Lorna Doone: A Romance of Exmoor
for Lorna, with pretty trees around me, that what did I do but fall
asleep with the holly-stick in front of me, and my best coat sunk in a
bed of moss, with water and wood-sorrel. Mayhap I had not done so, nor
yet enjoyed the spring so much, if so be I had not taken three parts of
a gallon of cider at home, at Plover's Barrows, because of the lowness
and sinking ever since I met Mother Melldrum.
There was a little runnel going softly down beside me, falling from the
upper rock by the means of moss and grass, as if it feared to make a
noise, and had a mother sleeping. Now and then it seemed to stop, in
fear of its own dropping, and wait for some orders; and the blades of
grass that straightened to it turned their points a little way, and
offered their allegiance to wind instead of water. Yet before their
carkled edges bent more than a driven saw, down the water came again
with heavy drops and pats of running, and bright anger at neglect.
This was very pleasant to me, now and then, to gaze at, blinking as the
water blinked, and falling back to sleep again. Suddenly my sleep was
broken by a shade cast over me; between me and the low sunlight Lorna
Doone was standing.
“Master Ridd, are you mad?” she said, and took my hand to move me.
“Not mad, but half asleep,” I answered, feigning not to notice her, that
so she might keep hold of me.
“Come away, come away, if you care for life. The patrol will be here
directly. Be quick, Master Ridd, let me hide thee.”
“I will not stir a step,” said I, though being in the greatest fright
that might be well imagined, “unless you call me 'John.'”
“Well, John, then--Master John Ridd, be quick, if you have any to care
for you.”
“I have many that care for me,” I said, just to let her know; “and I
will follow you, Mistress Lorna, albeit without any hurry, unless there
be peril to more than me.”
Without another word she led me, though with many timid glances towards
the upper valley, to, and into, her little bower, where the inlet
through the rock was. I am almost sure that I spoke before (though I
cannot now go seek for it, and my memory is but a worn-out tub) of
a certain deep and perilous pit, in which I was like to drown myself
through hurry and fright of boyhood. And even then I wondered greatly,
and was vexed with Lorna for sending me in that heedless manner into
such an entrance. But now it was clear that she had been right and the
fault mine own entirely; for the entrance to the pit was only to be
found by seeking it. Inside the niche of native stone, the plainest
thing of all to see, at any rate by day light, was the stairway hewn
from rock, and leading up the mountain, by means of which I had escaped,
as before related. To the right side of this was the mouth of the pit,
still looking very formidable; though Lorna laughed at my fear of it,
for she drew her water thence. But on the left was a narrow crevice,
very difficult to espy, and having a sweep of grey ivy laid, like a
slouching beaver, over it. A man here coming from the brightness of the
outer air, with eyes dazed by the twilight, would never think of seeing
this and following it to its meaning.
Lorna raised the screen for me, but I had much ado to pass, on account
of bulk and stature. Instead of being proud of my size (as it seemed to
me she ought to be) Lorna laughed so quietly that I was ready to knock
my head or elbows against anything, and say no more about it. However,
I got through at last without a word of compliment, and broke into the
pleasant room, the lone retreat of Lorna.
The chamber was of unhewn rock, round, as near as might be, eighteen
or twenty feet across, and gay with rich variety of fern and moss
and lichen. The fern was in its winter still, or coiling for the
spring-tide; but moss was in abundant life, some feathering, and some
gobleted, and some with fringe of red to it. Overhead there was no
ceiling but the sky itself, flaked with little clouds of April whitely
wandering over it. The floor was made of soft low grass, mixed with moss
and primroses; and in a niche of shelter moved the delicate wood-sorrel.
Here and there, around the sides, were “chairs of living stone,” as some
Latin writer says, whose name has quite escaped me; and in the midst a
tiny spring arose, with crystal beads in it, and a soft voice as of
a laughing dream, and dimples like a sleeping babe. Then, after going
round a little, with surprise of daylight, the water overwelled the
edge, and softly went through lines of light to shadows and an untold
bourne.
While I was gazing at all these things with wonder and some sadness,
Lorna turned upon me lightly (as her manner was) and said,--
“Where are the new-laid eggs, Master Ridd? Or hath blue hen ceased
laying?”
I did not altogether like the way in which she said it with a sort of
dialect, as if my speech could be laughed at.
“Here be some,” I answered, speaking as if in spite of her. “I would
have brought thee twice as many, but that I feared to crush them in the
narrow ways, Mistress Lorna.”
And so I laid her out two dozen upon the moss of the rock-ledge,
unwinding the wisp of hay from each as it came safe out of my pocket.
Lorna looked with growing wonder, as I added one to one; and when I
had placed them side by side, and bidden her now to tell them, to my
amazement what did she do but burst into a flood of tears.
“What have I done?” I asked, with shame, scarce daring even to look
at her, because her grief was not like Annie's--a thing that could be
coaxed away, and left a joy in going--“oh, what have I done to vex you
so?”
“It is nothing done by you, Master Ridd,” she answered, very proudly, as
if nought I did could matter; “it is only something that comes upon me
with the scent of the pure true clover-hay. Moreover, you have been too
kind; and I am not used to kindness.”
Some sort of awkwardness was on me, at her words and weeping, as if I
would like to say something, but feared to make things worse perhaps
than they were already. Therefore I abstained from speech, as I would
in my own pain. And as it happened, this was the way to make her tell me
more about it. Not that I was curious, beyond what pity urged me and
the strange affairs around her; and now I gazed upon the floor, lest I
should seem to watch her; but none the less for that I knew all that she
was doing.
Lorna went a little way, as if she would not think of me nor care for
one so careless; and all my heart gave a sudden jump, to go like a mad
thing after her; until she turned of her own accord, and with a little
sigh came back to me. Her eyes were soft with trouble's shadow, and
the proud lift of her neck was gone, and beauty's vanity borne down by
woman's want of sustenance.
“Master Ridd,” she said in the softest voice that ever flowed between
two lips, “have I done aught to offend you?”
Hereupon it went hard with me, not to catch her up and kiss her, in the
manner in which she was looking; only it smote me suddenly that this
would be a low advantage of her trust and helplessness. She seemed to
know what I would be at, and to doubt very greatly about it, whether
as a child of old she might permit the usage. All sorts of things went
through my head, as I made myself look away from her, for fear of being
tempted beyond what I could bear. And the upshot of it was that I said,
within my heart and through it, “John Ridd, be on thy very best manners
with this lonely maiden.”
Lorna liked me all the better for my good forbearance; because she did
not love me yet, and had not thought about it; at least so far as I
knew. And though her eyes were so beauteous, so very soft and kindly,
there was (to my apprehension) some great power in them, as if she would
not have a thing, unless her judgment leaped with it.
But now her judgment leaped with me, because I had behaved so well; and
being of quick urgent nature--such as I delight in, for the change
from mine own slowness--she, without any let or hindrance, sitting over
against me, now raising and now dropping fringe over those sweet
eyes that were the road-lights of her tongue, Lorna told me all about
everything I wished to know, every little thing she knew, except indeed
that point of points, how Master Ridd stood with her.
Although it wearied me no whit, it might be wearisome for folk who
cannot look at Lorna, to hear the story all in speech, exactly as she
told it; therefore let me put it shortly, to the best of my remembrance.
Nay, pardon me, whosoever thou art, for seeming fickle and rude to thee;
I have tried to do as first proposed, to tell the tale in my own words,
as of another's fortune. But, lo! I was beset at once with many heavy
obstacles, which grew as I went onward, until I knew not where I was,
and mingled past and present. And two of these difficulties only were
enough to stop me; the one that I must coldly speak without the force of
pity, the other that I, off and on, confused myself with Lorna, as might
be well expected.
Therefore let her tell the story, with her own sweet voice and manner;
and if ye find it wearisome, seek in yourselves the weariness.
CHAPTER XX
LORNA BEGINS HER STORY
“I cannot go through all my thoughts so as to make them clear to you,
nor have I ever dwelt on things, to shape a story of them. I know not
where the beginning was, nor where the middle ought to be, nor even how
at the present time I feel, or think, or ought to think. If I look for
help to those around me, who should tell me right and wrong (being older
and much wiser), I meet sometimes with laughter, and at other times with
anger.
“There are but two in the world who ever listen and try to help me; one
of them is my grandfather, and the other is a man of wisdom, whom we
call the Counsellor. My grandfather, Sir Ensor Doone, is very old and
harsh of manner (except indeed to me); he seems to know what is right
and wrong, but not to want to think of it. The Counsellor, on the other
hand, though full of life and subtleties, treats my questions as of
play, and not gravely worth his while to answer, unless he can make wit
of them.
“And among the women there are none with whom I can hold converse, since
my Aunt Sabina died, who took such pains to teach me. She was a lady of
high repute and lofty ways, and learning, but grieved and harassed more
and more by the coarseness, and the violence, and the ignorance around
her. In vain she strove, from year to year, to make the young men
hearken, to teach them what became their birth, and give them sense of
honour. It was her favourite word, poor thing! and they called her 'Old
Aunt Honour.' Very often she used to say that I was her only comfort,
and I am sure she was my only one; and when she died it was more to me
than if I had lost a mother.
“For I have no remembrance now of father or of mother, although they say
that my father was the eldest son of Sir Ensor Doone, and the bravest
and the best of them. And so they call me heiress to this little realm
of violence; and in sorry sport sometimes, I am their Princess or their
Queen.
“Many people living here, as I am forced to do, would perhaps be
very happy, and perhaps I ought to be so. We have a beauteous valley,
sheltered from the cold of winter and power of the summer sun,
untroubled also by the storms and mists that veil the mountains;
although I must acknowledge that it is apt to rain too often. The grass
moreover is so fresh, and the brook so bright and lively, and flowers
of so many hues come after one another that no one need be dull, if only
left alone with them.
“And so in the early days perhaps, when morning breathes around me, and