



Produced by David Widger





SLAIN BY THE DOONES.

by R. D. Blackmore

Copyright: Dodd, Mead And Company, 1895




CHAPTER I--AFTER A STORMY LIFE.

To hear people talking about North Devon, and the savage part called
Exmoor, you might almost think that there never was any place in
the world so beautiful, or any living men so wonderful. It is not my
intention to make little of them, for they would be the last to permit
it; neither do I feel ill will against them for the pangs they allowed
me to suffer; for I dare say they could not help themselves, being so
slow-blooded, and hard to stir even by their own egrimonies. But when I
look back upon the things that happened, and were for a full generation
of mankind accepted as the will of God, I say, that the people who
endured them must have been born to be ruled by the devil. And in
thinking thus I am not alone; for the very best judges of that day
stopped short of that end of the world, because the law would not go any
further. Nevertheless, every word is true of what I am going to tell,
and the stoutest writer of history cannot make less of it by denial.

My father was Sylvester Ford of Quantock, in the county of Somerset,
a gentleman of large estate as well as ancient lineage. Also of high
courage and resolution not to be beaten, as he proved in his many rides
with Prince Rupert, and woe that I should say it! in his most sad death.
To this he was not looking forward much, though turned of threescore
years and five; and his only child and loving daughter, Sylvia, which
is myself, had never dreamed of losing him. For he was exceeding fond of
me, little as I deserved it, except by loving him with all my heart and
thinking nobody like him. And he without anything to go upon, except
that he was my father, held, as I have often heard, as good an opinion
of me.

Upon the triumph of that hard fanatic, the Brewer, who came to a timely
end by the justice of high Heaven--my father, being disgusted with
England as well as banished from her, and despoiled of all his property,
took service on the Continent, and wandered there for many years, until
the replacement of the throne. Thereupon he expected, as many others
did, to get his states restored to him, and perhaps to be held in high
esteem at court, as he had a right to be. But this did not so come
to pass. Excellent words were granted him, and promise of tenfold
restitution; on the faith of which he returned to Paris, and married a
young Italian lady of good birth and high qualities, but with nothing
more to come to her. Then, to his great disappointment, he found
himself left to live upon air--which, however distinguished, is not
sufficient--and love, which, being fed so easily, expects all who lodge
with it to live upon itself.

My father was full of strong loyalty; and the king (in his value of that
sentiment) showed faith that it would support him. His majesty took
both my father's hands, having learned that hearty style in France, and
welcomed him with most gracious warmth, and promised him more than he
could desire. But time went on, and the bright words faded, like a rose
set bravely in a noble vase, without any nurture under it.

Another man had been long established in our hereditaments by the
Commonwealth; and he would not quit them of his own accord, having a
sense of obligation to himself. Nevertheless, he went so far as to offer
my father a share of the land, if some honest lawyers, whom he quoted,
could find proper means for arranging it. But my father said: "If I
cannot have my rights, I will have my wrongs. No mixture of the two for
me." And so, for the last few years of his life, being now very poor
and a widower, he took refuge in an outlandish place, a house and small
property in the heart of Exmoor, which had come to the Fords on
the spindle side, and had been overlooked when their patrimony was
confiscated by the Brewer. Of him I would speak with no contempt,
because he was ever as good as his word.

In the course of time, we had grown used to live according to our
fortunes. And I verily believe that we were quite content, and
repined but little at our lost importance. For my father was a very
simple-minded man, who had seen so much of uproarious life, and the
falsehood of friends, and small glitter of great folk, that he was glad
to fall back upon his own good will. Moreover he had his books, and me;
and as he always spoke out his thoughts, he seldom grudged to thank the
Lord for having left both of these to him. I felt a little jealous of
his books now and then, as a very poor scholar might be;