Lorna Doone: A Romance of Exmoor
While I was wondering how my chance of having Lorna could depend upon
my power to carry pig's wash, and how Betty could have any voice in the
matter (which seemed to depend upon her decision), and in short, while
I was all abroad as to her knowledge and everything, the pigs, who had
been fast asleep and dreaming in their emptiness, awoke with one accord
at the goodness of the smell around them. They had resigned themselves,
as even pigs do, to a kind of fast, hoping to break their fast more
sweetly on the morrow morning. But now they tumbled out all headlong,
pigs below and pigs above, pigs point-blank and pigs across, pigs
courant and pigs rampant, but all alike prepared to eat, and all in good
cadence squeaking.
“Tak smarl boocket, and bale un out; wad 'e waste sich stoof as thic
here be?” So Betty set me to feed the pigs, while she held the lanthorn;
and knowing what she was, I saw that she would not tell me another word
until all the pigs were served. And in truth no man could well look at
them, and delay to serve them, they were all expressing appetite in so
forcible a manner; some running to and fro, and rubbing, and squealing
as if from starvation, some rushing down to the oaken troughs, and
poking each other away from them; and the kindest of all putting up
their fore-feet on the top-rail on the hog-pound, and blinking their
little eyes, and grunting prettily to coax us; as who would say, “I
trust you now; you will be kind, I know, and give me the first and the
very best of it.”
“Oppen ge-at now, wull 'e, Jan? Maind, young sow wi' the baible back
arlway hath first toorn of it, 'cos I brought her up on my lap, I did.
Zuck, zuck, zuck! How her stickth her tail up; do me good to zee un! Now
thiccy trough, thee zany, and tak thee girt legs out o' the wai. Wish
they wud gie thee a good baite, mak thee hop a bit vaster, I reckon. Hit
that there girt ozebird over's back wi' the broomstick, he be robbing
of my young zow. Choog, choog, choog! and a drap more left in the
dripping-pail.”
“Come now, Betty,” I said, when all the pigs were at it sucking,
swilling, munching, guzzling, thrusting, and ousting, and spilling
the food upon the backs of their brethren (as great men do with their
charity), “come now, Betty, how much longer am I to wait for your
message? Surely I am as good as a pig.”
“Dunno as thee be, Jan. No straikiness in thy bakkon. And now I come to
think of it, Jan, thee zed, a wake agone last Vriday, as how I had got a
girt be-ard. Wull 'e stick to that now, Maister Jan?”
“No, no, Betty, certainly not; I made a mistake about it. I should have
said a becoming mustachio, such as you may well be proud of.”
“Then thee be a laiar, Jan Ridd. Zay so, laike a man, lad.”
“Not exactly that, Betty; but I made a great mistake; and I humbly ask
your pardon; and if such a thing as a crown-piece, Betty”--
“No fai, no fai!” said Betty, however she put it into her pocket; “now
tak my advice, Jan; thee marry Zally Snowe.”
“Not with all England for her dowry. Oh, Betty, you know better.”
“Ah's me! I know much worse, Jan. Break thy poor mother's heart it will.
And to think of arl the danger! Dost love Larna now so much?”
“With all the strength of my heart and soul. I will have her, or I will
die, Betty.”
“Wull. Thee will die in either case. But it baint for me to argify. And
do her love thee too, Jan?”
“I hope she does, Betty I hope she does. What do you think about it?”
“Ah, then I may hold my tongue to it. Knaw what boys and maidens be, as
well as I knew young pegs. I myzell been o' that zort one taime every
bit so well as you be.” And Betty held the lanthorn up, and defied me to
deny it; and the light through the horn showed a gleam in her eyes, such
as I had never seer there before. “No odds, no odds about that,”
she continued; “mak a fool of myzell to spake of it. Arl gone into
churchyard. But it be a lucky foolery for thee, my boy, I can tull 'ee.
For I love to see the love in thee. Coom'th over me as the spring do,
though I be naigh three score. Now, Jan, I will tell thee one thing,
can't abear to zee thee vretting so. Hould thee head down, same as they
pegs do.”
So I bent my head quite close to her; and she whispered in my ear, “Goo
of a marning, thee girt soft. Her can't get out of an avening now, her
hath zent word to me, to tull 'ee.”
In the glory of my delight at this, I bestowed upon Betty a chaste
salute, with all the pigs for witnesses; and she took it not amiss,
considering how long she had been out of practice. But then she fell
back, like a broom on its handle, and stared at me, feigning anger.
“Oh fai, oh fai! Lunnon impudence, I doubt. I vear thee hast gone on
zadly, Jan.”
CHAPTER XXXIII
AN EARLY MORNING CALL
Of course I was up the very next morning before the October sunrise, and
away through the wild and the woodland towards the Bagworthy water, at
the foot of the long cascade. The rising of the sun was noble in the
cold and warmth of it; peeping down the spread of light, he raised his
shoulder heavily over the edge of grey mountain, and wavering length of
upland. Beneath his gaze the dew-fogs dipped, and crept to the hollow
places; then stole away in line and column, holding skirts, and clinging
subtly at the sheltering corners, where rock hung over grass-land; while
the brave lines of the hills came forth, one beyond other gliding.
Then the woods arose in folds, like drapery of awakened mountains,
stately with a depth of awe, and memory of the tempests. Autumn's mellow
hand was on them, as they owned already, touched with gold, and red,
and olive; and their joy towards the sun was less to a bridegroom than a
father.
Yet before the floating impress of the woods could clear itself,
suddenly the gladsome light leaped over hill and valley, casting amber,
blue, and purple, and a tint of rich red rose; according to the scene
they lit on, and the curtain flung around; yet all alike dispelling fear
and the cloven hoof of darkness, all on the wings of hope advancing,
and proclaiming, “God is here.” Then life and joy sprang reassured
from every crouching hollow; every flower, and bud, and bird, had a
fluttering sense of them; and all the flashing of God's gaze merged into
soft beneficence.
So perhaps shall break upon us that eternal morning, when crag and chasm
shall be no more, neither hill and valley, nor great unvintaged ocean;
when glory shall not scare happiness, neither happiness envy glory;
but all things shall arise and shine in the light of the Father's
countenance, because itself is risen.
Who maketh His sun to rise upon both the just and the unjust. And surely
but for the saving clause, Doone Glen had been in darkness. Now, as I
stood with scanty breath--for few men could have won that climb--at
the top of the long defile, and the bottom of the mountain gorge all of
myself, and the pain of it, and the cark of my discontent fell away
into wonder and rapture. For I cannot help seeing things now and then,
slow-witted as I have a right to be; and perhaps because it comes so
rarely, the sight dwells with me like a picture.
The bar of rock, with the water-cleft breaking steeply through it, stood
bold and bare, and dark in shadow, grey with red gullies down it. But
the sun was beginning to glisten over the comb of the eastern highland,
and through an archway of the wood hung with old nests and ivy. The
lines of many a leaning tree were thrown, from the cliffs of the
foreland, down upon the sparkling grass at the foot of the western
crags. And through the dewy meadow's breast, fringed with shade, but
touched on one side with the sun-smile, ran the crystal water, curving
in its brightness like diverted hope.
On either bank, the blades of grass, making their last autumn growth,
pricked their spears and crisped their tuftings with the pearly purity.
The tenderness of their green appeared under the glaucous mantle; while
that grey suffusion, which is the blush of green life, spread its damask
chastity. Even then my soul was lifted, worried though my mind was: who
can see such large kind doings, and not be ashamed of human grief?
Not only unashamed of grief, but much abashed with joy, was I, when
I saw my Lorna coming, purer than the morning dew, than the sun more
bright and clear. That which made me love her so, that which lifted my
heart to her, as the Spring wind lifts the clouds, was the gayness of
her nature, and its inborn playfulness. And yet all this with maiden
shame, a conscious dream of things unknown, and a sense of fate about
them.
Down the valley still she came, not witting that I looked at her, having
ceased (through my own misprison) to expect me yet awhile; or at least
she told herself so. In the joy of awakened life and brightness of
the morning, she had cast all care away, and seemed to float upon the
sunrise, like a buoyant silver wave. Suddenly at sight of me, for I
leaped forth at once, in fear of seeming to watch her unawares, the
bloom upon her cheeks was deepened, and the radiance of her eyes; and
she came to meet me gladly.
“At last then, you are come, John. I thought you had forgotten me. I
could not make you understand--they have kept me prisoner every evening:
but come into my house; you are in danger here.”
Meanwhile I could not answer, being overcome with joy, but followed
to her little grotto, where I had been twice before. I knew that the
crowning moment of my life was coming--that Lorna would own her love for
me.
She made for awhile as if she dreamed not of the meaning of my gaze,
but tried to speak of other things, faltering now and then, and mantling
with a richer damask below her long eyelashes.
“This is not what I came to know,” I whispered very softly, “you know
what I am come to ask.”
“If you are come on purpose to ask anything, why do you delay so?” She
turned away very bravely, but I saw that her lips were trembling.
“I delay so long, because I fear; because my whole life hangs in balance
on a single word; because what I have near me now may never more be near
me after, though more than all the world, or than a thousand worlds,
to me.” As I spoke these words of passion in a low soft voice, Lorna
trembled more and more; but she made no answer, neither yet looked up at
me.
“I have loved you long and long,” I pursued, being reckless now, “when
you were a little child, as a boy I worshipped you: then when I saw
you a comely girl, as a stripling I adored you: now that you are a
full-grown maiden all the rest I do, and more--I love you more than
tongue can tell, or heart can hold in silence. I have waited long and
long; and though I am so far below you I can wait no longer; but must
have my answer.”
“You have been very faithful, John,” she murmured to the fern and moss;
“I suppose I must reward you.”
“That will not do for me,” I said; “I will not have reluctant liking,
nor assent for pity's sake; which only means endurance. I must have all
love, or none, I must have your heart of hearts; even as you have mine,
Lorna.”
While I spoke, she glanced up shyly through her fluttering lashes,
to prolong my doubt one moment, for her own delicious pride. Then she
opened wide upon me all the glorious depth and softness of her loving
eyes, and flung both arms around my neck, and answered with her heart on
mine,--
“Darling, you have won it all. I shall never be my own again. I am
yours, my own one, for ever and for ever.”
I am sure I know not what I did, or what I said thereafter, being
overcome with transport by her words and at her gaze. Only one thing I
remember, when she raised her bright lips to me, like a child, for me to