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 today, 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 goodbye. 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.
LXIV
Slaughter in the Marshes
We rattled away at a merry pace, out of the town of Dulverton; my horse being gaily fed, and myself quite fit again for going. Of course I was puzzled about Cousin Ruth; for her behaviour was not at all such as I had expected; and indeed I had hoped for a far more loving and moving farewell than I got from her. But I said to myself, “It is useless ever to count upon what a woman will do; and I think that I must have vexed her, almost as much as she vexed me. And now to see what comes of it.” So I put my horse across the moorland; and he threw his chest out bravely.
Now if I tried to set down at length all the things that happened to me, upon this adventure, every in and out, and up and down, and to and fro, that occupied me, together with the things I saw, and the things I heard of, however much the wiser people might applaud my narrative, it is likely enough that idle readers might exclaim, “What ails this man? Knows he not that men of parts and of real understanding, have told us all we care to hear of that miserable business. Let him keep to his farm, and his bacon, and his wrestling, and constant feeding.”
Fearing to meet with such rebuffs (which after my death would vex
