Lorna Doone: A Romance of Exmoor
name so pat; and she pronounced it in a manner which made my heart leap
to my ears: “Lorna to eat sausages!”
“I don't see why she shouldn't,” my mother answered smiling, “if she
means to be a farmer's wife, she must take to farmer's ways, I think.
What do you say, Annie?”
“She will eat whatever John desires, I should hope,” said Annie gravely;
“particularly as I made them.”
“Oh that I could only get the chance of trying her!” I answered, “if you
could once behold her, mother, you would never let her go again. And she
would love you with all her heart, she is so good and gentle.”
“That is a lucky thing for me”; saying this my mother wept, as she had
been doing off and on, when no one seemed to look at her; “otherwise I
suppose, John, she would very soon turn me out of the farm, having you
so completely under her thumb, as she seems to have. I see now that my
time is over. Lizzie and I will seek our fortunes. It is wiser so.”
“Now, mother,” I cried; “will you have the kindness not to talk any
nonsense? Everything belongs to you; and so, I hope, your children do.
And you, in turn, belong to us; as you have proved ever since--oh, ever
since we can remember. Why do you make Annie cry so? You ought to know
better than that.”
Mother upon this went over all the things she had done before; how many
times I know not; neither does it matter. Only she seemed to enjoy it
more, every time of doing it. And then she said she was an old fool; and
Annie (like a thorough girl) pulled her one grey hair out.
CHAPTER XXXV
RUTH IS NOT LIKE LORNA
Although by our mother's reluctant consent a large part of the obstacles
between Annie and her lover appeared to be removed, on the other hand
Lorna and myself gained little, except as regarded comfort of mind, and
some ease to the conscience. Moreover, our chance of frequent meetings
and delightful converse was much impaired, at least for the present;
because though mother was not aware of my narrow escape from Carver
Doone, she made me promise never to risk my life by needless visits.
And upon this point, that is to say, the necessity of the visit, she was
well content, as she said, to leave me to my own good sense and honour;
only begging me always to tell her of my intention beforehand. This
pledge, however, for her own sake, I declined to give; knowing how
wretched she would be during all the time of my absence; and, on that
account, I promised instead, that I would always give her a full account
of my adventure upon returning.
Now my mother, as might be expected, began at once to cast about for
some means of relieving me from all further peril, and herself from
great anxiety. She was full of plans for fetching Lorna, in some
wonderful manner, out of the power of the Doones entirely, and into her
own hands, where she was to remain for at least a twelve-month, learning
all mother and Annie could teach her of dairy business, and farm-house
life, and the best mode of packing butter. And all this arose from my
happening to say, without meaning anything, how the poor dear had longed
for quiet, and a life of simplicity, and a rest away from violence!
Bless thee, mother--now long in heaven, there is no need to bless thee;
but it often makes a dimness now in my well-worn eyes, when I think of
thy loving-kindness, warmth, and romantic innocence.
As to stealing my beloved from that vile Glen Doone, the deed itself was
not impossible, nor beyond my daring; but in the first place would she
come, leaving her old grandfather to die without her tendence? And
even if, through fear of Carver and that wicked Counsellor, she should
consent to fly, would it be possible to keep her without a regiment of
soldiers? Would not the Doones at once ride forth to scour the country
for their queen, and finding her (as they must do), burn our house, and
murder us, and carry her back triumphantly?
All this I laid before my mother, and to such effect that she
acknowledged, with a sigh that nothing else remained for me (in the
present state of matters) except to keep a careful watch upon Lorna from
safe distance, observe the policy of the Doones, and wait for a tide in
their affairs. Meanwhile I might even fall in love (as mother unwisely
hinted) with a certain more peaceful heiress, although of inferior
blood, who would be daily at my elbow. I am not sure but what dear
mother herself would have been disappointed, had I proved myself so
fickle; and my disdain and indignation at the mere suggestion did not so
much displease her; for she only smiled and answered,--
“Well, it is not for me to say; God knows what is good for us. Likings
will not come to order; otherwise I should not be where I am this day.
And of one thing I am rather glad; Uncle Reuben well deserves that his
pet scheme should miscarry. He who called my boy a coward, an ignoble
coward, because he would not join some crack-brained plan against the
valley which sheltered his beloved one! And all the time this dreadful
'coward' risking his life daily there, without a word to any one! How
glad I am that you will not have, for all her miserable money, that
little dwarfish granddaughter of the insolent old miser!”
She turned, and by her side was standing poor Ruth Huckaback herself,
white, and sad, and looking steadily at my mother's face, which became
as red as a plum while her breath deserted her.
“If you please, madam,” said the little maiden, with her large calm eyes
unwavering, “it is not my fault, but God Almighty's, that I am a little
dwarfish creature. I knew not that you regarded me with so much contempt
on that account; neither have you told my grandfather, at least
within my hearing, that he was an insolent old miser. When I return to
Dulverton, which I trust to do to-morrow (for it is too late to-day),
I shall be careful not to tell him your opinion of him, lest I should
thwart any schemes you may have upon his property. I thank you all for
your kindness to me, which has been very great, far more than a little
dwarfish creature could, for her own sake, expect. I will only add for
your further guidance one more little truth. It is by no means certain
that my grandfather will settle any of his miserable money upon me. If
I offend him, as I would in a moment, for the sake of a brave and
straightforward man”--here she gave me a glance which I scarcely knew
what to do with--“my grandfather, upright as he is, would leave me
without a shilling. And I often wish it were so. So many miseries come
upon me from the miserable money--” Here she broke down, and burst out
crying, and ran away with a faint good-bye; while we three looked at one
another, and felt that we had the worst of it.
“Impudent little dwarf!” said my mother, recovering her breath after
ever so long. “Oh, John, how thankful you ought to be! What a life she
would have led you!”
“Well, I am sure!” said Annie, throwing her arms around poor mother:
“who could have thought that little atomy had such an outrageous spirit!
For my part I cannot think how she can have been sly enough to hide it
in that crafty manner, that John might think her an angel!”
“Well, for my part,” I answered, laughing, “I never admired Ruth
Huckaback half, or a quarter so much before. She is rare stuff. I would
have been glad to have married her to-morrow, if I had never seen my
Lorna.”
“And a nice nobody I should have been, in my own house!” cried mother:
“I never can be thankful enough to darling Lorna for saving me. Did you
see how her eyes flashed?”
“That I did; and very fine they were. Now nine maidens out of ten would
have feigned not to have heard one word that was said, and have borne
black malice in their hearts. Come, Annie, now, would not you have done
so?”
“I think,” said Annie, “although of course I cannot tell, you know,
John, that I should have been ashamed at hearing what was never meant
for me, and should have been almost as angry with myself as anybody.”
“So you would,” replied my mother; “so any daughter of mine would have
done, instead of railing and reviling. However, I am very sorry that any
words of mine which the poor little thing chose to overhear should have
made her so forget herself. I shall beg her pardon before she goes, and
I shall expect her to beg mine.”
“That she will never do,” said I; “a more resolute little maiden never
yet had right upon her side; although it was a mere accident. I might
have said the same thing myself, and she was hard upon you, mother
dear.”
After this, we said no more, at least about that matter; and little
Ruth, the next morning, left us, in spite of all that we could do. She
vowed an everlasting friendship to my younger sister Eliza; but she
looked at Annie with some resentment, when they said good-bye, for being
so much taller. At any rate so Annie fancied, but she may have been
quite wrong. I rode beside the little maid till far beyond Exeford, when
all danger of the moor was past, and then I left her with John Fry, not
wishing to be too particular, after all the talk about her money. She
had tears in her eyes when she bade me farewell, and she sent a kind
message home to mother, and promised to come again at Christmas, if she
could win permission.
Upon the whole, my opinion was that she had behaved uncommonly well for
a maid whose self-love was outraged, with spirit, I mean, and proper
pride; and yet with a great endeavour to forgive, which is, meseems, the
hardest of all things to a woman, outside of her own family.
After this, for another month, nothing worthy of notice happened, except
of course that I found it needful, according to the strictest good sense
and honour, to visit Lorna immediately after my discourse with mother,
and to tell her all about it. My beauty gave me one sweet kiss with all
her heart (as she always did, when she kissed at all), and I begged for
one more to take to our mother, and before leaving, I obtained it. It
is not for me to tell all she said, even supposing (what is not likely)
that any one cared to know it, being more and more peculiar to ourselves
and no one else. But one thing that she said was this, and I took good
care to carry it, word for word, to my mother and Annie:--
“I never can believe, dear John, that after all the crime and outrage
wrought by my reckless family, it ever can be meant for me to settle
down to peace and comfort in a simple household. With all my heart I
long for home; any home, however dull and wearisome to those used to
it, would seem a paradise to me, if only free from brawl and tumult,
and such as I could call my own. But even if God would allow me this, in
lieu of my wild inheritance, it is quite certain that the Doones never
can and never will.”
Again, when I told her how my mother and Annie, as well as myself,
longed to have her at Plover's Barrows, and teach her all the quiet
duties in which she was sure to take such delight, she only answered
with a bright blush, that while her grandfather was living she would
never leave him; and that even if she were free, certain ruin was all
she should bring to any house that received her, at least within the
utmost reach of her amiable family. This was too plain to be denied,
and seeing my dejection at it, she told me bravely that we must hope for
better times, if possible, and asked how long I would wait for her.
“Not a day if I had my will,” I answered very warmly; at which she
turned away confused, and would not look at me for awhile; “but all my
life,” I went on to say, “if my fortune is so ill. And how long would
you wait for me, Lorna?”
“Till I could get you,” she answered slyly, with a smile which