Lorna Doone: A Romance of Exmoor
than that,' I exclaimed, being now unreasonable; 'but will you tell me,
once for all, sir, how you are my guardian?'
“'That I will do. You are my ward because you were my father's ward,
under the Scottish law; and now my father being so deaf, I have
succeeded to that right--at least in my own opinion--under which claim I
am here to neglect my trust no longer, but to lead you away from scenes
and deeds which (though of good repute and comely) are not the best for
young gentlewomen. There spoke I not like a guardian? After that can you
mistrust me?'
“'But,' said I, 'good Cousin Alan (if I may so call you), it is not
meet for young gentlewomen to go away with young gentlemen, though fifty
times their guardians. But if you will only come with me, and explain
your tale to my grandfather, he will listen to you quietly, and take no
advantage of you.'
“'I thank you much, kind Mistress Lorna, to lead the goose into the
fox's den! But, setting by all thought of danger, I have other reasons
against it. Now, come with your faithful guardian, child. I will pledge
my honour against all harm, and to bear you safe to London. By the law
of the realm, I am now entitled to the custody of your fair person, and
of all your chattels.'
“'But, sir, all that you have learned of law, is how to live without
it.'
“'Fairly met, fair cousin mine! Your wit will do me credit, after a
little sharpening. And there is none to do that better than your aunt,
my mother. Although she knows not of my coming, she is longing to
receive you. Come, and in a few months' time you shall set the mode at
Court, instead of pining here, and weaving coronals of daisies.'
“I turned aside, and thought a little. Although he seemed so light of
mind, and gay in dress and manner, I could not doubt his honesty; and
saw, beneath his jaunty air, true mettle and ripe bravery. Scarce had I
thought of his project twice, until he spoke of my aunt, his mother, but
then the form of my dearest friend, my sweet Aunt Sabina, seemed to come
and bid me listen, for this was what she prayed for. Moreover I felt
(though not as now) that Doone Glen was no place for me or any proud
young maiden. But while I thought, the yellow lightning spread behind a
bulk of clouds, three times ere the flash was done, far off and void of
thunder; and from the pile of cloud before it, cut as from black paper,
and lit to depths of blackness by the blaze behind it, a form as of an
aged man, sitting in a chair loose-mantled, seemed to lift a hand and
warn.
“This minded me of my grandfather, and all the care I owed him.
Moreover, now the storm was rising and I began to grow afraid; for of
all things awful to me thunder is the dreadfulest. It doth so growl,
like a lion coming, and then so roll, and roar, and rumble, out of a
thickening darkness, then crack like the last trump overhead through
cloven air and terror, that all my heart lies low and quivers, like a
weed in water. I listened now for the distant rolling of the great black
storm, and heard it, and was hurried by it. But the youth before me
waved his rolled tobacco at it, and drawled in his daintiest tone and
manner,--
“'The sky is having a smoke, I see, and dropping sparks, and grumbling.
I should have thought these Exmoor hills too small to gather thunder.'
“'I cannot go, I will not go with you, Lord Alan Brandir,' I answered,
being vexed a little by those words of his. 'You are not grave enough
for me, you are not old enough for me. My Aunt Sabina would not
have wished it; nor would I leave my grandfather, without his full
permission. I thank you much for coming, sir; but be gone at once by the
way you came; and pray how did you come, sir?'
“'Fair cousin, you will grieve for this; you will mourn, when you cannot
mend it. I would my mother had been here, soon would she have persuaded
you. And yet,' he added, with the smile of his accustomed gaiety, 'it
would have been an unco thing, as we say in Scotland, for her ladyship
to have waited upon you, as her graceless son has done, and hopes to do
again ere long. Down the cliffs I came, and up them I must make way back
again. Now adieu, fair Cousin Lorna, I see you are in haste tonight;
but I am right proud of my guardianship. Give me just one flower for
token'--here he kissed his hand to me, and I threw him a truss of
woodbine--'adieu, fair cousin, trust me well, I will soon be here
again.'
“'That thou never shalt, sir,' cried a voice as loud as a culverin; and
Carver Doone had Alan Brandir as a spider hath a fly. The boy made a
little shriek at first, with the sudden shock and the terror; then he
looked, methought, ashamed of himself, and set his face to fight for
it. Very bravely he strove and struggled, to free one arm and grasp
his sword; but as well might an infant buried alive attempt to lift his
gravestone. Carver Doone, with his great arms wrapped around the slim
gay body, smiled (as I saw by the flash from heaven) at the poor young
face turned up to him; then (as a nurse bears off a child, who is loath
to go to bed), he lifted the youth from his feet, and bore him away into
the darkness.
“I was young then. I am older now; older by ten years, in thought,
although it is not a twelvemonth since. If that black deed were done
again, I could follow, and could combat it, could throw weak arms on
the murderer, and strive to be murdered also. I am now at home with
violence; and no dark death surprises me.
“But, being as I was that night, the horror overcame me. The crash of
thunder overhead, the last despairing look, the death-piece framed with
blaze of lightning--my young heart was so affrighted that I could not
gasp. My breath went from me, and I knew not where I was, or who, or
what. Only that I lay, and cowered, under great trees full of thunder;
and could neither count, nor moan, nor have my feet to help me.
“Yet hearkening, as a coward does, through the brushing of the wind,
and echo of far noises, I heard a sharp sound as of iron, and a fall
of heavy wood. No unmanly shriek came with it, neither cry for mercy.
Carver Doone knows what it was; and so did Alan Brandir.”
Here Lorna Doone could tell no more, being overcome with weeping. Only
through her tears she whispered, as a thing too bad to tell, that she
had seen that giant Carver, in a few days afterwards, smoking a little
round brown stick, like those of her poor cousin. I could not press her
any more with questions, or for clearness; although I longed very
much to know whether she had spoken of it to her grandfather or the
Counsellor. But she was now in such condition, both of mind and body,
from the force of her own fear multiplied by telling it, that I did
nothing more than coax her, at a distance humbly; and so that she could
see that some one was at least afraid of her. This (although I knew
not women in those days, as now I do, and never shall know much of it),
this, I say, so brought her round, that all her fear was now for me,
and how to get me safely off, without mischance to any one. And sooth to
say, in spite of longing just to see if Master Carver could have served
me such a trick--as it grew towards the dusk, I was not best pleased
to be there; for it seemed a lawless place, and some of Lorna's fright
stayed with me as I talked it away from her.
CHAPTER XXII
After hearing that tale from Lorna, I went home in sorry spirits, having
added fear for her, and misery about, to all my other ailments. And was
it not quite certain now that she, being owned full cousin to a peer and
lord of Scotland (although he was a dead one), must have nought to do
with me, a yeoman's son, and bound to be the father of more yeomen? I
had been very sorry when first I heard about that poor young popinjay,
and would gladly have fought hard for him; but now it struck me that
after all he had no right to be there, prowling (as it were) for Lorna,
without any invitation: and we farmers love not trespass. Still, if I
had seen the thing, I must have tried to save him.
Moreover, I was greatly vexed with my own hesitation, stupidity, or
shyness, or whatever else it was, which had held me back from saying,
ere she told her story, what was in my heart to say, videlicet, that I
must die unless she let me love her. Not that I was fool enough to think
that she would answer me according to my liking, or begin to care about
me for a long time yet; if indeed she ever should, which I hardly dared
to hope. But that I had heard from men more skillful in the matter that
it is wise to be in time, that so the maids may begin to think, when
they know that they are thought of. And, to tell the truth, I had bitter
fears, on account of her wondrous beauty, lest some young fellow of
higher birth and finer parts, and finish, might steal in before poor me,
and cut me out altogether. Thinking of which, I used to double my great
fist, without knowing it, and keep it in my pocket ready.
But the worst of all was this, that in my great dismay and anguish
to see Lorna weeping so, I had promised not to cause her any further
trouble from anxiety and fear of harm. And this, being brought to
practice, meant that I was not to show myself within the precincts of
Glen Doone, for at least another month. Unless indeed (as I contrived to
edge into the agreement) anything should happen to increase her present
trouble and every day's uneasiness. In that case, she was to throw a
dark mantle, or covering of some sort, over a large white stone which
hung within the entrance to her retreat--I mean the outer entrance--and
which, though unseen from the valley itself, was (as I had observed)
conspicuous from the height where I stood with Uncle Reuben.
Now coming home so sad and weary, yet trying to console myself with the
thought that love o'erleapeth rank, and must still be lord of all, I
found a shameful thing going on, which made me very angry. For it needs
must happen that young Marwood de Whichehalse, only son of the Baron,
riding home that very evening, from chasing of the Exmoor bustards,
with his hounds and serving-men, should take the short cut through
our farmyard, and being dry from his exercise, should come and ask for
drink. And it needs must happen also that there should be none to give
it to him but my sister Annie. I more than suspect that he had heard
some report of our Annie's comeliness, and had a mind to satisfy
himself upon the subject. Now, as he took the large ox-horn of our
quarantine-apple cider (which we always keep apart from the rest, being
too good except for the quality), he let his fingers dwell on Annie's,
by some sort of accident, while he lifted his beaver gallantly, and
gazed on her face in the light from the west. Then what did Annie do (as
she herself told me afterwards) but make her very best curtsey to him,
being pleased that he was pleased with her, while she thought what a
fine young man he was and so much breeding about him! And in truth he
was a dark, handsome fellow, hasty, reckless, and changeable, with a
look of sad destiny in his black eyes that would make any woman pity
him. What he was thinking of our Annie is not for me to say, although I
may think that you could not have found another such maiden on Exmoor,
except (of course) my Lorna.
Though young Squire Marwood was so thirsty, he spent much time over his
cider, or at any rate over the ox-horn, and he made many bows to Annie,
and drank health to all the family, and spoke of me as if I had been his
very best friend at Blundell's; whereas he knew well enough all the time
that we had nought to say to one another; he being three years older,
and therefore of course disdaining me. But while he was casting about