continued; "Gwenny, who let me out, and came with me, has heard him
snoring for two hours. I think the women ought to be the watch, because
they have had no traveling. Where do you suppose little Gwenny is?"
"Surely not gone to Glen Doone?" I was not sure, however, for I could
believe almost anything of the Cornish maiden's hardihood.
"No," replied Lorna, "although she wanted even to do that. But, of
course, I would not hear of it, on account of the swollen waters. But
she is perched in yonder tree, which commands the Barrow Valley. She
says that they are almost sure to cross the streamlet there."
"What a shame," I cried, "that the men should sleep and the maidens be
the soldiers! I will sit in that tree myself, and send little Gwenny
back to you. Go to bed, my best and dearest; I will take good care not
to sleep again."
Before I had been long on duty, making the round of the ricks and the
stables, and hailing Gwenny now and then from the bottom of her tree,
a short, wide figure stole toward me, in and out the shadows, and I saw
that it was no other than the little maid herself, and that she bore
some tidings.
"Ten on 'em crossed the water down yonder," said Gwenny, putting her
hand to her mouth, and seeming to regard it as good news rather than
otherwise; "be arl craping up by the hedgerow now. I could shutt dree
on 'em from the bar of the gate, if so be I had your goon, young man."
"There is no time to lose, Gwenny. Run to the house and fetch Master
Stickles, and all the men while I stay here and watch the rick-yard."
The robbers rode into our yard as coolly as if they had been invited,
having lifted the gate from the hinges first, on account of its being
fastened. Then they actually opened our stable doors, and turned our
honest horses out, and put their own rogues in place of them. At this
my breath was quite taken away, for we think so much of our horses. By
this time I could see our troopers waiting in the shadow of the house
round the corner from where the Doones were, and expecting the order to
fire; but Jeremy Stickles very wisely kept them in readiness until the
enemy should advance upon them.
"Two of you lazy fellows go,"--it was the deep voice of Carver Doone,
"and make us a light to cut their throats by. Only one thing, once
again. If any man touches Lorna, I will stab him where he stands. She
belongs to me. There are two other young damsels here, whom you may take
away if you please. And the mother, I hear, is still comely. Now for our
rights. We have borne too long the insolence of these yokels. Kill every
man and every child, and burn this cursed place down."
Presently two young men came toward me, bearing brands of resined hemp,
kindled from Carver's lamp. The foremost of them set his torch to the
rick within a yard of me, the smoke concealing me from him. I struck him
with a backhanded blow on the elbow as he bent it, and I heard the bone
of his arm break as clearly as ever I heard a twig snap. With a roar of
pain, he fell on the ground, and his torch dropped there and singed him.
The other man stood amazed at this, not having yet gained sight of me,
till I caught his fire-brand from his hand, and struck it into his
countenance. With that he leaped at me, but I caught him in a manner
learned from early wrestling, and snapped his collar bone, as I laid
him upon the top of his comrade.
This little success so encouraged me that I was half inclined to advance
and challenge Carver Doone to meet me; but I bore in mind that he would
be apt to shoot me without ceremony; and what is the utmost of human
strength against the power of powder? Moreover, I remembered my promise
to sweet Lorna; and who would be left to defend her, if the rogues got
rid of me?
While I was hesitating thus, a blaze of fire lit up the house, and brown
smoke hung around it. Six of our men had let go at the Doones, by Jeremy
Stickles's order, as the villains came swaggering down in the moonlight
ready for rape or murder. Two of them fell, and the rest hung back, to
think at their leisure what this was. They were not used to this sort of
thing; it was neither just nor courteous.
Being unable any longer to contain myself, as I thought of Lorna's
excitement at all this noise of firing, I ran across the yard, expecting
whether they would shoot at me. However, no one shot at me; and I went
up to Carver Doone, whom I knew by his size in the moonlight, and I took
him by the beard and said, "Do you call yourself a man?"
For a moment he was so astonished that he could not answer. None had
ever dared, I suppose, to look at him in that way. And then he tried a
pistol at me; but I was too quick for him.
"Now, Carver, take warning," I said to him, very soberly; "you have
shown yourself a fool by your contempt of me. I may not be your match
in craft, but I am in manhood. You are a despicable villain. Lie low in
your native muck."
And with that word I laid him flat upon his back in our straw-yard by
the trick of the inner heel, which he could not have resisted unless he
were a wrestler. Seeing him down, the others ran, though one of them
made a shot at me, and some of them got their horses before our men came
up, and some went away without them. And among these last was Captain
Carver, who arose while I was feeling myself (for I had a little wound),
and strode away with a train of curses enough to poison the light of
the moon.
IV.
[Through many vicissitudes and many dangers, Lorna and John
spend the months following the incident just related. John
learns that Lorna is, after all, not a Doone, but the daughter
of a family the Doones had waylaid. John's father had also been
murdered by the Doones when John was a lad at school. The
following scene carries its own story:]
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. We heard that
people meant to come for 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.
Dear mother arranged all the ins and outs of the way in which it was to
be done; and Annie and Lizzie 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. I was afraid to look at her, except when each of
us said, "I will," and then each dwelt 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, 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 spot of bright red blood.
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 the year.
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 would 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
toward the course now pointed out to me. Who showed me the course I
cannot tell. I only knew 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 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 my 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, 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. 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 has 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 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 reigned back his horse, and I thought he would
have turned upon me. 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 well-nigh 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 waited, smoothing my hair back and
baring my arm 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 my enemy with a single
blow while he lay unconscious, but it would have been foul play.
With a sudden 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.
I think he felt that his time was come; I think that he knew from my
knotted 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 was 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, and
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.
"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 him
on, 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'erlabored legs, from the ingulfing
grave of slime. He fell back, with his swarthy breast, 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 sunk from sight.
When the little boy came back with the bluebells, which he had managed
to find, the only sign of his father left was a dark brown bubble upon
a new-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 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 toward me, as if to answer, "Nay, I will not"; but the words
he spoke were these:
"Don"--for he never could say "John"--"oh Don, I am so glad that nasty,
naughty man is gone away. Take me home, Don. Take me home."
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. 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 luck for me that Kickums had lost spirit like his
master, and went home as mildly as a lamb. For, when we came toward
the farm, I seemed to be riding in a dream almost; and the voices of
both men 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 and pray 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 dead. She may even be your living one yet--your wife,
your home, and your happiness. But you must not see her now."
Now, whether it was the light and brightness of my Lorna's nature, or
the freedom from anxiety, but anyhow, one thing is certain; sure as the
stars of hope above us, Lorna recovered long ere I did.
The Sky
The sky is a drinking-cup,
That was overturned of old,
And it pours in the eyes of men
Its wines of airy gold.
We drink that wine all day,
Till the last drop is drained up,
And are lighted off to bed
By the jewels in the cup!
--_Richard Henry Stoddard_.
+----+------------------+----+
| | | |
| | THE SPEAKER | |
| | | |
+----+------------------+----+
TABLE OF CONTENTS
=NO. 1=
Editorials 1-4
The Artist's Secret Olive Schreiner 5
The History Lesson from L'Aiglon Edmund Rostand 6
Dawn Paul Laurence Dunbar 11
Bill, the Lokil Editor Eugene Field 12
Arena Scene from Quo Vadis Henry Sienkiewicz 15
The Cushville Hop Ben King 21
Sonny's Christening Ruth McEnery Stuart 22
How She Went into Business Joel Chandler Harris 28
The Leadership of Educated Men George William Curtis 34
Jean Valjean and the Bishop Victor Hugo 38
Coom, Lassie, Be Good to Me Charles McIlvaine 43
A Bird in the Hand F. S. Weatherby 44
The Slow Man Ernest Poole 45
Emmy Lou George Madden Martin 49
Glory John Luther Long 53
The Rose and the Gardener Austin Dobson 57
The Cap that Fits Austin Dobson 58
The Cure's Progress Austin Dobson 60
The Philosopher in the Apple Orchard Anthony Hope 61
The Photograph Paul Laurence Dunbar 67
A Message to Garcia Elbert Hubbard 68
Lovey-Loves Ben King 69
The Fall of the House of Usher Edgar Allan Poe 70
Nini, Ninette, Ninon Frederick S. Weatherby 77
With Any Amazement Rudyard Kipling 78
One, Two, Three H. C. Bunner 83
Mr. Dooley, on the Grip 85
=NO. 2=
Editorials 97-100
The Sign of the Cross Wilson Barrett 101
My Heart Leaps Up When I Behold William Wordsworth 105
"Gentlemen, the King" Robert Barr 106
The Only Way Charles Dickens 111
The New Americanism Henry Watterson 114
A Plea for Patriotism Benjamin Harrison 116
Fame Ben Jonson 117
The Independence of Cuba J. M. Thurston 118
The Children of the Poor Theodore Parker 122
Burns George William Curtis 124
A Night in Ste. Pilagie Mary H. Catherwood 127
The Call of the Wild Jack London 131
The Prisoner of Zenda Anthony Hope 135
In the Toils of the Enemy John S. Wood 139
The Advocate's First Plea George Barr McCutcheon 144
The Tell-Tale Heart Edgar Allan Poe 148
The Trial of Ben Thomas H. S. Edwards 151
Even This Shall Pass Away Theodore Tilton 155
On Milton John Dryden 156
Richelieu Bulwer Lytton 157
Flower in the Crannied Wall Lord Tennyson 161
The Burgomaster's Death (from "The Bells") 162
Jathrop Lathrop's Cow Anna Warner 167
The Hunchback Sheridan Knowles 172
Love Shakespeare 180
Last Speech of William McKinley 181
For Dear Old Yale James Langston 184
The Lance of Kanana 189
=NO. 3=
Editorials 193-198
Reading Elizabeth B. Browning 198
The Shave-Store Edmund Vance Cooke 199
The Moo-Cow-Moo Edmund Vance Cooke 200
Brother Wolf and the Horned Cattle Joel Chandler Harris 201
A Summer Lullaby Eudora S. Bumstead 204
The First Nowell (Old Carol) 205
A Riddle Jonathan Swift 206
Tiny Tim (from "A Christmas Carol") Charles Dickens 207
The American Flag Joseph R. Drake 212
A Grace for a Child Robert Herrick 212
The Fairies William Allingham 213
The Rule for Birds' Nesters (Old Rhyme) 214
Queen Mab Thomas Hood 215
The Star Song Robert Herrick 216
O Little Town of Bethlehem Phillips Brooks 217
Santa Claus (Anonymous) 218
Recessional Rudyard Kipling 219
The Bonniest Bairn in a' the Warl' Robert Ford 220
The Flag Goes By Henry Holcomb Bennett 221
Pocahontas William Makepeace Thackeray 222
A Farewell Charles Kingsley 223
The Shepherd Boy Sings John Bunyan 223
Two Apple-Howling Songs (Old Rhymes) 224
A Boy's Prayer Henry Charles Beeching 224
To-day Thomas Carlyle 225
Be True Horatio Bonar 225
My Native Land Sir Walter Scott 226
Green Things Growing Dinah Maria Mulock 226
The Wonderful Country of Good-Boy Land Mary E. Blake 227
The Fir-Tree Hans Christian Andersen 229
From a Railway Carriage Robert Louis Stevenson 233
The Land of Nod Robert Louis Stevenson 234
Burns George William Curtis 124
Whole Duty of Children Robert Louis Stevenson 234
The Story of Joseph (Arranged from Genesis) 235
Auld Daddy Darkness James Ferguson 240
The Owl and the Pussy-Cat Edward Lear 241
The Angel's Whisper Samuel Lover 242
Going into Breeches Charles and Mary Lamb 243
The Lost Doll Charles Kingsley 244
Baby Corn (Unknown) 245
Who Stole the Bird's Nest? Lydia Maria Child 246
Po' Little Lamb Paul Laurence Dunbar 248
Little Brown Baby Paul Laurence Dunbar 250
An Incident of the French Camp Robert Browning 251
Lullaby of an Infant Chief Sir Walter Scott 252
Old Ironsides Oliver Wendell Holmes 253
Concord Hymn Ralph Waldo Emerson 254
His College Examination
(from "Up from Slavery") Booker T. Washington 255
A Child's Grace Robert Burns 260
A Howdy Song Joel Chandler Harris 261
Duty Ralph Waldo Emerson 261
Bud's Fairy Tale James Whitcomb Riley 262
The Boy that was Scaret o' Dyin' Annie Trumbull Slosson 268
What Does Little Birdie Say? Lord Tennyson 270
Laetus Sorte Mea
(from "The Story of a Short Life") Juliana H. Ewing 271
The Victor of Marengo 275
Good Morning Robert Browning 279
Miranda and Her Friend Kroof
(from "The Heart of the Ancient Wood") Charles G. D. Roberts 277
Little Nell Charles Dickens 282
Parsifal the Pure (from "Stories from Wagner") 285
=NO. 4=
Editorials 289-292
Charles Sumner Carl Schurz 293
How the Elephant Got His Trunk Rudyard Kipling 295
The Owl Lord Tennyson 299
T'nowhead's Bell J. M. Barrie 300
John Storm's Resolution Hall Cain 308
The Flood of the Floss George Eliot 314
The Real Muck Rake Man Henry van Dyke 319
The Hunt Mercy E. Baker 322
Francois Villon, About to Die John D. Swain 323
Lady Moon Lord Haughton 326
A Good Dinner Mary Stuart Cutting 326
My Rival Rudyard Kipling 328
Imph-m James Nicholson 328
Looking Forward Robert Louis Stevenson 329
Mrs. Atwood's Raiment Mary Stuart Cutting 330