Lorna Doone: A Romance of Exmoor
“Monmouth and the Protestant faith! Monmouth and no Popery! Monmouth,
the good King's eldest son! Down with the poisoning murderer! Down with
the black usurper, and to the devil with all papists!”
“Why so, thou little varlet?” I asked very quietly; for the man was too
small to quarrel with: yet knowing Lorna to be a “papist,” as we choose
to call them--though they might as well call us “kingists,” after the
head of our Church--I thought that this scurvy scampish knave might show
them the way to the place he mentioned, unless his courage failed him.
“Papist yourself, be you?” said the fellow, not daring to answer much:
“then take this, and read it.”
And he handed me a long rigmarole, which he called a “Declaration”: I
saw that it was but a heap of lies, and thrust it into the blacksmith's
fire, and blew the bellows thrice at it. No one dared attempt to stop
me, for my mood had not been sweet of late; and of course they knew my
strength.
The man rode on with a muttering noise, having won no recruits from us,
by force of my example: and he stopped at the ale-house farther down,
where the road goes away from the Lynn-stream. Some of us went thither
after a time, when our horses were shodden and rasped, for although we
might not like the man, we might be glad of his tidings, which seemed to
be something wonderful. He had set up his blue flag in the tap-room, and
was teaching every one.
“Here coom'th Maister Jan Ridd,” said the landlady, being well pleased
with the call for beer and cider: “her hath been to Lunnon-town, and
live within a maile of me. Arl the news coom from them nowadays, instead
of from here, as her ought to do. If Jan Ridd say it be true, I will try
almost to belave it. Hath the good Duke landed, sir?” And she looked at
me over a foaming cup, and blew the froth off, and put more in.
“I have no doubt it is true enough,” I answered, before drinking; “and
too true, Mistress Pugsley. Many a poor man will die; but none shall die
from our parish, nor from Brendon, if I can help it.”
And I knew that I could help it; for every one in those little places
would abide by my advice; not only from the fame of my schooling and
long sojourn in London, but also because I had earned repute for being
very “slow and sure”: and with nine people out of ten this is the very
best recommendation. For they think themselves much before you in wit,
and under no obligation, but rather conferring a favour, by doing the
thing that you do. Hence, if I cared for influence--which means, for
the most part, making people do one's will, without knowing it--my first
step toward it would be to be called, in common parlance, “slow but
sure.”
For the next fortnight we were daily troubled with conflicting rumours,
each man relating what he desired, rather than what he had right, to
believe. We were told that the Duke had been proclaimed King of England
in every town of Dorset and of Somerset; that he had won a great battle
at Axminster, and another at Bridport, and another somewhere else;
that all the western counties had risen as one man for him, and all
the militia had joined his ranks; that Taunton, and Bridgwater, and
Bristowe, were all mad with delight, the two former being in his hands,
and the latter craving to be so. And then, on the other hand, we heard
that the Duke had been vanquished, and put to flight, and upon being
apprehended, had confessed himself an impostor and a papist as bad as
the King was.
We longed for Colonel Stickles (as he always became in time of war,
though he fell back to Captain, and even Lieutenant, directly the fight
was over), for then we should have won trusty news, as well as good
consideration. But even Sergeant Bloxham, much against his will, was
gone, having left his heart with our Lizzie, and a collection of all
his writings. All the soldiers had been ordered away at full speed for
Exeter, to join the Duke of Albemarle, or if he were gone, to follow
him. As for us, who had fed them so long (although not quite for
nothing), we must take our chance of Doones, or any other enemies.
Now all these tidings moved me a little; not enough to spoil appetite,
but enough to make things lively, and to teach me that look of wisdom
which is bred of practice only, and the hearing of many lies. Therefore
I withheld my judgment, fearing to be triumphed over, if it should
happen to miss the mark. But mother and Lizzie, ten times in a day,
predicted all they could imagine; and their prophecies increased in
strength according to contradiction. Yet this was not in the proper
style for a house like ours, which knew the news, or at least had known
it; and still was famous, all around, for the last advices. Even from
Lynmouth, people sent up to Plover's Barrows to ask how things were
going on: and it was very grievous to answer that in truth we knew not,
neither had heard for days and days; and our reputation was so great,
especially since the death of the King had gone abroad from Oare parish,
that many inquirers would only wink, and lay a finger on the lip, as if
to say, “you know well enough, but see not fit to tell me.” And before
the end arrived, those people believed that they had been right all
along, and that we had concealed the truth from them.
For I myself became involved (God knows how much against my will and my
proper judgment) in the troubles, and the conflict, and the cruel work
coming afterwards. If ever I had made up my mind to anything in all my
life, it was at this particular time, and as stern and strong as could
be. I had resolved to let things pass,--to hear about them gladly, to
encourage all my friends to talk, and myself to express opinion upon
each particular point, when in the fullness of time no further doubt
could be. But all my policy went for nothing, through a few touches of
feeling.
One day at the beginning of July, I came home from mowing about noon, or
a little later, to fetch some cider for all of us, and to eat a morsel
of bacon. For mowing was no joke that year, the summer being wonderfully
wet (even for our wet country), and the swathe falling heavier over the
scythe than ever I could remember it. We were drenched with rain almost
every day; but the mowing must be done somehow; and we must trust to God
for the haymaking.
In the courtyard I saw a little cart, with iron brakes underneath it,
such as fastidious people use to deaden the jolting of the road; but few
men under a lord or baronet would be so particular. Therefore I wondered
who our noble visitor could be. But when I entered the kitchen-place,
brushing up my hair for somebody, behold it was no one greater than our
Annie, with my godson in her arms, and looking pale and tear-begone.
And at first she could not speak to me. But presently having sat down a
little, and received much praise for her baby, she smiled and blushed,
and found her tongue as if she had never gone from us.
“How natural it all looks again! Oh, I love this old kitchen so! Baby
dear, only look at it wid him pitty, pitty eyes, and him tongue out of
his mousy! But who put the flour-riddle up there. And look at the pestle
and mortar, and rust I declare in the patty pans! And a book, positively
a dirty book, where the clean skewers ought to hang! Oh, Lizzie, Lizzie,
Lizzie!”
“You may just as well cease lamenting,” I said, “for you can't alter
Lizzie's nature, and you will only make mother uncomfortable, and
perhaps have a quarrel with Lizzie, who is proud as Punch of her
housekeeping.”
“She,” cried Annie, with all the contempt that could be compressed in a
syllable. “Well, John, no doubt you are right about it. I will try not
to notice things. But it is a hard thing, after all my care, to see
everything going to ruin. But what can be expected of a girl who knows
all the kings of Carthage?”
“There were no kings of Carthage, Annie. They were called, why let me
see--they were called--oh, something else.”
“Never mind what they were called,” said Annie; “will they cook our
dinner for us? But now, John, I am in such trouble. All this talk is
make-believe.”
“Don't you cry, my dear: don't cry, my darling sister,” I answered,
as she dropped into the worn place of the settle, and bent above her
infant, rocking as if both their hearts were one: “don't you know,
Annie, I cannot tell, but I know, or at least I mean, I have heard the
men of experience say, it is so bad for the baby.”
“Perhaps I know that as well as you do, John,” said Annie, looking up at
me with a gleam of her old laughing: “but how can I help crying; I am in
such trouble.”
“Tell me what it is, my dear. Any grief of yours will vex me greatly;
but I will try to bear it.”
“Then, John, it is just this. Tom has gone off with the rebels; and you
must, oh, you must go after him.”
CHAPTER LXIII
JOHN IS WORSTED BY THE WOMEN
Moved as I was by Annie's tears, and gentle style of coaxing, and most
of all by my love for her, I yet declared that I could not go, and leave
our house and homestead, far less my dear mother and Lizzie, at the
mercy of the merciless Doones.
“Is that all your objection, John?” asked Annie, in her quick panting
way: “would you go but for that, John?”
“Now,” I said, “be in no such hurry”--for while I was gradually
yielding, I liked to pass it through my fingers, as if my fingers shaped
it: “there are many things to be thought about, and many ways of viewing
it.”
“Oh, you never can have loved Lorna! No wonder you gave her up so! John,
you can love nobody, but your oat-ricks, and your hay-ricks.”
“Sister mine, because I rant not, neither rave of what I feel, can you
be so shallow as to dream that I feel nothing? What is your love for
Tom Faggus? What is your love for your baby (pretty darling as he is)
to compare with such a love as for ever dwells with me? Because I do not
prate of it; because it is beyond me, not only to express, but even form
to my own heart in thoughts; because I do not shape my face, and would
scorn to play to it, as a thing of acting, and lay it out before you,
are you fools enough to think--” but here I stopped, having said more
than was usual with me.
“I am very sorry, John. Dear John, I am so sorry. What a shallow fool I
am!”
“I will go seek your husband,” I said, to change the subject, for even
to Annie I would not lay open all my heart about Lorna: “but only
upon condition that you ensure this house and people from the Doones
meanwhile. Even for the sake of Tom, I cannot leave all helpless. The
oat-ricks and the hay-ricks, which are my only love, they are welcome to
make cinders of. But I will not have mother treated so; nor even little
Lizzie, although you scorn your sister so.”
“Oh, John, I do think you are the hardest, as well as the softest of all
the men I know. Not even a woman's bitter word but what you pay her out
for. Will you never understand that we are not like you, John? We say
all sorts of spiteful things, without a bit of meaning. John, for God's
sake fetch Tom home; and then revile me as you please, and I will kneel
and thank you.”
“I will not promise to fetch him home,” I answered, being ashamed of
myself for having lost command so: “but I will promise to do my best, if
we can only hit on a plan for leaving mother harmless.”
Annie thought for a little while, trying to gather her smooth clear brow
into maternal wrinkles, and then she looked at her child, and said, “I
will risk it, for daddy's sake, darling; you precious soul, for daddy's
sake.” I asked her what she was going to risk. She would not tell me;
but took upper hand, and saw to my cider-cans and bacon, and went from
corner to cupboard, exactly as if she had never been married; only