Lorna Doone: A Romance of Exmoor
way the lights were twinkling, so different from the cold and darkness
of the rolling sea, moved the ancient Adam in me, if he could be found
to move. I love not a house with too many windows: being out of house
and doors some three-quarters of my time, when I get inside a house I
like to feel the difference. Air and light are good for people who have
any lack of them; and if a man once talks about them, 'tis enough to
prove his need of them. But, as you well know, John Ridd, the horse who
has been at work all day, with the sunshine in his eyes, sleeps better
in dark stables, and needs no moon to help him.
“Seeing therefore that this same inn had four windows, and no more,
I thought to myself how snug it was, and how beautiful I could sleep
there. And so I made the old horse draw hand, which he was only too glad
to do, and we clomb above the spring-tide mark, and over a little piece
of turf, and struck the door of the hostelry. Some one came and peeped
at me through the lattice overhead, which was full of bulls' eyes; and
then the bolt was drawn back, and a woman met me very courteously. A
dark and foreign-looking woman, very hot of blood, I doubt, but not
altogether a bad one. And she waited for me to speak first, which an
Englishwoman would not have done.
“'Can I rest here for the night?' I asked, with a lift of my hat to her;
for she was no provincial dame, who would stare at me for the courtesy;
'my horse is weary from the sloughs, and myself but little better:
beside that, we both are famished.'
“'Yes, sir, you can rest and welcome. But of food, I fear, there is but
little, unless of the common order. Our fishers would have drawn the
nets, but the waves were violent. However, we have--what you call it? I
never can remember, it is so hard to say--the flesh of the hog salted.'
“'Bacon!' said I; 'what can be better? And half dozen of eggs with it,
and a quart of fresh-drawn ale. You make me rage with hunger, madam. Is
it cruelty, or hospitality?'
“'Ah, good!' she replied, with a merry smile, full of southern sunshine:
'you are not of the men round here; you can think, and you can laugh!'
“'And most of all, I can eat, good madam. In that way I shall astonish
you; even more than by my intellect.'
“She laughed aloud, and swung her shoulders, as your natives cannot do;
and then she called a little maid to lead my horse to stable. However,
I preferred to see that matter done myself, and told her to send the
little maid for the frying-pan and the egg-box.
“Whether it were my natural wit and elegance of manner; or whether it
were my London freedom and knowledge of the world; or (which is perhaps
the most probable, because the least pleasing supposition) my ready and
permanent appetite, and appreciation of garlic--I leave you to decide,
John: but perhaps all three combined to recommend me to the graces of my
charming hostess. When I say 'charming,' I mean of course by manners
and by intelligence, and most of all by cooking; for as regards external
charms (most fleeting and fallacious) hers had ceased to cause distress,
for I cannot say how many years. She said that it was the climate--for
even upon that subject she requested my opinion--and I answered, 'if
there be a change, let madam blame the seasons.'
“However, not to dwell too much upon our little pleasantries (for I
always get on with these foreign women better than with your Molls and
Pegs), I became, not inquisitive, but reasonably desirous to know, by
what strange hap or hazard, a clever and a handsome woman, as she must
have been some day, a woman moreover with great contempt for the rustic
minds around her, could have settled here in this lonely inn, with
only the waves for company, and a boorish husband who slaved all day in
turning a potter's wheel at Watchett. And what was the meaning of the
emblem set above her doorway, a very unattractive cat sitting in a
ruined tree?
“However, I had not very long to strain my curiosity; for when she found
out who I was, and how I held the King's commission, and might be called
an officer, her desire to tell me all was more than equal to mine
of hearing it. Many and many a day, she had longed for some one both
skilful and trustworthy, most of all for some one bearing warrant from
a court of justice. But the magistrates of the neighbourhood would have
nothing to say to her, declaring that she was a crack-brained woman, and
a wicked, and even a foreign one.
“With many grimaces she assured me that never by her own free-will would
she have lived so many years in that hateful country, where the sky for
half the year was fog, and rain for nearly the other half. It was so
the very night when first her evil fortune brought her there; and so no
doubt it would be, long after it had killed her. But if I wished to know
the reason of her being there, she would tell me in few words, which I
will repeat as briefly.
“By birth she was an Italian, from the mountains of Apulia, who had
gone to Rome to seek her fortunes, after being badly treated in some
love-affair. Her Christian name was Benita; as for her surname, that
could make no difference to any one. Being a quick and active girl,
and resolved to work down her troubles, she found employment in a large
hotel; and rising gradually, began to send money to her parents. And
here she might have thriven well, and married well under sunny skies,
and been a happy woman, but that some black day sent thither a rich and
noble English family, eager to behold the Pope. It was not, however,
their fervent longing for the Holy Father which had brought them to St.
Peter's roof; but rather their own bad luck in making their home too
hot to hold them. For although in the main good Catholics, and pleasant
receivers of anything, one of their number had given offence, by the
folly of trying to think for himself. Some bitter feud had been among
them, Benita knew not how it was; and the sister of the nobleman who
had died quite lately was married to the rival claimant, whom they all
detested. It was something about dividing land; Benita knew not what it
was.
“But this Benita did know, that they were all great people, and rich,
and very liberal; so that when they offered to take her, to attend to
the children, and to speak the language for them, and to comfort the
lady, she was only too glad to go, little foreseeing the end of it.
Moreover, she loved the children so, from their pretty ways and that,
and the things they gave her, and the style of their dresses, that it
would have broken her heart almost never to see the dears again.
“And so, in a very evil hour, she accepted the service of the noble
Englishman, and sent her father an old shoe filled to the tongue with
money, and trusted herself to fortune. But even before she went, she
knew that it could not turn out well; for the laurel leaf which she
threw on the fire would not crackle even once, and the horn of the goat
came wrong in the twist, and the heel of her foot was shining. This made
her sigh at the starting-time; and after that what could you hope for?
“However, at first all things went well. My Lord was as gay as gay could
be: and never would come inside the carriage, when a decent horse could
be got to ride. He would gallop in front, at a reckless pace, without a
weapon of any kind, delighted with the pure blue air, and throwing his
heart around him. Benita had never seen any man so admirable, and so
childish. As innocent as an infant; and not only contented, but noisily
happy with anything. Only other people must share his joy; and the
shadow of sorrow scattered it, though it were but the shade of poverty.
“Here Benita wept a little; and I liked her none the less, and believed
her ten times more; in virtue of a tear or two.
“And so they travelled through Northern Italy, and throughout the south
of France, making their way anyhow; sometimes in coaches, sometimes in
carts, sometimes upon mule-back, sometimes even a-foot and weary; but
always as happy as could be. The children laughed, and grew, and throve
(especially the young lady, the elder of the two), and Benita began
to think that omens must not be relied upon. But suddenly her faith in
omens was confirmed for ever.
“My Lord, who was quite a young man still, and laughed at English
arrogance, rode on in front of his wife and friends, to catch the first
of a famous view, on the French side of the Pyrenee hills. He kissed his
hand to his wife, and said that he would save her the trouble of coming.
For those two were so one in one, that they could make each other know
whatever he or she had felt. And so my Lord went round the corner, with
a fine young horse leaping up at the steps.
“They waited for him, long and long; but he never came again; and within
a week, his mangled body lay in a little chapel-yard; and if the priests
only said a quarter of the prayers they took the money for, God knows
they can have no throats left; only a relaxation.
“My lady dwelled for six months more--it is a melancholy tale (what true
tale is not so?)--scarcely able to believe that all her fright was not a
dream. She would not wear a piece or shape of any mourning-clothes;
she would not have a person cry, or any sorrow among us. She simply
disbelieved the thing, and trusted God to right it. The Protestants, who
have no faith, cannot understand this feeling. Enough that so it was;
and so my Lady went to heaven.
“For when the snow came down in autumn on the roots of the Pyrenees, and
the chapel-yard was white with it, many people told the lady that it was
time for her to go. And the strongest plea of all was this, that now she
bore another hope of repeating her husband's virtues. So at the end of
October, when wolves came down to the farm-lands, the little English
family went home towards their England.
“They landed somewhere on the Devonshire coast, ten or eleven years
agone, and stayed some days at Exeter; and set out thence in a hired
coach, without any proper attendance, for Watchett, in the north of
Somerset. For the lady owned a quiet mansion in the neighbourhood of
that town, and her one desire was to find refuge there, and to meet her
lord, who was sure to come (she said) when he heard of his new infant.
Therefore with only two serving-men and two maids (including Benita),
the party set forth from Exeter, and lay the first night at Bampton.
“On the following morn they started bravely, with earnest hope of
arriving at their journey's end by daylight. But the roads were soft and
very deep, and the sloughs were out in places; and the heavy coach broke
down in the axle, and needed mending at Dulverton; and so they lost
three hours or more, and would have been wiser to sleep there. But her
ladyship would not hear of it; she must be home that night, she said,
and her husband would be waiting. How could she keep him waiting now,
after such a long, long time?
“Therefore, although it was afternoon, and the year now come to
December, the horses were put to again, and the heavy coach went up the
hill, with the lady and her two children, and Benita, sitting inside
of it; the other maid, and two serving-men (each man with a great
blunderbuss) mounted upon the outside; and upon the horses three Exeter
postilions. Much had been said at Dulverton, and even back at Bampton,
about some great freebooters, to whom all Exmoor owed suit and service,
and paid them very punctually. Both the serving-men were scared, even
over their ale, by this. But the lady only said, 'Drive on; I know a
little of highwaymen: they never rob a lady.'”
“Through the fog and through the muck the coach went on, as best
it might; sometimes foundered in a slough, with half of the horses
splashing it, and some-times knuckled up on a bank, and straining across