CHAPTER LXXV

GIVE AWAY THE GRANDEUR

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When the little boy came back with the bluebells, which he had managed

to find--as children always do find flowers, when older eyes see

none--the only sign of his father left was a dark brown bubble, upon a

newly formed patch of blackness. But to the center of its pulpy gorge

the greedy slough was heaving, and sullenly grinding its weltering jaws

among the flags and the sedges.

With pain, and ache, both of mind and body, and shame at my own fury, I

heavily mounted my horse again, and, looked down at the innocent Ensie.

Would this playful, loving child grow up like his cruel father, and end

a godless life of hatred with a death of violence? He lifted his noble

forehead towards me, as if to answer, “Nay, I will not”: but the words

he spoke were these:--

“Don,”--for he could never say “John”--“oh, Don, I am so glad that nasty

naughty man is gone away. Take me home, Don. Take me home.”

It has been said of the wicked, “not even their own children love them.”

And I could easily believe that Carver Doone's cold-hearted ways had

scared from him even his favorite child. No man would I call truly

wicked, unless his heart be cold.

It hurt me, more than I can tell, even through all other grief, to take

into my arms the child of the man just slain by me. The feeling was a

foolish one, and a wrong one, as the thing has been--for I would fain

have saved that man, after he was conquered--nevertheless my arms went

coldly round that little fellow; neither would they have gone at all,

if there had been any help for it. But I could not leave him there, till

some one else might fetch him; on account of the cruel slough, and the

ravens which had come hovering over the dead horse; neither could I,

with my wound, tie him on my horse and walk.

For now I had spent a great deal of blood, and was rather faint and

weary. And it was lucky for me that Kickums had lost spirit, like his

master, and went home as mildly as a lamb. For, when we came towards the

farm, I seemed to be riding in a dream almost; and the voices both of

man and women (who had hurried forth upon my track), as they met me,

seemed to wander from a distant muffling cloud. Only the thought of

Lorna's death, like a heavy knell, was tolling in the belfry of my

brain.

When we came to the stable door, I rather fell from my horse than got

off; and John Fry, with a look of wonder took Kickum's head, and led

him in. Into the old farmhouse I tottered, like a weanling child, with

mother in her common clothes, helping me along, yet fearing, except by

stealth, to look at me.

“I have killed him,” was all I said; “even as he killed Lorna. Now let

me see my wife, mother. She belongs to me none the less, though dead.”

“You cannot see her now, dear John,” said Ruth Huckaback, coming

forward; since no one else had the courage. “Annie is with her now,

John.”

“What has that to do with it? Let me see my dead one; and pray myself to

die.”

All the women fell away, and whispered, and looked at me, with side

glances, and some sobbing; for my face was hard as flint. Ruth alone

stood by me, and dropped her eyes, and trembled. Then one little hand

of hers stole into my great shaking palm, and the other was laid on

my tattered coat: yet with her clothes she shunned my blood, while she

whispered gently,--

“John, she is not your dead one. She may even be your living one yet,

your wife, your home, and your happiness. But you must not see her now.”

“Is there any chance for her? For me, I mean; for me, I mean?”

“God in heaven knows, dear John. But the sight of you, and in this sad

plight, would be certain death to her. Now come first, and be healed

yourself.”

I obeyed her, like a child, whispering only as I went, for none but

myself knew her goodness--“Almighty God will bless you, darling, for the

good you are doing now.”

Tenfold, ay and a thousandfold, I prayed and I believed it, when I came

to know the truth. If it had not been for this little maid, Lorna must

have died at once, as in my arms she lay for dead, from the dastard and

murderous cruelty. But the moment I left her Ruth came forward and took

the command of every one, in right of her firmness and readiness.

She made them bear her home at once upon the door of the pulpit, with

the cushion under the drooping head. With her own little hands she cut

off, as tenderly as a pear is peeled, the bridal-dress, so steeped and

stained, and then with her dainty transparent fingers (no larger than a

pencil) she probed the vile wound in the side, and fetched the reeking

bullet forth; and then with the coldest water stanched the flowing of

the life-blood. All this while my darling lay insensible, and white as

death; and needed nothing but her maiden shroud.

But Ruth still sponged the poor side and forehead, and watched the long

eyelashes flat upon the marble cheek; and laid her pure face on the

faint heart, and bade them fetch her Spanish wine. Then she parted the

pearly teeth (feebly clenched on the hovering breath), and poured in

wine from a christening spoon, and raised the graceful neck and breast,

and stroked the delicate throat, and waited; and then poured in a little

more.

Annie all the while looked on with horror and amazement, counting

herself no second-rate nurse, and this as against all theory. But the

quiet lifting of Ruth's hand, and one glance from her dark bright eyes,

told Annie just to stand away, and not intercept the air so. And at the

very moment when all the rest had settled that Ruth was a simple idiot,

but could not harm the dead much, a little flutter in the throat,

followed by a short low sigh, made them pause, and look and hope.

For hours, however, and days, she lay at the very verge of death,

kept alive by nothing but the care, the skill, the tenderness, and the

perpetual watchfulness of Ruth. Luckily Annie was not there very often,

so as to meddle; for kind and clever nurse as she was, she must have

done more harm than good. But my broken rib, which was set by a doctor,

who chanced to be at the wedding, was allotted to Annie's care; and

great inflammation ensuing, it was quite enough to content her. This

doctor had pronounced poor Lorna dead; wherefore Ruth refused most

firmly to have aught to do with him. She took the whole case on herself;

and with God's help she bore it through.

Now whether it were the light and brightness of my Lorna's nature; or

the freedom from anxiety--for she knew not of my hurt;--or, as some

people said, her birthright among wounds and violence, or her manner of

not drinking beer--I leave that doctor to determine who pronounced her

dead. But anyhow, one thing is certain; sure as stars of hope above us;

Lorna recovered, long ere I did.

For the grief was on me still of having lost my love and lover at the

moment she was mine. With the power of fate upon me, and the black

cauldron of the wizard's death boiling in my heated brain, I had

no faith in the tales they told. I believed that Lorna was in the

churchyard, while these rogues were lying to me. For with strength of

blood like mine, and power of heart behind it, a broken bone must burn

itself.

Mine went hard with fires of pain, being of such size and thickness; and

I was ashamed of him for breaking by reason of a pistol-ball, and the

mere hug of a man. And it fetched me down in conceit of strength; so

that I was careful afterwards.

All this was a lesson to me. All this made me very humble; illness being

a thing, as yet, altogether unknown to me. Not that I cried small, or

skulked, or feared the death which some foretold; shaking their heads

about mortification, and a green appearance. Only that I seemed quite

fit to go to heaven, and Lorna. For in my sick distracted mind (stirred

with many tossings), like the bead in the spread of frog-spawn carried

by the current, hung the black and central essence of my future life. A

life without Lorna; a tadpole life. All stupid head; and no body.

Many men may like such life; anchorites, fakirs, high-priests, and so

on; but to my mind, it is not the native thing God meant for us. My

dearest mother was a show, with crying and with fretting. The Doones,

as she thought, were born to destroy us. Scarce had she come to some

liveliness (though sprinkled with tears, every now and then) after her

great bereavement, and ten years' time to dwell on it--when lo, here was

her husband's son, the pet child of her own good John, murdered like his

father! Well, the ways of God were wonderful!

So they were, and so they are; and so they ever will be. Let us debate

them as we will, our ways are His, and much the same; only second-hand

from Him. And I expected something from Him, even in my worst of times,

knowing that I had done my best.

This is not edifying talk--as our Nonconformist parson says, when he can

get no more to drink--therefore let me only tell what became of Lorna.

One day, I was sitting in my bedroom, for I could not get downstairs,

and there was no one strong enough to carry me, even if I would have

allowed it.

Though it cost me sore trouble and weariness, I had put on all my Sunday

clothes, out of respect for the doctor, who was coming to bleed me again

(as he always did twice a week); and it struck me that he had seemed

hurt in his mind, because I wore my worst clothes to be bled in--for lie

in bed I would not, after six o'clock; and even that was great laziness.

I looked at my right hand, whose grasp had been like that of a

blacksmith's vice; and it seemed to myself impossible that this could

be John Ridd's. The great frame of the hand was there, as well as the

muscles, standing forth like the guttering of a candle, and the broad

blue veins, going up the back, and crossing every finger. But as

for colour, even Lorna's could scarcely have been whiter; and as for

strength, little Ensie Doone might have come and held it fast. I laughed

as I tried in vain to lift the basin set for bleeding me.

Then I thought of all the lovely things going on out-of-doors just now,

concerning which the drowsy song of the bees came to me. These must

be among the thyme, by the sound of their great content. Therefore the

roses must be in blossom, and the woodbine, and clove-gilly-flower; the

cherries on the wall must be turning red, the yellow Sally must be on

the brook, wheat must be callow with quavering bloom, and the early

meadows swathed with hay.

Yet here was I, a helpless creature quite unfit to stir among them,

gifted with no sight, no scent of all the changes that move our love,

and lead our hearts, from month to month, along the quiet path of life.

And what was worse, I had no hope of caring ever for them more.

Presently a little knock sounded through my gloomy room, and supposing

it to be the doctor, I tried to rise and make my bow. But to my surprise

it was little Ruth, who had never once come to visit me, since I

was placed under the doctor's hands. Ruth was dressed so gaily, with

rosettes, and flowers, and what not, that I was sorry for her bad

manners; and thought she was come to conquer me, now that Lorna was done

with.

Ruth ran towards me with sparkling eyes, being rather short of sight;

then suddenly she stopped, and I saw entire amazement in her face.

“Can you receive visitors, Cousin Ridd?--why, they never told me of

this!” she cried: “I knew that you were weak, dear John; but not that

you were dying. Whatever is that basin for?”

“I have no intention of dying, Ruth; and I like not to talk about it.

But that basin, if you must know, is for the doctor's purpose.”

“What, do you mean bleeding you? You poor weak cousin! Is it possible

that he does that still?”

“Twice a week for the last six weeks, dear. Nothing else has kept me

alive.”

“Nothing else has killed you, nearly. There!” and she set her little

boot across the basin, and crushed it. “Not another drop shall they have

from you. Is Annie such a fool as that? And Lizzie, like a zany, at her

books! And killing her brother, between them!”

I was surprised to see Ruth excited; her character being so calm and

quiet. And I tried to soothe her with my feeble hand, as now she knelt

before me.

“Dear cousin, the doctor must know best. Annie says so, every day. What

has he been brought up for?”

“Brought up for slaying and murdering. Twenty doctors killed King

Charles, in spite of all the women. Will you leave it to me, John? I

have a little will of my own; and I am not afraid of doctors. Will you

leave it to me, dear John? I have saved your Lorna's life. And now I

will save yours; which is a far, far easier business.”

“You have saved my Lorna's life! What do you mean by talking so?”

“Only what I say, Cousin John. Though perhaps I overprize my work. But

at any rate she says so.”

“I do not understand,” I said, falling back with bewilderment; “all

women are such liars.”

“Have you ever known me tell a lie?” Ruth in great indignation--more

feigned, I doubt, than real--“your mother may tell a story, now and then

when she feels it right; and so may both your sisters. But so you cannot

do, John Ridd; and no more than you can I do it.”

If ever there was virtuous truth in the eyes of any woman, it was now

in Ruth Huckaback's: and my brain began very slowly to move, the heart

being almost torpid from perpetual loss of blood.

“I do not understand,” was all I could say for a very long time.

“Will you understand, if I show you Lorna? I have feared to do it, for

the sake of you both. But now Lorna is well enough, if you think that

you are, Cousin John. Surely you will understand, when you see your

wife.”

Following her, to the very utmost of my mind and heart, I felt that all

she said was truth; and yet I could not make it out. And in her last

few words there was such a power of sadness rising through the cover

of gaiety, that I said to myself, half in a dream, “Ruth is very

beautiful.”

Before I had time to listen much for the approach of footsteps, Ruth

came back, and behind her Lorna; coy as if of her bridegroom; and

hanging back with her beauty. Ruth banged the door, and ran away; and

Lorna stood before me.

But she did not stand for an instant, when she saw what I was like. At

the risk of all thick bandages, and upsetting a dozen medicine bottles,

and scattering leeches right and left, she managed to get into my arms,

although they could not hold her. She laid her panting warm young breast

on the place where they meant to bleed me, and she set my pale face up;

and she would not look at me, having greater faith in kissing.

I felt my life come back, and warm; I felt my trust in women flow; I

felt the joys of living now, and the power of doing it. It is not a

moment to describe; who feels can never tell of it. But the rush of

Lorna's tears, and the challenge of my bride's lips, and the throbbing

of my wife's heart (now at last at home on mine), made me feel that the

world was good, and not a thing to be weary of.

Little more have I to tell. The doctor was turned out at once; and

slowly came back my former strength, with a darling wife, and good

victuals. As for Lorna, she never tired of sitting and watching me eat

and eat. And such is her heart that she never tires of being with me

here and there, among the beautiful places, and talking with her arm

around me--so far at least as it can go, though half of mine may go

round her--of the many fears and troubles, dangers and discouragements,

and worst of all the bitter partings, which we used to have, somehow.

There is no need for my farming harder than becomes a man of weight.

Lorna has great stores of money, though we never draw it out, except for

some poor neighbor; unless I find her a sumptuous dress, out of her own

perquisites. And this she always looks upon as a wondrous gift from me;

and kisses me much when she puts it on, and walks like the noble woman

she is. And yet I may never behold it again; for she gets back to her

simple clothes, and I love her the better in them. I believe that she

gives half the grandeur away, and keeps the other half for the children.

As for poor Tom Faggus, every one knows his bitter adventures, when his

pardon was recalled, because of his journey to Sedgemoor. Not a child

in the country, I doubt, but knows far more than I do of Tom's most

desperate doings. The law had ruined him once, he said; and then he had

been too much for the law: and now that a quiet life was his object,

here the base thing came after him. And such was his dread of this

evil spirit, that being caught upon Barnstaple Bridge, with soldiers

at either end of it (yet doubtful about approaching him), he set his

strawberry mare, sweet Winnie, at the left-hand parapet, with a whisper

into her dove-coloured ear. Without a moment's doubt she leaped it, into

the foaming tide, and swam, and landed according to orders. Also his

flight from a public-house (where a trap was set for him, but Winnie

came and broke down the door, and put two men under, and trod on them,)

is as well known as any ballad. It was reported for awhile that poor Tom

had been caught at last, by means of his fondness for liquor, and was

hanged before Taunton Jail; but luckily we knew better. With a good

wife, and a wonderful horse, and all the country attached to him, he

kept the law at a wholesome distance, until it became too much for its

master; and a new king arose. Upon this, Tom sued his pardon afresh; and

Jeremy Stickles, who suited the times, was glad to help him in getting

it, as well as a compensation. Thereafter the good and respectable

Tom lived a godly (though not always sober) life; and brought up his

children to honesty, as the first of all qualifications.

My dear mother was as happy as possibly need be with us; having no

cause for jealousy, as others arose around her. And everybody was well

pleased, when Lizzy came in one day and tossed her bookshelf over, and

declared that she would have Captain Bloxham, and nobody should prevent

her. For that he alone, of all the men she had ever met with, knew good

writing when he saw it, and could spell a word when told. As he had now

succeeded to Captain Stickle's position (Stickles going up the tree),

and had the power of collecting, and of keeping, what he liked, there

was nothing to be said against it; and we hoped that he would pay her

out.

I sent little Ensie to Blundell's school, at my own cost and charges,

having changed his name, for fear of what anyone might do to him. I

called him Ensie Jones; and we got him a commission, and after many

scrapes of spirit, he did great things in the Low Countries. He looks

upon me as his father; and without my leave will not lay claim to the

heritage and title of the Doones, which clearly belong to him.

Ruth Huckaback is not married yet; although upon Uncle Reuben's death

she came into all his property; except, indeed, 2000 pounds, which Uncle

Ben, in his driest manner, bequeathed “to Sir John Ridd, the worshipful

knight, for greasing of the testator's boots.” And he left almost a

mint of money, not from the mine, but from the shop, and the good use of

usury. For the mine had brought in just what it cost, when the vein of

gold ended suddenly; leaving all concerned much older, and some, I fear,

much poorer; but no one utterly ruined, as is the case with most of

them. Ruth herself was his true mine, as upon death-bed he found. I know

a man even worthy of her: and though she is not very young, he loves

her, as I love Lorna. It is my firm conviction, that in the end he

will win her; and I do not mean to dance again, except at dear Ruth's

wedding; if the floor be strong enough.

Of Lorna, of my lifelong darling, of my more and more loved wife, I will

not talk; for it is not seemly that a man should exalt his pride. Year

by year her beauty grows, with the growth of goodness, kindness, and

true happiness--above all with loving. For change, she makes a joke of

this, and plays with it, and laughs at it; and then, when my slow nature

marvels, back she comes to the earnest thing. And if I wish to pay her

out for something very dreadful--as may happen once or twice, when we

become too gladsome--I bring her to forgotten sadness, and to me for

cure of it, by the two words “Lorna Doone.”

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