Lorna Doone: A Romance of Exmoor
thou must take it; there be no denaying of un. Fire I have seen afore,
hot and red, and raging; but I never seen cold fire afore, and it maketh
me burn and shiver.”
And in truth, it made me both burn and shiver, to know that I must
either go straight to the presence of Sir Ensor Doone, or give up Lorna,
once for all, and rightly be despised by her. For the first time of my
life, I thought that she had not acted fairly. Why not leave the old man
in peace, without vexing him about my affair? But presently I saw again
that in this matter she was right; that she could not receive the old
man's blessing (supposing that he had one to give, which even a worse
man might suppose), while she deceived him about herself, and the life
she had undertaken.
Therefore, with great misgiving of myself, but no ill thought of my
darling, I sent Watch home, and followed Gwenny; who led me along very
rapidly, with her short broad form gliding down the hollow, from which
she had first appeared. Here at the bottom, she entered a thicket of
gray ash stubs and black holly, with rocks around it gnarled with roots,
and hung with masks of ivy. Here in a dark and lonely corner, with a
pixie ring before it, she came to a narrow door, very brown and solid,
looking like a trunk of wood at a little distance. This she opened,
without a key, by stooping down and pressing it, where the threshold met
the jamb; and then she ran in very nimbly, but I was forced to be
bent in two, and even so without comfort. The passage was close and
difficult, and as dark as any black pitch; but it was not long (be it as
it might), and in that there was some comfort. We came out soon at the
other end, and were at the top of Doone valley. In the chilly dusk air,
it looked most untempting, especially during that state of mind under
which I was labouring. As we crossed towards the Captain's house, we
met a couple of great Doones lounging by the waterside. Gwenny said
something to them, and although they stared very hard at me, they let me
pass without hindrance. It is not too much to say that when the little
maid opened Sir Ensor's door, my heart thumped, quite as much with
terror as with hope of Lorna's presence.
But in a moment the fear was gone, for Lorna was trembling in my arms,
and my courage rose to comfort her. The darling feared, beyond all
things else, lest I should be offended with her for what she had said to
her grandfather, and for dragging me into his presence; but I told her
almost a falsehood (the first, and the last, that ever I did tell her),
to wit, that I cared not that much--and showed her the tip of my thumb
as I said it--for old Sir Ensor, and all his wrath, so long as I had his
granddaughter's love.
Now I tried to think this as I said it, so as to save it from being a
lie; but somehow or other it did not answer, and I was vexed with myself
both ways. But Lorna took me by the hand as bravely as she could, and
led me into a little passage where I could hear the river moaning and
the branches rustling.
Here I passed as long a minute as fear ever cheated time of, saying
to myself continually that there was nothing to be frightened at, yet
growing more and more afraid by reason of so reasoning. At last my Lorna
came back very pale, as I saw by the candle she carried, and whispered,
“Now be patient, dearest. Never mind what he says to you; neither
attempt to answer him. Look at him gently and steadfastly, and, if you
can, with some show of reverence; but above all things, no compassion;
it drives him almost mad. Now come; walk very quietly.”
She led me into a cold, dark room, rough and very gloomy, although with
two candles burning. I took little heed of the things in it, though I
marked that the window was open. That which I heeded was an old man,
very stern and comely, with death upon his countenance; yet not lying in
his bed, but set upright in a chair, with a loose red cloak thrown over
him. Upon this his white hair fell, and his pallid fingers lay in a
ghastly fashion without a sign of life or movement or of the power that
kept him up; all rigid, calm, and relentless. Only in his great black
eyes, fixed upon me solemnly, all the power of his body dwelt, all the
life of his soul was burning.
I could not look at him very nicely, being afeared of the death in his
face, and most afeared to show it. And to tell the truth, my poor
blue eyes fell away from the blackness of his, as if it had been my
coffin-plate. Therefore I made a low obeisance, and tried not to shiver.
Only I groaned that Lorna thought it good manners to leave us two
together.
“Ah,” said the old man, and his voice seemed to come from a cavern of
skeletons; “are you that great John Ridd?”
“John Ridd is my name, your honour,” was all that I could answer; “and I
hope your worship is better.”
“Child, have you sense enough to know what you have been doing?”
“Yes, I knew right well,” I answered, “that I have set mine eyes far
above my rank.”
“Are you ignorant that Lorna Doone is born of the oldest families
remaining in North Europe?”
“I was ignorant of that, your worship; yet I knew of her high descent
from the Doones of Bagworthy.”
The old man's eyes, like fire, probed me whether I was jesting; then
perceiving how grave I was, and thinking that I could not laugh (as many
people suppose of me), he took on himself to make good the deficiency
with a very bitter smile.
“And know you of your own low descent from the Ridds of Oare?”
“Sir,” I answered, being as yet unaccustomed to this style of speech,
“the Ridds, of Oare, have been honest men twice as long as the Doones
have been rogues.”
“I would not answer for that, John,” Sir Ensor replied, very quietly,
when I expected fury. “If it be so, thy family is the very oldest in
Europe. Now hearken to me, boy, or clown, or honest fool, or whatever
thou art; hearken to an old man's words, who has not many hours to live.
There is nothing in this world to fear, nothing to revere or trust,
nothing even to hope for; least of all, is there aught to love.”
“I hope your worship is not quite right,” I answered, with great
misgivings; “else it is a sad mistake for anybody to live, sir.”
“Therefore,” he continued, as if I had never spoken, “though it may seem
hard for a week or two, like the loss of any other toy, I deprive you of
nothing, but add to your comfort, and (if there be such a thing) to your
happiness, when I forbid you ever to see that foolish child again. All
marriage is a wretched farce, even when man and wife belong to the same
rank of life, have temper well assorted, similar likes and dislikes, and
about the same pittance of mind. But when they are not so matched,
the farce would become a long, dull tragedy, if anything were worth
lamenting. There, I have reasoned enough with you; I am not in the habit
of reasoning. Though I have little confidence in man's honour, I have
some reliance in woman's pride. You will pledge your word in Lorna's
presence never to see or to seek her again; never even to think of her
more. Now call her, for I am weary.”
He kept his great eyes fixed upon me with their icy fire (as if he
scorned both life and death), and on his haughty lips some slight
amusement at my trouble; and then he raised one hand (as if I were a
poor dumb creature), and pointed to the door. Although my heart rebelled
and kindled at his proud disdain, I could not disobey him freely; but
made a low salute, and went straightway in search of Lorna.
I found my love (or not my love; according as now she should behave; for
I was very desperate, being put upon so sadly); Lorna Doone was crying
softly at a little window, and listening to the river's grief. I laid
my heavy arm around her, not with any air of claiming or of forcing
her thoughts to me, but only just to comfort her, and ask what she was
thinking of. To my arm she made no answer, neither to my seeking eyes;
but to my heart, once for all, she spoke with her own upon it. Not a
word, nor sound between us; not even a kiss was interchanged; but man,
or maid, who has ever loved hath learned our understanding.
Therefore it came to pass, that we saw fit to enter Sir Ensor's room in
the following manner. Lorna, with her right hand swallowed entirely by
the palm of mine, and her waist retired from view by means of my left
arm. All one side of her hair came down, in a way to be remembered, upon
the left and fairest part of my favourite otter-skin waistcoat; and
her head as well would have lain there doubtless, but for the danger
of walking so. I, for my part, was too far gone to lag behind in the
matter; but carried my love bravely, fearing neither death nor hell,
while she abode beside me.
Old Sir Ensor looked much astonished. For forty years he had been obeyed
and feared by all around him; and he knew that I had feared him vastly,
before I got hold of Lorna. And indeed I was still afraid of him; only
for loving Lorna so, and having to protect her.
Then I made him a bow, to the very best of all I had learned both at
Tiverton and in London; after that I waited for him to begin, as became
his age and rank in life.
“Ye two fools!” he said at last, with a depth of contempt which no words
may express; “ye two fools!”
“May it please your worship,” I answered softly; “maybe we are not such
fools as we look. But though we be, we are well content, so long as we
may be two fools together.”
“Why, John,” said the old man, with a spark, as of smiling in his eyes;
“thou art not altogether the clumsy yokel, and the clod, I took thee
for.”
“Oh, no, grandfather; oh, dear grandfather,” cried Lorna, with such zeal
and flashing, that her hands went forward; “nobody knows what John Ridd
is, because he is so modest. I mean, nobody except me, dear.” And here
she turned to me again, and rose upon tiptoe, and kissed me.
“I have seen a little o' the world,” said the old man, while I was half
ashamed, although so proud of Lorna; “but this is beyond all I have
seen, and nearly all I have heard of. It is more fit for southern
climates than for the fogs of Exmoor.”
“It is fit for all the world, your worship; with your honour's good
leave, and will,” I answered in humility, being still ashamed of it;
“when it happens so to people, there is nothing that can stop it, sir.”
Now Sir Ensor Doone was leaning back upon his brown chair-rail, which
was built like a triangle, as in old farmhouses (from one of which it
had come, no doubt, free from expense or gratitude); and as I spoke he
coughed a little; and he sighed a good deal more; and perhaps his dying
heart desired to open time again, with such a lift of warmth and hope as
he descried in our eyes, and arms. I could not understand him then; any
more than a baby playing with his grandfather's spectacles; nevertheless
I wondered whether, at his time of life, or rather on the brink of
death, he was thinking of his youth and pride.
“Fools you are; be fools for ever,” said Sir Ensor Doone, at last; while
we feared to break his thoughts, but let each other know our own, with
little ways of pressure; “it is the best thing I can wish you; boy and
girl, be boy and girl, until you have grandchildren.”
Partly in bitterness he spoke, and partly in pure weariness, and then
he turned so as not to see us; and his white hair fell, like a shroud,
around him.
CHAPTER XLI
COLD COMFORT
All things being full of flaw, all things being full of holes, the
strength of all things is in shortness. If Sir Ensor Doone had dwelled
for half an hour upon himself, and an hour perhaps upon Lorna and me,
we must both have wearied of him, and required change of air. But now
I longed to see and know a great deal more about him, and hoped that he