Lorna Doone: A Romance of Exmoor
loveliest maiden in all the world, and the best, and the dearest, loves
me. All my fear of you is gone, darling Lorna, all my fear--”
“Is it possible you could fear me, John, after all we have been through
together? Now you promised not to interrupt me; is this fair behaviour?
Well, let me see where I left off--oh, that my heart would have broken.
Upon that point, I will say no more, lest you should grow conceited,
John; if anything could make you so. But I do assure you that half
London--however, upon that point also I will check my power of speech,
lest you think me conceited. And now to put aside all nonsense; though I
have talked none for a year, John, having been so unhappy; and now it is
such a relief to me--”
“Then talk it for an hour,” said I; “and let me sit and watch you. To me
it is the very sweetest of all sweetest wisdom.”
“Nay, there is no time,” she answered, glancing at a jewelled timepiece,
scarcely larger than an oyster, which she drew from her waist-band; and
then she pushed it away, in confusion, lest its wealth should startle
me. “My uncle will come home in less than half an hour, dear: and you
are not the one to take a side-passage, and avoid him. I shall tell him
that you have been here; and that I mean you to come again.”
As Lorna said this, with a manner as confident as need be, I saw that
she had learned in town the power of her beauty, and knew that she could
do with most men aught she set her mind upon. And as she stood there,
flushed with pride and faith in her own loveliness, and radiant with the
love itself, I felt that she must do exactly as she pleased with every
one. For now, in turn, and elegance, and richness, and variety, there
was nothing to compare with her face, unless it were her figure.
Therefore I gave in, and said,--
“Darling, do just what you please. Only make no rogue of me.”
For that she gave me the simplest, kindest, and sweetest of all kisses;
and I went down the great stairs grandly, thinking of nothing else but
that.
CHAPTER LXVIII
JOHN IS JOHN NO LONGER
It would be hard for me to tell the state of mind in which I lived for a
long time after this. I put away from me all torment, and the thought of
future cares, and the sight of difficulty; and to myself appeared,
which means that I became the luckiest of lucky fellows, since the world
itself began. I thought not of the harvest even, nor of the men who
would get their wages without having earned them, nor of my mother's
anxiety and worry about John Fry's great fatness (which was growing upon
him), and how she would cry fifty times in a day, “Ah, if our John would
only come home, how different everything would look!”
Although there were no soldiers now quartered at Plover's Barrows, all
being busied in harassing the country, and hanging the people where the
rebellion had thriven most, my mother, having received from me a message
containing my place of abode, contrived to send me, by the pack-horses,
as fine a maund as need be of provisions, and money, and other comforts.
Therein I found addressed to Colonel Jeremiah Stickles, in Lizzie's best
handwriting, half a side of the dried deer's flesh, in which he rejoiced
so greatly. Also, for Lorna, a fine green goose, with a little salt
towards the tail, and new-laid eggs inside it, as well as a bottle of
brandied cherries, and seven, or it may have been eight pounds of fresh
homemade butter. Moreover, to myself there was a letter full of good
advice, excellently well expressed, and would have been of the greatest
value, if I had cared to read it. But I read all about the farm affairs,
and the man who had offered himself to our Betty for the five pounds
in her stocking; as well as the antics of Sally Snowe, and how she had
almost thrown herself at Parson Bowden's head (old enough to be her
grandfather), because on the Sunday after the hanging of a Countisbury
man, he had preached a beautiful sermon about Christian love; which
Lizzie, with her sharp eyes, found to be the work of good Bishop Ken.
Also I read that the Doones were quiet; the parishes round about having
united to feed them well through the harvest time, so that after the
day's hard work, the farmers might go to bed at night. And this plan had
been found to answer well, and to save much trouble on both sides, so
that everybody wondered it had not been done before. But Lizzie thought
that the Doones could hardly be expected much longer to put up with it,
and probably would not have done so now, but for a little adversity; to
wit, that the famous Colonel Kirke had, in the most outrageous manner,
hanged no less than six of them, who were captured among the rebels;
for he said that men of their rank and breeding, and above all of
their religion, should have known better than to join plough-boys, and
carters, and pickaxemen, against our Lord the King, and his Holiness
the Pope. This hanging of so many Doones caused some indignation among
people who were used to them; and it seemed for a while to check the
rest from any spirit of enterprise.
Moreover, I found from this same letter (which was pinned upon the
knuckle of a leg of mutton, for fear of being lost in straw) that good
Tom Faggus was at home again, and nearly cured of his dreadful wound;
but intended to go to war no more, only to mind his family. And it
grieved him more than anything he ever could have imagined, that his
duty to his family, and the strong power of his conscience, so totally
forbade him to come up and see after me. For now his design was to lead
a new life, and be in charity with all men. Many better men than he had
been hanged, he saw no cause to doubt; but by the grace of God he hoped
himself to cheat the gallows.
There was no further news of moment in this very clever letter, except
that the price of horses' shoes was gone up again, though already
twopence-farthing each; and that Betty had broken her lover's head with
the stocking full of money; and then in the corner it was written that
the distinguished man of war, and worshipful scholar, Master Bloxham,
was now promoted to take the tolls, and catch all the rebels around our
part.
Lorna was greatly pleased with the goose, and the butter, and the
brandied cherries; and the Earl Brandir himself declared that he never
tasted better than those last, and would beg the young man from the
country to procure him instructions for making them. This nobleman,
being as deaf as a post, and of a very solid mind, could never be
brought to understand the nature of my thoughts towards Lorna. He looked
upon me as an excellent youth, who had rescued the maiden from the
Doones, whom he cordially detested; and learning that I had thrown two
of them out of window (as the story was told him), he patted me on the
back, and declared that his doors would ever be open to me, and that I
could not come too often.
I thought this very kind of his lordship, especially as it enabled me to
see my darling Lorna, not indeed as often as I wished, but at any
rate very frequently, and as many times as modesty (ever my leading
principle) would in common conscience approve of. And I made up my mind
that if ever I could help Earl Brandir, it would be--as we say, when
with brandy and water--the “proudest moment of my life,” when I could
fulfil the pledge.
And I soon was able to help Lord Brandir, as I think, in two different
ways; first of all as regarded his mind, and then as concerned his body:
and the latter perhaps was the greatest service, at his time of life.
But not to be too nice about that; let me tell how these things were.
Lorna said to me one day, being in a state of excitement--whereto she
was over prone, when reft of my slowness to steady her,--
“I will tell him, John; I must tell him, John. It is mean of me to
conceal it.”
I thought that she meant all about our love, which we had endeavoured
thrice to drill into his fine old ears; but could not make him
comprehend, without risk of bringing the house down: and so I said, “By
all means; darling; have another try at it.”
Lorna, however, looked at me--for her eyes told more than tongue--as
much as to say, “Well, you are a stupid. We agreed to let that subject
rest.” And then she saw that I was vexed at my own want of quickness;
and so she spoke very kindly,--
“I meant about his poor son, dearest; the son of his old age almost;
whose loss threw him into that dreadful cold--for he went, without hat,
to look for him--which ended in his losing the use of his dear old ears.
I believe if we could only get him to Plover's Barrows for a month, he
would be able to hear again. And look at his age! he is not much over
seventy, John, you know; and I hope that you will be able to hear me,
long after you are seventy, John.”
“Well,” said I, “God settles that. Or at any rate, He leaves us time
to think about those questions, when we are over fifty. Now let me know
what you want, Lorna. The idea of my being seventy! But you would still
be beautiful.”
“To the one who loves me,” she answered, trying to make wrinkles in her
pure bright forehead: “but if you will have common sense, as you always
will, John, whether I wish it or otherwise--I want to know whether I am
bound, in honour, and in conscience, to tell my dear and good old uncle
what I know about his son?”
“First let me understand quite clearly,” said I, never being in a hurry,
except when passion moves me, “what his lordship thinks at present; and
how far his mind is urged with sorrow and anxiety.” This was not the
first time we had spoken of the matter.
“Why, you know, John, well enough,” she answered, wondering at my
coolness, “that my poor uncle still believes that his one beloved
son will come to light and live again. He has made all arrangements
accordingly: all his property is settled on that supposition. He knows
that young Alan always was what he calls a 'feckless ne'er-do-weel;' but
he loves him all the more for that. He cannot believe that he will die,
without his son coming back to him; and he always has a bedroom ready,
and a bottle of Alan's favourite wine cool from out the cellar; he has
made me work him a pair of slippers from the size of a mouldy boot; and
if he hears of a new tobacco--much as he hates the smell of it--he will
go to the other end of London to get some for Alan. Now you know how
deaf he is; but if any one say, 'Alan,' even in the place outside the
door, he will make his courteous bow to the very highest visitor, and be
out there in a moment, and search the entire passage, and yet let no one
know it.”
“It is a piteous thing,” I said; for Lorna's eyes were full of tears.
“And he means me to marry him. It is the pet scheme of his life. I am
to grow more beautiful, and more highly taught, and graceful; until
it pleases Alan to come back, and demand me. Can you understand this
matter, John? Or do you think my uncle mad?”
“Lorna, I should be mad myself, to call any other man mad, for hoping.”
“Then will you tell me what to do? It makes me very sorrowful. For I
know that Alan Brandir lies below the sod in Doone-valley.”
“And if you tell his father,” I answered softly, but clearly, “in a few
weeks he will lie below the sod in London; at least if there is any.”
“Perhaps you are right, John,” she replied: “to lose hope must be a
dreadful thing, when one is turned of seventy. Therefore I will never
tell him.”
The other way in which I managed to help the good Earl Brandir was of
less true moment to him; but as he could not know of the first, this was
the one which moved him. And it happened pretty much as follows--though
I hardly like to tell, because it advanced me to such a height as I