CHAPTER LV

GETTING INTO CHANCERY

[Illustration: 495.jpg Devonshire Town]

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

* There are said to be no loach now in Lynn. This proves

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.”

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.”

“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.

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.

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.

[Illustration: 502.jpg In a shower of damask roses]

“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?”

“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?”

“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.'”

“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?'”

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.

“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.”

“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.

“Sweetest of all sweet loves,” I cried, for the sign of a tear defeated

me; “what possibility could make me ever give up Lorna?”

“Dearest of all dears,” she answered; “if you dearly love me, what

possibility could ever make me give you up, dear?”

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.

“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.”

“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.”

“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.

“Yes, I can bear anything. But although I cannot see her, and have long

forgotten, I could not bear to hear ill of her.”

“There is no ill to hear, sweet child, except of evil done to her.

Lorna, you are of an ill-starred race.”

“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.”

“You are not a Doone, my Lorna, for that, at least, I can answer; though

I know not what your name is.”

“And my father--your father--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.”

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.

[Illustration: 504.jpg Tailpiece]