Lorna Doone: A Romance of Exmoor
that, I was going away to fetch her, knowing that she always took my
side, and never would allow the house to be turned upside down in that
manner. But Annie caught hold of me by the arm, and little Ruth stood in
the doorway; and Lizzie said, “Don't be a fool, John. We know things of
you, you know; a great deal more than you dream of.”
Upon this I glanced at Annie, to learn whether she had been telling,
but her pure true face reassured me at once, and then she said very
gently,--
“Lizzie, you talk too fast, my child. No one knows anything of our John
which he need be ashamed of; and working as he does from light to dusk,
and earning the living of all of us, he is entitled to choose his own
good time for going out and for coming in, without consulting a little
girl five years younger than himself. Now, John, sit down, and you shall
know all that we have done, though I doubt whether you will approve of
it.”
Upon this I kissed Annie, and so did Ruth; and John Fry looked a deal
more comfortable, but Lizzie only made a face at us. Then Annie began as
follows:--
“You must know, dear John, that we have been extremely curious, ever
since Uncle Reuben came, to know what he was come for, especially at
this time of year, when he is at his busiest. He never vouchsafed any
explanation, neither gave any reason, true or false, which shows his
entire ignorance of all feminine nature. If Ruth had known, and refused
to tell us, we should have been much easier, because we must have got it
out of Ruth before two or three days were over. But darling Ruth knew no
more than we did, and indeed I must do her the justice to say that she
has been quite as inquisitive. Well, we might have put up with it, if it
had not been for his taking Dolly, my own pet Dolly, away every morning,
quite as if she belonged to him, and keeping her out until close upon
dark, and then bringing her home in a frightful condition. And he even
had the impudence, when I told him that Dolly was my pony, to say that
we owed him a pony, ever since you took from him that little horse upon
which you found him strapped so snugly; and he means to take Dolly to
Dulverton with him, to run in his little cart. If there is law in the
land he shall not. Surely, John, you will not let him?”
“That I won't,” said I, “except upon the conditions which I offered him
once before. If we owe him the pony, we owe him the straps.”
Sweet Annie laughed, like a bell, at this, and then she went on with her
story.
“Well, John, we were perfectly miserable. You cannot understand it, of
course; but I used to go every evening, and hug poor Dolly, and kiss
her, and beg her to tell me where she had been, and what she had seen,
that day. But never having belonged to Balaam, darling Dolly was quite
unsuccessful, though often she strove to tell me, with her ears down,
and both eyes rolling. Then I made John Fry tie her tail in a knot, with
a piece of white ribbon, as if for adornment, that I might trace her
among the hills, at any rate for a mile or two. But Uncle Ben was too
deep for that; he cut off the ribbon before he started, saying he
would have no Doones after him. And then, in despair, I applied to you,
knowing how quick of foot you are, and I got Ruth and Lizzie to help me,
but you answered us very shortly; and a very poor supper you had that
night, according to your deserts.
“But though we were dashed to the ground for a time, we were not wholly
discomfited. Our determination to know all about it seemed to increase
with the difficulty. And Uncle Ben's manner last night was so dry,
when we tried to romp and to lead him out, that it was much worse than
Jamaica ginger grated into a poor sprayed finger. So we sent him to
bed at the earliest moment, and held a small council upon him. If
you remember you, John, having now taken to smoke (which is a hateful
practice), had gone forth grumbling about your bad supper and not taking
it as a good lesson.”
“Why, Annie,” I cried, in amazement at this, “I will never trust you
again for a supper. I thought you were so sorry.”
“And so I was, dear; very sorry. But still we must do our duty. And when
we came to consider it, Ruth was the cleverest of us all; for she said
that surely we must have some man we could trust about the farm to go
on a little errand; and then I remembered that old John Fry would do
anything for money.”
“Not for money, plaize, miss,” said John Fry, taking a pull at the beer;
“but for the love of your swate face.”
“To be sure, John; with the King's behind it. And so Lizzie ran for John
Fry at once, and we gave him full directions, how he was to slip out of
the barley in the confusion of the breakfast, so that none might miss
him; and to run back to the black combe bottom, and there he would find
the very same pony which Uncle Ben had been tied upon, and there is no
faster upon the farm. And then, without waiting for any breakfast unless
he could eat it either running or trotting, he was to travel all up the
black combe, by the track Uncle Reuben had taken, and up at the top to
look forward carefully, and so to trace him without being seen.”
“Ay; and raight wull a doo'd un,” John cried, with his mouth in the
bullock's horn.
“Well, and what did you see, John?” I asked, with great anxiety; though
I meant to have shown no interest.
“John was just at the very point of it,” Lizzie answered me sharply,
“when you chose to come in and stop him.”
“Then let him begin again,” said I; “things being gone so far, it is now
my duty to know everything, for the sake of you girls and mother.”
“Hem!” cried Lizzie, in a nasty way; but I took no notice of her, for
she was always bad to deal with. Therefore John Fry began again, being
heartily glad to do so, that his story might get out of the tumble which
all our talk had made in it. But as he could not tell a tale in
the manner of my Lorna (although he told it very well for those who
understood him) I will take it from his mouth altogether, and state in
brief what happened.
When John, upon his forest pony, which he had much ado to hold (its
mouth being like a bucket), was come to the top of the long black combe,
two miles or more from Plover's Barrows, and winding to the southward,
he stopped his little nag short of the crest, and got off and looked
ahead of him, from behind a tump of whortles. It was a long flat sweep
of moorland over which he was gazing, with a few bogs here and there,
and brushy places round them. Of course, John Fry, from his shepherd
life and reclaiming of strayed cattle, knew as well as need be where he
was, and the spread of the hills before him, although it was beyond our
beat, or, rather, I should say, beside it. Not but what we might have
grazed there had it been our pleasure, but that it was not worth our
while, and scarcely worth Jasper Kebby's even; all the land being
cropped (as one might say) with desolation. And nearly all our knowledge
of it sprang from the unaccountable tricks of cows who have young calves
with them; at which time they have wild desire to get away from the
sight of man, and keep calf and milk for one another, although it be
in a barren land. At least, our cows have gotten this trick, and I have
heard other people complain of it.
John Fry, as I said, knew the place well enough, but he liked it none
the more for that, neither did any of our people; and, indeed, all
the neighbourhood of Thomshill and Larksborough, and most of all Black
Barrow Down lay under grave imputation of having been enchanted with a
very evil spell. Moreover, it was known, though folk were loath to speak
of it, even on a summer morning, that Squire Thom, who had been murdered
there, a century ago or more, had been seen by several shepherds, even
in the middle day, walking with his severed head carried in his left
hand, and his right arm lifted towards the sun.
Therefore it was very bold in John (as I acknowledged) to venture across
that moor alone, even with a fast pony under him, and some whisky by
his side. And he would never have done so (of that I am quite certain),
either for the sake of Annie's sweet face, or of the golden guinea,
which the three maidens had subscribed to reward his skill and valour.
But the truth was that he could not resist his own great curiosity. For,
carefully spying across the moor, from behind the tuft of whortles, at
first he could discover nothing having life and motion, except three or
four wild cattle roving in vain search for nourishment, and a diseased
sheep banished hither, and some carrion crows keeping watch on her. But
when John was taking his very last look, being only too glad to go
home again, and acknowledge himself baffled, he thought he saw a figure
moving in the farthest distance upon Black Barrow Down, scarcely a thing
to be sure of yet, on account of the want of colour. But as he watched,
the figure passed between him and a naked cliff, and appeared to be a
man on horseback, making his way very carefully, in fear of bogs and
serpents. For all about there it is adders' ground, and large black
serpents dwell in the marshes, and can swim as well as crawl.
John knew that the man who was riding there could be none but Uncle
Reuben, for none of the Doones ever passed that way, and the shepherds
were afraid of it. And now it seemed an unkind place for an unarmed man
to venture through, especially after an armed one who might not like
to be spied upon, and must have some dark object in visiting such drear
solitudes. Nevertheless John Fry so ached with unbearable curiosity to
know what an old man, and a stranger, and a rich man, and a peaceable
could possibly be after in that mysterious manner. Moreover, John so
throbbed with hope to find some wealthy secret, that come what would of
it he resolved to go to the end of the matter.
Therefore he only waited awhile for fear of being discovered, till
Master Huckaback turned to the left and entered a little gully, whence
he could not survey the moor. Then John remounted and crossed the rough
land and the stony places, and picked his way among the morasses as fast
as ever he dared to go; until, in about half an hour, he drew nigh the
entrance of the gully. And now it behoved him to be most wary; for Uncle
Ben might have stopped in there, either to rest his horse or having
reached the end of his journey. And in either case, John had little
doubt that he himself would be pistolled, and nothing more ever heard
of him. Therefore he made his pony come to the mouth of it sideways,
and leaned over and peered in around the rocky corner, while the little
horse cropped at the briars.
But he soon perceived that the gully was empty, so far at least as its
course was straight; and with that he hastened into it, though his heart
was not working easily. When he had traced the winding hollow for half
a mile or more, he saw that it forked, and one part led to the left up
a steep red bank, and the other to the right, being narrow and slightly
tending downwards. Some yellow sand lay here and there between the
starving grasses, and this he examined narrowly for a trace of Master
Huckaback.
At last he saw that, beyond all doubt, the man he was pursuing had taken
the course which led down hill; and down the hill he must follow him.
And this John did with deep misgivings, and a hearty wish that he had
never started upon so perilous an errand. For now he knew not where he
was, and scarcely dared to ask himself, having heard of a horrible hole,
somewhere in this neighbourhood, called the Wizard's Slough. Therefore
John rode down the slope, with sorrow, and great caution. And these grew
more as he went onward, and his pony reared against him, being scared,
although a native of the roughest moorland. And John had just made up