BLOOD UPON THE ALTAR
[Illustration: 686.jpg Entrance to Oare Church]
Everything was settled smoothly, and without any fear or fuss, that
Lorna might find end of troubles, and myself of eager waiting, with
the help of Parson Bowden, and the good wishes of two counties. I could
scarce believe my fortune, when I looked upon her beauty, gentleness,
and sweetness, mingled with enough of humour and warm woman's feeling,
never to be dull or tiring; never themselves to be weary.
For she might be called a woman now; although a very young one, and as
full of playful ways, or perhaps I may say ten times as full, as if she
had known no trouble. To wit, the spirit of bright childhood, having
been so curbed and straitened, ere its time was over, now broke forth,
enriched and varied with the garb of conscious maidenhood. And the sense
of steadfast love, and eager love enfolding her, coloured with so many
tinges all her looks, and words, and thoughts, that to me it was the
noblest vision even to think about her.
But this was far too bright to last, without bitter break, and the
plunging of happiness in horror, and of passionate joy in agony. My
darling in her softest moments, when she was alone with me, when the
spark of defiant eyes was veiled beneath dark lashes, and the challenge
of gay beauty passed into sweetest invitation; at such times of her
purest love and warmest faith in me, a deep abiding fear would flutter
in her bounding heart, as of deadly fate's approach. She would cling to
me, and nestle to me, being scared of coyishness, and lay one arm around
my neck, and ask if I could do without her.
Hence, as all emotions haply, of those who are more to us than
ourselves, find within us stronger echo, and more perfect answer, so
I could not be regardless of some hidden evil; and my dark misgivings
deepened as the time drew nearer. I kept a steadfast watch on Lorna,
neglecting a field of beans entirely, as well as a litter of young pigs,
and a cow somewhat given to jaundice. And I let Jem Slocombe go to sleep
in the tallat, all one afternoon, and Bill Dadds draw off a bucket of
cider, without so much as a “by your leave.” For these men knew that my
knighthood, and my coat of arms, and (most of all) my love, were greatly
against good farming; the sense of our country being--and perhaps it may
be sensible--that a man who sticks up to be anything, must allow himself
to be cheated.
But I never did stick up, nor would, though all the parish bade me; and
I whistled the same tunes to my horses, and held my plough-tree, just
the same as if no King, nor Queen, had ever come to spoil my tune or
hand. For this thing, nearly all the men around our parts upbraided me;
but the women praised me: and for the most part these are right, when
themselves are not concerned.
However humble I might be, no one knowing anything of our part of the
country, would for a moment doubt that now here was a great to do and
talk of John Ridd and his wedding. The fierce fight with the Doones so
lately, and my leading of the combat (though I fought not more than need
be), and the vanishing of Sir Counsellor, and the galloping madness of
Carver, and the religious fear of the women that this last was gone to
hell--for he himself had declared that his aim, while he cut through
the yeomanry--also their remorse, that he should have been made to go
thither with all his children left behind--these things, I say (if
ever I can again contrive to say anything), had led to the broadest
excitement about my wedding of Lorna. We heard that people meant to come
from more than thirty miles around, upon excuse of seeing my stature and
Lorna's beauty; but in good truth out of sheer curiosity, and the love
of meddling.
Our clerk had given notice, that not a man should come inside the door
of his church without shilling-fee; and women (as sure to see twice as
much) must every one pay two shillings. I thought this wrong; and as
church-warden, begged that the money might be paid into mine own hands,
when taken. But the clerk said that was against all law; and he had
orders from the parson to pay it to him without any delay. So as I
always obey the parson, when I care not much about a thing, I let them
have it their own way; though feeling inclined to believe, sometimes,
that I ought to have some of the money.
Dear mother arranged all the ins and outs of the way in which it was
to be done; and Annie and Lizzie, and all the Snowes, and even Ruth
Huckaback (who was there, after great persuasion), made such a sweeping
of dresses that I scarcely knew where to place my feet, and longed for a
staff, to put by their gowns. Then Lorna came out of a pew half-way, in
a manner which quite astonished me, and took my left hand in her right,
and I prayed God that it were done with.
My darling looked so glorious, that I was afraid of glancing at her, yet
took in all her beauty. She was in a fright, no doubt; but nobody should
see it; whereas I said (to myself at least), “I will go through it like
a grave-digger.”
Lorna's dress was of pure white, clouded with faint lavender (for the
sake of the old Earl Brandir), and as simple as need be, except for
perfect loveliness. I was afraid to look at her, as I said before,
except when each of us said, “I will,” and then each dwelled upon the
other.
It is impossible for any who have not loved as I have to conceive my joy
and pride, when after ring and all was done, and the parson had blessed
us, Lorna turned to look at me with her glances of subtle fun subdued by
this great act.
Her eyes, which none on earth may ever equal, or compare with, told me
such a depth of comfort, yet awaiting further commune, that I was almost
amazed, thoroughly as I knew them. Darling eyes, the sweetest eyes, the
loveliest, the most loving eyes--the sound of a shot rang through the
church, and those eyes were filled with death.
Lorna fell across my knees when I was going to kiss her, as the
bridegroom is allowed to do, and encouraged, if he needs it; a flood of
blood came out upon the yellow wood of the altar steps, and at my feet
lay Lorna, trying to tell me some last message out of her faithful eyes.
I lifted her up, and petted her, and coaxed her, but it was no good; the
only sign of life remaining was a spirt of bright red blood.
Some men know what things befall them in the supreme time of their
life--far above the time of death--but to me comes back as a hazy dream,
without any knowledge in it, what I did, or felt, or thought, with my
wife's arms flagging, flagging, around my neck, as I raised her up, and
softly put them there. She sighed a long sigh on my breast, for her last
farewell to life, and then she grew so cold, and cold, that I asked the
time of year.
It was Whit-Tuesday, and the lilacs all in blossom; and why I thought
of the time of year, with the young death in my arms, God or His angels,
may decide, having so strangely given us. Enough that so I did, and
looked; and our white lilacs were beautiful. Then I laid my wife in my
mother's arms, and begging that no one would make a noise, went forth
for my revenge.
Of course, I knew who had done it. There was but one man in the
world, or at any rate, in our part of it, who could have done such a
thing--such a thing. I use no harsher word about it, while I leaped upon
our best horse, with bridle but no saddle, and set the head of Kickums
towards the course now pointed out to me. Who showed me the course, I
cannot tell. I only know that I took it. And the men fell back before
me.
Weapon of no sort had I. Unarmed, and wondering at my strange attire
(with a bridal vest, wrought by our Annie, and red with the blood of the
bride), I went forth just to find out this; whether in this world there
be or be not God of justice.
With my vicious horse at a furious speed, I came upon Black Barrow Down,
directed by some shout of men, which seemed to me but a whisper. And
there, about a furlong before me, rode a man on a great black horse, and
I knew that the man was Carver Doone.
“Your life or mine,” I said to myself; “as the will of God may be. But
we two live not upon this earth, one more hour together.”
I knew the strength of this great man; and I knew that he was armed with
a gun--if he had time to load again, after shooting my Lorna--or at any
rate with pistols, and a horseman's sword as well. Nevertheless, I had
no more doubt of killing the man before me than a cook has of spitting a
headless fowl.
Sometimes seeing no ground beneath me, and sometimes heeding every leaf,
and the crossing of the grass-blades, I followed over the long moor,
reckless whether seen or not. But only once the other man turned round
and looked back again, and then I was beside a rock, with a reedy swamp
behind me.
Although he was so far before me, and riding as hard as ride he might, I
saw that he had something on the horse in front of him; something which
needed care, and stopped him from looking backward. In the whirling of
my wits, I fancied first that this was Lorna; until the scene I had been
through fell across hot brain and heart, like the drop at the close of
a tragedy. Rushing there through crag and quag, at utmost speed of a
maddened horse, I saw, as of another's fate, calmly (as on canvas laid),
the brutal deed, the piteous anguish, and the cold despair.
The man turned up the gully leading from the moor to Cloven Rocks,
through which John Fry had tracked Uncle Ben, as of old related. But as
Carver entered it, he turned round, and beheld me not a hundred yards
behind; and I saw that he was bearing his child, little Ensie, before
him. Ensie also descried me, and stretched his hands and cried to me;
for the face of his father frightened him.
Carver Doone, with a vile oath, thrust spurs into his flagging horse,
and laid one hand on a pistol-stock; whence I knew that his slung
carbine had received no bullet since the one that had pierced Lorna. And
a cry of triumph rose from the black depths of my heart. What cared I
for pistols? I had no spurs, neither was my horse one to need the rowel;
I rather held him in than urged him, for he was fresh as ever; and I
knew that the black steed in front, if he breasted the steep ascent,
where the track divided, must be in our reach at once.
His rider knew this; and, having no room in the rocky channel to turn
and fire, drew rein at the crossways sharply, and plunged into the black
ravine leading to the Wizard's Slough. “Is it so?” I said to myself
with a brain and head cold as iron; “though the foul fiend come from the
slough, to save thee; thou shalt carve it, Carver.”
I followed my enemy carefully, steadily, even leisurely; for I had him,
as in a pitfall, whence no escape might be. He thought that I feared to
approach him, for he knew not where he was: and his low disdainful laugh
came back. “Laugh he who wins,” thought I.
A gnarled and half-starved oak, as stubborn as my own resolve, and
smitten by some storm of old, hung from the crag above me. Rising from
my horse's back, although I had no stirrups, I caught a limb, and tore
it (like a mere wheat-awn) from the socket. Men show the rent even now,
with wonder; none with more wonder than myself.
Carver Doone turned the corner suddenly on the black and bottomless bog;
with a start of fear he reined back his horse, and I thought he would
have turned upon me. But instead of that, he again rode on; hoping to
find a way round the side.
Now there is a way between cliff and slough for those who know the
ground thoroughly, or have time enough to search it; but for him there
was no road, and he lost some time in seeking it. Upon this he made up
his mind; and wheeling, fired, and then rode at me.
His bullet struck me somewhere, but I took no heed of that. Fearing only
his escape, I laid my horse across the way, and with the limb of the
oak struck full on the forehead his charging steed. Ere the slash of the
sword came nigh me, man and horse rolled over, and wellnigh bore my own
horse down, with the power of their onset.
Carver Doone was somewhat stunned, and could not arise for a moment.
Meanwhile I leaped on the ground and awaited, smoothing my hair back,
and baring my arms, as though in the ring for wrestling. Then the little
boy ran to me, clasped my leg, and looked up at me, and the terror in
his eyes made me almost fear myself.
“Ensie, dear,” I said quite gently, grieving that he should see his
wicked father killed, “run up yonder round the corner and try to find
a pretty bunch of bluebells for the lady.” The child obeyed me,
hanging back, and looking back, and then laughing, while I prepared for
business. There and then I might have killed mine enemy, with a single
blow, while he lay unconscious; but it would have been foul play.
With a sullen and black scowl, the Carver gathered his mighty limbs, and
arose, and looked round for his weapons; but I had put them well away.
Then he came to me and gazed; being wont to frighten thus young men.
“I would not harm you, lad,” he said, with a lofty style of sneering: “I
have punished you enough, for most of your impertinence. For the rest I
forgive you; because you have been good and gracious to my little son.
Go, and be contented.”
For answer, I smote him on the cheek, lightly, and not to hurt him: but
to make his blood leap up. I would not sully my tongue by speaking to a
man like this.
There was a level space of sward between us and the slough. With the
courtesy derived from London, and the processions I had seen, to this
place I led him. And that he might breathe himself, and have every fibre
cool, and every muscle ready, my hold upon his coat I loosed, and left
him to begin with me, whenever he thought proper.
I think that he felt that his time was come. I think he knew from my
knitted muscles, and the firm arch of my breast, and the way in which
I stood; but most of all from my stern blue eyes; that he had found his
master. At any rate a paleness came, an ashy paleness on his cheeks, and
the vast calves of his legs bowed in, as if he were out of training.
Seeing this, villain as he was, I offered him first chance. I stretched
forth my left hand, as I do to a weaker antagonist, and I let him have
the hug of me. But in this I was too generous; having forgotten my
pistol-wound, and the cracking of one of my short lower ribs. Carver
Doone caught me round the waist, with such a grip as never yet had been
laid upon me.
I heard my rib go; I grasped his arm, and tore the muscle out of it* (as
the string comes out of an orange); then I took him by the throat, which
is not allowed in wrestling; but he had snatched at mine; and now was no
time of dalliance. In vain he tugged, and strained, and writhed, dashed
his bleeding fist into my face, and flung himself on me with gnashing
jaws. Beneath the iron of my strength--for God that day was with me--I
had him helpless in two minutes, and his fiery eyes lolled out.
* A far more terrible clutch than this is handed down, to
weaker ages, of the great John Ridd.--Ed.
“I will not harm thee any more,” I cried, so far as I could for panting,
the work being very furious: “Carver Doone, thou art beaten: own it, and
thank God for it; and go thy way, and repent thyself.”
It was all too late. Even if he had yielded in his ravening frenzy--for
his beard was like a mad dog's jowl--even if he would have owned that,
for the first time in his life, he had found his master; it was all too
late.
The black bog had him by the feet; the sucking of the ground drew on
him, like the thirsty lips of death. In our fury, we had heeded neither
wet nor dry; nor thought of earth beneath us. I myself might scarcely
leap, with the last spring of o'er-laboured legs, from the engulfing
grave of slime. He fell back, with his swarthy breast (from which my
gripe had rent all clothing), like a hummock of bog-oak, standing out
the quagmire; and then he tossed his arms to heaven, and they were black
to the elbow, and the glare of his eyes was ghastly. I could only gaze
and pant; for my strength was no more than an infant's, from the fury
and the horror. Scarcely could I turn away, while, joint by joint, he
sank from sight.
[Illustration: 693.jpg Tailpiece]