Living as we did all by ourselves, and five or six miles away from the
Robbers' Valley, we had felt little fear of the Doones hitherto, because
we had nothing for them to steal except a few books, the sight of which
would only make them swear and ride away. But now that I was full-grown,
and beginning to be accounted comely, my father was sometimes uneasy in
his mind, as he told Deborah, and she told me; for the outlaws showed
interest in such matters, even to the extent of carrying off young women
who had won reputation thus. Therefore he left Thomas Pring at home,
with the doors well-barred, and two duck guns loaded, and ordered me
not to quit the house until he should return with a creel of trout for
supper. Only our little boy Dick Hutchings was to go with him, to help
when his fly caught in the bushes.
My father set off in the highest spirits, as anglers always seem to do,
to balance the state in which they shall return; and I knew not, neither
did anyone else, what a bold stroke he was resolved upon. When it was
too late, we found out that, hearing so much of that strange race, he
desired to know more about them, scorning the idea that men of birth
could ever behave like savages, and forgetting that they had received
no chance of being tamed, as rough spirits are by the lessons of the
battlefield. No gentleman would ever dream of attacking an unarmed man,
he thought; least of all one whose hair was white. And so he resolved to
fish the brook which ran away from their stronghold, believing that he
might see some of them, and hoping for a peaceful interview.
We waited and waited for his pleasant face, and long, deliberate step
upon the steep, and cheerful shout for his Sylvia, to come and ease down
his basket, and say--“Well done, father!” But the shadows of the trees
grew darker, and the song of the gray-bird died out among them, and the
silent wings of the owl swept by, and all the mysterious sounds of night
in the depth of forest loneliness, and the glimmer of a star through
the leaves here and there, to tell us that there still was light in
heaven--but of an earthly father not a sign; only pain, and long sighs,
and deep sinking of the heart.
But why should I dwell upon this? All women, being of a gentle and
loving kind,--unless they forego their nature,--know better than I at
this first trial knew, the misery often sent to us. I could not believe
it, and went about in a dreary haze of wonder, getting into dark places,
when all was dark, and expecting to be called out again and asked what
had made such a fool of me. And so the long night went at last, and no
comfort came in the morning. But I heard a great crying, sometime the
next day, and ran back from the wood to learn what it meant, for there
I had been searching up and down, not knowing whither I went or why. And
lo, it was little Dick Hutchings at our door, and Deborah Pring held him
by the coat-flap, and was beating him with one of my father's sticks.
“I tell 'ee, they Doo-uns has done for 'un,” the boy was roaring betwixt
his sobs; “dree on 'em, dree on 'em, and he've a killed one. The squire
be layin' as dead as a sto-un.”
Mrs. Pring smacked him on the mouth, for she saw that I had heard it.
What followed I know not, for down I fell, and the sense of life went
from me.
There was little chance of finding Thomas Pring, or any other man to
help us, for neighbours were none, and Thomas was gone everywhere he
could think of to look for them. Was I likely to wait for night again,
and then talk for hours about it? I recovered my strength when the sun
went low; and who was Deborah Pring, to stop me? She would have come,
but I would not have it; and the strength of my grief took command of
her.
Little Dick Hutchings whistled now, I remember that he whistled, as he
went through the wood in front of me. Who had given him the breeches on
his legs and the hat upon his shallow pate? And the poor little coward
had skiddered away, and slept in a furze rick, till famine drove him
home. But now he was set up again by gorging for an hour, and chattered
as if he had done a great thing.
There must have been miles of rough walking through woods, and tangles,
and craggy and black boggy hollows, until we arrived at a wide open
space where two streams ran into one another.
“Thic be Oare watter,” said the boy, “and t'other over yonner be
Badgefry. Squire be dead up there; plaise, Miss Sillie, 'ee can goo
vorrard and vaind 'un.”
He would go no further; but I crossed the brook, and followed the
Badgery stream, without knowing, or caring to know, where I was. The
banks, and the bushes, and the rushing water went by me until I came
upon--but though the Lord hath made us to endure such things, he hath
not compelled us to enlarge upon them.
In the course of the night kind people came, under the guidance of
Thomas Pring, and they made a pair of wattles such as farmers use for
sheep, and carried home father and daughter, one sobbing and groaning
with a broken heart, and the other that should never so much as sigh
again. Troubles have fallen upon me since, as the will of the Lord is
always; but none that I ever felt like that, and for months everything
was the same to me.
But inasmuch as it has been said by those who should know better,
that my father in some way provoked his merciless end by those vile
barbarians, I will put into plainest form, without any other change,
except from outlandish words, the tale received from Dick Hutchings,
the boy, who had seen and heard almost everything while crouching in the
water and huddled up inside a bush.
“Squire had catched a tidy few, and he seemed well pleased with himself,
and then we came to a sort of a hollow place where one brook floweth
into the other. Here he was a-casting of his fly, most careful, for if
there was ever a trout on the feed, it was like to be a big one, and
lucky for me I was keeping round the corner when a kingfisher bird flew
along like a string-bolt, and there were three great men coming round a
fuzz-bush, and looking at squire, and he back to them. Down goes I, you
may say sure enough, with all of me in the water but my face, and that
stuck into a wutts-clump, and my teeth making holes in my naked knees,
because of the way they were shaking.
“'Ho, fellow!' one of them called out to squire, as if he was no better
than father is, 'who give thee leave to fish in our river?'
“'Open moor,' says squire, 'and belongeth to the king, if it belongeth
to anybody. Any of you gentlemen hold his majesty's warrant to forbid an
old officer of his?'
“That seemed to put them in a dreadful rage, for to talk of a warrant
was unpleasant to them.
“'Good fellow, thou mayest spin spider's webs, or jib up and down like
a gnat,' said one, 'but such tricks are not lawful upon land of ours.
Therefore render up thy spoil.'
“Squire walked up from the pebbles at that, and he stood before the
three of them, as tall as any of them. And he said, 'You be young men,
but I am old. Nevertheless, I will not be robbed by three, or by thirty
of you. If you be cowards enough, come on.'
“Two of them held off, and I heard them say, 'Let him alone, he is a
brave old cock.' For you never seed anyone look more braver, and his
heart was up with righteousness. But the other, who seemed to be the
oldest of the three, shouted out something, and put his leg across, and
made at the squire with a long blue thing that shone in the sun, like a
looking-glass. And the squire, instead of turning round to run away as
he should have, led at him with the thick end of the fishing rod, to
which he had bound an old knife of Mother Pring's for to stick it in the
grass, while he put his flies on. And I heard the old knife strike the
man in his breast, and down he goes dead as a door-nail. And before I
could look again almost, another man ran a long blade into squire, and
there he was lying as straight as a lath, with the end of his white
beard as red as a rose. At that I was so scared that I couldn't look no
more, and the water came bubbling into my mouth, and I thought I was at
home along of mother.
“By and by, I came back to myself with my face full of scratches in a
bush, and the sun was going low, and the place all as quiet as Cheriton
church. But the noise of the water told me where I was; and I got up,
and ran for the life of me, till I came to the goyal. And then I got
into a fuzz-rick, and slept all night, for I durstn't go home to tell
Mother Pring. But I just took a look before I began to run, and the
Doone that was killed was gone away, but the squire lay along with
his arms stretched out, as quiet as a sheep before they hang him up to
drain.”