Lorna Doone: A Romance of Exmoor
Then he slammed the door in the young man's face, having kindled his
lanthorn by this time: and Charlie went up to the watchplace again,
muttering as he passed me, “Bad look-out for all of us, when that surly
old beast is Captain. No gentle blood in him, no hospitality, not even
pleasant language, nor a good new oath in his frowsy pate! I've a mind
to cut the whole of it; and but for the girls I would so.”
My heart was in my mouth, as they say, when I stood in the shade by
Lorna's window, and whispered her name gently. The house was of one
story only, as the others were, with pine-ends standing forth the stone,
and only two rough windows upon that western side of it, and perhaps
both of them were Lorna's. The Doones had been their own builders, for
no one should know their ins and outs; and of course their work was
clumsy. As for their windows, they stole them mostly from the houses
round about. But though the window was not very close, I might have
whispered long enough, before she would have answered me; frightened as
she was, no doubt by many a rude overture. And I durst not speak
aloud because I saw another watchman posted on the western cliff, and
commanding all the valley. And now this man (having no companion for
drinking or for gambling) espied me against the wall of the house, and
advanced to the brink, and challenged me.
“Who are you there? Answer! One, two, three; and I fire at thee.”
The nozzle of his gun was pointed full upon me, as I could see, with the
moonlight striking on the barrel; he was not more than fifty yards off,
and now he began to reckon. Being almost desperate about it, I began to
whistle, wondering how far I should get before I lost my windpipe:
and as luck would have it, my lips fell into that strange tune I
had practised last; the one I had heard from Charlie. My mouth would
scarcely frame the notes, being parched with terror; but to my surprise,
the man fell back, dropped his gun, and saluted. Oh, sweetest of all
sweet melodies!
That tune was Carver Doone's passport (as I heard long afterwards),
which Charleworth Doone had imitated, for decoy of Lorna. The sentinel
took me for that vile Carver; who was like enough to be prowling there,
for private talk with Lorna; but not very likely to shout forth his
name, if it might be avoided. The watchman, perceiving the danger
perhaps of intruding on Carver's privacy, not only retired along the
cliff, but withdrew himself to good distance.
Meanwhile he had done me the kindest service; for Lorna came to the
window at once, to see what the cause of the shout was, and drew back
the curtain timidly. Then she opened the rough lattice; and then she
watched the cliff and trees; and then she sighed very sadly.
“Oh, Lorna, don't you know me?” I whispered from the side, being afraid
of startling her by appearing over suddenly.
Quick though she always was of thought, she knew me not from my whisper,
and was shutting the window hastily when I caught it back, and showed
myself.
“John!” she cried, yet with sense enough not to speak aloud: “oh, you
must be mad, John.”
“As mad as a March hare,” said I, “without any news of my darling. You
knew I would come: of course you did.”
“Well, I thought, perhaps--you know: now, John, you need not eat my
hand. Do you see they have put iron bars across?”
“To be sure. Do you think I should be contented, even with this lovely
hand, but for these vile iron bars. I will have them out before I go.
Now, darling, for one moment--just the other hand, for a change, you
know.”
So I got the other, but was not honest; for I kept them both, and felt
their delicate beauty trembling, as I laid them to my heart.
“Oh, John, you will make me cry directly”--she had been crying long
ago--“if you go on in that way. You know we can never have one another;
every one is against it. Why should I make you miserable? Try not to
think of me any more.”
“And will you try the same of me, Lorna?”
“Oh yes, John; if you agree to it. At least I will try to try it.”
“Then you won't try anything of the sort,” I cried with great
enthusiasm, for her tone was so nice and melancholy: “the only thing
we will try to try, is to belong to one another. And if we do our best,
Lorna, God alone can prevent us.”
She crossed herself, with one hand drawn free as I spoke so boldly;
and something swelled in her little throat, and prevented her from
answering.
“Now tell me,” I said; “what means all this? Why are you so pent up
here? Why have you given me no token? Has your grandfather turned
against you? Are you in any danger?”
“My poor grandfather is very ill: I fear that he will not live long. The
Counsellor and his son are now the masters of the valley; and I dare
not venture forth, for fear of anything they might do to me. When I went
forth, to signal for you, Carver tried to seize me; but I was too quick
for him. Little Gwenny is not allowed to leave the valley now; so that
I could send no message. I have been so wretched, dear, lest you should
think me false to you. The tyrants now make sure of me. You must watch
this house, both night and day, if you wish to save me. There is nothing
they would shrink from; if my poor grandfather--oh, I cannot bear to
think of myself, when I ought to think of him only; dying without a son
to tend him, or a daughter to shed a tear.”
“But surely he has sons enough; and a deal too many,” I was going to
say, but stopped myself in time: “why do none of them come to him?”
“I know not. I cannot tell. He is a very strange old man; and few have
ever loved him. He was black with wrath at the Counsellor, this very
afternoon--but I must not keep you here--you are much too brave, John;
and I am much too selfish: there, what was that shadow?”
“Nothing more than a bat, darling, come to look for his sweetheart. I
will not stay long; you tremble so: and yet for that very reason, how
can I leave you, Lorna?”
“You must--you must,” she answered; “I shall die if they hurt you. I
hear the old nurse moving. Grandfather is sure to send for me. Keep back
from the window.”
However, it was only Gwenny Carfax, Lorna's little handmaid: my darling
brought her to the window and presented her to me, almost laughing
through her grief.
“Oh, I am so glad, John; Gwenny, I am so glad you came. I have wanted
long to introduce you to my 'young man,' as you call him. It is rather
dark, but you can see him. I wish you to know him again, Gwenny.”
“Whoy!” cried Gwenny, with great amazement, standing on tiptoe to look
out, and staring as if she were weighing me: “her be bigger nor any
Doone! Heared as her have bate our Cornish champion awrastling. 'Twadn't
fair play nohow: no, no; don't tell me, 'twadn't fair play nohow.”
“True enough, Gwenny,” I answered her; for the play had been very unfair
indeed on the side of the Bodmin champion; “it was not a fair bout,
little maid; I am free to acknowledge that.” By that answer, or rather
by the construction she put upon it, the heart of the Cornish girl was
won, more than by gold and silver.
“I shall knoo thee again, young man; no fear of that,” she answered,
nodding with an air of patronage. “Now, missis, gae on coortin', and
I wall gae outside and watch for 'ee.” Though expressed not over
delicately, this proposal arose, no doubt, from Gwenny's sense of
delicacy; and I was very thankful to her for taking her departure.
“She is the best little thing in the world,” said Lorna, softly
laughing; “and the queerest, and the truest. Nothing will bribe her
against me. If she seems to be on the other side, never, never doubt
her. Now no more of your 'coortin', John! I love you far too well for
that. Yes, yes, ever so much! If you will take a mean advantage of me.
And as much as ever you like to imagine; and then you may double it,
after that. Only go, do go, good John; kind, dear, darling John; if you
love me, go.”
“How can I go without settling anything?” I asked very sensibly. “How
shall I know of your danger now? Hit upon something; you are so quick.
Anything you can think of; and then I will go, and not frighten you.”
“I have been thinking long of something,” Lorna answered rapidly, with
that peculiar clearness of voice which made every syllable ring like
music of a several note, “you see that tree with the seven rooks' nests
bright against the cliffs there? Can you count them, from above, do you
think? From a place where you will be safe, dear”--
“No doubt, I can; or if I cannot, it will not take me long to find a
spot, whence I can do it.”
“Gwenny can climb like any cat. She has been up there in the summer,
watching the young birds, day by day, and daring the boys to touch them.
There are neither birds, nor eggs there now, of course, and nothing
doing. If you see but six rooks' nests; I am in peril and want you. If
you see but five, I am carried off by Carver.”
“Good God!” said I, at the mere idea; in a tone which frightened Lorna.
“Fear not, John,” she whispered sadly, and my blood grew cold at it:
“I have means to stop him; or at least to save myself. If you can come
within one day of that man's getting hold of me, you will find me quite
unharmed. After that you will find me dead, or alive, according to
circumstances, but in no case such that you need blush to look at me.”
Her dear sweet face was full of pride, as even in the gloom I saw: and I
would not trespass on her feelings by such a thing, at such a moment, as
an attempt at any caress. I only said, “God bless you, darling!” and
she said the same to me, in a very low sad voice. And then I stole below
Carver's house, in the shadow from the eastern cliff; and knowing
enough of the village now to satisfy all necessity, betook myself to my
well-known track in returning from the valley; which was neither down
the waterslide (a course I feared in the darkness) nor up the cliffs at
Lorna's bower; but a way of my own inventing, which there is no need to
dwell upon.
A weight of care was off my mind; though much of trouble hung there
still. One thing was quite certain--if Lorna could not have John Ridd,
no one else should have her. And my mother, who sat up for me, and with
me long time afterwards, agreed that this was comfort.
CHAPTER XXXVIII
A GOOD TURN FOR JEREMY
John Fry had now six shillings a week of regular and permanent wage,
besides all harvest and shearing money, as well as a cottage rent-free,
and enough of garden-ground to rear pot-herbs for his wife and all
his family. Now the wages appointed by our justices, at the time of
sessions, were four-and-sixpence a week for summer, and a shilling less
for the winter-time; and we could be fined, and perhaps imprisoned, for
giving more than the sums so fixed. Therefore John Fry was looked upon
as the richest man upon Exmoor, I mean of course among labourers, and
there were many jokes about robbing him, as if he were the mint of the
King; and Tom Faggus promised to try his hand, if he came across John
on the highway, although he had ceased from business, and was seeking a
Royal pardon.
Now is it according to human nature, or is it a thing contradictory
(as I would fain believe)? But anyhow, there was, upon Exmoor, no more
discontented man, no man more sure that he had not his worth, neither
half so sore about it, than, or as, John Fry was. And one thing he did
which I could not wholly (or indeed I may say, in any measure)
reconcile with my sense of right, much as I laboured to do John justice,
especially because of his roguery; and this was, that if we said too
much, or accused him at all of laziness (which he must have known to be
in him), he regularly turned round upon us, and quite compelled us
to hold our tongues, by threatening to lay information against us for