CHAPTER LXXII

THE COUNSELLOR AND THE CARVER

[Illustration: 671.jpg Law and Justice]

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

[Illustration: 677.jpg Rising moonlight]

“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.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

[Illustration: 679.jpg Tailpiece]