your face, Master Ridd, I see that you have heard of Carver Doone. For strength and courage and resource he bears the first repute among us, as might well be expected from the son of the Counsellor. But he differs from his father, in being very hot and savage, and quite free from argument. The Counsellor, who is my uncle, gives his son the best advice; commending all the virtues, with eloquence and wisdom; yet himself abstaining from them accurately and impartially.
"By your expression, Master Ridd, I can tell you've heard of Carver Doone. He’s known for his strength, courage, and skills, as you'd expect from the son of the Counsellor. But he’s quite different from his father—he’s very fiery and aggressive, and he doesn’t engage in reasoning. The Counsellor, my uncle, offers his son the best advice, praising all the virtues with great eloquence and wisdom, yet he himself refrains from practicing them faithfully and without bias."
“You must be tired of this story, and the time I take to think, and the weakness of my telling; but my life from day to day shows so little variance. Among the riders there is none whose safe return I watch for—I mean none more than other—and indeed there seems no risk, all are now so feared of us. Neither of the old men is there whom I can revere or love (except alone my grandfather, whom I love with trembling): neither of the women any whom I like to deal with, unless it be a little maiden whom I saved from starving.
“You must be tired of this story, of the time I take to think, and of the weakness of my storytelling; but my life day to day shows so little variation. Among the riders, there isn't anyone whose safe return I eagerly watch for—none more than others—and honestly, there seems to be no risk; everyone is so afraid of us now. Neither of the old men is someone I can admire or love (except for my grandfather, whom I love with mixed emotions): and none of the women is someone I enjoy dealing with, unless it’s a little girl I saved from starving.”
“A little Cornish girl she is, and shaped in western manner, not so very much less in width than if you take her lengthwise. Her father seems to have been a miner, a Cornishman (as she declares) of more than average excellence, and better than any two men to be found in Devonshire, or any four in Somerset. Very few things can have been beyond his power of performance, and yet he left his daughter to starve upon a peat-rick. She does not know how this was done, and looks upon it as a mystery, the meaning of which will some day be clear, and redound to her father's honour. His name was Simon Carfax, and he came as the captain of a gang from one of the Cornish stannaries. Gwenny Carfax, my young maid, well remembers how her father was brought up from Cornwall. Her mother had been buried, just a week or so before; and he was sad about it, and had been off his work, and was ready for another job. Then people came to him by night, and said that he must want a change, and everybody lost their wives, and work was the way to mend it. So what with grief, and over-thought, and the inside of a square bottle, Gwenny says they brought him off, to become a mighty captain, and choose the country round. The last she saw of him was this, that he went down a ladder somewhere on the wilds of Exmoor, leaving her with bread and cheese, and his travelling-hat to see to. And from that day to this he never came above the ground again; so far as we can hear of.
"She's a little Cornish girl, shaped in a western way, not much narrower than she is long. Her father seems to have been a miner, a Cornishman (as she claims) of above-average skill, better than any two men in Devonshire, or even four in Somerset. Very few things would have been beyond his abilities, yet he left his daughter to starve on a peat pile. She doesn’t understand how this happened and sees it as a mystery, the significance of which will one day be revealed and honor her father. His name was Simon Carfax, and he was the captain of a crew from one of the Cornish tin mines. Gwenny Carfax, my young maid, clearly remembers how her father was brought up from Cornwall. Her mother had been buried just a week or so earlier, and he was grieving and had been off work, looking for a new job. Then, people came to him at night, saying he needed a change, that everyone lost their wives, and work was the way to fix it. So, with grief, overthinking, and a bottle in hand, Gwenny says they convinced him to leave and become a mighty captain, choosing his surroundings. The last she saw of him was when he went down a ladder somewhere in the wilds of Exmoor, leaving her with bread and cheese, and his travel hat to take care of. And since that day, he’s never come above ground again, as far as we know."
“But Gwenny, holding to his hat, and having eaten the bread and cheese (when he came no more to help her), dwelt three days near the mouth of the hole; and then it was closed over, the while that she was sleeping. With weakness and with want of food, she lost herself distressfully, and went away for miles or more, and lay upon a peat-rick, to die before the ravens.
“But Gwenny, clutching his hat and having eaten the bread and cheese (when he no longer came to help her), stayed for three days near the entrance of the hole; and then it was sealed up while she was sleeping. Weak and starving, she wandered aimlessly for miles and collapsed on a peat pile, ready to die before the ravens.”
“That very day I chanced to return from Aunt Sabina's dying-place; for she would not die in Glen Doone, she said, lest the angels feared to come for her; and so she was taken to a cottage in a lonely valley. I was allowed to visit her, for even we durst not refuse the wishes of the dying; and if a priest had been desired, we should have made bold with him. Returning very sorrowful, and caring now for nothing, I found this little stray thing lying, her arms upon her, and not a sign of life, except the way that she was biting. Black root-stuff was in her mouth, and a piece of dirty sheep's wool, and at her feet an old egg-shell of some bird of the moorland.
That very day, I happened to come back from Aunt Sabina's place where she was dying; she refused to pass away in Glen Doone because she was afraid the angels wouldn't come for her, so she was taken to a cottage in a remote valley. I was allowed to visit her because even we didn’t dare ignore the wishes of someone who was dying; and if a priest had been needed, we would have boldly called for him. I returned feeling very sad and indifferent to everything, only to find this little stray thing lying there, her arms crossed, and not a sign of life except for the way she was biting. Black root material was in her mouth, along with a piece of dirty sheep's wool, and at her feet was an old eggshell from some moorland bird.
“I tried to raise her, but she was too square and heavy for me; and so I put food in her mouth, and left her to do right with it. And this she did in a little time; for the victuals were very choice and rare, being what I had taken over to tempt poor Aunt Sabina. Gwenny ate them without delay, and then was ready to eat the basket and the ware that contained them.
“I tried to lift her, but she was too stiff and heavy for me; so I put food in her mouth and let her handle it. And she did manage to eat it in no time; the food was really good and special, being what I had brought over to entice poor Aunt Sabina. Gwenny devoured it right away, and then she was ready to eat the basket and the dishes that held it.”
“Gwenny took me for an angel—though I am little like one, as you see, Master Ridd; and she followed me, expecting that I would open wings and fly when we came to any difficulty. I brought her home with me, so far as this can be a home, and she made herself my sole attendant, without so much as asking me. She has beaten two or three other girls, who used to wait upon me, until they are afraid to come near the house of my grandfather. She seems to have no kind of fear even of our roughest men; and yet she looks with reverence and awe upon the Counsellor. As for the wickedness, and theft, and revelry around her, she says it is no concern of hers, and they know their own business best. By this way of regarding men she has won upon our riders, so that she is almost free from all control of place and season, and is allowed to pass where none even of the youths may go. Being so wide, and short, and flat, she has none to pay her compliments; and, were there any, she would scorn them, as not being Cornishmen. Sometimes she wanders far, by moonlight, on the moors and up the rivers, to give her father (as she says) another chance of finding her, and she comes back not a wit defeated, or discouraged, or depressed, but confident that he is only waiting for the proper time.
“Gwenny thought I was an angel—even though I’m hardly like one, as you can see, Master Ridd; and she followed me, expecting I’d spread my wings and fly whenever we faced a challenge. I brought her home with me, as much as this can be called a home, and she decided to be my only attendant without even asking me. She’s chased off two or three other girls who used to help me, until they’re too scared to come near my grandfather’s house. She doesn’t seem to fear even our toughest men; yet she looks up to the Counsellor with respect and awe. As for the wrongdoing, theft, and partying happening around her, she says it’s not her problem, and they know what they’re doing best. By viewing men this way, she has won the favor of our riders, so she’s almost free from any restrictions about where and when she can go, and she’s allowed to wander places even the young men can’t. Being wide, short, and flat, she doesn’t get compliments; and if she did, she would disregard them, since they wouldn’t be from Cornishmen. Sometimes she wanders far on the moors and up the rivers by moonlight to give her father (as she says) another chance to find her, and she comes back just as confident, not a bit defeated or discouraged, believing he’s just waiting for the right moment.”
“Herein she sets me good example of a patience and contentment hard for me to imitate. Oftentimes I am vexed by things I cannot meddle with, yet which cannot be kept from me, that I am at the point of flying from this dreadful valley, and risking all that can betide me in the unknown outer world. If it were not for my grandfather, I would have done so long ago; but I cannot bear that he should die with no gentle hand to comfort him; and I fear to think of the conflict that must ensue for the government, if there be a disputed succession.
“Here, she shows me a great example of patience and contentment that I find hard to emulate. Often, I get annoyed by things I can’t change but can’t avoid either, to the point where I almost want to escape from this terrible place and risk everything in the unknown outside world. If it weren’t for my grandfather, I would have left long ago; but I can’t bear the thought of him dying without someone to comfort him. I also dread the conflict that would arise for the government if there’s a disputed succession.”
“Ah me! We are to be pitied greatly, rather than condemned, by people whose things we have taken from them; for I have read, and seem almost to understand about it, that there are places on the earth where gentle peace, and love of home, and knowledge of one's neighbours prevail, and are, with reason, looked for as the usual state of things. There honest folk may go to work in the glory of the sunrise, with hope of coming home again quite safe in the quiet evening, and finding all their children; and even in the darkness they have no fear of lying down, and dropping off to slumber, and hearken to the wind of night, not as to an enemy trying to find entrance, but a friend who comes to tell the value of their comfort.
“Ah, how pitiful we are! We deserve sympathy rather than judgment from those whose belongings we’ve taken; because I’ve read and almost understand that there are places on Earth where peace, love of home, and knowing your neighbors are the norm, and are rightfully expected. There, honest people can start their work with the glory of the sunrise, hoping to return safely in the quiet evening to find all their children. Even in the dark, they fear not as they lie down and drift off to sleep, listening to the night wind not as an intruder, but as a friend bringing them reassurance of their comfort.”
“Of all this golden ease I hear, but never saw the like of it; and, haply, I shall never do so, being born to turbulence. Once, indeed, I had the offer of escape, and kinsman's aid, and high place in the gay, bright world; and yet I was not tempted much, or, at least, dared not to trust it. And it ended very sadly, so dreadfully that I even shrink from telling you about it; for that one terror changed my life, in a moment, at a blow, from childhood and from thoughts of play and commune with the flowers and trees, to a sense of death and darkness, and a heavy weight of earth. Be content now, Master Ridd ask me nothing more about it, so your sleep be sounder.”
“I hear about all this golden ease, but I've never experienced anything like it; and, unfortunately, I probably never will, being born into chaos. Once, I actually had the chance to escape, with help from family and a prominent place in the lively, bright world; yet, I wasn’t very tempted or, at least, I didn’t dare to trust it. It ended very sadly, so terribly that I even hesitate to share it with you; that one fear changed my life in an instant, taking me from childhood and carefree thoughts with flowers and trees to a feeling of death and darkness, along with a heavy burden of reality. Please, Master Ridd, ask me nothing more about it so you can sleep better.”
But I, John Ridd, being young and new, and very fond of hearing things to make my blood to tingle, had no more of manners than to urge poor Lorna onwards, hoping, perhaps, in depth of heart, that she might have to hold by me, when the worst came to the worst of it. Therefore she went on again.
But I, John Ridd, being young and inexperienced, and really eager to hear exciting stories, didn’t have the courtesy to do anything but push poor Lorna to keep going, hoping, maybe deep down, that she might need to lean on me when things got tough. So she continued on again.
CHAPTER XXI
LORNA ENDS HER STORY
“It is not a twelvemonth yet, although it seems ten years agone, since I blew the downy globe to learn the time of day, or set beneath my chin the veinings of the varnished buttercup, or fired the fox-glove cannonade, or made a captive of myself with dandelion fetters; for then I had not very much to trouble me in earnest, but went about, romancing gravely, playing at bo-peep with fear, making for myself strong heroes of gray rock or fir-tree, adding to my own importance, as the children love to do.
“It hasn’t been a year yet, even though it feels like it was ten years ago, since I blew the fluffy dandelion to check the time, or held the shiny buttercup under my chin, or set off the foxglove like a cannon, or tied myself up with dandelion chains; back then, I didn’t have much to worry about seriously, so I wandered around, daydreaming earnestly, playing peek-a-boo with fear, creating strong heroes from gray rocks or fir trees, boosting my own significance, just like kids love to do."
“As yet I had not truly learned the evil of our living, the scorn of law, the outrage, and the sorrow caused to others. It even was a point with all to hide the roughness from me, to show me but the gallant side, and keep in shade the other. My grandfather, Sir Ensor Doone, had given strictest order, as I discovered afterwards, that in my presence all should be seemly, kind, and vigilant. Nor was it very difficult to keep most part of the mischief from me, for no Doone ever robs at home, neither do they quarrel much, except at times of gambling. And though Sir Ensor Doone is now so old and growing feeble, his own way he will have still, and no one dare deny him. Even our fiercest and most mighty swordsmen, seared from all sense of right or wrong, yet have plentiful sense of fear, when brought before that white-haired man. Not that he is rough with them, or querulous, or rebukeful; but that he has a strange soft smile, and a gaze they cannot answer, and a knowledge deeper far than they have of themselves. Under his protection, I am as safe from all those men (some of whom are but little akin to me) as if I slept beneath the roof of the King's Lord Justiciary.
“As of yet, I hadn’t really understood the damage of our way of life, the disregard for the law, the harm, and the pain we caused others. It was even a priority for everyone to hide the harsh reality from me, to only show me the brave side, and keep the darker aspects hidden. My grandfather, Sir Ensor Doone, had given strict orders, which I found out later, that everyone should act properly, with kindness and alertness, in my presence. It wasn’t very hard to keep most of the trouble from me, since no Doone ever robs at home, and they don’t argue much, except during gambling. And although Sir Ensor Doone is now very old and getting weak, he still insists on having things his way, and no one dares to oppose him. Even our fiercest and strongest fighters, hardened to the point of losing all sense of right and wrong, have plenty of fear when they stand in front of that white-haired man. Not that he is harsh with them, or complaining, or scolding; it’s just that he has a peculiar gentle smile, a look they can’t challenge, and a deeper understanding than they have of themselves. Under his protection, I feel as safe from all those men (some of whom are only distantly related to me) as if I were sleeping under the roof of the King’s Lord Justiciary.”
“But now, at the time I speak of, one evening of last summer, a horrible thing befell, which took all play of childhood from me. The fifteenth day of last July was very hot and sultry, long after the time of sundown; and I was paying heed of it, because of the old saying that if it rain then, rain will fall on forty days thereafter. I had been long by the waterside at this lower end of the valley, plaiting a little crown of woodbine crocketed with sprigs of heath—to please my grandfather, who likes to see me gay at supper-time. Being proud of my tiara, which had cost some trouble, I set it on my head at once, to save the chance of crushing, and carrying my gray hat, ventured by a path not often trod. For I must be home at the supper-time, or grandfather would be exceeding wrath; and the worst of his anger is that he never condescends to show it.
But now, at the time I'm talking about, one evening last summer, something terrible happened that took all the fun of childhood away from me. The fifteenth of July was really hot and humid, long after sunset; and I was paying attention to it because of the old saying that if it rains then, it will rain for forty days afterward. I had spent a long time by the water at the lower end of the valley, weaving a little crown of wildflowers decorated with sprigs of heather—to please my grandfather, who likes to see me cheerful at dinner. Feeling proud of my crown, which took some effort to make, I put it on my head right away to avoid crushing it, and carrying my gray hat, I ventured down a less-traveled path. I needed to be home by dinner time, or my grandfather would be really angry; and the worst part about his anger is that he never bothers to show it.
“Therefore, instead of the open mead, or the windings of the river, I made short cut through the ash-trees covert which lies in the middle of our vale, with the water skirting or cleaving it. You have never been up so far as that—at least to the best of my knowledge—but you see it like a long gray spot, from the top of the cliffs above us. Here I was not likely to meet any of our people because the young ones are afraid of some ancient tale about it, and the old ones have no love of trees where gunshots are uncertain.
"Instead of taking the open meadow or following the twists of the river, I took a shortcut through the grove of ash trees in the middle of our valley, with water running alongside it. You’ve never been that far—at least as far as I know—but you can see it as a long gray patch from the top of the cliffs above us. I wasn't likely to run into anyone from our group here because the younger ones are scared of some old story about it, and the older folks aren't fond of trees when gunshots are unpredictable."
“It was more almost than dusk, down below the tree-leaves, and I was eager to go through, and be again beyond it. For the gray dark hung around me, scarcely showing shadow; and the little light that glimmered seemed to come up from the ground. For the earth was strown with the winter-spread and coil of last year's foliage, the lichened claws of chalky twigs, and the numberless decay which gives a light in its decaying. I, for my part, hastened shyly, ready to draw back and run from hare, or rabbit, or small field-mouse.
“It was almost dusk, beneath the leaves of the trees, and I was eager to go through and be on the other side. The gray darkness surrounded me, barely casting shadows, and the faint light that shimmered seemed to rise from the ground. The earth was covered with the remnants of last year's leaves, the lichen-covered claws of pale twigs, and the countless decays that emit a light even as they decay. I, for my part, moved cautiously, prepared to pull back and run from a hare, a rabbit, or a small field mouse.”
“At a sudden turn of the narrow path, where it stopped again to the river, a man leaped out from behind a tree, and stopped me, and seized hold of me. I tried to shriek, but my voice was still; I could only hear my heart.
“At a sudden turn of the narrow path, where it stopped again by the river, a man jumped out from behind a tree, blocked my way, and grabbed me. I tried to scream, but my voice failed; all I could hear was my heartbeat.”
“'Now, Cousin Lorna, my good cousin,' he said, with ease and calmness; 'your voice is very sweet, no doubt, from all that I can see of you. But I pray you keep it still, unless you would give to dusty death your very best cousin and trusty guardian, Alan Brandir of Loch Awe.'
“'Now, Cousin Lorna, my dear cousin,' he said, with ease and calmness; 'your voice is definitely sweet, no doubt about it, from everything I can see of you. But please keep it down, unless you want to bring dusty death to your very best cousin and trusted guardian, Alan Brandir of Loch Awe.'”
“'You my guardian!' I said, for the idea was too ludicrous; and ludicrous things always strike me first, through some fault of nature.
“You’re my guardian!” I said, because the thought was too ridiculous; and ridiculous things always catch my attention first, due to some quirk of nature.
“'I have in truth that honour, madam,' he answered, with a sweeping bow; 'unless I err in taking you for Mistress Lorna Doone.'
“'I truly have that honor, madam,' he replied with a grand bow; 'unless I'm mistaken in thinking you are Mistress Lorna Doone.'”
“'You have not mistaken me. My name is Lorna Doone.'
“'You haven't gotten me confused. My name is Lorna Doone.'”
“He looked at me, with gravity, and was inclined to make some claim to closer consideration upon the score of kinship; but I shrunk back, and only said, 'Yes, my name is Lorna Doone.'
“He looked at me seriously and seemed ready to assert a closer connection due to family ties; but I recoiled and simply replied, 'Yes, my name is Lorna Doone.'”
“'Then I am your faithful guardian, Alan Brandir of Loch Awe; called Lord Alan Brandir, son of a worthy peer of Scotland. Now will you confide in me?'
“Then I am your loyal protector, Alan Brandir of Loch Awe; known as Lord Alan Brandir, son of a respected noble of Scotland. So, will you trust me?”
“'I confide in you!” I cried, looking at him with amazement; 'why, you are not older than I am!'
"'I trust you!' I exclaimed, looking at him in surprise; 'but you're not any older than I am!'"
“'Yes I am, three years at least. You, my ward, are not sixteen. I, your worshipful guardian, am almost nineteen years of age.'
“'Yes, I am, at least three years older. You, my ward, are not yet sixteen. I, your respected guardian, am almost nineteen.'”
“Upon hearing this I looked at him, for that seemed then a venerable age; but the more I looked the more I doubted, although he was dressed quite like a man. He led me in a courtly manner, stepping at his tallest to an open place beside the water; where the light came as in channel, and was made the most of by glancing waves and fair white stones.
“Upon hearing this, I looked at him, as that seemed to be quite an impressive age; but the more I looked, the more I doubted, even though he was dressed just like a man. He guided me with a graceful demeanor, standing tall as we reached a spot next to the water, where the light poured in like a channel, enhanced by the shimmering waves and beautiful white stones.
“'Now am I to your liking, cousin?' he asked, when I had gazed at him, until I was almost ashamed, except at such a stripling. 'Does my Cousin Lorna judge kindly of her guardian, and her nearest kinsman? In a word, is our admiration mutual?'
“'Am I to your liking now, cousin?' he asked, after I had looked at him for so long that I felt almost embarrassed, especially considering how young he was. 'Does my cousin Lorna think kindly of her guardian and closest relative? In short, is our admiration mutual?'”
“'Truly I know not,' I said; 'but you seem good-natured, and to have no harm in you. Do they trust you with a sword?'
“'Honestly, I don't know,' I said; 'but you seem friendly, and you don't seem to mean any harm. Do they trust you with a sword?'”
“For in my usage among men of stature and strong presence, this pretty youth, so tricked and slender, seemed nothing but a doll to me. Although he scared me in the wood, now that I saw him in good twilight, lo! he was but little greater than my little self; and so tasselled and so ruffled with a mint of bravery, and a green coat barred with red, and a slim sword hanging under him, it was the utmost I could do to look at him half-gravely.
“For in my experience with impressive and strong people, this handsome youth, so adorned and delicate, seemed nothing more than a doll to me. Although he had frightened me in the woods, now that I saw him in the twilight, wow! he was hardly taller than me; and so embellished and so dressed up with a ton of bravado, and a green coat lined with red, and a slim sword hanging at his side, it took everything I had to look at him with even a bit of seriousness.”
“'I fear that my presence hath scarce enough of ferocity about it' (he gave a jerk to his sword as he spoke, and clanked it on the brook-stones); 'yet do I assure you, cousin, that I am not without some prowess; and many a master of defence hath this good sword of mine disarmed. Now if the boldest and biggest robber in all this charming valley durst so much as breathe the scent of that flower coronal, which doth not adorn but is adorned'—here he talked some nonsense—'I would cleave him from head to foot, ere ever he could fly or cry.'
"I worry that I don't seem fierce enough" (he gave a flick of his sword as he spoke, making it clang against the stones in the brook); "but I assure you, cousin, I have some skill; many a master of defense has been disarmed by this good sword of mine. Now, if the bravest and biggest thief in this beautiful valley dared to even catch a whiff of that flower crown, which is not just for decoration but is itself adorned"—here he rambled on a bit—"I would split him in half before he could run away or shout."
“'Hush!' I said; 'talk not so loudly, or thou mayst have to do both thyself, and do them both in vain.'
“Hush!” I said. “Don’t talk so loudly, or you might have to do both and end up doing them both for nothing.”
“For he was quite forgetting now, in his bravery before me, where he stood, and with whom he spoke, and how the summer lightning shone above the hills and down the hollow. And as I gazed on this slight fair youth, clearly one of high birth and breeding (albeit over-boastful), a chill of fear crept over me; because he had no strength or substance, and would be no more than a pin-cushion before the great swords of the Doones.
“For he was completely forgetting now, in his confidence before me, where he stood, who he was talking to, and how the summer lightning flickered above the hills and down the valley. And as I looked at this slender, beautiful young man, obviously of noble birth and upbringing (though overly boastful), a wave of fear washed over me; because he had no strength or substance, and would be no more than a pin-cushion before the great swords of the Doones.”
“'I pray you be not vexed with me,' he answered, in a softer voice; 'for I have travelled far and sorely, for the sake of seeing you. I know right well among whom I am, and that their hospitality is more of the knife than the salt-stand. Nevertheless I am safe enough, for my foot is the fleetest in Scotland, and what are these hills to me? Tush! I have seen some border forays among wilder spirits and craftier men than these be. Once I mind some years agone, when I was quite a stripling lad—'
“I hope you’re not upset with me,” he replied, in a gentler tone; “because I’ve traveled a long way and endured a lot just to see you. I know exactly who I’m surrounded by, and their hospitality is more about deception than kindness. Still, I’m safe enough, since I’m the fastest runner in Scotland, and what are these hills to me? Come on! I’ve seen wilder raids with tougher and smarter people than these. I remember back when I was just a young boy—”
“'Worshipful guardian,' I said, 'there is no time now for history. If thou art in no haste, I am, and cannot stay here idling. Only tell me how I am akin and under wardship to thee, and what purpose brings thee here.'
“'Worshipful guardian,' I said, 'there's no time for history right now. If you're not in a hurry, I am, and I can't just stand here wasting time. Just tell me how I'm related to you and why you're here.'”
“'In order, cousin—all things in order, even with fair ladies. First, I am thy uncle's son, my father is thy mother's brother, or at least thy grandmother's—unless I am deceived in that which I have guessed, and no other man. For my father, being a leading lord in the councils of King Charles the Second, appointed me to learn the law, not for my livelihood, thank God, but because he felt the lack of it in affairs of state. But first your leave, young Mistress Lorna; I cannot lay down legal maxims, without aid of smoke.'
“'In order, cousin—all things in order, even with lovely ladies. First, I'm your uncle's son; my dad is your mother's brother, or at least your grandmother's—unless I’m mistaken about what I’ve figured out, and no other man. My dad, being a prominent lord in the councils of King Charles II, got me to study law, not for my income, thank God, but because he saw a need for it in state affairs. But first, your permission, young Mistress Lorna; I can’t lay down legal principles without the help of smoke.'”
“He leaned against a willow-tree, and drawing from a gilded box a little dark thing like a stick, placed it between his lips, and then striking a flint on steel made fire and caught it upon touchwood. With this he kindled the tip of the stick, until it glowed with a ring of red, and then he breathed forth curls of smoke, blue and smelling on the air like spice. I had never seen this done before, though acquainted with tobacco-pipes; and it made me laugh, until I thought of the peril that must follow it.
He leaned against a willow tree, took out a small, dark item that looked like a stick from a fancy box, and placed it between his lips. Then, striking a flint against steel, he created a spark and caught it on some tinder. With this, he lit the end of the stick until it glowed with a red ring, and then he exhaled puffs of smoke, blue and fragrant like spices in the air. I had never seen anything like this before, even though I was familiar with tobacco pipes; it made me laugh until I realized the danger that must come with it.
“'Cousin, have no fear,' he said; 'this makes me all the safer; they will take me for a glow-worm, and thee for the flower it shines upon. But to return—of law I learned as you may suppose, but little; although I have capacities. But the thing was far too dull for me. All I care for is adventure, moving chance, and hot encounter; therefore all of law I learned was how to live without it. Nevertheless, for amusement's sake, as I must needs be at my desk an hour or so in the afternoon, I took to the sporting branch of the law, the pitfalls, and the ambuscades; and of all the traps to be laid therein, pedigrees are the rarest. There is scarce a man worth a cross of butter, but what you may find a hole in his shield within four generations. And so I struck our own escutcheon, and it sounded hollow. There is a point—but heed not that; enough that being curious now, I followed up the quarry, and I am come to this at last—we, even we, the lords of Loch Awe, have an outlaw for our cousin, and I would we had more, if they be like you.'
“'Cousin, don’t worry,' he said; 'this actually makes me safer; they’ll think I’m a glow-worm and you’re the flower it lights up. But to go back—like you can guess, I didn’t learn much about the law; although I have the ability. But honestly, it was way too boring for me. What I really care about is adventure, chance, and excitement; so everything I learned about the law was just how to live without it. Still, for the sake of fun, since I have to sit at my desk for an hour or so in the afternoon, I got into the interesting side of the law, the traps and ambushes; and out of all the tricks you can set, pedigrees are the rarest. There’s hardly a guy worth any value who doesn’t have a flaw in his family history within four generations. So I looked into our own family crest, and it didn’t hold up. There’s a point—but forget that; just know that out of curiosity, I followed this lead, and I’ve come to find this at last—we, the lords of Loch Awe, have an outlaw for our cousin, and I wish we had more, if they’re like you.'”
“'Sir,' I answered, being amused by his manner, which was new to me (for the Doones are much in earnest), 'surely you count it no disgrace to be of kin to Sir Ensor Doone, and all his honest family!'
“'Sir,' I replied, amused by his manner, which was new to me (since the Doones are quite serious), 'surely you don’t see it as a disgrace to be related to Sir Ensor Doone and his whole honest family!'”
“'If it be so, it is in truth the very highest honour and would heal ten holes in our escutcheon. What noble family but springs from a captain among robbers? Trade alone can spoil our blood; robbery purifies it. The robbery of one age is the chivalry of the next. We may start anew, and vie with even the nobility of France, if we can once enrol but half the Doones upon our lineage.'
“'If that's the case, it's truly the greatest honor and would cover up any stains on our family name. What noble family doesn’t come from a leader of bandits? Only trade can ruin our bloodline; robbery cleanses it. What’s considered robbery in one era is seen as chivalry in the next. We can start fresh and compete with the nobility of France if we can just get half the Doones in our family tree.'”
“'I like not to hear you speak of the Doones, as if they were no more than that,' I exclaimed, being now unreasonable; 'but will you tell me, once for all, sir, how you are my guardian?'
“'I don't like hearing you talk about the Doones as if they’re nothing more than that,' I said, getting a bit unreasonable; 'but can you please tell me, once and for all, sir, how you are my guardian?'”
“'That I will do. You are my ward because you were my father's ward, under the Scottish law; and now my father being so deaf, I have succeeded to that right—at least in my own opinion—under which claim I am here to neglect my trust no longer, but to lead you away from scenes and deeds which (though of good repute and comely) are not the best for young gentlewomen. There spoke I not like a guardian? After that can you mistrust me?'
“'I will do that. You are my ward because you were my father's ward, under Scottish law; and now that my father is deaf, I believe I have inherited that right—at least in my own mind. With that claim, I am here to no longer neglect my duty, but to guide you away from situations and actions that, although they may seem good and proper, aren't suitable for young ladies. Did I not sound like a guardian just now? After that, can you doubt me?'”
“'But,' said I, 'good Cousin Alan (if I may so call you), it is not meet for young gentlewomen to go away with young gentlemen, though fifty times their guardians. But if you will only come with me, and explain your tale to my grandfather, he will listen to you quietly, and take no advantage of you.'
'"But," I said, "good Cousin Alan (if I can call you that), it's not proper for young ladies to go off with young men, even if they have fifty guardians. But if you will just come with me and tell your story to my grandfather, he will listen to you calmly and won't take advantage of you."'
“'I thank you much, kind Mistress Lorna, to lead the goose into the fox's den! But, setting by all thought of danger, I have other reasons against it. Now, come with your faithful guardian, child. I will pledge my honour against all harm, and to bear you safe to London. By the law of the realm, I am now entitled to the custody of your fair person, and of all your chattels.'
“Thank you so much, dear Mistress Lorna, for leading the goose into the fox's den! But putting aside any thoughts of danger, I have other reasons to oppose it. Now, come with your loyal guardian, child. I promise my honor to keep you safe and get you to London. By the law of the land, I am now entitled to take care of you and all your belongings.”
“'But, sir, all that you have learned of law, is how to live without it.'
“'But, sir, everything you’ve learned about the law is just how to live without it.'”
“'Fairly met, fair cousin mine! Your wit will do me credit, after a little sharpening. And there is none to do that better than your aunt, my mother. Although she knows not of my coming, she is longing to receive you. Come, and in a few months' time you shall set the mode at Court, instead of pining here, and weaving coronals of daisies.'
“'It’s great to see you, my fair cousin! Your wit will shine even brighter with a bit of sharpening. And no one can do that better than your aunt, my mother. Although she doesn’t know I’m coming, she’s looking forward to seeing you. Come, and in a few months, you’ll be setting the trend at Court instead of wasting away here, making daisy chains.'”
“I turned aside, and thought a little. Although he seemed so light of mind, and gay in dress and manner, I could not doubt his honesty; and saw, beneath his jaunty air, true mettle and ripe bravery. Scarce had I thought of his project twice, until he spoke of my aunt, his mother, but then the form of my dearest friend, my sweet Aunt Sabina, seemed to come and bid me listen, for this was what she prayed for. Moreover I felt (though not as now) that Doone Glen was no place for me or any proud young maiden. But while I thought, the yellow lightning spread behind a bulk of clouds, three times ere the flash was done, far off and void of thunder; and from the pile of cloud before it, cut as from black paper, and lit to depths of blackness by the blaze behind it, a form as of an aged man, sitting in a chair loose-mantled, seemed to lift a hand and warn.
“I turned away and thought for a moment. Even though he seemed so carefree and flashy in his style and attitude, I couldn’t doubt his honesty; and I could see, beneath his playful exterior, real strength and courage. I had barely considered his plan twice before he mentioned my aunt, his mother, and then the image of my beloved friend, my dear Aunt Sabina, appeared to me, urging me to listen because this was what she wanted. I also felt (though not as strongly as I do now) that Doone Glen wasn’t a suitable place for me or any proud young woman. While I was lost in thought, a flash of yellow lightning spread behind a bank of clouds, three times before the flash was over, distant and silent; and from the cloud formation in front of it, stark against the dark, illuminated by the light behind it, the figure of an old man, sitting in a loose robe, seemed to raise his hand and give a warning.
“This minded me of my grandfather, and all the care I owed him. Moreover, now the storm was rising and I began to grow afraid; for of all things awful to me thunder is the dreadfulest. It doth so growl, like a lion coming, and then so roll, and roar, and rumble, out of a thickening darkness, then crack like the last trump overhead through cloven air and terror, that all my heart lies low and quivers, like a weed in water. I listened now for the distant rolling of the great black storm, and heard it, and was hurried by it. But the youth before me waved his rolled tobacco at it, and drawled in his daintiest tone and manner,—
“This reminded me of my grandfather and all the debt of care I owed him. Plus, with the storm starting to pick up, I began to feel scared; because among all the terrifying things, thunder is the worst for me. It growls like a lion approaching, then rolls, roars, and rumbles out of thickening darkness, cracking like the final trumpet overhead through the split air and terror, making my heart sink and tremble like a weed in water. I listened for the distant rumble of the big black storm and heard it, feeling rushed by it. But the young man in front of me waved his rolled tobacco at it and drawled in his most refined tone and manner,—
“'The sky is having a smoke, I see, and dropping sparks, and grumbling. I should have thought these Exmoor hills too small to gather thunder.'
“The sky is smoking, I see, and dropping sparks, and rumbling. I should have thought these Exmoor hills too small to collect thunder.”
“'I cannot go, I will not go with you, Lord Alan Brandir,' I answered, being vexed a little by those words of his. 'You are not grave enough for me, you are not old enough for me. My Aunt Sabina would not have wished it; nor would I leave my grandfather, without his full permission. I thank you much for coming, sir; but be gone at once by the way you came; and pray how did you come, sir?'
"I can’t go, I won’t go with you, Lord Alan Brandir," I replied, feeling a bit annoyed by what he said. "You’re not serious enough for me, you’re not old enough for me. My Aunt Sabina wouldn’t have wanted this; and I won’t leave my grandfather without his full permission. I really appreciate you coming, sir; but please leave the way you came; and by the way, how did you get here, sir?"
“'Fair cousin, you will grieve for this; you will mourn, when you cannot mend it. I would my mother had been here, soon would she have persuaded you. And yet,' he added, with the smile of his accustomed gaiety, 'it would have been an unco thing, as we say in Scotland, for her ladyship to have waited upon you, as her graceless son has done, and hopes to do again ere long. Down the cliffs I came, and up them I must make way back again. Now adieu, fair Cousin Lorna, I see you are in haste tonight; but I am right proud of my guardianship. Give me just one flower for token'—here he kissed his hand to me, and I threw him a truss of woodbine—'adieu, fair cousin, trust me well, I will soon be here again.'
“'Dear cousin, you’ll feel sad about this; you’ll regret it when you can’t fix it. I wish my mother had been here; she would have convinced you in no time. And yet,' he added, with his usual cheerful smile, 'it would have been quite strange, as we say in Scotland, for her ladyship to have come to see you, just like her hopeless son has done, and hopes to do again soon. I came down the cliffs, and now I have to make my way back up again. Now goodbye, dear Cousin Lorna, I can see you’re in a hurry tonight; but I’m very proud of my role as your guardian. Just give me one flower as a keepsake'—here he kissed his hand to me, and I tossed him a bundle of honeysuckle—'goodbye, dear cousin, trust me, I’ll be back soon.'”
“'That thou never shalt, sir,' cried a voice as loud as a culverin; and Carver Doone had Alan Brandir as a spider hath a fly. The boy made a little shriek at first, with the sudden shock and the terror; then he looked, methought, ashamed of himself, and set his face to fight for it. Very bravely he strove and struggled, to free one arm and grasp his sword; but as well might an infant buried alive attempt to lift his gravestone. Carver Doone, with his great arms wrapped around the slim gay body, smiled (as I saw by the flash from heaven) at the poor young face turned up to him; then (as a nurse bears off a child, who is loath to go to bed), he lifted the youth from his feet, and bore him away into the darkness.
“'You will never do that, sir,' shouted a voice as loud as a cannon; and Carver Doone had Alan Brandir in his grip like a spider has a fly. The boy let out a small shriek at first, startled and terrified; then he looked, it seemed to me, embarrassed and prepared to fight back. He struggled hard to free one arm and reach for his sword; but it was as futile as a baby buried alive trying to lift its gravestone. Carver Doone, with his powerful arms wrapped around the slim, colorful body, smiled (as I saw in a flash of lightning) at the poor young face turned up to him; then (like a nurse carrying off a child who doesn’t want to go to bed), he lifted the young man from his feet and carried him away into the darkness.”
“I was young then. I am older now; older by ten years, in thought, although it is not a twelvemonth since. If that black deed were done again, I could follow, and could combat it, could throw weak arms on the murderer, and strive to be murdered also. I am now at home with violence; and no dark death surprises me.
“I was young then. I’m older now; older by ten years in thought, even though it hasn’t been a year since. If that terrible act happened again, I could confront it, could fight back, could throw my weak arms at the murderer, and try to get myself killed too. I’m now familiar with violence, and no dark death catches me off guard.”
“But, being as I was that night, the horror overcame me. The crash of thunder overhead, the last despairing look, the death-piece framed with blaze of lightning—my young heart was so affrighted that I could not gasp. My breath went from me, and I knew not where I was, or who, or what. Only that I lay, and cowered, under great trees full of thunder; and could neither count, nor moan, nor have my feet to help me.
“But, as I was that night, the horror overwhelmed me. The thunder cracked above, the last desperate glance, the deathly scene framed with flashes of lightning—my young heart was so terrified that I couldn't catch my breath. My air left me, and I didn't know where I was, who I was, or what was happening. All I knew was that I lay, cowering, under towering trees filled with thunder; and I could neither count, nor moan, nor use my feet to help me.”
“Yet hearkening, as a coward does, through the brushing of the wind, and echo of far noises, I heard a sharp sound as of iron, and a fall of heavy wood. No unmanly shriek came with it, neither cry for mercy. Carver Doone knows what it was; and so did Alan Brandir.”
"Yet listening, like a coward does, through the rustling of the wind and the echoes of distant sounds, I heard a sharp noise like metal and the crash of heavy wood. There was no cowardly scream with it, nor any plea for mercy. Carver Doone knows what it was; and so did Alan Brandir."
Here Lorna Doone could tell no more, being overcome with weeping. Only through her tears she whispered, as a thing too bad to tell, that she had seen that giant Carver, in a few days afterwards, smoking a little round brown stick, like those of her poor cousin. I could not press her any more with questions, or for clearness; although I longed very much to know whether she had spoken of it to her grandfather or the Counsellor. But she was now in such condition, both of mind and body, from the force of her own fear multiplied by telling it, that I did nothing more than coax her, at a distance humbly; and so that she could see that some one was at least afraid of her. This (although I knew not women in those days, as now I do, and never shall know much of it), this, I say, so brought her round, that all her fear was now for me, and how to get me safely off, without mischance to any one. And sooth to say, in spite of longing just to see if Master Carver could have served me such a trick—as it grew towards the dusk, I was not best pleased to be there; for it seemed a lawless place, and some of Lorna's fright stayed with me as I talked it away from her.
Here Lorna Doone couldn't say any more, as she was overwhelmed with tears. Only through her sobs did she whisper, as if it were too awful to mention, that she had seen that giant Carver a few days later, smoking a small round brown stick, like those of her poor cousin. I couldn't pressure her with more questions or for clarity; even though I desperately wanted to know if she had mentioned it to her grandfather or the Counsellor. But she was in such a state, both mentally and physically, from the intensity of her own fear compounded by telling the story, that I did nothing more than gently coax her from a distance, showing her that someone was at least concerned for her. This (although I didn't understand women back then, as I do now, and probably never will fully) made her feel better, so that all her concern was now for me and how to get me out safely, without causing trouble for anyone. To be honest, even though I was eager to see if Master Carver had actually tried to pull a trick on me—as dusk approached, I was not happy to be there; it felt like a lawless place, and some of Lorna's fear lingered with me as I tried to talk it away from her.
CHAPTER XXII
After hearing that tale from Lorna, I went home in sorry spirits, having added fear for her, and misery about, to all my other ailments. And was it not quite certain now that she, being owned full cousin to a peer and lord of Scotland (although he was a dead one), must have nought to do with me, a yeoman's son, and bound to be the father of more yeomen? I had been very sorry when first I heard about that poor young popinjay, and would gladly have fought hard for him; but now it struck me that after all he had no right to be there, prowling (as it were) for Lorna, without any invitation: and we farmers love not trespass. Still, if I had seen the thing, I must have tried to save him.
After hearing that story from Lorna, I went home feeling downcast, adding worry for her and misery about everything else to my list of troubles. And wasn’t it pretty clear now that she, being the first cousin of a Scottish peer and lord (even though he was deceased), shouldn’t have anything to do with me, a farmer’s son, destined to be the father of more farmers? I had been quite upset when I first heard about that pathetic young show-off, and I would have gladly fought for him; but now it hit me that, after all, he had no right to be there, lurking around for Lorna, without any invitation: and we farmers don’t take kindly to trespassers. Still, if I had seen the situation, I would have tried to save him.
Moreover, I was greatly vexed with my own hesitation, stupidity, or shyness, or whatever else it was, which had held me back from saying, ere she told her story, what was in my heart to say, videlicet, that I must die unless she let me love her. Not that I was fool enough to think that she would answer me according to my liking, or begin to care about me for a long time yet; if indeed she ever should, which I hardly dared to hope. But that I had heard from men more skillful in the matter that it is wise to be in time, that so the maids may begin to think, when they know that they are thought of. And, to tell the truth, I had bitter fears, on account of her wondrous beauty, lest some young fellow of higher birth and finer parts, and finish, might steal in before poor me, and cut me out altogether. Thinking of which, I used to double my great fist, without knowing it, and keep it in my pocket ready.
Moreover, I was really frustrated with my own hesitation, stupidity, or shyness, or whatever it was that had stopped me from saying what was in my heart before she told her story: that I would die unless she allowed me to love her. Not that I was naive enough to think she would respond the way I wanted or that she would start to care about me anytime soon; if she ever would, which I hardly dared to hope. But I had heard from more experienced guys that it's wise to express your feelings early so that girls might start to realize they’re being thought of. Honestly, I had deep fears, because of her incredible beauty, that some young man of higher status and better qualities might come along before me and totally take her away. Just thinking about that made me clench my fist unconsciously and keep it in my pocket, ready.
But the worst of all was this, that in my great dismay and anguish to see Lorna weeping so, I had promised not to cause her any further trouble from anxiety and fear of harm. And this, being brought to practice, meant that I was not to show myself within the precincts of Glen Doone, for at least another month. Unless indeed (as I contrived to edge into the agreement) anything should happen to increase her present trouble and every day's uneasiness. In that case, she was to throw a dark mantle, or covering of some sort, over a large white stone which hung within the entrance to her retreat—I mean the outer entrance—and which, though unseen from the valley itself, was (as I had observed) conspicuous from the height where I stood with Uncle Reuben.
But the worst part was that, in my deep distress and anguish over seeing Lorna cry like that, I had promised not to cause her any more anxiety or fear of harm. This meant I couldn't show myself near Glen Doone for at least another month. Unless, of course (as I managed to sneak into the agreement), something happened that would increase her current troubles and daily worries. In that case, she would drape a dark cloak or some kind of cover over a large white stone at the entrance to her hideaway—I mean the outer entrance—and which, although hidden from the valley, was (as I had noticed) clearly visible from the height where I stood with Uncle Reuben.
Now coming home so sad and weary, yet trying to console myself with the thought that love o'erleapeth rank, and must still be lord of all, I found a shameful thing going on, which made me very angry. For it needs must happen that young Marwood de Whichehalse, only son of the Baron, riding home that very evening, from chasing of the Exmoor bustards, with his hounds and serving-men, should take the short cut through our farmyard, and being dry from his exercise, should come and ask for drink. And it needs must happen also that there should be none to give it to him but my sister Annie. I more than suspect that he had heard some report of our Annie's comeliness, and had a mind to satisfy himself upon the subject. Now, as he took the large ox-horn of our quarantine-apple cider (which we always keep apart from the rest, being too good except for the quality), he let his fingers dwell on Annie's, by some sort of accident, while he lifted his beaver gallantly, and gazed on her face in the light from the west. Then what did Annie do (as she herself told me afterwards) but make her very best curtsey to him, being pleased that he was pleased with her, while she thought what a fine young man he was and so much breeding about him! And in truth he was a dark, handsome fellow, hasty, reckless, and changeable, with a look of sad destiny in his black eyes that would make any woman pity him. What he was thinking of our Annie is not for me to say, although I may think that you could not have found another such maiden on Exmoor, except (of course) my Lorna.
Now, coming home feeling sad and tired, yet trying to comfort myself with the idea that love surpasses all obstacles and must still rule everything, I stumbled upon a disgraceful scene that really angered me. It just so happened that young Marwood de Whichehalse, the only son of the Baron, was riding home that very evening after hunting Exmoor bustards with his hounds and servants. He took the shortcut through our farmyard and, feeling thirsty from his ride, asked for a drink. Unfortunately, the only person available to serve him was my sister Annie. I strongly suspect he had heard about Annie's beauty and wanted to see for himself. While he took the large ox-horn filled with our quarantine apple cider (which we always keep separate because it’s too good for regular fare), he accidentally let his fingers brush against Annie's as he gallantly tipped his hat and admired her in the glow of the setting sun. Then, in a surprising move (as she later told me), Annie gave him her best curtsy, pleased that he seemed pleased with her, while she thought about what a fine young man he was and how much sophistication he had! In truth, he was a dark, handsome guy—impulsive, reckless, and changeable—with a look of tragic fate in his black eyes that would make any woman feel sorry for him. What he thought about our Annie is hard to say, although I believe you wouldn’t find another maiden like her on Exmoor, except, of course, my Lorna.
Though young Squire Marwood was so thirsty, he spent much time over his cider, or at any rate over the ox-horn, and he made many bows to Annie, and drank health to all the family, and spoke of me as if I had been his very best friend at Blundell's; whereas he knew well enough all the time that we had nought to say to one another; he being three years older, and therefore of course disdaining me. But while he was casting about perhaps for some excuse to stop longer, and Annie was beginning to fear lest mother should come after her, or Eliza be at the window, or Betty up in pigs' house, suddenly there came up to them, as if from the very heart of the earth, that long, low, hollow, mysterious sound which I spoke of in winter.
Though young Squire Marwood was really thirsty, he spent a lot of time over his cider, or at least over the ox-horn, and he made many bows to Annie, raised a toast to the whole family, and talked about me as if I were his very best friend from Blundell's; even though he knew perfectly well that we had nothing to say to each other since he was three years older and naturally looked down on me. But while he was probably trying to find some reason to stick around longer, and Annie was starting to worry that mother might come looking for her, or that Eliza was at the window, or that Betty was up in the pigs' house, suddenly there came to them, as if from deep within the earth, that long, low, hollow, mysterious sound that I mentioned back in winter.
The young man started in his saddle, let the horn fall on the horse-steps, and gazed all around in wonder; while as for Annie, she turned like a ghost, and tried to slam the door, but failed through the violence of her trembling; (for never till now had any one heard it so close at hand as you might say) or in the mere fall of the twilight. And by this time there was no man, at least in our parish, but knew—for the Parson himself had told us so—that it was the devil groaning because the Doones were too many for him.
The young man jumped in his saddle, let the horn drop on the horse's steps, and looked around in amazement; as for Annie, she turned like a ghost and tried to slam the door, but couldn’t because she was shaking so much; (after all, until now, no one had ever heard it so close before, or just with the onset of twilight). By this time, everyone in our parish knew—since the Parson himself had told us—that it was the devil groaning because the Doones were too many for him.
Marwood de Whichehalse was not so alarmed but what he saw a fine opportunity. He leaped from his horse, and laid hold of dear Annie in a highly comforting manner; and she never would tell us about it (being so shy and modest), whether in breathing his comfort to her he tried to take some from her pure lips. I hope he did not, because that to me would seem not the deed of a gentleman, and he was of good old family.
Marwood de Whichehalse wasn't too shocked; instead, he saw a great opportunity. He jumped off his horse and embraced dear Annie in a very reassuring way. She never shared what happened (being quite shy and modest), whether in offering her comfort he tried to take some from her lips. I hope he didn’t, because that would not seem like something a gentleman would do, and he came from a respectable family.
At this very moment, who should come into the end of the passage upon them but the heavy writer of these doings I, John Ridd myself, and walking the faster, it may be, on account of the noise I mentioned. I entered the house with some wrath upon me at seeing the gazehounds in the yard; for it seems a cruel thing to me to harass the birds in the breeding-time. And to my amazement there I saw Squire Marwood among the milk-pans with his arm around our Annie's waist, and Annie all blushing and coaxing him off, for she was not come to scold yet.
At that moment, who should show up at the end of the passage but me, John Ridd, the one writing all of this, and I was walking a bit faster, probably because of the noise I mentioned. I walked into the house feeling pretty angry when I saw the hunting dogs in the yard; it seems really harsh to me to disturb the birds during their breeding season. To my surprise, there was Squire Marwood among the milk pans with his arm around our Annie's waist, and Annie was all blushing and trying to push him away, since she wasn't ready to scold him yet.
Perhaps I was wrong; God knows, and if I was, no doubt I shall pay for it; but I gave him the flat of my hand on his head, and down he went in the thick of the milk-pans. He would have had my fist, I doubt, but for having been at school with me; and after that it is like enough he would never have spoken another word. As it was, he lay stunned, with the cream running on him; while I took poor Annie up and carried her in to mother, who had heard the noise and was frightened.
Maybe I was wrong; only God knows, and if I was, I’ll probably face the consequences; but I slapped him on the head, and he went down right into the milk pans. I think he would have punched me, but we went to school together; after that, he probably would have never spoken again. As it happened, he lay there dazed, with cream all over him, while I picked up poor Annie and took her inside to my mom, who had heard the commotion and was scared.
Concerning this matter I asked no more, but held myself ready to bear it out in any form convenient, feeling that I had done my duty, and cared not for the consequence; only for several days dear Annie seemed frightened rather than grateful. But the oddest result of it was that Eliza, who had so despised me, and made very rude verses about me, now came trying to sit on my knee, and kiss me, and give me the best of the pan. However, I would not allow it, because I hate sudden changes.
Regarding this matter, I didn't ask anything more, but I stayed ready to handle it in whatever way was needed, knowing I had done my part, and I didn’t care about the outcome; still, for a few days, dear Annie seemed more scared than thankful. The strangest thing was that Eliza, who had looked down on me and even wrote mean verses about me, now came to try to sit on my lap, kiss me, and share the best of the food. However, I wouldn’t allow it because I dislike abrupt changes.
Another thing also astonished me—namely, a beautiful letter from Marwood de Whichehalse himself (sent by a groom soon afterwards), in which he apologised to me, as if I had been his equal, for his rudeness to my sister, which was not intended in the least, but came of their common alarm at the moment, and his desire to comfort her. Also he begged permission to come and see me, as an old schoolfellow, and set everything straight between us, as should be among honest Blundellites.
Another thing that amazed me was a lovely letter from Marwood de Whichehalse himself (sent by a groom soon after), in which he apologized to me, as if I were his equal, for his rudeness to my sister. He meant no harm; it was just their shared panic at the time and his wish to comfort her. He also asked for permission to come see me as an old schoolmate and to clear everything up between us, as should be done among true Blundellites.
All this was so different to my idea of fighting out a quarrel, when once it is upon a man, that I knew not what to make of it, but bowed to higher breeding. Only one thing I resolved upon, that come when he would he should not see Annie. And to do my sister justice, she had no desire to see him.
All of this was so different from my idea of settling a fight that, once it got started, I didn’t know how to handle it, so I just accepted it as a result of better upbringing. I decided on one thing: whenever he showed up, he wouldn’t see Annie. And to be fair to my sister, she didn’t want to see him either.
However, I am too easy, there is no doubt of that, being very quick to forgive a man, and very slow to suspect, unless he hath once lied to me. Moreover, as to Annie, it had always seemed to me (much against my wishes) that some shrewd love of a waiting sort was between her and Tom Faggus: and though Tom had made his fortune now, and everybody respected him, of course he was not to be compared, in that point of respectability, with those people who hanged the robbers when fortune turned against them.
However, I know I'm too trusting; there's no denying that. I'm quick to forgive someone and slow to suspect, unless they've lied to me before. Also, regarding Annie, it always made me feel uneasy (despite my hopes) that there seemed to be some clever, lingering attraction between her and Tom Faggus. Now that Tom has made his fortune and everyone respects him, he still can't be compared, in terms of respectability, to those people who executed the robbers when luck turned against them.
So young Squire Marwood came again, as though I had never smitten him, and spoke of it in as light a way as if we were still at school together. It was not in my nature, of course, to keep any anger against him; and I knew what a condescension it was for him to visit us. And it is a very grievous thing, which touches small landowners, to see an ancient family day by day decaying: and when we heard that Ley Barton itself, and all the Manor of Lynton were under a heavy mortgage debt to John Lovering of Weare-Gifford, there was not much, in our little way, that we would not gladly do or suffer for the benefit of De Whichehalse.
So young Squire Marwood came by again, as if I had never hit him, and talked about it as casually as if we were still in school together. It wasn't in my nature to hold any anger towards him, and I recognized how gracious it was for him to visit us. It's quite distressing, especially for small landowners, to watch an old family slowly decline: when we learned that Ley Barton itself, along with the Manor of Lynton, was deeply in debt to John Lovering of Weare-Gifford, there wasn't much that we wouldn't gladly do or endure for the sake of De Whichehalse.
Meanwhile the work of the farm was toward, and every day gave us more ado to dispose of what itself was doing. For after the long dry skeltering wind of March and part of April, there had been a fortnight of soft wet; and when the sun came forth again, hill and valley, wood and meadow, could not make enough of him. Many a spring have I seen since then, but never yet two springs alike, and never one so beautiful. Or was it that my love came forth and touched the world with beauty?
Meanwhile, farm work was busy, and each day brought us more to handle from what was happening on its own. After the long dry winds of March and part of April, there had been two weeks of gentle rain; and when the sun finally appeared again, the hills and valleys, woods and meadows, seemed to welcome it like nothing else. I've seen many springs since then, but never two that were the same, and never one that was so beautiful. Or could it be that my love arrived and brought beauty to the world?
The spring was in our valley now; creeping first for shelter shyly in the pause of the blustering wind. There the lambs came bleating to her, and the orchis lifted up, and the thin dead leaves of clover lay for the new ones to spring through. There the stiffest things that sleep, the stubby oak, and the saplin'd beech, dropped their brown defiance to her, and prepared for a soft reply.
Spring had arrived in our valley, cautiously finding shelter in the break from the harsh wind. The lambs called out to her, the orchids bloomed, and the withered clover leaves rested, making way for the new growth. Even the most rigid elements of nature, the stout oak and the young beech, surrendered their dried leaves to her and got ready to respond gently.
While her over-eager children (who had started forth to meet her, through the frost and shower of sleet), catkin'd hazel, gold-gloved withy, youthful elder, and old woodbine, with all the tribe of good hedge-climbers (who must hasten while haste they may)—was there one of them that did not claim the merit of coming first?
While her overly eager kids (who had rushed out to meet her through the frost and sleet) - catkin'd hazel, golden-gloved willow, young elder, and old woodbine, along with all the good hedge-climbers (who had to hurry while they still could) - was there one of them that didn’t insist they were the first to arrive?
There she stayed and held her revel, as soon as the fear of frost was gone; all the air was a fount of freshness, and the earth of gladness, and the laughing waters prattled of the kindness of the sun. But all this made it much harder for us, plying the hoe and rake, to keep the fields with room upon them for the corn to tiller. The winter wheat was well enough, being sturdy and strong-sided; but the spring wheat and the barley and the oats were overrun by ill weeds growing faster. Therefore, as the old saying is,—
There she stayed and celebrated as soon as the fear of frost was gone; the air felt fresh, the earth was joyful, and the bubbling waters spoke of the sun's warmth. But all of this made it much harder for us, working with the hoe and rake, to keep the fields clear for the corn to grow. The winter wheat was doing fine, being strong and sturdy, but the spring wheat, barley, and oats were being overtaken by stubborn weeds that were growing faster. Therefore, as the old saying goes,—
“Farmer, that thy wife may thrive,
Let not burr and burdock wive;
And if thou wouldst keep thy son,
See that bine and gith have none.”
“Farmer, for your wife's well-being,
Don't let burrs and burdock grow;
And if you want to keep your son,
Make sure there are no bindweed and coriander.”So we were compelled to go down the field and up it, striking in and out with care where the green blades hung together, so that each had space to move in and to spread its roots abroad. And I do assure you now, though you may not believe me, it was harder work to keep John Fry, Bill Dadds, and Jem Slocomb all in a line and all moving nimbly to the tune of my own tool, than it was to set out in the morning alone, and hoe half an acre by dinner-time. For, instead of keeping the good ash moving, they would for ever be finding something to look at or to speak of, or at any rate, to stop with; blaming the shape of their tools perhaps, or talking about other people's affairs; or, what was most irksome of all to me, taking advantage as married men, and whispering jokes of no excellence about my having, or having not, or being ashamed of a sweetheart. And this went so far at last that I was forced to take two of them and knock their heads together; after which they worked with a better will.
So we had to go back and forth in the field, carefully moving in and out where the green grass was growing, giving each blade room to move and spread its roots. And I assure you now, even if you don’t believe me, it was way harder to keep John Fry, Bill Dadds, and Jem Slocomb all in line and moving smoothly to the rhythm of my tool than it was to head out in the morning alone and hoe half an acre by lunchtime. Instead of keeping the good ash moving, they were always finding something to look at or talk about, or just stopping for no reason; maybe complaining about the shape of their tools, or gossiping about other people's business; or, what annoyed me the most, they took advantage of being married and whispered jokes of no quality about whether I had a sweetheart or not, or being embarrassed about it. Eventually, it got so bad that I had to take two of them and bang their heads together; after that, they worked with a better attitude.
When we met together in the evening round the kitchen chimney-place, after the men had had their supper and their heavy boots were gone, my mother and Eliza would do their very utmost to learn what I was thinking of. Not that we kept any fire now, after the crock was emptied; but that we loved to see the ashes cooling, and to be together. At these times Annie would never ask me any crafty questions (as Eliza did), but would sit with her hair untwined, and one hand underneath her chin, sometimes looking softly at me, as much as to say that she knew it all and I was no worse off than she. But strange to say my mother dreamed not, even for an instant, that it was possible for Annie to be thinking of such a thing. She was so very good and quiet, and careful of the linen, and clever about the cookery and fowls and bacon-curing, that people used to laugh, and say she would never look at a bachelor until her mother ordered her. But I (perhaps from my own condition and the sense of what it was) felt no certainty about this, and even had another opinion, as was said before.
When we gathered in the evening around the kitchen fireplace, after the men had finished their dinner and taken off their heavy boots, my mother and Eliza would do their best to find out what I was thinking. We didn’t keep a fire anymore, now that the pot was empty, but we enjoyed watching the ashes cool and being together. During these moments, Annie wouldn’t throw any tricky questions my way like Eliza did. Instead, she would sit with her hair down and one hand resting under her chin, sometimes looking at me with a gentle gaze, as if to say she understood everything and that I was no worse off than she was. Strangely enough, my mother never even considered that Annie might be thinking about something like that. She was so good-natured and calm, and so attentive to the linens, and skilled with cooking and managing the hens and curing bacon, that people would joke she wouldn’t even think about a bachelor until her mother approved. But I, perhaps because of my own situation and awareness of what it meant, felt uncertain about this and even had a different perspective, as mentioned earlier.
Often I was much inclined to speak to her about it, and put her on her guard against the approaches of Tom Faggus; but I could not find how to begin, and feared to make a breach between us; knowing that if her mind was set, no words of mine would alter it; although they needs must grieve her deeply. Moreover, I felt that, in this case, a certain homely Devonshire proverb would come home to me; that one, I mean, which records that the crock was calling the kettle smutty. Not, of course, that I compared my innocent maid to a highwayman; but that Annie might think her worse, and would be too apt to do so, if indeed she loved Tom Faggus. And our Cousin Tom, by this time, was living a quiet and godly life; having retired almost from the trade (except when he needed excitement, or came across public officers), and having won the esteem of all whose purses were in his power.
I often wanted to talk to her about it and warn her about Tom Faggus's advances, but I couldn't figure out how to start, and I was afraid of creating a rift between us. I knew that if her mind was made up, nothing I said would change it, even though it would hurt her deeply. Besides, I felt that a certain simple Devonshire saying applied perfectly here: the one about the pot calling the kettle black. Not that I compared my innocent maid to a highway robber, but Annie might think worse of herself and would likely do so if she truly cared for Tom Faggus. By that time, our Cousin Tom was leading a quiet and respectable life, having almost retired from his previous dealings (except when he craved some excitement or encountered public officials) and having earned the respect of everyone whose finances were in his control.
Perhaps it is needless for me to say that all this time while my month was running—or rather crawling, for never month went so slow as that with me—neither weed, nor seed, nor cattle, nor my own mother's anxiety, nor any care for my sister, kept me from looking once every day, and even twice on a Sunday, for any sign of Lorna. For my heart was ever weary; in the budding valleys, and by the crystal waters, looking at the lambs in fold, or the heifers on the mill, labouring in trickled furrows, or among the beaded blades; halting fresh to see the sun lift over the golden-vapoured ridge; or doffing hat, from sweat of brow, to watch him sink in the low gray sea; be it as it would of day, of work, or night, or slumber, it was a weary heart I bore, and fear was on the brink of it.
Maybe it's unnecessary for me to mention that during that whole month—although it felt more like it was dragging on—nothing, not the weeds, the seeds, the cattle, my mother's worries, or my concern for my sister, could stop me from searching every day, and even twice on Sundays, for any sign of Lorna. My heart was always heavy; in the blooming valleys, by the clear waters, watching the lambs in the fold, or the heifers in the mill, working in the soft furrows, or among the dew-kissed grass; pausing to see the sun rise over the golden-tinged hills; or taking off my hat from the sweat on my brow to watch it set in the low gray sea; no matter if it was day, work, night, or sleep, I carried a heavy heart, and fear was close to the surface.
All the beauty of the spring went for happy men to think of; all the increase of the year was for other eyes to mark. Not a sign of any sunrise for me from my fount of life, not a breath to stir the dead leaves fallen on my heart's Spring.
All the beauty of spring was for happy people to enjoy; all the growth of the year was for others to notice. There was no sign of a sunrise for me from my source of life, not a whisper to move the dead leaves resting on my heart’s spring.
CHAPTER XXIII
A ROYAL INVITATION
Although I had, for the most part, so very stout an appetite, that none but mother saw any need of encouraging me to eat, I could only manage one true good meal in a day, at the time I speak of. Mother was in despair at this, and tempted me with the whole of the rack, and even talked of sending to Porlock for a druggist who came there twice in a week; and Annie spent all her time in cooking, and even Lizzie sang songs to me; for she could sing very sweetly. But my conscience told me that Betty Muxworthy had some reason upon her side.
Even though I usually had a big appetite and my mother was the only one who thought I needed encouragement to eat, I could only handle one decent meal a day at that time. Mother was really worried about this and tried everything to tempt me, even considering sending for a pharmacist who came to Porlock twice a week. Annie spent all her time cooking for me, and even Lizzie sang sweet songs to lift my spirits. But I couldn't shake the feeling that Betty Muxworthy had a point.
“Latt the young ozebird aloun, zay I. Makk zuch ado about un, wi' hogs'-puddens, and hock-bits, and lambs'-mate, and whaten bradd indade, and brewers' ale avore dinner-time, and her not to zit wi' no winder aupen—draive me mad 'e doo, the ov'ee, zuch a passel of voouls. Do 'un good to starve a bit; and takk zome on's wackedness out ov un.”
“Let the young ozebird alone, I say. Make such a fuss about him, with hog slop, and scraps of meat, and lamb’s meat, and whatever bread they have, and brewer's ale before dinner time, and telling her not to sit with the window open—it drives me mad, all of them, such a bunch of people. It would do him good to starve a bit; and take some of his wickedness out of him.”
But mother did not see it so; and she even sent for Nicholas Snowe to bring his three daughters with him, and have ale and cake in the parlour, and advise about what the bees were doing, and when a swarm might be looked for. Being vexed about this and having to stop at home nearly half the evening, I lost good manners so much as to ask him (even in our own house!) what he meant by not mending the swing-hurdle where the Lynn stream flows from our land into his, and which he is bound to maintain. But he looked at me in a superior manner, and said, “Business, young man, in business time.”
But my mother saw it differently; she even invited Nicholas Snowe to bring his three daughters over for some ale and cake in the parlor, and to talk about what the bees were up to and when we might expect a swarm. Frustrated about this and having to stay home almost all evening, I lost my manners enough to ask him (even in our own house!) why he hadn’t fixed the swing-hurdle where the Lynn stream flows from our land into his, which he is supposed to take care of. He looked at me like he was above me and said, “Business, young man, during business hours.”
I had other reason for being vexed with Farmer Nicholas just now, viz. that I had heard a rumour, after church one Sunday—when most of all we sorrow over the sins of one another—that Master Nicholas Snowe had been seen to gaze tenderly at my mother, during a passage of the sermon, wherein the parson spoke well and warmly about the duty of Christian love. Now, putting one thing with another, about the bees, and about some ducks, and a bullock with a broken knee-cap, I more than suspected that Farmer Nicholas was casting sheep's eyes at my mother; not only to save all further trouble in the matter of the hurdle, but to override me altogether upon the difficult question of damming. And I knew quite well that John Fry's wife never came to help at the washing without declaring that it was a sin for a well-looking woman like mother, with plenty to live on, and only three children, to keep all the farmers for miles around so unsettled in their minds about her. Mother used to answer “Oh fie, Mistress Fry! be good enough to mind your own business.” But we always saw that she smoothed her apron, and did her hair up afterwards, and that Mistress Fry went home at night with a cold pig's foot or a bowl of dripping.
I had another reason to be annoyed with Farmer Nicholas just now, namely that I heard a rumor after church one Sunday—when we’re all especially introspective about each other’s sins—that Master Nicholas Snowe had been seen gazing affectionately at my mother during a part of the sermon where the pastor spoke sincerely and warmly about the duty of Christian love. Now, putting everything together about the bees, some ducks, and a bullock with a broken knee, I definitely suspected that Farmer Nicholas was looking at my mother with interest; not only to avoid further issues with the hurdle but to completely take over the tricky situation regarding the damming. I also knew very well that John Fry’s wife never came to help with the washing without insisting that it was a sin for a good-looking woman like my mother, who had enough to live on and only three kids, to keep all the farmers within miles so distracted by her. My mother would reply, “Oh come on, Mistress Fry! Please mind your own business.” But we always noticed that she smoothed her apron and fixed her hair afterward, and that Mistress Fry went home at night with a cold pig's foot or a bowl of dripping.
Therefore, on that very night, as I could not well speak to mother about it, without seeming undutiful, after lighting the three young ladies—for so in sooth they called themselves—all the way home with our stable-lanthorn, I begged good leave of Farmer Nicholas (who had hung some way behind us) to say a word in private to him, before he entered his own house.
Therefore, that very night, since I couldn't talk to my mother about it without seeming disrespectful, after lighting the way for the three young ladies—who truly called themselves that—all the way home with our stable lantern, I asked Farmer Nicholas (who was a little way behind us) if I could have a quick word with him before he went into his house.
“Wi' all the plaisure in laife, my zon,” he answered very graciously, thinking perhaps that I was prepared to speak concerning Sally.
“With all the pleasure in life, my son,” he replied very graciously, thinking perhaps that I was ready to talk about Sally.
“Now, Farmer Nicholas Snowe,” I said, scarce knowing how to begin it, “you must promise not to be vexed with me, for what I am going to say to you.”
“Now, Farmer Nicholas Snowe,” I said, barely knowing how to start, “you have to promise not to be upset with me for what I'm about to tell you.”
“Vaxed wi' thee! Noo, noo, my lad. I 'ave a knowed thee too long for that. And thy veyther were my best friend, afore thee. Never wronged his neighbours, never spak an unkind word, never had no maneness in him. Tuk a vancy to a nice young 'ooman, and never kep her in doubt about it, though there wadn't mooch to zettle on her. Spak his maind laike a man, he did, and right happy he were wi' her. Ah, well a day! Ah, God knoweth best. I never shall zee his laike again. And he were the best judge of a dung-heap anywhere in this county.”
“Vaccinated with you! No, no, my friend. I've known you too long for that. And your father was my best friend before you. He never wronged his neighbors, never spoke an unkind word, and had no meanness in him. He took a shine to a nice young woman and never left her in doubt about it, even though there wasn’t much to settle with her. He spoke his mind like a man, and he was really happy with her. Ah, well, what a shame! Ah, God knows best. I will never see his like again. And he was the best judge of a dung heap anywhere in this county.”
“Well, Master Snowe,” I answered him, “it is very handsome of you to say so. And now I am going to be like my father, I am going to speak my mind.”
“Well, Master Snowe,” I replied, “that’s really kind of you to say. And now I'm going to be like my dad; I'm going to be honest with you.”
“Raight there, lad; raight enough, I reckon. Us has had enough of pralimbinary.”
“Right there, kid; right enough, I guess. We’ve had enough of the preliminaries.”
“Then what I want to say is this—I won't have any one courting my mother.”
“Then what I want to say is this—I won't have anyone trying to date my mom.”
“Coortin' of thy mother, lad?” cried Farmer Snowe, with as much amazement as if the thing were impossible; “why, who ever hath been dooin' of it?”
“Courting your mother, kid?” shouted Farmer Snowe, as surprised as if it were something unbelievable; “who’s even been doing that?”
“Yes, courting of my mother, sir. And you know best who comes doing it.”
“Yes, pursuing my mother, sir. And you know better than anyone who’s doing it.”
“Wull, wull! What will boys be up to next? Zhud a' thought herzelf wor the proper judge. No thank 'ee, lad, no need of thy light. Know the wai to my own door, at laste; and have a raight to goo there.” And he shut me out without so much as offering me a drink of cider.
“Well, well! What are boys going to get up to next? I thought I was the proper judge of that. No thanks, kid, I don't need your light. I know the way to my own door, at least; and I have the right to go there.” And he shut me out without even offering me a drink of cider.
The next afternoon, when work was over, I had seen to the horses, for now it was foolish to trust John Fry, because he had so many children, and his wife had taken to scolding; and just as I was saying to myself that in five days more my month would be done, and myself free to seek Lorna, a man came riding up from the ford where the road goes through the Lynn stream. As soon as I saw that it was not Tom Faggus, I went no farther to meet him, counting that it must be some traveller bound for Brendon or Cheriton, and likely enough he would come and beg for a draught of milk or cider; and then on again, after asking the way.
The next afternoon, after work was done, I took care of the horses because it was unwise to rely on John Fry, given that he had so many kids and his wife had started nagging him. Just as I was thinking that in five more days my month would be finished and I’d finally be free to look for Lorna, a man rode up from the ford where the road crosses the Lynn stream. As soon as I realized it wasn’t Tom Faggus, I decided not to approach him, figuring he must be some traveler headed for Brendon or Cheriton, and he’d probably come by to ask for a drink of milk or cider before moving on after asking for directions.
But instead of that, he stopped at our gate, and stood up from his saddle, and halloed as if he were somebody; and all the time he was flourishing a white thing in the air, like the bands our parson weareth. So I crossed the court-yard to speak with him.
But instead, he stopped at our gate, got off his saddle, and shouted like he was important; all the while, he was waving a white thing in the air, like the bands our priest wears. So I went across the courtyard to talk to him.
“Service of the King!” he saith; “service of our lord the King! Come hither, thou great yokel, at risk of fine and imprisonment.”
“Service of the King!” he says; “service of our lord the King! Come here, you big oaf, or you risk a fine and imprisonment.”
Although not pleased with this, I went to him, as became a loyal man; quite at my leisure, however, for there is no man born who can hurry me, though I hasten for any woman.
Although I wasn't happy about it, I went to him, as a loyal man should; but I took my time, because there's no one who can rush me, even though I move quickly for any woman.
“Plover Barrows farm!” said he; “God only knows how tired I be. Is there any where in this cursed county a cursed place called Plover Barrows farm? For last twenty mile at least they told me 'twere only half a mile farther, or only just round corner. Now tell me that, and I fain would thwack thee if thou wert not thrice my size.”
“Plover Barrows farm!” he said. “God knows how tired I am. Is there anywhere in this cursed county a cursed place called Plover Barrows farm? For the last twenty miles at least they told me it was only half a mile farther, or just around the corner. Now tell me that, and I would gladly hit you if you weren’t three times my size.”
“Sir,” I replied, “you shall not have the trouble. This is Plover's Barrows farm, and you are kindly welcome. Sheep's kidneys is for supper, and the ale got bright from the tapping. But why do you think ill of us? We like not to be cursed so.”
"Sir," I replied, "you won't have to worry about that. This is Plover's Barrows farm, and you're more than welcome here. We have sheep kidneys for dinner, and the ale is fresh from the tap. But why do you hold us in such low regard? We don’t appreciate being cursed like that."
“Nay, I think no ill,” he said; “sheep's kidneys is good, uncommon good, if they do them without burning. But I be so galled in the saddle ten days, and never a comely meal of it. And when they hear 'King's service' cried, they give me the worst of everything. All the way down from London, I had a rogue of a fellow in front of me, eating the fat of the land before me, and every one bowing down to him. He could go three miles to my one though he never changed his horse. He might have robbed me at any minute, if I had been worth the trouble. A red mare he rideth, strong in the loins, and pointed quite small in the head. I shall live to see him hanged yet.”
“Nah, I don’t think anything bad,” he said. “Sheep's kidneys are pretty good, really good, if they don’t burn them. But I’ve been so sore from the saddle for ten days, and I haven’t had a decent meal at all. And whenever they hear 'King's service' called out, they give me the worst of everything. All the way down from London, I had this shady guy in front of me, indulging in all the good stuff right in front of me, and everyone bowing down to him. He could ride three miles for every one of mine, even though he never switched horses. He could have robbed me at any moment if I had been worth the effort. He rides a red mare, strong in the back, and her head is quite small. I’ll live to see him hanged yet.”
All this time he was riding across the straw of our courtyard, getting his weary legs out of the leathers, and almost afraid to stand yet. A coarse-grained, hard-faced man he was, some forty years of age or so, and of middle height and stature. He was dressed in a dark brown riding suit, none the better for Exmoor mud, but fitting him very differently from the fashion of our tailors. Across the holsters lay his cloak, made of some red skin, and shining from the sweating of the horse. As I looked down on his stiff bright head-piece, small quick eyes and black needly beard, he seemed to despise me (too much, as I thought) for a mere ignoramus and country bumpkin.
All this time, he was riding across the straw in our courtyard, getting his tired legs out of the leather boots, and almost hesitant to stand up yet. He was a rough-looking, hard-faced man, around forty years old, and of average height. He wore a dark brown riding outfit, made even worse by the Exmoor mud, but it fit him quite differently from what our tailors would make. His cloak, made of some red leather, lay over the holsters and was shining from the horse's sweat. As I looked down at his stiff, shiny headpiece, small, quick eyes, and thin black beard, he seemed to look down on me (perhaps too much, I thought) for being just a clueless simpleton and a country bumpkin.
“Annie, have down the cut ham,” I shouted, for my sister was come to the door by chance, or because of the sound of a horse in the road, “and cut a few rashers of hung deer's meat. There is a gentleman come to sup, Annie. And fetch the hops out of the tap with a skewer that it may run more sparkling.”
“Annie, bring down the sliced ham,” I shouted, since my sister happened to be at the door, probably because she heard a horse on the road, “and slice a few pieces of cured venison. A gentleman has come to dinner, Annie. And take the hops out of the tap with a skewer so it flows more sparkly.”
“I wish I may go to a place never meant for me,” said my new friend, now wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his brown riding coat, “if ever I fell among such good folk. You are the right sort, and no error therein. All this shall go in your favour greatly, when I make deposition. At least, I mean, if it be as good in the eating as in the hearing. 'Tis a supper quite fit for Tom Faggus himself, the man who hath stolen my victuals so. And that hung deer's meat, now is it of the red deer running wild in these parts?”
“I wish I could go to a place that was never meant for me,” said my new friend, now wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his brown riding coat, “if I ever found myself among such good people. You’re the right kind, no doubt about it. This will really work in your favor when I give my statement. At least, I mean, if it tastes as good as it sounds. It’s a supper quite fit for Tom Faggus himself, the guy who’s been stealing my food. And that hung deer meat, is it from the red deer running wild around here?”
“To be sure it is, sir,” I answered; “where should we get any other?”
“To be sure it is, sir,” I replied; “where else would we get any?”
“Right, right, you are right, my son. I have heard that the flavour is marvellous. Some of them came and scared me so, in the fog of the morning, that I hungered for them ever since. Ha, ha, I saw their haunches. But the young lady will not forget—art sure she will not forget it?”
“Yeah, you’re right, my son. I’ve heard the flavor is amazing. A few of them came and startled me in the morning fog, and I’ve been craving them ever since. Ha, ha, I saw their backsides. But the young lady won’t forget—are you sure she won’t forget it?”
“You may trust her to forget nothing, sir, that may tempt a guest to his comfort.”
“You can trust her to remember everything, sir, that might make a guest feel comfortable.”
“In faith, then, I will leave my horse in your hands, and be off for it. Half the pleasure of the mouth is in the nose beforehand. But stay, almost I forgot my business, in the hurry which thy tongue hath spread through my lately despairing belly. Hungry I am, and sore of body, from my heels right upward, and sorest in front of my doublet, yet may I not rest nor bite barley-bread, until I have seen and touched John Ridd. God grant that he be not far away; I must eat my saddle, if it be so.”
"In any case, I'll leave my horse in your care and head out. Half the enjoyment of food comes from the smell beforehand. But wait, I almost forgot what I came for, caught up in all the excitement your words have stirred in my once-desperate stomach. I'm hungry and aching all over, from my heels up, especially right in front of my jacket, but I can't relax or even nibble on some bread until I've seen and met John Ridd. I hope he’s not too far away; I might have to eat my saddle if that’s the case."
“Have no fear, good sir,” I answered; “you have seen and touched John Ridd. I am he, and not one likely to go beneath a bushel.”
“Don’t worry, good sir,” I replied; “you have seen and met John Ridd. That’s me, and I’m not one to hide my light under a bushel.”
“It would take a large bushel to hold thee, John Ridd. In the name of the King, His Majesty, Charles the Second, these presents!”
“It would take a big bushel to hold you, John Ridd. In the name of the King, His Majesty, Charles the Second, this is official!”
He touched me with the white thing which I had first seen him waving, and which I now beheld to be sheepskin, such as they call parchment. It was tied across with cord, and fastened down in every corner with unsightly dabs of wax. By order of the messenger (for I was over-frightened now to think of doing anything), I broke enough of seals to keep an Easter ghost from rising; and there I saw my name in large; God grant such another shock may never befall me in my old age.
He touched me with the white object I had first seen him waving, which I now realized was sheepskin, what they call parchment. It was tied across with a cord and secured in each corner with ugly blobs of wax. At the messenger's request (because I was too scared to think about doing anything myself), I broke enough seals to prevent even an Easter ghost from rising; and there I saw my name in big letters; God help me, I hope nothing like this ever happens to me again in my old age.
“Read, my son; read, thou great fool, if indeed thou canst read,” said the officer to encourage me; “there is nothing to kill thee, boy, and my supper will be spoiling. Stare not at me so, thou fool; thou art big enough to eat me; read, read, read.”
“Read, my son; read, you great fool, if you can actually read,” said the officer to encourage me; “there’s nothing to hurt you, boy, and my dinner is getting cold. Don’t look at me like that, you fool; you’re big enough to overpower me; read, read, read.”
“If you please, sir, what is your name?” I asked; though why I asked him I know not, except from fear of witchcraft.
“If you don’t mind me asking, sir, what’s your name?” I inquired; though I’m not sure why I asked him, except for a fear of witchcraft.
“Jeremy Stickles is my name, lad, nothing more than a poor apparitor of the worshipful Court of King's Bench. And at this moment a starving one, and no supper for me unless thou wilt read.”
“Jeremy Stickles is my name, buddy, just a broke worker for the respected Court of King's Bench. And right now I'm starving, with no dinner for me unless you read.”
Being compelled in this way, I read pretty nigh as follows; not that I give the whole of it, but only the gist and the emphasis,—
Being forced to do this, I read almost like this; not that I share all of it, but just the main points and the emphasis,—
“To our good subject, John Ridd, etc.”—describing me ever so much better than I knew myself—“by these presents, greeting. These are to require thee, in the name of our lord the King, to appear in person before the Right Worshipful, the Justices of His Majesty's Bench at Westminster, laying aside all thine own business, and there to deliver such evidence as is within thy cognisance, touching certain matters whereby the peace of our said lord the King, and the well-being of this realm, is, are, or otherwise may be impeached, impugned, imperilled, or otherwise detrimented. As witness these presents.” And then there were four seals, and then a signature I could not make out, only that it began with a J, and ended with some other writing, done almost in a circle. Underneath was added in a different handwriting “Charges will be borne. The matter is full urgent.”
“To our good subject, John Ridd, etc.”—describing me far better than I knew myself—“by this letter, greetings. This is to request you, in the name of our lord the King, to appear in person before the Right Worshipful, the Justices of His Majesty's Bench at Westminster, setting aside all your own affairs, and there to give such evidence as you have knowledge of, regarding certain matters that may threaten the peace of our lord the King and the well-being of this realm. As witness this letter.” And then there were four seals, and a signature I couldn’t read, except that it started with a J and ended with some other writing, done almost in a circle. Below, in a different handwriting, it was added, “Charges will be covered. The matter is quite urgent.”
The messenger watched me, while I read so much as I could read of it; and he seemed well pleased with my surprise, because he had expected it. Then, not knowing what else to do, I looked again at the cover, and on the top of it I saw, “Ride, Ride, Ride! On His Gracious Majesty's business; spur and spare not.”
The messenger watched me as I read as much as I could; he seemed pleased with my surprise because he had been expecting it. Not knowing what else to do, I looked at the cover again, and on the top, I saw, "Ride, Ride, Ride! On His Gracious Majesty's business; spur and spare not."
It may be supposed by all who know me, that I was taken hereupon with such a giddiness in my head and noisiness in my ears, that I was forced to hold by the crook driven in below the thatch for holding of the hay-rakes. There was scarcely any sense left in me, only that the thing was come by power of Mother Melldrum, because I despised her warning, and had again sought Lorna. But the officer was grieved for me, and the danger to his supper.
Anyone who knows me would think that I was hit with such dizziness and ringing in my ears that I had to grab onto the hook driven into the thatch for holding the hay rakes. I could barely think straight, only realizing that this was all due to Mother Melldrum’s power, because I ignored her warning and went after Lorna again. But the officer felt sorry for me and worried about the risk to his meal.
“My son, be not afraid,” he said; “we are not going to skin thee. Only thou tell all the truth, and it shall be—but never mind, I will tell thee all about it, and how to come out harmless, if I find thy victuals good, and no delay in serving them.”
“My son, don’t be afraid,” he said; “we’re not going to hurt you. Just tell the whole truth, and it will be—but forget that, I’ll explain everything to you and how to come out fine, as long as your food is good, and there’s no delay in serving it.”
“We do our best, sir, without bargain,” said I, “to please our visitors.”
“We do our best, sir, without a deal,” I said, “to please our guests.”
But when my mother saw that parchment (for we could not keep it from her) she fell away into her favourite bed of stock gilly-flowers, which she had been tending; and when we brought her round again, did nothing but exclaim against the wickedness of the age and people. “It was useless to tell her; she knew what it was, and so should all the parish know. The King had heard what her son was, how sober, and quiet, and diligent, and the strongest young man in England; and being himself such a reprobate—God forgive her for saying so—he could never rest till he got poor Johnny, and made him as dissolute as himself. And if he did that”—here mother went off into a fit of crying; and Annie minded her face, while Lizzie saw that her gown was in comely order.
But when my mom saw that parchment (since we couldn’t hide it from her), she fell back onto her favorite bed of stock gilly-flowers that she had been caring for; and when we brought her back to her senses, all she did was complain about the wickedness of the times and people. “It was pointless to explain it to her; she already knew what it was, and so should everyone in the parish. The King had heard what kind of son she had, how sober, quiet, diligent, and the strongest young man in England; and being such a reckless fool himself—God forgive her for saying that—he could never be happy until he turned poor Johnny into a mess just like him. And if he did that”—here mom started to cry again; and Annie took care of her face while Lizzie made sure her gown looked presentable.
But the character of the King improved, when Master Jeremy Stickles (being really moved by the look of it, and no bad man after all) laid it clearly before my mother that the King on his throne was unhappy, until he had seen John Ridd. That the fame of John had gone so far, and his size, and all his virtues—that verily by the God who made him, the King was overcome with it.
But the King's character changed when Master Jeremy Stickles (who was genuinely touched by the situation and not a bad person after all) explained to my mother that the King on his throne was unhappy until he had met John Ridd. That John’s reputation had spread so far, along with his stature and all his good qualities—that, truly, by the God who created him, the King was moved by it.
Then mother lay back in her garden chair, and smiled upon the whole of us, and most of all on Jeremy; looking only shyly on me, and speaking through some break of tears. “His Majesty shall have my John; His Majesty is very good: but only for a fortnight. I want no titles for him. Johnny is enough for me; and Master John for the working men.”
Then Mom leaned back in her garden chair and smiled at all of us, especially at Jeremy; she looked at me only shyly and spoke through some tears. “His Majesty can have my John; His Majesty is very kind, but only for a fortnight. I don’t want any titles for him. Johnny is enough for me, and Master John for the working men.”
Now though my mother was so willing that I should go to London, expecting great promotion and high glory for me, I myself was deeply gone into the pit of sorrow. For what would Lorna think of me? Here was the long month just expired, after worlds of waiting; there would be her lovely self, peeping softly down the glen, and fearing to encourage me; yet there would be nobody else, and what an insult to her! Dwelling upon this, and seeing no chance of escape from it, I could not find one wink of sleep; though Jeremy Stickles (who slept close by) snored loud enough to spare me some. For I felt myself to be, as it were, in a place of some importance; in a situation of trust, I may say; and bound not to depart from it. For who could tell what the King might have to say to me about the Doones—and I felt that they were at the bottom of this strange appearance—or what His Majesty might think, if after receiving a message from him (trusty under so many seals) I were to violate his faith in me as a churchwarden's son, and falsely spread his words abroad?
Now, even though my mom was totally on board with me going to London, hoping for great success and recognition for me, I was stuck in a deep place of sadness. What would Lorna think of me? The long month had just passed, filled with so much waiting; there she would be, her beautiful self peeking gently down the valley, hesitant to encourage me; yet there would be no one else, and what an insult that would be to her! As I thought about this, and saw no way out, I couldn’t find a moment of sleep, even though Jeremy Stickles (who was sleeping nearby) snored loudly enough to provide some distraction. I felt like I was in a significant position; in a place of trust, you could say; and obligated not to leave it. Who could say what the King might want to discuss with me about the Doones—and I sensed they were behind this strange situation—or what His Majesty might think if, after receiving a message from him (secured under so many seals), I broke his trust as a churchwarden's son and spread his words inappropriately?
Perhaps I was not wise in building such a wall of scruples. Nevertheless, all that was there, and weighed upon me heavily. And at last I made up my mind to this, that even Lorna must not know the reason of my going, neither anything about it; but that she might know I was gone a long way from home, and perhaps be sorry for it. Now how was I to let her know even that much of the matter, without breaking compact?
Perhaps I wasn't smart to build such a wall of doubts. Still, it was all there, weighing heavily on me. Eventually, I decided that even Lorna shouldn’t know why I was leaving or anything about it; she should only know I was far from home, and maybe feel sorry about it. But how was I supposed to let her know even that much without breaking my promise?
Puzzling on this, I fell asleep, after the proper time to get up; nor was I to be seen at breakfast time; and mother (being quite strange to that) was very uneasy about it. But Master Stickles assured her that the King's writ often had that effect, and the symptom was a good one.
Pondering this, I fell asleep past the time I should have gotten up; I also wasn’t around for breakfast, which made my mother quite worried since she was not used to that. However, Master Stickles reassured her that the King's writ often had that effect, and that it was actually a positive sign.
“Now, Master Stickles, when must we start?” I asked him, as he lounged in the yard gazing at our turkey poults picking and running in the sun to the tune of their father's gobble. “Your horse was greatly foundered, sir, and is hardly fit for the road to-day; and Smiler was sledding yesterday all up the higher Cleve; and none of the rest can carry me.”
“Now, Master Stickles, when do we need to start?” I asked him, as he relaxed in the yard, watching our turkey poults pecking and darting in the sun to the rhythm of their father's gobble. “Your horse is really unfit to travel today, sir, and Smiler was pulling a sled yesterday all the way up the higher Cleve; and none of the others can carry me.”
“In a few more years,” replied the King's officer, contemplating me with much satisfaction; “'twill be a cruelty to any horse to put thee on his back, John.”
“In a few more years,” replied the King's officer, looking at me with great satisfaction, “it'll be cruel to put you on any horse's back, John.”
Master Stickles, by this time, was quite familiar with us, calling me “Jack,” and Eliza “Lizzie,” and what I liked the least of all, our pretty Annie “Nancy.”
Master Stickles, by this point, knew us well, calling me “Jack,” Eliza “Lizzie,” and what I liked the least of all, our pretty Annie “Nancy.”
“That will be as God pleases, sir,” I answered him, rather sharply; “and the horse that suffers will not be thine. But I wish to know when we must start upon our long travel to London town. I perceive that the matter is of great despatch and urgency.”
"That will be up to God, sir," I replied, a bit curtly; "and the horse that suffers won't be yours. But I want to know when we need to start our long journey to London. I see that this is quite urgent."
“To be sure, so it is, my son. But I see a yearling turkey there, him I mean with the hop in his walk, who (if I know aught of fowls) would roast well to-morrow. Thy mother must have preparation: it is no more than reasonable. Now, have that turkey killed to-night (for his fatness makes me long for him), and we will have him for dinner to-morrow, with, perhaps, one of his brethren; and a few more collops of red deer's flesh for supper, and then on the Friday morning, with the grace of God, we will set our faces to the road, upon His Majesty's business.”
“Sure, that's right, my son. But I see a young turkey over there, the one with the spring in his step, who (if I know anything about birds) would be great for roasting tomorrow. Your mother needs to get ready: it's only fair. Now, let's have that turkey taken care of tonight (because I'm really wanting him), and we'll have him for dinner tomorrow, along with maybe one of his siblings; and a few more pieces of venison for supper, and then on Friday morning, with God's blessing, we'll hit the road for His Majesty's business.”
“Nay, but good sir,” I asked with some trembling, so eager was I to see Lorna; “if His Majesty's business will keep till Friday, may it not keep until Monday? We have a litter of sucking-pigs, excellently choice and white, six weeks old, come Friday. There be too many for the sow, and one of them needeth roasting. Think you not it would be a pity to leave the women to carve it?”
“Please, good sir,” I asked, trembling a bit, so eager was I to see Lorna; “if His Majesty's business can wait until Friday, can’t it wait until Monday? We’ll have a litter of very choice and white piglets, six weeks old, by Friday. There are too many for the mother, and one of them needs to be roasted. Don’t you think it would be a shame to leave it to the women to carve?”
“My son Jack,” replied Master Stickles, “never was I in such quarters yet: and God forbid that I should be so unthankful to Him as to hurry away. And now I think on it, Friday is not a day upon which pious people love to commence an enterprise. I will choose the young pig to-morrow at noon, at which time they are wont to gambol; and we will celebrate his birthday by carving him on Friday. After that we will gird our loins, and set forth early on Saturday.”
“My son Jack,” replied Master Stickles, “I've never been in such a place before: and God forbid that I should be so ungrateful to Him as to rush off. Now that I think about it, Friday isn't a day that religious people like to start a project. I'll choose the young pig tomorrow at noon, when they usually play around; and we’ll celebrate his birthday by roasting him on Friday. After that, we’ll get ready and head out early on Saturday.”
Now this was little better to me than if we had set forth at once. Sunday being the very first day upon which it would be honourable for me to enter Glen Doone. But though I tried every possible means with Master Jeremy Stickles, offering him the choice for dinner of every beast that was on the farm, he durst not put off our departure later than the Saturday. And nothing else but love of us and of our hospitality would have so persuaded him to remain with us till then. Therefore now my only chance of seeing Lorna, before I went, lay in watching from the cliff and espying her, or a signal from her.
Now, this was hardly better for me than if we had left right away. Sunday was the very first day that it would be appropriate for me to enter Glen Doone. But even though I tried everything I could with Master Jeremy Stickles, offering him any animal from the farm for dinner, he wouldn't let us delay our departure past Saturday. Only his affection for us and our hospitality would have convinced him to stay with us until then. So now, my only chance to see Lorna before I left was to watch from the cliff and look for her, or for a signal from her.
This, however, I did in vain, until my eyes were weary and often would delude themselves with hope of what they ached for. But though I lay hidden behind the trees upon the crest of the stony fall, and waited so quiet that the rabbits and squirrels played around me, and even the keen-eyed weasel took me for a trunk of wood—it was all as one; no cast of colour changed the white stone, whose whiteness now was hateful to me; nor did wreath or skirt of maiden break the loneliness of the vale.
This, however, I did in vain, until my eyes were tired and often would trick themselves into hoping for what they longed for. But even though I lay hidden behind the trees on the edge of the rocky drop, and waited so still that the rabbits and squirrels played around me, and even the sharp-eyed weasel mistook me for a log—it was all the same; no splash of color changed the white stone, whose whiteness I now found detestable; nor did the presence of a maiden brighten the loneliness of the valley.
CHAPTER XXIV
A SAFE PASS FOR KING'S MESSENGER
A journey to London seemed to us in those bygone days as hazardous and dark an adventure as could be forced on any man. I mean, of course, a poor man; for to a great nobleman, with ever so many outriders, attendants, and retainers, the risk was not so great, unless the highwaymen knew of their coming beforehand, and so combined against them. To a poor man, however, the risk was not so much from those gentlemen of the road as from the more ignoble footpads, and the landlords of the lesser hostels, and the loose unguarded soldiers, over and above the pitfalls and the quagmires of the way; so that it was hard to settle, at the first outgoing whether a man were wise to pray more for his neck or for his head.
A journey to London back in those days felt like a dangerous and dark adventure for anyone, especially a poor man. For a wealthy nobleman, with plenty of escorts and staff, the risk wasn't as high, unless the highwaymen were aware of their arrival and planned against them. But for a poor man, the danger came not only from the highwaymen but also from lowly footpads, the less reputable inns, and unruly soldiers, not to mention the hazards of the road like pitfalls and muddy patches. So, it was tough to decide, right from the start, whether it was wiser to pray for his neck or his head.
But nowadays it is very different. Not that highway-men are scarce, in this the reign of our good Queen Anne; for in truth they thrive as well as ever, albeit they deserve it not, being less upright and courteous—but that the roads are much improved, and the growing use of stage-waggons (some of which will travel as much as forty miles in a summer day) has turned our ancient ideas of distance almost upside down; and I doubt whether God be pleased with our flying so fast away from Him. However, that is not my business; nor does it lie in my mouth to speak very strongly upon the subject, seeing how much I myself have done towards making of roads upon Exmoor.
But these days, things are really different. Not that highwaymen are rare in the reign of our good Queen Anne; in fact, they’re thriving just like always, even if they don’t deserve it, being less honest and polite. It’s just that the roads have improved a lot, and the increasing use of stagecoaches (some of which can travel as much as forty miles in one day during summer) has completely changed our old ideas of distance. I doubt God is happy with how quickly we're racing away from Him. However, that’s not my concern; and I can’t speak too strongly on the matter, considering how much I’ve contributed to building roads on Exmoor.
To return to my story (and, in truth, I lose that road too often), it would have taken ten King's messengers to get me away from Plover's Barrows without one goodbye to Lorna, but for my sense of the trust and reliance which His Majesty had reposed in me. And now I felt most bitterly how the very arrangements which seemed so wise, and indeed ingenious, may by the force of events become our most fatal obstacles. For lo! I was blocked entirely from going to see Lorna; whereas we should have fixed it so that I as well might have the power of signalling my necessity.
To get back to my story (and honestly, I often lose track of it), it would have taken ten royal messengers to pull me away from Plover's Barrows without saying goodbye to Lorna, but my sense of duty to the trust His Majesty placed in me made it possible. And now I deeply felt how the very plans that seemed so smart, and even clever, could, due to circumstances, become our biggest hurdles. Because here I was, completely unable to go see Lorna; instead, we should have arranged things so that I could signal when I needed to.
It was too late now to think of that; and so I made up my mind at last to keep my honour on both sides, both to the King and to the maiden, although I might lose everything except a heavy heart for it. And indeed, more hearts than mine were heavy; for when it came to the tug of parting, my mother was like, and so was Annie, to break down altogether. But I bade them be of good cheer, and smiled in the briskest manner upon them, and said that I should be back next week as one of His Majesty's greatest captains, and told them not to fear me then. Upon which they smiled at the idea of ever being afraid of me, whatever dress I might have on; and so I kissed my hand once more, and rode away very bravely. But bless your heart, I could no more have done so than flown all the way to London if Jeremy Stickles had not been there.
It was too late to dwell on that now; so I finally decided to keep my honor intact for both the King and the maiden, even if it meant losing everything except for a heavy heart. In fact, more hearts than mine were weighed down; when the time for saying goodbye came, my mother and Annie were both on the verge of breaking down completely. But I told them to stay positive, smiling brightly at them, and said that I would be back next week as one of His Majesty's top captains, assuring them not to worry about me then. They smiled at the thought of ever being afraid of me, no matter what I wore, and so I waved goodbye and rode away confidently. But honestly, I wouldn't have been able to leave if Jeremy Stickles hadn't been there.
And not to take too much credit to myself in this matter, I must confess that when we were come to the turn in the road where the moor begins, and whence you see the last of the yard, and the ricks and the poultry round them and can (by knowing the place) obtain a glance of the kitchen window under the walnut-tree, it went so hard with me just here that I even made pretence of a stone in ancient Smiler's shoe, to dismount, and to bend my head awhile. Then, knowing that those I had left behind would be watching to see the last of me, and might have false hopes of my coming back, I mounted again with all possible courage, and rode after Jeremy Stickles.
And I don’t want to take too much credit for myself in this situation, but I have to admit that when we reached the turn in the road where the moor begins, and you can see the last of the yard, along with the haystacks and the chickens around them, and if you know the spot, catch a glimpse of the kitchen window under the walnut tree, it was really hard for me at that moment. I even pretended there was a stone in old Smiler’s shoe so I could get off and bend my head for a moment. Then, knowing that those I left behind would be watching to see the last of me and might have false hopes of my return, I got back on with as much courage as I could muster and rode after Jeremy Stickles.
Jeremy, seeing how much I was down, did his best to keep me up with jokes, and tales, and light discourse, until, before we had ridden a league, I began to long to see the things he was describing. The air, the weather, and the thoughts of going to a wondrous place, added to the fine company—at least so Jeremy said it was—of a man who knew all London, made me feel that I should be ungracious not to laugh a little. And being very simple then I laughed no more a little, but something quite considerable (though free from consideration) at the strange things Master Stickles told me, and his strange way of telling them. And so we became very excellent friends, for he was much pleased with my laughing.
Jeremy, noticing how down I was, did his best to cheer me up with jokes, stories, and light conversation. Before we had traveled a mile, I started to really want to see the things he was describing. The nice weather and the idea of going to an amazing place, along with the great company—at least that’s what Jeremy claimed it was—of a guy who knew all about London, made me feel like it would be unkind not to laugh a bit. And since I was feeling pretty straightforward at the time, I ended up laughing a lot (though without much thought) at the odd things Master Stickles told me and the way he shared them. So, we became really good friends, as he was quite happy with my laughter.
Not wishing to thrust myself more forward than need be in this narrative, I have scarcely thought it becoming or right to speak of my own adornments. But now, what with the brave clothes I had on, and the better ones still that were packed up in the bag behind the saddle, it is almost beyond me to forbear saying that I must have looked very pleasing. And many a time I wished, going along, that Lorna could only be here and there, watching behind a furze-bush, looking at me, and wondering how much my clothes had cost. For mother would have no stint in the matter, but had assembled at our house, immediately upon knowledge of what was to be about London, every man known to be a good stitcher upon our side of Exmoor. And for three days they had worked their best, without stint of beer or cider, according to the constitution of each. The result, so they all declared, was such as to create admiration, and defy competition in London. And to me it seemed that they were quite right; though Jeremy Stickles turned up his nose, and feigned to be deaf in the business.
Not wanting to put myself front and center in this story, I barely thought it appropriate to mention my own appearance. But now, with the nice clothes I was wearing and even better ones packed in the bag behind the saddle, it’s hard not to say that I must have looked pretty good. Many times, while I was on my way, I wished Lorna could be here, hiding behind a bush, watching me and wondering how much my clothes cost. My mother didn’t hold back, gathering every skilled seamster she could find on our side of Exmoor as soon as she learned about the London event. For three days, they all worked hard, enjoying plenty of beer or cider, depending on what they liked. They all said the result was spectacular and unbeatable in London. I thought they were right, even though Jeremy Stickles scoffed at it and pretended he couldn't hear.
Now be that matter as you please—for the point is not worth arguing—certain it is that my appearance was better than it had been before. For being in the best clothes, one tries to look and to act (so far as may be) up to the quality of them. Not only for the fear of soiling them, but that they enlarge a man's perception of his value. And it strikes me that our sins arise, partly from disdain of others, but mainly from contempt of self, both working the despite of God. But men of mind may not be measured by such paltry rule as this.
Now, whatever you think about it—the point isn't worth debating—it's clear that I looked better than I had before. Wearing nice clothes makes you want to look and act, as much as possible, in line with their quality. It's not just about not getting them dirty; they also boost a person's sense of self-worth. I believe that our wrongdoings come not only from looking down on others, but mainly from a lack of respect for ourselves, both disrespecting God in the process. However, people of true intellect shouldn't be judged by such trivial standards.
By dinner-time we arrived at Porlock, and dined with my old friend, Master Pooke, now growing rich and portly. For though we had plenty of victuals with us we were not to begin upon them, until all chance of victualling among our friends was left behind. And during that first day we had no need to meddle with our store at all; for as had been settled before we left home, we lay that night at Dunster in the house of a worthy tanner, first cousin to my mother, who received us very cordially, and undertook to return old Smiler to his stable at Plover's Barrows, after one day's rest.
By dinner time, we arrived in Porlock and had dinner with my old friend, Master Pooke, who was now becoming wealthy and plump. Even though we had plenty of food with us, we weren’t going to eat any of it until we had exhausted all chances of getting meals from our friends. Fortunately, on that first day, we didn’t need to touch our supplies at all; as we had arranged before leaving home, we spent that night in Dunster at the house of a respectable tanner, my mother's first cousin, who welcomed us warmly and agreed to take old Smiler back to his stable at Plover's Barrows after one day's rest.
Thence we hired to Bridgwater; and from Bridgwater on to Bristowe, breaking the journey between the two. But although the whole way was so new to me, and such a perpetual source of conflict, that the remembrance still abides with me, as if it were but yesterday, I must not be so long in telling as it was in travelling, or you will wish me farther; both because Lorna was nothing there, and also because a man in our neighbourhood had done the whole of it since my time, and feigns to think nothing of it. However, one thing, in common justice to a person who has been traduced, I am bound to mention. And this is, that being two of us, and myself of such magnitude, we never could have made our journey without either fight or running, but for the free pass which dear Annie, by some means (I know not what), had procured from Master Faggus. And when I let it be known, by some hap, that I was the own cousin of Tom Faggus, and honoured with his society, there was not a house upon the road but was proud to entertain me, in spite of my fellow-traveller, bearing the red badge of the King.
Then we took a ride to Bridgwater; and from Bridgwater to Bristol, breaking the journey between the two. Even though the entire route was completely new to me and a constant source of excitement, so much so that the memory still lingers as if it were just yesterday, I shouldn’t take as long to tell it as it took to travel, or you might want me to stop; partly because Lorna wasn’t there, and also because a guy from our neighborhood had done the whole trip since my time and pretends it was no big deal. However, I must mention one thing to be fair to someone who has been wronged. And that is, since there were two of us, and I was quite a presence, we never would have made the journey without either a fight or a quick escape if it weren't for the free pass that dear Annie somehow (I don’t know how) got from Master Faggus. And when I happened to mention that I was the cousin of Tom Faggus and enjoyed his company, every house along the road was eager to host me, despite my travel companion, who wore the red badge of the King.
“I will keep this close, my son Jack,” he said, having stripped it off with a carving-knife; “your flag is the best to fly. The man who starved me on the way down, the same shall feed me fat going home.”
“I’ll hold onto this tightly, my son Jack,” he said, having cut it off with a carving knife; “your flag is the best one to display. The man who made me weak on the way down will be the same one to feed me well on the way back.”
Therefore we pursued our way, in excellent condition, having thriven upon the credit of that very popular highwayman, and being surrounded with regrets that he had left the profession, and sometimes begged to intercede that he might help the road again. For all the landlords on the road declared that now small ale was drunk, nor much of spirits called for, because the farmers need not prime to meet only common riders, neither were these worth the while to get drunk with afterwards. Master Stickles himself undertook, as an officer of the King's Justices to plead this case with Squire Faggus (as everybody called him now), and to induce him, for the general good, to return to his proper ministry.
So we continued on our way, in great shape, having benefited from the reputation of that well-liked highwayman, and often feeling sorry he had left the profession, sometimes even asking him to come back and help out on the road again. All the landlords along the way complained that now they hardly sold any small ale, nor much spirits, because farmers didn’t feel the need to prepare for just ordinary travelers, and those travelers weren’t worth getting drunk with later. Master Stickles himself took it upon himself, as an officer of the King's Justices, to argue this case with Squire Faggus (as everyone now called him), hoping to persuade him, for everyone's benefit, to return to his rightful duties.
It was a long and weary journey, although the roads are wondrous good on the farther side of Bristowe, and scarcely any man need be bogged, if he keeps his eyes well open, save, perhaps, in Berkshire. In consequence of the pass we had, and the vintner's knowledge of it, we only met two public riders, one of whom made off straightway when he saw my companion's pistols and the stout carbine I bore; and the other came to a parley with us, and proved most kind and affable, when he knew himself in the presence of the cousin of Squire Faggus. “God save you, gentlemen,” he cried, lifting his hat politely; “many and many a happy day I have worked this road with him. Such times will never be again. But commend me to his love and prayers. King my name is, and King my nature. Say that, and none will harm you.” And so he made off down the hill, being a perfect gentleman, and a very good horse he was riding.
It was a long and tiring journey, although the roads are really good on the far side of Bristol, and hardly anyone should get stuck if they keep their eyes open, except maybe in Berkshire. Because of the pass we had and the innkeeper's familiarity with it, we only ran into two riders. One of them took off immediately when he saw my companion's guns and the sturdy carbine I was carrying; the other stopped to chat with us and turned out to be quite friendly when he realized he was talking to the cousin of Squire Faggus. “Hello, gentlemen,” he said, tipping his hat politely; “I’ve spent many happy days traveling this road with him. Those times will never come again. Please send him my regards and prayers. King is my name, and King is my nature. Just say that, and no one will bother you.” And then he rode off down the hill, being the perfect gentleman, and he was on a very good horse.
The night was falling very thick by the time we were come to Tyburn, and here the King's officer decided that it would be wise to halt, because the way was unsafe by night across the fields to Charing village. I for my part was nothing loth, and preferred to see London by daylight.
The night was getting pretty dark by the time we reached Tyburn, and the King's officer thought it would be smart to stop here because the path through the fields to Charing village was dangerous at night. Personally, I wasn't opposed to this and would rather see London in the daylight.
And after all, it was not worth seeing, but a very hideous and dirty place, not at all like Exmoor. Some of the shops were very fine, and the signs above them finer still, so that I was never weary of standing still to look at them. But in doing this there was no ease; for before one could begin almost to make out the meaning of them, either some of the wayfarers would bustle and scowl, and draw their swords, or the owner, or his apprentice boys, would rush out and catch hold of me, crying, “Buy, buy, buy! What d'ye lack, what d'ye lack? Buy, buy, buy!” At first I mistook the meaning of this—for so we pronounce the word “boy” upon Exmoor—and I answered with some indignation, “Sirrah, I am no boy now, but a man of one-and-twenty years; and as for lacking, I lack naught from thee, except what thou hast not—good manners.”
And in the end, it really wasn’t worth seeing, just a really ugly and dirty place, nothing like Exmoor. Some of the shops were quite nice, and the signs above them were even nicer, so I never got tired of standing there looking at them. But it was uncomfortable because before I could even begin to understand what they meant, some travelers would push by, frowning and drawing their swords, or the owner or his apprentice boys would rush out and grab me, shouting, “Buy, buy, buy! What do you need, what do you need? Buy, buy, buy!” At first, I misunderstood this—since we pronounce the word “boy” that way in Exmoor—and I responded with some annoyance, “Hey, I’m not a boy anymore, but a man of twenty-one; and as for needing anything from you, I lack nothing except what you don’t have—good manners.”
The only things that pleased me much, were the river Thames, and the hall and church of Westminster, where there are brave things to be seen, and braver still to think about. But whenever I wandered in the streets, what with the noise the people made, the number of the coaches, the running of the footmen, the swaggering of great courtiers, and the thrusting aside of everybody, many and many a time I longed to be back among the sheep again, for fear of losing temper. They were welcome to the wall for me, as I took care to tell them, for I could stand without the wall, which perhaps was more than they could do. Though I said this with the best intention, meaning no discourtesy, some of them were vexed at it; and one young lord, being flushed with drink, drew his sword and made at me. But I struck it up with my holly stick, so that it flew on the roof of a house, then I took him by the belt with one hand, and laid him in the kennel. This caused some little disturbance; but none of the rest saw fit to try how the matter might be with them.
The only things that really pleased me were the River Thames and the hall and church of Westminster, where there are amazing sights to see and even more to think about. But whenever I wandered the streets, with all the noise from the people, the number of coaches, the running footmen, the show-off courtiers, and everyone pushing each other aside, many times I wished I could be back among the sheep again, worried I might lose my temper. They could keep the wall as far as I was concerned, which I made sure to tell them, since I could stand outside the wall, which was probably more than they could manage. Although I said this with good intentions and no disrespect, some of them were annoyed, and one young lord, who had been drinking, drew his sword and lunged at me. I deflected it with my holly stick, knocking it onto a roof, then grabbed him by the belt with one hand and threw him into the gutter. This caused a bit of a commotion, but none of the others dared to see how things would go for them.
Now this being the year of our Lord 1683, more than nine years and a half since the death of my father, and the beginning of this history, all London was in a great ferment about the dispute between the Court of the King and the City. The King, or rather perhaps his party (for they said that His Majesty cared for little except to have plenty of money and spend it), was quite resolved to be supreme in the appointment of the chief officers of the corporation. But the citizens maintained that (under their charter) this right lay entirely with themselves; upon which a writ was issued against them for forfeiture of their charter; and the question was now being tried in the court of His Majesty's bench.
Now, in the year 1683, more than nine and a half years after my father's death and the start of this story, all of London was in a big uproar over the conflict between the King’s Court and the City. The King—or maybe more accurately, his supporters (since they claimed His Majesty was mostly interested in having a lot of money and spending it)—was determined to have ultimate control over the appointment of the top officers of the corporation. Meanwhile, the citizens argued that, according to their charter, this right belonged solely to them. As a result, a writ was issued against them for the loss of their charter, and the matter was now being tried in His Majesty's bench court.
This seemed to occupy all the attention of the judges, and my case (which had appeared so urgent) was put off from time to time, while the Court and the City contended. And so hot was the conflict and hate between them, that a sheriff had been fined by the King in 100,000 pounds, and a former lord mayor had even been sentenced to the pillory, because he would not swear falsely. Hence the courtiers and the citizens scarce could meet in the streets with patience, or without railing and frequent blows.
This seemed to grab all the attention of the judges, and my case (which had seemed so urgent) was postponed repeatedly while the Court and the City argued. The conflict and animosity between them were so intense that a sheriff was fined 100,000 pounds by the King, and a former lord mayor was even sentenced to the pillory for refusing to lie under oath. As a result, the courtiers and the citizens could barely cross paths in the streets without getting into arguments or exchanging blows.
Now although I heard so much of this matter, for nothing else was talked of, and it seeming to me more important even than the churchwardenship of Oare, I could not for the life of me tell which side I should take to. For all my sense of position, and of confidence reposed in me, and of my father's opinions, lay heavily in one scale, while all my reason and my heart went down plump against injustice, and seemed to win the other scale. Even so my father had been, at the breaking out of the civil war, when he was less than my age now, and even less skilled in politics; and my mother told me after this, when she saw how I myself was doubting, and vexed with myself for doing so, that my father used to thank God often that he had not been called upon to take one side or other, but might remain obscure and quiet. And yet he always considered himself to be a good, sound Royalist.
Even though I heard so much about this situation—since it was the only thing anyone was talking about—and it seemed more important to me than the churchwardenship of Oare, I couldn't figure out which side to take. On one hand, I had my sense of position, the trust placed in me, and my father's views weighing heavily on one side. On the other hand, all my reason and my heart were firmly against injustice, which seemed to tip the scale the other way. My father had felt the same way at the start of the civil war when he was younger than I am now and even less experienced in politics. Later, my mother told me that when she saw how much I was struggling with my doubts and feeling frustrated about it, my father often thanked God that he hadn't been forced to choose a side but could stay out of it and keep a low profile. Still, he always considered himself a solid Royalist.
But now as I stayed there, only desirous to be heard and to get away, and scarcely even guessing yet what was wanted of me (for even Jeremy Stickles knew not, or pretended not to know), things came to a dreadful pass between the King and all the people who dared to have an opinion. For about the middle of June, the judges gave their sentence, that the City of London had forfeited its charter, and that its franchise should be taken into the hands of the King. Scarcely was this judgment forth, and all men hotly talking of it, when a far worse thing befell. News of some great conspiracy was spread at every corner, and that a man in the malting business had tried to take up the brewer's work, and lop the King and the Duke of York. Everybody was shocked at this, for the King himself was not disliked so much as his advisers; but everybody was more than shocked, grieved indeed to the heart with pain, at hearing that Lord William Russell and Mr. Algernon Sidney had been seized and sent to the Tower of London, upon a charge of high treason.
But now as I was there, just wanting to be heard and to leave, and barely even realizing what was expected of me (since even Jeremy Stickles didn't know, or pretended not to know), things took a terrible turn between the King and everyone who dared to express an opinion. Around mid-June, the judges announced their decision that the City of London had lost its charter and that its rights would be taken by the King. Hardly had this judgment been made public, with everyone talking heatedly about it, when an even worse event occurred. News of a major conspiracy spread everywhere, claiming that a man in the malting business had tried to take over the brewer's work and eliminate the King and the Duke of York. Everyone was shocked by this, for the King himself wasn’t as disliked as his advisors; but everyone felt even more than shock, they were truly heartbroken to learn that Lord William Russell and Mr. Algernon Sidney had been arrested and sent to the Tower of London on charges of high treason.
Having no knowledge of these great men, nor of the matter how far it was true, I had not very much to say about either of them or it; but this silence was not shared (although the ignorance may have been) by the hundreds of people around me. Such a commotion was astir, such universal sense of wrong, and stern resolve to right it, that each man grasped his fellow's hand, and led him into the vintner's. Even I, although at that time given to excess in temperance, and afraid of the name of cordials, was hard set (I do assure you) not to be drunk at intervals without coarse discourtesy.
Having no knowledge of these great men, or whether what was said about them was true, I didn’t have much to say about either of them or the situation. But my silence wasn’t shared (even if our ignorance was) by the hundreds of people around me. There was such a stir, such a widespread sense of injustice, and a strong determination to correct it, that everyone grabbed hold of each other’s hands and went into the tavern. Even I, who usually avoided drinking and was wary of strong drinks at that time, found it really difficult (I assure you) not to get tipsy from time to time without being rude.
However, that (as Betty Muxworthy used to say, when argued down, and ready to take the mop for it) is neither here nor there. I have naught to do with great history and am sorry for those who have to write it; because they are sure to have both friends and enemies in it, and cannot act as they would towards them, without damage to their own consciences.
However, that (as Betty Muxworthy used to say, when she was argued down and ready to take the blame for it) is irrelevant. I have nothing to do with major history and I feel for those who have to write it; because they are bound to have both friends and foes in it, and can't behave toward them as they would like without harming their own consciences.
But as great events draw little ones, and the rattle of the churn decides the uncertainty of the flies, so this movement of the town, and eloquence, and passion had more than I guessed at the time, to do with my own little fortunes. For in the first place it was fixed (perhaps from down right contumely, because the citizens loved him so) that Lord Russell should be tried neither at Westminster nor at Lincoln's Inn, but at the Court of Old Bailey, within the precincts of the city. This kept me hanging on much longer; because although the good nobleman was to be tried by the Court of Common Pleas, yet the officers of King's Bench, to whom I daily applied myself, were in counsel with their fellows, and put me off from day to day.
But just as big events attract smaller ones, and the sound of the churn influences the uncertainty of the flies, this movement in the town, along with the passion and eloquence, had more to do with my own fortunes than I realized at the time. For starters, it was decided (perhaps out of sheer spite, since the citizens were so fond of him) that Lord Russell would be tried not at Westminster or Lincoln's Inn, but at the Old Bailey, within the city limits. This prolonged my wait, because even though the nobleman was to be tried by the Court of Common Pleas, the King's Bench officers, to whom I approached daily, were in discussions with their colleagues and kept postponing my case from one day to the next.
Now I had heard of the law's delays, which the greatest of all great poets (knowing much of the law himself, as indeed of everything) has specially mentioned, when not expected, among the many ills of life. But I never thought at my years to have such bitter experience of the evil; and it seemed to me that if the lawyers failed to do their duty, they ought to pay people for waiting upon them, instead of making them pay for it. But here I was, now in the second month living at my own charges in the house of a worthy fellmonger at the sign of the Seal and Squirrel, abutting upon the Strand road which leads from Temple Bar to Charing. Here I did very well indeed, having a mattress of good skin-dressings, and plenty to eat every day of my life, but the butter was something to cry “but” thrice at (according to a conceit of our school days), and the milk must have come from cows driven to water. However, these evils were light compared with the heavy bill sent up to me every Saturday afternoon; and knowing how my mother had pinched to send me nobly to London, and had told me to spare for nothing, but live bravely with the best of them, the tears very nearly came into my eyes, as I thought, while I ate, of so robbing her.
Now, I had heard about the delays in the legal system that the greatest of poets (who knew a lot about the law, just like everything else) mentioned unexpectedly among life's many troubles. But I never thought I would have such a bitter experience of it at my age; it seemed to me that if the lawyers weren't doing their job, they should be paying people for having to wait for them instead of charging them for it. Yet, here I was, now in my second month living on my own dime in the house of a respectable fellmonger at the Seal and Squirrel, right off the Strand road that runs from Temple Bar to Charing. I was doing pretty well, actually, with a mattress made from good leather and enough food to eat every day of my life, though the butter was something I'd complain about (according to a joke from our school days), and the milk must have come from cows that were really thirsty. Still, these problems were minor compared to the hefty bill I got every Saturday afternoon. Knowing how hard my mom worked to send me to London comfortably and how she told me to spare no expense and live well with the best of them, I nearly cried as I thought, while I ate, about how I was robbing her.
At length, being quite at the end of my money, and seeing no other help for it, I determined to listen to clerks no more, but force my way up to the Justices, and insist upon being heard by them, or discharged from my recognisance. For so they had termed the bond or deed which I had been forced to execute, in the presence of a chief clerk or notary, the very day after I came to London. And the purport of it was, that on pain of a heavy fine or escheatment, I would hold myself ready and present, to give evidence when called upon. Having delivered me up to sign this, Jeremy Stickles was quit of me, and went upon other business, not but what he was kind and good to me, when his time and pursuits allowed of it.
Eventually, having run out of money and seeing no other options, I decided to stop listening to clerks and push my way up to the Justices, insisting that I be heard by them or released from my recognizance. That was what they called the bond or document I had been forced to sign in front of a chief clerk or notary the very day after I arrived in London. Its purpose was that, under the threat of a hefty fine or loss of property, I would be available to give evidence whenever required. After getting me to sign this, Jeremy Stickles was done with me and moved on to other business, though he was kind and helpful to me whenever he had the time.
CHAPTER XXV
A GREAT MAN ATTENDS TO BUSINESS
Having seen Lord Russell murdered in the fields of Lincoln's Inn, or rather having gone to see it, but turned away with a sickness and a bitter flood of tears—for a whiter and a nobler neck never fell before low beast—I strode away towards Westminster, cured of half my indignation at the death of Charles the First. Many people hurried past me, chiefly of the more tender sort, revolting at the butchery. In their ghastly faces, as they turned them back, lest the sight should be coming after them, great sorrow was to be seen, and horror, and pity, and some anger.
Having witnessed Lord Russell's murder in the fields of Lincoln's Inn, or rather having gone to see it but turning away in sickness and tears—no one as pure and noble should have met such a brutal end—I walked away toward Westminster, a little less angry about the death of Charles the First. Many people rushed past me, mostly those who were more sensitive, appalled by the slaughter. On their pale faces, as they looked back to avoid seeing the aftermath, great sorrow, horror, pity, and some anger were evident.
In Westminster Hall I found nobody; not even the crowd of crawling varlets, who used to be craving evermore for employment or for payment. I knocked at three doors, one after other, of lobbies going out of it, where I had formerly seen some officers and people pressing in and out, but for my trouble I took nothing, except some thumps from echo. And at last an old man told me that all the lawyers were gone to see the result of their own works, in the fields of Lincoln's Inn.
In Westminster Hall, I found no one; not even the usual crowd of petty workers who were always looking for jobs or pay. I knocked on three doors, one after another, leading out of it, where I had previously seen some officials and people coming and going, but for my efforts, I got nothing but the sound of echoes. Finally, an old man told me that all the lawyers had gone to see the outcome of their own work in the fields of Lincoln's Inn.
However, in a few days' time, I had better fortune; for the court was sitting and full of business, to clear off the arrears of work, before the lawyers' holiday. As I was waiting in the hall for a good occasion, a man with horsehair on his head, and a long blue bag in his left hand, touched me gently on the arm, and led me into a quiet place. I followed him very gladly, being confident that he came to me with a message from the Justiciaries. But after taking pains to be sure that none could overhear us, he turned on me suddenly, and asked,—
However, in just a few days, I had better luck; the court was in session and busy trying to get through its backlog of cases before the lawyers' holiday. While I was waiting in the hall for a good opportunity, a man with horsehair on his head and a long blue bag in his left hand gently touched my arm and led me to a quiet spot. I followed him eagerly, confident he had a message from the Justiciaries. After making sure no one could overhear us, he suddenly turned to me and asked,—
“Now, John, how is your dear mother?”
“Hey John, how's your mom doing?”
“Worshipful sir” I answered him, after recovering from my surprise at his knowledge of our affairs, and kindly interest in them, “it is two months now since I have seen her. Would to God that I only knew how she is faring now, and how the business of the farm goes!”
“Respectful sir,” I replied, once I got over my surprise at his understanding of our situation and his genuine concern for it. “It’s been two months since I’ve seen her. I wish I knew how she’s doing and how things are going on the farm!”
“Sir, I respect and admire you,” the old gentleman replied, with a bow very low and genteel; “few young court-gallants of our time are so reverent and dutiful. Oh, how I did love my mother!” Here he turned up his eyes to heaven, in a manner that made me feel for him and yet with a kind of wonder.
“Sir, I respect and admire you,” the old gentleman replied, bowing deeply and gracefully; “few young courtly men of our time are as reverent and dutiful. Oh, how I loved my mother!” He then looked up to heaven in a way that made me both feel for him and feel a sense of wonder.
“I am very sorry for you, sir,” I answered most respectfully, not meaning to trespass on his grief, yet wondering at his mother's age; for he seemed to be at least threescore; “but I am no court-gallant, sir; I am only a farmer's son, and learning how to farm a little.”
“I’m really sorry to hear that, sir,” I replied respectfully, not wanting to intrude on his sadness, but curious about how old his mother was since he looked to be at least sixty. “But I’m not a court dandy, sir; I’m just a farmer’s son, and I’m just learning how to farm a bit.”
“Enough, John; quite enough,” he cried, “I can read it in thy countenance. Honesty is written there, and courage and simplicity. But I fear that, in this town of London, thou art apt to be taken in by people of no principle. Ah me! Ah me! The world is bad, and I am too old to improve it.”
“That's enough, John; really enough,” he exclaimed, “I can see it on your face. Honesty is clear there, along with courage and simplicity. But I worry that in this city of London, you'll be fooled by people without principles. Oh dear! Oh dear! The world is a terrible place, and I’m too old to change it.”
Then finding him so good and kind, and anxious to improve the age, I told him almost everything; how much I paid the fellmonger, and all the things I had been to see; and how I longed to get away, before the corn was ripening; yet how (despite of these desires) I felt myself bound to walk up and down, being under a thing called “recognisance.” In short, I told him everything; except the nature of my summons (which I had no right to tell), and that I was out of money.
Then, finding him so good and kind, and eager to improve the world, I shared almost everything with him: how much I paid the fellmonger, all the places I had visited, and how I was desperate to leave before the crops were ready; yet how, despite these wishes, I felt obligated to walk back and forth because of something called “recognizance.” In short, I told him everything except for the details of my summons (which I had no right to disclose) and that I was out of money.
My tale was told in a little archway, apart from other lawyers; and the other lawyers seemed to me to shift themselves, and to look askew, like sheep through a hurdle, when the rest are feeding.
My story was shared in a small archway, away from the other lawyers; and the other lawyers seemed to me to shuffle around and glance sideways, like sheep peeking through a fence while the others are grazing.
“What! Good God!” my lawyer cried, smiting his breast indignantly with a roll of something learned; “in what country do we live? Under what laws are we governed? No case before the court whatever; no primary deposition, so far as we are furnished; not even a King's writ issued—and here we have a fine young man dragged from his home and adoring mother, during the height of agriculture, at his own cost and charges! I have heard of many grievances; but this the very worst of all. Nothing short of a Royal Commission could be warranty for it. This is not only illegal, sir, but most gravely unconstitutional.”
“What! Good God!” my lawyer exclaimed, striking his chest indignantly with a roll of something he had learned; “in what country do we live? Under what laws are we governed? There’s no case before the court whatsoever; no primary deposition, as far as we know; not even a King's writ issued—and here we have a fine young man yanked from his home and loving mother, right in the middle of the farming season, at his own expense! I’ve heard of many grievances; but this is the absolute worst of all. Nothing less than a Royal Commission could justify this. This is not only illegal, sir, but also very seriously unconstitutional.”
“I had not told you, worthy sir,” I answered him, in a lower tone, “if I could have thought that your sense of right would be moved so painfully. But now I must beg to leave you, sir—for I see that the door again is open. I beg you, worshipful sir, to accept—”
“I didn’t mention it, good sir,” I replied in a softer voice, “if I had known that it would upset your sense of justice so much. But now I must ask to take my leave, sir—because I see the door is open again. Please, esteemed sir, accept—”
Upon this he put forth his hand and said, “Nay, nay, my son, not two, not two:” yet looking away, that he might not scare me.
Upon this, he reached out his hand and said, “No, no, my son, not two, not two,” while looking away so he wouldn't frighten me.
“To accept, kind sir, my very best thanks, and most respectful remembrances.” And with that, I laid my hand in his. “And if, sir, any circumstances of business or of pleasure should bring you to our part of the world, I trust you will not forget that my mother and myself (if ever I get home again) will do our best to make you comfortable with our poor hospitality.”
"Please accept, kind sir, my sincerest thanks and warmest regards." With that, I placed my hand in his. "And if, sir, any business or leisure brings you to our area, I hope you won’t forget that my mother and I (if I ever make it home again) will do our best to make you feel welcome with our humble hospitality."
With this I was hasting away from him, but he held my hand and looked round at me. And he spoke without cordiality.
With this, I was rushing away from him, but he grabbed my hand and looked back at me. And he spoke without warmth.
“Young man, a general invitation is no entry for my fee book. I have spent a good hour of business-time in mastering thy case, and stating my opinion of it. And being a member of the bar, called six-and-thirty years agone by the honourable society of the Inner Temple, my fee is at my own discretion; albeit an honorarium. For the honour of the profession, and my position in it, I ought to charge thee at least five guineas, although I would have accepted one, offered with good will and delicacy. Now I will enter it two, my son, and half a crown for my clerk's fee.”
"Young man, just because you're inviting me doesn't mean I don't expect a fee. I've spent a good hour of my working time understanding your situation and forming my opinion on it. As a member of the bar, called thirty-six years ago by the honorable society of the Inner Temple, I set my own fees; although it’s a goodwill gesture. Out of respect for the profession and my standing in it, I should charge you at least five guineas, but I would have accepted one, given with goodwill and respect. Now, I’ll record it as two, my son, and half a crown for my clerk's fee."
Saying this, he drew forth from his deep, blue bag, a red book having clasps to it, and endorsed in gold letters “Fee-book”; and before I could speak (being frightened so) he had entered on a page of it, “To consideration of case as stated by John Ridd, and advising thereupon, two guineas.”
Saying this, he pulled out from his deep blue bag a red book with clasps, labeled in gold letters “Fee-book”; and before I could say anything (I was so scared), he had started writing on a page of it, “For considering the case as stated by John Ridd, and advising on it, two guineas.”
“But sir, good sir,” I stammered forth, not having two guineas left in the world, yet grieving to confess it, “I knew not that I was to pay, learned sir. I never thought of it in that way.”
“But sir, good sir,” I stammered, not having two guineas to my name, yet reluctant to admit it, “I didn’t realize I had to pay, learned sir. I never thought of it that way.”
“Wounds of God! In what way thought you that a lawyer listened to your rigmarole?”
“Wounds of God! How did you think a lawyer would listen to your nonsense?”
“I thought that you listened from kindness, sir, and compassion of my grievous case, and a sort of liking for me.”
“I thought you listened out of kindness, sir, because you felt compassion for my serious situation, and maybe a bit of fondness for me.”
“A lawyer like thee, young curmudgeon! A lawyer afford to feel compassion gratis! Either thou art a very deep knave, or the greenest of all greenhorns. Well, I suppose, I must let thee off for one guinea, and the clerk's fee. A bad business, a shocking business!”
“A lawyer like you, young grump! A lawyer can afford to feel compassion for free! Either you’re a total scoundrel, or the biggest newbie around. Well, I guess I have to let you off for one guinea and the clerk's fee. A bad deal, a terrible deal!”
Now, if this man had continued kind and soft, as when he heard my story, I would have pawned my clothes to pay him, rather than leave a debt behind, although contracted unwittingly. But when he used harsh language so, knowing that I did not deserve it, I began to doubt within myself whether he deserved my money. Therefore I answered him with some readiness, such as comes sometimes to me, although I am so slow.
Now, if this guy had stayed kind and gentle, like he was when I shared my story, I would have sold my clothes to pay him off rather than leave a debt behind, even though it was made unknowingly. But when he spoke to me so harshly, knowing I didn’t deserve it, I started to wonder if he really deserved my money. So, I replied to him pretty quickly, which happens to me sometimes, even though I’m usually slow.
“Sir, I am no curmudgeon: if a young man had called me so, it would not have been well with him. This money shall be paid, if due, albeit I had no desire to incur the debt. You have advised me that the Court is liable for my expenses, so far as they be reasonable. If this be a reasonable expense, come with me now to Lord Justice Jeffreys, and receive from him the two guineas, or (it may be) five, for the counsel you have given me to deny his jurisdiction.” With these words, I took his arm to lead him, for the door was open still.
"Sir, I'm not a grump: if a young man had called me that, it wouldn't have ended well for him. This money will be paid if it's owed, even though I didn't want to take on the debt. You’ve told me that the Court is responsible for my costs, as long as they are reasonable. If this is a reasonable expense, come with me now to Lord Justice Jeffreys and get from him the two guineas, or maybe five, for the advice you gave me to deny his authority.” With that, I took his arm to lead him, as the door was still open.
“In the name of God, boy, let me go. Worthy sir, pray let me go. My wife is sick, and my daughter dying—in the name of God, sir, let me go.”
“In the name of God, please let me go. Sir, I beg you, let me go. My wife is sick, and my daughter is dying – in the name of God, please let me go.”
“Nay, nay,” I said, having fast hold of him, “I cannot let thee go unpaid, sir. Right is right; and thou shalt have it.”
“Nah, nah,” I said, holding onto him firmly, “I can’t let you leave without being paid, sir. Right is right; and you will get what you deserve.”
“Ruin is what I shall have, boy, if you drag me before that devil. He will strike me from the bar at once, and starve me, and all my family. Here, lad, good lad, take these two guineas. Thou hast despoiled the spoiler. Never again will I trust mine eyes for knowledge of a greenhorn.”
“Ruin is what I’ll end up with, kid, if you take me in front of that devil. He’ll kick me out right away, leave me starving, and make my whole family suffer. Here, kid, good kid, take these two guineas. You’ve robbed the robber. I’ll never trust my eyes to recognize a rookie again.”
He slipped two guineas into the hand which I had hooked through his elbow, and spoke in an urgent whisper again, for the people came crowding around us—“For God's sake let me go, boy; another moment will be too late.”
He slipped two guineas into the hand I had linked through his elbow and spoke again in a hurried whisper, as people crowded around us—“For God's sake, let me go, kid; another moment will be too late.”
“Learned sir,” I answered him, “twice you spoke, unless I err, of the necessity of a clerk's fee, as a thing to be lamented.”
“Learned sir,” I replied, “you mentioned twice, unless I'm mistaken, the necessity of a clerk's fee, as something to be regretted.”
“To be sure, to be sure, my son. You have a clerk as much as I have. There it is. Now I pray thee, take to the study of the law. Possession is nine points of it, which thou hast of me. Self-possession is the tenth, and that thou hast more than the other nine.”
“To be sure, to be sure, my son. You have a clerk just like I do. There it is. Now please, focus on studying the law. Possession is nine parts of it, which you have from me. Self-possession is the tenth, and you have that in greater measure than the other nine.”
Being flattered by this, and by the feeling of the two guineas and half-crown, I dropped my hold upon Counsellor Kitch (for he was no less a man than that), and he was out of sight in a second of time, wig, blue bag, and family. And before I had time to make up my mind what I should do with his money (for of course I meant not to keep it) the crier of the Court (as they told me) came out, and wanted to know who I was. I told him, as shortly as I could, that my business lay with His Majesty's bench, and was very confidential; upon which he took me inside with warning, and showed me to an under-clerk, who showed me to a higher one, and the higher clerk to the head one.
Feeling flattered by this, along with the weight of the two guineas and half-crown, I let go of Counsellor Kitch (who was no less than that), and he disappeared in an instant, wig, blue bag, and family included. Before I could decide what to do with his money (since I definitely didn’t plan on keeping it), the Court crier (as they told me) came out and asked who I was. I briefly explained that I had business with His Majesty's bench that was quite confidential; after which he took me inside with a warning, and led me to an under-clerk, who then referred me to a higher one, and that clerk sent me to the head clerk.
When this gentleman understood all about my business (which I told him without complaint) he frowned at me very heavily, as if I had done him an injury.
When this guy figured out everything about my situation (which I explained to him without any complaints), he frowned at me intensely, as if I had wronged him.
“John Ridd,” he asked me with a stern glance, “is it your deliberate desire to be brought into the presence of the Lord Chief Justice?”
“John Ridd,” he asked me with a serious look, “do you really want to be brought before the Lord Chief Justice?”
“Surely, sir, it has been my desire for the last two months and more.”
“Of course, sir, I've wanted this for the last two months and beyond.”
“Then, John, thou shalt be. But mind one thing, not a word of thy long detention, or thou mayst get into trouble.”
“Then, John, you will be. But remember one thing, not a word about your long detention, or you might get into trouble.”
“How, sir? For being detained against my own wish?” I asked him; but he turned away, as if that matter were not worth his arguing, as, indeed, I suppose it was not, and led me through a little passage to a door with a curtain across it.
"How's that, sir? For being held here against my will?" I asked him, but he turned away, as if that issue wasn't worth discussing, which I suppose it really wasn't, and led me through a small passage to a door with a curtain in front of it.
“Now, if my Lord cross-question you,” the gentleman whispered to me, “answer him straight out truth at once, for he will have it out of thee. And mind, he loves not to be contradicted, neither can he bear a hang-dog look. Take little heed of the other two; but note every word of the middle one; and never make him speak twice.”
“Now, if my Lord questions you,” the gentleman whispered to me, “answer him honestly right away, because he will get it out of you. And remember, he doesn’t like to be contradicted, and he can’t stand a guilty look. Pay little attention to the other two; but listen carefully to everything the middle one says; and never make him repeat himself.”
I thanked him for his good advice, as he moved the curtain and thrust me in, but instead of entering withdrew, and left me to bear the brunt of it.
I thanked him for his good advice as he opened the curtain and pushed me in, but instead of coming in, he backed out and left me to face it alone.
The chamber was not very large, though lofty to my eyes, and dark, with wooden panels round it. At the further end were some raised seats, such as I have seen in churches, lined with velvet, and having broad elbows, and a canopy over the middle seat. There were only three men sitting here, one in the centre, and one on each side; and all three were done up wonderfully with fur, and robes of state, and curls of thick gray horsehair, crimped and gathered, and plaited down to their shoulders. Each man had an oak desk before him, set at a little distance, and spread with pens and papers. Instead of writing, however, they seemed to be laughing and talking, or rather the one in the middle seemed to be telling some good story, which the others received with approval. By reason of their great perukes it was hard to tell how old they were; but the one who was speaking seemed the youngest, although he was the chief of them. A thick-set, burly, and bulky man, with a blotchy broad face, and great square jaws, and fierce eyes full of blazes; he was one to be dreaded by gentle souls, and to be abhorred by the noble.
The room wasn’t very big, but it felt tall to me and was dimly lit, with wooden panels all around. At the far end were some raised seats like those I've seen in churches, covered in velvet and with wide arms, plus a canopy over the middle seat. Only three men were sitting there: one in the center and one on each side. They were all dressed impressively in fur and formal robes, with thick gray curls of horsehair styled and flowing down to their shoulders. Each man had an oak desk in front of him, placed a little apart and covered with pens and papers. Instead of writing, though, they seemed to be laughing and chatting; the man in the middle appeared to be sharing a good story that the others were enjoying. It was hard to tell their ages because of their large wigs, but the speaker looked the youngest even though he was the leader. He was a stocky, hefty man with a blotchy, broad face, big square jaws, and fierce, fiery eyes; someone to be feared by gentle people and despised by those of noble birth.
Between me and the three lord judges, some few lawyers were gathering up bags and papers and pens and so forth, from a narrow table in the middle of the room, as if a case had been disposed of, and no other were called on. But before I had time to look round twice, the stout fierce man espied me, and shouted out with a flashing stare—
Between me and the three judges, a few lawyers were cleaning up bags, papers, pens, and other things from a small table in the middle of the room, as if a case had been settled and no new ones were being called. But before I had a chance to look around twice, the stout, fierce man spotted me and shouted out with a piercing glare—
“How now, countryman, who art thou?”
“How are you, countryman? Who are you?”
“May it please your worship,” I answered him loudly, “I am John Ridd, of Oare parish, in the shire of Somerset, brought to this London, some two months back by a special messenger, whose name is Jeremy Stickles; and then bound over to be at hand and ready, when called upon to give evidence, in a matter unknown to me, but touching the peace of our lord the King, and the well-being of his subjects. Three times I have met our lord the King, but he hath said nothing about his peace, and only held it towards me, and every day, save Sunday, I have walked up and down the great hall of Westminster, all the business part of the day, expecting to be called upon, yet no one hath called upon me. And now I desire to ask your worship, whether I may go home again?”
“Your worship,” I said loudly, “I’m John Ridd from Oare parish in Somerset. I was brought to London about two months ago by a special messenger named Jeremy Stickles. I was then told to be ready and available to give evidence on an issue I don’t know about, but it’s related to the peace of our lord the King and the welfare of his subjects. I’ve met our lord the King three times, but he hasn’t mentioned anything about his peace; he just looked at me. Every day, except Sunday, I’ve walked up and down the great hall of Westminster for most of the day, waiting to be called, but no one has called me. Now, I’d like to ask your worship if I can go home again?”
“Well, done, John,” replied his lordship, while I was panting with all this speech; “I will go bail for thee, John, thou hast never made such a long speech before; and thou art a spunky Briton, or thou couldst not have made it now. I remember the matter well, and I myself will attend to it, although it arose before my time”—he was but newly Chief Justice—“but I cannot take it now, John. There is no fear of losing thee, John, any more than the Tower of London. I grieve for His Majesty's exchequer, after keeping thee two months or more.”
"Well done, John," replied his lordship, while I was catching my breath from all this talking. "I’ll bet you’ve never given such a long speech before; you're a brave Briton for pulling it off now. I remember the situation well, and I’ll handle it myself, even though it happened before my time"—he had just become Chief Justice—"but I can’t take it on right now, John. There’s no worry about losing you, John, any more than there is about the Tower of London. I feel sorry for His Majesty's treasury, after keeping you for two months or more."
“Nay, my lord, I crave your pardon. My mother hath been keeping me. Not a groat have I received.”
“Nah, my lord, I ask for your forgiveness. My mother has been holding me back. I haven’t received a single penny.”
“Spank, is it so?” his lordship cried, in a voice that shook the cobwebs, and the frown on his brow shook the hearts of men, and mine as much as the rest of them,—“Spank, is His Majesty come to this, that he starves his own approvers?”
“Spank, is it really true?” his lordship shouted, his voice reverberating like thunder, and the scowl on his face intimidated everyone, including me,—“Spank, has His Majesty sunk so low that he neglects those who support him?”
“My lord, my lord,” whispered Mr. Spank, the chief-officer of evidence, “the thing hath been overlooked, my lord, among such grave matters of treason.”
“My lord, my lord,” whispered Mr. Spank, the chief officer of evidence, “this thing has been overlooked, my lord, among such serious matters of treason.”
“I will overlook thy head, foul Spank, on a spike from Temple Bar, if ever I hear of the like again. Vile varlet, what art thou paid for? Thou hast swindled the money thyself, foul Spank; I know thee, though thou art new to me. Bitter is the day for thee that ever I came across thee. Answer me not—one word more and I will have thee on a hurdle.” And he swung himself to and fro on his bench, with both hands on his knees; and every man waited to let it pass, knowing better than to speak to him.
“I’ll hang your head, gross Spank, on a spike from Temple Bar if I ever hear of anything like this again. Despicable scoundrel, what are you being paid for? You’ve stolen the money yourself, filthy Spank; I recognize you, even though you’re new to me. It’s a dark day for you that I ever crossed paths with you. Don’t respond—one more word and I’ll have you on a hurdle.” And he rocked back and forth on his bench, both hands on his knees; and everyone waited to let it go, knowing better than to speak to him.
“John Ridd,” said the Lord Chief Justice, at last recovering a sort of dignity, yet daring Spank from the corners of his eyes to do so much as look at him, “thou hast been shamefully used, John Ridd. Answer me not boy; not a word; but go to Master Spank, and let me know how he behaves to thee;” here he made a glance at Spank, which was worth at least ten pounds to me; “be thou here again to-morrow, and before any other case is taken, I will see justice done to thee. Now be off boy; thy name is Ridd, and we are well rid of thee.”
“John Ridd,” said the Lord Chief Justice, finally regaining some dignity while daring Spank with a sidelong glance to dare look at him, “you have been treated shamefully, John Ridd. Don’t reply, boy; not a word; just go to Master Spank, and let me know how he treats you.” Here he shot a look at Spank that was worth at least ten pounds to me. “Be here again tomorrow, and before any other case is heard, I will make sure justice is served for you. Now get lost, boy; your name is Ridd, and we’re glad to be rid of you.”
I was only too glad to go, after all this tempest; as you may well suppose. For if ever I saw a man's eyes become two holes for the devil to glare from, I saw it that day; and the eyes were those of the Lord Chief Justice Jeffreys.
I was more than happy to leave after all this chaos, as you can imagine. Because if I ever saw a man’s eyes look like two dark pits for the devil to stare out from, it was that day; and those eyes belonged to Lord Chief Justice Jeffreys.
Mr. Spank was in the lobby before me, and before I had recovered myself—for I was vexed with my own terror—he came up sidling and fawning to me, with a heavy bag of yellow leather.
Mr. Spank was in the lobby ahead of me, and before I could collect myself—because I was annoyed by my own fear—he approached me in a sidling, overly eager way, carrying a heavy yellow leather bag.
“Good Master Ridd, take it all, take it all, and say a good word for me to his lordship. He hath taken a strange fancy to thee; and thou must make the most of it. We never saw man meet him eye to eye so, and yet not contradict him, and that is just what he loveth. Abide in London, Master Ridd, and he will make thy fortune. His joke upon thy name proves that. And I pray you remember, Master Ridd, that the Spanks are sixteen in family.”
“Good Master Ridd, take everything, take everything, and put in a good word for me with his lordship. He has taken a strange liking to you, and you need to make the most of it. We’ve never seen anyone hold his gaze like that without contradicting him, and that’s exactly what he loves. Stay in London, Master Ridd, and he will make you successful. His joke about your name shows that. And please remember, Master Ridd, that the Spanks have sixteen in their family."
But I would not take the bag from him, regarding it as a sort of bribe to pay me such a lump of money, without so much as asking how great had been my expenses. Therefore I only told him that if he would kindly keep the cash for me until the morrow, I would spend the rest of the day in counting (which always is sore work with me) how much it had stood me in board and lodging, since Master Stickles had rendered me up; for until that time he had borne my expenses. In the morning I would give Mr. Spank a memorandum, duly signed, and attested by my landlord, including the breakfast of that day, and in exchange for this I would take the exact amount from the yellow bag, and be very thankful for it.
But I wouldn’t take the bag from him, seeing it as a kind of bribe to pay me a large sum of money without even asking how much I had spent. So I just told him that if he could hold onto the cash for me until tomorrow, I would spend the rest of the day figuring out (which is always a tough job for me) how much I had spent on food and lodging since Master Stickles had released me, as he had been covering my expenses up to that point. In the morning, I would give Mr. Spank a signed note, verified by my landlord, which would include that day's breakfast, and in exchange for this, I would take the exact amount from the yellow bag and be very grateful for it.
“If that is thy way of using opportunity,” said Spank, looking at me with some contempt, “thou wilt never thrive in these times, my lad. Even the Lord Chief Justice can be little help to thee; unless thou knowest better than that how to help thyself.”
“If that’s how you take advantage of opportunities,” said Spank, looking at me with some contempt, “you’ll never succeed in these times, my friend. Even the Lord Chief Justice can’t do much for you; unless you know a better way to help yourself.”
It mattered not to me. The word “approver” stuck in my gorge, as used by the Lord Chief Justice; for we looked upon an approver as a very low thing indeed. I would rather pay for every breakfast, and even every dinner, eaten by me since here I came, than take money as an approver. And indeed I was much disappointed at being taken in that light, having understood that I was sent for as a trusty subject, and humble friend of His Majesty.
It didn't matter to me. The word “approver” really bothered me, as used by the Lord Chief Justice, because we viewed an approver as something very low. I would rather pay for every breakfast and even every dinner I've had since I got here than accept money as an approver. I was honestly quite disappointed to be seen that way, having thought I was called upon as a loyal subject and humble friend of His Majesty.
In the morning I met Mr. Spank waiting for me at the entrance, and very desirous to see me. I showed him my bill, made out in fair copy, and he laughed at it, and said, “Take it twice over, Master Ridd; once for thine own sake, and once for His Majesty's; as all his loyal tradesmen do, when they can get any. His Majesty knows and is proud of it, for it shows their love of his countenance; and he says, 'bis dat qui cito dat,' then how can I grumble at giving twice, when I give so slowly?”
In the morning, I found Mr. Spank waiting for me at the entrance, eager to see me. I showed him my bill, neatly written, and he laughed, saying, “Take it twice, Master Ridd; once for yourself and once for His Majesty; because all his loyal tradesmen do this when they have the chance. His Majesty knows and appreciates it, as it shows their admiration for him; he says, 'bis dat qui cito dat,' so how can I complain about giving twice when I give so slowly?”
“Nay, I will take it but once,” I said; “if His Majesty loves to be robbed, he need not lack of his desire, while the Spanks are sixteen in family.”
“Nah, I’ll only take it once,” I said; “if His Majesty enjoys being robbed, he won’t be short of that desire, since the Spanks are a family of sixteen.”
The clerk smiled cheerfully at this, being proud of his children's ability; and then having paid my account, he whispered,—
The clerk smiled happily at this, feeling proud of his kids' skills; and after paying my bill, he whispered,—
“He is all alone this morning, John, and in rare good humour. He hath been promised the handling of poor Master Algernon Sidney, and he says he will soon make republic of him; for his state shall shortly be headless. He is chuckling over his joke, like a pig with a nut; and that always makes him pleasant. John Ridd, my lord!” With that he swung up the curtain bravely, and according to special orders, I stood, face to face, and alone with Judge Jeffreys.
“He's all alone this morning, John, and in a rare good mood. He’s been promised the chance to deal with poor Master Algernon Sidney, and he says he’ll soon make a republic out of him; because his fate will soon be headless. He’s laughing at his joke, like a pig with an acorn; and that always puts him in a good mood. John Ridd, my lord!” With that, he boldly threw back the curtain, and following special orders, I stood, face to face, and alone with Judge Jeffreys.
CHAPTER XXVI
JOHN IS DRAINED AND CAST ASIDE
His lordship was busy with some letters, and did not look up for a minute or two, although he knew that I was there. Meanwhile I stood waiting to make my bow; afraid to begin upon him, and wondering at his great bull-head. Then he closed his letters, well-pleased with their import, and fixed his bold broad stare on me, as if I were an oyster opened, and he would know how fresh I was.
His lordship was busy with some letters and didn’t look up for a minute or two, even though he knew I was there. Meanwhile, I stood waiting to make my bow, too afraid to start talking and wondering about his big, thick head. Then he finished with his letters, clearly pleased with what they said, and turned his strong, wide gaze on me, as if I were an open oyster and he wanted to check how fresh I was.
“May it please your worship,” I said, “here I am according to order, awaiting your good pleasure.”
“Your honor,” I said, “I’m here as requested, ready for your instructions.”
“Thou art made to weight, John, more than order. How much dost thou tip the scales to?”
“You're made to weigh, John, more than just order. How much do you tip the scales?”
“Only twelvescore pounds, my lord, when I be in wrestling trim. And sure I must have lost weight here, fretting so long in London.”
“Only 240 pounds, my lord, when I'm in wrestling shape. And I must have lost weight here, worrying so much in London.”
“Ha, ha! Much fret is there in thee! Hath His Majesty seen thee?”
“Ha, ha! You're really worried, aren't you? Has His Majesty seen you?”
“Yes, my lord, twice or even thrice; and he made some jest concerning me.”
“Yes, my lord, two or even three times; and he made a joke about me.”
“A very bad one, I doubt not. His humour is not so dainty as mine, but apt to be coarse and unmannerly. Now John, or Jack, by the look of thee, thou art more used to be called.”
“A very bad one, I don't doubt. His sense of humor isn't as refined as mine, but is likely to be crude and rude. Now John, or Jack, by the looks of you, that’s what you’re more used to being called.”
“Yes, your worship, when I am with old Molly and Betty Muxworthy.”
“Yes, your honor, when I’m with old Molly and Betty Muxworthy.”
“Peace, thou forward varlet! There is a deal too much of thee. We shall have to try short commons with thee, and thou art a very long common. Ha, ha! Where is that rogue Spank? Spank must hear that by-and-by. It is beyond thy great thick head, Jack.”
“Calm down, you arrogant fool! You're way too much to handle. We'll have to make do with less because you're taking up too much space. Ha, ha! Where's that rascal Spank? Spank needs to hear this eventually. It's too much for your thick head, Jack.”
“Not so, my lord; I have been at school, and had very bad jokes made upon me.”
"Not at all, my lord; I've been in school, and I've had some really bad jokes made about me."
“Ha, ha! It hath hit thee hard. And faith, it would be hard to miss thee, even with harpoon. And thou lookest like to blubber, now. Capital, in faith! I have thee on every side, Jack, and thy sides are manifold; many-folded at any rate. Thou shalt have double expenses, Jack, for the wit thou hast provoked in me.”
“Ha, ha! That hit you hard. Honestly, it would be hard to miss you, even with a harpoon. And you look like you’re about to cry now. Great, really! I’ve got you on all sides, Jack, and you’re multi-faceted, that’s for sure. You’re going to have double the costs, Jack, for the cleverness you’ve brought out in me.”
“Heavy goods lack heavy payment, is a proverb down our way, my lord.”
"Heavy goods don't come with heavy pay, that's a saying around here, my lord."
“Ah, I hurt thee, I hurt thee, Jack. The harpoon hath no tickle for thee. Now, Jack Whale, having hauled thee hard, we will proceed to examine thee.” Here all his manner was changed, and he looked with his heavy brows bent upon me, as if he had never laughed in his life, and would allow none else to do so.
“Ah, I hurt you, I hurt you, Jack. The harpoon has no fun for you. Now, Jack Whale, having pulled you hard, we will proceed to examine you.” At this moment, his entire demeanor changed, and he looked at me with his heavy brows furrowed, as if he had never laughed in his life and wouldn’t let anyone else do so either.
“I am ready to answer, my lord,” I replied, “if he asks me nought beyond my knowledge, or beyond my honour.”
“I’m ready to answer, my lord,” I replied, “as long as he doesn’t ask me anything outside of my knowledge or my honor.”
“Hadst better answer me everything, lump. What hast thou to do with honour? Now is there in thy neighbourhood a certain nest of robbers, miscreants, and outlaws, whom all men fear to handle?”
“Better answer me everything, fool. What do you have to do with honor? Is there, in your area, a certain group of robbers, criminals, and outlaws that everyone is afraid to deal with?”
“Yes, my lord. At least, I believe some of them be robbers, and all of them are outlaws.”
"Yes, my lord. At least, I think some of them are robbers, and all of them are outlaws."
“And what is your high sheriff about, that he doth not hang them all? Or send them up for me to hang, without more to do about them?”
“And what’s your high sheriff doing, that he doesn’t hang them all? Or send them to me to hang, without any more fuss?”
“I reckon that he is afraid, my lord; it is not safe to meddle with them. They are of good birth, and reckless; and their place is very strong.”
“I think he’s scared, my lord; it’s not safe to get involved with them. They come from good families and are reckless; and their position is very strong.”
“Good birth! What was Lord Russell of, Lord Essex, and this Sidney? 'Tis the surest heirship to the block to be the chip of a good one. What is the name of this pestilent race, and how many of them are there?”
“Good birth! What was Lord Russell of, Lord Essex, and this Sidney? It’s the safest bet for the block to be the child of a good one. What’s the name of this troublesome family, and how many of them are there?”
“They are the Doones of Bagworthy forest, may it please your worship. And we reckon there be about forty of them, beside the women and children.”
“They're the Doones from Bagworthy forest, if it pleases you. We estimate there are about forty of them, not counting the women and children.”
“Forty Doones, all forty thieves! and women and children! Thunder of God! How long have they been there then?”
“Forty Doones, all forty thieves! And women and children! Good grief! How long have they been there then?”
“They may have been there thirty years, my lord; and indeed they may have been forty. Before the great war broke out they came, longer back than I can remember.”
“They might have been here for thirty years, my lord; and actually, they could have been here for forty. They arrived before the great war started, longer ago than I can recall.”
“Ay, long before thou wast born, John. Good, thou speakest plainly. Woe betide a liar, whenso I get hold of him. Ye want me on the Western Circuit; by God, and ye shall have me, when London traitors are spun and swung. There is a family called De Whichehalse living very nigh thee, John?”
“Yep, long before you were born, John. Good, you speak clearly. Shame on a liar, when I catch him. You want me on the Western Circuit; I swear, you’ll have me when London traitors are dealt with. There’s a family called De Whichehalse living very close to you, John?”
This he said in a sudden manner, as if to take me off my guard, and fixed his great thick eyes on me. And in truth I was much astonished.
This he said abruptly, as if to catch me off guard, and focused his big, deep-set eyes on me. And honestly, I was quite shocked.
“Yes, my lord, there is. At least, not so very far from us. Baron de Whichehalse, of Ley Manor.”
“Yes, my lord, there is. At least, not too far from us. Baron de Whichehalse, of Ley Manor.”
“Baron, ha! of the Exchequer—eh, lad? And taketh dues instead of His Majesty. Somewhat which halts there ought to come a little further, I trow. It shall be seen to, as well as the witch which makes it so to halt. Riotous knaves in West England, drunken outlaws, you shall dance, if ever I play pipe for you. John Ridd, I will come to Oare parish, and rout out the Oare of Babylon.”
“Baron, ha! of the Treasury—huh, kid? And takes taxes instead of His Majesty. Something that's stuck there ought to move a bit further, I believe. It will be taken care of, just like the witch that makes it stuck. Trouble-making fools in West England, drunken outlaws, you’ll dance if I ever play the flute for you. John Ridd, I will come to Oare parish and drive out the Oare of Babylon.”
“Although your worship is so learned,” I answered seeing that now he was beginning to make things uneasy; “your worship, though being Chief Justice, does little justice to us. We are downright good and loyal folk; and I have not seen, since here I came to this great town of London, any who may better us, or even come anigh us, in honesty, and goodness, and duty to our neighbours. For we are very quiet folk, not prating our own virtues—”
“Even though you’re really educated,” I replied, noticing he was starting to make things uncomfortable; “you, as Chief Justice, don’t treat us fairly. We’re simply good and loyal people, and since I arrived in this big town of London, I haven’t seen anyone who could outdo us, or even come close to us, in honesty, goodness, and responsibility to our neighbors. We’re very humble folks, not bragging about our own virtues—”
“Enough, good John, enough! Knowest thou not that modesty is the maidenhood of virtue, lost even by her own approval? Now hast thou ever heard or thought that De Whichehalse is in league with the Doones of Bagworthy?”
“Enough, good John, enough! Do you not know that modesty is the virginity of virtue, lost even by her own acceptance? Have you ever heard or considered that De Whichehalse is working with the Doones of Bagworthy?”
Saying these words rather slowly, he skewered his great eyes into mine, so that I could not think at all, neither look at him, nor yet away. The idea was so new to me that it set my wits all wandering; and looking into me, he saw that I was groping for the truth.
Saying these words slowly, he locked his intense gaze onto mine, making it impossible for me to think clearly, look at him, or even look away. The thought was so unfamiliar to me that it left me completely bewildered; and as he looked into my eyes, he realized I was struggling to grasp the truth.
“John Ridd, thine eyes are enough for me. I see thou hast never dreamed of it. Now hast thou ever seen a man whose name is Thomas Faggus?”
“John Ridd, your eyes are enough for me. I see you have never thought of it. Now, have you ever seen a man named Thomas Faggus?”
“Yes, sir, many and many a time. He is my own worthy cousin; and I fear he that hath intentions”—here I stopped, having no right there to speak about our Annie.
“Yes, sir, many times. He is my own deserving cousin; and I worry that he has intentions”—here I stopped, having no right to talk about our Annie.
“Tom Faggus is a good man,” he said; and his great square face had a smile which showed me he had met my cousin; “Master Faggus hath made mistakes as to the title to property, as lawyers oftentimes may do; but take him all for all, he is a thoroughly straightforward man; presents his bill, and has it paid, and makes no charge for drawing it. Nevertheless, we must tax his costs, as of any other solicitor.”
“Tom Faggus is a good guy,” he said, and his big square face had a smile that showed he had met my cousin. “Master Faggus has made mistakes regarding property titles, like lawyers often do; but overall, he’s a completely honest guy. He presents his bill, gets it paid, and doesn’t charge for drafting it. Still, we need to assess his costs just like we would with any other attorney.”
“To be sure, to be sure, my lord!” was all that I could say, not understanding what all this meant.
“To be sure, to be sure, my lord!” was all I could say, not understanding what all this meant.
“I fear he will come to the gallows,” said the Lord Chief Justice, sinking his voice below the echoes; “tell him this from me, Jack. He shall never be condemned before me; but I cannot be everywhere, and some of our Justices may keep short memory of his dinners. Tell him to change his name, turn parson, or do something else, to make it wrong to hang him. Parson is the best thing, he hath such command of features, and he might take his tithes on horseback. Now a few more things, John Ridd; and for the present I have done with thee.”
“I’m worried he’s going to end up at the gallows,” said the Lord Chief Justice, lowering his voice. “Tell him this from me, Jack. He will never be found guilty in front of me; but I can’t be everywhere, and some of our Justices might forget about his dinners. Tell him to change his name, become a priest, or do something else that would make it wrong to hang him. Becoming a priest is the best option; he has such a strong presence, and he could collect his tithes on horseback. Now, a few more things, John Ridd; and for now, I’m done with you.”
All my heart leaped up at this, to get away from London so: and yet I could hardly trust to it.
All my heart jumped at the thought of getting away from London like this; and yet I could barely believe it.
“Is there any sound round your way of disaffection to His Majesty, His most gracious Majesty?”
“Is there any talk in your area about discontent with His Majesty, His most gracious Majesty?”
“No, my lord: no sign whatever. We pray for him in church perhaps, and we talk about him afterwards, hoping it may do him good, as it is intended. But after that we have naught to say, not knowing much about him—at least till I get home again.”
“No, my lord: no sign at all. We pray for him in church, maybe, and we talk about him afterward, hoping it helps him, as it’s meant to. But after that, we have nothing more to say, not knowing much about him—at least until I get home again.”
“That is as it should be, John. And the less you say the better. But I have heard of things in Taunton, and even nearer to you in Dulverton, and even nigher still upon Exmoor; things which are of the pillory kind, and even more of the gallows. I see that you know naught of them. Nevertheless, it will not be long before all England hears of them. Now, John, I have taken a liking to thee, for never man told me the truth, without fear or favour, more thoroughly and truly than thou hast done. Keep thou clear of this, my son. It will come to nothing; yet many shall swing high for it. Even I could not save thee, John Ridd, if thou wert mixed in this affair. Keep from the Doones, keep from De Whichehalse, keep from everything which leads beyond the sight of thy knowledge. I meant to use thee as my tool; but I see thou art too honest and simple. I will send a sharper down; but never let me find thee, John, either a tool for the other side, or a tube for my words to pass through.”
"That's how it should be, John. And the less you say, the better. But I've heard about things happening in Taunton, and even closer to you in Dulverton, and even nearer still on Exmoor; things that are worthy of the pillory, and even worse, the gallows. I see you don’t know anything about them. However, it won’t be long before all of England hears about it. Now, John, I like you, because no one has told me the truth so thoroughly and fearlessly as you have. Stay clear of this, my son. It will amount to nothing, yet many will pay the price for it. Even I couldn’t save you, John Ridd, if you got involved in this mess. Stay away from the Doones, stay away from De Whichehalse, stay away from anything that takes you beyond what you know. I intended to use you as my tool; but I see you’re too honest and straightforward for that. I'll send someone sharper in your place; but I better not catch you, John, being a tool for the other side or just a voice for my words."
Here the Lord Justice gave me such a glare that I wished myself well rid of him, though thankful for his warnings; and seeing how he had made upon me a long abiding mark of fear, he smiled again in a jocular manner, and said,—
Here the Lord Justice shot me such a glare that I wished I could escape him, even though I was grateful for his warnings; and noticing how he had left me with a lasting sense of fear, he smiled again in a playful way and said,—
“Now, get thee gone, Jack. I shall remember thee; and I trow, thou wilt'st not for many a day forget me.”
“Now, get out of here, Jack. I’ll remember you; and I bet you won’t forget me for a long time.”
“My lord, I was never so glad to go; for the hay must be in, and the ricks unthatched, and none of them can make spars like me, and two men to twist every hay-rope, and mother thinking it all right, and listening right and left to lies, and cheated at every pig she kills, and even the skins of the sheep to go—”
“My lord, I’ve never been so happy to leave; the hay needs to be collected, the stacks need their thatch taken off, and no one else can make spars like I can. Plus, it takes two men to twist each hay-rope, and my mother thinks everything is fine while she’s listening to lies from all sides, getting cheated with every pig she slaughters, and even the sheep skins need to go—”
“John Ridd, I thought none could come nigh your folk in honesty, and goodness, and duty to their neighbours!”
“John Ridd, I didn't think anyone could match your family in honesty, goodness, and being good neighbors!”
“Sure enough, my lord; but by our folk, I mean ourselves, not the men nor women neither—”
“Sure thing, my lord; but by our people, I mean us, not the men or women either—”
“That will do, John. Go thy way. Not men, nor women neither, are better than they need be.”
“That's enough, John. Just go on. Neither men nor women are better than they have to be.”
I wished to set this matter right; but his worship would not hear me, and only drove me out of court, saying that men were thieves and liars, no more in one place than another, but all alike all over the world, and women not far behind them. It was not for me to dispute this point (though I was not yet persuaded of it), both because my lord was a Judge, and must know more about it, and also that being a man myself I might seem to be defending myself in an unbecoming manner. Therefore I made a low bow, and went; in doubt as to which had the right of it.
I wanted to set this straight, but the judge wouldn’t listen to me and just kicked me out of the courtroom, saying that men are thieves and liars, no different in one place than another, but all the same everywhere in the world, and that women aren’t far behind. I didn’t think it was my place to argue about it (even though I wasn’t completely convinced), partly because the judge was a man of the law and must know more about it, and also because, being a man myself, I might come off as defending myself inappropriately. So, I bowed and left, unsure about who was right.
But though he had so far dismissed me, I was not yet quite free to go, inasmuch as I had not money enough to take me all the way to Oare, unless indeed I should go afoot, and beg my sustenance by the way, which seemed to be below me. Therefore I got my few clothes packed, and my few debts paid, all ready to start in half an hour, if only they would give me enough to set out upon the road with. For I doubted not, being young and strong, that I could walk from London to Oare in ten days or in twelve at most, which was not much longer than horse-work; only I had been a fool, as you will say when you hear it. For after receiving from Master Spank the amount of the bill which I had delivered—less indeed by fifty shillings than the money my mother had given me, for I had spent fifty shillings, and more, in seeing the town and treating people, which I could not charge to His Majesty—I had first paid all my debts thereout, which were not very many, and then supposing myself to be an established creditor of the Treasury for my coming needs, and already scenting the country air, and foreseeing the joy of my mother, what had I done but spent half my balance, ay and more than three-quarters of it, upon presents for mother, and Annie, and Lizzie, John Fry, and his wife, and Betty Muxworthy, Bill Dadds, Jim Slocombe, and, in a word, half of the rest of the people at Oare, including all the Snowe family, who must have things good and handsome? And if I must while I am about it, hide nothing from those who read me, I had actually bought for Lorna a thing the price of which quite frightened me, till the shopkeeper said it was nothing at all, and that no young man, with a lady to love him, could dare to offer her rubbish, such as the Jew sold across the way. Now the mere idea of beautiful Lorna ever loving me, which he talked about as patly (though of course I never mentioned her) as if it were a settled thing, and he knew all about it, that mere idea so drove me abroad, that if he had asked three times as much, I could never have counted the money.
But even though he had dismissed me so far, I wasn’t completely free to leave because I didn’t have enough money to get to Oare. Unless I walked and begged for food along the way, which felt beneath me. So, I packed my few clothes and settled my few debts, ready to leave in half an hour if only they’d give me enough to start my journey. I was confident that, being young and strong, I could walk from London to Oare in ten days or at most twelve, which wasn’t much longer than riding a horse. But I had been foolish, as you’ll say when you hear it. After receiving from Master Spank the amount of the bill I had presented—fifty shillings less than the money my mother had given me because I had spent over fifty shillings on sightseeing and treating people, which I couldn’t charge to the crown—I first paid off my debts, which weren’t many. Then, thinking I was an established creditor of the Treasury for my upcoming needs, already savoring the fresh country air and imagining my mother’s joy, I ended up spending half of what was left, even more than three-quarters, on gifts for my mother, Annie, Lizzie, John Fry and his wife, Betty Muxworthy, Bill Dadds, Jim Slocombe, and basically half the rest of the people in Oare, including the whole Snowe family, who deserved nice things. And to be completely honest with you, I had even bought something for Lorna that scared me with its price until the shopkeeper reassured me it was nothing serious and said that no young man with a lady he loved could risk giving her anything cheap, like what the Jew across the street sold. Just the thought of beautiful Lorna ever loving me, which he mentioned casually (though I never brought her up), made me so eager that if he had asked for three times the amount, I wouldn’t have been able to count the money.
Now in all this I was a fool of course—not for remembering my friends and neighbours, which a man has a right to do, and indeed is bound to do, when he comes from London—but for not being certified first what cash I had to go on with. And to my great amazement, when I went with another bill for the victuals of only three days more, and a week's expense on the homeward road reckoned very narrowly, Master Spank not only refused to grant me any interview, but sent me out a piece of blue paper, looking like a butcher's ticket, and bearing these words and no more, “John Ridd, go to the devil. He who will not when he may, when he will, he shall have nay.” From this I concluded that I had lost favour in the sight of Chief Justice Jeffreys. Perhaps because my evidence had not proved of any value! perhaps because he meant to let the matter lie, till cast on him.
Now, I was definitely being foolish—not for thinking about my friends and neighbors, which is something a person has the right, and even the duty, to do when coming from London—but for not checking how much money I had available first. To my shock, when I brought another bill for just three more days' worth of food and an estimated week’s expenses for the trip home, Master Spank not only refused to see me but also sent me a piece of blue paper that looked like a butcher's receipt, with just the words, “John Ridd, go to hell. He who will not when he can, when he will, he shall have nothing.” From this, I figured I had fallen out of favor with Chief Justice Jeffreys. Maybe because my testimony hadn’t been useful! Or maybe because he intended to leave the situation alone until it came back to him.
Anyhow, it was a reason of much grief, and some anger to me, and very great anxiety, disappointment, and suspense. For here was the time of the hay gone past, and the harvest of small corn coming on, and the trout now rising at the yellow Sally, and the blackbirds eating our white-heart cherries (I was sure, though I could not see them), and who was to do any good for mother, or stop her from weeping continually? And more than this, what was become of Lorna? Perhaps she had cast me away altogether, as a flouter and a changeling; perhaps she had drowned herself in the black well; perhaps (and that was worst of all) she was even married, child as she was, to that vile Carver Doone, if the Doones ever cared about marrying! That last thought sent me down at once to watch for Mr. Spank again, resolved that if I could catch him, spank him I would to a pretty good tune, although sixteen in family.
Anyway, it was a source of much sorrow and some anger for me, along with a lot of anxiety, disappointment, and uncertainty. Because here was the hay season gone by, and the harvest of small grains approaching, with trout rising in the yellow Sally, and blackbirds eating our white-heart cherries (I was sure, even though I couldn’t see them). Who was going to help my mother, or stop her from crying all the time? And on top of that, what happened to Lorna? Maybe she had completely rejected me as a flirter and a changed person; maybe she had drowned in the dark well; or perhaps (which was the worst thought of all) she was even married, despite being so young, to that awful Carver Doone, if the Doones ever cared about marriage! That last idea drove me straight down to watch for Mr. Spank again, determined that if I caught him, I would teach him a lesson, even though I had a family of sixteen.
However, there was no such thing as to find him; and the usher vowed (having orders I doubt) that he was gone to the sea for the good of his health, having sadly overworked himself; and that none but a poor devil like himself, who never had handling of money, would stay in London this foul, hot weather; which was likely to bring the plague with it. Here was another new terror for me, who had heard of the plagues of London, and the horrible things that happened; and so going back to my lodgings at once, I opened my clothes and sought for spots, especially as being so long at a hairy fellmonger's; but finding none, I fell down and thanked God for that same, and vowed to start for Oare to-morrow, with my carbine loaded, come weal come woe, come sun come shower; though all the parish should laugh at me, for begging my way home again, after the brave things said of my going, as if I had been the King's cousin.
However, there was no way to find him; and the usher insisted (probably under orders) that he had gone to the sea for his health, having sadly overworked himself; and that only a poor soul like him, who never dealt with money, would stay in London during this foul, hot weather, which was likely to bring the plague. Here was another new fear for me, having heard about the plagues in London and the terrible things that happened; so I went back to my lodgings right away, opened my clothes, and looked for spots, especially since I had been at a hairy fellmonger's for so long; but finding none, I fell to my knees and thanked God for that, and vowed to head for Oare tomorrow, with my carbine loaded, come what may, rain or shine; even if the whole parish laughed at me for begging my way home again, after all the grand things said about my departure, as if I were the King's cousin.
But I was saved in some degree from this lowering of my pride, and what mattered more, of mother's; for going to buy with my last crown-piece (after all demands were paid) a little shot and powder, more needful on the road almost than even shoes or victuals, at the corner of the street I met my good friend Jeremy Stickles, newly come in search of me. I took him back to my little room—mine at least till to-morrow morning—and told him all my story, and how much I felt aggrieved by it. But he surprised me very much, by showing no surprise at all.
But I was somewhat spared from this hit to my pride, and what mattered more, my mother's; because when I went to buy with my last crown piece (after paying all my debts) a little shot and powder, which I needed for the journey almost as much as shoes or food, I ran into my good friend Jeremy Stickles, who had just come looking for me. I took him back to my small room—mine at least until tomorrow morning—and shared my whole story with him, expressing how upset I was about it. But he surprised me by showing no surprise at all.
“It is the way of the world, Jack. They have gotten all they can from thee, and why should they feed thee further? We feed not a dead pig, I trow, but baste him well with brine and rue. Nay, we do not victual him upon the day of killing; which they have done to thee. Thou art a lucky man, John; thou hast gotten one day's wages, or at any rate half a day, after thy work was rendered. God have mercy on me, John! The things I see are manifold; and so is my regard of them. What use to insist on this, or make a special point of that, or hold by something said of old, when a different mood was on? I tell thee, Jack, all men are liars; and he is the least one who presses not too hard on them for lying.”
“It’s just how the world works, Jack. They’ve gotten everything they can from you, so why should they keep feeding you? We don’t feed a dead pig, I assume, but we do season him well with brine and rue. No, we don’t provide for him on the day he’s slaughtered; that’s what they’ve done to you. You’re a lucky man, John; you’ve received one day’s pay, or at least half a day, after your work was done. God help me, John! The things I see are numerous, and so is my perception of them. What’s the point of insisting on this, or making a big deal out of that, or sticking to something said long ago, when the mood was different? I’m telling you, Jack, all men are liars; and the least of them is the one who doesn’t press too hard on others for lying.”
This was all quite dark to me, for I never looked at things like that, and never would own myself a liar, not at least to other people, nor even to myself, although I might to God sometimes, when trouble was upon me. And if it comes to that, no man has any right to be called a “liar” for smoothing over things unwitting, through duty to his neighbour.
This was all pretty confusing to me because I never thought about things that way, and I would never consider myself a liar, at least not to others, or even to myself, although I might admit it to God sometimes when I was in trouble. And honestly, no one should be called a “liar” for unintentionally glossing over things out of a sense of duty to their neighbor.
“Five pounds thou shalt have, Jack,” said Jeremy Stickles suddenly, while I was all abroad with myself as to being a liar or not; “five pounds, and I will take my chance of wringing it from that great rogue Spank. Ten I would have made it, John, but for bad luck lately. Put back your bits of paper, lad; I will have no acknowledgment. John Ridd, no nonsense with me!”
“Here’s five pounds, Jack,” Jeremy Stickles suddenly said while I was confused about whether I was lying or not. “Five pounds, and I’ll take my chances getting it from that big rogue Spank. I would have made it ten, John, but I’ve had some bad luck lately. Put away your bits of paper, kid; I don’t want any acknowledgment. John Ridd, don’t mess around with me!”
For I was ready to kiss his hand, to think that any man in London (the meanest and most suspicious place, upon all God's earth) should trust me with five pounds, without even a receipt for it! It overcame me so that I sobbed; for, after all, though big in body, I am but a child at heart. It was not the five pounds that moved me, but the way of giving it; and after so much bitter talk, the great trust in my goodness.
For I was ready to kiss his hand, believing that any man in London (the most untrusting and cynical place on earth) would trust me with five pounds, without even giving me a receipt! It overwhelmed me so much that I sobbed; because, despite my size, I'm really just a child at heart. It wasn't the five pounds that affected me, but the manner in which it was given; and after so much harsh conversation, the strong belief in my goodness.
CHAPTER XXVII
HOME AGAIN AT LAST
It was the beginning of wheat-harvest, when I came to Dunster town, having walked all the way from London, and being somewhat footsore. For though five pounds was enough to keep me in food and lodging upon the road, and leave me many a shilling to give to far poorer travellers, it would have been nothing for horse-hire, as I knew too well by the prices Jeremy Stickles had paid upon our way to London. Now I never saw a prettier town than Dunster looked that evening; for sooth to say, I had almost lost all hope of reaching it that night, although the castle was long in view. But being once there, my troubles were gone, at least as regarded wayfaring; for mother's cousin, the worthy tanner (with whom we had slept on the way to London), was in such indignation at the plight in which I came back to him, afoot, and weary, and almost shoeless—not to speak of upper things—that he swore then, by the mercy of God, that if the schemes abrewing round him, against those bloody Papists, should come to any head or shape, and show good chance of succeeding, he would risk a thousand pounds, as though it were a penny.
It was the start of wheat harvest when I arrived in Dunster, having walked all the way from London and feeling quite footsore. Even though five pounds was enough to cover my food and lodging during the trip and left me with some spare change to give to travelers in greater need, it wouldn’t have been enough for a horse. I knew this all too well from the prices Jeremy Stickles had paid on our way to London. I had never seen a prettier town than Dunster that evening; in truth, I had almost lost hope of reaching it that night, even though the castle was visible for a long time. But once I got there, my worries about traveling vanished; at least regarding my journey, because my mother’s cousin, the good tanner (with whom we’d stayed on the way to London), was so outraged at how I returned to him—on foot, weary, and nearly shoeless—not to mention the state of my upper clothing. He swore then, by the mercy of God, that if the plans brewing around him against those bloody Papists came to anything and showed promise of success, he would risk a thousand pounds as if it were just a penny.
I told him not to do it, because I had heard otherwise, but was not at liberty to tell one-tenth of what I knew, and indeed had seen in London town. But of this he took no heed, because I only nodded at him; and he could not make it out. For it takes an old man, or at least a middle-aged one, to nod and wink, with any power on the brains of other men. However, I think I made him know that the bad state in which I came to his town, and the great shame I had wrought for him among the folk round the card-table at the Luttrell Arms, was not to be, even there, attributed to King Charles the Second, nor even to his counsellors, but to my own speed of travelling, which had beat post-horses. For being much distraught in mind, and desperate in body, I had made all the way from London to Dunster in six days, and no more. It may be one hundred and seventy miles, I cannot tell to a furlong or two, especially as I lost my way more than a dozen times; but at any rate there in six days I was, and most kindly they received me. The tanner had some excellent daughters, I forget how many; very pretty damsels, and well set up, and able to make good pastry. But though they asked me many questions, and made a sort of lord of me, and offered to darn my stockings (which in truth required it), I fell asleep in the midst of them, although I would not acknowledge it; and they said, “Poor cousin! he is weary”, and led me to a blessed bed, and kissed me all round like swan's down.
I told him not to do it because I had heard differently, but I wasn't in a position to share even a fraction of what I knew, and what I had actually seen in London. He ignored this, as I only nodded at him, and he couldn't understand it. It takes an older man, or at least someone middle-aged, to nod and wink effectively to influence others. Still, I think I made him realize that the bad condition I showed up in his town and the embarrassment I had caused him among the people at the card table at the Luttrell Arms couldn't be blamed on King Charles the Second or his advisers, but rather on my own rushed travels, which had outpaced the post-horses. Distressed both mentally and physically, I had made the journey from London to Dunster in just six days. It might be around one hundred and seventy miles; I can't say exactly, especially since I got lost more than a dozen times. Regardless, I arrived in six days, and they welcomed me warmly. The tanner had some lovely daughters—I'm not sure how many—very pretty young women, well-structured, and capable of making delicious pastries. Even though they bombarded me with questions and treated me like a lord, offering to mend my stockings (which definitely needed it), I ended up dozing off in the middle of them without admitting it. They said, “Poor cousin! He’s tired,” and took me to a cozy bed, showering me with kisses like soft feathers.
In the morning all the Exmoor hills, the thought of which had frightened me at the end of each day's travel, seemed no more than bushels to me, as I looked forth the bedroom window, and thanked God for the sight of them. And even so, I had not to climb them, at least by my own labour. For my most worthy uncle (as we oft call a parent's cousin), finding it impossible to keep me for the day, and owning indeed that I was right in hastening to my mother, vowed that walk I should not, even though he lost his Saturday hides from Minehead and from Watchett. Accordingly he sent me forth on the very strongest nag he had, and the maidens came to wish me God-speed, and kissed their hands at the doorway. It made me proud and glad to think that after seeing so much of the world, and having held my own with it, I was come once more among my own people, and found them kinder, and more warm-hearted, ay and better looking too, than almost any I had happened upon in the mighty city of London.
In the morning, all the Exmoor hills, which had scared me at the end of each day's journey, looked like nothing more than a bunch of hills as I gazed out the bedroom window and thanked God for seeing them. And even so, I didn’t have to climb them myself. My very generous uncle (as we often refer to a parent's cousin), realizing he couldn’t keep me for the day and admitting I was right to hurry back to my mother, insisted that I wouldn’t walk, even if it meant he would miss out on his Saturday hides from Minehead and Watchett. So, he sent me off on the strongest horse he had, and the young women came to wish me well, blowing kisses at the doorway. It made me feel proud and happy to think that after seeing so much of the world and holding my own, I was back among my own people, who seemed kinder, warmer, and even better-looking than almost anyone I had encountered in the huge city of London.
But how shall I tell you the things I felt, and the swelling of my heart within me, as I drew nearer, and more near, to the place of all I loved and owned, to the haunt of every warm remembrance, the nest of all the fledgling hopes—in a word, to home? The first sheep I beheld on the moor with a great red J.R. on his side (for mother would have them marked with my name, instead of her own as they should have been), I do assure you my spirit leaped, and all my sight came to my eyes. I shouted out, “Jem, boy!”—for that was his name, and a rare hand he was at fighting—and he knew me in spite of the stranger horse; and I leaned over and stroked his head, and swore he should never be mutton. And when I was passed he set off at full gallop, to call the rest of the J.R.'s together, and tell them young master was come home at last.
But how do I describe the feelings I had and the excitement in my heart as I got closer to the place I loved and owned, the spot filled with every warm memory, the cradle of all my hopes—basically, home? The first sheep I saw out on the moor with a big red J.R. on its side (because my mother had them marked with my name instead of hers, like they should’ve been) made my spirit soar, and everything came into focus. I yelled, “Jem, boy!”—that was his name, and he was great at fighting—and he recognized me even with the unfamiliar horse. I leaned over, petted his head, and promised he would never become dinner. After I passed, he took off running to gather the rest of the J.R.'s and announce that the young master had finally returned home.
But bless your heart, and my own as well, it would take me all the afternoon to lay before you one-tenth of the things which came home to me in that one half-hour, as the sun was sinking, in the real way he ought to sink. I touched my horse with no spur nor whip, feeling that my slow wits would go, if the sights came too fast over them. Here was the pool where we washed the sheep, and there was the hollow that oozed away, where I had shot three wild ducks. Here was the peat-rick that hid my dinner, when I could not go home for it, and there was the bush with the thyme growing round it, where Annie had found a great swarm of our bees. And now was the corner of the dry stone wall, where the moor gave over in earnest, and the partridges whisked from it into the corn lands, and called that their supper was ready, and looked at our house and the ricks as they ran, and would wait for that comfort till winter.
But bless your heart, and mine too, it would take me all afternoon to share just a fraction of what hit me in that half-hour as the sun was setting the way it should. I didn't use any spurs or whips on my horse, knowing that my slow thoughts would struggle to keep up if everything came at me too quickly. Here was the pond where we washed the sheep, and over there was the spot where I shot three wild ducks. This is the peat stack that hid my lunch when I couldn’t make it home for it, and there’s the bush surrounded by thyme, where Annie discovered a huge swarm of our bees. And now here’s the corner of the dry stone wall, where the moor genuinely gave way, and the partridges flew out into the fields, signaling that their dinner was ready, glancing back at our house and the stacks as they ran, waiting for that comfort to last until winter.
And there I saw—but let me go—Annie was too much for me. She nearly pulled me off my horse, and kissed the very mouth of the carbine.
And there I saw—but let me go—Annie was overwhelming. She almost yanked me off my horse and kissed the very end of the gun.
“I knew you would come. Oh John! Oh John! I have waited here every Saturday night; and I saw you for the last mile or more, but I would not come round the corner, for fear that I should cry, John, and then not cry when I got you. Now I may cry as much as I like, and you need not try to stop me, John, because I am so happy. But you mustn't cry yourself, John; what will mother think of you? She will be so jealous of me.”
“I knew you'd come. Oh John! Oh John! I've waited here every Saturday night; I saw you for the last mile or so, but I didn’t want to turn the corner because I was afraid I’d cry, John, and then wouldn’t be able to cry when I finally had you. Now I can cry as much as I want, and you don’t have to try to stop me, John, because I’m so happy. But you shouldn’t cry, John; what will Mom think of you? She’ll be so jealous of me.”
What mother thought I cannot tell; and indeed I doubt if she thought at all for more than half an hour, but only managed to hold me tight, and cry, and thank God now and then, but with some fear of His taking me, if she should be too grateful. Moreover she thought it was my own doing, and I ought to have the credit of it, and she even came down very sharply upon John's wife, Mrs. Fry, for saying that we must not be too proud, for all of it was the Lord's doing. However, dear mother was ashamed of that afterwards, and asked Mrs. Fry's humble pardon; and perhaps I ought not to have mentioned it.
What my mom thought, I can't say; honestly, I doubt she thought much for more than half an hour. She just held me tight, cried, and thanked God from time to time, though she worried that if she showed too much gratitude, He might take me away. Plus, she believed it was my own accomplishment, and I deserved the credit for it, so she even confronted John's wife, Mrs. Fry, sharply for saying we shouldn't be too proud since it was all God's doing. However, my dear mom felt embarrassed about that later and asked for Mrs. Fry's forgiveness; maybe I shouldn't have brought it up.
Old Smiler had told them that I was coming—all the rest, I mean, except Annie—for having escaped from his halter-ring, he was come out to graze in the lane a bit; when what should he see but a strange horse coming with young master and mistress upon him, for Annie must needs get up behind me, there being only sheep to look at her. Then Smiler gave us a stare and a neigh, with his tail quite stiff with amazement, and then (whether in joy or through indignation) he flung up his hind feet and galloped straight home, and set every dog wild with barking.
Old Smiler had told them that I was coming—all except Annie—because he had gotten away from his halter and was out grazing in the lane for a bit. And what did he see but a strange horse with the young master and mistress on it, since Annie couldn’t resist getting up behind me with only sheep to watch her. Then Smiler stared at us and neighed, his tail straight up in shock, and then (whether out of joy or anger) he kicked up his hind legs and galloped straight home, sending every dog into a barking frenzy.
Now, methinks, quite enough has been said concerning this mighty return of the young John Ridd (which was known up at Cosgate that evening), and feeling that I cannot describe it, how can I hope that any one else will labour to imagine it, even of the few who are able? For very few can have travelled so far, unless indeed they whose trade it is, or very unsettled people. And even of those who have done so, not one in a hundred can have such a home as I had to come home to.
Now, I think enough has been said about the impressive return of young John Ridd (which was known up at Cosgate that evening), and since I feel unable to describe it, how can I expect anyone else to try to imagine it, even among the few who could? Very few people can have traveled so far, except maybe for those whose job it is to do so, or people who are very restless. And even among those who have, not one in a hundred could have a home like the one I returned to.
Mother wept again, with grief and some wrath, and so did Annie also, and even little Eliza, and all were unsettled in loyalty, and talked about a republic, when I told them how I had been left without money for travelling homeward, and expected to have to beg my way, which Farmer Snowe would have heard of. And though I could see they were disappointed at my failure of any promotion, they all declared how glad they were, and how much better they liked me to be no more than what they were accustomed to. At least, my mother and Annie said so, without waiting to hear any more; but Lizzie did not answer to it, until I had opened my bag and shown the beautiful present I had for her. And then she kissed me, almost like Annie, and vowed that she thought very little of captains.
Mother cried again, filled with sadness and some anger, and so did Annie and even little Eliza. They all felt uncertain about their loyalty and started talking about a republic when I told them how I had been left without money for my trip home and would probably have to beg on the way, which Farmer Snowe would hear about. Even though I could tell they were disappointed that I hadn’t achieved any promotion, they all insisted how happy they were and that they preferred me to just be who they were used to. At least, my mother and Annie said so right away, without waiting to hear more; but Lizzie didn’t respond until I opened my bag and showed her the beautiful gift I had for her. Then she kissed me, almost like Annie, and insisted that she didn't care much for captains.
For Lizzie's present was the best of all, I mean, of course, except Lorna's (which I carried in my breast all the way, hoping that it might make her love me, from having lain so long, close to my heart). For I had brought Lizzie something dear, and a precious heavy book it was, and much beyond my understanding; whereas I knew well that to both the others my gifts would be dear, for mine own sake. And happier people could not be found than the whole of us were that evening.
For Lizzie's gift was the best of all, except of course for Lorna's (which I carried close to my heart the whole way, hoping it would make her love me, having been so near to me for so long). I had brought Lizzie something special, a heavy and valuable book, one that was way beyond my understanding; I knew that both of the others would treasure my gifts because they were from me. There couldn't have been happier people than all of us that evening.
CHAPTER XXVIII
JOHN HAS HOPE OF LORNA
Much as I longed to know more about Lorna, and though all my heart was yearning, I could not reconcile it yet with my duty to mother and Annie, to leave them on the following day, which happened to be a Sunday. For lo, before breakfast was out of our mouths, there came all the men of the farm, and their wives, and even the two crow-boys, dressed as if going to Barnstaple fair, to inquire how Master John was, and whether it was true that the King had made him one of his body-guard; and if so, what was to be done with the belt for the championship of the West-Counties wrestling, which I had held now for a year or more, and none were ready to challenge it. Strange to say, this last point seemed the most important of all to them; and none asked who was to manage the farm, or answer for their wages; but all asked who was to wear the belt.
As much as I wanted to know more about Lorna, and despite how much my heart ached, I couldn’t justify leaving my mother and Annie the next day, which happened to be a Sunday. Just as we finished our breakfast, all the men from the farm, their wives, and even the two boys who tended the crows showed up, dressed as if they were heading to the Barnstaple fair, to ask how Master John was doing and if it was true that the King had made him one of his bodyguards. They also wanted to know what would happen to the belt for the West-Counties wrestling championship that I had held for over a year without any challengers. Oddly enough, that last question seemed to matter most to them; no one asked who would run the farm or ensure their pay, but everyone wanted to know who was going to wear the belt.
To this I replied, after shaking hands twice over all round with all of them, that I meant to wear the belt myself, for the honour of Oare parish, so long as ever God gave me strength and health to meet all-comers; for I had never been asked to be body-guard, and if asked I would never have done it. Some of them cried that the King must be mazed, not to keep me for his protection, in these violent times of Popery. I could have told them that the King was not in the least afraid of Papists, but on the contrary, very fond of them; however, I held my tongue, remembering what Judge Jeffreys bade me.
To this, I replied, after shaking hands twice with everyone, that I planned to wear the belt myself, for the honor of Oare parish, as long as God gave me the strength and health to face anyone who challenged me; because I had never been asked to be a bodyguard, and if I had been, I wouldn’t have done it. Some of them shouted that the King must be crazy not to keep me for his protection during these violent times of Catholicism. I could have told them that the King wasn’t scared of Catholics at all, but actually quite liked them; however, I kept my mouth shut, remembering what Judge Jeffreys told me.
In church, the whole congregation, man, woman, and child (except, indeed, the Snowe girls, who only looked when I was not watching), turned on me with one accord, and stared so steadfastly, to get some reflection of the King from me, that they forgot the time to kneel down and the parson was forced to speak to them. If I coughed, or moved my book, or bowed, or even said “Amen,” glances were exchanged which meant—“That he hath learned in London town, and most likely from His Majesty.”
In church, the entire congregation—men, women, and children (except for the Snowe girls, who only looked when I wasn't paying attention)—turned to me in unison and stared so intensely, trying to catch a glimpse of the King through me, that they forgot to kneel and the pastor had to remind them. If I coughed, moved my book, bowed, or even said “Amen,” looks were exchanged that basically said, “He learned that in London, probably from His Majesty.”
However, all this went off in time, and people became even angry with me for not being sharper (as they said), or smarter, or a whit more fashionable, for all the great company I had seen, and all the wondrous things wasted upon me.
However, all this passed with time, and people grew even frustrated with me for not being sharper (as they put it), or smarter, or just a little more fashionable, given all the impressive company I had been with and all the amazing things that had been wasted on me.
But though I may have been none the wiser by reason of my stay in London, at any rate I was much the better in virtue of coming home again. For now I had learned the joy of quiet, and the gratitude for good things round us, and the love we owe to others (even those who must be kind), for their indulgence to us. All this, before my journey, had been too much as a matter of course to me; but having missed it now I knew that it was a gift, and might be lost. Moreover, I had pined so much, in the dust and heat of that great town, for trees, and fields, and running waters, and the sounds of country life, and the air of country winds, that never more could I grow weary of those soft enjoyments; or at least I thought so then.
But even though I didn’t gain much wisdom from my time in London, I definitely benefited from returning home. I had discovered the joy of peace, an appreciation for the good things around us, and the love we owe to others (even those who are obligated to be kind) for their patience with us. Before my trip, I had taken all this for granted; but after missing it, I realized it was a gift that could be lost. Plus, I had longed so much, in the dust and heat of that big city, for trees, fields, running water, the sounds of country life, and the fresh air of the countryside, that I could never tire of those simple pleasures again—or at least that’s what I thought at the time.
To awake as the summer sun came slanting over the hill-tops, with hope on every beam adance to the laughter of the morning; to see the leaves across the window ruffling on the fresh new air, and the tendrils of the powdery vine turning from their beaded sleep. Then the lustrous meadows far beyond the thatch of the garden-wall, yet seen beneath the hanging scollops of the walnut-tree, all awaking, dressed in pearl, all amazed at their own glistening, like a maid at her own ideas. Down them troop the lowing kine, walking each with a step of character (even as men and women do), yet all alike with toss of horns, and spread of udders ready. From them without a word, we turn to the farm-yard proper, seen on the right, and dryly strawed from the petty rush of the pitch-paved runnel. Round it stand the snug out-buildings, barn, corn-chamber, cider-press, stables, with a blinker'd horse in every doorway munching, while his driver tightens buckles, whistles and looks down the lane, dallying to begin his labour till the milkmaids be gone by. Here the cock comes forth at last;—where has he been lingering?—eggs may tell to-morrow—he claps his wings and shouts “cock-a-doodle”; and no other cock dare look at him. Two or three go sidling off, waiting till their spurs be grown; and then the crowd of partlets comes, chattering how their lord has dreamed, and crowed at two in the morning, and praying that the old brown rat would only dare to face him. But while the cock is crowing still, and the pullet world admiring him, who comes up but the old turkey-cock, with all his family round him. Then the geese at the lower end begin to thrust their breasts out, and mum their down-bits, and look at the gander and scream shrill joy for the conflict; while the ducks in pond show nothing but tail, in proof of their strict neutrality.
To wake up as the summer sun streams over the hilltops, filled with hope in every beam dancing to the morning's laughter; to see the leaves outside the window fluttering in the fresh air, and the tendrils of the dusty vine waking from their beaded sleep. Then the shiny meadows far beyond the garden wall, visible beneath the dangling scallops of the walnut tree, all stirring, dressed in pearls, all amazed at their own shine, like a girl admiring her own thoughts. Down come the lowing cows, each moving with its own style (just like men and women do), yet all similar with lifted horns and ready udders. Without a word, we turn to the actual farm yard on the right, dryly strawed away from the small rush of the pitch-paved stream. Surrounding it are the cozy outbuildings: barn, corn chamber, cider press, and stables, with a blinkered horse in every doorway munching while his driver tightens his buckles, whistles, and looks down the lane, delaying to start his work until the milkmaids pass by. Here comes the rooster at last—where has he been?—the eggs will tell tomorrow—he flaps his wings and crows "cock-a-doodle"; and no other rooster dares to challenge him. A few sidle off, waiting for their spurs to grow; then the crowd of hens arrives, chattering about how their lord has dreamed and crowed at two in the morning, hoping that the old brown rat would dare face him. But while the rooster continues to crow, and the hens admire him, here comes the old turkey, with all his family around him. Then the geese at the far end start to puff out their chests, mumbling their bits of food, eyeing the gander and screeching joyfully for the upcoming clash; while the ducks in the pond show nothing but their tails, proving their strict neutrality.
While yet we dread for the coming event, and the fight which would jar on the morning, behold the grandmother of sows, gruffly grunting right and left with muzzle which no ring may tame (not being matrimonial), hulks across between the two, moving all each side at once, and then all of the other side as if she were chined down the middle, and afraid of spilling the salt from her. As this mighty view of lard hides each combatant from the other, gladly each retires and boasts how he would have slain his neighbour, but that old sow drove the other away, and no wonder he was afraid of her, after all the chicks she had eaten.
While we’re still anxious about the upcoming event and the fight that would disrupt the morning, here comes the grandmother of all sows, gruffly grunting left and right with a snout no ring can tame (since she isn’t married), stomping between the two sides, swaying one way and then the other as if she were split down the middle and worried about spilling salt. Because this massive figure of lard hides each fighter from the other, each one gladly backs off and boasts about how he would have taken down his neighbor, if it weren’t for that old sow scaring the other one away. No wonder he was afraid of her, after all the chicks she had eaten.
And so it goes on; and so the sun comes, stronger from his drink of dew; and the cattle in the byres, and the horses from the stable, and the men from cottage-door, each has had his rest and food, all smell alike of hay and straw, and every one must hie to work, be it drag, or draw, or delve.
And so it continues; the sun rises, more powerful after its drink of dew; and the cattle in the barns, the horses from the stable, and the men from their doorsteps, each has had their rest and food, all smelling of hay and straw, and everyone must hurry to work, whether it's pulling, lifting, or digging.
So thought I on the Monday morning; while my own work lay before me, and I was plotting how to quit it, void of harm to every one, and let my love have work a little—hardest perhaps of all work, and yet as sure as sunrise. I knew that my first day's task on the farm would be strictly watched by every one, even by my gentle mother, to see what I had learned in London. But could I let still another day pass, for Lorna to think me faithless?
So I thought on that Monday morning while my own work was in front of me, and I was figuring out how to get out of it without hurting anyone, so my love could take on some work—perhaps the hardest kind of work, but as certain as the sunrise. I knew that everyone, even my kind mother, would be closely watching my first day on the farm to see what I had learned in London. But could I let another day go by without Lorna thinking I was unfaithful?
I felt much inclined to tell dear mother all about Lorna, and how I loved her, yet had no hope of winning her. Often and often, I had longed to do this, and have done with it. But the thought of my father's terrible death, at the hands of the Doones, prevented me. And it seemed to me foolish and mean to grieve mother, without any chance of my suit ever speeding. If once Lorna loved me, my mother should know it; and it would be the greatest happiness to me to have no concealment from her, though at first she was sure to grieve terribly. But I saw no more chance of Lorna loving me, than of the man in the moon coming down; or rather of the moon coming down to the man, as related in old mythology.
I really wanted to tell my dear mom everything about Lorna and how much I loved her, even though I had no hope of winning her heart. I often longed to get it off my chest, but the thought of my father's awful death at the hands of the Doones held me back. It felt foolish and cruel to upset my mom without any chance of my feelings being reciprocated. If Lorna ever loved me, I would want my mom to know, and it would mean so much to me to have no secrets from her, even though I knew she'd be heartbroken at first. But I saw no more chance of Lorna loving me than of the man in the moon coming down; or rather, the moon coming down to the man, like they said in the old myths.
Now the merriment of the small birds, and the clear voice of the waters, and the lowing of cattle in meadows, and the view of no houses (except just our own and a neighbour's), and the knowledge of everybody around, their kindness of heart and simplicity, and love of their neighbour's doings,—all these could not help or please me at all, and many of them were much against me, in my secret depth of longing and dark tumult of the mind. Many people may think me foolish, especially after coming from London, where many nice maids looked at me (on account of my bulk and stature), and I might have been fitted up with a sweetheart, in spite of my west-country twang, and the smallness of my purse; if only I had said the word. But nay; I have contempt for a man whose heart is like a shirt-stud (such as I saw in London cards), fitted into one to-day, sitting bravely on the breast; plucked out on the morrow morn, and the place that knew it, gone.
Now the cheerful sounds of the little birds, the clear babble of the water, the lowing of cattle in the fields, and the sight of only our house and a neighbor’s around, along with the familiarity of everyone nearby, their kindness and simplicity, and their care for each other’s lives—all of this couldn’t help or please me at all, and much of it felt contrary to my deep secret longings and inner turmoil. Many might think I’m foolish, especially after coming from London, where plenty of lovely women noticed me (because of my size and stature), and I could have easily been set up with a girlfriend, despite my west-country accent and lack of funds; if only I had shown interest. But no; I disdain a man whose heart is like a shirt-stud (like the ones I saw on cards in London), secured in place today, bold on the surface, but pulled out by the next morning, leaving the spot it occupied empty.
Now, what did I do but take my chance; reckless whether any one heeded me or not, only craving Lorna's heed, and time for ten words to her. Therefore I left the men of the farm as far away as might be, after making them work with me (which no man round our parts could do, to his own satisfaction), and then knowing them to be well weary, very unlike to follow me—and still more unlike to tell of me, for each had his London present—I strode right away, in good trust of my speed, without any more misgivings; but resolved to face the worst of it, and to try to be home for supper.
So, I decided to take my shot; not caring whether anyone noticed or not, just longing for Lorna’s attention and a moment to say ten words to her. I got the farm workers as far away as possible after making them labor with me (which no one around here could do to their own satisfaction), and knowing they were pretty tired, unlikely to follow me—and even less likely to mention me, since each had his own London distraction—I walked off confidently, trusting in my speed, without any more doubts; ready to face whatever came and hoping to be home in time for dinner.
And first I went, I know not why, to the crest of the broken highland, whence I had agreed to watch for any mark or signal. And sure enough at last I saw (when it was too late to see) that the white stone had been covered over with a cloth or mantle,—the sign that something had arisen to make Lorna want me. For a moment I stood amazed at my evil fortune; that I should be too late, in the very thing of all things on which my heart was set! Then after eyeing sorrowfully every crick and cranny to be sure that not a single flutter of my love was visible, off I set, with small respect either for my knees or neck, to make the round of the outer cliffs, and come up my old access.
And first, I went, I don’t know why, to the top of the broken highland, where I had agreed to keep an eye out for any mark or signal. Sure enough, I finally saw (when it was too late to notice) that the white stone had been covered with a cloth or mantle— the sign that something had happened to make Lorna want me. For a moment, I stood there, amazed at my bad luck; to be too late for the one thing my heart was set on! Then, after sadly scanning every nook and cranny to make sure not a single hint of my love was visible, I set off, not caring much about my knees or neck, to make the circuit of the outer cliffs and take my usual route back up.
Nothing could stop me; it was not long, although to me it seemed an age, before I stood in the niche of rock at the head of the slippery watercourse, and gazed into the quiet glen, where my foolish heart was dwelling. Notwithstanding doubts of right, notwithstanding sense of duty, and despite all manly striving, and the great love of my home, there my heart was ever dwelling, knowing what a fool it was, and content to know it.
Nothing could hold me back; it wasn’t long, though it felt like forever, before I stood in the rocky niche at the top of the slippery stream, looking into the peaceful valley where my foolish heart resided. Despite doubts about what was right, a sense of duty, and all my efforts to be strong, along with my deep love for home, my heart kept lingering there, aware of its foolishness and okay with that.
Many birds came twittering round me in the gold of August; many trees showed twinkling beauty, as the sun went lower; and the lines of water fell, from wrinkles into dimples. Little heeding, there I crouched; though with sense of everything that afterwards should move me, like a picture or a dream; and everything went by me softly, while my heart was gazing.
Many birds chirped around me in the golden light of August; many trees displayed their sparkling beauty as the sun sank lower; and the lines of water shifted from ripples into gentle curves. I barely noticed as I crouched there, though I sensed everything that would later affect me, like a picture or a dream; and everything passed by me softly while my heart watched.
At last, a little figure came, not insignificant (I mean), but looking very light and slender in the moving shadows, gently here and softly there, as if vague of purpose, with a gloss of tender movement, in and out the wealth of trees, and liberty of the meadow. Who was I to crouch, or doubt, or look at her from a distance; what matter if they killed me now, and one tear came to bury me? Therefore I rushed out at once, as if shot-guns were unknown yet; not from any real courage, but from prisoned love burst forth.
At last, a small figure appeared, not insignificant (I mean), but looking very light and slender in the shifting shadows, moving gently here and softly there, as if unclear about its purpose, with a hint of delicate grace, weaving in and out of the dense trees and open meadow. Who was I to crouch, doubt, or observe her from afar? What did it matter if they killed me now, and just one tear fell to bury me? So, I rushed out immediately, as if shotguns didn’t even exist yet; not out of real courage, but driven by the love that had been trapped inside me.
I know not whether my own Lorna was afraid of what I looked, or what I might say to her, or of her own thoughts of me; all I know is that she looked frightened, when I hoped for gladness. Perhaps the power of my joy was more than maiden liked to own, or in any way to answer to; and to tell the truth, it seemed as if I might now forget myself; while she would take good care of it. This makes a man grow thoughtful; unless, as some low fellows do, he believe all women hypocrites.
I don’t know if my own Lorna was scared of how I looked, what I might say to her, or her own feelings about me; all I know is that she seemed frightened when I was hoping for happiness. Maybe the intensity of my joy was more than any young woman wanted to handle or respond to; and honestly, it felt like I could forget about myself while she took care of it. This makes a man reflect; unless, like some lowlifes, he thinks all women are hypocrites.
Therefore I went slowly towards her, taken back in my impulse; and said all I could come to say, with some distress in doing it.
So, I walked slowly toward her, held back by my feelings, and said everything I could think of, feeling a bit uneasy while doing it.
“Mistress Lorna, I had hope that you were in need of me.”
“Miss Lorna, I was hoping that you needed me.”
“Oh, yes; but that was long ago; two months ago, or more, sir.” And saying this she looked away, as if it all were over. But I was now so dazed and frightened, that it took my breath away, and I could not answer, feeling sure that I was robbed and some one else had won her. And I tried to turn away, without another word, and go.
“Oh, yes; but that was a long time ago; two months ago, or more, sir.” Saying this, she looked away, as if it were all behind her. But I was so confused and scared that it took my breath away, and I couldn’t respond, feeling certain that I had lost her to someone else. I tried to turn away without another word and leave.
But I could not help one stupid sob, though mad with myself for allowing it, but it came too sharp for pride to stay it, and it told a world of things. Lorna heard it, and ran to me, with her bright eyes full of wonder, pity, and great kindness, as if amazed that I had more than a simple liking for her. Then she held out both hands to me; and I took and looked at them.
But I couldn't hold back a stupid sob, even though I was furious with myself for letting it happen. It came on too quickly for my pride to stop it, and it revealed so much. Lorna heard it and rushed to me, her bright eyes filled with wonder, pity, and kindness, as if she couldn’t believe I felt more than just a simple affection for her. Then she held out both hands to me, and I took them and looked at them.
“Master Ridd, I did not mean,” she whispered, very softly, “I did not mean to vex you.”
“Master Ridd, I didn’t mean,” she whispered, very softly, “I didn’t mean to annoy you.”
“If you would be loath to vex me, none else in this world can do it,” I answered out of my great love, but fearing yet to look at her, mine eyes not being strong enough.
“If you don’t want to upset me, no one else in this world can,” I replied from my deep love, but still afraid to look at her, my eyes not strong enough.
“Come away from this bright place,” she answered, trembling in her turn; “I am watched and spied of late. Come beneath the shadows, John.”
“Come away from this bright place,” she replied, trembling as well; “I’ve been watched and spied on lately. Come into the shadows, John.”
I would have leaped into the valley of the shadow of death (as described by the late John Bunyan), only to hear her call me “John”; though Apollyon were lurking there, and Despair should lock me in.
I would have jumped into the valley of the shadow of death (as described by the late John Bunyan), just to hear her call me “John”; even if Apollyon was hiding there, and Despair was ready to trap me.
She stole across the silent grass; but I strode hotly after her; fear was all beyond me now, except the fear of losing her. I could not but behold her manner, as she went before me, all her grace, and lovely sweetness, and her sense of what she was.
She quietly crossed the still grass; but I rushed after her; fear was the last thing on my mind now, except the fear of losing her. I couldn’t help but notice her demeanor as she walked ahead of me, all her grace, charming sweetness, and her awareness of who she was.
She led me to her own rich bower, which I told of once before; and if in spring it were a sight, what was it in summer glory? But although my mind had notice of its fairness and its wonder, not a heed my heart took of it, neither dwelt it in my presence more than flowing water. All that in my presence dwelt, all that in my heart was felt, was the maiden moving gently, and afraid to look at me.
She took me to her beautiful garden, which I mentioned before; and if it was lovely in spring, how stunning must it be in summer? But even though I recognized its beauty and charm, my heart paid no attention to it, and it didn’t linger in my thoughts any more than the sound of running water. What truly occupied my mind and heart was the girl moving softly, too shy to look at me.
For now the power of my love was abiding on her, new to her, unknown to her; not a thing to speak about, nor even to think clearly; only just to feel and wonder, with a pain of sweetness. She could look at me no more, neither could she look away, with a studied manner—only to let fall her eyes, and blush, and be put out with me, and still more with herself.
For now, the strength of my love was resting on her, something she had never experienced before; it was not something to talk about or even think about clearly; it was just something to feel and wonder at, mixed with a bittersweet pain. She couldn’t look at me anymore, nor could she look away intentionally—she just let her eyes drop, blushed, felt frustrated with me, and even more so with herself.
I left her quite alone; though close, though tingling to have hold of her. Even her right hand was dropped and lay among the mosses. Neither did I try to steal one glimpse below her eyelids. Life and death to me were hanging on the first glance I should win; yet I let it be so.
I left her completely alone; even though I was close and eager to touch her. Even her right hand rested on the moss. I didn’t even try to sneak a look beneath her eyelids. Everything, life and death, depended on the first glance I might get; yet I didn’t act on it.
After long or short—I know not, yet ere I was weary, ere I yet began to think or wish for any answer—Lorna slowly raised her eyelids, with a gleam of dew below them, and looked at me doubtfully. Any look with so much in it never met my gaze before.
After what felt like a long time, though I can't say for sure, before I got tired or even started to think about wanting an answer, Lorna slowly lifted her eyelids, revealing a shimmer of dew beneath them, and looked at me with uncertainty. I had never encountered a look that held so much meaning before.
“Darling, do you love me?” was all that I could say to her.
“Baby, do you love me?” was all I could ask her.
“Yes, I like you very much,” she answered, with her eyes gone from me, and her dark hair falling over, so as not to show me things.
“Yes, I really like you,” she replied, looking away and letting her dark hair fall over her face to hide her expressions.
“But do you love me, Lorna, Lorna; do you love me more than all the world?”
“But do you love me, Lorna, Lorna; do you love me more than anyone else in the world?”
“No, to be sure not. Now why should I?”
“No, definitely not. Why should I?”
“In truth, I know not why you should. Only I hoped that you did, Lorna. Either love me not at all, or as I love you for ever.”
"In reality, I don't understand why you would. I just hoped that you did, Lorna. Either don't love me at all, or love me forever, just like I love you."
“John I love you very much; and I would not grieve you. You are the bravest, and the kindest, and the simplest of all men—I mean of all people—I like you very much, Master Ridd, and I think of you almost every day.”
“John, I love you so much, and I wouldn’t want to upset you. You are the bravest, kindest, and most genuine person I know—I mean of all people—I really like you, Master Ridd, and I think about you almost every day.”
“That will not do for me, Lorna. Not almost every day I think, but every instant of my life, of you. For you I would give up my home, my love of all the world beside, my duty to my dearest ones, for you I would give up my life, and hope of life beyond it. Do you love me so?”
“That won’t work for me, Lorna. Not just almost every day I think about you, but every moment of my life. For you, I would give up my home, my love for everyone else, my responsibility to my nearest and dearest. For you, I would give up my life and the hope of anything after it. Do you love me that much?”
“Not by any means,” said Lorna; “no, I like you very much, when you do not talk so wildly; and I like to see you come as if you would fill our valley up, and I like to think that even Carver would be nothing in your hands—but as to liking you like that, what should make it likely? especially when I have made the signal, and for some two months or more you have never even answered it! If you like me so ferociously, why do you leave me for other people to do just as they like with me?”
“Not at all,” said Lorna; “no, I like you a lot when you don’t talk so crazily; and I love seeing you come like you could fill our valley, and I like to think that even Carver wouldn’t matter with you around—but as for liking you like that, why would that happen? Especially since I’ve signaled you, and for more than two months you haven’t even responded! If you care about me so passionately, why do you leave me for other people to treat however they want?”
“To do as they liked! Oh, Lorna, not to make you marry Carver?”
“To do whatever they wanted! Oh, Lorna, not to force you to marry Carver?”
“No, Master Ridd, be not frightened so; it makes me fear to look at you.”
“No, Master Ridd, don’t be so scared; it worries me to look at you.”
“But you have not married Carver yet? Say quick! Why keep me waiting so?”
“But you haven't married Carver yet? Hurry up! Why are you keeping me waiting like this?”
“Of course I have not, Master Ridd. Should I be here if I had, think you, and allowing you to like me so, and to hold my hand, and make me laugh, as I declare you almost do sometimes? And at other times you frighten me.”
“Of course I haven’t, Master Ridd. Should I even be here if I had, do you think, allowing you to like me like this, to hold my hand, and make me laugh, as you almost do sometimes? And at other times you scare me.”
“Did they want you to marry Carver? Tell me all the truth of it.”
“Did they want you to marry Carver? Tell me the whole truth about it.”
“Not yet, not yet. They are not half so impetuous as you are, John. I am only just seventeen, you know, and who is to think of marrying? But they wanted me to give my word, and be formally betrothed to him in the presence of my grandfather. It seems that something frightened them. There is a youth named Charleworth Doone, every one calls him 'Charlie'; a headstrong and a gay young man, very gallant in his looks and manner; and my uncle, the Counsellor, chose to fancy that Charlie looked at me too much, coming by my grandfather's cottage.”
“Not yet, not yet. They’re not nearly as impulsive as you are, John. I’m only seventeen, you know, and who thinks about getting married? But they wanted me to agree and be formally engaged to him in front of my grandfather. It seems something scared them. There’s a guy named Charleworth Doone, everyone calls him 'Charlie'; he’s a headstrong and charming young man, very dashing in his looks and demeanor; and my uncle, the Counselor, decided that Charlie was looking at me a bit too much while passing by my grandfather's cottage.”
Here Lorna blushed so that I was frightened, and began to hate this Charlie more, a great deal more, than even Carver Doone.
Here, Lorna blushed so deeply that I became scared, and I started to hate this Charlie even more, much more than I hated Carver Doone.
“He had better not,” said I; “I will fling him over it, if he dare. He shall see thee through the roof, Lorna, if at all he see thee.”
“He'd better not,” I said; “I will throw him over it if he has the guts to try. He’ll see you through the roof, Lorna, if he sees you at all.”
“Master Ridd, you are worse than Carver! I thought you were so kind-hearted. Well, they wanted me to promise, and even to swear a solemn oath (a thing I have never done in my life) that I would wed my eldest cousin, this same Carver Doone, who is twice as old as I am, being thirty-five and upwards. That was why I gave the token that I wished to see you, Master Ridd. They pointed out how much it was for the peace of all the family, and for mine own benefit; but I would not listen for a moment, though the Counsellor was most eloquent, and my grandfather begged me to consider, and Carver smiled his pleasantest, which is a truly frightful thing. Then both he and his crafty father were for using force with me; but Sir Ensor would not hear of it; and they have put off that extreme until he shall be past its knowledge, or, at least, beyond preventing it. And now I am watched, and spied, and followed, and half my little liberty seems to be taken from me. I could not be here speaking with you, even in my own nook and refuge, but for the aid, and skill, and courage of dear little Gwenny Carfax. She is now my chief reliance, and through her alone I hope to baffle all my enemies, since others have forsaken me.”
“Master Ridd, you’re worse than Carver! I thought you were so kind. Well, they wanted me to promise, and even to swear a serious oath (something I’ve never done before) that I would marry my oldest cousin, this same Carver Doone, who is twice my age, being over thirty-five. That’s why I sent the token asking to see you, Master Ridd. They emphasized how much it would help the whole family and be good for me; but I wouldn’t listen for a second, even though the Counsellor was very persuasive, and my grandfather urged me to think about it, and Carver flashed his most charming smile, which is honestly terrifying. Then both he and his sneaky father tried to use force against me; but Sir Ensor wouldn’t allow it; they’ve postponed that extreme until he’s beyond knowing about it, or at least able to stop it. And now I’m being watched, spied on, and followed, and most of my little freedom seems to be gone. I wouldn’t be here talking to you, even in my own little corner and refuge, if it weren’t for the help, skill, and bravery of dear little Gwenny Carfax. She’s now my main support, and through her alone, I hope to outsmart all my enemies, since others have abandoned me.”
Tears of sorrow and reproach were lurking in her soft dark eyes, until in fewest words I told her that my seeming negligence was nothing but my bitter loss and wretched absence far away; of which I had so vainly striven to give any tidings without danger to her. When she heard all this, and saw what I had brought from London (which was nothing less than a ring of pearls with a sapphire in the midst of them, as pretty as could well be found), she let the gentle tears flow fast, and came and sat so close beside me, that I trembled like a folded sheep at the bleating of her lamb. But recovering comfort quickly, without more ado, I raised her left hand and observed it with a nice regard, wondering at the small blue veins, and curves, and tapering whiteness, and the points it finished with. My wonder seemed to please her much, herself so well accustomed to it, and not fond of watching it. And then, before she could say a word, or guess what I was up to, as quick as ever I turned hand in a bout of wrestling, on her finger was my ring—sapphire for the veins of blue, and pearls to match white fingers.
Tears of sadness and reproach were hiding in her soft, dark eyes, until I briefly told her that my apparent neglect was really just my deep loss and miserable absence far away; I had tried so hard to share any news without putting her in danger. When she heard all of this and saw what I had brought from London (which was nothing less than a beautiful ring of pearls with a sapphire in the middle, as lovely as could be found), she let the gentle tears flow freely and sat so close beside me that I trembled like a sheep does at the sound of its lamb. But quickly regaining my composure, without any hesitation, I raised her left hand and looked at it closely, marveling at the small blue veins, the graceful curves, the pale whiteness, and the delicate points at the end. My admiration seemed to delight her, as she was so used to it and not particularly fond of paying attention to it. Then, before she could say anything or guess what I was doing, as quick as I would turn a hand in a wrestling match, I slipped my ring onto her finger—sapphire to match the blue veins and pearls to complement her white fingers.
“Oh, you crafty Master Ridd!” said Lorna, looking up at me, and blushing now a far brighter blush than when she spoke of Charlie; “I thought that you were much too simple ever to do this sort of thing. No wonder you can catch the fish, as when first I saw you.”
“Oh, you clever Master Ridd!” said Lorna, looking up at me and blushing now a much brighter shade than when she talked about Charlie; “I thought you were way too straightforward to ever pull off something like this. No wonder you can catch the fish, just like when I first saw you.”
“Have I caught you, little fish? Or must all my life be spent in hopeless angling for you?”
“Have I caught you, little fish? Or will I have to spend my whole life hopelessly trying to catch you?”
“Neither one nor the other, John! You have not caught me yet altogether, though I like you dearly John; and if you will only keep away, I shall like you more and more. As for hopeless angling, John—that all others shall have until I tell you otherwise.”
“Neither one nor the other, John! You still haven’t completely caught me, though I really like you, John; and if you just stay away, I’ll like you even more. As for hopeless fishing, John—that’s for everyone else until I say otherwise.”
With the large tears in her eyes—tears which seemed to me to rise partly from her want to love me with the power of my love—she put her pure bright lips, half smiling, half prone to reply to tears, against my forehead lined with trouble, doubt, and eager longing. And then she drew my ring from off that snowy twig her finger, and held it out to me; and then, seeing how my face was falling, thrice she touched it with her lips, and sweetly gave it back to me. “John, I dare not take it now; else I should be cheating you. I will try to love you dearly, even as you deserve and wish. Keep it for me just till then. Something tells me I shall earn it in a very little time. Perhaps you will be sorry then, sorry when it is all too late, to be loved by such as I am.”
With big tears in her eyes—tears that seemed to come partly from her desire to love me as deeply as I love her—she pressed her bright, pure lips, half-smiling and half-ready to cry, against my troubled forehead, which was filled with doubt and longing. Then she took my ring off that snowy finger and held it out to me; and when she saw my expression fall, she kissed it three times and sweetly gave it back to me. “John, I can’t accept it right now; otherwise, I would be deceiving you. I’ll try to love you sincerely, just as you deserve and hope for. Hold onto it for me until then. I have a feeling I’ll earn it very soon. Maybe by then, you’ll regret it, regret being loved by someone like me, when it’s too late.”
What could I do at her mournful tone, but kiss a thousand times the hand which she put up to warn me, and vow that I would rather die with one assurance of her love, than without it live for ever with all beside that the world could give? Upon this she looked so lovely, with her dark eyelashes trembling, and her soft eyes full of light, and the colour of clear sunrise mounting on her cheeks and brow, that I was forced to turn away, being overcome with beauty.
What could I do at her sad tone, but kiss her hand a thousand times when she raised it to warn me, and promise that I would rather die knowing her love than live forever without it, no matter what else the world could offer? At that moment, she looked so beautiful, with her dark eyelashes fluttering, her soft eyes shining, and the glow of a clear sunrise blooming on her cheeks and forehead, that I had to look away, overwhelmed by her beauty.
“Dearest darling, love of my life,” I whispered through her clouds of hair; “how long must I wait to know, how long must I linger doubting whether you can ever stoop from your birth and wondrous beauty to a poor, coarse hind like me, an ignorant unlettered yeoman—”
“Dearest love, the light of my life,” I whispered through her thick hair; “how long must I wait to find out, how long must I linger in doubt about whether you could ever come down from your noble and amazing beauty to someone like me, a simple, uneducated farmer—”
“I will not have you revile yourself,” said Lorna, very tenderly—just as I had meant to make her. “You are not rude and unlettered, John. You know a great deal more than I do; you have learned both Greek and Latin, as you told me long ago, and you have been at the very best school in the West of England. None of us but my grandfather, and the Counsellor (who is a great scholar), can compare with you in this. And though I have laughed at your manner of speech, I only laughed in fun, John; I never meant to vex you by it, nor knew that it had done so.”
“I won’t let you talk down to yourself,” Lorna said gently—just as I had intended to do. “You’re not rude or uneducated, John. You know way more than I do; you've studied both Greek and Latin, like you told me a long time ago, and you went to the best school in the West of England. Nobody except my grandfather and the Counsellor (who is a serious scholar) can match you in that. And even though I’ve teased you about how you speak, I only did it for fun, John; I never meant to upset you, nor did I realize it had.”
“Naught you say can vex me, dear,” I answered, as she leaned towards me in her generous sorrow; “unless you say 'Begone, John Ridd; I love another more than you.'”
“Nothing you say can upset me, dear,” I replied, as she leaned towards me in her deep sadness; “unless you say, 'Go away, John Ridd; I love someone else more than you.'”
“Then I shall never vex you, John. Never, I mean, by saying that. Now, John, if you please, be quiet—”
“Then I won’t bother you, John. I mean, I won’t say that. Now, John, if you don’t mind, be quiet—”
For I was carried away so much by hearing her calling me “John” so often, and the music of her voice, and the way she bent toward me, and the shadow of soft weeping in the sunlight of her eyes, that some of my great hand was creeping in a manner not to be imagined, and far less explained, toward the lithesome, wholesome curving underneath her mantle-fold, and out of sight and harm, as I thought; not being her front waist. However, I was dashed with that, and pretended not to mean it; only to pluck some lady-fern, whose elegance did me no good.
I was completely swept away by her calling me “John” so often, the sound of her voice, the way she leaned toward me, and the hint of soft tears in her eyes shining in the sunlight. It made my hand move in a way I couldn't even begin to explain, creeping toward the smooth, graceful curve beneath her cloak, out of sight and, I thought, out of danger—not her front waist. Still, I was taken aback by that and pretended it didn’t matter; instead, I picked a lady-fern, which didn't do anything for me at all.
“Now, John,” said Lorna, being so quick that not even a lover could cheat her, and observing my confusion more intently than she need have done. “Master John Ridd, it is high time for you to go home to your mother. I love your mother very much from what you have told me about her, and I will not have her cheated.”
“Now, John,” Lorna said, so quick that not even a lover could deceive her, and noticing my confusion more closely than she needed to. “Master John Ridd, it’s time for you to go home to your mother. I care for your mother a lot based on what you’ve told me about her, and I won’t let her be taken advantage of.”
“If you truly love my mother,” said I, very craftily “the only way to show it is by truly loving me.”
“If you really love my mom,” I said, very cleverly, “the only way to show it is by truly loving me.”
Upon that she laughed at me in the sweetest manner, and with such provoking ways, and such come-and-go of glances, and beginning of quick blushes, which she tried to laugh away, that I knew, as well as if she herself had told me, by some knowledge (void of reasoning, and the surer for it), I knew quite well, while all my heart was burning hot within me, and mine eyes were shy of hers, and her eyes were shy of mine; for certain and for ever this I knew—as in a glory—that Lorna Doone had now begun and would go on to love me.
She laughed at me in the sweetest way, with such playful gestures, quick glances, and the start of blushes that she tried to laugh off. I understood, just as if she had told me directly—this instinctive knowledge, more certain for not being reasoned out—that I knew clearly, while my heart was racing, and my eyes avoided hers, just as hers avoided mine; without a doubt, I knew in a glorious way that Lorna Doone had just begun to love me and would continue to do so.
CHAPTER XXIX
REAPING LEADS TO REVELLING
Although I was under interdict for two months from my darling—“one for your sake, one for mine,” she had whispered, with her head withdrawn, yet not so very far from me—lighter heart was not on Exmoor than I bore for half the time, and even for three quarters. For she was safe; I knew that daily by a mode of signals well-contrived between us now, on the strength of our experience. “I have nothing now to fear, John,” she had said to me, as we parted; “it is true that I am spied and watched, but Gwenny is too keen for them. While I have my grandfather to prevent all violence; and little Gwenny to keep watch on those who try to watch me; and you, above all others, John, ready at a moment, if the worst comes to the worst—this neglected Lorna Doone was never in such case before. Therefore do not squeeze my hand, John; I am safe without it, and you do not know your strength.”
Although I was kept away from my darling for two months—“one for your sake, one for mine,” she whispered, her head turned slightly away but not too far from me—no one on Exmoor had a lighter heart than I did for half the time, even for three-quarters. I knew she was safe; I received that assurance daily through a system of signals we had cleverly devised based on our experience. “I have nothing to fear now, John,” she told me as we parted; “it’s true that I'm being spied on and watched, but Gwenny is too sharp for them. While I have my grandfather to protect me from any violence; and little Gwenny to keep an eye on those who try to watch me; and you, above all, John, ready at a moment’s notice, if things go horribly wrong—this neglected Lorna Doone has never been in such a position before. So please don’t squeeze my hand, John; I’m safe without it, and you don’t realize your own strength.”
Ah, I knew my strength right well. Hill and valley scarcely seemed to be step and landing for me; fiercest cattle I would play with, making them go backward, and afraid of hurting them, like John Fry with his terrier; even rooted trees seemed to me but as sticks I could smite down, except for my love of everything. The love of all things was upon me, and a softness to them all, and a sense of having something even such as they had.
Ah, I knew my strength very well. Hills and valleys barely felt like obstacles to me; I could play with the fiercest cattle, making them back away, and I was careful not to hurt them, like John Fry with his terrier; even the biggest trees seemed like sticks I could knock down, except for my love for everything. I was filled with love for all things, a tenderness towards them, and I felt a connection to them, something similar to what they had.
Then the golden harvest came, waving on the broad hill-side, and nestling in the quiet nooks scooped from out the fringe of wood. A wealth of harvest such as never gladdened all our country-side since my father ceased to reap, and his sickle hung to rust. There had not been a man on Exmoor fit to work that reaping-hook since the time its owner fell, in the prime of life and strength, before a sterner reaper. But now I took it from the wall, where mother proudly stored it, while she watched me, hardly knowing whether she should smile or cry.
Then the golden harvest arrived, swaying on the wide hillside and nestled in the quiet spots carved out from the edge of the woods. It was a bounty of harvest like nothing that had brightened our countryside since my father stopped harvesting, and his sickle was left to rust. No one on Exmoor had been able to use that reaping hook since its owner fell, in the prime of his life and strength, before a harsher reaper. But now I took it down from the wall, where my mother proudly kept it, while she watched me, unsure whether to smile or cry.
All the parish was assembled in our upper courtyard; for we were to open the harvest that year, as had been settled with Farmer Nicholas, and with Jasper Kebby, who held the third or little farm. We started in proper order, therefore, as our practice is: first, the parson Josiah Bowden, wearing his gown and cassock, with the parish Bible in his hand, and a sickle strapped behind him. As he strode along well and stoutly, being a man of substance, all our family came next, I leading mother with one hand, in the other bearing my father's hook, and with a loaf of our own bread and a keg of cider upon my back. Behind us Annie and Lizzie walked, wearing wreaths of corn-flowers, set out very prettily, such as mother would have worn if she had been a farmer's wife, instead of a farmer's widow. Being as she was, she had no adornment, except that her widow's hood was off, and her hair allowed to flow, as if she had been a maiden; and very rich bright hair it was, in spite of all her troubles.
All the villagers gathered in our upper courtyard because we were starting the harvest that year, as agreed with Farmer Nicholas and Jasper Kebby, who ran the smaller farm. So we began in the usual way: first came Parson Josiah Bowden, wearing his robe and cassock, holding the parish Bible and with a sickle strapped behind him. He walked confidently and robustly, being a well-off man, while our family followed closely behind. I was leading my mother with one hand, holding my father's sickle in the other, and I had a loaf of our own bread and a keg of cider on my back. Behind us, Annie and Lizzie walked, adorned with pretty cornflower wreaths, just like what mother would have worn if she were a farmer's wife instead of a widow. As it was, she had no decorations except that her widow's hood was off and her hair was flowing free, as if she were a young woman; and despite all her troubles, she had very rich, bright hair.
After us, the maidens came, milkmaids and the rest of them, with Betty Muxworthy at their head, scolding even now, because they would not walk fitly. But they only laughed at her; and she knew it was no good to scold, with all the men behind them.
After us, the girls came, milkmaids and the others, with Betty Muxworthy leading them, still scolding because they weren’t walking properly. But they just laughed at her; and she realized it was pointless to fuss, with all the guys behind them.
Then the Snowes came trooping forward; Farmer Nicholas in the middle, walking as if he would rather walk to a wheatfield of his own, yet content to follow lead, because he knew himself the leader; and signing every now and then to the people here and there, as if I were nobody. But to see his three great daughters, strong and handsome wenches, making upon either side, as if somebody would run off with them—this was the very thing that taught me how to value Lorna, and her pure simplicity.
Then the Snowes came marching forward; Farmer Nicholas in the center, moving as if he'd rather be headed to his own wheatfield, yet willing to follow along because he knew he was the one in charge; occasionally signaling to people here and there, as if I didn't matter. But seeing his three tall and attractive daughters flanking him, as if someone might try to steal them away—this was exactly what made me appreciate Lorna and her genuine simplicity.
After the Snowes came Jasper Kebby, with his wife, new-married; and a very honest pair they were, upon only a hundred acres, and a right of common. After these the men came hotly, without decent order, trying to spy the girls in front, and make good jokes about them, at which their wives laughed heartily, being jealous when alone perhaps. And after these men and their wives came all the children toddling, picking flowers by the way, and chattering and asking questions, as the children will. There must have been threescore of us, take one with another, and the lane was full of people. When we were come to the big field-gate, where the first sickle was to be, Parson Bowden heaved up the rail with the sleeves of his gown done green with it; and he said that everybody might hear him, though his breath was short, “In the name of the Lord, Amen!”
After the Snowes, Jasper Kebby showed up with his newlywed wife, and they were a really honest couple, living on just a hundred acres and a right of common. Then the men came rushing in, all out of order, trying to sneak a peek at the girls up front and cracking jokes about them, which their wives laughed at, maybe feeling a bit jealous when they were alone. Following them were all the kids, toddling along, picking flowers, chatting, and asking questions, as kids do. There must have been around sixty of us, all told, and the lane was crowded with people. When we reached the big field gate, where the first sickle was to be used, Parson Bowden lifted the rail with the sleeves of his gown getting snagged, and he said loud enough for everyone to hear, even though he was out of breath, “In the name of the Lord, Amen!”
“Amen! So be it!” cried the clerk, who was far behind, being only a shoemaker.
“Amen! Let it be!” shouted the clerk, who was far behind, just a shoemaker.
Then Parson Bowden read some verses from the parish Bible, telling us to lift up our eyes, and look upon the fields already white to harvest; and then he laid the Bible down on the square head of the gate-post, and despite his gown and cassock, three good swipes he cut off corn, and laid them right end onwards. All this time the rest were huddling outside the gate, and along the lane, not daring to interfere with parson, but whispering how well he did it.
Then Parson Bowden read some verses from the parish Bible, encouraging us to lift our eyes and look at the fields that were already ripe for harvest. After that, he set the Bible on the flat top of the gate post and, despite wearing his gown and cassock, he made three solid cuts in the corn stalks and laid them down nicely. Meanwhile, the others were clustered outside the gate and along the lane, too hesitant to interrupt the parson but quietly admiring how well he was doing it.
When he had stowed the corn like that, mother entered, leaning on me, and we both said, “Thank the Lord for all His mercies, and these the first-fruits of His hand!” And then the clerk gave out a psalm verse by verse, done very well; although he sneezed in the midst of it, from a beard of wheat thrust up his nose by the rival cobbler at Brendon. And when the psalm was sung, so strongly that the foxgloves on the bank were shaking, like a chime of bells, at it, Parson took a stoop of cider, and we all fell to at reaping.
Once he had stored the corn like that, my mother came in, leaning on me, and we both said, "Thank the Lord for all His blessings, and these the first fruits of His work!" Then the clerk led us in a psalm, verse by verse, which he did really well, even though he sneezed in the middle because of a beard of wheat that the rival cobbler from Brendon had shoved up his nose. After we sang the psalm so loudly that the foxgloves on the bank were shaking like a chime of bells, the Parson took a drink of cider, and we all got started on the reaping.
Of course I mean the men, not women; although I know that up the country, women are allowed to reap; and right well they reap it, keeping row for row with men, comely, and in due order, yet, meseems, the men must ill attend to their own reaping-hooks, in fear lest the other cut themselves, being the weaker vessel. But in our part, women do what seems their proper business, following well behind the men, out of harm of the swinging hook, and stooping with their breasts and arms up they catch the swathes of corn, where the reapers cast them, and tucking them together tightly with a wisp laid under them, this they fetch around and twist, with a knee to keep it close; and lo, there is a goodly sheaf, ready to set up in stooks! After these the children come, gathering each for his little self, if the farmer be right-minded; until each hath a bundle made as big as himself and longer, and tumbles now and again with it, in the deeper part of the stubble.
Of course, I’m talking about the men, not the women; although I know that in the countryside, women are allowed to reap, and they do it quite well, keeping pace with the men, looking good and organized. However, it seems to me that the men must pay too much attention to their own tools, worried that the women might hurt themselves, being the weaker ones. But here, women stick to their own work, staying safely behind the men, out of the way of the swinging hooks, bending over with their arms and chests up to catch the bundles of corn that the reapers throw down. They gather them tightly with a wisp laid underneath and twist them, using a knee to hold it all together; and voilà, there's a nice sheaf, ready to stand in stacks! After the women, the children come along, each gathering a little for themselves, if the farmer is fair-minded; until each has a bundle as big as they are, and sometimes they trip over it in the thicker parts of the stubble.
We, the men, kept marching onwards down the flank of the yellow wall, with knees bent wide, and left arm bowed and right arm flashing steel. Each man in his several place, keeping down the rig or chine, on the right side of the reaper in front, and the left of the man that followed him, each making farther sweep and inroad into the golden breadth and depth, each casting leftwards his rich clearance on his foregoer's double track.
We, the men, kept marching on along the side of the yellow wall, with our knees bent wide, left arms bent, and right arms wielding steel. Each man in his spot, keeping to the right of the reaper ahead and to the left of the man behind him, each making wider sweeps and deeper cuts into the golden expanse, each creating a rich clearing on the double path of the man in front.
So like half a wedge of wildfowl, to and fro we swept the field; and when to either hedge we came, sickles wanted whetting, and throats required moistening, and backs were in need of easing, and every man had much to say, and women wanted praising. Then all returned to the other end, with reaping-hooks beneath our arms, and dogs left to mind jackets.
So like half a wedge of wildfowl, back and forth we moved across the field; and when we reached either hedge, we needed to sharpen our sickles, hydrate our throats, relax our backs, and everyone had a lot to say, while the women wanted to be praised. Then we all went back to the other end, with our reaping hooks under our arms, leaving the dogs to watch our jackets.
But now, will you believe me well, or will you only laugh at me? For even in the world of wheat, when deep among the varnished crispness of the jointed stalks, and below the feathered yielding of the graceful heads, even as I gripped the swathes and swept the sickle round them, even as I flung them by to rest on brother stubble, through the whirling yellow world, and eagerness of reaping, came the vision of my love, as with downcast eyes she wondered at my power of passion. And then the sweet remembrance glowed brighter than the sun through wheat, through my very depth of heart, of how she raised those beaming eyes, and ripened in my breast rich hope. Even now I could descry, like high waves in the distance, the rounded heads and folded shadows of the wood of Bagworthy. Perhaps she was walking in the valley, and softly gazing up at them. Oh, to be a bird just there! I could see a bright mist hanging just above the Doone Glen. Perhaps it was shedding its drizzle upon her. Oh, to be a drop of rain! The very breeze which bowed the harvest to my bosom gently, might have come direct from Lorna, with her sweet voice laden. Ah, the flaws of air that wander where they will around her, fan her bright cheek, play with lashes, even revel in her hair and reveal her beauties—man is but a breath, we know, would I were such breath as that!
But now, will you believe me, or will you just laugh at me? Even in the world of wheat, when I was deep among the shiny, crisp stalks and under the graceful heads that swayed gently, while I gripped the bundles and swept the sickle around them, and tossed them aside to rest on the brother stubble, through the swirling yellow fields and excitement of harvesting, I saw my love, with her downcast eyes, marveling at my passion. And then the sweet memory shone brighter than the sun shining through the wheat, deep in my heart, of how she lifted those radiant eyes, filling me with rich hope. Even now, I could make out the rounded heads and shaded outlines of the Bagworthy woods like high waves in the distance. Maybe she was walking in the valley, softly gazing up at them. Oh, to be a bird right there! I could see a bright mist hanging just above the Doone Glen. Maybe it was drizzling down on her. Oh, to be a drop of rain! The very breeze that gently bent the harvest towards me could have come straight from Lorna, carrying her sweet voice. Ah, the airy whispers that roam wherever they please around her, brushing her bright cheek, playing with her lashes, even dancing in her hair and revealing her beauty—man is just a breath, we know; I wish I could be such a breath!
But confound it, while I ponder, with delicious dreams suspended, with my right arm hanging frustrate and the giant sickle drooped, with my left arm bowed for clasping something more germane than wheat, and my eyes not minding business, but intent on distant woods—confound it, what are the men about, and why am I left vapouring? They have taken advantage of me, the rogues! They are gone to the hedge for the cider-jars; they have had up the sledd of bread and meat, quite softly over the stubble, and if I can believe my eyes (so dazed with Lorna's image), they are sitting down to an excellent dinner, before the church clock has gone eleven!
But I can't believe it! While I'm daydreaming, with my right arm hanging useless and the giant sickle drooping, my left arm itching to hold something more meaningful than wheat, and my eyes off in the distance, focused on the woods—seriously, what are those guys doing, and why am I left here just wasting time? They've totally taken advantage of me, those rascals! They've gone to the hedge for the cider jars; they've gotten the sled loaded with bread and meat, quietly moving over the stubble, and if I can trust my eyes (which are still fuzzy from thinking about Lorna), they’re sitting down to a great meal before the church clock even strikes eleven!
“John Fry, you big villain!” I cried, with John hanging up in the air by the scruff of his neck-cloth, but holding still by his knife and fork, and a goose-leg in between his lips, “John Fry, what mean you by this, sir?”
“John Fry, you big villain!” I shouted, with John dangling in the air by the back of his neckcloth, but still holding onto his knife and fork, with a piece of goose leg between his lips. “John Fry, what do you mean by this, sir?”
“Latt me dowun, or I can't tell 'e,” John answered with some difficulty. So I let him come down, and I must confess that he had reason on his side. “Plaise your worship”—John called me so, ever since I returned from London, firmly believing that the King had made me a magistrate at least; though I was to keep it secret—“us zeed as how your worship were took with thinkin' of King's business, in the middle of the whate-rigg: and so uz zed, 'Latt un coom to his zell, us had better zave taime, by takking our dinner'; and here us be, praise your worship, and hopps no offence with thick iron spoon full of vried taties.”
“Let me down, or I can't tell you,” John said with some difficulty. So I let him come down, and I have to admit he had a point. “Please your honor”—John called me this ever since I got back from London, firmly believing that the King had made me a magistrate at least; though I had to keep it a secret—“we saw that your honor was deep in thought about the King's business, in the middle of the wheat field: and so we said, 'Let him come to his cell, we should save time by having our dinner'; and here we are, your honor, and hope there's no offense with this thick iron spoon full of fried potatoes.”
I was glad enough to accept the ladle full of fried batatas, and to make the best of things, which is generally done by letting men have their own way. Therefore I managed to dine with them, although it was so early.
I was more than happy to take the ladle full of fried sweet potatoes and make the best of the situation, which usually means letting guys do their thing. So I ended up having dinner with them, even though it was pretty early.
For according to all that I can find, in a long life and a varied one, twelve o'clock is the real time for a man to have his dinner. Then the sun is at his noon, calling halt to look around, and then the plants and leaves are turning, each with a little leisure time, before the work of the afternoon. Then is the balance of east and west, and then the right and left side of a man are in due proportion, and contribute fairly with harmonious fluids. And the health of this mode of life, and its reclaiming virtue are well set forth in our ancient rhyme,—
According to everything I can find, based on my long and varied life, twelve o'clock is the ideal time for a person to have lunch. At that time, the sun is at its highest point, taking a moment to pause and look around, while the plants and leaves are shifting and enjoying a little breather before the afternoon's work begins. It's the balance of east and west, and at this hour, a person's left and right sides are in perfect harmony, contributing equally with balanced energy. The health benefits of this lifestyle and its restorative qualities are well expressed in our old rhyme,—
“Sunrise, breakfast; sun high, dinner;
Sundown, sup; makes a saint of a sinner.”
“Morning comes, we have breakfast; midday, we eat lunch;
Evening falls, we have dinner;
Nighttime, we have a meal; transforms a sinner into a saint.”
Whish, the wheat falls! Whirl again; ye have had good dinners; give your master and mistress plenty to supply another year. And in truth we did reap well and fairly, through the whole of that afternoon, I not only keeping lead, but keeping the men up to it. We got through a matter of ten acres, ere the sun between the shocks broke his light on wheaten plumes, then hung his red cloak on the clouds, and fell into grey slumber.
Whish, the wheat is falling! Spin around again; you've had great meals; make sure to provide your master and mistress enough for another year. And honestly, we harvested well and efficiently throughout that afternoon. I not only took the lead but also kept the men motivated. We managed to get through about ten acres before the sun, between the bundles, cast its light on the golden wheat, then draped its red cloak over the clouds and fell into a grey sleep.
Seeing this we wiped our sickles, and our breasts and foreheads, and soon were on the homeward road, looking forward to good supper.
Seeing this, we wiped our sickles, our faces, and our foreheads, and soon were on the way home, looking forward to a nice dinner.
Of course all the reapers came at night to the harvest-supper, and Parson Bowden to say the grace as well as to help to carve for us. And some help was needed there, I can well assure you; for the reapers had brave appetites, and most of their wives having babies were forced to eat as a duty. Neither failed they of this duty; cut and come again was the order of the evening, as it had been of the day; and I had no time to ask questions, but help meat and ladle gravy. All the while our darling Annie, with her sleeves tucked up, and her comely figure panting, was running about with a bucket of taties mashed with lard and cabbage. Even Lizzie had left her books, and was serving out beer and cider; while mother helped plum-pudding largely on pewter-plates with the mutton. And all the time, Betty Muxworthy was grunting in and out everywhere, not having space to scold even, but changing the dishes, serving the meat, poking the fire, and cooking more. But John Fry would not stir a peg, except with his knife and fork, having all the airs of a visitor, and his wife to keep him eating, till I thought there would be no end of it.
Of course, all the reapers came at night for the harvest supper, and Parson Bowden said the grace and helped carve for us. And we definitely needed some help there; the reapers had big appetites, and most of their wives, who had babies, had to eat out of necessity. They didn’t shirk this duty; the order of the evening, just like during the day, was to cut and come again. I didn’t have time to ask questions, just to serve meat and ladle gravy. All the while, our darling Annie, with her sleeves rolled up and her nice figure working hard, was running around with a bucket of mashed potatoes mixed with lard and cabbage. Even Lizzie had put her books aside to serve beer and cider, while Mom helped serve plum pudding generously on pewter plates alongside the mutton. And all the while, Betty Muxworthy was bustling in and out, barely having room to scold anyone, but changing dishes, serving the meat, poking the fire, and cooking more. But John Fry wouldn’t lift a finger, except with his knife and fork, acting all posh like a visitor, with his wife keeping him fed, until I thought it would never end.
Then having eaten all they could, they prepared themselves, with one accord, for the business now of drinking. But first they lifted the neck of corn, dressed with ribbons gaily, and set it upon the mantelpiece, each man with his horn a-froth; and then they sang a song about it, every one shouting in the chorus louder than harvest thunderstorm. Some were in the middle of one verse, and some at the end of the next one; yet somehow all managed to get together in the mighty roar of the burden. And if any farmer up the country would like to know Exmoor harvest-song as sung in my time and will be sung long after I am garnered home, lo, here I set it down for him, omitting only the dialect, which perchance might puzzle him.
After eating their fill, they got ready, all in agreement, for the next part: drinking. But first, they lifted the decorated corn, adorned with bright ribbons, and placed it on the mantelpiece, each man with his frothy horn. Then they sang a song about it, everyone shouting the chorus louder than a thunderstorm during harvest. Some were in the middle of one verse, and others at the end of the next, yet somehow, they all joined in the powerful roar of the refrain. And if any farmer from the countryside wants to know the Exmoor harvest song as it was sung in my day, and will be sung long after I'm gone, here it is, written down for him, leaving out the dialect that might confuse him.
Exmoor Harvest-song
1
The corn, oh the corn, 'tis the ripening of the corn!
Go unto the door, my lad, and look beneath the moon,
Thou canst see, beyond the woodrick, how it is yelloon:
'Tis the harvesting of wheat, and the barley must be shorn.
(Chorus)
The corn, oh the corn, and the yellow, mellow corn!
Here's to the corn, with the cups upon the board!
We've been reaping all the day, and we'll reap again the morn
And fetch it home to mow-yard, and then we'll thank the Lord.
Exmoor Harvest-song
1
The corn, oh the corn, it’s the time for the corn to ripen!
Go to the door, my friend, and look under the moon,
You can see, beyond the trees, how it’s turning yellow:
It’s the time for harvesting wheat, and the barley needs to be cut.
(Chorus)
The corn, oh the corn, and the yellow, sweet corn!
Here’s to the corn, with the drinks on the table!
We’ve been harvesting all day, and we’ll harvest again in the morning
And bring it back to the barn, and then we’ll thank the Lord.
2
The wheat, oh the wheat, 'tis the ripening of the wheat!
All the day it has been hanging down its heavy head,
Bowing over on our bosoms with a beard of red:
'Tis the harvest, and the value makes the labour sweet.
(Chorus)
The wheat, oh the wheat, and the golden, golden wheat!
Here's to the wheat, with the loaves upon the board!
We've been reaping all the day, and we never will be beat
And fetch it all to mow-yard, and then we'll thank the Lord.
2
The wheat, oh the wheat, it’s the time for ripe wheat!
All day it’s been hanging its heavy head,
Bowing down on our chests with a red beard:
It’s harvest time, and the worth makes the work worthwhile.
(Chorus)
The wheat, oh the wheat, and the golden, golden wheat!
Here’s to the wheat, with the loaves on the table!
We’ve been harvesting all day, and we’ll never be defeated
And bring it all to the mow-yard, and then we’ll thank the Lord.
3
The barley, oh the barley, and the barley is in prime!
All the day it has been rustling, with its bristles brown,
Waiting with its beard abowing, till it can be mown!
'Tis the harvest and the barley must abide its time.
(Chorus)
The barley, oh the barley, and the barley ruddy brown!
Here's to the barley, with the beer upon the board!
We'll go amowing, soon as ever all the wheat is down;
When all is in the mow-yard, we'll stop, and thank the Lord.
3
The barley, oh the barley, and the barley is looking great!
All day long it has been swaying, with its brown stalks,
Waiting with its head bowed, until it can be cut down!
It’s harvest time and the barley must wait for its moment.
(Chorus)
The barley, oh the barley, and the barley's a rich brown!
Here’s to the barley, with the beer on the table!
We’ll start cutting as soon as all the wheat is down;
When everything's in the barn, we’ll stop and give thanks.
4
The oats, oh the oats, 'tis the ripening of the oats!
All the day they have been dancing with their flakes of white,
Waiting for the girding-hook, to be the nags' delight:
'Tis the harvest, let them dangle in their skirted coats.
(Chorus)
The oats, oh the oats, and the silver, silver oats!
Here's to the oats with the blackstone on the board!
We'll go among them, when the barley has been laid in rotes:
When all is home to mow-yard, we'll kneel and thank the Lord.
4
The oats, oh the oats, it’s the time for the oats to ripen!
All day they’ve been swaying with their white flakes,
Waiting for the cutting tool, to please the horses:
It’s harvest time, let them hang in their flowing coats.
(Chorus)
The oats, oh the oats, and the shiny, shiny oats!
Here’s to the oats with the black stone on the table!
We’ll go among them when the barley has been stacked:
When everything’s gathered in for the barn, we’ll kneel and thank the Lord.
5
The corn, oh the corn, and the blessing of the corn!
Come unto the door, my lads, and look beneath the moon,
We can see, on hill and valley, how it is yelloon,
With a breadth of glory, as when our Lord was born.
(Chorus)
The corn, oh the corn, and the yellow, mellow corn!
Thanks for the corn, with our bread upon the board!
So shall we acknowledge it, before we reap the morn,
With our hands to heaven, and our knees unto the Lord.
5
The corn, oh the corn, and the blessing of the corn!
Come to the door, my friends, and look beneath the moon,
We can see, on hill and valley, how it is yellow,
With a breadth of glory, like when our Lord was born.
(Chorus)
The corn, oh the corn, and the yellow, mellow corn!
Thanks for the corn, with our bread on the table!
So we will acknowledge it, before we reap in the morning,
With our hands raised to heaven, and our knees to the Lord.Now we sang this song very well the first time, having the parish choir to lead us, and the clarionet, and the parson to give us the time with his cup; and we sang it again the second time, not so but what you might praise it (if you had been with us all the evening), although the parson was gone then, and the clerk not fit to compare with him in the matter of keeping time. But when that song was in its third singing, I defy any man (however sober) to have made out one verse from the other, or even the burden from the verses, inasmuch as every man present, ay, and woman too, sang as became convenient to them, in utterance both of words and tune.
We sang this song really well the first time, with the parish choir leading us, the clarinet playing, and the parson keeping time with his cup. We sang it again the second time, and while it wasn't perfect, it was still good enough to earn some praise (if you had been with us all evening), even though the parson was gone by then, and the clerk couldn't compare to him in keeping time. But by the time we got to the third round of that song, I challenge anyone (no matter how sober) to distinguish one verse from another, or even the chorus from the verses, because everyone there, men and women alike, sang however they liked, both in words and tune.
And in truth, there was much excuse for them; because it was a noble harvest, fit to thank the Lord for, without His thinking us hypocrites. For we had more land in wheat, that year, than ever we had before, and twice the crop to the acre; and I could not help now and then remembering, in the midst of the merriment, how my father in the churchyard yonder would have gloried to behold it. And my mother, who had left us now, happening to return just then, being called to have her health drunk (for the twentieth time at least), I knew by the sadness in her eyes that she was thinking just as I was. Presently, therefore, I slipped away from the noise, and mirth, and smoking (although of that last there was not much, except from Farmer Nicholas), and crossing the courtyard in the moonlight, I went, just to cool myself, as far as my father's tombstone.
And honestly, they had every reason to celebrate; it was a great harvest, worthy of thanking the Lord without us looking like hypocrites. That year, we had more land in wheat than ever before, and our yield was double per acre. I couldn’t help but remember, amidst all the celebration, how my father in the graveyard nearby would have taken pride in seeing it. My mother, who had passed away, just happened to come back at that moment, being called to have a toast in her honor (for at least the twentieth time), and I could see in her eyes that she was thinking the same thing I was. So, I quietly slipped away from the noise, laughter, and the little smoking (though there wasn't much of that, except from Farmer Nicholas), and crossing the courtyard in the moonlight, I went just to cool off by my father’s tombstone.
CHAPTER XXX
ANNIE GETS THE BEST OF IT
I had long outgrown unwholesome feeling as to my father's death, and so had Annie; though Lizzie (who must have loved him least) still entertained some evil will, and longing for a punishment. Therefore I was surprised (and indeed, startled would not be too much to say, the moon being somewhat fleecy), to see our Annie sitting there as motionless as the tombstone, and with all her best fallals upon her, after stowing away the dishes.
I had long moved past any negative feelings about my father's death, and so had Annie; although Lizzie (who must have loved him the least) still held onto some grudges and wished for punishment. So I was surprised (and honestly, startled might be too mild a word, with the moon being a bit cloudy) to see Annie sitting there as still as a gravestone, all dressed up in her best clothes after putting away the dishes.
My nerves, however, are good and strong, except at least in love matters, wherein they always fail me, and when I meet with witches; and therefore I went up to Annie, although she looked so white and pure; for I had seen her before with those things on, and it struck me who she was.
My nerves, however, are pretty good and strong, except when it comes to love, where they always let me down, and when I encounter witches; so I approached Annie, even though she looked so innocent and pure; because I had seen her before with those things on, and it hit me who she was.
“What are you doing here, Annie?” I inquired rather sternly, being vexed with her for having gone so very near to frighten me.
“What are you doing here, Annie?” I asked, a bit harshly, frustrated with her for coming so close to scaring me.
“Nothing at all,” said our Annie shortly. And indeed it was truth enough for a woman. Not that I dare to believe that women are such liars as men say; only that I mean they often see things round the corner, and know not which is which of it. And indeed I never have known a woman (though right enough in their meaning) purely and perfectly true and transparent, except only my Lorna; and even so, I might not have loved her, if she had been ugly.
“Nothing at all,” said our Annie briefly. And that was true enough for a woman. Not that I believe women are as big of liars as men claim; I just mean they often perceive things differently and aren’t always clear about what’s what. Honestly, I’ve never met a woman (though they might be right in what they mean) who is purely and perfectly honest and open, except for my Lorna; and even then, I might not have loved her if she had been unattractive.
“Why, how so?” said I; “Miss Annie, what business have you here, doing nothing at this time of night? And leaving me with all the trouble to entertain our guests!”
“Why, how come?” I said; “Miss Annie, what are you doing here, just hanging out at this time of night? And leaving me with all the work to entertain our guests!”
“You seem not to me to be doing it, John,” Annie answered softly; “what business have you here doing nothing, at this time of night?”
“You don’t seem to be doing anything, John,” Annie replied softly. “What are you doing here, just hanging around, at this time of night?”
I was taken so aback with this, and the extreme impertinence of it, from a mere young girl like Annie, that I turned round to march away and have nothing more to say to her. But she jumped up, and caught me by the hand, and threw herself upon my bosom, with her face all wet with tears.
I was so shocked by this, and the sheer audacity of it, coming from a young girl like Annie, that I turned to walk away and didn’t want to say another word to her. But she jumped up, grabbed my hand, and threw herself against me, her face all wet with tears.
“Oh, John, I will tell you. I will tell you. Only don't be angry, John.”
“Oh, John, I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you. Just don’t be mad, John.”
“Angry! no indeed,” said I; “what right have I to be angry with you, because you have your secrets? Every chit of a girl thinks now that she has a right to her secrets.”
“Angry? Not at all,” I said; “what right do I have to be mad at you for having your secrets? Every young girl these days thinks she has the right to her own secrets.”
“And you have none of your own, John; of course you have none of your own? All your going out at night—”
“And you don't have any of your own, John; obviously, you don't have any of your own? All your nights out—”
“We will not quarrel here, poor Annie,” I answered, with some loftiness; “there are many things upon my mind, which girls can have no notion of.”
“We won’t argue here, poor Annie,” I replied, somewhat haughtily; “there are many things on my mind that girls can’t possibly understand.”
“And so there are upon mine, John. Oh, John, I will tell you everything, if you will look at me kindly, and promise to forgive me. Oh, I am so miserable!”
“And so there are for me, John. Oh, John, I will tell you everything if you’ll look at me kindly and promise to forgive me. Oh, I am so miserable!”
Now this, though she was behaving so badly, moved me much towards her; especially as I longed to know what she had to tell me. Therefore I allowed her to coax me, and to kiss me, and to lead me away a little, as far as the old yew-tree; for she would not tell me where she was.
Now, even though she was acting out, I felt really drawn to her, especially since I was eager to hear what she had to say. So, I let her sweet-talk me, kiss me, and pull me away a bit, just to the old yew tree, because she wouldn’t tell me where she was.
But even in the shadow there, she was very long before beginning, and seemed to have two minds about it, or rather perhaps a dozen; and she laid her cheek against the tree, and sobbed till it was pitiful; and I knew what mother would say to her for spoiling her best frock so.
But even in the shadow there, she took a long time before starting, and it seemed like she had a lot of conflicting feelings about it, or maybe even more than that; she pressed her cheek against the tree and cried until it was heartbreaking; and I knew what Mom would say to her for ruining her favorite dress like that.
“Now will you stop?” I said at last, harder than I meant it, for I knew that she would go on all night, if any one encouraged her: and though not well acquainted with women, I understood my sisters; or else I must be a born fool—except, of course, that I never professed to understand Eliza.
“Can you just stop already?” I finally said, more forcefully than I intended, because I knew she would keep going all night if anyone encouraged her. And even though I'm not very familiar with women, I understood my sisters; otherwise, I must be a complete fool—unless, of course, I admit that I never claimed to understand Eliza.
“Yes, I will stop,” said Annie, panting; “you are very hard on me, John; but I know you mean it for the best. If somebody else—I am sure I don't know who, and have no right to know, no doubt, but she must be a wicked thing—if somebody else had been taken so with a pain all round the heart, John, and no power of telling it, perhaps you would have coaxed, and kissed her, and come a little nearer, and made opportunity to be very loving.”
“Yes, I’ll stop,” Annie said, out of breath. “You’re really tough on me, John, but I know you mean well. If it were someone else—I honestly don’t know who, and I probably shouldn’t know—but she must be a terrible person. If it were someone else feeling that pain around her heart, John, and unable to express it, maybe you would have comforted her, kissed her, gotten a little closer, and created the chance to be really affectionate.”
Now this was so exactly what I had tried to do to Lorna, that my breath was almost taken away at Annie's so describing it. For a while I could not say a word, but wondered if she were a witch, which had never been in our family: and then, all of a sudden, I saw the way to beat her, with the devil at my elbow.
Now this was exactly what I had tried to do to Lorna, that my breath was almost taken away by Annie describing it. For a while, I couldn't say anything, but I wondered if she was a witch, which had never been in our family. Then, all of a sudden, I saw how to outsmart her, with the devil on my shoulder.
“From your knowledge of these things, Annie, you must have had them done to you. I demand to know this very moment who has taken such liberties.”
“Based on what you know about these things, Annie, you must have experienced this yourself. I want to know right now who has overstepped their bounds.”
“Then, John, you shall never know, if you ask in that manner. Besides, it was no liberty in the least at all, Cousins have a right to do things—and when they are one's godfather—” Here Annie stopped quite suddenly having so betrayed herself; but met me in the full moonlight, being resolved to face it out, with a good face put upon it.
“Then, John, you’ll never know if you ask like that. Besides, it’s not a liberty at all; cousins have the right to do things—and especially when they’re your godfather—” Here Annie abruptly stopped, having revealed too much; but she met me in the full moonlight, determined to confront it with a brave face.
“Alas, I feared it would come to this,” I answered very sadly; “I know he has been here many a time, without showing himself to me. There is nothing meaner than for a man to sneak, and steal a young maid's heart, without her people knowing it.”
“Unfortunately, I was afraid it would come to this,” I replied with great sadness; “I know he has been here many times without revealing himself to me. There’s nothing worse than a man sneaking around and stealing a young woman’s heart without her family knowing.”
“You are not doing anything of that sort yourself then, dear John, are you?”
“You're not doing anything like that yourself, are you, dear John?”
“Only a common highwayman!” I answered, without heeding her; “a man without an acre of his own, and liable to hang upon any common, and no other right of common over it—”
“Just a regular highwayman!” I replied, ignoring her; “a guy without a piece of land to his name, and he could be hanged on any common, with no other rights to it—”
“John,” said my sister, “are the Doones privileged not to be hanged upon common land?”
“John,” my sister asked, “are the Doones allowed to avoid being hanged in public land?”
At this I was so thunderstruck, that I leaped in the air like a shot rabbit, and rushed as hard as I could through the gate and across the yard, and back into the kitchen; and there I asked Farmer Nicholas Snowe to give me some tobacco, and to lend me a spare pipe.
At this, I was so shocked that I jumped into the air like a startled rabbit and ran as fast as I could through the gate and across the yard, and back into the kitchen; where I asked Farmer Nicholas Snowe for some tobacco and to borrow a spare pipe.
This he did with a grateful manner, being now some five-fourths gone; and so I smoked the very first pipe that ever had entered my lips till then; and beyond a doubt it did me good, and spread my heart at leisure.
This he did with appreciation, now feeling pretty tipsy; and so I smoked the very first pipe that had ever touched my lips until then; and without a doubt, it did me good and relaxed my mind.
Meanwhile the reapers were mostly gone, to be up betimes in the morning; and some were led by their wives; and some had to lead their wives themselves, according to the capacity of man and wife respectively. But Betty was as lively as ever, bustling about with every one, and looking out for the chance of groats, which the better off might be free with. And over the kneading-pan next day, she dropped three and sixpence out of her pocket; and Lizzie could not tell for her life how much more might have been in it.
Meanwhile, most of the reapers had left early in the morning; some were accompanied by their wives, while others had to lead their wives themselves, depending on each person's strength. But Betty was as lively as ever, bustling around with everyone and keeping an eye out for some extra change that the wealthier folks might share. The next day, while at the kneading pan, she accidentally dropped three and sixpence from her pocket, and Lizzie couldn’t figure out how much more might have been in there.
Now by this time I had almost finished smoking that pipe of tobacco, and wondering at myself for having so despised it hitherto, and making up my mind to have another trial to-morrow night, it began to occur to me that although dear Annie had behaved so very badly and rudely, and almost taken my breath away with the suddenness of her allusion, yet it was not kind of me to leave her out there at that time of night, all alone, and in such distress. Any of the reapers going home might be gotten so far beyond fear of ghosts as to venture into the churchyard; and although they would know a great deal better than to insult a sister of mine when sober, there was no telling what they might do in their present state of rejoicing. Moreover, it was only right that I should learn, for Lorna's sake, how far Annie, or any one else, had penetrated our secret.
By now, I had almost finished smoking that pipe of tobacco and was amazed at myself for having despised it until now. I decided I would give it another try tomorrow night. It struck me that, even though dear Annie had behaved so poorly and rudely, and nearly took my breath away with her sudden comment, it wasn’t fair to leave her out there alone at that hour, especially in such distress. Any of the reapers heading home might have gotten so far past their fear of ghosts that they would wander into the churchyard; and while they would know better than to disrespect my sister while sober, you could never predict what they might do in their current state of celebration. Plus, it was only right for me to find out, for Lorna's sake, how much Annie or anyone else knew about our secret.
Therefore, I went forth at once, bearing my pipe in a skilful manner, as I had seen Farmer Nicholas do; and marking, with a new kind of pleasure, how the rings and wreaths of smoke hovered and fluttered in the moonlight, like a lark upon his carol. Poor Annie was gone back again to our father's grave, and there she sat upon the turf, sobbing very gently, and not wishing to trouble any one. So I raised her tenderly, and made much of her, and consoled her, for I could not scold her there; and perhaps after all she was not to be blamed so much as Tom Faggus himself was. Annie was very grateful to me, and kissed me many times, and begged my pardon ever so often for her rudeness to me. And then having gone so far with it, and finding me so complaisant, she must needs try to go a little further, and to lead me away from her own affairs, and into mine concerning Lorna. But although it was clever enough of her she was not deep enough for me there; and I soon discovered that she knew nothing, not even the name of my darling; but only suspected from things she had seen, and put together like a woman. Upon this I brought her back again to Tom Faggus and his doings.
So, I set out right away, holding my pipe skillfully, just like I had seen Farmer Nicholas do; and I noticed, with a new kind of enjoyment, how the rings and swirls of smoke floated and danced in the moonlight, like a lark singing its song. Poor Annie had gone back to our father's grave, where she sat on the grass, quietly sobbing, not wanting to bother anyone. So I gently lifted her up, showed her affection, and comforted her, since I couldn’t really scold her there; and maybe, after all, she wasn’t as much to blame as Tom Faggus was. Annie was very appreciative and kissed me many times, apologizing repeatedly for her earlier rudeness. After getting that far, and seeing that I was so accommodating, she felt the need to push a little further and steer the conversation toward my feelings about Lorna. But even though she was clever, she wasn’t deep enough for me on that topic; I quickly realized she didn’t know anything, not even my beloved’s name; she only had a hunch based on things she had observed, piecing them together like a woman does. So, I redirected the conversation back to Tom Faggus and what he was up to.
“My poor Annie, have you really promised him to be his wife?”
“My poor Annie, did you really promise him you'd be his wife?”
“Then after all you have no reason, John, no particular reason, I mean, for slighting poor Sally Snowe so?”
“Then after all you have no reason, John, no specific reason, I mean, for disregarding poor Sally Snowe like that?”
“Without even asking mother or me! Oh, Annie, it was wrong of you!”
“Without even asking Mom or me! Oh, Annie, that was wrong of you!”
“But, darling, you know that mother wishes you so much to marry Sally; and I am sure you could have her to-morrow. She dotes on the very ground—”
“But, sweetheart, you know that mom really wants you to marry Sally; and I’m sure you could have her tomorrow. She’s crazy about you—”
“I dare say he tells you that, Annie, that he dotes on the ground you walk upon—but did you believe him, child?”
“I bet he tells you that, Annie, that he adores the ground you walk on—but did you really believe him, kid?”
“You may believe me, I assure you, John, and half the farm to be settled upon her, after the old man's time; and though she gives herself little airs, it is only done to entice you; she has the very best hand in the dairy John, and the lightest at a turn-over cake—”
“You can trust me on this, John. Half the farm will belong to her after the old man passes. Even though she acts a bit full of herself, it’s really just to get your attention. She’s amazing with the dairy, John, and she makes the best turn-over cakes—”
“Now, Annie, don't talk nonsense so. I wish just to know the truth about you and Tom Faggus. Do you mean to marry him?”
“Now, Annie, don’t talk nonsense. I just want to know the truth about you and Tom Faggus. Are you planning to marry him?”
“I to marry before my brother, and leave him with none to take care of him! Who can do him a red deer collop, except Sally herself, as I can? Come home, dear, at once, and I will do you one; for you never ate a morsel of supper, with all the people you had to attend upon.”
“I want to get married before my brother does and leave him without anyone to look after him! Who can cook him a red deer collop, except for Sally herself, like I can? Come home right away, and I’ll make you one because you didn’t eat anything for supper, despite all the guests you had to serve.”
This was true enough; and seeing no chance of anything more than cross questions and crooked purposes, at which a girl was sure to beat me, I even allowed her to lead me home, with the thoughts of the collop uppermost. But I never counted upon being beaten so thoroughly as I was; for knowing me now to be off my guard, the young hussy stopped at the farmyard gate, as if with a brier entangling her, and while I was stooping to take it away, she looked me full in the face by the moonlight, and jerked out quite suddenly,—
This was definitely true; and knowing there was no chance of anything more than tricky questions and hidden agendas, which a girl was sure to outsmart me at, I even let her lead me home, with thoughts of the meal on my mind. But I never expected to be outsmarted so completely; because knowing I was off guard now, the young tease stopped at the farmyard gate, as if caught in some briars, and while I was bending down to untangle her, she looked me straight in the face under the moonlight and suddenly blurted out,—
“Can your love do a collop, John?”
“Can your love make a slice, John?”
“No, I should hope not,” I answered rashly; “she is not a mere cook-maid I should hope.”
“No, I hope not,” I replied thoughtlessly; “she's not just a cook or a maid, I hope.”
“She is not half so pretty as Sally Snowe; I will answer for that,” said Annie.
“She’s not even close to being as pretty as Sally Snowe; I can guarantee that,” said Annie.
“She is ten thousand times as pretty as ten thousand Sally Snowes,” I replied with great indignation.
"She's a million times prettier than a thousand Sally Snowes," I responded with intense anger.
“Oh, but look at Sally's eyes!” cried my sister rapturously.
“Oh, but look at Sally's eyes!” my sister exclaimed excitedly.
“Look at Lorna Doone's,” said I; “and you would never look again at Sally's.”
“Check out Lorna Doone's,” I said; “and you wouldn't want to look at Sally's again.”
“Oh Lorna Doone. Lorna Doone!” exclaimed our Annie half-frightened, yet clapping her hands with triumph, at having found me out so: “Lorna Doone is the lovely maiden, who has stolen poor somebody's heart so. Ah, I shall remember it; because it is so queer a name. But stop, I had better write it down. Lend me your hat, poor boy, to write on.”
“Oh Lorna Doone. Lorna Doone!” our Annie exclaimed, half scared yet clapping her hands in triumph for figuring me out: “Lorna Doone is the beautiful girl who has stolen someone’s heart. Ah, I’ll remember it because it’s such a strange name. But wait, I’d better write it down. Lend me your hat, poor boy, to write on.”
“I have a great mind to lend you a box on the ear,” I answered her in my vexation, “and I would, if you had not been crying so, you sly good-for-nothing baggage. As it is, I shall keep it for Master Faggus, and add interest for keeping.”
“I really feel like giving you a slap,” I replied in my frustration, “and I would, if you hadn’t been crying like that, you sneaky, worthless troublemaker. But since you have been, I’ll save it for Master Faggus and add interest for holding it back.”
“Oh no, John; oh no, John,” she begged me earnestly, being sobered in a moment. “Your hand is so terribly heavy, John; and he never would forgive you; although he is so good-hearted, he cannot put up with an insult. Promise me, dear John, that you will not strike him; and I will promise you faithfully to keep your secret, even from mother, and even from Cousin Tom himself.”
“Oh no, John; oh no, John,” she pleaded sincerely, becoming serious in an instant. “Your hand is too heavy, John; and he would never forgive you; even though he’s kind-hearted, he can't stand an insult. Promise me, dear John, that you won’t hit him; and I promise to keep your secret, even from Mom and even from Cousin Tom himself.”
“And from Lizzie; most of all, from Lizzie,” I answered very eagerly, knowing too well which of my relations would be hardest with me.
“And from Lizzie; especially from Lizzie,” I replied enthusiastically, knowing all too well which of my relatives would be the toughest on me.
“Of course from little Lizzie,” said Annie, with some contempt; “a young thing like her cannot be kept too long, in my opinion, from the knowledge of such subjects. And besides, I should be very sorry if Lizzie had the right to know your secrets, as I have, dearest John. Not a soul shall be the wiser for your having trusted me, John; although I shall be very wretched when you are late away at night, among those dreadful people.”
“Of course from little Lizzie,” said Annie, with a bit of disdain; “a young thing like her shouldn’t be kept in the dark about these matters for too long, in my opinion. And besides, I would be really upset if Lizzie had the same right to know your secrets as I do, dear John. No one will ever know that you’ve confided in me, John; even though I’ll be really unhappy when you’re out late at night with those terrible people.”
“Well,” I replied, “it is no use crying over spilt milk Annie. You have my secret, and I have yours; and I scarcely know which of the two is likely to have the worst time of it, when it comes to mother's ears. I could put up with perpetual scolding but not with mother's sad silence.”
“Well,” I replied, “there's no point in crying over spilled milk, Annie. You know my secret, and I know yours; and I'm not sure which of us is in for a tougher time when it comes to our mom. I could handle endless scolding, but I can't deal with Mom's quiet disappointment.”
“That is exactly how I feel, John.” and as Annie said it she brightened up, and her soft eyes shone upon me; “but now I shall be much happier, dear; because I shall try to help you. No doubt the young lady deserves it, John. She is not after the farm, I hope?”
"That's exactly how I feel, John." As Annie said this, she lit up, and her gentle eyes sparkled at me. "But now I'll be much happier, dear, because I’m going to try to help you. I'm sure the young lady deserves it, John. She isn't after the farm, right?"
“She!” I exclaimed; and that was enough, there was so much scorn in my voice and face.
“She!” I exclaimed, and that was all it took; there was so much disdain in my voice and expression.
“Then, I am sure, I am very glad,” Annie always made the best of things; “for I do believe that Sally Snowe has taken a fancy to our dairy-place, and the pattern of our cream-pans; and she asked so much about our meadows, and the colour of the milk—”
“Then, I’m sure, I’m really happy,” Annie always found the silver lining; “because I truly believe that Sally Snowe is interested in our dairy farm, and the design of our cream pans; and she asked a lot about our meadows and the color of the milk—”
“Then, after all, you were right, dear Annie; it is the ground she dotes upon.”
“Then, in the end, you were right, dear Annie; it really is the ground she loves.”
“And the things that walk upon it,” she answered me with another kiss; “Sally has taken a wonderful fancy to our best cow, 'Nipple-pins.' But she never shall have her now; what a consolation!”
“And the things that walk upon it,” she replied with another kiss; “Sally has taken a great liking to our best cow, 'Nipple-pins.' But she will never have her now; what a relief!”
We entered the house quite gently thus, and found Farmer Nicholas Snowe asleep, little dreaming how his plans had been overset between us. And then Annie said to me very slyly, between a smile and a blush,—
We quietly entered the house and found Farmer Nicholas Snowe asleep, completely unaware of how his plans had been disrupted by us. Then Annie said to me with a sly smile and a blush,—
“Don't you wish Lorna Doone was here, John, in the parlour along with mother; instead of those two fashionable milkmaids, as Uncle Ben will call them, and poor stupid Mistress Kebby?”
“Don't you wish Lorna Doone was here, John, in the living room with mom; instead of those two trendy milkmaids, as Uncle Ben would call them, and poor dumb Mistress Kebby?”
“That indeed I do, Annie. I must kiss you for only thinking of it. Dear me, it seems as if you had known all about us for a twelvemonth.”
"Yes, I really do, Annie. I have to kiss you just for thinking of it. Wow, it feels like you've known everything about us for a whole year."
“She loves you, with all her heart, John. No doubt about that of course.” And Annie looked up at me, as much as to say she would like to know who could help it.
“She loves you with all her heart, John. There’s no doubt about that, of course.” And Annie looked up at me, as if to say she wanted to know who could possibly help it.
“That's the very thing she won't do,” said I, knowing that Annie would love me all the more for it, “she is only beginning to like me, Annie; and as for loving, she is so young that she only loves her grandfather. But I hope she will come to it by-and-by.”
“That's exactly what she won't do,” I said, aware that Annie would love me even more for it. “She is just starting to like me, Annie; and when it comes to love, she’s so young that she only loves her grandfather. But I hope she will feel that way eventually.”
“Of course she must,” replied my sister, “it will be impossible for her to help it.”
“Of course she has to,” my sister said, “there's no way she can avoid it.”
“Ah well! I don't know,” for I wanted more assurance of it. “Maidens are such wondrous things!”
“Ah well! I don't know,” because I wanted more certainty about it. “Girls are such amazing beings!”
“Not a bit of it,” said Annie, casting her bright eyes downwards: “love is as simple as milking, when people know how to do it. But you must not let her alone too long; that is my advice to you. What a simpleton you must have been not to tell me long ago. I would have made Lorna wild about you, long before this time, Johnny. But now you go into the parlour, dear, while I do your collop. Faith Snowe is not come, but Polly and Sally. Sally has made up her mind to conquer you this very blessed evening, John. Only look what a thing of a scarf she has on; I should be quite ashamed to wear it. But you won't strike poor Tom, will you?”
“Not at all,” said Annie, glancing down with her bright eyes. “Love is as simple as milking when people know how to do it. But you shouldn't leave her alone for too long; that's my advice to you. How foolish you must have been not to tell me sooner. I could have made Lorna crazy about you long before now, Johnny. But now, you go into the parlor, dear, while I get your meat ready. Faith Snowe hasn't arrived yet, but Polly and Sally are here. Sally has decided she's going to win you over tonight, John. Just look at that ridiculous scarf she's wearing; I’d be too embarrassed to wear it. But you won't hit poor Tom, will you?”
“Not I, my darling, for your sweet sake.”
“Not me, my darling, for your sake.”
And so dear Annie, having grown quite brave, gave me a little push into the parlour, where I was quite abashed to enter after all I had heard about Sally. And I made up my mind to examine her well, and try a little courting with her, if she should lead me on, that I might be in practice for Lorna. But when I perceived how grandly and richly both the young damsels were apparelled; and how, in their curtseys to me, they retreated, as if I were making up to them, in a way they had learned from Exeter; and how they began to talk of the Court, as if they had been there all their lives, and the latest mode of the Duchess of this, and the profile of the Countess of that, and the last good saying of my Lord something; instead of butter, and cream, and eggs, and things which they understood; I knew there must be somebody in the room besides Jasper Kebby to talk at.
So, dear Annie, feeling quite brave, gave me a little push into the parlor, where I felt really awkward walking in after everything I had heard about Sally. I decided to check her out closely and maybe try a little flirting if she encouraged me, just to get some practice for Lorna. But once I saw how elegantly and richly both young ladies were dressed; and how, in their curtsies to me, they stepped back as if I were pursuing them in a way they had picked up from Exeter; and how they began discussing the Court as if they had lived there their whole lives, talking about the latest trends of the Duchess of this, the profile of the Countess of that, and the most recent clever remark from my Lord something; instead of the usual talk about butter, cream, and eggs, and things they could actually understand; I realized there had to be someone else in the room besides Jasper Kebby for them to talk to.
And so there was; for behind the curtain drawn across the window-seat no less a man than Uncle Ben was sitting half asleep and weary; and by his side a little girl very quiet and very watchful. My mother led me to Uncle Ben, and he took my hand without rising, muttering something not over-polite, about my being bigger than ever. I asked him heartily how he was, and he said, “Well enough, for that matter; but none the better for the noise you great clods have been making.”
And there he was; behind the curtain pulled across the window seat, none other than Uncle Ben, sitting half-asleep and tired. Next to him was a little girl, very quiet and very observant. My mom brought me over to Uncle Ben, and he took my hand without getting up, mumbling something not very polite about me getting bigger. I cheerfully asked him how he was, and he replied, “Well enough, I suppose; but I’m not any happier with all the noise you big oafs have been making.”
“I am sorry if we have disturbed you, sir,” I answered very civilly; “but I knew not that you were here even; and you must allow for harvest time.”
“I’m sorry if we’ve disturbed you, sir,” I replied politely; “but I didn’t even know you were here, and you have to consider it’s harvest time.”
“So it seems,” he replied; “and allow a great deal, including waste and drunkenness. Now (if you can see so small a thing, after emptying flagons much larger) this is my granddaughter, and my heiress”—here he glanced at mother—“my heiress, little Ruth Huckaback.”
“So it seems,” he said; “and allows for a lot, including waste and drunkenness. Now (if you can notice such a small thing, after emptying flagons much larger) this is my granddaughter, and my heiress”—here he looked at her mother—“my heiress, little Ruth Huckaback.”
“I am very glad to see you, Ruth,” I answered, offering her my hand, which she seemed afraid to take, “welcome to Plover's Barrows, my good cousin Ruth.”
“I’m really glad to see you, Ruth,” I said, holding out my hand, which she seemed hesitant to take, “welcome to Plover's Barrows, my dear cousin Ruth.”
However, my good cousin Ruth only arose, and made me a curtsey, and lifted her great brown eyes at me, more in fear, as I thought, than kinship. And if ever any one looked unlike the heiress to great property, it was the little girl before me.
However, my good cousin Ruth only got up, made a curtsey, and looked up at me with her big brown eyes, which seemed more filled with fear than family ties. And if anyone ever looked unlike someone destined to inherit a lot of wealth, it was the little girl standing in front of me.
“Come out to the kitchen, dear, and let me chuck you to the ceiling,” I said, just to encourage her; “I always do it to little girls; and then they can see the hams and bacon.” But Uncle Reuben burst out laughing; and Ruth turned away with a deep rich colour.
“Come into the kitchen, sweetie, and let me toss you up to the ceiling,” I said, just to cheer her on; “I always do this with little girls; and then they can see the hams and bacon.” But Uncle Reuben started laughing loudly, and Ruth looked away, her cheeks turning a deep, rich color.
“Do you know how old she is, you numskull?” said Uncle Ben, in his dryest drawl; “she was seventeen last July, sir.”
“Do you know how old she is, you fool?” said Uncle Ben, in his driest tone; “she turned seventeen last July, sir.”
“On the first of July, grandfather,” Ruth whispered, with her back still to me; “but many people will not believe it.”
“On July first, grandpa,” Ruth whispered, keeping her back to me; “but a lot of people won’t believe it.”
Here mother came up to my rescue, as she always loved to do; and she said, “If my son may not dance Miss Ruth, at any rate he may dance with her. We have only been waiting for you, dear John, to have a little harvest dance, with the kitchen door thrown open. You take Ruth; Uncle Ben take Sally; Master Debby pair off with Polly; and neighbour Nicholas will be good enough, if I can awake him, to stand up with fair Mistress Kebby. Lizzie will play us the virginal. Won't you, Lizzie dear?”
Here, Mom stepped in to help me, just like she always loved to do, and she said, “If my son can’t dance with Miss Ruth, he can at least dance with her. We’ve just been waiting for you, dear John, to have a little harvest dance, with the kitchen door wide open. You take Ruth; Uncle Ben can take Sally; Master Debby can pair off with Polly; and our neighbor Nicholas will be kind enough, if I can wake him up, to dance with fair Mistress Kebby. Lizzie will play the virginal for us. Won't you, Lizzie dear?”
“But who is to dance with you, madam?” Uncle Ben asked, very politely. “I think you must rearrange your figure. I have not danced for a score of years; and I will not dance now, while the mistress and the owner of the harvest sits aside neglected.”
“But who’s going to dance with you, ma'am?” Uncle Ben asked politely. “I think you need to change your position. I haven't danced in twenty years, and I won't dance now while the lady and the owner of the harvest sits here ignored.”
“Nay, Master Huckaback,” cried Sally Snowe, with a saucy toss of her hair; “Mistress Ridd is too kind a great deal, in handing you over to me. You take her; and I will fetch Annie to be my partner this evening. I like dancing very much better with girls, for they never squeeze and rumple one. Oh, it is so much nicer!”
“Nah, Master Huckaback,” Sally Snowe said, flipping her hair playfully. “Mistress Ridd is being way too nice by giving you to me. You can have her, and I’ll go grab Annie to be my partner tonight. I really prefer dancing with girls much more, since they never squeeze and mess you up. Oh, it’s so much better!”
“Have no fear for me, my dears,” our mother answered smiling: “Parson Bowden promised to come back again; I expect him every minute; and he intends to lead me off, and to bring a partner for Annie too, a very pretty young gentleman. Now begin; and I will join you.”
“Don’t worry about me, my dears,” our mother replied with a smile. “Parson Bowden promised to come back soon; I expect him any minute now, and he plans to take me away and bring a lovely young man for Annie too. Now, go ahead, and I’ll join you.”
There was no disobeying her, without rudeness; and indeed the girls' feet were already jigging; and Lizzie giving herself wonderful airs with a roll of learned music; and even while Annie was doing my collop, her pretty round instep was arching itself, as I could see from the parlour-door. So I took little Ruth, and I spun her around, as the sound of the music came lively and ringing; and after us came all the rest with much laughter, begging me not to jump over her; and anon my grave partner began to smile sweetly, and look up at me with the brightest of eyes, and drop me the prettiest curtseys; till I thought what a great stupe I must have been to dream of putting her in the cheese-rack. But one thing I could not at all understand; why mother, who used to do all in her power to throw me across Sally Snowe, should now do the very opposite; for she would not allow me one moment with Sally, not even to cross in the dance, or whisper, or go anywhere near a corner (which as I said, I intended to do, just by way of practice), while she kept me, all the evening, as close as possible with Ruth Huckaback, and came up and praised me so to Ruth, times and again, that I declare I was quite ashamed. Although of course I knew that I deserved it all, but I could not well say that.
There was no ignoring her without being rude; and the girls' feet were already moving. Lizzie was showing off with a roll of classical music, and even while Annie was preparing my meal, her pretty round foot was arching in a way I could see from the parlor door. So, I took little Ruth and spun her around as the lively music played, and soon everyone else joined in with laughter, asking me not to jump over her. My serious partner started to smile sweetly, looking up at me with bright eyes and giving me the cutest curtsies, which made me realize how silly I had been to think of putting her on the cheese rack. But one thing I couldn’t understand at all was why my mother, who used to do everything to try to pair me up with Sally Snowe, was now doing the exact opposite. She wouldn’t let me have a moment with Sally—not even to dance together, whisper, or go anywhere near a corner (which I had planned to do just for practice). Meanwhile, she kept me as close as possible to Ruth Huckaback and kept praising me to Ruth over and over again, which honestly made me feel embarrassed. Of course, I knew I deserved it all, but I couldn’t exactly say that.
Then Annie came sailing down the dance, with her beautiful hair flowing round her; the lightest figure in all the room, and the sweetest, and the loveliest. She was blushing, with her fair cheeks red beneath her dear blue eyes, as she met my glance of surprise and grief at the partner she was leaning on. It was Squire Marwood de Whichehalse. I would sooner have seen her with Tom Faggus, as indeed I had expected, when I heard of Parson Bowden. And to me it seemed that she had no right to be dancing so with any other; and to this effect I contrived to whisper; but she only said, “See to yourself, John. No, but let us both enjoy ourselves. You are not dancing with Lorna, John. But you seem uncommonly happy.”
Then Annie came gliding down the dance floor, her beautiful hair flowing around her; the lightest figure in the room, and the sweetest, and the loveliest. She was blushing, her fair cheeks were red beneath her dear blue eyes, as she caught my glance of surprise and sadness at the partner she was leaning on. It was Squire Marwood de Whichehalse. I would have preferred to see her with Tom Faggus, as I had actually expected, when I heard about Parson Bowden. To me, it felt like she had no right to be dancing with anyone else; I tried to whisper my thoughts, but she just said, “Focus on yourself, John. No, let’s both have fun. You’re not dancing with Lorna, John. But you seem surprisingly happy.”
“Tush,” I said; “could I flip about so, if I had my love with me?”
“Tush,” I said; “could I act like that if I had my love with me?”
CHAPTER XXXI
JOHN FRY'S ERRAND
We kept up the dance very late that night, mother being in such wonderful spirits, that she would not hear of our going to bed: while she glanced from young Squire Marwood, very deep in his talk with our Annie, to me and Ruth Huckaback who were beginning to be very pleasant company. Alas, poor mother, so proud as she was, how little she dreamed that her good schemes already were hopelessly going awry!
We danced late into the night, with Mom in such a great mood that she wouldn’t let us go to bed. She kept looking from young Squire Marwood, who was really engaged in conversation with our Annie, to me and Ruth Huckaback, who were starting to enjoy each other’s company. Alas, poor Mom, as proud as she was, how little she realized that her good plans were already falling apart!
Being forced to be up before daylight next day, in order to begin right early, I would not go to my bedroom that night for fear of disturbing my mother, but determined to sleep in the tallat awhile, that place being cool, and airy, and refreshing with the smell of sweet hay. Moreover, after my dwelling in town, where I had felt like a horse on a lime-kiln, I could not for a length of time have enough of country life. The mooing of a calf was music, and the chuckle of a fowl was wit, and the snore of the horses was news to me.
Having to get up before dawn the next day to start early, I decided not to go to my bedroom that night to avoid waking my mother. Instead, I chose to sleep in the tallat, which was cool, airy, and filled with the refreshing smell of sweet hay. After living in town, where I felt like a horse on a lime kiln, I couldn't get enough of country life. The mooing of a calf sounded like music, the clucking of a hen felt clever, and the snoring of the horses was like catching up on gossip for me.
“Wult have thee own wai, I reckon,” said Betty, being cross with sleepiness, for she had washed up everything; “slape in hog-pound, if thee laikes, Jan.”
"Want to do things your way, I guess," said Betty, annoyed and tired since she had cleaned everything up; "sleep in the pigpen if you want to, Jan."
Letting her have the last word of it (as is the due of women) I stood in the court, and wondered awhile at the glory of the harvest moon, and the yellow world it shone upon. Then I saw, as sure as ever I was standing there in the shadow of the stable, I saw a short wide figure glide across the foot of the courtyard, between me and the six-barred gate. Instead of running after it, as I should have done, I began to consider who it could be, and what on earth was doing there, when all our people were in bed, and the reapers gone home, or to the linhay close against the wheatfield.
Letting her have the final word (as women deserve), I stood in the courtyard and admired the beauty of the harvest moon and the golden world it illuminated. Then, just as I was clearly standing there in the shadow of the stable, I noticed a short, stocky figure moving across the courtyard, between me and the six-barred gate. Instead of chasing after it like I should have, I started to wonder who it could be and what on earth they were doing there when everyone else was in bed, and the reapers had either gone home or to the linhay next to the wheatfield.
Having made up my mind at last, that it could be none of our people—though not a dog was barking—and also that it must have been either a girl or a woman, I ran down with all speed to learn what might be the meaning of it. But I came too late to learn, through my own hesitation, for this was the lower end of the courtyard, not the approach from the parish highway, but the end of the sledd-way, across the fields where the brook goes down to the Lynn stream, and where Squire Faggus had saved the old drake. And of course the dry channel of the brook, being scarcely any water now, afforded plenty of place to hide, leading also to a little coppice, beyond our cabbage-garden, and so further on to the parish highway.
Having finally made up my mind that it couldn't be any of our people—especially since not a single dog was barking—and that it had to be either a girl or a woman, I ran down as fast as I could to find out what was going on. But I arrived too late to figure it out myself because I hesitated. This was the lower end of the courtyard, not the path from the parish highway, but the end of the sledding path across the fields where the brook flows down to the Lynn stream, and where Squire Faggus had rescued the old drake. Naturally, the dry channel of the brook, which had hardly any water now, provided plenty of places to hide, leading to a small coppice beyond our cabbage garden, and then further along to the parish highway.
I saw at once that it was vain to make any pursuit by moonlight; and resolving to hold my own counsel about it (though puzzled not a little) and to keep watch there another night, back I returned to the tallatt-ladder, and slept without leaving off till morning.
I realized immediately that it was pointless to try to chase anything in the moonlight. Deciding to keep my thoughts to myself about it (even though I was quite confused), I planned to watch again another night. So, I went back to the tall ladder and slept without stopping until morning.
Now many people may wish to know, as indeed I myself did very greatly, what had brought Master Huckaback over from Dulverton, at that time of year, when the clothing business was most active on account of harvest wages, and when the new wheat was beginning to sample from the early parts up the country (for he meddled as well in corn-dealing) and when we could not attend to him properly by reason of our occupation. And yet more surprising it seemed to me that he should have brought his granddaughter also, instead of the troop of dragoons, without which he had vowed he would never come here again. And how he had managed to enter the house together with his granddaughter, and be sitting quite at home in the parlour there, without any knowledge or even suspicion on my part. That last question was easily solved, for mother herself had admitted them by means of the little passage, during a chorus of the harvest-song which might have drowned an earthquake: but as for his meaning and motive, and apparent neglect of his business, none but himself could interpret them; and as he did not see fit to do so, we could not be rude enough to inquire.
Now, a lot of people might wonder, as I certainly did, what brought Master Huckaback over from Dulverton at this time of year when the clothing business was busiest because of harvest wages, and when the new wheat was starting to come in from the earlier parts of the country (since he also dealt in grain), and when we couldn't really attend to him properly because we were so occupied. It was even more surprising to me that he brought his granddaughter along instead of the troop of dragoons, with whom he had sworn he would never return here. And how he managed to enter the house with his granddaughter and be sitting comfortably in the parlor without my knowledge or even suspicion. That last question was easy to explain; mother had let them in through the little passage while a chorus of the harvest song rang out, loud enough to drown out an earthquake. But as for his purpose and reason, and his apparent disregard for his business, only he could make sense of that; and since he didn't choose to explain, we couldn't be rude enough to ask.
He seemed in no hurry to take his departure, though his visit was so inconvenient to us, as himself indeed must have noticed: and presently Lizzie, who was the sharpest among us, said in my hearing that she believed he had purposely timed his visit so that he might have liberty to pursue his own object, whatsoever it were, without interruption from us. Mother gazed hard upon Lizzie at this, having formed a very different opinion; but Annie and myself agreed that it was worth looking into.
He didn’t seem in a rush to leave, even though his visit was really inconvenient for us, which he must have noticed too. Then Lizzie, who was the quickest to catch on among us, said where I could hear her that she thought he had planned his visit just right so he could go after his own agenda, whatever that was, without any interruptions from us. Mom stared at Lizzie with a look that suggested she thought differently, but Annie and I both agreed that it was worth investigating.
Now how could we look into it, without watching Uncle Reuben, whenever he went abroad, and trying to catch him in his speech, when he was taking his ease at night. For, in spite of all the disgust with which he had spoken of harvest wassailing, there was not a man coming into our kitchen who liked it better than he did; only in a quiet way, and without too many witnesses. Now to endeavour to get at the purpose of any guest, even a treacherous one (which we had no right to think Uncle Reuben) by means of observing him in his cups, is a thing which even the lowest of people would regard with abhorrence. And to my mind it was not clear whether it would be fair-play at all to follow a visitor even at a distance from home and clear of our premises; except for the purpose of fetching him back, and giving him more to go on with. Nevertheless we could not but think, the times being wild and disjointed, that Uncle Ben was not using fairly the part of a guest in our house, to make long expeditions we knew not whither, and involve us in trouble we knew not what.
Now how could we look into it without watching Uncle Reuben whenever he went out and trying to catch him talking when he was relaxing at night? Because, despite all his disdain for harvest wassailing, there wasn’t a man who came into our kitchen who enjoyed it more than he did; just in a low-key way, without too many witnesses. Trying to figure out the intentions of any guest, even a deceitful one (which we had no right to think Uncle Reuben was), by observing him when he was drinking is something even the most unscrupulous would find disgusting. And to me, it wasn’t clear whether it was fair to follow a visitor, even from a distance, away from our home, unless it was to bring him back and give him more to drink. Still, we couldn't help but think, given how chaotic and unpredictable things were, that Uncle Ben wasn't being fair as a guest in our house by making long trips we didn't know the purpose of and getting us into trouble we were unaware of.
For his mode was directly after breakfast to pray to the Lord a little (which used not to be his practice), and then to go forth upon Dolly, the which was our Annie's pony, very quiet and respectful, with a bag of good victuals hung behind him, and two great cavalry pistols in front. And he always wore his meanest clothes as if expecting to be robbed, or to disarm the temptation thereto; and he never took his golden chronometer neither his bag of money. So much the girls found out and told me (for I was never at home myself by day); and they very craftily spurred me on, having less noble ideas perhaps, to hit upon Uncle Reuben's track, and follow, and see what became of him. For he never returned until dark or more, just in time to be in before us, who were coming home from the harvest. And then Dolly always seemed very weary, and stained with a muck from beyond our parish.
Right after breakfast, he would pray to the Lord for a little while (which wasn't his usual thing), and then he'd head out on Dolly, our Annie's pony, who was very calm and well-behaved. He had a bag of good food tied behind him and two big cavalry pistols in front. He always wore his oldest clothes, as if he expected to be robbed or to avoid the temptation to steal. He never took his golden watch or his money bag. The girls figured this out and told me (since I was never home during the day); they cleverly encouraged me, perhaps with less noble intentions, to follow Uncle Reuben's trail and see what he was up to. He never came back until it was dark or later, just in time to get home before us after we returned from the harvest. And Dolly always looked very tired and was dirty from somewhere beyond our parish.
But I refused to follow him, not only for the loss of a day's work to myself, and at least half a day to the other men, but chiefly because I could not think that it would be upright and manly. It was all very well to creep warily into the valley of the Doones, and heed everything around me, both because they were public enemies, and also because I risked my life at every step I took there. But as to tracking a feeble old man (however subtle he might be), a guest moreover of our own, and a relative through my mother.—“Once for all,” I said, “it is below me, and I won't do it.”
But I refused to follow him, not just because it would cost me a day's work and at least half a day for the others, but mainly because I couldn't see how it would be right or honorable. It was one thing to sneak cautiously into the Doones' valley, paying attention to everything around me since they were public enemies and I risked my life with every step. But tracking a frail old man (no matter how crafty he might be), who was also our guest and related to me through my mother—“Let me be clear,” I said, “that is beneath me, and I won't do it.”
Thereupon, the girls, knowing my way, ceased to torment me about it: but what was my astonishment the very next day to perceive that instead of fourteen reapers, we were only thirteen left, directly our breakfast was done with—or mowers rather I should say, for we were gone into the barley now.
Thereafter, the girls, knowing my routine, stopped bothering me about it. But I was shocked the very next day to see that instead of fourteen reapers, we were only thirteen after we finished breakfast—or mowers, I should say, since we had moved on to the barley now.
“Who has been and left his scythe?” I asked; “and here's a tin cup never been handled!”
“Who has been here and left his scythe?” I asked; “and here's a tin cup that hasn't been touched!”
“Whoy, dudn't ee knaw, Maister Jan,” said Bill Dadds, looking at me queerly, “as Jan Vry wur gane avore braxvass.”
“Why, didn't you know, Master Jan,” said Bill Dadds, looking at me strangely, “that Jan Vry went off before breakfast?”
“Oh, very well,” I answered, “John knows what he is doing.” For John Fry was a kind of foreman now, and it would not do to say anything that might lessen his authority. However, I made up my mind to rope him, when I should catch him by himself, without peril to his dignity.
“Oh, fine,” I replied, “John knows what he's doing.” John Fry had become something of a foreman now, and I didn’t want to say anything that might undermine his authority. Still, I decided that I would confront him when I could catch him alone, without risking his pride.
But when I came home in the evening, late and almost weary, there was no Annie cooking my supper, nor Lizzie by the fire reading, nor even little Ruth Huckaback watching the shadows and pondering. Upon this, I went to the girls' room, not in the very best of tempers, and there I found all three of them in the little place set apart for Annie, eagerly listening to John Fry, who was telling some great adventure. John had a great jug of ale beside him, and a horn well drained; and he clearly looked upon himself as a hero, and the maids seemed to be of the same opinion.
But when I got home in the evening, late and pretty tired, there was no Annie making my dinner, no Lizzie by the fire reading, and not even little Ruth Huckaback watching the shadows and deep in thought. So, I headed to the girls' room, not in the best mood, and found all three of them in the small space set aside for Annie, eagerly listening to John Fry, who was sharing some grand adventure. John had a big jug of beer next to him and a horn that was emptied; he clearly saw himself as a hero, and the girls seemed to agree.
“Well done, John,” my sister was saying, “capitally done, John Fry. How very brave you have been, John. Now quick, let us hear the rest of it.”
“Well done, John,” my sister was saying, “great job, John Fry. You’ve been very brave, John. Now hurry up, let’s hear the rest of it.”
“What does all this nonsense mean?” I said, in a voice which frightened them, as I could see by the light of our own mutton candles: “John Fry, you be off to your wife at once, or you shall have what I owe you now, instead of to-morrow morning.”
“What does all this nonsense mean?” I said, in a tone that scared them, as I could see by the light of our own mutton candles: “John Fry, get to your wife right now, or you’ll get what I owe you today instead of tomorrow morning.”
John made no answer, but scratched his head, and looked at the maidens to take his part.
John didn't respond, but scratched his head and looked at the young women for support.
“It is you that must be off, I think,” said Lizzie, looking straight at me with all the impudence in the world; “what right have you to come in here to the young ladies' room, without an invitation even?”
“It’s you who needs to leave, I think,” said Lizzie, looking right at me with all the attitude in the world. “What right do you have to come into the young ladies' room without even an invitation?”
“Very well, Miss Lizzie, I suppose mother has some right here.” And with that, I was going away to fetch her, knowing that she always took my side, and never would allow the house to be turned upside down in that manner. But Annie caught hold of me by the arm, and little Ruth stood in the doorway; and Lizzie said, “Don't be a fool, John. We know things of you, you know; a great deal more than you dream of.”
“Alright, Miss Lizzie, I guess mom has a point here.” And with that, I was about to go get her, knowing she always backed me up and wouldn’t let the house get turned upside down like this. But Annie grabbed me by the arm, and little Ruth was standing in the doorway; and Lizzie said, “Don’t be an idiot, John. We know more about you than you think.”
Upon this I glanced at Annie, to learn whether she had been telling, but her pure true face reassured me at once, and then she said very gently,—
Upon this, I glanced at Annie to see if she had been talking, but her honest, sincere face reassured me immediately, and then she said very gently,—
“Lizzie, you talk too fast, my child. No one knows anything of our John which he need be ashamed of; and working as he does from light to dusk, and earning the living of all of us, he is entitled to choose his own good time for going out and for coming in, without consulting a little girl five years younger than himself. Now, John, sit down, and you shall know all that we have done, though I doubt whether you will approve of it.”
“Lizzie, you talk too fast, my child. No one has anything to be ashamed of concerning our John; he works hard from morning to night and supports all of us, so he deserves to decide when he goes out and comes back without needing to consult a little girl who's five years younger than he is. Now, John, sit down, and I'll tell you everything we've done, though I’m not sure you’ll like it.”
Upon this I kissed Annie, and so did Ruth; and John Fry looked a deal more comfortable, but Lizzie only made a face at us. Then Annie began as follows:—
Upon this, I kissed Annie, and so did Ruth; John Fry looked a lot more comfortable, but Lizzie just made a face at us. Then Annie started as follows:—
“You must know, dear John, that we have been extremely curious, ever since Uncle Reuben came, to know what he was come for, especially at this time of year, when he is at his busiest. He never vouchsafed any explanation, neither gave any reason, true or false, which shows his entire ignorance of all feminine nature. If Ruth had known, and refused to tell us, we should have been much easier, because we must have got it out of Ruth before two or three days were over. But darling Ruth knew no more than we did, and indeed I must do her the justice to say that she has been quite as inquisitive. Well, we might have put up with it, if it had not been for his taking Dolly, my own pet Dolly, away every morning, quite as if she belonged to him, and keeping her out until close upon dark, and then bringing her home in a frightful condition. And he even had the impudence, when I told him that Dolly was my pony, to say that we owed him a pony, ever since you took from him that little horse upon which you found him strapped so snugly; and he means to take Dolly to Dulverton with him, to run in his little cart. If there is law in the land he shall not. Surely, John, you will not let him?”
“You should know, dear John, that we’ve been really curious ever since Uncle Reuben showed up about what he came for, especially at this time of year when he’s usually super busy. He never provided any explanation or gave any reasons, whether true or false, which shows he has no understanding of women at all. If Ruth had known and just didn’t tell us, we would have been much more relaxed because we would have gotten it out of her within a couple of days. But sweet Ruth didn’t know any more than we did, and I must admit she’s been just as curious. Well, we could have dealt with it if it weren’t for the fact that he takes my darling Dolly away every morning as if she’s his own, keeping her out until almost dark and then bringing her back in terrible shape. And he even had the nerve, when I told him Dolly is my pony, to say we owe him a pony ever since you took that little horse from him, the one you found all strapped in. And now he plans to take Dolly to Dulverton with him to pull his little cart. If there’s any justice in this world, he won’t be able to do that. Surely, John, you won’t let him?”
“That I won't,” said I, “except upon the conditions which I offered him once before. If we owe him the pony, we owe him the straps.”
"That I won’t," I said, "except under the same conditions I proposed to him before. If we owe him the pony, then we owe him the straps."
Sweet Annie laughed, like a bell, at this, and then she went on with her story.
Sweet Annie laughed, like a bell, at this, and then she continued with her story.
“Well, John, we were perfectly miserable. You cannot understand it, of course; but I used to go every evening, and hug poor Dolly, and kiss her, and beg her to tell me where she had been, and what she had seen, that day. But never having belonged to Balaam, darling Dolly was quite unsuccessful, though often she strove to tell me, with her ears down, and both eyes rolling. Then I made John Fry tie her tail in a knot, with a piece of white ribbon, as if for adornment, that I might trace her among the hills, at any rate for a mile or two. But Uncle Ben was too deep for that; he cut off the ribbon before he started, saying he would have no Doones after him. And then, in despair, I applied to you, knowing how quick of foot you are, and I got Ruth and Lizzie to help me, but you answered us very shortly; and a very poor supper you had that night, according to your deserts.
“Well, John, we were completely miserable. You can't understand it, of course; but I used to go every evening, hug poor Dolly, kiss her, and beg her to tell me where she'd been and what she'd seen that day. But since she never belonged to Balaam, sweet Dolly was pretty ineffective, though she often tried to tell me, with her ears down and both eyes rolling. Then I had John Fry tie her tail in a knot with a piece of white ribbon, like a decoration, so I could spot her among the hills, at least for a mile or two. But Uncle Ben was too clever for that; he cut off the ribbon before he left, saying he didn’t want any Doones after him. And then, in despair, I turned to you, knowing how fast you are, and I got Ruth and Lizzie to help me, but you replied very shortly; and you had a pretty poor dinner that night, just as you deserved.”
“But though we were dashed to the ground for a time, we were not wholly discomfited. Our determination to know all about it seemed to increase with the difficulty. And Uncle Ben's manner last night was so dry, when we tried to romp and to lead him out, that it was much worse than Jamaica ginger grated into a poor sprayed finger. So we sent him to bed at the earliest moment, and held a small council upon him. If you remember you, John, having now taken to smoke (which is a hateful practice), had gone forth grumbling about your bad supper and not taking it as a good lesson.”
“But even though we were knocked down for a while, we weren’t completely defeated. Our desire to figure it all out seemed to grow stronger with the challenge. And Uncle Ben’s attitude last night was so stiff when we tried to joke around and get him to join us that it felt way worse than having grated Jamaica ginger on a sore finger. So, we sent him to bed as early as we could and held a little meeting about him. If you remember, John, since you’ve started smoking (which is a terrible habit), you had gone off grumbling about your bad dinner instead of taking it as a lesson.”
“Why, Annie,” I cried, in amazement at this, “I will never trust you again for a supper. I thought you were so sorry.”
“Why, Annie,” I exclaimed, shocked by this, “I will never trust you to make dinner again. I thought you felt really bad about it.”
“And so I was, dear; very sorry. But still we must do our duty. And when we came to consider it, Ruth was the cleverest of us all; for she said that surely we must have some man we could trust about the farm to go on a little errand; and then I remembered that old John Fry would do anything for money.”
“And so I was, dear; very sorry. But still we have to do our duty. And when we thought about it, Ruth was the smartest of us all; she suggested that we must have some man we could trust on the farm to run a small errand; then I remembered that old John Fry would do anything for money.”
“Not for money, plaize, miss,” said John Fry, taking a pull at the beer; “but for the love of your swate face.”
“Not for money, please, miss,” said John Fry, taking a sip of his beer; “but for the love of your sweet face.”
“To be sure, John; with the King's behind it. And so Lizzie ran for John Fry at once, and we gave him full directions, how he was to slip out of the barley in the confusion of the breakfast, so that none might miss him; and to run back to the black combe bottom, and there he would find the very same pony which Uncle Ben had been tied upon, and there is no faster upon the farm. And then, without waiting for any breakfast unless he could eat it either running or trotting, he was to travel all up the black combe, by the track Uncle Reuben had taken, and up at the top to look forward carefully, and so to trace him without being seen.”
“Absolutely, John; with the King's backing. So, Lizzie immediately ran for John Fry, and we gave him clear instructions on how to slip out of the barley during the breakfast chaos, so that no one would notice he was gone. He was to dash back to the bottom of the black combe, where he would find the exact pony that Uncle Ben had been tied to, which is the fastest one on the farm. Then, without waiting for any breakfast unless he could eat it while running or trotting, he was to travel all the way up the black combe, following the route Uncle Reuben had taken, and once he reached the top, he needed to carefully look ahead to track him without being spotted.”
“Ay; and raight wull a doo'd un,” John cried, with his mouth in the bullock's horn.
“Ay; and right well I'll do one,” John cried, with his mouth in the bullock's horn.
“Well, and what did you see, John?” I asked, with great anxiety; though I meant to have shown no interest.
“Well, what did you see, John?” I asked, feeling really anxious, even though I meant to act uninterested.
“John was just at the very point of it,” Lizzie answered me sharply, “when you chose to come in and stop him.”
“John was just about to do it,” Lizzie replied sharply, “when you decided to come in and stop him.”
“Then let him begin again,” said I; “things being gone so far, it is now my duty to know everything, for the sake of you girls and mother.”
“Then let him start over,” I said; “since things have gone this far, it’s now my responsibility to know everything, for you girls and Mom's sake.”
“Hem!” cried Lizzie, in a nasty way; but I took no notice of her, for she was always bad to deal with. Therefore John Fry began again, being heartily glad to do so, that his story might get out of the tumble which all our talk had made in it. But as he could not tell a tale in the manner of my Lorna (although he told it very well for those who understood him) I will take it from his mouth altogether, and state in brief what happened.
“Eh!” Lizzie exclaimed in a rude way, but I ignored her because she was always difficult to handle. So, John Fry started again, really happy to do so, hoping his story could recover from the confusion all our chatter had caused. However, since he couldn't tell a tale like my Lorna (even though he told it quite well for those who got him), I’ll share what happened in my own words.
When John, upon his forest pony, which he had much ado to hold (its mouth being like a bucket), was come to the top of the long black combe, two miles or more from Plover's Barrows, and winding to the southward, he stopped his little nag short of the crest, and got off and looked ahead of him, from behind a tump of whortles. It was a long flat sweep of moorland over which he was gazing, with a few bogs here and there, and brushy places round them. Of course, John Fry, from his shepherd life and reclaiming of strayed cattle, knew as well as need be where he was, and the spread of the hills before him, although it was beyond our beat, or, rather, I should say, beside it. Not but what we might have grazed there had it been our pleasure, but that it was not worth our while, and scarcely worth Jasper Kebby's even; all the land being cropped (as one might say) with desolation. And nearly all our knowledge of it sprang from the unaccountable tricks of cows who have young calves with them; at which time they have wild desire to get away from the sight of man, and keep calf and milk for one another, although it be in a barren land. At least, our cows have gotten this trick, and I have heard other people complain of it.
When John, on his forest pony, which he struggled to control (its mouth being like a bucket), reached the top of the long black vale, two miles or more from Plover's Barrows, and trending southward, he stopped his little horse short of the crest, got off, and looked ahead from behind a mound of berries. He was gazing out over a long flat stretch of moorland, dotted with a few bogs here and there and brushy spots around them. Naturally, John Fry, due to his shepherd life and experience with stray cattle, knew exactly where he was and recognized the landscape of hills ahead of him, even though it was beyond our usual area, or rather, I should say, next to it. It’s not that we couldn’t have grazed there had we wanted to, but it wasn’t worth the effort, and hardly even for Jasper Kebby; all the land was pretty much consumed by desolation. Most of what we knew about it came from the inexplicable behavior of cows with young calves; during that time, they have an intense urge to get away from humans and keep their calves and milk to themselves, even in a barren area. At least, our cows have picked up this habit, and I’ve heard others complain about it too.
John Fry, as I said, knew the place well enough, but he liked it none the more for that, neither did any of our people; and, indeed, all the neighbourhood of Thomshill and Larksborough, and most of all Black Barrow Down lay under grave imputation of having been enchanted with a very evil spell. Moreover, it was known, though folk were loath to speak of it, even on a summer morning, that Squire Thom, who had been murdered there, a century ago or more, had been seen by several shepherds, even in the middle day, walking with his severed head carried in his left hand, and his right arm lifted towards the sun.
John Fry, as I mentioned, knew the area pretty well, but that didn't make him any fonder of it, and neither did any of our group; in fact, the whole area around Thomshill and Larksborough, especially Black Barrow Down, had a serious reputation for being cursed by a very dark spell. Additionally, it was known—though people were hesitant to discuss it, even on a sunny morning—that Squire Thom, who was murdered there over a century ago, had been seen by several shepherds, even during the day, walking around with his severed head in his left hand and his right arm raised toward the sun.
Therefore it was very bold in John (as I acknowledged) to venture across that moor alone, even with a fast pony under him, and some whisky by his side. And he would never have done so (of that I am quite certain), either for the sake of Annie's sweet face, or of the golden guinea, which the three maidens had subscribed to reward his skill and valour. But the truth was that he could not resist his own great curiosity. For, carefully spying across the moor, from behind the tuft of whortles, at first he could discover nothing having life and motion, except three or four wild cattle roving in vain search for nourishment, and a diseased sheep banished hither, and some carrion crows keeping watch on her. But when John was taking his very last look, being only too glad to go home again, and acknowledge himself baffled, he thought he saw a figure moving in the farthest distance upon Black Barrow Down, scarcely a thing to be sure of yet, on account of the want of colour. But as he watched, the figure passed between him and a naked cliff, and appeared to be a man on horseback, making his way very carefully, in fear of bogs and serpents. For all about there it is adders' ground, and large black serpents dwell in the marshes, and can swim as well as crawl.
So it was pretty bold of John (as I admitted) to venture across that moor alone, even with a fast pony and some whisky by his side. And he wouldn’t have done it (I’m sure of that) for Annie’s sweet face or for the golden guinea that the three maidens had put together to reward his skill and bravery. The truth was he couldn’t resist his own intense curiosity. Carefully peeking across the moor from behind a bunch of wild berries, he initially saw nothing alive except for a few wild cattle aimlessly searching for food, a sick sheep banished there, and some carrion crows watching over her. But just as John was taking his last look, eager to head home and admit defeat, he thought he noticed a figure moving in the far distance on Black Barrow Down, barely something to be sure of due to the lack of color. But as he watched, the figure moved between him and a bare cliff, and appeared to be a man on horseback, making his way very cautiously, avoiding the bogs and snakes. Because all around there is adders' ground, and large black snakes inhabit the marshes and can swim as well as crawl.
John knew that the man who was riding there could be none but Uncle Reuben, for none of the Doones ever passed that way, and the shepherds were afraid of it. And now it seemed an unkind place for an unarmed man to venture through, especially after an armed one who might not like to be spied upon, and must have some dark object in visiting such drear solitudes. Nevertheless John Fry so ached with unbearable curiosity to know what an old man, and a stranger, and a rich man, and a peaceable could possibly be after in that mysterious manner. Moreover, John so throbbed with hope to find some wealthy secret, that come what would of it he resolved to go to the end of the matter.
John realized that the man riding there could only be Uncle Reuben, since none of the Doones ever traveled that way, and the shepherds were too scared to do so. Now, it seemed like a dangerous place for an unarmed man to pass through, especially after an armed one who might not appreciate being watched, and who likely had some hidden agenda in visiting such bleak and lonely areas. Still, John Fry was struck with an overwhelming curiosity about what an old man, a stranger, a wealthy man, and a peaceful man could possibly be doing in such a mysterious way. Plus, John was filled with hope of uncovering some hidden treasure, so no matter what, he was determined to get to the bottom of it.
Therefore he only waited awhile for fear of being discovered, till Master Huckaback turned to the left and entered a little gully, whence he could not survey the moor. Then John remounted and crossed the rough land and the stony places, and picked his way among the morasses as fast as ever he dared to go; until, in about half an hour, he drew nigh the entrance of the gully. And now it behoved him to be most wary; for Uncle Ben might have stopped in there, either to rest his horse or having reached the end of his journey. And in either case, John had little doubt that he himself would be pistolled, and nothing more ever heard of him. Therefore he made his pony come to the mouth of it sideways, and leaned over and peered in around the rocky corner, while the little horse cropped at the briars.
So he waited a bit, worried about being caught, until Master Huckaback turned left and went into a small gully where he couldn't see the moor. Then John got back on his horse, crossed the rough and stony ground, and carefully navigated the marshes as quickly as he dared; after about half an hour, he got close to the gully's entrance. Now he had to be very cautious; Uncle Ben might have stopped there either to rest his horse or because he had finished his journey. In either case, John suspected he would be shot, and that would be the last anyone heard of him. So he made his pony approach the entrance sideways and leaned over to peek around the rocky corner while the little horse munched on the briars.
But he soon perceived that the gully was empty, so far at least as its course was straight; and with that he hastened into it, though his heart was not working easily. When he had traced the winding hollow for half a mile or more, he saw that it forked, and one part led to the left up a steep red bank, and the other to the right, being narrow and slightly tending downwards. Some yellow sand lay here and there between the starving grasses, and this he examined narrowly for a trace of Master Huckaback.
But he soon noticed that the gully was empty, at least as far as it was straight, so he hurried into it, even though he felt uneasy. After following the curving hollow for over half a mile, he saw that it forked, with one path leading to the left up a steep red bank and the other to the right, which was narrow and slightly sloping downwards. There was some yellow sand scattered between the struggling grasses, and he closely examined it for any sign of Master Huckaback.
At last he saw that, beyond all doubt, the man he was pursuing had taken the course which led down hill; and down the hill he must follow him. And this John did with deep misgivings, and a hearty wish that he had never started upon so perilous an errand. For now he knew not where he was, and scarcely dared to ask himself, having heard of a horrible hole, somewhere in this neighbourhood, called the Wizard's Slough. Therefore John rode down the slope, with sorrow, and great caution. And these grew more as he went onward, and his pony reared against him, being scared, although a native of the roughest moorland. And John had just made up his mind that God meant this for a warning, as the passage seemed darker and deeper, when suddenly he turned a corner, and saw a scene which stopped him.
At last, he realized that, without a doubt, the man he was chasing had gone down the hill; and down the hill he had to follow. John did this with a heavy heart and a strong wish that he had never embarked on such a dangerous mission. For now, he didn’t know where he was and hardly dared to think about it, having heard of a terrifying place nearby called the Wizard's Slough. So, John rode down the slope, feeling sorrowful and very cautious. His anxiety grew as he progressed, and his pony, although familiar with the rough moorland, became agitated and reared up. Just as John decided that this might be a sign from God, the path grew darker and deeper; he suddenly turned a corner and saw a scene that made him stop.
For there was the Wizard's Slough itself, as black as death, and bubbling, with a few scant yellow reeds in a ring around it. Outside these, bright water-grass of the liveliest green was creeping, tempting any unwary foot to step, and plunge, and founder. And on the marge were blue campanula, sundew, and forget-me-not, such as no child could resist. On either side, the hill fell back, and the ground was broken with tufts of rush, and flag, and mares-tail, and a few rough alder-trees overclogged with water. And not a bird was seen or heard, neither rail nor water-hen, wag-tail nor reed-warbler.
For there was the Wizard's Slough itself, as black as death and bubbling, with a few sparse yellow reeds forming a ring around it. Outside of that, bright water grass in the brightest green was creeping in, tempting any unsuspecting foot to step, plunge, and get stuck. Along the edge were blue campanula, sundew, and forget-me-not, which no child could resist. On either side, the hill sloped back, and the ground was uneven with clumps of rush, flag, and mares-tail, along with a few rough alder trees weighed down by water. Not a bird was seen or heard, neither rail nor water-hen, wag-tail nor reed-warbler.
Of this horrible quagmire, the worst upon all Exmoor, John had heard from his grandfather, and even from his mother, when they wanted to keep him quiet; but his father had feared to speak of it to him, being a man of piety, and up to the tricks of the evil one. This made John the more desirous to have a good look at it now, only with his girths well up, to turn away and flee at speed, if anything should happen. And now he proved how well it is to be wary and wide-awake, even in lonesome places. For at the other side of the Slough, and a few land-yards beyond it, where the ground was less noisome, he had observed a felled tree lying over a great hole in the earth, with staves of wood, and slabs of stone, and some yellow gravel around it. But the flags of reeds around the morass partly screened it from his eyes, and he could not make out the meaning of it, except that it meant no good, and probably was witchcraft. Yet Dolly seemed not to be harmed by it, for there she was as large as life, tied to a stump not far beyond, and flipping the flies away with her tail.
John had heard about this terrible swamp, the worst in all of Exmoor, from his grandfather and even his mother when they wanted to keep him quiet. However, his father was too religious to talk about it with him, knowing about the tricks of the devil. This only made John more eager to see it for himself, though he made sure his gear was secured, ready to turn and run if anything went wrong. And now he showed how important it is to be cautious and alert, even in lonely places. On the other side of the swamp, a few yards away where the land was less foul, he noticed a fallen tree covering a big hole in the ground, surrounded by wooden poles, stone slabs, and some yellow gravel. But the reeds around the marsh partially blocked his view, and he couldn't figure out what it was, other than it was probably something sinister, maybe even witchcraft. Still, Dolly didn’t seem affected by it; there she was, as big as life, tied to a stump just a little further away, swatting away flies with her tail.
While John was trembling within himself, lest Dolly should get scent of his pony, and neigh and reveal their presence, although she could not see them, suddenly to his great amazement something white arose out of the hole, under the brown trunk of the tree. Seeing this his blood went back within him, yet he was not able to turn and flee, but rooted his face in among the loose stones, and kept his quivering shoulders back, and prayed to God to protect him. However, the white thing itself was not so very awful, being nothing more than a long-coned night-cap with a tassel on the top, such as criminals wear at hanging-time. But when John saw a man's face under it, and a man's neck and shoulders slowly rising out of the pit, he could not doubt that this was the place where the murderers come to life again, according to the Exmoor story. He knew that a man had been hanged last week, and that this was the ninth day after it.
While John was shaking with fear, worried that Dolly might catch a whiff of his pony and neigh, revealing their hiding spot, suddenly, to his shock, something white emerged from the hole beneath the brown trunk of the tree. Seeing this made his blood run cold, yet he couldn't turn and run away; instead, he buried his face among the loose stones, held his trembling shoulders back, and prayed to God to keep him safe. However, the white object wasn't that terrifying—it was just a long, pointed nightcap with a tassel on top, like the ones worn by criminals at their hanging. But when John saw a man's face beneath it, and a man's neck and shoulders slowly rising out of the pit, he couldn't shake the feeling that this was the spot where murderers came back to life, as per the Exmoor legend. He knew that a man had been hanged the previous week, and this was the ninth day since.
Therefore he could bear no more, thoroughly brave as he had been, neither did he wait to see what became of the gallows-man; but climbed on his horse with what speed he might, and rode away at full gallop. Neither did he dare go back by the way he came, fearing to face Black Barrow Down! therefore he struck up the other track leading away towards Cloven Rocks, and after riding hard for an hour and drinking all his whisky, he luckily fell in with a shepherd, who led him on to a public-house somewhere near Exeford. And here he was so unmanned, the excitement being over, that nothing less than a gallon of ale and half a gammon of bacon, brought him to his right mind again. And he took good care to be home before dark, having followed a well-known sheep track.
So he couldn’t take it anymore, no matter how brave he had been, and he didn’t stick around to see what happened to the guy on the gallows. He jumped on his horse as quickly as he could and rode away at full speed. He didn't even dare to go back the way he came, too scared to face Black Barrow Down! Instead, he took a different path toward Cloven Rocks, and after riding hard for an hour and downing all his whisky, he thankfully ran into a shepherd who showed him the way to a pub somewhere near Exeford. By this point, he was so shaken that once the excitement had faded, it took nothing less than a gallon of ale and half a gammon of bacon to get him back to his senses. He made sure to head home before dark, following a familiar sheep track.
When John Fry finished his story at last, after many exclamations from Annie, and from Lizzie, and much praise of his gallantry, yet some little disappointment that he had not stayed there a little longer, while he was about it, so as to be able to tell us more, I said to him very sternly,—
When John Fry finally wrapped up his story, after many excited reactions from Annie and Lizzie, along with plenty of compliments on his bravery, there was still a bit of disappointment that he hadn’t taken a little more time there to share more details. I then said to him quite seriously,—
“Now, John, you have dreamed half this, my man. I firmly believe that you fell asleep at the top of the black combe, after drinking all your whisky, and never went on the moor at all. You know what a liar you are, John.”
“Now, John, you’ve only imagined half of this, my friend. I honestly think you fell asleep at the top of the dark valley after drinking all your whisky, and you never stepped foot on the moor at all. You know how much of a liar you are, John.”
The girls were exceedingly angry at this, and laid their hands before my mouth; but I waited for John to answer, with my eyes fixed upon him steadfastly.
The girls were really angry about this and put their hands over my mouth; but I waited for John to respond, keeping my eyes locked on him.
“Bain't for me to denai,” said John, looking at me very honestly, “but what a maight tull a lai, now and awhiles, zame as other men doth, and most of arl them as spaks again it; but this here be no lai, Maister Jan. I wush to God it wor, boy: a maight slape this naight the better.”
“It's not for me to deny,” said John, looking at me very honestly, “but what a man might tell a lie, now and then, same as other men do, and most of all those who speak against it; but this is no lie, Master Jan. I wish to God it were, boy: I could sleep better tonight.”
“I believe you speak the truth, John; and I ask your pardon. Now not a word to any one, about this strange affair. There is mischief brewing, I can see; and it is my place to attend to it. Several things come across me now—only I will not tell you.”
“I believe you're telling the truth, John; and I'm sorry. Now, let’s keep this strange situation a secret. I can sense trouble on the horizon; it's my responsibility to deal with it. Some things are coming to mind right now—only I won't share them with you.”
They were not at all contented with this; but I would give them no better; except to say, when they plagued me greatly, and vowed to sleep at my door all night,—
They were not happy with this at all; but I wouldn’t give them anything better; except to say, when they bothered me a lot and promised to sleep at my door all night,—
“Now, my dears, this is foolish of you. Too much of this matter is known already. It is for your own dear sakes that I am bound to be cautious. I have an opinion of my own; but it may be a very wrong one; I will not ask you to share it with me; neither will I make you inquisitive.”
“Now, my dear ones, this is silly of you. Too much about this is already known. I’m only being careful for your own good. I have my own opinion, but it could be completely wrong; I won’t ask you to agree with me, and I won’t make you curious.”
Annie pouted, and Lizzie frowned, and Ruth looked at me with her eyes wide open, but no other mark of regarding me. And I saw that if any one of the three (for John Fry was gone home with the trembles) could be trusted to keep a secret, that one was Ruth Huckaback.
Annie sulked, Lizzie looked disapproving, and Ruth stared at me with her eyes wide open, but she showed no other sign of paying attention to me. I realized that if any one of the three (since John Fry had gone home shaken up) could be trusted to keep a secret, it was Ruth Huckaback.
CHAPTER XXXII
FEEDING OF THE PIGS
The story told by John Fry that night, and my conviction of its truth, made me very uneasy, especially as following upon the warning of Judge Jeffreys, and the hints received from Jeremy Stickles, and the outburst of the tanner at Dunster, as well as sundry tales and rumours, and signs of secret understanding, seen and heard on market-days, and at places of entertainment. We knew for certain that at Taunton, Bridgwater, and even Dulverton, there was much disaffection towards the King, and regret for the days of the Puritans. Albeit I had told the truth, and the pure and simple truth, when, upon my examination, I had assured his lordship, that to the best of my knowledge there was nothing of the sort with us.
The story John Fry shared that night, along with my strong belief in its truth, made me really uneasy, especially after Judge Jeffreys' warning, the hints from Jeremy Stickles, and the outburst from the tanner in Dunster, not to mention various stories and rumors and signs of secret agreements we noticed on market days and at local hangouts. We knew for sure that there was a lot of discontent towards the King in Taunton, Bridgwater, and even Dulverton, along with a longing for the Puritan days. Still, I had told the truth, and the straight-up truth, when I assured his lordship during my examination that, to the best of my knowledge, there was nothing like that happening with us.
But now I was beginning to doubt whether I might not have been mistaken; especially when we heard, as we did, of arms being landed at Lynmouth, in the dead of the night, and of the tramp of men having reached some one's ears, from a hill where a famous echo was. For it must be plain to any conspirator (without the example of the Doones) that for the secret muster of men and the stowing of unlawful arms, and communication by beacon lights, scarcely a fitter place could be found than the wilds of Exmoor, with deep ravines running far inland from an unwatched and mostly a sheltered sea. For the Channel from Countisbury Foreland up to Minehead, or even farther, though rocky, and gusty, and full of currents, is safe from great rollers and the sweeping power of the south-west storms, which prevail with us more than all the others, and make sad work on the opposite coast.
But now I was starting to doubt whether I might have been wrong; especially when we heard, as we did, of arms being unloaded at Lynmouth in the dead of night, and about the footsteps of men reaching someone’s ears from a hill where a famous echo was. It should be obvious to any conspirator (without needing the example of the Doones) that for secretly gathering men, hiding illegal weapons, and communicating through signal fires, there couldn't be a better location than the wilds of Exmoor, with deep ravines stretching far inland from an unmonitored and mostly sheltered sea. The Channel from Countisbury Foreland up to Minehead, or even further, though rocky, gusty, and full of currents, is safe from large waves and the powerful forces of the southwest storms that hit us more than any others, which wreak havoc on the opposite coast.
But even supposing it probable that something against King Charles the Second (or rather against his Roman advisers, and especially his brother) were now in preparation amongst us, was it likely that Master Huckaback, a wealthy man, and a careful one, known moreover to the Lord Chief Justice, would have anything to do with it? To this I could make no answer; Uncle Ben was so close a man, so avaricious, and so revengeful, that it was quite impossible to say what course he might pursue, without knowing all the chances of gain, or rise, or satisfaction to him. That he hated the Papists I knew full well, though he never spoke much about them; also that he had followed the march of Oliver Cromwell's army, but more as a suttler (people said) than as a real soldier; and that he would go a long way, and risk a great deal of money, to have his revenge on the Doones; although their name never passed his lips during the present visit.
But even if it's likely that something against King Charles the Second (or more accurately, against his Roman advisors, especially his brother) was being planned among us, would it really be expected that Master Huckaback, a wealthy and cautious man who was also known to the Lord Chief Justice, would get involved? I couldn't answer that. Uncle Ben was such a secretive, greedy, and vengeful man that it was impossible to predict what he might do without knowing all the potential gains or benefits it could bring him. I knew he hated the Papists, even though he rarely talked about them; I also knew he had followed Oliver Cromwell's army more as a supplier (or so people said) than as a true soldier, and he would go to great lengths and risk a significant amount of money to get his revenge on the Doones, even if he never mentioned their name during this visit.
But how was it likely to be as to the Doones themselves? Which side would they probably take in the coming movement, if movement indeed it would be? So far as they had any religion at all, by birth they were Roman Catholics—so much I knew from Lorna; and indeed it was well known all around, that a priest had been fetched more than once to the valley, to soothe some poor outlaw's departure. On the other hand, they were not likely to entertain much affection for the son of the man who had banished them and confiscated their property. And it was not at all impossible that desperate men, such as they were, having nothing to lose, but estates to recover, and not being held by religion much, should cast away all regard for the birth from which they had been cast out, and make common cause with a Protestant rising, for the chance of revenge and replacement.
But what about the Doones themselves? Which side would they probably choose in the upcoming movement, if it turned out to be a movement at all? As far as I knew, they were born Roman Catholics—so much I learned from Lorna; and it was widely known that a priest had been brought to the valley more than once to comfort a dying outlaw. On the other hand, they were unlikely to feel any fondness for the son of the man who had exiled them and seized their land. It wasn't out of the question that desperate people like them, having nothing to lose but their estates to regain, and not being very religious, might completely disregard their origins and join forces with a Protestant rebellion for a chance at revenge and reclaiming their position.
However I do not mean to say that all these things occurred to me as clearly as I have set them down; only that I was in general doubt, and very sad perplexity. For mother was so warm, and innocent, and kind so to every one, that knowing some little by this time of the English constitution, I feared very greatly lest she should be punished for harbouring malcontents. As well as possible I knew, that if any poor man came to our door, and cried, “Officers are after me; for God's sake take and hide me,” mother would take him in at once, and conceal, and feed him, even though he had been very violent; and, to tell the truth, so would both my sisters, and so indeed would I do. Whence it will be clear that we were not the sort of people to be safe among disturbances.
However, I don’t mean to say that I understood everything as clearly as I’ve written it down; I was generally filled with doubt and deep confusion. My mother was so warm, innocent, and kind to everyone that, knowing a little about the English constitution by this point, I worried a lot about her possibly facing punishment for helping those in trouble. I knew well enough that if any poor man came to our door and cried, “The authorities are after me; please hide me,” my mother would take him in right away, conceal him, and feed him, even if he had been very aggressive; and to be honest, both my sisters would do the same, and I would too. It’s clear that we weren't the kind of people who would be safe in times of unrest.
Before I could quite make up my mind how to act in this difficulty, and how to get at the rights of it (for I would not spy after Uncle Reuben, though I felt no great fear of the Wizard's Slough, and none of the man with the white night-cap), a difference came again upon it, and a change of chances. For Uncle Ben went away as suddenly as he first had come to us, giving no reason for his departure, neither claiming the pony, and indeed leaving something behind him of great value to my mother. For he begged her to see to his young grand-daughter, until he could find opportunity of fetching her safely to Dulverton. Mother was overjoyed at this, as she could not help displaying; and Ruth was quite as much delighted, although she durst not show it. For at Dulverton she had to watch and keep such ward on the victuals, and the in and out of the shopmen, that it went entirely against her heart, and she never could enjoy herself. Truly she was an altered girl from the day she came to us; catching our unsuspicious manners, and our free goodwill, and hearty noise of laughing.
Before I could decide how to handle this situation and figure out the truth of it (since I didn’t want to spy on Uncle Reuben, even though I wasn’t too worried about the Wizard's Slough or the man in the white nightcap), things suddenly changed again. Uncle Ben left as abruptly as he had arrived, giving no explanation for his departure, nor did he take the pony with him. In fact, he left something of great value to my mother. He asked her to look after his young granddaughter until he could safely take her to Dulverton. My mother was thrilled about this, and she couldn’t hide it; Ruth was just as happy, even though she felt she couldn’t show it. In Dulverton, she had to keep an eye on the food and the comings and goings of the shopkeepers, which really weighed on her heart, and she could never enjoy herself. She had truly changed since the day she came to us, adopting our carefree ways, our warm goodwill, and our joyful laughter.
By this time, the harvest being done, and the thatching of the ricks made sure against south-western tempests, and all the reapers being gone, with good money and thankfulness, I began to burn in spirit for the sight of Lorna. I had begged my sister Annie to let Sally Snowe know, once for all, that it was not in my power to have any thing more to do with her. Of course our Annie was not to grieve Sally, neither to let it appear for a moment that I suspected her kind views upon me, and her strong regard for our dairy: only I thought it right upon our part not to waste Sally's time any longer, being a handsome wench as she was, and many young fellows glad to marry her.
By this time, the harvest was finished, the haystacks were secured against southwest storms, and all the reapers had left with good money and gratitude. I started to feel a strong urge to see Lorna. I had asked my sister Annie to let Sally Snowe know, once and for all, that I couldn’t have anything more to do with her. Naturally, Annie wasn’t going to upset Sally or let it be obvious that I doubted her kind intentions towards me or her strong affection for our dairy; I just thought it was fair for us not to waste Sally's time any longer since she was a lovely girl and there were many young men eager to marry her.
And Annie did this uncommonly well, as she herself told me afterwards, having taken Sally in the sweetest manner into her pure confidence, and opened half her bosom to her, about my very sad love affair. Not that she let Sally know, of course, who it was, or what it was; only that she made her understand, without hinting at any desire of it, that there was no chance now of having me. Sally changed colour a little at this, and then went on about a red cow which had passed seven needles at milking time.
And Annie handled this exceptionally well, as she later told me, having gently brought Sally into her complete trust and revealed part of her heart about my very sad love story. Not that she let Sally know who it was or what exactly happened; she just made it clear, without suggesting any desire for it, that there was no chance of having me now. Sally blushed a bit at this, and then continued talking about a red cow that had passed seven needles during milking time.
Inasmuch as there are two sorts of month well recognised by the calendar, to wit the lunar and the solar, I made bold to regard both my months, in the absence of any provision, as intended to be strictly lunar. Therefore upon the very day when the eight weeks were expiring forth I went in search of Lorna, taking the pearl ring hopefully, and all the new-laid eggs I could find, and a dozen and a half of small trout from our brook. And the pleasure it gave me to catch those trout, thinking as every one came forth and danced upon the grass, how much she would enjoy him, is more than I can now describe, although I well remember it. And it struck me that after accepting my ring, and saying how much she loved me, it was possible that my Queen might invite me even to stay and sup with her: and so I arranged with dear Annie beforehand, who was now the greatest comfort to me, to account for my absence if I should be late.
Since there are two well-known types of month according to the calendar, namely the lunar and the solar, I confidently assumed that my months, with no other guidelines, were meant to be strictly lunar. So, on the very day when the eight weeks were up, I went out searching for Lorna, bringing along the pearl ring with hope, as well as all the fresh eggs I could find and a dozen and a half of small trout from our brook. The joy I felt catching those trout, thinking about how much she would enjoy them as they jumped around on the grass, is something I can't fully express, even though I remember it well. I thought that after accepting my ring and telling me how much she loved me, it was possible my Queen might invite me to stay and have dinner with her. So, I made plans with dear Annie beforehand, who was now my biggest comfort, to explain my absence if I happened to be late.
But alas, I was utterly disappointed; for although I waited and waited for hours, with an equal amount both of patience and peril, no Lorna ever appeared at all, nor even the faintest sign of her. And another thing occurred as well, which vexed me more than it need have done, for so small a matter. And this was that my little offering of the trout and the new-laid eggs was carried off in the coolest manner by that vile Carver Doone. For thinking to keep them the fresher and nicer, away from so much handling, I laid them in a little bed of reeds by the side of the water, and placed some dog-leaves over them. And when I had quite forgotten about them, and was watching from my hiding-place beneath the willow-tree (for I liked not to enter Lorna's bower, without her permission; except just to peep that she was not there), and while I was turning the ring in my pocket, having just seen the new moon, I became aware of a great man coming leisurely down the valley. He had a broad-brimmed hat, and a leather jerkin, and heavy jack-boots to his middle thigh, and what was worst of all for me, on his shoulder he bore a long carbine. Having nothing to meet him withal but my staff, and desiring to avoid disturbance, I retired promptly into the chasm, keeping the tree betwixt us that he might not descry me, and watching from behind the jut of a rock, where now I had scraped myself a neat little hole for the purpose.
But sadly, I was really let down; even though I waited and waited for hours, with plenty of patience and danger, no Lorna ever showed up, not even a hint of her. Another thing happened too, which annoyed me more than it should have for such a small issue. That was when that terrible Carver Doone casually took my little gift of the trout and the freshly laid eggs. I had hoped to keep them fresh and nice by placing them in a little bed of reeds by the water and covering them with some dog leaves. When I had completely forgotten about them and was watching from my hiding spot under the willow tree (since I didn’t want to enter Lorna’s space without her permission, except just to peek in and see if she was there), I noticed a big guy coming down the valley at a slow pace. He was wearing a broad-brimmed hat, a leather vest, and heavy boots that went up to his thighs, and the worst part for me was that he had a long gun slung over his shoulder. With nothing to defend myself except my staff and wanting to avoid any trouble, I quickly backed into the chasm, keeping the tree between us so he wouldn’t see me, and watched from behind the edge of a rock, where I had made a nice little spot for myself.
Presently the great man reappeared, being now within fifty yards of me, and the light still good enough, as he drew nearer for me to descry his features: and though I am not a judge of men's faces, there was something in his which turned me cold, as though with a kind of horror. Not that it was an ugly face; nay, rather it seemed a handsome one, so far as mere form and line might go, full of strength, and vigour, and will, and steadfast resolution. From the short black hair above the broad forehead, to the long black beard descending below the curt, bold chin, there was not any curve or glimpse of weakness or of afterthought. Nothing playful, nothing pleasant, nothing with a track of smiles; nothing which a friend could like, and laugh at him for having. And yet he might have been a good man (for I have known very good men so fortified by their own strange ideas of God): I say that he might have seemed a good man, but for the cold and cruel hankering of his steel-blue eyes.
Right now, the great man appeared again, now only fifty yards away from me, and the light was still good enough for me to make out his features as he got closer. Although I’m not an expert on people’s faces, there was something about his that sent a shiver down my spine, as if out of horror. It wasn’t that he had an ugly face; in fact, it looked quite handsome in terms of shape and structure, full of strength, vitality, determination, and unwavering resolve. From his short black hair on the broad forehead to the long black beard hanging below his strong chin, there wasn’t a single curve or hint of weakness or hesitation. Nothing playful, nothing friendly, nothing that would make a friend smile and tease him for it. Yet, he might have been a good man (because I’ve known very good men who were shaped by their own peculiar ideas of God): I’m saying he might have seemed like a good man, except for the cold and cruel longing in his steel-blue eyes.
Now let no one suppose for a minute that I saw all this in a moment; for I am very slow, and take a long time to digest things; only I like to set down, and have done with it, all the results of my knowledge, though they be not manifold. But what I said to myself, just then, was no more than this: “What a fellow to have Lorna!” Having my sense of right so outraged (although, of course, I would never allow her to go so far as that), I almost longed that he might thrust his head in to look after me. For there I was, with my ash staff clubbed, ready to have at him, and not ill inclined to do so; if only he would come where strength, not firearms, must decide it. However, he suspected nothing of my dangerous neighbourhood, but walked his round like a sentinel, and turned at the brink of the water.
Now, let no one think for a second that I realized all this instantly; I'm quite slow and take a long time to process things. I just like to write down everything I've learned, even if it's not much. But what I thought in that moment was simply this: “What a guy to have Lorna!” My sense of right was so offended (though I would never let her go that far), I almost wished he would peek in to see me. Because there I was, with my ash staff ready to swing, and I wasn’t opposed to doing so, if only he would come where strength, not weapons, would determine the outcome. However, he had no idea about my dangerous surroundings and was just patrolling like a guard, turning at the edge of the water.
Then as he marched back again, along the margin of the stream, he espied my little hoard, covered up with dog-leaves. He saw that the leaves were upside down, and this of course drew his attention. I saw him stoop, and lay bare the fish, and the eggs set a little way from them and in my simple heart, I thought that now he knew all about me. But to my surprise, he seemed well-pleased; and his harsh short laughter came to me without echo,—
Then, as he walked back along the edge of the stream, he spotted my little stash, hidden under dog leaves. He noticed that the leaves were turned upside down, which caught his attention. I watched him bend down and uncover the fish and the eggs placed a little away from them, and in my naive heart, I thought he now knew everything about me. But to my surprise, he seemed quite pleased; his harsh, short laugh reached me without any echo,—
“Ha, ha! Charlie boy! Fisherman Charlie, have I caught thee setting bait for Lorna? Now, I understand thy fishings, and the robbing of Counsellor's hen roost. May I never have good roasting, if I have it not to-night and roast thee, Charlie, afterwards!”
“Ha, ha! Charlie boy! Fisherman Charlie, have I caught you trying to impress Lorna? Now I get your schemes and the stealing from the Counsellor’s hen house. I swear, if I don’t have a good roast tonight and roast you, Charlie, afterward!”
With this he calmly packed up my fish, and all the best of dear Annie's eggs; and went away chuckling steadfastly, to his home, if one may call it so. But I was so thoroughly grieved and mortified by this most impudent robbery, that I started forth from my rocky screen with the intention of pursuing him, until my better sense arrested me, barely in time to escape his eyes. For I said to myself, that even supposing I could contend unarmed with him, it would be the greatest folly in the world to have my secret access known, and perhaps a fatal barrier placed between Lorna and myself, and I knew not what trouble brought upon her, all for the sake of a few eggs and fishes. It was better to bear this trifling loss, however ignominious and goading to the spirit, than to risk my love and Lorna's welfare, and perhaps be shot into the bargain. And I think that all will agree with me, that I acted for the wisest, in withdrawing to my shelter, though deprived of eggs and fishes.
With that, he calmly packed up my fish and the best of dear Annie's eggs, then walked away chuckling to himself, if you can call it a home. I was so upset and humiliated by this bold theft that I started out from my rocky hiding spot, planning to chase after him, until my better judgment stopped me just in time to avoid being seen. I realized that even if I could confront him without any weapon, it would be incredibly foolish to reveal my secret entrance, which could create a serious obstacle between Lorna and me, and I had no idea what trouble it could bring to her—all for a few eggs and fish. It was better to endure this minor loss, however embarrassing and frustrating it was, than to risk my love and Lorna's safety, not to mention possibly getting shot in the process. I believe everyone would agree that I acted wisely by retreating to my hiding place, even without my eggs and fish.
Having waited (as I said) until there was no chance whatever of my love appearing, I hastened homeward very sadly; and the wind of early autumn moaned across the moorland. All the beauty of the harvest, all the gaiety was gone, and the early fall of dusk was like a weight upon me. Nevertheless, I went every evening thenceforward for a fortnight; hoping, every time in vain to find my hope and comfort. And meanwhile, what perplexed me most was that the signals were replaced, in order as agreed upon, so that Lorna could scarcely be restrained by any rigour.
Having waited (as I mentioned) until there was no chance at all of my love showing up, I hurried home feeling very sad; and the early autumn wind wailed across the moorland. All the beauty of the harvest, all the joy was gone, and the early darkness felt like a heavy weight on me. Still, I went every evening from then on for two weeks, hoping each time, but in vain, to find my hope and comfort. Meanwhile, what troubled me the most was that the signals were changed back, as we had agreed, so that Lorna could hardly be held back by any strictness.
One time I had a narrow chance of being shot and settled with; and it befell me thus. I was waiting very carelessly, being now a little desperate, at the entrance to the glen, instead of watching through my sight-hole, as the proper practice was. Suddenly a ball went by me, with a whizz and whistle, passing through my hat and sweeping it away all folded up. My soft hat fluttered far down the stream, before I had time to go after it, and with the help of both wind and water, was fifty yards gone in a moment. At this I had just enough mind left to shrink back very suddenly, and lurk very still and closely; for I knew what a narrow escape it had been, as I heard the bullet, hard set by the powder, sing mournfully down the chasm, like a drone banished out of the hive. And as I peered through my little cranny, I saw a wreath of smoke still floating where the thickness was of the withy-bed; and presently Carver Doone came forth, having stopped to reload his piece perhaps, and ran very swiftly to the entrance to see what he had shot.
One time I had a close call with getting shot and ended up in quite a situation. It happened like this: I was waiting carelessly at the entrance to the glen, feeling a bit desperate, instead of keeping my eyes on my sight-hole like I was supposed to. Suddenly, a bullet whizzed past me, slicing through my hat and knocking it off. My soft hat flew down the stream before I could even think to retrieve it, and with the help of the wind and water, it was fifty yards away in an instant. Realizing how lucky I had been, I quickly pulled back and stayed very still, knowing I had just narrowly escaped. I heard the bullet, pushed hard by the powder, singing sadly down the chasm, like a drone that had been kicked out of the hive. As I peered through my little opening, I spotted a wreath of smoke still floating from the thick underbrush, and soon after, Carver Doone came out, likely having stopped to reload his gun, and ran quickly to the entrance to see what he had hit.
Sore trouble had I to keep close quarters, from the slipperiness of the stone beneath me with the water sliding over it. My foe came quite to the verge of the fall, where the river began to comb over; and there he stopped for a minute or two, on the utmost edge of dry land, upon the very spot indeed where I had fallen senseless when I clomb it in my boyhood. I could hear him breathing hard and grunting, as in doubt and discontent, for he stood within a yard of me, and I kept my right fist ready for him, if he should discover me. Then at the foot of the waterslide, my black hat suddenly appeared, tossing in white foam, and fluttering like a raven wounded. Now I had doubted which hat to take, when I left home that day; till I thought that the black became me best, and might seem kinder to Lorna.
It was tough for me to stay close to the edge because the stone underneath was slippery with water. My enemy came right to the brink of the waterfall, where the river starts to froth, and he paused there for a minute or two, on the very edge of dry land, precisely where I had fallen unconscious when I climbed it as a boy. I could hear him breathing heavily and grunting, unsure and irritated, since he was only a yard away from me, and I kept my right fist ready in case he spotted me. Just then, at the bottom of the waterslide, my black hat suddenly popped up, bobbing in the white foam and fluttering like an injured raven. I had actually debated which hat to wear when I left home that day; I finally decided the black one suited me best and might seem nicer to Lorna.
“Have I killed thee, old bird, at last?” my enemy cried in triumph; “'tis the third time I have shot at thee, and thou wast beginning to mock me. No more of thy cursed croaking now, to wake me in the morning. Ha, ha! there are not many who get three chances from Carver Doone; and none ever go beyond it.”
“Have I finally killed you, old bird?” my enemy shouted in triumph. “This is the third time I’ve shot at you, and you were starting to mock me. No more of your annoying croaking to wake me up in the morning. Ha, ha! Not many get three chances from Carver Doone, and no one ever gets more than that.”
I laughed within myself at this, as he strode away in his triumph; for was not this his third chance of me, and he no whit the wiser? And then I thought that perhaps the chance might some day be on the other side.
I chuckled to myself as he walked away in his victory; wasn't this his third shot at me, and was he any wiser? Then I considered that maybe one day the tables would turn.
For to tell the truth, I was heartily tired of lurking and playing bo-peep so long; to which nothing could have reconciled me, except my fear for Lorna. And here I saw was a man of strength fit for me to encounter, such as I had never met, but would be glad to meet with; having found no man of late who needed not my mercy at wrestling, or at single-stick. And growing more and more uneasy, as I found no Lorna, I would have tried to force the Doone Glen from the upper end, and take my chance of getting back, but for Annie and her prayers.
To be honest, I was really tired of hiding and playing hide-and-seek for so long; the only thing that kept me going was my fear for Lorna. Then I realized there was a strong man here who I could face, someone unlike anyone I had met before, and I would gladly take the chance to meet him. I hadn’t found anyone recently who didn’t need my mercy in wrestling or sword fighting. As I grew more and more anxious without any sign of Lorna, I thought about forcing my way out of Doone Glen from the upper end and taking my chances on getting back, but I held back because of Annie and her prayers.
Now that same night I think it was, or at any rate the next one, that I noticed Betty Muxworthy going on most strangely. She made the queerest signs to me, when nobody was looking, and laid her fingers on her lips, and pointed over her shoulder. But I took little heed of her, being in a kind of dudgeon, and oppressed with evil luck; believing too that all she wanted was to have some little grumble about some petty grievance.
Now, I think it was that same night or at least the next one that I saw Betty Muxworthy acting really strangely. She was making all sorts of odd gestures at me when no one was watching, putting her fingers to her lips and pointing over her shoulder. But I paid her little attention, feeling kind of annoyed and weighed down by bad luck; I also thought she just wanted to complain about some minor issue.
But presently she poked me with the heel of a fire-bundle, and passing close to my ear whispered, so that none else could hear her, “Larna Doo-un.”
But right then she poked me with the heel of a bundle of firewood and leaned in close to my ear, whispering so only I could hear her, “Larna Doo-un.”
By these words I was so startled, that I turned round and stared at her; but she pretended not to know it, and began with all her might to scour an empty crock with a besom.
By her words, I was so shocked that I turned around and stared at her; but she pretended not to notice and started vigorously cleaning an empty pot with a broom.
“Oh, Betty, let me help you! That work is much too hard for you,” I cried with a sudden chivalry, which only won rude answer.
“Oh, Betty, let me help you! That work is way too hard for you,” I said eagerly, suddenly feeling chivalrous, which only earned me a rude reply.
“Zeed me adooing of thic, every naight last ten year, Jan, wiout vindin' out how hard it wor. But if zo bee thee wants to help, carr peg's bucket for me. Massy, if I ain't forgotten to fade the pegs till now.”
“Zeed me doing this every night for the last ten years, Jan, without finding out how hard it was. But if you really want to help, carry Peg's bucket for me. Honestly, if I haven't forgotten to fetch the pegs until now.”
Favouring me with another wink, to which I now paid the keenest heed, Betty went and fetched the lanthorn from the hook inside the door. Then when she had kindled it, not allowing me any time to ask what she was after, she went outside, and pointed to the great bock of wash, and riddlings, and brown hulkage (for we ground our own corn always), and though she knew that Bill Dadds and Jem Slocombe had full work to carry it on a pole (with another to help to sling it), she said to me as quietly as a maiden might ask one to carry a glove, “Jan Ridd, carr thic thing for me.”
Favoring me with another wink, which I really noticed this time, Betty went and grabbed the lantern from the hook by the door. Once she lit it, without giving me a chance to ask what she was up to, she stepped outside and pointed to the big sack of wash, the leftovers, and the brown stuff (since we always ground our own corn). And even though she knew that Bill Dadds and Jem Slocombe struggled to carry it on a pole (with another person to help support it), she said to me as calmly as a girl might ask someone to carry a glove, “Jan Ridd, carry this thing for me.”
So I carried it for her, without any words; wondering what she was up to next, and whether she had ever heard of being too hard on the willing horse. And when we came to hog-pound, she turned upon me suddenly, with the lanthorn she was bearing, and saw that I had the bock by one hand very easily.
So I carried it for her, without saying a word; wondering what she was planning next, and if she had ever heard of being too hard on a willing horse. When we got to the hog-pound, she suddenly faced me, holding the lantern, and noticed that I was easily gripping the bock with one hand.
“Jan Ridd,” she said, “there be no other man in England cud a' dood it. Now thee shalt have Larna.”
“Jan Ridd,” she said, “there’s no other man in England who could have done it. Now you shall have Larna.”
While I was wondering how my chance of having Lorna could depend upon my power to carry pig's wash, and how Betty could have any voice in the matter (which seemed to depend upon her decision), and in short, while I was all abroad as to her knowledge and everything, the pigs, who had been fast asleep and dreaming in their emptiness, awoke with one accord at the goodness of the smell around them. They had resigned themselves, as even pigs do, to a kind of fast, hoping to break their fast more sweetly on the morrow morning. But now they tumbled out all headlong, pigs below and pigs above, pigs point-blank and pigs across, pigs courant and pigs rampant, but all alike prepared to eat, and all in good cadence squeaking.
While I was trying to figure out how my chances with Lorna depended on my ability to carry pig slop, and how Betty had any say in this (something that seemed to hinge on her choice), I was completely lost regarding her knowledge and everything else. Meanwhile, the pigs, who had been fast asleep and dreaming in their emptiness, suddenly woke up together to the wonderful smell around them. They had resigned themselves, as even pigs do, to a sort of fast, hoping to enjoy their meal more sweetly the next morning. But now they tumbled out in a rush—pigs below and pigs above, pigs head-on and pigs sideways, pigs moving fast and pigs standing tall—yet all ready to eat, and all squeaking in harmony.
“Tak smarl boocket, and bale un out; wad 'e waste sich stoof as thic here be?” So Betty set me to feed the pigs, while she held the lanthorn; and knowing what she was, I saw that she would not tell me another word until all the pigs were served. And in truth no man could well look at them, and delay to serve them, they were all expressing appetite in so forcible a manner; some running to and fro, and rubbing, and squealing as if from starvation, some rushing down to the oaken troughs, and poking each other away from them; and the kindest of all putting up their fore-feet on the top-rail on the hog-pound, and blinking their little eyes, and grunting prettily to coax us; as who would say, “I trust you now; you will be kind, I know, and give me the first and the very best of it.”
“Take that smelly bucket and dump it out; what a waste this stuff is!” So Betty had me feed the pigs while she held the lantern; and knowing how she was, I realized she wouldn’t say another word until all the pigs were fed. And honestly, no one could look at them and delay feeding them; they were all showing their hunger in such a strong way—some running around, rubbing against each other, and squealing as if they were starving, others rushing to the wooden troughs and pushing each other away from them; and the sweetest of all were putting their front feet on the top rail of the pigpen, blinking their little eyes, and grunting cutely to try to win us over; as if to say, “I trust you now; I know you’ll be kind and give me the first and the very best of it.”
“Oppen ge-at now, wull 'e, Jan? Maind, young sow wi' the baible back arlway hath first toorn of it, 'cos I brought her up on my lap, I did. Zuck, zuck, zuck! How her stickth her tail up; do me good to zee un! Now thiccy trough, thee zany, and tak thee girt legs out o' the wai. Wish they wud gie thee a good baite, mak thee hop a bit vaster, I reckon. Hit that there girt ozebird over's back wi' the broomstick, he be robbing of my young zow. Choog, choog, choog! and a drap more left in the dripping-pail.”
“Come on now, will you, Jan? Remember, the young sow with the bib always gets the first turn because I raised her on my lap. Look at her! How she lifts her tail; it really cheers me up to see her! Now you, get out of the way and take those big legs away. I wish they’d give you a good bite, make you hop a little faster, I guess. Hit that big old bird over there with the broomstick; he’s stealing my young sow. Go on, and there’s a bit more left in the dripping pan.”
“Come now, Betty,” I said, when all the pigs were at it sucking, swilling, munching, guzzling, thrusting, and ousting, and spilling the food upon the backs of their brethren (as great men do with their charity), “come now, Betty, how much longer am I to wait for your message? Surely I am as good as a pig.”
“Come on, Betty,” I said, as all the pigs were sucking, swilling, munching, guzzling, pushing, and spilling food all over each other (just like powerful people do with their charity), “come on, Betty, how much longer do I have to wait for your message? I’m just as good as a pig.”
“Dunno as thee be, Jan. No straikiness in thy bakkon. And now I come to think of it, Jan, thee zed, a wake agone last Vriday, as how I had got a girt be-ard. Wull 'e stick to that now, Maister Jan?”
“Don’t know about you, Jan. No stiffness in your bacon. And now that I think about it, Jan, you said a week ago last Friday that I had a big beard. Will you stick to that now, Master Jan?”
“No, no, Betty, certainly not; I made a mistake about it. I should have said a becoming mustachio, such as you may well be proud of.”
“No, no, Betty, definitely not; I was wrong about that. I should have said a stylish mustache, one that you can be proud of.”
“Then thee be a laiar, Jan Ridd. Zay so, laike a man, lad.”
“Then you’re a liar, Jan Ridd. Say it like a man, kid.”
“Not exactly that, Betty; but I made a great mistake; and I humbly ask your pardon; and if such a thing as a crown-piece, Betty”—
“Not exactly that, Betty; but I made a big mistake; and I sincerely ask for your forgiveness; and if there is such a thing as a crown piece, Betty—”
“No fai, no fai!” said Betty, however she put it into her pocket; “now tak my advice, Jan; thee marry Zally Snowe.”
“No way, no way!” said Betty, but she put it in her pocket; “now take my advice, Jan; you should marry Zally Snowe.”
“Not with all England for her dowry. Oh, Betty, you know better.”
“Not even with all of England as her dowry. Oh, Betty, you know that’s not true.”
“Ah's me! I know much worse, Jan. Break thy poor mother's heart it will. And to think of arl the danger! Dost love Larna now so much?”
“Ah! I know way worse, Jan. It will break your poor mother's heart. And to think of all the danger! Do you love Larna this much now?”
“With all the strength of my heart and soul. I will have her, or I will die, Betty.”
“With all my heart and soul, I will have her, or I will die, Betty.”
“Wull. Thee will die in either case. But it baint for me to argify. And do her love thee too, Jan?”
“Well. You will die in either case. But it's not my place to argue. And does she love you too, Jan?”
“I hope she does, Betty I hope she does. What do you think about it?”
“I really hope she does, Betty. What do you think?”
“Ah, then I may hold my tongue to it. Knaw what boys and maidens be, as well as I knew young pegs. I myzell been o' that zort one taime every bit so well as you be.” And Betty held the lanthorn up, and defied me to deny it; and the light through the horn showed a gleam in her eyes, such as I had never seer there before. “No odds, no odds about that,” she continued; “mak a fool of myzell to spake of it. Arl gone into churchyard. But it be a lucky foolery for thee, my boy, I can tull 'ee. For I love to see the love in thee. Coom'th over me as the spring do, though I be naigh three score. Now, Jan, I will tell thee one thing, can't abear to zee thee vretting so. Hould thee head down, same as they pegs do.”
“Alright, then I can keep quiet about it. You know what guys and girls are like, just like I know young fools. I've been through that phase just as much as you have.” And Betty held up the lantern, challenging me to deny it; the light through the horn revealed a spark in her eyes that I had never seen before. “No need to worry about that,” she continued; “it's silly of me to even talk about it. Everything's gone to the graveyard. But it's a happy foolishness for you, my boy, I can tell you that. I love seeing the love in you. It washes over me like spring does, even though I'm nearly sixty. Now, Jan, I need to tell you one thing, I can’t stand seeing you upset like this. Keep your chin up, just like those fools do.”
So I bent my head quite close to her; and she whispered in my ear, “Goo of a marning, thee girt soft. Her can't get out of an avening now, her hath zent word to me, to tull 'ee.”
So I leaned in close to her; and she whispered in my ear, “Good morning, you're really sweet. She can't get out this evening now, she's sent word to me, to tell you.”
In the glory of my delight at this, I bestowed upon Betty a chaste salute, with all the pigs for witnesses; and she took it not amiss, considering how long she had been out of practice. But then she fell back, like a broom on its handle, and stared at me, feigning anger.
In the excitement of my happiness about this, I gave Betty a quick, innocent kiss, with all the pigs as witnesses; and she didn't seem to mind, given how long it had been since she had experience. But then she leaned back, like a broom resting on its handle, and stared at me, pretending to be angry.
“Oh fai, oh fai! Lunnon impudence, I doubt. I vear thee hast gone on zadly, Jan.”
“Oh no, oh no! London arrogance, I doubt. I fear you’ve gone on sadly, Jan.”
CHAPTER XXXIII
AN EARLY MORNING CALL
Of course I was up the very next morning before the October sunrise, and away through the wild and the woodland towards the Bagworthy water, at the foot of the long cascade. The rising of the sun was noble in the cold and warmth of it; peeping down the spread of light, he raised his shoulder heavily over the edge of grey mountain, and wavering length of upland. Beneath his gaze the dew-fogs dipped, and crept to the hollow places; then stole away in line and column, holding skirts, and clinging subtly at the sheltering corners, where rock hung over grass-land; while the brave lines of the hills came forth, one beyond other gliding.
Of course, I was up the very next morning before the October sunrise, making my way through the wild and the woods toward the Bagworthy water, at the foot of the long waterfall. The sunrise was amazing, with a mix of cold and warmth; peeking down at the spread of light, it lifted its shoulder heavily over the edge of the grey mountain and the wavering stretch of upland. Under its watch, the dew-fogs dipped and crept into the low spots, then drifted away in lines and columns, holding onto their edges and clinging subtly to the sheltered corners where the rock hung over the grassy land; while the brave outlines of the hills emerged, one after another, gliding into view.
Then the woods arose in folds, like drapery of awakened mountains, stately with a depth of awe, and memory of the tempests. Autumn's mellow hand was on them, as they owned already, touched with gold, and red, and olive; and their joy towards the sun was less to a bridegroom than a father.
Then the woods rose in waves, like the curtains of tall mountains, majestic with a sense of wonder and reminders of storms. Autumn's warm touch graced them, as they already shone with gold, red, and olive hues; and their joy towards the sun was more like that of a father than a bridegroom.
Yet before the floating impress of the woods could clear itself, suddenly the gladsome light leaped over hill and valley, casting amber, blue, and purple, and a tint of rich red rose; according to the scene they lit on, and the curtain flung around; yet all alike dispelling fear and the cloven hoof of darkness, all on the wings of hope advancing, and proclaiming, “God is here.” Then life and joy sprang reassured from every crouching hollow; every flower, and bud, and bird, had a fluttering sense of them; and all the flashing of God's gaze merged into soft beneficence.
Yet before the mist of the woods could lift, suddenly the joyful light burst over the hills and valleys, casting shades of amber, blue, purple, and a deep red; depending on the scene it touched and the backdrop it contrasted with. Still, all of it chased away fear and the grips of darkness, pushing forward on the wings of hope and declaring, “God is here.” Then life and joy confidently emerged from every hidden space; every flower, bud, and bird sensed their presence with a flutter; and all the brilliance of God’s gaze blended into gentle kindness.
So perhaps shall break upon us that eternal morning, when crag and chasm shall be no more, neither hill and valley, nor great unvintaged ocean; when glory shall not scare happiness, neither happiness envy glory; but all things shall arise and shine in the light of the Father's countenance, because itself is risen.
So maybe we will experience that endless morning, when mountains and valleys will no longer exist, nor will the vast untouched ocean; when glory won't overshadow happiness, and happiness won't be jealous of glory; but everything will come alive and shine in the light of the Father's presence, because He has risen.
Who maketh His sun to rise upon both the just and the unjust. And surely but for the saving clause, Doone Glen had been in darkness. Now, as I stood with scanty breath—for few men could have won that climb—at the top of the long defile, and the bottom of the mountain gorge all of myself, and the pain of it, and the cark of my discontent fell away into wonder and rapture. For I cannot help seeing things now and then, slow-witted as I have a right to be; and perhaps because it comes so rarely, the sight dwells with me like a picture.
Who makes His sun rise on both the good and the bad. And honestly, without the saving clause, Doone Glen would have been in darkness. Now, as I stood there, struggling to catch my breath—since few men could have made that climb—at the top of the long pass, all of my pain and discontent melted away into awe and joy. I can't help but see things every now and then, as slow-witted as I might be; and maybe because it happens so rarely, that vision stays with me like a picture.
The bar of rock, with the water-cleft breaking steeply through it, stood bold and bare, and dark in shadow, grey with red gullies down it. But the sun was beginning to glisten over the comb of the eastern highland, and through an archway of the wood hung with old nests and ivy. The lines of many a leaning tree were thrown, from the cliffs of the foreland, down upon the sparkling grass at the foot of the western crags. And through the dewy meadow's breast, fringed with shade, but touched on one side with the sun-smile, ran the crystal water, curving in its brightness like diverted hope.
The rocky barrier, with the water carving a steep path through it, stood out boldly and bare, shrouded in shadows, gray with streaks of red. But the sun was starting to shine over the crest of the eastern highland, passing through an archway of trees draped with old nests and ivy. The lines of many leaning trees cascaded from the cliffs of the headland down onto the glimmering grass at the base of the western cliffs. And through the dew-kissed meadow, shaded yet touched by sunlight on one side, flowed the clear water, curving in its brightness like hope redirected.
On either bank, the blades of grass, making their last autumn growth, pricked their spears and crisped their tuftings with the pearly purity. The tenderness of their green appeared under the glaucous mantle; while that grey suffusion, which is the blush of green life, spread its damask chastity. Even then my soul was lifted, worried though my mind was: who can see such large kind doings, and not be ashamed of human grief?
On either bank, the blades of grass, putting on their final autumn growth, poked their tips and crisped their tufts with a pearly freshness. The softness of their green showed through the greyish covering; while that grey tint, which is the blush of vibrant life, spread its delicate purity. Even then my spirit was elevated, even though my mind was troubled: who can witness such generous acts and not feel ashamed of human sorrow?
Not only unashamed of grief, but much abashed with joy, was I, when I saw my Lorna coming, purer than the morning dew, than the sun more bright and clear. That which made me love her so, that which lifted my heart to her, as the Spring wind lifts the clouds, was the gayness of her nature, and its inborn playfulness. And yet all this with maiden shame, a conscious dream of things unknown, and a sense of fate about them.
I was not only unashamed of my grief but also a bit embarrassed by my joy when I saw my Lorna approaching, purer than the morning dew, brighter and clearer than the sun. What made me love her so deeply, what lifted my heart to her like the Spring wind lifts the clouds, was the brightness of her spirit and her natural playfulness. Yet even with all this, there was a sense of maidenly modesty, an awareness of things unseen, and a feeling of destiny surrounding them.
Down the valley still she came, not witting that I looked at her, having ceased (through my own misprison) to expect me yet awhile; or at least she told herself so. In the joy of awakened life and brightness of the morning, she had cast all care away, and seemed to float upon the sunrise, like a buoyant silver wave. Suddenly at sight of me, for I leaped forth at once, in fear of seeming to watch her unawares, the bloom upon her cheeks was deepened, and the radiance of her eyes; and she came to meet me gladly.
Down the valley she came, unaware that I was watching her, having stopped (due to my own misunderstanding) to expect me for a bit longer; or at least that's what she told herself. In the joy of a new day and the brightness of the morning, she had tossed aside all worries and seemed to float with the sunrise, like a vibrant silver wave. But when she saw me—since I stepped out quickly to avoid looking like I was staring at her uninvited—her cheeks flushed deeper, and her eyes sparkled even more, and she came to meet me happily.
“At last then, you are come, John. I thought you had forgotten me. I could not make you understand—they have kept me prisoner every evening: but come into my house; you are in danger here.”
“At last, you’re here, John. I thought you had forgotten me. I couldn’t make you understand—they’ve kept me locked away every evening: but come into my house; you’re in danger here.”
Meanwhile I could not answer, being overcome with joy, but followed to her little grotto, where I had been twice before. I knew that the crowning moment of my life was coming—that Lorna would own her love for me.
Meanwhile, I couldn’t respond, overwhelmed with joy, but I followed her to her little grotto, where I had been twice before. I knew that the most important moment of my life was approaching—that Lorna would admit her love for me.
She made for awhile as if she dreamed not of the meaning of my gaze, but tried to speak of other things, faltering now and then, and mantling with a richer damask below her long eyelashes.
She pretended for a while that she didn't notice what my gaze meant, but she tried to talk about other topics, stumbling occasionally, and blushing deeper under her long eyelashes.
“This is not what I came to know,” I whispered very softly, “you know what I am come to ask.”
“This is not what I expected,” I whispered softly, “you know what I’m here to ask.”
“If you are come on purpose to ask anything, why do you delay so?” She turned away very bravely, but I saw that her lips were trembling.
“If you’ve come here to ask something, why are you hesitating?” She turned away with great courage, but I noticed that her lips were quivering.
“I delay so long, because I fear; because my whole life hangs in balance on a single word; because what I have near me now may never more be near me after, though more than all the world, or than a thousand worlds, to me.” As I spoke these words of passion in a low soft voice, Lorna trembled more and more; but she made no answer, neither yet looked up at me.
“I hesitate for so long because I'm afraid; because my entire life rests on a single word; because what I have right now might never be close to me again, even though it means more to me than everything else in the world, or a thousand worlds.” As I spoke these heartfelt words in a soft, low voice, Lorna trembled increasingly; yet she didn’t respond or look up at me.
“I have loved you long and long,” I pursued, being reckless now, “when you were a little child, as a boy I worshipped you: then when I saw you a comely girl, as a stripling I adored you: now that you are a full-grown maiden all the rest I do, and more—I love you more than tongue can tell, or heart can hold in silence. I have waited long and long; and though I am so far below you I can wait no longer; but must have my answer.”
“I’ve loved you for a long time,” I went on, feeling bold now, “when you were just a little kid, I worshipped you as a boy: then when I saw you as a beautiful girl, I adored you as a young man: now that you’re a fully grown woman, I do all that and more—I love you more than words can express, or a heart can keep quiet about. I’ve waited a long time; and even though I’m beneath you, I can’t wait any longer; I need an answer.”
“You have been very faithful, John,” she murmured to the fern and moss; “I suppose I must reward you.”
“You've been really loyal, John,” she whispered to the fern and moss; “I guess I should reward you.”
“That will not do for me,” I said; “I will not have reluctant liking, nor assent for pity's sake; which only means endurance. I must have all love, or none, I must have your heart of hearts; even as you have mine, Lorna.”
"That doesn’t work for me," I said; "I won’t settle for half-hearted affection or agreement out of pity; that just leads to suffering. I need all your love or none at all; I need your whole heart, just like you have mine, Lorna."
While I spoke, she glanced up shyly through her fluttering lashes, to prolong my doubt one moment, for her own delicious pride. Then she opened wide upon me all the glorious depth and softness of her loving eyes, and flung both arms around my neck, and answered with her heart on mine,—
While I talked, she looked up shyly through her fluttering lashes to stretch my uncertainty for just a moment, fueled by her own delightful pride. Then she opened her loving eyes wide, revealing their glorious depth and softness, and threw her arms around my neck, responding with her heart next to mine—
“Darling, you have won it all. I shall never be my own again. I am yours, my own one, for ever and for ever.”
“Darling, you have won it all. I will never be myself again. I am yours, my one and only, now and forever.”
I am sure I know not what I did, or what I said thereafter, being overcome with transport by her words and at her gaze. Only one thing I remember, when she raised her bright lips to me, like a child, for me to kiss, such a smile of sweet temptation met me through her flowing hair, that I almost forgot my manners, giving her no time to breathe.
I honestly have no idea what I did or said after that, completely overwhelmed by her words and her look. The only thing I remember is when she lifted her shiny lips to me, like a child wanting a kiss; her sweet, tempting smile peeking through her flowing hair nearly made me forget my manners, not giving her a moment to breathe.
“That will do,” said Lorna gently, but violently blushing; “for the present that will do, John. And now remember one thing, dear. All the kindness is to be on my side; and you are to be very distant, as behoves to a young maiden; except when I invite you. But you may kiss my hand, John; oh, yes, you may kiss my hand, you know. Ah to be sure! I had forgotten; how very stupid of me!”
“That’s enough,” Lorna said softly, her face turning bright red. “For now, that’s enough, John. And remember one thing, dear. All the kindness needs to come from me, and you should keep your distance, as is proper for a young lady; unless I invite you closer. But you can kiss my hand, John; oh yes, you can kiss my hand, you know. Oh, of course! I totally forgot; how silly of me!”
For by this time I had taken one sweet hand and gazed on it, with the pride of all the world to think that such a lovely thing was mine; and then I slipped my little ring upon the wedding finger; and this time Lorna kept it, and looked with fondness on its beauty, and clung to me with a flood of tears.
For by this time I had taken one sweet hand and gazed at it, feeling the pride of the whole world to think that such a beautiful thing was mine; then I slipped my little ring onto the wedding finger; and this time Lorna kept it, admiring its beauty, and held onto me with a stream of tears.
“Every time you cry,” said I, drawing her closer to me “I shall consider it an invitation not to be too distant. There now, none shall make you weep. Darling, you shall sigh no more, but live in peace and happiness, with me to guard and cherish you: and who shall dare to vex you?” But she drew a long sad sigh, and looked at the ground with the great tears rolling, and pressed one hand upon the trouble of her pure young breast.
“Every time you cry,” I said, pulling her closer, “I’ll see it as an invitation to not stay too far away. There now, no one will make you weep. Darling, you won’t have to sigh anymore; you’ll live in peace and happiness, with me to protect and cherish you. Who would dare to upset you?” But she let out a long, sad sigh, looked down at the ground with big tears rolling down her cheeks, and pressed one hand against the pain in her pure, young heart.
“It can never, never be,” she murmured to herself alone: “Who am I, to dream of it? Something in my heart tells me it can be so never, never.”
“It can never, never be,” she whispered to herself: “Who am I to dream of it? Something in my heart tells me it can never be.”
CHAPTER XXXIV
TWO NEGATIVES MAKE AN AFFIRMATIVE
There was, however, no possibility of depressing me at such a time. To be loved by Lorna, the sweet, the pure, the playful one, the fairest creature on God's earth and the most enchanting, the lady of high birth and mind; that I, a mere clumsy, blundering yeoman, without wit, or wealth, or lineage, should have won that loving heart to be my own for ever, was a thought no fears could lessen, and no chance could steal from me.
There was no way you could bring me down at that moment. To be loved by Lorna, the sweet, pure, playful one, the most beautiful person on this planet and the most captivating, a woman of noble birth and intellect; that I, just a clumsy, awkward farmer, without cleverness, wealth, or background, had won her loving heart to be mine forever, was a thought that no fears could diminish and no circumstance could take away from me.
Therefore at her own entreaty taking a very quick adieu, and by her own invitation an exceeding kind one, I hurried home with deep exulting, yet some sad misgivings, for Lorna had made me promise now to tell my mother everything; as indeed I always meant to do, when my suit should be gone too far to stop. I knew, of course, that my dear mother would be greatly moved and vexed, the heirship of Glen Doone not being a very desirable dower, but in spite of that, and all disappointment as to little Ruth Huckaback, feeling my mother's tenderness and deep affection to me, and forgiving nature, I doubted not that before very long she would view the matter as I did. Moreover, I felt that if once I could get her only to look at Lorna, she would so love and glory in her, that I should obtain all praise and thanks, perchance without deserving them.
So, at her own request, I said a quick goodbye, and with her warm invitation, I rushed home, filled with joy but also some sadness, since Lorna had made me promise to tell my mother everything. I always intended to do that when my pursuit got too serious to back out. I knew, of course, that my dear mother would be very upset and troubled; inheriting Glen Doone isn’t a very appealing prospect. But despite that, and my disappointment over little Ruth Huckaback, I trusted my mother's loving and forgiving nature. I doubted not that she would eventually come to see things as I did. Plus, I felt that if I could just get her to meet Lorna, she would adore her so much that I would receive all the praise and gratitude, maybe even without truly earning it.
Unluckily for my designs, who should be sitting down at breakfast with my mother and the rest but Squire Faggus, as everybody now began to entitle him. I noticed something odd about him, something uncomfortable in his manner, and a lack of that ease and humour which had been wont to distinguish him. He took his breakfast as it came, without a single joke about it, or preference of this to that; but with sly soft looks at Annie, who seemed unable to sit quiet, or to look at any one steadfastly. I feared in my heart what was coming on, and felt truly sorry for poor mother. After breakfast it became my duty to see to the ploughing of a barley-stubble ready for the sowing of a French grass, and I asked Tom Faggus to come with me, but he refused, and I knew the reason. Being resolved to allow him fair field to himself, though with great displeasure that a man of such illegal repute should marry into our family, which had always been counted so honest, I carried my dinner upon my back, and spent the whole day with the furrows.
Unfortunately for my plans, who should be sitting down for breakfast with my mother and everyone else but Squire Faggus, as everyone had started calling him. I noticed something strange about him, something uncomfortable in his demeanor, and a lack of the ease and humor that used to define him. He ate his breakfast without cracking a single joke or showing a preference for one dish over another, instead casting sly, soft glances at Annie, who seemed unable to sit still or look at anyone directly. I was genuinely worried about what was on the horizon and truly felt bad for my poor mother. After breakfast, I had to get the barley-stubble ready for sowing French grass, and I asked Tom Faggus to join me, but he declined, and I knew why. Determined to give him space, even though it deeply bothered me that a man with such a shady reputation would be marrying into our family, which had always been seen as respectable, I took my lunch with me and spent the entire day working the fields.
When I returned, Squire Faggus was gone; which appeared to me but a sorry sign, inasmuch as if mother had taken kindly to him and his intentions, she would surely have made him remain awhile to celebrate the occasion. And presently no doubt was left: for Lizzie came running to meet me, at the bottom of the woodrick, and cried,—
When I got back, Squire Faggus was gone, which seemed like a bad sign to me because if my mother had liked him and his intentions, she would have surely asked him to stick around for a bit to celebrate the occasion. And soon enough, there was no doubt left: Lizzie came running to meet me at the bottom of the path and shouted,—
“Oh, John, there is such a business. Mother is in such a state of mind, and Annie crying her eyes out. What do you think? You would never guess, though I have suspected it, ever so long.”
“Oh, John, there's such a situation. Mom is really upset, and Annie is crying her eyes out. Can you believe it? You would never guess, although I’ve had my suspicions for a long time.”
“No need for me to guess,” I replied, as though with some indifference, because of her self-important air; “I knew all about it long ago. You have not been crying much, I see. I should like you better if you had.”
“No need for me to guess,” I replied, sounding a bit indifferent because of her self-important attitude; “I knew all about it a long time ago. You haven’t been crying much, I see. I would prefer you more if you had.”
“Why should I cry? I like Tom Faggus. He is the only one I ever see with the spirit of a man.”
“Why should I cry? I like Tom Faggus. He's the only one I ever see with the spirit of a real man.”
This was a cut, of course, at me. Mr. Faggus had won the goodwill of Lizzie by his hatred of the Doones, and vows that if he could get a dozen men of any courage to join him, he would pull their stronghold about their ears without any more ado. This malice of his seemed strange to me, as he had never suffered at their hands, so far at least as I knew; was it to be attributed to his jealousy of outlaws who excelled him in his business? Not being good at repartee, I made no answer to Lizzie, having found this course more irksome to her than the very best invective: and so we entered the house together; and mother sent at once for me, while I was trying to console my darling sister Annie.
This was obviously a jab at me. Mr. Faggus had earned Lizzie's favor by hating the Doones, claiming that if he could rally a dozen brave men, he'd take down their stronghold without hesitation. His bitterness confused me since he had never experienced their wrath, at least not that I knew of; could it be that he was jealous of outlaws who were better at his trade? Lacking wit for a comeback, I stayed silent with Lizzie, realizing that it bothered her more than any harsh words would. So, we went into the house together, and my mother immediately called for me while I was trying to comfort my sweet sister Annie.
“Oh, John! speak one good word for me,” she cried with both hands laid in mine, and her tearful eyes looking up at me.
“Oh, John! Please say something kind for me,” she exclaimed, her hands in mine and her tearful eyes looking up at me.
“Not one, my pet, but a hundred,” I answered, kindly embracing her: “have no fear, little sister: I am going to make your case so bright, by comparison, I mean, that mother will send for you in five minutes, and call you her best, her most dutiful child, and praise Cousin Tom to the skies, and send a man on horseback after him; and then you will have a harder task to intercede for me, my dear.”
“Not just one, my dear, but a hundred,” I replied, gently hugging her. “Don’t worry, little sister: I’m going to make your situation look so good by comparison that Mom will call for you within five minutes, say you’re her best and most obedient child, praise Cousin Tom to high heaven, and send a guy on horseback after him. And then, you’ll have a tougher job trying to plead for me, my dear.”
“Oh, John, dear John, you won't tell her about Lorna—oh, not to-day, dear.”
“Oh, John, sweet John, please don’t mention Lorna to her—oh, not today, dear.”
“Yes, to-day, and at once, Annie. I want to have it over, and be done with it.”
“Yes, today, and right now, Annie. I want to get it over with and be done.”
“Oh, but think of her, dear. I am sure she could not bear it, after this great shock already.”
“Oh, but think about her, dear. I’m sure she couldn’t handle it, especially after this huge shock already.”
“She will bear it all the better,” said I; “the one will drive the other out. I know exactly what mother is. She will be desperately savage first with you, and then with me, and then for a very little while with both of us together; and then she will put one against the other (in her mind I mean) and consider which was most to blame; and in doing that she will be compelled to find the best in either's case, that it may beat the other; and so as the pleas come before her mind, they will gain upon the charges, both of us being her children, you know: and before very long (particularly if we both keep out of the way) she will begin to think that after all she has been a little too hasty, and then she will remember how good we have always been to her; and how like our father. Upon that, she will think of her own love-time, and sigh a good bit, and cry a little, and then smile, and send for both of us, and beg our pardon, and call us her two darlings.”
“She will handle it much better,” I said; “one will push the other out. I know exactly what mom is like. She’ll be incredibly angry with you first, then with me, and for a short time, both of us together; then she’ll pit us against each other (in her mind, I mean) and decide who’s more to blame; in doing that, she’ll have to find something good in both of our cases to justify her feelings about the other; and as the arguments play out in her mind, they’ll outweigh the accusations, since we’re both her kids, you know: and pretty soon (especially if we both keep our distance) she’ll start to think that maybe she was a bit too quick to judge, and then she’ll remember how good we’ve always been to her; and how much we’re like our dad. After that, she’ll think back to her own time of love, sigh quite a bit, shed a few tears, then smile, and call for both of us, ask for our forgiveness, and refer to us as her two darlings.”
“Now, John, how on earth can you know all that?” exclaimed my sister, wiping her eyes, and gazing at me with a soft bright smile. “Who on earth can have told you, John? People to call you stupid indeed! Why, I feel that all you say is quite true, because you describe so exactly what I should do myself; I mean—I mean if I had two children, who had behaved as we have done. But tell me, darling John, how you learned all this.”
“Now, John, how on earth do you know all that?” my sister exclaimed, wiping her eyes and looking at me with a soft, bright smile. “Who could have told you, John? People who call you stupid, really! I feel that everything you say is totally true because you describe exactly what I would do myself; I mean—if I had two kids who had behaved like we have. But tell me, dear John, how did you learn all this?”
“Never you mind,” I replied, with a nod of some conceit, I fear: “I must be a fool if I did not know what mother is by this time.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I replied, with a bit of arrogance, I’m afraid: “I must be an idiot if I didn’t know what my mother is like by now.”
Now inasmuch as the thing befell according to my prediction, what need for me to dwell upon it, after saying how it would be? Moreover, I would regret to write down what mother said about Lorna, in her first surprise and tribulation; not only because I was grieved by the gross injustice of it, and frightened mother with her own words (repeated deeply after her); but rather because it is not well, when people repent of hasty speech, to enter it against them.
Now that what happened turned out just as I predicted, why should I go on about it after saying how it would be? Plus, I would hate to write down what my mother said about Lorna in her initial shock and distress; not only because I was upset by the blatant unfairness of it and because it scared my mother when I echoed her words back to her, but also because it’s not right to hold someone’s hasty words against them when they regret saying them.
That is said to be the angels' business; and I doubt if they can attend to it much, without doing injury to themselves.
That’s supposedly the angels' job, but I doubt they can focus on it for long without harming themselves.
However, by the afternoon, when the sun began to go down upon us, our mother sat on the garden bench, with her head on my great otter-skin waistcoat (which was waterproof), and her right arm round our Annie's waist, and scarcely knowing which of us she ought to make the most of, or which deserved most pity. Not that she had forgiven yet the rivals to her love—Tom Faggus, I mean, and Lorna—but that she was beginning to think a tattle better of them now, and a vast deal better of her own children.
However, by the afternoon, when the sun started to set, our mother sat on the garden bench with her head resting on my great waterproof otter-skin waistcoat, and her right arm around our Annie's waist. She hardly knew which of us to dote on more or which one needed more sympathy. It wasn’t that she had forgiven her rivals for her affection—Tom Faggus and Lorna—but she was beginning to think a bit better of them now, and a lot more of her own kids.
And it helped her much in this regard, that she was not thinking half so well as usual of herself, or rather of her own judgment; for in good truth she had no self, only as it came home to her, by no very distant road, but by way of her children. A better mother never lived; and can I, after searching all things, add another word to that?
And it really helped her a lot in this way that she wasn’t thinking as highly of herself, or of her own judgment, as she usually did; because honestly, she had no real sense of self, except as it connected to her children, which came to her not from far away, but through them. There never was a better mother; and can I, after exploring everything, say anything more to that?
And indeed poor Lizzie was not so very bad; but behaved (on the whole) very well for her. She was much to be pitied, poor thing, and great allowances made for her, as belonging to a well-grown family, and a very comely one; and feeling her own shortcomings. This made her leap to the other extreme, and reassert herself too much, endeavouring to exalt the mind at the expense of the body; because she had the invisible one (so far as can be decided) in better share than the visible. Not but what she had her points, and very comely points of body; lovely eyes to wit, and very beautiful hands and feet (almost as good as Lorna's), and a neck as white as snow; but Lizzie was not gifted with our gait and port, and bounding health.
And indeed, poor Lizzie wasn’t really that bad; she generally behaved quite well for her. She was definitely someone to feel sorry for, poor thing, and people made a lot of allowances for her since she came from a well-built and pretty family, and she was aware of her own shortcomings. This made her swing to the other extreme, trying too hard to assert herself, attempting to uplift her mind at the cost of her body; because, as far as anyone could tell, she was more capable mentally than physically. However, she did have her good qualities and some attractive features; lovely eyes, for example, and very beautiful hands and feet (almost as nice as Lorna’s), plus a neck as white as snow; but Lizzie didn’t have our graceful walk or posture, nor our vibrant health.
Now, while we sat on the garden bench, under the great ash-tree, we left dear mother to take her own way, and talk at her own pleasure. Children almost always are more wide-awake than their parents. The fathers and the mothers laugh; but the young ones have the best of them. And now both Annie knew, and I, that we had gotten the best of mother; and therefore we let her lay down the law, as if we had been two dollies.
Now, as we sat on the garden bench under the big ash tree, we let dear mom do her own thing and talk as she liked. Kids are usually more alert than their parents. Moms and dads laugh, but the kids always outsmart them. At that moment, both Annie and I knew we had outwitted Mom, so we let her call the shots, as if we were just two dolls.
“Darling John,” my mother said, “your case is a very hard one. A young and very romantic girl—God send that I be right in my charitable view of her—has met an equally simple boy, among great dangers and difficulties, from which my son has saved her, at the risk of his life at every step. Of course, she became attached to him, and looked up to him in every way, as a superior being”—
“Darling John,” my mother said, “your situation is quite complicated. A young and very romantic girl—let’s hope I’m right in my generous assessment of her—has encountered an equally simple boy, amidst significant dangers and challenges, from which my son has rescued her, risking his life at every turn. Naturally, she became fond of him and admired him in every way, seeing him as someone superior.”
“Come now, mother,” I said; “if you only saw Lorna, you would look upon me as the lowest dirt”—
“Come on, Mom,” I said; “if you just saw Lorna, you would think of me as the lowest of the low”—
“No doubt I should,” my mother answered; “and the king and queen, and all the royal family. Well, this poor angel, having made up her mind to take compassion upon my son, when he had saved her life so many times, persuades him to marry her out of pure pity, and throw his poor mother overboard. And the saddest part of it all is this—”
“No doubt I should,” my mother replied; “and the king and queen, and all the royal family. Well, this poor angel, deciding to show compassion for my son after he saved her life so many times, convinces him to marry her out of pure pity, leaving his poor mother behind. And the saddest part of it all is this—”
“That my mother will never, never, never understand the truth,” said I.
"That my mom will never, ever understand the truth," I said.
“That is all I wish,” she answered; “just to get at the simple truth from my own perception of it. John, you are very wise in kissing me; but perhaps you would not be so wise in bringing Lorna for an afternoon, just to see what she thinks of me. There is a good saddle of mutton now; and there are some very good sausages left, on the blue dish with the anchor, Annie, from the last little sow we killed.”
"That’s all I want," she replied. "Just to understand the simple truth from my own perspective. John, you're very smart for kissing me, but maybe you wouldn't be so smart for bringing Lorna over for an afternoon, just to see what she thinks of me. There’s a nice saddle of mutton right now, and there are some really good sausages left on the blue dish with the anchor, Annie, from the last little pig we slaughtered."
“As if Lorna would eat sausages!” said I, with appearance of high contempt, though rejoicing all the while that mother seemed to have her name so pat; and she pronounced it in a manner which made my heart leap to my ears: “Lorna to eat sausages!”
“As if Lorna would eat sausages!” I said, sounding really scornful, but secretly I was thrilled that mom had her name down so perfectly; and she said it in a way that made my heart race: “Lorna to eat sausages!”
“I don't see why she shouldn't,” my mother answered smiling, “if she means to be a farmer's wife, she must take to farmer's ways, I think. What do you say, Annie?”
“I don’t see why she shouldn’t,” my mom replied with a smile, “if she wants to be a farmer's wife, she needs to embrace the farmer's lifestyle, I believe. What do you think, Annie?”
“She will eat whatever John desires, I should hope,” said Annie gravely; “particularly as I made them.”
“She will eat whatever John wants, I hope,” said Annie seriously; “especially since I made them.”
“Oh that I could only get the chance of trying her!” I answered, “if you could once behold her, mother, you would never let her go again. And she would love you with all her heart, she is so good and gentle.”
“Oh, I wish I could just get a chance to try her out!” I replied, “If you could just see her once, mom, you would never want to let her go. And she would love you with all her heart; she’s so kind and gentle.”
“That is a lucky thing for me”; saying this my mother wept, as she had been doing off and on, when no one seemed to look at her; “otherwise I suppose, John, she would very soon turn me out of the farm, having you so completely under her thumb, as she seems to have. I see now that my time is over. Lizzie and I will seek our fortunes. It is wiser so.”
“That’s a lucky break for me,” my mother said, crying as she had been doing on and off when no one seemed to notice her. “Otherwise, I guess, John, she would quickly kick me out of the farm since she has you completely under her control, as it seems. I see now that my time is up. Lizzie and I will go look for our fortunes. It’s the smarter choice.”
“Now, mother,” I cried; “will you have the kindness not to talk any nonsense? Everything belongs to you; and so, I hope, your children do. And you, in turn, belong to us; as you have proved ever since—oh, ever since we can remember. Why do you make Annie cry so? You ought to know better than that.”
“Now, Mom,” I said; “could you please not talk nonsense? Everything is yours, and I hope your children are included in that. And you, in turn, belong to us; as you’ve shown ever since—oh, as long as we can remember. Why are you making Annie cry? You should know better than that.”
Mother upon this went over all the things she had done before; how many times I know not; neither does it matter. Only she seemed to enjoy it more, every time of doing it. And then she said she was an old fool; and Annie (like a thorough girl) pulled her one grey hair out.
Mother then reflected on everything she had done in the past; I can’t say how many times, and it doesn’t really matter. She just seemed to enjoy it more each time she thought about it. Then she called herself an old fool, and Annie (being her usual self) pulled out one of her grey hairs.
CHAPTER XXXV
RUTH IS NOT LIKE LORNA
Although by our mother's reluctant consent a large part of the obstacles between Annie and her lover appeared to be removed, on the other hand Lorna and myself gained little, except as regarded comfort of mind, and some ease to the conscience. Moreover, our chance of frequent meetings and delightful converse was much impaired, at least for the present; because though mother was not aware of my narrow escape from Carver Doone, she made me promise never to risk my life by needless visits. And upon this point, that is to say, the necessity of the visit, she was well content, as she said, to leave me to my own good sense and honour; only begging me always to tell her of my intention beforehand. This pledge, however, for her own sake, I declined to give; knowing how wretched she would be during all the time of my absence; and, on that account, I promised instead, that I would always give her a full account of my adventure upon returning.
Although our mother reluctantly agreed, many of the obstacles between Annie and her lover seemed to be gone. However, Lorna and I didn’t gain much, except for a bit of peace of mind and some relief for our consciences. Plus, our chances for frequent meetings and enjoyable conversations took a hit, at least for now. Even though Mom didn’t know about my narrow escape from Carver Doone, she insisted that I promise not to put my life at risk with unnecessary visits. On this matter, she felt comfortable leaving it to my good judgment and integrity, as long as I promised to inform her of my plans in advance. However, I refused to give that promise for her own sake, knowing how miserable she would be while I was away. Instead, I promised that I would always fill her in on my adventures when I got back.
Now my mother, as might be expected, began at once to cast about for some means of relieving me from all further peril, and herself from great anxiety. She was full of plans for fetching Lorna, in some wonderful manner, out of the power of the Doones entirely, and into her own hands, where she was to remain for at least a twelve-month, learning all mother and Annie could teach her of dairy business, and farm-house life, and the best mode of packing butter. And all this arose from my happening to say, without meaning anything, how the poor dear had longed for quiet, and a life of simplicity, and a rest away from violence! Bless thee, mother—now long in heaven, there is no need to bless thee; but it often makes a dimness now in my well-worn eyes, when I think of thy loving-kindness, warmth, and romantic innocence.
Now my mom, as you might expect, immediately started looking for ways to protect me from any further danger and to ease her own anxiety. She had lots of ideas for bringing Lorna away from the Doones and into her care in some amazing way, where she would stay for at least a year, learning everything my mom and Annie could teach her about dairy work, farm life, and the best way to pack butter. This all came up because I mentioned, without thinking much of it, how the poor girl had been longing for peace, a simpler life, and a break from all the violence! Bless you, Mom—now long gone to heaven, there's no need to bless you anymore; but it often brings a tear to my eye when I think of your kindness, warmth, and innocent dreams.
As to stealing my beloved from that vile Glen Doone, the deed itself was not impossible, nor beyond my daring; but in the first place would she come, leaving her old grandfather to die without her tendence? And even if, through fear of Carver and that wicked Counsellor, she should consent to fly, would it be possible to keep her without a regiment of soldiers? Would not the Doones at once ride forth to scour the country for their queen, and finding her (as they must do), burn our house, and murder us, and carry her back triumphantly?
As for taking my beloved away from that terrible Glen Doone, the act itself wasn't impossible or too bold for me; but first, would she really leave her old grandfather to die without her care? And even if, out of fear of Carver and that evil Counselor, she did agree to escape, would we be able to protect her without a whole army? Wouldn’t the Doones immediately come out searching for their queen, and if they found her (which they surely would), wouldn’t they burn our house, kill us, and take her back triumphantly?
All this I laid before my mother, and to such effect that she acknowledged, with a sigh that nothing else remained for me (in the present state of matters) except to keep a careful watch upon Lorna from safe distance, observe the policy of the Doones, and wait for a tide in their affairs. Meanwhile I might even fall in love (as mother unwisely hinted) with a certain more peaceful heiress, although of inferior blood, who would be daily at my elbow. I am not sure but what dear mother herself would have been disappointed, had I proved myself so fickle; and my disdain and indignation at the mere suggestion did not so much displease her; for she only smiled and answered,—
I shared all of this with my mother, and it impacted her enough that she sighed and admitted that, given the current situation, the only thing left for me to do was to keep a close watch on Lorna from a safe distance, observe the Doones' strategy, and wait for a good opportunity in their affairs. In the meantime, I might even fall in love (as my mother foolishly suggested) with a certain more peaceful heiress, even though she was of lesser status, who would be nearby every day. I'm not so sure that dear mother wouldn’t have been disappointed if I had turned out to be so unfaithful; my disdain and anger at the mere suggestion didn’t seem to upset her much, since she just smiled and replied,—
“Well, it is not for me to say; God knows what is good for us. Likings will not come to order; otherwise I should not be where I am this day. And of one thing I am rather glad; Uncle Reuben well deserves that his pet scheme should miscarry. He who called my boy a coward, an ignoble coward, because he would not join some crack-brained plan against the valley which sheltered his beloved one! And all the time this dreadful 'coward' risking his life daily there, without a word to any one! How glad I am that you will not have, for all her miserable money, that little dwarfish granddaughter of the insolent old miser!”
"Well, I can't say for sure; only God knows what's best for us. You can't just will your preferences into existence; if that were the case, I wouldn't be in this position today. And there's one thing I'm pretty happy about; Uncle Reuben really deserves for his pet project to fail. He labeled my boy a coward, a disgraceful coward, just because he didn't want to go along with some ridiculous plan against the valley that protects the one he loves! Meanwhile, this so-called 'coward' has been risking his life there every day, without saying a word to anyone! I'm so relieved that you won't have, despite her pitiful fortune, that little dwarf of a granddaughter from that arrogant old miser!"
She turned, and by her side was standing poor Ruth Huckaback herself, white, and sad, and looking steadily at my mother's face, which became as red as a plum while her breath deserted her.
She turned, and next to her stood poor Ruth Huckaback, looking pale, sad, and staring intently at my mother's face, which turned as red as a plum while she struggled to catch her breath.
“If you please, madam,” said the little maiden, with her large calm eyes unwavering, “it is not my fault, but God Almighty's, that I am a little dwarfish creature. I knew not that you regarded me with so much contempt on that account; neither have you told my grandfather, at least within my hearing, that he was an insolent old miser. When I return to Dulverton, which I trust to do to-morrow (for it is too late to-day), I shall be careful not to tell him your opinion of him, lest I should thwart any schemes you may have upon his property. I thank you all for your kindness to me, which has been very great, far more than a little dwarfish creature could, for her own sake, expect. I will only add for your further guidance one more little truth. It is by no means certain that my grandfather will settle any of his miserable money upon me. If I offend him, as I would in a moment, for the sake of a brave and straightforward man”—here she gave me a glance which I scarcely knew what to do with—“my grandfather, upright as he is, would leave me without a shilling. And I often wish it were so. So many miseries come upon me from the miserable money—” Here she broke down, and burst out crying, and ran away with a faint good-bye; while we three looked at one another, and felt that we had the worst of it.
“If you would, ma’am,” said the little girl, her large calm eyes steady, “it’s not my fault, but God’s, that I’m a bit of a dwarf. I didn’t realize you looked down on me for that; nor have you told my grandfather, at least not within my hearing, that he’s a rude old miser. When I go back to Dulverton, which I hope to do tomorrow (since it’s too late today), I’ll be sure not to mention your opinion of him, so as not to mess up any plans you might have for his property. I thank you all for your kindness to me, which has been very generous, far more than a little dwarf like me could hope for. I’ll just add one more little truth for your guidance. It’s not certain that my grandfather will leave any of his miserable money to me. If I upset him, which I might in an instant, for the sake of a brave and honest man”—here she gave me a look that left me unsure of how to react—“my grandfather, as upright as he is, would leave me with nothing. And sometimes I wish that were the case. So many troubles come my way because of that miserable money—” She then broke down, crying, and ran away with a faint goodbye, while the three of us looked at each other, feeling that we had lost out.
“Impudent little dwarf!” said my mother, recovering her breath after ever so long. “Oh, John, how thankful you ought to be! What a life she would have led you!”
“Impudent little dwarf!” said my mother, catching her breath after what felt like ages. “Oh, John, you should be so grateful! What a life she would have put you through!”
“Well, I am sure!” said Annie, throwing her arms around poor mother: “who could have thought that little atomy had such an outrageous spirit! For my part I cannot think how she can have been sly enough to hide it in that crafty manner, that John might think her an angel!”
“Well, I'm sure!” said Annie, wrapping her arms around her poor mother. “Who would have thought that tiny thing had such a bold spirit! I honestly can't believe she was clever enough to hide it so slyly that John would think she was an angel!”
“Well, for my part,” I answered, laughing, “I never admired Ruth Huckaback half, or a quarter so much before. She is rare stuff. I would have been glad to have married her to-morrow, if I had never seen my Lorna.”
“Well, for my part,” I replied, laughing, “I’ve never admired Ruth Huckaback even half as much as I do now. She’s something special. I would have happily married her tomorrow if I had never met my Lorna.”
“And a nice nobody I should have been, in my own house!” cried mother: “I never can be thankful enough to darling Lorna for saving me. Did you see how her eyes flashed?”
“And what a nice nobody I would have been, in my own home!” cried mother. “I can never be thankful enough to sweet Lorna for saving me. Did you see how her eyes sparkled?”
“That I did; and very fine they were. Now nine maidens out of ten would have feigned not to have heard one word that was said, and have borne black malice in their hearts. Come, Annie, now, would not you have done so?”
"Yeah, I did that; and they were really nice. Most girls would have pretended not to hear anything that was said and held onto their grudges. Come on, Annie, wouldn’t you have done the same?"
“I think,” said Annie, “although of course I cannot tell, you know, John, that I should have been ashamed at hearing what was never meant for me, and should have been almost as angry with myself as anybody.”
“I think,” said Annie, “even though I can’t say for sure, you know, John, that I would have felt ashamed to hear something that was never meant for me, and I would have been just as angry with myself as anyone else.”
“So you would,” replied my mother; “so any daughter of mine would have done, instead of railing and reviling. However, I am very sorry that any words of mine which the poor little thing chose to overhear should have made her so forget herself. I shall beg her pardon before she goes, and I shall expect her to beg mine.”
“So you would,” my mother replied; “any daughter of mine would have handled it the same way, instead of complaining and insulting. Still, I’m really sorry that anything I said that the poor girl happened to overhear made her lose her composure. I’ll apologize to her before she leaves, and I expect her to apologize to me.”
“That she will never do,” said I; “a more resolute little maiden never yet had right upon her side; although it was a mere accident. I might have said the same thing myself, and she was hard upon you, mother dear.”
"She will never do that," I said; "a more determined little girl has never had the truth on her side, even if it was just by chance. I could have said the same thing myself, and she was pretty tough on you, mom."
After this, we said no more, at least about that matter; and little Ruth, the next morning, left us, in spite of all that we could do. She vowed an everlasting friendship to my younger sister Eliza; but she looked at Annie with some resentment, when they said good-bye, for being so much taller. At any rate so Annie fancied, but she may have been quite wrong. I rode beside the little maid till far beyond Exeford, when all danger of the moor was past, and then I left her with John Fry, not wishing to be too particular, after all the talk about her money. She had tears in her eyes when she bade me farewell, and she sent a kind message home to mother, and promised to come again at Christmas, if she could win permission.
After this, we didn’t say anything more about it, at least regarding that topic; and the next morning, little Ruth left us, despite all our attempts to change her mind. She promised to be best friends with my younger sister Eliza, but she shot a resentful glance at Annie when they said goodbye for being so much taller. Annie thought so anyway, but she could have been mistaken. I rode alongside the little girl until we were well past Exeford, when it was safe from the moor, and then I left her with John Fry, not wanting to be too cautious after all the conversation about her money. She had tears in her eyes when she said goodbye, and she sent a sweet message home to our mother, promising to visit again at Christmas if she could get permission.
Upon the whole, my opinion was that she had behaved uncommonly well for a maid whose self-love was outraged, with spirit, I mean, and proper pride; and yet with a great endeavour to forgive, which is, meseems, the hardest of all things to a woman, outside of her own family.
Overall, I thought she had handled herself exceptionally well for a maid whose pride was hurt, showing both spirit and dignity; yet she also made a significant effort to forgive, which, it seems to me, is one of the hardest things for a woman to do, especially when it comes to anyone outside her family.
After this, for another month, nothing worthy of notice happened, except of course that I found it needful, according to the strictest good sense and honour, to visit Lorna immediately after my discourse with mother, and to tell her all about it. My beauty gave me one sweet kiss with all her heart (as she always did, when she kissed at all), and I begged for one more to take to our mother, and before leaving, I obtained it. It is not for me to tell all she said, even supposing (what is not likely) that any one cared to know it, being more and more peculiar to ourselves and no one else. But one thing that she said was this, and I took good care to carry it, word for word, to my mother and Annie:—
After that, for another month, nothing significant happened, except that I felt it was necessary, out of good sense and honor, to visit Lorna right after my talk with my mother and tell her everything. My beautiful Lorna gave me a sweet kiss with all her heart (as she always did when she kissed at all), and I asked for one more to take to our mother, which I got before leaving. It's not my place to share everything she said, even if (which is unlikely) anyone wanted to know, as it was becoming more and more personal to us and no one else. But one thing she did say was this, and I made sure to take it exactly as she said it to my mother and Annie:—
“I never can believe, dear John, that after all the crime and outrage wrought by my reckless family, it ever can be meant for me to settle down to peace and comfort in a simple household. With all my heart I long for home; any home, however dull and wearisome to those used to it, would seem a paradise to me, if only free from brawl and tumult, and such as I could call my own. But even if God would allow me this, in lieu of my wild inheritance, it is quite certain that the Doones never can and never will.”
“I can never believe, dear John, that after all the crime and chaos caused by my reckless family, it could ever be meant for me to settle down to a life of peace and comfort in a simple home. With all my heart, I long for a home; any home, no matter how dull and tiring to those used to it, would feel like paradise to me, as long as it was free from fighting and noise, and one that I could call my own. But even if God would allow me this instead of my wild inheritance, it's clear that the Doones will never be able to accept it.”
Again, when I told her how my mother and Annie, as well as myself, longed to have her at Plover's Barrows, and teach her all the quiet duties in which she was sure to take such delight, she only answered with a bright blush, that while her grandfather was living she would never leave him; and that even if she were free, certain ruin was all she should bring to any house that received her, at least within the utmost reach of her amiable family. This was too plain to be denied, and seeing my dejection at it, she told me bravely that we must hope for better times, if possible, and asked how long I would wait for her.
Again, when I told her how much my mother, Annie, and I wanted her at Plover's Barrows to teach her all the simple tasks she would surely enjoy, she just blushed and said that as long as her grandfather was alive, she could never leave him. Even if she were free, she believed that she would only bring certain ruin to any household that took her in, at least within the reach of her kind family. This was too obvious to argue against, and seeing how upset I was, she bravely told me that we should hope for better times, if possible, and asked how long I would wait for her.
“Not a day if I had my will,” I answered very warmly; at which she turned away confused, and would not look at me for awhile; “but all my life,” I went on to say, “if my fortune is so ill. And how long would you wait for me, Lorna?”
“Not a day if it were up to me,” I replied warmly; she turned away, flustered, and wouldn't look at me for a bit; “but my whole life,” I continued, “if that's how my luck is. So, how long would you wait for me, Lorna?”
“Till I could get you,” she answered slyly, with a smile which was brighter to me than the brightest wit could be. “And now,” she continued, “you bound me, John, with a very beautiful ring to you, and when I dare not wear it, I carry it always on my heart. But I will bind you to me, you dearest, with the very poorest and plainest thing that ever you set eyes on. I could give you fifty fairer ones, but they would not be honest; and I love you for your honesty, and nothing else of course, John; so don't you be conceited. Look at it, what a queer old thing! There are some ancient marks upon it, very grotesque and wonderful; it looks like a cat in a tree almost, but never mind what it looks like. This old ring must have been a giant's; therefore it will fit you perhaps, you enormous John. It has been on the front of my old glass necklace (which my grandfather found them taking away, and very soon made them give back again) ever since I can remember; and long before that, as some woman told me. Now you seem very greatly amazed; pray what thinks my lord of it?”
“Until I could get you,” she replied playfully, with a smile that was brighter to me than the sharpest joke. “And now,” she continued, “you’ve bound me, John, with a beautiful ring, and even when I can’t wear it, I keep it close to my heart. But I will bind you to me, my dearest, with the simplest and plainest thing you've ever seen. I could give you fifty prettier ones, but they wouldn’t be genuine; and I love you for your sincerity, and nothing else, of course, John; so don't get too proud. Look at it, what a strange old thing! There are some ancient markings on it, very bizarre and fascinating; it almost looks like a cat in a tree, but forget what it looks like. This old ring must have belonged to a giant; so it might fit you, you huge John. It’s been on the front of my old glass necklace (which my grandfather had to get back after they tried to take it) as long as I can remember; and even long before that, as some woman told me. Now you look really surprised; what does my lord think of it?”
“That is worth fifty of the pearl thing which I gave you, you darling; and that I will not take it from you.”
“That is worth fifty of that pearl thing I gave you, you sweetheart; and I won’t take it from you.”
“Then you will never take me, that is all. I will have nothing to do with a gentleman”—
“Then you will never have me, that’s it. I won’t have anything to do with a gentleman.”
“No gentleman, dear—a yeoman.”
“No sir, dear—a farmer.”
“Very well, a yeoman—nothing to do with a yeoman who will not accept my love-gage. So, if you please, give it back again, and take your lovely ring back.”
“Alright, a yeoman—has nothing to do with a yeoman who won't accept my love token. So, if you don’t mind, give it back to me and take your beautiful ring back.”
She looked at me in such a manner, half in earnest, half in jest, and three times three in love, that in spite of all good resolutions, and her own faint protest, I was forced to abandon all firm ideas, and kiss her till she was quite ashamed, and her head hung on my bosom, with the night of her hair shed over me. Then I placed the pearl ring back on the soft elastic bend of the finger she held up to scold me; and on my own smallest finger drew the heavy hoop she had given me. I considered this with satisfaction, until my darling recovered herself; and then I began very gravely about it, to keep her (if I could) from chiding me:—
She looked at me in such a way, half serious, half playful, and completely in love, that despite all my good intentions and her weak attempt to protest, I couldn't help but give in and kiss her until she felt embarrassed, her head resting on my chest with her hair spilling over me. Then I put the pearl ring back on the soft, flexible finger she raised to scold me, and I slipped the heavy ring she had given me onto my own pinky. I smiled at that until my sweetheart gathered herself again; then I began very earnestly to talk about it, trying to keep her from scolding me:—
“Mistress Lorna, this is not the ring of any giant. It is nothing more nor less than a very ancient thumb-ring, such as once in my father's time was ploughed up out of the ground in our farm, and sent to learned doctors, who told us all about it, but kept the ring for their trouble. I will accept it, my own one love; and it shall go to my grave with me.” And so it shall, unless there be villains who would dare to rob the dead.
“Lorna, this isn’t the ring of a giant. It’s just a very old thumb ring, like the one that was dug up on our farm during my father’s time. We sent it to scholars who told us all about it, but they kept the ring for their trouble. I’ll accept it, my one true love; and it will go to my grave with me.” And so it shall, unless there are villains who would dare to rob the dead.
Now I have spoken about this ring (though I scarcely meant to do so, and would rather keep to myself things so very holy) because it holds an important part in the history of my Lorna. I asked her where the glass necklace was from which the ring was fastened, and which she had worn in her childhood, and she answered that she hardly knew, but remembered that her grandfather had begged her to give it up to him, when she was ten years old or so, and had promised to keep it for her until she could take care of it; at the same time giving her back the ring, and fastening it from her pretty neck, and telling her to be proud of it. And so she always had been, and now from her sweet breast she took it, and it became John Ridd's delight.
Now I’ve talked about this ring (though I didn’t really want to and would rather keep such sacred things to myself) because it plays an important part in Lorna’s story. I asked her where the glass necklace was that the ring was attached to, which she wore in her childhood. She replied that she barely remembered, but she recalled that her grandfather had asked her to give it to him when she was about ten and had promised to keep it safe for her until she was old enough to take care of it; he also returned the ring to her, fastening it around her pretty neck, and telling her to be proud of it. And she always had been, and now she took it from her sweet chest, and it became John Ridd’s joy.
All this, or at least great part of it, I told my mother truly, according to my promise; and she was greatly pleased with Lorna for having been so good to me, and for speaking so very sensibly; and then she looked at the great gold ring, but could by no means interpret it. Only she was quite certain, as indeed I myself was, that it must have belonged to an ancient race of great consideration, and high rank, in their time. Upon which I was for taking it off, lest it should be degraded by a common farmer's finger. But mother said “No,” with tears in her eyes; “if the common farmer had won the great lady of the ancient race, what were rings and old-world trinkets, when compared to the living jewel?” Being quite of her opinion in this, and loving the ring (which had no gem in it) as the token of my priceless gem, I resolved to wear it at any cost, except when I should be ploughing, or doing things likely to break it; although I must own that it felt very queer (for I never had throttled a finger before), and it looked very queer, for a length of time, upon my great hard-working hand.
I shared most of this with my mother, just as I promised, and she was really happy with Lorna for being so kind to me and for speaking so sensibly. Then she looked at the large gold ring but couldn’t make sense of it. However, she was sure, as I was, that it must have belonged to a distinguished and high-ranking ancient family. I thought about taking it off so that it wouldn't be cheapened by a common farmer's finger. But my mom said “No,” with tears in her eyes; “if the ordinary farmer won the great lady from the ancient line, what do rings and old-fashioned jewelry matter compared to the living jewel?” I completely agreed with her and cherished the ring (which had no gem in it) as a symbol of my priceless jewel. So, I decided to wear it no matter what, except when I was plowing or doing something that might break it. Still, I have to admit that it felt really strange (since I had never choked a finger before) and looked odd for quite a while on my rough, hardworking hand.
And before I got used to my ring, or people could think that it belonged to me (plain and ungarnished though it was), and before I went to see Lorna again, having failed to find any necessity, and remembering my duty to mother, we all had something else to think of, not so pleasant, and more puzzling.
And before I got used to my ring, or people could think it was mine (simple and unadorned as it was), and before I went to see Lorna again, having found no reason to do so, and remembering my obligation to my mother, we all had something else to think about, which was less pleasant and more confusing.
CHAPTER XXXVI
JOHN RETURNS TO BUSINESS
Now November was upon us, and we had kept Allhallowmass, with roasting of skewered apples (like so many shuttlecocks), and after that the day of Fawkes, as became good Protestants, with merry bonfires and burned batatas, and plenty of good feeding in honour of our religion; and then while we were at wheat-sowing, another visitor arrived.
Now November was here, and we had celebrated Halloween, with roasting skewered apples (like so many shuttlecocks). After that came Guy Fawkes Day, and we celebrated as good Protestants do, with festive bonfires, roasted sweet potatoes, and plenty of good food in honor of our faith. Then, while we were sowing wheat, another visitor came.
This was Master Jeremy Stickles, who had been a good friend to me (as described before) in London, and had earned my mother's gratitude, so far as ever he chose to have it. And he seemed inclined to have it all; for he made our farm-house his headquarters, and kept us quite at his beck and call, going out at any time of the evening, and coming back at any time of the morning, and always expecting us to be ready, whether with horse, or man, or maiden, or fire, or provisions. We knew that he was employed somehow upon the service of the King, and had at different stations certain troopers and orderlies quite at his disposal; also we knew that he never went out, nor even slept in his bedroom, without heavy firearms well loaded, and a sharp sword nigh his hand; and that he held a great commission, under royal signet, requiring all good subjects, all officers of whatever degree, and especially justices of the peace, to aid him to the utmost, with person, beast, and chattel, or to answer it at their peril.
This was Master Jeremy Stickles, who had been a good friend to me (as previously mentioned) in London and had earned my mother’s gratitude, as much as he ever wanted it. And he seemed to want it all; he made our farmhouse his base and kept us completely at his service, going out at any time in the evening and returning whenever he pleased in the morning, always expecting us to be ready, whether it was with a horse, a man, a maid, a fire, or provisions. We knew he was somehow involved in the King’s service and had various troopers and orderlies at his disposal. We also knew that he never went out or even slept in his bedroom without heavy firearms loaded and a sharp sword close by; he held a significant commission under royal seal that required all loyal subjects, officers of any rank, and especially justices of the peace, to assist him to the fullest extent with people, animals, and belongings, or face serious consequences.
Now Master Jeremy Stickles, of course, knowing well what women are, durst not open to any of them the nature of his instructions. But, after awhile, perceiving that I could be relied upon, and that it was a great discomfort not to have me with him, he took me aside in a lonely place, and told me nearly everything; having bound me first by oath, not to impart to any one, without his own permission, until all was over.
Now Master Jeremy Stickles, knowing what women are like, didn’t dare share the details of his instructions with any of them. However, after some time, realizing that I could be trusted and that it was very uncomfortable not to have me with him, he took me aside to a quiet spot and told me almost everything; first making me swear an oath not to tell anyone without his permission until everything was over.
But at this present time of writing, all is over long ago; ay and forgotten too, I ween, except by those who suffered. Therefore may I tell the whole without any breach of confidence. Master Stickles was going forth upon his usual night journey, when he met me coming home, and I said something half in jest, about his zeal and secrecy; upon which he looked all round the yard, and led me to an open space in the clover field adjoining.
But right now, it’s all in the past, and I think it’s forgotten by most, except for those who experienced it. So I can share everything without breaking any trust. Master Stickles was heading out on his usual night journey when he saw me coming home, and I made a light-hearted comment about his enthusiasm and secrecy. He then looked all around the yard and took me to an open spot in the clover field next to us.
“John,” he said, “you have some right to know the meaning of all this, being trusted as you were by the Lord Chief Justice. But he found you scarcely supple enough, neither gifted with due brains.”
“John,” he said, “you have some right to know what all this means, since the Lord Chief Justice trusted you. But he found you not flexible enough and lacking the necessary intelligence.”
“Thank God for that same,” I answered, while he tapped his head, to signify his own much larger allowance. Then he made me bind myself, which in an evil hour I did, to retain his secret; and after that he went on solemnly, and with much importance,—
“Thank God for that,” I replied, while he tapped his head to indicate his own much bigger allowance. Then he made me promise to keep his secret, which I foolishly did, and after that, he continued seriously, with a lot of importance,—
“There be some people fit to plot, and others to be plotted against, and others to unravel plots, which is the highest gift of all. This last hath fallen to my share, and a very thankless gift it is, although a rare and choice one. Much of peril too attends it; daring courage and great coolness are as needful for the work as ready wit and spotless honour. Therefore His Majesty's advisers have chosen me for this high task, and they could not have chosen a better man. Although you have been in London, Jack, much longer than you wished it, you are wholly ignorant, of course, in matters of state, and the public weal.”
“There are some people who are meant to scheme, others who are meant to be schemed against, and still others who are meant to untangle schemes, which is the greatest gift of all. This last role has fallen to me, and it’s a thankless job, though a rare and valuable one. It also comes with a lot of danger; you need bravery and a cool head just as much as quick thinking and undeniable integrity. That’s why the King’s advisors have picked me for this important task, and they couldn’t have chosen anyone better. Even though you’ve been in London much longer than you wanted, Jack, you’re still completely unaware of course about state affairs and the public good.”
“Well,” said I, “no doubt but I am, and all the better for me. Although I heard a deal of them; for everybody was talking, and ready to come to blows; if only it could be done without danger. But one said this, and one said that; and they talked so much about Birminghams, and Tantivies, and Whigs and Tories, and Protestant flails and such like, that I was only too glad to have my glass and clink my spoon for answer.”
“Well,” I said, “I definitely am, and it’s all the better for me. I heard a lot of chatter; everyone was talking and ready to argue, as long as it didn’t involve any real risk. One person said this, another said that, and they went on and on about Birminghams, Tantivies, Whigs and Tories, and Protestant issues, that I was more than happy to just sip my drink and clink my spoon in response.”
“Right, John, thou art right as usual. Let the King go his own gait. He hath too many mistresses to be ever England's master. Nobody need fear him, for he is not like his father: he will have his own way, 'tis true, but without stopping other folk of theirs: and well he knows what women are, for he never asks them questions. Now heard you much in London town about the Duke of Monmouth?”
“Right, John, you’re right as always. Let the King do his own thing. He has too many mistresses to ever really rule England. No one needs to fear him, because he’s not like his father: he will do things his way, it’s true, but without interfering with others. He knows what women are like, since he never asks them anything. Have you heard much in London about the Duke of Monmouth?”
“Not so very much,” I answered; “not half so much as in Devonshire: only that he was a hearty man, and a very handsome one, and now was banished by the Tories; and most people wished he was coming back, instead of the Duke of York, who was trying boots in Scotland.”
“Not so much,” I replied; “not nearly as much as in Devonshire: just that he was a strong man, and really good-looking, and now he was exiled by the Tories; and most people wished he was returning instead of the Duke of York, who was busy trying on boots in Scotland.”
“Things are changed since you were in town. The Whigs are getting up again, through the folly of the Tories killing poor Lord Russell; and now this Master Sidney (if my Lord condemns him) will make it worse again. There is much disaffection everywhere, and it must grow to an outbreak. The King hath many troops in London, and meaneth to bring more from Tangier; but he cannot command these country places; and the trained bands cannot help him much, even if they would. Now, do you understand me, John?”
“Things have changed since you were in town. The Whigs are gaining traction again because of the Tories' foolishness in killing poor Lord Russell; and now this Master Sidney (if my Lord finds him guilty) will only make it worse. There’s a lot of discontent everywhere, and it’s bound to lead to an uprising. The King has a lot of troops in London and plans to bring more from Tangier, but he can't control these rural areas; and the local militias can't do much to help him, even if they wanted to. Do you get what I’m saying, John?”
“In truth, not I. I see not what Tangier hath to do with Exmoor; nor the Duke of Monmouth with Jeremy Stickles.”
“In truth, not me. I don’t see what Tangier has to do with Exmoor; nor the Duke of Monmouth with Jeremy Stickles.”
“Thou great clod, put it the other way. Jeremy Stickles may have much to do about the Duke of Monmouth. The Whigs having failed of Exclusion, and having been punished bitterly for the blood they shed, are ripe for any violence. And the turn of the balance is now to them. See-saw is the fashion of England always; and the Whigs will soon be the top-sawyers.”
“Hey, you big idiot, flip it around. Jeremy Stickles might have a lot to do with the Duke of Monmouth. The Whigs have failed at Exclusion and have been harshly punished for the blood they've spilled; they’re ready for any kind of violence. The scales are tipping in their favor now. The see-saw is always the trend in England, and the Whigs will soon be the ones on top.”
“But,” said I, still more confused, “'The King is the top-sawyer,' according to our proverb. How then can the Whigs be?”
“But,” I said, more confused than ever, “'The King is the top dog,' according to our saying. So how can the Whigs be?”
“Thou art a hopeless ass, John. Better to sew with a chestnut than to teach thee the constitution. Let it be so, let it be. I have seen a boy of five years old more apt at politics than thou. Nay, look not offended, lad. It is my fault for being over-deep to thee. I should have considered thy intellect.”
“You're such a hopeless fool, John. It’s better to sew with a chestnut than to try to teach you about the constitution. Let it be, let it be. I've seen a five-year-old who understands politics better than you do. Don't look so offended, kid. It's my fault for being too serious for you. I should have thought about your abilities.”
“Nay, Master Jeremy, make no apologies. It is I that should excuse myself; but, God knows, I have no politics.”
“Nah, Master Jeremy, don’t apologize. It’s me who should be excusing myself; but, honestly, I have no political agenda.”
“Stick to that, my lad,” he answered; “so shalt thou die easier. Now, in ten words (without parties, or trying thy poor brain too much), I am here to watch the gathering of a secret plot, not so much against the King as against the due succession.”
“Stick to that, my boy,” he replied; “it will make your death easier. Now, in ten words (without any arguments or stressing your brain too much), I’m here to keep an eye on the formation of a secret plot, not really aimed at the King but against the rightful succession.”
“Now I understand at last. But, Master Stickles, you might have said all that an hour ago almost.”
“Now I finally get it. But, Master Stickles, you could have said all that almost an hour ago.”
“It would have been better, if I had, to thee,” he replied with much compassion; “thy hat is nearly off thy head with the swelling of brain I have given thee. Blows, blows, are thy business, Jack. There thou art in thine element. And, haply, this business will bring thee plenty even for thy great head to take. Now hearken to one who wishes thee well, and plainly sees the end of it—stick thou to the winning side, and have naught to do with the other one.”
“It would have been better if I had done it for you,” he replied with deep sympathy. “Your hat is almost falling off your head from the swelling I caused. Fighting is your thing, Jack. That’s where you really shine. And hopefully, this will bring you enough even for your big head to handle. Now listen to someone who truly wants the best for you and clearly sees how this will end—stick with the winning side, and stay away from the losing one.”
“That,” said I, in great haste and hurry, “is the very thing I want to do, if I only knew which was the winning side, for the sake of Lorna—that is to say, for the sake of my dear mother and sisters, and the farm.”
"That," I said quickly, "is exactly what I want to do, if only I knew which side would win, for Lorna's sake—that is to say, for my dear mother and sisters, and the farm."
“Ha!” cried Jeremy Stickles, laughing at the redness of my face—“Lorna, saidst thou; now what Lorna? Is it the name of a maiden, or a light-o'-love?”
“Ha!” shouted Jeremy Stickles, laughing at how red my face was—“Lorna, you said; now who is this Lorna? Is she a maiden, or just a flirt?”
“Keep to your own business,” I answered, very proudly; “spy as much as e'er thou wilt, and use our house for doing it, without asking leave or telling; but if I ever find thee spying into my affairs, all the King's lifeguards in London, and the dragoons thou bringest hither, shall not save thee from my hand—or one finger is enough for thee.”
“Stick to your own business,” I replied, feeling quite proud; “feel free to spy as much as you want and use our house for it without asking permission or saying a word; but if I ever catch you snooping into my affairs, not even all the King's lifeguards in London and the soldiers you bring here will save you from me—or even just one finger is enough for you.”
Being carried beyond myself by his insolence about Lorna, I looked at Master Stickles so, and spake in such a voice, that all his daring courage and his spotless honour quailed within him, and he shrank—as if I would strike so small a man.
Being overwhelmed by his arrogance regarding Lorna, I looked at Master Stickles in such a way and spoke in such a tone that all his brave confidence and his unblemished honor wavered, and he shrank back—as if I would hit someone so small.
Then I left him, and went to work at the sacks upon the corn-floor, to take my evil spirit from me before I should see mother. For (to tell the truth) now my strength was full, and troubles were gathering round me, and people took advantage so much of my easy temper, sometimes when I was over-tried, a sudden heat ran over me, and a glowing of all my muscles, and a tingling for a mighty throw, such as my utmost self-command, and fear of hurting any one, could but ill refrain. Afterwards, I was always very sadly ashamed of myself, knowing how poor a thing bodily strength is, as compared with power of mind, and that it is a coward's part to misuse it upon weaker folk. For the present there was a little breach between Master Stickles and me, for which I blamed myself very sorely. But though, in full memory of his kindness and faithfulness in London, I asked his pardon many times for my foolish anger with him, and offered to undergo any penalty he would lay upon me, he only said it was no matter, there was nothing to forgive. When people say that, the truth often is that they can forgive nothing.
Then I left him and went to work with the sacks on the corn floor, trying to shake off my bad mood before I saw my mother. Honestly, I was feeling strong, but troubles were closing in on me, and people often took advantage of my easygoing nature. Sometimes, when I was pushed too far, a sudden heat would rush through me, a surge in all my muscles, and a tingling urge to throw something with all my might, something I could barely hold back out of self-control and fear of hurting anyone. Later, I always felt really ashamed of myself, realizing how insignificant physical strength is compared to mental power, and that it’s a cowardly move to misuse it against weaker people. At that moment, there was a small rift between Master Stickles and me, which I felt deeply guilty about. But even though I clearly remembered his kindness and loyalty in London and apologized many times for my foolish anger toward him, offering to accept any punishment he wanted to give me, he just said it was no big deal, that there was nothing to forgive. When people say that, it often means they can’t actually forgive anything.
So for the present a breach was made between Master Jeremy and myself, which to me seemed no great loss, inasmuch as it relieved me from any privity to his dealings, for which I had small liking. All I feared was lest I might, in any way, be ungrateful to him; but when he would have no more of me, what could I do to help it? However, in a few days' time I was of good service to him, as you shall see in its proper place.
So for now, there was a break between Master Jeremy and me, which didn't feel like much of a loss to me since it freed me from being involved in his business dealings, which I didn't like at all. The only thing I worried about was potentially being ungrateful to him, but when he wanted nothing to do with me anymore, what could I do? However, in just a few days, I ended up being quite useful to him, as you'll see in the right context.
But now my own affairs were thrown into such disorder that I could think of nothing else, and had the greatest difficulty in hiding my uneasiness. For suddenly, without any warning, or a word of message, all my Lorna's signals ceased, which I had been accustomed to watch for daily, and as it were to feed upon them, with a glowing heart. The first time I stood on the wooded crest, and found no change from yesterday, I could hardly believe my eyes, or thought at least that it must be some great mistake on the part of my love. However, even that oppressed me with a heavy heart, which grew heavier, as I found from day to day no token.
But now my life was in such chaos that I could think of nothing else, and I struggled to hide my anxiety. Suddenly, without any warning or message, all of Lorna's signals that I had been eagerly watching for daily just stopped. I used to look forward to them with a hopeful heart. The first time I stood on the wooded ridge and found everything just as it had been the day before, I could hardly believe my eyes and thought it must be a huge mistake on my love's part. However, even that thought weighed down on me, and my heart grew heavier as I waited day after day without any sign.
Three times I went and waited long at the bottom of the valley, where now the stream was brown and angry with the rains of autumn, and the weeping trees hung leafless. But though I waited at every hour of day, and far into the night, no light footstep came to meet me, no sweet voice was in the air; all was lonely, drear, and drenched with sodden desolation. It seemed as if my love was dead, and the winds were at her funeral.
Three times I went and waited a long time at the bottom of the valley, where the stream was now brown and raging from the autumn rains, and the weeping trees stood bare. But even though I waited at all hours of the day and deep into the night, no light footsteps came to meet me, and no sweet voice filled the air; everything was lonely, bleak, and soaked in heavy despair. It felt like my love was gone, and the winds were mourners at her funeral.
Once I sought far up the valley, where I had never been before, even beyond the copse where Lorna had found and lost her brave young cousin. Following up the river channel, in shelter of the evening fog, I gained a corner within stone's throw of the last outlying cot. This was a gloomy, low, square house, without any light in the windows, roughly built of wood and stone, as I saw when I drew nearer. For knowing it to be Carver's dwelling (or at least suspecting so, from some words of Lorna's), I was led by curiosity, and perhaps by jealousy, to have a closer look at it. Therefore, I crept up the stream, losing half my sense of fear, by reason of anxiety. And in truth there was not much to fear, the sky being now too dark for even a shooter of wild fowl to make good aim. And nothing else but guns could hurt me, as in the pride of my strength I thought, and in my skill of single-stick.
Once, I ventured deep up the valley, to a place I’d never been, even past the grove where Lorna had found and lost her brave young cousin. Following the riverbank, sheltered by the evening fog, I reached a spot close to the last distant cottage. It was a dreary, low, square house, with no light in the windows, roughly made of wood and stone, as I could see as I got closer. Knowing it was Carver’s home (or at least suspecting so from something Lorna had said), I felt curious, and maybe a bit jealous, and wanted to take a closer look. So, I crept up along the stream, my fear fading into anxiety. Honestly, there wasn't much to be afraid of, as the sky had grown too dark for even a bird hunter to take a decent shot. And nothing but guns could harm me, as I believed in my strength and my skill with a single stick.
Nevertheless, I went warily, being now almost among this nest of cockatrices. The back of Carver's house abutted on the waves of the rushing stream; and seeing a loop-hole, vacant for muskets, I looked in, but all was quiet. So far as I could judge by listening, there was no one now inside, and my heart for a moment leaped with joy, for I had feared to find Lorna there. Then I took a careful survey of the dwelling, and its windows, and its door, and aspect, as if I had been a robber meaning to make privy entrance. It was well for me that I did this, as you will find hereafter.
Nevertheless, I approached cautiously, now almost among this nest of dangerous creatures. The back of Carver's house was right on the edge of the rushing stream; and seeing an opening for muskets, I took a peek inside, but everything was quiet. As far as I could tell by listening, there was no one inside, and for a moment, my heart surged with joy because I had been afraid I would find Lorna there. Then I carefully examined the house, its windows, its door, and its overall appearance, as if I were a thief planning a discreet entry. It was a good thing I did this, as you will see later.
Having impressed upon my mind (a slow but, perhaps retentive mind), all the bearings of the place, and all its opportunities, and even the curve of the stream along it, and the bushes near the door, I was much inclined to go farther up, and understand all the village. But a bar of red light across the river, some forty yards on above me, and crossing from the opposite side like a chain, prevented me. In that second house there was a gathering of loud and merry outlaws, making as much noise as if they had the law upon their side. Some, indeed, as I approached, were laying down both right and wrong, as purely, and with as high a sense, as if they knew the difference. Cold and troubled as I was, I could hardly keep from laughing.
Having taken in all the details of the place, its opportunities, and even the way the stream curved nearby, along with the bushes by the door, I really wanted to explore further and understand the whole village. However, a bar of red light across the river about forty yards upstream, crossing from the opposite side like a chain, stopped me. In that second house, there was a bunch of loud and lively outlaws, making as much noise as if they had the law on their side. Some of them, as I got closer, were arguing about right and wrong with as much conviction as if they actually understood the difference. Even though I felt cold and uneasy, I could barely keep myself from laughing.
Before I betook myself home that night, and eased dear mother's heart so much, and made her pale face spread with smiles, I had resolved to penetrate Glen Doone from the upper end, and learn all about my Lorna. Not but what I might have entered from my unsuspected channel, as so often I had done; but that I saw fearful need for knowing something more than that. Here was every sort of trouble gathering upon me, here was Jeremy Stickles stealing upon every one in the dark; here was Uncle Reuben plotting Satan only could tell what; here was a white night-capped man coming bodily from the grave; here was my own sister Annie committed to a highwayman, and mother in distraction; most of all—here, there, and where—was my Lorna stolen, dungeoned, perhaps outraged. It was no time for shilly shally, for the balance of this and that, or for a man with blood and muscle to pat his nose and ponder. If I left my Lorna so; if I let those black-soul'd villains work their pleasure on my love; if the heart that clave to mine could find no vigour in it—then let maidens cease from men, and rest their faith in tabby-cats.
Before I headed home that night, easing my dear mother's heart and bringing smiles to her pale face, I had decided to sneak into Glen Doone from the upper end to find out more about my Lorna. I could have gone in through my usual way, as I had done many times before, but I realized I urgently needed to learn more than that. Trouble was closing in on me from every direction; Jeremy Stickles was lurking around in the dark, Uncle Reuben was scheming who knows what, a man in a white nightcap was rising from the grave, my sister Annie was caught up with a highwayman, and my mother was beside herself with worry; but more than anything—my Lorna was stolen, locked away, maybe even harmed. This wasn’t the time for hesitation or weighing my options; it wasn’t the time for a man with strength to just sit and think. If I left my Lorna like this; if I allowed those wicked villains to do as they pleased with my love; if the heart that was joined with mine couldn’t find the strength to act—then let women give up on men and trust only in cats.
Rudely rolling these ideas in my heavy head and brain I resolved to let the morrow put them into form and order, but not contradict them. And then, as my constitution willed (being like that of England), I slept, and there was no stopping me.
Roughly turning these thoughts around in my tired mind, I decided to let tomorrow shape and organize them, but I wouldn't go against them. Then, as my nature dictated (similar to that of England), I fell asleep, and nothing could keep me awake.
CHAPTER XXXVII
A VERY DESPERATE VENTURE
That the enterprise now resolved upon was far more dangerous than any hitherto attempted by me, needs no further proof than this:—I went and made my will at Porlock, with a middling honest lawyer there; not that I had much to leave, but that none could say how far the farm, and all the farming stock, might depend on my disposition. It makes me smile when I remember how particular I was, and how for the life of me I was puzzled to bequeath most part of my clothes, and hats, and things altogether my own, to Lorna, without the shrewd old lawyer knowing who she was and where she lived. At last, indeed, I flattered myself that I had baffled old Tape's curiosity; but his wrinkled smile and his speech at parting made me again uneasy.
The project I was about to undertake was way riskier than anything I'd tried before, and the best proof of that is this: I went and made my will in Porlock with a pretty decent lawyer there. It wasn’t that I had much to leave behind, but no one could say how much the farm and all the farming equipment might depend on what I decided. It makes me laugh when I think about how careful I was, and how I really struggled to leave most of my clothes, hats, and other personal belongings to Lorna without that sharp old lawyer figuring out who she was and where she lived. In the end, I convinced myself that I had thrown old Tape off the scent, but his wrinkled smile and his words at goodbye made me feel uneasy again.
“A very excellent will, young sir. An admirably just and virtuous will; all your effects to your nearest of kin; filial and fraternal duty thoroughly exemplified; nothing diverted to alien channels, except a small token of esteem and reverence to an elderly lady, I presume: and which may or may not be valid, or invalid, on the ground of uncertainty, or the absence of any legal status on the part of the legatee. Ha, ha! Yes, yes! Few young men are so free from exceptionable entanglements. Two guineas is my charge, sir: and a rare good will for the money. Very prudent of you, sir. Does you credit in every way. Well, well; we all must die; and often the young before the old.”
"A very well-thought-out will, young man. An impressively fair and moral will; leaving all your belongings to your closest relatives; showing strong duty towards family; nothing diverted to outside parties, except a small gesture of respect and admiration for an older lady, I assume: which may or may not hold up legally, due to uncertainty or the lack of any legal status for the beneficiary. Ha, ha! Yes, yes! Few young men avoid questionable situations like this. My fee is two guineas, sir: and that's a great deal for the service. Very wise of you, sir. It reflects well on you in every way. Well, well; we all have to die; and often the young go before the old."
Not only did I think two guineas a great deal too much money for a quarter of an hour's employment, but also I disliked particularly the words with which he concluded; they sounded, from his grating voice, like the evil omen of a croaking raven. Nevertheless I still abode in my fixed resolve to go, and find out, if I died for it, what was become of Lorna. And herein I lay no claim to courage; the matter being simply a choice between two evils, of which by far the greater one was, of course, to lose my darling.
Not only did I think two guineas was way too much money for a quarter of an hour's work, but I particularly disliked the words he used to finish; they sounded, coming from his harsh voice, like the bad omen of a croaking raven. Still, I stuck to my decision to go find out, even if it cost me my life, what had happened to Lorna. And I don't claim to be brave; it was simply a choice between two evils, with the much worse one being, of course, losing my beloved.
The journey was a great deal longer to fetch around the Southern hills, and enter by the Doone-gate, than to cross the lower land and steal in by the water-slide. However, I durst not take a horse (for fear of the Doones who might be abroad upon their usual business), but started betimes in the evening, so as not to hurry, or waste any strength upon the way. And thus I came to the robbers' highway, walking circumspectly, scanning the sky-line of every hill, and searching the folds of every valley, for any moving figure.
The journey was much longer to go around the Southern hills and enter through the Doone gate than to cross the lower land and sneak in by the water slide. However, I didn't dare take a horse (out of fear of the Doones who might be out on their usual business), so I set out early in the evening, aiming not to rush or waste any energy along the way. And so, I reached the robbers' path, walking carefully, checking the skyline of every hill and searching the folds of every valley for any moving figure.
Although it was now well on towards dark, and the sun was down an hour or so, I could see the robbers' road before me, in a trough of the winding hills, where the brook ploughed down from the higher barrows, and the coving banks were roofed with furze. At present, there was no one passing, neither post nor sentinel, so far as I could descry; but I thought it safer to wait a little, as twilight melted into night; and then I crept down a seam of the highland, and stood upon the Doone-track.
Although it was already getting dark, and the sun had been down for about an hour, I could see the robbers' road ahead of me, in a dip of the winding hills, where the stream flowed down from the higher mounds, and the sloping banks were covered with gorse. Right now, there wasn’t anyone passing by, no posts or guards that I could see; but I thought it would be safer to wait a bit as twilight faded into night, and then I crept down a slope of the highland and stood on the Doone path.
As the road approached the entrance, it became more straight and strong, like a channel cut from rock, with the water brawling darkly along the naked side of it. Not a tree or bush was left, to shelter a man from bullets: all was stern, and stiff, and rugged, as I could not help perceiving, even through the darkness, and a smell as of churchyard mould, a sense of being boxed in and cooped, made me long to be out again.
As the road got closer to the entrance, it turned more direct and solid, like a path carved from rock, with the water rushing darkly along its bare edge. There wasn't a tree or shrub in sight to shield someone from bullets; everything felt harsh, rigid, and rough. Even in the darkness, I couldn't help but notice it, and the scent of damp earth made me feel trapped and claustrophobic, making me crave freedom once more.
And here I was, or seemed to be, particularly unlucky; for as I drew near the very entrance, lightly of foot and warily, the moon (which had often been my friend) like an enemy broke upon me, topping the eastward ridge of rock, and filling all the open spaces with the play of wavering light. I shrank back into the shadowy quarter on the right side of the road; and gloomily employed myself to watch the triple entrance, on which the moonlight fell askew.
And here I was, or at least it felt that way, really unlucky; because as I approached the entrance quietly and carefully, the moon (which had often been on my side) suddenly appeared like an enemy, rising over the eastern ridge of rock and lighting up all the open spaces with its flickering glow. I quickly stepped back into the shadowy area on the right side of the road; and gloomily occupied myself with watching the three-part entrance, where the moonlight cast its slanted beams.
All across and before the three rude and beetling archways hung a felled oak overhead, black, and thick, and threatening. This, as I heard before, could be let fall in a moment, so as to crush a score of men, and bar the approach of horses. Behind this tree, the rocky mouth was spanned, as by a gallery with brushwood and piled timber, all upon a ledge of stone, where thirty men might lurk unseen, and fire at any invader. From that rampart it would be impossible to dislodge them, because the rock fell sheer below them twenty feet, or it may be more; while overhead it towered three hundred, and so jutted over that nothing could be cast upon them; even if a man could climb the height. And the access to this portcullis place—if I may so call it, being no portcullis there—was through certain rocky chambers known to the tenants only.
All around and in front of the three rough, jutting archways hung a heavy, black, and imposing fallen oak. I had heard that it could be dropped at any moment to crush several people and block any horses from passing. Behind this tree, the rocky entrance was covered by a barrier made of brushwood and stacked timber, all positioned on a stone ledge where thirty men could hide out of sight and shoot at any intruders. From that vantage point, it would be impossible to dislodge them because the rock dropped straight down twenty feet or more, and above them it rose three hundred feet, overhanging so much that nothing could be thrown down at them, even if someone managed to climb up. Access to this gated area—if I can call it that since there was no actual gate—was through certain rocky chambers known only to the people who lived there.
But the cleverest of their devices, and the most puzzling to an enemy, was that, instead of one mouth only, there were three to choose from, with nothing to betoken which was the proper access; all being pretty much alike, and all unfenced and yawning. And the common rumour was that in times of any danger, when any force was known to be on muster in their neighbourhood, they changed their entrance every day, and diverted the other two, by means of sliding doors to the chasms and dark abysses.
But the cleverest of their tricks, and the most confusing for an enemy, was that instead of just one entrance, there were three to choose from, with nothing to indicate which one was the right way in; all looking pretty much the same, and all wide open. The common rumor was that during times of danger, when any forces were known to be gathering nearby, they changed their entrance every day and concealed the other two with sliding doors leading to the chasms and dark abysses.
Now I could see those three rough arches, jagged, black, and terrible; and I knew that only one of them could lead me to the valley; neither gave the river now any further guidance; but dived underground with a sullen roar, where it met the cross-bar of the mountain. Having no means at all of judging which was the right way of the three, and knowing that the other two would lead to almost certain death, in the ruggedness and darkness,—for how could a man, among precipices and bottomless depths of water, without a ray of light, have any chance to save his life?—I do declare that I was half inclined to go away, and have done with it.
Now I could see those three rough arches, jagged, black, and menacing; and I knew that only one of them could lead me to the valley; neither provided the river with any further guidance; they both plunged underground with a gloomy roar, where they met the mountain’s cross-bar. With no way to tell which of the three was the right path, and knowing that the other two would likely lead to almost certain death in the rugged darkness—how could anyone survive among cliffs and bottomless depths of water, without a single ray of light?—I honestly felt like just turning around and giving up.
However, I knew one thing for certain, to wit, that the longer I stayed debating the more would the enterprise pall upon me, and the less my relish be. And it struck me that, in times of peace, the middle way was the likeliest; and the others diverging right and left in their farther parts might be made to slide into it (not far from the entrance), at the pleasure of the warders. Also I took it for good omen that I remembered (as rarely happened) a very fine line in the Latin grammar, whose emphasis and meaning is “middle road is safest.”
However, I knew one thing for sure: the longer I stayed debating, the more the idea would wear on me, and the less I would enjoy it. It occurred to me that, in times of peace, the middle path was the most likely option; and the other paths diverging right and left could be guided back to it (not far from the entrance), at the discretion of the gatekeepers. I also took it as a good sign that I remembered (which rarely happened) a very nice phrase from Latin grammar, whose emphasis and meaning is “the middle road is safest.”
Therefore, without more hesitation, I plunged into the middle way, holding a long ash staff before me, shodden at the end with iron. Presently I was in black darkness groping along the wall, and feeling a deal more fear than I wished to feel; especially when upon looking back I could no longer see the light, which I had forsaken. Then I stumbled over something hard, and sharp, and very cold, moreover so grievous to my legs that it needed my very best doctrine and humour to forbear from swearing, in the manner they use in London. But when I arose and felt it, and knew it to be a culverin, I was somewhat reassured thereby, inasmuch as it was not likely that they would plant this engine except in the real and true entrance.
So, without any more hesitation, I stepped into the middle path, carrying a long ash staff in front of me, tipped with iron at the end. Soon, I found myself in complete darkness, feeling along the wall, and experiencing more fear than I wanted, especially when I looked back and couldn't see the light I had left behind. Then, I stumbled over something hard, sharp, and really cold, which hurt my legs so much that I had to hold back from swearing, like they do in London. But when I got up and felt it, and realized it was a culverin, I felt a bit more reassured since it was unlikely they would put this weapon anywhere but at the actual entrance.
Therefore I went on again, more painfully and wearily, and presently found it to be good that I had received that knock, and borne it with such patience; for otherwise I might have blundered full upon the sentries, and been shot without more ado. As it was, I had barely time to draw back, as I turned a corner upon them; and if their lanthorn had been in its place, they could scarce have failed to descry me, unless indeed I had seen the gleam before I turned the corner.
So I continued on, feeling more sore and tired, and soon realized that it was a good thing I had taken that hit and handled it with patience; otherwise, I could have stumbled right into the guards and been shot without hesitation. As it turned out, I barely had time to step back when I turned a corner and ran into them; if their lantern had been in position, they likely would have spotted me, unless I had seen the light before turning the corner.
There seemed to be only two of them, of size indeed and stature as all the Doones must be, but I need not have feared to encounter them both, had they been unarmed, as I was. It was plain, however, that each had a long and heavy carbine, not in his hands (as it should have been), but standing close beside him. Therefore it behoved me now to be exceedingly careful, and even that might scarce avail, without luck in proportion. So I kept well back at the corner, and laid one cheek to the rock face, and kept my outer eye round the jut, in the wariest mode I could compass, watching my opportunity: and this is what I saw.
There appeared to be only two of them, of a size and stature typical of all the Doones, but I shouldn't have worried about facing them both, if they had been unarmed like I was. It was clear, though, that each one had a long and heavy carbine, not in their hands (where it should’ve been), but standing close by. So, I had to be very cautious, and even that might not be enough without some good luck. I stayed well back at the corner, pressed one cheek against the rock face, and kept my outer eye around the edge, watching for my chance: and this is what I saw.
The two villains looked very happy—which villains have no right to be, but often are, meseemeth—they were sitting in a niche of rock, with the lanthorn in the corner, quaffing something from glass measures, and playing at push-pin, or shepherd's chess, or basset; or some trivial game of that sort. Each was smoking a long clay pipe, quite of new London shape, I could see, for the shadow was thrown out clearly; and each would laugh from time to time, as he fancied he got the better of it. One was sitting with his knees up, and left hand on his thigh; and this one had his back to me, and seemed to be the stouter. The other leaned more against the rock, half sitting and half astraddle, and wearing leathern overalls, as if newly come from riding. I could see his face quite clearly by the light of the open lanthorn, and a handsomer or a bolder face I had seldom, if ever, set eyes upon; insomuch that it made me very unhappy to think of his being so near my Lorna.
The two villains looked really happy—which villains shouldn’t be, but often are, it seems—they were sitting in a rock nook, with a lantern in the corner, drinking something from glasses, and playing push-pin, or shepherd's chess, or basset; or some other silly game like that. Each was smoking a long clay pipe, obviously of the new London style, as the shadow was clearly cast; and they would laugh occasionally, thinking they were winning. One was sitting with his knees up and his left hand on his thigh; he had his back to me and seemed to be the heavier set of the two. The other was leaning against the rock, half sitting and half straddling, and wearing leather overalls, as if he had just come back from riding. I could see his face clearly by the light of the open lantern, and a more handsome or bold face I had seldom, if ever, seen; which made me quite unhappy to think that he was so close to my Lorna.
“How long am I to stand crouching here?” I asked of myself, at last, being tired of hearing them cry, “score one,” “score two,” “No, by—, Charlie,” “By —, I say it is, Phelps.” And yet my only chance of slipping by them unperceived was to wait till they quarrelled more, and came to blows about it. Presently, as I made up my mind to steal along towards them (for the cavern was pretty wide, just there), Charlie, or Charleworth Doone, the younger and taller man, reached forth his hand to seize the money, which he swore he had won that time. Upon this, the other jerked his arm, vowing that he had no right to it; whereupon Charlie flung at his face the contents of the glass he was sipping, but missed him and hit the candle, which sputtered with a flare of blue flame (from the strength perhaps of the spirit) and then went out completely. At this, one swore, and the other laughed; and before they had settled what to do, I was past them and round the corner.
“How long am I going to crouch here?” I asked myself, finally tired of hearing them shout, “one point,” “two points,” “No way, Charlie,” “I swear it’s true, Phelps.” Yet my only chance of sneaking past them unnoticed was to wait until they argued more and started fighting about it. Just then, as I decided to quietly move closer to them (since the cavern was pretty wide at that spot), Charlie, or Charleworth Doone, the younger and taller guy, reached out to grab the money, claiming he had won it this time. In response, the other guy yanked his arm back, insisting he had no claim to it; then Charlie threw the drink in his direction, but missed and hit the candle instead, which flared with a burst of blue flame (probably from the strength of the alcohol) before going out completely. At this, one cursed, and the other laughed; and before they figured out what to do next, I slipped past them and around the corner.
And then, like a giddy fool as I was, I needs must give them a startler—the whoop of an owl, done so exactly, as John Fry had taught me, and echoed by the roof so fearfully, that one of them dropped the tinder box; and the other caught up his gun and cocked it, at least as I judged by the sounds they made. And then, too late, I knew my madness, for if either of them had fired, no doubt but what all the village would have risen and rushed upon me. However, as the luck of the matter went, it proved for my advantage; for I heard one say to the other,—
And then, like a silly fool that I was, I just had to give them a scare—the whoop of an owl, done exactly as John Fry had taught me, and echoed off the roof so frighteningly that one of them dropped the tinderbox; and the other grabbed his gun and cocked it, or at least that's what I gathered from the sounds they made. And only then did I realize my foolishness, because if either of them had fired, I'm sure the whole village would have come rushing at me. But, as luck would have it, it turned out to be in my favor; I heard one say to the other,—
“Curse it, Charlie, what was that? It scared me so, I have dropped my box; my flint is gone, and everything. Will the brimstone catch from your pipe, my lad?”
“Damn it, Charlie, what was that? It scared me so much, I dropped my box; my flint is gone, and everything. Will the sulfur catch from your pipe, my friend?”
“My pipe is out, Phelps, ever so long. Damn it, I am not afraid of an owl, man. Give me the lanthorn, and stay here. I'm not half done with you yet, my friend.”
“My pipe is out, Phelps, it’s been a while. Damn it, I’m not scared of an owl, man. Give me the lantern, and stay here. I’m not done with you yet, my friend.”
“Well said, my boy, well said! Go straight to Carver's, mind you. The other sleepy heads be snoring, as there is nothing up to-night. No dallying now under Captain's window. Queen will have nought to say to you; and Carver will punch your head into a new wick for your lanthorn.”
“Well said, my boy, well said! Head straight to Carver's, you hear? The others are all snoozing since there’s nothing going on tonight. No lingering around under the Captain's window. Queen won’t have anything to say to you; and Carver will knock your head into a new shape for your lantern.”
“Will he though? Two can play at that.” And so after some rude jests, and laughter, and a few more oaths, I heard Charlie (or at any rate somebody) coming toward me, with a loose and not too sober footfall. As he reeled a little in his gait, and I would not move from his way one inch, after his talk of Lorna, but only longed to grasp him (if common sense permitted it), his braided coat came against my thumb, and his leathern gaiters brushed my knee. If he had turned or noticed it, he would have been a dead man in a moment; but his drunkenness saved him.
“Will he really? Two can play that game.” So after some rude jokes, laughter, and a few more curses, I heard Charlie (or at least someone) coming toward me, his footsteps unsteady and definitely not sober. As he stumbled slightly, I stood my ground, refusing to move an inch out of his way after his talk about Lorna, but I desperately wanted to grab him (if only common sense allowed it). His braided coat brushed against my thumb, and his leather gaiters brushed my knee. If he had turned around or noticed, he would have been a dead man in an instant; but his drunkenness saved him.
So I let him reel on unharmed; and thereupon it occurred to me that I could have no better guide, passing as he would exactly where I wished to be; that is to say under Lorna's window. Therefore I followed him without any especial caution; and soon I had the pleasure of seeing his form against the moonlit sky. Down a steep and winding path, with a handrail at the corners (such as they have at Ilfracombe), Master Charlie tripped along—and indeed there was much tripping, and he must have been an active fellow to recover as he did—and after him walked I, much hoping (for his own poor sake) that he might not turn and espy me.
So I let him go on without any harm, and then it hit me that I couldn't have a better guide since he was going exactly where I wanted to go; that is, right under Lorna's window. So I followed him without being too careful, and soon I was happy to see his figure against the moonlit sky. Down a steep and winding path, with a handrail at the corners (like those they have at Ilfracombe), Master Charlie moved quickly—and indeed he stumbled a lot, but he must have been quite agile to recover as well as he did—and I followed him, really hoping (for his sake) that he wouldn’t turn around and see me.
But Bacchus (of whom I read at school, with great wonder about his meaning—and the same I may say of Venus) that great deity preserved Charlie, his pious worshipper, from regarding consequences. So he led me very kindly to the top of the meadow land, where the stream from underground broke forth, seething quietly with a little hiss of bubbles. Hence I had fair view and outline of the robbers' township, spread with bushes here and there, but not heavily overshadowed. The moon, approaching now the full, brought the forms in manner forth, clothing each with character, as the moon (more than the sun) does, to an eye accustomed.
But Bacchus (whom I learned about in school, marveling at his significance—and I could say the same about Venus) that great god kept Charlie, his devoted follower, from worrying about the consequences. He kindly led me to the top of the meadow, where the underground stream emerged, bubbling softly with a gentle hiss. From there, I had a clear view of the robbers' village, scattered with bushes here and there, but not too densely covered. The moon, now nearly full, revealed the shapes and details, giving each one character, just as the moon (more than the sun) does for an eye that’s used to it.
I knew that the Captain's house was first, both from what Lorna had said of it, and from my mother's description, and now again from seeing Charlie halt there for a certain time, and whistle on his fingers, and hurry on, fearing consequence. The tune that he whistled was strange to me, and lingered in my ears, as having something very new and striking, and fantastic in it. And I repeated it softly to myself, while I marked the position of the houses and the beauty of the village. For the stream, in lieu of any street, passing between the houses, and affording perpetual change, and twinkling, and reflections moreover by its sleepy murmur soothing all the dwellers there, this and the snugness of the position, walled with rock and spread with herbage, made it look, in the quiet moonlight, like a little paradise. And to think of all the inmates there, sleeping with good consciences, having plied their useful trade of making others work for them, enjoying life without much labour, yet with great renown.
I knew that the Captain's house was the first one, both from what Lorna had told me and from my mom's description, and now again from seeing Charlie stop there for a bit, whistle on his fingers, and hurry on, worried about the consequences. The tune he whistled was unfamiliar to me and lingered in my ears, feeling very new, striking, and a bit fantastic. I softly repeated it to myself while I took in the layout of the houses and the beauty of the village. The stream, instead of a street, ran between the houses, providing constant change, twinkling reflections, and a soothing murmur that comforted everyone there. This, along with the coziness of the area, surrounded by rocks and covered with grass, made it look like a little paradise in the calm moonlight. And to think of all the people living there, sleeping soundly with clear consciences, having carried out their useful trade of making others work for them, enjoying life with little effort but a lot of respect.
Master Charlie went down the village, and I followed him carefully, keeping as much as possible in the shadowy places, and watching the windows of every house, lest any light should be burning. As I passed Sir Ensor's house, my heart leaped up, for I spied a window, higher than the rest above the ground, and with a faint light moving. This could hardly fail to be the room wherein my darling lay; for here that impudent young fellow had gazed while he was whistling. And here my courage grew tenfold, and my spirit feared no evil—for lo, if Lorna had been surrendered to that scoundrel, Carver, she would not have been at her grandfather's house, but in Carver's accursed dwelling.
Master Charlie made his way through the village, and I followed him closely, staying as much as possible in the shadows and watching the windows of every house to make sure no lights were on. As I passed Sir Ensor's house, my heart skipped a beat because I spotted a window, higher than the others, with a faint light moving inside. This could only be the room where my beloved was; after all, that cocky young guy had stared in there while he was whistling. In that moment, my courage surged, and I felt fearless—if Lorna had been handed over to that creep Carver, she wouldn’t be at her grandfather's house but in Carver's cursed home.
Warm with this idea, I hurried after Charleworth Doone, being resolved not to harm him now, unless my own life required it. And while I watched from behind a tree, the door of the farthest house was opened; and sure enough it was Carver's self, who stood bareheaded, and half undressed in the doorway. I could see his great black chest, and arms, by the light of the lamp he bore.
Warm with this idea, I rushed after Charleworth Doone, determined not to hurt him now, unless my own life depended on it. While I hid behind a tree, the door of the farthest house swung open; and sure enough, it was Carver himself, standing bareheaded and half-dressed in the doorway. I could see his large black chest and arms by the light of the lamp he was holding.
“Who wants me this time of night?” he grumbled, in a deep gruff voice; “any young scamp prowling after the maids shall have sore bones for his trouble.”
“Who’s looking for me at this hour?” he complained in a deep, rough voice; “any young troublemaker sneaking around after the maids will end up with some bruises for their efforts.”
“All the fair maids are for thee, are they, Master Carver?” Charlie answered, laughing; “we young scamps must be well-content with coarser stuff than thou wouldst have.”
“All the beautiful girls are for you, are they, Master Carver?” Charlie answered, laughing; “we young guys have to be satisfied with rougher things than you'd want.”
“Would have? Ay, and will have,” the great beast muttered angrily. “I bide my time; but not very long. Only one word for thy good, Charlie. I will fling thee senseless into the river, if ever I catch thy girl-face there again.”
“Would have? Yeah, and I will have,” the great beast grumbled angrily. “I’m just waiting for the right moment; but not for much longer. Just one warning for you, Charlie. I’ll toss you into the river if I ever see your pretty face there again.”
“Mayhap, Master Carver, it is more than thou couldst do. But I will not keep thee; thou art not pleasant company to-night. All I want is a light for my lanthorn, and a glass of schnapps, if thou hast it.”
“Maybe, Master Carver, it's more than you can handle. But I won't hold you back; you're not great company tonight. All I want is a light for my lantern and a glass of schnapps, if you have it.”
“What is become of thy light, then? Good for thee I am not on duty.”
"What happened to your light, then? Good thing I'm not on duty."
“A great owl flew between me and Phelps, as we watched beside the culvern, and so scared was he at our fierce bright eyes that he fell and knocked the light out.”
"A big owl flew between me and Phelps as we stood by the culvert, and he was so scared by our fierce, bright eyes that he fell and knocked the light out."
“Likely tale, or likely lie, Charles! We will have the truth to-morrow. Here take thy light, and be gone with thee. All virtuous men are in bed now.”
“Sounds like a tall tale, or maybe a flat-out lie, Charles! We’ll find out the truth tomorrow. Here, take your light and get out of here. All decent people are in bed now.”
“Then so will I be, and why art thou not? Ha, have I earned my schnapps now?”
“Then I will be too, and why aren’t you? Ha, have I earned my schnapps now?”
“If thou hast, thou hast paid a bad debt; there is too much in thee already. Be off! my patience is done with.”
“If you have, you’ve paid a bad debt; there’s already too much in you. Get lost! I’ve run out of patience.”
Then he slammed the door in the young man's face, having kindled his lanthorn by this time: and Charlie went up to the watchplace again, muttering as he passed me, “Bad look-out for all of us, when that surly old beast is Captain. No gentle blood in him, no hospitality, not even pleasant language, nor a good new oath in his frowsy pate! I've a mind to cut the whole of it; and but for the girls I would so.”
Then he slammed the door in the young man's face, having lit his lantern by this point: and Charlie went back up to the watchtower again, grumbling as he walked past me, “It's bad news for all of us when that grumpy old jerk is Captain. There's no kindness in him, no hospitality, not even any polite words, or a decent new curse in his messy hair! I'm seriously thinking about ditching the whole thing; and if it weren't for the girls, I definitely would.”
My heart was in my mouth, as they say, when I stood in the shade by Lorna's window, and whispered her name gently. The house was of one story only, as the others were, with pine-ends standing forth the stone, and only two rough windows upon that western side of it, and perhaps both of them were Lorna's. The Doones had been their own builders, for no one should know their ins and outs; and of course their work was clumsy. As for their windows, they stole them mostly from the houses round about. But though the window was not very close, I might have whispered long enough, before she would have answered me; frightened as she was, no doubt by many a rude overture. And I durst not speak aloud because I saw another watchman posted on the western cliff, and commanding all the valley. And now this man (having no companion for drinking or for gambling) espied me against the wall of the house, and advanced to the brink, and challenged me.
My heart was racing, as they say, when I stood in the shade by Lorna's window and softly whispered her name. The house was only one story tall, like the others, with wooden ends sticking out from the stone, and there were just two rough windows on that western side, and possibly both belonged to Lorna. The Doones had built it themselves, so no one would know their secrets, and of course, their work was pretty clumsy. As for their windows, they mostly stole them from nearby houses. But even though the window wasn't very close, I could have whispered for a long time before she would have answered me; she was probably scared by many rude advances. I couldn't speak out loud because I saw another guard stationed on the western cliff, overlooking the entire valley. And now this man, having no one to drink or gamble with, spotted me against the wall of the house, came to the edge, and challenged me.
“Who are you there? Answer! One, two, three; and I fire at thee.”
“Who’s there? Answer me! One, two, three; and I’ll shoot!”
The nozzle of his gun was pointed full upon me, as I could see, with the moonlight striking on the barrel; he was not more than fifty yards off, and now he began to reckon. Being almost desperate about it, I began to whistle, wondering how far I should get before I lost my windpipe: and as luck would have it, my lips fell into that strange tune I had practised last; the one I had heard from Charlie. My mouth would scarcely frame the notes, being parched with terror; but to my surprise, the man fell back, dropped his gun, and saluted. Oh, sweetest of all sweet melodies!
The barrel of his gun was aimed straight at me, lit up by the moonlight; he was only about fifty yards away, and now he started to calculate. Feeling almost hopeless, I began to whistle, wondering how far I could go before I lost my breath: and, as luck would have it, my lips landed on that strange tune I had practiced last; the one I learned from Charlie. My mouth could barely form the notes, dry with fear; but to my surprise, the man stepped back, dropped his gun, and saluted. Oh, the sweetest of all sweet melodies!
That tune was Carver Doone's passport (as I heard long afterwards), which Charleworth Doone had imitated, for decoy of Lorna. The sentinel took me for that vile Carver; who was like enough to be prowling there, for private talk with Lorna; but not very likely to shout forth his name, if it might be avoided. The watchman, perceiving the danger perhaps of intruding on Carver's privacy, not only retired along the cliff, but withdrew himself to good distance.
That tune was Carver Doone's signal (as I learned later), which Charleworth Doone had copied to lure Lorna. The guard mistook me for that despicable Carver; he was just the type to be hanging around there for a private chat with Lorna, but he probably wouldn't be shouting his name if he could help it. The watchman, sensing the risk of interrupting Carver's privacy, not only backed away from the cliff but also moved a good distance away.
Meanwhile he had done me the kindest service; for Lorna came to the window at once, to see what the cause of the shout was, and drew back the curtain timidly. Then she opened the rough lattice; and then she watched the cliff and trees; and then she sighed very sadly.
Meanwhile, he had done me a huge favor; because Lorna came to the window right away to see what the shout was about and pulled back the curtain shyly. Then she opened the rough lattice, watched the cliff and trees, and sighed very sadly.
“Oh, Lorna, don't you know me?” I whispered from the side, being afraid of startling her by appearing over suddenly.
“Oh, Lorna, don’t you recognize me?” I whispered from the side, afraid I might startle her by suddenly appearing.
Quick though she always was of thought, she knew me not from my whisper, and was shutting the window hastily when I caught it back, and showed myself.
Quick as her mind was, she didn't recognize me by my whisper, and she was closing the window quickly when I grabbed it back and revealed myself.
“John!” she cried, yet with sense enough not to speak aloud: “oh, you must be mad, John.”
“John!” she cried, but she was smart enough not to say it too loudly: “oh, you must be crazy, John.”
“As mad as a March hare,” said I, “without any news of my darling. You knew I would come: of course you did.”
“As crazy as a March hare,” I said, “with no news of my sweetheart. You knew I would come: of course you did.”
“Well, I thought, perhaps—you know: now, John, you need not eat my hand. Do you see they have put iron bars across?”
“Well, I thought, maybe—you know: now, John, you don’t have to eat my hand. Do you see they’ve put iron bars up?”
“To be sure. Do you think I should be contented, even with this lovely hand, but for these vile iron bars. I will have them out before I go. Now, darling, for one moment—just the other hand, for a change, you know.”
“To be sure. Do you think I should be satisfied, even with this beautiful hand, if it weren't for these awful iron bars? I will get them out before I leave. Now, darling, for just a moment—let’s use the other hand, for a change, you know.”
So I got the other, but was not honest; for I kept them both, and felt their delicate beauty trembling, as I laid them to my heart.
So I got the other one, but I wasn't honest; I kept them both and felt their delicate beauty shaking as I held them close to my heart.
“Oh, John, you will make me cry directly”—she had been crying long ago—“if you go on in that way. You know we can never have one another; every one is against it. Why should I make you miserable? Try not to think of me any more.”
“Oh, John, you’re going to make me cry right away”—she had been crying a long time ago—“if you keep this up. You know we can never be together; everyone is against it. Why should I make you unhappy? Please try not to think about me anymore.”
“And will you try the same of me, Lorna?”
“And will you do the same to me, Lorna?”
“Oh yes, John; if you agree to it. At least I will try to try it.”
“Oh yes, John; if you're okay with it. At least I’ll give it a shot.”
“Then you won't try anything of the sort,” I cried with great enthusiasm, for her tone was so nice and melancholy: “the only thing we will try to try, is to belong to one another. And if we do our best, Lorna, God alone can prevent us.”
“Then you won’t try anything like that,” I said excitedly, because her tone was so sweet and sad: “the only thing we’ll focus on is belonging to each other. And if we do our best, Lorna, only God can stop us.”
She crossed herself, with one hand drawn free as I spoke so boldly; and something swelled in her little throat, and prevented her from answering.
She crossed herself, one hand free as I spoke so boldly; and something swelled in her small throat, stopping her from replying.
“Now tell me,” I said; “what means all this? Why are you so pent up here? Why have you given me no token? Has your grandfather turned against you? Are you in any danger?”
“Now tell me,” I said; “what does all this mean? Why are you so trapped here? Why haven’t you given me any sign? Has your grandfather turned against you? Are you in any danger?”
“My poor grandfather is very ill: I fear that he will not live long. The Counsellor and his son are now the masters of the valley; and I dare not venture forth, for fear of anything they might do to me. When I went forth, to signal for you, Carver tried to seize me; but I was too quick for him. Little Gwenny is not allowed to leave the valley now; so that I could send no message. I have been so wretched, dear, lest you should think me false to you. The tyrants now make sure of me. You must watch this house, both night and day, if you wish to save me. There is nothing they would shrink from; if my poor grandfather—oh, I cannot bear to think of myself, when I ought to think of him only; dying without a son to tend him, or a daughter to shed a tear.”
“My poor grandfather is very sick: I’m afraid he won’t live much longer. The Counsellor and his son are now in charge of the valley, and I can’t go out because I’m scared of what they might do to me. When I went out to signal for you, Carver tried to grab me, but I was too quick for him. Little Gwenny isn’t allowed to leave the valley now, so I couldn’t send any message. I’ve felt so miserable, dear, worrying that you might think I’m being untrue to you. The tyrants are keeping a close watch on me. You need to keep an eye on this house, both day and night, if you want to save me. There's nothing they wouldn't do; if my poor grandfather—oh, I can’t stand to think of myself when I should only be thinking of him—dying without a son to take care of him or a daughter to shed a tear.”
“But surely he has sons enough; and a deal too many,” I was going to say, but stopped myself in time: “why do none of them come to him?”
“But he definitely has enough sons; in fact, way too many,” I was about to say, but I caught myself just in time: “why doesn’t any of them come to him?”
“I know not. I cannot tell. He is a very strange old man; and few have ever loved him. He was black with wrath at the Counsellor, this very afternoon—but I must not keep you here—you are much too brave, John; and I am much too selfish: there, what was that shadow?”
“I don’t know. I can’t say. He’s a really odd old man; very few people have ever cared for him. He was furious with the Counsellor this afternoon—but I shouldn’t hold you up—you’re way too brave, John; and I’m being way too selfish: wait, what was that shadow?”
“Nothing more than a bat, darling, come to look for his sweetheart. I will not stay long; you tremble so: and yet for that very reason, how can I leave you, Lorna?”
“Just a bat, darling, here to find his sweetheart. I won’t be here long; you’re shaking so much: and yet, because of that, how can I leave you, Lorna?”
“You must—you must,” she answered; “I shall die if they hurt you. I hear the old nurse moving. Grandfather is sure to send for me. Keep back from the window.”
"You have to—you have to," she replied; "I will die if they hurt you. I hear the old nurse moving. Grandfather will definitely send for me. Stay away from the window."
However, it was only Gwenny Carfax, Lorna's little handmaid: my darling brought her to the window and presented her to me, almost laughing through her grief.
However, it was only Gwenny Carfax, Lorna's little maid: my darling brought her to the window and showed her to me, almost laughing through her sadness.
“Oh, I am so glad, John; Gwenny, I am so glad you came. I have wanted long to introduce you to my 'young man,' as you call him. It is rather dark, but you can see him. I wish you to know him again, Gwenny.”
“Oh, I'm so glad, John; Gwenny, I'm really happy you came. I've wanted to introduce you to my 'young man,' as you call him. It's a bit dark, but you can see him. I want you to get to know him again, Gwenny.”
“Whoy!” cried Gwenny, with great amazement, standing on tiptoe to look out, and staring as if she were weighing me: “her be bigger nor any Doone! Heared as her have bate our Cornish champion awrastling. 'Twadn't fair play nohow: no, no; don't tell me, 'twadn't fair play nohow.”
“Wow!” exclaimed Gwenny, amazed, standing on her tiptoes to look out and staring as if she were sizing me up. “She’s bigger than any Doone! I heard she beat our Cornish champion at wrestling. That wasn’t fair play at all; no way. Don’t try to convince me otherwise, that wasn’t fair play at all.”
“True enough, Gwenny,” I answered her; for the play had been very unfair indeed on the side of the Bodmin champion; “it was not a fair bout, little maid; I am free to acknowledge that.” By that answer, or rather by the construction she put upon it, the heart of the Cornish girl was won, more than by gold and silver.
“That's true, Gwenny,” I replied; the match had been really unfair to the Bodmin champion. “It wasn’t a fair fight, little maid; I admit that.” With that response, or more specifically, how she interpreted it, I won the heart of the Cornish girl, more than any amount of gold or silver could.
“I shall knoo thee again, young man; no fear of that,” she answered, nodding with an air of patronage. “Now, missis, gae on coortin', and I wall gae outside and watch for 'ee.” Though expressed not over delicately, this proposal arose, no doubt, from Gwenny's sense of delicacy; and I was very thankful to her for taking her departure.
“I'll see you again, young man; don’t worry about that,” she said, nodding with a condescending attitude. “Now, ma’am, go ahead and flirt, and I’ll step outside and keep an eye out for you.” Although it wasn't put very delicately, this suggestion clearly came from Gwenny's sense of propriety; and I was really grateful to her for leaving.
“She is the best little thing in the world,” said Lorna, softly laughing; “and the queerest, and the truest. Nothing will bribe her against me. If she seems to be on the other side, never, never doubt her. Now no more of your 'coortin', John! I love you far too well for that. Yes, yes, ever so much! If you will take a mean advantage of me. And as much as ever you like to imagine; and then you may double it, after that. Only go, do go, good John; kind, dear, darling John; if you love me, go.”
“She is the best little thing in the world,” Lorna said, laughing softly; “and the quirkiest, and the truest. Nothing will turn her against me. If she seems to be on the other side, never doubt her. Now no more of your 'courting,' John! I love you way too much for that. Yes, yes, a whole lot! If you think you can take advantage of me. And as much as you like to imagine; then you can double it after that. Just go, please go, good John; kind, dear, darling John; if you love me, go.”
“How can I go without settling anything?” I asked very sensibly. “How shall I know of your danger now? Hit upon something; you are so quick. Anything you can think of; and then I will go, and not frighten you.”
“How can I leave without fixing anything?” I asked practically. “How will I know about your danger now? Come up with something; you’re so quick. Anything you can think of; then I’ll go and not scare you.”
“I have been thinking long of something,” Lorna answered rapidly, with that peculiar clearness of voice which made every syllable ring like music of a several note, “you see that tree with the seven rooks' nests bright against the cliffs there? Can you count them, from above, do you think? From a place where you will be safe, dear”—
“I’ve been thinking a lot about something,” Lorna replied quickly, with that unique clarity in her voice that made each word sound like beautiful music, “do you see that tree with the seven rook nests visible against the cliffs over there? Do you think you could count them from above? From somewhere you’ll be safe, dear—”
“No doubt, I can; or if I cannot, it will not take me long to find a spot, whence I can do it.”
“No problem, I can do it; and if I can't, I’ll quickly find a place where I can.”
“Gwenny can climb like any cat. She has been up there in the summer, watching the young birds, day by day, and daring the boys to touch them. There are neither birds, nor eggs there now, of course, and nothing doing. If you see but six rooks' nests; I am in peril and want you. If you see but five, I am carried off by Carver.”
“Gwenny can climb like any cat. She’s been up there in the summer, watching the young birds every day and daring the boys to touch them. There aren’t any birds or eggs there now, of course, so nothing is happening. If you only see six rook nests, I’m in trouble and need you. If you see just five, I’ve been taken by Carver.”
“Good God!” said I, at the mere idea; in a tone which frightened Lorna.
“Good God!” I exclaimed at the thought, in a tone that startled Lorna.
“Fear not, John,” she whispered sadly, and my blood grew cold at it: “I have means to stop him; or at least to save myself. If you can come within one day of that man's getting hold of me, you will find me quite unharmed. After that you will find me dead, or alive, according to circumstances, but in no case such that you need blush to look at me.”
“Don’t be afraid, John,” she whispered sadly, and I felt a chill run through me: “I have a way to stop him; or at least to protect myself. If you can reach me within a day of that man getting to me, you’ll find me completely unharmed. After that, you may find me dead or alive, depending on the circumstances, but in no case will it be something that makes you embarrassed to look at me.”
Her dear sweet face was full of pride, as even in the gloom I saw: and I would not trespass on her feelings by such a thing, at such a moment, as an attempt at any caress. I only said, “God bless you, darling!” and she said the same to me, in a very low sad voice. And then I stole below Carver's house, in the shadow from the eastern cliff; and knowing enough of the village now to satisfy all necessity, betook myself to my well-known track in returning from the valley; which was neither down the waterslide (a course I feared in the darkness) nor up the cliffs at Lorna's bower; but a way of my own inventing, which there is no need to dwell upon.
Her sweet face was full of pride, even in the dim light I could see that; and I didn’t want to intrude on her feelings by trying to touch her or anything, especially at such a moment. I just said, “God bless you, darling!” and she replied the same to me in a very soft, sad voice. Then I quietly made my way below Carver's house, hidden in the shadow of the eastern cliff; and knowing enough about the village now to meet all my needs, I followed my familiar path back from the valley; which was neither down the waterslide (a route I was hesitant to take in the dark) nor up the cliffs at Lorna's bower; but a route I had come up with myself, which doesn’t need further explanation.
A weight of care was off my mind; though much of trouble hung there still. One thing was quite certain—if Lorna could not have John Ridd, no one else should have her. And my mother, who sat up for me, and with me long time afterwards, agreed that this was comfort.
A weight of worry was lifted from my mind, although a lot of trouble still lingered there. One thing was clear—if Lorna couldn't be with John Ridd, then no one else should have her. And my mother, who stayed up for me and talked with me for a long time afterward, agreed that this was a source of comfort.
CHAPTER XXXVIII
A GOOD TURN FOR JEREMY
John Fry had now six shillings a week of regular and permanent wage, besides all harvest and shearing money, as well as a cottage rent-free, and enough of garden-ground to rear pot-herbs for his wife and all his family. Now the wages appointed by our justices, at the time of sessions, were four-and-sixpence a week for summer, and a shilling less for the winter-time; and we could be fined, and perhaps imprisoned, for giving more than the sums so fixed. Therefore John Fry was looked upon as the richest man upon Exmoor, I mean of course among labourers, and there were many jokes about robbing him, as if he were the mint of the King; and Tom Faggus promised to try his hand, if he came across John on the highway, although he had ceased from business, and was seeking a Royal pardon.
John Fry was now earning six shillings a week in a steady job, along with all the extra money from harvest and shearing, a rent-free cottage, and enough garden space to grow vegetables for his wife and family. At that time, the wages set by the local justices were four shillings and six pence a week in summer, and a shilling less in winter; we could be fined or even jailed for paying more than those amounts. Because of this, John Fry was seen as the richest man on Exmoor among laborers, and there were many jokes about robbing him, as if he were the royal mint; even Tom Faggus joked about trying to take him on the highway, even though he had quit that life and was looking for a Royal pardon.
Now is it according to human nature, or is it a thing contradictory (as I would fain believe)? But anyhow, there was, upon Exmoor, no more discontented man, no man more sure that he had not his worth, neither half so sore about it, than, or as, John Fry was. And one thing he did which I could not wholly (or indeed I may say, in any measure) reconcile with my sense of right, much as I laboured to do John justice, especially because of his roguery; and this was, that if we said too much, or accused him at all of laziness (which he must have known to be in him), he regularly turned round upon us, and quite compelled us to hold our tongues, by threatening to lay information against us for paying him too much wages!
Is it part of human nature, or is it something contradictory (as I'd like to believe)? But anyway, there was no one on Exmoor more discontented, no one more convinced he wasn’t getting what he deserved, or as upset about it, than John Fry. And there was one thing he did that I couldn’t fully reconcile with my sense of right, no matter how hard I tried to give John a fair shake, especially considering his mischievousness; if we said too much or even accused him of being lazy (which he had to know he was), he would always turn the tables on us and force us to keep quiet by threatening to report us for overpaying him!
Now I have not mentioned all this of John Fry, from any disrespect for his memory (which is green and honest amongst us), far less from any desire to hurt the feelings of his grandchildren; and I will do them the justice, once for all, to avow, thus publicly, that I have known a great many bigger rogues, and most of themselves in the number. But I have referred, with moderation, to this little flaw in a worthy character (or foible, as we call it, when a man is dead) for this reason only—that without it there was no explaining John's dealings with Jeremy Stickles.
I haven't brought up all this about John Fry out of disrespect for his memory (which is still respected among us), let alone to hurt his grandchildren's feelings. I want to acknowledge, once and for all, that I've known many bigger rogues, most of them included. But I've mentioned this small flaw in a good character (or foible, as we like to call it when someone has passed away) for one reason only—because without it, we can't explain John's interactions with Jeremy Stickles.
Master Jeremy, being full of London and Norwich experience, fell into the error of supposing that we clods and yokels were the simplest of the simple, and could be cheated at his good pleasure. Now this is not so: when once we suspect that people have that idea of us, we indulge them in it to the top of their bent, and grieve that they should come out of it, as they do at last in amazement, with less money than before, and the laugh now set against them.
Master Jeremy, with his experience from London and Norwich, made the mistake of thinking that we country folks were the simplest of the simple and could be easily tricked. This isn’t true: once we sense that people see us that way, we play along with it as much as possible and feel sorry that they eventually realize the truth, often leaving with less money than they had before, and now the joke’s on them.
Ever since I had offended Jeremy, by threatening him (as before related) in case of his meddling with my affairs, he had more and more allied himself with simple-minded John, as he was pleased to call him. John Fry was everything: it was “run and fetch my horse, John”—“John, are my pistols primed well?”—“I want you in the stable, John, about something very particular”, until except for the rudeness of it, I was longing to tell Master Stickles that he ought to pay John's wages. John for his part was not backward, but gave himself the most wonderful airs of secrecy and importance, till half the parish began to think that the affairs of the nation were in his hand, and he scorned the sight of a dungfork.
Ever since I upset Jeremy by threatening him (as mentioned before) if he got involved in my business, he increasingly teamed up with simple-minded John, as he liked to call him. John Fry was a go-to for everything: it was “run and get my horse, John”—“John, are my pistols loaded?”—“I need you in the stable, John, for something very important,” to the point where, aside from the rudeness of it all, I wanted to tell Master Stickles that he should pay John's wages. John, for his part, wasn't shy about it and acted like he had the most important secrets, until half the parish started to believe that the country's affairs were in his hands, and he looked down on the sight of a dung fork.
It was not likely that this should last; and being the only man in the parish with any knowledge of politics, I gave John Fry to understand that he must not presume to talk so freely, as if he were at least a constable, about the constitution; which could be no affair of his, and might bring us all into trouble. At this he only tossed his nose, as if he had been in London at least three times for my one; which vexed me so that I promised him the thick end of the plough-whip if even the name of a knight of the shire should pass his lips for a fortnight.
It probably wouldn't last long; and since I was the only one in the parish who knew anything about politics, I made it clear to John Fry that he shouldn't talk so freely, as if he were at least a constable, about the constitution, which wasn't his concern and could get us all in trouble. He just scoffed, as if he had been to London at least three times for every one of my visits; this annoyed me so much that I promised him the thick end of the plough whip if he even mentioned the title of a knight of the shire for two weeks.
Now I did not suspect in my stupid noddle that John Fry would ever tell Jeremy Stickles about the sight at the Wizard's Slough and the man in the white nightcap; because John had sworn on the blade of his knife not to breathe a word to any soul, without my full permission. However, it appears that John related, for a certain consideration, all that he had seen, and doubtless more which had accrued to it. Upon this Master Stickles was much astonished at Uncle Reuben's proceedings, having always accounted him a most loyal, keen, and wary subject.
Now I didn’t imagine, in my silly head, that John Fry would ever tell Jeremy Stickles about what happened at the Wizard’s Slough and the guy in the white nightcap, because John had sworn on his knife not to say a word to anyone without my permission. However, it seems that John shared everything he had seen, and likely more that came along with it, for a certain favor. As a result, Master Stickles was quite surprised by Uncle Reuben's actions, having always thought of him as a very loyal, clever, and cautious person.
All this I learned upon recovering Jeremy's good graces, which came to pass in no other way than by the saving of his life. Being bound to keep the strictest watch upon the seven rooks' nests, and yet not bearing to be idle and to waste my mother's stores, I contrived to keep my work entirely at the western corner of our farm, which was nearest to Glen Doone, and whence I could easily run to a height commanding the view I coveted.
All of this I learned after I regained Jeremy's favor, which only happened because I saved his life. I had to keep a close watch on the seven rooks' nests, but I didn’t want to just sit around wasting my mother's supplies. So, I figured out how to do all my work in the western corner of our farm, which was the closest to Glen Doone, and from there, I could easily get to a high point where I could see what I wanted.
One day Squire Faggus had dropped in upon us, just in time for dinner; and very soon he and King's messenger were as thick as need be. Tom had brought his beloved mare to show her off to Annie, and he mounted his pretty sweetheart upon her, after giving Winnie notice to be on her very best behaviour. The squire was in great spirits, having just accomplished a purchase of land which was worth ten times what he gave for it; and this he did by a merry trick upon old Sir Roger Bassett, who never supposed him to be in earnest, as not possessing the money. The whole thing was done on a bumper of claret in a tavern where they met; and the old knight having once pledged his word, no lawyers could hold him back from it. They could only say that Master Faggus, being attainted of felony, was not a capable grantee. “I will soon cure that,” quoth Tom, “my pardon has been ready for months and months, so soon as I care to sue it.”
One day, Squire Faggus dropped by just in time for dinner, and before long, he and the King’s messenger were chatting like old friends. Tom had brought his beloved mare to show off to Annie, and he helped her onto the beautiful horse after reminding Winnie to behave herself. The squire was in high spirits, having just scored a deal on some land that was worth ten times what he paid for it; he pulled this off with a clever trick on old Sir Roger Bassett, who never thought he was serious since he didn’t seem to have the money. The whole thing was agreed upon over a glass of claret in a tavern where they met, and once the old knight pledged his word, no lawyer could stop it. All they could argue was that Master Faggus, being convicted of a crime, wasn’t a suitable grantee. “I’ll fix that soon enough,” Tom said, “my pardon has been ready for ages, just waiting for me to bring it up.”
And now he was telling our Annie, who listened very rosily, and believed every word he said, that, having been ruined in early innocence by the means of lawyers, it was only just, and fair turn for turn, that having become a match for them by long practice upon the highway, he should reinstate himself, at their expense, in society. And now he would go to London at once, and sue out his pardon, and then would his lovely darling Annie, etc., etc.—things which I had no right to hear, and in which I was not wanted.
And now he was telling our Annie, who listened intently, believing every word he said, that after being ruined in his youth by lawyers, it was only fair that after becoming skilled at outsmarting them on the highway, he should regain his place in society at their expense. And now he was ready to go to London immediately to seek his pardon, and then his beautiful darling Annie, etc., etc.—things I had no right to hear and in which I wasn't involved.
Therefore I strode away up the lane to my afternoon's employment, sadly comparing my love with theirs (which now appeared so prosperous), yet heartily glad for Annie's sake; only remembering now and then the old proverb “Wrong never comes right.”
So I walked up the path to my afternoon job, feeling regret as I compared my love to theirs (which now seemed so happy), but I was genuinely happy for Annie; I just couldn’t help but remember the old saying, “Wrong never comes right.”
I worked very hard in the copse of young ash, with my billhook and a shearing-knife; cutting out the saplings where they stooled too close together, making spars to keep for thatching, wall-crooks to drive into the cob, stiles for close sheep hurdles, and handles for rakes, and hoes, and two-bills, of the larger and straighter stuff. And all the lesser I bound in faggots, to come home on the sledd to the woodrick. It is not to be supposed that I did all this work, without many peeps at the seven rooks' nests, which proved my Lorna's safety. Indeed, whenever I wanted a change, either from cleaving, or hewing too hard, or stooping too much at binding, I was up and away to the ridge of the hill, instead of standing and doing nothing.
I worked really hard in the grove of young ash trees, using my billhook and a shearing knife. I cut down the saplings that were growing too close together, making spars to keep for thatching, wall hooks to drive into the cob, stiles for sheep hurdles, and handles for rakes, hoes, and larger tools from the straighter branches. I bundled up the smaller ones into faggots to take home on the sled to the wood shed. It’s not like I did all this work without stealing glances at the seven rooks’ nests, which reassured me about Lorna’s safety. In fact, whenever I needed a break from splitting, chopping, or bending over too much to bind, I would head up to the ridge of the hill instead of just standing around doing nothing.
Soon I forgot about Tom and Annie; and fell to thinking of Lorna only; and how much I would make of her; and what I should call our children; and how I would educate them, to do honour to her rank; yet all the time I worked none the worse, by reason of meditation. Fresh-cut spars are not so good as those of a little seasoning; especially if the sap was not gone down at the time of cutting. Therefore we always find it needful to have plenty still in stock.
Soon I forgot about Tom and Annie and focused only on Lorna; I thought about how much I would provide for her, what I would name our children, and how I would raise them to honor her status. Still, all the while I worked just as well, thanks to my thoughts. Freshly cut timber isn’t as good as wood that has been aged a bit, especially if the sap wasn’t down when it was cut. So, we always find it necessary to have plenty in reserve.
It was very pleasant there in the copse, sloping to the west as it was, and the sun descending brightly, with rocks and banks to dwell upon. The stems of mottled and dimpled wood, with twigs coming out like elbows, hung and clung together closely, with a mode of bending in, as children do at some danger; overhead the shrunken leaves quivered and rustled ripely, having many points like stars, and rising and falling delicately, as fingers play sad music. Along the bed of the slanting ground, all between the stools of wood, there were heaps of dead brown leaves, and sheltered mats of lichen, and drifts of spotted stick gone rotten, and tufts of rushes here and there, full of fray and feathering.
It was really nice in the thicket, sloping down to the west, with the sun shining brightly as it set, and rocks and banks to explore. The trunks of spotted and dimpled wood, with twigs sticking out like elbows, hung closely together, bending in like children do when they're scared. Above, the shriveled leaves fluttered and rustled softly, each having many points like stars, rising and falling gently, like fingers playing a sad tune. Along the sloping ground, in between the wooden stumps, there were piles of dead brown leaves, patches of lichen, rotting sticks, and tufts of rushes scattered about, full of frays and wisps.
All by the hedge ran a little stream, a thing that could barely name itself, flowing scarce more than a pint in a minute, because of the sunny weather. Yet had this rill little crooks and crannies dark and bravely bearded, and a gallant rush through a reeden pipe—the stem of a flag that was grounded; and here and there divided threads, from the points of a branching stick, into mighty pools of rock (as large as a grown man's hat almost) napped with moss all around the sides and hung with corded grasses. Along and down the tiny banks, and nodding into one another, even across main channel, hung the brown arcade of ferns; some with gold tongues languishing; some with countless ear-drops jerking, some with great quilled ribs uprising and long saws aflapping; others cupped, and fanning over with the grace of yielding, even as a hollow fountain spread by winds that have lost their way.
Along the hedge ran a small stream, barely able to call itself a stream, flowing just a pint a minute due to the sunny weather. Yet this little trickle had its own dark twists and turns, bravely adorned with moss, and made a bold rush through a reed pipe—the stem of a flag that had been set down; here and there, it split into large pools of rock (almost as big as a grown man's hat), lined with moss and draped in corded grasses. Along the tiny banks, ferns hung and nodded at each other, even across the main flow, creating a brown arch; some had golden tips swaying gently, some had countless drooping leaves, some had tall, spiky fronds standing upright and flapping in the breeze; others were cupped, fanning out gracefully, like a hollow fountain blown by lost winds.
Deeply each beyond other, pluming, stooping, glancing, glistening, weaving softest pillow lace, coying to the wind and water, when their fleeting image danced, or by which their beauty moved,—God has made no lovelier thing; and only He takes heed of them.
Deeply intertwined with each other, fluffing up, bending down, looking over, shining, and creating the softest lace-like patterns, teasing the wind and water, when their fleeting image swayed, or through which their beauty flowed—God has made nothing more beautiful; and only He pays attention to them.
It was time to go home to supper now, and I felt very friendly towards it, having been hard at work for some hours, with only the voice of the little rill, and some hares and a pheasant for company. The sun was gone down behind the black wood on the farther cliffs of Bagworthy, and the russet of the tufts and spear-beds was becoming gray, while the greyness of the sapling ash grew brown against the sky; the hollow curves of the little stream became black beneath the grasses and the fairy fans innumerable, while outside the hedge our clover was crimping its leaves in the dewfall, like the cocked hats of wood-sorrel,—when, thanking God for all this scene, because my love had gifted me with the key to all things lovely, I prepared to follow their example, and to rest from labour.
It was time to head home for dinner, and I felt very warm towards it, having worked hard for a few hours, with only the sound of the little stream, some rabbits, and a pheasant for company. The sun had set behind the dark woods on the distant cliffs of Bagworthy, and the reddish hues of the tufts and spear-beds were turning gray, while the gray of the young ash trees was contrasting with the sky; the gentle curves of the little stream were becoming black beneath the grasses and the countless delicate plants, while outside the hedge, our clover was curling its leaves in the dew, like the pointed hats of wood-sorrel. Grateful to God for this beautiful scene, since my love had given me the key to all things wonderful, I got ready to take a break and rest from my work.
Therefore I wiped my bill-hook and shearing-knife very carefully, for I hate to leave tools dirty; and was doubting whether I should try for another glance at the seven rooks' nests, or whether it would be too dark for it. It was now a quarter of an hour mayhap, since I had made any chopping noise, because I had been assorting my spars, and tying them in bundles, instead of plying the bill-hook; and the gentle tinkle of the stream was louder than my doings. To this, no doubt, I owe my life, which then (without my dreaming it) was in no little jeopardy.
So, I carefully wiped my bill-hook and shearing knife because I can’t stand leaving tools dirty. I was debating whether I should try for another look at the seven rooks' nests or if it would be too dark for that. It had been about fifteen minutes since I made any chopping noise because I had been sorting my wood and tying it into bundles instead of using the bill-hook, and the gentle sound of the stream was louder than what I was doing. Because of this, I owe my life to that moment, which I didn’t even realize was in danger.
For, just as I was twisting the bine of my very last faggot, before tucking the cleft tongue under, there came three men outside the hedge, where the western light was yellow; and by it I could see that all three of them carried firearms. These men were not walking carelessly, but following down the hedge-trough, as if to stalk some enemy: and for a moment it struck me cold to think it was I they were looking for. With the swiftness of terror I concluded that my visits to Glen Doone were known, and now my life was the forfeit.
As I was twisting the vine of my very last bundle, before tucking the split end underneath, three men appeared outside the hedge, where the evening light was golden; and by it, I could see that all three of them were carrying guns. These men weren’t just strolling; they were moving along the hedge like they were tracking down some enemy. For a moment, it chilled me to think that I might be the one they were after. In a rush of panic, I feared my visits to Glen Doone had been discovered, and now my life was at stake.
It was a most lucky thing for me, that I heard their clothes catch in the brambles, and saw their hats under the rampart of ash, which is made by what we call “splashing,” and lucky, for me that I stood in a goyal, and had the dark coppice behind me. To this I had no time to fly, but with a sort of instinct, threw myself flat in among the thick fern, and held my breath, and lay still as a log. For I had seen the light gleam on their gun-barrels, and knowing the faults of the neighbourhood, would fain avoid swelling their number. Then the three men came to the gap in the hedge, where I had been in and out so often; and stood up, and looked in over.
It was really fortunate for me that I heard their clothes snag in the brambles and saw their hats under the ash tree's rampart, which is formed by what we call "splashing." It was also lucky that I was standing in a ditch with the dark thicket behind me. I didn’t have time to run away, so instinctively, I threw myself flat among the thick ferns, held my breath, and lay as still as a log. I had seen the light glint on their gun barrels, and knowing the dangers in the area, I wanted to avoid adding to their numbers. Then the three men approached the gap in the hedge, where I had gone in and out so many times, and they stood up, looking over.
It is all very well for a man to boast that, in all his life, he has never been frightened, and believes that he never could be so. There may be men of that nature—I will not dare to deny it; only I have never known them. The fright I was now in was horrible, and all my bones seemed to creep inside me; when lying there helpless, with only a billet and the comb of fern to hide me, in the dusk of early evening, I saw three faces in the gap; and what was worse, three gun-muzzles.
It's all fine for a guy to brag that he's never been scared in his life and believes he never could be. There might be people like that—I wouldn't deny it; I just haven't met them. The fear I was feeling right then was intense, and every bone in my body felt like it was crawling; as I lay there defenseless, with only a stick and some fern fronds to cover me, in the dim light of early evening, I saw three faces in the opening—and even worse, three gun barrels.
“Somebody been at work here—” it was the deep voice of Carver Doone; “jump up, Charlie, and look about; we must have no witnesses.”
“Somebody has been working here—” it was Carver Doone's deep voice; “get up, Charlie, and look around; we can't have any witnesses.”
“Give me a hand behind,” said Charlie, the same handsome young Doone I had seen that night; “this bank is too devilish steep for me.”
“Give me a hand from behind,” said Charlie, the same good-looking young Doone I had seen that night; “this bank is too damn steep for me.”
“Nonsense, man!” cried Marwood de Whichehalse, who to my amazement was the third of the number; “only a hind cutting faggots; and of course he hath gone home long ago. Blind man's holiday, as we call it. I can see all over the place; and there is not even a rabbit there.”
“Nonsense, man!” shouted Marwood de Whichehalse, who, to my surprise, was the third in the group; “it’s just a peasant gathering firewood; and of course he went home a long time ago. It’s what we call a blind man’s holiday. I can see all around; and there’s not even a rabbit in sight.”
At that I drew my breath again, and thanked God I had gotten my coat on.
At that, I took a breath again and thanked God I had put my coat on.
“Squire is right,” said Charlie, who was standing up high (on a root perhaps), “there is nobody there now, captain; and lucky for the poor devil that he keepeth workman's hours. Even his chopper is gone, I see.”
“Squire is right,” said Charlie, who was standing up high (on a root maybe), “there's no one there now, captain; and lucky for the poor guy that he keeps regular hours. Even his axe is gone, I see.”
“No dog, no man, is the rule about here, when it comes to coppice work,” continued young de Whichehalse; “there is not a man would dare work there, without a dog to scare the pixies.”
"No dog, no person, is the rule around here when it comes to coppice work," continued young de Whichehalse; "there isn't a person who would dare to work there without a dog to scare away the pixies."
“There is a big young fellow upon this farm,” Carver Doone muttered sulkily, “with whom I have an account to settle, if ever I come across him. He hath a cursed spite to us, because we shot his father. He was going to bring the lumpers upon us, only he was afeared, last winter. And he hath been in London lately, for some traitorous job, I doubt.”
“There's a big guy on this farm,” Carver Doone muttered sulkily, “with whom I have a score to settle if I ever see him again. He’s got a serious grudge against us because we shot his father. He was planning to bring the thugs after us last winter, but he was scared. And he's been in London recently for some shady deal, I suspect.”
“Oh, you mean that fool, John Ridd,” answered the young squire; “a very simple clod-hopper. No treachery in him I warrant; he hath not the head for it. All he cares about is wrestling. As strong as a bull, and with no more brains.”
“Oh, you mean that idiot, John Ridd,” replied the young squire; “a total dimwit. I can guarantee there's no deceit in him; he just doesn't have the smarts for it. All he thinks about is wrestling. He’s as strong as an ox, and has just as little sense.”
“A bullet for that bull,” said Carver; and I could see the grin on his scornful face; “a bullet for ballast to his brain, the first time I come across him.”
“A bullet for that bull,” said Carver; and I could see the grin on his scornful face; “a bullet to weigh down his brain the first time I come across him.”
“Nonsense, captain! I won't have him shot, for he is my old school-fellow, and hath a very pretty sister. But his cousin is of a different mould, and ten times as dangerous.”
“Nonsense, captain! I won't let him be shot, because he’s my old school friend and has a really pretty sister. But his cousin is different and ten times more dangerous.”
“We shall see, lads, we shall see,” grumbled the great black-bearded man. “Ill bodes for the fool that would hinder me. But come, let us onward. No lingering, or the viper will be in the bush from us. Body and soul, if he give us the slip, both of you shall answer it.”
“We’ll see, guys, we’ll see,” grumbled the big man with the thick black beard. “It’s bad news for anyone who tries to stop me. But let’s keep moving. No wasting time, or the snake will get the jump on us. If he gets away, you both will have to deal with it.”
“No fear, captain, and no hurry,” Charlie answered gallantly, “would I were as sure of living a twelvemonth as he is of dying within the hour! Extreme unction for him in my bullet patch. Remember, I claim to be his confessor, because he hath insulted me.”
“No fear, captain, and no rush,” Charlie replied boldly, “I wish I were as certain of living for a year as he is of dying in the next hour! Last rites for him in my bullet patch. Remember, I say I'm his confessor because he insulted me.”
“Thou art welcome to the job for me,” said Marwood, as they turned away, and kept along the hedge-row; “I love to meet a man sword to sword; not to pop at him from a foxhole.”
"You're welcome to the job for me," said Marwood as they turned away and walked along the hedge-row; "I love facing a man sword to sword, not sneaking up on him from a hiding spot."
What answer was made I could not hear, for by this time the stout ashen hedge was between us, and no other gap to be found in it, until at the very bottom, where the corner of the copse was. Yet I was not quit of danger now; for they might come through that second gap, and then would be sure to see me, unless I crept into the uncut thicket, before they could enter the clearing. But in spite of all my fear, I was not wise enough to do that. And in truth the words of Carver Doone had filled me with such anger, knowing what I did about him and his pretence to Lorna; and the sight of Squire Marwood, in such outrageous company, had so moved my curiosity, and their threats against some unknown person so aroused my pity, that much of my prudence was forgotten, or at least the better part of courage, which loves danger at long distance.
I couldn't hear what was said in response because by then, the thick ashen hedge was between us, and there was no other opening in it until I reached the very bottom, where the corner of the small woods was. But I wasn't free from danger yet; they could come through that second opening and definitely spot me unless I slipped into the untrimmed thicket before they got to the clearing. But despite my fear, I wasn't clever enough to do that. And honestly, Carver Doone's words had filled me with such rage, knowing what I did about him and his act with Lorna; seeing Squire Marwood with such outrageous company had sparked my curiosity, and their threats against some unknown person had stirred my sympathy, causing me to forget much of my caution or at least the kind of bravery that prefers danger from a safe distance.
Therefore, holding fast my bill-hook, I dropped myself very quietly into the bed of the runnel, being resolved to take my chance of their entrance at the corner, where the water dived through the hedge-row. And so I followed them down the fence, as gently as a rabbit goes, only I was inside it, and they on the outside; but yet so near that I heard the branches rustle as they pushed them.
Therefore, gripping my bill-hook tightly, I quietly lowered myself into the bed of the stream, determined to wait for them at the corner where the water flowed through the hedgerow. I crept along the fence as quietly as a rabbit, except I was on the inside, while they were on the outside; yet I was so close that I could hear the branches rustling as they pushed through.
Perhaps I had never loved ferns so much as when I came to the end of that little gully, and stooped betwixt two patches of them, now my chiefest shelter, for cattle had been through the gap just there, in quest of fodder and coolness, and had left but a mound of trodden earth between me and the outlaws. I mean at least on my left hand (upon which side they were), for in front where the brook ran out of the copse was a good stiff hedge of holly. And now I prayed Heaven to lead them straight on; for if they once turned to their right, through the gap, the muzzles of their guns would come almost against my forehead.
Maybe I had never loved ferns as much as I did when I reached the end of that little gully and crouched between two patches of them, which were now my main cover, since cattle had passed through the gap right there, looking for food and shade, leaving just a mound of trampled earth between me and the outlaws. At least on my left side (where they were), because in front, where the brook flowed out of the thicket, was a solid hedge of holly. And now I prayed that Heaven would guide them straight ahead; because if they turned to their right, through the gap, the barrels of their guns would be almost touching my forehead.
I heard them, for I durst not look; and could scarce keep still for trembling—I heard them trampling outside the gap, uncertain which track they should follow. And in that fearful moment, with my soul almost looking out of my body, expecting notice to quit it, what do you think I did? I counted the threads in a spider's web, and the flies he had lately eaten, as their skeletons shook in the twilight.
I heard them, but I didn’t dare look; I could barely stay still from trembling—I heard them stomping outside the opening, unsure about which path to take. And in that terrifying moment, with my soul almost leaving my body, waiting for it to be pulled away, what do you think I did? I counted the threads in a spider's web and the flies it had recently eaten, as their skeletons rattled in the dim light.
“We shall see him better in there,” said Carver, in his horrible gruff voice, like the creaking of the gallows chain; “sit there, behind holly hedge, lads, while he cometh down yonder hill; and then our good-evening to him; one at his body, and two at his head; and good aim, lest we baulk the devil.”
“We'll see him better in there,” said Carver, in his rough, grating voice, like the sound of a creaking chain; “sit there, behind the holly hedge, guys, while he comes down that hill; and then we’ll say good evening to him; one shot at his body, and two at his head; and make sure to aim well, so we don’t mess this up.”
“I tell you, captain, that will not do,” said Charlie, almost whispering: “you are very proud of your skill, we know, and can hit a lark if you see it: but he may not come until after dark, and we cannot be too nigh to him. This holly hedge is too far away. He crosses down here from Slocomslade, not from Tibbacot, I tell you; but along that track to the left there, and so by the foreland to Glenthorne, where his boat is in the cove. Do you think I have tracked him so many evenings, without knowing his line to a hair? Will you fool away all my trouble?”
“I’m telling you, Captain, that won’t work,” Charlie said, almost whispering. “We know you’re proud of your skills and can hit a target if you see it. But he might not show up until after dark, and we can’t be too close to him. This holly hedge is too far away. He comes down here from Slocomslade, not from Tibbacot, trust me; he follows that path to the left and goes down by the foreland to Glenthorne, where his boat is in the cove. Do you really think I’ve tracked him for so many evenings without knowing his route perfectly? Are you going to waste all my hard work?”
“Come then, lad, we will follow thy lead. Thy life for his, if we fail of it.”
"Come on, kid, we'll follow your lead. Your life for his if we don't manage it."
“After me then, right into the hollow; thy legs are growing stiff, captain.”
“After me then, right into the hollow; your legs are getting stiff, captain.”
“So shall thy body be, young man, if thou leadest me astray in this.”
“So will your body be, young man, if you lead me astray in this.”
I heard them stumbling down the hill, which was steep and rocky in that part; and peering through the hedge, I saw them enter a covert, by the side of the track which Master Stickles followed, almost every evening, when he left our house upon business. And then I knew who it was they were come on purpose to murder—a thing which I might have guessed long before, but for terror and cold stupidity.
I heard them tripping down the steep, rocky hill; and looking through the hedge, I saw them head into a thicket next to the path that Master Stickles took almost every evening when he left our house for work. That’s when I realized who they had come to kill—something I might have figured out sooner, if it weren’t for my fear and sheer confusion.
“Oh that God,” I thought for a moment, waiting for my blood to flow; “Oh that God had given me brains, to meet such cruel dastards according to their villainy! The power to lie, and the love of it; the stealth to spy, and the glory in it; above all, the quiet relish for blood, and joy in the death of an enemy—these are what any man must have, to contend with the Doones upon even terms. And yet, I thank God that I have not any of these.”
“Oh God,” I thought for a moment, waiting for my blood to flow; “Oh that God had given me brains, to deal with such cruel villains according to their wickedness! The ability to lie, and the enjoyment of it; the sneakiness to spy, and the pride in it; above all, the quiet pleasure in bloodshed, and joy in the death of an enemy—these are what any man must have to face the Doones on equal ground. And yet, I thank God that I have none of these.”
It was no time to dwell upon that, only to try, if might be, to prevent the crime they were bound upon. To follow the armed men down the hill would have been certain death to me, because there was no covert there, and the last light hung upon it. It seemed to me that my only chance to stop the mischief pending was to compass the round of the hill, as fast as feet could be laid to ground; only keeping out of sight from the valley, and then down the rocks, and across the brook, to the track from Slocombslade: so as to stop the King's messenger from travelling any farther, if only I could catch him there.
It wasn't the time to think about that; I had to try, if possible, to stop the crime they were headed for. Following the armed men down the hill would mean certain death for me because there was no hiding place, and the last bits of daylight were fading. It seemed my only chance to prevent the upcoming trouble was to circle around the hill as quickly as I could, staying out of sight from the valley, then down the rocks and across the brook, to the path from Slocombslade, hoping to intercept the King's messenger before he could go any further, if I could just reach him in time.
And this was exactly what I did; and a terrible run I had for it, fearing at every step to hear the echo of shots in the valley, and dropping down the scrubby rocks with tearing and violent scratching. Then I crossed Bagworthy stream, not far below Doone-valley, and breasted the hill towards Slocombslade, with my heart very heavily panting. Why Jeremy chose to ride this way, instead of the more direct one (which would have been over Oare-hill), was more than I could account for: but I had nothing to do with that; all I wanted was to save his life.
And that’s exactly what I did; and I had a terrible run for it, worried at every step that I might hear gunshots echoing in the valley, and scrambling down the rocky terrain with painful scratches. Then I crossed the Bagworthy stream, just below Doone Valley, and climbed the hill towards Slocombslade, my heart pounding heavily. I couldn’t understand why Jeremy chose to ride this way instead of taking the more direct route over Oare Hill, but that didn’t matter to me; all I wanted was to save his life.
And this I did by about a minute; and (which was the hardest thing of all) with a great horse-pistol at my head as I seized upon his bridle.
And I managed to do this in about a minute; and (which was the toughest part of all) with a big horse pistol pointed at my head as I grabbed his bridle.
“Jeremy, Jerry,” was all I could say, being so fearfully short of breath; for I had crossed the ground quicker than any horse could.
“Jeremy, Jerry,” was all I could manage to say, struggling to catch my breath; for I had covered the distance faster than any horse could.
“Spoken just in time, John Ridd!” cried Master Stickles, still however pointing the pistol at me: “I might have known thee by thy size, John. What art doing here?”
“Spoken just in time, John Ridd!” shouted Master Stickles, still aiming the pistol at me. “I should have recognized you by your size, John. What are you doing here?”
“Come to save your life. For God's sake, go no farther. Three men in the covert there, with long guns, waiting for thee.”
“Come to save your life. For God's sake, don’t go any further. There are three guys in the bushes over there, with long guns, waiting for you.”
“Ha! I have been watched of late. That is why I pointed at thee, John. Back round this corner, and get thy breath, and tell me all about it. I never saw a man so hurried. I could beat thee now, John.”
“Ha! I've been watched lately. That's why I pointed at you, John. Come around this corner, catch your breath, and tell me everything. I've never seen a man so rushed. I could easily beat you now, John.”
Jeremy Stickles was a man of courage, and presence of mind, and much resource: otherwise he would not have been appointed for this business; nevertheless he trembled greatly when he heard what I had to tell him. But I took good care to keep back the name of young Marwood de Whichehalse; neither did I show my knowledge of the other men; for reasons of my own not very hard to conjecture.
Jeremy Stickles was a man of courage, quick thinking, and plenty of resources; otherwise, he wouldn’t have been chosen for this task. However, he shook with fear when he heard what I had to say. But I made sure to withhold the name of young Marwood de Whichehalse, and I didn’t reveal what I knew about the other men either, for my own reasons that aren’t too difficult to guess.
“We will let them cool their heels, John Ridd,” said Jeremy, after thinking a little. “I cannot fetch my musketeers either from Glenthorne or Lynmouth, in time to seize the fellows. And three desperate Doones, well-armed, are too many for you and me. One result this attempt will have, it will make us attack them sooner than we had intended. And one more it will have, good John, it will make me thy friend for ever. Shake hands my lad, and forgive me freely for having been so cold to thee. Mayhap, in the troubles coming, it will help thee not a little to have done me this good turn.”
“We'll let them cool their heels, John Ridd,” said Jeremy after thinking for a bit. “I can’t get my musketeers from Glenthorne or Lynmouth in time to catch those guys. And three desperate Doones, well-armed, are too much for the two of us. One thing this attempt will accomplish is that it will force us to confront them sooner than we planned. And another thing, good John, is that it will make me your friend forever. Let’s shake hands, my friend, and forgive me for being so distant with you. Maybe, in the troubles ahead, it will really help you to have done me this favor.”
Upon this he shook me by the hand, with a pressure such as we feel not often; and having learned from me how to pass quite beyond view of his enemies, he rode on to his duty, whatever it might be. For my part I was inclined to stay, and watch how long the three fusiliers would have the patience to lie in wait; but seeing less and less use in that, as I grew more and more hungry, I swung my coat about me, and went home to Plover's Barrows.
He shook my hand with a grip that's rare these days, and after I explained how to avoid being seen by his enemies, he rode off to do whatever duty awaited him. As for me, I thought about sticking around to see how long the three fusiliers would wait patiently, but as I got hungrier, I realized it wasn’t worth it. So I put my coat on and headed home to Plover's Barrows.
CHAPTER XXXIX
A TROUBLED STATE AND A FOOLISH JOKE
Stickles took me aside the next day, and opened all his business to me, whether I would or not. But I gave him clearly to understand that he was not to be vexed with me, neither to regard me as in any way dishonest, if I should use for my own purpose, or for the benefit of my friends, any part of the knowledge and privity thus enforced upon me. To this he agreed quite readily; but upon the express provision that I should do nothing to thwart his schemes, neither unfold them to any one; but otherwise be allowed to act according to my own conscience, and as consisted with the honour of a loyal gentleman—for so he was pleased to term me. Now what he said lay in no great compass and may be summed in smaller still; especially as people know the chief part of it already. Disaffection to the King, or rather dislike to his brother James, and fear of Roman ascendancy, had existed now for several years, and of late were spreading rapidly; partly through the downright arrogance of the Tory faction, the cruelty and austerity of the Duke of York, the corruption of justice, and confiscation of ancient rights and charters; partly through jealousy of the French king, and his potent voice in our affairs; and partly (or perhaps one might even say, mainly) through that natural tide in all political channels, which verily moves as if it had the moon itself for its mistress. No sooner is a thing done and fixed, being set far in advance perhaps of all that was done before (like a new mole in the sea), but immediately the waters retire, lest they should undo it; and every one says how fine it is, but leaves other people to walk on it. Then after awhile, the vague endless ocean, having retired and lain still without a breeze or murmur, frets and heaves again with impulse, or with lashes laid on it, and in one great surge advances over every rampart.
Stickles took me aside the next day and shared all his business with me, whether I wanted to hear it or not. But I made it clear that he shouldn’t be upset with me or think of me as dishonest if I used any of the information and insight he forced upon me for my own benefit or that of my friends. He readily agreed to this, but only on the condition that I wouldn’t do anything to undermine his plans or share them with anyone else; otherwise, I could act according to my own conscience and maintain the honor of a loyal gentleman — as he liked to call me. What he said wasn’t complicated and can be summarized even more simply, especially since people already know the main points. Discontent with the King, or rather dislike for his brother James, along with fear of Roman influence, had been brewing for several years and was rapidly increasing. This was partly due to the outright arrogance of the Tory faction, the harshness of the Duke of York, the corruption in justice, and the seizure of old rights and charters; also, it stemmed from jealousy of the French king and his significant impact on our affairs; and primarily, one could argue, from that natural ebb and flow in all political environments, which seems to move as if the moon itself were its guide. As soon as something is established, appearing far ahead of everything that came before it (like a new jetty in the sea), the waters immediately recede to avoid undoing it; and everyone praises how great it is but leaves others to walk on it. Then, after a while, the vast ocean, having pulled back and lain still without wind or sound, stirs and swells again with force or with blows against it, and in one massive wave, crashes over every barrier.
And so there was at the time I speak of, a great surge in England, not rolling yet, but seething; and one which a thousand Chief Justices, and a million Jeremy Stickles, should never be able to stop or turn, by stringing up men in front of it; any more than a rope of onions can repulse a volcano. But the worst of it was that this great movement took a wrong channel at first; not only missing legitimate line, but roaring out that the back ditchway was the true and established course of it.
At the time I'm talking about, there was a huge wave of change in England, not fully developed yet, but bubbling beneath the surface; and not even a thousand Chief Justices or a million Jeremy Stickles could stop or redirect it by hanging people in its path—just like a rope of onions can't hold back a volcano. But the worst part was that this major movement initially went off track; it didn't just stray from the right path but loudly declared that the wrong path was the real and accepted route.
Against this rash and random current nearly all the ancient mariners of the State were set; not to allow the brave ship to drift there, though some little boats might try it. For the present there seemed to be a pause, with no open onset, but people on the shore expecting, each according to his wishes, and the feel of his own finger, whence the rush of wind should come which might direct the water.
Against this reckless and random tide, almost all the seasoned sailors of the State were determined to prevent the brave ship from drifting there, even if some small boats might attempt it. For now, there seemed to be a lull, with no clear attack, but people on the shore were waiting, each according to his own desires, and sensing where the wind might come from to steer the water.
Now,—to reduce high figures of speech into our own little numerals,—all the towns of Somersetshire and half the towns of Devonshire were full of pushing eager people, ready to swallow anything, or to make others swallow it. Whether they believed the folly about the black box, and all that stuff, is not for me to say; only one thing I know, they pretended to do so, and persuaded the ignorant rustics. Taunton, Bridgwater, Minehead, and Dulverton took the lead of the other towns in utterance of their discontent, and threats of what they meant to do if ever a Papist dared to climb the Protestant throne of England. On the other hand, the Tory leaders were not as yet under apprehension of an immediate outbreak, and feared to damage their own cause by premature coercion, for the struggle was not very likely to begin in earnest during the life of the present King; unless he should (as some people hoped) be so far emboldened as to make public profession of the faith which he held (if any). So the Tory policy was to watch, not indeed permitting their opponents to gather strength, and muster in armed force or with order, but being well apprised of all their schemes and intended movements, to wait for some bold overt act, and then to strike severely. And as a Tory watchman—or spy, as the Whigs would call him—Jeremy Stickles was now among us; and his duty was threefold.
Now, to break down the lofty expressions into our own simple numbers, all the towns in Somerset and half of those in Devon were packed with eager people, ready to believe anything or to make others believe it. Whether they truly believed the nonsense about the black box and all that stuff, I can't say; all I know is they acted like they did and convinced the clueless country folk. Taunton, Bridgwater, Minehead, and Dulverton led other towns in expressing their discontent and threatening what they would do if a Papist ever tried to take the Protestant throne of England. Meanwhile, the Tory leaders were not yet worried about an immediate uprising and were cautious not to harm their own position with premature action, since the struggle likely wouldn’t start in earnest while the current King was alive; unless, as some hoped, he would be bold enough to openly declare his faith (if he had one). So, the Tory strategy was to keep an eye on things, not allowing their opponents to gain strength or organize, but staying well-informed of all their plans and movements, waiting for some daring action to strike back hard. And among us was Jeremy Stickles, a Tory watchman—or spy, as the Whigs would label him—and his job had three parts.
First, and most ostensibly, to see to the levying of poundage in the little haven of Lynmouth, and farther up the coast, which was now becoming a place of resort for the folk whom we call smugglers, that is to say, who land their goods without regard to King's revenue as by law established. And indeed there had been no officer appointed to take toll, until one had been sent to Minehead, not so very long before. The excise as well (which had been ordered in the time of the Long Parliament) had been little heeded by the people hereabouts.
First and foremost, to ensure the collection of taxes in the small harbor of Lynmouth, and further up the coast, which was now becoming a destination for people we call smugglers, meaning those who land their goods without paying the taxes established by law. In fact, there hadn’t been an officer assigned to collect tolls until someone was sent to Minehead not too long ago. The excise taxes as well (which had been put in place during the Long Parliament) had been largely ignored by the local people.
Second, his duty was (though only the Doones had discovered it) to watch those outlaws narrowly, and report of their manners (which were scanty), doings (which were too manifold), reputation (which was execrable), and politics, whether true to the King and the Pope, or otherwise.
Second, his job was (although only the Doones knew about it) to closely monitor those outlaws and report on their behavior (which was minimal), activities (which were numerous), reputation (which was terrible), and political stance, whether loyal to the King and the Pope, or not.
Jeremy Stickles' third business was entirely political; to learn the temper of our people and the gentle families, to watch the movements of the trained bands (which could not always be trusted), to discover any collecting of arms and drilling of men among us, to prevent (if need were, by open force) any importation of gunpowder, of which there had been some rumour; in a word, to observe and forestall the enemy.
Jeremy Stickles' third business was completely political; to understand the mindset of our people and the gentle families, to monitor the activities of the armed groups (which couldn't always be trusted), to uncover any gathering of weapons and training of men among us, to stop (if necessary, with open force) any importation of gunpowder, which there had been some rumors about; in short, to watch for and prevent the enemy.
Now in providing for this last-mentioned service, the Government had made a great mistake, doubtless through their anxiety to escape any public attention. For all the disposable force at their emissary's command amounted to no more than a score of musketeers, and these so divided along the coast as scarcely to suffice for the duty of sentinels. He held a commission, it is true, for the employment of the train-bands, but upon the understanding that he was not to call upon them (except as a last resource), for any political object; although he might use them against the Doones as private criminals, if found needful; and supposing that he could get them.
Now, in arranging for this last service, the Government made a significant mistake, likely due to their desire to avoid attracting any public attention. The total force available to their representative was no more than about twenty musketeers, and these were so spread out along the coast that they barely sufficed for the job of sentinels. He did have a commission to use the local militia, but it was understood that he shouldn’t call on them (except as a last resort) for any political purpose; although he could use them against the Doones as private criminals, if necessary, and assuming he could enlist them.
“So you see, John,” he said in conclusion, “I have more work than tools to do it with. I am heartily sorry I ever accepted such a mixed and meagre commission. At the bottom of it lies (I am well convinced) not only the desire to keep things quiet, but the paltry jealousy of the military people. Because I am not a Colonel, forsooth, or a Captain in His Majesty's service, it would never do to trust me with a company of soldiers! And yet they would not send either Colonel or Captain, for fear of a stir in the rustic mind. The only thing that I can do with any chance of success, is to rout out these vile Doone fellows, and burn their houses over their heads. Now what think you of that, John Ridd?”
“So you see, John,” he concluded, “I have more work than I have tools to handle it. I'm really sorry I ever took on such a mixed and meager job. Underneath it all, I'm sure there's not only a wish to keep things quiet but also the petty jealousy of the military folks. Because I'm not a Colonel or a Captain in His Majesty's service, they just can't trust me with a group of soldiers! And still, they wouldn't send either a Colonel or a Captain out here, afraid it might cause a fuss among the locals. The only thing I can do that has any chance of success is to track down those nasty Doone guys and burn their houses down on top of them. What do you think about that, John Ridd?”
“Destroy the town of the Doones,” I said, “and all the Doones inside it! Surely, Jeremy, you would never think of such a cruel act as that!”
“Destroy the town of the Doones,” I said, “and everyone in it! Surely, Jeremy, you would never consider such a cruel thing!”
“A cruel act, John! It would be a mercy for at least three counties. No doubt you folk, who live so near, are well accustomed to them, and would miss your liveliness in coming home after nightfall, and the joy of finding your sheep and cattle right, when you not expected it. But after awhile you might get used to the dullness of being safe in your beds, and not losing your sisters and sweethearts. Surely, on the whole, it is as pleasant not to be robbed as to be robbed.”
“A cruel thing to do, John! It would be a mercy for at least three counties. You folks who live so close probably find them quite familiar and would miss the excitement of coming home after dark, and the relief of finding your sheep and cattle alright when you weren't expecting it. But eventually, you might get used to the dullness of being safe in your beds and not losing your sisters and sweethearts. Really, overall, it’s just as nice not to be robbed as it is to be robbed.”
“I think we should miss them very much,” I answered after consideration; for the possibility of having no Doones had never yet occurred to me, and we all were so thoroughly used to them, and allowed for it in our year's reckoning; “I am sure we should miss them very sadly; and something worse would come of it.”
“I think we would really miss them a lot,” I replied after thinking it over; the idea of not having the Doones had never crossed my mind before, and we were all so accustomed to them that we factored it into our yearly planning; “I’m sure we would miss them very much, and something worse would come of it.”
“Thou art the staunchest of all staunch Tories,” cried Stickles, laughing, as he shook my hand; “thou believest in the divine right of robbers, who are good enough to steal thy own fat sheep. I am a jolly Tory, John, but thou art ten times jollier: oh! the grief in thy face at the thought of being robbed no longer!”
“You're the most loyal Tory of them all,” Stickles said, laughing as he shook my hand. “You believe in the divine right of thieves who are generous enough to steal your own fat sheep. I'm a cheerful Tory, John, but you're ten times cheerier: oh! the sadness in your face at the thought of no longer being robbed!”
He laughed in a very unseemly manner; while I descried nothing to laugh about. For we always like to see our way; and a sudden change upsets us. And unless it were in the loss of the farm, or the death of the King, or of Betty Muxworthy, there was nothing that could so unsettle our minds as the loss of the Doones of Bagworthy.
He laughed in a really inappropriate way, while I saw nothing funny about it. We always like to have clarity; and a sudden change throws us off. Unless it was losing the farm, the death of the king, or Betty Muxworthy, nothing could shake our minds as much as the loss of the Doones of Bagworthy.
And beside all this, I was thinking, of course, and thinking more than all the rest, about the troubles that might ensue to my own beloved Lorna. If an attack of Glen Doone were made by savage soldiers and rude train-bands, what might happen, or what might not, to my delicate, innocent darling? Therefore, when Jeremy Stickles again placed the matter before me, commending my strength and courage and skill (to flatter me of the highest), and finished by saying that I would be worth at least four common men to him, I cut him short as follows:—
And on top of everything else, I was thinking, of course, and thinking even more than about anything else, about the troubles that could happen to my beloved Lorna. If Glen Doone were attacked by savage soldiers and rough militias, what might happen, or what might not happen, to my delicate, innocent darling? So, when Jeremy Stickles brought it up again, praising my strength, courage, and skills (trying to flatter me as much as possible), and ended by saying that I would be worth at least four regular men to him, I interrupted him like this:—
“Master Stickles, once for all, I will have naught to do with it. The reason why is no odds of thine, nor in any way disloyal. Only in thy plans remember that I will not strike a blow, neither give any counsel, neither guard any prisoners.”
“Master Stickles, once and for all, I want nothing to do with it. The reason doesn’t concern you, nor is it disloyal in any way. Just remember in your plans that I won’t take any action, give any advice, or guard any prisoners.”
“Not strike a blow,” cried Jeremy, “against thy father's murderers, John!”
“Don’t hit back,” shouted Jeremy, “at your father’s killers, John!”
“Not a single blow, Jeremy; unless I knew the man who did it, and he gloried in his sin. It was a foul and dastard deed, yet not done in cold blood; neither in cold blood will I take God's task of avenging it.”
“Not a single hit, Jeremy; unless I knew who did it, and he took pride in his wrongdoing. It was a disgusting and cowardly act, but it wasn’t done in a cold-blooded way; I won’t carry out God’s task of avenging it in a cold-blooded manner either.”
“Very well, John,” answered Master Stickles, “I know thine obstinacy. When thy mind is made up, to argue with thee is pelting a rock with peppercorns. But thou hast some other reason, lad, unless I am much mistaken, over and above thy merciful nature and Christian forgiveness. Anyhow, come and see it, John. There will be good sport, I reckon; especially when we thrust our claws into the nest of the ravens. Many a yeoman will find his daughter, and some of the Porlock lads their sweethearts. A nice young maiden, now, for thee, John; if indeed, any—”
“Alright, John,” replied Master Stickles, “I know you’re stubborn. When your mind is set, arguing with you is like throwing peppercorns at a rock. But you have some other reason, my lad, unless I’m mistaken, beyond your kind nature and Christian forgiveness. Anyway, come and check it out, John. I think there will be some good fun; especially when we go after the ravens' nest. Many a farmer will find his daughter, and some of the Porlock guys will find their sweethearts. A nice young lady, now, just for you, John; if there’s really any—”
“No more of this!” I answered very sternly: “it is no business of thine, Jeremy; and I will have no joking upon this matter.”
“No more of this!” I replied firmly. “This is none of your concern, Jeremy; and I won’t tolerate any joking about this issue.”
“Good, my lord; so be it. But one thing I tell thee in earnest. We will have thy old double-dealing uncle, Huckaback of Dulverton, and march him first to assault Doone Castle, sure as my name is Stickles. I hear that he hath often vowed to storm the valley himself, if only he could find a dozen musketeers to back him. Now, we will give him chance to do it, and prove his loyalty to the King, which lies under some suspicion of late.”
“Alright, my lord; it’s settled. But I want to make one thing clear. We’re going to take your old two-faced uncle, Huckaback of Dulverton, and send him first to attack Doone Castle, as sure as my name is Stickles. I’ve heard he’s often said he would storm the valley himself, if only he could find a dozen musketeers to support him. Now, we’ll give him that chance and see if he can prove his loyalty to the King, which has been a bit questionable lately.”
With regard to this, I had nothing to say; for it seemed to me very reasonable that Uncle Reuben should have first chance of recovering his stolen goods, about which he had made such a sad to-do, and promised himself such vengeance. I made bold, however, to ask Master Stickles at what time he intended to carry out this great and hazardous attempt. He answered that he had several things requiring first to be set in order, and that he must make an inland Journey, even as far as Tiverton, and perhaps Crediton and Exeter, to collect his forces and ammunition for them. For he meant to have some of the yeomanry as well as of the trained bands, so that if the Doones should sally forth, as perhaps they would, on horseback, cavalry might be there to meet them, and cut them off from returning.
I didn't have anything to say about this because it seemed very reasonable that Uncle Reuben should have the first chance to get back his stolen goods, which he had made such a fuss about and was promising himself revenge for. However, I did have the nerve to ask Master Stickles when he planned to carry out this big and risky mission. He replied that he had a few things to take care of first and that he needed to make a trip inland, as far as Tiverton, and maybe Crediton and Exeter, to gather his forces and supplies. He intended to have some of the local farmers as well as the trained bands so that if the Doones came out, which they might do on horseback, we'd have cavalry ready to meet them and cut them off from getting back.
All this made me very uncomfortable, for many and many reasons, the chief and foremost being of course my anxiety about Lorna. If the attack succeeded, what was to become of her? Who would rescue her from the brutal soldiers, even supposing that she escaped from the hands of her own people, during the danger and ferocity? And in smaller ways, I was much put out; for instance, who would ensure our corn-ricks, sheep, and cattle, ay, and even our fat pigs, now coming on for bacon, against the spreading all over the country of unlicensed marauders? The Doones had their rights, and understood them, and took them according to prescription, even as the parsons had, and the lords of manors, and the King himself, God save him! But how were these low soldiering fellows (half-starved at home very likely, and only too glad of the fat of the land, and ready, according to our proverb, to burn the paper they fried in), who were they to come hectoring and heroing over us, and Heliogabalising, with our pretty sisters to cook for them, and be chucked under chin perhaps afterwards? There is nothing England hates so much, according to my sense of it, as that fellows taken from plough-tail, cart-tail, pot-houses and parish-stocks, should be hoisted and foisted upon us (after a few months' drilling, and their lying shaped into truckling) as defenders of the public weal, and heroes of the universe.
All this made me really uncomfortable for many reasons, the main one being my worry about Lorna. If the attack went well for them, what would happen to her? Who would save her from the brutal soldiers, even if she managed to escape from her own people amidst all the chaos? On a smaller scale, I was also concerned; for example, who would protect our corn stacks, sheep, and cattle, and even our fat pigs that were almost ready for bacon, from the lawless raiders spreading across the country? The Doones claimed their rights and understood them, taking what they wanted just like the clergy, the lords of the manor, and the King himself, bless him! But who were these lowly soldiers (likely half-starved at home and eager for our land’s resources, ready to burn the paper they fried in) to come bossing us around and acting like heroes, with our lovely sisters cooking for them and maybe even getting flirted with afterward? Nothing gets under England’s skin more, in my opinion, than when guys taken from farms, taverns, and local jails are suddenly elevated and pushed upon us (after a few months of training and being molded into submissive followers) as protectors of the public good and champions of the world.
In another way I was vexed, moreover—for after all we must consider the opinions of our neighbours—namely, that I knew quite well how everybody for ten miles round (for my fame must have been at least that wide, after all my wrestling), would lift up hands and cry out thus—“Black shame on John Ridd, if he lets them go without him!”
In another way, I was annoyed too—after all, we have to think about what our neighbors think—because I knew very well how everyone within ten miles (my reputation must have spread that far after all my wrestling) would raise their hands and shout, “What a disgrace for John Ridd if he lets them go without him!”
Putting all these things together, as well as many others, which your own wits will suggest to you, it is impossible but what you will freely acknowledge that this unfortunate John Ridd was now in a cloven stick. There was Lorna, my love and life, bound by her duty to that old vil—nay, I mean to her good grandfather, who could now do little mischief, and therefore deserved all praise—Lorna bound, at any rate, by her womanly feelings, if not by sense of duty, to remain in the thick danger, with nobody to protect her, but everybody to covet her, for beauty and position. Here was all the country roused with violent excitement, at the chance of snapping at the Doones; and not only getting tit for tat; but every young man promising his sweetheart a gold chain, and his mother at least a shilling. And here was our own mow-yard, better filled than we could remember, and perhaps every sheaf in it destined to be burned or stolen, before we had finished the bread we had baked.
Putting all these things together, along with many others that you can think of, it's clear that this unfortunate John Ridd was really in a tough spot. There was Lorna, my love and life, tied by her duty to that old villain—no, I mean to her kind grandfather, who could do little harm now and deserves all the praise—Lorna tied, at least by her womanly instincts, if not by a sense of obligation, to stay in the thick of danger, with no one to protect her, yet everyone wanting her, for her beauty and status. The whole country was stirred up with intense excitement, eager to take on the Doones; not just for revenge but every young man promising his girlfriend a gold chain and at least a shilling to his mom. And here was our own mow-yard, fuller than we could remember, and maybe every sheaf in it was destined to be burned or stolen before we had finished the bread we had baked.
Among all these troubles, there was, however, or seemed to be, one comfort. Tom Faggus returned from London very proudly and very happily, with a royal pardon in black and white, which everybody admired the more, because no one could read a word of it. The Squire himself acknowledged cheerfully that he could sooner take fifty purses than read a single line of it. Some people indeed went so far as to say that the parchment was made from a sheep Tom had stolen, and that was why it prevaricated so in giving him a character. But I, knowing something by this time, of lawyers, was able to contradict them; affirming that the wolf had more than the sheep to do with this matter.
Among all these troubles, there seemed to be one comfort. Tom Faggus returned from London feeling very proud and happy, with a royal pardon in black and white that everyone admired even more because no one could read a single word of it. The Squire himself cheerfully admitted that he would find it easier to rob fifty purses than read a line of it. Some people even claimed that the parchment was made from a sheep Tom had stolen, which is why it was so vague in giving him a character reference. But I, having learned a bit about lawyers by that time, was able to disagree with them, insisting that the wolf had more to do with this matter than the sheep.
For, according to our old saying, the three learned professions live by roguery on the three parts of a man. The doctor mauls our bodies; the parson starves our souls, but the lawyer must be the adroitest knave, for he has to ensnare our minds. Therefore he takes a careful delight in covering his traps and engines with a spread of dead-leaf words, whereof himself knows little more than half the way to spell them.
For, as our old saying goes, the three learned professions profit from deceit targeting the three parts of a person. The doctor damages our bodies; the preacher neglects our souls, but the lawyer must be the cleverest trickster, as he needs to catch our minds. So, he takes great pleasure in hiding his traps and schemes beneath a layer of confusing, jargon-filled language, of which he understands barely more than half the spelling.
But now Tom Faggus, although having wit to gallop away on his strawberry mare, with the speed of terror, from lawyers (having paid them with money too honest to stop), yet fell into a reckless adventure, ere ever he came home, from which any lawyer would have saved him, although he ought to have needed none beyond common thought for dear Annie. Now I am, and ever have been, so vexed about this story that I cannot tell it pleasantly (as I try to write in general) in my own words and manner. Therefore I will let John Fry (whom I have robbed of another story, to which he was more entitled, and whom I have robbed of many speeches (which he thought very excellent), lest I should grieve any one with his lack of education,—the last lack he ever felt, by the bye), now with your good leave, I will allow poor John to tell this tale, in his own words and style; which he has a perfect right to do, having been the first to tell us. For Squire Faggus kept it close; not trusting even Annie with it (or at least she said so); because no man knows much of his sweetheart's tongue, until she has borne him a child or two.
But now Tom Faggus, even though he had the cleverness to ride off on his strawberry mare, as fast as a person fleeing in fear, from lawyers (after paying them with money too honest to hold back), still found himself in a reckless situation before he even got home, one that any lawyer would have saved him from, even though he shouldn’t have needed any help beyond common sense for dear Annie. Now I have always been so frustrated with this story that I can’t tell it nicely (as I usually try to do) in my own words and style. So, with your permission, I’ll let John Fry (whom I've taken another story from, one he had more right to, and whom I've taken many lines from—lines he thought were pretty great—so that I wouldn’t embarrass anyone with his lack of formal education, which was the last thing he ever really felt, by the way), now I’ll let poor John tell this tale, in his own words and style; which he absolutely has the right to do, having been the first to share it with us. Because Squire Faggus kept it a secret; not even trusting Annie with it (or at least that's what she said); since no man really knows much about what his sweetheart thinks, until she’s given him a child or two.
Only before John begins his story, this I would say, in duty to him, and in common honesty,—that I dare not write down some few of his words, because they are not convenient, for dialect or other causes; and that I cannot find any way of spelling many of the words which I do repeat, so that people, not born on Exmoor, may know how he pronounced them; even if they could bring their lips and their legs to the proper attitude. And in this I speak advisedly; having observed some thousand times that the manner a man has of spreading his legs, and bending his knees, or stiffening, and even the way he will set his heel, make all the difference in his tone, and time of casting his voice aright, and power of coming home to you.
Before John starts his story, I want to say this out of respect for him and honesty: I can’t write down some of his words because they’re not appropriate, either due to dialect or other reasons. Plus, I can't find a way to spell many of the words I do repeat so that people who weren’t born on Exmoor can understand how he pronounced them, even if they could position their lips and legs correctly. I say this with caution; I've noticed thousands of times that the way a person spreads their legs, bends their knees, stiffens, and even sets their heel makes a huge difference in their tone, timing, and ability to communicate effectively with you.
We always liked John's stories, not for any wit in them; but because we laughed at the man, rather than the matter. The way he held his head was enough, with his chin fixed hard like a certainty (especially during his biggest lie), not a sign of a smile in his lips or nose, but a power of not laughing; and his eyes not turning to anybody, unless somebody had too much of it (as young girls always do) and went over the brink of laughter. Thereupon it was good to see John Fry; how he looked gravely first at the laughter, as much as to ask, “What is it now?” then if the fool went laughing more, as he or she was sure to do upon that dry inquiry, John would look again, to be sure of it, and then at somebody else to learn whether the laugh had company; then if he got another grin, all his mirth came out in glory, with a sudden break; and he wiped his lips, and was grave again.
We always enjoyed John's stories, not for their cleverness, but because we laughed at him more than the content. The way he tilted his head was enough, with his chin set firmly like a certainty (especially during his biggest lies), not a trace of a smile on his lips or nose, but rather a strength in not laughing; and his eyes didn't look at anyone unless someone was laughing too much (like young girls always do) and crossed the line into uncontrollable laughter. Then it was amusing to see John Fry; he would first look seriously at the laughter, as if to ask, “What’s going on?” Then, if the person continued to laugh, which they inevitably did after that dry inquiry, John would look again to confirm, and then glance at someone else to see if the laughter was contagious; if he caught another grin, all his amusement would suddenly burst forth spectacularly, and he would wipe his lips and return to being serious again.
Now John, being too much encouraged by the girls (of which I could never break them), came into the house that December evening, with every inch of him full of a tale. Annie saw it, and Lizzie, of course; and even I, in the gloom of great evils, perceived that John was a loaded gun; but I did not care to explode him. Now nothing primed him so hotly as this: if you wanted to hear all John Fry had heard, the surest of all sure ways to it was, to pretend not to care for a word of it.
Now John, being overly encouraged by the girls (which I could never get them to stop), came into the house that December evening, bursting with a story. Annie noticed it, and so did Lizzie; even I, caught up in the shadows of serious problems, realized that John was like a loaded gun, but I didn’t want to set him off. Nothing fueled his excitement more than this: if you wanted to hear everything John Fry had to say, the best way to get it was to act like you didn’t care about a word of it.
“I wor over to Exeford in the morning,” John began from the chimney-corner, looking straight at Annie; “for to zee a little calve, Jan, as us cuddn't get thee to lave houze about. Meesus have got a quare vancy vor un, from wutt her have heer'd of the brade. Now zit quite, wull 'e Miss Luzzie, or a 'wunt goo on no vurder. Vaine little tayl I'll tull' ee, if so be thee zits quite. Wull, as I coom down the hill, I zeed a saight of volks astapping of the ro-udwai. Arl on 'em wi' girt goons, or two men out of dree wi' 'em. Rackon there wor dree score on 'em, tak smarl and beg togather laike; latt aloun the women and chillers; zum on em wi' matches blowing, tothers wi' flint-lacks. 'Wutt be up now?' I says to Bill Blacksmith, as had knowledge of me: 'be the King acoomin? If her be, do 'ee want to shutt 'un?'
“I walked over to Exeford in the morning,” John started from the fireplace, looking directly at Annie; “to see a little calf, Jan, since we couldn’t get you to leave the house. Mrs. has a strange craving for it, from what she's heard about the breed. Now sit quietly, will you, Miss Luzzie, or I won't go on any further. I’ll tell you about that pesky tail if you can sit still. Well, as I came down the hill, I saw a bunch of people stepping out from the roadway. All of them in big gowns, or two men out of three with them. I reckon there were about sixty of them, gathering small and big together like; not to mention the women and children; some of them with matches blowing, others with flint-locks. 'What’s going on now?' I asked Bill Blacksmith, who knew me: 'Is the King coming? If he is, do you want to shut him out?'”
“'Thee not knaw!' says Bill Blacksmith, just the zame as I be a tullin of it: 'whai, man, us expex Tam Faggus, and zum on us manes to shutt 'un.'
“Thee not know!” says Bill Blacksmith, just the same as I’m telling it: “Why, man, we expect Tam Faggus, and some of us mean to shut him up.”
“'Shutt 'un wi'out a warrant!' says I: 'sure 'ee knaws better nor thic, Bill! A man mayn't shutt to another man, wi'out have a warrant, Bill. Warship zed so, last taime I zeed un, and nothing to the contrairy.'
“‘Shut him up without a warrant!’ I said: ‘Sure you know better than that, Bill! A man can't just shut another man up without having a warrant, Bill. The sheriff said so the last time I saw him, and nothing to the contrary.’”
“'Haw, haw! Never frout about that,' saith Bill, zame as I be tullin you; 'us has warrants and warships enow, dree or vour on 'em. And more nor a dizzen warranties; fro'ut I know to contrairy. Shutt 'un, us manes; and shutt 'un, us will—' Whai, Miss Annie, good Lord, whuttiver maks 'ee stear so?'
“'Ha, ha! Don’t worry about that,' says Bill, just like I’m telling you; 'we have enough warrants and warships, three or four of them. And more than a dozen warranties; from what I know to the contrary. Shut it down, we mean; and shut it down, we will—' Well, Miss Annie, good Lord, what’s making you steer like that?'”
“Nothing at all, John,” our Annie answered; “only the horrible ferocity of that miserable blacksmith.”
“Nothing at all, John,” our Annie replied; “just the terrible anger of that wretched blacksmith.”
“That be nayther here nor there,” John continued, with some wrath at his own interruption: “Blacksmith knawed whutt the Squire had been; and veared to lose his own custom, if Squire tuk to shooin' again. Shutt any man I would myzell as intervared wi' my trade laike. 'Lucky for thee,' said Bill Blacksmith, 'as thee bee'st so shart and fat, Jan. Dree on us wor a gooin' to shutt 'ee, till us zeed how fat thee waz, Jan.'
“That’s neither here nor there,” John continued, somewhat annoyed at his own interruption. “The blacksmith knew what the squire had been up to and was afraid of losing his business if the squire started shoeing horses again. I’d shut any man down who messed with my trade like that. ‘Lucky for you,’ said Bill the Blacksmith, ‘that you’re so short and stout, Jan. We were going to shut you down, but then we saw how stout you are, Jan.’”
“'Lor now, Bill!' I answered 'un, wi' a girt cold swat upon me: 'shutt me, Bill; and my own waife niver drame of it!'”
“‘Oh my, Bill!’ I replied, wiping the big cold sweat off my brow. ‘Shut up, Bill; and my own wife would never dream of it!’”
Here John Fry looked round the kitchen; for he had never said anything of the kind, I doubt; but now made it part of his discourse, from thinking that Mistress Fry was come, as she generally did, to fetch him.
Here, John Fry glanced around the kitchen; he probably hadn't said anything like that before, but he now included it in what he was saying, thinking that Mistress Fry had arrived, as she usually did, to fetch him.
“Wull done then, Jan Vry,” said the woman, who had entered quietly, but was only our old Molly. “Wutt handsome manners thee hast gat, Jan, to spake so well of thy waife laike; after arl the laife she leads thee!”
“Well done then, Jan Vry,” said the woman, who had entered quietly, but was just our old Molly. “What handsome manners you have, Jan, to speak so well of your wife like that; after all the life she leads you!”
“Putt thee pot on the fire, old 'ooman, and bile thee own bakkon,” John answered her, very sharply: “nobody no raight to meddle wi' a man's bad ooman but himzell. Wull, here was all these here men awaitin', zum wi' harses, zum wi'out; the common volk wi' long girt guns, and tha quarlity wi' girt broad-swords. Who wor there? Whay latt me zee. There wor Squire Maunder,” here John assumed his full historical key, “him wi' the pot to his vittle-place; and Sir Richard Blewitt shaking over the zaddle, and Squaire Sandford of Lee, him wi' the long nose and one eye, and Sir Gronus Batchildor over to Ninehead Court, and ever so many more on 'em, tulling up how they was arl gooin' to be promoted, for kitching of Tom Faggus.
“Put the pot on the fire, old woman, and boil your own bacon,” John replied sharply. “Nobody has the right to interfere with a man's woman but him. Well, there were all these men waiting, some with horses, some without; the common folks with their long guns, and the nobility with their big swords. Who was there? Let me see. There was Squire Maunder,” here John took on a serious tone, “the one with the pot to his food supply; and Sir Richard Blewitt leaning over the saddle, and Squire Sandford of Lee, the one with the long nose and one eye, and Sir Gronus Batchildor from Ninehead Court, and many more of them, talking about how they were all going to get promoted for catching Tom Faggus.”
“'Hope to God,' says I to myzell, 'poor Tom wun't coom here to-day: arl up with her, if 'a doeth: and who be there to suckzade 'un?' Mark me now, all these charps was good to shutt 'un, as her coom crass the watter; the watter be waide enow there and stony, but no deeper than my knee-place.
“'I hope to God,' I said to myself, 'poor Tom won't come here today: it would be all over for her if he does: and who is there to save him?' Listen to me now, all these guys would be quick to shut him down, as soon as she crosses the water; the water is wide enough there and rocky, but not deeper than my knees.
“'Thee cas'n goo no vurder,' Bill Blacksmith saith to me: 'nawbody 'lowed to crass the vord, until such time as Faggus coom; plaise God us may mak sure of 'un.'
“'You can't go any further,' Bill Blacksmith said to me: 'nobody is allowed to cross the word, until Faggus comes; please God we may be sure of him.'
“'Amen, zo be it,' says I; 'God knoweth I be never in any hurry, and would zooner stop nor goo on most taimes.'
“Amen, so be it,” I said; “God knows I’m never in a hurry and would rather stop than go on most times.”
“Wi' that I pulled my vittles out, and zat a horsebarck, atin' of 'em, and oncommon good they was. 'Won't us have 'un this taime just,' saith Tim Potter, as keepeth the bull there; 'and yet I be zorry for 'un. But a man must kape the law, her must; zo be her can only learn it. And now poor Tom will swing as high as the tops of they girt hashes there.'
“With that, I took out my food and sat on a horseblock, eating it, and it was really good. 'Why don't we have some this time,' said Tim Potter, who takes care of the bull there; 'and yet I feel sorry for him. But a man has to keep the law, he must; so he can only learn it. And now poor Tom will hang as high as the tops of those big trees there.'”
“'Just thee kitch 'un virst,' says I; 'maisure rope, wi' the body to maisure by.'
“'Just the kitchen first,' I said; 'measure the rope, with the body to measure by.'”
“'Hurrah! here be another now,' saith Bill Blacksmith, grinning; 'another coom to help us. What a grave gentleman! A warship of the pace, at laste!'
“'Hurrah! Here’s another one,' says Bill Blacksmith, grinning; 'another to help us. What a serious guy! A warship at last!'”
“For a gentleman, on a cue-ball horse, was coming slowly down the hill on tother zide of watter, looking at us in a friendly way, and with a long papper standing forth the lining of his coat laike. Horse stapped to drink in the watter, and gentleman spak to 'un kindly, and then they coom raight on to ussen, and the gentleman's face wor so long and so grave, us veared 'a wor gooin' to prache to us.
“For a gentleman on a cue-ball horse was coming slowly down the hill on the other side of the water, looking at us in a friendly way, with a long piece of paper sticking out from the lining of his coat. The horse stopped to drink from the water, and the gentleman spoke to it kindly, then they came right over to us, and the gentleman’s face was so long and serious that we thought he was going to preach to us.”
“'Coort o' King's Bench,' saith one man; 'Checker and Plays,' saith another; 'Spishal Commission, I doubt,' saith Bill Blacksmith; 'backed by the Mayor of Taunton.'
“'Court of King's Bench,' says one guy; 'Checker and Games,' says another; 'Special Commission, I think,' says Bill Blacksmith; 'backed by the Mayor of Taunton.'
“'Any Justice of the King's Peace, good people, to be found near here?' said the gentleman, lifting his hat to us, and very gracious in his manner.
“Is there any Justice of the Peace nearby, good people?” said the gentleman, lifting his hat to us and being very gracious in his manner.
“'Your honour,' saith Bill, with his hat off his head; 'there be sax or zeven warships here: arl on 'em very wise 'uns. Squaire Maunder there be the zinnyer.'
“'Your honor,' says Bill, taking his hat off his head, 'there are six or seven warships here: all of them very clever ones. Captain Maunder over there is the leader.'
“So the gentleman rode up to Squire Maunder, and raised his cocked hat in a manner that took the Squire out of countenance, for he could not do the like of it.
“So the gentleman rode up to Squire Maunder and tipped his hat in a way that caught the Squire off guard, as he couldn’t manage to do the same.”
“'Sir,' said he, 'good and worshipful sir, I am here to claim your good advice and valour; for purposes of justice. I hold His Majesty's commission, to make to cease a notorious rogue, whose name is Thomas Faggus.' With that he offered his commission; but Squire Maunder told the truth, that he could not rade even words in print, much less written karakters.* Then the other magistrates rode up, and put their heads together, how to meet the London gentleman without loss of importance. There wor one of 'em as could rade purty vair, and her made out King's mark upon it: and he bowed upon his horse to the gentleman, and he laid his hand on his heart and said, 'Worshipful sir, we, as has the honour of His Gracious Majesty's commission, are entirely at your service, and crave instructions from you.'”
“'Sir,' he said, 'good and honorable sir, I'm here to seek your wise counsel and bravery for the sake of justice. I have His Majesty's commission to stop a notorious criminal named Thomas Faggus.' With that, he presented his commission, but Squire Maunder honestly admitted that he couldn't read even the printed words, much less the written ones. Then the other magistrates came over and huddled together, figuring out how to approach the gentleman from London while maintaining their dignity. One of them could read pretty well, and he managed to recognize the King's mark on it: he bowed on his horse to the gentleman, placed his hand on his heart, and said, 'Honorable sir, we, who have the privilege of His Gracious Majesty's commission, are entirely at your service and request your guidance.'”
* Lest John Fry seem to under-rate the erudition of
Devonshire magistrates, I venture to offer copy of a letter
from a Justice of the Peace to his bookseller, circa 1810
A.D., now in my possession:—
'Sur.
'plez to zen me the aks relatting to A-gustus-paks,'
—Ed. of L.D.
[Emphasized this in original]
* To avoid making John Fry appear to underestimate the knowledge of Devonshire magistrates, I’d like to share a letter from a Justice of the Peace to his bookseller, from around 1810 A.D., which I currently have:
'Sir,
'please send me the acts relating to A-gustus-paks,'
—Ed. of L.D.
[Emphasized this in original]“Then a waving of hats began, and a bowing, and making of legs to wan anather, sich as nayver wor zeed afore; but none of 'em arl, for air and brading, cud coom anaigh the gentleman with the long grave face.
“Then a waving of hats began, along with bowing and making gestures to one another, like nothing ever seen before; but none of them at all, for air and bravado, could come anywhere near the gentleman with the long serious face.”
“'Your warships have posted the men right well,' saith he with anather bow all round; 'surely that big rogue will have no chance left among so many valiant musketeers. Ha! what see I there, my friend? Rust in the pan of your gun! That gun would never go off, sure as I am the King's Commissioner. And I see another just as bad; and lo, there the third! Pardon me, gentlemen, I have been so used to His Majesty's Ordnance-yards. But I fear that bold rogue would ride through all of you, and laugh at your worship's beards, by George.'
“‘Your warships have positioned the men really well,’ he said with another bow all around; ‘surely that big rogue won’t stand a chance against so many brave musketeers. Ha! What do I see there, my friend? Rust in the barrel of your gun! That gun would never fire, as sure as I am the King's Commissioner. And I see another one just as bad; and look, there’s the third! Excuse me, gentlemen, I’ve been so accustomed to His Majesty's armories. But I’m afraid that bold rogue would ride right through all of you and laugh at your beards, by George.’”
“'But what shall us do?' Squire Maunder axed; 'I vear there be no oil here.'
“'But what should we do?' Squire Maunder asked; 'I fear there’s no oil here.'”
“'Discharge your pieces, gentlemen, and let the men do the same; or at least let us try to discharge them, and load again with fresh powder. It is the fog of the morning hath spoiled the priming. That rogue is not in sight yet: but God knows we must not be asleep with him, or what will His Majesty say to me, if we let him slip once more?'
“'Fire your weapons, gentlemen, and let the men do the same; or at least let us try to fire them and reload with fresh powder. It's the morning fog that's messed up the priming. That scoundrel isn't in sight yet: but God knows we can't afford to be caught off guard with him, or what will His Majesty say to me if we let him escape again?'”
“'Excellent, wondrous well said, good sir,' Squire Maunder answered him; 'I never should have thought of that now. Bill Blacksmith, tell all the men to be ready to shoot up into the air, directly I give the word. Now, are you ready there, Bill?'
“'Excellent, wonderfully put, good sir,' Squire Maunder replied; 'I would never have thought of that. Bill Blacksmith, tell all the men to be ready to shoot into the air as soon as I give the signal. Now, are you ready there, Bill?'”
“'All ready, your worship,' saith Bill, saluting like a soldier.
“'All set, your honor,' says Bill, saluting like a soldier.
“'Then, one, two, dree, and shutt!' cries Squire Maunder, standing up in the irons of his stirrups.
“'Then, one, two, three, and go!' yells Squire Maunder, standing up in the stirrups.”
“Thereupon they all blazed out, and the noise of it went all round the hills; with a girt thick cloud arising, and all the air smelling of powder. Before the cloud was gone so much as ten yards on the wind, the gentleman on the cue-bald horse shuts up his face like a pair of nut-cracks, as wide as it was long before, and out he pulls two girt pistols longside of zaddle, and clap'th one to Squire Maunder's head, and tother to Sir Richard Blewitt's.
Then they all erupted, and the sound echoed all around the hills, accompanied by a huge, thick cloud rising, filling the air with the smell of gunpowder. Before the cloud had even drifted ten yards in the wind, the man on the cue-bald horse shut his mouth tight like a pair of nutcrackers, and pulled out two large pistols from his saddle, pointing one at Squire Maunder's head and the other at Sir Richard Blewitt's.
“'Hand forth your money and all your warrants,' he saith like a clap of thunder; 'gentlemen, have you now the wit to apprehend Tom Faggus?'
“'Hand over your money and all your warrants,' he says like a clap of thunder; 'gentlemen, do you now have the sense to catch Tom Faggus?'”
“Squire Maunder swore so that he ought to be fined; but he pulled out his purse none the slower for that, and so did Sir Richard Blewitt.
“Squire Maunder swore so much that he should have been fined; but he pulled out his wallet just as quickly, and so did Sir Richard Blewitt.”
“'First man I see go to load a gun, I'll gi'e 'un the bullet to do it with,' said Tom; for you see it was him and no other, looking quietly round upon all of them. Then he robbed all the rest of their warships, as pleasant as might be; and he saith, 'Now, gentlemen, do your duty: serve your warrants afore you imprison me'; with that he made them give up all the warrants, and he stuck them in the band of his hat, and then he made a bow with it.
“'The first guy I see loading a gun, I’ll give him the bullet to do it with,' said Tom; he was looking calmly at all of them. Then he raided all their warships as easily as could be; and he said, 'Now, gentlemen, do your duty: serve your warrants before you lock me up'; with that, he made them hand over all the warrants, which he stuck in the band of his hat, and then he bowed with it.
“'Good morning to your warships now, and a merry Christmas all of you! And the merrier both for rich and poor, when gentlemen see their almsgiving. Lest you deny yourselves the pleasure, I will aid your warships. And to save you the trouble of following me, when your guns be loaded—this is my strawberry mare, gentlemen, only with a little cream on her. Gentlemen all, in the name of the King, I thank you.'
"Good morning to your warships now, and a merry Christmas to all of you! And let it be a joyful one for both the rich and the poor, especially when gentlemen see their charitable giving. Don't deny yourselves the pleasure; I'll help your warships. To save you the trouble of tracking me down when your guns are loaded—this is my strawberry mare, gentlemen, just with a little cream on her. Gentlemen, in the name of the King, I thank you."
“All this while he was casting their money among the poor folk by the handful; and then he spak kaindly to the red mare, and wor over the back of the hill in two zeconds, and best part of two maile away, I reckon, afore ever a gun wor loaded.” *
“All this time he was giving their money to the poor in handfuls; then he spoke kindly to the red mare, and was over the hill in two seconds, and I guess he was a good two miles away before a single gun was loaded.” *
* The truth of this story is well established by first-rate tradition.
* The truth of this story is firmly established by excellent tradition.
CHAPTER XL
TWO FOOLS TOGETHER
That story of John Fry's, instead of causing any amusement, gave us great disquietude; not only because it showed that Tom Faggus could not resist sudden temptation and the delight of wildness, but also that we greatly feared lest the King's pardon might be annulled, and all his kindness cancelled, by a reckless deed of that sort. It was true (as Annie insisted continually, even with tears, to wear in her arguments) that Tom had not brought away anything, except the warrants, which were of no use at all, after receipt of the pardon; neither had he used any violence, except just to frighten people; but could it be established, even towards Christmas-time, that Tom had a right to give alms, right and left, out of other people's money?
That story about John Fry didn't make us laugh at all; instead, it filled us with worry. It showed that Tom Faggus couldn’t resist sudden temptation and the thrill of being wild. We were really afraid that the King's pardon might be revoked and all his kindness thrown away because of a reckless action like that. It was true (as Annie kept insisting, often tearfully in her arguments) that Tom hadn't taken anything with him except the warrants, which were completely useless after the pardon was granted. He hadn't used any violence, just scared people a bit. But could it really be proven, even by Christmas, that Tom had the right to give away other people's money like it was his own?
Dear Annie appeared to believe that it could; saying that if the rich continually chose to forget the poor, a man who forced them to remember, and so to do good to themselves and to others, was a public benefactor, and entitled to every blessing. But I knew, and so Lizzie knew—John Fry being now out of hearing—that this was not sound argument. For, if it came to that, any man might take the King by the throat, and make him cast away among the poor the money which he wanted sadly for Her Grace the Duchess, and the beautiful Countess, of this, and of that. Lizzie, of course, knew nothing about His Majesty's diversions, which were not fit for a young maid's thoughts; but I now put the form of the argument as it occurred to me.
Dear Annie seemed to think it was possible, claiming that if the wealthy kept ignoring the less fortunate, then a person who made them acknowledge their plight—and encouraged them to do good for themselves and others—was a true public benefactor and deserved all the blessings. But I knew, and Lizzie knew—now that John Fry was out of earshot—that this wasn’t a solid argument. Because, if that was the case, any man could grab the King and force him to give away the money he desperately needed for Her Grace the Duchess and the beautiful Countess of this and that. Of course, Lizzie had no idea about the King’s escapades, which weren’t suitable for a young lady's thoughts; but I framed the argument as it came to me.
Therefore I said, once for all (and both my sisters always listened when I used the deep voice from my chest):
Therefore, I said, once and for all (and both my sisters always paid attention when I used that deep voice from my chest):
“Tom Faggus hath done wrong herein; wrong to himself, and to our Annie. All he need have done was to show his pardon, and the magistrates would have rejoiced with him. He might have led a most godly life, and have been respected by everybody; and knowing how brave Tom is, I thought that he would have done as much. Now if I were in love with a maid”—I put it thus for the sake of poor Lizzie—“never would I so imperil my life, and her fortune in life along with me, for the sake of a poor diversion. A man's first duty is to the women, who are forced to hang upon him”—
"Tom Faggus has messed up here; he's wronged himself and our Annie. All he needed to do was show his remorse, and the magistrates would have celebrated with him. He could have lived a truly righteous life and been respected by everyone; knowing how brave Tom is, I thought he would have done just that. Now, if I were in love with a girl"—I say this for poor Lizzie's sake—"I would never risk my life and her future along with mine for a silly distraction. A man's first duty is to the women who depend on him."
“Oh, John, not that horrible word,” cried Annie, to my great surprise, and serious interruption; “oh, John, any word but that!” And she burst forth crying terribly.
“Oh, John, not that awful word,” Annie exclaimed, to my great surprise and serious interruption; “oh, John, anything but that!” And she broke down, crying intensely.
“What word, Lizzie? What does the wench mean?” I asked, in the saddest vexation; seeing no good to ask Annie at all, for she carried on most dreadfully.
“What word, Lizzie? What does the girl mean?” I asked, feeling very frustrated; knowing there was no point in asking Annie at all, since she was acting quite terribly.
“Don't you know, you stupid lout?” said Lizzie, completing my wonderment, by the scorn of her quicker intelligence; “if you don't know, axe about?”
“Don't you know, you foolish idiot?” said Lizzie, adding to my confusion with her sharp wit; “if you don't know, ask around?”
And with that, I was forced to be content; for Lizzie took Annie in such a manner (on purpose to vex me, as I could see) with her head drooping down, and her hair coming over, and tears and sobs rising and falling, to boot, without either order or reason, that seeing no good for a man to do (since neither of them was Lorna), I even went out into the courtyard, and smoked a pipe, and wondered what on earth is the meaning of women.
And with that, I had to be okay with it; Lizzie took Annie in such a way (clearly to annoy me, as I could tell) with her head down, her hair falling over, and with tears and sobs coming and going without any sense whatsoever. Since there was nothing I could do (since neither of them was Lorna), I just went out into the courtyard, smoked a pipe, and wondered what women are all about.
Now in this I was wrong and unreasonable (as all women will acknowledge); but sometimes a man is so put out, by the way they take on about nothing, that he really cannot help thinking, for at least a minute, that women are a mistake for ever, and hence are for ever mistaken. Nevertheless I could not see that any of these great thoughts and ideas applied at all to my Lorna; but that she was a different being; not woman enough to do anything bad, yet enough of a woman for man to adore.
Now, I realize I was wrong and unreasonable (as all women would agree); but sometimes a man gets so frustrated by how they react to trivial things that he can't help but think, even if just for a moment, that women are just a mistake and always get things wrong. Still, I couldn’t see how any of those big thoughts and ideas applied to my Lorna; she was someone entirely different—not enough of a woman to do anything wrong, yet just the right kind of woman for a man to adore.
And now a thing came to pass which tested my adoration pretty sharply, inasmuch as I would far liefer faced Carver Doone and his father, nay, even the roaring lion himself with his hoofs and flaming nostrils, than have met, in cold blood, Sir Ensor Doone, the founder of all the colony, and the fear of the very fiercest.
And now something happened that really challenged my admiration, because I would much rather face Carver Doone and his father, or even a roaring lion with his sharp hooves and fiery nostrils, than meet Sir Ensor Doone, the founder of the colony and the source of everyone's fear, in a calm manner.
But that I was forced to do at this time, and in the manner following. When I went up one morning to look for my seven rooks' nests, behold there were but six to be seen; for the topmost of them all was gone, and the most conspicuous. I looked, and looked, and rubbed my eyes, and turned to try them by other sights; and then I looked again; yes, there could be no doubt about it; the signal was made for me to come, because my love was in danger. For me to enter the valley now, during the broad daylight, could have brought no comfort, but only harm to the maiden, and certain death to myself. Yet it was more than I could do to keep altogether at distance; therefore I ran to the nearest place where I could remain unseen, and watched the glen from the wooded height, for hours and hours, impatiently.
But I had to do this at that time, and here’s how it went. One morning, I went out to check on my seven rook nests, and to my surprise, only six were visible; the top one, the most obvious, was missing. I looked and looked, rubbed my eyes, and tried to see them from different angles; then I looked again. There was no doubt about it; I was called to come because my love was in danger. Entering the valley in broad daylight would have brought no comfort, only harm to the girl and certain death to me. Still, I found it hard to stay away completely, so I ran to the nearest spot where I could stay hidden and watched the glen from the wooded heights for hours, feeling impatient.
However, no impatience of mine made any difference in the scene upon which I was gazing. In the part of the valley which I could see, there was nothing moving, except the water, and a few stolen cows, going sadly along, as if knowing that they had no honest right there. It sank very heavily into my heart, with all the beds of dead leaves around it, and there was nothing I cared to do, except blow on my fingers, and long for more wit.
However, my impatience didn’t change anything about the scene I was looking at. In the part of the valley I could see, nothing was moving except the water and a few stolen cows, trudging along sadly, as if they knew they didn’t truly belong there. It weighed heavily on my heart, surrounded by all the beds of dead leaves, and there was nothing I wanted to do except blow on my fingers and wish for more cleverness.
For a frost was beginning, which made a great difference to Lorna and to myself, I trow; as well as to all the five million people who dwell in this island of England; such a frost as never I saw before,* neither hope ever to see again; a time when it was impossible to milk a cow for icicles, or for a man to shave some of his beard (as I liked to do for Lorna's sake, because she was so smooth) without blunting his razor on hard gray ice. No man could “keep yatt” (as we say), even though he abandoned his work altogether, and thumped himself, all on the chest and the front, till his frozen hands would have been bleeding except for the cold that kept still all his veins.
A frost was starting that made a huge difference for Lorna and me, I’m sure; it affected all five million people living in England as well. It was a frost unlike any I had ever seen before and don’t expect to see again; a time when it was impossible to milk a cow because of the icicles, or for a man to shave his beard (which I liked to do for Lorna, since her skin was so smooth) without dulling his razor on hard gray ice. No one could “keep warm” (as we say), even if he gave up all his work and pounded his chest and front until his frozen hands would have bled if not for the cold numbing his veins.
* If John Ridd lived until the year 1740 (as so strong a man
was bound to do), he must have seen almost a harder frost;
and perhaps it put an end to him; for then he would be some
fourscore years old. But tradition makes him “keep yatt,” as
he says, up to fivescore years.—Ed. L.D.
* If John Ridd lived until the year 1740 (as a strong man likely would), he must have experienced an even harsher frost; perhaps that was what finally got to him, as he would be around eighty years old by then. But according to tradition, he “keeps yatt,” as he says, until he’s a hundred.—Ed. L.D.
However, at present there was no frost, although for a fortnight threatening; and I was too young to know the meaning of the way the dead leaves hung, and the worm-casts prickling like women's combs, and the leaden tone upon everything, and the dead weight of the sky. Will Watcombe, the old man at Lynmouth, who had been half over the world almost, and who talked so much of the Gulf-stream, had (as I afterwards called to mind) foretold a very bitter winter this year. But no one would listen to him because there were not so many hips and haws as usual; whereas we have all learned from our grandfathers that Providence never sends very hard winters, without having furnished a large supply of berries for the birds to feed upon.
However, right now there was no frost, though it had been threatening for two weeks; and I was too young to understand the meaning of how the dead leaves hung, and the worm-casts prickling like women’s combs, and the dull color of everything, and the heavy weight of the sky. Will Watcombe, the old man at Lynmouth, who had traveled almost everywhere, and who often talked about the Gulf Stream, had (as I later remembered) predicted a very harsh winter this year. But no one would listen to him because there weren’t as many hips and haws as usual; while we’ve all learned from our grandfathers that Providence never brings very harsh winters without providing a good supply of berries for the birds to feed on.
It was lucky for me, while I waited here, that our very best sheep-dog, old Watch, had chosen to accompany me that day. For otherwise I must have had no dinner, being unpersuaded, even by that, to quit my survey of the valley. However, by aid of poor Watch, I contrived to obtain a supply of food; for I sent him home with a note to Annie fastened upon his chest; and in less than an hour back he came, proud enough to wag his tail off, with his tongue hanging out from the speed of his journey, and a large lump of bread and of bacon fastened in a napkin around his neck. I had not told my sister, of course, what was toward; for why should I make her anxious?
I was really lucky while I waited here that our best sheepdog, old Watch, decided to come with me that day. Otherwise, I wouldn't have had any dinner since I was too focused on checking out the valley to leave. But thanks to poor Watch, I managed to get some food; I sent him home with a note to Annie attached to his collar, and in less than an hour, he returned, wagging his tail with pride, his tongue out from running, and a big piece of bread and bacon wrapped in a napkin around his neck. I hadn’t told my sister what I was up to, of course, because I didn’t want to worry her.
When it grew towards dark, I was just beginning to prepare for my circuit around the hills; but suddenly Watch gave a long low growl; I kept myself close as possible, and ordered the dog to be silent, and presently saw a short figure approaching from a thickly-wooded hollow on the left side of my hiding-place. It was the same figure I had seen once before in the moonlight, at Plover's Barrows; and proved, to my great delight, to be the little maid Gwenny Carfax. She started a moment, at seeing me, but more with surprise than fear; and then she laid both her hands upon mine, as if she had known me for twenty years.
As it was getting dark, I was just about to start my walk around the hills when suddenly Watch let out a long, low growl. I huddled down as close as I could and told the dog to be quiet. Soon, I spotted a short figure coming from a dense thicket to the left of my hiding spot. It was the same person I had seen once before in the moonlight at Plover's Barrows, and to my great joy, it turned out to be the little girl Gwenny Carfax. She paused for a moment when she saw me, but it was more out of surprise than fear. Then she placed both of her hands on mine as if she had known me for twenty years.
“Young man,” she said, “you must come with me. I was gwain' all the way to fetch thee. Old man be dying; and her can't die, or at least her won't, without first considering thee.”
“Young man,” she said, “you have to come with me. I was on my way to get you. The old man is dying, and he can't die, or at least he won't, without first thinking of you.”
“Considering me!” I cried; “what can Sir Ensor Doone want with considering me? Has Mistress Lorna told him?”
“Considering me!” I exclaimed; “what could Sir Ensor Doone possibly want with thinking about me? Has Mistress Lorna mentioned anything to him?”
“All concerning thee, and thy doings; when she knowed old man were so near his end. That vexed he was about thy low blood, a' thought her would come to life again, on purpose for to bate 'ee. But after all, there can't be scarcely such bad luck as that. Now, if her strook thee, thou must take it; there be no denaying of un. Fire I have seen afore, hot and red, and raging; but I never seen cold fire afore, and it maketh me burn and shiver.”
"All about you and what you do; when she found out the old man was so close to his end. He was so bothered about your low status that he thought she would come back to life just to spite you. But really, it can’t be that unlucky. Now, if she strikes you, you have to accept it; there’s no denying that. I’ve seen fire before, hot and red and raging; but I’ve never seen cold fire before, and it makes me feel both hot and shivery."
And in truth, it made me both burn and shiver, to know that I must either go straight to the presence of Sir Ensor Doone, or give up Lorna, once for all, and rightly be despised by her. For the first time of my life, I thought that she had not acted fairly. Why not leave the old man in peace, without vexing him about my affair? But presently I saw again that in this matter she was right; that she could not receive the old man's blessing (supposing that he had one to give, which even a worse man might suppose), while she deceived him about herself, and the life she had undertaken.
And honestly, it made me both hot and cold to know that I had to either confront Sir Ensor Doone directly or give up Lorna for good, and deserve her disdain. For the first time in my life, I felt that she hadn’t been fair. Why couldn’t she just leave the old man alone, without bothering him about my situation? But soon I realized again that she was right in this; she couldn’t accept the old man’s blessing (assuming he had one to give, which even someone worse might think) while she was hiding the truth from him about who she was and the life she had chosen.
Therefore, with great misgiving of myself, but no ill thought of my darling, I sent Watch home, and followed Gwenny; who led me along very rapidly, with her short broad form gliding down the hollow, from which she had first appeared. Here at the bottom, she entered a thicket of gray ash stubs and black holly, with rocks around it gnarled with roots, and hung with masks of ivy. Here in a dark and lonely corner, with a pixie ring before it, she came to a narrow door, very brown and solid, looking like a trunk of wood at a little distance. This she opened, without a key, by stooping down and pressing it, where the threshold met the jamb; and then she ran in very nimbly, but I was forced to be bent in two, and even so without comfort. The passage was close and difficult, and as dark as any black pitch; but it was not long (be it as it might), and in that there was some comfort. We came out soon at the other end, and were at the top of Doone valley. In the chilly dusk air, it looked most untempting, especially during that state of mind under which I was labouring. As we crossed towards the Captain's house, we met a couple of great Doones lounging by the waterside. Gwenny said something to them, and although they stared very hard at me, they let me pass without hindrance. It is not too much to say that when the little maid opened Sir Ensor's door, my heart thumped, quite as much with terror as with hope of Lorna's presence.
So, with a lot of self-doubt but no bad feelings towards my darling, I sent Watch home and followed Gwenny, who quickly led me along, her short, sturdy form gliding down the hollow where she had first appeared. At the bottom, she entered a thicket of gray ash stumps and black holly, surrounded by rocks gnarled with roots and draped in ivy. In a dark and lonely corner, with a pixie ring in front of it, she came to a narrow door, very brown and solid, that looked like a wooden trunk from a distance. She opened it without a key, stooping down and pressing where the threshold met the frame, then ran in quickly. I had to bend down to get in, and even then, it was uncomfortable. The passage was tight and difficult, and as dark as pitch, but it wasn’t long (as it turned out), which was a bit comforting. We soon emerged at the other end and found ourselves at the top of Doone Valley. In the chilly dusk, it looked really uninviting, especially considering my state of mind. As we walked toward the Captain's house, we passed a couple of big Doones lounging by the waterside. Gwenny said something to them, and even though they stared hard at me, they let me go by without stopping me. It’s safe to say that when the little maid opened Sir Ensor's door, my heart raced, fueled equally by terror and the hope of Lorna’s presence.
But in a moment the fear was gone, for Lorna was trembling in my arms, and my courage rose to comfort her. The darling feared, beyond all things else, lest I should be offended with her for what she had said to her grandfather, and for dragging me into his presence; but I told her almost a falsehood (the first, and the last, that ever I did tell her), to wit, that I cared not that much—and showed her the tip of my thumb as I said it—for old Sir Ensor, and all his wrath, so long as I had his granddaughter's love.
But in a moment, the fear disappeared, because Lorna was shaking in my arms, and my confidence rose to comfort her. The sweet girl was terrified, more than anything else, that I would be upset with her for what she had said to her grandfather and for bringing me into his presence. I told her almost a lie (the first and the last I would ever tell her), that I didn’t care much at all—for old Sir Ensor and all his anger—as long as I had his granddaughter's love.
Now I tried to think this as I said it, so as to save it from being a lie; but somehow or other it did not answer, and I was vexed with myself both ways. But Lorna took me by the hand as bravely as she could, and led me into a little passage where I could hear the river moaning and the branches rustling.
Now I tried to think about this as I said it, to keep it from being a lie; but somehow it didn't work, and I was frustrated with myself either way. But Lorna took my hand as bravely as she could and led me into a small hallway where I could hear the river moaning and the branches rustling.
Here I passed as long a minute as fear ever cheated time of, saying to myself continually that there was nothing to be frightened at, yet growing more and more afraid by reason of so reasoning. At last my Lorna came back very pale, as I saw by the candle she carried, and whispered, “Now be patient, dearest. Never mind what he says to you; neither attempt to answer him. Look at him gently and steadfastly, and, if you can, with some show of reverence; but above all things, no compassion; it drives him almost mad. Now come; walk very quietly.”
Here, I spent what felt like an eternity, as fear distorted my sense of time, repeatedly telling myself there was nothing to be afraid of, yet growing more frightened because of that very thought. Finally, my Lorna returned, looking very pale, as I could see from the candle she held, and whispered, “Now be patient, my love. Don’t worry about what he says to you; don’t try to respond. Just look at him gently and steadily, and if you can, with some sense of respect; but above all, don’t show any pity; it drives him nearly insane. Now come; walk very quietly.”
She led me into a cold, dark room, rough and very gloomy, although with two candles burning. I took little heed of the things in it, though I marked that the window was open. That which I heeded was an old man, very stern and comely, with death upon his countenance; yet not lying in his bed, but set upright in a chair, with a loose red cloak thrown over him. Upon this his white hair fell, and his pallid fingers lay in a ghastly fashion without a sign of life or movement or of the power that kept him up; all rigid, calm, and relentless. Only in his great black eyes, fixed upon me solemnly, all the power of his body dwelt, all the life of his soul was burning.
She led me into a cold, dark room that felt rough and gloomy, despite the two candles flickering. I barely noticed the items in the room, but I did see that the window was open. What caught my attention was an old man, very stern and handsome, with a look of death on his face; he wasn’t lying in bed but was sitting upright in a chair, draped in a loose red cloak. His white hair fell over it, and his pale fingers lay in an unnerving way, showing no sign of life or movement or the strength that kept him upright; he was entirely rigid, calm, and unyielding. Only in his deep black eyes, fixed on me solemnly, did all the strength of his body reside, and all the life of his soul was burning.
I could not look at him very nicely, being afeared of the death in his face, and most afeared to show it. And to tell the truth, my poor blue eyes fell away from the blackness of his, as if it had been my coffin-plate. Therefore I made a low obeisance, and tried not to shiver. Only I groaned that Lorna thought it good manners to leave us two together.
I couldn't look at him properly, scared of the death in his face, and even more scared to show it. Honestly, my poor blue eyes turned away from the dark intensity of his, as if it were my own tombstone. So, I gave a slight bow and tried not to shake. I just groaned that Lorna thought it was good manners to leave us alone together.
“Ah,” said the old man, and his voice seemed to come from a cavern of skeletons; “are you that great John Ridd?”
“Ah,” said the old man, and his voice sounded like it was coming from a cave full of skeletons; “are you that famous John Ridd?”
“John Ridd is my name, your honour,” was all that I could answer; “and I hope your worship is better.”
"John Ridd is my name, your honor," was all I could say; "and I hope you're doing well."
“Child, have you sense enough to know what you have been doing?”
“Kids, do you have enough sense to realize what you've been doing?”
“Yes, I knew right well,” I answered, “that I have set mine eyes far above my rank.”
“Yes, I knew very well,” I replied, “that I have set my sights far above my station.”
“Are you ignorant that Lorna Doone is born of the oldest families remaining in North Europe?”
“Don’t you realize that Lorna Doone comes from one of the oldest families still existing in Northern Europe?”
“I was ignorant of that, your worship; yet I knew of her high descent from the Doones of Bagworthy.”
“I didn't know that, your honor; but I was aware of her noble lineage from the Doones of Bagworthy.”
The old man's eyes, like fire, probed me whether I was jesting; then perceiving how grave I was, and thinking that I could not laugh (as many people suppose of me), he took on himself to make good the deficiency with a very bitter smile.
The old man's eyes, like flames, searched me to see if I was joking; then realizing how serious I was, and believing that I couldn't laugh (as many people think of me), he decided to fill the gap with a very bitter smile.
“And know you of your own low descent from the Ridds of Oare?”
“And do you know about your own humble background from the Ridds of Oare?”
“Sir,” I answered, being as yet unaccustomed to this style of speech, “the Ridds, of Oare, have been honest men twice as long as the Doones have been rogues.”
“Sir,” I replied, still not used to this way of speaking, “the Ridds, from Oare, have been honest people for twice as long as the Doones have been criminals.”
“I would not answer for that, John,” Sir Ensor replied, very quietly, when I expected fury. “If it be so, thy family is the very oldest in Europe. Now hearken to me, boy, or clown, or honest fool, or whatever thou art; hearken to an old man's words, who has not many hours to live. There is nothing in this world to fear, nothing to revere or trust, nothing even to hope for; least of all, is there aught to love.”
“I can't speak for that, John,” Sir Ensor said very quietly, when I expected anger. “If that's true, your family is the oldest in Europe. Now listen to me, boy, or jester, or honest fool, or whatever you are; listen to an old man's words, who doesn't have many hours left. There's nothing in this world to fear, nothing to respect or trust, nothing even to hope for; least of all, there’s nothing to love.”
“I hope your worship is not quite right,” I answered, with great misgivings; “else it is a sad mistake for anybody to live, sir.”
“I hope you're not entirely correct,” I replied, feeling quite uneasy; “otherwise, it's a terrible mistake for anyone to live, sir.”
“Therefore,” he continued, as if I had never spoken, “though it may seem hard for a week or two, like the loss of any other toy, I deprive you of nothing, but add to your comfort, and (if there be such a thing) to your happiness, when I forbid you ever to see that foolish child again. All marriage is a wretched farce, even when man and wife belong to the same rank of life, have temper well assorted, similar likes and dislikes, and about the same pittance of mind. But when they are not so matched, the farce would become a long, dull tragedy, if anything were worth lamenting. There, I have reasoned enough with you; I am not in the habit of reasoning. Though I have little confidence in man's honour, I have some reliance in woman's pride. You will pledge your word in Lorna's presence never to see or to seek her again; never even to think of her more. Now call her, for I am weary.”
“Therefore,” he continued, as if I hadn’t said anything, “while it might be tough for a week or two, like losing any other toy, I’m not taking anything away from you. Instead, I’m adding to your comfort, and (if such a thing exists) to your happiness by making sure you never see that foolish child again. Marriage is a miserable joke, even when the husband and wife come from the same background, have compatible temperaments, similar interests, and about the same level of intellect. But when they aren’t well matched, it turns into a long, boring tragedy, if anything is worth feeling sorry about. There, I’ve reasoned enough with you; I’m not in the habit of reasoning. Although I don’t have much faith in a man’s honor, I do have some trust in a woman’s pride. You will promise in Lorna's presence never to see or seek her out again; never even to think about her again. Now call her, as I’m tired.”
He kept his great eyes fixed upon me with their icy fire (as if he scorned both life and death), and on his haughty lips some slight amusement at my trouble; and then he raised one hand (as if I were a poor dumb creature), and pointed to the door. Although my heart rebelled and kindled at his proud disdain, I could not disobey him freely; but made a low salute, and went straightway in search of Lorna.
He kept his intense gaze locked on me, filled with a cold fire (as if he looked down on both life and death), and a hint of amusement played on his arrogant lips at my distress; then he raised one hand (like I was some pathetic, speechless being) and pointed to the door. Even though my heart rebelled and burned with his proud contempt, I couldn’t disobey him openly; instead, I gave a slight bow and immediately went to find Lorna.
I found my love (or not my love; according as now she should behave; for I was very desperate, being put upon so sadly); Lorna Doone was crying softly at a little window, and listening to the river's grief. I laid my heavy arm around her, not with any air of claiming or of forcing her thoughts to me, but only just to comfort her, and ask what she was thinking of. To my arm she made no answer, neither to my seeking eyes; but to my heart, once for all, she spoke with her own upon it. Not a word, nor sound between us; not even a kiss was interchanged; but man, or maid, who has ever loved hath learned our understanding.
I found my love (or maybe not, depending on how she was feeling at that moment; I was really desperate, feeling so hopeless); Lorna Doone was softly crying at a small window, listening to the river's sorrow. I gently wrapped my arm around her, not to claim her or force her thoughts towards me, but just to comfort her and ask what was on her mind. She didn’t respond to my arm or to my searching gaze; but in her own way, she spoke to my heart. There were no words or sounds exchanged between us, not even a kiss; but anyone who has ever loved knows that understanding.
Therefore it came to pass, that we saw fit to enter Sir Ensor's room in the following manner. Lorna, with her right hand swallowed entirely by the palm of mine, and her waist retired from view by means of my left arm. All one side of her hair came down, in a way to be remembered, upon the left and fairest part of my favourite otter-skin waistcoat; and her head as well would have lain there doubtless, but for the danger of walking so. I, for my part, was too far gone to lag behind in the matter; but carried my love bravely, fearing neither death nor hell, while she abode beside me.
So, it happened that we decided to enter Sir Ensor's room like this. Lorna, with her right hand completely in mine, and my left arm around her waist, keeping her hidden. One side of her hair fell down in a memorable way onto the left side of my favorite otter-skin waistcoat; and her head would have rested there too, but it was too risky to walk like that. I, for my part, was too caught up in the moment to hold back; I carried my love boldly, not afraid of death or damnation, while she stayed by my side.
Old Sir Ensor looked much astonished. For forty years he had been obeyed and feared by all around him; and he knew that I had feared him vastly, before I got hold of Lorna. And indeed I was still afraid of him; only for loving Lorna so, and having to protect her.
Old Sir Ensor looked really surprised. For forty years, everyone around him had obeyed and feared him; he knew that I had been really scared of him before I got to know Lorna. And honestly, I was still afraid of him; it was just that I loved Lorna so much and had to protect her.
Then I made him a bow, to the very best of all I had learned both at Tiverton and in London; after that I waited for him to begin, as became his age and rank in life.
Then I bowed to him the best way I had learned in both Tiverton and London; after that, I waited for him to start, which was appropriate for his age and status.
“Ye two fools!” he said at last, with a depth of contempt which no words may express; “ye two fools!”
"You're both fools!" he finally said, with a level of contempt that words can't capture; "you're both fools!"
“May it please your worship,” I answered softly; “maybe we are not such fools as we look. But though we be, we are well content, so long as we may be two fools together.”
“Your honor,” I replied gently, “maybe we’re not as foolish as we seem. But even if we are, we’re happy, as long as we can be two fools together.”
“Why, John,” said the old man, with a spark, as of smiling in his eyes; “thou art not altogether the clumsy yokel, and the clod, I took thee for.”
“Why, John,” said the old man, with a spark of a smile in his eyes; “you’re not quite the clumsy fool and simpleton I thought you were.”
“Oh, no, grandfather; oh, dear grandfather,” cried Lorna, with such zeal and flashing, that her hands went forward; “nobody knows what John Ridd is, because he is so modest. I mean, nobody except me, dear.” And here she turned to me again, and rose upon tiptoe, and kissed me.
“Oh, no, grandpa; oh, dear grandpa,” cried Lorna, with such enthusiasm and energy that her hands reached out; “nobody knows who John Ridd is because he’s so humble. I mean, nobody except me, dear.” And then she turned to me again, stood on her tiptoes, and kissed me.
“I have seen a little o' the world,” said the old man, while I was half ashamed, although so proud of Lorna; “but this is beyond all I have seen, and nearly all I have heard of. It is more fit for southern climates than for the fogs of Exmoor.”
“I’ve seen a bit of the world,” said the old man, while I felt a bit ashamed, yet so proud of Lorna; “but this is more than anything I’ve seen, and almost everything I’ve heard of. It’s better suited for warmer climates than for the fog of Exmoor.”
“It is fit for all the world, your worship; with your honour's good leave, and will,” I answered in humility, being still ashamed of it; “when it happens so to people, there is nothing that can stop it, sir.”
“It’s suitable for everyone, your honor; if you don’t mind, I replied humbly, still feeling embarrassed about it; when it happens to people, there’s nothing that can stop it, sir.”
Now Sir Ensor Doone was leaning back upon his brown chair-rail, which was built like a triangle, as in old farmhouses (from one of which it had come, no doubt, free from expense or gratitude); and as I spoke he coughed a little; and he sighed a good deal more; and perhaps his dying heart desired to open time again, with such a lift of warmth and hope as he descried in our eyes, and arms. I could not understand him then; any more than a baby playing with his grandfather's spectacles; nevertheless I wondered whether, at his time of life, or rather on the brink of death, he was thinking of his youth and pride.
Now Sir Ensor Doone was leaning back in his brown chair, which was shaped like a triangle, just like those in old farmhouses (it probably came from one of those, free of cost or thanks); as I spoke, he coughed a little and sighed a lot more; maybe his fading heart wanted to relive the moments of warmth and hope he saw in our eyes and arms. I couldn’t understand him then, any more than a baby playing with his grandfather’s glasses; still, I wondered if, at his age, or really on the edge of death, he was thinking about his youth and pride.
“Fools you are; be fools for ever,” said Sir Ensor Doone, at last; while we feared to break his thoughts, but let each other know our own, with little ways of pressure; “it is the best thing I can wish you; boy and girl, be boy and girl, until you have grandchildren.”
“You're all fools; stay fools forever,” said Sir Ensor Doone, finally; while we were afraid to interrupt his thoughts, we shared our own quietly with subtle hints; “it’s the best thing I can wish for you; boy and girl, stay boy and girl, until you have grandchildren.”
Partly in bitterness he spoke, and partly in pure weariness, and then he turned so as not to see us; and his white hair fell, like a shroud, around him.
Partly out of bitterness, he spoke, and partly out of sheer exhaustion, then he turned away so he wouldn't have to see us; his white hair fell around him like a shroud.
CHAPTER XLI
COLD COMFORT
All things being full of flaw, all things being full of holes, the strength of all things is in shortness. If Sir Ensor Doone had dwelled for half an hour upon himself, and an hour perhaps upon Lorna and me, we must both have wearied of him, and required change of air. But now I longed to see and know a great deal more about him, and hoped that he might not go to Heaven for at least a week or more. However, he was too good for this world (as we say of all people who leave it); and I verily believe his heart was not a bad one, after all.
Everything has its flaws and imperfections, but the true strength of all things lies in their simplicity. If Sir Ensor Doone had spent half an hour focusing on himself, and maybe an hour on Lorna and me, we would have both become tired of him and needed a change of scenery. But now I found myself wanting to learn much more about him and hoped he wouldn’t leave this world for at least a week or more. However, he was too good for this world (as we say about anyone who passes away); and I genuinely believe his heart wasn’t a bad one, after all.
Evil he had done, no doubt, as evil had been done to him; yet how many have done evil, while receiving only good! Be that as it may; and not vexing a question (settled for ever without our votes), let us own that he was, at least, a brave and courteous gentleman.
He had definitely done bad things, just as bad things had been done to him; yet how many have done wrong while getting only good in return! That aside, without getting into a debate (which is settled forever without our input), let's acknowledge that he was, at the very least, a brave and polite gentleman.
And his loss aroused great lamentation, not among the Doones alone, and the women they had carried off, but also of the general public, and many even of the magistrates, for several miles round Exmoor. And this, not only from fear lest one more wicked might succeed him (as appeared indeed too probable), but from true admiration of his strong will, and sympathy with his misfortunes.
And his death caused a lot of mourning, not just among the Doones and the women they had abducted, but also among the general public, including many of the local officials for several miles around Exmoor. This was not only because they feared that someone even more evil might take his place (which seemed pretty likely), but also out of genuine respect for his strong will and sympathy for his struggles.
I will not deceive any one, by saying that Sir Ensor Doone gave (in so many words) his consent to my resolve about Lorna. This he never did, except by his speech last written down; from which as he mentioned grandchildren, a lawyer perhaps might have argued it. Not but what he may have meant to bestow on us his blessing; only that he died next day, without taking the trouble to do it.
I won't mislead anyone by saying that Sir Ensor Doone explicitly agreed to my decision about Lorna. He never did that, except in his last written words; from which a lawyer might have argued about grandchildren. It’s possible he intended to give us his blessing, but he passed away the next day without bothering to do so.
He called indeed for his box of snuff, which was a very high thing to take; and which he never took without being in very good humour, at least for him. And though it would not go up his nostrils, through the failure of his breath, he was pleased to have it there, and not to think of dying.
He really asked for his box of snuff, which was quite a fancy thing to take; and he never used it without being in a pretty good mood, at least for him. And even though he couldn't actually take it up his nostrils due to his breath failing him, he was happy to have it there and not think about dying.
“Will your honour have it wiped?” I asked him very softly, for the brown appearance of it spoiled (to my idea) his white mostacchio; but he seemed to shake his head; and I thought it kept his spirits up. I had never before seen any one do, what all of us have to do some day; and it greatly kept my spirits down, although it did not so very much frighten me.
“Will you have it wiped away?” I asked him softly, since the brown stain spoiled his white mustache, in my opinion; but he shook his head. I thought it lifted his spirits. I had never before seen anyone do what we all have to do someday, and it really brought my spirits down, although I wasn't too scared.
For it takes a man but a little while, his instinct being of death perhaps, at least as much as of life (which accounts for his slaying his fellow men so, and every other creature), it does not take a man very long to enter into another man's death, and bring his own mood to suit it. He knows that his own is sure to come; and nature is fond of the practice. Hence it came to pass that I, after easing my mother's fears, and seeing a little to business, returned (as if drawn by a polar needle) to the death-bed of Sir Ensor.
For a man, it doesn't take long—his instinct is as much about death as it is about life (which explains why he kills his fellow humans and other creatures)—to tune into another person's death and adjust his own emotions accordingly. He understands that his own death is inevitable, and nature enjoys this dynamic. So, after calming my mother's worries and taking care of some business, I felt pulled back (like a compass pointing north) to the deathbed of Sir Ensor.
There was some little confusion, people wanting to get away, and people trying to come in, from downright curiosity (of all things the most hateful), and others making great to-do, and talking of their own time to come, telling their own age, and so on. But every one seemed to think, or feel, that I had a right to be there; because the women took that view of it. As for Carver and Counsellor, they were minding their own affairs, so as to win the succession; and never found it in their business (at least so long as I was there) to come near the dying man.
There was a bit of confusion, with people wanting to leave while others were trying to come in out of sheer curiosity (the most annoying thing of all), and some making a big scene, talking about when it was their turn to come in and sharing their own ages, and so on. But everyone seemed to think, or feel, that I had a right to be there; the women felt that way for sure. As for Carver and Counsellor, they were focused on their own plans to secure the inheritance and didn’t seem to think it was their business (at least while I was there) to approach the dying man.
He, for his part, never asked for any one to come near him, not even a priest, nor a monk or friar; but seemed to be going his own way, peaceful, and well contented. Only the chief of the women said that from his face she believed and knew that he liked to have me at one side of his bed, and Lorna upon the other. An hour or two ere the old man died, when only we two were with him, he looked at us both very dimly and softly, as if he wished to do something for us, but had left it now too late. Lorna hoped that he wanted to bless us; but he only frowned at that, and let his hand drop downward, and crooked one knotted finger.
He never asked anyone to come near him, not even a priest, monk, or friar; he just seemed to be following his own path, peaceful and content. Only the head woman said that from his expression, she believed he liked having me on one side of his bed and Lorna on the other. An hour or two before the old man died, when just the two of us were with him, he looked at us both softly and vaguely, as if he wanted to do something for us, but felt it was now too late. Lorna hoped he wanted to bless us, but he frowned at that, let his hand drop, and bent one twisted finger.
“He wants something out of the bed, dear,” Lorna whispered to me; “see what it is, upon your side, there.”
“He wants something from the bed, dear,” Lorna whispered to me; “check what it is, on your side, there.”
I followed the bent of his poor shrunken hand, and sought among the pilings; and there I felt something hard and sharp, and drew it forth and gave it to him. It flashed, like the spray of a fountain upon us, in the dark winter of the room. He could not take it in his hand, but let it hang, as daisies do; only making Lorna see that he meant her to have it.
I followed the curve of his frail, shrunken hand and searched among the supports; then I felt something hard and sharp, pulled it out, and handed it to him. It gleamed, like the spray of a fountain, in the dim winter light of the room. He couldn't hold it, so he let it dangle, like daisies do; he was just making sure Lorna knew he wanted her to have it.
“Why, it is my glass necklace!” Lorna cried, in great surprise; “my necklace he always promised me; and from which you have got the ring, John. But grandfather kept it, because the children wanted to pull it from my neck. May I have it now, dear grandfather? Not unless you wish, dear.”
“Why, it’s my glass necklace!” Lorna exclaimed, in shock; “my necklace he always promised me; and that’s where you got the ring, John. But grandfather kept it because the kids wanted to snatch it off my neck. Can I have it now, dear grandfather? Only if you want it, dear.”
Darling Lorna wept again, because the old man could not tell her (except by one very feeble nod) that she was doing what he wished. Then she gave to me the trinket, for the sake of safety; and I stowed it in my breast. He seemed to me to follow this, and to be well content with it.
Darling Lorna cried again because the old man couldn’t tell her (except for a weak nod) that she was doing what he wanted. Then she handed me the trinket for safekeeping, and I tucked it inside my shirt. He seemed to understand this and looked satisfied with it.
Before Sir Ensor Doone was buried, the greatest frost of the century had set in, with its iron hand, and step of stone, on everything. How it came is not my business, nor can I explain it; because I never have watched the skies; as people now begin to do, when the ground is not to their liking. Though of all this I know nothing, and less than nothing I may say (because I ought to know something); I can hear what people tell me; and I can see before my eyes.
Before Sir Ensor Doone was buried, the worst frost of the century took hold, with its icy grip and unyielding presence affecting everything. How it happened isn’t my concern, and I can't explain it; I’ve never kept an eye on the skies, as people are starting to do when the ground doesn’t suit them. Although I know nothing about this, and even less than I should (since I ought to know something), I can hear what people say, and I can see what is right in front of me.
The strong men broke three good pickaxes, ere they got through the hard brown sod, streaked with little maps of gray where old Sir Ensor was to lie, upon his back, awaiting the darkness of the Judgment-day. It was in the little chapel-yard; I will not tell the name of it; because we are now such Protestants, that I might do it an evil turn; only it was the little place where Lorna's Aunt Sabina lay.
The strong men broke three good pickaxes before they got through the tough brown soil, marked with small patches of gray where old Sir Ensor would lie on his back, waiting for the darkness of Judgment Day. It was in the small chapel yard; I won’t reveal its name because we are now such Protestants that I might do it a disservice; it was simply the little place where Lorna's Aunt Sabina was buried.
Here was I, remaining long, with a little curiosity; because some people told me plainly that I must be damned for ever by a Papist funeral; and here came Lorna, scarcely breathing through the thick of stuff around her, yet with all her little breath steaming on the air, like frost.
Here I was, lingering for a while, out of a bit of curiosity; because some people clearly told me that I would be doomed forever because of a Catholic funeral; and here came Lorna, barely able to breathe through the heavy crowd surrounding her, yet with all her little breath visible in the air, like frost.
I stood apart from the ceremony, in which of course I was not entitled, either by birth or religion, to bear any portion; and indeed it would have been wiser in me to have kept away altogether; for now there was no one to protect me among those wild and lawless men; and both Carver and the Counsellor had vowed a fearful vengeance on me, as I heard from Gwenny. They had not dared to meddle with me while the chief lay dying; nor was it in their policy, for a short time after that, to endanger their succession by an open breach with Lorna, whose tender age and beauty held so many of the youths in thrall.
I stood apart from the ceremony, which I had no right to be part of, either by birth or religion. Honestly, it would have been smarter for me to stay away completely; there was no one to protect me among those wild and lawless men. Both Carver and the Counsellor had sworn a terrible revenge on me, as I heard from Gwenny. They hadn't dared to mess with me while the chief was dying, and it wasn't in their best interest, shortly after that, to risk their futures by openly confronting Lorna, whose youth and beauty had so many of the young men captivated.
The ancient outlaw's funeral was a grand and moving sight; more perhaps from the sense of contrast than from that of fitness. To see those dark and mighty men, inured to all of sin and crime, reckless both of man and God, yet now with heads devoutly bent, clasped hands, and downcast eyes, following the long black coffin of their common ancestor, to the place where they must join him when their sum of ill was done; and to see the feeble priest chanting, over the dead form, words the living would have laughed at, sprinkling with his little broom drops that could not purify; while the children, robed in white, swung their smoking censers slowly over the cold and twilight grave; and after seeing all, to ask, with a shudder unexpressed, “Is this the end that God intended for a man so proud and strong?”
The ancient outlaw's funeral was a grand and emotional scene, more so because of the stark contrast than out of appropriateness. It was striking to see those dark and powerful men, hardened by sin and crime, indifferent to human and divine judgment, now with their heads bowed, hands clasped, and eyes downcast, following the long black coffin of their shared ancestor to the place where they would eventually join him once their time of wrongdoing was over. Meanwhile, the frail priest was chanting over the deceased, using words that the living would have mocked, sprinkling with his small broom drops that couldn’t cleanse anything, as the children dressed in white slowly swung their smoking censers over the cold, dim grave. And after witnessing it all, one couldn't help but wonder, with an unspoken shudder, “Is this the end that God had in mind for a man so proud and strong?”
Not a tear was shed upon him, except from the sweetest of all sweet eyes; not a sigh pursued him home. Except in hot anger, his life had been cold, and bitter, and distant; and now a week had exhausted all the sorrow of those around him, a grief flowing less from affection than fear. Aged men will show his tombstone; mothers haste with their infants by it; children shrink from the name upon it, until in time his history shall lapse and be forgotten by all except the great Judge and God.
Not a tear was shed for him, except from the kindest eyes; not a sigh followed him home. Aside from his moments of hot anger, his life had been cold, bitter, and distant; now, a week later, all the sorrow from those around him had faded, their grief stemming more from fear than love. Old men will point out his tombstone; mothers hurry past it with their babies; children shy away from the name on it, until eventually, his story will fade away and be forgotten by everyone except the great Judge and God.
After all was over, I strode across the moors very sadly; trying to keep the cold away by virtue of quick movement. Not a flake of snow had fallen yet; all the earth was caked and hard, with a dry brown crust upon it; all the sky was banked with darkness, hard, austere, and frowning. The fog of the last three weeks was gone, neither did any rime remain; but all things had a look of sameness, and a kind of furzy colour. It was freezing hard and sharp, with a piercing wind to back it; and I had observed that the holy water froze upon Sir Ensor's coffin.
After everything was finished, I walked across the moors feeling really sad, trying to keep warm by moving quickly. Not a single flake of snow had fallen yet; the ground was frozen and hard, covered with a dry brown crust. The sky was heavy with darkness, harsh and grim. The fog from the past three weeks was gone, and there was no frost left; but everything looked the same and had a fuzzy color. It was biting cold with a sharp wind to go with it, and I noticed that the holy water had frozen on Sir Ensor's coffin.
One thing struck me with some surprise, as I made off for our fireside (with a strong determination to heave an ash-tree up the chimney-place), and that was how the birds were going, rather than flying as they used to fly. All the birds were set in one direction, steadily journeying westward, not with any heat of speed, neither flying far at once; but all (as if on business bound), partly running, partly flying, partly fluttering along; silently, and without a voice, neither pricking head nor tail. This movement of the birds went on, even for a week or more; every kind of thrushes passed us, every kind of wild fowl, even plovers went away, and crows, and snipes and wood-cocks. And before half the frost was over, all we had in the snowy ditches were hares so tame that we could pat them; partridges that came to hand, with a dry noise in their crops; heath-poults, making cups of snow; and a few poor hopping redwings, flipping in and out the hedge, having lost the power to fly. And all the time their great black eyes, set with gold around them, seemed to look at any man, for mercy and for comfort.
One thing surprised me a bit as I headed toward our fireplace (determined to toss an ash tree up the chimney), and that was how the birds were moving, more like they were walking than flying like they used to. All the birds were headed in the same direction, steadily traveling westward, not rushing but making their way slowly, not flying far at once; as if they were on a mission, partly running, partly flying, partly fluttering along; quietly and without a sound, not raising their heads or tails. This bird movement continued for a week or more; all kinds of thrushes passed by us, every type of wildfowl, even plovers left, along with crows, snipes, and woodcocks. And before half the frost was gone, all we saw in the snowy ditches were hares so tame we could pet them; partridges that came close with a dry rustling in their crops; heath-poults making little cups in the snow; and a few poor hopping redwings, flitting in and out of the hedge, having lost their ability to fly. And all the while, their big black eyes, surrounded by golden rings, seemed to look at any person, seeking mercy and comfort.
Annie took a many of them, all that she could find herself, and all the boys would bring her; and she made a great hutch near the fire, in the back-kitchen chimney-place. Here, in spite of our old Betty (who sadly wanted to roast them), Annie kept some fifty birds, with bread and milk, and raw chopped meat, and all the seed she could think of, and lumps of rotten apples, placed to tempt them, in the corners. Some got on, and some died off; and Annie cried for all that died, and buried them under the woodrick; but, I do assure you, it was a pretty thing to see, when she went to them in the morning. There was not a bird but knew her well, after one day of comforting; and some would come to her hand, and sit, and shut one eye, and look at her. Then she used to stroke their heads, and feel their breasts, and talk to them; and not a bird of them all was there but liked to have it done to him. And I do believe they would eat from her hand things unnatural to them, lest she should be grieved and hurt by not knowing what to do for them. One of them was a noble bird, such as I never had seen before, of very fine bright plumage, and larger than a missel-thrush. He was the hardest of all to please: and yet he tried to do his best. I have heard since then, from a man who knows all about birds, and beasts, and fishes, that he must have been a Norwegian bird, called in this country a Roller, who never comes to England but in the most tremendous winters.
Annie took as many of them as she could find and all the boys would bring her, and she built a big hutch near the fire in the back-kitchen chimney area. Here, despite our old Betty (who really wanted to roast them), Annie kept about fifty birds, providing them with bread, milk, raw chopped meat, and every kind of seed she could think of, along with some overripe apples placed in the corners to tempt them. Some thrived, while others died; Annie cried for each one that passed and buried them under the woodpile. Still, it was a lovely sight to see her tending to them each morning. Every bird recognized her after just one day of care, and some would come to her hand, sit there, shut one eye, and look at her. She would stroke their heads, feel their little breasts, and talk to them; every single bird enjoyed this attention. I truly believe they would eat things that weren't good for them just to avoid upsetting her by not knowing how to help. One of the birds was a stunning creature, unlike any I had seen before, with very bright feathers and larger than a missel thrush. He was the hardest to please, yet he tried his best. I later learned from a guy who knows a lot about birds, animals, and fish that he must have been a Norwegian bird called a Roller, which only comes to England during the most severe winters.
Another little bird there was, whom I longed to welcome home, and protect from enemies, a little bird no native to us, but than any native dearer. But lo, in the very night which followed old Sir Ensor's funeral, such a storm of snow began as never have I heard nor read of, neither could have dreamed it. At what time of night it first began is more than I can say, at least from my own knowledge, for we all went to bed soon after supper, being cold and not inclined to talk. At that time the wind was moaning sadly, and the sky as dark as a wood, and the straw in the yard swirling round and round, and the cows huddling into the great cowhouse, with their chins upon one another. But we, being blinder than they, I suppose, and not having had a great snow for years, made no preparation against the storm, except that the lambing ewes were in shelter.
There was another little bird that I couldn't wait to bring home and protect from dangers, a bird that wasn't from here, but was dearer to me than any native one. But on the very night after old Sir Ensor's funeral, a snowstorm started that I've never heard or read about, nor could I have dreamed of it. I can't say when it began that night, at least not from my own memory, because we all went to bed soon after dinner, feeling cold and not wanting to chat. At that time, the wind was moaning sadly, the sky was as dark as a forest, and the straw in the yard was swirling around, while the cows huddled together in the big cowhouse, resting their chins on each other. But we, being more clueless than they, I suppose, and not having seen a big snow in years, didn't prepare for the storm, except that the pregnant ewes were sheltered.
It struck me, as I lay in bed, that we were acting foolishly; for an ancient shepherd had dropped in and taken supper with us, and foretold a heavy fall and great disaster to live stock. He said that he had known a frost beginning, just as this had done, with a black east wind, after days of raw cold fog, and then on the third night of the frost, at this very time of year (to wit on the 15th of December) such a snow set in as killed half of the sheep and many even of the red deer and the forest ponies. It was three-score years agone,* he said; and cause he had to remember it, inasmuch as two of his toes had been lost by frost-nip, while he dug out his sheep on the other side of the Dunkery. Hereupon mother nodded at him, having heard from her father about it, and how three men had been frozen to death, and how badly their stockings came off from them.
It hit me, as I lay in bed, that we were being foolish; an old shepherd had stopped by and shared dinner with us, predicting a heavy snowfall and major trouble for the livestock. He mentioned that he had experienced a frost starting out just like this, with a harsh east wind following several days of cold, raw fog. Then, on the third night of that frost, at this very time of year (December 15th), it snowed so much that it killed half the sheep and many of the red deer and forest ponies. He said it was sixty years ago, and he had reason to remember it since he lost two of his toes to frostbite while he was digging out his sheep on the other side of Dunkery. At this, my mother nodded at him, having heard from her father about it, including stories of three men who froze to death and how badly their stockings came off.
* The frost of 1625.
The frost of 1625.
Remembering how the old man looked, and his manner of listening to the wind and shaking his head very ominously (when Annie gave him a glass of schnapps), I grew quite uneasy in my bed, as the room got colder and colder; and I made up my mind, if it only pleased God not to send the snow till the morning, that every sheep, and horse, and cow, ay, and even the poultry, should be brought in snug, and with plenty to eat, and fodder enough to roast them.
Remembering how the old man looked and how he listened to the wind while shaking his head ominously (when Annie offered him a glass of schnapps), I started to feel uneasy in my bed as the room got colder and colder. I decided that if God would just hold off the snow until morning, I would make sure every sheep, horse, cow, and even the poultry would be brought in snug, with plenty to eat and enough fodder to keep them comfortable.
Alas what use of man's resolves, when they come a day too late; even if they may avail a little, when they are most punctual!
Alas, what's the point of a person's decisions when they arrive a day late; even if they might help a bit when they're right on time!
In the bitter morning I arose, to follow out my purpose, knowing the time from the force of habit, although the room was so dark and gray. An odd white light was on the rafters, such as I never had seen before; while all the length of the room was grisly, like the heart of a mouldy oat-rick. I went to the window at once, of course; and at first I could not understand what was doing outside of it. It faced due east (as I may have said), with the walnut-tree partly sheltering it; and generally I could see the yard, and the woodrick, and even the church beyond.
In the cold morning, I got up to pursue my goal, knowing the time from habit, even though the room was dark and gray. There was a strange white light on the rafters that I had never seen before, while the entire room felt unsettling, like the inside of a damp oat stack. I went straight to the window, of course, and at first, I couldn’t make sense of what was happening outside. The window faced east (as I may have mentioned), partially sheltered by the walnut tree; normally, I could see the yard, the woodshed, and even the church beyond.
But now, half the lattice was quite blocked up, as if plastered with gray lime; and little fringes, like ferns, came through, where the joining of the lead was; and in the only undarkened part, countless dots came swarming, clustering, beating with a soft, low sound, then gliding down in a slippery manner, not as drops of rain do, but each distinct from his neighbour. Inside the iron frame (which fitted, not to say too comfortably, and went along the stonework), at least a peck of snow had entered, following its own bend and fancy; light as any cobweb.
But now, half of the lattice was completely blocked, as if covered in gray plaster; and there were little fronds, like ferns, pushing through where the lead was joined. In the only part that wasn’t darkened, countless dots swarmed, clustered, pulsing with a soft, low sound, then sliding down smoothly, not like raindrops, but each one separate from its neighbor. Inside the iron frame (which fit rather snugly along the stonework), at least a peck of snow had come in, following its own path and whim; as light as any cobweb.
With some trouble, and great care, lest the ancient frame should yield, I spread the lattice open; and saw at once that not a moment must be lost, to save our stock. All the earth was flat with snow, all the air was thick with snow; more than this no man could see, for all the world was snowing.
With some difficulty and a lot of caution, so the old frame wouldn't break, I opened the window. I quickly realized that we had to act fast to protect our supplies. The ground was completely covered in snow, and the air was filled with it; nothing else was visible because everything was just snowing.
I shut the window and dressed in haste; and when I entered the kitchen, not even Betty, the earliest of all early birds, was there. I raked the ashes together a little, just to see a spark of warmth; and then set forth to find John Fry, Jem Slocombe, and Bill Dadds. But this was easier thought than done; for when I opened the courtyard door, I was taken up to my knees at once, and the power of the drifting cloud prevented sight of anything. However, I found my way to the woodrick, and there got hold of a fine ash-stake, cut by myself not long ago. With this I ploughed along pretty well, and thundered so hard at John Fry's door, that he thought it was the Doones at least, and cocked his blunderbuss out of the window.
I closed the window and quickly got dressed; when I walked into the kitchen, not even Betty, the earliest riser, was there. I raked the ashes together a bit, just to see a spark of warmth, and then set out to find John Fry, Jem Slocombe, and Bill Dadds. But this was easier said than done; when I opened the courtyard door, I sank up to my knees immediately, and the snowstorm made it impossible to see anything. However, I managed to find my way to the woodpile, where I grabbed a good ash stake that I had cut myself not too long ago. With this, I made my way pretty well, and I knocked on John Fry's door so hard that he thought it was the Doones and aimed his blunderbuss out of the window.
John was very loth to come down, when he saw the meaning of it; for he valued his life more than anything else; though he tried to make out that his wife was to blame. But I settled his doubts by telling him, that I would have him on my shoulder naked, unless he came in five minutes; not that he could do much good, but because the other men would be sure to skulk, if he set them the example. With spades, and shovels, and pitch-forks, and a round of roping, we four set forth to dig out the sheep; and the poor things knew that it was high time.
John was very reluctant to come down when he realized what it meant; he valued his life more than anything else, even though he tried to blame his wife. But I cleared up his doubts by telling him that I'd carry him down naked unless he came within five minutes; not that he could really help much, but because the other guys would definitely hide if he set that example. With shovels, pitchforks, and a length of rope, the four of us set out to dig out the sheep, and the poor things knew it was time to act.
CHAPTER XLII
THE GREAT WINTER
It must have snowed most wonderfully to have made that depth of covering in about eight hours. For one of Master Stickles' men, who had been out all the night, said that no snow began to fall until nearly midnight. And here it was, blocking up the doors, stopping the ways, and the water courses, and making it very much worse to walk than in a saw-pit newly used. However, we trudged along in a line; I first, and the other men after me; trying to keep my track, but finding legs and strength not up to it. Most of all, John Fry was groaning; certain that his time was come, and sending messages to his wife, and blessings to his children. For all this time it was snowing harder than it ever had snowed before, so far as a man might guess at it; and the leaden depth of the sky came down, like a mine turned upside down on us. Not that the flakes were so very large; for I have seen much larger flakes in a shower of March, while sowing peas; but that there was no room between them, neither any relaxing, nor any change of direction.
It must have snowed incredibly to create that much coverage in about eight hours. One of Master Stickles' workers, who had been out all night, said that no snow started falling until almost midnight. And here it was, blocking the doors, stopping paths, and filling the waterways, making it much harder to walk than in a freshly used saw-pit. Still, we trudged along in a line; I was in front, with the other men behind me, trying to follow my steps but finding my legs and strength not up to it. John Fry, especially, was groaning, convinced his time had come, sending messages to his wife and blessings to his kids. All this time, it was snowing harder than it ever had before, at least as far as a person could tell; and the heavy, leaden sky seemed to be pressing down on us like an upside-down mine. The flakes weren't particularly large; I've seen much bigger flakes during a March shower while planting peas. It was just that there was no space between them, no breaks, and no change in direction.
Watch, like a good and faithful dog, followed us very cheerfully, leaping out of the depth, which took him over his back and ears already, even in the level places; while in the drifts he might have sunk to any distance out of sight, and never found his way up again. However, we helped him now and then, especially through the gaps and gateways; and so after a deal of floundering, some laughter, and a little swearing, we came all safe to the lower meadow, where most of our flock was hurdled.
Watch, like a loyal and happy dog, happily followed us, jumping out of the deep snow that reached over his back and ears even in the flat areas; while in the deeper drifts he could have easily disappeared from sight and never found his way back up. However, we helped him every now and then, especially through the gaps and gates; and after a lot of struggling, some laughter, and a few curse words, we safely reached the lower meadow, where most of our flock was gathered.
But behold, there was no flock at all! None, I mean, to be seen anywhere; only at one corner of the field, by the eastern end, where the snow drove in, a great white billow, as high as a barn, and as broad as a house. This great drift was rolling and curling beneath the violent blast, tufting and combing with rustling swirls, and carved (as in patterns of cornice) where the grooving chisel of the wind swept round. Ever and again the tempest snatched little whiffs from the channelled edges, twirled them round and made them dance over the chime of the monster pile, then let them lie like herring-bones, or the seams of sand where the tide has been. And all the while from the smothering sky, more and more fiercely at every blast, came the pelting, pitiless arrows, winged with murky white, and pointed with the barbs of frost.
But look, there was no flock at all! None, I mean, to be seen anywhere; only in one corner of the field, at the eastern end, where the snow blew in, a huge white drift as high as a barn and as wide as a house. This massive drift rolled and curled under the fierce wind, puffing and swirling with rustling eddies, and shaped (like ornate designs) where the wind's chisel carved through. Now and then, the storm snatched small bits from the channelled edges, spun them around, and made them dance over the surface of the huge pile, then let them settle like herring bones or the lines of sand left by the tide. And all the while, from the suffocating sky, more and more fiercely with each gust, came the relentless, merciless snowflakes, flying in murky white and sharp with frost.
But although for people who had no sheep, the sight was a very fine one (so far at least as the weather permitted any sight at all); yet for us, with our flock beneath it, this great mount had but little charm. Watch began to scratch at once, and to howl along the sides of it; he knew that his charge was buried there, and his business taken from him. But we four men set to in earnest, digging with all our might and main, shovelling away at the great white pile, and fetching it into the meadow. Each man made for himself a cave, scooping at the soft, cold flux, which slid upon him at every stroke, and throwing it out behind him, in piles of castled fancy. At last we drove our tunnels in (for we worked indeed for the lives of us), and all converging towards the middle, held our tools and listened.
But even though for people without sheep, the view was pretty impressive (at least as much as the weather allowed for any view at all), for us, with our flock underneath it, this big mountain didn't have much appeal. Watch immediately started scratching and howling along its sides; he knew that his charge was buried there, and his job was taken away from him. But the four of us got to work right away, digging with all our strength, shoveling at the huge white mound, and moving it into the meadow. Each man created a cave for himself, scooping at the soft, cold material that slipped over him with each stroke, and tossing it out behind him in heaps of fanciful piles. Finally, we dug our tunnels in (because we were truly working for our lives), and all of us converging toward the center, held our tools and listened.
The other men heard nothing at all; or declared that they heard nothing, being anxious now to abandon the matter, because of the chill in their feet and knees. But I said, “Go, if you choose all of you. I will work it out by myself, you pie-crusts,” and upon that they gripped their shovels, being more or less of Englishmen; and the least drop of English blood is worth the best of any other when it comes to lasting out.
The other men didn't hear anything at all or claimed they didn't hear anything, eager to drop the subject because their feet and knees were cold. But I said, “Go ahead, all of you. I'll figure this out on my own, you cowards,” and with that, they tightened their grips on their shovels, being mostly Englishmen; and even a little bit of English blood is worth more than the best of any other when it comes to endurance.
But before we began again, I laid my head well into the chamber; and there I hears a faint “ma-a-ah,” coming through some ells of snow, like a plaintive, buried hope, or a last appeal. I shouted aloud to cheer him up, for I knew what sheep it was, to wit, the most valiant of all the wethers, who had met me when I came home from London, and been so glad to see me. And then we all fell to again; and very soon we hauled him out. Watch took charge of him at once, with an air of the noblest patronage, lying on his frozen fleece, and licking all his face and feet, to restore his warmth to him. Then fighting Tom jumped up at once, and made a little butt at Watch, as if nothing had ever ailed him, and then set off to a shallow place, and looked for something to nibble at.
But before we started again, I leaned my head deep into the chamber; and there I heard a faint “ma-a-ah,” coming through several feet of snow, like a sad, buried hope, or a final plea. I shouted loudly to cheer him up, because I knew which sheep it was—the bravest of all the wethers, who had greeted me when I returned from London and had been so happy to see me. Then we all got to work again, and very soon we pulled him out. Watch immediately took charge of him, acting like a noble guardian, lying on his frozen fleece and licking his face and feet to warm him up. Then Fighting Tom jumped up right away and gave Watch a little nudge, as if nothing had ever been wrong, and then he trotted off to a shallow spot, looking for something to nibble on.
Further in, and close under the bank, where they had huddled themselves for warmth, we found all the rest of the poor sheep packed, as closely as if they were in a great pie. It was strange to observe how their vapour and breath, and the moisture exuding from their wool had scooped, as it were, a coved room for them, lined with a ribbing of deep yellow snow. Also the churned snow beneath their feet was as yellow as gamboge. Two or three of the weaklier hoggets were dead, from want of air, and from pressure; but more than three-score were as lively as ever; though cramped and stiff for a little while.
Further in, close to the bank where they had huddled together for warmth, we found all the rest of the poor sheep packed in as tightly as if they were in a big pie. It was strange to see how their breath and the moisture from their wool had carved out a cozy space for them, lined with bright yellow snow. The churned snow beneath their feet was as yellow as artist's gamboge. Two or three of the weaker lambs were dead from lack of air and pressure, but more than sixty were as lively as ever, even though they were cramped and stiff for a bit.
“However shall us get 'em home?” John Fry asked in great dismay, when we had cleared about a dozen of them; which we were forced to do very carefully, so as not to fetch the roof down. “No manner of maning to draive 'un, drough all they girt driftnesses.”
“However are we going to get them home?” John Fry asked, clearly upset, after we had cleared about a dozen of them; which we had to do very carefully, so as not to bring the roof down. “No way to drive them, through all those huge gaps.”
“You see to this place, John,” I replied, as we leaned on our shovels a moment, and the sheep came rubbing round us; “let no more of them out for the present; they are better where they be. Watch, here boy, keep them!”
“You see this place, John,” I said as we rested on our shovels for a moment and the sheep started nudging around us. “Don’t let any more of them out for now; they’re better where they are. Watch, boy, keep them!”
Watch came, with his little scut of a tail cocked as sharp as duty, and I set him at the narrow mouth of the great snow antre. All the sheep sidled away, and got closer, that the other sheep might be bitten first, as the foolish things imagine; whereas no good sheep-dog even so much as lips a sheep to turn it.
Watch arrived, his little tail held high and alert, and I positioned him at the narrow entrance of the big snowy den. All the sheep shuffled away, trying to get closer together, thinking the other sheep would get bitten first, as silly as that is; meanwhile, a good sheepdog wouldn’t even touch a sheep to move it.
Then of the outer sheep (all now snowed and frizzled like a lawyer's wig) I took the two finest and heaviest, and with one beneath my right arm, and the other beneath my left, I went straight home to the upper sheppey, and set them inside and fastened them. Sixty and six I took home in that way, two at a time on each journey; and the work grew harder and harder each time, as the drifts of the snow were deepening. No other man should meddle with them; I was resolved to try my strength against the strength of the elements; and try it I did, ay, and proved it. A certain fierce delight burned in me, as the struggle grew harder; but rather would I die than yield; and at last I finished it. People talk of it to this day; but none can tell what the labour was, who have not felt that snow and wind.
Then, of the outer sheep (all now snowed and frizzled like a lawyer's wig), I picked the two finest and heaviest. With one under my right arm and the other under my left, I headed straight home to Upper Sheppey and secured them inside. I brought home sixty-six in that manner, two at a time on each trip; and the task became harder each time as the snow drifts got deeper. No one else was to interfere with them; I was determined to test my strength against the elements, and I did. A fierce joy burned within me as the struggle intensified; I would rather die than give up, and in the end, I completed it. People still talk about it today, but no one can truly understand the effort it took unless they've experienced that snow and wind.
Of the sheep upon the mountain, and the sheep upon the western farm, and the cattle on the upper barrows, scarcely one in ten was saved; do what we would for them, and this was not through any neglect (now that our wits were sharpened), but from the pure impossibility of finding them at all. That great snow never ceased a moment for three days and nights; and then when all the earth was filled, and the topmost hedges were unseen, and the trees broke down with weight (wherever the wind had not lightened them), a brilliant sun broke forth and showed the loss of all our customs.
Of the sheep on the mountain, the sheep on the western farm, and the cattle on the higher hills, barely one in ten was saved; despite all our efforts, it wasn’t because we neglected them (now that we were alert), but because it was simply impossible to find them. That heavy snow kept falling nonstop for three days and nights; then, when the ground was completely covered, the highest hedges were hidden, and the trees collapsed under the weight (unless the wind had already helped), a bright sun appeared and revealed the extent of our losses.
All our house was quite snowed up, except where we had purged a way, by dint of constant shovellings. The kitchen was as dark and darker than the cider-cellar, and long lines of furrowed scollops ran even up to the chimney-stacks. Several windows fell right inwards, through the weight of the snow against them; and the few that stood, bulged in, and bent like an old bruised lanthorn. We were obliged to cook by candle-light; we were forced to read by candle-light; as for baking, we could not do it, because the oven was too chill; and a load of faggots only brought a little wet down the sides of it.
Our entire house was completely buried in snow, except for the paths we had cleared with constant shoveling. The kitchen was as dark, if not darker, than the cider cellar, and long lines of furrowed snow piled up even to the chimney stacks. Several windows collapsed inwards from the weight of the snow against them, and the few that remained standing bulged and bent like an old bruised lantern. We had to cook by candlelight; we were forced to read by candlelight; and as for baking, we couldn’t do that because the oven was too cold, and a load of firewood only brought a bit of wetness down its sides.
For when the sun burst forth at last upon that world of white, what he brought was neither warmth, nor cheer, nor hope of softening; only a clearer shaft of cold, from the violet depths of sky. Long-drawn alleys of white haze seemed to lead towards him, yet such as he could not come down, with any warmth remaining. Broad white curtains of the frost-fog looped around the lower sky, on the verge of hill and valley, and above the laden trees. Only round the sun himself, and the spot of heaven he claimed, clustered a bright purple-blue, clear, and calm, and deep.
For when the sun finally broke through that icy world, what it brought was neither warmth, nor joy, nor any promise of relief; just a sharper beam of cold from the deep violet sky. Long stretches of white mist seemed to converge towards it, but it couldn’t descend with any warmth. Thick white curtains of frost-fog wrapped around the lower sky, hovering over the hills and valleys, and above the heavy trees. Only around the sun itself, and the piece of sky it occupied, was there a bright, calm, and deep shade of purple-blue.
That night such a frost ensued as we had never dreamed of, neither read in ancient books, or histories of Frobisher. The kettle by the fire froze, and the crock upon the hearth-cheeks; many men were killed, and cattle rigid in their head-ropes. Then I heard that fearful sound, which never I had heard before, neither since have heard (except during that same winter), the sharp yet solemn sound of trees burst open by the frost-blow. Our great walnut lost three branches, and has been dying ever since; though growing meanwhile, as the soul does. And the ancient oak at the cross was rent, and many score of ash trees. But why should I tell all this? the people who have not seen it (as I have) will only make faces, and disbelieve; till such another frost comes; which perhaps may never be.
That night, a frost hit us that we had never imagined, nor read about in old books or the histories of Frobisher. The kettle by the fire froze, and the pot on the hearth froze too; many people died, and cattle were stiff in their ties. Then I heard that terrifying sound, which I had never heard before and haven’t heard since (except during that same winter), the sharp yet solemn noise of trees cracking from the frost. Our big walnut tree lost three branches and has been struggling ever since, even though it keeps growing, like the soul does. The ancient oak at the crossroads split, and many dozens of ash trees did too. But why should I go on about all this? People who haven’t seen it (like I have) will just make faces and doubt it, until another frost like that comes, which may never happen.
This terrible weather kept Tom Faggus from coming near our house for weeks; at which indeed I was not vexed a quarter so much as Annie was; for I had never half approved of him, as a husband for my sister; in spite of his purchase from Squire Bassett, and the grant of the Royal pardon. It may be, however, that Annie took the same view of my love for Lorna, and could not augur well of it; but if so, she held her peace, though I was not so sparing. For many things contributed to make me less good-humoured now than my real nature was; and the very least of all these things would have been enough to make some people cross, and rude, and fractious. I mean the red and painful chapping of my face and hands, from working in the snow all day, and lying in the frost all night. For being of a fair complexion, and a ruddy nature, and pretty plump withal, and fed on plenty of hot victuals, and always forced by my mother to sit nearer the fire than I wished, it was wonderful to see how the cold ran revel on my cheeks and knuckles. And I feared that Lorna (if it should ever please God to stop the snowing) might take this for a proof of low and rustic blood and breeding.
This awful weather kept Tom Faggus away from our house for weeks, which honestly didn’t bother me nearly as much as it bothered Annie; I had never really thought he was a good match for my sister, despite his purchase from Squire Bassett and the Royal pardon. However, maybe Annie felt the same way about my feelings for Lorna and couldn’t see a bright future in it, but if that was the case, she kept it to herself, while I didn’t hold back. A lot of things made me less cheerful at that moment than I really was; even the slightest of them would have been enough to make some people irritable and difficult. I’m talking about the red and painful chapping of my face and hands from working in the snow all day and lying in the frost all night. Being fair-skinned, naturally red-cheeked, and a bit chubby, and having eaten plenty of hot meals, plus my mother always insisting I sit closer to the fire than I liked, it was surprising to see how much the cold affected my cheeks and knuckles. I worried that Lorna (if it ever pleased God to stop the snow) might take this as a sign of lowly background and upbringing.
And this I say was the smallest thing; for it was far more serious that we were losing half our stock, do all we would to shelter them. Even the horses in the stables (mustered all together for the sake of breath and steaming) had long icicles from their muzzles, almost every morning. But of all things the very gravest, to my apprehension, was the impossibility of hearing, or having any token of or from my loved one. Not that those three days alone of snow (tremendous as it was) could have blocked the country so; but that the sky had never ceased, for more than two days at a time, for full three weeks thereafter, to pour fresh piles of fleecy mantle; neither had the wind relaxed a single day from shaking them. As a rule, it snowed all day, cleared up at night, and froze intensely, with the stars as bright as jewels, earth spread out in lustrous twilight, and the sounds in the air as sharp and crackling as artillery; then in the morning, snow again; before the sun could come to help.
And I would say this was the smallest issue; it was much more serious that we were losing half our livestock, no matter how hard we tried to protect them. Even the horses in the stables (huddled together for warmth and breathing) had long icicles hanging from their mouths almost every morning. But the most serious concern for me was the inability to hear from or get any sign of my loved one. It wasn't just that those three days of snow (as intense as it was) could have isolated the area; it was that the sky hadn’t stopped for more than two days at a time for a full three weeks after that, dumping fresh layers of soft snow; nor had the wind let up even for a day from blowing it around. Generally, it snowed all day, cleared up at night, and froze hard, with the stars shining as bright as jewels, the earth glistening in glowing twilight, and the sounds in the air as sharp and crackling as gunfire; then in the morning, more snow would fall before the sun could break through.
It mattered not what way the wind was. Often and often the vanes went round, and we hoped for change of weather; the only change was that it seemed (if possible) to grow colder. Indeed, after a week or so, the wind would regularly box the compass (as the sailors call it) in the course of every day, following where the sun should be, as if to make a mock of him. And this of course immensely added to the peril of the drifts; because they shifted every day; and no skill or care might learn them.
It didn't matter which way the wind blew. Again and again, the weathervanes spun around, and we hoped for a change in the weather; the only change was that it seemed to get even colder. In fact, after about a week, the wind would consistently shift through all directions (as sailors put it) throughout each day, following wherever the sun was, as if to tease it. And this, of course, greatly increased the danger of the snow drifts because they changed every day, and no amount of skill or care could predict them.
I believe it was on Epiphany morning, or somewhere about that period, when Lizzie ran into the kitchen to me, where I was thawing my goose-grease, with the dogs among the ashes—the live dogs, I mean, not the iron ones, for them we had given up long ago,—and having caught me, by way of wonder (for generally I was out shoveling long before my “young lady” had her nightcap off), she positively kissed me, for the sake of warming her lips perhaps, or because she had something proud to say.
I think it was on Epiphany morning, or around that time, when Lizzie burst into the kitchen where I was melting my goose fat, with the dogs playing in the ashes—the real dogs, not the metal ones, since we had given up on those ages ago—and having caught me by surprise (since I usually was out shoveling long before my “young lady” had taken off her nightcap), she actually kissed me, maybe to warm her lips or because she had something to show off.
“You great fool, John,” said my lady, as Annie and I used to call her, on account of her airs and graces; “what a pity you never read, John!”
“You big fool, John,” said my lady, as Annie and I used to call her, because of her airs and graces; “what a shame you never read, John!”
“Much use, I should think, in reading!” I answered, though pleased with her condescension; “read, I suppose, with roof coming in, and only this chimney left sticking out of the snow!”
“That's pretty useful, I guess, when reading!” I replied, feeling flattered by her attitude; “I suppose you can read while the roof is caving in, with just this chimney poking out of the snow!”
“The very time to read, John,” said Lizzie, looking grander; “our worst troubles are the need, whence knowledge can deliver us.”
“The perfect time to read, John,” Lizzie said, looking more impressive. “Our biggest problems are the needs that knowledge can help us overcome.”
“Amen,” I cried out; “are you parson or clerk? Whichever you are, good-morning.”
“Amen,” I shouted; “are you the minister or the clerk? Whichever you are, good morning.”
Thereupon I was bent on my usual round (a very small one nowadays), but Eliza took me with both hands, and I stopped of course; for I could not bear to shake the child, even in play, for a moment, because her back was tender. Then she looked up at me with her beautiful eyes, so large, unhealthy and delicate, and strangely shadowing outward, as if to spread their meaning; and she said,—
Thereupon, I was focused on my usual routine (which is very brief these days), but Eliza grabbed me with both hands, and I naturally stopped; I couldn’t bring myself to shake the child, even in fun, for a second, because her back was sensitive. Then she looked up at me with her beautiful eyes, so large, fragile, and delicate, and oddly shadowed outward, as if to enhance their meaning; and she said,—
“Now, John, this is no time to joke. I was almost frozen in bed last night; and Annie like an icicle. Feel how cold my hands are. Now, will you listen to what I have read about climates ten times worse than this; and where none but clever men can live?”
“Now, John, this isn’t the time for jokes. I was almost frozen in bed last night, and Annie was like an icicle. Feel how cold my hands are. Will you listen to what I’ve read about climates ten times worse than this, where only the smartest people can survive?”
“Impossible for me to listen now, I have hundreds of things to see to; but I will listen after breakfast to your foreign climates, child. Now attend to mother's hot coffee.”
“It's impossible for me to listen right now; I have a ton of things to take care of. But I'll listen to your stories about foreign places after breakfast, sweetie. For now, focus on mother's hot coffee.”
She looked a little disappointed, but she knew what I had to do; and after all she was not so utterly unreasonable; although she did read books. And when I had done my morning's work, I listened to her patiently; and it was out of my power to think that all she said was foolish.
She seemed a bit disappointed, but she understood what I had to do; after all, she wasn't completely unreasonable, even though she read a lot. Once I finished my morning work, I listened to her patiently, and I couldn’t bring myself to think that everything she said was silly.
For I knew common sense pretty well, by this time, whether it happened to be my own, or any other person's, if clearly laid before me. And Lizzie had a particular way of setting forth very clearly whatever she wished to express and enforce. But the queerest part of it all was this, that if she could but have dreamed for a moment what would be the first application made me by of her lesson, she would rather have bitten her tongue off than help me to my purpose.
For by this time, I understood common sense pretty well, whether it was my own or someone else's, as long as it was clearly presented to me. Lizzie had a unique way of stating whatever she wanted to express and emphasize very clearly. But the strangest part of it all was that if she had only imagined for a moment what the first way her lesson would be used by me, she would have rather bitten her tongue off than help me achieve my goal.
She told me that in the Arctic Regions, as they call some places, a long way north, where the Great Bear lies all across the heavens, and no sun is up, for whole months at a time, and yet where people will go exploring, out of pure contradiction, and for the sake of novelty, and love of being frozen—that here they always had such winters as we were having now. It never ceased to freeze, she said; and it never ceased to snow; except when it was too cold; and then all the air was choked with glittering spikes; and a man's skin might come off of him, before he could ask the reason. Nevertheless the people there (although the snow was fifty feet deep, and all their breath fell behind them frozen, like a log of wood dropped from their shoulders), yet they managed to get along, and make the time of the year to each other, by a little cleverness. For seeing how the snow was spread, lightly over everything, covering up the hills and valleys, and the foreskin of the sea, they contrived a way to crown it, and to glide like a flake along. Through the sparkle of the whiteness, and the wreaths of windy tossings, and the ups and downs of cold, any man might get along with a boat on either foot, to prevent his sinking.
She told me that in the Arctic regions, as they call some places, far north where the Great Bear hangs in the sky, there are months when the sun doesn't come up at all. Yet, people still go exploring there, just out of sheer contradiction, for the thrill of something new, and a love for the cold. She said they always had winters like the one we were experiencing now. It never stopped freezing, and it never stopped snowing, except when it was so cold that the air was filled with sparkling ice crystals, and a person's skin could come off before they even understood what was happening. Still, the people there (even with fifty feet of snow and their breath freezing behind them like a log dropped from their shoulders) managed to get by and make the most of the season with a little ingenuity. They found a way to move through the perfectly spread snow that covered everything, from the hills and valleys to the edges of the sea, gliding along like flakes. Amidst the bright whiteness, swirling winds, and the cold's ups and downs, anyone could navigate with a boat under each foot to keep from sinking.
She told me how these boats were made; very strong and very light, of ribs with skin across them; five feet long, and one foot wide; and turned up at each end, even as a canoe is. But she did not tell me, nor did I give it a moment's thought myself, how hard it was to walk upon them without early practice. Then she told me another thing equally useful to me; although I would not let her see how much I thought about it. And this concerned the use of sledges, and their power of gliding, and the lightness of their following; all of which I could see at once, through knowledge of our own farm-sleds; which we employ in lieu of wheels, used in flatter districts. When I had heard all this from her, a mere chit of a girl as she was, unfit to make a snowball even, or to fry snow pancakes, I looked down on her with amazement, and began to wish a little that I had given more time to books.
She told me how these boats were made; very strong and very light, constructed with ribs and covered with skin; five feet long and one foot wide; and shaped at both ends just like a canoe. But she didn’t mention, nor did I consider for even a moment, how difficult it was to walk on them without some practice. Then she shared another piece of information that was equally helpful to me, although I didn’t let her see how much I contemplated it. This was about using sledges, their ability to glide, and how light they were to pull, all of which I immediately recognized from our own farm sleds that we use instead of wheels in flatter areas. After hearing all this from her, just a young girl who was probably unfit to make a snowball or fry snow pancakes, I looked down at her in amazement and started to wish I had spent more time reading books.
But God shapes all our fitness, and gives each man his meaning, even as he guides the wavering lines of snow descending. Our Eliza was meant for books; our dear Annie for loving and cooking; I, John Ridd, for sheep, and wrestling, and the thought of Lorna; and mother to love all three of us, and to make the best of her children. And now, if I must tell the truth, as at every page I try to do (though God knows it is hard enough), I had felt through all this weather, though my life was Lorna's, something of a satisfaction in so doing duty to my kindest and best of mothers, and to none but her. For (if you come to think of it) a man's young love is very pleasant, very sweet, and tickling; and takes him through the core of heart; without his knowing how or why. Then he dwells upon it sideways, without people looking, and builds up all sorts of fancies, growing hot with working so at his own imaginings. So his love is a crystal Goddess, set upon an obelisk; and whoever will not bow the knee (yet without glancing at her), the lover makes it a sacred rite either to kick or to stick him. I am not speaking of me and Lorna, but of common people.
But God shapes all our paths and gives each person their purpose, just as He guides the drifting snowflakes falling down. Our Eliza was meant for books; our dear Annie for love and cooking; I, John Ridd, for sheep, wrestling, and thoughts of Lorna; and our mother to love all three of us and make the best of her children. And now, if I must be honest, as I try to be on every page (though it’s often pretty tough), I felt, despite all this weather, that my life was Lorna's, but there was a sense of satisfaction in fulfilling my duty to my kindest and best mother, and to no one else. Because (if you think about it) a young man's love is very pleasant, very sweet, and exhilarating; it gets right to the heart without him even knowing how or why. Then he lingers on it secretly, away from prying eyes, and creates all kinds of fantasies, growing heated from spinning his own dreams. So his love becomes a crystal Goddess on a pedestal; and whoever won’t bow down (while avoiding a glance at her), the lover turns it into a sacred ritual, either to kick or to push him away. I’m not talking about me and Lorna, but about regular people.
Then (if you come to think again) lo!—or I will not say lo! for no one can behold it—only feel, or but remember, what a real mother is. Ever loving, ever soft, ever turning sin to goodness, vices into virtues; blind to all nine-tenths of wrong; through a telescope beholding (though herself so nigh to them) faintest decimal of promise, even in her vilest child. Ready to thank God again, as when her babe was born to her; leaping (as at kingdom-come) at a wandering syllable of Gospel for her lost one.
Then, if you think about it again, look!—or maybe I shouldn't say look because no one can actually see it—only feel, or just remember what a real mother is. Always loving, always gentle, always transforming sin into goodness, turning vices into virtues; blind to most of the wrongs; looking through a telescope (even though she's so close to them) to see the tiniest bit of promise, even in her worst child. Ready to thank God again, just like when her baby was born; leaping (as if it's the end of the world) at a stray word of hope for her lost one.
All this our mother was to us, and even more than all of this; and hence I felt a pride and joy in doing my sacred duty towards her, now that the weather compelled me. And she was as grateful and delighted as if she had no more claim upon me than a stranger's sheep might have. Yet from time to time I groaned within myself and by myself, at thinking of my sad debarment from the sight of Lorna, and of all that might have happened to her, now she had no protection.
All this was our mom to us, and even more than that; so I felt a sense of pride and joy in fulfilling my duty to her, especially since the weather forced me to. She was just as grateful and happy as if she had no more claim on me than a stranger’s sheep would. Yet, every now and then, I felt a heavy sadness inside me when I thought about how I couldn’t see Lorna and everything that could have happened to her now that she was unprotected.
Therefore, I fell to at once, upon that hint from Lizzie, and being used to thatching-work, and the making of traps, and so on, before very long I built myself a pair of strong and light snow-shoes, framed with ash and ribbed of withy, with half-tanned calf-skin stretched across, and an inner sole to support my feet. At first I could not walk at all, but floundered about most piteously, catching one shoe in the other, and both of them in the snow-drifts, to the great amusement of the girls, who were come to look at me. But after a while I grew more expert, discovering what my errors were, and altering the inclination of the shoes themselves, according to a print which Lizzie found in a book of adventures. And this made such a difference, that I crossed the farmyard and came back again (though turning was the worst thing of all) without so much as falling once, or getting my staff entangled.
So, I got to work right away after Lizzie's suggestion. Having some experience with thatching and making traps, I soon built a pair of sturdy, lightweight snowshoes made from ash wood, with willow ribs and half-tanned calfskin stretched across, plus an inner sole to support my feet. At first, I could barely walk and stumbled around clumsily, getting one shoe caught in the other and both in the snowdrifts, which really amused the girls who came to watch me. However, after a while, I got the hang of it, figured out what I was doing wrong, and adjusted the angle of the shoes based on a picture Lizzie found in an adventure book. This made a huge difference, and I was able to cross the farmyard and come back again (though turning was the hardest part) without falling or getting my staff caught up.
But oh, the aching of my ankles, when I went to bed that night; I was forced to help myself upstairs with a couple of mopsticks! and I rubbed the joints with neatsfoot oil, which comforted them greatly. And likely enough I would have abandoned any further trial, but for Lizzie's ridicule, and pretended sympathy; asking if the strong John Ridd would have old Betty to lean upon. Therefore I set to again, with a fixed resolve not to notice pain or stiffness, but to warm them out of me. And sure enough, before dark that day, I could get along pretty freely; especially improving every time, after leaving off and resting. The astonishment of poor John Fry, Bill Dadds, and Jem Slocombe, when they saw me coming down the hill upon them, in the twilight, where they were clearing the furze rick and trussing it for cattle, was more than I can tell you; because they did not let me see it, but ran away with one accord, and floundered into a snowdrift. They believed, and so did every one else (especially when I grew able to glide along pretty rapidly), that I had stolen Mother Melldrum's sieves, on which she was said to fly over the foreland at midnight every Saturday.
But oh, my ankles were killing me when I went to bed that night; I had to help myself upstairs with a couple of mop handles! I rubbed the joints with neat's-foot oil, which helped a lot. I probably would have given up trying if it weren't for Lizzie's teasing and fake sympathy, asking if the strong John Ridd needed old Betty to lean on. So I got back at it, determined not to acknowledge any pain or stiffness, and to just warm it out of me. Sure enough, before dark that day, I was moving pretty well; I felt better each time I stopped and rested. The look of shock on poor John Fry, Bill Dadds, and Jem Slocombe's faces when they saw me coming down the hill towards them in the twilight, while they were clearing the furze rick and stacking it for the cattle, was something I can't fully describe; they didn’t let me see it, but they all ran away together and jumped into a snowdrift. They all thought, especially when I started moving faster, that I had stolen Mother Melldrum's sieves, which she was said to use to fly over the foreland at midnight every Saturday.
Upon the following day, I held some council with my mother; not liking to go without her permission, yet scarcely daring to ask for it. But here she disappointed me, on the right side of disappointment; saying that she had seen my pining (which she never could have done; because I had been too hard at work), and rather than watch me grieving so, for somebody or other, who now was all in all to me, I might go upon my course, and God's protection go with me! At this I was amazed, because it was not at all like mother; and knowing how well I had behaved, ever since the time of our snowing up, I was a little moved to tell her that she could not understand me. However my sense of duty kept me, and my knowledge of the catechism, from saying such a thing as that, or even thinking twice of it. And so I took her at her word, which she was not prepared for; and telling her how proud I was of her trust in Providence, and how I could run in my new snow-shoes, I took a short pipe in my mouth, and started forth accordingly.
The next day, I consulted my mother; I didn’t want to go without her permission, but I was also hesitant to ask for it. To my surprise, she encouraged me rather than disappointed me. She said she had noticed my sadness (which she really couldn’t have, since I’d been focused on work) and that instead of watching me mourn for someone who meant everything to me now, I could go my way, with God’s protection! I was taken aback because that wasn’t like her at all. Considering how well I had acted since the snowstorm, I felt a bit tempted to tell her that she didn’t understand me. However, my sense of duty and my knowledge of the catechism kept me from saying anything like that or even thinking about it again. So, I took her at her word, which caught her off guard, and I told her how proud I was of her faith in Providence and how I could run in my new snowshoes. I then put a short pipe in my mouth and set off as planned.
CHAPTER XLIII
NOT TOO SOON
When I started on my road across the hills and valleys (which now were pretty much alike), the utmost I could hope to do was to gain the crest of hills, and look into the Doone Glen. Hence I might at least descry whether Lorna still was safe, by the six nests still remaining, and the view of the Captain's house. When I was come to the open country, far beyond the sheltered homestead, and in the full brunt of the wind, the keen blast of the cold broke on me, and the mighty breadth of snow. Moor and highland, field and common, cliff and vale, and watercourse, over all the rolling folds of misty white were flung. There was nothing square or jagged left, there was nothing perpendicular; all the rugged lines were eased, and all the breaches smoothly filled. Curves, and mounds, and rounded heavings, took the place of rock and stump; and all the country looked as if a woman's hand had been on it.
When I started my journey over the hills and valleys (which were now pretty much the same), all I could hope for was to reach the top of the hills and gaze into the Doone Glen. From there, I could at least see if Lorna was still safe, by the six nests still remaining and the view of the Captain's house. Once I reached the open countryside, far beyond the sheltered homestead and in the full force of the wind, the sharp cold hit me, along with the vast expanse of snow. Moor and highland, field and common, cliff and valley, and watercourse, all were covered by rolling layers of misty white. There was nothing square or jagged left, nothing vertical; all the rough edges were smoothed out, and all the gaps were filled seamlessly. Curves, mounds, and rounded hills replaced rock and stumps; the whole landscape looked like a woman’s touch had shaped it.
Through the sparkling breadth of white, which seemed to glance my eyes away, and outside the humps of laden trees, bowing their backs like a woodman, I contrived to get along, half-sliding and half-walking, in places where a plain-shodden man must have sunk, and waited freezing till the thaw should come to him. For although there had been such violent frost, every night, upon the snow, the snow itself, having never thawed, even for an hour, had never coated over. Hence it was as soft and light as if all had fallen yesterday. In places where no drift had been, but rather off than on to them, three feet was the least of depth; but where the wind had chased it round, or any draught led like a funnel, or anything opposed it; there you might very safely say that it ran up to twenty feet, or thirty, or even fifty, and I believe some times a hundred.
Through the bright expanse of white that seemed to pull my gaze away, and past the heavy-laden trees bending like a lumberjack, I managed to move forward, part sliding and part walking, in spots where a person in regular shoes would have sunk and been forced to wait, freezing, for the thaw to arrive. Even though there had been intense frost every night on the snow, the snow itself hadn't melted, not even for an hour, so it didn't form a crust. As a result, it was soft and light as if it had just fallen yesterday. In areas where there were no drifts, the least depth was three feet; but where the wind had pushed it around, or a draft created a funnel effect, you could safely say it reached up to twenty feet, thirty, or even fifty, and sometimes I believe it was as much as a hundred.
At last I got to my spy-hill (as I had begun to call it), although I never should have known it but for what it looked on. And even to know this last again required all the eyes of love, soever sharp and vigilant. For all the beautiful Glen Doone (shaped from out the mountains, as if on purpose for the Doones, and looking in the summer-time like a sharp cut vase of green) now was besnowed half up the sides, and at either end so, that it was more like the white basins wherein we boil plum-puddings. Not a patch of grass was there, not a black branch of a tree; all was white; and the little river flowed beneath an arch of snow; if it managed to flow at all.
Finally, I reached my spy-hill (as I had started to call it), though I wouldn't have recognized it if it weren't for what it overlooked. And even to recognize that needed all the love's keen and watchful eyes. The beautiful Glen Doone (formed by the mountains as if intentionally for the Doones, and looking like a finely shaped green vase in summer) was now half-covered in snow on the sides, and at both ends as well, making it resemble the white bowls we use to boil plum puddings. There wasn't a patch of grass to be seen, nor a dark branch of a tree; everything was white, and the little river flowed beneath an arch of snow, if it even flowed at all.
Now this was a great surprise to me; not only because I believed Glen Doone to be a place outside all frost, but also because I thought perhaps that it was quite impossible to be cold near Lorna. And now it struck me all at once that perhaps her ewer was frozen (as mine had been for the last three weeks, requiring embers around it), and perhaps her window would not shut, any more than mine would; and perhaps she wanted blankets. This idea worked me up to such a chill of sympathy, that seeing no Doones now about, and doubting if any guns would go off, in this state of the weather, and knowing that no man could catch me up (except with shoes like mine), I even resolved to slide the cliffs, and bravely go to Lorna.
This really surprised me, not just because I thought Glen Doone was a place free from frost, but also because I believed it was impossible to feel cold near Lorna. Suddenly, it hit me that her ewer might be frozen (like mine had been for the last three weeks, needing embers around it), and maybe her window wouldn't shut, just like mine; and perhaps she needed blankets. This thought gave me such a chill of sympathy that, with no Doones around and doubting if any guns would be fired in this weather, and knowing that no one could catch up to me (unless they had shoes like mine), I decided to slide down the cliffs and bravely go to Lorna.
It helped me much in this resolve, that the snow came on again, thick enough to blind a man who had not spent his time among it, as I had done now for days and days. Therefore I took my neatsfoot oil, which now was clogged like honey, and rubbed it hard into my leg-joints, so far as I could reach them. And then I set my back and elbows well against a snowdrift, hanging far adown the cliff, and saying some of the Lord's Prayer, threw myself on Providence. Before there was time to think or dream, I landed very beautifully upon a ridge of run-up snow in a quiet corner. My good shoes, or boots, preserved me from going far beneath it; though one of them was sadly strained, where a grub had gnawed the ash, in the early summer-time. Having set myself aright, and being in good spirits, I made boldly across the valley (where the snow was furrowed hard), being now afraid of nobody.
It really helped me make this decision when the snow started falling again, thick enough to blind anyone who hadn’t spent days in it like I had. So, I took my neatsfoot oil, which was now thick like honey, and rubbed it into my leg joints as much as I could reach. Then I leaned my back and elbows against a snowdrift that hung down the cliff, said some of the Lord's Prayer, and threw myself into the hands of fate. Before I even had time to think or imagine, I landed gracefully on a ridge of packed snow in a quiet spot. My good shoes saved me from sinking too deep; although one of them was pretty worn where a bug had nibbled at the wood during the early summer. After I got myself sorted and feeling good, I confidently crossed the valley (where the snow was packed hard), no longer afraid of anything.
If Lorna had looked out of the window she would not have known me, with those boots upon my feet, and a well-cleaned sheepskin over me, bearing my own (J.R.) in red, just between my shoulders, but covered now in snow-flakes. The house was partly drifted up, though not so much as ours was; and I crossed the little stream almost without knowing that it was under me. At first, being pretty safe from interference from the other huts, by virtue of the blinding snow and the difficulty of walking, I examined all the windows; but these were coated so with ice, like ferns and flowers and dazzling stars, that no one could so much as guess what might be inside of them. Moreover I was afraid of prying narrowly into them, as it was not a proper thing where a maiden might be; only I wanted to know just this, whether she were there or not.
If Lorna had looked out the window, she wouldn’t have recognized me, with those boots on my feet and a clean sheepskin draped over me, marked with my initials (J.R.) in red, right between my shoulders, but now covered in snowflakes. The house was partly drifted up, though not as much as ours; I crossed the little stream almost without realizing it was underneath me. At first, I was pretty safe from interference from the other huts because of the blinding snow and the difficulty of walking, so I checked all the windows; but they were coated with ice, like ferns, flowers, and dazzling stars, making it impossible to guess what was inside. Besides, I was hesitant to pry too closely, as it wouldn’t be proper with a young lady present; I just wanted to know if she was there or not.
Taking nothing by this movement, I was forced, much against my will, to venture to the door and knock, in a hesitating manner, not being sure but what my answer might be the mouth of a carbine. However it was not so, for I heard a pattering of feet and a whispering going on, and then a shrill voice through the keyhole, asking, “Who's there?”
Taking nothing from this movement, I was reluctantly forced to go to the door and knock, hesitantly, unsure if my answer would come from the barrel of a gun. However, that wasn't the case, as I heard footsteps and whispers, followed by a sharp voice from the keyhole asking, “Who's there?”
“Only me, John Ridd,” I answered; upon which I heard a little laughter, and a little sobbing, or something that was like it; and then the door was opened about a couple of inches, with a bar behind it still; and then the little voice went on,—
“Just me, John Ridd,” I replied; then I heard a bit of laughter, and a little sobbing, or something similar; and then the door opened a couple of inches, still with a bar behind it; and then the little voice continued,—
“Put thy finger in, young man, with the old ring on it. But mind thee, if it be the wrong one, thou shalt never draw it back again.”
“Put your finger in, young man, with the old ring on it. But be careful, if it’s the wrong one, you’ll never be able to pull it back out again.”
Laughing at Gwenny's mighty threat, I showed my finger in the opening; upon which she let me in, and barred the door again like lightning.
Laughing at Gwenny's big threat, I stuck my finger in the opening; so she let me in and quickly shut the door again.
“What is the meaning of all this, Gwenny?” I asked, as I slipped about on the floor, for I could not stand there firmly with my great snow-shoes on.
“What does all this mean, Gwenny?” I asked, as I tried to keep my balance on the floor because I couldn't stand still with my big snowshoes on.
“Maning enough, and bad maning too,” the Cornish girl made answer. “Us be shut in here, and starving, and durstn't let anybody in upon us. I wish thou wer't good to ate, young man: I could manage most of thee.”
“Bad enough, and really bad too,” the Cornish girl replied. “We're stuck here, starving, and we can't let anyone in. I wish you were good to eat, young man; I could handle most of you.”
I was so frightened by her eyes, full of wolfish hunger, that I could only say “Good God!” having never seen the like before. Then drew I forth a large piece of bread, which I had brought in case of accidents, and placed it in her hands. She leaped at it, as a starving dog leaps at sight of his supper, and she set her teeth in it, and then withheld it from her lips, with something very like an oath at her own vile greediness; and then away round the corner with it, no doubt for her young mistress. I meanwhile was occupied, to the best of my ability, in taking my snow-shoes off, yet wondering much within myself why Lorna did not come to me.
I was so scared by her eyes, full of wild hunger, that I could only say, “Good God!” having never seen anything like it before. Then I pulled out a large piece of bread I had brought just in case, and handed it to her. She lunged for it, like a starving dog when it sees its food, sank her teeth into it, then pulled it away from her lips, almost cursing her own greediness; and then she dashed around the corner with it, probably for her young mistress. Meanwhile, I was busy, as best as I could, trying to take off my snowshoes, while wondering why Lorna didn’t come to me.
But presently I knew the cause, for Gwenny called me, and I ran, and found my darling quite unable to say so much as, “John, how are you?” Between the hunger and the cold, and the excitement of my coming, she had fainted away, and lay back on a chair, as white as the snow around us. In betwixt her delicate lips, Gwenny was thrusting with all her strength the hard brown crust of the rye-bread, which she had snatched from me so.
But soon I figured out the reason, because Gwenny called me, and I ran to her, only to find my darling barely able to say even, “John, how are you?” The combination of hunger, cold, and the excitement of my arrival had made her faint, and she was slumped back in a chair, as pale as the snow around us. In between her soft lips, Gwenny was pushing with all her strength the tough brown crust of the rye bread that she had taken from me so forcefully.
“Get water, or get snow,” I said; “don't you know what fainting is, you very stupid child?”
“Get water, or get snow,” I said; “don't you know what fainting is, you really stupid kid?”
“Never heerd on it, in Cornwall,” she answered, trusting still to the bread; “be un the same as bleeding?”
“Never heard of it in Cornwall,” she replied, still relying on the bread; “is it the same as bleeding?”
“It will be directly, if you go on squeezing away with that crust so. Eat a piece: I have got some more. Leave my darling now to me.”
“It will be right away if you keep squeezing that crust like that. Have a piece: I have more. Now, leave my darling to me.”
Hearing that I had some more, the starving girl could resist no longer, but tore it in two, and had swallowed half before I had coaxed my Lorna back to sense, and hope, and joy, and love.
Hearing that I had some more, the starving girl couldn't hold back any longer, but she tore it in two and had swallowed half before I managed to bring my Lorna back to her senses, and to hope, joy, and love.
“I never expected to see you again. I had made up my mind to die, John; and to die without your knowing it.”
“I never thought I’d see you again. I had decided to end my life, John; and to do it without you ever knowing.”
As I repelled this fearful thought in a manner highly fortifying, the tender hue flowed back again into her famished cheeks and lips, and a softer brilliance glistened from the depth of her dark eyes. She gave me one little shrunken hand, and I could not help a tear for it.
As I pushed away this terrifying thought in a very uplifting way, the gentle color returned to her pale cheeks and lips, and a warmer glow shone from the depths of her dark eyes. She offered me one small, thin hand, and I couldn't help but shed a tear for it.
“After all, Mistress Lorna,” I said, pretending to be gay, for a smile might do her good; “you do not love me as Gwenny does; for she even wanted to eat me.”
“After all, Mistress Lorna,” I said, pretending to be cheerful, since a smile might lift her spirits; “you don't love me the way Gwenny does; because she even wanted to eat me.”
“And shall, afore I have done, young man,” Gwenny answered laughing; “you come in here with they red chakes, and make us think o' sirloin.”
“And before I'm finished, young man,” Gwenny said with a laugh, “you walk in here with your red cheeks and make us think of sirloin.”
“Eat up your bit of brown bread, Gwenny. It is not good enough for your mistress. Bless her heart, I have something here such as she never tasted the like of, being in such appetite. Look here, Lorna; smell it first. I have had it ever since Twelfth Day, and kept it all the time for you. Annie made it. That is enough to warrant it good cooking.”
“Finish your piece of brown bread, Gwenny. It’s not fancy enough for your mistress. Bless her heart, I have something here that she’s never tasted before, especially since she’s so hungry. Look, Lorna; take a whiff first. I’ve had this since Twelfth Day, and I’ve been saving it just for you. Annie made it. That’s a guarantee it’s well cooked.”
And then I showed my great mince-pie in a bag of tissue paper, and I told them how the mince-meat was made of golden pippins finely shred, with the undercut of the sirloin, and spice and fruit accordingly and far beyond my knowledge. But Lorna would not touch a morsel until she had thanked God for it, and given me the kindest kiss, and put a piece in Gwenny's mouth.
And then I showed off my amazing mince pie wrapped in tissue paper, and I explained how the filling was made from finely shredded golden apples, sirloin beef, and various spices and fruits that were way beyond my understanding. But Lorna wouldn’t eat a bite until she had thanked God for it, given me a sweet kiss, and put a piece in Gwenny's mouth.
I have eaten many things myself, with very great enjoyment, and keen perception of their merits, and some thanks to God for them. But I never did enjoy a thing, that had found its way between my own lips, half, or even a quarter as much as I now enjoyed beholding Lorna, sitting proudly upwards (to show that she was faint no more) entering into that mince-pie, and moving all her pearls of teeth (inside her little mouth-place) exactly as I told her. For I was afraid lest she should be too fast in going through it, and cause herself more damage so, than she got of nourishment. But I had no need to fear at all, and Lorna could not help laughing at me for thinking that she had no self-control.
I’ve eaten a lot of things myself, really enjoying them, appreciating their qualities, and even thanking God for them. But I've never enjoyed anything I put in my own mouth as much as I enjoyed watching Lorna, sitting up proudly (to show she was feeling better), dive into that mince pie, and showing off her beautiful little teeth just like I told her to. I was worried she might rush through it and end up hurting herself more than actually getting nourishment. But I didn’t need to worry at all; Lorna couldn’t help but laugh at me for thinking she lacked self-control.
Some creatures require a deal of food (I myself among the number), and some can do with a very little; making, no doubt, the best of it. And I have often noticed that the plumpest and most perfect women never eat so hard and fast as the skinny and three-cornered ones. These last be often ashamed of it, and eat most when the men be absent. Hence it came to pass that Lorna, being the loveliest of all maidens, had as much as she could do to finish her own half of pie; whereas Gwenny Carfax (though generous more than greedy), ate up hers without winking, after finishing the brown loaf; and then I begged to know the meaning of this state of things.
Some creatures need a lot of food (like me), while others can manage with very little, making the most of it. I've often noticed that the most attractive and well-rounded women don’t eat as obsessively as the skinny and angular ones. The latter often feel embarrassed about it and tend to eat more when the men are away. This led to Lorna, being the most beautiful of all the girls, struggling to finish her half of the pie, while Gwenny Carfax (who is more generous than greedy) devoured hers without hesitation after finishing the brown loaf. I then asked what the reason for this difference was.
“The meaning is sad enough,” said Lorna; “and I see no way out of it. We are both to be starved until I let them do what they like with me.
“The meaning is pretty grim,” said Lorna; “and I can’t see any way to escape it. We’re both going to be starved until I allow them to do whatever they want with me.
“That is to say until you choose to marry Carver Doone, and be slowly killed by him?”
"Do you mean until you decide to marry Carver Doone and let him slowly destroy you?"
“Slowly! No, John, quickly. I hate him so intensely, that less than a week would kill me.”
“Slowly! No, John, quickly. I hate him so much that less than a week would do me in.”
“Not a doubt of that,” said Gwenny; “oh, she hates him nicely then; but not half so much as I do.”
“There's no doubt about that,” said Gwenny; “oh, she really hates him; but not nearly as much as I do.”
I told them that this state of things could be endured no longer, on which point they agreed with me, but saw no means to help it. For even if Lorna could make up her mind to come away with me and live at Plover's Barrows farm, under my good mother's care, as I had urged so often, behold the snow was all around us, heaped as high as mountains, and how could any delicate maiden ever get across it?
I told them that we couldn't put up with this situation any longer, and they agreed with me, but had no idea how to fix it. Even if Lorna decided to come with me and live at Plover's Barrows farm, safe under my mother's care, which I had suggested many times, the snow was piled up all around us, like mountains, and how could any delicate young woman possibly get through it?
Then I spoke with a strange tingle upon both sides of my heart, knowing that this undertaking was a serious one for all, and might burn our farm down,—
Then I felt a strange tingle on both sides of my heart, realizing that this task was serious for everyone and could destroy our farm,—
“If I warrant to take you safe, and without much fright or hardship, Lorna, will you come with me?”
“If I promise to get you there safely, without too much fear or trouble, Lorna, will you come with me?”
“To be sure I will, dear,” said my beauty, with a smile and a glance to follow it; “I have small alternative, to starve, or go with you, John.”
"Of course I will, my dear," said my beauty, smiling and giving me a lingering look; "I have little choice here: it's either starve or go with you, John."
“Gwenny, have you courage for it? Will you come with your young mistress?”
“Gwenny, do you have the courage for this? Will you come with your young mistress?”
“Will I stay behind?” cried Gwenny, in a voice that settled it. And so we began to arrange about it; and I was much excited. It was useless now to leave it longer; if it could be done at all, it could not be too quickly done. It was the Counsellor who had ordered, after all other schemes had failed, that his niece should have no food until she would obey him. He had strictly watched the house, taking turns with Carver, to ensure that none came nigh it bearing food or comfort. But this evening, they had thought it needless to remain on guard; and it would have been impossible, because themselves were busy offering high festival to all the valley, in right of their own commandership. And Gwenny said that nothing made her so nearly mad with appetite as the account she received from a woman of all the dishes preparing. Nevertheless she had answered bravely,—
“Will I be left behind?” shouted Gwenny, in a tone that made it clear. So we started making plans; I was really excited. It was pointless to wait any longer; if it could be done, it needed to be done quickly. It was the Counsellor who had insisted, after all other plans had failed, that his niece shouldn’t have any food until she obeyed him. He had closely monitored the house, taking turns with Carver to make sure no one approached with food or comfort. But that evening, they figured it was unnecessary to stay on guard; it would have been impossible anyway, since they were busy celebrating a grand festival throughout the valley, in accordance with their own authority. And Gwenny said nothing made her feel so nearly crazy with hunger as the tales she heard from a woman about all the dishes being prepared. Still, she had responded bravely,—
“Go and tell the Counsellor, and go and tell the Carver, who sent you to spy upon us, that we shall have a finer dish than any set before them.” And so in truth they did, although so little dreaming it; for no Doone that was ever born, however much of a Carver, might vie with our Annie for mince-meat.
“Go and tell the Counsellor, and go and tell the Carver, who sent you to spy on us, that we’ll have a better dish than anything they’ve ever had.” And in reality, they did, though they had no idea; because no Doone, no matter how skilled a Carver, could compete with our Annie when it came to mince pie.
Now while we sat reflecting much, and talking a good deal more, in spite of all the cold—for I never was in a hurry to go, when I had Lorna with me—she said, in her silvery voice, which always led me so along, as if I were a slave to a beautiful bell,—
Now, while we sat thinking a lot and chatting even more, despite all the cold—because I never felt rushed to leave when I was with Lorna—she said, in her sweet voice, which always guided me like I was enchanted by a beautiful bell,—
“Now, John, we are wasting time, dear. You have praised my hair, till it curls with pride, and my eyes till you cannot see them, even if they are brown diamonds which I have heard for the fiftieth time at least; though I never saw such a jewel. Don't you think it is high time to put on your snow-shoes, John?”
“Now, John, we’re wasting time, dear. You’ve complimented my hair until it’s proud and my eyes until you can’t even see them, even though they’re brown diamonds, which I’ve heard for the fiftieth time at least; though I’ve never seen such a jewel. Don’t you think it’s about time to put on your snowshoes, John?”
“Certainly not,” I answered, “'till we have settled something more. I was so cold when I came in; and now I am as warm as a cricket. And so are you, you lively soul; though you are not upon my hearth yet.”
“Definitely not,” I replied, “until we sort out a few more things. I was freezing when I walked in; and now I’m as warm as can be. And you are too, you lively spirit; even though you’re not by my fire yet.”
“Remember, John,” said Lorna, nestling for a moment to me; “the severity of the weather makes a great difference between us. And you must never take advantage.”
“Remember, John,” Lorna said, snuggling up to me for a moment, “the harshness of the weather creates a big divide between us. And you must never take advantage of that.”
“I quite understand all that, dear. And the harder it freezes the better, while that understanding continues. Now do try to be serious.”
“I totally get all that, dear. And the colder it gets, the better, as long as we keep understanding each other. Now, please try to be serious.”
“I try to be serious! And I have been trying fifty times, and could not bring you to it, John! Although I am sure the situation, as the Counsellor says at the beginning of a speech, the situation, to say the least, is serious enough for anything. Come, Gwenny, imitate him.”
“I’m really trying to be serious! And I’ve tried fifty times, but I just can’t get you to focus, John! Although I’m sure the situation, like the Counsellor says at the start of a speech, is serious enough to warrant it. Come on, Gwenny, mimic him.”
Gwenny was famed for her imitation of the Counsellor making a speech; and she began to shake her hair, and mount upon a footstool; but I really could not have this, though even Lorna ordered it. The truth was that my darling maiden was in such wild spirits, at seeing me so unexpected, and at the prospect of release, and of what she had never known, quiet life and happiness, that like all warm and loving natures, she could scarce control herself.
Gwenny was famous for her impression of the Counsellor giving a speech; she started shaking her hair and climbing onto a footstool, but I really couldn’t allow that, even though Lorna insisted. The truth was that my sweet girl was in such high spirits at seeing me so unexpectedly and at the thought of freedom, along with the quiet life and happiness she had never experienced, that like all warm and loving people, she could barely hold herself together.
“Come to this frozen window, John, and see them light the stack-fire. They will little know who looks at them. Now be very good, John. You stay in that corner, dear, and I will stand on this side; and try to breathe yourself a peep-hole through the lovely spears and banners. Oh, you don't know how to do it. I must do it for you. Breathe three times, like that, and that; and then you rub it with your fingers, before it has time to freeze again.”
“Come to this icy window, John, and watch them light the fire. They won’t have any idea who’s watching them. Now be good, John. You stay in that corner, sweetheart, and I’ll stand here; and try to make a little peephole through the beautiful decorations. Oh, you don’t know how to do it. I’ll show you. Breathe three times, like this, and like that; and then you rub it with your fingers before it has a chance to freeze again.”
All this she did so beautifully, with her lips put up like cherries, and her fingers bent half back, as only girls can bend them, and her little waist thrown out against the white of the snowed-up window, that I made her do it three times over; and I stopped her every time and let it freeze again, that so she might be the longer. Now I knew that all her love was mine, every bit as much as mine was hers; yet I must have her to show it, dwelling upon every proof, lengthening out all certainty. Perhaps the jealous heart is loath to own a life worth twice its own. Be that as it may, I know that we thawed the window nicely.
She did all of this so beautifully, with her lips shaped like cherries and her fingers bent back in that way only girls can, and her tiny waist pushed against the white snow-covered window. I made her do it three times, stopping her each time to let it freeze again so we could enjoy it longer. I knew that all her love belonged to me, just as much as mine belonged to her; yet I needed her to show it, focusing on every little proof, extending all certainty. Maybe a jealous heart struggles to accept a love that feels twice as valuable. Regardless, I know we made the window look great.
And then I saw, far down the stream (or rather down the bed of it, for there was no stream visible), a little form of fire arising, red, and dark, and flickering. Presently it caught on something, and went upward boldly; and then it struck into many forks, and then it fell, and rose again.
And then I saw, far down the riverbed (or rather down the channel, since no water was visible), a small flickering flame rising, red and dark. Soon it caught on something and shot up confidently; then it split into several branches, fell, and then rose again.
“Do you know what all that is, John?” asked Lorna, smiling cleverly at the manner of my staring.
“Do you know what all that is, John?” Lorna asked, smiling knowingly at the way I was staring.
“How on earth should I know? Papists burn Protestants in the flesh; and Protestants burn Papists in effigy, as we mock them. Lorna, are they going to burn any one to-night?”
“How on earth should I know? Catholics burn Protestants for real; and Protestants burn Catholics in effigy, as we ridicule them. Lorna, are they going to burn anyone tonight?”
“No, you dear. I must rid you of these things. I see that you are bigoted. The Doones are firing Dunkery beacon, to celebrate their new captain.”
“No, my dear. I have to free you from these beliefs. I can see that you’re prejudiced. The Doones are lighting Dunkery Beacon to celebrate their new captain.”
“But how could they bring it here through the snow? If they have sledges, I can do nothing.”
“But how could they get it here through the snow? If they have sleds, I can’t do anything.”
“They brought it before the snow began. The moment poor grandfather was gone, even before his funeral, the young men, having none to check them, began at once upon it. They had always borne a grudge against it; not that it ever did them harm; but because it seemed so insolent. 'Can't a gentleman go home, without a smoke behind him?' I have often heard them saying. And though they have done it no serious harm, since they threw the firemen on the fire, many, many years ago, they have often promised to bring it here for their candle; and now they have done it. Ah, now look! The tar is kindled.”
“They brought it before the snow started. The moment poor grandfather passed away, even before his funeral, the young men, with no one to stop them, jumped right in. They had always held a grudge against it; not that it ever actually harmed them, but because it seemed so arrogant. 'Can’t a guy go home without smoke trailing behind him?' I’ve often heard them say. And although they haven’t done it any real damage since they tossed the firemen onto the fire many years ago, they have often promised to bring it here for their candle; and now they’ve finally done it. Ah, look! The tar is lit.”
Though Lorna took it so in joke, I looked upon it very gravely, knowing that this heavy outrage to the feelings of the neighbourhood would cause more stir than a hundred sheep stolen, or a score of houses sacked. Not of course that the beacon was of the smallest use to any one, neither stopped anybody from stealing, nay, rather it was like the parish knell, which begins when all is over, and depresses all the survivors; yet I knew that we valued it, and were proud, and spoke of it as a mighty institution; and even more than that, our vestry had voted, within the last two years, seven shillings and six-pence to pay for it, in proportion with other parishes. And one of the men who attended to it, or at least who was paid for doing so, was our Jem Slocombe's grandfather.
Though Lorna laughed it off, I took it very seriously, knowing that this serious affront to the community's feelings would cause more uproar than a hundred sheep being stolen or a bunch of houses being looted. Not that the beacon was of any real use to anyone; it didn't stop anyone from stealing, and honestly, it was more like the parish bells that ring when everything is lost, depressing everyone left behind. But I knew we valued it, felt proud of it, and referred to it as a significant fixture; even more so, our vestry had approved, in the last two years, seven shillings and sixpence to cover its costs, sharing the burden with other parishes. And one of the guys who looked after it, or at least who got paid to, was our Jem Slocombe's grandfather.
However, in spite of all my regrets, the fire went up very merrily, blazing red and white and yellow, as it leaped on different things. And the light danced on the snow-drifts with a misty lilac hue. I was astonished at its burning in such mighty depths of snow; but Gwenny said that the wicked men had been three days hard at work, clearing, as it were, a cock-pit, for their fire to have its way. And now they had a mighty pile, which must have covered five land-yards square, heaped up to a goodly height, and eager to take fire.
However, despite all my regrets, the fire blazed happily, shooting red, white, and yellow flames as it jumped from one item to another. The light flickered on the snow drifts with a dreamy lilac color. I was amazed that it could burn so fiercely in such deep snow, but Gwenny said that the bad guys had been working hard for three days, clearing out a space for their fire to spread. Now they had a huge pile, covering about five square yards, stacked up high and ready to ignite.
In this I saw great obstacle to what I wished to manage. For when this pyramid should be kindled thoroughly, and pouring light and blazes round, would not all the valley be like a white room full of candles? Thinking thus, I was half inclined to abide my time for another night: and then my second thoughts convinced me that I would be a fool in this. For lo, what an opportunity! All the Doones would be drunk, of course, in about three hours' time, and getting more and more in drink as the night went on. As for the fire, it must sink in about three hours or more, and only cast uncertain shadows friendly to my purpose. And then the outlaws must cower round it, as the cold increased on them, helping the weight of the liquor; and in their jollity any noise would be cheered as a false alarm. Most of all, and which decided once for all my action,—when these wild and reckless villains should be hot with ardent spirits, what was door, or wall, to stand betwixt them and my Lorna?
In this, I saw a major obstacle to what I wanted to accomplish. For when this pyramid was fully lit up, casting light and flames all around, wouldn’t the whole valley look like a bright room filled with candles? Thinking this way, I was tempted to wait for another night; but then my second thoughts convinced me I'd be foolish. After all, what an opportunity! All the Doones would definitely be drunk in about three hours, and they'd only get more intoxicated as the night went on. As for the fire, it would start to die down in about three hours or more, only casting unpredictable shadows that were actually helpful for my plan. Plus, the outlaws would have to huddle around it as the night got colder, fueling their drunkenness, and in their revelry, any noise would be dismissed as a false alarm. Most importantly, and what ultimately decided my action—when these wild and reckless villains became intoxicated, what would stop them from reaching my Lorna?
This thought quickened me so much that I touched my darling reverently, and told her in a few short words how I hoped to manage it.
This thought motivated me so much that I touched my dear one gently and told her in a few simple words how I planned to handle it.
“Sweetest, in two hours' time, I shall be again with you. Keep the bar up, and have Gwenny ready to answer any one. You are safe while they are dining, dear, and drinking healths, and all that stuff; and before they have done with that, I shall be again with you. Have everything you care to take in a very little compass, and Gwenny must have no baggage. I shall knock loud, and then wait a little; and then knock twice, very softly.”
“Sweetheart, in two hours, I'll be with you again. Keep the barrier up, and have Gwenny ready to answer anyone. You're safe while they’re having dinner and toasting to health and all that; and before they're finished, I'll be back with you. Have everything you want packed light, and Gwenny shouldn’t bring any luggage. I’ll knock loudly, then wait a bit; and then I’ll knock twice, very quietly.”
With this I folded her in my arms; and she looked frightened at me; not having perceived her danger; and then I told Gwenny over again what I had told her mistress: but she only nodded her head and said, “Young man, go and teach thy grandmother.”
With that, I wrapped her in my arms, and she looked scared of me, not realizing the danger she was in. Then I repeated to Gwenny what I had told her mistress, but she just nodded and said, “Young man, go teach your grandmother.”
CHAPTER XLIV
BROUGHT HOME AT LAST
To my great delight I found that the weather, not often friendly to lovers, and lately seeming so hostile, had in the most important matter done me a signal service. For when I had promised to take my love from the power of those wretches, the only way of escape apparent lay through the main Doone-gate. For though I might climb the cliffs myself, especially with the snow to aid me, I durst not try to fetch Lorna up them, even if she were not half-starved, as well as partly frozen; and as for Gwenny's door, as we called it (that is to say, the little entrance from the wooded hollow), it was snowed up long ago to the level of the hills around. Therefore I was at my wit's end how to get them out; the passage by the Doone-gate being long, and dark, and difficult, and leading to such a weary circuit among the snowy moors and hills.
To my great happiness, I discovered that the weather, which isn't usually kind to lovers and had recently seemed very cruel, had actually done me a huge favor in the most important way. When I promised to rescue my love from those terrible people, the only way out that seemed possible was through the main Doone-gate. While I could probably climb the cliffs myself, especially with the snow helping me, I couldn't risk trying to bring Lorna up them, even if she weren't half-starved and partly frozen. As for Gwenny's door, the little entrance from the wooded hollow, it had been completely blocked by snow long ago, to the level of the surrounding hills. So, I was at a loss about how to get them out; the route through the Doone-gate was long, dark, and challenging, leading to a tiring journey across the snowy moors and hills.
But now, being homeward-bound by the shortest possible track, I slipped along between the bonfire and the boundary cliffs, where I found a caved way of snow behind a sort of avalanche: so that if the Doones had been keeping watch (which they were not doing, but revelling), they could scarcely have discovered me. And when I came to my old ascent, where I had often scaled the cliff and made across the mountains, it struck me that I would just have a look at my first and painful entrance, to wit, the water-slide. I never for a moment imagined that this could help me now; for I never had dared to descend it, even in the finest weather; still I had a curiosity to know what my old friend was like, with so much snow upon him. But, to my very great surprise, there was scarcely any snow there at all, though plenty curling high overhead from the cliff, like bolsters over it. Probably the sweeping of the north-east wind up the narrow chasm had kept the showers from blocking it, although the water had no power under the bitter grip of frost. All my water-slide was now less a slide than path of ice; furrowed where the waters ran over fluted ridges; seamed where wind had tossed and combed them, even while congealing; and crossed with little steps wherever the freezing torrent lingered. And here and there the ice was fibred with the trail of sludge-weed, slanting from the side, and matted, so as to make resting-place.
But now, heading home by the quickest route, I slipped along between the bonfire and the boundary cliffs, where I found a snow-covered path behind a sort of avalanche. If the Doones had been keeping watch (which they weren’t, as they were enjoying themselves), they could hardly have spotted me. When I reached my old climbing spot, where I had often scaled the cliff and crossed the mountains, I thought I’d take a look at my first and painful entrance, the water-slide. I never thought this could help me now; I had never dared to descend it, even in the best weather, yet I was curious to see what my old friend looked like with so much snow on him. But to my surprise, there was hardly any snow there at all, even though plenty was curling high overhead from the cliff like cushions. The strong north-east wind had probably kept the showers from blocking it, though the water had no chance against the biting frost. The water-slide was now more of an icy path, furrowed where the water had run over fluted ridges, marked where the wind had tossed and combed them while they were freezing, and crossed with little steps wherever the freezing torrent paused. Here and there, the ice was laced with trails of sludge-weed, slanting from the sides and matted to create resting spots.
Lo it was easy track and channel, as if for the very purpose made, down which I could guide my sledge with Lorna sitting in it. There were only two things to be feared; one lest the rolls of snow above should fall in and bury us; the other lest we should rush too fast, and so be carried headlong into the black whirlpool at the bottom, the middle of which was still unfrozen, and looking more horrible by the contrast. Against this danger I made provision, by fixing a stout bar across; but of the other we must take our chance, and trust ourselves to Providence.
It was an easy path and channel, almost as if it was made for the purpose of guiding my sled with Lorna sitting in it. There were only two dangers to worry about: one was the snow above possibly falling and burying us; the other was rushing too fast and being thrown into the black whirlpool at the bottom, which was still unfrozen and looked even worse in comparison. To protect against this danger, I set up a strong bar across, but for the other, we just had to take our chances and trust in fate.
I hastened home at my utmost speed, and told my mother for God's sake to keep the house up till my return, and to have plenty of fire blazing, and plenty of water boiling, and food enough hot for a dozen people, and the best bed aired with the warming-pan. Dear mother smiled softly at my excitement, though her own was not much less, I am sure, and enhanced by sore anxiety. Then I gave very strict directions to Annie, and praised her a little, and kissed her; and I even endeavoured to flatter Eliza, lest she should be disagreeable.
I rushed home as fast as I could and told my mom to please keep the house warm until I got back, and to have a fire going, plenty of water boiling, enough food for a dozen people ready, and to air out the best bed with the warming pan. My dear mom smiled gently at my excitement, though I was sure hers was just as strong, mixed with a lot of worry. Then I gave Annie detailed instructions, praised her a bit, and kissed her; I even tried to flatter Eliza so she wouldn’t be difficult.
After this I took some brandy, both within and about me; the former, because I had sharp work to do; and the latter in fear of whatever might happen, in such great cold, to my comrades. Also I carried some other provisions, grieving much at their coldness: and then I went to the upper linhay, and took our new light pony-sledd, which had been made almost as much for pleasure as for business; though God only knows how our girls could have found any pleasure in bumping along so. On the snow, however, it ran as sweetly as if it had been made for it; yet I durst not take the pony with it; in the first place, because his hoofs would break through the ever-shifting surface of the light and piling snow; and secondly, because these ponies, coming from the forest, have a dreadful trick of neighing, and most of all in frosty weather.
After this, I had some brandy, both to warm me up inside and to calm my nerves, worried about what might happen to my friends in such cold conditions. I also packed some other supplies, feeling sad about how cold they were. Then, I went to the upper linhay and grabbed our new light pony sled, which was made more for fun than for work; although honestly, I have no idea how our girls could find any enjoyment in bouncing around like that. On the snow, though, it glided smoothly as if it was made for it, but I didn’t dare take the pony with it. First, because his hooves would sink through the ever-shifting light powdery snow; and second, because these ponies, being from the forest, have this awful habit of neighing, especially in freezing weather.
Therefore I girded my own body with a dozen turns of hay-rope, twisting both the ends in under at the bottom of my breast, and winding the hay on the skew a little, that the hempen thong might not slip between, and so cut me in the drawing. I put a good piece of spare rope in the sledd, and the cross-seat with the back to it, which was stuffed with our own wool, as well as two or three fur coats; and then, just as I was starting, out came Annie, in spite of the cold, panting for fear of missing me, and with nothing on her head, but a lanthorn in one hand.
So, I wrapped my body with a dozen loops of hay-rope, tucking the ends under my chest and twisting the hay a bit to keep the hemp rope from slipping and cutting into me. I placed a good length of extra rope in the sled and added the cross-seat with its backrest, which was stuffed with our own wool, along with two or three fur coats. Just as I was about to leave, Annie rushed out, despite the cold, worried about missing me, holding a lantern in one hand and nothing on her head.
“Oh, John, here is the most wonderful thing! Mother has never shown it before; and I can't think how she could make up her mind. She had gotten it in a great well of a cupboard, with camphor, and spirits, and lavender. Lizzie says it is a most magnificent sealskin cloak, worth fifty pounds, or a farthing.”
“Oh, John, look at this amazing thing! Mom has never shown it to me before, and I can’t believe she decided to share it. She found it in a huge cupboard filled with camphor, spirits, and lavender. Lizzie says it’s a stunning sealskin cloak, worth fifty pounds or a penny.”
“At any rate it is soft and warm,” said I, very calmly flinging it into the bottom of the sledd. “Tell mother I will put it over Lorna's feet.”
“At any rate, it’s soft and warm,” I said, calmly tossing it into the bottom of the sled. “Tell Mom I’ll put it over Lorna's feet.”
“Lorna's feet! Oh, you great fool,” cried Annie, for the first time reviling me; “over her shoulders; and be proud, you very stupid John.”
“Lorna's feet! Oh, you big idiot,” shouted Annie, for the first time insulting me; “over her shoulders; and be proud, you really dumb John.”
“It is not good enough for her feet,” I answered, with strong emphasis; “but don't tell mother I said so, Annie. Only thank her very kindly.”
“It’s not good enough for her feet,” I replied, stressing my point; “but don’t tell mom I said that, Annie. Just thank her very much.”
With that I drew my traces hard, and set my ashen staff into the snow, and struck out with my best foot foremost (the best one at snow-shoes, I mean), and the sledd came after me as lightly as a dog might follow; and Annie, with the lanthorn, seemed to be left behind and waiting like a pretty lamp-post.
With that, I pulled on my straps tightly, planted my old staff into the snow, and set off with my strongest foot first (the best one for snowshoes, that is). The sled followed me as easily as a dog would trail behind, and Annie, holding the lantern, looked like a pretty lamp post left behind and waiting.
The full moon rose as bright behind me as a paten of pure silver, casting on the snow long shadows of the few things left above, burdened rock, and shaggy foreland, and the labouring trees. In the great white desolation, distance was a mocking vision; hills looked nigh, and valleys far; when hills were far and valleys nigh. And the misty breath of frost, piercing through the ribs of rock, striking to the pith of trees, creeping to the heart of man, lay along the hollow places, like a serpent sloughing. Even as my own gaunt shadow (travestied as if I were the moonlight's daddy-longlegs), went before me down the slope; even I, the shadow's master, who had tried in vain to cough, when coughing brought good liquorice, felt a pressure on my bosom, and a husking in my throat.
The full moon rose behind me, shining as bright as a pure silver plate, casting long shadows on the snow from the few things above—heavy rocks, shaggy land, and the struggling trees. In the vast white emptiness, distance played tricks; hills seemed close while valleys looked far away, even when the opposite was true. The frosty mist crept through the rocky crevices, piercing deep into the trees and reaching the core of a person, lying in the low spots like a snake shedding its skin. As my own thin shadow (looking like some long-legged bug summoned by the moonlight) moved ahead of me down the slope, even I, the master of my shadow, who had tried unsuccessfully to cough when coughing would get me good licorice, felt a tightness in my chest and a dryness in my throat.
However, I went on quietly, and at a very tidy speed; being only too thankful that the snow had ceased, and no wind as yet arisen. And from the ring of low white vapour girding all the verge of sky, and from the rosy blue above, and the shafts of starlight set upon a quivering bow, as well as from the moon itself and the light behind it, having learned the signs of frost from its bitter twinges, I knew that we should have a night as keen as ever England felt. Nevertheless, I had work enough to keep me warm if I managed it. The question was, could I contrive to save my darling from it?
However, I continued on quietly and at a good pace, thankful that the snow had stopped and there was no wind yet. Looking at the ring of low white mist surrounding the edge of the sky, the rosy blue above, the beams of starlight shimmering like a bow, the moon itself, and the light behind it, I could tell from the signs of frost in my bitter shivers that we were in for a night as cold as England ever experienced. Still, I had plenty of work to keep me warm if I could manage it. The real question was, could I find a way to protect my beloved from it?
Daring not to risk my sledd by any fall from the valley-cliffs, I dragged it very carefully up the steep incline of ice, through the narrow chasm, and so to the very brink and verge where first I had seen my Lorna, in the fishing days of boyhood. As I then had a trident fork, for sticking of the loaches, so I now had a strong ash stake, to lay across from rock to rock, and break the speed of descending. With this I moored the sledd quite safe, at the very lip of the chasm, where all was now substantial ice, green and black in the moonlight; and then I set off up the valley, skirting along one side of it.
Not wanting to risk my sled by falling off the cliffs, I carefully dragged it up the steep ice incline, through the narrow gap, and to the very edge where I first saw my Lorna during my boyhood fishing days. Back then, I had a trident fork for catching loaches, and now I had a sturdy ash stake to lay across from rock to rock to slow my descent. With this, I secured the sled safely at the edge of the chasm, where everything was solid ice, green and black in the moonlight; then I set off up the valley, skirting along one side of it.
The stack-fire still was burning strongly, but with more of heat than blaze; and many of the younger Doones were playing on the verge of it, the children making rings of fire, and their mothers watching them. All the grave and reverend warriors having heard of rheumatism, were inside of log and stone, in the two lowest houses, with enough of candles burning to make our list of sheep come short.
The fire in the fireplace was still going strong, but it gave off more heat than flames; many of the younger Doones were playing near it, with the kids making rings of fire while their mothers kept an eye on them. The serious and respected warriors, worried about rheumatism, were inside the two lowest houses made of logs and stone, surrounded by enough candles to make our sheep count look short.
All these I passed, without the smallest risk or difficulty, walking up the channel of drift which I spoke of once before. And then I crossed, with more of care, and to the door of Lorna's house, and made the sign, and listened, after taking my snow-shoes off.
All these I passed without any risk or difficulty, walking up the channel of drift I mentioned before. Then I crossed, with more caution, to the door of Lorna's house, made the sign, and listened after taking off my snowshoes.
But no one came, as I expected, neither could I espy a light. And I seemed to hear a faint low sound, like the moaning of the snow-wind. Then I knocked again more loudly, with a knocking at my heart: and receiving no answer, set all my power at once against the door. In a moment it flew inwards, and I glided along the passage with my feet still slippery. There in Lorna's room I saw, by the moonlight flowing in, a sight which drove me beyond sense.
But no one came, just as I expected, and I couldn't see any light. I thought I heard a faint sound, like the moaning of the wind through the snow. Then I knocked again, harder this time, with a pounding in my heart: and getting no response, I pushed against the door with all my strength. In an instant, it swung open, and I moved down the hallway with my feet still slipping. There, in Lorna’s room, I saw, illuminated by the moonlight pouring in, a sight that completely overwhelmed me.
Lorna was behind a chair, crouching in the corner, with her hands up, and a crucifix, or something that looked like it. In the middle of the room lay Gwenny Carfax, stupid, yet with one hand clutching the ankle of a struggling man. Another man stood above my Lorna, trying to draw the chair away. In a moment I had him round the waist, and he went out of the window with a mighty crash of glass; luckily for him that window had no bars like some of them. Then I took the other man by the neck; and he could not plead for mercy. I bore him out of the house as lightly as I would bear a baby, yet squeezing his throat a little more than I fain would do to an infant. By the bright moonlight I saw that I carried Marwood de Whichehalse. For his father's sake I spared him, and because he had been my schoolfellow; but with every muscle of my body strung with indignation, I cast him, like a skittle, from me into a snowdrift, which closed over him. Then I looked for the other fellow, tossed through Lorna's window, and found him lying stunned and bleeding, neither able to groan yet. Charleworth Doone, if his gushing blood did not much mislead me.
Lorna was behind a chair, crouching in the corner with her hands up, holding a crucifix or something that looked like one. In the middle of the room lay Gwenny Carfax, silly as she was, clutching the ankle of a struggling man. Another guy stood above Lorna, trying to pull the chair away. In an instant, I had him around the waist, and he went out the window with a loud crash of glass; luckily for him, that window didn’t have bars like some of the others. Then I grabbed the other man by the neck, and he couldn’t beg for mercy. I carried him out of the house as easily as I would a baby, though I squeezed his throat a bit harder than I would a toddler. By the bright moonlight, I realized I was carrying Marwood de Whichehalse. For his father’s sake, I let him go because he had been my schoolmate. But filled with anger, I tossed him like a bowling pin into a snowdrift that covered him. Then I looked for the other guy, who had been thrown through Lorna’s window, and found him lying there, stunned and bleeding, unable to groan yet. Charleworth Doone, if his gushing blood didn’t mislead me too much.
It was no time to linger now; I fastened my shoes in a moment, and caught up my own darling with her head upon my shoulder, where she whispered faintly; and telling Gwenny to follow me, or else I would come back for her, if she could not walk the snow, I ran the whole distance to my sledd, caring not who might follow me. Then by the time I had set up Lorna, beautiful and smiling, with the seal-skin cloak all over her, sturdy Gwenny came along, having trudged in the track of my snow-shoes, although with two bags on her back. I set her in beside her mistress, to support her, and keep warm; and then with one look back at the glen, which had been so long my home of heart, I hung behind the sledd, and launched it down the steep and dangerous way.
It was no time to waste; I quickly tied my shoes and lifted my beloved with her head on my shoulder, where she whispered softly. I told Gwenny to follow me, or I would come back for her if she couldn’t manage the snow. I ran the whole way to my sled, not caring who might follow. By the time I had Lorna set up, beautiful and smiling with the seal-skin cloak around her, sturdy Gwenny arrived, having trudged in the tracks of my snowshoes, even though she had two bags on her back. I placed her beside her mistress to support her and keep her warm. Then, with one last look at the glen, which had been my home for so long, I held on to the sled and launched it down the steep, treacherous path.
Though the cliffs were black above us, and the road unseen in front, and a great white grave of snow might at a single word come down, Lorna was as calm and happy as an infant in its bed. She knew that I was with her; and when I told her not to speak, she touched my hand in silence. Gwenny was in a much greater fright, having never seen such a thing before, neither knowing what it is to yield to pure love's confidence. I could hardly keep her quiet, without making a noise myself. With my staff from rock to rock, and my weight thrown backward, I broke the sledd's too rapid way, and brought my grown love safely out, by the selfsame road which first had led me to her girlish fancy, and my boyish slavery.
Though the cliffs loomed dark above us and the road was hidden ahead, with a huge blanket of snow ready to fall at any moment, Lorna was as calm and happy as a baby in its crib. She knew I was there with her, and when I asked her not to speak, she quietly touched my hand. Gwenny was much more frightened, having never experienced anything like this before, and she didn’t understand what it meant to trust in pure love. I struggled to keep her quiet without making noise myself. Using my staff to navigate over the rocks and leaning back to slow down the sled, I guided my grown love safely out by the same path that had first led me to her youthful charm and my boyish infatuation.
Unpursued, yet looking back as if some one must be after us, we skirted round the black whirling pool, and gained the meadows beyond it. Here there was hard collar work, the track being all uphill and rough; and Gwenny wanted to jump out, to lighten the sledd and to push behind. But I would not hear of it; because it was now so deadly cold, and I feared that Lorna might get frozen, without having Gwenny to keep her warm. And after all, it was the sweetest labour I had ever known in all my life, to be sure that I was pulling Lorna, and pulling her to our own farmhouse.
Unpursued, yet glancing back as if someone must be following us, we navigated around the dark, swirling pool and reached the meadows beyond it. Here, the work was tough, as the path was steep and rough; Gwenny wanted to jump out to lighten the sled and push from behind. But I wouldn't hear of it, because it was now freezing cold, and I was worried that Lorna might get too cold without Gwenny to keep her warm. After all, it was the most rewarding work I had ever experienced, knowing that I was pulling Lorna, bringing her to our farmhouse.
Gwenny's nose was touched with frost, before we had gone much farther, because she would not keep it quiet and snug beneath the sealskin. And here I had to stop in the moonlight (which was very dangerous) and rub it with a clove of snow, as Eliza had taught me; and Gwenny scolding all the time, as if myself had frozen it. Lorna was now so far oppressed with all the troubles of the evening, and the joy that followed them, as well as by the piercing cold and difficulty of breathing, that she lay quite motionless, like fairest wax in the moonlight—when we stole a glance at her, beneath the dark folds of the cloak; and I thought that she was falling into the heavy snow-sleep, whence there is no awaking.
Gwenny's nose was touched with frost before we had gone much farther because she wouldn't keep it warm and cozy beneath the sealskin. I had to stop in the moonlight (which was really risky) and rub it with a clump of snow, just like Eliza had taught me; and Gwenny was complaining the whole time, as if I had frozen it. Lorna was now weighed down by all the troubles of the evening and the joy that followed, as well as by the biting cold and difficulty of breathing, that she lay completely still, like the finest wax in the moonlight—when we stole a glance at her under the dark folds of the cloak; and I thought she was drifting into a deep snow-filled sleep, from which there is no waking.
Therefore, I drew my traces tight, and set my whole strength to the business; and we slipped along at a merry pace, although with many joltings, which must have sent my darling out into the cold snowdrifts but for the short strong arm of Gwenny. And so in about an hour's time, in spite of many hindrances, we came home to the old courtyard, and all the dogs saluted us. My heart was quivering, and my cheeks as hot as the Doones' bonfire, with wondering both what Lorna would think of our farm-yard, and what my mother would think of her. Upon the former subject my anxiety was wasted, for Lorna neither saw a thing, nor even opened her heavy eyes. And as to what mother would think of her, she was certain not to think at all, until she had cried over her.
So, I tightened my traces and put all my effort into it; we sped along at a cheerful pace, even though we hit some bumps that could have thrown my darling into the cold snowdrifts if it weren't for Gwenny's strong short arm. About an hour later, despite several obstacles, we made it back to the old courtyard, where all the dogs greeted us. My heart was racing, and my cheeks were as hot as the Doones' bonfire, wondering what Lorna would think of our farmyard and what my mom would think of her. I worried for nothing about the first one because Lorna didn’t notice anything and didn’t even open her heavy eyes. As for what my mom would think of her, she definitely wouldn’t have an opinion until she had cried over her.
And so indeed it came to pass. Even at this length of time, I can hardly tell it, although so bright before my mind, because it moves my heart so. The sledd was at the open door, with only Lorna in it; for Gwenny Carfax had jumped out, and hung back in the clearing, giving any reason rather than the only true one—that she would not be intruding. At the door were all our people; first, of course, Betty Muxworthy, teaching me how to draw the sledd, as if she had been born in it, and flourishing with a great broom, wherever a speck of snow lay. Then dear Annie, and old Molly (who was very quiet, and counted almost for nobody), and behind them, mother, looking as if she wanted to come first, but doubted how the manners lay. In the distance Lizzie stood, fearful of encouraging, but unable to keep out of it.
And so it really happened. Even after all this time, I can hardly describe it, even though it's so vivid in my mind, because it touches my heart deeply. The sled was at the open door, with only Lorna in it; Gwenny Carfax had jumped out and stayed back in the clearing, offering any excuse other than the real reason—that she didn’t want to intrude. At the door were all our people; first of all, Betty Muxworthy, showing me how to pull the sled as if she had been born to do it, brandishing a big broom wherever a speck of snow lay. Then there was dear Annie and old Molly (who was very quiet and hardly registered), and behind them, Mom, looking like she wanted to be first but unsure of how to act. In the distance, Lizzie stood, hesitant to encourage things but unable to stay away.
Betty was going to poke her broom right in under the sealskin cloak, where Lorna lay unconscious, and where her precious breath hung frozen, like a silver cobweb; but I caught up Betty's broom, and flung it clean away over the corn chamber; and then I put the others by, and fetched my mother forward.
Betty was about to shove her broom right under the sealskin cloak where Lorna lay unconscious, and where her precious breath hung frozen like a silver cobweb. But I grabbed Betty's broom and threw it clear over the corn chamber. Then I set the others aside and brought my mother forward.
“You shall see her first,” I said: “is she not your daughter? Hold the light there, Annie.”
“You should see her first,” I said. “Isn’t she your daughter? Shine the light over there, Annie.”
Dear mother's hands were quick and trembling, as she opened the shining folds; and there she saw my Lorna sleeping, with her black hair all dishevelled, and she bent and kissed her forehead, and only said, “God bless her, John!” And then she was taken with violent weeping, and I was forced to hold her.
Dear mother's hands were quick and trembling as she opened the shining folds, and there she saw my Lorna sleeping, with her black hair all messy. She bent down and kissed her forehead, only saying, “God bless her, John!” Then she was overcome with violent sobs, and I had to hold her.
“Us may tich of her now, I rackon,” said Betty in her most jealous way; “Annie, tak her by the head, and I'll tak her by the toesen. No taime to stand here like girt gawks. Don'ee tak on zo, missus. Ther be vainer vish in the zea—Lor, but, her be a booty!”
“Let’s talk about her now, I guess,” said Betty in her most jealous tone; “Annie, grab her by the head, and I’ll grab her by the toes. No time to just stand here like big fools. Don’t get upset, missus. There are prettier fish in the sea—Wow, but she is a looker!”
With this, they carried her into the house, Betty chattering all the while, and going on now about Lorna's hands, and the others crowding round her, so that I thought I was not wanted among so many women, and should only get the worst of it, and perhaps do harm to my darling. Therefore I went and brought Gwenny in, and gave her a potful of bacon and peas, and an iron spoon to eat it with, which she did right heartily.
With that, they took her inside the house, and Betty kept talking the whole time, going on about Lorna's hands while the others gathered around her. I felt like I wasn't needed with so many women there and thought I might just get in the way or even hurt my darling. So, I went and brought Gwenny in, giving her a pot full of bacon and peas and an iron spoon to eat with, which she dug into eagerly.
Then I asked her how she could have been such a fool as to let those two vile fellows enter the house where Lorna was; and she accounted for it so naturally, that I could only blame myself. For my agreement had been to give one loud knock (if you happen to remember) and after that two little knocks. Well these two drunken rogues had come; and one, being very drunk indeed, had given a great thump; and then nothing more to do with it; and the other, being three-quarters drunk, had followed his leader (as one might say) but feebly, and making two of it. Whereupon up jumped Lorna, and declared that her John was there.
Then I asked her how she could have been so foolish as to let those two awful guys into the house where Lorna was; and she explained it so naturally that I could only blame myself. My plan had been to give one loud knock (if you remember) followed by two lighter knocks. Well, these two drunken idiots had shown up, and one, being very drunk, had knocked loudly; then he did nothing else. The other, being three-quarters drunk, had weakly followed the first guy's lead, making it two knocks. At that, Lorna jumped up and said that her John was there.
All this Gwenny told me shortly, between the whiles of eating, and even while she licked the spoon; and then there came a message for me that my love was sensible, and was seeking all around for me. Then I told Gwenny to hold her tongue (whatever she did among us), and not to trust to women's words; and she told me they all were liars, as she had found out long ago; and the only thing to believe in was an honest man, when found. Thereupon I could have kissed her as a sort of tribute, liking to be appreciated; yet the peas upon her lips made me think about it; and thought is fatal to action. So I went to see my dear.
All of this Gwenny told me quickly, in between bites, and even while she licked the spoon; then I got a message that my love was being reasonable and was searching everywhere for me. I told Gwenny to keep quiet (no matter what she said around us) and not to trust women’s words; she said that they were all liars, as she had figured out long ago; and the only thing worth believing in was a good man when you found one. Because of that, I almost wanted to kiss her as a kind of appreciation, happy to be valued; but the peas on her lips made me reconsider; and thinking stops you from acting. So I went to see my dear.
That sight I shall not forget; till my dying head falls back, and my breast can lift no more. I know not whether I were then more blessed, or harrowed by it. For in the settle was my Lorna, propped with pillows round her, and her clear hands spread sometimes to the blazing fireplace. In her eyes no knowledge was of anything around her, neither in her neck the sense of leaning towards anything. Only both her lovely hands were entreating something, to spare her, or to love her; and the lines of supplication quivered in her sad white face.
That sight I will never forget; until the day I die and can no longer breathe. I don’t know if I felt more blessed or tormented by it. There in the chair was my Lorna, surrounded by pillows, with her delicate hands occasionally reaching out to the blazing fire. There was no awareness in her eyes of anything around her, nor in her neck any inclination to lean towards something. Only her beautiful hands were pleading for something—to be spared, or to be loved; and the lines of that plea trembled on her sorrowful white face.
“All go away, except my mother,” I said very quietly, but so that I would be obeyed; and everybody knew it. Then mother came to me alone; and she said, “The frost is in her brain; I have heard of this before, John.” “Mother, I will have it out,” was all that I could answer her; “leave her to me altogether; only you sit there and watch.” For I felt that Lorna knew me, and no other soul but me; and that if not interfered with, she would soon come home to me. Therefore I sat gently by her, leaving nature, as it were, to her own good time and will. And presently the glance that watched me, as at distance and in doubt, began to flutter and to brighten, and to deepen into kindness, then to beam with trust and love, and then with gathering tears to falter, and in shame to turn away. But the small entreating hands found their way, as if by instinct, to my great projecting palms; and trembled there, and rested there.
"Everyone go away, except my mom," I said quietly but firmly, making sure everyone would obey me; and everyone understood. Then my mom came to me alone, and she said, "The frost is in her brain; I've heard of this before, John." "Mom, I’ll handle it," was all I could say; "just leave her to me completely; you just sit there and watch." I felt that Lorna recognized only me, and that if no one interfered, she would soon come back to me. So, I sat quietly beside her, trusting nature to take its own time. Soon, the look that had been watching me from a distance, uncertain and hesitant, started to flutter and brighten, deepening into kindness, then shining with trust and love, and eventually, with gathering tears, faltering and shamefully looking away. But her small, pleading hands instinctively found their way to my large, outstretched palms; they trembled there and rested there.
For a little while we lingered thus, neither wishing to move away, neither caring to look beyond the presence of the other; both alike so full of hope, and comfort, and true happiness; if only the world would let us be. And then a little sob disturbed us, and mother tried to make believe that she was only coughing. But Lorna, guessing who she was, jumped up so very rashly that she almost set her frock on fire from the great ash log; and away she ran to the old oak chair, where mother was by the clock-case pretending to be knitting, and she took the work from mother's hands, and laid them both upon her head, kneeling humbly, and looking up.
For a little while, we stayed like that, neither wanting to move away nor caring to look beyond each other; both of us feeling so full of hope, comfort, and true happiness—if only the world would just let us be. Then a little sob broke the moment, and Mom tried to pretend she was just coughing. But Lorna, figuring out who it was, jumped up so quickly that she almost caught her dress on fire from the big ash log; and she ran over to the old oak chair, where Mom was by the clock pretending to knit. Lorna took the work out of Mom's hands, placed both on her head, knelt humbly, and looked up.
“God bless you, my fair mistress!” said mother, bending nearer, and then as Lorna's gaze prevailed, “God bless you, my sweet child!”
“God bless you, my lovely lady!” said mother, leaning in closer, and then as Lorna's gaze won out, “God bless you, my sweet child!”
And so she went to mother's heart by the very nearest road, even as she had come to mine; I mean the road of pity, smoothed by grace, and youth, and gentleness.
And so she went to her mother's heart by the closest path, just as she had come to mine; I mean the path of compassion, made easy by kindness, youth, and tenderness.
CHAPTER XLV
A CHANGE LONG NEEDED
Jeremy Stickles was gone south, ere ever the frost set in, for the purpose of mustering forces to attack the Doone Glen. But, of course, this weather had put a stop to every kind of movement; for even if men could have borne the cold, they could scarcely be brought to face the perils of the snow-drifts. And to tell the truth I cared not how long this weather lasted, so long as we had enough to eat, and could keep ourselves from freezing. Not only that I did not want Master Stickles back again, to make more disturbances; but also that the Doones could not come prowling after Lorna while the snow lay piled between us, with the surface soft and dry. Of course they would very soon discover where their lawful queen was, although the track of sledd and snow-shoes had been quite obliterated by another shower, before the revellers could have grown half as drunk as they intended. But Marwood de Whichehalse, who had been snowed up among them (as Gwenny said), after helping to strip the beacon, that young Squire was almost certain to have recognised me, and to have told the vile Carver. And it gave me no little pleasure to think how mad that Carver must be with me, for robbing him of the lovely bride whom he was starving into matrimony. However, I was not pleased at all with the prospect of the consequences; but set all hands on to thresh the corn, ere the Doones could come and burn the ricks. For I knew that they could not come yet, inasmuch as even a forest pony could not traverse the country, much less the heavy horses needed to carry such men as they were. And hundreds of the forest ponies died in this hard weather, some being buried in the snow, and more of them starved for want of grass.
Jeremy Stickles had gone south before the frost even set in, to gather forces for an attack on Doone Glen. But, of course, this weather had put a stop to everything; even if the men could handle the cold, they could hardly face the dangers of the snowdrifts. Honestly, I didn’t care how long this weather lasted, as long as we had enough to eat and could keep warm. I didn’t want Master Stickles back to create more chaos, and the Doones couldn’t come after Lorna while the snow piled up between us, soft and dry on the surface. They would soon find out where their rightful queen was, although the tracks of sleds and snowshoes had been completely covered by another snowfall before the merrymakers got half as drunk as they planned. But Marwood de Whichehalse, who had been snowed in with them (as Gwenny said), after helping to take down the beacon, was almost certainly going to recognize me and inform the despicable Carver. It pleased me to think about how mad Carver must be at me for stealing the beautiful bride he was trying to starve into marriage. However, I was not at all happy about the potential consequences, so I got everyone busy threshing the corn before the Doones could come and burn the stacks. I knew they couldn’t come yet, since even a forest pony couldn’t navigate the area, let alone the heavy horses needed for men like them. And hundreds of the forest ponies died in this harsh weather, some buried in the snow, and many more starving for lack of grass.
Going through this state of things, and laying down the law about it (subject to correction), I very soon persuaded Lorna that for the present she was safe, and (which made her still more happy) that she was not only welcome, but as gladdening to our eyes as the flowers of May. Of course, so far as regarded myself, this was not a hundredth part of the real truth; and even as regarded others, I might have said it ten times over. For Lorna had so won them all, by her kind and gentle ways, and her mode of hearkening to everybody's trouble, and replying without words, as well as by her beauty, and simple grace of all things, that I could almost wish sometimes the rest would leave her more to me. But mother could not do enough; and Annie almost worshipped her; and even Lizzie could not keep her bitterness towards her; especially when she found that Lorna knew as much of books as need be.
Going through this situation and setting the rules about it (with the possibility of changes), I quickly convinced Lorna that for now she was safe, and (which made her even happier) that she was not only welcome but as delightful to us as the flowers of May. Of course, as far as I was concerned, this was only a small part of the whole truth; and even when it came to others, I could have said it repeatedly. Lorna had captured everyone with her kindness and gentle nature, her ability to listen to everyone's problems, and her silent responses, as well as her beauty and simple grace, that I sometimes wished others would give her more space just for me. But my mom couldn’t do enough for her; Annie almost idolized her; and even Lizzie couldn’t keep her resentment towards her, especially when she realized that Lorna knew as much about books as she needed to.
As for John Fry, and Betty, and Molly, they were a perfect plague when Lorna came into the kitchen. For betwixt their curiosity to see a live Doone in the flesh (when certain not to eat them), and their high respect for birth (with or without honesty), and their intense desire to know all about Master John's sweetheart (dropped, as they said, from the snow-clouds), and most of all their admiration of a beauty such as never even their angels could have seen—betwixt and between all this, I say, there was no getting the dinner cooked, with Lorna in the kitchen.
As for John Fry, Betty, and Molly, they were a total nuisance when Lorna came into the kitchen. Their curiosity to see a real Doone up close (knowing they weren’t going to eat her), their high regard for status (whether earned or not), their eagerness to learn everything about Master John’s girlfriend (who they claimed seemed to have fallen from the clouds), and especially their admiration for a beauty that even their angels could never have witnessed—between all that, I say, there was no way to get dinner cooked with Lorna in the kitchen.
And the worst of it was that Lorna took the strangest of all strange fancies for this very kitchen; and it was hard to keep her out of it. Not that she had any special bent for cooking, as our Annie had; rather indeed the contrary, for she liked to have her food ready cooked; but that she loved the look of the place, and the cheerful fire burning, and the racks of bacon to be seen, and the richness, and the homeliness, and the pleasant smell of everything. And who knows but what she may have liked (as the very best of maidens do) to be admired, now and then, between the times of business?
And the worst part was that Lorna had the strangest obsession with this very kitchen; it was tough to keep her out of it. It’s not that she was particularly interested in cooking like our Annie was; in fact, it was quite the opposite, as she preferred her meals ready to eat. But she loved the way the kitchen looked, with the cheerful fire burning, the racks of bacon hanging up, the richness, the coziness, and the pleasant smells of everything. Who knows, maybe she enjoyed being admired now and then, just like the best of young women do, in between her chores?
Therefore if you wanted Lorna (as I was always sure to do, God knows how many times a day), the very surest place to find her was our own old kitchen. Not gossiping, I mean, nor loitering, neither seeking into things, but seeming to be quite at home, as if she had known it from a child, and seeming (to my eyes at least) to light it up, and make life and colour out of all the dullness; as I have seen the breaking sun do among brown shocks of wheat.
So if you wanted to find Lorna (which I was always sure to do, God knows how many times a day), the best place to look for her was our old kitchen. Not chatting, not hanging around, and not snooping, but acting completely at home, as if she had grown up there, and making everything feel alive and vibrant out of all the dullness—like I’ve seen the sun break through and brighten up brown fields of wheat.
But any one who wished to learn whether girls can change or not, as the things around them change (while yet their hearts are steadfast, and for ever anchored), he should just have seen my Lorna, after a fortnight of our life, and freedom from anxiety. It is possible that my company—although I am accounted stupid by folk who do not know my way—may have had something to do with it; but upon this I will not say much, lest I lose my character. And indeed, as regards company, I had all the threshing to see to, and more than half to do myself (though any one would have thought that even John Fry must work hard this weather), else I could not hope at all to get our corn into such compass that a good gun might protect it.
But anyone who wanted to know if girls can change like everything around them (while their hearts stay steady and forever anchored) should have just seen my Lorna after a couple of weeks of our life together, free from worry. It's possible that my presence—though people who don't get me think I’m a bit dull—might have influenced her; but I won’t say much about that, or I might ruin my reputation. And honestly, when it came to company, I had all the threshing to manage and more than half of it to handle myself (though you’d think even John Fry would need to work hard in this weather), or else I couldn’t hope to get our corn organized enough to be safeguarded by a good gun.
But to come back to Lorna again (which I always longed to do, and must long for ever), all the change between night and day, all the shifts of cloud and sun, all the difference between black death and brightsome liveliness, scarcely may suggest or equal Lorna's transformation. Quick she had always been and “peart” (as we say on Exmoor) and gifted with a leap of thought too swift for me to follow; and hence you may find fault with much, when I report her sayings. But through the whole had always run, as a black string goes through pearls, something dark and touched with shadow, coloured as with an early end.
But to circle back to Lorna again (which I've always wanted to do and will always long for), all the changes between night and day, all the shifts of clouds and sun, and all the differences between black death and cheerful liveliness hardly compare to Lorna's transformation. She had always been quick and lively (as we say on Exmoor) and had a leap of thought that was too fast for me to keep up with; so you might find fault with much when I share her words. But throughout all of it, there was always something dark and shadowy running underneath, like a black thread going through pearls, hinting at an early end.
But, now, behold! there was none of this! There was no getting her, for a moment, even to be serious. All her bright young wit was flashing, like a newly-awakened flame, and all her high young spirits leaped, as if dancing to its fire. And yet she never spoke a word which gave more pain than pleasure.
But now, look! none of that was happening! It was impossible to get her to be serious, even for a moment. Her bright, youthful wit was sparkling like a newly-lit flame, and her high spirits soared as if dancing around its glow. And yet, she never said anything that caused more pain than joy.
And even in her outward look there was much of difference. Whether it was our warmth, and freedom, and our harmless love of God, and trust in one another; or whether it were our air, and water, and the pea-fed bacon; anyhow my Lorna grew richer and more lovely, more perfect and more firm of figure, and more light and buoyant, with every passing day that laid its tribute on her cheeks and lips. I was allowed one kiss a day; only one for manners' sake, because she was our visitor; and I might have it before breakfast, or else when I came to say “good-night!” according as I decided. And I decided every night, not to take it in the morning, but put it off till the evening time, and have the pleasure to think about, through all the day of working. But when my darling came up to me in the early daylight, fresher than the daystar, and with no one looking; only her bright eyes smiling, and sweet lips quite ready, was it likely I could wait, and think all day about it? For she wore a frock of Annie's, nicely made to fit her, taken in at the waist and curved—I never could explain it, not being a mantua-maker; but I know how her figure looked in it, and how it came towards me.
And even in her appearance, there was a lot of difference. Whether it was our warmth, freedom, our innocent love for God, or our trust in each other; or maybe it was our air, water, and the pea-fed bacon; anyway, my Lorna became richer and more beautiful, more perfect and more well-defined, and lighter and more buoyant, with each passing day that added to the color in her cheeks and lips. I was allowed one kiss a day; just one for propriety's sake, because she was our guest; and I could have it before breakfast or when I came to say “good-night!” depending on what I chose. And I decided every night to skip it in the morning and postpone it until evening, allowing myself the pleasure of thinking about it all day while I worked. But when my darling approached me in the early morning light, fresher than the daystar, and with no one watching; just her bright eyes smiling and sweet lips ready, could I really wait and think about it all day? She wore a dress of Annie's, nicely fitted to her, tailored at the waist and shaped—I could never explain it, not being a dressmaker; but I knew how her figure looked in it and how she came towards me.
But this is neither here nor there; and I must on with my story. Those days are very sacred to me, and if I speak lightly of them, trust me, 'tis with lip alone; while from heart reproach peeps sadly at the flippant tricks of mind.
But this is not relevant right now; I need to continue with my story. Those days are very precious to me, and if I seem to speak about them casually, believe me, it’s just surface-level; beneath that, my heart feels a deep sadness at the lightheartedness of my thoughts.
Although it was the longest winter ever known in our parts (never having ceased to freeze for a single night, and scarcely for a single day, from the middle of December till the second week in March), to me it was the very shortest and the most delicious; and verily I do believe it was the same to Lorna. But when the Ides of March were come (of which I do remember something dim from school, and something clear from my favourite writer) lo, there were increasing signals of a change of weather.
Although it was the longest winter ever experienced in our area (never stopping to freeze even one night, and barely thawing during the day, from mid-December to the second week of March), to me it felt like the shortest and most delightful; and I truly believe it felt the same for Lorna. But when the Ides of March arrived (of which I remember some vague details from school, and some clear ones from my favorite author), suddenly, there were more signs of a change in the weather.
One leading feature of that long cold, and a thing remarked by every one (however unobservant) had been the hollow moaning sound ever present in the air, morning, noon, and night-time, and especially at night, whether any wind were stirring, or whether it were a perfect calm. Our people said that it was a witch cursing all the country from the caverns by the sea, and that frost and snow would last until we could catch and drown her. But the land, being thoroughly blocked with snow, and the inshore parts of the sea with ice (floating in great fields along), Mother Melldrum (if she it were) had the caverns all to herself, for there was no getting at her. And speaking of the sea reminds me of a thing reported to us, and on good authority; though people might be found hereafter who would not believe it, unless I told them that from what I myself beheld of the channel I place perfect faith in it: and this is, that a dozen sailors at the beginning of March crossed the ice, with the aid of poles from Clevedon to Penarth, or where the Holm rocks barred the flotage.
One notable aspect of that long, cold time, noticed by everyone (no matter how inattentive), was the eerie moaning sound that lingered in the air morning, noon, and night—especially at night—regardless of whether the wind was blowing or if it was completely still. Our folks believed it was a witch cursing the entire area from the caves by the sea, and that frost and snow would persist until we managed to catch and drown her. But with the land completely covered in snow and the shallow parts of the sea frozen over with large floating ice fields, Mother Melldrum (if it was truly her) had the caves all to herself, as there was no way to reach her. And speaking of the sea reminds me of something we heard, which came from a reliable source; although some people might doubt it in the future unless I shared that I witnessed it myself, I have complete faith in it: that a dozen sailors crossed the ice at the beginning of March, using poles to travel from Clevedon to Penarth, or where the Holm rocks obstructed the passage.
But now, about the tenth of March, that miserable moaning noise, which had both foregone and accompanied the rigour, died away from out the air; and we, being now so used to it, thought at first that we must be deaf. And then the fog, which had hung about (even in full sunshine) vanished, and the shrouded hills shone forth with brightness manifold. And now the sky at length began to come to its true manner, which we had not seen for months, a mixture (if I so may speak) of various expressions. Whereas till now from Allhallows-tide, six weeks ere the great frost set in, the heavens had worn one heavy mask of ashen gray when clouded, or else one amethystine tinge with a hazy rim, when cloudless. So it was pleasant to behold, after that monotony, the fickle sky which suits our England, though abused by foreign folk.
But now, around March 10th, that dreadful moaning sound, which had both preceded and accompanied the harshness, faded away from the air; and we, having become so accustomed to it, initially thought we must be deaf. Then the fog, which had lingered (even in full sunshine), disappeared, and the hidden hills shone with bright colors. Finally, the sky began to show its true nature, which we hadn’t seen for months—a mixture, if I may say so, of various expressions. Until then, since Allhallows’ tide, six weeks before the severe frost set in, the heavens had worn a heavy mask of dull gray when overcast or an amethyst hue with a hazy edge when clear. So it was refreshing to see, after that monotony, the changeable sky that suits our England, even though it’s often criticized by outsiders.
And soon the dappled softening sky gave some earnest of its mood; for a brisk south wind arose, and the blessed rain came driving, cold indeed, yet most refreshing to the skin, all parched with snow, and the eyeballs so long dazzled. Neither was the heart more sluggish in its thankfulness to God. People had begun to think, and somebody had prophesied, that we should have no spring this year, no seed-time, and no harvest; for that the Lord had sent a judgment on this country of England, and the nation dwelling in it, because of the wickedness of the Court, and the encouragement shown to Papists. And this was proved, they said, by what had happened in the town of London; where, for more than a fortnight, such a chill of darkness lay that no man might behold his neighbour, even across the narrowest street; and where the ice upon the Thames was more than four feet thick, and crushing London Bridge in twain. Now to these prophets I paid no heed, believing not that Providence would freeze us for other people's sins; neither seeing how England could for many generations have enjoyed good sunshine, if Popery meant frost and fogs. Besides, why could not Providence settle the business once for all by freezing the Pope himself; even though (according to our view) he were destined to extremes of heat, together with all who followed him?
And soon the mottled sky started to show its mood; a strong south wind picked up, and the much-needed rain came pouring down, cold but incredibly refreshing against our dry skin and tired eyes. Our hearts also felt more grateful to God. People had begun to believe, and someone predicted, that we wouldn’t have spring this year, no planting, and no harvest; claiming that the Lord had sent a judgment upon this country of England and its people because of the wickedness of the Court and the support given to Catholics. They pointed to what had happened in London, where a chill of darkness lingered for over two weeks, so thick that you couldn’t see your neighbor even across the narrowest street; and the ice on the Thames was over four feet thick, splitting London Bridge in two. I didn’t pay attention to these prophets, believing that Providence wouldn’t punish us for other people’s sins; nor did I see how England could have enjoyed good weather for so many generations if Catholicism meant cold and fog. Besides, why couldn’t Providence just solve the problem once and for all by freezing the Pope himself, even if (from our perspective) he was destined for extremes of heat, along with all his followers?
Not to meddle with that subject, being beyond my judgment, let me tell the things I saw, and then you must believe me. The wind, of course, I could not see, not having the powers of a pig; but I could see the laden branches of the great oaks moving, hoping to shake off the load packed and saddled on them. And hereby I may note a thing which some one may explain perhaps in the after ages, when people come to look at things. This is that in desperate cold all the trees were pulled awry, even though the wind had scattered the snow burden from them. Of some sorts the branches bended downwards, like an archway; of other sorts the boughs curved upwards, like a red deer's frontlet. This I know no reason* for; but am ready to swear that I saw it.
Not to get involved in that topic since it’s beyond my understanding, let me share what I witnessed, and then you can decide to believe me. The wind, of course, I couldn't see, as I don't have the abilities of a pig; but I could see the heavy branches of the large oaks moving, trying to shake off the weight that was piled on them. And I want to point out something that maybe someone will explain in the future, when people look at things differently. This is that in the bitter cold, all the trees were bent out of shape, even though the wind had blown the snow off them. Some types of branches drooped downwards, like an archway; while others curved upwards, like the antlers of a red deer. I don't have an explanation for this, but I swear I saw it.
* The reason is very simple, as all nature's reasons are;
though the subject has not yet been investigated thoroughly.
In some trees the vascular tissue is more open on the upper
side, in others on the under side, of the spreading
branches; according to the form of growth, and habit of the
sap. Hence in very severe cold, when the vessels
(comparatively empty) are constricted, some have more power
of contraction on the upper side, and some upon the under.
Ed. L.D.
* The reason is quite simple, just like all natural reasons; although the subject hasn't been explored in depth yet. In some trees, the vascular tissue is more open on the top side, while in others, it's more open on the bottom side of the branches. This varies depending on the growth shape and how the sap behaves. Therefore, in extremely cold conditions, when the vessels are relatively empty and constricted, some trees have more contraction power on the top side, and others have it on the bottom. Ed. L.D.
Now when the first of the rain began, and the old familiar softness spread upon the window glass, and ran a little way in channels (though from the coldness of the glass it froze before reaching the bottom), knowing at once the difference from the short sharp thud of snow, we all ran out, and filled our eyes and filled our hearts with gazing. True, the snow was piled up now all in mountains round us; true, the air was still so cold that our breath froze on the doorway, and the rain was turned to ice wherever it struck anything; nevertheless that it was rain there was no denying, as we watched it across black doorways, and could see no sign of white. Mother, who had made up her mind that the farm was not worth having after all those prophesies, and that all of us must starve, and holes be scratched in the snow for us, and no use to put up a tombstone (for our church had been shut up long ago) mother fell upon my breast, and sobbed that I was the cleverest fellow ever born of woman. And this because I had condemned the prophets for a pack of fools; not seeing how business could go on, if people stopped to hearken to them.
As the first rain started, and the familiar softness spread across the window glass, running in little channels (though it froze before reaching the bottom due to the cold glass), we immediately sensed the difference from the sharp thud of snow. We all rushed outside, filling our eyes and hearts with wonder. True, the snow was piled up in mountains around us; true, the air was still so cold that our breath froze at the doorway, and the rain turned to ice wherever it hit anything. Nonetheless, there was no denying it was rain as we watched it across dark doorways and saw no sign of white. Mother, who had decided that the farm wasn't worth keeping after all the gloomy predictions and that we were all going to starve, with holes scratched in the snow for us and no point in putting up a tombstone (since our church had been closed long ago), fell onto my chest and sobbed that I was the cleverest person ever born of a woman. This was because I had called the prophets a bunch of fools, not realizing how business could continue if people paused to listen to them.
Then Lorna came and glorified me, for I had predicted a change of weather, more to keep their spirits up, than with real hope of it; and then came Annie blushing shyly, as I looked at her, and said that Winnie would soon have four legs now. This referred to some stupid joke made by John Fry or somebody, that in this weather a man had no legs, and a horse had only two.
Then Lorna came and praised me because I had predicted a change in the weather, more to lift their spirits than with any real hope of it. Then Annie came in, blushing shyly when I looked at her, and said that Winnie would soon have four legs now. This was about some silly joke made by John Fry or someone, saying that in this weather a man had no legs and a horse only had two.
But as the rain came down upon us from the southwest wind, and we could not have enough of it, even putting our tongues to catch it, as little children might do, and beginning to talk of primroses; the very noblest thing of all was to hear and see the gratitude of the poor beasts yet remaining and the few surviving birds. From the cowhouse lowing came, more than of fifty milking times; moo and moo, and a turn-up noise at the end of every bellow, as if from the very heart of kine. Then the horses in the stables, packed as closely as they could stick, at the risk of kicking, to keep the warmth in one another, and their spirits up by discoursing; these began with one accord to lift up their voices, snorting, snaffling, whinnying, and neighing, and trotting to the door to know when they should have work again. To whom, as if in answer, came the feeble bleating of the sheep, what few, by dint of greatest care, had kept their fleeces on their backs, and their four legs under them.
But as the rain poured down on us from the southwest wind, and we couldn’t get enough of it, even sticking out our tongues to catch it like little kids might do, and starting to talk about primroses; the most wonderful thing of all was hearing and seeing the gratitude of the poor animals that were still here and the few surviving birds. From the cowhouse came the lowing, louder than during fifty milking times; mooing with a deep sound at the end of every bellow, as if it came from the very heart of the cows. Then the horses in the stables, packed together as closely as they could without kicking each other, to keep warm and lift their spirits by chatting; they all started to lift their voices together, snorting, sniffing, whinnying, and neighing, and trotting to the door to see when they would get to work again. In response came the weak bleating of the sheep, the few that, with the utmost care, had managed to keep their fleeces on their backs and their four legs underneath them.
Neither was it a trifling thing, let whoso will say the contrary, to behold the ducks and geese marching forth in handsome order from their beds of fern and straw. What a goodly noise they kept, what a flapping of their wings, and a jerking of their tails, as they stood right up and tried with a whistling in their throats to imitate a cockscrow! And then how daintily they took the wet upon their dusty plumes, and ducked their shoulders to it, and began to dress themselves, and laid their grooved bills on the snow, and dabbled for more ooziness!
It wasn't a small thing, no matter what anyone might say, to see the ducks and geese marching out in an impressive line from their beds of fern and straw. They made quite a racket, flapping their wings and jerking their tails as they stood tall, trying to mimic a rooster’s crow with their whistling! And then, how elegantly they handled the moisture on their dusty feathers, ducking their shoulders and starting to groom themselves, lowering their ridged bills to the snow, and dabbling for more wetness!
Lorna had never seen, I dare say, anything like this before, and it was all that we could do to keep her from rushing forth with only little lambswool shoes on, and kissing every one of them. “Oh, the dear things, oh, the dear things!” she kept saying continually, “how wonderfully clever they are! Only look at that one with his foot up, giving orders to the others, John!”
Lorna had never seen anything like this before, and it was all we could do to stop her from running up in just her little lambswool shoes and kissing everyone. “Oh, the dear things, oh, the dear things!” she kept saying over and over, “how wonderfully clever they are! Just look at that one with his foot up, giving orders to the others, John!”
“And I must give orders to you, my darling,” I answered, gazing on her face, so brilliant with excitement; “and that is, that you come in at once, with that worrisome cough of yours; and sit by the fire, and warm yourself.”
“And I need to give you some orders, my dear,” I replied, staring at her face, which was shining with excitement; “and that is, that you come inside right now, with that pesky cough of yours; and sit by the fire to warm up.”
“Oh, no, John! Not for a minute, if you please, good John. I want to see the snow go away, and the green meadows coming forth. And here comes our favourite robin, who has lived in the oven so long, and sang us a song every morning. I must see what he thinks of it!”
“Oh, no, John! Not for a second, please, good John. I want to see the snow melt away and the green meadows come to life. And here comes our favorite robin, who has stayed in the oven for so long and sung us a song every morning. I have to see what he thinks of it!”
“You will do nothing of the sort,” I answered very shortly, being only too glad of a cause for having her in my arms again. So I caught her up, and carried her in; and she looked and smiled so sweetly at me instead of pouting (as I had feared) that I found myself unable to go very fast along the passage. And I set her there in her favourite place, by the sweet-scented wood-fire; and she paid me porterage without my even asking her; and for all the beauty of the rain, I was fain to stay with her; until our Annie came to say that my advice was wanted.
“You're not doing that,” I replied shortly, happy to have a reason to hold her in my arms again. So I picked her up and carried her inside; she looked and smiled at me so sweetly instead of pouting (like I had worried) that I found it hard to move quickly down the hallway. I set her down in her favorite spot by the fragrant wood-fire, and she thanked me for carrying her without me even asking. Despite the beauty of the rain, I was eager to stay with her until our Annie came to say that my help was needed.
Now my advice was never much, as everybody knew quite well; but that was the way they always put it, when they wanted me to work for them. And in truth it was time for me to work; not for others, but myself, and (as I always thought) for Lorna. For the rain was now coming down in earnest; and the top of the snow being frozen at last, and glazed as hard as a china cup, by means of the sun and frost afterwards, all the rain ran right away from the steep inclines, and all the outlets being blocked with ice set up like tables, it threatened to flood everything. Already it was ponding up, like a tide advancing at the threshold of the door from which we had watched the duck-birds; both because great piles of snow trended in that direction, in spite of all our scraping, and also that the gulley hole, where the water of the shoot went out (I mean when it was water) now was choked with lumps of ice, as big as a man's body. For the “shoot,” as we called our little runnel of everlasting water, never known to freeze before, and always ready for any man either to wash his hands, or drink, where it spouted from a trough of bark, set among white flint-stones; this at last had given in, and its music ceased to lull us, as we lay in bed.
Now, my advice was never highly valued, as everyone knew; but that’s how they always framed it when they wanted me to do things for them. And honestly, it was time for me to work—not for others, but for myself, and (or so I always believed) for Lorna. The rain was really coming down now; the top layer of snow had finally frozen solid, like a china cup, due to the sun and then the frost. All the rain flowed off the steep slopes, and since all the outlets were blocked by ice formations like tables, it was about to flood everything. It was already pooling up, like a tide pushing against the door from which we had watched the ducks; partly because big piles of snow were leaning that way despite all our shoveling, and also because the gully hole, where the water usually flowed out (when it was water), was now clogged with ice chunks as large as a person. The “shoot,” as we called our little stream of continuous water, which had never frozen before and was always available for anyone to wash their hands or drink from, where it spilled from a bark trough set among white flint stones, had finally given up, and its soothing sound no longer lulled us as we lay in bed.
It was not long before I managed to drain off this threatening flood, by opening the old sluice-hole; but I had much harder work to keep the stables, and the cow-house, and the other sheds, from flooding. For we have a sapient practice (and I never saw the contrary round about our parts, I mean), of keeping all rooms underground, so that you step down to them. We say that thus we keep them warmer, both for cattle and for men, in the time of winter, and cooler in the summer-time. This I will not contradict, though having my own opinion; but it seems to me to be a relic of the time when people in the western countries lived in caves beneath the ground, and blocked the mouths with neat-skins.
It wasn't long before I managed to drain this impending flood by opening the old sluice-hole; however, keeping the stables, cowhouse, and other sheds from flooding was much harder work. We have a wise practice (and I’ve never seen otherwise around here, I mean) of keeping all rooms underground, so you have to step down into them. We say this keeps them warmer in winter, for both cattle and people, and cooler in the summer. I won't argue with that, even though I have my own opinion; it just seems to me like a leftover from when people in the western regions lived in caves underground and blocked the entrances with animal hides.
Let that question still abide, for men who study ancient times to inform me, if they will; all I know is, that now we had no blessings for the system. If after all their cold and starving, our weak cattle now should have to stand up to their knees in water, it would be certain death to them; and we had lost enough already to make us poor for a long time; not to speak of our kind love for them. And I do assure you, I loved some horses, and even some cows for that matter, as if they had been my blood-relations; knowing as I did their virtues. And some of these were lost to us; and I could not bear to think of them. Therefore I worked hard all night to try and save the rest of them.
Let that question remain unanswered for those who study ancient times to inform me, if they choose; all I know is that we didn't have any blessings for the situation. If after all their cold and hunger, our weak cattle had to stand in water up to their knees, it would mean certain death for them; and we had already lost enough to leave us poor for a long time, not to mention our deep affection for them. I can assure you, I loved some of the horses and even a few cows as if they were my own relatives, knowing their worth. And some of them were lost to us, and I couldn't bear to think about it. So, I worked hard all night trying to save the rest of them.
CHAPTER XLVI
SQUIRE FAGGUS MAKES SOME LUCKY HITS
Through that season of bitter frost the red deer of the forest, having nothing to feed upon, and no shelter to rest in, had grown accustomed to our ricks of corn, and hay, and clover. There we might see a hundred of them almost any morning, come for warmth, and food, and comfort, and scarce willing to move away. And many of them were so tame, that they quietly presented themselves at our back door, and stood there with their coats quite stiff, and their flanks drawn in and panting, and icicles sometimes on their chins, and their great eyes fastened wistfully upon any merciful person; craving for a bit of food, and a drink of water; I suppose that they had not sense enough to chew the snow and melt it; at any rate, all the springs being frozen, and rivers hidden out of sight, these poor things suffered even more from thirst than they did from hunger.
During that harsh winter, the red deer in the forest, lacking food and shelter, became used to our stacks of corn, hay, and clover. We could often see a hundred of them on any given morning, seeking warmth, food, and comfort, hardly wanting to leave. Many were so tame that they would calmly show up at our back door, standing there with their coats stiff, sides drawn in and panting, sometimes with icicles hanging from their chins, their large eyes fixated hopefully on anyone kind enough to help; they were looking for a bit of food and a drink of water. I guess they didn’t realize they could chew the snow to melt it; at any rate, with all the springs frozen and rivers out of sight, these poor creatures suffered even more from thirst than from hunger.
But now there was no fear of thirst, and more chance indeed of drowning; for a heavy gale of wind arose, with violent rain from the south-west, which lasted almost without a pause for three nights and two days. At first the rain made no impression on the bulk of snow, but ran from every sloping surface and froze on every flat one, through the coldness of the earth; and so it became impossible for any man to keep his legs without the help of a shodden staff. After a good while, however, the air growing very much warmer, this state of things began to change, and a worse one to succeed it; for now the snow came thundering down from roof, and rock, and ivied tree, and floods began to roar and foam in every trough and gulley. The drifts that had been so white and fair, looked yellow, and smirched, and muddy, and lost their graceful curves, and moulded lines, and airiness. But the strangest sight of all to me was in the bed of streams, and brooks, and especially of the Lynn river. It was worth going miles to behold such a thing, for a man might never have the chance again.
But now there was no worry about thirst, and more chance of drowning; for a strong wind picked up, with heavy rain coming from the south-west, which lasted almost non-stop for three nights and two days. At first, the rain didn’t affect the large amount of snow, but ran off every sloping surface and froze on every flat one due to the cold ground; and soon it became impossible for anyone to stay upright without the help of a sturdy stick. After a while, however, as the air got much warmer, things started to change for the worse; now the snow came crashing down from roofs, rocks, and ivy-covered trees, and floods began to roar and foam in every trough and gully. The drifts that had been so white and beautiful now looked yellow, dirty, and muddy, losing their graceful curves and delicate lines. But the strangest sight of all for me was in the beds of streams, brooks, and especially the Lynn river. It was worth traveling miles to see something like that, as a person might never have the chance again.
Vast drifts of snow had filled the valley, and piled above the river-course, fifty feet high in many places, and in some as much as a hundred. These had frozen over the top, and glanced the rain away from them, and being sustained by rock and tree, spanned the water mightily. But meanwhile the waxing flood, swollen from every moorland hollow and from every spouting crag, had dashed away all icy fetters, and was rolling gloriously. Under white fantastic arches, and long tunnels freaked and fretted, and between pellucid pillars jagged with nodding architraves, the red impetuous torrent rushed, and the brown foam whirled and flashed. I was half inclined to jump in and swim through such glorious scenery; for nothing used to please me more than swimming in a flooded river. But I thought of the rocks, and I thought of the cramp, and more than all, of Lorna; and so, between one thing and another, I let it roll on without me.
Vast drifts of snow filled the valley and piled up above the riverbed, fifty feet high in many places, and in some spots as much as a hundred. These had frozen over, deflecting the rain and, supported by rock and trees, spanned the water mightily. But meanwhile, the rising flood, swollen from every moorland hollow and every spouting cliff, had broken free from all icy restraints and was flowing gloriously. Under white, whimsical arches and long tunnels that twisted and turned, the red, rushing torrent raced, with brown foam swirling and flashing. I was tempted to jump in and swim through such beautiful scenery because nothing used to please me more than swimming in a flooded river. But I thought about the rocks, the risk of cramping, and, more than anything, Lorna; so, with all those thoughts, I let it continue on without me.
It was now high time to work very hard; both to make up for the farm-work lost during the months of frost and snow, and also to be ready for a great and vicious attack from the Doones, who would burn us in our beds at the earliest opportunity. Of farm-work there was little yet for even the most zealous man to begin to lay his hand to; because when the ground appeared through the crust of bubbled snow (as at last it did, though not as my Lorna had expected, at the first few drops of rain) it was all so soaked and sodden, and as we call it, “mucksy,” that to meddle with it in any way was to do more harm than good. Nevertheless, there was yard work, and house work, and tendence of stock, enough to save any man from idleness.
It was time to work really hard; both to make up for the farm work lost during the months of frost and snow, and also to prepare for a big and brutal attack from the Doones, who would burn us in our beds at the first chance they got. There wasn’t much farm work for even the most eager person to start on; because when the ground finally showed through the crust of melted snow (which it did, though not as my Lorna had hoped, with the first few drops of rain) it was all so soaked and muddy, that to touch it in any way would do more harm than good. Still, there was plenty of yard work, house work, and taking care of the animals to keep anyone from being idle.
As for Lorna, she would come out. There was no keeping her in the house. She had taken up some peculiar notion that we were doing more for her than she had any right to, and that she must earn her living by the hard work of her hands. It was quite in vain to tell her that she was expected to do nothing, and far worse than vain (for it made her cry sadly) if any one assured her that she could do no good at all. She even began upon mother's garden before the snow was clean gone from it, and sowed a beautiful row of peas, every one of which the mice ate.
As for Lorna, she would come out. There was no keeping her inside. She had gotten this strange idea that we were doing more for her than she deserved, and that she needed to earn her living through hard work. It was completely useless to tell her that she didn't have to do anything, and even worse (since it made her cry) if anyone insisted that she couldn't be of any help at all. She even started working on mom's garden before the snow had fully melted, planting a lovely row of peas, all of which the mice ended up eating.
But though it was very pretty to watch her working for her very life, as if the maintenance of the household hung upon her labours, yet I was grieved for many reasons, and so was mother also. In the first place, she was too fair and dainty for this rough, rude work; and though it made her cheeks so bright, it surely must be bad for her to get her little feet so wet. Moreover, we could not bear the idea that she should labour for her keep; and again (which was the worst of all things) mother's garden lay exposed to a dark deceitful coppice, where a man might lurk and watch all the fair gardener's doings. It was true that none could get at her thence, while the brook which ran between poured so great a torrent. Still the distance was but little for a gun to carry, if any one could be brutal enough to point a gun at Lorna. I thought that none could be found to do it; but mother, having more experience, was not so certain of mankind.
But even though it was really beautiful to see her working so hard for her own survival, as if the entire household depended on her efforts, I felt sad for many reasons, and so did my mother. First of all, she was too beautiful and delicate for this rough, tough work; and while it made her cheeks glow, it couldn’t be good for her to get her tiny feet so wet. Moreover, we couldn’t stand the thought of her having to work for her living; and even worse, my mother’s garden was vulnerable to a dark, sneaky thicket where a man could hide and watch everything the lovely gardener was doing. It was true that no one could get to her from there, since the stream that flowed in between was a powerful torrent. Still, the distance wasn’t too far for a gun to reach if someone was cruel enough to aim a gun at Lorna. I thought no one could be found to do that, but my mother, having more experience, wasn’t so sure about people.
Now in spite of the floods, and the sloughs being out, and the state of the roads most perilous, Squire Faggus came at last, riding his famous strawberry mare. There was a great ado between him and Annie, as you may well suppose, after some four months of parting. And so we left them alone awhile, to coddle over their raptures. But when they were tired of that, or at least had time enough to do so, mother and I went in to know what news Tom had brought with him. Though he did not seem to want us yet, he made himself agreeable; and so we sent Annie to cook the dinner while her sweetheart should tell us everything.
Now, despite the floods, the swampy areas being flooded, and the roads being extremely dangerous, Squire Faggus finally arrived, riding his famous strawberry mare. There was quite a fuss between him and Annie, as you can imagine, after four months apart. So, we left them alone for a bit to enjoy their excitement. But when they were done with that, or at least ready to take a break, my mother and I went in to find out what news Tom had brought with him. Although he didn't seem to want us there just yet, he was friendly enough; so we sent Annie to cook dinner while her sweetheart filled us in on everything.
Tom Faggus had very good news to tell, and he told it with such force of expression as made us laugh very heartily. He had taken up his purchase from old Sir Roger Bassett of a nice bit of land, to the south of the moors, and in the parish of Molland. When the lawyers knew thoroughly who he was, and how he had made his money, they behaved uncommonly well to him, and showed great sympathy with his pursuits. He put them up to a thing or two; and they poked him in the ribs, and laughed, and said that he was quite a boy; but of the right sort, none the less. And so they made old Squire Bassett pay the bill for both sides; and all he got for three hundred acres was a hundred and twenty pounds; though Tom had paid five hundred. But lawyers know that this must be so, in spite of all their endeavours; and the old gentleman, who now expected to find a bill for him to pay, almost thought himself a rogue, for getting anything out of them.
Tom Faggus had some really great news to share, and he delivered it with such enthusiasm that we all couldn’t help but laugh. He had finalized his purchase from old Sir Roger Bassett for a nice piece of land south of the moors, in the parish of Molland. Once the lawyers figured out who he was and how he made his money, they treated him really well and showed genuine support for his endeavors. He had a few ideas for them, and they joked around with him, playfully saying he was quite the kid, but the good kind. They even made old Squire Bassett cover the costs for both sides; in the end, he only received a hundred and twenty pounds for three hundred acres, even though Tom had paid five hundred. But lawyers know this is how it goes, no matter how hard they try; and the old gentleman, who was expecting to find a bill waiting for him, nearly felt like a cheat for getting anything from them.
It is true that the land was poor and wild, and the soil exceeding shallow; lying on the slope of rock, and burned up in hot summers. But with us, hot summers are things known by tradition only (as this great winter may be); we generally have more moisture, especially in July, than we well know what to do with. I have known a fog for a fortnight at the summer solstice, and farmers talking in church about it when they ought to be praying. But it always contrives to come right in the end, as other visitations do, if we take them as true visits, and receive them kindly.
It’s true that the land was poor and wild, and the soil was really shallow; it sat on a slope of rock and got scorched in the hot summers. But for us, hot summers are just something we hear about in stories (like this harsh winter might be); we usually have more moisture, especially in July, than we know what to do with. I’ve seen fog last for two weeks around the summer solstice, and farmers chatting in church about it when they should be praying. But it always seems to work out in the end, just like other challenges do, if we accept them as real visits and respond to them warmly.
Now this farm of Squire Faggus (as he truly now had a right to be called) was of the very finest pasture, when it got good store of rain. And Tom, who had ridden the Devonshire roads with many a reeking jacket, knew right well that he might trust the climate for that matter. The herbage was of the very sweetest, and the shortest, and the closest, having perhaps from ten to eighteen inches of wholesome soil between it and the solid rock. Tom saw at once what it was fit for—the breeding of fine cattle.
Now, this farm of Squire Faggus (which he truly had the right to be called) was some of the best pasture land, especially when it received plenty of rain. And Tom, who had traveled the Devonshire roads with many a sweaty jacket, knew very well that he could rely on the climate for that. The grass was the sweetest, shortest, and thickest, with maybe ten to eighteen inches of good soil between it and the solid rock. Tom immediately recognized its potential for breeding fine cattle.
Being such a hand as he was at making the most of everything, both his own and other people's (although so free in scattering, when the humour lay upon him) he had actually turned to his own advantage that extraordinary weather which had so impoverished every one around him. For he taught his Winnie (who knew his meaning as well as any child could, and obeyed not only his word of mouth, but every glance he gave her) to go forth in the snowy evenings when horses are seeking everywhere (be they wild or tame) for fodder and for shelter; and to whinny to the forest ponies, miles away from home perhaps, and lead them all with rare appetites and promise of abundance, to her master's homestead. He shod good Winnie in such a manner that she could not sink in the snow; and he clad her over the loins with a sheep-skin dyed to her own colour, which the wild horses were never tired of coming up and sniffing at; taking it for an especial gift, and proof of inspiration. And Winnie never came home at night without at least a score of ponies trotting shyly after her, tossing their heads and their tails in turn, and making believe to be very wild, although hard pinched by famine. Of course Tom would get them all into his pound in about five minutes, for he himself could neigh in a manner which went to the heart of the wildest horse. And then he fed them well, and turned them into his great cattle pen, to abide their time for breaking, when the snow and frost should be over.
Being the kind of person who made the most out of everything, both his own and what belonged to others (even though he was quite generous when he felt like it), he had managed to take advantage of that unusual weather which left everyone else struggling. He trained his horse, Winnie (who understood him as well as any child could and followed not just his words but every look he gave her), to venture out on snowy evenings when horses, wild or tame, were everywhere searching for food and shelter. He taught her to whinny to the wild ponies, possibly miles from home, and lure them back to his place with promises of plenty. He equipped Winnie so she wouldn’t sink in the snow and dressed her with a sheepskin dyed to match her own color, which the wild horses were always curious about, thinking it was a special gift and a sign of magic. Winnie always returned home at night with at least a bunch of ponies following her, shyly shaking their heads and tails and pretending to be wild, even though they were starving. Naturally, Tom would round them up in about five minutes since he could neigh in a way that touched even the wildest horse. Then he would feed them well and put them in his large cattle pen to wait until it was time to break them in once the snow and frost had passed.
He had gotten more than three hundred now, in this sagacious manner; and he said it was the finest sight to see their mode of carrying on, how they would snort, and stamp, and fume, and prick their ears, and rush backwards, and lash themselves with their long rough tails, and shake their jagged manes, and scream, and fall upon one another, if a strange man came anigh them. But as for feeding time, Tom said it was better than fifty plays to watch them, and the tricks they were up to, to cheat their feeders, and one another. I asked him how on earth he had managed to get fodder, in such impassable weather, for such a herd of horses; but he said that they lived upon straw and sawdust; and he knew that I did not believe him, any more than about his star-shavings. And this was just the thing he loved—to mystify honest people, and be a great deal too knowing. However, I may judge him harshly, because I myself tell everything.
He had gathered more than three hundred now, using this clever approach; and he said it was the best sight to see how they acted, snorting, stamping, fuming, pricking their ears, rushing backward, whipping themselves with their long, rough tails, shaking their jagged manes, screaming, and even colliding with each other if a stranger got too close. As for feeding time, Tom said it was more entertaining than fifty shows to watch them and the tricks they pulled to fool their feeders and each other. I asked him how he managed to find food in such terrible weather for that many horses, but he said they survived on straw and sawdust; and he knew I didn’t believe him, any more than I believed his story about star-shavings. And this was exactly what he loved—to confuse honest people and act too smart. However, I might judge him too harshly, because I tend to share everything.
I asked him what he meant to do with all that enormous lot of horses, and why he had not exerted his wits to catch the red deer as well. He said that the latter would have been against the laws of venery, and might have brought him into trouble, but as for disposing of his stud, it would give him little difficulty. He would break them, when the spring weather came on, and deal with them as they required, and keep the handsomest for breeding. The rest he would despatch to London, where he knew plenty of horse-dealers; and he doubted not that they would fetch him as much as ten pounds apiece all round, being now in great demand. I told him I wished that he might get it; but as it proved afterwards, he did.
I asked him what he planned to do with all those horses, and why he hadn't tried to catch the red deer too. He said that doing so would have been against hunting laws and could have landed him in trouble. But as for selling his horses, that wouldn't be hard for him. He’d break them when spring arrived, take care of them as needed, and keep the prettiest ones for breeding. The others he’d send to London, where he knew plenty of horse dealers; he was sure they’d sell for about ten pounds each since they were in high demand. I told him I hoped he’d succeed, and as it turned out later, he did.
Then he pressed us both on another point, the time for his marriage to Annie; and mother looked at me to say when, and I looked back at mother. However, knowing something of the world, and unable to make any further objection, by reason of his prosperity, I said that we must even do as the fashionable people did, and allow the maid herself to settle, when she would leave home and all. And this I spoke with a very bad grace, being perhaps of an ancient cast, and over fond of honesty—I mean, of course, among lower people.
Then he pressed us both on another point: when he was getting married to Annie. My mother looked at me to say when, and I looked back at her. However, knowing a bit about the world and unable to argue further because of his success, I suggested that we should just go along with what everyone else was doing and let the maid decide when she would leave home and everything. I said this reluctantly, perhaps because I'm a bit old-fashioned and too attached to honesty—I mean, especially among less privileged people.
But Tom paid little heed to this, knowing the world a great deal better than ever I could pretend to do; and being ready to take a thing, upon which he had set his mind, whether it came with a good grace, or whether it came with a bad one. And seeing that it would be awkward to provoke my anger, he left the room, before more words, to submit himself to Annie.
But Tom didn’t pay much attention to that, knowing the world way better than I could ever pretend to. He was set on getting what he wanted, no matter if it came easily or not. Realizing it would be uncomfortable to make me mad, he left the room before saying anything else, choosing instead to talk to Annie.
Upon this I went in search of Lorna, to tell her of our cousin's arrival, and to ask whether she would think fit to see him, or to dine by herself that day; for she should do exactly as it pleased her in everything, while remaining still our guest. But I rather wished that she might choose not to sit in Tom's company, though she might be introduced to him. Not but what he could behave quite as well as could, and much better, as regarded elegance and assurance, only that his honesty had not been as one might desire. But Lorna had some curiosity to know what this famous man was like, and declared that she would by all means have the pleasure of dining with him, if he did not object to her company on the ground of the Doones' dishonesty; moreover, she said that it would seem a most foolish air on her part, and one which would cause the greatest pain to Annie, who had been so good to her, if she should refuse to sit at table with a man who held the King's pardon, and was now a pattern of honesty.
I went to find Lorna to tell her about our cousin's arrival and to ask if she wanted to see him or prefer to dine alone that day. She could do whatever she wanted since she was still our guest. I really hoped she would choose not to have dinner with Tom, even though she could be introduced to him. It’s not that he couldn’t behave well, in fact, he was quite elegant and confident, but his honesty wasn't exactly what one would hope for. However, Lorna was curious to see what this famous man was like and said she definitely wanted to have the pleasure of dining with him, as long as he didn't mind her company because of the Doones' reputation. Plus, she thought it would be really silly and hurtful to Annie, who had been so good to her, if she refused to sit with a man who had the King's pardon and was now seen as an example of honesty.
Against this I had not a word to say; and could not help acknowledging in my heart that she was right, as well as wise, in her decision. And afterwards I discovered that mother would have been much displeased, if she had decided otherwise.
I had no argument against this; I had to admit in my heart that she was both right and smart for making that choice. Later, I found out that my mom would have been really upset if she had decided differently.
Accordingly she turned away, with one of her very sweetest smiles (whose beauty none can describe) saying that she must not meet a man of such fashion and renown, in her common gardening frock; but must try to look as nice as she could, if only in honour of dear Annie. And truth to tell, when she came to dinner, everything about her was the neatest and prettiest that can possibly be imagined. She contrived to match the colours so, to suit one another and her own, and yet with a certain delicate harmony of contrast, and the shape of everything was so nice, so that when she came into the room, with a crown of winning modesty upon the consciousness of beauty, I was quite as proud as if the Queen of England entered.
She turned away, flashing one of her sweetest smiles (the kind of beauty that's hard to describe) and said she couldn't possibly meet a man of such style and reputation in her ordinary gardening outfit. She wanted to look her best, at least out of respect for dear Annie. To be honest, when she came to dinner, everything about her was as neat and pretty as you could imagine. She managed to coordinate the colors perfectly to complement each other and her own look, with a nice touch of contrasting harmony, and everything was shaped so nicely that when she walked into the room, radiating a charming modesty alongside her beauty, I felt just as proud as if the Queen of England had arrived.
My mother could not help remarking, though she knew that it was not mannerly, how like a princess Lorna looked, now she had her best things on; but two things caught Squire Faggus's eyes, after he had made a most gallant bow, and received a most graceful courtesy; and he kept his bright bold gaze upon them, first on one, and then on the other, until my darling was hot with blushes, and I was ready to knock him down if he had not been our visitor. But here again I should have been wrong, as I was apt to be in those days; for Tom intended no harm whatever, and his gaze was of pure curiosity; though Annie herself was vexed with it. The two objects of his close regard, were first, and most worthily, Lorna's face, and secondly, the ancient necklace restored to her by Sir Ensor Doone.
My mom couldn't help but mention, even though she knew it wasn't polite, how much like a princess Lorna looked in her best outfit. But two things caught Squire Faggus's attention after he made a charming bow and received a graceful nod; he kept his bright, bold gaze on them, first one and then the other, until my darling was blushing hotly, and I was ready to confront him if he hadn't been our guest. But once again, I would have been mistaken, as I often was back then; Tom meant no harm at all, and his stare was just pure curiosity, even though Annie was annoyed by it. The two subjects of his intense focus were, first and foremost, Lorna's face, and secondly, the old necklace that Sir Ensor Doone had given back to her.
Now wishing to save my darling's comfort, and to keep things quiet, I shouted out that dinner was ready, so that half the parish could hear me; upon which my mother laughed, and chid me, and despatched her guests before her. And a very good dinner we made, I remember, and a very happy one; attending to the women first, as now is the manner of eating; except among the workmen. With them, of course, it is needful that the man (who has his hours fixed) should be served first, and make the utmost of his time for feeding, while the women may go on, as much as ever they please, afterwards. But with us, who are not bound to time, there is no such reason to be quoted; and the women being the weaker vessels, should be the first to begin to fill. And so we always arranged it.
Now wanting to ensure my darling's comfort and keep things low-key, I called out that dinner was ready so loudly that half the neighborhood could hear me. My mother laughed, scolded me, and sent her guests off before her. I remember we had a really nice dinner and a joyful time; we served the women first, as is the usual way to eat now, except among the workers. With them, of course, it’s necessary for the man (who has set hours) to be served first so he can maximize his time to eat, while the women can take their time afterwards. But for those of us who aren’t on a time schedule, there’s no need for that rule; since women are the softer ones, they should be the first to start filling their plates. And that’s how we always did it.
Now, though our Annie was a graceful maid, and Lizzie a very learned one, you should have seen how differently Lorna managed her dining; she never took more than about a quarter of a mouthful at a time, and she never appeared to be chewing that, although she must have done so. Indeed, she appeared to dine as if it were a matter of no consequence, and as if she could think of other things more than of her business. All this, and her own manner of eating, I described to Eliza once, when I wanted to vex her for something very spiteful that she had said; and I never succeeded so well before, for the girl was quite outrageous, having her own perception of it, which made my observation ten times as bitter to her. And I am not sure but what she ceased to like poor Lorna from that day; and if so, I was quite paid out, as I well deserved, for my bit of satire.
Now, even though Annie was a graceful maid and Lizzie was very knowledgeable, you should have seen how differently Lorna handled her dining; she never took more than about a quarter of a bite at a time, and it never seemed like she was actually chewing, even though she must have been. In fact, she seemed to dine as if it didn't matter much, like she had more important things on her mind than her meal. I told Eliza about all this once, trying to annoy her because of something really spiteful she had said; and I had never succeeded so well before, as the girl was completely outraged, having her own take on it, which made my comment ten times more irritating for her. I can't help but think that she stopped liking poor Lorna from that day on; and if that's true, I got my just desserts for my little jab.
For it strikes me that of all human dealings, satire is the very lowest, and most mean and common. It is the equivalent in words of what bullying is in deeds; and no more bespeaks a clever man, than the other does a brave one. These two wretched tricks exalt a fool in his own low esteem, but never in his neighbour's; for the deep common sense of our nature tells that no man of a genial heart, or of any spread of mind, can take pride in either. And though a good man may commit the one fault or the other, now and then, by way of outlet, he is sure to have compunctions soon, and to scorn himself more than the sufferer.
It seems to me that of all human interactions, satire is the lowest, most petty, and most common. It’s the verbal equivalent of bullying in actions; neither reflects well on a smart person, just as the other doesn’t on a courageous one. These two miserable tactics may make a fool feel better about himself, but they never impress anyone else; our natural instincts tell us that no one with a kind heart or a broad perspective can take pride in either. Even though a good person might slip into one of these faults occasionally as a way to vent, they are sure to feel guilty soon after and will scorn themselves even more than the person they’ve hurt.
Now when the young maidens were gone—for we had quite a high dinner of fashion that day, with Betty Muxworthy waiting, and Gwenny Carfax at the gravy—and only mother, and Tom, and I remained at the white deal table, with brandy, and schnapps, and hot water jugs; Squire Faggus said quite suddenly, and perhaps on purpose to take us aback, in case of our hiding anything,—“What do you know of the history of that beautiful maiden, good mother?”
Now that the young women had left—for we had a nice dinner that day, with Betty Muxworthy serving and Gwenny Carfax handling the gravy—and only my mother, Tom, and I were left at the white tabletop, surrounded by brandy, schnapps, and hot water jugs; Squire Faggus suddenly said, probably to catch us off guard in case we were hiding something, “What do you know about the history of that beautiful girl, good mother?”
“Not half so much as my son does,” mother answered, with a soft smile at me; “and when John does not choose to tell a thing, wild horses will not pull it out of him.”
“Not nearly as much as my son does,” my mother replied, smiling gently at me; “and when John decides not to share something, nothing in the world will make him.”
“That is not at all like me, mother,” I replied rather sadly; “you know almost every word about Lorna, quite as well as I do.”
"That's not me at all, mom," I replied a bit sadly; "you know almost every word about Lorna as well as I do."
“Almost every word, I believe, John; for you never tell a falsehood. But the few unknown may be of all the most important to me.”
“Almost every word, I believe you, John; because you never lie. But the few unknowns could be the most important to me.”
To this I made no answer, for fear of going beyond the truth, or else of making mischief. Not that I had, or wished to have, any mystery with mother; neither was there in purest truth, any mystery in the matter; to the utmost of my knowledge. And the only things that I had kept back, solely for mother's comfort, were the death of poor Lord Alan Brandir (if indeed he were dead) and the connection of Marwood de Whichehalse with the dealings of the Doones, and the threats of Carver Doone against my own prosperity; and, may be, one or two little things harrowing more than edifying.
I didn't respond to this, worried that I might stray from the truth or cause trouble. It wasn't that I had or wanted to keep any secrets from my mother; in reality, there wasn’t much to hide at all, as far as I knew. The only things I had held back, just for my mother's peace of mind, were the death of poor Lord Alan Brandir (if he was indeed dead) and Marwood de Whichehalse's involvement with the Doones' activities, as well as Carver Doone's threats against my own future; and maybe a couple of other distressing details that weren't very uplifting.
“Come, come,” said Master Faggus, smiling very pleasantly, “you two understand each other, if any two on earth do. Ah, if I had only had a mother, how different I might have been!” And with that he sighed, in the tone which always overcame mother upon that subject, and had something to do with his getting Annie; and then he produced his pretty box, full of rolled tobacco, and offered me one, as I now had joined the goodly company of smokers. So I took it, and watched what he did with his own, lest I might go wrong about mine.
“Come on,” said Master Faggus, smiling warmly, “you two really get each other, more than anyone else does. Oh, if only I had a mother, I could have turned out so differently!” With that, he sighed in a way that always affected his mother when they talked about it, which had something to do with him getting Annie. Then he pulled out his nice box filled with rolled tobacco and offered me one since I had now joined the group of smokers. I took it and watched what he did with his own, so I wouldn’t mess mine up.
But when our cylinders were both lighted, and I enjoying mine wonderfully, and astonishing mother by my skill, Tom Faggus told us that he was sure he had seen my Lorna's face before, many and many years ago, when she was quite a little child, but he could not remember where it was, or anything more about it at present; though he would try to do so afterwards. He could not be mistaken, he said, for he had noticed her eyes especially; and had never seen such eyes before, neither again, until this day. I asked him if he had ever ventured into the Doone-valley; but he shook his head, and replied that he valued his life a deal too much for that. Then we put it to him, whether anything might assist his memory; but he said that he knew not of aught to do so, unless it were another glass of schnapps.
But when our lanterns were both lit, and I was enjoying mine immensely, impressing my mother with my skills, Tom Faggus told us he was sure he had seen my Lorna's face before, many years ago, when she was just a little girl. However, he couldn't recall where he had seen her or any other details right now, though he would try to remember later. He insisted he couldn't be mistaken because he had noticed her eyes especially; he had never seen eyes like hers before or since, until today. I asked him if he had ever ventured into the Doone valley, but he shook his head and said he valued his life far too much for that. Then we asked him if anything could help jog his memory, but he said he didn't know of anything, unless it was another glass of schnapps.
This being provided, he grew very wise, and told us clearly and candidly that we were both very foolish. For he said that we were keeping Lorna, at the risk not only of our stock, and the house above our heads, but also of our precious lives; and after all was she worth it, although so very beautiful? Upon which I told him, with indignation, that her beauty was the least part of her goodness, and that I would thank him for his opinion when I had requested it.
This being said, he became very wise and told us honestly that we were both being very foolish. He said we were risking not only our cattle and the house over our heads but also our own lives by keeping Lorna. He questioned whether she was worth it, even though she was so beautiful. I responded, with anger, that her beauty was the least impressive part of her goodness, and I would appreciate his opinion only when I had asked for it.
“Bravo, our John Ridd!” he answered; “fools will be fools till the end of the chapter; and I might be as big a one, if I were in thy shoes, John. Nevertheless, in the name of God, don't let that helpless child go about with a thing worth half the county on her.”
“Bravo, our John Ridd!” he replied; “fools will be fools until the end of the story; and I could be just as big a fool if I were in your position, John. Still, for the love of God, don’t let that defenseless child wander around with something worth half the county on her.”
“She is worth all the county herself,” said I, “and all England put together; but she has nothing worth half a rick of hay upon her; for the ring I gave her cost only,”—and here I stopped, for mother was looking, and I never would tell her how much it had cost me; though she had tried fifty times to find out.
“She’s worth more than everyone in the county,” I said, “and all of England too; but she has nothing that’s worth even half a stack of hay because the ring I gave her only cost,”—and I stopped there, since my mother was watching, and I would never tell her how much it cost me, even though she had tried fifty times to figure it out.
“Tush, the ring!” Tom Faggus cried, with a contempt that moved me: “I would never have stopped a man for that. But the necklace, you great oaf, the necklace is worth all your farm put together, and your Uncle Ben's fortune to the back of it; ay, and all the town of Dulverton.”
“Tush, the ring!” Tom Faggus shouted, with a disdain that shocked me: “I would never have stopped a guy for that. But the necklace, you big fool, the necklace is worth more than your entire farm combined, plus your Uncle Ben’s fortune on top of that; yeah, and all of Dulverton, too.”
“What,” said I, “that common glass thing, which she has had from her childhood!”
“What,” I said, “that ordinary glass item that she’s had since she was a kid!”
“Glass indeed! They are the finest brilliants ever I set eyes on; and I have handled a good many.”
“Glass for sure! They are the most stunning gems I've ever seen; and I've seen quite a few.”
“Surely,” cried mother, now flushing as red as Tom's own cheeks with excitement, “you must be wrong, or the young mistress would herself have known it.”
“Surely,” exclaimed mother, now blushing as red as Tom's own cheeks with excitement, “you must be mistaken, or the young mistress would have known about it herself.”
I was greatly pleased with my mother, for calling Lorna “the young mistress”; it was not done for the sake of her diamonds, whether they were glass or not; but because she felt as I had done, that Tom Faggus, a man of no birth whatever, was speaking beyond his mark, in calling a lady like Lorna a helpless child; as well as in his general tone, which displayed no deference. He might have been used to the quality, in the way of stopping their coaches, or roystering at hotels with them; but he never had met a high lady before, in equality, and upon virtue; and we both felt that he ought to have known it, and to have thanked us for the opportunity, in a word, to have behaved a great deal more humbly than he had even tried to do.
I was really pleased with my mom for calling Lorna “the young mistress.” It wasn’t about her diamonds, whether they were real or not; it was because she felt, like I did, that Tom Faggus, a guy with no background at all, was overstepping by calling a lady like Lorna a helpless child. His overall attitude showed no respect. He might have been used to the upper class in terms of stopping their carriages or partying with them at hotels, but he had never actually interacted with a true lady as an equal, based on character. We both felt he should have recognized that and thanked us for the chance, in other words, to act a lot more respectfully than he even attempted to.
“Trust me,” answered Tom, in his loftiest manner, which Annie said was “so noble,” but which seemed to me rather flashy, “trust me, good mother, and simple John, for knowing brilliants, when I see them. I would have stopped an eight-horse coach, with four carabined out-riders, for such a booty as that. But alas, those days are over; those were days worth living in. Ah, I never shall know the like again. How fine it was by moonlight!”
“Trust me,” Tom replied, in his most grandiose way, which Annie called “so noble,” but came off as a bit showy to me, “trust me, good mother, and simple John, for I know brilliance when I see it. I would have stopped an eight-horse coach, with four armed outriders, for a prize like that. But sadly, those days are gone; those were times worth living in. Ah, I’ll never see the like again. How beautiful it was by moonlight!”
“Master Faggus,” began my mother, with a manner of some dignity, such as she could sometimes use, by right of her integrity, and thorough kindness to every one, “this is not the tone in which you have hitherto spoken to me about your former pursuits and life, I fear that the spirits”—but here she stopped, because the spirits were her own, and Tom was our visitor,—“what I mean, Master Faggus, is this: you have won my daughter's heart somehow; and you won my consent to the matter through your honest sorrow, and manly undertaking to lead a different life, and touch no property but your own. Annie is my eldest daughter, and the child of a most upright man. I love her best of all on earth, next to my boy John here”—here mother gave me a mighty squeeze, to be sure that she would have me at least—“and I will not risk my Annie's life with a man who yearns for the highway.”
“Master Faggus,” my mother started, with a sense of dignity that she occasionally managed to convey thanks to her integrity and genuine kindness toward everyone, “this isn’t the way you’ve spoken to me about your past and your life before. I fear the spirits”—but she paused, as the spirits were her own and Tom was our guest—“what I mean, Master Faggus, is this: you’ve somehow won my daughter’s heart, and you got my consent by showing honest regret and your determination to lead a better life, only touching what belongs to you. Annie is my oldest daughter and the child of a very upright man. I love her more than anyone else on earth, next to my son John here”—at this, mother gave me a big squeeze to make sure I knew I was included—“and I won’t risk my Annie’s life with a man who longs for the highway.”
Having made this very long speech (for her), mother came home upon my shoulder, and wept so that (but for heeding her) I would have taken Tom by the nose, and thrown him, and Winnie after him, over our farm-yard gate. For I am violent when roused; and freely hereby acknowledge it; though even my enemies will own that it takes a great deal to rouse me. But I do consider the grief and tears (when justly caused) of my dearest friends, to be a great deal to rouse me.
Having given this really long speech (for her), my mom came home on my shoulder, crying so hard that (if I hadn’t paid attention to her) I would have grabbed Tom by the nose and thrown him, along with Winnie, over the farmyard gate. I can be aggressive when provoked; I admit it freely; though even my enemies would agree that it takes a lot to get me worked up. But I believe that the grief and tears (when they’re justified) of my closest friends are definitely enough to get me riled up.
CHAPTER XLVII
JEREMY IN DANGER
Nothing very long abides, as the greatest of all writers (in whose extent I am for ever lost in raptured wonder, and yet for ever quite at home, as if his heart were mine, although his brains so different), in a word as Mr. William Shakespeare, in every one of his works insists, with a humoured melancholy. And if my journey to London led to nothing else of advancement, it took me a hundred years in front of what I might else have been, by the most simple accident.
Nothing lasts forever, as the greatest writer of all time—Mr. William Shakespeare—makes clear in all his works with a mix of humor and sadness. And if my trip to London didn’t lead to any other opportunities, it at least brought me a century ahead of what I could have been, all due to a simple accident.
Two women were scolding one another across the road, very violently, both from upstair windows; and I in my hurry for quiet life, and not knowing what might come down upon me, quickened my step for the nearest corner. But suddenly something fell on my head; and at first I was afraid to look, especially as it weighed heavily. But hearing no breakage of ware, and only the other scold laughing heartily, I turned me about and espied a book, which one had cast at the other, hoping to break her window. So I took the book, and tendered it at the door of the house from which it had fallen; but the watchman came along just then, and the man at the door declared that it never came from their house, and begged me to say no more. This I promised readily, never wishing to make mischief; and I said, “Good sir, now take the book; I will go on to my business.” But he answered that he would do no such thing; for the book alone, being hurled so hard, would convict his people of a lewd assault; and he begged me, if I would do a good turn, to put the book under my coat and go. And so I did: in part at least. For I did not put the book under my coat, but went along with it openly, looking for any to challenge it. Now this book, so acquired, has been not only the joy of my younger days, and main delight of my manhood, but also the comfort, and even the hope, of my now declining years. In a word, it is next to my Bible to me, and written in equal English; and if you espy any goodness whatever in my own loose style of writing, you must not thank me, John Ridd, for it, but the writer who holds the champion's belt in wit, as I once did in wrestling.
Two women were yelling at each other from upstairs windows across the street, really going at it. In my hurry for some peace and not knowing what might fall on me, I picked up my pace toward the nearest corner. But suddenly something hit my head; at first, I was too scared to look, especially since it felt heavy. However, hearing no breaking glass and only the other woman laughing loudly, I turned around and saw a book, which one had thrown at the other, intending to break her window. So I picked up the book and offered it at the door of the house it had fallen from; but just then, the watchman came by, and the man at the door insisted that it didn’t come from their house and asked me to drop the issue. I agreed, not wanting to cause trouble, and said, “Good sir, please take the book; I’ll get back to my business.” But he replied that he wouldn’t do that because the book, thrown so forcefully, would make his people look guilty of a nasty attack; and he asked me, if I wanted to help, to tuck the book under my coat and leave. So I did—well, sort of. I didn’t hide the book under my coat but carried it openly, looking for anyone who might challenge me. Now, this book I got has been not just the joy of my youth and the main pleasure of my adulthood, but also the comfort and even the hope of my now aging years. In short, it’s second only to my Bible, written in just as good English; and if you notice any goodness at all in my casual writing style, don't thank me, John Ridd, for it, but the author who deserves the champion’s title in wit, just like I once did in wrestling.
Now, as nothing very long abides, it cannot be expected that a woman's anger should last very long, if she be at all of the proper sort. And my mother, being one of the very best, could not long retain her wrath against the Squire Faggus especially when she came to reflect, upon Annie's suggestion, how natural, and one might say, how inevitable it was that a young man fond of adventure and change and winning good profits by jeopardy, should not settle down without some regrets to a fixed abode and a life of sameness, however safe and respectable. And even as Annie put the case, Tom deserved the greater credit for vanquishing so nobly these yearnings of his nature; and it seemed very hard to upbraid him, considering how good his motives were; neither could Annie understand how mother could reconcile it with her knowledge of the Bible, and the one sheep that was lost, and the hundredth piece of silver, and the man that went down to Jericho.
Now, since nothing lasts forever, it’s not realistic to expect a woman's anger to last long, especially if she’s the right kind of woman. My mother, being one of the best, couldn’t hold onto her anger towards Squire Faggus for too long, especially when she reflected, thanks to Annie's suggestion, on how natural, and one might say, how inevitable it was for a young man who loves adventure and change and seeks profit through risk, to feel some regret before settling down to a stable life, no matter how safe and respectable it is. And even as Annie explained it, Tom deserved even more credit for nobly overcoming these yearnings of his nature; it seemed quite unfair to scold him, considering how good his intentions were. Annie also couldn’t understand how my mother could reconcile this with what she knew from the Bible, including the one lost sheep, the lost coin, and the man who went down to Jericho.
Whether Annie's logic was good and sound, I am sure I cannot tell; but it seemed to me that she ought to have let the Jericho traveller alone, inasmuch as he rather fell among Tom Fagusses, than resembled them. However, her reasoning was too much for mother to hold out against; and Tom was replaced, and more than that, being regarded now as an injured man. But how my mother contrived to know, that because she had been too hard upon Tom, he must be right about the necklace, is a point which I never could clearly perceive, though no doubt she could explain it.
Whether Annie's logic was good and sound, I really can't say; but it seemed to me that she should have left the Jericho traveler alone, since he was more different from Tom Fagusses than like them. However, her reasoning was too strong for my mom to resist; and Tom was reinstated, and even more than that, he was now seen as a wronged man. But how my mom figured out that because she was too harsh on Tom, he must be right about the necklace is something I could never quite understand, although I'm sure she could explain it.
To prove herself right in the conclusion, she went herself to fetch Lorna, that the trinket might be examined, before the day grew dark. My darling came in, with a very quick glance and smile at my cigarro (for I was having the third by this time, to keep things in amity); and I waved it towards her, as much as to say, “you see that I can do it.” And then mother led her up to the light, for Tom to examine her necklace.
To prove her point, she went to get Lorna herself so they could check out the trinket before it got dark. My darling walked in, giving a quick look and smile at my cigarette (since I was on my third one by then to keep things friendly); I gestured with it towards her, as if to say, “See, I can pull this off.” Then Mom brought her into the light for Tom to take a look at her necklace.
On the shapely curve of her neck it hung, like dewdrops upon a white hyacinth; and I was vexed that Tom should have the chance to see it there. But even if she had read my thoughts, or outrun them with her own, Lorna turned away, and softly took the jewels from the place which so much adorned them. And as she turned away, they sparkled through the rich dark waves of hair. Then she laid the glittering circlet in my mother's hands; and Tom Faggus took it eagerly, and bore it to the window.
On the elegant curve of her neck it hung, like dewdrops on a white hyacinth; and I was annoyed that Tom got to see it there. But even if she sensed my thoughts or surpassed them with her own, Lorna turned away and gently took the jewels from the spot that accentuated them so beautifully. As she turned, they sparkled through her rich, dark hair. Then she placed the shining circlet in my mother's hands; and Tom Faggus grabbed it eagerly and carried it to the window.
“Don't you go out of sight,” I said; “you cannot resist such things as those, if they be what you think them.”
“Don’t go out of sight,” I said; “you can’t resist things like that, if they’re what you think they are.”
“Jack, I shall have to trounce thee yet. I am now a man of honour, and entitled to the duello. What will you take for it, Mistress Lorna? At a hazard, say now.”
“Jack, I’ll have to beat you again. I’m now a man of honor, and I have the right to a duel. What will you give for it, Mistress Lorna? Come on, take a chance and tell me.”
“I am not accustomed to sell things, sir,” replied Lorna, who did not like him much, else she would have answered sportively, “What is it worth, in your opinion?”
“I’m not used to selling things, sir,” Lorna replied, not really liking him that much; otherwise, she would have playfully answered, “What do you think it’s worth?”
“Do you think it is worth five pounds, now?”
“Do you think it's worth five pounds now?”
“Oh, no! I never had so much money as that in all my life. It is very bright, and very pretty; but it cannot be worth five pounds, I am sure.”
“Oh, no! I’ve never had that much money in my whole life. It’s very shiny and really pretty; but I’m sure it’s not worth five pounds.”
“What a chance for a bargain! Oh, if it were not for Annie, I could make my fortune.”
“What an opportunity for a great deal! Oh, if it weren't for Annie, I could strike it rich.”
“But, sir, I would not sell it to you, not for twenty times five pounds. My grandfather was so kind about it; and I think it belonged to my mother.”
"But, sir, I wouldn't sell it to you, not for twenty times five pounds. My grandfather was really nice about it; and I believe it belonged to my mother."
“There are twenty-five rose diamonds in it, and twenty-five large brilliants that cannot be matched in London. How say you, Mistress Lorna, to a hundred thousand pounds?”
“There are twenty-five rose diamonds in it, and twenty-five large brilliants that can’t be found anywhere in London. What do you say, Mistress Lorna, to a hundred thousand pounds?”
My darling's eyes so flashed at this, brighter than any diamonds, that I said to myself, “Well, all have faults; and now I have found out Lorna's—she is fond of money!” And then I sighed rather heavily; for of all faults this seems to me one of the worst in a woman. But even before my sigh was finished, I had cause to condemn myself. For Lorna took the necklace very quietly from the hands of Squire Faggus, who had not half done with admiring it, and she went up to my mother with the sweetest smile I ever saw.
My darling's eyes sparkled at this, brighter than any diamonds, and I thought, “Well, everyone has flaws; and now I’ve discovered Lorna's—she loves money!” Then I sighed heavily; because of all the faults, this seems to be one of the worst in a woman. But even before my sigh was finished, I had reason to criticize myself. Lorna took the necklace very calmly from Squire Faggus, who hadn’t even finished admiring it, and she went up to my mother with the sweetest smile I’ve ever seen.
“Dear kind mother, I am so glad,” she said in a whisper, coaxing mother out of sight of all but me; “now you will have it, won't you, dear? And I shall be so happy; for a thousandth part of your kindness to me no jewels in the world can match.”
“Dear sweet mom, I'm so happy,” she said quietly, pulling mom out of sight from everyone except me; “now you'll accept it, right, mom? And I’ll be so happy; because even a tiny bit of your kindness to me is worth more than all the jewels in the world.”
I cannot lay before you the grace with which she did it, all the air of seeking favour, rather than conferring it, and the high-bred fear of giving offence, which is of all fears the noblest. Mother knew not what to say. Of course she would never dream of taking such a gift as that; and yet she saw how sadly Lorna would be disappointed. Therefore, mother did, from habit, what she almost always did, she called me to help her. But knowing that my eyes were full—for anything noble moves me so, quite as rashly as things pitiful—I pretended not to hear my mother, but to see a wild cat in the dairy.
I can't describe the elegance with which she did it, the way she seemed to seek approval rather than give it, and the refined fear of offending someone, which is the most admirable of all fears. Mom didn’t know what to say. Of course, she’d never consider accepting such a gift; yet, she could see how disappointed Lorna would be. So, Mom did what she usually did—she called me to help her. But knowing my eyes were filled with emotion—because anything noble affects me deeply, just like the most pitiful things—I pretended not to hear her and acted as if I was distracted by a wild cat in the dairy.
Therefore I cannot tell what mother said in reply to Lorna; for when I came back, quite eager to let my love know how I worshipped her, and how deeply I was ashamed of myself, for meanly wronging her in my heart, behold Tom Faggus had gotten again the necklace which had such charms for him, and was delivering all around (but especially to Annie, who was wondering at his learning) a dissertation on precious stones, and his sentiments about those in his hand. He said that the work was very ancient, but undoubtedly very good; the cutting of every line was true, and every angle was in its place. And this he said, made all the difference in the lustre of the stone, and therefore in its value. For if the facets were ill-matched, and the points of light so ever little out of perfect harmony, all the lustre of the jewel would be loose and wavering, and the central fire dulled; instead of answering, as it should, to all possibilities of gaze, and overpowering any eye intent on its deeper mysteries. We laughed at the Squire's dissertation; for how should he know all these things, being nothing better, and indeed much worse than a mere Northmolton blacksmith? He took our laughter with much good nature; having Annie to squeeze his hand and convey her grief at our ignorance: but he said that of one thing he was quite certain, and therein I believed him. To wit, that a trinket of this kind never could have belonged to any ignoble family, but to one of the very highest and most wealthy in England. And looking at Lorna, I felt that she must have come from a higher source than the very best of diamonds.
So I can’t tell what my mom replied to Lorna; when I returned, eager to express my love and my deep shame for treating her poorly in my heart, I found Tom Faggus had once again gotten his hands on the necklace that fascinated him. He was giving a talk about precious stones, especially to Annie, who was impressed by his knowledge. He claimed the piece was very old, but definitely of good quality; the cutting was precise, and every angle was just right. He said this was what mattered for the stone’s shine and, therefore, its value. If the facets were misaligned and the points of light out of harmony, the brilliance of the jewel would appear weak and flickering, and the central fire would be dimmed; instead of responding beautifully to any gaze and captivating anyone trying to uncover its deeper secrets. We laughed at the Squire's lecture, wondering how he could know all this, being nothing more than, and actually worse than, just a blacksmith from Northmolton. He took our laughter in stride, with Annie squeezing his hand to show her sadness at our ignorance. But he said he was sure of one thing, and I believed him. Specifically, that a trinket like this could never have belonged to a lesser family, but to one of the very highest and wealthiest in England. And looking at Lorna, I felt that she must have come from a lineage grander than the finest diamonds.
Tom Faggus said that the necklace was made, he would answer for it, in Amsterdam, two or three hundred years ago, long before London jewellers had begun to meddle with diamonds; and on the gold clasp he found some letters, done in some inverted way, the meaning of which was beyond him; also a bearing of some kind, which he believed was a mountain-cat. And thereupon he declared that now he had earned another glass of schnapps, and would Mistress Lorna mix it for him?
Tom Faggus claimed that the necklace was made, and he would vouch for it, in Amsterdam, two or three hundred years ago, long before London jewelers had started working with diamonds. He also discovered some letters on the gold clasp, written in an unusual way that he couldn't understand, and a crest of some sort, which he thought was a mountain cat. So, he declared that now he had earned another shot of schnapps, and asked if Mistress Lorna could mix it for him.
I was amazed at his impudence; and Annie, who thought this her business, did not look best pleased; and I hoped that Lorna would tell him at once to go and do it for himself. But instead of that she rose to do it with a soft humility, which went direct to the heart of Tom; and he leaped up with a curse at himself, and took the hot water from her, and would not allow her to do anything except to put the sugar in; and then he bowed to her grandly. I knew what Lorna was thinking of; she was thinking all the time that her necklace had been taken by the Doones with violence upon some great robbery; and that Squire Faggus knew it, though he would not show his knowledge; and that this was perhaps the reason why mother had refused it so.
I was shocked by his boldness; and Annie, who thought this was her job, didn’t look very happy about it; I hoped Lorna would tell him to do it himself. But instead, she got up to do it with a gentle humility that went straight to Tom's heart; he jumped up, cursing himself, took the hot water from her, and wouldn’t let her do anything except add the sugar; then he bowed to her grandly. I knew what Lorna was thinking; she was constantly reminded that her necklace had been taken by the Doones in a violent robbery, and that Squire Faggus knew it, even though he wouldn’t admit it; perhaps that was why our mother had turned it down.
We said no more about the necklace for a long time afterwards; neither did my darling wear it, now that she knew its value, but did not know its history. She came to me the very next day, trying to look cheerful, and begged me if I loved her (never mind how little) to take charge of it again, as I once had done before, and not even to let her know in what place I stored it. I told her that this last request I could not comply with; for having been round her neck so often, it was now a sacred thing, more than a million pounds could be. Therefore it should dwell for the present in the neighbourhood of my heart; and so could not be far from her. At this she smiled her own sweet smile, and touched my forehead with her lips and wished that she could only learn how to deserve such love as mine.
We didn’t talk about the necklace for a long time after that; my darling didn’t wear it anymore, now that she knew how valuable it was but didn’t know its backstory. The very next day, she came to me, trying to seem happy, and pleaded with me, if I loved her (no matter how little), to keep it safe again, just like I had before, and not even let her know where I’d keep it. I told her that I couldn’t agree to that last request because, having been around her neck so often, it had become a sacred thing, worth more than a million pounds. So, it would stay close to my heart for now, which meant it wouldn’t be far from her. She smiled her sweet smile, kissed my forehead, and wished she could learn how to deserve such love as mine.
Tom Faggus took his good departure, which was a kind farewell to me, on the very day I am speaking of, the day after his arrival. Tom was a thoroughly upright man, according to his own standard; and you might rely upon him always, up to a certain point I mean, to be there or thereabouts. But sometimes things were too many for Tom, especially with ardent spirits, and then he judged, perhaps too much, with only himself for the jury. At any rate, I would trust him fully, for candour and for honesty, in almost every case in which he himself could have no interest. And so we got on very well together; and he thought me a fool; and I tried my best not to think anything worse of him.
Tom Faggus said his goodbyes, which was a kind farewell to me, on the very day I’m talking about, just after he arrived. Tom was a completely honest guy, at least by his own standards, and you could always count on him, up to a certain point, to be around. However, sometimes things were a bit much for Tom, especially when he had been drinking, and then he tended to judge things a bit too much on his own. Regardless, I trusted him completely for his openness and honesty in almost every situation where he had no personal stake. We got along well; he thought I was foolish, and I did my best not to think any worse of him.
Scarcely was Tom clean out of sight, and Annie's tears not dry yet (for she always made a point of crying upon his departure), when in came Master Jeremy Stickles, splashed with mud from head to foot, and not in the very best of humours, though happy to get back again.
As soon as Tom was fully out of sight, and with Annie's tears still wet (because she always cried when he left), Master Jeremy Stickles came in, covered in mud from head to toe, not in the best mood but glad to be back.
“Curse those fellows!” he cried, with a stamp which sent the water hissing from his boot upon the embers; “a pretty plight you may call this, for His Majesty's Commissioner to return to his headquarters in! Annie, my dear,” for he was always very affable with Annie, “will you help me off with my overalls, and then turn your pretty hand to the gridiron? Not a blessed morsel have I touched for more than twenty-four hours.”
“Curse those guys!” he exclaimed, stomping so hard that water splashed from his boot onto the embers. “What a terrible situation for His Majesty's Commissioner to return to his headquarters in! Annie, my dear,” for he was always very friendly with Annie, “could you help me take off my overalls and then lend your lovely hand to the grill? I haven't eaten anything in over twenty-four hours.”
“Surely then you must be quite starving, sir,” my sister replied with the greatest zeal; for she did love a man with an appetite; “how glad I am that the fire is clear!” But Lizzie, who happened to be there, said with her peculiar smile,—
“Surely you must be really hungry, sir,” my sister replied enthusiastically; she really liked a man with an appetite. “I’m so glad the fire is going strong!” But Lizzie, who was also there, said with her unique smile,—
“Master Stickles must be used to it; for he never comes back without telling us that.”
“Master Stickles must be used to it; because he never comes back without telling us that.”
“Hush!” cried Annie, quite shocked with her; “how would you like to be used to it? Now, Betty, be quick with the things for me. Pork, or mutton, or deer's meat, sir? We have some cured since the autumn.”
“Hush!” Annie exclaimed, clearly taken aback by her. “How would you like to get used to it? Now, Betty, hurry up with the things for me. Pork, mutton, or venison, sir? We’ve had some cured since the fall.”
“Oh, deer's meat, by all means,” Jeremy Stickles answered; “I have tasted none since I left you, though dreaming of it often. Well, this is better than being chased over the moors for one's life, John. All the way from Landacre Bridge, I have ridden a race for my precious life, at the peril of my limbs and neck. Three great Doones galloping after me, and a good job for me that they were so big, or they must have overtaken me. Just go and see to my horse, John, that's an excellent lad. He deserves a good turn this day, from me; and I will render it to him.”
“Oh, absolutely, deer meat,” Jeremy Stickles replied; “I haven’t had any since I left you, though I've dreamt about it a lot. Well, this is definitely better than being chased across the moors for my life, John. I’ve been riding for my life all the way from Landacre Bridge, risking my limbs and neck. Three big Doones were galloping after me, and I’m lucky they were so large; otherwise, they would have caught me. Just go check on my horse, John, you’re a great lad. He deserves some good treatment from me today, and I’ll make sure he gets it.”
However he left me to do it, while he made himself comfortable: and in truth the horse required care; he was blown so that he could hardly stand, and plastered with mud, and steaming so that the stable was quite full with it. By the time I had put the poor fellow to rights, his master had finished dinner, and was in a more pleasant humour, having even offered to kiss Annie, out of pure gratitude, as he said; but Annie answered with spirit that gratitude must not be shown by increasing the obligation. Jeremy made reply to this that his only way to be grateful then was to tell us his story: and so he did, at greater length than I can here repeat it; for it does not bear particularly upon Lorna's fortunes.
However, he left me to handle it while he got comfortable. The horse really needed attention; he was so exhausted he could barely stand, covered in mud, and steaming so much that the stable was completely full of it. By the time I had taken care of the poor guy, his master had finished dinner and was in a better mood, even offering to kiss Annie out of pure gratitude, as he said. But Annie firmly replied that gratitude shouldn't be shown by increasing the obligation. Jeremy responded that the only way he could express his gratitude was by telling us his story. And so he did, in more detail than I can repeat here, since it doesn't really relate to Lorna's situation.
It appears that as he was riding towards us from the town of Southmolton in Devonshire, he found the roads very soft and heavy, and the floods out in all directions; but met with no other difficulty until he came to Landacre Bridge. He had only a single trooper with him, a man not of the militia but of the King's army, whom Jeremy had brought from Exeter. As these two descended towards the bridge they observed that both the Kensford water and the River Barle were pouring down in mighty floods from the melting of the snow. So great indeed was the torrent, after they united, that only the parapets of the bridge could be seen above the water, the road across either bank being covered and very deep on the hither side. The trooper did not like the look of it, and proposed to ride back again, and round by way of Simonsbath, where the stream is smaller. But Stickles would not have it so, and dashing into the river, swam his horse for the bridge, and gained it with some little trouble; and there he found the water not more than up to his horse's knees perhaps. On the crown of the bridge he turned his horse to watch the trooper's passage, and to help him with directions; when suddenly he saw him fall headlong into the torrent, and heard the report of a gun from behind, and felt a shock to his own body, such as lifted him out of the saddle. Turning round he beheld three men, risen up from behind the hedge on one side of his onward road, two of them ready to load again, and one with his gun unfired, waiting to get good aim at him. Then Jeremy did a gallant thing, for which I doubt whether I should have had the presence of mind in danger. He saw that to swim his horse back again would be almost certain death; as affording such a target, where even a wound must be fatal. Therefore he struck the spurs into the nag, and rode through the water straight at the man who was pointing the long gun at him. If the horse had been carried off his legs, there must have been an end of Jeremy; for the other men were getting ready to have another shot at him. But luckily the horse galloped right on without any need for swimming, being himself excited, no doubt, by all he had seen and heard of it. And Jeremy lay almost flat on his neck, so as to give little space for good aim, with the mane tossing wildly in front of him. Now if that young fellow with the gun had his brains as ready as his flint was, he would have shot the horse at once, and then had Stickles at his mercy; but instead of that he let fly at the man, and missed him altogether, being scared perhaps by the pistol which Jeremy showed him the mouth of. And galloping by at full speed, Master Stickles tried to leave his mark behind him, for he changed the aim of his pistol to the biggest man, who was loading his gun and cursing like ten cannons. But the pistol missed fire, no doubt from the flood which had gurgled in over the holsters; and Jeremy seeing three horses tethered at a gate just up the hill, knew that he had not yet escaped, but had more of danger behind him. He tried his other great pistol at one of the horses tethered there, so as to lessen (if possible) the number of his pursuers. But the powder again failed him; and he durst not stop to cut the bridles, bearing the men coming up the hill. So he even made the most of his start, thanking God that his weight was light, compared at least to what theirs was.
It looks like as he was riding towards us from the town of Southmolton in Devon, he found the roads really soft and heavy, with floods everywhere; but he didn’t face any other trouble until he reached Landacre Bridge. He had just one soldier with him, a man from the King's army, not the militia, whom Jeremy had brought from Exeter. As these two made their way down to the bridge, they noticed that both the Kensford water and the River Barle were rushing down in powerful floods due to the melting snow. The torrent was so strong, once they merged, that only the tops of the bridge's parapets were visible above the water, with the road on either side completely submerged and very deep on their side. The soldier didn’t like how it looked and suggested they turn back and go around via Simonsbath, where the stream was smaller. But Stickles wouldn’t hear of it, and charging into the river, he swam his horse to the bridge and managed to reach it with only a little trouble; there he found the water was only up to his horse's knees. At the top of the bridge, he turned his horse to watch the soldier cross and help with directions when suddenly he saw him tumble headfirst into the rushing water, heard a gunshot from behind, and felt a jolt that nearly threw him from the saddle. Turning around, he saw three men rise from behind a hedge on one side of his path, two of them ready to reload, and one with his gun still unfired, trying to find a good aim at him. Jeremy then did something brave that I’m not sure I would have had the presence of mind to do in such danger. He realized that swimming his horse back would almost certainly lead to his death, since it would make him an easy target, where even a wound would be fatal. So he spurred his horse and charged straight at the man aiming the long gun at him. If the horse had fallen, that would have been the end for Jeremy, since the other men were already preparing to take another shot at him. But fortunately, the horse galloped on without needing to swim, likely stirred up by all the commotion. And Jeremy leaned low on his neck, making it hard for them to take a good aim, with his mane flying wildly in front of him. If that young guy with the gun had been as quick with his aim as he was with lighting his flint, he would have shot the horse right away, leaving Stickles at his mercy. But instead, he fired at Jeremy and missed completely, perhaps startled by the pistol Jeremy showed him. As he galloped past at full speed, Master Stickles tried to take a shot behind him, aiming his pistol at the biggest guy who was loading his gun and swearing like crazy. Unfortunately, the pistol misfired, likely because the flood had soaked the holsters, and Jeremy saw three horses tied at a gate just up the hill, realizing he wasn’t safe yet but still had dangers behind him. He tried using his other big pistol at one of the tethered horses to try to reduce the number of his pursuers. But again, the powder failed him, and he couldn't stop to cut the cords, with the men coming up the hill. So he just made the most of his head start, thanking God that he was lighter compared to them.
And another thing he had noticed which gave him some hope of escaping, to wit that the horses of the Doones, although very handsome animals, were suffering still from the bitter effects of the late long frost, and the scarcity of fodder. “If they do not catch me up, or shoot me, in the course of the first two miles, I may see my home again”; this was what he said to himself as he turned to mark what they were about, from the brow of the steep hill. He saw the flooded valley shining with the breadth of water, and the trooper's horse on the other side, shaking his drenched flanks and neighing; and half-way down the hill he saw the three Doones mounting hastily. And then he knew that his only chance lay in the stoutness of his steed.
And one more thing he noticed that gave him some hope of getting away: the horses of the Doones, while very handsome, were still struggling from the harsh effects of the recent long frost and the lack of food. “If they don’t catch me or shoot me in the first two miles, I might make it home,” he thought as he turned to see what they were doing from the top of the steep hill. He saw the flooded valley gleaming with water and the trooper’s horse on the other side, shaking off the wet and neighing; halfway down the hill, he spotted the three Doones mounting up quickly. And then he realized his only chance relied on the strength of his horse.
The horse was in pretty good condition; and the rider knew him thoroughly, and how to make the most of him; and though they had travelled some miles that day through very heavy ground, the bath in the river had washed the mud off, and been some refreshment. Therefore Stickles encouraged his nag, and put him into a good hard gallop, heading away towards Withycombe. At first he had thought of turning to the right, and making off for Withypool, a mile or so down the valley; but his good sense told him that no one there would dare to protect him against the Doones, so he resolved to go on his way; yet faster than he had intended.
The horse was in pretty good shape, and the rider knew him well and how to get the best out of him. Even though they had covered some tough miles that day, the bath in the river had washed off the mud and provided some refreshment. So, Stickles urged his horse on and pushed him into a solid gallop toward Withycombe. At first, he considered turning right and heading to Withypool, which was about a mile down the valley, but his common sense told him that no one there would stand up to the Doones, so he decided to stick to his path, even faster than he had planned.
The three villains came after him, with all the speed they could muster, making sure from the badness of the road that he must stick fast ere long, and so be at their mercy. And this was Jeremy's chiefest fear, for the ground being soft and thoroughly rotten, after so much frost and snow, the poor horse had terrible work of it, with no time to pick the way; and even more good luck than skill was needed to keep him from foundering. How Jeremy prayed for an Exmoor fog (such as he had often sworn at), that he might turn aside and lurk, while his pursuers went past him! But no fog came, nor even a storm to damp the priming of their guns; neither was wood or coppice nigh, nor any place to hide in; only hills, and moor, and valleys; with flying shadows over them, and great banks of snow in the corners. At one time poor Stickles was quite in despair; for after leaping a little brook which crosses the track at Newland, he stuck fast in a “dancing bog,” as we call them upon Exmoor. The horse had broken through the crust of moss and sedge and marishweed, and could do nothing but wallow and sink, with the black water spirting over him. And Jeremy, struggling with all his might, saw the three villains now topping the crest, less than a furlong behind him; and heard them shout in their savage delight. With the calmness of despair, he yet resolved to have one more try for it; and scrambling over the horse's head, gained firm land, and tugged at the bridle. The poor nag replied with all his power to the call upon his courage, and reared his forefeet out of the slough, and with straining eyeballs gazed at him. “Now,” said Jeremy, “now, my fine fellow!” lifting him with the bridle, and the brave beast gathered the roll of his loins, and sprang from his quagmired haunches. One more spring, and he was on earth again, instead of being under it; and Jeremy leaped on his back, and stooped, for he knew that they would fire. Two bullets whistled over him, as the horse, mad with fright, dashed forward; and in five minutes more he had come to the Exe, and the pursuers had fallen behind him. The Exe, though a much smaller stream than the Barle, now ran in a foaming torrent, unbridged, and too wide for leaping. But Jeremy's horse took the water well; and both he and his rider were lightened, as well as comforted by it. And as they passed towards Lucott hill, and struck upon the founts of Lynn, the horses of the three pursuers began to tire under them. Then Jeremy Stickles knew that if he could only escape the sloughs, he was safe for the present; and so he stood up in his stirrups, and gave them a loud halloo, as if they had been so many foxes.
The three villains chased him as fast as they could, knowing that with the bad condition of the road, he would eventually get stuck and be at their mercy. This was Jeremy's biggest fear, as the ground was soft and completely rotten from all the frost and snow. The poor horse was struggling, with no time to find his footing, and it took more luck than skill to keep him from collapsing. Jeremy prayed for an Exmoor fog (which he had often cursed), hoping to hide while his pursuers passed him by! But no fog appeared, nor even a storm to wet their guns; there were no woods or bushes nearby, just hills, moors, and valleys, with shadows flying over them and big snowbanks in the corners. At one point, poor Stickles was nearly in despair; after jumping over a small stream on the Newland track, he got stuck in what we call a "dancing bog" on Exmoor. The horse broke through the layer of moss and weeds and could only wallow and sink with black water splashing over him. Struggling with all his might, Jeremy saw the three villains cresting the hill, less than a furlong behind him, and heard them shout in savage delight. In the calmness of despair, he resolved to try one more time; scrambling over the horse's head, he reached solid ground and pulled at the bridle. The poor nag responded with all its strength, lifting its front feet out of the muck and staring at him with strained eyes. “Now,” said Jeremy, “come on, my fine fellow!” He tugged at the bridle, and the brave horse gathered itself and sprang from the bog. With one last leap, he was back on solid ground instead of stuck beneath it, and Jeremy jumped onto his back, bending down because he knew they would shoot. Two bullets whizzed past him as the horse, panicked, bolted forward; in just five more minutes, they reached the Exe, with the pursuers falling behind. The Exe, although much smaller than the Barle, was now a foaming torrent, unbridged and too wide to jump across. But Jeremy's horse handled the water well, and both horse and rider felt lighter and relieved by it. As they approached Lucott Hill and reached the springs of Lynn, the horses of the three pursuers began to tire. Then Jeremy Stickles realized that if he could just avoid the marshes, he would be safe for now, so he stood in his stirrups and shouted loudly at them as if they were just a bunch of foxes.
Their only answer was to fire the remaining charge at him; but the distance was too great for any aim from horseback; and the dropping bullet idly ploughed the sod upon one side of him. He acknowledged it with a wave of his hat, and laid one thumb to his nose, in the manner fashionable in London for expression of contempt. However, they followed him yet farther; hoping to make him pay out dearly, if he should only miss the track, or fall upon morasses. But the neighbourhood of our Lynn stream is not so very boggy; and the King's messenger now knew his way as well as any of his pursuers did; and so he arrived at Plover's Barrows, thankful, and in rare appetite.
Their only response was to fire the remaining shot at him, but the distance was too far to aim from horseback, and the bullet harmlessly dug into the ground beside him. He acknowledged this with a wave of his hat and put his thumb to his nose, in a gesture of contempt popular in London. However, they continued to follow him, hoping he would get lost or stumble into swamps. But the area around our Lynn stream isn’t very marshy, and the King’s messenger knew his way as well as any of his pursuers. He arrived at Plover's Barrows, grateful and very hungry.
“But was the poor soldier drowned?” asked Annie; “and you never went to look for him! Oh, how very dreadful!”
“But was the poor soldier drowned?” Annie asked. “And you never went to look for him! Oh, how terrible!”
“Shot, or drowned; I know not which. Thank God it was only a trooper. But they shall pay for it, as dearly as if it had been a captain.”
“Shot or drowned; I can’t say which. Thank God it was only a trooper. But they will pay for it, just as if it was a captain.”
“And how was it you were struck by a bullet, and only shaken in your saddle? Had you a coat of mail on, or of Milanese chain-armour? Now, Master Stickles, had you?”
“And how is it that you were hit by a bullet and just shaken in your saddle? Were you wearing a suit of armor, or Milanese chain-mail? Now, Master Stickles, what's the story?”
“No, Mistress Lizzie; we do not wear things of that kind nowadays. You are apt, I perceive, at romances. But I happened to have a little flat bottle of the best stoneware slung beneath my saddle-cloak, and filled with the very best eau de vie, from the George Hotel, at Southmolton. The brand of it now is upon my back. Oh, the murderous scoundrels, what a brave spirit they have spilled!”
“No, Mistress Lizzie; we don’t wear things like that anymore. You’re quite good at telling stories, I see. But I happened to have a small flat bottle of the finest stoneware tied beneath my saddle cloak, filled with the best eau de vie from the George Hotel in Southmolton. The brand of it is now on my back. Oh, those murderous scoundrels, what a brave spirit they’ve wasted!”
“You had better set to and thank God,” said I, “that they have not spilled a braver one.”
“You should really get started and thank God,” I said, “that they haven’t taken a braver one.”
CHAPTER XLVIII
EVERY MAN MUST DEFEND HIMSELF
It was only right in Jeremy Stickles, and of the simplest common sense, that he would not tell, before our girls, what the result of his journey was. But he led me aside in the course of the evening, and told me all about it; saying that I knew, as well as he did, that it was not woman's business. This I took, as it was meant, for a gentle caution that Lorna (whom he had not seen as yet) must not be informed of any of his doings. Herein I quite agreed with him; not only for his furtherance, but because I always think that women, of whatever mind, are best when least they meddle with the things that appertain to men.
It made perfect sense to Jeremy Stickles, and it was just plain common sense, that he wouldn’t tell our girls the outcome of his trip. But he took me aside later that evening and shared everything with me, saying that I knew just as well as he did that it wasn’t something for women to concern themselves with. I understood this as a gentle reminder that Lorna (who he hadn’t seen yet) shouldn’t be told anything about what he had done. I completely agreed with him, not just for his sake, but because I’ve always felt that women, no matter their opinions, are better off when they don’t get involved in matters that belong to men.
Master Stickles complained that the weather had been against him bitterly, closing all the roads around him; even as it had done with us. It had taken him eight days, he said, to get from Exeter to Plymouth; whither he found that most of the troops had been drafted off from Exeter. When all were told, there was but a battalion of one of the King's horse regiments, and two companies of foot soldiers; and their commanders had orders, later than the date of Jeremy's commission, on no account to quit the southern coast, and march inland. Therefore, although they would gladly have come for a brush with the celebrated Doones, it was more than they durst attempt, in the face of their instructions. However, they spared him a single trooper, as a companion of the road, and to prove to the justices of the county, and the lord lieutenant, that he had their approval.
Master Stickles complained that the weather had been against him, bitterly closing all the roads around him, just like it had with us. He said it took him eight days to get from Exeter to Plymouth, where he found that most of the troops had been moved from Exeter. In total, there was only a battalion of one of the King's horse regiments and two companies of foot soldiers; their commanders had orders, issued after the date of Jeremy's commission, not to leave the southern coast and march inland. So, even though they would have gladly gone for a fight with the famous Doones, it was more than they could risk, given their orders. However, they did send him a single trooper to accompany him on the road and to show the justices of the county and the lord lieutenant that he had their approval.
To these authorities Master Stickles now was forced to address himself, although he would rather have had one trooper than a score from the very best trained bands. For these trained bands had afforded very good soldiers, in the time of the civil wars, and for some years afterwards; but now their discipline was gone; and the younger generation had seen no real fighting. Each would have his own opinion, and would want to argue it; and if he were not allowed, he went about his duty in such a temper as to prove that his own way was the best.
Master Stickles now had to talk to these authorities, even though he would prefer to deal with one soldier rather than a bunch from the best-trained groups. Those trained groups had provided decent soldiers during the civil wars and for several years after that; however, their discipline had faded. The younger generation hadn’t experienced any real combat. Each person had their own opinion and wanted to debate it; if they weren’t allowed to, they went about their duties with an attitude that showed they thought their way was the best.
Neither was this the worst of it; for Jeremy made no doubt but what (if he could only get the militia to turn out in force) he might manage, with the help of his own men, to force the stronghold of the enemy; but the truth was that the officers, knowing how hard it would be to collect their men at that time of the year, and in that state of the weather, began with one accord to make every possible excuse. And especially they pressed this point, that Bagworthy was not in their county; the Devonshire people affirming vehemently that it lay in the shire of Somerset, and the Somersetshire folk averring, even with imprecations, that it lay in Devonshire. Now I believe the truth to be that the boundary of the two counties, as well as of Oare and Brendon parishes, is defined by the Bagworthy river; so that the disputants on both sides were both right and wrong.
This wasn’t even the worst part; Jeremy was convinced that if he could get the militia to show up in full force, he might be able to take the enemy's stronghold with the help of his own men. But the reality was that the officers, fully aware of how difficult it would be to gather their troops at that time of year and in such bad weather, all started making excuses. They particularly pointed out that Bagworthy wasn’t in their county; the people from Devon were insisting it was in Somerset, while those from Somerset were swearing, even angrily, that it was in Devon. I believe the truth is that the boundary between the two counties, as well as between the Oare and Brendon parishes, is marked by the Bagworthy river, meaning both sides were correct and incorrect at the same time.
Upon this, Master Stickles suggested, and as I thought very sensibly, that the two counties should unite, and equally contribute to the extirpation of this pest, which shamed and injured them both alike. But hence arose another difficulty; for the men of Devon said they would march when Somerset had taken the field; and the sons of Somerset replied that indeed they were quite ready, but what were their cousins of Devonshire doing? And so it came to pass that the King's Commissioner returned without any army whatever; but with promise of two hundred men when the roads should be more passable. And meanwhile, what were we to do, abandoned as we were to the mercies of the Doones, with only our own hands to help us? And herein I grieved at my own folly, in having let Tom Faggus go, whose wit and courage would have been worth at least half a dozen men to us. Upon this matter I held long council with my good friend Stickles; telling him all about Lorna's presence, and what I knew of her history. He agreed with me that we could not hope to escape an attack from the outlaws, and the more especially now that they knew himself to be returned to us. Also he praised me for my forethought in having threshed out all our corn, and hidden the produce in such a manner that they were not likely to find it. Furthermore, he recommended that all the entrances to the house should at once be strengthened, and a watch must be maintained at night; and he thought it wiser that I should go (late as it was) to Lynmouth, if a horse could pass the valley, and fetch every one of his mounted troopers, who might now be quartered there. Also if any men of courage, though capable only of handling a pitchfork, could be found in the neighbourhood, I was to try to summon them. But our district is so thinly peopled, that I had little faith in this; however my errand was given me, and I set forth upon it; for John Fry was afraid of the waters.
After this, Master Stickles suggested, and I thought it was a sensible idea, that the two counties should join forces and equally work together to get rid of this problem that was embarrassing and harming both of them. But this led to another issue; the people of Devon said they would march when Somerset assembled their forces, while the people of Somerset replied that they were ready, but what were their cousins from Devon doing? As a result, the King's Commissioner returned without any army at all, but with a promise of two hundred men when the roads became easier to travel. Meanwhile, what were we supposed to do, left to the mercy of the Doones, with only ourselves to rely on? I regretted my own foolishness in letting Tom Faggus go, whose skills and bravery would have been worth at least half a dozen men to us. I held a long discussion about this with my good friend Stickles, sharing everything I knew about Lorna and her background. He agreed that we couldn't hope to avoid an attack from the outlaws, especially now that they knew he had returned. He also praised me for thinking ahead in harvesting all our grain and hiding the harvest in a way that they were unlikely to discover it. Additionally, he recommended that we strengthen all the entrances to the house right away and maintain a watch at night; he thought it wise for me to go, even though it was late, to Lynmouth to gather all his mounted troopers who might be stationed there. He also suggested that if there were any brave men around, even if they could only handle a pitchfork, I should try to call them to help. However, our area is so sparsely populated that I doubted this would work; still, I had my task, and I set out on it because John Fry was afraid of the waters.
Knowing how fiercely the floods were out, I resolved to travel the higher road, by Cosgate and through Countisbury; therefore I swam my horse through the Lynn, at the ford below our house (where sometimes you may step across), and thence galloped up and along the hills. I could see all the inland valleys ribbon'd with broad waters; and in every winding crook, the banks of snow that fed them; while on my right the turbid sea was flaked with April showers. But when I descended the hill towards Lynmouth, I feared that my journey was all in vain.
Knowing how fiercely the floods were raging, I decided to take the higher road, through Cosgate and Countisbury. So, I swam my horse across the Lynn at the ford below our house (where you can sometimes step over), and then galloped up along the hills. I could see all the inland valleys filled with wide stretches of water, and in every curve, the banks of snow that fed them. To my right, the choppy sea was dotted with April showers. But as I descended the hill towards Lynmouth, I worried that my journey might be pointless.
For the East Lynn (which is our river) was ramping and roaring frightfully, lashing whole trunks of trees on the rocks, and rending them, and grinding them. And into it rushed, from the opposite side, a torrent even madder; upsetting what it came to aid; shattering wave with boiling billow, and scattering wrath with fury. It was certain death to attempt the passage: and the little wooden footbridge had been carried away long ago. And the men I was seeking must be, of course, on the other side of this deluge, for on my side there was not a single house.
For the East Lynn (our river) was rampaging and roaring violently, smashing whole trees against the rocks, tearing them apart, and grinding them down. And into it charged, from the opposite side, an even crazier torrent; overturning everything it encountered; crashing waves with boiling surf, and spreading chaos with rage. It was a sure death to try to cross: the small wooden footbridge had been swept away a long time ago. And the men I was looking for had to be on the other side of this flood, because there wasn't a single house on my side.
I followed the bank of the flood to the beach, some two or three hundred yards below; and there had the luck to see Will Watcombe on the opposite side, caulking an old boat. Though I could not make him hear a word, from the deafening roar of the torrent, I got him to understand at last that I wanted to cross over. Upon this he fetched another man, and the two of them launched a boat; and paddling well out to sea, fetched round the mouth of the frantic river. The other man proved to be Stickles's chief mate; and so he went back and fetched his comrades, bringing their weapons, but leaving their horses behind. As it happened there were but four of them; however, to have even these was a help; and I started again at full speed for my home; for the men must follow afoot, and cross our river high up on the moorland.
I followed the riverbank to the beach, about two or three hundred yards down, and fortunately saw Will Watcombe on the other side, repairing an old boat. Although I couldn't get him to hear me over the loud rush of the water, I finally got him to understand that I wanted to cross. He then went to get another man, and together they launched a boat. They paddled well out to sea and rounded the mouth of the raging river. The other man turned out to be Stickles's chief mate, so he went back to get his crew, bringing their gear but leaving their horses behind. As it turned out, there were only four of them, but having even that many was a help, and I took off again at full speed toward home, because the men would need to walk and cross our river higher up on the moorland.
This took them a long way round, and the track was rather bad to find, and the sky already darkening; so that I arrived at Plover's Barrows more than two hours before them. But they had done a sagacious thing, which was well worth the delay; for by hoisting their flag upon the hill, they fetched the two watchmen from the Foreland, and added them to their number.
This took them a long way around, and the path was pretty hard to find, and the sky was already getting dark; so I got to Plover's Barrows more than two hours ahead of them. But they did something smart, which was worth the wait; by raising their flag on the hill, they brought the two watchmen from the Foreland to join them.
It was lucky that I came home so soon; for I found the house in a great commotion, and all the women trembling. When I asked what the matter was, Lorna, who seemed the most self-possessed, answered that it was all her fault, for she alone had frightened them. And this in the following manner. She had stolen out to the garden towards dusk, to watch some favourite hyacinths just pushing up, like a baby's teeth, and just attracting the fatal notice of a great house-snail at night-time. Lorna at last had discovered the glutton, and was bearing him off in triumph to the tribunal of the ducks, when she descried two glittering eyes glaring at her steadfastly, from the elder-bush beyond the stream. The elder was smoothing its wrinkled leaves, being at least two months behind time; and among them this calm cruel face appeared; and she knew it was the face of Carver Doone.
I was lucky to get home so early because I found the house in chaos, with all the women trembling. When I asked what was going on, Lorna, who seemed the most composed, said it was all her fault because she alone had scared them. Here’s what happened: she had sneaked out to the garden around dusk to check on some favorite hyacinths just starting to push up, like a baby's teeth, that were attracting the unwanted attention of a big house snail at night. Lorna finally spotted the greedy snail and was carrying it off triumphantly to the ducks when she noticed two glowing eyes staring at her from the elder bush on the other side of the stream. The elder was smoothing its wrinkled leaves, being at least two months behind schedule, and among them, this calm, cruel face appeared; she recognized it as Carver Doone's.
The maiden, although so used to terror (as she told me once before), lost all presence of mind hereat, and could neither shriek nor fly, but only gaze, as if bewitched. Then Carver Doone, with his deadly smile, gloating upon her horror, lifted his long gun, and pointed full at Lorna's heart. In vain she strove to turn away; fright had stricken her stiff as stone. With the inborn love of life, she tried to cover the vital part wherein the winged death must lodge—for she knew Carver's certain aim—but her hands hung numbed, and heavy; in nothing but her eyes was life.
The girl, even though she was so familiar with fear (as she had told me before), completely lost her composure in this moment. She could neither scream nor run, only stare, as if under a spell. Then Carver Doone, with his deadly grin, reveling in her terror, raised his long gun and aimed straight at Lorna's heart. She tried desperately to look away; fear had frozen her like a statue. With an instinctive will to survive, she attempted to shield herself from the fatal shot that she knew was inevitable—because she understood Carver's deadly accuracy—but her arms felt numb and heavy; the only sign of life was in her eyes.
With no sign of pity in his face, no quiver of relenting, but a well-pleased grin at all the charming palsy of his victim, Carver Doone lowered, inch by inch, the muzzle of his gun. When it pointed to the ground, between her delicate arched insteps, he pulled the trigger, and the bullet flung the mould all over her. It was a refinement of bullying, for which I swore to God that night, upon my knees, in secret, that I would smite down Carver Doone or else he should smite me down. Base beast! what largest humanity, or what dreams of divinity, could make a man put up with this?
With no hint of compassion on his face, no sign of backing down, but a satisfied grin as he enjoyed the distress of his victim, Carver Doone slowly lowered the muzzle of his gun. When it was aimed at the ground, right between her delicate arched feet, he pulled the trigger, and the bullet splattered the dirt all over her. It was a cruel form of bullying, and that night, on my knees in secret, I vowed to God that I would take down Carver Doone or he would bring me down. Despicable beast! What kind of humanity, or what ideals of divinity, could allow a man to tolerate this?
My darling (the loveliest, and most harmless, in the world of maidens), fell away on a bank of grass, and wept at her own cowardice; and trembled, and wondered where I was; and what I would think of this. Good God! What could I think of it? She over-rated my slow nature, to admit the question.
My darling (the most beautiful and innocent girl in the world), fell onto a patch of grass and cried over her own cowardice; she shook, wondering where I was and what I would think about this. Good God! What could I think? She overestimated my slow nature to even ask that.
While she leaned there, quite unable yet to save herself, Carver came to the brink of the flood, which alone was between them; and then he stroked his jet-black beard, and waited for Lorna to begin. Very likely, he thought that she would thank him for his kindness to her. But she was now recovering the power of her nimble limbs; and ready to be off like hope, and wonder at her own cowardice.
While she leaned there, still unable to save herself, Carver approached the edge of the flood that separated them. He stroked his jet-black beard and waited for Lorna to speak first. He probably thought she would thank him for his kindness. But she was regaining the strength in her nimble limbs, ready to take off like hope and amazed at her own cowardice.
“I have spared you this time,” he said, in his deep calm voice, “only because it suits my plans; and I never yield to temper. But unless you come back to-morrow, pure, and with all you took away, and teach me to destroy that fool, who has destroyed himself for you, your death is here, your death is here, where it has long been waiting.”
“I let you off this time,” he said, in his deep, calm voice, “only because it fits my plans; I never give in to anger. But if you don’t come back tomorrow, clean and with everything you took, and teach me how to get rid of that idiot who has ruined himself for you, your death is here, your death is here, where it has long been waiting.”
Although his gun was empty, he struck the breech of it with his finger; and then he turned away, not deigning even once to look back again; and Lorna saw his giant figure striding across the meadow-land, as if the Ridds were nobodies, and he the proper owner. Both mother and I were greatly hurt at hearing of this insolence: for we had owned that meadow, from the time of the great Alfred; and even when that good king lay in the Isle of Athelney, he had a Ridd along with him.
Although his gun was empty, he tapped the breech with his finger; then he turned away, not bothering to look back even once. Lorna watched his tall figure walking across the meadow as if the Ridds didn’t matter and he was the rightful owner. Both my mother and I were really hurt by this arrogance, because we had owned that meadow since the time of the great Alfred; and even when that good king was on the Isle of Athelney, he had a Ridd with him.
Now I spoke to Lorna gently, seeing how much she had been tried; and I praised her for her courage, in not having run away, when she was so unable; and my darling was pleased with this, and smiled upon me for saying it; though she knew right well that, in this matter, my judgment was not impartial. But you may take this as a general rule, that a woman likes praise from the man whom she loves, and cannot stop always to balance it.
Now I spoke to Lorna softly, noticing how much she had been through; and I praised her for her bravery in not running away when she so easily could have. My dear was happy to hear this and smiled at me for saying it, even though she knew that my judgment on this was biased. But you can take this as a general rule: a woman enjoys praise from the man she loves and doesn’t always weigh it out carefully.
Now expecting a sharp attack that night—when Jeremy Stickles the more expected, after the words of Carver, which seemed to be meant to mislead us—we prepared a great quantity of knuckles of pork, and a ham in full cut, and a fillet of hung mutton. For we would almost surrender rather than keep our garrison hungry. And all our men were exceedingly brave; and counted their rounds of the house in half-pints.
Now anticipating a sudden attack that night—when Jeremy Stickles expected it even more, after Carver's words, which seemed intended to mislead us—we prepared a large amount of pork knuckles, a full cut ham, and a fillet of aged mutton. We would almost rather surrender than keep our garrison starving. All our men were incredibly brave and measured their rounds of the house in half-pints.
Before the maidens went to bed, Lorna made a remark which seemed to me a very clever one, and then I wondered how on earth it had never occurred to me before. But first she had done a thing which I could not in the least approve of: for she had gone up to my mother, and thrown herself into her arms, and begged to be allowed to return to Glen Doone.
Before the young women went to bed, Lorna made a comment that struck me as really clever, and I couldn't believe it had never crossed my mind before. But first, she did something I absolutely disapproved of: she went up to my mother, threw herself into her arms, and begged to go back to Glen Doone.
“My child, are you unhappy here?” mother asked her, very gently, for she had begun to regard her now as a daughter of her own.
“My child, are you unhappy here?” mother asked her gently, as she had started to see her as a daughter of her own.
“Oh, no! Too happy, by far too happy, Mrs. Ridd. I never knew rest or peace before, or met with real kindness. But I cannot be so ungrateful, I cannot be so wicked, as to bring you all into deadly peril, for my sake alone. Let me go: you must not pay this great price for my happiness.”
“Oh, no! I'm way too happy, Mrs. Ridd. I’ve never known rest or peace before, or experienced genuine kindness. But I can’t be so ungrateful or wicked as to put all of you in danger just for my sake. Let me go: you shouldn’t have to pay this huge price for my happiness.”
“Dear child, we are paying no price at all,” replied my mother, embracing her; “we are not threatened for your sake only. Ask John, he will tell you. He knows every bit about politics, and this is a political matter.”
“Dear child, we’re not paying any price at all,” my mother said as she hugged her. “We’re not in danger just for you. Ask John; he’ll tell you. He knows all about politics, and this is a political issue.”
Dear mother was rather proud in her heart, as well as terribly frightened, at the importance now accruing to Plover's Barrows farm; and she often declared that it would be as famous in history as the Rye House, or the Meal-tub, or even the great black box, in which she was a firm believer: and even my knowledge of politics could not move her upon that matter. “Such things had happened before,” she would say, shaking her head with its wisdom, “and why might they not happen again? Women would be women, and men would be men, to the end of the chapter; and if she had been in Lucy Water's place, she would keep it quiet, as she had done”; and then she would look round, for fear, lest either of her daughters had heard her; “but now, can you give me any reason, why it may not have been so? You are so fearfully positive, John: just as men always are.” “No,” I used to say; “I can give you no reason, why it may not have been so, mother. But the question is, if it was so, or not; rather than what it might have been. And, I think, it is pretty good proof against it, that what nine men of every ten in England would only too gladly believe, if true, is nevertheless kept dark from them.” “There you are again, John,” mother would reply, “all about men, and not a single word about women. If you had any argument at all, you would own that marriage is a question upon which women are the best judges.” “Oh!” I would groan in my spirit, and go; leaving my dearest mother quite sure, that now at last she must have convinced me. But if mother had known that Jeremy Stickles was working against the black box, and its issue, I doubt whether he would have fared so well, even though he was a visitor. However, she knew that something was doing and something of importance; and she trusted in God for the rest of it. Only she used to tell me, very seriously, of an evening, “The very least they can give you, dear John, is a coat of arms. Be sure you take nothing less, dear; and the farm can well support it.”
Dear mother felt a mix of pride and fear about the growing significance of Plover's Barrows farm. She often said it would be just as notable in history as the Rye House, the Meal-tub, or even the great black box, which she firmly believed in. Not even my political knowledge could change her mind on that. “This kind of thing has happened before,” she’d say, shaking her head wisely, “so why couldn’t it happen again? Women will always be women, and men will always be men; and if I were in Lucy Water's position, I would keep it quiet, just like she did.” Then she would glance around, worried one of my sisters might overhear her. “But tell me, why couldn’t it have been so? You’re so annoyingly certain, John, just like men always are.” “No,” I would respond. “I can’t give you a reason why it couldn’t have been, mother. But the real question is whether it was or wasn’t, not what it could have been. And I think it's pretty strong evidence against it that what nine out of ten men in England would love to believe, if it were true, is still kept hidden from them.” “There you go again, John,” mother would say, “talking about men and not saying a word about women. If you had any argument at all, you’d admit that marriage is a topic where women are the best judges.” “Oh!” I would groan internally and leave, fully aware that my dear mother was now convinced she had changed my mind. But if mother had known that Jeremy Stickles was working against the black box and its outcome, I doubt he would have had such an easy time, even as a guest. Still, she sensed something important was happening, and she placed her faith in God for the rest. Only in the evenings would she seriously tell me, “The very least they can give you, dear John, is a coat of arms. Make sure you accept nothing less; the farm can definitely handle it.”
But lo! I have left Lorna ever so long, anxious to consult me upon political matters. She came to me, and her eyes alone asked a hundred questions, which I rather had answered upon her lips than troubled her pretty ears with them. Therefore I told her nothing at all, save that the attack (if any should be) would not be made on her account; and that if she should hear, by any chance, a trifle of a noise in the night, she was to wrap the clothes around her, and shut her beautiful eyes again. On no account, whatever she did, was she to go to the window. She liked my expression about her eyes, and promised to do the very best she could and then she crept so very close, that I needs must have her closer; and with her head on my breast she asked,—
But hey! I’ve left Lorna for a long time, eager to talk to me about political stuff. She came to me, and her eyes were asking a hundred questions, which I would rather have answered with my words than bother her lovely ears with them. So, I told her nothing at all, except that the attack (if it happened) wouldn't be because of her; and if she happened to hear a little noise at night, she should wrap herself in the blankets and close her beautiful eyes again. No matter what, she shouldn't go to the window. She liked how I talked about her eyes and promised to do her best, and then she got so close that I had to pull her even closer; with her head on my chest, she asked—
“Can't you keep out of this fight, John?”
“Can’t you stay out of this fight, John?”
“My own one,” I answered, gazing through the long black lashes, at the depths of radiant love; “I believe there will be nothing: but what there is I must see out.”
“My own one,” I replied, looking through my long black lashes into the depths of radiant love; “I think there will be nothing: but whatever there is, I have to see it through.”
“Shall I tell you what I think, John? It is only a fancy of mine, and perhaps it is not worth telling.”
“Should I share what I'm thinking, John? It's just a whim of mine, and maybe it's not even worth mentioning.”
“Let us have it, dear, by all means. You know so much about their ways.”
“Go ahead, darling, for sure. You know so much about how they do things.”
“What I believe is this, John. You know how high the rivers are, higher than ever they were before, and twice as high, you have told me. I believe that Glen Doone is flooded, and all the houses under water.”
“What I believe is this, John. You know how high the rivers are, higher than they’ve ever been before, and you’ve told me they’re twice as high. I believe that Glen Doone is flooded, and all the houses are underwater.”
“You little witch,” I answered; “what a fool I must be not to think of it! Of course it is: it must be. The torrent from all the Bagworthy forest, and all the valleys above it, and the great drifts in the glen itself, never could have outlet down my famous waterslide. The valley must be under water twenty feet at least. Well, if ever there was a fool, I am he, for not having thought of it.”
“You little witch,” I replied; “how foolish I must be not to realize it! Of course it is: it has to be. The rush of water from all the Bagworthy forest, and all the valleys above it, and the huge piles in the glen itself, could never drain down my famous waterslide. The valley must be at least twenty feet underwater. Well, if anyone is a fool, it's me for not having thought of that.”
“I remember once before,” said Lorna, reckoning on her fingers, “when there was heavy rain, all through the autumn and winter, five or it may be six years ago, the river came down with such a rush that the water was two feet deep in our rooms, and we all had to camp by the cliff-edge. But you think that the floods are higher now, I believe I heard you say, John.”
“I remember a time,” Lorna said, counting on her fingers, “when there was heavy rain all through the autumn and winter, about five or maybe six years ago. The river overflowed so much that the water was two feet deep in our rooms, and we all had to camp by the cliff-edge. But you think the floods are higher now; I believe I heard you say that, John.”
“I don't think about it, my treasure,” I answered; “you may trust me for understanding floods, after our work at Tiverton. And I know that the deluge in all our valleys is such that no living man can remember, neither will ever behold again. Consider three months of snow, snow, snow, and a fortnight of rain on the top of it, and all to be drained in a few days away! And great barricades of ice still in the rivers blocking them up, and ponding them. You may take my word for it, Mistress Lorna, that your pretty bower is six feet deep.”
“I don’t worry about it, my dear,” I replied; “you can trust me to understand floods, especially after our work in Tiverton. I know that the floodwaters in all our valleys are beyond what anyone can remember, and no one will ever see it again. Just think about three months of constant snow, followed by two weeks of rain on top of it, all to be drained away in just a few days! And there are still huge blocks of ice in the rivers holding everything back and creating ponds. You can take my word for it, Mistress Lorna, your lovely garden is six feet underwater.”
“Well, my bower has served its time”, said Lorna, blushing as she remembered all that had happened there; “and my bower now is here, John. But I am so sorry to think of all the poor women flooded out of their houses and sheltering in the snowdrifts. However, there is one good of it: they cannot send many men against us, with all this trouble upon them.”
“Well, my shelter has served its purpose,” Lorna said, blushing as she recalled everything that had happened there. “And my shelter is now here, John. But I feel so bad thinking about all the poor women who’ve been driven out of their homes and are huddled in the snowdrifts. However, there is one silver lining: they can’t send many men against us with all this chaos going on.”
“You are right,” I replied; “how clever you are! and that is why there were only three to cut off Master Stickles. And now we shall beat them, I make no doubt, even if they come at all. And I defy them to fire the house: the thatch is too wet for burning.”
“You're right,” I replied; “how smart you are! That's why there were only three to take down Master Stickles. And now we’re definitely going to win, even if they show up at all. I dare them to try to set the house on fire: the thatch is too wet to burn.”
We sent all the women to bed quite early, except Gwenny Carfax and our old Betty. These two we allowed to stay up, because they might be useful to us, if they could keep from quarreling. For my part, I had little fear, after what Lorna had told me, as to the result of the combat. It was not likely that the Doones could bring more than eight or ten men against us, while their homes were in such danger: and to meet these we had eight good men, including Jeremy, and myself, all well armed and resolute, besides our three farm-servants, and the parish-clerk, and the shoemaker. These five could not be trusted much for any valiant conduct, although they spoke very confidently over their cans of cider. Neither were their weapons fitted for much execution, unless it were at close quarters, which they would be likely to avoid. Bill Dadds had a sickle, Jem Slocombe a flail, the cobbler had borrowed the constable's staff (for the constable would not attend, because there was no warrant), and the parish clerk had brought his pitch-pipe, which was enough to break any man's head. But John Fry, of course, had his blunderbuss, loaded with tin-tacks and marbles, and more likely to kill the man who discharged it than any other person: but we knew that John had it only for show, and to describe its qualities.
We sent all the women to bed pretty early, except for Gwenny Carfax and our old Betty. We let these two stay up because they might be helpful to us, as long as they could avoid fighting. Personally, I wasn’t too worried, after what Lorna had told me, about the outcome of the fight. It was unlikely that the Doones could bring more than eight to ten men against us, especially with their homes at risk: we had eight good men, including Jeremy and me, all well-armed and determined, plus our three farmworkers, the parish clerk, and the shoemaker. I didn’t trust those five to do much in a fight, even though they talked confidently over their cider. Their weapons weren’t really suited for much action, unless it came down to close-range, which they’d probably try to avoid. Bill Dadds had a sickle, Jem Slocombe had a flail, the cobbler had borrowed the constable's staff (since the constable wouldn't come without a warrant), and the parish clerk brought his pitch-pipe, which could definitely knock someone's head off. But John Fry, of course, had his blunderbuss, loaded with tin tacks and marbles, more likely to injure the person firing it than anyone else. Still, we knew John mainly had it for show and to brag about its features.
Now it was my great desire, and my chiefest hope, to come across Carver Doone that night, and settle the score between us; not by any shot in the dark, but by a conflict man to man. As yet, since I came to full-grown power, I had never met any one whom I could not play teetotum with: but now at last I had found a man whose strength was not to be laughed at. I could guess it in his face, I could tell it in his arms, I could see it in his stride and gait, which more than all the rest betray the substance of a man. And being so well used to wrestling, and to judge antagonists, I felt that here (if anywhere) I had found my match.
Now it was my greatest desire and my biggest hope to run into Carver Doone that night and settle our score; not with a random attack, but through a fair fight. Since I had come into my full strength, I hadn’t met anyone I couldn’t handle easily. But finally, I had found a man whose strength was no joke. I could see it in his face, recognize it in his arms, and notice it in his stride and walk, which reveal a man's true essence more than anything else. Being well-versed in wrestling and able to assess opponents, I felt that here (if anywhere) I had found someone who could match me.
Therefore I was not content to abide within the house, or go the rounds with the troopers; but betook myself to the rick yard, knowing that the Doones were likely to begin their onset there. For they had a pleasant custom, when they visited farm-houses, of lighting themselves towards picking up anything they wanted, or stabbing the inhabitants, by first creating a blaze in the rick yard. And though our ricks were all now of mere straw (except indeed two of prime clover-hay), and although on the top they were so wet that no firebrands might hurt them; I was both unwilling to have them burned, and fearful that they might kindle, if well roused up with fire upon the windward side.
I wasn't satisfied to stay inside the house or go around with the soldiers; instead, I went to the haystack area, knowing that the Doones were likely to start their attack there. They had a habit of lighting up the rick yard when they visited farms, either to grab anything they wanted or to stab the residents. Even though our stacks were mostly just straw (except for two made of nice clover hay), and the tops were too wet for fire to hurt them, I didn’t want them burned and was worried that they could catch fire if they were ignited on the windward side.
By the bye, these Doones had got the worst of this pleasant trick one time. For happening to fire the ricks of a lonely farm called Yeanworthy, not far above Glenthorne, they approached the house to get people's goods, and to enjoy their terror. The master of the farm was lately dead, and had left, inside the clock-case, loaded, the great long gun, wherewith he had used to sport at the ducks and the geese on the shore. Now Widow Fisher took out this gun, and not caring much what became of her (for she had loved her husband dearly), she laid it upon the window-sill, which looked upon the rick-yard; and she backed up the butt with a chest of oak drawers, and she opened the window a little back, and let the muzzle out on the slope. Presently five or six fine young Doones came dancing a reel (as their manner was) betwixt her and the flaming rick. Upon which she pulled the trigger with all the force of her thumb, and a quarter of a pound of duck-shot went out with a blaze on the dancers. You may suppose what their dancing was, and their reeling how changed to staggering, and their music none of the sweetest. One of them fell into the rick, and was burned, and buried in a ditch next day; but the others were set upon their horses, and carried home on a path of blood. And strange to say, they never avenged this very dreadful injury; but having heard that a woman had fired this desperate shot among them, they said that she ought to be a Doone, and inquired how old she was.
By the way, those Doones had a rough time with a clever trick once. They decided to set fire to the ricks of a lonely farm called Yeanworthy, not far above Glenthorne, and then went to the house to steal from the people and enjoy their fear. The owner of the farm had recently died and had left, loaded inside the clock-case, the long gun he used for hunting ducks and geese on the shore. Widow Fisher took this gun out, and not really caring what happened to her (since she had loved her husband dearly), she placed it on the window-sill that overlooked the rick-yard. She propped the butt up with a chest of oak drawers, opened the window just a bit, and let the muzzle slide out onto the slope. Soon, five or six young Doones came dancing a reel (as they usually did) between her and the burning rick. She then pulled the trigger with all the strength of her thumb, and a quarter pound of duck-shot flew out in a blaze towards the dancers. You can imagine how their dancing turned into staggering, and their music was no longer sweet. One of them fell into the rick and was burned, and buried in a ditch the next day; but the others were put on their horses and taken home along a path of blood. Strangely enough, they never sought revenge for this terrible injury; instead, after discovering that a woman had fired that desperate shot at them, they said she should be a Doone and wanted to know how old she was.
Now I had not been so very long waiting in our mow-yard, with my best gun ready, and a big club by me, before a heaviness of sleep began to creep upon me. The flow of water was in my ears, and in my eyes a hazy spreading, and upon my brain a closure, as a cobbler sews a vamp up. So I leaned back in the clover-rick, and the dust of the seed and the smell came round me, without any trouble; and I dozed about Lorna, just once or twice, and what she had said about new-mown hay; and then back went my head, and my chin went up; and if ever a man was blest with slumber, down it came upon me, and away went I into it.
I hadn't been waiting long in the hayfield, with my best gun ready and a big club next to me, before I started to feel sleepy. I could hear the water flowing in my ears, and my vision became hazy, as if my mind was being stitched up like a cobbler does with leather. So I leaned back in the clover stack, surrounded by the dust of the seeds and the sweet smell, without a care; I dozed off while thinking about Lorna, just a couple of times, and what she had said about fresh-cut hay. Then my head rolled back, and my chin lifted; if there was ever a time a guy was blessed with sleep, it hit me hard, and I slipped away into it.
Now this was very vile of me, and against all good resolutions, even such as I would have sworn to an hour ago or less. But if you had been in the water as I had, ay, and had long fight with it, after a good day's work, and then great anxiety afterwards, and brain-work (which is not fair for me), and upon that a stout supper, mayhap you would not be so hard on my sleep; though you felt it your duty to wake me.
Now this was really terrible of me, and completely against all the good intentions I would have sworn to just an hour ago or so. But if you had been in the water like I was, and had to fight it for a long time after a long day's work, plus the stress afterward and the mental strain (which isn’t exactly fair to me), followed by a hearty dinner, maybe you wouldn’t be so harsh about my sleep, even though you felt it was your responsibility to wake me.
CHAPTER XLIX
MAIDEN SENTINELS ARE BEST
It was not likely that the outlaws would attack out premises until some time after the moon was risen; because it would be too dangerous to cross the flooded valleys in the darkness of the night. And but for this consideration, I must have striven harder against the stealthy approach of slumber. But even so, it was very foolish to abandon watch, especially in such as I, who sleep like any dormouse. Moreover, I had chosen the very worst place in the world for such employment, with a goodly chance of awakening in a bed of solid fire.
It was unlikely that the outlaws would attack our place until after the moon came up; crossing the flooded valleys at night would be too risky. Aside from that, I should have fought harder against the sneaky pull of sleep. Still, it was really stupid to let my guard down, especially for someone like me who sleeps like a log. Plus, I had picked the absolute worst spot for this job, with a good chance of waking up in a bed of flames.
And so it might have been, nay, it must have been, but for Lorna's vigilance. Her light hand upon my arm awoke me, not too readily; and leaping up, I seized my club, and prepared to knock down somebody.
And so it could have been, really, it definitely would have been, if it weren't for Lorna's watchfulness. Her gentle grip on my arm stirred me awake, not too quickly; and jumping up, I grabbed my club and readied myself to take someone down.
“Who's that?” I cried; “stand back, I say, and let me have fair chance at you.”
“Who’s that?” I shouted; “step back, I say, and give me a fair shot at you.”
“Are you going to knock me down, dear John?” replied the voice I loved so well; “I am sure I should never get up again, after one blow from you, John.”
“Are you going to knock me down, dear John?” replied the voice I loved so much; “I’m sure I’d never get up again after one hit from you, John.”
“My darling, is it you?” I cried; “and breaking all your orders? Come back into the house at once: and nothing on your head, dear!”
“My darling, is that you?” I exclaimed; “and ignoring all your instructions? Come back inside right now: and nothing on your head, sweetie!”
“How could I sleep, while at any moment you might be killed beneath my window? And now is the time of real danger; for men can see to travel.”
“How can I sleep when you could be killed right outside my window at any moment? And now is the time of real danger because it’s light enough for people to see as they travel.”
I saw at once the truth of this. The moon was high and clearly lighting all the watered valleys. To sleep any longer might be death, not only to myself, but all.
I immediately recognized the truth of this. The moon was high and clearly illuminating all the watered valleys. Sleeping any longer could mean death, not just for me, but for everyone.
“The man on guard at the back of the house is fast asleep,” she continued; “Gwenny, who let me out, and came with me, has heard him snoring for two hours. I think the women ought to be the watch, because they have had no travelling. Where do you suppose little Gwenny is?”
“The guy watching the back of the house is fast asleep,” she went on; “Gwenny, who let me out and came with me, has heard him snoring for two hours. I think the women should be the ones keeping watch because they haven’t traveled at all. Where do you think little Gwenny is?”
“Surely not gone to Glen Doone?” I was not sure, however: for I could believe almost anything of the Cornish maiden's hardihood.
“Surely she hasn't gone to Glen Doone?” I wasn't certain, though; I could believe just about anything about the Cornish girl's boldness.
“No,” replied Lorna, “although she wanted even to do that. But of course I would not hear of it, on account of the swollen waters. But she is perched on yonder tree, which commands the Barrow valley. She says that they are almost sure to cross the streamlet there; and now it is so wide and large, that she can trace it in the moonlight, half a mile beyond her. If they cross, she is sure to see them, and in good time to let us know.”
“No,” Lorna replied, “even though she wanted to. But of course I wouldn’t allow it because of the high water. She’s sitting up in that tree over there, which overlooks the Barrow valley. She says they’re likely to cross the stream there; and now it’s so wide that she can see it in the moonlight, half a mile beyond her. If they cross, she’ll definitely see them and let us know in time.”
“What a shame,” I cried, “that the men should sleep, and the maidens be the soldiers! I will sit in that tree myself, and send little Gwenny back to you. Go to bed, my best and dearest; I will take good care not to sleep again.”
“What a shame,” I cried, “that the guys should sleep, and the girls be the soldiers! I'll sit in that tree myself and send little Gwenny back to you. Go to bed, my best and dearest; I promise I won’t fall asleep again.”
“Please not to send me away, dear John,” she answered very mournfully; “you and I have been together through perils worse than this. I shall only be more timid, and more miserable, indoors.”
“Please don’t send me away, dear John,” she replied very sadly; “you and I have faced worse dangers than this together. I’ll just be more fearful and more unhappy inside.”
“I cannot let you stay here,” I said; “it is altogether impossible. Do you suppose that I can fight, with you among the bullets, Lorna? If this is the way you mean to take it, we had better go both to the apple-room, and lock ourselves in, and hide under the tiles, and let them burn all the rest of the premises.”
“I can’t let you stay here,” I said. “It's completely impossible. Do you think I can fight with you in the middle of all this? Lorna, if you’re going to do it that way, we might as well go to the apple room, lock ourselves in, and hide under the tiles while they burn the rest of the place down.”
At this idea Lorna laughed, as I could see by the moonlight; and then she said,—
At this idea, Lorna laughed, as I could see in the moonlight; and then she said,—
“You are right, John. I should only do more harm than good: and of all things I hate fighting most, and disobedience next to it. Therefore I will go indoors, although I cannot go to bed. But promise me one thing, dearest John. You will keep yourself out of the way, now won't you, as much as you can, for my sake?”
“You're right, John. I'd only end up causing more harm than good, and of all things, I hate fighting the most, with disobedience being a close second. So, I’ll go inside, even though I can’t go to bed. But promise me one thing, my dearest John. You'll stay out of the way, won’t you, as much as you can, for my sake?”
“Of that you may be quite certain, Lorna. I will shoot them all through the hay-ricks.”
“Of that you can be completely sure, Lorna. I will shoot them all through the haystacks.”
“That is right, dear,” she answered, never doubting but what I could do it; “and then they cannot see you, you know. But don't think of climbing that tree, John; it is a great deal too dangerous. It is all very well for Gwenny; she has no bones to break.”
"That's right, dear," she replied, fully confident that I could do it; "and then they won't be able to see you, you know. But don't even think about climbing that tree, John; it's way too dangerous. It's fine for Gwenny; she doesn't have any bones to break."
“None worth breaking, you mean, I suppose. Very well; I will not climb the tree, for I should defeat my own purpose, I fear; being such a conspicuous object. Now go indoors, darling, without more words. The more you linger, the more I shall keep you.”
“None worth breaking, I guess. Alright; I won’t climb the tree, since I’d be defeating my own purpose, I’m afraid; being such an obvious sight. Now go inside, sweetheart, without any more talk. The longer you stay, the more I'll want to keep you here.”
She laughed her own bright laugh at this, and only said, “God keep you, love!” and then away she tripped across the yard, with the step I loved to watch so. And thereupon I shouldered arms, and resolved to tramp till morning. For I was vexed at my own neglect, and that Lorna should have to right it.
She laughed her cheerful laugh at this and just said, "Take care, love!" Then she skipped across the yard with the step I loved to watch. After that, I shouldered my pack and decided to walk until morning. I was frustrated with my own negligence and that Lorna had to fix it.
But before I had been long on duty, making the round of the ricks and stables, and hailing Gwenny now and then from the bottom of her tree, a short wide figure stole towards me, in and out the shadows, and I saw that it was no other than the little maid herself, and that she bore some tidings.
But before I had been on duty for long, patrolling the haystacks and stables, and calling out to Gwenny occasionally from the base of her tree, a short, bulky figure crept toward me, moving in and out of the shadows, and I realized it was none other than the little maid herself, bringing some news.
“Ten on 'em crossed the watter down yonner,” said Gwenny, putting her hand to her mouth, and seeming to regard it as good news rather than otherwise: “be arl craping up by hedgerow now. I could shutt dree on 'em from the bar of the gate, if so be I had your goon, young man.”
“Ten of them crossed the water over there,” said Gwenny, covering her mouth, and seeming to see it as good news instead of bad: “They’re all creeping up by the hedgerow now. I could shoot three of them from the gate if I had your gun, young man.”
“There is no time to lose, Gwenny. Run to the house and fetch Master Stickles, and all the men; while I stay here, and watch the rick-yard.”
“There’s no time to waste, Gwenny. Run to the house and get Master Stickles and all the men; I’ll stay here and watch the rick-yard.”
Perhaps I was wrong in heeding the ricks at such a time as that; especially as only the clover was of much importance. But it seemed to me like a sort of triumph that they should be even able to boast of having fired our mow-yard. Therefore I stood in a nick of the clover, whence we had cut some trusses, with my club in hand, and gun close by.
Perhaps I was wrong to pay attention to the risks at a time like that; especially since only the clover really mattered. But it felt like a kind of victory that they could even brag about having set fire to our hayfield. So I stood in a spot by the clover, where we had cut some bundles, with my club in hand and my gun close by.
The robbers rode into our yard as coolly as if they had been invited, having lifted the gate from the hinges first on account of its being fastened. Then they actually opened our stable-doors, and turned our honest horses out, and put their own rogues in the place of them. At this my breath was quite taken away; for we think so much of our horses. By this time I could see our troopers, waiting in the shadow of the house, round the corner from where the Doones were, and expecting the order to fire. But Jeremy Stickles very wisely kept them in readiness, until the enemy should advance upon them.
The robbers rode into our yard as casually as if they had been invited, having first taken the gate off its hinges because it was locked. Then they actually opened our stable doors, let our honest horses out, and put their own scoundrels in their place. I was completely stunned; we think so highly of our horses. By this time, I could see our soldiers waiting in the shadows of the house, around the corner from where the Doones were, expecting the order to open fire. But Jeremy Stickles wisely kept them ready until the enemy advanced on them.
“Two of you lazy fellows go,” it was the deep voice of Carver Doone, “and make us a light, to cut their throats by. Only one thing, once again. If any man touches Lorna, I will stab him where he stands. She belongs to me. There are two other young damsels here, whom you may take away if you please. And the mother, I hear, is still comely. Now for our rights. We have borne too long the insolence of these yokels. Kill every man, and every child, and burn the cursed place down.”
“Two of you lazy guys go,” Carver Doone's deep voice said, “and make us a light to cut their throats by. Just one more thing. If anyone touches Lorna, I will stab him where he stands. She belongs to me. There are two other young ladies here, who you can take away if you want. And I hear the mother is still attractive. Now for what we deserve. We’ve put up with the arrogance of these yokels for too long. Kill every man and every child, and burn the damn place down.”
As he spoke thus blasphemously, I set my gun against his breast; and by the light buckled from his belt, I saw the little “sight” of brass gleaming alike upon either side, and the sleek round barrel glimmering. The aim was sure as death itself. If I only drew the trigger (which went very lightly) Carver Doone would breathe no more. And yet—will you believe me?—I could not pull the trigger. Would to God that I had done so!
As he spoke so disrespectfully, I aimed my gun at his chest; and by the light reflecting off his belt, I saw the small brass "sight" shining on both sides, along with the smooth round barrel glimmering. The aim was as certain as death itself. If I just pulled the trigger (which was very easy to do), Carver Doone would take his last breath. And yet—can you believe it?—I couldn't pull the trigger. I wish to God that I had!
For I never had taken human life, neither done bodily harm to man; beyond the little bruises, and the trifling aches and pains, which follow a good and honest bout in the wrestling ring. Therefore I dropped my carbine, and grasped again my club, which seemed a more straight-forward implement.
For I had never taken a human life or harmed anyone; aside from the minor bruises and small aches and pains that come after a good, honest match in the wrestling ring. So, I let go of my rifle and picked up my club again, which felt like a more straightforward tool.
Presently two young men came towards me, bearing brands of resined hemp, kindled from Carver's lamp. The foremost of them set his torch to the rick within a yard of me, and smoke concealing me from him. I struck him with a back-handed blow on the elbow, as he bent it; and I heard the bone of his arm break, as clearly as ever I heard a twig snap. With a roar of pain he fell on the ground, and his torch dropped there, and singed him. The other man stood amazed at this, not having yet gained sight of me; till I caught his firebrand from his hand, and struck it into his countenance. With that he leaped at me; but I caught him, in a manner learned from early wrestling, and snapped his collar-bone, as I laid him upon the top of his comrade.
Currently, two young men approached me, holding torches made of resin-coated hemp, lit from Carver's lamp. The one in front held his torch close to a stack of hay within a yard of me, and the smoke obscured me from his view. I struck him with a back-handed blow to the elbow as he bent it, and I heard the bone in his arm break as clearly as I’d hear a twig snap. With a roar of pain, he collapsed to the ground, dropping his torch, which singed him. The other man stood there, stunned by what he’d just seen and still unable to see me; until I grabbed the firebrand from his hand and struck it against his face. He lunged at me, but I caught him using a technique I learned from early wrestling, and snapped his collarbone as I pinned him on top of his injured friend.
This little success so encouraged me, that I was half inclined to advance, and challenge Carver Doone to meet me; but I bore in mind that he would be apt to shoot me without ceremony; and what is the utmost of human strength against the power of powder? Moreover, I remembered my promise to sweet Lorna; and who would be left to defend her, if the rogues got rid of me?
This small victory really inspired me, and I was almost ready to go forward and challenge Carver Doone to face me. But I remembered he would likely shoot me without hesitation, and what can a person do against a gun? Plus, I thought about my promise to sweet Lorna; who would protect her if those scoundrels got rid of me?
While I was hesitating thus (for I always continue to hesitate, except in actual conflict), a blaze of fire lit up the house, and brown smoke hung around it. Six of our men had let go at the Doones, by Jeremy Stickles' order, as the villains came swaggering down in the moonlight ready for rape or murder. Two of them fell, and the rest hung back, to think at their leisure what this was. They were not used to this sort of thing: it was neither just nor courteous.
While I was hesitating like this (because I always hesitate, except in a real fight), a burst of fire lit up the house, and brown smoke surrounded it. Six of our guys had opened fire on the Doones, following Jeremy Stickles' orders, as the criminals swaggered down in the moonlight, ready for violence. Two of them went down, and the others held back, trying to figure out what was happening. They weren't used to this kind of situation: it was neither fair nor polite.
Being unable any longer to contain myself, as I thought of Lorna's excitement at all this noise of firing, I came across the yard, expecting whether they would shoot at me. However, no one shot at me; and I went up to Carver Doone, whom I knew by his size in the moonlight, and I took him by the beard, and said, “Do you call yourself a man?”
Unable to hold back any longer, thinking about Lorna's excitement at all the gunfire, I crossed the yard, wondering if they would shoot at me. But no one did; I approached Carver Doone, recognizing him by his size in the moonlight, grabbed his beard, and said, “Do you consider yourself a man?”
For a moment he was so astonished that he could not answer. None had ever dared, I suppose, to look at him in that way; and he saw that he had met his equal, or perhaps his master. And then he tried a pistol at me, but I was too quick for him.
For a moment he was so shocked that he couldn't respond. No one had ever dared, I guess, to look at him like that; and he realized he had encountered someone just as strong as him, or maybe even stronger. Then he took a shot at me, but I was too fast for him.
“Now, Carver Doone, take warning,” I said to him, very soberly; “you have shown yourself a fool by your contempt of me. I may not be your match in craft; but I am in manhood. You are a despicable villain. Lie low in your native muck.”
“Now, Carver Doone, take warning,” I said to him seriously; “you’ve proven yourself a fool by dismissing me. I may not be as skilled as you, but I’m your equal in character. You’re a pathetic villain. Stay down in your own filth.”
And with that word, I laid him flat upon his back in our straw-yard, by a trick of the inner heel, which he could not have resisted (though his strength had been twice as great as mine), unless he were a wrestler. Seeing him down the others ran, though one of them made a shot at me, and some of them got their horses, before our men came up; and some went away without them. And among these last was Captain Carver who arose, while I was feeling myself (for I had a little wound), and strode away with a train of curses enough to poison the light of the moon.
And with that word, I knocked him flat on his back in our straw yard, using a technique with my inner heel that he wouldn't have been able to resist (even if he were twice as strong as me), unless he were a wrestler. Once he was down, the others ran off, although one of them tried to take a shot at me, and some managed to get their horses before our guys arrived; others just left without theirs. Among those was Captain Carver, who got up while I was checking my injury (since I had a minor wound) and walked away, cursing enough to darken the moonlight.
We gained six very good horses, by this attempted rapine, as well as two young prisoners, whom I had smitten by the clover-rick. And two dead Doones were left behind, whom (as we buried them in the churchyard, without any service over them), I for my part was most thankful that I had not killed. For to have the life of a fellow-man laid upon one's conscience—deserved he his death, or deserved it not—is to my sense of right and wrong the heaviest of all burdens; and the one that wears most deeply inwards, with the dwelling of the mind on this view and on that of it.
We got six really good horses from this attempted robbery, as well as two young captives, whom I had knocked down by the clover pile. We also left behind two dead Doones, whom we buried in the churchyard without any ceremony. I was really grateful that I hadn’t killed them. Carrying the death of another person on your conscience—whether they deserved it or not—is, in my opinion, the heaviest burden of all; it weighs heavily on the mind as you reflect on it from all angles.
I was inclined to pursue the enemy and try to capture more of them; but Jeremy Stickles would not allow it, for he said that all the advantage would be upon their side, if we went hurrying after them, with only the moon to guide us. And who could tell but what there might be another band of them, ready to fall upon the house, and burn it, and seize the women, if we left them unprotected? When he put the case thus, I was glad enough to abide by his decision. And one thing was quite certain, that the Doones had never before received so rude a shock, and so violent a blow to their supremacy, since first they had built up their power, and become the Lords of Exmoor. I knew that Carver Doone would gnash those mighty teeth of his, and curse the men around him, for the blunder (which was in truth his own) of over-confidence and carelessness. And at the same time, all the rest would feel that such a thing had never happened, while old Sir Ensor was alive; and that it was caused by nothing short of gross mismanagement.
I wanted to chase after the enemy and try to catch more of them, but Jeremy Stickles wouldn't let me. He argued that it would all be to their advantage if we rushed after them, with only the moon to guide us. And who knew if there might be another group of them ready to attack the house, set it on fire, and take the women if we left them unprotected? Once he laid it out like that, I was more than happy to go with his decision. One thing was for sure: the Doones had never experienced such a harsh shock or a severe blow to their power since they established themselves as the Lords of Exmoor. I could just imagine Carver Doone grinding his teeth and cursing his men for the mistake (which was really his own) of being overconfident and careless. At the same time, everyone else would realize that such a thing had never happened while old Sir Ensor was alive; it was clearly due to terrible mismanagement.
I scarcely know who made the greatest fuss about my little wound, mother, or Annie, or Lorna. I was heartily ashamed to be so treated like a milksop; but most unluckily it had been impossible to hide it. For the ball had cut along my temple, just above the eyebrow; and being fired so near at hand, the powder too had scarred me. Therefore it seemed a great deal worse than it really was; and the sponging, and the plastering, and the sobbing, and the moaning, made me quite ashamed to look Master Stickles in the face.
I hardly know who made the biggest deal about my little injury, Mom, Annie, or Lorna. I felt really embarrassed to be treated like such a wimp; but unfortunately, I couldn’t hide it at all. The ball had cut along my temple, just above my eyebrow, and since it was fired so close, the powder had scarred me too. So, it looked a lot worse than it actually was, and all the cleaning, bandaging, crying, and whining made me super embarrassed to look Master Stickles in the eye.
However, at last I persuaded them that I had no intention of giving up the ghost that night; and then they all fell to, and thanked God with an emphasis quite unknown in church. And hereupon Master Stickles said, in his free and easy manner (for no one courted his observation), that I was the luckiest of all mortals in having a mother, and a sister, and a sweetheart, to make much of me. For his part, he said, he was just as well off in not having any to care for him. For now he might go and get shot, or stabbed, or knocked on the head, at his pleasure, without any one being offended. I made bold, upon this, to ask him what was become of his wife; for I had heard him speak of having one. He said that he neither knew nor cared; and perhaps I should be like him some day. That Lorna should hear such sentiments was very grievous to me. But she looked at me with a smile, which proved her contempt for all such ideas; and lest anything still more unfit might be said, I dismissed the question.
However, I finally convinced them that I had no intention of giving up that night; and then they all started thanking God with an intensity that was completely unfamiliar in church. At that point, Master Stickles casually mentioned (since no one bothered to pay attention to him) that I was the luckiest person alive to have a mother, a sister, and a sweetheart who cared about me. As for him, he claimed he was just fine without anyone to care for him, as it allowed him to get shot, stabbed, or knocked out whenever he wanted without anyone being upset. I took the opportunity to ask him what had happened to his wife because I had heard him mention her before. He said he neither knew nor cared, and maybe I would end up like him someday. It was very upsetting for me to think that Lorna would hear such views. But she looked at me with a smile that showed her disdain for those ideas; sensing that something even more inappropriate might be said, I dropped the subject.
But Master Stickles told me afterwards, when there was no one with us, to have no faith in any woman, whatever she might seem to be. For he assured me that now he possessed very large experience, for so small a matter; being thoroughly acquainted with women of every class, from ladies of the highest blood, to Bonarobas, and peasants' wives: and that they all might be divided into three heads and no more; that is to say as follows. First, the very hot and passionate, who were only contemptible; second, the cold and indifferent, who were simply odious; and third, the mixture of the other two, who had the bad qualities of both. As for reason, none of them had it; it was like a sealed book to them, which if they ever tried to open, they began at the back of the cover.
But Master Stickles later told me, when we were alone, not to trust any woman, no matter how she seemed. He assured me he had gained a lot of experience, considering how trivial the matter was; he was well acquainted with women from all backgrounds, from the noblest of ladies to streetwalkers and peasant wives. He said they could all be grouped into three categories and no more: first, the very passionate ones, who were only contemptible; second, the cold and indifferent ones, who were simply disgraceful; and third, a mix of the other two, who had the worst traits of both. As for reason, none of them possessed it; it was like a sealed book to them, which if they ever attempted to open, they would start from the back of the cover.
Now I did not like to hear such things; and to me they appeared to be insolent, as well as narrow-minded. For if you came to that, why might not men, as well as women, be divided into the same three classes, and be pronounced upon by women, as beings even more devoid than their gentle judges of reason? Moreover, I knew, both from my own sense, and from the greatest of all great poets, that there are, and always have been, plenty of women, good, and gentle, warm-hearted, loving, and lovable; very keen, moreover, at seeing the right, be it by reason, or otherwise. And upon the whole, I prefer them much to the people of my own sex, as goodness of heart is more important than to show good reason for having it. And so I said to Jeremy,—
Now, I didn't like to hear such things; they seemed rude and narrow-minded to me. If that’s the case, why couldn’t we also divide men into those same three classes and have women judge them as being even less reasonable than their gentle assessors? Besides, I knew from my own experience, and from the greatest poets, that there have always been plenty of women who are good, kind, warm-hearted, loving, and easy to love; they are also very good at recognizing what’s right, whether by logic or otherwise. Overall, I actually prefer them to the people of my own gender, as having a good heart is more important than just being able to justify it logically. And so I said to Jeremy,—
“You have been ill-treated, perhaps, Master Stickles, by some woman or other?”
"You've probably been mistreated, Master Stickles, by some woman or another?"
“Ah, that have I,” he replied with an oath; “and the last on earth who should serve me so, the woman who was my wife. A woman whom I never struck, never wronged in any way, never even let her know that I like another better. And yet when I was at Berwick last, with the regiment on guard there against those vile moss-troopers, what does that woman do but fly in the face of all authority, and of my especial business, by running away herself with the biggest of all moss-troopers? Not that I cared a groat about her; and I wish the fool well rid of her: but the insolence of the thing was such that everybody laughed at me; and back I went to London, losing a far better and safer job than this; and all through her. Come, let's have another onion.”
“Ah, I certainly did,” he replied, swearing. “And the last person on earth who should ever treat me like that is the woman who was my wife. A woman I never hit, never wronged in any way, and I never even let her know that I liked someone else more. Yet when I was last at Berwick, with the regiment stationed there to guard against those terrible moss-troopers, what does she do but completely defy all authority and my specific orders by running away with the biggest moss-trooper of them all? Not that I cared a bit about her; I actually wish the fool would just be rid of her. But the audacity of it all made everyone laugh at me, and I ended up going back to London, losing a much better and safer job because of her. Come on, let’s have another onion.”
Master Stickles's view of the matter was so entirely unromantic, that I scarcely wondered at Mistress Stickles for having run away from him to an adventurous moss-trooper. For nine women out of ten must have some kind of romance or other, to make their lives endurable; and when their love has lost this attractive element, this soft dew-fog (if such it be), the love itself is apt to languish; unless its bloom be well replaced by the budding hopes of children. Now Master Stickles neither had, nor wished to have, any children.
Master Stickles's view of things was so totally unromantic that I hardly blamed Mistress Stickles for running off with an adventurous outlaw. Nine out of ten women need some sort of romance to make their lives bearable; and when their love loses that attractive quality, that soft mist (if that’s what it is), the love itself tends to wilt—unless it’s revived by the hope of children. But Master Stickles didn't want any children and had no interest in having them.
Without waiting for any warrant, only saying something about “captus in flagrante delicto,”—if that be the way to spell it—Stickles sent our prisoners off, bound and looking miserable, to the jail at Taunton. I was desirous to let them go free, if they would promise amendment; but although I had taken them, and surely therefore had every right to let them go again, Master Stickles said, “Not so.” He assured me that it was a matter of public polity; and of course, not knowing what he meant, I could not contradict him; but thought that surely my private rights ought to be respected. For if I throw a man in wrestling, I expect to get his stakes; and if I take a man prisoner—why, he ought, in common justice, to belong to me, and I have a good right to let him go, if I think proper to do so. However, Master Stickles said that I was quite benighted, and knew nothing of the Constitution; which was the very thing I knew, beyond any man in our parish!
Without waiting for any warrant, just mentioning something about “caught in the act,”—if that's how you spell it—Stickles sent our prisoners off, tied up and looking miserable, to the jail in Taunton. I wanted to let them go free if they promised to change their ways; but even though I had captured them, and surely had every right to release them, Master Stickles insisted, “Not so.” He claimed it was a matter of public policy; and since I didn’t understand what he meant, I couldn't argue with him; but I thought my personal rights should be respected. If I throw a guy in a wrestling match, I expect to take his stakes; and if I capture someone—well, in fairness, he should belong to me, and I should have the right to set him free if I want to. However, Master Stickles said I was completely in the dark and didn’t know anything about the Constitution; which was exactly what I knew better than anyone else in our parish!
Nevertheless, it was not for me to contradict a commissioner; and therefore I let my prisoners go, and wished them a happy deliverance. Stickles replied, with a merry grin, that if ever they got it, it would be a jail deliverance, and the bliss of dancing; and he laid his hand to his throat in a manner which seemed to me most uncourteous. However, his foresight proved too correct; for both those poor fellows were executed, soon after the next assizes. Lorna had done her very best to earn another chance for them; even going down on her knees to that common Jeremy, and pleading with great tears for them. However, although much moved by her, he vowed that he durst do nothing else. To set them free was more than his own life was worth; for all the country knew, by this time, that two captive Doones were roped to the cider-press at Plover's Barrows. Annie bound the broken arm of the one whom I had knocked down with the club, and I myself supported it; and then she washed and rubbed with lard the face of the other poor fellow, which the torch had injured; and I fetched back his collar-bone to the best of my ability. For before any surgeon could arrive, they were off with a well-armed escort. That day we were reinforced so strongly from the stations along the coast, even as far as Minehead, that we not only feared no further attack, but even talked of assaulting Glen Doone, without waiting for the train-bands. However, I thought that it would be mean to take advantage of the enemy in the thick of the floods and confusion; and several of the others thought so too, and did not like fighting in water. Therefore it was resolved to wait and keep a watch upon the valley, and let the floods go down again.
Nevertheless, I couldn't contradict a commissioner; so I let my prisoners go and wished them a happy release. Stickles grinned mischievously, saying that if they ever got free, it would be a jail break filled with joy, and he placed his hand on his throat in a way that seemed quite rude to me. However, his prediction turned out to be all too accurate; both of those poor guys were executed soon after the next assizes. Lorna did everything she could to secure another chance for them, even getting down on her knees to that common Jeremy and pleading with tears for them. Still, despite being moved by her, he insisted he couldn’t do anything else. To set them free would be risking his own life, since everyone in the area already knew that two captured Doones were tied to the cider press at Plover's Barrows. Annie bandaged the broken arm of the one I had knocked down with the club, and I supported it, while she cleaned and applied lard to the face of the other poor guy, which the torch had burned. I did my best to set his collarbone. Before any surgeon could arrive, they were taken away with a well-armed escort. That day, we received such strong reinforcements from the coast stations, even as far as Minehead, that we not only felt safe from further attacks but even discussed launching an assault on Glen Doone without waiting for the train-bands. However, I thought it would be unfair to take advantage of the enemy during the floods and chaos, and several others felt similarly and were reluctant to fight in the water. So, we decided to wait and keep watch over the valley until the waters receded.
CHAPTER L
A MERRY MEETING A SAD ONE
Now the business I had most at heart (as every one knows by this time) was to marry Lorna as soon as might be, if she had no objection, and then to work the farm so well, as to nourish all our family. And herein I saw no difficulty; for Annie would soon be off our hands, and somebody might come and take a fancy to little Lizzie (who was growing up very nicely now, though not so fine as Annie); moreover, we were almost sure to have great store of hay and corn after so much snow, if there be any truth in the old saying,—
Now, the thing I cared about the most (as everyone knows by now) was to marry Lorna as soon as possible, assuming she didn’t mind, and then to run the farm well enough to support our family. I didn’t see any difficulty in that; Annie would soon be out of our hair, and someone might take an interest in little Lizzie (who was growing up nicely now, though not as pretty as Annie); besides, we were almost guaranteed to have a good amount of hay and corn after all that snow, if the old saying is true,—
“A foot deep of rain
Will kill hay and grain;
But three feet of snow
Will make them come mo'.”
“A foot of rain
Will ruin hay and grain;
But three feet of snow
Will make them grow more.”And although it was too true that we had lost a many cattle, yet even so we had not lost money; for the few remaining fetched such prices as were never known before. And though we grumbled with all our hearts, and really believed, at one time, that starvation was upon us, I doubt whether, on the whole, we were not the fatter, and the richer, and the wiser for that winter. And I might have said the happier, except for the sorrow which we felt at the failures among our neighbours. The Snowes lost every sheep they had, and nine out of ten horned cattle; and poor Jasper Kebby would have been forced to throw up the lease of his farm, and perhaps to go to prison, but for the help we gave him.
And even though it was true that we lost a lot of cattle, we hadn't lost money; the few that were left sold for prices we'd never seen before. And even though we complained a lot and really thought at one point that we were going to starve, I wonder if, overall, we weren't actually better off—thicker, richer, and wiser because of that winter. I might even say we were happier, except for the sadness we felt for our neighbors’ failures. The Snowes lost all their sheep and nine out of ten of their cattle; and poor Jasper Kebby would have had to give up his farm lease and maybe even go to jail if it weren't for the help we gave him.
However, my dear mother would have it that Lorna was too young, as yet, to think of being married: and indeed I myself was compelled to admit that her form was becoming more perfect and lovely; though I had not thought it possible. And another difficulty was, that as we had all been Protestants from the time of Queen Elizabeth, the maiden must be converted first, and taught to hate all Papists. Now Lorna had not the smallest idea of ever being converted. She said that she loved me truly, but wanted not to convert me; and if I loved her equally, why should I wish to convert her? With this I was tolerably content, not seeing so very much difference between a creed and a credo, and believing God to be our Father, in Latin as well as English. Moreover, my darling knew but little of the Popish ways—whether excellent or otherwise—inasmuch as the Doones, though they stole their houses, or at least the joiner's work, had never been tempted enough by the devil to steal either church or chapel.
However, my dear mother believed that Lorna was still too young to think about marriage. I had to admit that her figure was becoming more perfect and beautiful, though I didn't think it was possible. Another issue was that since we had all been Protestants since the time of Queen Elizabeth, she needed to be converted first and taught to dislike all Catholics. Lorna didn’t have the slightest intention of being converted. She said she loved me genuinely but didn’t want to change me; if I loved her just as much, why should I want to convert her? I was somewhat satisfied with this, not seeing much difference between a belief and a personal conviction, and believing God to be our Father in both Latin and English. Moreover, my dear knew very little about Catholic practices—whether good or bad—since the Doones, despite stealing from homes or at least the carpenter’s work, had never been tempted by the devil to steal a church or chapel.
Lorna came to our little church, when Parson Bowden reappeared after the snow was over; and she said that all was very nice, and very like what she had seen in the time of her Aunt Sabina, when they went far away to the little chapel, with a shilling in their gloves. It made the tears come into her eyes, by the force of memory, when Parson Bowden did the things, not so gracefully nor so well, yet with pleasant imitation of her old Priest's sacred rites.
Lorna came to our small church when Parson Bowden returned after the snow had melted; she said everything was really nice and reminded her of what she experienced when her Aunt Sabina was alive, going to the little chapel with a shilling tucked in their gloves. It brought tears to her eyes, stirred by memories, as Parson Bowden performed the rituals—not quite as gracefully or as well—but with a nice imitation of her old priest's sacred ceremonies.
“He is a worthy man,” she said, being used to talk in the service time, and my mother was obliged to cough: “I like him very much indeed: but I wish he would let me put his things the right way on his shoulders.”
“He's a good guy,” she said, accustomed to speaking during service hours, and my mother had to cough: “I really like him a lot: but I wish he would let me put his things on his shoulders the right way.”
Everybody in our parish, who could walk at all, or hire a boy and a wheelbarrow, ay, and half the folk from Countisbury, Brendon, and even Lynmouth, was and were to be found that Sunday, in our little church of Oare. People who would not come anigh us, when the Doones were threatening with carbine and with fire-brand, flocked in their very best clothes, to see a lady Doone go to church. Now all this came of that vile John Fry; I knew it as well as possible; his tongue was worse than the clacker of a charity-school bell, or the ladle in the frying-pan, when the bees are swarming.
Everybody in our parish who could walk or hire a kid with a wheelbarrow, and even half the folks from Countisbury, Brendon, and Lynmouth, showed up that Sunday in our little church at Oare. People who wouldn’t go near us when the Doones were threatening with guns and fire were dressed in their best clothes to see a lady Doone go to church. All of this was thanks to that awful John Fry; I knew it all too well; his chatter was worse than the clanging of a charity-school bell or the clatter of a ladle in a frying pan when the bees are swarming.
However, Lorna was not troubled; partly because of her natural dignity and gentleness; partly because she never dreamed that the people were come to look at her. But when we came to the Psalms of the day, with some vague sense of being stared at more than ought to be, she dropped the heavy black lace fringing of the velvet hat she wore, and concealed from the congregation all except her bright red lips, and the oval snowdrift of her chin. I touched her hand, and she pressed mine; and we felt that we were close together, and God saw no harm in it.
However, Lorna was not bothered; partly because of her natural grace and kindness; partly because she never imagined that people had come to look at her. But when we got to the Psalms of the day, with a vague feeling of being watched more than necessary, she lowered the heavy black lace trim of the velvet hat she wore, hiding everything from the congregation except her bright red lips and the smooth curve of her chin. I touched her hand, and she squeezed mine; and we felt that we were close together, and God saw nothing wrong with it.
As for Parson Bowden (as worthy a man as ever lived, and one who could shoot flying), he scarcely knew what he was doing, without the clerk to help him. He had borne it very well indeed, when I returned from London; but to see a live Doone in his church, and a lady Doone, and a lovely Doone, moreover one engaged to me, upon whom he almost looked as the Squire of his parish (although not rightly an Armiger), and to feel that this lovely Doone was a Papist, and therefore of higher religion—as all our parsons think—and that she knew exactly how he ought to do all the service, of which he himself knew little; I wish to express my firm belief that all these things together turned Parson Bowden's head a little, and made him look to me for orders.
As for Parson Bowden (a truly worthy man, and someone who could shoot on the fly), he hardly knew what he was doing without the clerk to assist him. He had managed quite well when I returned from London; but to see a living Doone in his church, a lady Doone, and a beautiful Doone at that, who was also engaged to me—someone he almost regarded as the Squire of his parish (even though he wasn’t technically an Armiger)—and to realize that this lovely Doone was a Papist, which in the eyes of our parsons means she practiced a higher form of religion, and that she knew exactly how he should conduct the service, of which he himself knew very little; I truly believe all these factors combined made Parson Bowden a bit flustered and caused him to look to me for guidance.
My mother, the very best of women, was (as I could well perceive) a little annoyed and vexed with things. For this particular occasion, she had procured from Dulverton, by special message to Ruth Huckaback (whereof more anon), a head-dress with a feather never seen before upon Exmoor, to the best of every one's knowledge. It came from a bird called a flaming something—a flaming oh, or a flaming ah, I will not be positive—but I can assure you that it did flame; and dear mother had no other thought, but that all the congregation would neither see nor think of any other mortal thing, or immortal even, to the very end of the sermon.
My mother, the best of women, was clearly a bit annoyed and bothered by things. For this particular occasion, she had arranged to get a headpiece with a feather that had never been seen before in Exmoor, through a special message to Ruth Huckaback (more on that later). It came from a bird called a flaming something—a flaming oh, or a flaming ah, I can’t be sure—but I can tell you that it really did stand out; and my dear mother believed that the entire congregation would notice nothing else, neither mortal nor immortal, until the very end of the sermon.
Herein she was so disappointed, that no sooner did she get home, but upstairs she went at speed, not even stopping at the mirror in our little parlour, and flung the whole thing into a cupboard, as I knew by the bang of the door, having eased the lock for her lately. Lorna saw there was something wrong; and she looked at Annie and Lizzie (as more likely to understand it) with her former timid glance; which I knew so well, and which had first enslaved me.
She was so disappointed that as soon as she got home, she rushed upstairs without even pausing at the mirror in our little living room and threw everything into a cupboard, which I heard with the loud bang of the door since I had recently loosened the lock for her. Lorna noticed something was off; she glanced at Annie and Lizzie, hoping they might understand, with that familiar timid look that I knew so well and which had first captivated me.
“I know not what ails mother,” said Annie, who looked very beautiful, with lilac lute-string ribbons, which I saw the Snowe girls envying; “but she has not attended to one of the prayers, nor said 'Amen,' all the morning. Never fear, darling Lorna, it is nothing about you. It is something about our John, I am sure; for she never worries herself very much about anybody but him.” And here Annie made a look at me, such as I had had five hundred of.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with Mom,” said Annie, who looked stunning in her lilac lute-string ribbons, which I noticed the Snowe girls envied; “but she hasn’t paid attention to any of the prayers, nor said 'Amen' at all this morning. Don’t worry, sweet Lorna, it has nothing to do with you. I’m sure it’s something about our John, because she only really gets worked up about him.” And here Annie gave me a look that I had seen a million times before.
“You keep your opinions to yourself,” I replied; because I knew the dear, and her little bits of jealousy; “it happens that you are quite wrong, this time. Lorna, come with me, my darling.”
“You should keep your opinions to yourself,” I replied, because I understood the dear and her little jealousies. “You’re quite wrong this time. Lorna, come with me, my darling.”
“Oh yes, Lorna; go with him,” cried Lizzie, dropping her lip, in a way which you must see to know its meaning; “John wants nobody now but you; and none can find fault with his taste, dear.”
“Oh yes, Lorna; go with him,” Lizzie exclaimed, pouting in a way that you have to see to understand; “John only wants you now; and no one can criticize his choice, dear.”
“You little fool, I should think not,” I answered, very rudely; for, betwixt the lot of them, my Lorna's eyelashes were quivering; “now, dearest angel, come with me; and snap your hands at the whole of them.”
“You little fool, I don’t think so,” I replied, quite rudely; because, among all of them, my Lorna's eyelashes were trembling; “now, my dear angel, come with me; and snap your fingers at all of them.”
My angel did come, with a sigh, and then with a smile, when we were alone; but without any unangelic attempt at snapping her sweet white fingers.
My angel did come, with a sigh, and then with a smile, when we were alone; but without any unangelic attempt at snapping her sweet white fingers.
These little things are enough to show that while every one so admired Lorna, and so kindly took to her, still there would, just now and then, be petty and paltry flashes of jealousy concerning her; and perhaps it could not be otherwise among so many women. However, we were always doubly kind to her afterwards; and although her mind was so sensitive and quick that she must have suffered, she never allowed us to perceive it, nor lowered herself by resenting it.
These little things are enough to show that while everyone admired Lorna and warmly took to her, there would still occasionally be small, petty flashes of jealousy towards her, and maybe it couldn’t be any different among so many women. However, we always made sure to be extra kind to her afterward; and even though she was so sensitive and quick-witted that she must have suffered, she never let us see it or lowered herself by reacting negatively.
Possibly I may have mentioned that little Ruth Huckaback had been asked, and had even promised to spend her Christmas with us; and this was the more desirable, because she had left us through some offence, or sorrow, about things said of her. Now my dear mother, being the kindest and best-hearted of all women, could not bear that poor dear Ruth (who would some day have such a fortune), should be entirely lost to us. “It is our duty, my dear children,” she said more than once about it, “to forgive and forget, as freely as we hope to have it done to us. If dear little Ruth has not behaved quite as we might have expected, great allowance should be made for a girl with so much money. Designing people get hold of her, and flatter her, and coax her, to obtain a base influence over her; so that when she falls among simple folk, who speak the honest truth of her, no wonder the poor child is vexed, and gives herself airs, and so on. Ruth can be very useful to us in a number of little ways; and I consider it quite a duty to pardon her freak of petulance.”
I may have mentioned that little Ruth Huckaback had been invited and had even promised to spend Christmas with us. This was especially important because she had left us due to some offense or sadness caused by things said about her. Now, my dear mother, being the kindest and most big-hearted person, couldn’t stand the thought of poor dear Ruth (who would someday inherit a fortune) being completely lost to us. “It’s our duty, my dear children,” she said more than once, “to forgive and forget, just as we hope to be forgiven ourselves. If dear little Ruth hasn’t acted quite as we might have expected, we should consider the circumstances for a girl with that much money. There are manipulative people who get close to her, flattering and coaxing her to gain a negative influence. So when she’s around straightforward people who speak the honest truth about her, it’s no surprise that the poor child gets upset and acts haughty, and so on. Ruth can be very helpful to us in many little ways, and I believe it’s our responsibility to forgive her for her moments of irritability.”
Now one of the little ways in which Ruth had been very useful, was the purchase of the scarlet feathers of the flaming bird; and now that the house was quite safe from attack, and the mark on my forehead was healing, I was begged, over and over again, to go and see Ruth, and make all things straight, and pay for the gorgeous plumage. This last I was very desirous to do, that I might know the price of it, having made a small bet on the subject with Annie; and having held counsel with myself, whether or not it were possible to get something of the kind for Lorna, of still more distinguished appearance. Of course she could not wear scarlet as yet, even if I had wished it; but I believed that people of fashion often wore purple for mourning; purple too was the royal colour, and Lorna was by right a queen; therefore I was quite resolved to ransack Uncle Reuben's stores, in search of some bright purple bird, if nature had kindly provided one.
Now, one of the small ways Ruth had been really helpful was by buying the scarlet feathers of the flaming bird. Now that the house was safe from attack and the mark on my forehead was healing, everyone begged me, over and over again, to go see Ruth, sort everything out, and pay for the gorgeous feathers. I really wanted to do this because I wanted to know the price, as I had made a small bet on it with Annie. I also thought about whether it was possible to find something even more impressive for Lorna. Of course, she couldn't wear scarlet yet, even if I had wanted her to; but I believed that fashionable people often wore purple for mourning. Purple was also a royal color, and Lorna was, by right, a queen. So, I was determined to search through Uncle Reuben's supplies for some bright purple feathers, if nature had been kind enough to provide one.
All this, however, I kept to myself, intending to trust Ruth Huckaback, and no one else in the matter. And so, one beautiful spring morning, when all the earth was kissed with scent, and all the air caressed with song, up the lane I stoutly rode, well armed, and well provided.
All of this, though, I kept to myself, planning to trust Ruth Huckaback and no one else with it. So, one beautiful spring morning, when the entire earth was filled with fragrance and the air was filled with music, I confidently rode up the lane, fully armed and well prepared.
Now though it is part of my life to heed, it is no part of my tale to tell, how the wheat was coming on. I reckon that you, who read this story, after I am dead and gone (and before that none shall read it), will say, “Tush! What is his wheat to us? We are not wheat: we are human beings: and all we care for is human doings.” This may be very good argument, and in the main, I believe that it is so. Nevertheless, if a man is to tell only what he thought and did, and not what came around him, he must not mention his own clothes, which his father and mother bought for him. And more than my own clothes to me, ay, and as much as my own skin, are the works of nature round about, whereof a man is the smallest.
Now, even though it's part of my life to pay attention to it, it's not part of my story to discuss how the wheat was growing. I imagine that you, who read this story after I'm gone (and none shall read it before then), will say, “What does his wheat matter to us? We're not wheat: we're human beings, and all we care about is human actions.” This is a valid point, and overall, I believe it's true. However, if a person only talks about what he thought and did, without mentioning what was around him, he shouldn't bring up his own clothes, which were bought for him by his parents. And more than my own clothes, just like my own skin, the natural world surrounding me is significant, of which a person is the smallest part.
And now I will tell you, although most likely only to be laughed at, because I cannot put it in the style of Mr. Dryden—whom to compare to Shakespeare! but if once I begin upon that, you will never hear the last of me—nevertheless, I will tell you this; not wishing to be rude, but only just because I know it; the more a man can fling his arms (so to say) round Nature's neck, the more he can upon her bosom, like an infant, lie and suck,—the more that man shall earn the trust and love of all his fellow men.
And now I’ll share something with you, even though it might just make you laugh, because I can’t express it like Mr. Dryden—who can even be compared to Shakespeare? But if I start down that path, you'll never hear the end of it—anyway, I’ll say this; not trying to be rude, but just because I know it: the more a person can embrace Nature, so to speak, the more they can lie comfortably in her embrace like a baby and draw from her— the more that person will earn the trust and love of everyone around them.
In this matter is no jealousy (when the man is dead); because thereafter all others know how much of the milk be had; and he can suck no longer; and they value him accordingly, for the nourishment he is to them. Even as when we keep a roaster of the sucking-pigs, we choose, and praise at table most, the favourite of its mother. Fifty times have I seen this, and smiled, and praised our people's taste, and offered them more of the vitals.
In this situation, there's no jealousy (when the man is gone); because after that, everyone knows how much they can get; and he can no longer benefit them; and they see him for what he’s worth to them. Just like when we keep a bunch of piglets, we choose and praise the one that’s the favorite of its mother the most at dinner. I've seen this happen fifty times, smiled, appreciated our people's taste, and offered them more of the good stuff.
Now here am I upon Shakespeare (who died, of his own fruition, at the age of fifty-two, yet lived more than fifty thousand men, within his little span of life), when all the while I ought to be riding as hard as I can to Dulverton. But, to tell the truth, I could not ride hard, being held at every turn, and often without any turn at all, by the beauty of things around me. These things grow upon a man if once he stops to notice them.
Now here I am thinking about Shakespeare (who died, by his own choice, at fifty-two but lived more than fifty thousand men within his short life), when I should really be riding as fast as I can to Dulverton. But honestly, I couldn't ride fast, being stopped at every turn, and often with no turn at all, by the beauty of the things around me. These things start to affect a person once they take the time to notice them.
It wanted yet two hours to noon, when I came to Master Huckaback's door, and struck the panels smartly. Knowing nothing of their manners, only that people in a town could not be expected to entertain (as we do in farm-houses), having, moreover, keen expectation of Master Huckaback's avarice, I had brought some stuff to eat, made by Annie, and packed by Lorna, and requiring no thinking about it.
It was about two hours until noon when I arrived at Master Huckaback's door and knocked firmly on the panels. I was unfamiliar with their customs, only knowing that city folks weren't likely to host guests as we do in the countryside. Plus, I was fully aware of Master Huckaback's greed, so I had brought along some food made by Annie and packed by Lorna, which didn’t require any further thought.
Ruth herself came and let me in, blushing very heartily; for which colour I praised her health, and my praises heightened it. That little thing had lovely eyes, and could be trusted thoroughly. I do like an obstinate little woman, when she is sure that she is right. And indeed if love had never sped me straight to the heart of Lorna (compared to whom, Ruth was no more than the thief is to the candle), who knows but what I might have yielded to the law of nature, that thorough trimmer of balances, and verified the proverb that the giant loves the dwarf?
Ruth came to let me in, blushing deeply, which I complimented her on to boost her confidence even more. That little thing had beautiful eyes and was completely trustworthy. I really appreciate a stubborn little woman when she knows she’s right. And honestly, if love hadn’t pushed me straight to Lorna’s heart (who made Ruth seem insignificant by comparison), who knows if I might have succumbed to the natural order of things, proving the saying that a giant loves a dwarf?
“I take the privilege, Mistress Ruth, of saluting you according to kinship, and the ordering of the Canons.” And therewith I bussed her well, and put my arm around her waist, being so terribly restricted in the matter of Lorna, and knowing the use of practice. Not that I had any warmth—all that was darling Lorna's—only out of pure gallantry, and my knowledge of London fashions. Ruth blushed to such a pitch at this, and looked up at me with such a gleam; as if I must have my own way; that all my love of kissing sunk, and I felt that I was wronging her. Only my mother had told me, when the girls were out of the way, to do all I could to please darling Ruth, and I had gone about it accordingly.
“I take the liberty, Mistress Ruth, of greeting you as family, according to the customs.” With that, I kissed her nicely and put my arm around her waist, feeling quite limited because of Lorna and knowing the importance of practice. It wasn't that I felt any warmth— that was all for dear Lorna—just out of pure gallantry and my understanding of London style. Ruth blushed so deeply at this and looked up at me with such a sparkle, as if I had to get my way; all my desire to kiss her faded, and I felt like I was doing her wrong. But my mother had told me, when the girls weren’t around, to do everything I could to make dear Ruth happy, and I had been following that advice.
Now Ruth as yet had never heard a word about dear Lorna; and when she led me into the kitchen (where everything looked beautiful), and told me not to mind, for a moment, about the scrubbing of my boots, because she would only be too glad to clean it all up after me, and told me how glad she was to see me, blushing more at every word, and recalling some of them, and stooping down for pots and pans, when I looked at her too ruddily—all these things came upon me so, without any legal notice, that I could only look at Ruth, and think how very good she was, and how bright her handles were; and wonder if I had wronged her. Once or twice, I began—this I say upon my honour—to endeavour to explain exactly, how we were at Plover's Barrows; how we all had been bound to fight, and had defeated the enemy, keeping their queen amongst us. But Ruth would make some great mistake between Lorna and Gwenny Carfax, and gave me no chance to set her aright, and cared about nothing much, except some news of Sally Snowe.
Now, Ruth had never heard a word about dear Lorna. When she led me into the kitchen, where everything looked lovely, she told me not to worry about my dirty boots for a moment because she would be more than happy to clean it all up after me. She said how happy she was to see me, blushing more with each word, recalling some of them, and bending down for pots and pans when I looked at her a bit too intently. All of this hit me unexpectedly, and I could only look at Ruth and think how kind she was and how bright her handles were, wondering if I had wronged her. A couple of times, I tried—this I swear—to explain exactly how things were at Plover's Barrows; how we all had to fight and managed to defeat the enemy while keeping their queen among us. But Ruth got mixed up between Lorna and Gwenny Carfax, and I didn’t get a chance to correct her. She seemed to care about little other than some news about Sally Snowe.
What could I do with this little thing? All my sense of modesty, and value for my dinner, were against my over-pressing all the graceful hints I had given about Lorna. Ruth was just a girl of that sort, who will not believe one word, except from her own seeing; not so much from any doubt, as from the practice of using eyes which have been in business.
What could I do with this little thing? All my sense of modesty and appreciation for my dinner were against my pushing too hard on all the subtle hints I had given about Lorna. Ruth was just the kind of girl who wouldn’t believe anything unless she saw it herself; not so much due to doubt, but from the habit of relying on her own experienced eyes.
I asked Cousin Ruth (as we used to call her, though the cousinship was distant) what was become of Uncle Ben, and how it was that we never heard anything of or from him now. She replied that she hardly knew what to make of her grandfather's manner of carrying on, for the last half-year or more. He was apt to leave his home, she said, at any hour of the day or night; going none knew whither, and returning no one might say when. And his dress, in her opinion, was enough to frighten a hodman, of a scavenger of the roads, instead of the decent suit of kersey, or of Sabbath doeskins, such as had won the respect and reverence of his fellow-townsmen. But the worst of all things was, as she confessed with tears in her eyes, that the poor old gentleman had something weighing heavily on his mind.
I asked Cousin Ruth (as we used to call her, even though we were only distant cousins) what had happened to Uncle Ben and why we never heard anything from him anymore. She said she hardly knew what to make of her grandfather's behavior for the last six months or so. He would leave home at any hour of the day or night, going who knows where, and returning at unpredictable times. In her opinion, his clothing was enough to scare anyone—more like what a road cleaner would wear than the nice suit of fabric or Sunday attire that had earned him the respect of his neighbors. But the worst part, as she admitted with tears in her eyes, was that the poor old man was clearly troubled by something heavy on his mind.
“It will shorten his days, Cousin Ridd,” she said, for she never would call me Cousin John; “he has no enjoyment of anything that he eats or drinks, nor even in counting his money, as he used to do all Sunday; indeed no pleasure in anything, unless it be smoking his pipe, and thinking and staring at bits of brown stone, which he pulls, every now and then, out of his pockets. And the business he used to take such pride in is now left almost entirely to the foreman, and to me.”
“It will shorten his life, Cousin Ridd,” she said, since she would never call me Cousin John; “he doesn’t enjoy anything he eats or drinks, not even counting his money like he used to do every Sunday; in fact, he finds pleasure in almost nothing, except for smoking his pipe and thinking while staring at pieces of brown stone that he occasionally pulls out of his pockets. The work he used to take so much pride in is now almost entirely left to the foreman and me.”
“And what will become of you, dear Ruth, if anything happens to the old man?”
“And what will happen to you, dear Ruth, if anything happens to the old man?”
“I am sure I know not,” she answered simply; “and I cannot bear to think of it. It must depend, I suppose, upon dear grandfather's pleasure about me.”
“I honestly don’t know,” she replied softly; “and I can't stand to think about it. I guess it depends on dear grandfather's wishes regarding me.”
“It must rather depend,” said I, though having no business to say it, “upon your own good pleasure, Ruth; for all the world will pay court to you.”
“It really depends,” I said, even though I shouldn’t have, “on what you decide, Ruth; because everyone will seek your favor.”
“That is the very thing which I never could endure. I have begged dear grandfather to leave no chance of that. When he has threatened me with poverty, as he does sometimes, I have always met him truly, with the answer that I feared one thing a great deal worse than poverty; namely, to be an heiress. But I cannot make him believe it. Only think how strange, Cousin Ridd, I cannot make him believe it.”
"That’s exactly what I could never stand. I’ve pleaded with my dear grandfather to prevent that from happening. Whenever he threatens me with poverty, which he does from time to time, I always respond honestly, saying that I’m much more afraid of one thing than poverty: being an heiress. But I can’t get him to believe me. Just think how odd that is, Cousin Ridd, that I can’t make him believe me."
“It is not strange at all,” I answered; “considering how he values money. Neither would any one else believe you, except by looking into your true, and very pretty eyes, dear.”
“It’s not surprising at all,” I replied; “given how much he values money. No one else would believe you either, except by looking into your true, and very pretty eyes, dear.”
Now I beg that no one will suspect for a single moment, either that I did not mean exactly what I said, or meant a single atom more, or would not have said the same, if Lorna had been standing by. What I had always liked in Ruth, was the calm, straightforward gaze, and beauty of her large brown eyes. Indeed I had spoken of them to Lorna, as the only ones to be compared (though not for more than a moment) to her own, for truth and light, but never for depth and softness. But now the little maiden dropped them, and turned away, without reply.
Now I ask that no one suspect for a moment that I didn’t mean exactly what I said, or that I meant anything more, or that I wouldn’t have said the same if Lorna had been right there. What I’ve always admired in Ruth was the calm, direct look and the beauty of her large brown eyes. In fact, I had mentioned to Lorna that Ruth's eyes were the only ones that could be compared (if only for a second) to her own, in truth and brightness, but never in depth and softness. But now the young girl dropped her gaze and turned away without saying anything.
“I will go and see to my horse,” I said; “the boy that has taken him seemed surprised at his having no horns on his forehead. Perhaps he will lead him into the shop, and feed him upon broadcloth.”
“I’ll go check on my horse,” I said; “the kid who took him seemed surprised that he didn’t have any horns on his forehead. Maybe he’ll bring him into the store and feed him broadcloth.”
“Oh, he is such a stupid boy,” Ruth answered with great sympathy: “how quick of you to observe that now: and you call yourself 'Slow John Ridd!' I never did see such a stupid boy: sometimes he spoils my temper. But you must be back in half an hour, at the latest, Cousin Ridd. You see I remember what you are; when once you get among horses, or cows, or things of that sort.”
“Oh, he’s such a foolish boy,” Ruth replied with great sympathy. “How quick of you to notice that now: and you call yourself 'Slow John Ridd!' I’ve never seen such a foolish boy; sometimes he tests my patience. But you need to be back in half an hour at the latest, Cousin Ridd. You know I remember what you're like; once you get around horses, or cows, or anything like that.”
“Things of that sort! Well done, Ruth! One would think you were quite a Cockney.”
“Things like that! Great job, Ruth! You’d think you were a total Cockney.”
Uncle Reuben did not come home to his dinner; and his granddaughter said she had strictest orders never to expect him. Therefore we had none to dine with us, except the foreman of the shop, a worthy man, named Thomas Cockram, fifty years of age or so. He seemed to me to have strong intentions of his own about little Ruth, and on that account to regard me with a wholly undue malevolence. And perhaps, in order to justify him, I may have been more attentive to her than otherwise need have been; at any rate, Ruth and I were pleasant; and he the very opposite.
Uncle Reuben didn't come home for dinner, and his granddaughter said she was told never to expect him. So, we had no one to dine with us except the foreman of the shop, a decent man named Thomas Cockram, who was around fifty years old. He seemed to have strong feelings about little Ruth and, because of that, looked at me with unnecessary hostility. Maybe, to make him feel justified, I was more attentive to her than I needed to be; either way, Ruth and I got along well, while he was the complete opposite.
“My dear Cousin Ruth,” I said, on purpose to vex Master Cockram, because he eyed us so heavily, and squinted to unluckily, “we have long been looking for you at our Plover's Barrows farm. You remember how you used to love hunting for eggs in the morning, and hiding up in the tallat with Lizzie, for me to seek you among the hay, when the sun was down. Ah, Master Cockram, those are the things young people find their pleasure in, not in selling a yard of serge, and giving twopence-halfpenny change, and writing 'settled' at the bottom, with a pencil that has blacked their teeth. Now, Master Cockram, you ought to come as far as our good farm, at once, and eat two new-laid eggs for breakfast, and be made to look quite young again. Our good Annie would cook for you; and you should have the hot new milk and the pope's eye from the mutton; and every foot of you would become a yard in about a fortnight.” And hereupon, I spread my chest, to show him an example. Ruth could not keep her countenance: but I saw that she thought it wrong of me; and would scold me, if ever I gave her the chance of taking those little liberties. However, he deserved it all, according to my young ideas, for his great impertinence in aiming at my cousin.
"My dear Cousin Ruth," I said, intentionally trying to irritate Master Cockram, since he was staring at us so intensely and squinting in a way that was unfortunate, "we have been waiting for you at our Plover's Barrows farm. Do you remember how much you loved searching for eggs in the morning and hiding in the tall grass with Lizzie, so I could look for you in the hay when the sun was setting? Ah, Master Cockram, those are the things young people enjoy, not selling a yard of fabric, giving two-and-a-half pennies in change, and scribbling 'settled' at the bottom with a pencil that has stained their teeth. Now, Master Cockram, you should come to our lovely farm right now, eat two fresh eggs for breakfast, and feel young again. Our lovely Annie would cook for you, and you would have hot fresh milk and the pope’s eye from the mutton; in about two weeks, you’d be looking very different." At this, I puffed out my chest to make a point. Ruth couldn't hold back her laughter, but I noticed she thought it was inappropriate of me and would scold me if I ever gave her the chance to correct that kind of behavior. Still, he deserved every bit of it, as far as my young mind was concerned, for being so rude about my cousin.
But what I said was far less grievous to a man of honest mind than little Ruth's own behaviour. I could hardly have believed that so thoroughly true a girl, and one so proud and upright, could have got rid of any man so cleverly as she got rid of Master Thomas Cockram. She gave him not even a glass of wine, but commended to his notice, with a sweet and thoughtful gravity, some invoice which must be corrected, before her dear grandfather should return; and to amend which three great ledgers must be searched from first to last. Thomas Cockram winked at me, with the worst of his two wrong eyes; as much as to say, “I understand it; but I cannot help myself. Only you look out, if ever”—and before he had finished winking, the door was shut behind him. Then Ruth said to me in the simplest manner, “You have ridden far today, Cousin Ridd; and have far to ride to get home again. What will dear Aunt Ridd say, if we send you away without nourishment? All the keys are in my keeping, and dear grandfather has the finest wine, not to be matched in the west of England, as I have heard good judges say; though I know not wine from cider. Do you like the wine of Oporto, or the wine of Xeres?”
But what I said was far less serious to an honest person than little Ruth's own behavior. I could hardly believe that such a genuinely true girl, who was so proud and upright, could have gotten rid of any man as cleverly as she did with Master Thomas Cockram. She didn’t even offer him a glass of wine but instead pointed out, with a sweet and thoughtful seriousness, some invoice that needed correcting before her dear grandfather returned. To fix it, three big ledgers had to be searched from beginning to end. Thomas Cockram winked at me with his worst eye, as if to say, “I get it; but there's nothing I can do. Just be careful if ever”—and before he could finish winking, the door was closed behind him. Then Ruth said to me simply, “You’ve ridden a long way today, Cousin Ridd, and you have a long way to go to get home. What will dear Aunt Ridd say if we send you away without some food? I have all the keys, and dear grandfather has the finest wine, unmatched in the west of England, or so I’ve heard from good judges; though I don’t know wine from cider. Do you prefer the wine from Oporto or the wine from Xeres?”
“I know not one from the other, fair cousin, except by the colour,” I answered: “but the sound of Oporto is nobler, and richer. Suppose we try wine of Oporto.”
“I can’t tell one from the other, dear cousin, except by the color,” I replied. “But the sound of Oporto is more noble and richer. How about we try some wine from Oporto?”
The good little creature went and fetched a black bottle of an ancient cast, covered with dust and cobwebs. These I was anxious to shake aside; and indeed I thought that the wine would be better for being roused up a little. Ruth, however, would not hear a single word to that purport; and seeing that she knew more about it, I left her to manage it. And the result was very fine indeed, to wit, a sparkling rosy liquor, dancing with little flakes of light, and scented like new violets. With this I was so pleased and gay, and Ruth so glad to see me gay, that we quite forgot how the time went on; and though my fair cousin would not be persuaded to take a second glass herself, she kept on filling mine so fast that it was never empty, though I did my best to keep it so.
The little creature went and got a black bottle that looked really old, covered in dust and cobwebs. I was eager to shake it off, thinking the wine would taste better once it was stirred up a bit. Ruth, however, didn’t want to hear any of that, and since she knew more about it, I let her take charge. The result was actually really impressive: a sparkling rosy drink that shimmered with little flashes of light and smelled like fresh violets. I was so happy and cheerful, and Ruth was just as delighted to see me like that, that we completely lost track of time. Even though my lovely cousin wouldn’t be convinced to have a second glass herself, she kept filling mine so quickly that it never went empty, even though I tried my best to drink it all.
“What is a little drop like this to a man of your size and strength, Cousin Ridd?” she said, with her cheeks just brushed with rose, which made her look very beautiful; “I have heard you say that your head is so thick—or rather so clear, you ought to say—that no liquor ever moves it.”
“What’s a little drop like this to a guy like you, Cousin Ridd?” she said, her cheeks slightly flushed, making her look really beautiful. “I’ve heard you say that your head is so thick—or maybe you should say so clear—that no drink ever affects you.”
“That is right enough,” I answered; “what a witch you must be, dear Ruth, to have remembered that now!”
“That’s true,” I replied; “what a witch you are, dear Ruth, to have remembered that now!”
“Oh, I remember every word I have ever heard you say, Cousin Ridd; because your voice is so deep, you know, and you talk so little. Now it is useless to say 'no'. These bottles hold almost nothing. Dear grandfather will not come home, I fear, until long after you are gone. What will Aunt Ridd think of me, I am sure? You are all so dreadfully hospitable. Now not another 'no,' Cousin Ridd. We must have another bottle.”
“Oh, I remember every word you've ever said, Cousin Ridd; your voice is so deep, and you hardly talk. Now it’s pointless to say 'no.' These bottles are almost empty. I’m afraid dear grandfather won’t come home until long after you’ve left. What will Aunt Ridd think of me, I wonder? You’re all so incredibly hospitable. No more 'no,' Cousin Ridd. We need to get another bottle.”
“Well, must is must,” I answered, with a certain resignation. “I cannot bear bad manners, dear; and how old are you next birthday?”
“Well, must is must,” I replied, with some resignation. “I can’t stand bad manners, dear; and how old will you be on your next birthday?”
“Eighteen, dear John;” said Ruth, coming over with the empty bottle; and I was pleased at her calling me “John,” and had a great mind to kiss her. However, I thought of my Lorna suddenly, and of the anger I should feel if a man went on with her so; therefore I lay back in my chair, to wait for the other bottle.
“Eighteen, dear John,” Ruth said, walking over with the empty bottle. I felt happy that she called me “John” and I really wanted to kiss her. But then I suddenly thought of Lorna and how angry I would be if a man acted like that with her. So, I leaned back in my chair to wait for the other bottle.
“Do you remember how we danced that night?” I asked, while she was opening it; “and how you were afraid of me first, because I looked so tall, dear?”
“Do you remember how we danced that night?” I asked as she was opening it; “and how you were scared of me at first because I looked so tall, sweetheart?”
“Yes, and so very broad, Cousin Ridd. I thought that you would eat me. But I have come to know, since then, how very kind and good you are.”
“Yes, and you’re so broad, Cousin Ridd. I really thought you were going to eat me. But I’ve come to realize, since then, how kind and good you are.”
“And will you come and dance again, at my wedding, Cousin Ruth?”
“And will you come and dance again at my wedding, Cousin Ruth?”
She nearly let the bottle fall, the last of which she was sloping carefully into a vessel of bright glass; and then she raised her hand again, and finished it judiciously. And after that, she took the window, to see that all her work was clear; and then she poured me out a glass and said, with very pale cheeks, but else no sign of meaning about her, “What did you ask me, Cousin Ridd?”
She almost dropped the bottle, the last of which she was carefully pouring into a bright glass container; then she raised her hand again and finished it wisely. After that, she went to the window to make sure all her work was in order; then she poured me a glass and said, with very pale cheeks but otherwise no sign of emotion, “What did you ask me, Cousin Ridd?”
“Nothing of any importance, Ruth; only we are so fond of you. I mean to be married as soon as I can. Will you come and help us?”
“Nothing really important, Ruth; we just care about you so much. I plan to get married as soon as possible. Will you come and help us?”
“To be sure I will, Cousin Ridd—unless, unless, dear grandfather cannot spare me from the business.” She went away; and her breast was heaving, like a rick of under-carried hay. And she stood at the window long, trying to make yawns of sighs.
“To be sure I will, Cousin Ridd—unless, unless, dear grandfather can’t spare me from the business.” She walked away, her chest rising and falling like a stack of hay that wasn’t properly stored. She stood by the window for a long time, trying to turn her sighs into yawns.
For my part, I knew not what to do. And yet I could think about it, as I never could with Lorna; with whom I was always in a whirl, from the power of my love. So I thought some time about it; and perceived that it was the manliest way, just to tell her everything; except that I feared she liked me. But it seemed to me unaccountable that she did not even ask the name of my intended wife. Perhaps she thought that it must be Sally; or perhaps she feared to trust her voice.
For my part, I didn’t know what to do. Yet, I could think about it, unlike with Lorna, who always left me in a whirlwind because of my feelings for her. So, I spent some time thinking about it and realized that the best approach was to tell her everything, even though I worried that she might have feelings for me. But I found it strange that she didn’t even ask about the name of my future wife. Maybe she assumed it was Sally, or perhaps she was too afraid to voice her thoughts.
“Come and sit by me, dear Ruth; and listen to a long, long story, how things have come about with me.”
“Come and sit with me, dear Ruth; and listen to a long, long story about how things have turned out for me.”
“No, thank you, Cousin Ridd,” she answered; “at least I mean that I shall be happy—that I shall be ready to hear you—to listen to you, I mean of course. But I would rather stay where I am, and have the air—or rather be able to watch for dear grandfather coming home. He is so kind and good to me. What should I do without him?”
“No, thank you, Cousin Ridd,” she replied; “I mean that I’ll be happy—ready to hear you—to listen to you, of course. But I’d prefer to stay where I am, to enjoy the fresh air—or rather, to be able to watch for dear grandfather coming home. He’s so kind and good to me. What would I do without him?”
Then I told her how, for years and years, I had been attached to Lorna, and all the dangers and difficulties which had so long beset us, and how I hoped that these were passing, and no other might come between us, except on the score of religion; upon which point I trusted soon to overcome my mother's objections. And then I told her how poor, and helpless, and alone in the world, my Lorna was; and how sad all her youth had been, until I brought her away at last. And many other little things I mentioned, which there is no need for me again to dwell upon. Ruth heard it all without a word, and without once looking at me; and only by her attitude could I guess that she was weeping. Then when all my tale was told, she asked in a low and gentle voice, but still without showing her face to me,—
Then I told her how, for years and years, I had been devoted to Lorna, and all the dangers and difficulties that had plagued us for so long, and how I hoped those were ending, with nothing else coming between us, except for religious differences; on that matter, I believed I would soon win my mother's approval. I then shared how poor, helpless, and alone Lorna was in the world, and how sad her youth had been until I finally rescued her. I mentioned many other small things that don’t need repeating. Ruth listened quietly, without saying a word and without looking at me; I could only tell she was crying by her body language. When I finished my story, she asked softly and gently, still not facing me,—
“And does she love you, Cousin Ridd? Does she say that she loves you with—with all her heart?”
“And does she love you, Cousin Ridd? Does she tell you that she loves you with—with all her heart?”
“Certainly, she does,” I answered. “Do you think it impossible for one like her to do so?”
“Of course she does,” I replied. “Do you really think it's impossible for someone like her to do that?”
She said no more; but crossed the room before I had time to look at her, and came behind my chair, and kissed me gently on the forehead.
She didn't say anything else; instead, she crossed the room before I could look at her, came behind my chair, and gently kissed me on the forehead.
“I hope you may be very happy, with—I mean in your new life,” she whispered very softly; “as happy as you deserve to be, and as happy as you can make others be. Now how I have been neglecting you! I am quite ashamed of myself for thinking only of grandfather: and it makes me so low-spirited. You have told me a very nice romance, and I have never even helped you to a glass of wine. Here, pour it for yourself, dear cousin; I shall be back again directly.”
“I hope you are really happy in your new life,” she whispered softly; “as happy as you deserve and as happy as you can make others. I can’t believe how I’ve been ignoring you! I feel so ashamed for only thinking about grandfather, and it really gets me down. You shared such a lovely story with me, and I haven’t even offered you a glass of wine. Here, pour yourself one, dear cousin; I’ll be right back.”
With that she was out of the door in a moment; and when she came back, you would not have thought that a tear had dimmed those large bright eyes, or wandered down those pale clear cheeks. Only her hands were cold and trembling: and she made me help myself.
With that, she quickly left the room; and when she returned, you wouldn't have guessed that a tear had clouded those big bright eyes or slid down those pale, smooth cheeks. The only indication was her cold, shaking hands, and she urged me to take care of myself.
Uncle Reuben did not appear at all; and Ruth, who had promised to come and see us, and stay for a fortnight at our house (if her grandfather could spare her), now discovered, before I left, that she must not think of doing so. Perhaps she was right in deciding thus; at any rate it had now become improper for me to press her. And yet I now desired tenfold that she should consent to come, thinking that Lorna herself would work the speediest cure of her passing whim.
Uncle Reuben didn’t show up at all, and Ruth, who had promised to come and visit us for two weeks (if her grandfather could let her go), now realized before I left that she really couldn’t think about doing that. Maybe she was right to decide this way; either way, it wasn’t appropriate for me to keep pushing her. Still, I wanted her to agree to come even more, thinking that Lorna could help her get over her fleeting mood the fastest.
For such, I tried to persuade myself, was the nature of Ruth's regard for me: and upon looking back I could not charge myself with any misconduct towards the little maiden. I had never sought her company, I had never trifled with her (at least until that very day), and being so engrossed with my own love, I had scarcely ever thought of her. And the maiden would never have thought of me, except as a clumsy yokel, but for my mother's and sister's meddling, and their wily suggestions. I believe they had told the little soul that I was deeply in love with her; although they both stoutly denied it. But who can place trust in a woman's word, when it comes to a question of match-making?
I tried to convince myself that this was how Ruth felt about me; looking back, I couldn’t blame myself for any wrongdoing toward the little girl. I had never pursued her company, I had never played with her (at least not until that very day), and being so wrapped up in my own love, I had hardly ever given her a thought. The girl wouldn’t have considered me at all, except as a clumsy country guy, if it weren't for my mother and sister’s interference and their clever suggestions. I think they must have told her that I was really into her, even though they both firmly denied it. But who can trust what a woman says when it comes to matchmaking?
CHAPTER LI
A VISIT FROM THE COUNSELLOR
Now while I was riding home that evening, with a tender conscience about Ruth, although not a wounded one, I guessed but little that all my thoughts were needed much for my own affairs. So however it proved to be; for as I came in, soon after dark, my sister Eliza met me at the corner of the cheese-room, and she said, “Don't go in there, John,” pointing to mother's room; “until I have had a talk with you.”
Now, while I was riding home that evening, feeling a bit guilty about Ruth, though not completely torn up about it, I hardly realized how much I needed to focus on my own issues. Turns out, that was exactly the case; because as I walked in shortly after dark, my sister Eliza stopped me at the corner of the cheese room and said, “Don’t go in there, John,” pointing to Mom’s room; “until I’ve had a chance to talk with you.”
“In the name of Moses,” I inquired, having picked up that phrase at Dulverton; “what are you at about me now? There is no peace for a quiet fellow.”
“In the name of Moses,” I asked, having picked up that phrase in Dulverton; “what are you doing about me now? There’s no peace for a calm guy.”
“It is nothing we are at,” she answered; “neither may you make light of it. It is something very important about Mistress Lorna Doone.”
“It’s nothing we can ignore,” she replied; “and you shouldn’t make light of it. It’s something very important regarding Mistress Lorna Doone.”
“Let us have it at once,” I cried; “I can bear anything about Lorna, except that she does not care for me.”
“Give it to me now,” I said; “I can handle anything about Lorna, except that she doesn’t care about me.”
“It has nothing to do with that, John. And I am quite sure that you never need fear anything of that sort. She perfectly wearies me sometimes, although her voice is so soft and sweet, about your endless perfections.”
“It has nothing to do with that, John. And I’m pretty sure you never have to worry about anything like that. She can really wear me out sometimes, even though her voice is so soft and sweet, with all her talk about your endless perfections.”
“Bless her little heart!” I said; “the subject is inexhaustible.”
“Bless her heart!” I said; “the topic is endless.”
“No doubt,” replied Lizzie, in the driest manner; “especially to your sisters. However this is no time to joke. I fear you will get the worst of it, John. Do you know a man of about Gwenny's shape, nearly as broad as he is long, but about six times the size of Gwenny, and with a length of snow-white hair, and a thickness also; as the copses were last winter. He never can comb it, that is quite certain, with any comb yet invented.”
“No doubt,” replied Lizzie, dryly. “Especially to your sisters. But this isn’t the time for jokes. I’m worried you might end up worse off, John. Do you know a guy who is about Gwenny's shape, nearly as wide as he is long, but about six times her size, with long snow-white hair that's really thick, just like the undergrowth was last winter? There's no way he can comb it, that’s for sure, with any comb that’s ever been invented.”
“Then you go and offer your services. There are few things you cannot scarify. I know the man from your description, although I have never seen him. Now where is my Lorna?”
“Then you go and offer your help. There are few things you can't sacrifice. I recognize the man from your description, even though I've never met him. Now, where's my Lorna?”
“Your Lorna is with Annie, having a good cry, I believe; and Annie too glad to second her. She knows that this great man is here, and knows that he wants to see her. But she begged to defer the interview, until dear John's return.”
“Your Lorna is with Annie, having a good cry, I think; and Annie is also happy to support her. She knows that this important man is here and that he wants to see her. But she insisted on postponing the meeting until dear John returns.”
“What a nasty way you have of telling the very commonest piece of news!” I said, on purpose to pay her out. “What man will ever fancy you, you unlucky little snapper? Now, no more nursery talk for me. I will go and settle this business. You had better go and dress your dolls; if you can give them clothes unpoisoned.” Hereupon Lizzie burst into a perfect roar of tears; feeling that she had the worst of it. And I took her up, and begged her pardon; although she scarcely deserved it; for she knew that I was out of luck, and she might have spared her satire.
“What a rude way you have of sharing the most ordinary news!” I said, just to get back at her. “What guy is ever going to like you, you unlucky little brat? No more baby talk from me. I'm going to handle this situation. You might as well go play with your dolls, if you can manage to dress them without ruining them.” At that, Lizzie started crying hard, realizing she was on the losing end. So, I picked her up and apologized, even though she didn’t really deserve it; she knew I was having a tough time, and she could have held back her snark.
I was almost sure that the man who was come must be the Counsellor himself; of whom I felt much keener fear than of his son Carver. And knowing that his visit boded ill to me and Lorna, I went and sought my dear; and led her with a heavy heart, from the maiden's room to mother's, to meet our dreadful visitor.
I was pretty sure that the man who had arrived must be the Counsellor himself; I was much more afraid of him than of his son Carver. Knowing that his visit meant trouble for me and Lorna, I went to find my dear and, with a heavy heart, took her from the maiden's room to my mother’s, to face our dreadful visitor.
Mother was standing by the door, making curtseys now and then, and listening to a long harangue upon the rights of state and land, which the Counsellor (having found that she was the owner of her property, and knew nothing of her title to it) was encouraged to deliver it. My dear mother stood gazing at him, spell-bound by his eloquence, and only hoping that he would stop. He was shaking his hair upon his shoulders, in the power of his words, and his wrath at some little thing, which he declared to be quite illegal.
Mother stood by the door, curtsying now and then, listening to a long speech about the rights of the state and land, which the Counsellor was encouraged to give, having discovered that she owned her property and knew nothing about her title to it. My dear mother gazed at him, entranced by his eloquence, just wishing he would stop. He shook his hair over his shoulders, fueled by the power of his words and his anger over a minor issue that he insisted was completely illegal.
Then I ventured to show myself, in the flesh, before him; although he feigned not to see me; but he advanced with zeal to Lorna; holding out both hands at once.
Then I decided to reveal myself in person to him; even though he pretended not to notice me, he eagerly approached Lorna, extending both hands at the same time.
“My darling child, my dearest niece; how wonderfully well you look! Mistress Ridd, I give you credit. This is the country of good things. I never would have believed our Queen could have looked so royal. Surely of all virtues, hospitality is the finest, and the most romantic. Dearest Lorna, kiss your uncle; it is quite a privilege.”
“My darling child, my dearest niece; you look absolutely wonderful! Mistress Ridd, I must give you credit. This place is truly fantastic. I never would have imagined our Queen could look so regal. Of all virtues, hospitality is definitely the best and the most romantic. Dearest Lorna, come give your uncle a kiss; it’s such a privilege.”
“Perhaps it is to you, sir,” said Lorna, who could never quite check her sense of oddity; “but I fear that you have smoked tobacco, which spoils reciprocity.”
“Maybe it’s you, sir,” Lorna said, unable to shake her sense of the unusual; “but I worry that you’ve smoked tobacco, which ruins the balance.”
“You are right, my child. How keen your scent is! It is always so with us. Your grandfather was noted for his olfactory powers. Ah, a great loss, dear Mrs. Ridd, a terrible loss to this neighbourhood! As one of our great writers says—I think it must be Milton—'We ne'er shall look upon his like again.'”
“You're right, my child. Your sense of smell is incredible! It’s always been this way with us. Your grandfather had a remarkable sense of smell. Ah, what a huge loss, dear Mrs. Ridd, a terrible loss for our neighborhood! As one of our great writers says—I think it was Milton—'We will never see his kind again.'”
“With your good leave sir,” I broke in, “Master Milton could never have written so sweet and simple a line as that. It is one of the great Shakespeare.”
“With your permission, sir,” I interrupted, “Master Milton could never have written such a sweet and simple line as that. It is one of the greats of Shakespeare.”
“Woe is me for my neglect!” said the Counsellor, bowing airily; “this must be your son, Mistress Ridd, the great John, the wrestler. And one who meddles with the Muses! Ah, since I was young, how everything is changed, madam! Except indeed the beauty of women, which seems to me to increase every year.” Here the old villain bowed to my mother; and she blushed, and made another curtsey, and really did look very nice.
“Poor me for my neglect!” said the Counsellor, bowing lightly; “this must be your son, Mistress Ridd, the great John, the wrestler. And one who dabbles with the Muses! Ah, since I was young, how much has changed, ma'am! Except for the beauty of women, which seems to me to grow every year.” At this, the old villain bowed to my mother; she blushed, made another curtsy, and truly looked very nice.
“Now though I have quoted the poets amiss, as your son informs me (for which I tender my best thanks, and must amend my reading), I can hardly be wrong in assuming that this young armiger must be the too attractive cynosure to our poor little maiden. And for my part, she is welcome to him. I have never been one of those who dwell upon distinctions of rank, and birth, and such like; as if they were in the heart of nature, and must be eternal. In early youth, I may have thought so, and been full of that little pride. But now I have long accounted it one of the first axioms of political economy—you are following me, Mistress Ridd?”
“Now, even though I’ve misquoted the poets, as your son pointed out (for which I’m very grateful and need to correct my reading), I can’t be wrong in thinking that this young knight must be the very appealing focus for our poor little maiden. And as for me, she's welcome to him. I've never been one to obsess over social status, birth, or whatever else; as if those things were fundamental to nature and must last forever. When I was younger, I might have thought that way and felt a bit of pride. But now I see it as one of the basic principles of political economy—you’re following me, Mistress Ridd?”
“Well, sir, I am doing my best; but I cannot quite keep up with you.”
"Well, sir, I'm doing my best; but I can't quite keep up with you."
“Never mind, madam; I will be slower. But your son's intelligence is so quick—”
“Never mind, ma'am; I'll take my time. But your son is so sharp—”
“I see, sir; you thought that mine must be. But no; it all comes from his father, sir. His father was that quick and clever—”
“I get it, sir; you thought it had to be from me. But no; it all comes from his dad, sir. His dad was really quick and clever—”
“Ah, I can well suppose it, madam. And a credit he is to both of you. Now, to return to our muttons—a figure which you will appreciate—I may now be regarded, I think, as this young lady's legal guardian; although I have not had the honour of being formally appointed such. Her father was the eldest son of Sir Ensor Doone; and I happened to be the second son; and as young maidens cannot be baronets, I suppose I am 'Sir Counsellor.' Is it so, Mistress Ridd, according to your theory of genealogy?”
“Ah, I can imagine that, ma'am. And he is a credit to both of you. Now, to get back to the point—a phrase you’ll get—I'm now considered, I believe, this young lady's legal guardian; even though I haven’t been officially appointed as such. Her father was the eldest son of Sir Ensor Doone, and I happened to be the second son; since young women can't be baronets, I guess I'm 'Sir Counsellor.' Is that right, Mistress Ridd, according to your view of family trees?”
“I am sure I don't know, sir,” my mother answered carefully; “I know not anything of that name, sir, except in the Gospel of Matthew: but I see not why it should be otherwise.”
“I’m not sure, sir,” my mother replied cautiously. “I don’t know anything about that name, sir, except in the Gospel of Matthew, but I don’t see why it should be any different.”
“Good, madam! I may look upon that as your sanction and approval: and the College of Heralds shall hear of it. And in return, as Lorna's guardian, I give my full and ready consent to her marriage with your son, madam.”
“Good, ma'am! I’ll take that as your permission and approval: and the College of Heralds will be informed. In return, as Lorna's guardian, I fully and willingly consent to her marriage with your son, ma'am.”
“Oh, how good of you, sir, how kind! Well, I always did say, that the learnedest people were, almost always, the best and kindest, and the most simple-hearted.”
“Oh, how good of you, sir, how kind! Well, I always said that the smartest people are usually the best, kindest, and most sincere.”
“Madam, that is a great sentiment. What a goodly couple they will be! and if we can add him to our strength—”
“Ma'am, that's a wonderful thought. They'll make such a great couple! And if we can add him to our team—”
“Oh no, sir, oh no!” cried mother: “you really must not think of it. He has always been brought up so honest—”
“Oh no, sir, oh no!” cried mother. “You really can’t think about it. He has always been raised to be so honest—”
“Hem! that makes a difference. A decided disqualification for domestic life among the Doones. But, surely, he might get over those prejudices, madam?”
“Hmm! That changes things. It’s definitely a deal-breaker for living among the Doones. But surely, he could overcome those biases, ma’am?”
“Oh no, sir! he never can: he never can indeed. When he was only that high, sir, he could not steal even an apple, when some wicked boys tried to mislead him.”
“Oh no, sir! He really can’t: he definitely can’t. When he was just that small, sir, he couldn’t even steal an apple when some bad boys tried to trick him.”
“Ah,” replied the Counsellor, shaking his white head gravely; “then I greatly fear that his case is quite incurable. I have known such cases; violent prejudice, bred entirely of education, and anti-economical to the last degree. And when it is so, it is desperate: no man, after imbibing ideas of that sort, can in any way be useful.”
“Ah,” replied the Counselor, shaking his gray head seriously; “then I’m afraid his situation is completely hopeless. I’ve seen cases like this; intense bias, entirely shaped by education, and extremely counterproductive. And when it reaches that point, it’s dire: no one, after taking in ideas like that, can be in any way helpful.”
“Oh yes, sir, John is very useful. He can do as much work as three other men; and you should see him load a sledd, sir.”
“Oh yes, sir, John is really helpful. He can do as much work as three other guys, and you should see him load a sled, sir.”
“I was speaking, madam, of higher usefulness,—power of the brain and heart. The main thing for us upon earth is to take a large view of things. But while we talk of the heart, what is my niece Lorna doing, that she does not come and thank me, for my perhaps too prompt concession to her youthful fancies? Ah, if I had wanted thanks, I should have been more stubborn.”
“I was talking, ma'am, about greater usefulness—power of the mind and heart. The most important thing for us on this earth is to have a broad perspective. But while we discuss the heart, what is my niece Lorna doing that she hasn’t come to thank me for my perhaps too hasty agreement to her youthful whims? Ah, if I had wanted gratitude, I should have been more resolute.”
Lorna, being challenged thus, came up and looked at her uncle, with her noble eyes fixed full upon his, which beneath his white eyebrows glistened, like dormer windows piled with snow.
Lorna, facing the challenge, approached and gazed at her uncle, her noble eyes locked on his, which sparkled beneath his white eyebrows like dormer windows covered in snow.
“For what am I to thank you, uncle?”
“For what should I thank you, uncle?”
“My dear niece, I have told you. For removing the heaviest obstacle, which to a mind so well regulated could possibly have existed, between your dutiful self and the object of your affections.”
“My dear niece, I have told you. To eliminate the biggest obstacle that could have stood between your dutiful self and the person you love.”
“Well, uncle, I should be very grateful, if I thought that you did so from love of me; or if I did not know that you have something yet concealed from me.”
“Well, uncle, I would be really grateful if I thought you were doing this out of love for me; or if I didn’t know that you’re hiding something from me.”
“And my consent,” said the Counsellor, “is the more meritorious, the more liberal, frank, and candid, in the face of an existing fact, and a very clearly established one; which might have appeared to weaker minds in the light of an impediment; but to my loftier view of matrimony seems quite a recommendation.”
“And my agreement,” said the Counsellor, “is even more commendable, more generous, open, and honest, considering the reality of the situation, which is very clearly defined; something that might have seemed like a barrier to less strong-minded individuals, but to my elevated perspective on marriage, it actually seems like a positive point.”
“What fact do you mean, sir? Is it one that I ought to know?”
“What fact are you referring to, sir? Is it something I should know?”
“In my opinion it is, good niece. It forms, to my mind, so fine a basis for the invariable harmony of the matrimonial state. To be brief—as I always endeavour to be, without becoming obscure—you two young people (ah, what a gift is youth! one can never be too thankful for it) you will have the rare advantage of commencing married life, with a subject of common interest to discuss, whenever you weary of—well, say of one another; if you can now, by any means, conceive such a possibility. And perfect justice meted out: mutual goodwill resulting, from the sense of reciprocity.”
“In my opinion, it is, good niece. I think it creates a great foundation for the constant harmony of married life. To be brief—as I always try to be without being unclear—you two young people (ah, what a gift youth is! You can never be too grateful for it) will have the unique advantage of starting your married life with a topic of shared interest to talk about whenever you get tired of—well, let’s say of each other; if you can even imagine such a possibility right now. And perfectly fair treatment: mutual goodwill arising from a sense of reciprocity.”
“I do not understand you, sir. Why can you not say what you mean, at once?”
“I don’t understand you, sir. Why can’t you just say what you mean right away?”
“My dear child, I prolong your suspense. Curiosity is the most powerful of all feminine instincts; and therefore the most delightful, when not prematurely satisfied. However, if you must have my strong realities, here they are. Your father slew dear John's father, and dear John's father slew yours.”
“My dear child, I’m keeping you in suspense. Curiosity is the strongest of all feminine instincts, and it's the most enjoyable when it’s not satisfied too soon. However, if you really want the truth, here it is. Your father killed dear John’s father, and dear John’s father killed yours.”
Having said thus much, the Counsellor leaned back upon his chair, and shaded his calm white-bearded eyes from the rays of our tallow candles. He was a man who liked to look, rather than to be looked at. But Lorna came to me for aid; and I went up to Lorna and mother looked at both of us.
Having said all that, the Counsellor leaned back in his chair, shading his calm white-bearded eyes from the light of our tallow candles. He was a man who preferred to observe rather than be observed. But Lorna came to me for help, so I approached Lorna, and mother looked at both of us.
Then feeling that I must speak first (as no one would begin it), I took my darling round the waist, and led her up to the Counsellor; while she tried to bear it bravely; yet must lean on me, or did.
Then sensing that I had to speak first (since no one else would), I wrapped my arms around my darling's waist and led her up to the Counsellor; she tried to stay strong but had to lean on me for support.
“Now, Sir Counsellor Doone,” I said, with Lorna squeezing both my hands, I never yet knew how (considering that she was walking all the time, or something like it); “you know right well, Sir Counsellor, that Sir Ensor Doone gave approval.” I cannot tell what made me think of this: but so it came upon me.
“Now, Sir Counsellor Doone,” I said, with Lorna squeezing both my hands, “you know very well, Sir Counsellor, that Sir Ensor Doone gave his approval.” I don’t know what made me think of this, but it just came to me.
“Approval to what, good rustic John? To the slaughter so reciprocal?”
"Approval for what, good country John? For the slaughter that we both agree to?"
“No, sir, not to that; even if it ever happened; which I do not believe. But to the love betwixt me and Lorna; which your story shall not break, without more evidence than your word. And even so, shall never break; if Lorna thinks as I do.”
“No, sir, not that; even if it ever happened, which I don’t believe. But to the love between me and Lorna; which your story won’t break, without more proof than just your word. And even then, it will never break; if Lorna feels the same way I do.”
The maiden gave me a little touch, as much as to say, “You are right, darling: give it to him, again, like that.” However, I held my peace, well knowing that too many words do mischief.
The girl gave me a little nudge, as if to say, “You’re right, sweetheart: hit him again, just like that.” But I kept quiet, fully aware that too many words can cause trouble.
Then mother looked at me with wonder, being herself too amazed to speak; and the Counsellor looked, with great wrath in his eyes, which he tried to keep from burning.
Then Mom looked at me with awe, too stunned to say anything; and the Counsellor glared, filled with anger in his eyes, which he fought to keep from blazing.
“How say you then, John Ridd,” he cried, stretching out one hand, like Elijah; “is this a thing of the sort you love? Is this what you are used to?”
“How about it, John Ridd,” he exclaimed, reaching out one hand, like Elijah; “is this the kind of thing you love? Is this what you're used to?”
“So please your worship,” I answered; “no kind of violence can surprise us, since first came Doones upon Exmoor. Up to that time none heard of harm; except of taking a purse, maybe, or cutting a strange sheep's throat. And the poor folk who did this were hanged, with some benefit of clergy. But ever since the Doones came first, we are used to anything.”
“So please, your honor,” I replied; “we're not surprised by any kind of violence since the Doones first showed up in Exmoor. Before that, no one heard of any real harm, aside from the occasional purse snatch or maybe killing some random sheep. And the unfortunate people who did those things were hanged, but with some leniency from the church. But ever since the Doones arrived, we've gotten used to everything.”
“Thou varlet,” cried the Counsellor, with the colour of his eyes quite changed with the sparkles of his fury; “is this the way we are to deal with such a low-bred clod as thou? To question the doings of our people, and to talk of clergy! What, dream you not that we could have clergy, and of the right sort, too, if only we cared to have them? Tush! Am I to spend my time arguing with a plough-tail Bob?”
“Hey you, scoundrel,” shouted the Counsellor, his eyes filled with anger; “is this how we’re supposed to handle a low-life like you? Questioning what our people do and bringing up the clergy! What, don’t you think we could have clergy, and the right kind too, if we wanted them? Come on! Am I really going to waste my time arguing with some ignorant fool?”
“If your worship will hearken to me,” I answered very modestly, not wishing to speak harshly, with Lorna looking up at me; “there are many things that might be said without any kind of argument, which I would never wish to try with one of your worship's learning. And in the first place it seems to me that if our fathers hated one another bitterly, yet neither won the victory, only mutual discomfiture; surely that is but a reason why we should be wiser than they, and make it up in this generation by goodwill and loving”—
“If you’ll listen to me,” I replied politely, not wanting to be harsh, with Lorna looking up at me; “there are many things we could discuss without any argument, which I would never want to challenge your knowledge on. First of all, it seems to me that if our fathers really hated each other and neither came out on top, just causing each other pain; that’s all the more reason for us to be smarter than they were and to resolve things in this generation with kindness and love—”
“Oh, John, you wiser than your father!” mother broke upon me here; “not but what you might be as wise, when you come to be old enough.”
“Oh, John, you’re wiser than your father!” Mom interrupted, “but you could be just as wise when you get older.”
“Young people of the present age,” said the Counsellor severely, “have no right feeling of any sort, upon the simplest matter. Lorna Doone, stand forth from contact with that heir of parricide; and state in your own mellifluous voice, whether you regard this slaughter as a pleasant trifle.”
“Kids today,” the Counsellor said sternly, “have no sense of right and wrong when it comes to the simplest things. Lorna Doone, step away from that murderous heir and tell us in your sweet voice whether you think this killing is something to take lightly.”
“You know, without any words of mine,” she answered very softly, yet not withdrawing from my hand, “that although I have been seasoned well to every kind of outrage, among my gentle relatives, I have not yet so purely lost all sense of right and wrong as to receive what you have said, as lightly as you declared it. You think it a happy basis for our future concord. I do not quite think that, my uncle; neither do I quite believe that a word of it is true. In our happy valley, nine-tenths of what is said is false; and you were always wont to argue that true and false are but a blind turned upon a pivot. Without any failure of respect for your character, good uncle, I decline politely to believe a word of what you have told me. And even if it were proved to me, all I can say is this, if my John will have me, I am his for ever.”
“You know, without me having to say anything,” she replied softly, still holding my hand, “that even though I’ve been toughened by every kind of insult from my gentle relatives, I haven’t completely lost my sense of right and wrong to accept what you’ve said as lightly as you presented it. You see it as a good foundation for our future together. I don’t see it that way, my uncle; and I also don’t really believe any of it is true. In our happy valley, most of what’s said is false; and you’ve always argued that true and false are just two sides of the same coin. With all due respect for your character, dear uncle, I politely refuse to believe a word of what you’ve told me. And even if it were proven to me, all I can say is this: if my John wants me, I’m his forever.”
This long speech was too much for her; she had overrated her strength about it, and the sustenance of irony. So at last she fell into my arms, which had long been waiting for her; and there she lay with no other sound, except a gurgling in her throat.
This long speech was overwhelming for her; she had overestimated her strength regarding it and the weight of irony. Finally, she collapsed into my waiting arms, and there she lay with no sound other than a gurgling in her throat.
“You old villain,” cried my mother, shaking her fist at the Counsellor, while I could do nothing else but hold, and bend across, my darling, and whisper to deaf ears; “What is the good of the quality; if this is all that comes of it? Out of the way! You know the words that make the deadly mischief; but not the ways that heal them. Give me that bottle, if hands you have; what is the use of Counsellors?”
"You old villain," my mother shouted, shaking her fist at the Counsellor, while I could only hold and lean over my darling and whisper to ears that couldn't hear; "What's the point of being high quality if this is all it leads to? Get out of the way! You know the words that cause all this trouble, but not how to fix it. Give me that bottle, if you have hands; what's the use of Counsellors?"
I saw that dear mother was carried away; and indeed I myself was something like it; with the pale face upon my bosom, and the heaving of the heart, and the heat and cold all through me, as my darling breathed or lay. Meanwhile the Counsellor stood back, and seemed a little sorry; although of course it was not in his power to be at all ashamed of himself.
I saw that my dear mother was taken away; and honestly, I felt a bit the same way; with her pale face resting on my chest, my heart racing, and waves of heat and cold passing through me with every breath she took. Meanwhile, the Counsellor hung back and looked a bit regretful; although, of course, he couldn't possibly feel ashamed of himself.
“My sweet love, my darling child,” our mother went on to Lorna, in a way that I shall never forget, though I live to be a hundred; “pretty pet, not a word of it is true, upon that old liar's oath; and if every word were true, poor chick, you should have our John all the more for it. You and John were made by God and meant for one another, whatever falls between you. Little lamb, look up and speak: here is your own John and I; and the devil take the Counsellor.”
“My sweet love, my darling child,” our mother said to Lorna in a way I’ll never forget, even if I live to be a hundred; “sweetheart, not a word of it is true, on that old liar's oath; and even if every word were true, my dear, you should have our John even more for it. You and John were created by God to be together, no matter what happens between you. Little lamb, look up and speak: here is your own John and me; and to hell with the Counsellor.”
I was amazed at mother's words, being so unlike her; while I loved her all the more because she forgot herself so. In another moment in ran Annie, ay and Lizzie also, knowing by some mystic sense (which I have often noticed, but never could explain) that something was astir, belonging to the world of women, yet foreign to the eyes of men. And now the Counsellor, being well-born, although such a heartless miscreant, beckoned to me to come away; which I, being smothered with women, was only too glad to do, as soon as my own love would let go of me.
I was surprised by my mother's words, as they were so uncharacteristic of her; I loved her even more for losing herself like that. In another moment, Annie and Lizzie rushed in, sensing something was going on—something related to the world of women that men couldn’t quite see. And now the Counsellor, despite being a heartless scoundrel, signaled for me to come away, which I was more than happy to do, once my own love finally let go of me.
“That is the worst of them,” said the old man; when I had led him into our kitchen, with an apology at every step, and given him hot schnapps and water, and a cigarro of brave Tom Faggus: “you never can say much, sir, in the way of reasoning (however gently meant and put) but what these women will fly out. It is wiser to put a wild bird in a cage, and expect him to sit and look at you, and chirp without a feather rumpled, than it is to expect a woman to answer reason reasonably.” Saying this, he looked at his puff of smoke as if it contained more reason.
"That's the worst of them," said the old man after I had taken him into our kitchen, apologizing at every step, and given him hot schnapps and water, along with a cigar from brave Tom Faggus. "You can’t really say much, sir, in terms of reasoning (no matter how gently you put it) without these women flying off the handle. It's smarter to put a wild bird in a cage and expect it to sit still and chirp without ruffling a feather than to think a woman will respond to reason in a reasonable way." As he said this, he stared at his puff of smoke as if it held more logic.
“I am sure I do not know, sir,” I answered according to a phrase which has always been my favourite, on account of its general truth: moreover, he was now our guest, and had right to be treated accordingly: “I am, as you see, not acquainted with the ways of women, except my mother and sisters.”
“I honestly don’t know, sir,” I replied, using a phrase I’ve always liked because it’s generally true. Besides, he was our guest now and deserved to be treated with respect: “As you can see, I’m not familiar with women’s ways, except for my mother and sisters.”
“Except not even them, my son,” said the Counsellor, now having finished his glass, without much consultation about it; “if you once understand your mother and sisters—why you understand the lot of them.”
“Except not even them, my son,” said the Counsellor, now having finished his glass, without much thought about it; “if you understand your mother and sisters—then you understand all of them.”
He made a twist in his cloud of smoke, and dashed his finger through it, so that I could not follow his meaning, and in manners liked not to press him.
He twisted the cloud of smoke and waved his finger through it, making it hard for me to understand what he meant, and I didn’t want to push him.
“Now of this business, John,” he said, after getting to the bottom of the second glass, and having a trifle or so to eat, and praising our chimney-corner; “taking you on the whole, you know, you are wonderfully good people; and instead of giving me up to the soldiers, as you might have done, you are doing your best to make me drunk.”
“Now about this situation, John,” he said, after finishing the second glass and having a little something to eat, while complimenting our cozy fireplace; “overall, you know, you are really good people; and instead of turning me over to the soldiers, as you easily could have done, you’re doing your best to get me drunk.”
“Not at all, sir,” I answered; “not at all, your worship. Let me mix you another glass. We rarely have a great gentleman by the side of our embers and oven. I only beg your pardon, sir, that my sister Annie (who knows where to find all the good pans and the lard) could not wait upon you this evening; and I fear they have done it with dripping instead, and in a pan with the bottom burned. But old Betty quite loses her head sometimes, by dint of over-scolding.”
“Not at all, sir,” I replied; “not at all, your honor. Let me fix you another drink. We hardly ever have someone important like you by our fireplace and stove. I just want to apologize, sir, that my sister Annie (who knows where all the good pans and lard are) couldn't come serve you tonight; and I'm afraid they used dripping instead, and in a pan that’s a bit burnt on the bottom. But old Betty sometimes loses her temper because she’s always scolding.”
“My son,” replied the Counsellor, standing across the front of the fire, to prove his strict sobriety: “I meant to come down upon you to-night; but you have turned the tables upon me. Not through any skill on your part, nor through any paltry weakness as to love (and all that stuff, which boys and girls spin tops at, or knock dolls' noses together), but through your simple way of taking me, as a man to be believed; combined with the comfort of this place, and the choice tobacco and cordials. I have not enjoyed an evening so much, God bless me if I know when!”
“My son,” replied the Counsellor, standing in front of the fire to show his serious demeanor, “I planned to confront you tonight; but you’ve turned the tables on me. Not because of any skill on your part, nor any petty weakness regarding love (and all that nonsense that boys and girls play with), but because of your straightforward way of treating me as someone to be trusted, along with the comfort of this place and the fine tobacco and drinks. I haven't enjoyed an evening this much in ages; honestly, I can't remember when!”
“Your worship,” said I, “makes me more proud than I well know what to do with. Of all the things that please and lead us into happy sleep at night, the first and chiefest is to think that we have pleased a visitor.”
“Your honor,” I said, “makes me prouder than I know how to handle. Of all the things that make us happy and help us sleep well at night, the most important is knowing that we’ve pleased a guest.”
“Then, John, thou hast deserved good sleep; for I am not pleased easily. But although our family is not so high now as it hath been, I have enough of the gentleman left to be pleased when good people try me. My father, Sir Ensor, was better than I in this great element of birth, and my son Carver is far worse. Aetas parentum, what is it, my boy? I hear that you have been at a grammar-school.”
“Then, John, you’ve earned a good sleep; I’m not easily pleased. But even though our family isn’t as high as it used to be, I still have enough of a gentleman in me to appreciate it when good people challenge me. My father, Sir Ensor, was better than I in this important aspect of lineage, and my son Carver is much worse. Aetas parentum, what does it mean, my boy? I hear you’ve been at a grammar school.”
“So I have, your worship, and at a very good one; but I only got far enough to make more tail than head of Latin.”
“So I have, your honor, and it was quite good; but I only got far enough to end up with more tail than head of Latin.”
“Let that pass,” said the Counsellor; “John, thou art all the wiser.” And the old man shook his hoary locks, as if Latin had been his ruin. I looked at him sadly, and wondered whether it might have so ruined me, but for God's mercy in stopping it.
“Let that go,” said the Counsellor; “John, you are much wiser.” And the old man shook his gray hair, as if Latin had been his downfall. I looked at him sadly and wondered if it might have ruined me too, if not for God's mercy in preventing it.
CHAPTER LII
THE WAY TO MAKE THE CREAM RISE
That night the reverend Counsellor, not being in such state of mind as ought to go alone, kindly took our best old bedstead, carved in panels, well enough, with the woman of Samaria. I set him up, both straight and heavy, so that he need but close both eyes, and keep his mouth just open; and in the morning he was thankful for all that he could remember.
That night, the Reverend Counsellor, not really in the right frame of mind to be on his own, kindly took our best old bed, beautifully carved with the story of the woman at the well. I made sure he was positioned comfortably, so that all he had to do was close his eyes and keep his mouth slightly open; by morning, he was grateful for everything he could remember.
I, for my part, scarcely knew whether he really had begun to feel goodwill towards us, and to see that nothing else could be of any use to him; or whether he was merely acting, so as to deceive us. And it had struck me, several times, that he had made a great deal more of the spirit he had taken than the quantity would warrant, with a man so wise and solid. Neither did I quite understand a little story which Lorna told me, how that in the night awaking, she had heard, or seemed to hear, a sound of feeling in her room; as if there had been some one groping carefully among the things within her drawers or wardrobe-closet. But the noise had ceased at once, she said, when she sat up in bed and listened; and knowing how many mice we had, she took courage and fell asleep again.
I hardly knew if he really started to have goodwill towards us and realized that nothing else would be helpful to him, or if he was just pretending to deceive us. It occurred to me several times that he was making a much bigger deal out of the drink he had taken than the amount would suggest, especially for someone so wise and grounded. I also didn’t quite get a little story Lorna told me, about how during the night, she awoke, or thought she did, to a sound in her room; it was as if someone was carefully searching through her drawers or closet. But the noise stopped immediately when she sat up in bed and listened; knowing how many mice we had, she gathered her courage and fell asleep again.
After breakfast, the Counsellor (who looked no whit the worse for schnapps, but even more grave and venerable) followed our Annie into the dairy, to see how we managed the clotted cream, of which he had eaten a basinful. And thereupon they talked a little; and Annie thought him a fine old gentleman, and a very just one; for he had nobly condemned the people who spoke against Tom Faggus.
After breakfast, the Counselor (who didn't look any worse for the schnapps, but rather more serious and dignified) followed our Annie into the dairy to see how we made the clotted cream, of which he had eaten a bowlful. They chatted a bit, and Annie thought he was a fine old gentleman, and a very fair one; because he had bravely condemned those who spoke against Tom Faggus.
“Your honour must plainly understand,” said Annie, being now alone with him, and spreading out her light quick hands over the pans, like butterflies, “that they are brought in here to cool, after being set in the basin-holes, with the wood-ash under them, which I showed you in the back-kitchen. And they must have very little heat, not enough to simmer even; only just to make the bubbles rise, and the scum upon the top set thick; and after that, it clots as firm—oh, as firm as my two hands be.”
“Your honor needs to understand,” said Annie, now alone with him, spreading her light, quick hands over the pans like butterflies, “that they’re brought in here to cool after being placed in the basin-holes, with the wood ash underneath, which I showed you in the back kitchen. And they can’t have much heat, not enough to even simmer; just enough to make the bubbles rise and the scum on top thicken; and after that, it sets as firm—oh, as firm as my two hands.”
“Have you ever heard,” asked the Counsellor, who enjoyed this talk with Annie, “that if you pass across the top, without breaking the surface, a string of beads, or polished glass, or anything of that kind, the cream will set three times as solid, and in thrice the quantity?”
“Have you ever heard,” asked the Counsellor, who enjoyed this conversation with Annie, “that if you move a string of beads, polished glass, or something similar across the top without breaking the surface, the cream will become three times as solid and in three times the amount?”
“No, sir; I have never heard that,” said Annie, staring with all her simple eyes; “what a thing it is to read books, and grow learned! But it is very easy to try it: I will get my coral necklace; it will not be witchcraft, will it, sir?”
“No, sir; I’ve never heard that,” Annie said, her eyes wide with curiosity. “Isn’t it amazing to read books and get wise? But it’s simple enough to give it a shot: I’ll grab my coral necklace; it won’t be witchcraft, will it, sir?”
“Certainly not,” the old man replied; “I will make the experiment myself; and you may trust me not to be hurt, my dear. But coral will not do, my child, neither will anything coloured. The beads must be of plain common glass; but the brighter they are the better.”
“Definitely not,” the old man replied. “I’ll take care of the experiment myself, and you can trust that I won’t get hurt, my dear. But coral won’t work, my child, and neither will anything colorful. The beads need to be made of plain ordinary glass; the brighter they are, the better.”
“Then I know the very thing,” cried Annie; “as bright as bright can be, and without any colour in it, except in the sun or candle light. Dearest Lorna has the very thing, a necklace of some old glass-beads, or I think they called them jewels: she will be too glad to lend it to us. I will go for it, in a moment.”
“Then I know exactly what you mean,” exclaimed Annie; “it's as bright as can be, and has no color at all, except when it catches the sunlight or candlelight. My dear Lorna has just the thing, a necklace made of some old glass beads, or what I think they used to call jewels: she will be more than happy to lend it to us. I’ll go get it right now.”
“My dear, it cannot be half so bright as your own pretty eyes. But remember one thing, Annie, you must not say what it is for; or even that I am going to use it, or anything at all about it; else the charm will be broken. Bring it here, without a word; if you know where she keeps it.”
“My dear, it can't be anywhere near as bright as your lovely eyes. But remember this, Annie: you mustn't say what it’s for, or that I'm going to use it, or anything at all about it; otherwise, the magic will be lost. Just bring it here, without saying a word, if you know where she keeps it.”
“To be sure I do,” she answered; “John used to keep it for her. But she took it away from him last week, and she wore it when—I mean when somebody was here; and he said it was very valuable, and spoke with great learning about it, and called it by some particular name, which I forget at this moment. But valuable or not, we cannot hurt it, can we, sir, by passing it over the cream-pan?”
"Of course I do," she replied. "John used to hold onto it for her. But she took it from him last week, and she wore it when— I mean when someone was here; and he said it was very valuable and talked about it with a lot of knowledge, calling it by some specific name that I can't remember right now. But whether it’s valuable or not, we can't damage it, can we, sir, by placing it over the cream pan?"
“Hurt it!” cried the Counsellor: “nay, we shall do it good, my dear. It will help to raise the cream: and you may take my word for it, young maiden, none can do good in this world, without in turn receiving it.” Pronouncing this great sentiment, he looked so grand and benevolent, that Annie (as she said afterwards) could scarce forbear from kissing him, yet feared to take the liberty. Therefore, she only ran away to fetch my Lorna's necklace.
“Hurt it!” cried the Counsellor. “No, we’ll do it good, my dear. It will help bring out the best, and you can trust me on this, young lady—no one can do good in this world without receiving some good in return.” As he said this profound statement, he appeared so noble and kind that Annie (as she later mentioned) could hardly resist the urge to kiss him, though she was hesitant to overstep. So, she just ran off to get my Lorna's necklace.
Now as luck would have it—whether good luck or otherwise, you must not judge too hastily,—my darling had taken it into her head, only a day or two before, that I was far too valuable to be trusted with her necklace. Now that she had some idea of its price and quality, she had begun to fear that some one, perhaps even Squire Faggus (in whom her faith was illiberal), might form designs against my health, to win the bauble from me. So, with many pretty coaxings, she had led me to give it up; which, except for her own sake, I was glad enough to do, misliking a charge of such importance.
As luck would have it—whether it was good or bad luck, don't judge too quickly—my sweetheart had decided just a day or two earlier that I was way too valuable to be trusted with her necklace. Now that she had some idea of its worth and quality, she started to worry that someone, maybe even Squire Faggus (who she didn't trust at all), might have plans to harm me to take the trinket. So, with a lot of sweet talking, she convinced me to give it up; and honestly, apart from wanting to keep it for her sake, I was more than happy to let it go, as I didn’t want the responsibility of something so important.
Therefore Annie found it sparkling in the little secret hole, near the head of Lorna's bed, which she herself had recommended for its safer custody; and without a word to any one she brought it down, and danced it in the air before the Counsellor, for him to admire its lustre.
Therefore, Annie discovered it shining in the small hidden spot near the head of Lorna's bed, which she had suggested for its safer keeping. Without saying a word to anyone, she brought it down and waved it in the air in front of the Counsellor for him to admire its brilliance.
“Oh, that old thing!” said the gentleman, in a tone of some contempt; “I remember that old thing well enough. However, for want of a better, no doubt it will answer our purpose. Three times three, I pass it over. Crinkleum, crankum, grass and clover! What are you feared of, you silly child?”
“Oh, that old thing!” said the gentleman, sounding a bit dismissive. “I remember that old thing just fine. But since there's nothing better, I guess it will do the job. Three times three, I’ll let it go. Crinkleum, crankum, grass and clover! Why are you scared, you silly child?”
“Good sir, it is perfect witchcraft! I am sure of that, because it rhymes. Oh, what would mother say to me? Shall I ever go to heaven again? Oh, I see the cream already!”
“Good sir, it's pure magic! I know it because it rhymes. Oh, what would my mother say to me? Will I ever get to heaven again? Oh, I can already see the cream!”
“To be sure you do; but you must not look, or the whole charm will be broken, and the devil will fly away with the pan, and drown every cow you have got in it.”
“To be sure you do; but you must not look, or the whole charm will be broken, and the devil will fly away with the pan, and drown every cow you have got in it.”
“Oh, sir, it is too horrible. How could you lead me to such a sin? Away with thee, witch of Endor!”
“Oh, sir, this is just too awful. How could you lead me to commit such a sin? Get away from me, witch of Endor!”
For the door began to creak, and a broom appeared suddenly in the opening, with our Betty, no doubt, behind it. But Annie, in the greatest terror, slammed the door, and bolted it, and then turned again to the Counsellor; yet looking at his face, had not the courage to reproach him. For his eyes rolled like two blazing barrels, and his white shagged brows were knit across them, and his forehead scowled in black furrows, so that Annie said that if she ever saw the devil, she saw him then, and no mistake. Whether the old man wished to scare her, or whether he was trying not to laugh, is more than I can tell you.
For the door started to creak, and a broom suddenly appeared in the doorway, with Betty, no doubt, behind it. But Annie, filled with fear, slammed the door shut and bolted it, then turned back to the Counsellor; yet when she looked at his face, she didn't have the courage to confront him. His eyes rolled like two fiery barrels, and his bushy white eyebrows were furrowed together, with deep lines on his forehead, so Annie thought that if she ever saw the devil, it was right then, without a doubt. Whether the old man wanted to scare her or was trying not to laugh is something I can't tell you.
“Now,” he said, in a deep stern whisper; “not a word of this to a living soul; neither must you, nor any other enter this place for three hours at least. By that time the charm will have done its work: the pan will be cream to the bottom; and you will bless me for a secret which will make your fortune. Put the bauble under this pannikin; which none must lift for a day and a night. Have no fear, my simple wench; not a breath of harm shall come to you, if you obey my orders.”
“Listen,” he said, in a deep, serious whisper, “don’t tell anyone about this; you and no one else can enter this place for at least three hours. By then, the charm will have done its job: the pan will be filled with cream at the bottom, and you’ll be grateful to me for a secret that will make you rich. Hide the trinket under this cup; no one should lift it for a day and a night. Don’t worry, my simple girl; nothing bad will happen to you if you follow my instructions.”
“Oh, that I will, sir, that I will: if you will only tell me what to do.”
“Oh, I definitely will, sir, I promise: just let me know what you want me to do.”
“Go to your room, without so much as a single word to any one. Bolt yourself in, and for three hours now, read the Lord's Prayer backwards.”
“Go to your room, without saying a single word to anyone. Lock yourself in, and for the next three hours, read the Lord's Prayer backwards.”
Poor Annie was only too glad to escape, upon these conditions; and the Counsellor kissed her upon the forehead and told her not to make her eyes red, because they were much too sweet and pretty. She dropped them at this, with a sob and a curtsey, and ran away to her bedroom; but as for reading the Lord's Prayer backwards, that was much beyond her; and she had not done three words quite right, before the three hours expired.
Poor Annie was more than happy to get away under those conditions; the Counsellor kissed her on the forehead and told her not to make her eyes red because they were far too sweet and pretty. She let them drop at this, sobbed a little, curtsied, and ran off to her room; but as for reading the Lord's Prayer backwards, that was way too much for her, and she hadn’t even gotten three words right before the three hours were up.
Meanwhile the Counsellor was gone. He bade our mother adieu, with so much dignity of bearing, and such warmth of gratitude, and the high-bred courtesy of the old school (now fast disappearing), that when he was gone, dear mother fell back on the chair which he had used last night, as if it would teach her the graces. And for more than an hour she made believe not to know what there was for dinner.
Meanwhile, the Counselor had left. He said goodbye to our mom with such dignity, warmth, and old-school courtesy (which is fading fast) that after he was gone, our dear mother slumped into the chair he had used last night, as if it could impart some grace to her. For over an hour, she pretended not to know what was for dinner.
“Oh, the wickedness of the world! Oh, the lies that are told of people—or rather I mean the falsehoods—because a man is better born, and has better manners! Why, Lorna, how is it that you never speak about your charming uncle? Did you notice, Lizzie, how his silver hair was waving upon his velvet collar, and how white his hands were, and every nail like an acorn; only pink like shell-fish, or at least like shells? And the way he bowed, and dropped his eyes, from his pure respect for me! And then, that he would not even speak, on account of his emotion; but pressed my hand in silence! Oh, Lizzie, you have read me beautiful things about Sir Gallyhead, and the rest; but nothing to equal Sir Counsellor.”
“Oh, the wickedness of the world! Oh, the lies told about people—or rather I mean the falsehoods—just because a person comes from a better background and has better manners! Why, Lorna, why don’t you ever talk about your charming uncle? Did you notice, Lizzie, how his silver hair was waving on his velvet collar, and how white his hands were, with every nail looking like an acorn; only pink like shellfish, or at least like shells? And the way he bowed and lowered his eyes, out of respect for me! And then, he wouldn’t even speak because he was so emotional; he just pressed my hand in silence! Oh, Lizzie, you’ve told me beautiful things about Sir Gallyhead and the others, but nothing compares to Sir Counsellor.”
“You had better marry him, madam,” said I, coming in very sternly; though I knew I ought not to say it: “he can repay your adoration. He has stolen a hundred thousand pounds.”
“You should really marry him, ma'am,” I said, walking in very sternly; even though I knew I shouldn’t say it: “he can return your affection. He has stolen a hundred thousand pounds.”
“John,” cried my mother, “you are mad!” And yet she turned as pale as death; for women are so quick at turning; and she inkled what it was.
“John,” my mother shouted, “you're crazy!” But she turned as pale as death; women are quick to change like that, and she had an idea of what it was.
“Of course I am, mother; mad about the marvels of Sir Galahad. He has gone off with my Lorna's necklace. Fifty farms like ours can never make it good to Lorna.”
“Of course I am, Mom; crazy about the wonders of Sir Galahad. He took off with my Lorna's necklace. Fifty farms like ours could never make it right for Lorna.”
Hereupon ensued grim silence. Mother looked at Lizzie's face, for she could not look at me; and Lizzie looked at me, to know: and as for me, I could have stamped almost on the heart of any one. It was not the value of the necklace—I am not so low a hound as that—nor was it even the damned folly shown by every one of us—it was the thought of Lorna's sorrow for her ancient plaything; and even more, my fury at the breach of hospitality.
A heavy silence followed. Mom looked at Lizzie's face because she couldn’t face me; Lizzie looked at me to figure it out; and as for me, I could’ve crushed anyone’s heart in that moment. It wasn’t about the necklace’s worth—I’m not that petty—and it wasn’t even about the ridiculousness displayed by all of us. It was the idea of Lorna’s sadness for her old toy, and even more so, my anger at the violation of hospitality.
But Lorna came up to me softly, as a woman should always come; and she laid one hand upon my shoulder; and she only looked at me. She even seemed to fear to look, and dropped her eyes, and sighed at me. Without a word, I knew by that, how I must have looked like Satan; and the evil spirit left my heart; when she had made me think of it.
But Lorna approached me gently, as a woman should always do; she placed one hand on my shoulder and simply gazed at me. She seemed hesitant to meet my eyes, looking down and sighing softly. Without saying anything, I realized then how I must have appeared, almost like a devil; and the dark thoughts left my heart as she made me reflect on it.
“Darling John, did you want me to think that you cared for my money, more than for me?”
“Darling John, did you want me to believe that you cared more about my money than about me?”
I led her away from the rest of them, being desirous of explaining things, when I saw the depth of her nature opened, like an everlasting well, to me. But she would not let me say a word, or do anything by ourselves, as it were: she said, “Your duty is to your mother: this blow is on her, and not on me.”
I took her aside from everyone else, wanting to explain things, when I felt like I was seeing the depth of her soul, like an endless well, opened up to me. But she wouldn’t let me say anything or do anything just between us. She said, “Your responsibility is to your mother: this hurt is hers, not mine.”
I saw that she was right; though how she knew it is beyond me; and I asked her just to go in front, and bring my mother round a little. For I must let my passion pass: it may drop its weapons quickly; but it cannot come and go, before a man has time to think.
I realized she was right; how she knew that is a mystery to me. I asked her to go ahead and bring my mom around a bit. I need to let my feelings settle: they can fade quickly, but they can’t just appear and disappear before I have a chance to think.
Then Lorna went up to my mother, who was still in the chair of elegance; and she took her by both hands, and said,—
Then Lorna walked over to my mother, who was still sitting gracefully in the chair; and she took her by both hands and said,—
“Dearest mother, I shall fret so, if I see you fretting. And to fret will kill me, mother. They have always told me so.”
“Dear Mom, I'll worry so much if I see you worrying. And worrying will be the death of me, Mom. That's what they’ve always said.”
Poor mother bent on Lorna's shoulder, without thought of attitude, and laid her cheek on Lorna's breast, and sobbed till Lizzie was jealous, and came with two pocket-handkerchiefs. As for me, my heart was lighter (if they would only dry their eyes, and come round by dinnertime) than it had been since the day on which Tom Faggus discovered the value of that blessed and cursed necklace. None could say that I wanted Lorna for her money now. And perhaps the Doones would let me have her; now that her property was gone.
The poor mother leaned on Lorna's shoulder, not caring about appearances, and laid her cheek on Lorna's chest, sobbing until Lizzie felt jealous and came over with two handkerchiefs. As for me, my heart felt lighter (if only they would dry their eyes and be ready by dinnertime) than it had since the day Tom Faggus found out how valuable that blessed and cursed necklace was. No one could say I wanted Lorna for her money now. And maybe the Doones would let me have her now that her property was gone.
But who shall tell of Annie's grief? The poor little thing would have staked her life upon finding the trinket, in all its beauty, lying under the pannikin. She proudly challenged me to lift it—which I had done, long ere that, of course—if only I would take the risk of the spell for my incredulity. I told her not to talk of spells, until she could spell a word backwards; and then to look into the pan where the charmed cream should be. She would not acknowledge that the cream was the same as all the rest was: and indeed it was not quite the same, for the points of poor Lorna's diamonds had made a few star-rays across the rich firm crust of yellow.
But who can describe Annie's sadness? The poor girl would have risked her life to find the beautiful trinket lying under the pan. She confidently dared me to lift it—which I had done long ago, of course—if only I would take a chance on the spell for doubting her. I told her not to talk about spells until she could spell a word backwards; then she should look into the pan where the enchanted cream should be. She refused to admit that the cream was the same as everything else: and really, it wasn't quite the same, because the tips of poor Lorna's diamonds had left a few star-like marks across the rich, firm crust of yellow.
But when we raised the pannikin, and there was nothing under it, poor Annie fell against the wall, which had been whitened lately; and her face put all the white to scorn. My love, who was as fond of her, as if she had known her for fifty years, hereupon ran up and caught her, and abused all diamonds. I will dwell no more upon Annie's grief, because we felt it all so much. But I could not help telling her, if she wanted a witch, to seek good Mother Melldrum, a legitimate performer.
But when we lifted the cup and found nothing underneath it, poor Annie collapsed against the freshly painted wall, and her face made all that white seem insignificant. My love, who cared for her as if they had been friends for fifty years, rushed over to catch her and cursed all diamonds. I won't go into more detail about Annie's sadness, as we all felt it deeply. But I couldn't help telling her that if she wanted a witch, she should look for good Mother Melldrum, a real expert.
That same night Master Jeremy Stickles (of whose absence the Counsellor must have known) came back, with all equipment ready for the grand attack. Now the Doones knew, quite as well as we did, that this attack was threatening; and that but for the wonderful weather it would have been made long ago. Therefore we, or at least our people (for I was doubtful about going), were sure to meet with a good resistance, and due preparation.
That same night, Master Jeremy Stickles (of whose absence the Counsellor must have been aware) returned, fully equipped for the big assault. The Doones knew, just as well as we did, that this attack was imminent; and if it hadn't been for the amazing weather, it would have happened a long time ago. So, we, or at least our group (since I was uncertain about going), were sure to encounter strong resistance and proper preparations.
It was very strange to hear and see, and quite impossible to account for, that now some hundreds of country people (who feared to whisper so much as a word against the Doones a year ago, and would sooner have thought of attacking a church, in service time, than Glen Doone) now sharpened their old cutlasses, and laid pitch-forks on the grindstone, and bragged at every village cross, as if each would kill ten Doones himself, neither care to wipe his hands afterwards. And this fierce bravery, and tall contempt, had been growing ever since the news of the attack upon our premises had taken good people by surprise; at least as concerned the issue.
It was really strange to hear and see, and quite impossible to explain, that now some hundreds of local folks (who wouldn’t have dared to say a word against the Doones a year ago, and would rather have thought of attacking a church during service than the Glen Doone) were now sharpening their old cutlasses, putting pitchforks on the grindstone, and bragging at every village crossroads, as if each one could take on ten Doones all by himself, without caring to clean up after. This fierce bravado and bold disdain had been building ever since the news of the attack on our place had shocked good people; at least as far as the outcome was concerned.
Jeremy Stickles laughed heartily about Annie's new manner of charming the cream; but he looked very grave at the loss of the jewels, so soon as he knew their value.
Jeremy Stickles laughed heartily at Annie's new way of charming the cream, but he became very serious when he learned how much the jewels were worth.
“My son,” he exclaimed, “this is very heavy. It will go ill with all of you to make good this loss, as I fear that you will have to do.”
“My son,” he exclaimed, “this is really heavy. It won't be easy for all of you to make up for this loss, as I worry you’re going to have to.”
“What!” cried I, with my blood running cold. “We make good the loss, Master Stickles! Every farthing we have in the world, and the labour of our lives to boot, will never make good the tenth of it.”
“What!” I exclaimed, feeling my blood run cold. “We'll cover the loss, Master Stickles! Every penny we have in the world, plus all the hard work of our lives, won't even make up for a fraction of it.”
“It would cut me to the heart,” he answered, laying his hand on mine, “to hear of such a deadly blow to you and your good mother. And this farm; how long, John, has it been in your family?”
“It would break my heart,” he said, putting his hand on mine, “to hear about such a devastating blow to you and your wonderful mother. And this farm; how long, John, has it been in your family?”
“For at least six hundred years,” I said, with a foolish pride that was only too like to end in groans; “and some people say, by a Royal grant, in the time of the great King Alfred. At any rate, a Ridd was with him throughout all his hiding-time. We have always held by the King and crown: surely none will turn us out, unless we are guilty of treason?”
“For at least six hundred years,” I said, with a foolish pride that was bound to end in regret; “and some say it was by a Royal grant during the reign of the great King Alfred. In any case, a Ridd was with him throughout all his time in hiding. We have always been loyal to the King and crown: surely no one will kick us out unless we are guilty of treason?”
“My son,” replied Jeremy very gently, so that I could love him for it, “not a word to your good mother of this unlucky matter. Keep it to yourself, my boy, and try to think but little of it. After all, I may be wrong: at any rate, least said best mended.”
“My son,” Jeremy said softly, making me appreciate him for it, “don’t say a word to your lovely mother about this unfortunate situation. Keep it to yourself, and try not to dwell on it too much. I might be mistaken; in any case, it’s better to say less and fix things quietly.”
“But Jeremy, dear Jeremy, how can I bear to leave it so? Do you suppose that I can sleep, and eat my food, and go about, and look at other people, as if nothing at all had happened? And all the time have it on my mind, that not an acre of all the land, nor even our old sheep-dog, belongs to us, of right at all! It is more than I can do, Jeremy. Let me talk, and know the worst of it.”
“But Jeremy, dear Jeremy, how can I leave it like this? Do you think I can sleep, eat my meals, go about my day, and look at other people as if nothing has happened? And always have in the back of my mind that not a single acre of land, nor even our old sheepdog, belongs to us at all! I can’t handle it, Jeremy. Let me talk, and let me know the worst of it.”
“Very well,” replied Master Stickles, seeing that both the doors were closed; “I thought that nothing could move you, John; or I never would have told you. Likely enough I am quite wrong; and God send that I be so. But what I guessed at some time back seems more than a guess, now that you have told me about these wondrous jewels. Now will you keep, as close as death, every word I tell you?”
“Okay,” Master Stickles said, noticing that both doors were closed. “I thought nothing could sway you, John; otherwise, I never would have mentioned it. I might be totally mistaken, and I hope I am. But what I suspected some time ago feels more certain now that you’ve told me about these amazing jewels. Will you keep every word I say as if it were a secret?”
“By the honour of a man, I will. Until you yourself release me.”
“By a man's honor, I will. Until you let me go yourself.”
“That is quite enough, John. From you I want no oath; which, according to my experience, tempts a man to lie the more, by making it more important. I know you now too well to swear you, though I have the power. Now, my lad, what I have to say will scare your mind in one way, and ease it in another. I think that you have been hard pressed—I can read you like a book, John—by something which that old villain said, before he stole the necklace. You have tried not to dwell upon it; you have even tried to make light of it for the sake of the women: but on the whole it has grieved you more than even this dastard robbery.”
"That’s more than enough, John. I don’t need you to take any oaths; in my experience, they just make people lie more because they feel it's more serious. I know you well enough now not to ask you to swear, even though I could. Now, my boy, what I need to tell you will frighten you in one way and comfort you in another. I think you’ve been really troubled—I can read you like a book, John—by something that old crook said before he took the necklace. You've tried not to think about it; you’ve even tried to laugh it off for the sake of the women. But overall, it has hurt you more than even this cowardly theft."
“It would have done so, Jeremy Stickles, if I could once have believed it. And even without much belief, it is so against our manners, that it makes me miserable. Only think of loving Lorna, only think of kissing her; and then remembering that her father had destroyed the life of mine!”
“It would have, Jeremy Stickles, if I could have ever believed it. And even without much belief, it goes so against our manners that it makes me miserable. Just think about loving Lorna, just think about kissing her; and then remembering that her father ruined my life!”
“Only think,” said Master Stickles, imitating my very voice, “of Lorna loving you, John, of Lorna kissing you, John; and all the while saying to herself, 'this man's father murdered mine.' Now look at it in Lorna's way as well as in your own way. How one-sided all men are!”
“Just think,” said Master Stickles, copying my exact voice, “of Lorna loving you, John, of Lorna kissing you, John; and all the while telling herself, 'this man's father killed mine.' Now consider it from Lorna's perspective as well as your own. How one-sided all men are!”
“I may look at it in fifty ways, and yet no good will come of it. Jeremy, I confess to you, that I tried to make the best of it; partly to baffle the Counsellor, and partly because my darling needed my help, and bore it so, and behaved to me so nobly. But to you in secret, I am not ashamed to say that a woman may look over this easier than a man may.”
“I can try to see it from a million angles, but nothing good will come of it. Jeremy, I admit to you that I tried to make the most of it; partly to confuse the Counsellor, and partly because my dear needed my support, and handled it so well, and treated me so nobly. But I’ll be honest with you, I’m not ashamed to say that a woman can deal with this better than a man can.”
“Because her nature is larger, my son, when she truly loves; although her mind be smaller. Now, if I can ease you from this secret burden, will you bear, with strength and courage, the other which I plant on you?”
“Because her heart is bigger, my son, when she truly loves; even if her mind is smaller. Now, if I can lift this secret burden from you, will you endure, with strength and courage, the other burden that I place on you?”
“I will do my best,” said I.
“I'll do my best,” I said.
“No man can do more,” said he and so began his story.
“No one can do more,” he said, and with that, he started his story.
CHAPTER LIII
JEREMY FINDS OUT SOMETHING
“You know, my son,” said Jeremy Stickles, with a good pull at his pipe, because he was going to talk so much, and putting his legs well along the settle; “it has been my duty, for a wearier time than I care to think of (and which would have been unbearable, except for your great kindness), to search this neighbourhood narrowly, and learn everything about everybody. Now the neighbourhood itself is queer; and people have different ways of thinking from what we are used to in London. For instance now, among your folk, when any piece of news is told, or any man's conduct spoken of, the very first question that arises in your mind is this—'Was this action kind and good?' Long after that, you say to yourselves, 'does the law enjoin or forbid this thing?' Now here is your fundamental error: for among all truly civilised people the foremost of all questions is, 'how stands the law herein?' And if the law approve, no need for any further questioning. That this is so, you may take my word: for I know the law pretty thoroughly.
“You know, my son,” said Jeremy Stickles, taking a good puff from his pipe because he had a lot to say and stretching his legs comfortably on the couch, “it has been my duty, for a longer time than I want to think about (and it would have been unbearable if not for your great kindness), to search this neighborhood closely and learn everything about everyone. Now, the neighborhood itself is strange, and people think differently than what we're used to in London. For example, among your people, when news is shared or someone’s behavior is discussed, the first question that comes to your mind is—'Was this action kind and good?' Long after that, you ask yourselves, 'Does the law allow or prohibit this?' Now here’s your fundamental mistake: among all truly civilized people, the first question is, 'What does the law say about this?' And if the law approves, there’s no need for any more questioning. You can take my word for it—I'm pretty familiar with the law.”
“Very well; I need not say any more about that, for I have shown that you are all quite wrong. I only speak of this savage tendency, because it explains so many things which have puzzled me among you, and most of all your kindness to men whom you never saw before; which is an utterly illegal thing. It also explains your toleration of these outlaw Doones so long. If your views of law had been correct, and law an element of your lives, these robbers could never have been indulged for so many years amongst you: but you must have abated the nuisance.”
“Alright; I don’t need to say more about that, since I’ve proven that you’re all completely mistaken. I only mention this savage tendency because it helps explain so many things that have confused me about you, especially your kindness to men you’ve never seen before; which is completely against the law. It also explains why you’ve tolerated these outlaw Doones for so long. If your views of law were right, and if law was a part of your lives, these robbers wouldn’t have been allowed to run free among you for so many years: you must have turned a blind eye to the problem.”
“Now, Stickles,” I cried, “this is too bad!” he was delivering himself so grandly. “Why you yourself have been amongst us, as the balance, and sceptre, and sword of law, for nigh upon a twelvemonth; and have you abated the nuisance, or even cared to do it, until they began to shoot at you?”
“Now, Stickles,” I exclaimed, “this is really unfortunate!” He was speaking so theatrically. “You’ve been among us as the balance, the authority, and the force of law for almost a year; have you done anything about the problem, or even cared to, until they started shooting at you?”
“My son,” he replied, “your argument is quite beside the purpose, and only tends to prove more clearly that which I have said of you. However, if you wish to hear my story, no more interruptions. I may not have a chance to tell you, perhaps for weeks, or I know not when, if once those yellows and reds arrive, and be blessed to them, the lubbers! Well, it may be six months ago, or it may be seven, at any rate a good while before that cursed frost began, the mere name of which sends a shiver down every bone of my body, when I was riding one afternoon from Dulverton to Watchett”—
“My son,” he replied, “your argument is completely off-topic and only serves to confirm what I’ve said about you. However, if you want to hear my story, please save your interruptions. I might not get another chance to tell you, maybe for weeks, or I don’t know when, especially if those yellows and reds show up—bless them, the fools! Anyway, it could be six months ago, or maybe seven, but it was definitely a long time before that damn frost started, just the thought of which sends chills through my entire body. It was one afternoon when I was riding from Dulverton to Watchett—”
“Dulverton to Watchett!” I cried. “Now what does that remind me of? I am sure, I remember something—”
“Dulverton to Watchett!” I exclaimed. “Now what does that remind me of? I’m sure I remember something—”
“Remember this, John, if anything—that another word from thee, and thou hast no more of mine. Well, I was a little weary perhaps, having been plagued at Dulverton with the grossness of the people. For they would tell me nothing at all about their fellow-townsmen, your worthy Uncle Huckaback, except that he was a God-fearing man, and they only wished I was like him. I blessed myself for a stupid fool, in thinking to have pumped them; for by this time I might have known that, through your Western homeliness, every man in his own country is something more than a prophet. And I felt, of course, that I had done more harm than good by questioning; inasmuch as every soul in the place would run straightway and inform him that the King's man from the other side of the forest had been sifting out his ways and works.”
"Remember this, John, if nothing else—if you say one more word, you won't hear anything from me again. Honestly, I was a bit tired, having dealt with the rudeness of the people in Dulverton. They wouldn’t tell me anything about their fellow townsman, your respectable Uncle Huckaback, except that he was a God-fearing man, and they wished I was more like him. I cursed myself for being such a naive fool, thinking I could get some information from them; by now, I should have known that in your Western simplicity, every man at home is more than just a prophet. And, of course, I realized I had done more harm than good by asking questions, since every person in town would rush to tell him that the King's man from across the forest had been snooping around about him."
“Ah,” I cried, for I could not help it; “you begin to understand at last, that we are not quite such a set of oafs, as you at first believed us.”
“Ah,” I exclaimed, unable to contain myself; “you’re finally starting to realize that we’re not as clueless as you initially thought we were.”
“I was riding on from Dulverton,” he resumed, with great severity, yet threatening me no more, which checked me more than fifty threats: “and it was late in the afternoon, and I was growing weary. The road (if road it could be called) turned suddenly down from the higher land to the very brink of the sea; and rounding a little jut of cliff, I met the roar of the breakers. My horse was scared, and leaped aside; for a northerly wind was piping, and driving hunks of foam across, as children scatter snow-balls. But he only sank to his fetlocks in the dry sand, piled with pop-weed: and I tried to make him face the waves; and then I looked about me.
“I was riding from Dulverton,” he continued, with great seriousness, yet no longer threatening me, which made me feel more intimidated than a hundred threats: “and it was late in the afternoon, and I was getting tired. The road (if you could call it that) suddenly dropped down from the higher ground to the very edge of the sea; and as I rounded a small cliff, I was met by the roar of the waves. My horse got spooked and jumped aside because a northerly wind was whipping along, sending chunks of foam flying like children throwing snowballs. But he only sank to his ankles in the dry sand, which was covered in pop-weed: and I tried to get him to face the waves; and then I looked around me.
“Watchett town was not to be seen, on account of a little foreland, a mile or more upon my course, and standing to the right of me. There was room enough below the cliffs (which are nothing there to yours, John), for horse and man to get along, although the tide was running high with a northerly gale to back it. But close at hand and in the corner, drawn above the yellow sands and long eye-brows of rackweed, as snug a little house blinked on me as ever I saw, or wished to see.
Watchett town was out of sight because of a small headland, about a mile ahead of me and off to my right. There was enough space below the cliffs (which are nothing compared to yours, John) for both horse and rider to get through, even though the tide was high and a strong northern wind was pushing it. But right nearby, tucked away above the yellow sands and the long strands of seaweed, was the coziest little house I’d ever seen or hoped to see.
“You know that I am not luxurious, neither in any way given to the common lusts of the flesh, John. My father never allowed his hair to grow a fourth part of an inch in length, and he was a thoroughly godly man; and I try to follow in his footsteps, whenever I think about it. Nevertheless, I do assure you that my view of that little house and the way the lights were twinkling, so different from the cold and darkness of the rolling sea, moved the ancient Adam in me, if he could be found to move. I love not a house with too many windows: being out of house and doors some three-quarters of my time, when I get inside a house I like to feel the difference. Air and light are good for people who have any lack of them; and if a man once talks about them, 'tis enough to prove his need of them. But, as you well know, John Ridd, the horse who has been at work all day, with the sunshine in his eyes, sleeps better in dark stables, and needs no moon to help him.
"You know I'm not extravagant, nor do I indulge in the typical desires of the body, John. My dad never let his hair grow more than a quarter of an inch long, and he was a truly righteous man; I try to follow his example whenever I remember to. Still, I have to say that seeing that little house and the way the lights were shining—so different from the cold and darkness of the rolling sea—stirred something deep inside me, if there's anything left to stir. I don't like houses with too many windows; being outside about three-quarters of the time, when I finally get indoors, I want to feel the difference. Fresh air and light are great for those who lack them; and if a man talks about them too much, it just proves he needs them. But as you know well, John Ridd, a horse that has worked all day, with the sun in its eyes, sleeps better in a dark stable and doesn’t need the moon to help him."
“Seeing therefore that this same inn had four windows, and no more, I thought to myself how snug it was, and how beautiful I could sleep there. And so I made the old horse draw hand, which he was only too glad to do, and we clomb above the spring-tide mark, and over a little piece of turf, and struck the door of the hostelry. Some one came and peeped at me through the lattice overhead, which was full of bulls' eyes; and then the bolt was drawn back, and a woman met me very courteously. A dark and foreign-looking woman, very hot of blood, I doubt, but not altogether a bad one. And she waited for me to speak first, which an Englishwoman would not have done.
Seeing that this inn had four windows and no more, I thought about how cozy it was and how wonderfully I could sleep there. So, I got the old horse to pull up, which he was more than happy to do, and we climbed above the high tide mark, over a small patch of grass, and reached the door of the inn. Someone came and peered at me through the multi-pane window, which was filled with small round glass pieces; then the bolt was drawn back, and a woman greeted me very politely. She was a dark, foreign-looking woman, likely with a fiery temperament, but not entirely unkind. She waited for me to speak first, which an English woman wouldn't have done.
“'Can I rest here for the night?' I asked, with a lift of my hat to her; for she was no provincial dame, who would stare at me for the courtesy; 'my horse is weary from the sloughs, and myself but little better: beside that, we both are famished.'
“'Can I stay here for the night?' I asked, tipping my hat to her; for she wasn't some local woman who would just glare at me for being polite; 'my horse is tired from the muddy trails, and I'm not doing much better: plus, we're both starving.'”
“'Yes, sir, you can rest and welcome. But of food, I fear, there is but little, unless of the common order. Our fishers would have drawn the nets, but the waves were violent. However, we have—what you call it? I never can remember, it is so hard to say—the flesh of the hog salted.'
“'Yes, sir, you can relax and feel welcome. But I’m afraid there’s not much food, unless it’s something basic. Our fishermen would have pulled in the nets, but the waves were rough. However, we have—what do you call it? I can never remember because it’s so hard to say—the salted pork.'”
“'Bacon!' said I; 'what can be better? And half dozen of eggs with it, and a quart of fresh-drawn ale. You make me rage with hunger, madam. Is it cruelty, or hospitality?'
“'Bacon!' I said; 'what could be better? And half a dozen eggs to go with it, and a quart of freshly drawn ale. You’re driving me wild with hunger, madam. Is it cruelty or hospitality?'”
“'Ah, good!' she replied, with a merry smile, full of southern sunshine: 'you are not of the men round here; you can think, and you can laugh!'
“'Oh, great!' she said, with a cheerful smile, full of southern sunlight: 'you’re not like the guys around here; you actually think and you can laugh!'”
“'And most of all, I can eat, good madam. In that way I shall astonish you; even more than by my intellect.'
“'And most importantly, I can eat, good madam. That way, I will impress you; even more than with my intelligence.'”
“She laughed aloud, and swung her shoulders, as your natives cannot do; and then she called a little maid to lead my horse to stable. However, I preferred to see that matter done myself, and told her to send the little maid for the frying-pan and the egg-box.
“She laughed out loud and moved her shoulders in a way that your locals can’t; then she called a young girl to take my horse to the stable. However, I preferred to handle that myself and told her to send the young girl for the frying pan and the egg box.
“Whether it were my natural wit and elegance of manner; or whether it were my London freedom and knowledge of the world; or (which is perhaps the most probable, because the least pleasing supposition) my ready and permanent appetite, and appreciation of garlic—I leave you to decide, John: but perhaps all three combined to recommend me to the graces of my charming hostess. When I say 'charming,' I mean of course by manners and by intelligence, and most of all by cooking; for as regards external charms (most fleeting and fallacious) hers had ceased to cause distress, for I cannot say how many years. She said that it was the climate—for even upon that subject she requested my opinion—and I answered, 'if there be a change, let madam blame the seasons.'
“Whether it was my natural wit and elegance; my London confidence and worldliness; or (which is probably the most likely, though the least flattering thought) my constant love for and appreciation of garlic—I’ll let you decide, John. But perhaps all three helped endear me to my lovely hostess. When I say 'lovely,' I’m referring to her manners, intelligence, and especially her cooking; because as for her physical beauty (which is often temporary and misleading), it had long stopped being a concern for me. She claimed it was the climate—she even asked for my thoughts on that—and I responded, 'if there’s been a change, let madam blame the seasons.'”
“However, not to dwell too much upon our little pleasantries (for I always get on with these foreign women better than with your Molls and Pegs), I became, not inquisitive, but reasonably desirous to know, by what strange hap or hazard, a clever and a handsome woman, as she must have been some day, a woman moreover with great contempt for the rustic minds around her, could have settled here in this lonely inn, with only the waves for company, and a boorish husband who slaved all day in turning a potter's wheel at Watchett. And what was the meaning of the emblem set above her doorway, a very unattractive cat sitting in a ruined tree?
“However, not to spend too much time on our little chats (since I always get along with these foreign women better than with your Molls and Pegs), I became, not curious, but reasonably eager to know how a smart and attractive woman, as she must have been at some point, a woman who also held great disdain for the simple minds around her, could have ended up here in this lonely inn, with only the waves for company and a rough husband who worked all day at a potter's wheel in Watchett. And what was the meaning of the symbol above her doorway, a very unattractive cat sitting in a broken tree?”
“However, I had not very long to strain my curiosity; for when she found out who I was, and how I held the King's commission, and might be called an officer, her desire to tell me all was more than equal to mine of hearing it. Many and many a day, she had longed for some one both skilful and trustworthy, most of all for some one bearing warrant from a court of justice. But the magistrates of the neighbourhood would have nothing to say to her, declaring that she was a crack-brained woman, and a wicked, and even a foreign one.
“However, I didn’t have to wait long to satisfy my curiosity; when she discovered who I was, how I held the King's commission, and that I could be called an officer, her eagerness to share everything with me matched my own desire to hear it. For many days, she had wished for someone both skilled and reliable, especially for someone backed by a court of law. But the local magistrates wanted nothing to do with her, claiming she was a crazy woman, wicked, and even a foreigner.”
“With many grimaces she assured me that never by her own free-will would she have lived so many years in that hateful country, where the sky for half the year was fog, and rain for nearly the other half. It was so the very night when first her evil fortune brought her there; and so no doubt it would be, long after it had killed her. But if I wished to know the reason of her being there, she would tell me in few words, which I will repeat as briefly.
“With many grimaces, she assured me that she would never have willingly spent so many years in that awful country, where the sky was foggy for half the year and rainy for almost the other half. It had been just like that the very night her bad luck brought her there; and no doubt it would remain the same long after it had taken her life. But if I wanted to know why she was there, she would tell me in a few words, which I will repeat briefly.”
“By birth she was an Italian, from the mountains of Apulia, who had gone to Rome to seek her fortunes, after being badly treated in some love-affair. Her Christian name was Benita; as for her surname, that could make no difference to any one. Being a quick and active girl, and resolved to work down her troubles, she found employment in a large hotel; and rising gradually, began to send money to her parents. And here she might have thriven well, and married well under sunny skies, and been a happy woman, but that some black day sent thither a rich and noble English family, eager to behold the Pope. It was not, however, their fervent longing for the Holy Father which had brought them to St. Peter's roof; but rather their own bad luck in making their home too hot to hold them. For although in the main good Catholics, and pleasant receivers of anything, one of their number had given offence, by the folly of trying to think for himself. Some bitter feud had been among them, Benita knew not how it was; and the sister of the nobleman who had died quite lately was married to the rival claimant, whom they all detested. It was something about dividing land; Benita knew not what it was.
“By birth, she was Italian, from the mountains of Apulia, who had gone to Rome to seek her fortune after being mistreated in a romantic relationship. Her first name was Benita; her last name was irrelevant to anyone. As a quick and active girl, determined to overcome her troubles, she found work in a large hotel and gradually began sending money to her parents. She could have thrived and married happily under sunny skies, but then one fateful day, a wealthy English family arrived, eager to see the Pope. However, their intense interest in the Holy Father wasn’t really what brought them to St. Peter's; it was more about their own misfortunes that made their home unbearable. Although they were mostly good Catholics and gracious hosts, one member had caused trouble by foolishly trying to think for himself. There had been some bitter feud among them that Benita didn’t fully understand; the sister of the recently deceased nobleman was married to the rival claimant, whom everyone despised. It was something about dividing land, but Benita had no idea what it was all about.”
“But this Benita did know, that they were all great people, and rich, and very liberal; so that when they offered to take her, to attend to the children, and to speak the language for them, and to comfort the lady, she was only too glad to go, little foreseeing the end of it. Moreover, she loved the children so, from their pretty ways and that, and the things they gave her, and the style of their dresses, that it would have broken her heart almost never to see the dears again.
“But this is what Benita knew: they were all important people, rich, and very generous. So when they offered to take her on to help with the children, translate for them, and support the lady, she was more than happy to go, not really thinking about how it would turn out. Besides, she adored the children so much, with their cute quirks and the gifts they gave her, and the way they dressed, that it would have almost broken her heart to never see the little ones again.”
“And so, in a very evil hour, she accepted the service of the noble Englishman, and sent her father an old shoe filled to the tongue with money, and trusted herself to fortune. But even before she went, she knew that it could not turn out well; for the laurel leaf which she threw on the fire would not crackle even once, and the horn of the goat came wrong in the twist, and the heel of her foot was shining. This made her sigh at the starting-time; and after that what could you hope for?
“And so, at a very bad moment, she agreed to the service of the noble Englishman, sent her father an old shoe packed to the brim with money, and put her trust in fate. But even before she left, she knew it wouldn’t end well; the laurel leaf she tossed into the fire didn’t crackle even once, the goat’s horn twisted wrong, and the heel of her foot was shining. This made her sigh as she was about to leave; and after that, what could you expect?”
“However, at first all things went well. My Lord was as gay as gay could be: and never would come inside the carriage, when a decent horse could be got to ride. He would gallop in front, at a reckless pace, without a weapon of any kind, delighted with the pure blue air, and throwing his heart around him. Benita had never seen any man so admirable, and so childish. As innocent as an infant; and not only contented, but noisily happy with anything. Only other people must share his joy; and the shadow of sorrow scattered it, though it were but the shade of poverty.
“However, at first everything went well. My Lord was as cheerful as could be: he never wanted to get in the carriage when there was a decent horse to ride. He would gallop in front at a reckless speed, without any weapon, enjoying the clear blue air and spreading his joy around him. Benita had never seen a man so admirable and so childlike. He was innocent like a baby; not only satisfied, but loudly happy with everything. Yet, other people had to share in his joy; the slightest hint of sorrow could cast a shadow over it, even if it was just the burden of poverty.”
“Here Benita wept a little; and I liked her none the less, and believed her ten times more; in virtue of a tear or two.
“Here Benita shed a few tears; and I liked her even more, believing her ten times more because of those tears.”
“And so they travelled through Northern Italy, and throughout the south of France, making their way anyhow; sometimes in coaches, sometimes in carts, sometimes upon mule-back, sometimes even a-foot and weary; but always as happy as could be. The children laughed, and grew, and throve (especially the young lady, the elder of the two), and Benita began to think that omens must not be relied upon. But suddenly her faith in omens was confirmed for ever.
"And so they traveled through Northern Italy and into the south of France, finding their way however they could; sometimes by coach, sometimes by cart, sometimes on mule-back, and sometimes on foot and tired; but always as happy as they could be. The children laughed, grew, and thrived (especially the young lady, the older of the two), and Benita started to think that you shouldn't depend on omens. But suddenly, her belief in omens was confirmed forever."
“My Lord, who was quite a young man still, and laughed at English arrogance, rode on in front of his wife and friends, to catch the first of a famous view, on the French side of the Pyrenee hills. He kissed his hand to his wife, and said that he would save her the trouble of coming. For those two were so one in one, that they could make each other know whatever he or she had felt. And so my Lord went round the corner, with a fine young horse leaping up at the steps.
“My Lord, who was still quite young and found English arrogance amusing, rode ahead of his wife and friends to catch the first glimpse of a famous view on the French side of the Pyrenees. He blew a kiss to his wife and said he would spare her the trouble of coming. Those two were so in sync that they could sense whatever the other was feeling. And so my Lord turned the corner, with a spirited young horse jumping at the steps.”
“They waited for him, long and long; but he never came again; and within a week, his mangled body lay in a little chapel-yard; and if the priests only said a quarter of the prayers they took the money for, God knows they can have no throats left; only a relaxation.
“They waited for him for a long time, but he never came back; and within a week, his battered body was in a small chapel yard. If the priests only said a fraction of the prayers they collected money for, God knows they must have no throats left—just a lack of effort.”
“My lady dwelled for six months more—it is a melancholy tale (what true tale is not so?)—scarcely able to believe that all her fright was not a dream. She would not wear a piece or shape of any mourning-clothes; she would not have a person cry, or any sorrow among us. She simply disbelieved the thing, and trusted God to right it. The Protestants, who have no faith, cannot understand this feeling. Enough that so it was; and so my Lady went to heaven.
“My lady lived for six more months—it’s a sad story (which true story isn’t?)—hardly able to believe that all her fear wasn’t just a dream. She refused to wear any kind of mourning clothes; she wouldn’t allow anyone to cry or show sadness around her. She simply didn’t believe it happened, and had faith that God would make things right. The Protestants, who lack faith, can’t grasp this feeling. It’s enough that it was this way; and so my lady went to heaven."
“For when the snow came down in autumn on the roots of the Pyrenees, and the chapel-yard was white with it, many people told the lady that it was time for her to go. And the strongest plea of all was this, that now she bore another hope of repeating her husband's virtues. So at the end of October, when wolves came down to the farm-lands, the little English family went home towards their England.
“For when the snow fell in autumn on the roots of the Pyrenees, and the chapel yard was covered in it, many people told the lady that it was time for her to leave. And the strongest reason of all was this: that now she held a new hope of carrying on her husband’s virtues. So at the end of October, when wolves came down to the farmlands, the little English family headed back to their England.
“They landed somewhere on the Devonshire coast, ten or eleven years agone, and stayed some days at Exeter; and set out thence in a hired coach, without any proper attendance, for Watchett, in the north of Somerset. For the lady owned a quiet mansion in the neighbourhood of that town, and her one desire was to find refuge there, and to meet her lord, who was sure to come (she said) when he heard of his new infant. Therefore with only two serving-men and two maids (including Benita), the party set forth from Exeter, and lay the first night at Bampton.
“They landed somewhere on the Devonshire coast, ten or eleven years ago, and stayed a few days in Exeter. Then they set out in a hired coach, without much help, for Watchett, in the north of Somerset. The lady owned a quiet house near that town, and all she wanted was to find refuge there and to meet her husband, who she was sure would come when he heard about their new baby. So, with just two servants and two maids (including Benita), the group left Exeter and spent their first night in Bampton.”
“On the following morn they started bravely, with earnest hope of arriving at their journey's end by daylight. But the roads were soft and very deep, and the sloughs were out in places; and the heavy coach broke down in the axle, and needed mending at Dulverton; and so they lost three hours or more, and would have been wiser to sleep there. But her ladyship would not hear of it; she must be home that night, she said, and her husband would be waiting. How could she keep him waiting now, after such a long, long time?
“On the following morning, they set off with a strong determination and the hopeful expectation of reaching their destination by daylight. But the roads were soft and very deep, and there were muddy spots in places; the heavy coach broke down at the axle and needed repairs in Dulverton; they ended up losing three hours or more and would have been smarter to stay there for the night. But she wouldn’t hear of it; she insisted on getting home that night, saying her husband would be waiting. How could she keep him waiting now, after such a long time?”
“Therefore, although it was afternoon, and the year now come to December, the horses were put to again, and the heavy coach went up the hill, with the lady and her two children, and Benita, sitting inside of it; the other maid, and two serving-men (each man with a great blunderbuss) mounted upon the outside; and upon the horses three Exeter postilions. Much had been said at Dulverton, and even back at Bampton, about some great freebooters, to whom all Exmoor owed suit and service, and paid them very punctually. Both the serving-men were scared, even over their ale, by this. But the lady only said, 'Drive on; I know a little of highwaymen: they never rob a lady.'”
“Even though it was afternoon and December had arrived, the horses were hitched up again, and the heavy coach moved up the hill with the lady and her two kids, along with Benita, seated inside. The other maid and two servants (each armed with a large blunderbuss) rode on the outside, while three Exeter postilions handled the horses. There had been a lot of talk in Dulverton, and even back in Bampton, about some notorious bandits that all of Exmoor had to deal with and paid off regularly. Both of the servants were nervous, even while they were drinking. But the lady just said, 'Keep driving; I know a thing or two about highwaymen: they never rob a lady.'”
“Through the fog and through the muck the coach went on, as best it might; sometimes foundered in a slough, with half of the horses splashing it, and some-times knuckled up on a bank, and straining across the middle, while all the horses kicked at it. However, they went on till dark as well as might be expected. But when they came, all thanking God, to the pitch and slope of the sea-bank, leading on towards Watchett town, and where my horse had shied so, there the little boy jumped up, and clapped his hands at the water; and there (as Benita said) they met their fate, and could not fly it.
“Through the fog and muck, the coach continued on as best as it could; sometimes it got stuck in a muddy spot with half the horses splashing around, and at other times, it struggled on a bank, with all the horses kicking at it. Nevertheless, they pressed on until dark, as well as could be expected. But when they arrived, all grateful to God, at the pitch and slope of the sea bank leading towards Watchett town, and where my horse had spooked, the little boy jumped up and clapped his hands at the water; and there (as Benita said) they met their fate and could not escape it.
“Although it was past the dusk of day, the silver light from the sea flowed in, and showed the cliffs, and the gray sand-line, and the drifts of wreck, and wrack-weed. It showed them also a troop of horsemen, waiting under a rock hard by, and ready to dash upon them. The postilions lashed towards the sea, and the horses strove in the depth of sand, and the serving-men cocked their blunder-busses, and cowered away behind them; but the lady stood up in the carriage bravely, and neither screamed nor spoke, but hid her son behind her. Meanwhile the drivers drove into the sea, till the leading horses were swimming.
“Even though it was past sunset, the silver light from the sea flowed in and illuminated the cliffs, the gray sand, the wreckage, and the seaweed. It also revealed a group of horsemen waiting nearby under a rock, ready to charge. The postilions urged the horses toward the sea, struggling through the deep sand, while the servants readied their blunderbusses and crouched behind them; but the lady stood bravely in the carriage, neither screaming nor speaking, hiding her son behind her. Meanwhile, the drivers pushed into the sea, until the lead horses were swimming.”
“But before the waves came into the coach, a score of fierce men were round it. They cursed the postilions for mad cowards, and cut the traces, and seized the wheel-horses, all-wild with dismay in the wet and the dark. Then, while the carriage was heeling over, and well-nigh upset in the water, the lady exclaimed, 'I know that man! He is our ancient enemy;' and Benita (foreseeing that all their boxes would be turned inside out, or carried away), snatched the most valuable of the jewels, a magnificent necklace of diamonds, and cast it over the little girl's head, and buried it under her travelling-cloak, hoping to save it. Then a great wave, crested with foam, rolled in, and the coach was thrown on its side, and the sea rushed in at the top and the windows, upon shrieking, and clashing, and fainting away.
“But before the waves hit the coach, a group of fierce men surrounded it. They insulted the drivers for being scared and cut the harnesses, grabbing the horses, which were all frenzied with fear in the rain and darkness. Then, as the carriage tipped and almost flipped over into the water, the lady shouted, 'I recognize that man! He is our long-time enemy;' and Benita, realizing that all their belongings would be tossed around or taken, quickly grabbed the most precious of the jewels, a stunning diamond necklace, and slipped it over the little girl's head, hiding it under her travel cloak, hoping to protect it. Just then, a massive wave, topped with foam, crashed in, and the coach was knocked on its side, with the sea pouring in through the top and windows, amid screams, chaos, and people fainting away."
“What followed Benita knew not, as one might well suppose, herself being stunned by a blow on the head, beside being palsied with terror. 'See, I have the mark now,' she said, 'where the jamb of the door came down on me!' But when she recovered her senses, she found herself lying upon the sand, the robbers were out of sight, and one of the serving-men was bathing her forehead with sea water. For this she rated him well, having taken already too much of that article; and then she arose and ran to her mistress, who was sitting upright on a little rock, with her dead boy's face to her bosom, sometimes gazing upon him, and sometimes questing round for the other one.
“What happened next, Benita didn’t know, as she was still dazed from a blow to her head and paralyzed with fear. 'Look, I have a mark now,' she said, 'where the door frame hit me!' But when she regained her senses, she found herself lying on the sand, the robbers were gone, and one of the servants was soaking her forehead with seawater. She scolded him for that, having already had more than enough of it; then she got up and ran to her mistress, who was sitting upright on a small rock, holding her dead boy’s face against her chest, sometimes looking at him and other times searching for the other one.
“Although there were torches and links around, and she looked at her child by the light of them, no one dared to approach the lady, or speak, or try to help her. Each man whispered his fellow to go, but each hung back himself, and muttered that it was too awful to meddle with. And there she would have sat all night, with the fine little fellow stone dead in her arms, and her tearless eyes dwelling upon him, and her heart but not her mind thinking, only that the Italian women stole up softly to her side, and whispered, 'It is the will of God.'
“Even though there were torches and lanterns around, and she looked at her child by their light, no one dared to approach the woman, speak to her, or try to help. Each man urged his friend to go, but they all hesitated, muttering that it was too terrible to get involved. She would have sat there all night, with the little boy lifeless in her arms, her eyes dry as they rested on him, and her heart, but not her mind, thinking, only that the Italian women quietly came to her side and whispered, ‘It is the will of God.’”
“'So it always seems to be,' were all the words the mother answered; and then she fell on Benita's neck; and the men were ashamed to be near her weeping; and a sailor lay down and bellowed. Surely these men are the best.
“'That's how it always seems to be,' were all the words the mother replied; and then she hugged Benita tightly; and the men felt embarrassed to be near her while she cried; and a sailor lay down and roared. These men are truly the best.
“Before the light of the morning came along the tide to Watchett my Lady had met her husband. They took her into the town that night, but not to her own castle; and so the power of womanhood (which is itself maternity) came over swiftly upon her. The lady, whom all people loved (though at certain times particular), lies in Watchett little churchyard, with son and heir at her right hand, and a little babe, of sex unknown, sleeping on her bosom.
“Before the morning light arrived with the tide to Watchett, my Lady had met her husband. They took her into town that night, but not to her own castle; and so the strength of womanhood (which is also motherhood) quickly took hold of her. The lady, who was loved by everyone (though at certain times, by particular people), lies in the little churchyard of Watchett, with her son and heir at her right hand, and a little baby, gender unknown, sleeping on her chest.”
“This is a miserable tale,” said Jeremy Stickles brightly; “hand me over the schnapps, my boy. What fools we are to spoil our eyes for other people's troubles! Enough of our own to keep them clean, although we all were chimney-sweeps. There is nothing like good hollands, when a man becomes too sensitive. Restore the action of the glands; that is my rule, after weeping. Let me make you another, John. You are quite low-spirited.”
“This is a miserable story,” Jeremy Stickles said cheerfully; “pass me the schnapps, my friend. What fools we are to ruin our mood over other people's problems! We have enough of our own to deal with, even if we all were chimney-sweeps. There's nothing like some good hollands when a guy gets too sensitive. It helps get things back on track; that's my rule after a good cry. Let me pour you another, John. You seem a bit down.”
But although Master Jeremy carried on so (as became his manhood), and laughed at the sailor's bellowing; bless his heart, I knew as well that tears were in his brave keen eyes, as if I had dared to look for them, or to show mine own.
But even though Master Jeremy acted so (as was fitting for a man), and laughed at the sailor's shouting; bless his heart, I knew just as well that there were tears in his brave, sharp eyes, as if I had been bold enough to look for them, or to show my own.
“And what was the lady's name?” I asked; “and what became of the little girl? And why did the woman stay there?”
“And what was the lady's name?” I asked; “and what happened to the little girl? And why did the woman stay there?”
“Well!” cried Jeremy Stickles, only too glad to be cheerful again: “talk of a woman after that! As we used to say at school—Who dragged whom, how many times, in what manner, round the wall of what?” But to begin, last first, my John (as becomes a woman): Benita stayed in that blessed place, because she could not get away from it. The Doones—if Doones indeed they were, about which you of course know best—took every stiver out of the carriage: wet or dry they took it. And Benita could never get her wages: for the whole affair is in Chancery, and they have appointed a receiver.”
“Well!” exclaimed Jeremy Stickles, more than happy to be cheerful again. “Talk about a woman after that! As we used to say in school—Who dragged whom, how many times, and in what way, around the wall of what?” But to start at the beginning, my John (as suits a woman): Benita stayed in that darn place because she couldn’t escape it. The Doones—if they were indeed Doones, which you obviously know best—took every penny from the carriage, no matter if it was wet or dry. And Benita could never get her pay because the whole situation is in Chancery, and they’ve appointed a receiver.”
“Whew!” said I, knowing something of London, and sorry for Benita's chance.
“Wow!” I said, understanding a bit about London and feeling bad for Benita's opportunity.
“So the poor thing was compelled to drop all thought of Apulia, and settle down on the brink of Exmoor, where you get all its evils, without the good to balance them. She married a man who turned a wheel for making the blue Watchett ware, partly because he could give her a house, and partly because he proved himself a good soul towards my Lady. There they are, and have three children; and there you may go and visit them.”
"So the poor thing had to give up all thoughts of Apulia and settle down on the edge of Exmoor, where you experience all its troubles without any benefits to balance them out. She married a man who worked a wheel for making the blue Watchett pottery, partly because he could provide her with a home, and partly because he showed himself to be a good person to my Lady. They live there now and have three kids, and you can go visit them there."
“I understand all that, Jeremy, though you do tell things too quickly, and I would rather have John Fry's style; for he leaves one time for his words to melt. Now for my second question. What became of the little maid?”
“I get all that, Jeremy, but you speak too fast, and I prefer John Fry's way; he gives his words time to sink in. Now for my second question. What happened to the little maid?”
“You great oaf!” cried Jeremy Stickles: “you are rather more likely to know, I should think, than any one else in all the kingdoms.”
“You big oaf!” shouted Jeremy Stickles. “I think you’re more likely to know than anyone else in all the kingdoms.”
“If I knew, I should not ask you. Jeremy Stickles, do try to be neither conceited nor thick-headed.”
“If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking you. Jeremy Stickles, please try not to be arrogant or dense.”
“I will when you are neither,” answered Master Jeremy; “but you occupy all the room, John. No one else can get in with you there.”
“I will when you’re not there,” replied Master Jeremy; “but you’re taking up all the space, John. No one else can fit in with you there.”
“Very well then, let me out. Take me down in both ways.”
“Alright then, let me out. Take me down in both ways.”
“If ever you were taken down; you must have your double joints ready now. And yet in other ways you will be as proud and set up as Lucifer. As certain sure as I stand here, that little maid is Lorna Doone.”
“If you ever get knocked down, you need to be ready to bounce back. And in other ways, you’ll be as proud and self-assured as Lucifer. I’m certain, standing here, that little girl is Lorna Doone.”
CHAPTER LIV
MUTUAL DISCOMFITURE
It must not be supposed that I was altogether so thick-headed as Jeremy would have made me out. But it is part of my character that I like other people to think me slow, and to labour hard to enlighten me, while all the time I can say to myself, “This man is shallower than I am; it is pleasant to see his shoals come up while he is sounding mine so!” Not that I would so behave, God forbid, with anybody (be it man or woman) who in simple heart approached me, with no gauge of intellect. But when the upper hand is taken, upon the faith of one's patience, by a man of even smaller wits (not that Jeremy was that, neither could he have lived to be thought so), why, it naturally happens, that we knuckle under, with an ounce of indignation.
I shouldn't be thought of as completely thick-headed like Jeremy would suggest. It's just part of my personality that I prefer others to see me as slow, and I enjoy watching them work hard to enlighten me, all while I think to myself, “This guy is less insightful than I am; it's amusing to see his shallow understanding come to light while he tries to probe mine!” I wouldn’t act that way, heaven forbid, with anyone—man or woman—who approaches me with genuine simplicity and no measuring stick for intellect. But when someone takes charge, relying on my patience, especially a man with even less smarts (not that Jeremy fit that description, nor could he survive being seen that way), it naturally leads us to submit, with a touch of indignation.
Jeremy's tale would have moved me greatly both with sorrow and anger, even without my guess at first, and now my firm belief, that the child of those unlucky parents was indeed my Lorna. And as I thought of the lady's troubles, and her faith in Providence, and her cruel, childless death, and then imagined how my darling would be overcome to hear it, you may well believe that my quick replies to Jeremy Stickles's banter were but as the flourish of a drum to cover the sounds of pain.
Jeremy's story would have deeply affected me with both sadness and anger, even without my initial suspicion, and now my strong belief, that the child of those unfortunate parents was really my Lorna. As I reflected on the lady's struggles, her faith in Providence, and her heartbreaking, childless death, and then imagined how my beloved would feel upon hearing this, you can understand that my quick responses to Jeremy Stickles's teasing were just a way to mask the sounds of my distress.
For when he described the heavy coach and the persons in and upon it, and the breaking down at Dulverton, and the place of their destination, as well as the time and the weather, and the season of the year, my heart began to burn within me, and my mind replaced the pictures, first of the foreign lady's-maid by the pump caressing me, and then of the coach struggling up the hill, and the beautiful dame, and the fine little boy, with the white cockade in his hat; but most of all the little girl, dark-haired and very lovely, and having even in those days the rich soft look of Lorna.
For when he described the heavy coach and the people in and around it, and the breakdown at Dulverton, and their destination, as well as the time, the weather, and the season of the year, my heart started to race, and my mind replaced the images—first of the foreign lady's maid by the pump who was comforting me, then of the coach struggling up the hill, and the beautiful woman, and the charming little boy with the white cockade in his hat; but most importantly, the little girl, with dark hair and stunning beauty, who even back then had the rich, soft look of Lorna.
But when he spoke of the necklace thrown over the head of the little maiden, and of her disappearance, before my eyes arose at once the flashing of the beacon-fire, the lonely moors embrowned with the light, the tramp of the outlaw cavalcade, and the helpless child head-downward, lying across the robber's saddle-bow.
But when he talked about the necklace tossed over the little girl's head and her vanishing, I instantly pictured the beacon fire flashing, the dark moors lit up, the sound of the outlaw group marching, and the helpless child upside down, lying over the robber's saddle.
Then I remembered my own mad shout of boyish indignation, and marvelled at the strange long way by which the events of life come round. And while I thought of my own return, and childish attempt to hide myself from sorrow in the sawpit, and the agony of my mother's tears, it did not fail to strike me as a thing of omen, that the selfsame day should be, both to my darling and myself, the blackest and most miserable of all youthful days.
Then I recalled my own crazy shout of boyish anger and was amazed at the strange, winding path that life takes to come full circle. As I thought about my own return and my childish effort to escape my sadness in the sawpit, along with the pain of my mother's tears, it struck me as a significant sign that the very same day would be, for both my beloved and me, the darkest and most miserable of all our youthful days.
The King's Commissioner thought it wise, for some good reason of his own, to conceal from me, for the present, the name of the poor lady supposed to be Lorna's mother; and knowing that I could easily now discover it, without him, I let that question abide awhile. Indeed I was half afraid to hear it, remembering that the nobler and the wealthier she proved to be, the smaller was my chance of winning such a wife for plain John Ridd. Not that she would give me up: that I never dreamed of. But that others would interfere; or indeed I myself might find it only honest to relinquish her. That last thought was a dreadful blow, and took my breath away from me.
The King's Commissioner thought it wise, for some good reason of his own, to hold back the name of the poor lady believed to be Lorna's mother from me for now. Knowing that I could easily find out myself without his help, I chose to let that question sit for a bit. Honestly, I was a bit scared to hear it, considering that the more noble and wealthy she turned out to be, the lower my chances of winning such a wife for plain John Ridd. It’s not like she would give me up; I never even considered that. But others might get involved, or I might feel it’s only fair to let her go myself. That last thought hit me hard and took my breath away.
Jeremy Stickles was quite decided—and of course the discovery being his, he had a right to be so—that not a word of all these things must be imparted to Lorna herself, or even to my mother, or any one whatever. “Keep it tight as wax, my lad,” he cried, with a wink of great expression; “this belongs to me, mind; and the credit, ay, and the premium, and the right of discount, are altogether mine. It would have taken you fifty years to put two and two together so, as I did, like a clap of thunder. Ah, God has given some men brains; and others have good farms and money, and a certain skill in the lower beasts. Each must use his special talent. You work your farm: I work my brains. In the end, my lad, I shall beat you.”
Jeremy Stickles was absolutely sure—and of course, since the discovery was his, he had every right to be—that not a single word about any of this should be shared with Lorna, my mother, or anyone else at all. “Keep it under wraps, my boy,” he exclaimed with a knowing wink; “this is mine, understand? The credit, yes, and the reward, and the right to make some profit, all belong to me. It would’ve taken you fifty years to put two and two together like I just did, in an instant. Ah, some men are given brains by God; others have good farms and money, and a knack with animals. Each of us must use our unique talents. You tend to your farm; I use my brains. In the end, my boy, I will come out on top.”
“Then, Jeremy, what a fool you must be, if you cudgel your brains to make money of this, to open the barn-door to me, and show me all your threshing.”
“Then, Jeremy, what a fool you must be if you rack your brains to profit from this, to open the barn door for me, and show me all your threshing.”
“Not a whit, my son. Quite the opposite. Two men always thresh better than one. And here I have you bound to use your flail, one two, with mine, and yet in strictest honour bound not to bushel up, till I tell you.”
“Not at all, my son. Actually, it’s the opposite. Two men always do a better job than one. And here I have you obligated to use your flail, one two, with mine, and yet strictly required not to stop until I tell you.”
“But,” said I, being much amused by a Londoner's brave, yet uncertain, use of simplest rural metaphors, for he had wholly forgotten the winnowing: “surely if I bushel up, even when you tell me, I must take half-measure.”
“But,” I said, highly entertained by a Londoner's bold but unsure use of basic rural metaphors, since he had completely forgotten the winnowing: “surely if I gather a bushel, even when you tell me, I must settle for a half-measure.”
“So you shall, my boy,” he answered, “if we can only cheat those confounded knaves of Equity. You shall take the beauty, my son, and the elegance, and the love, and all that—and, my boy, I will take the money.”
“So you will, my boy,” he replied, “if we can just outsmart those damn crooks of Equity. You will have the beauty, my son, and the elegance, and the love, and all that—and, my boy, I will take the money.”
This he said in a way so dry, and yet so richly unctuous, that being gifted somehow by God, with a kind of sense of queerness, I fell back in my chair, and laughed, though the underside of my laugh was tears.
This he said in such a dry yet somehow rich way that, blessed with a strange sense of awareness, I sank back in my chair and laughed, even though my laughter was mixed with tears.
“Now, Jeremy, how if I refuse to keep this half as tight as wax. You bound me to no such partnership, before you told the story; and I am not sure, by any means, of your right to do so afterwards.”
“Now, Jeremy, what if I decide not to keep this as tight as a drum? You didn't bind me to any partnership before you told the story, and I'm not certain at all about your right to do so afterward.”
“Tush!” he replied: “I know you too well, to look for meanness in you. If from pure goodwill, John Ridd, and anxiety to relieve you, I made no condition precedent, you are not the man to take advantage, as a lawyer might. I do not even want your promise. As sure as I hold this glass, and drink your health and love in another drop (forced on me by pathetic words), so surely will you be bound to me, until I do release you. Tush! I know men well by this time: a mere look of trust from one is worth another's ten thousand oaths.”
“Tush!” he replied. “I know you too well to think there’s any meanness in you. If out of pure goodwill, John Ridd, and a genuine desire to help you, I didn’t make any conditions, you’re not the type to take advantage of that like a lawyer would. I don’t even need your promise. Just like I hold this glass and drink to your health and love in this other sip (pressed on me by your heartfelt words), you will be bound to me until I set you free. Tush! I know men well by now: just a simple look of trust from one person is worth more than another's ten thousand oaths.”
“Jeremy, you are right,” I answered; “at least as regards the issue. Although perhaps you were not right in leading me into a bargain like this, without my own consent or knowledge. But supposing that we should both be shot in this grand attack on the valley (for I mean to go with you now, heart and soul), is Lorna to remain untold of that which changes all her life?”
“Jeremy, you’re right,” I said; “at least about the issue. Although maybe you weren’t right to involve me in a deal like this without my consent or knowledge. But if we both end up getting shot in this big attack on the valley (because I’m in this with you now, completely), is Lorna supposed to stay in the dark about something that changes her whole life?”
“Both shot!” cried Jeremy Stickles: “my goodness, boy, talk not like that! And those Doones are cursed good shots too. Nay, nay, the yellows shall go in front; we attack on the Somerset side, I think. I from a hill will reconnoitre, as behoves a general, you shall stick behind a tree, if we can only find one big enough to hide you. You and I to be shot, John Ridd, with all this inferior food for powder anxious to be devoured?”
“Both shot!” yelled Jeremy Stickles. “Goodness, boy, don’t talk like that! And those Doones are really good shots too. No, no, the yellows should go in front; I think we should attack from the Somerset side. I’ll scout from a hill, as any good general would, and you can hide behind a tree—if we can find one big enough to cover you. You and I shot, John Ridd, with all this inferior cannon fodder just waiting to be used?”
I laughed, for I knew his cool hardihood, and never-flinching courage; and sooth to say no coward would have dared to talk like that.
I laughed because I knew his calm boldness and unwavering courage; honestly, no coward would have dared to speak like that.
“But when one comes to think of it,” he continued, smiling at himself; “some provision should be made for even that unpleasant chance. I will leave the whole in writing, with orders to be opened, etc., etc.—Now no more of that, my boy; a cigarro after schnapps, and go to meet my yellow boys.”
“But when you think about it,” he said, smiling to himself; “we should make some plans for that unfortunate possibility. I’ll put everything in writing, with instructions to be opened, etc., etc.—Now, enough of that, my boy; a cigar after schnapps, and let’s go meet my yellow boys.”
His “yellow boys,” as he called the Somersetshire trained bands, were even now coming down the valley from the London Road, as every one since I went up to town, grandly entitled the lane to the moors. There was one good point about these men, that having no discipline at all, they made pretence to none whatever. Nay, rather they ridiculed the thing, as below men of any spirit. On the other hand, Master Stickles's troopers looked down on these native fellows from a height which I hope they may never tumble, for it would break the necks of all of them.
His “yellow boys,” as he called the Somersetshire trained bands, were now coming down the valley from the London Road, which everyone grandly referred to as the lane to the moors since I went up to town. One good thing about these men was that, lacking any discipline, they didn’t pretend to have any. In fact, they mocked the idea, considering it beneath men with any spirit. On the other hand, Master Stickles's troopers looked down on these local guys from a height I hope they never fall from, because it would break all their necks.
Now these fine natives came along, singing, for their very lives, a song the like of which set down here would oust my book from modest people, and make everybody say, “this man never can have loved Lorna.” Therefore, the less of that the better; only I thought, “what a difference from the goodly psalms of the ale house!”
Now these amazing locals showed up, singing with all their might, a song that, if I wrote it down here, would probably get my book rejected by decent folks, making everyone think, “This guy must have never loved Lorna.” So, it’s best not to mention it; I just thought, “What a contrast to the nice psalms sung in the pub!”
Having finished their canticle, which contained more mirth than melody, they drew themselves up, in a sort of way supposed by them to be military, each man with heel and elbow struck into those of his neighbour, and saluted the King's Commissioner. “Why, where are your officers?” asked Master Stickles; “how is it that you have no officers?” Upon this there arose a general grin, and a knowing look passed along their faces, even up to the man by the gatepost. “Are you going to tell me, or not,” said Jeremy, “what is become of your officers?”
Having finished their song, which was more about having fun than about the music, they stood up in a way they thought looked military, each guy bumping into his neighbor with his heel and elbow while saluting the King's Commissioner. “So, where are your officers?” asked Master Stickles. “Why don’t you have any officers?” At this, a general grin spread across their faces, even reaching the guy by the gatepost. “Are you going to tell me or not,” said Jeremy, “what happened to your officers?”
“Plaise zur,” said one little fellow at last, being nodded at by the rest to speak, in right of his known eloquence; “hus tould Harfizers, as a wor no nade of un, now King's man hiszell wor coom, a puppose vor to command us laike.”
“Please sir,” said one little guy at last, encouraged by the others to speak, due to his known talent for talking; “he’s told Harfizers, as a word no need of one, now the King’s man himself has come, a purpose to command us like.”
“And do you mean to say, you villains,” cried Jeremy, scarce knowing whether to laugh, or to swear, or what to do; “that your officers took their dismissal thus, and let you come on without them?”
“And are you really saying this, you guys,” Jeremy exclaimed, hardly knowing whether to laugh, swear, or what to do; “that your officers accepted their dismissal like this, and just let you come on without them?”
“What could 'em do?” asked the little man, with reason certainly on his side: “hus zent 'em about their business, and they was glad enough to goo.”
“What could they do?” asked the little man, clearly having a point: “They sent them about their business, and they were happy enough to go.”
“Well!” said poor Jeremy, turning to me; “a pretty state of things, John! Threescore cobblers, and farming men, plasterers, tailors, and kettles-to-mend; and not a man to keep order among them, except my blessed self, John! And I trow there is not one among them could hit all in-door flying. The Doones will make riddles of all of us.”
“Well!” said poor Jeremy, turning to me; “what a mess we’re in, John! Sixty cobblers, farmers, plasterers, tailors, and folks with pots to fix; and not a single person to keep them in line, except for me, John! And I bet not one of them can handle all the crazy stuff happening inside. The Doones are going to make puzzles out of all of us.”
However, he had better hopes when the sons of Devon appeared, as they did in about an hour's time; fine fellows, and eager to prove themselves. These had not discarded their officers, but marched in good obedience to them, and were quite prepared to fight the men of Somerset (if need be) in addition to the Doones. And there was scarcely a man among them but could have trounced three of the yellow men, and would have done it gladly too, in honour of the red facings.
However, he felt more optimistic when the sons of Devon showed up about an hour later; they were great guys, eager to show what they could do. They hadn’t ditched their officers but marched in good order under their command and were ready to fight the men of Somerset (if necessary) in addition to the Doones. There was hardly a man among them who couldn't have taken down three of the yellow men and would have done it gladly, out of respect for the red facings.
“Do you mean to suppose, Master Jeremy Stickles,” said I, looking on with amazement, beholding also all our maidens at the upstair windows wondering; “that we, my mother a widow woman, and I a young man of small estate, can keep and support all these precious fellows, both yellow ones, and red ones, until they have taken the Doone Glen?”
“Do you really think, Master Jeremy Stickles,” I said, watching in amazement, seeing all our maidens at the upstairs windows wondering too; “that we, with my mother being a widow and me being a young man of little means, can take care of all these valuable guys, both the blondes and the redheads, until they have captured Doone Glen?”
“God forbid it, my son!” he replied, laying a finger upon his lip: “Nay, nay, I am not of the shabby order, when I have the strings of government. Kill your sheep at famine prices, and knead your bread at a figure expressing the rigours of last winter. Let Annie make out the bill every day, and I at night will double it. You may take my word for it, Master John, this spring-harvest shall bring you in three times as much as last autumn's did. If they cheated you in town, my lad, you shall have your change in the country. Take thy bill, and write down quickly.”
“God forbid it, my son!” he replied, putting a finger to his lips. “No, no, I’m not of the cheap kind when I have the reins of power. Sell your sheep at rock-bottom prices, and knead your bread at a cost that reflects the hardships of last winter. Let Annie tally up the bill every day, and I'll double it at night. You have my word, Master John, this spring harvest will bring you three times what last autumn brought. If they cheated you in town, my boy, you’ll get your fair share in the country. Take your bill and write it down quickly.”
However this did not meet my views of what an honest man should do; and I went to consult my mother about it, as all the accounts would be made in her name.
However, this didn’t align with my ideas of what an honest man should do, so I went to talk to my mother about it, since all the accounts would be in her name.
Dear mother thought that if the King paid only half again as much as other people would have to pay, it would be perhaps the proper thing; the half being due for loyalty: and here she quoted an ancient saying,—
Dear mother thought that if the King paid only fifty percent more than what everyone else would have to pay, it would probably be the right thing to do; the extra half being owed for loyalty: and here she quoted an old saying,—
“The King and his staff.
Be a man and a half;”
“The King and his team. Be a real man;”
which, according to her judgment, ruled beyond dispute the law of the present question. To argue with her after that (which she brought up with such triumph) would have been worse than useless. Therefore I just told Annie to make the bills at a third below the current market prices; so that the upshot would be fair. She promised me honestly that she would; but with a twinkle in her bright blue eyes, which she must have caught from Tom Faggus. It always has appeared to me that stern and downright honesty upon money matters is a thing not understood of women; be they as good as good can be.
which, in her opinion, clearly settled the law of the current issue. Trying to argue with her after that (something she brought up with such pride) would have been completely pointless. So I just told Annie to price the bills a third below the current market rates; that way, the outcome would be fair. She honestly promised me she would; but with a sparkle in her bright blue eyes, which she must have inherited from Tom Faggus. I've always thought that strict and straightforward honesty about money is something women just don’t get, no matter how good they are.
The yellows and the reds together numbered a hundred and twenty men, most of whom slept in our barns and stacks; and besides these we had fifteen troopers of the regular army. You may suppose that all the country was turned upside down about it; and the folk who came to see them drill—by no means a needless exercise—were a greater plague than the soldiers. The officers too of the Devonshire hand were such a torment to us, that we almost wished their men had dismissed them, as the Somerset troop had done with theirs. For we could not keep them out of our house, being all young men of good family, and therefore not to be met with bars. And having now three lovely maidens (for even Lizzie might be called so, when she cared to please), mother and I were at wit's ends, on account of those blessed officers. I never got a wink of sleep; they came whistling under the window so; and directly I went out to chase them, there was nothing but a cat to see.
The yellow and red groups added up to 120 men, most of whom slept in our barns and haystacks; and in addition to them, we had 15 soldiers from the regular army. You can imagine that the whole area was in chaos because of it; and the people who came to watch them practice—definitely not a wasted effort—were an even bigger nuisance than the soldiers. The officers from the Devonshire group were such a hassle for us that we almost wished their men had sent them away, like the Somerset troop did with theirs. We couldn't keep them out of our house since they were all young men from good families, and therefore couldn’t be turned away. With three beautiful young women in the house (even Lizzie could be considered one when she dressed to impress), my mother and I were at our wits' end because of those pesky officers. I could never get a moment of sleep; they would whistle outside my window, and as soon as I went out to chase them off, there was only a cat to be seen.
Therefore all of us were right glad (except perhaps Farmer Snowe, from whom we had bought some victuals at rare price), when Jeremy Stickles gave orders to march, and we began to try to do it. A good deal of boasting went overhead, as our men defiled along the lane; and the thick broad patins of pennywort jutted out between the stones, ready to heal their bruises. The parish choir came part of the way, and the singing-loft from Countisbury; and they kept our soldiers' spirits up with some of the most pugnacious Psalms. Parson Bowden marched ahead, leading all our van and file, as against the Papists; and promising to go with us, till we came to bullet distance. Therefore we marched bravely on, and children came to look at us. And I wondered where Uncle Reuben was, who ought to have led the culverins (whereof we had no less than three), if Stickles could only have found him; and then I thought of little Ruth; and without any fault on my part, my heart went down within me.
So all of us were really happy (except maybe Farmer Snowe, from whom we had bought some food at a steep price) when Jeremy Stickles gave the orders to march, and we started to try to do it. There was a lot of bragging overhead as our men filed down the lane, and the thick, broad patches of pennywort jutted out between the stones, ready to heal their bruises. The parish choir came part of the way, along with the singing group from Countisbury, and they lifted our soldiers' spirits with some of the most aggressive Psalms. Parson Bowden marched ahead, leading all our troops, standing against the Papists, and he promised to go with us until we were in range of bullets. So we marched on bravely, and children came out to watch us. I wondered where Uncle Reuben was, who should have led the cannons (of which we had no less than three), if Stickles could have only found him; then I thought of little Ruth, and for no reason on my part, my heart sank.
The culverins were laid on bark; and all our horses pulling them, and looking round every now and then, with their ears curved up like a squirrel'd nut, and their noses tossing anxiously, to know what sort of plough it was man had been pleased to put behind them—man, whose endless whims and wildness they could never understand, any more than they could satisfy. However, they pulled their very best—as all our horses always do—and the culverins went up the hill, without smack of whip, or swearing. It had been arranged, very justly, no doubt, and quite in keeping with the spirit of the Constitution, but as it proved not too wisely, that either body of men should act in its own county only. So when we reached the top of the hill, the sons of Devon marched on, and across the track leading into Doone-gate, so as to fetch round the western side, and attack with their culverin from the cliffs, whence the sentry had challenged me on the night of my passing the entrance. Meanwhile the yellow lads were to stay upon the eastern highland, whence Uncle Reuben and myself had reconnoitred so long ago; and whence I had leaped into the valley at the time of the great snow-drifts. And here they were not to show themselves; but keep their culverin in the woods, until their cousins of Devon appeared on the opposite parapet of the glen.
The culverins were placed on logs, with all our horses pulling them, glancing around occasionally, their ears perked up like a squirrel's and their noses twitching with curiosity about the strange load that man had decided to put behind them—man, whose endless quirks and unpredictability they could never understand or satisfy. Still, they pulled their hardest—as all our horses always do—and the culverins made it up the hill, without a crack of the whip or any shouting. It had been decided, quite fairly, and in line with the spirit of the Constitution, but perhaps not very wisely, that each group of men should only operate in their own county. So when we reached the top of the hill, the sons of Devon advanced, moving across the path to Doone-gate, intending to come around the western side and attack with their culverin from the cliffs, where the sentry had challenged me on the night I passed through the entrance. Meanwhile, the yellow lads were to remain on the eastern highland, where Uncle Reuben and I had scouted long ago; the same place I had jumped into the valley during the heavy snow-drifts. Here, they were not to reveal themselves but keep their culverin hidden in the woods until their Devon cousins appeared on the opposite edge of the glen.
The third culverin was entrusted to the fifteen troopers; who, with ten picked soldiers from either trained hand, making in all five-and-thirty men, were to assault the Doone-gate itself, while the outlaws were placed between two fires from the eastern cliff and the western. And with this force went Jeremy Stickles, and with it went myself, as knowing more about the passage than any other stranger did. Therefore, if I have put it clearly, as I strive to do, you will see that the Doones must repulse at once three simultaneous attacks, from an army numbering in the whole one hundred and thirty-five men, not including the Devonshire officers; fifty men on each side, I mean, and thirty-five at the head of the valley.
The third cannon was given to the fifteen soldiers, who, along with ten top soldiers from each trained group, made a total of thirty-five men. They were tasked with attacking the Doone-gate itself, while the outlaws were caught between two lines of fire from the eastern cliff and the western side. Along with this force was Jeremy Stickles, and I accompanied them because I knew more about the passage than any other outsider. So, if I’ve made it clear, as I aim to do, you can see that the Doones were facing three simultaneous attacks from a total force of one hundred and thirty-five men, not counting the Devonshire officers; that’s fifty men on each side and thirty-five at the head of the valley.
The tactics of this grand campaign appeared to me so clever, and beautifully ordered, that I commended Colonel Stickles, as everybody now called him, for his great ability and mastery of the art of war. He admitted that he deserved high praise; but said that he was not by any means equally certain of success, so large a proportion of his forces being only a raw militia, brave enough no doubt for anything, when they saw their way to it; but knowing little of gunnery, and wholly unused to be shot at. Whereas all the Doones were practised marksmen, being compelled when lads (like the Balearic slingers) to strike down their meals before tasting them. And then Colonel Stickles asked me, whether I myself could stand fire; he knew that I was not a coward, but this was a different question. I told him that I had been shot at, once or twice before; but nevertheless disliked it, as much as almost anything. Upon that he said that I would do; for that when a man got over the first blush of diffidence, he soon began to look upon it as a puff of destiny.
The strategies of this major campaign seemed to me so smart and well-organized that I praised Colonel Stickles, as everyone now called him, for his exceptional skill and mastery of military tactics. He agreed that he deserved high praise, but he mentioned that he wasn't entirely confident about success since a large part of his forces was just a raw militia, brave enough for anything when they saw the chance, but lacking experience with firearms and unused to being shot at. In contrast, all the Doones were skilled marksmen, having been trained from youth (like the Balearic slingers) to take down their meals before eating them. Then Colonel Stickles asked me if I could handle gunfire; he knew I wasn't a coward, but this was a different matter. I told him that I had been shot at a couple of times before, but I still disliked it almost as much as anything else. He then said that I would be fine; once a man got past the initial nerves, he quickly started to see it as just a twist of fate.
I wish I could only tell what happened, in the battle of that day, especially as nearly all the people round these parts, who never saw gun-fire in it, have gotten the tale so much amiss; and some of them will even stand in front of my own hearth, and contradict me to the teeth; although at the time they were not born, nor their fathers put into breeches. But in truth, I cannot tell, exactly, even the part in which I helped, how then can I be expected, time by time, to lay before you, all the little ins and outs of places, where I myself was not? Only I can contradict things, which I know could not have been; and what I plainly saw should not be controverted in my own house.
I wish I could just explain what happened during that battle that day, especially since almost everyone around here, who has never experienced gunfire, has completely misunderstood the story. Some of them even stand in front of my own fireplace and argue with me, even though they weren't born then, nor were their fathers around. But honestly, I can’t recount everything, not even the part where I was involved, so how can I be expected to go through every detail of places I didn’t see? All I can do is dispute the things I know are false, and what I clearly witnessed shouldn't be questioned in my own home.
Now we five-and-thirty men lay back a little way round the corner, in the hollow of the track which leads to the strong Doone-gate. Our culverin was in amongst us, loaded now to the muzzle, and it was not comfortable to know that it might go off at any time. Although the yeomanry were not come (according to arrangement), some of us had horses there; besides the horses who dragged the cannon, and now were sniffing at it. And there were plenty of spectators to mind these horses for us, as soon as we should charge; inasmuch as all our friends and neighbours, who had so keenly prepared for the battle, now resolved to take no part, but look on, and praise the winners.
Now, thirty-five of us were lying back a little way around the corner, in the dip of the path that leads to the strong Doone gate. Our cannon was among us, fully loaded now, and it wasn’t reassuring to know it could go off at any moment. Even though the yeomanry hadn’t shown up (as planned), some of us had horses nearby; in addition to the horses that pulled the cannon, which were now sniffing at it. There were plenty of spectators to watch over these horses for us as soon as we charged, since all our friends and neighbors, who had eagerly prepared for the fight, now decided to take no part in it but to observe and cheer for the winners.
At last we heard the loud bang-bang, which proved that Devon and Somerset were pouring their indignation hot into the den of malefactors, or at least so we supposed; therefore at double quick march we advanced round the bend of the cliff which had hidden us, hoping to find the gate undefended, and to blow down all barriers with the fire of our cannon. And indeed it seemed likely at first to be so, for the wild and mountainous gorge of rock appeared to be all in pure loneliness, except where the coloured coats of our soldiers, and their metal trappings, shone with the sun behind them. Therefore we shouted a loud hurrah, as for an easy victory.
At last, we heard the loud bang-bang, which confirmed that Devon and Somerset were expressing their anger directly into the lair of the wrongdoers, or at least that’s what we assumed; so we quickly marched around the bend of the cliff that had concealed us, hoping to find the gate unguarded and to blast through any obstacles with our cannons. At first, it really did seem like it would be that way, as the wild, rocky gorge appeared completely deserted, except for the colorful uniforms of our soldiers and their shiny metal gear glinting in the sun behind them. So, we shouted a loud cheer, anticipating an easy victory.
But while the sound of our cheer rang back among the crags above us, a shrill clear whistle cleft the air for a single moment, and then a dozen carbines bellowed, and all among us flew murderous lead. Several of our men rolled over, but the rest rushed on like Britons, Jeremy and myself in front, while we heard the horses plunging at the loaded gun behind us. “Now, my lads,” cried Jeremy, “one dash, and we are beyond them!” For he saw that the foe was overhead in the gallery of brushwood.
But while the sound of our cheers echoed among the cliffs above us, a sharp, clear whistle cut through the air for a brief moment, and then a dozen rifles fired off, sending deadly bullets flying among us. Several of our men fell, but the rest charged forward like true warriors, with Jeremy and me leading the way, as we heard the horses struggle with the loaded gun behind us. “Now, my guys,” shouted Jeremy, “one last push, and we’ll be past them!” He knew that the enemy was positioned above us in the thicket.
Our men with a brave shout answered him, for his courage was fine example; and we leaped in under the feet of the foe, before they could load their guns again. But here, when the foremost among us were past, an awful crash rang behind us, with the shrieks of men, and the din of metal, and the horrible screaming of horses. The trunk of the tree had been launched overhead, and crashed into the very midst of us. Our cannon was under it, so were two men, and a horse with his poor back broken. Another horse vainly struggled to rise, with his thigh-bone smashed and protruding.
Our guys shouted back boldly because his bravery set a great example; then we rushed in under the enemies’ feet before they could reload their guns. But just as the first of us got through, a terrible crash echoed behind us, filled with men’s screams, the noise of metal, and the horrific cries of horses. A tree trunk had been thrown overhead and smashed right into the middle of us. Our cannon was underneath it, along with two men and a horse that had a broken back. Another horse struggled helplessly to get up, its thigh bone shattered and sticking out.
Now I lost all presence of mind at this, for I loved both those good horses, and shouting for any to follow me, dashed headlong into the cavern. Some five or six men came after me, the foremost of whom was Jeremy, when a storm of shot whistled and patted around me, with a blaze of light and a thunderous roar. On I leaped, like a madman, and pounced on one gunner, and hurled him across his culverin; but the others had fled, and a heavy oak door fell to with a bang, behind them. So utterly were my senses gone, and naught but strength remaining, that I caught up the cannon with both hands, and dashed it, breech-first, at the doorway. The solid oak burst with the blow, and the gun stuck fast, like a builder's putlog.
Now I completely lost my composure at this, because I loved both those good horses, and calling for anyone to follow me, I charged into the cavern. About five or six guys followed me, with Jeremy being the front-runner, when a flurry of bullets whizzed and struck around me, accompanied by a flash of light and a deafening roar. I rushed forward like a madman, tackled one gunner, and threw him across his cannon; but the others had run away, and a heavy oak door slammed shut behind them. My senses were so overwhelmed that I just relied on my strength—I picked up the cannon with both hands and slammed it, breech-first, against the doorway. The solid oak splintered from the impact, and the gun became lodged tight, like a worker's support beam.
But here I looked round in vain for any one to come and follow up my success. The scanty light showed me no figure moving through the length of the tunnel behind me; only a heavy groan or two went to my heart, and chilled it. So I hurried back to seek Jeremy, fearing that he must be smitten down.
But here I looked around in vain for anyone to come and follow up on my success. The faint light revealed no one moving through the length of the tunnel behind me; only a heavy groan or two struck my heart and chilled me. So I quickly headed back to find Jeremy, fearing that he might have been knocked down.
And so indeed I found him, as well as three other poor fellows, struck by the charge of the culverin, which had passed so close beside me. Two of the four were as dead as stones, and growing cold already, but Jeremy and the other could manage to groan, just now and then. So I turned my attention to them, and thought no more of fighting.
And so I really found him, along with three other unfortunate guys, hit by the blast of the cannon, which had sailed right past me. Two of the four were as dead as can be and already starting to get cold, but Jeremy and the other one could still manage to groan every now and then. So I focused on them and didn’t think about fighting anymore.
Having so many wounded men, and so many dead among us, we loitered at the cavern's mouth, and looked at one another, wishing only for somebody to come and take command of us. But no one came; and I was griefed so much about poor Jeremy, besides being wholly unused to any violence of bloodshed, that I could only keep his head up, and try to stop him from bleeding. And he looked up at me pitifully, being perhaps in a haze of thought, as a calf looks at a butcher.
With so many injured men and so many dead around us, we hung around at the cave's entrance, looking at each other, just hoping someone would come and take charge. But no one showed up; I was devastated over poor Jeremy, and since I wasn’t used to any kind of violence or bloodshed, all I could do was hold his head up and try to stop the bleeding. He looked up at me with sad eyes, maybe lost in thought, like a calf looking at a butcher.
The shot had taken him in the mouth; about that no doubt could be, for two of his teeth were in his beard, and one of his lips was wanting. I laid his shattered face on my breast, and nursed him, as a woman might. But he looked at me with a jerk at this; and I saw that he wanted coolness.
The bullet had hit him in the mouth; there was no doubt about that, since two of his teeth were in his beard, and one of his lips was missing. I laid his broken face on my chest and cared for him, like a woman would. But he reacted sharply to that, and I could see he needed some space.
While here we stayed, quite out of danger (for the fellows from the gallery could by no means shoot us, even if they remained there, and the oaken door whence the others fled was blocked up by the culverin), a boy who had no business there (being in fact our clerk's apprentice to the art of shoe-making) came round the corner upon us in the manner which boys, and only boys, can use with grace and freedom; that is to say, with a sudden rush, and a sidelong step, and an impudence,—
While we were here, completely out of danger (since the guys in the gallery couldn’t shoot us, even if they stayed there, and the oak door that the others escaped through was blocked by the cannon), a boy who shouldn’t have been there (actually our clerk's apprentice in shoe-making) suddenly came around the corner in a way that only boys can, with their energy and ease; that is, with a quick dash, a sidestep, and a cheeky attitude—
“Got the worst of it!” cried the boy; “better be off all of you. Zoomerzett and Devon a vighting; and the Doones have drashed 'em both. Maister Ridd, even thee be drashed.”
“Got the worst of it!” yelled the boy; “you all better get out of here. Zoomerzett and Devon are fighting; and the Doones have beaten them both. Master Ridd, even you are in trouble.”
We few, who yet remained of the force which was to have won the Doone-gate, gazed at one another, like so many fools, and nothing more. For we still had some faint hopes of winning the day, and recovering our reputation, by means of what the other men might have done without us. And we could not understand at all how Devonshire and Somerset, being embarked in the same cause, should be fighting with one another.
We few, who were still left from the group that was supposed to take the Doone-gate, looked at each other like idiots, and nothing more. We still held onto some slim hopes of turning things around and earning back our reputation, based on what the others might have accomplished without us. And we couldn't figure out at all why Devonshire and Somerset, both on the same side, were fighting against each other.
Finding nothing more to be done in the way of carrying on the war, we laid poor Master Stickles and two more of the wounded upon the carriage of bark and hurdles, whereon our gun had lain; and we rolled the gun into the river, and harnessed the horses yet alive, and put the others out of their pain, and sadly wended homewards, feeling ourselves to be thoroughly beaten, yet ready to maintain that it was no fault of ours whatever. And in this opinion the women joined, being only too glad and thankful to see us home alive again.
Finding nothing more to do in terms of continuing the war, we placed poor Master Stickles and two other wounded men on a makeshift stretcher made from bark and hurdles, where our gun had been. We rolled the gun into the river, harnessed the horses that were still alive, put the others out of their misery, and sadly made our way home, feeling completely defeated but convinced it wasn't our fault at all. The women shared this view, grateful and relieved to see us back home safely.
Now, this enterprise having failed so, I prefer not to dwell too long upon it; only just to show the mischief which lay at the root of the failure. And this mischief was the vile jealousy betwixt red and yellow uniform. Now I try to speak impartially, belonging no more to Somerset than I do to Devonshire, living upon the borders, and born of either county. The tale was told me by one side first; and then quite to a different tune by the other; and then by both together, with very hot words of reviling and a desire to fight it out again. And putting this with that, the truth appears to be as follows:—
Now that this venture has failed, I won't dwell on it for too long; I just want to point out the underlying issue that caused the failure. The problem was the terrible jealousy between the red and yellow uniforms. I’ll try to be fair since I belong to neither Somerset nor Devonshire, living on the border and having roots in both counties. One side initially told me their version of the story, then I heard a completely different version from the other side, and finally, I got both sides together, filled with harsh words and a desire to settle things through fighting. Putting everything together, the truth seems to be as follows:—
The men of Devon, who bore red facings, had a long way to go round the hills, before they could get into due position on the western side of the Doone Glen. And knowing that their cousins in yellow would claim the whole of the glory, if allowed to be first with the firing, these worthy fellows waited not to take good aim with their cannons, seeing the others about to shoot; but fettled it anyhow on the slope, pointing in a general direction; and trusting in God for aimworthiness, laid the rope to the breech, and fired. Now as Providence ordained it, the shot, which was a casual mixture of anything considered hard—for instance, jug-bottoms and knobs of doors—the whole of this pernicious dose came scattering and shattering among the unfortunate yellow men upon the opposite cliff; killing one and wounding two.
The men from Devon, who wore red, had to take a long route around the hills to get into position on the western side of Doone Glen. Knowing that their cousins in yellow would take all the credit if they were the first to fire, these determined fellows didn’t bother to aim carefully with their cannons when they saw the others getting ready to shoot. Instead, they hurriedly set up on the slope, pointed their cannons in a general direction, and trusted in God for accuracy. They loaded the cannons and fired. As fate would have it, the shot, which was a random mix of anything hard—like jug bottoms and door knobs—scattered and crashed into the unfortunate yellow men across the cliff, killing one and wounding two.
Now what did the men of Somerset do, but instead of waiting for their friends to send round and beg pardon, train their gun full mouth upon them, and with a vicious meaning shoot. Not only this, but they loudly cheered, when they saw four or five red coats lie low; for which savage feeling not even the remarks of the Devonshire men concerning their coats could entirely excuse them. Now I need not tell the rest of it, for the tale makes a man discontented. Enough that both sides waxed hotter and hotter with the fire of destruction. And but that the gorge of the cliffs lay between, very few would have lived to tell of it; for our western blood becomes stiff and firm, when churned with the sense of wrong in it.
Now, what did the men of Somerset do? Instead of waiting for their friends to apologize, they aimed their guns directly at them and shot with malicious intent. Not only that, but they cheered loudly when they saw four or five soldiers fall. This savage behavior couldn’t even be fully justified by the comments from the Devonshire men about their uniforms. I don’t need to share the rest, as the story is disheartening. It's enough to say that both sides became increasingly consumed by the urge to destroy. If it weren't for the cliffs in between, very few would have survived to recount it, because our western blood runs cold and fierce when stirred by a sense of injustice.
At last the Doones (who must have laughed at the thunder passing overhead) recalling their men from the gallery, issued out of Gwenny's gate (which had been wholly overlooked) and fell on the rear of the Somerset men, and slew four beside their cannon. Then while the survivors ran away, the outlaws took the hot culverin, and rolled it down into their valley. Thus, of the three guns set forth that morning, only one ever came home again, and that was the gun of the Devonshire men, who dragged it home themselves, with the view of making a boast about it.
Finally, the Doones (who must have been laughing at the thunder rumbling overhead) called back their men from the gallery, came out of Gwenny's gate (which had been completely overlooked), and attacked the Somerset men from behind, killing four near their cannon. Then, as the survivors fled, the outlaws took the hot culverin and rolled it down into their valley. So, of the three cannons set out that morning, only one made it back home, and that was the cannon of the Devonshire men, who dragged it back themselves to brag about it.
This was a melancholy end of our brave setting out, and everybody blamed every one else; and several of us wanted to have the whole thing over again, as then we must have righted it. But upon one point all agreed, by some reason not clear to me, that the root of the evil was to be found in the way Parson Bowden went up the hill, with his hat on, and no cassock.
This was a sad ending to our courageous journey, and everyone pointed fingers at each other; a few of us wished we could start all over again, thinking that would fix things. But on one thing everyone agreed, for reasons I don’t quite understand: the source of the problem was how Parson Bowden went up the hill, wearing his hat and no robe.
CHAPTER LV
GETTING INTO CHANCERY
Two of the Devonshire officers (Captains Pyke and Dallan) now took command of the men who were left, and ordered all to go home again, commending much the bravery which had been displayed on all sides, and the loyalty to the King, and the English constitution. This last word always seems to me to settle everything when said, because nobody understands it, and yet all can puzzle their neighbours. So the Devonshire men, having beans to sow (which they ought to have done on Good Friday) went home; and our Somerset friends only stayed for two days more to backbite them.
Two of the Devonshire officers (Captains Pyke and Dallan) took charge of the remaining men and ordered everyone to head home, praising the bravery shown by everyone and the loyalty to the King and the English constitution. That last term always strikes me as a way to end any discussion, since nobody really understands it, yet everyone manages to confuse their neighbors. So the Devonshire men, needing to plant beans (which they were supposed to do on Good Friday), went home; and our Somerset friends only stuck around for two more days to talk behind their backs.
To me the whole thing was purely grievous; not from any sense of defeat (though that was bad enough) but from the pain and anguish caused by death, and wounds, and mourning. “Surely we have woes enough,” I used to think of an evening, when the poor fellows could not sleep or rest, or let others rest around them; “surely all this smell of wounds is not incense men should pay to the God who made them. Death, when it comes and is done with, may be a bliss to any one; but the doubt of life or death, when a man lies, as it were, like a trunk upon a sawpit and a grisly head looks up at him, and the groans of pain are cleaving him, this would be beyond all bearing—but for Nature's sap—sweet hope.”
To me, the whole situation was just awful; not because I felt defeated (though that was rough enough) but because of the pain and suffering caused by death, injuries, and grief. “We have enough problems already,” I would think in the evening, when the poor guys couldn't sleep or find peace, or let others around them rest; “this constant smell of wounds isn't something men should offer to the God who created them. Death, when it finally comes and is over with, might be a relief for anyone; but the uncertainty of life or death, when a man lies there like a log on a sawpit and a gruesome head looks up at him, while the cries of pain tear through him, would be unbearable—if not for the sweet hope of Nature.”
Jeremy Stickles lay and tossed, and thrust up his feet in agony, and bit with his lipless mouth the clothes, and was proud to see blood upon them. He looked at us ever so many times, as much as to say, “Fools, let me die, then I shall have some comfort”; but we nodded at him sagely, especially the women, trying to convey to him, on no account to die yet. And then we talked to one another (on purpose for him to hear us), how brave he was, and not the man to knock under in a hurry, and how he should have the victory yet; and how well he looked, considering.
Jeremy Stickles lay tossing and turning, pushing his feet up in pain, biting down on his clothes with his lipless mouth, and feeling proud to see blood on them. He looked at us repeatedly, as if to say, “Fools, let me die, then I’ll find some comfort”; but we nodded wisely at him, especially the women, trying to communicate that he absolutely shouldn’t die yet. Then we talked among ourselves (so he would hear us) about how brave he was, how he wasn’t the type to give up easily, and how he would definitely be victorious in the end; and how good he looked, considering everything.
These things cheered him a little now, and a little more next time; and every time we went on so, he took it with less impatience. Then once when he had been very quiet, and not even tried to frown at us, Annie leaned over, and kissed his forehead, and spread the pillows and sheet, with a curve as delicate as his own white ears; and then he feebly lifted hands, and prayed to God to bless her. And after that he came round gently; though never to the man he had been, and never to speak loud again.
These things cheered him up a bit at first, and then a little more the next time; and with each time we continued like this, he grew less impatient. Then one time, when he had been really quiet and didn’t even try to frown at us, Annie leaned over and kissed his forehead, smoothing out the pillows and sheet with a grace as delicate as his own pale ears. He then weakly lifted his hands and prayed to God to bless her. After that, he slowly started to improve; although he was never the man he used to be, and he never spoke loudly again.
For a time (as I may have implied before) Master Stickles's authority, and manner of levying duties, had not been taken kindly by the people round our neighbourhood. The manors of East Lynn and West Lynn, and even that of Woolhanger—although just then all three were at issue about some rights of wreck, and the hanging of a sheep-stealer (a man of no great eminence, yet claimed by each for the sake of his clothes)—these three, having their rights impugned, or even superseded, as they declared by the quartering of soldiers in their neighbourhood, united very kindly to oppose the King's Commissioner. However, Jeremy had contrived to conciliate the whole of them, not so much by anything engaging in his deportment or delicate address, as by holding out bright hopes that the plunder of the Doone Glen might become divisible among the adjoining manors. Now I have never discovered a thing which the lords of manors (at least in our part of the world) do not believe to belong to themselves, if only they could get their rights. And it did seem natural enough that if the Doones were ousted, and a nice collection of prey remained, this should be parted among the people having ancient rights of plunder. Nevertheless, Master Jeremy knew that the soldiers would have the first of it, and the King what they could not carry.
For a while (as I might have mentioned before), Master Stickles's authority and way of imposing duties were not well received by the people in our neighborhood. The estates of East Lynn and West Lynn, and even Woolhanger—though at that time all three were arguing over some wreck rights and the hanging of a sheep thief (a guy of no real importance, yet claimed by each for the sake of his clothes)—these three, feeling their rights were challenged or even overridden, as they claimed, by the quartering of soldiers nearby, came together to oppose the King's Commissioner. However, Jeremy managed to win them over, not so much through anything charming in his behavior or eloquent speech, but by promising that the loot from Doone Glen could be shared among the neighboring estates. I've never found anything that the lords of estates (at least in our area) don't believe is rightfully theirs, if only they could assert their claims. And it seemed quite reasonable that if the Doones were driven out and a good stash of treasure was left behind, it should be divided among those with ancient claims to it. Still, Master Jeremy knew that the soldiers would take the first pick, and the King would get whatever they couldn’t carry.
And perhaps he was punished justly for language so misleading, by the general indignation of the people all around us, not at his failure, but at himself, for that which he could in no wise prevent. And the stewards of the manors rode up to our house on purpose to reproach him, and were greatly vexed with all of us, because he was too ill to see them.
And maybe he was justly punished for using such misleading words, by the overall anger of the people around us, not at his failure, but at him, for something he couldn’t prevent. The stewards of the estates came to our house specifically to scold him and were very upset with all of us because he was too sick to meet with them.
To myself (though by rights the last to be thought of, among so much pain and trouble) Jeremy's wound was a great misfortune, in more ways than one. In the first place, it deferred my chance of imparting either to my mother or to Mistress Lorna my firm belief that the maid I loved was not sprung from the race which had slain my father; neither could he in any way have offended against her family. And this discovery I was yearning more and more to declare to them; being forced to see (even in the midst of all our warlike troubles) that a certain difference was growing betwixt them both, and betwixt them and me. For although the words of the Counsellor had seemed to fail among us, being bravely met and scattered, yet our courage was but as wind flinging wide the tare-seeds, when the sower casts them from his bag. The crop may not come evenly, many places may long lie bare, and the field be all in patches; yet almost every vetch will spring, and tiller out, and stretch across the scatterings where the wind puffed.
To myself (though I was probably the last person anyone should think about, considering all the pain and trouble), Jeremy's injury was a huge setback, in more ways than one. First of all, it delayed my chance to tell either my mother or Mistress Lorna that I truly believed the girl I loved didn’t come from the same family that killed my father; nor could he have done anything to offend her family. I was becoming more and more eager to reveal this to them, as I was forced to see (even amid all our struggles) that a noticeable gap was growing between them and me. Although the Counsellor's words seemed to have faded among us, bravely met and scattered, our courage was like wind blowing the tare-seeds when the sower casts them from his bag. The crop may not grow uniformly, many areas might remain bare for a long time, and the field could be all patchy; yet nearly every vetch will sprout and spread out, reaching across the places where the wind blew.
And so dear mother and darling Lorna now had been for many a day thinking, worrying, and wearing, about the matter between us. Neither liked to look at the other, as they used to do; with mother admiring Lorna's eyes, and grace, and form of breeding; and Lorna loving mother's goodness, softness, and simplicity. And the saddest and most hurtful thing was that neither could ask the other of the shadow falling between them. And so it went on, and deepened.
And so, dear mother and beloved Lorna had been thinking, worrying, and stressing about the situation between us for many days. Neither liked to look at the other like they used to; with mother admiring Lorna's eyes, elegance, and poise; and Lorna appreciating mother's kindness, gentleness, and straightforwardness. The saddest and most painful part was that neither could bring up the issue of the shadow hanging between them. And so it continued and grew.
In the next place Colonel Stickles's illness was a grievous thing to us, in that we had no one now to command the troopers. Ten of these were still alive, and so well approved to us, that they could never fancy aught, whether for dinner or supper, without its being forth-coming. If they wanted trout they should have it; if colloped venison, or broiled ham, or salmon from Lynmouth and Trentisoe, or truffles from the woodside, all these were at the warriors' service, until they lusted for something else. Even the wounded men ate nobly; all except poor Jeremy, who was forced to have a young elder shoot, with the pith drawn, for to feed him. And once, when they wanted pickled loach* (from my description of it), I took up my boyish sport again, and pronged them a good jarful. Therefore, none of them could complain; and yet they were not satisfied; perhaps for want of complaining.
Colonel Stickles's illness was really hard on us because we had no one to lead the troops now. Ten of them were still alive, and they had earned our trust to the point where they couldn’t imagine dinner or supper without it being ready. If they wanted trout, they got it; if they wanted colloped venison, broiled ham, salmon from Lynmouth and Trentisoe, or truffles from the woods, all of these were available to the warriors until they craved something different. Even the injured men ate well, except for poor Jeremy, who had to get by on a young elder shoot with the pith taken out to feed him. And once, when they wanted pickled loach (thanks to my description of it), I picked up my childhood hobby again and speared them a good jarful. So, none of them could complain, but still, they weren't satisfied; maybe it was because they missed complaining.
* There are said to be no loach now in Lynn. This proves
that John Ridd caught them all.
* It’s said that there are no loach left in Lynn. This shows that John Ridd caught them all.
Be that as it might, we knew that if they once resolved to go (as they might do at any time, with only a corporal over them) all our house, and all our goods, ay, and our own precious lives, would and must be at the mercy of embittered enemies. For now the Doones, having driven back, as every one said, five hundred men—though not thirty had ever fought with them—were in such feather all round the country, that nothing was too good for them. Offerings poured in at the Doone gate, faster than Doones could away with them, and the sympathy both of Devon and Somerset became almost oppressive. And perhaps this wealth of congratulation, and mutual good feeling between plundered and victim, saved us from any piece of spite; kindliness having won the day, and every one loving every one.
Still, we understood that if they ever decided to leave (which they could do at any time, with just a corporal in charge), all our belongings, our entire house, and even our own lives would ultimately be at the mercy of bitter enemies. At that moment, the Doones, having supposedly driven back five hundred men—though only about thirty had actually fought them—were thriving throughout the countryside, and nothing was too good for them. Gifts came pouring into the Doone gate faster than they could handle them, and the goodwill from both Devon and Somerset became almost overwhelming. Perhaps this outpouring of congratulations and the shared goodwill between the looters and their victims spared us from any acts of revenge; kindness had triumphed, and everyone seemed to care for one another.
But yet another cause arose, and this the strongest one of all, to prove the need of Stickles's aid, and calamity of his illness. And this came to our knowledge first, without much time to think of it. For two men appeared at our gate one day, stripped to their shirts, and void of horses, and looking very sorrowful. Now having some fear of attack from the Doones, and scarce knowing what their tricks might be, we received these strangers cautiously, desiring to know who they were before we let them see all our premises.
But yet another reason emerged, and this one was the strongest of all, to show the need for Stickles's help and the seriousness of his illness. We learned about it without much time to think. One day, two men showed up at our gate, dressed only in their shirts, without any horses, looking very sad. Since we were a bit worried about an attack from the Doones and unsure of their tricks, we cautiously welcomed these strangers, wanting to find out who they were before we let them see everything on our property.
However, it soon became plain to us that although they might not be honest fellows, at any rate they were not Doones; and so we took them in, and fed, and left them to tell their business. And this they were glad enough to do; as men who have been maltreated almost always are. And it was not for us to contradict them, lest our victuals should go amiss.
However, it quickly became clear to us that even if they weren't honest guys, they definitely weren’t Doones; so we welcomed them in, fed them, and let them share their story. They were more than happy to do so, as men who have been mistreated usually are. And we had no reason to argue with them, for fear our food might get ruined.
These two very worthy fellows—nay, more than that by their own account, being downright martyrs—were come, for the public benefit, from the Court of Chancery, sitting for everybody's good, and boldly redressing evil. This court has a power of scent unknown to the Common-law practitioners, and slowly yet surely tracks its game; even as the great lumbering dogs, now introduced from Spain, and called by some people “pointers,” differ from the swift gaze-hound, who sees his prey and runs him down in the manner of the common lawyers. If a man's ill fate should drive him to make a choice between these two, let him rather be chased by the hounds of law, than tracked by the dogs of Equity.
These two very worthy guys—actually, more than that by their own claim, being true martyrs—came, for the public good, from the Court of Chancery, sitting for everyone’s benefit, and boldly correcting wrongs. This court has a sense of smell unknown to Common-law practitioners, and slowly but surely follows its trail; just like the big, lumbering dogs brought in from Spain, known by some as “pointers,” are different from the swift sight hound, which sees its target and chases it down like the common lawyers do. If someone's bad luck forces him to choose between the two, he should prefer to be chased by the legal hounds rather than tracked by the dogs of Equity.
Now, as it fell in a very black day (for all except the lawyers) His Majesty's Court of Chancery, if that be what it called itself, gained scent of poor Lorna's life, and of all that might be made of it. Whether through that brave young lord who ran into such peril, or through any of his friends, or whether through that deep old Counsellor, whose game none might penetrate; or through any disclosures of the Italian woman, or even of Jeremy himself; none just now could tell us; only this truth was too clear—Chancery had heard of Lorna, and then had seen how rich she was; and never delaying in one thing, had opened mouth, and swallowed her.
Now, on a very dark day (for everyone except the lawyers), His Majesty's Court of Chancery, if that’s what it called itself, caught wind of poor Lorna's life and all that could be made of it. Whether it was through that brave young lord who faced such danger, or through any of his friends, or maybe through that cunning old Counselor, whose motives were impossible to read; or from any hints provided by the Italian woman, or even by Jeremy himself; no one could say for sure. The only clear truth was this—Chancery had heard about Lorna and realized how wealthy she was; without wasting any time, it opened its mouth and swallowed her whole.
The Doones, with a share of that dry humour which was in them hereditary, had welcomed the two apparitors (if that be the proper name for them) and led them kindly down the valley, and told them then to serve their writ. Misliking the look of things, these poor men began to fumble among their clothes; upon which the Doones cried, “off with them! Let us see if your message be on your skins.” And with no more manners than that, they stripped, and lashed them out of the valley; only bidding them come to us, if they wanted Lorna Doone; and to us they came accordingly. Neither were they sure at first but that we should treat them so; for they had no knowledge of the west country, and thought it quite a godless place, wherein no writ was holy.
The Doones, with their dry humor that seemed to run in the family, welcomed the two messengers (if that’s the right term for them) and led them gently down the valley, instructing them to serve their writ. Disliking the situation, the poor men began to fumble with their clothes; at which point the Doones shouted, “Strip! Let’s see if your message is written on your skin.” With that lack of courtesy, they stripped and drove them out of the valley, only telling them to come to us if they were looking for Lorna Doone; and so they came to us. At first, they weren’t sure we wouldn’t treat them the same way; they had no familiarity with the west country and thought it was a truly godless place where no writ had any value.
We however comforted and cheered them so considerably, that, in gratitude, they showed their writs, to which they had stuck like leeches. And these were twofold; one addressed to Mistress Lorna Doone, so called, and bidding her keep in readiness to travel whenever called upon, and commit herself to nobody, except the accredited messengers of the right honourable Court; while the other was addressed to all subjects of His Majesty, having custody of Lorna Doone, or any power over her. And this last threatened and exhorted, and held out hopes of recompense, if she were rendered truly. My mother and I held consultation, over both these documents, with a mixture of some wrath and fear, and a fork of great sorrow to stir them. And now having Jeremy Stickles's leave, which he gave with a nod when I told him all, and at last made him understand it, I laid bare to my mother as well what I knew, as what I merely surmised, or guessed, concerning Lorna's parentage. All this she received with great tears, and wonder, and fervent thanks to God, and still more fervent praise of her son, who had nothing whatever to do with it. However, now the question was, how to act about these writs. And herein it was most unlucky that we could not have Master Stickles, with his knowledge of the world, and especially of the law-courts, to advise us what to do, and to help in doing it. And firstly of the first I said, “We have rogues to deal with; but try we not to rogue them.”
We comforted and cheered them so much that, out of gratitude, they showed us their writs, which they had clung to like leeches. There were two writs: one addressed to Mistress Lorna Doone, instructing her to be ready to travel whenever called and to trust no one except the authorized messengers from the honorable Court; the other was directed at all subjects of His Majesty who had custody of Lorna Doone or any authority over her. This last writ threatened and urged them, offering hopes of rewards if she was returned safely. My mother and I discussed both documents, feeling a mix of anger and fear, along with deep sorrow. After getting Jeremy Stickles's permission—he nodded when I explained everything to him—I shared with my mother everything I knew and what I suspected about Lorna's background. She received this with tears, astonishment, heartfelt thanks to God, and even more praise for her son, who had nothing to do with it. Now, the question was how to handle these writs. It was very unfortunate that we couldn't have Master Stickles, with his worldly knowledge, especially about the law courts, to advise us on what to do and help us carry it out. I said first, "We have rogues to deal with; let’s not stoop to their level."
To this, in some measure, dear mother agreed, though she could not see the justice of it, yet thought that it might be wiser, because of our want of practice. And then I said, “Now we are bound to tell Lorna, and to serve her citation upon her, which these good fellows have given us.”
To this, to some extent, dear mother agreed, although she couldn't understand the fairness of it. Still, she thought it might be smarter due to our lack of experience. Then I said, “Now we have to inform Lorna and deliver her the citation that these kind people gave us.”
“Then go, and do it thyself, my son,” mother replied with a mournful smile, misdoubting what the end might be. So I took the slip of brown parchment, and went to seek my darling.
“Then go, and do it yourself, my son,” mother replied with a sad smile, unsure of what the outcome might be. So I took the piece of brown parchment and went to find my darling.
Lorna was in her favourite place, the little garden which she tended with such care and diligence. Seeing how the maiden loved it, and was happy there, I had laboured hard to fence it from the dangers of the wood. And here she had corrected me, with better taste, and sense of pleasure, and the joys of musing. For I meant to shut out the brook, and build my fence inside of it; but Lorna said no; if we must have a fence, which could not but be injury, at any rate leave the stream inside, and a pleasant bank beyond it. And soon I perceived that she was right, though not so much as afterwards; for the fairest of all things in a garden, and in summer-time most useful, is a brook of crystal water; where a man may come and meditate, and the flowers may lean and see themselves, and the rays of the sun are purified. Now partly with her own white hands, and partly with Gwenny's red ones, Lorna had made of this sunny spot a haven of beauty to dwell in. It was not only that colours lay in the harmony we would seek of them, neither was it the height of plants, sloping to one another; nor even the delicate tone of foliage following suit, and neighbouring. Even the breathing of the wind, soft and gentle in and out, moving things that need not move, and passing longer-stalked ones, even this was not enough among the flush of fragrance, to tell a man the reason of his quiet satisfaction. But so it shall for ever be. As the river we float upon (with wine, and flowers, and music,) is nothing at the well-spring but a bubble without reason.
Lorna was in her favorite spot, the little garden that she cared for so lovingly. Seeing how much she cherished it and how happy it made her, I worked hard to protect it from the dangers of the woods. It was here that she corrected me with her better taste, sense of pleasure, and joy in contemplation. I intended to block out the brook and build my fence on the inside of it, but Lorna said no; if we must have a fence, which could only be a drawback, at least let’s keep the stream inside and have a nice bank beyond it. Soon I realized she was right—though not as much as I would later understand—because the most beautiful feature of a garden, especially in summer, is a clear brook where one can come to think, where flowers can lean to see themselves, and the sun's rays are made even more beautiful. Now, with her own white hands and with Gwenny's red ones, Lorna had transformed this sunny area into a beautiful sanctuary. It wasn't just the colors arranged in harmony, nor the heights of plants sloping towards each other, or even the delicate shades of foliage blending together. Even the gentle breeze, softly moving the things that didn't need to move and brushing against taller plants—this alone wasn’t enough amidst the rich fragrance to explain the source of a man’s quiet satisfaction. But so it will always be. Just like the river we float on (with wine, flowers, and music) is nothing at the source but a bubble without meaning.
Feeling many things, but thinking without much to guide me, over the grass-plats laid between, I went up to Lorna. She in a shower of damask roses, raised her eyes and looked at me. And even now, in those sweet eyes, so deep with loving-kindness, and soft maiden dreamings, there seemed to be a slight unwilling, half confessed withdrawal; overcome by love and duty, yet a painful thing to see.
Feeling a lot but not having much to guide my thoughts, I walked over to Lorna across the grass patches in between. Surrounded by a shower of damask roses, she lifted her eyes and looked at me. Even now, in those sweet eyes, so filled with love and gentle dreams, there was a hint of hesitation, a barely acknowledged retreat; torn between love and obligation, yet it was hard to witness.
“Darling,” I said, “are your spirits good? Are you strong enough to-day, to bear a tale of cruel sorrow; but which perhaps, when your tears are shed, will leave you all the happier?”
“Darling,” I said, “are you feeling good? Are you strong enough today to handle a story of deep sorrow; but perhaps, once you've shed your tears, it will ultimately make you feel happier?”
“What can you mean?” she answered trembling, not having been very strong of late, and now surprised at my manner; “are you come to give me up, John?”
“What do you mean?” she replied, trembling, feeling weak lately, and now surprised by my behavior; “Are you here to give me up, John?”
“Not very likely,” I replied; “neither do I hope such a thing would leave you all the happier. Oh, Lorna, if you can think that so quickly as you seem to have done, now you have every prospect and strong temptation to it. You are far, far above me in the world, and I have no right to claim you. Perhaps, when you have heard these tidings you will say, 'John Ridd, begone; your life and mine are parted.'”
“Not really,” I said; “and I don’t think it would make you any happier. Oh, Lorna, if you can come to that conclusion as quickly as it seems you have, then you definitely have every opportunity and strong temptation to feel that way. You are so much higher than me in the world, and I have no right to claim you. Maybe, when you hear this news, you’ll say, 'John Ridd, go away; our lives are separate now.'”
“Will I?” cried Lorna, with all the brightness of her playful ways returning: “you very foolish and jealous John, how shall I punish you for this? Am I to forsake every flower I have, and not even know that the world goes round, while I look up at you, the whole day long and say, 'John, I love, love, love you?'”
“Will I?” cried Lorna, her playful spirit coming back: “You silly and jealous John, how am I supposed to punish you for this? Am I supposed to give up every flower I have and not even realize that the world keeps moving, while I look up at you all day and say, 'John, I love, love, love you?'”
During these words she leaned upon me, half in gay imitation of what I had so often made her do, and half in depth of earnestness, as the thrice-repeated word grew stronger, and grew warmer, with and to her heart. And as she looked up at the finish, saying, “you,” so musically, I was much inclined to clasp her round; but remembering who she was, forbore; at which she seemed surprised with me.
During her speech, she leaned against me, partly playfully mimicking what I had often made her do, and partly with deep sincerity, as the word she repeated three times became stronger and more heartfelt. When she looked up at the end and said “you” so melodically, I was really tempted to wrap my arms around her, but remembering who she was, I refrained; this seemed to surprise her.
“Mistress Lorna,” I replied, with I know not what temptation, making little of her caresses, though more than all my heart to me: “Mistress Lorna, you must keep your rank and proper dignity. You must never look at me with anything but pity now.”
“Miss Lorna,” I replied, feeling a strange temptation, downplaying her affection, even though it meant everything to me: “Miss Lorna, you need to maintain your status and dignity. You should only look at me with pity from now on.”
“I shall look at you with pity, John,” said Lorna, trying to laugh it off, yet not knowing what to make of me, “if you talk any more of this nonsense, knowing me as you ought to do. I shall even begin to think that you, and your friends, are weary of me, and of so long supporting me; and are only seeking cause to send me back to my old misery. If it be so, I will go. My life matters little to any one.” Here the great bright tears arose; but the maiden was too proud to sob.
“I'll look at you with pity, John,” Lorna said, trying to laugh it off but not sure how to deal with me, “if you keep talking about this nonsense, especially since you know me better than that. I might even start to think that you and your friends are tired of me and of supporting me for so long; that you’re just looking for an excuse to send me back to my old misery. If that’s the case, I’ll leave. My life doesn’t mean much to anyone.” At this, the big bright tears welled up, but the young woman was too proud to cry.
“Sweetest of all sweet loves,” I cried, for the sign of a tear defeated me; “what possibility could make me ever give up Lorna?”
“Sweetest of all sweet loves,” I cried, as the sight of a tear overwhelmed me; “what could ever make me give up Lorna?”
“Dearest of all dears,” she answered; “if you dearly love me, what possibility could ever make me give you up, dear?”
“Most cherished of all,” she replied; “if you truly love me, what reason could ever make me let you go, sweetheart?”
Upon that there was no more forbearing, but I kissed and clasped her, whether she were Countess, or whether Queen of England; mine she was, at least in heart; and mine she should be wholly. And she being of the same opinion, nothing was said between us.
Upon that, there was no holding back anymore, so I kissed and embraced her, whether she was a Countess or the Queen of England; she was mine, at least in heart, and she would be completely mine. Since she felt the same way, we said nothing to each other.
“Now, Lorna,” said I, as she hung on my arm, willing to trust me anywhere, “come to your little plant-house, and hear my moving story.”
“Now, Lorna,” I said, as she clung to my arm, ready to follow me anywhere, “let’s go to your little greenhouse and I’ll tell you my touching story.”
“No story can move me much, dear,” she answered rather faintly, for any excitement stayed with her; “since I know your strength of kindness, scarcely any tale can move me, unless it be of yourself, love; or of my poor mother.”
“No story can really affect me, dear,” she replied faintly, as any excitement lingered with her; “since I know how kind you are, hardly any tale can touch me, unless it’s about you, love; or my poor mother.”
“It is of your poor mother, darling. Can you bear to hear it?” And yet I wondered why she did not say as much of her father.
“It’s about your poor mother, sweetheart. Can you handle hearing it?” And yet I wondered why she didn’t mention her father as well.
“Yes, I can bear anything. But although I cannot see her, and have long forgotten, I could not bear to hear ill of her.”
“Yes, I can handle anything. But even though I can’t see her and have long forgotten, I couldn’t stand to hear anything bad about her.”
“There is no ill to hear, sweet child, except of evil done to her. Lorna, you are of an ill-starred race.”
“There’s nothing bad to hear, sweet child, except for the harm done to her. Lorna, you come from a troubled lineage.”
“Better that than a wicked race,” she answered with her usual quickness, leaping at conclusion; “tell me I am not a Doone, and I will—but I cannot love you more.”
“Better that than a wicked family,” she replied quickly, jumping to conclusions; “just tell me I’m not a Doone, and I will—but I can’t love you any more than I already do.”
“You are not a Doone, my Lorna, for that, at least, I can answer; though I know not what your name is.”
“You’re not a Doone, my Lorna, I can say that for sure; even though I don’t know what your name is.”
“And my father—your father—what I mean is—”
“And my dad—your dad—what I mean is—”
“Your father and mine never met one another. Your father was killed by an accident in the Pyrenean mountains, and your mother by the Doones; or at least they caused her death, and carried you away from her.”
“Your dad and mine never met. Your dad died in an accident in the Pyrenees, and your mom was killed by the Doones; at least they caused her death and took you away from her.”
All this, coming as in one breath upon the sensitive maiden, was more than she could bear all at once; as any but a fool like me must of course have known. She lay back on the garden bench, with her black hair shed on the oaken bark, while her colour went and came and only by that, and her quivering breath, could any one say that she lived and thought. And yet she pressed my hand with hers, that I might tell her all of it.
All of this hit the sensitive young woman in one overwhelming moment, which was more than she could handle; anyone but a fool like me would have known that. She reclined on the garden bench, her black hair spread across the rough oak surface, while her color fluctuated, and the only signs that she was alive and thinking were her changing complexion and her trembling breaths. Yet, she held my hand tightly with hers, wanting me to share everything with her.
CHAPTER LVI
JOHN BECOMES TOO POPULAR
No flower that I have ever seen, either in shifting of light and shade, or in the pearly morning, may vie with a fair young woman's face when tender thought and quick emotion vary, enrich, and beautify it. Thus my Lorna hearkened softly, almost without word or gesture, yet with sighs and glances telling, and the pressure of my hand, how each word was moving her.
No flower I've ever seen, whether in the changing light and shadow or in the shimmering morning, can compare to a young woman's face when gentle thoughts and strong emotions shift, enhance, and beautify it. So, my Lorna listened quietly, almost without words or gestures, yet her sighs and glances, along with the squeeze of my hand, showed how deeply each word affected her.
When at last my tale was done, she turned away, and wept bitterly for the sad fate of her parents. But to my surprise she spoke not even a word of wrath or rancour. She seemed to take it all as fate.
When my story finally ended, she turned away and cried hard for her parents' sad fate. But to my surprise, she didn’t say a single word of anger or bitterness. She seemed to accept it all as fate.
“Lorna, darling,” I said at length, for men are more impatient in trials of time than women are, “do you not even wish to know what your proper name is?”
“Lorna, sweetheart,” I finally said, since men tend to be more impatient with time than women, “don’t you even want to know what your real name is?”
“How can it matter to me, John?” she answered, with a depth of grief which made me seem a trifler. “It can never matter now, when there are none to share it.”
“How can it matter to me, John?” she replied, her profound sadness making me feel insignificant. “It can never matter now, when there’s no one to share it with.”
“Poor little soul!” was all I said in a tone of purest pity; and to my surprise she turned upon me, caught me in her arms, and loved me as she had never done before.
"Poor little soul!" was all I said in a voice full of pity; and to my surprise, she turned to me, wrapped me in her arms, and loved me like she never had before.
“Dearest, I have you,” she cried; “you, and only you, love. Having you I want no other. All my life is one with yours. Oh, John, how can I treat you so?”
“Darling, I have you,” she exclaimed; “you, and only you, my love. With you, I want nothing else. My whole life is intertwined with yours. Oh, John, how could I treat you this way?”
Blushing through the wet of weeping, and the gloom of pondering, yet she would not hide her eyes, but folded me, and dwelled on me.
Blushing through her tears and deep thoughts, she still wouldn’t hide her eyes but embraced me and focused on me.
“I cannot believe,” in the pride of my joy, I whispered into one little ear, “that you could ever so love me, beauty, as to give up the world for me.”
“I can’t believe,” in my moment of joy, I whispered into one little ear, “that you could ever love me so much, beautiful, as to give up the world for me.”
“Would you give up your farm for me, John?” cried Lorna, leaping back and looking, with her wondrous power of light at me; “would you give up your mother, your sisters, your home, and all that you have in the world and every hope of your life, John?”
“Would you give up your farm for me, John?” Lorna exclaimed, stepping back and gazing at me with her amazing ability to shine; “would you give up your mother, your sisters, your home, everything you own, and all your hopes for the future, John?”
“Of course I would. Without two thoughts. You know it; you know it, Lorna.”
“Of course I would. Without a second thought. You know it; you know it, Lorna.”
“It is true that I do,” she answered in a tone of deepest sadness; “and it is this power of your love which has made me love you so. No good can come of it, no good. God's face is set against selfishness.”
“It’s true that I do,” she replied with a profound sadness in her voice; “and it’s this power of your love that has made me love you so deeply. Nothing good can come of it, nothing good. God's disapproval is aimed at selfishness.”
As she spoke in that low tone I gazed at the clear lines of her face (where every curve was perfect) not with love and wonder only, but with a strange new sense of awe.
As she spoke in that quiet voice, I looked at the clear lines of her face (where every curve was flawless) not just with love and admiration, but with a peculiar new sense of respect.
“Darling,” I said, “come nearer to me. Give me surety against that. For God's sake never frighten me with the thought that He would part us.”
“Darling,” I said, “come closer to me. Give me assurance about that. For God's sake, never scare me with the idea that He would separate us.”
“Does it then so frighten you?” she whispered, coming close to me; “I know it, dear; I have known it long; but it never frightens me. It makes me sad, and very lonely, till I can remember.”
“Does it scare you that much?” she whispered, leaning in close; “I get it, love; I’ve known for a while; but it doesn’t frighten me. It makes me sad and really lonely until I can remember.”
“'Till you can remember what?” I asked, with a long, deep shudder; for we are so superstitious.
"'Till you can remember what?" I asked, shivering deeply; because we are so superstitious.
“Until I do remember, love, that you will soon come back to me, and be my own for ever. This is what I always think of, this is what I hope for.”
“Until I remember, love, that you will soon be back with me and will be mine forever. This is what I always think about, this is what I hope for.”
Although her eyes were so glorious, and beaming with eternity, this distant sort of beatitude was not much to my liking. I wanted to have my love on earth; and my dear wife in my own home; and children in good time, if God should please to send us any. And then I would be to them, exactly what my father was to me. And beside all this, I doubted much about being fit for heaven; where no ploughs are, and no cattle, unless sacrificed bulls went thither.
Although her eyes were so beautiful and shining with a sense of eternity, this distant kind of bliss didn’t appeal to me much. I wanted to have my love here on earth; my dear wife in my own home; and children when the time was right, if God chose to bless us with any. Then I would be to them exactly what my father was to me. Besides all this, I had serious doubts about being suited for heaven, where there are no plows and no cattle—unless they are sacrificed bulls.
Therefore I said, “Now kiss me, Lorna; and don't talk any nonsense.” And the darling came and did it; being kindly obedient, as the other world often makes us.
Therefore I said, “Now kiss me, Lorna; and don’t say anything silly.” And the sweetheart came and did it; being nicely obedient, just like the other world often makes us.
“You sweet love,” I said at this, being slave to her soft obedience; “do you suppose I should be content to leave you until Elysium?”
“You sweet love,” I said, being bound to her gentle submission; “do you think I could be happy leaving you until Elysium?”
“How on earth can I tell, dear John, what you will be content with?”
“How can I possibly know what you will be happy with, dear John?”
“You, and only you,” said I; “the whole of it lies in a syllable. Now you know my entire want; and want must be my comfort.”
“You, and only you,” I said; “it all comes down to a single word. Now you know everything I desire; and that desire must be my comfort.”
“But surely if I have money, sir, and birth, and rank, and all sorts of grandeur, you would never dare to think of me.”
“But surely if I have money, sir, and lineage, and status, and all kinds of splendor, you would never think of me.”
She drew herself up with an air of pride, as she gravely pronounced these words, and gave me a scornful glance, or tried; and turned away as if to enter some grand coach or palace; while I was so amazed and grieved in my raw simplicity especially after the way in which she had first received my news, so loving and warm-hearted, that I never said a word, but stared and thought, “How does she mean it?”
She straightened up with a sense of pride as she seriously said these words, giving me a disdainful look, or at least trying to, and turned away as if she were about to step into a fancy carriage or palace. I was so shocked and hurt in my naive innocence, especially after how lovingly and warmly she had first received my news, that I didn’t say anything but just stared and thought, “What does she mean by that?”
She saw the pain upon my forehead, and the wonder in my eyes, and leaving coach and palace too, back she flew to me in a moment, as simple as simplest milkmaid.
She saw the pain on my forehead and the wonder in my eyes, and leaving the coach and palace behind, she quickly returned to me in an instant, as straightforward as the simplest milkmaid.
“Oh, you fearful stupid, John, you inexpressibly stupid, John,” she cried with both arms round my neck, and her lips upon my forehead; “you have called yourself thick-headed, John, and I never would believe it. But now I do with all my heart. Will you never know what I am, love?”
“Oh, you foolish silly, John, you incredibly silly, John,” she exclaimed with both arms wrapped around my neck, her lips on my forehead; “you’ve called yourself slow, John, and I never believed it. But now I do with all my heart. Will you never understand who I am, my love?”
“No, Lorna, that I never shall. I can understand my mother well, and one at least of my sisters, and both the Snowe girls very easily, but you I never understand; only love you all the more for it.”
“No, Lorna, I never will. I can understand my mother pretty well, and at least one of my sisters, and both of the Snowe girls quite easily, but I can never understand you; I just love you more for it.”
“Then never try to understand me, if the result is that, dear John. And yet I am the very simplest of all foolish simple creatures. Nay, I am wrong; therein I yield the palm to you, my dear. To think that I can act so! No wonder they want me in London, as an ornament for the stage, John.”
“Then don’t even try to understand me if that’s the outcome, dear John. And yet, I'm really the simplest of all foolish simpletons. No, I take that back; I give you that title, my dear. Can you believe I can act this way? It’s no surprise they want me in London as a decoration for the stage, John.”
Now in after days, when I heard of Lorna as the richest, and noblest, and loveliest lady to be found in London, I often remembered that little scene, and recalled every word and gesture, wondering what lay under it. Even now, while it was quite impossible once to doubt those clear deep eyes, and the bright lips trembling so; nevertheless I felt how much the world would have to do with it; and that the best and truest people cannot shake themselves quite free. However, for the moment, I was very proud and showed it.
Now, later on, when I heard about Lorna being the richest, noblest, and most beautiful woman in London, I often thought back to that little scene and remembered every word and gesture, wondering what it all meant. Even now, while it was hard to doubt those clear, deep eyes and those bright, trembling lips, I realized how much influence the world had on it, and that the best and truest people can’t completely break free from it. Still, in that moment, I was very proud and I made sure to show it.
And herein differs fact from fancy, things as they befall us from things as we would have them, human ends from human hopes; that the first are moved by a thousand and the last on two wheels only, which (being named) are desire and fear. Hope of course is nothing more than desire with a telescope, magnifying distant matters, overlooking near ones; opening one eye on the objects, closing the other to all objections. And if hope be the future tense of desire, the future of fear is religion—at least with too many of us.
And here's where reality differs from imagination, the things that happen to us versus the things we wish for, human goals versus human dreams; the first are driven by a thousand factors while the last are only pushed by two things, which are named desire and fear. Hope, of course, is just desire viewed through a telescope, making distant things seem bigger while ignoring what's close by; it's keeping one eye on the prize and closing the other to any doubts. If hope is basically the future version of desire, then the future of fear for many of us is religion.
Whether I am right or wrong in these small moralities, one thing is sure enough, to wit, that hope is the fastest traveller, at any rate, in the time of youth. And so I hoped that Lorna might be proved of blameless family, and honourable rank and fortune; and yet none the less for that, love me and belong to me. So I led her into the house, and she fell into my mother's arms; and I left them to have a good cry of it, with Annie ready to help them.
Whether I’m right or wrong about these little morals, one thing is clear: hope is the fastest traveler, especially in youth. So I hoped that Lorna might come from a good family, with respectable status and wealth; and still, that she would love me and be mine. I led her into the house, and she ran into my mother's arms; I left them to share a good cry, with Annie there to support them.
If Master Stickles should not mend enough to gain his speech a little, and declare to us all he knew, I was to set out for Watchett, riding upon horseback, and there to hire a cart with wheels, such as we had not begun, as yet, to use on Exmoor. For all our work went on broad wood, with runners and with earthboards; and many of us still looked upon wheels (though mentioned in the Bible) as the invention of the evil one, and Pharoah's especial property.
If Master Stickles doesn't improve enough to regain his speech and tell us everything he knows, I was supposed to head to Watchett, riding on horseback, and there hire a cart with wheels, which we hadn't started using on Exmoor yet. All our work was done on broad wood, with runners and earthboards; many of us still viewed wheels (even though they're mentioned in the Bible) as the devil's invention and something particularly associated with Pharaoh.
Now, instead of getting better, Colonel Stickles grew worse and worse, in spite of all our tendance of him, with simples and with nourishment, and no poisonous medicine, such as doctors would have given him. And the fault of this lay not with us, but purely with himself and his unquiet constitution. For he roused himself up to a perfect fever, when through Lizzie's giddiness he learned the very thing which mother and Annie were hiding from him, with the utmost care; namely, that Sergeant Bloxham had taken upon himself to send direct to London by the Chancery officers, a full report of what had happened, and of the illness of his chief, together with an urgent prayer for a full battalion of King's troops, and a plenary commander.
Now, instead of getting better, Colonel Stickles got worse and worse, despite all our care for him, with simple remedies and nourishment, and no harmful medication that doctors would have given him. The fault for this lay not with us, but entirely with him and his restless constitution. He became agitated to the point of a fever when, due to Lizzie's dizziness, he found out the very thing that mother and Annie were carefully hiding from him: that Sergeant Bloxham had taken it upon himself to send a complete report of what had happened, along with details about his illness, directly to London via the Chancery officers, including an urgent request for a full battalion of King's troops and a top-level commander.
This Sergeant Bloxham, being senior of the surviving soldiers, and a very worthy man in his way, but a trifle over-zealous, had succeeded to the captaincy upon his master's disablement. Then, with desire to serve his country and show his education, he sat up most part of three nights, and wrote this very wonderful report by the aid of our stable lanthorn. It was a very fine piece of work, as three men to whom he read it (but only one at a time) pronounced, being under seal of secrecy. And all might have gone well with it, if the author could only have held his tongue, when near the ears of women. But this was beyond his sense as it seems, although so good a writer. For having heard that our Lizzie was a famous judge of literature (as indeed she told almost every one), he could not contain himself, but must have her opinion upon his work.
This Sergeant Bloxham, being the highest-ranking of the remaining soldiers and a commendable man in his own way, albeit a bit too eager, had taken over the captaincy when his superior became incapacitated. With a strong desire to serve his country and showcase his education, he spent most of three nights writing this impressive report using our stable lantern. It turned out to be a great piece of work, as three men he read it to (but only one at a time) affirmed, under a promise of confidentiality. Everything might have gone smoothly if the author could just have kept quiet around women. However, this was apparently beyond his grasp, even as a talented writer. After hearing that our Lizzie was a well-regarded critic of literature (as she often claimed to everyone), he couldn't help himself and had to get her opinion on his work.
Lizzie sat on a log of wood, and listened with all her ears up, having made proviso that no one else should be there to interrupt her. And she put in a syllable here and there, and many a time she took out one (for the Sergeant overloaded his gun, more often than undercharged it; like a liberal man of letters), and then she declared the result so good, so chaste, and the style to be so elegant, and yet so fervent, that the Sergeant broke his pipe in three, and fell in love with her on the spot. Now this has led me out of my way; as things are always doing, partly through their own perverseness, partly through my kind desire to give fair turn to all of them, and to all the people who do them. If any one expects of me a strict and well-drilled story, standing “at attention” all the time, with hands at the side like two wens on my trunk, and eyes going neither right nor left; I trow that man has been disappointed many a page ago, and has left me to my evil ways; and if not, I love his charity. Therefore let me seek his grace, and get back, and just begin again.
Lizzie sat on a log, listening intently, having ensured that no one else would interrupt her. She chimed in now and then, and often took out a word or two (since the Sergeant overloaded his gun more frequently than undercharged it, much like a generous writer), and then she declared the results to be so good, so pure, with style that was both elegant and passionate, that the Sergeant broke his pipe in three and fell in love with her instantly. Now, this has taken me off track; as things often do, partly because of their own unpredictability and partly due to my desire to give everyone a fair chance, including all the characters involved. If anyone expects a strict, well-organized story that stays “at attention” the whole time, with hands at the sides like awkward lumps and eyes focused straight ahead; I believe that person has been disappointed many pages ago and has left me to my own devices; and if not, I appreciate their kindness. So let me ask for their understanding and get back on track and just start over.
That great despatch was sent to London by the Chancery officers, whom we fitted up with clothes, and for three days fattened them; which in strict justice they needed much, as well as in point of equity. They were kind enough to be pleased with us, and accepted my new shirts generously; and urgent as their business was, another week (as they both declared) could do no harm to nobody, and might set them upon their legs again. And knowing, although they were London men, that fish do live in water, these two fellows went fishing all day, but never landed anything. However, their holiday was cut short; for the Sergeant, having finished now his narrative of proceedings, was not the man to let it hang fire, and be quenched perhaps by Stickles.
That important dispatch was sent to London by the Chancery officers, whom we outfitted with clothes and fed for three days; which, quite frankly, they really needed, both for their health and fairness. They were nice enough to be happy with us and accepted my new shirts graciously; and although their work was urgent, another week (as they both insisted) wouldn’t hurt anyone and might help them get back on their feet. And even though they were from London, they knew that fish live in water, so these two guys went fishing all day but didn’t catch anything. Nevertheless, their break was cut short; because the Sergeant, having now finished his account of the proceedings, was not the type to let things drag on and risk being interrupted by Stickles.
Therefore, having done their business, and served both citations, these two good men had a pannier of victuals put up by dear Annie, and borrowing two of our horses, rode to Dunster, where they left them, and hired on towards London. We had not time to like them much, and so we did not miss them, especially in our great anxiety about poor Master Stickles.
Therefore, after finishing their tasks and delivering both notices, these two good men had a basket of food prepared by dear Annie, and borrowing two of our horses, rode to Dunster, where they left them and then continued on towards London. We didn’t have enough time to get to know them well, so we didn’t miss them, especially given our concern for poor Master Stickles.
Jeremy lay between life and death, for at least a fortnight. If the link of chain had flown upwards (for half a link of chain it was which took him in the mouth so), even one inch upwards, the poor man could have needed no one except Parson Bowden; for the bottom of his skull, which holds the brain as in the egg-cup, must have clean gone from him. But striking him horizontally, and a little upon the skew, the metal came out at the back of his neck, and (the powder not being strong, I suppose) it lodged in his leather collar.
Jeremy lay somewhere between life and death for at least two weeks. If the chain link had flown up just half an inch higher, the poor man would have only needed Parson Bowden; the bottom of his skull, which holds the brain like an egg in a cup, would have been completely gone. But since it struck him horizontally and a bit at an angle, the metal exited at the back of his neck, and (the powder not being very strong, I guess) it got stuck in his leather collar.
Now the rust of this iron hung in the wound, or at least we thought so; though since I have talked with a man of medicine, I am not so sure of it. And our chief aim was to purge this rust; when rather we should have stopped the hole, and let the oxide do its worst, with a plug of new flesh on both sides of it.
Now the rust from this iron was stuck in the wound, or at least we thought so; but after talking to a doctor, I'm not so sure anymore. Our main focus was to get rid of this rust; instead, we should have closed up the hole and let the rust do its worst, using a patch of new flesh on both sides.
At last I prevailed upon him by argument, that he must get better, to save himself from being ignobly and unjustly superseded; and hereupon I reviled Sergeant Bloxham more fiercely than Jeremy's self could have done, and indeed to such a pitch that Jeremy almost forgave him, and became much milder. And after that his fever and the inflammation of his wound, diminished very rapidly.
At last, I convinced him with reason that he needed to get better to avoid being unfairly replaced. Because of this, I criticized Sergeant Bloxham more harshly than Jeremy ever could have, to the point where Jeremy nearly forgave him and became much calmer. After that, his fever and the swelling of his wound decreased quickly.
However, not knowing what might happen, or even how soon poor Lorna might be taken from our power, and, falling into lawyers' hands, have cause to wish herself most heartily back among the robbers, I set forth one day for Watchett, taking advantage of the visit of some troopers from an outpost, who would make our house quite safe. I rode alone, being fully primed, and having no misgivings. For it was said that even the Doones had begun to fear me, since I cast their culverin through the door, as above related; and they could not but believe, from my being still untouched (although so large an object) in the thickest of their fire, both of gun and cannon, that I must bear a charmed life, proof against ball and bullet. However, I knew that Carver Doone was not a likely man to hold any superstitious opinions; and of him I had an instinctive dread, although quite ready to face him.
However, not knowing what might happen, or even how soon poor Lorna might be taken away from us and end up in the hands of lawyers, wishing she could be back among the robbers, I set out one day for Watchett, taking advantage of a visit from some troopers at an outpost who would make our place safe. I rode alone, feeling fully prepared and having no doubts. It was rumored that even the Doones had started to fear me since I had thrown their cannon through the door, as mentioned earlier; and they couldn't help but think that, since I remained unharmed (despite being such a big target) in the midst of their gunfire and cannon fire, I must have some kind of protective charm that made me immune to bullets. However, I knew that Carver Doone was not the type to hold any superstitious beliefs, and I had a deep instinctive fear of him, even though I was ready to confront him.
Riding along, I meditated upon Lorna's history; how many things were now beginning to unfold themselves, which had been obscure and dark! For instance, Sir Ensor Doone's consent, or to say the least his indifference, to her marriage with a yeoman; which in a man so proud (though dying) had greatly puzzled both of us. But now, if she not only proved to be no grandchild of the Doone, but even descended from his enemy, it was natural enough that he should feel no great repugnance to her humiliation. And that Lorna's father had been a foe to the house of Doone I gathered from her mother's cry when she beheld their leader. Moreover that fact would supply their motive in carrying off the unfortunate little creature, and rearing her among them, and as one of their own family; yet hiding her true birth from her. She was a “great card,” as we say, when playing All-fours at Christmas-time; and if one of them could marry her, before she learned of right and wrong, vast property, enough to buy pardons for a thousand Doones, would be at their mercy. And since I was come to know Lorna better, and she to know me thoroughly—many things had been outspoken, which her early bashfulness had kept covered from me. Attempts I mean to pledge her love to this one, or that other; some of which perhaps might have been successful, if there had not been too many.
Riding along, I reflected on Lorna's background; so many things were starting to make sense that had once been unclear and mysterious! For example, Sir Ensor Doone's approval, or at least his indifference, towards her marrying a yeoman; something that had puzzled both of us, given how proud he was (even if he was dying). But now, if she turned out not to be a grandchild of the Doones, but even a descendant of their enemy, it made sense that he wouldn’t feel much aversion to her suffering. I realized that Lorna's father had been an enemy of the Doones from her mother’s outburst when she saw their leader. This fact would also explain their motive for taking the poor little girl and raising her among them as part of their family while concealing her true origins. She was a "great card," as we say when playing All-fours at Christmas; and if one of them could marry her before she understood right from wrong, they would have control of vast property, enough to buy pardons for a thousand Doones. And as I got to know Lorna better, and she got to know me well—many things had been said that her early shyness had kept hidden from me. She had made attempts to commit her affection to this one or that one, some of which might have succeeded if there hadn’t been so many.
And then, as her beauty grew richer and brighter, Carver Doone was smitten strongly, and would hear of no one else as a suitor for her; and by the terror of his claim drove off all the others. Here too may the explanation of a thing which seemed to be against the laws of human nature, and upon which I longed, but dared not to cross-question Lorna. How could such a lovely girl, although so young, and brave, and distant, have escaped the vile affections of a lawless company?
And then, as her beauty became richer and brighter, Carver Doone was infatuated and refused to consider anyone else as a contender for her love. His claim terrified away all the others. This also explains something that seemed to go against the laws of human nature, and I longed to, but didn't dare to, question Lorna about it. How could such a lovely girl, so young, brave, and aloof, have avoided the disgusting advances of a lawless group?
But now it was as clear as need be. For any proven violence would have utterly vitiated all claim upon her grand estate; at least as those claims must be urged before a court of equity. And therefore all the elders (with views upon her real estate) kept strict watch on the youngers, who confined their views to her personality.
But now it was as clear as day. Any evidence of violence would completely ruin any claim on her large estate, at least in the eyes of a court of equity. So, all the elders (who were interested in her property) kept a close eye on the younger ones, who were only interested in her personality.
Now I do not mean to say that all this, or the hundred other things which came, crowding consideration, were half as plain to me at the time, as I have set them down above. Far be it from me to deceive you so. No doubt my thoughts were then dark and hazy, like an oil-lamp full of fungus; and I have trimmed them, as when they burned, with scissors sharpened long afterwards. All I mean to say is this, that jogging along to a certain tune of the horse's feet, which we call “three-halfpence and twopence,” I saw my way a little into some things which had puzzled me.
Now, I’m not saying that everything I wrote down above, or the hundred other things that rushed through my mind, was clear to me at the time. I wouldn’t want to mislead you. My thoughts were probably murky and unclear, like an oil lamp covered in mold; and I've refined them as if I had the perspective to do so much later. All I mean to say is that while riding along to the rhythm of the horse's hooves, which we refer to as “three-halfpence and twopence,” I started to grasp a bit of what had confused me.
When I knocked at the little door, whose sill was gritty and grimed with sand, no one came for a very long time to answer me, or to let me in. Not wishing to be unmannerly, I waited a long time, and watched the sea, from which the wind was blowing; and whose many lips of waves—though the tide was half-way out—spoke to and refreshed me. After a while I knocked again, for my horse was becoming hungry; and a good while after that again, a voice came through the key-hole,—
When I knocked on the small door, the threshold covered in dirt and sand, no one answered for quite a while or let me in. Not wanting to be rude, I waited a long time and watched the sea, where the wind was blowing; its countless waves—though the tide was halfway out—called to me and lifted my spirits. After a while, I knocked again because my horse was getting hungry; and quite some time later, a voice came through the keyhole,—
“Who is that wishes to enter?”
"Who wants to join in?"
“The boy who was at the pump,” said I, “when the carriage broke down at Dulverton. The boy that lives at oh—ah; and some day you would come seek for him.”
“The boy who was at the pump,” I said, “when the carriage broke down at Dulverton. The boy who lives at oh—ah; and one day you’ll come looking for him.”
“Oh, yes, I remember certainly. My leetle boy, with the fair white skin. I have desired to see him, oh many, yes, many times.”
“Oh, yes, I definitely remember. My little boy, with the fair white skin. I have wanted to see him, oh many, yes, many times.”
She was opening the door, while saying this, and then she started back in affright that the little boy should have grown so.
She was opening the door while saying this, and then she stepped back in shock that the little boy had grown so much.
“You cannot be that leetle boy. It is quite impossible. Why do you impose on me?”
“You can't be that little boy. That's just not possible. Why are you making this difficult for me?”
“Not only am I that little boy, who made the water to flow for you, till the nebule came upon the glass; but also I am come to tell you all about your little girl.”
“Not only am I that little boy who made the water flow for you until the mist covered the glass, but I'm also here to tell you everything about your little girl.”
“Come in, you very great leetle boy,” she answered, with her dark eyes brightened. And I went in, and looked at her. She was altered by time, as much as I was. The slight and graceful shape was gone; not that I remembered anything of her figure, if you please; for boys of twelve are not yet prone to note the shapes of women; but that her lithe straight gait had struck me as being so unlike our people. Now her time for walking so was past, and transmitted to her children. Yet her face was comely still, and full of strong intelligence. I gazed at her, and she at me; and we were sure of one another.
“Come in, you very little boy,” she replied, her dark eyes sparkling. I stepped inside and looked at her. She had changed with time, just as I had. The slight and graceful figure was gone; not that I really remembered her shape, since boys of twelve don’t usually pay attention to how women look; but I recalled how her smooth, upright walk seemed so different from our people. Now, that way of walking was a thing of the past for her and had been passed on to her children. Yet her face was still attractive, filled with sharp intelligence. I watched her, and she watched me; we both recognized each other.
“Now what will ye please to eat?” she asked, with a lively glance at the size of my mouth: “that is always the first thing you people ask, in these barbarous places.”
“Now what would you like to eat?” she asked, looking playfully at the size of my mouth. “That’s always the first thing you people ask in these uncivilized places.”
“I will tell you by-and-by,” I answered, misliking this satire upon us; “but I might begin with a quart of ale, to enable me to speak, madam.”
“I’ll let you know soon,” I replied, not liking this mockery of us; “but I could start with a pint of ale to help me speak, ma’am.”
“Very well. One quevart of be-or;” she called out to a little maid, who was her eldest child, no doubt. “It is to be expected, sir. Be-or, be-or, be-or, all day long, with you Englishmen!”
“Alright. One quart of beer;” she shouted to a little maid, who was definitely her oldest child. “It's to be expected, sir. Beer, beer, beer, all day long, with you Englishmen!”
“Nay,” I replied, “not all day long, if madam will excuse me. Only a pint at breakfast-time, and a pint and a half at eleven o'clock, and a quart or so at dinner. And then no more till the afternoon; and half a gallon at supper-time. No one can object to that.”
“Nah,” I replied, “not all day long, if you don’t mind me saying. Just a pint at breakfast, a pint and a half at eleven, and about a quart at dinner. Then nothing until the afternoon, and half a gallon at supper. No one can really complain about that.”
“Well, I suppose it is right,” she said, with an air of resignation; “God knows. But I do not understand it. It is 'good for business,' as you say, to preclude everything.”
“Well, I guess that's right,” she said, with a sense of giving in; “Who knows? But I don't get it. It’s 'good for business,' as you put it, to rule out everything.”
“And it is good for us, madam,” I answered with indignation, “for beer is my favourite beverage; and I am a credit to beer, madam; and so are all who trust to it.”
“And it's good for us, ma'am,” I replied with irritation, “because beer is my favorite drink; and I represent beer well, ma'am; and so does everyone who relies on it.”
“At any rate, you are, young man. If beer has made you grow so large, I will put my children upon it; it is too late for me to begin. The smell to me is hateful.”
“At any rate, you are, young man. If beer has made you grow so big, I’ll have my kids drink it; it’s too late for me to start. The smell is repulsive to me.”
Now I only set down that to show how perverse those foreign people are. They will drink their wretched heartless stuff, such as they call claret, or wine of Medoc, or Bordeaux, or what not, with no more meaning than sour rennet, stirred with the pulp from the cider press, and strained through the cap of our Betty. This is very well for them; and as good as they deserve, no doubt, and meant perhaps by the will of God, for those unhappy natives. But to bring it over to England and set it against our home-brewed ale (not to speak of wines from Portugal) and sell it at ten times the price, as a cure for British bile, and a great enlightenment; this I say is the vilest feature of the age we live in.
Now I just want to mention how strange those foreign people are. They will drink their miserable, lifeless beverages, which they call claret, or wine from Medoc, or Bordeaux, or whatever, with no more significance than sour rennet mixed with pulp from the cider press and strained through our Betty's cap. This is fine for them; it’s as good as they deserve, no doubt, and perhaps intended by the will of God for those unfortunate locals. But to bring it over to England, compare it with our home-brewed ale (not to mention wines from Portugal), and sell it at ten times the price, claiming it's a remedy for British bile and a great enlightenment; this, I say, is the most disgraceful thing about the times we live in.
Madam Benita Odam—for the name of the man who turned the wheel proved to be John Odam—showed me into a little room containing two chairs and a fir-wood table, and sat down on a three-legged seat and studied me very steadfastly. This she had a right to do; and I, having all my clothes on now, was not disconcerted. It would not become me to repeat her judgment upon my appearance, which she delivered as calmly as if I were a pig at market, and as proudly as if her own pig. And she asked me whether I had ever got rid of the black marks on my breast.
Madam Benita Odam—since the man who operated the wheel was actually John Odam—showed me into a small room with two chairs and a fir-wood table. She sat down on a three-legged stool and stared at me intently. She had every right to do so, and I, fully dressed at that moment, wasn’t thrown off by it. It wouldn’t be appropriate for me to share her opinion on my appearance, which she stated as coolly as if I were a pig at a market and as proudly as if I were her own pig. Then she asked me if I had ever gotten rid of the black marks on my chest.
Not wanting to talk about myself (though very fond of doing so, when time and season favour) I led her back to that fearful night of the day when first I had seen her. She was not desirous to speak of it, because of her own little children; however, I drew her gradually to recollection of Lorna, and then of the little boy who died, and the poor mother buried with him. And her strong hot nature kindled, as she dwelled upon these things; and my wrath waxed within me; and we forgot reserve and prudence under the sense of so vile a wrong. She told me (as nearly as might be) the very same story which she had told to Master Jeremy Stickles; only she dwelled upon it more, because of my knowing the outset. And being a woman, with an inkling of my situation, she enlarged upon the little maid, more than to dry Jeremy.
Not wanting to talk about myself (even though I really enjoy it when the moment is right), I brought her back to that terrible night when I first saw her. She wasn't eager to discuss it because of her young children; still, I gradually led her to remember Lorna, then the little boy who died, and the poor mother who was buried with him. Her passionate nature ignited as she reflected on these events, and my anger grew stronger; we forgot about holding back and being cautious in light of such an awful injustice. She told me (as closely as she could) the exact same story she had shared with Master Jeremy Stickles, but she elaborated more because I already knew the beginning. And being a woman, with some understanding of my situation, she focused more on the little girl than she had with Jeremy.
“Would you know her again?” I asked, being stirred by these accounts of Lorna, when she was five years old: “would you know her as a full-grown maiden?”
“Would you recognize her again?” I asked, moved by these stories of Lorna when she was five: “would you know her as a grown woman?”
“I think I should,” she answered; “it is not possible to say until one sees the person; but from the eyes of the little girl, I think that I must know her. Oh, the poor young creature! Is it to be believed that the cannibals devoured her! What a people you are in this country! Meat, meat, meat!”
“I think I should,” she replied. “You can’t really tell until you see the person, but from the little girl’s eyes, I feel like I must know her. Oh, the poor young thing! Can you believe the cannibals actually ate her? What a people you are in this country! Meat, meat, meat!”
As she raised her hands and eyes in horror at our carnivorous propensities, to which she clearly attributed the disappearance of Lorna, I could scarce help laughing, even after that sad story. For though it is said at the present day, and will doubtless be said hereafter, that the Doones had devoured a baby once, as they came up Porlock hill, after fighting hard in the market-place, I knew that the tale was utterly false; for cruel and brutal as they were, their taste was very correct and choice, and indeed one might say fastidious. Nevertheless I could not stop to argue that matter with her.
As she raised her hands and eyes in horror at our meat-eating habits, which she clearly blamed for Lorna's disappearance, I could hardly help but laugh, even after hearing that sad story. Although it's said today, and will likely be said in the future, that the Doones once ate a baby as they came up Porlock Hill after a tough fight in the marketplace, I knew that story was completely false. While they were cruel and brutal, their tastes were actually quite refined, and you could even say they were picky. Still, I didn't have time to argue that with her.
“The little maid has not been devoured,” I said to Mistress Odam: “and now she is a tall young lady, and as beautiful as can be. If I sleep in your good hostel to-night after going to Watchett town, will you come with me to Oare to-morrow, and see your little maiden?”
“The little maid hasn't been eaten up,” I said to Mistress Odam; “and now she's a tall young lady, and as beautiful as ever. If I stay at your nice inn tonight after visiting Watchett town, will you come with me to Oare tomorrow and see your little girl?”
“I would like—and yet I fear. This country is so barbarous. And I am good to eat—my God, there is much picking on my bones!”
"I want to—and yet I’m afraid. This country is so brutal. And I’m easy prey—my God, there's so much temptation on my bones!"
She surveyed herself with a glance so mingled of pity and admiration, and the truth of her words was so apparent (only that it would have taken a week to get at the bones, before picking) that I nearly lost good manners; for she really seemed to suspect even me of cannibal inclinations. However, at last I made her promise to come with me on the morrow, presuming that Master Odam could by any means be persuaded to keep her company in the cart, as propriety demanded. Having little doubt that Master Odam was entirely at his wife's command, I looked upon that matter as settled, and set off for Watchett, to see the grave of Lorna's poor mother, and to hire a cart for the morrow.
She looked at herself with a mix of pity and admiration, and it was clear what she meant (though it would take a week to get to the real issues before addressing them) that I almost forgot my manners; she really seemed to think I might have some strange intentions. Still, I eventually got her to agree to come with me tomorrow, assuming that Master Odam could be persuaded to join us in the cart, as was proper. I had no doubt that Master Odam completely listened to his wife's wishes, so I considered that settled, and I headed off to Watchett to visit the grave of Lorna's poor mother and to rent a cart for the next day.
And here (as so often happens with men) I succeeded without any trouble or hindrance, where I had looked for both of them, namely, in finding a suitable cart; whereas the other matter, in which I could have expected no difficulty, came very near to defeat me. For when I heard that Lorna's father was the Earl of Dugal—as Benita impressed upon me with a strong enforcement, as much as to say, “Who are you, young man, to come even asking about her?”—then I never thought but that everybody in Watchett town must know all about the tombstone of the Countess of Dugal.
And here (as often happens with guys), I easily succeeded where I expected trouble, which was finding a suitable cart; while the other situation, where I thought there’d be no issues, almost defeated me. When I learned that Lorna's dad was the Earl of Dugal—as Benita strongly pointed out, as if to say, “Who do you think you are, young man, asking about her?”—I figured everyone in Watchett must know all about the tombstone of the Countess of Dugal.
This, however, proved otherwise. For Lord Dugal had never lived at Watchett Grange, as their place was called; neither had his name become familiar as its owner. Because the Grange had only devolved to him by will, at the end of a long entail, when the last of the Fitz-Pains died out; and though he liked the idea of it, he had gone abroad, without taking seisin. And upon news of his death, John Jones, a rich gentleman from Llandaff, had taken possession, as next of right, and hushed up all the story. And though, even at the worst of times, a lady of high rank and wealth could not be robbed, and as bad as murdered, and then buried in a little place, without moving some excitement, yet it had been given out, on purpose and with diligence, that this was only a foreign lady travelling for her health and pleasure, along the seacoast of England. And as the poor thing never spoke, and several of her servants and her baggage looked so foreign, and she herself died in a collar of lace unlike any made in England, all Watchett, without hesitation, pronounced her to be a foreigner. And the English serving man and maid, who might have cleared up everything, either were bribed by Master Jones, or else decamped of their own accord with the relics of the baggage. So the poor Countess of Dugal, almost in sight of her own grand house, was buried in an unknown grave, with her pair of infants, without a plate, without a tombstone (worse than all) without a tear, except from the hired Italian woman.
This turned out to be quite different. Lord Dugal had never actually lived at Watchett Grange, as it was called; nor had he become known as its owner. The Grange had only been passed on to him through a will, after a long line of inheritance, when the last of the Fitz-Pains died out. Even though he liked the idea of it, he went abroad without officially taking possession. When news of his death reached everyone, John Jones, a wealthy gentleman from Llandaff, took over as the rightful heir and kept the whole story under wraps. And while, even during the worst times, a lady of high status and wealth could not be taken advantage of, no matter how badly, and then buried in a small grave without causing some stir, it was deliberately spread around that she was just a foreign lady traveling for her health and enjoyment along the English coastline. Since the poor woman never spoke, and many of her servants and her belongings looked very foreign, and she died in a lace collar that wasn’t made in England, the whole town of Watchett quickly declared her a foreigner. The English servants who could have clarified everything were either bribed by Master Jones or just ran off with the remnants of her belongings. So, the poor Countess of Dugal, almost in sight of her own grand house, was buried in an unmarked grave with her two infants, without a plaque, without a headstone (which was the worst of all), and without a tear shed for her, except from a hired Italian woman.
Surely my poor Lorna came of an ill-starred family.
Surely my poor Lorna came from a cursed family.
Now in spite of all this, if I had only taken Benita with me, or even told her what I wished, and craved her directions, there could have been no trouble. But I do assure you that among the stupid people at Watchett (compared with whom our folk of Oare, exceeding dense though being, are as Hamlet against Dogberry) what with one of them and another, and the firm conviction of all the town that I could be come only to wrestle, I do assure you (as I said before) that my wits almost went out of me. And what vexed me yet more about it was, that I saw my own mistake, in coming myself to seek out the matter, instead of sending some unknown person. For my face and form were known at that time (and still are so) to nine people out of every ten living in forty miles of me. Not through any excellence, or anything of good desert, in either the one or the other, but simply because folks will be fools on the rivalry of wrestling. The art is a fine one in itself, and demands a little wit of brain, as well as strength of body; it binds the man who studies it to temperance, and chastity, to self-respect, and most of all to an even and sweet temper; for I have thrown stronger men than myself (when I was a mere sapling, and before my strength grew hard on me) through their loss of temper. But though the art is an honest one, surely they who excel therein have a right (like all the rest of man-kind) to their own private life.
Now, despite all of this, if I had just taken Benita with me, or even told her what I wanted and asked for her advice, there wouldn't have been any trouble. I assure you, among the foolish people at Watchett (compared to our folks in Oare, who, although pretty dense, are like Hamlet next to Dogberry), with one person and another, plus the firm belief from everyone in town that I was only there to wrestle, I truly felt like I was losing my mind. What frustrated me even more was realizing my mistake in personally coming to sort things out instead of sending someone unknown. My face and build were recognized at that time (and still are) by nine out of ten people within forty miles. Not due to any special talent or any merit of my own, but simply because people act foolishly over wrestling rivalries. The sport is commendable in itself and requires a bit of cleverness along with physical strength; it encourages the person who practices it to be temperate, chaste, and self-respecting, and, most importantly, to have a calm and pleasant demeanor. I’ve thrown men stronger than myself (when I was just a kid, before I fully developed my strength) because they lost their cool. But even though wrestling is an honorable pursuit, those who excel at it certainly deserve their own private lives, just like everyone else.
Be that either way—and I will not speak too strongly, for fear of indulging my own annoyance—anyhow, all Watchett town cared ten times as much to see John Ridd, as to show him what he wanted. I was led to every public-house, instead of to the churchyard; and twenty tables were ready for me, in lieu of a single gravestone. “Zummerzett thou bee'st, Jan Ridd, and Zummerzett thou shalt be. Thee carl theezell a Davonsheer man! Whoy, thee lives in Zummerzett; and in Zummerzett thee wast barn, lad.” And so it went on, till I was weary; though very much obliged to them.
Be that as it may—and I won't exaggerate, to avoid letting my annoyance show—anyway, everyone in Watchett cared ten times more about seeing John Ridd than about showing him what he wanted. I was taken to every pub instead of the churchyard; and there were twenty tables ready for me, instead of a single gravestone. “You’re from Somerset, Jan Ridd, and you always will be. You call yourself a Devonshire man! Why, you live in Somerset; and in Somerset, you were born, lad.” And it went on like that until I was tired of it, although I was very grateful to them.
Dull and solid as I am, and with a wild duck waiting for me at good Mistress Odam's, I saw that there was nothing for it but to yield to these good people, and prove me a man of Somerset, by eating a dinner at their expense. As for the churchyard, none would hear of it; and I grieved for broaching the matter.
Dull and solid as I am, and with a wild duck waiting for me at good Mistress Odam's, I realized there was no choice but to give in to these kind people and show that I’m a man from Somerset by having a meal on their dime. As for the churchyard, no one would consider it; and I felt bad for even bringing it up.
But how was I to meet Lorna again, without having done the thing of all things which I had promised to see to? It would never do to tell her that so great was my popularity, and so strong the desire to feed me, that I could not attend to her mother. Least of all could I say that every one in Watchett knew John Ridd; while none had heard of the Countess of Dugal. And yet that was about the truth, as I hinted very delicately to Mistress Odam that evening. But she (being vexed about her wild duck, and not having English ideas on the matter of sport, and so on) made a poor unwitting face at me. Nevertheless Master Odam restored me to my self-respect; for he stared at me till I went to bed; and he broke his hose with excitement. For being in the leg-line myself, I wanted to know what the muscles were of a man who turned a wheel all day. I had never seen a treadmill (though they have one now at Exeter), and it touched me much to learn whether it were good exercise. And herein, from what I saw of Odam, I incline to think that it does great harm; as moving the muscles too much in a line, and without variety.
But how was I supposed to meet Lorna again, without having done the one thing I promised to take care of? It wouldn’t be right to tell her that my popularity was so overwhelming, and that my hunger was so strong, that I couldn’t attend to her mother. Least of all could I say that everyone in Watchett knew John Ridd, while no one had heard of the Countess of Dugal. And yet that was pretty much the truth, as I subtly hinted to Mistress Odam that evening. But she, being annoyed about her wild duck and not sharing the same ideas about sports, gave me a confused look. However, Master Odam restored my self-respect; he stared at me until I went to bed, and he got so excited that he broke his hose. Since I was into physical fitness myself, I wanted to know what the muscles of a man who worked a treadmill all day were like. I had never seen a treadmill (though they have one now at Exeter), and I was very curious to find out if it was good exercise. From what I observed about Odam, I tend to think that it does more harm than good, as it works the muscles in a straight line, without any variety.
CHAPTER LVII
LORNA KNOWS HER NURSE
Having obtained from Benita Odam a very close and full description of the place where her poor mistress lay, and the marks whereby to know it, I hastened to Watchett the following morning, before the sun was up, or any people were about. And so, without interruption, I was in the churchyard at sunrise.
Having gotten a detailed description from Benita Odam of the spot where her poor mistress was resting, along with the signs to identify it, I hurried to Watchett the next morning, before sunrise and before anyone else was around. So, without any interruptions, I was in the churchyard as the sun rose.
In the farthest and darkest nook, overgrown with grass, and overhung by a weeping-tree a little bank of earth betokened the rounding off of a hapless life. There was nothing to tell of rank, or wealth, of love, or even pity; nameless as a peasant lay the last (as supposed) of a mighty race. Only some unskilful hand, probably Master Odam's under his wife's teaching, had carved a rude L., and a ruder D., upon a large pebble from the beach, and set it up as a headstone.
In the furthest, darkest corner, covered in grass and shaded by a weeping tree, a small mound of dirt marked the end of a life full of misfortune. There was no sign of status, wealth, love, or even compassion; the last (as believed) of a powerful lineage lay there, as anonymous as a commoner. Only a clumsy hand, likely Master Odam's under his wife’s guidance, had carved a rough L. and a more rudimentary D. on a large beach pebble, setting it up as a headstone.
I gathered a little grass for Lorna and a sprig of the weeping-tree, and then returned to the Forest Cat, as Benita's lonely inn was called. For the way is long from Watchett to Oare; and though you may ride it rapidly, as the Doones had done on that fatal night, to travel on wheels, with one horse only, is a matter of time and of prudence. Therefore, we set out pretty early, three of us and a baby, who could not well be left behind. The wife of the man who owned the cart had undertaken to mind the business, and the other babies, upon condition of having the keys of all the taps left with her.
I picked some grass for Lorna and a branch from the weeping tree, then headed back to the Forest Cat, which was what they called Benita's lonely inn. The journey from Watchett to Oare is long; even though you can ride it quickly like the Doones did on that tragic night, traveling by cart with just one horse takes a good amount of time and caution. So, we set off fairly early, just the three of us and a baby who couldn’t be left behind. The wife of the cart owner had agreed to watch over the business and the other babies, but only if she got to keep the keys to all the taps.
As the manner of journeying over the moor has been described oft enough already, I will say no more, except that we all arrived before dusk of the summer's day, safe at Plover's Barrows. Mistress Benita was delighted with the change from her dull hard life; and she made many excellent observations, such as seem natural to a foreigner looking at our country.
Since the way of traveling across the moor has been explained plenty already, I won't say much more, except that we all got to Plover's Barrows safely before dusk on that summer day. Mistress Benita was thrilled with the break from her monotonous life, and she made many insightful comments that seemed typical for someone from another country exploring our land.
As luck would have it, the first who came to meet us at the gate was Lorna, with nothing whatever upon her head (the weather being summerly) but her beautiful hair shed round her; and wearing a sweet white frock tucked in, and showing her figure perfectly. In her joy she ran straight up to the cart; and then stopped and gazed at Benita. At one glance her old nurse knew her: “Oh, the eyes, the eyes!” she cried, and was over the rail of the cart in a moment, in spite of all her substance. Lorna, on the other hand, looked at her with some doubt and wonder, as though having right to know much about her, and yet unable to do so. But when the foreign woman said something in Roman language, and flung new hay from the cart upon her, as if in a romp of childhood, the young maid cried, “Oh, Nita, Nita!” and fell upon her breast, and wept; and after that looked round at us.
As luck would have it, the first person who came to greet us at the gate was Lorna, with nothing on her head (since it was summer) except her beautiful hair cascading around her, and wearing a lovely white dress that perfectly showed off her figure. In her excitement, she ran straight up to the cart, then paused to stare at Benita. With one look, her old nurse recognized her: “Oh, the eyes, the eyes!” she exclaimed, and was over the rail of the cart in an instant, despite her size. Lorna, on the other hand, looked at her with some doubt and curiosity, as if she should know her well but couldn’t quite place her. But when the foreign woman spoke in Roman and tossed fresh hay from the cart onto her, as if playing a childhood game, the young maid exclaimed, “Oh, Nita, Nita!” and fell into her arms, weeping; then she looked around at us.
This being so, there could be no doubt as to the power of proving Lady Lorna's birth, and rights, both by evidence and token. For though we had not the necklace now—thanks to Annie's wisdom—we had the ring of heavy gold, a very ancient relic, with which my maid (in her simple way) had pledged herself to me. And Benita knew this ring as well as she knew her own fingers, having heard a long history about it; and the effigy on it of the wild cat was the bearing of the house of Lorne.
Given this, there was no doubt about the evidence proving Lady Lorna's birth and her rights. Even though we didn't have the necklace anymore—thanks to Annie's cleverness—we still had the heavy gold ring, a very old heirloom, with which my maid had committed herself to me in her straightforward manner. Benita recognized this ring as easily as she recognized her own fingers, having learned its long history; the wildcat design on it represented the house of Lorne.
For though Lorna's father was a nobleman of high and goodly lineage, her mother was of yet more ancient and renowned descent, being the last in line direct from the great and kingly chiefs of Lorne. A wild and headstrong race they were, and must have everything their own way. Hot blood was ever among them, even of one household; and their sovereignty (which more than once had defied the King of Scotland) waned and fell among themselves, by continual quarrelling. And it was of a piece with this, that the Doones (who were an offset, by the mother's side, holding in co-partnership some large property, which had come by the spindle, as we say) should fall out with the Earl of Lorne, the last but one of that title.
Although Lorna's father was a nobleman with a proud and respectable lineage, her mother came from an even older and more distinguished background, being the last direct descendant of the great and royal chiefs of Lorne. They were a wild and impulsive people, insisting on having everything their way. Hot tempers always ran high, even within one family; their control (which had at times challenged the King of Scotland) diminished due to constant fighting among themselves. It fit well with this pattern that the Doones (who were related on the mother's side and shared ownership of some considerable land, inherited through family connections, as we say) should clash with the Earl of Lorne, the second-to-last person to hold that title.
The daughter of this nobleman had married Sir Ensor Doone; but this, instead of healing matters, led to fiercer conflict. I never could quite understand all the ins and outs of it; which none but a lawyer may go through, and keep his head at the end of it. The motives of mankind are plainer than the motions they produce. Especially when charity (such as found among us) sits to judge the former, and is never weary of it; while reason does not care to trace the latter complications, except for fee or title.
The daughter of this nobleman married Sir Ensor Doone; however, instead of resolving issues, it just led to more intense conflict. I could never fully grasp all the details of it, which only a lawyer could untangle and stay sane afterward. People's motives are clearer than the actions they cause. Especially when the type of charity we have judges those motives and never gets tired of it, while reason only wants to sort through the resulting mess if there's a payment or a title involved.
Therefore it is enough to say, that knowing Lorna to be direct in heirship to vast property, and bearing especial spite against the house of which she was the last, the Doones had brought her up with full intention of lawful marriage; and had carefully secluded her from the wildest of their young gallants. Of course, if they had been next in succession, the child would have gone down the waterfall, to save any further trouble; but there was an intercepting branch of some honest family; and they being outlaws, would have a poor chance (though the law loves outlaws) against them. Only Lorna was of the stock; and Lorna they must marry. And what a triumph against the old earl, for a cursed Doone to succeed him!
So, it's enough to say that since Lorna was directly in line to inherit a large fortune and had a strong grudge against the house of which she was the last member, the Doones raised her with the clear intention of marrying her off legally; they made sure to keep her away from the wildest of their young men. Naturally, if they had been next in line for the inheritance, the girl would have been sent over the waterfall to avoid any further complications; but there was another branch from a respectable family in the way, and since they were outlaws, they'd have a slim chance (even though the law often favors outlaws) against the Doones. But Lorna was one of them; and Lorna was the one they needed to marry. And what a victory it would be over the old earl for a cursed Doone to take his place!
As for their outlawry, great robberies, and grand murders, the veriest child, nowadays, must know that money heals the whole of that. Even if they had murdered people of a good position, it would only cost about twice as much to prove their motives loyal. But they had never slain any man above the rank of yeoman; and folk even said that my father was the highest of their victims; for the death of Lorna's mother and brother was never set to their account.
As for their criminal activity, major thefts, and serious murders, even the youngest kids today know that money can fix all of that. Even if they had killed people from high status, it would only take about twice the amount of cash to show their intentions were good. But they never killed anyone above a common farmer; and people even said that my father was their most significant victim; because the deaths of Lorna's mother and brother were never blamed on them.
Pure pleasure it is to any man, to reflect upon all these things. How truly we discern clear justice, and how well we deal it. If any poor man steals a sheep, having ten children starving, and regarding it as mountain game (as a rich man does a hare), to the gallows with him. If a man of rank beats down a door, smites the owner upon the head, and honours the wife with attention, it is a thing to be grateful for, and to slouch smitten head the lower.
It's pure pleasure for anyone to think about all this. We really see how clear justice is, and how well we apply it. If a poor man steals a sheep because his ten children are starving, treating it like a big game (just like a rich man treats a hare), he gets the gallows. But if a wealthy man breaks down a door, hits the owner on the head, and pays attention to the wife, it's something to be thankful for, and the injured man should just bow his head lower.
While we were full of all these things, and wondering what would happen next, or what we ought ourselves to do, another very important matter called for our attention. This was no less than Annie's marriage to the Squire Faggus. We had tried to put it off again; for in spite of all advantages, neither my mother nor myself had any real heart for it. Not that we dwelled upon Tom's short-comings or rather perhaps his going too far, at the time when he worked the road so. All that was covered by the King's pardon, and universal respect of the neighbourhood. But our scruple was this—and the more we talked the more it grew upon us—that we both had great misgivings as to his future steadiness.
While we were dealing with all these things, wondering what would happen next or what we should do, another important issue demanded our attention. This was Annie's marriage to Squire Faggus. We had tried to postpone it again because, despite all the advantages, neither my mother nor I felt genuinely enthusiastic about it. It wasn't that we focused on Tom's shortcomings—or perhaps his overstepping—when he was working on the road. That was all forgiven with the King's pardon and the neighborhood's overall respect. But our concern was this—and the more we discussed it, the more it grew—that we both had serious doubts about his future reliability.
For it would be a thousand pities, we said, for a fine, well-grown, and pretty maiden (such as our Annie was), useful too, in so many ways, and lively, and warm-hearted, and mistress of 500 pounds, to throw herself away on a man with a kind of a turn for drinking. If that last were even hinted, Annie would be most indignant, and ask, with cheeks as red as roses, who had ever seen Master Faggus any the worse for liquor indeed? Her own opinion was, in truth, that he took a great deal too little, after all his hard work, and hard riding, and coming over the hills to be insulted! And if ever it lay in her power, and with no one to grudge him his trumpery glass, she would see that poor Tom had the nourishment which his cough and his lungs required.
It would be such a shame, we said, for a lovely, well-raised, and attractive girl (like our Annie) who is so useful in many ways, lively, warm-hearted, and with £500 to waste herself on a guy who has a bit of a drinking problem. If that was even suggested, Annie would be really upset and would ask, her cheeks as red as roses, who had ever seen Master Faggus worse for wear from drinking? In her opinion, honestly, he didn’t drink nearly enough after all his hard work, tough riding, and coming over the hills to face insults! And if it was ever up to her, with no one to begrudge him his silly drink, she would make sure that poor Tom got the nourishment he needed for his cough and lungs.
His lungs being quite as sound as mine, this matter was out of all argument; so mother and I looked at one another, as much as to say, “let her go upstairs, she will cry and come down more reasonable.” And while she was gone, we used to say the same thing over and over again; but without perceiving a cure for it. And we almost always finished up with the following reflection, which sometimes came from mother's lips, and sometimes from my own: “Well, well, there is no telling. None can say how a man may alter; when he takes to matrimony. But if we could only make Annie promise to be a little firm with him!”
His lungs were just as healthy as mine, so that was settled; mother and I exchanged glances, as if to say, “Let her go upstairs, she’ll cry and come down more reasonable.” While she was gone, we kept repeating the same thing, but without finding a solution. We almost always ended with the same thought, which sometimes came from mother and sometimes from me: “Well, who knows? No one can predict how a man might change when he gets married. But if only we could make Annie promise to stand her ground with him!”
I fear that all this talk on our part only hurried matters forward, Annie being more determined every time we pitied her. And at last Tom Faggus came, and spoke as if he were on the King's road, with a pistol at my head, and one at mother's. “No more fast and loose,” he cried. “either one thing or the other. I love the maid, and she loves me; and we will have one another, either with your leave, or without it. How many more times am I to dance over these vile hills, and leave my business, and get nothing more than a sigh or a kiss, and 'Tom, I must wait for mother'? You are famous for being straightforward, you Ridds. Just treat me as I would treat you now.”
I worry that all this talk from us just pushed things along, with Annie getting more determined every time we felt sorry for her. And finally, Tom Faggus showed up, acting like he was on the King's road, with a gun to my head and another to my mother's. “No more playing games,” he shouted. “It's one thing or the other. I love the girl, and she loves me; and we're going to be together, with your approval or not. How many more times do I have to run around these horrible hills, leave my work, and get nothing more than a sigh or a kiss, and 'Tom, I have to wait for mother'? You Ridds are known for being straightforward. Just treat me the way I would treat you right now.”
I looked at my mother; for a glance from her would have sent Tom out of the window; but she checked me with her hand, and said, “You have some ground of complaint, sir; I will not deny it. Now I will be as straight-forward with you, as even a Ridd is supposed to be. My son and myself have all along disliked your marriage with Annie. Not for what you have been so much, as for what we fear you will be. Have patience, one moment, if you please. We do not fear your taking to the highway life again; for that you are too clever, no doubt, now that you have property. But we fear that you will take to drinking, and to squandering money. There are many examples of this around us; and we know what the fate of the wife is. It has been hard to tell you this, under our own roof, and with our own—” Here mother hesitated.
I looked at my mom; just a look from her would have made Tom jump out the window, but she stopped me with her hand and said, “You have some reason to be upset, sir; I won’t deny that. Now I’ll be as honest with you as even a Ridd is supposed to be. My son and I have always disliked your marriage with Annie. Not so much for who you’ve been, but for who we worry you might become. Please be patient for just a moment. We don’t worry about you going back to a life of crime; you’re too smart for that now that you have property. But we’re concerned that you’ll turn to drinking and waste your money. There are plenty of examples of that around us, and we know how it affects the wife. It’s been difficult to tell you this under our own roof, with our own—” Here my mom hesitated.
“Spirits, and cider, and beer,” I broke in; “out with it, like a Ridd, mother; as he will have all of it.”
“Spirits, cider, and beer,” I interrupted; “spill the beans, like a Ridd, mother; since he’s going to take it all.”
“Spirits, and cider, and beer,” said mother very firmly after me; and then she gave way and said, “You know, Tom, you are welcome to every drop and more of it.”
“Spirits, cider, and beer,” my mother said firmly after me; and then she relented and added, “You know, Tom, you’re welcome to every drop and even more of it.”
Now Tom must have had a far sweeter temper than ever I could claim; for I should have thrust my glass away, and never have taken another drop in the house where such a check had met me. But instead of that, Master Faggus replied, with a pleasant smile,—
Now Tom must have had a much better temper than I could ever claim; because I would have pushed my glass away and never taken another drink in the house where I had received such a blow. But instead of that, Master Faggus replied with a friendly smile,—
“I know that I am welcome, good mother; and to prove it, I will have some more.”
“I know I’m welcome, dear mother; and to show that, I’ll have some more.”
And thereupon be mixed himself another glass of hollands with lemon and hot water, yet pouring it very delicately.
And then he mixed another glass of gin with lemon and hot water, pouring it very carefully.
“Oh, I have been so miserable—take a little more, Tom,” said mother, handing the bottle.
“Oh, I’ve been so miserable—take a bit more, Tom,” said mom, handing over the bottle.
“Yes, take a little more,” I said; “you have mixed it over weak, Tom.”
“Yes, have a bit more,” I said; “you have blended it too weak, Tom.”
“If ever there was a sober man,” cried Tom, complying with our request; “if ever there was in Christendom a man of perfect sobriety, that man is now before you. Shall we say to-morrow week, mother? It will suit your washing day.”
“If there was ever a sober man,” Tom exclaimed, agreeing to our request; “if there is ever a man of perfect sobriety in the world, that man is standing right here. Shall we say next week, mom? It will fit with your laundry day.”
“How very thoughtful you are, Tom! Now John would never have thought of that, in spite of all his steadiness.”
“How thoughtful you are, Tom! John would never have thought of that, even with all his reliability.”
“Certainly not,” I answered proudly; “when my time comes for Lorna, I shall not study Betty Muxworthy.”
“Definitely not,” I replied confidently; “when it’s my time with Lorna, I won’t be thinking about Betty Muxworthy.”
In this way the Squire got over us; and Farmer Nicholas Snowe was sent for, to counsel with mother about the matter and to set his two daughters sewing.
In this way, the Squire got the better of us; and Farmer Nicholas Snowe was called in to discuss the issue with my mother and to set his two daughters to sewing.
When the time for the wedding came, there was such a stir and commotion as had never been known in the parish of Oare since my father's marriage. For Annie's beauty and kindliness had made her the pride of the neighbourhood; and the presents sent her, from all around, were enough to stock a shop with. Master Stickles, who now could walk, and who certainly owed his recovery, with the blessing of God, to Annie, presented her with a mighty Bible, silver-clasped, and very handsome, beating the parson's out and out, and for which he had sent to Taunton. Even the common troopers, having tasted her cookery many times (to help out their poor rations), clubbed together, and must have given at least a week's pay apiece, to have turned out what they did for her. This was no less than a silver pot, well-designed, but suited surely rather to the bridegroom's taste than bride's. In a word, everybody gave her things.
When the wedding day arrived, there was more excitement and noise than had ever been seen in the parish of Oare since my father's wedding. Annie's beauty and kindness had made her the pride of the neighborhood, and the gifts sent to her from everywhere could easily fill a shop. Master Stickles, who could now walk and definitely owed his recovery, thanks to God, to Annie, gave her a beautiful Bible with silver clasps, which was far nicer than the parson's and which he had ordered from Taunton. Even the regular soldiers, who had enjoyed her cooking many times (to supplement their meager rations), pooled their money together and must have each contributed at least a week's pay to get her what they did. This turned out to be a silver pot, well-designed, but more suited to the groom's taste than the bride's. In short, everyone gave her gifts.
And now my Lorna came to me, with a spring of tears in appealing eyes—for she was still somewhat childish, or rather, I should say, more childish now than when she lived in misery—and she placed her little hand in mine, and she was half afraid to speak, and dropped her eyes for me to ask.
And now my Lorna came to me, with tears welling in her pleading eyes—for she was still a bit childish, or rather, I should say, more childish now than when she was living in sorrow—and she placed her small hand in mine, and she was partly scared to speak, looking down so I would ask.
“What is it, little darling?” I asked, as I saw her breath come fast; for the smallest emotion moved her form.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” I asked, seeing her breath quicken; even the slightest emotion affected her.
“You don't think, John, you don't think, dear, that you could lend me any money?”
“You don't think, John, you don't think, dear, that you could lend me any money?”
“All I have got,” I answered; “how much do you want, dear heart?”
“All I have is yours,” I replied. “How much do you need, my dear?”
“I have been calculating; and I fear that I cannot do any good with less than ten pounds, John.”
"I've been figuring it out, and I'm afraid I can't do any good with less than ten pounds, John."
Here she looked up at me, with horror at the grandeur of the sum, and not knowing what I could think of it. But I kept my eyes from her. “Ten pounds!” I said in my deepest voice, on purpose to have it out in comfort, when she should be frightened; “what can you want with ten pounds, child?”
Here she looked up at me, horrified by the large amount, unsure of what I would think about it. But I avoided her gaze. “Ten pounds!” I said in my deepest voice, trying to ease the tension when she would be scared; “what do you need ten pounds for, kid?”
“That is my concern,” said Lorna, plucking up her spirit at this: “when a lady asks for a loan, no gentleman pries into the cause of her asking it.”
“That is my concern,” Lorna said, gathering her courage: “when a woman asks for a loan, no man questions why she needs it.”
“That may be as may be,” I answered in a judicial manner; “ten pounds, or twenty, you shall have. But I must know the purport.”
"That might be true," I replied in a formal way. "You'll get ten pounds, or twenty. But I need to know the reason."
“Then that you never shall know, John. I am very sorry for asking you. It is not of the smallest consequence. Oh, dear, no.” Herewith she was running away.
“Then you’ll never know, John. I’m really sorry for asking you. It doesn’t matter at all. Oh, no.” With that, she was running away.
“Oh, dear, yes,” I replied; “it is of very great consequence; and I understand the whole of it. You want to give that stupid Annie, who has lost you a hundred thousand pounds, and who is going to be married before us, dear—God only can tell why, being my younger sister—you want to give her a wedding present. And you shall do it, darling; because it is so good of you. Don't you know your title, love? How humble you are with us humble folk. You are Lady Lorna something, so far as I can make out yet: and you ought not even to speak to us. You will go away and disdain us.”
“Oh, absolutely,” I replied; “it really matters a lot; and I get it completely. You want to give that silly Annie, who’s cost you a hundred thousand pounds and who’s getting married before us—God knows why, since she’s my younger sister—you want to give her a wedding present. And you should do it, sweetheart; it’s so generous of you. Don’t you realize your title, love? You’re so modest around us ordinary people. You’re Lady Lorna something, as far as I can tell: you really shouldn’t even talk to us. You’ll leave and look down on us.”
“If you please, talk not like that, John. I will have nothing to do with it, if it comes between you and me, John.”
“If you don’t mind, please don’t talk like that, John. I want no part of it if it gets in the way of you and me, John.”
“You cannot help yourself,” said I. And then she vowed that she could and would. And rank and birth were banished from between our lips in no time.
“You can't help yourself,” I said. And then she promised that she could and would. Soon enough, class and status disappeared from our conversation.
“What can I get her good enough? I am sure I do not know,” she asked: “she has been so kind and good to me, and she is such a darling. How I shall miss her, to be sure! By the bye, you seem to think, John, that I shall be rich some day.”
“What can I get her that’s good enough? I honestly have no idea,” she asked. “She has been so kind and good to me, and she’s such a sweetheart. I’m really going to miss her, that’s for sure! By the way, you seem to think, John, that I’ll be rich someday.”
“Of course you will. As rich as the French King who keeps ours. Would the Lord Chancellor trouble himself about you, if you were poor?”
“Of course you will. As wealthy as the French king who supports ours. Would the Lord Chancellor bother with you if you were broke?”
“Then if I am rich, perhaps you would lend me twenty pounds, dear John. Ten pounds would be very mean for a wealthy person to give her.”
"Then if I'm rich, maybe you could lend me twenty pounds, dear John. Ten pounds would be pretty stingy for someone wealthy to give her."
To this I agreed, upon condition that I should make the purchase myself, whatever it might be. For nothing could be easier than to cheat Lorna about the cost, until time should come for her paying me. And this was better than to cheat her for the benefit of our family. For this end, and for many others, I set off to Dulverton, bearing more commissions, more messages, and more questions than a man of thrice my memory might carry so far as the corner where the sawpit is. And to make things worse, one girl or other would keep on running up to me, or even after me (when started) with something or other she had just thought of, which she could not possibly do without, and which I must be sure to remember, as the most important of the whole.
I agreed to this, on the condition that I would make the purchase myself, no matter what it was. It would be easy to deceive Lorna about the cost until it was time for her to pay me. And this felt better than cheating her for the benefit of our family. For this reason, and many others, I set off to Dulverton, carrying more tasks, more messages, and more questions than someone with triple my memory could handle all the way to the corner by the sawpit. And to make matters worse, one girl or another would keep running up to me, or even chasing after me (once I had started), with something she had just thought of that she absolutely couldn't do without, which I had to remember as the most important thing of all.
To my dear mother, who had partly outlived the exceeding value of trifles, the most important matter seemed to ensure Uncle Reuben's countenance and presence at the marriage. And if I succeeded in this, I might well forget all the maidens' trumpery. This she would have been wiser to tell me when they were out of hearing; for I left her to fight her own battle with them; and laughing at her predicament, promised to do the best I could for all, so far as my wits would go.
To my dear mom, who had somewhat moved past the overwhelming importance of little things, the biggest deal was getting Uncle Reuben to show up at the wedding. If I pulled that off, I could easily forget all about the girls' nonsense. She would have been smarter to say this when they weren't around because I left her to handle her own issues with them. While chuckling at her situation, I promised to do my best for everyone, as much as I could.
Uncle Reuben was not at home, but Ruth, who received me very kindly, although without any expressions of joy, was sure of his return in the afternoon, and persuaded me to wait for him. And by the time that I had finished all I could recollect of my orders, even with paper to help me, the old gentleman rode into the yard, and was more surprised than pleased to see me. But if he was surprised, I was more than that—I was utterly astonished at the change in his appearance since the last time I had seen him. From a hale, and rather heavy man, gray-haired, but plump, and ruddy, he was altered to a shrunken, wizened, trembling, and almost decrepit figure. Instead of curly and comely locks, grizzled indeed, but plentiful, he had only a few lank white hairs scattered and flattened upon his forehead. But the greatest change of all was in the expression of his eyes, which had been so keen, and restless, and bright, and a little sarcastic. Bright indeed they still were, but with a slow unhealthy lustre; their keenness was turned to perpetual outlook, their restlessness to a haggard want. As for the humour which once gleamed there (which people who fear it call sarcasm) it had been succeeded by stares of terror, and then mistrust, and shrinking. There was none of the interest in mankind, which is needful even for satire.
Uncle Reuben wasn't home, but Ruth welcomed me warmly, even though she didn't show any excitement. She was confident he would be back in the afternoon and convinced me to wait for him. By the time I finished recalling everything I could about my orders, even with paper for assistance, the old gentleman rode into the yard and looked more shocked than happy to see me. But if he was surprised, I was even more so—I was completely astounded by how much he had changed since the last time I saw him. Once a healthy, heavy-set man with gray hair who was plump and rosy, he had transformed into a shrunken, wrinkled, trembling, and almost frail figure. Instead of his once-curly and attractive hair, now only a few thin white strands were awkwardly scattered and flattened on his forehead. The biggest change was in his eyes, which used to be sharp, restless, bright, and slightly sarcastic. They were still bright, but now with a sluggish, unhealthy shine; their sharpness had turned into a constant stare, their restlessness into a haggard longing. The humor that used to sparkle there (which people who are afraid of it call sarcasm) had been replaced by expressions of fear, suspicion, and withdrawal. There was none of the interest in people that is essential even for satire.
“Now what can this be?” thought I to myself, “has the old man lost all his property, or taken too much to strong waters?”
“Now what could this be?” I thought to myself, “Has the old man lost all his money, or has he been drinking too much?”
“Come inside, John Ridd,” he said; “I will have a talk with you. It is cold out here; and it is too light. Come inside, John Ridd, boy.”
“Come inside, John Ridd,” he said; “I want to talk to you. It’s cold out here, and it’s too bright. Come inside, John Ridd, kid.”
I followed him into a little dark room, quite different from Ruth Huckaback's. It was closed from the shop by an old division of boarding, hung with tanned canvas; and the smell was very close and faint. Here there was a ledger desk, and a couple of chairs, and a long-legged stool.
I followed him into a small dark room, which was quite different from Ruth Huckaback's. It was separated from the shop by an old partition made of boards, covered with tanned canvas; and the air was very stuffy and faint. In here, there was a ledger desk, a couple of chairs, and a tall stool.
“Take the stool,” said Uncle Reuben, showing me in very quietly, “it is fitter for your height, John. Wait a moment; there is no hurry.”
“Take the stool,” said Uncle Reuben, quietly guiding me in, “it's better suited for your height, John. Hold on; there's no rush.”
Then he slipped out by another door, and closing it quickly after him, told the foreman and waiting-men that the business of the day was done. They had better all go home at once; and he would see to the fastenings. Of course they were only too glad to go; but I wondered at his sending them, with at least two hours of daylight left.
Then he quietly left through another door and quickly shut it behind him, telling the foreman and the workers that their day was over. They should all head home right away, and he would handle the locks. They were more than happy to leave, but I was surprised he sent them off with still a couple of hours of daylight remaining.
However, that was no business of mine, and I waited, and pondered whether fair Ruth ever came into this dirty room, and if so, how she kept her hands from it. For Annie would have had it upside down in about two minutes, and scrubbed, and brushed, and dusted, until it looked quite another place; and yet all this done without scolding and crossness; which are the curse of clean women, and ten times worse than the dustiest dust.
However, that wasn't my concern, so I waited and wondered if the lovely Ruth ever came into this messy room, and if she did, how she kept her hands clean. Because Annie would have turned it upside down in just a couple of minutes, scrubbing, brushing, and dusting until it looked like a completely different place; and she would have done all of this without scolding or being grumpy, which is the biggest downside of clean people and way worse than the dustiest dust.
Uncle Ben came reeling in, not from any power of liquor, but because he was stiff from horseback, and weak from work and worry.
Uncle Ben stumbled in, not from drinking, but because he was sore from riding and drained from his hard work and stress.
“Let me be, John, let me be,” he said, as I went to help him; “this is an unkind dreary place; but many a hundred of good gold Carolus has been turned in this place, John.”
“Leave me alone, John, just leave me alone,” he said, as I tried to help him; “this is a bleak and miserable place; but many hundreds of good gold Carolus have been exchanged here, John.”
“Not a doubt about it, sir,” I answered in my loud and cheerful manner; “and many another hundred, sir; and may you long enjoy them!”
“Absolutely, sir,” I replied in my loud and cheerful tone; “and many more hundreds to come, sir; may you enjoy them for a long time!”
“My boy, do you wish me to die?” he asked, coming up close to my stool, and regarding me with a shrewd though blear-eyed gaze; “many do. Do you, John?”
“My boy, do you want me to die?” he asked, stepping closer to my stool and looking at me with a keen but bleary-eyed stare; “many do. Do you, John?”
“Come,” said I, “don't ask such nonsense. You know better than that, Uncle Ben. Or else, I am sorry for you. I want you to live as long as possible, for the sake of—” Here I stopped.
“Come on,” I said, “don’t talk like that. You know better than that, Uncle Ben. If not, I feel sorry for you. I want you to live as long as you can, for the sake of—” Here I stopped.
“For the sake of what, John? I knew it is not for my own sake. For the sake of what, my boy?”
“For what reason, John? I know it’s not for my benefit. For what reason, my boy?”
“For the sake of Ruth,” I answered; “if you must have all the truth. Who is to mind her when you are gone?”
“For Ruth’s sake,” I replied, “if you really want the whole truth. Who will take care of her when you’re gone?”
“But if you knew that I had gold, or a manner of getting gold, far more than ever the sailors got out of the Spanish galleons, far more than ever was heard of; and the secret was to be yours, John; yours after me and no other soul's—then you would wish me dead, John.” Here he eyed me as if a speck of dust in my eyes should not escape him.
“But if you knew that I had gold, or a way to get gold, much more than the sailors ever got from the Spanish galleons, far more than anyone has ever heard of; and the secret was to be yours, John; yours after me and no one else's—then you would want me dead, John.” He looked at me as if not a speck of dust in my eyes could escape his notice.
“You are wrong, Uncle Ben; altogether wrong. For all the gold ever heard or dreamed of, not a wish would cross my heart to rob you of one day of life.”
“You're wrong, Uncle Ben; completely wrong. No amount of gold ever imagined or dreamed of would make me want to take even a single day of your life away.”
At last he moved his eyes from mine; but without any word, or sign, to show whether he believed, or disbelieved. Then he went to a chair, and sat with his chin upon the ledger-desk; as if the effort of probing me had been too much for his weary brain. “Dreamed of! All the gold ever dreamed of! As if it were but a dream!” he muttered; and then he closed his eyes to think.
At last, he looked away from me, but without saying anything or giving any hint about whether he believed me or not. Then he went to a chair and sat down with his chin resting on the ledger desk, as if trying to figure me out had drained his tired mind. “Dreamed of! All the gold anyone ever dreamed of! As if it were just a dream!” he muttered, and then he closed his eyes to think.
“Good Uncle Reuben,” I said to him, “you have been a long way to-day, sir. Let me go and get you a glass of good wine. Cousin Ruth knows where to find it.”
“Good Uncle Reuben,” I said to him, “you’ve traveled a long way today, sir. Let me go get you a glass of good wine. Cousin Ruth knows where to find it.”
“How do you know how far I have been?” he asked, with a vicious look at me. “And Cousin Ruth! You are very pat with my granddaughter's name, young man!”
“How do you know how far I’ve been?” he asked, giving me a fierce look. “And Cousin Ruth! You’re very familiar with my granddaughter’s name, aren’t you, young man?”
“It would be hard upon me, sir, not to know my own cousin's name.”
“It would be tough for me, sir, not to know my own cousin's name.”
“Very well. Let that go by. You have behaved very badly to Ruth. She loves you; and you love her not.”
“Alright. Just forget about it. You've treated Ruth very poorly. She loves you, and you don’t love her.”
At this I was so wholly amazed—not at the thing itself, I mean, but at his knowledge of it—that I could not say a single word; but looked, no doubt, very foolish.
At this, I was completely astonished—not by the thing itself, but by his understanding of it—that I couldn't say a word; I just stared, no doubt looking very silly.
“You may well be ashamed, young man,” he cried, with some triumph over me, “you are the biggest of all fools, as well as a conceited coxcomb. What can you want more than Ruth? She is a little damsel, truly; but finer men than you, John Ridd, with all your boasted strength and wrestling, have wedded smaller maidens. And as for quality, and value—bots! one inch of Ruth is worth all your seven feet put together.”
“You might as well be ashamed, young man,” he shouted, feeling a bit victorious over me, “you’re the biggest fool of all, as well as a vain idiot. What more could you want than Ruth? She’s just a little girl, sure; but better men than you, John Ridd, with all your claimed strength and wrestling skills, have married smaller women. And when it comes to quality and worth—nonsense! Just one inch of Ruth is worth all your seven feet combined.”
Now I am not seven feet high; nor ever was six feet eight inches, in my very prime of life; and nothing vexes me so much as to make me out a giant, and above human sympathy, and human scale of weakness. It cost me hard to hold my tongue; which luckily is not in proportion to my stature. And only for Ruth's sake I held it. But Uncle Ben (being old and worn) was vexed by not having any answer, almost as much as a woman is.
Now, I'm not seven feet tall; I was never even six feet eight in my prime; and nothing frustrates me more than being considered a giant, above human understanding and the usual weaknesses we all have. It was a struggle to keep quiet, which, thankfully, isn't proportional to my height. The only reason I stayed silent was for Ruth. But Uncle Ben (being old and worn out) was just as annoyed by the lack of an answer as a woman would be.
“You want me to go on,” he continued, with a look of spite at me, “about my poor Ruth's love for you, to feed your cursed vanity. Because a set of asses call you the finest man in England; there is no maid (I suppose) who is not in love with you. I believe you are as deep as you are long, John Ridd. Shall I ever get to the bottom of your character?”
“You want me to keep going,” he continued, shooting a glare at me, “about my poor Ruth's love for you, to feed your damn vanity. Because a bunch of idiots call you the finest man in England; I guess there isn't a girl out there who isn't in love with you. I think you're as shallow as you are tall, John Ridd. Will I ever really understand what you're like?”
This was a little too much for me. Any insult I could take (with goodwill) from a white-haired man, and one who was my relative; unless it touched my love for Lorna, or my conscious modesty. Now both of these were touched to the quick by the sentences of the old gentleman. Therefore, without a word, I went; only making a bow to him.
This was a bit much for me. I could handle any insult (with good intentions) from an older man, especially one who was my relative; as long as it didn't involve my feelings for Lorna or my self-respect. But both of those were sharply affected by what the old man said. So, without saying anything, I left, only nodding to him.
But women who are (beyond all doubt) the mothers of all mischief, also nurse that babe to sleep, when he is too noisy. And there was Ruth, as I took my horse (with a trunk of frippery on him), poor little Ruth was at the bridle, and rusting all the knops of our town-going harness with tears.
But women, without a doubt, are the source of all trouble, and they also soothe that child to sleep when he gets too loud. And there was Ruth, as I took my horse (with a trunk full of junk on him), poor little Ruth was holding the bridle and dampening all the knobs of our town-going harness with her tears.
“Good-bye dear,” I said, as she bent her head away from me; “shall I put you up on the saddle, dear?”
“Goodbye, dear,” I said as she turned her head away from me. “Can I help you onto the saddle, dear?”
“Cousin Ridd, you may take it lightly,” said Ruth, turning full upon me, “and very likely you are right, according to your nature”—this was the only cutting thing the little soul ever said to me—“but oh, Cousin Ridd, you have no idea of the pain you will leave behind you.”
“Cousin Ridd, you might not think much of it,” Ruth said, facing me completely, “and you’re probably right, based on who you are”—this was the only harsh thing the sweet girl ever said to me—“but oh, Cousin Ridd, you have no clue about the hurt you will leave behind.”
“How can that be so, Ruth, when I am as good as ordered to be off the premises?”
“How can that be, Ruth, when I’ve been practically told to leave the place?”
“In the first place, Cousin Ridd, grandfather will be angry with himself, for having so ill-used you. And now he is so weak and poorly, that he is always repenting. In the next place I shall scold him first, until he admits his sorrow; and when he has admitted it, I shall scold myself for scolding him. And then he will come round again, and think that I was hard on him; and end perhaps by hating you—for he is like a woman now, John.”
“In the first place, Cousin Ridd, Grandpa will be upset with himself for treating you so badly. And now he’s so weak and sick that he’s always feeling sorry about it. Next, I’m going to scold him first, until he acknowledges his regret; and once he does, I’ll end up scolding myself for scolding him. Then he’ll come back around and think that I was too harsh on him; and he might even end up hating you—for he’s acting like a woman now, John.”
That last little touch of self-knowledge in Ruth, which she delivered with a gleam of some secret pleasantry, made me stop and look closely at her: but she pretended not to know it. “There is something in this child,” I thought, “very different from other girls. What it is I cannot tell; for one very seldom gets at it.”
That last bit of self-awareness in Ruth, which she shared with a hint of some hidden amusement, made me pause and study her closely: but she acted like she was unaware of it. “There’s something about this girl,” I thought, “that’s really different from other girls. I can't pinpoint what it is; it’s just that you rarely get to the heart of it.”
At any rate the upshot was that the good horse went back to stable, and had another feed of corn, while my wrath sank within me. There are two things, according to my experience (which may not hold with another man) fitted beyond any others to take hot tempers out of us. The first is to see our favourite creatures feeding, and licking up their food, and happily snuffling over it, yet sparing time to be grateful, and showing taste and perception; the other is to go gardening boldly, in the spring of the year, without any misgiving about it, and hoping the utmost of everything. If there be a third anodyne, approaching these two in power, it is to smoke good tobacco well, and watch the setting of the moon; and if this should only be over the sea, the result is irresistible.
At any rate, the result was that the good horse went back to the stable and had another feed of corn, while my anger subsided. From my experience (which might not apply to everyone), there are two things that really help cool a hot temper. The first is watching our favorite animals eat, enjoying their food, and being grateful while clearly showing their appreciation; the other is to garden confidently in the spring, without any doubts, and hoping for the best. If there’s a third remedy that comes close to the power of these two, it’s smoking good tobacco and watching the sunset; and if it happens to be over the ocean, the effect is irresistible.
Master Huckaback showed no especial signs of joy at my return; but received me with a little grunt, which appeared to me to mean, “Ah, I thought he would hardly be fool enough to go.” I told him how sorry I was for having in some way offended him; and he answered that I did well to grieve for one at least of my offences. To this I made no reply, as behoves a man dealing with cross and fractious people; and presently he became better-tempered, and sent little Ruth for a bottle of wine. She gave me a beautiful smile of thanks for my forbearance as she passed; and I knew by her manner that she would bring the best bottle in all the cellar.
Master Huckaback didn't seem particularly happy to see me again; he just grunted a little, which felt like he was thinking, “I thought he wouldn't be stupid enough to come back.” I told him I was really sorry for somehow upsetting him, and he replied that I was right to feel bad about at least one of my mistakes. I didn't respond, as it's wise to stay quiet with difficult people; soon he lightened up a bit and sent little Ruth to fetch a bottle of wine. She smiled at me gratefully as she walked by, and I could tell from her demeanor that she'd be getting the best bottle in the entire cellar.
As I had but little time to spare (although the days were long and light) we were forced to take our wine with promptitude and rapidity; and whether this loosened my uncle's tongue, or whether he meant beforehand to speak, is now almost uncertain. But true it is that he brought his chair very near to mine, after three or four glasses, and sent Ruth away upon some errand which seemed of small importance. At this I was vexed, for the room always looked so different without her.
As I had little time to waste (even though the days were long and bright), we had to drink our wine quickly. It’s unclear if this loosened my uncle's tongue or if he planned to speak all along. But it’s true that after three or four glasses, he moved his chair closer to mine and sent Ruth away on some errand that seemed unimportant. This annoyed me because the room always felt different without her.
“Come, Jack,” he said, “here's your health, young fellow, and a good and obedient wife to you. Not that your wife will ever obey you though; you are much too easy-tempered. Even a bitter and stormy woman might live in peace with you, Jack. But never you give her the chance to try. Marry some sweet little thing, if you can. If not, don't marry any. Ah, we have the maid to suit you, my lad, in this old town of Dulverton.”
“Come on, Jack,” he said, “here's to your health, young man, and to having a good and obedient wife. Not that your wife will really listen to you; you're way too easygoing. Even a grumpy and dramatic woman could get along with you, Jack. But don’t ever let her get the chance to find out. Marry someone sweet if you can. If not, don’t marry at all. Ah, we have the perfect maid for you, my friend, right here in this old town of Dulverton.”
“Have you so, sir? But perhaps the maid might have no desire to suit me.”
“Is that so, sir? But maybe the maid doesn’t want to please me.”
“That you may take my word she has. The colour of this wine will prove it. The little sly hussy has been to the cobwebbed arch of the cellar, where she has no right to go, for any one under a magistrate. However, I am glad to see it, and we will not spare it, John. After my time, somebody, whoever marries little Ruth, will find some rare wines there, I trow, and perhaps not know the difference.”
“Believe me, she has. The color of this wine will show it. The little sneaky girl has snuck into the dusty corner of the cellar, where she's not supposed to go without a magistrate's permission. Still, I'm happy to see it, and we won't hold back, John. After I'm gone, whoever marries little Ruth will likely discover some fine wines there, and maybe they won't even know the difference.”
Thinking of this the old man sighed, and expected me to sigh after him. But a sigh is not (like a yawn) infectious; and we are all more prone to be sent to sleep than to sorrow by one another. Not but what a sigh sometimes may make us think of sighing.
Thinking about this, the old man sighed and expected me to sigh with him. But a sigh isn't contagious like a yawn; we're more likely to be lulled to sleep than to feel sadness by each other. Still, a sigh can sometimes make us think about sighing.
“Well, sir,” cried I, in my sprightliest manner, which rouses up most people, “here's to your health and dear little Ruth's: and may you live to knock off the cobwebs from every bottle in under the arch. Uncle Reuben, your life and health, sir?”
“Well, sir,” I exclaimed in my most lively tone, which usually gets a rise out of people, “here’s to your health and sweet little Ruth’s: may you both live long enough to dust off the cobwebs from every bottle under the arch. Uncle Reuben, here’s to your life and health, sir?”
With that I took my glass thoughtfully, for it was wondrous good; and Uncle Ben was pleased to see me dwelling pleasantly on the subject with parenthesis, and self-commune, and oral judgment unpronounced, though smacking of fine decision. “Curia vult advisari,” as the lawyers say; which means, “Let us have another glass, and then we can think about it.”
With that, I took my glass thoughtfully because it was really good; and Uncle Ben was happy to see me enjoying the topic, lost in my thoughts and quiet judgment, even though I didn't say much, yet it suggested a strong decision. “Curia vult advisari,” as the lawyers say; which means, “Let’s have another glass, and then we can think about it.”
“Come now, John,” said Uncle Ben, laying his wrinkled hand on my knee, when he saw that none could heed us, “I know that you have a sneaking fondness for my grandchild Ruth. Don't interrupt me now; you have; and to deny it will only provoke me.”
“Come on, John,” said Uncle Ben, placing his wrinkled hand on my knee, when he noticed that no one was paying attention to us, “I know you have a secret soft spot for my granddaughter Ruth. Don’t interrupt me now; you do, and denying it will just make me more annoyed.”
“I do like Ruth, sir,” I said boldly, for fear of misunderstanding; “but I do not love her.”
“I do like Ruth, sir,” I said confidently, to avoid any misunderstanding; “but I do not love her.”
“Very well; that makes no difference. Liking may very soon be loving (as some people call it) when the maid has money to help her.”
“Alright; that doesn't change anything. Liking can quickly turn into loving (as some people say) when the maid has money to support her.”
“But if there be, as there is in my case—”
“But if there is, as there is in my case—”
“Once for all, John, not a word. I do not attempt to lead you into any engagement with little Ruth; neither will I blame you (though I may be disappointed) if no such engagement should ever be. But whether you will have my grandchild, or whether you will not—and such a chance is rarely offered to a fellow of your standing”—Uncle Ben despised all farmers—“in any case I have at least resolved to let you know my secret; and for two good reasons. The first is that it wears me out to dwell upon it, all alone, and the second is that I can trust you to fulfil a promise. Moreover, you are my next of kin, except among the womankind; and you are just the man I want, to help me in my enterprise.”
“Once and for all, John, not a word. I’m not trying to push you into any relationship with little Ruth; I won’t blame you (even if I might be disappointed) if that never happens. But whether you take my grandchild or not—and chances like this are pretty rare for someone in your position”—Uncle Ben looked down on all farmers—“either way, I've decided to share my secret with you for two solid reasons. The first is that keeping it to myself is exhausting, and the second is that I can count on you to keep a promise. Plus, you’re my closest relative, aside from the women; you’re exactly the person I need to help me with my plan.”
“And I will help you, sir,” I answered, fearing some conspiracy, “in anything that is true, and loyal, and according to the laws of the realm.”
"And I'll help you, sir," I replied, worried about some plot, "with anything that's true, loyal, and according to the laws of the land."
“Ha, ha!” cried the old man, laughing until his eyes ran over, and spreading out his skinny hands upon his shining breeches, “thou hast gone the same fools' track as the rest; even as spy Stickles went, and all his precious troopers. Landing of arms at Glenthorne, and Lynmouth, wagons escorted across the moor, sounds of metal and booming noises! Ah, but we managed it cleverly, to cheat even those so near to us. Disaffection at Taunton, signs of insurrection at Dulverton, revolutionary tanner at Dunster! We set it all abroad, right well. And not even you to suspect our work; though we thought at one time that you watched us. Now who, do you suppose, is at the bottom of all this Exmoor insurgency, all this western rebellion—not that I say there is none, mind—but who is at the bottom of it?”
“Ha, ha!” the old man laughed, tears streaming down his face as he spread his skinny hands over his shiny pants. “You’ve gone down the same foolish path as everyone else; just like that spy Stickles and all his precious troops. Arms landing at Glenthorne and Lynmouth, wagons escorted across the moor, sounds of metal and booming noises! But we played it smart, managing to fool even those close to us. Discontent in Taunton, signs of rebellion in Dulverton, a revolutionary tanner in Dunster! We spread it all around well. And not even you suspected our work, although we thought for a time that you were watching us. Now, who do you think is behind all this Exmoor uprising, all this western rebellion—not that I'm claiming there isn't any, mind you—but who do you think is really behind it?”
“Either Mother Melldrum,” said I, being now a little angry, “or else old Nick himself.”
“Either Mother Melldrum,” I said, feeling a bit angry now, “or else old Nick himself.”
“Nay, old Uncle Reuben!” Saying this, Master Huckaback cast back his coat, and stood up, and made the most of himself.
“Nah, old Uncle Reuben!” With that, Master Huckaback threw back his coat, stood up, and made the most of himself.
“Well!” cried I, being now quite come to the limits of my intellect, “then, after all, Captain Stickles was right in calling you a rebel, sir!”
"Well!" I exclaimed, now fully at the edge of my understanding, "so, after all, Captain Stickles was right to call you a rebel, sir!"
“Of course he was; could so keen a man be wrong about an old fool like me? But come, and see our rebellion, John. I will trust you now with everything. I will take no oath from you; only your word to keep silence; and most of all from your mother.”
“Of course he was; could such a sharp guy be mistaken about an old fool like me? But come, and check out our rebellion, John. I'm gonna trust you completely now. I won’t ask for any promises from you; just your word to keep quiet; especially from your mother.”
“I will give you my word,” I said, although liking not such pledges; which make a man think before he speaks in ordinary company, against his usual practices. However, I was now so curious, that I thought of nothing else; and scarcely could believe at all that Uncle Ben was quite right in his head.
“I promise,” I said, although I don’t really like making promises; they make a person think before they speak in casual settings, which isn’t what I usually do. Still, I was so curious that it was all I could think about; I could hardly believe that Uncle Ben was completely sane.
“Take another glass of wine, my son,” he cried with a cheerful countenance, which made him look more than ten years younger; “you shall come into partnership with me: your strength will save us two horses, and we always fear the horse work. Come and see our rebellion, my boy; you are a made man from to-night.”
“Have another glass of wine, my son,” he exclaimed with a cheerful expression that made him look over ten years younger. “You’ll join me as a partner: your strength will save us two horses, and we always dread the horse work. Come see our rebellion, my boy; you’re set for life starting tonight.”
“But where am I to come and see it? Where am I to find it, sir?”
“But where am I supposed to come and see it? Where can I find it, sir?”
“Meet me,” he answered, yet closing his hands, and wrinkling with doubt his forehead, “come alone, of course; and meet me at the Wizard's Slough, at ten to-morrow morning.”
“Meet me,” he replied, clenching his fists and frowning with uncertainty, “come alone, of course; and meet me at the Wizard's Slough, at ten tomorrow morning.”
CHAPTER LVIII
MASTER HUCKABACK'S SECRET
Knowing Master Huckaback to be a man of his word, as well as one who would have others so, I was careful to be in good time the next morning, by the side of the Wizard's Slough. I am free to admit that the name of the place bore a feeling of uneasiness, and a love of distance, in some measure to my heart. But I did my best not to think of this; only I thought it a wise precaution, and due for the sake of my mother and Lorna, to load my gun with a dozen slugs made from the lead of the old church-porch, laid by, long since, against witchcraft.
Knowing Master Huckaback to be a man of his word and someone who expected the same from others, I made sure to arrive early the next morning by the Wizard's Slough. I’ll admit that the name of the place made me feel uneasy and pushed me to keep my distance. But I tried not to dwell on that; I considered it a smart precaution—one I owed to my mother and Lorna—to load my gun with a dozen slugs made from the lead of the old church porch, which had been saved for dealing with witchcraft long ago.
I am well aware that some people now begin to doubt about witchcraft; or at any rate feign to do so; being desirous to disbelieve whatever they are afraid of. This spirit is growing too common among us, and will end (unless we put a stop to it!) in the destruction of all religion. And as regards witchcraft, a man is bound either to believe in it, or to disbelieve the Bible. For even in the New Testament, discarding many things of the Old, such as sacrifices, and Sabbath, and fasting, and other miseries, witchcraft is clearly spoken of as a thing that must continue; that the Evil One be not utterly robbed of his vested interests. Hence let no one tell me that witchcraft is done away with; for I will meet him with St. Paul, than whom no better man, and few less superstitious, can be found in all the Bible.
I know that some people are starting to question the existence of witchcraft, or at least pretend to do so, because they want to disbelieve what scares them. This attitude is becoming too common among us and will lead (unless we stop it!) to the collapse of all religion. When it comes to witchcraft, a person has to either believe in it or dismiss the Bible. Even in the New Testament, which sets aside many practices from the Old Testament, like sacrifices, the Sabbath, and fasting, witchcraft is clearly mentioned as something that must continue; otherwise, the Evil One would lose his influence. So, don’t tell me that witchcraft is no longer relevant; I will challenge you with St. Paul, who is among the best and least superstitious figures in the Bible.
Feeling these things more in those days than I feel them now, I fetched a goodish compass round, by the way of the cloven rocks, rather than cross Black Barrow Down, in a reckless and unholy manner. There were several spots, upon that Down, cursed and smitten, and blasted, as if thunderbolts had fallen there, and Satan sat to keep them warm. At any rate it was good (as every one acknowledged) not to wander there too much; even with a doctor of divinity on one arm and of medicine upon the other.
Feeling these things more back then than I do now, I took a pretty decent detour around the split rocks instead of crossing Black Barrow Down in a careless and disrespectful way. There were several places on that Down, cursed and struck down, as if lightning had hit there, and the devil was just hanging out to keep them warm. Anyway, it was generally agreed that it was wise not to spend too much time wandering around there, even with a theologian on one arm and a doctor on the other.
Therefore, I, being all alone, and on foot (as seemed the wisest), preferred a course of roundabout; and starting about eight o'clock, without mentioning my business, arrived at the mouth of the deep descent, such as John Fry described it. Now this (though I have not spoken of it) was not my first time of being there. For, although I could not bring myself to spy upon Uncle Reuben, as John Fry had done, yet I thought it no ill manners, after he had left our house, to have a look at the famous place, where the malefactor came to life, at least in John's opinion. At that time, however, I saw nothing except the great ugly black morass, with the grisly reeds around it; and I did not care to go very near it, much less to pry on the further side.
So, I, being all alone and on foot (which seemed the smartest choice), decided to take a longer route. Starting around eight o'clock and not mentioning my purpose, I arrived at the entrance of the steep decline, just like John Fry described. Now, even though I haven’t mentioned it before, this wasn’t my first visit. Although I couldn’t bring myself to spy on Uncle Reuben like John Fry did, I thought it wasn’t rude, after he left our house, to check out the famous place where the criminal supposedly came back to life, at least according to John. However, at that time, I saw nothing but the large, grimy black swamp with the creepy reeds surrounding it, and I didn’t want to get too close, much less sneak around on the other side.
Now, on the other hand, I was bent to get at the very bottom of this mystery (if there were any), having less fear of witch or wizard, with a man of Uncle Reuben's wealth to take my part, and see me through. So I rattled the ramrod down my gun, just to know if the charge were right, after so much walking; and finding it full six inches deep, as I like to have it, went boldly down the steep gorge of rock, with a firm resolve to shoot any witch unless it were good Mother Melldrum. Nevertheless to my surprise, all was quiet, and fair to look at, in the decline of the narrow way, with great stalked ferns coming forth like trees, yet hanging like cobwebs over one. And along one side, a little spring was getting rid of its waters. Any man might stop and think; or he might go on and think; and in either case, there was none to say that he was making a fool of himself.
Now, on the other hand, I was determined to get to the bottom of this mystery (if there was one), feeling less afraid of any witch or wizard, especially with a man like Uncle Reuben backing me up. So, I checked my gun's ramrod to make sure the charge was right after all that walking, and finding it a solid six inches deep, I boldly headed down the steep rocky gorge, resolutely prepared to shoot any witch, except for good Mother Melldrum. Surprisingly, everything was quiet and pleasant in the narrow path, with tall ferns sprouting like trees but hanging down like cobwebs. Along one side, a small spring was flowing, releasing its water. Any man could stop to think, or he could keep going and still think, and in either case, no one could say he was being foolish.
When I came to the foot of this ravine, and over against the great black slough, there was no sign of Master Huckaback, nor of any other living man, except myself, in the silence. Therefore, I sat in a niche of rock, gazing at the slough, and pondering the old tradition about it.
When I reached the bottom of this ravine, across from the large black swamp, there was no sign of Master Huckaback or anyone else alive, just me, in the quiet. So, I sat in a rock crevice, staring at the swamp and thinking about the old stories related to it.
They say that, in the ancient times, a mighty necromancer lived in the wilderness of Exmoor. Here, by spell and incantation, he built himself a strong high palace, eight-sided like a spider's web, and standing on a central steep; so that neither man nor beast could cross the moors without his knowledge. If he wished to rob and slay a traveller, or to have wild ox, or stag for food, he had nothing more to do than sit at one of his eight windows, and point his unholy book at him. Any moving creature, at which that book was pointed, must obey the call, and come from whatever distance, if sighted once by the wizard.
They say that, in ancient times, a powerful necromancer lived in the wilderness of Exmoor. Here, through spells and incantations, he built a tall, strong palace with eight sides, like a spider's web, perched on a steep hill; so that neither man nor beast could cross the moors without him knowing. If he wanted to rob and kill a traveler or hunt wild ox or stag for food, all he had to do was sit by one of his eight windows and point his cursed book at them. Any creature that the book was aimed at had to obey the call and come from whatever distance, as long as the wizard had seen it once.
This was a bad condition of things, and all the country groaned under it; and Exmoor (although the most honest place that a man could wish to live in) was beginning to get a bad reputation, and all through that vile wizard. No man durst even go to steal a sheep, or a pony, or so much as a deer for dinner, lest he should be brought to book by a far bigger rogue than he was. And this went on for many years; though they prayed to God to abate it. But at last, when the wizard was getting fat and haughty upon his high stomach, a mighty deliverance came to Exmoor, and a warning, and a memory. For one day the sorcerer gazed from his window facing the southeast of the compass, and he yawned, having killed so many men that now he was weary of it.
This was a terrible situation, and everyone in the country was suffering because of it; Exmoor (even though it was the most honest place a person could want to live) was starting to gain a bad reputation, all because of that horrible wizard. No one dared to steal a sheep, a pony, or even a deer for dinner, for fear of being punished by someone much worse than themselves. This continued for many years, even though they prayed to God to put an end to it. But finally, when the wizard was becoming arrogant and complacent from his power, a great deliverance came to Exmoor, bringing a warning and a lesson. One day, the sorcerer looked out his window toward the southeast and yawned, having killed so many men that he was now tired of it.
“Ifackins,” he cried, or some such oath, both profane and uncomely, “I see a man on the verge of the sky-line, going along laboriously. A pilgrim, I trow, or some such fool, with the nails of his boots inside them. Too thin to be worth eating; but I will have him for the fun of the thing; and most of those saints have got money.”
“Dang it,” he shouted, or something like that, both crude and unrefined, “I see a man on the edge of the skyline, moving along with difficulty. A pilgrim, I guess, or some other fool, with the nails of his boots sticking out. Too thin to be worth eating; but I’ll take him for the fun of it; and most of those saints have cash.”
With these words he stretched forth his legs on a stool, and pointed the book of heathenish spells back upwards at the pilgrim. Now this good pilgrim was plodding along, soberly and religiously, with a pound of flints in either boot, and not an ounce of meat inside him. He felt the spell of the wicked book, but only as a horse might feel a “gee-wug!” addressed to him. It was in the power of this good man, either to go on, or turn aside, and see out the wizard's meaning. And for a moment he halted and stood, like one in two minds about a thing. Then the wizard clapped one cover to, in a jocular and insulting manner; and the sound of it came to the pilgrim's ear, about five miles in the distance, like a great gun fired at him.
With that, he propped his legs up on a stool and aimed the book of dark spells back at the pilgrim. This good pilgrim was trudging along, earnestly and devoutly, with a pound of flints in each boot and not a bit of food in him. He felt the pull of the wicked book, but only like a horse might feel a “gee-wug!” directed at him. It was up to this good man to either keep going or turn aside to figure out the wizard's intent. For a moment, he paused, torn between two choices. Then the wizard slapped one cover shut in a joking and mocking way, and the sound reached the pilgrim's ears from about five miles away, like a cannon going off at him.
“By our Lady,” he cried, “I must see to this; although my poor feet have no skin below them. I will teach this heathen miscreant how to scoff at Glastonbury.”
“By our Lady,” he shouted, “I have to deal with this; even though my poor feet are raw. I’ll show this heathen jerk how to mock Glastonbury.”
Thereupon he turned his course, and ploughed along through the moors and bogs, towards the eight-sided palace. The wizard sat on his chair of comfort, and with the rankest contempt observed the holy man ploughing towards him. “He has something good in his wallet, I trow,” said the black thief to himself; “these fellows get always the pick of the wine, and the best of a woman's money.” Then he cried, “Come in, come in, good sir,” as he always did to every one.
Then he changed direction and made his way through the moors and swamps, heading toward the eight-sided palace. The wizard sat comfortably in his chair, watching the holy man approach with the deepest disdain. "He must have something nice in his wallet," thought the dark thief to himself; "these types always get the finest wine and the best of a woman's money." Then he called out, "Come in, come in, good sir," as he always did to everyone.
“Bad sir, I will not come in,” said the pilgrim; “neither shall you come out again. Here are the bones of all you have slain; and here shall your own bones be.”
“Not a chance, sir, I’m not coming in,” said the pilgrim; “and you won’t be coming out either. Here are the bones of all your victims; and here is where your own bones will lie.”
“Hurry me not,” cried the sorcerer; “that is a thing to think about. How many miles hast thou travelled this day?”
“Don't rush me,” the sorcerer said. “That’s something to think about. How many miles have you traveled today?”
But the pilgrim was too wide awake, for if he had spoken of any number, bearing no cross upon it, the necromancer would have had him, like a ball at bando-play. Therefore he answered, as truly as need be, “By the grace of our Lady, nine.”
But the traveler was too alert, because if he had mentioned any number without a cross on it, the sorcerer would have captured him like a ball in a game. So he replied, as truthfully as necessary, “By the grace of our Lady, nine.”
Now nine is the crossest of all cross numbers, and full to the lip of all crochets. So the wizard staggered back, and thought, and inquired again with bravery, “Where can you find a man and wife, one going up-hill and one going down, and not a word spoken between them?”
Now nine is the angriest of all numbers and filled to the brim with quirks. So the wizard stepped back, thought for a moment, and boldly asked again, “Where can you find a husband and wife, one going uphill and the other going downhill, without a single word spoken between them?”
“In a cucumber plant,” said the modest saint; blushing even to think of it; and the wizard knew he was done for.
“In a cucumber plant,” said the humble saint, blushing just at the thought of it; and the wizard realized he was finished.
“You have tried me with ungodly questions,” continued the honest pilgrim, with one hand still over his eyes, as he thought of the feminine cucumber; “and now I will ask you a pure one. To whom of mankind have you ever done good, since God saw fit to make you?”
“You’ve tested me with wicked questions,” continued the honest traveler, with one hand still over his eyes as he thought about the strange cucumber; “and now I’ll ask you a simple one. To whom have you ever done good, since God decided to create you?”
The wizard thought, but could quote no one; and he looked at the saint, and the saint at him, and both their hearts were trembling. “Can you mention only one?” asked the saint, pointing a piece of the true cross at him, hoping he might cling to it; “even a little child will do; try to think of some one.”
The wizard pondered, but couldn’t recall anyone; he stared at the saint, who was looking back at him, and both of their hearts were racing. “Can you name just one?” the saint asked, pointing a piece of the true cross at him, hoping he would hold on to it; “even a little child will do; please try to think of someone.”
The earth was rocking beneath their feet, and the palace windows darkened on them, with a tint of blood, for now the saint was come inside, hoping to save the wizard.
The ground was shaking beneath them, and the palace windows turned dark with a hint of red as the saint entered, hoping to save the wizard.
“If I must tell the pure truth,” said the wizard, looking up at the arches of his windows, “I can tell of only one to whom I ever have done good.”
“If I have to tell the truth,” said the wizard, looking up at the arches of his windows, “I can only name one person to whom I’ve ever done any good.”
“One will do; one is quite enough; be quick before the ground opens. The name of one—and this cross will save you. Lay your thumb on the end of it.”
“One will do; one is more than enough; hurry before the ground opens up. The name of one—and this cross will protect you. Press your thumb on the end of it.”
“Nay, that I cannot do, great saint. The devil have mercy upon me.”
“Nah, I can’t do that, great saint. May the devil have mercy on me.”
All this while the palace was sinking, and blackness coming over them.
All this time, the palace was sinking, and darkness was creeping in on them.
“Thou hast all but done for thyself,” said the saint, with a glory burning round his head; “by that last invocation. Yet give us the name of the one, my friend, if one there be; it will save thee, with the cross upon thy breast. All is crashing round us; dear brother, who is that one?”
“You've almost done it to yourself,” said the saint, with a radiant light around his head; “by that last invocation. But tell us the name of the one, my friend, if there is one; it will save you, with the cross on your chest. Everything is falling apart around us; dear brother, who is that one?”
“My own self,” cried the wretched wizard.
“My own self,” shouted the miserable wizard.
“Then there is no help for thee.” And with that the honest saint went upward, and the wizard, and all his palace, and even the crag that bore it, sank to the bowels of the earth; and over them was nothing left except a black bog fringed with reed, of the tint of the wizard's whiskers. The saint, however, was all right, after sleeping off the excitement; and he founded a chapel, some three miles westward; and there he lies with his holy relic and thither in after ages came (as we all come home at last) both my Lorna's Aunt Sabina, and her guardian Ensor Doone.
"Then there's no help for you." With that, the honest saint went up, and the wizard, along with his palace and even the cliff that held it, sank into the depths of the earth. All that remained was a dark swamp edged with reeds, the same color as the wizard's beard. The saint, however, was fine after he rested off the excitement; he established a chapel about three miles to the west, where he lies with his holy relic. In later times, both my Lorna's Aunt Sabina and her guardian Ensor Doone came there (as we all eventually come home).
While yet I dwelled upon this strange story, wondering if it all were true, and why such things do not happen now, a man on horseback appeared as suddenly as if he had risen out of the earth, on the other side of the great black slough. At first I was a little scared, my mind being in the tune for wonders; but presently the white hair, whiter from the blackness of the bog between us, showed me that it was Uncle Reuben come to look for me, that way. Then I left my chair of rock, and waved my hat and shouted to him, and the sound of my voice among the crags and lonely corners frightened me.
While I was still thinking about this strange story, wondering if it was all true and why such things don’t happen anymore, a man on horseback appeared as suddenly as if he had sprung from the earth, on the other side of the big black swamp. At first, I was a bit scared, my mind tuned to wonders; but soon I recognized the white hair, even whiter against the dark bog between us, and realized it was Uncle Reuben come to find me. Then I got up from my rock chair, waved my hat, and shouted to him, and the sound of my voice echoing among the crags and lonely spots made me jump a little.
Old Master Huckaback made no answer, but (so far as I could guess) beckoned me to come to him. There was just room between the fringe of reed and the belt of rock around it, for a man going very carefully to escape that horrible pit-hole. And so I went round to the other side, and there found open space enough, with stunted bushes, and starveling trees, and straggling tufts of rushes.
Old Master Huckaback didn’t respond, but (as far as I could tell) gestured for me to approach him. There was just enough space between the edge of the reeds and the surrounding rocky area for someone to carefully avoid that awful pit. So, I went around to the other side and discovered an open space with small bushes, scraggly trees, and scattered clumps of reeds.
“You fool, you are frightened,” said Uncle Ben, as he looked at my face after shaking hands: “I want a young man of steadfast courage, as well as of strength and silence. And after what I heard of the battle at Glen Doone, I thought I might trust you for courage.”
“You fool, you're scared,” said Uncle Ben, looking at my face after we shook hands. “I need a young man who’s brave and strong, as well as able to keep quiet. After what I heard about the battle at Glen Doone, I thought I could count on you for bravery.”
“So you may,” said I, “wherever I see mine enemy; but not where witch and wizard be.”
“So you can,” I said, “anywhere I see my enemy; but not where witches and wizards are.”
“Tush, great fool!” cried Master Huckaback; “the only witch or wizard here is the one that bewitcheth all men. Now fasten up my horse, John Ridd, and not too near the slough, lad. Ah, we have chosen our entrance wisely. Two good horsemen, and their horses, coming hither to spy us out, are gone mining on their own account (and their last account it is) down this good wizard's bog-hole.”
“Tush, you fool!” shouted Master Huckaback. “The only witch or wizard here is the one who tricks everyone. Now tie up my horse, John Ridd, but don’t put him too close to the swamp, kid. Ah, we’ve picked our entrance wisely. Two good riders and their horses came here looking for us, but they’ve headed off to mine for themselves (and it’ll be their last venture) down this good wizard's bog-hole.”
With these words, Uncle Reuben clutched the mane of his horse and came down, as a man does when his legs are old; and as I myself begin to do, at this time of writing. I offered a hand, but he was vexed, and would have nought to do with it.
With these words, Uncle Reuben grabbed the mane of his horse and got down, like a man does when his legs are old; and like I’m starting to do, as I write this. I offered a hand, but he was annoyed and wanted nothing to do with it.
“Now follow me, step for step,” he said, when I had tethered his horse to a tree; “the ground is not death (like the wizard's hole), but many parts are treacherous, I know it well by this time.”
“Now follow me, step for step,” he said, after I tied his horse to a tree; “the ground isn’t deadly (like the wizard's hole), but there are a lot of tricky spots, and I know that all too well by now.”
Without any more ado, he led me in and out the marshy places, to a great round hole or shaft, bratticed up with timber. I never had seen the like before, and wondered how they could want a well, with so much water on every side. Around the mouth were a few little heaps of stuff unused to the daylight; and I thought at once of the tales I had heard concerning mines in Cornwall, and the silver cup at Combe-Martin, sent to the Queen Elizabeth.
Without any further delay, he took me in and out of the marshy areas to a large, round hole or shaft, reinforced with timber. I had never seen anything like it before and wondered why they needed a well with so much water all around. Around the opening were a few small piles of things that hadn't seen the light of day, and I immediately thought of the stories I had heard about mines in Cornwall and the silver cup from Combe-Martin that was sent to Queen Elizabeth.
“We had a tree across it, John,” said Uncle Reuben, smiling grimly at my sudden shrink from it: “but some rogue came spying here, just as one of our men went up. He was frightened half out of his life, I believe, and never ventured to come again. But we put the blame of that upon you. And I see that we were wrong, John.” Here he looked at me with keen eyes, though weak.
“We had a tree blocking it, John,” Uncle Reuben said, giving a grim smile at my sudden flinch: “but some sneak came snooping around just when one of our guys went up. He was scared out of his mind, I think, and never dared to come back. But we blamed that on you. And I realize now that we were wrong, John.” He looked at me with sharp eyes, even though they seemed weak.
“You were altogether wrong,” I answered. “Am I mean enough to spy upon any one dwelling with us? And more than that, Uncle Reuben, it was mean of you to suppose it.”
“You're completely mistaken,” I replied. “Do you really think I'm low enough to spy on anyone living with us? And on top of that, Uncle Reuben, it was pretty low of you to assume that.”
“All ideas are different,” replied the old man to my heat, like a little worn-out rill running down a smithy; “you with your strength and youth, and all that, are inclined to be romantic. I take things as I have known them, going on for seventy years. Now will you come and meet the wizard, or does your courage fail you?”
“All ideas are different,” the old man replied to my anger, like a tired little stream trickling down from a forge; “you, with your strength and youth, tend to be romantic. I see things as I’ve experienced them over seventy years. So, will you come and meet the wizard, or are you too scared?”
“My courage must be none,” said I, “if I would not go where you go, sir.”
“My courage must be nonexistent,” I said, “if I wouldn’t follow you, sir.”
He said no more, but signed to me to lift a heavy wooden corb with an iron loop across it, and sunk in a little pit of earth, a yard or so from the mouth of the shaft. I raised it, and by his direction dropped it into the throat of the shaft, where it hung and shook from a great cross-beam laid at the level of the earth. A very stout thick rope was fastened to the handle of the corb, and ran across a pulley hanging from the centre of the beam, and thence out of sight in the nether places.
He didn't say anything more but signaled for me to lift a heavy wooden basket with an iron loop on it, which was set in a small pit of earth about a yard from the entrance of the shaft. I lifted it, and following his instructions, dropped it into the shaft, where it swung and trembled from a large cross-beam positioned at ground level. A very thick, strong rope was attached to the handle of the basket, running over a pulley that was hanging from the center of the beam, and then disappearing into the depths below.
“I will first descend,” he said; “your weight is too great for safety. When the bucket comes up again, follow me, if your heart is good.”
“I’ll go down first,” he said. “Your weight is too much for safety. When the bucket comes up again, follow me if you’re brave enough.”
Then he whistled down, with a quick sharp noise, and a whistle from below replied; and he clomb into the vehicle, and the rope ran through the pulley, and Uncle Ben went merrily down, and was out of sight, before I had time to think of him.
Then he whistled down with a quick, sharp sound, and a reply whistled back from below. He climbed into the vehicle, the rope ran through the pulley, and Uncle Ben went happily down, disappearing from sight before I could even think about him.
Now being left on the bank like that, and in full sight of the goodly heaven, I wrestled hard with my flesh and blood, about going down into the pit-hole. And but for the pale shame of the thing, that a white-headed man should adventure so, and green youth doubt about it, never could I have made up my mind; for I do love air and heaven. However, at last up came the bucket; and with a short sad prayer I went into whatever might happen.
Now, being left on the riverbank like that, and with a clear view of the beautiful sky, I struggled hard with my emotions about going down into the pit. If it weren't for the shame of the act—having an old man take such a risk while young people hesitated—I could never have made up my mind because I really love fresh air and the open sky. But eventually, the bucket came up, and with a brief, sorrowful prayer, I stepped into the unknown.
My teeth would chatter, do all I could; but the strength of my arms was with me; and by them I held on the grimy rope, and so eased the foot of the corb, which threatened to go away fathoms under me. Of course I should still have been safe enough, being like an egg in an egg-cup, too big to care for the bottom; still I wished that all should be done, in good order, without excitement.
My teeth would chatter no matter what I did; but I had the strength in my arms, and I held onto the dirty rope, which relieved the pressure on my foot that felt like it might drop down deep beneath me. Of course, I would have been safe enough, like an egg in an egg cup, too big to fall through; still, I hoped everything would go smoothly and without any drama.
The scoopings of the side grew black, and the patch of sky above more blue, as with many thoughts of Lorna, a long way underground I sank. Then I was fetched up at the bottom with a jerk and rattle; and but for holding by the rope so, must have tumbled over. Two great torches of bale-resin showed me all the darkness, one being held by Uncle Ben and the other by a short square man with a face which seemed well-known to me.
The walls of the mine got darker, and the patch of sky above turned a deeper blue as I sank deep underground, filled with thoughts of Lorna. Suddenly, I got pulled up with a jolt and a clatter; if I hadn't been holding onto the rope, I would have fallen over. Two big torches made of bale-resin illuminated the darkness—one was held by Uncle Ben and the other by a short, stout man whose face looked familiar to me.
“Hail to the world of gold, John Ridd,” said Master Huckaback, smiling in the old dry manner; “bigger coward never came down the shaft, now did he, Carfax?”
“Hail to the world of gold, John Ridd,” said Master Huckaback, smiling in his usual dry way; “never has a bigger coward come down the shaft, have they, Carfax?”
“They be all alike,” said the short square man, “fust time as they doos it.”
“They're all the same,” said the short, stocky man, “the first time they do it.”
“May I go to heaven,” I cried, “which is a thing quite out of sight”—for I always have a vein of humour, too small to be followed by any one—“if ever again of my own accord I go so far away from it!” Uncle Ben grinned less at this than at the way I knocked my shin in getting out of the bucket; and as for Master Carfax, he would not even deign to smile. And he seemed to look upon my entrance as an interloping.
“Can I go to heaven?” I shouted, “which is completely out of reach”—for I always have a sense of humor, too subtle for anyone to catch—“if I ever willingly distance myself from it again!” Uncle Ben laughed less at this than at how I bumped my shin while getting out of the bucket; and as for Master Carfax, he didn’t even bother to smile. He seemed to view my arrival as an intrusion.
For my part, I had nought to do, after rubbing my bruised leg, except to look about me, so far as the dullness of light would help. And herein I seemed, like a mouse in a trap, able no more than to run to and fro, and knock himself, and stare at things. For here was a little channel grooved with posts on either side of it, and ending with a heap of darkness, whence the sight came back again; and there was a scooped place, like a funnel, but pouring only to darkness. So I waited for somebody to speak first, not seeing my way to anything.
For my part, I had nothing to do, after rubbing my bruised leg, except to look around me, as much as the dim light would allow. And in this, I felt like a mouse in a trap, able to run back and forth, bump into things, and stare at my surroundings. There was a small channel lined with posts on either side, ending in a pile of darkness, where my sight returned; and there was a hollow area, like a funnel, but leading only to darkness. So I waited for someone to speak first, unable to figure out what to say.
“You seem to be disappointed, John,” said Uncle Reuben, looking blue by the light of the flambeaux; “did you expect to see the roof of gold, and the sides of gold, and the floor of gold, John Ridd?”
“You look disappointed, John,” said Uncle Reuben, looking down in the light of the torches; “did you expect to see a gold roof, gold walls, and a gold floor, John Ridd?”
“Ha, ha!” cried Master Carfax; “I reckon her did; no doubt her did.”
“Ha, ha!” exclaimed Master Carfax; “I bet she did; no doubt she did.”
“You are wrong,” I replied; “but I did expect to see something better than dirt and darkness.”
"You’re wrong," I replied, "but I did expect to see something better than dirt and darkness."
“Come on then, my lad; and we will show you some-thing better. We want your great arm on here, for a job that has beaten the whole of us.”
“Come on then, buddy; and we’ll show you something better. We need your strong arm here for a job that’s stumped all of us.”
With these words, Uncle Ben led the way along a narrow passage, roofed with rock and floored with slate-coloured shale and shingle, and winding in and out, until we stopped at a great stone block or boulder, lying across the floor, and as large as my mother's best oaken wardrobe. Beside it were several sledge-hammers, battered, and some with broken helves.
With these words, Uncle Ben took the lead down a narrow passage, covered by rock and with a floor made of slate-colored shale and gravel, twisting back and forth, until we came to a huge stone block or boulder, lying across the floor, about the size of my mom's nicest oak wardrobe. Next to it were several sledgehammers, worn out, some with broken handles.
“Thou great villain!” cried Uncle Ben, giving the boulder a little kick; “I believe thy time is come at last. Now, John, give us a sample of the things they tell of thee. Take the biggest of them sledge-hammers and crack this rogue in two for us. We have tried at him for a fortnight, and he is a nut worth cracking. But we have no man who can swing that hammer, though all in the mine have handled it.”
“Hey, you big villain!” shouted Uncle Ben, giving the boulder a little kick. “I think your time has finally come. Now, John, show us what they say about you. Grab the biggest sledgehammer and split this guy in half for us. We've been at it for two weeks, and he’s a nut worth cracking. But we don’t have anyone who can swing that hammer, even though everyone in the mine has used it.”
“I will do my very best,” said I, pulling off my coat and waistcoat, as if I were going to wrestle; “but I fear he will prove too tough for me.”
“I will do my best,” I said, taking off my coat and vest like I was about to wrestle; “but I’m afraid he might be too tough for me.”
“Ay, that her wull,” grunted Master Carfax; “lack'th a Carnishman, and a beg one too, not a little charp such as I be. There be no man outside Carnwall, as can crack that boolder.”
“Ay, that her will,” grunted Master Carfax; “like a Cornishman, and a beggar too, not a little sharp one like me. There’s no man outside Cornwall who can crack that boulder.”
“Bless my heart,” I answered; “but I know something of you, my friend, or at any rate of your family. Well, I have beaten most of your Cornish men, though not my place to talk of it. But mind, if I crack this rock for you, I must have some of the gold inside it.”
“Bless my heart,” I replied; “but I know a bit about you, my friend, or at least about your family. Well, I’ve beaten most of your Cornish guys, though it’s not my place to talk about it. But just so you know, if I break this rock for you, I need some of the gold inside it.”
“Dost think to see the gold come tumbling out like the kernel of a nut, thou zany?” asked Uncle Reuben pettishly; “now wilt thou crack it or wilt thou not? For I believe thou canst do it, though only a lad of Somerset.”
“Do you think you'll see the gold spilling out like the kernel of a nut, you fool?” Uncle Reuben asked irritably; “So will you crack it or not? Because I believe you can do it, even if you’re just a kid from Somerset.”
Uncle Reuben showed by saying this, and by his glance at Carfax, that he was proud of his county, and would be disappointed for it if I failed to crack the boulder. So I begged him to stoop his torch a little, that I might examine my subject. To me there appeared to be nothing at all remarkable about it, except that it sparkled here and there, when the flash of the flame fell upon it. A great obstinate, oblong, sullen stone; how could it be worth the breaking, except for making roads with?
Uncle Reuben made it clear by what he said and his look at Carfax that he was proud of his county and would be let down if I couldn’t break the boulder. So, I asked him to lower his torch a bit so I could take a closer look. To me, it didn’t seem remarkable at all, except for the way it sparkled in spots when the flame hit it. Just a big stubborn, rectangular, gloomy stone; what was the point of breaking it, other than using it for road construction?
Nevertheless, I took up the hammer, and swinging it far behind my head, fetched it down, with all my power, upon the middle of the rock. The roof above rang mightily, and the echo went down delven galleries, so that all the miners flocked to know what might be doing. But Master Carfax only smiled, although the blow shook him where he stood, for behold the stone was still unbroken, and as firm as ever. Then I smote it again, with no better fortune, and Uncle Ben looked vexed and angry, but all the miners grinned with triumph.
Nevertheless, I picked up the hammer and swung it far behind my head, then brought it down with all my strength onto the middle of the rock. The roof above echoed loudly, and the sound traveled down the tunnels, causing all the miners to rush over to see what was happening. But Master Carfax just smiled, even though the impact shook him where he stood, because the stone was still unbroken and just as solid as before. I struck it again, but with no better luck, and Uncle Ben looked frustrated and angry, while all the miners grinned in triumph.
“This little tool is too light,” I cried; “one of you give me a piece of strong cord.”
“This little tool is too light,” I exclaimed; “someone give me a strong piece of cord.”
Then I took two more of the weightiest hammers, and lashed them fast to the back of mine, not so as to strike, but to burden the fall. Having made this firm, and with room to grasp the handle of the largest one only—for the helves of the others were shorter—I smiled at Uncle Ben, and whirled the mighty implement round my head, just to try whether I could manage it. Upon that the miners gave a cheer, being honest men, and desirous of seeing fair play between this “shameless stone” (as Dan Homer calls it) and me with my hammer hammering.
Then I took two more of the heaviest hammers and strapped them securely to the back of mine, not to strike, but to brace for the fall. Having made this stable, and with just enough room to grip the handle of the largest one—since the handles of the others were shorter—I smiled at Uncle Ben and swung the huge tool around my head, just to see if I could handle it. The miners cheered, being honest folks who wanted to see a fair match between this “shameless stone” (as Dan Homer calls it) and me with my hammer pounding.
Then I swung me on high to the swing of the sledge, as a thresher bends back to the rise of his flail, and with all my power descending delivered the ponderous onset. Crashing and crushed the great stone fell over, and threads of sparkling gold appeared in the jagged sides of the breakage.
Then I swung up high on the swing of the sledge, like a thresher leaning back to lift his flail, and with all my strength coming down, I delivered a heavy blow. The massive stone crashed and toppled over, revealing threads of sparkling gold in the jagged edges of the break.
“How now, Simon Carfax?” cried Uncle Ben triumphantly; “wilt thou find a man in Cornwall can do the like of that?”
“How about that, Simon Carfax?” Uncle Ben shouted triumphantly. “Will you find anyone in Cornwall who can do anything like that?”
“Ay, and more,” he answered; “however, it be pretty fair for a lad of these outlandish parts. Get your rollers, my lads, and lead it to the crushing engine.”
“Ay, and more,” he replied; “but it’s pretty decent for a kid from these foreign lands. Grab your rollers, guys, and take it to the crushing machine.”
I was glad to have been of some service to them; for it seems that this great boulder had been too large to be drawn along the gallery and too hard to crack. But now they moved it very easily, taking piece by piece, and carefully picking up the fragments.
I was happy to have been of help to them because it seemed like this huge boulder was too big to be pulled through the passage and too tough to break apart. But now they were moving it quite easily, taking it apart piece by piece and carefully collecting the fragments.
“Thou hast done us a good turn, my lad,” said Uncle Reuben, as the others passed out of sight at the corner; “and now I will show thee the bottom of a very wondrous mystery. But we must not do it more than once, for the time of day is the wrong one.”
“You’ve done us a solid, kid,” said Uncle Reuben, as the others disappeared around the corner. “Now, I’ll show you the bottom of a really amazing mystery. But we can’t do it more than once, because the time of day isn’t right.”
The whole affair being a mystery to me, and far beyond my understanding, I followed him softly, without a word, yet thinking very heavily, and longing to be above ground again. He led me through small passages, to a hollow place near the descending shaft, where I saw a most extraordinary monster fitted up. In form it was like a great coffee-mill, such as I had seen in London, only a thousand times larger, and with heavy windlass to work it.
The whole situation was a mystery to me, way beyond my comprehension. I followed him quietly, without saying a word, but my mind was racing, and I longed to be above ground again. He guided me through narrow passages to a pit near the descending shaft, where I saw the most amazing machine. It looked like a giant coffee mill, similar to one I had seen in London, but a thousand times larger, equipped with a heavy windlass to operate it.
“Put in a barrow-load of the smoulder,” said Uncle Ben to Carfax, “and let them work the crank, for John to understand a thing or two.”
“Load up a wheelbarrow with the smoldering stuff,” Uncle Ben said to Carfax, “and let them work the crank so John can learn a thing or two.”
“At this time of day!” cried Simon Carfax; “and the watching as has been o' late!”
“At this time of day!” shouted Simon Carfax; “and the watching that’s been going on lately!”
However, he did it without more remonstrance; pouring into the scuttle at the top of the machine about a basketful of broken rock; and then a dozen men went to the wheel, and forced it round, as sailors do. Upon that such a hideous noise arose, as I never should have believed any creature capable of making, and I ran to the well of the mine for air, and to ease my ears, if possible.
However, he did it without further protest, pouring a basketful of broken rock into the top of the machine. Then a dozen men went to the wheel and turned it, just like sailors do. At that moment, a terrible noise erupted, one I never would have believed any creature could make, and I ran to the well of the mine for some air, hoping to ease the pain in my ears, if possible.
“Enough, enough!” shouted Uncle Ben by the time I was nearly deafened; “we will digest our goodly boulder after the devil is come abroad for his evening work. Now, John, not a word about what you have learned; but henceforth you will not be frightened by the noise we make at dusk.”
“Enough, enough!” shouted Uncle Ben, nearly making me deaf. “We will deal with our big problem after the devil has come out to do his evening work. Now, John, not a word about what you’ve learned; but from now on, you won’t be scared by the noise we make at night.”
I could not deny but what this was very clever management. If they could not keep the echoes of the upper air from moving, the wisest plan was to open their valves during the discouragement of the falling evening; when folk would rather be driven away, than drawn into the wilds and quagmires, by a sound so deep and awful, coming through the darkness.
I couldn't deny that this was really clever management. If they couldn't stop the echoes from the upper air, the smartest thing to do was to open their valves during the discouraging fall of evening; when people would prefer to leave rather than be lured into the wilds and marshes by a sound so deep and terrifying, coming through the darkness.
CHAPTER LIX
LORNA GONE AWAY
Although there are very ancient tales of gold being found upon Exmoor, in lumps and solid hummocks, and of men who slew one another for it, this deep digging and great labour seemed to me a dangerous and unholy enterprise. And Master Huckaback confessed that up to the present time his two partners and himself (for they proved to be three adventurers) had put into the earth more gold than they had taken out of it. Nevertheless he felt quite sure that it must in a very short time succeed, and pay them back an hundredfold; and he pressed me with great earnestness to join them, and work there as much as I could, without moving my mother's suspicions. I asked him how they had managed so long to carry on without discovery; and he said that this was partly through the wildness of the neighbourhood, and the legends that frightened people of a superstitious turn; partly through their own great caution, and the manner of fetching both supplies and implements by night; but most of all, they had to thank the troubles of the period, the suspicions of rebellion, and the terror of the Doones, which (like the wizard I was speaking of) kept folk from being too inquisitive where they had no business. The slough, moreover, had helped them well, both by making their access dark, and yet more by swallowing up and concealing all that was cast from the mouth of the pit. Once, before the attack on Glen Doone, they had a narrow escape from the King's Commissioner; for Captain Stickles having heard no doubt the story of John Fry, went with half a dozen troopers, on purpose to search the neighbourhood. Now if he had ridden alone, most likely he would have discovered everything; but he feared to venture so, having suspicion of a trap. Coming as they did in a company, all mounted and conspicuous, the watchman (who was posted now on the top of the hill, almost every day since John Fry's appearance) could not help espying them, miles distant, over the moorland. He watched them under the shade of his hand, and presently ran down the hill, and raised a great commotion. Then Simon Carfax and all his men came up, and made things natural, removing every sign of work; and finally, sinking underground, drew across the mouth of the pit a hurdle thatched with sedge and heather. Only Simon himself was left behind, ensconced in a hole of the crags, to observe the doings of the enemy.
Although there are very old stories of gold being found on Exmoor in large clumps and solid mounds, and of people who killed each other for it, this intense digging and hard labor seemed to me a risky and immoral undertaking. Master Huckaback admitted that so far, he and his two partners (since they turned out to be three adventurers) had put more gold into the ground than they had taken out. However, he felt convinced that it would pay off soon and bring them back a hundredfold; he urged me passionately to join them and work as much as I could without raising my mother's suspicions. I asked him how they had managed to continue for so long without being discovered, and he explained that it was partly due to the wild nature of the area and the fearful legends that scared superstitious people; partly due to their own extreme caution and the way they brought in both supplies and tools at night; but most importantly, they had to thank the troubles of the time, the fears of rebellion, and the terror of the Doones, which (like the wizard I was mentioning) kept people from being too curious where they didn’t belong. The swamp, moreover, helped them a lot by keeping their access dark and especially by swallowing up and hiding everything that was thrown from the mouth of the pit. Once, before the attack on Glen Doone, they narrowly escaped from the King's Commissioner; for Captain Stickles, having surely heard the story of John Fry, went with half a dozen soldiers specifically to search the area. If he had ridden alone, he probably would have discovered everything; but he was afraid to do so, suspecting a trap. Coming as a group, all mounted and noticeable, the lookout (who had been stationed on top of the hill almost every day since John Fry's appearance) couldn’t help but spot them from miles away across the moorland. He watched them shielding his eyes, and then quickly ran down the hill, causing a great stir. Then Simon Carfax and all his men arrived and made everything look normal, removing any sign of work; and finally, they sank underground, pulling a hurdle that was covered with reeds and heather across the entrance of the pit. Only Simon himself stayed behind, hidden in a crevice in the rocks, to keep an eye on the enemy's activities.
Captain Stickles rode very bravely, with all his men clattering after him, down the rocky pass, and even to the margin of the slough. And there they stopped, and held council; for it was a perilous thing to risk the passage upon horseback, between the treacherous brink and the cliff, unless one knew it thoroughly. Stickles, however, and one follower, carefully felt the way along, having their horses well in hand, and bearing a rope to draw them out, in case of being foundered. Then they spurred across the rough boggy land, farther away than the shaft was. Here the ground lay jagged and shaggy, wrought up with high tufts of reed, or scragged with stunted brushwood. And between the ups and downs (which met anybody anyhow) green-covered places tempted the foot, and black bog-holes discouraged it. It is not to be marvelled at that amid such place as this, for the first time visited, the horses were a little skeary; and their riders partook of the feeling, as all good riders do. In and out of the tufts they went, with their eyes dilating, wishing to be out of harm, if conscience were but satisfied. And of this tufty flaggy ground, pocked with bogs and boglets, one especial nature is that it will not hold impressions.
Captain Stickles rode bravely, with all his men clattering after him, down the rocky path and even to the edge of the swamp. There they stopped and held a meeting; it was risky to try crossing on horseback, between the dangerous edge and the cliff, unless you knew the area well. Stickles, however, and one follower, carefully tested the way, keeping their horses steady and carrying a rope to pull them out in case they got stuck. Then they spurred across the rough, muddy ground, further away than the shaft was. The ground was jagged and uneven, covered with high tufts of reeds and scattered with stunted bushes. Between the ups and downs that challenged anyone, green patches tempted their feet, while black bog-holes discouraged them. It’s no surprise that in a place like this, which they were visiting for the first time, the horses were a bit skittish; their riders felt the same way, as all good riders do. They navigated through the tufts, their eyes wide, wishing to be safe, as long as their conscience was clear. And this tufty, swampy ground, riddled with bogs and small puddles, has one special quality: it won’t hold impressions.
Seeing thus no track of men, nor anything but marsh-work, and stormwork, and of the seasons, these two honest men rode back, and were glad to do so. For above them hung the mountains, cowled with fog, and seamed with storm; and around them desolation; and below their feet the grave. Hence they went, with all goodwill; and vowed for ever afterwards that fear of a simple place like that was only too ridiculous. So they all rode home with mutual praises, and their courage well-approved; and the only result of the expedition was to confirm John Fry's repute as a bigger liar than ever.
Seeing no signs of people and only marshland and storm damage, these two honest men rode back and were happy to do so. Above them loomed the mountains, shrouded in fog and cut by storms; around them was desolation, and beneath their feet was the grave. They left with good spirits and swore that being afraid of a simple place like that was just plain silly. So they all rode home, praising each other and feeling validated in their courage; the only outcome of the adventure was to reinforce John Fry's reputation as an even bigger liar than before.
Now I had enough of that underground work, as before related, to last me for a year to come; neither would I, for sake of gold, have ever stepped into that bucket, of my own goodwill again. But when I told Lorna—whom I could trust in any matter of secrecy, as if she had never been a woman—all about my great descent, and the honeycombing of the earth, and the mournful noise at eventide, when the gold was under the crusher and bewailing the mischief it must do, then Lorna's chief desire was to know more about Simon Carfax.
Now I had enough of that underground work, as I mentioned before, to last me for a year; I wouldn’t have volunteered to go back down there for all the gold in the world. But when I told Lorna—who I could trust completely with any secret, as if she had never been a woman—all about my big descent, the tunnels in the earth, and the sad sounds at night when the gold was getting crushed, mourning the trouble it would cause, Lorna's main curiosity was to learn more about Simon Carfax.
“It must be our Gwenny's father,” she cried; “the man who disappeared underground, and whom she has ever been seeking. How grieved the poor little thing will be, if it should turn out, after all, that he left his child on purpose! I can hardly believe it; can you, John?”
“It must be our Gwenny's father,” she exclaimed; “the guy who vanished underground, and whom she has always been looking for. How heartbroken the poor little thing will be if it turns out that he left his child on purpose! I can hardly believe it; can you, John?”
“Well,” I replied; “all men are wicked, more or less, to some extent; and no man may say otherwise.”
“Well,” I replied, “all men are wicked, to some degree, and no one can say otherwise.”
For I did not wish to commit myself to an opinion about Simon, lest I might be wrong, and Lorna think less of my judgment.
For I didn't want to take a stance on Simon, in case I was mistaken and Lorna judged my judgment poorly.
But being resolved to see this out, and do a good turn, if I could, to Gwenny, who had done me many a good one, I begged my Lorna to say not a word of this matter to the handmaiden, until I had further searched it out. And to carry out this resolve, I went again to the place of business where they were grinding gold as freely as an apothecary at his pills.
But determined to see this through and help Gwenny, who had done a lot for me, I asked my Lorna not to say anything about this to the handmaiden until I figured things out further. To stick to this plan, I went back to the place where they were grinding gold as easily as a pharmacist with his pills.
Having now true right of entrance, and being known to the watchman, and regarded (since I cracked the boulder) as one who could pay his footing, and perhaps would be the master, when Uncle Ben should be choked with money, I found the corb sent up for me rather sooner than I wished it. For the smell of the places underground, and the way men's eyes came out of them, with links, and brands, and flambeaux, instead of God's light to look at, were to me a point of caution, rather than of pleasure.
Having gained proper access and being known to the watchman, and considered (since I broke the boulder) someone who could afford the entrance fee, and maybe even would be in charge when Uncle Ben became rich, I found the corb sent for me earlier than I wanted. The smell of the underground places and the way men emerged from them, with lanterns, torches, and flames instead of God's light to see by, made me more cautious than pleased.
No doubt but what some men enjoy it, being born, like worms, to dig, and to live in their own scoopings. Yet even the worms come up sometimes, after a good soft shower of rain, and hold discourse with one another; whereas these men, and the horses let down, come above ground never.
No doubt some guys enjoy it, being born, like worms, to dig and live in their own mess. But even the worms come up sometimes after a nice soft rain and chat with each other; meanwhile, these men, and the horses they let down, never come above ground.
And the changing of the sky is half the change our nature calls for. Earth we have, and all its produce (moving from the first appearance, and the hope with infants' eyes, through the bloom of beauty's promise, to the rich and ripe fulfilment, and the falling back to rest); sea we have (with all its wonder shed on eyes, and ears, and heart; and the thought of something more)—but without the sky to look at, what would earth, and sea, and even our own selves, be to us?
And the changing sky is part of the change our nature craves. We have the earth, and all its resources (starting from the first glimpse, and the hopeful gaze of infants, through the blossoming beauty's promise, to the full richness and then falling back to rest); we have the sea (with all its wonders captivating our eyes, ears, and hearts; and the idea of something greater)—but without the sky to look up at, what would the earth, the sea, and even ourselves be to us?
Do we look at earth with hope? Yes, for victuals only. Do we look at sea with hope? Yes, that we may escape it. At the sky alone (though questioned with the doubts of sunshine, or scattered with uncertain stars), at the sky alone we look with pure hope and with memory.
Do we look at the earth with hope? Yes, for food only. Do we look at the sea with hope? Yes, so that we can escape it. The sky alone (even though it's filled with doubts about sunshine or scattered with uncertain stars), the sky alone is where we look with pure hope and with memory.
Hence it always hurt my feelings when I got into that bucket, with my small-clothes turned up over, and a kerchief round my hat. But knowing that my purpose was sound, and my motives pure, I let the sky grow to a little blue hole, and then to nothing over me. At the bottom Master Carfax met me, being captain of the mine, and desirous to know my business. He wore a loose sack round his shoulders, and his beard was two feet long.
Hence it always hurt my feelings when I got into that bucket, with my pants rolled up, and a scarf around my hat. But knowing that my purpose was good and my motives were pure, I let the sky open up to a little blue spot and then to nothing above me. At the bottom, Master Carfax greeted me, being the captain of the mine and wanting to know what I was there for. He wore a loose bag over his shoulders, and his beard was two feet long.
“My business is to speak with you,” I answered rather sternly; for this man, who was nothing more than Uncle Reuben's servant, had carried things too far with me, showing no respect whatever; and though I did not care for much, I liked to receive a little, even in my early days.
“My job is to talk to you,” I replied a bit harshly; this guy, who was just Uncle Reuben's servant, had crossed a line with me, showing no respect at all; and while I didn’t care for much, I appreciated a little respect, even back then.
“Coom into the muck-hole, then,” was his gracious answer; and he led me into a filthy cell, where the miners changed their jackets.
“Come into the muck-hole, then,” was his polite response; and he led me into a dirty cell, where the miners changed their jackets.
“Simon Carfax,” I began, with a manner to discourage him; “I fear you are a shallow fellow, and not worth my trouble.”
“Simon Carfax,” I started, trying to deter him; “I’m afraid you’re a pretty superficial guy, and not worth my time.”
“Then don't take it,” he replied; “I want no man's trouble.”
“Then don’t take it,” he said; “I don’t want any man’s trouble.”
“For your sake I would not,” I answered; “but for your daughter's sake I will; the daughter whom you left to starve so pitifully in the wilderness.”
“For your sake I wouldn’t,” I replied; “but for your daughter’s sake I will; the daughter you abandoned to suffer so miserably in the wilderness.”
The man stared at me with his pale gray eyes, whose colour was lost from candle light; and his voice as well as his body shook, while he cried,—
The man stared at me with his pale gray eyes, which had lost their color from the candlelight; and his voice, along with his body, trembled as he cried,—
“It is a lie, man. No daughter, and no son have I. Nor was ever child of mine left to starve in the wilderness. You are too big for me to tackle, and that makes you a coward for saying it.” His hands were playing with a pickaxe helve, as if he longed to have me under it.
“It’s a lie, man. I have no daughter and no son. I never abandoned any child of mine to starve in the wilderness. You’re too big for me to take on, and that makes you a coward for saying it.” His hands were toying with a pickaxe handle, as if he wished he could put me underneath it.
“Perhaps I have wronged you, Simon,” I answered very softly; for the sweat upon his forehead shone in the smoky torchlight; “if I have, I crave your pardon. But did you not bring up from Cornwall a little maid named 'Gwenny,' and supposed to be your daughter?”
“Maybe I’ve hurt you, Simon,” I said quietly, noticing the sweat on his forehead glistening in the smoky torchlight. “If I have, I’m truly sorry. But didn’t you bring up a girl from Cornwall named 'Gwenny,' who was thought to be your daughter?”
“Ay, and she was my daughter, my last and only child of five; and for her I would give this mine, and all the gold will ever come from it.”
“Yeah, and she was my daughter, my last and only child out of five; and for her, I would give this mine and all the gold that will ever come from it.”
“You shall have her, without either mine or gold; if you only prove to me that you did not abandon her.”
“You can have her, without any money or gold; just show me that you didn’t leave her behind.”
“Abandon her! I abandon Gwenny!” He cried with such a rage of scorn, that I at once believed him. “They told me she was dead, and crushed, and buried in the drift here; and half my heart died with her. The Almighty blast their mining-work, if the scoundrels lied to me!”
“Forget her! I forget Gwenny!” He yelled with such intense anger that I instantly believed him. “They told me she was dead, trapped, and buried in the debris here; and half my heart died with her. Damn their mining work, if those crooks lied to me!”
“The scoundrels must have lied to you,” I answered, with a spirit fired by his heat of fury: “the maid is living and with us. Come up; and you shall see her.”
“The liars must have deceived you,” I replied, my anger fueled by his rage. “The maid is alive and with us. Come upstairs; and you’ll see her.”
“Rig the bucket,” he shouted out along the echoing gallery; and then he fell against the wall, and through the grimy sack I saw the heaving of his breast, as I have seen my opponent's chest, in a long hard bout of wrestling. For my part, I could do no more than hold my tongue and look at him.
“Get the bucket ready,” he yelled down the echoing corridor; and then he slumped against the wall, and through the dirty sack I could see his chest rising and falling, just like I’ve seen my opponent’s chest during a long, tough wrestling match. As for me, I could only stay quiet and watch him.
Without another word we rose to the level of the moors and mires; neither would Master Carfax speak, as I led him across the barrows. In this he was welcome to his own way, for I do love silence; so little harm can come of it. And though Gwenny was no beauty, her father might be fond of her.
Without saying another word, we made our way up to the moors and marshes; Master Carfax stayed quiet as I guided him over the burial mounds. He was free to do as he pleased in this regard, because I enjoy silence; it can’t do much harm. And even though Gwenny wasn’t really pretty, her father might still care for her.
So I put him in the cow-house (not to frighten the little maid), and the folding shutters over him, such as we used at the beestings; and he listened to my voice outside, and held on, and preserved himself. For now he would have scooped the earth, as cattle do at yearning-time, and as meekly and as patiently, to have his child restored to him. Not to make long tale of it—for this thing is beyond me, through want of true experience—I went and fetched his Gwenny forth from the back kitchen, where she was fighting, as usual, with our Betty.
So I put him in the cow shed (so I wouldn’t scare the little girl), and closed the folding shutters over him like we did at the beestings; he listened to my voice from outside, held on, and kept himself together. At that moment, he would have dug into the ground, like cattle do when they’re feeling desperate, and just as quietly and patiently, to get his child back. Not to drag this out—because this is beyond me, since I don’t have much real experience—I went and brought his Gwenny out from the back kitchen, where she was, as usual, arguing with our Betty.
“Come along, you little Vick,” I said, for so we called her; “I have a message to you, Gwenny, from the Lord in heaven.”
“Come on, you little Vick,” I said, because that’s what we called her; “I have a message for you, Gwenny, from the Lord in heaven.”
“Don't 'ee talk about He,” she answered; “Her have long forgatten me.”
"Don't talk about him," she replied; "She has long forgotten me."
“That He has never done, you stupid. Come, and see who is in the cowhouse.”
“That he’s never done, you fool. Come and see who’s in the cowhouse.”
Gwenny knew; she knew in a moment. Looking into my eyes, she knew; and hanging back from me to sigh, she knew it even better.
Gwenny knew; she figured it out in an instant. Looking into my eyes, she understood; and taking a step back to sigh, she realized it even more.
She had not much elegance of emotion, being flat and square all over; but none the less for that her heart came quick, and her words came slowly.
She didn't have much grace when it came to emotions, being plain and straightforward all over; however, her heart raced, and her words came out slowly.
“Oh, Jan, you are too good to cheat me. Is it joke you are putting upon me?”
“Oh, Jan, you're way too nice to trick me. Are you just messing with me?”
I answered her with a gaze alone; and she tucked up her clothes and followed me because the road was dirty. Then I opened the door just wide enough for the child to go to her father, and left those two to have it out, as might be most natural. And they took a long time about it.
I replied to her with just a look, and she pulled up her clothes and followed me since the road was messy. Then I opened the door wide enough for the child to go to her father and left those two to sort things out, as would be expected. And they took a long time doing it.
Meanwhile I needs must go and tell my Lorna all the matter; and her joy was almost as great as if she herself had found a father. And the wonder of the whole was this, that I got all the credit; of which not a thousandth part belonged by right and reason to me. Yet so it almost always is. If I work for good desert, and slave, and lie awake at night, and spend my unborn life in dreams, not a blink, nor wink, nor inkling of my labour ever tells. It would have been better to leave unburned, and to keep undevoured, the fuel and the food of life. But if I have laboured not, only acted by some impulse, whim, caprice, or anything; or even acting not at all, only letting things float by; piled upon me commendations, bravoes, and applauses, almost work me up to tempt once again (though sick of it) the ill luck of deserving.
Meanwhile, I have to go and tell my Lorna everything; and her joy was almost as great as if she had found a father herself. The amazing thing about it all was that I got all the credit, which I truly didn’t deserve even a tiny bit. But that’s how it often goes. If I work hard for good reasons, slave away, lose sleep at night, and spend my life dreaming, not a single bit of my effort ever gets recognized. It would have been better to keep the fuel and food of life untouched. But if I haven’t really worked at all—just acted on some impulse, whim, or fancy; or even just let things pass me by—I get piled on with compliments, cheers, and applause, almost tempting me once again (though I’m tired of it) to take on the bad luck of actually deserving it.
Without intending any harm, and meaning only good indeed, I had now done serious wrong to Uncle Reuben's prospects. For Captain Carfax was full as angry at the trick played on him as he was happy in discovering the falsehood and the fraud of it. Nor could I help agreeing with him, when he told me all of it, as with tears in his eyes he did, and ready to be my slave henceforth; I could not forbear from owning that it was a low and heartless trick, unworthy of men who had families; and the recoil whereof was well deserved, whatever it might end in.
Without meaning to cause any harm and truly wanting the best, I had seriously messed up Uncle Reuben's future. Captain Carfax was just as angry about the trick played on him as he was relieved to uncover the lies and deceit behind it. I couldn't help but agree with him when he shared everything with me, tears in his eyes and ready to serve me from that point on; I couldn't deny that it was a cruel and heartless trick, unworthy of those who had families, and the backlash it caused was well deserved, no matter how it turned out.
For when this poor man left his daughter, asleep as he supposed, and having his food, and change of clothes, and Sunday hat to see to, he meant to return in an hour or so, and settle about her sustenance in some house of the neighbourhood. But this was the very thing of all things which the leaders of the enterprise, who had brought him up from Cornwall, for his noted skill in metals, were determined, whether by fair means or foul, to stop at the very outset. Secrecy being their main object, what chance could there be of it, if the miners were allowed to keep their children in the neighbourhood? Hence, on the plea of feasting Simon, they kept him drunk for three days and three nights, assuring him (whenever he had gleams enough to ask for her) that his daughter was as well as could be, and enjoying herself with the children. Not wishing the maid to see him tipsy, he pressed the matter no further; but applied himself to the bottle again, and drank her health with pleasure.
When this poor man left his daughter, thinking she was just asleep, he took care of his food, clothes, and Sunday hat, planning to be back in about an hour to arrange for her care at a nearby place. However, this was precisely what the leaders of the operation, who had brought him from Cornwall for his well-known skill in metals, were determined to prevent from the very start, by any means necessary. Secrecy was their main goal, and there was no way to maintain it if the miners were allowed to keep their children around. So, under the pretense of celebrating Simon, they kept him drunk for three days and three nights, assuring him (whenever he was clear enough to ask) that his daughter was doing well and having fun with the other kids. Not wanting the girl to see him drunk, he didn’t push the issue further; instead, he went back to the bottle and raised a drink to her health with pleasure.
However, after three days of this, his constitution rose against it, and he became quite sober; with a certain lowness of heart moreover, and a sense of error. And his first desire to right himself, and easiest way to do it, was by exerting parental authority upon Gwenny. Possessed with this intention (for he was not a sweet tempered man, and his head was aching sadly) he sought for Gwenny high and low; first with threats, and then with fears, and then with tears and wailing. And so he became to the other men a warning and a great annoyance. Therefore they combined to swear what seemed a very likely thing, and might be true for all they knew, to wit, that Gwenny had come to seek for her father down the shaft-hole, and peering too eagerly into the dark, had toppled forward, and gone down, and lain at the bottom as dead as a stone.
However, after three days of this, his body couldn't take it anymore, and he got completely sober; along with that, he felt a bit down and realized he had made a mistake. His first instinct to fix things, and the easiest way to do it, was to assert his parental authority over Gwenny. Driven by this idea (since he wasn't a patient man and had a pounding headache), he searched for Gwenny everywhere; first with threats, then with fear, and finally with tears and wailing. Because of this, he became a warning and a big annoyance to the other men. So, they teamed up to swear to a tale that seemed very plausible, and might have been true for all they knew, that Gwenny had come looking for her father down the shaft-hole, and while peering too eagerly into the darkness, had fallen forward, gone down, and lay at the bottom as lifeless as a rock.
“And thou being so happy with drink,” the villains finished up to him, “and getting drunker every day, we thought it shame to trouble thee; and we buried the wench in the lower drift; and no use to think more of her; but come and have a glass, Sim.”
“And you being so happy with drinks,” the villains said to him, “and getting drunker every day, we thought it would be a shame to disturb you; so we buried the girl in the lower drift; and there’s no point in thinking more about her; but come and have a drink, Sim.”
But Simon Carfax swore that drink had lost him his wife, and now had lost him the last of his five children, and would lose him his own soul, if further he went on with it; and from that day to his death he never touched strong drink again. Nor only this; but being soon appointed captain of the mine, he allowed no man on any pretext to bring cordials thither; and to this and his stern hard rule and stealthy secret management (as much as to good luck and place) might it be attributed that scarcely any but themselves had dreamed about this Exmoor mine.
But Simon Carfax swore that drinking had cost him his wife, and now it had cost him the last of his five children, and would take his own soul if he kept it up; from that day until his death, he never touched alcohol again. Not only that, but after being appointed captain of the mine, he made sure that no one was allowed to bring any kind of alcohol there, for any reason. Thanks to this, his strict leadership, and his secretive management (as much as good luck and timing), barely anyone outside of their group even knew about this Exmoor mine.
As for me, I had no ambition to become a miner; and the state to which gold-seeking had brought poor Uncle Ben was not at all encouraging. My business was to till the ground, and tend the growth that came of it, and store the fruit in Heaven's good time, rather than to scoop and burrow like a weasel or a rat for the yellow root of evil. Moreover, I was led from home, between the hay and corn harvests (when we often have a week to spare), by a call there was no resisting; unless I gave up all regard for wrestling, and for my county.
As for me, I had no desire to become a miner, and the state that gold-seeking had left poor Uncle Ben in was definitely not encouraging. My focus was on farming the land, nurturing the crops that came from it, and saving the harvest in Heaven's time, rather than digging and burrowing like a weasel or a rat for the golden source of greed. Plus, I was drawn away from home, between the hay and corn harvests (when we often have a week to spare), by a pull that I couldn’t resist; unless I completely turned my back on wrestling and my county.
Now here many persons may take me amiss, and there always has been some confusion; which people who ought to have known better have wrought into subject of quarrelling. By birth it is true, and cannot be denied, that I am a man of Somerset; nevertheless by breed I am, as well as by education, a son of Devon also. And just as both of our two counties vowed that Glen Doone was none of theirs, but belonged to the other one; so now, each with hot claim and jangling (leading even to blows sometimes), asserted and would swear to it (as I became more famous) that John Ridd was of its own producing, bred of its own true blood, and basely stolen by the other.
Now, a lot of people might take this the wrong way, and there’s always been some confusion, created by those who should have known better, about this subject of argument. It's true, and undeniable, that I was born in Somerset; however, I also have roots in Devon, both by heritage and education. Just like how both counties insisted that Glen Doone didn’t belong to either, but to the other, now each side passionately claims—sometimes even leading to fights—that John Ridd came from its own area, bred from its true lineage, and wrongfully taken by the other.
Now I have not judged it in any way needful or even becoming and delicate, to enter into my wrestling adventures, or describe my progress. The whole thing is so different from Lorna, and her gentle manners, and her style of walking; moreover I must seem (even to kind people) to magnify myself so much, or at least attempt to do it, that I have scratched out written pages, through my better taste and sense.
Now I don’t think it’s necessary or appropriate to share my struggles or explain my journey. It’s all so different from Lorna, with her gentle ways and graceful walk; besides, I must come across (even to kind people) as trying to make myself seem more important, or at least I’d be seen that way, which has led me to cross out written pages because of my better taste and judgment.
Neither will I, upon this head, make any difference even now; being simply betrayed into mentioning the matter because bare truth requires it, in the tale of Lorna's fortunes.
I won't make any distinction on this matter either; I'm only mentioning it because the plain truth demands it in the story of Lorna's fortunes.
For a mighty giant had arisen in a part of Cornwall: and his calf was twenty-five inches round, and the breadth of his shoulders two feet and a quarter; and his stature seven feet and three-quarters. Round the chest he was seventy inches, and his hand a foot across, and there were no scales strong enough to judge of his weight in the market-place. Now this man—or I should say, his backers and his boasters, for the giant himself was modest—sent me a brave and haughty challenge, to meet him in the ring at Bodmin-town, on the first day of August, or else to return my champion's belt to them by the messenger.
A huge giant had appeared in part of Cornwall: his calf measured twenty-five inches around, his shoulders were two feet and a quarter wide, and he stood seven feet and three-quarters tall. His chest was seventy inches around, his hand was a foot across, and there were no scales strong enough to weigh him in the marketplace. This man—or rather, I should say, his supporters and boastful friends, because the giant himself was humble—sent me a bold and arrogant challenge to meet him in the ring in Bodmin on the first of August, or else return my champion's belt to them through a messenger.
It is no use to deny but that I was greatly dashed and scared at first. For my part, I was only, when measured without clothes on, sixty inches round the breast, and round the calf scarce twenty-one, only two feet across the shoulders, and in height not six and three-quarters. However, my mother would never believe that this man could beat me; and Lorna being of the same mind, I resolved to go and try him, as they would pay all expenses and a hundred pounds, if I conquered him; so confident were those Cornishmen.
I can’t deny that I was really shocked and scared at first. For me, when I took my clothes off, I measured only sixty inches around the chest, barely twenty-one around the calf, just two feet across the shoulders, and not quite six and three-quarters in height. However, my mother wouldn’t believe that this guy could beat me, and since Lorna felt the same way, I decided to give it a go since they would cover all my expenses and offer a hundred pounds if I won; those Cornishmen were that confident.
Now this story is too well known for me to go through it again and again. Every child in Devonshire knows, and his grandson will know, the song which some clever man made of it, after I had treated him to water, and to lemon, and a little sugar, and a drop of eau-de-vie. Enough that I had found the giant quite as big as they had described him, and enough to terrify any one. But trusting in my practice and study of the art, I resolved to try a back with him; and when my arms were round him once, the giant was but a farthingale put into the vice of a blacksmith. The man had no bones; his frame sank in, and I was afraid of crushing him. He lay on his back, and smiled at me; and I begged his pardon.
Now, this story is too well known for me to repeat it over and over. Every kid in Devonshire knows, and his grandson will know, the song that some clever person made about it, after I treated him to water, lemon, a bit of sugar, and a splash of brandy. It was enough that I found the giant just as huge as they had described, enough to scare anyone. But trusting in my experience and studying the craft, I decided to give him a bear hug; and once my arms were around him, the giant felt like a petticoat caught in a blacksmith's vice. The man had no bones; his body just caved in, and I worried about crushing him. He lay on his back and smiled at me, and I apologized.
Now this affair made a noise at the time, and redounded so much to my credit, that I was deeply grieved at it, because deserving none. For I do like a good strife and struggle; and the doubt makes the joy of victory; whereas in this case, I might as well have been sent for a match with a hay-mow. However, I got my hundred pounds, and made up my mind to spend every farthing in presents for mother and Lorna.
Now, this situation created quite a stir back then and boosted my reputation so much that I felt really upset about it since I didn't deserve it at all. I enjoy a good challenge and fight; it's the uncertainty that makes winning rewarding. In this case, though, it felt like I might as well have been sent to compete against a haystack. Still, I received my hundred pounds and decided to spend every penny on gifts for my mom and Lorna.
For Annie was married by this time, and long before I went away; as need scarcely be said, perhaps; if any one follows the weeks and the months. The wedding was quiet enough, except for everybody's good wishes; and I desire not to dwell upon it, because it grieved me in many ways.
For Annie was married by this time, and long before I went away; as need scarcely be said, perhaps; if anyone follows the weeks and the months. The wedding was quiet enough, except for everyone’s good wishes; and I don’t want to dwell on it, because it upset me in many ways.
But now that I had tried to hope the very best for dear Annie, a deeper blow than could have come, even through her, awaited me. For after that visit to Cornwall, and with my prize-money about me, I came on foot from Okehampton to Oare, so as to save a little sum towards my time of marrying. For Lorna's fortune I would not have; small or great I would not have it; only if there were no denying we would devote the whole of it to charitable uses, as Master Peter Blundell had done; and perhaps the future ages would endeavour to be grateful. Lorna and I had settled this question at least twice a day, on the average; and each time with more satisfaction.
But now that I had tried to hope for the best for dear Annie, a deeper blow than I could have imagined awaited me. After that visit to Cornwall, and with my prize money in my pocket, I walked from Okehampton to Oare to save a little toward my future marriage. I wouldn’t take Lorna's fortune, no matter how big or small; if we had to accept it, we would dedicate all of it to charitable causes, just like Master Peter Blundell did, and maybe future generations would be thankful. Lorna and I discussed this at least twice a day on average, and each time we felt more satisfied with our decision.
Now coming into the kitchen with all my cash in my breeches pocket (golden guineas, with an elephant on them, for the stamp of the Guinea Company), I found dear mother most heartily glad to see me safe and sound again—for she had dreaded that giant, and dreamed of him—and she never asked me about the money. Lizzie also was softer, and more gracious than usual; especially when she saw me pour guineas, like peppercorns, into the pudding-basin. But by the way they hung about, I knew that something was gone wrong.
Now, as I walked into the kitchen with all my cash in my pants pocket (golden guineas, marked with an elephant for the Guinea Company), I found my dear mother really happy to see me safe and sound again—since she had feared that giant and dreamed about him—and she never asked me about the money. Lizzie was also kinder and more pleasant than usual; especially when she saw me pour guineas, like peppercorns, into the pudding bowl. But by the way they were acting, I could tell something was off.
“Where is Lorna?” I asked at length, after trying not to ask it; “I want her to come, and see my money. She never saw so much before.”
“Where's Lorna?” I finally asked, after trying not to bring it up; “I want her to come and see my money. She's never seen so much before.”
“Alas!” said mother with a heavy sigh; “she will see a great deal more, I fear; and a deal more than is good for her. Whether you ever see her again will depend upon her nature, John.”
“Unfortunately!” said mother with a deep sigh; “she will see much more, I fear; and a lot more than is good for her. Whether you ever see her again will depend on her nature, John.”
“What do you mean, mother? Have you quarrelled? Why does not Lorna come to me? Am I never to know?”
“What do you mean, mom? Did you two fight? Why isn’t Lorna coming to see me? Am I never going to find out?”
“Now, John, be not so impatient,” my mother replied, quite calmly, for in truth she was jealous of Lorna, “you could wait now, very well, John, if it were till this day week, for the coming of your mother, John. And yet your mother is your best friend. Who can ever fill her place?”
“Now, John, don’t be so impatient,” my mother replied, quite calmly, because she was actually jealous of Lorna, “you could wait just fine, John, even if it were until this time next week, for the arrival of your mother, John. And yet your mother is your best friend. Who could ever take her place?”
Thinking of her future absence, mother turned away and cried; and the box-iron singed the blanket.
Thinking about her future absence, mom turned away and cried; and the box iron burned the blanket.
“Now,” said I, being wild by this time; “Lizzie, you have a little sense; will you tell me where is Lorna?”
“Now,” I said, feeling frantic by this point, “Lizzie, you have some common sense; can you tell me where Lorna is?”
“The Lady Lorna Dugal,” said Lizzie, screwing up her lips as if the title were too grand, “is gone to London, brother John; and not likely to come back again. We must try to get on without her.”
“The Lady Lorna Dugal,” Lizzie said, scrunching up her lips as if the title were too fancy, “has gone to London, brother John; and she probably won’t be coming back. We’ll have to manage without her.”
“You little—[something]” I cried, which I dare not write down here, as all you are too good for such language; but Lizzie's lip provoked me so—“my Lorna gone, my Lorna gone! And without good-bye to me even! It is your spite has sickened her.”
“You little—[something]” I yelled, which I can’t put down here, as you all deserve better than such language; but Lizzie's lip annoyed me so—“my Lorna's gone, my Lorna's gone! And without even saying goodbye to me! It's your spite that has made her sick.”
“You are quite mistaken there,” she replied; “how can folk of low degree have either spite or liking towards the people so far above them? The Lady Lorna Dugal is gone, because she could not help herself; and she wept enough to break ten hearts—if hearts are ever broken, John.”
“You're completely wrong about that,” she replied; “how can people of low status have either hate or affection for those who are so much above them? Lady Lorna Dugal is gone because she had no choice; and she cried enough to break ten hearts—if hearts can ever really be broken, John.”
“Darling Lizzie, how good you are!” I cried, without noticing her sneer; “tell me all about it, dear; tell me every word she said.”
"Darling Lizzie, you’re so wonderful!" I exclaimed, not noticing her scorn; "please tell me everything about it, dear; tell me each word she said."
“That will not take long,” said Lizzie, quite as unmoved by soft coaxing as by urgent cursing; “the lady spoke very little to any one, except indeed to mother, and to Gwenny Carfax; and Gwenny is gone with her, so that the benefit of that is lost. But she left a letter for 'poor John,' as in charity she called him. How grand she looked, to be sure, with the fine clothes on that were come for her!”
“That won’t take long,” Lizzie said, just as unaffected by gentle persuasion as by frantic cursing. “The lady didn't talk much to anyone, except really to Mom and to Gwenny Carfax; and since Gwenny went with her, that advantage is gone. But she did leave a letter for 'poor John,' as she kindly referred to him. She looked so impressive, though, in those fancy clothes that came for her!”
“Where is the letter, you utter vixen! Oh, may you have a husband! Who will thresh it out of you, and starve it, and swear it out of you!” was the meaning of my imprecation: but Lizzie, not dreaming as yet of such things, could not understand me, and was rather thankful; therefore she answered quietly,—
“Where is the letter, you sly thing! Oh, may you have a husband! Who will beat it out of you, and make you give it up, and force it out of you!” was the meaning of my curse: but Lizzie, not yet thinking of such things, couldn’t understand me, and was somewhat grateful; so she answered calmly,—
“The letter is in the little cupboard, near the head of Lady Lorna's bed, where she used to keep the diamond necklace, which we contrived to get stolen.”
“The letter is in the small cupboard, next to the head of Lady Lorna's bed, where she used to keep the diamond necklace that we managed to have stolen.”
Without another word I rushed (so that every board in the house shook) up to my lost Lorna's room, and tore the little wall-niche open and espied my treasure. It was as simple, and as homely, and loving, as even I could wish. Part of it ran as follows,—the other parts it behoves me not to open out to strangers:—“My own love, and sometime lord,—Take it not amiss of me, that even without farewell, I go; for I cannot persuade the men to wait, your return being doubtful. My great-uncle, some grand lord, is awaiting me at Dunster, having fear of venturing too near this Exmoor country. I, who have been so lawless always, and the child of outlaws, am now to atone for this, it seems, by living in a court of law, and under special surveillance (as they call it, I believe) of His Majesty's Court of Chancery. My uncle is appointed my guardian and master; and I must live beneath his care, until I am twenty-one years old. To me this appears a dreadful thing, and very unjust, and cruel; for why should I lose my freedom, through heritage of land and gold? I offered to abandon all if they would only let me go; I went down on my knees to them, and said I wanted titles not, neither land, nor money; only to stay where I was, where first I had known happiness. But they only laughed and called me 'child,' and said I must talk of that to the King's High Chancellor. Their orders they had, and must obey them; and Master Stickles was ordered too, to help as the King's Commissioner. And then, although it pierced my heart not to say one 'goodbye, John,' I was glad upon the whole that you were not here to dispute it. For I am almost certain that you would not, without force to yourself, have let your Lorna go to people who never, never can care for her.”
Without saying another word, I dashed (making every board in the house shake) up to my lost Lorna's room, ripped open the little wall-niche, and spotted my treasure. It was as simple, homey, and loving as I could have hoped for. Part of it read as follows—there are some things I shouldn't share with strangers: “My own love, and once lord—Please don’t take it badly that I’m leaving without saying goodbye; I can’t persuade the men to wait, as your return is uncertain. My great-uncle, some grand lord, is waiting for me at Dunster, afraid to come too close to this Exmoor country. I, who have always lived outside the law, the child of outlaws, must now atone for that by living under the watchful eye (as they call it) of His Majesty's Court of Chancery. My uncle has been appointed my guardian and master, and I have to live under his care until I turn twenty-one. This seems dreadful, very unfair, and cruel to me; why should I lose my freedom because of inheritance of land and wealth? I offered to give it all up if they’d just let me go; I begged on my knees and said I didn’t want titles, land, or money, just to stay where I was, where I first found happiness. But they just laughed and called me 'child,' saying I’d have to talk to the King's High Chancellor about that. They had their orders and had to follow them; Master Stickles was also instructed to help as the King's Commissioner. And then, even though it broke my heart not to say one 'goodbye, John,' I was mostly glad you weren’t here to argue about it. I'm almost certain there’s no way you would have let your Lorna go to people who could never truly care for her.”
Here my darling had wept again, by the tokens on the paper; and then there followed some sweet words, too sweet for me to chatter them. But she finished with these noble lines, which (being common to all humanity, in a case of steadfast love) I do no harm, but rather help all true love by repeating. “Of one thing rest you well assured—and I do hope that it may prove of service to your rest, love, else would my own be broken—no difference of rank, or fortune, or of life itself, shall ever make me swerve from truth to you. We have passed through many troubles, dangers, and dispartments, but never yet was doubt between us; neither ever shall be. Each has trusted well the other; and still each must do so. Though they tell you I am false, though your own mind harbours it, from the sense of things around, and your own undervaluing, yet take counsel of your heart, and cast such thoughts away from you; being unworthy of itself they must be unworthy also of the one who dwells there; and that one is, and ever shall be, your own Lorna Dugal.”
Here my darling had cried again, evident from the marks on the paper; and then she wrote some sweet words, too sweet for me to repeat. But she concluded with these noble words, which (being universal to all humanity in a case of true love) I don't harm, but rather support all genuine love by repeating. “Of one thing you can be sure—and I hope this brings you comfort, love, or else my own would be shattered—no difference in status, wealth, or even life itself will ever make me stray from my truth to you. We have gone through many troubles, dangers, and separations, but never has there been doubt between us; nor shall there ever be. Each has trusted the other completely; and we must continue to do so. Even if they claim I’m untrue, even if you doubt it in your mind, influenced by what’s around you and your own misjudgments, listen to your heart and dismiss such thoughts; being unworthy of itself, they must also be unworthy of the one who resides there; and that one is, and always will be, your own Lorna Dugal.”
Some people cannot understand that tears should come from pleasure; but whether from pleasure or from sorrow (mixed as they are in the twisted strings of a man's heart, or a woman's), great tears fell from my stupid eyes, even on the blots of Lorna's.
Some people don't realize that tears can come from happiness; but whether they're from joy or sadness (since both emotions are tangled up in a person's heart), big tears fell from my silly eyes, even onto the smudges of Lorna's.
“No doubt it is all over,” my mind said to me bitterly; “trust me, all shall yet be right,” my heart replied very sweetly.
“No doubt it’s all over,” my mind told me bitterly; “trust me, everything will be alright,” my heart replied sweetly.
CHAPTER LX
ANNIE LUCKIER THAN JOHN
Some people may look down upon us for our slavish ways (as they may choose to call them), but in our part of the country, we do love to mention title, and to roll it on our tongues, with a conscience and a comfort. Even if a man knows not, through fault of education, who the Duke of this is, or the Earl of that, it will never do for him to say so, lest the room look down on him. Therefore he must nod his head, and say, “Ah, to be sure! I know him as well as ever I know my own good woman's brother. He married Lord Flipflap's second daughter, and a precious life she led him.” Whereupon the room looks up at him. But I, being quite unable to carry all this in my head, as I ought, was speedily put down by people of a noble tendency, apt at Lords, and pat with Dukes, and knowing more about the King than His Majesty would have requested. Therefore, I fell back in thought, not daring in words to do so, upon the titles of our horses. And all these horses deserved their names, not having merely inherited, but by their own doing earned them. Smiler, for instance, had been so called, not so much from a habit of smiling, as from his general geniality, white nose, and white ankle. This worthy horse was now in years, but hale and gay as ever; and when you let him out of the stable, he could neigh and whinny, and make men and horses know it. On the other hand, Kickums was a horse of morose and surly order; harbouring up revenge, and leading a rider to false confidence. Very smoothly he would go, and as gentle as a turtle-dove; until his rider fully believed that a pack-thread was enough for him, and a pat of approval upon his neck the aim and crown of his worthy life. Then suddenly up went his hind feet to heaven, and the rider for the most part flew over his nose; whereupon good Kickums would take advantage of his favourable position to come and bite a piece out of his back. Now in my present state of mind, being understood of nobody, having none to bear me company, neither wishing to have any, an indefinite kind of attraction drew me into Kickum's society. A bond of mutual sympathy was soon established between us; I would ride no other horse, neither Kickums be ridden by any other man. And this good horse became as jealous about me as a dog might be; and would lash out, or run teeth foremost, at any one who came near him when I was on his back.
Some people may look down on us for our submissive ways (as they might call them), but in our part of the country, we do love to talk about titles and savor them with pride and comfort. Even if a man doesn’t know, due to a lack of education, who the Duke of this or the Earl of that is, he can’t admit it, or else everyone in the room would judge him. So, he must nod and say, “Oh, of course! I know him as well as I know my wife’s brother. He married Lord Flipflap's second daughter, and she certainly made life interesting for him.” At that point, the room acknowledges him. But I, unable to keep all this straight in my head as I should, was quickly put down by those who were knowledgeable about nobility and well-versed in Dukes and who knew more about the King than His Majesty would have wanted. So, I retreated in thought, though not daring to say so, to the titles of our horses. All of these horses earned their names, not merely inheriting them but by their own accomplishments. Smiler, for instance, was named not so much for a habit of smiling, but for his overall friendliness, white nose, and white ankle. This fine horse was older now, but just as lively and cheerful as ever; and when you let him out of the stable, he could neigh and whinny, making sure both people and horses noticed. On the other hand, Kickums was a horse with a grim and sullen nature; he secretly harbored a grudge and made his rider overly confident. He would move very smoothly and be as gentle as a dove; until his rider was completely convinced that a pack-thread was enough for him and that a pat on the neck was the highlight of his worthy life. Then suddenly he’d kick his hind feet up into the air, sending the rider flying over his head; and good Kickums would take advantage of this situation to come and bite a chunk out of his back. In my current frame of mind, feeling misunderstood by everyone, with no desire for company, I was inexplicably drawn to Kickums. A bond of mutual understanding developed between us; I wouldn’t ride any other horse, nor would Kickums allow any other man to ride him. This good horse became as jealous of me as a dog might be; he would kick out or charge at anyone who approached him when I was on his back.
This season, the reaping of the corn, which had been but a year ago so pleasant and so lightsome, was become a heavy labour, and a thing for grumbling rather than for gladness. However, for the sake of all, it must be attended to, and with as fair a show of spirit and alacrity as might be. For otherwise the rest would drag, and drop their hands and idle, being quicker to take infection of dullness than of diligence. And the harvest was a heavy one, even heavier than the year before, although of poorer quality. Therefore was I forced to work as hard as any horse could during all the daylight hours, and defer till night the brooding upon my misfortune. But the darkness always found me stiff with work, and weary, and less able to think than to dream, may be, of Lorna. And now the house was so dull and lonesome, wanting Annie's pretty presence, and the light of Lorna's eyes, that a man had no temptation after supper-time even to sit and smoke a pipe.
This season, the corn harvest, which had been so enjoyable and cheerful just a year ago, had turned into a heavy chore that people were more likely to complain about than appreciate. Nevertheless, it had to be done for everyone's sake, and we had to put on a brave face and tackle it with whatever enthusiasm we could muster. Otherwise, the others would slack off and become lazy, more easily caught up in boredom than in hard work. The harvest was tough this year, even tougher than the last, although the quality was worse. So, I had to work as hard as any horse throughout the daylight and put off thinking about my misfortunes until night. But the darkness always found me exhausted from work, too tired to think and only able to dream of Lorna. The house felt so dull and lonely without Annie's lovely presence and the brightness of Lorna's eyes that after dinner, I had no desire to even sit and smoke a pipe.
For Lizzie, though so learned, and pleasant when it suited her, never had taken very kindly to my love for Lorna, and being of a proud and slightly upstart nature, could not bear to be eclipsed in bearing, looks, and breeding, and even in clothes, by the stranger. For one thing I will say of the Doones, that whether by purchase or plunder, they had always dressed my darling well, with her own sweet taste to help them. And though Lizzie's natural hate of the maid (as a Doone and burdened with father's death) should have been changed to remorse when she learned of Lorna's real parentage, it was only altered to sullenness, and discontent with herself, for frequent rudeness to an innocent person, and one of such high descent. Moreover, the child had imbibed strange ideas as to our aristocracy, partly perhaps from her own way of thinking, and partly from reading of history. For while, from one point of view she looked up at them very demurely, as commissioned by God for the country's good; from another sight she disliked them, as ready to sacrifice their best and follow their worst members.
For Lizzie, despite being so knowledgeable and charming when she felt like it, never really accepted my love for Lorna. Being a bit proud and eager to show off, she couldn't stand being outshone in demeanor, appearance, background, and even fashion by someone she considered a stranger. One thing I’ll say about the Doones is that whether through buying or stealing, they always dressed my darling beautifully, aided by her own lovely taste. And although Lizzie's natural dislike for Lorna (being a Doone and a reminder of her father's death) should have turned into guilt once she discovered Lorna's true parentage, it only shifted to sulkiness and dissatisfaction with herself for being rude to someone innocent and of such high lineage. Additionally, Lizzie had picked up some odd ideas about our aristocracy, perhaps due to her own thinking and partly from her history reading. While she viewed them reverently as chosen by God for the nation's good, she also resented them for being willing to sacrifice their best and support their worst members.
Yet why should this wench dare to judge upon a matter so far beyond her, and form opinions which she knew better than declare before mother? But with me she had no such scruple, for I had no authority over her; and my intellect she looked down upon, because I praised her own so. Thus she made herself very unpleasant to me; by little jags and jerks of sneering, sped as though unwittingly; which I (who now considered myself allied to the aristocracy, and perhaps took airs on that account) had not wit enough to parry, yet had wound enough to feel.
Yet why should this girl dare to judge something so far beyond her, and form opinions she knew better than to express in front of her mother? But with me, she had no such hesitation, because I had no authority over her; and she looked down on my intellect, since I praised her own so much. This made her very unpleasant to me, with little jabs and sneers that seemed almost accidental; which I (who now considered myself part of the elite, and maybe acted a bit pretentious because of it) wasn't clever enough to counter, yet felt deeply.
Now any one who does not know exactly how mothers feel and think, would have expected my mother (than whom could be no better one) to pet me, and make much of me, under my sad trouble; to hang with anxiety on my looks, and shed her tears with mine (if any), and season every dish of meat put by for her John's return. And if the whole truth must be told, I did expect that sort of thing, and thought what a plague it would be to me; yet not getting it, was vexed, as if by some new injury. For mother was a special creature (as I suppose we all are), being the warmest of the warm, when fired at the proper corner; and yet, if taken at the wrong point, you would say she was incombustible.
Anyone who doesn't really understand how mothers feel and think would expect my mother (who could be no better) to comfort me and fuss over me during my hard times; to worry about my well-being, share my tears (if I had any), and make every meal special for her John's return. To be honest, I did expect that kind of care and thought it would be a hassle for me; yet when I didn’t get it, I was annoyed, as if I had been hurt again. Because my mother was quite a unique person (like we all are), being the most loving when approached in the right way; but if you caught her at the wrong moment, you would think she was completely unfeeling.
Hence it came to pass that I had no one even to speak to, about Lorna and my grievances; for Captain Stickles was now gone southward; and John Fry, of course, was too low for it, although a married man, and well under his wife's management. But finding myself unable at last to bear this any longer, upon the first day when all the wheat was cut, and the stooks set up in every field, yet none quite fit for carrying, I saddled good Kickums at five in the morning, and without a word to mother (for a little anxiety might do her good) off I set for Molland parish, to have the counsel and the comfort of my darling Annie.
So it happened that I had no one to talk to about Lorna and my problems; Captain Stickles had gone south, and John Fry, despite being married, was not someone I could confide in, as he was too weighed down by his wife’s control. But when I finally couldn't take it anymore, on the first day all the wheat was cut and the stooks were set up in every field, even though none were ready for carrying, I saddled up good Kickums at five in the morning. Without saying a word to my mother (since a little anxiety might actually be good for her), I set off for Molland parish to seek the advice and support of my beloved Annie.
The horse took me over the ground so fast (there being few better to go when he liked), that by nine o'clock Annie was in my arms, and blushing to the colour of Winnie's cheeks, with sudden delight and young happiness.
The horse raced across the ground so quickly (there are few better at this when he wanted to), that by nine o'clock Annie was in my arms, blushing like Winnie, filled with sudden joy and youthful happiness.
“You precious little soul!” I cried: “how does Tom behave to you?”
“You sweet little soul!” I exclaimed. “How does Tom treat you?”
“Hush!” said Annie: “how dare you ask? He is the kindest, and the best, and the noblest of all men, John; not even setting yourself aside. Now look not jealous, John: so it is. We all have special gifts, you know. You are as good as you can be, John; but my husband's special gift is nobility of character.” Here she looked at me, as one who has discovered something quite unknown.
“Hush!” Annie said. “How dare you ask? He is the kindest, the best, and the noblest of all men, John; and that’s not even considering you. Now don’t look jealous, John; it’s true. We all have our unique gifts, you know. You are as good as you can be, John; but my husband’s special gift is his noble character.” At that, she looked at me as if she had found out something completely new.
“I am devilish glad to hear it,” said I, being touched at going down so: “keep him to that mark, my dear; and cork the whisky bottle.”
“I’m really glad to hear that,” I said, feeling a bit down about it: “keep him to that standard, my dear; and seal the whisky bottle.”
“Yes, darling John,” she answered quickly, not desiring to open that subject, and being too sweet to resent it: “and how is lovely Lorna? What an age it is since I have seen you! I suppose we must thank her for that.”
“Yes, darling John,” she replied quickly, not wanting to discuss that topic, and being too kind to take offense: “and how is lovely Lorna? It’s been so long since I’ve seen you! I guess we have her to thank for that.”
“You may thank her for seeing me now,” said I; “or rather,”—seeing how hurt she looked,—“you may thank my knowledge of your kindness, and my desire to speak of her to a soft-hearted dear little soul like you. I think all the women are gone mad. Even mother treats me shamefully. And as for Lizzie—” Here I stopped, knowing no words strong enough, without shocking Annie.
“You can thank her for letting me see you now,” I said; “or actually,”—noticing how hurt she looked,—“you can thank my awareness of your kindness and my wish to talk about her to a sweet-hearted, kind soul like you. I think all the women have lost their minds. Even my mom treats me poorly. And as for Lizzie—” Here I paused, knowing there weren’t strong enough words to express myself without upsetting Annie.
“Do you mean to say that Lorna is gone?” asked Annie, in great amazement; yet leaping at the truth, as women do, with nothing at all to leap from.
“Are you saying that Lorna is gone?” asked Annie, in disbelief; yet grasping the truth, as women often do, with hardly anything to go on.
“Gone. And I never shall see her again. It serves me right for aspiring so.”
“Gone. And I’ll never see her again. I deserve this for hoping for too much.”
Being grieved at my manner, she led me in where none could interrupt us; and in spite of all my dejection, I could not help noticing how very pretty and even elegant all things were around. For we upon Exmoor have little taste; all we care for is warm comfort, and plenty to eat and to give away, and a hearty smack in everything. But Squire Faggus had seen the world, and kept company with great people; and the taste he had first displayed in the shoeing of farmers' horses (which led almost to his ruin, by bringing him into jealousy, and flattery, and dashing ways) had now been cultivated in London, and by moonlight, so that none could help admiring it.
Feeling sorry for my demeanor, she guided me to a place where we wouldn't be disturbed; and despite my sadness, I couldn't help but notice how pretty and even elegant everything was around us. We in Exmoor don't have much taste; all we care about is being warm and cozy, having plenty to eat and share, and enjoying life wholeheartedly. But Squire Faggus had traveled the world and mingled with important people; the flair he had first shown in shoeing farmers' horses (which nearly led to his downfall due to jealousy, flattery, and flashy behavior) had now been refined in London and under moonlight, making it impossible not to admire.
“Well!” I cried, for the moment dropping care and woe in astonishment: “we have nothing like this at Plover's Barrows; nor even Uncle Reuben. I do hope it is honest, Annie?”
“Well!” I exclaimed, momentarily forgetting my worries in surprise. “We don’t have anything like this at Plover's Barrows, not even Uncle Reuben. I really hope it’s genuine, Annie?”
“Would I sit in a chair that was not my own?” asked Annie, turning crimson, and dropping defiantly, and with a whisk of her dress which I never had seen before, into the very grandest one: “would I lie on a couch, brother John, do you think, unless good money was paid for it? Because other people are clever, John, you need not grudge them their earnings.”
“Would I sit in a chair that wasn’t mine?” asked Annie, turning red, and dropping boldly, with a swirl of her dress that I had never seen before, into the fanciest one: “Do you think I would lie on a couch, brother John, unless good money was paid for it? Just because other people are smart, John, you shouldn’t resent their success.”
“A couch!” I replied: “why what can you want with a couch in the day-time, Annie? A couch is a small bed, set up in a room without space for a good four-poster. What can you want with a couch downstairs? I never heard of such nonsense. And you ought to be in the dairy.”
“A couch!” I replied. “What do you need a couch for during the day, Annie? A couch is just a small bed placed in a room that can’t fit a proper four-poster. Why do you want a couch downstairs? I’ve never heard such nonsense. You should be in the dairy.”
“I won't cry, brother John, I won't; because you want to make me cry”—and all the time she was crying—“you always were so nasty, John, sometimes. Ah, you have no nobility of character, like my husband. And I have not seen you for two months, John; and now you come to scold me!”
“I won’t cry, brother John, I won’t; because you want to make me cry”—and all the while she was crying—“you’ve always been so mean, John, sometimes. Ah, you have no dignity, like my husband. I haven’t seen you for two months, John; and now you come here to scold me!”
“You little darling,” I said, for Annie's tears always conquered me; “if all the rest ill-use me, I will not quarrel with you, dear. You have always been true to me; and I can forgive your vanity. Your things are very pretty, dear; and you may couch ten times a day, without my interference. No doubt your husband has paid for all this, with the ponies he stole from Exmoor. Nobility of character is a thing beyond my understanding; but when my sister loves a man, and he does well and flourishes, who am I to find fault with him? Mother ought to see these things: they would turn her head almost: look at the pimples on the chairs!”
“You little darling,” I said, because Annie's tears always got to me; “even if everyone else treats me badly, I won’t argue with you, dear. You’ve always been loyal to me, and I can overlook your vanity. Your things are really lovely, dear; and you can lounge around as much as you want, without me getting in the way. I’m sure your husband has paid for all this with the ponies he took from Exmoor. Nobility of character is something I just don’t get; but when my sister loves a guy, and he’s doing well, who am I to criticize him? Mom should see all this: it would blow her mind; just look at the stains on the chairs!”
“They are nothing,” Annie answered, after kissing me for my kindness: “they are only put in for the time indeed; and we are to have much better, with gold all round the bindings, and double plush at the corners; so soon as ever the King repays the debt he owes to my poor Tom.”
“They’re nothing,” Annie said after kissing me for my kindness. “They’re just temporary; we’re going to have much better ones, with gold around the edges and double plush on the corners, as soon as the King pays back the debt he owes to my poor Tom.”
I thought to myself that our present King had been most unlucky in one thing—debts all over the kingdom. Not a man who had struck a blow for the King, or for his poor father, or even said a good word for him, in the time of his adversity, but expected at least a baronetcy, and a grant of estates to support it. Many have called King Charles ungrateful: and he may have been so. But some indulgence is due to a man, with entries few on the credit side, and a terrible column of debits.
I thought to myself that our current King had been really unfortunate in one area—debts throughout the kingdom. Not a single man who fought for the King, or his poor father, or even said something nice about him during his tough times, but expected at least a baronet title and some land to support it. Many have called King Charles ungrateful, and maybe he was. But some understanding is deserved for someone with very few positives to show and a huge list of negatives.
“Have no fear for the chair,” I said, for it creaked under me very fearfully, having legs not so large as my finger; “if the chair breaks, Annie, your fear should be, lest the tortoise-shell run into me. Why, it is striped like a viper's loins! I saw some hundreds in London; and very cheap they are. They are made to be sold to the country people, such as you and me, dear; and carefully kept they will last for almost half a year. Now will you come back from your furniture, and listen to my story?”
“Don’t worry about the chair,” I said, as it squeaked beneath me quite alarmingly, its legs not much thicker than my finger; “if the chair breaks, Annie, you should be more concerned about the tortoise-shell running into me. Honestly, it looks just like a viper's belly! I saw hundreds of them in London, and they're really affordable. They’re made to be sold to people from the countryside, like you and me, dear; and if taken care of, they can last for almost six months. Now, will you step away from your furniture and listen to my story?”
Annie was a hearty dear, and she knew that half my talk was joke, to make light of my worrying. Therefore she took it in good part, as I well knew that she would do; and she led me to a good honest chair; and she sat in my lap and kissed me.
Annie was a warm-hearted person, and she knew that half of what I said was just a joke to lighten my worries. So, she took it in stride, as I knew she would; she guided me to a sturdy chair, sat on my lap, and kissed me.
“All this is not like you, John. All this is not one bit like you: and your cheeks are not as they ought to be. I shall have to come home again, if the women worry my brother so. We always held together, John; and we always will, you know.”
“All this isn't like you, John. None of this is at all like you, and your cheeks don't look right. I might have to come home again if the women are upsetting my brother so much. We’ve always stuck together, John, and we always will, you know.”
“You dear,” I cried, “there is nobody who understands me as you do. Lorna makes too much of me, and the rest they make too little.”
“You, my dear,” I exclaimed, “no one understands me like you do. Lorna sees too much in me, and the others see too little.”
“Not mother; oh, not mother, John!”
“Not mom; oh, not mom, John!”
“No, mother makes too much, no doubt; but wants it all for herself alone; and reckons it as a part of her. She makes me more wroth than any one: as if not only my life, but all my head and heart must seek from hers, and have no other thought or care.”
“No, mom makes too much, no doubt; but she wants it all for herself; and she thinks it’s a part of her. She makes me angrier than anyone else: as if not just my life, but all my thoughts and feelings must come from her, and I shouldn’t have any other thoughts or cares.”
Being sped of my grumbling thus, and eased into better temper, I told Annie all the strange history about Lorna and her departure, and the small chance that now remained to me of ever seeing my love again. To this Annie would not hearken twice, but judging women by her faithful self, was quite vexed with me for speaking so. And then, to my surprise and sorrow, she would deliver no opinion as to what I ought to do until she had consulted darling Tom.
Feeling relieved of my complaints and in a better mood, I shared with Annie the unusual story about Lorna and her leaving, along with the slim chance I had of ever seeing my love again. Annie wouldn’t listen to me more than once, as she judged women by her own loyal nature and was quite upset with me for speaking like that. Then, to my surprise and disappointment, she refused to give any advice on what I should do until she had talked to dear Tom.
Dear Tom knew much of the world, no doubt, especially the dark side of it. But to me it scarcely seemed becoming that my course of action with regard to the Lady Lorna Dugal should be referred to Tom Faggus, and depend upon his decision. However, I would not grieve Annie again by making light of her husband; and so when he came in to dinner, the matter was laid before him.
Dear Tom knew a lot about the world, no doubt, especially its darker aspects. But to me, it didn't seem right that my decisions regarding Lady Lorna Dugal should be brought to Tom Faggus for his judgment. Still, I didn’t want to upset Annie again by making fun of her husband, so when he came in for dinner, I brought the issue up with him.
Now this man never confessed himself surprised, under any circumstances; his knowledge of life being so profound, and his charity universal. And in the present case he vowed that he had suspected it all along, and could have thrown light upon Lorna's history, if we had seen fit to apply to him. Upon further inquiry I found that this light was a very dim one, flowing only from the fact that he had stopped her mother's coach, at the village of Bolham, on the Bampton Road, the day before I saw them. Finding only women therein, and these in a sad condition, Tom with his usual chivalry (as he had no scent of the necklace) allowed them to pass; with nothing more than a pleasant exchange of courtesies, and a testimonial forced upon him, in the shape of a bottle of Burgundy wine. This the poor countess handed him; and he twisted the cork out with his teeth, and drank her health with his hat off.
This man never admitted to being surprised, no matter the situation; his understanding of life was so deep, and his kindness so broad. In this case, he claimed he had suspected everything all along and could have shed light on Lorna's story if we had bothered to ask him. Upon further investigation, I discovered that this insight was quite limited, stemming only from the fact that he had stopped her mother's coach in the village of Bolham on the Bampton Road, the day before I encountered them. Finding only women inside, and seeing that they were in a distressed state, Tom, being his usual gallant self (and unaware of the necklace), let them go on their way, with nothing more than a friendly exchange and a gift forced upon him in the form of a bottle of Burgundy wine. The poor countess handed it to him, and he removed the cork with his teeth and drank to her health, hat in hand.
“A lady she was, and a true one; and I am a pretty good judge,” said Tom: “ah, I do like a high lady!”
“A lady she was, and a genuine one; and I’m a pretty good judge,” said Tom: “ah, I do like a classy lady!”
Our Annie looked rather queer at this, having no pretensions to be one: but she conquered herself, and said, “Yes, Tom; and many of them liked you.”
Our Annie looked a bit strange at this, not trying to be one: but she composed herself and said, “Yes, Tom; and many of them liked you.”
With this, Tom went on the brag at once, being but a shallow fellow, and not of settled principles, though steadier than he used to be; until I felt myself almost bound to fetch him back a little; for of all things I do hate brag the most, as any reader of this tale must by this time know. Therefore I said to Squire Faggus, “Come back from your highway days. You have married the daughter of an honest man; and such talk is not fit for her. If you were right in robbing people, I am right in robbing you. I could bind you to your own mantelpiece, as you know thoroughly well, Tom; and drive away with your own horses, and all your goods behind them, but for the sense of honesty. And should I not do as fine a thing as any you did on the highway? If everything is of public right, how does this chair belong to you? Clever as you are, Tom Faggus, you are nothing but a fool to mix your felony with your farmership. Drop the one, or drop the other; you cannot maintain them both.”
With that, Tom immediately started bragging, being a shallow guy and not really having strong principles, though he was more stable than before; until I felt I had to rein him in a bit, because out of everything, I hate bragging the most, as any reader of this story must know by now. So, I said to Squire Faggus, “Stop living like a criminal. You’ve married the daughter of an honest man, and that kind of talk isn’t suitable for her. If you’re justified in robbing people, then I’m justified in robbing you. I could easily tie you to your own mantelpiece, as you know very well, Tom; and take your horses and all your stuff with me, but I’m held back by my sense of honesty. And wouldn’t I be doing something just as great as anything you did on the highway? If everything is publicly owned, then how does this chair belong to you? As clever as you think you are, Tom Faggus, you’re nothing but a fool for trying to combine your crimes with farming. You need to choose one; you can’t do both.”
As I finished very sternly a speech which had exhausted me more than ten rounds of wrestling—but I was carried away by the truth, as sometimes happens to all of us—Tom had not a word to say; albeit his mind was so much more nimble and rapid than ever mine was. He leaned against the mantelpiece (a newly-invented affair in his house) as if I had corded him to it, even as I spoke of doing. And he laid one hand on his breast in a way which made Annie creep softly to him, and look at me not like a sister.
As I finished a speech that had worn me out more than ten rounds of wrestling—but I was caught up in the truth, as often happens to all of us—Tom didn’t say a word, even though his mind was quicker and sharper than mine ever was. He leaned against the mantelpiece (a new invention in his house) as if I had tied him to it, just like I mentioned. He placed one hand on his chest in a way that made Annie approach him quietly and look at me in a way that felt anything but sisterly.
“You have done me good, John,” he said at last, and the hand he gave me was trembling: “there is no other man on God's earth would have dared to speak to me as you have done. From no other would I have taken it. Nevertheless every word is true; and I shall dwell on it when you are gone. If you never did good in your life before, John, my brother, you have done it now.”
“You’ve done me a great favor, John,” he said finally, his hand shaking as he offered it to me. “There’s no other man on this earth who would have dared to speak to me like you just did. I wouldn’t have accepted it from anyone else. But every word is true, and I’ll think about it long after you leave. If you’ve never done anything good in your life before, John, my brother, you’ve certainly done it now.”
He turned away, in bitter pain, that none might see his trouble; and Annie, going along with him, looked as if I had killed our mother. For my part, I was so upset, for fear of having gone too far, that without a word to either of them, but a message on the title-page of King James his Prayer-book, I saddled Kickums, and was off, and glad of the moorland air again.
He turned away, feeling deep pain, so no one would notice his struggle; and Annie, following him, looked like I had killed our mother. As for me, I was so upset, worried that I had gone too far, that without saying a word to either of them, I left a message on the title page of King James's Prayer Book, saddled Kickums, and rode off, relieved to be in the open moorland air again.
CHAPTER LXI
THEREFORE HE SEEKS COMFORT
It was for poor Annie's sake that I had spoken my mind to her husband so freely, and even harshly. For we all knew she would break her heart, if Tom took to evil ways again. And the right mode of preventing this was, not to coax, and flatter, and make a hero of him (which he did for himself, quite sufficiently), but to set before him the folly of the thing, and the ruin to his own interests. They would both be vexed with me, of course, for having left them so hastily, and especially just before dinner-time; but that would soon wear off; and most likely they would come to see mother, and tell her that I was hard to manage, and they could feel for her about it.
It was for poor Annie's sake that I had spoken my mind to her husband so openly, and even harshly. We all knew she would be heartbroken if Tom fell back into his old ways. The best way to prevent this wasn't to coddle him, flatter him, or make him a hero (which he did well enough on his own), but to show him the foolishness of his actions and how it would ruin his own interests. They would both be annoyed with me, of course, for leaving so quickly, especially right before dinner, but that would pass soon enough. They'd probably come to see Mom and tell her that I was difficult to deal with, and they could empathize with her about it.
Now with a certain yearning, I know not what, for softness, and for one who could understand me—for simple as a child though being, I found few to do that last, at any rate in my love-time—I relied upon Kickum's strength to take me round by Dulverton. It would make the journey some eight miles longer, but what was that to a brisk young horse, even with my weight upon him?
Now, with a certain longing I can't quite define, for comfort and for someone who could really understand me—though I was as innocent as a child, I found very few who could do that during my romantic times—I counted on Kickum's strength to take me around by Dulverton. It would make the trip about eight miles longer, but what did that matter for a lively young horse, even with my weight on him?
And having left Squire Faggus and Annie much sooner than had been intended, I had plenty of time before me, and too much, ere a prospect of dinner. Therefore I struck to the right, across the hills, for Dulverton.
And after leaving Squire Faggus and Annie much earlier than planned, I had plenty of time on my hands, and too much time before dinner. So, I headed right, across the hills, toward Dulverton.
Pretty Ruth was in the main street of the town, with a basket in her hand, going home from the market.
Pretty Ruth was on the main street of the town, holding a basket in her hand, headed home from the market.
“Why, Cousin Ruth, you are grown,” I exclaimed; “I do believe you are, Ruth. And you were almost too tall, already.”
“Wow, Cousin Ruth, you've really grown,” I said; “I really think you have, Ruth. And you were almost too tall already.”
At this the little thing was so pleased, that she smiled through her blushes beautifully, and must needs come to shake hands with me; though I signed to her not to do it, because of my horse's temper. But scarcely was her hand in mine, when Kickums turned like an eel upon her, and caught her by the left arm with his teeth, so that she screamed with agony. I saw the white of his vicious eye, and struck him there with all my force, with my left hand over her right arm, and he never used that eye again; none the less he kept his hold on her. Then I smote him again on the jaw, and caught the little maid up by her right hand, and laid her on the saddle in front of me; while the horse being giddy and staggered with blows, and foiled of his spite, ran backward. Ruth's wits were gone; and she lay before me, in such a helpless and senseless way that I could have killed vile Kickums. I struck the spurs into him past the rowels, and away he went at full gallop; while I had enough to do to hold on, with the little girl lying in front of me. But I called to the men who were flocking around, to send up a surgeon, as quick as could be, to Master Reuben Huckaback's.
At this, the little girl was so happy that she smiled through her blushes beautifully and had to come shake hands with me, even though I signaled for her not to because of my horse's temper. But as soon as her hand touched mine, Kickums twisted like an eel and bit her on the left arm, making her scream in pain. I saw the white of his nasty eye and hit him with all my strength using my left hand over her right arm, and he never used that eye again; still, he wouldn't let go of her. Then I hit him again on the jaw, picked the little girl up by her right hand, and placed her on the saddle in front of me. The horse, dizzy and thrown off by the blows, backed up stubbornly. Ruth was out of it; she lay before me in a helpless and dazed way that made me want to kill that awful Kickums. I dug my spurs into him hard, and he took off at full gallop, while I struggled to hold on with the little girl in front of me. But I shouted to the men gathering around to send a surgeon quickly to Master Reuben Huckaback's.
The moment I brought my right arm to bear, the vicious horse had no chance with me; and if ever a horse was well paid for spite, Kickums had his change that day. The bridle would almost have held a whale and I drew on it so that his lower jaw was well-nigh broken from him; while with both spurs I tore his flanks, and he learned a little lesson. There are times when a man is more vicious than any horse may vie with. Therefore by the time we had reached Uncle Reuben's house at the top of the hill, the bad horse was only too happy to stop; every string of his body was trembling, and his head hanging down with impotence. I leaped from his back at once, and carried the maiden into her own sweet room.
The moment I swung my right arm, that vicious horse didn't stand a chance against me; if any horse deserved a lesson for being spiteful, Kickums got his that day. The bridle was robust enough to hold a whale, and I pulled it so hard that I nearly broke his lower jaw; meanwhile, I jabbed both spurs into his sides, and he learned a hard lesson. There are moments when a man can be more ferocious than any horse. By the time we reached Uncle Reuben's house at the top of the hill, that bad horse was more than ready to stop; every muscle in his body was shaking, and his head was drooping in defeat. I jumped off his back immediately and carried the girl into her cozy room.
Now Cousin Ruth was recovering softly from her fright and faintness; and the volley of the wind from galloping so had made her little ears quite pink, and shaken her locks all round her. But any one who might wish to see a comely sight and a moving one, need only have looked at Ruth Huckaback, when she learned (and imagined yet more than it was) the manner of her little ride with me. Her hair was of a hazel-brown, and full of waving readiness; and with no concealment of the trick, she spread it over her eyes and face. Being so delighted with her, and so glad to see her safe, I kissed her through the thick of it, as a cousin has a right to do; yea, and ought to do, with gravity.
Now Cousin Ruth was gently recovering from her fright and faintness, and the wind from running so fast had turned her little ears quite pink and tousled her hair all around. Anyone who wanted to see a beautiful and touching sight only needed to look at Ruth Huckaback when she found out (and imagined even more than it was) about her little ride with me. Her hair was a warm hazel-brown and full of lively curls, and without holding back, she let it fall across her eyes and face. Delighted with her and so relieved to see her safe, I kissed her through the mass of hair, as a cousin has every right to do; in fact, it’s something they should do with sincerity.
“Darling,” I said; “he has bitten you dreadfully: show me your poor arm, dear.”
“Sweetheart,” I said, “he bit you pretty badly: let me see your poor arm, dear.”
She pulled up her sleeve in the simplest manner, rather to look at it herself, than to show me where the wound was. Her sleeve was of dark blue Taunton staple; and her white arm shone, coming out of it, as round and plump and velvety, as a stalk of asparagus, newly fetched out of the ground. But above the curved soft elbow, where no room was for one cross word (according to our proverb),* three sad gashes, edged with crimson, spoiled the flow of the pearly flesh. My presence of mind was lost altogether; and I raised the poor sore arm to my lips, both to stop the bleeding and to take the venom out, having heard how wise it was, and thinking of my mother. But Ruth, to my great amazement, drew away from me in bitter haste, as if I had been inserting instead of extracting poison. For the bite of a horse is most venomous; especially when he sheds his teeth; and far more to be feared than the bite of a dog, or even of a cat. And in my haste I had forgotten that Ruth might not know a word about this, and might doubt about my meaning, and the warmth of my osculation. But knowing her danger, I durst not heed her childishness, or her feelings.
She rolled up her sleeve casually, more to check it out herself than to show me where the wound was. Her sleeve was made of dark blue fabric, and her white arm stood out, round and soft like a freshly dug stalk of asparagus. But above her gently curved elbow, where there was no room for harsh words (as the saying goes), three sad cuts lined with red ruined the smoothness of her skin. I completely lost my composure and brought her injured arm to my lips, wanting to stop the bleeding and draw out the poison, remembering how wise that was and thinking of my mother. But to my surprise, Ruth pulled away from me in a panic, as if I was putting poison in instead of taking it out. A horse's bite is extremely poisonous, especially when it loses a tooth, and is far worse than a dog’s or even a cat’s bite. In my rush, I had forgotten that Ruth might not know anything about this, and could misunderstand my intentions and the warmth of my kiss. But knowing her danger, I couldn’t worry about her childlike reactions or feelings.
* “A maid with an elbow sharp, or knee,
Hath cross words two, out of every three.”
* “A maid with a sharp elbow or knee,
Has harsh words two out of every three.”“Don't be a fool, Cousin Ruth,” I said, catching her so that she could not move; “the poison is soaking into you. Do you think that I do it for pleasure?”
“Don't be an idiot, Cousin Ruth,” I said, grabbing her so she couldn't move; “the poison is seeping into you. Do you really think I'm doing this for fun?”
The spread of shame on her face was such, when she saw her own misunderstanding, that I was ashamed to look at her; and occupied myself with drawing all the risk of glanders forth from the white limb, hanging helpless now, and left entirely to my will. Before I was quite sure of having wholly exhausted suction, and when I had made the holes in her arm look like the gills of a lamprey, in came the doctor, partly drunk, and in haste to get through his business.
The shame on her face was so intense when she realized her own misunderstanding that I felt embarrassed to look at her; instead, I focused on drawing all the risk of glanders out of her white, helpless limb that was completely at my mercy. Before I was completely certain I had finished sucking, and after I had made the holes in her arm resemble the gills of a lamprey, the doctor came in, partially drunk and eager to get through his work.
“Ha, ha! I see,” he cried; “bite of a horse, they tell me. Very poisonous; must be burned away. Sally, the iron in the fire. If you have a fire, this weather.”
“Ha, ha! I get it,” he shouted; “horse bite, they say. Really toxic; needs to be burned off. Sally, get the iron from the fire. If you have a fire in this weather.”
“Crave your pardon, good sir,” I said; for poor little Ruth was fainting again at his savage orders: “but my cousin's arm shall not be burned; it is a great deal too pretty, and I have sucked all the poison out. Look, sir, how clean and fresh it is.”
“Please forgive me, sir,” I said; as poor little Ruth was fainting again at his harsh commands: “but my cousin's arm won’t be burned; it’s far too beautiful, and I’ve removed all the poison. Look, sir, how clean and fresh it is.”
“Bless my heart! And so it is! No need at all for cauterising. The epidermis will close over, and the cutis and the pellis. John Ridd, you ought to have studied medicine, with your healing powers. Half my virtue lies in touch. A clean and wholesome body, sir; I have taught you the Latin grammar. I leave you in excellent hands, my dear, and they wait for me at shovel-board. Bread and water poultice cold, to be renewed, tribus horis. John Ridd, I was at school with you, and you beat me very lamentably, when I tried to fight with you. You remember me not? It is likely enough: I am forced to take strong waters, John, from infirmity of the liver. Attend to my directions; and I will call again in the morning.”
“Bless my heart! It’s true! No need for cauterizing at all. The skin will heal up, as will the under layers. John Ridd, you should have studied medicine with your healing skills. Half of my talent comes from touch. A clean and healthy body, sir; I’ve taught you Latin grammar. I’m leaving you in great hands, my dear, and they are waiting for me at the shuffleboard. Bread and water poultice cold, to be refreshed every three hours. John Ridd, I went to school with you, and you defeated me quite badly when I tried to fight you. You don’t remember me? That’s understandable; I’ve had to take strong drinks, John, because of liver problems. Follow my advice, and I’ll come back in the morning.”
And in that melancholy plight, caring nothing for business, went one of the cleverest fellows ever known at Tiverton. He could write Latin verses a great deal faster than I could ever write English prose, and nothing seemed too great for him. We thought that he would go to Oxford and astonish every one, and write in the style of Buchanan; but he fell all abroad very lamentably; and now, when I met him again, was come down to push-pin and shovel-board, with a wager of spirits pending.
And in that sorrowful situation, not caring about work, there was one of the smartest guys ever seen in Tiverton. He could write Latin verses way faster than I could ever write English prose, and nothing seemed too challenging for him. We thought he would go to Oxford and impress everyone, writing like Buchanan; but things went very wrong for him, and now, when I ran into him again, he was reduced to playing games like push-pin and shove ha'penny, with a bet on spirits hanging over him.
When Master Huckaback came home, he looked at me very sulkily; not only because of my refusal to become a slave to the gold-digging, but also because he regarded me as the cause of a savage broil between Simon Carfax and the men who had cheated him as to his Gwenny. However, when Uncle Ben saw Ruth, and knew what had befallen her, and she with tears in her eyes declared that she owed her life to Cousin Ridd, the old man became very gracious to me; for if he loved any one on earth, it was his little granddaughter.
When Master Huckaback came home, he looked at me very grumpily; not only because I refused to become a slave to making money, but also because he saw me as the reason for a nasty fight between Simon Carfax and the guys who had cheated him about his Gwenny. However, when Uncle Ben saw Ruth, and understood what had happened to her, and she, with tears in her eyes, said she owed her life to Cousin Ridd, the old man became very kind to me; because if he loved anyone on earth, it was his little granddaughter.
I could not stay very long, because, my horse being quite unfit to travel from the injuries which his violence and vice had brought upon him, there was nothing for me but to go on foot, as none of Uncle Ben's horses could take me to Plover's Barrows, without downright cruelty: and though there would be a harvest-moon, Ruth agreed with me that I must not keep my mother waiting, with no idea where I might be, until a late hour of the night. I told Ruth all about our Annie, and her noble furniture; and the little maid was very lively (although her wounds were paining her so, that half her laughter came “on the wrong side of her mouth,” as we rather coarsely express it); especially she laughed about Annie's new-fangled closet for clothes, or standing-press, as she called it. This had frightened me so that I would not come without my stick to look at it; for the front was inlaid with two fiery dragons, and a glass which distorted everything, making even Annie look hideous; and when it was opened, a woman's skeleton, all in white, revealed itself, in the midst of three standing women. “It is only to keep my best frocks in shape,” Annie had explained to me; “hanging them up does ruin them so. But I own that I was afraid of it, John, until I had got all my best clothes there, and then I became very fond of it. But even now it frightens me sometimes in the moonlight.”
I couldn't stay long because my horse was in no shape to travel due to the injuries caused by his bad behavior, which left me with no choice but to walk. None of Uncle Ben's horses could take me to Plover's Barrows without being cruel to them. Even though there would be a harvest moon, Ruth agreed that I shouldn't keep my mother waiting until late at night, with no idea of where I was. I told Ruth all about our Annie and her fancy furniture, and the little maid was quite lively (even though her wounds hurt her so much that half her laughter seemed forced); she especially found humor in Annie's fancy clothes closet, or standing-press, as she called it. This had scared me enough that I wouldn’t go without my stick to look at it because the front was inlaid with two fierce dragons, and the mirror distorted everything, making even Annie look ugly. When it was opened, a white woman's skeleton appeared in the middle of three standing women. “It’s just to keep my best dresses looking nice,” Annie explained to me. “Hanging them up ruins them. But I admit I was scared of it, John, until I managed to get all my best clothes in there, and then I grew very attached to it. Still, sometimes it scares me a little in the moonlight.”
Having made poor Ruth a little cheerful, with a full account of all Annie's frocks, material, pattern, and fashion (of which I had taken a list for my mother, and for Lizzie, lest they should cry out at man's stupidity about anything of real interest), I proceeded to tell her about my own troubles, and the sudden departure of Lorna; concluding with all the show of indifference which my pride could muster, that now I never should see her again, and must do my best to forget her, as being so far above me. I had not intended to speak of this, but Ruth's face was so kind and earnest, that I could not stop myself.
After I managed to brighten Ruth’s mood a bit with a detailed rundown of all of Annie’s dresses—their fabric, style, and design (which I had made a note of for my mom and for Lizzie, so they wouldn’t complain about how clueless guys can be about things that really matter)—I went on to share my own troubles about Lorna’s sudden departure. I wrapped it up with as much indifference as I could fake, insisting that I would never see her again and that I had to do my best to forget her since she was so far out of my league. I hadn’t planned to talk about this, but Ruth’s kind and earnest expression made it impossible for me to hold back.
“You must not talk like that, Cousin Ridd,” she said, in a low and gentle tone, and turning away her eyes from me; “no lady can be above a man, who is pure, and brave, and gentle. And if her heart be worth having, she will never let you give her up, for her grandeur, and her nobility.”
“You shouldn’t talk like that, Cousin Ridd,” she said softly, looking away from me. “No woman can consider herself above a man who is pure, brave, and kind. And if her heart is truly worth having, she’ll never let you walk away for the sake of her status or dignity.”
She pronounced those last few words, as I thought, with a little bitterness, unperceived by herself perhaps, for it was not in her appearance. But I, attaching great importance to a maiden's opinion about a maiden (because she might judge from experience), would have led her further into that subject. But she declined to follow, having now no more to say in a matter so removed from her. Then I asked her full and straight, and looking at her in such a manner that she could not look away, without appearing vanquished by feelings of her own—which thing was very vile of me; but all men are so selfish,—
She said those last few words, I thought, with a hint of bitterness, maybe without realizing it, since it didn't show in her appearance. But I, placing a lot of value on a woman's opinion about another woman (because she might have insight from her own experiences), would have pushed her to talk more about it. But she chose not to continue, having nothing more to say on a topic so distant from her. So I asked her directly, looking at her in a way that made it hard for her to look away, without seeming like she was giving in to her own feelings—which was pretty mean of me; but all men are selfish—
“Dear cousin, tell me, once for all, what is your advice to me?”
“Hey cousin, just tell me, what’s your advice for me?”
“My advice to you,” she answered bravely, with her dark eyes full of pride, and instead of flinching, foiling me,—“is to do what every man must do, if he would win fair maiden. Since she cannot send you token, neither is free to return to you, follow her, pay your court to her; show that you will not be forgotten; and perhaps she will look down—I mean, she will relent to you.”
“My advice to you,” she responded confidently, her dark eyes filled with pride, and instead of backing down, facing me head-on, “is to do what every man must do if he wants to win a fair maiden. Since she can’t send you a sign and isn’t free to come back to you, pursue her, pay court to her; show that you won’t be forgotten; and maybe she will look down—I mean, she will give in to you.”
“She has nothing to relent about. I have never vexed nor injured her. My thoughts have never strayed from her. There is no one to compare with her.”
“She has nothing to apologize for. I have never annoyed or harmed her. My thoughts have always been on her. There’s no one who can compare to her.”
“Then keep her in that same mind about you. See now, I can advise no more. My arm is swelling painfully, in spite of all your goodness, and bitter task of surgeonship. I shall have another poultice on, and go to bed, I think, Cousin Ridd, if you will not hold me ungrateful. I am so sorry for your long walk. Surely it might be avoided. Give my love to dear Lizzie: oh, the room is going round so.”
“Then keep her feeling the same way about you. I can’t advise any further. My arm is swelling painfully, despite all your kindness and the tough job of being a surgeon. I think I’ll put on another poultice and go to bed, if you won’t think me ungrateful. I really feel bad about your long walk. It should have been avoided. Please give my love to dear Lizzie: oh, the room is spinning.”
And she fainted into the arms of Sally, who was come just in time to fetch her: no doubt she had been suffering agony all the time she talked to me. Leaving word that I would come again to inquire for her, and fetch Kickums home, so soon as the harvest permitted me, I gave directions about the horse, and striding away from the ancient town, was soon upon the moorlands.
And she passed out into Sally's arms, who had just arrived to get her: she must have been in pain the entire time she was talking to me. I left a message saying I would return to check on her and bring Kickums home as soon as the harvest allowed, then I took care of the horse and walked away from the old town, soon finding myself on the moorlands.
Now, through the whole of that long walk—the latter part of which was led by starlight, till the moon arose—I dwelt, in my young and foolish way, upon the ordering of our steps by a Power beyond us. But as I could not bring my mind to any clearness upon this matter, and the stars shed no light upon it, but rather confused me with wondering how their Lord could attend to them all, and yet to a puny fool like me, it came to pass that my thoughts on the subject were not worth ink, if I knew them.
Now, throughout that long walk—the latter part of which was guided by starlight until the moon came up—I pondered, in my young and naive way, about how a Power beyond us directed our steps. But since I couldn’t find any clarity on this topic, and the stars didn’t help but instead left me confused, wondering how their Creator could pay attention to all of them and yet to a small person like me, I realized that my thoughts on the matter weren’t even worth writing down, if I really understood them.
But it is perhaps worth ink to relate, so far as I can do so, mother's delight at my return, when she had almost abandoned hope, and concluded that I was gone to London, in disgust at her behaviour. And now she was looking up the lane, at the rise of the harvest-moon, in despair, as she said afterwards. But if she had despaired in truth, what use to look at all? Yet according to the epigram made by a good Blundellite,—
But it’s probably worth mentioning, as much as I can, my mother’s joy at my return, when she had almost given up hope and thought I had gone to London, disgusted by her behavior. She was looking down the lane at the rise of the harvest moon, feeling hopeless, as she later described. But if she had truly lost hope, what was the point of looking at all? Yet according to the saying made by a good Blundellite,—
“Despair was never yet so deep
In sinking as in seeming;
Despair is hope just dropped asleep
For better chance of dreaming.”
“Despair has never been as deep in sinking as it is in appearance; despair is hope that has just fallen asleep for a better chance to dream.”
And mother's dream was a happy one, when she knew my step at a furlong distant; for the night was of those that carry sound thrice as far as day can. She recovered herself, when she was sure, and even made up her mind to scold me, and felt as if she could do it. But when she was in my arms, into which she threw herself, and I by the light of the moon descried the silver gleam on one side of her head (now spreading since Annie's departure), bless my heart and yours therewith, no room was left for scolding. She hugged me, and she clung to me; and I looked at her, with duty made tenfold, and discharged by love. We said nothing to one another; but all was right between us.
And Mom's dream was a happy one when she heard my footsteps from a distance. The night was one of those that carries sound three times farther than during the day. She collected herself when she was sure it was me and even decided to scold me, feeling like she could actually do it. But when she jumped into my arms, and I saw the silver shine on one side of her head (which had been spreading since Annie left), bless my heart and yours, there was no room left for scolding. She hugged me tightly and wouldn’t let go; I looked at her, feeling my responsibility amplified but fulfilled by love. We didn’t say anything to each other, but everything felt right between us.
Even Lizzie behaved very well, so far as her nature admitted; not even saying a nasty thing all the time she was getting my supper ready, with a weak imitation of Annie. She knew that the gift of cooking was not vouchsafed by God to her; but sometimes she would do her best, by intellect to win it. Whereas it is no more to be won by intellect than is divine poetry. An amount of strong quick heart is needful, and the understanding must second it, in the one art as in the other. Now my fare was very choice for the next three days or more; yet not turned out like Annie's. They could do a thing well enough on the fire; but they could not put it on table so; nor even have plates all piping hot. This was Annie's special gift; born in her, and ready to cool with her; like a plate borne away from the fireplace. I sighed sometimes about Lorna, and they thought it was about the plates. And mother would stand and look at me, as much as to say, “No pleasing him”; and Lizzie would jerk up one shoulder, and cry, “He had better have Lorna to cook for him”; while the whole truth was that I wanted not to be plagued about any cookery; but just to have something good and quiet, and then smoke and think about Lorna.
Even Lizzie behaved pretty well, as much as her nature allowed; she didn’t even say anything nasty while she was getting my supper ready, trying weakly to imitate Annie. She knew that cooking wasn’t a gift she had, but sometimes she would try her best to earn it through her intelligence. However, you can’t gain that skill through intellect any more than you can create divine poetry. A strong, passionate heart is necessary, and understanding has to support it, in both arts. Now, my meals were quite nice for the next three days, but they didn’t come out like Annie's. They could cook well enough on the stove, but they couldn’t set the table properly or even keep the plates hot. That was Annie's special talent; it came naturally to her and would cool off if she wasn’t around, like a plate taken away from the fireplace. I sometimes sighed about Lorna, and they thought I was upset about the plates. My mom would look at me, as if to say, “You can’t please him," and Lizzie would huff one shoulder and say, “He’d be better off with Lorna cooking for him,” while the real truth was that I just wanted to avoid all the cooking drama and have something good and quiet to eat, then smoke and think about Lorna.
Nevertheless the time went on, with one change and another; and we gathered all our harvest in; and Parson Bowden thanked God for it, both in church and out of it; for his tithes would be very goodly. The unmatched cold of the previous winter, and general fear of scarcity, and our own talk about our ruin, had sent prices up to a grand high pitch; and we did our best to keep them there. For nine Englishmen out of every ten believe that a bitter winter must breed a sour summer, and explain away topmost prices. While according to my experience, more often it would be otherwise, except for the public thinking so. However, I have said too much; and if any farmer reads my book, he will vow that I wrote it for nothing else except to rob his family.
But time went on, with one change after another; we gathered in our harvest, and Parson Bowden gave thanks to God for it, both in church and outside of it, because his tithes were looking quite good. The brutal cold of the last winter, the widespread fear of shortages, and our own worries about our downfall had pushed prices up to a high point, and we did our best to keep them there. Nine out of ten Englishmen believe that a harsh winter leads to a tough summer and justify those high prices. But based on my experience, it usually turns out to be the opposite, except for what people think. Anyway, I've said too much; and if any farmer reads my book, they'll claim I wrote it solely to rip off his family.
CHAPTER LXII
THE KING MUST NOT BE PRAYED FOR
All our neighbourhood was surprised that the Doones had not ere now attacked, and probably made an end of us. For we lay almost at their mercy now, having only Sergeant Bloxham, and three men, to protect us, Captain Stickles having been ordered southwards with all his force; except such as might be needful for collecting toll, and watching the imports at Lynmouth, and thence to Porlock. The Sergeant, having now imbibed a taste for writing reports (though his first great effort had done him no good, and only offended Stickles), reported weekly from Plover's Barrows, whenever he could find a messenger. And though we fed not Sergeant Bloxham at our own table, with the best we had (as in the case of Stickles, who represented His Majesty), yet we treated him so well, that he reported very highly of us, as loyal and true-hearted lieges, and most devoted to our lord the King. And indeed he could scarcely have done less, when Lizzie wrote great part of his reports, and furbished up the rest to such a pitch of lustre, that Lord Clarendon himself need scarce have been ashamed of them. And though this cost a great deal of ale, and even of strong waters (for Lizzie would have it the duty of a critic to stand treat to the author), and though it was otherwise a plague, as giving the maid such airs of patronage, and such pretence to politics; yet there was no stopping it, without the risk of mortal offence to both writer and reviewer. Our mother also, while disapproving Lizzie's long stay in the saddle-room on a Friday night and a Saturday, and insisting that Betty should be there, was nevertheless as proud as need be, that the King should read our Eliza' s writings—at least so the innocent soul believed—and we all looked forward to something great as the fruit of all this history. And something great did come of it, though not as we expected; for these reports, or as many of them as were ever opened, stood us in good stead the next year, when we were accused of harbouring and comforting guilty rebels.
Everyone in our neighborhood was surprised that the Doones hadn’t attacked us yet, especially since we were almost defenseless. We had only Sergeant Bloxham and three men to protect us, since Captain Stickles had been sent south with his entire force, except for the few needed to collect tolls and monitor imports at Lynmouth and then to Porlock. The Sergeant had developed a liking for writing reports (even though his first attempt had upset Stickles), and he sent updates weekly from Plover's Barrows whenever he could find someone to deliver them. Although we didn’t serve Sergeant Bloxham the best food at our table like we did for Stickles, who represented the King, we treated him well enough that he reported highly of us as loyal subjects who were devoted to our lord the King. He couldn’t have said otherwise, considering Lizzie wrote much of his reports and polished the rest so well that Lord Clarendon himself wouldn’t have been ashamed of them. Even though this cost a lot of ale and strong drinks (since Lizzie insisted it was a critic's duty to buy drinks for the author), and it was a nuisance as it gave her airs and made her think she understood politics, we couldn’t stop it without risking serious offense to both the writer and the reviewer. Our mother, while disapproving of Lizzie spending so much time in the saddle-room on Friday and Saturday nights and insisting that Betty should be there instead, was nonetheless quite proud that the King would read our Eliza’s writings—at least that’s what the innocent soul believed—and we all looked forward to something great coming from this history. And something significant did happen, although not in the way we expected; those reports, or at least the ones that were ever opened, turned out to be very helpful the following year when we were accused of harboring and assisting guilty rebels.
Now the reason why the Doones did not attack us was that they were preparing to meet another and more powerful assault upon their fortress; being assured that their repulse of King's troops could not be looked over when brought before the authorities. And no doubt they were right; for although the conflicts in the Government during that summer and autumn had delayed the matter yet positive orders had been issued that these outlaws and malefactors should at any price be brought to justice; when the sudden death of King Charles the Second threw all things into confusion, and all minds into a panic.
Now, the reason the Doones didn't attack us was that they were getting ready to face another, more powerful attack on their fortress; they knew that their defeat of the King's troops couldn’t be ignored when reported to the authorities. And they were likely correct; even though the conflicts within the government during that summer and fall had delayed things, clear orders had been given that these outlaws and criminals should be brought to justice at all costs. Then, the sudden death of King Charles the Second threw everything into chaos and left everyone in a state of panic.
We heard of it first in church, on Sunday, the eighth day of February, 1684-5, from a cousin of John Fry, who had ridden over on purpose from Porlock. He came in just before the anthem, splashed and heated from his ride, so that every one turned and looked at him. He wanted to create a stir (knowing how much would be made of him), and he took the best way to do it. For he let the anthem go by very quietly—or rather I should say very pleasingly, for our choir was exceeding proud of itself, and I sang bass twice as loud as a bull, to beat the clerk with the clarionet—and then just as Parson Bowden, with a look of pride at his minstrels, was kneeling down to begin the prayer for the King's Most Excellent Majesty (for he never read the litany, except upon Easter Sunday), up jumps young Sam Fry, and shouts,—
We first heard about it in church on Sunday, February 8, 1684-5, from a cousin of John Fry who had specifically ridden over from Porlock. He arrived just before the anthem, drenched in sweat from his ride, making everyone turn to look at him. He wanted to make an impression (knowing how much attention he would get), and he chose the perfect way to do it. He let the anthem play out quietly—or rather, I should say, quite nicely, because our choir was really proud of itself, and I sang bass twice as loudly as a bull to outdo the clerk with the clarinet—and then just as Parson Bowden, looking proud of his musicians, was kneeling down to start the prayer for the King’s Most Excellent Majesty (since he only read the litany on Easter Sunday), young Sam Fry jumped up and shouted,—
“I forbid that there prai-er.”
“I forbid that prayer.”
“What!” cried the parson, rising slowly, and looking for some one to shut the door: “have we a rebel in the congregation?” For the parson was growing short-sighted now, and knew not Sam Fry at that distance.
“What!” shouted the pastor, standing up slowly and searching for someone to close the door. “Do we have a rebel in the congregation?” The pastor was becoming nearsighted and didn’t recognize Sam Fry from that far away.
“No,” replied Sam, not a whit abashed by the staring of all the parish; “no rebel, parson; but a man who mislaiketh popery and murder. That there prai-er be a prai-er for the dead.”
“No,” replied Sam, not at all embarrassed by the stares of the entire parish; “no rebel, parson; but a man who dislikes popery and murder. That prayer is a prayer for the dead.”
“Nay,” cried the parson, now recognising and knowing him to be our John's first cousin, “you do not mean to say, Sam, that His Gracious Majesty is dead!”
“Nah,” yelled the parson, now recognizing him as our John's first cousin, “you can’t be saying, Sam, that His Gracious Majesty is dead!”
“Dead as a sto-un: poisoned by they Papishers.” And Sam rubbed his hands with enjoyment, at the effect he had produced.
“Dead as a stone: poisoned by those Papists.” And Sam rubbed his hands with enjoyment at the impact he had made.
“Remember where you are, Sam,” said Parson Bowden solemnly; “when did this most sad thing happen? The King is the head of the Church, Sam Fry; when did he leave her?”
“Remember where you are, Sam,” said Parson Bowden seriously; “when did this really sad thing happen? The King is the head of the Church, Sam Fry; when did he abandon her?”
“Day afore yesterday. Twelve o'clock. Warn't us quick to hear of 'un?”
“Day before yesterday. Twelve o'clock. Weren't we quick to hear about him?”
“Can't be,” said the minister: “the tidings can never have come so soon. Anyhow, he will want it all the more. Let us pray for His Gracious Majesty.”
“Can’t be,” said the minister. “The news couldn’t have arrived this quickly. Anyway, he will want it even more. Let’s pray for His Gracious Majesty.”
And with that he proceeded as usual; but nobody cried “Amen,” for fear of being entangled with Popery. But after giving forth his text, our parson said a few words out of book, about the many virtues of His Majesty, and self-denial, and devotion, comparing his pious mirth to the dancing of the patriarch David before the ark of the covenant; and he added, with some severity, that if his flock would not join their pastor (who was much more likely to judge aright) in praying for the King, the least they could do on returning home was to pray that the King might not be dead, as his enemies had asserted.
And with that, he went on as usual; but nobody said “Amen,” fearing they might get associated with Popery. After stating his text, our pastor mentioned a few things from memory about the many virtues of His Majesty, self-discipline, and devotion, comparing his joyful spirit to the dancing of the patriarch David before the ark of the covenant. He also added, somewhat sternly, that if his congregation wouldn’t join their pastor (who was much more likely to judge rightly) in praying for the King, the least they could do when they got home was to pray that the King wasn’t dead, as his enemies had claimed.
Now when the service was over, we killed the King, and we brought him to life, at least fifty times in the churchyard: and Sam Fry was mounted on a high gravestone, to tell every one all he knew of it. But he knew no more than he had told us in the church, as before repeated: upon which we were much disappointed with him, and inclined to disbelieve him; until he happily remembered that His Majesty had died in great pain, with blue spots on his breast and black spots all across his back, and these in the form of a cross, by reason of Papists having poisoned him. When Sam called this to his remembrance (or to his imagination) he was overwhelmed, at once, with so many invitations to dinner, that he scarce knew which of them to accept; but decided in our favour.
After the service ended, we killed the King and brought him back to life at least fifty times in the graveyard. Sam Fry was perched on a tall gravestone, sharing everything he knew about it. But he didn’t know any more than he had already told us in the church, which disappointed us a lot, and we started to doubt him. Until he suddenly remembered that His Majesty had died in great pain, with blue spots on his chest and black spots all over his back, arranged in the shape of a cross, because Papists had poisoned him. When Sam recalled this (or maybe just imagined it), he was flooded with so many dinner invitations that he barely knew which ones to accept, but ultimately chose us.
Grieving much for the loss of the King, however greatly it might be (as the parson had declared it was, while telling us to pray against it) for the royal benefit, I resolved to ride to Porlock myself, directly after dinner, and make sure whether he were dead, or not. For it was not by any means hard to suppose that Sam Fry, being John's first cousin, might have inherited either from grandfather or grandmother some of those gifts which had made our John so famous for mendacity. At Porlock I found that it was too true; and the women of the town were in great distress, for the King had always been popular with them: the men, on the other hand, were forecasting what would be likely to ensue.
Grieving deeply for the loss of the King, no matter how significant it might be (as the pastor had said it was, while urging us to pray against it) for the sake of the royal family, I decided to ride to Porlock myself right after dinner to confirm if he was dead or not. It wasn't hard to think that Sam Fry, being John's first cousin, might have inherited some of those traits from our grandparents that had made John so notorious for lying. When I arrived in Porlock, I found it to be true; the women in town were very upset because the King had always been popular with them. The men, on the other hand, were speculating about what might happen next.
And I myself was of this number, riding sadly home again; although bound to the King as churchwarden now; which dignity, next to the parson's in rank, is with us (as it ought to be in every good parish) hereditary. For who can stick to the church like the man whose father stuck to it before him; and who knows all the little ins, and great outs, which must in these troublous times come across?
And I was among them, riding home feeling down; even though I was now connected to the King as a churchwarden, which, next to the parson's role, is the highest position in our parish and should be passed down through generations. After all, who can commit to the church like someone whose father did the same before him? And who understands all the small details and significant challenges that come up during these turbulent times?
But though appointed at last, by virtue of being best farmer in the parish (as well as by vice of mismanagement on the part of my mother, and Nicholas Snowe, who had thoroughly mixed up everything, being too quick-headed); yet, while I dwelled with pride upon the fact that I stood in the King's shoes, as the manager and promoter of the Church of England, and I knew that we must miss His Majesty (whose arms were above the Commandments), as the leader of our thoughts in church, and handsome upon a guinea; nevertheless I kept on thinking how his death would act on me.
But even though I was finally appointed, thanks to being the best farmer in the parish and the mismanagement of my mother and Nicholas Snowe, who had really messed everything up—he was just too quick-witted—I took pride in the fact that I stood in the King's place as the manager and promoter of the Church of England. I knew we would miss His Majesty (whose coat of arms were above the Commandments), as our leader in church, and he looked great on a guinea; still, I couldn't stop thinking about how his death would affect me.
And here I saw it, many ways. In the first place, troubles must break out; and we had eight-and-twenty ricks; counting grain, and straw, and hay. Moreover, mother was growing weak about riots, and shooting, and burning; and she gathered the bed-clothes around her ears every night, when her feet were tucked up; and prayed not to awake until morning. In the next place, much rebellion (though we would not own it; in either sense of the verb, to “own”) was whispering, and plucking skirts, and making signs, among us. And the terror of the Doones helped greatly; as a fruitful tree of lawlessness, and a good excuse for everybody. And after this—or rather before it, and first of all indeed (if I must state the true order)—arose upon me the thought of Lorna, and how these things would affect her fate.
And here I saw it in many ways. First of all, troubles were bound to break out; we had twenty-eight ricks, counting grain, straw, and hay. Plus, my mother was getting anxious about riots, shootings, and fires; she would pull the bedcovers up around her ears every night, tucking her feet in, and prayed not to wake until morning. On top of that, there was a lot of rebellion (though we wouldn’t admit it; in either sense of the verb, to “own”) whispering, tugging at skirts, and signaling among us. The fear of the Doones really added to this; they were like a thriving tree of lawlessness and a good excuse for everyone. And after all this—or rather before it, and really first of all (if I must be honest about the order)—the thought of Lorna came to me, and how these events would impact her fate.
And indeed I must admit that it had occurred to me sometimes, or been suggested by others, that the Lady Lorna had not behaved altogether kindly, since her departure from among us. For although in those days the post (as we call the service of letter-carrying, which now comes within twenty miles of us) did not extend to our part of the world, yet it might have been possible to procure for hire a man who would ride post, if Lorna feared to trust the pack-horses, or the troopers, who went to and fro. Yet no message whatever had reached us; neither any token even of her safety in London. As to this last, however, we had no misgivings, having learned from the orderlies, more than once, that the wealth, and beauty, and adventures of young Lady Lorna Dugal were greatly talked of, both at court and among the common people.
I must admit that it has crossed my mind sometimes, or been suggested by others, that Lady Lorna hasn’t been very considerate since she left us. Even though back then the mail service (as we now call it, which only goes about twenty miles from us) didn’t reach our area, it could have been possible to hire someone who would ride with messages if Lorna didn’t feel comfortable using the pack-horses or the soldiers traveling back and forth. Yet, we didn’t receive any messages at all; not even a sign of her safety in London. About that last point, though, we weren’t worried because we had heard from the orderlies several times that the wealth, beauty, and adventures of young Lady Lorna Dugal were widely discussed, both at court and among the common people.
Now riding sadly homewards, in the sunset of the early spring, I was more than ever touched with sorrow, and a sense of being, as it were, abandoned. And the weather growing quite beautiful, and so mild that the trees were budding, and the cattle full of happiness, I could not but think of the difference between the world of to-day and the world of this day twelvemonth. Then all was howling desolation, all the earth blocked up with snow, and all the air with barbs of ice as small as splintered needles, yet glittering, in and out, like stars, and gathering so upon a man (if long he stayed among them) that they began to weigh him down to sleepiness and frozen death. Not a sign of life was moving, nor was any change of view; unless the wild wind struck the crest of some cold drift, and bowed it.
Now riding sadly homeward at sunset in early spring, I felt more than ever overwhelmed by sorrow, and a sense of being, in a way, abandoned. The weather was becoming beautiful and so mild that the trees were budding, and the cattle seemed full of happiness. I couldn't help but think about the difference between the world today and the world from a year ago. Back then, it was all howling desolation, the ground completely covered in snow, and the air filled with ice shards as sharp as splintered needles, yet sparkling like stars. They would gather on a person (if they stayed among them too long) and weigh them down with sleepiness and a sense of frozen death. There was no sign of life moving, and there was no change in the view, unless the wild wind hit the top of some cold drift and bent it.
Now, on the other hand, all was good. The open palm of spring was laid upon the yielding of the hills; and each particular valley seemed to be the glove for a finger. And although the sun was low, and dipping in the western clouds, the gray light of the sea came up, and took, and taking, told the special tone of everything. All this lay upon my heart, without a word of thinking, spreading light and shadow there, and the soft delight of sadness. Nevertheless, I would it were the savage snow around me, and the piping of the restless winds, and the death of everything. For in those days I had Lorna.
Now, on the other hand, everything felt good. The gentle warmth of spring touched the rolling hills, and each valley seemed like a finger in a glove. Even though the sun was setting low, just dipping below the western clouds, the gray light reflected off the sea emerged, capturing and expressing the unique essence of everything. All of this filled my heart without needing words, casting light and shadow within, along with a soft, bittersweet joy. Still, I wished for the wild snow around me, the sound of restless winds, and the end of everything. Because back then, I had Lorna.
Then I thought of promise fair; such as glowed around me, where the red rocks held the sun, when he was departed; and the distant crags endeavoured to retain his memory. But as evening spread across them, shading with a silent fold, all the colour stole away; all remembrance waned and died.
Then I thought of a beautiful promise; like the glow around me where the red rocks caught the sun after it had set, and the distant cliffs tried to hold onto its memory. But as evening spread over them, wrapping them in a quiet shadow, all the color faded away; all remembrance dwindled and vanished.
“So it has been with love,” I thought, “and with simple truth and warmth. The maid has chosen the glittering stars, instead of the plain daylight.”
“So it has been with love,” I thought, “and with honest truth and warmth. The maid has picked the shining stars instead of the plain daylight.”
Nevertheless I would not give in, although in deep despondency (especially when I passed the place where my dear father had fought in vain), and I tried to see things right and then judge aright about them. This, however, was more easy to attempt than to achieve; and by the time I came down the hill, I was none the wiser. Only I could tell my mother that the King was dead for sure; and she would have tried to cry, but for thought of her mourning.
Nevertheless, I wouldn’t give in, even though I was feeling really down (especially when I passed the spot where my dear father had fought in vain). I tried to see things clearly and then make the right judgment about them. However, that was easier said than done; and by the time I came down the hill, I was no wiser. All I could tell my mother was that the King was definitely dead; and she would have tried to cry, but she was too absorbed in her mourning.
There was not a moment for lamenting. All the mourning must be ready (if we cared to beat the Snowes) in eight-and-forty hours: and, although it was Sunday night, mother now feeling sure of the thing, sat up with Lizzie, cutting patterns, and stitching things on brown paper, and snipping, and laying the fashions down, and requesting all opinions, yet when given, scorning them; insomuch that I grew weary even of tobacco (which had comforted me since Lorna), and prayed her to go on until the King should be alive again.
There wasn’t any time to mourn. All the grief had to be ready (if we wanted to beat the Snowes) in forty-eight hours: and even though it was Sunday night, Mom, now confident about it, stayed up with Lizzie, cutting patterns and stitching things onto brown paper, snipping and laying out the designs, and asking for everyone’s opinions, but when she got them, she dismissed them; so much so that I grew tired of even tobacco (which had comforted me since Lorna) and begged her to keep going until the King was alive again.
The thought of that so flurried her—for she never yet could see a joke—that she laid her scissors on the table and said, “The Lord forbid, John! after what I have cut up!”
The thought of that flustered her so much—since she had never been able to see a joke—that she put her scissors down on the table and said, "God forbid, John! After what I've cut up!"
“It would be just like him,” I answered, with a knowing smile: “Mother, you had better stop. Patterns may do very well; but don't cut up any more good stuff.”
“It would be just like him,” I replied, with a knowing smile. “Mom, you should really stop. Patterns might work just fine, but don’t waste any more good fabric.”
“Well, good lack, I am a fool! Three tables pegged with needles! The Lord in His mercy keep His Majesty, if ever He hath gotten him!”
"Well, good grief, I’m an idiot! Three tables stuck with needles! May the Lord have mercy and protect His Majesty, if He ever got the chance!"
By this device we went to bed; and not another stitch was struck until the troopers had office-tidings that the King was truly dead. Hence the Snowes beat us by a day; and both old Betty and Lizzie laid the blame upon me, as usual.
By this method, we went to bed; and no work was done until the soldiers got word that the King was really dead. That’s how the Snowes got ahead of us by a day; and both old Betty and Lizzie blamed me, as usual.
Almost before we had put off the mourning, which as loyal subjects we kept for the King three months and a week; rumours of disturbances, of plottings, and of outbreak began to stir among us. We heard of fighting in Scotland, and buying of ships on the continent, and of arms in Dorset and Somerset; and we kept our beacon in readiness to give signals of a landing; or rather the soldiers did. For we, having trustworthy reports that the King had been to high mass himself in the Abbey of Westminster, making all the bishops go with him, and all the guards in London, and then tortured all the Protestants who dared to wait outside, moreover had received from the Pope a flower grown in the Virgin Mary's garden, and warranted to last for ever, we of the moderate party, hearing all this and ten times as much, and having no love for this sour James, such as we had for the lively Charles, were ready to wait for what might happen, rather than care about stopping it. Therefore we listened to rumours gladly, and shook our heads with gravity, and predicted, every man something, but scarce any two the same. Nevertheless, in our part, things went on as usual, until the middle of June was nigh. We ploughed the ground, and sowed the corn, and tended the cattle, and heeded every one his neighbour's business, as carefully as heretofore; and the only thing that moved us much was that Annie had a baby. This being a very fine child with blue eyes, and christened “John” in compliment to me, and with me for his godfather, it is natural to suppose that I thought a good deal about him; and when mother or Lizzie would ask me, all of a sudden, and treacherously, when the fire flared up at supper-time (for we always kept a little wood just alight in summer-time, and enough to make the pot boil), then when they would say to me, “John, what are you thinking of? At a word, speak!” I would always answer, “Little John Faggus”; and so they made no more of me.
Almost before we had finished our mourning, which we observed for the King for three months and a week as loyal subjects, rumors of trouble, conspiracies, and uprisings began to circulate among us. We heard about fighting in Scotland, ships being bought overseas, and arms being gathered in Dorset and Somerset; and we kept our beacon ready to signal a landing—at least the soldiers did. We, having reliable reports that the King himself attended high mass in the Abbey of Westminster, accompanied by all the bishops and guards in London, and then tortured all the Protestants who dared wait outside, also learned he had received from the Pope a flower from the Virgin Mary's garden, said to last forever. We in the moderate faction, hearing all this and much more, and having no affection for this sour James, unlike the lively Charles, were inclined to wait and see what might happen rather than try to prevent it. So, we listened to rumors eagerly, nodded gravely, and each of us predicted something, though hardly any two predictions were the same. Meanwhile, in our part of the world, things continued as usual until mid-June approached. We plowed the fields, sowed the corn, tended to the cattle, and kept an eye on our neighbors’ affairs as diligently as ever; the only thing that really moved us was that Annie had a baby. This child was a lovely boy with blue eyes, named “John” in my honor, with me as his godfather, so it’s natural that I thought about him a lot. And when my mother or Lizzie would suddenly ask me, especially when the fire flickered during supper (since we always kept a little wood burning in the summer, enough to boil the pot), they would say, “John, what are you thinking? Come on, speak!” I would always respond, “Little John Faggus,” and they would think no more of it.
But when I was down, on Saturday the thirteenth of June, at the blacksmith's forge by Brendon town, where the Lynn-stream runs so close that he dips his horseshoes in it, and where the news is apt to come first of all to our neighbourhood (except upon a Sunday), while we were talking of the hay-crop, and of a great sheep-stealer, round the corner came a man upon a piebald horse looking flagged and weary. But seeing half a dozen of us, young, and brisk, and hearty, he made a flourish with his horse, and waved a blue flag vehemently, shouting with great glory,—
But when I was down on Saturday, June thirteenth, at the blacksmith's forge near Brendon town, where the Lynn-stream runs so close that he dips his horseshoes in it, and where the news usually arrives first in our neighborhood (except on Sundays), we were chatting about the hay crop and a notorious sheep thief when a man riding a piebald horse came around the corner looking worn out and tired. But seeing six of us—young, lively, and energetic—he showed off with his horse and waved a blue flag excitedly, shouting with great enthusiasm—
“Monmouth and the Protestant faith! Monmouth and no Popery! Monmouth, the good King's eldest son! Down with the poisoning murderer! Down with the black usurper, and to the devil with all papists!”
“Monmouth and the Protestant faith! Monmouth and no Popery! Monmouth, the good King's eldest son! Down with the poisoner! Down with the black usurper, and to hell with all papists!”
“Why so, thou little varlet?” I asked very quietly; for the man was too small to quarrel with: yet knowing Lorna to be a “papist,” as we choose to call them—though they might as well call us “kingists,” after the head of our Church—I thought that this scurvy scampish knave might show them the way to the place he mentioned, unless his courage failed him.
“Why is that, you little rascal?” I asked quietly; the man was too small to argue with. Knowing that Lorna was a “papist,” as we like to call them—though they could just as easily call us “monarchists,” after the head of our Church—I figured this pathetic little jerk might be able to lead them to the place he mentioned, unless he lost his nerve.
“Papist yourself, be you?” said the fellow, not daring to answer much: “then take this, and read it.”
“Are you a Papist, huh?” said the guy, not wanting to say much: “Then take this and read it.”
And he handed me a long rigmarole, which he called a “Declaration”: I saw that it was but a heap of lies, and thrust it into the blacksmith's fire, and blew the bellows thrice at it. No one dared attempt to stop me, for my mood had not been sweet of late; and of course they knew my strength.
And he gave me a long speech that he called a “Declaration”: I saw that it was just a bunch of lies, so I threw it into the blacksmith's fire and pumped the bellows three times at it. No one dared to try to stop me, because my mood had been pretty bad lately; and they obviously knew how strong I was.
The man rode on with a muttering noise, having won no recruits from us, by force of my example: and he stopped at the ale-house farther down, where the road goes away from the Lynn-stream. Some of us went thither after a time, when our horses were shodden and rasped, for although we might not like the man, we might be glad of his tidings, which seemed to be something wonderful. He had set up his blue flag in the tap-room, and was teaching every one.
The man kept riding, mumbling to himself, without gaining any followers from us, thanks to my influence. He stopped at the alehouse further down, where the road veers away from the Lynn stream. After a while, some of us went there once our horses were shod and brushed, because even if we didn't care for the man, we were intrigued by his news, which sounded remarkable. He had planted his blue flag in the taproom and was teaching everyone.
“Here coom'th Maister Jan Ridd,” said the landlady, being well pleased with the call for beer and cider: “her hath been to Lunnon-town, and live within a maile of me. Arl the news coom from them nowadays, instead of from here, as her ought to do. If Jan Ridd say it be true, I will try almost to belave it. Hath the good Duke landed, sir?” And she looked at me over a foaming cup, and blew the froth off, and put more in.
“Here comes Master Jan Ridd,” said the landlady, clearly happy with the request for beer and cider. “He’s been to London and lives within a mile of me. All the news comes from there these days, instead of from here, where it should come from. If Jan Ridd says it's true, I’ll almost believe it. Has the good Duke arrived, sir?” And she looked at me over a foaming cup, blew the froth off, and filled it up again.
“I have no doubt it is true enough,” I answered, before drinking; “and too true, Mistress Pugsley. Many a poor man will die; but none shall die from our parish, nor from Brendon, if I can help it.”
“I’m sure it’s true,” I replied before taking a drink; “and unfortunately true, Mistress Pugsley. Many poor men will die; but none will die from our parish, or from Brendon, if I can help it.”
And I knew that I could help it; for every one in those little places would abide by my advice; not only from the fame of my schooling and long sojourn in London, but also because I had earned repute for being very “slow and sure”: and with nine people out of ten this is the very best recommendation. For they think themselves much before you in wit, and under no obligation, but rather conferring a favour, by doing the thing that you do. Hence, if I cared for influence—which means, for the most part, making people do one's will, without knowing it—my first step toward it would be to be called, in common parlance, “slow but sure.”
And I knew I could handle it; everyone in those small towns would listen to my advice, not only because of my reputation from my education and long time in London but also because I had gained a reputation for being very “slow and sure.” For most people, that’s the best recommendation. They think they’re cleverer than you and feel no obligation to you, but rather see it as a favor when they do what you suggest. So, if I wanted to have influence—which usually means getting people to do what you want without them realizing it—the first step would be to be known, in everyday language, as “slow but sure.”
For the next fortnight we were daily troubled with conflicting rumours, each man relating what he desired, rather than what he had right, to believe. We were told that the Duke had been proclaimed King of England in every town of Dorset and of Somerset; that he had won a great battle at Axminster, and another at Bridport, and another somewhere else; that all the western counties had risen as one man for him, and all the militia had joined his ranks; that Taunton, and Bridgwater, and Bristowe, were all mad with delight, the two former being in his hands, and the latter craving to be so. And then, on the other hand, we heard that the Duke had been vanquished, and put to flight, and upon being apprehended, had confessed himself an impostor and a papist as bad as the King was.
For the next two weeks, we were constantly bothered by conflicting rumors, with each person sharing what they wanted to believe instead of what was true. We heard that the Duke had been proclaimed King of England in every town in Dorset and Somerset; that he had won a major battle at Axminster, another at Bridport, and yet another somewhere else; that all the western counties had united for him, and all the militia had joined his side; that Taunton, Bridgwater, and Bristol were all ecstatic, the first two being under his control, and the latter eager to align with him. On the flip side, we also heard that the Duke had been defeated and forced to flee, and when he was captured, he admitted to being an impostor and a papist just as bad as the King.
We longed for Colonel Stickles (as he always became in time of war, though he fell back to Captain, and even Lieutenant, directly the fight was over), for then we should have won trusty news, as well as good consideration. But even Sergeant Bloxham, much against his will, was gone, having left his heart with our Lizzie, and a collection of all his writings. All the soldiers had been ordered away at full speed for Exeter, to join the Duke of Albemarle, or if he were gone, to follow him. As for us, who had fed them so long (although not quite for nothing), we must take our chance of Doones, or any other enemies.
We missed Colonel Stickles (as he always became during wartime, even though he returned to Captain, and sometimes Lieutenant, as soon as the fighting stopped) because with him, we would have gotten reliable news, as well as some respect. But even Sergeant Bloxham, very much against his will, was gone too, having left his heart with our Lizzie, along with a collection of all his writings. All the soldiers had been ordered to leave quickly for Exeter, to join the Duke of Albemarle, or if he was already gone, to follow him. As for us, who had supported them for so long (even though not completely for free), we had to face the danger of the Doones or any other enemies on our own.
Now all these tidings moved me a little; not enough to spoil appetite, but enough to make things lively, and to teach me that look of wisdom which is bred of practice only, and the hearing of many lies. Therefore I withheld my judgment, fearing to be triumphed over, if it should happen to miss the mark. But mother and Lizzie, ten times in a day, predicted all they could imagine; and their prophecies increased in strength according to contradiction. Yet this was not in the proper style for a house like ours, which knew the news, or at least had known it; and still was famous, all around, for the last advices. Even from Lynmouth, people sent up to Plover's Barrows to ask how things were going on: and it was very grievous to answer that in truth we knew not, neither had heard for days and days; and our reputation was so great, especially since the death of the King had gone abroad from Oare parish, that many inquirers would only wink, and lay a finger on the lip, as if to say, “you know well enough, but see not fit to tell me.” And before the end arrived, those people believed that they had been right all along, and that we had concealed the truth from them.
Now all this news bothered me a bit; not enough to ruin my appetite, but enough to make things lively and teach me that wise look that comes only from experience and hearing a lot of lies. So, I held back my judgment, afraid I’d be proven wrong if I took a guess. But my mother and Lizzie, ten times a day, predicted everything they could think of; their predictions grew stronger the more they were contradicted. Still, this wasn’t the right style for a house like ours, which knew the news, or at least had known it, and was still famous all around for the latest updates. Even from Lynmouth, people would come up to Plover's Barrows to ask how things were going: and it was very frustrating to answer that honestly we didn’t know, nor had we heard for days and days; and our reputation was so strong, especially since the King’s death had spread from Oare parish, that many inquirers would just wink and place a finger on their lips, as if to say, “You know what’s going on, but you just don’t want to tell me.” And before the end came, those people were convinced they had been right all along and that we had hidden the truth from them.
For I myself became involved (God knows how much against my will and my proper judgment) in the troubles, and the conflict, and the cruel work coming afterwards. If ever I had made up my mind to anything in all my life, it was at this particular time, and as stern and strong as could be. I had resolved to let things pass,—to hear about them gladly, to encourage all my friends to talk, and myself to express opinion upon each particular point, when in the fullness of time no further doubt could be. But all my policy went for nothing, through a few touches of feeling.
For I got caught up (God knows how much against my will and better judgment) in the troubles, the conflict, and the painful aftermath. If I had ever been solidly committed to something in my life, it was at this moment, as determined and strong as possible. I had decided to let things unfold— to learn about them gladly, to encourage all my friends to share their thoughts, and to voice my opinions on each specific issue when the time was right and there was no more doubt. But all my planning fell apart because of a few emotional moments.
One day at the beginning of July, I came home from mowing about noon, or a little later, to fetch some cider for all of us, and to eat a morsel of bacon. For mowing was no joke that year, the summer being wonderfully wet (even for our wet country), and the swathe falling heavier over the scythe than ever I could remember it. We were drenched with rain almost every day; but the mowing must be done somehow; and we must trust to God for the haymaking.
One day at the beginning of July, I came home from mowing around noon, or maybe a little later, to grab some cider for all of us and to eat a bit of bacon. Mowing was no joke that year; the summer was incredibly wet (even for our already rainy place), and the grass was thicker over the scythe than I could ever remember. We were soaked with rain almost every day, but the mowing had to get done somehow, and we had to rely on God for the haymaking.
In the courtyard I saw a little cart, with iron brakes underneath it, such as fastidious people use to deaden the jolting of the road; but few men under a lord or baronet would be so particular. Therefore I wondered who our noble visitor could be. But when I entered the kitchen-place, brushing up my hair for somebody, behold it was no one greater than our Annie, with my godson in her arms, and looking pale and tear-begone. And at first she could not speak to me. But presently having sat down a little, and received much praise for her baby, she smiled and blushed, and found her tongue as if she had never gone from us.
In the courtyard, I spotted a small cart with iron brakes underneath, the kind picky people use to lessen the bumps from the road; but not many men under a lord or baronet would be that cautious. So, I was curious about who our noble visitor could be. But when I walked into the kitchen, fixing my hair for someone, I saw it was none other than our Annie, holding my godson in her arms, looking pale and tearful. At first, she couldn’t say anything to me. However, after sitting for a bit and getting plenty of compliments about her baby, she smiled and blushed, finding her voice as if she had never left us.
“How natural it all looks again! Oh, I love this old kitchen so! Baby dear, only look at it wid him pitty, pitty eyes, and him tongue out of his mousy! But who put the flour-riddle up there. And look at the pestle and mortar, and rust I declare in the patty pans! And a book, positively a dirty book, where the clean skewers ought to hang! Oh, Lizzie, Lizzie, Lizzie!”
“How natural it all looks again! Oh, I love this old kitchen so much! Baby dear, just look at it with his little, pitiful eyes, and his tongue sticking out! But who put the flour sifter up there? And look at the pestle and mortar, and I can’t believe the rust in the patty pans! And a book, definitely a dirty book, where the clean skewers should be hanging! Oh, Lizzie, Lizzie, Lizzie!”
“You may just as well cease lamenting,” I said, “for you can't alter Lizzie's nature, and you will only make mother uncomfortable, and perhaps have a quarrel with Lizzie, who is proud as Punch of her housekeeping.”
“You might as well stop complaining,” I said, “because you can't change Lizzie's nature, and all it will do is make mom uncomfortable, and possibly lead to an argument with Lizzie, who is as proud as can be about her housekeeping.”
“She,” cried Annie, with all the contempt that could be compressed in a syllable. “Well, John, no doubt you are right about it. I will try not to notice things. But it is a hard thing, after all my care, to see everything going to ruin. But what can be expected of a girl who knows all the kings of Carthage?”
“She,” Annie exclaimed, filled with all the disdain she could manage in one word. “Well, John, I guess you’re right about it. I’ll try not to pay attention to things. But it’s tough, after all my effort, to watch everything fall apart. But what can you expect from a girl who knows all the kings of Carthage?”
“There were no kings of Carthage, Annie. They were called, why let me see—they were called—oh, something else.”
“There were no kings of Carthage, Annie. They were called, let me think—they were called—oh, something else.”
“Never mind what they were called,” said Annie; “will they cook our dinner for us? But now, John, I am in such trouble. All this talk is make-believe.”
“Forget what they were called,” said Annie; “will they make us dinner? But right now, John, I’m in a mess. All this talking is just pretend.”
“Don't you cry, my dear: don't cry, my darling sister,” I answered, as she dropped into the worn place of the settle, and bent above her infant, rocking as if both their hearts were one: “don't you know, Annie, I cannot tell, but I know, or at least I mean, I have heard the men of experience say, it is so bad for the baby.”
“Don’t cry, my dear: don’t cry, my darling sister,” I replied, as she sank into the worn spot on the couch and leaned over her baby, rocking as if their hearts were one. “Don’t you know, Annie, I can’t say for sure, but I’ve heard experienced people say it’s really bad for the baby.”
“Perhaps I know that as well as you do, John,” said Annie, looking up at me with a gleam of her old laughing: “but how can I help crying; I am in such trouble.”
“Maybe I know that as well as you do, John,” said Annie, looking up at me with a sparkle of her old laughter, “but how can I not cry? I'm in such trouble.”
“Tell me what it is, my dear. Any grief of yours will vex me greatly; but I will try to bear it.”
“Tell me what’s bothering you, my dear. Any sadness you have will upset me a lot; but I’ll try to handle it.”
“Then, John, it is just this. Tom has gone off with the rebels; and you must, oh, you must go after him.”
“Then, John, here’s the thing. Tom has left with the rebels, and you have to, oh, you have to go after him.”
CHAPTER LXIII
JOHN IS WORSTED BY THE WOMEN
Moved as I was by Annie's tears, and gentle style of coaxing, and most of all by my love for her, I yet declared that I could not go, and leave our house and homestead, far less my dear mother and Lizzie, at the mercy of the merciless Doones.
Moved as I was by Annie's tears, her gentle way of persuading me, and especially by my love for her, I still insisted that I couldn't leave our home and property, let alone my dear mother and Lizzie, at the mercy of the ruthless Doones.
“Is that all your objection, John?” asked Annie, in her quick panting way: “would you go but for that, John?”
“Is that all you have against it, John?” asked Annie, in her quick, breathless manner. “Would you go if it weren’t for that, John?”
“Now,” I said, “be in no such hurry”—for while I was gradually yielding, I liked to pass it through my fingers, as if my fingers shaped it: “there are many things to be thought about, and many ways of viewing it.”
“Now,” I said, “don’t rush”—because while I was slowly giving in, I enjoyed feeling it in my hands, as if I could shape it with my fingers: “there are lots of things to consider, and many perspectives to take on it.”
“Oh, you never can have loved Lorna! No wonder you gave her up so! John, you can love nobody, but your oat-ricks, and your hay-ricks.”
“Oh, you could never have truly loved Lorna! It’s no surprise you gave her up like that! John, you can’t love anyone except for your oat stacks and your hay stacks.”
“Sister mine, because I rant not, neither rave of what I feel, can you be so shallow as to dream that I feel nothing? What is your love for Tom Faggus? What is your love for your baby (pretty darling as he is) to compare with such a love as for ever dwells with me? Because I do not prate of it; because it is beyond me, not only to express, but even form to my own heart in thoughts; because I do not shape my face, and would scorn to play to it, as a thing of acting, and lay it out before you, are you fools enough to think—” but here I stopped, having said more than was usual with me.
"Sister, just because I don't rant or rave about what I'm feeling, can you really be so shallow as to think I feel nothing? What do you love about Tom Faggus? How does your love for your baby (adorable as he is) compare to the love that will always be with me? Just because I don't talk about it; just because it's so deep that I can't even put it into words, let alone sort it out in my own heart; just because I don't change my expression or pretend to perform it like an act and put it out for you to see—can you really be foolish enough to think—" but I stopped there, having said more than I usually do.
“I am very sorry, John. Dear John, I am so sorry. What a shallow fool I am!”
“I’m really sorry, John. Dear John, I’m so sorry. What a shallow fool I am!”
“I will go seek your husband,” I said, to change the subject, for even to Annie I would not lay open all my heart about Lorna: “but only upon condition that you ensure this house and people from the Doones meanwhile. Even for the sake of Tom, I cannot leave all helpless. The oat-ricks and the hay-ricks, which are my only love, they are welcome to make cinders of. But I will not have mother treated so; nor even little Lizzie, although you scorn your sister so.”
“I'll go find your husband,” I said, wanting to shift the topic, because even with Annie, I wouldn't reveal everything I felt about Lorna: “but only if you make sure this house and everyone here are safe from the Doones in the meantime. Even for Tom’s sake, I can't leave everyone defenseless. They can burn my oat and hay stacks, which are my only treasures. But I won't let them treat my mother that way; and not even little Lizzie, even though you look down on your sister.”
“Oh, John, I do think you are the hardest, as well as the softest of all the men I know. Not even a woman's bitter word but what you pay her out for. Will you never understand that we are not like you, John? We say all sorts of spiteful things, without a bit of meaning. John, for God's sake fetch Tom home; and then revile me as you please, and I will kneel and thank you.”
“Oh, John, I really think you’re the toughest and the softest of all the guys I know. Even a woman’s harshest words don’t go unanswered by you. Will you ever get that we aren’t like you, John? We say all kinds of mean things without meaning a thing. John, for God’s sake, go get Tom and bring him home; then insult me as much as you want, and I’ll kneel and thank you.”
“I will not promise to fetch him home,” I answered, being ashamed of myself for having lost command so: “but I will promise to do my best, if we can only hit on a plan for leaving mother harmless.”
"I won't promise to bring him back," I replied, feeling embarrassed for losing my composure like that. "But I can promise to do my best if we can figure out a way to keep mom safe."
Annie thought for a little while, trying to gather her smooth clear brow into maternal wrinkles, and then she looked at her child, and said, “I will risk it, for daddy's sake, darling; you precious soul, for daddy's sake.” I asked her what she was going to risk. She would not tell me; but took upper hand, and saw to my cider-cans and bacon, and went from corner to cupboard, exactly as if she had never been married; only without an apron on. And then she said, “Now to your mowers, John; and make the most of this fine afternoon; kiss your godson before you go.” And I, being used to obey her, in little things of that sort, kissed the baby, and took my cans, and went back to my scythe again.
Annie thought for a moment, trying to gather her smooth, clear forehead into maternal lines, and then she looked at her child and said, “I’ll take the chance for daddy’s sake, darling; you precious soul, for daddy’s sake.” I asked her what she was going to risk. She wouldn’t tell me, but took charge, checked on my cider cans and bacon, and moved from corner to cupboard, just like she had never been married, except without an apron. Then she said, “Now go take care of your mowers, John; make the most of this beautiful afternoon; kiss your godson before you go.” So, used to following her instructions in little matters like that, I kissed the baby, took my cans, and went back to my scythe.
By the time I came home it was dark night, and pouring again with a foggy rain, such as we have in July, even more than in January. Being soaked all through, and through, and with water squelching in my boots, like a pump with a bad bucket, I was only too glad to find Annie's bright face, and quick figure, flitting in and out the firelight, instead of Lizzie sitting grandly, with a feast of literature, and not a drop of gravy. Mother was in the corner also, with her cheery-coloured ribbons glistening very nice by candle-light, looking at Annie now and then, with memories of her babyhood; and then at her having a baby: yet half afraid of praising her much, for fear of that young Lizzie. But Lizzie showed no jealousy: she truly loved our Annie (now that she was gone from us), and she wanted to know all sorts of things, and she adored the baby. Therefore Annie was allowed to attend to me, as she used to do.
By the time I got home, it was dark, and it was pouring again with a foggy rain, like what we have in July, even more than in January. Soaked through, with water sloshing in my boots like a pump with a broken bucket, I was more than happy to see Annie’s bright face and quick figure darting in and out of the firelight, instead of Lizzie sitting grandly with a bunch of books and no gravy in sight. Mom was in the corner too, her cheerful ribbons sparkling in the candlelight, glancing at Annie now and then, reminiscing about her baby days, and now looking at her being a mom, yet half afraid to praise her too much, worrying about that young Lizzie. But Lizzie showed no jealousy: she truly loved our Annie (now that she was gone from us), and she wanted to know everything and adored the baby. So, Annie was free to take care of me like she used to.
“Now, John, you must start the first thing in the morning,” she said, when the others had left the room, but somehow she stuck to the baby, “to fetch me back my rebel, according to your promise.”
“Now, John, you need to start first thing in the morning,” she said, after the others had left the room, but somehow she was still focused on the baby, “to bring me back my rebel, as you promised.”
“Not so,” I replied, misliking the job, “all I promised was to go, if this house were assured against any onslaught of the Doones.”
“Not at all,” I replied, disliking the job, “all I promised was to go, if this house was guaranteed against any attack from the Doones.”
“Just so; and here is that assurance.” With these words she drew forth a paper, and laid it on my knee with triumph, enjoying my amazement. This, as you may suppose was great; not only at the document, but also at her possession of it. For in truth it was no less than a formal undertaking, on the part of the Doones, not to attack Plover's Barrows farm, or molest any of the inmates, or carry off any chattels, during the absence of John Ridd upon a special errand. This document was signed not only by the Counsellor, but by many other Doones: whether Carver's name were there, I could not say for certain; as of course he would not sign it under his name of “Carver,” and I had never heard Lorna say to what (if any) he had been baptized.
“Exactly, and here’s the proof.” With that, she pulled out a paper and triumphantly placed it on my knee, clearly enjoying my shock. As you can imagine, I was indeed shocked—not just by the document itself but by her having it. Because, honestly, it was nothing less than a formal agreement from the Doones not to attack Plover's Barrows farm, disturb any of the residents, or take any belongings while John Ridd was away on a specific errand. This document was signed not only by the Counsellor but by several other Doones as well; whether Carver’s name was included, I couldn’t say for sure, since he wouldn’t have signed it as “Carver,” and I had never heard Lorna mention what name, if any, he was baptized with.
In the face of such a deed as this, I could no longer refuse to go; and having received my promise, Annie told me (as was only fair) how she had procured that paper. It was both a clever and courageous act; and would have seemed to me, at first sight, far beyond Annie's power. But none may gauge a woman's power, when her love and faith are moved.
In light of such an act, I couldn’t refuse to go any longer; and after I made my promise, Annie told me (as was only right) how she had gotten that paper. It was both a smart and brave move; and at first glance, it would have seemed way beyond Annie's abilities. But no one can underestimate a woman's strength when her love and faith are at stake.
The first thing Annie had done was this: she made herself look ugly. This was not an easy thing; but she had learned a great deal from her husband, upon the subject of disguises. It hurt her feelings not a little to make so sad a fright of herself; but what could it matter?—if she lost Tom, she must be a far greater fright in earnest, than now she was in seeming. And then she left her child asleep, under Betty Muxworthy's tendance—for Betty took to that child, as if there never had been a child before—and away she went in her own “spring-cart” (as the name of that engine proved to be), without a word to any one, except the old man who had driven her from Molland parish that morning, and who coolly took one of our best horses, without “by your leave” to any one.
The first thing Annie did was this: she made herself look ugly. This wasn't easy; but she had learned a lot from her husband about disguises. It hurt her feelings quite a bit to make herself look so sad and frightening, but what did it matter? If she lost Tom, she'd have to be a much bigger fright in reality than she was in appearance. Then she left her child sleeping under Betty Muxworthy's care—because Betty took to that child as if there had never been a child before—and off she went in her own "spring-cart" (as that vehicle turned out to be named), without telling anyone, except for the old man who had driven her from Molland parish that morning, and who casually took one of our best horses, without asking anyone's permission.
Annie made the old man drive her within easy reach of the Doone-gate, whose position she knew well enough, from all our talk about it. And there she bade the old man stay, until she should return to him. Then with her comely figure hidden by a dirty old woman's cloak, and her fair young face defaced by patches and by liniments, so that none might covet her, she addressed the young man at the gate in a cracked and trembling voice; and they were scarcely civil to the “old hag,” as they called her. She said that she bore important tidings for Sir Counsellor himself, and must be conducted to him. To him accordingly she was led, without even any hoodwinking, for she had spectacles over her eyes, and made believe not to see ten yards.
Annie had the old man drive her close to the Doone-gate, which she knew well from all our conversations about it. There, she told the old man to wait for her return. Then, with her attractive figure hidden under a shabby old woman's cloak and her pretty young face disguised with patches and creams so that no one would desire her, she spoke to the young man at the gate in a shaky and wavering voice. They were hardly polite to the “old hag,” as they referred to her. She claimed she had important news for Sir Counsellor himself and needed to be taken to him. So, they led her to him without any trickery, as she wore glasses over her eyes and pretended not to see more than ten feet ahead.
She found Sir Counsellor at home, and when the rest were out of sight, threw off all disguise to him, flashing forth as a lovely young woman, from all her wraps and disfigurements. She flung her patches on the floor, amid the old man's laughter, and let her tucked-up hair come down; and then went up and kissed him.
She found Sir Counsellor at home, and when the others were out of sight, she removed all her disguises, revealing herself as a beautiful young woman, shedding her wraps and imperfections. She tossed her patches on the floor, amidst the old man's laughter, and let her pinned-up hair fall loose; and then she went up and kissed him.
“Worthy and reverend Counsellor, I have a favour to ask,” she began.
“Respected Counselor, I have a favor to ask,” she started.
“So I should think from your proceedings,”—the old man interrupted—“ah, if I were half my age”—
“So I can guess from what you’re doing,”—the old man interrupted—“ah, if I were half my age—”
“If you were, I would not sue so. But most excellent Counsellor, you owe me some amends, you know, for the way in which you robbed me.”
“If you were, I wouldn’t sue like that. But, most excellent Counselor, you owe me some compensation, you know, for how you stole from me.”
“Beyond a doubt I do, my dear. You have put it rather strongly; and it might offend some people. Nevertheless I own my debt, having so fair a creditor.”
“Without a doubt, I do, my dear. You've put it quite strongly, and it might upset some people. Still, I admit my debt, having such a fair creditor.”
“And do you remember how you slept, and how much we made of you, and would have seen you home, sir; only you did not wish it?”
“And do you remember how you slept, and how much we cared for you, and would have made sure you got home safely, sir; only you didn’t want that?”
“And for excellent reasons, child. My best escort was in my cloak, after we made the cream to rise. Ha, ha! The unholy spell. My pretty child, has it injured you?”
“And for good reasons, kid. My best escort was in my cloak after we made the cream rise. Ha, ha! The unholy spell. My sweet child, has it hurt you?”
“Yes, I fear it has,” said Annie; “or whence can all my ill luck come?” And here she showed some signs of crying, knowing that Counsellor hated it.
“Yes, I think it has,” said Annie; “or where else could all my bad luck come from?” Here, she started to cry a bit, aware that the Counsellor disliked it.
“You shall not have ill luck, my dear. I have heard all about your marriage to a very noble highwayman. Ah, you made a mistake in that; you were worthy of a Doone, my child; your frying was a blessing meant for those who can appreciate.”
“You won’t have bad luck, my dear. I’ve heard all about your marriage to a very noble thief. Ah, you made a mistake there; you deserved a Doone, my child; your cooking was a gift meant for those who can truly appreciate it.”
“My husband can appreciate,” she answered very proudly; “but what I wish to know is this, will you try to help me?”
“My husband can appreciate,” she replied proudly; “but what I want to know is, will you help me?”
The Counsellor answered that he would do so, if her needs were moderate; whereupon she opened her meaning to him, and told of all her anxieties. Considering that Lorna was gone, and her necklace in his possession, and that I (against whom alone of us the Doones could bear any malice) would be out of the way all the while, the old man readily undertook that our house should not be assaulted, nor our property molested, until my return. And to the promptitude of his pledge, two things perhaps contributed, namely, that he knew not how we were stripped of all defenders, and that some of his own forces were away in the rebel camp. For (as I learned thereafter) the Doones being now in direct feud with the present Government, and sure to be crushed if that prevailed, had resolved to drop all religious questions, and cast in their lot with Monmouth. And the turbulent youths, being long restrained from their wonted outlet for vehemence, by the troopers in the neighbourhood, were only too glad to rush forth upon any promise of blows and excitement.
The Counsellor said he would do it if her needs were reasonable; then she shared her concerns with him and expressed all her worries. Considering that Lorna was gone, and he had her necklace, and that I (the only one of us the Doones had any grudge against) would be out of the picture during that time, the old man quickly agreed to ensure that our house wouldn’t be attacked, nor our property harmed, until I returned. Two things may have contributed to the speed of his commitment: he didn’t know we were completely defenseless, and some of his own men were away with the rebels. I learned later that the Doones were now in a direct conflict with the current Government, which would surely defeat them if it succeeded, and they had decided to drop all religious issues and side with Monmouth. The restless youths, long held back from their usual outlets for their intensity by the local soldiers, were more than eager to rush out at any promise of fighting and excitement.
However, Annie knew little of this, but took the Counsellor's pledge as a mark of especial favour in her behalf (which it may have been to some extent), and thanked him for it most heartily, and felt that he had earned the necklace; while he, like an ancient gentleman, disclaimed all obligation, and sent her under an escort safe to her own cart again. But Annie, repassing the sentinels, with her youth restored and blooming with the flush of triumph, went up to them very gravely, and said, “The old hag wishes you good-evening, gentlemen”; and so made her best curtsey.
However, Annie knew little of this, but saw the Counselor's promise as a special favor for her (which it might have been to some extent) and thanked him sincerely, feeling he had earned the necklace. Meanwhile, he, like a true gentleman, claimed there was no obligation and sent her back safely to her cart with an escort. But as Annie passed the guards again, her youth revitalized and glowing with triumph, she approached them seriously and said, “The old hag wishes you good evening, gentlemen,” and then made her best curtsy.
Now, look at it as I would, there was no excuse left for me, after the promise given. Dear Annie had not only cheated the Doones, but also had gotten the best of me, by a pledge to a thing impossible. And I bitterly said, “I am not like Lorna: a pledge once given, I keep it.”
Now, looking at it how I would, there was no excuse left for me after the promise I made. Dear Annie hadn’t just tricked the Doones; she had also bested me with a commitment to something impossible. And I bitterly said, “I’m not like Lorna: once I make a promise, I keep it.”
“I will not have a word against Lorna,” cried Annie; “I will answer for her truth as surely as I would for my own or yours, John.” And with that she vanquished me.
"I won't say a word against Lorna," Annie exclaimed; "I will vouch for her honesty just like I would for my own or yours, John." And with that, she defeated me.
But when my poor mother heard that I was committed, by word of honour, to a wild-goose chase, among the rebels, after that runagate Tom Faggus, she simply stared, and would not believe it. For lately I had joked with her, in a little style of jerks, as people do when out of sorts; and she, not understanding this, and knowing jokes to be out of my power, would only look, and sigh, and toss, and hope that I meant nothing. At last, however, we convinced her that I was in earnest, and must be off in the early morning, and leave John Fry with the hay crop.
But when my poor mother heard that I was officially committed, by word of honor, to a wild-goose chase among the rebels after that runaway Tom Faggus, she just stared and couldn't believe it. Lately, I had been joking with her in a kind of stuttering way, like people do when they're feeling off; and she, not getting it and knowing that jokes were usually beyond my capability, would just look at me, sigh, toss her head, and hope I didn't mean anything serious. Eventually, though, we convinced her that I was serious, that I had to leave early in the morning, and that John Fry would have to deal with the hay crop.
Then mother was ready to fall upon Annie, as not content with disgracing us, by wedding a man of new honesty (if indeed of any), but laying traps to catch her brother, and entangle him perhaps to his death, for the sake of a worthless fellow; and “felon”—she was going to say, as by the shape of her lips I knew. But I laid my hand upon dear mother's lips; because what must be, must be; and if mother and daughter stayed at home, better in love than in quarrelling.
Then Mom was ready to jump on Annie, not just disgracing us by marrying a guy with questionable integrity (if he had any at all), but also setting traps to catch her brother and possibly lead him to his doom, all for the sake of a worthless guy; and “felon”—she was about to say, judging by the shape of her lips, I could tell. But I put my hand over dear Mom's lips because what’s meant to happen will happen; and if Mom and daughter stayed home, it’s better to be in love than to argue.
Right early in the morning, I was off, without word to any one; knowing that mother and sister mine had cried each her good self to sleep; relenting when the light was out, and sorry for hard words and thoughts; and yet too much alike in nature to understand each other. Therefore I took good Kickums, who (although with one eye spoiled) was worth ten sweet-tempered horses, to a man who knew how to manage him; and being well charged both with bacon and powder, forth I set on my wild-goose chase.
Early in the morning, I left without telling anyone; knowing that my mother and sister had cried themselves to sleep, regretting their harsh words and thoughts after the lights went out; yet they were too similar to truly understand each other. So, I took my trusty Kickums, who, even with one eye damaged, was worth ten gentle horses, to a guy who knew how to handle him. Loaded up with bacon and powder, I set off on my wild-goose chase.
For this I claim no bravery. I cared but little what came of it; save for mother's sake, and Annie's, and the keeping of the farm, and discomfiture of the Snowes, and lamenting of Lorna at my death, if die I must in a lonesome manner, not found out till afterwards, and bleaching bones left to weep over. However, I had a little kettle, and a pound and a half of tobacco, and two dirty pipes and a clean one; also a bit of clothes for change, also a brisket of hung venison, and four loaves of farmhouse bread, and of the upper side of bacon a stone and a half it might be—not to mention divers small things for campaigning, which may come in handily, when no one else has gotten them.
For this, I take no credit for bravery. I hardly cared about the outcome, except for my mother's sake, Annie’s, the farm’s well-being, the Snowes being thwarted, and worrying about Lorna mourning me if I were to die alone, unnoticed until later, with my bones left to bleach in sorrow. Anyway, I had a small kettle, a pound and a half of tobacco, two dirty pipes and one clean one; I also had some spare clothes, a chunk of smoked venison, four loaves of farmhouse bread, and maybe a stone and a half of bacon—not to mention various small items for the journey that could be handy when no one else has them.
We went away in merry style; my horse being ready for anything, and I only glad of a bit of change, after months of working and brooding; with no content to crown the work; no hope to hatch the brooding; or without hatching to reckon it. Who could tell but what Lorna might be discovered, or at any rate heard of, before the end of this campaign; if campaign it could be called of a man who went to fight nobody, only to redeem a runagate? And vexed as I was about the hay, and the hunch-backed ricks John was sure to make (which spoil the look of a farm-yard), still even this was better than to have the mows and houses fired, as I had nightly expected, and been worn out with the worry of it.
We set off in a cheerful way; my horse was ready for anything, and I was just happy for a change after months of working and stressing; without any satisfaction to show for my efforts; no hope to bring my worries to life; or without any progress to even think about. Who knows, maybe Lorna could be found, or at least heard of, by the end of this trip; if you could even call it a trip for a guy who was off to fight nobody, just to help a runaway? And as frustrated as I was about the hay, and the crooked stacks that John was definitely going to make (which ruin the look of a farm), it was still better than the constant fear of the barns and haylofts burning down, which I had been dreading every night, and it had worn me out with worry.
Yet there was one thing rather unfavourable to my present enterprise, namely, that I knew nothing of the country I was bound to, nor even in what part of it my business might be supposed to lie. For beside the uncertainty caused by the conflict of reports, it was likely that King Monmouth's army would be moving from place to place, according to the prospect of supplies and of reinforcements. However, there would arise more chance of getting news as I went on: and my road being towards the east and south, Dulverton would not lie so very far aside of it, but what it might be worth a visit, both to collect the latest tidings, and to consult the maps and plans in Uncle Reuben's parlour. Therefore I drew the off-hand rein, at the cross-road on the hills, and made for the town; expecting perhaps to have breakfast with Master Huckaback, and Ruth, to help and encourage us. This little maiden was now become a very great favourite with me, having long outgrown, no doubt, her childish fancies and follies, such as my mother and Annie had planted under her soft brown hair. It had been my duty, as well as my true interest (for Uncle Ben was more and more testy, as he went on gold-digging), to ride thither, now and again, to inquire what the doctor thought of her. Not that her wounds were long in healing, but that people can scarcely be too careful and too inquisitive, after a great horse-bite. And she always let me look at the arm, as I had been first doctor; and she held it up in a graceful manner, curving at the elbow, and with a sweep of white roundness going to a wrist the size of my thumb or so, and without any thimble-top standing forth, such as even our Annie had. But gradually all I could see, above the elbow, where the bite had been, was very clear, transparent skin, with very firm sweet flesh below, and three little blue marks as far asunder as the prongs of a toasting-fork, and no deeper than where a twig has chafed the peel of a waxen apple. And then I used to say in fun, as the children do, “Shall I kiss it, to make it well, dear?”
Yet there was one thing that wasn’t great for my current plans: I knew nothing about the area I was heading to, or even where my business would be. Aside from the confusion caused by conflicting reports, King Monmouth's army was likely to be moving around based on the availability of supplies and reinforcements. However, I would have more opportunities to gather information as I continued my journey: my path was directed east and south, and Dulverton wouldn’t be too far out of the way. It seemed worth a visit to pick up the latest news and check the maps and plans in Uncle Reuben's parlor. So, I pulled the reins at the crossroad on the hills and headed for the town, hoping maybe to have breakfast with Master Huckaback and Ruth, to help and encourage us. This little girl had become a favorite of mine, having outgrown her childish dreams and whims that my mother and Annie had instilled in her soft brown hair. It was both my duty and my genuine interest (since Uncle Ben was getting increasingly irritable with his gold-digging) to ride over now and then to see what the doctor thought of her. Not that her wounds took long to heal, but people can never be too careful or too curious after a serious horse bite. She always let me check her arm since I was the first doctor, and she would raise it gracefully, bending at the elbow, with smooth skin leading to a wrist about the size of my thumb, without any of that thimble-top that even our Annie had. Gradually, all I could see above the elbow, where the bite had occurred, was clear, thin skin, with firm, sweet flesh underneath, and three tiny blue marks spaced as far apart as the prongs of a toasting fork, no deeper than where a twig had rubbed against the skin of a waxy apple. I would then jokingly say, like kids do, “Shall I kiss it to make it well, dear?”
Now Ruth looked very grave indeed, upon hearing of this my enterprise; and crying, said she could almost cry, for the sake of my dear mother. Did I know the risks and chances, not of the battlefield alone, but of the havoc afterwards; the swearing away of innocent lives, and the hurdle, and the hanging? And if I would please not to laugh (which was so unkind of me), had I never heard of imprisonments, and torturing with the cruel boot, and selling into slavery, where the sun and the lash outvied one another in cutting a man to pieces? I replied that of all these things I had heard, and would take especial care to steer me free of all of them. My duty was all that I wished to do; and none could harm me for doing that. And I begged my cousin to give me good-speed, instead of talking dolefully. Upon this she changed her manner wholly, becoming so lively and cheerful that I was convinced of her indifference, and surprised even more than gratified.
Now Ruth looked really serious when she heard about my plan, and she exclaimed that she could almost cry, thinking about my dear mother. Did I understand the risks and dangers, not just on the battlefield, but the chaos that followed? The wrongful accusations against innocent people, the hurdles they faced, and even the hanging? And if I would please stop laughing (which she thought was really unkind), had I never heard about imprisonments, torture with the cruel boot, and being sold into slavery, where the sun and the whip competed to break a man down? I replied that I had heard about all those things, and I would be especially careful to avoid them. My duty was all I wanted to focus on; no one could harm me for that. I asked my cousin to wish me well instead of talking so gloomily. At that, she completely changed her mood, becoming so lively and cheerful that I was convinced she didn't really care, and I was even more surprised than pleased.
“Go and earn your spurs, Cousin Ridd,” she said: “you are strong enough for anything. Which side is to have the benefit of your doughty arm?”
“Go and earn your stripes, Cousin Ridd,” she said: “you’re strong enough for anything. Which side is going to benefit from your brave arm?”
“Have I not told you, Ruth,” I answered, not being fond of this kind of talk, more suitable for Lizzie, “that I do not mean to join either side, that is to say, until—”
“Have I not told you, Ruth,” I replied, not really liking this kind of conversation, which was more fitting for Lizzie, “that I’m not going to take either side, that is to say, until—”
“Until, as the common proverb goes, you know which way the cat will jump. Oh, John Ridd! Oh, John Ridd!”
“Until, as the saying goes, you know which way the cat will jump. Oh, John Ridd! Oh, John Ridd!”
“Nothing of the sort,” said I: “what a hurry you are in! I am for the King of course.”
“Not at all,” I said. “Why are you in such a rush? I'm obviously for the King.”
“But not enough to fight for him. Only enough to vote, I suppose, or drink his health, or shout for him.”
“But not enough to fight for him. Only enough to vote, I guess, or drink to his health, or cheer for him.”
“I can't make you out to-day, Cousin Ruth; you are nearly as bad as Lizzie. You do not say any bitter things, but you seem to mean them.”
“I can’t figure you out today, Cousin Ruth; you’re almost as bad as Lizzie. You don’t say anything harsh, but it feels like you mean it.”
“No, cousin, think not so of me. It is far more likely that I say them, without meaning them.”
"No, cousin, don’t think that way about me. It’s much more likely that I say things I don’t really mean."
“Anyhow, it is not like you. And I know not what I can have done in any way, to vex you.”
“Anyway, that’s not like you. And I have no idea what I could have done to upset you.”
“Dear me, nothing, Cousin Ridd; you never do anything to vex me.”
“Honestly, nothing at all, Cousin Ridd; you never do anything to annoy me.”
“Then I hope I shall do something now, Ruth, when I say good-bye. God knows if we ever shall meet again, Ruth: but I hope we may.”
“Then I hope I'll do something now, Ruth, as I say goodbye. God knows if we’ll ever meet again, Ruth: but I hope we do.”
“To be sure we shall,” she answered in her brightest manner. “Try not to look wretched, John: you are as happy as a Maypole.”
"Of course we will," she replied with her brightest smile. "Try not to look so miserable, John: you’re as happy as can be."
“And you as a rose in May,” I said; “and pretty nearly as pretty. Give my love to Uncle Ben; and I trust him to keep on the winning side.”
“And you like a rose in May,” I said; “and almost as beautiful. Send my love to Uncle Ben; and I trust he will stay on the winning side.”
“Of that you need have no misgivings. Never yet has he failed of it. Now, Cousin Ridd, why go you not? You hurried me so at breakfast time?”
“Don’t worry about that. He’s never let us down. So, Cousin Ridd, why aren’t you going? You rushed me so much at breakfast!”
“My only reason for waiting, Ruth, is that you have not kissed me, as you are almost bound to do, for the last time perhaps of seeing me.”
“My only reason for waiting, Ruth, is that you haven't kissed me, as you almost definitely should do, since it might be the last time you see me.”
“Oh, if that is all, just fetch the stool; and I will do my best, cousin.”
“Oh, if that’s all, just get the stool; and I’ll do my best, cousin.”
“I pray you be not so vexatious; you always used to do it nicely, without any stool, Ruth.”
"I hope you’re not being so annoying; you always used to do it nicely, without any help, Ruth."
“Ah, but you are grown since then, and become a famous man, John Ridd, and a member of the nobility. Go your way, and win your spurs. I want no lip-service.”
“Ah, but you’ve grown since then and become a famous man, John Ridd, and a member of the nobility. Go your way and earn your recognition. I don’t want any empty words.”
Being at the end of my wits, I did even as she ordered me. At least I had no spurs to win, because there were big ones on my boots, paid for in the Easter bill, and made by a famous saddler, so as never to clog with marsh-weed, but prick as hard as any horse, in reason, could desire. And Kickums never wanted spurs; but always went tail-foremost, if anybody offered them for his consideration.
Being at my wit's end, I did exactly as she told me. At least I didn’t have to worry about spurs, since I had big ones on my boots, paid for in the Easter bill, made by a famous saddler, so they wouldn't get clogged with marsh-weed, but would prick as hard as any horse reasonably could want. And Kickums never needed spurs; he always went tail-first if anyone offered them for his consideration.
CHAPTER LXIV
SLAUGHTER IN THE MARSHES
We rattled away at a merry pace, out of the town of Dulverton; my horse being gaily fed, and myself quite fit again for going. Of course I was puzzled about Cousin Ruth; for her behaviour was not at all such as I had expected; and indeed I had hoped for a far more loving and moving farewell than I got from her. But I said to myself, “It is useless ever to count upon what a woman will do; and I think that I must have vexed her, almost as much as she vexed me. And now to see what comes of it.” So I put my horse across the moorland; and he threw his chest out bravely.
We rode off cheerfully, leaving the town of Dulverton behind; my horse was well-fed, and I felt ready to go again. I was definitely confused about Cousin Ruth; her behavior was nothing like I expected, and honestly, I had hoped for a much more affectionate and emotional goodbye than what she gave me. But I told myself, “It’s pointless to assume what a woman will do; I must have annoyed her just as much as she annoyed me. Now let's see what happens next.” So I guided my horse across the moorland, and he confidently lifted his chest.
Now if I tried to set down at length all the things that happened to me, upon this adventure, every in and out, and up and down, and to and fro, that occupied me, together with the things I saw, and the things I heard of, however much the wiser people might applaud my narrative, it is likely enough that idle readers might exclaim, “What ails this man? Knows he not that men of parts and of real understanding, have told us all we care to hear of that miserable business. Let him keep to his farm, and his bacon, and his wrestling, and constant feeding.”
Now, if I tried to write down all the things that happened to me on this adventure—the ins and outs, the ups and downs, and everything in between—that occupied my time, along with what I saw and what I heard, no matter how much the wise might appreciate my story, it’s likely that some casual readers would say, “What’s wrong with this guy? Doesn’t he know that capable people have already told us everything we want to know about that miserable affair? He should stick to his farm, his bacon, his wrestling, and his constant eating.”
Fearing to meet with such rebuffs (which after my death would vex me), I will try to set down only what is needful for my story, and the clearing of my character, and the good name of our parish. But the manner in which I was bandied about, by false information, from pillar to post, or at other times driven quite out of my way by the presence of the King's soldiers, may be known by the names of the following towns, to which I was sent in succession, Bath, Frome, Wells, Wincanton, Glastonbury, Shepton, Bradford, Axbridge, Somerton, and Bridgwater.
Fearing that I would be bothered by such setbacks (which would upset me after I’m gone), I will only write down what’s necessary for my story, to clear my reputation and maintain the good name of our community. However, the way I was tossed around due to false information, or sometimes completely thrown off course by the presence of the King’s soldiers, can be seen in the names of the following towns where I was sent one after another: Bath, Frome, Wells, Wincanton, Glastonbury, Shepton, Bradford, Axbridge, Somerton, and Bridgwater.
This last place I reached on a Sunday night, the fourth or fifth of July, I think—or it might be the sixth, for that matter; inasmuch as I had been too much worried to get the day of the month at church. Only I know that my horse and myself were glad to come to a decent place, where meat and corn could be had for money; and being quite weary of wandering about, we hoped to rest there a little.
This last place I arrived at on a Sunday night, either the fourth or fifth of July, I think—or maybe it was the sixth, for all I know; since I had been too stressed to remember the day of the month at church. All I know is that my horse and I were relieved to find a decent spot where we could get some food and grain for money; and being quite tired of roaming around, we hoped to rest there for a bit.
Of this, however, we found no chance, for the town was full of the good Duke's soldiers; if men may be called so, the half of whom had never been drilled, nor had fired a gun. And it was rumoured among them, that the “popish army,” as they called it, was to be attacked that very night, and with God's assistance beaten. However, by this time I had been taught to pay little attention to rumours; and having sought vainly for Tom Faggus among these poor rustic warriors, I took to my hostel; and went to bed, being as weary as weary can be.
Of this, however, we found no opportunity, because the town was filled with the good Duke's soldiers; if you can call them that, since half of them had never been trained or fired a gun. It was rumored among them that the "popish army," as they referred to it, was going to be attacked that very night, and with God's help, defeated. However, by this point, I had learned to pay little attention to rumors; and after searching in vain for Tom Faggus among these poor country fighters, I headed to my inn and went to bed, utterly exhausted.
Falling asleep immediately, I took heed of nothing; although the town was all alive, and lights had come glancing, as I lay down, and shouts making echo all round my room. But all I did was to bolt the door; not an inch would I budge, unless the house, and even my bed, were on fire. And so for several hours I lay, in the depth of the deepest slumber, without even a dream on its surface; until I was roused and awakened at last by a pushing, and pulling, and pinching, and a plucking of hair out by the roots. And at length, being able to open mine eyes, I saw the old landlady, with a candle, heavily wondering at me.
Falling asleep right away, I noticed nothing; although the town was alive, and lights were flashing as I lay down, with shouts echoing all around my room. All I did was lock the door; I wouldn't move an inch unless the house—and even my bed—were on fire. So for several hours I lay in the deepest sleep, without even a dream. Eventually, I was woken up by pushing, pulling, pinching, and hair being yanked out by the roots. Finally able to open my eyes, I saw the old landlady, holding a candle, looking at me with confusion.
“Can't you let me alone?” I grumbled. “I have paid for my bed, mistress; and I won't get up for any one.”
“Can’t you just leave me alone?” I complained. “I’ve paid for my bed, ma’am; and I’m not getting up for anyone.”
“Would to God, young man,” she answered, shaking me as hard as ever, “that the popish soldiers may sleep this night, only half as strong as thou dost! Fie on thee, fie on thee! Get up, and go fight; we can hear the battle already; and a man of thy size mought stop a cannon.”
“God help us, young man,” she replied, shaking me vigorously, “if only the enemy soldiers could sleep tonight, just half as well as you do! Shame on you, shame on you! Get up and go fight; we can already hear the battle, and a guy your size could stop a cannon.”
“I would rather stop a-bed,” said I; “what have I to do with fighting? I am for King James, if any.”
“I’d rather stay in bed,” I said; “what do I have to do with fighting? I’m for King James, if anything.”
“Then thou mayest even stop a-bed,” the old woman muttered sulkily. “A would never have laboured half an hour to awake a Papisher. But hearken you one thing, young man; Zummerzett thou art, by thy brogue; or at least by thy understanding of it; no Zummerzett maid will look at thee, in spite of thy size and stature, unless thou strikest a blow this night.”
“Then you might as well stay in bed,” the old woman mumbled sulkily. “I would never have worked for half an hour to wake a Papist. But listen to me, young man; you’re from Somerset, by your accent; or at least by your understanding of it; no Somerset girl will look at you, despite your size and stature, unless you make a move tonight.”
“I lack no Zummerzett maid, mistress: I have a fairer than your brown things; and for her alone would I strike a blow.”
“I don’t need any Zummerzett maid, mistress: I have one who’s prettier than your brown girls; and for her alone, I would fight.”
At this the old woman gave me up, as being beyond correction: and it vexed me a little that my great fame had not reached so far as Bridgwater, when I thought that it went to Bristowe. But those people in East Somerset know nothing about wrestling. Devon is the headquarters of the art; and Devon is the county of my chief love. Howbeit, my vanity was moved, by this slur upon it—for I had told her my name was John Ridd, when I had a gallon of ale with her, ere ever I came upstairs; and she had nodded, in such a manner, that I thought she knew both name and fame—and here was I, not only shaken, pinched, and with many hairs pulled out, in the midst of my first good sleep for a week, but also abused, and taken amiss, and (which vexed me most of all) unknown.
At this, the old woman gave up on me, believing I was beyond help, and it bothered me a bit that my fame hadn’t spread as far as Bridgwater when I thought it had reached Bristol. But those folks in East Somerset don’t know anything about wrestling. Devon is the center of the sport, and it’s also the county where my heart truly lies. Still, my pride was hurt by this slight—since I had told her my name was John Ridd when I shared a gallon of ale with her before coming upstairs; she had nodded in a way that made me think she knew both my name and reputation. Here I was, not just shaken, pinched, and with several hairs pulled out during my first decent sleep in a week, but also insulted, misunderstood, and (which upset me the most) unknown.
Now there is nothing like vanity to keep a man awake at night, however he be weary; and most of all, when he believes that he is doing something great—this time, if never done before—yet other people will not see, except what they may laugh at; and so be far above him, and sleep themselves the happier. Therefore their sleep robs his own; for all things play so, in and out (with the godly and ungodly ever moving in a balance, as they have done in my time, almost every year or two), all things have such nice reply of produce to the call for it, and such a spread across the world, giving here and taking there, yet on the whole pretty even, that haply sleep itself has but a certain stock, and keeps in hand, and sells to flattered (which can pay) that which flattened vanity cannot pay, and will not sue for.
Now, there’s nothing like vanity to keep a person awake at night, no matter how tired they are; especially when they think they’re doing something amazing—something that’s never been done before—yet others only see it as a joke; and so they are far above him, sleeping more soundly. Their sleep steals his own; for everything plays out this way, with the good and the bad always balancing each other, as has happened in my time, almost every year or two. Everything has such a precise response to the demand for it, and spreads across the world, giving and taking here and there, yet overall, it’s pretty balanced. So perhaps sleep itself has only a limited supply, and it keeps back a stock, selling to those who flatter (who can pay) what the vanities of others cannot afford and won’t ask for.
Be that as it may, I was by this time wide awake, though much aggrieved at feeling so, and through the open window heard the distant roll of musketry, and the beating of drums, with a quick rub-a-dub, and the “come round the corner” of trumpet-call. And perhaps Tom Faggus might be there, and shot at any moment, and my dear Annie left a poor widow, and my godson Jack an orphan, without a tooth to help him.
Be that as it may, I was wide awake by this point, although I was quite annoyed about it. Through the open window, I heard the distant sound of gunfire and the beat of drums, the quick rub-a-dub, and the “come around the corner” trumpet call. And maybe Tom Faggus was there, ready to be shot at any moment, leaving my dear Annie a poor widow, and my godson Jack an orphan, with no one to support him.
Therefore I reviled myself for all my heavy laziness; and partly through good honest will, and partly through the stings of pride, and yet a little perhaps by virtue of a young man's love of riot, up I arose, and dressed myself, and woke Kickums (who was snoring), and set out to see the worst of it. The sleepy hostler scratched his poll, and could not tell me which way to take; what odds to him who was King, or Pope, so long as he paid his way, and got a bit of bacon on Sunday? And would I please to remember that I had roused him up at night, and the quality always made a point of paying four times over for a man's loss of his beauty-sleep. I replied that his loss of beauty-sleep was rather improving to a man of so high complexion; and that I, being none of the quality, must pay half-quality prices: and so I gave him double fee, as became a good farmer; and he was glad to be quit of Kickums; as I saw by the turn of his eye, while going out at the archway.
So I scolded myself for being so lazy; and partly out of genuine determination, partly out of pride, and maybe a little because of a young guy's love for a good time, I got up, got dressed, woke up Kickums (who was snoring), and set out to face the music. The sleepy stable hand scratched his head and couldn't tell me which way to go; it didn't really matter to him who was King or Pope, as long as he got paid and had a bit of bacon on Sunday. Plus, he reminded me that I had woken him up at night, and people like him always made a point of paying extra for disrupting someone's beauty sleep. I mentioned that his loss of beauty sleep was probably doing him a favor for someone with such a rough complexion; and since I wasn’t one of the elite, I should pay a lower rate. So I gave him double the fee, as any decent farmer would, and he seemed relieved to be rid of Kickums, which I noticed in his expression as I went out the archway.
All this was done by lanthorn light, although the moon was high and bold; and in the northern heaven, flags and ribbons of a jostling pattern; such as we often have in autumn, but in July very rarely. Of these Master Dryden has spoken somewhere, in his courtly manner; but of him I think so little—because by fashion preferred to Shakespeare—that I cannot remember the passage; neither is it a credit to him.
All this was done by lantern light, even though the moon was bright and bold; and in the northern sky, there were flags and ribbons in a chaotic pattern—something we usually see in autumn, but very rarely in July. Master Dryden has mentioned this somewhere, in his elegant way; but I think so little of him—since he’s favored over Shakespeare by trends—that I can’t recall the quote; nor does it reflect well on him.
Therefore I was guided mainly by the sound of guns and trumpets, in riding out of the narrow ways, and into the open marshes. And thus I might have found my road, in spite of all the spread of water, and the glaze of moonshine; but that, as I followed sound (far from hedge or causeway), fog (like a chestnut-tree in blossom, touched with moonlight) met me. Now fog is a thing that I understand, and can do with well enough, where I know the country; but here I had never been before. It was nothing to our Exmoor fogs; not to be compared with them; and all the time one could see the moon; which we cannot do in our fogs; nor even the sun, for a week together. Yet the gleam of water always makes the fog more difficult: like a curtain on a mirror; none can tell the boundaries.
So, I mainly followed the sounds of guns and trumpets as I rode out of narrow paths and into the open marshes. I might have found my way despite all the water and the sheen of moonlight, but as I followed the sounds (far away from hedges or pathways), I encountered fog (like a chestnut tree in bloom, illuminated by moonlight). Now, fog is something I understand and can handle just fine when I know the area, but I had never been here before. It was nothing like our Exmoor fogs; it couldn't compare to them, and all the while, I could see the moon, which we can't do in our fogs—sometimes not even seeing the sun for a whole week. Yet, the reflection of water always makes fog trickier: like a curtain in front of a mirror; no one can identify the edges.
And here we had broad-water patches, in and out, inlaid on land, like mother-of-pearl in brown Shittim wood. To a wild duck, born and bred there, it would almost be a puzzle to find her own nest amongst us; what chance then had I and Kickums, both unused to marsh and mere? Each time when we thought that we must be right, now at last, by track or passage, and approaching the conflict, with the sounds of it waxing nearer, suddenly a break of water would be laid before us, with the moon looking mildly over it, and the northern lights behind us, dancing down the lines of fog.
And here we had wide patches of water scattered in and out, set against the land, like mother-of-pearl set in brown Shittim wood. For a wild duck, raised there, it would almost be a puzzle to find her own nest among us; what chance did I and Kickums have, both unfamiliar with the marsh and the average pond? Every time we thought we were close, guided by a track or a passage, and nearing the conflict, with the sounds growing louder, suddenly a stretch of water would unfold before us, with the moon looking gently over it and the northern lights behind us, dancing through the layers of fog.
It was an awful thing, I say (and to this day I remember it), to hear the sounds of raging fight, and the yells of raving slayers, and the howls of poor men stricken hard, and shattered from wrath to wailing; then suddenly the dead low hush, as of a soul departing, and spirits kneeling over it. Through the vapour of the earth, and white breath of the water, and beneath the pale round moon (bowing as the drift went by), all this rush and pause of fear passed or lingered on my path.
It was a terrible thing, I say (and I still remember it to this day), to hear the sounds of a fierce fight, the screams of raging killers, and the cries of poor men in agony, shattered from anger to sorrow; then suddenly, the deep silence, like a soul leaving, and spirits kneeling over it. Through the mist of the earth, and the white breath of the water, and under the pale round moon (bowing as the chaos passed by), all this rush and stillness of fear moved or lingered on my path.
At last, when I almost despaired of escaping from this tangle of spongy banks, and of hazy creeks, and reed-fringe, my horse heard the neigh of a fellow-horse, and was only too glad to answer it; upon which the other, having lost its rider, came up and pricked his ears at us, and gazed through the fog very steadfastly. Therefore I encouraged him with a soft and genial whistle, and Kickums did his best to tempt him with a snort of inquiry. However, nothing would suit that nag, except to enjoy his new freedom; and he capered away with his tail set on high, and the stirrup-irons clashing under him. Therefore, as he might know the way, and appeared to have been in the battle, we followed him very carefully; and he led us to a little hamlet, called (as I found afterwards) West Zuyland, or Zealand, so named perhaps from its situation amid this inland sea.
Finally, when I was almost ready to give up on finding my way out of this mess of soft banks, murky creeks, and tall reeds, my horse heard another horse neighing and eagerly responded. The other horse, having lost its rider, came over, perked up its ears at us, and stared through the fog intently. So, I encouraged my horse with a gentle, friendly whistle, and Kickums did his best to lure it closer with a curious snort. However, that horse was only interested in enjoying its newfound freedom; it pranced away with its tail held high, and the stirrup irons clanged beneath it. Since it seemed to know the way and looked like it had been through the recent chaos, we followed it carefully, and it led us to a small village, which I later learned was called West Zuyland or Zealand, probably named for its location amid this inland sea.
Here the King's troops had been quite lately, and their fires were still burning; but the men themselves had been summoned away by the night attack of the rebels. Hence I procured for my guide a young man who knew the district thoroughly, and who led me by many intricate ways to the rear of the rebel army. We came upon a broad open moor striped with sullen water courses, shagged with sedge, and yellow iris, and in the drier part with bilberries. For by this time it was four o'clock, and the summer sun, rising wanly, showed us all the ghastly scene.
The King's troops had recently been here, and their campfires were still burning. However, the soldiers had been called away because of a nighttime attack by the rebels. So, I found a young man who was familiar with the area and who guided me through many winding paths to the back of the rebel army. We emerged onto a wide, open moor marked by dark water channels, overgrown with reeds and yellow irises, and in the drier spots, bilberries. By this time, it was four o'clock, and the summer sun was rising weakly, revealing the grim scene all around us.
Would that I had never been there! Often in the lonely hours, even now it haunts me: would, far more, that the piteous thing had never been done in England! Flying men, flung back from dreams of victory and honour, only glad to have the luck of life and limbs to fly with, mud-bedraggled, foul with slime, reeking both with sweat and blood, which they could not stop to wipe, cursing, with their pumped-out lungs, every stick that hindered them, or gory puddle that slipped the step, scarcely able to leap over the corses that had dragged to die. And to see how the corses lay; some, as fair as death in sleep; with the smile of placid valour, and of noble manhood, hovering yet on the silent lips. These had bloodless hands put upwards, white as wax, and firm as death, clasped (as on a monument) in prayer for dear ones left behind, or in high thanksgiving. And of these men there was nothing in their broad blue eyes to fear. But others were of different sort; simple fellows unused to pain, accustomed to the bill-hook, perhaps, or rasp of the knuckles in a quick-set hedge, or making some to-do at breakfast, over a thumb cut in sharpening a scythe, and expecting their wives to make more to-do. Yet here lay these poor chaps, dead; dead, after a deal of pain, with little mind to bear it, and a soul they had never thought of; gone, their God alone knows whither; but to mercy we may trust. Upon these things I cannot dwell; and none I trow would ask me: only if a plain man saw what I saw that morning, he (if God had blessed him with the heart that is in most of us) must have sickened of all desire to be great among mankind.
I wish I had never been there! Even now, during lonely moments, it still haunts me: I really wish that the heartbreaking things had never happened in England! Men were flying, thrown back from dreams of victory and honor, just grateful to have the luck of living and being in one piece, covered in mud, filthy with slime, reeking of sweat and blood, which they couldn’t stop to wipe away, cursing every obstacle that got in their way or any blood-filled puddle that made them slip, hardly able to jump over the bodies that had dragged themselves to die. And to see how the bodies lay; some, looking as peaceful as death in sleep, with the calm smile of courage and noble manhood still lingering on their silent lips. These had bloodless hands raised up, white as wax, and firm in death, clasped together (like on a monument) in prayer for loved ones left behind or in grateful thanks. And in these men’s broad blue eyes, there was nothing to fear. But others were different; simple guys not used to pain, perhaps used to handling a bill-hook or the irritating scrape of knuckles on a thorny hedge, or making a fuss at breakfast over a thumb cut while sharpening a scythe, expecting their wives to make a bigger fuss. Yet here lay these poor guys, dead; dead after enduring quite a lot of pain, without the mindset to handle it, and with souls they had never thought much about; gone, and only God knows where; but we can trust in mercy. I can’t dwell on these things; and I don’t think anyone would ask me to: but if an ordinary man saw what I saw that morning, he (if God had blessed him with a heart like most of us) would surely have felt sick at any desire to be great among people.
Seeing me riding to the front (where the work of death went on among the men of true English pluck; which, when moved, no farther moves), the fugitives called out to me, in half a dozen dialects, to make no utter fool of myself; for the great guns were come, and the fight was over; all the rest was slaughter.
Seeing me riding up to the front (where the brutal work of death was happening among the brave English men; once stirred, there's no turning back), the fleeing soldiers shouted at me, in several different accents, not to make a complete fool of myself; for the big guns had arrived, and the battle was done; everything else was just slaughter.
“Arl oop wi Moonmo,” shouted one big fellow, a miner of the Mendip hills, whose weapon was a pickaxe: “na oose to vaight na moor. Wend thee hame, yoong mon agin.”
“Go home with the moon!” shouted a big guy, a miner from the Mendip hills, whose weapon was a pickaxe. “Don’t hang around here anymore. Get back home, young man!”
Upon this I stopped my horse, desiring not to be shot for nothing; and eager to aid some poor sick people, who tried to lift their arms to me. And this I did to the best of my power, though void of skill in the business; and more inclined to weep with them than to check their weeping. While I was giving a drop of cordial from my flask to one poor fellow, who sat up, while his life was ebbing, and with slow insistence urged me, when his broken voice would come, to tell his wife (whose name I knew not) something about an apple-tree, and a golden guinea stored in it, to divide among six children—in the midst of this I felt warm lips laid against my cheek quite softly, and then a little push; and behold it was a horse leaning over me! I arose in haste, and there stood Winnie, looking at me with beseeching eyes, enough to melt a heart of stone. Then seeing my attention fixed she turned her head, and glanced back sadly toward the place of battle, and gave a little wistful neigh: and then looked me full in the face again, as much as to say, “Do you understand?” while she scraped with one hoof impatiently. If ever a horse tried hard to speak, it was Winnie at that moment. I went to her side and patted her; but that was not what she wanted. Then I offered to leap into the empty saddle; but neither did that seem good to her: for she ran away toward the part of the field at which she had been glancing back, and then turned round, and shook her mane, entreating me to follow her.
I stopped my horse, not wanting to get shot for no reason, and eager to help some sick people who were trying to reach out to me. I did my best, even though I wasn't skilled in this kind of thing, and I felt more like crying with them than trying to comfort them. While I was giving a bit of cordial from my flask to one poor guy who was barely hanging on, he insisted with his shaky voice that I tell his wife (whose name I didn’t know) something about an apple tree and a golden guinea hidden in it, meant to be shared among their six kids. In the middle of this, I felt warm lips gently pressed against my cheek, followed by a little push; and lo and behold, it was a horse leaning over me! I quickly got up, and there was Winnie, looking at me with pleading eyes that could melt even the hardest heart. When she saw I was focused on her, she turned her head and glanced back sadly toward the battle, giving a little mournful neigh; then she looked me in the eye again, as if asking, “Do you get it?” while tapping her hoof impatiently. If any horse ever tried to communicate, it was Winnie at that moment. I went over and patted her, but that wasn’t what she wanted. I then tried to jump into the empty saddle, but that didn’t seem right to her either: she ran toward the part of the field she had been looking back at, then turned around and shook her mane, urging me to follow her.
Upon this I learned from the dying man where to find his apple-tree, and promised to add another guinea to the one in store for his children; and so, commending him to God, I mounted my own horse again, and to Winnie's great delight, professed myself at her service. With her ringing silvery neigh, such as no other horse of all I ever knew could equal, she at once proclaimed her triumph, and told her master (or meant to tell, if death should not have closed his ears) that she was coming to his aid, and bringing one who might be trusted, of the higher race that kill.
After that, I found out from the dying man where to locate his apple tree, and I promised to add another guinea to the one set aside for his children. With that, I commended him to God, got back on my horse, and to Winnie’s great delight, declared that I was at her service. With her bright, ringing neigh—unmatched by any other horse I’ve ever known—she immediately celebrated her victory and seemed to tell her master (or wanted to tell, if death hadn’t silenced him) that she was coming to help, bringing someone trustworthy from the noble breed of hunters.
A cannon-bullet (fired low, and ploughing the marsh slowly) met poor Winnie front to front; and she, being as quick as thought, lowered her nose to sniff at it. It might be a message from her master; for it made a mournful noise. But luckily for Winnie's life, a rise of wet ground took the ball, even under her very nose; and there it cut a splashy groove, missing her off hindfoot by an inch, and scattering black mud over her. It frightened me much more than Winnie; of that I am quite certain: because though I am firm enough, when it comes to a real tussle, and the heart of a fellow warms up and tells him that he must go through with it; yet I never did approve of making a cold pie of death.
A cannonball (fired low and skimming through the marsh slowly) came at poor Winnie straight on; and she, being quick on her feet, lowered her nose to sniff at it. It could be a message from her owner because it made a mournful noise. But luckily for Winnie’s life, a bump of wet ground absorbed the ball, just inches from her nose, and it created a messy splash, narrowly missing her back foot and covering her in black mud. It scared me way more than it scared Winnie; I’m sure of that. Because even though I can be tough when it comes to a real fight, when the heart of a person urges them to go all in, I never liked the idea of facing death without a fight.
Therefore, with those reckless cannons, brazen-mouthed, and bellowing, two furlongs off, or it might be more (and the more the merrier), I would have given that year's hay-crop for a bit of a hill, or a thicket of oaks, or almost even a badger's earth. People will call me a coward for this (especially when I had made up my mind, that life was not worth having without any sign of Lorna); nevertheless, I cannot help it: those were my feelings; and I set them down, because they made a mark on me. At Glen Doone I had fought, even against cannon, with some spirit and fury: but now I saw nothing to fight about; but rather in every poor doubled corpse, a good reason for not fighting. So, in cold blood riding on, and yet ashamed that a man should shrink where a horse went bravely, I cast a bitter blame upon the reckless ways of Winnie.
So, with those reckless cannons, loud and roaring, two furlongs away, or maybe more (the more the better), I would have traded that year's hay harvest for a little hill, a grove of oaks, or even a badger's burrow. People will call me a coward for this (especially since I had decided that life wasn't worth living without any sign of Lorna); still, I can't help it: those were my feelings, and I note them down because they left an impression on me. At Glen Doone, I had fought, even against cannons, with some spirit and anger: but now I saw nothing worth fighting for; instead, in every poor twisted corpse, there was a good reason not to fight. So, with a cold heart riding on, yet ashamed that a man should flinch where a horse charged bravely, I laid a bitter blame on Winnie’s reckless ways.
Nearly all were scattered now. Of the noble countrymen (armed with scythe or pickaxe, blacksmith's hammer, or fold-pitcher), who had stood their ground for hours against blazing musketry (from men whom they could not get at, by reason of the water-dyke), and then against the deadly cannon, dragged by the Bishop's horses to slaughter his own sheep; of these sturdy Englishmen, noble in their want of sense, scarce one out of four remained for the cowards to shoot down. “Cross the rhaine,” they shouted out, “cross the rhaine, and coom within rache:” but the other mongrel Britons, with a mongrel at their head, found it pleasanter to shoot men who could not shoot in answer, than to meet the chance of mischief from strong arms, and stronger hearts.
Almost everyone was scattered now. Of the brave countrymen (armed with a scythe, pickaxe, blacksmith's hammer, or a fold-pitcher), who had held their ground for hours against heavy gunfire (from men they couldn’t reach because of the water-dyke), and then against the deadly cannons dragged by the Bishop's horses to slaughter his own sheep; of these tough Englishmen, noble in their simplicity, barely one in four remained for the cowards to shoot down. “Cross the Rhine,” they shouted, “cross the Rhine, and come within range:” but the other mixed-breed Britons, led by a mongrel, found it easier to shoot at men who couldn’t shoot back than to risk getting hurt by strong arms and even stronger hearts.
The last scene of this piteous play was acting, just as I rode up. Broad daylight, and upstanding sun, winnowing fog from the eastern hills, and spreading the moors with freshness; all along the dykes they shone, glistened on the willow-trunks, and touched the banks with a hoary gray. But alas! those banks were touched more deeply with a gory red, and strewn with fallen trunks, more woeful than the wreck of trees; while howling, cursing, yelling, and the loathsome reek of carnage, drowned the scent of the new-mown hay, and the carol of the lark.
The last scene of this tragic play was unfolding just as I arrived. It was broad daylight, with the sun shining down, clearing the fog from the eastern hills and bringing freshness to the moors. The light shimmered along the dykes, glistened on the willow trunks, and touched the banks with a grayish hue. But sadly, those banks were marked more deeply with a gruesome red and scattered with fallen trunks, more sorrowful than any wreckage of trees; while howling, cursing, yelling, and the awful stench of blood drowned out the scent of freshly cut hay and the song of the lark.
Then the cavalry of the King, with their horses at full speed, dashed from either side upon the helpless mob of countrymen. A few pikes feebly levelled met them; but they shot the pikemen, drew swords, and helter-skelter leaped into the shattered and scattering mass. Right and left they hacked and hewed; I could hear the snapping of scythes beneath them, and see the flash of their sweeping swords. How it must end was plain enough, even to one like myself, who had never beheld such a battle before. But Winnie led me away to the left; and as I could not help the people, neither stop the slaughter, but found the cannon-bullets coming very rudely nigh me, I was only too glad to follow her.
Then the King’s cavalry, with their horses at full gallop, charged from both sides into the defenseless crowd of villagers. A few pikes were weakly aimed at them, but they shot the pikemen, drew their swords, and jumped chaotically into the shattered and scattering mass. They swung their blades right and left; I could hear the snapping of scythes beneath them and see the flash of their sweeping swords. It was clear how this would end, even to someone like me, who had never witnessed such a battle before. But Winnie pulled me to the left; and since I couldn’t help the people or stop the slaughter, and with cannonballs landing very close to me, I was more than happy to follow her.
CHAPTER LXV
FALLING AMONG LAMBS
That faithful creature, whom I began to admire as if she were my own (which is no little thing for a man to say of another man's horse), stopped in front of a low black shed, such as we call a “linhay.” And here she uttered a little greeting, in a subdued and softened voice, hoping to obtain an answer, such as her master was wont to give in a cheery manner. Receiving no reply, she entered; and I (who could scarce keep up with her, poor Kickums being weary) leaped from his back, and followed. There I found her sniffing gently, but with great emotion, at the body of Tom Faggus. A corpse poor Tom appeared to be, if ever there was one in this world; and I turned away, and felt unable to keep altogether from weeping. But the mare either could not understand, or else would not believe it. She reached her long neck forth, and felt him with her under lip, passing it over his skin as softly as a mother would do to an infant; and then she looked up at me again; as much as to say, “he is all right.”
That loyal animal, whom I started to admire as if she were my own (which is quite a statement for a guy to make about someone else’s horse), stopped in front of a low black shed, which we call a “linhay.” There, she made a soft greeting, hoping to get a response, like her owner usually gave in a cheerful way. When she got no reply, she went inside; and I (who could barely keep up with her, poor Kickums being tired) jumped off his back and followed. I found her gently sniffing, but with great emotion, at the body of Tom Faggus. Poor Tom looked undeniably like a corpse; I turned away, feeling overwhelmed and unable to hold back my tears. But the mare either couldn’t understand or wouldn’t accept it. She stretched her long neck out and touched him with her lower lip, gliding over his skin as gently as a mother would with a baby; then she looked up at me again, as if to say, “he is all right.”
Upon this I took courage, and handled poor Tom, which being young I had feared at first to do. He groaned very feebly, as I raised him up; and there was the wound, a great savage one (whether from pike-thrust or musket-ball), gaping and welling in his right side, from which a piece seemed to be torn away. I bound it up with some of my linen, so far as I knew how; just to stanch the flow of blood, until we could get a doctor. Then I gave him a little weak brandy and water, which he drank with the greatest eagerness, and made sign to me for more of it. But not knowing how far it was right to give cordial under the circumstances, I handed him unmixed water that time; thinking that he was too far gone to perceive the difference. But herein I wrong Tom Faggus; for he shook his head and frowned at me. Even at the door of death, he would not drink what Adam drank, by whom came death into the world. So I gave him a little more eau-de-vie, and he took it most submissively.
Upon this, I gathered my courage and helped poor Tom, which, being young, I had been afraid to do at first. He groaned very softly as I lifted him up, and there was the wound, a huge nasty one (whether from a spear or a bullet), gaping and oozing on his right side, from which a piece seemed to be missing. I wrapped it up with some of my linen, as best as I could, just to stop the bleeding until we could get a doctor. Then, I gave him a little weak brandy and water, which he drank eagerly, signaling me for more. But not knowing how much was appropriate to give him in this situation, I gave him plain water that time, thinking he was too far gone to notice the difference. But I was wrong about Tom Faggus; he shook his head and frowned at me. Even at the brink of death, he wouldn’t drink what Adam drank, through which death entered the world. So I gave him a little more brandy, and he accepted it quietly.
After that he seemed better, and a little colour came into his cheeks; and he looked at Winnie and knew her; and would have her nose in his clammy hand, though I thought it not good for either of them. With the stay of my arm he sat upright, and faintly looked about him; as if at the end of a violent dream, too much for his power of mind. Then he managed to whisper, “Is Winnie hurt?”
After that, he seemed better, and some color returned to his cheeks; he looked at Winnie and recognized her. He wanted to hold her nose in his clammy hand, but I thought it wasn’t good for either of them. With my arm helping him, he sat up and looked around faintly, as if waking from a bad dream that was too much for him to handle. Then he managed to whisper, “Is Winnie hurt?”
“As sound as a roach,” I answered. “Then so am I,” said he: “put me upon her back, John; she and I die together.”
“As sound as a roach,” I replied. “Then so am I,” he said. “Put me on her back, John; she and I will die together.”
Surprised as I was at this fatalism (for so it appeared to me), of which he had often shown symptoms before (but I took them for mere levity), now I knew not what to do; for it seemed to me a murderous thing to set such a man on horseback; where he must surely bleed to death, even if he could keep the saddle. But he told me, with many breaks and pauses, that unless I obeyed his orders, he would tear off all my bandages, and accept no further aid from me.
As surprised as I was by this fatalism (that's how it seemed to me), which he had often hinted at before (but I’d dismissed as just being carefree), I didn't know what to do; it felt like an act of violence to put such a man on a horse, where he would definitely bleed out, even if he managed to stay in the saddle. But he told me, with a lot of interruptions and pauses, that if I didn't follow his orders, he would rip off all my bandages and wouldn’t accept any more help from me.
While I was yet hesitating, a storm of horse at full gallop went by, tearing, swearing, bearing away all the country before them. Only a little pollard hedge kept us from their blood-shot eyes. “Now is the time,” said my cousin Tom, so far as I could make out his words; “on their heels, I am safe, John, if I have only Winnie under me. Winnie and I die together.”
While I was still hesitating, a storm of horses galloped past, tearing through everything in their path and swearing loudly. Only a small hedge kept us from their bloodshot eyes. “Now’s the time,” my cousin Tom said, as far as I could understand him; “if I’m right behind them, I’ll be safe, John, as long as I have Winnie with me. Winnie and I will face it all together.”
Seeing this strong bent of his mind, stronger than any pains of death, I even did what his feeble eyes sometimes implored, and sometimes commanded. With a strong sash, from his own hot neck, bound and twisted, tight as wax, around his damaged waist, I set him upon Winnie's back, and placed his trembling feet in stirrups, with a band from one to another, under the good mare's body; so that no swerve could throw him out: and then I said, “Lean forward, Tom; it will stop your hurt from bleeding.” He leaned almost on the neck of the mare, which, as I knew, must close the wound; and the light of his eyes was quite different, and the pain of his forehead unstrung itself, as if he felt the undulous readiness of her volatile paces under him.
Seeing this strong determination in him, stronger than any fear of death, I even did what his weak eyes sometimes begged for and sometimes ordered. With a sturdy sash from his own hot neck, I wrapped it tightly around his injured waist, secure as wax. I got him on Winnie's back and placed his shaking feet in the stirrups, using a strap from one to the other under the mare's body so he wouldn't fall off. Then I said, “Lean forward, Tom; it’ll help stop the bleeding.” He leaned almost onto the mare's neck, which I knew would help close the wound; the light in his eyes changed, and the pain in his forehead eased as if he could feel the gentle rhythm of her smooth movements beneath him.
“God bless you, John; I am safe,” he whispered, fearing to open his lungs much: “who can come near my Winnie mare? A mile of her gallop is ten years of life. Look out for yourself, John Ridd.” He sucked his lips, and the mare went off, as easy and swift as a swallow.
“God bless you, John; I’m safe,” he whispered, afraid to breathe too deeply: “who can get close to my Winnie mare? A mile of her gallop is like ten years of life. Take care of yourself, John Ridd.” He pursed his lips, and the mare took off, as easy and fast as a swallow.
“Well,” thought I, as I looked at Kickums, ignobly cropping up a bit of grass, “I have done a very good thing, no doubt, and ought to be thankful to God for the chance. But as for getting away unharmed, with all these scoundrels about me, and only a foundered horse to trust in—good and spiteful as he is—upon the whole, I begin to think that I have made a fool of myself, according to my habit. No wonder Tom said, 'Look out for yourself!' I shall look out from a prison window, or perhaps even out of a halter. And then, what will Lorna think of me?”
“Well,” I thought, as I watched Kickums munching on some grass, “I’ve done a really good thing, no doubt, and I should be thankful to God for the opportunity. But considering that there are all these scoundrels around me, and I’ve only got a worn-out horse to rely on—good and spiteful as he is—overall, I’m starting to think I’ve made a fool of myself, as usual. No wonder Tom said, 'Watch out for yourself!' I might be looking out from a prison window, or maybe even from a noose. And then, what will Lorna think of me?”
Being in this wistful mood, I resolved to abide awhile, even where fate had thrown me; for my horse required good rest no doubt, and was taking it even while he cropped, with his hind legs far away stretched out, and his forelegs gathered under him, and his muzzle on the mole-hills; so that he had five supportings from his mother earth. Moreover, the linhay itself was full of very ancient cow dung; than which there is no balmier and more maiden soporific. Hence I resolved, upon the whole, though grieving about breakfast, to light a pipe, and go to sleep; or at least until the hot sun should arouse the flies.
Feeling a bit nostalgic, I decided to stay put for a while since my horse definitely needed a good rest, which he was already getting while munching on grass, with his back legs stretched out and his front legs tucked under him, his nose resting on the molehills; he was completely supported by the ground. Plus, the linhay was filled with really old cow dung, which is the best kind of cozy, relaxing scent. So, even though I was a bit bummed about missing breakfast, I decided to light a pipe and take a nap—at least until the hot sun brought the flies out.
I may have slept three hours, or four, or it might be even five—for I never counted time, while sleeping—when a shaking more rude than the old landlady's, brought me back to the world again. I looked up, with a mighty yawn; and saw twenty, or so, of foot-soldiers.
I might have slept three hours, four, or maybe even five—because I never kept track of time while sleeping—when a shaking stronger than the old landlady's woke me up again. I looked up, yawning big, and saw about twenty foot soldiers.
“This linhay is not yours,” I said, when they had quite aroused me, with tongue, and hand, and even sword-prick: “what business have you here, good fellows?”
“This linhay isn’t yours,” I said, when they had really gotten my attention with their words, touch, and even a jab from a sword: “what are you doing here, guys?”
“Business bad for you,” said one, “and will lead you to the gallows.”
“Business is bad for you,” said one, “and it will lead you to the gallows.”
“Do you wish to know the way out again?” I asked, very quietly, as being no braggadocio.
“Do you want to know the way out again?” I asked quietly, without any boasting.
“We will show thee the way out,” said one, “and the way out of the world,” said another: “but not the way to heaven,” said one chap, most unlikely to know it: and thereupon they all fell wagging, like a bed of clover leaves in the morning, at their own choice humour.
“We'll show you the way out,” said one, “and how to escape this world,” said another: “but not the way to heaven,” said a guy who probably wouldn't know. And then they all started laughing, like a field of clover swaying in the morning breeze, enjoying their own joke.
“Will you pile your arms outside,” I said, “and try a bit of fair play with me?”
“Will you drop your weapons outside,” I said, “and give me a chance for some fair play?”
For I disliked these men sincerely, and was fain to teach them a lesson; they were so unchristian in appearance, having faces of a coffee colour, and dirty beards half over them. Moreover their dress was outrageous, and their address still worse. However, I had wiser let them alone, as will appear afterwards. These savage-looking fellows laughed at the idea of my having any chance against some twenty of them: but I knew that the place was in my favour; for my part of it had been fenced off (for weaning a calf most likely), so that only two could come at me at once; and I must be very much out of training, if I could not manage two of them. Therefore I laid aside my carbine, and the two horse-pistols; and they with many coarse jokes at me went a little way outside, and set their weapons against the wall, and turned up their coat sleeves jauntily; and then began to hesitate.
I really disliked these guys and wanted to teach them a lesson; they looked so unchristian, with coffee-colored faces and dirty beards. Plus, their clothes were outrageous, and their behavior was even worse. Still, I should have just left them alone, as I would later realize. These rough-looking guys laughed at the idea that I had any chance against twenty of them, but I knew the situation was on my side; my area had been fenced off (probably for weaning a calf), so only two could come at me at a time, and I would have to be seriously out of shape not to handle two of them. So, I set aside my carbine and two horse pistols, and they made a bunch of crude jokes about me as they walked a short distance away, leaned their weapons against the wall, rolled up their sleeves with a swagger, and then started to hesitate.
“Go you first, Bob,” I heard them say: “you are the biggest man of us; and Dick the wrestler along of you. Us will back you up, boy.”
“Go ahead first, Bob,” I heard them say: “you’re the biggest one here; and Dick the wrestler’s with you. We’ll back you up, man.”
“I'll warrant I'll draw the badger,” said Bob; “and not a tooth will I leave him. But mind, for the honour of Kirke's lambs, every man stands me a glass of gin.” Then he, and another man, made a rush, and the others came double-quick-march on their heels. But as Bob ran at me most stupidly, not even knowing how to place his hands, I caught him with my knuckles at the back of his neck, and with all the sway of my right arm sent him over the heads of his comrades. Meanwhile Dick the wrestler had grappled me, expecting to show off his art, of which indeed he had some small knowledge; but being quite of the light-weights, in a second he was flying after his companion Bob.
“I bet I can take down the badger,” said Bob; “and I won’t leave him with a single tooth. But remember, for the honor of Kirke's lambs, everyone owes me a shot of gin.” Then he and another guy rushed forward, and the others quickly followed behind them. But as Bob charged at me without any clue on how to position himself, I caught him by the back of his neck with my knuckles and, with a powerful swing of my right arm, sent him flying over the heads of his friends. Meanwhile, Dick the wrestler tried to grab me, expecting to show off his skills, of which he actually had a little knowledge; but being quite light, he ended up flying after his buddy Bob in no time.
Now these two men were hurt so badly, the light one having knocked his head against the lintel of the outer gate, that the rest had no desire to encounter the like misfortune. So they hung back whispering; and before they had made up their minds, I rushed into the midst of them. The suddenness and the weight of my onset took them wholly by surprise; and for once in their lives, perhaps, Kirke's lambs were worthy of their name. Like a flock of sheep at a dog's attack they fell away, hustling one another, and my only difficulty was not to tumble over them.
Now these two guys were hurt really badly, with the lighter one banging his head against the outer gate's frame, so the others were not eager to face the same fate. They hesitated, whispering to each other, and before they could decide what to do, I charged right into them. The suddenness and force of my attack caught them completely off guard; and for once, maybe, Kirke's followers lived up to their name. Like a flock of sheep startled by a dog, they scattered, bumping into each other, and my only challenge was not to trip over them.
I had taken my carbine out with me, having a fondness for it; but the two horse-pistols I left behind; and therefore felt good title to take two from the magazine of the lambs. And with these, and my carbine, I leaped upon Kickums, who was now quite glad of a gallop again; and I bade adieu to that mongrel lot; yet they had the meanness to shoot at me. Thanking God for my deliverance (inasmuch as those men would have strung me up, from a pollard-ash without trial, as I heard them tell one another, and saw the tree they had settled upon), I ventured to go rather fast on my way, with doubt and uneasiness urging me. And now my way was home again. Nobody could say but what I had done my duty, and rescued Tom (if he could be rescued) from the mischief into which his own perverseness and love of change (rather than deep religious convictions, to which our Annie ascribed his outbreak) had led, or seemed likely to lead him. And how proud would my mother be; and—ah well, there was nobody else to be proud of me now.
I took my carbine with me because I liked it, but I left the two horse pistols behind. So, I felt justified in grabbing two from the magazine of the lambs. Armed with these and my carbine, I jumped on Kickums, who was pretty happy to run again, and I said goodbye to that useless group. But they had the nerve to shoot at me. Thanking God for my escape (since those men would have hanged me from a pollard-ash without a trial, as I heard them discussing, and I saw the tree they had picked), I decided to push on quickly, even though doubt and uneasiness were nagging at me. Now, I was heading home again. No one could say I hadn't done my duty and rescued Tom (if he could be rescued) from the trouble his stubbornness and craving for change—rather than sincere religious beliefs, as our Annie believed—had led him into or was likely to lead him into. And how proud my mother would be; but, well, there was no one else left to be proud of me now.
But while thinking these things, and desiring my breakfast, beyond any power of describing, and even beyond my remembrance, I fell into another fold of lambs, from which there was no exit. These, like true crusaders, met me, swaggering very heartily, and with their barrels of cider set, like so many cannon, across the road, over against a small hostel.
But while I was thinking about this and craving my breakfast more than I can describe, and even more than I can remember, I stumbled into another group of lambs, from which there was no escape. They, like true crusaders, approached me confidently, with their barrels of cider lined up like cannons across the road, in front of a small inn.
“We have won the victory, my lord King, and we mean to enjoy it. Down from thy horse, and have a stoup of cider, thou big rebel.”
“We’ve won the victory, my lord King, and we plan to celebrate. Get off your horse and have a mug of cider, you big rebel.”
“No rebel am I. My name is John Ridd. I belong to the side of the King: and I want some breakfast.”
“No rebel here. My name is John Ridd. I support the King, and I’m just looking for some breakfast.”
These fellows were truly hospitable; that much will I say for them. Being accustomed to Arab ways, they could toss a grill, or fritter, or the inner meaning of an egg, into any form they pleased, comely and very good to eat; and it led me to think of Annie. So I made the rarest breakfast any man might hope for, after all his troubles; and getting on with these brown fellows better than could be expected, I craved permission to light a pipe, if not disagreeable. Hearing this, they roared at me, with a superior laughter, and asked me, whether or not, I knew the tobacco-leaf from the chick-weed; and when I was forced to answer no, not having gone into the subject, but being content with anything brown, they clapped me on the back and swore they had never seen any one like me. Upon the whole this pleased me much; for I do not wish to be taken always as of the common pattern: and so we smoked admirable tobacco—for they would not have any of mine, though very courteous concerning it—and I was beginning to understand a little of what they told me; when up came those confounded lambs, who had shown more tail than head to me, in the linhay, as I mentioned.
These guys were really friendly; that much I can say about them. Used to Arab customs, they could turn a grill, fritter, or the inside of an egg into any shape they liked, pretty and really tasty; it made me think of Annie. So I made the best breakfast any guy could hope for after all his troubles; and getting along with these brown guys better than I expected, I asked if I could light a pipe, if that was okay. When they heard this, they laughed heartily at me and asked if I knew the difference between tobacco leaves and chickweed. When I had to admit I didn't, not having looked into it but happy with anything brown, they patted me on the back and claimed they had never met anyone like me. Overall, this made me quite happy; I don’t want to be seen as just ordinary all the time. So we smoked amazing tobacco—though they wouldn’t accept any of mine, even though they were very polite about it—and I was starting to understand a bit of what they were telling me; when those annoying lambs showed up again, who had acted more silly than smart around me in the linhay, as I mentioned.
Now these men upset everything. Having been among wrestlers so much as my duty compelled me to be, and having learned the necessity of the rest which follows the conflict, and the right of discussion which all people have to pay their sixpence to enter; and how they obtrude this right, and their wisdom, upon the man who has laboured, until he forgets all the work he did, and begins to think that they did it; having some knowledge of this sort of thing, and the flux of minds swimming in liquor, I foresaw a brawl, as plainly as if it were Bear Street in Barnstaple.
Now, these guys completely messed things up. Having spent so much time around wrestlers because I had to, and having learned about the importance of taking a break after the fight, and the right to discuss things that everyone has when they pay their entry fee; and how they push this right and their opinions onto the person who has worked hard, until that person forgets all they did and starts to believe that those others did it; knowing this kind of situation and how people's minds can get hazy when drinking, I could see a fight coming, just as clearly as if it were Bear Street in Barnstaple.
And a brawl there was, without any error, except of the men who hit their friends, and those who defended their enemies. My partners in breakfast and beer-can swore that I was no prisoner, but the best and most loyal subject, and the finest-hearted fellow they had ever the luck to meet with. Whereas the men from the linhay swore that I was a rebel miscreant; and have me they would, with a rope's-end ready, in spite of every [violent language] who had got drunk at my expense, and been misled by my [strong word] lies.
And there was definitely a brawl, with the exception of those guys who accidentally hit their friends and those who defended their enemies. My breakfast and beer buddies insisted that I wasn’t a prisoner, but the best and most loyal subject, and the nicest guy they’d ever been lucky to meet. Meanwhile, the guys from the linhay claimed I was a rebellious scoundrel, and they were ready to hang me, despite all the drunks who had partied at my expense and were misled by my outrageous lies.
While this fight was going on (and its mere occurrence shows, perhaps, that my conversation in those days was not entirely despicable—else why should my new friends fight for me, when I had paid for the ale, and therefore won the wrong tense of gratitude?) it was in my power at any moment to take horse and go. And this would have been my wisest plan, and a very great saving of money; but somehow I felt as if it would be a mean thing to slip off so. Even while I was hesitating, and the men were breaking each other's heads, a superior officer rode up, with his sword drawn, and his face on fire.
While this fight was happening (and the fact that it did shows, maybe, that my conversations back then weren’t completely worthless—otherwise, why would my new friends fight for me after I bought the drinks, earning the wrong kind of gratitude?), I could have left on horseback at any moment. That would have been the smartest move and saved me a lot of money, but somehow I felt it would have been a cowardly thing to do. Even as I hesitated and the guys were brawling, an officer rode up, sword drawn and looking furious.
“What, my lambs, my lambs!” he cried, smiting with the flat of his sword; “is this how you waste my time and my purse, when you ought to be catching a hundred prisoners, worth ten pounds apiece to me? Who is this young fellow we have here? Speak up, sirrah; what art thou, and how much will thy good mother pay for thee?”
“What, my lambs, my lambs!” he shouted, smacking the flat of his sword; “is this how you waste my time and my money, when you should be capturing a hundred prisoners, worth ten pounds each to me? Who is this young guy we have here? Speak up, kid; what are you, and how much will your good mother pay for you?”
“My mother will pay naught for me,” I answered; while the lambs fell back, and glowered at one another: “so please your worship, I am no rebel; but an honest farmer, and well-proved of loyalty.”
“My mother won't pay anything for me,” I replied; while the lambs backed away and glared at each other: “if it pleases you, I’m not a rebel; just an honest farmer, and I've proven my loyalty.”
“Ha, ha; a farmer art thou? Those fellows always pay the best. Good farmer, come to yon barren tree; thou shalt make it fruitful.”
“Ha, ha; you’re a farmer, huh? Those guys always pay the best. Good farmer, come over to that barren tree; you’ll make it fruitful.”
Colonel Kirke made a sign to his men, and before I could think of resistance, stout new ropes were flung around me; and with three men on either side I was led along very painfully. And now I saw, and repented deeply of my careless folly, in stopping with those boon-companions, instead of being far away. But the newness of their manners to me, and their mode of regarding the world (differing so much from mine own), as well as the flavour of their tobacco, had made me quite forget my duty to the farm and to myself. Yet methought they would be tender to me, after all our speeches: how then was I disappointed, when the men who had drunk my beer, drew on those grievous ropes, twice as hard as the men I had been at strife with! Yet this may have been from no ill will; but simply that having fallen under suspicion of laxity, they were compelled, in self-defence, now to be over-zealous.
Colonel Kirke signaled to his men, and before I could even think about resisting, strong new ropes were thrown around me; with three men on each side, I was painfully led away. It was then that I realized and deeply regretted my careless mistake in hanging out with those party companions instead of being far from them. But their new way of acting toward me, and their perspective on the world (which was so different from mine), along with the flavor of their tobacco, had completely made me forget my responsibilities to the farm and to myself. Still, I thought they might be gentle with me after all our talks: how disappointing it was when the men who had drunk my beer pulled on those painful ropes even harder than the men I had fought with! But perhaps it wasn't out of malice; maybe they were just trying to prove their seriousness because they now felt suspicious of me.
Nevertheless, however pure and godly might be their motives, I beheld myself in a grievous case, and likely to get the worst of it. For the face of the Colonel was hard and stern as a block of bogwood oak; and though the men might pity me and think me unjustly executed, yet they must obey their orders, or themselves be put to death. Therefore I addressed myself to the Colonel, in a most ingratiating manner; begging him not to sully the glory of his victory, and dwelling upon my pure innocence, and even good service to our lord the King. But Colonel Kirke only gave command that I should be smitten in the mouth; which office Bob, whom I had flung so hard out of the linhay, performed with great zeal and efficiency. But being aware of the coming smack, I thrust forth a pair of teeth; upon which the knuckles of my good friend made a melancholy shipwreck.
Still, no matter how pure and righteous their intentions were, I found myself in a terrible situation, likely to suffer the consequences. The Colonel's face was as hard and unyielding as a piece of bog oak; and even if the men felt sorry for me and thought I was being treated unfairly, they had to follow orders or face execution themselves. So, I turned to the Colonel, trying to win him over; I asked him not to tarnish his victory and emphasized my innocence and my loyal service to our lord the King. But Colonel Kirke just ordered that I be struck in the mouth; Bob, the man I had thrown out of the linhay, carried out this command with enthusiasm and efficiency. Anticipating the incoming blow, I pushed out my teeth, which resulted in my friend's knuckles experiencing a rather unfortunate mishap.
It is not in my power to tell half the thoughts that moved me, when we came to the fatal tree, and saw two men hanging there already, as innocent perhaps as I was, and henceforth entirely harmless. Though ordered by the Colonel to look steadfastly upon them, I could not bear to do so; upon which he called me a paltry coward, and promised my breeches to any man who would spit upon my countenance. This vile thing Bob, being angered perhaps by the smarting wound of his knuckles, bravely stepped forward to do for me, trusting no doubt to the rope I was led with. But, unluckily as it proved for him, my right arm was free for a moment; and therewith I dealt him such a blow, that he never spake again. For this thing I have often grieved; but the provocation was very sore to the pride of a young man; and I trust that God has forgiven me. At the sound and sight of that bitter stroke, the other men drew back; and Colonel Kirke, now black in the face with fury and vexation, gave orders for to shoot me, and cast me into the ditch hard by. The men raised their pieces, and pointed at me, waiting for the word to fire; and I, being quite overcome by the hurry of these events, and quite unprepared to die yet, could only think all upside down about Lorna, and my mother, and wonder what each would say to it. I spread my hands before my eyes, not being so brave as some men; and hoping, in some foolish way, to cover my heart with my elbows. I heard the breath of all around, as if my skull were a sounding-board; and knew even how the different men were fingering their triggers. And a cold sweat broke all over me, as the Colonel, prolonging his enjoyment, began slowly to say, “Fire.”
I can't even begin to express half of what I felt when we arrived at the tragic tree and saw two men already hanging there, just as innocent as I was and now completely harmless. Even though the Colonel ordered me to look at them, I couldn’t bring myself to do it; he then called me a pathetic coward and offered my pants to anyone who would spit in my face. This nasty guy Bob, maybe angered by the sting of his knuckles, bravely stepped up to do it for me, probably relying on the rope I was tied with. But, unfortunately for him, my right arm was free for a moment, and I hit him so hard that he never spoke again. I've often regretted this, but the provocation was pretty intense for the pride of a young man, and I hope God has forgiven me. At the sound and sight of that painful blow, the other men stepped back, and Colonel Kirke, now furious and filled with rage, ordered them to shoot me and throw me into the nearby ditch. The men raised their guns, aimed at me, and waited for the command to fire. I, completely overwhelmed by the rapid turn of events and not ready to die, could only think about Lorna and my mother and wonder what each would say about it. I covered my eyes with my hands, not being as brave as some men, and hoped, in a silly way, to protect my heart with my elbows. I could hear everyone's breath around me, as if my skull were a sounding board, and even knew how each man was touching his trigger. A cold sweat broke out all over me as the Colonel, dragging out the moment, began to slowly say, “Fire.”
But while he was yet dwelling on the “F,” the hoofs of a horse dashed out on the road, and horse and horseman flung themselves betwixt me and the gun muzzles. So narrowly was I saved that one man could not check his trigger: his musket went off, and the ball struck the horse on the withers, and scared him exceedingly. He began to lash out with his heels all around, and the Colonel was glad to keep clear of him; and the men made excuse to lower their guns, not really wishing to shoot me.
But while he was still focused on the “F,” the hooves of a horse charged down the road, and both the horse and rider came between me and the gun barrels. I was saved just in time; one man couldn't stop himself from pulling the trigger: his musket fired, and the bullet hit the horse on the shoulder, scaring him badly. The horse started kicking wildly, and the Colonel was relieved to stay out of his way; the men found a reason to lower their guns, not really wanting to shoot me.
“How now, Captain Stickles?” cried Kirke, the more angry because he had shown his cowardice; “dare you, sir, to come betwixt me and my lawful prisoner?”
“How’s it going, Captain Stickles?” shouted Kirke, even angrier because he had shown his cowardice. “Do you dare to come between me and my rightful prisoner?”
“Nay, hearken one moment, Colonel,” replied my old friend Jeremy; and his damaged voice was the sweetest sound I had heard for many a day; “for your own sake, hearken.” He looked so full of momentous tidings, that Colonel Kirke made a sign to his men not to shoot me till further orders; and then he went aside with Stickles, so that in spite of all my anxiety I could not catch what passed between them. But I fancied that the name of the Lord Chief-Justice Jeffreys was spoken more than once, and with emphasis and deference.
“Wait a moment, Colonel,” my old friend Jeremy said; his weary voice was the most comforting sound I had heard in a long time. “Listen for your own good.” He looked like he had some important news, so Colonel Kirke signaled to his men not to shoot me until further notice. Then he stepped aside with Stickles, and despite my worry, I couldn’t overhear their conversation. But I had a feeling that the name of Lord Chief-Justice Jeffreys was mentioned more than once, and said with a lot of respect.
“Then I leave him in your hands, Captain Stickles,” said Kirke at last, so that all might hear him; and though the news was good for me, the smile of baffled malice made his dark face look most hideous; “and I shall hold you answerable for the custody of this prisoner.”
“Then I leave him in your hands, Captain Stickles,” Kirke finally said, loud enough for everyone to hear; and even though the news was good for me, the grin of frustrated anger made his dark face look really ugly; “and I will hold you responsible for keeping this prisoner safe.”
“Colonel Kirke, I will answer for him,” Master Stickles replied, with a grave bow, and one hand on his breast: “John Ridd, you are my prisoner. Follow me, John Ridd.”
“Colonel Kirke, I’ll take responsibility for him,” Master Stickles said, with a serious bow and one hand on his chest. “John Ridd, you’re my prisoner. Follow me, John Ridd.”
Upon that, those precious lambs flocked away, leaving the rope still around me; and some were glad, and some were sorry, not to see me swinging. Being free of my arms again, I touched my hat to Colonel Kirke, as became his rank and experience; but he did not condescend to return my short salutation, having espied in the distance a prisoner, out of whom he might make money.
Upon that, those dear lambs scattered, leaving the rope still around me; and some were happy, and some were sad, not to see me swinging. Being free of my arms again, I tipped my hat to Colonel Kirke, as was appropriate for his rank and experience; but he didn't bother to return my brief greeting, having spotted a prisoner in the distance, out of whom he could make some money.
I wrung the hand of Jeremy Stickles, for his truth and goodness; and he almost wept (for since his wound he had been a weakened man) as he answered, “Turn for turn, John. You saved my life from the Doones; and by the mercy of God, I have saved you from a far worse company. Let your sister Annie know it.”
I shook hands with Jeremy Stickles because of his honesty and kindness; he almost cried (since his injury he had become a weaker man) as he replied, “You’ve saved my life from the Doones, John. By the grace of God, I’ve saved you from an even worse crowd. Let your sister Annie know this.”
CHAPTER LXVI
SUITABLE DEVOTION
Now Kickums was not like Winnie, any more than a man is like a woman; and so he had not followed my fortunes, except at his own distance. No doubt but what he felt a certain interest in me; but his interest was not devotion; and man might go his way and be hanged, rather than horse would meet hardship. Therefore, seeing things to be bad, and his master involved in trouble, what did this horse do but start for the ease and comfort of Plover's Barrows, and the plentiful ration of oats abiding in his own manger. For this I do not blame him. It is the manner of mankind.
Now, Kickums wasn't like Winnie, just like a man isn't like a woman; so he hadn't followed my fortunes, except from a distance. No doubt he felt a certain interest in me, but his interest wasn't devotion; a man might go his own way and not care, rather than a horse face hardship. So, seeing that things were bad and his master was in trouble, what did this horse do but head for the comfort of Plover's Barrows and the generous supply of oats waiting in his own manger. For this, I don't blame him. It's just the way people are.
But I could not help being very uneasy at the thought of my mother's discomfort and worry, when she should spy this good horse coming home, without any master, or rider, and I almost hoped that he might be caught (although he was worth at least twenty pounds) by some of the King's troopers, rather than find his way home, and spread distress among our people. Yet, knowing his nature, I doubted if any could catch, or catching would keep him.
But I couldn’t shake off the feeling of anxiety about my mother’s discomfort and worry when she saw this good horse coming home without a rider. I almost wished he’d be caught by some of the King's soldiers (even though he was worth at least twenty pounds) instead of making it home and causing distress among our people. Still, knowing his nature, I wondered if anyone could catch him, or if they did, if they would be able to keep him.
Jeremy Stickles assured me, as we took the road to Bridgwater, that the only chance for my life (if I still refused to fly) was to obtain an order forthwith, for my despatch to London, as a suspected person indeed, but not found in open rebellion, and believed to be under the patronage of the great Lord Jeffreys. “For,” said he, “in a few hours time you would fall into the hands of Lord Feversham, who has won this fight, without seeing it, and who has returned to bed again, to have his breakfast more comfortably. Now he may not be quite so savage perhaps as Colonel Kirke, nor find so much sport in gibbeting; but he is equally pitiless, and his price no doubt would be higher.”
Jeremy Stickles assured me, as we drove to Bridgwater, that my only chance for survival (if I still refused to escape) was to immediately get an order for my transfer to London, as a suspected person but not found in open rebellion, and believed to be under the protection of the great Lord Jeffreys. “Because,” he said, “in just a few hours, you would fall into the hands of Lord Feversham, who has won this battle without even being present, and who has gone back to bed to enjoy his breakfast more comfortably. Now, he might not be as brutal as Colonel Kirke, nor get as much enjoyment out of hanging people; but he is just as merciless, and his price would likely be even higher.”
“I will pay no price whatever,” I answered, “neither will I fly. An hour agone I would have fled for the sake of my mother, and the farm. But now that I have been taken prisoner, and my name is known, if I fly, the farm is forfeited; and my mother and sister must starve. Moreover, I have done no harm; I have borne no weapons against the King, nor desired the success of his enemies. I like not that the son of a bona-roba should be King of England; neither do I count the Papists any worse than we are. If they have aught to try me for, I will stand my trial.”
“I won’t pay any price,” I replied, “and I won’t run away. An hour ago, I would have fled for my mother and the farm. But now that I’ve been captured, and my name is known, if I run, the farm will be lost; then my mother and sister will starve. Besides, I haven’t done anything wrong; I haven’t carried weapons against the King, nor have I wanted his enemies to win. I don’t like the idea of the son of a prostitute being King of England; nor do I think the Catholics are any worse than we are. If they have anything to charge me with, I’m ready for my trial.”
“Then to London thou must go, my son. There is no such thing as trial here: we hang the good folk without it, which saves them much anxiety. But quicken thy step, good John; I have influence with Lord Churchill, and we must contrive to see him, ere the foreigner falls to work again. Lord Churchill is a man of sense, and imprisons nothing but his money.”
“Then you have to go to London, my son. There’s no trial here: we hang good people without one, which saves them a lot of stress. But hurry up, good John; I have connections with Lord Churchill, and we need to figure out a way to see him before the foreigner gets back to his scheming. Lord Churchill is a sensible man, and he only locks up his money.”
We were lucky enough to find this nobleman, who has since become so famous by his foreign victories. He received us with great civility; and looked at me with much interest, being a tall and fine young man himself, but not to compare with me in size, although far better favoured. I liked his face well enough, but thought there was something false about it. He put me a few keen questions, such as a man not assured of honesty might have found hard to answer; and he stood in a very upright attitude, making the most of his figure.
We were fortunate to meet this nobleman, who has since become famous for his victories abroad. He greeted us very politely and looked at me with a lot of interest; he was a tall and handsome young man, but he didn't quite match my size, even though he was much better looking. I found his face appealing enough, but I sensed something disingenuous about it. He asked me a few sharp questions that someone unsure of their own honesty might have struggled to answer, and he stood up straight, making the most of his stature.
I saw nothing to be proud of, at the moment, in this interview; but since the great Duke of Marlborough rose to the top of glory, I have tried to remember more about him than my conscience quite backs up. How should I know that this man would be foremost of our kingdom in five-and-twenty years or so; and not knowing, why should I heed him, except for my own pocket? Nevertheless, I have been so cross-questioned—far worse than by young Lord Churchill—about His Grace the Duke of Marlborough, and what he said to me, and what I said then, and how His Grace replied to that, and whether he smiled like another man, or screwed up his lips like a button (as our parish tailor said of him), and whether I knew from the turn of his nose that no Frenchman could stand before him: all these inquiries have worried me so, ever since the Battle of Blenheim, that if tailors would only print upon waistcoats, I would give double price for a vest bearing this inscription, “No information can be given about the Duke of Marlborough.”
I didn’t feel proud at all during this interview; but since the great Duke of Marlborough became famous, I’ve tried to remember more about him than my conscience really allows. How was I supposed to know that this man would be at the forefront of our kingdom in around twenty-five years? And if I didn’t know, why should I pay attention to him, other than for my own benefit? Still, I’ve been questioned so much—way more than by young Lord Churchill—about His Grace the Duke of Marlborough, what he said to me, what I replied, how His Grace responded, whether he smiled like anyone else, or tightened his lips like a button (as our parish tailor described him), and whether I could tell from his nose that no Frenchman could stand up to him. All these questions have stressed me out so much since the Battle of Blenheim that if tailors would just print on waistcoats, I’d gladly pay extra for a vest that says, “No information can be given about the Duke of Marlborough.”
Now this good Lord Churchill—for one might call him good, by comparison with the very bad people around him—granted without any long hesitation the order for my safe deliverance to the Court of King's Bench at Westminster; and Stickles, who had to report in London, was empowered to convey me, and made answerable for producing me. This arrangement would have been entirely to my liking, although the time of year was bad for leaving Plover's Barrows so; but no man may quite choose his times, and on the while I would have been quite content to visit London, if my mother could be warned that nothing was amiss with me, only a mild, and as one might say, nominal captivity. And to prevent her anxiety, I did my best to send a letter through good Sergeant Bloxham, of whom I heard as quartered with Dumbarton's regiment at Chedzuy. But that regiment was away in pursuit; and I was forced to entrust my letter to a man who said that he knew him, and accepted a shilling to see to it.
Now, this good Lord Churchill—who can rightly be called good compared to the very bad people around him—quickly approved the order for my safe transfer to the Court of King's Bench at Westminster. Stickles, who needed to report in London, was given the responsibility to take me there and was accountable for my appearance. This arrangement would have suited me perfectly, although the time of year wasn’t ideal for leaving Plover's Barrows. But one can't always choose the right timing, and in the meantime, I would have been quite happy to visit London if I could just let my mother know that nothing was wrong with me, only a mild, as one might say, nominal captivity. To ease her worries, I did my best to send a letter through good Sergeant Bloxham, who I heard was stationed with Dumbarton's regiment at Chedzuy. However, that regiment was out on a mission, and I had to trust my letter to a man who claimed to know him and took a shilling to ensure it got delivered.
For fear of any unpleasant change, we set forth at once for London; and truly thankful may I be that God in His mercy spared me the sight of the cruel and bloody work with which the whole country reeked and howled during the next fortnight. I have heard things that set my hair on end, and made me loathe good meat for days; but I make a point of setting down only the things which I saw done; and in this particular case, not many will quarrel with my decision. Enough, therefore, that we rode on (for Stickles had found me a horse at last) as far as Wells, where we slept that night; and being joined in the morning by several troopers and orderlies, we made a slow but safe journey to London, by way of Bath and Reading.
Fearing any unpleasant change, we set off immediately for London; and I’m truly grateful that God, in His mercy, spared me from witnessing the cruel and bloody events that plagued the entire country for the next two weeks. I've heard things that made my hair stand on end and left me disgusted by good food for days; but I’m committed to only writing down the things I actually saw happen, and in this case, not many will dispute my choice. So, it’s enough to say that we rode on (since Stickles finally found me a horse) as far as Wells, where we stayed the night; and the next morning, joined by several troopers and orderlies, we made a slow but safe journey to London, passing through Bath and Reading.
The sight of London warmed my heart with various emotions, such as a cordial man must draw from the heart of all humanity. Here there are quick ways and manners, and the rapid sense of knowledge, and the power of understanding, ere a word be spoken. Whereas at Oare, you must say a thing three times, very slowly, before it gets inside the skull of the good man you are addressing. And yet we are far more clever there than in any parish for fifteen miles.
The sight of London filled me with a mix of emotions, just as a friendly person feels a connection with all of humanity. Here, everything is fast-paced, and you can grasp things quickly, almost before a word is spoken. In Oare, though, you need to repeat something three times, really slowly, before it sinks in for the good guy you’re talking to. Yet, we’re actually much smarter there than in any parish for fifteen miles.
But what moved me most, when I saw again the noble oil and tallow of the London lights, and the dripping torches at almost every corner, and the handsome signboards, was the thought that here my Lorna lived, and walked, and took the air, and perhaps thought now and then of the old days in the good farm-house. Although I would make no approach to her, any more than she had done to me (upon which grief I have not dwelt, for fear of seeming selfish), yet there must be some large chance, or the little chance might be enlarged, of falling in with the maiden somehow, and learning how her mind was set. If against me, all should be over. I was not the man to sigh and cry for love, like a Romeo: none should even guess my grief, except my sister Annie.
But what moved me the most, when I saw again the noble oil and tallow of the London lights, the dripping torches at almost every corner, and the attractive signboards, was the thought that here my Lorna lived, walked, enjoyed the fresh air, and perhaps thought now and then of the good old days at the farmhouse. Even though I wouldn't approach her, just as she hadn't approached me (and I haven’t dwelled on that sadness, afraid of seeming selfish), there had to be some significant chance, or the slight chance could be increased, of running into her somehow and finding out how she felt. If she was against me, then it would be all over. I wasn’t the kind of guy to sigh and cry for love like a Romeo; no one should even suspect my grief, except my sister Annie.
But if Lorna loved me still—as in my heart of hearts I hoped—then would I for no one care, except her own delicious self. Rank and title, wealth and grandeur, all should go to the winds, before they scared me from my own true love.
But if Lorna still loved me—as deep down I hoped—then I wouldn’t care about anyone else, except for her wonderful self. Status and titles, money and luxury, all would mean nothing to me if they pushed me away from my true love.
Thinking thus, I went to bed in the centre of London town, and was bitten so grievously by creatures whose name is “legion,” mad with the delight of getting a wholesome farmer among them, that verily I was ashamed to walk in the courtly parts of the town next day, having lumps upon my face of the size of a pickling walnut. The landlord said that this was nothing; and that he expected, in two days at the utmost, a very fresh young Irishman, for whom they would all forsake me. Nevertheless, I declined to wait, unless he could find me a hayrick to sleep in; for the insects of grass only tickle. He assured me that no hayrick could now be found in London; upon which I was forced to leave him, and with mutual esteem we parted.
Thinking this way, I went to bed in the heart of London and was badly bitten by creatures called "legion," excited to have a healthy farmer among them, that I was honestly embarrassed to walk in the fancy parts of town the next day, sporting swollen lumps on my face the size of pickling walnuts. The landlord said this was nothing; he expected, within two days at most, a very fresh young Irishman for whom they would all abandon me. However, I refused to stick around unless he could find me a haystack to sleep in since the bugs in the grass only tickle. He assured me that no haystack could be found in London now, so I had to leave him, and we parted with mutual respect.
The next night I had better luck, being introduced to a decent widow, of very high Scotch origin. That house was swept and garnished so, that not a bit was left to eat, for either man or insect. The change of air having made me hungry, I wanted something after supper; being quite ready to pay for it, and showing my purse as a symptom. But the face of Widow MacAlister, when I proposed to have some more food, was a thing to be drawn (if it could be drawn further) by our new caricaturist.
The next night I had better luck, getting introduced to a nice widow of high Scottish heritage. Her house was so clean and well-kept that there wasn’t a single crumb left for anyone, not even for bugs. The change of air had made me hungry, so I looked for something to eat after dinner. I was ready to pay for it, showing my wallet as proof. But the look on Widow MacAlister’s face when I suggested getting more food was something that our new caricaturist would love to capture.
Therefore I left her also; for liefer would I be eaten myself than have nothing to eat; and so I came back to my old furrier; the which was a thoroughly hearty man, and welcomed me to my room again, with two shillings added to the rent, in the joy of his heart at seeing me. Being under parole to Master Stickles, I only went out betwixt certain hours; because I was accounted as liable to be called upon; for what purpose I knew not, but hoped it might be a good one. I felt it a loss, and a hindrance to me, that I was so bound to remain at home during the session of the courts of law; for thereby the chance of ever beholding Lorna was very greatly contracted, if not altogether annihilated. For these were the very hours in which the people of fashion, and the high world, were wont to appear to the rest of mankind, so as to encourage them. And of course by this time, the Lady Lorna was high among people of fashion, and was not likely to be seen out of fashionable hours. It is true that there were some places of expensive entertainment, at which the better sort of mankind might be seen and studied, in their hours of relaxation, by those of the lower order, who could pay sufficiently. But alas, my money was getting low; and the privilege of seeing my betters was more and more denied to me, as my cash drew shorter. For a man must have a good coat at least, and the pockets not wholly empty, before he can look at those whom God has created for his ensample.
So, I left her too; I’d rather be eaten myself than have nothing to eat. I went back to my old furrier, who was a really warm-hearted guy and welcomed me back to my room, raising the rent by two shillings out of sheer happiness to see me. Since I was under a promise to Master Stickles, I could only go out during certain hours; I was considered likely to be called upon for some reason that I didn’t know but hoped it was for something good. I felt it was a loss and a hassle that I had to stay at home during the court sessions; it greatly reduced my chances of ever seeing Lorna again, if not completely eliminated them. These were the very hours when fashionable people and the high society showed themselves to the rest of the world to uplift them. And of course, by now, Lady Lorna was prominent among the fashionable crowd and wasn’t likely to be seen outside of those fashionable hours. It’s true there were some expensive places where the upper class could be seen and observed during their downtime by those of lower status who could afford it. But sadly, my money was running low; the opportunity to see my betters was slipping away as my cash diminished. A man must have a decent coat at the very least and not empty pockets if he wants to catch a glimpse of those whom God has made as examples for him.
Hence, and from many other causes—part of which was my own pride—it happened that I abode in London betwixt a month and five weeks' time, ere ever I saw Lorna. It seemed unfit that I should go, and waylay her, and spy on her, and say (or mean to say), “Lo, here is your poor faithful farmer, a man who is unworthy of you, by means of his common birth; and yet who dares to crawl across your path, that you may pity him. For God's sake show a little pity, though you may not feel it.” Such behaviour might be comely in a love-lorn boy, a page to some grand princess; but I, John Ridd, would never stoop to the lowering of love so.
So, for various reasons—partly because of my own pride—I stayed in London for about a month and a bit before I finally saw Lorna. It felt wrong for me to go and wait for her, to spy on her, and to say (or think) something like, “Look, here’s your poor, devoted farmer, a man who doesn’t deserve you because of his ordinary background; yet he dares to cross your path just so you might feel sorry for him. For goodness’ sake, show a little compassion, even if you don’t really mean it.” That kind of behavior might be appropriate for a lovesick boy serving some grand princess; but I, John Ridd, would never lower myself to such a trivial view of love.
Nevertheless I heard of Lorna, from my worthy furrier, almost every day, and with a fine exaggeration. This honest man was one of those who in virtue of their trade, and nicety of behaviour, are admitted into noble life, to take measurements, and show patterns. And while so doing, they contrive to acquire what is to the English mind at once the most important and most interesting of all knowledge,—the science of being able to talk about the titled people. So my furrier (whose name was Ramsack), having to make robes for peers, and cloaks for their wives and otherwise, knew the great folk, sham or real, as well as he knew a fox or skunk from a wolverine skin.
I heard about Lorna almost every day from my trustworthy furrier, and he really embellished the stories. This honest guy was one of those tradesmen who, because of their work and refined manners, get to mingle with nobility to take measurements and show samples. While doing this, they manage to gain what is considered the most important and fascinating knowledge in England—how to discuss the aristocracy. So my furrier (whose name was Ramsack), had to make robes for peers and cloaks for their wives, and he knew the high society, whether genuine or fake, as well as he could distinguish a fox or skunk from a wolverine pelt.
And when, with some fencing and foils of inquiry, I hinted about Lady Lorna Dugal, the old man's face became so pleasant that I knew her birth must be wondrous high. At this my own countenance fell, I suppose,—for the better she was born, the harder she would be to marry—and mistaking my object, he took me up:—
And when I brought up Lady Lorna Dugal with some careful questions, the old man's face lit up so much that I realized her background must be really impressive. At this, I think my expression changed for the worse—because the better her background, the harder it would be to marry her—and misinterpreting my intent, he responded:—
“Perhaps you think, Master Ridd, that because her ladyship, Lady Lorna Dugal, is of Scottish origin, therefore her birth is not as high as of our English nobility. If you think so you are wrong, sir. She comes not of the sandy Scotch race, with high cheek-bones, and raw shoulder-blades, who set up pillars in their courtyards. But she comes of the very best Scotch blood, descended from the Norsemen. Her mother was of the very noblest race, the Lords of Lorne; higher even than the great Argyle, who has lately made a sad mistake, and paid for it most sadly. And her father was descended from the King Dugal, who fought against Alexander the Great. No, no, Master Ridd; none of your promiscuous blood, such as runs in the veins of half our modern peerage.”
“Maybe you think, Master Ridd, that because Lady Lorna Dugal is of Scottish descent, her background isn’t as distinguished as our English nobility. If that’s what you believe, you’re mistaken, sir. She doesn’t come from the rough Scottish stock, with high cheekbones and raw shoulder blades, who set up pillars in their yards. Instead, she has the best Scottish lineage, descended from the Norse. Her mother was from the noblest lineage, the Lords of Lorne; even higher than the great Argyle, who recently made a serious misstep and is suffering the consequences. And her father descended from King Dugal, who fought against Alexander the Great. No, no, Master Ridd; she’s not mixed-blood like many in our modern peerage.”
“Why should you trouble yourself about it, Master Ramsack?” I replied: “let them all go their own ways: and let us all look up to them, whether they come by hook or crook.”
“Why should you worry about it, Master Ramsack?” I replied: “Let them all go their own ways: and let us all look up to them, whether they come by fair means or foul.”
“Not at all, not at all, my lad. That is not the way to regard it. We look up at the well-born men, and side-ways at the base-born.”
“Not at all, not at all, my friend. That’s not how to see it. We look up to the well-born people and sideways at those who are of low birth.”
“Then we are all base-born ourselves. I will look up to no man, except for what himself has done.”
“Then we are all lowborn ourselves. I won’t look up to anyone, except for what they have achieved.”
“Come, Master Ridd, you might be lashed from Newgate to Tyburn and back again, once a week, for a twelvemonth, if some people heard you. Keep your tongue more close, young man; or here you lodge no longer; albeit I love your company, which smells to me of the hayfield. Ah, I have not seen a hayfield for nine-and-twenty years, John Ridd. The cursed moths keep me at home, every day of the summer.”
“Come on, Master Ridd, you could be dragged from Newgate to Tyburn and back every week for a year if some people heard you. Keep your mouth shut, young man; otherwise, you won't be staying here anymore; even though I enjoy your company, which reminds me of the hayfield. Ah, I haven't seen a hayfield in twenty-nine years, John Ridd. The damn moths keep me stuck at home every day of the summer.”
“Spread your furs on the haycocks,” I answered very boldly: “the indoor moth cannot abide the presence of the outdoor ones.”
“Spread your furs on the haystacks,” I replied boldly: “the indoor moth can’t stand the outdoor ones.”
“Is it so?” he answered: “I never thought of that before. And yet I have known such strange things happen in the way of fur, that I can well believe it. If you only knew, John, the way in which they lay their eggs, and how they work tail-foremost—”
“Is that true?” he replied. “I never considered that before. And yet I’ve seen such strange things happen with fur that I can definitely believe it. If only you knew, John, how they lay their eggs and how they work tail-first—”
“Tell me nothing of the kind,” I replied, with equal confidence: “they cannot work tail-foremost; and they have no tails to work with.” For I knew a little about grubs, and the ignorance concerning them, which we have no right to put up with. However, not to go into that (for the argument lasted a fortnight; and then was only come so far as to begin again), Master Ramsack soon convinced me of the things I knew already; the excellence of Lorna's birth, as well as her lofty place at Court, and beauty, and wealth, and elegance. But all these only made me sigh, and wish that I were born to them.
“Don't tell me anything like that,” I replied confidently. “They can't work backwards, and they don’t have tails to work with.” I knew a bit about grubs and the ignorance about them that we shouldn’t tolerate. But I won’t go into that (the argument lasted two weeks, and then we just started over again). Master Ramsack soon convinced me of things I already knew: Lorna’s noble lineage, her high status at Court, and her beauty, wealth, and elegance. But all of that just made me sigh and wish I had been born into it.
From Master Ramsack I discovered that the nobleman to whose charge Lady Lorna had been committed, by the Court of Chancery, was Earl Brandir of Lochawe, her poor mother's uncle. For the Countess of Dugal was daughter, and only child, of the last Lord Lorne, whose sister had married Sir Ensor Doone; while he himself had married the sister of Earl Brandir. This nobleman had a country house near the village of Kensington; and here his niece dwelled with him, when she was not in attendance on Her Majesty the Queen, who had taken a liking to her. Now since the King had begun to attend the celebration of mass, in the chapel at Whitehall—and not at Westminster Abbey, as our gossips had averred—he had given order that the doors should be thrown open, so that all who could make interest to get into the antechamber, might see this form of worship. Master Ramsack told me that Lorna was there almost every Sunday; their Majesties being most anxious to have the presence of all the nobility of the Catholic persuasion, so as to make a goodly show. And the worthy furrier, having influence with the door-keepers, kindly obtained admittance for me, one Sunday, into the antechamber.
From Master Ramsack, I learned that the nobleman responsible for looking after Lady Lorna, as directed by the Court of Chancery, was Earl Brandir of Lochawe, her poor mother's uncle. The Countess of Dugal was the daughter and only child of the last Lord Lorne, whose sister had married Sir Ensor Doone; while he had married the sister of Earl Brandir. This nobleman had a country house near the village of Kensington, where his niece stayed with him when she wasn't attending Her Majesty the Queen, who had taken a liking to her. Now that the King had started attending mass at the chapel in Whitehall—and not at Westminster Abbey, as our gossip suggested—he ordered the doors to be opened so that anyone who could get in could witness this form of worship. Master Ramsack told me that Lorna was there almost every Sunday; their Majesties were eager to have the presence of all the nobility of the Catholic faith to make a good impression. The kind furrier, having influence with the doorkeepers, managed to get me in one Sunday into the antechamber.
Here I took care to be in waiting, before the Royal procession entered; but being unknown, and of no high rank, I was not allowed to stand forward among the better people, but ordered back into a corner very dark and dismal; the verger remarking, with a grin, that I could see over all other heads, and must not set my own so high. Being frightened to find myself among so many people of great rank and gorgeous apparel, I blushed at the notice drawn upon me by this uncourteous fellow; and silently fell back into the corner by the hangings.
Here I made sure to wait before the royal procession arrived; however, since I was unknown and of no high status, I wasn’t allowed to stand among the distinguished people. Instead, I was pushed back into a very dark and gloomy corner. The verger remarked, with a smirk, that I could see over everyone else's heads and shouldn’t hold my own up so high. Feeling scared to find myself among so many people of high rank and fancy clothes, I blushed at the attention brought on me by this rude guy and quietly retreated into the corner by the drapes.
You may suppose that my heart beat high, when the King and Queen appeared, and entered, followed by the Duke of Norfolk, bearing the sword of state, and by several other noblemen, and people of repute. Then the doors of the chapel were thrown wide open; and though I could only see a little, being in the corner so, I thought that it was beautiful. Bowers of rich silk were there, and plenty of metal shining, and polished wood with lovely carving; flowers too of the noblest kind, and candles made by somebody who had learned how to clarify tallow. This last thing amazed me more than all, for our dips never will come clear, melt the mutton-fat how you will. And methought that this hanging of flowers about was a pretty thing; for if a man can worship God best of all beneath a tree, as the natural instinct is, surely when by fault of climate the tree would be too apt to drip, the very best make-believe is to have enough and to spare of flowers; which to the dwellers in London seem to have grown on the tree denied them.
You might think that I was really excited when the King and Queen showed up, followed by the Duke of Norfolk carrying the sword of state and several other nobles and distinguished people. Then the doors of the chapel swung wide open; and even though I could only see a little from my corner, I thought it was beautiful. There were canopies of rich silk, lots of shiny metal, and polished wood with beautiful carvings; also flowers of the finest kind and candles made by someone who knew how to purify tallow. This last part amazed me the most, because our candles never come out clear, no matter how much we melt the mutton fat. And I thought that the decoration of flowers was really nice; because if a person can connect with God best under a tree, as is our natural instinct, then surely when the climate makes it hard to have trees without them dripping, the next best option is to have plenty of flowers, which to the people in London seem to have grown on trees they can't have.
Be that as it may, when the King and Queen crossed the threshold, a mighty flourish of trumpets arose, and a waving of banners. The Knights of the Garter (whoever they be) were to attend that day in state; and some went in, and some stayed out, and it made me think of the difference betwixt the ewes and the wethers. For the ewes will go wherever you lead them; but the wethers will not, having strong opinions, and meaning to abide by them. And one man I noticed was of the wethers, to wit the Duke of Norfolk; who stopped outside with the sword of state, like a beadle with a rapping-rod. This has taken more to tell than the time it happened in. For after all the men were gone, some to this side, some to that, according to their feelings, a number of ladies, beautifully dressed, being of the Queen's retinue, began to enter, and were stared at three times as much as the men had been. And indeed they were worth looking at (which men never are to my ideas, when they trick themselves with gewgaws), but none was so well worth eye-service as my own beloved Lorna. She entered modestly and shyly, with her eyes upon the ground, knowing the rudeness of the gallants, and the large sum she was priced at. Her dress was of the purest white, very sweet and simple, without a line of ornament, for she herself adorned it. The way she walked and touched her skirt (rather than seemed to hold it up) with a white hand beaming one red rose, this and her stately supple neck, and the flowing of her hair would show, at a distance of a hundred yards, that she could be none but Lorna Doone. Lorna Doone of my early love; in the days when she blushed for her name before me by reason of dishonesty; but now the Lady Lorna Dugal as far beyond reproach as above my poor affection. All my heart, and all my mind, gathered themselves upon her. Would she see me, or would she pass? Was there instinct in our love?
Be that as it may, when the King and Queen stepped inside, a grand blast of trumpets sounded, and banners waved. The Knights of the Garter (whoever they may be) were there in full regalia; some entered, while others stayed outside, and it reminded me of the difference between ewes and wethers. Ewes will follow wherever you lead them, but wethers have strong opinions and stick to them. I noticed one man who was definitely a wether—the Duke of Norfolk—who stood outside with the sword of state, like a beadle with a rapping-rod. This has taken longer to describe than the actual event lasted. After all the men had gone, some to one side and some to the other based on their feelings, a number of ladies, beautifully dressed and part of the Queen's entourage, began to enter and attracted three times as much attention as the men had. And they were indeed worth looking at (which men generally aren’t in my opinion when they douse themselves in frills), but none were as captivating as my beloved Lorna. She came in modestly and shyly, her gaze down, aware of the rudeness of the suitors, and the high value placed on her. Her dress was pure white, sweet and simple, without any adornment, for she herself was the decoration. The way she walked and lightly touched her skirt (rather than seeming to hold it up) with a white hand cradling a red rose, along with her elegant neck and flowing hair, made it clear from a hundred yards away that she could be none other than Lorna Doone. Lorna Doone, the one I loved in my youth; back when she felt embarrassed by her name in front of me due to its associations; but now the Lady Lorna Dugal, beyond any reproach and far above my humble feelings. All my heart and mind focused on her. Would she notice me, or would she just pass by? Was there some instinct in our love?
By some strange chance she saw me. Or was it through our destiny? While with eyes kept sedulously on the marble floor, to shun the weight of admiration thrust too boldly on them, while with shy quick steps she passed, some one (perhaps with purpose) trod on the skirt of her clear white dress,—with the quickness taught her by many a scene of danger, she looked up, and her eyes met mine.
By some odd twist of fate, she noticed me. Or was it our destiny at work? As she tried to avoid the overwhelming attention by keeping her eyes on the marble floor, she walked by with quick, shy steps. Someone (maybe on purpose) stepped on the hem of her pristine white dress. Reacting with the quickness learned from many risky situations, she looked up, and our eyes locked.
As I gazed upon her, steadfastly, yearningly, yet with some reproach, and more of pride than humility, she made me one of the courtly bows which I do so much detest; yet even that was sweet and graceful, when my Lorna did it. But the colour of her pure clear cheeks was nearly as deep as that of my own, when she went on for the religious work. And the shining of her eyes was owing to an unpaid debt of tears.
As I looked at her, with a mix of longing and a bit of reproach, feeling more pride than humility, she gave me one of those polite bows that I really dislike; yet somehow, it was sweet and graceful when Lorna did it. But the color of her clear, pure cheeks was almost as deep as mine when she continued with the religious work. And the brightness of her eyes came from a buildup of unshed tears.
Upon the whole I was satisfied. Lorna had seen me, and had not (according to the phrase of the high world then) even tried to “cut” me. Whether this low phrase is born of their own stupid meanness, or whether it comes of necessity exercised on a man without money, I know not, and I care not. But one thing I know right well; any man who “cuts” a man (except for vice or meanness) should be quartered without quarter.
Overall, I was satisfied. Lorna had seen me and had not (according to the language of the elite back then) even tried to “ignore” me. I don’t know whether this petty phrase comes from their own foolishness or if it’s a necessity imposed on someone without money, and honestly, I don’t care. But one thing I know for sure; any guy who ignores another guy (unless for some kind of bad behavior or pettiness) should be punished severely.
All these proud thoughts rose within me as the lovely form of Lorna went inside, and was no more seen. And then I felt how coarse I was; how apt to think strong thoughts, and so on; without brains to bear me out: even as a hen's egg, laid without enough of lime, and looking only a poor jelly.
All these proud thoughts welled up inside me as the beautiful figure of Lorna went inside and disappeared from view. Then I realized how rough I was; how likely I was to entertain grand thoughts without any real substance to support them, much like a chicken's egg laid without enough lime, turning out to be just a weak, runny mess.
Nevertheless, I waited on; as my usual manner is. For to be beaten, while running away, is ten times worse than to face it out, and take it, and have done with it. So at least I have always found, because of reproach of conscience: and all the things those clever people carried on inside, at large, made me long for our Parson Bowden that he might know how to act.
Nevertheless, I kept waiting, as I usually do. Getting beaten while trying to run away is way worse than just facing it head-on, dealing with it, and moving on. That's what I've always experienced, thanks to the nagging feeling of guilt. All the clever things people were discussing around me made me wish for our Parson Bowden to guide us on how to handle it.
While I stored up, in my memory, enough to keep our parson going through six pipes on a Saturday night—to have it as right as could be next day—a lean man with a yellow beard, too thin for a good Catholic (which religion always fattens), came up to me, working sideways, in the manner of a female crab.
While I remembered enough to keep our pastor going through six pipes on a Saturday night—so he could be as right as possible the next day—a skinny guy with a yellow beard, too thin for a proper Catholic (which usually makes people gain weight), approached me, moving sideways like a female crab.
“This is not to my liking,” I said: “if aught thou hast, speak plainly; while they make that horrible noise inside.”
“This isn’t to my taste,” I said. “If you have something to say, just say it clearly while they're making that awful noise inside.”
Nothing had this man to say; but with many sighs, because I was not of the proper faith, he took my reprobate hand to save me: and with several religious tears, looked up at me, and winked with one eye. Although the skin of my palms was thick, I felt a little suggestion there, as of a gentle leaf in spring, fearing to seem too forward. I paid the man, and he went happy; for the standard of heretical silver is purer than that of the Catholics.
This man had nothing to say, but with many sighs, because I didn’t share his beliefs, he took my sinful hand to save me. With a few heartfelt tears, he looked up at me and winked with one eye. Even though my palms were rough, I felt a slight touch, like a gentle leaf in spring, hesitant to overstep. I paid him, and he left happy because heretical silver is considered purer than that of the Catholics.
Then I lifted up my little billet; and in that dark corner read it, with a strong rainbow of colours coming from the angled light. And in mine eyes there was enough to make rainbow of strongest sun, as my anger clouded off.
Then I picked up my little note; and in that dark corner, I read it, with a vibrant array of colors shining from the angled light. And in my eyes, there was enough to create a rainbow brighter than the strongest sun, as my anger faded away.
Not that it began so well; but that in my heart I knew (ere three lines were through me) that I was with all heart loved—and beyond that, who may need? The darling of my life went on, as if I were of her own rank, or even better than she was; and she dotted her “i”s, and crossed her “t”s, as if I were at least a schoolmaster. All of it was done in pencil; but as plain as plain could be. In my coffin it shall lie, with my ring and something else. Therefore will I not expose it to every man who buys this book, and haply thinks that he has bought me to the bottom of my heart. Enough for men of gentle birth (who never are inquisitive) that my love told me, in her letter, just to come and see her.
Not that it started off so well; but in my heart, I knew (before I finished three lines) that I was deeply loved—and beyond that, what more could I need? The love of my life treated me as if I were of her own status, or even better than she was; and she dotted her “i”s and crossed her “t”s as if I were at least a teacher. All of it was written in pencil; but it was as clear as could be. It will rest in my coffin, along with my ring and some other things. So, I won’t share it with every person who buys this book and might think they’ve bought my heart. It’s enough for people of noble birth (who are never curious) that my love told me in her letter just to come and see her.
I ran away, and could not stop. To behold even her, at the moment, would have dashed my fancy's joy. Yet my brain was so amiss, that I must do something. Therefore to the river Thames, with all speed, I hurried; and keeping all my best clothes on (indeed for sake of Lorna), into the quiet stream I leaped, and swam as far as London Bridge, and ate nobler dinner afterwards.
I ran away and couldn't stop. Just seeing her in that moment would have ruined the happiness in my imagination. But my mind was so troubled that I needed to do something. So I rushed to the River Thames as fast as I could, still wearing all my best clothes (especially for Lorna's sake), and jumped into the calm water. I swam all the way to London Bridge and had a much better dinner afterward.
CHAPTER LXVII
LORNA STILL IS LORNA
Although a man may be as simple as the flowers of the field; knowing when, but scarcely why, he closes to the bitter wind; and feeling why, but scarcely when, he opens to the genial sun; yet without his questing much into the capsule of himself—to do which is a misery—he may have a general notion how he happens to be getting on.
Although a man can be as uncomplicated as the flowers in the field—aware of when he closes himself off to the harsh wind, but hardly understanding why; and sensing why he opens up to the warm sun, but barely realizing when—yet without deeply exploring the contents of himself—which is a painful task—he might have a basic idea of how he’s doing in life.
I felt myself to be getting on better than at any time since the last wheat-harvest, as I took the lane to Kensington upon the Monday evening. For although no time was given in my Lorna's letter, I was not inclined to wait more than decency required. And though I went and watched the house, decency would not allow me to knock on the Sunday evening, especially when I found at the corner that his lordship was at home.
I felt like I was doing better than I had in a long time as I took the road to Kensington on Monday evening. Even though Lorna's letter didn't say when to visit, I wasn't planning to wait longer than necessary. I went and kept an eye on the house, but I thought it inappropriate to knock on Sunday evening, especially when I saw that his lordship was home.
The lanes and fields between Charing Cross and the village of Kensington, are, or were at that time, more than reasonably infested with footpads and with highwaymen. However, my stature and holly club kept these fellows from doing more than casting sheep's eyes at me. For it was still broad daylight, and the view of the distant villages, Chelsea, Battersea, Tyburn, and others, as well as a few large houses, among the hams and towards the river, made it seem less lonely. Therefore I sang a song in the broadest Exmoor dialect, which caused no little amazement in the minds of all who met me.
The streets and fields between Charing Cross and the village of Kensington were, or at least they were back then, pretty much overrun with muggers and robbers. However, my height and my holly club kept them from doing anything more than giving me longing looks. It was still bright out, and the visibility of the distant villages like Chelsea, Battersea, Tyburn, and others, along with a few big houses among the farms and towards the river, made it feel less deserted. So, I sang a song in the thickest Exmoor accent, which surprised everyone who crossed my path.
When I came to Earl Brandir's house, my natural modesty forbade me to appear at the door for guests; therefore I went to the entrance for servants and retainers. Here, to my great surprise, who should come and let me in but little Gwenny Carfax, whose very existence had almost escaped my recollection. Her mistress, no doubt, had seen me coming, and sent her to save trouble. But when I offered to kiss Gwenny, in my joy and comfort to see a farm-house face again, she looked ashamed, and turned away, and would hardly speak to me.
When I arrived at Earl Brandir's house, my natural modesty kept me from using the front door for guests, so I went to the entrance for servants and staff. To my surprise, who should come to let me in but little Gwenny Carfax, whose existence I had almost forgotten. Her mistress must have seen me coming and sent her to avoid any hassle. But when I tried to kiss Gwenny out of joy and comfort at seeing a familiar face from the farm, she looked embarrassed, turned away, and barely spoke to me.
I followed her to a little room, furnished very daintily; and there she ordered me to wait, in a most ungracious manner. “Well,” thought I, “if the mistress and the maid are alike in temper, better it had been for me to abide at Master Ramsack's.” But almost ere my thought was done, I heard the light quick step which I knew as well as “Watch,” my dog, knew mine; and my breast began to tremble, like the trembling of an arch ere the keystone is put in.
I followed her into a small, nicely decorated room, and there she told me to wait in a really rude way. “Well,” I thought, “if the mistress and the maid have the same attitude, I’d have been better off staying with Master Ramsack.” But just as that thought crossed my mind, I heard the familiar light, quick footsteps I recognized as well as my dog, Watch, knows mine; and my chest began to shake, like an arch trembling before the keystone is placed in.
Almost ere I hoped—for fear and hope were so entangled that they hindered one another—the velvet hangings of the doorway parted, with a little doubt, and then a good face put on it. Lorna, in her perfect beauty, stood before the crimson folds, and her dress was all pure white, and her cheeks were rosy pink, and her lips were scarlet.
Almost before I expected it—for fear and hope were so tangled up that they held each other back—the velvet curtains of the doorway moved apart hesitantly, and then a cheerful expression appeared. Lorna, in all her perfect beauty, stood before the red drapes, dressed entirely in white, her cheeks a rosy pink, and her lips bright red.
Like a maiden, with skill and sense checking violent impulse, she stayed there for one moment only, just to be admired; and then like a woman, she came to me, seeing how alarmed I was. The hand she offered me I took, and raised it to my lips with fear, as a thing too good for me. “Is that all?” she whispered; and then her eyes gleamed up at me; and in another instant, she was weeping on my breast.
Like a young woman, skillfully holding back her wild emotions, she paused for just a moment, inviting admiration; then, like a true woman, she came to me, noticing my panic. I took the hand she offered, raising it to my lips reverently, as if it were something beyond my worth. “Is that all?” she whispered, her eyes shining up at me; and in the next moment, she was crying on my chest.
“Darling Lorna, Lady Lorna,” I cried, in astonishment, yet unable but to keep her closer to me, and closer; “surely, though I love you so, this is not as it should be.”
“Darling Lorna, Lady Lorna,” I exclaimed in shock, yet unable to pull her closer to me; “surely, even though I love you so much, this isn’t how it should be.”
“Yes, it is, John. Yes, it is. Nothing else should ever be. Oh, why have you behaved so?”
“Yes, it is, John. Yes, it is. Nothing else should ever be. Oh, why have you acted this way?”
“I am behaving.” I replied, “to the very best of my ability. There is no other man in the world could hold you so, without kissing you.”
“I’m behaving,” I replied, “to the best of my ability. No other guy in the world could hold you like this without kissing you.”
“Then why don't you do it, John?” asked Lorna, looking up at me, with a flash of her old fun.
“Then why don't you do it, John?” Lorna asked, looking up at me with a spark of her old playfulness.
Now this matter, proverbially, is not for discussion, and repetition. Enough that we said nothing more than, “Oh, John, how glad I am!” and “Lorna, Lorna Lorna!” for about five minutes. Then my darling drew back proudly, with blushing cheeks, and tear-bright eyes, she began to cross-examine me.
Now, this is not really something to talk about or go over again. All we said was, “Oh, John, I’m so happy!” and “Lorna, Lorna, Lorna!” for about five minutes. Then my love pulled away proudly, with flushed cheeks and tear-filled eyes, and started to interrogate me.
“Master John Ridd, you shall tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. I have been in Chancery, sir; and can detect a story. Now why have you never, for more than a twelvemonth, taken the smallest notice of your old friend, Mistress Lorna Doone?” Although she spoke in this lightsome manner, as if it made no difference, I saw that her quick heart was moving, and the flash of her eyes controlled.
“Master John Ridd, you will tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. I have been in Chancery, sir; and I can spot a story. Now, why have you not acknowledged your old friend, Mistress Lorna Doone, even once in more than a year?” Even though she said this in a lighthearted way, as if it didn’t matter, I could see that her quick heart was racing, and the intensity of her eyes was held in check.
“Simply for this cause,” I answered, “that my old friend and true love, took not the smallest heed of me. Nor knew I where to find her.”
"Just for this reason," I replied, "because my old friend and true love didn’t pay the slightest attention to me. And I had no idea where to find her."
“What!” cried Lorna; and nothing more; being overcome with wondering; and much inclined to fall away, but for my assistance. I told her, over and over again, that not a single syllable of any message from her, or tidings of her welfare, had reached me, or any one of us, since the letter she left behind; except by soldier's gossip.
“What!” Lorna exclaimed, and nothing more; she was overwhelmed with confusion and very likely to give up if it weren't for my help. I repeated to her, again and again, that not a single word of any message from her or news about her well-being had reached me, or any of us, since the letter she left behind; except through soldier's gossip.
“Oh, you poor dear John!” said Lorna, sighing at thought of my misery: “how wonderfully good of you, thinking of me as you must have done, not to marry that little plain thing (or perhaps I should say that lovely creature, for I have never seen her), Mistress Ruth—I forget her name; but something like a towel.”
“Oh, you poor dear John!” Lorna said, sighing at the thought of my misery. “How really sweet of you to be thinking of me, especially since you decided not to marry that plain girl (or maybe I should say that beautiful girl, since I’ve never seen her), Mistress Ruth—I can’t remember her name, but it sounds something like a towel.”
“Ruth Huckaback is a worthy maid,” I answered with some dignity; “and she alone of all our world, except indeed poor Annie, has kept her confidence in you, and told me not to dread your rank, but trust your heart, Lady Lorna.”
“Ruth Huckaback is a great maid,” I replied with a bit of dignity; “and she, along with poor Annie, is the only one in our world who has maintained her faith in you and advised me not to fear your status, but to trust your heart, Lady Lorna.”
“Then Ruth is my best friend,” she answered, “and is worthy of you, dear John. And now remember one thing, dear; if God should part us, as may be by nothing short of death, try to marry that little Ruth, when you cease to remember me. And now for the head-traitor. I have often suspected it: but she looks me in the face, and wishes—fearful things, which I cannot repeat.”
“Then Ruth is my best friend,” she said, “and she deserves you, dear John. And now remember one thing, dear; if God separates us, which will only happen through death, try to marry that little Ruth when you stop remembering me. And now for the main traitor. I’ve often suspected it: but she looks me in the eye and wishes—terrible things that I can’t repeat.”
With these words, she moved an implement such as I had not seen before, and which made a ringing noise at a serious distance. And before I had ceased wondering—for if such things go on, we might ring the church bells, while sitting in our back-kitchen—little Gwenny Carfax came, with a grave and sullen face.
With those words, she picked up a tool I had never seen before, and it made a ringing sound from quite a distance. Before I finished wondering—because if this keeps happening, we could ring the church bells from our kitchen—little Gwenny Carfax arrived, looking serious and sulky.
“Gwenny,” began my Lorna, in a tone of high rank and dignity, “go and fetch the letters which I gave you at various times for despatch to Mistress Ridd.”
“Gwenny,” my Lorna said in a tone of authority and elegance, “go and get the letters I entrusted to you at different times to send to Mistress Ridd.”
“How can I fetch them, when they are gone? It be no use for him to tell no lies—”
“How can I get them back when they’re gone? It’s no use for him to tell any lies—”
“Now, Gwenny, can you look at me?” I asked, very sternly; for the matter was no joke to me, after a year's unhappiness.
“Now, Gwenny, can you look at me?” I asked, very seriously; because this was no joke to me, after a year of feeling unhappy.
“I don't want to look at 'ee. What should I look at a young man for, although he did offer to kiss me?”
“I don’t want to look at him. Why should I look at a young man, even though he did offer to kiss me?”
I saw the spite and impudence of this last remark, and so did Lorna, although she could not quite refrain from smiling.
I noticed the spite and boldness of that last comment, and so did Lorna, even though she couldn't help but smile a little.
“Now, Gwenny, not to speak of that,” said Lorna, very demurely, “if you thought it honest to keep the letters, was it honest to keep the money?”
“Now, Gwenny, let’s not get into that,” Lorna said, very modestly, “if you thought it was fair to keep the letters, was it fair to keep the money?”
At this the Cornish maiden broke into a rage of honesty: “A putt the money by for 'ee. 'Ee shall have every farden of it.” And so she flung out of the room.
At this, the Cornish girl exploded in a fit of honesty: “I saved the money for you. You’ll get every penny of it.” And with that, she stormed out of the room.
“And, Gwenny,” said Lorna very softly, following under the door-hangings; “if it is not honest to keep the money, it is not honest to keep the letters, which would have been worth more than any gold to those who were so kind to you. Your father shall know the whole, Gwenny, unless you tell the truth.”
“And, Gwenny,” Lorna said gently, stepping in under the door hangings, “if it’s not right to keep the money, then it’s not right to keep the letters either, which would have meant more than any gold to those who were so kind to you. Your father will find out everything, Gwenny, unless you tell the truth.”
“Now, a will tell all the truth,” this strange maiden answered, talking to herself at least as much as to her mistress, while she went out of sight and hearing. And then I was so glad at having my own Lorna once again, cleared of all contempt for us, and true to me through all of it, that I would have forgiven Gwenny for treason, or even forgery.
“Now, I will reveal the whole truth,” the strange girl replied, speaking just as much to herself as to her mistress, as she vanished from view and sound. And then I felt such joy at having my own Lorna back, free from all disdain for us, and loyal to me through everything, that I would have forgiven Gwenny for betrayal or even fraud.
“I trusted her so much,” said Lorna, in her old ill-fortuned way; “and look how she has deceived me! That is why I love you, John (setting other things aside), because you never told me falsehood; and you never could, you know.”
“I trusted her so much,” Lorna said, in her usual unfortunate way; “and look how she has deceived me! That’s why I love you, John (putting everything else aside), because you never lied to me; and you never could, you know.”
“Well, I am not so sure of that. I think I could tell any lie, to have you, darling, all my own.”
“Well, I’m not so sure about that. I think I could tell any lie to have you, darling, all to myself.”
“Yes. And perhaps it might be right. To other people besides us two. But you could not do it to me, John. You never could do it to me, you know.” Before I quite perceived my way to the bottom of the distinction—although beyond doubt a valid one—Gwenny came back with a leathern bag, and tossed it upon the table. Not a word did she vouchsafe to us; but stood there, looking injured.
“Yes. And maybe that's true. For other people besides us two. But you could never do it to me, John. You know you could never do that to me.” Before I fully understood the subtle difference—though it was definitely valid—Gwenny returned with a leather bag and dropped it on the table. She didn't say a word to us; she just stood there, looking hurt.
“Go, and get your letters, John,” said Lorna very gravely; “or at least your mother's letters, made of messages to you. As for Gwenny, she shall go before Lord Justice Jeffreys.” I knew that Lorna meant it not; but thought that the girl deserved a frightening; as indeed she did. But we both mistook the courage of this child of Cornwall. She stepped upon a little round thing, in the nature of a stool, such as I never had seen before, and thus delivered her sentiments.
“Go get your letters, John,” Lorna said very seriously; “or at least your mom's letters, filled with messages for you. As for Gwenny, she’ll face Lord Justice Jeffreys.” I knew Lorna didn't really mean it, but I thought the girl needed a scare; and she did. But we both underestimated the courage of this child from Cornwall. She stepped onto a small round object, kind of like a stool, that I had never seen before, and shared her thoughts.
“And you may take me, if you please, before the great Lord Jeffreys. I have done no more than duty, though I did it crookedly, and told a heap of lies, for your sake. And pretty gratitude I gets.”
“And you can take me, if you want, in front of the great Lord Jeffreys. I’ve only done my duty, even if I did it in a twisted way and told a bunch of lies, all for you. And what thanks do I get?”
“Much gratitude you have shown,” replied Lorna, “to Master Ridd, for all his kindness and his goodness to you. Who was it that went down, at the peril of his life, and brought your father to you, when you had lost him for months and months? Who was it? Answer me, Gwenny?”
“Thank you so much,” Lorna replied, “to Master Ridd, for all his kindness and goodness to you. Who was it that risked his life to bring your father back to you when you hadn’t seen him for months? Who was it? Answer me, Gwenny?”
“Girt Jan Ridd,” said the handmaid, very sulkily.
“Girt Jan Ridd,” said the maid, sounding very grumpy.
“What made you treat me so, little Gwenny?” I asked, for Lorna would not ask lest the reply should vex me.
“What made you treat me like that, little Gwenny?” I asked, because Lorna wouldn’t ask, fearing the answer might upset me.
“Because 'ee be'est below her so. Her shanna' have a poor farmering chap, not even if her were a Carnishman. All her land, and all her birth—and who be you, I'd like to know?”
“Because you’re beneath her, so. She shouldn’t have a poor farming guy, not even if he’s a Cornishman. All her land, and all her background—and who are you, if I may ask?”
“Gwenny, you may go,” said Lorna, reddening with quiet anger; “and remember that you come not near me for the next three days. It is the only way to punish her,” she continued to me, when the maid was gone, in a storm of sobbing and weeping. “Now, for the next three days, she will scarcely touch a morsel of food, and scarcely do a thing but cry. Make up your mind to one thing, John; if you mean to take me, for better for worse, you will have to take Gwenny with me.
“Gwenny, you can go,” Lorna said, her face reddening with quiet anger. “And remember, you’re not to come near me for the next three days. It's the only way to punish her,” she continued to me, once the maid had left, in a storm of sobbing and weeping. “Now, for the next three days, she’ll hardly eat anything and will do nothing but cry. Decide this, John: If you want to be with me, for better or worse, you’ll have to accept Gwenny too.
“I would take you with fifty Gwennies,” said I, “although every one of them hated me, which I do not believe this little maid does, in the bottom of her heart.”
“I would take you with fifty Gwennies,” I said, “even if every one of them hated me, which I don't think this little girl does, deep down in her heart.”
“No one can possibly hate you, John,” she answered very softly; and I was better pleased with this, than if she had called me the most noble and glorious man in the kingdom.
“No one could possibly hate you, John,” she replied gently; and I felt more pleased by this than if she had called me the most noble and glorious man in the kingdom.
After this, we spoke of ourselves and the way people would regard us, supposing that when Lorna came to be her own free mistress (as she must do in the course of time) she were to throw her rank aside, and refuse her title, and caring not a fig for folk who cared less than a fig-stalk for her, should shape her mind to its native bent, and to my perfect happiness. It was not my place to say much, lest I should appear to use an improper and selfish influence. And of course to all men of common sense, and to everybody of middle age (who must know best what is good for youth), the thoughts which my Lorna entertained would be enough to prove her madness.
After that, we talked about ourselves and how people would see us. We imagined that when Lorna became her own boss (which she eventually would), she might cast aside her status and reject her title. Not caring at all about those who thought even less of her, she could focus on her true self, and that would make me perfectly happy. It wasn’t my place to say much, as I didn’t want to seem like I was trying to influence her in a selfish way. Naturally, to anyone with common sense, and to anyone middle-aged (who should know what's best for young people), Lorna’s thoughts would be enough to prove she was not thinking clearly.
Not that we could not keep her well, comfortably, and with nice clothes, and plenty of flowers, and fruit, and landscape, and the knowledge of our neighbours' affairs, and their kind interest in our own. Still this would not be as if she were the owner of a county, and a haughty title; and able to lead the first men of the age, by her mind, and face, and money.
Not that we couldn't take good care of her, make her comfortable, dress her nicely, and surround her with plenty of flowers, fruit, beautiful landscapes, and the knowledge of our neighbors' lives, along with their genuine interest in ours. Still, this wouldn't be the same as if she owned a county, held a noble title, and could attract the best minds of her time with her intelligence, beauty, and wealth.
Therefore was I quite resolved not to have a word to say, while this young queen of wealth and beauty, and of noblemen's desire, made her mind up how to act for her purest happiness. But to do her justice, this was not the first thing she was thinking of: the test of her judgment was only this, “How will my love be happiest?”
So I was completely set on not saying a word while this young queen of wealth and beauty, and the object of noblemen's desires, decided how to act for her own happiness. But to be fair to her, this wasn’t her primary concern; the real question on her mind was, “How will my love be happiest?”
“Now, John,” she cried; for she was so quick that she always had my thoughts beforehand; “why will you be backward, as if you cared not for me? Do you dream that I am doubting? My mind has been made up, good John, that you must be my husband, for—well, I will not say how long, lest you should laugh at my folly. But I believe it was ever since you came, with your stockings off, and the loaches. Right early for me to make up my mind; but you know that you made up yours, John; and, of course, I knew it; and that had a great effect on me. Now, after all this age of loving, shall a trifle sever us?”
“Now, John,” she exclaimed; she was so quick that she always knew my thoughts ahead of time; “why do you hesitate, as if you don’t care about me? Do you think that I’m having doubts? I’ve made up my mind, good John, that you must be my husband, because—well, I won’t say how long, so you don’t laugh at my foolishness. But I believe it’s been ever since you came over, without your stockings on, and brought the loaches. It’s a bit early for me to decide, but you know you made your choice, John; and of course, I knew it too, and that had a big impact on me. Now, after all this time of loving, will something trivial pull us apart?”
I told her that it was no trifle, but a most important thing, to abandon wealth, and honour, and the brilliance of high life, and be despised by every one for such abundant folly. Moreover, that I should appear a knave for taking advantage of her youth, and boundless generosity, and ruining (as men would say) a noble maid by my selfishness. And I told her outright, having worked myself up by my own conversation, that she was bound to consult her guardian, and that without his knowledge, I would come no more to see her. Her flash of pride at these last words made her look like an empress; and I was about to explain myself better, but she put forth her hand and stopped me.
I told her that it wasn't a small matter, but a really important one, to give up wealth, status, and the glamour of high society, and to be looked down on by everyone for such foolishness. Besides, I would look like a jerk for taking advantage of her youth and generosity and ruining (as people would say) a wonderful young woman because of my selfishness. I told her straight out, fueled by my own words, that she had to talk to her guardian, and that I wouldn’t come to see her again without him knowing. The look of pride that flashed across her face at those last words made her seem like an empress; I was about to clarify my thoughts, but she raised her hand and stopped me.
“I think that condition should rather have proceeded from me. You are mistaken, Master Ridd, in supposing that I would think of receiving you in secret. It was a different thing in Glen Doone, where all except yourself were thieves, and when I was but a simple child, and oppressed with constant fear. You are quite right in threatening to visit me thus no more; but I think you might have waited for an invitation, sir.”
“I believe that condition should have come from me. You're wrong, Master Ridd, to think I would consider seeing you in secret. It was different in Glen Doone, where everyone except you were thieves, and I was just a naive child, always filled with fear. You’re correct in saying you won’t visit me like this again; however, you could have waited for an invitation, sir.”
“And you are quite right, Lady Lorna, in pointing out my presumption. It is a fault that must ever be found in any speech of mine to you.”
“And you’re absolutely right, Lady Lorna, to call out my arrogance. It’s a flaw that will always be present in anything I say to you.”
This I said so humbly, and not with any bitterness—for I knew that I had gone too far—and made her so polite a bow, that she forgave me in a moment, and we begged each other's pardon.
This I said so humbly, and not with any bitterness—for I knew that I had gone too far—and made her such a polite bow that she forgave me in an instant, and we apologized to each other.
“Now, will you allow me just to explain my own view of this matter, John?” said she, once more my darling. “It may be a very foolish view, but I shall never change it. Please not to interrupt me, dear, until you have heard me to the end. In the first place, it is quite certain that neither you nor I can be happy without the other. Then what stands between us? Worldly position, and nothing else. I have no more education than you have, John Ridd; nay, and not so much. My birth and ancestry are not one whit more pure than yours, although they may be better known. Your descent from ancient freeholders, for five-and-twenty generations of good, honest men, although you bear no coat of arms, is better than the lineage of nine proud English noblemen out of every ten I meet with. In manners, though your mighty strength, and hatred of any meanness, sometimes break out in violence—of which I must try to cure you, dear—in manners, if kindness, and gentleness, and modesty are the true things wanted, you are immeasurably above any of our Court-gallants; who indeed have very little. As for difference of religion, we allow for one another, neither having been brought up in a bitterly pious manner.”
“Now, can I just share my perspective on this, John?” she said, once again my darling. “It might be a silly viewpoint, but I’ll never change it. Please don’t interrupt me, dear, until I finish. First, it’s clear that neither of us can be happy without the other. So what’s holding us back? Just our social status, and nothing more. I have no more education than you, John Ridd; in fact, I might have even less. My background and family heritage aren’t any more distinguished than yours, even if they are more well-known. Your family line of twenty-five generations of decent, honest folks, even without a coat of arms, is far superior to the lineage of nine out of ten pompous English noblemen I encounter. In terms of manners, while your great strength and disdain for any unfairness can sometimes lead to aggression—something I need to help you work on, dear—in terms of kindness, gentleness, and modesty, you far surpass any of our wealthy gentlemen; who, truth be told, have very little. As for our differing religions, we understand each other, since neither of us was raised in a strictly religious way.”
Here, though the tears were in my eyes, at the loving things love said of me, I could not help a little laugh at the notion of any bitter piety being found among the Doones, or even in mother, for that matter. Lorna smiled, in her slyest manner, and went on again:—
Here, even though I had tears in my eyes from the sweet things love said about me, I couldn't help but chuckle at the idea of any sour piety being found among the Doones, or even in my mother. Lorna smiled in her sneakiest way and continued:—
“Now, you see, I have proved my point; there is nothing between us but worldly position—if you can defend me against the Doones, for which, I trow, I may trust you. And worldly position means wealth, and title, and the right to be in great houses, and the pleasure of being envied. I have not been here for a year, John, without learning something. Oh, I hate it; how I hate it! Of all the people I know, there are but two, besides my uncle, who do not either covet, or detest me. And who are those two, think you?”
“Look, I’ve made my point; there’s nothing between us except for social status—if you can stand up for me against the Doones, which I believe I can count on you for. And social status means wealth, title, access to grand homes, and the satisfaction of being envied. I haven’t been here for a year, John, without learning something. Oh, I hate it; how I hate it! Out of all the people I know, there are only two, besides my uncle, who don’t either want what I have or look down on me. Can you guess who those two are?”
“Gwenny, for one,” I answered.
“Gwenny, for example,” I answered.
“Yes, Gwenny, for one. And the queen, for the other. The one is too far below me (I mean, in her own opinion), and the other too high above. As for the women who dislike me, without having even heard my voice, I simply have nothing to do with them. As for the men who covet me, for my land and money, I merely compare them with you, John Ridd; and all thought of them is over. Oh, John, you must never forsake me, however cross I am to you. I thought you would have gone, just now; and though I would not move to stop you, my heart would have broken.”
“Yes, Gwenny, for one. And the queen, for the other. One is too far below me (I mean, in her own opinion), and the other too high above. As for the women who dislike me without even hearing my voice, I simply have nothing to do with them. And for the men who are after me for my land and money, I just compare them to you, John Ridd; and all thoughts of them fade away. Oh, John, you must never abandon me, no matter how grumpy I am with you. I thought you were going to leave just now; and even though I wouldn't have stopped you, my heart would have been shattered.”
“You don't catch me go in a hurry,” I answered very sensibly, “when the loveliest maiden in all the world, and the best, and the dearest, loves me. All my fear of you is gone, darling Lorna, all my fear—”
“You won’t catch me in a rush,” I replied quite reasonably, “when the most beautiful maiden in the world, the best, and the most cherished, loves me. All my fear of you is gone, dear Lorna, all my fear—”
“Is it possible you could fear me, John, after all we have been through together? Now you promised not to interrupt me; is this fair behaviour? Well, let me see where I left off—oh, that my heart would have broken. Upon that point, I will say no more, lest you should grow conceited, John; if anything could make you so. But I do assure you that half London—however, upon that point also I will check my power of speech, lest you think me conceited. And now to put aside all nonsense; though I have talked none for a year, John, having been so unhappy; and now it is such a relief to me—”
“Are you really afraid of me, John, after everything we’ve been through together? You promised not to interrupt me; isn’t that unfair? Well, let me remember where I left off—oh, I wish my heart had broken. I won’t say anything more about that, so you don’t get a big head, John; as if anything could make you that way. But I can honestly say that half of London—well, I’ll stop there too, so you don’t think I’m full of myself. Now, let’s put aside all the nonsense; even though I haven’t talked about anything for a year, John, because I’ve been so unhappy; and now it feels like such a relief to me—”
“Then talk it for an hour,” said I; “and let me sit and watch you. To me it is the very sweetest of all sweetest wisdom.”
"Then go ahead and talk for an hour," I said; "and let me sit and watch you. To me, it's the absolute sweetest of all wisdom."
“Nay, there is no time,” she answered, glancing at a jewelled timepiece, scarcely larger than an oyster, which she drew from her waist-band; and then she pushed it away, in confusion, lest its wealth should startle me. “My uncle will come home in less than half an hour, dear: and you are not the one to take a side-passage, and avoid him. I shall tell him that you have been here; and that I mean you to come again.”
“Nah, there’s no time,” she replied, glancing at a jeweled watch, only slightly bigger than an oyster, which she pulled from her waistband; then she pushed it away, embarrassed, afraid its value would shock me. “My uncle will be home in less than half an hour, dear, and you’re not someone who can sneak out through a side door to avoid him. I’ll tell him you were here, and that I want you to come again.”
As Lorna said this, with a manner as confident as need be, I saw that she had learned in town the power of her beauty, and knew that she could do with most men aught she set her mind upon. And as she stood there, flushed with pride and faith in her own loveliness, and radiant with the love itself, I felt that she must do exactly as she pleased with every one. For now, in turn, and elegance, and richness, and variety, there was nothing to compare with her face, unless it were her figure. Therefore I gave in, and said,—
As Lorna said this, with all the confidence she needed, I realized she had recognized her beauty's power in town and knew she could get almost any man to do whatever she wanted. Standing there, glowing with pride and confidence in her own attractiveness and radiating love, I felt she could do whatever she wanted with everyone. Because in terms of grace, style, and variety, nothing could match her face, except maybe her figure. So I gave in and said,—
“Darling, do just what you please. Only make no rogue of me.”
“Sweetheart, do whatever you want. Just don’t make a fool out of me.”
For that she gave me the simplest, kindest, and sweetest of all kisses; and I went down the great stairs grandly, thinking of nothing else but that.
For that, she gave me the simplest, kindest, and sweetest kiss of all; and I walked down the grand stairs, feeling nothing but that.
CHAPTER LXVIII
JOHN IS JOHN NO LONGER
It would be hard for me to tell the state of mind in which I lived for a long time after this. I put away from me all torment, and the thought of future cares, and the sight of difficulty; and to myself appeared, which means that I became the luckiest of lucky fellows, since the world itself began. I thought not of the harvest even, nor of the men who would get their wages without having earned them, nor of my mother's anxiety and worry about John Fry's great fatness (which was growing upon him), and how she would cry fifty times in a day, “Ah, if our John would only come home, how different everything would look!”
It’s hard for me to describe the state of mind I was in for a long time after this. I pushed away all pain, worries about the future, and the sight of challenges; I felt like the luckiest person alive since the beginning of time. I didn’t even think about the harvest or the men who would get paid without earning it, nor did I consider my mother’s anxiety and concern about John Fry’s increasing weight, and how she would say fifty times a day, “Oh, if only our John would come home, everything would be so different!”
Although there were no soldiers now quartered at Plover's Barrows, all being busied in harassing the country, and hanging the people where the rebellion had thriven most, my mother, having received from me a message containing my place of abode, contrived to send me, by the pack-horses, as fine a maund as need be of provisions, and money, and other comforts. Therein I found addressed to Colonel Jeremiah Stickles, in Lizzie's best handwriting, half a side of the dried deer's flesh, in which he rejoiced so greatly. Also, for Lorna, a fine green goose, with a little salt towards the tail, and new-laid eggs inside it, as well as a bottle of brandied cherries, and seven, or it may have been eight pounds of fresh homemade butter. Moreover, to myself there was a letter full of good advice, excellently well expressed, and would have been of the greatest value, if I had cared to read it. But I read all about the farm affairs, and the man who had offered himself to our Betty for the five pounds in her stocking; as well as the antics of Sally Snowe, and how she had almost thrown herself at Parson Bowden's head (old enough to be her grandfather), because on the Sunday after the hanging of a Countisbury man, he had preached a beautiful sermon about Christian love; which Lizzie, with her sharp eyes, found to be the work of good Bishop Ken. Also I read that the Doones were quiet; the parishes round about having united to feed them well through the harvest time, so that after the day's hard work, the farmers might go to bed at night. And this plan had been found to answer well, and to save much trouble on both sides, so that everybody wondered it had not been done before. But Lizzie thought that the Doones could hardly be expected much longer to put up with it, and probably would not have done so now, but for a little adversity; to wit, that the famous Colonel Kirke had, in the most outrageous manner, hanged no less than six of them, who were captured among the rebels; for he said that men of their rank and breeding, and above all of their religion, should have known better than to join plough-boys, and carters, and pickaxemen, against our Lord the King, and his Holiness the Pope. This hanging of so many Doones caused some indignation among people who were used to them; and it seemed for a while to check the rest from any spirit of enterprise.
Although there were no soldiers currently stationed at Plover's Barrows, all were busy troubling the countryside and executing people where the rebellion had been strongest, my mother, after receiving my message with my location, managed to send me a nice load of provisions, money, and other comforts through the pack-horses. Inside, I found a half side of dried deer meat addressed to Colonel Jeremiah Stickles, written in Lizzie's best handwriting, which he was very pleased about. There was also a nice green goose for Lorna, with a bit of salt near the tail and fresh eggs inside it, along with a bottle of brandied cherries, and seven or maybe eight pounds of fresh homemade butter. Additionally, I received a letter filled with good advice, very well expressed, which would have been incredibly helpful if I had bothered to read it. Instead, I read about the farm matters and the man who had proposed to our Betty for the five pounds in her stocking; also, I read about Sally Snowe's antics and how she had nearly thrown herself at Parson Bowden (who was old enough to be her grandfather) because on the Sunday after the hanging of a Countisbury man, he had delivered a beautiful sermon about Christian love, which Lizzie noted was the work of good Bishop Ken. I also read that the Doones were behaving themselves; the neighboring parishes had come together to provide them with plenty of food during harvest time, allowing the farmers to rest easy at night. This plan had proven effective and saved trouble on both sides, so everyone wondered why it hadn’t been done sooner. However, Lizzie thought that the Doones wouldn't tolerate this arrangement much longer, and likely would have acted out already, if not for some recent misfortune; specifically, the notorious Colonel Kirke had, in a shocking manner, hanged at least six of them who were captured among the rebels. He claimed that men of their status and upbringing, especially of their religion, should have known better than to side with plough-boys, carters, and laborers against our Lord the King, and his Holiness the Pope. This mass hanging of Doones caused some outrage among people who were familiar with them, and for a while, it seemed to deter others from any bold actions.
Moreover, I found from this same letter (which was pinned upon the knuckle of a leg of mutton, for fear of being lost in straw) that good Tom Faggus was at home again, and nearly cured of his dreadful wound; but intended to go to war no more, only to mind his family. And it grieved him more than anything he ever could have imagined, that his duty to his family, and the strong power of his conscience, so totally forbade him to come up and see after me. For now his design was to lead a new life, and be in charity with all men. Many better men than he had been hanged, he saw no cause to doubt; but by the grace of God he hoped himself to cheat the gallows.
Moreover, I learned from this same letter (which was pinned to the leg of a mutton to prevent it from getting lost in the straw) that good Tom Faggus was back home and almost healed from his terrible wound; but he planned to go to war no more, focusing instead on his family. It saddened him more than anything he could have imagined that his responsibility to his family and the strong pull of his conscience completely stopped him from coming up to check on me. Now his goal was to start a new life and get along with everyone. He knew many better men than him had been hanged, and he had no reason to doubt it; but with God's grace, he hoped to avoid the gallows.
There was no further news of moment in this very clever letter, except that the price of horses' shoes was gone up again, though already twopence-farthing each; and that Betty had broken her lover's head with the stocking full of money; and then in the corner it was written that the distinguished man of war, and worshipful scholar, Master Bloxham, was now promoted to take the tolls, and catch all the rebels around our part.
There was no more important news in this very clever letter, except that the price of horseshoes had gone up again, already costing two and a half pence each; and that Betty had bashed her lover's head with a stocking full of money; and then in the corner, it was noted that the distinguished military man and respected scholar, Master Bloxham, had now been promoted to collect the tolls and capture all the rebels in our area.
Lorna was greatly pleased with the goose, and the butter, and the brandied cherries; and the Earl Brandir himself declared that he never tasted better than those last, and would beg the young man from the country to procure him instructions for making them. This nobleman, being as deaf as a post, and of a very solid mind, could never be brought to understand the nature of my thoughts towards Lorna. He looked upon me as an excellent youth, who had rescued the maiden from the Doones, whom he cordially detested; and learning that I had thrown two of them out of window (as the story was told him), he patted me on the back, and declared that his doors would ever be open to me, and that I could not come too often.
Lorna was really happy with the goose, the butter, and the brandied cherries; and Earl Brandir himself said he had never tasted anything better than those cherries and wanted the young man from the countryside to give him the recipe for making them. This nobleman, being as deaf as a post and quite stubborn, could never grasp what I felt for Lorna. He saw me as an upstanding young man who had saved the girl from the Doones, whom he absolutely despised; and after hearing that I had thrown two of them out of a window (according to the story he was told), he patted me on the back, said his doors would always be open to me, and that I could visit as often as I liked.
I thought this very kind of his lordship, especially as it enabled me to see my darling Lorna, not indeed as often as I wished, but at any rate very frequently, and as many times as modesty (ever my leading principle) would in common conscience approve of. And I made up my mind that if ever I could help Earl Brandir, it would be—as we say, when with brandy and water—the “proudest moment of my life,” when I could fulfil the pledge.
I thought it was really kind of his lordship, especially since it allowed me to see my beloved Lorna, not as often as I wanted, but still quite frequently, and as many times as my modesty (which is always my guiding principle) would reasonably allow. I decided that if I ever had the chance to help Earl Brandir, it would be—like we say when we mix brandy and water—the “proudest moment of my life,” when I could keep my promise.
And I soon was able to help Lord Brandir, as I think, in two different ways; first of all as regarded his mind, and then as concerned his body: and the latter perhaps was the greatest service, at his time of life. But not to be too nice about that; let me tell how these things were.
And soon I was able to help Lord Brandir, I believe, in two different ways: first regarding his mind, and then concerning his body; and the latter was perhaps the greatest service at his age. But not to nitpick about that; let me explain how these things happened.
Lorna said to me one day, being in a state of excitement—whereto she was over prone, when reft of my slowness to steady her,—
Lorna said to me one day, filled with excitement—something she was always prone to when I wasn't there to slow her down—
“I will tell him, John; I must tell him, John. It is mean of me to conceal it.”
"I'll tell him, John; I have to tell him, John. It's unfair of me to hide it."
I thought that she meant all about our love, which we had endeavoured thrice to drill into his fine old ears; but could not make him comprehend, without risk of bringing the house down: and so I said, “By all means; darling; have another try at it.”
I thought she was talking about our love, which we had tried three times to get into his fine old ears; but we couldn't make him understand without risking chaos: and so I said, “Of course, sweetheart; go ahead and try again.”
Lorna, however, looked at me—for her eyes told more than tongue—as much as to say, “Well, you are a stupid. We agreed to let that subject rest.” And then she saw that I was vexed at my own want of quickness; and so she spoke very kindly,—
Lorna, however, looked at me—her eyes revealed more than words could say—as if to say, “Well, you’re being foolish. We agreed to drop that topic.” Then she noticed that I was annoyed at my own slowness, and so she spoke very kindly,—
“I meant about his poor son, dearest; the son of his old age almost; whose loss threw him into that dreadful cold—for he went, without hat, to look for him—which ended in his losing the use of his dear old ears. I believe if we could only get him to Plover's Barrows for a month, he would be able to hear again. And look at his age! he is not much over seventy, John, you know; and I hope that you will be able to hear me, long after you are seventy, John.”
“I was talking about his poor son, dear; the child he had in his old age; whose loss plunged him into that awful depression—he went out without a hat to search for him—which ended up causing him to lose the ability to hear well. I really think if we could just get him to Plover's Barrows for a month, he could regain his hearing. And look at his age! He’s just a bit over seventy, John, you know; and I hope you’ll be able to hear me long after you turn seventy, John.”
“Well,” said I, “God settles that. Or at any rate, He leaves us time to think about those questions, when we are over fifty. Now let me know what you want, Lorna. The idea of my being seventy! But you would still be beautiful.”
“Well,” I said, “God takes care of that. Or at least, He gives us time to think about those things when we’re over fifty. Now tell me what you want, Lorna. The thought of me being seventy! But you would still be beautiful.”
“To the one who loves me,” she answered, trying to make wrinkles in her pure bright forehead: “but if you will have common sense, as you always will, John, whether I wish it or otherwise—I want to know whether I am bound, in honour, and in conscience, to tell my dear and good old uncle what I know about his son?”
“To the one who loves me,” she replied, attempting to wrinkle her smooth, bright forehead. “But if you’re going to be sensible, as you always are, John, whether I want you to be or not—I need to know if I am obligated, in honor and in conscience, to tell my dear, kind old uncle what I know about his son?”
“First let me understand quite clearly,” said I, never being in a hurry, except when passion moves me, “what his lordship thinks at present; and how far his mind is urged with sorrow and anxiety.” This was not the first time we had spoken of the matter.
“First, let me make sure I understand clearly,” I said, never in a rush, except when I'm feeling passionate, “what his lordship thinks right now; and how much his mind is filled with sorrow and worry.” This wasn’t the first time we had talked about this.
“Why, you know, John, well enough,” she answered, wondering at my coolness, “that my poor uncle still believes that his one beloved son will come to light and live again. He has made all arrangements accordingly: all his property is settled on that supposition. He knows that young Alan always was what he calls a 'feckless ne'er-do-weel;' but he loves him all the more for that. He cannot believe that he will die, without his son coming back to him; and he always has a bedroom ready, and a bottle of Alan's favourite wine cool from out the cellar; he has made me work him a pair of slippers from the size of a mouldy boot; and if he hears of a new tobacco—much as he hates the smell of it—he will go to the other end of London to get some for Alan. Now you know how deaf he is; but if any one say, 'Alan,' even in the place outside the door, he will make his courteous bow to the very highest visitor, and be out there in a moment, and search the entire passage, and yet let no one know it.”
“Come on, John, you know very well,” she replied, surprised by my calmness, “that my poor uncle still believes his beloved son will come back to life. He’s made all his arrangements based on that belief: all his property is set aside for that reason. He knows that young Alan has always been what he calls a 'useless good-for-nothing,' but he loves him even more for it. He can’t accept that he might die without his son returning to him; he always has a guest room ready and keeps a bottle of Alan's favorite wine chilled in the cellar. He even had me make him a pair of slippers from the size of an old boot; and if he hears about a new type of tobacco—even though he hates the smell—he’ll travel across London just to get some for Alan. You know how deaf he is; but if anyone says, 'Alan,' even just outside the door, he’ll put on his best manners and rush out there in a flash, searching the whole hallway and not letting anyone know.”
“It is a piteous thing,” I said; for Lorna's eyes were full of tears.
“It’s really sad,” I said, because Lorna's eyes were full of tears.
“And he means me to marry him. It is the pet scheme of his life. I am to grow more beautiful, and more highly taught, and graceful; until it pleases Alan to come back, and demand me. Can you understand this matter, John? Or do you think my uncle mad?”
“And he wants me to marry him. It’s his dream plan. I’m supposed to become more beautiful, more educated, and more graceful; until Alan decides to come back and ask for me. Do you get this, John? Or do you think my uncle is crazy?”
“Lorna, I should be mad myself, to call any other man mad, for hoping.”
“Lorna, I’d be crazy myself to call any other guy crazy for having hope.”
“Then will you tell me what to do? It makes me very sorrowful. For I know that Alan Brandir lies below the sod in Doone-valley.”
“Then will you tell me what to do? It makes me very sad. Because I know that Alan Brandir is buried in Doone Valley.”
“And if you tell his father,” I answered softly, but clearly, “in a few weeks he will lie below the sod in London; at least if there is any.”
“And if you tell his father,” I replied softly but clearly, “in a few weeks he’ll be buried in London; at least if there is a grave.”
“Perhaps you are right, John,” she replied: “to lose hope must be a dreadful thing, when one is turned of seventy. Therefore I will never tell him.”
“Maybe you’re right, John,” she answered. “Losing hope must be a terrible thing when you’re over seventy. So I will never tell him.”
The other way in which I managed to help the good Earl Brandir was of less true moment to him; but as he could not know of the first, this was the one which moved him. And it happened pretty much as follows—though I hardly like to tell, because it advanced me to such a height as I myself was giddy at; and which all my friends resented greatly (save those of my own family), and even now are sometimes bitter, in spite of all my humility. Now this is a matter of history, because the King was concerned in it; and being so strongly misunderstood, (especially in my own neighbourhood, I will overcome so far as I can) my diffidence in telling it.
The other way I managed to help the good Earl Brandir wasn’t as significant to him, but since he couldn't know about the first, this was the one that affected him. It happened pretty much like this—though I’m hesitant to share, since it placed me so high up that I felt dizzy; and all my friends (except for my family) were really upset about it, and even now they can be a bit bitter, despite all my humility. This is a matter of history, because the King was involved; and since it was so misunderstood, especially in my own community, I’ll do my best to get past my shyness in telling it.
The good Earl Brandir was a man of the noblest charity. True charity begins at home, and so did his; and was afraid of losing the way, if it went abroad. So this good nobleman kept his money in a handsome pewter box, with his coat of arms upon it, and a double lid and locks. Moreover, there was a heavy chain, fixed to a staple in the wall, so that none might carry off the pewter with the gold inside of it. Lorna told me the box was full, for she had seen him go to it, and she often thought that it would be nice for us to begin the world with. I told her that she must not allow her mind to dwell upon things of this sort; being wholly against the last commandment set up in our church at Oare.
The good Earl Brandir was a man of the highest generosity. True generosity starts at home, and so did his; he was afraid of losing his way if he shared it too broadly. This nobleman kept his funds in a nice pewter box, which had his coat of arms on it, along with a double lid and locks. Additionally, there was a heavy chain attached to a staple in the wall to ensure that no one could take the pewter along with the gold inside. Lorna told me the box was full because she'd seen him go to it, and she often thought it would be great for us to start our lives with. I told her she shouldn't focus on such things; it completely contradicted the last commandment displayed in our church at Oare.
Now one evening towards September, when the days were drawing in, looking back at the house to see whether Lorna were looking after me, I espied (by a little glimpse, as it were) a pair of villainous fellows (about whom there could be no mistake) watching from the thicket-corner, some hundred yards or so behind the good Earl's dwelling. “There is mischief afoot,” thought I to myself, being thoroughly conversant with theft, from my knowledge of the Doones; “how will be the moon to-night, and when may we expect the watch?”
Now one evening in September, as the days were getting shorter, I turned back to the house to see if Lorna was keeping an eye on me. I caught a glimpse of a couple of shady characters—there was no doubt about that—hiding in the bushes about a hundred yards or so behind the Earl's house. "Something's up," I thought to myself, well aware of theft from my experience with the Doones. "What will the moon be like tonight, and when can we expect the patrol?"
I found that neither moon nor watch could be looked for until the morning; the moon, of course, before the watch, and more likely to be punctual. Therefore I resolved to wait, and see what those two villains did, and save (if it were possible) the Earl of Brandir's pewter box. But inasmuch as those bad men were almost sure to have seen me leaving the house and looking back, and striking out on the London road, I marched along at a merry pace, until they could not discern me; and then I fetched a compass round, and refreshed myself at a certain inn, entitled The Cross-bones and Buttons.
I realized that I couldn't expect to see the moon or my watch until morning; the moon, of course, was more likely to show up on time than my watch. So I decided to wait and see what those two villains would do, and to try to save the Earl of Brandir's pewter box, if possible. However, since those bad guys probably saw me leaving the house, looking back, and heading down the road to London, I walked on cheerfully until they could no longer see me. Then I took a detour and stopped for a refreshment at an inn called The Cross-bones and Buttons.
Here I remained until it was very nearly as dark as pitch; and the house being full of footpads and cutthroats, I thought it right to leave them. One or two came after me, in the hope of designing a stratagem; but I dropped them in the darkness; and knowing all the neighbourhood well, I took up my position, two hours before midnight, among the shrubs at the eastern end of Lord Brandir's mansion. Hence, although I might not see, I could scarcely fail to hear, if any unlawful entrance either at back or front were made.
Here I stayed until it was almost completely dark; and with the house filled with thieves and criminals, I figured it was best to leave them. A couple of them followed me, hoping to come up with a trap, but I lost them in the darkness. Knowing the area well, I positioned myself, two hours before midnight, among the bushes at the eastern end of Lord Brandir's mansion. So, even if I couldn’t see, I would definitely hear if anyone tried to break in, whether from the back or the front.
From my own observation, I thought it likely that the attack would be in the rear; and so indeed it came to pass. For when all the lights were quenched, and all the house was quiet, I heard a low and wily whistle from a clump of trees close by; and then three figures passed between me and a whitewashed wall, and came to a window which opened into a part of the servants' basement. This window was carefully raised by some one inside the house; and after a little whispering, and something which sounded like a kiss, all the three men entered.
From what I observed, I thought it was likely that the attack would come from the back, and that's exactly what happened. Once all the lights were out and the house was quiet, I heard a soft, sneaky whistle from a cluster of trees nearby; then three figures moved between me and a whitewashed wall and approached a window leading to part of the servants' basement. Someone inside the house carefully opened this window; after a bit of whispering and what sounded like a kiss, all three men went in.
“Oh, you villains!” I said to myself, “this is worse than any Doone job; because there is treachery in it.” But without waiting to consider the subject from a moral point of view, I crept along the wall, and entered very quietly after them; being rather uneasy about my life, because I bore no fire-arms, and had nothing more than my holly staff, for even a violent combat.
“Oh, you bad guys!” I said to myself, “this is worse than any Doone job; because there’s betrayal involved.” But without taking a moment to think about it morally, I crept along the wall and quietly followed after them; feeling quite uneasy about my life since I had no weapons and only my holly staff, even for a serious fight.
To me this was matter of deep regret, as I followed these vile men inward. Nevertheless I was resolved that my Lorna should not be robbed again. Through us (or at least through our Annie) she had lost that brilliant necklace; which then was her only birthright: therefore it behoved me doubly, to preserve the pewter box; which must belong to her in the end, unless the thieves got hold of it.
To me, this was a matter of deep regret as I followed those vile men inside. However, I was determined that my Lorna wouldn’t be robbed again. Through us (or at least through our Annie), she had lost that brilliant necklace, which was her only birthright. So it was even more important for me to keep the pewter box safe, as it must belong to her in the end, unless the thieves got hold of it.
I went along very delicately (as a man who has learned to wrestle can do, although he may weigh twenty stone), following carefully the light, brought by the traitorous maid, and shaking in her loose dishonest hand. I saw her lead the men into a little place called a pantry; and there she gave them cordials, and I could hear them boasting.
I moved carefully (like someone who knows how to wrestle, even if he’s really heavy), following the dim light that the deceitful maid was holding, which was trembling in her untrustworthy hand. I watched her guide the men into a small area they called a pantry; there, she served them drinks, and I could hear them bragging.
Not to be too long over it—which they were much inclined to be—I followed them from this drinking-bout, by the aid of the light they bore, as far as Earl Brandir's bedroom, which I knew, because Lorna had shown it to me that I might admire the tapestry. But I had said that no horse could ever be shod as the horses were shod therein, unless he had the foot of a frog, as well as a frog to his foot. And Lorna had been vexed at this (as taste and high art always are, at any small accurate knowledge), and so she had brought me out again, before I had time to admire things.
Not to drag it out too long—which they really wanted to—I followed them from this drinking party, using the light they carried, as far as Earl Brandir's bedroom, which I recognized because Lorna had shown it to me so I could admire the tapestry. But I had mentioned that no horse could ever be shod the way the horses were in there, unless it had the foot of a frog, along with a frog on its foot. And Lorna had been annoyed by this (as taste and high art often are, with any small bit of accurate knowledge), and so she had taken me out again before I had a chance to really appreciate things.
Now, keeping well away in the dark, yet nearer than was necessary to my own dear Lorna's room, I saw these fellows try the door of the good Earl Brandir, knowing from the maid, of course, that his lordship could hear nothing, except the name of Alan. They tried the lock, and pushed at it, and even set their knees upright; but a Scottish nobleman may be trusted to secure his door at night. So they were forced to break it open; and at this the guilty maid, or woman, ran away. These three rogues—for rogues they were, and no charity may deny it—burst into Earl Brandir's room, with a light, and a crowbar, and fire-arms. I thought to myself that this was hard upon an honest nobleman; and if further mischief could be saved, I would try to save it.
Now, staying well back in the shadows but closer than necessary to my dear Lorna's room, I watched these guys try to open the door of the good Earl Brandir, knowing from the maid that his lordship could hear nothing except the name Alan. They fiddled with the lock and pushed against it, even bracing their knees against it; but a Scottish nobleman can be trusted to secure his door at night. So, they had to break it open, and at that, the guilty maid, or woman, ran away. These three scoundrels—for scoundrels they were, and no one can deny it—burst into Earl Brandir's room with a light, a crowbar, and firearms. I thought to myself that this was unfair to an honorable nobleman, and if I could prevent further trouble, I would try to do so.
When I came to the door of the room, being myself in shadow, I beheld two bad men trying vainly to break open the pewter box, and the third with a pistol-muzzle laid to the night-cap of his lordship. With foul face and yet fouler words, this man was demanding the key of the box, which the other men could by no means open, neither drag it from the chain.
When I reached the door of the room, hidden in the shadows, I saw two shady guys struggling to pry open the pewter box, while a third had a gun pressed against the nightcap of his lordship. With a dirty face and even worse language, this guy was demanding the key to the box, which the others couldn’t open or pull off the chain.
“I tell you,” said this aged Earl, beginning to understand at last what these rogues were up for; “I will give no key to you. It all belongs to my boy, Alan. No one else shall have a farthing.”
“I’m telling you,” said the old Earl, finally starting to realize what these tricksters were after; “I won’t give you any key. It all belongs to my son, Alan. No one else will get a penny.”
“Then you may count your moments, lord. The key is in your old cramped hand. One, two, and at three, I shoot you.”
“Then you can count your moments, my lord. The key is in your old, cramped hand. One, two, and at three, I shoot you.”
I saw that the old man was abroad; not with fear, but with great wonder, and the regrets of deafness. And I saw that rather would he be shot than let these men go rob his son, buried now, or laid to bleach in the tangles of the wood, three, or it might be four years agone, but still alive to his father. Hereupon my heart was moved; and I resolved to interfere. The thief with the pistol began to count, as I crossed the floor very quietly, while the old Earl fearfully gazed at the muzzle, but clenched still tighter his wrinkled hand. The villain, with hair all over his eyes, and the great horse-pistol levelled, cried “three,” and pulled the trigger; but luckily, at that very moment, I struck up the barrel with my staff, so that the shot pierced the tester, and then with a spin and a thwack I brought the good holly down upon the rascal's head, in a manner which stretched him upon the floor.
I saw that the old man was out of his mind; not out of fear, but with great wonder and regrets of being deaf. And I saw that he would rather be shot than let these men rob his son, who was buried now, or perhaps left to rot in the woods, three or maybe four years ago, but still alive in his father's memory. At this, my heart was moved, and I decided to step in. The thief with the gun started to count as I quietly crossed the room, while the old Earl nervously stared at the barrel, but tightened his wrinkled hand even more. The scoundrel, with hair all over his face, and the big pistol aimed, shouted “three,” and pulled the trigger; but luckily, at that very moment, I shoved the barrel with my staff, so the shot hit the ceiling, and then with a spin and a thwack, I brought the sturdy holly down on the rascal's head, knocking him out on the floor.
Meanwhile the other two robbers had taken the alarm, and rushed at me, one with a pistol and one with a hanger; which forced me to be very lively. Fearing the pistol most, I flung the heavy velvet curtain of the bed across, that he might not see where to aim at me, and then stooping very quickly I caught up the senseless robber, and set him up for a shield and target; whereupon he was shot immediately, without having the pain of knowing it; and a happy thing it was for him. Now the other two were at my mercy, being men below the average strength; and no hanger, except in most skilful hands, as well as firm and strong ones, has any chance to a powerful man armed with a stout cudgel, and thoroughly practised in single-stick.
Meanwhile, the other two robbers had sounded the alarm and charged at me—one with a gun and the other with a sword, which made me act quickly. Fearing the gun the most, I threw the heavy velvet curtain from the bed across, so he wouldn't know where to aim at me. Then, bending down quickly, I grabbed the unconscious robber and propped him up as a shield and target; he was shot immediately without even feeling it, which was a fortunate thing for him. Now the other two were at my mercy, being weaker than average. A sword, unless wielded by someone very skilled and strong, doesn't stand a chance against a powerful man armed with a sturdy club and well-practiced in one-on-one combat.
So I took these two rogues, and bound them together; and leaving them under charge of the butler (a worthy and shrewd Scotchman), I myself went in search of the constables, whom, after some few hours, I found; neither were they so drunk but what they could take roped men to prison. In the morning, these two men were brought before the Justices of the Peace: and now my wonderful luck appeared; for the merit of having defeated, and caught them, would never have raised me one step in the State, or in public consideration, if they had only been common robbers, or even notorious murderers. But when these fellows were recognised, by some one in the court, as Protestant witnesses out of employment, companions and understrappers to Oates, and Bedloe, and Carstairs, and hand in glove with Dangerfield, Turberville; and Dugdale—in a word, the very men against whom His Majesty the King bore the bitterest rancour, but whom he had hitherto failed to catch—when this was laid before the public (with emphasis and admiration), at least a dozen men came up, whom I had never seen before, and prayed me to accept their congratulations, and to be sure to remember them; for all were of neglected merit, and required no more than a piece of luck.
So I grabbed these two crooks and tied them up, then left them with the butler (a capable and clever Scotsman) while I went off to find the cops. After a few hours, I tracked them down, and although they weren't completely sober, they were able to take the tied-up guys to jail. The next morning, the two men were brought before the Justices of the Peace, and that’s when my incredible luck showed up. The credit for catching them wouldn’t have done anything for my status or reputation if they had just been regular thieves or even infamous murderers. But when someone in the courtroom recognized these guys as unemployed Protestant witnesses, associates of Oates, Bedloe, and Carstairs, and tight with Dangerfield, Turberville, and Dugdale—basically the very people the King despised but hadn’t been able to catch—this was revealed to the public with much fanfare and appreciation. Suddenly, at least a dozen men I had never met before approached me to offer their congratulations and made sure I remembered their names, since they were all overlooked talents who just needed a stroke of luck.
I answered them very modestly, and each according to his worth, as stated by himself, who of course could judge the best. The magistrate made me many compliments, ten times more than I deserved, and took good care to have them copied, that His Majesty might see them. And ere the case was thoroughly heard, and those poor fellows were committed, more than a score of generous men had offered to lend me a hundred pounds, wherewith to buy a new Court suit, when called before His Majesty.
I responded to them very humbly, and each based on their own merit, as stated by themselves, since they were the best judges of that. The magistrate gave me a lot of compliments, way more than I deserved, and made sure they were copied so that His Majesty could see them. Before the case was fully heard and those poor guys were committed, over twenty generous men offered to lend me a hundred pounds to buy a new court outfit for when I was called before His Majesty.
Now this may seem very strange to us who live in a better and purer age—or say at least that we do so—and yet who are we to condemn our fathers for teaching us better manners, and at their own expense? With these points any virtuous man is bound to deal quite tenderly, making allowance for corruption, and not being too sure of himself. And to tell the truth, although I had seen so little of the world as yet, that which astonished me in the matter, was not so much that they paid me court, as that they found out so soon the expediency of doing it.
Now, this might seem really strange to us who live in a better and more refined time—or at least we like to think so—but who are we to judge our parents for teaching us better manners, even if it cost them? A decent person should handle these matters with care, taking into account the flaws around us and not being too self-assured. Honestly, even though I had experienced so little of the world by then, what amazed me was not just that they flattered me, but that they recognized the benefits of doing so so quickly.
In the course of that same afternoon I was sent for by His Majesty. He had summoned first the good Earl Brandir, and received the tale from him, not without exaggeration, although my lord was a Scotchman. But the chief thing His Majesty cared to know was that, beyond all possible doubt, these were the very precious fellows from perjury turned to robbery.
In the course of that same afternoon, I was summoned by His Majesty. He had called in the good Earl Brandir first and heard his account, which was not without exaggeration, even though my lord was a Scotsman. But the main thing His Majesty wanted to know was that, without a doubt, these were indeed the very same guys who had gone from perjury to robbery.
Being fully assured at last of this, His Majesty had rubbed his hands, and ordered the boots of a stricter pattern (which he himself had invented) to be brought at once, that he might have them in the best possible order. And he oiled them himself, and expressed his fear that there was no man in London quite competent to work them. Nevertheless he would try one or two, rather than wait for his pleasure, till the torturer came from Edinburgh.
Being completely sure of this at last, His Majesty rubbed his hands together and ordered the boots of a stricter design (which he himself had created) to be brought immediately, so he could prepare them in the best possible way. He even oiled them himself and worried that there was no one in London really skilled enough to work on them. Still, he would give a couple of them a try rather than wait for the torturer to arrive from Edinburgh.
The next thing he did was to send for me; and in great alarm and flurry I put on my best clothes, and hired a fashionable hairdresser, and drank half a gallon of ale, because both my hands were shaking. Then forth I set, with my holly staff, wishing myself well out of it. I was shown at once, and before I desired it, into His Majesty's presence, and there I stood most humbly, and made the best bow I could think of.
The next thing he did was call for me; and in a state of great panic and excitement, I put on my best clothes, hired a trendy hairdresser, and drank half a gallon of beer since my hands were shaking. Then I set out with my holly staff, hoping to make it through okay. I was taken in immediately, before I even had a chance to ask, to stand before His Majesty, where I stood very humbly and made the best bow I could think of.
As I could not advance any farther—for I saw that the Queen was present, which frightened me tenfold—His Majesty, in the most gracious manner, came down the room to encourage me. And as I remained with my head bent down, he told me to stand up, and look at him.
As I couldn't move any closer—seeing that the Queen was there, which scared me even more—His Majesty kindly walked across the room to support me. And since I was still looking down, he told me to stand up and face him.
“I have seen thee before, young man,” he said; “thy form is not one to be forgotten. Where was it? Thou art most likely to know.”
“I’ve seen you before, young man,” he said; “your face is hard to forget. Where was it? You’re probably the one to know.”
“May it please Your Most Gracious Majesty the King,” I answered, finding my voice in a manner which surprised myself; “it was in the Royal Chapel.”
“May it please Your Most Gracious Majesty the King,” I replied, surprising myself with how confident my voice sounded; “it was in the Royal Chapel.”
Now I meant no harm whatever by this. I ought to have said the “Ante-chapel,” but I could not remember the word, and feared to keep the King looking at me.
Now I meant no harm at all by this. I should have said the "Ante-chapel," but I couldn't remember the word, and I didn't want to keep the King waiting for me.
“I am well-pleased,” said His Majesty, with a smile which almost made his dark and stubborn face look pleasant, “to find that our greatest subject, greatest I mean in the bodily form, is also a good Catholic. Thou needest not say otherwise. The time shall be, and that right soon, when men shall be proud of the one true faith.” Here he stopped, having gone rather far! but the gleam of his heavy eyes was such that I durst not contradict.
“I’m really pleased,” said His Majesty, with a smile that almost made his dark and stubborn face look friendly, “to find that our greatest subject, I mean the biggest in size, is also a good Catholic. You don’t need to say otherwise. The time will come, and it will be soon, when people will be proud of the one true faith.” Here he paused, having gone a bit far! But the sparkle in his intense eyes was such that I didn’t dare to disagree.
“This is that great Johann Reed,” said Her Majesty, coming forward, because the King was in meditation; “for whom I have so much heard, from the dear, dear Lorna. Ah, she is not of this black countree, she is of the breet Italie.”
“This is that great Johann Reed,” said Her Majesty, stepping forward, because the King was deep in thought; “the one I’ve heard so much about from the dear, dear Lorna. Ah, she is not from this dark countryside, she is from beautiful Italy.”
I have tried to write it, as she said it: but it wants a better scholar to express her mode of speech.
I’ve tried to write it the way she said it, but it needs a better writer to capture her way of speaking.
“Now, John Ridd,” said the King, recovering from his thoughts about the true Church, and thinking that his wife was not to take the lead upon me; “thou hast done great service to the realm, and to religion. It was good to save Earl Brandir, a loyal and Catholic nobleman; but it was great service to catch two of the vilest bloodhounds ever laid on by heretics. And to make them shoot one another: it was rare; it was rare, my lad. Now ask us anything in reason; thou canst carry any honours, on thy club, like Hercules. What is thy chief ambition, lad?”
“Now, John Ridd,” said the King, coming back from his thoughts about the true Church, and deciding that his wife would not overshadow him; “you’ve done amazing service to the realm and to religion. It was commendable to save Earl Brandir, a loyal and Catholic nobleman; but it was an even greater achievement to capture two of the most despicable bloodhounds ever sent by heretics. And to make them shoot each other: that was something special; it was truly something special, my boy. Now ask us anything reasonable; you can carry any honors, on your shoulders, like Hercules. What is your main ambition, lad?”
“Well,” said I, after thinking a little, and meaning to make the most of it, for so the Queen's eyes conveyed to me; “my mother always used to think that having been schooled at Tiverton, with thirty marks a year to pay, I was worthy of a coat of arms. And that is what she longs for.”
"Well," I said, after thinking for a bit and wanting to take advantage of the situation, since that's what the Queen's eyes seemed to tell me; "my mom always believed that having been educated at Tiverton, with thirty marks a year to pay, I deserved a coat of arms. And that's what she really wants."
“A good lad! A very good lad,” said the King, and he looked at the Queen, as if almost in joke; “but what is thy condition in life?”
“A good boy! A really good boy,” said the King, and he glanced at the Queen, almost playfully; “but what is your situation in life?”
“I am a freeholder,” I answered, in my confusion, “ever since the time of King Alfred. A Ridd was with him in the isle of Athelney, and we hold our farm by gift from him; or at least people say so. We have had three very good harvests running, and might support a coat of arms; but for myself I want it not.”
"I’m a landowner," I replied, confused, "ever since the time of King Alfred. A Ridd was with him in the isle of Athelney, and we have our farm as a gift from him; or at least, that’s what people say. We’ve had three really good harvests in a row and could support a coat of arms, but personally, I don’t want one.”
“Thou shalt have a coat, my lad,” said the King, smiling at his own humour; “but it must be a large one to fit thee. And more than that shalt thou have, John Ridd, being of such loyal breed, and having done such service.”
“You're going to have a coat, my boy,” said the King, smiling at his own joke; “but it needs to be a big one to fit you. And you’ll get even more than that, John Ridd, since you come from such loyal stock and have done great service.”
And while I wondered what he meant, he called to some of the people in waiting at the farther end of the room, and they brought him a little sword, such as Annie would skewer a turkey with. Then he signified to me to kneel, which I did (after dusting the board, for the sake of my best breeches), and then he gave me a little tap very nicely upon my shoulder, before I knew what he was up to; and said, “Arise, Sir John Ridd!”
And while I was trying to figure out what he meant, he called over some people waiting at the far end of the room, and they brought him a small sword, like the one Annie would use to carve a turkey. Then he signaled for me to kneel, which I did (after brushing off the board for the sake of my best pants), and then he gave me a gentle tap on my shoulder before I realized what he was doing, and said, “Get up, Sir John Ridd!”
This astonished and amazed me to such extent of loss of mind, that when I got up I looked about, and thought what the Snowes would think of it. And I said to the King, without forms of speech,—
This shocked and amazed me to such a degree that when I got up, I looked around and wondered what the Snowes would think about it. And I said to the King, without any formalities,—
“Sir, I am very much obliged. But what be I to do with it?”
“Sir, I really appreciate it. But what am I supposed to do with it?”
CHAPTER LXIX
NOT TO BE PUT UP WITH
The coat of arms, devised for me by the Royal heralds, was of great size, and rich colours, and full of bright imaginings. They did me the honour to consult me first, and to take no notice of my advice. For I begged that there might be a good-sized cow on it, so as to stamp our pats of butter before they went to market: also a horse on the other side, and a flock snowed up at the bottom. But the gentlemen would not hear of this; and to find something more appropriate, they inquired strictly into the annals of our family. I told them, of course, all about King Alfred; upon which they settled that one quarter should be, three cakes on a bar, with a lion regardant, done upon a field of gold. Also I told them that very likely there had been a Ridd in the battle fought, not very far from Plover's Barrows, by the Earl of Devon against the Danes, when Hubba their chief was killed, and the sacred standard taken. As some of the Danes are said to be buried, even upon land of ours, and we call their graves (if such they be) even to this day “barrows,” the heralds quite agreed with me that a Ridd might have been there, or thereabouts; and if he was there, he was almost certain to have done his best, being in sight of hearth and home; and it was plain that he must have had good legs to be at the same time both there and in Athelney; and good legs are an argument for good arms; and supposing a man of this sort to have done his utmost (as the manner of the Ridds is), it was next to certain that he himself must have captured the standard. Moreover, the name of our farm was pure proof; a plover being a wild bird, just the same as a raven is. Upon this chain of reasoning, and without any weak misgivings, they charged my growing escutcheon with a black raven on a ground of red. And the next thing which I mentioned possessing absolute certainty, to wit, that a pig with two heads had been born upon our farm, not more than two hundred years agone (although he died within a week), my third quarter was made at once, by a two-headed boar with noble tusks, sable upon silver. All this was very fierce and fine; and so I pressed for a peaceful corner in the lower dexter, and obtained a wheat-sheaf set upright, gold upon a field of green.
The coat of arms created for me by the Royal heralds was large, colorful, and full of vivid imagery. They honored me by asking for my input first but completely ignored my suggestions. I insisted that there should be a good-sized cow on it to label our pats of butter before selling them at the market, along with a horse on one side and a flock of sheep at the bottom. But the gentlemen dismissed my ideas and, to find something more suitable, they looked into our family's history. I told them all about King Alfred, which led them to decide that one quarter would feature three cakes on a bar, with a lion looking back, all on a gold field. I also mentioned that there likely was a Ridd involved in the battle fought near Plover's Barrows, where the Earl of Devon fought the Danes, and their leader Hubba was killed, along with the capture of the sacred standard. Since some Danes are said to be buried on our land, which we still call “barrows” today, the heralds agreed with me that a Ridd might have been present there; and if he was, he would have surely given it his all, being close to home. It was clear that he must have had strong legs to be at the battle and in Athelney at the same time, and strong legs suggest strong arms. Assuming such a person did his utmost (as Ridds do), it was almost certain he captured the standard. Additionally, our farm's name proved the point; a plover is a wild bird, like a raven. Based on this logic and without any doubts, they decided to include a black raven on a red background in my growing coat of arms. The next piece of certainty I provided was that a two-headed pig had been born on our farm not more than two hundred years ago (though it died within a week), which led to my third quarter being created with a two-headed boar with noble tusks, black on silver. All of this looked very fierce and impressive; I then pushed for a peaceful symbol in the lower right corner, which I successfully got—a wheat sheaf standing upright, gold on a green field.
Here I was inclined to pause, and admire the effect; for even De Whichehalse could not show a bearing so magnificent. But the heralds said that it looked a mere sign-board, without a good motto under it; and the motto must have my name in it. They offered me first, “Ridd non ridendus”; but I said, “for God's sake, gentlemen, let me forget my Latin.” Then they proposed, “Ridd readeth riddles”: but I begged them not to set down such a lie; for no Ridd ever had made, or made out, such a thing as a riddle, since Exmoor itself began. Thirdly, they gave me, “Ridd never be ridden,” and fearing to make any further objections, I let them inscribe it in bronze upon blue. The heralds thought that the King would pay for this noble achievement; but His Majesty, although graciously pleased with their ingenuity, declined in the most decided manner to pay a farthing towards it; and as I had now no money left, the heralds became as blue as azure, and as red as gules; until Her Majesty the Queen came forward very kindly, and said that if His Majesty gave me a coat of arms, I was not to pay for it; therefore she herself did so quite handsomely, and felt goodwill towards me in consequence.
Here I was tempted to stop and admire the sight; even De Whichehalse couldn't present something so impressive. But the heralds said it looked like a simple sign without a good motto beneath it; and the motto had to include my name. They first suggested, “Ridd non ridendus,” but I said, “for God's sake, gentlemen, let me forget my Latin.” Then they proposed, “Ridd readeth riddles,” but I asked them not to write such a lie; because no Ridd had ever created or solved anything resembling a riddle since Exmoor began. Third, they offered me, “Ridd never be ridden,” and fearing to raise any further objections, I allowed them to inscribe it in bronze on blue. The heralds thought the King would fund this grand endeavor; but His Majesty, while graciously impressed with their creativity, firmly refused to contribute even a penny. Since I had no money left, the heralds turned as blue as the sky and as red as blood; until Her Majesty the Queen kindly stepped forward and said that if His Majesty awarded me a coat of arms, I didn’t have to pay for it; so she herself took care of it quite generously and felt goodwill towards me as a result.
Now being in a hurry—so far at least as it is in my nature to hurry—to get to the end of this narrative, is it likely that I would have dwelled so long upon my coat of arms, but for some good reason? And this good reason is that Lorna took the greatest pride in it, and thought (or at any rate said) that it quite threw into the shade, and eclipsed, all her own ancient glories. And half in fun, and half in earnest, she called me “Sir John” so continually, that at last I was almost angry with her; until her eyes were bedewed with tears; and then I was angry with myself.
Now, in a hurry—at least as much as I naturally hurry—to get to the end of this story, would I have spent so much time on my coat of arms without a good reason? And the good reason is that Lorna took immense pride in it and believed (or at least said) that it completely overshadowed all her own ancient glories. Half joking and half serious, she kept calling me “Sir John” so often that I eventually got almost angry with her; until her eyes filled with tears; and then I was frustrated with myself.
Beginning to be short of money, and growing anxious about the farm, longing also to show myself and my noble escutcheon to mother, I took advantage of Lady Lorna's interest with the Queen, to obtain my acquittance and full discharge from even nominal custody. It had been intended to keep me in waiting, until the return of Lord Jeffreys, from that awful circuit of shambles, through which his name is still used by mothers to frighten their children into bed. And right glad was I—for even London shrank with horror at the news—to escape a man so bloodthirsty, savage, and even to his friends (among whom I was reckoned) malignant.
Running low on money and feeling anxious about the farm, while also wanting to prove myself and my noble heritage to my mother, I took advantage of Lady Lorna's connection with the Queen to get my release from even nominal custody. They had planned to keep me waiting until Lord Jeffreys returned from that terrible circuit of horrors, a name still used by mothers to scare their kids into bed. I was really glad to escape a man so bloodthirsty, brutal, and even cruel to his friends (which included me).
Earl Brandir was greatly pleased with me, not only for having saved his life, but for saving that which he valued more, the wealth laid by for Lord Alan. And he introduced me to many great people, who quite kindly encouraged me, and promised to help me in every way when they heard how the King had spoken. As for the furrier, he could never have enough of my society; and this worthy man, praying my commendation, demanded of me one thing only—to speak of him as I found him. As I had found him many a Sunday, furbishing up old furs for new, with a glaze to conceal the moths' ravages, I begged him to reconsider the point, and not to demand such accuracy. He said, “Well, well; all trades had tricks, especially the trick of business; and I must take him—if I were his true friend—according to his own description.” This I was glad enough to do; because it saved so much trouble, and I had no money to spend with him. But still he requested the use of my name; and I begged him to do the best with it, as I never had kept a banker. And the “John Ridd cuffs,” and the “Sir John mantles,” and the “Holly-staff capes,” he put into his window, as the winter was coming on, ay and sold (for everybody was burning with gossip about me), must have made this good man's fortune; since the excess of price over value is the true test of success in life.
Earl Brandir was really happy with me, not just for saving his life, but for also protecting something he valued even more: the wealth set aside for Lord Alan. He introduced me to many important people who, out of kindness, encouraged me and promised to help in any way they could once they heard what the King had said. As for the furrier, he could never get enough of my company; this good man, seeking my endorsement, only asked me for one thing—to speak about him as I experienced him. Since I often saw him on Sundays, polishing up old furs for new, with a finish to hide the moth holes, I asked him to think it over and not insist on such honesty. He replied, “Well, well; every trade has its tricks, especially in business; and if I’m your true friend, you should take me at my own word.” I was more than happy to agree; it made my life easier, and I didn’t have any money to spend with him anyway. But he still wanted to use my name, and I asked him to make the most of it, as I'd never had a banker. The “John Ridd cuffs,” the “Sir John mantles,” and the “Holly-staff capes” he displayed in his shop window as winter approached, and sold (since everyone was buzzing with gossip about me), must have made this good man a fortune; because the difference between price and value is the real measure of success in life.
To come away from all this stuff, which grieves a man in London—when the brisk air of the autumn cleared its way to Ludgate Hill, and clever 'prentices ran out, and sniffed at it, and fed upon it (having little else to eat); and when the horses from the country were a goodly sight to see, with the rasp of winter bristles rising through and among the soft summer-coat; and when the new straw began to come in, golden with the harvest gloss, and smelling most divinely at those strange livery-stables, where the nags are put quite tail to tail; and when all the London folk themselves are asking about white frost (from recollections of childhood); then, I say, such a yearning seized me for moory crag, and for dewy blade, and even the grunting of our sheep (when the sun goes down), that nothing but the new wisps of Samson could have held me in London town.
To distance myself from all the things that trouble a man in London—when the crisp autumn air made its way to Ludgate Hill, and smart apprentices rushed out, breathed it in, and enjoyed it (having little else to eat); and when the horses from the countryside were a beautiful sight to behold, their winter coats mixing with the soft summer fur; and when the new straw started arriving, golden from the harvest and smelling heavenly at those peculiar livery stables, where the horses are arranged tail to tail; and when all the people of London began reminiscing about white frost (from their childhood memories); then, I say, a deep longing for the moors and dew-covered grass seized me, along with the sound of our sheep grunting (as the sun sets), that nothing but the fresh wisps of Samson could keep me in London town.
Lorna was moved with equal longing towards the country and country ways; and she spoke quite as much of the glistening dew as she did of the smell of our oven. And here let me mention—although the two are quite distinct and different—that both the dew and the bread of Exmoor may be sought, whether high or low, but never found elsewhere. The dew is so crisp, and pure, and pearly, and in such abundance; and the bread is so sweet, so kind, and homely, you can eat a loaf, and then another.
Lorna felt a strong desire for the countryside and its simple ways; she talked just as much about the sparkling dew as she did about the smell of our oven. And I should point out—even though they are completely different—that both the dew and the bread of Exmoor can be searched for, whether up high or down low, but never found anywhere else. The dew is so fresh, pure, and shimmering, and there's so much of it; and the bread is so sweet, so comforting, and familiar, you can have one loaf, and then another.
Now while I was walking daily in and out great crowds of men (few of whom had any freedom from the cares of money, and many of whom were even morbid with a worse pest called “politics”), I could not be quit of thinking how we jostle one another. God has made the earth quite large, with a spread of land large enough for all to live on, without fighting. Also a mighty spread of water, laying hands on sand and cliff with a solemn voice in storm-time; and in the gentle weather moving men to thoughts of equity. This, as well, is full of food; being two-thirds of the world, and reserved for devouring knowledge; by the time the sons of men have fed away the dry land. Yet before the land itself has acknowledged touch of man, upon one in a hundred acres; and before one mile in ten thousand of the exhaustless ocean has ever felt the plunge of hook, or combing of the haul-nets; lo, we crawl, in flocks together upon the hot ground that stings us, even as the black grubs crowd upon the harried nettle! Surely we are too much given to follow the tracks of each other.
As I walked daily through large crowds of people (most of whom were burdened by money worries, and many were even obsessed with a worse problem called “politics”), I couldn't help but think about how we bump into each other. God made the earth pretty big, with enough land for everyone to live on peacefully. There's also a vast amount of water, crashing against sand and cliffs with a powerful voice during storms, and in calm weather inspiring thoughts of fairness. This water is full of food; it's two-thirds of the world, meant to nourish knowledge, especially after humans have exhausted the dry land. Yet, before the land itself has felt the touch of a human on even one out of a hundred acres, and before even one mile in ten thousand of the endless ocean has experienced the tug of a fishing line or the drag of nets, here we are, scrambling together on hot ground that burns us, just like black grubs swarm over a battered nettle! It seems we really are too inclined to follow each other's paths.
However, for a moralist, I never set up, and never shall, while common sense abides with me. Such a man must be very wretched in this pure dearth of morality; like a fisherman where no fish be; and most of us have enough to do to attend to our own morals. Enough that I resolved to go; and as Lorna could not come with me, it was even worse than stopping. Nearly everybody vowed that I was a great fool indeed, to neglect so rudely—which was the proper word, they said—the pushing of my fortunes. But I answered that to push was rude, and I left it to people who had no room; and thought that my fortune must be heavy, if it would not move without pushing.
However, for someone like me who values morals, I never set out, and I never will, as long as I have common sense. Such a person must feel pretty miserable in this total lack of morality; like a fisherman where there are no fish. Most of us have enough on our plates just handling our own morals. It was enough for me to decide to leave; and since Lorna couldn't come with me, it felt even worse than staying. Almost everyone insisted that I was a complete fool for neglecting—this was the right word, they said—the advancement of my own interests. But I replied that trying too hard was impolite, and I left that to people who lacked space; besides, I thought that my fortune must be quite burdensome if it wouldn’t budge without some pushing.
Lorna cried when I came away (which gave me great satisfaction), and she sent a whole trunkful of things for mother and Annie, and even Lizzie. And she seemed to think, though she said it not, that I made my own occasion for going, and might have stayed on till the winter. Whereas I knew well that my mother would think (and every one on the farm the same) that here I had been in London, lagging, and taking my pleasure, and looking at shops, upon pretence of King's business, and leaving the harvest to reap itself, not to mention the spending of money; while all the time there was nothing whatever, except my own love of adventure and sport, to keep me from coming home again. But I knew that my coat of arms, and title, would turn every bit of this grumbling into fine admiration.
Lorna cried when I left, which made me feel pleased, and she sent a whole trunk full of things for my mom, Annie, and even Lizzie. It seemed like she believed, though she didn't say it, that I was just looking for an excuse to leave and could have stayed until winter. But I knew that my mom and everyone on the farm thought I was in London, slacking off, enjoying myself, and shopping under the guise of business for the King, while leaving the harvest to take care of itself, not to mention spending money; and all for nothing but my own love of adventure and fun. But I was sure that my coat of arms and title would turn all that complaining into admiration.
And so it fell out, to a greater extent than even I desired; for all the parishes round about united in a sumptuous dinner, at the Mother Melldrum inn—for now that good lady was dead, and her name and face set on a sign-post—to which I was invited, so that it was as good as a summons. And if my health was no better next day, it was not from want of good wishes, any more than from stint of the liquor.
And so it happened, even more than I wanted; all the local parishes came together for a lavish dinner at the Mother Melldrum inn—since that kind woman had passed away, and her name and face were now on a sign—where I was invited, which felt like an obligation. And if I didn't feel any better the next day, it wasn't for lack of good wishes, nor because there wasn't enough to drink.
It is needless to say that the real gentry for a long time treated my new honours with contempt and ridicule; but gradually as they found that I was not such a fool as to claim any equality with them, but went about my farm-work, and threw another man at wrestling, and touched my hat to the magistrates, just the same as ever; some gentlemen of the highest blood—of which we think a great deal more than of gold, around our neighbourhood—actually expressed a desire to make my acquaintance. And when, in a manner quite straightforward, and wholly free from bitterness, I thanked them for this (which appeared to me the highest honour yet offered me), but declined to go into their company because it would make me uncomfortable, and themselves as well, in a different way, they did what nearly all Englishmen do, when a thing is right and sensible. They shook hands with me; and said that they could not deny but that there was reason in my view of the matter. And although they themselves must be the losers—which was a handsome thing to say—they would wait until I was a little older and more aware of my own value.
It's unnecessary to say that the local gentry looked at my new honors with disdain and mockery for a long time. But gradually, as they realized I wasn’t foolish enough to claim any equality with them, and continued with my farm work, beat another guy in wrestling, and tipped my hat to the magistrates just like before, some gentlemen of high status—something we value much more than wealth in our area—actually wanted to get to know me. When I straightforwardly thanked them for this (which I considered the greatest honor I could receive) but declined to join their company because it would make both me and them uncomfortable, they did what almost all Englishmen do when something makes sense. They shook my hand and admitted that they couldn't deny there was some truth to my viewpoint. And although they knew they would be missing out—which was a gracious thing to say—they said they would wait until I was a bit older and more aware of my own worth.
Now this reminds me how it is that an English gentleman is so far in front of foreign noblemen and princes. I have seen at times, a little, both of one and of the other, and making more than due allowance for the difficulties of language, and the difference of training, upon the whole, the balance is in favour of our people. And this, because we have two weights, solid and (even in scale of manners) outweighing all light complaisance; to wit, the inborn love of justice, and the power of abiding.
This makes me think about how English gentlemen stand out compared to foreign nobles and princes. I've seen a bit of both, and even accounting for language barriers and different backgrounds, our people generally come out on top. This is because we have two strong qualities that overshadow any superficial charm: a natural love for justice and the ability to endure.
Yet some people may be surprised that men with any love of justice, whether inborn or otherwise, could continue to abide the arrogance, and rapacity, and tyranny of the Doones.
Yet some people might be surprised that men who care about justice, whether it's natural or not, could still tolerate the arrogance, greed, and tyranny of the Doones.
For now as the winter passed, the Doones were not keeping themselves at home, as in honour they were bound to do. Twenty sheep a week, and one fat ox, and two stout red deer (for wholesome change of diet), as well as threescore bushels of flour, and two hogsheads and a half of cider, and a hundredweight of candles, not to mention other things of almost every variety which they got by insisting upon it—surely these might have sufficed to keep the people in their place, with no outburst of wantonness. Nevertheless, it was not so; they had made complaint about something—too much ewe-mutton, I think it was—and in spite of all the pledges given, they had ridden forth, and carried away two maidens of our neighbourhood.
For now, as winter passed, the Doones weren’t staying at home, as they were supposed to. Twenty sheep a week, one fat ox, and two hefty red deer (for a change in diet), along with sixty bushels of flour, two and a half hogsheads of cider, and a hundredweight of candles, not to mention a variety of other things they insisted on—surely these should have been enough to keep the people in line, with no outburst of unruliness. Still, that wasn’t the case; they complained about something—too much ewe-mutton, I think—and despite all the promises they made, they rode out and took two young women from our neighborhood.
Now these two maidens were known, because they had served the beer at an ale-house; and many men who had looked at them, over a pint or quart vessel (especially as they were comely girls), thought that it was very hard for them to go in that way, and perhaps themselves unwilling. And their mother (although she had taken some money, which the Doones were always full of) declared that it was a robbery; and though it increased for a while the custom, that must soon fall off again. And who would have her two girls now, clever as they were and good?
Now, these two young women were known because they had served beer at a pub, and many men who had seen them over a pint (especially since they were attractive girls) thought it was unfair for them to live that way, and perhaps they were reluctant themselves. Their mother, even though she had taken some money (which the Doones always had plenty of), claimed it was a robbery. Although it boosted business for a while, that would eventually decline. Who would want her two daughters now, as clever and good as they were?
Before we had finished meditating upon this loose outrage—for so I at least would call it, though people accustomed to the law may take a different view of it—we had news of a thing far worse, which turned the hearts of our women sick. This I will tell in most careful language, so as to give offence to none, if skill of words may help it.*
Before we had finished reflecting on this shocking incident—for that’s how I would describe it, even though those familiar with the law might see it differently—we received news of something much worse, which made our women feel ill. I will share this using very careful language, in hopes of offending no one, if careful wording can achieve that.*
* The following story is strictly true; and true it is that
the country-people rose, to a man, at this dastard cruelty,
and did what the Government failed to do.—Ed. L.D.
* The following story is completely true; and it is true that the local people united against this cowardly act and did what the Government failed to accomplish.—Ed. L.D.
Mistress Margery Badcock, a healthy and upright young woman, with a good rich colour, and one of the finest hen-roosts anywhere round our neighbourhood, was nursing her child about six of the clock, and looking out for her husband. Now this child was too old to be nursed, as everybody told her; for he could run, say two yards alone, and perhaps four or five, by holding to handles. And he had a way of looking round, and spreading his legs, and laughing, with his brave little body well fetched up, after a desperate journey to the end of the table, which his mother said nothing could equal. Nevertheless, he would come to be nursed, as regular as a clock, almost; and, inasmuch as he was the first, both father and mother made much of him; for God only knew whether they could ever compass such another one.
Mistress Margery Badcock, a healthy and sturdy young woman with a vibrant complexion and one of the best henhouses in our neighborhood, was nursing her child around six o'clock while waiting for her husband. Now this child was too big to be nursed, as everyone told her; he could run about two yards on his own and maybe four or five by holding onto furniture. He had a way of looking around, spreading his legs, and laughing, with his brave little body all geared up after making a daring trek to the end of the table, which his mother claimed was unmatched. Still, he would come to be nursed almost like clockwork, and since he was their first, both parents doted on him because only God knew if they could ever have another like him.
Christopher Badcock was a tenant farmer, in the parish of Martinhoe, renting some fifty acres of land, with a right of common attached to them; and at this particular time, being now the month of February, and fine open weather, he was hard at work ploughing and preparing for spring corn. Therefore his wife was not surprised although the dusk was falling, that farmer Christopher should be at work in “blind man's holiday,” as we call it.
Christopher Badcock was a tenant farmer in the parish of Martinhoe, renting about fifty acres of land with common rights. At this time, in February, with nice clear weather, he was busy plowing and getting ready for spring crops. So, his wife wasn't surprised, even though it was getting dark, that Farmer Christopher was working during “blind man's holiday,” as we call it.
But she was surprised, nay astonished, when by the light of the kitchen fire (brightened up for her husband), she saw six or seven great armed men burst into the room upon her; and she screamed so that the maid in the back kitchen heard her, but was afraid to come to help. Two of the strongest and fiercest men at once seized poor young Margery; and though she fought for her child and home, she was but an infant herself in their hands. In spite of tears, and shrieks, and struggles, they tore the babe from the mother's arms, and cast it on the lime ash floor; then they bore her away to their horses (for by this time she was senseless), and telling the others to sack the house, rode off with their prize to the valley. And from the description of one of those two, who carried off the poor woman, I knew beyond all doubt that it was Carver Doone himself.
But she was surprised, even shocked, when she saw six or seven armed men burst into the room, lit by the kitchen fire that her husband had stoked for her. She screamed so loudly that the maid in the back kitchen heard her, but was too scared to come help. Two of the strongest and fiercest men immediately grabbed poor young Margery; and even though she fought for her child and home, she was like a child herself in their grips. Despite her tears, screams, and struggles, they ripped the baby from her arms and threw it onto the lime ash floor. Then they took her away to their horses (by this time she was unconscious) and told the others to loot the house before riding off with their prize to the valley. From the description of one of the two who took the poor woman, I knew for sure that it was Carver Doone himself.
The other Doones being left behind, and grieved perhaps in some respects, set to with a will to scour the house, and to bring away all that was good to eat. And being a little vexed herein (for the Badcocks were not a rich couple) and finding no more than bacon, and eggs, and cheese, and little items, and nothing to drink but water; in a word, their taste being offended, they came back, to the kitchen, and stamped; and there was the baby lying.
The other Doones, feeling a bit left out and maybe upset in some ways, got to work clearing the house and grabbing whatever food they could find. A little annoyed by this (since the Badcocks weren’t wealthy), they found only bacon, eggs, cheese, and a few small things, with nothing to drink but water. In short, they were disappointed by the lack of variety, so they went back to the kitchen in frustration, where the baby was lying.
By evil luck, this child began to squeal about his mother, having been petted hitherto, and wont to get all he wanted, by raising his voice but a little. Now the mark of the floor was upon his head, as the maid (who had stolen to look at him, when the rough men were swearing upstairs) gave evidence. And she put a dish-cloth under his head, and kissed him, and ran away again. Her name was Honour Jose, and she meant what was right by her master and mistress; but could not help being frightened. And many women have blamed her, as I think unduly, for her mode of forsaking baby so. If it had been her own baby, instinct rather than reason might have had the day with her; but the child being born of her mistress, she wished him good luck, and left him, as the fierce men came downstairs. And being alarmed by their power of language (because they had found no silver), she crept away in a breathless hurry, and afraid how her breath might come back to her. For oftentime she had hiccoughs.
By bad luck, this child started crying for his mother, having been spoiled until now, and used to getting whatever he wanted by just raising his voice a little. Now the mark on the floor was on his head, as the maid (who had sneaked in to look at him while the rough men were cursing upstairs) testified. She placed a dishcloth under his head, kissed him, and ran away again. Her name was Honour Jose, and she meant well for her master and mistress but couldn't help feeling scared. Many women have unfairly criticized her for the way she abandoned the baby like that. If it had been her own baby, instinct rather than reason might have taken over; but because the child was her mistress's, she wished him good luck and left him as the angry men came downstairs. Alarmed by their foul language (since they hadn’t found any silver), she scrambled away in a breathless hurry, terrified of how her breathing might betray her. She often got hiccups.
While this good maid was in the oven, by side of back-kitchen fireplace, with a faggot of wood drawn over her, and lying so that her own heart beat worse than if she were baking; the men (as I said before) came downstairs, and stamped around the baby.
While this good maid was by the oven, next to the back-kitchen fireplace, with a bundle of wood placed over her, lying there as if her own heart was beating worse than if she were baking; the men (as I mentioned before) came downstairs and stomped around the baby.
“Rowland, is the bacon good?” one of them asked with an oath or two; “it is too bad of Carver to go off with the only prize, and leave us in a starving cottage; and not enough to eat for two of us. Fetch down the staves of the rack, my boy. What was farmer to have for supper?”
“Rowland, is the bacon good?” one of them asked, cursing a bit; “it's really unfair of Carver to take off with the only prize, leaving us in this starving cottage with barely enough to eat for the two of us. Bring down the staves from the rack, my boy. What was the farmer supposed to have for supper?”
“Naught but an onion or two, and a loaf and a rasher of rusty bacon. These poor devils live so badly, they are not worth robbing.”
“Just an onion or two, a loaf of bread, and a slice of old bacon. These poor guys live so poorly, they aren't even worth robbing.”
“No game! Then let us have a game of loriot with the baby! It will be the best thing that could befall a lusty infant heretic. Ride a cock-horse to Banbury Cross. Bye, bye, baby Bunting; toss him up, and let me see if my wrist be steady.”
“No game! Then let’s play a game of loriot with the baby! It’ll be the best thing for a lively little heretic. Ride a cock-horse to Banbury Cross. Bye, bye, baby Bunting; toss him up and let me see if I can keep my hand steady.”
The cruelty of this man is a thing it makes me sick to speak of; enough that when the poor baby fell (without attempt at cry or scream, thinking it part of his usual play, when they tossed him up, to come down again), the maid in the oven of the back-kitchen, not being any door between, heard them say as follows,—
The cruelty of this man is something that makes me sick to talk about; enough that when the poor baby fell (without crying or screaming, thinking it was just part of his usual play when they tossed him up, to come down again), the maid in the back kitchen heard them say the following,—
“If any man asketh who killed thee,
Say 'twas the Doones of Bagworthy.'*
* Always pronounced “Badgery.”
“If anyone asks who killed you,
say it was the Doones of Bagworthy.”*
* Always pronounced “Badgery.”Now I think that when we heard this story, and poor Kit Badcock came all around, in a sort of half-crazy manner, not looking up at any one, but dropping his eyes, and asking whether we thought he had been well-treated, and seeming void of regard for life, if this were all the style of it; then having known him a lusty man, and a fine singer in an ale-house, and much inclined to lay down the law, as show a high hand about women, I really think that it moved us more than if he had gone about ranting, and raving, and vowing revenge upon every one.
Now I believe that when we heard this story, and poor Kit Badcock came around in a sort of half-crazy way, not looking at anyone but dropping his eyes and asking if we thought he had been treated fairly, seeming indifferent to life, as if this were all there was to it; having known him as a strong man, a great singer in a pub, and someone who liked to assert his opinions, especially about women, I honestly think that it affected us more than if he had been ranting, raving, and swearing revenge against everyone.
CHAPTER LXX
COMPELLED TO VOLUNTEER
There had been some trouble in our own home during the previous autumn, while yet I was in London. For certain noted fugitives from the army of King Monmouth (which he himself had deserted, in a low and currish manner), having failed to obtain free shipment from the coast near Watersmouth, had returned into the wilds of Exmoor, trusting to lurk, and be comforted among the common people. Neither were they disappointed, for a certain length of time; nor in the end was their disappointment caused by fault on our part. Major Wade was one of them; an active and well-meaning man; but prone to fail in courage, upon lasting trial; although in a moment ready. Squire John Whichehalse (not the baron) and Parson Powell* caught him (two or three months before my return) in Farley farmhouse, near Brendon. He had been up at our house several times; and Lizzie thought a great deal of him. And well I know that if at that time I had been in the neighbourhood, he should not have been taken so easily.
There had been some issues at home the previous autumn while I was still in London. Certain well-known fugitives from King Monmouth's army (whom he himself had abandoned in a cowardly fashion), having failed to get a free ride from the coast near Watersmouth, returned to the wilds of Exmoor, hoping to hide out and find support among the locals. They weren’t disappointed for a while, and ultimately, their disappointment wasn’t due to anything we did. Major Wade was one of them; an active and well-meaning man, but he often struggled with courage over time, even though he was ready in the moment. Squire John Whichehalse (not the baron) and Parson Powell caught him a couple of months before I got back, at Farley farmhouse near Brendon. He had visited our house several times, and Lizzie thought a lot of him. I know that if I had been in the area at that time, he wouldn’t have been taken so easily.
* Not our parson Bowden, nor any more a friend of his. Our
Parson Bowden never had naught whatever to do with it; and
never smoked a pipe with Parson Powell after it.—J.R.
* Not our Parson Bowden, nor any friend of his. Our Parson Bowden had nothing to do with it at all; and never smoked a pipe with Parson Powell afterwards.—J.R.
John Birch, the farmer who had sheltered him, was so fearful of punishment, that he hanged himself, in a few days' time, and even before he was apprehended. But nothing was done to Grace Howe, of Bridgeball, who had been Wade's greatest comforter; neither was anything done to us; although Eliza had added greatly to mother's alarm and danger by falling upon Rector Powell, and most soundly rating him for his meanness, and his cruelty, and cowardice, as she called it, in setting men with firearms upon a poor helpless fugitive, and robbing all our neighbourhood of its fame for hospitality. However, by means of Sergeant Bloxham, and his good report of us, as well as by virtue of Wade's confession (which proved of use to the Government) my mother escaped all penalties.
John Birch, the farmer who had hidden him, was so scared of being punished that he hanged himself within a few days, even before he got caught. But nothing happened to Grace Howe from Bridgeball, who had been Wade's biggest supporter; nor was anything done to us, even though Eliza had added to my mother's alarm and danger by confronting Rector Powell and scolding him harshly for his meanness, cruelty, and cowardice, as she put it, for sending armed men after a poor, helpless fugitive and ruining our neighborhood's reputation for hospitality. However, thanks to Sergeant Bloxham and his positive report about us, along with Wade's confession (which helped the Government), my mother avoided any penalties.
It is likely enough that good folk will think it hard upon our neighbourhood to be threatened, and sometimes heavily punished, for kindness and humanity; and yet to be left to help ourselves against tyranny, and base rapine. And now at last our gorge was risen, and our hearts in tumult. We had borne our troubles long, as a wise and wholesome chastisement; quite content to have some few things of our own unmeddled with. But what could a man dare to call his own, or what right could he have to wish for it, while he left his wife and children at the pleasure of any stranger?
Good people will probably find it really unfair for our community to be threatened and sometimes harshly punished for showing kindness and compassion; yet we are left to fend for ourselves against oppression and senseless violence. Finally, we reached our breaking point, and our hearts were in turmoil. We had endured our troubles for a long time, thinking of it as wise and necessary discipline; we were quite happy to have a few things of our own that were untouched. But what could anyone legitimately call their own, or what right did they have to want it, while leaving their wife and children at the mercy of any stranger?
The people came flocking all around me, at the blacksmith's forge, and the Brendon alehouse; and I could scarce come out of church, but they got me among the tombstones. They all agreed that I was bound to take command and management. I bade them go to the magistrates, but they said they had been too often. Then I told them that I had no wits for ordering of an armament, although I could find fault enough with the one which had not succeeded. But they would hearken to none of this.
People crowded around me at the blacksmith's forge and the Brendon alehouse; I could barely leave church without being cornered among the tombstones. Everyone insisted that I was meant to take charge and lead. I suggested they approach the magistrates, but they said they had done that too many times already. I explained that I wasn't skilled in organizing a military force, even though I had plenty of criticisms for the one that had failed. But they wouldn’t listen to any of that.
All they said was “Try to lead us; and we will try not to run away.”
All they said was, “Try to lead us, and we’ll try not to run away.”
This seemed to me to be common sense, and good stuff, instead of mere bragging; moreover, I myself was moved by the bitter wrongs of Margery, having known her at the Sunday-school, ere ever I went to Tiverton; and having in those days, serious thoughts of making her my sweetheart; although she was three years my elder. But now I felt this difficulty—the Doones had behaved very well to our farm, and to mother, and all of us, while I was away in London. Therefore, would it not be shabby, and mean, for me to attack them now?
This seemed like common sense to me, and it made sense, rather than just boasting; besides, I was really affected by the deep injustices Margery faced, having known her at Sunday school before I ever went to Tiverton. Back then, I seriously considered making her my girlfriend, even though she was three years older than me. But now I felt conflicted—the Doones had treated our farm, my mom, and all of us well while I was away in London. So, wouldn’t it be petty and unfair for me to go after them now?
Yet being pressed still harder and harder, as day by day the excitement grew (with more and more talking over it), and no one else coming forward to undertake the business, I agreed at last to this; that if the Doones, upon fair challenge, would not endeavour to make amends by giving up Mistress Margery, as well as the man who had slain the babe, then I would lead the expedition, and do my best to subdue them. All our men were content with this, being thoroughly well assured from experience, that the haughty robbers would only shoot any man who durst approach them with such proposal.
Yet being pressed harder and harder, as day by day the excitement grew (with more and more discussions about it), and no one else stepping up to take on the task, I finally agreed to this: if the Doones, upon a fair challenge, would not try to make amends by handing over Mistress Margery, as well as the man who had killed the babe, then I would lead the expedition and do my best to subdue them. All our men were fine with this, being well aware from experience that the arrogant robbers would only shoot anyone who dared approach them with such a proposal.
And then arose a difficult question—who was to take the risk of making overtures so unpleasant? I waited for the rest to offer; and as none was ready, the burden fell on me, and seemed to be of my own inviting. Hence I undertook the task, sooner than reason about it; for to give the cause of everything is worse than to go through with it.
And then a tough question came up—who would take the risk of making such an uncomfortable approach? I waited for the others to step up; but since no one did, the responsibility fell to me, and it felt like I had invited it myself. So, I took on the task, faster than I could think it through; because trying to explain everything is worse than just dealing with it.
It may have been three of the afternoon, when leaving my witnesses behind (for they preferred the background) I appeared with our Lizzie's white handkerchief upon a kidney-bean stick, at the entrance to the robbers' dwelling. Scarce knowing what might come of it, I had taken the wise precaution of fastening a Bible over my heart, and another across my spinal column, in case of having to run away, with rude men shooting after me. For my mother said that the Word of God would stop a two-inch bullet, with three ounces of powder behind it. Now I took no weapons, save those of the Spirit, for fear of being misunderstood. But I could not bring myself to think that any of honourable birth would take advantage of an unarmed man coming in guise of peace to them.
It was around three in the afternoon when I left my witnesses behind (since they preferred to stay in the background) and approached the robbers' place with Lizzie's white handkerchief on a kidney-bean stick. Not really knowing what might happen, I had taken the sensible step of tucking a Bible over my heart and another across my back, in case I needed to run away with rough men shooting at me. My mother always said that the Word of God could stop a two-inch bullet with three ounces of powder behind it. I didn't carry any weapons, just those of the Spirit, to avoid being misunderstood. But I couldn’t bring myself to believe that anyone of noble birth would take advantage of an unarmed man coming to them in peace.
And this conclusion of mine held good, at least for a certain length of time; inasmuch as two decent Doones appeared, and hearing of my purpose, offered, without violence, to go and fetch the Captain; if I would stop where I was, and not begin to spy about anything. To this, of course, I agreed at once; for I wanted no more spying, because I had thorough knowledge of all ins and outs already. Therefore, I stood waiting steadily, with one hand in my pocket feeling a sample of corn for market; and the other against the rock, while I wondered to see it so brown already.
And my conclusion stayed true, at least for a while; since two decent Doones showed up and, after hearing what I wanted to do, offered—without any aggression—to go get the Captain if I promised to stay put and not snoop around. I quickly agreed because I didn’t want to snoop anymore; I already knew everything inside and out. So, I stood there waiting calmly, with one hand in my pocket feeling a sample of corn for the market and the other hand resting against the rock, wondering how it had already turned so brown.
Those men came back in a little while, with a sharp short message that Captain Carver would come out and speak to me by-and-by, when his pipe was finished. Accordingly, I waited long, and we talked about the signs of bloom for the coming apple season, and the rain that had fallen last Wednesday night, and the principal dearth of Devonshire, that it will not grow many cowslips—which we quite agreed to be the prettiest of spring flowers; and all the time I was wondering how many black and deadly deeds these two innocent youths had committed, even since last Christmas.
Those guys came back a little later with a brief message that Captain Carver would come out to talk to me soon, after he finished his pipe. So, I waited for a while, and we chatted about the signs of blossoms for the upcoming apple season, the rain that had fallen last Wednesday night, and the main shortage in Devonshire, which doesn’t grow many cowslips—something we both agreed are the most beautiful spring flowers. All the while, I was wondering how many dark and dangerous things these two seemingly innocent young men had done since last Christmas.
At length, a heavy and haughty step sounded along the stone roof of the way; and then the great Carver Doone drew up, and looked at me rather scornfully. Not with any spoken scorn, nor flash of strong contumely; but with that air of thinking little, and praying not to be troubled, which always vexes a man who feels that he ought not to be despised so, and yet knows not how to help it.
At last, a heavy and proud step echoed on the stone roof of the path; then the great Carver Doone approached and looked at me with a hint of scorn. Not with any spoken contempt or a sharp insult, but with an attitude that showed he thought very little of me and wished not to be bothered. This always annoys a person who feels he shouldn't be looked down upon like that, yet doesn't know how to change it.
“What is it you want, young man?” he asked, as if he had never seen me before.
“What do you want, young man?” he asked, as if he had never seen me before.
In spite of that strong loathing which I always felt at sight of him, I commanded my temper moderately, and told him that I was come for his good, and that of his worshipful company, far more than for my own. That a general feeling of indignation had arisen among us at the recent behaviour of certain young men, for which he might not be answerable, and for which we would not condemn him, without knowing the rights of the question. But I begged him clearly to understand that a vile and inhuman wrong had been done, and such as we could not put up with; but that if he would make what amends he could by restoring the poor woman, and giving up that odious brute who had slain the harmless infant, we would take no further motion; and things should go on as usual. As I put this in the fewest words that would meet my purpose, I was grieved to see a disdainful smile spread on his sallow countenance. Then he made me a bow of mock courtesy, and replied as follows,—
Despite the strong hatred I always felt when I saw him, I kept my temper in check and told him that I was there for his benefit and that of his respectable group, much more than for my own. A general sense of outrage had emerged among us regarding the recent behavior of certain young men, which he might not be responsible for, and we wouldn’t judge him without knowing all the facts. But I urged him to understand clearly that a terrible and inhumane wrong had been committed, one that we could not tolerate; however, if he could make amends by returning the poor woman and surrendering the despicable brute who had killed the innocent child, we would not take any further action, and everything could go back to normal. As I expressed this in as few words as possible to achieve my goal, I was saddened to see a scornful smile spread across his pale face. He then gave me a mocking bow and replied as follows,—
“Sir John, your new honours have turned your poor head, as might have been expected. We are not in the habit of deserting anything that belongs to us; far less our sacred relatives. The insolence of your demand well-nigh outdoes the ingratitude. If there be a man upon Exmoor who has grossly ill-used us, kidnapped our young women, and slain half a dozen of our young men, you are that outrageous rogue, Sir John. And after all this, how have we behaved? We have laid no hand upon your farm, we have not carried off your women, we have even allowed you to take our Queen, by creeping and crawling treachery; and we have given you leave of absence to help your cousin the highwayman, and to come home with a title. And now, how do you requite us? By inflaming the boorish indignation at a little frolic of our young men; and by coming with insolent demands, to yield to which would ruin us. Ah, you ungrateful viper!”
"Sir John, the new honors have gone to your head, as we might have expected. We don’t abandon what belongs to us, especially not our family. The arrogance of your request is almost more than we can bear. If there’s anyone on Exmoor who has treated us poorly, kidnapped our young women, and killed several of our young men, it’s you, Sir John, the scoundrel. And after everything, how have we acted? We haven't touched your land, we haven't taken your women, and we even let you take our Queen through your sneaky tricks; we even gave you permission to help your cousin the highwayman and return with a title. And now, how do you repay us? By stirring up the anger of the people over a minor prank from our young men and by making arrogant demands that could destroy us. Ah, you ungrateful snake!"
As he turned away in sorrow from me, shaking his head at my badness, I became so overcome (never having been quite assured, even by people's praises, about my own goodness); moreover, the light which he threw upon things differed so greatly from my own, that, in a word—not to be too long—I feared that I was a villain. And with many bitter pangs—for I have bad things to repent of—I began at my leisure to ask myself whether or not this bill of indictment against John Ridd was true. Some of it I knew to be (however much I condemned myself) altogether out of reason; for instance, about my going away with Lorna very quietly, over the snow, and to save my love from being starved away from me. In this there was no creeping neither crawling treachery; for all was done with sliding; and yet I was so out of training for being charged by other people beyond mine own conscience, that Carver Doone's harsh words came on me, like prickly spinach sown with raking. Therefore I replied, and said,—
As he walked away from me in sadness, shaking his head at my faults, I felt so overwhelmed (never fully convinced, even by others’ compliments, about my own goodness); besides, the perspective he had on things was so different from mine that, to put it simply—I started to worry that I might be a villain. And with many painful thoughts—because I have things I need to atone for—I began to take my time considering whether this accusation against John Ridd was valid. Some of it I knew was (no matter how much I blamed myself) completely unreasonable; for example, the part about quietly leaving with Lorna, across the snow, to protect my love from being starved away from me. In that, there was no sneaky or deceptive betrayal; everything was done openly. Yet, I was so unaccustomed to being judged by others beyond my own conscience that Carver Doone's harsh words hit me like prickly spinach scattered with a rake. So I responded and said,—
“It is true that I owe you gratitude, sir, for a certain time of forbearance; and it is to prove my gratitude that I am come here now. I do not think that my evil deeds can be set against your own; although I cannot speak flowingly upon my good deeds as you can. I took your Queen because you starved her, having stolen her long before, and killed her mother and brother. This is not for me to dwell upon now; any more than I would say much about your murdering of my father. But how the balance hangs between us, God knows better than thou or I, thou low miscreant, Carver Doone.”
“I admit that I owe you thanks, sir, for being patient with me for a while; and it's to show my gratitude that I've come here now. I don’t believe my wrongdoings can compare to yours, even though I can't talk about my good deeds as easily as you can. I took your Queen because you mistreated her, having stolen her long before and killed her mother and brother. There's no point in me dwelling on that now, just as I wouldn’t say much about you murdering my father. But how the scale tips between us, only God knows better than you or I, you lowly scoundrel, Carver Doone.”
I had worked myself up, as I always do, in the manner of heavy men; growing hot like an ill-washered wheel revolving, though I start with a cool axle; and I felt ashamed of myself for heat, and ready to ask pardon. But Carver Doone regarded me with a noble and fearless grandeur.
I had worked myself up, as I always do, like heavy men do; getting heated like a poorly cleaned wheel turning, even though I started with a cool axle; and I felt embarrassed for feeling hot and ready to apologize. But Carver Doone looked at me with a noble and fearless presence.
“I have given thee thy choice, John Ridd,” he said in a lofty manner, which made me drop away under him; “I always wish to do my best with the worst people who come near me. And of all I have ever met with thou art the very worst, Sir John, and the most dishonest.”
“I’ve given you your choice, John Ridd,” he said in a haughty way, making me feel small; “I always try to do my best with the worst people I encounter. And of everyone I’ve ever met, you are by far the worst, Sir John, and the most dishonest.”
Now after all my labouring to pay every man to a penny, and to allow the women over, when among the couch-grass (which is a sad thing for their gowns), to be charged like this, I say, so amazed me that I stood, with my legs quite open, and ready for an earthquake. And the scornful way in which he said “Sir John,” went to my very heart, reminding me of my littleness. But seeing no use in bandying words, nay, rather the chance of mischief, I did my best to look calmly at him, and to say with a quiet voice, “Farewell, Carver Doone, this time, our day of reckoning is nigh.”
Now, after all my hard work to pay everyone down to the last penny and to let the women pass without charges, when I found myself among the couch-grass (which really ruins their dresses), I was so shocked that I just stood there, legs wide apart, ready for an earthquake. The way he scornfully called me “Sir John” hit me right in the heart, reminding me of how insignificant I felt. But seeing no point in arguing, and recognizing that it could lead to trouble, I tried my best to remain calm and said in a steady voice, “Goodbye, Carver Doone, this time, our day of reckoning is coming soon.”
“Thou fool, it is come,” he cried, leaping aside into the niche of rock by the doorway; “Fire!”
“You're an idiot, it's here,” he shouted, jumping into the rock crevice by the door; “Fire!”
Save for the quickness of spring, and readiness, learned in many a wrestling bout, that knavish trick must have ended me; but scarce was the word “fire!” out of his mouth ere I was out of fire, by a single bound behind the rocky pillar of the opening. In this jump I was so brisk, at impulse of the love of life (for I saw the muzzles set upon me from the darkness of the cavern), that the men who had trained their guns upon me with goodwill and daintiness, could not check their fingers crooked upon the heavy triggers; and the volley sang with a roar behind it, down the avenue of crags.
Aside from the speed of spring and the quick reflexes gained from many wrestling matches, that sneaky trick would have been the end of me; but barely had he shouted “fire!” when I was already out of sight, making a single leap behind the rocky pillar at the entrance. In that jump, I was so quick, driven by the instinct to survive (since I saw the guns aimed at me from the darkness of the cave), that the men who had carefully trained their guns on me couldn’t control their fingers on the heavy triggers; and the gunfire erupted like a roar behind me, echoing down the rocky passage.
With one thing and another, and most of all the treachery of this dastard scheme, I was so amazed that I turned and ran, at the very top of my speed, away from these vile fellows; and luckily for me, they had not another charge to send after me. And thus by good fortune, I escaped; but with a bitter heart, and mind at their treacherous usage.
With everything going on, especially the betrayal of this horrible plan, I was so shocked that I turned and ran as fast as I could away from these terrible guys; and fortunately for me, they didn't have another shot to take at me. So, by a stroke of luck, I got away; but with a heavy heart and a mind full of their treachery.
Without any further hesitation; I agreed to take command of the honest men who were burning to punish, ay and destroy, those outlaws, as now beyond all bearing. One condition, however, I made, namely, that the Counsellor should be spared if possible; not because he was less a villain than any of the others, but that he seemed less violent; and above all, had been good to Annie. And I found hard work to make them listen to my wish upon this point; for of all the Doones, Sir Counsellor had made himself most hated, by his love of law and reason.
Without any further hesitation, I agreed to lead the honest men who were eager to punish and even destroy those outlaws, as it had become unbearable. However, I made one condition: the Counsellor should be spared if possible. Not because he was any less of a villain than the others, but because he seemed less violent and, above all, had been good to Annie. It was hard work to get them to listen to my request on this matter because of all the Doones, Sir Counsellor was the most hated due to his love of law and reason.
We arranged that all our men should come and fall into order with pike and musket, over against our dung-hill, and we settled early in the day, that their wives might come and look at them. For most of these men had good wives; quite different from sweethearts, such as the militia had; women indeed who could hold to a man, and see to him, and bury him—if his luck were evil—and perhaps have no one afterwards. And all these women pressed their rights upon their precious husbands, and brought so many children with them, and made such a fuss, and hugging, and racing after little legs, that our farm-yard might be taken for an out-door school for babies rather than a review ground.
We organized for all our guys to line up with their pikes and muskets by the dung heap, and we decided early in the day that their wives could come to see them. Most of these men had great wives, very different from the sweethearts of the militia; these women could stick by a man, take care of him, and bury him—if he faced bad luck—and perhaps end up alone afterward. All these women insisted on their rights with their beloved husbands, bringing so many kids along and causing such a commotion, chasing after little ones, that our farmyard looked more like an outdoor preschool than a parade ground.
I myself was to and fro among the children continually; for if I love anything in the world, foremost I love children. They warm, and yet they cool our hearts, as we think of what we were, and what in young clothes we hoped to be; and how many things have come across. And to see our motives moving in the little things that know not what their aim or object is, must almost or ought at least, to lead us home, and soften us. For either end of life is home; both source and issue being God.
I was constantly going back and forth among the kids because if there's anything I love in this world, it's children. They bring warmth, yet also coolness to our hearts as we reflect on who we were and what we hoped to become in our youthful days, and how many things have happened since then. Watching our intentions at play in these little ones who don’t understand their purpose should really lead us back to our roots and make us more compassionate. Because in the end, both the beginning and the conclusion of life lead us home, with God being both our source and our ultimate destination.
Nevertheless, I must confess that the children were a plague sometimes. They never could have enough of me—being a hundred to one, you might say—but I had more than enough of them; and yet was not contented. For they had so many ways of talking, and of tugging at my hair, and of sitting upon my neck (not even two with their legs alike), and they forced me to jump so vehemently, seeming to court the peril of my coming down neck and crop with them, and urging me still to go faster, however fast I might go with them; I assure you that they were sometimes so hard and tyrannical over me, that I might almost as well have been among the very Doones themselves.
Nevertheless, I have to admit that the kids were a real handful sometimes. They could never get enough of me—like a hundred to one, you could say—but I had more than enough of them; and yet I wasn't satisfied. They had so many ways of talking, pulling at my hair, and sitting on my neck (not even two with their legs the same), and they made me jump around so wildly, seemingly enjoying the risk of me coming crashing down with them, always urging me to go faster, no matter how fast I was already going; I can tell you that they were sometimes so tough and controlling over me, that I might as well have been with the very Doones themselves.
Nevertheless, the way in which the children made me useful proved also of some use to me; for their mothers were so pleased by the exertions of the “great Gee-gee”—as all the small ones entitled me—that they gave me unlimited power and authority over their husbands; moreover, they did their utmost among their relatives round about, to fetch recruits for our little band. And by such means, several of the yeomanry from Barnstaple, and from Tiverton, were added to our number; and inasmuch as these were armed with heavy swords, and short carabines, their appearance was truly formidable.
Nevertheless, the way the kids made me feel useful ended up being beneficial for me too; their mothers were so happy with the efforts of the "great Gee-gee"—as all the little ones called me—that they gave me unlimited power and authority over their husbands. Plus, they did their best among their relatives nearby to recruit more members for our little group. As a result, several of the local yeoman from Barnstaple and Tiverton joined us, and since they were armed with heavy swords and short carbines, they looked truly impressive.
Tom Faggus also joined us heartily, being now quite healed of his wound, except at times when the wind was easterly. He was made second in command to me; and I would gladly have had him first, as more fertile in expedients; but he declined such rank on the plea that I knew most of the seat of war; besides that I might be held in some measure to draw authority from the King. Also Uncle Ben came over to help us with his advice and presence, as well as with a band of stout warehousemen, whom he brought from Dulverton. For he had never forgiven the old outrage put upon him; and though it had been to his interest to keep quiet during the last attack, under Commander Stickles—for the sake of his secret gold mine—yet now he was in a position to give full vent to his feelings. For he and his partners when fully-assured of the value of their diggings, had obtained from the Crown a licence to adventure in search of minerals, by payment of a heavy fine and a yearly royalty. Therefore they had now no longer any cause for secrecy, neither for dread of the outlaws; having so added to their force as to be a match for them. And although Uncle Ben was not the man to keep his miners idle an hour more than might be helped, he promised that when we had fixed the moment for an assault on the valley, a score of them should come to aid us, headed by Simon Carfax, and armed with the guns which they always kept for the protection of their gold.
Tom Faggus joined us enthusiastically, having fully recovered from his injury, except when the wind was coming from the east. He was made my second-in-command, though I would have preferred him as the first since he was more creative with solutions. However, he refused that position, saying I was more knowledgeable about the battlefield and that I might have some authority from the King. Uncle Ben also came to support us with his advice and presence, along with a group of sturdy warehouse workers he brought from Dulverton. He had never forgotten the past injustice done to him, and while it had been in his interest to stay quiet during the last attack under Commander Stickles—because of his secret gold mine—he was now ready to express his feelings fully. He and his partners, confident in the value of their mines, had secured a license from the Crown to search for minerals by paying a hefty fine and an annual royalty. As a result, they no longer needed to be secretive or fear the outlaws, having bolstered their numbers enough to match them. While Uncle Ben wasn't the type to let his miners be idle any longer than necessary, he promised that once we decided on a time to attack the valley, a dozen of them would come to help us, led by Simon Carfax, and armed with the guns they always kept to protect their gold.
Now whether it were Uncle Ben, or whether it were Tom Faggus or even my own self—for all three of us claimed the sole honour—is more than I think fair to settle without allowing them a voice. But at any rate, a clever thing was devised among us; and perhaps it would be the fairest thing to say that this bright stratagem (worthy of the great Duke himself) was contributed, little by little, among the entire three of us, all having pipes, and schnapps-and-water, in the chimney-corner. However, the world, which always judges according to reputation, vowed that so fine a stroke of war could only come from a highwayman; and so Tom Faggus got all the honour, at less perhaps than a third of the cost.
Now, whether it was Uncle Ben, Tom Faggus, or myself—for all three of us claimed the sole credit—it's unfair to settle that without letting them have a say. But anyway, a clever plan was put together among us; and it might be fairest to say that this brilliant idea (worthy of the great Duke himself) was developed bit by bit by the three of us, all sitting with our pipes and schnapps-and-water by the fireplace. However, the world, which always judges by reputation, insisted that such a clever tactic could only come from a highwayman; so Tom Faggus received all the credit, at perhaps less than a third of the effort.
Not to attempt to rob him of it—for robbers, more than any other, contend for rights of property—let me try to describe this grand artifice. It was known that the Doones were fond of money, as well as strong drink, and other things; and more especially fond of gold, when they could get it pure and fine. Therefore it was agreed that in this way we should tempt them; for we knew that they looked with ridicule upon our rustic preparations; after repulsing King's troopers, and the militia of two counties, was it likely that they should yield their fortress to a set of ploughboys? We, for our part, felt of course, the power of this reasoning, and that where regular troops had failed, half-armed countrymen must fail, except by superior judgment and harmony of action. Though perhaps the militia would have sufficed, if they had only fought against the foe, instead of against each other. From these things we took warning; having failed through over-confidence, was it not possible now to make the enemy fail through the selfsame cause?
Not to try to take it from him—because thieves, more than anyone else, fight for property rights—let me describe this clever plan. It was known that the Doones loved money, strong drink, and other things; and they especially loved gold when they could get it pure and fine. So, we decided to lure them in this way; we knew they looked down on our simple efforts. After defeating the King's soldiers and the militia from two counties, would they really surrender their stronghold to a bunch of farm boys? We, for our part, understood the validity of this reasoning and recognized that where regular troops had failed, half-armed country folk would also fail, unless they used better judgment and worked together. Though perhaps the militia could have succeeded if they had only fought the enemy instead of each other. From these observations, we took heed; having failed because of overconfidence, could we now make the enemy fail for the same reason?
Hence, what we devised was this; to delude from home a part of the robbers, and fall by surprise on the other part. We caused it to be spread abroad that a large heap of gold was now collected at the mine of the Wizard's Slough. And when this rumour must have reached them, through women who came to and fro, as some entirely faithful to them were allowed to do, we sent Captain Simon Carfax, the father of little Gwenny, to demand an interview with the Counsellor, by night, and as it were secretly. Then he was to set forth a list of imaginary grievances against the owners of the mine; and to offer partly through resentment, partly through the hope of gain, to betray into their hands, upon the Friday night, by far the greatest weight of gold as yet sent up for refining. He was to have one quarter part, and they to take the residue. But inasmuch as the convoy across the moors, under his command, would be strong, and strongly armed, the Doones must be sure to send not less than a score of men, if possible. He himself, at a place agreed upon, and fit for an ambuscade, would call a halt, and contrive in the darkness to pour a little water into the priming of his company's guns.
So, here’s what we came up with: to mislead some of the robbers away from home and then surprise the rest. We spread the word that a huge stash of gold was collected at the mine at Wizard's Slough. When this rumor reached them, thanks to the women who would come and go, some of whom were loyal to them, we sent Captain Simon Carfax, little Gwenny's dad, to request a secret meeting with the Counsellor at night. He was to present a list of made-up complaints against the mine owners and, partly out of bitterness and partly in hopes of profit, offer to hand over the largest amount of gold yet sent for refining on Friday night. He would take a quarter of it, and they would keep the rest. But since his convoy across the moors would be well-armed and strong, the Doones should send at least twenty men if they could. At a predetermined spot suitable for an ambush, he would halt and, in the darkness, pour a little water into the firing mechanism of his men’s guns.
It cost us some trouble and a great deal of money to bring the sturdy Cornishman into this deceitful part; and perhaps he never would have consented but for his obligation to me, and the wrongs (as he said) of his daughter. However, as he was the man for the task, both from his coolness and courage, and being known to have charge of the mine, I pressed him, until he undertook to tell all the lies we required. And right well he did it too, having once made up his mind to it; and perceiving that his own interests called for the total destruction of the robbers.
It took us a lot of effort and a considerable amount of money to get the tough Cornishman to come to this shady place; and maybe he wouldn't have agreed if it weren't for his obligation to me and the injustices he felt for his daughter. However, since he was the right person for the job, thanks to his calmness and bravery, and because he was already in charge of the mine, I convinced him until he agreed to tell all the lies we needed. And he did it really well, once he set his mind to it, realizing that his own interests required the complete destruction of the thieves.
CHAPTER LXXI
A LONG ACCOUNT SETTLED
Having resolved on a night-assault (as our undisciplined men, three-fourths of whom had never been shot at, could not fairly be expected to march up to visible musket-mouths), we cared not much about drilling our forces, only to teach them to hold a musket, so far as we could supply that weapon to those with the cleverest eyes; and to give them familiarity with the noise it made in exploding. And we fixed upon Friday night for our venture, because the moon would be at the full; and our powder was coming from Dulverton on the Friday afternoon.
Having decided on a night attack (since our undisciplined soldiers, three-quarters of whom had never been shot at, couldn’t reasonably be expected to march up to visible gunfire), we weren’t too worried about training our troops. We just focused on teaching them how to hold a gun, as much as we could supply that weapon to those with the sharpest eyes, and getting them used to the loud bang it made when fired. We chose Friday night for our operation because the moon would be full, and our gunpowder was arriving from Dulverton that Friday afternoon.
Uncle Reuben did not mean to expose himself to shooting, his time of life for risk of life being now well over and the residue too valuable. But his counsels, and his influence, and above all his warehousemen, well practised in beating carpets, were of true service to us. His miners also did great wonders, having a grudge against the Doones; as indeed who had not for thirty miles round their valley?
Uncle Reuben didn’t intend to put himself in harm’s way; he was past the age for taking risks and had too much to lose. But his advice, influence, and especially his warehouse workers, who were skilled at beating carpets, really helped us out. His miners also did impressive work, holding a grudge against the Doones, just like everyone else within thirty miles of their valley.
It was settled that the yeomen, having good horses under them, should give account (with the miners' help) of as many Doones as might be despatched to plunder the pretended gold. And as soon as we knew that this party of robbers, be it more or less, was out of hearing from the valley, we were to fall to, ostensibly at the Doone-gate (which was impregnable now), but in reality upon their rear, by means of my old water-slide. For I had chosen twenty young fellows, partly miners, and partly warehousemen, and sheep farmers, and some of other vocations, but all to be relied upon for spirit and power of climbing. And with proper tools to aid us, and myself to lead the way, I felt no doubt whatever but that we could all attain the crest where first I had met with Lorna.
It was decided that the farmers, who had good horses, would report back (with help from the miners) on as many Doones as might be sent out to steal the supposed gold. As soon as we found out that this group of robbers, no matter how many there were, was out of earshot from the valley, we were to spring into action, pretending to be at the Doone-gate (which was now impossible to break into) but actually hitting them from behind, using my old water-slide. I had picked twenty young guys, some miners and some warehouse workers, sheep farmers, and a few from other jobs, but all reliable for their energy and climbing skills. With the right tools to help us and me leading the way, I had no doubt that we could reach the top where I had first met Lorna.
Upon the whole, I rejoiced that Lorna was not present now. It must have been irksome to her feelings to have all her kindred and old associates (much as she kept aloof from them) put to death without ceremony, or else putting all of us to death. For all of us were resolved this time to have no more shilly-shallying; but to go through with a nasty business, in the style of honest Englishmen, when the question comes to “Your life or mine.”
Overall, I was glad Lorna wasn't here now. It must have been really hard for her to watch all her family and old friends—no matter how much she stayed away from them—be killed without any respect, or else it would mean killing all of us. We were all determined this time to stop hesitating and deal with the situation straightforwardly, like honest Englishmen, when it came down to “Your life or mine.”
There was hardly a man among us who had not suffered bitterly from the miscreants now before us. One had lost his wife perhaps, another had lost a daughter—according to their ages, another had lost his favourite cow; in a word, there was scarcely any one who had not to complain of a hayrick; and what surprised me then, not now, was that the men least injured made the greatest push concerning it. But be the wrong too great to speak of, or too small to swear about, from poor Kit Badcock to rich Master Huckaback, there was not one but went heart and soul for stamping out these firebrands.
There was hardly a man among us who hadn’t suffered greatly from the wrongdoers now in front of us. One had lost his wife, another had lost a daughter—based on their ages, another had lost his favorite cow; in short, nearly everyone had something to complain about. What surprised me then, though not now, was that the men who had been least affected were the most enthusiastic about it. But whether the grievance was too severe to discuss or too trivial to make a fuss over, from poor Kit Badcock to wealthy Master Huckaback, there wasn’t a single person who didn’t wholeheartedly support getting rid of these troublemakers.
The moon was lifting well above the shoulder of the uplands, when we, the chosen band, set forth, having the short cut along the valleys to foot of the Bagworthy water; and therefore having allowed the rest an hour, to fetch round the moors and hills; we were not to begin our climb until we heard a musket fired from the heights on the left-hand side, where John Fry himself was stationed, upon his own and his wife's request; so as to keep out of action. And that was the place where I had been used to sit, and to watch for Lorna. And John Fry was to fire his gun, with a ball of wool inside it, so soon as he heard the hurly-burly at the Doone-gate beginning; which we, by reason of waterfall, could not hear, down in the meadows there.
The moon was rising high above the hills when we, the chosen group, set off, taking the shortcut through the valleys to the base of the Bagworthy water. Having given the others an hour to navigate around the moors and hills, we weren't supposed to start our climb until we heard a musket fired from the heights on the left, where John Fry was stationed, at his own and his wife's request, to stay out of action. That was the spot where I used to sit and wait for Lorna. John Fry would fire his gun, with a ball of wool inside it, as soon as he heard the commotion at the Doone gate starting, which we couldn't hear from down in the meadows because of the waterfall.
We waited a very long time, with the moon marching up heaven steadfastly, and the white fog trembling in chords and columns, like a silver harp of the meadows. And then the moon drew up the fogs, and scarfed herself in white with them; and so being proud, gleamed upon the water, like a bride at her looking-glass; and yet there was no sound of either John Fry, or his blunderbuss.
We waited a long time, with the moon steadily rising in the sky, and the white fog shifting in waves and columns, like a silver harp in the fields. Then the moon pulled up the fog and wrapped herself in white; feeling proud, she shimmered on the water like a bride at her mirror. Yet, there was no sound from either John Fry or his blunderbuss.
I began to think that the worthy John, being out of all danger, and having brought a counterpane (according to his wife's directions, because one of the children had a cold), must veritably have gone to sleep; leaving other people to kill, or be killed, as might be the will of God; so that he were comfortable. But herein I did wrong to John, and am ready to acknowledge it; for suddenly the most awful noise that anything short of thunder could make, came down among the rocks, and went and hung upon the corners.
I started to think that the good John, being out of danger and having brought a blanket (as his wife instructed, since one of the kids had a cold), must have actually fallen asleep, leaving others to fight or be fought as it may be God's will, just so he could be comfortable. But I was wrong about John, and I'm ready to admit it; because suddenly, the most horrifying noise that anything short of thunder could make echoed through the rocks and lingered in the corners.
“The signal, my lads,” I cried, leaping up and rubbing my eyes; for even now, while condemning John unjustly, I was giving him right to be hard upon me. “Now hold on by the rope, and lay your quarter-staffs across, my lads; and keep your guns pointing to heaven, lest haply we shoot one another.”
“The signal, guys,” I shouted, jumping up and rubbing my eyes; because even now, while unfairly judging John, I was giving him a reason to be tough on me. “Now grab the rope, and lay your staffs across, everyone; and keep your guns facing up, so we don’t accidentally shoot each other.”
“Us shan't never shutt one anoother, wi' our goons at that mark, I reckon,” said an oldish chap, but as tough as leather, and esteemed a wit for his dryness.
“We're never going to shut one another out, with our guns at that mark, I guess,” said an older guy, tough as leather, and known for his sharp wit.
“You come next to me, old Ike; you be enough to dry up the waters; now, remember, all lean well forward. If any man throws his weight back, down he goes; and perhaps he may never get up again; and most likely he will shoot himself.”
“You come over here, old Ike; you’ll be enough to dry up the waters; now, remember, lean forward. If anyone leans back, they’re going down; and they might not get back up; and chances are, they’ll end up shooting themselves.”
I was still more afraid of their shooting me; for my chief alarm in this steep ascent was neither of the water nor of the rocks, but of the loaded guns we bore. If any man slipped, off might go his gun, and however good his meaning, I being first was most likely to take far more than I fain would apprehend.
I was even more scared of them shooting me; my main worry during this steep climb wasn’t the water or the rocks, but the loaded guns we were carrying. If anyone slipped, their gun could go off, and no matter how well-intentioned they were, since I was in the front, I was likely to face way more danger than I wanted to.
For this cause, I had debated with Uncle Ben and with Cousin Tom as to the expediency of our climbing with guns unloaded. But they, not being in the way themselves, assured me that there was nothing to fear, except through uncommon clumsiness; and that as for charging our guns at the top, even veteran troops could scarcely be trusted to perform it properly in the hurry, and the darkness, and the noise of fighting before them.
For this reason, I had discussed with Uncle Ben and Cousin Tom whether it was a good idea for us to climb with our guns unloaded. But since they weren't in the way themselves, they told me there was nothing to worry about, except for being exceptionally clumsy; and as for loading our guns at the top, even experienced soldiers could barely be relied upon to do it right in the chaos, darkness, and noise of the battle ahead.
However, thank God, though a gun went off, no one was any the worse for it, neither did the Doones notice it, in the thick of the firing in front of them. For the orders to those of the sham attack, conducted by Tom Faggus, were to make the greatest possible noise, without exposure of themselves; until we, in the rear, had fallen to; which John Fry was again to give the signal of.
However, thank God, even though a gun went off, no one was harmed, and the Doones didn’t notice it amid the heavy firing in front of them. The orders for the fake attack led by Tom Faggus were to make as much noise as possible without revealing themselves, until we in the back got started; John Fry was again supposed to give the signal for that.
Therefore we, of the chosen band, stole up the meadow quietly, keeping in the blots of shade, and hollow of the watercourse. And the earliest notice the Counsellor had, or any one else, of our presence, was the blazing of the log-wood house, where lived that villain Carver. It was my especial privilege to set this house on fire; upon which I had insisted, exclusively and conclusively. No other hand but mine should lay a brand, or strike steel on flint for it; I had made all preparations carefully for a goodly blaze. And I must confess that I rubbed my hands, with a strong delight and comfort, when I saw the home of that man, who had fired so many houses, having its turn of smoke, and blaze, and of crackling fury.
So, we, the chosen group, quietly made our way through the meadow, staying in the shadows and along the water's edge. The first anyone noticed us, including the Counsellor, was when the log cabin where that villain Carver lived went up in flames. It was my special privilege to set this house on fire; I had insisted on it completely. No one else was going to strike the match or even spark the flint for it; I had carefully prepared everything for a real fire. And I have to admit, I rubbed my hands together with great pleasure and satisfaction when I saw the home of that man, who had burned so many houses, finally engulfed in smoke, flames, and crackling chaos.
We took good care, however, to burn no innocent women or children in that most righteous destruction. For we brought them all out beforehand; some were glad, and some were sorry; according to their dispositions. For Carver had ten or a dozen wives; and perhaps that had something to do with his taking the loss of Lorna so easily. One child I noticed, as I saved him; a fair and handsome little fellow, whom (if Carver Doone could love anything on earth beside his wretched self) he did love. The boy climbed on my back and rode; and much as I hated his father, it was not in my heart to say or do a thing to vex him.
We made sure not to harm any innocent women or children in that righteous destruction. We brought them all out ahead of time; some were happy, and some were sad, depending on their personalities. Carver had ten or twelve wives, which might explain why he took Lorna's loss so easily. I noticed one child as I rescued him; a lovely and handsome little boy, whom (if Carver Doone could care for anything in the world besides his miserable self) he actually did love. The boy climbed onto my back and rode there; and even though I despised his father, I couldn’t bring myself to say or do anything to upset him.
Leaving these poor injured people to behold their burning home, we drew aside, by my directions, into the covert beneath the cliff. But not before we had laid our brands to three other houses, after calling the women forth, and bidding them go for their husbands, and to come and fight a hundred of us. In the smoke and rush, and fire, they believed that we were a hundred; and away they ran, in consternation, to the battle at the Doone-gate.
Leaving these poor injured people to watch their burning home, we moved aside, as I instructed, into the cover beneath the cliff. But not before we set fire to three other houses, after calling the women out and telling them to go get their husbands and come fight against a hundred of us. In the smoke and chaos, they believed we were a hundred; and away they ran, in panic, to the battle at the Doone-gate.
“All Doone-town is on fire, on fire!” we heard them shrieking as they went; “a hundred soldiers are burning it, with a dreadful great man at the head of them!”
“All Doone-town is on fire, on fire!” we heard them screaming as they passed; “a hundred soldiers are burning it down, led by a terrifying giant!”
Presently, just as I expected, back came the warriors of the Doones; leaving but two or three at the gate, and burning with wrath to crush under foot the presumptuous clowns in their valley. Just then the waxing fire leaped above the red crest of the cliffs, and danced on the pillars of the forest, and lapped like a tide on the stones of the slope. All the valley flowed with light, and the limpid waters reddened, and the fair young women shone, and the naked children glistened.
Right now, just as I expected, the Doone warriors came back; leaving only a couple of them at the gate, filled with rage to stomp on the arrogant fools in their valley. At that moment, the rising fire soared above the red tops of the cliffs, danced among the trees, and washed over the stones of the slope like a tide. The entire valley glowed with light, the clear waters turned red, the beautiful young women sparkled, and the naked children shined.
But the finest sight of all was to see those haughty men striding down the causeway darkly, reckless of their end, but resolute to have two lives for every one. A finer dozen of young men could not have been found in the world perhaps, nor a braver, nor a viler one.
But the best sight of all was seeing those arrogant men walking down the causeway boldly, unconcerned about their fate, but determined to take two lives for every one. You probably couldn’t find a better group of young men in the world, nor a braver or more wicked one.
Seeing how few there were of them, I was very loath to fire, although I covered the leader, who appeared to be dashing Charley; for they were at easy distance now, brightly shone by the fire-light, yet ignorant where to look for us. I thought that we might take them prisoners—though what good that could be God knows, as they must have been hanged thereafter—anyhow I was loath to shoot, or to give the word to my followers.
Seeing how few of them there were, I really didn’t want to shoot, even though I had the leader in my sights, who seemed to be the bold Charley. They were now within easy distance, illuminated by the firelight, yet completely unaware of where we were. I thought we could capture them—though what good that would do, only God knows, since they would likely be hanged afterward—but still, I was reluctant to pull the trigger or give the signal to my team.
But my followers waited for no word; they saw a fair shot at the men they abhorred, the men who had robbed them of home or of love, and the chance was too much for their charity. At a signal from old Ikey, who levelled his own gun first, a dozen muskets were discharged, and half of the Doones dropped lifeless, like so many logs of firewood, or chopping-blocks rolled over.
But my followers didn't wait for any orders; they saw a perfect chance to strike at the men they hated, the ones who had stolen their home or their love, and the opportunity was too tempting for their compassion. At a signal from old Ikey, who aimed his own gun first, a dozen muskets went off, and half of the Doones fell lifeless, like so many logs of firewood or chopping-blocks toppling over.
Although I had seen a great battle before, and a hundred times the carnage, this appeared to me to be horrible; and I was at first inclined to fall upon our men for behaving so. But one instant showed me that they were right; for while the valley was filled with howling, and with shrieks of women, and the beams of the blazing houses fell, and hissed in the bubbling river; all the rest of the Doones leaped at us, like so many demons. They fired wildly, not seeing us well among the hazel bushes; and then they clubbed their muskets, or drew their swords, as might be; and furiously drove at us.
Even though I had witnessed a major battle before, and countless scenes of carnage, this felt truly horrifying to me; at first, I wanted to blame our men for their actions. But in an instant, I realized they were justified; while the valley echoed with howls and the screams of women, and the beams of the burning houses crashed down, sizzling in the bubbling river, all the other Doones charged at us like a swarm of demons. They shot wildly, unable to see us clearly among the hazel bushes; then they either clubbed their muskets or pulled out their swords and charged at us fiercely.
For a moment, although we were twice their number, we fell back before their valorous fame, and the power of their onset. For my part, admiring their courage greatly, and counting it slur upon manliness that two should be down upon one so, I withheld my hand awhile; for I cared to meet none but Carver; and he was not among them. The whirl and hurry of this fight, and the hard blows raining down—for now all guns were empty—took away my power of seeing, or reasoning upon anything. Yet one thing I saw, which dwelled long with me; and that was Christopher Badcock spending his life to get Charley's.
For a moment, even though we outnumbered them two to one, we hesitated in the face of their impressive reputation and the force of their charge. I couldn't help but admire their courage and felt it was less than honorable for two of us to attack one of them, so I held back for a bit; I only wanted to confront Carver, and he wasn't there. The chaos of the fight and the hard blows raining down — since all the guns were now empty — made it hard for me to see or think clearly. But there was one thing I noticed that stayed with me for a long time: Christopher Badcock sacrificing his life to take down Charley’s.
How he had found out, none may tell; both being dead so long ago; but, at any rate, he had found out that Charley was the man who had robbed him of his wife and honour. It was Carver Doone who took her away, but Charleworth Doone was beside him; and, according to cast of dice, she fell to Charley's share. All this Kit Badcock (who was mad, according to our measures) had discovered, and treasured up; and now was his revenge-time.
How he found out, no one can say; both having been dead for so long. But, regardless, he learned that Charley was the guy who had taken his wife and his honor. It was Carver Doone who took her away, but Charleworth Doone was right there with him; and, by chance, she ended up with Charley. All this Kit Badcock (who was considered mad by our standards) had figured out and kept to himself; and now was the time for his revenge.
He had come into the conflict without a weapon of any kind; only begging me to let him be in the very thick of it. For him, he said, life was no matter, after the loss of his wife and child; but death was matter to him, and he meant to make the most of it. Such a face I never saw, and never hope to see again, as when poor Kit Badcock spied Charley coming towards us.
He had entered the fight without any weapon; he just kept asking me to let him be right in the middle of it. He told me that life meant nothing to him after losing his wife and child, but death was important, and he wanted to make the most of it. I had never seen a face like that, and I never want to see one again, like when poor Kit Badcock spotted Charley walking towards us.
We had thought this man a patient fool, a philosopher of a little sort, or one who could feel nothing. And his quiet manner of going about, and the gentleness of his answers (when some brutes asked him where his wife was, and whether his baby had been well-trussed), these had misled us to think that the man would turn the mild cheek to everything. But I, in the loneliness of our barn, had listened, and had wept with him.
We thought this guy was a slow-witted fool, a minor philosopher, or someone who couldn’t feel anything. His calm way of moving around and the softness of his responses (when some jerks asked him where his wife was and if his baby had been well cared for) misled us into thinking he would just accept everything without a reaction. But I, in the solitude of our barn, had listened and cried with him.
Therefore was I not surprised, so much as all the rest of us, when, in the foremost of red light, Kit went up to Charleworth Doone, as if to some inheritance; and took his seisin of right upon him, being himself a powerful man; and begged a word aside with him. What they said aside, I know not; all I know is that without weapon, each man killed the other. And Margery Badcock came, and wept, and hung upon her poor husband; and died, that summer, of heart-disease.
So I wasn't surprised, like the rest of us, when, in the midst of red light, Kit approached Charleworth Doone as if claiming some inheritance; he asserted his rights, being a strong man himself, and asked to speak privately with him. I don’t know what they talked about, but I do know that without any weapons, each man killed the other. Then Margery Badcock came, weeping and clinging to her poor husband, and that summer she died of heart disease.
Now for these and other things (whereof I could tell a thousand) was the reckoning come that night; and not a line we missed of it; soon as our bad blood was up. I like not to tell of slaughter, though it might be of wolves and tigers; and that was a night of fire and slaughter, and of very long-harboured revenge. Enough that ere the daylight broke upon that wan March morning, the only Doones still left alive were the Counsellor and Carver. And of all the dwellings of the Doones (inhabited with luxury, and luscious taste, and licentiousness) not even one was left, but all made potash in the river.
Now for these and other things (of which I could tell a thousand) was the reckoning that night; and not a detail was missed as soon as our tempers flared. I don’t like to talk about violence, even if it’s against wolves and tigers; and that night was full of fire and bloodshed, and very long-held revenge. It’s enough to say that before daylight broke on that pale March morning, the only Doones still alive were the Counsellor and Carver. And of all the Doones' homes (filled with luxury, exquisite taste, and indulgence), not a single one remained, but all were reduced to ash in the river.
This may seem a violent and unholy revenge upon them. And I (who led the heart of it) have in these my latter years doubted how I shall be judged, not of men—for God only knows the errors of man's judgments—but by that great God Himself, the front of whose forehead is mercy.
This might seem like a harsh and unjust revenge on them. And I (who was at the center of it) have, in my later years, questioned how I will be judged, not by people—because only God knows the flaws in human judgment—but by that great God Himself, whose brow is mercy.
CHAPTER LXXII
THE COUNSELLOR AND THE CARVER
From that great confusion—for nothing can be broken up, whether lawful or unlawful, without a vast amount of dust, and many people grumbling, and mourning for the good old times, when all the world was happiness, and every man a gentleman, and the sun himself far brighter than since the brassy idol upon which he shone was broken—from all this loss of ancient landmarks (as unrobbed men began to call our clearance of those murderers) we returned on the following day, almost as full of anxiety as we were of triumph. In the first place, what could we possibly do with all these women and children, thrown on our hands as one might say, with none to protect and care for them? Again how should we answer to the justices of the peace, or perhaps even to Lord Jeffreys, for having, without even a warrant, taken the law into our own hands, and abated our nuisance so forcibly? And then, what was to be done with the spoil, which was of great value; though the diamond necklace came not to public light? For we saw a mighty host of claimants already leaping up for booty. Every man who had ever been robbed, expected usury on his loss; the lords of the manors demanded the whole; and so did the King's Commissioner of revenue at Porlock; and so did the men who had fought our battle; while even the parsons, both Bowden and Powell, and another who had no parish in it, threatened us with the just wrath of the Church, unless each had tithes of the whole of it.
From that huge mess—because nothing can be taken apart, whether it’s legal or illegal, without a ton of chaos and a lot of people complaining and longing for the good old days when the world was filled with happiness, every man was a gentleman, and the sun itself seemed much brighter before the golden idol it shone upon was shattered—after all this loss of familiar landmarks (which unrobbed people started calling our removal of those criminals) we returned the next day, almost as anxious as we were triumphant. First of all, what were we supposed to do with all these women and children left in our care, with no one to protect or look after them? Also, how would we justify our actions to the justices of the peace or maybe even to Lord Jeffreys, for taking matters into our own hands and dealing with that problem so forcefully without a warrant? And then, what should we do about the loot, which was quite valuable, even though the diamond necklace didn’t come to light? We already saw a large crowd of claimants springing up for the spoils. Every man who had ever been robbed was expecting compensation for his loss; the lords of the manors wanted it all; the King's Commissioner of revenue at Porlock did too; so did the men who fought alongside us; and even the parsons, both Bowden and Powell, along with another who wasn’t even part of a parish, threatened us with the Church's anger unless each of them got tithes from the whole thing.
Now this was not as it ought to be; and it seemed as if by burning the nest of robbers, we had but hatched their eggs; until being made sole guardian of the captured treasure (by reason of my known honesty) I hit upon a plan, which gave very little satisfaction; yet carried this advantage, that the grumblers argued against one another and for the most part came to blows; which renewed their goodwill to me, as being abused by the adversary.
Now, this wasn't how things should be; it felt like by destroying the robbers' hideout, we had just brought their evil plans to life. However, since I was made the sole guardian of the captured treasure (due to my reputation for honesty), I came up with a plan that didn't please many people. Still, it had the benefit of making the complainants argue among themselves, and they often ended up fighting, which restored their goodwill towards me, as I was seen as being wronged by the enemy.
And my plan was no more than this—not to pay a farthing to lord of manor, parson, or even King's Commissioner, but after making good some of the recent and proven losses—where the men could not afford to lose—to pay the residue (which might be worth some fifty thousand pounds) into the Exchequer at Westminster; and then let all the claimants file what wills they pleased in Chancery.
And my plan was simple: I didn’t want to pay a single penny to the lord of the manor, the parson, or even the King's Commissioner. Instead, after covering some of the recent and confirmed losses—where the men couldn’t afford to lose—I intended to pay the remaining amount (which could be around fifty thousand pounds) into the Exchequer at Westminster. Then, everyone could file whatever claims they wanted in Chancery.
Now this was a very noble device, for the mere name of Chancery, and the high repute of the fees therein, and low repute of the lawyers, and the comfortable knowledge that the woolsack itself is the golden fleece, absorbing gold for ever, if the standard be but pure; consideration of these things staved off at once the lords of the manors, and all the little farmers, and even those whom most I feared; videlicet, the parsons. And the King's Commissioner was compelled to profess himself contented, although of all he was most aggrieved; for his pickings would have been goodly.
Now this was a really clever idea, as just the name Chancery, along with its well-known fees and the poor reputation of lawyers, and the reassuring thought that the woolsack is basically a golden fleece, continuously gathering wealth as long as the quality is good; all of these things immediately deterred the lords of the manors, the small farmers, and even those I feared the most—the parsons. The King’s Commissioner had to pretend he was satisfied, even though he was the most upset, because he would have made a nice profit.
Moreover, by this plan I made—although I never thought of that—a mighty friend worth all the enemies, whom the loss of money moved. The first man now in the kingdom (by virtue perhaps of energy, rather than of excellence) was the great Lord Jeffreys, appointed the head of the Equity, as well as the law of the realm, for his kindness in hanging five hundred people, without the mere brief of trial. Nine out of ten of these people were innocent, it was true; but that proved the merit of the Lord Chief Justice so much the greater for hanging them, as showing what might be expected of him, when he truly got hold of a guilty man. Now the King had seen the force of this argument; and not being without gratitude for a high-seasoned dish of cruelty, had promoted the only man in England, combining the gifts of both butcher and cook.
Moreover, with this plan I came up with—though it never crossed my mind—I gained an incredible ally worth more than all the enemies stirred by the loss of money. The most powerful man in the kingdom now (perhaps due to his drive rather than his talent) was the great Lord Jeffreys, who was appointed as the head of Equity and the law of the land for his willingness to hang five hundred people without even a brief trial. It was true that nine out of ten of those people were innocent; however, that only highlighted the Lord Chief Justice's greater merit for executing them, as it demonstrated what could be expected of him when he actually caught a guilty person. The King recognized the strength of this reasoning; and not without appreciation for a well-seasoned dish of cruelty, he promoted the only man in England who combined the skills of both butcher and chef.
Nevertheless, I do beg you all to believe of me—and I think that, after following me so long, you must believe it—that I did not even know at the time of Lord Jeffreys's high promotion. Not that my knowledge of this would have led me to act otherwise in the matter; for my object was to pay into an office, and not to any official; neither if I had known the fact, could I have seen its bearing upon the receipt of my money. For the King's Exchequer is, meseemeth, of the Common Law; while Chancery is of Equity, and well named for its many chances. But the true result of the thing was this—Lord Jeffreys being now head of the law, and almost head of the kingdom, got possession of that money, and was kindly pleased with it.
Nevertheless, I really urge all of you to believe me—and I think that after following me for so long, you must believe it—that I didn’t even know about Lord Jeffreys's high promotion at the time. Not that knowing this would have changed my actions, because my goal was to deposit money into an office, not to any individual official; and even if I had been aware of it, I wouldn’t have been able to see how it would affect my receipt of funds. Because the King’s Exchequer, I believe, is part of Common Law, while Chancery deals with Equity, aptly named for its many variables. But the true outcome was this—Lord Jeffreys, now at the top of the law and nearly in charge of the kingdom, ended up with that money and was pleased to have it.
And this met our second difficulty; for the law having won and laughed over the spoil, must have injured its own title by impugning our legality.
And this brought us to our second issue; because the law, having triumphed and reveled over the victory, must have hurt its own claim by questioning our legitimacy.
Next, with regard to the women and children, we were long in a state of perplexity. We did our very best at the farm, and so did many others to provide for them, until they should manage about their own subsistence. And after a while this trouble went, as nearly all troubles go with time. Some of the women were taken back by their parents, or their husbands, or it may be their sweethearts; and those who failed of this, went forth, some upon their own account to the New World plantations, where the fairer sex is valuable; and some to English cities; and the plainer ones to field work. And most of the children went with their mothers, or were bound apprentices; only Carver Doone's handsome child had lost his mother and stayed with me.
Next, regarding the women and children, we were in a state of confusion for a long time. We did our best at the farm, and so did many others, to provide for them until they could take care of themselves. Eventually, this issue faded away, as most troubles do with time. Some of the women were taken back by their parents, husbands, or perhaps their sweethearts; and those who didn't have that option went off on their own to the New World plantations, where women were in demand; some headed to English cities; and the less fortunate went to work in the fields. Most of the children accompanied their mothers or were placed as apprentices; only Carver Doone's beautiful child had lost his mother and stayed with me.
This boy went about with me everywhere. He had taken as much of liking to me—first shown in his eyes by the firelight—as his father had of hatred; and I, perceiving his noble courage, scorn of lies, and high spirit, became almost as fond of Ensie as he was of me. He told us that his name was “Ensie,” meant for “Ensor,” I suppose, from his father's grandfather, the old Sir Ensor Doone. And this boy appeared to be Carver's heir, having been born in wedlock, contrary to the general manner and custom of the Doones.
This boy followed me everywhere. He liked me as much as his father hated me; I could see it in his eyes by the firelight. Recognizing his noble courage, disdain for lies, and strong spirit, I grew to care for Ensie almost as much as he cared for me. He told us his name was “Ensie,” likely a short form of “Ensor,” named after his father’s grandfather, the old Sir Ensor Doone. This boy seemed to be Carver's heir, having been born in marriage, which was unusual for the Doones.
However, although I loved the poor child, I could not help feeling very uneasy about the escape of his father, the savage and brutal Carver. This man was left to roam the country, homeless, foodless, and desperate, with his giant strength, and great skill in arms, and the whole world to be revenged upon. For his escape the miners, as I shall show, were answerable; but of the Counsellor's safe departure the burden lay on myself alone. And inasmuch as there are people who consider themselves ill-used, unless one tells them everything, straitened though I am for space, I will glance at this transaction.
However, even though I loved the poor child, I couldn't shake the feeling of unease about his father's escape, the savage and brutal Carver. This man was free to roam the country, homeless, starving, and desperate, armed with his enormous strength and great skill in combat, ready to take revenge on the whole world. The miners, as I’ll explain, were responsible for his escape; but I alone carried the responsibility for the Counsellor's safe departure. Since there are people who feel wronged unless everything is revealed to them, even though I'm short on space, I will touch on this incident.
After the desperate charge of young Doones had been met by us, and broken, and just as Poor Kit Badcock died in the arms of the dead Charley, I happened to descry a patch of white on the grass of the meadow, like the head of a sheep after washing-day. Observing with some curiosity how carefully this white thing moved along the bars of darkness betwixt the panels of firelight, I ran up to intercept it, before it reached the little postern which we used to call Gwenny's door. Perceiving me, the white thing stopped, and was for making back again; but I ran up at full speed; and lo, it was the flowing silvery hair of that sage the Counsellor, who was scuttling away upon all fours; but now rose and confronted me.
After the desperate charge of young Doones had been met and defeated by us, and just as Poor Kit Badcock was dying in the arms of the dead Charley, I happened to spot a patch of white on the grass of the meadow, like the head of a sheep after laundry day. Curiously watching how this white thing moved carefully through the dark spaces between the panels of firelight, I ran up to intercept it before it reached the little postern we called Gwenny's door. When it saw me, the white thing stopped and seemed ready to turn back; but I sprinted toward it, and there it was—the flowing silvery hair of the sage the Counsellor, who was scurrying away on all fours; but then he stood up and faced me.
“John,” he said, “Sir John, you will not play falsely with your ancient friend, among these violent fellows, I look to you to protect me, John.”
“John,” he said, “Sir John, you won’t betray your old friend in front of these aggressive guys. I’m counting on you to have my back, John.”
“Honoured sir, you are right,” I replied; “but surely that posture was unworthy of yourself, and your many resources. It is my intention to let you go free.”
“Honored sir, you are right,” I replied; “but that stance was certainly beneath you and your many resources. I intend to let you go free.”
“I knew it. I could have sworn to it. You are a noble fellow, John. I said so, from the very first; you are a noble fellow, and an ornament to any rank.”
“I knew it. I could have sworn to it. You’re a wonderful guy, John. I said that from the very beginning; you’re a wonderful guy and a credit to any position.”
“But upon two conditions,” I added, gently taking him by the arm; for instead of displaying any desire to commune with my nobility, he was edging away toward the postern; “the first is that you tell me truly (for now it can matter to none of you) who it was that slew my father.”
“But on two conditions,” I said, gently taking him by the arm; instead of showing any interest in talking with me, he was trying to move toward the back exit; “the first is that you tell me honestly (since it doesn't really matter to any of you now) who killed my father.”
“I will tell you truly and frankly, John; however painful to me to confess it. It was my son, Carver.”
“I’ll be honest with you, John, even though it hurts to admit it. It was my son, Carver.”
“I thought as much, or I felt as much all along,” I answered; “but the fault was none of yours, sir; for you were not even present.”
“I figured as much, or I felt that way all along,” I replied; “but it wasn't your fault, sir; you weren't even there.”
“If I had been there, it would not have happened. I am always opposed to violence. Therefore, let me haste away; this scene is against my nature.”
“If I had been there, this wouldn’t have happened. I’m always against violence. So, let me hurry away; this situation goes against who I am.”
“You shall go directly, Sir Counsellor, after meeting my other condition; which is, that you place in my hands Lady Lorna's diamond necklace.”
"You will go straight away, Sir Counsellor, after you meet my other condition; which is that you hand over Lady Lorna's diamond necklace to me."
“Ah, how often I have wished,” said the old man with a heavy sigh, “that it might yet be in my power to ease my mind in that respect, and to do a thoroughly good deed by lawful restitution.”
“Ah, how often I have wished,” said the old man with a heavy sigh, “that it could still be in my power to relieve my mind about that, and to perform a truly good deed through legal restitution.”
“Then try to have it in your power, sir. Surely, with my encouragement, you might summon resolution.”
“Then try to take control of it, sir. Surely, with my support, you could find the courage.”
“Alas, John, the resolution has been ready long ago. But the thing is not in my possession. Carver, my son, who slew your father, upon him you will find the necklace. What are jewels to me, young man, at my time of life? Baubles and trash,—I detest them, from the sins they have led me to answer for. When you come to my age, good Sir John, you will scorn all jewels, and care only for a pure and bright conscience. Ah! ah! Let me go. I have made my peace with God.”
“Unfortunately, John, I finished the resolution a long time ago. But I don’t have it. Carver, my son, who killed your father, has the necklace. What do jewels mean to me at my age? They're just trinkets and worthless things—I hate them for the sins they've led me to commit. When you reach my age, good Sir John, you’ll look down on all jewels and care only about having a clear and clean conscience. Ah! Ah! Let me go. I’ve made my peace with God.”
He looked so hoary, and so silvery, and serene in the moonlight, that verily I must have believed him, if he had not drawn in his breast. But I happened to have noticed that when an honest man gives vent to noble and great sentiments, he spreads his breast, and throws it out, as if his heart were swelling; whereas I had seen this old gentleman draw in his breast more than once, as if it happened to contain better goods than sentiment.
He looked so gray, so silver, and so calm in the moonlight, that I really would have believed him if he hadn't pulled in his chest. But I happened to notice that when an honest person expresses noble and grand feelings, they puff out their chest, as if their heart is swelling; whereas I had seen this old man pull in his chest more than once, as if it held something better than just feelings.
“Will you applaud me, kind sir,” I said, keeping him very tight, all the while, “if I place it in your power to ratify your peace with God? The pledge is upon your heart, no doubt, for there it lies at this moment.”
“Will you give me a round of applause, good sir,” I said, holding him firmly the whole time, “if I give you the chance to confirm your peace with God? The promise is heavy on your heart, no doubt, because it's right there at this moment.”
With these words, and some apology for having recourse to strong measures, I thrust my hand inside his waistcoat, and drew forth Lorna's necklace, purely sparkling in the moonlight, like the dancing of new stars. The old man made a stab at me, with a knife which I had not espied; but the vicious onset failed; and then he knelt, and clasped his hands.
With these words, and a bit of an apology for resorting to strong measures, I reached into his waistcoat and pulled out Lorna's necklace, shining brightly in the moonlight like the twinkling of new stars. The old man lunged at me with a knife I hadn't noticed, but his vicious attempt missed. Then he knelt and clasped his hands together.
“Oh, for God's sake, John, my son, rob me not in that manner. They belong to me; and I love them so; I would give almost my life for them. There is one jewel I can look at for hours, and see all the lights of heaven in it; which I never shall see elsewhere. All my wretched, wicked life—oh, John, I am a sad hypocrite—but give me back my jewels. Or else kill me here; I am a babe in your hands; but I must have back my jewels.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, John, my son, don’t rob me like that. They belong to me, and I love them so much; I would give almost anything for them. There’s one jewel I could look at for hours and see all the lights of heaven in it, which I’ll never see anywhere else. All my miserable, wicked life—oh, John, I’m a sad hypocrite—but please give me back my jewels. Or else kill me here; I’m helpless in your hands; but I have to have my jewels back.”
As his beautiful white hair fell away from his noble forehead, like a silver wreath of glory, and his powerful face, for once, was moved with real emotion, I was so amazed and overcome by the grand contradictions of nature, that verily I was on the point of giving him back the necklace. But honesty, which is said to be the first instinct of all the Ridds (though I myself never found it so), happened here to occur to me, and so I said, without more haste than might be expected,—
As his beautiful white hair flowed away from his noble forehead, like a silver crown of glory, and his strong face, for once, showed real emotion, I was so stunned and overwhelmed by the incredible contradictions of nature that I was honestly about to return the necklace to him. But honesty, which is supposed to be the first instinct of all the Ridds (though I never found it to be true myself), suddenly came to mind, so I said, without any more urgency than you might expect,—
“Sir Counsellor, I cannot give you what does not belong to me. But if you will show me that particular diamond which is heaven to you, I will take upon myself the risk and the folly of cutting it out for you. And with that you must go contented; and I beseech you not to starve with that jewel upon your lips.”
“Sir Counselor, I can’t give you something that doesn’t belong to me. But if you show me that specific diamond that means everything to you, I’ll take on the risk and the madness of cutting it out for you. And with that, you must be satisfied; I urge you not to waste away with that jewel on your lips.”
Seeing no hope of better terms, he showed me his pet love of a jewel; and I thought of what Lorna was to me, as I cut it out (with the hinge of my knife severing the snakes of gold) and placed it in his careful hand. Another moment, and he was gone, and away through Gwenny's postern; and God knows what became of him.
Seeing no chance for better terms, he showed me his favorite jewel; and I thought about what Lorna meant to me as I cut it out (with the hinge of my knife slicing through the golden snakes) and placed it in his careful hand. In another moment, he was gone, slipping through Gwenny's back entrance; and God knows what happened to him.
Now as to Carver, the thing was this—so far as I could ascertain from the valiant miners, no two of whom told the same story, any more than one of them told it twice. The band of Doones which sallied forth for the robbery of the pretended convoy was met by Simon Carfax, according to arrangement, at the ruined house called The Warren, in that part of Bagworthy Forest where the river Exe (as yet a very small stream) runs through it. The Warren, as all our people know, had belonged to a fine old gentleman, whom every one called “The Squire,” who had retreated from active life to pass the rest of his days in fishing, and shooting, and helping his neighbours. For he was a man of some substance; and no poor man ever left The Warren without a bag of good victuals, and a few shillings put in his pocket. However, this poor Squire never made a greater mistake, than in hoping to end his life peacefully upon the banks of a trout-stream, and in the green forest of Bagworthy. For as he came home from the brook at dusk, with his fly-rod over his shoulder, the Doones fell upon him, and murdered him, and then sacked his house, and burned it.
Now about Carver, here's the situation—based on what I could gather from the brave miners, none of whom told the same story, nor told it more than once. The group of Doones that came out to rob the fake convoy was met by Simon Carfax, as planned, at the ruined house called The Warren, in that area of Bagworthy Forest where the river Exe (still just a small stream at that time) flows through. The Warren, as everyone knows, used to belong to a fine old gentleman whom everyone called “The Squire.” He had withdrawn from active life to spend his days fishing, hunting, and helping his neighbors. He was a man of some means, and no poor person ever left The Warren without a bag of good food and a few shillings in their pocket. However, this poor Squire made a grave mistake in thinking he could spend his life peacefully by the trout stream and in the green forest of Bagworthy. For as he returned home from the brook at dusk, with his fly rod over his shoulder, the Doones attacked him, murdered him, then looted his house and burned it down.
Now this had made honest people timid about going past The Warren at night; for, of course, it was said that the old Squire “walked,” upon certain nights of the moon, in and out of the trunks of trees, on the green path from the river. On his shoulder he bore a fishing-rod, and his book of trout-flies, in one hand, and on his back a wicker-creel; and now and then he would burst out laughing to think of his coming so near the Doones.
Now this made honest people nervous about passing by The Warren at night; it was said that the old Squire "walked" on certain nights of the moon, moving in and out of the trunks of trees on the green path from the river. He carried a fishing rod on his shoulder, a book of trout flies in one hand, and a wicker creel on his back; every now and then, he'd burst out laughing at the thought of getting so close to the Doones.
And now that one turns to consider it, this seems a strangely righteous thing, that the scene of one of the greatest crimes even by Doones committed should, after twenty years, become the scene of vengeance falling (like hail from heaven) upon them. For although The Warren lies well away to the westward of the mine; and the gold, under escort to Bristowe, or London, would have gone in the other direction; Captain Carfax, finding this place best suited for working of his design, had persuaded the Doones, that for reasons of Government, the ore must go first to Barnstaple for inspection, or something of that sort. And as every one knows that our Government sends all things westward when eastward bound, this had won the more faith for Simon, as being according to nature.
And now that we think about it, it seems strangely just that the site of one of the greatest crimes committed by the Doones should, after twenty years, become the place where vengeance falls upon them like hail from the sky. Even though The Warren is located far to the west of the mine, and the gold, being escorted to Bristowe or London, would have gone the other way, Captain Carfax, finding this location best for his plan, convinced the Doones that, for government reasons, the ore needed to go first to Barnstaple for inspection or something like that. And since everyone knows our government sends everything westward when it's actually going east, this made Simon's argument seem even more credible, as it seemed natural.
Now Simon, having met these flowers of the flock of villainy, where the rising moonlight flowed through the weir-work of the wood, begged them to dismount; and led them with an air of mystery into the Squire's ruined hall, black with fire, and green with weeds.
Now Simon, having encountered these flowers among the group of troublemakers, where the moonlight streamed through the trees, asked them to get off their horses; and led them with a sense of mystery into the Squire's ruined hall, darkened by fire and overgrown with weeds.
“Captain, I have found a thing,” he said to Carver Doone, himself, “which may help to pass the hour, ere the lump of gold comes by. The smugglers are a noble race; but a miner's eyes are a match for them. There lies a puncheon of rare spirit, with the Dutchman's brand upon it, hidden behind the broken hearth. Set a man to watch outside; and let us see what this be like.”
“Captain, I found something,” he said to Carver Doone, “that might help pass the time while we wait for the gold. The smugglers are a decent bunch; but a miner's eyes are just as sharp. There's a barrel of fine liquor, marked with the Dutchman's brand, hidden behind the broken hearth. Get someone to keep watch outside; let’s see what it’s like.”
With one accord they agreed to this, and Carver pledged Master Carfax, and all the Doones grew merry. But Simon being bound, as he said, to see to their strict sobriety, drew a bucket of water from the well into which they had thrown the dead owner, and begged them to mingle it with their drink; which some of them did, and some refused.
They all agreed to this, and Carver made a promise to Master Carfax, causing all the Doones to become cheerful. However, Simon, feeling responsible for their strict sobriety, pulled a bucket of water from the well where they had discarded the dead owner and asked them to mix it with their drinks. Some went along with it, while others refused.
But the water from that well was poured, while they were carousing, into the priming-pan of every gun of theirs; even as Simon had promised to do with the guns of the men they were come to kill. Then just as the giant Carver arose, with a glass of pure hollands in his hand, and by the light of the torch they had struck, proposed the good health of the Squire's ghost—in the broken doorway stood a press of men, with pointed muskets, covering every drunken Doone. How it fared upon that I know not, having none to tell me; for each man wrought, neither thought of telling, nor whether he might be alive to tell. The Doones rushed to their guns at once, and pointed them, and pulled at them; but the Squire's well had drowned their fire; and then they knew that they were betrayed, but resolved to fight like men for it. Upon fighting I can never dwell; it breeds such savage delight in me; of which I would fain have less. Enough that all the Doones fought bravely; and like men (though bad ones) died in the hall of the man they had murdered. And with them died poor young De Whichehalse, who, in spite of his good father's prayers, had cast in his lot with the robbers. Carver Doone alone escaped. Partly through his fearful strength, and his yet more fearful face; but mainly perhaps through his perfect coolness, and his mode of taking things.
But while they were partying, the water from that well was poured into the priming-pan of every one of their guns, just as Simon had promised to do with the guns of the men they came to kill. Just then, as the giant Carver stood up with a glass of pure hollands in his hand, and by the light of the torch they had lit, proposed a toast to the Squire's ghost—in the broken doorway stood a bunch of men, with their muskets aimed at every drunken Doone. I don’t know how it went from there, as no one was left to tell me; each man acted without thinking of reporting it or whether he would even survive to tell. The Doones rushed to their guns immediately, aimed them, and tried to fire; but the Squire's well had soaked their powder, and then they realized they had been betrayed, yet they were determined to fight like men. I can never dwell on fighting; it brings me such savage joy, of which I wish I could feel less. It’s enough to say that all the Doones fought bravely, and like men (though bad ones) died in the hall of the man they had killed. Among them was poor young De Whichehalse, who, despite his good father's prayers, had chosen to align himself with the robbers. Only Carver Doone managed to escape, partly due to his terrifying strength and even more terrifying face; but likely also because of his complete calmness and approach to the situation.
I am happy to say that no more than eight of the gallant miners were killed in that combat, or died of their wounds afterwards; and adding to these the eight we had lost in our assault on the valley (and two of them excellent warehousemen), it cost no more than sixteen lives to be rid of nearly forty Doones, each of whom would most likely have killed three men in the course of a year or two. Therefore, as I said at the time, a great work was done very reasonably; here were nigh upon forty Doones destroyed (in the valley, and up at The Warrens) despite their extraordinary strength and high skill in gunnery; whereas of us ignorant rustics there were only sixteen to be counted dead—though others might be lamed, or so,—and of those sixteen only two had left wives, and their wives did not happen to care for them.
I’m happy to report that no more than eight of the brave miners were killed in that battle, or died from their injuries later; and adding those to the eight we lost in our attack on the valley (two of whom were excellent warehouse workers), it cost us just sixteen lives to get rid of nearly forty Doones, each of whom would likely have killed three men over a year or two. So, as I mentioned at the time, a significant task was accomplished at a reasonable cost; nearly forty Doones were eliminated (in the valley and up at The Warrens) despite their incredible strength and exceptional marksmanship; while we simple folks only had sixteen dead to count—though others may have been injured or so—and among those sixteen, only two had left wives, and their wives didn’t seem to care for them.
Yet, for Lorna' s sake, I was vexed at the bold escape of Carver. Not that I sought for Carver's life, any more than I did for the Counsellor's; but that for us it was no light thing, to have a man of such power, and resource, and desperation, left at large and furious, like a famished wolf round the sheepfold. Yet greatly as I blamed the yeomen, who were posted on their horses, just out of shot from the Doone-gate, for the very purpose of intercepting those who escaped the miners, I could not get them to admit that any blame attached to them.
Yet, for Lorna's sake, I was annoyed at Carver's bold escape. Not that I cared for Carver's life any more than I did for the Counsellor's; it was just that for us, it was a serious issue to have someone so powerful, resourceful, and desperate roaming freely, like a starving wolf around the sheepfold. Although I strongly criticized the yeomen, who were on their horses just out of range of the Doone-gate to intercept anyone escaping the miners, I couldn't get them to admit that they were to blame.
But lo, he had dashed through the whole of them, with his horse at full gallop; and was nearly out of shot before they began to think of shooting him. Then it appears from what a boy said—for boys manage to be everywhere—that Captain Carver rode through the Doone-gate, and so to the head of the valley. There, of course, he beheld all the houses, and his own among the number, flaming with a handsome blaze, and throwing a fine light around such as he often had revelled in, when of other people's property. But he swore the deadliest of all oaths, and seeing himself to be vanquished (so far as the luck of the moment went), spurred his great black horse away, and passed into the darkness.
But hey, he had rushed through all of them, with his horse at full speed; and was almost out of range before they even thought about shooting at him. Then it turns out from what a kid said—because kids seem to be everywhere—that Captain Carver rode through the Doone-gate, and then to the head of the valley. There, of course, he saw all the houses, including his own, blazing brightly and casting a nice glow around like he often enjoyed when it came to other people's stuff. But he cursed furiously, and realizing he was defeated (at least for the moment), he kicked his big black horse into gear and rode off into the darkness.
CHAPTER LXXIII
HOW TO GET OUT OF CHANCERY
Things at this time so befell me, that I cannot tell one half; but am like a boy who has left his lesson (to the master's very footfall) unready, except with false excuses. And as this makes no good work, so I lament upon my lingering, in the times when I might have got through a good page, but went astray after trifles. However, every man must do according to his intellect; and looking at the easy manner of my constitution, I think that most men will regard me with pity and goodwill for trying, more than with contempt and wrath for having tried unworthily. Even as in the wrestling ring, whatever man did his best, and made an honest conflict, I always laid him down with softness, easing off his dusty fall.
Things happened to me during this time that I can't fully explain; I'm like a kid who didn't finish his homework right before the teacher showed up, offering only excuses. And just like that doesn't produce good results, I regret wasting time when I could have made progress, but instead got sidetracked by trivial matters. Still, everyone has to act according to their own abilities, and considering my easygoing nature, I believe most people will see me with sympathy and goodwill for my efforts rather than with disdain and anger for not succeeding as I should have. Just like in the wrestling ring, whenever someone did their best and fought honestly, I always helped them up gently, easing their fall.
But the thing which next betided me was not a fall of any sort; but rather a most glorious rise to the summit of all fortune. For in good truth it was no less than the return of Lorna—my Lorna, my own darling; in wonderful health and spirits, and as glad as a bird to get back again. It would have done any one good for a twelve-month to behold her face and doings, and her beaming eyes and smile (not to mention blushes also at my salutation), when this Queen of every heart ran about our rooms again. She did love this, and she must see that, and where was our old friend the cat? All the house was full of brightness, as if the sun had come over the hill, and Lorna were his mirror.
But what happened next was not a fall of any kind; it was more like a glorious rise to the peak of all good fortune. Because, truthfully, it was nothing less than the return of Lorna—my Lorna, my own darling; in amazing health and high spirits, and as happy as a bird to be back. It would have made anyone feel good for a whole year to see her face and what she was up to, along with her shining eyes and smile (not to mention the blush when I greeted her), as this Queen of every heart ran around our rooms again. She loved this, she had to see that, and where was our old friend the cat? The whole house was filled with light, as if the sun had risen over the hill, and Lorna was its reflection.
My mother sat in an ancient chair, and wiped her cheeks, and looked at her; and even Lizzie's eyes must dance to the freshness and joy of her beauty. As for me, you might call me mad; for I ran out and flung my best hat on the barn, and kissed mother Fry, till she made at me with the sugar-nippers.
My mom was sitting in an old chair, wiping her cheeks, and looking at her; even Lizzie's eyes had to light up with the freshness and joy of her beauty. As for me, you could say I was crazy; I dashed outside, threw my favorite hat on the barn, and kissed Mother Fry until she chased me away with the sugar-nippers.
What a quantity of things Lorna had to tell us! And yet how often we stopped her mouth—at least mother, I mean, and Lizzie—and she quite as often would stop her own, running up in her joy to some one of us! And then there arose the eating business—which people now call “refreshment,” in these dandyfied days of our language—for how was it possible that our Lorna could have come all that way, and to her own Exmoor, without being terribly hungry?
What a lot of things Lorna had to share with us! And yet how often we cut her off—at least my mom, I mean, and Lizzie—and she just as often would stop herself, rushing joyfully to one of us! Then the whole food situation came up—which people nowadays call “refreshments,” in these fancy times we live in—because how could our Lorna have traveled all that way, back to her own Exmoor, without being really hungry?
“Oh, I do love it all so much,” said Lorna, now for the fiftieth time, and not meaning only the victuals: “the scent of the gorse on the moors drove me wild, and the primroses under the hedges. I am sure I was meant for a farmer's—I mean for a farm-house life, dear Lizzie”—for Lizzie was looking saucily—“just as you were meant for a soldier's bride, and for writing despatches of victory. And now, since you will not ask me, dear mother, in the excellence of your manners, and even John has not the impudence, in spite of all his coat of arms—I must tell you a thing, which I vowed to keep until tomorrow morning; but my resolution fails me. I am my own mistress—what think you of that, mother? I am my own mistress!”
“Oh, I love it all so much,” said Lorna, now for the fiftieth time, and not just referring to the food: “the smell of the gorse on the moors drives me wild, and the primroses under the hedges. I’m sure I was meant for a farmer’s—I mean for a farmhouse life, dear Lizzie”—because Lizzie was looking cheeky—“just like you were meant to be a soldier’s wife, and for writing reports of victory. And now, since you won’t ask me, dear mother, in your splendid way, and even John hasn’t had the nerve, despite all his fancy title—I have to tell you something, which I promised to keep until tomorrow morning; but I can’t hold it in. I am my own mistress—what do you think of that, mother? I am my own mistress!”
“Then you shall not be so long,” cried I; for mother seemed not to understand her, and sought about for her glasses: “darling, you shall be mistress of me; and I will be your master.”
“Then you won’t take that long,” I shouted; because mom didn’t seem to get her and was looking for her glasses: “sweetheart, you’ll be in charge of me; and I’ll be your boss.”
“A frank announcement of your intent, and beyond doubt a true one; but surely unusual at this stage, and a little premature, John. However, what must be, must be.” And with tears springing out of smiles, she fell on my breast, and cried a bit.
“A straightforward declaration of your intentions, and certainly a sincere one; but it feels a bit odd at this point, and maybe a little early, John. Still, what has to happen, has to happen.” And with tears of joy, she fell into my arms and cried for a moment.
When I came to smoke a pipe over it (after the rest were gone to bed), I could hardly believe in my good luck. For here was I, without any merit, except of bodily power, and the absence of any falsehood (which surely is no commendation), so placed that the noblest man in England might envy me, and be vexed with me. For the noblest lady in all the land, and the purest, and the sweetest—hung upon my heart, as if there was none to equal it.
When I sat down to smoke a pipe after everyone else had gone to bed, I could barely believe my luck. There I was, without any real merit, except for my physical strength and my honesty (which definitely isn’t much of a compliment), in a position that the most noble man in England might envy and feel annoyed with me. Because the most noble lady in the whole country, the purest and sweetest person, was hanging on my heart as if no one could compare to her.
I dwelled upon this matter, long and very severely, while I smoked a new tobacco, brought by my own Lorna for me, and next to herself most delicious; and as the smoke curled away, I thought, “Surely this is too fine to last, for a man who never deserved it.”
I thought about this for a long time, really deeply, while I smoked some new tobacco that my Lorna brought for me, which was almost as delightful as she is; and as the smoke drifted away, I wondered, “This can’t possibly last for someone who doesn’t deserve it.”
Seeing no way out of this, I resolved to place my faith in God; and so went to bed and dreamed of it. And having no presence of mind to pray for anything, under the circumstances, I thought it best to fall asleep, and trust myself to the future. Yet ere I fell asleep the roof above me swarmed with angels, having Lorna under it.
Seeing no way out of this, I decided to put my faith in God; so I went to bed and dreamed about it. Not having the presence of mind to pray for anything in that situation, I figured it was better to fall asleep and leave my fate to the future. But before I dozed off, I felt like the roof above me was filled with angels, with Lorna beneath it.
In the morning Lorna was ready to tell her story, and we to hearken; and she wore a dress of most simple stuff; and yet perfectly wonderful, by means of the shape and her figure. Lizzie was wild with jealousy, as might be expected (though never would Annie have been so, but have praised it, and craved for the pattern), and mother not understanding it, looked forth, to be taught about it. For it was strange to note that lately my dear mother had lost her quickness, and was never quite brisk, unless the question were about myself. She had seen a great deal of trouble; and grief begins to close on people, as their power of life declines. We said that she was hard of hearing; but my opinion was, that seeing me inclined for marriage made her think of my father, and so perhaps a little too much, to dwell on the courting of thirty years agone. Anyhow, she was the very best of mothers; and would smile and command herself; and be (or try to believe herself) as happy as could be, in the doings of the younger folk, and her own skill in detecting them. Yet, with the wisdom of age, renouncing any opinion upon the matter; since none could see the end of it.
In the morning, Lorna was ready to share her story, and we were eager to listen. She wore a dress made of the simplest fabric, yet it looked amazing because of its shape and how it fit her figure. Lizzie was incredibly jealous, which was to be expected (although Annie would never have felt that way; she would have praised the dress and wanted to know the pattern). Our mother, not fully understanding the situation, looked on, trying to learn more. It was strange to notice that my dear mother had recently lost some of her liveliness and was only really animated when it came to me. She had gone through a lot of hardship, and sorrow often closes in on people as they age. We said she was hard of hearing, but I thought the idea of me thinking about marriage reminded her of my father, making her reminisce too much about their courtship from thirty years ago. Regardless, she was the best mother anyone could ask for; she would smile and hold herself together, trying to convince herself that she was as happy as possible with the activities of the younger generation and her knack for noticing everything. Yet, with the wisdom that comes with age, she refrained from forming any strong opinions on the matter, knowing that no one could foresee the outcome.
But Lorna in her bright young beauty, and her knowledge of my heart, was not to be checked by any thoughts of haply coming evil. In the morning she was up, even sooner than I was, and through all the corners of the hens, remembering every one of them. I caught her and saluted her with such warmth (being now none to look at us), that she vowed she would never come out again; and yet she came the next morning.
But Lorna, with her bright youthful beauty and her understanding of my feelings, wasn’t deterred by any thoughts of possible trouble ahead. In the morning, she was up even earlier than I was, checking in on all the hens, remembering each one of them. I caught her eye and greeted her with such warmth (with no one around to see us) that she declared she would never come out again; and yet, she showed up the next morning.
These things ought not to be chronicled. Yet I am of such nature, that finding many parts of life adverse to our wishes, I must now and then draw pleasure from the blessed portions. And what portion can be more blessed than with youth, and health, and strength, to be loved by a virtuous maid, and to love her with all one's heart? Neither was my pride diminished, when I found what she had done, only from her love of me.
These things shouldn't be recorded. Yet, I have a nature that, when I encounter many parts of life that are against our wishes, I must occasionally find joy in the wonderful moments. And what can be more wonderful than being young, healthy, and strong, loved by a virtuous woman, and loving her with all my heart? My pride wasn't lessened when I realized what she had done, purely out of her love for me.
Earl Brandir's ancient steward, in whose charge she had travelled, with a proper escort, looked upon her as a lovely maniac; and the mixture of pity and admiration wherewith he regarded her, was a strange thing to observe; especially after he had seen our simple house and manners. On the other hand, Lorna considered him a worthy but foolish old gentleman; to whom true happiness meant no more than money and high position.
Earl Brandir's ancient steward, who had taken care of her during her journey with a proper escort, viewed her as a beautiful lunatic. The mix of pity and admiration he had for her was quite unusual to see, especially after he had witnessed our humble home and way of life. On the flip side, Lorna saw him as a decent but silly old man, for whom true happiness was nothing more than wealth and social status.
These two last she had been ready to abandon wholly, and had in part escaped from them, as the enemies of her happiness. And she took advantage of the times, in a truly clever manner. For that happened to be a time—as indeed all times hitherto (so far as my knowledge extends), have, somehow, or other, happened to be—when everybody was only too glad to take money for doing anything. And the greatest money-taker in the kingdom (next to the King and Queen, of course, who had due pre-eminence, and had taught the maids of honour) was generally acknowledged to be the Lord Chief Justice Jeffreys.
These last two she was ready to completely give up, and had partly escaped from them, as they were the enemies of her happiness. She cleverly took advantage of the situation. For it happened to be a time—just like all times before (at least as far as I know)—when everyone was more than willing to take money for doing anything. And the biggest money-maker in the kingdom (after the King and Queen, of course, who were in a class of their own and had trained the maids of honor) was generally recognized to be Lord Chief Justice Jeffreys.
Upon his return from the bloody assizes, with triumph and great glory, after hanging every man who was too poor to help it, he pleased his Gracious Majesty so purely with the description of their delightful agonies, that the King exclaimed, “This man alone is worthy to be at the head of the law.” Accordingly in his hand was placed the Great Seal of England.
Upon his return from the bloody trials, with triumph and great glory, after hanging every man who couldn't afford to escape it, he pleased His Majesty so much with the details of their delightful suffering that the King exclaimed, “This man alone deserves to lead the law.” As a result, he was given the Great Seal of England.
So it came to pass that Lorna's destiny hung upon Lord Jeffreys; for at this time Earl Brandir died, being taken with gout in the heart, soon after I left London. Lorna was very sorry for him; but as he had never been able to hear one tone of her sweet silvery voice, it is not to be supposed that she wept without consolation. She grieved for him as we ought to grieve for any good man going; and yet with a comforting sense of the benefit which the blessed exchange must bring to him.
So it happened that Lorna's fate depended on Lord Jeffreys; because at that time, Earl Brandir died from gout affecting his heart, shortly after I left London. Lorna was really sad about it; but since he had never heard a single note of her sweet, silvery voice, it’s not likely she cried without some comfort. She mourned for him as we should mourn for any good person passing away; yet she also felt reassured by the positive change that this blessed exchange would bring for him.
Now the Lady Lorna Dugal appeared to Lord Chancellor Jeffreys so exceeding wealthy a ward that the lock would pay for turning. Therefore he came, of his own accord, to visit her, and to treat with her; having heard (for the man was as big a gossip as never cared for anybody, yet loved to know all about everybody) that this wealthy and beautiful maiden would not listen to any young lord, having pledged her faith to the plain John Ridd.
Now Lady Lorna Dugal seemed to Lord Chancellor Jeffreys like an incredibly wealthy ward worth the effort. So, he decided to pay her a visit and talk with her; he had heard (because he was as much a gossip as someone who didn’t care for anyone but loved to know everything about everyone) that this wealthy and beautiful young woman would not consider any young lord since she had pledged her loyalty to the plain John Ridd.
Thereupon, our Lorna managed so to hold out golden hopes to the Lord High Chancellor, that he, being not more than three parts drunk, saw his way to a heap of money. And there and then (for he was not the man to dally long about anything) upon surety of a certain round sum—the amount of which I will not mention, because of his kindness towards me—he gave to his fair ward permission, under sign and seal, to marry that loyal knight, John Ridd; upon condition only that the King's consent should be obtained.
Then, our Lorna managed to give the Lord High Chancellor such hopeful promises that, being only a bit tipsy, he could see a big opportunity for profit. Right then and there (because he wasn’t one to waste time on decisions), with the assurance of a certain amount of money—the exact figure I won't disclose due to his generosity toward me—he granted his beautiful ward permission, in writing, to marry that loyal knight, John Ridd, on the condition that the King’s approval be secured.
His Majesty, well-disposed towards me for my previous service, and regarding me as a good Catholic, being moved moreover by the Queen, who desired to please Lorna, consented, without much hesitation, upon the understanding that Lorna, when she became of full age, and the mistress of her property (which was still under guardianship), should pay a heavy fine to the Crown, and devote a fixed portion of her estate to the promotion of the holy Catholic faith, in a manner to be dictated by the King himself. Inasmuch, however, as King James was driven out of his kingdom before this arrangement could take effect, and another king succeeded, who desired not the promotion of the Catholic religion, neither hankered after subsidies, whether French or English, that agreement was pronounced invalid, improper, and contemptible. However, there was no getting back the money once paid to Lord Chancellor Jeffreys.
His Majesty, who had a good opinion of me for my past service and viewed me as a good Catholic, was also influenced by the Queen, who wanted to make Lorna happy. He agreed, without much hesitation, on the condition that Lorna, when she came of age and took control of her property (which was still under guardianship), would pay a large fine to the Crown and allocate a portion of her estate to support the Catholic faith, as directed by the King himself. However, since King James was ousted from his throne before this arrangement could be finalized, and another king took over who wasn't interested in promoting the Catholic religion or in any subsidies, whether from France or England, that agreement was deemed invalid, improper, and contemptible. Unfortunately, there was no way to get back the money already paid to Lord Chancellor Jeffreys.
But what thought we of money at this present moment; or of position, or anything else, except indeed one another? Lorna told me, with the sweetest smile, that if I were minded to take her at all, I must take her without anything; inasmuch as she meant, upon coming of age, to make over the residue of her estates to the next-of-kin, as being unfit for a farmer's wife. And I replied with the greatest warmth and a readiness to worship her, that this was exactly what I longed for, but had never dared to propose it. But dear mother looked most exceeding grave; and said that to be sure her opinion could not be expected to count for much, but she really hoped that in three years' time we should both he a little wiser, and have more regard for our interests, and perhaps those of others by that time; and Master Snowe having daughters only, and nobody coming to marry them, if anything happened to the good old man—and who could tell in three years' time what might happen to all or any of us?—why perhaps his farm would be for sale, and perhaps Lady Lorna's estates in Scotland would fetch enough money to buy it, and so throw the two farms into one, and save all the trouble about the brook, as my poor father had longed to do many and many a time, but not having a title could not do all quite as he wanted. And then if we young people grew tired of the old mother, as seemed only too likely, and was according to nature, why we could send her over there, and Lizzie to keep her company.
But what were we thinking about money right now; or status, or anything else, except each other? Lorna smiled sweetly and told me that if I wanted to be with her, I had to accept her without any material things, since she planned to give the rest of her estates to her next of kin when she turned 18, believing she wasn’t fit to be a farmer's wife. I replied with enthusiasm and a deep admiration for her, saying that this was exactly what I wanted, but had never dared to suggest. However, my dear mother looked very serious and said that while her opinion might not carry much weight, she really hoped that in three years we would both be a bit wiser, and would care more about our interests and perhaps those of others too. And since Master Snowe only had daughters and no one was coming to marry them, if anything happened to the good old man—and who knows what could happen in three years?—his farm might be for sale, and Lady Lorna's estates in Scotland might sell for enough to buy it, merging the two farms and resolving all the issues about the brook, which my poor father had wished to do many times but couldn't because he didn’t have a title. And if we young people eventually grew tired of the old mother, which seemed likely as it is natural, we could send her over there, with Lizzie to keep her company.
When mother had finished, and wiped her eyes, Lorna, who had been blushing rosily at some portions of this great speech, flung her fair arms around mother's neck, and kissed her very heartily, and scolded her (as she well deserved) for her want of confidence in us. My mother replied that if anybody could deserve her John, it was Lorna; but that she could not hold with the rashness of giving up money so easily; while her next-of-kin would be John himself, and who could tell what others, by the time she was one-and-twenty?
When mom finished and wiped her eyes, Lorna, who had been blushing at some parts of this big speech, threw her lovely arms around mom's neck and kissed her warmly, while also scolding her (which she definitely deserved) for not having faith in us. My mom replied that if anyone could deserve her John, it was Lorna; but she couldn't agree with the recklessness of giving up money so easily, especially since her closest relative would be John himself, and who knew who else could come into the picture by the time she turned twenty-one?
Hereupon, I felt that after all my mother had common sense on her side; for if Master Snowe's farm should be for sale, it would be far more to the purpose than my coat of arms, to get it; for there was a different pasture there, just suited for change of diet to our sheep as well as large cattle. And beside this, even with all Annie's skill (and of course yet more now she was gone), their butter would always command in the market from one to three farthings a pound more than we could get for ours. And few things vexed us more than this. Whereas, if we got possession of the farm, we might, without breach of the market-laws, or any harm done to any one (the price being but a prejudice), sell all our butter as Snowe butter, and do good to all our customers.
After thinking it over, I realized my mom had a point; if Master Snowe's farm was up for sale, it would be way more useful to get that than to worry about my coat of arms. The farm had a different pasture that was perfect for changing our sheep's and large cattle's diet. Plus, even with all of Annie's expertise (and especially now that she's gone), their butter always sold for one to three farthings more per pound than ours did. That was one of the things that really annoyed us. But if we could buy the farm, we could sell all our butter as Snowe butter without breaking any market rules or hurting anyone (the price would just be a minor issue), and we could do good for all our customers.
Thinking thus, yet remembering that Farmer Nicholas might hold out for another score of years—as I heartily hoped he might—or that one, if not all, of his comely daughters might marry a good young farmer (or farmers, if the case were so)—or that, even without that, the farm might never be put up for sale; I begged my Lorna to do as she liked; or rather to wait and think of it; for as yet she could do nothing.
Thinking this way, while also remembering that Farmer Nicholas could hold onto the farm for another twenty years—as I sincerely hoped he would—or that one, if not all, of his attractive daughters might marry a good young farmer (or farmers, if that happened)—or that, even without that, the farm might never be for sale; I urged my Lorna to do what she wanted; or rather to wait and think it over; because for now, she couldn’t do anything.
CHAPTER LXXIV
BLOOD UPON THE ALTAR
Everything was settled smoothly, and without any fear or fuss, that Lorna might find end of troubles, and myself of eager waiting, with the help of Parson Bowden, and the good wishes of two counties. I could scarce believe my fortune, when I looked upon her beauty, gentleness, and sweetness, mingled with enough of humour and warm woman's feeling, never to be dull or tiring; never themselves to be weary.
Everything was settled smoothly, without any fear or fuss, so that Lorna could finally find peace and I could stop waiting eagerly, thanks to Parson Bowden and the good wishes of two counties. I could hardly believe my luck when I looked at her beauty, gentleness, and sweetness, mixed with just the right amount of humor and warm, caring feelings that never made her dull or tiring; she never seemed to get tired herself.
For she might be called a woman now; although a very young one, and as full of playful ways, or perhaps I may say ten times as full, as if she had known no trouble. To wit, the spirit of bright childhood, having been so curbed and straitened, ere its time was over, now broke forth, enriched and varied with the garb of conscious maidenhood. And the sense of steadfast love, and eager love enfolding her, coloured with so many tinges all her looks, and words, and thoughts, that to me it was the noblest vision even to think about her.
For she could be considered a woman now, even though she was still very young, overflowing with playful energy—maybe even ten times more so—as if she had never experienced any hardships. The spirit of bright childhood, having been restrained and limited before its time was up, now burst forth, enriched and varied by the awareness of growing up. The sense of lasting love and passionate affection surrounding her tinged all her expressions, words, and thoughts with so many hues that to me, simply imagining her was the most beautiful vision.
But this was far too bright to last, without bitter break, and the plunging of happiness in horror, and of passionate joy in agony. My darling in her softest moments, when she was alone with me, when the spark of defiant eyes was veiled beneath dark lashes, and the challenge of gay beauty passed into sweetest invitation; at such times of her purest love and warmest faith in me, a deep abiding fear would flutter in her bounding heart, as of deadly fate's approach. She would cling to me, and nestle to me, being scared of coyishness, and lay one arm around my neck, and ask if I could do without her.
But this was way too bright to last without some harsh break, and the dive of happiness into horror, and passionate joy into agony. My darling in her softest moments, when she was alone with me, when the spark of her defiant eyes was hidden beneath dark lashes, and the challenge of her cheerful beauty shifted into the sweetest invitation; at those times of her purest love and warmest faith in me, a deep, lingering fear would flutter in her racing heart, as if deadly fate was drawing near. She would cling to me and nestle close, feeling shy, wrapping one arm around my neck and asking if I could live without her.
Hence, as all emotions haply, of those who are more to us than ourselves, find within us stronger echo, and more perfect answer, so I could not be regardless of some hidden evil; and my dark misgivings deepened as the time drew nearer. I kept a steadfast watch on Lorna, neglecting a field of beans entirely, as well as a litter of young pigs, and a cow somewhat given to jaundice. And I let Jem Slocombe go to sleep in the tallat, all one afternoon, and Bill Dadds draw off a bucket of cider, without so much as a “by your leave.” For these men knew that my knighthood, and my coat of arms, and (most of all) my love, were greatly against good farming; the sense of our country being—and perhaps it may be sensible—that a man who sticks up to be anything, must allow himself to be cheated.
So, just like all emotions do sometimes, those who mean more to us than we do to ourselves resonate with us more deeply and give us a clearer response. I couldn’t ignore some unspoken danger, and my fears grew stronger as the time approached. I kept a close eye on Lorna, completely neglecting a field of beans, a bunch of piglets, and a cow that was a bit sick. I even let Jem Slocombe take a nap in the barn all afternoon, and Bill Dadds helped himself to a bucket of cider without asking. These guys knew that my status, my family crest, and especially my love were not great for farming; the common belief around here seems to be that someone who pretends to be important has to accept being taken advantage of.
But I never did stick up, nor would, though all the parish bade me; and I whistled the same tunes to my horses, and held my plough-tree, just the same as if no King, nor Queen, had ever come to spoil my tune or hand. For this thing, nearly all the men around our parts upbraided me; but the women praised me: and for the most part these are right, when themselves are not concerned.
But I never did stand up for myself, nor would I, even though everyone in the community urged me to; I still whistled the same tunes to my horses and handled my plow just like nothing had changed, as if no King or Queen had come to ruin my rhythm or my work. Because of this, nearly all the men around here criticized me, but the women praised me; and usually, they're right when they're not personally involved.
However humble I might be, no one knowing anything of our part of the country, would for a moment doubt that now here was a great to do and talk of John Ridd and his wedding. The fierce fight with the Doones so lately, and my leading of the combat (though I fought not more than need be), and the vanishing of Sir Counsellor, and the galloping madness of Carver, and the religious fear of the women that this last was gone to hell—for he himself had declared that his aim, while he cut through the yeomanry—also their remorse, that he should have been made to go thither with all his children left behind—these things, I say (if ever I can again contrive to say anything), had led to the broadest excitement about my wedding of Lorna. We heard that people meant to come from more than thirty miles around, upon excuse of seeing my stature and Lorna's beauty; but in good truth out of sheer curiosity, and the love of meddling.
No matter how humble I might be, anyone who knows anything about our part of the country wouldn’t doubt for a second that there was a big fuss and a lot of chatter about John Ridd and his wedding. The intense battle with the Doones not long ago, my role in leading the fight (even though I only fought as much as necessary), the mysterious disappearance of Sir Counsellor, Carver’s wild behavior, and the women’s deep fear that he had gone to hell—since he had claimed that his goal was to cut through the yeomanry—and their guilt over him heading there while leaving all his children behind; all these things, I say (if I can ever articulate it again), had sparked an incredible amount of excitement about my wedding to Lorna. We heard that people planned to come from more than thirty miles away, supposedly to see my size and Lorna's beauty, but really just out of pure curiosity and a love for gossip.
Our clerk had given notice, that not a man should come inside the door of his church without shilling-fee; and women (as sure to see twice as much) must every one pay two shillings. I thought this wrong; and as church-warden, begged that the money might be paid into mine own hands, when taken. But the clerk said that was against all law; and he had orders from the parson to pay it to him without any delay. So as I always obey the parson, when I care not much about a thing, I let them have it their own way; though feeling inclined to believe, sometimes, that I ought to have some of the money.
Our clerk had announced that no man should enter his church without paying a shilling, and women (who were sure to come in greater numbers) had to pay two shillings each. I thought this was unfair, and as the church warden, I requested that the money be handed over to me when collected. But the clerk insisted that it was against the rules, and he was instructed by the vicar to give it to him immediately. So, since I usually follow the vicar's wishes when I don’t feel strongly about something, I let them do as they pleased, even though I sometimes felt that I should get a share of the money.
Dear mother arranged all the ins and outs of the way in which it was to be done; and Annie and Lizzie, and all the Snowes, and even Ruth Huckaback (who was there, after great persuasion), made such a sweeping of dresses that I scarcely knew where to place my feet, and longed for a staff, to put by their gowns. Then Lorna came out of a pew half-way, in a manner which quite astonished me, and took my left hand in her right, and I prayed God that it were done with.
Dear mother arranged all the details of how everything was supposed to go; and Annie, Lizzie, all the Snowes, and even Ruth Huckaback (who was persuaded to come) made such a fuss with their dresses that I barely knew where to step and wished for a stick to push their gowns aside. Then Lorna came out of a pew halfway, in a way that surprised me, and took my left hand in her right, and I prayed to God that it would be over soon.
My darling looked so glorious, that I was afraid of glancing at her, yet took in all her beauty. She was in a fright, no doubt; but nobody should see it; whereas I said (to myself at least), “I will go through it like a grave-digger.”
My darling looked so amazing that I was scared to look at her, yet I couldn't help but notice all her beauty. She was clearly terrified, but I didn’t want anyone to see it; meanwhile, I thought to myself, “I’ll tackle this like a grave-digger.”
Lorna's dress was of pure white, clouded with faint lavender (for the sake of the old Earl Brandir), and as simple as need be, except for perfect loveliness. I was afraid to look at her, as I said before, except when each of us said, “I will,” and then each dwelled upon the other.
Lorna's dress was pure white, with a hint of lavender (for the sake of the old Earl Brandir), and it was as simple as it could be, except for its perfect beauty. I was scared to look at her, as I mentioned earlier, except when we both said, “I will,” and then we focused on each other.
It is impossible for any who have not loved as I have to conceive my joy and pride, when after ring and all was done, and the parson had blessed us, Lorna turned to look at me with her glances of subtle fun subdued by this great act.
It’s impossible for anyone who hasn’t loved like I have to understand my joy and pride when, after the ring and everything was finished, and the minister had blessed us, Lorna turned to look at me with her teasing glances softened by this significant moment.
Her eyes, which none on earth may ever equal, or compare with, told me such a depth of comfort, yet awaiting further commune, that I was almost amazed, thoroughly as I knew them. Darling eyes, the sweetest eyes, the loveliest, the most loving eyes—the sound of a shot rang through the church, and those eyes were filled with death.
Her eyes, which no one on earth can match or compare to, conveyed such a deep sense of comfort while still expecting more connection, that I was almost stunned, even though I knew them so well. Darling eyes, the sweetest eyes, the loveliest, the most loving eyes—the sound of a gunshot echoed through the church, and those eyes filled with death.
Lorna fell across my knees when I was going to kiss her, as the bridegroom is allowed to do, and encouraged, if he needs it; a flood of blood came out upon the yellow wood of the altar steps, and at my feet lay Lorna, trying to tell me some last message out of her faithful eyes. I lifted her up, and petted her, and coaxed her, but it was no good; the only sign of life remaining was a spirt of bright red blood.
Lorna collapsed across my knees just as a groom might, if he needed encouragement; blood poured onto the yellow wood of the altar steps, and there lay Lorna at my feet, trying to share some final message with her loyal eyes. I picked her up, comforted her, and tried to coax her, but it was no use; the only sign of life left was a spray of bright red blood.
Some men know what things befall them in the supreme time of their life—far above the time of death—but to me comes back as a hazy dream, without any knowledge in it, what I did, or felt, or thought, with my wife's arms flagging, flagging, around my neck, as I raised her up, and softly put them there. She sighed a long sigh on my breast, for her last farewell to life, and then she grew so cold, and cold, that I asked the time of year.
Some men are aware of the significant events in their lives—well beyond just the moment of death—but for me, it all returns as a vague dream, with no understanding of what I did, felt, or thought, while my wife's arms were limp around my neck as I lifted her up and gently placed them there. She sighed a long sigh against my chest, her final goodbye to life, and then she became so cold, so very cold, that I asked what time of year it was.
It was Whit-Tuesday, and the lilacs all in blossom; and why I thought of the time of year, with the young death in my arms, God or His angels, may decide, having so strangely given us. Enough that so I did, and looked; and our white lilacs were beautiful. Then I laid my wife in my mother's arms, and begging that no one would make a noise, went forth for my revenge.
It was Whit Tuesday, and the lilacs were all in bloom; why I thought of the season, with the young death in my arms, is something only God or His angels can decide, having given it to us so strangely. It’s enough that I did think of it and looked; our white lilacs were beautiful. Then I placed my wife in my mother’s arms and, asking everyone to keep quiet, went out for my revenge.
Of course, I knew who had done it. There was but one man in the world, or at any rate, in our part of it, who could have done such a thing—such a thing. I use no harsher word about it, while I leaped upon our best horse, with bridle but no saddle, and set the head of Kickums towards the course now pointed out to me. Who showed me the course, I cannot tell. I only know that I took it. And the men fell back before me.
Of course, I knew who was responsible. There was only one person in the world, or at least in our region, who could have done something like that. I won’t use harsher words for it as I jumped onto our best horse, with just a bridle and no saddle, and pointed Kickums in the direction I had been shown. I can't say who showed me the way, I just knew I had to take it. And the men stepped aside for me.
Weapon of no sort had I. Unarmed, and wondering at my strange attire (with a bridal vest, wrought by our Annie, and red with the blood of the bride), I went forth just to find out this; whether in this world there be or be not God of justice.
I didn't have any weapons. Unarmed and curious about my unusual outfit (wearing a bridal vest made by our Annie, stained red with the bride's blood), I set out to discover whether there is a God of justice in this world or not.
With my vicious horse at a furious speed, I came upon Black Barrow Down, directed by some shout of men, which seemed to me but a whisper. And there, about a furlong before me, rode a man on a great black horse, and I knew that the man was Carver Doone.
With my fierce horse racing at full speed, I approached Black Barrow Down, guided by a distant shout from some men that sounded like a whisper to me. And there, about a distance of a furlong ahead, rode a man on a huge black horse, and I recognized him as Carver Doone.
“Your life or mine,” I said to myself; “as the will of God may be. But we two live not upon this earth, one more hour together.”
“Your life or mine,” I said to myself; “whatever God decides. But the two of us can’t stay here together for even one more hour.”
I knew the strength of this great man; and I knew that he was armed with a gun—if he had time to load again, after shooting my Lorna—or at any rate with pistols, and a horseman's sword as well. Nevertheless, I had no more doubt of killing the man before me than a cook has of spitting a headless fowl.
I understood the power of this great man, and I knew he was carrying a gun—if he had time to reload after shooting my Lorna—or at least pistols and a cavalry sword too. Still, I had no more doubt about taking out the man in front of me than a cook has about gutting a headless chicken.
Sometimes seeing no ground beneath me, and sometimes heeding every leaf, and the crossing of the grass-blades, I followed over the long moor, reckless whether seen or not. But only once the other man turned round and looked back again, and then I was beside a rock, with a reedy swamp behind me.
Sometimes I found myself with no solid ground beneath me, and sometimes I paid attention to every leaf and the rustle of the grass, as I wandered across the vast moor, not caring whether I was seen or not. But only once did the other guy turn around and look back, and at that moment, I was next to a rock, with a marshy area behind me.
Although he was so far before me, and riding as hard as ride he might, I saw that he had something on the horse in front of him; something which needed care, and stopped him from looking backward. In the whirling of my wits, I fancied first that this was Lorna; until the scene I had been through fell across hot brain and heart, like the drop at the close of a tragedy. Rushing there through crag and quag, at utmost speed of a maddened horse, I saw, as of another's fate, calmly (as on canvas laid), the brutal deed, the piteous anguish, and the cold despair.
Although he was far ahead of me, and riding as hard as he could, I noticed that he was carrying something on the horse in front of him; something that required attention and prevented him from looking back. In my whirlwind of thoughts, I first imagined it was Lorna; until the events I had just experienced crashed down on my heated mind and heart, like the final blow of a tragedy. As I rushed through rocks and mud, at the frantic pace of a wild horse, I saw, as if it were someone else's fate, the brutal act, the heartbreaking suffering, and the chilling despair, laid out before me like a painting.
The man turned up the gully leading from the moor to Cloven Rocks, through which John Fry had tracked Uncle Ben, as of old related. But as Carver entered it, he turned round, and beheld me not a hundred yards behind; and I saw that he was bearing his child, little Ensie, before him. Ensie also descried me, and stretched his hands and cried to me; for the face of his father frightened him.
The man walked up the gully that led from the moor to Cloven Rocks, the same path John Fry had used to follow Uncle Ben, as was told in the past. But when Carver entered the gully, he turned around and saw me not even a hundred yards behind. I noticed he was carrying his child, little Ensie, in front of him. Ensie also spotted me and reached out his hands, crying to me because his father's face scared him.
Carver Doone, with a vile oath, thrust spurs into his flagging horse, and laid one hand on a pistol-stock; whence I knew that his slung carbine had received no bullet since the one that had pierced Lorna. And a cry of triumph rose from the black depths of my heart. What cared I for pistols? I had no spurs, neither was my horse one to need the rowel; I rather held him in than urged him, for he was fresh as ever; and I knew that the black steed in front, if he breasted the steep ascent, where the track divided, must be in our reach at once.
Carver Doone, swearing loudly, kicked his tired horse and put one hand on his pistol grip; from that, I realized that his slung carbine hadn’t been loaded since the bullet that hit Lorna. A cry of triumph surged from the dark corners of my heart. What did I care about pistols? I had no spurs, and my horse didn’t need them either; I actually held him back rather than pushed him forward, since he was as fresh as ever. I knew that if the black horse in front made it up the steep incline where the path split, we would be right on him.
His rider knew this; and, having no room in the rocky channel to turn and fire, drew rein at the crossways sharply, and plunged into the black ravine leading to the Wizard's Slough. “Is it so?” I said to myself with a brain and head cold as iron; “though the foul fiend come from the slough, to save thee; thou shalt carve it, Carver.”
His rider knew this; and, with no space in the rocky passage to turn and shoot, pulled back sharply at the intersection and dove into the dark ravine that led to the Wizard's Slough. “Is that how it is?” I thought to myself, my mind and head as cold as iron; “even if the evil spirit comes from the slough to save you; you will face it, Carver.”
I followed my enemy carefully, steadily, even leisurely; for I had him, as in a pitfall, whence no escape might be. He thought that I feared to approach him, for he knew not where he was: and his low disdainful laugh came back. “Laugh he who wins,” thought I.
I tracked my enemy closely, methodically, even casually; because I had him, like he was caught in a trap with no way out. He believed that I was afraid to get closer to him, not realizing where he actually was; and his mocking laugh echoed back. “Let him laugh who wins,” I thought.
A gnarled and half-starved oak, as stubborn as my own resolve, and smitten by some storm of old, hung from the crag above me. Rising from my horse's back, although I had no stirrups, I caught a limb, and tore it (like a mere wheat-awn) from the socket. Men show the rent even now, with wonder; none with more wonder than myself.
A twisted, half-dead oak tree, as stubborn as I am, and scarred by some ancient storm, hung from the cliff above me. Rising from my horse's back, even without stirrups, I grabbed a branch and ripped it off like it was just a blade of grass. People still marvel at the damage today; no one is more astonished than I am.
Carver Doone turned the corner suddenly on the black and bottomless bog; with a start of fear he reined back his horse, and I thought he would have turned upon me. But instead of that, he again rode on; hoping to find a way round the side.
Carver Doone suddenly turned the corner on the dark, endless bog; with a jolt of fear, he pulled back on his horse, and I thought he would come after me. But instead, he kept riding, hoping to find a way around the edge.
Now there is a way between cliff and slough for those who know the ground thoroughly, or have time enough to search it; but for him there was no road, and he lost some time in seeking it. Upon this he made up his mind; and wheeling, fired, and then rode at me.
Now there’s a path between the cliff and the swamp for those who know the area well or have enough time to look for it; but for him, there was no way, and he wasted some time trying to find it. After considering this, he made up his mind; and turning around, he fired, and then charged at me.
His bullet struck me somewhere, but I took no heed of that. Fearing only his escape, I laid my horse across the way, and with the limb of the oak struck full on the forehead his charging steed. Ere the slash of the sword came nigh me, man and horse rolled over, and wellnigh bore my own horse down, with the power of their onset.
His bullet hit me somewhere, but I paid no attention to that. Worried only about him getting away, I positioned my horse across the path and hit his charging horse right on the forehead with a branch from the oak. Just before the sword came close to me, both man and horse fell over and almost knocked my horse down with the force of their charge.
Carver Doone was somewhat stunned, and could not arise for a moment. Meanwhile I leaped on the ground and awaited, smoothing my hair back, and baring my arms, as though in the ring for wrestling. Then the little boy ran to me, clasped my leg, and looked up at me, and the terror in his eyes made me almost fear myself.
Carver Doone was a bit shocked and couldn't get up for a moment. Meanwhile, I jumped down to the ground and waited, smoothing my hair back and rolling up my sleeves, as if I was about to wrestle. Then the little boy ran over to me, wrapped his arms around my leg, and looked up at me, and the fear in his eyes made me almost fear myself.
“Ensie, dear,” I said quite gently, grieving that he should see his wicked father killed, “run up yonder round the corner and try to find a pretty bunch of bluebells for the lady.” The child obeyed me, hanging back, and looking back, and then laughing, while I prepared for business. There and then I might have killed mine enemy, with a single blow, while he lay unconscious; but it would have been foul play.
“Ensie, sweetheart,” I said softly, saddened that he had to witness his terrible father being killed, “run over there around the corner and see if you can find a nice bunch of bluebells for the lady.” The child listened, hesitating and glancing back, then giggling while I got ready for what was about to happen. Right then, I could have taken my enemy out with a single blow while he lay unconscious; but that wouldn’t have been fair play.
With a sullen and black scowl, the Carver gathered his mighty limbs, and arose, and looked round for his weapons; but I had put them well away. Then he came to me and gazed; being wont to frighten thus young men.
With a dark and angry frown, the Carver stood up, flexed his powerful limbs, and looked around for his weapons; but I had hidden them well. Then he approached me and stared, as was his habit to intimidate young men.
“I would not harm you, lad,” he said, with a lofty style of sneering: “I have punished you enough, for most of your impertinence. For the rest I forgive you; because you have been good and gracious to my little son. Go, and be contented.”
“I wouldn't hurt you, kid,” he said, sneering with an air of superiority. “I've already punished you enough for most of your rudeness. For the rest, I forgive you because you've been kind and gracious to my little son. Go, and be happy.”
For answer, I smote him on the cheek, lightly, and not to hurt him: but to make his blood leap up. I would not sully my tongue by speaking to a man like this.
For an answer, I smacked him on the cheek, gently, and not to harm him: but to get his blood pumping. I wouldn’t lower myself to talk to a man like this.
There was a level space of sward between us and the slough. With the courtesy derived from London, and the processions I had seen, to this place I led him. And that he might breathe himself, and have every fibre cool, and every muscle ready, my hold upon his coat I loosed, and left him to begin with me, whenever he thought proper.
There was a flat patch of grass between us and the marsh. With the politeness I'd picked up from London and the parades I'd witnessed, I brought him to this spot. To give him a moment to catch his breath and to cool down every part of him, I released my grip on his coat and let him start whenever he felt ready.
I think that he felt that his time was come. I think he knew from my knitted muscles, and the firm arch of my breast, and the way in which I stood; but most of all from my stern blue eyes; that he had found his master. At any rate a paleness came, an ashy paleness on his cheeks, and the vast calves of his legs bowed in, as if he were out of training.
I think he sensed that his time had come. I believe he could tell from my toned muscles, the firm curve of my chest, and my stance; but most importantly, from my intense blue eyes, that he had met his match. At any rate, a pale look washed over his face, an ashen color on his cheeks, and the strong calves of his legs seemed to buckle, as if he were out of shape.
Seeing this, villain as he was, I offered him first chance. I stretched forth my left hand, as I do to a weaker antagonist, and I let him have the hug of me. But in this I was too generous; having forgotten my pistol-wound, and the cracking of one of my short lower ribs. Carver Doone caught me round the waist, with such a grip as never yet had been laid upon me.
Seeing this, despite being a villain, I gave him the first chance. I reached out my left hand, as I do with a weaker opponent, and let him embrace me. But I was too generous in this; I had forgotten about my gunshot wound and the crack in one of my lower ribs. Carver Doone wrapped his arms around my waist with a grip like none I had ever experienced.
I heard my rib go; I grasped his arm, and tore the muscle out of it* (as the string comes out of an orange); then I took him by the throat, which is not allowed in wrestling; but he had snatched at mine; and now was no time of dalliance. In vain he tugged, and strained, and writhed, dashed his bleeding fist into my face, and flung himself on me with gnashing jaws. Beneath the iron of my strength—for God that day was with me—I had him helpless in two minutes, and his fiery eyes lolled out.
I heard my rib snap; I grabbed his arm and ripped the muscle right out of it (like pulling the string out of an orange); then I went for his throat, which isn't allowed in wrestling; but he had gone for mine first; and this wasn't the time for hesitation. He struggled, fought, and twisted, slammed his bleeding fist into my face, and lunged at me with bared teeth. With the power of my strength—thank God I had it with me that day—I had him completely helpless in two minutes, and his wild eyes rolled back.
* A far more terrible clutch than this is handed down, to
weaker ages, of the great John Ridd.—Ed.
* A much more dreadful grasp than this is passed down to weaker generations from the great John Ridd.—Ed.
“I will not harm thee any more,” I cried, so far as I could for panting, the work being very furious: “Carver Doone, thou art beaten: own it, and thank God for it; and go thy way, and repent thyself.”
“I won’t hurt you anymore,” I shouted, as much as I could while panting, the fight being very intense. “Carver Doone, you’re defeated: admit it, and thank God for it; now go on and repent.”
It was all too late. Even if he had yielded in his ravening frenzy—for his beard was like a mad dog's jowl—even if he would have owned that, for the first time in his life, he had found his master; it was all too late.
It was all too late. Even if he had given in to his wild rage—for his beard was like a crazed dog's jowl—even if he would have admitted that, for the first time in his life, he had found his master; it was all too late.
The black bog had him by the feet; the sucking of the ground drew on him, like the thirsty lips of death. In our fury, we had heeded neither wet nor dry; nor thought of earth beneath us. I myself might scarcely leap, with the last spring of o'er-laboured legs, from the engulfing grave of slime. He fell back, with his swarthy breast (from which my gripe had rent all clothing), like a hummock of bog-oak, standing out the quagmire; and then he tossed his arms to heaven, and they were black to the elbow, and the glare of his eyes was ghastly. I could only gaze and pant; for my strength was no more than an infant's, from the fury and the horror. Scarcely could I turn away, while, joint by joint, he sank from sight.
The black bog had him by the feet; the ground was pulling him in, like the desperate lips of death. In our rage, we didn’t care about the wet or dry; we didn’t think about the earth beneath us. I could barely jump, with the last push of my exhausted legs, from the consuming grave of muck. He fell back, his dark chest (which my grip had torn all clothing from), standing out from the swamp like a piece of bog oak; then he raised his arms to the sky, and they were black up to the elbows, his eyes wide and dreadful. I could only stare and breathe heavily; my strength was no more than a child’s, overwhelmed by rage and fear. I could hardly look away as he sank from sight, piece by piece.
CHAPTER LXXV
GIVE AWAY THE GRANDEUR
When the little boy came back with the bluebells, which he had managed to find—as children always do find flowers, when older eyes see none—the only sign of his father left was a dark brown bubble, upon a newly formed patch of blackness. But to the center of its pulpy gorge the greedy slough was heaving, and sullenly grinding its weltering jaws among the flags and the sedges.
When the little boy returned with the bluebells he had found—just like children always find flowers, even when grown-ups see none—the only trace of his father left was a dark brown bubble on a fresh patch of darkness. But in the center of its soft opening, the greedy bog was surging, sullenly chewing its restless jaws among the reeds and grasses.
With pain, and ache, both of mind and body, and shame at my own fury, I heavily mounted my horse again, and, looked down at the innocent Ensie. Would this playful, loving child grow up like his cruel father, and end a godless life of hatred with a death of violence? He lifted his noble forehead towards me, as if to answer, “Nay, I will not”: but the words he spoke were these:—
With pain and ache, both in my mind and body, and shame over my own anger, I climbed onto my horse again and looked down at the innocent Ensie. Would this playful, loving child grow up to be like his cruel father, leading a godless life of hatred and ending in a violent death? He lifted his noble forehead towards me, as if to say, “No, I won’t”: but the words he spoke were these:—
“Don,”—for he could never say “John”—“oh, Don, I am so glad that nasty naughty man is gone away. Take me home, Don. Take me home.”
“Don,”—for he could never say “John”—“oh, Don, I’m so glad that awful man is gone. Take me home, Don. Take me home.”
It has been said of the wicked, “not even their own children love them.” And I could easily believe that Carver Doone's cold-hearted ways had scared from him even his favorite child. No man would I call truly wicked, unless his heart be cold.
It’s been said about the wicked, “not even their own children love them.” And I could definitely believe that Carver Doone’s heartless nature had driven away even his favorite child. I wouldn’t call any man truly wicked unless his heart is cold.
It hurt me, more than I can tell, even through all other grief, to take into my arms the child of the man just slain by me. The feeling was a foolish one, and a wrong one, as the thing has been—for I would fain have saved that man, after he was conquered—nevertheless my arms went coldly round that little fellow; neither would they have gone at all, if there had been any help for it. But I could not leave him there, till some one else might fetch him; on account of the cruel slough, and the ravens which had come hovering over the dead horse; neither could I, with my wound, tie him on my horse and walk.
It hurt me more than I can express, even with all the other sorrow I felt, to hold the child of the man I had just killed. It was a foolish and wrong feeling, as it should be—because I would have preferred to save that man after defeating him—yet my arms embraced the little boy coldly; they wouldn’t have moved at all if I could have avoided it. But I couldn’t just leave him there for someone else to collect; the cruel mud and the ravens circling over the dead horse kept me from doing so. Plus, with my injury, I couldn't tie him to my horse and walk.
For now I had spent a great deal of blood, and was rather faint and weary. And it was lucky for me that Kickums had lost spirit, like his master, and went home as mildly as a lamb. For, when we came towards the farm, I seemed to be riding in a dream almost; and the voices both of man and women (who had hurried forth upon my track), as they met me, seemed to wander from a distant muffling cloud. Only the thought of Lorna's death, like a heavy knell, was tolling in the belfry of my brain.
For now, I had lost a lot of blood and felt pretty faint and exhausted. Luckily, Kickums had also lost his spirit, just like his owner, and went home as quietly as a lamb. As we approached the farm, it felt like I was riding in a dream; the voices of both men and women (who had rushed out to find me) sounded distant and muffled, like they were coming from a far-off cloud. The only thing that weighed heavily on my mind was the thought of Lorna's death, ringing in my head like a somber bell.
When we came to the stable door, I rather fell from my horse than got off; and John Fry, with a look of wonder took Kickum's head, and led him in. Into the old farmhouse I tottered, like a weanling child, with mother in her common clothes, helping me along, yet fearing, except by stealth, to look at me.
When we reached the stable door, I sort of fell off my horse instead of getting off properly; and John Fry, looking surprised, took Kickum's head and led him inside. I stumbled into the old farmhouse, like a little kid, with my mother in her everyday clothes, helping me walk but nervously avoiding looking at me except when she thought I wouldn’t notice.
“I have killed him,” was all I said; “even as he killed Lorna. Now let me see my wife, mother. She belongs to me none the less, though dead.”
"I killed him," was all I said; "just like he killed Lorna. Now let me see my wife, Mom. She still belongs to me, even though she's dead."
“You cannot see her now, dear John,” said Ruth Huckaback, coming forward; since no one else had the courage. “Annie is with her now, John.”
“You can’t see her now, dear John,” said Ruth Huckaback, stepping forward; since no one else had the courage. “Annie is with her now, John.”
“What has that to do with it? Let me see my dead one; and pray myself to die.”
“What does that have to do with anything? Let me see my loved one who has passed away; and I’ll pray for my own death.”
All the women fell away, and whispered, and looked at me, with side glances, and some sobbing; for my face was hard as flint. Ruth alone stood by me, and dropped her eyes, and trembled. Then one little hand of hers stole into my great shaking palm, and the other was laid on my tattered coat: yet with her clothes she shunned my blood, while she whispered gently,—
All the women stepped back, whispered, and looked at me with sideways glances, some were crying; my expression was as hard as stone. Ruth was the only one who stayed close, lowering her eyes and trembling. Then one little hand of hers slipped into my large shaking palm, and the other rested on my worn coat: yet with her clothes she avoided my blood, while she softly whispered,—
“John, she is not your dead one. She may even be your living one yet, your wife, your home, and your happiness. But you must not see her now.”
“John, she’s not the one who’s gone. She might still be the one for you, your wife, your home, and your happiness. But you can’t see her right now.”
“Is there any chance for her? For me, I mean; for me, I mean?”
“Is there any chance for her? For me, I mean; for me, I mean?”
“God in heaven knows, dear John. But the sight of you, and in this sad plight, would be certain death to her. Now come first, and be healed yourself.”
“God in heaven knows, dear John. But seeing you like this, in such a sad state, would be certain death for her. Now come first and get healed yourself.”
I obeyed her, like a child, whispering only as I went, for none but myself knew her goodness—“Almighty God will bless you, darling, for the good you are doing now.”
I followed her instructions, like a child, speaking softly as I went, because only I knew how good she was—“God will bless you, darling, for the good you’re doing now.”
Tenfold, ay and a thousandfold, I prayed and I believed it, when I came to know the truth. If it had not been for this little maid, Lorna must have died at once, as in my arms she lay for dead, from the dastard and murderous cruelty. But the moment I left her Ruth came forward and took the command of every one, in right of her firmness and readiness.
Ten times, and even a thousand times, I prayed and believed it when I learned the truth. If it hadn’t been for this little girl, Lorna would have died instantly, lying in my arms as if she were dead, from the cruel and violent attack. But as soon as I stepped away, Ruth came forward and took charge of everyone, thanks to her strength and quick thinking.
She made them bear her home at once upon the door of the pulpit, with the cushion under the drooping head. With her own little hands she cut off, as tenderly as a pear is peeled, the bridal-dress, so steeped and stained, and then with her dainty transparent fingers (no larger than a pencil) she probed the vile wound in the side, and fetched the reeking bullet forth; and then with the coldest water stanched the flowing of the life-blood. All this while my darling lay insensible, and white as death; and needed nothing but her maiden shroud.
She had them carry her home right away to the pulpit, with the cushion under her drooping head. With her own little hands, she gently cut off the bridal dress, so soaked and stained, and then, with her delicate, transparent fingers (no bigger than a pencil), she examined the horrible wound in the side and pulled out the bloody bullet; then, with cold water, she stopped the flow of life-blood. All this time, my darling lay unconscious, pale as death, and needed only her wedding shroud.
But Ruth still sponged the poor side and forehead, and watched the long eyelashes flat upon the marble cheek; and laid her pure face on the faint heart, and bade them fetch her Spanish wine. Then she parted the pearly teeth (feebly clenched on the hovering breath), and poured in wine from a christening spoon, and raised the graceful neck and breast, and stroked the delicate throat, and waited; and then poured in a little more.
But Ruth continued to wipe the poor side and forehead, watching the long eyelashes resting against the marble cheek. She laid her clean face on the faint heart and asked them to bring her Spanish wine. Then she gently opened the pearly teeth (weakly clenched around the barely there breath) and poured in wine from a christening spoon. She lifted the graceful neck and chest, stroked the delicate throat, and waited; then she poured in a little more.
Annie all the while looked on with horror and amazement, counting herself no second-rate nurse, and this as against all theory. But the quiet lifting of Ruth's hand, and one glance from her dark bright eyes, told Annie just to stand away, and not intercept the air so. And at the very moment when all the rest had settled that Ruth was a simple idiot, but could not harm the dead much, a little flutter in the throat, followed by a short low sigh, made them pause, and look and hope.
Annie watched in horror and disbelief, considering herself no less than a capable nurse, despite everything she had been taught. But the gentle raising of Ruth's hand and a look from her bright dark eyes signaled Annie to step back and not block the air. Just when everyone else decided that Ruth was a simpleton who couldn’t do much harm to the dead, a small flutter in her throat, followed by a soft sigh, made them stop, look, and hold on to a glimmer of hope.
For hours, however, and days, she lay at the very verge of death, kept alive by nothing but the care, the skill, the tenderness, and the perpetual watchfulness of Ruth. Luckily Annie was not there very often, so as to meddle; for kind and clever nurse as she was, she must have done more harm than good. But my broken rib, which was set by a doctor, who chanced to be at the wedding, was allotted to Annie's care; and great inflammation ensuing, it was quite enough to content her. This doctor had pronounced poor Lorna dead; wherefore Ruth refused most firmly to have aught to do with him. She took the whole case on herself; and with God's help she bore it through.
For hours and days, she lay on the brink of death, kept alive only by Ruth's care, skill, tenderness, and constant watchfulness. Fortunately, Annie wasn’t around very often to interfere; even though she was a kind and capable nurse, she would have probably caused more harm than good. However, my broken rib, which a doctor who happened to be at the wedding had set, was under Annie's care; and with the resulting inflammation, that was enough to satisfy her. This doctor had declared poor Lorna dead, so Ruth was determined not to have anything to do with him. She took on the entire situation herself, and with God's help, she managed to get through it.
Now whether it were the light and brightness of my Lorna's nature; or the freedom from anxiety—for she knew not of my hurt;—or, as some people said, her birthright among wounds and violence, or her manner of not drinking beer—I leave that doctor to determine who pronounced her dead. But anyhow, one thing is certain; sure as stars of hope above us; Lorna recovered, long ere I did.
Now, whether it was the brightness of Lorna's spirit, or the lack of worry—since she didn’t know about my injury—or, as some people said, her heritage of overcoming hardship, or the fact that she didn’t drink beer—I’ll leave it to that doctor to decide who declared her dead. But one thing is for sure; just like the stars of hope shining above us, Lorna recovered long before I did.
For the grief was on me still of having lost my love and lover at the moment she was mine. With the power of fate upon me, and the black cauldron of the wizard's death boiling in my heated brain, I had no faith in the tales they told. I believed that Lorna was in the churchyard, while these rogues were lying to me. For with strength of blood like mine, and power of heart behind it, a broken bone must burn itself.
For I was still grieving the loss of my love and partner at the very moment she was mine. With fate's grip on me and thoughts of the wizard's death swirling in my troubled mind, I didn’t believe the stories they told. I was convinced that Lorna was in the graveyard while these scoundrels were deceiving me. With a bloodline as strong as mine and the resolve to back it up, a shattered bone has to heal itself.
Mine went hard with fires of pain, being of such size and thickness; and I was ashamed of him for breaking by reason of a pistol-ball, and the mere hug of a man. And it fetched me down in conceit of strength; so that I was careful afterwards.
Mine became intense with pain, being so large and thick; and I felt ashamed of him for giving in due to a bullet wound and just the embrace of a man. It humbled me in my sense of strength; so I was more cautious afterward.
All this was a lesson to me. All this made me very humble; illness being a thing, as yet, altogether unknown to me. Not that I cried small, or skulked, or feared the death which some foretold; shaking their heads about mortification, and a green appearance. Only that I seemed quite fit to go to heaven, and Lorna. For in my sick distracted mind (stirred with many tossings), like the bead in the spread of frog-spawn carried by the current, hung the black and central essence of my future life. A life without Lorna; a tadpole life. All stupid head; and no body.
All of this was a lesson for me. It made me very humble; illness was something I had never experienced before. I didn’t cry or hide away, nor did I fear the death that some predicted, shaking their heads about decay and looking pale. It was just that I felt completely ready to go to heaven and be with Lorna. Because in my sick and confused mind, tossed about by many struggles, like a bead in a clump of frog spawn carried by the flow, hung the dark and central essence of my future. A life without Lorna; a life like a tadpole. All head and no body.
Many men may like such life; anchorites, fakirs, high-priests, and so on; but to my mind, it is not the native thing God meant for us. My dearest mother was a show, with crying and with fretting. The Doones, as she thought, were born to destroy us. Scarce had she come to some liveliness (though sprinkled with tears, every now and then) after her great bereavement, and ten years' time to dwell on it—when lo, here was her husband's son, the pet child of her own good John, murdered like his father! Well, the ways of God were wonderful!
Many men might enjoy that kind of life; hermits, spiritual seekers, high priests, and so on; but to me, it doesn't seem like what God intended for us. My beloved mother was always putting on a show, crying and worrying. She believed the Doones were meant to ruin us. Just when she started to regain her spirit (though she was still shedding tears now and then) after mourning for ten long years—here came her husband's son, the cherished child of her dear John, killed just like his father! Well, the ways of God are truly mysterious!
So they were, and so they are; and so they ever will be. Let us debate them as we will, our ways are His, and much the same; only second-hand from Him. And I expected something from Him, even in my worst of times, knowing that I had done my best.
So they were, and so they are; and so they always will be. We can argue about them as much as we want, but our paths are His, and pretty similar; just second-hand from Him. And I expected something from Him, even during my toughest times, knowing that I had done my best.
This is not edifying talk—as our Nonconformist parson says, when he can get no more to drink—therefore let me only tell what became of Lorna. One day, I was sitting in my bedroom, for I could not get downstairs, and there was no one strong enough to carry me, even if I would have allowed it.
This isn't exactly uplifting conversation—as our Nonconformist pastor says when he can't have another drink—so let me just share what happened to Lorna. One day, I was sitting in my bedroom because I couldn't make it downstairs, and there wasn't anyone strong enough to carry me, even if I would have let them.
Though it cost me sore trouble and weariness, I had put on all my Sunday clothes, out of respect for the doctor, who was coming to bleed me again (as he always did twice a week); and it struck me that he had seemed hurt in his mind, because I wore my worst clothes to be bled in—for lie in bed I would not, after six o'clock; and even that was great laziness.
Even though it took a lot of effort and exhaustion, I put on my best Sunday clothes out of respect for the doctor, who was coming to give me a bleed again (which he always did twice a week); it seemed to me that he looked a bit disappointed because I wore my worst clothes for the procedure—since I wouldn't lie in bed after six o'clock; and even that felt like being really lazy.
I looked at my right hand, whose grasp had been like that of a blacksmith's vice; and it seemed to myself impossible that this could be John Ridd's. The great frame of the hand was there, as well as the muscles, standing forth like the guttering of a candle, and the broad blue veins, going up the back, and crossing every finger. But as for colour, even Lorna's could scarcely have been whiter; and as for strength, little Ensie Doone might have come and held it fast. I laughed as I tried in vain to lift the basin set for bleeding me.
I looked at my right hand, which felt as tight as a blacksmith's vice, and it seemed impossible that this was John Ridd's. The large shape of the hand was there, along with the muscles, sticking out like the wax drips from a candle, and the broad blue veins running up the back and across every finger. But in terms of color, even Lorna's could hardly have been whiter; and as for strength, little Ensie Doone could have easily held it down. I laughed as I tried, unsuccessfully, to lift the basin that was set up to bleed me.
Then I thought of all the lovely things going on out-of-doors just now, concerning which the drowsy song of the bees came to me. These must be among the thyme, by the sound of their great content. Therefore the roses must be in blossom, and the woodbine, and clove-gilly-flower; the cherries on the wall must be turning red, the yellow Sally must be on the brook, wheat must be callow with quavering bloom, and the early meadows swathed with hay.
Then I thought about all the beautiful things happening outside right now, and I could hear the sleepy song of the bees. They must be among the thyme, judging by how happy they sound. So the roses must be blooming, along with the honeysuckle and clove pinks; the cherries on the wall must be ripening to red, the yellow willow must be by the stream, the wheat must be young and lightly flowering, and the early meadows covered with hay.
Yet here was I, a helpless creature quite unfit to stir among them, gifted with no sight, no scent of all the changes that move our love, and lead our hearts, from month to month, along the quiet path of life. And what was worse, I had no hope of caring ever for them more.
Yet here I was, a helpless being completely unfit to be among them, lacking any awareness of the changes that shape our love and guide our hearts, month after month, along the calm journey of life. And what was even worse, I had no hope of ever caring for them more.
Presently a little knock sounded through my gloomy room, and supposing it to be the doctor, I tried to rise and make my bow. But to my surprise it was little Ruth, who had never once come to visit me, since I was placed under the doctor's hands. Ruth was dressed so gaily, with rosettes, and flowers, and what not, that I was sorry for her bad manners; and thought she was come to conquer me, now that Lorna was done with.
Right now, a light knock echoed through my dreary room, and thinking it was the doctor, I tried to get up to greet him. But to my surprise, it was little Ruth, who hadn’t come to visit me at all since I started seeing the doctor. Ruth was dressed so brightly, with bows, flowers, and all sorts of things, that I felt bad for her lack of manners; I figured she had come to win me over now that Lorna was out of the picture.
Ruth ran towards me with sparkling eyes, being rather short of sight; then suddenly she stopped, and I saw entire amazement in her face.
Ruth ran toward me with bright eyes, even though she had bad eyesight; then suddenly she stopped, and I could see pure astonishment on her face.
“Can you receive visitors, Cousin Ridd?—why, they never told me of this!” she cried: “I knew that you were weak, dear John; but not that you were dying. Whatever is that basin for?”
“Can you have visitors, Cousin Ridd?—I can’t believe they never told me this!” she exclaimed. “I knew you were weak, dear John, but I didn’t know you were dying. What’s that basin for?”
“I have no intention of dying, Ruth; and I like not to talk about it. But that basin, if you must know, is for the doctor's purpose.”
“I don’t plan on dying, Ruth, and I don’t want to discuss it. But that basin, if you really need to know, is for the doctor's use.”
“What, do you mean bleeding you? You poor weak cousin! Is it possible that he does that still?”
“What, you mean hurting you? You poor weak cousin! Does he really still do that?”
“Twice a week for the last six weeks, dear. Nothing else has kept me alive.”
“Twice a week for the last six weeks, my dear. Nothing else has kept me going.”
“Nothing else has killed you, nearly. There!” and she set her little boot across the basin, and crushed it. “Not another drop shall they have from you. Is Annie such a fool as that? And Lizzie, like a zany, at her books! And killing her brother, between them!”
“Nothing else has nearly killed you. There!” She placed her little boot on the basin and crushed it. “They won’t get another drop from you. Is Annie really that stupid? And Lizzie, like a crazy person, focused on her books! And they’re killing their brother, between them!”
I was surprised to see Ruth excited; her character being so calm and quiet. And I tried to soothe her with my feeble hand, as now she knelt before me.
I was surprised to see Ruth so excited, considering how calm and quiet she usually is. I tried to soothe her with my weak hand as she knelt in front of me.
“Dear cousin, the doctor must know best. Annie says so, every day. What has he been brought up for?”
“Dear cousin, the doctor must know best. Annie says that every day. What was he raised for?”
“Brought up for slaying and murdering. Twenty doctors killed King Charles, in spite of all the women. Will you leave it to me, John? I have a little will of my own; and I am not afraid of doctors. Will you leave it to me, dear John? I have saved your Lorna's life. And now I will save yours; which is a far, far easier business.”
“Accused of killing and murdering. Twenty doctors took down King Charles, despite all the women. Will you trust me with this, John? I have my own will; and I'm not scared of doctors. Will you trust me, dear John? I saved your Lorna's life. And now I’ll save yours; which is much, much easier.”
“You have saved my Lorna's life! What do you mean by talking so?”
“You’ve saved my Lorna’s life! What do you mean by saying that?”
“Only what I say, Cousin John. Though perhaps I overprize my work. But at any rate she says so.”
“Only what I say, Cousin John. Although I might value my work too highly. But either way, she thinks so.”
“I do not understand,” I said, falling back with bewilderment; “all women are such liars.”
“I don't understand,” I said, leaning back in confusion; “all women are such liars.”
“Have you ever known me tell a lie?” Ruth in great indignation—more feigned, I doubt, than real—“your mother may tell a story, now and then when she feels it right; and so may both your sisters. But so you cannot do, John Ridd; and no more than you can I do it.”
“Have you ever heard me tell a lie?” Ruth said with a lot of indignation—mostly fake, I think, rather than genuine—“Your mother might tell a story now and then when she feels it's appropriate; and so could your sisters. But you can’t do that, John Ridd; and just like you, I can’t do it either.”
If ever there was virtuous truth in the eyes of any woman, it was now in Ruth Huckaback's: and my brain began very slowly to move, the heart being almost torpid from perpetual loss of blood.
If there was ever a genuine truth in the eyes of any woman, it was in Ruth Huckaback's: and my mind started to wake up very slowly, my heart being nearly numb from constant loss of blood.
“I do not understand,” was all I could say for a very long time.
“I don’t understand,” was all I could say for a long time.
“Will you understand, if I show you Lorna? I have feared to do it, for the sake of you both. But now Lorna is well enough, if you think that you are, Cousin John. Surely you will understand, when you see your wife.”
“Will you understand if I show you Lorna? I've been afraid to do it, for both your sakes. But now Lorna is well enough, if you think you are, Cousin John. Surely you will understand when you see your wife.”
Following her, to the very utmost of my mind and heart, I felt that all she said was truth; and yet I could not make it out. And in her last few words there was such a power of sadness rising through the cover of gaiety, that I said to myself, half in a dream, “Ruth is very beautiful.”
Following her, with all my mind and heart, I felt that everything she said was true; yet I couldn't fully understand it. In her last few words, there was such a deep sadness breaking through the surface of her cheerfulness that I thought to myself, half in a daze, “Ruth is really beautiful.”
Before I had time to listen much for the approach of footsteps, Ruth came back, and behind her Lorna; coy as if of her bridegroom; and hanging back with her beauty. Ruth banged the door, and ran away; and Lorna stood before me.
Before I had a chance to listen for footsteps, Ruth returned, and behind her was Lorna, shy as if she were a bride, hesitating with her beauty. Ruth slammed the door and ran off, leaving Lorna standing in front of me.
But she did not stand for an instant, when she saw what I was like. At the risk of all thick bandages, and upsetting a dozen medicine bottles, and scattering leeches right and left, she managed to get into my arms, although they could not hold her. She laid her panting warm young breast on the place where they meant to bleed me, and she set my pale face up; and she would not look at me, having greater faith in kissing.
But she didn't hesitate for a moment when she saw what I looked like. Despite the risk of messing up all the thick bandages, knocking over a bunch of medicine bottles, and scattering leeches everywhere, she managed to get into my arms, even though they couldn't really hold her. She pressed her warm, panting chest against the spot where they were going to draw my blood and lifted my pale face. She wouldn't look at me, believing more in the power of kissing.
I felt my life come back, and warm; I felt my trust in women flow; I felt the joys of living now, and the power of doing it. It is not a moment to describe; who feels can never tell of it. But the rush of Lorna's tears, and the challenge of my bride's lips, and the throbbing of my wife's heart (now at last at home on mine), made me feel that the world was good, and not a thing to be weary of.
I felt my life return, warm and full; I felt my trust in women grow; I felt the joys of living in the moment and the strength that comes with it. It's a feeling that's hard to describe; those who feel it can never truly express it. But the rush of Lorna's tears, the challenge in my bride's kiss, and the beating of my wife's heart (finally at home with mine) made me realize that the world was good, and not something to be exhausted by.
Little more have I to tell. The doctor was turned out at once; and slowly came back my former strength, with a darling wife, and good victuals. As for Lorna, she never tired of sitting and watching me eat and eat. And such is her heart that she never tires of being with me here and there, among the beautiful places, and talking with her arm around me—so far at least as it can go, though half of mine may go round her—of the many fears and troubles, dangers and discouragements, and worst of all the bitter partings, which we used to have, somehow.
I don't have much more to say. The doctor was let go right away, and my strength gradually returned, along with my wonderful wife and good food. As for Lorna, she never grew tired of sitting and watching me eat and eat. Her heart is so big that she never gets bored of being with me here and there, in beautiful places, and talking with her arm around me—at least as far as it can reach, even if half of mine can wrap around her—about the many fears and troubles, dangers and discouragements, and worst of all, the painful goodbyes we used to face, somehow.
There is no need for my farming harder than becomes a man of weight. Lorna has great stores of money, though we never draw it out, except for some poor neighbor; unless I find her a sumptuous dress, out of her own perquisites. And this she always looks upon as a wondrous gift from me; and kisses me much when she puts it on, and walks like the noble woman she is. And yet I may never behold it again; for she gets back to her simple clothes, and I love her the better in them. I believe that she gives half the grandeur away, and keeps the other half for the children.
I don't need to work my farm any harder than what makes me a respected man. Lorna has a lot of money, though we rarely take any out, except to help some poor neighbor; unless I find her a fancy dress, which comes from her own earnings. She always sees this as a wonderful gift from me; she kisses me a lot when she puts it on and walks like the noble woman she is. And yet, I might never see it again because she goes back to her simple clothes, and I actually love her more in them. I think she gives away half of the elegance and keeps the other half for the kids.
As for poor Tom Faggus, every one knows his bitter adventures, when his pardon was recalled, because of his journey to Sedgemoor. Not a child in the country, I doubt, but knows far more than I do of Tom's most desperate doings. The law had ruined him once, he said; and then he had been too much for the law: and now that a quiet life was his object, here the base thing came after him. And such was his dread of this evil spirit, that being caught upon Barnstaple Bridge, with soldiers at either end of it (yet doubtful about approaching him), he set his strawberry mare, sweet Winnie, at the left-hand parapet, with a whisper into her dove-coloured ear. Without a moment's doubt she leaped it, into the foaming tide, and swam, and landed according to orders. Also his flight from a public-house (where a trap was set for him, but Winnie came and broke down the door, and put two men under, and trod on them,) is as well known as any ballad. It was reported for awhile that poor Tom had been caught at last, by means of his fondness for liquor, and was hanged before Taunton Jail; but luckily we knew better. With a good wife, and a wonderful horse, and all the country attached to him, he kept the law at a wholesome distance, until it became too much for its master; and a new king arose. Upon this, Tom sued his pardon afresh; and Jeremy Stickles, who suited the times, was glad to help him in getting it, as well as a compensation. Thereafter the good and respectable Tom lived a godly (though not always sober) life; and brought up his children to honesty, as the first of all qualifications.
As for poor Tom Faggus, everyone knows about his tough times when his pardon was taken back because of his journey to Sedgemoor. I doubt there's a child in the country who doesn't know more about Tom's desperate adventures than I do. He said the law had ruined him once; then he outsmarted the law, and now that he wanted a quiet life, the nasty thing was after him again. He was so scared of this evil that, when he was trapped on Barnstaple Bridge, with soldiers at either end (who were uncertain about approaching him), he quietly urged his strawberry mare, sweet Winnie, to leap over the left-hand railing. Without a second thought, she jumped into the rushing water, swam, and landed perfectly as instructed. His escape from a pub (where they had set a trap for him) is just as well-known, as Winnie broke down the door, knocked two men down, and stepped on them. For a while, there were rumors that poor Tom had finally been caught due to his love for drink and was hanged at Taunton Jail; but luckily, we knew better. With a good wife, a wonderful horse, and everyone in the country supporting him, he kept the law at a safe distance, until it became too much for its enforcer; then came a new king. After that, Tom requested his pardon again, and Jeremy Stickles, who suited the times, was happy to help him get it along with some compensation. After that, the good and respectable Tom lived a decent (though not always sober) life and raised his children to value honesty above all else.
My dear mother was as happy as possibly need be with us; having no cause for jealousy, as others arose around her. And everybody was well pleased, when Lizzy came in one day and tossed her bookshelf over, and declared that she would have Captain Bloxham, and nobody should prevent her. For that he alone, of all the men she had ever met with, knew good writing when he saw it, and could spell a word when told. As he had now succeeded to Captain Stickle's position (Stickles going up the tree), and had the power of collecting, and of keeping, what he liked, there was nothing to be said against it; and we hoped that he would pay her out.
My dear mother was as happy as she could be with us, having no reason for jealousy, unlike others around her. Everyone was pleased when Lizzy came in one day, flipped her bookshelf over, and announced that she would have Captain Bloxham, and no one could stop her. Because he alone, of all the men she had ever met, recognized good writing when he saw it and could spell a word when asked. Now that he had taken Captain Stickle's position (Stickle moving on), and had the ability to collect and keep what he wanted, there was nothing against it; and we hoped that he would make her happy.
I sent little Ensie to Blundell's school, at my own cost and charges, having changed his name, for fear of what anyone might do to him. I called him Ensie Jones; and we got him a commission, and after many scrapes of spirit, he did great things in the Low Countries. He looks upon me as his father; and without my leave will not lay claim to the heritage and title of the Doones, which clearly belong to him.
I sent little Ensie to Blundell's school, at my own expense, having changed his name to protect him from any potential harm. I called him Ensie Jones; we arranged for him to get a commission, and after a lot of ups and downs, he accomplished great things in the Low Countries. He sees me as his father and, without my permission, won’t claim the inheritance and title of the Doones, which rightfully belong to him.
Ruth Huckaback is not married yet; although upon Uncle Reuben's death she came into all his property; except, indeed, 2000 pounds, which Uncle Ben, in his driest manner, bequeathed “to Sir John Ridd, the worshipful knight, for greasing of the testator's boots.” And he left almost a mint of money, not from the mine, but from the shop, and the good use of usury. For the mine had brought in just what it cost, when the vein of gold ended suddenly; leaving all concerned much older, and some, I fear, much poorer; but no one utterly ruined, as is the case with most of them. Ruth herself was his true mine, as upon death-bed he found. I know a man even worthy of her: and though she is not very young, he loves her, as I love Lorna. It is my firm conviction, that in the end he will win her; and I do not mean to dance again, except at dear Ruth's wedding; if the floor be strong enough.
Ruth Huckaback isn't married yet; although when Uncle Reuben passed away, she inherited all his property, except for 2000 pounds, which Uncle Ben dryly bequeathed “to Sir John Ridd, the esteemed knight, for greasing the testator's boots.” He left behind quite a bit of money, not from the mine, but from the shop and the smart investment of loans. The mine only returned what it cost when the gold vein ended abruptly, leaving everyone a lot older and, in some cases, much poorer; but thankfully, no one completely ruined, as is the case for many. Ruth herself was his true treasure, as he discovered on his deathbed. I know a man who truly deserves her; and although she isn't very young, he loves her, just as I love Lorna. I'm convinced that in the end, he will win her over; and I don't plan to dance again, except at dear Ruth's wedding, if the floor is sturdy enough.
Of Lorna, of my lifelong darling, of my more and more loved wife, I will not talk; for it is not seemly that a man should exalt his pride. Year by year her beauty grows, with the growth of goodness, kindness, and true happiness—above all with loving. For change, she makes a joke of this, and plays with it, and laughs at it; and then, when my slow nature marvels, back she comes to the earnest thing. And if I wish to pay her out for something very dreadful—as may happen once or twice, when we become too gladsome—I bring her to forgotten sadness, and to me for cure of it, by the two words “Lorna Doone.”
I won’t talk about Lorna, my lifelong love, my increasingly cherished wife, because it's not right for a man to boast about his pride. Year after year, her beauty increases along with her goodness, kindness, and true happiness—especially her love. To change things up, she jokes about it, plays around, and laughs, but then, when my slow nature wonders, she returns to something serious. And if I ever want to get back at her for something really terrible— which might happen once in a while when we’re both too cheerful—I take her back to a forgotten sadness, and I help her through it with the two words “Lorna Doone.”
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