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CHAPTER XV
MASTER HUCKABACK FAILS OF WARRANT
On the following day Master Huckaback, with some show
of mystery, demanded from my mother an escort into a
dangerous part of the world, to which his business
compelled him. My mother made answer to this that he
was kindly welcome to take our John Fry with him; at
which the good clothier laughed, and said that John was
nothing like big enough, but another John must serve
his turn, not only for his size, but because if he were
carried away, no stone would be left unturned upon
Exmoor, until he should be brought back again.
Hereupon my mother grew very pale, and found fifty
reasons against my going, each of them weightier than
the true one, as Eliza (who was jealous of me) managed
to whisper to Annie. On the other hand, I was quite
resolved (directly the thing was mentioned) to see
Uncle Reuben through with it; and it added much to my
self-esteem to be the guard of so rich a man.
Therefore I soon persuaded mother, with her head upon
my breast, to let me go and trust in God; and after
that I was greatly vexed to find that this dangerous
enterprise was nothing more than a visit to the Baron
de Whichehalse, to lay an information, and sue a
warrant against the Doones, and a posse to execute it.
Stupid as I always have been, and must ever be no
doubt, I could well have told Uncle Reuben that his
journey was no wiser than that of the men of Gotham;
that he never would get from Hugh de Whichehalse a
warrant against the Doones; moreover, that if he did
get one, his own wig would be singed with it. But for
divers reasons I held my peace, partly from youth and
modesty, partly from desire to see whatever please God
I should see, and partly from other causes.
We rode by way of Brendon town, Illford Bridge, and
Babbrook, to avoid the great hill above Lynmouth; and
the day being fine and clear again, I laughed in my
sleeve at Uncle Reuben for all his fine precautions.
When we arrived at Ley Manor, we were shown very
civilly into the hall, and refreshed with good ale and
collared head, and the back of a Christmas pudding. I
had never been under so fine a roof (unless it were of
a church) before; and it pleased me greatly to be so
kindly entreated by high-born folk. But Uncle Reuben
was vexed a little at being set down side by side with
a man in a very small way of trade, who was come upon
some business there, and who made bold to drink his
health after finishing their horns of ale.
'Sir,' said Uncle Ben, looking at him, 'my health would
fare much better, if you would pay me three pounds and
twelve shillings, which you have owed me these five
years back; and now we are met at the Justice's, the
opportunity is good, sir.'
After that, we were called to the Justice-room, where
the Baron himself was sitting with Colonel Harding,
another Justiciary of the King's peace, to help him. I
had seen the Baron de Whichehalse before, and was not
at all afraid of him, having been at school with his
son as he knew, and it made him very kind to me. And
indeed he was kind to everybody, and all our people
spoke well of him; and so much the more because we knew
that the house was in decadence. For the first De
Whichehalse had come from Holland, where he had been a
great nobleman, some hundred and fifty years agone.
Being persecuted for his religion, when the Spanish
power was everything, he fled to England with all he
could save, and bought large estates in Devonshire.
Since then his descendants had intermarried with
ancient county families, Cottwells, and Marwoods, and
Walronds, and Welses of Pylton, and Chichesters of
Hall; and several of the ladies brought them large
increase of property. And so about fifty years before
the time of which I am writing, there were few names in
the West of England thought more of than De
Whichehalse. But now they had lost a great deal of
land, and therefore of that which goes with land, as
surely as fame belongs to earth--I mean big reputation.
How they had lost it, none could tell; except that as
the first descendants had a manner of amassing, so the
later ones were gifted with a power of scattering.
Whether this came of good Devonshire blood opening the
sluice of Low Country veins, is beyond both my province
and my power to inquire. Anyhow, all people loved this
last strain of De Whichehalse far more than the name
had been liked a hundred years agone.
Hugh de Whichehalse, a white-haired man, of very noble
presence, with friendly blue eyes and a sweet smooth
forehead, and aquiline nose quite beautiful (as you
might expect in a lady of birth), and thin lips curving
delicately, this gentleman rose as we entered the room;
while Colonel Harding turned on his chair, and struck
one spur against the other. I am sure that, without
knowing aught of either, we must have reverenced more
of the two the one who showed respect to us. And yet
nine gentleman out of ten make this dull mistake when
dealing with the class below them!
Uncle Reuben made his very best scrape, and then walked
up to the table, trying to look as if he did not know
himself to be wealthier than both the gentlemen put
together. Of course he was no stranger to them, any
more than I was; and, as it proved afterwards, Colonel
Harding owed him a lump of money, upon very good
security. Of him Uncle Reuben took no notice, but
addressed himself to De Whichehalse.
The Baron smiled very gently, so soon as he learned the
cause of this visit, and then he replied quite
reasonably.
'A warrant against the Doones, Master Huckaback. Which
of the Doones, so please you; and the Christian names,
what be they?'
'My lord, I am not their godfather; and most like they
never had any. But we all know old Sir Ensor's name,
so that may be no obstacle.'
'Sir Ensor Doone and his sons--so be it. How many
sons, Master Huckaback, and what is the name of each
one?'
'How can I tell you, my lord, even if I had known them
all as well as my own shop-boys? Nevertheless there
were seven of them, and that should be no obstacle.'
'A warrant against Sir Ensor Doone, and seven sons of
Sir Ensor Doone, Christian names unknown, and doubted
if they have any. So far so good Master Huckaback. I
have it all down in writing. Sir Ensor himself was
there, of course, as you have given in evidence--'
'No, no, my lord, I never said that: I never said--'
'If he can prove that he was not there, you may be
indicted for perjury. But as for those seven sons of
his, of course you can swear that they were his sons
and not his nephews, or grandchildren, or even no
Doones at all?'
'My lord, I can swear that they were Doones. Moreover,
I can pay for any mistake I make. Therein need be no
obstacle.'
'Oh, yes, he can pay; he can pay well enough,' said
Colonel Harding shortly.
'I am heartily glad to hear it,' replied the Baron
pleasantly; 'for it proves after all that this robbery
(if robbery there has been) was not so very ruinous.
Sometimes people think they are robbed, and then it is
very sweet afterwards to find that they have not been
so; for it adds to their joy in their property. Now,
are you quite convinced, good sir, that these people
(if there were any) stole, or took, or even borrowed
anything at all from you?'
'My lord, do you think that I was drunk?'
'Not for a moment, Master Huckaback. Although excuse
might be made for you at this time of the year. But
how did you know that your visitors were of this
particular family?'
'Because it could be nobody else. Because, in spite of
the fog--'
'Fog!' cried Colonel Harding sharply.
'Fog!' said the Baron, with emphasis. 'Ah, that
explains the whole affair. To be sure, now I remember,
the weather has been too thick for a man to see the
head of his own horse. The Doones (if still there be
any Doones) could never have come abroad; that is as
sure as simony. Master Huckaback, for your good sake,
I am heartily glad that this charge has miscarried. I
thoroughly understand it now. The fog explains the
whole of it.'
'Go back, my good fellow,' said Colonel Harding; 'and
if the day is clear enough, you will find all your
things where you left them. I know, from my own
experience, what it is to be caught in an Exmoor fog.'
Uncle Reuben, by this time, was so put out, that he
hardly knew what he was saying.
'My lord, Sir Colonel, is this your justice! If I go to
London myself for it, the King shall know how his
commission--how a man may be robbed, and the justices
prove that he ought to be hanged at back of it; that in
his good shire of Somerset--'
'Your pardon a moment, good sir,' De Whichehalse
interrupted him; 'but I was about (having heard your
case) to mention what need be an obstacle, and, I fear,
would prove a fatal one, even if satisfactory proof
were afforded of a felony. The mal-feasance (if any)
was laid in Somerset; but we, two humble servants of
His Majesty, are in commission of his peace for the
county of Devon only, and therefore could never deal
with it.'
'And why, in the name of God,' cried Uncle Reuben now
carried at last fairly beyond himself, 'why could you
not say as much at first, and save me all this waste of
time and worry of my temper? Gentlemen, you are all in
league; all of you stick together. You think it fair
sport for an honest trader, who makes no shams as you
do, to be robbed and wellnigh murdered, so long as they
who did it won the high birthright of felony. If a
poor sheep stealer, to save his children from dying of
starvation, had dared to look at a two-month lamb, he
would swing on the Manor gallows, and all of you cry
"Good riddance!" But now, because good birth and bad
manners--' Here poor Uncle Ben, not being so strong as
before the Doones had played with him, began to foam at
the mouth a little, and his tongue went into the hollow
where his short grey whiskers were.
I forget how we came out of it, only I was greatly
shocked at bearding of the gentry so, and mother scarce
could see her way, when I told her all about it.
'Depend upon it you were wrong, John,' was all I could
get out of her; though what had I done but listen, and
touch my forelock, when called upon. 'John, you may
take my word for it, you have not done as you should
have done. Your father would have been shocked to
think of going to Baron de Whichehalse, and in his own
house insulting him! And yet it was very brave of you
John. Just like you, all over. And (as none of the
men are here, dear John) I am proud of you for doing
it.'
All throughout the homeward road, Uncle Ben had been
very silent, feeling much displeased with himself and
still more so with other people. But before he went to
bed that night, he just said to me, 'Nephew Jack, you
have not behaved so badly as the rest to me. And
because you have no gift of talking, I think that I may
trust you. Now, mark my words, this villain job shall
not have ending here. I have another card to play.'
'You mean, sir, I suppose, that you will go to the
justices of this shire, Squire Maunder, or Sir Richard
Blewitt, or--'
'Oaf, I mean nothing of the sort; they would only make
a laughing-stock, as those Devonshire people did, of
me. No, I will go to the King himself, or a man who is
bigger than the King, and to whom I have ready access.
I will not tell thee his name at present, only if thou
art brought before him, never wilt thou forget it.'
That was true enough, by the bye, as I discovered
afterwards, for the man he meant was Judge Jeffreys.
'And when are you likely to see him, sir?'
'Maybe in the spring, maybe not until summer, for I
cannot go to London on purpose, but when my business
takes me there. Only remember my words, Jack, and when
you see the man I mean, look straight at him, and tell
no lie. He will make some of your zany squires shake
in their shoes, I reckon. Now, I have been in this
lonely hole far longer than I intended, by reason of
this outrage; yet I will stay here one day more upon a
certain condition.'
'Upon what condition, Uncle Ben? I grieve that you
find it so lonely. We will have Farmer Nicholas up
again, and the singers, and--'
'The fashionable milkmaids. I thank you, let me be.
The wenches are too loud for me. Your Nanny is enough.
Nanny is a good child, and she shall come and visit
me.' Uncle Reuben would always call her 'Nanny'; he
said that 'Annie' was too fine and Frenchified for us.
'But my condition is this, Jack--that you shall guide
me to-morrow, without a word to any one, to a place
where I may well descry the dwelling of these scoundrel
Doones, and learn the best way to get at them, when the
time shall come. Can you do this for me? I will pay
you well, boy.'
I promised very readily to do my best to serve him,
but, of course, would take no money for it, not being
so poor as that came to. Accordingly, on the day
following, I managed to set the men at work on the
other side of the farm, especially that inquisitive and
busybody John Fry, who would pry out almost anything
for the pleasure of telling his wife; and then, with
Uncle Reuben mounted on my ancient Peggy, I made foot
for the westward, directly after breakfast. Uncle Ben
refused to go unless I would take a loaded gun, and
indeed it was always wise to do so in those days of
turbulence; and none the less because of late more than
usual of our sheep had left their skins behind them.
This, as I need hardly say, was not to be charged to
the appetite of the Doones, for they always said that
they were not butchers (although upon that subject
might well be two opinions); and their practice was to
make the shepherds kill and skin, and quarter for them,
and sometimes carry to the Doone-gate the prime among
the fatlings, for fear of any bruising, which spoils
the look at table. But the worst of it was that
ignorant folk, unaware of their fastidiousness, scored
to them the sheep they lost by lower-born marauders,
and so were afraid to speak of it: and the issue of
this error was that a farmer, with five or six hundred
sheep, could never command, on his wedding-day, a prime
saddle of mutton for dinner.
To return now to my Uncle Ben--and indeed he would not
let me go more than three land-yards from him--there
was very little said between us along the lane and
across the hill, although the day was pleasant. I
could see that he was half amiss with his mind about
the business, and not so full of security as an elderly
man should keep himself. Therefore, out I spake, and
said,--
'Uncle Reuben, have no fear. I know every inch of the
ground, sir; and there is no danger nigh us.'
'Fear, boy! Who ever thought of fear? 'Tis the last
thing would come across me. Pretty things those
primroses.'
At once I thought of Lorna Doone, the little maid of
six years back, and how my fancy went with her. Could
Lorna ever think of me? Was I not a lout gone by, only
fit for loach-sticking? Had I ever seen a face fit to
think of near her? The sudden flash, the quickness,
the bright desire to know one's heart, and not withhold
her own from it, the soft withdrawal of rich eyes, the
longing to love somebody, anybody, anything, not
imbrued with wickedness--
My uncle interrupted me, misliking so much silence now,
with the naked woods falling over us. For we were come
to Bagworthy forest, the blackest and the loneliest
place of all that keep the sun out. Even now, in
winter-time, with most of the wood unriddled, and the
rest of it pinched brown, it hung around us like a
cloak containing little comfort. I kept quite close to
Peggy's head, and Peggy kept quite close to me, and
pricked her ears at everything. However, we saw
nothing there, except a few old owls and hawks, and a
magpie sitting all alone, until we came to the bank of
the hill, where the pony could not climb it. Uncle Ben
was very loath to get off, because the pony seemed
company, and he thought he could gallop away on her, if
the worst came to the worst, but I persuaded him that
now he must go to the end of it. Therefore he made
Peggy fast, in a place where we could find her, and
speaking cheerfully as if there was nothing to be
afraid of, he took his staff, and I my gun, to climb
the thick ascent.
There was now no path of any kind; which added to our
courage all it lessened of our comfort, because it
proved that the robbers were not in the habit of
passing there. And we knew that we could not go
astray, so long as we breasted the hill before us;
inasmuch as it formed the rampart, or side-fence of
Glen Doone. But in truth I used the right word there
for the manner of our ascent, for the ground came forth
so steep against us, and withal so woody, that to make
any way we must throw ourselves forward, and labour as
at a breast-plough. Rough and loamy rungs of oak-root
bulged here and there above our heads; briers needs
must speak with us, using more of tooth than tongue;
and sometimes bulks of rugged stone, like great sheep,
stood across us. At last, though very loath to do it,
I was forced to leave my gun behind, because I required
one hand to drag myself up the difficulty, and one to
help Uncle Reuben. And so at last we gained the top,
and looked forth the edge of the forest, where the
ground was very stony and like the crest of a quarry;
and no more trees between us and the brink of cliff
below, three hundred yards below it might be, all
strong slope and gliddery. And now far the first time
I was amazed at the appearance of the Doones's
stronghold, and understood its nature. For when I had
been even in the valley, and climbed the cliffs to
escape from it, about seven years agone, I was no more
than a stripling boy, noting little, as boys do, except
for their present purpose, and even that soon done
with. But now, what with the fame of the Doones, and
my own recollections, and Uncle Ben's insistence, all
my attention was called forth, and the end was simple
astonishment.
The chine of highland, whereon we stood, curved to the
right and left of us, keeping about the same elevation,
and crowned with trees and brushwood. At about half a
mile in front of us, but looking as if we could throw a
stone to strike any man upon it, another crest just
like our own bowed around to meet it; but failed by
reason of two narrow clefts of which we could only see
the brink. One of these clefts was the Doone-gate,
with a portcullis of rock above it, and the other was
the chasm by which I had once made entrance. Betwixt
them, where the hills fell back, as in a perfect oval,
traversed by the winding water, lay a bright green
valley, rimmed with sheer black rock, and seeming to
have sunken bodily from the bleak rough heights above.
It looked as if no frost could enter neither wind go
ruffling; only spring, and hope, and comfort, breathe
to one another. Even now the rays of sunshine dwelt
and fell back on one another, whenever the clouds
lifted; and the pale blue glimpse of the growing day
seemed to find young encouragement.
But for all that, Uncle Reuben was none the worse nor
better. He looked down into Glen Doone first, and
sniffed as if he were smelling it, like a sample of
goods from a wholesale house; and then he looked at the
hills over yonder, and then he stared at me.
'See what a pack of fools they be?'
'Of course I do, Uncle Ben. "All rogues are fools,"
was my first copy, beginning of the alphabet.'
'Pack of stuff lad. Though true enough, and very good
for young people. But see you not how this great Doone
valley may be taken in half an hour?'
'Yes, to be sure I do, uncle; if they like to give it
up, I mean.'
'Three culverins on yonder hill, and three on the top
of this one, and we have them under a pestle. Ah, I
have seen the wars, my lad, from Keinton up to Naseby;
and I might have been a general now, if they had taken
my advice--'
But I was not attending to him, being drawn away on a
sudden by a sight which never struck the sharp eyes of
our General. For I had long ago descried that little
opening in the cliff through which I made my exit, as
before related, on the other side of the valley. No
bigger than a rabbit-hole it seemed from where we
stood; and yet of all the scene before me, that (from
my remembrance perhaps) had the most attraction. Now
gazing at it with full thought of all that it had cost
me, I saw a little figure come, and pause, and pass
into it. Something very light and white, nimble,
smooth, and elegant, gone almost before I knew that any
one had been there. And yet my heart came to my ribs,
and all my blood was in my face, and pride within me
fought with shame, and vanity with self-contempt; for
though seven years were gone, and I from my boyhood
come to manhood, and all must have forgotten me, and I
had half-forgotten; at that moment, once for all, I
felt that I was face to face with fate (however poor it
might be), weal or woe, in Lorna Doone.
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