Lorna Doone: A Romance of Exmoor
without an apron on. And then she said, “Now to your mowers, John; and
make the most of this fine afternoon; kiss your godson before you go.”
And I, being used to obey her, in little things of that sort, kissed the
baby, and took my cans, and went back to my scythe again.
By the time I came home it was dark night, and pouring again with a
foggy rain, such as we have in July, even more than in January. Being
soaked all through, and through, and with water squelching in my boots,
like a pump with a bad bucket, I was only too glad to find Annie's
bright face, and quick figure, flitting in and out the firelight,
instead of Lizzie sitting grandly, with a feast of literature, and not
a drop of gravy. Mother was in the corner also, with her cheery-coloured
ribbons glistening very nice by candle-light, looking at Annie now and
then, with memories of her babyhood; and then at her having a baby: yet
half afraid of praising her much, for fear of that young Lizzie. But
Lizzie showed no jealousy: she truly loved our Annie (now that she
was gone from us), and she wanted to know all sorts of things, and she
adored the baby. Therefore Annie was allowed to attend to me, as she
used to do.
“Now, John, you must start the first thing in the morning,” she said,
when the others had left the room, but somehow she stuck to the baby,
“to fetch me back my rebel, according to your promise.”
“Not so,” I replied, misliking the job, “all I promised was to go, if
this house were assured against any onslaught of the Doones.”
“Just so; and here is that assurance.” With these words she drew forth a
paper, and laid it on my knee with triumph, enjoying my amazement. This,
as you may suppose was great; not only at the document, but also at her
possession of it. For in truth it was no less than a formal undertaking,
on the part of the Doones, not to attack Plover's Barrows farm, or
molest any of the inmates, or carry off any chattels, during the absence
of John Ridd upon a special errand. This document was signed not only
by the Counsellor, but by many other Doones: whether Carver's name were
there, I could not say for certain; as of course he would not sign it
under his name of “Carver,” and I had never heard Lorna say to what (if
any) he had been baptized.
In the face of such a deed as this, I could no longer refuse to go; and
having received my promise, Annie told me (as was only fair) how she had
procured that paper. It was both a clever and courageous act; and would
have seemed to me, at first sight, far beyond Annie's power. But none
may gauge a woman's power, when her love and faith are moved.
The first thing Annie had done was this: she made herself look ugly.
This was not an easy thing; but she had learned a great deal from her
husband, upon the subject of disguises. It hurt her feelings not a
little to make so sad a fright of herself; but what could it matter?--if
she lost Tom, she must be a far greater fright in earnest, than now
she was in seeming. And then she left her child asleep, under Betty
Muxworthy's tendance--for Betty took to that child, as if there never
had been a child before--and away she went in her own “spring-cart” (as
the name of that engine proved to be), without a word to any one, except
the old man who had driven her from Molland parish that morning, and who
coolly took one of our best horses, without “by your leave” to any one.
Annie made the old man drive her within easy reach of the Doone-gate,
whose position she knew well enough, from all our talk about it. And
there she bade the old man stay, until she should return to him. Then
with her comely figure hidden by a dirty old woman's cloak, and her fair
young face defaced by patches and by liniments, so that none might covet
her, she addressed the young man at the gate in a cracked and trembling
voice; and they were scarcely civil to the “old hag,” as they called
her. She said that she bore important tidings for Sir Counsellor
himself, and must be conducted to him. To him accordingly she was led,
without even any hoodwinking, for she had spectacles over her eyes, and
made believe not to see ten yards.
She found Sir Counsellor at home, and when the rest were out of sight,
threw off all disguise to him, flashing forth as a lovely young woman,
from all her wraps and disfigurements. She flung her patches on the
floor, amid the old man's laughter, and let her tucked-up hair come
down; and then went up and kissed him.
“Worthy and reverend Counsellor, I have a favour to ask,” she began.
“So I should think from your proceedings,”--the old man
interrupted--“ah, if I were half my age”--
“If you were, I would not sue so. But most excellent Counsellor, you owe
me some amends, you know, for the way in which you robbed me.”
“Beyond a doubt I do, my dear. You have put it rather strongly; and it
might offend some people. Nevertheless I own my debt, having so fair a
creditor.”
“And do you remember how you slept, and how much we made of you, and
would have seen you home, sir; only you did not wish it?”
“And for excellent reasons, child. My best escort was in my cloak, after
we made the cream to rise. Ha, ha! The unholy spell. My pretty child,
has it injured you?”
“Yes, I fear it has,” said Annie; “or whence can all my ill luck come?”
And here she showed some signs of crying, knowing that Counsellor hated
it.
“You shall not have ill luck, my dear. I have heard all about your
marriage to a very noble highwayman. Ah, you made a mistake in that; you
were worthy of a Doone, my child; your frying was a blessing meant for
those who can appreciate.”
“My husband can appreciate,” she answered very proudly; “but what I wish
to know is this, will you try to help me?”
The Counsellor answered that he would do so, if her needs were moderate;
whereupon she opened her meaning to him, and told of all her anxieties.
Considering that Lorna was gone, and her necklace in his possession, and
that I (against whom alone of us the Doones could bear any malice) would
be out of the way all the while, the old man readily undertook that
our house should not be assaulted, nor our property molested, until
my return. And to the promptitude of his pledge, two things perhaps
contributed, namely, that he knew not how we were stripped of all
defenders, and that some of his own forces were away in the rebel camp.
For (as I learned thereafter) the Doones being now in direct feud with
the present Government, and sure to be crushed if that prevailed, had
resolved to drop all religious questions, and cast in their lot with
Monmouth. And the turbulent youths, being long restrained from their
wonted outlet for vehemence, by the troopers in the neighbourhood, were
only too glad to rush forth upon any promise of blows and excitement.
However, Annie knew little of this, but took the Counsellor's pledge as
a mark of especial favour in her behalf (which it may have been to some
extent), and thanked him for it most heartily, and felt that he had
earned the necklace; while he, like an ancient gentleman, disclaimed all
obligation, and sent her under an escort safe to her own cart again.
But Annie, repassing the sentinels, with her youth restored and blooming
with the flush of triumph, went up to them very gravely, and said,
“The old hag wishes you good-evening, gentlemen”; and so made her best
curtsey.
Now, look at it as I would, there was no excuse left for me, after the
promise given. Dear Annie had not only cheated the Doones, but also had
gotten the best of me, by a pledge to a thing impossible. And I bitterly
said, “I am not like Lorna: a pledge once given, I keep it.”
“I will not have a word against Lorna,” cried Annie; “I will answer for
her truth as surely as I would for my own or yours, John.” And with that
she vanquished me.
But when my poor mother heard that I was committed, by word of honour,
to a wild-goose chase, among the rebels, after that runagate Tom Faggus,
she simply stared, and would not believe it. For lately I had joked with
her, in a little style of jerks, as people do when out of sorts; and
she, not understanding this, and knowing jokes to be out of my power,
would only look, and sigh, and toss, and hope that I meant nothing. At
last, however, we convinced her that I was in earnest, and must be off
in the early morning, and leave John Fry with the hay crop.
Then mother was ready to fall upon Annie, as not content with disgracing
us, by wedding a man of new honesty (if indeed of any), but laying traps
to catch her brother, and entangle him perhaps to his death, for the
sake of a worthless fellow; and “felon”--she was going to say, as by the
shape of her lips I knew. But I laid my hand upon dear mother's lips;
because what must be, must be; and if mother and daughter stayed at
home, better in love than in quarrelling.
Right early in the morning, I was off, without word to any one; knowing
that mother and sister mine had cried each her good self to sleep;
relenting when the light was out, and sorry for hard words and thoughts;
and yet too much alike in nature to understand each other. Therefore
I took good Kickums, who (although with one eye spoiled) was worth ten
sweet-tempered horses, to a man who knew how to manage him; and being
well charged both with bacon and powder, forth I set on my wild-goose
chase.
For this I claim no bravery. I cared but little what came of it;
save for mother's sake, and Annie's, and the keeping of the farm, and
discomfiture of the Snowes, and lamenting of Lorna at my death, if die I
must in a lonesome manner, not found out till afterwards, and bleaching
bones left to weep over. However, I had a little kettle, and a pound and
a half of tobacco, and two dirty pipes and a clean one; also a bit of
clothes for change, also a brisket of hung venison, and four loaves of
farmhouse bread, and of the upper side of bacon a stone and a half it
might be--not to mention divers small things for campaigning, which may
come in handily, when no one else has gotten them.
We went away in merry style; my horse being ready for anything, and I
only glad of a bit of change, after months of working and brooding; with
no content to crown the work; no hope to hatch the brooding; or
without hatching to reckon it. Who could tell but what Lorna might be
discovered, or at any rate heard of, before the end of this campaign; if
campaign it could be called of a man who went to fight nobody, only
to redeem a runagate? And vexed as I was about the hay, and the
hunch-backed ricks John was sure to make (which spoil the look of a
farm-yard), still even this was better than to have the mows and houses
fired, as I had nightly expected, and been worn out with the worry of
it.
Yet there was one thing rather unfavourable to my present enterprise,
namely, that I knew nothing of the country I was bound to, nor even in
what part of it my business might be supposed to lie. For beside the
uncertainty caused by the conflict of reports, it was likely that King
Monmouth's army would be moving from place to place, according to the
prospect of supplies and of reinforcements. However, there would arise
more chance of getting news as I went on: and my road being towards the
east and south, Dulverton would not lie so very far aside of it, but
what it might be worth a visit, both to collect the latest tidings, and
to consult the maps and plans in Uncle Reuben's parlour. Therefore I
drew the off-hand rein, at the cross-road on the hills, and made for
the town; expecting perhaps to have breakfast with Master Huckaback, and
Ruth, to help and encourage us. This little maiden was now become a very
great favourite with me, having long outgrown, no doubt, her childish
fancies and follies, such as my mother and Annie had planted under her