Lorna Doone: A Romance of Exmoor
became very gracious to me; for if he loved any one on earth, it was his
little granddaughter.
I could not stay very long, because, my horse being quite unfit to
travel from the injuries which his violence and vice had brought upon
him, there was nothing for me but to go on foot, as none of Uncle Ben's
horses could take me to Plover's Barrows, without downright cruelty: and
though there would be a harvest-moon, Ruth agreed with me that I must
not keep my mother waiting, with no idea where I might be, until a
late hour of the night. I told Ruth all about our Annie, and her noble
furniture; and the little maid was very lively (although her wounds were
paining her so, that half her laughter came “on the wrong side of her
mouth,” as we rather coarsely express it); especially she laughed about
Annie's new-fangled closet for clothes, or standing-press, as she called
it. This had frightened me so that I would not come without my stick to
look at it; for the front was inlaid with two fiery dragons, and a glass
which distorted everything, making even Annie look hideous; and when it
was opened, a woman's skeleton, all in white, revealed itself, in the
midst of three standing women. “It is only to keep my best frocks in
shape,” Annie had explained to me; “hanging them up does ruin them so.
But I own that I was afraid of it, John, until I had got all my best
clothes there, and then I became very fond of it. But even now it
frightens me sometimes in the moonlight.”
Having made poor Ruth a little cheerful, with a full account of all
Annie's frocks, material, pattern, and fashion (of which I had taken a
list for my mother, and for Lizzie, lest they should cry out at man's
stupidity about anything of real interest), I proceeded to tell her
about my own troubles, and the sudden departure of Lorna; concluding
with all the show of indifference which my pride could muster, that
now I never should see her again, and must do my best to forget her, as
being so far above me. I had not intended to speak of this, but Ruth's
face was so kind and earnest, that I could not stop myself.
“You must not talk like that, Cousin Ridd,” she said, in a low and
gentle tone, and turning away her eyes from me; “no lady can be above
a man, who is pure, and brave, and gentle. And if her heart be worth
having, she will never let you give her up, for her grandeur, and her
nobility.”
She pronounced those last few words, as I thought, with a little
bitterness, unperceived by herself perhaps, for it was not in her
appearance. But I, attaching great importance to a maiden's opinion
about a maiden (because she might judge from experience), would have led
her further into that subject. But she declined to follow, having now no
more to say in a matter so removed from her. Then I asked her full and
straight, and looking at her in such a manner that she could not look
away, without appearing vanquished by feelings of her own--which thing
was very vile of me; but all men are so selfish,--
“Dear cousin, tell me, once for all, what is your advice to me?”
“My advice to you,” she answered bravely, with her dark eyes full of
pride, and instead of flinching, foiling me,--“is to do what every man
must do, if he would win fair maiden. Since she cannot send you token,
neither is free to return to you, follow her, pay your court to her;
show that you will not be forgotten; and perhaps she will look down--I
mean, she will relent to you.”
“She has nothing to relent about. I have never vexed nor injured her.
My thoughts have never strayed from her. There is no one to compare with
her.”
“Then keep her in that same mind about you. See now, I can advise no
more. My arm is swelling painfully, in spite of all your goodness, and
bitter task of surgeonship. I shall have another poultice on, and go to
bed, I think, Cousin Ridd, if you will not hold me ungrateful. I am so
sorry for your long walk. Surely it might be avoided. Give my love to
dear Lizzie: oh, the room is going round so.”
And she fainted into the arms of Sally, who was come just in time to
fetch her: no doubt she had been suffering agony all the time she talked
to me. Leaving word that I would come again to inquire for her,
and fetch Kickums home, so soon as the harvest permitted me, I gave
directions about the horse, and striding away from the ancient town, was
soon upon the moorlands.
Now, through the whole of that long walk--the latter part of which was
led by starlight, till the moon arose--I dwelt, in my young and foolish
way, upon the ordering of our steps by a Power beyond us. But as I could
not bring my mind to any clearness upon this matter, and the stars shed
no light upon it, but rather confused me with wondering how their Lord
could attend to them all, and yet to a puny fool like me, it came to
pass that my thoughts on the subject were not worth ink, if I knew them.
But it is perhaps worth ink to relate, so far as I can do so, mother's
delight at my return, when she had almost abandoned hope, and concluded
that I was gone to London, in disgust at her behaviour. And now she was
looking up the lane, at the rise of the harvest-moon, in despair, as she
said afterwards. But if she had despaired in truth, what use to look at
all? Yet according to the epigram made by a good Blundellite,--
“Despair was never yet so deep
In sinking as in seeming;
Despair is hope just dropped asleep
For better chance of dreaming.”
And mother's dream was a happy one, when she knew my step at a furlong
distant; for the night was of those that carry sound thrice as far as
day can. She recovered herself, when she was sure, and even made up her
mind to scold me, and felt as if she could do it. But when she was in
my arms, into which she threw herself, and I by the light of the moon
descried the silver gleam on one side of her head (now spreading since
Annie's departure), bless my heart and yours therewith, no room was left
for scolding. She hugged me, and she clung to me; and I looked at her,
with duty made tenfold, and discharged by love. We said nothing to one
another; but all was right between us.
Even Lizzie behaved very well, so far as her nature admitted; not even
saying a nasty thing all the time she was getting my supper ready, with
a weak imitation of Annie. She knew that the gift of cooking was not
vouchsafed by God to her; but sometimes she would do her best, by
intellect to win it. Whereas it is no more to be won by intellect than
is divine poetry. An amount of strong quick heart is needful, and the
understanding must second it, in the one art as in the other. Now my
fare was very choice for the next three days or more; yet not turned out
like Annie's. They could do a thing well enough on the fire; but they
could not put it on table so; nor even have plates all piping hot. This
was Annie's special gift; born in her, and ready to cool with her; like
a plate borne away from the fireplace. I sighed sometimes about Lorna,
and they thought it was about the plates. And mother would stand and
look at me, as much as to say, “No pleasing him”; and Lizzie would jerk
up one shoulder, and cry, “He had better have Lorna to cook for him”;
while the whole truth was that I wanted not to be plagued about any
cookery; but just to have something good and quiet, and then smoke and
think about Lorna.
Nevertheless the time went on, with one change and another; and we
gathered all our harvest in; and Parson Bowden thanked God for it,
both in church and out of it; for his tithes would be very goodly. The
unmatched cold of the previous winter, and general fear of scarcity, and
our own talk about our ruin, had sent prices up to a grand high pitch;
and we did our best to keep them there. For nine Englishmen out of every
ten believe that a bitter winter must breed a sour summer, and explain
away topmost prices. While according to my experience, more often it
would be otherwise, except for the public thinking so. However, I have
said too much; and if any farmer reads my book, he will vow that I wrote
it for nothing else except to rob his family.
CHAPTER LXII
THE KING MUST NOT BE PRAYED FOR
All our neighbourhood was surprised that the Doones had not ere now
attacked, and probably made an end of us. For we lay almost at their
mercy now, having only Sergeant Bloxham, and three men, to protect us,
Captain Stickles having been ordered southwards with all his force;
except such as might be needful for collecting toll, and watching the
imports at Lynmouth, and thence to Porlock. The Sergeant, having now
imbibed a taste for writing reports (though his first great effort had
done him no good, and only offended Stickles), reported weekly from
Plover's Barrows, whenever he could find a messenger. And though we fed
not Sergeant Bloxham at our own table, with the best we had (as in the
case of Stickles, who represented His Majesty), yet we treated him so
well, that he reported very highly of us, as loyal and true-hearted
lieges, and most devoted to our lord the King. And indeed he could
scarcely have done less, when Lizzie wrote great part of his reports,
and furbished up the rest to such a pitch of lustre, that Lord Clarendon
himself need scarce have been ashamed of them. And though this cost a
great deal of ale, and even of strong waters (for Lizzie would have it
the duty of a critic to stand treat to the author), and though it was
otherwise a plague, as giving the maid such airs of patronage, and such
pretence to politics; yet there was no stopping it, without the risk
of mortal offence to both writer and reviewer. Our mother also, while
disapproving Lizzie's long stay in the saddle-room on a Friday night and
a Saturday, and insisting that Betty should be there, was nevertheless
as proud as need be, that the King should read our Eliza' s writings--at
least so the innocent soul believed--and we all looked forward to
something great as the fruit of all this history. And something great
did come of it, though not as we expected; for these reports, or as many
of them as were ever opened, stood us in good stead the next year, when
we were accused of harbouring and comforting guilty rebels.
Now the reason why the Doones did not attack us was that they were
preparing to meet another and more powerful assault upon their fortress;
being assured that their repulse of King's troops could not be looked
over when brought before the authorities. And no doubt they were right;
for although the conflicts in the Government during that summer and
autumn had delayed the matter yet positive orders had been issued that
these outlaws and malefactors should at any price be brought to justice;
when the sudden death of King Charles the Second threw all things into
confusion, and all minds into a panic.
We heard of it first in church, on Sunday, the eighth day of February,
1684-5, from a cousin of John Fry, who had ridden over on purpose from
Porlock. He came in just before the anthem, splashed and heated from his
ride, so that every one turned and looked at him. He wanted to create a
stir (knowing how much would be made of him), and he took the best way
to do it. For he let the anthem go by very quietly--or rather I should
say very pleasingly, for our choir was exceeding proud of itself, and
I sang bass twice as loud as a bull, to beat the clerk with the
clarionet--and then just as Parson Bowden, with a look of pride at his
minstrels, was kneeling down to begin the prayer for the King's Most
Excellent Majesty (for he never read the litany, except upon Easter
Sunday), up jumps young Sam Fry, and shouts,--
“I forbid that there prai-er.”
“What!” cried the parson, rising slowly, and looking for some one to