Lorna Doone: A Romance of Exmoor
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.
* 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.
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.
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?
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.
All they said was “Try to lead us; and we will 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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
“What is it 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,--
“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!”
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,--
“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 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 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.”
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.”
“Thou fool, it is come,” he cried, leaping aside into the niche of rock
by the doorway; “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