Lorna Doone: A Romance of Exmoor
fell back, as in a perfect oval, traversed by the winding water, lay a
bright green valley, rimmed with sheer black rock, and seeming to have
sunken bodily from the bleak rough heights above. It looked as if no
frost could enter neither wind go ruffling; only spring, and hope, and
comfort, breathe to one another. Even now the rays of sunshine dwelt and
fell back on one another, whenever the clouds lifted; and the pale blue
glimpse of the growing day seemed to find young encouragement.
But for all that, Uncle Reuben was none the worse nor better. He looked
down into Glen Doone first, and sniffed as if he were smelling it, like
a sample of goods from a wholesale house; and then he looked at the
hills over yonder, and then he stared at me.
“See what a pack of fools they be?”
“Of course I do, Uncle Ben. 'All rogues are fools,' was my first copy,
beginning of the alphabet.”
“Pack of stuff lad. Though true enough, and very good for young people.
But see you not how this great Doone valley may be taken in half an
hour?”
“Yes, to be sure I do, uncle; if they like to give it up, I mean.”
“Three culverins on yonder hill, and three on the top of this one, and
we have them under a pestle. Ah, I have seen the wars, my lad, from
Keinton up to Naseby; and I might have been a general now, if they had
taken my advice--”
But I was not attending to him, being drawn away on a sudden by a sight
which never struck the sharp eyes of our General. For I had long ago
descried that little opening in the cliff through which I made my exit,
as before related, on the other side of the valley. No bigger than a
rabbit-hole it seemed from where we stood; and yet of all the scene
before me, that (from my remembrance perhaps) had the most attraction.
Now gazing at it with full thought of all that it had cost me, I saw a
little figure come, and pause, and pass into it. Something very light
and white, nimble, smooth, and elegant, gone almost before I knew that
any one had been there. And yet my heart came to my ribs, and all my
blood was in my face, and pride within me fought with shame, and vanity
with self-contempt; for though seven years were gone, and I from my
boyhood come to manhood, and all must have forgotten me, and I had
half-forgotten; at that moment, once for all, I felt that I was face to
face with fate (however poor it might be), weal or woe, in Lorna Doone.
CHAPTER XVI
LORNA GROWING FORMIDABLE
Having reconnoitred thus the position of the enemy, Master Huckaback, on
the homeward road, cross-examined me in a manner not at all desirable.
For he had noted my confusion and eager gaze at something unseen by
him in the valley, and thereupon he made up his mind to know everything
about it. In this, however, he partly failed; for although I was no hand
at fence, and would not tell him a falsehood, I managed so to hold my
peace that he put himself upon the wrong track, and continued thereon
with many vaunts of his shrewdness and experience, and some chuckles at
my simplicity. Thus much however, he learned aright, that I had been in
the Doone valley several years before, and might be brought upon strong
inducement to venture there again. But as to the mode of my getting in,
the things I saw, and my thoughts upon them, he not only failed to learn
the truth, but certified himself into an obstinacy of error, from which
no after-knowledge was able to deliver him. And this he did, not only
because I happened to say very little, but forasmuch as he disbelieved
half of the truth I told him, through his own too great sagacity.
Upon one point, however, he succeeded more easily than he expected,
viz. in making me promise to visit the place again, as soon as occasion
offered, and to hold my own counsel about it. But I could not help
smiling at one thing, that according to his point of view my own counsel
meant my own and Master Reuben Huckaback's.
Now he being gone, as he went next day, to his favourite town of
Dulverton, and leaving behind him shadowy promise of the mountains he
would do for me, my spirit began to burn and pant for something to go on
with; and nothing showed a braver hope of movement and adventure than a
lonely visit to Glen Doone, by way of the perilous passage discovered in
my boyhood. Therefore I waited for nothing more than the slow arrival of
new small-clothes made by a good tailor at Porlock, for I was wishful
to look my best; and when they were come and approved, I started,
regardless of the expense, and forgetting (like a fool) how badly they
would take the water.
What with urging of the tailor, and my own misgivings, the time was now
come round again to the high-day of St. Valentine, when all our maids
were full of lovers, and all the lads looked foolish. And none of them
more sheepish or innocent than I myself, albeit twenty-one years old,
and not afraid of men much, but terrified of women, at least, if they
were comely. And what of all things scared me most was the thought of
my own size, and knowledge of my strength, which came like knots upon
me daily. In honest truth I tell this thing, (which often since hath
puzzled me, when I came to mix with men more), I was to that degree
ashamed of my thickness and my stature, in the presence of a woman,
that I would not put a trunk of wood on the fire in the kitchen, but
let Annie scold me well, with a smile to follow, and with her own plump
hands lift up a little log, and fuel it. Many a time I longed to be no
bigger than John Fry was; whom now (when insolent) I took with my left
hand by the waist-stuff, and set him on my hat, and gave him little
chance to tread it; until he spoke of his family, and requested to come
down again.
Now taking for good omen this, that I was a seven-year Valentine, though
much too big for a Cupidon, I chose a seven-foot staff of ash, and fixed
a loach-fork in it, to look as I had looked before; and leaving word
upon matters of business, out of the back door I went, and so through
the little orchard, and down the brawling Lynn-brook. Not being now
so much afraid, I struck across the thicket land between the meeting
waters, and came upon the Bagworthy stream near the great black
whirlpool. Nothing amazed me so much as to find how shallow the stream
now looked to me, although the pool was still as black and greedy as it
used to be. And still the great rocky slide was dark and difficult to
climb; though the water, which once had taken my knees, was satisfied
now with my ankles. After some labour, I reached the top; and halted to
look about me well, before trusting to broad daylight.
The winter (as I said before) had been a very mild one; and now the
spring was toward so that bank and bush were touched with it. The valley
into which I gazed was fair with early promise, having shelter from the
wind and taking all the sunshine. The willow-bushes over the stream
hung as if they were angling with tasseled floats of gold and silver,
bursting like a bean-pod. Between them came the water laughing, like
a maid at her own dancing, and spread with that young blue which never
lives beyond the April. And on either bank, the meadow ruffled as
the breeze came by, opening (through new tuft, of green) daisy-bud or
celandine, or a shy glimpse now and then of the love-lorn primrose.
Though I am so blank of wit, or perhaps for that same reason, these
little things come and dwell with me, and I am happy about them, and
long for nothing better. I feel with every blade of grass, as if it had
a history; and make a child of every bud as though it knew and loved me.
And being so, they seem to tell me of my own delusions, how I am no more
than they, except in self-importance.
While I was forgetting much of many things that harm one, and letting of
my thoughts go wild to sounds and sights of nature, a sweeter note than
thrush or ouzel ever wooed a mate in, floated on the valley breeze at
the quiet turn of sundown. The words were of an ancient song, fit to
laugh or cry at.
“Love, an if there be one,
Come my love to be,
My love is for the one
Loving unto me.
Not for me the show, love,
Of a gilded bliss;
Only thou must know, love,
What my value is.
If in all the earth, love,
Thou hast none but me,
This shall be my worth, love:
To be cheap to thee.
But, if so thou ever
Strivest to be free,
'Twill be my endeavour
To be dear to thee.
So shall I have plea, love,
Is thy heart and breath
Clinging still to thee, love,
In the doom of death.”
All this I took in with great eagerness, not for the sake of the meaning
(which is no doubt an allegory), but for the power and richness, and
softness of the singing, which seemed to me better than we ever had even
in Oare church. But all the time I kept myself in a black niche of the
rock, where the fall of the water began, lest the sweet singer (espying
me) should be alarmed, and flee away. But presently I ventured to look
forth where a bush was; and then I beheld the loveliest sight--one
glimpse of which was enough to make me kneel in the coldest water.
By the side of the stream she was coming to me, even among the
primroses, as if she loved them all; and every flower looked the
brighter, as her eyes were on them, I could not see what her face was,
my heart so awoke and trembled; only that her hair was flowing from
a wreath of white violets, and the grace of her coming was like the
appearance of the first wind-flower. The pale gleam over the western
cliffs threw a shadow of light behind her, as if the sun were lingering.
Never do I see that light from the closing of the west, even in these my
aged days, without thinking of her. Ah me, if it comes to that, what do
I see of earth or heaven, without thinking of her?
The tremulous thrill of her song was hanging on her open lips; and she
glanced around, as if the birds were accustomed to make answer. To me it
was a thing of terror to behold such beauty, and feel myself the while
to be so very low and common. But scarcely knowing what I did, as if
a rope were drawing me, I came from the dark mouth of the chasm; and
stood, afraid to look at her.
She was turning to fly, not knowing me, and frightened, perhaps, at
my stature, when I fell on the grass (as I fell before her seven years
agone that day), and I just said, “Lorna Doone!”
She knew me at once, from my manner and ways, and a smile broke through
her trembling, as sunshine comes through aspen-leaves; and being so
clever, she saw, of course, that she needed not to fear me.
“Oh, indeed,” she cried, with a feint of anger (because she had shown
her cowardice, and yet in her heart she was laughing); “oh, if you
please, who are you, sir, and how do you know my name?”
“I am John Ridd,” I answered; “the boy who gave you those beautiful
fish, when you were only a little thing, seven years ago to-day.”
“Yes, the poor boy who was frightened so, and obliged to hide here in
the water.”
“And do you remember how kind you were, and saved my life by your
quickness, and went away riding upon a great man's shoulder, as if you
had never seen me, and yet looked back through the willow-trees?”
“Oh, yes, I remember everything; because it was so rare to see any
except--I mean because I happen to remember. But you seem not to
remember, sir, how perilous this place is.”
For she had kept her eyes upon me; large eyes of a softness, a
brightness, and a dignity which made me feel as if I must for ever love