Lorna Doone: A Romance of Exmoor
who had no parish in it, threatened us with the just wrath of the
Church, unless each had tithes of the whole of it.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“I will tell you truly and frankly, John; however painful to me to
confess 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.”
“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.”
“You shall go directly, Sir Counsellor, after meeting my other
condition; which is, that you place in my hands Lady Lorna's diamond
necklace.”
“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.”
“Then try to have it in your power, sir. Surely, with my encouragement,
you might summon resolution.”
“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.”
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.
“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.”
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.
“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.”
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,--
“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.”
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.
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 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