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CHAPTER LXIII
JOHN IS WORSTED BY THE WOMEN
Moved as I was by Annie's tears, and gentle style of
coaxing, and most of all by my love for her, I yet
declared that I could not go, and leave our house and
homestead, far less my dear mother and Lizzie, at the
mercy of the merciless Doones.
'Is that all your objection, John?' asked Annie, in her
quick panting way: 'would you go but for that, John?'
'Now,' I said, 'be in no such hurry'--for while I was
gradually yielding, I liked to pass it through my
fingers, as if my fingers shaped it: 'there are many
things to be thought about, and many ways of viewing
it.'
'Oh, you never can have loved Lorna! No wonder you gave
her up so! John, you can love nobody, but your
oat-ricks, and your hay-ricks.'
'Sister mine, because I rant not, neither rave of what
I feel, can you be so shallow as to dream that I feel
nothing? What is your love for Tom Faggus? What is
your love for your baby (pretty darling as he is) to
compare with such a love as for ever dwells with me?
Because I do not prate of it; because it is beyond me,
not only to express, but even form to my own heart in
thoughts; because I do not shape my face, and would
scorn to play to it, as a thing of acting, and lay it
out before you, are you fools enough to think--' but
here I stopped, having said more than was usual with
me.
'I am very sorry, John. Dear John, I am so sorry.
What a shallow fool I am!'
'I will go seek your husband,' I said, to change the
subject, for even to Annie I would not lay open all my
heart about Lorna: 'but only upon condition that you
ensure this house and people from the Doones meanwhile.
Even for the sake of Tom, I cannot leave all helpless.
The oat-ricks and the hay-ricks, which are my only
love, they are welcome to make cinders of. But I will
not have mother treated so; nor even little Lizzie,
although you scorn your sister so.'
'Oh, John, I do think you are the hardest, as well as
the softest of all the men I know. Not even a woman's
bitter word but what you pay her out for. Will you
never understand that we are not like you, John? We
say all sorts of spiteful things, without a bit of
meaning. John, for God's sake fetch Tom home; and then
revile me as you please, and I will kneel and thank
you.'
'I will not promise to fetch him home,' I answered,
being ashamed of myself for having lost command so:
'but I will promise to do my best, if we can only hit
on a plan for leaving mother harmless.'
Annie thought for a little while, trying to gather her
smooth clear brow into maternal wrinkles, and then she
looked at her child, and said, 'I will risk it, for
daddy's sake, darling; you precious soul, for daddy's
sake.' I asked her what she was going to risk. She
would not tell me; but took upper hand, and saw to my
cider-cans and bacon, and went from corner to cupboard,
exactly as if she had never been married; only without
an apron on. And then she said, 'Now to your mowers,
John; and make the most of this fine afternoon; kiss
your godson before you go.' And I, being used to obey
her, in little things of that sort, kissed the baby,
and took my cans, and went back to my scythe again.
By the time I came home it was dark night, and pouring
again with a foggy rain, such as we have in July, even
more than in January. Being soaked all through, and
through, and with water quelching in my boots, like a
pump with a bad bucket, I was only too glad to find
Annie's bright face, and quick figure, flitting in and
out the firelight, instead of Lizzie sitting grandly,
with a feast of literature, and not a drop of gravy.
Mother was in the corner also, with her cheery-coloured
ribbons glistening very nice by candle-light, looking
at Annie now and then, with memories of her babyhood;
and then at her having a baby: yet half afraid of
praising her much, for fear of that young Lizzie. But
Lizzie showed no jealousy: she truly loved our Annie
(now that she was gone from us), and she wanted to know
all sorts of things, and she adored the baby.
Therefore Annie was allowed to attend to me, as she
used to do.
'Now, John, you must start the first thing in the
morning,' she said, when the others had left the room,
but somehow she stuck to the baby, 'to fetch me back my
rebel, according to your promise.'
'Not so,' I replied, misliking the job, 'all I promised
was to go, if this house were assured against any
onslaught of the Doones.'
'Just so; and here is that assurance.' With these words
she drew forth a paper, and laid it on my knee with
triumph, enjoying my amazement. This, as you may
suppose was great; not only at the document, but also
at her possession of it. For in truth it was no less
than a formal undertaking, on the part of the Doones,
not to attack Plover's Barrows farm, or molest any of
the inmates, or carry off any chattels, during the
absence of John Ridd upon a special errand. This
document was signed not only by the Counsellor, but by
many other Doones: whether Carver's name were there, I
could not say for certain; as of course he would not
sign it under his name of 'Carver,' and I had never
heard Lorna say to what (if any) he had been baptized.
In the face of such a deed as this, I could no longer
refuse to go; and having received my promise, Annie
told me (as was only fair) how she had procured that
paper. It was both a clever and courageous act; and
would have seemed to me, at first sight, far beyond
Annie's power. But none may gauge a woman's power,
when her love and faith are moved.
The first thing Annie had done was this: she made
herself look ugly. This was not an easy thing; but she
had learned a great deal from her husband, upon the
subject of disguises. It hurt her feelings not a
little to make so sad a fright of herself; but what
could it matter?--if she lost Tom, she must be a far
greater fright in earnest, than now she was in seeming.
And then she left her child asleep, under Betty
Muxworthy's tendance--for Betty took to that child, as
if there never had been a child before--and away she
went in her own 'spring-cart' (as the name of that
engine proved to be), without a word to any one, except
the old man who had driven her from Molland parish that
morning, and who coolly took one of our best horses,
without 'by your leave' to any one.
Annie made the old man drive her within easy reach of
the Doone-gate, whose position she knew well enough,
from all our talk about it. And there she bade the old
man stay, until she should return to him. Then with
her comely figure hidden by a dirty old woman's cloak,
and her fair young face defaced by patches and by
liniments, so that none might covet her, she addressed
the young man at the gate in a cracked and trembling
voice; and they were scarcely civil to the 'old hag,'
as they called her. She said that she bore important
tidings for Sir Counsellor himself, and must be
conducted to him. To him accordingly she was led,
without even any hoodwinking, for she had spectacles
over her eyes, and made believe not to see ten yards.
She found Sir Counsellor at home, and when the rest
were out of sight, threw off all disguise to him,
flashing forth as a lovely young woman, from all her
wraps and disfigurements. She flung her patches on the
floor, amid the old man's laughter, and let her
tucked-up hair come down; and then went up and kissed
him.
'Worthy and reverend Counsellor, I have a favour to
ask,' she began.
'So I should think from your proceedings,'--the old man
interrupted--'ah, if I were half my age'--
'If you were, I would not sue so. But most excellent
Counsellor, you owe me some amends, you know, for the
way in which you robbed me.'
'Beyond a doubt I do, my dear. You have put it rather
strongly; and it might offend some people.
Nevertheless I own my debt, having so fair a creditor.'
'And do you remember how you slept, and how much we
made of you, and would have seen you home, sir; only
you did not wish it?'
'And for excellent reasons, child. My best escort was
in my cloak, after we made the cream to rise. Ha, ha!
The unholy spell. My pretty child, has it injured
you?'
'Yes, I fear it has, said Annie; 'or whence can all my
ill luck come?' And here she showed some signs of
crying, knowing that Counsellor hated it.
'You shall not have ill luck, my dear. I have heard
all about your marriage to a very noble highwayman.
Ah, you made a mistake in that; you were worthy of a
Doone, my child; your frying was a blessing meant for
those who can appreciate.'
'My husband can appreciate,' she answered very proudly;
'but what I wish to know is this, will you try to help
me?'
The Counsellor answered that he would do so, if her
needs were moderate; whereupon she opened her meaning
to him, and told of all her anxieties. Considering
that Lorna was gone, and her necklace in his
possession, and that I (against whom alone of us the
Doones could bear any malice) would be out of the way
all the while, the old man readily undertook that our
house should not be assaulted, nor our property
molested, until my return. And to the promptitude of
his pledge, two things perhaps contributed, namely,
that he knew not how we were stripped of all defenders,
and that some of his own forces were away in the rebel
camp. For (as I learned thereafter) the Doones being
now in direct feud with the present Government, and
sure to be crushed if that prevailed, had resolved to
drop all religious questions, and cast in their lot
with Monmouth. And the turbulent youths, being long
restrained from their wonted outlet for vehemence, by
the troopers in the neighbourhood, were only too glad
to rush forth upon any promise of blows and excitement.
However, Annie knew little of this, but took the
Counsellor's pledge as a mark of especial favour in her
behalf (which it may have been to some extent), and
thanked him for it most heartily, and felt that he had
earned the necklace; while he, like an ancient
gentleman, disclaimed all obligation, and sent her
under an escort safe to her own cart again. But Annie,
repassing the sentinels, with her youth restored and
blooming with the flush of triumph, went up to them
very gravely, and said, 'The old hag wishes you
good-evening, gentlemen'; and so made her best curtsey.
Now, look at it as I would, there was no excuse left
for me, after the promise given. Dear Annie had not
only cheated the Doones, but also had gotten the best
of me, by a pledge to a thing impossible. And I
bitterly said, 'I am not like Lorna: a pledge once
given, I keep it.'
'I will not have a word against Lorna,' cried Annie; 'I
will answer for her truth as surely as I would for my
own or yours, John.' And with that she vanquished me.
But when my poor mother heard that I was committed, by
word of honour, to a wild-goose chase, among the
rebels, after that runagate Tom Faggus, she simply
stared, and would not believe it. For lately I had
joked with her, in a little style of jerks, as people
do when out of sorts; and she, not understanding this,
and knowing jokes to be out of my power, would only
look, and sigh, and toss, and hope that I meant
nothing. At last, however, we convinced her that I was
in earnest, and must be off in the early morning, and
leave John Fry with the hay crop.
Then mother was ready to fall upon Annie, as not
content with disgracing us, by wedding a man of new
honesty (if indeed of any), but laying traps to catch
her brother, and entangle him perhaps to his death, for
the sake of a worthless fellow; and 'felon'--she was
going to say, as by the shape of her lips I knew. But
I laid my hand upon dear mother's lips; because what
must be, must be; and if mother and daughter stayed at
home, better in love than in quarrelling.
Right early in the morning, I was off, without word to
any one; knowing that mother and sister mine had cried
each her good self to sleep; relenting when the light
was out, and sorry for hard words and thoughts; and yet
too much alike in nature to understand each other.
Therefore I took good Kickums, who (although with one
eye spoiled) was worth ten sweet-tempered horses, to a
man who knew how to manage him; and being well charged
both with bacon and powder, forth I set on my
wild-goose chase.
For this I claim no bravery. I cared but little what
came of it; save for mother's sake, and Annie's, and
the keeping of the farm, and discomfiture of the
Snowes, and lamenting of Lorna at my death, if die I
must in a lonesome manner, not found out till
afterwards, and bleaching bones left to weep over.
However, I had a little kettle, and a pound and a half
of tobacco, and two dirty pipes and a clean one; also a
bit of clothes for change, also a brisket of hung
venison, and four loaves of farmhouse bread, and of the
upper side of bacon a stone and a half it might be--not
to mention divers small things for campaigning, which
may come in handily, when no one else has gotten them.
We went away in merry style; my horse being ready for
anything, and I only glad of a bit of change, after
months of working and brooding; with no content to
crown the work; no hope to hatch the brooding; or
without hatching to reckon it. Who could tell but what
Lorna might be discovered, or at any rate heard of,
before the end of this campaign; if campaign it could
be called of a man who went to fight nobody, only to
redeem a runagate? And vexed as I was about the hay,
and the hunch-backed ricks John was sure to make (which
spoil the look of a farm-yard), still even this was
better than to have the mows and houses fired, as I had
nightly expected, and been worn out with the worry of
it.
Yet there was one thing rather unfavourable to my
present enterprise, namely, that I knew nothing of the
country I was bound to, nor even in what part of it my
business might be supposed to lie. For beside the
uncertainty caused by the conflict of reports, it was
likely that King Monmouth's army would be moving from
place to place, according to the prospect of supplies
and of reinforcements. However, there would arise more
chance of getting news as I went on: and my road being
towards the east and south, Dulverton would not lie so
very far aside of it, but what it might be worth a
visit, both to collect the latest tidings, and to
consult the maps and plans in Uncle Reuben's parlour.
Therefore I drew the off-hand rein, at the cross-road
on the hills, and made for the town; expecting perhaps
to have breakfast with Master Huckaback, and Ruth, to
help and encourage us. This little maiden was now
become a very great favourite with me, having long
outgrown, no doubt, her childish fancies and follies,
such as my mother and Annie had planted under her soft
brown hair. It had been my duty, as well as my true
interest (for Uncle Ben was more and more testy, as he
went on gold-digging), to ride thither, now and again,
to inquire what the doctor thought of her. Not that
her wounds were long in healing, but that people can
scarcely be too careful and too inquisitive, after a
great horse-bite. And she always let me look at the
arm, as I had been first doctor; and she held it up in
a graceful manner, curving at the elbow, and with a
sweep of white roundness going to a wrist the size of
my thumb or so, and without any thimble-top standing
forth, such as even our Annie had. But gradually all I
could see, above the elbow, where the bite had been,
was very clear, transparent skin, with very firm sweet
flesh below, and three little blue marks as far asunder
as the prongs of a toasting-fork, and no deeper than
where a twig has chafed the peel of a waxen apple. And
then I used to say in fun, as the children do, 'Shall I
kiss it, to make it well, dear?'
Now Ruth looked very grave indeed, upon hearing of this
my enterprise; and crying, said she could almost cry,
for the sake of my dear mother. Did I know the risks
and chances, not of the battlefield alone, but of the
havoc afterwards; the swearing away of innocent lives,
and the hurdle, and the hanging? And if I would please
not to laugh (which was so unkind of me), had I never
heard of imprisonments, and torturing with the cruel
boot, and selling into slavery, where the sun and the
lash outvied one another in cutting a man to pieces? I
replied that of all these things I had heard, and would
take especial care to steer me free of all of them. My
duty was all that I wished to do; and none could harm
me for doing that. And I begged my cousin to give me
good-speed, instead of talking dolefully. Upon this
she changed her manner wholly, becoming so lively and
cheerful that I was convinced of her indifference, and
surprised even more than gratified.
'Go and earn your spurs, Cousin Ridd,' she said: 'you
are strong enough for anything. Which side is to have
the benefit of your doughty arm?'
'Have I not told you, Ruth,' I answered, not being fond
of this kind of talk, more suitable for Lizzie, 'that I
do not mean to join either side, that is to say,
until--'
'Until, as the common proverb goes, you know which way
the cat will jump. Oh, John Ridd! Oh, John Ridd!'
'Nothing of the sort,' said I: 'what a hurry you are
in! I am for the King of course.'
'But not enough to fight for him. Only enough to vote,
I suppose, or drink his health, or shout for him.'
'I can't make you out to-day, Cousin Ruth; you are
nearly as bad as Lizzie. You do not say any bitter
things, but you seem to mean them.'
'No, cousin, think not so of me. It is far more likely
that I say them, without meaning them.'
'Anyhow, it is not like you. And I know not what I can
have done in any way, to vex you.'
'Dear me, nothing, Cousin Ridd; you never do anything
to vex me.'
'Then I hope I shall do something now, Ruth, when I say
good-bye. God knows if we ever shall meet again,
Ruth: but I hope we may.'
'To be sure we shall, ' she answered in her brightest
manner. 'Try not to look wretched, John: you are as
happy as a Maypole.'
'And you as a rose in May,' I said; 'and pretty nearly
as pretty. Give my love to Uncle Ben; and I trust him
to keep on the winning side.'
'Of that you need have no misgivings. Never yet has he
failed of it. Now, Cousin Ridd, why go you not? You
hurried me so at breakfast time?'
'My only reason for waiting, Ruth, is that you have not
kissed me, as you are almost bound to do, for the last
time perhaps of seeing me.'
'Oh, if that is all, just fetch the stool; and I will
do my best, cousin.'
'I pray you be not so vexatious; you always used to do
it nicely, without any stool, Ruth.'
'Ah, but you are grown since then, and become a famous
man, John Ridd, and a member of the nobility. Go your
way, and win your spurs. I want no lip-service.'
Being at the end of my wits, I did even as she ordered
me. At least I had no spurs to win, because there were
big ones on my boots, paid for in the Easter bill, and
made by a famous saddler, so as never to clog with
marsh-weed, but prick as hard as any horse, in reason,
could desire. And Kickums never wanted spurs; but
always went tail-foremost, if anybody offered them for
his consideration.
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