Lorna Doone: A Romance of Exmoor
kind of me to leave her out there at that time of night, all alone, and
in such distress. Any of the reapers going home might be gotten so far
beyond fear of ghosts as to venture into the churchyard; and although
they would know a great deal better than to insult a sister of mine when
sober, there was no telling what they might do in their present state of
rejoicing. Moreover, it was only right that I should learn, for Lorna's
sake, how far Annie, or any one else, had penetrated our secret.
Therefore, I went forth at once, bearing my pipe in a skilful manner, as
I had seen Farmer Nicholas do; and marking, with a new kind of pleasure,
how the rings and wreaths of smoke hovered and fluttered in the
moonlight, like a lark upon his carol. Poor Annie was gone back again
to our father's grave, and there she sat upon the turf, sobbing very
gently, and not wishing to trouble any one. So I raised her tenderly,
and made much of her, and consoled her, for I could not scold her there;
and perhaps after all she was not to be blamed so much as Tom Faggus
himself was. Annie was very grateful to me, and kissed me many times,
and begged my pardon ever so often for her rudeness to me. And then
having gone so far with it, and finding me so complaisant, she must
needs try to go a little further, and to lead me away from her own
affairs, and into mine concerning Lorna. But although it was clever
enough of her she was not deep enough for me there; and I soon
discovered that she knew nothing, not even the name of my darling; but
only suspected from things she had seen, and put together like a woman.
Upon this I brought her back again to Tom Faggus and his doings.
“My poor Annie, have you really promised him to be his wife?”
“Then after all you have no reason, John, no particular reason, I mean,
for slighting poor Sally Snowe so?”
“Without even asking mother or me! Oh, Annie, it was wrong of you!”
“But, darling, you know that mother wishes you so much to marry Sally;
and I am sure you could have her to-morrow. She dotes on the very
ground--”
“I dare say he tells you that, Annie, that he dotes on the ground you
walk upon--but did you believe him, child?”
“You may believe me, I assure you, John, and half the farm to be settled
upon her, after the old man's time; and though she gives herself little
airs, it is only done to entice you; she has the very best hand in the
dairy John, and the lightest at a turn-over cake--”
“Now, Annie, don't talk nonsense so. I wish just to know the truth about
you and Tom Faggus. Do you mean to marry him?”
“I to marry before my brother, and leave him with none to take care of
him! Who can do him a red deer collop, except Sally herself, as I can?
Come home, dear, at once, and I will do you one; for you never ate a
morsel of supper, with all the people you had to attend upon.”
This was true enough; and seeing no chance of anything more than cross
questions and crooked purposes, at which a girl was sure to beat me,
I even allowed her to lead me home, with the thoughts of the collop
uppermost. But I never counted upon being beaten so thoroughly as I was;
for knowing me now to be off my guard, the young hussy stopped at
the farmyard gate, as if with a brier entangling her, and while I
was stooping to take it away, she looked me full in the face by the
moonlight, and jerked out quite suddenly,--
“Can your love do a collop, John?”
“No, I should hope not,” I answered rashly; “she is not a mere cook-maid
I should hope.”
“She is not half so pretty as Sally Snowe; I will answer for that,” said
Annie.
“She is ten thousand times as pretty as ten thousand Sally Snowes,” I
replied with great indignation.
“Oh, but look at Sally's eyes!” cried my sister rapturously.
“Look at Lorna Doone's,” said I; “and you would never look again at
Sally's.”
“Oh Lorna Doone. Lorna Doone!” exclaimed our Annie half-frightened, yet
clapping her hands with triumph, at having found me out so: “Lorna Doone
is the lovely maiden, who has stolen poor somebody's heart so. Ah, I
shall remember it; because it is so queer a name. But stop, I had better
write it down. Lend me your hat, poor boy, to write on.”
“I have a great mind to lend you a box on the ear,” I answered her in
my vexation, “and I would, if you had not been crying so, you sly
good-for-nothing baggage. As it is, I shall keep it for Master Faggus,
and add interest for keeping.”
“Oh no, John; oh no, John,” she begged me earnestly, being sobered in
a moment. “Your hand is so terribly heavy, John; and he never would
forgive you; although he is so good-hearted, he cannot put up with an
insult. Promise me, dear John, that you will not strike him; and I will
promise you faithfully to keep your secret, even from mother, and even
from Cousin Tom himself.”
“And from Lizzie; most of all, from Lizzie,” I answered very eagerly,
knowing too well which of my relations would be hardest with me.
“Of course from little Lizzie,” said Annie, with some contempt; “a
young thing like her cannot be kept too long, in my opinion, from the
knowledge of such subjects. And besides, I should be very sorry if
Lizzie had the right to know your secrets, as I have, dearest John. Not
a soul shall be the wiser for your having trusted me, John; although
I shall be very wretched when you are late away at night, among those
dreadful people.”
“Well,” I replied, “it is no use crying over spilt milk Annie. You have
my secret, and I have yours; and I scarcely know which of the two is
likely to have the worst time of it, when it comes to mother's ears. I
could put up with perpetual scolding but not with mother's sad silence.”
“That is exactly how I feel, John.” and as Annie said it she brightened
up, and her soft eyes shone upon me; “but now I shall be much happier,
dear; because I shall try to help you. No doubt the young lady deserves
it, John. She is not after the farm, I hope?”
“She!” I exclaimed; and that was enough, there was so much scorn in my
voice and face.
“Then, I am sure, I am very glad,” Annie always made the best of things;
“for I do believe that Sally Snowe has taken a fancy to our dairy-place,
and the pattern of our cream-pans; and she asked so much about our
meadows, and the colour of the milk--”
“Then, after all, you were right, dear Annie; it is the ground she dotes
upon.”
“And the things that walk upon it,” she answered me with another kiss;
“Sally has taken a wonderful fancy to our best cow, 'Nipple-pins.' But
she never shall have her now; what a consolation!”
We entered the house quite gently thus, and found Farmer Nicholas Snowe
asleep, little dreaming how his plans had been overset between us. And
then Annie said to me very slyly, between a smile and a blush,--
“Don't you wish Lorna Doone was here, John, in the parlour along with
mother; instead of those two fashionable milkmaids, as Uncle Ben will
call them, and poor stupid Mistress Kebby?”
“That indeed I do, Annie. I must kiss you for only thinking of it. Dear
me, it seems as if you had known all about us for a twelvemonth.”
“She loves you, with all her heart, John. No doubt about that of
course.” And Annie looked up at me, as much as to say she would like to
know who could help it.
“That's the very thing she won't do,” said I, knowing that Annie would
love me all the more for it, “she is only beginning to like me, Annie;
and as for loving, she is so young that she only loves her grandfather.
But I hope she will come to it by-and-by.”
“Of course she must,” replied my sister, “it will be impossible for her
to help it.”
“Ah well! I don't know,” for I wanted more assurance of it. “Maidens are
such wondrous things!”
“Not a bit of it,” said Annie, casting her bright eyes downwards: “love
is as simple as milking, when people know how to do it. But you must not
let her alone too long; that is my advice to you. What a simpleton you
must have been not to tell me long ago. I would have made Lorna wild
about you, long before this time, Johnny. But now you go into the
parlour, dear, while I do your collop. Faith Snowe is not come, but
Polly and Sally. Sally has made up her mind to conquer you this very
blessed evening, John. Only look what a thing of a scarf she has on; I
should be quite ashamed to wear it. But you won't strike poor Tom, will
you?”
“Not I, my darling, for your sweet sake.”
And so dear Annie, having grown quite brave, gave me a little push into
the parlour, where I was quite abashed to enter after all I had heard
about Sally. And I made up my mind to examine her well, and try a little
courting with her, if she should lead me on, that I might be in practice
for Lorna. But when I perceived how grandly and richly both the
young damsels were apparelled; and how, in their curtseys to me, they
retreated, as if I were making up to them, in a way they had learned
from Exeter; and how they began to talk of the Court, as if they had
been there all their lives, and the latest mode of the Duchess of this,
and the profile of the Countess of that, and the last good saying of my
Lord something; instead of butter, and cream, and eggs, and things
which they understood; I knew there must be somebody in the room besides
Jasper Kebby to talk at.
And so there was; for behind the curtain drawn across the window-seat no
less a man than Uncle Ben was sitting half asleep and weary; and by his
side a little girl very quiet and very watchful. My mother led me to
Uncle Ben, and he took my hand without rising, muttering something not
over-polite, about my being bigger than ever. I asked him heartily how
he was, and he said, “Well enough, for that matter; but none the better
for the noise you great clods have been making.”
“I am sorry if we have disturbed you, sir,” I answered very civilly;
“but I knew not that you were here even; and you must allow for harvest
time.”
“So it seems,” he replied; “and allow a great deal, including waste
and drunkenness. Now (if you can see so small a thing, after emptying
flagons much larger) this is my granddaughter, and my heiress”--here he
glanced at mother--“my heiress, little Ruth Huckaback.”
“I am very glad to see you, Ruth,” I answered, offering her my hand,
which she seemed afraid to take, “welcome to Plover's Barrows, my good
cousin Ruth.”
However, my good cousin Ruth only arose, and made me a curtsey, and
lifted her great brown eyes at me, more in fear, as I thought, than
kinship. And if ever any one looked unlike the heiress to great
property, it was the little girl before me.
“Come out to the kitchen, dear, and let me chuck you to the ceiling,” I
said, just to encourage her; “I always do it to little girls; and then
they can see the hams and bacon.” But Uncle Reuben burst out laughing;
and Ruth turned away with a deep rich colour.
“Do you know how old she is, you numskull?” said Uncle Ben, in his
dryest drawl; “she was seventeen last July, sir.”
“On the first of July, grandfather,” Ruth whispered, with her back still
to me; “but many people will not believe it.”
Here mother came up to my rescue, as she always loved to do; and she
said, “If my son may not dance Miss Ruth, at any rate he may dance with
her. We have only been waiting for you, dear John, to have a little
harvest dance, with the kitchen door thrown open. You take Ruth; Uncle
Ben take Sally; Master Debby pair off with Polly; and neighbour Nicholas
will be good enough, if I can awake him, to stand up with fair Mistress
Kebby. Lizzie will play us the virginal. Won't you, Lizzie dear?”
“But who is to dance with you, madam?” Uncle Ben asked, very politely.
“I think you must rearrange your figure. I have not danced for a score
of years; and I will not dance now, while the mistress and the owner of