CHAPTER IV

A VERY RASH VISIT

[Illustration: 028.jpg Illustrated Capital]

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.

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.

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.

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.

[Illustration: 029.jpg He rode at the Doone robber]

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.

[Illustration: 030.jpg Father was found dead on the moor]

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

“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.”

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.

“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.

“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.”

“Sir,” said my mother, being suddenly taken away with sorrow, because of

his gracious manner, “please to let me cry a bit.”

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.

“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.”

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.

“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?”

“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!”

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.

“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.”

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,” said Sir Ensor Doone, standing back in his height from

him, “here is a lady of good repute--”

“Oh, no, sir; only a woman.”

[Illustration: 034.jpg Here is a lady, Counsellor]

“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--”

“Murdered him! murdered him!” cried my mother, “if ever there was 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.”

“Oh, I pray you--pray you, sirs, make no matter of business of it. God

from Heaven, look on me!”

“Put the case,” said the Counsellor.

“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.”

“No longer, indeed, indeed, sir. Sometimes it seems a twelvemonth, and

sometimes it seems an hour.”

“Cite his name,” said the Counsellor, with his eyes still rolling

inwards.

“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.”

“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.”

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.

“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.”

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.

* The cock-tailed beetle has earned this 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.

“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?”

“Without doubt his land is attainted; unless is mercy you forbear, 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.”

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.

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.

“Captain sends you this,” he whispered; “take it to the little ones.”

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.