IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-S) /. 1.0 I.I 1.25 ■f i^ IIM Iff ■- 12.2 ^ 1^ U ?.o 1.8 LA. Ill 1.6 V] <^ /J >>J y^ '•^ '/ Hiotographic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, U.Y. 14580 (7t6) 872-4503 CIHM/ICMH Microfiche Series. CIHM/ICMH Collection de microfiches. Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions / Institut Canadian de microreproductions historiques Technical and Bibliographic Notes/Notes techniques et bibliographiques The institute has attempted to obtain the best original copy available for filming. Features of this copy which may be bibliographically unique, which may alter any of the images in the reproduction, or which may significantly change the usual method of filming, are checked below. D Coloured covers/ Couverture de couleur I I Covers damaged/ D Couverture endommagde Covers restored and/or laminated/ Couverture restaurde et/ou pelliculde I I Cover title missing/ Le titre de couverture manque I I Coloured maps/ D Cartes gdographiques en couleur Coloured ink (i.e. other than blue or black)/ Encre de couleur (i.e. autre que bleue ou noire) I I Coloured plates and/or illustrations/ D Planches et/ou illustrations en couleur Bound with other material/ Reli§ avec d'autres documents I ~V Tight binding may cause shadows or distortion L-Jll along interior margin/ La reliure serree peut causer de I'ombre ou de la distortion le long de la marge intdrieure D D Blank leaves added during restoration may appear within the text. Whenever possible, these have been omitted from filming/ II se peut que certaines pages blanches ajout6es lors dune resiauration apparaissent dans le texte, mais, lorsque cela dtait possible, ces pages n'ont pas dt6 filmdes. Additional comments:/ Commentdires suppldmentaires; L'Institut a microfilm^ le meilleur exemplaire qu'il lui a 6t6 possible de se procurer. Les details de cet exemplaire qui sont peut-dtre uniques du point de vue bibliographique, qui peuvent modifier une image reproduite, ou qui peuvent exiger une modification dans la mdthode normale de filmage sont indiquds ci-dessous. Tl to I I Coloured pages/ Pages de couleur Pages damaged/ Pages endommag^es Pages restored and/oi Pages restaur^es et/ou pellicul^es Pages discoloured, stained or foxei Pages d6color6es, tachetdes ou piqu6es I I Pages damaged/ I I Pages restored and/or laminated/ rp^ Pages discoloured, stained or foxed/ Tl P< o1 fil O b( \Y si ol fil si o( □Pages detached/ Pages d6tach6es r~~j/Showthrough/ L±j Transparence □ Quality of print varies/ Quality indgale de I'impression □ Includes supplementary material/ Comprend du materiel supplementaire C~| Only edition available/ J Seule Edition disponible D Pages wholly or partially obscured by errata slips, tissues, etc., have been refilmed to ensure the best possible image/ Les pages totalement ou partiellement obscurcies par un feuillet d'errata, une pelure, etc., ont 6t^ film^es d nouveau de fapon d obtenir la m^iileure image possible. Tl si Tl w IVI di ei b< ri( re m This item is filmed at the reduction ratio checked below/ Ce document est filmi au taux de rMuction indiqut ci-dessous. 10X 14X 18X 22X 26X 30X / 12X 16X 20X 24X 28X n 32X The copy filmed here has been reproduced thanks to the generosity of: l^ational Library of Canada L'exemplaire film6 fut reproduit grdce d la g6n6rosit6 de: Bibliothdque nationale du Canada The images appearing here are the best quality possible considering the condition and legibility of the original copy and in keeping with the filming contract specifications. Les images suivantes ont 6t6 reproduites avec le plus grand noin, compte tenu de la condition et de la nette<6 de rexemplaire filmd, et en conformitift avec les conditions du contrat de filmago. Original copies in printed paper covers are filmed beginning with the front cover and ending on the last page with a printed or illustrated impres- sion, or the back cover when appropriate. All other original copies are filmed beginning on the first page with a printed or illustrated impres- sion, and ending on the last page with a prirtt.'l or illustrated impression. The last recorded frame on each microfiche shall contain the symbol —^(meaning "CON- TINUED"), or the symbol V (meaning "END"), whichever applies. Les exemplaires originaux dont la couverture en papier est imprim6e sont film6s en commenpant par le premier plat et en terminant soit par la dernidrc cage qui comporte une empreinte d'impressien ou d'illustration, soit par le second plat, salon le cas. Tous les autres exemplaires originaux sont film6s en commen9ant par la premidre page qui comporte une empreinte d'impression ou d'illustration et en terminant par la dernidre page qui comporte une telle empreinte. Un des symboles suivants apparaltra sur la dernidre image de cheque microfici.e, selon le cas: le symbols — »> signifie "A SUIVRE", le symbols V signifie "FIN". Maps, plates, charts, etc., may be filmed at different reduction ratios. Those too large to be entirely included in one exposure are filmed beginning in the upper left hand corner, left to right and top to bottom, as many frames as required. The following diagrams illustrate the method: Les cartes, planches, tableaux, etc.. peuvent dtre filmds d des taux de reduction diffdrents. Lorsque le document est trop grand pour dtre reproduit en un seul cliche, il est filmd d partir de I'angle sup6rieur gauche, de gauche d droite, et de haut en bas, en prenant le nombre d'images n6cessaire. Les diagrammes suivants illustrent la mdthode. 1 2 3 i ■:i LORNA DOONE J ^6 9 1(ifhard Doddridge "Blac^more T9as horn ai Longworth, 'Berkshire, June 7, 1825, and died January 20, ipoo. He went to BlundelPs School, Tiverton, and then to Exeter College, Oxford This hook ivas first published in i86p. " ' ■' i ! ,. ^ Printed in Great Britain 'i j 'I l''\ LIBRARY OF CLASS ics l6 LORNA DOONE by R. D. BLACKMORE ■■m I'' THE RYERSON PRESS 0% TORONTO % ^ ,',* i^k .'4* f- I I On rKUlsi- -. fi^ I! 1 !.. /■■■- 7 ''4 .} I Ci . t ! i ) S |! in ^ i 4 : ■ /■ il! ; 1 in : t i : f \\\ I V' 1. I] :, ,1 ,j' 1. '.. ' ". >) p 'T y «■■' i* rv .'' y -i 1 ' -^ .,^ •v*^' «-"3 ' i NE It doum the causeway from the school-porch even to the gate where Cop has his dwellmg and duty. Little it recked us and helped them less, that they were our founder's citizens, and haply his own grand-nephews (for he left no direct descendants), neither did we much inquire what their lineage was. For it had long been fixed among us, who were of the house and chambers, that these same day-boys were all *caddes,' as we had discovered to call it, because they paid no groat for their schooling, and brought their own commons with them. In consumption of these we would help them, for our fare in hall fed appetite; and while we ate their victuals, we allowed them freely to talk to us. Nevertheless, we could not feel, when all the victuals were gone, but that these boys required kicking from the premises of Blundell. And some of them were shopkeepers' sons, young grocers, fellmongers, and poulterers, and these to their credit seemed to know how righteous it was to kick them. But others were of high family, as any need be, in Devon — Caxews, and Bouchiers, and Bastards, and some of these would turn sometimes, and strike the boy that kicked I them. But to do them justice, even these knew that they [must be kicked for not paying. ^ After these 'charity-boys ' were gone, as in contumely jwe called liiem — *If you break my bag on my head,' said one, 'how will feed thence to-morrow?' — and after old Icop with clang of iron had jammed the double gates in [under the scruff-stone archway, whereupon are Latin [verses, done in brass of small quality, some ot us who [were not hungry, and cared not for the supper-bell, hav- ing sucked much parliament and dumps at my only [charges — not that I ever bore much wealth, but because I [had been thrifting it for this timfe of my birth — we were [leaning quite at dusk against the iron bars of the gate, [some six, or it may be seven of us, small boys all, and not :onspicuous in the closing of the daylight and the fog that :ame at eventide, else Cop would have rated us up the reen, for he was churly to little boys when his wife had [taken their money. There was plenty of room for all of us, for the gate will hold nine boys close-packed, unless they )e fed rankly, whereof is little danger; and -^w we wero looking out on the road and wishing we could get there; "loping, moreover, to see a good string of pack-horses come )y, with troopers to protect them. For tiie day-boys had Z2 LORNA DOONE ! 1 brought us word that some intending their way to the town had lain that morning at Sampford Peveril, and must be in ere nightfall, because Mr. Fa^gus was after them. Now Mr. Fag^us was my first cousm and an honour to the family, bemg a Northmclton man of great renown on the highway from Barum town even to London. Therefore of course, I hoped that he would catch the packmen, and the boys were asking my opinion, as of an oracle, about it. A certain boy leaning up against me would not allow my elbow room, and struck me very sadly in the stomach part, though his own was full of my parhament. And this I felt so unkindly, that I smote him straightway in the face without tarrying to consider it, or weighing the question duly. Upon this he put his head down, and presented it so vehemently at the middle of my waist- coat, that for a minute or more my breath seemed drop ped, as it were, from my pockets, and my life seemed to stop from great want of ease. Before I came to myself again, it had been settled for us that we should move to the 'Ironing-box,' as the triangle of turf is called where the two causeways coming from the school-porch and the hall-porch meet, and our fights are mainly celebrated; only we must wait until the convoy of horses had passed, and then make a ring by candlelight, and the other boys would like it. But suddenly there came round the post where the letters of our founder are, not from the way ol Taunton, but from the side of Lowman bridge, a ver^' small string of horses, only two indeed (counting for one the pony), and a red-faced man en the bigger nag. 'Plaise ye, worshipful masters,' he said, being feared of the gateway, 'cam 'e tuU whur our Jan Ridd be?' 'rfyur a be, ees fai, Jan Ridd,' answered a sharp little chap, making game of John Fry's language. 'Zhow un up, then,' says John Fry poking his whip through the bars at us; 'Zhow un up, and putt un aowt.' The other little chaps pointed at me, and some began to hallo; but I knew what I was about. 'Oh, John, John,' I cried, 'what's the use of your com- ing now, and Peggy over the moors, too, and it so cruel cold for her? The holidays don't begin till Wednesday fortnight, John. To think of your not knowing that!' John Fry leaned lorward in the saddle, and turned his eyes away from me; and then there was a noise in his throat like a snail crawling on a window-pane. • LORNA DOONE X3 'Oh, us knaws that wuU enough, Maister Jan; reckon every Oare-man knaw that, without go to skoo-ull, like you doth. Your moother have kept arl the apples up, and old Betty toorned the black pud 'lens, and none dare set trap for a blagbird. Arl for thee, . \d', every bit of it now for thee!' He checked himself suddenly, and frightened me. I knew that John Fry's way so well. 'And father, and father — oh, how is father?' I pushed the boys right and left as I said it. 'John, is father up in town ! He always used to come for me, and leave nobody else to do it.' 'Vayther '11 be at the crooked post, tother zide o* teliing-house.* Her coodn't lave 'ouze by raison of the Chirstmas bakkon comin' on, and zome o' the cider welted.* He looked at the nag's ears as he said it; and, being up to John Fry's ways, I knew that it was a lie. And my heart fell like a lump of lead, and I leaned back on the stay of the gate, and lop^'^d no more to fight anybody. I A sort of dull power hung over me, like the cloud of a brooding tempest, and I feared to be told anything. I idid not even care to stroke the nose of my pony Peggy, although she pushed it in through the rails, where a [square of broader lattice is, and snifiEed at me, and began [to crop gently after my fingers. But whatever lives or Idles, business must be attended to; and the principal Ibusiness of good Christians is, beyond all controversy, to [fight with one another. 'Come up, Jack,' said one of the boys, lifting me under [the chin; 'he hit you, and you hit him, you know.' 'Pay your debts before you go,' said a monitor, striding lup to me, after hearing how the honour lay; 'Ridd, you Kust go through with it.' 'Fight, for the sake of the junior first,' cried the little Eellow in my ear, the clever one, the head of our class, ^ho had mocked John Fry, and knew ail about the Lorists, and tried to make me know it; but I never went lore than three places up, and then it was an accident, ind I came down after dinner. The boys were urgent round me to fight, though my stomach was not up for it; ind being very slow of wit (which is not chargeable on • The ' telllng-houte* ' on Uie moor are rude cot« where the ahepiier Ji meet, ' ' ten ' tiaeir Ihevp at tla* tnd oC tHe jMuturlag Mown. 14 LORNA DOONE I i i I me), I looked from one to other of them, seeking any cure for it. Not that I was afraid of fightmg, for now I had been three years at Blundell's, and foughten, all that time, a fight at least once every week, till ■&& boys began to know me; only that the load on my heart was not sprightly as of the hay-field. It is a very sad thing to dwell on; but even now, in my time of wisdom, I doubt it is a fond thing to imagine, and a motherly to insist upon, that boys can do without fighting. Unless they be very good boys, and afraid of one another. 'Nay,* I said, with my back against the wrought-iron stay of the gate, which was socketed into Cop's house- front: 'I will not fight thee now, Robin Snell, but wait till I come back again.' 'Take coward's blow, Jack Ridd, then,' cried half a dozen little boys, shoving Bob Snell forward to do it; because they all knew well enough, having striven with me ere now, and proved me to be their master — they knew, 1 say, that without great change, I would never accept that contumely. But I took little heed of them, looking in dull wonderment at John Fry, and Smiler, and the blunderbuss, and Peggy. John Fry was scratching his head, I could see, and getting blue in the face, by the light from Cop's parlour- window, and going to and fro upon Smiler, as if he were hard set with it. And all the time he was looking briskly from my eyes to the fist I was clenching, and methought he tried to wink at me in a covert manner; and then Peggy whisked her tail. 'Shall I fight, John?' I said at last; 'I would an you had not come, John.* 'Chraist's will be done; I zim thee had better faight, Jan,' he answered, in a whisper, through the gridiron of the gate; 'there be a dale of faighting avore thee. Best wai to begin gude taime laike. WuU the geatman latt me in, to zee as thee hast vair plai, lad?' He looked doubtfully down at the colour of his cowskin boots, and the mire upon the horses, for the sloughs were exceedingly mucky. Peggy, indeed, my sorrel pony, being lighter of weight, wad not crusted much over the shoulders; but Smiler (our youngest sledder) had been well in over his withers, and none would have deemed him a piebald, save of red mire and black ;mire The great blunderbuss, moreover, was choked with a dollop of slough-cake; and John Fry'ii sad-coloured Sunday hat LORNA DOONE ^5 was indued with a plume of marish-weed. All this I saw while he was dismounting, heavily and wearily, lifting his leg from the saddle-clothi as if with a sore cnck in his back. ■ ■" " ' ^'-^ •'-'"■' ■■' ' ■'-'= '"-' •■"■.' '^ By this time the question of fighting was gone quite out of our own discretion; for sundry dE the elder boys, grave and reverend signors, who had taken no small pleasure in teaching our hands to fi^ht, to ward, to parry, to feign and counter, to lunge m the manner of sword-play, and the weaker child to drop on one knee when no cunning of fence might baffle the onset — these great masters oi the art, who would far liefer see us little ones practise it than themselves engage, six cr seven of them came running down the rounded cause- way, having heard that there had arisen 'a snug little miU' at the gate. Now whether that word hath origin in a Greek term meaning a conflict, as the best-read boys asseverated, or whether it is nothing more than a figure of similitude, from the beating arms of a mill, such as I have seen in counties where are no waterbrooks, but folk make bread with wind — ^it is not for a man devoid of scholarship to determine. Enough that they who made the ring intituled the scene a 'mill,' while we who must be thumped inside it tried to rejoice in their pleasantry, till it turned upon the stomach. Moreover, I felt u|)on me now a certain responsibility, a dutiful need to maintain, in the presence of John Fry, the manliness of the Ridd family, and the honour of Exmoor. Hitherto none had worsted me, al^ough in the three years of my schooling, 1 had fought more than threescore battles, and bedewed with blood every plant of grass towards tiie middle of the Ironing-box. And this success I owed at first to no skill of my own; until I came to know better; for up to twenty or thirty fights, I struck as nature guided me, no wiser than a father-long-legs in the heat of a lanthom; but I had conquered, partly through my native strength, and the Exmoor toughness in me, and still more that I could not see when I had gotten my bellyful. But now I was like to have that and more; for my heart was down, to begin with; and then Robert Snell was a bigger boy than I had ever encoun- tered, and as thick in the skull and hard in the brain as even I could claim to be. >•> if Hii I had never told my mother a word about these fre- z6 LORNA DOONE il ?ueiit strivings, because she was soft-hearted; neither had told my father, because he had not seen it. Therefore, beholding me still an innocent-looking child, with fair curls on my forehead, and no store of bad language, John Fry thought this was the very first fight that ever had befallen me; and so when they let him in at the gate, 'with a message to the headmaster,' as one of the moni- tors told Cop, and Peggy and Smiler were tied to the railings, till I should be through my business, John comes up to me with the tears in his eyes, and says, 'Doon't thee goo for to do it, Jan; doon't thee do it, for gude now.* But I told him that now it was much too late to cry off; no he said, 'The Lord be with thee, Jan, and turn thy thumb-knuckle inwards.' It was not a very large piece of ground in the angle of the causeways, but quite big enough to fight upon, especially for Christians, who love to be cheek by jowl at it. The great boys stood in a circle around, being gifted with strong privilege, and the little boys had leave to Ue flat and look through the l^gs of the great boys. But while we were yet preparing, and the candles hissed in the fog-cloud, old Phoebe, of more than fourscore years, whose room was over the hall-porch, came hobbling out, as she always did, to mar the joy of the conflict. No one ever heeded her, neither did she expt^ct it; but the evil was that two senior boys must always lose the first round of the fight, by having to lead her home again. I marvel how Robin, Snell felt. Very likely he thought nothing of it, always having been a boy of a hectoring and unruly sort. But I felt my heart go up and down as the boys came round to strip me; and greatly fearing to be beaten, I blew hot upon my knuckles. Then pulled I off my little cut jerkin, and laid it down on my head cap, and over that my waistcoat, and a boy was proud to take care of them. Thomas Hooper was his name, and I remember how he looked at me. My mother had made that little cut jerkin, in the quiet winter evenings, and taken pride to loop it up in a fashionable way, and I was loth to soil it with blood, and good filberds were in the pocket. Then up to me came Robin Snell (mayor of Exeter thrice since that), and he stood very square, and looked at me, and I lacked not long to look at him. Rojnd his waist he had a kerchief busking up his small- clothes, and on his feet light pumpkin shoes, and all his LORNA DOONE tr upper raiment o3. And he danced about in a wav that made my head swim on my shoulders, and he stood some inches over me. But I, being muddled with much doubt about John Fry and his errand, was only stripped of my jerkin and waistcoat, and not comfortable to begin. I 'Come now, shake hands,' cried a big boy, jumping in joy of the spectacle, a third-former nearly six feet high; 'shake hands, you little devils. Keep your pluck up, and show good sport, and Lord love the better man of you.* Robin took me by the hand, and gazed at ue disdain- fully, and then smote me painfully in the face, ere I could get my fence up. 'Whutt be 'bout, lad?' cried John Fry; 'hutt un again, Jan, wull 'e? Well done then, our J^n boy.* I For I had replied to Robin now, with all the weight and cadence of penthemimeral caesura (a thing, the name of which I know, but could never make head nor tail of it), and the strife began in a serious style, and the boys looking on were not cheated. Although I could not collect their shouts when the blows were ringing upon me, it was no great loss; for John Fry told me afterwards that their oaths went up like a furnace fire. But to these we paid no heed or hap, being in the thick of swinging, and Idevoid of judgment. All I know is, I came to my comer, [when the round was over, with very hard pumps in my :hest, and a great desire to fall away. 'Time is up,' crieA head-monitor, ere ever I got my [breath again; and when I fain would have lingered awhile Ion the knee of the boy that held me. John Fry had come jup, and the boys were laughing because he wanted a [stable lanthom, and threatened to tell my mother. 'Time is up,' cried another boy, more headlong than [head-monitor. 'If we count three before the come of [thee, thwacked thou art, and must go to the women.' jl felt it hard upon me. He began to count, one, two, [three — ^but before the 'three* was out of his mouth, I [was facing my foe, with both hands up, and my breath [going rough and hot, and resolved to wait the turn of it. [For I had found seat en the knee of a boy sage and skilled :o tutor me, who knew how much the end very often liffers from the beginning. A rare ripe scholar he was; land now he hath routed up the Germans in the matter of [criticism. Sure the clever boys and men have most love |toward^ the stupid ones. rf .ii«<-'^M*v: ..: -, I,** ?>,,lA%■l^.^.y^A *tfcf>i.> i/j- z8 LORNA DOONE It 'Finish him off, Bob/ cried a big boy, and that I noticed especially, because I thought it uzikind of him. after eating of my toffee as he had that afternoon; 'finish him oS, neck and crop; he deserves it for sticking up to a man like you.' But I was not so to be finished off, though feeling in my knuckles now as if it were a blueness and a sense of chilblain. Nothing held except my legs, and they were good to help me. So this bout, or round, if you please, was foughten warily by me, with gentle recollection of what my tutor, the clever boy, had told me, and some resolve to earn his praise before I came back to his knee again. And never, 1 think, in all my life, sounded sweeter words in my eaxs (except when my love loved me) than when my second and backer, who had made himself part of my doings now, and would have wept to see me beaten, said, — , . > 'Famously done. Jack, famously! Only keep youx wind up. Jack, and you'll go right through him!' Meanwhile John Fry was prowling about, asking the boys what they thought of it, and whether I was li£e to be killed, because of my mother's trouble. But finding now that I had foughten three-score fights already, he came up to me woefully, in the quickness of my breath- ing, while I sat on the knee of my second, with a piece of spjngious coralline to ease me of my bloodshed, and he .•jays in my ears, as if he was clapping spurs into a ho'^e,- • 'Never thee knack under, Jan, or never coom naigh Hexmoor no more.' With that it was all up with me. A simmering buzzed in my heavy brain, and a light came through my eye- places. At once I set both fists again, and my heart stuck to me like cobbler's wax. Either Hobin Snell should kill me, or I would conquer Robin SneU. So I went in again with my courage up, and Bob came smiling for victory, and I hated him for smiling. He let at me with his left hand, and I gave him my right between bis eyes, and he blinked, and was not pleased with it. I feared him not, and spared him not, neither spared myself. My breath came again, and my heart stood cool, and my eyes struck fire no longer. Only I knew that I would die sooner than shame my birthplace. How the rest of it was I know not; only l^at I had the end of it, and helped to put Robin in bed. LORNA DOONE S9 CHAPTER III THE WAR-PATH OF THE DOONES From Tiverton town to the town of Oare is a very long and painful road, and in good truth the traveller must make his way, as the saying is; for the way is still un- made, at least, on this side of Dulverton, although there is less danger now than in the time of my schooling; for now a go(^ horse may go there without much cost of leaping, but when I was a boy the spurs would fail, when needed most, by reason of the slough-cake. It is to the credit of this age, and our advance upon fatherly ways, that now we have laid down rods and fagots, and even stump-oaks here and there, so that a man in good day- light need not sink, if he be quite sober. There is nothing I have striven at more than doing my duty, way-warden over Exmr: . But in those days, when I came from school (and good times they were, too, full of a warmth and fine hearth- comfort, which now are dying out), it was a sad and sorry business to find where lay the highway. We are taking now to mark it off with a fence on either side, at least, when a town is handy; but to me this seems of a high pretence, and a sort of landmark, and channel for rob- bers, though well enough near London, where they have earned a race-course. We left the town of the two fords, which they say is the meaning of it, very early in the morning, after lying one day to rest, as was demanded by the nags, sore of foot and foundered- For my part, too, "^ was glad to rest, having aches all over me, and very heavy bruises: and we lodged at the sign of the White Horse Inn, in -Uie street called Gold Street, opposite where the souls are of John and Joan Green way, set up in gold letters, because we must take the homeward way at cockcrow of tiie morning. Though still John Fry was dry with me of the reason of his coming, and only told lies about father, and could not keep them agreeable, I hoped for the best, as all boys will, especially after a victory. And I thought, perhaps father had sent for me because he had a good harvest, and the rats were bad in the corn-chamber. It was high noon before we were got to Dulverton that 20 LORNA DOONE 'Jl I day, near to which town the river Exe and its big brother Barle have union. My mother had an uncle living there, but we were not to visit his house this time, at which I was somewhat astonished, since we needs must stop for at least two hours, to bait our horses thorough well, be- fore coming to the black bogway. The bogs are very good in frost, except where the hot-springs rise; but as yet there had been no frost this year, save just enough to make the blackbirds look big in the morning. In a hearty black-frost they look small, until the snow falls over them. The road from Bampton to Dulverton had not been very delicate, yet nothing to complain of much — no deeper, indeed, than the hocks of a norse, except in the rotten places. The day was inclined to be mild and foggy, and both nags sweated freely; but Peggy carrying little weight (for my wardrobe was upon SmUer, and John Fry grumbling always), we could easily keep in front, as far as you may hear a laugh. John had been rather bitter with me, which methought was a mark of ill taste at coming home for the holidays; and yet I made allowance for John, because he had never been at school, and never would have chance to eat fry upon condition of spelling it; therefore I rode on, thinking that he was hard-set, like a saw, for his dinner, and would soften after tooth-work. And yet at his most hungry times, when his mind was far gone upon bacon, certes he seemed to check himself and look at me as iJE he were sorry for little things coming over great. But now, at Dulverton, we dined upon the rarest and choicest victuals that ever I did taste. Even now, at my time of life, to think of it gives me appetite, as once and awhile to think of my first love makes me love all good- ness. Hot mutton pasty was a thing I had often heard of from very wealthy boys and men, who made a dessert of dinner; and to hear them talk of it made my lips smack, and my ribs come inwards. And now John Fry strode into the hostel, with the air and grace of a short-legged man, and shouted as loud as if he was calling sheep upon Exmoor, — *Hot mooton pasty for twoo trarv'lers, at number vaive, in vaive minnits ! Dish un up in the tin with the grahvy, zame as I hardered last Tuesday.' Of course it did not come in five minutes, nor yet in ten or twenty; but that made it all the better when it came LORXA DOONE t* to the real presence; and th& smell of it was enough to make an empty man thank God for the room there was inside him. Fifty years have passed me quicker than the taste of that gravy. It is the manner of all good boys to be careless of apparel, and take no pride in adornment. Good lack, if I see a boy make to do about the fit of his crumpler, and the creasing of his breeches, and desire to be shod for comeliness rather than for use, I cannot 'scape the mark that God took thought to make a girl of him. Not so when they grow older, and court the regard of the maidens; then may the bravery pass from the inside to the outside of them; and no bigger fools are they, even then, than their fathers were before them. But God forbid any man to be a fool to love, and be loved, as I have been. Else would he have prevented it. When the mutton pasty was done, and Peggy and Smiler had dined well also, out I went to wash at the pump, being a lover of soap and water, at all risk, except of my dinner. And John Fry, who cared very little to wash, save Sabbath days in his own soap, and who had kept me from the pump by threatening loss of the dish, out he came in a satisfied manner, with a piece of quill in his hand, to lean against a door-post, and listen to the horses feeding, and have his teeth ready for supper. Then a lady's-maid came out, and the sun was on her I face, and she turned round to go back again; but put a better face upon it, and gave a trip and hitched her dress, and looked at the sun full body, lest the hostlers [should laugh that she was losing her complexion. With a long Itahan glass in her fingers very daintily, she came up to the pump ir the middle of the yard, where I was j running the water off all my head and shoulders, and arms, and some of my breast even, and though I had glimpsed her through the sprinkle, it gave me quite a turn to see her, child as I was, in my open aspect. But she looked at me, no whit abashed, making a baby of me, no doubt, as a woman of thirty will do, even with a very big boy when they catch him on a ha3nrick, and she said to me in a brazen manner, as if I had been nobody, while I was shrinking behind the pump, and craving to get my shirt on, 'Good leetle boy, come hither to me. Fine heaven ! how blue your eyes are, and your skin like snow; but some naughty man has beaten it black. Oh, leetle i 22 I-ORNA DOONE 1 1 ;i! •I' i|,.r if) ili boy, let me feel it. Ah, how then it must have hurt you ! There now, and you ^all love me.* All this time &e was touching my breast, here and there, very lightly, with her delicate brown fingers, and I understood from her voice and manner that she was not of this country, but a foreigner by extraction. And then I was not so shy of her, because I could talk better English than she; and yet I longed for my jerkin, but liked not to be rude to her. *If you please, madam, J must go. John Fry is waiting bv the tapster's door, and Peggy neighing to me. If you please, we must get home to-night; and father will be waiting for me this side of the telling-house.* "There, there, you shall go, leetle dear, and perhaps I will go after you. I have taken much love of you. But the Baroness is hard to me. How far you call it now to the bank of the sea at Wash — ^Wash * 'At Watchett, likely you mean, madam. Oh, a very long way, and the roads as soft as the road to Oare.* *Oh-ah, oh-ah — I shall remember; that is the place where my leetle boy live, and some day I will come seek for him. Now make the pump to flow, my dear, and give me the good water. The Baroness will not touch unless a nebule be formed outside the glass.* I did not know what she meant by that; yet I pumped for her very heartily, and marvelled to see her for mty times throw the water away in the trough, as if it was not good enough. At last the water suited her, with a likeness of fog outside the glass, and the gleam of a crystal under it, and then she made a curtsey to me, in a sort of mocking manner, holding the long glass by lie foot, not to take the cloud ofiE; and then she wanted to kiss me; but I was out of breath, and have always been shy of Ihat v/ork, except when I come to ofEer it; and so I ducked under the pump-handle, and she knocked her chin on the knob of it; and the hostlers came out, and asked whether they would do as well. ^ ;; U: Upon this, she retreated up the yard, with a certain dark dignity, and a foreign way of walking, which stop- ped them at once from going farther, because it was so difEerent from the fashion of their sweethearts. One with another they hung back, where half a cart-load of hay was, and they looked to be sure that she would not turn round; and then each one laughed at the rest of them. II ill 1 LORNA DCX>NE «3 Now, up to the end of Dulverton town, on the north- ward side of it, where the two new pig-sties be, the Oare folk and the Watchett folk must trudge on together, until we come to a broken cross, where a murdered man lies buried. Peggy and Smiler went up the hill, as if nothing could be too much for them, after the beans they had eaten, and suddenly turning a comer of trees, v;e happened upon a great coach and six horses labour- ing very heavily. John Fry rode on with his hat in his hand, as became nim towards the quality; but I was amazed to that degree, that I left my cap on my head, and drew bridle without knowing it. For in the front seat of the coach, which was half-way open, being of new city-make, and the day in want of air, sate the foreign lady, who had met mc at the pump and offered to salute me. By her side was a little girl, dark-haired and very wonderful, with a wealthy softness on her, as if she must have her own way. I could not look at her for two glances, and she did not look at me for one, being such a little child, and busy with the hedges. But in the honourable place sate a handsome lady, very warmly dressed, and sweetly delicate of colour. And close to her was a Uvely child, two or it may be three years old, bearing a white cockade in his hat, and staring at all and everybody. Now, he saw Peggy, and took such a liking to her, that the lady his mother — ^if so she were — was forced to look at my pony and me. And, to ell the truth, although I am not of those who adore «iie high folk, she looked at us very kindly, and with a sweet- ness rarely found in the women who milk the cows for us. Then I took off my cap to the beautiful lady, without asking wherefore; and she put up her hand and kissed it to me, thinking, perhaps, that I looked like a gentle and jgood little boy; for folk always called me innocent, though '»od knows I never was that. But now the foreign lady, >r lady's maud, as it might be. who had been busy with '"'q dark eyes, turned upon all this going-on, and looked straight in the face. I was about to salute her, at a istance, indeed, and not with the nicety she had offered me, but, strange to say, she stared at my eyes as if e had never seen me before, neither wished to see me [ain. At this I was so startled, such things being out of y knowledge, that I startled Peggy also with the muscle my legs, and she being fresh from sts^ble, and the Ime ^ LORNA DOONE mire scraped off with cask-hoop, broke away so suddenly that I could do no more than turn round and lower my cap, now five months old, to the beautiful lady. Soon I overtook John Fry, and asked him all about them, and how it was that we had missed their starting from the hostel. But John would never talk much till after a gallon of cider; and all that I could win out of him was that they were 'murdering Papishers,' and little he cared to do with them, or the devil, as they came from. And a good thing for me, and a providence, that I was gone down Dulverton town to buy sweetstuff for Annie, slse my stupid head would have gone astray with their great out-coming. We saw no more of them after that, but turned into the sideway; and soon had the fill of our hands and eyes to look to our own going. For the road got worse and worse, until there was none at all, and perhaps the purest thing it could do was to be ashamed to show itself. But we pushed on as best we might, with doubt of reaching home any time, except by special grace of God. The fog came down upon the moors as thick as ever I saw it; and there was no sound of any sort, nor a breath of wind to guide us. The little stubby trees that stand here and there, like bushes with a wooden leg to them, were drizzled with a mess of wet, and hung their points with dropping. Wherever the butt-end of a hedgerow came up from the hollow ground, like the withers of a horse, holes of splash were pocked and pimpled in the yellow sand of coneys, or under the dwarf tree's ovens. But soon it was too dark to see that, or anjrthing else, I may say, except the creases in the dusk, where prisoned light crept up the valleys. After awhile even that was gone, and no other comfort left us except to see our horses' heads jogging to their footsteps, and the dark ground pass below us, lighter where the wet was; and then the splash, foot after foot, more clever than we can do it, and the orderly jerk of the tail, and the smell of what a horse is. John Fry was bowing forward with sleep upon his saddle, and now I could no longer see the frizzle of wet upon his beard — ^for he had a very brave one, of a bright red colour, and trimmed into a whale-oil knot, because he was newly married — although that comb of hair had been a subject of some wonder to tne, whether I» in God's LORNA DOONE «5 good time, should have the like of that, handsomely set with shining beads, small above and large below, from the weeping of the heaven. But still I could see the jog of his hat — a. Sunday hat with a top to it — and some of his shoulder bowed out in the mist, so that one could jay, 'Hold up, John,' when Smiler put his foot in. 'Mercy of God! where be us now?* said John Fry, waking suddenly; 'us ought to have passed hold hash, Jan. Zeen it on the road, have 'ee?' 'No indeed, John; no old ash. Nor nothing else to my knowing; nor heard nothing, save thee snoring.' 'Watt a vule thee must be then, Jan; and me myzeli I no better. Harken, lad, harken!' We drew our horses up and listened, through the [thickness of the air, and with our hands laid to our ears. I At first there was nothing to hear, except the panting of [the horses and the trickle of the eaving drops from our I head-covers and clothing, and the soft sounds of the lonely night, that make us feel, and try not to think. Then there came a mellow noise, very low and mourn- some, not a sound to be afraid of, but to long to know the meaning, with a soft rise of the hair. Three times it came and went again, as the shaking of a thread might pass [away into the distance; and then I touched John Fry to [know that there was something near me. 'Doon't 'e be a vule, Jan! Vaine moozick as iver I eer. God bless the man as made un doo it.* 'Have they hanged one of the Doones then, John?* 'Hush, lad; niver talk laike o* thiccy. Hang a Doone ! xod knoweth, the King would hang pretty quick if her iid.' : ,' - . 'Then who is it in the chains, John?' I felt my spirit rise as I asked; for now I had crossed ixmoor so often as to hope that the people sometimes ieserved it, and think that it might be a lesson to the rogues who unjustly loved the mutton they were never ')om to. But, of course, they were bom to hanging, ^hen they set themselves so high. 'It be nawbody,* said John, *vor us to make a fush ibout. Belong to t* other zide o* the moor, and come Staling shape to our zide. Red Jem Hannaford his name, thank God for him to be hanged, lad; and good cess to lis soul for craikin* zo.' .-nf xi So the sound of the quiet swinging led us very modestly. 36 LORNA DOONE ,, ;:,„ m as it came and went on the wind, loud and low pretty regularly, even as far as the foot of the gibbet where the four cross-ways are. 'Vamous job this here/ cried John, looking up to be sure of it, because there were so many; 'here be my own nick on the post. Red Jem, too, and no doubt of him; he do hang so handsome like, and his ribs up laike a horse a' most. God bless them as discoovered the way to make a rogue so useful. Good-naipht to thee, Jem, my lad; and not break thy drames with the craikin'.* John Fry shook his bridle-arm, and smote upon Smiler merrily, as he jogged into the homeward track from the guiding of the body. But I was sorry for Red Jem, and wanted to know more about him, and whether he might not have avoided this miserable end, and what his wife and children thought of it, if, indeed, he had any. But John would talk no more about it; and perhaps he was moved witii a lonesome feeling, as the creaking sound came after us. *Hould thee tongue, lad,' he said sharply; 'us be naigh the Doone-track now, two maile from Dunkery Beacon hill, the haighest place of Hexmoor. So happen they be abroad to-naight, us must crawl on our belly-places, boy.' I knew at once what he meant — ^those blcJoay Doones of Bagworthy, the awe of all Devon and Somerset, ou-daws, traitors, murderers. My little legs began to tremble to and fro upon Peggy's sides, as I heard the dead robber in chains behind us, and thought of the live ones still in front. 'But, John,' I whispered warily, sidling close to his saddle-bow; 'dear John, you don't think they will see us in such a fog as tifiis?' 'Never God made vog as could stop their eyesen,' he whispered in answer, fearfully; 'here us be by the hollow ground. Zober, lad, goo zober now, if thee wish to see thy moother.' «^^" , ' ' ^.r [ji-y v:.'Sv --^iKr- .. For I was inclined, in the manner of boys, to make a run of the danger, and cross the Doone-track at full speed; to rush for it, and be done with it. But even then I wondered why he talked of my mother so, and said not a word of father. We were come to a long deep 'goyal,' as they call it on Exmoor, a word whose fountain and origin I have nothing to do with. Only I know that when little b'jys laughed LORNA DOONE 27 at me at Tiverton, for talking about a *^oyal/ a big boy clouted them on tho head, and said that it was in Homer, and meant the holiow of the hand. And another time a Welshman told me that it must be something like the thing they call a 'pant' in those parts. Still I know what it means well enough — to ^it, a long trough among wild hills, falling towards the plain country, rounded at the bottom, perhaps, and stiff, more than steep, at the sides of it. Whel^er it be straight or crooked, makes no difference to it. We rode very carefully down our side, and through the soft grass at ttie bottom, and all the while we listened las if the air was a speaking-trumpet. Then gladly we breasted our nags to the rise, and were coming to the comb of it, when I heard something, and caught John's arm, and he bent his hand to the shape of his ear. it was the sound of horses' feet knocking up through splashy [ground, as if the bottom sucked them. Then a grunting of I weary men, and the lifting noise of stirrups, and some- times the clank cf iron mixed with the wheezy croning of [leather, and the blowing of hairy nostrils 'God's sake, Jack, slip round her belly, and let her go [where shj wull.' As John Fry whispered, so I did, for he was ofE Smiler [by this time; but our two pads were too fagged to go far, md began to nose about and crop, sniffing more than they need have done. I crept to John's side very softiy, ?ith the bridle on my arm. 'Let goo braidle; let goo, lad. Plaise God they take lem for forest-ponies, or they'll zend a bullet through IS.' •/ . • , I saw what he meant, and let go the bridle; for now the list was rolling off, and we were against the sky-line to le dark cavalcade below us. John lay on the ground by barrow of heather, where a little gullet was, and I crept b him, afraid of the noise I made in dragging my legs along, and the creak of my cord breeches. John bleated like a sheep to cover it — a sheep very cold and trembling. Then just as the foremost horseman passed, scarce twenty yards below us, a puff of wind came up the glen, ind the fog rolled off before it. And suddenly a strong |ed light, cast by the cloud-weight downwards, spread like £ngers over the moorland, opened the alleys of iarkness, and hung on the steel of the riders. ,,. ,, tB LORNA DOONE ti' I ii'. li;:' ^i- s.n I iiiii .111 ' 'Dunkery Beacon,' whispered John, so close into my ear, that I felt his lips and teeth ashake; 'dursn't fire it now except to show the Doones way home again, since the naight as they went up and throwed the watchmen atop of it. Why, wutt be 'bout, lad? God's sake ' For I could keep still no longer, but wriggled away from his arm, and along the little gullet, still going flat on my breast and thighs, until I was under a gray patch of stone, with a fringe of dry fern round it; there I lay, scarce twenty feet above the heads of the riders, and I feared to draw my breath, though prone to do it with wonder. For now the beacon was rushing up, in a fiery storm to heaven, and the form of its flame came and went in the folds, and the heavy sky was hovering. All around it was hung with red, deep in twisted columns, and then a giant beard of fire streamed throughout the darkness. The sullen hills were flanked with light, and the valleys chined with shadow, and all the sombrous moors between awoke in furrowed anger. But most of all the flinging fire leaped into the rocky mouth of the glen below me, where the horsemen passed in silence, scarcely deigning to look round. Heavy men and large of stature, reckless how they bore their guns, or how they sate their horses, with leathern jerkins, and long boots, and iron plates on breast and head, plunder heaped behind their saddles, and flagons slung in front of them; I counted more than thirty pass, like clouds upon red sunset. Some had carcasses of sheep swinging with their skins on, others had deer, and one had a child flung across his saddle-bow. Whether the child were dead, or alive, was more than I could tell, only it hung head downwards there, and must take the chance of it. They had got the child, a very young one, for the sake of the dress, no doubt, which they could not stop to pull off from it; for the dress shone bright, where the fire struck it, as if with gold and jewels. I longed in my heart to know most sadly what they would do with the little thing, and whether they would eat it. It touched me so to see that child, a prey among those vultures, that in my foolish rage and burning I stood up and shouted to them, leaping on a rock, and raving out of all possession. Two of them turned round, and one set his carbine at me, but the other said it was but a pixie, and bade him keep his powder. Little they knew, and less LOHNA DOONB «9 thought I, that the pixie then betore them would dance their castle down one day. . / . John Fry, who in the spring of fright had brought him- self down from Smiler's side, as if he were dipped in oil, now came up to me, all risk being over, cross, and stiff, and aching sorely from his wet couch of heather. 'Small thanks to thee, Jan, as my new waife bain't [a widder. And who be you to zupport of her, and her [son, if she have one? Zarve thee nght if I was to chuck thee down into ihe Doone-track. Zim thee'U come to un, zooner or later, if this be the zample of thee.* I And that was all he had to say, instead of thanking God! For if ever bom man was in a fright, and ready to thank God for anything, the name of that man was John Fry, not more than five minutes agone. However, I answered nothing at all, except to be ashamed of myself; and soon we found Peggy and Smiler [in company, well embarked on the homeward road, and victualling where the grass was good. Right glad they [were to see us again — not for the pleasure of carrying, but [because a horse (like a woman) lacks, and is better with- )ut, self-reliance. My father never came to meet us, at either side of the [telling-house, neither at the crooked post, nor even at iome-linhay% although the dogs kept such a noise that he mst have heard us. Home-side of the linhay, and under le ashen hedge-row, where father taught me to catch )lackbirds, all at once my heart went down, and all my )reast was hollow. There was not even the lanthorn light on the peg against the cow's house, and nobody said i Hold your noise ! ' to the dogs, or shouted 'Here our Jack Is!' I looked at the posts of the gate, in the dark, because fhey were tall, like father, and then at the door of the larness-room, where he used to smoke his pipe and sing. Then I thought he had guests perhaps — people lost upon the moors — whom he could not leave unkindly, even for pis son's sake. And yet about that I was jealous, and peady to be vexed with him, when he should begin to nake much of me. And I felt in my pocket for the new )ipe which I had brought him from Tiverton, and said to nyself, 'He^hall not have it until to-morrow morning.' Woe is me! I cannot tell. How I knew I know not low — only that I slunk away, without a tear, or thougfht 30 LORNA DOONE of weeping, and hid me in a saw-pit. There the timber, over-head, came like streaks across me; and all I wanted was to lack, and none to tell me anything . By-and-by, a noise came down, as of woman's weeping; and there my mother and sister were, choking and hold- ing together. Although they were my dearest loves, I could not bear to look at them, until they seemed to want my help, and put their hands before their eyes. CHAPTER IV A VERY RASH VISIT J My dear father had been killed by the Doones of Bag- worthy, while riding home from Porlock market, on the Saturday evening. With him were six brother-farmers, all of them very sober; for father would have no company with any man who went beyond half a gallon of beer, or a single gallon of cider. The robbers had no grudge against him; for he had never flouted them, neither made over- much of outcry, because they robbed other people. For he was a man of such strict honesty, and due parish feel- ing, tiiat he knew it to be every man's own business to defend himself and his goods; unless he belonged to our parish, and then we must look after him. These seven good farmers were jogging along, helping one another in the troubles of the road, and singing goodly hymns and songs to keep their courage moving, when suddenly a horseman stopped in the starlight full across them. By dress and arms they knew him well, and by his size and stature, shown against the glimmer of the evening star; and though he seemed one man to seven, it was in truth one man to one. Of the six who had been singing songs and psalms about the power of God, and their own regeneration — such psalms as went the round, in those days, of the public-houses-^there was not one but pulled out his money, and sang small beer to a Doone. But father had been used to think that any man who was comfortable inside his own coat and waistcoat deserved to have no other set, unless he would strike ai blow for them. And so, while his gossips doffed their hats, LORNA DOONE 31 id 8hook with what was left of them« he set his staff ,:>ve his head, and rode at the Doone robber. With a ick of his horse, the wild man escaped the sudden onset, [though it must have amazed him sadly that an^ durst jist him. Then when Smiler was carried away with the __ and the weight of my father (not being brought up , battle, nor used to turn, save in plough harness), the itlaw whistled upon his thumb, and plundered the rest the yeomen. But father, drawing at Smiler's head, to y to come back and help them, was in the midst of a ^zen men, who seemed to come out of a turf-rick, some horse, and some a-foot. Nevertheless, he smote lustilv, I far as he could see; and being of great size and stren^. Id his blood well up, they had no easy Job with him. 1th the play of his wrist, he cracked three or four )wns, bem^ always famous at single-stick; until the ; drew their horses away, and he thought that he was 3ter, and would tell his wife about it. iut a man beyond the range of staff was crouching by peat-stack, with a long gun set to his shoulder, and got poor father against the sky, and I cannot tell the " of it. Only they knew that Smiler came home, with upon his witiiers, and father was found in the fming dead on the moor, with his ivy-twisted cudgel ig broken under him. Now, whether this were an lest fight, God judge betwixt the Doones and me. was more of woe than wonder, being such days of lence, that mother knew herself a widow, and her Idren fatherless. Of children there were only liiree, le of us fit to be useful yet, only to comfort mother. making her to work for us. I, John Ridd, was the 3st, and felt it a heavy thing on me; next came »r Annie, with about two years between us; and then little Eliza. Tow, before I got home and found my sad loss — and no ever loved his father better than I loved mine — ler had done a most wondrous thing, which made all neighbours say that she must be mad, at least. Upon Monday morning, while her husband lay unburied, I cast a white hood over her hair, and gathered a black ik round her, and, taking counsel of no one, set off on for the Doone-gate. the early afternoon she came to the hollbw and ren entrance, where in truth there was no gate, only 32 LORNA DOONE ii,. I * H darkness to go through. If I get on with this story, J shall have to tell of it by-and-by, as I saw it afterwards! and will not dwell there now. Enough that no gun wal fired at her, only her eyes were covered over, and somej body led her by the hand, without any wish to hurt heri A very rough and headstrong road was all that shj remembered, for she could not think as she wished to doi with the cold iron pushed against her. At the end of thil road they delivered her eyes, and she could scarce belie vl them. I For she stood at the head of a deep green valley, carvec| from out the mountains in a perfect oval, with a fenct| of sheer rock standing round it, eighty feet or a hundred high; from whose brink black wooded hills swept up tc| the sky-line. By her side a little river glided out froir| underground with a soft dark babble, unawares of day] light; then growing brighter, lapsed away, and fell intcl the valley. Then, as it ran down the meadow, aldenl stood on either marge, and grass was blading out upon it| and yellow tufts of rushes gathered, looking at the hurry| But further down, on either bank, were covered housesl built of stone, square and roughly cornered, set as if thl brook were meant to be the street between them. Onll one room high they were, and not placed opposite eacl other, but in and out as skittles are; only Aat the fir^ of all, which proved to be the captain's, was a sort m double house, or rather two houses joined together by m plank-bridge, over the river. ^^ ^»xP - s-jf^ i Fourteen cots my mother counted, all very much of m pattern, and nothing to choose between them, unless ii were the captain's. Deep in the quiet valley there, awaii from noise, and violence, and brawl, save that of thJ rivulet, any man would have deemed them homes m simple mind and innocence. Yet not a single house stccxi there but was the home of murder. I Two men led my mother down a steep and glidderj stair- way, like the ladder of a hay-mow; and thencB from the break of the falling water as far as the housB of the captain. And there at the door they left hel trembling, strung as she was, to speak her mind. I Now, after all, what right had she, a common farmerB widow, to take it amiss tiiat men of birth thought fit M kill her husband. And the Doones were of very higl birth, as all w6 clods oi Exmoor knew; and we hal LORNA DOONE 33 lough of good teaching now — let any man say the mtrary — to feel that ail we had belonged of right to iose above us. Therefore my mother was half-ashamed lat she could not help complaining. But after a little while, as she said, remembrance of her isband came, and the way he used to stand by her side id put his strong arm round her, and how he liked his icon fried, and praised her kindly for it — and so the irs were in her eyes, and nothing should gainsay them. A tall old man, Sir Ensor Doone, came out with a -hook in his hand, and hedger's gloves going up his IS, as if he were no better than a labourer at ditch- )rk. Only in his mouth and eyes, his gait, and most of his voice, even a child could know and feel that here IS no ditch-labourer. Good cause he has found since ien, perhaps, to wish that he had been one. With his white locks moving upon his coat, he stopped id looked dom at my mother, and she could not help jrself but curtsey under the fixed black gazing. 'Good woman, you are none of us. Who has brought )u hither? Young men must be young — but I have bad b much of this work.' 'And he scowled at my mother, for her comeliness; and jt looked under his eyelids as if he liked her for it. But for her, in the depth of love-grief, it struck scorn upon ;r womanhood; and in the flash she spoke. 'What you mean I know not. Traitors! cut-throats! >wards! I am here to ask for my husband.' She could )t say any more, because her heart was now too much her, coming hard in her throat and mouth; but she )ened up her eyes at him. Hui ^ k^ -i Tf,.-r ^ n j 'Madam,' said Sir Ensor Doone — ^being bom a gentle- lan, although a very bad one — 'I crave pardon of you. y eyes are old, or I might have known. Now, if we have )ur husband prisoner, he shall go free without ransom, jcause I have insulted you.' 'Sir,' said my mother, being suddenly taken away Hth sorrow, because of his gracious manner, 'please to \t me cry a bit.' He stood away, and seemed to know that women want help for that. And by the way ^e cried he knew that ley had killed her husband. Then, having felt of grief imself , he was not angry with her, but left her to begin ?ain. r-^("¥*'> --W,-** ',':»^'rimfm\t Vf V»^*»*%-^r-^v*- ,^«^^w^ iiBfn, ,, '■■'^'dP^*'^ *■ * '■ 4»,>v^'iurj V -• ■ L.D. 34 LORNA DOOUF 1^ ■ 'Loth would I be/ said mother, sobbing with her new red handkerchief, and looking at the pattern of it, 'loth indeed, Sir Ensor Doone, to accuse any one unfairly. But| I have lost the very best husband God ever gave to a| woman; and I knew him when he was to your belt, and I I not up to your knee, sir; and never an unkind word he I spoke, nor stopped me short in speaking. All the herbs! he left to me, and all the bacon-curing, and when it was! best to kill a pig, and how to treat the maidens. Not that! I would ever wish — oh, John, it seems so strange to me, and last week you were everything.' Here mother burst out crying again, not loudly, but turning quietly, because she knew that no one now would ever care to wipe the tears. And fifty or a hun- dred things, of weekly and daily happening, came across my mother, so that her spirit fell like slackening lime. 'This matter must be seen to; it shall be seen to at once,' the old man answered, moved a little in spite of all his knowledge. 'Madam, if any wrong hais been done, trust the honour of a Doone; I will redress it to my utmost. Come inside and rest yourself, while I ask about it. What was your good husband's name, and when and where fell this mishap?' | 'Deary me,' said mother, as he set a chair for her very! Folite, but she would not sit upon it; 'Saturday morning! was a wife, sir; and Saturday night I was a widow, and my children fatherless. My husband's name was John Ridd, sir, as everybody knows; and there was not a finer or better man in Somerset or Devon. He was coming home from Porlock market, and a new gown for me on the crupper, and a shell to put my hair up — oh, John, how good you were to me!* Of that she began to think; again, and not to believe her sorrow, except as a dream from the evil one, because it was too bad upon her, and perhaps she would awake in a minute, and her husband would have the laugh of her. And so she wiped her eyes and smiled, and looked for something. 'Madam, this is a serious thing,' Sir Ensor Doone said graciously, and showing grave concern: 'my boys are a little wild, I know. And yet I cannot think that they would willingly harm any one. And yet — and yet, you do look wronged. Send Counsellor to me.' he shouted, LORNA DOONE 35 )m the door of his house; and down the valley went the 'Send Counsellor to Captain.' I Counsellor Doone came in ere yet my mother was Irself again; and if any sight could astonish her when 1 her sense of right and. v/rong was gone astray with the rce of things, it was the sight of the Counsellor. A [uare-built man of enormous strength, but a foot below te Doone stature (which I shall describe hereafter), he rried a long gray beard descending to the leather of J belt. Great eyebrows overhung his face, like ivy on Ipollard oak, and under them two large brown eyes, as an owl when muting. And he had a power of hiding eyes, or showing them bright, like a blazing fire. He [)d there with his beaver on, and mother tried to look him, but he seemed not to descry her. 'Counsellor,' said Sir Ensor Doone, standing back in height from him, 'here is a lady of good repute ' *0h, no, sir; only a woman.' 'Allow me, madam, by your good leave. Here is a ly, Counsellor, of great repute in this part of the untry, who charges the Doones with having unjustly lin her husband ' 'Murdered him! murdered him!* cried my mother; 'if rer there was a murder. Oh, sir! oh, sir! you know it.' I' The perfect rights and truth of the case is all I wish } know,' said the old man, very loftily: 'and justice iall be done, madam.' 'Oh, I pray you — pray you, sirs, make no matter ol isiness of it. God from Heaven, look on me!' 'Put the case,* said the Counsellor. 'The case is this,* replied Sir Ensor, holding one hand to mother: 'This lady*s worthy husband was slain, it fems, upon his return from the market at Porlock, no iger ago than last Saturday night. Madam, amend me I am wrong.* 'No longer, indeed, indeed, sir. Sometimes it seems a relvemonth, and sometimes it seems an hour.* 'Cite his name,' said the Counsellor, with his eyes still )lling hiwards. 'Master John Ridd, as I understand. Counsellor, we ive heard, of him often; a worthy man and a peaceful le, who meddled not with our duties. Now, if any of ir bojrs have been rough, they shall answer it dearly. Ind yet I can scarce believe it. For the folk about these 36 LORNA DOONE I.. HV^': I I, I parts are apt to misconceive of our sufierings, and tc nave no feeling for ua. Counsellor, you are our record and very stem against us; tell us how this matter was *Oh, Counsellor!' my mother cried; 'Sir Counsellor you will be fair : I see it in your countenance. Only te! me who it was, and set me face to face with him; anc I will bless you, sir, and God shall bless you, and m\ children.' The square man with the long gray beard, quite un moved by anything, drew back to the door and spoke and his voice was like a fall of stones in the bottom of a, mine. *Few words will be enow for this. Four or five of our best behaved and most peaceful gentlemen went to the little market at Porlock with a lump of money. The\ bought some household stores and comforts at a ven high price, and pricked upon the homeward road, awa\ from vulgar revellers. When they drew bridle to rest their horses, in the shelter of a peat-rick, the night bein^ dark and sudden, a robber of great size and strength rode into the midst of them, thinking to kill or terrify. His arrogance and hardihood at the first amazed them, but they would not give up without a blow goods which were on trust with them. He had smitten three of them 5;ense less, for the power of his arm was terrible; whereupon thf, last man tried to ward his blow with a pistol. Carver, siT,% it was, our brave and noble Carver, who saved the lives ofi his brethren and his own; and glad enow they were tcf escape. Notwithstanding, we hoped it might be only a| flesh-wound, and not to speed him in his sins.' I As this atrocious tale of lies turned up joint by joint} before her, like a 'devil's coach-horse,** mother was toc| much amazed to do any more than look at him, as if the earth must open. But the only thing that opened wa^l the great brown eyes of the Counsellor, which rested orJ my mother's face with a dew of sorrow, as he spoke oi.^ sins. "-: r-:7"!.''v IMU- She, unable to bear them, turned suddenly on Sirli Ensor, and caught (as she fancied) a smile on his lips, and| a sense of quiet enjoyment. I 'AH the Doones are gentlemen,' answered the old marl gravely, and looking as if he had never smiled since hej was a baby. 'We are always glad to explain, madam - '• • The cock-tailed beetle has earned this name in the Weil of ISn^Iand. LORNA DOONE 37 ly mistake which the rustic people may fall upon about and we wish you clearly to conceive that we do not large your poor husband with any set purp^Ge of ^bbery, neither will we bring suit for any attainder of his roperty. Is it not so, Counsellor?' 'Without doubt his land is attainted; unless is mercy )u forbear, sir.' 'Counsellor, we will forbear. Madam, we will forgive Like enough he knew not right from wrong, at that le of night. The waters are strong at Porlock, and ran an honest man may use his staff unjustly in this ichartered age of violence and rapine.' I The Doones to talk of rapine! Mother's head went lund so that she curtseyed to them both, scarcely know- [g where she was, but calling to mind her manners. All le time she felt a waxmth, as if the right was with her, id yet she could not see the way to spread it out before lem. With that, she dried her tears in haste and went ^to the cold air, for fear of speaking mischief. But when she was on the homeward road, and the fentinels had charge of her, blinding her eyes, as if she not blind enough with weeping, some one came in iste behind her, and thrust a heavy leathern bag into le limp wiight of her hand. 'Captain sends you this,' he whispered; 'take it to the tie ones,' But mother let it fall in a heap, as if it had been a blind [orm; and then for the first time crouched before God, lat even the Doones should pity her. .—'■)-:; /lu; or CHAPTER V ^,a Mrcw.^/Vi^nj •;,-.; '• Jr, ' J.;.M AN ILLEGAL SETTLEMENT i >>i.-f f:-, vf^^y ■' u'i "uy^ih *'j\f'r 1! l.-i :?f i \ rOOD folic who dwell in a lawful land, if any such there \e, may for want of exploration, judge our neighbourhood larshly, unless the whole truth is set before them. In far of such prejudice, many of us ask leave to explain pG:v and why it was the robbers came to that head in the lidst of us. We would rather not have had it so, God fcnows as well as anybody; but it grew upon us gently, ^ the following mariner. Only let all who read observe Ill li I ti. 38 LORNA DOONE that here I enter many things which came to my know" ledge in later years. In or about the year of our Lord 1640, when all the troubles of England were swelling to an outburst, great estates in the north country were suddenly confiscated, through some feud of families and strong influence di Court, and the owners were turned upon the world, and might think themselves lucky to save their necks. These estates were in co-heirship, joint tenancy I think they called it, although I know not the meaning, only so that if either tenant died, the other living, all would come to the live one in spite of any testament. One of the joint owners was Sir Ensor Doone, a gentle- man of brisk intellect; and the other owner was his cousin, the Earl of Lome and Dykemont. Lord Lome was some years the elder of his cousin, Ensor Doone, and was making suit to gain severance of the cumbersome joint tenancy by any fair apportion- ment, when suddenly this blow fell on tiiem by wiles 1 H woman's meddling; and instead of dividing the land, they were divided from it. The nobleman was still well-to-do, though crippled in ] his expenditure; but as for the cousin, he was left a beggar, with many to beg from him. He thought that' the other had wronged him, and that all the trouble of law befell through his unjust petition. Many friends J advised him to make interest at Court; for having donef no harm whatever, and being a good Catholic, which| Lord Lome was nox, he would be sure to find hearing | there, and probably some favour. But he, like a very] hot-brained man, although he had long been married toj the daughter of his cousin (whom he liked none tiie more for that), would have nothing to say to any attempt at making a patch of it, but drove away with his wife and sons, and the relics of his money, swearing hard at every- body. In this he may have been quite wrong; probably, pernaps, he was so; but I am not convinced at all butj what most of us would have done the same. Some say that, in the bitterness of that wrong and out- i rage, he slew a gentleman of the Court, whom he supposed to have borne a hand in the plimdering of his fortunes, i Others say that he bearded King Charles the First him-i sell, in a manner beyond forgiveness. One thing, at any! rate, is sure — Sir Ensor was attainted, and made a felon 1 LORNA DOONE 39 e to my knowl itlaw, through some violent deed ensuing upon his Sossession. e had searched in many quarters for somebody to ilp him, and wi-Oi good warrant for hoping it, inasmuch ) he, in his lucky days, had been open-handed and Jusinly to all who beg«f^ advice of him. But now all lese provided him with plenty of good advice indeed, id great assurance of feelmg, but not a movement of leg, lip, or purse-string in his favour. All good people of her persuasion, royalty or conmionaltv, knowing his bchen-range to be cold, no longer would play turnspit, id this, it may be, seared his heart more than the loss , land and fame. In great despair at last, he resolved to settle in some itlandish part, where none could be found to know him; id so, in an evil day for us, he came to the West of igland. Not that our part of the world is at all out- adish, according to my view of it (for I never found a btter one), but that it was known to be rugged, and large, nd desolate. And here, when he had discovered a place fcich seemed almost to be made for him, so withdrawn, self-defended, and uneasy of access, some of the )untry-folk around brought him little offerings---a side bacon, a keg of cider, hung mutton, or a brisket of mison; so that for a little while he was very honest, when the newness of his coming began to wear away, id our good folk were apt to think that even a gentle- i ought to work or pay other men for doing it, and lany farmers were grown weary of manners without iscourse to them, and all cried out to one another how hfair it was that owning such a fertile valley young men ' ^^ not spade or plough by reason of noble lineage — the young Doones growing up took things they would lot ' k for. And here let me, as a solid man, owner of five hundred ;res (whether fenced or otherwise, and that is my own business), churchwarden also of this parish (until I go to le churchyard), and proud to be called the parson's iend — ^for a better man I never knew with tobacco and rong waters, nor one who could read the lessons so well ^nd he has been at Blundell's too— once for all let me ieclare, that I am a thorough-going Church-and-State lan, and Royalist, without any mistake about it. And lis I lay down, because some people judging a sausage ^ V \f m LORNA DOONE by tho skin, may take in evil part my little glosses ol style and glibness, and the mottled nature of my remark; and cracks now and then on the frying-pan. I assurt them I am good inside, and not a bit of rue in me; onlv queer knots, as of marjoram, and a stupid manner oi bursting. There was not more than a dozen of them, counting a few retainers who still held by Sir Ensor; but soon the\ grew and multiplied in a manner surprising to think oi. Whether it was the venison, which we call a strengthening victual, or whether it was the Exmoor mutton, or the keen soft air of the moorlands, anyhow the Doones increased much faster than their honesty. At first they had brought some ladies with them, of good repute with charity; and then, as time went on, they added to their stock by carrying. They carried o£E many good farmers' daughters, who were sadly displeased at first; but took to them kindly after awhile, and made a new home in their babies. For women, as it seems to me, like strong men more than weak ones, feeling that they need some staunchness, something to hold fast by. And of all the men in our country, although we are of a thick-set breed, you scarce could find one in three-score fit to be placed among the Doones, without looking no more than a tailor. Like enough, we could meet them,; man for man (if we chose all around the crown and the; skirts of Exmoor), and show them what a cross-buttock i means, because we are so stuggy; but in regard ofi stature, comeliness, and bearing, no woman would look^ twice at us. Not but what I myself, John Ridd, and one or two I know of — ^but it becomes me best not to talk of that, although my hair is gray. ; Perhaps their den might well have been stormed, and; themselves driven out of the forest, if honest people had only agreed to begin with them at once when first they took to plundering. But having respect for their good birth, and pity for their misfortunes, and perhaps a little admiration at the justice of God, that robbed men now were robbers, the squires, and farmers, and shepherds, at first did nothing more than grumble gently, or even make a laugh of it, each in the case of others. After awhile they found the matter gone too far. for laughter, as violence and deadly outrage stained the hand of robbery, until every woman clutched her child, and every LORNA DOONE 41 Ian turned pale at the very name of Doone. For the ins and grandsons of Sir Ensor grew up in foul liberty, hd haughtiness, and hatred, to utter scorn of God and [an, and brutality towards dumb animals. There was ily one good thing about them, if indeed it were good, wit, their faith to one another, and truth to their wild rry. But this only made them feared the more, so frtain was the revenge they wreaked upon any who ired to strike a Doone. One night, some ten years ere [was bom, when they were sacking a rich man's house >t very far from Minehead, a shot was fired at them in le dark, of which they took little notice, and only one of iem knew that any harm was done. But when they |ere well on the homeward road, not having slain either or woman, or even burned a house down, one of their iber fell from his saddle, a,nd died without so much as groan. The youth had been struck, but would not )mplain, and perhaps took little heed of the wound, [hile he was bleeding inwardly. His brothers and )usins laid him softly on a bank of whortle-berries, and ist rode back to the lonely hamlet where he had taken is death-wound. No man nor woman was left in the lorning, nor house for any to dwell in, only a child with reason ^one.* This affair made prudent people find more reason to let lem alone than to meddle with them; and now they id so entrenched themselves, and waxed so strong in imber, that nothing less than a troop of soldiers could Ksely enter their premises; and even so it might turn out 1, as perchance we shall see by-and-by. For not to mention the strength of the place, which shall describe in its proper order when I come to visit t, there was not one among them but was a mighty man, traight and tall, and wide, and fit to lift four hundred- weight. If son or grandson of old Doone, or one of the ^orthem retainers, failed at the age of twenty, while banding on his naked feet to touch with his forehead the Intel of Sir Ensor' s door, and to fill the door frame with iis shoulders from sidepost even to sidepost, he was led ^way to the narrow pass which made their valley so iesperate, and thrust from the crown with ignominy, to ^et his own living honestly. Now, the measure of tiiat loorway is, or rather was, I ought to say, six feet and one -,,. This vile deed wns done, b«7oud all doubt — -- - - -^ I' t*!i ' 42 LORNA DOONE inch lengthwise, and two feet all but two inches take: ' crossways in the clear. Yet I not only have heard bui know, being so closely mixed with them, that no descen dant of old Sir Ensor, neither relative of his (except indeed, the Counsellor, who was kept by them for hi«l wisdom), and no more than two of their following eve: failed of that test, and relapsed to the difficult ways 0: honesty. Not that I think anything great of a standard the Ilk' of that : for if they had set me in that door-frame at the age of twenty, it is like enough that I should have walkec away with it on my shoulders, though I was not come t' my full strength dien: only I am speaking now of tht average size of our neighbourhood, and the Doones wen far beyond that. Moreover, they were taught to shoot with a heavy carbine so delicately and wisely, that evei a boy could pass a ball through a rabbit's head at the distance of fourscore yaxds. Some people may thini nought of this, being in practice with longer shots froE the tongue than from the shoulder; nevertheless, to dc as above is, to my ignorance, very good work, if you car be sure to do it. Not one word do I believe of Robm Hooc splitting peeled wands at seven-score yards, and sue! like. Whoever wrote such stories knew not how slippen a peeled wand is, even if one could hit it, and how it give to the onset. Now, let him stick one in the ground, aii(! take his bow and arrow at it, ten yards away, or even five Now, after all this which I have written, and all the rest which a reader will see, being quicker of mind thai I am (who leave more than half behind me, like a mac sowing wheat, with his dinner laid in the ditch too near his dog), it is much but what you will understand the Doones far better than I did, or do even to this moment; ard therefore none will doubt when I tell them that oui good justiciaries feared to make an ado, or hold anj pubUc inquiry about my dear father's death. Thej] would all have had to ride home that night, and whcl could say what might betide them. Least said soonesi mended, because less chance of breaking. i | So we buried him quietly — all except my mother, inj deed, for she could not keep silence — in the sloping littlJ churchyard of Oare, as meek a place as need be, with tha Lynn brook down below it. There is not much of comi pany there for anybody's tombstone, because the parisa LORNA DOONE 43 breads so far in woods and moors without dwelling- >use. If we bury one man in three years, or even a ,oman or child, we talk about it for three months, and Ur it must be our turn next, and scarcely grow accus- Imed to it until another goes. ■> I Annie was not allowed to come, because she cried so Irribly; but she ran to the window, and saw it all, [ooing there like a little calf, so frightened and so left )ne. As for Eliza, she came with me, one on each side mother, and not a tear was in her eyes, but sudden irts of wonder, and a new thing to be looked at unwill- gly. yet curiously. Poor little thing! she was very jver, the only one of our family — thank God for the tue — but none the more for that guessed she what it is lose a father. CHAPTER VI NECESSARY PRACTICE jouT the rest of all that winter I remember very little, Bing only a young boy then, and missing my father (ost out of doors, as when it came to the bird-catching, the tracking of hares in the snow, or the training of a ieep-dog. Oftentimes I looked at his gun, an ancient 5ce found in the sea, a little below Glenthorne, and which he was mighty proud, although it was only a itch-lock; and I thought of the times I had held the be, while he got his aim at a rabbit, and once even at [red deer rubbing among the hazels. But nothing came my looking at it, so far as I remember, save foolish JUS of my own perhaps, till John Fry took it down one ly from me hooks where father's hand had laid it; and hurt me to see how John handled it, as if he had no jemory. 'Bad job for he as her had not got thiccy the naight as ^r coom acrass them Doones. Rackon Varmer Jan 'ood [zhown them the wai to kingdom come, 'stead of gooin' ?rzel zo aisy. And a maight have been gooin' to market )w, 'stead of laying banked up over yanner. Maister m, thee can zee the grave if tnee look alang this here )on-barryel. Buy now, whutt be blubberin' at? Wish [had never told thee.' .3i Ivi 44 LORNA DCX:)N£ I .' 'ii( 'John Fry, I am not blubbering: you make a grej, mistake, Jonn. You are thinking of little Annie. I cougi: sometimes in the winter-weather, and father gives mi lickerish — I mean — I mean — ^he used to. Now let me hav the gun, John.* 'Thee have the goon, Jan! Thee isn't fit to putt t to thy zhoulder. What a weight her be, for sure f ' 'Me not hold it, John! That shows how much ya know about it. Get out of the way, John; you an; opposite the mouth of it, and likely it is loaded.' John Fry jumped in a liveUer manner than when b was doing day-work; and I rested the mouth on a crosj rack-piece, and felt a warm sort of surety that I could hr; the door over opposite, or, at least, the cobwall alongsidtj of it, and do no harm in the orchard. But John would noi| give me link or fuse, and, on the whole, I was glad of itj Siough carrying on as boys do, because I had heard mj faliier say that the Spanish gun kicked like a horse, an| because the load in it came from his hand, and I did no like to undo it. But I never found it kick very hard, anij firmly set to the shoulder, unless it was badly loaded In truth, the thickness of the metal was enough almost astonish one; and what our people said about it ma^ have been true enough, although most of them axe sucf liars — ^at least, I mean, they make mistakes, as all man kind must do. Perchance it was no mistake at all to sa^i that this ancient gun had belonged to a noble Spaniard! the captain of a fine large ship in the 'Invincible Armada,} which we of England managed to conquer, with God anj the weather helping us, a hundred years ago or more— j can't say to a month or so. After a little v/hile, when John had fired away at a raj the charge I held so satred, it came to me as a natural thing to practise shooting with that great gun, instead of John Fry's blunderbuss, which looked Hke a bell wit a stalk to it. Perhaps for a boy there is nothing betteil than a good windmill to shoot at, as I have seen them m flat countries; but we have no windmills upon the greaS moorland, yet here and there a few barn-doors, whera shelter is, and a way up the hollows. And up thosa hollows you can shoot, with the help of the sides to lead your aim, and there is a fair chance of hitting the door, 11 you lay your cheek to the barrel, and try not to be afraid of it. :--;-s..^- „. ;...;, :,v'••^ r^-Vv" LORNA DOONE 45 rradually I won such skill, that I sent nearly ail the Ld gutter from the north porch of our little church rough our best barn-door, a thing which has often )ented me since, especially as churcn warden, and made pardon many bad boys; but father was not buried on Lt side. of the church. lut all this time, while I was roving over the hills oi )ut the farm, and even Ustening to John Fry, my )ther, being so much older and feeling trouble longer, ^nt about inside the house, or among the maids and r\s, not caring to talk to the best of them, except when broke out sometimes about the good master they had t, all and every one of us. But the fowls would take no tice of it, except to cluck for barley; and the maidens, )ugh they had liked him well, were thinking of their feethearts as the spring came on. Mother thought it mg of them, selfish and ungrateful; and yet some- les she was proud that none had such call as herself to leve for him. Only Annie seemed to go softly in and [t, and cry, with nobody along of her, chiefly in "the ler where the bees are and the grindstone. But some- \vf she would never let anybody behold her; being set, you may say, to think it over by herself, and season it |th weeping. Many times I caught her, and many times turned upon me, and then I could not look at her, asked how long to dinner-time. Tow in the depth of the winter month, such as we call scember, father being dead and quiet in his grave a ight, it happened me to be out of powder for practice kainst his enemies. I had never fired a shot without inking, 'This for father's murderer'; and John Fry said t I made such faces it was a wonder the gun went But though I could hardly hold the gun, unless with back against a bar, it did me good to hear it go off, id hope to have hitten his enemies. i'Oh, mother, mother,' I said that day, directly after Inner, while she was sitting looking at me, and almost [ady to say (as now she did seven times in a week). Tow like your father you are growing ! Jack, come here id kiss me' — *oh, mother, if you only knew how much [want a shilling ! * 'Jack, you shall never want a shilling while I am alive I give thee one. But what is it for, dear heart, dear iart?' "^ } S — V^'-< - ^ -J ^ A 7l*^Vrf^ If IK j ' I'll i I ■ t 46 LORNA DOONE 'To buy something over at Porlock, mother. Perhap, I will tell you afterwards. If I tell not, it will be for yoiij good, and for the sake of the children.' 'Bless the boy, one would think he was threescore year of age at least. Give me a little kiss, you Jack, and ya shall have the shilling.' For I hated to kiss or be kissed in those days : and s^ all honest boys must do, when God puts any strength i: them. But now I wanted the powder so much that I wen and kissed mother very shyly, looking round the come first, for Betty not to see me. But mother gave me half a dozen, and only one shillin; for all of them; and I could not find it in my heart to asi her for another, although I would have taken it. In ver quick time I ran away with the shilling in my pocket, anc got Peggy out on the Porlock road without my mothe knowing it. For mother was frightened of tiiat roa(: now, as if all the trees were murderers, and would neve: let me go alone so much as a hundred yards on it. And, t tell the truth, I was touched with fear for many year; about it; and even now, when I ride at dark th^e, a mar by a peat-rick makes me shiver, until I go and collar him But this time I was very bold, having John Fry's blunder buss, and keeping a sharp look-out wherever any lurkin?; place was. However, I saw only sheep and small re: cattle, and the common deer of the forest, until I wa^ nigh to Porlock town, and then rode straight to Mrl Pooke's, at the sign of the Spit and Gridiron. Mr. Pooke w£is asleep, as it happened, not having muc to do that day; and so I fastened Peggy by the handle a warming-pan, at which she had no better manners ths to snort and blow her breath; and in I walked with manful style, bearing John Fry's blunderbuss. Nov Timothy Pooke was a peaceful man, glad to live withoul any enjoyment of mind at danger, and I was tall and largj already as most lads of a riper age. Mr. Pooke, as soon he opened his eyes, dropped suddenly under the coimtingj board, and drew a great frying-pan over his head, as the Doones were come to rob him, as their custom was] mostly after the fair-time. It made me feel rather he and queer to be taken for a robber; and yet methinks was proud of it. 'Gadzooks, Master Pooke,' said I, having learned finej words at Tiverton; 'do you suppose that I know not then /: LORNA DOONE 47 way to carry firearms? An it were the old Spanish Itch-lock, in the lieu of this good flint-engine, which ly be borne ten miles or more and never once go ofl, ircely couldst thou seem more scared. I might point thee muzzle on — ^just so as I do now — even for an hour more, and like enough it would never shoot thee, unless julled the trigger hard, with a crook upon my finger; so, fu see; just so. Master Pooke, only a trifle harder.' I 'God sake, John Ridd, God sake, dear boy,' cried )ke, knowing me by this time; 'don't 'e, for good love , don't 'e show it to me, boy, as if I was to suck it. it 'un down, for good, now; and thee shall have the best of all is in the shop.' I'Ho!' I replied with much contempt, and swinging md the gun so that it fetched his hoop of candles down, unkindled as they were : *Ho ! as if I had not attained the handling of a gun yet ! My hands are cold coming rer the moors, else would I go bail to point the mouth iyou for an hour, sir, and no cause for uneasiness.* [But in spite of all assurances, he showed himself }irous only to see the last of my gun and me. I dare ^y 'villainous saltpetre,' as the great playwright calls it, ls never so cheap before nor since. For my shilling ister Pooke afforded me two great packages over-large go into my pockets, as well as a mighty chunk of lead, lich I bound upon Peggy's withers. And as if all this id not been enough, he presented me with a roll of ^mfits for my sister Annie, whose gentle face and pretty mers won the love of everybody. There was still some daylight here and there as I rose ie hill above Porlock, wondering whether my mother [ould be in a fright, or would not know it. The two great Lckages of powder, slung behind my back, knocked so ird against one another that I feared they must either )ill or blow up, and hurry me over Peggy's ears from the Woollen cloth I rode upon. For father always liked a )rse to have some wool upon his loins whenever he went ^r from home, and had to stand about, where one pleased, )t, and wet, and panting. And father always said that iddles were meant for men full-grown and heavy, and sing their activity; and no boy or young man on our durst ever get into a saddle, because they all knew lat the master would chuck them out pretty quickly. Is for me, I had tried it once, from a kind of curiosity; 48 I.ORNA OOONE 'i»» i:|'' and I could not walk for two or three days, the leatheil galled my knees so. But now, as Peggy bore me bravely! snorting every now and then into a cloud of air, for tiiel night was growing frosty, presently the moon arose overl the shoulder of a hill, and the pony and I were half gladl to see her, and half afraid of the shadows she threw, and] the images all around us. I was ready at any moment tol shoot at anybody, having great faith in my blunderbuss,! but hoping not to prove it. And as I passed the narrowl Elace where the Doones had killed my father, such a fearj roke out upon me that I leaned upon the neck of Peggy, and shut my eyes, and was cold all over. However, l^erei was not a soul to be seen, until we came home to the old farmyard, and tiiere was my mother crying sadly, and Betty Muxworthy scolding. 'Come along, now,' I whispered to Annie, the moment supper was over; 'and if you can hold your tongue, Annie, | I will show you something.' She lifted herself on the bench so quickly, and flushed I so rich with pleasure, that I was obUged to stare hard away, and make Betty look beyond us. Betty thought I had something hid in the closet beyond the clock-case, and she was the more convinced of it by reason of my| denial. Not that Betty Muxworthy, or any one else, that matter, ever found me in a falsehood, becaui never told one, not even to my mother— or, which is still I a stronger thing, not even to my sweetheart (when I grew up to have one) — but that Betty being wronged in the' matter of marriage, a generation or two agone, by a man who came hedging and ditching, had now no mercy, except to believe that men from cradle to grave are liars, and women fools to look at them. When Betty could find no crime of mine, she knocked me out of the way in a minute, as if I had been nobody; and then she began to coax 'Mistress Annie,' as she always called her, and draw the soft hair down her hands, and whisper into the little ears. Meanwhile, dear mother was falling asleep, having been troubled so much about me; and Watch, my father's pet dog, was nodding closer and closer up into her lap. 'Now, Annie, will you come?' I said, for I wanted her to hold the ladle for melting of the lead; 'will you come at once, Annie? or must I go for Lizzie, and let her see the whole of it?' ^v . •■ ■<■ x..i^ J -'Mi' ..^« 'i *>, »i f % LORNA DOONB 49 luueed, then, you won't do that,' said Annie; 'Lizzie come before me, John; and she can't stir a pot of )rewis, and scarce knows a tongue from a ham, John. land says it makes no difference, because both are good |to eat ! Oh, Betty, what do you think of that to come of ill her book-learning?' 'Thank God he can't say that of me,' Betty answered Ishortly, for she never cared about argument, except on Iher own side; 'thank he, I says, every marning a' most, ■never to lead me astray so. Men is desaving, and so is Igalanies; but the most aesaving of all is books, with their [heads and tails, and the speckots in 'em, lik a peg as have Itaken the maisles. Some folk purtends to laugh and cry lover them. God forgive them for liars I ' It was part of Betty's obstinacy that she never would Ibelieve in reading or the possibility of it, but stoutly maintained to the very last that people first learned things by heart, and then pretended to make them out from patterns done upon paper, for the sake of astonishing honest folk, just as do the conjurers. And even to see the parson and clerk was not enough to convince her; all she said was, 'It made no odds, they were all the same as the rest of us.* And now that she had bf jn on the farm nigh upon forty years, and had nursed my father, and made his clothes, and all that he had to eat, and then put him in his cofl&n, she was come to such authority, that it was not worth the wages of the best man on the place to I say a word in answer to Betty, even if he would face the risk to have ten for one, or ^enty. Annie was her love and joy. For Annie she would do anything, even so far as to try to smile, when the little maid laughed and danced to her. And in truth I know not how it was, but every one was taken with Annie at the very first time of seeing her. She had such pretty ways and manners, and such a. look of kindness, and a sweet soft light in her long blue eyes full of trustful glad- ness. Everybody who looked at her seemed to grow the better for it, because she knew no evil. And then the turn she had for cooking, you never would have expected it; and how it was her richest mirth to see that she had pleased you. I have been out on the world a vast deal, as you will own hereafter, and yet have I never seen Annie's equal for making a weary man comfortable. !!■ 50 LORNA DOONE i CHAPTER VII .' ' ' ; ^> ' HARD IT IS TO CLIMB So many a winter night went by in a hopeful and pleasant manner, with the hissing of the bright round bullets, cast into the water, and the spluttering of the great red apples which Annie was roasting for me. We always managed our evening's work in the chimney of the back-kitchen, where there was room to set rliairs and table, in spite of the £Lre burning. On the right-hand side was a mighty oven, where Betty threatened to bake us; and on the left, long sides of bacon, made of favoured pigs, and growing very brown and comely. Annie knew the names of all, and ran up through the wood-smoke, every now and then, when a gentle memory moved her, and asked them how they were getting on, and when they would like to be eaten. Then she came back with fooUsh tears, at think- ing of that necessity; and I, being soft in a different way, would make up my mind agaiiist bacon. But, Lord bless you! it was no good. Whenever it crme to breakfast-time, after three hours upon the moors, jl regularly forgot the pigs, but paid gocxl heed to the rashers. For ours is a hungry county, if such there be in England; a place, I mean, where men must eat, and are quick to discharge the duty. The air of the moors is so shrewd and wholesome, surring a man's recollection of the good things which have betided him, and whetting his hope of something still better in the future, that by the time he sits down to a cluth, his heart and stomach are tuned too well to say 'nay* to one another. Almost everybody knows, in our part of the world at It^ast, how pleasant and soft the fall of the land is roimd about Plover's Barrows farm. All above it is strong dark mountain, spread with heath, and desolate, but near our house the vaUeys cove, and open warmth and shelter Here are trees, and bright green grass, and orchards full of content!. iont, and a man may scarce espy the brook, although he hears it everywhere. And indeed a stout good piece of it comes through our farm-yard, and swells sometimes to a rush of waves, when the clouds are on the hill-tops. But all below, where Hie valley bends, and the Lynn stream comes along with it, pretty meadows (1- 1 , LORNA DOONE 51 slope their breast, and the sun spreads on the water. And nearly all of this is ours, till you come to Nicholas Snowe's land. ' .n'lyifsHi But about two miles below our farm, the Bagworthy water runs into the Lynn, and makes a real river of it. I'hence it hurries away, with strength and a force of wilful waters, under the foot of a barefaced hill, and so to rocks and woods again, where the stream is covered over, and dark, heavy pools delay it. There are plenty of fish all down this way, and the farther you go the larger they get, having deeper grounds to feed in; and sometimes in the summer months, when mother could spare me off the farm, I came down here, with Annie to help (because it was so lonely), and caught wellnigh a basketful of little trout and minnows, with a hook and a bit of worm on it, or a fern-web, or a blow-fly, hung from a hazel pulse- stick. For of all the things I learned at Blundell's, only two abode with me, and one of these was the knack of fishing, and the other the art of swimming. And indeed they have a very rude manner of teaching children to swim there; for the bi^ boys take the little boys, and put them through a certain process, which they grimly call 'sheep- washing.* In the third meadow from the gate of "Uie school, going up the river, there is a fine pool in the Low- man, where the Taunton brook comes in, and they call it the Taunton Pool. The water runs down with a strong, sharp stickle, and then has a sudden elbow in it, where the small brook trickles in; and on that side the bank is steep, four or it may be five feet high, overhanging loamily; but on the other side it is flat, pebbly, and fit to ind upon. Now the large boys take the small boys, crying sadly for mercy, and thinking mayhap, of their mothers; wit^ hands laid well at the back of their necks, they bring them up to the crest of the bank upon the eastern side, and make them strip their clothes off. Then the little boys, falling on their naked knees, blubber upwards piteously; but the large boys know what is good for them, and will not be entreated. So they cast them down, one after other, into the splash of the water, and watch them go to the bottom first, and then come up and fi^ht for it, with a blowing and a bubbling. It is a very fair sight to watch, when you know there is little danger, because, although the pool is deep, the current is sure to wash a boy up on the stones, where the end of the depth is. As lor me, 'I i 1 'IBI' s« LGRNA DOONE they had no need to throw me more than once, because; I jumped of my own accord, thinking small things of thti Lowman, after the violent Lynn. Nevertheless, I learnt to swim there, as all the other boys did; for the greatest] point in learning that is to find that you must do it. I loved the water nat rally, and could not long be out of! it; but even the boys who hated it most, came to swim in; some fashion or other, after they had been flung for ai year or two into the Taunton pool. But now, altiiough my sister Annie came to keep mel company, and was not to be parted from me by the tricks of the Lynn stream, because I put her on my back and carried her across, whenever she could not leap it, or tuck up her things and take the stones; yet so it hap- pened that neither of us had been up the Bagwortliy water. We knew that it brought a good stream down, as full of fish as of pebbles; and we thoiight that it must be very pretty to make a way where no way was, nor even a bullock came down to drink. But whether we were afraid or not, I am sure I cannot tell, because it is so long ago; but I think that had something to do with it. For Bagworthy water ran out of Doone valley, a mile or so from the mouth of it. But when I was turned fourteen years old, and put into good small-clothes, buckled at the knee, and strong blue worsted hosen, knitted by my mother, it happened to me without choice, I may say, to explore the Bagworthy water. And it came about in this wise. My mother had long been ailing, and not well able to eat much; and there is nothing that frightens us so much as for people to have no love of their victuals. Now I chanced to remember that once at the time of the holidays I had brought dear mother from Tiverton a jar oi pickled loaches, caught by myself in the Lowman river, ana baked in the kitchen oven, with vinegar, a few leaves of bay, and about a dozen pepper-corns. And mother had said that in ail her life she had never tasted anything fit to be compared with them. Whether she said so good a thing out of compliment to my skill in catching the fish and cooking them, or whether she really meant it, is more than I can tell, though I quite believe the latter, and so would most people who tasted them; at any rate, I now resolved to get some loaches for her, and do them in the lelf-same manner* just to make her eat a bit, ,r:->iTtjjJS 15 J I LORNA DOONE 53 There are many people, even now, who have not come \o the right knowledge what a loach is, and where he dves, and how to catch and pickle him. And I will not fell them all about it, because if I did, very likely there rould be no loaches left ten or twenty years after the Lppearance of this book. A pickled minnow is very good, f you catch him in a stickle, with the scarlet fingers upon lim; but I count him no more than the ropes in beer :cm pared with a loach done properly. Being resolved to catch some loaches, whatever trouble It cost me, I set forth without a word to any one, in the [orenoon of St. Valentine's day, 1675-6, I think it must lave been. Annie should not come with me, because the ^ater was too cold; for the winter had been long, and snow lay here and there in patches in the hollow of the )anks, like a lady's gloves forgotten. And yet the spring ^as breaking forth, as it always does in Devonshire, when the turn of the days is over; and though there was little to see of it, the air was full of feeling. It puzzles me now, that I remember all those young impressions so, because I took no heed of them at the time whatever; and yet they come upon me bright, when lothing else is evident in the gray log of experience. I lam like an old man gazing at the outside of his spectacles, land seeing, as he rubs the dust, the image of his grandson [playing at bo-peep with him. But let me be of any age, I never could forget that day, [and how bitter cold the water was. For I doffed my shoes [and hose, and put them into a bag about my neck; and [left my little coat at home, and tied my shirt-sleeves back to my shoulders. Then I took a three-pronged fork firmly I bound to a rod with cord, and a piece of canvas kerchief, [with a lump of bread inside it; and so went into the pebbly water, trying to think how warm it was. For more than I a mile all down the Lynn stream, scarcely a stone I left unturned, being thoroughly skilled in the tricks of thc' loach, and knowing how he hides himself. For being gray-spotted, and clear to see through, and something like a cuttle-fish, only more substantial, he will stay (^uite still where a streak of weed is in the rapid water, hopmg to be overlooked, not caring even to wag his tail. Then being disturbed he flips away, like whalebone from the finger, and hies to a shelf of stone, and lies with his sharp head poked in under it; or sometimes he bellies him into M' LORNA DOONE the mud, and only shows his back-ridge. And that is thej time to spear him nicely, holding the fork very gingerly,! and allowing for the bent of it, which comes to pass, l| know not how, at the tickle of air and water. Or if your loach should not be abroad when first youj come to look for him, but keeping snug in his little home, then you may see him come forth amazed at the quiveringj of the shingles, and oar himself and look at you, and then! dart up-stream, like a little gray streak; and then you! must Ixy to mark him in, and follow very daintily. So after that, in a sandy place, you steal up behind his tail] to him, so that he cannot set eyes on you, for his head is up-stream always, and there you see him abiding still J clear, and mUd, and afEable. Then, as he looks so innocent, you make full sure to prog him well, in spite of the! wry of the water, and the sun making elbows to every- thing, and the trembling of your fingers. But when you| gird at him lovingly, and have as good as gotten him, lo^ in the go-by of the river he is gone as a shadow goes, andl only a little cloud of mud curls away from the points of] the fork. A long way down that limpid water, chill and bright as I an iceberg, went my little self that day on man's choice errand— destruction. All the young fish seemed to know that I was one who had taken out God's certificate, and meant to have the value of it; every one of them was' aware that we desolate more than replenish the earth. For a cow might come and look into the water, and put her yellow lips down; a kingfisher, like a blue arrow, might shoot through the dark alleys over the channel, or sit on a dipping witiiy-bough witii his beak sunk into his breast-feathers; even an otter might float down- stream, likening himself to a log of wood, with his flat head flush with the water-top, and his oily eyes peerinj^ quietly; and yet no panic would seize otiiaer life, as it does when a sample of man comes. Now let not any one suppose that I thought of these things when I was youn^, for I knew not the way to do it. And proud enough m truth I was at the universal fear I spread in all those lonely places, where I myself must have been afraid, if anything had come up to me. It is all very pretty to see the trees big wilii their hopes of another year, though dumb as yet on the subject, and the waters murmuring gaiety, and the banks spread out LORNA DOONE 55 rith. comfort; but a boy takes none of this to heart, Unless he be meant for a poet (which God can never large upon me), and he would liefer have a good apple, k even a bad one, if he stole it. When I had travelled two miles or so, conquered now id then with cold, and coming out to rub my legs into hvely friction, and only fishing here and there, because >f the tumbling water; suddenly, in an open space, ^here meadows spiead about it, 1 found a good sixeam lowing softly into the body of our brook. And it brought, } far as I could guess by the sweep of it under my knee- ips, a larger power of clear water than the Lynn itself lad; only it came more quietly down, not being troubled trith staurs and steps, as the fortune of the Lynn is, but [gliding smoothly and forcibly, as if upon some set pur- )ose. Hereupon I drew up and thought, and reason was much ^side me; because -me water was bitter cold, and my ^e toes were aching. So on the bank I rubbed them well rit^ a sprout of young sting-nettle, and having skipped ibout awhile, was kindly inclined to eat a bit. Now all the turn of all my life hung upon that moment. $ut as I sat there munching a crust of Betty Mux- worthy's sweet brown bread, and a bit of cold bacon ilong with it, and kicking my little red heels against the loam to keep them warm, I knew no more than fish in'der title fork what was going on over me. It seemed a id business to go back now and tell Annie there were 10 loaches; and yet it was a frightful thing, knowing rhait I did of it, to venture, where no grown man durst, ip the Bagworthy water. And please to recollect that I was only a boy in those days, fond enougL of anything lew, but not like a man to meet it. However, as I ate more and more, my spirit arose [within me, and I thought of what my father had been, ind how he had told me a hundred tmies never to be a :oward. And then I grew wairm, and my little heart was [ashamed of its pit-a-patting, and I said to myseU, 'now lif father looks, he shall see that I obey him. So I put jtlie bag round my back again, and buckled my breeches [far up from the knee, expecting deeper water, and crossing the Lynn, went stoutly up under the branches [which hanj< so dark on the Bagwoxthy river. I found it strongly over-woven« turned, and torn withi 1. i ■i IK, 1 Jl LORNA DOONE thicket- wcx)d, but not so rocky as the Lynn, and morel inclined to go evenly. There were bars of chafed stakes! stretched from the sides half-way across the current, and] light outriders of pithy weed, and blades of last year'sl water-grass trembling m the quiet places, like a spider's! threads, on the transparent stillness, with a tint of olivel moving it. And here and there the sun came in, as if hisi light was sifted, making dance upon the waves, and| shadowing the pebbles. Here, although affrighted often by the deep, dark! places, and feeling that every step I took might never be taken backward, on the whole I had very comely sport] of loaches, trout, and minnows, forking some, and tick- ling some, and driving others to shallow nooks, whence 1 I could bail them ashore. Now, if you have ever been fishing, you will not wonder that I was led on, forgetting all about danger, and taking no heed of the t'nie, but! shouting in a childish way whenever I caught a whacker' (as we called a big fish at Tiverton); and in sooth there were very fine loaches here, having more lie and har- bourage than in the rough Lynn stream, though not quite so large as in the Lowman, where I have even taken them to the weight of half a poind. But in answer to all my shouts there never was any sound at all, except of a rocky echo, or a scared bird hustling away, or the sudden dive of a water-vole; and the place grew thicker and thicker, and the covert grew darker above me, until I thought that the fishes might have good chance of eating me, instead of my eating the fishes. <-'. !.).V)"v .,> •:\->a'f. .;■■.:■!>■', ^•, , ' ' * •' , . ' For now the day was falling fast behind the brown of the hill-tops; and the trees, being void of leaf and hard, seemed giants ready to beat me. And every moment as the sky W2.s clearing up for a white frost, the cold of the water got worse and worse, until I was fit to cry with it. And so, in a sorry plight, I came to an opening in the bushes, where a great black pool lay in front of me, whitened with snow (as I tbou^t) at the sides, till I saw it was only foam-froth. Now, though I could swim with great ease and comfort, and feared no depth of water, when I could fairly come to it, yet I had no desire to go over head and ears into this ioay was sUding. But the fright of that brought me to Igam, and my elbow caught in a rock-hole; and so i lanaged to start again, with the help of more humility. Il 60 LORNA DOONE Nov/ being in the most dreadful fright, because I v; so near the top, and hope was beating within me, laboured hard with both legs and arms, going like a mil and prunting. At last the rush of forked water, wherj first it came over the lips of the fall, drove me into ' middle, and I stuck awhile with my toe-balls on slippery links of the pop- weed, and the world was greej and gliddery, and I durst not look behind me. Thenf made up my mind to die at last; for so my legs woull ache no more, and my breath not pain my heart so; onlj it did seem such a pity after fightmg so long to give in and the light was coining upon me, and again I fough towards it; then suddenly I felt fresh air, and fell into headlong. I \m t !• ' , ; ir CHAPTER VIII A BOY AND A GIRL .i '. /J When I came to myself agc^in, my hands were full young grass and mould, and a little girl kneeling at m\ side was rubbing my forehead tenderly with a dock-lea and a handkerchief. 'Oh, I am so glad,' she whispered softly, as I opene my eyes and looked at her; 'now you will try to be better| won't you?' t ,ir.,in I had never heard so sweet a sound as came fronl between her bright red lips, while there she knelt am gazed at me; neither had I ever seen anything so beautil f ul as the large dark eyes intent upon me, full of pity anif wonder. And then, my nature being slow, and perhaps) for that matter, heavy, I wandered with my hazy eye| down the black shower of her hair, as to my jaded gaza it seemed; and where it fell on the turf, among it (lika an early star) was the first primrose of the season. And since that day I think of her, through all the rougi storms of my life, when I see an early primrose. Perhaps she liked my countenance, and indeea I know she did] t>«:ause she said so afterwards; although at the tima she was too young to know what made her take to mej jNbt that I had any beauty, or ever pretended to have any, only a solid healthy face, which many girls have laughed at. mu iK^-'-mm.'-mi ie?3^*f? LORNA DOONU 61 Thereupon I sate upright, with my little trident still 1 one hand, and was much afraid to speak to her, being mscious of my country-brogue, lest she should cease to ce me. But she clapped her hands, and made a trifling ince around my back, and came to me on the other |de, as if I were a great plaything. I 'What is your name?' she said, as if she had every Ight to ask me; 'and how did you come here, and what te these wet things in this great bag?' < i^h . . *. n. I 'You had better let them alone, I said; 'they are Lches for my mother. But I will give you some, if you ,e.' 'Dear me, how much you think of them! Why, they re only fish. But how your feet are bleeding ! oh, I must le them up for you. And no shoes nor stockings! Is [our mother very poor, poor boy?' 'No,' I said, being vexed at this; 'we are rich enough I buy all this great meadow, if we chose; and here my loes and stockings be.' 'Why, they are quite as wet as your feet; and I cannot ;ar to see your feet. Oh, please to let me manage lem; I will do it very softly. 'Oh, I don't think much of that,' I replied; 'I shall put )me goose-grease to them. But how you are lookmg : me I I never saw any one like you before. My name is )hn Ridd . What is your name ? ' v t'^ i ' -^ a»«ii ■ ij^ . i 'Loma Doone,' she answered, in a low voice, as if [raid of it, and hanging her head so that I could see only ^er forehead and eyelashes; 'if you please, my name is .orna Doone; and I thought you must have known Then I stood up and touched her hand, and tried to lake her look at me; but she only turned away the more. ^oung and harmless as she was, her name alone made milt of her. Nevertheless I could not help looking at her lenderly, and the more when her blushes turned into ?ars, and her tears to long, low sobs. ' ? i-? •:,ifv mo: 'Don't cry,* I said, 'whatever you do. I am sure you iave never done any harm. I will give you all my nsh, Lorna, and catch some more for mother; only don't be bgry with me.' I She flung her little soft arms up in the passion of her [ears, and looked at me so piteously, that what did I do ^ut kiss her. It seemed to be a very odd thing, when 63 X-ORNA DOONE I I came to think of it, because I hated kissing so, as a. honest boys must do. But she touched my heart withi sudden delight, like a cowslip- blossom (although ther were none to be seen yet), and the sweetest flowers spring. She gave me no encouragement, as my mother in he place would have done; nay, she even wiped her lip (which methought was rather rude of her), and drei away, and smoothed her dress, as if I had used a freedoc Then I felt my cheeks grow burning red, and I gaze at my legs and was sorry. For although she was not at a proud child (at any rate in her countenance), yet knew that she was by birth a thousand years in front c me. They might have taken and trained me, or ^whicii would be more to the purpose) my sisters, until it wal time for us to die, and then have trained our childrecj aiter us, for many generations; yet never could we hav^ gotten that look upon our faces which Lorna Doone ha naturally, as if she had been born to it. Here was I, a yeoman's boy, a yeoman every inch me, even where I was naked; and there was she, a lad bom, and thoroughly aware of it, and dressed by peopll of rank and taste, who took pride in her beauty and se it to advantage. For though her hair was fallen dov by reason of her wildness, and some of her frock wa touched with wet where she had tended me so, behol^ her dress was pretty enough for the queen of all thJ angels. The colours were bright and rich indeed, and th^ substance very sumptuous, yet simple and free fron tinsel stuff, and matching i ost harmoniously. All fron her waist to her neck was white, plaited in close like curtain, and the dark soft weeping of her hair, and th^ shadowy light of her eyes (like a wood rayed througli with sunset), made it seem yet whiter, as if it were doM on purpose. As for the rest, she knew what it was a greaj deal better than I did; for I never could look far awaf from her eyes when they were opened upon me. Now, seeing how I heeded her, and feeling that I ha kissed her, although she was such a little girl, eight year old or thereabouts, she turned to the stream in a bashfu manner, and began to watch the water, and rubbed on^ leg against the other. I, for my part, being vexed at her behaviour to meJ tpok up all my things to go, and made a fuss about it] LORNA DOONE let her know I was going. But she did not call ine ick at all, as I had made sure she would do; moreover, [knew that to try the descent was almost certain death me, and it looked as dark as pitch; and so at tlie Louth I turned round again, and came back to her, and lid, 'Loma.' 'Oh, I thought you were gone,' she answered; 'why Id you ever come here ? Do you know what tliey would S to us, if they found you here with me?' 'Beat us, I dare say, very hard; or me, at least. They bid never beat you.* rNo. They would kill us both outright, and bury us ^re by the water; and the water often tells me that lust come to that.' I 'But what should they kill me for?' 'Because you have found the way up here, and they jver could beUeve it. Now, please to go; oh, please to They will kill us both in a moment. Yes, I like you ry much' — ^for I was teasing her to say it — 'very much leed, and I will call you John Ridd, if you like; only jase to go, John. And when your feet are well, you tow, you can come and tell me how they are.' I 'But I tell you, Loma, I like you very much indeed — rly as much as Annie, and a great deal more than Izzie. And I never saw any one like you; and I must le back again to-morrow, and so must you, to see me; |d I will bring you such lots of things — ^tiiere are apples '1, and a thrush I caught with only one leg broken* and ^r dog has just had puppies ' I Oh, dear, they won't let me have a dog. There is not I dog in the valley. They say they are such noisy lings ' 'Only put your ha.nd in mine — what little things they fe, Loma ! And I will bring you the loveliest dog; I will ^ow you just how long he is.' 'Hush!' A shout came down the valley; and all my jart was trembling, like water after sunset, and Loma's ;e was altered from pleasant play to terror. She shrank me, and looked up at me, with such a power of weak- i, that I at once made up my mind to ^save her or to with her. A tingle went through all my bones, ^d I only longed for my carbine. The little girl took Murage from me, and put her cheek quite close to ine. :.j»»v»'i. HI i-.\i4S) Wi^.-^ri ^T I 64 LORNA DOONE 11 i l:^i: 'Come with me down the waterfall. I can carry youj easily; and mother will take care of you.' 'No. no/ she cried, as I took her up: 'I will tell youl what to do. They are only looking for me. You see that] hole, that hole there?' She pointed to a little niche in the rock which verged! the meadow, about fifty yards away from us. In the| fading of the twilight I could just descry it. 'Yes, I see it, but they wDl see me crossing the grass | to get there.' 'Look! look!' She could hardly speak. 'There is ai way out from th^ top of it; they would kill me if I told] it. Oh, here they come, I can see them.' The little maid turned as white as the snow which hung | on the rocks above her, and she looked at the water and i then at me, and she cried, 'Oh dear! oh dear!' And then] she began to sob aloud, being so young and unready. But I drew her behind the withy-bushes, and close down I to the water, where it was quiet and shelving deep, ere it came to the lip of the chasm. Here they could not see either of us from the upper valley, and might have sought | a long time for us, even when they came quite near, if the trees had been clad with their summer clothes. Luckily I had picked up my fish and taken my three-prongecl fork away. Crouchin^^ in that hollow nest, as children get together in ever so little compass, I saw a dozen fierce men come down, on the other side of the water, not bearing any fire-arms, but looking lax and jovial, as if they were come from riding and a dinner taken hungrily. 'Queen, queen ! ' they were diouting, here and there, and now and uien: 'where the pest is our little queen gone?' 'They always call me "queen," and I am to be queen by-and-by,' Lorna whispered to me, with her soft cheek on my rough one, and her little heart beating against me : 'oh, they are crossing by the timber there, and then they are sure to see us.' 'Stx>p,' said I; 'now I see what to do. I must get into the water, and you must go to sleep.' 'To be sure,* yes, away in the meadow there. But how bitttr cold it will be for you!* She saw in a moment the way to do it, sooner than I could tell her; and there was no time to lose. 'Now mind you never come again,' she whispered over LORNA DOONE ^3 ler shoulder, as she crept away with a childish twist, tiding her white front from me; 'only I shall come some- 'mes — oh, here they are, Madonna!' Daring scarce to peep, I crep^ into the water, and lay lown bodily in it, with my head between two blocks of stone, and some flood-drift combing over me. The dusk ras deepening between the hills, and a white mist lay on the river; but I, being in the channel of it, could see every ripple, and twig, and rush, and glazing of twilight above It, PS bright as in a picture; so that to my ignorance there seemed no chance at all but what the men must ind me. For all this time they were shouting, and swear- ig, and keeping such a hullabaloo, that the rocks all found the valley rang, and my heart quaked, so (what rith this and the cold) that die water began to gurgle ^ound me, and to lap upon the pebbles. Neither in truth did I try to stop it, being now so lesperate, between the fear and the wretchedness; till I :aught a glimpse of the little maid, whose beauty and rhose kindliness had made me yearn to be with her. And then I knew that for her sake I was bound to be brave ind hide myself. She was lying beneath a rock, thirty or forty yards from me, feigning to be fast asleep, with ler dress spread beautifully, and her hair drawn over ler. Presently one of the great rough men came round a corner upon her; and there he stopped and gazed awhile it her fairness and her innocence. Then he caught her ip in his arms, and kissed her so that I heard him; and |f I had only brought my gun, I would have tried to shoot him. 'Here our queen is! Here's the queen, here's the iptain's daughter!' he shouted to his comrades; 'fast sleep, by God, and hearty! Now I have first claim to ler; and no one else shall touch the child. Back to the >ottle, all of you!' He set her dainty little form upon his great square ^houlder, and her narrow feet in one broad hand; and so triumph marched away, with the purple velvet of her fkiH ruffling in his long black beard, and the silken (ength of her hair fetched out, like a cloud by the wind. )ehind her. This way of her going vexed me so, that I [eaped upright in the water, and must have been spied by some of them, but for their haste to the wine bottle. L.D. (P ■ I It: LORNA DOONE Of their little queen they took small notice, being in urgency; although they had thought to find her drowne but trooped away after one another with kindly challen^ to gambling, so far as I could make them out; and kept sharp watch, I assure you. Going up that darkened glen, little Loma, ridiig st the largest and most fierce of them, turned and put a hand to me, and I put up a hand to her, in the thic of the mist and the willows. She was gone, my little dear (though tall of her ag and healthy) ; and when I got over my thriftless fright, i longed to have more to say to her. Her voice to me wa so different from all I had ever heard before, as might a sweet silver bell intoned to the small chords of a harp| But I had no time to think about this, if I hoped to hav-^ any supper. I crept into a bush for warmth, and rubbed my shiverj ing legs on bark, and longed for mother's fagot. Then ?\ daylight sank below the forget-me-not of stars, with sorrow to be quit, I knew that now must be my time get away, if there were any. Therefore, wringing my sodden breeches, I manage to crawl from the bank to the niche in the cliff whicll Loma had shown me. Through the dusk 1 had trouble to see the mouth, aj even the five land-yards of distance, nevertheless, entered well, and held on by some dead fern-stems, an(j did hope that no one would shoot me. But while I was hugging myself like this, with a boyisli manner of reasoning, my joy was like to have ended iij sad grief both to myself and my mother, and haply all honest folk who shall love to read this history. Fc hearing a noise in front of me, and like a coward nc knowing where, but afraid to turn round or think of it I felt myself going down some deep passage into a pil of darkness. It was no good to catch the sides, the whols thing seemed to go with me. Then, without knowing how, I was leaning over a night of water. This water was of black radiance, as are certain dial monds, spanned across with vaults of rock, and carry inj no image, neither showing marge nor end, but centre (as it might be) with a bottomless indrawal. With that chill and dread upon me, and the sheer rod all around, and the faint light heaving wavily on m LORNA DOONE % ilence of this gulf, I must have lost my wits and gone the bottom, if there were any. But suddenly a robin sang (as they will do after dark, )wards spring) in the brown fern and ivy behind me. took it for our little Annie's voice (for she could call by robin), and gathering quick warm comfort, sprang up 16 steep way towards the starlight. Climbing back, as \e stones glid down. I heard the cold greedy wave go lapping, like a blind black dog, into the distance of Arches and hoUow depths of darkness. CHAPTER IX V THERE IS VQ PLACE LIKE HOME CAN assure yon, and tell no lie (as John Fry always used sav when telling his very largest), that I scrambled )ack to the mouth of that pit as if the evil one had been ifter me. And sorely I repented now of all my boyish )lly, or madness it might well be termed, in venturing, dth none to help, and nothing to compel me, into that Accursed valley. Once let me get out, thinks I, and if ^ver I get in again, without being cast in by neck and by p, I will give our new-born donkey leave to set up for ly schoolmaster. How I kept that resolution we shall see hereafter. It enough for me now to tell how I escaped from the den lat night. First I sat down in the little opening which .oma had pointed out to me, and wondered whether she lad meant, as bitterly occurrf d to me, that I should run iown into the pit, and be di ned, and give no more trouble. But in less than half a minute I was ashamed )f that idea, and remembered how she was vexed to think that even a loach should lose his life. And then 1 said ^o mvself, 'Now surelv she would value me more than a thousand loaches; and what she said must be quite true ibout the way out of this horrible place.* Therefore I began to search with the uteiost care and liligence, although my teeth were chattering, and all my )ones beginning to ache with the chiiiin^:^ and the wet- less. Before very long the moon appeared, over the edge :he mountain, and among the trees at the top of it: 68 LORNA DCX)NE |ii,' it 1 1 and then I espied rough steps, and rocky, made as with a sledge-hammer, narrow, steep, and far asundei] scooped here and there in the side of the entrance, an then round a bulge of the clifi, Uke the marks upon great brown loaf, where a hungry child has picked at it| And higher up, where the light of the moon shone broade upon the precipice, there seemed to be a rude brokeJ track, like the shadow of a crooked stick thrown upoj a house-wall. > • / - % ; . Herein was small encouragement; and at first I wa minded to lie down and die; but it seemed to come ai to me. God has His time for all of us; but He seems advertise us when He does not mean to do it. Moreoverl I saw a movement of lights at the head of the valley, if lanthoms were coming after me, and the nimblene given thereon to my heels was in front of all meditation Straightway I set foot in the lowest stirrup (as I migL almost call it), and clung to the rock with my nails, aoij worked to make a jump into the second stirrup. And compassed that too, with the aid of my stick; althougi to teU you the truth, I was not at that time of life agile as boys of smaller frame are, for my size was grow] ing beyond my years, and the muscles not keeping timJ with it, and the joints of my bones not closely hinged) with staring at one another. But the third step-hole wa the hardest of all, and the rock swelled out on me ove my breast, and there seemed to be no attempting it, unt I espied a good stout rope hanging in a groove of shadow] and just managed to reach the end of it. How I clomb up, and across the clearing, and fouD(j my way home through the Bagworthy forest, is mor than I can remember now, for I took all the rest of ij then as a dream, by reason of perfect weariness. And indeed it was quite beyond my hopes to tell so much I have told; for at first beginning to set it down, it wi all like a mist before me. Nevertiieless, some parts gre\i clearer, as one by one I remembered them, having taked a little soft cordial, because the memory frightens me. For the toil of the water, and danger of labouring uJ the long csscade or rapids, and then the surprise of thj fair young maid, and terror of the murderers, and desperj ation of getting away — all these are much to me even now. when I am a stout churchwarden, and sit by thd side of my fire, after going through many far wois« ad] '• LORNA DOONE 69 Lt first I m [entures, which I will tell, God willing. Only the labour writing is such (especially so as to construe, and chal- ^nge a reader on parts of speech, and hope to be even ^ith him); that by this pipe which I hold in my hand I rer expect to be beaten, as in the days when old Doctor Twiggs, if 1 made a bad stroke in my exercise, shouted loud with a sour joy, 'John Ridd, sirrah, down with )ur small-clothes I ' Let that be as it may, I deserved a good beating that bght, after making such a fool of myself, and grinding x)d fustian to pieces. But when I got home, all the ipper was in, and the men sitting at the white table, and lother and Annie and Lizzie near by, all eager, and offer- Ig to begin (except, indeed, my mother, who was looking it at the doorway), and by the fire was Betty Mux- ^orthy, scolding, and cooking, and tasting her work, all a breath, as a man would say. I looked through the [oor from the dark by the wood-stack, and was half of a lind to stay out like a dog, for fear of the rating and jckoning; but the way my dear mother was looking about id the browning of the sausages got the better of me. But nobody could get out of me where I had been all 16 day and evening; although they worried me never so luch, and longed to shake me to pieces, especially Betty [uxworthy, who never could learn to let well alone. Not tiat they made me tell any lies, although it would have ;rved them right almost for intruding on other people's business; but that I just held my tongue, and ate my ipper rarely, and let them try their taunts and jibes, id drove them almost wild after supper, by smiling cceeding knowingly. And indeed I could have told them lings, as 1 hinted once or twice; and then poor Betty id our little Lizzie were so mad with eagerness, that between them I went into the fire, being thoroughly ^ercome with laughter and my own importance. Now what the working of my mind was (if, indeed, it mrked at all, and did not rather follow suit of body) it not in my power to say; only that the result of my jdventure in the Doone Glen was to make me dream a lood deal of nights, which I had never done much before, ind to drive me, with tenfold zeal and purpose, to the [ractice of bullet-shooting. Not that I ever expected to loot the Doone family, one by one, or even desired to lo so, for my nature is not revengeful; but that it seemed i m 70 LORNA DOONE to be somehow my business to understand the gun, as }J thing I must be at home with. I could hit the barn-door now capitally well with th{( Spanish match-lock, and even with John Fry's blunder| buss, at ten good land-yards distance, without any re for my fusil. And what was very wrong ol me, thoug I did not see it then, I kept John Fry there, to praise mj shots, from dinner-time often until the gray dusk, whii he all the time should have been at work spring-ploughinj upon the farm. And for that matter so should I ha\ been, or at any rate driving the horses; but John wa by no means loath to be there, instead of holding plough-tail. And indeed, one of our old sayings is, — For pleasure's sake I would liefer wet. Than ha' ten lumps of gold for each one of my sweat. And again, which is not a bad proverb, though ud thrifty and unlike a Scotsman's, — , . J , . God makes the wheat grow greener, , \_ • While farmer be at his dinner. ' ' And no Devonshire man, or Somerset either (and I belong to both of them), ever thinks of working harq than God likes to see him. i ... >r Nevertheless, 1 worked hsurd at the gun, and by time that I had sent all the church-roof gutters, so far \ 1 honestly could cut them, through the red pine-d( I began to long for a better tool that would make le noise and throw straighter. But the sheep-shearing cai and the hay-season next, and then the harvest of si corn, and the digging of the root called 'batata' (a ne but good thing in our neighbourhood, which our fc have made into 'taties'), and then the sweating of apples, and the turning of the cider-press, and the stac ing of the firewood, and netting of the woodcocks, and springles to be minded in the garden and by the hedg rows, where blackbirds hop to the molehills in the whi| October mornings, and gray birds come to look for sna at the time when the sun is rising. It is wonderful how time runs away, when all the things and a great many others come in to load him doi the hill and prevent him from stopping to look aboJ And I for my part can never conceive how people w| live in towns aiui cities, where neither lambs nor birds LORNA DOONE 71 xept in some shop windows), nor growing corn, nor >adow-grass, nor even so much as a stick to cut or a le to climb and sit down upon— -how these poor folk through their lives without being utterly weary of [em, and dying from pure indolence, is a thing God ly knows, if His mercy allows Him to think of it. [How the year we-it by I know not, only that I was Iroad all day, shooting, or fishing, or minding the farm, riding after some stray beast, or away by the seaside low Glenthome, wondering at the great waters, and )lving to go for a sailor. For in those days I had a belief, as many other strong boys have, of being rn for a seaman. And indeed I had been in a boat irly twice; but the second time mother found it out, 1 came and drew me back again; and sifter that she jd so badly, tiiat I was forced to give my word to her go no more without telling her. /< But Betty Muxworthy spoke her mind quite in a ferent way about it, the while she was wringing my sen, and clattering to the drying-horse fZailor, ees fai! ay and zarve un raight. Her can't out o' the watter here, whur a* must goo vor to id un, zame as a gurt to-ad squalloping, and mux up I be wore out, I be, wi' the very saight of 's braiches. ^w wil un ever baide aboard zhip, wi' the watter jing out under un, and comin* up splash when the id blow. Latt un goo, missus, latt un goo, zay I for and old Davy wash his clouts for un ' i md this discourse of Betty's tended more than my ther's prayers, I fear, to keep me from going. For I [ed Betty in those days, as children always hate a servant, and often get fond of a false one. But by, like many active women, was false by her crossness ", thinking it just for the moment perhaps, and rush- away with a bucket; ready to stick to it, like a iched nail, if beaten the wrong way with argument; melting over it, if you left her, as stinging soap, left le in a basin, spreads all abroad without bubbling. Jut all this is beyond the children, and beyond me too [that matter, even now in ripe experience; for I never know what women mean, and never shall except ^n they tell me, if that be in their power. Now let that ^on pass. For although I am now in a place of some lority, I have observed that no one ever listens to me. ji i ! \> I 72 LORNA DOONE i li f : ■ lit & when I attempt to lay down the law; but all are waitingi with open ears until I do enforce it. And so methinkj he who reads a history cares not much for the wisdom orl folly of the writer (knowing well that the former is fail less than his own, and the latter vastly greater), but! hurries to know what the people did, and how they got| on about it. And this I can tell, if any one can, haviog been myself in the thick of it. The fright I had taken that night in Glen Doone satis I fied me for a long time thereafter; and I took good caret not to venture even in the fields and woods of the outer! farm, without John Fry for company. John was greatlyl surprised and pleased at the value I now set upon him;[ until, what betwixt the desire to vaunt and the longing to talk things over, I gradually laid bare to him nearly all that had befallen me; except, indeed, about Lorna] whom a sort of shame kept me from mentioning. Kotl that I did not think of her, and wish very often to see herl again; but of course I was only a boy as yet, and there[ fore inclined to despise young ^irls, as being unable to do anything, and only meant to listen to orders. And when I got along with the other boys, that was how we always! spoke of tnem, if we deigned to speak at all, as beings of a lower order, only good enough to run errands for us,| and to nurse boy-babies. And yet my sister Annie was in truth a great deal morel to me than all Hie boys of the parish, and of Brendon, and Countisbury, put together; although at the time I never dreamed it, and would have laughed if told so. Annie was of a pleasing face, and very gentle manner, almost| like a lady some people said; but without any airs what- ever, only tr^ang to give satisfaction. And if she failed, she woula go and weep, without letting any one know it, I believing the fault to be all her own, when mostly it was of others. But if she succeeded in pleasing you, it was beautiful to see her smile, and stroke her soft chin in a way of her own, which she always used when taking note how to do the right tiling again for you. And then her checks had a bri^t clear pink, and her eyes were as blue as the sky in spring, and she stood as upright as a young apple-tree, and no one could help but smile at her, and pat her brown curls approvingly; whereupon she always curtseyed. For she never trieof to look away when honest people gazed at her; and even in the court-yard she would LORNA DOONE 73 :ome and help to take your saddle, and tell (without your sking her) what there was for dinner. And afterwards she grew up to be a very comely laiden, tall, and with a well-built neck, and very fair rhite shoulders, under a bright cloud of curling hair. Alas ! )oor Annie, like most of the gentle maidens — but tush, I im not come to that yet; ana for the present she seemed to me little to look at, after the beauty of Loma Doone. i; '/fn.fr ; 1- •(.,•■:; r••^ ' •;» » •' ', v' : ■ • / V" CHAPTER X , ,i , ■ V 1 T !• •A BRAVE RESCUE AND A ROUGH RIDE ' > • > IT happened upon a November evening (when I was ibout fifteen years old, and out- growing my strength rery rapidly, my sister Annie being turned thirteen, and deal of rain having fallen, and all the troughs in the ^ard being flooded, and the bark from the wood-ricks cashed down the gutters, and even our water-shoot going )rown) that the ducks in the court made a terrible quack- ig, instead of marching ofiE to their pen, one behind mother. Thereupon Annie and I ran out to see what light be the sense of it. There were thirteen ducks, and ^en lily-white (as the fashion then of ducks was), not I lean twenty-three in all, but ten white and three brown- ktriped ones; and without being nice about their colour, pey all quacked very movingly. They pushed their jold-coloured bills here and there (yet dirty, as ^old is Ipt to be), and they jumped on the triangles of their feet, ind sounded out of their nostrils; and some of the over- excited ones ran along low on the ground, quacking rievously with their bills snapping and bending, and the \ooi of their mouths exhibited. *'''^ /. r.T. Annie began to cry 'Dilly, dilly, einy, einy, ducksey,' Iccording to the burden of a tune they seem to have kcepted as the national duck's anthem; but instead of )eing soothed by it, they only quacked three times as lard, and ran round till we were giddy. And then they [hook their tails together, and lookedi grave, and went round and round again. Now I am uncommonly fond of lucks, both roasted and roasting and roystering; and it a fine sight to behold them walk, peddling one after 74 LORNA DOONE W\' m other, with their toes out, like soldiers drilling, and the little eyes cocked ail ways at once, and the way that the dib with their bills, and dabble, and throw up their head and enjoy something, and then tell the others about it Therefore I knew at once, by the way they were carryii on, that there must be something or other ^one whoUj amiss in the duck- world. Sister Annie perceived it tool but with a greater quickness; for she counted them likJ a good duck-wife, and could only tell thirteen of them] when she knew there ought to be fourteen. And so we began to search about, and the ducks ran lead us aright, having come that far to fetch us; anil when we got down to the foot of the court-yard where thS two great ash-trees stand by the side of the little water] we found good reason for the urgence and melanchol\i of the duck-birds. Lo ! the old white drake, the father all, a bird of high manners and chivalry, always the h to help himself from the pan of barley-meal, and the fir to show fight to a dog or cock intruding upon his famil;. this fine fellow, and pillar of the state, was now in a sad predicament, yet quacking very stoutly. For the brook] wherewith he had been familiar from his callow child] hood, and wherein he was wont j quest for water-newts) and tadpoles, and caddis-woi tis, and other game, thii brook, which afforded him very often scanty space t() dabble in, and sometimes starved the cresses, was no« coming down in a great brown flood, as if the banks neverl belonged to it. The foaming of it, and the noise, and the! cresting of the comers, and the up and down, like a| wave of the sea, were enough to frighten any duck J though bred upon stormy waters, which our ducks never] had been. There is always a hurdle six feet long and four and al half in depth, swung by a chain at either end from an oak| laid across the channel. And the use of this hurdle is to keep our kine at milking time from straying away therel drinking (for in truth they are very dainty) and to fencej strange cattle, or Farmer Snowe's horses, from coming along the bed of the brook unknown, to steal our sul stance. But now this hurdle, which hung in the summer al foot above the trickle, would have been dipped more than! two feet deep but for the power against it. For the| torrent came down so vehemently that the chains at ful stretch were creaking, and the hurdle buffeted almost] LORNA DOONE ^wfm lat, and thatched (so to say) with the drift-stuff, v. as (oing see-saw, with a sulky splash on the dirty red comb )f the waters. But saddest to see was between two bars, rhcre a fog was of rushes, and flood-wood, and wild- :elery haulm, and dead crowsfoot, who but our venerable iKiUard jammed in by the joint of his shoulder, speakini^ Lloud as he rose and fell, with his top-knot full of water, inable to comprehend it, with his tail washed far away jrom him, but often compelled to be silent, being ducked kery harshly against his will by the choking fall-to of the mrdle. For a moment I could not help laughing, be ause, being )orne up high and dry by a tumult of the torrent, he gave \i', a look from his one little eye (having lost one in fight rith the turkey-cock), a gaze of appealing sorrow, and hen a loud quack to second it. But the quack came out )f timo, I suppose, for his throat got filled with water, as thi hurdle carried him back again. And then there was :arcely the screw of his tail to be seen until he swung ip again, and left small doubt by the way he sputtered, Liid failed to quack, and hung down his poor crest, but ^hat he must drown in another minute, and frogs triumph over his body. Annie was crying, and wringing her hands, and I was ibout to rush mto the water, although I liked not the look of it, but hoped to hold on by the hurdle, when a lan on horseback came suddenly round the corner of the great ash-hedge on the other side of the stream, and lis horse's feet were in the water. 'Ho, there,' he cried; 'get thee back, boy. The flood ^ill carry thee down like a straw. I will do it for thee, ind no trouble.' With that he leaned forward, and spoke to his mare — she was just of the tint of a strawberry, a young thing, ^ery beautiful — and she arched up her neck, as mis- liking the job; yet, trusting him, would attempt it. She mtered the flood, with her dainty fore-legs sloped further md further in front of her, and her delicate ears pricked forward, and the size of her great eyes incresising. but le kept her straight in the turbid rush, by the pressure )f his knee on her. Then she looked back, and wondered it him, as the force or ^he torrent grew stronger, but le bade her go on; and on she went, and it foamed up )ver her shoulders; and she tossed up her lip and i .1 I I IP' f$ LORNA DOONE scorned it, for now her courage was waking. Then as % rush of it swept her away, and she struck with her fore feet down the stream, he leaned from his saddle in manner which I never could have thought possible, an^ caught up old Tom with his left hand, and set his between his holsters, and smiled at his faint quack gratitude. In a moment all these were carried down stream, and the rider lay flat on his horse, and tossed thj hurdle clear from him, and made for the bend of smoot water. They landed some thirty or forty yards lower, in thJ midst of our kitchen-garden, where the winter-cabbagj was; but though Annie and I crept in through the hedge] and were full of our thanks and admiring him, he woula answer us never a word, until he had spoken in full to th\ mare, as if explaining the whole to her. .- .. . ;i > 'Sweetheart, I know thou couldst have leaped it,* hj said, as he patted her cheek, being on the ground by thij time, and she was nudging up to him, with the watej pattering off her; 'but 1 had good reason, Winnie dear] for makmg thee ^o through it.' She answered him kindly with her soft eyes, and sniffe at him very lovingly, and they understood one another] Then he took from his waistcoat two peppercorns, and made the old drake swallow them, and tried him softlj upon his legs, where the leading gap in the hedge v/a Old Tom stood up quite bravely, and clapped his wings] and shook ofE the wet from his tail-feathers; and theif away into tlie court-yard, and his family gathered around him, and they all made a noise in their throats, and stooij up, and put their bills together, to thank God for thii great deliverance. Having taken all this trouble, and watched the end that adventure, the gentleman turned round to us wit a pleasant smile on his face, as if he were lightly amused with himself; and we came up and looked at him. Ha was rather short, about John Fry's height, or may be I little taller, but very strongly built and springy, as m gait at every step showed plainly, although his legs wen bowed with mucn riding, and he looked as if he lived on horseback. To a boy luce me he seemed very old, beinJ over twenty, and well-found in beard; but he was nol more than four-and-twenty, fresh and ruddy looking, wit a short nose and keen blue eyes, and a merry waggis LORNA DOONE 77 ;rk about him, as if tlie world were not iii earnest. Yet ke had a sharp, stern way, like the crack of a pistol, if lything mishked him: and we knew (for children see ich things) that it was safer to tickle than buffet him. 'Well, young uns, what be gaping at?' He gave pretty innie a chuck on the chin, and took me all in without rinking. ' ' • ^ . . :• 'Your mare,* said I, standing stoutly up, being a tall >oy now; *I never saw such a beauty, sir. Will you let 16 have a ride of her?' 'Think thou couldst ride her, lad? She will have no >urden but mine. Thou couldst never ride her. Tut I would be loath to kill thee.* 'Ride her!' I cried with the bravest scorn, for she 3oked so kind and gentle; 'there never was horse upon Lxmoor foaled, but I could tackle in half an hour. Only never ride upon saddle. Take them leathers off of her.' He looked at me with a dry little whistle, and thrust his lands into his breeches-pockets, and so grinned that I bould not stand it. And Annie laid hold of me in such way that I was almost mad with her. And he laughed. md approved her for doing so. And the worst of aU was -he said nothing. 'Get away, Annie, will you? Do you think I'm a fool, rood sir! Only trust me with her, and I will not over- fide her.' 'For that I will go bail, my son. She is liker to over- fide thee. But the ground is soft to fall upon, after all ibis rain. Now come out into the yard, young man, tor the sake of your mother's cabbages. And the mellow ktraw-bed will be softer for thee, since pride must have [ts fall. I am thy mother's cousin, boy, and am going up to house. Tom Faggus is my name, as everybody knows; tnd this is my young mare, Winnie.' What a fool I must have been not to know it at once ! 'om Faggus, the great highwayman, and his young )lood-mare, the strawberry ! Already her fame was noised ibroad, nearly as much as her master's; and my longing to ride her grew tenfold, but fear came at the back erf It. Not that I had the smallest fear of what the mare :ould do to me, by fair play and horse-trickery, but that the glory of sitting upon her seemed to be too great for le; especially as there were rumours abroad that she ras not a mare after all, but a witch. However, she i 78 LORNA DOONE H::. il I V 1 1' 1 14 I i'ii 1 I (■i I" I \k. looked like a filly all over, and wonderfully beautiful,' with her supple stride, and soft slope of shoulder, and| glossy coat beaded with water, and prominent eyes full of docile fire. Whether this c^me from her Eastern blood of the Arabs newly imported, and whether the I cream-colour, mixed with our bay, led to that bright strawberry tint, is certainly more than I can decide, being chiefly acquaint with farm-horses. And these come of any colour and form; you never can count what they| will be, and are lucky to get four legs to them. Mr. Faggus gave his mare a wink, and she walked! demurely after him, a bright young thing, flowing over| with life, yet dropping her soiil to a higher one, and led by love to anything; as the manner is of femedes, when they know what is the best for them. Then Winnie trod| lightly upon the straw, because it had soft muck under it, and her delicate feet came back again. 'Up for it still, boy, be ye?' Tom Faggus stopped, and the mare stopped there; and they looked at me{ provokingly. 'Is she able to leap, sir? There is good take-off on this side of the brook.' Mr. Faggus laughed very quietly, turning round to| Winnie so that she might enter into it. And she, for her part, seemed to know exactly where the fun lay. ;, 'Good tumble-off, you mean, my boy. Well, there can be small harm to thee. I am akin to thy family, and know the substance of their skuUs.' 'Let me get up,' said I, waxing wroth, fur reasons I cannot tell you, because they are too manifold; 'take off your saddle-bag things. I will try not to squeeze her ribs in, unless she plays nonsense with me.' Then Mr. Faggus was up on his mettle, at this proud speech of mine; and John Fry was running up all the while, and Bill Dadds, and half a dozen. Tom Faggus gave one glance around, and then dropped all regard for me. The high repute of his mare was at stake, and what was my life compared to it? Through my defiance, and stupid ways, here was I in a duello, and my legs not come to their strength yet, and my arms as limp as a herring. Something of this occurred to him even in his wrath with me, for he spoke very softly to the filly, who now could scarce subdue herself; but she drew in her nostrils, and breathed to his breath and did all she could to answer him. LORNA DOONE 79 'Not too hard, my dear,' he said : 'let him gently down )n the mixen. That will be quite enough.' Then he [turned the saddle off, and I was up in a moment. She [began at first so easily, and pricked her ears so lovingly, [and minced about as if pleased to find so light a weight [upon her, that I thought she knew I could ride a little, ind feared to show any capers. 'Gee wug, Polly!' cried for all the men were now looking on, being then at the leaving-off time : 'Gee wug, Polly, and show what thou be' est made of.' With that 1 plugged my heels into ler, and Billy Dadds flung his hat up. Nevertheless, she outraged not, though her eyes were frightening Annie, and John Fry^ took a pick to keep lim safe; but she curbed to and fro with her strong fore- irms rising like springs ingathered, waiting and quivering [grievously, and beginning to sweat about it. 'Then her laster gave a shrill clear whistle, when her ears were bent towards him, and I felt her form beneath me gathering [up like whalebone, and her hind-legs coming under her, land I knew that I was in for it. First she reared upright in the air, and struck me full [on the nose with her comb, till I bled worse than Robin [Snell made me; and then down with her fore-feet deep in [the straw, and her hind-feet going to heaven. Finding I me stick to her still like wax, for my mettle was up as hers jwas, away she flew with me swifter than ever I went [before, or since, I trow. She drove full-head at the cob- Iwall — *Oh, Jack, slip off,* screamed Annie — then she Itumed like light, when I thought to crush her, and ground my left knee against it. 'Mux me,' I cried, for my [breeches were broken, and short words went the furthest -'if you kill me, you shall die v/ith me.' Then she took [the court-yard gate at a leap, knocking my words between my teeth, and then right over a quick set hedge, as if the sky were a breath to her; and away for the water- meadows, while I lay on her neck like a child at the breast and wished I had never been born. Straight away, all in the front of the wind, and scattering clouds around her, all I knew of the speed we made was the frightful flash of her shoulders, and her mane like trees in a tempest. I felt the earth under us rushing away, and the air left far [behind us, and my breath came and went, and I prayed Ito God, and was sorry to be so late of it. All the long swift while, without power of thought, I 8o LORNA DOONE clung to her crest and shoulders, and dug my nails intj her creases, and my toes into her flank -part, and w^ proud of holding on so long, though sure of being beatin Then in her fury at feeling me still, she rushed at anctha device for it, and leaped the wide water-trough sideway across, to and fro, till no breath was left in me. The haze boughs took me too hard in the face, and the tall dod briers got hold of me, and the ache of my back was liW crimping a fish; till 1 longed to give up, thoroughly beatej and lie there and die in the cresses. But there came a shril whistle from up the home-hill, where the people ha hurried to watch us; nnd the mare stopped as if with i bullet; then set off for home with the speed of a swallo\i and going as smoothly and silently. I never had drearae of such delicate motion, fluent, and graceful, and ambienj soft as the breeze flitting over the flowers, but swift as th summer lightning. I sat up again, but my strength wa all spent, and no time left to recover it, and though sh rose at our gate like a bird, I tumbled off into the mixeii CHAPTER XI TOM DESERVES HIS SUPPER t']h fc 'Well done, lad,' Mr. Faggus said good naturedly; f(j all were now gathered round me, as I rose from ground, somewhat tottering, and miry, and crest-falleij but otherwise none the worse (having fallen upon mj head, which is of uncommon substance); neverthelesf John Fry was laughing, so that I longed to clout his ea for him; 'Not at all bad work, my boy; we may teac you to ride by-and-by, I see; I thought not to see yoj stick on so long ' f 'I should have stuck on much longer, sir, if her siq had not been wet. She was so slippery ' 'Boy, thou art right. She hath given many the slii| Ha, ha I Vex not. Jack, that I laugh at thee. She is lil a sweetheart to me, and better, than any of them be. would have gone to my heart if thou hadst conquere(| None but I can ride my Winnie mare.' 'Foul shame to thee then, Tom Faggus,' cried mothej coming up suddenly, and speaking so that all wer LORNA DOONE 8i r, if her sida lazed, having never seen her wrathful; 'to put my boy, \y boy, across her, as if his Ufe were no more than thine ! le only son of his father, an honest man, and a quiet ^an, not a roystering drunken robber! A man would Lve taken thy mad horse and thee, and flung them both [to horse-pond — ay, and what's more, I'll have it done )w, if a hair of his head is injured. Oh, my boy, my >y! What could I do without thee? Put up the other fm, Johnny.' All the time mother was scolding so, she tis feeling me, and wiping me; while Faggus tried to ok greatly ashamed, having sense of the ways of women. 'Only look at his jacket, mother!' cried Annie; 'and [shillingsworth gone from his small-clothes!' 'What care I for his clothes, thou goose? Take that, id heed thine own a bit.' And mother gave Annie a ip which sent her swinging up against Mr. Faggus, and caught her, and kissed and protected her; and she )ked at him very nicely, with great tears in her soft blue res. 'Oh, fie upon thee, fie upon thee!' cried mother (eing yet more vexe 1 with him, because she had beaten inie]; 'after all we have done for thee, and saved thy )rthless neck — and to try to kill my son for me ! Never )re shall horse of thine enter stable here, since these be [y returns to me. Small thanks to you, John Fry, I say, id you Bill Dadds, and you Jem Slocomb, and all the st of your coward lot; much you care for your master's ! Afraid of that ugly beast yourselves, and you put |boy just breeched upon him ! ' j c I'Wull, missus, what could us do?' began John; 'Jan idd goo, now wudd't her, Jem? And how was us ' I' Jan indeed ! Master John, if you please, to a lad of his irs and stature. And now, Tom Faggus, be off, if you iase, and think yourself lucky to go so; and if ever it horse comes into our yard, I'll hamstring him myself, [none of my cowards dare do it,' [Everybody looked at mother, to hear her talk like that, \owing how quiet she was day by day, and how pleasant be cheated. And the men began to shoulder tlieir )vels, both so as to be away from her, and to go and 11 their wives of it. Winnie too was looking at her, being finted at so much, and wondering if she had done amiss. id then she came to me, and trembled, and stooped head, and asked my pardon, if she had been too proud me. i 82 LORNA DOONE ' I 'Winnie shall stop here to-night,' said I, for To Faggus still said never a word all the while; but began i buckle his things on, for he knew that women are to met with wool, as the cannon-balls were at the siege Tiverton Castle; 'mother, I tell you, Winnie shall stoj else I will go away with her. I never knew what it wa till now, to ride a horse worth riding.' 'Young man,' said Tom Faggus, still preparing stern to depart, 'you know more about a horse than any mj on Exmoor. Your mother may well be proud of you, bi| she need have had no fear. As if I, Tom Faggus, yc father's cousin — and the only thing I am proud of-l would ever have let you mount my mare, which dukJ and princes have vainly sought, except for the couraj in youi: eyes, and the look of your father about you. knew you could ride when I saw you, and rarely y(i| have conquered. But women don't understand Good-bye, John; I am proud of you, and I hoped to ha\| done you pleasure. And indeed I came full of son courtly tales, that would have made your hair stao up. But though not a crust have I tasted since this tii yesterday, having given my meat to d widow, I will and starve on the moor far sooner than eat the be supper that ever was cooked, in a place that has forgottel me. With that he fetched a heavy sigh, as ii it had bej for my father; and feebly got upon Winnie's back, and came to say farewell to me. He lifted his hat to mother, witti a glance of sorrow, but never a word; an to me he said, 'Open the gate. Cousin John, if you plej You have beaten her so, that she cannot leap it, thing.' But before he was trulj;^ gone out of our yard, mother came softly after him, with her afternoon apra across her eyes, and one hand ready to offer him. Neve theless, he made as if he had not seen her, though he his horse go slowly. *Stop, Cousin Tom,' my mother said, 'a word will you, before you go.' 'Why, bless my heart!* Tom Faggus cried, with form of his countenance so changed, that I verily though another man must have leaped into his clothes — '( I see my Cousin Sarah? I thought every one wai ashamed of me, and afraid to offer me shelter, since I Ic my best cousin, John Ridd. "Come here," he used LORNA DOONE §§ r, "Tcm, come here, when you are worried, and my ie shall take good care of you." "Yes, dear Tohn," ised to answer, "I know she promised my motLer so; |t people have taken to think against me, and so might [usin Sarah." Ah, he was a man, a manl If you only ird how he answered me. But let that go, I am nothing \ since the day I lost Cousin Ridd.' And with that began to push on again; but mother would not have ISO. 'Oh, Tom, that was a loss indeed. And I am nothing ler. And you should try to allow for me; though I ^er found any one that did.' And mother began to r, though father had been dead so long; and I looked with a stupid surprise, having stopped from crying ig ago. ['I can tell you one that will,' cried Tom, jumping Winnie, in a trice, and looking kindly at mother; '1 allow for you. Cousin Sarah, in everything but one. im in some ways a bad man myself; but I know the lue of a good one; and if you gave me orders, by )(i ' And he shook his fists towards Bagworthy [ood, just heaving up black in the sundown. ['Hush, Tom, hush, for God's sake!' And mother Uant me, without pointing at me; at least I thought she For she ever had weaned me from thoughts of renge, and even from longings for judgment. 'God ^ows best, boy,' she used to say, 'let us wait His time, lout wishing it.' And so, to tell the truth » I did; :tly through her teaching, and partly through my own Id temper, and my knowledge that father, after all, is killecf because he had thrashed them. ['Good-night, Cousin Sarah, good-night, Cousin Jack,' led Tom, taking to the mare again; 'many a mile I ive to ride, and not a bit inside of me. No food or shelter lis side of Exeford, and the night will be black as pitch, [trow. But it serves me right for indulging the lad, ling taken with his looks so.' ['Cousin Tom,' said mother, and trying to get so that inie and I could not hear her; 'it would be a sad and ikinlike thing for you to despise our dwelling-house, [e cannot entertain you, as the lordly inns on tibe road >; and we have small change of victuals. But the men 111 go home, being Saturday; and so you will have the leside all to yourself and the children. There are some 94 LORNA DOONE :i h Mf few collops of red deer's flesh, and a ham just down froi the chimney, and some dried salmon from Lynmou weir, and cold roast-pig, and some oysters. And if no of those be to your lining, we could roast vo woodcc in half an hour, and Annie would make hhe toast them. And the good folk made some mistake last we goin^ up the country, and left a keg of old HollaiJ cordial in the coving of the wood-rick, having borrow] our Smilcr, without asking leave. I fear there is soi thing unrighteous about it. But what can a poor wid(i| do? John Fry would have taken it, but for our Jad Our Jack was a little too sharp for him.' Ay, that I was; John Fry had got it, like a billet und his apron, going away in the gray of the morning, as if I kindle his fireplace. 'Why, John/ I said, 'what a heaj log! Let me have one end of it.' 'Thank'e, Jan, need of thiccy,' he answered, turning his back to 'waife wantetti a log as will last all day, to kape crock a zimmerin.' And he banged his gate upon heels to make me stop and rub them. 'Why, J oh said I, 'you'm got a log with round holes in the end] it. Who has been cutting gun- wads? Just lift your apro or I will.' But, to return to Tom Faggus — ^he stopped to sup th night with us, and took a little of everything; a i\ oysters first, and then dried salmon, and then ham eggs, done in small curled rashers, and then a few collo of venison toasted, and next to that a little cold roa pig, and a woodcock on toast to finish with, before Scheidam and hot water. And having changed his things first, he seemed to be in fair appetite, and prais Annfie's cooking mightily, with a kind of noise likel smack of his lips, and a rubbing of his hands togethj whenever he could spare them. He had gotten John Fry's best small-clothes on, fori said he was not good enough to go into my father's (whij mother kept to look at), nor man enough to fill thej And in truth my mother was very glad that he refuse! when I offered them. But John was over proud to haj it in his power to say that such a famous man had ev dwelt in any clothes of his; and afterwards he ma| show of them. For Mr. Faggus 's glory, then, though so great as now it is, was spreading very fast indeed about our neighbourhood, and even as far as BridgewatJ I LORNA DOONE 85 rroin Faggus was a jovial soul, if ever there has been )e, not making bones of little things, nor caring to seek il. There was about him such a love of genuine human ^ture, that if a traveller said a good thing, he would give back his purse again. It is true that he took people's )ney more by force than fraud; and the law (being )d to the inverse method) was bitterly moved against although he could quote precedent. These things |do not understand; having seen so much of robbery )me legal, some illegal), that I scarcely know, as here say, one crow's foot from the other. It is beyond me, Id above me, to discuss these subjects; and in truth iove the law right well, when it doth support me, and len I can lay it down to my liking, with prejudice to fbody. Loyal, too, to the King am I, as behoves church- irden; and ready to make the best of him, as he lerally requires. But after all, I could not see (until [grew much older, and came to have some property) py Tom Faggus, working hard, was called a robber |d felon of great; while the King, doing nothing at all became his dignity), was liege-lord, and paramount rner; with everybody to thank him kindly for accepting Ibute. <■''' • ' '■'" ' '' - [For the present, however, I learned nothing more as what our cousin's profession was; only that mother jmed frightened, and whispered to him now and then |t to talk of something, because ot the children being ;re; whereupon he always nodded with a sage expres- ^n, and applied himself to hdllands. [Now let us go and see Winnie, Jack,' he said to me after )per; 'for the most part I feed her before myself; but was so hot from the way you drove her. Now she Jiist be grieving for me, and I never let her grieve long.' [I was too glad to go with him, and Annie came slyly Iter us. The filly was walking to and fro on the naked [or of the stable (for he would not let her have any aw, until he should make a bed for her), and without so ich as a headstall on, for he would not have her jtened. 'Do you take my maro for a dog?' he had said »en John Fry brought him a halter. And now she ran him like a child, and her great eyes shone at the ilhorn. I' Hit me, Jack, and see what she will do. I will not let hurt thee.' Ho was rubbing her ears all the time he m l).]l 86 LORNA DOONE wj spoke, and she was leaning against him. Then I believe to strike him, and in a moment she caught by the waistband, and lifted me clean from the gioui and was casting me down to trample upon me, vi he stopped her suddenly. ^ ., 'What think you of that, boy? Have you horse or that would do iiat for you ? Ay, and more than that will do. If I were to whistle, by-and-by, in the tone tells my danger, she would break this stable-door do' and rush into the room to me. Nothing will keep from me then, stone- wall or church-tower. Ah, Win Winnie, you little witch, we shall die together.' Then he turned away with a joke, and began to [ her nicely, for she was very dainty. Not a husk of would she touch that had been under the breath another horse, however hungry she might be. And her oats he mixed some powder, fetching it from saddle-bags. What this was I could not guess, nei would he tell me, but laughed and called it 'starshavinj He watched her eat every morsel of it, with two or t drinks of pure water, ministered between whiles; then he made her bed in a form I had never seen befi and so we said 'Good-night' to her. Afterwards by the fireside he kept us very me sitting in the great chimney-corner, and making us pi games with him. And all the while he was smoki tobacco in a manner I never had seen before, not usi any pipe for it, but having it rolled in little sticks a as long as my finger, blunt at one end and sharp at other. The sharp end he would put in his mouth, and a brand of wood to the other, and then draw a w! cloud of curling smoke, and we never tired of watc him. I wanted him to let me do it, but he said, 'No, son: it is not meant for boys.' Then Annie put up lips and asked, with both hands on his knees (for she taken to him wonderfully), 'Is it meant for girls th cousin Tom?* But she had better not have asked, he gave it her to try, and she shut both eyes, and sue at it. One breath, however, was quite enough, for it m; her cough so violently, that Lizzie and I must thump back until she was almost crying. To atone for t cousin Tom set to, and told us whole pages of stories, about his own doings at all, but strangely enough tl seemed to concern almost every one else we had e LORNA DOONE 87 iard of. Without halting once for a word or a deed, hii le9 flowed onward as freely and brightly as the flames the wood up the chimnejr, and with no smaller variety. )r he spoke with the voices of twenty people, giving :h person the proper manner, and the proper place to ak from; so that Annie and Lizzie ran all about, and rched the clock and the linen-press. And he changed face every moment so, and with such power of mimicry it without so much as a smile of his own, he made even jther laugh so that she broke her new tenpenny waist- tnd; and eis for us children, we rolled on the floor, and 5tty Muxworthy roared in the wash-up. I* I CHAPTER XII . ' t ' ' A MAN JUSTLY POPULAR _ . i « )w although Mr. Kaggus was so clever, and generous, \d celebrated, I know fiof whether, upon the whole, we ;ro rather proud of him as a member of our family, or ;lined to be ashamed of him. And indeed I think fh.it sway of the balance hung uynn the company we were For instance, with the boys at lirwndon — ^for there is village at Oare — I was exceeding proud to talk of him, \d would freely brag of my Cousm Tom. But with tljo 'h parsons of the neighbourhood, or the justices (who [me round now and then, and were glad to ride up to a irm farm-house), or even the well-to-do tradesmen of )rlock — in a word, any settled power, which was afraid losing things — with all of them we were very shy of liming our kinship to that great outlaw. [And sure, I should pity, as well as condemn him, [ough our ways in the world were so different, knowing I do his story; which knowledge, methinks, would ten lead us to let alone God's prerogative — judgment, " hold by man's privilege — pity. Not that I would find :use for Tom's downright dishonesty, which was beyond [ubt a disgrace to him, and no credit to his kinsfolk; [ly that it came about without his meaning any harm, seeing how he took to wrong; yet gradually knowing And now, to save any further trouble, and to meet )se who disparage him (without allowance for the time « LORNA DOONE 1 1 i'. Ii "HI I'll El * !' 'h . I: or the crosses laid upon him), I will tell the history him, just as if he were not my cousin, and hoping to heeded. And I defy any man to say that a word of t is either false, or in any way coloured by family. Mud cause he had to be harsh with the world; and yet acknowledged him very pleasant, when a man gave up hi money. And often and often he paid the toll for th carriage coming after him, because he had emptied thei pockets, and would not add inconvenience. By trade had been a blacksmith, in the town of Northmolton, Devonshire, a rough rude place at the end of Exmoor, that many people marvelled if such a man was bn there. Not only could he read and write, but he h solid substance; a piece of land worth a hundred pounc and right of common for two hundred sheep, and a scoi and a half of beasts, lifting up or lying down. Am being left an orphan (with all these cares upon him) began to work right early, and made such a fataie at shoeing of horses, that the farriers of Barum were 1 to lose their custom. And indeed he won a gold Jacobus for the best-shod nag in the north of Devon, a some say that he never was forgiven. As to that, I know no more, except that men jealous. But whether it were that, or not, he fell in bitter trouble within a month of his victory; when trade was growing upon him, and his sweetheart ready marry him. For he loved a maid of Southmolton currier's daughter I think she was, and her name w; Betsy Paramore), and her father had given conseni ahd Tom Faggus, wishing to look his best, and be cle oi course, had a tailor at work upstairs for him, had come all the way from Exeter. And Betsy's thinj were ready too — ^for which they accused him afterwar as if he could help that — when suddenly, like a thundei bolt, a lawyer's writ fell upon him. This was the beginning of a law-suit with Sir Robei Bampfylde, a gentleman of the neighbourhood, who tri to oust him from his common, and drove his cattle am harassed them. And by that suit of law poor Tom wi ruined altogether, for Sir Robert could pay for mu swearing; and then all his goods and his farm were sol up, and even his smithery taken. But he saddled horse, before they could catch him, and rode away Southmolton, looking more like a madman than a goi LORNA DOONE 80 irrier, as the people said who saw him. But when he rrived there, instead ot comfort, they showed him th<» ice of the door alone; for the news of his loss was before im, and Master Paramore was a sound, prudent man, id a high member of the town council. It is said that ley even gave him notice to pay for Betsy's wedding- iothes, now that he was too poor to marry her. This may ! false, and indeed I doubt it; in the first place, because )uthmolton is a busy place for talking; and in the next, lat I do not think the action would have lain at law, Specially as the maid lost nothing, but used it all for jr wedding next month with Dick Vellacott, of Mock- im. ^ " ' •-• ,■ " • ^'- ■ ■* J"'!-' ■ - > ^>.» • • ' ■ All this was very sore upon Tom; and he too^ it to jart so grievously, that he said, as a better man mii^'ht ive said, being loose of mind and property, 'The work! ith preyed on me like a wolf. God help me now to rey on the world.' And in sooth it did seem, for a while, as if Providence [ere with him; for he took rare toll on the highway, and name was soon as good as gold anywhere this side of istowe. He studied his business by night and by day, lith three horses all in hard work, until he had made a le reputation; and then it was competent to him to ^st, and he had plenty left for charity. And I ought to ly for society too, for he truly loved nigh societv, treat- fg squires and noblemen (who much affected his com- my) to the very best fare of the hostel. And they say iat once tlie King's Justitiaries, being upon circuit, tcepted his invitation, declaring merrily that if never le bill had been found against him, mine host should )w be qualified to draw one. And so the landlords did; id he always paid them handsomely, so that all of them 3re kind to him, and contended for his visits. Let it be lown in any township that Mr. Faggus was taking his [isure at the inn, and straightway all the men flocked lither to drink his health without outlay, and all the )men to admire him; while the children were set at the [oss-roads to give warning of any ofl&cers. One of his earliest meetings was with Sir Robert impfylde himself, who was riding along the Barum [ad with only one serving-man after him. Tom Faggus It a pistol to his head, being then obliged to be violent, rough want of reputation; while the serving-man IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 4<^/*' 7 ,^ •^^ ^^ ^^^' F 1.0 I.I 1.25 UiKi 12.5 ■ 50 ""^ ■■■ 2.0 1.8 U ill 1.6 111^ V] op. Photographic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) 872-4503 o"^ "1 If, i 'I 90 LORNA DOONE pretended to be a long way round the corner. Then the! baronet pulled out his purse, quite trembling in the humj of his politeness. Tom took the purse, and his ring, anSj time-piece, and then handed them back with a very Ion bow, saying that it was against all usage for him to re a robber. Then he turned to the unfaithful knave, anil trounced him right well for his cowardice, and stripped him of all his property. But now Mr. Faggus kept only one horse, lest ti Gover:iment should steal them; and that one was thj young mare Winnie. How he came by her he nevJ would tell, but I tiiink that she was presented to him bj a certain Colonel, a lover of sport, and very clever horseflesh, whose life Tom had saved from some gambler When I have added that Faggus as yet had never beej guilty of bloodshed (for his eyes, and the click of pistol at first, and now his high reputation made aU wishes respected), and that he never robbed a poor man neither insulted a woman, but was very good to Church, and of hot patriotic opinions, and full of jest an jollity, I have said as much as is fair for him, and shov why he was so popular. Everybody cursed the Doone who lived apart disdainfully. But all good people like Mr. Faggus — when he had not robbed them — and manyj poor sick man or woman blessed him for other people] money; and all the hostlers, stable-boys, and tapste entirely worshipped him. I have been rather long, and perhaps tedious, in account of him, lest at any time hereafter his charact^ should be misunderstood, and his good name disparage wL?reas he was my second cousin, and the lover my But let that bide. 'Tis a melancholy story. He came again about three months afterwards, in beginning of the spring-time, and brought me a beautii new carbine, having learned my love of such things, my great desire to shoot straight. But mother would nd let me have the gun^ until he averred upon his houon that he had bought it honestly. And so he had, no doub] so far as it is honest to buy with money acquired ran pantly. Scarce could I stop to make my bullets in mould which came along wit^ . it, but must be off to Quarry Hill, and new target I had made tJiere. And taught me then how to ride bright Winnie, who was grov ^ince I had seen her, but remembered me most kindlj In LORNA DOONE 9X )W .ter making much of Annie, who had a wondrous liking r him — ^and he said he was her godfather, but God ows how he could have been, unless they confinned [11 precociously — away he went, and young Winnie's les shone like a cherry by candlelight. r ' Now I feel that of those boyish days I h?*ve little more tell, because evetything went quietly, as the world for e most part does with us. I began to wcTk at the farm earnest, and tried to help my mother, and when I .embered Loma Doone, it seemed no more than the ught of a dream, which I could hardly call to mind. w who cares to know how many bushels of wheat we w to the acre, or how the cattle milched till we ate m, or wbat the turn of the seasons was? But my pid self seemed like to be the biggest of all the cattle; having much to look after the sheep, and being always kind appetite, I grew four inches longer in every year my farming, and a matter of two inches wider; until )Te was no man of my size to be seen elsewhere upon moor. Let that pass: what odds to any how tall or e I be? There is no Dooue's door at Plover's Barrows, if there v/ere I could never go through it. They vexed so much about my size, long before I had completed girding at me with paltry jokes whose wit was good y to stay at home, that I grew shame-faced about 1 matter, and feared to encounter a looking-glass. But ther was very proud, and said she never could have too ch of me. '-■'■ ■ H'->[ v-ci'^'' ; t-::^.>* -.'} he worst of all to malce me ashamed of bearing my so high — a thing I saw no way to help, for I never hang my chin down, and my back was like a gate- it whenever I tried to bend it — ^the worst of all was our le Eliza, who never could come to a size herself, though had the wine from the Sacrament at Easter and allowmas, only to be small and skinny, sharp, and er crookedly. Not that her body was out of the ight (being too small for that perhaps), but that her was full of corners, jagged, and strarge, and uncom- ble. You never could tell what she might say next; I like not that kind of women. Now God forgive for talking so of my own father's daughter; and so ch the more by reason that my father could not help The right way is to face the matter, and then be for every one. My mother fell grievously on a slide* !i ii '^■Wl ot LORNA DOONE ii,.! i'l J 'I' i:,l;' which John Fry had made nigh the apple-room door, hidden with straw from the stable, ^o cover his own gre^ idleness. My father laid John's nose on the ice, an kept him warm in spite of it; but it was too late fj Eliza. She was bom ne^Tt day with more mind tha body — ^the worst thing that can befall a man. • But Annie, my other sister, was now a fine fair beautiful to behold. I could look at her by the firesld for an hour together, when I was not too sleepy, an think of my dear father. And she would do the sau thing by me, only wait the between of the blazes, hair was done up in a knot behind, but some would over her shoulders; and the dancing of the light was sw« to see through a man's eyelashes. There never was a fa that showed the iight or the shadow of feeling, as if heart were sun to it, more than our dear Annie's di| To look at her carefully, you might think that she was dwelling on an5rthing; and then she would know y^ were looking at her, and those eyes would tell all abo it. God knows that I try to be simple enough, to ke to His meaning in me, and not make the worst of children. Yet often have I been put to shame, and rea^ to bite my tongue off, after speaking amiss of anybc and letting out my littleness, when suddenly mine ey| have met the pure soft gaze of Annie. As for the Doones, they were thriving still, and no to come against them; except indeed by word of moull to which they lent no heed whatever. Complaints \v{| made from time to time, both in high and low quai (as the rank might be of the people robbed), and once I twice in the highest of all, to wit, the King himsa But His Majesty made a good joke about it (not meanu any harm, I doubt), and was so much pleased with hil self thereupon, that he quite forgave the mischief. Md over, the main authorities were a long way off; and Chancellor had no cattle on Exmoor; and as for my Id the Chief Justice, some rogue had taken his silver spooj whereupon his lordship swore that never another would he Jjang until he had that one by the neck. The fore the Doones went on as they listed, and none sa\v| to meddle with them. For the only man who would ha dared to come to close quarters with them, that is to Tom Faggus, himself was a quarry for the law, if evei| should be unhooded. Moreover, he had transferred LORNA DOONE 93 isiness to the neighbourhood of Wantage, in the county Berks, v/here he found the climate drier, also good ^wns and commons excellent for galloping, and richer iomen than ours be, and better roads to rob them on. [Some folk, who had wiser attended to their own affairs, bd that I (being sizeable now, and able to shoot not idly) ought to do something against those Doones, and k)w what I was made of. But for a time I was very [shful, shaking when called upon suddenly, and blushing deep as a maiden; for my strength was not come upon ;, and mayhap I had grown in front of it. And again, )ugh I loved my father still, and would fire at a word 3ut him, I saw not how it would do him good for me to m his injurers. Some races are of revengeful kind, and 11 for years pursue their wrong, and sacrifice this world d the next for a moment's foul satisfaction; but ^thinics this comes of some black blood, perverted and rer purified. And I doubt but men of true English birth stouter tiian so to be twisted, though some of the >men mav take that turn, if their own hfe runs [indly. .et that pass — I am never good at talking of things Tond me. All I know is, that if I had met the Doone fo had killed my father, I would gladly have thrashed black and blue, supposing I were able; but would ^er have fired a gun at him, unless he began that game th me, or fell upon more of my family, or were violent long women. And to do them justice, my mother and [nie were equally kind and gentle, but Eliza would le and grow white with contempt, and not trust her- to speak to us. low a strange thing came to pass that winter, when ^as twenty-one years old, a very strange thing, which fighted the rest, and made me feel uncomfortable. that there was anything in it, to do harm to any one, that none could explain it, except by attributing to the devil. The weather was very mild and open, i scarcely any snow fell; at any rate, none lay on the [und, even for an hour, in the highest part of Exmoor; ling which I knew not before nor since, as long as I remember. But the nights were wonderfully dark, as [ugh with no stars in the heaven; and all day long the |ts v/ere rolling upon the hills and down them, as if the pie land were a wash-house. The moorlaad was full Vi fn 1 IT^ 111 I ' •J I: '\i: |..;|i, . I, I 1; j 9 k ' i' . ■ 1 i ■ 1 .' It 1 ''U. !■ ' 7 , ; ''^ ■' ■ 1 ,. j 1 , ■■'■ 1 ^ i I * !>1 1 1 ■ i ; p ' •^■'i li , 1 '1; 94 I;ORNA DOONE of snipes and teal, and curlews flying and crying, an(| lapwings flapping heavily, and ravens hovering round dead sheep; yet no redshanks nor dottrell, and scrrd any golden plovers (of which we have great store gener] ally) but vast lonely birds, that cried at night, and moveif the whole air with their pinions; yet no man ever sai them. It was dismal as well as dangerous now for an\[ man to go fowling (which of late I loved much in thJ wirter) because the fog would come down so thick thai the pan of the gun was reeking, and the fowl out of sighj ere the powder kindled, and then the sound of the pie was so dead, that the shooter feared harm, and glance over his shoulder. But the danger of course was far les^ in this than in losing of the track, and falling into tlitj paires, or over the brim of a precipice. s' Nevertheless, I must needs go out, being young anij very stupid, and feared of being afraid; a fear which wise man has long cast by, having learned of the manifoli] dangers which ever and ever encompass us. And besid this folly and wildness of youth, perchance there something, I know not what, of the i«^y we have in unj certainty. Mother, in fear of my missing home — thoua for that matter, I could smell supper, when hungiTJ through a hundred land-yards of fog — my dear mother| who thought of me ten times for one thought abou herself, gave orders to ring the great sheep-bell, whic hung above the pigeon-cote, every ten nunutes of tl day, and the sound came through the plaits of fog, ai I was vexed about it, like the letters of a copy-book, reminded me, too, of Blundell's bell, and the grief to into school again. But during those two months of fog (for we had it the winter^ the saddest and the heaviest thing was stand beside the sea. To be upon the beach yourself, see the long waves coming in; to know that they are Ic waves, but only see a piece of them; and to hear theij lifting roundly, swelling over smooth green rocl plashing down in the hollow comers, but bearing on the same as ever, soft and sleek and sorrowful, till lie little noise is over. One old man who lived at Lynmouth, seeking to buried there, having been more than half over the worlij though shy to speaJk about it, and fain to come home his birthplace, this old Will Watcombe (who dwelt LORNA DOONE n the water) said that our strange winter arose from a thing le called the 'Gulf -stream,' rushing up Channel suddenly. le said it was hot water, almost fit for a man to shave rith, and it threw all our cold water out, and ruined the ish and the spawning-time, and a cold spring would come ifter it. I was fond of going to Lynmouth on Sunday to iear this old man talk, for sometimes he would discourse dth me, when nobody else could move him. He told le that .his powerful flood set in upon our coast so lard, sometimes once in ten years, and sometimes not for fifty, and the Lord only knew the sense of it; but that Then it came, therewith came warmth and clouds, and \og, and moisture, and nuts, and fruit, and even shells; tnd all the tides were thrown abroad. As for nuts he inked awhile, and chewed a piece of tobacco; yet did I tot comprehend him.. Only afterwards I heard that nuts nth liquid kernels came, travelling on the Gulf-slream; )r never before was known so much foreign cordial mded upon our coast, floating ashore by mis^ke in the }g, and (what with the tossing and the mist) too much stray to learn its duty. Folk, who are ever too prone to talk, said that Will ^atcombe himself knew better than anybody else about lis drift of the Gulf -stream, and the places where it rauld come ashore, and the caves that took lie in- lught. But De Whichehalse, our great magistrate, jrtified that there was no proof of unlawful importation; jieither good cause to suspect it, at a time of Christian larity. And we knew that it was a foul thing for some luarrymen to say that night after night they had been figging a new cellar at Ley Manor to hold the little marks respect found in the caverns at high-water weed. Let lat be, it is none of my business to speak evil of digni- Jes; only we common people joked of the 'Gulp-stream, ' we called it. But the thing which astonished and frightened us so, hs not, I do assure you, the landing of foreign spirits, lor the loom of a lugger at twiUght in the gloom of the Vinter moonrise. That which made us crouch in by the re, or draw the bed-clothes over us, and try to think of Jmething else, was a strange mysterious sound. At gray of night, when thejsun was gone, and no red the west remained, neither were stairs forthcoming, ]ddenly a wailing voice rose along the valleys, and a rrrr 96 LORNA DOONE 1 \if\\f'' '■ i 1 ' 1'' ;( :. .'. 1 ■' ^ ,1 fir '' 1 Ii| 1 i 1 ii'»r 1 j It's' :i^i?ii'' ' I.*!'- ' 1 1 1^ :i 1 P;!''^ 1 t !!■■;■ 1 ■ 1 ( 1 ;, if ^ 1 1 ! 1 1 i i i! • i \ '■ a ' \l l^; [, a : 1 ' ; 1 i ; 'k^:;:. J \ ;( ' t «k sound in the air, as of people running. It mattered no whether you stood on the moor, or crouched behind rocl away from it, or down among reedy places; all as one sound would come, now from the heart of the ear beneath, now overhead bearing down on you. And the^ there was rushing of something by, snd melancholj laughter, and the h\ir of a man would stand on en^ before he could reason properly. God, in His mercy, knows that I am stupid enough fa any man, and very slow of impression, nor ever couli bring myself to believe that our Father would let the ev one get the upper hand of us. But when I had hea that sound three times, in the lonely gloom of the eveij ing fog, and the cold that followed the lines of air, I loath to go abroad by night- even so far as the stable and loved the light of a candle more, and the glow ofj fire with company. There were many stories about it, of course, all over breadth of the moorland. But those who had heard most often declared that it must be the wail of a woman) voice, and the rustle of robes fleeing horribly, and fien( in the fog going after her. To that, however, I paid heed, when anybody was with me; only we drew moi| close together, and barred the doors at sunset. , I , ..■>T.V >.d id •7 nit ;;;'; /; -I:'-!- 'r. Ciiii CHAPTER XIII '.•0\' I TA^;'. LkiI ^.'MASTER HUCKABACK COMES IN , r^rrr Mr. Reuben Huckaback, whom many good folk in Dij verton will remember long after my time, was my mothe uncle, being indeed her mother's brother. He owned very best shop in the town, and did a fine trade in s(j ware, especially when the pack-horses came safely ini Christmas- time. And we being now his only kindr (except indeed his granddaughter, little Ruth Huckabac of whom no one took any heed), motJjer beheld it| Christian duty to keep as well as could be with him, bo for love of a nice old man, and for the sake of her childr«| And truly, the Dulverton people said that he was richest man in their town, and could buy up half county armigers; 'ay, and if it came to that, "■ ^.•> LORNA DOONE 97 rould like to see any man, at Bampton, or at Wivel- :ombe, and you might say almost Taunton, who could it down golden Jacobus and Carolus against him. );r^ Now this old gentleman — so they called him, accord- ig to his money; and I have seen many worse ones, lore violent and less wealthy — ^he must needs come away lat time to spend the New Year- tide with us; not that wanted to do it (for he hated country life), but because ly mother pressing, as mothers will do to a good bag of )ld, had wrung a promise from him; and the only boast his life was that never yet had he broken his word, at ^ast since he opened business. Now it pleased God that Christmas-time (in spite of all le fogs) to send safe home to Dulverton, and what was iore, with their loads quite safe, a goodly string of pack- Srses. Nearly half of their charge was for Uncle Reuben, id he knew how to make the most of it. Then having danced his debits and credits, and set the writs running jainst defaulters, as behoves a good Christian at Christ- -tide, he saddled his horse, and rode ofE towards Oare, ith a good stout coat upon him, and leaving Ruth and head man plenty to do, and little to eat, until they ^ould see him again. [It had been settled between us that we should expect soon after noon on the last day of December. For the 3ones being lazy and fond of bed, as the manner is of shonest folk, the surest way to escape them was to ivel before they were up and about, to wit, in the fore- )n of the day. But herein we reckoned without our !)st : for being in high festivity, as became good Papists, [e robbers were too lazy, it seems, to take the trouble of fing to bed; and forth they rode on the Old Year- 3ming, not with any view of business, but purely in rch of mischief. Jq had put off our dinner till one o'clock (which to me a sad foregoing), and there was to be a brave supper six of the clock, upon New Year's-eve; and the singers come with their lanthorns, and do it outside the par- ir-window, and then have hot cup till their heads should round, sifter making away with the victuals. For though there was nobody now in our family to be (urchwarden of Oare, it was well admitted tiiat we were people entitled alone to that dignity; and though [cholas Snowe was in office by same, he managed it only L.D. D i' I'l' ;^'|| l": )!<< I i; ' *c »f 9t LORN A DOON£ by mother's advice; and a pretty mefis he made of it, that every one longed for a Rldd again, toon as ever] should be old enouffh. This Nicholas l^nowe was to coo in the evening, with his three tall comely daughten strapping girls, and well skilled in the dairy; and the stc was all over the parish, on a stupid conceit of John Fry! that I should have been in love with all three, if the had been but one of them. These Snowes were to coe and come they did, partly because Mr. Huckaback likcl to see fine young maidens, and partly because none bj Nicholas Snowe could smoke a pipe now all around o] parts, except of the very high people, whom we di never invite. And Uncle Ben, as we all knew well, wa$| great hand at his pipe, and would sit for hours over it,i our warm chimney-corner, and never want to say a wor unless it were inside him; only he liked to have somel there over against him smokmg. Now when I came in, before one o'clock, after seeij to the cattle — ^for the day was thicker than ever, we must keep the cattle close at home, if we wished see any more of them — I fully expected to find Und Ben sitting in the fireplace, lifting one cover and tb] another, as his favourite manner was, and making swe mouths over them; for he loved our bacon rarely, they had no good leeks at Dulverton; and he was a who always would see his business done himself, there instead of my finding him with his quaint dry fa pulled out at me, and then shut up sharp not to cheated — who should run out but Betty Muxworthy, aij poke me with a saucepan-lid. 'Get out of that now, Betty,' I said in my politej manner; for really Betty was now become a gra domestic evil. She would have her own way so, and of i things the most distressful was for a man to try to re with her. 'Zider-press,' cried Betty again, for she thought itl fine joke to call me that, because of my size, and hatred of it; 'here be a rare get up, anyhow.* " -; 'A rare good dinner, you mean, Betty. Well, and| have a rare good appetite.' With that I wanted to and smell it, and not to stop for Bet^. 'Troost thee for thiccy, Jan Ridd. But thee must ke it bit langer, I rackon. Her baint coom, Maister Zic press. Whatt'e mak of that now?' . - ^ .ooneses hath gat 'un.' .^ And Betty, who hated Uncle Ben, because he never ive her a groat, and she was not allowed to dine with Im, I am sorry to say that Betty Muxworthy grinned all :ross, and poked me again with the greasy saucepan- )ver. But I misliking so to be treated, strode through \e kitchen indignantly, for Betty behaved to me even )w, as if I were only Eliza. 'Oh, Johnny, Johnny,' my mother cried, running out the grand show-parlour, where the case of stuffed birds [as, and peacock-feathers, and the white hare killed by randfather; 'I am so ^lad you are come at last. There something sadly amiss, Johnny.' Mother had upon her wrists something very wonderful, tile nature of fal-lal as we say, and for which she had i inborn wurn, being of good draper family, and polished )ove the yeomanry. Nevertheless I could never bear it, irtly because I felt it to be out of place in our good ■house, partly because I hate frippery, partly because seemed to me to have nothing to do with father, and irtly because I never could tell the reason of my hating And yet the poor soul had put them on, not to show it hands off (which were above her station), but simply |r her children's sake, because Uncle Ben had given But another thing, I never could bear for man or )man to call me, 'Johnny,' 'Jack,' or 'John,' I cared which; and that was honest enough, and no smallness me there, I say. 'Well, mother, what is tne matter, then?* i:'. ■^'_^'r 'I am sure you need not be angry, Johnny. I only hope is nothing to grieve about, instead of being angry. >a are vjry sweet-tempered, I know, John Ridd, and ys a little too sweet at times' — ^here she meant the lowe girls, and I hanged my head — 'but what would >u say if the people there' — she never would call them >oones' — 'had gotten your poor Uncle Reuben, horse, ^d Sunday coat, and all?' 'Why, mother, I should be sorry for them. He would up a shop by the river-side, and come away with all feir money.* -W ^i^ *:sfsy^^ 'tT J. ! , ! 1 :ia.' IV: lOO LORNA DOONE 'That all you have to say, John I And my dinner donj to a very turn, and the supper all fit to go down, and worry, only to eat and be done with it! And all new plates come from Watchett, with the Watchett bh upon them, at the risk of the lives of everybody, and th capias from good Aunt Jane for stuf&ng'a curlew witi onion before he begins to get cold, and make a woodcc of him, and the way to turn the flap over in the inside i a roasting pig ' < .; ^< 'Well, mother dear, I am very sorry. But let us ha' our dinner. You know we promised not to wait for hi after one o'clock; and you only make us hungry. Even thing will be spoiled, mother, and what a pity to thi of! After that I will go to seek for him in the thick the fog, like a needle in a hay-band. That is to saj unless you think' — ^for she looked very grave about it- 'unless you really think, mother, that I ought to without dinner.' *Oh no, John, I never thought that, thank God ! BL Him for my children's appetites; and what is Uncle B to them?' ' r^ So we made a very good dinner indeed, though wishi that he could have some of it, and wondering how mui to leave for him; and then, as no sound of his horse been heard, I set out with my gun to look for him. I followed the track on the side of the hill, from farm-yard, where the sledd-marks are — ^for we have wheels upon Exmoor yet, nor ever shall, I supp though a dunder-headed man tried it last winter, a broke his axle piteously, and was nigh to break his nei — and after that I went aU along on the ridge of rabbit-cleve, with the brook running thin in the botto; and then down to the Lynn stream, and leaped it, so up the hill and the moor beyond. The fog hung cl all around me then, when I turned the crest of the higl land, and the gorse both before and behind me looki like a man crouching down in ambush. But still there w a good cloud of daylight, being scarce three of the cl< yet, and when a lead of red deer came across, I could ti them from sheep even now. I was half inclined to sh at them, for the children did love venison; but th drooped their heads so. and looked so faithful, that seemed hard measure to do it. If one of them had bolt awav. no doubt I had let go at him. .v'^con; LORNA DOONE xoz After that I kept on the track, trudging very stoutly, nigh upon three miles, and my beard (now beginning grow at some length) was full of great drops and ickly, whereat I was very proud. I had not so much as |dog with me, and the place was unkind and lonesome, id the rolling clouds very desolate; and now if a wild ^eep ran across he was scared at me as an enemy; and [for my part could not tell the meaning of the marks him. We called all this part Gibbet-moor, not being our parish; but though there were gibbets enough )on it, most part of the bodies was gone for the value the chains, they said, and the teaching of young kirurgeons. [But of all this I had little fear, being no more a school - jy now, but a youth well-acquaint with Exmoor, and |e wise art of the sign-posts, whereby a man, who barred |e road, now opens it up both ways with his finger- mes, so far as rogues allow him. My carbine was loaded id freshly primed, and I knew myself to be even now [match in strength for any two men of the size around \t neigh])ourhood, except in the Glen Doone. 'Girt [n Ridd,' I was called already, and folk grew feared wrestle with me; though I was tired of hearing about and often longed to be smaller. And most of all upon indays, when I had to make way up our little church, the maidens tittered at me. 'he soft white mist came thicker around me, as the [ening fell; and the peat ricks here and there, and the rze-hucks of the summer-time, were all out of shape in |e twist of it. By-and-by, I began to doubt where I was, how come there, not having seen a gibbet lately; and len I heard the draught of the wind up a hollow place ith rocks to it; and for the first time fear broke out [e cold sweat) upon me. And yet I knew what a fool ^as, to fear nothing but a sound ! But when I stopped listen, there was no sound, more than a beating noise. Id that was all inside me. Therefore I went on again, iking company of myself, and keeping my gun quite idy. iiM^i'ti'y r^-^iw ly-^'^fiV . VTix^i-vV^ iNow when I came to an unknown place, where a stone \s set up endwise, with a faint red cross upon it, and a |lish from some conflict, I gathered my courage to stop |d think, having sped on the way too hotly. Against it stone I set my gun, trying my spirit to leave it so. Z02 LORNA DOONE |iij!i^f4 m i> Ij ',''W \\ W I ih : !ii: wmi Wi il ^ :'■ B 1 'I.I ■f'J n but keeping w:tli half a hand for it; and then what to i next was -Qie wonder. As for finding Uncle Ben — tl was his own business, or at any rate his executor'J first I had to find myself, and plentifully would tha G(jd to find myself at home again, for the sake of all .family. "' '■■"~:-'i'. ■ "r.^ ■ ^(.-''v?-^ ■'s\'h >;\.,>] -, .■■-■ The volumes of the mist came rolling at me (like gre logs of wood, pillowed out with sleepiness), and betwe them there was nothing more than waiting for the ne one. Then everything went out of sight, and glad wj| 1 of. the stone behind me, and view of mine own she Then a distant noise went by me, as of many hor galloping, and in my fright I set my gun and said, T send something to shoot, at.' Yet nothing came, and gun fell back, without my will to lower it. But presently, while I was thinking 'What a fool| am!* arose as if from below my feet, so that the gre stone trembled, that long, lamenting lonesome sound, of an evil spirit not knowing what to do with it. For moment I stood like a root, without either hand or fo to help me, and the hair of my head began to crav lilting my hat, as a snail lif^-o h3 house; and my he like a shuttle went to and fro. But finding no harm come of it, neither visible form approaching, I wiped forehead, and hoped for the best, and resolved to every step of the way, till I drew our own latch behii me. Yet here again I was disappointed, for no sooner I come to the cross-ways by the black pool in the holi but I heard through the patter of my own feet a rouj low sound very close in the fog, as of a hobbled shel a-coughing. I listened, and feared, and yet listened agair though I wanted not to hear it. For bemg in haste of ' homeward road, and all my heart having heels to it, k I was to stop in the dusk for the sake of an aged weth^ Yet partly my love of all animals, and partly my fa of the farmer's disgrace, compelled me to go to the sd cour, and the noise was coming nearer. A dry sha wheezing sound it was, barred with coughs and wantj breath; but thus I made the meaning of it. *Lord, have mercy upon me! O Lord, upon my have mercy ! An if I cheated Sam Hicks last week, Lc knowest how well he deserved it, and lied in evej stocking's mouth — oh Lord, where be I a-going?' LORNA DOONE I03 [These words, with many jogs between them, came to through the darkness, and then a long groan and l' poking. I made towards the sound, as nigh as ever I ^uld guess, and presently was met, point-blank, by the ^d of a mountain-pony. Upon its back lay a man )und down, with his feet on the neck and his head to tail, and his arms falling down like stirrups. The wild le nag was scared of its life by the unaccustomed ^rden, and had been tossing and rolling hard, rn desire get ease of it. [Before the little horse could turn, I cauffht him, jaded he was, by his wet and grizzled forelock, and he saw it it was vain to struggle, but strove to bite me none i less, until I smote him upon the nose. ['Good and worthy sir,' I said to the man who was ling so roughly; 'fear nothing; no harm shall come to ee.' 'Help, good friend, whoever thou art,' he gasped, but lid not look at me, because his neck was jerked so; )d hath sent thee, and not to rob me, because it is le already.' 'What, Uncle Ben ! ' I cried, letting go the horse in iazement, that the richest man in Dulverton — 'Uncle ^n here in this plight ! What, Mr. Reuben Huckaback ! ' 'An honest hosier and draper, serge and longcloth rehouseman' — he groaned from rib to rib — 'at the sign the Gartered Kitten in the loyal town of Dulverton. fr God's sake, let me down, good fellow, from this :ursed marrow-bone; and a groat of good money will )ay thee, safe in my house to Dulverton; but take ice that the horse is mine, no less than the nag they )bed from me.' [What, Uncle, Ben, dost thou not know me, thy dutiful )hew, John Ridd?' Tot to make a long story of it, I cut the thongs that ind him, and set him astride on the little horse; but was too weak to stay so. Therefore I mounted him my back, turning the horse into horse-steps, and ling the pony by the cords which I fastened around nose, set out for Plover's Barrows. Fncle Ben went f;ist asleep on my back, being jaded shaken beyond his strength, for a man of three-score five; and as soon as he felt assured of safety he would no more. And to tell the truth be snored to loudly, mm If. '■\ •% f 7^" ml' fm 104 LORNA DOONE 1^1 Mi :^ii i •1! I' H^'^^'^"»fc that I could almost believe that fearful noise in the fj every night came all the way from Dulverton. Now as soon as ever I brought him in, we set him in the chimney-corner, comfortable and handsome; it was no little delight to me to get him off my baij for, like his own fortune. Uncle Ben was of a good rou figure. He gave his long coat a shake or two, andi stamped about in the kitchen, until he was sure of I whereabouts, and then he fell asleep again until supj should be ready. 'He shall marry Ruth,' he said by-and-by to hims and not to me; 'ne shall marry Ruth for this, and my little savings, soon as they be worth the having. Vd little as yet, very little indeed; and ever so much g(j to-day along of them rascal robbers.' My mother made a dreadful stir, of course, al Uncle Ben being in such a plight as this; so I left himl her care and Annie's, and soon they fed him rarely, wh I went out to see to the comfort of the captured poi And in truth he was worth the catchipg, and served] very well afterwards, though Uncle Ben was inclined claim him for his business at Dulverton, where tlf have carts and that like. 'But,' I said, 'you shall hi him, sir, and welcome, if you will only ride him homej first I found you riding him.' And with that he dropjj it. -; A very strange old man he was, short in his mann though long of body, glad to do the contrary things| what any one expected of him, and always looking si: at people, as if he feared to be cheated. This surprij me much at first, because it showed his ignorance| what we farmers are — an upright race, as you may scarcely ever cheating indeed, except upon market-d and even then no more than may be helped by reasoi buyers expecting it. Now our simple ways were a pu^ to him, as I told him very often; but he only laugh and rubbed his mouth with the back of his dry shii hand; and I think he shortly began to languish for \ of some one to higgle with. I had a great mind to him the pony, because he thought himself cheated that case; only he would conclude that I did it with s(j view to a legacy. ? Of course, the Doones, and nobody else, had rot good Uncle Reuben; and then they grew sportive, LORNA DOON£ X05 )k his horse, an especially sober nag, and bound the ir upon the wild one, for a little chanse as they told For two or three hours they had fine enjoyment jing him through the fog, and making much sport of groanings; and then waxing hungry, they went their ^y, and left him to opportunity. Now Mr. Huckaback )wing able to walk in a few days' time, became there- )n impatient, and could not be brought to understand y he should have been robbed at all. fl have never deserved it,' he said to himself, not know- much of Providence, except with a small p to it; Chave never deserved it, and will not stand it in the 16 of our lord the King, not I!' At other times he ild burst forth thus : 'Three-score years and five have ived an honest and laborious life, yet never was I fbed before. And now to be robbed in my old age; to robbed for the first time now ! ' f t -r-r/n r>^- Thereupon of course we would tell him how truly nkful he ought to be for never having been robbed )re, in spito of living so long in this world, and that vas taking a very ungrateful, not to say ungracious, r, in thus repining, and feeling aggrieved; when any- else would have knelt and thanked God for enjoying bng an immunity. But say what we would, it was all one. Uncle Ben stuck fast to it, that he had nothing thank God for. CHAPTER IV ■. ;.;;;// Pj. .^fp-^i.iv n^j ■ ' : •:-.:-fj-rf ' ' ' 1 A MOTION WHICH ENDS IN A MULL T V;^ ::< (O 1 ■ > TEAD of minding his New- Year |)udding, Master :kaback carried on so about his mighty grievance, at last we began to think there must be something |t, after all; especially as he assured us that choice costly presents for the young people of our household among the goods divested. But mother told him her Iren had plenty', and wanted no gold and silver; and Eliza spoke up and said, *You can give us the pretty Igs, Uncle Ben, wbei? we come in the summer to see ir mother reproved Eliza for this, although it was IT', m^:''r^' fl'i/'Ml lllli'i'.. -) Shi .1 1:1 1;,; m I if i II to6 LORNA DOONE the heel of her own foot; and then to satisfy our unc]< she promised to call Parmer Nicholas Snowe, to be of council that evening, 'And if the young maidens won kindly come, without taking thought to smoothe then selves, why it would be all the merrier, and who kne but what Uncle Huckaback might bless the day of robbery, etc., etc. — and thorough good honest gurls th(| were, nt helpmates either for shop or farm.' All of whij was meant for me; but I stuck to my platter answered not. In the evening Farmer Snowe came up, leading daughters after him, like fillies trimmed for a fair; ; Uncle Ben, who had not seen them on the night of mishap (because word had been sent to stop them), mightily pleased and very pleasant, according to his tov bred ways. The damsels had seen good company, and so got over their fear of his wealth, and played him a numb of merry pranks, which made our mother quite jealo for Annie, who was always shy and diffident. Howe^ when the hot cup was done, and before the mulled was ready, we packed all the maidens in the parlour turned the key upon them; and then we drew near to kitchen fire to hear Uncle Ben's proposal. Farmer Snc sat up in the comer, caring little to hear about an thing, but smoking slowly, and nodding backward F a sheep-dog dreaming. Mother was in the settle, of cour knitting hard, as usual; and Uncle Ben took to a thre| legged stool, as if all but that had been thieved fro him. Howsoever, he kept his breath from speech, givii privilege, as was due, to mother. J 'Master Snowe, you are well assured.' said mothd colouring like the furze as it took the flame and fell o\\ 'that our kinsman here hath received rough harm on peaceful journey from Dulverton. The times are ba as we all know well, and there is no sign of betterij them; and if I could see our Lord the King I might things to move him! nevertheless, I have had so mu| of my own account to vex for ' 'You are flying out of the subject, Sarah,' said Uni 3en, seeing tears in her eyes, and tired of that matti 'Zettle the pralimbinaries,' spoke Farmer Snowe, appeal from us; 'virst zettle the pralimbinaries; and t us knows what be drivin' at.' ^ 'Preliminaries be damned, sir,' cried Uncle Ben, losi LORNA DOONE X07 is temper. 'What preliminaries were there when I was )bbed, I should like to know? Robbed in this parish, I can prove, to the eternal disgrace of Oare and the pandal of all England. And I hold this parish to answer )r it, sir; this parish shall make it good, being a nest foul thieves as it is; ay, farmers, and yeomen, and all of )u. I will beggar every man in this parish, if they be )t beggars already, ay, and sell your old church up ►fore your eyes, but what 7 'vill have back my tarlatan, le-piece, saddle, and dove tailed nag.' Mother looked at me, and I looked at Farmer Snowe, id we all were sorry for Matster Huckaback; putting ir hands up one to another, that nobody should brow- tat him; because we all knew what our parish was, and )ne the worse for strong language, however rich l^e in might be. But Uncle Ben took it in a different way. |e thought that we all were airaid of him, and that Oare Lrish was but as Moab or Edom, for him to cast his shoe rer. 'Nephew Jack,' ho cried, looking at me when I was inking what to say, and finding only emptiness; 'you B a heavy lout, sur; a bumpkin, a clodhopper; and I |all leave you nothing, unless it be my boots to grease.' ['Well, uncle,* I made answer, 'I will grease your boots the same for that, so long as you be our guest, sir.' [Now, that answer, made without a thought, stood me two thousand pounds, as you shall see, by-and-by, ferhaps. ;.• ,•;;,.; ./..I. .r :::■/;, ': _ ••»..: I'As for the parish,* my liiother cried, being too hard set contain herself, 'the parish can defend itself, and we ly leave it to do so. But our Jack is not like that, sir; I will not have him spoken of. Leave him indeed I 10 wants you to do more than to leave him alone, sir; he might have done you the other night; and as no one would have dared to do. And after that, to think so janly of me, and of my children!' 'Hoity, toity, Sarah 1 Your children, I suppose, are the le as other people's.* ['That they are not; and never will be; and you ought ^know it, Uncle Reuben, if any one in the world ought. her people's children!' 'Well, well!' Uncle Reuben answered; 'I know very tie of children; except my little Ruth, and she is Ithing wonderful.' i - f T" - 1 |i ■■) 1 i f 'v u\ , 1^!li. : 1 1 1 1 * ■ ' i ■ ; ■ ! 1 !■ !i 1 1 i l| ^i I i .J 1 \ r |i i:' ■■■'; t' io8 LORNA DOONE 'I never said that my children Uncle Ben; nor did I ever think it. good ' > K^-'i:j'im::^:b were wonderful) But as for beinJ -!f-) r?l' .:.! ?■ Here mother fetched out her handkerchief, being over] come by our goodness; and I told her, with my hanJ to my mouth, not to notice him; though he might ' worth ten thousand times ten thousand pounds. But Farmer Snowe came forward now, for he had sod sense sometimes; and he thought it was high time fa him to say a word for the parish. 'Maister Huckaback,' he began, pointing with his pip at him, the end that was done in sealing-wax, 'toochi of what you was plaized to zay 'bout this here parist and no oother, mind me no oother parish but thees, I ua the vreedom, zur, for to tell *e, that thee be a laiar.' Then Farmer Nicholas Snowe folded his arms acre with the bowl of his pipe on the upper one, and gave me( nod, and then one to mother, to testify how he had don his duty, and recked not what might come of it. Howl ever, he got little thanks from us; for the parish m nothing at all to my mother, compared with her chUdren'j interests; and I thought it hard that an uncle of min^ and an old man too, should be called a liar, by a visit at our fireplace. For we, in our rude part of the worl(l cointed it one of the worst disgraces that could befa a man, to receive the lie from any one. But Uncle Beil as it seems was used to it, in the way of trade; just people of fashion are, by a style of courtesy. Therefore the old man only looked with pity at Farnie| Nicholas; and with a sort of sorrow too, reflecting he much he might have made in a bargain with such customer, so ignorant and hot-headed. 'j law i 'Now let us bandy words no more,* said mother, ver| sweetly; 'nothing is easier than sharp words, except wish them unspoken; as I do many and many's the tim(| when I think of my good husband. But now let us hea from Uncle Reuben what he would have us do to remo^fl this disgrace from amongst us, and to satisfy hitn of goods.* *I care not for my goods, woman,' Master Huckaba answered grandly; 'although they were of large valuj about them I say nothing. But what I demand is the punishment of those scoundrels.' n ii) ui 'Zober, man, zoberl* cried Farmer Nicholas; 'we LORNA DOONE X09 [too naigh Badgery 'ood, to spake like that of they iDooneses.' 'Pack of cowards I' said Uncle Heuben, lookmg first at [the door, howev-r; 'much chance I seo of getting redress Ifrom the valour of this Exmoor! And you, Master ]nowe, the very man whom I looked to to raise the :ountry, and take the lead as churchwarden—why, my youngest shopman would match his ell against you. i'ack of cowards,' cried Uncle Ben, rising and shaking his lappets at us; 'don't pretend to answer me. Shake you ill off, that I do — nothing more to do with you ! ' We knew it useless to answer him, and conveyed our cnowledge to one another, without an/thing to vex him. iowever, when the mulled wine was come, and a good leal of it gone (the season being Epiphany), Uncle Reuben )egan to fiiink that he might have been too hard with us. Moreover, he was beginning now to respect Farmer Nich- )las bravely, because of the way he had smoked his pipes, md the little noise made over them. And Lizzie and Lnnie were doing their best — ^for now we had let the girls )ut— to wake more lightsome uproar; also young Faith Jnowe was toward to keep the old men's cups aflow, md hansel them to their liking. So at the close of our entertainment, when the girls ^ere gone away to fetch and light their lanthoms (over irhich they made rare noise, blowing each the other's out ^or counting of the spakks to come). Master Huckaback Btood up, without much aid from the crock-saw, and looked at mother and all of us. 'Let no one leave this place,' said he, 'until I have said ^hat I want to say; for saving of ill-will among us, and rowth of cheer and comfort. May be I have carried lings too far, even to the bounds of churlishness, and )eyond the bounds of good manners. I will not unsay 3ne word I have said, having never yet done so in my life; but I would alter the manner of it, and set it forth in lis light. If you folks upon Exmoor here are loath and ^ary at fighting, yet you are brave at better stuff; the )est and kindest I ever knew, in the matter of feeding.' Here he sat down with tears in his eyes, and called for little mulled bastard. All the maids, who were now come )ack, raced to get it for him, but Annie of course was foremost. And herein ended the expedition, a perilous md a great one, against the Docnes of Bagworthy; an •»"■■ Ill ■1 !•!:"'!/ !■-:!; I'.!: %m m. ii 1'^ H^ zzo LORNA DOONE enterprise over which we had all talked plainly more than was good for us. For my part, I slept well that night, feeling myself at home agam, now that the fighting was put aside, and the fear of it turned to the comfort of| talking what we would have done. • ^ ■ i - . ■'.V ; CHAPTER XV . MASTER HUCKABACK FAILS OF WARRANT On tiie following day Master Huckaback, with somel show of mystery, demanded from my mother an escorti into a dangerous part of the world, to which his businessl compelled him. My mother made answer to this that hel was kindly welcome to take our John Fry with him; atl which the good clothier laughed, and said that John was! nothing like big enough, but another John must serveT his turn, not only for his size, but because if he werel carried away, no stone would be left unturned upooj Exmoor, until he should be brought back again. Here upon my mother grew very pale, and found fifty reasoi against my going, each of them weightier than the tniq one, as Eliza (who was jealous of me) managed to whispe to Annie. On the other hand, I was quite resolvei (directly the thing was mentioned) to see Uncle Reubeij through with it; and it added much to my self-esteem be the guard of so rich a man. Therefore I soon peif suaded nlOther, with her head upon my breast, to let mq go and trust in God; and after that I was greatly vexe to find that this dangerous enterprise was nothing mor than a visit to the Baron de Whichehalse, to lay information, and sue a warrant against the Doones, ani| a posse to execute it. Stupid as I alwayf! have been, and must ever be n^ doubt, I could well have told Uncle Reuben that journey was no wiser than that of the men of Gothamj that he never would get from Hugh de Whichehalse warrant a|[ainst the Doones; moreover, that if he diij get one, his own wig would be singed with it. But foj divers reasons I held my peace, pstftly from youth anij modesty, partly from desire to see whatever please Gc I should see, and i>artly from other causes. LORNA DOONE XIX We rode by way of Brendon town, Illford Bridge, and iabbrook, to avoid the great hiU above Lynmouth; and the day being fine and clear again, I laughed in mv sleeve it Uncle Reuben for all his fine precautions. When we irrived at Ley Manor, we were shown very civilly into le hall, and refreshed with good ale and collared head, ind the back of a Christmas pudding. I had never been mder so fine a roof (unless it were of a church) before; id it pleased me greatly to be so kindly entreated by ligh-bom folk. But Unc. Reuben was vexed a little at )eing set down side by side with a man in a very small vay of trade, who was come upon some business there, md who made bold to drink his health after Wishing leir horns of ale. .. . -,• . 'Sir,' said Uncle Ben, looking at him, *my health would re much better, if you would pay me three pounds and ^elve shillings, which you have owed me these five years )ack; and now we are met at the Justice's, the oppor- mity is good, sir.' After that, we were called to the Justice-room, where ^he Baron himself was sitting with Colonel Harding, Another Justiciary of the King's peace, to help him. I had sen the Baron de Whichehalse before, and was not at all fraid of him, having been at school with his son as he ^new, and it made him very kind to me. And indeed he iras kind to everybody, and all our people spoke well ^f him; and so much the more because we knew that the louse was in decadence. For the first De Whichehalse fad come from Holland, where he had been a great noble- lan, some hundred and fifty years agone. Being perse- luted for his religion, when tno Spanish power was every- ling, he fled to England with all he could save, and fought large estates in Devonshire. Since then his lescendants had intermarried with ancient county imilies, Cottwells, and Marwoods, and Walronds, and Telses of Pylton, and Chichesters of Hall; and several of le ladies brought them large increase of property. And about fifty years before the time ol which I am writing, lere were few names in the West of England thought lore of than De Whichehalse. But now they had lost great deal of land, and therefore of that which goes rith land, as surely as fame belongs to earth — ^I mean Ig reputation. How they had lost it, none could tell; ccept that as the firat descendants had a manner of ■»' ■■ ■*• V ll\l w 112 LORNA DOONE amassing, so the later ones were gifted with a power ofB 'No scattering. Whether this came of good Devonshire blood i 'if opening the sluice of Low Country veins, is beyond both I indict( my province and my power to inquire. Anyhow, all I of ecu people loved this last strain of De Whichehalse far more I his ne than the name had been liked a hundred years agone. iall? " Hugh de Whichehalse, a white-haired man, of ver>'l 'jviy noble presence, with friendly blue eyes and a sweet lover, smooth forehead, and aquiline nose quite beautiful (asl[)e no you might expect in a lady of biilh), and thin lips curvingi 'Oh, delicately, this gentleman rose as we entered the room;lcolone while Colonel Harding turned on his chair, and struck one spur against the other. I am sure that, without knowing aught of either, we must have reverenced more of the two the one who showed respect to us. And yet nine gentleman out of ten make this dull mistake when dealing with the class below them ! Uncle Reuben made his very best scrape, and then walked up to the table, trying to look as if he did not know himself to be wealthier than both the gentlemen jjut together. Of course he was no stranger to them, any more than I was; and, as it proved afterwards. Colonel Harding owed him a lump of money, upon very good security. Of him Uncle Reuben took no notice, but )articui 'I a pleasai robber times i sweet £ it adds onvinc tole, oi 'My : 'Not jxcuse ut ho •Beca he fog- •Fog! ixplamj lie wea if his )oones) imonv. addressed himself to De Whichehalse. The Baron smiled very gently, so soon as he learned the cause of this visit, and then he replied quite reasonably. *A warrant against the Doones, Master Huckaback. Which of the Doones, so please you; and the Christian names, what be they?' 'My lord, I am not their godfather; and most like they never had any. But we all know old Sir Ensor's name, so that may be no obstacle.* 'Sir Ensor Doone and his sons — so be it. How manyleartify sons. Master Huckaback, and what is the name of eacti ndersts one?' 'Gob; 'How can I tell you, my lo! d, even if I had known them the d; all as well as my own shop-boys? Nevertheless, then rhere y were seven of them, and that should be no obstacle.* hat it '^i^*A warrant against Sir Ensor Doone, and seven sons Uncle of Sir Ensor Doone, Christian names unknown, and ardly t doubted if they have any. So far so good. Master Hucka 'My Ic back. I have it all down in writing. Sir Ensor himsel ondon was there, of course, as you have riven in evidence ^pmmiss: LORNA DOONE 113 )ower oil 'No, no, my lord, I never said that: I never said ' re blood I 'If he can prove that he was not there, you may be ►nd both! indicted for perjury. But as for those seven sons of his, tiow, all I of course you can swear that they were his sons and not Ear more I his nephews, or grandchildren, or even no Doones at [one. I all?" of ver>'| 'My lord, I can swear that they were Doones. More- a sweet lover, I can pay for any mistake I make. Therein need tiful (as I be no obstacle.' i curving! 'Oh, yes, he can pay; he can pay well enough,' said 16 room;lcolonel Harding shortly. ,d struck I 'I am heartily glad to hear it,' replied the Baron without! pleasantly; 'for it proves after adl that this robbery (if ced morelrobbery there has been) was not so very ruinous. Some- And yetltimes people think tiiey are robbed, and then it is very ike wheii|sweet afterwards to find that they have not been so; for t adds to their joy in their property. Now, are you quite and thenlconvinced, good sir, that these people (if there were any) 5 did notltole, or took, or even bonowed anything at r,ll from your emeu ^utl 'My lord, do you think that I was drunk ? * lem, any! 'Not for a moment. Master Huckaback. Although }, Coloneftxcuse might be made for you at this time ot the year, rery goodfeut how did you know that your visitors were of this )tice, butf articular family?' 'Because it could be nobody else. Because, in spite of amed thelhe fog ' asonabl>.| 'Fog!' cried Colonel Harding sharply. ickabackl 'Fog!' said the Baron, with emphasis. 'Ah, that Christiaii|xplains the v/hole aflfair. To be sure, now I. remember. he weather has been too thick for a man to see the head like theyif his own horse. The Doones (if still there be any r's name,|)oones) could never ha'»'^e come abroad; that is as sure as limony. Master Huckaoack, for your good sake, I am ;ow manyleartily glad that this charge has miscarried. I thoroughly le of eacli|nderstand it now. The fog explains the whole of it.' 'Go back, my good fellow,' said Colonel Harding; 'and own thenl the day is clear enough, you will find all your things ess, therAhere you left them. I know, from my own experience, :acle.* Ihat it is to be caught in an Exmoor fog.' even son! Uncle Reuben, by this time, was so put out, that he )wn, andlardly knew what he was saying. er Huckal 'My lord, Sir Colonel, is this your justice 1 If I go to >r himsellondon myself for it, the King shall know how his lencfr — -pmmission — ^how a man may be robbed, and the justices I V ! .1 i ' t 1 1 ' £1 f i i; ■ : iv 1 1 itn. 1X4 LORNA DOONE prove that he ought to be hanged at the back of it; that in his good shire of Somerset ' 'Your pardon a moment, good sir,' De Whichebalsc interrupted him; 'but 1 was about (having beard your case) to mention what need be an obstacle, and, I fear, would prove a fatal one, even if satisfactory proof were I afforded of a felony. The mal-feasance (if any) was laidj in Somerset; but we, two humble servants of His Majesty, are in commission of his peace for the county of Devon | only, and therefore could never deal with it.' 'And why, in the name of God,' cried Uncle Reuben, now carried at last fairly beyond himself, 'why could you I not say as much at first, and save me all this waste ot time and worry of my temper? Gentlemen, you are all in league; all of you stick together. You think it fair sport for an honest trader, who makes no shams as you do, tol be robbed and wellnigh murdered, so long as they whcl did it won the high birthright of felony. If a poor sheep-l stealer, to save his children from dying of starvation, hadi dared to look at a two-month lamb, he would swing odI the Manor gallows, and all of you cry "Good riddance !'[ But now, because good birth and bad manners ■' Here! poor Uncle Ben, not being so strong as before the Doonesl at the mouth a littl^J where his short grayl had played with him, began to foam at the mouth a littl^J and his tongue went into the hollow whiskers were. I forget how w© came ouv of it, only I was greatlj] shocked at bearding of the gentry so, and mother 3carc«r could see her way, when I told her all about it. 'Depenij upon it you were wrong, John,' was all I could get out her; though what had I done but listen, and touch mjl forelock, when called upon. 'John, you may take m} word for it, you have not done as you should have done Your father would have been shocked to think of going Baron de Whicbehalse, and in his own house insultii him! And yet it was very brave of you, John. Jd like you, all over. And (as none of the men are here dear John) I am proud of you for doing it.* | All throughout the homeward road. Uncle Ben ha been very silent, feeling much displeased with himsel and still more so with other people. But before he went 1 bed that night, he just said to me, 'Nephew Jack, yc have not behaved so badly as the rest to me. And becaua vou have no gift of talking, I think that I may trust you LORNA DOONE XX5 Now, mark my words, this villain job shall not have ending here. I have another card to play ' You moan, sir, I suppose, that you will go to the I justices of this shire, Squire Maunder, or Sir Hichard Blewitt, or ' ... ^ 'Oaf, I mean nothing of the sort; they would only make la laughing-stock, as those Devonshire people did, of me. No, I will go to the King himself, or a man who is bigger than the King, and to whom I have ready access. I will not tell thf^e his name at present, only if tiiou art brought Ibefore him, never wilt thou forget it.' That was true lenough, by the bye, as 1 discovered afterwards, for the |man he meant was Judge Jeffreys. And when are you likely to see him, sir?' 'Maybe in the spring, maybe not until summer, for i cannot go to London on purpose, but when my business ikes me there. Only remember my words, Jack, and livhen you see the man I mean, look straight at him, and lell no lie. He will make some of your zany squires shake in their shoes, I reckon. Now, I have been in this lonely lole far longer than I intended, by reason of this out- rage; yet I will stay here one day more upon a certain tondition.* 'Upon what condition. Uncle Ben? I grieve that you ind it so lonely. We will have Farmer Nicholas up again, ^nd the singers, and ' 'The fashionable milkmaids. I thank you, let me be. The wenches are too loud for me. Your Nanny is enough. lanny is a good child, and she shall come and visit me.' Incle Reuben would always call her 'Nanny'; he said lat 'Annie' was too fine and Frenchified for us. 'But y condition is this. Jack — ^that you shall guide me •n.or'ow, without a word to any one, to a place where ly well descry the dwelling of these scoundrel Doones, id learn the best way to get at them, when the time lall come. Can you do this for me? I will pay you ^ell, boy.' I promised very readily to do mv best to serve him, but, ■ course, would take no money lor it, not being so poor that came to. Accordingly, on the day following, I ^anaged to set the men at work on the other side of the [rm, especially that inquisitive and busybody John Fry, 'lo would pry out almost anything for the pleasure of filing his wife; and then, with Uncla Keuben mounted f!T^-= xi6 LORNA DOONE ^'' mi:rj I ,'•»► on xnv ancient Peggy, I made foot for the westward, directly after breakfast. Uncle Ben refused to go unless I would take a loaded gun, and indeed it was always wise to do so in those days of turbulence; and none me less because of late more than usual of our sheep had left their skins behind them. This, as I need hardly say, was not to be charged to the appetite of the Doones, for they always said that they were not butchers (F.lthough upon that subject might well be two opinions); and their prac- tice was to make the shepherds kill and skin, and quarter for them, and sometimes carry to the Doone-gate thel prime among the fatUngs, for fear of any bruising, whichl spoils the look at table. But the worst of it was that! ignorant folk, unaware of their fastidiousness, scored tol them the sheep they lost by lower-bom marauders, and! so were afraid to speak of it : and the issue of this errof| was that a farmer, with five or six hundred sheep, could never command, on his wedding-day, a prime saddle q\ mutton for dinner. To return now to my Uncle Ben — and indeed he would not let me go more than three land-yards from him — ^there| was very little said between us along the lane and acre the hill, although the day was pleasant. I could see thatj he was half amiss with his mind about the business, anir not so full of security as an elderly man should keej himself. Therefore, out I spake, and said, — 'Uncle Reuben, have no fear. I know every inch of th\ ground, sir; and there is no danger nigh us.* 'Fear, boy! Who ever thought of fear? *Tis the las thing would come across me. Pretty things those prii roses ' At once I thought of Loma Doone, the little maid six years back, and how my fancy went with her. CoulJ Loma ever think of me? Was I not a lout gone by, onlj fit for loach-sticking? Had I ever seen a lace fit to thin} of near her? The sudden flash, the quickness, the brigh desire to know one's heart, and not withhold her ov from it, the soft withdrawal of rich eyes, the longing love somebody, anybody, anything, not imbmed wit wickedness My uncle interrupted me, misliking so much silenc now, with the naked woods falling over us For we wei| come to Bagworthy forest, the blackest and the lonelie place of aU that keep the sun out. Even now. LORNA DOONE 117 winter-time, with most of the wood unriddlecl, and tho rest of it pinched brown, it hung around us hke a cloak containing little comfort. I kept quite close to Peggy's head, and Peggy kept quite close to me, and pricked her ears at everything. However, we saw nothing there, except a few old owls and hawks, and a magpie sitting aU alone, until we came to the bank of the hill, where the pony could not climb it. Uncle Ben was very loath to get off, because the pony seemed company, and he thought he could gallop away on her, if the worst came to the worst; but I persuaded him that now he must go to the end of it. Therefore he made Peggy fast, in a place where we could find her, and speaking cheerfully as & there was nothing to be afraid of, he took his staff, and I my gun, to climb the thick ascent. There was now no path of any kind; which added to our courage all it lessened of our comfort, because it proved that the robbers were not in the habit of passing there. And we knew that we could not go astray, so long as we breasted the hill before us; inasmuch as it formed the rampart, or side-fence of Glen Doone. But in truth I used the right word there for the manner of our ascent, I for the ground came forth so steep against us, and withal so woody, that to make any way we must throw ourselves [forward, and labour as at a breast-plough. Rough and loamy rungs of oak-root bulged here and there above our heads; briers needs must speak with us, using more of tooth than tongue; and sometimes bulks of rugged stone, like great sheep, stood across us. At last, though very loath to do it, I was forced to leave my gun behmd, be- cause I required one hand to drag myself up the difficulty, J'ind one to help Uncle Reuben. And so at last we gained [the top, and looked forth the edge of the forest, where the round was very stony and like the crest of a quarry; and no more trees between us and the brink of cHff below, iree hundred yards below it might be, all strong slope md gliddery. And now for the &st time I was amazed It the appearance of the Doones's stronghold, and under- stood its nature. For when I had been even in the valley, and climbed the cliffs to escape from it, about seven years igone, I was no more than a stripling boy, noting Uttle, 13 boys do, except for their present purpose, and even '^at soon done with. But now, what with tiie fame of le Doooes, and my own recoUectioos, and Uncle Ben's ••SMif ";' miim. • ■\um ( ^ii-;i;i I 'i ;j 'til ^"•» ii8 LORJMA DOONB tha yet bra it \n figu ver aim yet my vani gone mus: that with Lorn insistence, all my attention was called forth, and the end was simple astonishment. The chine of highland, whereon we stood, curved to the right and left of us, keeping about the same elevation, and crowned with trees and brushwood. At about half a mile in front of us, but looking as if we could throw a stone to strike any man upon it, another crest just like our own bowed around to meet it; but failed by reason of two narrow clefts of which we could only see the brink. One of these clefts was the Doone-gate, with a portcullis of rock above it, and the other was the chasm by which I had once made entrance. Betwixt them, where the hills fell back, as in a perfect oval, travei"sed by the winding water, lay a bright green valley, rimmed with sheer black rock, and seeming to have sunken bodily from the bleak rough heights above. It looked as if no frost could enter neither wind go ruffling: only spring, and hope, and comfort, breathe to one another. Even now the rays oi sunshine dwelt and fell back on one another, whenever the clouds lifted; and the pale blue glimpse of the grow ing day seemed to find young encouragement. But for all that. Uncle Reuben was none the worse nor| better. He looked down into Glen Doone first, and sniffed as if he were smelling it, like a sample of good; from a wholesale house: and then he looked at the hillsl over yonder, and then he stared at me. 'See what a pack of fools they be?* 'Of course I do. Uncle Ben. "All rogues are fools," w; my first copy, beginning of the alphabet.' ^^ , . , 'Pack of stuff, lad. Though true enough, and very goo(BEJ?. ? for young people. But see you not how this great Doon J?^ " valley may be taken in half an hour?* Kn 'Yes, to be sure I do, uncle; if they like to give it upM ' _ I mean.' K°iT^ 'Three culverins on yonder hill, and three on the iomt of this one, and we have them under a pestle. Ah, I havKrJ^"^ seen the wars, my lad, from Keinton up to Naseby; anffl ® ' I might have been a general now, if they had taken m«il?"o paft id, n( rasm roue: UpS an h Ha VII Mastej lexami oted by hi o knc ailed advice u-'-i:- .m.m-m.Bii h But I was not attending to him, being drawn away a sudden by a sight which never struck the sharp eyes our General. For I had long ago descried that lit! opening in the cliff through which I made my exit, blfero related* on the other side of the valley. No bigge LORNA DOONE tX9 than a rabbit-hole it seemed from where we stood; and yet of all the scene before me, that (from my remem- brance perhaps) had the most attraction. Now gazing at it with full thought of all that it had cost me, I saw a little figure come* and pause, and pass into it. Something very light and white, nimble, smooth, and elegant, gone almost before I knew that any one had been there. And yet my heart came to my ribs, and all my blood was in my face, and pride within me fought with shame, and vanity with se&-contempt; for though seven years were gone, and I from my boyhood come to manhood, and all must have forgotten me, and I had half -forgotten; at that moment, once for all, I felt that I was face to face with fate (however poor it might be), weal or woe, in I Loma Doone. CHAPTER XVI LORNA GROWING FORMIDABLE IHaving reconnoitred thus the position of the enemy, iMaster Huckaback, on the homeward road, cross- lexamined me in a manner not at all desirable. For he had loted my confusion and eager gaze at something unseen him in the valley, and thereupon he made up his mind to know everything about it. In this, however, he partly failed; for although I was no hand at fence, and would lot tell him a falsehood, I managed so to hold my pesu^e that he put himself upon the wrong track, and continued ^hereon with manv vaunts of his shrewdness and experi- mce, and some chuckles at my simplicity. Thus much, lowever, he learned aright, that I had been in the Doone valley several years before, and might be brought upon jitrong inducement to venture there again. But as to the lode of my getting in, the things I saw, and my thoughts ipon them, he not only failed to learn the truth, but lertified himself into an obstinacy of error, from which |o after-knowledge was able to deliver him. And this he |id, not only because I happened to say very little, but )ra9much as he disbelieved half of the tru^ I told him, irough his own too great sagacity. Upon one point, however, he succeeded more easily lan he expected, viz. in making me promise to visit tho p \ (iir'.i|v i' iJ'' '! II i:: w:!; Z20 LORNA DOONE place again, as soon as occasion offered, and to hold my own counsel about it. But J! could not help smiling at one thing, that according to his point of view my own counsel meant my own and Master Reuben Huckaback's. Now he being gone, as he went next day, to his favourite town of Dulverton, and leaving behind him shadowy promise of the mountains he would do for me, my spirit I began to bum and pant for something to go on with; and nothing showed a braver hope of movement and adveu-l ture than a lonely visit to Glen Doone, by way of the perilous passage discovered in my boyhood. Therefore I waited for nothing more than the slow arrival of new small-clothes made by a good tailor at Porlock, for I was wishful to look my best; and when they were come and| approved, I started, regardless of the expense, and for- getting (like a fool) how badly they would take the water. I What with urging of the tailor, and my own misgivings, the time was now come round again to the high-day of St. Valentine, when all our maids were full of lovers, and all the lads looked foolish. And none of them more sheepish or innocent than I myself, albeit twenty-one years old, and not afraid of men much, but terrified of women, at least, if they were comely. And wht^t of aJll things scared me most was the thought of my own size,! and knowledge of my strength, which came like knots upon me daily. In honest truth I tell this thing, (whichl often since hath puzzled me, when I came to mix with! men more), I was to that degree ashamed of my thick- ness and my stature, in the presence of a woman, that II would not put a trunk of wood on the fire in the kitchen,! but let Annie scold me well, with a smile to follow, andl with her own plump hands lift up a little log, and fuel it. I Many a time I longed to be no bigger than John Fryl was; whom now (when insolent) I took with my left hand! by the waist- stuff, and set him on my hat, and gave himl little chance to tread it; until he spoke of his family, andl requested to come down again. I Now taking for good omen this, that I was a seven-yearl Valentine, though much too big for a Cupidon, I chose al ^ven-foot staff of ash, and fixed a loach-fork in it, to look! as I had looked before; and leaving word upon matters! of business, out of the back door I went, and so throughl the little orchard, and down the brawling Lynn-brook.| Not being now so much afraid, I struck across the| LORNA DOONE 121 thicket land between the meeting waters, and came upon :he Bagworthy stream near the great black whirlpool. Nothing amazed me so much as to find how shallow the stream now looked to me, although the pool was still as black and greedy as it used to be. And still the great rocky slide was dark and difficult to climb; though the water, which once had taken my knees, was satisfied now with my ankles. After some labour, I reached the top; and halted to look about me well, before trusting to broad daylight. The winter (as I said before) had been a very mild one; land now the spring was toward so that bank and bush J were touched with it. The valley into which I gazed was fair with early promise, having shdlter from the wind and takmg all the sunshine. The willow-bushes over the stream hung as if they were angling with tasseled floats of gold and silver, bursting like a bean-pod. Between them came the water laughing, like a maid at her own dancing, and spread with that young blue which never lUves beyond the April. And on either bank, the meadow Iniffled as the breeze came by, opening (through new tufts lof green) daisy-bud or celandine, or a shy glimpse now [and then of the love-lorn primrose. Though I am so blank of wit, or perhaps for that same reason, these little things come and dwell with me, and am happy about them, and long for nothing better. feel with every blade of grass, as if it had a history; and lake a child of every bud as though it knew and loved me. md being so, they seem to tell me of my own delusions, low I am no more than they, except in self-importance. While I was forgetting much of many things that harm me, and letting of my thoughts go wild to sounds and Rights of nature, a sweeter note than thrush or ouzel ever ^ooed a mate in, floated on the valley breeze at the quiet turn of sundown. The words were of an ancient song, it to cry or laugh at. j , Love, an if there be one, u ^oii Come my love to be, < , ,. . My love is for the one ^ - Loving unto me. Not for me the show, love. Of a gilded bliss ; Only thou must know, lovd What my value ii. !■■- /' Ci ... ^'K^ii ix *i^0 - t,v. ;-i(,-i P.U :>:,;> /i O-'l -' ' i -ii; :Mi1 »ai; V liiV ^'<- tMi i .fe 'a ■:,;..' bl h I >!^m ■; ^ .-.'■1 --»■■• ' >»x» '^^' i ' ■ * $ .':■? '■»»• --S 122 LORNA DOONE ' - - If in all the earth, love, i^ , Thou hast none but me, This shall be ray worth, love : To be cheap to thee. ' But, if ao thou ever Strivest to be free, ; . 'Twill be my endeavour To be dear to thee. So shall I have plea, love, Is thy heart and breath Clinging still to thee, love, ; In the doom of death. All this I took in^with great eagerness, not for the sake I of the meaning (wliich is no doubt an allegorjr), but for the power and richness, and softness of the singing, which seemed to me better than we ever had even in Oare church. But all the time I kept myself in a black niche of the rock, where the fall of the water began, lest the sweet | singer (espying me) should be alarmed, and flee away. But presently I ventured to look forth where a bush was;! and then I beheld the loveliest sight— one glimpse ofl which was enough to make me kneel in the coldest water.L ., By the side of the stream she was coming to me, evenP®"'^" among the prinaroses, as if she loved them all; and every! .^^^ flower looked the brighter, as her eyes were on them, iB^vJ^®? could not see what her face was, my heart so awoke andF^ " f trembled; only that her hair was flowing from a wreatl . of white violets, and the grace of her coming was like theff ^^® . appearance of the first wind-flower. The pale gleam oveiB®^.' "" the western cliffs threw a shadow of light behind her, aff^f??* if the sun were lingering. . Never do I see that light from j^y The tremulous thrill of her song was han^g on he open lips; and she glanced around, as if the birds wer accustomed to make answer. To me it was a thing terror to behold such beauty, and feel myself the while be so very low and Common. But scarcely knowing wha I did, as if a rope were drawine me, I came from the dt mouth of the chasm; and stood, afraid to look at her. She was turning to fly, not knowing me, and frightene perhaps, at my stature, when I fell on the grass (as I fe "N th he ace ar 'Yes, eatly. She v idens ^ we an tha t stroi d of it LORNA DOONE 1*3 before her seven years agone that day), and I just said, 'Lorna Doone!' ; ;\:^r .irr , She knew me at once, from my manner and ways, and a smile broke through her trembling, as sunshine comes through aspen-leaves; and being so clever, she saw, of course, that she needed not to fear me. 'Oh, indeed,* she cried, with a feint of anger (because she had shown her cowardice, and yet in her heart she was laughingj; 'oh, if you please, who are you, sir, and how do you Know my name?' •I am John Ridd,' I answered; 'the boy who gave you those beautiful fish, when you were only a little thmg, ■ fViP «;ake|seven years ago to-day.' ^ TJic oa B ^Yeg^ the poor boy who was frightened so, and obliged to hide here in the water.' 'And do you remember how kind you were, and saved y life by your quickness, and went away riding upon great man s shoulder, as if you had never seen me, and et looked back through the willow-trees?' ^ *f) 'Oh, yes, I remember everything; because it was so re to see any except — I mean because I happen to 1 A.- +-,»emember. But you seem not to remember, sir, how est "^f^l^enlous this place is.' * °^j' enl ^^^ ^^® ^^^ ^®P* ^®^ ®y^^ ^P*^^ ™®' ^^^^® ®y®^ ^^ * and every* i^j^^gg^ ^ brightness, and a dignity which made me feel ►n ^®"^' lis if I must for ever love and yet for ever know myself ),wOi£e a Knworthy. Unless themselves should fill with love, which ^ ^ivu-^^tlS *^® spring of all things. And so I could not answer as uKe ^^Jer, but was overcome with thinking and feeling and con- leam ovejjgjQjj Neither could I look again; only waited for the • Ji^J' !ff®^^y which made every word like a poem to me, the light ".^Jjielody of her voice. But she' had not the least idea of lays, witn»jja,t ^^g going on with me, any more than I myself had. t, what ov «j think, Master Ridd, you cannot know,' she said, lith her eyes taken from me, 'what the dangers of this lace are, and the nature of the people.* .rf i>^/ ^:i?} 'Yes, I know enough of that; and I am frightened featly, all the time, when I do not look at you.' She was too young to answer me in the style some lidens would have used; the manner, I mean, which )w we call from a foreign word 'coquettish.* And more ian that, she was trembling from real fear of violence Bt strong hands might be laid on me, and a miserabU* Id of it. And, tD tell the truth, I grew afraid; perhaps ), but for ag, which i in Oare k niche of the sweet iee away, bush was; j^limpse ol ler? ig on he [birds wer la thing le while )wing wha \m the ds lather. frightene ls8 (as I it ! 1 111 iif f ' . w •.'A Vf 124 LORNA DOONE . .r il from a kind of sympathy, and because I knew that evil comes more readily than good to us. Therefore, without more ado, or taking any advantage — although I would have been glad at heart, if needs had been, to kiss her (without any thought of rudeness) — it struck me that I had better go, and have no more to say to her until next time of coming. So would she look thei more for me and think the more about me, and not grow 1 weary of ray words and the want of change there is in me. For, of course, I knew what a churl I was compared to her birth and appearance; but meanwhile I might improve myself and learn a musical instrument. 'The wind hath a draw after flying straw' is a saying we have in Devonshire, made, peradventure, by somebody who] had seen the ways of women. 'Mistress Loma, I will depart' — mark you, I thought! that a powerful word — 'in fear of causing disquiet. If I any rogue shot me it would grieve you; I make bold tol say it; and it would be the death of mother. Few mothers! have 3uch a son as me. Try to think of me now and thenJ and I will bring you some new-laid eggs, for our youngl blue hen is beginning.' ,M Mfr ^i | 'I thank you heartily,' said Loma; 'but you need notl come to see me. You can put them in my little bowerl where I am almost always — I mean whither daily I repair| to read and to be away from them.' 'Only show me where it is. Thrice a day I will com^ and stop :. tr/i' -^irthp •-; *Nay, Master Ridd, I would never show thee — ^never because of peril— only that so happens it thou hast io\ia\ the way already.' And she smiled with a light that made me care to or out for no other way, except to her dear heart. But onlil to m3rself I cried for anything at all, having enough man in me to be bashful with young maidens. So touched her white hand softly when she gave it to me, anj (fancjring that she had sighed) was toudied at heail about it, and resolved to yield her all my goods, althoug my mother was living; and then grew angry with mysell (for a mile or more of walking) to think she would condeJ cend so; and then, for the rest of the homeward roaa was mad with ever^' man in the world who would dafl to think of having her. •«lr LORNA DOONE 123 -^'li/ti,. ,1' » t 4 r;-> CHAPTER XVII '■■; ■'■■ l< : 'At. ilk ^i> JOHN IS CLEARLY BEWITCHED '• »■•<. .f ITo forget one's luck of life, to forget the cark of care and |withering of young fingers; not to feel, or not be moved )y, all the change of thought and heart, from large young leat to the smewy lines and dry bones of old age — ^this what I have to do ere ever I can make you know (even a dream is known) how I loved my Lorna. I myself can never know; never can conceive, or treat it as a thing [)f reason; never can behold myself dweUing in the midst }f it, and think that this was I; neither can I wander jar from perpetual thought of it. Perhaps I have two [arrows of pigs ready for the chapman; perhaps I have (en stones of wool waiting for the factor. It is all the le. I look at both, and what I say to myself is this : I Which would Lorna choose of them?' Of course, I am fool for this; any man may call me so, and I will not juarrel with him, unless he guess my secret. Of course, fetch my wit, if it be worth the fetching, back again to )usiness. But there my heart is and must be; and all ^ho like to try can cheat me, except upon parish matters. That week I could do little more than dream and ream and rove about, seeking by perpetual change to [nd the way back to myself. I cared not for the people mnd me, neither took delight in victuals; but made [elieve to eat and drink and blushed at any questions. Ind being called the master now, head-farmer, and chief |eoman, it irked me much that any one should take ivantage of me; yet everybody did so as soon as ever it [as known that my wits were gone moon-raking. For lat was the way they looked at it, not being able to }mprehend the greatness and the loftiness. Neither do I "ime them much; for _the wisest thing is to laugh at jople whe n we cannot understan d them. T,T6Fmy pirt, 'ok no notice; but in my heart despised "them as beings a lesser nature, who never had seen Lorna. Yet I was Bxed, and rubbed myself, when John Fry spread all >er the farm, and even at the shoemg forge, that a mad >g had come and bitten me, from the orther side of "lond. [This seems little to me now; and so it might to any one: 14 'i-" i ■; iri-r^ 120 LORNA DOONE be i tryit hope to cc he 11 •yarn Bu tabou shoul him ' but, at the time, it worked me up to a fever of indignity. To make a mad dog of Loma, to compare all my imagin- ings (which were strange, I do assure you — the faculty not being apt to work), to count the raising of my soul no more than hydrophobia! All this acted on me so, that I gave John Fry the soundest threshing that ever a sheaf of good com deserved, or a bundle of tares was blessed with. Afterwards he went home, too tired to teO hi? wife the meaning of it; but it proved of service to both of them, and an example for their children. Now the climate of this country is — so far as I can! Even make of it — ^to throw no man into extremes; and if helmusci throw himself so far, to pluck him back by change of I and ; weather and the need of looking after things. Lest welsuch i should be like the Southerns, for whom the sky doeslmeet every' hing, and men sit under a wall and watch both foodlcoursc and fruit come beckoning. Their sky is a mother to thein;lpinch< but ours a good stepmother to us — ^fearing to hurt bylarmne indulgence, and knowing that severity and change oil We mood are wholesome. las ab The spring being now too forward, a check to it wangraftec needful; and in the early part of March there came alrespecl change of weather. All the young growth was arrested bylttalia^ a dry wind from the east, which made both face anilpiever fingers bum when a man was doing ditching. The lila and the woodbines, just crowding forth in little t close kernelling their blossom, were ruffled back, like sleeve turned up, and nicked with brown at the come In the hedges any man, unless his eyes were very du could see &e mischief doing. The russet of the you elm-bloom was fain to be in its scale again; but havini pushed forth, there must be, and turn to a tawny colouwime, s( The hangers of the hazel, too, having shed their dust tAll up make the nuts, did not spread their Uttle combs and drahat th them, as they ought to do; but shrivelled at the base anBnly th fell, as if a knife had cut them. And more than all tfie cap notice was (at least about the hedges) the shuddering everything and the shivering sound among them towa the feeble sun; such as we make to a poor fireplace whi several doora are open. Sometimes I put my face warm against the soft, rough maple-stem, which f like the foot of a red deer; but the pitiless east wind ca through all, and took and shook the caved hedge ab ow h neve othei ey a; ste tl Now inds, erhaps oovec r one lades, if the Other here t till its knees were knocking together, and nothing coul|et, but LORN A DOONE li? idignity ioiagin- ) faculty my soul 1 me so, eit ever a ares was be shelter. Then would anv one naving blood, and tiying to keep at home with ft. run to a sturdy tree an«l hope to eat his food behind it, and look for a little sun to come and warm his feet in the shelter. And if it did he might strike his breast, and try to think he was warmer. But when a man came home at night, after long day's ed to tell I labour, knowing that the days increased, and so his care ervice to | should multiply; still he found enough of light to show him what the day had done against him in his garden, as I can I Every ridge of new-turned earth looked like an old man's and if hel muscles, honeycombed, and standing out void of spring, :hange oil and powdery. Every plant that had rejoiced in passing Lest w«l>uch a winter now was cowering, turned away, unfit to sky doeslmeet the consequence. Flowing sap had stopped its both food! course; fluted lines showed want of food; and if you r to them;l pinched the topmost spray, there was no rebound or 3 hurt bylonnness. change oil We think a good deal, in a quiet way, when people ask as about them — of some fine, upstanding pear-trees, to it wasBgrafted by my grandfather, who had been very greatly re came alrespected. And he got those grafts by sheltering a poor .rrested bylltalian soldier, in the time of James the First, a man who [ face anii|never could do enough to show his grateful memories. ~ow he came to our place is a very difficult story, which never understood rightly, having heard it from my other. At any rate, there the pear-trees were, and there ey are to this very day; and I wish every one could te their fruit, old as they are, and rugged. Now these fine trees had taken advantage of the west inds, and the moisture, and the promise of the spring ny colouSime, so as to fill the tips of the spray- wood and the rowels eir dust t|ill up the branches with a crowd of eager blossom. Not hat they were yet in bloom, nor even showing whiteness, nly that some of the cones were opening at the side of e cap which pinched them; and there you might count, erhaps, a dozen nobs, like very little buttons, but ooved, and lined, and huddling close, to make room r one another. And among these buds were gray-green lades, scarce bigger than a hair almost, yef curving so if their purpose was to shield the blossom. Other of the spur-points, standing on the older wood, here the sap was not so eager, had not burst their tunic thing coulVet, but were flayed and flaked with light, casting off the •n '.n ^i^ Ki -If: lif ' r Z28 LORNA DOONE ■«»*■ husk of brown in three-cornered patches, as I have seen a Scotchman's plaid, or as his legs shows through it. These buds, at a distance, looked as if the sky had been raining cream upon them. Now all this fair delight to the eyes, and good promise to the palate, was marred and baffled by the wmd and I cutting of the night-frosts. The opening cones were struck with brown, in between the button buds, and on the scapes that shielded them; while the foot part of the cover hung like rags, peeled back, and quivering. And there the Tittle stalk of each, which might have been a pear, God willing, had a ring around its base, and sought a chance to drop and die. The others which had not opened comb, but only prepared to do it, were a little better off, but still very brown and unkid, and shrivelling | in doubt of health, and neither peart nor lusty. Now tills I have not told because I know the way to dol it, for that I do not, neither yet have seen a man who didl know. It is wonderful how we look at things, and neverl think to notice them; and I am as bad as anybodyj unless the tiling to be observed is a dog, or a horse, or a| maiden. And the last of those three I look at, somehowj without knowing that I take notice, and greatly afraid to do it; only I knew afterwards (when the time of iifd was in me), not indeed, what the maiden was like, but| how she differed from others. Yet I have spoken about the spring, and the failure fair promise, because I took it to my heart as token what would come to me in the budding of my years an(| hope. And even then, being much possessed, and fi of a foolish melancholy, I felt a sad delight at beii doomed to blight and loneliness; not but that I manage still (vhen mother was urgent upon me) to eat my she of victuals, and cufi a man for laziness, and see that Sloughshare made no leaps, and sleep of a night withou reaming. And my mother half-beheving, in her fondne and affection, that what the parish said was true abou a mad dog having bitten me, and yet arguing that it mus be false (because God would have prevented him), mj mother gavfe me little rest, when I was in the room wit her. Not that she worried me witii questions, nor openlj regarded me with any unusual meaning, but that knew she was watching slyly whenever I took a spoc up; and every hour or so she managed to place a pan LORNA DOONE lag itve seen DUgh it. lad been promise nnd and les were „ and on [the And! water by me, quite as if by accident, and sometimes even to spill a little upon my shoe or coat-sleeve. But Betty Muxworthy was worst; for, having no fear about my health, she made a villainous joke of it, and used to rush into the kitchen, barking like a dog, and panting, exclaiming that I had bitten her, and justice she would have on me, if it cost her a twelvemonth's wages. And f th 1^^^ always took care to do this thing just when I had °^ /-"J ■ crossed my legs in the comer after supper, and leaned my ^8* '^"^■head against the oven, to begin to think of Loma. e "®®^,^i However, in all things there is comfort, if we do not ^ Vi^^^ tl^°°^ *°^ hard for it; and now I had much satisfaction, in VtSfi^y uncouth state, from labouring, by the hour together, "at the hedging and the ditching, meeting the bitter wind face to face, feeling my strength increase, and hoping that some one would be proud of it. In the rustling rush of every gust, in the ^aceful bend of every tree, even in the ' lords and ladies,' clumped in the scoops of the ma "^^^Biedgerow, and most of all in the soft primrose, wrung anyDOQy<,jjy ^^^q wind, but stealing back, and smiling when the ath was passed — in all of these, and many others there as aching ecstasy, delicious pang of Loma. But however cold the weather was, and however hard he wind blew, one thin^ (more than all the rest) worried nd perplexed me. This was, that I could not settle, m and twist as I might, how soon I ought to go again pon a visit to Glen Doone. For I liked not at all the Iseness of it (albeit against murderers), the creeping ut of sight, and hiding, and feeling as a spy might. And iven more than this. I feared how Loma might regard whether I might seem to her a prone and blunt in- der. a country youth not skilled in manners, as among e quality, even when they rob us. For I was not sure yself, but that it might be very bad manners to go ain too early without an invitation; and my hands and ce were chapped so badly by the bitter wind, that ima might count them unsightly things, and wish to e no more of them. However, I could not bring myself to consult any one I room wimjQjj ^g point, at least in our own neighbourhood, nor lor ^P^^^^wen to speak of it near home. But the east wind holding kut that »j.Qygj^ ^jjg month, my hands and face growing worse bk a spom^ worse, and it having occurred to me by this time that ^e a pan (ftssibiy Loma Slight have chaps, if she came abroad at L.D. B :e a ihrivelling r. way to do n who did and nevetl anybody, lorse, oral somehow,! aitly af rai tme of lifi like, bul J failure s token years am y.■■ / f'^ ; i 130 LORNA DOONE t» all, and so might like to talk about them and show her little hands to me, I resolved to take another opinion, so far as might be upon this matter, without disclosing the circumstances. Now the wisest person in all our parts was reckoned to be a certain wise woman, well known all over Exmcor by the name of Mother Melldrum. Her real name was Maple Durham, as I learned long afterwards; and she came of an ancient family, but neither of Devon nor Somerset. Nevertheless f^he was quite at home with our proper modes of divination; and knowing that we liked them best — as each man does his own religion — ^she would always practise them for the people of the country. And all the while, she would let us know that she kept a higher and nobler mode for those who looked down upon this one, not having been bred and bom to it. Mother Melldrum had two houses, or rather she had none at all, but two homes wherein to find her, according to the time of year. In summer she lived in a pleasantj cave, facing the cool side of the hill, far inland ne Hawkridge, and close above Tarr-steps. a wondeif crossing of Barle river, made (as everybody knows) Satan, for a wager. But throughout the winter, she foun sea-air agreeable, and a place where things could be haf^^ou on credit, and more occasion of talking. Not but what sh("^^rm could have credit (for every one was afraid of her) in neighbourhood of Tarr-steps; only there was no one ha owning things worth taking. Therefore, «*« the fall of ^e leaf, when the woods gre damp and irksome, the wise woman always set her £ to the warmer cliffs of the Channel; where shelter w; and dry fern bedding, and folk to be seen in the distani from a bank upon which the sun shone. And there, I knew from our John Fry (who had been to her aboi rheumatism, and sheep possessed with an evil spirit, ai warts or the hand of his son, young Johnj.axiY one wi cliose mi,][ht find her, towards the close of a winter gathering sticks and brown fern for fuel, and talking herself the while, in a hollow stretch behind the c. which foreigners, who come and qo without seeing mui of Exmoor. have called the Valley of Rocks. This valley, or goyal, as we term it, being small forl^^^ ^ 1 valley, lies to the west of Linton, about a mile from til ^^nt town perhaps, and away towards Ley Manor. Ol^nday to entle ing ope J nd d AIa{ reatu ould oes ¥ d;t edici Now oeks^ evirs au6( after chene< LORNA OOONE 131 show her opinion, disclosing reckoned T Exmoor aame was homefolk always call it the Danes, or the Denes; which is no more, they tell me, than a hollow place, even as the word ' den ' is. However, 1-^ that pass, for I know very little about it; but the place itself is a pretty one; though nothing to frighten anybody, unless he hath lived in a gallipot. It is a green rough-sided hollow, bending at the middle, touched with stone at either crest, and dotted "*and 'shei^®''® ^°^ there with slabs in and out the brambles. On Vvon norl*^^® "S^* *^*^^^ *^ ^^ upward cra^, called by some the with our I Castle, easy enough to scale, and giving great view of the I we liked iChaiinel. Facing this, from the inland side and the elbow he would l^^ *^® valley, a aueer old pile ot rock arises, bold behind countrvl°"® another, and quite enough to affright a man, if it ^he keota|o"^y ^^^^ *®^ times larger. This is called the Devil's r? wn upod1c^®®^®'^"8» or the Devil s Cheese-knife, which mean the aown i/u Isame thing, as our fathers were used to eat their cheese he hadfr''^"^ * scoop; and perhaps in old time the upmost rock •^^ rcordin»(^J^^^^ ^^^ fallen away since I knew it) was like to such ' ^Seasantl*" ^^P^®"^^*^** ^ Satan eat cheese untoasted. i \^^ jjgj But all the middle of this valley was a place to rest in; ^ nderfuB^ ^^* ^^^ think that troubles were not, if we would not iT^ows^ ^make them. To know the sea outside the hills, but never hefoun«f° behold it; '^nly by the sound of waves to pity sailors t* H be haS*^°"^S* Then to watch the sheltered sun, coming f hat shj^^^°^^y round the turn, like a guest expected, full of utwn .m,entle glow and gladness, casting shadow far away as a hing to hug itself, and awakening life from dew, and ope from e^ery spreading bud. And then to fall asleep, nd dream that the fern was all asparagus. Alas, I was too young in those days much to care for Feature comforts, or to let pure palate have things that rould improve it. Anything went down with me, as it oes with most of us. Too late we know the good from id; the knowledge is no pleasure then; being memory's edicine rather than the wine c^ hope. Now Mother Melldrum kept lier winter in thfs vale of her) in one hand)| I woods gre her fi shelter wi Le distani there, lo her aboi spirit "1' "Y ? jj^ks, sheltering from tlie wind an4 rain within the ^^Ji^ijj^^evirs Cheese-ring, which added greatly to her fame, taut i3-mAj.au8e all else, for miles around, were afraid to go near after dark, or even on a gloomy day. Under eaves of lehened rock she had a winding passage, which non^ that jver I knew of durst enter but herself.' And to this place went to seek her^ in spite of all misgivings, upon a [anor w«""^*y ^^ Lenten season, when the sheep were folded. n M'' ♦ 11^'^^ ■91 ija LORNA DOONE Our parson (aa if he had known my intent) had preached a beautiful sermon about the Witch of Endor, and the perils of them that meddle wantonly with the unseen Powers; and therein he referred especially to the strange noise in the neighbourhood, and upbraided us for want of faith, and many other backslidings. We listened to him very earnestly, for we like to hear from our betters about | things that are beyond us, and to be roused up now and then, like sheep with a good dog after them, who can puU | some wool without biting. Nevertheless we could not see how our want of faith could have made that noise, espec- 1 ially at night time; notwithstanding which we believed it, and hoped to do a little better. And so we all came home from church; and most of the people dined with us, as they always do on Sundays, because of the distance to go home, with only words inside them. The parson, who always sat next to mother,! was afraid that he might have vexed us, and would not have the best piece of meat, according to his custom. But! soon we put him at his ease, ar • showed him we werel proud of him; and then he made no more to do, but! accepted the best of the sirloin. . . CHAPTER XVIII { \' WITCHERY LEADS TO WITCHCRAFT Although wellnigh the end of March, the wind bleJ wild and piercing, as I went on foot that afternoon tof Mother Melldrum's dwelling. It was safer not to take horse, lest (if anything vexed her) she r^ j.ild put a spell upon him; as had been done to Faim. i F lowe's stable! by Hie wise woman of Simonsbath. The sun was low on the edge of the hills by the timij I entered the valley, for I could not leave home till th^ cattle were tended, and the distance was seven miles more. The shadows of rocks fell far and deep, and thj brown dead fern was fluttering, and brambles with theij sere leaves hanging, swayed their tatters to and fro, wit a red look on them. In patches underneath the crags, few wild goats were browsing; then they tossed theij horns, and fled, and leaped on ledges, and stared at mef LORNA DOONE 133 Moreover, the sound of the sea came up, and went the length of the valley, and there it lapped on a butt of rocks, and murmured like a shell. Taking things one with another, and feeling all the lonesomeness, and having no stick with me, I was much inclined to go briskly back, and come at a better season. Ana when I beheld a tall gray shape, of something or another, moving at the lower end of tne valley, where the shade was, it gave me such a stroke of fear, after many others, that my thumb which lay in mother's Bible (brought in my big pocket for the sake of safety) shook so much that it came out, and I could not get it m again. ' This serves me right,' I said to myself, * for tampering with Beelzebub. Oh that I had listened to parson!' And thereupon I struck aside; not liking to run away {quite, as some people might call it; but seeking to look j like a wanderer who was come to see the valley, and had seen almost enough of it. Herein I should have succeeded, and gone home, and then been angry at my want of Icourage, but that on the very turn and bending of my Ifootsteps, the woman in the distance lifted up her stafiE to [me; so that I was bound to stop. And now, being brought face to face, by the will of |Gcd (as one might say) with anything that might come )f it, I kept myself quite straight and stiff, and thrust iway all white feather, trusting in my Bible still, hoping that it would protect me, though I had disobeyed it. "Jut upon that remembrance, my conscience took me by the leg, so that I could not go forward. All this while, the fearful woman was coming near and lore near to me; and I was glad to sit down on a rock, )ecause my knees Were shaking so. I tried to think of lany things, but none of them would come to me; and could not take my eyes away, though I prayed God to )e near me. But when she was come so nigh to me that I could fescry her features, there was something in her counte- ince that made me not dislike her. She looked as if she kad been visited by many troubles, and had felt them he by one; yet held enough of kindly nature still to [rieve for others. Long white hair, on either side, was lUing down below her chin; and through her wrinkles iear bright eyes seemed to spread themselves upon me. though I had plenty of time to think, I was taken by nT. 134 LORNA DOONE f surprise no less, and unable to say anything; yet eager to near the silence broken, and longing for a noise or two. ' Thou art not come to me,' she said, looking through my simple face, as if it were but glass, ' to be struck for bone^shave, tior to be blessed for barn -gun. Give me forth thy hand, John Hidd; and tell why thou art come to me/ But I was so much amazed at her knowing my name and all about me, that I feared to place my hand in her | power, or even my tongue by speaking, ^w * Have no fear of me, my son; I have no gift to harm I thee; and if I had, it should be idle. Now, if thou hastj any wit, tell me why I love thee/ I never had any wit, mother,' 1 answered in ouri Devonshire way; ' and never set eyes on thee before, to I the furthest of my knowledge/ .1 ' And yet I know thee as well, John, as if thou wertl my grandson. Remember you the Old Oare oak, and the bog at the head of Exe, and the child who would have died there, but for thy strength and courage, and mostj of all thy kindness? That was my granddaughter, John; and all I have on earth to love.' Now .that she came to speak of it, with the place andl that, so clearly, I remembered all about it (a thing thail happened last August), and thought how stupid I mustl have been not to learn more of the little girl who had! fallen into the black pit, with a basketful of whortle-l berries, and who might have been gulfed if her little had not spied me in the distance. I carried her on myi back to mother; and then we dressed her all anew, aiidl took her where she ordered us; but she did not tell who she w£is, nor anything more than her Christian name^choeii and that she was eight years old, and fond of fri( batatas. And we did not seek to ask her more; as qui manner is with visitors. But thinking of this little story, and seeing how si looked at me, I lost my fear of Mother Melldrum, an began to like her; partly because I had helped her grand chUd, and partly lliat n she were so wise, no need wouiil have been tor me to save the little thing from drowningvf a n; Therefore I stood up and said, though scarcely yet estatmnd b lished in my power against hers, — Scabby ' Good mother, the shoe she lost wad in the mire, anSohn t I 11 '■» LORNA DOONE 133 mite, anjohn not with us. And we could not match it, although we gave her a pair of sister Lizzie's.' ' My son, what care I for her shoe? How simple thou art, and foolish ! according to the thoughts of some. Now tell me, for thou canst not lie, what has brought thee to me.' Being so ashamed and bashful, I was half-inclined to tell her a lie, until she said that I could not do it; and then I knew that I could not. ' I am come to know/ I said, looking at a rock the while, to keep my voice from shaking, * when I may go to see Lorna Doone/ No more could I say, though my mind was charged to ask fifty other questions. But although I looked away, it was plain that I had asked enough. I felt that the wise woman ga2ed at me in wrath as well as sorrow; and then I grew angry that any one should seem to make light of Lorna. ' John Ridd,' said the woman, observing this (for now I faced her bravely), * of whom art thou speaking? Is it a child of the men who slew your father?' * I cannot tell, mother. How should I know? And what is that to tiiee?* ' It is something to thy mother, John; and something Ito thyself, I trow; and nothing worse could befall thee.' I waited for her to speak agam, because she had spoken sadly that it took my breath away. ' John Ridd, if thou hast any value for thy body or thy loul, thy mother, or thy father's name, have nought to with any Doone.' She gazed at me in earnest so, and raised her voice in ying it, until the whole valley, curving like a great bell, choed 'Doone,' that it seemea to me my heart was gone, :or every one and everjrthing. If it were God's will for e to have no more of Lorna, let a sign come out of the ocks, and I would try to believe it. But no sign came; nd I turned to the woman, and longed that she had ten a man. -;;?/*,; vvrj^i.^ ' You poor thing, with bones and blades, pails of ater. and door-keys, what know you about the destiny if a maiden such as Lorna? Chilblains you may treat, nd bone-shave, ringworm, and the scaldings; even abby sheep may limp the better for your strikings. '*-- the Baptist and his cousins, with the wool and ill I I m Z36 LORNA DOONE I it. she sha cep the anc hin hur con] Alti furtl: tovi ■•» hyssop, are for mares, and ailing dogs, and fowls that have the jaundice. Look at me now, Mother Melldnim, am I like a fool?' ' That thou art, my son. Alas that it were any other ! Now behold the end of that; John Ridd, mark the end of it.' She pointed to the castle-rock, where upon a narrow shelf, betwixt us and the coming stars, a bitter fight was raging. A fine fat sheep, with an honest face, had clomb up very carefully to browse on a bit of juicy grass, now the dew of the land was upon it. To him, from an upper crag, a lean black goat came hurrying, with leaps, and skirmish of the horns, and an angry noise in his nostrils. The goat had grazed the place before, to the utmost of his liking, cropping in and out with jerks, as their manner is of feeding. Nevertheless he fell on the sheep with fury and great malice. The simple wether was much inclined to retire from the contest, but looked around in vain for any way to peace! she 1 and comfort. His enemy stood between him and the! the > last leap he had taken; there was nothing left him but toiSund fight, or be hurled into the sea, five hundred feet below. ■ My n ' Lie down, lie down!' I shouted to him, as if he were I but I a dog; for I had seen a battle like this before, and knew! her. that the sheep had no chance of life except from hisicouns greater weight, and the difficulty of moving him. iwork ' Lie down, lie down, John Ridd!' cried Mother Mell-land h drum, mocking me, but without a sign of smiling. leffect, The poor sheep turned, upon my voice, and looked atlof hai me so piteously that I could look no longer; but ran with! But all my speed to try and save him from the combat. Heiwas g< saw that I could not be in time, for the goat was buckingilambs to leap at him, and so the good wether stooped his forelcould head, with the harmless horns curling aside of it; and thelfields ^ goat flung his heels up, and rushed at him, with quickRunshii sharp jumps and tricks of movement, and the points offcver tl his long horns always foremost, and his little scut cockedBvere g{ like a gun-hammer. Joints, ' As I ran up the steep of the rock, I could not see whalwinning they were doing; but the sheep must have fought ver#o look bravely at last, and yielded his ground quite slowly, an(Jtoo sii [ hoped almost to save him. But just as my head toppeAbove \ the platform of rock, I saw him flung from it backward! stopp with a sad low moan and a gurgle. His body made quite And wo ml in wis that elldrum. y other! the end a narrow fight was ad clomb rass, now an upper eaps, and s nostrils, utmost oi lir manner with fury e from the y to peace 1 and the bim but to [eet below, if he were and knew from his lim. (ther Mell-I liling. looked at it ran with imbat. He s bucking] d his fore- lit; and the ith quickj points of [cut cocke( kt see whai mght ve [lowly, am jad topp Ibackwardl ide quite LORNA DOONE 137 short noise in the air, like a bucket thrown down a well- shaft, and I could not tell when it struck the water, ex- cept by the echo among the rocks. So wroth was I with the goat at the moment (being somewhat scant of breath and unable to consider), that I caught him by the right hind-leg, before he could turn from his victory, and hurled him after the sheep, to learn how he liked his own compulsion. * - CHAPTER XIX ANOTHER DANGEROUS INTERVIEW Although I left the Denes at once, having little heart for further questions of the wise woman, and being afraid to visit her house under the Devil's Cheese-ring (to which she kindly invited me), and although I ran most part of the way, it was very late for farm-house time upon a Sunday evening before I was back at Plover's Barrows. My mother had great desire to know all about the matter; but I could not reconcile it with my respect so to frighten her. Therefore I tried to sleep it off, keeping my own counsel; and when that proved of no avail, I strove to work it away, it might be, by heavy outdoor labour, and weariness, and good feeding. These indeed had some effect, and helped to pass a week or two, with more pain iof hand than heart to me. But when the weather changed in earnest, and the frost as gone, and the south-west wind blew softly, and the lambs were at play with the daisies, it was more than I ould do to keep from thought of Lorna. For now the ields were spread with growth, and the waters clad witii lunshine, and light and shadow, step by step, wandered iver the furzjr cleves. All the sides of the hilly wood ere gathered in and out with green, silver-gray, or russet lints, according to the several manner of the trees be- inning. And if one stood beneath an elm, with any heart look at it, lo ! all the ground was strewn with flakes [too small to know their meaning), and all the sprays ibove were rasped and trembling with a redness. And so stopped beneath the tree, and carved L. D. upon it, nd wondered at the buds of thought that seemed to Iwdil insido me. 1 if ■i! "1: ■i : 1 I- i J! > f 138 LORNA DOONE I Ho cul bac h and thai iron wat< yet threi Ban I mc n fallin ','•* The upshot of it all was this, that as no Lorna came to me, except in dreams or fancy, and as my life was not worth living without constant sign of her, forth I must again to find her, and say more than a man can tell. Therefore, without waiting longer for the moving of the spring, dressed I was in grand attire (so far as I had gotten it), and thinking my appearance good, although with doubts about it (being forced to dress in the hay- tallat), round the corner of the wood-stack went I very knowingly — ^for Lizzie's eyes were wondrous sharp — and then I was sure of meeting none who would care or dare to speak of me. It lay upon my conscience often that I had not made dear Annie secret to this history; although in all things ^ I could trust her, and she loved me like a lamb. Many I grass and many a time I tried, and more than once began the I sleep: thing; but there came a dryness in my throat, and alo^vn knocking under the roof of my mouth, and a longing tolof gr put it oE again, as perhaps might be the wisest. Andl little then I would remember too that I had no right to speakl^^ater of Lorna as if she were common property. Idrivei This time I longed to take my gun, and was half reland p solved to do so; because it seemed so hard a thing to bel Xhi shot at and have no chance of shooting; but when! camelblinkli to remember the steepness and the slippery nature of tbeKigain. waterslide, there seemed but little likelihood of keepiQ^Qver n dry the powder. Therefore I was armed with nothim but a good stout holly stafE, seasoned well for many winter in our back-kitchen chimney. Although my heart was leaping high with the prospeci of some adventure, and the fear of meeting Lorna, I coulfo not! not but be gladdened by the softness of the weather, anj ' Cor the welcome way of everything. There was that power round, that power and that goodness, which make come, as it were, outside our bodily selves, to share thai Over and beside us breathes the joy of hope and promii under foot are troubles past; in the distance boweri; newness tempts us ever forward. We quicken with gesse of life, and spring with vivid mystery. And, in good sooth, I had to spring, and no mystei about it, ere ever I got to the top of the rift leading ini Doone-glade. For the stream was rushing down strength, and raving at every comer; a mort of i havinji; fallen i«^st night and no wind come to wipe as St 'Ma and 1 'No trol ehid 'I ^ eates 11 me 'Wei ou ha' 'I ha now; ithout Withe mid gli LORNA DOONE 139 came to was not a I must can tell ag oi the as I had although the hay nt I very larp — and re or dare| not made all things I ab. Many began the )at, and a longing to Lsest. And it to speakj as half re Uing to be jen I came tture of the| of keepini th nothini [or many le prospect na, I couli sather, ani tt power h make Ihare thei id promis bowerii with lo myste sading in^ down )rt of to wip6 However, I reached the head ere dark with more diffi- culty than danger, and sat in a place which comforted my back and legs desirably. Hereupon I grew so happy at being on dry land again, and come to look for Lorna, with pretty trees around me, that what did I do but fall asleep with the hoUy'Stick in front of me, and my best coat sunk in a bed of moss, with water and wood-sorrel. Mayhap I had not done so, nor yet enjoyed the spring so much, if so be I had not taken three parts of a gallon of cider at home, at Plover's Barrows, because of the lowness and sinking ever since I met Mother Melldrum. » t There was a little runnel going softly down beside me. falling from the upper rock by the means of moss and grass, as if it feared to make a noise, and had a mother sleeping. Now and then it seemed to stop, in fear of its own dropping, and wait for some orders; and the blades of grass that straightened to it turned their points a little way, and offered their allegiance to wind instead of water. Yet before their carkled edges bent more than a driven saw, down the water came again with heavy drops and pats of running, and bright anger at neglect. This was very pleasant to me, now and then, to gaze at, blinking as the water blinked, and falling back to sleep gain. Suddenly my sleep was brokei. by a shade cast iver me; between me and the low sunlight Loma Doone as standing. ' Master Ridd^ are you mad?' she said, and took my and to move me. ' Not mad, but half asleep/ I answered, feigning not notice her, that so she might keep hold of me. ' Come away, come away, if you care for life. The atrol will be here directly. Be quick. Master Ridd, let e hide thee.* ' I will not stir a step,' said I, though being in the eatest fright that might be well imagined, ' unless you 11 me "John." ' ^' ' Well. John, then— Master John Ridd; be quick, if ou have any to care for you.' ' I have many that care for me,' I said, just to let her Jnow; * and I will follow you, Mistress Lorna; albeit *ithout any hurry, unless there be peril to more than me.* Without another word she led mc, though with many mid glances towards the upper valley, to, and into, her :\V. I n X40 LORNA DOONE p diE a 1 the sha \ son mai blue I with at. 'i her. little bower, where the inlet through the rock was. £ am almost sure that I spoke before (though 1 cannot now go seek for it, and my memory is but a worn-out tub) of a certain deep and perilous pit« in which I was like to drown myself through hurry and fright of boyhood. And even then I wondered greatly, and was vexed with Lorna for sending me in that heedless manner into such an entrance. But now it was clear that she had been right and tiie fault mine own entirely; for the entrance to the pit was only to be found by seeking it. Inside the niche of native stone, the plamest thing of all to see, at any rate by daylight, was the stairway hewn from rock, and leading up the mountain, by means of which I had escaped, as before related. To the right side of this was the mouth of the pit, still looking very formidable; though ■ that Lorna laughed at my fear of it, for she drew her water I Lorn, thence. But on the left was a narrow crevice, very diffi- 1 An cult to espy, and having a sweep of gray ivy laid, like airock-i slouching beaver, over it. A man here coming from theicame brightness of the outer air, with eyes dazed by the twilwondi light, would never think of seeing this and following it toithem its meaning. lamaze Lorna raised the screen for me, but I had much ado to I ' W pass, on account of bulk and stature. Instead of being Idaring Eroud of my size (as it seemed to me she ought to be) ' oma laughed so Quietly that I was ready to knock my head or elbows agamst anything, and say no more about it. However, I got through at last without a word of compliment, and broke into the pleasant room, the lone retreat of Lorna. > y. The chamber was of unhewn rock, round, as near as might be, eighteen or twenty feet across, and gay with rich variety of fern and moss and lichen. The fern was| in its winter still, or coiling for the sprins-tide; but moi was in abundant life, some feathering, and some gobletedfherefc and some with fringe of red to it. Overhead there was noiain. A ceiling but the sky itself, flaked with little clouds dmU. me April whitely wandering^ over it. The floor was made ojhat pi soft low grass, mixed with moss and primroses; and in vd no\ niche of shelter moved the delicate wood-sorrel. Here anjatch h there, around the sides, were * chairs of living stone.jas doi. as some Latin writer says, whose name has quite escapefl Lorna me; and in the midst a tiny spring arose, with crystaje, nor beads in it, and a soft voice as of a laughing dream, anAdden j nnie joy 'Iti! eryp ometl: rue cli am Some eepinj mak LORNA DOONE 141 8. I am ; now go ub) of a :o drown .nd even whether as a child of old she might permit the usage. All sorts of things went through my head, as I made myself look away from her, for fear of being tempted beyond what I could bear. And the upshot of it was dii mi thi be 1 vol you 'I c then that I said, within my heart and through it, ' John RiddJ ^*P be on thy very best manners with this lonely maiden.' I !!J^^' Lorna (iked me all the better for my good forbearance;!] ^f because she did not love me yet, and had not thought I ^ ^ about it; at least so far as I knew. And though her eyesl^"^ ^ were so beauteous, so very soft nd kindly, there was (tol , 2^ my apprehension) some great wer in them, as if shel. ,^. would not have a thing, uriAwazt her judgment leaped! ■ ^ ^^' with it. I^^H But now her judgment leaped with me, because I hadljj?"" behaved so well; and being of quick urgent nature— suchl^^/J."" as I delight in, for the change from mine own slowne8s^lQ° she, without any let or hindrance, sitting over ^SA^n^sThf?^ me, now raising and now dropping fringe over ^^o4^orth sweet eyes that were the road-lights of her tongue, Lornal^ , J^ told me all about everything I wished to know, cverw "^^ little thing she knew, except indeed that point of pointsl !l *^^ how Master Ridd stood with her. End I* Although it wearied me no whit, it might be wearisom^ ^ for folk who cannot look at Lorna, to hear the story in speech, exactly as She told it; therefore let me put shortly, to the best of my remembrance. Nay, pardon me, whosoever thou art, for seeming ficklj and rude to thee; I have tried to do as first proposed, i tell the tale in my own words, as of another's fortuna But, lo 1 I was beset at once with many heavy obstaclej which grew as I went onward, until I knew not where | WAS, and mingled past and present. And two of the ore a •he ig ear t< hem onour ailed y tha y onl Ihai LORNA DOONE X43 h came shadow, jcauty's ce. tiat ever offend 1 her up looking; )e a low eemed to tly about he usage. 3 I made tempted of it was DhnRidd, maiden.' rbearance; )t thoughi h her eyes I sre was (tol as if she Jilt leaped ausc 1 had ture*-*uchl slownefl9-| rer against over th( ue, Lorw ow» ever] of points] woatisomj le story me put Ittiing fick Iroposed, r's fortuni obstacl iot where ro of th difficulties only were enough to stop me; the one that I must coldly speak without the force of pity, the other that I, off ana on, confused myself with Loma. as might be well expected. Therefore let her tell the story, with her own sweet voice and manner; and if ye find it wearisome, seek in yourselves the weariness. t . CHAPTER XX ' LORNA BEGINS HER STORY ' I CANNOT go through all my thoughts so as to make them clear to you, nor have 1 ever dwelt on things, to shape a story of them. I know not where the beginning was, nor where the middle ought to be, nor even how at the present time I feel, or think, or ought to think. If I look for help to those around me, who should tell me right and wrong (being older and much wiser), I meet some- times with laught jr, and at other times with anger. ' There are but two in the world who ever listen and try to help me; one of them is my grandfather, and the other is a man of wisdom, whom we call the Counsellor. My grandfather. Sir Ensor Doone, is very old and harsh of manner (except indeed to me); he seems to know what is right and wrong, but not to want to think of it. The Counsellor, on the other hand, though full of life and subtleties, treats my questions as of play, and not gravely orth his while to answer, unless he can make wit of them. And among the women there are none with whom I |can hold converse, since my Aunt Sabina died, who took iuch pains to teach me. She was a lady of high repute nd lofty ways, and learning, but grieved and harassed ore and more by the coarseness, and the violence, and :he ignorance around her. In vain she strove, from ear to year, to make the young men hearken, to teach :hem what became their birth, and give them sense of lonour. It was her favourite word, poor thing ! and they ailed her " Old Aunt Honour." Very often she used to y that I was her only comfort, and I am sure, she was ly only one; and when she died it was more to me than I had lost a mother. 1; i I! A -1' U4 LOKNA DOONE ' For I have no remembrance now of father or of mother; although they say that my father was the eldest son of Sir Ensor Doone, and the bravest and the best of them. And so they call me heiress to this little realm of violence; and in sorry sport sometimes, I am tiieir Princess or their Queen. ' Many people living here, as I am forced to do, would perhaps be very happy, and perhaps I ought to be so. We have a beauteous valley, sheltered from the cold of winter and power of the summer sun, untroubled also by the storms and mists that veil the mountains; although I must acknowledge that it is apt to rain too often. The grass moreover is so fresh, and the brook so bright and lively, and flowers of so many hues come after one another that no one need be dull, if only left alone with them. ' And so in the early days perhaps, when morning breathes around me, and the sun is going upward, and light is playing everjrwhere, I am not so far beside them all as to live in shadow. But when the evening gathers down, and the sky is spread with sadness, and the day has spent itself; then a cloud of lonely trouble falls, like night, upon me. I cannot see the things I quest for of a world beyond me; I cannot join the peace and quiet ofi the depth above me; neither have I any pleasure in the| brightness of the stars. ' What I want to know is something none of them can i tell me — ^what am I, and why set here, and when shall I be with them? I see that you are surprised a little at this my curiosity. Perhaps such questions never spring in any wholesome spirit. But they are in the depths of{ mine, and I cannot oe quit of them. ' Meantime, all around me is violence and robbery, I coarse delight and savage pain, reckless joke and hopeless death. Is it any wonder that I cannot sink with these,! that I cannot so forget my soul, as to live the life of brutes, and die the death more horrible because it dreamsl of waking? There is none to lead me forward, there isl none to teach me right; young as I am, I live beneath a| curse that lasts for ever.' Here Loma broke down for awhile, and cried so veryl piteously, that doubting of my knowledge, and of any| power to comfort, I did my best to hold my peace, an^ tried to look very cheerful. Then thinking that might be bad manners, I went to wipe her eyes for her. • 1 .. LORNA DOONE 143 ' Master Ridd,' she be^an again, ' I am both ashamed and vexed at my own childish folly. But you, who have a mother, who thinks (you say) so much of you, and sisters, and a quiet home; you cannot tell (it is not likely) what a lonely nature is. How it leaps in mirth some- times, with only heaven touching it; and how it falls away desponding, when the dreary weight creeps on. * It does not happen many times that I give way like this; more shame now to do so, when I ought to entertain you Sometimes I am so full of anger, that I dare not trust to speech, at things they cannot hide from me; and perhaps you would be much surprised that reckless men would care so much to elude a young girl's know- ledge. They used to boast to Aunt Sabina of pillage and of cruelty, on purpose to enrage her; but they never boast if me. It even makes me smile sometimes to see how awkwardly they come and offer for temptation to me shining packets, half concealed, of ornaments and finery, of rings, or chains, or jewels, lately belonging to other people. ' But when I try to search the past, to get a sense of what befell me ere my own perception formed; to feel back for the lines of childhood, as a trace of gossamer, then I only know that nought lives longer than God wills I it. So may after sin go by, for we are children always, as the Counsellor has told me; so may we, beyond the clouds, seek this infancy of life, and nev^r find its memory. ' But I am talking now of things which never come across me when any work is toward. It might have been a good thing for me to have had a father to beat these rovings out of me; or a mother to make a home, and teach me how to manage it. For, being left with none — II think; and nothing ever comes of it. Nothing, I mean, which I can grasp and have with any surety; nothing but Ifaint images, and wonderment, and wandering. But [often, when I am neither searching back into remem- 3rance, nor asking of my parents, but occupied by trifles, something like a sign, or message, or a token of some leaning, seems to glance ui)on me. Whether from the istling wind, or sound of distant music, or the singing 3f a bird, like the sun on snow it strikes me with a pain 3f pleasure. ' And often when I wake at ni^ht, and listen to the Wence, or wander far from people in the grayness d the f ' X4» LORNA DOONE I y " evening, or stand and look at quiet water having shadows over it, some vague image seems to hover on the skirt of vision, ever changing place and outline, ever flitting as I follow. This so moves and hurries me, in Ihe eagerness and longing, that straightway all my chance is lost; and memory, scared like a wild bird, flies. Or am I as a child perhaps, chasing a flown cageling, who among the branches free plays and peeps at the ofiEered cage (as a home not to be urged on him), and means to take his time of coming, if he comes at all? * Often too I wonder at the odds of fortune, which made me (helpless as I am, and fond of peace and read- ing) the heiress of this mad domain, the sanctuary of unholiness. It is not likely that I shall have much power of authority; and yet the Counsellor creeps up to be my Lord of the Treasury; and his son aspires to my hand, as of a Royal alliance. Well, " honour among thieves," they say; and mine is the first honour : although among decent folk perhaps, honesty is better. ' We should not be so quiet here, and safe from inter- ruption but that I have begged one privilege rather than commanded it. This was that the lower end, just liiis narrowing of the valley, where it is most hard to come at, might be looked upon as mine, except for purposes of guard. Therefore none beside the sentries ever trespass on me here, unless it be my grandfather, or the Counsellor or Carver. * By your face, Master Ridd, I see that you have heard of Carver Doone. For strength and courage and resource he bears the first repute among us, as might well be ex- pected from the son of the Counsellor. But he differs from his father, in being very hot and savage, and quite free from argument. The Counsellor, who is my uncle, gives his son the best advice; commending all the virtues, with eloquence and wisdom; yet himself abstaining from them accurately and impartially. * You must be tired of this story, and the time I take to think, and. the weakness of my telling; but my life from day to day shows so little variance. Among the riders there is none whose safe return I watch for — I mean none more than other — and indeed there seems no risk, all are now so feared of us. Neither of the old men is| there whom I can revere or love (ejtcept alone my grand father, whom I love with trembling); neither of the| was tfl to visi dying; made caring LORNA DOONE shadows skirt of tting as agemess is lost; 01 1 as a long the ge (as a take his 5, wliich jid read- tuary of ch power to be my ay hand, thieves," rh among om inter- ther than just this i to come purposes r trespass , or the ive heard I resource ell be ex- e differs nd quite y uncle, e virtues, ing from le I take my life long the I" — I mean no risk, i men is ly grand kr of the M7 women any whom I like to deal with, unless it be a little maiden whom t saved from starving. ' A little Cornish girl she is, and shaped in western manner, ncit so ViTy much less in width than if you take her lengthwise. Her father seems to have been a miner, a Cornlshman (as she declares) of more than average excellence, and better than any two men to be found in Devonshire, or any four in Somerset. Very few things can have been beyond his power of performance, and yet he left his daughter to starve upon a peat-rick. She does not know hdW this was done, and looks upon it as a mystery, the meaning of which Will some day be clear, atid redound to her father's honour. His name was Simon Carfa)t, and he came as the captain of a gang from one of the Cornish stannaries. Gwenny Carfax, my young maid, well remembers how her father was brought up from Cornwall. Her mother had been buried, just a week or so before; and he was sad about it, and had been off his work, and was ready for another job. Then people came to him by night, and said that he must want a change, and everybody lost their wives, and work was the way to mend it. So what with grid^, and over-thought, and the inside of a square bottle, Gwenn^r says they brought him off, to become a mighty captain, and choose the country round. The last she saw of him was this, that he went down a ladder somewhere on the wilds of Exmoor, leaving her with bread and cheese, and his travelling-hat to see to. And from that day to this he never came above the ground again; so far as we can hear of. ' But Gwenny, holding to hit hat, and having eaten the bread and cheese (when he came no more to help her), dwelt three days near the mouth of the hole; and then it was closed over, the while that she was sleeping. With weakness and with want of food, she lost herself distress^ fully, and went away lor miles or more, and lay upon a peat-rick, to die before the ravens. ' That very day I chanced to return from Aunt Sabina's d)ring-place; for she would not die in Glen Doone, she said, lest the angels feared to come for her; and so she was taken to a cottage in a lonely valley. I was allowed to visit her, for even we durst not refuse the wishes of the dying; and if a priest had been desired, we should have made bold with him. Ketuming very sorrowful, and caring now for nothing, I found this little stray thing M I i ii ii V I •i^ Mt 148 LORNA DOONE lying, with her arms upon her, and not a sign of life, ex- cept the way that she was biting. Black root-stufE was in her mouth, and a piece of dirty sheep's wool, and at her feet an old egg-shell of s«me bird of the moorland. ; .1 > il .'it ' I tried to raise her, but she was too square and heavy for me; and so I put ifood in her mouth, and left her to do right with it. And this she did in a little time; for the victuals were very choice and rare, being what I had taken over to tempt poor Aunt Sabina. Gwenny ate them without delay, and then was ready to eat the basket and the ware that contained them. * Gwenny took me for an angel — though I am little like one, as you see. Master Ridd; and she followed me, ex- pecting that I would open wings and fly when we came to any difl&culty. I brought her home with me, so far as this can be a home; and she made herself my sole atten- dant, without so much as asking me. She has beaten two or three other girls, who used to wait upon me, until they are afraid to come near the house of my grand- father. She seems to have no kind of fear even of our roughest men; and yet she looks with reverence and awe upon the Counsellor. As for the wickedness, and theft, and revelry around her, she says it no concern of hers, and they know their own business best. By this way of regarding men she has won Ttpon our riders, so that she is almost ftee from all control of place and season, and is allowed to pass where none even of the youths may go. Being so wide, and short, and flat, she has none to pay her compliments; and, were there any, she would scorn them, as not being Cornishmen. Sometimes she wanders far, by moonlight, on the moors and up the rivers, to give her father (as she says) another chance of finding her; and she comes back not a wit defeated, or dis- couraged, or depressed, but confident tliat he is only waiting for the proper time. ' Herein she sets me good example of a patience and contentment hard for me to imitate. Oftentimes I am vexed by things I cannot meddle with, yet which cannot be kept from me, that I am at the point of flying from this dreadful valley, and risking all that can betide me in the unknown outer world. If it were not for my grandfather. I would have done so Ions ago; but I cannot bear that he should die with no gentle band to comfort him; and I fear LORNA DOONE 149 life, ex- :uff was >ol, and of the d heavy t her to ; for the t I had nny ate ,e basket ittle like me, ex- came to so far as ►le atten- s beaten me, until y grand- jn of our and awe nd theft, of hers, s way of that she n, and is may go. e to pay xld scorn wanders ivers, to finding or dis- is only to think of the conflict that must ensue for the govern- ment, if there be a disputed succession. ' Ah me ! We are to be pitied greatly, rather than con- demned, by people whose things we have taken from them; for I have read, and seem almost to understand about it, that there are places on the earth where gentle peace, and love of home, and knowledge of one's neigh- bours prevail, and are, with reason, looked for as the usual state of things. There honest folk may go to work in the glory of the sunrise, with hope of coming home again quite safe in the quiet evening, and finding all their children; and even in the darkness they have no fear of lying down, and dropping off to slumber, and hearken to the wind of night, not as to an enemy trying to find entrance, but a friend who comes to tell the value of their comfort. > . ; - ' Of all this golden ease I hear, but never saw the like of it; and, haply, I shall never do so, being bom to turbu- lence. Once, indeed, I had the offer of escape, and kins- man's aid, and high place in the gay, bright world; and yet I was not tempted much, or, at least, dared not to trust it. And it ended very sadly, so dreadfully that I even shrink from telling you about it; for that one terror changed my life, in a moment, at a blow, from childhood, and from thoughts of play and commune with the flowers and trees, to a sense of death and darkness, and a heavy weight of earth. Be content now, Master Ridd; ask me nothing more about it, so your sleep be soundc, ' But I, John Ridd, being young and new, and veiy I fond of hearing things to make my blood to tingle, had no more of manners ih^ii to urge poor Loma onwards, I hoping, perhaps, in depth of heart, that she might have to hold by me, when the worst came to the worst of it. Therefore she went on again. . , r^. , ^^.; ,, U.hJifp), 1 1 •V f^(«,.« fAj fr-^ 'i^.i'iO'y CHAPTER XXI LORNA ENDS HER STORY iJ ^'■■■y,^.(::^ii' >n-nfi: r It is not a twelvemonth yet, although it seems ten years [agone, since I blew the downy globe to learn the time of lay, or set beneath my chin the veinings of the varnished )uttercup« or fired the fox-glove cannonade, or made a 11 :i h I ■' X50 LORNA DOONE captive of myself with dandelion letters; for then I had not very much to trouble me in earnest, but went about, romancing gravely, playing at bo-peep with fear, making for myself strong heroes of gray rock or fir-tree, adding to my own importance, as the children love to do. * As yet I had not truly learned the evil of our living, the scorn of law, the outra^/e, and the sorrow caused to others. It even was a point with all to hide the roughness from me, to show me but the gallant side, and keep in shade tije other. My grandfather. Sir Ensor Doone, had given strictest order, as I discovered afterwards, that in my presence all should be seemly, kind, and vigilant. Nor was it very difficult to keep most part of the mischief from me; for no Doone ever robs at home, neither do they quarrel much, except at times of gambling. And though Sir Ensor Doone is now so old and growing feeble, his own way he will have still, and no one dare deny him. Even our fiercest and most mighty swordsmen, seared from all sense of right or wrong, yet have plentiful sense of fear, when brought before that white-haired man. Not that he is rough with them, or querulous, or rebukeful; but that he has a strange soft smile, and a gaze they can- not answer, and a knowledge deeper far than they have of themselves. Under his protection, I am as safe from all those men (gome of whom are but little akin to me) as if I slept beneath the roof of the King's Lord Justiciary. * But now, at the time I speak of, one evening of. last summer, a horrible thing befell, which took all play of childhood from me. The fifteenth day of last July was very hot and sultry, long after the time of sundown; and I was paying heed' of it, because of the old saying that if it rain ihen, rain will fall on forty days thereafter. I had been long by the waterside at this lower end of the valley, plaiting a little crown of woodbine crocketed with sprigs of heaSi — to please my grandfather, who likes to see me gay at supper- time. Being proud of my tiara, which had cost some trouble, I set it on my head at once, to save the chance of crushing, and carrying my gray hat, ventured by a path not often trod. For I must be home at the supper-time, or grandfather would be exceeding wrath;! and the worst ot his anger is that he never condescends to show it. * Therefore, instead of the open mead, or the windings of the river, I made short cut through the ash-trees I amazer LORNA DOONE 151 1 I had ; about, making Iding to I. r living, Lused to )Ughness keep in me, nad that in vigilant, mischief ither do ig. And ig feeble, eny him. I, seared if ul sense nan. Not ebukeful; they can- they have jaf e from to me) as iisticiary. ig of. last I play of July was own; and ig that if cr. I had le valley, ith sprigs :o see me hich had save the I ventured le at the [g wrath; [descends [windings ash- trees covert which lies in the middle of our vale, with the water skirting or cleaving it. You have never been up so far as that — at least to the best of my knowledge — but you see it like a long gray spot, from the top of the cliflEs above us. Here I was not likely to meet any of our people, because the young ones are afraid of some ancient tale about it, and the old ones have no love of trees where gunshots are uncertain. ' It was more almost than dusk, down below the tree- leaves, and I was eager to go through, and be again be- yond it. For the gray dark hung around me, scarcely showing shadow; and the little light that glimmered seemed to come up from the ground. For the eaurth was strown with the winter-spread and roil of last year's foliage, the lichened claws of chalky twigs, and the num- berless decay which gives a light in its decaying. I, for my part, hastened shyly, ready to draw back and run from hare, or rabbit, or small field-mouse. * At a sudden turn of the narrow path, where it stop- ped again to the river, a man leaped out from behind a tree, and stopped me, and seized hold of me. I tried to shriek, but my voice was still; I could only hear my heart. ' " Now, Cousin Loma, my good cousin," he said, with ease and calmness; " your voice is ven' sweet, no doubt, from all that I can see of you. But I pray you keep it still, unless y^u would give to dusty death your very best cousin and trusty guardian, Alan 6randir of Loch Awe.' ' " You my guardiiu!" I said, for the idea was too ludicrous; and ludicr )us things always strike me first, through some fa iilt of nat^ire. ' ** I have in truth that honour, madam," he an- swered, with a sweeping bow; ** unless I err in taking you for Mistress Loma Doone." " You have not mistaken me. My name is Loma Doone." 1 >. • •* ^ ' He looked at me, with gravity, and was inclined to make some claim to closer consideration, upon tiie score of kinship; but I shrunk back, and only said, " Yes, my name is L^oma Doone." ' " Then I am your faithfu guardian, Alan Brandir of I Loch Awe; called Lord Alan Brandir, son of a worthy peer of Scotland. Now will you confide in me?" f It it ; -f I i r I confide in yout" I cried, looking at him with lamazemojit; *' why, you are not older than I ami" 152 LORNA DOONE t '.' « •« Yes I am, three years at least. You, my ward, are not sixteen. I, your worshipful guardian; am almost nineteen years of age." ' Upon hearing this I looked at him, for that seemed then a venerable age; but the more I looked the more I doubted, although he was dressed quite like a man. He led me in a courtly manner, stepping at his tallest to an open place beside the water; where the light came as in channel, and was made the most of by glancing waves and fair white stones. * '* Now am I to your liking, cousin?** he asked, when I had gazed at him, until I was almost ashamed, except at such a stripling. " Does my Cousin Loma judge kindly oi her guardian, and her nearest kinsman? In a word, is our admiration mutual?" ..^ * ** Truly I know not," I said; " but you seem good- natured, and to have no harm in you. Do they trust you with a sword?** ' For in my usage among men of stature and strong presence, this pretty youSi, so tricked and slender, seemed nothing out a doll to me. Although he scared me in the wood, now that I saw him in good twilight, lo ! he was but little g^'eater than my little self; and so tasselled and *'0 ruffled with a mint of bravery, and a green coat ba with red, and a slim sword hanging under him. it \. «... the utmost I could do to look at him half -gravely. * ** I fear that my presence hath scarce enough ofi ferocity about it ** (he gave a jerk to his sword as he spoke, and clanked it on the brook-sto:ies) ; " yet do I aissure you, cousin, that I am not without some prowess; and many a master of defence hath this good sword of mine disarmed. Now if the boldest and biggest robber in all this charming valley durst so much as breathe the scent of that flower coronal, which doth not adorn but is adorned ** — here he talked some nonsense — ** I would cleave him from head to foot, ere ever he could fly or cry.' ":^ ■'.•■•■• ■^'"-•■--• ' '" Hush!*' I said; '* talk not so loudly, or thou mayst have to do both thyself; and do them both in vain." I * For he was quite forgetting now, in his bravery beforel me, where he stood, and with whom he spoke, and howl the summer lightning shone above the hills and down thel hollow. And as I gazed on this slight fair youth, clearlyl one of high birth and breeding (albeit ovor-boastful), A LORNA DOONE 133 aird, are almost seemed tie more a man. allest to came as ig waves 3d, when i, except aa judge in? In a em good- trust you nd strong [ slender, scared me iht, lo! he tasselled reen coat ider him, f-gravely. tnough of 3rd as he yet do I prowess; sword of robber in eathe the orn but is I I would lid fly or| ^ou mayst vain.* sry before and how [down the! clearly kastful), »| chill of fear crept over me; because he had no strength or substance, and would be no more thab a pin-cushion before the great swords of the Doones. ' " I pray you be not vexed with me," he answered, in a softer voice; " for I have travelled far and sorely, for the sake of seeing you. I know right well among whom I am, and that their hospitality is more of the knife than the salt-stand. Nevertheless I am safe enough, for my foot is the fleetest in Scotland, and what are these hills to me? Tush! I have seen some border forays among wilder spirits and craftier men than these be. Once I mind some years agone, when I was quite a stripling lad " * " Worshipful guardian," I said, " there is no time now for history. If thou art in no haste, I am, and cannot stay here idling. Only tell me how I am akin and under wardship to thee, and what purpose brings thee here." ' *' In order, cousin — all things in order, even with fair ladies. First, I am thy uncle s son, my father is thy mother's brother, or at least thy grandmother's — unless I am deceived in that which I have guessed, and no other other man. For my father, being a leading lord in the councils of King Charles the Second, appointed me to learn the law, not for my livelihood, thank God, but because he felt the lack of it in affairs of state. But first, your leave, young Mistress Loma; I cannot lay down legal maxims, without aid of smoke." " •. y ' He leaned against a willow-tree, and drawing from a gilded box a little dark thin^ like a stick, placed it be- tween his lips, and then striking a flint on steel made fire and caught it upon touchwood. With this he kindled the tip of the stick, until it glowed with a ring of red, and then be breathed forth curls of smoke, blue and smelling on the air-like spice. I had never seen this done before, though acquainted with tobacco-pipes; and it made me laugh, until I thought of the peril that must follow it. " Cousin, have lo fear," he said; " this makes me all he safer; they will "^ake me for a glow-worm, and thee or the flower it shines upon. But to return — of law I earned, as you may suppose, but little; although I have apacities. But the thing was far too dull for me. All care for is adventure, moving chance, and hot encoun- er; therefore all of law I learned was how to live without t. Nevertheless, for amusement's sake, as I must needs at my desk an hour or so in the afternoon, I took to i 1^ M 'f. m LORNA DOONE M'ti '-n the sporting branch of the law, the pitfalls, and the am- buscades; and of all the traps to be laid therein, pedi- grees are the rarest. There is scarce a man worth a cross of butter, but what you may find a hole in his shield within four generations. And so I struck our own escutcheon, and it sounded hollow. There is a point — but heed not that; enough that being curious now, I followed up the quarry, and I am come to this at last — we, even we, the lords of Loch Awe, have an outlaw for our cousin; and I would we had more, if they be like you." * " Sir," I answered, being amused by his manner, which was new to me (for the Doones are much in earnest), '* surely you count it no disgrace to be of kin to Sir Ensor Doone, and all his honest family!" * ** If it be so, it is in truth the very highest honour, and would heal ten holes in our escutcheon. What noble family but springs from a captain among robbers? Trade alone can spoil our blood; robbery purifies it. The robbery of one age is the chivalry of the next. We may start anew, and vie with even the nobility of France, if we can once enrol but half the Doones upon our lineage." * * " I like not to hear you speak of the Doones, as if they were no more than that, I exclaimed, being now unreasonable; " but will you tell me, once for all, sir, how you are my guardian?" ' " That I will do. You are my ward because you were my father's ward, under the Scottish law; and now myj father being so deaf, I have succeeded to that right — at least in my own opinion — under which claim I am here, to neglect my trust no longer, but to lead you away from scenes and deeds which (though of good repute and comely) are not the best for young gentlewomen. There, spoke I not like a guardian? After that can you mistrust me?" * " But," said I, " good Cousin Alan (if I may so calll you), it is not meet for young gentlewomen to go away| with young gentlemen, though fifty times their guari dians. But if you will only come with me, and explain! your tale to my grandfather, he will listen to you quietly] and take no advantage of you." * '• I thank you much, kind Mistress Lorna, to lead the) goose into the fox's den ! But, setting by all thought of danger, I have other reasons against it. Now, come wit your faithful guardian, child. I will pledge my honoi LORNA DOONE 155 ht am- i, pedi- a cross 3 shield jr own nt — ^but [ollowed ire, even for our :e you." manner, much in of kin to ; honour, lat noble •8? Trade it. The We may France, if lineage." ►nes, as if seing now r all, sir, you were now my right— at am here, [way from I Ipute and W. There, mistrust |ay so call go away| leir guar- Id explainl [u quietly,' lead thi Ihought ol :ome wi ' iy honoui against all harm, and to bear you safe to London. By the law of the realm, I am now entitled to the custody of your fair person, and of all your chattels." ' " But, sir, all that you have learned of law, is how to live without it." ' ' ' Fairly met, fair cousin mine I Your wit will do me credit, after a little sharpening. And there is none to do that better than your aunt, m^ mother. Although she knows not of my coming, she is longing to receive you. Come, and in a few months' time you shall set the mode at Court, instead of pining here, and weaving coronals of daisies." ' I turned aside, and thought a little. Although he seemed so light of mind, and gay in dress and manner, I could not doubt his honesty; and saw, beneath his jaunty air, trt^e mettle and ripe bravery. Scarce had I thought of his project twice, until he spoke of my aunt, his mother; but then the form of my dearest friend, my sweet Aunt Sabina, seemed to come and bid me listen, for this was what she prayed for. Moreover I felt (though not as now) that Doone Glen was no place for me or any proud young maiden. But while I thought, the yellow lightning spread behind a bulk of clouds, three times ere the flash was done, far off and void of thunder; and from the pile of cloud before it, cut as from black paper, and lit to depths of blackness by the blaze behind it, a form as of an aged man, sitting in a chair loose-mantled, seemed to lift a hand and warn. ' This minded me of my grandfather, and all the care I owed him. Moreover, now the storm was rising and I began to grow afraid; for of all things awful to me thunder is the dreadfulest. It doth so growl, like a lion coming, and then so roll, and roar, and rumble, out of a thickening darkness, then crack like the last trump over- head, through cloven air and terror, that all my heart lies low and quivers, like a weed in water. I listened now for the distant rolling of the great black storm, and heard it, and was hurried by it. But the youth before me waved his rolled tobacco at it, and drawled in his |daintiest tone and manner,— ' " The sky is having a smoke, I see, and dropping iparks, and grumbUng. I should have thought tnese Bxmoor hills too small to gather thunder." " I cannot go, I will not go with you, Lord Alan )V { ; 4 l\A 1: ill' 156 LORN A DOONE \': i ! iliii V... si .1 bn wh gre mo ing sou: shri kno H with a ti Can; bro^ presj althc spok( she V from that "*. Brandir," I answered, being vexed a little by those words of his. " You are not grave enough for me, you are not old enough for me. My Aunt Sabina would not have wished it; nor would I leave my grandfather, without his full permission. I thank you much for coming, sir; but be gone at once by the way you came; and pray how did you come, sir?" * " Fair cousin, you will grieve for this; you will mourn, when you cannot mend it. I would my mother had been here; soon would she have persuaded you. And yet," he added, with the smile of his accustomed gaiety, " it would have been an unco thing, as we say in Scotland, for her ladyship to have waited upon you, as her graceless son has done, and hopes to do again ere long. Down the cliffs I came, and up them I must make way back again. Now adieu, fair Cousin Loma, I see you are in haste to- night; but I am right proud of my guardianship. Give me just one flower for token " — ^here he kissed his hand to me, and I threw him a truss of woodbine — ** adieu, fair cousin, trust me well, I will soon be here again." * ** That thou never shalt, sir," cried a voice as loudlhuml: as a culverin; and Carver Doone had Alan Brandir as a I least spider hath a fly. The boy made a little shriek at first, I those with the sudden shock and the terror; then he looked, lit), th methought, ashamed of himself, and set his face to fight I now f for it. Very bravely he strove and struggled, to free onelchanc( arm and grasp his sword; but as well might an infant I just t< buried alive attempt to lift his gravestone. Carver I a trie] Doone, ''-ith his great arms wrapped around the slim gay|please< body, Siiiiled (as I saw by the flash from heaven) at thelsome 1 poor young face turned up to him; then (as a nurse |away i bears off a child, who is loath to go to bed), he lifted the youth from his feet, and bore him away into the darkness. ; .7>n* *:.ai ^i;i- a-mr^ * I was young then. I am older now; older by ten years, in thought, although it is not a twelvemonth since. If that black deed were done again, I could follow, andlsorry sj could combat it, could throw weak arms on the murderer.vo all r and strive to be murdered also. I am now at home witbpow thi violence; and no dark death surprises me. Pf Scot] ' But, being as I was that night, the horror overcamevought me. The crash of thunder overhead, the last despairinvhe fath look, the death-piece framed with blaze of lightning— m#Fst I hi young heart was to affrighted that I could not gaip. M]fladly h ^FTER LORNA DOONE 137 e words are not Dt have aout his sir; but how did L mourn, lad been yet." he Jty. "i* Scotland, graceless )own the ck again. haste to- lip. Give his hand _'• adieu, again." ie as loud indir as a |k at first, le looked, ;e to fight a free one an infant Carver slim gay in) at the a nurse he lifted into the breath went from me, and I knew not where 1 was, or who, or what. Only that I lay, and cowered, under great trees full of thunder; and could neither count, nor moan, nor have my feet to help me. ' Yet hearkening, as a coward does, through ihe brush- ing of the wind, and echo of far noises, I heard a sharp sound as of iron, and a fall of heavy wood. No unmanly shriek came with it, neither cry for mercy. Carver Doone knows what it was; and so did Alan Brandir.' Here Lorna Doone could tell no more, being overcome with weeping. Only trough her tears she whispered, as a thing too bad to tell, that she had seen that giant Carver, in a few days afterwards, smoking a little round brown stick, like those of her poor cousin. I could not press her any more with questions, or for clearness; although I longed very much to know whether she had spoken of it to her grandfather or the Counsellor. But she was now in such condition, both of mind and body, from the force of her own fear multiplied by telling it, that I did nothing more than coax her, at a distance humbly; and so that she could see that some one was at least afraid of her. This (although I knew not women in those days, as now I do, and never shall know much of it), this, I say, so brought her round, that all her fear was I now for me, and how to get me safely oflE, without mis- I chance to any one. And sooth to say, in spite of longing just to see if Master Carver could have served me such a trick — as it grew towards the dusk, I was not best pleased to be there; for it seemed a lawless place, and some of Lorna' s fright stayed with me as I talked it away from her. CHAPTER XXII ,4'.;,./ sr by tenl Inth since.' \llow, andl mrderer,| ^ome wit lovercains Lespairing ning— my igaip. BAi Lfter hearing that- tale from Lorna, I went home in )rry spirits, having added fear for her, and misery about, all my other ailments. And was it not quite certain low that she, being owned full cousin to a peer and lord pf Scotland (although he was a dead one), must have nought to do with me, a yeoman's son, and bound to be [he father of more yeomen? I had been very sorry when prst I heard about that poor young popinjay, and would Jadly have fought hard for him: but now it struck me s - Hi ' fr X58 u>r:;a doone i f: that after all he had no right to be there, prowling (as it were) for Loma, without any invitation : and we farmers love not trespass. Still, if I had seen the thing, I must have tried to save him. Moreover, I was greatly vexed with my own hesitation, stupidity, or shyness, or whatever else it was, which had held me back from saying, ere she told her story, what was in my heart to say, videlicet, that I must di^ unless she let me love her. Not that I was fool enough to think tJiat she would answer me according to my liking, or begin to care about me for a long time yet; if indeed she ever should, which I hardly dared to hope. But that f bad heard from men more skilful in the matter that it is wise to be in time, that so the maids may begin to think, when they know that they are thought of. And, to tell the tru^, I had bitter fears, on account of her wondrous beauty, lest some young fellow of higher birth and finer parts, and finish, might steal in before poor me, and cut me out altc gather, Thinking of which, I used to double my great fiet, without knowing it, and keep it in my pocket ready. Biit the worst of all was this, that in my great dismay and anguish to see Lorna weeping so, I had promised not to cause her any further trouble from anxiety and fpar of harm. And this, being brought to practice, meant that I was not to show myself within the precincts of Glen boone, for at least another month. Unless indeed (as I contrived to edge into the agreement) anything should happen to increase her present trouble and every day's uneasiness. In that case, she was to throw a dark mantle, or covering of some sort, over a large white stone which hung within the entrance to her retreat — I mean the outer entrance — and which, though unseen from the valley itself, was (as I had observed) conspicuous from the height where I stood with Uncle Reuben. Now coming home so sad and weary, yet trying tol ponsole myself with the thought that love o'erleapetl rank, and must still be lord of all, I found a shamefu thing going qn, which made me very angry. For it needi must happen that young Marwood de Whichehalse. onl son of the Baron, riding home that very evening, froi chasing of the Exmoor bustards, with his hounds an servingrmen, should take the short cut through our farni' yard, and being dry from his exercise, should come an' UpO] our fron leti whili in ti she ] curtj her, and i a da: able, woulc of ou that ] Exmo The much and h all th( best L the til being me. B cuse t( mothe or Bfcl them, low, h( The on the as for the do Wing; ( hand a{ And b] parish, that [too ma, Marw LORNA DOONE 159 I (as it arxners I must itation, Lch bad r, what i unless o think 5F begin ihe ever t I had t is wise 3 think, i, to tell rondrous Lud finer and cut Q double t in my t dismay niaed not and fpar Bant that of Glen eed (as 1 g should »ry day's! c mantle, ne which nean the Tom the ous from ask for drink. And it needs must happen also that there should be none to give it to him but my sister Annie. I more than suspect that he had heard some report of our Annie's come] mess, and had a mind to satisfy himself upon the subject. Now, as he took the large ox-horn of our quarantine-apple cider (which we always keep apart from the rest, being too good except for the quahty), he let his finders dwell on Annie's, by some sort of accident, while he lifted his beaver gallantly, and gazed on her face in the light from the west. Then what did Annie do (as she herself told me afterwards) but make her very best curtsey to him, being pleased that he was pleased with her, while she thought what a fine young man he was, and so much breeding about him ! And in trutlt ^.e was a dark, handsome fellow, hasty, reckless, and change- able, with a look of sad destiny in his black eyes iha.t would make any woman pity him. What he wat^ thinking of our Annie is not for me to say, although I may think that you could not have found another such maiden on Exmoor, except (of course) my Loma. Though young Squire Marwood was so thirsty, he spent much time over his cider, or at any rate over the ex-horn, and he made many bows to Anme, and drank health to all the family, and spoke of me as if I had been his very best friend at Blundell's; whereas he knew well enough all the time that we had nought to say to one another; he being three years older, and therefore of course disdaining me. But while he was casting about perhaps for some ex- cuse to stop longer, and Annie was beginnmg to fear lest mother should come after her, or Eliza be at the window, lor B&Lty up in pigs' house, suddenly there came up to them, as if from tne very heart of the earth, that long, low, hollow, mysterious sound which I spoke of in winter. The young man started in his saddle, let the horn fall on the horfieHrteps, and gazed all around in wonder; while as for Annie, the turned like a ghost, and tried to slam the door, but failed through the violence of her trem- bling; (for never till now had any one heard it so close at hand as you mi^t say) or in the mere fall of the twilight. Und by this time tnere was no man, at least in our [parish, but knew — ^for the Parson himself had told us so -that it was the devil groaning because the Doones were Iton many for him. Marwood de Whichehals« was not so alarmed but what ' -i 1 '■ i6o LORNA DOONE ' I he saw a line opportunity. He leaped from his horse, and laid hold of dear Annie in a highly comforting manner; and she never would tell us about it (being so shy and modest), whether in breathing his comfort to her he tried to take some from her pun; lips. I hope he did not, because that to me would s<^«jm not the deed of a gentle- man, and he was of good old family. At this very moment, who should come into the end of tho passage upon them but the heavy writer of these doings I, John Ridd myself, and walking the faster, it may be, on account of the noise I mentioned. I entered the house with some wrath upon me at seeing the gazehounds in the yard; for it seems a cruel thing to me to harass the birds in the breeding-time. And to my amazement there 1 saw Squire Marwood among the milk-pans with his am around our Annie's waist, and Annie all blushing anu coaxing him off, for she was not come to scold yet. Perhaps I was wrong; God knows, and if I was, no doubt I shall pay for it; but I gave hirii the flat of my hand on his head, and down he went in the thick of the milk-pans. He would have had my fist, I doubt, but for having been at school with me; and after that it is like enough he would never have spoken another word. As it was, he lay stunned, with the cream running on him; while I took poor Annie up and carried her in to mother, who had heard the noise and was frightened. Concerning this matter I asked no more, but held my- self ready to bear it out in any form convenient, feeling that I had done my duty, and cared not for the conse- quence; only for several days dear Annie seemed frigh- tened rather than grateful. But the oddest result of it was that Eliza, who had so despised me, and made very rude verses about me, now came trying to sit on my knee, and kiss me, and give me the best of the pan. However, I would not allow it, because I hate sudden changes. Another thing also astonished me — namely, a beautiful letter from Marwood de Wbichehalse himself (sent by aj groom soon afterwards), in which he apologised to me,j as if I had been his equal, for his rudeness to my sister, which was not intended in the least, but came of the' common alarm at the moment, and his desire to comfoi her. Also he begged permission to come and see me, an old schoolfellow, and set evervthing straight betw us, as should be among honest Blundellites. s s spring e stub rowa d t.D. LORNA DOONE f6i ,e, and anner; ly and .e tried Id not, gentle- 1 end of if these , it may red the shounds rass the t there 1 his ariL ling anu yet. was, no It of my :k of the All this was so different to my idea of fighting out a quarrel, when once it is upon a man, that I knew not what to make of it, but bowed to higher breeding. Only one thing I resolved upon, that come when he would he should not see Annie. And to do my sister justice, she had no desire to see him. However, I am too easy, there is no doubt of that, being very quick to forgive a man, and very slow to sus- pect, unless he hath once lied to me. Moreover, as to Annie, it had always seemed to me (much against my wishes) that some shrewd love of a waiting sort was be- tween her and Tom Faggus : and though Tom had made his fortune now, and everybody respected him, of course he was not to be compared, in that point of respectability, with those people who hanged the robbers when fortune turned against them. So young Squire Marwood came again, as though I had :iever smitten him, and spoke of it in as Hght a way as if we were still at school together. It was not in my nature, c' course, to keep any anger against him; and I knew what a condescension it was for him to visit us. And it is ;, but fori a very grievous thing, which touches small landowners, it is like ■ to gee in ancient family day by day decaying: and when rord. As! we heard that Ley Barton itself, and all the Manor of on him.iLynton were under a heavy mortgage debt to John > mother, I Levering of Weare-Gifford, there was not much, in our little way, that we would not gladly do or suffer for the benefit of De Whichehalse. Meanwhile the work of the farm was toward, and every e conseiday gave us more ado to dispose of what itself was ed frigh-|doing. For after the long dry skeltering wind of March d part of April, there had been a fortnight of soft wet; nd whc the sun came forth again, hill and valley, wood d meaaow, could not make enough of him. Many a pring have I seen since then, but never yet two springs _. _ ilike, and never one so beautiful. Or was it that my love beautiful»ame forth and touched the world with beauty? ent by ^1 The spring was in our valley now; creeping first for d to me.pielter shyly in the pause of the blustering wind. There e lambs came bleatmg to her, and the orchis lifted up, d the thin dead leaves of clover lay for the new ones spring through There the stiffest things that sleep, e stiibby oak, and the saplin'd beech, dropped their rown defiance to her. and prepared for a soft reply. L.D. P held my- 1 t, feeling I of it was rery rudej ly knee, I lowever, langes. ly sister,] of the comfor ;e me, betwe ■ if li n I t 'U 162 LORNA DOONE While her over-eager children (who had started forth to meet her, through the frost and shower of sleet), cat- kin 'd hazel, gold- gloved withy, youthful elder, and old woodbine, with all the tribe of good hedge-climbers (who must hasten while haste they may) — was there one of them that did not claim the merit of coming first? There she stayed and held her revel, as soon as the fear of frost was gone; all the air was a fount of freshness, and the earth of gladness, and the laughing waters prattled of the kindness of the sun. But all this made it much harder for us, plying the hoe and rake, to keep the fields with room upon them for the com to tiller. Tne winter wheat was well enough, being sturdy and strong-sided; but the spring wheat and thei barley and the oats were overrun by ul weeds growing | faster. Therefore, as the old saying is,— em to me her som she stra; insU such of tl: baco woul her. sense even Oft and p Faggt make was s( the crc that I that A to do Cousin Farmer, that thy wife may thrive. Let not burr and burdock wive ; And if thou wouldst keep thy son, See that bine and gith have none. So we were compelled to go down the field and up itJjl^. ^ striking in and out with care where the green blades hungB ^^ ^ together, so that each had space to move in and to sprea*^^'"® its roots abroad. And I do assure you now, though yoi may not believe me, it was harder work to keep Jol Fry, Bill Dadds, and Jem Slocomb all in a line and moving nimbly to the tune of my own tool, than it was ti set out in the morning alone, and hoe half an acre b]B|>r . , dinner-time. For, instead of keeping the good ash niovingl^/'^f?? they would for ever be finding something to look at or speak of, or at any rate, to stop with; blaming the sha_ of their tools perhaps, or talking about other people affairs; or, what was most irksome of all to me, taki advantage as married men, and whispering jokes of excellence about my having, or havmg not, or bei ashamed of a sweetheart. And this went so far at 1; that I was forced to take two of them and knock th heads together; after which they worked with a better w: When we met together in the evening round the cheii chinmey-place, after the men had had their sup and their heavy boots were gone, my mother and Ell would do their very utmost to learn what I was think d. Not that we kept any fire now, after the crock e neei nd ha ' poM ^^erhj hile everm or seec ny cari y, am or my d by the h amon, over eat of LORNA DOONE arth to t), cat- ind old rs (who one of St? the fear eshness, waters r the hoe a for the rh, being and the growing I X63 ind up it, ades hung] to spreat" lough yoi :eep Jo^ ,e and _ it was ti ,n acre bi jh moving] >k at or the sha. >r people! ^e, taki:^ >kes of or bei! :ar at li ■nock th [better wi id the ' leir sup. and Eli .s think: crock emptied; but that wo loved to see the ashes cooling, and to oe together. At these times Annie would never ask me anjr crafty questions (as Eliza did), but would sit with her hair untwined, and one hand underneath her chin, sometimes looking softly at me, as much as to say tbat she knew it all, and I was no worse off than she. 3ut, strange to say, my mother dreamed not, even for an instant, that it was possible for Annie to be thinking of such a thing. She was so very good and quiet, and careful of the linen, and clever about the cookery and fowls and bacon-curing, that people used to laugh, and say she would never look at a bachelor until her mother ordered her. But I (perhaps from my own condition and the sense of what it was) felt no certainty about this, and even had another opinion, as was said before. Often I was much inclined to speak to her about it, and put her on her guard against the approaches of Tom Faggus; but I could not find how to begm, and feared to make a breach between us; knowing that if her mind was set, no words of mine would alter it; although they needs must grieve her deeply. Moreover, I felt that, in this case, a certain homely Devonshire proverb would come home to me; that one, I mean, which records that the crock was calling the kettle smutty. Not, of course, that I compared my innocent maid to a highwayman; but that Annie might think her worse, and would be too apt to do so, if indeed she loved Tom Faggus. And our ICousin Tom, by this time, was living a quiet and godly [life; having retired almost from the trade (except when e needed excitement, or came across public officers), ,nd having won the esteem of all whose purses were in ; power. Perhaps it is needless for me to say that all this time, hile my month was running — or rather crawling, for lever month went so slow as that with me — neither weed, lor seed, nor cattle, nor my own mother's anxiety, nor my care for my sister, kept me from looking once every 'y, and even twice on a Sunday, for any sign of Loma. my heart was ever weary; in the budding valleys, id by the crystal waters, looking at the lambs in fold, the heifers on the mill, labouring in trickled furrows, ir among the beaded blades; halting fresh to see the sun 't over the golden-vapoured ridge; or doffing hat, from eat of brow, to watch him sink in the low gray sea; be i .11 •I A i Hi ■' 1 1 w ■■■( ' 41 I fit }■ n^ X64 LORNA DOONK it as it would of day, of woric, or night, or slumber, it was a weary heart I bore, and fear was on the brink of it. All the beauty of the spring went for happy men to think of; all the increase of the year was for other eyes to mark. Not a sign of any sunrise for me from my fount of life, not a breath to stir the dead leaves fallen on my heart's Spring. CHAPTER XXIII . i r wj !f I I ' A ROYAL INVITATION Although I had, for the most part, so very stout an appetite, that none but mother saw any need of en- couraging me to eat, I could only manage one true good meal in a day, at the time I speak of. Mother was in despair at this, and tempted me with the whole of the rack, and even talked of sending to Porlock for a druggist who came there twice in a week; and Annie spent all her time in cooking; and even Lizzie sang songs to me; for she could sing very sweetly. But my conscience told me that Betty Muxworthy had some reason upon her side. ' Latt the young ozebird aloun, zay I. Makk zuch ado about un, wi hogs'-puddens, and hock-bits, and lambs- mate, and whaten bradd indade, and brewers' ale avore dinner-time, and her not to zit wi* no winder aupen— draive me mad 'e doo, the ov'ee, zuch a passel of voouls Do 'un good to starve a bit; and takk zome on's wacked- ness out ov un.' But mother did not see it so; and she even sent fori Nicholas Snowe to bring his three daughters with him,| and have ale and cake in the parlour, and advise aboui what the bees were doing, and when a swarm might looked for. Being vexed about this, and having to sto] at home nearly half the evening, I lost good manners much as to ask him (even in our own house ! ) what hi meant by not mending the swin^-hurdle where the Lyn stream flows from our land into his, and which he is bouni to maintain. But he looked at me in a superior manner! and said, ' Business, young man, in busmess time.' ' I had other reason for being vexed with Farnn Nicholas just now, viz. that I had heard a rumour, aft church one Sunday — ^when most of all we sorrow over thi wom child settle 'Oh busin aproE Fry V of dri The speak after] called iantho had hi to him ' Wi very g to spea ^ ' No^ how to Die, for Vax hee to< riend, 1 k ajD uk a er in «ttle oil ight ha oweth ere tht uuty/ LORNA DOONE 165 t Der, it : of it. aen to jyes to )unt of on my itout an L of en- rue good r was in [e of the druggist it all her e; for she sins of one another — that Master Nicholas Snowe had been seen to gaze tenderly at my mother, during a passage of the sermon, wherein the parson spoke well and warmly about the duty of Christian love. Now, putting one thing with another, about the bees, and about some ducks, and a bullock with a broken knee-cap, I more than suspected that Farmer Nicholas was castmg sheep's eyes at my mother; not only to save all further trouble in the matter of the hurdle, but to override me altogether upon the difficult question of damming. And I knew quite well that John Fry's wife never came to help at the washing without declaring that it was a sin for a well-looking woman like mother, with plenty to live on, and only three children, to keep all the farmers for miles around so un- settled in their minds about her. Mother used to answer, ' Oh fie. Mistress Fry I be good enough to mind your own business.' But we always saw that she smoothed her apron, and did her hair up afterwards, and that Mistress Fry went home at night with a cold pig's foot or a bowl of dripping, e'. torsncB xherefore, on that very ni^ht, as I could not well L me tnat|gpgg^j^ to mother about it, without seeming undutiful, side. I ai^gj. lighting the three young ladies — ^for so in sooth they zuch aQj)i called themselves — all the way home with our stable- ^^^"^'llanthorn, I begged good leave of Farmer Nicholas (who ale avore|jjj^^j hung some way behind us) to say a word in private aupen--ljQ j^jjjj^ before he entered his own house. ,f voouisi . ^£. gji ^g plaisure in laife, my zon,' he answered wacKeaiygj.y graciously, thinking perhaps that I was prepared , Ito speak concerning Sally. sent lori . jjqw. Farmer Nicholas Snowe,* I said, scarce knowing •^^^ K fl^^^ ^^ begin it, ' you must promise not to be vexed with ise ?;^°?Iine, for what I am going to say to you.' niig"'- "J * Vaxed wi' thee I Noo, noo, my lad. I 'ave a knowed g ^^ Whee too long for that. And thy veyther were my best ^^^^^+ Jjriend, aiore thee. Never wronged his neighbours, never what ^mpak an unkind word, never had no maneness in him. the Ly^Wuk a vancy to a nice young 'ooman, and never kep isbounmgj. ^ doubt about it, though there wadn't mooch to mannerig^g on her. Spak his maind laike a man, he did; and tiine. light happy he were wi' her. Ah, well a day! Ah, God Farmjao^gth best. I never shall zee his laike again. And he our, ait%ej-e the best judge of a dung-heap anywhere in this over th|,^a^^. i^ An .« 1 14 ' IB Mm i66 LORNA DOONE tvvei fartl: Ifaij 'S is PI. Sheej the t not t 'N uncon I be s meal cried, down me, ea bowing though me at i ■-!» * Well, Master Snowe,' I answered him, * it is very handsome of you to say so. And now I am going to be like my father, I am going to speak my mind.' ' Raight there, lad; raight enough, I reckon. Us has had enough of pralimbinary.* ' Then what I want to say is this — I won't have any one courting my mother.' * Coortin' of thy mother, lad ? ' cried Farmer Snowe, with as much amazement as if the thing were impossible; ' why, who ever hath been dooin' of it?* ' Yes, courting of my mother, sir. And you know best who comes doing it.' ' Wull, wuU! What will boys be up to next? Zhud a' thought herzelf wor the proper judge. No thank 'ee, lad, no need of thy light. Know the wai to my own door, at laste; and have a raight to goo there.' And he shut me out without so much as offering me a drink of cider. The next afternoon, when work was over, I had seen ^ to -tiie horses, for now it was foolish to trust John Fry, Imare*^! because he had so many children, and his wife had ^kenlgjjj_ii f to scolding; and just as I was saying to myself that in I ^ji . five days more my month would be done, and myself frsel^Qy^ ^ to seek Loma, a man came riding up from the ford where lalmost the road goes through the Lynn stream. As soon as llmaivhe saw that it was not Tom Faggus, I went no farther tolj,gj„jj. meet him, counting that it must be some traveller bound Iri^jgj- for Brendon or Cheriton, and likely enough he would IjjIjjj * come and beg for a draught of milk or cider; and then oniAcross again, after asking the way. I^jj^j ^v . But instead of Qiat, he stopped at our gate, and stoodljQ^j^ up from his saddle, and halloed as if he were somebodyiCj]^ i^j and all the time he was flourishing a white thing in theE]^^]^ air, like the bands our parson weareth. So I crossed thr*^ ' court-yard to speak with him. ' Service of the King!' he saith; ' service of our Ion the King ! Come hither, thou great yokel, at risk of firn and imprisonment.' Although not pleased with this, I went to him, became a loyal man; quite at my leisure, however, fi there is no man born who can hurry me, though I hastei for any woman. * Plover Barrows farm ! ' said he; ' God only knows ho ^ tired I be. Is there any where in this cursed county ftjjc ^Yo cursed place called Plover Barrows farm? For laf all ^o ^umpkii Anni pister wi )und o( ^ung del innie. ^at it ' I wis ^y new lis bro\ ;=^r LORNA DOONE X67 very to be [s has '6 any Jnowe, )ssible; »w best Zhud ,nk 'ee, n door, lie shut twenty mile at least they told me 'twere only half a mile farther, or only just round corner. Now tell me that, and I fain would thwack thee if thou wert not thrice my size.' ' Sir/ I replied, * you shall not have the trouble. This is Plover's Barrows farm, and you are kindly welcome. Sheep's kidneys is for supper, and the ale got bright from the tapping. But why do you think ill of us? We like not to be cursed so.' ' Nay, I think no ill,' he said; ' sheep's kidneys is good, uncommon good, if they do them without burning. But I be so galled in the saddle ten days, and never a comely meal of it. And when they hear " King's service cried, they give me the worst of everything. All the way down from London, I had a rogue of a fellow in front of me, eating the fat of the land before me, and every one bowing down to him. He could go three miles to my one, )f cider. I though he never changed his horse. He might have robbed ad seen I ^e at any minute, if I had been worth the trouble. A red hn Fry, I mare he rideth, strong in the loins, and pointed quite id taken I small jn the head. I shall live to see him hanged yet.' that in I ^n this time he was riding across the straw of our rself free I courtyard, getting his weary legs out of the leathers, and :d where I almost afraid to stand yet. A coarse-grained, hard-faced 3on as llmaivhe was, some forty years of age or so, and of middle rther tolheight and stature. He was dressed in a dark brown riding suit, none the better for Exmoor mud, but fitting him very differently from the fashion of our tailors. Across the holsters lay his cloak, made of some red skin, and shining from the sweating of the horse. As I looked . Jdown on his stiff bright head-piece, small quick eyes, lmebody;|and black needly beard, he seemed to despise me (too uch, as I thought) for a mere ignoramus and country umpkin. ' Annie, have down the cut ham,' I shouted, for my lister was come to the door by chance, or because of the und of a horse in the road, * and cut a few rashers of ung deer's meat. There is a gentleman come to sup, nnie. And fetch the hops out of the tap with a skewer, at it may run more sparkling.* ' I wish I may go to a place never meant for me,' said y nev; friend, now wiping his mouth with the sleeve of s brown riding coat, ' if ever I fell among such good county lolk. You are the right sort, and no error therein. All this all go in your favour greatly, when I make deposition. I 1 il -i-i 1 T x68 LORNA DOONE At least, I mean, if It be as good in the eating as in the hearing. 'Tis a supper quite fit for Tom Faggus himself, the man who hath stolen my victuals so. And that hung deer's meat, now is it of the red deer running wild in these parts?' * To be sure it is, sir,' I answered; ' where should we get any other?' * Right, right, you are right, my son. I have heard that the flavour is marvellous. Some of them came and scared me so, in the fog of the morning, that I hungered for them ever since. Ha, ha, I saw their haunches. But the young lady will not forget — art sure she will not forget it? ' You may trust her to forget nothing, sir, that may tempt a guest to his comfort. ' In faith, then, I will leave my horse in your hands, and be ofE for it. Half the pleasure of the mouth is in the nose beforehand. But stay, almosi I forgot my business, in the hurry which thy tongue hath spread through my lately despairing belly. Hungry I am, and sore of body, from my els right upward, and sorest in front of my doublet' yet may I not rest nor bite barley-bread, until I have seen and touched John Ridd. God grant that he be not far away; I must eat my saddle, if it be so.' ' Have no fear, good sir,* I answered; * you have seen and touched John Ridd. I am he, and not one likely to go beneath a bushel.' * It would take a large bushel to hold thee, John Ridd. In the name of the King, His Majesty, Charles the Second, these presents!' He touched me with the white thing which I had firstl seen him waving, and which I now beheld to be sheep| skin, such as they call parchment. It was tied across wit cord, and fastened down in every comer with unsightl^ dabs of wax. By order of the messenger (for I was over frightened now to think of doing anything), I brok enough of seals to keep an Easter ghost from rising; an there I saw my name in lar^e; God grant such anothei shock may never befall me in my old age. * Read, my son; read, thou great fool, if indeed tho canst read,' said the officer to encourage me; ' there ii nothing to kill thee, boy, and my supper will be spoij ing. Stare not at me so, thou fool; thou art big enoug to eat mc; read, read, read.' I thouj witcl •J a poc And jne uj Bei loliow and t] ine ev presen name < Right VVestra there t touchir lord th or othe or othc And th couJd n ended v Underm ' Charge ihe r could n surprise, what eh top of i Majesty' It ma taken he noisiness crook dr [rakes, hat the •ecause •orna. 'anger t< ' My s< in thee ut nova LORNA DOONE 169 \s tn iggus And nning Id we heard le and igered . But ill not it may hands, 3 in the iisiness, * If you please, sir, what is your name?' I asked; though why I asked hiru I know not, except irom fear of witchcraft. ' Jeremy Stickles is my name, lad, nothing more than a poor apparitor of the worshipful Court of Kmg's Bench. And at this moment a starving one, and no supper for ine unless thou wilt read.' Being compelled in this way, I read pretty ni{.'h as follows; not that I give the whole of it, but only the gist and the emphasis, — ' lo our good subject, John Ridd, etc' — describing me ever so much beller than I knew myself — * by these presents, greeting. These are to require thee, in the name of our lord the King, to appear in person before the Right Worshipful, the Justices of His Majesty's Bench at Westminster, laying aside all thine owi* business, and there to deliver such evidence as is within thy cognisance, touching certain matters whereby the peace of our said lord the King, and the wellbeing of this realm, is, are, igh my I or otherwise may be impeached, impugned, imperilled, f body, lor otherwise detrimented. As witness these presents.' : of my I And then there were four seals, and then a signature I d, until! could not make out, only that it began with a J, and that he I ended with some other writing, done almost in a circle. 3.' I Underneath was added in a different handwriting, Lve seenl' Charges will be borne. The matter is full urgent.' ikely tol The messenger watched me, while I read so much as I ■ could read of it; and he seemed well pleased with my in Ridd. I surprise, because he had expected it. Then, not knowing rles the|what else to do, I looked again at the cover, and on the top of it I saw, ' Ride, Ride, Ride! On His Gracious Majesty's business; spur and spare not.' It may be supposed by all who know me, that I was taken hereupon with such a giddiness in my head and noisiness in my ears, that I was forced to hold by the crook driven in below the thatch for holding of the hay- kes. There was scarcely any sense left in me, only hat the thing was come by power of Mother Melldrum, anothefbecause I despised her wammg, and had again sought orna. But the officer was grieved for me, and the anger to his supper. ' My son, be not afraid,' he said; ' we are not going to in tnee. Only thou tell all the truth, and it shall be — enoug#ut naver mind, I will tell thee all about it, and how to 1 wi f. fW i< 170 LORNA DOONE trus who abou torn migh (trus in m word! Pel scrup uf)on this, going, Icnow sorry much Puzj get iif mothei come out harmless, if I find thy victuals good, and no delay in serving them.* ' We do oijr best, sir, without bargain,' said I, * to please our visitors.' But when my mother saw that parchment (for we could not keep it from her) she fell away into her favourite bed of stock gilly-flowers, which she had been tending; and when we brought her round again, did nothing but ex- claim against the wickedness of the age and people. ' It was useless to tell her; she knew what it was, and so should all the parish know. The King had heard what her son was, how sober, and quiet, and diligent, and the strongest young man in England; and being himself such a reprobate — God forgive her for saying so — he could never rest till he got poor Johnny, and made him as dis- solute as himself. And if he did that ' — here mother went off into a fit of crying; and Annie minded her face, wWle Lizzie saw that her gown was in comely order. But the character of the King improved, when Master Jeremy Stickles (being really moved by the look of it, I about . and no bad man after all) laid it clearly before my mother! writ ol that the King on his throne was unhappy, until he had! one. seen John Ridd. That the fame of John had gone so farj ' j^q. and his size, and all his virtues — ^that verily by the Godlhim, a who made him, the King was overcome with it. Ipou/ts 1 Then mother lay back in her garden chair, and smiledl father's upon the whole of us, and most of all on Jeremy; lookland is" ing only shyly on me, and speaking through some break! sleddini of tears. * His Majesty shall have my John; His Majestylthe rest is very good : but only for a fortnight. I want no titles ' in j for him. Johnny is enough for me; and Master John foiltemplat the working men.' ' Ito any Now though my mother was so willing that I should g(| Maste to London, expecting great promotion and high glor) for me, I myself was deeply gone into the pit of sorrow For what would Loma think of me? Here was the Ion month just expired, after worlds of waiting; there wouL be her lovely self, peeping softly down the glen, and feai ing to encourage me; yet there would be nobody else, anlong tra^ what an insult to her ! Dwelling upon this, and seeing n& of g^Q. chance of escape from it, I could not find one wink cl ' To b sleep; though Jeremy Stickles (who slept close by) snoreiurkey t loud enough to spare me some. For I felt myself to be, anf i j^^q it were, in a place of some importance: in » situation mhy mot us, calh ed th Thai ther s ine. I LORNA DOONE «7x nd no i, ' to 5 could ite bed g; and )ut ex- ie. 'It and 80 hat her I tnd the elf such e could 1 as dis- ler went ;e, wWle 1 Master 3k of it, f mother 1 he had] le so far, the GodI id smiled! ly; look| ne breal Majest no title John foi| should gi igh glo! \t sorrow , the Ion gre wouli I and f ea else, am Iseeinc w win! Ly) snor< to be, tuation trust, I may say; and bound not to depart from it. For who could tell what the King might have to say to me about the Doones — and I felt that they were at the bot- tom of this strange appearance — or what His Majesty might think, if after receiving a message from him (trusty under so many seals) I were to violate his faith in me as a churchwarden's son, and falsely spread his words abroad? Perhaps I was not wise in building such a wall of scruples. Nevertiieless, all that was there, and weighed upon me heavily. And at last I made up my mind to this, that even Lorna must not know the reason of my going, neither anything about it; but that she might know I was gone a long way from home, and perhaps be sorry for it. Now how was I to let her know even that much of the matter, without breaking compact? Puzzling on t^is, I fell asleep, after the proper time to get up; nor was I to be seen at breakfast time; and mother (being quite strange to that) was very uneasy about it. But Master Stickles assured her that the King's writ often had that effect, and the symptom was a good one. ' Now, Master Stickles, when must we start?' I asked him, as he lounged in the yard gazing at our turkey poults picking and running in the sun to the tune of their father's gobble. ' Your horse was greatly foundered, sir, and is hardly fit for the road to-day; and Smiler was sledding yesterday all up the higher Cleve; and none of the rest can carry me.' ' In a few more years,' replied the King's officer, con- Itemplating me with much satisfaction; ' 'twill be a cruelty |to any horse to put thee on his back, John.' Master Stickles, by this time, was quite familiar with |us, calling me ' Jack,' and Eliza ' Lizzie,' and what I ed the least of all, our pretty Annie ' Nancy.* ' That will be as God pleases, sir,' I answered him, ,ther sharply; ' and the horse that su£fers will not be ine. But I wish to know when we must start upon our long travel to London town. I perceive that the matter of great despatch and urgency.' ' To be sure, so it is, my son. But I see a yearling rkey there, him I mean with i:he hop in his walk, who |if I know aught of fowls) would roast well to-morrow. hy mother must have preparation: it is no more than Eu 1.1 f' «s If f^ i } ?, R i 172 LORNA DOONE reasonable. Now, have that turkey killed to-night (for his fatness makes me long for him), and we will have him for dinner to-morrow, with, p'^rhaps, one of his brethren; and a few more collops of red deer's flesh for supper; and then on the Friday morning, with the grace of God, we will set our faces to the road, upon His Majesty's business.' ' Nay, but good sir,' I asked with some trembling, so eager was I to see Loma; ' if His Majesty's business will keep till Friday, may it not keep until Monday? We have a litter of sucking-pigs, excellently choice and white, six weeks old, come Friday. There be too many for the sow, and one of them needeth roasting. Think you not it would be a pity to leave the women to carve it? ' * My son Jack,' replied Master Stickles, ' never was I in such quarters yet: and God forbid that I should be so unthankful to Him as to hurry away. And now I think on it, Friday is not a day upon which pious people love to commence an enterprise. I will choose the young pig to-morrow at noon, at which time they are wont to gambol; and we will celebrate his birthday by carving him on Friday. After that we will gird our loins, and set forth early on Saturday.' Now this was little better to me than if we had set forth at once. Sunday being the very first day upon which it would be honourable for me to enter Glen Doone. But though I tried every possible means witih Master Jeremy Stickles, offering him the choice for dinner of every beast that was on the farm, he durst not put off our departure later than the Saturday. And nothing else but love of us and of our hospitality would have so persuaded him to remain with us till then. Therefore now my only chance of seeing Loma, before I went, lay in watching from the cliff and espying her, or a signal from her. This, however, I did in vain, until my eyes were weary, and often would delude themselves with hope of what they ached for. But though I lay hidden behind the trees I upon the crest of the stony fall, and waited so quiet that the rabbits and squirrels played around me, and even the keen-eyed weasel took me for a trunk of wood — it was all as one; no cast of colour changed the white stone, whose whiteness now was hateful to me; nor did wreathi or skirt of maiden break the loneliness of the vale. A JOL as ha on an great and n waym( bined was n( from 1 the les and at so that 'd nian ^ But ] men are for in tr it not, 'roads ai [■'^aggons in a sun almost pleased per, the [0 speak mysel; xmoor. To ret 100 often Jet me a )ye to L ihich H: lost bitt wise, a 5come o 'tirely fi fed it sc It was i 'y mind (for him aren; pper; God. 5sty's LORNA DOONE CHAPTER XXIV A SAI'E PASS FOR KING S MESSENGER 173 Ig, SO iS will ' We white, or the 3U not as I in be so [ think lie love mg pig ront to carving A TOURPJEY to London seemed to us in thos ; bygone days as hazardous and dark an adventure as could be forced on any man. I mean, of course, a poor man; for to a great nobleman, with ever so many outriders, attendants, and retainers, the risk was not so great, unless the high- waymen knew of their coming beforehand, and so com- bined against them. To a poor man, however, the risk was not so much from those gentlemen of the road as from the more ignoble footpads, and the landlords of the lesser hostels, and the loose unguarded soldiers, over and above the pitfalls and the quagmires of the way; so that it v^as hard to settle, at the first outgoing whether a man were wise to pray more for his neck or for his head. But nowadays it is very different. Not that highway- men are scarce, in this the reign of our good Queen Anne; for in truth they thrive as well as ever, albeit they deserve ^nd set |it not, being less upright and courteous — but that the roads are much improved, and the growing use of stage- et forth |',vaggons (some of which will travel as much as forty miles which IjQ a summer day) has turned our ancient ideas of distance Doone. lalmost upside down; and I doubt whether God be Master Ipleased with our flying so fast away from Him. How- nner of lever, that is not my business; nor does it lie in my mouth put ofi Ito speak very strongly upon the subject, seeing how much nothing l myself have done towards making of roads upon Ixmoor. To return to my story (and, in truth, I lose that road loo often), it would have taken ten Kind's messengers to ft me away from Plover's Barrows without one good- lye to Lorna, but for my sense of the trust and reliance hich His Majesty had reposed in me. And now I felt iost bitterly how the very arrangements which seemed wise, and indeed ingenious, may by the force of events lecome our most fatal obstacles. For lo I I was blocked itirely from going to see Lorna; whereas we should have :ed it so that I as well might have the power of signal- stone,|ng my necessity. wreath| ft was too late now to think of that; and so I made up ly tnind at last to keep my honour on both tidei, both have so leref ore weary, ii> u rrr r 174 LORNA DOONE I; .1 stilJ it is have goin^ watcJ derin have house about upon worke ing tc declar compe were c nose, i Now not wo better to the King and to the maiden, although I might loso everything except a heavy heart for it. And indeed, more hearts than mine were heavy; for when it came to the tug of parting, my mother was Uke, and so was Annie, to break down altogether. But I bade them be of good cheer, and smiled in the briskest manner upon them, and said that 1 should be back next week as one of His Majesty's greatest captains, and told them not to fear me then. Upon v/hich they smiled at the idea of ever being afraid of me, whatever dress I might have on; and so I kissed my hand once more, and rode away very bravely. But bless your heart, I could no more have done so than flown all the way to London if Jeremy Stickles had not been there. And not to take too much credit to myself in this matter, I must confess that when we were come to the turn in the road where the moor begins, and whence you see the last of the yard, and the ricks and the poultry round them and can (by knowing the place) obtain a glance of the kitchen window under the walnut-tree, it ■ clothes went so hard with me just here that I even made pretence I to the of a stone in ancient Smiler's shoe, to dismount, and I them, 1 to bend my head awhile. Then, knowing that those 1 1 value*. had left behind would be watching to see the last of me, I disdain and might have false hopes of my coming back, I mounted I workini again with all possible courage, and rode after Jeremy I be meas Stickles. I By di Jeremy, seeing how much I was down, did his best tolmy old keep me up with jokes, and tales, and light discoursejportly. until, before we had ridden a league, I began to long iotwe were see the things he was describing. The air, the weatherjtualling and the thoughts of going to a wondrous place, added tolthat firs the fine company — ^at least so Jeremy said it was — oiat all; f a man who knew all London, made me feel that I shoulcilay that be ungracious not to laugh a little. And being very simplJfirst cous then I laughed no more a little, but something quitmnd unc considerable (though free from consideration) at thlrlover's strange things Master Stickles told me, and his strangi Thence way of telling them. And so we became very excellenpn to Br friends, for he was much pleased with my laughing. But alth< Not wishing to thrust myself more forward than nee4 perpett be in this narrative, I have scarcely thought it becominibides wi or right to speak of my own adornments. But now, whale so Ion with the brave clothes I had on, and the better oneirish me LORKA OOONE 175 : lose more le tug ie, to good 1, and )f His o fear »f ever n; and \f very B have feremy still that were packed up in the bag behind the saddle, it is almost beyond me to forbear saying that I must have looked very pleasing. And many a time I wished, going along, that Loma could onljr be here and there, watching behind a furze-bush, looking at me, and won- dering how much my clothes had cost. For mother would have no stint in the matter, but had assembled at our house, immediately upon knowledge of what was to be about London, every man known to be a good stitcher upon our side of Exmoor. And for three dajs they had worked their best, without stirit of beer or cider, accord- ing to the constitution of each. The result, so they all declared, was such as to create admiration, and defy competition in London. And to me it seemed that they were quite right; though Jeremy Stickles turned up his nose, and feigned to be deaf in the business. Now be that matter as you please — ^for the point is not worth arguing — certain it is that my appearance was better than it had been before. For being in the best clotlies, one tries to look and to act (so far as may be] up to liie quality of them. Not only for the fear of soiling I them, but that they enlarge a man's perception of his value. And it strikes me that our sins arise, partly from disdain of others, but mainly from contempt of self, both working the despite of God. But men of mind may not I be measured by such paltry rule as this. By dinner-time we arrived at Porlock, and dined with imy old friend, Master Pooke, now growing rich and portly. For though we had plenty of victuals with us, Iwe were not to begin upon them, until all chance of vic- Itualling among our friends was left behind. And during |that first day we had no need to meddle with our store it all; for as had been settled before we left home, we jlay that night at Dunster in the house of a worthy tanner, 5rst cousin to my mother, who received us very cordially, md undertook to return old Smiler to his stable at ^lover's Barrows, after one day's rest. Thence we hired to Bridgwater; and from Bridgwater bn to Bristowe, breaking the journey between the two. jut although the whole way was so new to me, and such perpetual source of conflict, that the remembrance still ^bides with me, as if it were but yesterday, I must not so long in telling as it was in travelling, or you will rish me farther; both because Lorna was nothing there. ,^ m TFT ! i f'^' w m 176 LORNA DOONE I and also because a man in our neighbourhood had done the whole of it since myr time, and feigns to think nothing of it. However, one thing, in common justice to a person who has been traduced, I am bound to mention. And this is, that being two of us, and myself of such magni- tude, we never could have made our journey without either fight or running, but for the free pass which dear Annie, by some means (I know not what), had procured from Master Faggus. And when I let it be known, by some hap, that I was the own cousin of Tom Faggus, and honoured with his society, there was not a house upon the road but was proud to entertain me, in spite of my fellow-traveller, bearing the red badge of the King. * I will keep this close, my son Jack,' he said, having stripped it off with a carving-knife; ' your flag is the best to fly. The man who starved me on the way down, the same shall feed me fat going home.' Therefore we pursued our way, in excellent condition, having thriven upon the credit of that very popular high- wayman, and bemg surrounded with regrets that he had left the profession, and sometimes begged to intercede that he might help the road again. For all the landlords on the road declared that now small ale was drunk, nor much of spirits called for, because the farmers need not prime to meet only common riders, neither were these worth the while to get drunk with afterwards. Master Stickles himself undertook, as an officer of the King's Justices, to plead this case with Squire Faggus (as every- body called him now),' and to induce him, for the general good, to return to his proper ministry. It was a long and weary journey, although the roads are wondrous good on the farther side of Bristowe, and scarcely any man need be bogged, if he keeps his eyes well open, save, perhaps, in Berkshire. In consequence of the pass we had, and the vintner's knowledge of it, we only met two public riders, one of whom made off straightway when he saw my companion's pistols and the stout carbine I bore; and the other came to a parley with us, and proved most kind and affable, when he knew| himself in the presence of the cousin of Squire Faggiis ' God save you, gentlemen,' he cried, lifting his ha politely; ' many and many a happy day I have worke this road with him. S':^b times will never be again But commend me to Li^ love and '^rayers. King my nam IS, a you. gentJ Th come it wo night nothi] An< hideoi the sh still, £ at the one CO either draw 1 would buv! At' firs nounce with sc man of naught manner The . Thames there ai about, with tl coaches great c( '^any a sheep a^ ^0 the w stand w they coi tion, me at it; an his swor holly sti( took hiir i^'ennel. K the re hem. LORN A DOONE 177 done thing erson And \agni- thout I dear )cured n, by s, and upon of my having le best fn, the idition, 1 tr high- he had itercede ndlords nk, nor eed not e these .Master King's every- general | is, and King my nature. Say that, and none will harm you.' And so he made off down the hill, beiny a perfect gentleman, and a very good horse he was riding. The night was falling very thick by the time we were come to Tyburn, and here the King's officer decided that it would be wise to halt; because the way was unsafe by night across the fields to Charing village, I for my part was nothing loth, and preferred to see London by daylight. And after all, it was not worth seeing, but a very hideous and dirty place, not at all like Exmoor. Some of the shops were very fine, and the signs above them finer still, so that I was never weary of standing still to look at them. But in doing this there was no ease; for before one could begin almost to make out the meaning of them, either some of the wayfarers would bustle and scowl, and draw their swords, or the owner, or his apprentice boys, would rush out and catch hold of me, crying, ' Buy, buy, buy! What d'ye lack, what d'ye lack? Buy, buy, buy!' At first I mistook the meaning of this — for so we pro- nounce the word ' boy ' upon Exmoor — and I answered with some indignation, * Sirrah, I am no boy now, but a man of one-and-twenty years; and as for lacking, I lack naught from thee, except what thou hast not — good manners.' The only things that pleased me much, were the river Thames, and the hall and church of Westminster, where there are brave things to be seen, and braver still to think I about. But whenever I wandered in the streets, what with the noise the people made, the number of the Icoaches, the running of the footmen, the swaggering of great courtiers, and the thrusting aside of everybody, many and many a time I longed to be back among the sheep again, for fear of losing temper. They were welcome yo the wall for me, as I took care to tell them, for I could stand without the wall, which perhaps was more than they could do. Though I said this with the best inten- tion, meaning no discourtesy, some of them were vexed at it; and one young lord, being flushed with drink, drew Ihis sword and made at me. But I struck it up with my IhoUy stick, so that it flew on the roof of a house, then I Itook him by the belt with one hand, and laid him in the Ikennel. This caused some little disturbance; but none lof the rest saw fit to try how the matter might be with Tthem. Br s-s r f?T Hi X7a LORNA DOONE Now this being the year of our Lord 1683, more than nine years and a half since the death of my father, and the beginning of this h clerks i insist CHAPTER XXV A GREAT MAN ATTENDS TO DLTSINESS ! ' I ; . ' i-. III.: Having seen Lord Russell murdered in the fields of Lincoln's Inn, or rather having gone to see it, but turned away with a sickness and a bitter flood of tears — for a whiter and a nobler neck never fell before low beast — I strode away towards Westminster, cured of half my indignation at the death of Charles the First. Many people hurried past me, ( hiefly of the more tender sort, revolting at the butchery. In their ghastly faces, as they turned them back, lest the sight should be coming after them, great sorrow was to be seen, and horror, and pit5^ and some anger. /» In Westminster Hall 1 fouii I nobody; not even the crowd of crawling varlets, who used to be craving ever- more for employment or for payment. 1 knocked at fhffte doors, one after oi;her, of lobbies going out of it, '/vljere I had fornio/Jy seen some officers and people pressing in and out; bui for my trouble I took nothing, xcfjpt some thumps from echo. A/id at last an old man I told me 0x1 1 all the lawyers were gone to see the result |of their own works, in the fields of Lincoln's Inn. However, in a few days' time, I had better fortune; I for the court was sitting and full of business, to clear off the arrears of work, before the lawyers' holiday. As I was waiting in the hall for a good occasion, a man with horsehair on his head, and a long blue \):ig in his left Ihand, touched me gently on the arm, and led me into a quiet place. I followed him very gladly, being confident Ithat he came to me with a message from the Justiciaries. [But after taking pains to be sure that none could over- |hear us, he turned on me suddenly, and asked, — 'Now, John, how is your dear mother?' 'Worshipful sir,' I answered him, after recovering from by surprise at his knowledge of our affairs, and kindly linterest in them, *it is two months now since I have seen ler. Would to God that I only knew how she is faring low, and how the business of the farm goes ! ' 'Sir, I respect and admire you,' the old gentleman bplied, with a bow very low and genteel; 'few young tourt-gallants of our time are so reverent and dutiful. I rSa LORNA DOONE M ''A m '■ Ob, how I did love my mother I ' Here he turned up his eyes to heaven, in a manner that made me feel for nim; and yet with a kind of wonder. *I am very sorry for you, sir,' I answered most respect- fully, not meaning to trespass on his grief, yet wondering at his mother's age; for he seemed to be at least three- score; 'but I am no court-gallant, sir; I am only a farmer's son, and learning how to farm a little.' 'Enough, John; quite enough,' he cried, 'I can read it in thy countenance. Honesty is written there, and courage and simplicity. But I fear that, in this town of London, thou art apt to be taken in by people of no prin- ciple. Ah me 1 Ah me ! The world is bad, and I am too old to improve it.* Then finding him so good and kind, and anxious to improve the age, I told him almost everything; how much I paid the fellmonger, and all the things I had been to see; and how I longed to get away, before the corn was ripening; yet how (despite of these desires) I felt myself bound to walk up and down, being under a thing called 'recognisance.' In short, I told him everything; except the nature of my summons (which I had no right to tell), and that I was out of money. My tale was told in a little archway, apart from other lawyers; and the other lawyers seemed to me to shift themselves, and to look askew, like sheep through a hurdle, when the rest are feeding. 'What! Good God!' my lawyer cried, smiting his breast indignantly with a roll of something learned; 'in what country do we live? Under what laws are we governed? No caise before the court whatever; no primary deposition, so far as we are furnished; not even a King's writ issued — and here we have a fine young man dragged from his home and adoring mother, during the height of agriculture, at his own cost and charges! I have heard of many grievances; but this the very worst of all. Nothing short of a Royal Commission could be warranty for it. This is not only illegal, sir, but most gravely unconstitutional.' *I had not told you, worthy sir,' I answered him, in a lower tone, 'if I could have thought that your sense of right would be moved so painfully. But now I must beg to leave you, sir — ^for I see that the door again is open I beg you, worshipful sir, to accept ' 5Hi- my ; migh 'T( rcspe hand or of I trui (if ev comfc Wii my he ' ordia 'Yo Ice bo rnastei being agone my fe( For th I ough would delicac crown Sayi] red boc 'Fee-be so) he case as two gu 'But guineas knew m of it in 'Wou lawyer 'I the compass me.' 'A la^ afford tc deep kn I suppos clerk's f< LORNA DOONE 183 p his nim; spect- lering three- lily a ead it , and iwn of ) prin- ,m too ous to ' much een to rn was myself ; called except to tell). 1 other o shift 3Ugh a dm, m kense of I [ust beg Is open. I Upon this he put forth his hand and said, 'Nay, nay, my son, not two, not two:' yet looking away, that he might not scare me. 'To accept, kind sir, my very best thanks, and most respectful remembrances.' And with that, I laid my hand in his. 'And if, sir, any circumstances of business or of pleasure should bring you to our part of the world, I trust you will not forget that my mother and myself (if ever I get home again) will do our best to make you comfortable with our poor hospitality.' With this I was hasting away from him, but he held my hand and looked round at me And he spoke without ' ordiality. 'Young man, a general invitation is no entry for my Ice book. I have spent a goo^l hour of business- time in mastering thy case, and stating my opinion of it. And being a member of the bar, called six-and-thirty years agone by the honourable society of the Inner Temple, my fee is at my own discretion* albeit an honorarium. For the honour of the profession, and my position in it, I ought to charge thee at least five guineas, although I would have accepted one, offered with good will and delicacy. Now I will enter it two, my son, and half a crown for my clerk's fee.' Saying this, he drew forth from his deep, blue bag, a red book having clasps .0 it, and endorsed in gold letters 'Fee-book'; and before I could speak (being frightened so) he had entered on a page of it, 'To consideration of case as stated by Jolin Ridd, and advising thereupon, two guineas.' 'But sir, good sir,' I stammered forth, not having two guineas left in the world, yet grieving to confess it, '1 knew not that I was to pay, learned sir. I never thought of it in that way.' 'Wounds of God! In what way thought you that a lawyer listened to your rigmarole?' 'I thought that you listened from kindness, sir, and compassion of my grievous case, and a sort of liking for me.' ■ '■■ ■•> ^-*' -y^^-j^ v4, v> I 'A lawyer like thee, youn^ curmudgeon! A lawyer I afford to feel compassion gratis ! Either thou art a very deep knave, or tne greenest of all greenhorns. Well, I suppose, I must let thee off for one guinea, and the clerk's fee. A bad busineis, a shocking buiineis!' i. r: • I ^. IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 III 1.1 ^ m 1^ IIIM 1.8 /. /^j ^ .5i^^. & 1.25 1 1.4 1 1.6 ^= iii^= i^ -< 6" ► % <^ 7. <^». c?^, :» Hiotographic Sciences Corporation \ ,v t <^ O^ 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14S80 (716)872-4503 '-1^ 1 1 84 LORNA DOONE Now, it this man had continued kind and soft, as when he heard my story, I would have pawned my clothes to pay him, rather than leave a debt behind, although contracted unwittingly. But when he used harsh language so, knowing that I did not deserve it, I began to doubt within myself whether he deserved my money. There fore I answered him with some readiness, such as comes sometimes to me, although I am so slow. 'Sir, I am no curmudgeon: if a young man had called me so, it would not have been well with him. This money shall be paid, if due, albeit I had no desire to incur the debt. You have advised me that the Court is liable for my expenses, so far as they be reasonable. If this be a reasonable expense, come with me now to Lord Justice Jeffreys, and receive from him the two guineas, or (it may be) five, for the counsel you have given me to deny his jurisdiction.' With these words, 1 took his arm to lead him, for the door was open still. 'In the name of God, boy, let me go. Worthy sir, pray let me go. My wife is sick, and my daughter dying — in the name of God, sir, let me go.' 'Nay, nay,' I said, having fast hold of him; 'I cannot let thee go unpaid, sir. Right is right; and thou shalt have it.' 'Ruin is what i shall have, boy, if you drag me before that devil. He will strike me from the bar at once, and starve me, and all my family. Here, lad, good lad, take these two guineas. Thou h.?st deFpoiled the spoiler. Never again will I trust mine eyes for knowledge of a greenhorn.* He slipped two guineas into the hand which I had hooked through his elbow, and spoke in an urgent whisper again, for the people came crowding around us— For God's sake let me go, boy; another moment will be too late.' 'Learned sir,' 1 answered him, 'twice you spoke, unless 1 err, of the necessity of a clerk's fee, as a thing to be lamented.' 'To be sure, to be sure, my soe. You have a clerk as much as I have. There it is. Now I pray t^ ee, take to the study of the law. Possession is nine points of it, which thou hast of me. Self-possession is the tenth, and that thou hast more than the other nine.' Being flattered by tbis» and by the feeling of the two when hes to hough iguage doubt There comes called money ;ur the ble for is be a Justice (it may eny his to lead :hy sir, r dying cannot )u shalt before ce, and id, take spoiler, ge of a I had urgent nd US- will be , unless ig to be clerk as take to ;s of it, th, and I r ;■;- Ithe two LOKNA DOONE i8i guineas and half-crown, I dropped my hold upon Coun- sellor Kitch (for he was no less a man than that), and he was out of sight in a second of time, wig, blue bag, and family. And before I had time to make up my mind what I should do with his money (for of course I meant not to keep it) the crier of the Court (as they told me) came out, and wanted to know who I was. I told him, as shortly as I could, that my business lay with His Majesty's bench, and was very confidential; upon which he took me inside with warnmg, and showed me to an under-clerk, who showed me to a higher one, and the higher clerk to the htad one. When this gentleman understood all about my business (which I told him without complaint) he frowned at me very heavily, as if I had done him an injury. 'John Ridd,* he asked me with a stern glance, 'is it your deliberate desire to be brought into the presence of the Lord Chief Justice?' 'Surely, sir, it has been my desire for the last two months and more.' 'Then, John, thou shalt be. But mind one thing, not a word of thy long detention, or thou mayst get into trouble.' 'How, sir? For being detained against my own wish?' I asked him; but he turned away, as if that matter were not worth his arguing, as, indeed, 1 suppose it was not, and led me through a little passage to a door with a curtain across it. 'Now, if my Lord cross-question you,' the gentleman whispered to me, ' answer him straight out truth at once, for he will have it out of thee. And mind, he loves not to be contradicted, neither can he bear a hang-dog look. Take little heed of the other two; but note every word of the middle one; and never make him speak twice.' I thanked him for his good advice, as he moved the curtain and thrust me in, but instead of entering with- drew, and left me to bear the brunt of it. The chamber was not very large, though lofty to my eyes, and dark, with wooden panels round it. At the further end were some raised seats, such as I have seen in churches, lined with velvet, and having broad elbows, and a canopy over the middle seat. There were only three men sitting here, one in the centre, and one on each side; and all three were done up wonderfully with i M. z86 LORNA DOONE fur, and robes of state, and curls of thick gray horse- hair, crimped and gathered, and plaited down to their shoulders. Each man had an oak desk before him, set at a little distance, and spread with pens and papers. Instead of writing, however, they seemed to be laughing and talking, or rather the one in the middle seemed to be telling some good story, which the others received with approval. By reason of their great perukes it was hard to tell how old they were; but the one who was speaking seemed the youngest, although he was the chief of them. A thick-set, burly, and bulky man, with a blotchy broad fa^e, and great square jaws, and fierce eyes full of blazes; he was one to be dreaded by gentle souls, and to be abhorred by the noble. Betweerx me and the three lord judges, some few lawyers were gathering up bags and papers and pens and so forth, from a narrow table in the middle of the room; as if a case had been disposed of, and no other were called on. But before I had time to look round twice, the stout fierce man espied me, and shouted out with a flashing stare, — 'How now, countryman, who art thou?' 'May it please your worship,' I answered him loudly, 'I am John Ridd, of Oare parish, in the shire of Somerset, brought to this London, some two months back by a special messenger, whose name is Jeremy Stickles; and then bound over to be at hand and ready, when called upon to give evidence, in a matter unknown to me, but touching the peace of our lord the King, and the well- being of his subjects. Three times I have met our lord the King, but he hath said nothing about his peace, and only held it towards me; and every day, save Sunday, I have walked up and down the great hall of Westminster, all the business part of the day, expecting to be called upon; yet no one hath called upon me. And now I desire to ask your worship, whether I may go home again?' 'Well, done, John,' replied his lordship, while I was panting with all this speech; 'I will go bail for thee, John, thou hast never made such a long speech before; and thou art a spunky Briton, or thou coufdst not have made it now. I remember the matter well; and I myself will attend to it, although it arose before my time' — he was but newly Chief Justice — 'but I cannot take it now, John. There is no fear of losing thee, John, any more LORNA DOONE 187 horse- ( their en, set >apers. aghing aed to d with s hard leaking ; them. ' broad blazes; to be ae few d pens of the o other : round ted out loudly, )merset, k by a es; and called e, but e well- ur lord ce, and nday, I inster, le called I desire again?' I was r thee, before; ot have myself e'— he it now, y more than the Tower of London. I grieve for His Majesty's exchequer, after keeping tbee two months or more.' 'Nay, my lord, I crave your pardon. My mother hath been keeping me. Not a groat have I received.' 'Spank, is it so?' his lordship cried, in a voice that shook the cobwebs, and the frown on his brow shook the hearts of men, and mine as much as the rest of them, — Spank, is His Majesty come to this, that he starves his own approvers?' 'My lord, my lord,' whispered Mr. Spank, the chief - ofi&cer of evidence, 'the thing hath been overlooked, my lord, among such grave matters of treason.' 'I will overlook thy head, foul Spank, on a spike from Temple Bar, if ever I hear of the like again. Vile varlet, what art thou paid for? Thou hast swindled the money thyself, foul Spank; I know thee, though thou art new to me. Bitter is the day for thee that ever I came across thee. Answer me not — one word more and I will have thee on a hurdle.' And he swung himself to and fro on his bench, with both hands on his knees; and every man waited to let it pass, knowing better than to speak to him. 'John Ridd,' said the Lord Chief Justice, at last, recovering a sort of dignity, yet daring Spank from the comers of his eyes to do so much as look at him, 'thou hast been shamefully used, John Ridd. Answer me not, boy; not a word; but go to Master Spank, and let me know how he behaves to thee;' here he made a glance at Spank, which was worth at least ten pounds to me; 'be thou here again to-morrow; and before any other case is taken, I will see justice done to thee. Now be off, boy; thy name is Ridd, and we are well rid of thee.' I was only too glad to go, after all this tempest; as you may well suppose. For if ever I saw a man's eyes become two holes for the devil to glare from, I saw it that day; and the eyes were those of the Lord Chief Justice Jeffreys. Mr. Spank was in the lobby before me, and before I had recovered myself — ^for I was vexed with my own [terror — ^he came up sidling and fawning to me, witih a I heavy bag of yellow leather. 'Good Master Ridd, take it all, take it all; and say a I good word for me to his lordship. He hath taken a strange "mcy to thee; and thou must make the most of it. We loever saw man meet hii li •\ eye to eye yet ■ ! ■ 1 88 LORNA DOONE i 1: ■ ;j w ! m :" I » ■i ? ■ fiS i * • 1 w 1 1'-' B ffi' L LLiii i coiilradict him; and that is just what he loveth. Abide in London, Master Ridd, and he will make thy fortune. His joke upon thy name proves that. And I pray you remember, Master Ridd, that the Spanks are sixteen in family.' But I would not take the bag from him, regarding it as a sort of bribe to pay me such a lump of money, without so much as asking how great had been my expenses. Therefore I only told him that if he would kindly keep the cash for me until the morrow, I would spend the rest of the day in counting (which always is sore work with me) how much it had stood me in board and lodging, since Master Stickles had rendered me up; for until that time he had borne my expenses. In the morning I would give Mr. Spank a memorandum, duly signed, and attested by my landlord, including the breakfast of that day, and in exchange for this I would take the exact amount from the yellow bag, and be very thankful for it 'If that is thy way of using opportunity,' said Spank, looking at me with some contempt, 'thou wilt never thrive in these times, my lad. Even the Lord Chief Justice can be little help to thee; unless thou knowest better than that how to help thyself,* It mattered not to me. The word 'approver' stuck in my gorge, as used by the Lord Chief Justice; for we looked upon an approver as a very low thing indeed, I would rather pay for every breakfast, and even every dinner, eaten by me since here I came, than take money as an approver. And indeed I was much disappointed at being taken in that light, having understood that 1 was sent for as a trusty subject, and humbjo friend of His Majesty In the morning I met Mr. Spank waiting for me at the entrance, and very desirous to see me. I showed him my bill, made out in fair copy, and he laughed at it, and said, 'Take it twice over. Master Ridd; once for thine own sake, and once for His Majesty's; as all his loyal trades- men do, when they can get any. His Majesty Joiows and is proud of it, for it shows their love of his countenance; and he says, " bis dat qui cito dat, then how can I grumble at giving twice, when I give so slowly?" * 'Nay, I will take it but once,' I said; 'if His Majesty loves to be robbed, he need not lack oi his desire, while the Spanks are sixteen in family.' ...The clerk smiled cheerfully at this, being proud of his ( he % 'h hum Mast repu Hei that With ing 1 with Hisic up foi there. afraid bull-he their i if I ^We I was. 'Maj ing to *Tho How n 'Onl3 wrestlii fretting •Ha, Majesty . 'Yes, Ijest coi 'A ve dainty ; Now Jo used to 'Yes. Betty M 'Peace LOIWA DOONF T«() Abide [^rtune. ly you teen in ng it as .vithout :penses. ly keep the rest rk with lodging, itil that >rning I Led, and of that le exact ul for it. I Spank, It never rd Chief knowest stuck in I e looked I would dinner, | ;y as an at being ras sent [Majesty, le at the him my it, and line own \\ trades- tows and| [tenance; w can 1| Majesi re, whilt )roud oJ his children's ability; and then having paid my accouiu. he whispered, — *Hv. is all alone this morning, John, and in rare good humour. He hath been promised the handling of poor Master Algernon Sidney, and he says he will soon make republic of him; for his state shall shortly be headless. He is chuckling over his joke, like a pig with a nut; and that always makes him pleasant. John Ridd, my lord!' With that he swung up the curtain bravely; and accord- ing to special ordeis, I stood, face to face, and alone with Judge Jeffreys. CHAPTER XXVI JOHN IS DRAINED AND CAST ASIDE His lordship was busy with some letters, and did not look up for a minute or two, although he knew that I was there. Meanwhile I stood waiting to make my bow; afraid to begin upon him, and wondering at his great bull-head. Then he closed his letters, well-pleased with their import, and fixed his bold broad stare on me, as if I^Were an oyster opened, and he would know how fresh I was. 'May it please your worship,' I said, 'here I am accord ing to order, awaiting your good pleasure.' 'Thou art made to weight, John, more than order. How much dost thou tip the scales to?' 'Only twelvescore pounds, my lord, when 1 be in I wrestling trim. And sure I must have lost weight here, I fretting so long in London.' 'Ha, ha! Much fret is there in thee! Hath His |Majesty seen thee?' 'Yes, my lord, twice or even thrice; and he made some Ijest concerning me.' 'A very bad one, I doubt not. His humour is not so [dainty as mine, but apt to be coarse and unmannerly. INow John, or Jack, by the look of thee, thou art more lused to be called.' 'Yes, your worship, when I am with old Molly and [Betty Mux worthy.' 'Peace, thou forward varlet ! There is a deal too much % ill i InB ,1 . ii X9O LORNA DOONE of thee. We shall have to try short commons with thee, and thou art a very long common. Ha, ha! Where is that rogue 3pank? Spank must hear that by-and-by. It is beyond thy great thick head, Jack.' 'Not so, my lord; I have been at school, and had very bad jokes made upon me.' 'Ha, ha ! It hath hit thee hard. And faith, it would be hard to miss thee, even with harpoon. And thou lookest like to blubber, now. Capital, in faith ! I have thee on every side. Jack, and thy sides are manifold; many-folded at any rate. Thou shalt have double expenses, Jack, for the wit thou hast pro 'oked in me.' 'Heavy goods lack htavy payment, is a proverb down our way, my lord.' 'Ah, I hurt thee, I hurt thee. Jack. The harpoon hath no tickle for thee. Now, Jack Whale, having hauled thee hard, we will proceed to examine thee.' Here all his manner was changed, and he looked with his heavy brows bent upon me, as if he had never laughed in his life, and would allow none else to do so. 'I am ready to answer, my lord,' I replied, 'if he asks me nought beyond my knowledge, or beyond my honour.' 'Hadst better answer me everything, lump. What hast thou to do with honour? Now is there in thy neighbourhood a certain nest of robbers, miscreants, and outiaws, whom all men fear to handle?' 'Yes, my lord. At least, I believe some of them be robbers; and all of them are outlaws.* 'And what is your high sheriff about, that he doth not hang them all ? Or send them up for me to hang, without more to do about them?* 'I reckon that he is afraid, my lord; it is not safe to meddle with them. They are of good birth, and reckless; and their place is very strong.* 'Good birth ! What was Lord Russell of. Lord Essex, and this Sidney? 'Tis the surest heirship to the blockj to be the chip of a good one. What is the name of this| pestilent race, and how many of them are there?* 'They are the Doones of Bagworthy forest, may i please your worship. And we reckon there be abou forty of them, beside the women and childien.' 'Forty Doones, all forty thieves! and women and| children! Thunder of God! How long hnve they bee there then?* my g truth 'Y( us. ] seeing 'your justice and I of Lon in hon( we are 'Enc modesi own a] that r Bagwo] Sayii eyes in look at that it he saw , 'Johr hast nc' whose 1 'Yea, ..»' l.<->'>M-MAI*^i>< LORNA DOONE 191 1 thee, here is nd-by. id very ould be lookest thee on r-folded ick, for b down on hath led thee all his 5 heavy d in his he asks honour.' What in thy nts, and them be loth not without safe to Ireckless; Essex,! le block! le of this| 1?' may it )e about len and| ley beei 'They may have been there thirty years, my lord; and indeed they may have been forty. Before the great war broke out they came, longer back than I can remember.' 'Ay, long before thou wast born, John. Good, thou speaicest plainly. Woe betide a liar, whenso I get hold of him. Ye want me on the Western Circuit; by God, and ye shall have me, when London traitors are spun and swung. There is a family called De Whichehalse living very nigh thee, John?' This he said in a sudden manner, as if to take me oflE my guard, and fixed his great thick eyes on me. And in truth I was much astonished. 'Yes, my lord, there is. At least, not so very far from us. Baron de Whichehalse, of Ley Manor.' 'Baron, ha! of the Exchequer — eh, lad? And taketh dues instead of His Majesty. Somewhat which halts there ought to come a little further, I trow. It shall be seen to, as well as the witch which makes it so to halt. Riotous knaves in West England, drunken outlaws, you shall dance, if ever I play pipe for you. John Ridd, I will come to Oare parish, and rout out the Oare of Babylon.* 'Although your worship is so learned,' I answered, seeing that now he was beginning to make things uneasy; 'your worship, though being Chief Justice, does little justice to us. We are downright good and loyal folk; and I have not seen, since here I came to this great town of London, any who may better us, or even come anigh us, in honesty, and goodness, and duty to our neighbours. For we are very quiet folk, not prating our own irtues * 'Enough, good John, enough ! Knowest thou not that modesty is the maidenhood of virtue, lost even by her own approval? Now hast thou ever heard or thought that De Whichehalse is in league with the Doones of Bagworthy?' Saying these words rather slowly, he skewered his great eyes into mine, so that I could not think at all, neither look at him, nor yet away. The idea was so new to me, that it set my wits all wandering; and looking into me, he saw that I was groping for the truth. *John Ridd, thine eyes are enough for me. I see thou hast never dreamed of it. Now hast thou ever seen a man whose name is Thomas FaggusP' 'Yes, sir, many and many a time. He is my own 192 LORNA DOONE *i : I ■ worthy ^ousin; and I fear he that hath intentions ' here I stopped, having no right there to speak about our Annie. 'Tom Faggus is a good man,' he said; and his great square face had a smile which showed me he had met my cousin; 'Master Faggus hath made mistakes as to the title to property, as lawyers oftentimes may do; but take him all for all, he is a thoroughly straightforward man; presents his bill, and has it paid, and makes no charge for drawing it. Nevertheless, we must tax his costs, as of any other solicitor.' 'To be sure, to be sure, my lord!' was all that 1 could say, not understanding what all this meant. 'I fear he will come to the gallows,' said the Lord Chief Justice, sinking his voice below the echoes; 'tell him this from me, Jack. He shall never be condemned before me; but I cannot be everywhere; and some of our Justices may keep short memory of his dinners. Tell him to change his name, turn parson, or do something else, to make it wrong to hang him. Parson is the best thing; he hath such command of features, and he might take his tithes on horseback. Now a few more things, John Ridd; and for the present I have done with thee.' All my heart leaped up at this, to get away from London so : and yet I could hardly trust to it. 'Is there any sound round your way of disaffection to His Majesty, His most gracious Majesty?' 'No, my lord : no sign whatever. We pray for him in church perhaps; and we talk about him afterwards, hoping" it may do him good, as it is intended. But after that we have naught to say, not knowing much about him — at 'east till I get home again.' 'That is as it should be, John. And the less you say the better. But I have heard of things in Taunton, and even nearer to you in Dulverton, and even nigher still upon Exmoor; tnings which are of the pillory kind, and even more of the gallows. I see that you know naught of them. Nevertheless, it will not be long before all England hears of them. Now, Johp, I have taken a liking to thee; for never man told me the truth, without fear or favour, more thoroughly and truly than thou hast done. Keep thou clear of this, my son. It will come to nothing; yet many shall swing nigh for it. Even I could not save thee, John Ridd, if thou wert mixed in this affair. Keep fron ever ledgi too '. neve Ride, He wish< warn abidi and s 'N< and ; me.' 'M3 be in, make rope, and Ic even t 'Joh in hon •Sur selves, 'Tha neither I wi would saying place t] women this poj because it, and defendii 1 made the righ But t] quite frc [take me afoot, ai to be be and my ] if only, t L.D. LORNA DOONE 193 ut our , great let my to the I it take 1 man; charge )sts, as 1 could •d Chief lim this ore me; ces may change make it he hath is tithes idd; and ly from jction to from the Doones, kee'> from De Whichehalse, keep from everything which leads beyond the sight of thy know- ledge. I meant to use thee as my tool; but I see thou art too honest and simple. I will send a sharper down; but never let me find thee, John, either a tool for the other fiide, or a tube for my words to pass through.' Here the Lord Justice gave me such a glare, that L wished myself well rid of him, though thankful for his warnings; and seeing how he had made upon me a long abiding mark of fear, he smiled again in a jocular manner, and said, — 'Now, get thee gone. Jack. I shall remember thee; and I trow, thou wilt'st not for many a day forget me.* •,( 'My lord, I was never so glad to go; for the hay must be in, and the ricks unthatched, and none of them can make spars like me, and two men to twist every hay- rope, and mother thinking it all right, and listening right and left to lies, and cheated at every pig she kills, and even the skins of the sheep to go ' 'John Ridd, I thought none could come nigh your folk in honesty, and goodness, and duty to their neighbours ! ' 'Sure enough, my lord; but by our folk, I mean our- selves, not the men nor women neither ' 'That will do, John. Go thy way. Not men, nor women neither, are better than they need be.* I wished to set this matter right; but his worship [would not hear me; and only drove me out of court, saying that men were thieves and liars, no more in one place than another, but all alike all over the wo*-ld, and women not far behind them. It was not for me to dispute this point (though I was not yet persuaded of it), both because my lord was a Judge, and must know more about it, and also that being a man myself I might seem to be defending myself in ar unbecoming manner. Therefore ll made a low bow, and went; in doubt as to which had |the right of it. tr:-TA '^m al r.f .>r :^. ,> But though he had so far dismissed me, I was not yet Iquite free to go, inasmuch as I had not money enough to ■take me all vie way to Oare, unless indeed I should go lafoot, and beg my sustenance by the way, which seemed |to be below me. Therefore I got my few clothes packed, d my few debts paid, all ready to start in half an hour, |f only they would give me enough to set out upon the L.D. G I ii ffifi i 194 LORNA DOONE road with. For I doubted not, being younp and strong, that I could walk from London to Uare in ten days or in twelve at most, which was not much longer than horse- work; only I had been a fool, as you will say when you hear it. For after receiving from Master Spank the amount of the bill which I had delivered — less indeed by fifty shillings than the money my mother had given me, for I had spent fifty shillings, and more, in seeing the town and treatmg people, which I could not charge to His Majesty — ^1 had first paid all my debts thereout, which were not very many, and then supposing myself to be an established creditor of the Treasury for my coming needs, and already scenting the country air, and foreseeing the joy of my mother, what had 1 done but spent half my balance, ay and more than three-quarters of it, upon presents for mother, and Annie, and Lizzie, John Fry, and his wife, and Betty Muxworthy, Bill Dadds, Jim Slocombe, and, in a word, half of the rest of the people at Oare, including all the Snowe family, who must have things good and handsome? I cq^^i^ And if I must while I am about it, hide nothing from those I althoL who read me, I had actually bought for Lorna a thing I jj^ the prir*» of which t^uite fnghtened me, till the shop-lthg w keeper said it was notiiing at all, and that no young man, I pqhq 1 with a lady to love him, could dare to offer her rubbish, I Q^gj.^ such as the Jew sold across the way. Now the mere idea «f Ihimsel nai the evil he A to SUS| and now our see 1 stop what awav she h that she V cared at om J lor me mere idea so drove me abroad, that if he had asked! }iqj.j.|uij three times as much, I could never have counted theliodgjuj money. I spots t Now in all this 1 was a fool of course — not for remem |bu^. g^^^ bering my friends and neighbours, which a man has afsame t right to do, and indeed is bound to do, when he comeslcaj.jjj' from London — but for not being certified first what cashljho^Qj.. I had to go on with. And to my great amazement, wheiibeg«jjj ' 1 went with another bill for tne victuals of only tlireJof^y g days more, and a week's expense on the homeward roaJ B^^ J reckoned very narrowly. Master Spank not only refuseJmy T)ri(^^ to grant me any interview, but sent me out a piece ojto bjjy ^ blue paper, looking like a butcher's ticket, and Dearinlpai(j\ ^ these words and no more, 'John Ridd, go to the deviljimost t He who will not when he may, when he will, he shall havlstreet I LORNA DOONE 19.') ;rong. or in tiorse- n you k the 5ed by given re, in could .id all vr, and litor of centing niother, id more ler, and i Bet^ a word, r all the idsome? 3in those a thing he shop- ng man, rubbish, •e idea of about as as if it it, that ,d asked I ted the| remem %n has le come ^hat cas' _it, whe ily threi fard real refuse! piece ol I bearini [he devi' Ihall hav nay.' From this I concluded that I had lost favour in the sight of Chief Justice Jeffreys. Perhaps because my evidence had not proved of any value! perhaps because he meant to let the matter lie, till cast on him. Anyhow, it was a reason of much grief, and some anger, to me, and very great anxiety, disappointment, and suspense. For here was the time of the hay gone past, and the harvest of small com coming on, and the trout now rising at the yellow Sally, and the blackbirds eating our white-heart cherries (I was sure, though I could not see them), and who was to do any good for mother, or stop her from weeping continually? And more than this, what was become of Loma? Perhaps she had cast me away altogether, as a flouter and a changeling; perhaps she had drowned herself in the black well; perhaps (and that was worst of all) she was even married, cnild as she was, to that vile Carver Doone, if the Doones ever cared about marrying ! That last tliought sent me down at once to watch for Mr. Sponk again, resolved that if I could catch him, sj^ank him I would to a pretty good tune, although sixteen m family. However, there was no such thing as to find him; and the usher vowed (having orders I doubt) that he was gone to the sea for the good of his health, having sadly overworked himself; and that none but a poor devil like himself, who never had handling of money, would stay in London this foul, hot weather; which was likely to bring the plague with it. Here was another new terror for me, who had heard of the plagues of London, and the horrible things that happened; and so going back to my lodgings at once, I opened my clothes and sought for spots, especially as bemg so long at a hairy fellmonger's; but findmg none, I fell down and thanked God for that same, and vowed to start for Oare to-morrow, with my carbine loaded, come 'weal come woe« come sun come shower; though all the parish should laugh at me, for begging my way home again, after the brave things said of my going, as if I had been the King's cousin. But I was saved in some degree from this lowering of my pride, and what mattered more, of mother's; for going to buy with my last crown-piece (after all demands were aid) a little shot and powder, more needful on the road [ilmost than even shoes or victuals, at the comer of the jStreet I met my good friend Jeremy Stickles, newly 196 LORNA DOONE <8 come in seaxch of me. 1 took him back to my little room — mine at least till to-morrow morning — and told him all my story, and how much I felt ag^eved by it. But he surprised me very much, by showing no surprise at all. 'ft is the way of the world. Jack. They have gotten all they can from thee, and why should they feed thee further? We feed not a dead pig, I trow, but baste him well with brine and rue. Nay, we do not victual him upon the day of killing; which they have done to thee. Thou art a lucky man, John; thou hast gotten one day's wages, or at any rate half a day, after thy work was rendered. God have mercy on me, John ! The things I see are mani- fold; and so is my regard of them. What use to insist on this, or make a special point of that, or hold by some- thing said of old, when a different mood was on? I tell thee. Jack, all men are liars; and he is the least one who presses not too hard on them for lying.' This was all quite dark to me, for I never looked at things like that, and never would own myself a liar, not at least to other people, nor even to myself, although I might to God sometimes, when trouble was upon me. And if it comes to that, no man has any right to be called a 'liar' for smoothing over things unwitting, through duty to his neighbour. 'Five pounds thou shalt have, Jack,' said Jeremy Stickles suddenly, while I was all abroad with myself as to being a liar or not; 'five pounds, and I will take my chance of wringing it from that great rogue Spank. Ten I would have made it, John, but for bad luck lately. Put back your bits of paper, lad; I will have no acknow- ledgment. John Ridd, no nonsense with me I' For I was ready to kiss his hand, to think that any man in London (the meanest and most suspicious place, upon all God's earth) should trust me with five pounds, without even a receipt for it ! It overcame me so that I sobbed; for, after all, though big in body. I am but a child at heart. It was not the five pounds that moved me, but the way of giving it; and after so much bitter talk, the great trust in my goodness, -r ' • n .. i ' "'j U- '>'>n' -' •' ''* Hi i^tv,'i;'^ 3»'/' "fe /■:H>tj1i:' i,rj-^ s;t.rf:t j"?*,; ■' uppe God, those and i thous Itc but w and i] took : could least a on the ifnow and tl folk ro be, ev( nor ev travelli distrau all the more. cannot way nxi 3om — im all 3ut he at all. gotten id thee ite him n upon Thou wages, ndered. e mani- ;o insist V some- ? I tell ^ne who )oked at liar, not though I pon me. be called igh duty Jeremy nyself as take my bk. Ten c lately, acknow- LORNA DOONE • ' ■'^•A-r..'}jn^ CHAPTER XXVII 1' ' HOME AGAIN AT LAST 197 t..,.: » U ,- 1, It was the beginning of wheat-harvest, when I came to Dunster town, having walked all the way from London, and being somewhat footsore. For though five pounds was enough to keep me in food and lodging upon the road, and leave me many a shilling to give to far poorer travellers, it would have been nothing for horse-lure, as I knew too well by the prices Jeremy Stickles had paid upon our way to London. Now I never saw a prettier town tJian Dunster looked that evening; for sooth to say, I had almost lost all hope of reaching it that night, altiiough the castle v/as long in view. But being once there, my troubles were gone, at least as regarded way- faring; for mother's cousin, the worthy tanner (with whom we had slept on the way to London), was in such indignation at the plight in which I came back to him, afoot, and weary, and almost shoeless — ^not to speak ol upper things — that he swore then, by the mercy of God, that if the schemes abrewing round him, against those bloody Papists, should come to any head or shape, and show good chance of succeeding, he would risk a thousand pounds, as though it were a penny. I told him not to do it, because I had heard otherwise, but was not at liberty to tell one-tenth of what I knew, and indeed had seen in London town. But of this he [took no heed, because I only nodded at him; and he could not make it out. For it takes an old man, or at least a middle-aged one, to nod and wink, with any power I on the brains of other men. However, I think I made him know that the bad state in which I came to his town, and the great shame I had wrought for him among the folk round the card-table at the Luttrell Arms, was not to be, even there, attributed to King Charles the Second, nor even to his counsellors, but to my own speed of travelling, which had beat post-horses. For being much I distraught in mind, and desperate in body, I had made all the way from London to Dunster in six days, and no Imore. It may be one hundred and seventy miles, I [cannot tell to a furlong or two, especially as I lost my Iway more than a dozen times; but at any rate there in \t { ig8 LORNA DOONE SIX days 1 was, and most kindly they received me. The tanner had some excellent daughters, I forget how many; very pretty damsels, and well set up, and able to make good pastry. But though they asked me many questions, and made a sort of lord of me, and offered to darn my stockings (which in truth required it), I fell asleep in the midst of them, although I would not acknowledge it; and they said, 'Poor cousin I he is weary' ; and led me to a blessed bed. and kissed me all round like swan's down. In the morning all the Exmoor hills, the thought of which had frightened me at the end of each day's travel, seemed no more than bushels to me, as I looked forth the bedroom window, and thanked God for the sight of them. And even so, I had not to climb them, at least by my own labour. For my most worthy uncle (as we oft call a parent's cousin), finding it impossible to keep me for the day, and owning indeed that I was right in hasten- ing to my mother, vowed that walk I should not, even though he lost his Saturday hides from Minehead and from Watchett. Accordingly he sent me forth on the very strongest nag he had, and the maidens came to wish me God-speed, and kissed their hands at the doorway. It made me proud and glad to think that after seeing so much of the world, and having held my own with it, I was come once more among my own people, and found them kinder, and more warm-hearted, ay and better looking too, than almost any I had happened upon in the mighty city of London. But how shall I tell you the things I felt, and the swell- ing of my heart within me, as I drew nearer, and more near, to the place of all I loved and owned, to the haunt of every warm remembrance, the nest of all the fledgling hopes — in a word, to home? The first sheep I beheld on the moor with a great red J. R. on his side (for mother would have them marked with my name, instead of her own as they should have been), I do assure you my spirit leaped, and all my sight came to my eyes. I shouted out , ' Jeni, boy 1 ' — for Qiat was his name, and a rare handj he was at fighting — and he knew me in spite of th stranger horse; and 1 leaned over and stroked his head,j and swore he should never be mutton. And when I wai passed he set off at full gallop, to call the rest of thi j. R.'s together, and tell them young master was com home £- last. . manag and tl should own d< even c Pry* fc lit was lashame Ipardon; Old S [rest, I ] Iter-ri hen w ith yc i me. The how many; le to make questions, darn my 1 asleep in owledge it; I led me to an's down, thought of ly's travel, i forth the it of them, ist by my as we oft 3 keep me in hasten- not, even }head and th on the Qe to wish doorway. seeing so I with it. md found id better I upon in the swell and more the haunt ' fledgling beheld on >r mother ad of heri my spirit " shouted rare hand] e of the his head,] ten I wai 3t of thi vas com( LORNA DOONE ^ut bless vour Hao.^ . IQQ «rhen i Rot vo» 1^^ ^ ^^°"^^ c^' John- anH . J°""^ ^« and Xn- b„t°'£S® «8ht, and crv aiS^i? "^'i""* ""'y Ken came dow, Z^^±r ""> ^«dit 5 i ^^ T Uamedlrf tt^t „L'^°»8; Howevw dea?"^' /i?' ^ii of [Old Sn.il.r'^XJ ZttC i*° h-^&o^e^^i'' e^SlsSr " - ^^^^^ ^ ! tl ' fi i! I 200 LORNA DOONE must needs get up behind me, there being only sheep to look at her. Then Smiler gave us a stare and a neigh, with his tail quite stiff with amazement, and then (whether in joy or through indignation) he flung up his hind feet and galloped straight home, and set every dog wild with barking. Now, methinks, quite enough has been said concerning this mighty return of the young John Ridd (which was known up at Cosgate that evening), and feeling that I cannot describe it, how can I hope that any one else will labour to imagine it, even of the few who are able? For very few can have travelled so far, unless indeed they whose trade it is, or very unsettled people. And even of those who have done so, not one in a hundred can have such a home as I had to come home to. m i Mother wept again, with grief and some wrath, and so did Annie also, and even little Eliza, and all were un- settled in loyalty, and talked about a republic, when I told them how I had been left without money for travel- ling homeward, and expected to have to beg my way, which Farmer Snowe would have heard of. And though I could see they were disappointed at my failure of any promotion, they all declared how glad they were, and how much better they liked me to be no more than what they were accustomed to. At least, my mother and Annie said so, without waiting to hear any more; but Lizzie did not answer to it, until I had opened my bag and shown the beautiful present I had for her. And then she kissed me, almost like Annie, and vowed that she thought very little of captains. For Lizzie's present was the best of all, I mean, of course, except Loma's (which I carried in my breast all the way, hoping that it might make her love me, from having lain so long, close to my heart). For I had brought Lizzie something dear, and a precious heavy bock it was, and much beyond my understanding; whereas I knew well that to both the others my gifts would be dear, for mine own sake. And happier people could not be found than the whole of us were that evening. •, ,. r; . "1. < i > Pi< ;ep to aeigh, then lip his y dog erning ih was that 1 Ise will e? For d they 3ven of ,n have and so ere un- when I • travel- ly way, though 5 of any ire, and an what ler and )re; but my bag nd then ;hat she LORNA DOONE 201 ^/ CHAPTER XXVIII i . ,; ' JOHN HAS HOPE OF LORNA ' ■ Much as I longed to know more about Loma, and though all my heart was yearning, I could not reconcile it yet with my duty to mother and Annie, to leave them on the following day, which happened to be Sunday. For lo, before breakfast was out of our mouths^ there came all the men of the farm, and their wives, and even the two crow-boys, dressed as if going to Barnstaple fair, to in- quire how Master John was, and whether it was true that the King had made him one of his body-guard; and if so, what was to be done with the belt for the championship of the West-Counties wrestling, which I had held now for a year or more, and none were ready to challenge it. Strange to say, this last point seemed the most important of all to them; and none asked who was to manage the farm, or answer for their wages; but all asked who was to wear -ttie belt. To this I replied, after shaking hands twice over all round with all of them, that I meant to wear the belt myself, for the honour of Oare parish, so long as ever God gave me strength and health to meet all-comers: for I had never been asked to be body-guard; and if asked I would never have done it. Some of them cried that the King must be mazed, not to keep me for his protection, in these violent times of Popery. I could have told them that the King was not in the least afraid of Papists, but on the contrary, very fond of them; however, I held my tongue, remembering what Judge Jeffreys bade me. In church, the whole congregation, man, woman, and child (except, indeed, the Snowe girls, who only looked when I was not watching), turned on me with one accord, and stared so steadfastly, to get some reflection of the King from me, that they forgot the time to kneel down, and the parson was forced to speak to them. If I coughed, or moved my book, or bowed^ or even said ' Amen,' glances were exchanged which meant — ' That he hath learned in London town, and most likely from His Majesty.* However, all this went oflE in time; and people became even angry with me for not being sharper (as they said). !' i 202 LORNA OOONE or smarter, or a whit more fashionable, for ail the great company I had seen, and all the wondrous things wasted upon me. But though I may have been none the wiser by reason of my stay m London, at any rate I was much the better in virtue of coming home again. For now I had learned the joy of quiet, and the gratitude for good things round us, and the love we owe to others (even thoae who must be kind), for their indulgence to us. All this, before my journey, had been too much as a matter of course to me; but having missed it now I knew that it was a gift, and might be lost. Moreover, I had pined so much, in the dust and heat of that great town, for trees, and fields, and running waters, and the sounds of country life, and the air of country winds, that never more could I grow weary of those soft enjoyments; or at least I thought so then. To awake as tne summer sun came slanting over the hill-tops, with hope on every beam adance to the laughter of the morning; to see the leaves across the window ruf- fling on the fresh new air, and the tendrils of the powdery vine turning from their beaded sleep. Then the lustrous meadows far beyond the thatch of the garden-wall, yet seen beneath the hanging scollops of the walnut-tree, all awaking, dressed in pearl, all amazed at theii' own glistening, like a maid at her own ideas. Do^]m them troop the lowing kine, walking each with a step of character (even as men and women do), yet all alike with toss of horns, and spread of udders ready. From them, without a word, we turn to the farm-yard proper, seen on the right, and dryly strawed from the petty rush of the pitch-paved runnel. Round it stand the snug out buildings, bam, corn-chamber, cider-press, stables, with a blinker'd horse in every doorway munching, while his, driver tightens buckles, whistles and looks down the] lane, dallying to begin his labour till the milkmaids b gone by. Here the cock comes forth at last; — wi^ere hai he been lingering? — eggs may tell to-morrow — he clapi his wings and shouts ' cock-a-doodle ' ; and no other coc dare look at him. Two or three go sidling off, waitin, till their spurs be grown; and then the crowd of partle comes, chattering how their lord has droamed, an crowed at two in the morning, and praying that the ol brown rat would only dare to face him. But while the coc is crowing still, and the pullet world admiring him, wh strictly jto see |still an , I fel Loma, per. Of done w death, i |it seem without >ma Ic theg 'om he] tut I 3a te mai LORNA DOONE 203 c great wasted reason 3 better learned s round 10 must fore my 3 to me; jift. and I, in the slds, and and the iw weary ) then, over the laughter idow ruf- powdery 5 lustrous •wall, yet t-tree, all leir own \^JrD. them step of ilike with ►in them, iper, seen rush of jnug out lies, with while his lown the] [maids bi A.ere hai •he clapi er coc^ waitini partle .ed, am [t the ol< the coc lim, wh comes up but the old turkey-cock, with all his family round him. Then the geese at the lower end begin to thrust their breasts out, and mum their dowii-bits, and look at the gander and scream shrill joy for the conflict; while the ducks in pond shov>r nothing but tail, in proof of their strict neutrality. While yet we dread for the coming event, and the fight which would jar on the morning, behold the grandmother of sows, gruffly grunting right and left with muzzle which no ring may tame (not being matrimonial), hulks across between the two, moving all each side at once, and then all of the other side, as if she were chined down the middle, and afraid of spilling the salt from her. As this mighty view of lard hides each combatant from the other, gladly each retires and boasts how he would have slain his neighbour, but that old sow drove the other away, and no wonder he was afraid of her, after all the chicks she had eaten. And so it goes on; and so the sun comes, stronger from his drink of dew; and the cattle in the byres, and the horses from the stable, and the men from cottage-door, each has had his rest and food, all smell alike of hay and straw, and every one must hie to work, be it drag, or draw, or delve. So thought I on the Monday morning; while my own work lay before me, and I was plotting how to quit it, void of harm to every one, and let my love have work a little — hardest perhaps of all work, and yet as sure as sun- rise. I knew that my first day's task on the farm would be jStrictly watched by every one, eveii by my gentle mother, to see what I had leamea in London. But could I let jstill another day pass, for Lorna to think me faithless? I felt much inclined to tell dear mother all about jLoma, and how I loved her, yet had no hope of winning her. Often and often, I had longed to do this, and have done with it. But the thought of my father's terrible {death, at the hands of the Doones, prevented me. And seemed to me foolish and mean to grieve mother, ithout any chance of my suit ever speeding. If once ima loved me, my mother should know it; and it would the greatest happiness to me to have no concealment :om her, though at first she was sure to grieve terribly. tut I saw no more chance of Lorna loving me, than of le man in the moon coming down; or ratller of \, 204 LORNA DOONE I' the moon coming down to the man, as related in old mythology. Now the merriment of the small birds, and the clear voice of the waters, and the lowing of cattle in meadows, and the view of no houses (except just our own and a neighbour's), and the knowledge of everybody around, their kindness of heart and simplicity, and love of their neighbour's doings, — all these could not help or please me at all, and many of them were much against me, in my secret depth of longing and dark tumult of the mind. Many people may think me foolish, especially after com- ing from London, where many nice maids looked at me (on account of my bulk and stature), and I might have been fitted up with a sweetheart, in spite of mjr west- country twang, and the smallness of my purse; if only I had said the word. But nay; I have contempt for a man whose heart is like a shirt-stud (such as I saw in London cards), fitted into one to-day, sitting bravely on the breast; plucked out on the morrow morn, and the place that knew it, gone. Now, what did I do but take my chance; reckless whether any one heeded me or not, only craving Lorna's heed, and time for ten words to her. Therefore I left the men of the farm as far away as might be, after making them work with me (whicn no man round our parts could do, to his own satisfaction), and then knowing them to be well weary, very undke to follow me — and still more unlike to tell of me, for each had his London present — I strode right away, in good trust of my speed, without any more misgivings; but resolved to face the worst of it, and to try to be home for supper. And first I went, I know not why, to the crest of the broken highland, whence I had agreed to watch for any mark or signal. And sure enough at last 1 saw (when it was too late to see) that the white stone had been covered over with a cloth or mantle, — the sign that some- thing had arisen to make Lorna want me. For a moment I stood amazed at my evil fortune: that I should be too late, in the very thing of all things on which my heart was set! Then after eyeing sorrowfully every cnck and cranny to be sure that not a single flutter of my love was j visible, off I set, with small respect either for my knees or neck, to make the round of the outer cliffs, and come j up my old access. . ''^i-* ,^"^aiQ;i> li'oom . "^laT . o,ii ciirn: r LORNA DOOKE 203 in old 3 clear adows. and a .round, )£ their please me, in 5 mind, er com- l at me tit have y west- if only pt for a saw in ively on and the reckless Lorna's left the making r parts [knowing ,e — and London ly speed, Iface the [t of the for any fwhen it id been it some- Imoment be too ly heart ick and ove was ly knees td come Nothing could stop me; it was not long, although to me it seemed an age, before I stood in the niche of rock at the head of the slippery watercourse, and gazed into the quiet ^len, where my foolish heart was dwelling. Not- withstandmg doubts of right, notwithstanding sense ol duty, and despite all manly striving, and the gr^at Iovk of my home, mere my heart was ever dwelling, knowing what a fool it was, and content to know it. Many birds came twittering round me in the gold ot August; many trees showed twinkling beauty, as the sun went lower; and the lines of water fell, from wrinkles into dimples. Little heeding, there I crouched; though with sense of everything that afterwards should move me, like a picture or a dream; and everything went by me softly, while my heart w 3 gazing. At last, a little figure came, not insignificant (I mean), but looking very light and slender in the moving shadows, gently here ana softly there, as if vague of purpose, with a gloss of tender movement, in and out the wealth of trees, and liberty of the meadow. Who was I to crouch, or doubt, or look at her from a distance; what matter if they killed me now, and one tear came to bury me? Therefore I rushed out at once, as if shot-guns were unknown yet; not from any real courage, but from prisoned love burst forth. I know not whether my own Loma was afraid of what I looked, or what I might say to her, or of her own thoughts of me; all I know is that she looked frightened, when I hoped for gladness. Perhaps the power of my joy was more than maiden liked to own, or in any way to answer to; and to tell the truth, it seemed as if I might now forget myself; while "She would take good care of it. This makes a man grow thoughtful; unless, as some low fellows do, he believe all women hypocrites. Therefore I went slowly towards her, taken back in my impulse; and said all I could come to say, with some distress in doing it. * Mistress Lorna, I had hope that you were in need of me.* * Oh, yes; but that was long ago; two months ago, or more, sir.' And saying this she looked away, as if it all were over. But I was now so dazed and frightened, that it took my breath away, and I could not answer, feeling sure that I was robbed and some one else had won I 1 t 1 206 LORNA DOONE m her. And I tried to turn away, without another word, and go. ' ^J*'' '>j *■''!,*<•■ I ; . i But I could not help one stupid sob, though mad with myself for allowing it, but it came too sharp for pride to stay it, and it told a world of thines. Lorna heard it, and ran to me, with her bright eyes full of wonder, pity, and great kindness, as if amazed that I had more than a simple liking for her. Then she held out both hands to me; and I took and looked at them. ' Master Ridd, I did not mean,' she whispered, very softly, * I did not mean to vex you.' * If you would be loath to vex me, none else in this world can do it,' I answered out of my great love, but fear- ing yet to^look at her, mine eyes not being strong enough. ' Come 'away from this bright place,' she answered, trembling in her turn; ' I am watched and spied of late. Come beneath the shadows, John.' I would have leaped into the valley of the shadow of death (as described by the late John Bunyan), only to hear her call me ' John *; though ApoUyon were lurking there, and Despair should lock me m. She stole across the silent grass; but I strode hotly after her; fear was all beyond me now, except the fear of losing her. I could not but behold her manner, as she went before me, all her grace, and lovely sweetness, and her sense of what she was. She led me to her own rich bower, which I told of once before; and if in spring it were a sight, what was it in summer glory? But although my mind had notice of its fairness and its wonder, not a heed my heart took of it, neither dwelt it in my presence more than flowing water. All that in my presence dwelt, all that in my heart was felt, was the maiden moving gently, and afraid to look at me. For now the power of my love was abiding on her, new to her, unknown to her; not a thing to speak about, nor even to think clearly; only just to feel and wonder, with a pain of sweetness. She could look at me no more, neither could she look away, with a studied manner — only to let fall her eyes, and blush, and be put out with me, and still more with herself. I left her quite alone; though close, though tingling to have hold of her. Even her right hand was dropped and lay among the mosses. Neither did I try to steal one LORNA DOONE 207 word, i with ride to it, and y, and Lhan a .nds to I, very in this at f ear- jtough. swered, of late. idow of only to lurking le hotly the fear as she ss, and of once fas it in )tice of took of flowing in my afraid [er, new ^ut, nor jr, with more, inner — it with ^ling to »ed and ;al one glimpse below her eyelids. Life and death to me were hanging on the first glance I should win; yet I let it be so. ■ K s' vi •;? ..< ■'• -I ;.■■.,;•,, After long or short — I know not, yet ere I was weary, ere I yet began to think or wish for any answer — Lornu slowly raised her eyehds, with a gleam of dew below them, and looked at me doubtfully. Any look with so much in it never met m> gaze before. ' Darling, do you love me ? ' was all that I could say to her. ' Yes, I like you very much,' she answered, with her eyes gone from me, and her dark hair falling over, so as not to show me things. ' But do you love me, Lorna, Lorna; do you love me more than £dl the world?' ' No, to be sure not. Now why should I?' * In truth, I know not why you should. Only 1 hoped that you did, Lorna. Either love me not at all, or as I love you, for ever.* ' John, I love you very much; and I would not grieve yor. You are the bravest, and the kindest, and the simplest of all men — I mean of all people — I like you very much. Master Ridd, and I thmk of you almost every day.' * That will not do for me, Lorna. Not almost every day I think, but every instant of my life, of you. For you I would give up my home, my love of all the world beside, my duty to my dearest ones; for you I would give up my life, and hope of life beyond it. Do you love me so?' ' Not by any means,' said Lorna; ' no, J like you very much, when you do not talk so wildly; and I like to sec you come as if you would fill our valley up, and I like to think that even Carver wo aid >^^ nothing in your hands — but as to liking you like that, what should make it likely? especially when I have made the signal, and for some two months or more you have never even answered it! li you like me so ferociously, why do you leave me for other people to do just as they like with me?' v ji ' To do as they liked! Oh, Lorna, not to make you marry Carver?* ' No, Master Ridd, be not frightened so; it makes me fear to look at you.' ' But you have not married Carver yet? Say quick! Why keep me waiting so?' ao x^^^'^ * • ^ ^^^^ .^^n&> t w r r i : 1 ' i*^ 1 V - . ! JtI^' i 1 U . ■ \\ i 1 j ! ■ i j{ 208 LORNA DOONE ' Of course I have not, Master Ridd. Should I be here if I had, think you, and allowing you to like me so, and to hold my hand, and make me laugh, as I declare you al- most do sometimes? And at other times you frighten me. ' Did they want you to marry Carver? Tell me all the truth of it/ ' Not yet, not yet. They are not half so impetuous as you are, John. I am only just seventeen, you know, and who is to think of marrying? But they wanted me to give my word, and be formally betrothed to him in the presence of my grandfather. It seems that something frightened them. There is a youth named Charleworth Doone, every one calls him "Charlie"; a headstrong and a gay young man, very gallant in his looks and manner; and my uncle, the Counsellor, chose to fancy that Charlie looked at me too much, coming by my grandfather's cottage.' Here Lorna blushed so that I was frightened, and be- gan to hate this Charlie more, a great deal more, than even Carver Doone. * He had better not,' said I; ' I will fling him over it, if he dare. He shall see thee through the roof, Lorna, if at all he see tliee.' * Master Ridd, you are worse than Carver! I thought you were so kind-hearted. Well, they wanted me to promise, and even to swear a solemn oath (a thing I have never done in my life) that I would wed my eldest cousin, this same Carver Doone, who is twice as old as I am, being thirty-five and upwards. That was why I gave the token that I wished to see you. Master Ridd. They pointed out how much it was for the peace of all the family, and for mine own benefit; but I would not listen for a moment, though the Counsellor was most eloquent, and my grandfather begged me to consider, and Carver smiled his pleasantest, which is a truly frightful tiling. Then both he and his crafty father were for using force with me; but Sir Ensor would not hear of it; and they have put off that extreme until he shall be past its know- ledge, or, at least, beyond preventing it. And now I am watched, and spied, and followed, and half my littie liberty seems to be taken from me. I could not be here speaking with you, even in my own nook and refuge, but for the aid, and skill, and courage of dear little Gwenny Carfax. She is now my chief reliance, and through her LX)RNA DOON^!: 209 alone I hope to buflle all my enemies, since others have forsaken me.' * . Tears of sorrow and reproach were lurking in her soft dark eyes, until in fewest words I told her that my seem- ing negligence was nothing but mv bitter loss and wretched absence far away; of which I had so vainly striven to give any tidings witiiout danger to her. When she heard all this, and saw what I had brought from Lon- don (which was nothing less than a ring of pearls with a sapphire in the midst of them, as pretty as could well be found), she let the gentle tears flow fast, and came and sat so close beside me, that I trembled like a folded sheep at the bleating of her lamb. But recovering comfort quickly, without more ado, I raised her left hand and observed it with a nice regard, wondering at the small blue veins, and curves, and tapering whiteness, and the points it finished with. My wonder seemed to please her much, herself so well accustomed to it, and not fond of watching it. And then, before she could say a word, or guess what I was up to, as quick as ever I turned hand in a bout of wrest- ling, on her finger was my ring — sapphire for the veins of blue, and pearls to match white fingers. ' Oh, you crafty Master Ridd ! * said Loma, looking up at me, and blusbmg now a far brighter blush than when she spoke of Charlie; ' I thought that you were much too simple ever to do this sort of thing. No wonder you can catch the fish, as when first I saw you.' * Have I caught you, little fish?' Or must all my life be spent in hopeless angling for you?' * Neither one nor the other, John ! You have not caught me yet altogether, though I like you dearly, John; and if you will only keep away, I shall like you more and more. As for hopeless anglmg, John — that all others shall xi£ ve until I tell you otherwise.' With the large tears in her eyes — ^tears which seemed to me to rise partly from her want to love me with the power of my love — she put her pure bright lips, half smil- ing, half prone to reply to tears, agamst my forehead lined with trouble, doubt, and eager longing. And then she drew my ring from off that snowy twig her finger, and held it out to me; and then, seeing how my face was falling, thrice she touched it with her lips, and sweetly gave it back to me. ' John, I dare not take it now; else I should be cheating you. I will try to love you dearly. I f^' ~ t (' i i 1'. ;■ -^ ^ ; ' I' tt. « < 1 :51s '!* ii^ S: f 2IU LORNA DOONE even as you deserve and wish. Keep it for me just till then. Something tells me I shall earn it in a very little time. Perhaps you will be sorry then, sorry when it is all too late, to be loved by such as I am.' 'What could I do at her mournful tone, but kiss a thousand times the hand which she put up to warn me, and vow that I would rather die with one assurance of her love, than without it live for ever with all beside that the world could give? Upon this she looked so lovely, with her dark eyelashes trembling, and her soft eyes full of light, and the colour of clear sunrise mounting on her cheeks and brow, that I was forced to turn away, being overcome with beauiy. * Deare3t darling, love of my life,' I whispered through her clouds of hair; ' how long must I wait to know, how long must I hnger doubting whether you can ever stoop from your birth and wondrous beauty to a poor, coarse hind like me, an ignorant unlettered yeoman * * I will not have you revile yourself,' said Lorna, very tenderly — just as I had meant to make her. ' You are not rude and unlettered, John. You know a great deal more than I do : you have learned both Greek and Latin, as you told me long ago, and you have been at the very best school in the West of England. None of us but my grandfather, and the Counsellor (who is a great scholar), can compare with you in this. And though I have laughed at your manner of speech, I only laughed in fun, John; I never meant to vex you by it, nor knew that it had done so.' ■■..'i .:^niO''i^' -'-^^v.^-rM- r/i ' Naught you say can vex me, dear,' I answered, as she leaned towards me in her generous sorrow; 'unless you say " Begone, John Ridd; I love another more than you." ' * Then I shall never vex you, John. Never, I mean, by saying that. Now, John, if you please, be quiet * For I was carried away so much by hearing her calling me ' John ' so often, and the music of her voice, and the way ^e bent toward me, and the shadow of soft weep- ing in the sunlight of her eyes, that some of my great hand was creeping in a manner not to be imagined, and i?x less explained, toward the lithesome, wholesome curv- ing underneath her mantle-%fold, and out of sight and harm, as I thought; not being her front waist. However, I was dashed with that, and pretended not to mean it; only to pluck some lady-fern, whose elegance did me no good. a m( Ri I 1 LORNA DOONE 2IZ just till ry little en it is -, , _i 1 . : kiss a am me, ranee of ide that ) lovely, syes full y on her y, being through ow, how er stoop r, coarse na, very You are reat deal id Latin, the very but my scholar), I have in fun, that it [, as she you say you." ' lean, by t ' |r calling and the Et weep- ly great led, and le curv- (ht and rever, I it; only 10 good. ' Now, John,' said Loma, being so quick that not even a lover could cheat her, and observing my confusion more intently than she need have done. ' Master John Ridd, it is high time for you to go home to your mother. I love your mother very much from what you have told me about her, and I will not have her cheated.' * If you truly love mjr mother,' said I, very craftily, ' the only way to show it is by truly loving me.' Upon that she laughed at me in the sweetest manner, and with such provoking ways, and such come-and-go of glances, and beginning of quick blushes, which she tried to laugh away; that I knew, as well as if she herself had told me, by some knowledge (void of reasoning, and the surer for it), I knew quite well, while all my heart was burning hot within me, and mine eyes were shy of hers, and her eyes were shy of mine; for certain ana for ever this I knew — as in a glory — that Loma Doone had now begun and would go on to love me. - CHAPTER XXIX ■J ' ' ' '''■ REAPING LEADS TO REVELLING Although I was under interdict for two months from my darling — ' one for your sake, one for mine,' she had whispered, with her head withdrawn, yet not so very far from me — lighter heart was not on Exmoor than I bore for half the time, and even for three quarters. For she was safe; I knew that daily by a mode of signals, parted; 'it is true that I am spied watched, but Gwenny is too keen for them. While I have my grandfather to prevent all violence; and little Gwenny to keep watch on those who try to watch me; and you, above all others, John, ready at a moment, if the worst comes to the worst — ^this neglected Loma Doone was never in such case before. Therefore do not squeeze my hand, John; I am safe without it, and you do not know your strength.' Ah, I knew my strength right well. Hill and valley scarcely seemed to be step and landing for me; fiercest ik\' nppa aza LORNA DOONB '' - f i cattle I would play with, making them go backward, and afraid of hurting them, like John Fry with his ter- rier; even rooted trees seemed to me but as sticks I could smite down, except for my love of everything. The love of all things was upon me, and a softness to them all. and a sense of having something even such as they had. Then the golden harvest came, waving on the broad hill-side, and nestling in the quiet nooks scooped from out the fringe of wood. A wealth of harvest such as never gladdened all our country-side since my father ceased to reap, and his sickle hung to rust. There had not been a man on Exmoor fit to work that reaping-hook since the time its owner fell, in the prime of life and strength, before a sterner reaper. But now I took it from the wall, where mother proudly stored it, while she watched me, hardly knowing whether she should smile or cry. All the parish was assembled in our upper courtyard; for we were to open the harvest that year, as had been settled with Farmer Nicholas, and with Jasper Kebby, who held the third or little farm. We started in proper order, therefore, as our practice is: first, the parson, Josiah Bowden, wearing his gown and cassock, with the parish Bible in his hand, and a sickle strapped behind him. As he strode alon^ well and stoutly, bemg a man of substance, all our family came next, I leading mother with one hand, in the other bearing my father's hook, and with a loaf of our own bread and a keg of cider upon my back. Behind us Annie and Lizzie walked, wearing wreaths of corn-flowers, set out very prettily, such as mother would have worn if she had been a farmer's wife, instead of a farmer's widow. Being as she was, she had no adornment, except that her widow's hood was off, and her hair allowed to now, as if she had been a maiden; and very rich bright hair it was, in spite of all her troubles. After us, lie maidens came, milkmaids and the rest of them, with Betty Muxworthy at their head, scolding even now, because they would not walk fitly. But they only laughed at her; and she knew it was no good to scold, with all the men behind them. Then the Snowes came trooping forward; Farmerl Nicholas in the middle, walking as if he would rather walk to a wheatfield of his own, yet content to follow lead, because he knew himself the leader; and signing every now and then to the people here and there, as if 1 every 'In i * A hind, The Bible, fields^ Bible despiti off cor the rei lane, i how w Whe tered. Lord f( handr verse, < of it, f rival cc so stroi like a c land we , Of c< mow tl LORNA DOONE 213 ropor- i. And virtue -.i ■' ' ■■) ' ■■ i ' ve had jnty to ell and Dt only Ne got sen the ung his ber. sts and looking larvest- well as i there, appe- forced :ut and id been ut help Annie, e pant- nashed books, helped autton. in and n, but Ihe fire, Then having eaten all they could, they prepared them- selves, with one accord, for the business now of drinking. But first they lifted the neck of corn, dressed with rib- bons gaily, and set it upon the mantelpiece, each man with his horn a-froth; and then they sang a song about it, every one shouting in the chorus louder than harvest thunderstorm. Some were in the middle of one verse, and some at the end of the next one; yet somehow all managed to get together in the mighty roar of the burden. And if any farmer up the country would like to know Exmoor harvest-song as sung in my time and will be sung long after I am garnered home, lo, here I set it down for him, omitting only the dialect, which perchance might puzzle him. EXMOOR HARVEST-SONG , ; / The com, oh the com, 'tis the ripening of the corn 1 Go unto the door, my lad, and look beneath the moon, . , Thou canst see, beyond the woodrick, how it is yelloon : Tis the harvesting of wheat, and the barley must be shorn. {Chorus) The com, oh the corn, and the yellow, mellow com I Here's to the com, with the cups upon the board I We've been reaping all the day, and we'll reap again the morn And fetch it home to mow-yard, and then we'll thank the Lord. .,r\ n t /. The wheat, oh the wheat, 'tis the ripening of the wheat 1 ^ . All the day it has been hanging down its heavy head, ./. . Bowing over on our bosoms with a beard of red : , ,1 Tis the harvest, and the value makes the labour sweet. ' '•' ..:,. ;,,.,- ■.-...,..;.,-,,-.:: ,;„.... ,..-.-..: .jz..., .:v\f I;' i ' ^ {Chorus) " ! ;! The wheat, oh the wheat, and the golden, golden wheat f i .' Here's to the wheat, with the loaves upon the board ! i 1 < We've been reaping all the day, and we never will be beat, But fetch it aU to mow-yard, and then well thank the Lord. 3 ■'>J['7 <,>3 • tt The barley, oh the barley, and the barley is in prime ! All the day it has been rustling, with its bristles brown,' - Waiting with its beard abowing, till it can be mown i '-^4:^ lis the harvest and the barley must abide itt timf« ^ Mioiinr I' I ^1; ! I 2l8 LORNA DOONE . , .... ,, ■-.,,,.>,-, ■, . . (Chorus) : .'■... ,>,:., •■■ .,j] y The barley, oh the barley, and the barley ruddy brown \ Here's to the barley, with the beer upon the board ! j We'll go amowing, soon as ever all the wheat is down ; When all is in the mow-yard, we'll stop, and thank the Lord. A ■ ■' '':'-';" " The oats, oh the oats, 'tis the ripening of the oats I ' * All the day they have been dancing with their flakes of white, Waiting for the girding-hook, to be the nags' delight : 'Tis the harvest, let them dangle in their skirted coats. {Chorus) The oats, oh the oats, and the silver, silver oats ! Here's to the oats with the blackstone on the board ! We'll go among them, when the barley has been laid in rotes : When all is home to mow-yard, we'll kneel and thank the Lord. The com, oh the com. and the blessing of the com ! Come unto the door, my lads, and look beneath the moon, We can see, on hill and valley, how it is yelloon, With a breadth of glory, as when our Lord was born. (Chorus) , . , The com, oh the com, and the yellow, mellow com ! Thanks for the com, with our bread upon the board ! So shall we acknowledge it, before we reap the mom. With our hands to heaven, and our knees unto the Lord. Now we sang this song very well the first time, having the parish choir to lead us, and the clarionet, and the parson to give us the time with his cup; and we sang it again the second time, not so but what you might praise it (if you had been with us all the evening), although the parson was gone then, and tbd clerk not fit to compare with him in the matter of keoping time. But when that song was in its third singing, I defy any man (however sober) to have made out one verse from the other, or even the burden from the verses, inasmuch as every man present, ay, and woman too, sang as became convenient to them, in utterance both of words and tune. And in truth, there was much excuse for them; be- cause it was a noble harvest, fit to thank the Lord for, without His thinking us hypocrites. For w« had xnor^ LORNA DOONE 2x9 land in wheat, that year, than ever we had before, and twice the crop to the acre; and I could not help now and then remembering, in the midst of the merriment, how my father in the churchyard yonder would have gloried to behold it. And my mother, who had left us now, happening to return just then, being called to have her health drunk (for the twentieth time at least), I knew by liie sadness in her eyes that she was thinking just as I was. Presently, therefore, I slipped away from tne noise, and mirth, and smoking (although of that last there was not much, except from Farmer Nicholas), and crossing the courtyard in the moonlight, I went, just to cool myself, as far as my father's tombstone. ii'[ CHAPTER XXX ANNIE GETS THE BEST OF IT I HAD long outgrown unwholesome feeling as to my father's death, and so had Annie; though Lizzie (who must have loved him least) still entertamed some evil will, and longing for a punishment. Therefore I was sur- prised (and indeed, startled would not be too much to say, the moon being somewhat fleecy), to see our Annie sitting there as motionless as the tombstone, and with all her best fallals upon her, after stowing away the dishes. My nerves, however, are good and strong, except at least in love matters, wherein they always fail me, and when I meet with witches; and therefore I went up to Annie, although she looked so white and pure; for I had seen her before with those things on, and it struck me who she was. ' - * What are you doing here, Annie?" 1 inquired rather sternly, being vexed with her for having gone so very near to frighten me. ' Nothing at all,* said our Annie shortly. And indeed it was truQi enough for a woman. Not that I dare to believe that women are such liars as men say; only that I mean they often see things round the comer, and know not which is which of it. And indeed I never have known a woman (though right enough in their meaning) purely and perfectly true and transparent, except only my 1 ■^ ! , ): i ■ . ■ 1 330 LORNA DOONE Lorna; and even so, I might not have loved her, if she had been ugly. r* • Why, how so?* said I; ' Miss Annie, what business have you here, doing nothing at this time of night? And leaving me with all the trouble to entertain our guests ! ' ' You seem not to me to be doing it, John,' Annie answered softly; ' what business have you here doing nothing, at this time of night?' I was taken so aback with this, and the extreme im- Fertinence of it, from a mere young girl like Annie, that turned round to march away and have nothing more to say to her. But she jumped up, and caught me by the hand, and threw herself upon my bosom, with her face all wet with tears. ' Oh, John, I will tell you. I will tell you. Only don't be angry, John.' ' Angry! no indeel,' said I; ' what right have I to be angry with you, because you have your secrets? Every chit of a girl thinks now that she has a right to her secrets. ' And you have none of your own, John; of course you have none of your own? All your going out at night ' ' We will not quarrel here, poor Annie,' I answered, with some loftiness; * there are many things upon my mind, which girls can have no notion of.' • And so there are upon mine, John. Oh, John, I will tell you everything, if you will look at me kindly, and promise to forgive me. Oh, I am so miserable ! ' Now this, though she was behaving so badly, moved me much towards her; especially as I longed to know what she had to tell me. Therefore I allowed her to coax me, and to kiss me, anv r and you must allow for harvest time.* 'Sc it seems,' he replied; *and allow a great deal, in- cluding waste and drunkenness. Now (if you can see so small a thing, after emptying flagons much larger) this is my granddaughter, and my heiress' — here he glanced at mother— 'my heiress, little Ruth Huckaback.' *I am very glad to see you, Ruth,' I answered, offering her my hand, which she seemed afraid to take; 'welcoine to Plover's Barrows, my good cousin Ruth.' ( . LORNA DOONE 2?7 ) time, •, while it Polly tier you a thing to wear gave me abashed made up courting ht be in grandly parelled; ed, as if I learned 16 Court, he latest e of the r,')y L«Ord eggs, and 1 must be > talk at. vn across Ben was e a little ed me to mutter- g bigger and he le better lanswe :>,^ deal, in- m see so rger) this glanced I. offering 'welcome However, my good cousin Kuth only arose, and made me a curtsey, and lifted her great browa eyes at me, more in fear, as I thought, than kinship. And if ever any one looked unlike the heiress to great property, it was the little girl before me. 'Come out to the kitchen, dear, and let me chuck you to the ceiling/ 1 said, just to encourage her; 'I always do it to little s^rls; and then they can see the hams and bacon.' But Uncle Reuben burst out la'^ghing; and Ruth turned away with a deep rich colour. 'Do you know how old she is, you numskull?' said Uncle Ben, in his dry est drawl; 'she was seveuteen last July, sir.' On the first of July, grandfather,' Ruth whispered, with her back still to me; 'but many people will not believe it.* Here mother came up to my rescue, as she always loved to do; and she said, *If my son may not dance Miss Ruth, at any rate he may dance with her. We have only been waiting for you, dear John, to have a little harvest dance, with the kitchen door thrown open. You take Ruth; Uncle Ben take Sally; Master Kebby pair off with Polly; and neighbour Nicholas will be good enough, if I can awake hun, to stand up with fair Mistress Kebby. Lizzie will play us the virginal. Won't you, Lizzie dear? ' But who is to dance with you, madam?' Uncle Ben asked, very politely. 'I think you must rearrange your figure. I have not danced for a score of years; and I will not dance now, while the mistress and iiie owDer o| the harvest sits aside neglected,* 'Nay, Master Huckaback,* cried Sally Snowe, with a saucy toss of her hair; 'Mistress Ridd is too kind a great deal, in handing you over to me. You take her; and I will fetch Annie to be my partner this evening. I like dancing very much better with girls, for they never squeeze i^nd rumple one. Oh, it is so much nicer ! ' > i 'Have no fear for me, my dears,' our mother answered smiling: 'Parson Bowden promised to come back again; I expect him every minute; and he intends to lead me off, and to bring a partner for Annie too, a very pretty young gentleman. Now begin; and I will join you.' There was no disobeying her, without rudeness; and indeed the girls' feet were already jigging: and Lizzie giving herself wonderful airs with a roll of learned music; \l • ■ » i i i h \ 228 LORNA DOONE and even while Annie was doing niy coUop, her pretty round instep was arching itself, as I could see from the parlour-door. So I took little Ruth, and I spun her around, as the sound of the music came lively and ring- ing; and after us came all the rest with much laughter, begging me not to jump over her; and anon my grave partner began to smile sweetly, and look up at me with the brightest of eyes, and drop me the prettiest curtseys; till I thought what a great stupe I must have been to dream of putting her in the cheese-rack. But one thing I could not at all understand; why mother, who used to do all in her power to throw me across Sally Snowe, should now do the very opposite; for she would not allow me one moment with Sally, not even to cross in the dance, or whisper, or go anywhere near a corner (which, as I said, I intended to do, just by way of practice); while she kept me, all the evenmg, as close as possible with Ruth Huckaback, and came up and praised me so to Ruth, times and again, that I declare I was quite ashamed. Although of course I knew that I deserved it all, but I could not well say that. Then Annie came sailing down the dance, with her beautiful hair flowing round her; the lightest figure in all the room, and the sweetest, and the loveliest. She was blushing, with her fair cheeks red beneath her dear blue eyes, as she met my glance of surprise and grief at the partner she was leaning on. It was Squire Marwood de Whichehalse. I would sooner have seen her with Tom Faggus, as indeed I had expected, when I heard of Parson Bowden. And to me it seemed that she had no right to be dancing so with any other; and to this effect I con- trived to whisper; but she only said, 'See to yourself, John. No, but let us both enjoy ourselves. You are not dancing with Loma, John. But you seem uncommouly happy. 'Tush,' I said; 'could I flip about so, if X had my love with me?* !■ ^ r-!- tr •\ -\ , i' ;i .-. ' f- • pretty rom the >un her ad ring- lughter, y grave Dae with curtseys; been to ne thing used to Snowe, lot allow s in the : (which, ;e); while ible with ne so to as quite (Served it LORNA DOONE 229 , CHAPTER XXXI JOHN fry's ERRAND ,, We kept up the dance very late that night, mother being in such wonderful spirits, that she would not hear of our going to bed: while she glanced from young Squire Marwood, very deep in his talk with our Annie, to me and Ruth Huckaback who were beginning toj^e very pleasant company. Alas, poor mother, so proud as she was, how little she dreamed that her good schemes already were hopelessly going awry I Being forced to be up before daylight next day, in order to begin right early, I would not go to my bedroom that night for fear of disturbing my mother, but deter- mined to sleep in the tallat awhile, that place being cool, and airy, and refreshing with the smell of sweet hay. Moreover, £^er my dwelling in town, where I had felt like a horse on a lime-kiln, I could not for a length of time have enough of country life. The mooing of a calf was music, and the chuckle of a fowl was wit, and the snore of the horses was news to me. 'Wult have thee own wai, I rackon,* said Betty, being cross with sleepiness, for she had washed up everjrthing; 'slape in hog-pound, if thee laikes, Jan.* Letting her have the last word of it (as is the due of women) I stood in the court, and wondered awhile at the glory of the harvest moon, and the yellow world it shone upon. Then I saw, as sure as ever I was standing there in tiie shadow of the stable, I saw a short wide figure glide across the foot of the courtyard, between me and the six-barred gate. Instead of running after it, as I should have done, I began to consider who it could be, and what on earth was doing there, when all our people were in bed, and the reapers gone home, or to the linhay close against the wheatneld. Having made up mv mind at last, that it could be none j of our people — ^thougn not a dog was barking — ^and also that it must have been either a girl or a woman^ I ran uown with all speed to learn what might be the meaning of it. But I came too late to learn, through my own hesi- tation; for this was the lower end of the courtyard, not [the approach from the parish highway, but the end of I! *■ ! 230 LOKNA t)OONE If : t II i tifltl the sledd-way, across the fields where the brook goes down to the Lynn stream, and where Squire Faggus had saved the old drake. And of course the dry channel of the brook, being scarcely any water now, afforded plenty of place to hide, leading also to a little coppice, beyond our cabbage-garden, and so further on to the parish highway. I saw at once that it Wd,s vain to make any pursuit by moonlight; and resolvitig to hold my own counsel about it (though pu2zled not a little) and to keep watch there another night, back I returned to the tallat-ladder, and slept without leaving ofiE till morning. Now many people may wish to know, as indeed 1 myseU did very greatly, WhSit had brought Master Hucka- back over from Dulverton, at that time of year, when the clotiiing business was most active On account of harvest wages, and When the n6W wheat was beginning to sample from the early parts up the countary (for he meddled as well in corn-aealing) and when we could not attend to him properly by reason of our occupation. And yet more surprising it seemed to me that he should have brought his granddaughter also, instead of the troop of dragoons, without which he had vowed he would never come here again. And how he had managed to enter the house, together with his granddaughter, and be sitting quite at home in the parlour there, without any knowledge or even suspicion on niy part. That last question was easily solved, for mother herself had admitted them by means of the little passage, during a chorus of the haiVest-song which might have drowned an earthquake: but as for hid meaning and motive> and apparent neglect of his business, none but himself could mterpret them; and as he did not see fit to do so, we could nbt be rude enough to inquire. He seetned in no hurty to take his departure, though his visit was so inconvenient to us, as himself indeed must have noticed: and presently Lizzie, Who was the sharpest among xx^t said in my hearing that She believed he had purposely timed his visit so that he might have liberty to pursue his oWfl object, whatsoever it were, without interruption from us. Mother gazed hafd uponj Lizzie at this> having fotmed a very different opinion; but Annie and myself agreed that it was worth looking | into. of ou LORNA DOONE 231 00k goes ,ggus had nel of the td plenty 5, beyond le padsh rutsuit by isel about itch there dder, and indeed I er Hucka- , when the of harvest to sample leddled as attend to i yet more r6 brought ; dragoons, come here 16 house, >g quite at ge or even as easily means of itvest-song lut as for ict of his and as e enough \t, though 3lf indeed was the believed jight have it were, lafd upon opinion; Ih fooking Now how could we look into it, without watching Uncle Reub6n, whenever he went abroad, and trying to catch him in his speech, when he was taking his ease at night. For, in spite of all the disgust with which he had spoken of harvest wassailing, there was not a man coming into our kitchen who liked it better than he did; only in a quiet way, and without too many witnesses. Now to endeavour to get at the purpose of any guest, even a treacherous one (which we had no right to think Uncle Reuben) by means of observing him in his cups, is a thing which even the lowest of people would regard with abhorrence. And to my mind it was not clear whether it would be fair^play at all to follow a visitor even at a distance from home and clear of our premises; except for the purpose of fetching him back, ana giving him more to go on with. Nevertheless we could not but think, the times being wild and disjointed, that Uncle Ben was not using fairly the part of a guest in our house, to make long expeditions we knew not whither, and involve us in trouble we knew not what. For his mode was directly after breakfast to pray to the Lord a little (which used not to be his practice), and then to go forth upon Dolly, the which was our Annie's pony, very quiet and respectful, with a bag of good victuals hung behind him, and two great cavalry pistols in front. And he always wore his meanest clothes as if expecting to be robbed, or to disarm the temptation thereto; and he never took his golden chronometer neither his bag of money. So much the girls found out and told me ^or I was never at home m)rself by day); land they very craftily spurred me on, having less noble ideas perhaps, to hit upon Uncle Reuben's track, and follow, and see what became of him. For he never re- turned until dark or more, just in time to be in before {us, who were coming home from the harvest. And then I Dolly always seemed very weary, and stained with a {muck from beyond our parish. But I refused to follow him, not only for the loss of a I day's work to myself, and at least half a day to the other men, but chiefly because I could not think that it would be upright and manly. It was all very well to creep warily into the valley of the Doones, and heed everj^thing around me, both because they were public enemies, and also I because I risked my lift at every it«p I took there. fi 232 LORN.A. DOONE ^^! \.ki But as to tracking a feeble old man (however subtle he might be), a guest moreover of our own, and a relative through my mother. — 'Once for all,' I said, 'it is below me, and I won't do it.' Thereupon, the girls, knowing my way, ceased to tor- ment me about it: but what was my astonishment the very next day to perceive that instead of fourteen reapers, we were only thirteen left, directly our break- fast was done with — or mowers rather I should say, for we were gone into the barley now. 'Who has been and left his scythe? ' I asked; 'and here's xi tin cup never been handled ! ' 'Whoy, dudn't ee knaw, Maister Jan,' said Bill Dadds, looking at me queerly, 'as Jan Vry wur gane avore braxvass.' *Oh, very well,' I answered, 'John knows what he is doing.* For John Fry was a kind of foreman now, and it would not do to say anvthing that might lessen his authority. However, I made up my mind to rope him, when I should catch him by himself, without peril to his dignity. But when I came home in the evening, late and almost weary, there was no Annie cooking my supper, nor Lizzie by the fire reading, nor even little Ruth Huckaback watching the shadows and pondering. Upon this, I went to the girls' room, not in the very best of tempers; and there I found all three of them in the little place set apart for Annie, eagerly listening to John Fry, who was telling some great adventure. John had a great jug of ale beside him, and a horn well drained; and he clearly looked upon himself as a hero, and the maids seemed to be of the same opinion. 'Well done, John,* my sister was saying, 'capitally done, John Fry. How very brave you have been, John. Now quick, let us hear the rest of it.' 'What does all this nonsense mean?' I said, in a voice which frightened them, as I could see by the light of our own mutton candles : 'John Fry, you be ofif to your wife at once, or you shall have what I owe you now, instead of to-morrow morning.' John made no answer, but scratched his head, and looked at the maidens to take his part. •It is you that must be off, I think.' saM Lizzie, looking straight at me with all tb« impud«nc« in the world; LORNA DOONE 333 lubtle he , relative is below id to tor- ment the fourteen ar break- l say, for ind here's ill Dadds, me avore rhat he is now, and lessen his rope him, )enl to his md almost nor Lizzie uckaback lis, I went Lpers; and set apart /as telling lale beside )ked upon the same 'capitally |en, John. in a voice jht of our rour wife instead ead, and le looking world; 'what ri^ht have you to come in here to the young ladies' room, without an invitation even?* 'Very well, Miss Lizzie, I suppose mother has some right here.' And with that, I was going away to fetch her, knowing that she always took my side, and never would allow the house to be turned upside down in that manner. But Annie caught hold of me by the arm, and little Ruth stood in the doorway; and Lizzie said, 'Don't be a fool, John. We know thmgs of you, you know; a great deal more than you dream of.' Upon this I glanced at Annie, to learn whether she had been telling, but her pure true face reassured me at once, and then she said very gently, — 'Lizzie, you talk too fast, my child. No one knows anything of our John which he need be ashamed of; and working as he does from light to dusk, and earning the living of all of us, he is entitled to choose his own good time for going out and for coming in, without consulting a little girl five years younger than himself. Now, John, sit down, and you shall know all that we have done, though I doubt whether you will approve of it.' Upon this I kissed Annie, and so did Ruth; and John Fry looked a deal more comfortable, but Lizzie only made a face at us. Then Annie began as follows : — 'You must know, dear John, that we have been ex- tremely curious, ever since Uncle Reuben came, tc know what he was come for, especially at this time of year, when he is at his busiest. He never vouchsafed any ex- planation, neither gave any reason, true or false, which shows his entire ignorance of all feminine nature. If Ruth had known, and refused to tell us, we should have jbeen much easier, because we must have got it out of [Ruth before two or three days were over. But darling Ruth knew no more than we did; and indeed I must do her the justice to say that she has been (^uite as inquisi- tive. Well, we might have put up with it, if it had not been for his taking Dolly, my own pet Dolly, away every I morning, quite as if she belonged to him, and keeping her out until close upon dark, and then bringing her home in a frightful condition. And he even had the impudence, when I told him that Dolly was my pony, to say that we owed him a pony, ever since you took from him -diat little horse upon which you found him strapped so saugly; and he means to take Dolly to Dulverton with «34 LORNA DOONE i 1 :• 1 him, to run in his little cart. If there is law in the land, he shall not. Surely, John, you will not let him?' *That I won't,' said I, except upon the conditions which I offered him once before. If we owe him the pony, we owe him the straps.' Sweet Annie laughed, like a bell, at this, and then she went on with her story. 'Well, John, we were perfectly miserable. You cannot understand it, of course; but I used to go every evening, and hug poor Dolly, and kiss her, and beg her to tell me where sne bad been, and what she bad seen, that day. But never having belonged to Balaam, darling Dolly was quite unsuccessful, though often she strove to tell me, with her ears down, and both eyes rolling. Then I made John Fry tie her tail in a knot, with a piece of white ribbon, as if for adornment, that I might trace her among the hills, at any rate for a mile or two. But Uncle Ben was too deep for that; he cut off the ribbon before he started, saymg he would have no Doones after him. And then, in despair, I applied to you, knowing how quick of ifoot you are, and I got Ruth and Lizzie to help me, but you answered us very shortly; and a ven- poor supper you had that night, according to your deserts. 'But though we were dashed to the ground for a time, we were not wholly discomfited. Our determination tol know all about it seemed to increase with the difl&culty. And Uncle Ben's manner last night was so dry, when we tried to romp and to lead him out, that it was much worse than Jamaica ^nger grated into a poor sprayed finger. So we sent him to bed at the earliest moment, and held a small council upon him. If you remember, you, John, having now taken to smoke (which is a hateful I practice), had gone forth grumbling about your bad| supper and not taking it as a good lesson.' 'Why, Annie,' I cried, in amazement at this, *I will I never trust you again for a supper. I thought you were] so sorry.' 'And so I was, dear; very sorry. But still, we mustl do our duty. And when we came to consider it, Ruth was the cleverest of us all; for she said that surely we must have some man we could trust about the farm to go on a little errand; and then I remembered that old| John Fry would do anything for money.* LORNA DOONK 235 'Not for money, plaize, miss,' said, John Fry, taking a pull at the beer; 'but for the love of your swate face.' To be sure, John; with the King's behind it. And so Lizzie ran for John Fry at once, and we gave him full directions, how he was to slip out of the barley in the con- fusion of the breakfast, so that none might miss him; and to run back to the black combe bottom, and there he would find the very same pony which Uncle Ben had been tied upon, and there is no faster upon the farm. And then, without waiting for anjr breakfast unless he could eat it either running or trotting, he was to travel all up the black combe, by the track Uncle Heuben had taken; and up at the top to look forward carefully, and 80 to trace him without being seen.' 'Ay: and raight wull a doo'd un,' John cried, with his mouth in the bullock's horn. Well, and what did ypu see, John?' X asked, with great anxiety; though I meant to have shown no interest. 'John was just at the very point of it, ' Lizzie answered me sharply, 'when you chose to come in and stop him,' 'Then let him begin again,' said I; 'things being gone so far, it i9 now my duty to know everything, for the sake of you ^l» and mother.' Hem!' qn^d LizziQ, in a nasty way; but I took no aotice of her, fPF she was always bad to deal with. There- fore John Fry began again, being heartily glad to do so, that his story might get out of the tumble which all our talk had made in it. But as he could not tell a tale in the manner of my Lorna (although he told it very well ifor those who understood him) I will take it from his mouth altogether, and state in brief what happened, When John, upon his forest pony, which he had much ado to hQld (its mouth being like a bucket), was come to the top of the long black combe, two miles or more ibrom Plover's Barrows, and winding to the southward, he stopped his little nag short of the crest, and got off and looked ahead of him, from behind a tump of whortles. It was a long flat sweep of moorland over which he was gazing, with a few bogs here and there, and brushy places round them^ Of course, John Fry, from his shepherd life and reclaiming of strayed cattle, knew as well as need be ■where he was, and the spread of tl^e hills before him^ Ulthough it was beyond qur beat, or, rather, I should Sfty, Ibeside it. Not but what we might have grazed ^ere had I' *' I Im I? J f 236 LORN A DOONE Wi it been our pleasure, but that it was not worth while, and scarcely worth Jasper Kebby's even; all me land being cropped (as one might say) with desolation. And nearly all our knowledge of it sprang from the un- accountable tricks of cows who have young calves with them; at which time they have wild desire to get away from the sight of man, and keep calf and milk for one another, aluiough it be in a barren land. At least, our cows have gotten this trick, and I have heard other people complain of it. John Fry, as I said, knew the place well enough, but he liked it "none the more for that, neither did any of our people; and, indeed, all the neighbourhood of Thomshill ancl Larksborough, and most of all Black Barrow Down lay under ^ave imputation of having been enchanted with a very evil spell. Moreover, it was known, though folk were loath to speak of it, even on a summer morning, that Squire Thom, who had been murdered there, a century ago or more, had been seen by several shepherds, even in the middle day, walking with his severed head carried in his left hand, and his right arm lifted towards the sun. Therefore it was very lx)ld in John (as I acknowledged) to venture across that moor alone, even with a fast pony under him, and some whisky by his side. A*^d he would never have done so (of that 1 am quite certa either for the sake of Annie's sweet face, or of the g .n guinea, which the three maidens had subsodbed to reward his skill and valour. But the truth was that he could not resist his own great curiosity. For, carefully spying across the moor, from behind the tuft of whortles, at first he could discover nothing having life and motion, except three or four wild cattle roving m vain search for nourish- ment, and a diseased sheep banished hither, and some carrion crows keeping watch on her. But when John was taking his very last look, being only too glad to go home j again, and acknowledge himself baffled, he thought he saw a figure moving in the farthest distance upon Black Barrow Down, scarcely a thing to be sure of yet, on account of the want of colour. But as he watched, the figure passed between him and a naked cliff, and appeared to be a man on horseback, making his way very carefull}.', in fear of bogs and serpents. For all about there it is adders' ground, and large black serpents dwell in tbe| marshes, and can swim as well as crawl. LORI^A DOONB «37 John knew that the man who was riding there could be none but Uncle Reuben, for none of the Doones ever passed that way, and the shepherds were afraid of it. And now it seemed an unkind place for an unarmed man to venture through, especially after an armed one who might not like to be spied upon, and must have some dark object in visiting such drear solitudes. Nevertheless John Frv so ached with unbearable curiosity to know what an old man, and a stranger, and a rich man, and a peaceable could possibly be after in that mysterious manner. Moreover, John so throbbed with hope to find some wealthy secret, that come what would of it he resolved to go to the end of the matter. Therefore he only waited awhile for fear of being dis- covered, till Master Huckaback turned to the left and entered a little gully, whence he could not survey the moor. Then John remounted and crossed the rough land and the stony places, and picked his way among the morasses as fast as ever he aared to go; until, in about half an hour, he drew nigh the entrance of the gully. And now it behoved him to be most wary; for Uncle Ben might have stopped in there, either to rest his horse or having reached the end of nis journey. And in either case, John had little doubt that he himself would be pistolled, and nothing more ever heard of him. There- fore he made his pony come to the mouth of it sideways, and leaned over and peered in around the rocky comer, while the little horse cropped at the briars. But he soon perceived that the gully was empty, so far at least as its course was straight; and with that he hastened into it, though his heart was not working easily. When he had traced the winding hollow for half a mile or more, he saw that it forked, and one part led to the left up a steep red bank, and the other to the right, being narrow and slightly tending downwards. Some yellow sand lay here and there between the starving grasses, and tibis he examined narrowly for a trace of Master Huckaback. At last he saw that, beyond all doubt, the man he was pursuing had taken the course which led down hill; and down the hill he must follow him. And Ihis John did with deep misgivings, and a hearty wish that he had never started upon so perilous an errand. For now he knew not where ne was, and scarcely dared to ask himself, having heard of a horrible bole, somewhere in this 838 LORNA DOONS neighbourhood « culled the Wizard's Sloufth. Therefore John rode down the slope, with sorrow, and great caution. And these grew more as he went onward, and his pony reared against him, being scared, although a native of the roughest moorland. And John had just made up his mind that God meant this lor a wammg, as the passage seemed darker and deeper, when suddenly he turned a comer, and saw a scene which stopped hiin. For there was the Wizard's Slough itself, as black as death, and bubbling, with a few scant yellow reeds in a ring around it. Outside these, bright water*grass of the liveliest green was creeping, tempting any unwary foot to step, and plunge, and founder. And on the marge were blue campanula, sundew, and forget-me-not, such as no child could resist. On either side, the hill fell back, and the ground was broken with tufts of rush, and flag, and mareS'tail, and a few rough alder-trees overclogged with water. And not a bird was seen or heard, neither rail nor water-hen, wag-tail nor reed- warbler. Of this horrible quagmire, the worst upon all Exmoor, John had heard fn/m his grandfather, and even from his rtother, when they wanted to keep him quiet; but his father had feared to speak of it to him, being a man of piety, and up to the tricks of the evil one. This made John the more desirous to have a good look at it now, only with his girths well up, to turn away and flee at speed, if any^ching should happen. And now he proved how well it is to be wary and wide-awake, even in lone- some places. For at the other side of the Slough, and a few land-yards beyond it, where the ^und was less noisome, he had observed a felled tree lymg over a great hole in the eeurth, with staves of wood, and slabs of stone, and some yellow gravel around it. But the flags of reeds around th6 morass partly screened it from his eyes, and he could not make out the meaning of it, except that it meant no good, and probably was witchcraft. Yet Dolly seenred not to be harmed by it; for there she was as larg(^ as life, tied to a stump not far beyond, and flipping the liies away with her tail. While John was trembling within himself, lest Dolly should get scent ot his pony, and neigh and reveal their presence, althoiigh she could not see them, suddenly to his great amazement something white arOse out of the hole, under the brown trunk of the tree. Seeing this his blood tl st ai LORNA DOONE 239 went back within him; yet he was not able to turn and flee, but rooted his face in among the loose stones, and kept his (Quivering shoulders back, and prayed to God to protect hun. However, the white thing itself was not so very awful, being nothing more than a long-coned night-cap with a tassel on the top, such as criminals wear at hanging- time. But when John saw a man's face under it, and a man's neck and shoulders slowly rising out of the pit, he could not doubt that this was the place where the murderers come to life again, according to the Exmoor story. He knew that a man had been hanged last week, and that this was the ninth day after it. Therefore he could bear no more, thoroughly brave as be had been; neither did he wait to see what became of the gallows-man; but climbed on his horse with what speed he might, and rode away at full gallop. Neither did he dare go bacix by the way he came, fearing to face Black Barrow Downl therefore he struck up the other track leading away towards Cloven Rocks, and after riding hard for an hour and drinking all his whisky, he luckily fell in with a shepherd, who led him on to a pubUc-house somewhere near Exeford. And here he was so unmanned, the excitement being over, that nothing less than a gallon of ale and half a gammon of bacon, brought him to his right mind again. And he took good care to be home before dark, having followed a well- known sheep track. When John Fry finished his story at last, after many exclamations from Annie, and from Litzie, and mucjfi praise of his gallantry, yet some little disappointment that he had not stayed there a little longer, while he was about it, so as to be able to tell us more, I said to him very sternly,— .=. -ij^r .->.!.:... •, '.■,>.•«.: ■.>..■:,. a 'Now, John, you have dreamed half this, my man. I firmly beueve that you fell asleep at the top of the black combe, after drinking all your whisky, and never went on the moor at all. You know what a liar you are, John.' The girls were exceedingly angry at this, and laid liieir hands before my mouth; but I waited for John to answer, with my eyes fixed upon him steadfastly. 'Bain't &r me to denai,' said John, loclnng at me very honestly, 'but what a maight tull a lai. now and awhiles, zame as other men doth, and most of arl them as spaks again it; but this here be no lai. Maister Jan. I wush ;. I . JMl I 1 240 LORNA DOONE to God it wor, boy : a maight slape this naight the better.* 'I believe you speak the truth, John; and I ask your pardon. Now not a word to any one, about this strange affair. There is mischief brewing, I can see; and it is my place to attend to it. Several things come across me now — only I will not tell you.' 1 nhii They were not at all contented with this; but I would give them no better; except to say, when they plagued me greatly, and vowed to sleep at my door all night, — 'Now, my dears, this is foolish of you. Too much of this matter is known already. It is for your own dear sakes that I am bound to be cautious. I have an opinion of my own; but it majr be a very wrong one; I will not ask you to share it with me; neither will I make you inquisitive.' Annie pouted, and Lizzie frowned, and Ruth looked at me with her eyes wide open, but no other mark of regard- ing me. And I saw that if any one of the three (for John Fry was gone home with the trembles) could be trusted to keep a secret, that one was Ruth Huckaback. ■J . CHAPTER XXXII FEEDING OF THE PIGS The story told by John Fry that night, and my conviction of its truth, made me very uneasy, especially as following upon the warning of Judge Jeffreys, and the hints received from Jeremy Stickles, and the outburst of the tanner at Dunster, as well as sundry tales and rumours, and signs of secret understanding, seen and heard on marketrdays, and at places of entertainment. We knew for certain that at Taunton, Bridgwater, and even Dulverton, there was much disaffection towards the King, and regret for the days of the Puritans. Albeit I had told the truth, and the pure and simple truth, when, upon my examination. I had assured his lordship, that to the best of my know- ledge there was nothing of the sort with us. 1 : oibH' But now I was beginning to doubt whether I might not have been mistaken; especially when we heard, as wo did, of armg being landed at Lynmouth^ in the dead LORNA DOONE 241 of the night, and of the tramp of men having reached some one s ears, from a bill where a famous echo was. For it must be plain to any conspirator (without the ex- ample of the Doones) that for the secret muster of men, and the stowing of unlawful arms, and communication by beacon lights, scarcely a fitter place could be found than the wilds of Exmoor, with deep ravines running far inland from an unwatched and mostly a sheltered sea. For the Channel from Countisbury Foreland up to Mine- head, or even farther, though rocky, and gusty, and full of currents, is safe from great rollers and the sweeping power of the south-west storms, which prevail with us more than all the others, and make sad work on the opposite coast. But even supposing it probable that something against King Charles the Second (or rather against his Roman advisers, and especially his brother) were now in prepara- tion amongst us, was it likely that Master Huckaback, a wealthy man, and a careful one, known moreover to the Lord Chief Justice, would have anything to do with it? To this I could make no answer; Uncle Ben was so close a man, so avaricious, and so revengeful, that it was quite impossible to say what course he might pursue, without knowing all the chances of gain, or rise, or satis- faction to him. That he hated the Papists I knew full well, though he never spoke much about them; also that he had followed the march of Oliver Cromwell's army, but more as a suttler (people said) than as a real soldier; and that he would go a long way, and risk a great deal of money, to have his revenge on tne Doones; although their name never passed his lips during the present visit. But how was it likely to be as to the Doones themselves? Which side would they probably take in the coming move- ment, if movement indeed it would be? So far as they had any religion at all, by birth they were Roman Catholics — so much I knew from Loma; and indeed it was well known all around, that a priest had been fetched more than once to the valley, to soothe some poor outlaw's departure. On the other hand, they were not likely to entertain much affection for the son of the man who had banished them and confiscated their property. And it was not at all impossible that desperate men, such as they were, having nothing to lose, but estates to recover, and not being held by religion much, should cast away all !; <42 LORNA DOONE u ' )l f I \ regard tor the birth from which they had been cast out, and make common cause with a Protestant rising, for the chance of revenge and replacement. However I do not mean to say that all these things occurred to me as clearly as I have set them down; only that I was in general doubt, and very sad perplexity. For mother was so warm, and innocent, and kmd so to every one, that knowing some little by this time of the EngUsh constitution, I feared very greatly lest she should be ?unished for harbouring malcontents. As well as possible knew, that if any poor man came to our door, and cried, 'Officers are after me; for God's sake take and hide me,' mother would take him in at once, and conceal, and feed him; even though he had been very violent; and, to tell the truth, so would both my sisters, and so indeed would I do. Whence it will be clear that we were not the sort of people to be safe among disturbances. Before I could quite make up my mind how to act in this difficulty, and how to get at the rights of it (for I would not spy after Uncle Reuben, though I felt no great fear of the Wizard's Slough, and none of the man with the white night-cap), a difference came again upon it, and a change of chances. For Uncle Ben went away as suddenly as he first had come to us, giving no reason for his departure, neither claiming the pony, and indeed leav- ing something behind him of great value to my mother. For he begged her to see to his young granddaughter, until he could find opportunity of fetching her safely to Dulverton. Mother was overjoyed at this, as ^e could not help displaying; and Ruth was quite as much de- lighted, although she durst not show it. For at Dulverton she had to watch and keep such ward on the victuals, and the in and out of the shopmen, that it went entirely against her heart, and she never could enjoy herself. Truly she was an altered girl from the day she came to us; catching our tinsuspicious manners, and our free goodwill, and hearty noise of laughing. By this time, the harvest being done, and the thatching of the ricks made sure against south-western tempests, and all the reapers being gone, with good money and thankfulness, I oegan to bum in spirit for the sight of lA>ma. I had beffged my sister Annie to let Sally Snowe know, once for all, that it was not in my power to have any thing more to do with her. Of course our Annie waa LOHKA DOONE 843 not to grieve Sally, neither to let it appear for a moment that I suspected ner kind views upon me« and her strdng regard for our dairy: only I thought it right upon our part not to waste Sally's time any longer, being a hand- some wench as she was, and many young fellows glad to marry her. And Annie did this uncommonly well, as she herself told me afterwards, having taken Sally in the sweetest manner into her pure confidence, and opened half her bosom to her, about my very sad love affair. Not that she let Sally know, of course, who it was, or what it was; only that she made her understand, without hinting at any desire of it, that there was no chance now of having me. Sally changed colour a little at this, and then went on about a red cow which had passed seven needles at milking time. Inasmuch as there are two sorts of month well recog- nised by the calendar, to wit the lunar and the solar, I made bold to re^'p.rd both my months, in the absence of any provision, as intended to be strictly lunar. Therefore upon the very da>' when the eight weeks were expiring, forth I went in search of Loma, taking the pearl ring hopefully, and all the new-laid eggs I could find, and a dozen and a half of small trout from our brook. And the pleasure it gave me to catch those trout, thinking as every one came forth and danced upon the grass, how much she would enjoy him, is more than I can now de- scribe, although I well remember it. And it struck me that after accepting my ring, and saying how much she loved me, it was possible that my Queen might invite me even to stay and sup with her: aiid so I arranged with dear Annie beforehand, who was now the greatest comfort to me, to account for my absence if I should be late. But alas, I was utterly disappointed; for although I waited and waited for hours, with an equal amount both of patience and peril, no Loma ever appeared at all, nor even the faintest sign of her. Ana another thing occurred as well, which vexed me more than it need ha>re done, for so smsill a matter. And this was that my little offering of the trout and the new-laid eggs was canied off in the coolest manner by that vile Carver Docne. For thinking to keep them the fresher and nicer, av/ay from so much handling, I laid them in a little bed of reeds by the side of the water, and placed some dog-leaves over \i i 1 i I it ' I- *• 4 * , I ^ ;' .S 8^4 LORNA DOOKE thorn. And when I had c^uite iorgotten about them, and was watching from my hidins-place beneath the willow- tree (for I liked not to enter Loma's bower, without her permission; except just to pee^ that she was not there), and while 1 was turning tho ring in my pocket, having just seen the new moon, I became aware of a great man coming leisurely down the valley. He had a broad-brim- med hat, and a leather ierkin, and heavy jack -boots to his middle thigh, and what was worst of all for me, on his shoulder he bore a long carbine. Having nothing to meet him withal but my staff, and desirmg to avoid disturbance, I retired promptly into the chasm, keeping the tree betwixt us that he might not descry me, and watching from behind the jut of a rock, where now I had scraped my sell a neat little hole for the purpose. Presently the great man reappeared, ^eing now within fifty yards of me, and the light still good enough, as he drew nearer, for me to descry his features: and though I am not a judge of men's faces, there was something in his which turned me cold, as though with a kind of horror. Not that it was an ugly face; nay, rather it seemed a handsome one, so far as mere; form and line might go, full of strength, and vigour, and will, and steadfast resolution. From the short black hair above the broad forehead, to the long black beard descending below the curt, bold chin, there was not any curve or glimpse of weakness or of afterthought. Nothing playful, nothing pleasant, nothing with a track of smiles; nothing which a friend could like, and laugh at him for having. And yet he might have been a goodf man (for I have known very good men so fortified by their own strange ideas of God) : I say that he might have seemed a good man, but for the cold and cruel hankering of his steel-blue eyes. Now let no one suppose for a minute that I saw all this in a moment; for I am very slow, and take a long time to digest things; only I like to set down, and have oone with it, all the results of my knowledge, though they be not manifold. But what I said to myself, just then, was no more than this : 'What a fellow to have Lorna 1' Having my tense of right so outraged (although, of course, I would never allow her to go so far as that), I almost longed that he mi^ht thrust his head in to look after me. For there I was, with my ash staff clubbed, ready to have at him, and not ill inclined to do so; if only he would come LORNA DOONE 245 where strength, not firearms, must decide it. However, he suspected nothing of my dangerous neighbourhood; but walked his round like a sentinel, and turned at the brink of the water. ' '' " Then as he marched back again, along the margin of the stream, he espied my little hoard, covered up with dog- leaves. He saw that the leaves were upside down, and this of course drew his attention. I saw him stoop, and lay bare the fish, and the eggs set a little way from them; aiid in my simple heart, I thought that now he knew all about me. But to my surprise, he seemed well-pleased; and his harsh short laughter came to me without echo, — 'Ha, ha! Charlie boy! Fisherman Charlie, have I caught thee setting bait for Lorna? Now, I understand thy fishings, and the robbing of Counsellor's hen roost. May I never have good roasting, if I have it not to-night, and roast thee, Charlie, afterwards!' With this he calmly packed up my fish, and all the best of dear Annie's eggs; and went away chuckling stead- fastly, to his home, if one may call it so. But f was so thoroughly grieved and mortified by this most impudent robbery, that I started forth from my rocky screen with the intention of pursuing him, until my better sense arrested me, barely in time to escape his eyes. For I said to myself, that even supposing I could contend unarmed with him, it would be the greatesc folly in the world to have my secret access known, and perhaps a fatal barrier placed oetween Lorna and myself and I knew not what trouble brought upon her, al! for the sake of a few eggs and fishes. It was better to b*:ar tiiis trilling loss, however ignominious and goading to the spirit, than to risk my love and Lorna' s welfare, and perhaps be shot into the bargain. And I think that all will a^ee with me, that I acted for the wisest. In withdrawmg to my shelter, though deprived of eggs and fishes. Having waited (as I said) until there was no chance whatever of my love appearing, I hastened homeward very sadly; and the wind of early autumn moaned across the moorland. All the beauty of the harvest, all the gaiety was gone, and the early fall of d. sk was like a weight upon me. Nevertheless, I went every evening thenceforward for a fortnight; hoping, every time in vain, to find my hope and comfort. And meanwhile, what j. I I X ■■■ 246 LORNA DCX)NE 1fi:M ■i I: II perplexed me most was that the signals were laplaced, in order as agreed upon, so that Loma could scarcely be restrained by any rigour. One time I had a narrow chance of being shot and settled with; and it befell me thus. X was waiting very carelessly, being now a little desperate, at the entrance to the glen, instead of watching through my sight-hole, a? the proper practice was. Suddenly a ball went by me, with a whizz and whistle, passing through my hat and sweeping it away all folded up. My soft hat fluttered far down the stream, before I had time to go after it, and with the help of both wind and water, was fifty yards gone in a moment. At tiiis I had just enough mina left to shrink back very suddenly, and lurk very still and closely; for 1 knew what a narrow esccpe it had been, as I heard the bnllet, hard set by the powder, sing mournfully down the chasm, like a drone banished out of the hive. And as 1 peered through my little cranny, I saw a wreath of smoke still floating where the thickness was of the withy-bed; and presently Carver Doone came forth, having stopped to reload his piece perhaps, and ran v^ry swifUy to the entrance to see what he had shot. Sore trouble had I to keep close quarters, from the slipperiness of the stone beneath me with the water sliding over it. My foe came auite to the verge of the fall, where the river began to c S over; and ther^ he stopped for a minute or two, on t ■■- tmost edge of dry laad, upon the very spot indeed where I had fallen senseless when 1 clomb it in my boj^hood. I could hear him breathing hard and grunting, as in doubt and discontent, for he stood withiq a yam of me, and I kept my right fist ready for him, if he should discover me. Then at the foot of the waterslide, my black hat suddenly appeared, tossing in white foam, and fluttering like a raven wounded. Now I had doubted which hat to take, when I left home that day; till I thought that the black became me best, and might s^em kinder to Loma. TIave \ killed thee, old bird, at last?' my enemy cried in triumph; ' 'tis the third time I have shot at thee, and thou wast beginning to mock me. No more of thy cursed croaking now, to wake me in the morning. Ha, ha I there are not man> who get three chances from Carvei Doone; and none ever go beyond it.' I laughed within myself at this, as he strode aw^y ic ^iV LORNA DOONE U7 his triumph; for was not thin hia third chance of me. and he no whit the wiser? And tben I thouffht that perhaps the chance might some day be oh the other side. For to tell the truth, I was heartily tired of lurking and playing bo-peep so long; to which nothing could have reconciled me, except my fear for Lorna. And here I saw was a man of strength fit for me to encounter, such I had never met, but would be glad to meet with; as having found no man of late who needed not my mercy, at wrestling, or at single-stick. And growing more and more uneasy, as I found no Lorna, I would have tried to force the Doone Glen from the upper end, and take my chance of getting back, but for Annie and her prayers. Now that same night I think it was, or at any rate the next one, that I noticed Betty Muxworthy going on most strangely. She made the queerest signs to me, when nobody was looking, and laia her fingers on her lips, and pointed over her shoulder. But I took little heed of her, being in a kind of dudgeon, and oppressed with evil luck; believing too that all she wanted was to have some little grumble about some petty grievance. But presently she poked me with the heel of a fire- bUiidle, and passing close to my ear whispered, so that none else comd hear her, *Lama Doo-un.' By these words I was so startled, that I turned round and stared at her; but she pretended not to know it, and began with all her might to scour an empty crock with a oesom. 'Oh, Betty, let me help you ! That work is much too hard for you,* I cried with a sudden chivalry, which only won rude answer. *Zeed me adooing of thic, every naight last ten year, Jan, wiout vindin' out how hard it wor. But if zo bee thee wants to help, carr peg's bucket tor me. Massy, if I ain't forgotten to fade the pegs till now.* - Favouring me with another umk, to which I now paid the keenest heed, Betty went and fetched the lanthorn from the hook inside the door. Then when she had kindled it, not allowing me any time to ask what she was after, she went outsiae, and pointed to the great bock of wash, and riddlings, and brown hulkage (for we ground our own com always), and though she knew that Bill Dadds and Jem Slocombe had full work to carry it on a pole (with another to help to sling it), she said to me as quietly as I \t ■' : [ 4 " ■ 1* *» 348 LORNA DOONE a maiden might ask one to carry a gluve, 'Jan Ridd, carr thic thing for me.' So I carried it for her, without any words; wondering what she was up to next, and whether she had ever heard of being too hard on the willing horse. And when we came to hog-pound; she turned upon me suddenly, with the lanthorn she was bearing, and saw that I had the bock by one hand very easily. 'Tan Ridd,' she said, 'there be no other man in England cud a' dood it. Now thee shalt have Lama.' 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 blink- ing their little eyes, and grunting prettily to coax us; as who would say, 'I trust you now; you will be kind, J know, and give me the nrst and the very best of it.' 'Oppen ge-at now, wuU 'e, Jan? Maind, young sow wi' the baible back arlwa^ hath first toom 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 liiey.wud gie thee a good baite, mak thee hop a bit vaster, I reckon. Hit that there. girt ozebird over's LORNA DOONE 249 dd, carr 3ndering er heard vhen we ily, with had the England ng Lorna and how 1 seemed I was all the pigs, nptiness, II around Lgs do, to 5 sweetly id out all int-blank t, but all jueaking. ^aste sich the pigs, she was, til all the 11 look at Kpressing *to and Ion, some png each itting up id blink- IX us; as kind, 1 bt of it.' sow wi' brought low her thiccy Ithe wai. \e hop a Id over's back wi' the broomstick, he be robbing of my young zow. Choog, choog, choog! and a drap more left in the dipping-pail.' ' » i^f \ '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 zea, a wake agone last Vriday, as how I had got a girt be-ard. WuU 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 fail' 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.* • • •' ' v ' - *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 Lama 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 aither 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 knaw young pegs. I myzell been o' that zort one taime every bit so well as you be.' And Betty held the lanthom up, and defied me to deny it; and the light through the horn showed a gleam m her eyes, such as I had never seen tiiere 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 Ittcky foolery for thee, my boy, I can tuU *••. I t 250 LORNA DOONE For I love to see the love in thee. Coom'th over mtj 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 tuU '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 handk, and stared at me, feigning anger. 'Oh fai, oh fai I Lunnon impudence, I doubt. I vear thee hast gone on zadly, Jan.' r m CHAPTER XXXIII AN EARLY MORNING CALL • i] 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 gray mountain, and wavering length of upland. Beneath his gaze the dew-fogs dipped^ ana crept to the hollow places; then stole away in line and column, holding skirts, and clinging subtly at the sheltering comers, 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. Autunm'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 * t ♦ i. ; 'Oh, but think of her, dear. I am sure she could not bear it, after this great shock already.' 'She will bear it all the better,' said I; 'the one will drive the other out. I know exactly what mother is. She will be desperately savage first with you, and then with me, and then for a verjr little while with both of us to- gether; and then she will put one against the other (in her mind I mean) and consider which was most to blame; and in doing that she will be compelled to find the best in either' s case, that it may beat tiie other* and so as the pleas come before her mind, they will gain upon the charges, both of us being her children, you know : and be- fore very long (particularly if we both keep out of the way) she will bepin to think that after all she has been a little too hasty; and then she will remember how good we have always been to her; and how like our father. Upon that, she will think of her own love-time, and sigh a good bit, and cry a little, and then smile, and send for both of us, and beg our pardon, and call us her two darlings.' 'Now, John, how on earth can you know all that?' exclaimed my sister, wiping her eyes, and gazing at me with a soft bright smiic. Who on earth can have told you, John? People to call you stupid indeed! Why, I feel that all you say is quite true, because you describe so exactly what I should do myself; I mean — I mean if I had two children, who had behaved as we have done But tell me, darling John, how you learned all this.' 'Never you mind,' I replied, with a nod of some con- ceit, I fear: 'I must be a fool if I did not know what mother is by this tim«.' Now inasmuch as the thing befell according to my pre- diction, what need for me to dwell upon it, after saying how it would be? Moreover, I would regret to write LOENA DOONE 257 , kindly going to an, that you her m to the ind then ay dear.' at Lorna > have it :ould not one will er is. She :hen with of us to- other (in to blame; he best in so as the upon the r : and be- »ut of the las been a 7 good we ler. Upon gh a good )r both of iarlings.' .11 that?' ^ng at me ave told Why. I describe mean it ,ve done this.' tome con- LOW what my pre- |er saying to write down what mother said about Lorna, in her first surprise and tribulation; not only because I was grieved by the gross injustice of it, and frightened mother with her own words (repeated deeply after her); but rather because it is not well, when people repent of hasty speech, to enter it against them. That is said to be the angels' business; and 1 doubt if they can attend to it much, without doing injury to themselves. However, by the afternoon, when the sun began to go down upon us, our mother sat on the garden bench, with her head on my great otter-skin waistcoat (which was waterproof), and her right arm round our Annie's waist, and scarcely knowing which of us she ought to make the most of, or which deserved most pity. Not that she had forgiven yet the rivals to her love — Tom Faggus, I mean, and Lorna — but that she was beginning to think a little better of them now, and a vast deal better of her own children. And it helped her much in this regard, that she was not thinking half so well as usual of herself, or rather of her own judgment; for in good truth she had no self, only as it came home to her, by no very distant road, but by way of her children. A better mother never lived; and can I, after searching all things, add another word to that? And indeed poor Lizzie was not so very bad; but behaved (on the whole) very well for her. She was much to be pitied, poor thing, and great allowances made for her, as belonging to a well-grown family, and a very comely one; and feeling her own shortcomings. This made her leap to the other extreme, and reassert herself too much, endeavouring to exalt the mind at the expense of the body; because she had the invisible one (so far as can be decided) in better share than the visible. Not but what she had her points, and very comely points of body; lovely eyes to wit, and very beautiful hands and feet (almost as good as Lorna' s), and a neck as white as snow; but Lizzie was not gifted with our gait and port, and bounding health. Now, while we sat on the garden bench, under the gr^at ash- tree, we left dear mottier to take her own way, and talk at her own pleasure. Children almost always are more wide-awake than their parents. The fathers and the mothers laugh; but the young ones have the best of L.D. 1 258 LORNA DOONE ■ > t them, ^nd now both Annie knew, and I, that we had gotten the best of mother; and therefore we let her lay down the law, as if we had been two dollies. 'Darling John,' my mother said, 'your case is a very hard one. A young and very romantic girl — God send that 1 be right in my charitable view of her — has met an equally simple boy, among great dangers and difficulties, from which my son has saved her, at the risk of his life at every step. Of course, she became attached to him, and looked up to him in eveiy way, as a superior being—; — ' 'Come now, mother,' I said; 'if you only saw Lorna, you would look upon me as the lowest dirt ' *No doubt I should,' my mother answered; 'and the king, and queen, and all the royal family. Well, this poor angel, having made up her mind to take compassion upon my son, when he nad saved her life so many times, persuades him to marry her out of pure pity, and throw his poor mother overboard. And the saddest part of it all is this * 'That my mother will never, never, never understand the truth,' said I. 'That is all I wish,' she answered; 'just to get at the simple truth from my own perception of it. John, you are very wise in kissmg me; but perhaps you would not be so wise in bringing Lorna for an afternoon, just to Fee what she thinks of me. There is a good saddle of mutcon now; and there are some very good sausages left, on the blue dish with the anchor, Annie, from the last little sow we killed.' ; .,< 'As if Lorna would eat sausages!' said I, with appear- ance of high contempt, though rejoicing all the while that mother seemed to have her name so pat; and she pronounced it in a manner which made my heart leap to my ears: 'Lorna to eat sausages I' ; ->r^ *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 1 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 LORNA DOONE 259 we had her lay a very ^d send met an iculties, is life at im, and Ing-T— ' ' Lorna, and the Jiis poor npassion ly times, id throw ; of it all derstand 3t at the ohn, you ould not ist to Fee f mut'ton t, on the ast little I appear- lie while and she t leap to insweicd lUst take Innie ? ' Id hope,' 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 gray 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 «t once to cast about for some means ol relieving me from ah ih m ., 266 LORNA DOONE further peril, and herself from great anxiety. She was full of plans for fetching Loma, 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 dim- ness 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 Loma 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 her- self 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 1 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 t&e valley which sheltered his be- loved one! And all the time this dreadful "coward" LORNA DOONE 261 EIS full inner, ir own welve- her of ode of ling to ir had t away eaven, a dim- of thy Doone, daring; aer old 5ven if, or, she gep her Doones queen, ise, and [> effect ng else except stance, tide in ove (as jeaceful le daily ler her- myself le mere he only risking his life daily there, without a word to any one! How glad I am that you will not have, for all her miser- able 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 onljr 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 262 LORNA DOONE .. it. -I have married her to-morrow, If I had never seen my Loma.' *And a nic« nobody 1 should have been, hi 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 wore. Now ninp 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 hearinc what wa^ never meant for me, and should have been aumost as angry with myself as anybody.' 'So you would,' replied my mother; 'so any daughter of mine would have aone, instead of railing and revilin ^ However, 1 am very sorry that any words of min^ which the poor little thins chose to overhear should have made her so forget, herself. I shall beg her pardon before she goes: and I shall expect hor to beg mine.' 'That she will never do, said I: 'a more resolute Httlc maiden never yet had ight 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 slu^ 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 out- raged: with spirit, I mean, and proper pride: and yet with a great endeavour to forgive, which is, meseems, the har- dest of all things to a woman, outside of her own family. After this, for another month, nothing worthy of notice ■>»■'"— «*^'* 'MUHMMnaM LORNA DOONE 363 happened, except of course that I found it needful, ac rordiug to the strictest good sense and honour, to visit Lorna immediately after my discourse with mother, and to tell her ail 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 ail 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 he meant for me to settle down to peace and comfort 'n 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 inheri- tance, it is quite certain that tlie 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 deUght, 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?* ' • iiv 'Till I could get you,' she answered slyly, with a smile which was brighter to me than the brightest wit could be. 'And now,' she continued, 'you bound me, John, with a \ ery beautiful ring to you, and when I dare not wear it, I carry it always on my heart. But I will bind you to I 'If- '} ;! 1 264 LORNA D6b^E me, you dearest, with the very poorest and plainest thing that tver you set eyes on. I could give you fifty fairer ones, but they woula not be honest; and I loye you for your honesty, and nothing else of course, John; so don't you be conceited. Look at it, what a queer old thing I There are some ancient marks upon it, very grotesque and wonderfiU; it looks like a cat in a tree al- most; but never mind what it looks like. This old ring must have been a giant's; therefore it will fit you perhaps, you enormous John. It has been on the front of my old glass necklace (which my nrandfather found them taking away, and very soon made them give back again) ever since I can remember; and long before that, as some woman told me. Now you seem very greatly amazed; pray what thinks my lord of it?' That is worth fifly of the pearl thing which I gave you, you darling; and that I will not take it from you.' 'Then you will never take me, that is all. I will hav«.' nothing to do with a gentleman * 'No gentleman, dear — a yeoman.' 'Very well, a yeoman — nothing to do with a yeoman who will not accept my love-gage. So, if you please, give it back again, and take your lovely ring back.' She looked at me in such a manner, half in earnest, half in jest, and three times three in love, that iu spite of all good resolutions, and her own faint protest, I was forced to abandon all firm ideas, and kiss her till she was quite ashamed, and her head hung on my bosom, with the night of her hair shed over me. Then I placed the Eearl ring back on the soft elastic bend of the finger she eld up to scold me; and on my own smallest finger drew the heavy hoop she had given me. I considered this with satisfaction, until my darUng recovered herself; and then I began very gravely about it, to keep her (if I could) from chiding me : — 'Mistress Lorna, this is not the ring of any giant. It is nothing more nor less than a very ancient thumb-ring, such as once in my father's time was ploughed up out of the ground in our farm, and sent to learned doctors, who told us all about it, but kept the ring for their trouble. I will accept it, my own one love; and it shall go to my grave with me.' And so it shall, unless there be villains who would dare to rob the dead. Now I have spoken about this ring (though I scarcely wm LORNA DOONE 265 meant to do so. and would rather keep to myself things so very holy) because it holds an important part in the history of my Loma. I asked her where the glass neck- lace was from which the ring was fastened, and which she had worn in her childhood, and she answered that she hardly knew, but remembered that her grandfather had begged her to give it up to him, when sne was ten years old or so, and had promised to keep it for her, until she could take care of it; at the same time giving her back the ring, and fastening it from her pretty neck, and telling her to be proud of it. And so she always had been, and now from ner sweet breast she took it, and it became John Ridd's delight. All this, or at least great part of it, 1 told my mother truly, according to my promise; and she was greatly pleased with Loma for having been so good to me, ana for speaking so very sensibly; and then she looked at the great gold ring, but could by no means interpret it. Only she was quite certain, as indeed I myself was, that it must have belonged to an ancient race of great considera- tion, and high rank, in their time. Upon which I was for taking it on, lest it should be degraded by a common farmer's finger. But mother said *No,' with tears in her eyes; 'if the common farmer had won the great lady of the ancient race, what were rings and old-world trinkets, when compared to the living jewel?' Being quite of her opinion in this, and loving the ring (which had no gem in it) as the token of my priceless gem, I resolved to wear it at any cost, except when I should be ploughing, or doing thmgs likely to break it; although I must own that it felt very queer (for I never had throttled a finger before), and it looked very queer, for a length of time, upon my great hard-working hand. And before I got used to my ring, or people could think that it belonged to me (plain and ungarnished though it was), and before I went to see Loma again, having failed to find any necessity, and remembering my duty to mother, we all had something else to think of, not so pleasant, and more puzzling. • ,i •■i- ' ? I ilil: i !. 266 LORNA DOONE CHAPTER XXXVI JOHN RETURNS TO BUSINESS Now November was upon us, and we had kept AUhallow- mass, with roasting of skewered apples (like so many shuttlecocks), and after that the day of Fawkes, as became good Protestants, with merry bonfires and burned batatas, and plenty of good feeding in honour of our religion; and then while we were at wheat-sowing, another visitor arrived. This was Master Jeremy Stickles, who had been a good friend to me (as described before) in London, and had earned my mother's gratitude, so far as ever he chose to have it. And he seemed inclined to have it all; for he made our farm-house his headquarters, and kept us quite at his beck and call, going out at any time of the evening, and coming back at any time of the morning, and always expecting us to be ready, whether with horse, or man, or maiden, or fire, or provisions. We knew that he was employed somehow upon the service of the King, and had at different stations certain troopers and orderlies quite at his disposal; also we knew that he never wjent out, nor even slept in his bedroom, without heavy fire- arms well loaded, and a charp sword nigh his hand; and that he held a great commission, unaer royal signet, re- quiring all good subjects, all ofi&cers of whatever degree, and especially justices of the peace, to aid him to the utmost, with person, beast, and chattel, or to answer it at their peril. Now Master Jeremy Stickles, of course, knowing well what women are, durst not open to any of them the nature of his instructions. But, after awhile, perceiving that I could be relied upon, and that it was a great dis- comfort not to have me with him, he took me aside in a lonely place, and told me nearly everjrthing; having bound me first by oath, not to impart to any one, without his own permission, until all was over. But at this present time of writing, all is over long ago; ay and forgotten too, I ween, except by those who sufiered. Therefore may I tell the whole without any breach of confidence. Master Stickles was going forth iiDoti his usual ni&rht loumev. when he met me coming LORNA DOONE 267 home, and I said something half in jest, about bis zeal and secrecy; upon which he looked all round the yard, and led me to an open space in the clover field adjoining. 'John,' he said, 'you have some right to know the meaning of all this, being trusted as you were by the Lord Chief Justice. But he found you scarcely suppie enough, neither gifted with due brains.' 'Thank God for that same,' 1 answered, while he tap- ped his head, to signify his own much larger allowance. Then he made me bind myself, which in an evil hour 1 did, to retain his secret; and after that he went on solemnly, and with much importance, — 'There be some people fit to p)ot. and others to be plotted against, and others to unravel plots, which is the highest gift of all. This lc\st hath fallen to my share, and a very thankless gift it is, although a rare and choice one. Much of peril too ati^nds it; daring courage and great coolness are as needful for the work as ready wit and spotless honour. Therefore His Majesty's advisers have chosen me for this high task, and they could not have chcsen a better man. Although you have been in Lon- don, Jack, much k)nger than you wished it, you are wholly ignorant, of cour^, in matters of state, and the puolic weal.' 'Well,' said I, 'no doubt but I am; and all the better for me. Although I heard a deal of them; for everybody was talking, and ready to come to blows; if only it could be done without danger. But one said this, and one said that; and they talked so much about Birminghams, and Tantivies, and Whip and Tories, and Protestant flailfi, and such like, that 1 was only too glad to have my glass and clink my spoon for answer.' 'Right, John, thou art right as usual. Let the King go his own gait. He hath too many mistresses to be ever England's master. Nobody need fear him, for he is ikot like his father : he will have his own way, 'tis true, but without stopping other folk of theirs : and well he knows what women are, for he never asks them questions. Now, heard you much in London town about the Duke of Monmouth?' 'Not so veiy much,' I answered; 'not half so much as in Devonshire: oidy that he was a hearty man, and a very handsome one, and now was banished by the; Tories; and most people wished he was coming ba^, 268 LORNA DOONE instead of the Duke of York, who was trying boots in Scotland.' 'Things are changed since you were in town. The Whigs are getting up again, through the folly of the Tories in killing poor Lord Russell; and now this Master Sidney (if my Lord condemns him) will make it worse again. There is much disaffection everywhere, and it must grow to an outbreak. The King hath many troops in London, and meaneth to bring more from Tangier; but he cannot command these country places; and the trained bauds cannot help him much, even if they vv^ould. New, do you understand me, John?' 'In truth, not I. I see not what Tangier hath to do with Exmoor; nor the Duke of Monmouth with Jeremy Stickles.' 'Thou great clod, put it the other way. Jeremy Stickles may have much to do about the Duke of Mon- mouth. The Whigs having failed of Exclusion, and having been punished bitterly for the blood they shed, are ripe for any violence. And the turn of the balance is now to them. See-saw is the fashion of England always; and the Whigs will soon be the top-sawyers.' 'But,' said I, still more confused, ' "The King is the top-sawyer," according to our proverb. How then can the Whigs be?* 'Thou art a hopeless ass, John. Better to sew with a chestnut than to teach thee the constitution. Let it be so; let it be. I have seen a boy of five years old more apt at politics than thou. Nay, look not offended, lad. It is my fault for being over-deep to thee. I should have considered thy intellect.' 'Nay, Master Jeremy, make no apologies. It is I that should excuse myself; but, God knows, I have no politics.' 'Stick to that, my lad,* he answered; 'so shalt thou die easier. Now, in ten words (without parties, or trying thy poor brain too much), I am here to watch the gather- ing of a secret plot, not so much against the King as against the due succession.' 'Now I understand at last. But, Master Stickles, you might have said all that an hour ago almost.' 'It would have been better, if I had, to thee,' he replied with much compassion; 'thy hat is nearly off thy head with the swelling of brain I have given thee. Blows, blows» are thy business, Jack. There thou art in thine LORNA DOONE 269 element. And, haply, this business will bring thee plenty, even for thy great head to take. Now hearken to one who wishes thee well, and plainly sees the end of it — stick thou to the winning side, and have naught to do with the other one.' 'That,' said I, in great haste and hurry, 'is the very thing I want to do, if I only knew which was the winning side, for the sake of Lorna — that is to say, for the sake of my dear mother and sisters, and the farm.' 'Ha!' cried Jeremy Stickles, laughing at the redness of my face — 'Lorna, saidst thou; now whal Lorna? Is it the name of a maiden, or a light-o'-love? 'Keep to your own business,' I answered, very proudly; 'spy as much as e'er thou wilt, and use our house for doing it, without asking leave or telling; but if I ever find thee spying into my affairs, all the King's lifeguards in London, and the dragoons thou bringest hither, shall not save thee from my hand — or one finger is ecough for thee.' Being carried beyond niyself by his insolence about Lorna, I looked at Master Stickles so, and spake in such a voice, that all his daring courage and his spotless honour quailed within him, and he shrank — as if I would strike so small a man. Then I left him, and went to work at the sacks upon the corn-floor, to take my evil spirit from me before I should see mother. For (to tell the truth) now my strength was full, and troubles were gathering round me, and people took advantage so much of my easy temper, sometimes when I was over- tried, a sudden heat ran over me, and a glowing of all my muscles, and a tingling for a mighty throw, such as my utmost self-command, and fear of hurting any one, could but ill refrain. Afterwards, I was always very sadly ashamed of myself, knowing how poor a thing bodily strength is, as compared with power of mind, and that it is a coward's part to misuse it upon weaker folk. For the present there was a little breach be- tween Master Stickles and me, for which I blamed myself very sorely. But though, in full memor^r of his kindness and faithfulness in London, I asked his pardon many times for my foolish anger with him, and offered to under- go any penalty he would lay upon me, he only said it was no matter, there was nothing to forgive. When people say that, the tru"di often is that they can forgive nothing. So for the present a breach was made between Master 'l » ,' ; ! I u ! . / I 'h'i 270 LORNA DOONE Jeremy and myself, which to me seemed no great loss, inasmuch as it relieved me from any privity to his deal- ings, for which I had small liking. All I feared w^s lest i might, in any way, be ungrateful to him; but when he would have no more of me, what could I do to help it? However, in a few days' time I was of good service to him, as you shall see in its proper place. But now my own affairs were thrown into such disorder that I could think of nothing else, ana had the greatest diflSculty in hiding my uneasiness. For suddenly, without any warning, or a word of message, all my Loma's sig- nals ceased, which I had been accustomed to watch for daily, and as it were to feed upon them, with a glowing heart. The first time I stood on the wooded crest, and found no change from yesterday, I could hardly believe my eyes, or thought at least that it must be some great mistalce on the part of my love. However, even that oppressed me with a heavy heart, which grew heavier, as I found from day to day no token. Three times I went and waited long at the bottom of the valley, where now the stream was brown and angry with the rains of autumn, and the weeping trees hung leafless. But though I waited at every hour of day, and far into the night, no light footstep came to meet me, no sweet voice was in the air; all was lonely, drear, and drenched with sodden desolation. It seemed as if my love was dead, and the winds were at her funeral. Once I sought far up the valley, where I had never been before, even beyond the copse where Lorna had found and lost her brave young cousin. Following up the river channel, in shelter of the evening fog, I gained a comer within stone's throw of the last outlying cot. This was a gloomy, low, square house, without any light in the windows, roughly built of wood and stone, as I saw when I drew nearer. For knowing it to be Carver's dwell- ing (or at least suspecting so, from some words of Loina's), I was led by curiosity, and perhaps by jealousy. to have a closer look at it. Therefore, I crept up the fitream, losing half my sense of fear, by reason of anxiety. And in truth there was not much to fear, the sky being now too dark for even a shooter of wild fowl to make good aim. And nothing else but guns could hurt me, as in the pride of- my strength I thought, and in my skill of single-stick. wmm LORNA DOONE 271 Nevertheless, I went warily, being now almost among thiJ nest of cockatrices. The back of Carver's house abutted on the waves of the rushing stream; and seeing a loop-hole, vacant for muskets, I looked in, but all was quiet. So far as I could judge by listening, there was no one now inside, and my heart for a moment leaped with joy, for I had feared to find Loma there. Then I took a careful survey of the dwelling, and its windows, and its door, and aspect, as if I had been a robber meaning to make privy entrance. It was well for me that I did tiiis, as you will find hereafter. Having impressed upon my mind (a slow but, perhaps, retentive mind), all the bearings of the place, and all its opportunities, and even the curve of the stream along it, and the bushes near the door, I was much inclined to go farther up, and understand all the village. But a bar of red light across the river, some forty yards on above me, and crossing from the opposite side like a chain, pre- vented me. In that second house there was a gathering of loud and merry outlaws, making as much noise as if they had the law upon their side. Some, indeed, as I approached, were laying down both right and wrong, as purely, and with as high a sense, as if they knew the difference. Cold and troubled as I was, I could hardly keep from laughing. Before I betook myself home that night, and eased dear mother's heart so much, and made her pale face spread with smiles, I had resolved to penetrate Glen Doone from the upper end, and learn all about my Lorna. Not but what I might have entered from my un- suspected channel, as so often I had done; but that I saw fearful need for knowing something more than that. Here was every sort of trouble gathering upon me; here was Jeremy Stickles stealing upon every one in the dark; here was Uncle Reuben plotting Satan only could tell what; here was a white night-capped man coming bodily from the grave; here was my own sister Annie committed to a highwayman, and mother in distraction; most of all — here, there, and where — was my Loma stolen, dun- geoned, perhaps outraged. It was no time for shilly shally, for the balance of this and that, or for a man with blood and muscle to pat his nose and ponder. If I left my Loma so; if I let those black-soul'd villains work their pleasure on my love; if the heart that clave to mine coula find no r i ! 1 I i ' ! 'i feh Z72 LOKNA DOONE vigour in it — then let maidens cease from men, and rest their faith in tabby-cats. Rudely rolling these ideas in my hea / head and brain I resolved to let the morrow put theu into form and order, but not contradict them. And then, as my con- stitution willed (being like that of England), I slept, and there was no stopping me. CHAPTER XXXVII A VERY DESPERATE VENTURE That the enterprise now resolved upon was far more dangerous than any hitherto attempted by me, needs no further proof than this: — I went and made my will at Porlock, with a middling honest lawyer there; not that I had much to leave, but that none could say how far the farm, and all the farming stock, might depend on my disposition. It makes me smile when I remember how particular I was, and how for the life of me I was puzzled to bequeath most part of my clothes, and hats, and things altogether my own, to Loma, without the shrewd old lawyer knowing who she was and where she lived. At last, indeed, I flattered myself that I had baffled old Tape's curiosity; but his wrinkled smile and his speech at parting made me again uneasy. 'A very excellent will, young sir. An admirably just and virtuous will; all your effects to your nearest of kin; filial and fraternal duty thoroughly exemplified; nothing diverted to alien channels, except a small token of esteem and reverence to an elderly lady, I presume : and which may or may not be valid, or invalid, on the ground of uncertainty, or the absence of any legal status on the part of the legatee. Ha, ha ! Yes, yes ! Few young men are so free from exceptionable entanglements. Two guineas is my charge, sir: and a rare good will for the money. Very prudent of you, sir. Does you credit in every way. Well, well; we all must die; and often the young before the old.' Not only did I think two guineas a great deal too much money for a quarter of an hour's employment, but also I disliked particularly the words with which he concluded; •i LORNA DOONE 273 they sounded, from his grating voice, like the evil omen of a croaking raven. Nevertheless I still abode in my fixed resolve to go, and find out, if I died for it, what was become of Lorna. And herein I lay no claim to courage; the matter being simply a choice between two evils, of which by far the greater one was, of course, to lose my darling. The journey was a great deal longer to fetch around the Sout±iem hills, and enter by the Doone-gate, than to cross the lower land and steal in by the water-slide. However, I durst not take a horse (for fear of the Doones, who might be abroad upon their usual business), but started betimes in the evening, so as not to hurry, or waste any strength upon the way. And thus I came to the robbers' highway, walking circumspectly, scanning the sky-line of every hill, and searching the folds of every valley, for any moving figure. Although it was now well on towards dark, and the sun was down an hour or so, I could see the robbers' road be- fore me, in a trough of the winding hills, where the brook ploughed down from the higher barrows, and the coving banks were roofed with furze. At present, there was no one passing, neither post nor sentinel, so far as I could descry; but I thought it safer to wait a little, as twilight melted into night; and then I crept down a seam of the highland, and stood upon the Doone- track. . As the road approached the entrance, it became Aore straight and strong, like a channel cut from rock, with the water brawling darkly along the naked side of it. Not a tree or bush was left, to shelter a man from bullets : all was stern, and stiff, and rugged, as I could not help perceiving, even through the darkness; and a smell as of churchyard mould, a sense of being boxed in and cooped, made me long to be out again. And here I was, or seemed to be, particularly unlucky; for as I drew near the very entrance, lightly of foot, and warily, the moon (which nad often been my friend) like an enemy broke upon me, topping the eastward ridge of rock, and filling all the open spaces with the play of wavering light. I shrank back into the shadowy quarter, on the right side of the road; and gloomily employed 1 myself to watch the triple entrance, on which the moon- I light fell askew. All across and before the three rude and beetling I ? \ 274 LORNA DOONE archways hung a felled oak overhead, black, and thick and threatening. This, as I heard before, could be let faJ. in a moment, so as to crusii a score of men, and bar the approach of horses. Behind this tree, the rocky mouth was spanned, as by a gallery with brushwood and piled timber, all upon a ledge of stone, where thirty men might lurk unseen, and fire at any invader. From that rampart it would be impossible to dislodge them, because the rock fell sheer below them twenty feet, or it may be more; while overhead it towered three hundred, and so jutted over that nothing could be cast upon them; even if a man could climb the height. And the access to this portcullis place — if I may so call it, being no portcullis there — was through certain rocky chambers known to the tenants only. But the cleverest of their devices, and the most puzzling to an enemy, was that, instead of one mouth only, there were three to choose from, with nothing to betoken which was the proper access; all being pretty much alike, and all unfenced and yawning. And the common rumour was that in times of any danger, when any force was known to be on muster in their neighbourhood, they changed their entrance every day, and diverted the other two, by means of sliding doors to the chasms and dark abysses. Now I could see those three rough arches, jagged, black, and terrible; and I knew that only one of them could lead me to the valley; neither gave the river now any further guidance; but dived underground with a sullen 1 roar, where it met the cross-bar of the mountain. Having no means at all of judging which was the right way of the three, and knowing that the other two would lead to almost certain death, in the ruggedness and darkness,— for how could a man, among precipices and bottomless depths of water, without a ray of light, have any chance to save his life? — I do declare that I was half inclined! to go away, and have done with it. However, I knew one thing for certain, to wit, that thel longer I stayed debating the more would the enterprisel pall upon me, and the less my relish be. And it struck mel that, in times of peace, the middle way was the likeliest;! and the others diverging right and left in their fartherl parts might be made to slide into it (not far from thel entrance), at the pleasure of the warders. Also I took it| for good omen that I remembered (as rarely happened)! LORNA DOONE «75 id thick le let fal I bar the yr mouth ind piled en might rampart ause the be more; so jutted even if a s to this portcullis wn to tht' t puzzling nly, there ken which alike, and imour was /as known yr changed er two, by k abysses, s. jagged, e of them river now Lth a sullen n. Having way of the Id lead to arkness,— I bottomless iny chance ilf inclined I t, that the enterprise ; strucK me 16 likeliest; leir farther from the ;o I took It happened)! a very fine line in the Latin grammar, whose emphasis and meaning is 'middle road is safest.' Therefore, without more hesitation, I plunged into the middle way, holding a long ash staff before me, shodden at the end with iron. Presently I was in black darkness, groping along the wall, and feeling a deal more fear than I wished to feel; especially when upon looking back I could no longer see the light, which I had forsaken. Then I stumbled over something hard, and sharp, and very cold, moreover so grievous to my legs that it needed my very best doctrine and humour to forbear from swear- ing, in the manner they use in London. Bui when I arose and felt it, and knew it to be a culverin, I was somewhat reassured thereby, inasmuch as it was not likely that they would plant this engine except in the real and true entrance. Therefore I went on again, more painfully and wearily. and presently found it to be good thai I had received that knock, and borne it with such patience; for otherwise I might havR fjlii/zdered full upon the sentries, and been shot without nio/ft fldo As it was, / had barely time to draw back, as T turned a rorner upon th^m; and if their lanthorn had been in its place, they could scarce have failed to descry me, unless indeed / had seen the gleam before I turned the corner. There seemed to be only two of them, of size indeed and stature as all the Doones must be, but I need not have feared to encounter them both, had they been unarmed, as I was. It was plain, however, that each had a long and heavy carbine, not in his hands (as it should have been), but standing close beside him. Therefore it be- hoved me now to be exceedingly careful; and even that might scarce avail, without luck in proportion. So I kept well back at the comer, and laicf one cheek to the rxk face, and kept my outer eye round the jut, in the wariest mode I could compass, watching my opportunity : and this is what I saw. The two villains looked very happy — which villains |have no right to be, but often are, meseemeth — they iwere sitting in a niche of rock, with the lanthorn in the corner, quafhng something from glass measures, and play- ing at push-pin, or shepherd's chess, or basset; or some trivial game of that sort. Each was smoking a long clay pipe, quite of new London shape, I could see, for the 'H 276 LORNA DOONE anc frie: '} min noti wine Can lantl 'V\ some hean me, y alittJ u « shadow was thrown out clearly; and each would laugh from time to time, as he fancied he got the better of it. One was sitting with his knees up, and left hand on his thigh; and this one had his back to me, and seemed to be the stouter. The other leaned more against the rock, half sitting and half astraddle, and wearing leathern overalls, as if newly come from riding. I could see his face quite clearly by the light af the open Ian thorn, and a handsomer or a bolder face I had seldom, if ever, set eyes upon; insomuch that it made me very unhappy to think of his being so near my Lorna. 'How long am I to stand crouching here?' I asked of myself, at last, being tired of hearing them cry, 'scope one,' 'score two,' 'No, by , Charlie,' 'By , I say it is, Phelps.' And yet my only chance of slipping bylinch, them unperceived was to wait till they quarrelled morejMm (j and came to blows about it. Presently, as I made uplagains my mind to steal along towards them (for the cavernlknee. was pretty wide, just there), Charlie, or Charlewoithia dea* Doone, the younger and taller man, reached forth hiJhim. hand to seize the money, which he swore he had won thai! So time. Upon this, the other jerked his arm, vowing thaloccurr* he had no right to it; whereupon Charlie flung at his facJas he 1 the contents of the glass he was sipping, but missed hiniunder and hit the candle, which sputtered with a flare of blulout an flame (from the strength perhaps of the spirit) and theiPf seei went out completely. At this, one swore, and the othePteep a laughed; and before they had settled what to do, I wal(sucn a past them and round the comer. And then, like a giddy fool as I was, I needs must gi them a startler — the whoop of an owl, done so exactly, John Fry had taught me, and echoed by the roof so feai fully, that one of them dropped the tinder box; and t other caught up his gun and cocked it, at least as I judg< by the sounds they made. And then, too late, I knew madness, for if either of them had fired, no doubt b what all the village would have risen and rushed up me. However, as the luck of the matter went, it prov for my advantage; for I heard one say to the other, 'Curse it, Charlie, what was that? It scared me I have dropped my box; my flint is gone, and everythi: Will the brimstone catch from your pipe, nay lad?' 'My pipe is out, Phelps, ever so long. Danm it, I not afraid of an owl, man. Give me the lantha long— ave be wa e migh But ] onder en us) i ipper, ry kin earn thali tline o d ther 'proach h, cic an the I knew LORNA DOONE L laugb ir of It. L on bis jd to be iC rock, ieathem see his jrn, and 3ver, set lappy to 277 I'm not half done with you yet, my and stay here, friend.' 'Well said, my boy, well said 1 Go straight to Carver's, mind you. The other sleepy heads be snoring, as there is nothing up to-night. No dallying now under Captain's window. Queen will have nought to say to you; and Carver will punch your head into a new wick for your Ian thorn.' 'Will he though? Two can play at that.' And so after some rude jests, and laughter, and a few more o. ths, 1 heard Charlie (or at any rate somebody) coming toward me, with a loose and not too sober fooua^!. As he reeled ^ _ a little in his gait, and I would not move from his way one Doincbylinch, after his talk of Loma, but only longed to grasp fed more.l^ini (if common sense permitted it), his braided coat came made upl^g^-i^st my thumb, and his leathern gaiters brushed my knee. If he had turned or noticed it, he would have been a dead man in a moment; but his drunkenness saved asked of y, 'SCOK — . I SH/I le cave tarlewoit forth hi [ won tha' Ihim. So I let him reel on unharmed; and thereupon it lout any esi)ecial caution; and soon I had the pleasure if seeing his form against the moonlit sky. Down a iteep and winding path, with a handrail at the comers such as they have at Ilfracombe), Master Charlie tripped long — and indeed there was much tripping, and he must ave been an active fellow to recover as he did — and after walked I, much hoping (for his own poor sake) that e might not turn and espy me. But Bacchus (of whom I read at school, with great onder about his meaning — and the same I may say of enus) that great deity preserved Charlie, his pious wor- ipper, from regarding consequences. So he led me kindly to the top of the meadow land, where the earn from underground broke forth, seething quietly th a little hiss of bubbles. Hence I had fair view and tline of the robbers' township, spread with bushes here d there, but not heavily overshadowed. The moon, proaching now the full, brought the forms in manner h, clothing each with character, as the moon (more .**'', ^-tBan the sun) does, to an eye accustomed, lantn 1^ ^^^^ ^^^^ ^g Captain's house was first, both from ofbl and th the otl do, I V must g exactly )of so f < knew [doubt Ished V it pr( 3 oth< [ed ni< Iveryt] lad? • ^/"ZW >m / # IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 ■50 ""^^ im99i i^ 1^ mil 2.2 I.I US M 1.8 Hiotographic Sciences Corporation m u ^ A- 4s fA 1.25 1.4 1.6 6" ► ^ <« s^ \ :\ V \ ^> ■^..V 6^ 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) 873-4503 '<^ 1 .1 a >»i !1 i'4 278 LORNA DOONE what Lorna had said of it, and from my mother's descrip- tion, and now again from seeing Charlie halt there for a certain time, and whistle on his fingers, and hurry on, fearing consequence. The tune that he whistled was strange to me, and lingered in my ears, as having some- thing very new and striking, and fantastic in it. And I repeated it softly to myself, while I marked the position of the houses and the beau'y of the village. For the stream, in lieu of any street, passing between the houses, and affording perpetual change, and twinkling, and reflec- tions, moreover by its sleepy murmur soothing all the dwellers there, this and the snugness of the position, walled with rock and spread with herbage, made it look, in the quiet moonlight, like a little paradise. And to think of all the inmates there, sleeping with good con- sciences, having plied their useful trade of making others work for them, enjoying life without much labour, yet with great renown. Master Charlie went down the village, and I followed him carefully, keeping as much as possible in the shadowy places, and watching the windows of every house, lest any light should be burning. As I passed Sir Elisor's house, my heart leaped up, for I spied a window, higher than the rest above the ground, and with ii faint light moving. This could hardly fail to be the room wherein my darling lay; for here that impudent younf; fellow had gazed while he was whistling. And her*^ my courage grew tenfold, and my spirit feared no evil — ^fnr lo, if Lorna had been surrendered to thav scoundrel, Carver, she would not have been at her grandfather's house, but in Carver's accursed dwelling. Warm with this idea, I hurried after Charleworth Doone, being resolved not to harm him now, unless my own life required it. And while I watched from behind a I tree, the door of the farthest house was opened; and sure enough it was Carver's self, who stood bareheaded, and half undressed in the doorway. I could see his great black] chest, and arms, by the light of the lamp he bore. 'Who wants me this time of night?' he grumbled, Jial deep gruff voice; *any young scamp prowling after thej maids shall have sore bones for his trouble.' 'All the fair maids are for thee, are they. Master Carl ver?* Charlie answered, laughing; 'we young scamps must bo well-content with coarser stuff than thou wouldst have' LORNA DOONE 279 3 descrip- there for aurry on, jtled was ing some- ±. And I e position For the le houses, ind reflec- ig all the position, ie it look, I. And to good con- ting others abour, yet I followed le shadowy house, lest Sir Ensor's LOW, higher faint light >m wherein fellow had ^harleworth unless my m behind a d; and sure eaded, and great black bore. mbled, Jia| g after tbe| Master Car- camps must I uldst have' 'Would have? Ay, and will have,' the great beast muttered angrily. 'I bide my time; but not very long. Only one word for thy good, Charlie. I will fling thee senseless into the river, if ever I catch thy girl -face there again.' 'Mayhap, Master Carver, it is more than thou couldst do. But I will not keep thee; thou art not pleasant company to-night. All I want is a light for my lanthom, and a glass of schnapps, if thou hast it.' 'What is become of thy light, then? Good for thee I am not on duty.' *A great owl flew between me and Phelps, as we watched beside the culvern, and so scared was he at our fierce bright eyes that he fell and knocked the light out.' 'Likely tale, or likely lie, Charles! We will have the truth to-morrow. Here take thy light, and be gone with thee. All virtuous men are in bed now.' 'Then so will I be, and why art thou not? Ha, have I earned my schnapps now?' 'If thou hast, thou hast paid a bad debt; there is too much in thee already. Be off ! my patience is done with.' Then he slammed the door in the young man's face, having kindled his lanthom 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 jpate! I've a mind to cut the whole of it; and but for j the girls I would so.* My heart was in my mouth, as they say, when I stood I 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 per- haps both of liem 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, tttey stole them mostly from the houses round labout. But though the window was not very close, I jniight have whispered long enough, before she would Ihave answered me; frightened as she was, no doubt, by many a nide overture. And I durst not speak aloud, ecause I saw another watchman posted on the western X and eommandi|ig all the valley. And now this man ■s >tj: i fit f ! ' i m ll :*i iii 280 LORNA DOONE (having no companion for drinking or for gambling) espied me against the wall of the house, and ad"^'anced 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 stranjje 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 Loma. The sentinel took me for that vile Carver; who was like enough to be prowling there, for private talk with Loma; 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 clifif, but withdrew himself to good distance. Meanwhile he had done me the kindest service; for Loma came to the window at once, to see what the cause cl the shout was, and drew back the curtain timidly. Then she opened the rough lattice; and then she watched the cliflE 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 overj suddenly. Quick though she always was of thought, she knew me 1 not from my whisper, and was shutting the window | hastily when I caught it back, and showed myself. i 'Jonn!' she cried, yet with sense enough not to speak | aloud: 'oh, you must be mad, John.' s 'As mad as a March hare,' said I, 'without any news of I my darling. You knew I would come: of course you did.' 'Well, I thought, perhaps ^you know: now, John.l you need not eat my hand. Do you see they have putl iron bars across?' ' LdRNA DOONE 281 ambling) id"*'anced aree; and me, as I barrel; he began to began to I lost my s fell into had heard the notes, , the man L, sweetest IS I heard i imitated, »r that vile there, for y to shout watchman, m Carver's withdrew service; for Lt the cause [in timidly. Sie watched Eadly. id from the saring over le knew me le window j rself. )t to speak iny news of Icourse you| low, John. have put 'Tp 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 mal:e you miserable? Try not to think of me any more.' 'And will you try the same of me, Loma?' 'Oh yes, John; if you ajree 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 melan- choly : 'the only thing we will try to try, is to belong to one another. And if we do our best, Loma, 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 j my poor grandfather — oh, I cannot bear to think of my- self, when I ought to think of him only; dying without a I 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?' 3 jo f^^ii^ 282 LORNA DOONE ^mt '1 know not. I cannot tell. He is a veiy strange old rarxn; 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, Loma?' 'You must — you must,' she answered; 'I shall die if they hurt you. I hear the old nurse moving. Grand- father 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 glkd 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, stand- ing 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 watchl for *ee.* Though expressed not over delicately, this pro- posal arose, no doubt, from Gwenny' s sense of delicacy;| and I was very thankJEuI to her for taking her departure.j 'She is the best little thing in the world/ said Lornaj softly^ laughing; 'and the queerest, and the truest Nothing will bribe her against me. If she seems to be the other side, never, never doubt her. Now no more your * 'coortin',** John! I love you far too well for that Yes, yes, ever so much 1 If you will take a mean advan tage of me. And as much as ever you like to imagine cliff; all ne 'return aten cliffs i jwhich A ^\ LORNA DOONE 283 range old lack with ut I must John; and shadow?' )ok for his B so : and I, Loma? hall die if r. Grand- from the ma's little indow and her grief. o gl'ad you my "young you can see lent, stand-' if she were I Heared as g. 'Twadn't wadn't fair und 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 2ong 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 I 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 un- harmed. After that you will find me dead, or alive, according to circumstances, but in no case such that you Ineed blush to look at me.* Her dear sweet face was full of pride, as even in the I 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 Istole below Carver's house, in the shadow from the eastern Iclif!; and knowing enough of the village now to satisfy lall necessity, betook myself to my well-known track in Jreturning from the valley; which was neither down the faterslide) a course I feared in the darkness) nor up the [cliffs at Lorna's bower; but a way of my owii inventing, |which there is no need to dwell upon. ;r, \ ^ - A weight of care was ofE my mind; though much of 1^ t^ 284 LORNA DOONE trouble hung there s'dll. 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. : « H 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 tho 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 I 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 I known to be in him), he regularly turned round upon us,| and quite compelled us to hold our tongues, by threaten- ing to lay information against us for paying him too much] wages ! Now I have not mentioned all this of John Fry, from! any disrespect for his memory (which is green and hnnestl amongst us), far less from any desire to hurt the feelingsl of his grandchildren; and I will do them the justice, oncel LORNA DOONE 265 'ftain — if )uld have with me :ort. for all, to avow, thus publicly, that I have known a great many bigger rogues; and most of themselves in the num- ber. But I have referred, with moderation, to this little flaw in a worthy character (or foible, as we call it, when a man is dead) for this reason only^ — that without it there was no explaining John's dealings with Jeremy Stickles. Master Jeremy, being full of London and Norwich ex- perience, fell into the error of supposing that we clods and yoJiels were the simplest of the simple, and could be cheated at his good pleasure. Now this is not so : when once we suspect that people have that idea of us, we in- dulge them m it to the top of their bent, and grieve that they should come out of it, as they do at last in amaze- ment, with less money than before, and the laugh now set against them. Ever since I had ofEended Jeremy, by threatening him as before related) in case of his meddling with my affairs, e could be Ijjg had more and more allied himself with simple-minded e than the |john, as he was pleased to call him. John Fry was eve.-y- thing: it was 'run and fetch my horse, John' — 'John, are my pistols primed well?' — *I want you in the stable, John, about something very particular'; until except for the rudeness of it, I was longing to tell Master Stickles ohn on the ■that he ought to pay John's wages. John for his part was 5S, and was p^ot backward, but gave himself the most wonderful airs { secrecy and importance, till half the parish began to hink tiiat the affairs of the nation were in his hand, nd he scorned the sight of a dungfork. It was not likely that this should last; and being the th, neither Jnly man in the parish with any knowledge of politics, is. And one p gave John Fry to understand that he must not presume talk so freely, as if he were at least a constable, about e constitution; which could be no affair of his, and ight bring us all into trouble. At this he only tossed s nose, as if he had been in London at least three times lor my one; which vexed me so that I promised him e thick end of the plough-whip if even the name of a ight of the shire should pass his lips for a fortnight. Now I did not suspect in my stupid noddle that John |ry would ever tell Jeremy Stickles about the sight at e Wizard's Slough and the man in the white nightcap: icause John had sworn on the blade of his knife not to ;he feelingsfcathe a word to any soul, without my full permission, stice, onceBowever, it appears that John related, for a certain igular and ag money, Df garden- lis family. t the time r summer, ;d upon as irse among ibbing him, pm Faggus fe it a thing t anyhow, nted man. leed I may 1 56 of right, ^ly because I too much, imust have I id upon us, I ly threaten- too muchl . Fry, froffil land honestl ') 1: 286 LORNA DOONE I i %4 consideration, all that he had seen, and doubtless more which had accrued to it. Upon this Master Stickles was much astonished at Uncle Reuben's proceedings, having,' always accounted him a most loyal, keen, and wary subject. All this I learned upon recovering Jeremy's good graces, which came to pass in no other way than by the saving ol his life. Being bound to keep the strictest watch upon the seven rooks' nests, and yet not bearing to be idle and to waste my mother's stores, I contrived to keep my work entirely at the western corner of our farm, which wasi nearest to Glen Doone, and whence I could easily run to| a height commanding the view I coveted. One day Squire Faggus had dropped in upon us, just in time for dinner; and very soon he and King's messenger were as thick as need be. Tom had brought his beloved | mare to show her off to Annie, and he mounted his pretty sweetheart upon her, after giving Winnie notice to be on I her very best behaviour. The squire was in great spirits, having just accomplished a purchase of land which was worth ten times what he gave for it; and this he did by a merry trick upon old Sir Roger Bassett, who never supposed him to be in earnest, as not possessing the! money. The whole thing was done on a bumper of I claret in a tavern where they met; and the old knightl having once pledged his word, no lawyers could holdl him back from it. They could only say that Master! Faggus, being attainted of felony, was not a capable! grantee. T will soon cure that,' quoth Tom, 'my pardon! has been ready for months and months, so soon as I care] to sue it,' And now he was telling our Annie, who listened ver;] rosily, and believed every word he said, that, having been ruined in early innocence by the means of lawyers, it wa only just, and fair turn for turn, that having become match for them by long practice upon the highway, hij should reinstate himself, at their expense, in society And now he would go to London at once, and sue oiij his pardon; and then would his lovely darling Annie! etc., etc. — things which I had no right to hear, and i( which I was not wanted. Therefore I strode away up the lane to my afternoon J employment, sadly comparing my love with ^heirs (whicj now appeared so prosperous), yet heartily glad for Aiiniej LORNA DOONE 287 tless more ickles was [TS, having and wary 3od graces, e saving ot ratch upon be idle and :p my work which was isily run to| )on us, just s messenger his beloved d his pretty ice to be on ;reat spirits, 1 which was is he did by who never issessing the bumper oi old knight could hold ithat Master! ►t a capable 'my pardon lon as I care| [istened very 1 having bee" /yers, it w:- ig become [highway, h( ^ in society land sue ou [rling Annie lear, and 11^ afternoon' Hheirs (whic for Annie' sike; only remembering now Lnd then the old proverb, 'Wrong never comes right.' I worked very hard in the copse of young ash, with my billhook and a shearing-knife; cutting out the saplings where they stooled too close together, making spars to keep for thatching, wall-crooks to drive into the cob, stiles for close sheep-hurdles, and handles for rakes, and hoes, and two-bills, of the larger and straighter stuff. A.nd all the lesser I bound in faggots, to come home on the sledd to the woodrick. It is not to be supposed that I did all this work, without many peeps at the seven rooks' nests, which proved my Lorna's safety. Indeed, when- ever I wanted a change, either from cleaving, or hewing too hard, or stooping too much at binding, I was up and away to the ridge of the hill, instead of standing and doing nothing. Soon I forgot about Tom and Annie; and fell to thinking of Lorna only; and how much I would make of her; and what I should call our children; and how I would educate them, to do honour to her rank; yet all the time I worked none the worse, by reason of meditation. Fresh-cut spars are not so good as tliose of a little seasoning; especially if the sap was not gone down at the time of cutting. Therefore we always find it needful to have plenty still in stock. It was very pleasant there in the copse, sloping to the west as it was, and the sun descending brightly, with rocks and banks to dwell upon. The stems of mottled and dimpled wood, with twigs coming out like elbows, hung and clung together closely, with a mode of bending m, as children do at some danger; overhead the shrunken leaves quivered and rustled ripely, having many points like stars, and rising and falling delicately, as fingers play sad music. Along the bed of the slanting ground, all between the stools of wood, there were heaps of dead brown leaves, and sheltered mats of lichen, and drifts of [spotted stick gone rotten, and tufts of rushes here and [there, full of fray and feathering. • - ^ All by the hedp;e ran a little stream, a thing that could [barely name itselJE, flowing scarce more than a pint in a inute, because of the sunny weather. Yet had this rill little crooks and crannies dark and bravely bearded, nd a gallant rush through a reeden pipe — the stem of a ag that was grounded; and here and there divided ^»t 288 LORNA DOONE N threads, from the points of a branching stick, into mighty pools of rock (as large as a grown man's hat almost) napped with moss all around the sides and hung with corded grasses. Along and down the tiny barks, and nodding into one another, even across main channel, hung the brown arcade of ferns; some with gold tongues languishing; some with countless ear-drops jerking, some with great quilled ribs uprising and long saws aflapping; others cupped, and fanning over with the grace of yielding, even as a hollow fountain spread by winds that have lost their way. Dee{)ly each beyond other, pluming, stooping, glancing, glistening, weaving softest pillow lace, coying to the wind and water, when tSieir fleetmg image danced, or by which their beauty moved, — God has made no lovelier thing; and only He takes heed of them. It was time to ^o home to supper now, and I felt very friendly towards it, having been hard at work for some hours, with only the voice of the little rill, and some hares and a pheasant for company. The sun was gone down behind the black wood on the farther cliffs of Bagworthy, and the russet of the tufts and spear-beds was becoming | gray, whi'e the giciyness of the sapling ash grew brown l against the sky; the hollow curves of the little stream became black beneath the grasses and the fairy fans innumerable; while outside the hedge our clover was crimping its leaves in the dewfall, like the cocked hate of wood-sorrel, — when, thanking God for all this scene, because my love had gifted me with the key to all things lovely, I prepared to follow their example, and to rest] from labour. Therefore I wiped my bill-hook and shearing-knife ver}! carefully, for I hate to leave tools dirty; and was doubtingi whether I should try for another glance at the seven! rooks' nests, or whether it would be too dark for it| It was now a quarter of an hour mayhap, since I had made any chopping noise, because I had been assorting my spars, and tying them in bundles, instead of plying the bill-hook; and the gentle tinkle of the stream wa louder than my doings. To this, no doubt, I owe my life] which then (without my dreaming it) was in no littl^ jeopardy. ^^ ■ >:?>.' For, just as I was twisting the bine of my very la faggot, before tucking the cleft tongue under, there cami LOKNA DOONE 289 5 mighty almost) ing with pks, and channel, 1 tongues jerking, ong saws the grace by winds , glancing, 3 the wind • by which lier thing; I felt very k for some some hares gone down Bagworthy, s becoming yrew brown Ittle stream fairy fans clover was iocked hate this scene! ;o all thingsl ,nd to rest -knife ver^' [as doubtingi : the seven lark for itj since I ha^ pn assorting Id of plyi"? [stream was We my W^j |in no littW by very la there can« three men outside the hedge, where the western light was yellow; and by it I could see that kll three of them carried firearms. These men were not walking carelessly, but following down the hedge-trough, as if to stalk some enemy: and for a moment it struck me cold to think it was I they were looking for. With the swiftness of terror I concluded that my visits to Glen Doone were known, and now my life was the forfeit. It was a most lucky thing for me, that I heard their clothes catch in the brambles, and saw their hats under the rampart of ash, which is made by what we call 'splashing,' and lucky for me that I stood in a goyal, and had the dark coppice behind me. To this I had no time to fly, but with a sort of instinct, threw myself flat in among the thick fern, and held my breath, and lay still as a log. For I had seen the light gleam on their gun-barrels, and knowing the faults of the neighbourhood, would fain avoid swelling their number. Then the three men came to the gap in the hedge, where I had been in and out so often; and stood up, and looked in over. It is all very well for a man to boast that, in all his life, he has never been frightened, and believes that he never could be so. There may be men of that nature-^I will not dare to deny it; only I have never known them. The fright I was now in was horrible, and all my bones seemed to creep inside me; when lying there helpless, with only a billet and the comb of fern to hide me, in the dusk of early evening, I saw three faces in the gap; and what was [worse, three gun-muzzles. 'Somebody been at work here ' it was the deep voice of Carver Doone; 'jump up, Charlie, and look about; I we must have no witnesses.* 'Give me a hand behind,' said Charlie, the same hand- Isome young Doone I had seen that night; 'this bank is I too devilish steep for me.' 'Nonsense, man I ' cried Marwood de Whichehalse, who Ito my amazement was the third of the number; 'only a Ihind cutting faggots; and of course he hath gone home llong ago. Blind man's holiday, as we call it. I can see [all over the place; and there is not even a rabbit there.' At that I drew my breath again, and thanked God I had gotten my coat on. 'Squire is right,' said Charlie, who was standing up 'igL (on a root perhaps), 'there is nobody tiiere now, L.n, K i r i 1 ilHI^ 1 l|iB|i; ij |,!')i i(;i' 290 LORNA DOONE captain; and lucky for the poor devil that he keepeth workman's hours. Eveft his chopper is gone, I see.' 'No dog, no man, is the rule about here, when it comes to coppice work,' continued young ds Whichehalse; 'there is not a man would dare work there, without a dog to scare the pixies.' 'There is a big young fellow upon this farm,' Carver Doone muttered sulkily, 'with whom I have an account to settle, if ever I come across him. He hath a cursed spite to us, because we shot his father. He was going to bring the lumpers upon us, only he was af eared, last winter. And he hath been in London lately, for some traitorous job, I doubt.' *Oh, you mean that fool, John Ridd,' answered the young squire; 'a very simple clod-hopper. No treachery in him, I warrant; he hath not the head for it. All he cares about is wrestling. As strong as a bull, and with no more brains.' 'A bullet for that bull,' said Carver; and I could see the grin on his scornful face; 'a bulled for ballast to his brain, the first time I come across him.' 'Nonsense, captain ! I won't have him shot, for he is my old school-fellow, and hath a very pretty sister. But his cousin is of a different mould, and ten times as dangerous.* 'We shall sec, i?ds, we shall see,' grumbled the great black-bearded man. 'Ill bodes for the fool that would hinder me. But come, let us onward. No lingering, or the viper will be in the bush from us. Body and soul, if he give us the slip, both of you shall answer it.' 'No fear, captain, and no hurry,' Charlie answered gallantly; 'would I were as sure of living a twelvemonth as he is of dying within the hour ! Extreme unction for him in my buUet patch. Remember, I claim to be his confessor, because he hath insulted me.' 'Thou art welcome to the job for me,' said Marwood, asi they turned away, and kept along the hedge-row; 'I love to meet a man sword to sword; not to pop at him from] a foxhole.' What answer was made I could not hear, for by this! time the stout ashen hed^e was between us, and no otherl gap to be found in it, until at the very bottom, where the! corner of the copse was. Yet I was not quit of danger! now; for they might come through that second gap, andj LORNA DOONE 291 keepeth e.' Lt comes b; 'there I dog to ' Carver account a cursed going to Lred, last for some vered the treachery it. All he id with no aid see the ) his brain, t, for he is 3tty sister, jn times as . the great ■chat would ring, or the soul, if he V! answered /elvemonth [unction for to be his larwood, as row; 'I love [t him from for by this nd no other . where the It of danger fd gap. and then would be sure to see me, unless I crept into the un- cut thicket, before they could enter the clearing. But in spite of all my fear, I was not wise enough to do that. And in truth the words of Carver Doone had filled me with such anger, knowing what I did about him and his pre- tence to Lorna; and the sight of Squire Marwood, in such outrageous company, had so moved my curiosity, and their threats against some unknown person so aroused my pity, that much of my prudence was for- gotten, or at least the better part of courage, which loves danger at long distance. Therefore, holding fast my bill-hook, I dropped myself very quietly into the bed of the runnel, being resolved to take my chance of their entrance at the corner, where the water dived through the hedge-row. And so I followed them down the fence, as gentiy as a rabbit goes; only I was inside it, and they on the outside; but yet so near that I heard the branches rustle as they pushed them. Perhaps I had never loved ferns so much as when I came to the end of that little gully, and stooped betwixt two patches of them, now my chief est shelter; for cattle had been through the gap just there, in quest of fodder and coolness, and had left but a mound of trodden earth between me and the outlaws. I mean at least on my left hand (upon which side they were), for in front where the brook ran out of the copse was a good stiff hedge of holly. And now I prayed Heaven to lead them straight on; for if they once turned to their right, through the gap, the muzzles of their guns would come almost against my forehead. ,; ^ ,,(- I heard them, for I durst not look; and could scarce keep still for trembling — I heard them trampling outside the gap, uncertain which track they should follow. And in that fearful moment, with my soul almost looking out of my body, expecting notice to quit it, what do you think I dici? I counted the threads in a spider's web, and the flies he had lately eaten, as their skeletons shook in the twilight. 'We shall see him better in there,' said Carver, in his horrible grufE voice, like the creaking of the gallows chain; sit there, behind holly hedge, lads, while he cometh down yonder hill; and then our good-evening to him; one iat his body, and two at his head: and good aim, lest we baulk the devil/ . . .^ , Xl..."! .n'-i- V aV.' ..; I.* 1,.". . ). ': '>'" '^■■,..;f,. J. v.. KM •>*«, A •*r*»ir*»* J^fl 29? LOKNA DOONE 4iji li 'I tell you, captain, that will not do,' said Charlie, almost whispering: 'you are very proud of your skill, we know, and can hit a lark if you see it : but he may not come until after dark, and we cannot be too nigh to him. This holly hedge is too far away. He crosses down here from Slocomslade, not from Tibbacot, I tell you; but along that track to the left there, and so by the foreland to Glenthorne, where his boat is in the cove. Do you think I have tracked bim so many evenings, without knowing his line to a hair? Will you fool away all my trouble?' 'Come then, lad, we will follow thy lead. Thy life for his, if we fail of it.* 'After me then, right into the hollow; thy legs are growing stiff, captain.' So shall thy body be, young man, if thou leadest me astray in this.' I heard them stumbling down the hill, which was steep and rocky in that part; and peering through the hedge, I saw them enter a covert, by the side of the track which Master Stickles followed, almost every evening, when he left our house upon business. And then I knew who it was they were come on purpose to murder — ^a thing which I might have guessed long before, but for terror and cold stupidity. *Oh that God,' I thought for a moment, waiting for my blood to flow; 'Ob that God had given me brains, to meet such cruel dastards according to their villainy! The power to he, and the love of it; the stealth to spy, and the ^lory in it; above all, the quiet relish for blood, and joy m the death of an enemy — these are what any man must have, to contend with the Doones upon even terms. And yet, I thank God that I have not any of these.' It was no time to dwell upon that, only to try, if might be, to prevent the crime they were bound upon. To follow the armed men down the hill would have been certain death to me, because there was no covert there, and the last light hung upon it. It seemed to me that my only chance to stop the mischief pending was to compass the round of the hill, as fast as feet could be laid to ground; only keeping o t of sight from the valley, and then down the rocks, and across the brook, to the track from Slocombslade : so as to stop the King's messenger from travelling any farther, if only I could catch him there. LORNA DOONE ::harUe, ir skill, nay not to him. wn here ou; but foreland Do you without y all my y life for legs are jadest me rhich was rough the t the track r evening, Len I knew pr— a thing for terror 293 And this was exactly what I did; and a terrible run I had for it, fearing at every step to hear the echo of shots in the valley, and dropping down the scrubby rocks with tearing and violent scratching. Then I crossed Bagworthy stream, not far below Doone-valley, and breasted the hill towards Slocombslade, with my heart very heavily panting. Why Jeremy chose to nde this way, instead of the more direct one which would have been over Oare- hill), was more than I could account for: but I had nothing to do with that; all I wanted was to save his life. And this I did by about a minute; and (which was the iiardest thing of all) with a great horse-pistol at my head, as I seized upon his bridle. 'Jeremy, Jerry,' was all I could say, being so fearfully short of breath; for I had crossed the ground quicker than any horse could. 'Spoken just in time, John Ridd ! ' cried Master Stickles, still however pointing the pistol at me: *I might have known thee by thy size, John. What art doing here?' 'Come to save your life. For God's sake, go no farther. Three men in the covert there, with long guns, waiting for thee.' *Ha! I have been watched of late. That is why I pointed at ttiee, John. Back round this comer, and get thy breath, and tell me all about it. I never saw a man so hurried. I could beat thee now, John.* Jeremy Stickles was a man of courage, ai^d presence of mind, and much resource : otherwise he would not have been appointed for this business; nevertheless he trembled greatly when he heard what I had to tell him. But I took good care to keep back the name of ycung Marwood de Whichehalse; neimer did I show my knowledge of the other men; for reasons of my own not very hard to conjecture. 'We will let them cool their heels, John Ridd,' said Jeremy, after thinking a little. 'I cannot fetch my musketeers either from Glenthome or Lynmouth, in time to seize the fellows. And three desperate Doones, well-armed, are too many for you and me C**8 result this attempt will have, it will make us attack them sooner than we had intended. And one more it will have, good John, it will make me thy friend for ever. Shake hands, my lad, and forgive me freely for having been so cold to 394 LORNA DOONE thee. Mayhap, in the troubles coming, it will help thee not a little to have done me this good turn.' Upon this he shook me by the hand, with a pressure such as we feel not often; and having learned from me how to pass quite beyond view of his enemies, he rode on to his cfuty, whatever it might be. For my part I was inclined to stay, and watch how long the three fusiliers would have the patience to lie in wait; but seeing less and less use in that, as I grew more and more hungry, I swung my coat about me, and went home to Plover's Barrows. (\ y CHAPTER XXXIX P re TROUBLED STATE AND A FOOLISH JOKE Stickles took me aside the next day, and opened all his business to me, whether I would or not. But I gave him clearly to understand that he was not to be vexed with me, neither to regard me as in any way dishonest, if I should use for my own purpose, or for the benefit of my friends, any part of the knowledge and privity thus en- forced upon me. To this he agreed quite readily; but upon the express provision that I should do nothing to thwart his schemes, neither unfold them to any one; but otherwise be allowed to act according to my own conscience, and as consisted with the honour of a loyal gentleman — iox so he was pleased to term me. Now what he said lay in no great compass and may be summed in smaller still; especially as people know the chief part of it already. Disaffection to the King, or rather dislike to his brother James, and fear of Roman ascendancy, had existed now for several years, and of late were spreading rapidly; partly through the downright arrogance of the Tory faction, the cruelty and austerity of the Duk« of York, the corruption of justice, and connscation of ancient rights and charters; partly through jealousy of the French king, and his potent voice in our affairs; and partly (or perhaps one might even say, mainly) through that natural tide in all political channels, which verily moves as if it had tho moon itself for its mistress. No sooner is a thing done and fired, being set far in advance perhaps of LORNA DOONE 295 lip thee pressure rom me rode on :t I was fusiliers eing less hungry, Plover's ! ' )-- I • • . led all his gave him exed with ihonest, if tefit of my / thus en- [adUy; hut lothing to any one; , my own of a loyal tte. Now le summed , chief part |her dislike iancy, had spreading [nee of the ]e Duk« of of ancient 5y of the and partly rough that irily moves sooner is a ! perhaps of all that was done before (like a new mole in the sea), but immediately the waters retire, lest they should undo it; and every one says how fine it is, but leaves other people to walk on it. Then after awhile, the vague endless ocean, having retired and lain still without a breeze or murmur, frets and heaves again with impulse, or with lashes laid on it, and in one great surge advances over evc - rampart. And so there was, at the time I speak of, a great surge in England, not rolling yet, but seeing; and one which a thousand Chief Justices, and a million Jeremy Stickles, should never be able to stop or turn, by stringing up men in front of it; any more than a rope of onions can repulse a volcano. But the worst of it was that tb?5 great move- ment took a wrong channel at first; not only missing legitimate hne, but roaring out that the back ditchway was the true and establibhed course of it. Against this rash and random current nearly all the ancient mariners of the State were set; not to allow the brave ship to drift there, U^ough some little boats might try it. For the present there seemed to be a pause, with no open onset, but people on the shore expecting, each according to his wishes, and the feel of his own finger, whence &e rush of wind should come which might direct the water. i' ■■-;•;-/. ': •> ;. >t ••- ' .■■■.'k-//i,i ^^ iAtu.\ Now, — ^to reduce high figures of speech into our own little numerals, — all the towns of Somersetshire and half the towns of Devonshire were full of pushing eager people, ready to swallow anything, or to maike others swaflow it. Whether they believed the folly about the black box, and all that stuff, is not for me to say; only one thing I know, they pretended to do so, and persuaded the ignorant rustics. Taunton, Bridgwater, Minehead, and Dulverton took the lead of the other towns in utterance of their discontent, and threats of what they meant to do if ever a Papist dared to cHmb the Protestant throne of England. On uie other hand, the Tory leaders were not as yet under apprehension of an immediate outbreak, and feared to daxnage their own cause by premature coercion, for the struggle was not very likely to begin in earnest during the life of the present iCing; unless he should (as some people hoped) be so far emboldened as to make public profession of the faith which he held (if any). So the Tory policy was to watch, not indeed pennitting their opponents to gather strength, and muster in armed force or wilix !•': . 296 LORNA DOONE order, but being well apprised of all their schemes and intended movements, to wait for some bold overt act, and then to strike severely. And as a Tory watchman — or spy, as the Whigs would call him — Jeremy Stickles was now among us; and his duty was threefold. First, and most ostensibly, to see to the levying of poundage in the little haven of Lynmouth, and farther up the coast, which was now becommg a place of resort for the folk whom we call smugglers, that is to say, who land their goods without regard to King's revenue as by law established. And indeed there had been no o£&cer appointed to take toll, until one had been sent to Mine- head, not so very long before. The excise as well (which had been ordered in the time of the Long Parliament) had been little heeded by the people hereabouts. Second, his duty was (though only the Doones had dis- covered it) to watch those outlaws narrowly, and report of their manners (which were scanty), doings (which were too manifold), reputation (which was execrable), and politics, whether true to the King and the Pope, or otherwise. Jeremy Stickles' third business was entirely political; to learn the tenaper of our people and the gentle families, to watch the movements of the trained bands (which could not always be trusted), to discover any collecting of arms and drilhng of men among us, to prevent (if need were, by open force) any importation of gunpowder, of which there had been some rumour; in a word, to observe and forestall the enemy. Now in providing lor this last-mentioned service, the Government had made a great mistake, doubtless through their anxiety to escape any public attention. For all the disposable force at their emissary's command amounted to no more than a score of musketeers, and these so divided along the coast as scarcely to suffice for the duty oi sentinels. He held a commission, it is true, for the em- ployment of the train-bands, but upon the understanding that he was not to call upon them (except as a last re- source), for any political object; although he might use them against -die Doones as private criminals, if found needful; and supposing that he could get them. 'So you see, John,' he said in conclusion, *I have more work than tools to do it with. I am heartily sorry I ever accepted such a mixed and meagre commission. At the bottom of it lies (I am well convinced) not only the desire JLORNA DOONE 297 aes and act, and nan — or des was /ying of I farther resort for p^ho land s by law of&cer to Mine- jU (which .rliament) s had dis- 1 report of ti were too ,d politics, irwise. r political; e families, ds (which )llecting of it (if need )Owder, of to observe jrvice, the ss through ?or all the 1 amounted [so divided le duty oi i>r the em- [erstanding a last re- I might use if found lave more )rry I ever in. At the the desire to keep things quiet, but the paltry jealousy of the military people. Because I am not a Colonel, forsooth, or a Captain in His Majesty's service, it would never do to trust me with a conipany of soldiers ! And yet they would not send either Colonel or Captain, for fear of a stir in the rustic mind. The only thing that I can do, with any chance of success, is to rout out these vile Doone fellows, and bum their houses over their heads. Now what think you of that, John Ridd?' 'Destroy the town of the Doones,' I said, 'and all the Doones inside it ! Surely, Jeremy, you would never think of such a cruel act as that ! * 'A cruel act, John ! It would be a mercy for at least three counties. No doubt you folk, who live so near, are well accustomed to them, and would miss your liveli- ness in coming home after nightfall, and the joy of finding your sheep and cattle right, when you not expected it. But after awhile you might get used to the dullness of being safe in your beds, and not losing your sisters and sweethearts. Surely, on the whole, it is as pleasant not to be robbed as to be robb©d. 'I think we should miss them very much,* I answered, after consideration; for the possibility of having no Doones had never yet occurred to me, and we all were so thoroughly used to them, and allowed for it in our year's reckoning; *I am sure we should miss them very sadly; and something worse would come of it.' 'Thou art the staunchest of ^11 staunch Tories,' cried Stickles, laughing, as he shook my hand; 'thou believest in the divine right of robbers, who are good enough to steal thy own fat sheep. I am a jolly Tory, John; but thou art ten times jollier: oh! the grief in thy face at the thought of being robbed no longer ! ' He laughed in a very unseemly manner; while I descried nothing to laugh about. For we always like to see our way; and a sudden change upsets us. And unless it were in the loss of the farm, or me death of the King, or of Betty Muxworthy, there was nothing that could so un- settle our minds as the loss of the Doones of Bagworthy. And beside all this, I was thinking, of course, and I thinking more than all the rest, about the troubles thit might ensue to my own beloved Lorna. If an attack of I Glen Doone were made by savage soldiers and rude train- bands, what might happen, or what mig^ not, to my I' 398 LORNA DOONE •. -i k I ■ f:' l .!!■ '^i' «! delicate, innocent darling? Therefore, when Jeremy Stickles again placed the matter before me, commending my strength and courage and skill (to flatter me of the highest), and finished bj^ saying that I would be worth at least four common men to him, I cut him short as follows : — 'Master Stickles, once for all, I will have naught to do with it. The reason why is no odds of thine, nor in any way disloyal. Only in tny plans remember that I will not ^tnke a blow, neither give any counsel, neither guard any prisoners.' 'Not strike a blow,' cried Jeremy, 'against thy father's murderers, John!* 'Not a single blow, Jeremy; unless I knew the man who did it, and he gloried m his sin. It was a foul and dastard deed, yet not done in cold blood; neither in cold blood will I take God's task of avenging it.' 'Very well, John,' answered Master Stickles, 'I know thine obstinacy. When thy mind is made up, to argue with thee is pelting a rock with peppercorns. But thou hast some other reason, lad, unless I am much mistaken, over and above thy merciful nature and Christian for- givenesb. Anyhow, come and see it, John. There will be good sport, I reckon; especially when we thrust our claws into the nest of the ravens. Many a yeoman will find his daughter, and some of the Porlock lads their sweethearts. A nice young maiden, now, for thee, John; if indeed, any ' *No more of this!* I answered very sternly: 'it is no business of thine, Jeremy; and I will have no joking upon this matter.' /; .: . : 'Good, my lord; so be it. But one thing I tell thee in earnest. We will have thy old double-dealing uncle, Huckaback of Dulverton, and march him first to assault Doone Castle, sure as my name is Stickles. T hear that he hath often vowed to storm the valley himself, if only he could find a dozen musketeers to back him. Now, we will give him chance to do it, and prove his loyalty io the King, which lies under some suspicion of late.' With regard to this, I had nothing to say; for it seemed i to me very reasonable that Uncle Reuben should have first chance of recovering his stolen goods, about which he had| made such a sad to-do, and promised himself such ven- geance. I made bold, however, to ask Master Stickles atl LORNA DOONE 299 Jeremy aending 5 of the e worth short as ht to do .r in any : will not uard any r father's man who d dastard old blood *I know ,' to argue But thou mistaken, -istian for- There will thrust our loman will lads their hee, John; )king upon what time he intended to carry out this great and hazard- ous attempt. He answered that he had several things requiring first to be set in order, and that he must make an inland journey, even as far as Tiverton, and perhaps Crediton and Exeter, to collect his forces and ammunition for them. For he meant to have some of the yeomanry as well as of the trained bands, so that if the Doones should sally forth, as perhaps they would, on horseback, cavalry might be there to meet them, and cut them off from returning. All this made me very uncomfortable, for many and many reasons, the chief and foremost '^eing of course my anxiety about Loma. If the attack succeeded, what was to become of her? Who would rescue her from the brutal soldiers, even supposing that she escaped from the hands of her own people, during the danger and ferocity? And in smaller ways, I was much put out; for instance, who would ensure our corn-ricks, sheep, and cattle, ay, and even our fat pigs, now coming on for bacon, against the spreading all over the country of unlicensed marauders? The Doones had their rights, and understood them, and took them according to prescription, even as the parsons had, and the lords of manors, and the King himself, God save him! But how were these low soldiering fellows (half-starved at home very lii'tely, and only too glad of the fat of the land, and ready, according to our proverb, to burn the paper they fried in), who were they, to come hectoring and heroing over us, and Heliogabalis- ing, with our pretty sisters to cook for them, and be chucked under chin perhaps afterwards? There is nothing England hates so much, according to my sense of it, as that fellows taken from plough-tail, cart-tail, pot-houses, and parish-stocks, should be hoisted and foisted upon us (after a few months' drilling, and their lying shaped into truckling) as defenders of the public weal, and heroes of the universe. ^ J '';• ^ f^ hrii; ^gii:. In another way I was vexed, moreover — ^for after all we must consider the opinions of our neighbours — ^namely, that I knew quite well how everybody for ten miles round (for my fame must have been at least that wide, j after all my wrestling), would lift up hands and cry out thus — 'Black shame on John Ridd, if he lets them go [without him!* -MiMj^'i •■— : jmw mvi^ ^p^j^ion. jmmc^' Putting all these things together, as well as many others, 300 LORNA DOONE ^ ] ■ ■' I' ;*: ■ I .. \ - 1 : I 1^:- I' which our own wits will suggest to you, it is impossible but what you will freely acknowledge that this unfor- tunate John Ridd was now in a cloven stick. There was Lorna, my love and life, bound by her duty to that old vil nay, I mean to her good grandfather, who could now do little mischief, and therefore deserved all praise — Lorna bound, at any rate, by her womanly feelings, if not by sense of duty, to remain in the thick danger, with nobody to protect her, but everybody to covet her, for beauty and position. Here was all the country roused with violent excitement, at the chance of snappii^ at the Doones; and not only getting tit for tat; but eVery young man promising his sweetheart a gold chain, and his mother at least a shilling. And here was our own mow-yard, better filled than we could remember, and perhaps every sheaf in it destined to be burned or stolen, before we had finished the bread we had baked. Among all these troubles, there was, however, or seemed to be, one comfort. Tom Faggus returned from London very proudly and very happfly, with a royal pardon in black and white, which everybody admired the more, because no one could read a word of it. The Squire him- self acknowledged cheerfully that he could sooner take fift}^ purses than read a single line of it. Some people indeed went so fix as to say that the parchment was made from a sheep Tom had stolen, and that was why it prevaricated so in giving him a character. But I, know- ing something by this time, of lawyers, was able to contradict them; affirming that the wolf had more than the sheep to do with this matter. For, according to our old saying, the three learned professions live by roguery on the three parts of a man. The doctor mauls our bodies; the parson starves our souls; but the lawyer must be the adroitest knave, for he has to ensnare our minds. Therefore he takes a careful delight in covering his traps and engines with a. spread of dead-leaf words, whereof himself knows little more] than half the way to spell them. . vBut now Tom Faggus, althou§[h having wit to gallop I away on his strawberry mare, with the speed of terror, from lawyers (having paid them with money too honest to stop), yet fell into a reckless adventure, ere ever he! came home, from which any lawyer would have saved hini.l although he ought to have needed none beyond commonl she look tol< anot sud( LORNA DOONE 301 ipossible s unfor- tiere was that old ho could i\\ praise feelings, t danger, iovet her. ry roused ippinfe at but eVery hain, and ; our own nber, and L or stolen, , or seemed im London pardon in the more, Squire him- iooner take jme people [hment was was why it 1 1, know- as able to more than |ree learned } of a man. starves our knave, for tes a careful th i'. spread little more I lit to gallop' Id of terror. } too honest I ere ever he fc saved himl Ind common thought for dear Annie. Now I am, and ever have been, so vexed about this story that I cannot tell it pleasantly (as I try to write in general) in my own words and manner. Therefc-e I will let John Fry (whom I have robbed of another story, to which he was more entitled, and whom I have robbed of many speeches (which he thought very excellent), lest I should grieve any one with his lack of education, — the last lack he ever felt, by the bye), now with your good leave, I will allow poor John to tell this tale, m his own words and style; which he has a perfect right to do, having been the first to tell us. For Squire Faggus kept it close; not trusting even Annie with it (or at least she said so); because no man knows much of his sweetheart's tongue, until she has borne him a child or two. Only before John begins his story, this I would say, in duty to him, and in common honesty, — that I dare not write down ^v lie few of his words, because they are not convenient, for dialect 01 other causes; and that I cannot find any way of spelling many of the words which I do repeat, so that people, not bom on Exmoor, may know how he pronounced them; even if they could bring their lips and their legs to the proper attitude. And in this I speak advisedly; having observed some thousand times, that the manner a man has of spreading his legs, and bend- ing his knees, or stiffening, and even the way he will set his heel, make all the difference in his tone, and time of casting his voice aright, and power of coming home to you. We always liked John's stories, not for any wit in them; but because we laughed at the roan, '•ather than the matter. The way he held his head was enough, with his chin fixed hard like a certaintjr (especially during his biggest lie), not a sign of a smile in his lips or nose, but a power of not laughing; and his eyes not turning to any- body, unless somebody had too much of it (as young girls always do) and went over the brink of laughter. Thereupon it was good to see John Fry; how he looked gravely first at the laughter, as much as to ask, 'What is it now?' then if the fool went lau^hin^ more, as he or she was sure to do upon that dry inquiry, John would look again, to be sure of it, and then at somebody else to learn whether the laugh had company; then if ne got another grin, all his mirth came out m glory, with a sadden break; and he wiped his Ups, and was grave again. 11 I ! I ( li i! i)«i n I III ^. '■:i 302 LORNA DOONE Now John, being too much encouraged by the girls (of which I could never break them), came into the house that December evening, with every inch of him full of a tale. Annie saw it, and Lizzie, of course; and even I, in the gloom of ^reat evils, perceived that John was a loaded gun; but I did not care to explode him. Now nothing primed him so hotly as this: if you wanted to h.ar all John Fry had heard, the surest of all sure ways to it was, to pretend not to care for a word of it. *I wor over to Exeford in the morning,' John began from the chimney-corner, looking straight at Annie; for to zee a little calve, Jan, as us cuddn't get thee to lave houze about. Meesus have got a quare vancy vor un, from wutt her have heer'd of the brade. Now zit quite, wuU 'e Miss Luzzie, or a 'wunt goo on no vurder. Vaine little tayl I'll tuU' ee, if so be thee zits quite. Wull, as 1 coom down the hill, I zeed a saight of volks astapping of the ro-udwai. Arl on 'em wi' girt goons, or two men out of dree wi' 'em. Rackon there wor dree score on 'em, tak smarl and beg togather laike; latt aloun the women and chillers; zum on 'em wi' matches blowing, tothers wi' flint-lacks. "Wutt be up now? " I says to Bill Blacksmith, as had knowledge of me: "be the King acoomin? If her be, do 'ee want to shutt 'un?" ' "Thee not knaw!" says Bill Blacksmith, just the zame as I be a tuUin of it: "whai, man, us expex Tam Faggus, and zum on us manes to shutt 'un." ' "Shutt 'un wi'out a warrant!" says I: "sure 'ee knaws better nor thic. Bill! A man mayn't shutt to another man, wi'out have a warrant, Bill. Warship zed so, last taime I zeed un, and nothing to the contrairy." •"Haw, haw! Never frout about that," saith Bill, zame as I be tullin you; "us has warrants and warships enow, dree or vour on 'em. And more nor a dizzen war- ranties; fro'ut I know to contrairy. Shutt 'un, us manes; and shutt 'un, us will " Whai, Miss Annie, good lord, whuttiver maks 'ee stear so?* i«; 'Nothing at all, John,' our Annie answered; 'only the| horrible ferocity of that miserable blacksmith.* /oi: 'That be nayther here nor there,' John continued, with! some wrath at his own interruption : 'Blacksmith knawed wbutt the Squire had been; and veared to lose his own ctistom, if Squire tuk to shooin' again. Shutt any man l| would myzelf as intervared wi* my trade laike. "Luckyl LORNA IX)ONE 303 girls (of it house full of a ^cn I, in a loaded nothing h'-iar all to it was, hn began nnie; for 36 to lave f vor un, zit quite, ier. Vaine Wull, as I tapping of o men put n 'em, tak iromen and bothers wi' Jlacksmith. lin? If her I. just the xpex Tarn "sure 'ee ««i for thee/* said Bill Blacksmith, "as thrc hec^'st so shart and fat, Jan. Dree on us wor a gooin' to shutt 'ee, till us zeed how fat thee waz, Jan." ' "Lor now. Bill!" I answered 'un, wi' a girt cold swat upon me: "shutt me, Bill; and my own waife niver drame of it!' • - : ... . Here John Fry loolted round the kitchen; for he had never said anything of the kind, I doubt; but now made it part of his discourse, from thinking that Mistress Fry was come, as she generally did, to fetch him. 'Wull done then, Jan Vry,' said the woman, who had entered quietly, but was only our old Molly. 'Wutt hand- some manners thee hast gat, Jan, to spake so well of thy waife laike; after arl the laife she leads thee!' 'Putt thee pot on the fire, old 'ooman, and bile thee own bakkon,' John answered her, very sharply : 'nobody no raight to meddle wi' a man's bad 'ooman but himzell. Wull, here was all these here men awaitin', zum wi' harses, zum wi'out; the common volk wi' long girt guns, and tha quarlity wi' mrt broad-swords. Who wor there? Whay latt me zee. There wor Squire Maunder,* here John assumed his full historical key, 'him wi' the pot to his vittle- place; and Sir Richard Blewitt shaking over the zaddle, and Squaire Sandford of Lee, him wi* the long nose and one eye, and Sir Gronus Batchildor over to Ninehead Court, and ever so many more on 'em, lulling up how they was arl gooin* to be promoted, for kitching of Tom Faggus. ' "Hope to God," says I to myzell, "poor Tom wun't coom here to-day : arl up with her, if 'a doeth : and who be there to suckzade *i.n * " Mark me now, all these charps was good to shutt 'un, as her coom crass the watter; the watter be waide enow there and stony, but no deeper than my knee-place. ' "Thee cas'n goo no vurder," Bill Blacksmith saith to me: "nawbody 'lowed to crass the vord, until such time as Faggus coom; plaise God us may mak sure of 'un.*' * "Amen, zo be it/' says I; "God knoweth I be never in [any hurry, and would zooner stop nor goo on most taimes.* 'Wi* that I pulled my vittles out, and zat a horse- barck, atin* of 'em, and oncommon good they was. ["Won't us have 'un this taime just,** saith Tim Potter, as keepeth the bull there; "and yet I be zorry for *un. But a man must kape the law, her must; zo be her can > 4 304 LORNA DOONE m only learn it. And now poor Tom will swing as high as the tops of they girt hashes there." ■ » ' "Just thee kitch 'un virst," says I; "maisure rope, wi' the body to maisure by/ ' "Hurrah! here be another now," saith Bill Black- smith, grinning; "another coom to help us. What a grave gentleman! A warship of the pac6, at laste!" 'Ifor a gentleman, on a cue-ball horse, was coming slowly down the hill on tother zide of watter, looking at us in a friendly way, and with a long papper standing forth the lining of his coat laike. Horse stapped to drink in the watter, and gentleman spak to 'un kindly, and then they coom raight on to ussen, and the gentleman's face wor so long and so grave, us veared 'a wor gooin' to prache to us. * "Coort o' King's Bench," saith one man; "Checker and Plays," saith another; "Spishal Commission, I doubt," saith Bill Blacksmith; "backed by the Mayor oi Taunton." ' "Any Justice of the King's Peace, good people, to be found near here?" said the gentleman, lifting his hat to us, and very gracious in his manner. * "Your honour," saith Bill, with his hat off his head; "there be sax or zeven warships here: arl on 'em very wise 'uns. Squaire Maunder there be the zinnyer." 'So the gentleman rode up to Squire Maunder, and raised his cocked hat in a manner that took the Squire out of countenance, for he could not do the like of it. * "Sir," said he, "good and worshipful sir, I am here to claim your good advice and valour; for purposes of justice. I hold His Majesty's commission, to make to cease a notorious rogue, whose name is Thomas Faggus." Withi that he offered his commission; but Squire Maunder told the truth, that he could not rade even words in print, much less written karakters* Then the other magistrates rode up, and put their heads together, how to meet the London gentleman without loss of importance. There wor one of 'em as could rade purty vair, and her made out! King's mark upon it: and he bowed upon his horse to! *I/est I seem to under-rate Uie erudition of Devonshire magistrates, I venture! to offer copy of a letter from a Justice of the Peace to his bookseller, circa | 18 10 A.D., now in my possession : — •Sur. M ' pie* to zen me the aks relatting to A-gustus-paks,' *'i? ri_j-^.tn>-.>^ **^ » [Bmphas'sed thus in origina!.] '^ ^^* **^ LOKNA DOONE 305 Sti. ofL-D- IBlewitt's. the gentleman, and he laid his hand on his heart and said, "Worshipful sir, we, as has the honour of His Gracious Majesty's commission, are entirely at your ser- vice, and crave instructions from you." .j»/ ..,.->. 'Then a waving of hats began, and a bowing, and mak- ing of legs to wan anather, sich as nayver wor zeed afore; but none of 'em arl, for air and brading, cud coom anaigh the gentleman with the long grave face. ' "Your warships have posted the men right well," saith he with anather bow all round; "surely that big rogue will have no chance left among so many valiant musketeers. Ha! what see I there, my friend? Rust in the pan of your gun! That gun would never go ofiE, sure as I am the King's Commissioner. And I see another just as bad; and lo, there the third! Pardon me, gentlemen, I have been so used to His Majesty's Ordnance-yards. But I fear that bold rogue would ride through all of you, and laugh at your worship's beards, by George." ' "But what shall us do?" Squire Maunder axed; "I vear there be no oil here." ' "Discharge your pieces, gentlemen, and let the men do the same; or at least let us try to discharge them, and load again with fresh powder. It is the fog of the morning hath spoiled the primmg. That rogue is not in sight yet : but God knows we must not be asleep with him, or what will His Majesty say to me, if we let him slip once more? " * "Excellent, wondrous well sadd, good sir," Squire Maunder answered him; "I never should have thought of that now. Bill Blacksmith, tell all the men to be ready to shoot up into the air, directly I give the word. Now, are you ready there, Bill?" ' "All ready, your worship," saith Bill, saluting like a soldier. . ,,,..^!,..,, \y ■ ?; v ' "Then, one, two, dree, and shutt!" cries Squire Maunder, standing up in the irons of his stirrups, j., ,, f 'Thereupon they all blazed out, and the noise of it went all roand the hills; with a girt tliick cloud arising, and all the air smelling of powder. Before the cloud was gone so much as ten yards on the wind, the g^tleman on the cue-bald horse shuts up his face like a pair of nut-cracks, as wide as it was long before, and out he pulls two girt pistols longside of zaddle, and clap'th one to Sg^uire Maunder' s head, and totbef t;o§ir,. Richard A : ».V>»T'. ■■MI ■ ^ 3o6 LORNA DOONE H; * ;! i; i.i: ' ' "Hand forth your money and all your warrants," he saith like a clap of thunder; "gentlemen, have you now the wit to apprehend Tom Faggus?" 'Squire Maunder swore so that he ought to be fined; but he pulled out his purse none the slower for that, and so did Sir Richard Blewitt. * "First man I see go to load a gun, I'll gi'e 'un the bullet to do it with," said Tom; for you see it was him and no other, looking quietly round upon all of them. Then he robbed all the rest of their warships, as pleasant as might be; and he saith, "Now, gentlemen, do your duty; serve your warrants afore you imprison me" ; with that he made them give up all the warrants, and he stuck them in the band of his hat, and then he made a bow with it. * "Good morning to your warships now, and a merry I Christmas all of you ! And the merrier both for rich and poor, when gentlemen see their alms^ving. Lest you deny yourselves the pleasure, I will aid your warships.l . . And to save you the trouble of following me, when yourlof t\ guns be loaded — this is my strawberry mare, gentlemen,! Tl only with a little cream on her. Gentlemen all, in theBwayj name of the King, I thank you." I 'T 'AH this while he was casting their money among thefclf, poor folk by the handful; and then he spak kaindly tolhis p the red mare, and wor over the back of the hill in twoBhim. zeconds, and best part of two maile away, I reckon, aforelrespe ever a gun wor loaded.'* "-: - - - .-.; v ^ : Jjs j . i .' 1 ' i.iCi l.iCt iJ -■' CHAPTER XL ^ TWO FOOLS TOGETHER That story of John Fry's, instead of causing any amuse ment, gave us great disquietude; not only because i| showed that Tom Fageus could not resist suaden temptaj tion and the delight oi wildness, but also that we greatlj feared lest the King's pardon might be annulled, and aj his kindness cancelled, by a reckless deed of that sort. was true (as Annie insisted continually, even with tear to wear in her arguments) that Tom had iiot brought awa| anything, except the warrants, which were of no use * The truth of this story is well established by first-rate tradition. LORNA DOONE 307 rants," he J you now ) be fined; • that, and e 'un the as him and hem- Then pleasant as your duty: f'lth that he gtuck them )W with it. nd a merry Eor rich and . Lest you ir warships. , when your I gentlemen,! \ all, in the I among the kaindly to hill in two] leckon, afori • t A ■ any amuse ' because i| Iden tempty It we greatlj lUed, and al Ithat sort, r L with tear rought awal Df no use tradition. all, after receipt of the pardon; neither had he used any violence, except just to frighten people; but could it be established, even towards Christmas-time, that Tom had a right to give alms, right and left, out of other people's money? Dear Annie appeared to believe that it could; saying that if the rich continually chose to forget che poor, a man who forced ^em to remember, and so to do good to themselves and to others, was a public benefactor, and I entitled to every blessing. But 1 knew, and so Lizzie I knew — John Fry being now out of hearing — ^that this was not sound argument. For, if it came to that, any man might take the King by the throat, and make him cast away among the poor the money which he wanted sadly for Her Grace the Duchess, and the beautiful Countess, of this, and of that. Lizzie, of course, knew nothing about His Majesty's diversions, which were not fit for a young maid's thoughts; but I now put the form |of the argument as it occurred to me. '.'iv u> n; Therefore I said, once for all (and both my sisters al- |ways listened when I used the deep voice from my chest) : 'Tom Faggus hath done wrong herein; wrong to him- Iself, and to our Annie. All he need have done was to show Ihis pardon, and the magistrates would have rejoiced with lim. He might have led a most godly life, and have been Bspected by everybody; and knowing how brave Tom ^, I thought that he would have done as much. Now if were in love with a maid' — I put it thus for the sake of )r Lizzie — 'never would I so imperil my life, and her jlortune in life along with me, for the sake of a poor mversion. A man's first duty is to the women, who are forced to hang upon him * 'Oh, John, not that horrible word,' cried Annie, my great surprise, and serious interruption; *oh, ohn, any word but thatt' And she burst forth crying Brribly. ' ' :. :-- .vnooaxMrfn -.stajo?! \.::m ^iiu-^i 'What word, Lizzie? What docs the wench mean?' iasked, in the saddest vexation; seeing no good to ask jinnie at all, for she carried on most dreadfully. I'Don't you know, you stupid lout?* said Lizzie, com- pting my wonderment, by the scorn of her quicker ftelligence; 'if you don't know, axe about?' And with that, I was forced to be .ontent; for Lizzie ok Annie in such a manner (on pur)iose to vex me, as ■I •^mmm H •' \l ■!|i :i 1 imm 1 \ 1 inn ill i ' ■U^H 1 : .1 u iif ^^^^B 'I t'l 1 ■: Wm ii'^ In IH^ 308 LORNA DOONE I could see) with her head drooping down, and her hair coming over, and tears and sobs rising and falling, to boot, without either order or reason, that seeing no good for a man to do (since neither of them was Lorna), I even went out into the courtyard, and smoked a pipe, and wondered what on earth is the meaning of women. Now in this 1 was wrong and unreasonable (as all women will acknowledge); but sometimes a man is so put out, by the way they take on about nothing, that he really cannot help thinking, for at least a minute, that women are a mistake for ever, and hence are for ever mistaken. Nevertheless 1 could not see that any of these great thoughts and ideas applied at ell to my Lorna; but that she was a different being; not woman enough to do any- thing bad, yet enough of a woman for man to adore. And now a thing came to pass which tested my adora- tion pretty sharply, inasmuch as I would far liefer faced Carver Doone and his father, nay, even the roaring lion himself with his hoofs and flaming nostrils, than have met, in cold blood. Sir Ensor Dpone, the founder of all the colony, and the fear of the very fiercest. But that I was forced to do at this time, and in the manner following. When 1 went up one morning to look for my seven rooks' nests, behold there were but six to be seen; for the topmost of them all was gone, and the most conspicuous. I looked, and looked, and rubbed my eyes, and turned to try them by other sights; and then I looked again; yes, there could be no doubt about it; the signal was made for me to come, because my love was in danger. For me to enter the valley now, durmg the broad daylight, could have brought no comfort, but only harm to the maiden, and certain death to myself. Yet it was more than I could do to keep altogether at distance; therefore I ran to the nearest place where I could remain unseen, and watched the glen from the wooded height, for hours and hours, impatiently. However, no impatience of mine made any difference in the scene upon which I was gazing. In the part of the valley which I could see, there was nothing moving, ex- cept the water, and a few stolen cows, going sadly along, as if knowing that they had no honest right there. It sank very heavily into my heart, with all Sie beds of dead leaves an>und it, and there was nothing I cared to do, except blow cm my fingers, and loAg for more wit. LORNA DOONE 309 For a frost was beginning, which made a great differ- ence to Lorna and to myself, I trow; as well as to all the five million people who dwell in this island of England; such a frost as never I saw before,* neither hope ever to see again; a time when it was impossible to rnillf a cow for icicles, or for a man to shave some of his beard (as I liked to do for Lorna' s sake, because she was so smooth) without blunting his razor on hard gray ice. No man could 'keep yatt (as we say), even though he abandoned his work altogether, and thumped himself, all on the chest and the front, till his frozen hands would have been bleeding except for the cold that kept still all his veins. However, at present there was :ao frost, although for a fortnight threatening; and I was too young to know the meaning of the way the dead leaves hung, and the worm- casts prickling like women's combs, and the leaden tone upon everything, and the dead weight of the sky. Will Watcombe, the old man at Lynmouth, who had been half over the world almost, and who talked so much of the Gulf -stream, had (as I afterwards called to mind) foretold a very bitter winter this year. But no one would listen to him because there were not so many hips and haws as usual; whereas we have all learned from our grandfathers that Providence never sends very hard winters, without having furnished a large supply of berries for the birds to feed upon. It was lucky for me, while I waited here, that our very best sheep-dog, old Watch, had chosen to accompany me that day. For otherwise I must have had no dinner, being unpersuaded, even by that, to quit my survey of the valley. However, by aid of poor Watch, I contrived to obtain a supply of food; for I sent him home with a note to Annie fastened upon his chest; and in less than an hour back he came, proud enough to wag his tail off, with his tongue hanging out from the speed of his jour- ney, and a large lump of bread and of bacon fastened in a napkin around his neck. I had not told my sister, of course, what was toward; for why should I make her anxiouspi vn-wym to ^tTr/nrc;txtt Ji^3*)^i ■ m rw .tncil.-^iigd ' When it grew towards dark, I was just beginning to * It John Kidd lived until the year 1740 (as so strong a man was bound to do), lie must have seen ahnost a harder frost ; and perhaps it put an end to him ; for then he would be some fourscore years old. But tradition makes him ' keep yatt,' as he sajTS, up to fivescore 3rean.— Bd. I<.D. ^•f^ 5 -/ rs.'»*\ '%M T-.Tt^,A , 'Vrp jl ^,J,t i'?^.JHr.KS\- 310 LORNA DOONE prepare for my circuit around the hills; but suddenly VVatch gave a long low growl; I kept myself close as possible, and ordered the dog to be silent, and presently saw a short figure approaching from a thickly-wooded hollow on the left side of my hiding-place. It was the same figure I had seen once before in the moonlight, at Plover's Barrows; and proved, to my great delight, to be the little maid Gwenny Carfax. She started a moment, at seeing me, but more with surprise than fear; and then she laid both her hands upon mme, as if sh& had known me for twenty years. 'Young man,' she said, 'you must come with me. I was gwain' all the way to fetch thee. Old man be dying; I and her can't die, or at least her won't, without first! considering thee.' 'Considering me!' I cried; 'what can Sir Ensor Doonel want with considering me? Has Mistress Lorna told I him?' 'All concerning thee, and thy doings; when she I knowed old man were so near his end. That vexed he was about thy lovr blood, a' thought her would come to life again, on purpose for to bate 'ee. But after all, there can't be scarcely such bad luck as that. Now, if her strook thee, 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 buni| and shiver.' And in truth, it made me both bum and shiver, to I know that I must either go straight to the presence of Sir Ensor Doone, or give iip Lorna, once for all, and rightly be despised by her. For the first time of my Ufe, 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 liiat he had one to give, which even a worse man might suppose), while she deceived him about her' self, and the life she had undertaken. Therefore, with ^eat misgiving of myself, but no iill thought of my darlmg, I sent Watch home, and followedl Gwenny; who led me along very rapidly, with her shortl broad form gliding down the hollow, from which she had! first appeared. Here at the bottom, she entered a thicketl of gray ash stubs and black holly, with rocks around iti u LORNA DOONE 311 ^arled with roots, and hung with masks of ivy. Here in a dark and lonely comer, with a pixie ring l)efore 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 j 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 m 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 imtempting, 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 oy the water- side. Gwenny said something to them, and although they stared very hard at me, they let me pass without hin- drance. It is not too much to say that when the little maid opened Sir Ensor's door, my heart thumped, quite las much with terror as with hope of Loma's presence. But in a moment the fear was gone, for Loma was I 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 — land showed her the tip of my thumb as I said it — ^for bid Sir Ensor, and all his wrath, so long as I had his [granddaughter's love. .^/i:'"; ' r^'....^ '.,., ^.-r--, ■:>,^,r.t. Now I tried to think tiiis as I said it, so as to save it Ifrom being a lie; but somehow or other it did not answer, land I was vexed with myself both ways. But Loma took Ime by the hand as bravely as she could, and led me into la little passage where I could hear the river moaning and |the branches mstling. '^'^ *'"''' ;^'!'^"V'- --'^ ;n-^^n Here I passed as long a minute as fear ever cheated time of, saying to myself continually that there was Inothing to be frightened at, yet growing more and more ifraid by reason of so reasonmg. At last my Lorna came )ack very pale, as I saw by the candle she carried, and "whispered, 'Now be patient, dearest. Never mind what ie says to you; neither attempt to answer him. Look at liim gently and steadfastly, and, if you can, with some 3xa LORNA DOONE 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 iri 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 af eared 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. There- fore I made a low obeisance, and tried not to shiver. Only I groaned that Loma thought it good manners to leave us two together. *Ah,* said the old man, and his voice seemed to come from a cavern of sikeletpns; 'are you that great John '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?* 1 'Yes, I know right well,' I answered, 'that I haye ^etBfire ( mine eyes far above my rank.' ' Iv^: . , r' r, Pi— -i 'Are you ignorant tiat Loma Doone is bom 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 I 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 thisB|nd as style of speech, 'the Ridds, of Oare, have been honestjoans men twice aa long as the Doones have been rogues.' ""''* *' ;;;■ w LORNA DOONE 313 passion; it f quietly.' and very took little he window man, very nance; yet lir, with a white hair on without ,t kept him L his great ower of his ing. afeared of ,ow it. And y from the (ate. There- hiver. Only srs to leave led to come great John ^as all that better.' it you have I ; I have set | )om of the I knew of ^rthy.' lether I was id thinking lose of me), jncy with a It from the led to this )een honest fogues.' '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 any- body 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 oUier 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 agam. 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 |3ome reliance in woman's pride. You will pledge your word jin Loma's presence never to see or to seek her again; never even to think of her more. Now call her, for I am weary.' j He kept his great eyes fixed upon me with their icy [fire (as if he scorned both life and death), and on his laughty lips some slight amusement at my trouble; and Ithen he raised one hand (as if I were a poor dumb crea- hure), and pointed to the door. Although my heart re- plied and kindled at his proud disdain, I could not iisobey him freely; but made a low salute, and went itraightway in search of Loma. I found my love (or not my love; according as now she ihould behave; for I was very desperate, being put upon ) sadly); Lorna Doone was cr5dng softly at a little indow, and listening to the river's grief. I laid my leavy arm around her, not with any air of claiming or of lorcing her thoughts to me, but only just to comfort her, id ask what she was thinking of. To my arm she made 10 answer, neither to my seeking eyes; but to niy heart. »nce for all, she spoke with her own upon it. Nq| a word. Hi t !) 314 LORNA DOONE 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 Elisor's room in the foUowing manner. Lorna, with her right hand swallowed entirely by the palm of mine, andj her waist retired from view by means of my left arm. All | one side of her hair came down, in a way to be remem- bered, upon the left and fairest part of mv favourite otter-skin waistcoat; and her head as well would have \ak\ 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 forj loving Lorna so, and having to protect her. Then I made him a bow, to the very best of all I hadl learned both at Tiverton and in London; after that l\ waited for him to begin, as became his age and rank in hfe. 'Ye two fools!' he said at last, with a depth of conl tempt which no words may express; 'ye two fools 1' I 'May it please your worship,' I answered softly; 'maybel we are not such fools as we look. But though we be] we are well content, so long as we may be two fool^ together.' 'Why, John,' said the old man, with a spark, as 0^ smiling in his eyes; 'thou art not altogether the clui yokel, and the clod, I took thee for.' 'Oh, no, grandfather; oh, dear grandfather,' one Lorna, witii such zeal and flashing, that her hands wenil forward; 'nobody knows what John Hidd is, because ha is so modest. I mean, nobody except me, dear.' And here she turned to me again, and rose upon tiptoe, ao(j kissed me. 'I have seen a little of.i the world,' said the old manj while I wais half ashamod, although so proud of LornaJ 'but this is beyond all I have seen, and nearly all I bavf he^d of. It is more fit for southern climates than for tbj fogs of Exmoor/ ^,^^^It is fit for all the world* your worship; with yc LORNA DOONE 3X5 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 farm- houses (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 grand-children.' Partly in bitterness he spoke, and partly in pure weari- ness, and then he turned so as not to see us; and his white hair fell, like a shroud, around him. . ; '. • I ' ■ .1- ' i /,' T 1 1 ; ■ I ( •- ■■I ; ': : ''' ! ■ '; * " ^'!:.')i- i«:{ • . // i CHAPTER XLI . '■,. -V: 1 J--: 'r-! -':''" 'I ^ ■■]<■%/ •;,«> i ■.- COLD COMFORT Ik. ■ 1. '- . ' i- ' J *. til i '{]":^ 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 Loma and me, we must both have wearied of him, and required change of air. But now lllonged to see and know a great deal more about him, and llioped that he might not go to Heaven for at least a week or more. However, he was too good for this world (as we say of all people who leave it); and I verily believe [his heart was not a bad one, after all. -i*^^'- ^' Evil be had done, no doubt, as evil had been done to Ihim; yet how many have done evil, while receiving only Igood! Be that as it may; and not vexing a question l(settled for ever without our votes), let us own that he |was, at least, a brave and courteous gentleman. ■u 316 LORNA DOONK th th cei lor m And his loss aroused great lamentation, not among the Doones alone, and the women they had carried off, but also of the general public, and many even oi the magis- trates, for several miles round Exmoor. And this, not only from fear lest one more wicked might succeed him (as appeared indeed too probable), but from true admira- tion of his strong will, and sympathy with his misfor- tunes, '^^'''-l '"■''• Mi-''': 5 redwings, flipping in and out the hedge, having lost the power to fly. And all the time their great black eyes, set with gold around them, seemed to look I at any man, for mercy and for comfort. . - ,i. .".*.- *t Annie took a many of them, all that she could find her- Iself, and all the boys would bring her; and she made a great hutch near the fire, in the back-kitchen chimney- place. Here, in spite of our old Betty (who sadly wanted to roast them), Annie kept some lifty birds, with bread '\ i- ; 320 LORNA DOONE '■-■ !, i I Pi 3 P ■' 1; and milk, and raw chopped meat, and all the seed she could think of, and lumps of rotten apples, placed to tempt them, in the corners. Some ^ot on, and some died off; and Annie cried for all that died, and buried them under the woodrick; but, I do assure you, it was a pretty thing to see, when she went to them in the morning. There was not a bird but knew her well, after one day of comforting; and some would come to her hand, and sit. and shut one eye, and look at her. Then she used to stroke their heads, and feel their breasts, and talk to them; and not a bird of them all was there but liked to have it done to him. And I do believe they would eat from her hand things unnatural to them, lest she should be grieved and hurt by not knowing what to do for them. One of them was a noble bird, such as I never had seen before, of very fine bright plumage, and larger than a missel-thrush. He was the hardest of all to please; and yet he tried to do his best. I have heard since then, from a man who knows all about birds, and beasts, and fi ^ , that he must have been a Norwegian bird, called in this country a Roller, who never comes to England but in the most tremendous winters. Another little bird there was, whom I longed to welcome home, and protect from enemies, a little bird no native to us, but than any native dearer, ^ut lo, in the very night which followed old Sir Ensor's funeral, such a storm of snow besran as never have I heard nor read of, neither could have dreamed it. At what time of night it first began is more than I can say, at least from my own knowledge, for we all went to bed soon after supper, being cold and not inclined to talk. At that time the wind was moaning sadly, and the sky as dark as a wood, and the straw in the yard swirling round and round, andi the cows huddling into the great cowhouse, with their| chins upon one another. But we, being blinder than they,^ I suppose, and not having had a great snow for years, made no preparation against the storm, except that the| lambing ewes were in shelter. It struck me, as I lay in bed, that we were acting fool- ishly; for an ancient shepherd had dropped in and takei supper with us, and foretold a heavy fall and greai disaster to live stock. He said that he had known a fr( beginning, just as this had done, with a black east wind, after days of raw cold fog, and then on the thii" follov LORNA DOONE 321 night of the frost, at this very time of year (to wit on the 15th of December) such a snow set in as killed half of the sheep and many even of the red deer and the forest ponies. It was three-score years agone,* he said; and cause he had to remember it, inasmuch as two of his toes had been lost by frost- nip, while he dug out his sheep on the other side of the Dunkery. He^ upon mother nodded at him, having heard from her father about it, and how three men had been frozen to death, and how badly their stockings came ofi from them. Remembering how the old man looked, and his manner of listening to the wind and shaking his head very omin- ously (when Annie gave him a glass of schnapps), I grew quite uneasy in my bed, as the room got colder and colder; and I made up my mind, if it only pleased God not to send the snow till the morning, that every sheep, and horse, and cow, ay, and even the poultry, should be brought in snug, and with plenty to eat, and fodder enough to roast them. Alas what use of man's resolves, when they come a day too late; even if they may avail a little, when they are most punctual! In the bitter morning I aros?, to follow out my purpose, knowing the time from the force of habit, although the jroom was so dark and gray. An odd white light was on the rafters, such as I never had seen before; while all Ithe length of the room was grisly, like the heart of a I mouldy oat-rick. I went to the window at once, of course; and at first I could not understand what was doing out- Iside of it. It faced due east (as I may have said), with ^valnut-tree partly sheltering it; and generally I could ' vhe yard, and the woodrick, and even the church Ibtyt J'' . But now, half the lattice was quite blocked up, as if Iplastered with gray lime; and little fringes, like ferns, came through, where the joining of the lead was; and [in the only undarkened part, countless dots came swarm- |ing, clustering, beating with a soft, low sound, then gliding [down in a slippery manner, not as drops of rain do, but leach distinct from his neighbour. Inside the iron frame l(which fitted, not to say too comfortably, and went along Ithe stonework), at least a peck of snow had entered, [following its own bend and fancy; light as any cobweb. * The frost of 1635. ^ L D. L :i •i\ 322 LORNA DOONE ^■- m f i With some trouble, and great care, lest the ancient frame should yield, I spread the lattice open; and saw at once that not a moment must be lost, to save our stock. All the earth was flat with snow, all the air was thick with snow; more than this no man could see, for all the world was snowing. I shut the window and dressed in haste; and when I entered the kitchen, not even Betty, the earliest of all early birds, was there. I raked tibe ashes together a little, just to see a spark of warmth; and then set forth to find John Fry, Jem Slocombe, and Bill Dadds. But this was easier thought than done; for when I opened the courtyard door, I was taken up to my knees at once, and the power of the drifting cloud prevented sight of anything. However, I found my way to the woodrick, and there got hold of a fine ash-stake, cut by myself not long ago. With this I ploughed along pretty well, and thundered so hard at lohn Fry's door, that he thought it was the Doones at least, and cocked his blunderbuss out of the window. John was very loth to come down, when he saw thf meaning of it; for he valued his life more than anything else; though he tried to make out that his wife was to blame. But I settled his doubts by telling him, that I would have him on my shoulder naked, unless he came in five minutes; not that he could do much good, but because the other men would be sure to skulk, if he set them the example. With spades, and shovels, and pitch- forks, and a round of ropmg, we four set forth to dig out the sheep; and the poor things knew that it was high time. CHAPTER XLH THE GREAT WINTER ' iiu. It must have snowed most wonderfully to have made that! depth of covering in about eight hours. For one of Masterr Stickles' men, who had been out all the night, said tiatj no snow began to fall until nearly midnight. And her it was, blocking up the doors, stopping the ways, and thd water courses, and making it very much worse to wall carv chis( pest twir oftl orti the fierc( wing of fr. Bt was mittc it. th to so; Iknew LORNA DOONE 323 le ancient ; and saw save our tie air was see, for all nd when I liest of all together a n set forth adds. But 1 I opened ;es at once, ed sight of 3 woodrick, myself not jr well, and he thought blunderbuss he saw thf an anything! wife was toj him, that I 3 he came in , good, but I Ik, if he set| ;, and pitch- •orth to dig it was high lU? than in a saw-pit newly used. However, we trudged along in a line; I first, and the other men after me; trying to keep my track, but finding legs and strength not up to it. Most of all, John Fry was groaning; certain that his time was come, and sending messages to his wife, and blessings to his children. For all this time it was snowing harder than it ever had snowed before, so far as a man might guess at it; and the leaden depth of the sky came down, like a mine turned upside down on us. Not that the flakes were so very large; for I have seen much larger flakes in a shower of March, while sowing peas; but that there was no room between them, neither any relaxing, nor any change of direction. Watch, like a good and faithful dog, followed us very cheerfully, leaping out of the depth, which took him over his back and ears already, even in the level places; while in the drifts he might have sunk to any distance out of sight, and never found his way up again. However, we helped him now and then, especially through the gaps and gateways; and so after a deal of floundering, some laughter, and a little swearing, we came all safe to the lower meadow, where most of our flock was hurdled. But behold, there was no flock at all ! None, I mean, to be seen anywhere; only at one comer of the field, by the eastern end, where the snow drove in, a great white billow, as high as a barn, and as broad as a house. This great drift was rolling and curling beneath the violent blast, tufting and combing with rustling swirls, and I carved (as in patterns of cornice) where the grooving [Chisel of the wind swept round. Ever and again the tem- pest snatched little whiffs from the channelled edges, I twirled them round and made them dance over the chime of the monster pile, then let them lie like herring-bones, or the seams of sand where the tide has been. And all the while from the smothering sky, more and more fiercely at every blast, came the pelting, pitiless arrows, I winged with murky white, and pointed with the barbs I of frost. But although for people who had no sheep, the sight Iwas a very fine one (so far at least as the weather per- jmitted any sight at all); yet for us, with our flock beneath lit, this great mount had but little charm. Watch began |to scratch at once, and to howl along the sides of it; he pew that his charge was buried there, and his business I: 324 LORNA DOONE '■ f. ki ^111 taken from him. But we four men set to in earnest, digging with all our might and main, shovelling away at the great white pile, and fetching it into the meadow. Each man made tor himself a cave, scooping at the soft, cold flux, which slid upon him at every stroke, and throwing it out behind him, in piles of castled fancy. At last we drove our tunnels in (for we worked indeed for the lives of us), and all converging towards the middle, held our tools and listened. Tht other men heard nothing at all; or declared that they heard nothing, being anxious now to abandon the matter, because of the chill in their feet and knees. But I said, 'Go, if you choose all of you. I will work it out by myself, you pie-crusts,' and upon that they gripped their shovels, being more or less of Englishmen; and the least drop of English blood is worth the best of any other when it comes to lasting out. But before we began again, I laid my head well into the chamber; and there I hears a faint 'ma-a-ah,' coming through some ells of snow, like a plaintive, buried hope, or a last appeal. I shouted aloud to cheer him up, for I knew what sheep it was, to wit, the most valiant of all the wethers, who had met me when I came home from London, and been so glad to see me. And then we all fell to again; and very soon we hauled him out. Watch took charge of him at once, with an air of the noblest patron- age, lying on his frozen fleece, and licking all his face and feet, to restore his warmth to him. Then fighting Tom jumped up at once, and made a little butt at Watch, as if nothing had ever ailed him, and then set off to a shallow place, and looked for something to nibble at. Further in, and close under the bank, where they had huddled themselves for warmth, we found all the rest of i the poor sheep packed, as closely as if they were in a great j pie. It was strange to observe how their vapour and| breath, and the moisture exuding from their wool hadi scooped, as it were, a coved room for them, lined with a ribbing of deep yellow snow. Also the churned snow beneath their feet was as yellow as gamboge. Two or three of the weaklier hoggets were dead, from want of air, and from pressure; but more than three-score were! as lively as ever; though cramped and stiff for a little! while. ^ifs i*fu-,-M'^i':i r<" ' -; -;.: ; tmW' ■-.■:" LORNA DOONE 325 earnest, I away at meadow. ; the soft, :oke, and ed fancy, ed indeed le middle, lared that andon the nees. But rork it out sy gripped n; and the [ any other ell into the h,' coming aried hope, lim up, for iliant of all home from [1 we all fell ;/Vatch took est patron- lis face and [hting Tom at Watch, set of! to to nibble 'However shall us get 'em home?' John Fry asked in great dismay, when we had cleared about a dozen of them; which we were forced to do very carefully, so as not to fetch the roof down. 'No manner of maning to draive 'un, drough all they girt driftnesses.' 'You see to this place, John,' I replied, as we leaned on our shovels a moment, and the sheep came rubbing round us; 'let no more of them out for the present; they are better where they be. Watch, here boy, keep them !' Watch came, with his little scut of a tail cocked as sharp as duty, and I set him at the narrow mouth of the great snow autre. All the sheep sidled away, and got closer, that the other sheep might be bitten first, as 9ie foolish things imagine; whereas no good sheep-dog even so much as lips a sheep to turn it. Then of the outer sheep (all now snowed and frizzled like a lawyer's wig) I took the two finest and heaviest, and with one beneath my right arm, and the other be- neath my left, I went straight home to the upper sheppey, and set them inside and fastened them. Sixty and six I took home in that way, two at a time on each journey; and the work grew harder and harder each time, as the drifts of the snow were deepening. No other man should meddle with them; I was resolved to try my strength against the strength of the elements; and try it I did. ay, and proved it. A certain fierce delight burned in me, as the struggle grew harder; but rather would I die than yield; and at last I finished it. People talk of it to this day; but none can tell what the labour was, who have not felt that snow and wind. Of the sheep upon the mountain, and the sheep upon the western farm, and the cattle on the upper barrows, scarcely one in ten was saved; do what we would for them, and this was not through any neglect (now that our wits were sharpened), but from the pure impossibility of find- ing them at all. That great snow never ceased a moment for three days and nights; and then when all the earth was filled, and the topmost hedges were unseen, and the trees broke down with weight (wherever the wind had not lightened them), a brilliant sun broke forth and showed the loss of all our customs. All our house was quite snowed up, except where we had purged a way, by dint of constant shovellings. The kitchen was as dark and darker than the cider-cellar, and ii T II ii r 326 LORNA DOONE long lines of furrowed scollops ran even up to the chimney- stacks. Several windows fell right inwards, through the weight of the snow against them; and the few that stood, bulged in, and bent like an old bruised Ian thorn. We were obliged to cook by candle-light; we were forced to read by candle-light; as for baking, we could not do it, because the oven was too chill; and a load of faggots only brought a little wet down the sides of it. For when the sun burst fortli at last upon that world of white, what he brought was neither warmth, nor cheer, nor hope of softening; only a clearer shaft of cold, from the violet depths of sky. Long-drawn alleys of white haze seemed to lead towards him, yet such as he could not come down, with any warmth remaining. Broad white curtains of the frost-fog looped around the lower sky, on the verge of hill and valley, and above the laden trees. Only round the sun himself, and the spot of heaven he claimed, clustered a bright purple-blue, clear, and calm, and deep. That night such a frost ensued as we had never dreamed of, neither read in ancient books, or histories of Frobisher. The kettle by the fire froze, and the crock upon the hearth- cheeks; many men were killed, and cattle rigid in their head-ropes. Then I heard that fearful sound, which never I had heard before, neither since have heard (except during that same winter), the sharp yet solemn sound of trees burst open by the frost-blow. Our great walnut lost three branches, and has been dying ever since; though growing meanwhile, as the soul does. And the ancient oak at the cross was rent, and many score of ash trees. But why should I tell all this? the people who have not seen it (as 1 have) will only make faces, and disbelieve; till such another frost comes; which perhaps may never be. This terrible weather kept Tom Fa^gus from coming near our house for weeks; at which mdeed I was noti vexed a quarter so much as Annie was; for I had never half approved of him, as a husband for my sister; in spite of his purchase from Squire Bassett, and the grant of the Royal pardon. It may be, however, that Annie took the same view of my love for Loma, and couli not augur well of it; but if so, she held her peace, though I was not so sparing. For many things contributed to make me less good-humoured now than my real nature was; andj the very least of all these things would have been enou^ LORNA DOON2 327 chimney- rough the lat stood, om. We forced to not do it, ggots only Jiat world nor cheer, cold, from i of white s he could g. Broad the lower 5 the laden t of heaven clear, and 'er dreamed i Frobisher. the hearth- feid in their vhich never ird (except in sound ot walnut lost ice; though the ancient if ash trees. 10 have not disbelieve; y never be, om coming I was not had never [y sister; in d the grant Annie took i net augur |OUgh I was] |to make me e was; and ,een enough to make some people cross, and rude, and tractious. I mean the red and painful chapping of my face and hands, from working in the snow all day^ and lying in the frost all night. For being of a fair complexion, and a ruddy nature, and pretty plump withal, and fed on plenty of hot victuals, and always forced by my mother to sit nearer the fire than 1 wished, it was wonderful to see how the cold ran revel on my cheeks and knuckles. And I {eared that Lorna (if it should ever please God to stop the snowing) might take this for a proof of low and rustic blood and breeding. And this I say was the smallest thing; for it was far more serious that we were losing half our stock, do all we would to shelter them. Even the horses in the stables (mustered all together for the sake of breath and steaming) had long icicles from their muzzles, almost every morning. But of all things the very gravest, to my apprehension, was the impossibility of hearing, or having any token of or from my loved one. Not that those three days alone of snow (tremendous as it was) could have blocked the country so; but that the sky had never ceased, for more [than two days at a time, for full three weeks thereafter, to pour fresh piles of fleecy mantle; neither had the ffind relaxed a single day from shaking them. As a rule, it snowed all day, cleared up at night, and froze intensely, vith the stars as bright as jewels, earth spread out in lustrous twilight, and the sounds in the air as sharp and Tackling as artillery; then in the morning, snow again; fore the sun could come to help. It mattered not what way the wind was. Often and iften the vanes went round, and we hoped for change of eather; the only change was that it seemed (if possible) grow colder. Indeed, after a week or so, the wind would gularly box the compass (as the sailors call it) in the urse of every day, following where the sun should be, if to make a mock of him. And this of course im- ensely added to the peril of the drifts; because they if ted every day; and no skill or care might learn them. I believe it was on Epiphany morning, or somewhere ut that period, when Lizzie ran into the kitchen to me, here I was thawing my goose-grease, with the dogs ong the ashes — ^the live dogs, I mean, not the iron ones, them we had given up long ago, — and having caught le, by way trf wonder (for gener£jly I was out shovellmg >, ! I ■t '41 I I'll 328 LORNA DOONE '4 ftSe ■ 1( h sc al a1 Pi of as sai tO( spi he (all fell the ma^ nes! eve] skir glid &!' long before my 'young lady' had her nightcap off), she positively kissed me, for the sake of warming her lips perhaps, or because she had something proud to say. 'You great fool, John,' said my lady, as Annie and I used to call her, on account of her airs and graces; 'what a pity you never read, John!' Much use, I should think, in reading!' I answered, though pleased with her condescension; 'read, I suppose, with roof coming in, and only this chimney left sticking out of the snow!' 'The very time to read, John,' said Lizzie, looking grander; 'our worst troubles are the need, whence know- ledge can deliver us.' 'Amen,' I cried out; 'are you parson or clerk? Which- ever you are, good-morning.' Thereupon I was bent on my usual round (a very small one nowadays), but Eliza took me with both hands, and I stopped of course; for I could not bear to shake the child, even in play, for a moment, because her back was tender. Then she looked up at me with her beautiful eyes, so large, unhealthy and delicate, and strangely, shadowing outward, as if to spread their meaning; andl^^^s she said,— |aow| 'Now, John, this is no time to joke. I was almostl^'^J frozen in bed last night; and Annie like an icicle. Feell how cold my hands are. Now, will you listen to what have read about climates ten times worse than this; am where none but clever men can live?' 'Impossible for me to listen now, I have hundreds things to see to; but I will listen after breakfast to youiB"P°' foreign climates, child. Now attend to mother's hoJjJJ° coffee.' She looked a little disappointed, but she knew what had to do; and after all she was not so utterly unreasoi able; although she did read books. And when I had dom my morning's work, I listened to her patiently; and was out of my power to think that all she said was foolisl For I knew common sense pretty well, by this timi whether it happened to be my own, or any other person'i if clearly laid before me. And Lizzie had a particular wa| of setting forth very clearly whatever she wished to e, press and enforce. But the queerest part of it all wi this, that if she could but have dreamed for a momei what would be ihe first amplication made me by oiE hi anc long as a it a let |cem( e toi LORNA DOONE 329 p off), she ig her lips LO say. nnie and I ices; 'what answered, 'read, I tiimney left de, looking lence know- •k? Which! a very small L hands, and o shake the ler back was! ler beautifull id strangely! leaning; and! was almosti icicle. Feell en to what lan this; and jnew what rly unreason ;n I had don ently; andj d was f oolist by this tim' ther persons ^articular wa wished to er of it all w :or a momei me by of ^ lesson, she would rather have bitten her tongue off than help me to my purpose. She told me that in the Arctic Regions, as they call some places, a long way north, where the Great Bear lies all across the heavens, and no sun is up, for whole months at a time, and yet where people will go exploring, out of pure contradiction, and for the sake of novelty, and love of being frozen — ^that here they always had such winters as we were having now. It never ceased to freeze, she said; and it never ceased to snow; except when it was too cold; and then all the air was choked with glittering spikes; and a man's skin might come off of him, before he could ask the reason. Nevertheless the people there (although the snow was fifty feet deep, and all their breath fell behind them frozen, like a log of wood dropped from their shoulders), yet they managed to get along, and make the time oiE the year to each other, by a little clever- ness. For seeing how the snow was spread, lightly over everything, covering up the hills and valleys, and the fore- skin of the sea, ttiey contrived a way to crown it, and to glide like a flake along. Through the sparkle of the white- ness, and the wreaths of windy tossings, and the ups and downs of cold, any man might get along with a boat on [either foot, to prevent his sinking. She told me how these boats were made; very strong land very light, of ribs with skin across them; five feet long, and one foot wide; and turned up at each end, even as a canoe is. But she did not tell me, nor did I give it a moment's thought myself, how hard it was to walk upon them without early practice. Then she told me another thing equally useful to me; although I would not let her see how much I thought about it. And this con- |cemed the use of sledges, and their power of gliding, and le lightness of their following; all of which I could see once, through knowledge of our own farm-sleds; which employ in lieu of wheels, used in flatter districts, len I had heard all this from her, a mere chit of a irl as she was, unfit to make a snowball even, or to fry snow pancakes, I looked down on her with amazement, " began to wish a little that I had given more time to )oks. But God shapes all our fitness, and gives each man his leaning, even as he guides the wavering lines of snow lescending. Our Eliza was meant for books; our dear ■i\ i 1 i:'1i ; Hi; I' f M 330 LORNA DOONE If. Annie for loving and cooking; I, John Ridd, for sheep, and wresthng, and the thought of Lorna; and mother to love all three of us, and to make the best of her children. And now, if I must tell the truth, as at every page I try to do (though God knows it is hard enough), I had felt through all this weather, though my life was Lorna's, something of a satisfaction in so doing duty to my kindest | and best of mothers, and to none but her. For (if you come to think of it) a man's young love is very pleasant, very sweet, and tickling; and takes him through the core I of neart; without his knowing how or why. Then he dwells upon it sideways, without people looking, and builds up all sorts of fancies, growing hot with working so at his own imaginings. So his love is a crystal Goddess, set upon an obelisk; and whoever will not bow the knee (yet without glancing at her), the lover makes it a sacred nte either to kick ©r to stick him. I am not speaking ot| me and Lorna, but of common people. Then (if you come to think again) lo! — or I will noti say lo ! for no one can behold it — only feel, or but remem- ber, what a real mother is. Ever loving, ever so' everi turning sin to goodness, vices into virtues; blin alll nine-tenths of wrong; through a telescope beholding! (though herself so nigh to them) faintest decimal ofl promise, even in her vilest child. Ready to thank Godl again, as when her babe was born to her; leaping (as atj kmgdom-come) at a wandering syllable of Gospel for her| lost one. All this our mother was to us, and even more than all of this; and hence I felt a pride and joy in doing myf sacred duty towards her, now that the weather compelled me. And she was as grateful and delighted as if she had no more claim upon me than a stranger's sheep mightj have. Yet from time to time I groaned within myself and by myself, at thinking of my sad debarment fron the sight of Lorna, and of all that might have happened to her, now she had no protection. Therefore, I fell to at once, upon that hint from LizzieJ and being used to thatching- work, and the making ol traps, and so on, before very long I built myself a paij of strong and light snow-shoes, framed with ash m ribbed of withy, with half-tanned calf-skin stretcheij across, and an mner sole to support my feet. At first could not walk at all. but floundered about mos LORNA DOONE 33t for sheep, mother to jr children. page I try I had felt IS Lorna's, my kindest For (if youi ry pleasant, [gh the core . Then he I )oking, and ith working tal Goddess, 3W the knee s it a sacred speaking ot )r 1 will not I • but remem- er so' ever! blin all >e beholdingi decimal ofl thank Godl japing (as atl ospel for herl .lore than alll in doing m [er compelled fas if she had 1 sheep mighj Hthin myself larment fron Ive happened from Lizzie] 16 making oi lyself a pJ ^ith ash anc tin stretche^ it. At first about mos piteously. catching one shoe in the other, and both oi them in the snow-drifts, to the great amusement of the girls, who were come to look at me. But after a while I grew more expert, discovering what my errors were, and altering the inclination of the shoes themselves, accord- ing to a print which Lizzie found in a book of adventures. And this made such a difference, that I crossed the farm- yard and came back again (though turning was the worst thing of all) without so much as falling once, or getting my stafi' entangled. But oh, the aching of my ankles, when 1 went to bed that night; I was forced to help myself upstairs with a couple of mopsticks ! and I rubbed the joints with neats- foot oil, which comforted them greatly. And likely enough I would have abandoned any further trial, but for Lizzie's ridicule, and pretended sympathy; asking if the strong John Ridd would have old Betty to lean upon. There- fore I set to again, with a fixed resolve not to notice pain or stiffness, but to warm them out of me. And sure enough, before dark that day, I could get along pretty freely; especially improving every time, after leaving off and resting. The astonishment of poor John Fry, Bill Dadds, and Jem Slocombe, when they saw me coming down the hill upon them, in the twilight, where they were clearing the furze rick and trussing it for cattle, was more than I can tell you; because they did not let me see it, but ran away with one accord, and floundered into a snow- drift. They believed, and so did every one else (especially when I grew able to glide along pretty rapidly), that I had stolen Mother Melldrum's sieves, on which she was said to fly over the foreland at midnight every Saturday. Upon the following day, I held some council with my mother; not liking to go without her permission, yet [scarcely daring to ask for it. But here she disappointed me, on the right side of disappointment; saying that she had seen my pining (which she never could have done: because I had been too hard at work), and rather than watch me grieving so, for somebody or other, who now was all in all to me, I might go upon my coMrse, and God's protection go with me! At this I was amazed, because it was not at all like mother; and knowing how well I had behaved, ever since the time of our snowing up, I Iwas a little moved to tell her that she could not under- Istand me. However my sense of duty kept me, and my i\ it I i. H '<■,• if •■ \i ' V( 332 LORNA DOONE knowledge ol the catechism, from saying such a thing as that, or even thinking twice of it. And so I took her at her word, which she was not prepared for; and telhng her how proud I was of her trust in Providence, and how I could run in my new snow-shoes, I took a short pipe in my mouth, and started forth accordingly. CHAPTER XLIIl NOT TOO SOON When I started on my road across the hills and valleys (which now were pretty much alike), the utmost I could hope to do was to gain the crest of hills, and look into the Doone Glen. Hence I might at least descry whether Lorna still was safe, by the six nests still remaining, and the view of the Captain's house. When I was come to the open country, far beyond the sheltered homestead, and in the full brunt of the wind, the keen blast of the cold broke on me, and the mighty breadth of snow. Moor and highland, field and common, cliif and vale, and water- course, over all the rolling folds of misty white were flung. There was nothing square or jagged left, there was nothing perpendicular; all the rugged lines were eased, and all the breach'js smoothly filled. Curves, and mounds, and rounded heavings, took the place of rock and stump; and all the country looked as if a woman's hand had been on it. Through the sparkling breadth of white, which seemed to glance my eyes away, and outside the humps of laden trees, bowing their backs like a woodman, I contrived to get alo ig, half -sliding and half -walking, in places where a plain t,bodden man must have sunk, and waited freezing till the thaw should come to him. For although there had been such violent frost, every night, upon the snow, the snow itself, having never thawed, even for an hour, had never coated over. Hence it was as soft and light as if all had fallen yesterday. In places where no drift had been, but rather off than on to them, three feet was the least of deptti; but where the wind had chased it round, or any draught led like a funnel, or anything opposed it; there you might very safely say that it ran up to LORNA DOONE 653 thing as )k her at filing her id how I t pipe in id valleys ist I could )k into the / whether ining, and ome to the stead, and 5f the cold Moor and md water- vhite were , there was rere eased, d mounds, ,nd stump; Id had been twenty feet, or thirty, or even fifty, and I believe some times a hundred. At last I got to my spy-hill (as I had begun to call it), although I never should have known it but for what it looked on. And even to know this last again required all the eyes of love, soever sharp and vigilant. For all the beautiful Glen Doone (shaped from out the mountains, as if on purpose for the Doones, and looking in the summer-time like a sharp cut vase of green) now was besnowed half up the sides, and at either end so, that it was more like the white basins wherein we boil plum- puddings. Not a patch of grass was there, not a black branch of a tree; all was white; and the little river flowed beneath an arch of snow; if it managed to flow at all. Now this was a great surprise to me; not only because I believed Glen Doone to be a place outside all frost, but also because I thought perhaps that it was quite impos- sible to be cold near Lorna. And now it struck me all at once that perhaps her ewer was frozen (as mine had been for the last three weeks, requiring embers around it), and perhaps her window would not shut, any more than mine would; and perhaps she wanted blankets. This idea worked me up to such a chill of sympathy, that seeing no Doones now about, and doubting if any guns would go off, in this state of the weather, and knowing that no man could catch me up (except with shoes like mine), I even resolved to slide the cliffs, and bravely go to Lorna. It helped me much in this resolve, tl it the snow came on again, thick enough to blind a man who had not spent his time among it, as I had done now for days and days. Therefore I took my neatsfoot oil, which now was clogged like honey, and rubbed it hard into my leg-joints, so far as I could reach them. And then I set my back and elbows well against a snowdrift, hanging far adown the cliff, and saying some of the Lord's Prayer, threw myself on Providence. Before there was time to think or dream, I landed very beautifully upon a ridge of run-up snow in a quiet corner. My good shoes, or boots, preserved me from going far beneath it; though one of them was sadly strained, where a grub had gnawed the ash, in the early summer-time. Having set myself aright, and being in good spirits, I made boldly across the valley (where the snow was furrowed hard), being now afraid of nobody. If Lorna had looked out of the window she would not a 334 LORNA DOONE !■■■ ,i i'i ( h I have known me, with those boots upon my feet, and a well-cleaned sheepskin over me, beanng my own (J. R.) in red, just between my shoulders, but covered now in snow-flakes. Th house was partly drifted up, though not so much as ours was; and I crossed the little stream almost without knowing that it was under me. At first, being pretty safe from interference from the other huts, by virtue of the blinding snow and the difficulty of walk- ing, I examined all the windows; but these were coated so with ice, like ferns and flowers and dazzling stars, that no one could so much as guess what might be inside of them. Moreover I was afraid of prying narrowly into them, as it was not a proper thing where a maiden might be; only I wanted to know just this, whether she were there or not. Taking nothing by this movement, I was forced, much against my will, to venture to the door and knock, in a hesitating manner, not being sure but what my answer might be the mouth of a carbine. However it was not so, for I heard a pattering of feet and a whispering going on, and then a shrill voice through the keyhole, asking, •Who's there?' 'Only me, John Ridd,* I answered; upon which 1 heard a little laughter, and a little sobbing, or something that was like it; and then the door was opened about a couple of inches, with a bar behind it still; and then the little voice went on, — 'Put thy finger in, young man, with the old ring on it. But mind thee, if it be the wrong one, thou shalt never draw it back again.' Laughing at Gwenny's mighty threat, 1 showed my finger in the opening; upon which she let me in, and barred the door again like lightning. 'What is the meaning of all this, Gwenny?* 1 asked, as I slipped about on the floor, for I could not stand there firmly with my great snow-shoes on. 'Maning enough, and bad maning too,' the Cornish girl made answer. 'Us be shut in here, and starving, and durstn't let anybody in upon us. I wish thou wer't good to ate, young man : I could manage most of thee.' I was so frightened by her eyes, full of wolfish hunger, that I could only say 'uood God !' having never seen the| like before. Then drew I forth a large piece of bread,, v^hich I had brought in case of accidents, and placed it io LORNA DOONE 335 et, and a m (J. R) jd now in p, though tie stream , At first. ther huts, y of walk- } coated so rs, that no le of them, them, as it it be; only re there or reed, much cnock, in a my answer it was not )ering going ole, asking, lich 1 heard lething that )ut a couple n the little ring on it. shalt never showed my me in, and 1 asked, as stand there Cornish girl arving, and wer't good liee.' ish hunger, |ver seen the 1 e of bread, placed it in her hands. She leaped at it, as a starving dog leaps at sight of his supper, and she set her teeth in it, and then withheld it from her lips, with something very like an oath at her own vile greediness; and then away round tiie corner with it, no doubt for her young mistress. I mean- while was occupied, to the best of my ability, in taking my snow-shoes oflf, yet wondering much within myself why Lorna did not come to me. But presently I knew the cause, for Gwenny called me, and I ran, and found my darling quite unable to say so much as, 'John, how are you?' Between the hunger and the cold, and the excitement of my coming, she had fainted away, and lay back on a chair, as white as the snow around us. In betwixt her delicate lips, Gwenny was thrusting with all her strength the hard Drown crust of the rye-bread, which she had snatched from me so. 'Get water, or get snow,' I said; 'don't you know what fainting is, you very stupid child?' 'Never heerd on it, in Cornwall,' she answered, trust- ing still to the bread; 'be un the same as bleeding?' 'It will be directly, if you go on squeezing away with that crust so. Eat a piece : I have got some more. Leave my darling now to me.' Hearing that I had some more, the starving girl could resist no longer, but tore it in two, and had swallowed half before I had coaxed my Lorna back to sense, and hope, and joy, and love. 'I never expected to see you again. I had made up mv mind to die, John; and to die without your knowing it.'' As I repelled this fearful thought in a manner highly fortifying, the tender hue flowed back again into her I famished cheeks and lips, and a softer brilliance glistened [from the depth of her dark eyes. She gave me one little shrunken hand, and I could not help a tear for it. 'After all, Mistress Lorna,' I said, pretending to be gay. I for a smile might do her good; 'you do not love me as [Gwenny does; for she even wanted to eat me.' 'And shall, afore I have done, young man,' Gwenny [answered laughing; 'you come in here with they red Jchakes, and make us think o' sirloin.' 'Eat up your bit of brown bread, Gwenny. It is not Igoocl enough for your mistress. Bless her heart, I have i|'^ I Mi M ;. !'■ i|- ;l 336 LORNA DOONE '1 '!, something here such as she never tasted the like of, being in such appetite. Look here, Lorna; smell it first. I have had it ever since Twelfth Day, and kept it all the time for you. Annie made it. That is enough to warrant it good cooking.' And then I showed my great mince-pie in a bag of tissue paper, and I told them how the mince-meat was made of golden pippins finely shred, with the undercut of the sirloin, and spice and fruit accordingly and far beyond my knowledge. But Lorna would not touch a morsel until she had thanked God for it, and given me the kindest kiss, and put a piece in Gwenny's mouth. I have eaten many things myself, with very great enjoyment, and keen perception of their merits, and some thanks to God for them. But I never did enjoy a thing, that had found its way between my own lips, half, or even a quarter as much as I now enjoyed behold- ing Lorna, sitting proudly upwards (to show that she was famt no more) entering into that mince-pie, and moving | all her pearls of teeth (inside her little mouth-place) exactly as I told her. For I was afraid lest she should 1 be too fast in going through it, and cause herself more damage so, than she got of nourishment. But I had no need to fear at all, and Lorna could not help laughing | at me for thinking that she had no self-control. Some creatures require a deal of food (I myself! among the number), and some can do with a very little; making, no doubt, the best of it. And I have often noticed that the plumpest and most perfect women never eat so hard and fast as the skinny and three-cornered ones. These last be often ashamed of it, and eat mosti when the men be absent. Hence it came to pass thatl Lorna, being the loveliest of all maidens, had as much asl she could do to finish her own half of pie; whereas Gwennyl Carfax (though generous more than greedy), ate up henl without winking, after finishing the brown loaf ; and thenl I begged to know the meaning of this state of things. I 'The meaning is sad enough,' said Lorna; 'and I seel no way out of it. We are both to be starved until I lef them do what they like with me.' I 'That is to say until you choose to marry Carveil Doone, and be slowly killed by him?* 'Slowly ! No, John, quickly. I hate him so intensely] that less than a week would kill me.' LORNA DOONE 337 J of, being t first. 1 ; it all the to warrant v! / . a bag of i-meat was Q undercut ly and far ot touch a i given me r's mouth, very great nerits, and r did enjoy y own lips, >yed behold- that she was and moving nouth-place) t she snould herself more }\xt I had no elp laughing trol. d (I myself a very little; have often v^omen never iree-comered ind eat most to pass that] i as much as sreas Gwenny ate up hers| ,af; and then of things, p,; 'and I see] fed until I le^ Larry Carvei so intensely 'Not a doubt of that,' said Gwenny; 'oh, she hates him nicely then; but net half so much as I do.' I told them that this state of things could be endured no longer, on which point they agreed with me, but saw no means to help it. l«'or even if Lorna could make up her mind to come awty with me and live at Plover's Barrows farm, under my good mother's care, as I had urged so often, behold the snow was all around us, heaped as high as mountains, and how could any delicate maiden ever get across it? Then I spoke with a strange tingle upon both sides of my heart, knowing that this undertaking was a serious one for all, and might burn our farm down, — 'If I warrant to take you safe, and without much fright or hardship, Lorna, will you come with me?' 'To be sure I wiU, dear,' said my beauty, with a smile and a glance to follow it; 'I have small alternative, to starve, or go with you, John.' 'Gwenny, have you courage for it? Will you come with your young mistress?' 'Will I stay behind?' cried Gwenny, in a voice that settled it. And so we began to arrange about it; and I was much excited. It was useless now to leave it longer; if it could be done at all, it could not be too quickly done. It was the Counsellor who had ordered, after all other schemes had failed, that his niece should have no food until she would obey him. He had strictly watched the house, t^.king turns with Carver, to ensure that none came nigh it bearing food or comfort. But this evening, they had thought it needless to remain on guard; and it would have been impossible, because themselves were busy offering high festival to all the valley, in right of their own commandership. And Gwenny said that nothing made her so nearly mad with appetite as the account she received from a woman of all the dishes reparing. Nevertheless she had answered bravely, — 'Go and tell the Counsellor, and go and tell the Carver, ^ho sent you to spy upon us, that we shall have a finer ish than any set before them.' And so in truth they did, Ithough so little dreaming it; for no Doone that was ■ver bom, however much of a Carver, might vie with our nnie for mince-meat. Now while we sat reflecting much, and talking a good "1 more, in spite of all the cold — for I never was in a 338 LORNA DOONE I I II l-t I'lRi: i!| 'mil ? mam hi iij (ifl hurry to go, when I had Lorna with me — she said, in her silvery voice, which always led me so along, as if I were a slave to a beautiful bell, — 'Now, John, we are wasting time, dear. You have praised my hair, till it curls with pride, and my eyes till you cannot see them, ev2n if they are brov/n diamonds which I have heard for the fiftieth time at least; though I never saw such a jewel. Don't you think it is high time to put en your snow-shoes, John?' . 'Certainly not, I answered, 'till we have settled some- thing more. I was so cold when I came in; and now I am as warm as a cricket. And so are you, you lively soul; though you are not upon my hearth yet.' 'Remember, John,* said Lorna, nestln 2 for a moment to me; 'the severity of the weather makes a great differ- ence between us. ^ind you must never take advantage.' 'I quite understand all that, dear. And the harder it freezes the better, while thet understanding continues. Now do try to be serious.' 'I try to be serious! And I have been trying fifty times, and could not bring you to it, John ! Although I am sure the situation, as the Counsellor says at the begin- ning of a speech, the situation, to say the least, is serious enough for anything. Come, Gwenny, imitate him.' Gwenny was famed for her imitation of the Counsellor making a speech; and she began to shake her hair, and mount upon a footstool; but I really could not have this, though even Lorna ordered it. The truth was that niyl darling maiden was in such wild spirits, at seeing me so| unexpected, and at the prospect of release, and of whai she had never known, quiet life and happiness, that like al warm and loving natures, she could scarce control herselfi 'Come to this frozen window, John, and see them lighl the stack-fire. They will little know who looks at the Now be very good, John. You stay in that corner, dear] and I will stand on this side; and try to breathe yoursei a peep-hole through the lovely spears and banners. 01 you don't know how to do it. I must do it for yo Breathe three times, like that, and that; and then y rub it with your fingers, before it has time to free; again.' All this she did so beautifully, with her lips put up U cherries, and her fingers bent half back, as onfy girls c bend them, and her little waist thrown out against tl low Th ave th •ed urs ith^ li LORNA DOONE 339 id. in her if I were ^ou have y eyes till diamonds st; though it is high utled some- 1 now I am lively soul; : a moment great differ- advantage.' tie harder it g continues. white of the siiowed-up window, that I made her do it three times over; and I stopped her evi;ry time and let it freeze again, that so she might be the longer. Now I knew that all her love was mine, every bit as much as mine was hers; yet I must have her to show it, dwelling upon every proof, lengthening out all certainty. Perhaps the jealous heart is loath to own a life worth twice its own. Be that as it may, I know that we thawed the window nicely. And then I saw, far down the stream (or rather down the bed of it, for there was no stream visible), a little form of fire arising, red, and dark, and flickering. Presently it caught on something, and went upward boldly; and then it struck into many forks, and then it fell, and rose again. 'Do you know what all that is, John?' asked Lorna, smiling cleverly at the manner of my staring. 'How on earth should I knov/? Papists bum Protest- ants in the flesh; and Protestants burn Papists in efiigy, as we mock them. Lorna, are they going to bum any trving fiftv|one to-night?' Although iH 'No, you dear. I must rid you of these things. I see t the begin-P^^* you are bigoted. The Doones are firing Dunkery is seriousBbeacon, to celebrate their new captain.' him.' Mr ^^* ^°^ could they bring it here through the snow? Counsellorfr they have sledges, I can do nothing '■ They brought it before the snow begin. The moment T grandfather was gone, even before his funeral, the oung men, having none to check the) a, began at once pon it. They had always borne a grudge against it; not at it ever did them harm; but because it seemed so dent. "Can't a gentleman go home, without a smoke hind him?" I have often heard them saying. And ough they have done it no serious harm, since they ew the firemen on the fire, many, many years ago, they rn pr aeai»-^® often promised to bring it here for their candle; and corner, ^^^ ^^^^ ^^_^^ ^^^^ .^ ^^ ^^^ ^^^^ , ^^^ ^^ .^ kindled.' Though Lorna took it so in joke, I looked upon it very avely, knowing that this heavy outrage to th feelings the neighbourhood would cause more stir thti.i a hun- ed sheep stolen, or a score of houses sacked. Not of urse that the beacon ^ as of the smallest use to any one, ither stopped anybody from stealing, nay, rather it like the parish knell, which begins when all is over. I f gainst tw depresses all the survivors; yet I knew that we seeing banners. 34© LORNA DOONE i t> li (i ■?. t i ^13 valued it, and were proud, and spoke of it as a mighty institution; and even more than that, our vestry had voted, within the last two years, seven shillings and six- pence to pay for it, in proportion with othtx parishes. And one of the men who attended to it, or at least who was paid for doing so, was our Jem Slocombe's grandfather. However, in spite of all my regrets, the fire went up very merrily, blazing red and white and yellow, as it leaped on different things. And the light danced on the snow-drifts with a misty lilac hue. I was astonished at its burning in such mighty depths of snow; but Gwenny said that the wicked men had been three days hard at work, clearing, as it were, a cock-pit, for their fire to have its way. And now they had a mighty pile, which must have covered five land-yards square, heaped up to a goodly height, and eager to take fire. In this I saw great obstacle to what I wished to manage. For when this pyramid should be kindled thoroughly, and pourinp light and blazes round, would not all the valley be like a white room full of candles? Thinking thus, I was half inclined to abide my time for another night; and then my second thoughts convinced me that I would be a fool in .. For lo, what an opportunity! All the Doones woula \^j drunk, of course, in about three hours' time, and getting more and more in drink as the night went on. As for the fire, it must sink in about three hours or more, and only cast uncertain shadows friendly, to my purpose. And then the outlaws must cower round , it, as the cold increased on them, helping the weight of the liquor; and in their jollity any noise would be cheered as a false alarm. Most of all, and which decided once for all my action, — when these wild and reckless villains! should be hot with ardent spirits, what was door, or wall, to stand betwixt them and my Lorna? This thought quickened me so much that I touched myl darling reverently, and told her in a few short words how| I hoped to manage it. 'Sweetest, in two hours' time, I shall be again with youj Keep the bar up, and have Gwenny ready to answer anyj one. You are safe while they are dining, dear, and drinkf ing healths, and all that stuff; and before they have done] with that, I shall be again with you. Have everythinf you care to take in a very little compass, and Gwenni a mighty jstry had 3 and six- parishes, r at least flocombe's 5 went up low, as it :ed on the ished at its ^enny said d at work, to have its must have o a goodly to manage, thoroughly, not all the ? Thinking for another :ed me that pportunity! about three drink as the about three ows friendly cower round le weight oi dbe cheered ded once for :less villains! oor, or wall. touched my I rt words howj tin with you answer anyl ., and drink- By have doD«| fe everythinf and Gweno! LORNA DOONE 341 must have no baggage. I shall knock load, and then wait a little; and then knock twice, very softly.' With this I folded her in my arms; and she looked frightened at me; not having perceived her danger; and then I told Gwenny over again what I had told her mis- tress : but she only nodded her head and said, 'Young man, go and teach thy grandmother.' CHAPTER XLIV BROUGHT HOME AT LAST To my great delight I found that the weather, not often friendly to lovers, and lately seemiag so hostile, had in the most important matter done me a signal service. For when I had promised to take my love from the power of these wretches, the only way of escape apparent lay through the main Doone-gate. For though I might climb the cliffs myself, especially with the snow to aid me, I --'urst not try to fetch Lorna up them, even if she were not half-starved, as well as partly frozen; and as for Gwenny's [door, as we called it (that is to say, the little entrance from the wooded hollow), it was snowed up long ago to the level of the hills around. Therefore I was at my wit's end |i\ow to get them out; the passage by the Docne-gate :ing long, and dark, and difi&cult, and leading to such weary circuit among the snowy moors and hills. But now, being homeward-bound by the shortest issible track, I slipped along between the bonfire and :he boundary cli£fs, where I found a caved way of snow )ehind a sort of avalanche: so that if the Doones had !en keeping watch (which they w ^re not doing, but revelling), they could scarcely have discovered me. And hen I came to my old ascent, where I had often scaled le clifE and made across the mountains, it struck me that would just have a look at my first and painful entrance, wit, the water-slide. I never for a moment imagined lat this could help me now; for I never had dared to lescend it, even in the finest weather; still I had a [uriosity to know what my old friend was like, with so luch snow upon him. But, to my very great surprise, lere was scarcely any snow there at all, though plenty 'Mi 342 LORNA DOONE curlinff high overhead from the cliff, like bolsters over it Probably the sweeping of the north-east wind up the] narrow chasm had kept the showers from blocking itf although the water had no power under the bitter gnJ of frost. All my water-slide was now less a slide than pat] of ice; furrowed where the waters ran over fluted ridges| seamed where wind had tossed and combed them, eve while congealing; and crossed with little steps whereva the freezing torrent lingered. And here and there the was fibred with the trail of sludge-weed, slanting fro the side, and matted, so as to make resting-place. Lo it was easy track and channel, as if for the vt purpose made, down which I could guide my sledge wiij Lorna sitting in it. There were only two things to feared; one lest the rolls of snow above should fall and bury us; the oth^r lest we should rush too fast, so be carried headlong into the black whirlpool at bottom, the micdle of which was still unfrozen, and k ing more horrible by the contrast. Against this danger] made provision, by fixing a stout bar across; but of other we must take our chance, and trust ourselves i Providence. I hastened home at my utmost speed, and told mother for God's sake to keep the house up till my ret and to have plenty of fire blazing, and plenty of wa boiling, and food enough hot for a dozen people, and i best bed aired with the warming-pan. Dear moti smiled softly at my excitement, though her own wasi much less, I am sure, and enhanced by sore anxie Then I gave very strict directions to Annie, and prais her a little, and kissed her; and I even endeavoured | flatter Eliza, lest she should be disagreeable. After this I took some brandy, both within and al me; the former, because I had sharp work to do; andi latter in fear of whatever might happen, in such cold, to my comrades. Also I carried some other prol sions, grieving much at their coldness; and then I wenij the upper linhay, and took our new light pony-slei which had been made almost as much for pleasure! for business; though God only knows how our girls c(r have found any pleasure in bumping along so. On| snow, however, it ran as sweetly as if it had been for it; yet I durst not take the pony with it; in thci place, because his hoofs would break through the " LORNA DOONE 343 {shifting surface of the light and piling snow; and secondly, (because these ponies, coming from the forest, have [a dreadful trick of neighing, and most of all in frosty weather. Therefore I girded my own body with a dozen turns of lay-rope, twisting both the ends in under at the bottom )f my breast, and winding the hay on the skew a little, lat the hempen thong might not slip between, and so :ut me in the drawing. I put a good piece of spare rope in le sledd, and the cross-seat with the back to it, which ^as stuffed with our own wool, as well as two or three fur ^oats; and then, just as I was starting, out came Annie, spite of the cold, panting for fear of missing me, and nth nothing on her head, but a lanthorn in one hand. 'Oh, John, here is the most wonderful thing 4 Mother IS never shown it before; and I can't think how she )uld make up her mind. She had gotten it in a great well a cupboard, with camphor, and spirits, and lavender. ^izzie says it is a most magnificent sealskin cloak, worth fty pounds, or a farthing.' 'At any rate it is soft and warm,' said I, very calmly fnging it into the bottom of the sledd. 'Tell mother I ill put it over Lorna's feet.' Lorna's feet! Oh, you great fool,' cried Annie, for the \st time reviling me; 'over her shoulders; and be proud, )u very stupid John.' [Tt is not good enough for her feet,' I answered, with rong emphasis; 'but don't tell mother I said so, Annie. ily thank her very kindly.' With that I drew my traces hard, and set my ashen iff into the snow, and struck out with my best foot femost (the best one at snow-shoes, I mean), and the id came after me as lightly as a dog might follow; Annie, with the lanthorn, seemed to be left behind waiting like a pretty lamp-post. !"he full moon rose as bright behind me as a paten of pe silver, casting on the snow long shadows of the few igs left above, burdened rock, and shaggy foreland, the labouring trees. In the great white desolation, ince was a mocking vision; hills looked nigh, and leys far; when hills were far and valleys nigh. And 1 misty breath of frost, piercing through the ribs of rock, ping to the pith of trees, creeping to the heart of man, along the hollow places, like a serpent sloughing. Even r, i ''■ I • i 344 LORNA DOONE as my own gaunt shadow (travestied as if I were the moonlight's daddy-longlegs), went before me down the slope; even I, the shadow's master, who had tried in vain to cough, when coughing brought good liquorice, felt a pressure on my bosom, and a husking in my throat. However, I went on quietly, and at a very tidy speed; being only too thankful that the snow had ceased, and no wind as yet arisen. And from the ring of low white vapour girding all the verge of sky, and from the rosy blue above, and the shafts of starlight set upon a quiver- ing bow, as well as from the moon itself and the light behind it, having learned the signs of frost from its bitter twinges, I knew that we should have a night as keen as ever England felt. Nevertheless, I had work enough to keep me .warm if I managed it. The question was, could I contrive to save my darling from it? Daring not to risk my sledd by any fall from the valley- cliffs, I dragged it very carefully up the steep incline of ice, through the narrow chasm, and so to the very brink and verge where first I had seen my Lorna, in the fishing days of boyhood. As I then had a trident fork, for stick- ing of the loaches, so I now had a strong ash stake, to lay across from rock to rock, and break the speed of descending. With this I moored the sledd quite safe, at the very lip of the chasm, where all was now substantial ice, green and black in the moonlight; and then I set ofi up the valley, skirting along onr side of it. The stack-fire still was burning strongly, but with more of heat than blaze; and many of the younger Doones were playing on the verge of it, the children making rings of fire, and their mothers watching them. All the grave and reverend warriors having heard of rheumatism, were inside of log and stone, in the two lowest houses, with enough of candles burning to make our list of sheep | come short. All these I passed, without the smallest risk or diffi- culty, walking up the channel of drift which I spoke otl once before. And then I crossed, with more of care, and to the door of Loma's house, and made the sign, and| listened, after taking my snow-shoes off. But no one came, as i expected, neither could I espy I a light. And I seemed to hear a faint low sound, like the moaning of the snow-wind. Then I knocked again more loudly, with a knocking at my heart; and receiving no| LORNA DOONE 345 answer, set all my power at once against the door. In a moment it flew inwards, and I glided along the passage with my feet still slippery. There in Lorna's room I saw, by the moonlight flowing in, a sight which drove me beyond sense. Lorna was behind a chair, crouching in the comer, with her hands up, and a crucifix, or something that looked like it. In the middle of the room lay Gwenny Carfax, stupid, yet with one hand clutching the ankle of a strug- gling man. Another man stood above my Lorna, trying to draw the chair away. In a moment I had him round the waist, and he went out of the window with a mighty crash of glass; luckily for him that window had no bars like some of them. Then I took the other man by the neck; and he could not plead for mercy. I bore him out of the house as lightly as I would bear a baby, yet squeez- ing his throat a little more than I fain would do to an infant. By the bright moonlight I saw that I carried Mar- wood de Whichehalse. For his father's sake I spared him,, and because he had been my schoolfellow; but with every muscle of my body strung with indignation, I cast him, like a skittle, from me into a snowdrift, which closed over him. Then I looked for the other fellow, tossed through Lorna' s window, and found him lying stunned and bleed- ing, neither able to groan yet. Charleworth Doone, if his gushing blood did not much mislead me. It was no time to linger now; I fastened my shoes in a moment, and caught up my own darling with her head upon my shoulder, where she whispered faintly; and tell- ing Gwenny to follow me, or else I would come back for her, if she could not walk the snow, I ran the whole dis- tance to my sledd, caring not who might follow me. Then by the time I had set up Lorna, beautiful and smiling, with the seal-skin cloak all over her, sturdy Gwenny came along, having trudged in the track of my snow-shoes, although with two bags on her back. I set her in beside her mistress, to support her, and keep warm; and then with one look back at the glen, which had been so long my home of heart, I hung behind the sledd, and launched it down the steep and dangerous way. Though the cliffs were black above us, and the road unseen in front, and a great ^hite grave of snow might at a single word come down, Lorna was as cahn and happy as an infant in its bed. She knew that I was with her; 1^ 34^ LORNA DOONE and when I told her not to speak, she touched m^'' hand in silpnt:e. Gwenny was in a much greater fright, having never seen such a thing before, neither knowing what it is to yield to pure love s confidence. I could hardly keep her quiet, without making a noise myself. With my staff from rock to rock, and mv weight thrown backward, ! broke the siedd's too rapici way, and brought my grown love safely out, by the selfsame road which first had led me to her girlish fancy, and my boyish slavery. Unpursued, yt t looking back as if some one must be after us, we skirted round the black whirling pool, and gained the meadows beyond it. Here there was hard collar work, the track being pU uphill and rough; and Gwciiny wanted to jump out, to lignten the sledd and to push behind. But I would not hear of it; because it was now po deadly cold, and I feared that Lorna might get frozei I, without having Gwenny to keep her warm. And aiUiT all, it was the sweetest labour I had ever known in all my life, to be sure that I was pulling Lorna, and pull- ing her to our own farmhouse. Gwenny 's nose was touched with frost, before we had gone much farther, because she would not keep it quiet and snug beneath the sealskin. And here I had to stop in the moonlight (which was very dangerous) and rub it with a clove of snow, as Eliza had taught me; and Gwenny scolding all the time, as if myself had frozen it. Lorna was now so far oppressed with all the troubles of the even- ing, and tJie joy that followed them, as well as by the piercing cold and difficulty of breathing, that she lay quite motionless, like fairest wax in the moonlight- when we stole a glance at her, beneath the dark folds of the cloak; and I thought that she was falling into the heavy snow-sleep, whence there is no awaking. Therefore, I drew my traces tight, and set my whole strength to the business; and we slipped along at a merry pace, although with many joltings, which must have sent my darling out into the cold snowdrifts but for the short strong arm of Gwenny. And so in about an hour's time, in spite of many hindrances, we came home to the old courtyard, and all the dogs saluted us. My heart was quivering, and my cheeks as hot as the Doones' bonfire, with wondering both what Lorna would think of our| fann-yard, and what my mother would think of her. Upon the former subject my anxiety was wasted, fori LORNA DOONE 347 i my hand ;ht, "having ing what it lardly keep th my staff ackward, I ; my grown irst had led ne must be g pool, and B was hard rough; and jledd and to cause it was a might get warm. And er known in la, and pull jfore we ha»l ver the corn chamber; and then I put the others by, nd fetched my mother forward. 'You shall see her first,' I said: 'is she not your laughter? Hold the light there, Annie.' Dear mother's hands were quick and trembling, as she (pened the shining folds; and there she saw my Lorna ileeping, with her black hair all dishevelled, and she bent nd kissed her forehead, and only said, 'God bless her, ohn!' And then she was taken with violent weeping, nd T was forced to hold her. 'Us may tich of her now, J rackon,' said Betty in her lost jealous way; 'Annie, tak her l>y the head, and I'll k her by the toesen. No taime to stand here like girt [awks. Don'ee tak on zo, missus. Ther \xt vainer vish the zea — Lor, but, her be a booty!' vVith this, they carried her into the house, Betty chat- ring all the while, and going on now about Lorna' s lands, and the others crowding round her, »o that I lought I was not wanted among so many women, and ould only get the worst of it, and perhaps do harm to ly darling. Therefore I went and brought Gwenny in. ,mm \ 14 348 LORNA DOONE and gave h*er a potful of bacon and peas, and an iron| spoon to eat it with, which she did right heartily. Then I asked her how she could have been such a fool I as to let those two vile fellows enter the house where I Lorna was; and she accounted for it so naturally, that could only blame myself. For my agreement had been tol give one loud knock (if you happen to remember) andl after that two little knocks. Well these two drunkenl rogues had come; and one, being very drunk indeed, had! given a great thump; and then nothmg more to do withl it; and the other, being three-quarters drunk, had foil lowed his leader (as one might say) but feebly, andj making two of it. Whereupon up jumped Lorna, and] declared that her John was there. All this Gwenny told me shortly, between the while* j of eating, and even while she licked the spoon; and theji there came a message for me that my love was sensibie) and was seeking all around for me. Then I told Gwennrt to hold her tongue (whatever she did among us), and noj to trust to Somen's words; and she told me they all wer liars, as she had found out long ago; and the only thinj to believe in was an honest man, when found. Thereuj I could have kissed her as a sort of tribute, liking to appreciated; yet the peas upon her lips made me thii about it; and thought is fatal to action. So I went see my dear. That sight I shall not forget; till my dying head fall back, and my breast can lift no more. I know not whetha I were then more blessed, or harrowed by it. For in settle was my Lorna, propped with pillows round he and her clear hands spread sometimes to the blazing place. In her eyes no knowledge was of anything arouB her, neither in her neck the sense of leaning towar(| anything. Only both her lovely hands were entreatii something, to spare her, or to love her; and the lines supplication quivered in her sad white face. 'AH go away, except my mother,' I said very quietlj but so that I would be obeyed; and everybody knew Then mother came to me alone; and she said, 'The fro is in her brain; I have heard of this before, Jol 'Mother, I will have it out,' was all that I could ansv her; 'leave her to me altogether; only you sit there watch.' For I felt that Lorna knew me, and no ot soul but me; and that if not interfered with, she woo LORNA DOONE 349 soon come home to me. Therefore I sat gently by her, leaving nature, as it were, to her own good time and will. And presently the glance that watched me, as at distance and m doubt, began to flutter and to brighten, and to deepen into kindness, then to beana with trust and love, and then with gathering tears to falter, and in shame to turn away- But the small entreating hands found their jway, as if by instinct, to my great projecting palms; and [trembled there, and rested there. For a little while we lingered thus, neither wishing to I move away, neither caring to look beyond the presence of the other; boih alike so full of hope, and comfort, and jtrnc happiness; if only the world would let us be. And Ithen a little sob distu'^ d us, and mother tried to make Ibelieve that she was oni - coughing. But Loma, guessing who she was, jumped up so very rashly that she almost set he^" frock on fire from the great ash log; and away she ran xo the old oak c.lair, where mother was by the :lock-case pretending to be knitting, and she took the vork from mother's hands, and laid them both upon her lead, kneeling humbly, and looking up. 'God bless you, my fair mistress ! ' said mother, bending learer, and then as Loma's gaze prevailed, 'God bless ^ou, my sweet child!' And so she went to mother's heart by the very nearest toad, even as she had come to mine; I mean the road of |)ity, smoothed by grace, and youth, and gentleness. CHAPTER -JLV A CHANGE LONG NEEDED EREMY Stickles was gone south, ere ever the frost set 1, for the purpose of mustering forces tc attack the Doone [len. But, of course, this weather had put a stop to every ^nd of movement; for even if men could have home le cold, they could scarcely be bro«^t to face the perils " the snow-drifts. And to tell the truth I cared not how ig this weather lasted, sc long as we had enough to eat, could keep ourselves from freezing. Not only that I not want Master Stickles back again, to make more sturbances: but also that the Doones could not come :M hi i| i 350 LORNA DOONE prowling after Lorna, while the snow lay piled between us, with the surface soft and dry. Of course they would very soon discover where their lawful queen was, although the track of sledd and snow-shoes had been quite obliter- ated by another shower, before the revellers could havei grown half as drunk as they intended. But Marwood de Whichehalse, who had been snowed up among them (as Gwenny said), after helping to strip the beacon, that young Squire was almost certain to have recognised me, and to have told the vile Carver. And it gave me no little pleasure to think how mad that Carver must be with me, for robbing him of the lovely bride whom he was starving into matrimony. However, I was not pleased at all with the prospect of the consequences; but set all hands on to thresh the com, ere the Doones could come and burn the! ricks. For I knew that tliey could not come yet, inasmudl as even a forest pony could not traverse the country,! much less the heavy horses needed to carry such men asl they were. And hundreds of the forest ponies died iol this hard weather, some being buried in the snow, and! more of them starved for want of grass. Going through this state of things, and laying down the] law about it (subject to correction), I very soon persuade Loma that for the present she was safe, and (which madfl her still more happy) that she was not only welcome, bul as gladdening to our eyes as the flowers of May. Of course] so far as regarded myself, this was not a hundredth pa of the real truth; and even as regarded others, I mighj have said it ten times over. For Loma had so won then all, by her kind and gentle ways, and her mode hearkening to everybody's trouble, and replying withou words, as well as by her beauty, and simple grace of things, that I could, almost wish sometimes the rest woulj leave her more to me. But mother could not do enouglj and Annie almost worshipped her; and even Lizzie coul| not keep her bitterness towards her; especially when si found that Lorna knew as much of books as need be. As for John Fry, and Betty, and Molly, they were| perfect plague when Lorna came into the kitchen. For twixt their curiosity to see a live Doone in the flesh (wh^ certain not to eat them), and their high respect for bii (with or without honesty), and their intense desire know all about Master John's sweetheart (dropped, they said, from the snow-clouds), and most of cdl th^ LORNA DOONE 351 led between they would as, although luite obliter- 3 could have Marwood de )ng them (as beacon, that icognised me, e me no little t be with me, I ! was starving ed at all with 11 hands on to I and burn the! yet, inasmuclil the country,! y such men asl ponies died ml the snow, andl tying down the soon persuaded' d (which mad! \i welcome, bu^ vlay. Of course, tiundredth pa** )thers. I migl id so won thei I her mode jplying withoi Lple grace of '< s the rest woul^ not do enougl- ren Lizzie ecu icially when si as need be. ly, they were kitchen. For t L the flesh (wh< respect for bi'' itense desire irt (dropped, nost of all thi admiration of a beauty such as never even their angels could have seen — betwixt and between all this, I say, there was no getting the dinner cooked, with Lorna in the kitchen. And the worst of it was that Lorna took the strangest of all strange fancies for this very kitchen; and it was hard to keep her out of it. Not that she had any special bent for cooking, as our Annie had; rather indeed the contrary, for she liked to have her food ready cooked; but that she loved the look of the place, and the cheerful fire burning, and the racks of bacon to be seen, and the richness, and the homeliness, and the pleasant smell of everything. And who knows but what she may have liked (as the very best of maidens do) to be admired, now and then, between the times of business? Therefore if you wanted Lorna (as I was always sure to do, God knows how many times a day), the very surest place to find her was our own old kitchen. Not gossiping, I mean, nor loitering, neither seeking into things, but seeming to be quite at home, as if she had known it from child, and seeming (to my eyes at least) to light it up, nd make life and colour out of all the dullness; as I have leen the breaking sun do among brown shocks of wheat. But any one who wished to learn whether girls can hange or not, as the things around them change (while et their hearts are steadfast, and for ever anchored), he hould just have seen my Lorna, after a fortnight of our life, and freedom from anxiety. It is possible that my ompany — although I am accounted stupid by folk who not know my way — may have had something to do ith it; but upon this I will not say much, lest I lose my haracter. And indeed, as regards company, I had all e threshing to see to, and more than half to do myself hough any one would have thought that even John ry must work hard this weather), else I could not hope t all to get our corn into such compass that a good gun ight protect it. But to come back to Lorna again (which I always longed do, and must long for ever), all the change between ight and day, all the shifts of cloud and sun, all the differ- ice between black death and brightsome liveliness, arcely may suggest or equal Lorna' s transformation. |uick she had always been and 'peart' (as we say on Ex- ioor) and gifted with a leap of thought too swift for me to ^""W^TP"" 352 LORNA DOONE ilU \'1 ■ »v n follow; and hence you may find fault with much, when 1 report her sayings. But through the whole had always run, as a black string goes through pearls, something dark and touched with shadow, coloured as with an early end. But, now, behold ! there was none of this ! Ihere was no getting her, for a moment, even to be serious. All her bright young wit was flashing, like a newly-awakened flame, and all her high young spirits leaped, as if dancing to its fire. And yet she never spoke a word which gave more pain than pleasure. And even in ner outward look there was much of difference. Whether it was our warmth, and freedom, and our harmless love of God, and trust in one another; or whether it were our air, and water, and the pea-fed bacon; anyhow my Loma grew richer and more lovely, more perfect and more firm of figure, and more light and buoyant, with every passing day that laid its tribute on her cheeks and lips. I was allowed one kiss a day; only one for manners' sake, because she was our visitor; and I might have it before breakfast, or else when I came to say 'good-night ! ' according as I decided. And I decided every night, not to take it in the morning, but put it ofi till the evening time, and have the pleasure to think about, through all the day of working. But when my darling came up to me in the early daylight, fresher than the daystar, and with no one looking; only her bright I eyes smiling, and sweet lips quite ready, was it likely I could wait, and think all day about it? For she wore a frock of Annie's, nicely made to fit her, taken in at the waist and curved — I never could explain it, not being a mantua-maker; but I know how her figure looked in it,| and how it came towards me. '>' But this is neither here nor there; and I must on withl my story. Those days safe very sacred to me, and if ll speak lightly of them, trust me, 'tis with lip alone; while! from heart reproach peeps sadly at the flippant tricks of| mind. Although it was the longest winter ever known in ourl parts (never having ceased to freeze for a single nightl and scarcely for a single day, from the middle of Decern j ber till the second week in March), to me it was the ver shortest and the most delicious; and verily I do believe il| was the same to Lorna. But when the Ides of March wer come (of which I do remember something dim froi LORNA DOONE 353 school, and something clear from my favourite writer) lo, there were increasing signals of a change of weather. One leading feature of that long cold, and a thing re- marked by every one (however unobservant) had been the hollow moaning sound ever present in the air, morning, noon, and night-time, and especially at night, whether any wind were stirring, or whether it were a perfect calm. Our people said that it was a witch cursing all the country from the caverns 'by the sea, and that frost and snow would last until we could catch and drown her. But the land, being thoroughly blocked with snow, and the in- shore parts of the sea with ice (floating in great fields along). Mother Melldrum (if she it were) had the caverns all to herself, for there was no getting at her. And speak- ing of the sea reminds me of a thing reported to us, and on good autiiority; though people might be found hereafter who would not believe it, unless 1 told them that from what I myself beheld of the channel I place perfect faith in it: and this is, that a dozen sailors at the beginning of March crossed the ice, with the aid of poles from Clevedon to Penarth, or where the Holm rocks barred the flotage. But now, about the tenth of March, that miserable moaning noise, which had both foregone and accompanied tibe rigour, died away from out the air; and we, being now so used to it, thought at first that we must be deaf. And then the fog, which had hung about (even in full sunshine) vanished, and the shrouded hills shone forth with bright- ness manifold. And now the sky at length began to come to its true manner, which we had not seen for months, a mixture (if I so may speak) of various expressions. Whereas till now from Allhallows-tide, six weeks ere the great frost set in, the heavens had worn one heavy mask of ashen gray when clouded, or else one amethystine tinge with a hazy rim, when cloudless. So it was pleasant to behold, after that monotony, the fickle sky which suits I our England, though abused by foreign folk. And soon the dappled softening sky gave some earnest I of its mood; for a bnsk south wind arose, and the blessed rain came driving, cold indeed, yet most refreshing to the skin, all parched with snow, and the eyeballs so long [dazzled. Neither was the heart more sluggish in its thank- |f Illness to God. People had begun to think, and some- |body had prophesied, that we should have no spring L.D. &i 354 LORNA DOONE this year, no seed-time, and no harvest; for that the Lord had sent a judgment on this country of England, and the nation dwelling in it, because of the wickedness of the Court, and the encouragement shown to Papists. And this was proved, they said, by what had happened in the town of London; where, for more than a fortnight, such a chill of darkness lay that no man might behold his neighbour, even across the narrowest street; and where the ice upon the Thames was more than four feet thick, and crushing London Bridge in twain. Now to these prophets I paid no heed, believing not that Providence would freeze us for other people's sins; neither seeing how England could for many generations have enjoyed good sunshine, if Popery meant frost and fogs. Besides, why could not Providence settle the 'business once for all by freezing the Pope himself; even though (according to our view) he were destined to extremes of heat, together with all who followed him ? Not to meddle with that subject, being beyond my judgment, let me tell the things I saw, and then you must believe me. The wind, of course, I could not see, not hav- ing the powers of a pig; but I could see the laden branches of the great oaks moving, hoping to shake o£E the load packed and saddled on them. And hereby I may note a thing which some one may explain perhaps in the after I ages, when people come to look at things. This is that in desperate cold all the trees were pulled awry, even though the wind had scattered the snow burden from them. Of some sorts the branches bended downwards,! like an archway; of other sorts the boughs curved up- wards, like a red deer's frontlet. This I know no reason* | for; but am ready to swear that I saw it. Now when the first of the rain began, and the old I familiar softness spread upon the window glass, and ran a little way in channels (though from the coldness of the glass it froze before reaching the bottom), knowing at onot the difference from the short sharp thud of snow, we all ran out, and filled our eyes and filled our hearts with * The reason is very simple, as all nature's reasons are ; Uiough the subjedl has not yet been investigated thoroughly. In some trees the vascular tissue at more open on the upper side, in others on the under side, of the spreadiat'l branches ; according to the form of growth, and habit of the sap. Hence ill very severe cold, when the vessels (comparatively empty) are constricted, somtl have more power of contraction on the upper side, and sume upon the under.-l Bo. If. D. LORNA DOONE 355 gazing. True, the snow was piled up now all in mountains round us; true, the air was still so cold that our breath froze on the doorway, and the rain was turned to ice wherever it struck anything; nevertheless that it was rain there was no denying, as we watched it across black doorways, and could see no sign of white. Mother, who had made up her mind that the farm was not worth having after all those prophesies, and that all of us must starve, and holes be scratched in the snow for us, and no use to put up a tombstone (for our church had been shut up long ago) mother fell upon my breast, and sobbed that I was the cleverest fellow ever born of woman. And this because I had condemned the prophets for a pack of fools; not seeing how business could go on, if people stopped to hearken to them. Then Loma came and glorified me, for I had predicted a change of weather, more to keep their spirits up, than with real hope of it; and then came Annie blushing shyly, as I looked at her, and said that Winnie would soon liave four legs now. This referred to some stupid joke made by John Fry or somebody, that in this weather a man had no legs, and a horse had only two. But as the rain came down upon us from the south- west wind, and we could not have enough of it, even putting our tongues to catch it, as little children might do, and beginning to talk of primroses; the very noblest thing of all was to hear and see the gratitude of the poor beasts yet remaining and the few surviving birds. From the cowhouse lowing came, more than of fifty milking times; moo and moo, and a turn-up noise at the end of every bellow, as if from the very heart of kine. Then the horses in the stables, packed as closely as they could stick, at the risk of kicking, to keep the warmth in one another, and their spirits up by discoursing; these began with one accord to lift up their voices, snorting, snaffling, whinny- ing, and neighing, and trotting to the door to know when [they should have work again. To whom, as if in answer, came tiie feeble bleating of the sheep, what few, by dint of greatest care, had kept their fleeces on their backs, I and their four legs under them. Neither was it a trifling thing, let whoso will say the I contrary, to behold the ducks and geese marching forth in handsome order from their beds of fern and straw. [What a goodly noise they kept, what a flapping of their 1 "W" m ^.^ .,( '.. ■:., T', "^1 "' ♦'■■■■<, 358 LORNA DOONE CHAPTER XLVI SQUIRE FAGGUS MAKES SOME LUCKY HITS Through that season of bitter frost the red deer of the forest, having nothing to feed upon, and no shelter to rest in, had grown accustomed to our ricks of com, and hay, and clover. There we might see a hundred of them almost any morning, come for warmth, and food, and comfort, and scarce willing to move away. And many of them were so tame, that they quietly presented them- selves at our back door, and stood there with their coats quite stiff, and their flanks drawn in and panting, and icicles sometimes on their chins, and their great eyes fastened wistfully upon any merciful person; rraving for a bit of food, and a drink of water; I suppose that they had not sense enough to chew the snow and melt it; at any rate, all the springs being frozen, and rivers hidden out of sight, these poor things suffered even more from thirst than they did from hunger. But now there was no fear of thirst, and more chancel indeed of drowning; for a heavy gale of wind arose, with violent rain from the south-west, which lasted almost without a pause for three nights and two days. At first the rain made no impression on the bulk of snow, but ran from every sloping surface and froze on every flat one,| through the coldness of the earth; and so it became im- possible for any man to keep his legs without the help of I a^ shodden staff. After a good while, however, the air growing very much warmer, this state of things began to I change, and a worse one to succeed it; for now the snow came thundering down from roof, and rock, and iviedl tree, and floods began to roar and foam in every trough and gulley. The drifts that had been so white and fair, looked yellow, and smirched, and muddy, and lost their! graceful curves, and moulded lines, and airiness. ButI the strangest sight of all to me was in the bed of streamsj and brooks, and especially of the Lynn river. It wasi worth going miles to behold such a thing, for a man migbtj never have the chance again. Vast drifts of snow had filled the valley, and pile above the river-course, fifty feet high in many places,] and in some as much as a hundred. These had frozen ove LORNA DCXDNE 539 the top, and glanced the rain away from them, and being sustained by rock and tree, spanned the water mightily. But meanwhile the waxing flood, swollen from every moorland hollow and from every spouting crag, had dashed away all icy fetters, and was rolling gloriously. Under white fantastic arches, and long tunnels freaked and fretted, and between pellucid pillars jagged with nodding architraves, the red impetuous torrent rushed, and the brown foam whirled and flashed. I was half inclined to jump in and swim through such glorious scenery; for nothing used to please me more than swim- ming in a flooded river. But I thought of the rocks, and I thought of the cramp, and more than all, of Loma; and so, between one thing and another, I let it roll on [without me. It was now high time to work very hard; both to make {up for the farm-work lost during the months of frost and snow, and also to be ready for a great and vicious attack from the Doones, who would burn us in our beds at the earliest opportunity. Of farm- work there was little yet for even the most zealous man to begin to lay his hand to; Ibecause when the ground appeared througn the crust of jbubbled snow (as at last it did, though not as my Loma had expected, at the first few drops of rain) it was all so Boaked and sodden, and as we call it, 'mucksy,' that to leddle with it in any way was to do more harm than good. levertheless, there was yard work, and house work, and tendence of stock, enough to save any man from idleness. As for Loma, she would come out. There was no keep- ing her in the house. She had taken up some peculiar lotion that we were doing more for her than she had any ight to, and that she must earn her living by the hard mrk of her hands. It was c^uite in vain to tell her that khe was expected to do nothmg, and far worse than vain [for it made her cry sadly) if any one assured her that she fould do no good at all. She even began upon mother's Earden before the snow was clean gone from it, and (owed a beautiful row of peas, every one of which the ice ate. But though it was very pretty to watch her working for ler very life, as if the maintenance of the household hung n her labours, yet I was grieved for many reasons, id so was mother also. In the first place, she was too and dainty for this roug^, rude work; and though it f' r^ i \^ 1 '^ 1! #< I ■) ■ r »? t. fl( i. i! i -1 ■. Ill 360 LORNA DOONE made her cheeks so bright, it surely must be bad for her to get her little feet so wet. Moreover, we could not bear the idea that she should labour for her keep; and again (which was the worst of all things) mother's garden lay exposed to a dark deceitful coppice, where a man might lurk and watch all the fair gardener's doings. It was true that none could get at her thence, while the brook which ran between poured so great a torrent. Still the distance was but little for a gun to carry, if any one could be brutal enough to point a gun at Loma. I thought that none could be found to do it; but mother, having more experience, was not so certain of mankind. Now in spite of the floods, and the sloughs being out, and the state of the roads most perilous. Squire Faggus came at last, riding his famous strawberry mare. There was a great ado between him and Annie, as you may well suppose, after some four months of parting. And so we| left them alone awhile, to coddle over their raptures, But when they were tired of that, or at least had time I enough to do so, mother and I went in to know what news Tom had brought with him. Though he did not seem to want us yet, he made himself agreeable; and so we sent Annie to cook the dinner while her sweetheart should tell I us everything. Tom Faggus had very good news to tell, and he told it I with such force of expression as made us laugh very heartily. He had taken up his purchase from old Sir Roger Bassett of a nice bit of land, to the south of the moors, and in the parish of MoUand. When the lawyen knew thoroughly who he was, and how he had made hisl money, they behaved uncommonly well to him, andl showed great sympathy with his pursuits. He put theml up to a thing or two; and they poked him in the ribs, andl laughed, and said that he was quite a boy; but of thel right sort, none the less. And so they made old Squire! Bassett pay the bill for both sides; and all he got fori three hundred acres was a hundred and twenty pounds! though Tom had paid five hundred. But lawyers! know that this must be so, in spite of all their endeavoursj and the old gentleman, who now expected to find a bill for him to pay, almost thought himself a rogue, fo^ getting anything out of them. It is true that the land was poor and wild, and the soij exceeding sbaJlow; lying on the slope of rock, and burne LORNA DOONE 361 )ad for her id not bear and again garden lay man might It was true trook which ;he distance le could be lought that Laving more s being out, [uire Faggus lare. There ou may well And so we gir raptures, ist had time I w what news . not seem to d so we sent rt should tell I tnd he told it I laugh very from old Sir| south of the 1 the lawyers had made his to him, and He put them . the ribs, and y; but of the de old Squire ill he got for] ^enty pounds; But lawyen| ir endeavours;' to find a bH' a rogue. f< d, and the soi ;k, and burne up in hot summers. But with us, hot summers are things known by tradition only (as this great winter may be); we generally have more moisture, especially in July, than we well know what to do with. I have known a fog for a fortnight at the summer solstice, and farmers talking in church about it when they ought to be praying. But it always contrives to come right in the end, as otl\er visitations do, if we take them as true visits, and receive them kindly. Now this farm of Squire Faggus (as he truly now had a right to be called) was of the very finest pasture, when it got good store of rain. And Tom, who had ridden the Devonshire roads with many a reeking jacket, knew right well that he might trust the climate for that matter. The herbage was of the very sweetest, and the shortest, and the closest, having perhaps from ten to eighteen inches of wholesome soil between it and the solid rock. Tom saw at once what it was fit for — ^the breeding of fine cattle. Being such a hand as he was at making the most of everything, brth his own and other people's (although so free in scattering, when the humour lay upon him) he nad actually turned to his own advantage that extraordinary weather which had so impoverished every one around him. For he taught his Winnie (who knew his meaning as well jas any child could, and obeyed not only his word of mouth, but every glance he gave her) to go forth in the I snowy evenings when horses are seeking everywhere (be they wild or tame) for fodder aud for shelter; and to whinny to the forest ponies, miles away from home per- haps, and lead them all with rare appetities and promise of abundance, to her master's homestead. He shod good Winnie in such a manner that she could not sink in the snow; and he clad her over the loins with a sheep-skin dyed to her own colour, which the wild horses were never tired of coming up and sniffing at; taking it for an [especial gift, and proof of inspiration. And Winnie [never came home at night without at least a score of )nies trotting shyly after her, tossing tlieir heads and leir tails in turn, and making believe to be very wild, Ithough hard pinched by famine. Of course Tom would jet them all into his pound in about five minutes, for le himself could neigh in a manner which went to the leart of the wildest horse. And then he fed them well, id turned them into his great cattle pen, to abide their 362 LORNA D ,'- and here I stopped, for mother was looking, and I never would tell her how much it had cost me; though she had tried fifty times to find out. ~ LORNA DOONE 367 'Tush, the ring!' Tom Faggus cried, with a contempt that moved me : *I would never have stopped a man for that. But the necklace, you great oaf, the necklace is worth all your farm put together, and your Uncle Ben's fortune to the back of it; ay, and all the town of Dul- verton.* 'What,' said I, 'that common glass thing, which she has had from her childhood!' 'Glass indeed ! They are the finest brilliants ever I set eyes on; and I have handled a good many.' 'Surely,' cried mother, now flushing as red as Tom's own cheeks with excitement, 'you must be wrong, or the young mistress would herself have known it.' I was greatly pleased with my mother, for calling Lorna 'the young mistress' ; it was not done for the sake of her diamonds, whether they were glass or not; but because she felt as I had done, that Tom Faggus, a man of no birth whatever, was speaking beyond his mark, in calling a lady like Lorna a helpless child; as well as in his general tone, which displayed no deference. He mi^ht have been used to the quality, in the way of stopping their coaches, or roystering at hotels with them; but he never had met a high lady before, in equality, and upon virtue; and we both felt that he ought to have known it, and to have thanked us for the opportunity, in a word, to have behaved a great deal more humbly than he had even tried to do. 'Trust me,' answered Tom, in his loftiest manner, which Annie said was 'so noble,' but which seemed to me rather flashy, 'trust me, good mother, and simple John, for knowing brilliants, when I see them. I would have stopped an eight-horse coach, with four carabined out- riders, for such a booty as that. But alas, those days are rtvor; those were days worth living in. Ah, I never shall know lh(; like again. How fine it was by moonlight!' 'Master Faggus,' began my mother, with a manner of I some dignity, such as she could sometimes use, by right \(i her integrity, and thorough kindness to every one, this is not the tone in which you have hitherto spoken to me about your former pursuits and life, I fear that the |spirits' — but here she stopped, because the spirits were jlur own, and Tom was our visitor, — 'what I mean. Master Faggus, is this: you have won my daughter's heart somehow; and you won my consent to the matter 368 LORNA DOONE through your honest sorrow, and manly undertaking to lead a different life, and touch no property but your own. Annie is my eldest daughter, and the child of a most upright man. I love her best of all on earth, next to my boy John here' — here mother gave me a mighty squeeze, to be sure that she would have me at least — 'and I will not risk my Annie's life with a man who yearns for the highway.' Having made this very long speech (for her), mother came home upon my shoulder, and wept so that (but for heeding her) I would have taken Tom by the nose, and thrown him, and Winnie after him, over our farm-yard gate. For I am violent when roused; and freely hereby | acknowledge it; though even my enemies will own that it| takes a great deal to rouse me. But I do consider the| grief and tears (when justly caused) of my dearest friends,! to be a great deal to rouse me. CHAPTER XLVII i -*■■ f I i '■ ■•• I I* iiiiilr fr; JEREMY IN DANGER Nothing very long abides, as the greatest of all writenl (in whose extent I am for ever lost in raptured wonder,! and yet for ever quite at home, as if his heart were mine,l although his brains so different), in a word as Mr. Williain| Shakespeare, in every one of his works insists, with humoured melancholy. And if my journey to Londoi^ led to nothing else of advancement, it took me a hundred years in front of what I might else have been, by the| most simple accident. Two women were scolding one another across the roadj very violently, both from upstair windows; and I in mi hurry for quiet life, and not knowing what might comj down upon me, quickened my step for the nearest come But suddenly something fell on my head; and at fir I was afraid to look, especially as it weighed heavily But hearing no breakage of ware, and only the other scolj laughing heartily, I turned me about and espied a book which one had cast at the other, hoping to break U window. So I took the book, and tendered it at the dor of the house from which it had fallen; but i±ie watchma LORNA DOONE 369 rtaking to but your 1 of a most lext to my y squeeze, 'and I will rns for the ;r), mother lat (but for * nose, and came along just then, and the man at the door declared that it never came from their house, and begged me to say no more. This I promised readily, never wishing to make mischief; and I said, 'Good sir, now take the book; I will go on to my business.' But he answered that he would do no such thing; for the book alone, being hurled 50 hard, would convict his people of a lewd assault; and he begged me, if I would do a good turn, to put the book under my coat and go. And so I did: in part at least. For I did not put the book under my coat, but went along with it openly, looking for any to challenge it. Now this : farm-yard! book, so acquired, has been not only the joy of my eely hereby 1 younger days, and main delight of my manhood, but also own that itlthe comfort, and even the hope, of my now declining lonsider thelyears. In a word, it is next to my Bible to me, and Test friends,! written in equal English; and if you espy any goodn ss ■whatever in my own loose style of writing, you must not ■thank me, John Ridd, for it, but the writer who holds the Ichampion's belt in wit, as I once did in wrestling. I Now, as nothing very io/ig abides, it cannot be expected ■that a woman's anger should last very lon^, if she be at ■all of the proper sort. And my mother, being o//e of the ■very best, could not long lotain her wrath against the ■Squire Faggus; especially when she came to refferf, upon of all writersfcnnie's suggestion, how natural, and one might say, now tired wonder.Jnevitable it was that a young man fond of adventure :t were mineMnd change and winning good profits by jeopardy, should 5 Mr. WilliamBiot settle down without some regrets to a fixed abode and isists, with allife of sameness, however safe and respectable. And even y to Londoolis Annie put the case, Tom deserved the greater credit for ne a hundredjanquishmg so nobly these yearnings of his nature; and been, by thelt seemed very hard to upbraid him, considering how ■ood his motives were; neither could Annie understand ross the roadMow mother could reconcile it with her knowledge of and I in cQlBhe Bible, and the one sheep that was lost, and the t might comMundredth piece of silver, and the man that went down to learest corneriericho. ; and at fir^ Whether Annie's logic was good and sound, I am sure ghed heavilyl cannot tell; but it seemed to me that she ought to have 5ie other scoljt the Jericho traveller alone, inasmuch as he rather jspied a booljll among Tom Fagusses, than resembled them. How- to break hj^er, her reasoning was too much for mother to hold it at the dcxmt against; and Tom was replaced, and more than that, the watchmaking regarded now as an injured man. But how my I a 37© LORNA DOONE I ^ i ? f mother contrived to know, that because she had been too hard upon Tom, he must be right about the necklace, is a point which 1 never could clearly perceive, though no doubt she could explain it. To prove herself right in the conclusion, she went her- self to fetch Lorna, that the trinket might be examined, before the day grew dark. My darling came in, with a very quick glance and smile at my cigarro (for I was having the third by this time, to keep thmgs in amity); and I waved it towards her, as much as to say, 'you see that I can do it.' And then mother led her up to the light, for Tom to examine her necklace. On the shapely curve of her neck it hung, like dewdrops upon a white hyacinth ; and I was vexed that Tom should have the chance to see it there. But even if she had read my thoughts, or outrun them with her own, Lorna turned away, and softly took the jewels from the place which so much adorned them. And as she turned away, they sparkled through the rich dark waves of hair. Then shel laid the glittering circlet in my mother's hands; and Toni| Faggus took it eagerly, and bore it to the window. 'Don't you go out of sight,* I said; 'you cannot resii such things as those, if they be what you think them 'Jack, I shall have to trounce thee yet. I am now a m; of honour, and entitled to the duello. What will you taki for it, Mistress Lorna? At a hazard, say now.' 'I am not accustomed to sell things, sir,' replied Lorn who did not like him much, else she would have answeri sportively, 'What is it worth, in your opinion?' 'Do you think it is worth five pounds, now?' 'Oh, no ! I never had so much money as that in all m] life. It is very bright, and very pretty; but it cannot worth five pounds, I am sure.* 'What a chance for a bargain ! Oh, if it were not fi Annie, I could make my fortune.* 'But, sir, I would not sell it to you, not for twem times five pounds. My grandfather was so kind aboi it; and I think it belonged to my mother.* ''There are twenty-five rose diamonds in it, and twen five large brilliants that cannot be matched in Lond How say you. Mistress Lorna, to a hundred thousa pounds?* My darling's eyes so flashed at this, brighter than ai diamonds, that I said to myself, 'Well, all have faul ut g) bou cie e \ sa LORNA DOONE 371 td been too 3 necklace, though no e went her- J examined,' in, with a I (for I was s in amity); ay, *yo^ ^^*l to the Ught, ke dewdropsi , Tom should she had read and now I have found out Loma's — she is fond of money !' And then 1 sighed rather heavily; for of all faults this seems to me one of the worst in a woman. But even before my sigh was finished. I had cause to condemn myself. For Loma took the necklace verv quietly from the hands of Squire Faggus, who had not half done with admiring it, and she went up to my mother with the sweetest smile I ever saw. 'Dear kind mother, I am so glad,' she said in a whisper, coaxing mother out of sight of all but me; 'now you will have it, won't you, dear? And I shall be so happy; for a thousandth part of your kindness to me no jewels in the world can match.' I cannot lay before you the grace with which she did it, all the air of seeking favour, rather than conferrmg it, Loma turnedland the high-bred fear of giving offence, which is of all lace which sofcars the noblest. Mother knew not what to say. Of away, theyjcourse she would never dream of taking such a gift as ir. Then shefthat; and yet she saw hew sadly Loma would be dis- ids; and Tomlppointed. Therefore, mother did, from habit, what she indow. fclmost always did, she called me to help her. But know- cannot resisjng that my eyes were full — for anything noble moves me quite as rashly as things pitiful — I pretended not to ear my mother, but to see a wild cat in the dairy. Therefore I cannot tell what mother said in reply to oma; for when I came back, quite eager to let my love now how I worshipped her, and how deeply I was hamed of myself, for meanly wronging her m my heart, hold Tom Faggus had gotten again the necklace which ad such charms for him, and was delivering all around that in all inB)ut especially to Annie, who was wondering at his leam- t it cannot t^g) a dissertation on precious stones, and his sentiments bout those in his hand. He said that the work was very t were not l(Jncient, but undoubtedly very good; the cutting of every e was true, and every angle was in its place. And this ot for twen«e said, made all the difference in the lustre of the stone, so kind aboi^d therefore in its value. For if the facets were ill- atched, and the points of light so ever little out of per- t harmony, all the lustre of the jewel would be loose d wavering, and the central fire dulled; instead of swering, as it should, to all possibilities of gaze, and erpowering any eye intent on its deeper mysteries. We [ugned at the Squire's dissertation; for how should he ow all these things, being nothing better, and indeed think them] im now a ma will you taM )W.' replied Loma ave answere ion? ow?* kt, and twent Ted in Londo [dred thousafl ghter than aj ill have fauil I i.h a I IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) /. K Z ^(5 1.0 14^128 |2.5 >^ 1^ III 2.2 i ■- IIIIM I.I 1.25 14 1 11^ 6" r\ ii \i lit, J w I: i J 376 LORN A DOONE the course ot the first two miles, I may see my home again; tliis was what he said to himself as he turned to mark what they were about, from the brow of the steep hill. He saw the flooded valley shining with the breadth of water, and the trooper's horse on the other side, shaking his drenched flanks and neighing; and half-way- down the hill he saw the three Doones mounting hastily. And then he knew that his only chance lay in the stout- ness of his steed. The horse was in pretty good condition; and tiie rider knew him thoroughly, and how to make the most of him; and though they had travelled some miles that day through very heavy ground, the bath in the river had washed the mud off, and been some refreshment. There- fore Stickles encouraged his nag, and put him into a goodj hard gallop, heading away towards Withy combe. At first he had thought of turning to the right, and making off for Withypool, a mile or so down the valley; but his| good sense told him tliat no one there would dare to pro tect him against the Doones, so he resolved to go on hi: way; yet faster than he had intended. The three villains came after him, with all the spee they could muster, making sure from the badness of th road that he must stick fast ere long, and so be at the mercy. And this was Jeremy's chiefest fear, for the groun being soft and thoroughly rotten, after so much frost an snow, the poor horse had terrible work of it, with no timi to pick the way; and even more good luck than skill wi needed to keep him from foundering. How Jeremy prayi for an Exmoor fog (such as he had often sworn at), thai he might turn aside and lurk, while his pursuers wei past him ! But no fog came, nor even a storm to damj the priming of their guns; neither was wood or coppi nigh, nor any place to hide in; only hills, and moor, ani valleys; with flying shadows over mem, and great h of snow in the comers. At one time poor Stickles quite in despair; for after leaping a little brook whii crosses the track at Newland. he stuck fast in a 'danci bog,' as we call them upon Exmoor. The horse h broken through the crust of moss and sedge and marii weed, and could do nothing but wallow and sink, wii the black water spirting over him. And Jeremy, struggli with all his might, saw the three villains now topping crest, less than a furlong behind him; and heard th ess( id; d d ead 'Sh was ifij i « LORNA DOONE 377 shout in their savage delight. With the calmness of despair, ■ s yet resolved to have one more try for it; and scrambling over the horse's head, gained firm land, and tugged at the bridle. The poor nag replied with all his power to the call upctn his courage, and reared his fore- feet out of the slough, and with straining eyeballs gazed at him. 'New,' said Jeremy, 'now, my fine fellow!' lift- ing him with the bridle, and the brave beast gathered the roll of his loins, and sprang from his quagmired haunches. One more spring, and he was on earth again, instead of being under it; and Jeremy leaped on his back, and stooped, for he knew that they would fire. Two bullets whistled over him, as the horse, mad with fright, dashed forward; and in five minutes more he had come to the Exe, and the pursuers had fallen behind him. The Exe, ihough a much smaller stream than the Barle, now ran in a foaming torrent, unbridged, and too wide for leap- ing. But Jeremy's horse took the water well; and both rSare to pro-Bhe and his rider were lightened, as well as comforted by to go on bisBit. And as they passed towards Lucott hill, and struck [Upon the founts of Lynn, the horses of the three pursuers jbegan to tire under them. Then Jeremy Stickles knew at if he could only escape the sloughs, he was S£ife for e present; and so he stood up in his stirrups, and gave em a loud halloo, as if they had been so many foxes. Their only answer was to fire the remaining charge at but the distance was too great for any aim from lorseback; and the dropping bullet idly ploughed the ^^^ upon one side of him. He acknowledged it with a orn a'S. tiiafcve of his hat, and laid one thumb to his nose, in the anner fashionable in London for expression of con- mpt. However, they followed him yet farther; hoping make him pay out dearly, if he should only miss the ,ck, or fall upon morasses. But the neighbourhood of Lynn stream is not so very boggy; and the King's lessenger now knew his way as well as any of his pursuers id; and so he arrived at Plover's Barrows, thankful, id in rare appetite. 'But was the poor soldier drowned?' asked Annie; nd you never went to look for him ! Oh, how very eadful!' ^ 'Shot, or drowned; I know not which. Thank God my home . turned to >f the steep Jie breadth other side, id half-way ing hastily. a the stout- nd tiie rider nost of him; ;s that day le river had lent. There- 1 into a good rcombe. At and makingi lUey; but hisl all the speed adness of thd io be at theij ior the ground uch frost an(| with no tim^ ,an skill wa eremy praye pursuers wen torm to dainj lod or coppio ind moor, ani Id great bar Stickles V brook whid in a 'danci ['he horse ha re and marisj Ind sink, wij fmy, strugglj^ )w topping t Id heard the t was only a trooper. But they shall pay for it, as dearly ^ if it had been a captain/ i ! 378 LORNA DOONE 'And how was it you were struck by a bullet, and only shaken in your saddle? Had you a coat of mail on, or of Milanese chain-armour? Now, Master Stickles, had you?' 'No, Mistress Lizzie; we do not wear things of that kind nowadays. You are apt, I perceive, ^t romances. But I happened to have a little flat bottle of the best stoneware slung beneath my saddle-cloak, and filled with the very best eau de vie, from the George Hotel, at Southmolton. The brand of it now is upon my back. Oh, the murderous scoundrels, what a brave spirit they have spilled 1 ' 'You had better set to and thank God,' said I, 'that| they have not spilled a braver one.' CHAPTER XLVIIl .,'■ ,i EVERY MAN MUST DEFEND HIMSELF K' .*■ in It was only right in Jeremy Stickles, and of the simplest] common sense, that he would not tell, before our girls,] what the result of his journey was. But he led me asid in the course of the evening, and told me all about it saying that I knew, as well as he did, that it was noi woman's business. This I took, as it was meant, for gentle caution that Loma (whom he had not seen as yet] must not be informed of any of his doings. Herein quite agreed with him; not only for his furtherance, bui because I always think that women, of whatever min are best when least they meddle with the things thaj appertain to men. Master Stickles complained that the weather had beei against him bitterly, closing all the roads around hi even as it had done with us. It had taken him eight da he said, to get from Exeter to Plymouth; whither found that most of the troops had been drafted oflE fr Exeter. When all were told, there was but a battalion one of the King's horse regiments, and two companies foot soldiers; and their commanders had orders, la than the date of Jeremy's commission, on no account quit the southern coast, and march inlanrl. Therefoi although they would gladly have come for a brush wii the celebrated Doones, it was more than they d Up] eiy ual iam( loth ircii So t w itc :ho indn >dn| e t ds LORNA DOONE 379 ;, and only aail on, or ckles, had ,f that kind Lces. But I attempt, in the face of their instructions. However, they spared him a single trooper, as a companion of the road, and to prove to the justices of the county, and the lord lieutenant, that he had their approval. To these authorities Master Stickles now was forced to address himself, although he would rather have had one t stoneware ■ trooper than a score from the very best trained bands. th the very Ipor these trained bands had afforded very good soldiers, juthmolton. Ijn the time of the civil wars, and for some years .after- 3 murderous Iwards; but now their discipline was gone; and the younger lledl' Bgeneration had seen no real fighting. Each would have jaid I. 'thatjhis own opinion, and would want to argue it; and if he were not allowed, he went about his duty in such a temper s to prove that his own way was the best. Neither was this the worst of it; for Jeremy made no oubt but what (if he could only get the militia to turn ut in force) he might manage, wifii the help of his own en, to force the stronghold of the enemy; but the truth F Bfas that the officers, knowing how hard it would be to ollect their men at that time of the year, and in that i the simplestjtate of the weather, begai^ with one accord to make ;ore our girlsMyery possible excuse. And especially they pressed this led me asid*oint, that Bagworthy wis not in their county; the all about it«evonshire people afl&rming vehemently that it lay in the at it was notjire of Somerset, and the Somersetshire folk averring, meant, for alven with imprecations, that it lay in Devonshire. Now 1 )t seen as yetMelieve the truth to be that the boundary of the two gs. Herein •mnties, as well as of Oare and Brendon parip^es, is therance, bumfined by the Bagworthy river; so that the dispatants latever minoBQ both sides were both right and wrong. e things thajupon this, Master Stickles suggested, and as I thought ry sensibly, that the two counties should unite, and ther had beejuaiiy contribute to the extirpation of this pest, which around hiijamed and injured them both alike. But hence arose im eight dayftother difficulty; for the men of Devon said they would ,; whither DBarch when Somerset had taken the field; and the sons afted off froj Somerset replied that indeed they were quite ready, a battalion w what were their cousins of Devonshire doing? And companies •it came to pass that the King's Commissioner returned orders, latBthout any army whatever; but with promise of two no account •ndred men when the roads should be more passable. 1^(1. TherefoAd meanwhile, what were we to do, abandoned as we a brush wijre to the mercies of the Doones, with only oar own they duiBnds to help us? And herein I grieved at my own folly. .■\ i i V ls\ ■ ( ^•^w^ 3iio LOKMA DOONE iu having let Tom Faggus go, whose wit and courage would have been worth at least half a dozun men to us Upon this matter I held long council with my good friend Stickles; telling hmi all about Lorna's presence, and what i knew of her history. He agreed with me that we could not hope to escape an attack from the outlaws, and the more especially now that tliey knew himself to be re- turned to us. Also he praised me for my forethought in having threshed out all our corn, and hidden the produce in such a manner that they were not likely to find it, Furthermore, he recommended that all the entrances to the house should at once be strengthened, and a watch must be maintained at night; and he thought it wiser that I should go (late as it was) to Lynmouth, if a horse could pass the valley, and fetch every one of his mounted troopers, who might now be quartered there. Also if any men of courage, though capable only of handling a pitch fork, could be found in the neighbourhood, I was to trjj to summon them. But our district is so thinly peopled that I had little faith in this; however my errand w; given me, and I set forth upon it; for John Fry wai afraid of the waters. Knowing how fiercely the floods were out, I resolve to travel the higher road, by Cosgate and through Countis bury; therefore J swam my horse through the Lynn, a the ford below our house (where sometimes you ma step across), and thence galloped up and along the hills I could see all the inland valleys ribbon' d with broa waters; and in every winding crook, the banks of sno^ that fed them; while on my right the turbid sea w flaked with April showers. But when I descended the towards Lynmouth, I feared that my journey was all i vain. For the East Lynn (which is our river) was rampin] and roaring frightfully, lashing whole trunks of trees oi the rocks, and rending them, and grinding them. An into it rushed, from the opposite side, a torrent evei madder; upsetting what it came to aid; shattering wa with boiling billow, and scattering wrath with fury. was certain death to attempt the passage : and the li wooden footbridge had been carried away long ago. ^ the men I was seeking must be, of course, on the othi side of this deluge, for on my side there was not a sing] house. V .; : , ; , • . r -• .■• •'■' - '" -n -•• i^^-s .-. Ida lew The ice I ithe en if ho LORNA DOONE 381 , ri ' ■ ^ followed the bank of the flood to the beach, some nd co^'^agei^^^ ^^ three hundred yards below; and there had the men to us^ ■ ^^^^ ^^ ^^^ YYjU Watcombe on the opposite side, caulking gooa inenQ| ^^ ^j^ ^^^^ Though I could not make him hear a word, e ana ^^^J ■ fr nt the deafening roar of the torrent, I got him to under- ^^ d th I ' '^"^^ ^* ^^^^ *^^^ ^ wanted to cross over. Upon this he u^t ^^e re^f^^^^^^ another man, and the two of them launched a ihoueht inl^^^^' ^"'^ paddling well out to sea, fetched round the "^fh oK)ducel'^*^^^^^ ^^ ^^® frantic river. The other man proved to bo t find it Is^^i^'^^'l^s's chief mate; and so he went back and fetched ^ t ances tol^^^ comrades, bringing their weapons, but leaving their ^ a watch fr"^^^^ behind. As it happened there were but four of ^> ^ r that I ^^^"^' hiowever, to have even these was a help; and I ^Vt^rse couldl^^^^^ again at full speed for my home; for the men must V mountedl'^o^^^ afoot, and cross our river high up on the moor- Also if any land. • . nitch-B ^^^^ *°^^ them a long way round, and the track was T ^\.s to trv'l^^^^'^ ^^^ *° ^^^' ^^^ *^® ^^y already darkening; so • 1^ oeooledB*^* ^ arrived at Plover's Barrows more than two hours ^^'^ rrand wasB^^^^^® them. But they had done a sagacious thing, which ^Vi^ Frv wm'^^^ ^®11 worth the delay; for by hoisting their flag upon onn r y m^^ j^^j^ they fetched the two watchmen from the Fore- 1 + T Tesolve»°^' ^^^ added them to their number, r ' Ji /-^„r,+iM It was lucky that I came home so soon; for I found the 1 a great commotion, and all the women trembling. en I asked what the matter was, Loma, who seemed be most self-possessed, answered that it was all her fault, or she alone had frightened them. And this in the foUow- ng manner. She had stolen out to the garden towards |usk, to watch some favourite hyacinths just pushing up, le a baby's teeth, and just attracting the fatal notice of great house-snail at night-time. Loma at last had dis- overed the glutton, and was bearing him off in triumph the tribunal of the ducks, when she descried two littering eyes glaring at tir steadfastly, from the elder- Qsh beyond the stream. The elder was smoothing its Tinkled leaves, being at least two months behind time; nd among them this calm cruel face appeared; and she Dew it was the face of Carver Doone.' [The maiden, although so used to terror (as she told me pee before), lost all presence of mind hereat, and could either shriek nor fly, but only gaze, as if bewitched. hen Carver Doone, with his deadly smile, gloating upon fr horror, lifted his long gun, and pointed full at Lima's nes you ma long the hills d with broa )anks of sno' irbid sea w tended the ey was all was rampinj Iks of trees |g them. Anj torrent eve| pattering wa\ [with fury and the U1 long ago. on the otli| IS not a sing] It I :!:i^ 38a LORNA DOONE heart. In vain she strove to turn away; fright had stricken her stiff as stone. With the inborn love of life, she tried to cover the vital part wherein the winged death must lodge — for she knew Carver's certain aim — but her hands hung numbed, and heavy; in nothing but her eyes was life. With no sign of pity in his face, no quiver of relenting, but a well-pleased grin at all the charming palsy of his victim. Carver Doone lowered, inch by inch, the muzzle of his gun. When it pointed to the ground, between her delicate arched insteps, he pulled the trigger, and the bullet flung the mould all over her. It was a refinement of bullying, for which I swore to God that night, upon my knees, in secret, that I would smite down Carver Doone; or else he should smite me down. Base beast! what largest humanity, or what dreams of divinity, could make a man put up with this? My darling (the loveliest, and most harmless, in the world of maidens), fell away on a bank of grass, and wept at her own cowardice; and trembled, and wondered where I was; and what I would think of this. Good God! What could I think of it? She over- rated my slow nature, to] admit th: question. While she leaned there, quite unable yet to save her self. Carver came to the brink of the flood, which alon was between them; and then he stroked his jet-blac beard, and waited for Lorna to begin. Very likely, h thought that she would thank him for his kmdness to her But she was now recovering the power of her nimbi limbs; and ready to be off like hope, and wonder at he own cowardice. 'I have spared you this time,* he said, in his deep calr voice, 'only because it suits my plans; and I never yiel to temper. But unless you come back to-morrow, pun and with all you took away, and teach me to destro] that fool, who has destroyed himself for you, your deai is here, your death is here, where it has long been waiting Although his gun was empty, he struck the breech it with his finger; and then he turned away, not deigni even once to look back again; and Lorna saw his gia figure striding across the meadow-land, as if the Ridi were nobodies, and he the proper owner. Both mothi and I were greatly hurt at hearing of this insolence : f| we had owned that meadow, from the time of the gn 'De lothe Dea ibi over •uld leal-t firm LOKMA DUONE 383 :right had )ve oi life, iged death ^ — but her it her eyes i relenting, )alsy of his ■Uie muzzle jetween her sr, and the L refinement night, upon Alfreil; and even when that good king lay in the Isle of Athehiey, he had a Kidd along with him. Now I spoke to Lorna gently, seeing how much she had been tried; and I praised her for her courage, in not having run away, when she was so unable; and my dar- ling was pleased with this, and smiled upon me for saying it; though she knew right well that, in this matter, my judgment was not impartial. But you may take this as a general rule, that a woman likes praise from the man whom she loves, and cannot stop always to balance it. Now expecting a sharp attack that night — when Jeremy Stickles the more expected, after the words of Carver, _ which seemed to be meant to mislead us — we prepared own Carver B a great quantity of knuckles of pork, and a ham in full Base beast! B cut, and a fillet of hung mutton. For we would almost vinity, could ■ surrender rather than keep our garrison hungry. And ■ all our men were exceedingly brave; and counted their nless, in the ■rounds of the house in half- pints. IBS and weptB Before the maidens went to bed, Lorna made a remark ndered whereBwhich seemed to me a vfjry clever one, and then I won- 1 God I WhatBdered how on earth it h2,d never occurred to me before. )W nature, toBBut first she had done a thing which I could not in the ■least approve of : for she had gone up to my mother, and to save herBthrown herself into her arms, and begged to be allowed which aloneBto return to Glen Doone. My child, are you unhappy here?* mother asked her, ery gently, for she had begun to regard her now as a ughter of her own. Oh, no ! Too happy, by far too happy, Mrs, Ridd. I onder at heBiever knew rest or peace before, or met with real kind- ess. But I cannot be so ungrateful, I cannot be so icked, as to bring you all into deadly peril, for my sake one. Let me go: you must not pay this great price f my happiness.* 'Dear child, we are paying no price at all,' replied my other, embracing her; 'we are not threatened for your e only. Ask John, he will tell you. He knows every about politics, and this is a political matter.* Dear mother was rather proud in her heart, as well as mbly frightened, at the importance now accruing to lover's Barrows farm; and she often declared that it uld be as famous in history as the Rye House, or the lal-tub, or even the great black box, in which she was firm believer: and even my knowledge of politics his jet-blacl! »ry likely, M tidness to her! )£ her nimbl^ Ibis deep calj I never yielj lorrow, pwfl Le to destroj Jn, your deatf been waiting] the breech/ I not deigw isaw his giq if the Ridd Both mothj linsolence: ij le of the gre ; ■« llV'i-i m 384 LORNA DOONE could not move her upon ttat matter. 'Such things had happened before,' she would say, shaking her head with its wisdom, 'and why might they not happen again? Women would be women, and men would be men, to the end of the r^iapter; and if she had been in Lucy Water's place, she would ktep it quiet, as she had done'; and then she would look round, for fear, lest either of her daughters had heard her; 'but now, can you give me any reason, why i^ may not have been so? You are so fearfully positive. John: just as men always are.' 'No/ I used to say; 'I cau give you no reason, why it may not have been so, mother. But the question is, if it was so, or not; rather than what it might have been. And, I think, it is pretty good proof against it, that what nine men of every ten in England would only too gladly be- lieve, if true, is nevertheless kept dark from them.' 'There you are again, John,' mother would reply, 'all about men, and not a single word about women. If you, had any argument at all, you would own that marriagi is a question upon which women are the best judges. *Oh!' I would groan in my spirit, and go; leaving m dearest mother quite sure, that now at last she musi have convinced me. But if mother had known tha Jeremy Stickles was working against the black box, ani its issue. I doubt whether he would have fared so well even though he was a visitor. However, she knew thai something was doing, and something of importance; ani she trusted in God for the rest of it. Only she used tell me, very seriously, of an evening, 'The very leai they can give you, dear John, is a coat of arms. Be sui you take nothing less, dear; and the farm can wei support it.' But lo ! I have left Loma ever so long, anxious to coi suit me upon political matters. She came to me, and h eyes alone asked a hundred questions, which I rath had answered upon her lips than troubled her pretty & with them. Therefore I told her nothing at all, save thi the attack (if any should be) would not be made on h account; and that if she should hear, by any chance, trifle of a noise in the night, she was to wrap the clothi around her, and shut her beautiful eyes again. On account, whatever she did, was she to go to the windc She liked my expression about her eyes, and promi to do the very best she could; and then she crept so v mdi ma 'Wf ishi id si L. LORNA DOONE 385 things had • head with pen again? be men, to en in Lucy ; had done' ; either of her ou give me You are so s are.' 'No/ y it may not if it was so, een. close, that I needs must have her closer; and with her head on my breast she asked, — Can't you keep out of this fight, John?' • 'My own one,' I answered, gazing through the long black lashes, at the depths of radiant love; *I believe there will be nothing: but what there is I must see out.' 'Shall I tell you what I think, John? It is only a fancy of mine, and perhaps it is not worth telling.' 'Let us have it, dear, by all means. You know so much about their ways.' 'What I believe is this, John. You know how high the rivers are, higher than ever they were before, and twice _ And, lias high, you have told me. I believe that Glen Doone is at what nineBflooded, and all the houses under water.' 00 gladly be-B You little witch,' I answered; 'what a fool I must be from them.' Boot to think of it! Of course it is: it must be. The Id reply. 'allBtorrent from all the Bagwoithy forest, and all the valleys jmen. If youBabove it, and the great drifts in the glen itself, never that mamageBould have outlet down my famous waterslide. The valley best judges.'Bnust be under water twenty feet at least. Well, if ever y leaving myfcere was a fool, I am he, for not having thought of last she mus«t.' known thalH 'I remember once before,* said Loma, reckoning on her lack box, aiKMngers, 'when there was heavy rain, all through the fared so wellButumn and winter, five or it may be six years ago, the 'he knew thafcer came down with such a rush that the water was ro feet deep in our rooms, and we all had to camp by e cliff -edge. But you think that the floods are higher w, I believe I heard you say, John.' I don't think about it, my treasure,* 1 answered: ou may trust me for understanding floods, after our ork at Tiverton. And I know that the deluge in all our leys is such that no living man can remember, neither ever behold again. Consider three months of snow, low, snow, and a fortnight of rain on the top oiE it, and to be drained in a few days away 1 And great harri- es of ice still in the rivers blocking them up, and inding them. You may take my word for it, Mistress inia, that your pretty bower is six feet deep.' , .,, Well, my bower has served its time,' said Lorna, shing as she remembered all that had happened there; id my bower now is here, John. But I am so sorry to k of ail the poor women flooded out of their houses sheltering in the snowdr'its. However, there is one iportance; am y she used t "he very leai rms. Besui arm can we! inxious to cori to me, and n^ ^hich I rathfl Iher pretty ea \ all, save m |e made on hj any chance, |rap the clotflj again. On i to the windol and ^vom le crept so ve 3S6 LORNA DOONE l'!^'> good of it : they cannot send many men against us, with all this trouble upon them.' 'You are right,' I replied: 'how clever you are! and that is why there were only three to cut off Master Stickles. And now we shall beat them, I make no doubt, even if they come at all. And I defy them to fire the house: the thatch is too wet for burning.' We sent all the women to bed quite early, except Gwenny Carfax and our old Betty. These two we allowed to stay up, because they might be useful to us, if they could keep from quarreling. For my part, I had little fear, after what Lorna had told me, as to the result of the combat. It was not likely that the Doones could bring more than eight or ten men against us, while theirBn] homes were in such danger : and to meet these we hadjof eight good men, including Jeremy, and myself, all wel armed and resolute, besides our three farm-servants, am the parish-clerk, and the shoemaker. These five could no be trusted much for any valiant conduct, although the spoke very confidently over their cans of cider. Neithei were their weapons fitted for much execution, unless ii were at close quarters, which they would be likely avoid. Bill Dadds had a sickle, Jem Slocombe a flailj the cobbler had borrowed the constable's staff (for thi constable would not attend, because there was no wa; rant), and the parish clerk had brought his pitch-pi which was enough to break any man's head. But Johi Fry, of course, had his blunderbuss, loaded with tin-taci and marbles, and more likely to kill the man who dii charged it than any other person : but we knew thi John had it only for show, and to describe its qualities Now it was my great desire, and my chiefest hope, come across Carver Doone that night, and settle ti score between us; not by any shot in the dark, but by conflict man to man. As yet, since I came to full-gro power, I had never met any one whom I could not pli teetotum with: but now at last I had found a whose strength was not to be laughed at. I could guessBad f in his face, I could tell it in his arms, I could see it pe o his stide and gait, which more than all the rest be the ■ ubstance of a man. And being so well used wres cling, and to judge antagonists, I felt that here anywhere) I had found my match. - I'herefcre I was not content to abide within the no id uai He nd DUSl Dd eil th ea LORNA DOONE 387 1st us, with ►u arel and ofE Master :e no doubt, i to fire the or go the rounds with the troopers; but betook myself to the rick yard, knowing that the Doones were likely to begin their onset there. For they had a pleasant custom, when they visited farm-houses, of lighting themselves towards picking up anything they wanted, or stabbing the inhabitants, by first creating a blaze in the rick yard. And though our ricks were all now of mere straw (except arly, except! indeed two of prime clover-hay), and although on the we' allowed ■ top they were so wet that no firebrands might hurt us, it they ■ them; I was both unwilling to have them burned, and 1 had littlel fearful that they might kindle, if well roused up with the result oiBfire upon the windward side. L)oones couldl By the bye, these Doones had got the worst of this s while theirB pleasant trick one time. For happening to fire the ricks these we hadBof a lonely farm called Yeanworthy, not far above Glen- vself , all wellBthorne, they approached the house to get people's goods, Servants, anSand to enjoy their terror. The master of the farm was five could nolBlately dead, and had left, inside the clock-case, loaded, although the^the great long gun, wherewith he had used to sport a.i cider. NeitheBthe ducks and the geese on the shore. Now Widow Fisher took out this gun, and not caring much what he- me of her (for she had loved her husband dearly), she id it upon tho window-sill, which looked upon the rick- rd; and she backed up the butt with a chest of oak wers, and she opened the window a little back, and i the muzzle out on the slope. Presently five or six e young Doones came dancing a reel (as their manner ^ as) betwixt her and the flaming rick. Upon which she man who diBulled the trigger with all the force of her tliumb, and a we knew thMuarter of a pound of duck-shot went out with a blaze on its qualitiesBie dancers. You may suppose what their dancing was, '"id their reeling how changed to staggering, and their usic none of the «3weetest. One of them fell into the rick, id was burned, and buried in a ditch next day; but the hers were set upon their horses, and carried home on a ith of blood. And strange to say, they never avengied is very dreadful injury; but having heard that a woman could guessBid fired this desperate shot among them, they said that could see it Bie ought to be a Doone, and inquired how old she was. " ' Now I had not been so very long waiting in our mov/- d, with my best gun ready, and a bi« -"^'^b by me, be- e a heaviness of sleep began to creep upon me. The floAv water was in my ears, and in my eyes a hazy spread- and upon my brain a closure, as a cobbler sews a tion, unless il d be likely t ombe a flaul staff (for thi was no wai ihis pitch-pi ad. But ]o with tin-tad .iefest hope, [and settle tl^ Idark, but byj \e to full-groj 1 could not pi^ found a le rest bet well used it that here '■: r: Af, thin the no« 388 LORNA DOONE vamp up. So 1 leaned back in the clover-rick, and the dust of the seed and the smell came round me, without any trouble; and I dozed about Loma, just once or twice, and what she had said about new-mown hay; and then back went my head, and my chin went up; and if ever] a man was blest with slumber, down it came upon me, and away went I into it. Now this was very vile of me, and against all good! resolutions, even such as I would have sworn to an hour| ago or less. But if you had been in the water as I had, ay, and had long fight with it, after a good day's work, and then great anxiety afterwards, and brain-work| (which is not fair for me), and upon that a stout supper,^ mayhap you would not be so hard on my sleep; though] you felt it your duty to wake me. ■-/; I : ' ; i . \ '• ( *: ;f CHAPTER XLIX ^ I .; f ,'■ MAIDEN SENTINELS ARE BEST t' < Hm II ti- It was not likely that the outlaws would attack o premises until some time after the moon was risen because it would be too dangerous to cross the floodei valleys in the darkness of the night. And but for i consideration, I must have striven harder against stealthy approach of slumber. But even so, it was vei foolish to abandon watch, especially in such as I, wi sleep like any dormouse. Moreover, I had chosen t very worst place in the world for such employment, wi a goodly chance of awakening in a bed of solid fire. And so it might have been, nay, it must have beei but for Lorna's vigilance. Her light hand upon my ai awoke me, not too readily; and leaping up, I seized club, and prepared to knock down somebody. - 'Who's that?' I cried: 'stand back, I say, and let have fair chance at you.' 'Are you going to knock me down, dear John?' replii the voice I loved so well: 'I am sure I should never up again, after one blow from you, John.' 'My darling, is it you?' I cried; 'and breaking all y orders? Come back into the house at once: and noth on your head, dearl' 'P •l-A ■ t} ih'n} i^T^j.y- i'C "^ Dore •I ^po lor] ta: ck iQrn At oon To d die canil LORNA DOONE 389 M, and the ne, without ,ce or twice, ^; and then I and if everj Le upon me.l DSt all good a to an hour ter as I had,| day's work, brain-workl stout supper.l sleep; though ^d attack o\ r>ii was risenl [ss the floodej 4 but for th^ T against [o, it was ver .ch as I, wt :,d chosen tl )loyment, wit solid fire. st have beej , upon my i " p, I seized body. [ay, and .et Ijohn?* replii kould never " r » leaking all y and notn: 'b r C 'How could I sleep, while at any moment you might be killed beneath my window? And now is the time of real danger; for men can see to travel.' I saw at once the truth of this. The moon was high and clearly lighting all the watered valleys. To sleep any longer might be death, not only to myself, but all. 'The man on §uard at the tack of the house is fast asleep,* she contmued; 'Gwenny, who It me out, and came with me, has heard him snoring for two hours. I think the women ought to be the watch, because they have had no travelling. Where do you suppose little Gwenny is?' 'Surely not gone to Glen Doone?' I was not sure, however: for I could believe almost anything of the Cornish maiden's hardihood. 'No,' replied Lorna, 'although she wanted even to do that. But of course I would not hear of it, on account of the swollen waters. But she is perched on yonder tree, which commands the Barrow valley. She says that they are almost sure to cross the streamlet there; and now it is so wide and large, that she can trace it in the moon- light, half a mile beyond her. If they cross, she is sure to iee them, and in good time to let us know.' 'What a shame,' I cried, 'that the men should sleep, nd the maidens be the soldiers ! I will sit in that tree yseif, and send little Gwenny back to you. Go to bed, y best and dearest; I will take good care not to sleep .gain.' 'i- . f k/ ifi 'u;- . iJ ' .»::,:' ,.,'•■ Please not to send me away, dear John,' she answered ery mournfully : 'you and I have been together through rils worse than this. I shall only be more timid, and ore miserable, indoors.' '1 cannot let you stay here,' I said; 'it is altogether possible. Do you suppose that I can fight, with you ong the bullets, Lorna? If this is the way you mean take it, we had better go both to the apple-room, and k ourselves in, and hide under the tiles, and let them arn all the rest of the premises.' At this idea Lorna laughed, as I could see by the loonlight; and then she said, — ^ ^ - ^ =; , You are right, John. I should only do more harm than d: and of all things I hate fighting most, and dis- idience next to it. Therefore I will go mdoors, although cannot go to bed. But promise me one thing, dearest ^ li n n mmm il .V 390 LORNA DOONE il ?' John. You wlU keep yourself out of tlie way, now won't you, as much as you can, for my sake?' 'Of that you may be quite certain, Lorna. I will shoot j them all through the hay-ricks.' 'That is right, dear,' she answered, never doubting but I what I could do it; 'and then they cannot see you, you know, But don't think of cUmbing that tree, John; it is a great deal too dangerous. It is all very well for Gwenny; she has no bones to break.' 'None worth breaking, you mean, 1 suppose Very well; I will not climb the tree, for I should defeat my own purpose, I fear; being such a conspicuous object! Now go mdoors, darling, without more words. The moreBby. you hnger, the more I shall keep you,' P* She laughed her own bright laugh at this, and onlyl said, 'God keep you, love!' and then away she trippedl across the yard, with the step I loved to watch so. Andf thereupon I shouldered arms, and resolved to tramp till morning. For I was vexed at my own neglect, and tliaj Lorna should have to right it. But before I had been long on duty, making the round of the ricks and stables, and hailing Gwenny now and then from the bottom of her tree, a short wide figurl stole towards me, in and out the shadows, and I saw thai it was no other than the little maid herself, and that shj bore some tidings. 'Ten on 'em crossed the watter down yonner,' said Gwenny, putting her hand to her mouth, and seeminj to regard it as good news rather than otherwise: 'be a.} craping up by h'^.dgerow now. I could shutt dree on 'en from the bar of the gate, if so be I had your goon, youn| man,' 'There is no time to lose, Gwenny. Run to the houg and fetch Master Stickles, and all t^e men; while I stag Pie here, and watch the rick-yard.' Perhaps I was wrong in heeding the ricks at such time as that; especially as only the clover was of muc importance. But it seemed to me like a sort of triump that they should be even able to boast of having fir^ our mow-yard. Therefore I stood in a nick of the clove' whence we had cut some trusses, with my club in banj and gun close by. ii ^ib;M;fi> i'i- i-, The robbers rode into our yard as coolly as if they h^ been invited, having lifted the gate from the binges fir' LORNA DOONE 391 now won 1 1 I will shoot i oubting but 36 you, you on account of its being fastened. Then they actually opened our stable-doors, and turned our honejt horses out, and put their own rogues in the place of them. ^t this my breath was quite taken away; for we think so much of our horses. By this time I could see our troopers, waiting in the shadow of the house, round the 36, John; itl comer from where the Doones were, and expecting the jry well for Border to fire. But Jeremy Stickles very wisely kept them ■ in readiness, until the enemy should advance upon ipose Very ■them. i defeat myB 'Two of you lazy fellows go,' it was the deep voice of uous object.Bcarver Doone, 'and make us a light, to cut their threats Is. The moreBby. Only one thin^, once again. If any man touches ■Loma, I will stab him where he stands. She belongs to is, and onlyBme. There are two other young damsels here, whom you ' she trippedBinay take away if you please. And the mother, I hear, is atch so. AndBstill comely. Now for our rights. We have borne too long to tramp tilBthe insolence of these yokels. Kill every man, and every ect, and tliaBchild, and bum the cursed place down.' ■ As he spoke thus blasphemously, I set my gun against ing the rounShis breast; and by the light buckled from his belt, I saw any now an«e little 'sight' of brass gleaming alike upon either side, "id the sleek round barrel glimmering. The aim was re as death itself. If I only drew ^e trigger (which ent very lightly) Carver Doone would breathe no more. d yet — ^will you believe me? — I could not pull the igger. Would to God that I had done so! For I never had taken human life, neither done bodily imi to man; beyond the little bruises, and the trifling hes and pains, which follow a good and honest bout in e wrestling ring. Therefore I dropped my carbine, and asped agam my club, which seemed a more straight- irward implement, while I staB Piesently two young men came towards me, bearing "nnds of resined hemp, kindled from Carver's lamp. e foremost of them set his torch to the rick within a d of me, and smoke concealing me from him. I struck with a back-handed blow on the elbow, as he bent it; I heard the bone of his arm break, as clearly as ever heard a twig snap. With a roar of pain he fell on the lund, and his torch dropped there, and singed him. e other man stood amazed at this, not havir g yet ined sight of me; till I caught his firebrand from his d, ajm struck it into his countenance^ With that he t wide figuri nd I saw tha and that shi yoni>er,' saiii and seemini ise: 'beaif dree on 'en goon, youn| to the houd tks at such was of niuc Irt of trium{ having ^i [of the clove Iclub in ban! ts U they h le hinges ni' w'W^'^ 39« LORNA DOONE leaped at me; but I caught him, in a manner learned from early wrestling, and snapped his collar-bone, as I laid him upon the top of his comrade. This little success so encouraged me, that 1 was half inclined to advance, and challenge Carver Doone to meet me; but I boie in mind that he would be apt to shoot j me without ceremony; and what is the utmost of human strength against the power of powder? Moreover, 1 1 remembered my promise to sweet Lorna; and who would | be left to defend her, if the rogues got rid of me? While I was hesitating thus (for I always continue to I hesitate, except in actual conflict), a blaze of fire lit up the house, and brown smoke hung around it. Six of our men had let go at the Doones, by Jerem}'^ Stickles' order,! as the villains came swaggering down in the moonlightl ready for rape or murder. Two of them fell, and the rest! hung back, to think at their leisure what this was. Theyl were not used to this sort of thing: it was neither just nor courteous. Being unable any longer to contain myself, as I though^ of Lorna' s excitement at all this noise of firing, I camd across the yard, expecting whether they would shoot aj me. However, no one shot 'at me; and I went up tq Carver Doone, whom I knew by his size in the moon] light, and I took him by the b^ard, and said, 'Do yo( call yourself a man?' For a moment he was so astonished that he could no| answer. None had ever dared, I suppose, to look at hir in that way; and he saw that he had met his equal, perhaps his master. And then he tried a pistol at me but I was too quick for him. 'Now, Carver Doone, take warning,' I said to hii very soberly; 'you have shown yourself a fool by you contempt of me. I may not be your match in craft; but| am in manhood. You are a despicable villain. Lie low your native muck.' And with that word, I laid him flat upon his back our straw-yard, by a trick of the inner heel, which could not have resisted (though his strength had be^ twice as great as mine), unless he were a wrestler. Seei him down the others ran, though one of them made a shj at me, and some of them got their horses, before oj men came up; and some went away without them, among these last was Captain Carver, who arose, while er learned bone, as I LORNA DOONE 393 1 was half ine to meet pt to shoot t of human loreover, I was feeling myself (for I had a little wound), and strode away with a train of curses enough to poison the light of the moon. • - We gained six very good horses, by this attempted rapine, as well as two young prisoners, whom I had smitten by the clover-rick. And two dead Doones were left behind, whom (as we buried them in the church- who would B yard, without any service over them), I for my part was me? ■most thankful that I had not killed. For to have the life continue to ■ of a fellow-man laid upon one's conscience — deserved he if fire lit upBbis death, or deserved it not — is to my sense of right and Six of our ■wrong the heaviest of all burdens; indf the one that wears ckles' order.Bmost deeply inwards, with the dwelling of the mind on e moonliglitBthis view and on that of it. and the restB I was inclined to pursue the enemy and try to capture is was. TheyBmore of them; but Jeremy Stickles would not allow it, neither justBfor he said that all the advantage would be upon their ■side, if we went hurrying after them, with only the moon as I thougMto guide us. And who could tell but what there might iring, I cam^be another band of them, ready to fall upon the house, " d bum it, and seize the women, if we left them unpro- ted? When he put the case thus, I was glad enough abide by his decision. And one thing was quite certain, at the Doones had never before received so rude a ock, and so violent a blow to their supremacy, since they had built up their power, and become the Lords Exmoor. I knew that Carver Doone would gnash lose mighty teeth of his, and curse the men around for the blunder (which was in truth his own) of er-confidence and carelessness. And at the same time, the rest would feel that such a thing had never hap- ined, while old Sir Ensor was alive; and that it was craft; butBaused by nothing short of gross mismanagement. n. Lie low i|l scarcely know who made the greatest fuss about my lie wound, mother, or Annie, or Lorna. I was heartily lamed to be so treated like a milksop; but most un- ;kily it had been impossible to hide it. For the ball had t along my temple, just above the eyebrow; and being ed so near at hand, the powder too had scarred me. ^ made a shBierefore it seemed a great deal worse than it really was; IS, before oBd the sponging, and the plastering, and the sobbing, t them. AV the moaning, made me quite ashamed to look Master whilfiBickles in the face. wCr r)ihetW'"^'kiA- ^i^i^riAvw t • r However, at last £ persuaded them that 1 had na Duld shoot ai went up ti n the moon aid, 'Do yoi he could no| , look at bin his equal, pistol at me said to hii fool by yon _ his back jel, which rth had be(| Pestler. Seei irose. 394 LORNA DOONE »- %- - - ii; : i intention of giving up the ghost that night; and then they all fell to, and thanked God with an emphabis quite unknown in church. And hereupon Master Stickles said, in his free and easy manner ^for no one courted his ob- servation), that I was the luckiest of all mortals in having a mother, and a sister, and a sweetheart, to make much of me. For his part, he said, he was just as well off, in not having any to care for him. For now he might go and get shot, or stabbed, or knocked on the head, at his pleasure, without any one being oliended. I made bold, upon this, to ask him what was become of his wife; for I had heard him speak of having one. He said that he neither knew nor cared; and perhaps J should be like him some day. That Lorna should hear such sentiments was very grievous to me. But she looked at me with a smile, which proved her contempt for all such ideas; and lest anything still more unfit might be said, I dismissed the question. But Master Stickles told me afterwards, when there was no one with us, to have no faith in any woman, what ever she might seem to be. For he assured me that nowl he possessed very large experience, for so small a matter;| being thoroughly acquainted with women of every class,j from ladies of the highest blood, to Bonarobas, an peasants' wives : and that they all might be divided int three heads and no more; that is to say as follows. First the very hot and passionate, who were only contemptible second, the cold and indifferent, who were simply odious; and third, the mixture of the other two, who had th bad qualities of both. As for reason, none of them had itj it was like a sealed book to them, which if they ever trii to open, they began at the back of the cover. Now I did not like to hear such things; and to me the appeared to be insolent, as well as narrow-minded. F if you came to that, why might not men, as well women, be divided into the same three classes, and pronounced upon by women, as beings even more devoii than their gentle judges of reason? Moreover, I kne both from my own sense, and from the greatest of i great poets, that there are, and always have been, plen of women, good, and gentle, warm-hearted, loving, a lovable; very keen, moreover, at seeing the right, be it I reason, or otherwise. And upon the v/hole, I prefer the; much to the people of my own sex, as goodness of heai Qian ilong thinl t I LORNA DOONS 395 and then haais quite .ckles said, ted his ob- 3 in having nake much 19 well off, V he might I the head, ed. I made ome ot his le. Ke said is more important than to show good reason for having it. And so I said to Jeremy, — 'You have been ill-treated, perhaps, Master Stickles, by some woman or other ? ' 'Ah, that have I,' he replied with an oath; 'and the last on earth who should ser/e me so, the woman who was my wife. A woman whom I never struck, never wronged in any way, never even let her know that I like another better. And yet when I was at Berwick last, with the regiment on guard there against those vile moss- troopers, what does that woman do but fly in the face of all authority, and of my especial business, by running OS I "should B a^ay herself with the biggest of all moss-troopers? Not 1 hear suchB^at I cared a groat about her; and I wish the fool well le looked at ■ rid of her: but the insolence of the thing was such that mot for all B everybody laughed at me; and back I *vent to London, fit might beBlosing a far better and safer job than this; and all through ■her. Come, let's have another onion.* when thereB Master Stickles' s view of the matter was so entirely roman what-B'"^'"<^n^^'^*ic, that I scarcely wondered at Mistress Stickles me that nowB^r having run away from him to an adventurous moss- lall a matteriB^oopcr. For nine women out of ten must have some kind every classj^ romance or other, to make their lives endurable; and arobas andB*'^^^ their love has lost this attractive element, this soft divided intW^w-fo^ (if such it be), the love itself Is apt to languish; bllows First«'"^^6ss its bloom be well replaced by the budding hopes ' ■ "-^ children. Now Master Stickles neither had» nor wished have, any children. Without waiting for any warrant, only saying some- ing about 'captus in flagrante delicto/'^ii that be the y to spell it — ^Stickles sent our ^.lisoners off, bound nd looking miserable, to the jail at Taunton. I was ;ontemptiblej [mply odious! jvho had tM them had it| ley ever trie lid to me thejB^sirous to let them go free, if they would promise amend- linded. F(W^^t» but although I had taken them, and surely there- ore had every right to let them go again. Master Stickles aid, 'Not so.* He assured me that it was a matter of iiblic polity; and of course, not knowing what he meant, I could not contradict him; but thought that surely my 4vate rights ought to be respected. For if I throw a an in wrestling, I expect to get his stakes; and if I take man prisoner — why, he ought, in common justice, to light be i^fl*^^^^ to me, and I have a good right to let him go, if if orefer tbeB^ink proper to do so. However, Master Stickles said Iness of heaWa* I was quite benighted, and knew nothing of the as well isses, and more devo^ hver, I knev Ireatest of been, plent loving, aj 51 J «i tl 396 LORNA DOONE Constitution; which was the very thiny I linew, beyond any man in our parish I Nevertheless, it was not for me to contradict a com missioner; and therefore I let my prisoners go, and wished them a happy deliverance. Stickles replied, with a merry grin, that it ever they got it, it would be a jail deliver ance, and the bliss of dancing; and he laid his hand to his throat in a manner which seemed to me most uncourteous. However, his foresight proved too correct; for both those poor fellows were executed, soon after the next assizes. Lorna had done her very best to earn another chance for them; even going down on her knees to that common Jeremy, and pleading with great tears for liem. However, although much moved by her, he vowed that he durst do nothing else. To set them I free was more than his own life was worth; for all the country knew, by this time, that two captive Doones were roped to the cider-press at Plover's Barrows. Annie bound the broken arm of the one whom I had knocked down with the club, and I myself supported it; and then she washed and rubbed with lard the face of the other poor fellow, which the torch had injured; and I fetched back his collar-bone to the best of my ability. Fori before any surgeon could arrive, they were off with al well-armed escort. That day we were reinforced sol strongly from the stations along the coast, even as far aJ Minehead, that we not only feared no further attacl(T but even talked of assaulting Glen Doone, without wait{ ing for the train-bands. However, I thought that it would be mean to take advantage of the enemy in the thick of the floods and confusion; and several of the others thought so too, and did not like fighting in waterj Therefore it was resolved to wait and keep a watch upon the valley, and let the floods go down again. , . CHAPTER L i ; ii I, y. ^ ( -; A MERRY MEETING A SAD ONE r.i,.,; •. Now the business 1 had most at heart (as every onj knows by this time) was to marry Lorna as soon as miglil be, if she had no objection, and then to work the farm sj well, as to nourish all our family. And herein I saw nj } 1 LOKNA DOONE 397 Bw, beyond iict a com and wished rith a inerr> jail deliver- id his hand to me most too correct; , soon after best to earn 3n her knees 1 great tears red by her, To set them i; for all the] ptive Doonesl xrows. Annie had knocked I it; and then of the other ind I fetched ability. For [t off with a reinforced sol jven as far asj rther attack, without wait{ )Ught that it enerny in the everal of the ing in water] a watch upor in. . ( 5 -. (as every on [soon as migh Vk the farm s trein T saw ni difficulty; for Annie woiuld soon be off our hands, and somebody might come and take a fancy to little Lizzie (who was growing up very nicely now, though not so fino as Annie); moreover, we were almost sure to have great store of hay and corn after so much snow, if there be any truth in the old saying, — A foot deep of rain Will kill hay and grain ; But three feet of snow Will make them come mo'. And although it was too true that we had lost a many cattle, yet even so we had not lost money; for the few remaining fetched such prices as were never known be- fore. And though we grumbled with all our hearts, and really believed, at one time, that starvation was upon us, I doubt whether, on the whole, we were not the fatter, and the richer, and the wiser for that winter. And I might have said the happier, except for the sorrow which I we felt at the failures among our neighbours. The Snowes lost every sheep they had, and nine out of ten horned cattle; and poor Jasper Kebby would have been forced to throw up the lease of his farm, and perhaps to go to I prison, but for the help we gave him. However, my dear mother would have it that Lorna Iwas too young, as yet, to think of being married : and indeed I myself was compelled to admit that her form was becoming more perfect and lovely; though I had not thought it possible. And another difficulty was, that as we had all been Protestants from the time of Queen [Elizabeth, the maiden must be converted first, and [taught to hate \11 Papists. Now Lorna had not the lallest idea of ever being converted. She said that she me truly, but wanted not to convert me; and if [ |oved her equally, why should I wish to convert her? Vith this I was tolerably content, not seeing so very inch difference between a creed and a credo, and be- feving God to be our Father, in Latin as well as English. Moreover, my darling knew but little of the Popish ways -whether excellent or otherwise — inasmuch as the mes, though they stole their houses, or at least the Diner's work, had never been tempted enough by the fevil to steal either church or chapel. Lorna uame to our little church, when Parson bowden ^t- 398 LORNA DOONE ! i ! I : ■Wt i Hi.! reappeared after the snow was over; and she said that all was ver>' nice, and very like what she had seen in tlie time of her Aunt Sabina, when they went far away to the little chapel, with a shilling in their gloves. It made the tears come into her eyes, by the force of memory, when Parson Bowden did the things, not so gracefuiiy nor so well, yet with pleasant imitation of her old Priest's sacred rites. 'He is a worthy man,* she said, being used to talk in the service time, L.nd my mother was obliged to cough: 'I like him very much indeed: but I wish he would let me put his things the right way on his shoulders.' Everybody in our parish, who could walk at all, or hire a boy and a wheelbarrow, ay, and half the folk from Countisbury, Breudon, and even Lynmouth, was and were to be found that Sunday, in our little church of Oare. People who would not come anigh us, when the Doones were threatening with carbine and with fire- brand, flocked in their very best clothes, to see a lady Doone go to church. Now all this came of that vile John Fry; I knew it as well as possible; his tongue wn,s worse than the clacker of a chanty-school bell, or the ladle in the frying-pan, when the bees are swarming. However, I orna was not troubled; partly because of| her natural dignity and gentleness; partly because she never dreamed that the pe(^le were come to look at her. But when we came to the Psalms of the day, with some] vague sense of being stared at more than ought to be,j she dropped the heavy black lace fringing of the velvei hat she wore, and concealed from the congregation al except her. bright red lips, and the oval snowdrift of hei chin. I touched her hand, and she pressed mine; ani we felt that we were close together, and God saw ni harm in it. As for Parson Bowden (as worthy a man as ever lived, and one who could shoot flying), he scarcely knew whaf he was doing, without the clerk to help him. He had borne it very well indeed, when I returned from Londonj but to ses a live Dooiie in his church, and a lady Doone and a lovely Doone, moreover one engaged to me, upoi whom he almost looked as the Squire of his parish (af though not rightly an Armiger), and to feel that thi lovely Doone was a Papist, and therefore of highei religion— At all our partont think—- and that she kne dfa 'Voi idely Vi LORNA DOONE 399 said that iccn in the r away to 3. It made i memory, gracefully 3ld Priest's L to talk in to cough: 3 would let iders.' [ at all, or le folk from 1, was and 5 church of a, when the| I with fire- ) see a lady at vile John e Wv-'.s worse the ladle in , ev«r lived, knew whai Im. He hac torn London! [lady Doone [to me, upoi IS parish (aj Bel that thi le of highei ^t she kne' exactly how he ought to do all the service, of which he himsefi knew little; I wish to express my firm belief that all these things together tumecf Parson Bowden's head a little, and made him look to me for orders. My mother, the very best of women, was (as I could well perceive) a little annoyed and vexed with things. For this particular occasion, she had procured from Dul- verton, by special message to Ruth Huckaback (whereof more anon), a head-dress with a feather never seen before upon Exmoor, to the best of every one's knowledge. It came from a bird called a flaming something — a flaming oh, or a flaming ah, I will not be positive — but I can assure you that it did flame; and dear mother had no other thought, but that all the congregation would neither see nor think of any other mortal thing, or im- mortal even, to the very end of the sermon. Herein she was so disappointed, that no sooner did she get home, but upstairs she went at speed, not even stop- ping at the mirror in our little parlour, and flung the whole thing into a cupboard, as I knew by the bang of the door, having eased the lock for her lately. Lorna saw there was something wrong; and she looked at Annie and Lizzie (as more likely to understand it) with her iormer timid glance; which I knew so well, and which had first enslaved me. I know not what ails mother,' said Annie, who looked [very beautiful, with lilac lute-string ribbons, which I saw the Snowe girls envying; 'but she has not attended [to one of the prayers, nor said "Amen," all the morning. lever fear, darling Lorna, it is nothing about you. It something about our John, I am sure; for she never 'orries herself very much about anybody but him.' And lere Annie made a look at me, such as I had had five lundred of. You keep your opinions to yourself,' I replied; be- luse I knew the dear, and her little bits of jealousy; 'it ippuns that you are quite wrong, this time. Lorna, ime with me, my darling.' 'Oh yes, Lorna; go with him,' cried Lizzie, dropping ir lip, in a way which you must see to know its rnean- ig: 'John wants nobody now but you; and none can Id fault with his" taste, dear.' You little fool, I should think not,' I answered, very idely; for, betwixt the lot of them, my Lorna' s eye- ^i ^ 400 LORNA DOONE m U: i :' lashes were quivering; now, clearest angel, come with me; and snap your hands at the whole of them.' My angel did come, with a sigh, and then wilJi a smile, when we were alone; but without any unangelic attempt at snapping her sweet white fingers. - These little things are enough to show that while ever} one so admired Loma, and so kindly took to her, still there would, just now and then, be petty and paltrj' flashes of jealousy concerning her; and perhaps it could not be otherwise among so many women. However, we were always doubly kind to her afterwards; and although her mind was so sensitive and quick that she must have suffered, she never allowed us to perceive it, nor lowered herself by resenting it. Possibly 1 may have mentioned that little Ruth Hucka back had been asked, and had even promised to spen her Christmas with us; and this was the more desirable,] because she had left us through some offence, or sorrow about things said of her. Now my dear mother, being th kindest and best-hearted of all women, could not bea that poor dear Ruth (who would some day have such fortune), should be entirely lost to us. 'It is our duty, my dear children,' she said more than once about it, 't(M|iis ^ forgive and forget, as freely as we hope to have it donBmy < to us. If dear little Ruth has not behaved quite as wBare t might have expected, great allowance should be made foj a girl with so much money. Designing people get hold her, and flatter her, and coax her, to obtain a base fluence over her; so that when she falls among simpi folk, who speak the honest truth of her, no wonder poor child is vexed, and gives herself airs, and so on. Ru can be very useful to us in a number of little ways; and consider it quite a duty to pardon her freak of petulant Now one of the little ways in which Ruth had be very useful, was the purchase of the scarlet feathers the flaming bird; and now that the house was quite s; from attack, and the mark on my forehead was healinB In ^j I was begged, over and over agam, to go and see Rut and make all things straight, and pay for the gorgeoi plumage. This last I was very desirous to do, that might know the price of it, having made a small bet the subject with Annie; and having held counsel wi myself, whether or not it were possible to get somethi of the kind for. Loma, of still more distinguis' f s k R 01 kh th( of' rec anc Tu we doir mai: m arou the s An d. ce de, car emc ow X-ORNA DOONE appearance. Of cn»r'«^ u 401 Son" Jft^s^iFi^"t1^Xv7lxr* " ytt, stores, in sla?ch nf "'"^^^'^ *» ransa"! Trn:il"*^^' ^^ere- -^'bS^S^^^'- 0-,^^^^^^^^ to trust around iim hi ^ *^°"8^* and did and n„^ ^ P^" « to to fatte™ nS rn'Jf °^ '"«''tion"wn °L^''** ^«e ^y «Tes^°^l' aWn*d'°' l'"^ A^d t^«"5."^ Jare the work«? of V,o+ ' ^' ^"^ as much a? t«, ® *"an fe smaU^es?' °' "^*"« '°"nd abourwhtr^o^ 7" *«' 1 And now I win * n ™*o JS ^^ can upon her bos^^ iT°*^ Nature's neck t^» " •=*" Sen we Wn , ^ °°°"shment he is ^„ ^^^ ^alue him ^PrlL af 4^r^''^°f the suck fag^^^'t ^^^ «" ^1 I:;' :a I ^ 402 LORNA DOONE m I ■' Now here am I upon Shakespeare (who died, of his own fruition, at the age of fifty-two, yet lived more than fifty thousand men, within his little span of life), when all the while I ought to be riding as hard as I can to Dulverton. But, to tell the truth, I could not ride hard, being held at every turn, and often without any turn at all, by the beauty of things around me. These things grow upon a man if once he stops to notice them. It wanted yet two hours to noon, when I came to Master Huckaback's door, and struck the panels smartly. Knowing nothing of their manners, only that people in a town could not be expected to entertain (as we do in farm-houses), having, moreover, keen expectation of Master Huckaback's avarice, I had brought some stufi to eat, made by Annie, and packed by Lorna, and reqtiiring no thinking about it. Ruth herself came and let me in, blushing very heartily; for which colour I praised her health, and my praises heightened it. That little thing had lovely eyes, and could be trusted thoroughly. I do like an obstinate little woman, when she is sure that she is right. And indeed if love had never sped me straight to the heart of Lorna (compared to whom, Ruth was no more than the thief is to the candle), who knows but what I might havej yielded to the law of nature, that thorough trimmer ofi balances, and verified the proverb that the giant loves | the dwarf? 'I take the privilege. Mistress Ruth, of saluting you I according to kinship, and the ordering of the Canons.' And therewith I bussed her well, and put my arm around her waist, being so terribly restricted in the matter ofl Lorna, and knowing the use of practice. Not that I hadl any warmth — all that was darling Lorna' s — only out ofl pure galbntry, and my knowledge of London fashions/ Ruth blushed to such a pitch at this, and looked up atf me with such a gleam; as if I must have my own way! that all my love of kissing sunk, and I felt that I wa| wronging her. Only my mother had told me, when th^ girls were out of the way, to do all I could to pleas darling Ruth, and I had gone about it accordingly. Now Ruth as yet had never heard a word about dea Lorna; and when she led me into the kitchen (whcr everything looked beautiful), and told me not to mind for a moment, about the scrubbing of my boots, becau^ f ^ LORNA DOONE 403 i his own ;han fifty sn all the lulverton. ig held at h by the i^ upon a [ came to Ls smartly, people in a ■ we do in sctation of some stufi ;^orna, and Lshing very th, and my lovely eyes. an obstinate right. And the heart of pre than the [ might have 1 trimmer ot J giant loves saluting you the Canons. r arm around he matter ot ot that I bad —only out ot don fashions. looked up at ny own way It that I wai cne, when tti( iild to pleas' >rdlngly- cd about 06' Ltchen (whei not to mli^^ ,oot8. becaui she would only be too glad to clean it all up after me, and told me hovtr glad she was to see me, blushing more at every word, and recalling some of them, and stooping down for pots and pans, when I looked at her too ruddily —all these things came upon me so, without any legal notice, that I could only look at Ruth, and think how very good she was, and how bright her handles were; and wonder if I had wronged her. Once or twice, I began — this I say upon my honour — to endeavour to explain exactly, how we were at Plover's Barrows; how we all had been bound to fight, and had defeated the enemy, keeping their queen amongst us. But Ruth would make some great mistake between Lorna and Gwenny Carfax, and gave me no chance to set her aright, and cared about nothing much, except some news of Sally Snowe. What could I do with this Uttle thing? AU my sense of modesty, and value for my dinner, were against my over- pressing all the graceful hints I had given about Lorna. Ruth was iust a girl of that sort, who will not believe one word, except from her own seeing; not so much from any doubt, as from the practice of using eyes which have been in business. 1 asked Cousin Ruth (as we used to call her, though the cousinship was distant) what was become of Uncle Ben, and how it was that we never heard anything of or from him now. She replied that she hardly knew what to make of her grandfather's manner of carrying on, for the last half-year or more. He was apt to leave his home, she said, at any hour of the day or night; going none knew whither, and returning no one might say when. And his ess, in her opinion, was enough to frighten a hodman, if a scavenger of the roads, instead of me decent suit of ersey, or of Sabbath doeskins, such as had won the spect and reverence of his fellow-townsmen. But the orst of all things was, as she confessed with tears in her yes, that the poor old gentleman had something weigh- g heavily on his mind. It will shorten his days. Cousin Ridd,' she said, for e never would caU me Cousin John; 'he has no enjoy- lent of anything that he eats or drinks, nor even m lunting his money, as he used to do all Sunday; indeed *> pleasure in anything, unless it be smoking his pipe, d thinking and staring at bits of brown stone, which pulls, every now and then, out of his pockets. And ■w I It 1 1 :; a:' Jli 4D4 LORNA DOONE the business he used to take such pride in is now left almost entirely to the foreman, and to me.' 'And what will become of you, dear Ruth, if anything happens to the old man?' 'I am sure I know not,' she answered simply; 'and I cannot bear to think of it. It must depend, I suppose, upon dear grandfather's pleasure about me.' 'It must rather depend,' said I, though having no business to say it, 'upon your own good pleasure, Ruth; for all the world will pay court to you.' 'That is the very thing which I never could endure. I have begged dear grandfather to leave no chance of that. When he has threatened me with poverty, as he does sometimes, I have always met him truly, with the answer that I feared one thing a great deal worse than poverty; namely, to be an heiress. But I cannot make him believe it. Only think how strange. Cousin Ridd, I cannot make him believe it.' 'It is not strange at all,' I answered; 'considering how he values money. Neither would any one else believe you, except by looking into your true, and very pretty eyes, dear.' Now I beg that no one will suspect for a single moment, either that i did not mean exactly what I said, or meant a single atom more, or would not have said the same, if Lorna had been standing by. What I had always liked i^WQ Ruth, was the calm, straightforward gaze, and beauty ofBjij^j her large brown eyes. Indeed I had spoken of them toB^^ Lorna, as the only ones to be compared (though not for" more than a moment) to her own, for truth and light, bu never for depth and softness. But now the little maide dropped them, and turned away, without reply. 'I will go and see to my horse/ I said; 'the boy tha has taken him seemed surprised at his having no horns oi his forehead. Perhaps he will lead him into the shopj and feed him upon broadcloth.' 'Oh, he is such a stupid boy,' Ruth answered wi great sympathy : 'how quick of you to observe that now and you call yourself "Slow John Ridd!" I never dii see such a stupid boy: sometimes he spoils my tempei But you must be back in half an hour, at the lat Cousin Ridd. You see I remember what you are; wh once you get among horses, or cows, or things of sort/ J n a M sq yc yo hk am Co( plei twc bot LORN A DOONE 405 now left 'Things ol that sort! Well done, Ruthl One would think you were quite a Cockney.* .- .? fi Uncle Reuben did not come home to his dinner; and his granddaughter said she had strictest orders never to expect him. Therefore we had none to dine with us. except the foreman of the shop, a worthy man, named Thomas Cockram, fifty years of age or so. He seemed to me to have strong intentions of his own about little Ruth, and on that account to regard me with a wholly undue malevolence. And perhaps, in order to justify him, I may have been more attentive to her than otherwise need have been; at any rate, Ruth and I were pleasant; and he the very opposite. 'My dear Cousin Ruth,' 1 said, on purpose to vex Master Cockram, because he eyed us so heavily, and squinted to unluckily, 'we have long been lookmg for you at our Plover's Barrows farm. You remember how you used to love hunting for eggs in the morning, and hiding up in the tallat with Lizzie, for me to seek you among the hay, when the sun was down. Ah, Master Cockram, those are the things young people find their pleasure in, not in selling a yard of serge, and giving twopence-halfpenny change, and writing "settled" at the .' or meant a ■ bottom, with a pencil that has blacked their teeth. Now, the same, i^BMaster Cockram, you ought to come as far as our good ^ays liked in ■farm, at once, and eat two new-laid eggs for breakfast, nd beauty otHand be made to look quite young again. Our good Annie 1 of tiiem toBffouid cook for you; and you should have the hot new ougb 1^°^ ^ojmilk and the pope's eye from the mutton; and every foot nd ligbt, bu Jof you would become a yard in about a fortnight.' And little maidenBtereupon, I spread my chest, to show him an example, jply. BRuth could not keep her countenance : but I saw that she the boy thalfcought it wrong of me; and would scold me, if ever I r no horns oi»ave her the chance of taking those little liberties. How- to the shopKver, he deserved it all, according to my young ideas, for s great impertinence in aiming at my cousin. But what I said was far less grievous to a man of honest nd than little Ruth's own behaviour. I could hardly ,ve believed that so thoroughly true a girl, and one so oud and upright, could have got rid of any man so iverly as she got rid of Master Thomas Cockram. She ve him not even a glass of wine, but commended to his itice, with a sweet and thoughtful gravity, some invoice 'hich must be corrected, before her dear grandfather anything ^; 'and 1 suppose, laving no ire, Ruth; endure. I ce of that. IS he does the answer m poverty; him believe annot make idering how else believe very pretty gle moment, iswered wi^ re that now X never ai< Is my tempei lat the lat^ rou are bhings whfl of 4 I ^t 4o6 LORNA DOONE III u. [:; E n d as afi yoi should return; and to amend which three great ledgers must be searched from first to last. Thomas Cockram winked at me, with the worst of his two wrong eyes; as much as to say, 'I understand it; but I cannot help mjrself. Only you look out, if ever' — and before he had finished winking, the door was shut behind him. Then Ruth said to me in the simplest manner, 'You have ridden far to-day. Cousin Ridd; and have far to ride to get home again. What will dear Aunt Ridd say, if we send you away without nourishment? All the keys are in my keeping, and dear grandfather has the finest wine, not to be matched in the west of England, as I have heard good judges say; though I know not wine from cider. Do you like the wine of Oporto, or the wine of Xeres?' *I know not one from the other, fair cousin, except by the colour,' I answered: 'but the sound of Oporto is nobler, and richer. Suppose we try wine of Oporto.' The good little creature went and fetched a black bottle of an ancient cast, covered with dust and cobwebs. These I was anxious to shake aside; and indeed I thought thatB^Q^^ the wine would be better for being roused up a little. ■ § Ruth, however, would not hear a single word to that piir-BgJQp port; and seeing that she knew more about it, I left !icr" ^ to manage it. And the result was very fine indeed, to wit, a sparkling rosy liquor, dancing with little flakes of light, and scented like new violets. With this I was sol pleased and gay, and Ruth so glad to see me gay, tha' we quite forgot how the time went on; and though m; fair cousin would not be persuaded to take a second glai herself, she kept on filling mine so fast that it was nevei empty, though I did my best to keep it so. 'What is a little drop like this to a man of your sizi and strength, Cousin Ridd?' she said, with her chee just brushed with rose, which made her look very beautij ful : 'I have heard you say that your head is so thick or rather so clear, you ought to say — ^that no liquor ev moves it.' 'That is right enough,' I answered; 'what a witch y must be, dear Ruth, to have remembered that now!' *Oh, I remember every word I have ever heard y say, Cousin Ridd; because your voice is so deep, you kno and you talk so little. Now it is useless to say "na These bottles hold almost nothing. Dear grandfat will not comd home, I feat, until long after you are g< she And worl said, labou 'N 'ond mi Tc nc inn For link i^as thou mi re( tst hap fea I-ORNA DOONE ^ " |ealM4^i-^o. .e. I a« sure. Vou ^ nation, 'j cannnf k ' J answered, with a rpr^o- man went on witg C so .^^ ^."^er I should feTwi asked, whVTf ''^'^ ''°«' we danced th,*- • u J:es, and so very broaH r^ ,?? *^^^' dear?' ou would eat me B„f ? k ^^^^'"^ ^^dd. I thou^hf ^u . Cousin R^thr "^""^ -"'^ d-ce again, at „,y ^eddin^ iloSnV:t;^J^^*f„e bott^ fali, the last of which she ™rk was clear'- inVthJ *^,f ^'"^o^ to see fc^^- Uothink Ry^'t^- -k^me. CousinTddl io be sure I win n^ • ^ Pndfather ^nn^'%^e" a" ^fi?^-"u°'«^' ""less, dear ff away; and her Wst w« °i!° *^* business ' Sh^ Pormy paftVtr" °^ ^'8l>«- ^* *^^ ^«»'J«»^ long, ^nianUest way iust J^"/, *i an ?r'. ^® answered- 'n«;*u '' ^^"'' 410 LORNA rOONE *lt has nothing to do with that, John. And I am quite 8uro that you never need fear an3rthing of that sort. She perfectly wearies me sometimes, although her voice is so soft and sweet, about your endleas perfections.' 'Bless her little heart!' I said; 'the subject is in- exhaustible.' 'No doubt 1* replied Lizzie, in the driest manner; 'especially to your sisters. However this is no time to joke. I fear you will get the worst of it, John. Do you know a man of about Gwenny's shape, nearly as broad as he is long, but about six times the size of Gwenny, and with a length of snow-white hair, and a thickness also; as the copses were last winter. He never can comb it, that is quite certain, with any comb yet invented.' 'Then you go and offer your services. There are few things you cannot scarify. I know the man from your description, although I have never seen him. Now where is my Lorna?* 'Your Lorna is with Annie, having a good cry, I be- lieve; and Annie too glad to second her. She knows that this great man is here, and knows that he wants to see her. But she begged to defer the interview, until dear John's return.' 'What a nasty way you have of telling the very com- monest piece of news ! ' I said, on purpose to pay her out 'What man will ever fancy you, you unlucky little snap per? Now, no more nursery talk for me. I will go an settle this business. You had better go and dress you: dolls; if you can give them clothes unpoisoned.' Here upon Lizzie burst into a periect roar of tears; feelin; that she had the worst of it. And I took her up, an begged her pardon; although she scarcely deserved it; foi she knew that I was out of luck, and she might havj spared her satire. I was almost sure that the man who was come mu be the Counsellor himself; of whom I felt much keen fear than of his son Carver. And knowing that his visi boded ill to me and Lorna, I went and sought my de; and led her with a heavy heart, from the maiden's rooi to mother's, to meet our dreadful visitor. Mother was standing by the door, making curtseys n and then, and listening to a long harangue upon the rigl of state and land, which the Counsellor (having fouMwelc] that she was the owner of her property, and knew nothlBrell w is be of roi pri qui hav '1 IS a ills terri writi look ( mk Itliat.l "'ff I ORNA DOONE 411 of her title to it) was encouraged to deliver it. My dear mother stood gazing at him, spell-bound by his eloquence, and only hoping that he would stop. He was snaking his hair upon his shoulders, in the power of his words, and his wrath nt some Uttle tiling, which he declared to be quite illegal. ,v ; , Then 1 ventured to show myself, in the flesh, before him; although he feigned not to see me; but he advanced with zeal to Lorna; holding out both hands at once. 'My darling child, my dearest niece; how wonderfully well you look ! Mistress Ridd, I give you credit. This is the country of good things. I never would have believed our Queen could have looked so royal. Surely of all virtues, hospitality is the finest, and the most romantic. Dearest Lorna, kiss your uncle; it is quite a privilege.' 'Perhaps it is to you, sir,' said Lorna, who could never quite check her sense of oddity; 'but I fear that you have smoked tobacco, which spoils reciprocity.' ^ 'You are right, my child. How keen your scent is ! It r"*until dear Bis always so with us. Your grandfather was noted for ' bis olfactory powers. Ah, a great loss, dear Mrs. Ridd, a e very com- ■ terrible loss to this neighbourhood ! As one of our great pay her out.Bwriters says — I think it must be Milton — "We ne'er shall .YiMft snaP-Hlook upon his Hke again." * 'With your good leave sir,' I broke in, 'Master Milton [could never have written so sweet and simple a hne as Ithat. It is one of the great Shakespeare.' Woe is me for my neglect I ' said the Counsellor, bowing "^V' '*^^^ must be your son, Mistress Ridd, the great served^ it; ioBohn, the wrestler. And one who meddles with the might havmses I Ah, since I was young, how everything is changed, dam ! Except indeed the beauty of women, which ms to me to mcrease every year.* Here the old villain wed to my mother; and she blushed, and made another rtsey, and really did look very nice. tn quite at sort. ,er voice jns.' :t is in- manner; ) time to Do you as broad Gwenny, thickness can comb nvcnted.' Ire are few from youi Now where I cry, I he- knows that vants to see little snap- will go and Id dress you^ >ncd.* Here ^ears; feeling her up, and LS come mui much keeni that his yisi curtseys noBg that this young armiger must be the too attractive foon the riglwiosure to our poor little maiden. And for my part, she thaving fouwwelcome to him. I have never been one of those who knew nothV^^^ "P^^ distinctions of rank, and birth, and such like; ""•IP" I 412 LORNA DOONE as if they were in the heart of nature, and must be eternal. In early youth, I may have thought so, and been full of that little pride. But now I have long accounted it one of the first axioms of political economy — you are follow- ing me, Mistress Ridd ? * ' 'Well, sir, I am doing my best; but I cannot quite keep up with you.' 'Never mind, madam; I will be slower. But your son's intelligence is so quick * j 'I see, sir; you thought that mine must be. But no; it all comes from his father, sir, His father was that quick and clever ' 'Ah, I can well suppose it, madam. And a credit he is to both of you. Now, to return to our muttons — a figure which you will appreciate — I may now be regarded, think, as this young lady's legal guardian; althoug I have not had the honour of being formally appointed such. Her father was the eldest son of Sir Ensor Doone; and I happened to be the second son; and as young maidens cannot be baronets, I suppose I am "Sir Coun sellor." Is it so. Mistress Ridd, according to your theory of genealogy?' 'I am sure I don't know, sir,' my mother answere carefully : 'I know not anything of that name, sir, excep in the Gospel of Matthew : but I see not why it shoul^ be otherwise.' 'Good, madam! I may look upon that as your sanctioj and approval : and the College of Heralds shall hear of itf And in return, as Lorna's guardian, I give my full an ready consent to her marriage with your son, madar 'Oh, how good of you, sir, how kind! Well, I alwaij did say, that the learnedest people were, almost alwajf the best and kindest, and the most simple-hearted.' 'Madam, that is a great sentiment. What a gooG couple they will be! and if we can add him to strength * 'Oh no, sir, ch no!* cned mother: 'you really must think of it. He !ias always been brought up so honest- 'Hem ! that makes a difference. A decided disqua cation for domestic life among the Doones. But sure| he might get over those prejudices, madam?' 'Oh no, sir I he never can : he never can indeed, he was on!y that high, sir, he could not steal even] Apple, when some wicked boys tried to mislead him.' LORNA DOONE 413 jt be eternal. been full of lunted it one u are foUow- cannot quite Jut your son's be. But no; tber was that 'Ah,' replied the Counsellor, shaking his white head gravely; 'tnen I greatly fear that his case is quite in- curable. I have known such cases; violent prejudice, bred entirely of education, and anti-economical to tbe last degree. And when it is so, it is desperate : no man, after imbibing ideas of that sort, can in any way be useful.' 'Oh yes, sir, John is very useful. He can do as much work as three other men; and you should see him load a sledd, sir.' 'I was speaking, madam, of higher usefulness, — ^ppwer of the brain and heart. The main thing for us upon earth f\*t he isB^s ^^ take a large view of things. But while we talk of i a ^'^^ £guje|*^^ heart, what is my niece Lorna doing, that she does ttons a K Jaot come and thank me, for my perhaps too prompt con- be ^^S^fS^QvigJcession to her youthful fancies? Ah, if I had wanted dian; ^^^^^^eilthanks, I should have been more stubborn.' aally ^P?-VQQj^el Lorna, being challenged thus, came up and looked at IX Ensor ^ j^'Bher uncle, with her noble eyes fixed full upon his, which and as Y^^^meneath his white eyebrows glistened, like dormer win- am ^^' . v,pnr Jdows piled with snow, g to your tneur)|- ,^^^ ^^^^ ^^ ^ ^^ ^^^^^ ^^^^ uncle?' -wereM '^7 ^^^^ niece, I have told you. For removing the lother attb gpBieaviest obstacle, which to a mind so well regulated could lame, sir, "^J^ possibly have existed, between your dutiful self and the )t why It snouii|j^.^^^ ^^ ^^^ affections.' nctioB '^^11, uncle, I should be very grateful, if I thought that as y^^F^^ ofijoii did so from love of me; or if I did not know that you s shall "^f^,. Jmve something yet concealed from me.' give my *^ j ^ 'And my consent,' said the Counsellor, 'is the more |ur son, ^^r^^eritorious, the more liberal, frank, and candid, in the \\ Well, I- ^ Mce of an existing fact, and a very clearly established ;, almost ai ^ )mjg. ^hich might have appeared to weaker minds in the ^P^®'?^®?^^ onndft^^ °^ ^^ impediment; but to my loftier view of matri- pny seems quite a recommendation.' '\\Tiat fact do you mean, sir? Is it one that I ought _i know ? ' ,u really musi up s« honest- lecided disqua )nes. But sure Ldam?* [can indeed. >"■ yQ^ ^ju have the rare advantage of commencing I not steal eve^ mrried life, with a subject of common interest to discuss. ' mislead him. » •' What a good add him to 'In aiy opinion it is, good niece. It forms, to my mind, fine a basis for the invariable harmony of the matri- inial state. To be brief — as I always endeavour to be, lout becoming obscure — you two young people (ah, fat a gift is youth ! one can never be too thankful for ,1 :! H 9: !i|i|^i i M 4X4 LORNA DOONE whenever you weary of — well, say of one another; if you can now, by any means, conceive such a possibility. And perfect justice meted out: mutual goodwill resulting, from the sense of reciprocity.' 'I do not understand you, sir. Why can you not say what you mean, at once?' 'My dear child, I prolong your suspense. Curiosity is the most powerful of all feminine instincts; and therefore the most delightful, when not prematurely satisfied. However, if you must have my strong realities, here they are. Your father slew dear John's father, and dear John's father slew yours.' Having said thils much, the Counsellor leaned back upon his chair, and shaded his calm white-bearded eyes from the rays of our tallow candles. He was a man who liked to look, rather than to be looked at. But J^irna came to me for aid; and I went up to Lorna; and mother looked at both of us. Then feeling that I must speak first (as no one would begin it), I took my darling round the want, and led her up to the Counsellor; while she tried to h .^z it bravely; yet must lean on me, or did. 'Now, Sir Counsellor Doone,' I said, with Lorna squeez ing both my hands, I never yet knew how (consideringBot that she was walking all the time, or something like it]Mi 'you know right well, Sir Counsellor, that Sir EnsorBwr Doone gave approval.' I cannot tell what made me thin of this : but so it came upon me. 'Approval to what, good rustic John? To the slaughteAp, so recipiocal?' |wh 'No, sir, not to that; even if it ever happened; whic I do not believe. But to the love betwixt me and Lornai which your story shall not break, without more . /idencfcn] than your word. And even so, shall never ; .k; iprit Lorna thinks as I do.' The maiden gave me a little touch, as much as say, 'You are right, darling: give it to him, again, li that.' However, I held my peace, well knowing that t many words do mischief. '•' '; * j • Then mother looked at me with wonder, being hersi too amazed to speak; and the Counsellor looked, wii great wrath in his eyes, which he tried to keep fn burning. 'How say you then, John Ridd,' he cried, stretch: n if to fir U( 'iea LORNA DOONE 415 ler; H yo^ ility. And resulting, ou QO^ say Curiosity is id therefore iT satisfied. ,8, here they dear John's leaned back bearded eyes 9 a man who But U^i^T^a • and mother I out one hand, like Elijah; 'is this a thing of the sort you love? Is this what you are used to?* So please your worshij),' I answered; *no kind of violence can surprise us, since first came Doones upon Exinoor. Up to that time none heard of harm; except of taking a purse, maybe, or cutting a strange sheep's throat. And the poor folk who did this were hanged, with some benefit of clergy. But ever since the Doones came first, we are used to anything.' 'Thou varlet,' cried the Counsellor, with the colour of his eyes quite changed with the sparkles of his fury; *is this the way we are to deal with such a low-bred clod as thou? To question the doings of our people, and to talk of clergy! What, dream you not that we could have clergy, and of the right sort, too, if only we cared to have them? Tush! Am I to spend my time arguing with a plough-tail Bob?' "- t 'It your worship will hearken to me,* I answered very to try with one of your worship's learning. And in the L,oma squeez-H first place it seems to me that if our fathers hated one an- (consideringB other bitterly, yet neither won the victory, only mutual thing lil^6 it);B(iiscomfiture; surely that is but a reason why we should be at Sir EnsorBwiser than they, and make it up in this generation by ^ade me thinklgoodwill and loving * I 'Oh, John, you wiser than your father!* mother broke the slaugWeiBupon me here: 'not but what you might be as wise, ■"hen you come to be old enough.* 'Young people of the present age,' said the Counsellor verely, 'have no right feeling of any sort, upon the implest matter. Loma Doone, stand forth from contact ith that heir of parricide; and state in your own melli- uous voice, whether you regard this slaughter as a leasant trifle.* 'You know, without any words of mine,* she answered owing that toBery softly, yet not withdrawing from my hand, 'that ■though I have been seasoned well to every kind of being hersAitrage, among my gentle relatives, I have not yet so * looked, wiwurely lost all sense of right and wrong as to receive to keep frwhat you have said, as lightly as you declared it. You ■ink it a happy basis for our future concord. I do not rled stretchiwite think that, my uncle; neither do I quite believe opened; whid me and Lornal more o/i^end ^ever ■''><'^> IS much as dm. again. W 4i6 LORNA DOONE a It H; that a word of it is true. In our happy valley, nine- tenths of what is said is false; and you were always wont to argue that true and false are but a blind turned upon a pivot. Without any failure of respect for your character, good uncle, I decline politely to believe a word of what you have told me. And even if it were proved to me, all I can say is this, if my John will have me, I am his for ever.' This long speech was too much for her; she had over- rated her strength about it, and the sustenance of irony. So at last she fell into my arms, which had long been waiting for her; and there she lay with no other sound, except a gurgling in her throat. 'You old villain,' cried my mother, shaking her fist at the Counsellor, while I could do nothing else but hold, au6 bend across, my darling, and whisper to deaf ears; 'What is the good of the quality; if this is all that comes of it? Out of the way! You know the words that make the deadly mischief; but not the ways that heal them. Give me that bottle, if hands you have; what is the use of Counsellors?' I saw that dear mother was carried away; and indeed I myself was something like it; with the pale face upon my | bosom, and the heaving of the heart, and the heat and I cold all through me, as my darling breathed or lay. Meanwhile the Counsellor stood back, and seemed a httle sorry; although of course it was not in his power to be( at all ashamed of himself. 'My sweet love, my darling child,' our mother went on I to Lorna, in a way that I shall never forget, though 1 1 live to be a hundred; 'pretty pet, not a word of it is true,! upon that old liar's oath; and if every word were truej poor chick, you should have our John all the more for it.f You and John were made by God and meant for one[ another, whatever falls between you. Little lamb, look up and speak : here is your own John and I; and th^ devil take the Counsellor.' I was amazed at mother's words, being so unlike herj while I loved her all the more because she forgot herself so. In another moment in ran Annie, ay and Lizzij also, knowing by some mystic sense (which I have oftef noticed, but never could explain) that something wa astir, belonging to the vvorld of women, yet foreign to tl eyes of men. And now the Counsellor,* being well-bor i.i rORNA DOONE 417 3y, nine- ays wont ned upon •haracter, 1 of what to me, all im his for had over- e of irony. long been her sound. r her fist at [t hold, aud ears; 'What :omes of It? ,t make the them. Give 3 the use ol • and indeed ace upon my he heat and :hed or lay. icmed a Uttle although such a heartless miscreant, beckoned to me to come away; which I, being smothered with women, was only too glad to do, as soon as my own love would let go of me. 'That is the worst of them,' said the old man, when I had led him into our kitchen, with an apology at every step, and given him hot schnapps and water, and a cigarro of brave Tom Faggus : 'you never can say much, sir, in the way of reasoning (however gently meant and put) but what these women will fly out. It is wiser to put a wild bird in a cage, and expect him to sit and look at you, and chirp wi^out a feather rumpled, than it is to expect a woman to answer reason reasonably.' Saying itbis, he looked at his pufE of smoke as if it contained ore reason. 'I am sure I do not know, sir,' I answered according to phrase which has always been my favourite, on account { its general truth : moreover, he was now our guest, and d right to be treated accordingly : 'I am, as you see, lot acquainted with the ways of women, except my other and sisters.' Except not even them, my son,' said the Counsellor, w having finished his glass, without much consultation ut it; *if you once understand your mother and iters — why you understand the lot of them.' He made a twist in his cloud of smoke, and dashed his oower to beBiger through it, so that I could not follow his meaning, ^ Ad in manners liked not to press him. kher went onB'Now of this business, John,' he said, after getting to yet though \W bottom of the second glass, and having a trifle or so \ of it is true.B eat, and praising our chimney-corner; 'taking you on rd were tnieMe whole, you know, you are wonderfully good people; more for itBd instead of giving me up to the soldiers, as you might heant for oneBve done, you are doing your best to make me drunk.' Re lamb, looMNot at afl, sir,* I answered; 'not at all, your worship. ' ' "-""t me mix you another glass. We rarely have a great ptleman by the side of our embers and oven. I only your pardon, sir, that my sister Annie (who knows Id I; and thJ so unlike herl forgot hersel»re to find all the good pans and the lard) could not and LizflW^'ipoii yo^ this evening; and I fear they have done I have ofte^ )mething w? foreign totH ing well-bori! th dripping instead, and in a pan with the bottom ed. But old Betty quite loses her head sometimes, dint of over-scolding. "y son,' replied the Counsellor, standing across the L.o. o 1;^ '4[ 1 m 111 > ' . 1, - ^M '' -' 1 '^r IS*' ' i ., ' Mi , h i ' ' !m' 8*- ! ' •t M 418 LORNA DOONE front of the fire, to prove his strict sobriety : *I meant to come down upon you to-night; but you have turned the tables upon me. Not through any skill on your part, nor through any paltry weakness as to love (and all that stuff, which boys and girls spin tops at, or knock dolls' noses together), but through your simple way of taking me, as a man to be believed; combined with the comfort of this place, and the choice tobacco and cordials. I have not enjoyed an evening so much, God bless me if I know] when!' . • .d , '<. < 'Your worship,.' said I, 'makes me more proud than well know what to do with. Of all the things that pl^i and lead us into happy sleep at night, the first an chief est is to think that we have pleased a visitor.' 'Then, John, thou hast deserved good sleep; for I not pleased easily. But although our family is not so hi[ now as it bath been, I have enough of the gentleman le; to be pleased when good people try me. My father, Si Ensor, was better than I in this great element of bi and my son Carver is far worse, ^tas parentum, w! is it, my boy? I hear that you have been at a grammi school.* " 'So I have, your worship, and at a very good 01 but I only got far enough to make more tail than head Latin.' 'Let that pass,* said the Counsellor; 'John, thou art the wiser.' And the old man shook his hoary locks, Ves if Latin had been his ruin. I looked at him sadly, aVa wondered whether it might have so ruined me, but God's mercy in stopping it. V ti h ic. (' £ •■'V CHAPTER LII THE WAY TO MAKE THE CREAM RISE That night the reverend Counsellor, not being in state of mind as ought to go alone, kindly took our I old bedstead, carved in panels, well enough, with! woman of Samaria. I set him up, botih straight heavy, so that he need but close both eyes, and ' his mouth just open; and in the morning be was tha for ail that he could remember. .•i -.■ •■^■« (f; fc A^Tn^\f--r^*SoS^^^^^^^^^ -- -at. lt^Xs*\V«-»^-^5^^^ Iftree fames as solfdJ'an^dfn^^rice'Sf; *^ cream'wm .11 f' -^ ^^ve never hearH J^ 1 f *^® quantity?' Pertainlv nof * +i, i^ wiH it. ii hr 410 LORHA DOONE ll*|l ! I f^tt' ^« P I^i f :,|.WV I » hurt, my dear. But coral will not do, my child, neither will anything coloured. The beads must be of plain common glass; but the brighter thejr are the better. 'Then I know the very thing,' cried Annie; 'as bright as bright can be, and without any colour in it, except in the sun or candle light. Dearest Lorna has the very thing, a necklace of some old glass-beads, or I think they called them jewels : she will be too glad to lend it to us. I will go for it, in a moment.' 'My dear, it cannot be half so bright as your own pretty eyes. But remember one thing, Annie, you must not say what it is for; or even that I am going to use it, or any- thing at all about it; else the charm will be broken. Bring it here, without a word; if you know where she keeps it.' 'To be sure I do,' she answered; 'John used to keep it for her. But she took it away from him last week, and she wore it when — I mean when somebody was here; and he said it was very valuable, and spoke with great learning about it, and called it by some particular name, which I forget at this moment. But valuable or not, we cannot hurt it, can we, sir, by passing it over the cream-pan?' 'Hurt it!' cried the Counsellor: 'nay, we shall do i f^ood, my dear. It will help to raise the cream : and yoi may take my word for it, young maiden, none can do go in this world, without in turn receiving it.' Pronounci this great sentiment, he looked so grand and benevolenti that Annie (as she said afterwards) could scarce forb from kissing him, yet feared to take the liberty. Then fore, she only ran away to fetch my Lorna' s neckla Now as luck would have it--— whether good luck otherwise, you must not judge too hastily, — my darlinj had taken it into her head, only a day or two befoi that I was far too valuable to be trusted with her n© lace. Now that she had some idea of its price and quali she had begun to fear that some one, perhaps even Sq Faggus (in whom her faith was illiberal), might foi designs against my health, to win the bauble from mB U So, with many pretty coaxings, she had led me to gi^ it up; which, except for her own sake, I was glad enoujB'Oi to do, misliking a charge of such importance. Therefore Annie found it sparkling in the little sei hole, near the head of Loma's bed, which she herself iii LORNA DOONE Lid, neither >e of plain better. ; 'as bright t, except in I very tiling, . they called CO us. I will 421 recommended for its safer custody; and without a word to any one she brought it down, and danced it in the air before the Counsellor, for him to admire its lustre. 'Oh, that old thing!* said the gentleman, in a tone of some contempt; 'I remember that old thing well enough. However, for want of a better, no doubt it will answer our purpose. Three times three, I pass it over. Crinkleum, crankum, grass and clover! What are you feared of, you silly child?' 'Good sir, it is perfect witchcraft! I am sure of that, because it rhymes. Oh, what would mother say to me? Shall I ever go to heaven again? Oh, I see Ae cream Iw'^where she ■ already ! ' ■ 'To be sure you do; but you must not look, or the whole d to keep it ■charm will be broken, and the devil will fly away with the %t week, andipan, and drown every cow you have got in it.' dv was hereB Oh, su:, it is too horrible. How could_you lead me to r own pretty [nust not say 36 it. or any L be broken >ke with great rticular name.l luable or not,l ng it over the such a sin? Away with thee, witch of Endor!' For the door began to creak, and a broom appeared suddenly in the opening, with our Betty, no doubt, hind it. But Annie, in the greatest terror, slammed the loor, and bolted it, and then turned again to the Coun- illor; yet looking at his face, had not the courage to eproach him. For his eyes rolled like two blazing els, and his white shagged brows were knit across em, and his forehead scowled in black furrows, t ~> that nie said that if she evftt saw the devil, she saw him len, and no mistake. Whether the old man wished to e her, or whether he was trying not to laugh, is more an I can tell you. Now,' he said, in a deep stem whisper; 'not a word of s to a living soul; neither must you, nor any other enter s place for three hours at least. By that time the will have done its work : the pan will be cream to te bottom; and you will bless me for a secret which ^11 make your fortune. Put the bauble under this panni- ; which none must lift for a day and a night. Have fear, my simple wench; not a breath of harm shall e to you, if you obey my orders ' 'Oh, that I will, sir, that I will : if you will only tell me Go to your room, without so much as a single word to one. Bolt yourself in, and for three hours now, read Lord's Praver backwards.' i •i 422 LORNA DOONE Eoor Annie was only too glad to escape, upon these conditions; and the Counsellor kissed her upon the fore- head and told her not to make her eyes red, because they were much too sweet and pretty. She dropped them at this, with a sob and a curtsey, and ran away to her bed- room; but as for reading the Lord's Prayer backwards, that was much beyond her; and she had not done three words quite right, before the three hours expired. Meanwhile the Counsellor was gone. He bade our mother adieu, with so much dignity of bearing, and suchj warmth of gratitude, and the high-bred courtesy of thej old school (now fast disappearing), that when he wa: gone, dear mother fell back on the chair which he hai used last night, as if it would teach her the graces. An for more than an hour she made believe not to kno what there was for dinner. 'Oh, the wickedness of the world ! Oh, the lies that an told of people — or rather I mean the falsehoods — becaui a man is better born, and has better manners! Why Lorna, how is it that you never speak about your cha ing uncle? Did you notice, Lizzie, how his silver h was waving upon his velvet collar, and how white hands were, and every nail like an acorn; only pink li shell-fish, or at least like shells? And the way he bow( and dropped his eyes, from his pure respect for me ! A then, that he would not even speak, on account of emotion; but pressed my hand in silence! Oh, Liitu you have read me beautiful things about Sir Gaily hea and the rest; but nothing to equal Sir Counsellor.* 'You had better marry him, madam,' said I, coming very sternly; though I knew I ought not to say it: ' can repay your adoration. He has stolen a hundri thousand pounds.' 'John,' cried my mother, 'you are mad!' And yet turned as pale as death; for women are so quick at t ing; and she inkled what it was. 'Of course I am, mother; mad about the marvels Sir Galahad. He has gone off with my Lorna' s necklai Fifty farms like ours can never make it good to Lo Hereupon ensued grim silence. Mother looked Lizzie's face, for she could not look at me; and Li looked at me, to know: and as for me, I could stamped almost on the heart of any one. It was not value of the necklace — I am not so low a hound as thai bc] fly itE 1 Icba isaic bb lanc 'oui me] ^Sg lone r, Bu aU lallej LORNA DOONE 433 upon these )n the fore- ecause they )ed them at to her bed- backwards, t done three pired. Le bade our ng, and suchi nor was it even the damned folly shown by every one of us— it was the thought of Lorna's sorrow for her ancient plaything; and even more, my fury at the breach of hospitality. But Loma came up to me softly, as a woman should always come; and she laid one hand upon my shoulder; and she only looked at me. She even seemed to fear to look, and dropped her eyes, and sighed at me. Without a word, I knew by that, how I must have looked like Satan; and the evil spirit left my heart; when she had irtesy oi theB made me think of it. , -""■ 'Darling John, did you want me to think that you cared for my money, more than for me?' I led her away from the rest of them, being desirous of explaining things, when I saw the depth of her nature opened, like an everlasting well, to me. But she would not let me say a word, or do anything by ourselves, as it were : she said, 'Your duty is to your mother : this blow is en her, and not on me.' I saw that she was right; though how she knew it is beyond me: and I asked her just to go in front, and bring ay mother round a little. For I must let my passion pass : it may drop its weapons quickly; but it cannot come and go, before a man has time to think. Then Loma went up to my mother, who was still in the chair of elegance; and she took her by both hands, and Oh, Liizifcid,— Sir GallyheaB 'Dearest mother, I shall fret so, if I see you fretting, nsellor.' mkad to fret will kill me, mother. They have always told id I, coming Bme so.' to say it"- V Poor mother bent on Loma's shoulder, without thought len a hundrBif attitude, and laid her cheek on Lorna's breast, and bbed till Lizzie was jealous, and came with two pocket- ndkerchiefs. As for me, my heart was lighter (if they ould only dry their eyes, and come round by dinner- e) than it had been since the day on which Tom aggus discovered the value of that blessed and cursed klace. None could say that I wanted Lorna for her loney now. And perhaps the Doones would let me have ; now that her property was gone. • vi ;<' :'m • n; But who shall tell of Annie's grief? The poor little ing would have staked her life upon finding the trinket, aU its beauty, lyinjg under the pannikin. She proudly vhen he wai vhich he hai graces. An not to kno le lies that a: oods— becaui .nnersl Why it your chai his silver h; how white 1 only pink 1 way he bow •t for me 1 A: account of I \\' And yet quick at U [the marvels )rna's necklai rood to Loi ler looked ime; and L' I could ['it was not ound as thaBhallenged me to lift it — ^which I had done, long ere that. ^l 4«4 LORNA DOONE I ' if. ' ' HI" "■ of course — ^if only I would take the risk of the soell fo: incredulity. I told her not to talk of spells, untu she coulci spell a word backwards; and then to look into the pan where the charmed cream should be. She would not acknowledge that the cream was the same as all the rest was : and indeed it was not quite the same, for the points of poor Lorna's diamonds had made a few star-rays across the rich firm crust of yellow. But when we raised the pannikin, and there was nothing under it, poor Annie fell against the wall, which had been whitened lately; and her face put all the white to scorn. My love, who was as fond of her, as if she had known her for fifty years, hereupon ran up and caught her. and abused all diamonds. I will dwell no more upon Annie's grief, because we felt it all so much. But I could not help telling her, if she wanted a witch, to seek good Mother Melldrum, a legitimate performer. That same night Master Jeremy Stickles (of whose I absence the Counsellor must have known) came back, with all equipment ready for the grand attack. Now the Doones knew, quite as well as we did, that this attack was threatening; and that but for the wonderful weather I it would have been made long ago. Therefore we, or atl least our people (for I was doubtful abov going), were) sure to meet with a good resistance, and c Dreparation.f It was very strange to hear and see, and quite im- possible to account for, that now some hundreds of country people (who feared to whisper so much as a word against the Doones a year ago, and would sooner hav^ thought of attacking a church, in service time, than Gler Doone) now sharpened their old cutlasses, and laid pitch] forks on the grindstone, and bragged at every village cross! as if each would kill ten Doones himself, neither care ti wipe his hands afterwards. And this fierce bravery, and tall contempt, had been growing ever since the news ol the attack upon our premises had taken good peoplj by surprise; at least as concerned the issue. Jeremy Stickles laughed heartily about Annie's ne^ manner of charming the cream; but he looked very gra\ at the loss of the jewels, so soon as he knew their valu^ 'My son,' he exclaimed, 'this is very heavy. It will ill with all of you to make good this loss, as I fear thij you will have to do.' 'What!' cried I, with my blood nmning cold. LORNA DOONE 425 make good the loss, Master Stickles! Every farthing we have in the worid, and the labour of our lives to boot, will never make good the tenth of it.' 'It would cut me to the heart,' he answered, laying his hand on mine, 'to hear of such a deadly blow to you and your good mother. And this farm; how long, John, has it been in your family? ' 'For at least six hundred years,' I said, with a foolish pride that was only too like to end in groans; 'and some people say, by a Koyal grant, in the time of the great king Alfred. At any rate, a Ridd was with him through- out all his hiding- time. We have always held by the Kmg and crown: surely none will turn us out, unless we are guilty of treason?' 'My son,' replied Jeremy very gently, so that I could love nim for it, 'not a word to your good mother of this unlucky matter. Keep it to yourself, my boy, and try to think but little of it. After all, I may be wrong : at any rate, least said best mended.' 'But Jeremy, dear Jeremy, how can I bear to leave it so? Do you suppose that I can sleep, and eat my food, and go about, and look at other people, as if nothing at all had happened? And all 'he time have it on my mind, that not an acre of all the land, nor even our old sheep-dog, belongs to us, of right at all ! It is more than lean do, Jeremy. Let me talk, and know the worst of lit.' Very well,' replied Master Stickles, seeing that both the doors were closed; 'I thought that nothing could move you, John; or I never would have told you. Likely lenough I am quite wrong; and God send that I be so. gjBut what I guessed at some time back seems more than village ^m guess, now that you have told me about these wondrous '* *^^ ^ jewels. Now will you keep, as close as death, every word tell you?' 'By the honour of a man, I will. Until you yourself lease me.* That is quite enough, John. From you I want no oath; hich, according to my experience, tempts a man to lie le more, by m^ing it more important. I know you now well to swear you, though I nave the power. Now, my , what I have to say wiJ& scare your mind in one way, id ease it in aact^ier. I think that you have been hard ed — ^I can read you like a book. John — by something lell f 0; . L she could the pan (vould not ill the rest the points f star-rays vas nothing •h had been te to scorn. 1 known her it her, and ?on Annie's could not 3 seek good I IS (of whose came back, ck. Now the ,t this attack erful weather ore we, or atl going), werei t)reparation. id quite im hundreds ch as a won sooner hav^ „e, than Gle nd laid pitch- / village cro leither care bravery, am the news good peopw Annie's ne^ led very gra^ their valu^ It will las I fearthi( •1 II tg cold. 426 LORNA DOONE ' i m which that old villain said, before he stole the necklace. You have tried not to dwell upon it; you have even tried to make light of it for the sake of the v/omen : but on the whole it has grieved you more than even this dastard robbery.' 'It would have done so, Jeremy Stickles, if I could once have believed it. And even without much belief, it is sc against our manners, that it makes me miserable. Only think of loving Lorna, only think of kissing her; and then remembering that her father had destroyed the life of mine ! ' *Only think,' said Master Stickles, imitating my very voice, 'of. Lorna loving you, John, of Lorna kissing you, John; and all the while saying to herself, "this man's j father murdered mine." Now look at it in Lorna' s way as well as in your own way. How one-sided all men are!' *I may look at it in fifty ways, and yet no good will come of it. Jeremy, I confess to you, that I tried to makej the best cf it; partly to baffle the Counsellor, and partly] because my darling needed my help, and bore it so, anc behaved to me so nobly. But to you in secret, I am not^ ashamed to say that a woman may look over this easiei^ than a man may.' 'Because her nature is larger, my son, when she truly loves; although her mind be smaller. Now, if I can eas^ you from this secret burden, will you bear, with stren* and courage, the other which I plant on you?' 'I will do my best,' said I. 'No man can do more,' said he: and so began hij story. '- o* J I / \ ' I: CHAPTER LIII hn...,:| JEREMY FINDS OUT SOMETHING : / •, . O.I... .:: •• . > , :■: !;,.•:• ^*• 'Vou know, my son,* said Jeremy Stickles, with a gc ?all at his pipe, because he was going to talk so mucf and putting his legs well along the settle; 'it has been duty, for a wearier time than I care to think of (and whi({ would have been unbearable, except for your gre kindness), to search this neighbourhood narrowly, learn everything about everybody. Now the neighbon hood itself is queer; and people have different wayi LORNA DOONE 427 necklace. even tried 1 : but on lis dastard could once Lef , it is so ible. Only r; and then the life of thinking from what we are used to in London. For in- stance now, among your folk, when any piece of news is told, or any man's conduct spoken of, the very first question that arises in your mind is this — "Was this action kind and good?" Lon^ after that, you say to yourselves, "does the law enjom or forbid this thing?" Now here is your fundamental error : for among all truly ci\dlised people the foremost of all questions is, "how stands the law herein?" And if the law approve, no need for any further questioning. That this is so, you may take my word : for I know the law pretty thoroughly, mv verv u 'Very well : I need not say any more about that, for I kissing you, Bliive shown that you are all quite wrong. I only speak 'this man's B"^ ^is savage tendency, because it explains so many rirna's wayB^^S^ which have puzzled me among you, and most of jail your kindness to men whom you never saw before; ifhich is an utterly iPegal thing. It also explains your deration of these outlaw Doones so long. If your views law had been correct, and law an element of your js, these robbers could never have been indulged for many years amongst you : but you must have abated le nuisance.* 'Now, Stickles,* I cried, *this is too bad!' he was ilivering himself so grandly. 'Why you yourself have n amongst us, as the balance, and sceptre, and sword law, for nigh upon a twelvemonth; and have you Lted the nuisance, or even cared to do it, until "tiiey igan to shoot at you?* '^ r. My son,' he replied, 'your argument is quite beside the ose, and only tends to prove more clearly that which ve said of you. However, if you wish to hear my ty, no more interruptions. I may not have a chance tell you, perhaps for weeks, or I know not when, if e those yellows and reds arrive, and be blessed to m, the lubbers! Well, it may be six months ago, or may be seven, at any rate a good while before that ed frost began, the mere name of which sends a shiver every bone of my body, when I was riding one moon from Dulverton to Watchett * -.t n ■ i Dulverton to Watchett!' I cried. 'Now what does it remind me of? I am sure, I remember some- trrowly. a^g- \\ men are!' ao good will ried to make :, and >re it so, an ret, I am er this easiei le neigbboil [erent way* I'Remember this, John, if anything — ^that another word thee, and thou hast no more of mine. Well, I was a 428 LORNA DOONE , ^ H L' i< little weary perhaps, having been plagued at Dulverton with the grossness of the people. For they would tell me nothing at all about their fellow-townsmen, your worthy Uncle Huckaback, except that he was a God-fearing man, and they only wished I was like him. I blessed myself for a stuf .d fool, in thinking to have pumped them; for by this time I might have known that, through your Western homeliness, every man in his own country is something more than a prophet. And I felt, of course, that I had done more harm than good by questioning; inas- much as every soul in the place would run straightway and inform him that the King's man from the other side of the forest had been sifting out his ways and works.' 'Ah,' I cried, for I could not help it; 'you begin to understand at last, that we are not quite such a set of oafs, as you at first believed us.' *I was riding on from Dulverton,' he resumed, with great severity, yet threatening me no more, whichi checked me more than fifty threats: 'and it was late the afternoon, and I was growing weary. The road ( road it could be called), turned suddenly down from thi higher land to the very brink of the sea; and rounding little jut of cliff, I met the roar of the breakers. My hen was scared, and leaped aside; for a northerly wind wi piping, and driving hunks of foam across, as childrei ;jcatter snow-balls. But he only sank to his fetlocks i the dry sand, piled with pop-weed : and I tried to maki him face the waves; and then I looked about me. 'Watchett town was not to be seen, on account of little foreland, a mile or more upon my course, ani standing to the right of me. There was room enou^ below the cliffs (which are nothing there to yours, John for horse and man to get along, although the tide wjfcjgj running high with a northerly gale to back it. But clo at hand and in the corner, drawn above the yellow sarn and long eye-brows of rackweed, as snug a little houi blinked on me as ever I saw, or wished to see. ' 'You know that I am not luxurious, neither in any given to the common lusts of the flesh, John. My fathi never allowed his hair to grow a fourth part of an inch length, and he was a thoroughly godly man; and I try follow in his footsteps, whenever I think about it. Nevi theless, I do assure you that my view of that little h and the way the lights were twinkling, so different ingibal] n ou ei tec ' *«• izen our SOI re; I' <( y LORNA DOONE 429 Dulverton lid tell me lur worthy axing man, sed myself L them; for rough your country is course, that oning; inas- straightway ^e other side id works.' ou begin to 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 Hke 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. 'Seemg 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 uch a set o{Bq1(J horse draw hand, which he was only too glad to do, ■ and we clomb above the spring-tide mark, and over a sumed, withBji^e piece of turf, and struck the door of the hostelry, more, whichBsome one came and peeped p.t me through the lattice t was late u« overhead, which was full of bulls' eyes; and then the bolt The road (ijwas drawn back, and a woman met me very courteously, own from ^^mk dark and foreign-looking woman, very hot of blood, I id rounding sjdoubt, 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 my hat to her; for she was no provincial dame, who ould stare at me for the courtesy; "my horse is weary m the sloughs, and myself but little better: beside at, we both are famished." Yes, sir, you can rest and welcome. But of food, I r, there is but little, unless of the common order. Our ers would have drawn the nets, but the waves were iolent. However, we have — what you call it? I never remember, it is so hard to say — the flesh of the hog ted." Bacon!" said I; "what can be better? And half- zen of eggs with it, and a quart of fresh-drawn ale. ou make me rage with hunger, madam. Is it cruelty, or pitality?" "Ah, good!" she replied, with a merry smile, full southern sunshine: "you are not of the men round e; you can think, andf you can laugh!" And most of all, I can eat. good madam, in that way all aitoniih you; even more than by my intellect." |l 4< 15 t :;i T rr in 11 f' ^% ! a 430 LORNA DOONE '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 man- ner; or whether it were my London freedom and know- ledge 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 com- bined 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 falla cious) 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 I 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 wavesl 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, very unattractive cat sitting in a ruined tree? 'However, I had not very long to strain my curiosity j for when she found out who I was, and how I held thfl King's commission, and might be called an officer, bed desire to tell me all was more than equal to mine of hear] ing it. Many and many a day, she had longed for som^ one both skilful and trustworthy, most of all for somJ one bearing warrant from a court of justice. But thj magistrates of the neighbourhood would have nothing td 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 -ttiat never by he own free-will would she have lived so many yean in LORNA DOONS 431 s, as your e maid to to see that little maid ce of man- and know- the most isition) my on of garlic three com- y charming if course by by cooking; g and falla [ cannot say climate— for Lnion — and 1 n blame the in our little hese foreign a), I became, Low, by what ome woman, loreover with d her, could ly the waves laved all day nd what was| doorway. ee? my curiosity iw I held thi n officer, hei [mine of hear tged for som( all for som' ,ce. But th( ve nothing ti [crack- brainr me. never by J' years in '' 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 80 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 gene to Rome to seek her fortunes, after being badly treated in some love-a£Eair. 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 em- ployment in a large hotel; and rising gradually, began to send money to her parents. And here she might havo thriven well, and married well under sunny skies, and been a happy woman, but that some black day sent thither a rich and noblo 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 uieir 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 noble- man 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 ople, and rich, and very liberal; so that when they iffertd to take her, to attend to the children, and to peak the language for them, ar^^ to comfort the lady, e was only too glad to go, little foreseeing the end of Moreover, she loved the children so, from their pretty ays and that, and the things they gave her, and the le of their dresses, that it would have broken her icart almost never to see the dears again. < i 'And so, in a very evil hour, she accepted the service if the noble Englishman, and sent her father an old shoe ed to the tongue with money, and trusted herself to rtune. But even before she went, she knew that it uld not turn out well; for the laurel leaf which she ew on the fire would not crackle even once, and the i '^i 43« LORNA DOONE horn of the goat cam© wrong in the twist, and the heel of her foot was shining. This made her sigh at the starting- time; and after that whlit could you hope for? 'However, at first all things went wefl. 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 throw- ing 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 thej shade of poverty. 'Here Benita wept a little, and I liked her none the I less, and believed her ten times more; in virtue of a teaij or two. 'And so they travelled through Northern Italy, and| throughout the south of France, making their way any- how; sometiries in coaches, sometimes in carts, some| times upon mule-back, sometimes even a-foot and weary;, but always as happy ar 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, an^ laughed at English arrogance, rode on in front of his wifd and friends, to catch the first of a famous view, on tha French side of the Pyrenee hills. He kissed his hand tj his wife, and said that he would save her the trouble 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 comer, with a fine younj horse leaping up at the steps. 'They waited for him, long and long; but he neve came again; and within a week, his mangled body lay ij a little chapel-yard; and if the priests only said a quart^ of the prayers they took the money for, God knows the can have no throats left; only a relaxation. 'My lady dwelled for six months more — it is a mela choly tale (what true talc is not so?) — scarcely able believe that all her fright was not a dream. She woi] not wear a piece or shape of any mourning-clothes; slj tORNA DOONE would not Jiav« . „ ^«i 'For when thl s^^''^"- ^^' ^""^ s° So at the Sd ofo^oS'^tij'g her husbani's vS,^'"' tbe farm-fends, 'the ht«e En^? ^^« ctme d^^«^ or elevLtet' a^ST and ^^ ^* ^^--h-e coas. te fentn^ t^JaE^^^r cht-^'iTti^^^ Wnintte "i"* « Place., and tt^ he7w?P' ?°<* the l» they los? St;T "^^'^^'1 «endn„ a?^„"'ach hroke b" to rep*Uere'°B"S "her'^S^ :^^^^\^ ^ two chiilren iVrS* V ^^e hiU. ^W, ^VS^"- I ^'^ ''^^ PunctuaUy. Both 7hl ^""^ -^^^^'ce. '41 434 LORNA DOONE I ?? il H J '■ ^ 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 fo^ 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 straming across the middle, while all the horses kicked at it. However, the/ went on till dark as well as might be e^^pected. But when they came, all thanking God, to the pitch and slope of the sea-bank, leading on towards Watchett town, and where my horse had shied so, there the little boy jumped up, and clapped his hands at the water; and there (as Benita sa'd) they met their fate, and could not fly it. 'Although it was past the dusk of day, the silver light from the sea flowed in, and showed the cliffs, and the gray sand-line, and the drifts of wreck, and wrack-weed. It showed them also a troop of horsemen, waiting under a rock hard by, and ready to dash upon them. The postil- ions lashect towards the sea, and the horses strove m the depth of sand, and the serving-men cocked their blunder- busses, and cowered away behind them; but the lady I stood up in the carriage bravely, and neither screamed nor spoke, but hid her son behind her. Meanwhile the drivers drove into the se?,, till the leading horses were] swimming. 'But befort j waves came into the coach, a score of| fierce men weio round it. They cursed the postilions for mad cowards, and cut the traces, and seized the wheel-l horses, all-wild with dismay in the wet and the darkj Then, while the carriage was heeling over, and wellnigh upset in the water, the lady exclaimed, "I knov; thaj man! He is our ancient enemy;" and Benita (foreseein( that all their boxes would be turned inside out, or carri© away), snatched the most valuable of the jewels, a mas nificent necklace of diamonds, and cast it over the littll girl's head, and buried it under her travel ling-cloali hoping to save it. Then a great wave, crested with foan rolled in, and the coach was thrown on its side, and th sea rushed in at the top and the windows, upon shrieking and clashing, and fainting away. 'What followed Benita knew not, as one might w^ suppose, herself being stunned by a blow on the heaj beside being palsied with terror. "See, I have the ma LORNA DOONE 433 :he lady aymeri : le coach red in a [id some- cross the iver, the-/ But when i slope of :own, and 3y jumped [ there (as t fly i^- silver light tid the gray l^.weed. u ing under a The postil- trove m the now," she said, "where the jamb of the door came down on me!" But when she recovered her senses, she fo\md herself lying upon the sand, the robbers were out of sight, and one of the serving-men was bathing her forehead with sea water. For this she rated him well, having taken already too much of that article; and then she arose and ran to her mistress, who was sitting upright on a little rock, with her dead boy's face to her bosom, sometimes gazing upon him, and sometimes questing round for the other one. 'Although there were torches and links around, and she looked at her child by the light of them, no one dared to approach the lady, or speak, or try to hf^lp her. Each man whispered his fellow to go, but each hung back himself, and muttered that it was too awful to meddle with. And there she would have sat all night, with the fine little fellow stone dead in her arms, and her tearless eyes dwelling upon him, and her heart but not her mind thinking, only that the Italian women stole up softly to /I T J^^^ ^^^®' ^°^ whispered, "It is the will of God." leir ^*^'^, ?"■ ' "So it always seems to be," were all the words the lUt the ^^^yB mother answered; and then she fell on Benita's neck; and ler ^^^'^^.^^pBthe men were ashamed to be near her weeping; and a eanwhue tii ■jj^jIqj. jg^y down and bellowed. Surely these men are the horses were|jj^. ^ M 'Before the light of the morning came along the tide to h, a score OM^^^^jjg^ ^^ j^^^^ ^^^ ^^^ j^^^. husband. They took her postilions lOtMjjj^Q ^jjg town that night, but not to her own castle; and .A the w.-^e -^ ^jjg power of womanhood (which is itself maternity) e over swiftly upon her. The lady, whom all people ed (though at certain times particular), lies in Watchett e churchyard, with son and heir at her right hand, d a little babe, of sex unknown, sleeping on her bosom. 'This is a miserable tale,' said Jeremy Stickles brightly; nd me over the schnapps, r>y boy. What fools we are spoil our eyes for other people's troubles ! Enough of r own to keep them clean although we all were "mney-sweeps. There is nothrig like good hollands, en a man becomes too sensitive. Restore the action of e glands; that is my rule, after weeping. Let me make u another, John. You are quite low-spirited.' But although Master Jeremy carried on so (as became manhood), and laughed at the sailor's bellowing; bless heart, I knew as well that tears were in his brava id the knov/ t (foreseeing t, or car jewels, a r )ver the i Lvelling-c1 shriekinj ;i y, . »tapbors, {o| But when one comes to think of it.' he continued. ht of my jelf from jr's tears, that the d myself, il days. for some 5, for the je Lorna' s V discover lie. Indeed the nobler er was my Ridd. Not reamed of. yself mig^^ a,st thought away from i course the o^that not h a wink of id; and the of discount, u fifty years P ;i I 'I. > IK > I ■. lii'- IN l!i- Ml i 'm 440 LORNA DOONE smiling at himself; 'some provision should be made for even that unpleasant chance. I will leave the whole in writing, with orders to be opened, etc., etc. — Now no more of that, my boy; a cigarro after schnapps, and go to meet my yellow boys.' His yellow boys,' as he called the Somersetshire trained bands, were even now coming down the valley from the London Road, as every one since I went up to town, grandly entitled the lane to the moors. There was one good point about these men, that havmg no discip- line at all, they made pretence to none whatever. Nay. rather they ridiculed the thing, as below men of any spirit. On the other hand, Master Stickles's troopers looked down on these native fellows from a height which I hope they may never tumble, for it would Break the aecks of all of tnem. Now these fine natives came along, singing, for their very lives, a song the like of which set down here would oust my book from modest people, and make everybody say, 'this man never can have loved Lorna.' Therefore, the less of that the better; only I thought, 'what a dif- ference from the goodly psalms of the ale house ! ' Having hnished then: canticle, which contained more mirth than melody, they drew themselves up, in a sort of way supposed by them to be military, each man with heel and elbow struck into those of his neighbour, and| saluted the King's Commissioner, 'Why, where are you oflicers? asked Master Stickles; 'how is it that you havi no oflficers?' Upon this there arose a general grin, ani a knowing look passed along their faces, even up to thi man by the gatepost. 'Are you going to tell me, or not, said Jeremy, 'what is become of your ofl&cers?' 'Plaise zur,' said one little fellow at last, being nodd at by the rest to speak, in right of his known eloquencei 'hus tould Harfizers, as a wor no nade of un, now King' man hiszell wor coom, a puppose vor to command laike.' 'And do you mean to say, you villains,' cried Jerem scarce knowing whether to laugh, or to swear, or what do; 'that your officers took their dismissal thus, and li you come on without them?' 'What could 'em do? ' asked the little man, with reasi certainly on his side : 'hus zent 'em about their busin and they was glad enough to goo.' lan , as De :ain 'OUl( rJo •' ^ T -Nl - ^~ LORNA DOOKE 44X made ior I whole in — l^ow no 5S, and go nersetshire the valley went up to There was r no discip- tever. Nay, nen of any 2's troopers weight which d break the ig, for their 1 here would :e everybody ,.' Therefore, 'what a dif- LOUse \ ' ntained more 5, in a sort ot ch man with jighbour, andl "here are youi^ hat you havi '.ral grin, an" ^en up to tli< ^l me, or not, icers ? being nodd( n eloquencel L, now King' command " I cried Jerem: lar, or what thus, and v In, with reasi Itheir businr 'Weill' said noor Jeremy, tuminK to me; 'a pretty state cd things, Jcihn 1 Threescore cobblers, and farming men, plasterers, tailors, and kettles-to-mend; and not a man to keep order among them, except my blessed self, John ! And I trow there is not one among them could hit all in-door flying. The Doones will make riddles of all of us.' However, he had better hopes when the sons of Devon appeared, as they did in aibout an hour's time; fine fellows, and eager to prove themselves. These had not discarded their officers, but marched in good obedience to them^ and were quite prepared to fight the men of Somerset (if need be) in addition to the Doones. And there was scarcely a man among them but could have trounced three of the yellow men, and would have done it gladly toe. in honour of the red facings. 'Do you mean to suppose. Master Jeremy Stickles,' said I, lookinfT on with amazement, beholdmg also all our maidens at the upstair windows wondering; 'that we, my mother a widow woman, and I a young man of small estate, can keep and support all these precious fellows, both yellow ones, and red ones, until they have taken the Doone Glen?* 'God forbid it, my son!' he replied, laying a finger Qpon his lip: 'Nay, nay, I am not of the shabby order, when I have the strings of government. Kill your sheep at famine prices, and knead your bread at a figure ex- pressing the rigours of last winter. Let Annie make out le bill every day, and I at night will double it. You may ke my word for it. Master John, this spring-harvest lall bring you in three times as much as last autumn's d. If they cheater! you in town, my lad, you shall have our change in the country. Take thy bill, and write lown quickly.' However this did not meet my views of what an honest an should do; and J went to consult my mother about , as all the accounts would be made in her name. Dear mother thought that if the King paid only half ;ain as much as oth>»,f people would have to pay, it oiild be perhaps the proper thing; the half being due r loyalty: and here she quoted an ancient saying,— 1 f /• The King and his ctaff I Be a man and a half; \] t '1 ^n ^i I i III I I ! T! I Si i mm 44a LORNA DOONE which, according to her judgment, ruled be>rond dispute the law of the present question. To argue with her after that (which she brought up with such triumph) would have been worse than useless. Therefore I just told Annie to make the bills at a third below the current market prices; so that the upshot would be fair. She promised me honestly that she would; but with a twiikle in her bright blue eyes, which she must have caught from Tom Faggus. It always has appeared to me that stem and downright honesty upon money matters is a thing not understood of women; be they as good as good can be. The yellows and the reds together numbered a hundred and twenty men, most of whom slept in our bams and stacks; and besides these we had fifteen troopers of the regular ai*my. You may suppose that all the country was turned upside down about it; and the folk who came to see them drill — by no means a needless exercise- were a greater plague than the soldiers. The officers too of the Devonshire band were such a torment to us, that ;ve almost wished their men had dismissed them, as the Somerset troop had done with theirs. For we couia not keep them out of our house, being all young men of good family, and therefore not to be met with bars. And having now three lovely maidens (for even Lizzie might, be called so, when she cared to please), mother and Ij were at wit's ends, on account of those blessed officers. 1 never got a wink of sleep; tney came whistling under th window so; and directly I went out to chase them, then was nothing but a cat to see. Therefore all of us were right glad (except perhapi Farmer Snowe, from whom we had bought some victual! at VikTe price), when Jeremy Stickles gave orders t(BDo( march, and we began to try to do it. A good deal o^ boasting went overhead, as our men defiled along thi lane; and the thick broad patins of pennywort jutted oui between the stones, ready to heal their bruises. The paria choir came part of the way, and the singing-loft fro Countisbury: and they kept our soldiers' spirits up wr some of the most pugnacious Psalms. Parson Bowd marched ahead, leading all our van and file, as against Papists; and promising to go with us, till we came to b let distance. Therefore we marched bravely on. ai children came to look at us. And I wondered where UncBleve Reuben was, who ought to have led the culverins (where#)olo 1 ( s b w 0] fe ve mi th( wh lor tin sh( un pai wh( ma I two (this as stra: Istriv at 'berii lot ide. LORNA DOONE 443 id dispute I her after ph) would told Annie int market romised me . her bright DUiFaggus. downright kderstooaot i a hundred r bams and Dpers of the the country [k who came IS exercise—' B officers too t to us, that them, as the we coulQ not! ; men of good! 1 bars. And! Lizzie mightl Qother and 11 sed officers. 11 ing under thrf them, therd we had no less than three), if Stickles could only have found him; and then I thought of little Huth; and without any fault on my part, my heart went down within me. The culverins were laid on bark; and all our horsef pulling them, and looking round every now and then, with their ears curved up like a squirrel' d nut, and theif noses tossing anxiously, to know what sort of plough it was man had been pleased to put behind them — man, whose endless whims and wildness they could never un- derstand, any more than they could satisfy. However, they pulled their very best — as all our horses always do — and the culverins went up the hill, without smack of whip, or swearing. It had been arranged, very justly, no doubt, and quite in keeping with the spirit of the Con- stitution, but as it proved not too wisely, that either body of men should act in its own county only. So when we reach p<^1 the top of the hill, the sons of Devon marched on, and acr jss the track leading into Doone-gate, so as to fetch round the western side, and attack with their cul- verin from the cliffs, whence the sentry had challenged me on the night of my passing the entrance. Meanwhile the yellow lads were to stay upon the eastern highland, whence Uncle Reuben and myself had reconnoitred so long ago; and whence I had leaped into the valley at the time of the great snow-drifts. And here they were not to show themselves; but keep their culverin in the woods, until their cousins of Devon appeared on the opposite [parapet of the glen. The third culverin was entrusted to the fifteen troopers; I who, with ten picked soldiers from either trained band, making in all five-and-thirty men, were to assault the Doone-gatt itself, while the outlaws were placed between two fires from the -astern cliflE and the western. And with this force went Jerc y Stickles, and with it went myself, as knowing more about the passage than anv other Istranger did. Therefore, if I have put it clearly, as I Istrive to do, you will see that the Doones must repulse lat once three simultaneous attacks, from an army num- Ibering in the whole one hundred and thirty-five men, not including the Devonshire oncers; fifty men on each Tide, I mean, and thirty-five at the head of the valley. The tactics of this eranc campaign appeared to me sz ^lever, and beautifully ordered, that I commended alonel Stickles, as everybody now called him, for his ;i 444 LOi^NA DOONE I ■■, ] ■:ri [H ! I freat ability and mastery of the art of war. He admitted chat he deserved high praise; but said that he was not by any means equally certain of success, so large a propor- tion of his forces being only a raw militia, brave enough no doubt for anything, when they saw their way to it; but knowing little of gunnery, and wholly unused to be shot at. Whereas all the Doones were practised marks- men, being compelled when lads (like the Balearic slingers) to strike down their meals before tasting them. And then Colonel Stickles asked me, whether I myself could stand fire; he knew that I was not a coward, but this was a difierent question. I told him that I had been shot at, once or twice before; but nevertheless disliked it, as much as almost an3rthing. Upon that he said that I would do; for that when a man got over the first blush of diffi- dence, he soon began to look upon it as a pu£E of destiny. I wish I could only tell what happened, m the battle of that day, especially as nearly all the people round these parts, who never saw gun-fire in it, have gotten the tale so much amiss; and some of them will even stand in front of my own hearth, and contradict me to the teeth; although at the time they were not bom, nor their fathers put into breeches. But in truth, I cannot tell, exactly, even the part in which I helped, how then can I be ex- pected, time by time, to lay before you, all the little ins r.nd outs of places, where I myself was not? Only I can contradict things, which I know could not have been; and what 1 plainly saw should not be controverted inj my own bouse. Now we five-and-thirty men lay back, a little way! round the comer, in the hollow of the track which leads to the strong Doone-gate. Our culverin was in amongst I us, loaded now to the muzzle, and it was not comfortablel to know that it might go off at any time. Although thel yeomanry were not come (according to arrangement),] some of us had horses there; besides the horses whc dragged the cannon, and now were sniffing at it. An^ there were plenty of spectators to mind these horses foij us, UH soon as we should charge; inasmuch as all ot friends and neighbours, who had so keenly prepared fod the battle, now resolved to take no part, but look onj and praise the winners. At last, we heard the loud bang-bang, which prove that Devon and Somerset were pouring their indignatioJ LORNA DOONE 445 hot into the den of malefactors, or at least so we sup- posed; therefore at double quick march we advanced round the bend of the cliff which had hidd^ us, hoping to find the gate undefended, and to blow down all bar- riers with the fire of our cannon. And indeed it seemed likely at first to be so, for the wild and mountainous gorge of rock appeared to be all in pure loneliness, except where the coloured coats of our soldiers, and their metal trap- pings, shone with the sun behind them. Therefore we shouted a loud hurrah, as for am easy victory. But while the sound of our cheer rang back among the crags above us, a shrill clear whistle cleft the air for a single moment, and then a dozen carbines bellowed, and all among us flew murderous lead. Several of our men rolled over, but the rest rushed on like Britons, Jeremy and myself in front, while we heard the horses plunging at the loaded gun behind us. 'Now, my lads,' cried Jeremy, 'one dash, and we are beyond them ! ' For he saw that the foe was overhead in the gallery of brushwood. Our men with a brave shout answered him, for his courage was fine example; and we leaped in under the feet of the foe, before they could load their guns again. But here, when the foremost among us were past, an iwful crash rang behind us, with the shrieks of men, and the din of metal, and the horrible screaming of horses. the little ins B^^e trunk of the tree had been launched overhead, and Only I ca° Jcrashed into the very midst of us. Our cannon was under jit, so were two men, and a horse with his poor back broken. Another horse vainly struggled to rise, with his igh-bone smashed and protruding. ^ ^ Now I lost all presence of mind at this, for I loved both ose good horses, and shouting for any to follow me, ihed headlong into the cavern. Some five or six men _^ ne after me, the foremost of whom was Jeremy, when Jthough theB storm of shot whistled and patted around me, with a |rrangement),piij2e of light and a thunderous roar. On I leaped, like madman, and pounced on one gunner, and hurled him TOSS his culverin; but the others had fled, and a heavy ik door fell to with a bang, behind them. So utterly were ^ __ ly senses gone, and naught but strength remaining, that prepared WW caught up the cannon with both hands, and dashed ft, but look oJ^^ech-first, at the doorway. The solid oak burst with the w, and the gun stuck fast, like a builder's putlog. hich proyeq|But here I looked round in vain for any one to come and indignatioip admitted is not by \ propor- e enough ray to it; sed to be »d marks- Balearic ing them. : 1 myseli d, but this been shot ,iked it, as Lat 1 would ish of dif&- of destiny. he battle of round these ten the tale 3n stand in ;o the teeth; their fathers Lell, exactly, ^an I be ex- have been; troverted in I L Uttle way I which leads! m amongstl comfortable] horses who . at it. And [se horses to^ [h as all 01 }f- n ;i T ■ ) 446 LORNA DOONE I i 'I 'i !• f "i follow up my success. The scanty light showed me qo figure moving through the length of the tunnel behind me; only a Jieavy groan or two went to my heart, and chilled it. So I hurried back to seek Jeremy, fearing that he must be smitten down. And so indeed I found him, as well as three other poor fellows, struck by the charge of the culverin, which had passed so close beside me. Two of the four were as dead as stones, and growing cold already, but Jeremy and the other could manage to groan, just now and then. So 1 turned my attention to them, and thought no more of fighting. Having so many wounded men, and so many dead among us, we loitered at the cavern's mouth, and looked at one another, wishing only for somebody to come and take command of us. But no one came; and I was grief ed so much about poor Jeremy, besides being wholly unused to any violence of bloodshed, that I could only keep his head up, and try to stop him from bleeding, And he looked up at me pitifully, being perhaps in a haze of thought, as a calf looks at a butcher. The shot had taken him in the mouth; about that no doubt could be, for two of his teeth were in his beard, and one of his lips was wanting. I laid his shattered face on my breast, and nursed him, as a woman might. But he looked at me with a jerk at this; and I saw that he wanted coolness. While fiere we stayed, quite out of danger (for the fellows from the gallery could by no means shoot us, even if they remained there, and the oaken door whenc the others fled was blocked up by the culverin), a boy wh had no business there (being in tact our clerk's apprentio to the art of shoe-making) came round the comer upoi us in the manner which boys, and only boys, can use wi grace and freedom; that is to say, with a sudden rush and a sidelong step, and an impudence, — 'Got the worst of it!' cried the boy; 'better be off a of you. Zoomerzett and Devon a vighting; and thi Doones have drashed 'em both. Maister Ridd, even th be drashed.' We few, who yet remained of the force which was ti have won the Doone-gate, gazed at one another, like many fools, and nothing more. For we still had so faint hopes of winning the day, and recovering it a laod 'the the i 'it. LORNA DOONE 447 ed me no Lcl behind leart, and (aring that other poor which had ;re as dead ny and the then. So 1 QO more of many dead and looked o come and and I was jeing whoUy [ could only )m bleeding, aps in a haze bout that no in his beard, battered face might. But saw that he icer (tor the ins shoot us,] J door whence ln),aboy whc :'s apprentice comer upor , can use wit) sudden rusbj tter be off al ling; and th( Idd, even ttv [which was ti lother, like [till had so jcovering o reputation, by means of what the other men might have done without us. And we could not understand at all how Devonshire and Somerset, being embarked in the same cause, should be fighting with one another. Finding nothing more to be done in the way of carrying on the war, we laid poor Master Stickles and two more of the wounded upon the carriage of bark and hurdles, whereon our gun had lain; and we rolled the gun into the dver, and harnessed the horses yet alive, and put the others out of their pain, and sadly wended homewards, feeling ourselves to be thoroughly beaten, yet ready to maintain that it was no fault of ours whatever. And in this opinion the women joined, being only too glad and thankful to see us home alive again. Now, this enterprise having failed so, I prefer not to dwell too long upon it; only just to show the mischief which lay at t£e root of the failure. And this mischief was the vile jealousy betwixt red and yellow uniform. Now I try to speak impartially, belonging no more to Somerset than I do to Devonshire, living upon the borders, and born of either county. The tale was told me by one side iist; and then quite to a different tune by the other; and then by both together, with very hot words of reviling, and a desire to fight it out again. And putting this witn that, the truth appears to be as follows : — The men of Devon, who bore red facing's, had a long way to go round the hills, before they could get into due position on the western side of the Doone Glen. And knowing that their cousins in yellow would claim the whole of the glory, if allowed to be first with the firing, these worthy fellows waited not to take good aim with their cannons, seeing the others about to shoot; but fettled it anyhow on the slope, pointing in a general direction; iod trusting in God for aimworwness, laid the rope to [the breech, and fired. Now as Providence ordained it, ithe shot, which was a casual mixture of anything con- jadered hard — for instance, jug-bottoms and knobs of oors — ^the whole of this pernicious dose came scattering id shattering among the unfortunate yellow men upon e opposite cliff; killing one and wounding two. Now what did the men of Someset do, but instea-d of aiting for their friends to send round and beg pardon, "ain their gun full mouth ui)on them, and with a vicious eaning shoot. Not only this* but they loudly cheered, 448 LORNA DOONE when they saw four or five red coats lie low; for which savage feeling not even the remarks of the Devonshire men concerning their coats could entirely excuse them. Now 1 need not tell the rest of it, for the tale makes a man dis- CQntented. Enough that both sides waxed hotter and hotter with the fire of destuction. And but that the gorge of the cliffs lay between, very few would have lived to tell of it; for our westen blood becomes stiff and firm, when churned with the sense of wrong in it. At last the Doones (who must have laughed at the thunder passing overhead) recalling their men from the gallery, issued out of Gwenny's gate (which had been wholly overlooked) and fell on the rear of the Somerset inen, and slew four beside their cannon. Then while the survivors ran away, the outlaws took the hot culverin. and rolled it down into their valley. Thus, of the three guns set forth that morning, only one ever came home again, and that was the gun of the Devonshire men, who dragged it home themselves, with the view of making a boast about it. This was a melancholy end of our brave setting out, and everybody blamed every one else; and several of| us wanted to have the whole thing over again, as then we must have righted it. But upon one point all agreed, by some reason not clear to me, that the root of the evil I was to be found in the way Parson Bowden went up the] hill, with his hat on, and no cassock. CHAPTER LV ' GETTING INTO CHANCERY Two of the Devonshire officers (Captains Pyke and Dallan| now took command of the men who were left, and ordei all to go home a^ain, commending much the braver which had been displayed on all sides, and the loyalt to the King, and the English constitution. This last wor(| always seems to me to settle everything when said, be cause nobody understands it, and yet all can puzzle theij neighbours. So the Devonshire men, having beans tf sow (which they ought to have done on Good Friday went home; and our Somerset friends only stayed fo two days more to backbite them. LORNA DOONE 449 [or which shire men n. Now! t man dis- lotter and , that the have lived : and firm, led at the 1 from the , had been e Somerset n while the 3t culverin 3f the three came home Qshire men. w of making setting out, d several of rain, as then it all agreed, )t of the evil went up the . and Pallanj and ordere 'the bravei i the loyaV phis last WOK len said, be puzzle thei 0g beans « Jood Friday ■y stayed w To me the whole thing was purely grievous: not from any sense of defeat (though that was bad enough) but from the pain and anguish caused by death, and wounds, and mourning. 'Surely we have woes enough,' I used to think of an evening, when the poor fellows could not sleep or rest, or let others rest around them; 'surely all this smell of wounds is not incense men should pay to the God who made them. Death, when it comes and is done with, may be a bliss to any one; but the doubt of life or death, when a man lies, as it were, like a trunk upon a sawpit and a grisly head looks up at him, and the groans of pain are cleaving him, this would be beyond all bearing — but for Nature's sap — sweet hope.* Jeremy Stickles lay and tossed, and thrust up his feet in agony, and bit with his lipless mouth the clothes, and was proud to see blood upon them. He looked at us ever so many times, as much as to say, 'Fools, let me die, then I shall have some comfort'; but we nodded at him sagely, especially the women, trying to convey to him, on no account to die yet. And then we talked to one another (on purpose for him to hear us), how brave he was, and not the man to knock under in a hurry, and how he should have the victory yet; and how well he looked, considering. These things cheered him a little now, and a' little more next time; and every time we went on so, he took it with less impatience. Then once when he had been very quiet, and not even tried to frown at us, Annie leaned over, and kissed his forehead, and spread the pillows and sheet, with a curve as delicate as his own white ears; and then he feebly lifted hands, and prayed to God to bless her. And after that he came round gently; though never to the man he had been, and never to speak loud ■gain. •■■•■'■ •'''^~ ^' ' ' '■' ,.♦' '/^'^^ For a time (as I may have implied before) Master itickles's authority, and manner of levying duties, had lot been taken kindly by the people round our neighbour- lood. The manors of East Lynn and West Lynn, and en that of Woolhanger — although just then all three ere at issue about some rights of wreck, and the hanging a sheep-stealer (a man of no great eminence, yet claimed ( each for the sake of his clothes) — these three, having leir rights impugned, or even superseded, as they de- red bjr the quartering of soldiers in their neighbour- united very kindly to oppose the King's Commis- L.D. p u 450 LORNA DOONE ': i Ihl sioner. However, Jeremy had contrived to conciliate the whole of them, not so much by anything engaging in his deportment or delicate address, as by holding out bright hopes that the plunder of the Doone Glen might become divisible among the adjoining manors. Now I nave never discovered a thing which the lords of manors (at least in our part of the world) do not believe to belong to themselves, if only they could get their rights And it did seem natural enough that if the Doones were ousted, and a nice collection of prey remained, this should be parted among the people having ancient rights of plunder. Nevertheless, Master Jeremy knew that the soldiers would have the first of it, and the King what they could not carry. , . ,,,, And perhaps he was punished justly for language so misleading, by the general indignation of the people all around us, not at his failure, but at himself, for that which he could in no wise prevent. And the stewards of the manors rode up to our house on purpose to reproach him, and were greatly vexed with all of us, becai se he was too ill to see them. To myself (though by rights the last to be thought oi, among so much pain and trouble) Jeremy's wound was a great misfortune, ir nore ways than one. In the first place, it deferred my ^^hance of imparting either to my mother or to MistrebS Lorna my firm belief that the maid I loved was not sprung from the race which had slain my father; neither could he in any way have offended against her family. And this discovery 1 was yearning more and, more to declare to them; being forced to see (even in thei midst of all our warlike troubles) that a certain difference was growing betwixt them both, and betwixt them and] me. For although the words of the Counsellor had seemei to fail among us, being bravely met and scattered, yei our courage was but as wind flinging wide the tare- seeds, when the sower casts them from his bag. Th( crop may not come evenly, many places may long li( bare, and the field be all in patches; yet almost evei vetch will spring, and tiller out. and stretch across thi scatterings where the wind puffed. And so dear mother and darling Lorna now bad beei lor many a day thinking, worrying, and wearing, aboui the matter between us. Neither liked to look at th other, as they used to do; with mother admiring Lorna] c CI IT ± SO ex elc on- tio the Ipla Of( I to pvt' mi emh pel tliirt m I (then )oor D erhc eelii iece e Bu aJJ ill uch te d ckl 1 LORNA DOONB 451 iliate the ing in his )ut bright it become ave never i (at least belong to ;hts And ere ousted, should be of plunder, le soldiers they could anguage so J people all If. for that tie stewards to reproach because he s thought ot. wound was In the first jilher to my at the maid ad slain my eyes, and grace, and form of breeding; and Lorna loving pother's goodness, softness, and simpli( ty. And the sa idest and most hurtful thing was that neither could ask the other of the shadow falling between them. And so it went on, and deepened. In the next place Colonel Stickles's illness was a grievous thing to us, in that we had no one now to command the troopers. Ten of these were still alive, and so well approved to us, that they could never fancy aught, whether for dinner or supper, without its being forth- coming. If they wanted trout they should have it; if coUoped venison, or broiled ham, or salmon from Lyn- inouth and Trentisoe, or truffles from the woodside, all these were at the warriors' service, until they lusted for something else. Even the wounded men ate nobly; all except poor Jeremy, who was forced to have a young elder shoot, with the pith drawn, for to feed him. Aid once, when they wanted pickled loach (from my descrip- rion of it), I took up my boyish sport again, and pronged [them a good jarful. Therefore, none of them could com- plain; and yet they were not satisfied; perhaps for want I of complaining. Be that as it might, we knew that if they once resolved I to go ^as they might do at any time, with only a corporal over tnem) all our house, ana all our goods, ay, ana our own precious lives, would and must be at the mercy of embittered enemies. For now the Doones, having driven nded agamstBjjj^j.j^^ ^^ every one said, five hundred men — though not ng more a^'^Bthirty had ever fought with them — were in such feather (6^9?^"^ ^}^W^ round the country, that nothing was too good for ,.rr . ^^^ Offerings poured in at the Doone gate, faster than Gones could away with them, and the sympathy both ' Devon and Somerset became almost oppressive. And rhaps this wealth of congratulation, anci mutual good leeling between plundered and victim, saved us from itny iece of spite; kmdliness having won the day, and every e loving every one. But yet another cause arose, and this the strongest one all. to prove the need of Stickles's aid, and calamity of ! illness. And this came to our knowledge first, without uch time to think of it. For two men appeared at our ite one day, stripped to their shirts, and void of horses. d looking very sorrowful. Now having some fear of ck from the Doones, and scarce knowing what their dn difference it them and Ir bad seeme :attered, ye Ide the tare bag. Th ay long ^ Imost ever 1 across th^ low bad heed saring. abou] look at th liring Lorna | \- i III m 0' i. 452 LORNA DOONE tricks might be, we received these strangers cautiously, desiring to l^now who they were belore we let them see all our premises. However, it soon became plain to us that although they might not be honest fellows, at any rate they were not Doones; and so we took them in, ana fed, and left them to tell their business. And this they were glad enough to do; as men who have been maltreated almost always are. And it was not for us to contradict them, lest our victuals should go amiss. These two very worthy fellows — ^nay, more than that by their own account, being downright martyrs — were come, for the pubhc benefit, from the Court of Chancery, sitting for everybody's good, and boldly redressing evil. This court has a power of scent unknown to the Common- law pr'ctitioners, and slowly yet surely tracks its game; even as the great lumbering dogs, now introduced from Spain, and called by some people 'pointers,' differ from the swift gaze-hound, who sees his prey and runs him down in the manner of the common lawyers. If a man's ill fate should drive him to make a choice between these two, let him rather be chased by the hounds of law, than tracked by the dogs of Equity. . , . Now, as it fell in a very black day (for all except the lawyers) His Majesty's Court of Chancery, if that be what it called itself, gained scent of poor Loma's life, and of all that might be made of it. Whether through that brave young lord who ran into such peril, or through any of his ifriends, or whether through that deep old Coun- sellor, whose game none might penetrate; or through any disclosures of the Italian woman, or even of Jeremy him self; none just now could tell us; only this truth was too| clear — Chancey had heard of Lorna, and then had seeni how rich she was; and never delaying in one thing, had] opened mouth, and swallowed her. The Doones, with a share of that dry humour which I was in them hereditary, had welcomed the two apparitors (if that be the proper name for them) and led them kindly down the valley, and told them then to serve their writl Misliking the look of things, these poor men began tol fumble among their clothes; upon which ihe Doonesl cried, 'oS with them I Let us see if your message be ool your skin?.' And with no more manners than that] they stripped, and lashed them out of the valley; only : MR .1 LORNA DOONE 453 lutiously, em see all DUgh they were not ft them to enough to Iways are. ar victuals than that tyrs — were Chancery, essing evil. e Common- LS its game; duced from difier from d runs him If a man's 'tween these of law. than il except the aat be what life, and ol iirough that through any jp old Coun- through any I Jeremy hi°i '^uth was too len had seen Le thing, had| imour which vo apparitors them kindly je their writ. ken began to [the Doones lessage be on I than that] valley; omi bidding them come to us. if they wanted Lorna Doone: and to U8 they came accordingly. Neither were they sure at first but that we should treat them so; for they had no knowledge of the west country, and thought it quite a godless place, wherein no writ was holy. We however comforted and cheered them so consider- ably, that, in gratitude, they showed their writs, to which they had stuck like leeches. And these were twofold; one addressed to Mistress Lorna Doone. so called, and bidding her keep in readiness to travel whenever called upon, and commit herself to nobody, except the accredited messengers of the right honourable Court; while the other was addressed to all subjects of His Majesty, having custody of Lorna Doone. or any power over her. And this last threatened and exhorted, and held out hopes of recompense, if she were rendered truly. My mother and I held consultation, over both these documents, with a mixture of some wrath and fear, and a fork of great sorrow to stir them. And now having Jeremy Stickles's leave, which he gave with a nod when I told him all, and at last made him understand it, I laid bare to my mother as well what I knew, as what I merely surmised, or guessed, concerning Loma's parentage. All this she received with great tears, and wonder, and fervent thanks to God, and still more fervent praise of her son, who had nothing whatever to do with it. However, now the question was. how to act about these writs. And herein it was most unlucky that we could not have ^Taste^ Stickles, with his knowledge of the world, and especially of the law-courts, to advise us what to do, and to help in doing it. And firstly of the first I said, 'We have rogues to deal with; but try we not to rogue them.' To this, in some measure, dear mother agreed, though she could not see the justice of it. yet thought that it might be wiser, because of our want of practice. And then I said. 'Now we are bound to tell Lorna. and to serve her citation upon her. which these good fellows have given us.' 'Then go, and do it thyself, my son,' mother replied with a mournful smile, misdoubting what the end might be. So I took the slip of brown parchment, and went to [seek my darling. Lorna was in her favourite place, the little garden [which she tended with such care and diligence. Seeing tow the maiden loved it. and was happy there, I had If' 1 i J 1 iiintii ; i ' }', ! - i ! i 454 LORNA DOONE laboured hard to fence it from the dangers of the wood. And here she had corrected me, with better taste, and sense of pleasure, and the joys of musing. For I meant to shut out the brook, and build my fence inside of it; but Lorna said no; if we must have a fence, which could not but be injury, at any rate leave the stream inside, and a pleasant bank beyond it. And soon I perceived that she was right, though not so much as aiterwards; for the fairest of all thmgs in a garden, and in summer-time most useful, is a brook of crystal water; where a man may come and meditate, and the flowers may lean and see themselves, and the rays of the sun are purfled. Now partly with her own white hands, and partly with Gwenny's red ones, Lorna had made of this sunny spot a haven of beauty to dwell in. It was not only that colours lay in the harmony we would seek of them, neither was it the height of plants, sloping to one another; nor even the delicate tone of foliage following suit, and neighbour- ing. Even the breathing of the wind, soft and gentle in and out, moving things that need not move, and passing i longer-Btalkod ones, even this was not enough among the flush of fragrance, to tell a man the reason of his quiet satisfaction. But ao it shall for ever be. As the river we float upon (with wine, and flowers, and music,) it( liothing at the well-spring but a bubble without reason Feeling many thmgs. but thinking without much tol guide me, over the grass-plats laid between, I went up tol Lorna. She in a shower of damask roses, raised her eyesi and looked at me. And even now, in those sweet eyes] so deep with loving-kindness, «ind soft maiden dreamingsj there sesmed to be a slight unwilling, half confesse withdrawal; overcome by love and duty, yet a painfu( thing to see. sj. :. 'i,i-i,../j wr.y.^. ,-,; ^.j,^. .. 'Darling,' 1 said, 'are your spirits good? Are yoJ strong enough to-day, to bear a tale of cruel sorrow; buj which perhaps, when your tears are shed, will leave yoij all the happier?' 'What can you mean?' she answered trembling, nc having been vey strong of late, and now surprised at mj manner; 'are you come to give me up, John r ' 'Not very likely,' I replied; 'neither do I hop© such thing would leave you all the happier. Oh, Lorna, j'ou can think that so quickly as you seem to have donj now you have every prospect and strong temptation LORNA DOONE 455 he vood. aste, and meant to of it; but could not tiBide, and (d that she Is; for the tnmei'-time 0t man may an and see fled, l^ow )artly with anny spot a that colours neither was er; nor ever d neighbour- ,nd gentle_ in it. You are far, far above me in the world, and I have no right to claim you. Perhaps, when you have heard these tidings you will say, "John Kidd, begone; your life and mine are parted." ' 'Will I?' cried Lorna, with all the brightness of her playful ways returning: 'you very foolish and jealous John, how shall I punish you for this? Am I to forsake every flower I have, and not even know that the wcud goes round, while I look up at you, the whole day long and say, "John, I love, love, love you?" ' During these words she leaned upon me, half in gay imitation of what I had so often made her do, and half in depth of earnestness, as the thrice-repe?ited word grew stronger, and grew warmer, with and to her heart. And as she looked up at the finish, saying, 'you,' so musically, I was much inclined to clasp her round; but remember- ing who she was, forbore; at which she seemed surprised with me. 'Mistress Lorna, I replied, with I know not what an^ passings temptation, making little of her caresses, tiiough more ough among Bthan all my heart to me : 'Mistress Lorna, you must keep in of his quiet lyour rank and proper dignity. You must never look at As the riverBne with anything out pity now.' (J music,) '^m 'I shall look at you with pity, John,' said Lorna, trying Jiout reason Ito 'augh it off, yet not knowing what to make of me, 'if out much to»ou talk any more of this nonsense, knowing me as you I went up toBiught to do. I shall even begin to think that you, and ised her eyesBrour friends, are weary of me, and of so long supporting e sweet eyesle; and are only seeking cause to send me back to my n dreamingsMld misery. U it be so, 1 will go. My lifo matters little ,aU confessedlo any one.' Here the great bright tears arose; but the yet a painfAaiden was too proud to dob. Sweetest of all sweet loves,' I cried, for the sign of tear defeated me; 'what possibility could make me er give up Lorna?' 'Dearest of all dears,' she answered; 'if you dearly love e, what possibility could ever make me give you up, arp' Upon that there was no more forbearing, but I kissed id clasped her, whether she were Countess, or whet-her I'hope suchlieen oi England; mine she was, at least in heart; and Q^, Lorna, Ine she should be wholly. And she being of the same to have do'^Jinion, nothing was said between us. t^motation WNow, Lorna,' said I, as she hung c ,d? Are lei sorrow IwiU leave yo' yoJ "bil prembling, irprised at mV 'J ■ ig on my arm, willing ;i I ;■ It i ; r IP 456 LORNA DOONE to trust me anywhere, 'come to your little plant-house, and hear my moving story.' 'No story can move me much, dear,' she answered rather faintly, for any excitement stayed with her; 'since I know your strength of kindness, scarcely any tale can move me, unless it be of yourself, love; or of my poor mother.' 'It is of your poor mother, darling. Can you bear to hear it?' And yet I wondered why she did not say as much of her father. 'Yes, I can bear anything. But although I cannot see her, and have long forgotten, I could not bear to hear ill of her.' * There is no ill to hear, sweet child, except of evil done to her. Lorna, you are of an ill-starred race.' 'Fetter that than a wicked race,' she answered with, her usual quickness, leaping at conclusion; 'tell me I am| not a Doone, and I will — but I cannot love you more. 'You are not a Doone, my Lorna, for that, at least, I can answer; though I know not what your name is.' 'And my father — your father — what I mean is ' 'Your father and mine never met one another. Yourl father was killed by an accident in the Pyrenean moun tains, and your mother by the Doones; or at least theyj caused her death, and carried you away from her.' All this, coming as in one breath upon the sensitive maiden, was more than she could bear all at once; as anjj but a fool like me must of course have known. She lay back on the garden bench, with her black hair shed on th(| oaken bark, while her colour went and came and onlji by that, and her quivering breath, could any one say thai she lived and thought. And yet she pressed my han([ with hers, that I might tell her all of it. . . . CHAPTER LVI JOHN BECOMES TOO POPULAR ^nf No flower that I have ever seen, either in shifting light and shade, or in the pearly morning, may vie wij a fair youn^ woman's face when tender thought and qui^ otnotion vary, enrich, and beautify it. Thus my Lorfl |fhe Xl LORNA DOONE 457 int-hoiise, answered her; 'sinct ly tale can ii my poor ou bear to not say as . cannot see lear to hear of evil done swered with tell me 1 am I 3 you more, lat, at least, name is.' mean is lother. Your| renean moun at least they| )m ber.' the sensitiv once )wn lir ime an)] She lay shed on tb and onl) thai han( one say Used my 4? in shifting may vie wr ght and qui lus my Lor hearkened softly, almost without word or gesture, yet with sighs and glances telling, and the pressure of my hand, how each word was moving her. When at last my tale was done, she turned away, and wept bitterly for the sad fate of her parents. But to my surprise she spoke not even a word of wrath or rancour. She seemed to take it all as fate. 'Loma, darling,' I said at length, for men are more impatient in trials of time than women are, 'do you not even wish to know what your proper name is?' 'How can it matter to me, John?* she answered, with a depth of grief which made me seem a trifler. 'It can never matter now, when there are none to share it.* 'Poor little soul!* was all I said in a tone of purest pity; and to my surprise she turned upon me, caught me in her arms, and loved me as she had never done befort?. 'Dearest, I have you,' she cried; 'you, and only you, love. Having you I want no other. All my life is one with yours. Oh, John, how can 1 treat you so?* Blushing through the wet of weeping, and the gloom of pondering, yet she would not hide her eyes, but folded aie, and dwelled on me. 'I cannot believe,' in the pride of my joy, I whispered into one little ear, 'that you could ever so love me, beauty, as to give up the world for me.* 'Would you give up your farm for me, John?* cried Lorna, leaping back and looking, with her wcndroKs wer of light at me; 'would you give up your mother, our sisters, your home, and all that you have in the orld and every hope of your life, John?* 'Of course I would. Without two thoughts. You know ; you know it, Loma.* ' • 'It is true that I do,* she answered in a tone of deepest dness; 'and it is this power of your love which has ade me love you so. No good can come of it, no good. od's face is set against selfishness.* As she spoke in that low tone I gazed at the clear lines her face (where every curve was perfect) not with love d wonder onljr, but with a strange new sen?'^ of awe. 'Darling,* I said, *come nearer to me. Give me surety ;ainst that. For God's sake never frighten me with the ought that He would pari: us.* 'Does it then so frighten you?' she whispered, coming e to me; 'I know it, dear; I have known it long; but ^l • I ' I 1 ill il|l; ^M ■' ili? 458 LORNA DOONE it never frightens me. It makes me sad, and very lonely, till I can temember.' 'Till you can remember what?' I asked, with a long, deep shudder; for we are so superstitious. 'Until I do remember, love, that you will soon come back to me, and be my own for ever. This is what I always think of, this is what I hope for.' Although her eyes were so glorious, and beaming with eternity, this distant sort of beatitude was not much to my liking. I wanted to have my love on earth; and my dear wife in my own home; and children in good time, if God should please to send us any. And then I would be to them, exactly what my father was to me. And beside all this, I doubted much about being fit for heaven; where no ploughs are. and no cattle, unless sacrificed bulls went thither. Therefore I said, 'Now kiss me, Lorna; and don't talk any nonsense.' And the darling came and did it; beinpl kindly obedient, as the other world often makes us. 'You sweet love,' I said at this, being slave to her soft obedience; 'do you suppose I should be content to leave you until Elysium?' -f 1 : , < I 'How on earth can I tell, dear John, what you will be I content with?' i 'You, and only you,' said I; 'the whole of it lies in a I syllable. Now you know my entire want; and want must I be my comfort.' I 'But surely if I have money, sir, and birth, and rank,! and all sorts of grandeur, you would never dare to think! of me.' I She drew herself up with an air of pride, as she gravelyl pronounced these words, and gave me a scornful glancej or tried; and turned away as if to enter some grandl coach or palace; while I was so amazed and grieved inl my raw simplicity especially after the way in which shel had first received my news, (so loving and warm-heartedMtra that 1 never said a word, but stared and thought, 'Ho\^hof does she mean it?' Bana She saw the pain upon my forehead, and the wondeBforl in my eyes, and leaving coach and palace too, back shathe flew to me in a moment, as simple as simplest milkmaidBleft 'Oh, you fearful stupid, John, you inexpressibly stupidBheld John,' she cried with both arms round my neck, and heB l3 Jips upon my forehead; 'you have called yourself thiclftped LORNA DOONE 459 ry lonely, th a long. joon come l» what I Lming with )t much to :h; and my good time, en 1 would ) me. And for heaven, iS sacrificed d don't talk iid it; being .kes U8. e to her soft tent to leave t you will be )f it lies in a I id want must Lh. and rank J dare to think IS she gravely] lornful glance, some gran^ nd grieved ir in which she Ivarm-heartedJ ought, 'HoNi Id the wonde! too, back sb lest milkmaidl jssibly stupi' ineck, andf rourseU thic headed, John, and I never would believe it. But now £ do with all my heart. Will you never know what I am. love.?' 'No, Lofna, that I never shall. I can understand my mother well, and one at least of my sisters, and both the Snowe girls very easily, but you I never understand; only love you all the more for it.' 'Then never try to understand me, if the result is that, dear John. And yet I am the very simplest of all foolish simple creatures. Nay, I am wrong; therein I yield the palm to you, my dear. To think that I can act so! No wonder they want me in London, as an ornament for the stage, John.* Now in after days, when I heard of Lorna as the richest, and noblest, and loveliest lady to be found in London, I often remembered that little scene, and recalled every word and gesture, wondering what lay under it. Even now, while it was quite impossible once to doubt those clear deep eyes, and the bright lips trembling so; never- theless I felt how much the world weald have to do with it; and that the best and truest paople cannot shake them- selves quite free. However, for the moment, I was very proud and sh(>wed it. '■ » ' ^ ;'i> ■, r .- i v And herein differs fact from fancy, things as they befall us from things as we would have them, human ends from human hopes; that the first are moved by a thousand and the last on two wheels only, which (being named) are desire and fear. Hope of course is nothing more than desire with a telescope, magnifying distant matters, overlooking near ones; opening one eye on the objects, closing the other to all objections. And if hope be tho future tense of desire, the future of fear is religion — at least with too many of us. Whether I am right or wrong in these small moralities, one thing is sure enough, to wit, that hope is the fastest traveller, at any rate, in the time of youth. And so I hoped that Lorna might be proved of blameless family. and honourable rank and fortune; and yet none the less for that, love me and belong to me. So I led her into the house, and she fell into my mother's arms; and I " "t them to have a good cry of it, with Armie ready to lelp them. If Master Stickles should not mend enough to gain his ipeech a little, and declare to us all he knew, I was to set ^1 460 LORNA DGONE i^ I! 1 • w ■ Ml' «' 1' ii out for Watchett, riding upon horseback, and there to hire a cart with wheels, such as we had not begun, as yet, to use on Exmoor. For all our work went on broad wood, with runners and with earthboards; and many of us still looked upon wheels (though mentioned in the Bible J as the invention of the ev" one, and Pharoah'^ especial property. Now, instead of getting better. Colonel Stickles grew worse and worse, in suite of all our tendance of him, with simples and with nourishment, and no poisonous medicines such as doctors would have given him. And the fault of this lay not with us, but purely with himself and his unquiet constitution. For he roused himself up to a per- fect fever, when through Lizzie's giddiness he learned the very thing which mother and Annie were hiding from him, with the utmost care; namely, that Sergeant Bloxham had taken upon himself to send direct to London by the Chancery officers, a full report of what had happened, and of the illness of his chief, together with an urgent prayer for a full battalion of King's troops, and a plenary commander. This Sergeant Bloxham, being senior of the surviving soldiers, and a very worthy man in his way, but a trifle over-zealous, had succeeded to the captaincy upon his master's disablement. Then, with desire to serve his country and show his education, he sat up most part of three nights, and wrote this very wonderful report Dy the aid of our stable lanthom. It was a very fine piece of work, as three men to whom he read it (but only one at a time) pronounced, being under seal of secrecy. And all might have gone well with it, if the author could only have held his tongue, when near the ears of women. But this was beyond his sense as it seems, although so good a writer. For having heard that our Lizzie was a famous judge of literature (as indeed she told almost every one), he could not contain himself, but must haye her opinion] upon his work. Lizzie sat on a log of wood, and listened with all her I ears up, having made proviso that no one else should be there to interrupt her. And she put in a syllable here and there, and many a time she took out one (for the Sergeant! overloaded his gun, more often than undercharged it;| like a liberal man of letters), and then she declared thel result so good, so chaste, and the style to be so elegantj LORNA DOONE 461 there to Degun, as on broad many of ed in the Pharoah'; :kles grew him, with i medicines he fault of slf and his p to a per- leafned the ; from him, t Bloxham don by the happened, I an urgent Ld a plenary le surviving but a trifle iy upon his ;o serve his nost part of gport by the ine piece oi inly one at a :y. And all : could only vomen. But gh so good a as a famous! every one), her opinion J with all her Ise should bt' Ible here and [the Sergeant fercharged it; [declared the le so elegant, and yet so tervent, that Uie Sergeant broke his pipe in three, and fell in love with her on the spot. Now this has led me out of my way; as things are always doing, partly through their own perverseness, partly through my kind desire to give fair turn to all of them, and to ail the people who do them. If any one expects of me a strict and well-drilled story, standing 'at attention' all the time, with hands at the side like two wens on my trunk, and eyes going neither right nor left; I trow that man has been disappointed many a page ago. and has left me to my evil ways; and if not, I love his charity. Therefore let me seek his grace, and get back, and just begin again. That great despatch was sent to London by fiie Chan- cery officers, whom we fitted up with clothes, and for three days fattened them; which in sixict justice they needed much, as well as in point of equity. They were kind enough to be pleased with us, and accepted my new shirts generously; and urgent as their business was, an- other week (as they both declared) could do no harm to nobody, and might set them upon their legs again. And knowing, although they were London men, that fish do live in water, these two fellows went fishing all day, but never landed anything. However, their holiday was cut short; for the Sergeant, having finished now his narrative of proceedings, was not the man to let it hang fire, and be quenched perhaps by Stickles. Therefore, having done their business, and served both citations, these two good men had a pannier of victuals put up by dear Annie, and borrowing two of our horses, rode to Dunster, where they left them, and hired on towards London. We had not time to like them much, and so we did not miss them, especially in our great anxiety about poor Master Stickles. Jeremy lay between life and death, for at least a fort- night. If the link of chain had flown upwards (for half a link of chain it was which took him in the mouth so), I even one inch upwards, the poor man could have needed no one except Parson Bowden; for the bottom of his skull, which holds the brain as in the egg-cup, must have clean gone from him. But striking him horizontally, and ci little upbn the i^kew, the metal came out at the back of his neck, and (the powder not being strong, I suppose) it [lodged in his leather collar. Now the rust of this iron hung in the wound, or at 14 I ' 1 t 1 ■i 462 LORNA DOONE 1 :.^ least we thought so; though since I have talked with a man of medicine, I am not so sure of it. And our chief aim was to purge this rust; when rather we should have stopped the hole, and let the oxide do its worst, witli a plug of new flesh on both sides of it. At last 1 prevailed upon him by argument, that he must get better, to save himself from being ignobly and unjustly superseded; and hereupon I reviled Sergeant Bloxham more fiercely than Jeremy's self could have done, and indeed to such a pitch that Jeremy almost forgave him, and became much milder. And after that his fever, and the inflammation of his wound, diminished very rapidly. However, not knowing what might happen, or even how soon poor Lorna might be taken from our power, and, falling into lawyers' hands, have cause to wish herself most heartily back among the robbers, I set forth one day for Watchett, taking advantage of the visit of some troopers from an outpost, who would make our house quite safe. J rode alone, bring fully priiiirtl, and having' no misgivings. I'^nr it was said that even the Dooneg had begun to fear me, since 1 cast their culverin througli (Ik door, as above related; and they could not but believe, from my being still untouched (although so large an ob ject) in the thickest of their fire, both of gun and cannon, that I must bear a charmed life, proof against ball and bullet. However, I knew that Carver Doone was not a likely man to hold any superstitious opinions; and of him I had an instinctive dread, although quite ready to face him, Riding along, I meditated upon Lorna's history; how many things were now beginning to unfold themselves,! which had been obscure and dark ! For instance, Sir Ensor Doone' s consent, or to say the least his indifference, to her marriage with a yeoman; which in a man so proud| (though dying) had greatly puzzled both of us. But now, if she not only proved to be no grandchild of the Doone, I but even descended from his enemy, it was natural enough] that he should feel no great repugnance to her humilia- tion. And that Lorna's father had been a foe to theBam house of Doone I gathered from her mother's gry whenBans she beheld their leader. Moreover that fact would supplyll w their motive in carrying off the unfortunate Httle creature,! the and rearing her among them, and as one of their owmtho family; yet hiding her true birth from her. She was alme. LORN A DOONE 463 cd with a i our chief lould have rst, with a t, that he jjnobly and i Sergeant :ould have ■my almost I after that diminished or even how power, and, wish hersell Dfth one day sit of some e our housp , and havin^i Dtioneg had througli I Ik but boli(!VP, larue an ob- and cannon, inst ball and le was not a and of him 1 , to face him. history; how 1 themselves [instance , Sirj indifference, lan so proud ,s. But now, if the Doone, tural enough] her humilia- la foe to thel t's crv vvhenj [would"' supplyl little creature,] of their owr She was 'great card,' as we say, when playing All-fours at Christ- mas-time; and if one of them could marry her, before she learned of right and wrong, vast property, enough to bu>' pardons for a thousand Doones, would be at their mercy. And since I was come to know Lorna better, and she to know me thoroughly — many things had been outspoken, which her early bashfulness had kept covered from me. Attempts I mean to pledge her love to this one, or that other; some of which perhaps might have been successful, if there had not been too many. And then, as her beauty grew richer and brighter, Carver Doone was smitten strongly, and would hear of no one else as a suitor for her; and by the terror of his claim drove off all the others. Here too lay the explana- tion of a thing which seemed to b*' against the laws of human nature, and upon which I longed, but dared not to cross-question Lorna. How could such a lovely girl, although so young, and brave, and distant, have escaped the vile affections of a lawless company? But now it was as clear as need be. I or any proven violence would have utterly vitiated all claim Upon h' well. One quevart of be-or;' she called out to I a little maid, who was her eldest child, no doubt. 'It I is to be expected, sir. Be-or, be-or, be-or, all day long with you Englishmen!' 'Nay,' I replied, 'not all day long, if madam will excusel me. Only a pint at breakfast- time, and a pint and a half at eleven o'clock, and a quart or so at dinner. And then| no more till the afternoon; and half a gallon at supper- tkne. No one can object to that.' 'Well, I siippose it is right,' she said, with an air oil ! i i '.i- , ; .:l^ ■ LORNA D0ONE 465 again, a '-/hen the that lives I for him.' boy, with oh many, resignation; God knows. But I do not understand it. It is "good for business," as you say, to preclude every- ihing.' 'And it is good for us, madam,' I answered with indig- nation, for beer is my favourite beverage; 'and I am a credit to beer, madam; and so are all who trust to it.' 'At any rate, you are, young man. If beer has made you grow so large, I will put my children u{>on it; it is too late for me to begin. The smell to me is hateful.' , Now I only set down that to show how perverse those foreign people are. They will drink their wretched heart- ess stuff, such as they call claret, or wine of Medoc, or Bordeaux, or what not, with no more meaning than sour rennet, stirred with the pulp from the cider press, and strained through the cap of our Betty This is very well for them; and as good as they deserve, no doubt, and meant perhaps by the will of God, for tho^e unhappy natives. But to bring it over to England and set it agamst our home-brewed ale (not to speak of wines from Portugal) and sell it at ten times the price, as a cure for British bile, and a great enlightenment; this I say is the vilest feature of the age we live in. Madam B<.'nita Odam — ^for the name of the man who turned the wheel proved to be John Odam — showed me to a little room containing two chairs and a fir-wood ble, and sat down on a three-legged seat and studied e very steadfastly. This she had a right to do; and I, ving all my clothes on now, was not disconcerted. It ould not become me to repeat her judgment upon my ippearance, which she delivered as calmly as if I were a &liking this Big at market, and as proudly as if her own pig. And she uart of ale, Jisked me whether I had ever got rid of the bla9k marks my breast. Not wanting to talk about myself (though very fond doing so, when time and season favour) I led her back that fearful night of the day when first I had seen her. e was not desirous to speak of it, because of her own will excus^Bttle children; however, I drew her gradually to recoUpc- it and a hallBon of Loma, and then of the little boy who died, and kr. And thenBie poor mother buried with him. And her strong hot [n at suppe^f ^ure kindled, as she dwelled upon these things; d my wrath waxed within me; and we foreiot resen^e th an air oiftd prudence under the sense of so vile a wrong. She i, and then Doy should impossible. he water to i glass; but :le girl.' e answered. , and looked i I was. The it I remem- for boys o( s of women; B as being so so was past, was comely at her, and iked, with a is always the places.' called out to doubt. 'It I ill day long. ^a .or\^ % cu ^ IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) • iko C/s !.0 I.I 1^1^ 12.5 ■50 i*^" HUSH ill 1.8 1.25 1.4 III 1.6 ^ ^ 6" ► <^ /a ^% Ta "'^C'^'j f '/ Hiotographic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. MSSO {716)872-4503 ■^' 4. ^o c> 1(1 m I 466 LORNA DOONE told me (as nearly as might be) the very same story which she had told to Master Jeremy Stickles; only she dwelled upon it more, because of my knowing the outset. And being a woman, with an inkling of my situation, she enlarged upon the little maid, more than to dry Jeremy. 'Would you know her again?' I asked, being stirred by these accounts of Lorna, when she was five years old : 'would you know her as a full-grown maiden?' 'I think I should,' she answered; 'it is not possible to say until one sees the person; but from the eyes of the little girl, I think that I must knov/ her. Oh, the poor young creature! Is it to be believed that the cannibals] devoured her! What a people you are in this country! Meat, meat, meat! As she raised her hands and eyes in horror at our carl nivorous propensities, to which she clearly attributed the! disappearance of Lorna, I could scarce help laughing] even after that sad story. For though it is said at the present day, and will doubtless be said hereafter, tha^ the Doones had devoured a baby once, as they came uj Porlock hill, after fighting hard in the market-place, knew that the tale was utterly false; for cruel and brul as they were, their taste was very correct and choicej and indeed one might say fastidious. Nevertheless could not stop to argue that matter with her. 'The little maid has not been devoured,' I said tb Mistress Odam : 'and now she is a tall young lady, and as beautiful as can be. If I sleep in your good hostef to-night after going to Watchett town, will you comj with me to Oare to-xnorrow, and see your little maiden?] 'I would like — and yet I feai*. This country is barbarous. And I am good to eat — my God, there much picking on my bones!' She surveyed herself with a glance so mingled of pit and admiration, and the truth of her words was apparent (only iJiat it would have taken a week to get 1 the bones, before picking) that I nearly lost good manner for she really seemed to suspect even me of cannit inclinations. However, at last I made her promise come with me on the morrow, presuming that Mast Odam could by any means be persuaded to keep ' company in the cart, as propriety demanded. Ha> little doubt that Master Odam was entirely at his wif^ command, I looked upon that matter as settled, and LORNA DCX)NE 467 J story which r she dwelled outset. And ituation, she , dry Jeremy, being stirred! ve years old : len?' , i not possible he eyes of the Oh, the poor the cannibals this country! ror at our car- attributed the help laughing,! is said at the hereafter, thai } they came u^ market-place , ;ruel ana brui pet and choice Nevertheless .ed,' I said ti [oung lady, am >ur good host( wUl yo^ CO'"' little maiden? country is God, there Imingled of pi^ words was week to get ^ good mannei line of canni^ her promise ng that Masi [ed to keep ' mded. Ha fjly at his wit setUed, and off for Watchett, to see the grave of Lorna'o poor mother, and to hire a cart for the morrow. And here (as so often happens with men) I succeeded without any trouble or hindrance, where I had looked for both of them, namely, in finding a suitable cart; whereas the other matter, in which I could have expected no diiBft- culty, came very near to defeat me. For when I heard that Lorna's father was the Earl of Dugal — as Benita impressed upon me with a strong enforcement, as much as to say, 'Who are you, young man, to come even asking about her?' — ^then I never thought but that everybody in Watchett town must know all about the tombstone of the Countess of Dugal. This, however, proved otherwise. For Lord Dugal had never lived at Watchett Grange, as their place was called; neither had his name become far^iiliar as its owner. Because the Grange had only devolved to him by will, at the end of a long entail, when the last of the Fitz- Pains died out; and though he iiked the idea of it, he had gone abroad, without taking seisin. And upon news of nis death, John Jones, a rich gentleman from Llandaff , had taken possession, as next of right, and hushed up all the story. And though, even at the worst of times, a lady of high rank and wealth could not be robbed, and as bad as murdered, and then buried in a little place, with- out moving some excitement, yet it had been given out, on purpose and with diligence, that this was only a foreign ady travelling for her health and pleasure, along the sea- coast of England. And as the poor thing never spoke, lid several of her servants and her baggage looked so jn, and she herself died in a collar of lace unlike any ade in England, all Watchett, without hesitation, pro- ounced her to be a foreigner. And the English serving an and maid, who might have cleared up everything, ther were bribed by Master Jones, or else decamped of eir own accord with the relics of the baggage. So the r Countess of Dugal, almost in sight of her own grand lOuse, was buried in an unknown grave, with her pair of ifants, without a plate, without a tombstone (worse than ) without a tear, except from the hired Italian woman. Surely ir f poor Lorna came of an ill-starred family. Now in spite of all this, if I had only taken Benita with le, or even told her what I wished, and craved her ections, there could have been no trouble. But. I ^do fTP 46d LORNA DOONE il'l V I I assure you that among the stupid peopie at Watchett (compared with whom our folk of Oare, exceeding dense though being, are as Hamlet against Dogberry) what with one of them and another, and the firm conviction of all the town that I could be come only to wrestle, I do assure you (as I said before) that my wits almost went out of me. And what vexed me yet more about it was, that I saw my own mistake, in coming myself to seek out the matter, instead of sending some unknown person. For my face and form were known at that time (and still are so) to nine people out of every ten living in forty miles of me. Not through any excellence, or anything of good desert, in either the one or the other, but simply because folks will be fools on the rivalry of wrestling. The art is a fine one in itself, and demands a little wit of brain, as well as strength of body; it binds the man who studies it to tem- perance, and chastity, to self-respect, and most of all to an even and sweet temper; for 1 have thrown stronger men than myself (when 1 was a mere sapling, and beforei my strength grew hard on me) through their loss of temper. But though the art is an honest one, surely theyj who excel therein have a right (like all the rest of man' kind) to their own private life. . ■ y „, Be that either way — ^and I will cot speak too strongly for fear of indulging my own annoyance — anyhow, al Watchett town; cared ten times as much to see John Ridd, as to show him what he wanted. I; was led to eve public-house, instead of to the churchyard; and twen tables were ready for me, in lieu of a single gravestonej 'Zummerzett thou bee'st, Jan Ridd, and ?iummerzei thou shalt be. Thee carl theezell a Davonsheer man Whoy, thee lives in Zunmierzett; and in Zummerze thee wast bam, lad-' And so it went on,, tiill was W( though very much obliged to them. , ' . . ^ ^ .. u f ^ Dull s^d solid as I am, and with a wild duck wai foi; me at good Mi^tress Odam's, I saw that there w; nothing for it but to yield to these good people, prqve me a man of Somerset, by eating a dinner at thei expense. As for the churchyard, none would hear of ii an^ I gi:;ieved for broaching the matter. But now was I to meet Lorna again, without havi doQe the thing of all thmgs which I had promised to to? It would never do to tell her that so great my popularity, uid .so strong tl^e desire to, |e<$d th LOR'NA DOONE 469 that I could not attend to her mother. Least of all could I say that every one in Watchett knew John Ridd; while aone had heard of the Countess of Dugal. And yet that was about the truth, as I hinted very delicately to Mistress Odam that evening. But she (being vexed about her wild duck, and not having English ideas on the matter of sport, and so on) made a poor unwitting face at me. Nevertheless Master Odam restored me to my self- respect; for he stared at me till I went to bed; and he broke his hose with excitement. For being in the leg-line myself, I wanted to know what the muscles were of a man who turned a wheel all day. I had never seen because folks ■ a treadmill (though they have one now at Exeter), and ie art is a fine Bit touched me much to learn whether it were good exer- lin, as well as ■ else. And herein, from what I saw of Odam, I incline dies it to tern- ■ to think that it does great harm; as moving the muscles most of all toptoo much in a line, and without variety, rown strongerr Qg, and befcrel their loss oiU , » v ae, surely theyF le rest of man-f Lt Watchett seding dense f) what with riction of all !, I do assure at out of me. tiat I saw my ; the matter, For my face ;ill are so) to! miles of me. good desert, I CHAPTER LVII k too strongly anyhow, see John Ridd, led to ever d; and twen gle gravestone] d ^ummerze*" onsheer man Zummerzei 1 1 was w LORNA KNOWS HER NURSE viNG obtained from Benita Odam a very close and full lescription of the place where her poor mistress lay, and e marks whereby to know it, I hastened to Watchett e following morning, before the sun was up, or any ople were about. And so, without interruption, I was &e churchyard at sunrise. In the farthest and darkest nook, overgrown with grass, d overhung by a weeping-tree a little bank of earth tokened the rounding off of a hapless life. There was ithing to tell, of rank, or wealth, of love, or even pity; eless as a peasant lay the last (as supposed) of a ighty race. Only some unskilful hand, probably Master ^ I"-' V —dam's under his wife's teaching, had carved a rude L., dinner at tnejid ^ ruder D., upon a large pebble from the beach, and u)d hear ol 1^ it up as a headstone. I gathered a little grass for Lorna and a sprig of the ping-tree, and then returned to the Forest Cat, -as mta's lonely inn was called. For the way is long from atchett to Oare; and though you may ride it rapidly, the Doones had done on that fatal night, to tretViel txn duck wait lat there wa people, ithout havin romised to so gre?Lt to feed re '^i TT ir h- , $1 in ilf 1 1 1 4.1 470 LOPvNA DOONE wheels, with one horse only, is a matter of time and of prudence. Therefore, we set out pretty early, three of us and a baby, who could not well be left behind. The wife of the man who owned the cart had undertaken to mind the business, and the other babies, upon condition of having the keys of all the taps left with her. As the manner of journeying over the moor has been described oft enough already, I will say no more, except that we all arrived before dusk of the summer's day, safe at Plover's Barrows. Mistress Ben^ta was delighted with the change from her dull hard life; and she made many excellent observations, such as seem natural to a f oreigne: looking at our country. " ■" .'O' u? i\.nir. As luck would have it, the first who came to meet us a the gate was Lorna, with nothing whatever upon her hea( (the weather being summerly) but her beautiful haii shed round her; and wearing a sweet white frock tuck in, and showing her figure perfectly. In her joy she ra straight up to the cart; and then stopped and gazed ai Benita. At one glance her old nurse knew her: 'Oh, tb eyes, the eyes ! ' she cried, and was over the rail of thi cart in a moment, in spite of pM her substance. Lorna, oi the other hand, looked at her with some doubt ani wonder, as though having right to know much about he and yet unable to do so. But when the foreign worn; said something in Roman language, and flung new ha| from the cart upon her, as if in a romp of childhood, ti young maid cried, 'Oh, Nita, Nita!' and fell upon h breast, and wept; and after that looked round at us. This being so, there could bo no doubt as to the powi of proving Lady Lorna' s birth, and rights, both by e dence and token. For though we had not the necklai now — thanks to Annie's wisdom — we had the ring heavy gold, a very ancient relic, with which my maidji her simple way) had pledged herself to me. And Benii knew this ring as well as she knew her own fingers, havi heard a long history about it; and the efl&gy on it of wild cat was the bearing of the house of Lome. For though Lorna' s father was a nobleman of high ai goodly lineage, her mother was of yet more ancient renowned descent, being the last in line direct from great and kingly chiefs of Lome. A wild and headstrolPui race they were, and must have everything their own w«iqgj Hot blood was ever among them, even of one housebopde LORNA DOONE w^hich had cnmf u P^'^nership some lara? '"other's delighted with! Doone; buffi ins^ead^^Jf"?" '^d ml'^ied Sir F ihe made manvl conflict. I nevA, !? ,5^ °^ heal mg matter/ffi ^"^ J-^^or Itoaforeigneiouts of it- wWh''°"''' l"'** «ndew?tnd^il't^ **? ''=«:«r ■■ ■■— - land keep histi«H f.°?^Va>wyer"lv'i?^'"?^nd me made manvB conflict. I nfi^/o,. -. i j "' "sainjB mattBrs i»j^ ^-J'soi altoaforeigneiouts of it- wWh''°"''' V'^ «ndew?tnd^il't^ **? ''^^^ ■■ ■■-- - land keep his he'^ "°"e W a lawyw mav^^^i"^ and ie to meet usalkind are plainerlf ^^^ ""^ of Jt. The mLl° *^''°"gh. r upon her healaiiy when ch^tv ,t" t?* "'""""s they p^!^^^* °j "an- beautiful halthe former ^H^ («""='» ^s found amon/u^"f,*- . ^Peci- te frock tuckJnot care to teal Vh"?^"^ "'^a^V of it^whfli ^^ *° J"<^8« her joy she ralor title ° ^^^^ *'''' '*««■• ^o^PUcat oS? excenf ? ''?"' d and gazed al Therefore it is en„..„u .. ._ . ' '"'^' ^°' ^^^ lo irucK xucKeHuor care her joy she raflor title. d and gazed a| Therefore it i^ .„ u ' "' "*''''^^ ^^'' ^®® ^^^^^ ^^"^^IJ^ 'l^to\t^' XX^-'T.^"'^ ^ ner: un, »■»« direct in h=: i." ° *■" =»y. that lrnr.n,i„ i the rail of thtpeciarspite ~5'''IP. ^o vast propertl iSi^S™* to ,uch about 4 - tf f^ Vo^Sa-'l 3 & town Z waterfaTT"' *''« ^^Id wou7d ' L^^^ ^'■'^ . .eii upon .jrt^- ^-eHrrVb^Vh^^rS^^ :s, both by ef triumph acal^M,^"?^ they must ma^ a\^U^ ot the necklalcceed himT f ^*, "''^ ««|. for a°uS^d n"'* "''^^t ad the ring|Asforth?,r„,;r "'* ' ^""^ to ich my maid (lets, the veriL? riltM''''' ^''eat robberies anH ^r?^J''"'"" le A=kd BeX, thVS Tthat " E^^^" ?"^t ^"ow tli'^t" m^ev , fingers, hav;|,pie of a good ^si^R itto'Sld*o:i?""' ^^^ ^""S >Sin an^"" their motivei^iSvil =°lt about twice anneads*>f ~^^^^^ ana neaasirop'ure pleasure it is fn ^r. "^^f* ^^h • I '*• « ""y poor «a„ ste«Is^rstVta!i^';:« ^.j\ •I I 4ra LORNA DOOK£ '1 i mit m ■', children starving, and regardins it as mountain game (as a rich man does a hare), to the gallows with him. If a man of rank beats down a door smites the owner upon the head, and honours the wife with attention, it is a thing to be grateful for, and to slouch smitten head the lower. While we were full of all these things, and wondering what would happen next, or what we ought ourselves to do, another very important matter called for our atten- tion. This was no less than Annie's marriage to the Squire Faggus. We had tried to put it off again; for in spite of all advantages, neither my mother nor myself haul any real heart for it. Not that we dwelled upon Tom's short- comings, or rather perhaps his going too far, at the time when he worked the road so. All that was covered byj the King's pardon, and universal respect of the neigh- bourhood. But our scruple was this — and the more we talked the more it grew upon us — that we both had great | misgivings as to his future steadiness. '^ ' For it would be a thousand pities, we said, for a fine, I well-grown, and pretty maiden (such as our Annie was), useful too, in so many ways, and lively, and warm-j hearted, and mistress of £500, to throw herself away onj a man with a kind of a turn for drinking. If that last were even hinted, Annie would be most indignant, and ask, with cheeks as red as roses, who bad ever seen Master Faggus any the worse for liquor indeed? Her own opinior was, in truth, that he took a great deal too little, afteij all his hard work, and hard riding, and coming over ths hills to be insulted! And if ever it lay in her power) and with no one to grudge him his trumpery glass, sh^ would see that poor Tom had the nourishment whict his cough and his lungs required. His li&ngs being quite as sound as mine, this mattei was out of all argument; so mother and I looked at one anki^a\ other, as much as to say, 'let her go upstairs, she will cr*' ^ and come down more reasonable.' And while she gone," we used to say the same thing over and over agaii but without perceiving a cure for it. And we almost alway finished up with the following reflection, which Sbmetime came from mother's lips, and sometimes from my own] 'Well, well, there is no telling. None can say how a ma ma^ alter, when he takes to matrimony. But- if we coul only make Annie 'promise to be a little firm with him LORNA DOONE 473 tain game th him. If ►wner upon on, it IS a n head the wondering ourselves to : our atten- D the Squire r in spite of elf had any Corn's short- at the time covered by f the neigh- 1 the more we )th had great I d, for a fine, • Annie was), and warm- lelf away on If that lastl idignant, an(U ;r seen Master : own opinioi fo little, aftei ling over th( 1 her powers jry glass, she 'tnient whicl , this mattel ced at one an| J, she will ci rhUe she wi td over agaii klmost alwa; {ch gbmetimi ^m my owni Ly how a ma it'if we coul with him I fear that all this talk on our part only hurried matters forward, Annie being more determined every time we pitied her. And at last Tom Faggus came, and spoke as if he were on the King's road, with a pistol at my head-, and one at mother's. 'No more fast and loose,' he cried, either one thing or the other. I love the maid, and she loves me; and we will have one another, either with your leave, or without it. How many more times am I to dance over these vile hills, and leave my business, and get nothing more than a sigh or a kiss, and "Tom, I must wait for mother' ' ? You are famous for being straightfor- ward, you Ridds. Just treat me as I would treat you now.' I looked at my mother; for a glance from her would have sent Tom out of the window; but she checked me with her hand, and said, 'You have some ground of com- plaint, sir; I will not deny it. Now I will be as straight- forward with you, as even a Ridd is supposed to be. My son and myself have all along disliked your marriage with Annie. Not for what you have been so much, as for what we fear you will be. Have patience, one moment, if you please. We do not fear your taking to the highway life again; for that you are too clever, no doubt, now that you Ihave property. But we fear that you will take to drinking, land to squandering money. There are many examples lof this around us; and we know what the fate of the wife lis. It has been hard to tell you this, under our own roof^ Imd with our own -' Here mother hesitated. 'Spirits, and cider, and beer,' I broke in; 'out with it, |like a Ridd, mother; as he will have all of it.' . -i 'Spirits, and cider, and beer,' said mother very firmly iter me; and then she gave way and said, 'You know, Tom, you are welcome to every drop and more of it/ Now Tom must have had a far sweeter temper than ver I could claim; for I should have thrust my glass fway, and never have taken another drop in the house rhere such a oheck had met me. But instead of that, ster Faggus replied, with a pleasant smile, 'I know that I am welcome, good mother; and to prove it, I will have some more.* And thereupon he mixed himself another glass of ollands with lemon and hot water, yet pouring it very felicately . 'Oh, I have been so miserable — take a little more, fom,' said mother, handing the bottle. 4^ # ;i 474 LORNA noONE ' i'r Mil |i ; , 'Yes, take a little more,' I said; 'you have mixed it over weak, Tom.' '' 'If ever there was a sober man,' critd Tom, complying with our request; 'if ever there was in Christendom a man of perfect sobriety, that man is now before you. Shall we say to-morrow week, mother? It will suit your washing day.' 'How very thoughtful you are, Tom! Now Johi. would never have thought of that, in spite of all his steadiness.' 'Certainly not,' I answered proudly; 'when my timel comes for Lorna, I shall not study Betty Muxworthy.'l In this way the Squire got over us; and Farmer Nicholas! Snowe was sent for, to counsel with mother about the| matter and to set his two daughters sewing. - 1; . -. When the time for the wedding came, there was such a stir and commotion as had never been known in th(i parish of Oare since my father's marriage. For Annie'i beauty and kindliness had made her the pride of the! neighbourhood; and the presents sent her, from all around, were enough to stock a shop with. Master Stickles] who now could walk, and who certainly owed his re covery, with the blessing of God, to Annie, presented he with a mighty Bible, silver-clasped, and very handsome beating the parson's out and out, and for which he ha sent to Taunton. Even the common troopers, haviu tasted her cookery many times (to help out their pc rations), clubbed together, and must have given at lea a week's pay apiece, to have turned out what they for her. This was no less than a silver pot, well-designe(| but suited surely rather to the bridegroom's taste tha bride's. In a word, everybody gave her things. And now my Lorna came to me, with a spring of teai in appealing eyes — ^for she was still somewhat childis or rather, I should say, more childish now than when lived in misery — ^and she placed her little hand in mii and she was half afraid to speak, and dropped her ej for me to ask. 'What is it, little darling?' I asked, as I saw her breaj come fast; for the smallest emotion moved her form. *You don't think, John, you don't think, dear, you could lend me any money?* T 'All I have got/ I answered; 'how much do you wt v r' ri( Of ut ITh ind a ' ;1 .\ LORNA IXX)NE 473 »,n mixed ii I '^ have been calculating; and I fear that ~ cannot do ^ iMny good with less than ten pounds, John.' coitiplyinel ^^^^ *^** looked up at me, with horror at the grandeur ^'stendom alo^ ^he sum, and not knowing what I could think of it. ^before you, I But 1 kept my eyes from h^r. 'Ten pounds I' I said in ^l suit vourln^y deepest voice, on purpose to have it out in comfort, viu y ^^i^cn she should be frightened; 'what can you want with ten pounds, child?' 'That is my concern,' said Lorna, plucking up her spirit at this : 'when a lady asks for a loan, no gentleman ries into the cause of her asking it.' ,Mi That may be as may be,' I answered in a judicial anner; 'ten pounds, or twenty, you shall have. But must know the purport.' Then that you never shall know, John. I am very rry for asking you. It is not of the smallest conse- uence. Oh, dear, no.' Herewith she was running away. Oh, dear, yes.' I replied; 'it is of very great conse- uence; and I understand the whole of it. You want give that stupid Annie, who has lost you a hundred J?^itcr*SticklesB>ousand pounds, and who is going to be married before owed his reB»' ^^^^ — God only can tell why, being my younger sister ° - • "you want to give her a wedding present. And you all do it, darling; because it is so good of you. Don't u know your title, love? How humble you are with us imble folk. You are Lady Lorna something, so far as can make out yet : and you ought not even to speak to \ You will go away and disdain us.' :,. h,f! i/r^t 'If you please, talk not like that, John. I will have noth- Now ]ohi Lte of all his hen my time Muxworthy; ,rmer Nicholas her about the' g ;here was suci known in thi For Annie' B pride of thi her, from "' P, presented hi /ery handsomi r which he hr oopers, hav out their p Q given at le what they r»^:..u- well-desigtieiw to do with it, if it comes between you and me, John.' m's taste thal'Vou cannot help yourself,' said I. And then she vowed SinEs. ""^^ ^^® could and would. And rank and birth were I spmig of tea' fewhat child: than when , hand in m ropped her e ighed from between our lips in no time.f What can I get her good enough? I am sure I do not w,' she asked : 'she has been so kind and good to me, she ia such a darling. How I shall miss her, to be e! By the bye, you seem to think, John, that I shall rich some day.' r' f- saw her breajOf course you will. As rich as the French King who [d her form, link, dear, Lh do you w« fps ours. Would the Lord Chancellor trouble himself Wt you, if you were poor?' (Then if I am rich, perhaps you would l^nd me twenty linds, dear John. Ten pounds would b« v«ry mQA9 |a wealthy person to giv« her.' ..alji >>(!o r( .hiv 476 LbRNA DOONE I ili I I i5 < ;.6 ^ -J ' To this I agreed, upon condition that I should make the purchase myself, whatever it might be. For nothiw could be easier than to cheat Lorna about the cost, untu time should come for her paying me. And this was better than to cheat her for the benefit of our family. For this] end, and for many others, I set off to Dulverton, bearin, more commissions, more messages, and more questioi than a man of thrice my memorjr might carry so far the corner where the sawpit is. And to make things worse one girl or other would keep on running up to me, oi even after me (when started) with somethmg or othei she had just thought of, which she could not possibly di without, and which I must be sure to remember, as tb most important of the whole. ' ' ' 'f ' •■ " To my dear mother, who had partly outlived the ex| ceeding value of trifles, the most important matter seem to ensure Uncle Reuben's countenance and presence the marriage. And if I succeeded in this, I might wel forget all the maidens* trumpery. This she would ha' been wiser to tell me when they were out of hearing; fi I left her to fight her own battle with them; and laughi at her predicament, promised to do the best I could fi all, so far as my wits would go. Uncle Reuben was not c*- home, but Ruth, who c6iVed me very kindly, although without any expressioi of joy, was sure of his return in the afternoon, and /jaded me to wait for him. And by the time liiat I h finished all I could recollect of my orders, even with pa to help nie, the old gentleman rode into the yard, was more surprised thaii pleased to see me.^ut if he surprised, I was more than that— ^I was utteriy astonishi at the change in his appearance since the last time I seen him. From a hale, and rather heavy man, haired, but plump, and ruddy, he was iltered to shrunken, wizened, trembling, and almost decrepit fi. Instead of curly and comely locks, grizzled indeed, plentiful, ht' had only a few lank whitte hairs scattei and flattened upon his forehead. But the greatest cha of all was in the expression of his. eyes, which had b so keen, arid restless, and bright, and a little sarc Bright indeed they still were, but with a slow unheals lus^e; their keeinness was turned to perpetual outli thieir restlessness to a haggard want. As for the hum which once gleamed there (which people who fear it goc "Nc T'i ;;iu LORNA DOONE 477 h uld makeB sarcasm) , it had been succeeded by stares of terror, and ^5P nothiMl ^^" mistrust, and shrinking. There was none of the hi cost untilB ^°^^^®^^ "^ mankind, which is needful even for satire. • wasbetterl ^°^ what can this be?' thought I to myself, 'has ^^M For thisl^® ^^^ msm lost all his property, or taken too much to ztZi^ ViParinfflstiOng waters?' '^e questionl Come inside. John Ridd,' he said; 'I will have a talk airry so far I things v/orse up to me, 01 huig or othei Lot possibly d lember, as thi itlived the ex| matter seeim Qd presence 5. I might we! ihe would ha with you. It is cold out here; and it is too light. Come inside, John Kidd, boy.' I followed him into a little dark room, quite different from Ruth Huckaback's. It was closed from the shop by an old division of boarding, hung with tanned canvas; d the smell was very clo^e and faint. Here there was ledger desk, and a couple of chairs, and a long-legged tool. Take the stool,' said Uncle Reuben, showing me in ery quietly, 'it is fitter for your height, John. Wait a oment; there is no hurry.' Then he slipped out by another door, and closing it "t v» rinff- fM'^^^^y 3^ter him, told the foreman and waiting-men - H^lauciiiw^^ *^® business of the day was done. Ihey had better n; and i* gJ^Mlgb home at once; and he would see to the fastenings, best 1 CO ^ course they were only too glad to go; but I wonderet; at s sending them, with at. least two hours of daylight left. However, that was no business of mine, and. I waited, d pondered whether fair Ruth ever came into this dirty m, and if so, how she kept her hands from it. For ie would have had it upside down in about two utes., and scrubbed, and brushed, and dusted, until it iked quite another ptlace; and yet all this done without ilding and crossness; which are the curse of clean men, and ten times worse than the dustiest dust. Uncle Ben came reeling in, not from any power of aor, but because he was stiff from horseback, and k from work and worry. - . ;, J m^^^ "^® ^^' Jphn, let. me be,* he said, as I went to help iled ^^ ^^^Ljfc; 'this is an unkind dreary place; but many a hundred last time ivy man, s T.ltered to| decrepit fij hairs greatest cha ivhich hadb little sarcas slow unheali hpetual outli good gold Carolus has been turned in this place, John.' 'Not a doubt about it, sir/ I answered in my loud and dul manner; 'and many another hundred, sir; and you long enjoy them!' y boy, do you wish me to die?' he asked, coming up ^ t (■ ^° °^y stool, and regarding me with a shrewd though for the numjar-gyed gaze; 'many do. Do you. John?*;,, ^^•,j,,2^ who fear it <■ ' • ' -^ ot.Mo^u^. 1? J l^y^il 478 LORNA DOONE ' 'Come/ said I, 'don't ask such nonsense. You know better than that, TTncle Ben. Or else, 1 am sorry for you. I want you to live as long as possible, for the sake of- Here I stopped. -i;! " a.'j m^j jv,**^ *« w^; 'For the sake of what, John? I know it is iidt for my own sake. For the sake of what, my boy?' 'For the sake of Ruth,' I answered; 'if you must have all the truth. Who is to mind her when you are gone?' 'But if you knew that I had gold, or a manner of get- ting ^old, far more than ever tihe sailors got out of the Spanish galleons, far more than ever v,'ds heard of; andl the secret was to be yours, John; yours after me and noj other soul's— then you would wish me dead, John.' Hen he eyed me as if a speck of dust in my eyes should noi escape him. , •' ' 'You are wrong, Uncle Ben; altogether wrong. !Fo] all the gold ever heard or dreamed of, not a wish wouli cross my heart to rob you of one day of life.' At last he moved his eyes from mme; but without an word, or sign, to show whether he believed, or disbelieve! Then he went to a chair, and sat with his chin upon thi ledger-desk; as if the effort of probing me had been t( much for his weary brain. 'Dreamed of! All the goli ever dreamed of! As if it were but a dream!' he mui tered; and then he closed his eyes to think. 'Good Uncie Reuben,' 1 saM to him, 'you have beei a long way tc>-day, sir. Let me go and get you a glass good wine. Cousin Ruth knows where to find it. 'How do you know how far I have been?' he askei with a vicioui> look at me. 'And Cousin Ruth ! You very pat with m^'- granddaughter's name, young man!' 'It would he hard upon me, sir, not to know my c cousin' s name ' / , 'Very well. Let that go by. You have betiatVed vci badly to Ruth. She loves you; and you love hi y Ti id ith 'G )m not. ■di i; ive % !er At this I was so wholly amazed — not at the thing itse! I mean, but at his knowledge of it — that I could not a single word; but looked, no doubt, very foolish. 'You may well be ashamed, young man, he cried, wi_ some triumph over me, 'you are the biggest of all fooP^'^ as well as a conceited coxcomb. What can you want mq than Ruth? She is a little damsel, truly; but finer mj^. than you,. John Ridd, with all ycur boasted strength al^< LORNA DOONE 479 You know )rry tor you. sake of ' 3 not for my | wrestling, have wedded smaller maidens. And as for quality, and value — bots ! one inch of Ruth is wordi all your seven feet put together.' Now I am not seven feet high; nor ever was six feet eight inches, in my very prime of life; and nothing vexes me so much as to make me out a giant, and above human It cost me ^jst haveB^'"P^^^7» ^^^ human scale of weakness ^^ "re cone?'!^^''^ ^^ "®^^ "^^ tongue; which luckily is not in propor- )U ^^ o ■^■tion to my stature. And only for Rum's sake I held it. ^^^"ut of theB^'"^^ Uncle Ben (being old and worn) was vexed by not ^* ^j £. andB^*^°8 ^.ny answer, almost as much as a woman is. e and noB ^^" want me to go on,' he continued, with a look of '^T ^n ' HereB^^*^ ** ™®' 'about my poor Ruth's love for you, to feed ' hould notBy^"^ cursed vanitv. Because a set of asses call you the res sno Wmest man in England; there is no maid (I suppose) who r wrong. W ■ a wish would ife.'^'^ .j*^ ' xt without anj or disbelieved ; chin upon th^ 3 had been to i! All the golj earn!' he mut ak. you have beel you a glass '* find it.^ ^ en?' be asked '- yon Tre murh ^" y"" he pretendeJ. ^cej^'%^„ •>'«« and s Jmy "^o^f 'V ^ «^?y- , _- -i"t, aon't marry anv Ah V u ^ ™°S. - vvu can iKju norse wen-a Have you so ri^s com. while m*o desire to suit me • ""' ^""""^P^ ^^ mai"d micht ho mgs, according 'That vou ma w!i, " nj'glt have I with anotheBthis wine will^,l -5 ™y '^ord she has Tk ot tempers oultte cXebSed^fSf iV J^« "«'« sfy hussv hL'h°" °' ^« taste -%S,^4F»^-^^VU^-,^^^ -^ ie-^ i",ses up most peoDlp'" h™'' .^P^SJ^tHest manner whi i, » every bottle in^^°der ^e J^S"^ ?? ^"^ ^"^'^'bs tee«-il^^^^^^^^^ -4^as jyers say; which Ss S?^ ^"J^ «rfz^««.i/ as°^^* fc\r^-'^^^^^^^^^ ^^^^^^^-^ Wrinkled beforehand ly i?"^-j ^9° * mterrupt me now- von ho "'^ «^^"^- e it is that* do See Ru?h ^'''^''°^® '°^-' ' ^"^ *° r three or f#derstandinff- 'hiUT''i ^ ^^^^ boldly, for feor ^* • errand whFvery ^euTihatt^^^^^^o^^ he^'.' °' '^^^ ^^ ^^-^ I ,.^. niakes no difference. Liking may very ■ 9 signs of joy ; grunt, whii e would hard orry I was f( answered th; y offences. 7 1 dealing wi ly he becar 3r a bottle thanks for >y her man I the cellar. , ough the da ! our wine wi' this loosen ill 433 LOHNA DOONE ■- ^ soon be iqving (as some people call it) whep the maid has money to help her.' , 'But if there be, as there is in my case—' 'Once for all. John, not a word. I do not attempt to lead you into any engagement with little Ruth; neither will i blame you (though I may be disappointed) i| no such engagement should ever be. But wnetber you will have my grandchild, or whether you will not'^-^nd such a chance is rarely offered to a fellow of your standing'—! Uncle Ben despised all farmers-—' in any case I have at least resolved to let you know my secret; and fo; two good reasons. The first is that it wears me out to dwell upon it, all alone, and the second is that I can trust you to fulfil a promise. Moreover, you are my next of tin, except among the womankind; and you are just the manj I want, to help me in my enterprise.' 'And I will help you, sir,' I answered, fearing somej conspiracy, 'in anything that is true, and loyal, and| according to the laws of the realm.' 'Ha, ha!' cried the old man, laughing until his eyes ran over, and spreading out his skinny nands upon m shining breeches, 'thou bast gone the same fools' track the rest J even as spy Stickles went, and all his preciouJ troopers. Landing of arms at Glentbome, and Lynmouthl wagons escorted across the moor, sounds of metal m booming noises! Ah, but we managed it cleverly, to cheat even those so near to us. Disaffection at Taunton] signs of insurrection at Pulverton, revolutionary tanne at Dunster! We set it all abroad, right well. And noj even you to suspect our work; though we thought at onC time that you watched us, Now who, do you supposej is at the bottom of all this Exmoor insurgency, all tbif western rebellion-^not that I say there is non^, mind- but who is at the bottom of it? 'Either Mother Melldrum,' said I, being now a lit angry, 'or else old Nick himself.' 'Nay, old Uncle Reuben!' Saying this. Master Huck^ hack cast back his coat, and stood up, and made tt most of himself. . 'Well!' cried I, being now ouite come to the limits my intellect, 'then, after all. Captain Stickles was riglj in calling you a rebel, sir!' 'Of course he was: could so keen a man be wron« aboij aA old fool li^p mpl fijit come, and see our rebelUo LOKNA DOONE 483 n the maid : atteroi^t to uth; neither minted) il no ;ber you will jc^— and such r standing'— tae I b*ve at John. 1 will trust you now with everything. I will take no oath from you; only 3rour word to keep silence; and most of all from your mother.' 'I will give you my word,' I said, although Hking not such pledges; which make a man think before he speaks in ordinary company, against his usual practices. How- ever, I was now so curious, that I thought of nothing else; and scarcely could believe at all that Uncle Ben was quite right in his head. Take another glass of wine, my son,' he cried with a and ic>i^jjl cheerful countenance, which made him look more than out to dwell B^gjj years younger; 'you shall come into partnership with can trust yp^Bme: your strength will save us two horses, and we always next of kw,B|gj^j ^^^ horse work. Come and see our rebellion, my juit tpe wanBjjoy. y^^ j^^g a^ made man from to-night.' I 'But where am I to come and see it? Where am I to fearing someHjjjji i^^ gij.p» .; . , ;-, . . r- ,» ?"^'^*'i - -'• ad loyal, andj >yi^ct me,' he answered, yet closing his hands, and inkling with doubt his forehead, 'come aione, of course; d meet me at the Wizard's Slough, at ten to-morrow lOming.' until h» ^V: ands upon ni fools' track iU his precioui ,nd Lynmouth of metal an( it cleverly, ti )n at Taunton tionary tanm iwcU. And nol thought at OH' you suppos^ gency, all ^1 none, mind ig now a iiv Master Hucka land made CHAPTER LVni MASTER huckaback's SECRET SOWING Master Huckaback to be a man of his word, I well as one who would have others so, I was careful to in good time the next morning, by the side of the ird's Slough. 1 2Lm free to admit that the name of the ace bore a feeling of uneasiness, and a love of distance, some measure to my heart. But I did my best not to kink of this; only I thought it a wise precaution, and ft for the sake of my mother and Lorna, to load my with a dozen slugs made from the lead of ihe old arch-porch, laid by, long since, against witchcraft. |I am well aware that some people now begin to doubt to the limits mJ^t witchcraft; or at any rate" feign to do so; being :kles was ngiMjirous to disbelieve whatever they are afraid of. This wit is growing too common among us, and will end . )0 wrong a-Domiess ^^ p^^ a stop to it!) in the destruction of all our rebelUo^Qij. And as regards witchcraft, a man is bound 4^4 LORNA DCK)NE uf i . either to believe in it, or to disbelieve the Bible. For even in the New Testament, discarding many things of the Old, siich as sacrifices, and Sabbath, and fasting, and! other miseries, witchcraft is clearly spoken of as a thingl that must continue; tliat the Evil One be not utterlyl robbed of his vested interests. Hence let no one tell mel that witchcraft is done away with; for I will meet hii with St. Paul, than whom no better man, and few les superstitious, can be found in all the Bible. Feeling these things more in those days than I feej them now, I fetched a goodish compass round, by thq way of the cloven rocks, rather than cross Black Barrov Down, in a reckless and unholy manner. There wer^ several spots, upon that Down, cursed and smitten, and blasted, as if thunderbolts had fallen there, and Sat sat to keep them warm. At any rate it was good (as ever one acknowledged) not to wander there too much; eve3 with a doctor of divinity on one arm and of medicinj upon the other. Therefore, I, being all alone, and on foot (as seemej the wisest), preferred a course of roundabout; and si ing about eight o'clock, without mentioning my busines^ arrived at the mouth of the deep descent, such as Joi Fry described it. Now this (though I have not spoken it) was not my first time of being thire. For, althou£ I could not bring myself to spy upon Uncle Reubeij as John Fry had done, yet I thought it no ill manner J after he had left our house, to have a look at the famoii place, where the malefactor came to life, at least John's opinion. At that time, however, I saw nothir except the great ugly black morass, with the grisly ree(| around it; and I did not care to go very near it, mufl less to pry on the further side. Now, on the other hand, I was bent to get at the ve^ bottom of this mystery (if there were any), having le fear of witch or wizard, with a man of Uncle Reuben wealth to take my part, and see me through. So I rattlj the ramrod down my gun, just to know if the charj were right, after so much walking; and finding it full inches deep, as I like to have it, went boldly down steep gorge of rock, with a firm resolve to shoot witch unless it were good Mother Melldrum. Neverthel^ to my surprise, all was quiet, and fair to look at, in depUn$ of the narrow way. with great stalked ferns col LORNA DOONE 485 get at the vei ly), having « Tncle Reube ;h. So I rattl ii the chari iding it full )ldly down to shoot I. Nevertbel" [look at, in ' Iked ferns coi ing forth like trees, yet hanging like cobwebs over one. And along one side, a little spring was getting rid of its waters. Any man might stop and think; or he might go on and think; and in either case, there was none to say that he was making a fool of himself. When I came to the foot of this ravine, and over against the great black slough, there was no sign of Master Huckaback, nor of any other living man, except myself, in the silence. Therefore, I sat in a niche of rock, gazing at the slough, and pondering the old tradition about it. They say that, in the ancient times, a mighty necro- mancer lived in the wilderness of Exmoor. Here, by spell and incantation, he built himself a strong high palace, eight-sided like a spider's web, and standing on a central steep; so that neither man nor beast could cross the moors without his knowledge. If he wished to rob and jslay a traveller, or to have wild ox, or stag for food, he Iliad nothing more to do than sit at one of his eight win- |dows, and point his unholy book at him. Any moving reature, at which that book was pointed, must obey the pall, and come from whatever distance, if sighted once ly the wizard. This was a bad condition of things, and all the country oaned under it; and Exmoor (although the most honest ce that a man could wish to live in) was beginning to it a bad reputation, and all through that vile wizard. lo man durst even go to steal a sheep, or a pony, or so uch as a deer for dinner, lest he should be brought to ik by a far bigger rogue than he was. And this went for many years; though they prayed to God to abate But at last, when the wizard was getting fat and ughty upon his high stomach, a mighty deliverance e to Exmoor, and a warning, and a memory. For one ly the sorcer^ . gazed from his window facing the sout^- t of the compass, and he yawned, having killed so ny men that now he was weary of it. "Ifackins,* he cried, or some such oath, both profane uncomely, 'I see a man on the verge of the sky-line, g along laboriously. A pilgrim, I trow, or some such il, with the nails of his boots inside them. Too thin to worth eating; but I will have him for the fun of the g; and most of those saints have got money.' {With these words he stretched forth his legs on a stool, pointed the book of heathenish spelb back upwards ¥ ( I TT \ p-5 ' III I- % ' 'I Ti-i- 486 LORNA DOONE at the pilgrim. Now this good pilgrim was plodding along, soberiy and religiously, with a pound of flints in either boot, and not an ounce of meat inside him. Hei felt the spell of the wicked book, but only as a horsel might feel a 'gee-wug!' addressed to him. It was in the| power of this good man, either to go on, or turn aside,) and see out the wizard's meaning; And for a moment h halted and stood, like one in two minds about a thing Then the wizard clapped one cover to, in a jocular am insulting manner; and the sound of it came to th pilgrim's ear, about five miles in the distance, like great gun fired at him. 'By our Lady,' he cried, 'I must see to this: althoug: my poor feet have no skin below them. I will teach th heathen miscreant how to scoff at Glastonbury,' Thereupon he turned his course, and ploughed aloni through the moors and bogs, towards the eight-sidei palace. The wizard sat on his chair of comfort, and wi the rankest contempt observed the holy man ploughin| towards him. 'He has something good in his wallet, trow,' said the black thief to himself; 'these fellows gi always the pick of the wine, and the best of a woman money,' Then he cried, 'Come in, come in, good sir,' he always did to every one. 'Bad sir, I will aot come in,' said the pilgrim; 'neithMe't'i shall you come out again. Here are the bones of all y(S; jj have slain; and here shall your own bones be.' ^' 'Hu^Ty me not,' cried the sorcerer; 'that is a thing think about. How many miles hast thou travelled t day?' But the pilgrim was too wide awake, for if he h; spoken of any number, bearing no cross upon it, necromancer would have had him, like a baU at ban play. Therefore he answered, as truly as need be, ' the grace of our Lady, nine.* Now nine is th© crosscst of all cross numbers, and fi to the lip of all crochets. So the wizard staggered ba and thought, and inquired again with bravery, 'Wh can you find a man and wife, one going up-hill and going down, and not a word spoken between them?' 'In a cucumber plant.' said the modest saint; blush even to think of it; and the wizard knew he was done 'You have tried me with ungodly questions,' contin the hooeit pilgrim* with one hand stiU over his e th I u m: T glc was ploddingL he fh„ .,. ^ ^°NE ., and of flints mil"* *^°"8''t °f the feminine cucumh- . *^ nside him. He|j"n7^P"re one- To wbomZ^*^-'!'^^ now I will oly as a horsel'' tL«°^- 5,'nce God saw fi? to ?^!^^ ^^"^ yo" evw . ft was in thjtol^^ ^;«^d thought, but couW^? y""'' or turn aside,|£!° a* the saint, and the Mi"n? «^t hf ^ "° °ne; and he ir a moment h JStl^/'^ • t'^n'Wing. 'Car vl,f 'J?™'. ^"^^ both thei^ about a thinglS^*^^ ^wt, pointfng a p^ece^^^yf ?'*?*"'" only one?^ . a jocular JitZ^b!^^^^^' "'^°« to U^ 'even ^U^' "J^/^^ Wm. came to thl>h°JrJS. °^ *°'»8 one.' * ""'e child will do' istance, like l^n&s tenX'T/H ''*"«^* their fee^'^nd th« , ^ this: althouglVf * :i4 P^-^^^^^ «,iii 4.^^r.u *k-B Ai ^ must tell the ourft fr.,lK™^ r^ ^^ve the wizard «y upon me. •'°"°* ^°' «-" saint. The devil have ttr^^^^"' ^^- - 3^n.ing: .nd hlacl^ess My own self,- cri^d X SLT^^ t^* o'S '' Then there is no hein *«, fu .*^ wizard. «est saint went ui^i?d*°' «"«? ' And with that th. »''- ana *l||?--:nt'^°S^^^^^^^^ taggered b^W^irVll^^' "'"^ t^ere hXI wi5. ?^'*?»'' *ome avery, ■Wh«,'gX'jn fter ages came (Z we S^.^'" ^'"y ««= :'^^i 4^8 LORNA DOONE H If rf in the tune for wonders; but presently the white hair, whiter from the blackness of the bog between us, showed me that it was Uncle Reuben come to look for me, that way. Then I left my chair of rock, and waved my hat and shouted to him, and the sound of my voice among the crags and lonely comers frightened me. Old Master Huckaback made no answer, but (so far as I could guess) beckoned me to come to him. There wasl just room between the fringe of reed and the belt of rock| around it, for a man going very carefully to escape tha horrible pit-hole. And so I went round to the othei* side and there found open space enough, with stunted bushes, and starveling trees, and straggling tufts of rushes. 'You fool, you are frightened,' said Uncle Ben, as b looked at my face after shaking hands : 'I want a youn man of steadfast courage, as well as of strength am silence. And after what I heard of the battle at Glei Doone, I thought I might trust you for courage.' So you may,' said I, 'wherever I see mine enemy; bu not where witch and wizard be.' 'Tush, great fool I' cried Master Huckaback; 'the onl witch or wizard here is the one that bewitcheth all mei Now fasten up my horse, John Ridd, and not too ne; the slough, If.a. Ah, we have chosen our entrance wisel Two good horsemen, and their horses, coming hither spy us out, are gone mining on their own account (ai their last account it is) down this good wizard's bog-hole, With these words. Uncle Reuben clutched the mane his horse and came down, as a man does when his lei are old; and as I myself begin to do, at this time writing. I offered a hand, but he was vexed, and wou have nought to do with it. 'Now follow me, step for step,' he said, when I h tethered his horse to a tree; 'the ground is not dea' (like the wizard's hole), but many parts are treacheroi I know it well by this time.' i; vvfri^)./ ^ >{;• Without any more ado, he led me in and out the marslB|(] places, to a great round hole or shaft, bratticed up wiBNc timber. I never had seen the like before, and wonderpth how they could want a well, with so much water on ev side. Around the mouth were a few littie heaps of s unused to the daylight; and I thought at once of the I had heard concerning mines in Cornwall, and the sil^ cup at Combe-Martin, sent to the Queen Elizabeth. '] r w !hi en 111 er LORNA DOONE 4^^ ) white hair, I 'We had a tree across it, John/ said Uncle Reuben, n us, showed I smiling grimly at my sudden shrink from it: 'but some for me, that I rogue came spying here, just as one of our men went aved my hati up. He was frightened halSf out of his life, I believe, and voice among| never ventured to come again. But we put thf; blame of that upon you. And I see that we were wrong, but (so far as! John.' Here he looked at me with keen eyes, though a. There was! weak. le belt of rock! 'You were altogether wrong,' I answered. *Am I mean to escape thatBeuouj^h to spy upon any one dwelling with us? And the othei? sideBmore than that. Uncle Reuben, it was mean of you to tunted bushesH suppose it.' of rushes. I 'AH ideafi are different,' replied the old man to my cie Ben, as h^heat, like a little worn-out rill running down a smithy; want a younjyou with your strength and youth, and all that, are in- strength an«clined to be romantic. I take things as I have known battle at Gleijthem, going on for seventy y«ars. Now will you come ,nd meet the wizard, or d^''^ your courage fail you?* 'My courage must be none,' said I, 'if I would not go here you go, sir.' He said no more, but signed to me to lift a heavy ooden corb with an iron loop across it, and sunk in a jttle pit of earth, a yard or so from the mouth of the aft. I raised it, and by his direction dropped it into e throat of the shaft, where it hung and shook from a eat cross-beam laid at the level of the earth. A very ard'sbog-holeBtout thick rope was fastened to the handle of the corb, led the mane (^nd ran across a pulley hanging from the centre of the am, and thence out of sight m the nether places. I will first descend,' he said; 'your weight is too great safety. When the bucket comes up again, follow n^o, your heart is good.' id, when I tSXhen he whistled down, with a quick sharp noise, and id' is not deaj whistle from below replied; and he clomb into the are treacheroiijhicle, and the rope ran through the pulley, and Uncle n vent merrily down, and was out of sight, before I out the marsMd time to think of him. atticed up wijNow being left on the bank like that, and in full sight and wonderjlthe goodly heaven, I wrestled hard with my flesh and water on evejood, about going down into the pit-hole. And but for pale shame of the thing, that a white-headed man uid adventure so, and green youth doubt about it, er could I have made up my mind; for I do love air id heaven. However, at last up came tiie bucket; and courage ine enemy; du' back; 'the onl Ltcheth all me id not too ne jntrance wisel jming hither n account (a ,s when his le^ at this time xed, and woul le heaps of st [once of the ta ll, and the sil^ Elizabeth. 490 LORNA DOONE I with a short sad prayer I went into whatever might i happen. My teeth would chatter, do all I could; but the strength of my arms was with me; and by them I held on the grimy rope, and so eased the foot of the corb, which threatened to go away fathoms under me. Of course I should still have been safe enough, being like an egg in an egg-cup J too big to care for the bottom; still I wished that all should be done, in good order, without excitement. The scoopings of the side grew black, and the patch o^ sky above more blue, as with many thoughts of Lorn&, long way underground I sank. Then I was fetched up a^ the bottom with a jerk and rattle; and but for holdint by the rope so, must have tumbled over. Two greal torches of bale-resin showed me all the darkness, on^ being held by Uncle Ben and the other by a short squarj man with a face which seemed well-known to me. 'Hail to the world of gold, John Ridd,' said Mastel Huckaback, smiling in the old dry manner; 'bigge coward never came down the shaft, now did he, Carfax ?| 'They be all alike,' said the short square man, 'fus time as they doos it.' 'May I go to heaven,* I cried, 'which is a thing quit out of sight' — for I always have a vein of humour, tc small to be followed by any one — 'if ever again of rn| own accord I go so far away from it ! ' Uncle Ben grinne less at this than at the way I knocked my shin in gettir out of the bucket; and as for Master Carfax, he wou( not even deign to smile. And he seemed to look upon entrance as an interloping. For my part, I had nought to do, after rubbing bruised leg, except to look about me, so far as the dullne of light would help. And herein I seemed, like a mouse a trar», able no more than to run to and fro, and kno^ hims* 1, and stare at things. For here was a little chanr grooved with posts on either side of it, and ending wij a heap of darkness, whence the sight came back agaif and there was a scooped place, like a funnel, but pourii only to darkness. So I waited for somebody to spej first, not seeing my way to anything.' io«v tr-Kv- ' 'You seem to be disappointed, John,' said VM Reuben, looking blue by the light of the flambeaux; '( you expect to see the roof of gold, and the sides of go| and the floor of gold, John Ridd?/ LORNA DOONE 491 •Ha, ha!' cried Master Carfax; 'I reckon her did; no doubt her did.' 'You are wrong,' I replied; 'but I did expect to see jomething better than dirt and darkness.' 'Como on then, my lad; and we will show you some- tever might] the strength I on the grimy h threatened! [ should stillB thing better. We want your great arm on here, for a job [ an egg-cup,| that has beaten the whole of us.' ihed that all| tement. , the patch ot a of Lorna, With these words. Undo Ben led the way along a narrow passage, roofed with rock and floored with slate- coloiired shale and shingle, and winding in and out, until we stopped at a great stone block or boulder, lying across fetched up all the floor, and as large as my mother's best oaken ward- it for holdinjrobe. Beside it were several sledge-hammers, battered, Two grealind some with broken helves, darkness, on* 'Thou great villain!' cried Uncle Ben, giving the a short squarlboulder a little kick; 'I believe thy time is come at last, to me. INow, John, give us a sample of the things they tell of said Maste|thee. Take the biggest of them sledge-hammers and ack this rogue in two for us. We have tried at him for fortnight, and he is a nut worth cracking. But we have man who can swing that hammer, though all in the ine have handled it. 'I will do my very best,' said 1, pulling off my coat d waistcoat, as if I were going to wrestle; 'but I fear le will prove too tough for me.' 'Ay, that her wull,' grunted Master Carfax; 'lack'th Carnishman, and a beg one too, not a little charp such I be. There be no man outside Carnwall, as can crack at boolder.' Bless my heart,' I answered; 'but I know something you, my friend, or at any rate of your family. Well, I ive beaten most of your Cornish men, though not my ^ e to talk of it. But mind, if I crack this rock for you, xo and knoBmust have some of the gold inside it.' little chaniH'Dost think to see the gold come tumbling out like the d ending wiBmel of a nut, thou zany?' asked Uncle Reuben pet- e back agaiBWy; 'now wilt thou crack it or wilt thou not? For I 1 but pouriBlieve thou canst do it, though only a lad of Somerset.' (^V to speBUncle Reuben showed by saying this, and by his glance BCarfax, that he was proud of his county, and would be ' said Un^^ppointed for it if I failed to crack the boulder. So I ambeaux; 'Jsed him to stoop his torch a little, that I might ex- sides of goBine my subject. 'To me there appeared to be nothing at remarkable about it, except that it sparkled here and inner; 'bigg d he. Carfax? are man, 'fu a thing quit if humour, tc ff again of rnj ;le Ben grinne shin in gettr :ax, he wou^ look upon »r rubbing [as the duUne like a mouse 492 LORNA DOONE i there, when the flash of the flame fell upon it. A great obstinate, oblong, sullen stone; how could it be worth the breaking, except for making roo,ds with? Nevertheless, I took up the hammer, and swinging it far behind my head, fetched it down, with all my power, upon the middle of the rock. The roof above rang mightily, and the echo went down delven galleries, so that all the miners flocked to know what might be doing But Master Carfax only smiled, although the blow shook him where he stood, for behold the stone was still un broken, and as firm as ever. Then I smote it again, with no better fortune, and Uncle Ben looked vexed and angry, but all the miners grinned with triumph, 'This little tool is too light,' I cried; 'one of you give me a piece of strong cord.' Then I took two more of the weightiest hammers, and lashed them fast to the back of mine, not so as to strike. but to burden the fall. Having made this firm, and with room to grasp the handle of the largest one only — for the helves of the others were shorter — I smiled at Uncle Ben, and whirled the mighty implement round my head, just to try whether I could manage it. Upon that thi miners gave a cheer, being honest men, and desirous o seeing fair play between this 'shameless stone' (as Da Homer calls it) and me with my hammer hammering. Then I swung me on high to the swing of the sledge as a thresher bends back to the rise of his flail, anc^ with all my power descending deUvered the ponderoujf° onset. Crashing and crushed the great stone fell over, and threads of sparkling gold appeared in the jagged side of the breakage. 'How now, Simon Carfax?' cried Uncle Ben triumi phantly; *wilt thou find a man in Cornwall can do th like of that?" *Ay, and more,' he answered; 'however, it be prett fair for a lad of these outlandish parts. Get your roller my lads, and lead it to the crushmg engine.' I was glad to have been of some service to them; fc it seems that this great boulder had been too large to b| drawn along the gallery and too hard to crack. But nov they moved it very easily, taking piece by piece, a.n\ carefully picking up the fragments. 'Thou hast done us a good turn, my lad,' said Unclj Reuben, as the others passed out of sight at the come^ 10 be th su lie va lift |fe I lej ur ilk lie m LORNA DOONE 493 'and now I will show thee the bottom of a very wondrous mystery. But we must not do it more than once, for the time of day is the wrong one.' The whole affair being a mystery to me, and far be- jrond my understanding, I followed him softly, without a word, yet thinking very heavily, and longing to be above ground again. He led me through small passages, to a hollow place near the descending shaft, where I saw a most extraordinary monster fitted up. In form it was like a great coffee-mill, such as I had seen in London, only a thousand times larger, and with heavy windlass to work 'Put in a barrow-load of the smoulder,* said Uncle Ben to Carfax, 'and let them work the crank, for John to understand a thing or two.' 'At this time of day!' cried Simon Carfax; 'and the jnratching as has been o' late!' However, he did it without more remonstrance; pour- ling into the scuttle at the top of the machine about a basketful of broken rock; and then a dozen men went to the wheel, and forced it round, as sailors do. Upon tliat Isach a hideous noise arose, as I never should have be- llieved any creature capable of making, and I ran to. the |well of the mine for air, and to ease my ears, if possible. 'Enough, enough!' shouted Uncle Ben, by the time 1 Iwas nearly deafened; 'we will digest our goodly boulder lifter the devil is come abroad for his evening work. INow, John, not a word about what you have learned; Ibat henceforth you will not be frightened by the noise lie make at dusk.' I could not deny but what this was very clever manage- JDent. If they could not keep the echoes of the upper lir from moving, the wisest plan was to open their valves poring the discouragement of the falling evening; when m would rather be driven away, than drawn mto the Ids and quagmires, by a sound so deep and awful. oming through the darkness. Bxry. .> r -.^w^j'j.i^ ^ii/vad ;■- % :. iru-^A ■-'!> 'A Jam :,'n^.,llt. \ii^mi^mw^ ■t&tm' %:-^mmm:V.'i J.' \f fi^. I i : i ■• 494 .)• I LORNA DOONE CHAPTER UX < 1 - LORNA GONE AWAY Although there are very ancient tales of gold being! found upon Exmoor, in lumps and solid hummocks, andf of men who slew one another for it, this deep digging anc great labour seemed to me a dangerous and unbol} enterprise. And Master Huckaback confessed that u{ to the present time his two partners and himself (for thej proved to be three adventurers) had put into the eart more gold than they had taken out of it. Nevertheless he felt quite sure that it must in a very short time succeedj and pay them back an hundredfold; and he pressed m^ witn great earnestness to join them, and work there a.i much as I could, without moving my mother's suspicions I asked him how they had managed so long to carry oij without discovery; and he said that this was partlt through the wildnesis of the neighbourhood, and thj legends that frightened people of a superstitious tui partly through their own great caution, and the manne of fetching both supplies and implements by night; bi most of all, they had to thank the troubles of the perioc the suspicions of rebellion, and the terror of the Doone^ which (like the wizard I was speaking of) kept folk fron being too inquisitive where they had no business. T} slough, moreover, had helped them well, both by makir their access dark, and yet more by swallowing up and coij cealing all that was cast from the mouth of the pit. Onq before the attack on Glen Doone, they had a narrc escape from the King's Commissioner; for Captain Sticklj ha'»/ing heard no doubt the story of John Fry, went wllf half a dozen troopers, on purpose to search the nelghboi hood. Now if he had ridden alone, most likely he wou| have discovered evcrjrthing; but he feared to venture having suspicion of a trap. Coming as they did in company, all mounted and conspicuous, the watchma (who was posted now on the top of the hill, almost evej day since John Fry's appearance) could not help espyiJ them, miles distant, over the moorland. He watcH them under the shade of his hand, and presently down the hill, and raised a great commotion. Th< Simon Carfax and all his men came up, and made thii LORNA DOONfe 495 gold being amocks, and! , digging an' and unhol »sed that u self (for the ito the eart svertheless h time succeed e pressed mi vork there a r's fiuspicioni tg to carry o s was parti 3od, and thi rstitious tu id the mann by night; h I of the perioi >f the Doone cept folk froi justness. Tt )th by makii ig up and coi the pit. Ono lad a narri .ptain Stickli 'ry, went wi^ :he neighboi] kcly he wou! |to venture fi :hey did in ;he watchm almost evc! help espyii He watcb presently Lotion. TJii made thii natural, removing every sign of work; and finally* sinking underground, drew acit)ss the mouth of the pit a hurdle thatched with sedge and heather. Only Simon himself was left behind, ensconced in a hole of the crags, to observe the doings of the enemy. Captain Stickles rode very bravely, with all his men clattering after him, down the rocky pass* and even to the margin of the slough. And there they stopped, and held council; for it was a perilous thing to ri^k the passage ttpon horseback, between the treacherous brink and tlie cliff, unless one knew it thoroughly* Stickles* however, and one follower, carefully felt the way along, having their horses well in hand, and bearing a rope to draw them out, in case of being foundered. Then they spurred across the rough boggy land, farther away than the shaft wafi. Here the ground lay jagged and shaggy, wrought Dp with high tufts of reed, or scragged with stunted brushwood* And between the ups and downs (which met anybody anyhow) green-covered places tempted the foot, and black bog-holes discouraged it. It is not to be mar- velled at that amid such place as this, for the first time visited, the horses were a little skeary; and their riders partook of the feeling, as all good riders do. In and out |(jf the tufts they went, with their eyes dilating, wishing Ito be out of harm, if conscience were but satisfied. And |of this tufty flaggy ground, pocked with bogs and boglets, le especial nature is that it will not hold impressions. Seeing thus no track of men, nor anything but marth^ Ifrork, and stormwork, and of the seasons, these two pnest men rode back, and were glad to do so. For above lem hung the mountains, cowled with fog, and seamed ith storm; and around them desolation; and below their the grave. Hence they went, with all goodwill; and iwed for ever afterwards that fear of a simple place e that was only too ridiculous, do they all rode home ith mutual praises, and their courage well-approved; d the only result of the expedition was to con&im John '8 repute as a bigger liar than ever. ^m---u.-nrr oca ow I had enough of that underground work, as before ted, to last me for a year to come; neither would I. sake of gold, have ever stepped into that bucket, my own Boodwill again. But when I told Loma — 'horn I could trust in any matter of secrecy, as if she had ver been a woman-^all about my great descent, &sd the 1 w 1 Mi ' ' ' V ■' t 1 1 ' ' i i ■ ji 1 ■ ' !« ; !.. 1 ^ 'Ir '"'1 ' . ; I ^ :fi: i i }. 496 LORNA DOONE honeycombing of the earth, and the mournful noise at eventide, when the gold was under the cnisher and be- wailing the mischief it must do, then Lorna's chief desire was to know more about Simon Carfax. 'It must be our Gwenny's father,' she cried; 'the man who disappeared underground, and whom she has ever been seeking. How grieved the poor little thing will be, if it should turn out, after all, that he left his child on purpose ! I can hardly believe it; can you, John?' 'Well,' I repUed; 'all men are wicked, more or less, to some extent; and no man may say otherwise.' For I did not wish to conmiit myself to an opinion about Simon, lest I might be wrong, and Loma think less of my judgment. But being resolved to see this out, and do a good turn, if I could, to Gwenny, who had done me many a good one, I begged my Loma to say not a word of this matter to thej handmaiden, until I had further seEirched it out. Andi to carry out this resolve, I went again to the place 01 business where they were grinding gold as freely as a apothecary at his pills. Having now true right of entrance, and being known the watchman, and regarded (since I cracked the boulder] as one who could pay his footing, and perhaps would the master, when Uncle Ben should be choked wr money, I found the corb sent up for me rather soonei than I wished it. For the smell of the places underground, and the way men's eyes came out of them, with linksi and brands, and flambeaux, instead of God's Hght look at, were to me a point of caution, rather than pleasure. No doubt but what some men enjoy it, b'^uig boi like worms, to dig, and to live in their own scoopini^ Yet even the worms come up sometimes, after a good soi shower of rain, and hold discourse with one anothei whereas these men, and the horses let down, come abo ground never. And the changing of the sky is half the change 01 nature calls for. Earth we have, and all its produi (moving from the first appearance, and the hope wi infants' eyes, through the bloom of beauty's promii to the rich and ripe fulfilment, and the falling back rest); sea we have (with all its wonder shed on eyes, aoldic tart, and heart; and the thought of something moreM'C V( COi pic vei sm LORNA DOONE 497 ful noise at her and be- ; chief desire ;d; 'the man she has ever hing will be, his child on ohn?' )re or less, to| rise.' o an opinion I Loma think ) a good turn, ly a good one.l , matter to the! it out. Andl ) the place o^ s freely as an )eing known 5d the boulder]] haps would b . choked wit rather sooneJ 3 underground! m, with links] God's light rather than fifirt '\'iA'\ but without the sky to look at, what would earth, and sea, jtnd even our own selves, be to us? . ■ . . Do we look at earth with hope? Yes, for victuals only. Do we look at sea with hope? Yes, that we may escape it. At the sky alone (though questioned vdth the doubts of sunshine, or scattered with uncertain stars), at the sky alone we look with pure hope and with memory. Hence it always hurt my feelings when I got into that bucket, with my small-clothes turned up over, and a kerchief round my hat. But knowing that my purpose was sound, and my motives pure, I let the sky grow to a little blue hole, and then to nothing over me. At the bottom Master Carfax met me, being captain of the mine, and desirous to know my business. He wore a loose sack round his shoulders, and his beard was two feet long. 'My business is to speak with you,' I answered rather sternly; for this man, who was nothing more than Uncle Reuben's servant, had carried things too far with me, showing no respect whatever; and though I did not care for much, I liked to receive a little, even m my early days. 'Coom into the muck-hole, then,' was his gracious answer; and he led me mto a filthy cell, where the miners changed their jackets. 'Simon Carfax,' I began, with a manner to discourage him; 'I fear j^ou are a shallow fellow, and not worth my trouble.' 'Then don't take it,* he rephed; 'I want no man's trouble.* 'For your sake I would not,' I answered; 'but for your daughter's sake I will; the daughter whom y<9u left to starve so pitifully in the wilderness.' rv w't f.uTrtr.'wi The man stared at me with his pale gray eyes, whose I colour was lost from candle light; and his voice as well las his body shook, while he cried, — 'It is a lie, man. No daughter, and no son have I. Nor I was ever child of mine left to starve in the wilderness. You are too big for me to tackle, and that makes you a coward for saying it.* His hands were playing with a I pickaxe helve, as if he longed to have me under it. 'Perhaps I have wronged you* Simon,' I answered [very softly; for the sweat upon his forehead shone in the Ismoky torchlight; 'if I have, I crave your pardon. But |did you not bring up from Cornwall a little maid named Gwenny," and supposed to be your daughter?' fin 498 LORNA DOONE 'Ay, and she was my daughter, myr last find only child of five; and for her 1 woulof give this mine, and all Ihe gold will ever come from it.' 'You shall >iave her, without either mine or gold; if you only prove to me that you did not abandon her.* 'Abandon her! I abandon Gwenny!' He cried with such a rage Of scorn, that I at once believed him. 'They told me sne was dead, and crushed, and buried in the drift here; and half my heart died with her. The Almighty blafct their mining-wofk, if the scoundrels lied to me!* 'The scoundrels must have lied to you,' I answered, with a spirit fired by his heat of f uty : the maid is Hving and with us. Come up; and you shall see her.' 'Rig the bucket,' he shouted out along the echoing gallery; and then he fell against the wall, and through the grimy sack I saw the heaving of his breast, as I have seen my opponent's chest, in a long hard bout of wrest- ling. For my part, I could do no more than hold my tongue and look at him. Without another word we rose to the level of the moors and mires; neither would Master Carfax speak, as I led him across the barrows. In this he was welcome to his own way, for I do love silence; so little harm can come o it. And though Gwenny was no beauty, her father might be fond of her. So I put him in the cow-house (not to frighten the little xaa,id), and the folding shutters over him, such as we used at the beestings; and he Ustened to my voice outside, and held on,* and preserved himself. For now he would have scooped the earth, as cattle do at yearning-time, and as meekly and as patiently, to have his child restored to him. Not to make long tale of it — ^for this thing is bevond me, through want of true experience — I went and fetched his Gwenny forth from the back kitchen, where she was fighting, as usual, with our Betty. 'Come along, you little Vick/ I said, lor so we called her; 'I have a message to you, Gwenny, from the Lord in heaven/ 'Don't 'ee talk about He/ «he answered; 'Her have long fotgatten me.' 'That He has never done, you stupid. Come, and lee who is in the cowhouee.' Gwenny knew; .the knew in a moment. Looking into LORNA DOONE 499 ind only child e, and All the or gold; if you n her.* He cried with •d him. 'They buried in the The Almighty idrela lied to t/ I answered, s'maid id living ler.* ag the echoing ind through the jast, as I have L bout of wreat- I than hold my vel of th^ moors apeak, as I led welcome to his] Lrm can come of ler father might Tighten the little such as W6 used )ice outside, and T he would have ilig-time, and as [hild restored to thing is beyond ent and fetched wher6 she was kor 80 we called from the Lord fered; 'Her have] Come, and w . Looking into my eyes, she knew; and hanging back trom me to sigh, ghe knew it even better. She had not much elegance of emotion, being flat and square all over; but none the less for that her heart came quick, and her words came slowly. 'Oh, Jan, you are too good to cheat me. Is it joke you are putting upon me?* I answered her with a gaze alone; and she tucked up her clothes and followed me because the road was dirty. Then I opened the door just wide enough for the child to to go her father, and left those two to have it out, as might be most natural. And they took a long time about it. Meanwhile I needs must go and tell my Loma all the matter; and her joy was almost as great as if she herseiiE had found a father. And the wonder of the whole was this, that I got all the credit; of which not a thousandth part belonged by right and reason to me. Yet so it almost always is. If I work for good desert, and slave, and lie awake at night, and spend my unborn life in dreams, not a blink, nor wink, nor inkling of my labour ever tells. It would have been better to leave unbumod, and to keep undevoured, the fuel and the food of life. But if I have Uboured not, only acted by some impulse, whim, caprice. or anything; or even acting not at aU, only letting things float by; piled upon me commendations, bravoes, and applauses, almost work me up to tempt once again (though sick of itj the ill luck of deserving. Without intending any harm, and meaning only good indeed, I had now done serious wrong to Uncle Reubeu s prospects. For Captain Carfax was full as angry at the trick played on him as he was happy in discovering the falsehood and the fraud of it. Nor could I help agreeing with him, when he told me all of it, as with tears in his eyes he did, and ready to be my slave henceforth; I could not forbear from owning that it was a low and heartless trick, unworthy of men who had families; and the recoil whtreof was well deserved, whatever it might end in. For when this poor man left his daughter, asleep as he supposed, and having his food, and change of clothes, and Sunday hat to see to, he meant to return in an hour or so, and settle about her sustenance in some house of the neighbourhood. But this was the very thing of all things I which the leaders of the enterprise, who had brought him .f 300 LORKA DOONE p ' > up trom Cornwall, tor his noted skill in metals, were deter mined, whether by fair means or foul, to stop at the very outset. Secrecy being their main object, what chance could there be of it, it the miners were allowed to keep their children in the neighbourhood? Hence, on the plea of feasting Simon, they kept him drunk for three aays and three nights, assuring him (whenever he had gleams enough to ask for her) that his daughter was as well as could be, and enjoying herself with the children. Not wishing the maid to see him tipsy, he pressed the matter no fur&er; but applied himself to the bottle again, and drank her health with pleasure. However, after three days of this, his constitution rose against it, and he became quite sober; with a certain lowness of heart moreover, and a sense of error. And his first desire to right himself, and easiest way to do it, was by exerting parental authority upon Gwenny. Possessed with this intention (for he was not a sweet-tempered man, and his head was aching sadly) he sought for Gwenny high and low; first with threats, and then with fears, and then with tears and wailing. And so he became to the other men a warning and a great annoyance. Therefore they combined to swear what seemed a very likely thing, ana might be true for ail they knew, to wit, that Gwenny had come to seek for her father down the shaft-hole, and peering too eagerly into the dark, had toppled forward, and gone down, and lain at the bottom as dead as a stone. 'And thou being so happy with drink,' the villains finished up to him, 'and getting drunker every day, we thought it shame to trouble thee; and we buried the wench in the lower drift; and no use to think more of her; but come and have a glass, Sim.' j; 1 *k ji! But Simon Carfax swore that drink had lost him his wife, and now had lost him the last of his five children, and would lose him his own soul, if further he went 00 with it; and from that day to his death he never touched strong drink again. Nor only this; but being soon appoin-i ted captain of the mine, he allowed no man on any pretext to brine cordials thither; and to this and his stern hard rule and stealthy secret management (as much as to good luck and place) might it be attributed that scarcely anyj but themselves had dreamed about this Exmoor mine. As for me, I had no ambition to become a miner; and! LORNA DOONE 501 rere deter- t the very at chance ►d to keep n the plea three days lad gleams as well as Iren. Not the matter again, and Ltution rose 1 a certain jr. And his 3 do it, was Possessed ipered man, for Gwenny h fears, and came to the J. Therefore likely thing, hat Gwenny ift-hole, and ed forward, dead as a the villains ery day, we 1 buried the ink more of the state to which gold-seeking had brought poor Uncle Ben was not at all encouraging. My business was to till the ground, and tend the growth that came of it, and store the fruit in Heaven's good time, rather than to scoop and bun:ow like a v/easel or a rat for the yellow root of evil. Moreover, I was led from home, between the hay and coni harvests (when we often have a week to spare), by a call there was no resisting; unless I gave up all regard for wrestling, and for my county. Now here many persons may take me amiss, and there always has been some confusion; which people who ought to have known better have wrought into subject of quar- relling. By birth it is true, and cannci be denied, that I am a man of Somerset; nevertheless by breed I am, as well as by education, a son of Devon also. And just as both of our two counties vowed that Glen Doone was none of theirs, but belonged to the other one; so now, ea.'h with hot claim and jangling (leading even to blows some- times), asserted and would swear to it (as I became more famous) that John Ridd was of its own producing, bred of its own true blood, and basely stolen by the other. Now I have not judged it in any way needful or even becoming and delicate, to enter into my wrestling adven- tures, or describe my progress. The whole thing is so different from Loma, and her gentle manners, and her style of walking; moreover I must seem (even to kind people) to magnify myself so much, or at least attempt j to do it, that I have scratched out written pages, through 1 my better taste and sense. Neither will I, upon this head, make any difference I even now; being simply betrayed into mentioning the matter because bare truth requires it, in the tale of I Lorna's fortunes. - ,j * ;!^ '. 3oa LORNA DOONE It is no use to deny but that I was nreatly dashed and scared at first. For my part, I was only, when measured without clothes on. sixty inches round the breast, and round the calf scarce twenty-one, only two feet across the shoulders, and in height not six and three-quarters. However, my mother would never believe that this man could beat me; and Lorna being of the same mind, I resolved to go and try him, as they would pay all expenses and a hundred pounds, if I conquered him; so confident were those Cornishmen. Now this story is too well known for me to ^o through it again and again. Every child in Devonshire knows, and his grandson will know, the song which some clever man made of it, after I had treated him to water, and to lemon, and a little sugar, and a drop of eau-de-vie. Enough that I had found the giant quite as big as they had described him, and enough to terrify any one. But trusting in my practice and study of the art, I resolved to try a back with him; and when my arms were round him once, the giant was but a farthingale put into the vice of a blacksmith. The man had no bones; his frame sank in, and I was afraid of crushing him. He lay on his back, and smiled at me; and I begged his pardon. ' Now this affair made a noise at the time, and redounded so much to my credit, that I was deeply grieved at it, because deserving none. For I do like a good strife and struggle; and the doubt makes the joy of victory; where- as in this case, I might as well have been sent for a match with a hay-mow. However, I got my hundred pounds, and made up my mind to spend every farthing in presents | for mother and Lorna. For Annie was married by this time, and long before I i went away; as need scarcely be said, perhaps; 3 any one! follows the weeks and the months. The wedding wasljia quiet enough, except for everybody's good wishes; andr I desire not to dwell upon it, because it grieved me in] many ways. But now that I had tried to hope the very best for dearl Annie, a deeper blow than could have come, even througb| her, awaited me. For after that visit to Cornwall, and wit my prize-money about me, I came on foot from Okehami ton to Oare, so as to save a little sum towards my time o^ marrying. For Lorna' s fortune I would not have; smalj or great I would not have it; only if there were no denying LORNA DOONE 503 lashed and i measured ^reast, and feet across se-quarters. tt tnis man ne mind, 1 all expenses 10 confident , go through hire knows, some clever , water, and i eau-de-vie. , big as they ly one. But t, I resolved s were round put into the ,es; his frame He lay on his mrdon. |nd redounded rieved at it, ^d strife and ctory; where- it for a match | idred pounds, ig in presents [long before I i«; u any one! [wedding was 1 wishes; andl [rieved me in , best for dear! leven through urall, and wit"- ^m Okehamj is my time ol t have; smalj re no denyinj we would devote the whole of it to charitable uses, as Matter Peter Blundell had done; and perhaps the future ages would endeavour to be grateful. Loma and I had settled this question at least twice a day, on the average; and each time with more satisfaction. Now coming into the kitchen with all my cash in my breeches pocket (golden guineas, with an elephant on them, for the stamp of the Guinea Company), I found dear mother most heartily glad to see me safe and sound again — for she had dreaded that giant, and dreamed of him — and she never asked me about the money. Lizzie also was softer, and more gracious than usual; especially when she saw me pour guineas, like peppercorns, into the pudding-basin. But by the way they hung about, I knew that something was gone wrong. 'Where is Loma? ' I asked at length, after trying not to ask it; 'I want her to come, and see my money. She never saw so much before.' ^ 'Alasl' said mother with a heavy sigh; 'she will see a great deal more, I fear; and a deal more than is good for her. Whether you ever see her again will depend upon her nature, John.' 'What do you mean, mother? Have you quarrelled? Why does not Lorna come to me? Am I never to know? * 'Now, John, be not so impatient,' my mother replied, quite calmly, for in truth she was jealous of Lorna, 'you could wait now, very well, John, if it were till this day week, for the coming of your mother, John. And yet your mother is your best friend. Who can ever fill her I place?' s ' Thinking of her future absence, mother turned away I and cried; and the box-iron singed the blanket. 'Now,' said I, being wild by this time; 'Lizzie, you I have a little sense; will you tell me whert is Loma?' 'Tl^e Lady Loma Dugal,' said Lizzie, screwing up her llips as if the title were too grand, 'is gone to London, brother John; and not likely to come back again. We Imust try to get on without her.' 'You little' — [something] I cried, which I dare not Iffrite down here, as all you are too good for such lan- Iguage; but Lizzie's lip provoked me so — 'my Lorna gone, Imy Loma gone ! And without good-bye to me even 1 It ia your spite has sickened her.' 'You are quite mistaken there/ she replied; 'how can 504 LORNA DOONE t!^ i i' folk of low degree have either spite or liking towards the people so far above them? The Lady Loma />ugal is gone, because she could not help herself; and she wept enopt^h to break ten hearts — if hearts are ever broken, Johxi/ 'Darling Lizzie, how good you are!' I cried, without noticing her sneer; 'tell me all about it, dear; tell me every word she said.' 'That will not take long,' said Lizzie, quite as unmoved by soft coaxing as by urgent cursing; 'the lady spoke very little to any one, except indeed to mother, and to Gwenny Carfax; and Gwenny is gone with her, so that the benefit of that is lost. But she left a letter for "poor John," as in charity she called him. How grand she looked, to be sure, with the fine clothes on that were come for her!' 'Where is the letter, you utter vixen! Oh, may you have a husband ! ' 'Who will thresh it out of you, and starve it, and swear it out of you!' was the meaning of my imprecation: but Lizzie, not dreaming as yet of such things, could not understand me, and was rather thankful; therefore she answered quietly, — 'The letter is in the little cupboard, near the head ot Lady Lorna's bed, where she used to keep the diamond necklace, which we contrived to get stolen.* Without another word I rushed (so that every board in the house shook) up to my lost Lorna's room, and tore the little wall-niche open and espied my treasure. It was as simple, and as homely, and loving, as even I could wish. Part of it ran as follows, — the other parts it behoves me not to open out to strangers: — 'My own love, and sometime lord, — ^Take it not amiss t)f me, that even with-j out farewell, I go; for I cannot persuade the men to wait, Jrour return being doubtful. My great-uncle, some grand ord, is awaiting me at Dunster, having fear of venturing too near this Exmoor country. I, who aave been so law- 1 less always, and the child of outlaws, am now to atone I for this, it seems, by living in a court of law, and underl special surveillance (as they call it, I believe) of HisH'trus Majesty's Court of Chancery. My uncle is appointed mypsT^ee guardian and master: and I must live beneath his care,| until I am twenty-one years old. To me this appears dreadful thing, and very unjust, and cruel; for whj should 1 lose my freedom, through heritage of land anc LORNA DOONE 505 yards the j?ugal is she wept ir broken, I, without r; tell me 3 unmoved spoke very to Gwenny the benefit John," as Dked, to be le for her!' i, may you :, and swear nprecation : s, could not tierefore she gold? I offered to abandon all if they ' ould only let me go; I went dov/n on my knees to them, and said I wanted titles not, neither land, nor money; only to stay where I was, where first I had known happiness. But they only laughed and called me "child," and said I must talk of that to the King's High Chancellor. Their orders they had, and must obey tnem; and Master Stickles was ordered too, to help as the King's Commissioner. And then, although it pierred my heart not to say one "good- bye, John," I was glad upon the whole that you were not here to dispute it. For I am almost certain that you would not, without force to yourself, have let your Lorna go to people who never, never can care for her.' Here my darling had wept again, by the tokens on the paper; and then there followed some sweet words, too sweet for me to chatter them. But she finished with these noble lines, which (being common to all humanity, in a case of steadfast love) I do no harm, but rather help all true love by repeating. 'Of one thing rest you well assured — and I do nope that it may prove of service to your rest, love, else would my own be broken — no differ- ence of rank, or fortune, or di life itself, shall ever make me swerve from truth to you. We have passed through many troubles, dangers, and dispartments, but never yet was doubt between us; neither ever shall be. Each has trusted well the other; and still each must do so. Though they tell you I am false, though your own mind harbours it, from the sense of things around, and your own under- valuing, yet take counsel of your heart, and cast such thoughts away from you; being unworthy of itself they must be unworthy also of the one who dwells there; and I that one is, and ever shall be, your own Lorna Dugal.' Some people cannot understand that tears should come I from pleasure; but whether from pleasure or from sorrow (mixed as they are in the twisted strings of a man's heart, lor a woman's), great tears fell from my stupid eyes, even |on the blots of Lorna' s. 'No doubt it is all over,' my mind said to me bitterly; I'trust me, all shall yet be right/ my heart replied very Isweetly. -yd r o^i^' ? -i-oh-rr •■'.■»':' bit-' ;:■;-•• m M I r • I 506 LORNA DOONE n :;>'^ (i CHAPTER LX t ANNIE LUCKIER THAN JOHN Some people may look down upon us for our slavish ways (as they may choose to call them), but in our part of the country, we do love to mention title, and to roll it on our tongues, with a conscience and a comfort. Even if a man knows not, through fault of education, who the Duke of this is, or the Earl of that, it will never do for him to say so, lest the room look down on him. Therefore he must nod his head, and say, 'Ah, to be sure ! I know him as well as ever I know my own good woman's brother. He married Lord Flipflap's second daughter, and a precious life she led him.' Whereupon the room looks up at him. But I, being quite unable to carry all this in my head, as 1 ought, was speedily put down by people of a noble ten- dency, apt at Lords, and pat with Dukes, and knowing more about the King than His Majesty would have re- quested. Therefore, I fell back in thought, not daring in words to do so, upon the titles of our horses. And all these horses deserved tneir names, not having merely inherited, but by their own doing earned them. Smiler, for instance, had been so called, not so much from a habit of smiling, as from his general geniality, white nose, and white ankle. This worthy horse was now in years, but hale and gay as ever; and when you let him out of the stable, hei could neigh and whinny, and make men and horses know { it. On the other hand, Kickums was a horse of morose] and surly order; harbouring up revenge, and leading a rider to false confidence, very smoothly he would go,j and as gentle as a turtle>dove; until his rider fully be- lieved that a pack-thread was enough for him, and a I pat of approval upon his neck the aim i\nd crowc. of hisl wo'thy life. Then suddenly up went his hind feet tcl he wen, and the rider for the most part flew over hisl nost ; whereupon good Kickums would take advantage ofj his favourable position to come and bite a piece out of back. Now in my present state of mind, being under-] Btond of nobody, having none to bear me company LORNA DOONE 507 jlavish ways : part of the oil it on our ^en if a man the Duke of D for him to Therefore he 1 I know him brother. He id a precious cs up at him. i my head, as f a noble ten- and knowing ould have re- not daring in And all these ely inherited, for instance, lit of smiling, 1 white ankle. hale and gay lc stable, he . horses know »rse of morose ind leading a he would go, ider fully be- him, and a crowr. of his hind feet to flew over his , advantage ot| ^iece out of his being under- me compan; neither wishing to have any, an indefinite kind of attrac- tion drew me into Kickum's society. A bond of mutual sympathy was soon established between us: I would ride no other horse, neither Kickums be ridden by any other man. And this good horse became as jealous about me as a dog might be; and would lash out, or run teeth foremost, at any one who came near him when I was on his back. This season, the reaping of the com, which bad been hut a yeat ago so pleasant and so lightsome, was become a heavy labour, and a thing for grumbling rather than for gladness. However, for the sake of all, it must be attended to, and with as fair a show of spirit and alacrity as might be. For otherwise the rest would drag, and drop their hands and idle, being quicker to take infection of dullness than of diligence. And the harvest was a heavy one, even heavie^r than the year before, although of poorer quality. Therefore was I forced to work as hard as any horse could during all the daylight hours, and defer till night the brooding upon my misfortune. But the darkness always found me stiff with work, and weary, and less able to think than to dream, may be, of Loma. And now the house was so dull and lonesome, wanting Annie's pretty presence, and the light of Loma's eyes, that aid for it? L need not /ant with a small bed, four-poster. •8? I never 1 the dairy.' id you want xying— 'V^^ you have no [ I have not ,rou come to tear* always LI not quarrel t to me; and very pretty, , without my id for all this, sUity of char- but when my lurishes, who to sec these look at the ^r kissing tad ffor the time Iwith gold all le comers; so owes to my I Aiig had been fthe kingdom. 1 King, or for l)r him, ift ^^ a baronetcy, jf have called Ibeen so. But itries few on kits. , I Ireakcd under me very fearfully, having legu not so large as my finger; 'if the chair breaks, Annie, your fear should be. lest the tortoisB-'Shell run into me. Why, it is striped like a viper's loins! I saw some hundreds m London; and very cheap they are. They are made to be sold to the country people, such as you and me, dear; and carefully kept they will last for almost half a year. Now will you come back from your furniture, and listen to my story?' Annie was a hearty dear, and she knew that half my talk was joke, to make light of my worrying. Tbereforfr she took it in good part, as I well knew that she would do; and she led me to a good honest chair; and she sat in my Up and kissed me. 'AU this is not like you, John. All this is not one bit like you : and your cheeks are not as they ought to be, I shall have to come home again, if the women worry my brother so. We always held together, John; and we always will, you know.^ 'You dear, I ( cried, 'there is nobody who understands me as you do. J-orna makes too much of me, and the rest they make too little.' 'Not mother; oh, not mother, John!' 'No, mother makes too much, no doubt; but wants it all for herself alone; and reckons it as a part of her, She makes mo more wroth than any one : as if not only my life, but all my head and heart must seek from hers, and have no other thought or care.' Being sped of my grumbling thus, and eased into better temper, I told Annie all the strange history about Loma land her departure, and the amall chance that now re- Imained to me of ever seeing my love ag[ain. To this Annie would not hearken twice, but judging women by her pithful self, was quite vexed with me for speaking so. And then, to my surprise and sorrow, she would deliver bo opinion as to what I ought to do until she had con^ wlted darling Ibm. Dear Tom Knev*r much of the world, no doubt, especially le dark side of it. But to me it scarcely seemed becoming iat my course of action with regard to the I^ady Loma )ugal should be referred to Tom raggus, and depend upon is decision. However, I would not grieve Annie again making light of her husband; and so when he came m dinner, the matter waa laid before him. r Now this man never confessed himself gurpriscd, undefr m r 5« LORNA DOONE any circumstances; his knowledge ol life being so pro- found, and his charity universal. And in the present case he vowed that he had suspected it all along, and could have thrown light upon Loma's history, if we had seen fit to apply to him. Upon further inquiry I found that this light was a very dim one, flowing only from the fact that he had stopped her mother's coach, at the village of Bolham, on the Bampton Road, the day before I saw them. Finding only women therein, and these in a sad condition, Tom with his usual chivalry (as he had no I scent of the necklace) allowed them to pass; with nothing more than a pleasant exchange of courtesies, and a testi- monial forced upon him, in the shape of a bottle of Burgundy wine. This the poor countess handed him; and he twisted tihe cork out with his teeth, and drank her| health with his hat off. ' *A lady she was, and a true one; and I am a pretty] good judge,' said Tom: 'ah, I do like a high lady I' Our Annie looked rather queer at this, having no pre-i tensions to be one : but she conquered herself, and saidj *Yes, Tom; and many of them liked you* With this, Tom went on 'the brag at once, being but shallow fellow, and not of settled principles, though steadier than he used to be; until I felt myself almosll bound to fetch him back a little; for of all things I do hat J brag the most, as any reader of this tale must by thij time know. Therefore I said to Squire Faggus, 'Come bad from your highway days. You have married the daughtej of an honest man; and such talk is not fit for her. If yo( were right in robbing people, I am right in robbing you. could bind you to your own mantelpiece, as you knov thoroughly well, Tom; and drive away with your owj horses, and all your goods behind them, but for the sens of honesty. And should I not do as fine a thing as an] you did on the highway? If ever5rthing is of public righf how does this chair belong to you? Clever as you arj Tom Faggus, you are nothing but a fool to mix you felony with your farmership. Drop the one, or drop tt ether; you cannot maintain them both.' — - - ' " As I finished very sternly a speech which had exhauste me more than ten rounds of wrestling — but I was carri^ away by the truth, as sometimes happens to all of us Tom had not a word to say; albeit his mind was so mud niore nimble and rapid than ever mine was. He leand LORNA DOONE 513 sing so pro- present case T, and could we bad seen I found that against the mantelpiece (a newly^invented affair in his liouse) as if I had corded him to it, even as I spoke of doing. And he laid one hand on his breast in a way which made Annie creep softly to him, and look at me not like a sister. 'You have done me good, John,' he said at last, and the hand he gave me was trembling: 'there is no other :rom the fact iiiian on God's earth would have dared to speak to me as the village of lyou have done. From no other would I have taken it. before I saw Ijjgyertiielgsg every word is true; and I shall dwell on it lese in a saxll^jien you are gone. If you never did good in your life ls he bad no Ijjefore, John, my brottier, you have done it now.' with nothing ■ He turned away, in bitter pain, that none might see his 3, and a testi-ltjouble; and Annie, going along with him, looked as if I f a bottle ojihad killed rur mother. For my part, I was so upset, for ided him; andljgaii Qf having gone too far, that without a word to either ,nd drank herK,f them, but a message on the titie-page of King James 'Ibis Prayer-book, I saddled Kickums, and was off, and [ am a prettyfcj^j ^f ^^ moorland air again, ghlady!' tiaving no pre rself , and said ce, being but Lciples. thoug] myself almos' ings I do hat must by thii us, 'Come bac' ;d the daughtei for her. Ifyo robbing you CHAPTER LXI THEREFORE HE SEEKS COMFORT was for poor Annie's sake that I had spoken my mind her husband so freely, and even harshly. For we all ew she would break her heart, if Tom took to evil ways in. And the right mode of preventing this was, not coax, and flatter, and make a hero of him (which he _ Jd f or himself, quite sufi&ciently), but to set before him , as you ^^°m folly of the thing, and the ruin to his own interests, ith your o^lThey would both be vexed with me, of course, for having t for the sensp^ them so hastily, and especially just before dinner- a thing as anm^g. but that would soon wear off; and most likely they of public rignjoui^j come to see mother, and tell her that I was hard to er as you ^^^mnage, and they could feel for her about it. il to mix yojNow with a certain yearning, I know not what, for e, or drop ^^tness, and for one who could understand me — ^for liple as a child though being, I found few to do that last, had exhaustj j^jjy ^.^^^ ^ ^^y love-time — I relied upon Kickum's t I was carrmgjjg^ ^ ^^^ ^^^ round by Dulverton. It would make to all 01 usjg journey some eight miles longer, but what was that to d was so mujijrigjj young horse, even with my weight upon him? as. He leanf ^.o/ "^ a •I \ i 514 LORNA DOONE And having left Squire Faggus and Annie much sooner than had been intended, I had plenty of time before me, and too much, ere a prospect of dinner. Therefore I struck to the right, across the hills, for Dulverton. Pretty Ruth was in the main street of the town, with a basket in her hand, going home from thei market. 'Why, Cousin Ruth, you are grown,' I exclaimed; 'I I do believe you are, Ruth. And you were almost too tail,] already.' At this the little thing was so pleased, that she smiled] through her blushes beautifully, and must needs come to| shake hands with me; though I signed to her not to dc it, because of my horse's temper. But scarcely was he: hand in mine, when Kickums turned like an eel upon her,| and caught her by the left arm with his teeth, so that she screamed with agony. I saw the white of his vicious eyej and struck him there with all my force, with my left hanc over her right arm, and he never used that eye again] none the less he kept his hold on her. Then I smote hii again on the jaw, and caught the little maid up by heJ right hand, and laid her on the saddle in front of me] while the horse being giddy and staggered with blows) and foiled of his spite, ran backward. Ruth's wits weJ gone; and she lay before me, in such a helpless and sensej less way that I could have killed vile Kickums. I strucf the spurs into him past the rowels, and away he went al full gallop; while I had enough to do to hold on, with thj little girl lying in front of me. But I called to the mej who were nocking around, to send up a surgeon, as quicj as could be, to Master Reuben Huckaback's. The moment I brought my right arm to bear, vicious horse had no chance with me; and if ever a hoi was well paid for spite, Kickums had his change l^t da]| The bridle would almost have held a whale and I drel on it so that his lower jaw was wellnigh broken horn hii while with both spurs I tore his flanks, and he learned | little lesson. There are times when a man is more vicioij than any horse may vie with. Therefore by -^e time had reached Uncle Reuben's house at the top of the hi| the bad horse was only too happy to stop; every stri of his body was trembling, and his head hanging do^ with impotence. I leaped from his back at once, carried the maiden into her own sweet room.:t^^v s! Luch sooner before me, Xberefore 1 verton. the town, J from the LORNA DOONE 315 Now Cousin Ruth was recovering softly from her fright and laintness; and the volley of the wind from galloping so had made her little ears quite pink, and shaken her locks all round her. But any one who might wish to see a comely sight and a moving one, need only have looked at Ruth Huckaback, when she learned (and imagined jcclaimed; 'iBy^*^ more than it was) the manner of her little ride with mst too tall, ■ III®* ^®^ ^^^ ^^^ ®^ ^ hazel-brown, and full of waving '■readiness; and with no concealment of the trick, she t she smiledB spread it over her eyes and face. Being so delighted with eeds come toBiier, and so glad to see her safe, I kissed her through the ^r not to doB^ck of it, as a cousin has a right to do; yea, and ought ^to do, with gravity. 'Darling,' I said; 'he has bitten you dreadfully: show me your poor arm, dear.' She pulled up her sleeve in the simplest manner, rather |to look at it herself, than to show me where the wound s. Her sleeve was of dark blue Taunton staple; and ler white arm shone, coming out of it, as round and ilump and velvety, as a stalk of asparagus, newly fetched t of the ground. But above the curved soft elbow, where I room was for one cross word (according to our pro- rb),* three sad gashes, edged with crimson, spoiled the low of the pearly flesh. My presence of mind was lost ogether; and I raised the poor sore arm to my lips, both stop the bleeding and to take the venom out, having ^^ ard now wise it was, and thinking of my mother. But Il^to ^e ine^^^» *o my great amazement, drew away from me in ^fxn aa QuicB^^r haste, as if I had been inserting instead of extract- ig poison. For the bite of a horse is most venomous; lecially when he sheds his teeth; and far more to be red than the bite of a dog, or even of a cat. And in my te I had forgotten that Ruth might not know a word ut this, and might doubt about my meaning, and the mth of my osculation. But knowing her danger, I st not heed her childishness, or her feelings. Don't be a fool. Cousin Ruth,' I said, catching her so ^ _ It she could not move; *the poison is soaking into you. ^n*S S^bi^y^^ think that I do it for pleasure?' '^ every 8tr»^^® spread of shame on her face was such, when she hanffine dovB^ ^^^ o^'^ misunderstanding, that I was ashamed to at once, cely was he eel upon her bi, so that sh s vicious eye my left han at eye again 1 1 smote bin lid up by hei front of me d with blows ^'s wits wer ess and sens urns. I struc ay he went a ' on, with tbi f)k at her; and occupied myself with drawing all the * A maid with an elbow sharp, or knee. Hath croes words two, out of every tnree. 1 ' 1 1 ; 1 1 H V:!' a . 3X6 LORNA DOONE risk of glanders forth from the white limb, hanging help- less now, and left entirely to my will. Before I was quite sure of having wholly exhausted suction, and when I had made the holes in her arm look like the Kills of a lamprey, in came the doctor, partly drunk, and in haste to get through his business. 'Ha, ha! I see,' he cried; 'bite of a horse, they tell me. Very poisonous; must be burned away. Sally, the iron in -tiie fire. If you have a fire, this weather.' 'Crave your pardon, good sir,' I said; for poor little Ruth was fainting again at his savage orders: 'but my cousin's arm shaU not be burned; it is a great deal too pretty, and I have sucked all the poison out. Look, sir,| how clean and fresh it is.' 'Bless my heart! And so it is! No need at all foi cauterising. The epidermis will close over, and the cuti and the pellis. Jonn Ridd, you ought to have studie< medicine, with your healing powers. Half my virtue He: in touch. A clean and wholesome body, sir; I have taugh you the Latin grammar. I leave you in excellent handsi my dear, and they wait for me at shovel-board. Breac and water poultice cold, to be renewed, tribus horisi John Ridd, I was at school with you, and you beat mi very lamentably, when I tried to fight witn you. Yo remember me not? It is likely enough: I am forced t take strong waters, John, from infirmity of the live Attend to my directions; and I will call again in ti morning.' And in that melancholy plight, caring nothing for bus ness, went one of the cleverest fellows ever known ; Tiverton. He could write Latin verses a great deal fast than I could ever write English prose, and nothing seem too great for him. We thought that he would go Oxford and astonish every one, and write in tiie style Buchanan; but he fell all^ abroad very lamentably; ai now, when I met him again, was come down to push-pi and shovel-board, with a wager of spirits pending. When Master Huckaback came home, he looked at very sulkily; not only becanse of my refusal to become slave to the gold-digging, but also because he regard me as the cause of a savage broS between Simon Carf; and the men who had cheated h3m as to his Gwen However, when Uncle Ben saw Ruth, and knew what h befallen her, and she With tears in her eyes declared I L alo 'n ;, hanging help- :ore I was quite ind when I had I-ORNA DOONE '^Sott^«:%^°-« Kidd. the oid „.an be "'" 1^ poor J^t^oulte^^rbrar^-*^^^^^^ rders: 'but mv|'"^j'ne that I must nr>* t '^^^^^t-moon, Ruth ^fl^', great deal t^!" >dea where I S"ght be ^fn?,'"'; '»°the? wartte/^r? .ut. Look. ^^mlfZlfrn^S^^^^^^ ^^^^ . and the cutia'F°°g side of her moua '^ ^^"^ laughter came Wh J have studie*'- especially she lan^'-^^ ^^ ^^t^^er coarsdv «L ^ : my virtue h^^ for c]oth4 orS*^/"^"* Amue's^ew-fS^S Tir^^^^ standing wom»*^/?y«^«d itself, i„ the B^s"^ ™ As.? "B?" r"^."/ :ver known ^Having made poor Ruth ,^tJ?°°°lieht.' ^ """"^ reat deal fast»»unt of all Annie\ 2Li ^^^ cheerful, with ;, ft •• iothingseem»Jon .(of which I hid tSc^l^«' ,?»aterial, patt^^^^S '.j^sir J? Eufev'* *^/y thoSd 2r? ^?t*°i: ^y «othT;. I^i ) his GwennBY« must not tallr iii,« ..v . ..*^. V ^*^™ liaving, she wili and 3 have studiu : my virtue Uei ; I have taughi xcellent handsi -board. Bread , tribus hori^ d you beat mi ith you. Yoi [ am forced ti of the live: 1<#"!! i; ^ I ;- i TT^ r ! I( 1 T 518 LORNA DOONE never let you give her up, for her grandeur, and her nobility.' She pronounced those last few words, as I thought, with a little bitterness, unperccived by herself perhaps, for it was not in her appearance. But I, attaching great | importance to a maiden's opinion about a maiden (he- cause she might judge from experience), would have led I her further into that subject. But she declined to follow, having now no more to say in a matter so removed from her. Then 1 asked her full and straight, and looking at her I in such a manner that she could not look away, withoutl appearing vanquished by feelings of her own — wliich| thing was very vile of me; but all men are so selfish,- 'Dear cousin, tell me, once for all, what is your advice) to me?' 'My advice to you,' she answered bravely, with her dark eyes full of pride, and instead of flinching, foilini; me, — 'is to do what every man must do, if he would wir fair maiden. Since she cannot send you token, neithe^ is free to return to you, follow her, pay your court to herj show that you will not be forgotten; and perhaps she look down — I mean, she will relent to you.* 'She has nothing to relent about. I have never vexed nor injured her. My thoughts have never strayed froi her. There is no one to compare with her.' 'Then keep her in that same mind about you. See now] I can advise no more. My arm is swelUng painfully, spite of all your goodness, and bitter task of surgeonship I shall have another {}oultice on, and go to bed, I tl Cousin Ridd, if vou will not hold me un^ateful. I am sorry for your long walk. Surely it might be avoide Give my love to dear Lizzie : oh, the room is going rounj so.* And she fainted into the arms of Sally, who was cor just in time to fetch her : no doubt she had been sufEei agony all the time she talked to me. Leaving word I would come again to inquire for her, and fetch Kicki home, so soon as the harvest permitted me, I ga\ directions about the horse, and striding away from ancient town, was soon upon the moorlands. Now. through the whole of that long walk — ^tbe latt^ part of which was led by starlight, till the moon aros^ 1 dwelt, in my young and foolish way, upon the order' of our steps by a Power beyond us. But as I could nd LORNA DOONE 519 bring my mind to any clearness upon this matter, and the stars shed no light upon it, but rather confused me with wondering how their Lord could attend to them all, and yet to a puny fool like me, it came to pass that my thoughts on the subject were not worth ink, if I knew them. But it is perhaps worth ink to relate, so far as I can do so, mother's delight at my return, when she had almost abandoned hope, and concluded that I was gone to Lon- don, in disgust at her behaviour. And now she was looking up me lane, at the rise of the harvest-moon, in despair, as she said afterwards. But if she had despaired in truth, what use to look at all? Yet according to the epigram made by a good Blundellite, — Despair was never yet so deep ' In sinking as in seeming ; Despair is hope just dropped asleep For better chance of dreaming. And mother's dream was a happy one, when she knew Imy step at a furlong distant; for the night was ol those [that c^rry sound thnce as far as day can. She recovered herse' when she was sure, and even made up her mind Ito scv -.ne, and felt as if she could do it. But when she Iwas in my arms, into which she threw herself, and I by Ithe light of the moon descried the silver gleam on one lade of her head (now spreading since Annie's departure), Ibless my heart and yours therewith, no room was left lor scolding. She hugged me, and she clung to me; and ll looked at her, with duty made tenfold, and discharged ly love. We said nothing to one another; but all was right between us. Even Lizzie behaved very well, so far as her nature imitted; not even saying a nasty thing all the time she IS getting my supper ready, with a weak imitation of inie. She knew that the gift of cooking was not vouch- fed by God to her; but sometimes she would do her st, by intellect to win it. Whereas it is no more to be m by intellect than is divine poetry. An amount of rong (^uick heart is needful, and the understanding must cond it, in the one art as in the otiber. Now my fare IS very choice for the next three days or more; yet. not ned out like Annie's. They couid do a thing well V 'A Jil r*' 520 LORNA DOONE enough on the fire; but iney could not put it on table so; nor even have plates all piping hot. This was Annie's special gift; bom in her, and ready to cool with her; like a plate borne away from the fireplace. I sighed some- times about Loma, and they thought it was about the plates. And mother would stand and look at me, as much as to say, 'No pleasing him'; and Lizzie would jerk up one shoulder, and cry, 'He had better have Loma to cook for him'; while the whole truth was that I wanted not to be plagued about any cookery; but just to have something good and quiet, and then smoke and tiink about Lorna. • Nevertheless the time went on, with one change and another; and we gathered all our harvest in; and Parson Bowden thanked God for it, both in church and out of it; for his tithes would be very goodly. The unmatched cold of the previous winter, and general fear of scarcity, and our own talk about our ruin, had sent prices up to grand high pitch; and we did our best to keep them thereJ For nine Englishmen out of every ten beUeve that a bitteq winter must bieed » sour summer, and explain away topmost prices. While according tc my expenence, mor^ often it would be otherwise, except for the public thinkinfl so. However I have said too much; and if any farmej reads my book, he will vow that I wrote it for nothinj else except to rob his family. in lip;-- II CHAPTER LXII ; . THE KING MUST NOT BE PP^viji) pQR All our neighbourhood was surprised that the Doone had not ere now attacked, and probably made an end us. For we lay al'nost at their mercy now, having onlj Sergeant Bloxham. and three men, to protect us, Capl Stickles having been ordered southwards with all force; except such as might be needful for collecting toll and watchmg the imports at Lynmouth, and thence i Porlock. The Sergeant, having now imbibed a taste i\ writing reports (though his first great effort had done no good, and only offended Stickles), reported weekly fi Plover's Barrows, whenever he could find a messenge n ir Jo S< in dj ju |ri( m LORNA DOONE 521 And though we fed not Sergeant Bloxham at our own table, with the best we had (as in the case of Stickles, who represented His Majesty), yet we treated him so well, that he reported very highly of us, as loyal and true- hearted lieges, and most devoted to our lord the King. And indeed he could scarcely have done less, when Lizzie wrote great part of his reports, and furbished up the rest to such a pitch of lustre, that Lord Clarendon himself need scarce have been ashamed ot them. And though this cost a great deal of ale, and even of strong waters (for Lizzie would nave it the duty of a critic to stand treat to the author), and though it was otherwise a plague, as giving the maid such airs of patronage, and such pre- tence to politics; yet there was no stopping it, without the risk of mortal offence to both writer and reviewer. Our mother also, ivhile disapproving L'zzie's long stay in the saddle-room on a Friday night and a Saturday, and insisting that Betty should be there, was nevertheless as proud as need be, that the King should read our Eliza's writings — at least so the innocent soul beUeved — and we all looked forward to something great as the fruit of all this history. And something great did come of it, though [not as we expected; for these reports, or as many of them as were ever opened, stood us in good stead the next year, when we were accused of harbouring and comforting Iguilty rebels. ■•'■■'■■ ■ ;»»> -.^j^ - yci'^i-v Now the reason why the Doones did not attack us was jthat they were preparing to meet another and more powerful assault uoon their fortress; being assured that I their repulse of King's troops could not be looked over lyhen brought before the authorities. And no doubt I they were nght; for although the conflicts in the Govern- ment during that summer and autumn had delayed the matter, yet positive orders had been issued that these outlaws and malefactors should at any price be brought to justice; when the sudden death, of King Charles the Second tiirew all things into confusion, and all minds I into a panic. . ,| » .^ .i^m^v We heard of it first in church, on Sunday, the eighth Iday of February, 1684-5, from a cousin of John Fry, who had ridden over on purpose from Porlock. He came in just before the anthem, splashed and heated from hvA ride, 80 that every one turned and looked at him. Ho Iwanted to create a itir (knowing how much would be 'M 522 LORNA DOONE ; I /'Un- made of him), and he took the best way to do it. For he let the anthem go by very quietly— or rather I should say very pleasingly, for our choir was exceeding proud of itself, and I sang bass twice as loud as a bull, to beat the clerk with the clarionet — and then just as Parson Bowden, with a look of pride .t his minstrels, was kneel- ing down to begin the prayer for the King's Most Excel- lent Majesty (for he never read the litany, except upon Easter Sunday), up jumps young Sam Fry, and shouts,— 'I forbid that there prai-er.' 'What!' cried the parson, rising slowly, and looking for some one to shut the door : 'have we a rebel in the congregation?' For the parson was growing short-sighted now, and knew not Sam Fry at that distance. 'No,' repUed Sam, not a whit abashed by the staring of all the parish; 'no rebel, parson; but a man who mis- laiketh popery and murder. That there prai-er be a prai-er for the dead.' 'Nay,' cried the parson, now recognising and knowing him to be our John's first cousin, 'you do not mean to say, Sam, ^at His Gracious Majesty is dead ! ' 'Dead as a sto-un : poisoned by tney Papishers.* And Sam rubbed his hands with enjoyment, at the effect he had produced. 'Remember where you are, Sam,' said Parson Bowden solemnly; 'when did this most sad thing happen? The King is the head of the Church, Sam Fry; when did he leave her?' 'Day afore yesterday. Twelve o'clock. Warn't us| quick to hear of 'un?' 'Can't be,' said the minister; 'the tidings can neverj have come so soon. Anyhow, he will want it all the! more. Let us pray for His Gracious Majesty.* And with that he proceeded as usual; but nobody criedj 'Amen,' for fear of being entangled with Popery. Bu after giving forth his text, our parson said a few wordi out of book, about the many virtues of His Majesty, am self-denial, and devotion, comparing his pious mirth t the dancing of the patriarch David before tiie ark of tb< covenant; and he added, with some severity, that if h flock would not join their pastor (who was much mon likely to judge anght) in praying for the King, the leas they could do on returning home was to pray tiiat tb King might not be dead, as his enemies bad asserted. LORNA DOONE 523 Now when the service was over, we killed the King, and we brought him to life, at least fifty times in the churchyard : and Sam Fry was mounted on a high grave- stone, to tell every one all ho knew of it. But he knew no more than he had told us in the church, as before repeated : upon which we were much disappointed with him, and inclined to disbelieve him; until he happily remembered that His Majesty had died in great pain, with blue spots on his breast and black spots all across his back, and these in the form of a cross, by reason of Papists having poisoned him. When Sam called this to his remembrance (or to his imagination) he was over- whelmed, at once, with so many invitations to dinner, that he scarce knew which of them to accept; but decided in our favour. Grieving much for the loss of the King, however greatly it might be (as the parson had declared it was, while tell- I ing us to pray against it) for the royal benefit, I resolved to ride to Porlock myself, directly after dinner, and make sure whether he were dead, or not. For it was not by any means hard to suppose that Sam Fry, being John's first cousin, might have inherited either from grandfather or grandmother some of those gifts which had made our John so famous for mendacity. At Porlock I found that it was too true; and the women of the town were in great distress, for the King had always been popular with them : the men, on the other hand, were forecasting what Iwould be likely to ensue. And I myself was of this number, riding sadly home lagain; although bound to the King as churchwarden now; I which dignity, next to the parson's in rank, is with us (as it ought to be in every good parish) hereditary. For Iwho can stick to the church like the man whose father [stuck to it before him; and who knows all the little ins, land great outs, which must in these troublous times Icome across? But though appointed at last, by virtue of being best Ifaraier in the parish (as well as by vice of mismanage- Iment on the part of my mother, ana Nicholas Snowe, who Ihad thoroughly muxed up everything, being too quick- Iheaded); yet, while I dwelled with pride upon the fact ■that I stood in the King's shoes, as the manager and Ipromoter of the Church of England, and I knew that we Iniust miss His Majesty (whose arms were above the ^i t\ t i It i. ii' p 'f} 5H LORNA DOONE Commandments), as the leader of our thoughts in church, and handsome upon a guinea: nevertheless I kept on thinking how his death would act on me. And here I saw it, many ways. In the first place, troubles must break out; and we had eight-and-tweuty ricks; counting grain, and straw, and hay. Moreover, I mother was growing weak about riots, and shooting, and burning; and she gathered the bed-clothes around her ears every night, when her feet were tucked up; and prayed not to awake until morning. In the next place, much rebellion (though we would not own it; in either sense of the verb, to 'own') was whispering, and plucking skirts, and making signs, among us. And the terror of the Doones helped greatly; as a fruitful tree of lawless- ness, and a good excuse for everybody. And after this— or rather before it, and first of all indeed (if I mi^pt state! the true order) — ^arose upon me the thought of Loma,| and how these things would affect her fate. And indeed I must admit that it had occurred to mel sometimes, or been suggested by others, that the Ladyl Loma had not behaved altogether kindly, since her del parture from among us. For although in those days thel post (as we call the service of letter-carrying, which nowl comes within twenty miles of us) did not extend to our| part of the world, yet it might have been possible tc procure for hire a man who would ride post, if Luma feared to trust the pack-horses, or the troopers, who went to and fro. Yet no message whatever had reache us; neither any token even of her safety in Loni/on. A3 to this last, however, we had no misgivings, having learned from the orderlies, more than once, that the wealth, and beauty, and adventures of young Lady Loma Dugal were greatly talked of, both at court and among the common people. Now riding sadly homewards, in the sunset of the early spring, I was more than ever touched with sorrow, and a sense of being, as it were, abandoned. And the weatheii growing quite beautiful, and so mild that the trees werj budding, and the cattle full of happiness, I could not bupLil think of the difference between me world of to-day and the world of this day twelvemonth. Then all was howlind desolation, all the earth blocked up with snow, and all the air with barbs of ice as small as splintered needles] yet glittering, in and out, like stars, and gathering LORNA DOONE 525 upon a man (if long he stayed among them) that they began to weigh him down to sleepiness and frozen death. Not a sign of life was moving, nor was any change of view; unless the wild wind siruck the crest of some cold drift, and bowed it. : j : Now, on the other hand, all was good. The open palm of spring was laid upon the yielding of the hills; and each particular valley seemed to be the glove for a finger. And although the sun was low, and dipping in the western clouds, the gray light of the sea came up, a«id took, and taking, told the special tone of everythmg. All this lay upon my heart, without a word of thinking, spreading light and shadow there, and the soft dehght of sadness. Nevertheless, I would it were the savage snow around me, and the piping of the restless winds, and the death of everything. For in those days I had Loma. Then I thought of promise fair; such as glowed around me, where the red rocks held the sun, when he was de- parted; and the distant crags endeavoured to retain his I memory. But as evening spread across them, shading with a silent fold, all the colour stole away; all remem- Ibrance waned and died. 1-9- t- *So it has been with love,' I thought, 'and with simple I truth and wsomth. The maid has chosen the glittenng [stars, instead of the plain dayhght.' Nevertheless I would not give in, although in deep I despondency (especially when I passed the place where my dear father had fought in vain), and I tried to see things right and then judge aright about them. This, I however, was more easy to attempt than to achieve; and by the time I came down the hill, I was none the wi. ,r. Only I could tell my mother that the King was dead for ■sure; and she would have tried to cry, but for thought |of her mourning. ;>« ;j h; .i7 v There was not a moment for lamenting. All the Imouming must be ready (if we cared to beat the Snowes) lin eight-and-forty hours: and, although it was Sunday Inight, mother now feeling sure of the thing, sat up with iLizzie, cutting patterns, and stitching things on brown Ipaper, and smpping, and laying the fashions down, and requesting all opinions, yet when given, scorning them; ^somuch that I grew weary even oi tobacco (which had comforted me lince Lorna), and pmyed her to go on itil the liing ihould be aUve again.. n * 526 LORNA DOONE The thought of that so flurried her — ^for she never yet could see a joke — that she laid her scissors on the table and said, 'The Lord forbid, John I after what I have cut up!' 'It would be just Hke him,' I answered, with a knowing smile : 'Mother, you had better stop. Patterns may do very well; but don't cut up any more good stufE.' 'Well, good lack, I am a fooll Three tables pegged with needles I The Lord in His mere/ keep His Majesty, if ever He hath gotten him ! ' By this device we went to bed; and not another stitc was struck until the troopers had office-tidings that th King was truly dead. Hence the Snowes beat us by day; and both old Betty and Lizzie laid the blame upo me, as usual. Almost before we had put o£F the mourning, which loyal subjects we kept for the King three months ?' 1 week; rumours of disturbances, of plottings, and of out break began to stir among us. We heard of flghting Scotland, and buying of ships on the continent, and arms in Dorset and Somerset; and we k^^pt our beacoi in readiness to give signals of a landing; or rather soldiers did. For we, having trustworthy reports th; the King had been to high mass himself in the Abbey Westminster, making all the bishops go with him, all the guards in London, and then tortured all Protestants who dared to wait outside, moreover had ceived from the Pope a flower grown in the Virgin Mary garden, and warranted to last for evisr, we of the modera' party, hearing all this and ten times as much, and ha no love for this sour James, such as we had for the livi Charles, were ready to wait for what might happen, rathi than care about stopping it. Therefore we listened ^J)^ rumours gladly, and shook our heads with gravity, predicted, every man something, but scarce any two same. Nevertheless, in our part, things went on as usui until the middle of June was nigh. We ploughed ground, and sowed the com, and tended the cattle, heeded every one his neighbour's business, as caref us heretofore; and the omy thing that moved us m was that Annie had a baby. This being a very fine c^ with blue eyes, sud christened 'John' in compliment me, and wiih. m« for his godfather, it is natural to s pose that I thought a good deal about him; and wl g n< D bl th L( th CI 1 r ;r o< y T cr it on llthi LORNA DOONE 5^7 mother or Lizzie would ask me, all of a sudden, and treacherously, when the fire flared up at supper-time (for we always kept a little wood just alight in summer-time, and enough to make the pot boil), then when they would say to me, 'John, what are you thinking of? At a word, speak!* I would always answer, 'Little John Faggus'; and so they made no more of me. But when I was down, on Saturday the thirteenth of June, at the blacksmith's forge by Brendon town, where the Lynn-stream runs so close that he dips his horse- shoes in it, and where the news is apt to come first of all to car neighbourhood (except upon a Sunday), while we were talking of the hay-crop, and of a great sheep-stealer, round the comer came a man upon a piebald horse looking flagged and weary. But seemg half a dozen of us, young, and Drisk, and hearty, he made a flourish with his horse, and waved a blue flag vehemently, shouting with great glory, — : • ' 'Monmouth and the Protestant faith ! Monmouth and no Popery! Monmouth, the good King's eldest son! Down with the poisoning murderer! Down with the black usurper, and to the devil with all papists ! ' 'Why so, thou little varlet?* I asked very quietly; for Ithe man was too small to quarrel with : yet knowing iLoma to be a 'papist,' as we choose to call them — though Ithey might as well call us 'kingists,' after the head of our |Church — I thought that this scurvy scampish kn<*.ve light show them the way to the place he mention 3d, iless his courage failed him. '•'• .«..;- ,. .k^ 'Papist yourself, be you?' said the fellow, not daimg |to answer much: 'then take this, and read it.' And he handed me a long rigmarole, which he called a Declaration' : I saw that it was but a heap of lies, and irust it into the blacksmith's fire and blew the bellows irice at it. No one dared attempt to stop me, for tiiy lood had not been sweet of late; and of course they knew ly strength. The man rode on with a muttering noise, having won no ecruits from us, by force of my example ; and he stopped [t the ale-house farther down, where the road goes away Torn the Lynn-stream. Some of us went thither after a bie, when our horses were shodden and rasped, for llthou^h we mi^ht not like the man, \/e might be glad of ^s tidmgs, which seemed to be something wonderful. I>-.: I l ■' \ ;h h ' r'&T Pfrifi! 528 LORKA DOOKE He bad set up his blue flag in the tap-room, and was teaching every one. 'Here coom'th Maister Jan Kidd/ said the landlady, being well pleased with the call for beer and cider : 'her hath been to Lunnon-town, and live within a maile of me. Arl the news coom from them nowadays, instead of from here, as her ought to do. If Jan Ridd say it be true, I will try almost to belave it. Hath the good Duke landed, sir? ' And she looked at me over a foaming cup, and blew the froth ofE, and put more in. , , ^ , *I have no doubt it is true enough,' I answered, before drinking; 'and too true. Mistress Pugsley. Many a poor man wiU die; but none shall die from our parish, nor from Brendon, if I can help it.' And I knew that I could help it; for every one in those little places would abide by my advice; not only from the fame of my schooling and long sojourn in London, but also because I had earned repute for being very 'slow and sure' : and with nine people out of ten this is the very best recommendation. For t^ey think themselves much before you in wit, and under no obligation, but rather conferring a favour, by doing the thing that you do.| Hence, if I cared for influence — which means, for the most part, making people do one's will, without knowing it— my first step toward it would be to be called, in common parlance, 'slow but sure.* . . v^' For the next fortnight we w daily troubled with conflicting rumours, each man rc:...xng what he desired, rather than what he had right, to believe. We wese told that the Duke had been proclaimed King of England in every town of Dorset and of Somerset; that he had won a great battle at Axminster, and another at Bridport, and! _ another somewhere else; that all the western counties hadBif risen as one man for him, and all the militia had joinedF his ranks; that Taunton, and Bridgwater, and BristoweJ were all mad with delight, the two former being in hisl bands, and the latter craving to be so. And then, on the! other hand, we heard that the Duke had been vanquished,! and put to flight, and upon being ai)prehended, hadi confessed himself an impostor and a papist as bad as the| King was. We longed for Colonel Stickles (as he always became ini time of war, though he fell back to Captam, and eveni Lieutenant, directly the fight was over), for then we shoulcf LORNA DOONE 529 n, and was le landlady, cider: 'her maile of me. :ead of from it be true, good Duke oaming cup, ^rered, before Many a poor ish, nor from ' one in those ^nly from the I Lrondon, but ery 'slow and ' IS is the veryl oaselves much n, but rather] that you do. 5, for the most "knowing it— .a, in common troubled with] at he desired, We wese told jf England in he had won a ;ridport, and counties had ia had joined id Bristowe,! being in his] then, on the . vanquished, •hended, had as bad as the lys became ini ^n, and even| len we sboul< have won trusty news, as well as good consideration. But even Sergeant Bloxham, much against his will, was gone, having left his heart with our Lizzie, and a collec- tion of aU his writings. All the soldiers had been ordered away at full speed for Exeter, to join the Duke of Albe- marle, or if he were gone, to follow him. As for us, who had fed them so long (although not quite for nothing), we must take our chance of Doones, or any other enemies. Now all these tidings moved me a little; not enough to spoil appetite, but enough to make things Uvely, and to teach me that look of wisdom which is bred of practice only, and the hearing of many Ues. Therefore I withheld my judgment, fearing to be triumphed over, if it should happen to miss the mark. But mother and Lizzie, ten times in a day, predicted all they could imagine; and ^eir prophecies increased in strength according to con- tradiction. Yet this was not in the proper style for a house like ours, which knew the news, or at least had known it; and still was famous, all around, for the last advices. Even from Lynmouth, people sent up to Plover's Barrows to ask how things were going on : and it was very grievous to answer that in truth we knew not, neither had heard for days and days; and our reputation was so great, especi- ally smce the death of the King had gone abroad from Oare parish, that many inquirers would only wink, and lay a finger on the lip, as if to say, 'you know well enough, but see not fit to tell me.' And before the end arrived, those people believed that they had been right all along, and Iftiat we ■'lad concealed the truth from -mem. For I myself became involved (God knows how much against my will and my proper judgment) in the troubles, and the conflict, and the cruel work coming afterwards. If ever I had made up my mind to anything m all my life, it was at this particular time, and as stem and _trong as could be. I had resolved to let things pass, — ^to hear about jthem gladly, to encourage all my friends to talk, r :d my- self to express opinion upon each particular point, when in the fullness of time no further doubt could be. But all my policy went for nothing, through a few touches of feeling. One day at the beginning of July, I came home from lowing about noon, or a little later, to fetch some cider all of us, and to eat a morsel of bacon. For mowing as no joke that year, the summer being wonderfully 11 ':h 530 LORNA DOONE wet (even for our wet country), and the swathe falling heavier over the scythe than ever I could remember it. We were drenched with rain almost every day; but the mowing must be done somehow; and we must trust to God for the haymaking. In the courtyard I saw a little cart, with iron brakes underneath it, such as fastidious people use to deaden the jolting of the road; but few men under a lord or baronet would be so particular. Therefore I wondered who our noble visitor could be. But when I entered the kitchen- place, brushing up my hair for somebody, behold it was no one greater than our Annie, with my godson in her arms, and looking pale and tear-begone. And at first she could not speak to me. But presently having sat down a little, and received much praise for her baby, she smiled and blushed, and fotmd her tongue as if she had never gone from us. 'How natural it all looks again! Oh, I love this old kitchen so! Baby dear, only look at it wid him pitty, pitty eyes, and him tongue out of his mousy ! But who put the flour-riddle up there. And look at the pestle and mortar, and rust I declare in the patty pans! And a book, positively a dirty book, where the clean skewers ought to hang! Oh, Lizzie, Lizzie, Lizzie!' ^ou may just as well cease lamenting,' I said, 'for you can't alter Lizzie's nature, and you will only make mother] uncomfortable, and perhaps have a quarrel with Lizzie who is proud as Punch of her housekeeping.* 'She,' cried Annie, with all the contempt that could compressed in a syllable. 'Well, John, no doubt you an right about it. I will try not to notice things. But it is 1 hard thing, after all my care, to see everything going t ruin. But what can be expected of a girl who knows ' the kings of Carthage?' 'There were no kings of Carthage, Annie. They werjv] called, why let me see — they were called— oh, somethinj else.' 'Never mind what they were called,' said Annie; ' they cook our dinner for us? But now, John, I am such trouble. All this talk is make-believe.' 'Don't you cry, my dear : don't cry, my darling sisterj I answered, as she dropped into the worn place of settle, and bent above her infant, rocking as if both the hearts were one.:^ 'don't you know, Annie, I cannot td I k h dc ex be swathe falling remember it. day; but the must trust to :h iron brakes to deaden the )rd or baronet lered who our d the kitchen- behold it was godson in her And at first iving sat down ler baby, she I as if she had [ love this old vid him pitty, isy ! But who at the pestle ty pans! And I clean skewers !' I said, 'for you y make mother] el with Lizzie, LORNA DOONE out 1 know, or at Ipa«f r 53 1 >eis; aad you m„«rll*^'*- Tom has eone nff „.:.u ., "^'^ - - -ro& -r,-^- - -t. the lie. They weij -oh, somethinj CHAPTER LXm far less my deS l^^*^ '«^^« °^ house ai,dh'« '^""'^"^ megilps £00^3 -ther -d Lizzie, at'th^^"-- -^ P not prate ofl^.t^u^'* «^er dwelfi with ,«To *» compare «Press,*^^ut evin' i^"^« 't « Kd Z ?*^*»^ I Kauseldo *^*° fonn to my o^ heart '• "1°'^y *" F". as a th W*„t^P?. "ay face, a^d^wou,d .i-" thoughts; fef^ls^ea^t^at^dUyit^^ttefr^yo^^ * ^ ^°" '''"^•' I •a^'^. to cha«,e th. 532 LORNA DOONE subject, for even to Annie I would not lay open all my heart about Lorna: 'but only upon condition that you ensure this house and people from the Doones meanwhile. Even for the sake of Tom, I cannot leave all helpless. The oat-ricks and the hay-ricks, which are my only love, they are welcome to make cinders of. But I will not have mother treated so; nor even little Lizzie, although you scorn your sister so.* *Oh, John, I do think you are the hardest, as well as the softest of all the men I know. Not even a woman's bitter word but what you pay her out for. Will you never understand that we are not Uke you, John? We say all sorts of spiteful things, without a bit of meaning. John, for God's sake fetch Tom home; and then revile me as you please, and I will kneel and thank you.' 'I will not promise to fetch him home,* I answered, being ashamed of myself for having lost command so: 'but I will promise to do my best, if we can only hit on a plan for leaving mother harmless.* Annie thought for a little while, trying to gather her smooth clear brow into maternal wrinkles, and then she looked at her child, and said, 'I will risk it, for daddv's sake, darling; you precious soul, for daddy's sake.' Ii asked her what she was going to risk. She would not tell me; but took upper hand, and saw to my cider-cans and bacon, and went from comer to cupboard, exactly as if she had never been married; only wifiiout an apron on.f And then she said, 'Now to your mowers, John; and makej the most of this fine afternoon; kiss your godson before] you go.* And I, being used to obey her, in Uttle things of that sort, kissed the baby, and took my ans, and went back to my scythe again. By l^e time 1 came home it was dark night, and pouring again wi'di a foggy rain, such as we have in July, ever more than in January. I'^eing soaked all through, anc through, and with water quelching in my boots, like pump with a bad bucket, I was only too glad to find Annie*s bright face, and quick figure, flitting in and ouj the fireUght, instead of Lizzie sitting grandly, with a feasj of literature, and not a drop of gravy. Mother was in tbj comer also, with her cheery-coloured ribbons glistenin/ very nice by candle-light, looking at Annie now anj then, witib memories of her babyhood; and then at m having a baby: yet half afraid of praising her mucl '"'fear Of th, ^^'"'^''^ ^^ONE jeaJousy.sheTrni''°!'°8 Lizzie. But T ■ ■ "^ gone from usf f„"J''J°^«d our Annie /n^"'!u'*owed no f nd she adorecf^/^* r°t«d to knowfc^*' 'he i^m "•«o;TSE^^°ii?^^' " ^^"- s was to ^o if +K • ? ®"' niisJiicuia +»,«,• u "f tte gJlol^P ^°"- were i'd;i°^3;^ii I Promised . 'Just so; and here i, fh . ^ onslaught she drew forfh = " ™** assurance ' «r-^i Wufflph. S^^^P^P*'. and laid ft o^'^^*^^'^* '-ords suppose wasVeat- n^* ^^azement. Thi,'"^ knee with at her possession of it°* S^'y.at the do^i'ie^, ^^k"" ""^y a formal undertake „/?;: in truth it wm nn .''"* ^''o .attack Plover's BaS"" ""« part of the rL '**" than mmates, or c^ off^"^ ?™' or mol£°V"^- °ot to John Ridd uoSi a , ^^^ <=l»attels, diSnl lu ^^Y of the ?^gned not oX bt t?^'=^' ^"and. ^if -5^ absence of ''oones: wheZer^a^!,, Counsellor, but bv°^"'°ent wi* .say for certain- Ln/?'' »ame were «■«•» ?^°y other iis name of rk^J- '^'^ ^^ would w'-^ '^"uld not W.* (if an^Thad°h ' ^1^ °° v" hel^'? " ""'^e* /n the face of such f ^^ baptized ^°™a say ■refuse to iro- anrt h? • * ^^^ as thi<. f - ,. »e (as wS* oSy &//«'^red ^p^C'^ "o .'onger t was both a cleveTLw"'' *^^ ^'ad pfo^^Z\^^ told •eemed to dip ,*! "° '^ontaKeous a ,.*.'? that paner B»t none ma'y gau^V'^'^*' fniy1,^*i^?^„?o„l/|P^, kfaitt are i^ol^T * '"°'»^'« Power ti^ 1^^^- I The first thim, *;„• , ,. ®° ner love krself look nX Th?= '^'J "ione was fh- f^ed a grefrdeI?'f^oTh°A"" easy"^^^ 'buf^'^^''^ ' 'disguises. It hnrf fc° i^^'' ^lusband i3^ ^?* *e had "^ a fright of heS.^C;;/««ii»gs nofa S t^^ '",''J«=t f Tom, she must hi^"* f^^t could itmZ^^^"^^ ^ ^n now she wm ^ seem1„^^ .Sweater faSf*"?' '-if she »f P, under Bet^ «e?niing. And thenlE i i?v^*™est, -tengme proved to bet'^thrt°|;^„^' !;■■ ^5, ■: 334 LORNA DOONE to any one, except the old man who had driven her from Molland parish that morning, and who coolly took one of our best horses, without 'by your leave' to any one. Annie made the old man drive her within easy reach of the Doone-gate, whose position she knew well enough, from all our talk about it. And there she bade the old man stay, until she should return to him. Then with her comely figure hidden by a dirty old woman's cloak, and her fair young face defaced by patches and by liniments, so that none might covet her, she addressed the young roan at the gate in a cracked and trembling voice; and they were scarcely civil to the 'old hag,' as they called her. She said that she bore important tidings tor Sir Counsellor himself, and must be conducted to him. To him accordingly she was led, without even any hood- winking, for she had spectacles over her eyes, and made believe not to see ten yards. She found Sir Counsellor at home, and when the rest were out of sight, threw oflE all disguise to him, flashing forth as a lovely yonng woman, from all her wraps and disf'S^urements. She flimg her patches on the floor, amid the Old man's laughter, and let her tucked-up hair come down; and then went up and kissed him. 'Worthy and reverend Counsellor, I have a favour to| ask,' she began. 'So I should think from your proceedings,' — the oldl man interrupted — 'ah, if I were haft my age ' 'K you were, I would not sue so. But most excelleni— jg Counsellor, you owe me some amends, you know, for theB/^, way in which you robbed me.' 'Beyond a doubt I do, my dear. You have put it rathe strongly; and it might offend some people. Nevertheles I own my debt, having so fair a creditor.* 'And do you remember how you slept, and how muc we made of you, and would have seen you home, si only you did not wish it?* *And for excellent reasons, child. My best escort w in my cloak, after we made the cream to rise. Ha, ha The unholv spell. My pretty child, has it injured you 'Yes, I fear it has, said Annie; 'or whence can all n ill luck come? ' And here she showed some signs of cry in knowing that Counsellor hated it. pi(] 'You shall not have ill luck, my dear. I have hea all about your marriage to a very noble highwaymaa-j N re a favour to LORNA DOONE Ah, vou m ^ -^^^^A iJOONE «>'«e"'«an an' ^""^ ^ta^wisThr? ''°rthy of a „ "My CbandTar***- '""« ""^^^ ^r ^W'Jf^' "^^* ^ ^i^"^ to'k^X * ^rr-r very -e^s%^er^^"°r answered that he '"" *^ ^°y We) ^ou^d"? ^'°°^ °f us the dLP°''^«^'°". and pfter) UieVoonil J^.''^' "^amp.Fo'T/, f "s own force! acjtemeat. " *°'<* "Pon any V^^hood were only J However An^- i i^^raise of blows anH I™? for it most hearf n " *° some ext J.?^ " ?^'" behalf fccWace; while he Sl^' ^"'l f«Jt thlt hf I'J"'^ "^ank^d r obligation anH '^^ an ancient o^nfTi "^'^ earned the h caA .agai.^°4ff her '^^^'r^TcT^' '^j^'^'aimed F youth restored = i"®' repassing «1 ""^ fafe to her t,"-??!!, went up to ^i?*^ ^^°°^ing^Jt "t!!*'"!,'^' '^itt F hag wishes Lu ^ ^en, grtveTy and* ^■"^'^ of r "^^xCni vr : feTn5° rd- '- ^ Id 'i? » pledget?; tS- ^?° had gX„ ?^ "?* onJy !*' 536 LORNA DOONE .1! *I will answer for her truth as surely as I would for my own or yours, John.' And with that she vanquished me. But when my poor mother heard that I was committed, by word of honour, to a wild-goose chase, among the rebels, after that runagate Tom Faggus, she simply stared, and would not believe it. For lately I had joked with her, in a little style of jerks, as people do when out of sorts; and she, not understanding this, and knowing jokes to be out of my power, would only look, and sigh, and toss, and hope that I meant nothing. At last, how- ever, we convinced her that I was in earnest, and must be off in the early morning, and leave John Fry with the hay crop. Then mother was ready to fall upon Annie, as not content with disgracing us, by wedding a man of new honesty (if indeed of any), but laying traps to catch her brother, and entangle him perhaps to his death, for the sake of a worthless fellow; and 'felon' — she was going to say, as by the shape of her lips I knew. But I laid my hand upon dear mother's lips; because what must be, must be; and if mother and daughter stayed at home, better in love than in quarreUing. Right early in the morning, I was off, without word t any one; knowing that mother and sister mine had crie each her good self to sleep; relenting when the light wa out, and sorry for hard words and thoughts; and yet t much alike in nature to understand each other. Therefor I took good Kicl^ums, who (although with one eye spoile was worth ten sweet-tempered horses, to a man who kne how to manage him; and being well charged both wi bacon and powder, forth I set on my wild-goose chasi For this 1 claim no bravery. I cared but little wh came of it; save for mother's sake, and Annie's, and keeping of the farm, and discomfiture of the Snowes, a lamentmg of Loma at my death, if die I must in a lonj some manner, not found out till afterwards, and bleaci ing bones left to weep over. However, I had a \i kettle* and a pound and a half of tobacco, and two di pipes and a clean one; also a bit of clothes for chani also a brisket of hung venison, and four loaves of fa house bread, and of tne upper side of bacon a stone a half it might be — not to mention divers small th for campaigning, which may come in handily, when one else has gotten them. off thi Ifa Thi it n( hi V ori ow ot n eat 11 anr hiti so, eve vould for my Qquished me. ls committed, ), among the , she simply T I had joked do when out and knowing lok, and sigh, At last, how- 3st, and must Fry with the LORNA DOONB i^W°!5r?y^ffle«y style- mvT. u "' ^ork; noTop^ to'rf"*; with no contelf't^ft^' °«>ntt^ to reckon it WhT. .^^ ""'oodine- or tSL ° "^'^ the discovered, or at^n '=°"^'^i^^^iy^^^^^'' on th*»P f rZT strong as thou do«jf f ir- ^ sieep this muttered snlkilv ^4* even stop a-bed,' the nM four to awaked- pt^h^^ -ever h^^,' ,^th« o^ it went to Bristowe R„f j:!,''^"'^**'-' «^hen 1 thSTlf fw hw nothing aCtwfestiW%I''°P'? '" East sl^e^rt "•I 54a LQRNA DOONE I '5 :!•.*!■ pinched, and with many hairs pulled out, in the midst of my &rst good sleep for a week, but also abused, and taken amiss, and (which vexed me most of all) unknown. Now there is nothing like vanity to keep a man awake at night, however he be weary; and most of all, when he believes that he is doing something great — ^this time, if never done before — ^yet other people will not see, except what they may laugh at; and so oe far above him, and sleep themselves the happier. Therefore their sleep robs his own; for all things play so, in and out (with the godly and ungodly ever moving in a balance, as they have done in my time, almost every year or two), all things have such nice reply of produce to the call for it, and such a spread across the world, giving here and taking there, yet on the whole pretty even, -Siat haply sleep itself has but a certain stock, and keeps in hand, and sells to flat- tered (which can pay) that which flattened vanity cannot pay, and will not sue for. Be that as it may, I was by this time wide awake, though much aggrieved at feeling so, and through the open window heard the distant roll of musketry, and the beating of drums, with a quick rub-a-dub, and the 'come round the comer' of trumpet-call. And perhaps Tom Faggus might be there, and shot at any moment, and my dear Annie left a poor widow, and my godson Jack an orphan, without a tooth to help him. Therefore I reviled myself for all my heavy laziness; and] partly through good honest will, and partly through the stings of pride, and yet a little perhaps by virtue of a young man's love of riot, up I arose, and dressed myself, and woke Kickums (who was snoring), and set out to see the worst of it. The sleepy hostler scratched his poll,! and could not tell me which way to take; what odds tol him who was King, or Pope, so long as he paid his way,! and got a bit of bacon on Sunday? And would I please to remember that I had roused him up at night, anc the quality always made a point of paying four time over for a man's loss of his beauty-sleep. I replied tha^ his loss of beauty-sleep was rather improving to a man of so high complexion; and that I, being none of th^ quality, must pay half-quality prices : and so I gave bin double fee, as became a good farmer; and he was glad ti be quit of Kickums; as I saw by the turn of his eve, whilj going out at the archway. dei mo m w Id "-a* hSh ^ I?",! ^y lanthon, l«ht nuu . ^''^ «*«*»«»'. but ^^^^"^'■"•■^"^^weoft^ ^«^ ^« J«>e; but that asW,°^ "^l^^^' and tte ri^ze^/ ^°ad, Museway) f™ Vifi *°'lowed sound /fe^, X. ® °' moon- •^ith mo^&J^tl^ae? ».'^^*°"*-t^"e in wi 'l«^«« °r stand, and Mn\? • «• Now fog is a th;;^"' touched to our Ewi!.'^^^ ^ad never been brfo« ?! ^ ^°w the and aU thf^Sff ^°8«; not to ^ comn?' ? "'as nothing do iToS f^? S°« '^"''W see the m^?^?? "'>th thZf ..^sft. .. ITT " ' °'™''' ■^ - V£ "Jaid on lanH 1-1 "^ '"road-water natrt,^ ■ "ood. To a fbii*? °'o«ier-of^?fT'^?' "» and out mt. now at ksi Sf ^r^^n ""> ^ouX aSfi *° ^arsh ibe conflict \^h' ^ ^'^ack or passale a^ ^^ '""st be My a br«t!Jr' ** wnnds 5ft i!,'-^'^ approachinc «oon loS i^I^" ^0"id be llid hf?"« °«arer. Snd? .^ P'^ hush, as rf^^*, ^..^a5tog; then S?,.^■ i ': 1 >*',^P*oms before gallop went bv ^^J^^'^^^S. a storm cf l,„ coun&y befor2^'*u ""S. swearine h^- '^°'^^ at full "^ frS S hf^Tv Only a Uttie „„7,"8/T^ay aU the on their heefeV? ^^ f^ ^ could mX !!^/'^^' ^afd under me W; ■ ^™ 'afe, John if tT^® °"* his words- SeeinTihiTS^^ --^J die to^^^^^ have oUy Winnie arVT^- ' -- "^ tthTsie'ebr"^- ^'^^ any hS,, froi his o'rf f «« comnSSil^'"^ t^tV°='etime^ Ikand from one ^ ^^^bling feet in ^."P°° V/SmieS RSsFs"?"-^^^^^ tf,q«niff^i?„«t*^n'dT°'^^"'l t^^^^^^^ :?h'^' ^' pW, as if he fplf +t^ ^''^ pain of his forfs! ^ '"'^ ^yes I God bless vou T^K_. , ^"'^ ^°latile f f '—**'■' 4- 1 l ■ ? j n ♦■JP • -'4 550 LORNA DOONE no doubt, and ought to be thankful to God for the chance. But as for getting away unharmed, with all these scoun- drels about me, and only a foundered horse to trust in — good and spiteful as he is — upon the whole, I begin to think that I have made a fool of myself, according to my habit. No wonder Tom said, "Look out for yourself!" I shall look out from a prison window, or perhaps even out of a halter. And then, what will Lorna think of me?' Being in this wistful mood, I resolved to abide awhile, even where fate had thrown me; for my horse re(juired good rest no doubt, and was taking it even while he cropped, with his hind lejrs far away stretched out, and his forelegs gathered under him, and his muzzle on the mole-hills; so that he had five supportings from his mother earth. Moreover, the linhay itself was full of very ancient cow dung; than which there is no balmier and more maiden soporific. Hence I resolved, upon the whole, though grieving about breakfast, to light a pipe, and go to sleep; or at least until the hot sun should arouse the flies. I may have slept three hours, or four, or it might be even five — ^for I never counted time, while sleeping— when a shaking more rude than the old landlady's, brought me back to the world again. I looked up, with a mighty yawn; and saw twenty, or so, of foot-soldiers. 'This linhay is not yours,' I said, when they had quite aroused me, with tongue, and hand, and even sword- prick: 'what business have you here, good fellows?' 'Business bad for you,' said one, 'and will lead you to the gallows.' 'Do you wish to know the way out again?' I asked, very quietly, as being no braggadocio. 'We will show thee the way out,' said one, 'and the I way out of the world,' said another: 'but not the way to heaven,' said one chap, most unlikely to know it: and thereupon they all fell wagging, like a bed of clover leaves] in the morning, at their own choice humour. 'Will you pue your arms outside,' I said, 'and try a bit! of fair play with me ? ' For I disliked these men sincerely, and was fain tol teach them a lesson; they were so unchristian in appear-l ance, having faces of a coffee colour, and dirty beardsj half over them. Moreover their dress was outrageous, and their address still worse. However, I had wiser let or the chance. 1 these scouii- 5 to trust in — le, I begin to wording to niy or yourself!" perhaps even think of me ? ' abide awhile, lorse re(juired ven while he ;hed out, and nuzzle on the igs from his IS full of very balmier and on the whole, pipe, and go Id arouse the r it might be le sleeping—- i landlady's, ked up, with foot-soldiers, ley had quite even sword- fellows?' 1 lead you to in?' I asked, >ne, 'and the, )t the way to now it: and clover leaves I and try a bit LORNA DOONE smmm MmMmm a tooth ^T iL ^fy <*« badger,' said r„k . double-quick-march on ttilrV"?' "^^ «>e oS^„ J^^ me most stnniHl^^ Jl^ ^^ heels. But an tiXk ^""^ hands, I caupht K- °* ^^ knowing ho^+„. '®'> a* having WkS'°v?'«n «;ere hurt so badlv fh» r u gate. !ha?tte r^iW'l'' ^«^«?t the iS^/thf* *!"« haps^ KAttmh?™*' ^"^ *»«• onle i tor 7?'^ *°°fc -■^anl^'lfl^f'''^^^^^^ Kickums wi.r ^ *^®^®' and mv carhiL r^.^^'''^ ^^ the I badf « V ^^s '^ow quite elL n:* ®'»^ ^^^Ped upon ^ ^^^' ^^^^" to that mo^^^t?^ tl"^^ "^^"' ^ ^ [ ^^ei lot, yet they had the m \l ^ 1 ■ trs*',; iil 53a LORNA DOONE meanness to shoot at me. Thanking God for my deliver- ance (inasmuch as those men would have strung me up, from a pollard-ash without trial, as I heard them tell one another, and saw the tree they had settled upon), I ventured to go rather fast on my way, with doubt and un- easiness urging me. And now my way was home again. Nobody could say but what I had done my duty, and rescued Tom (if he could be rescued) from the mischief into which his own perverseness and love of change (rather than deep rehgious convictions, to which our Annie ascribed his outbreak) had led, or seemed likely to lead him. And how proud would my mother be; and — ah well, there was nobody else to be proud of me now. But while thinking these things, and desiring my break- fast, beyond any power of describing, and even beyond my remembrance, 1 fell into another fold of lambs, from which there was no exit. These, like true crusaders, met me, swaggering very heartily, and with their barrels of cider set, like so many cannon, across the road, over against a small hostel. 'We have won the victory, my lord King, and we mean to enjoy it. Down from thy horse, and have a stoup of cider, thou big rebel.' 'No rebel am I. My name is John Ridd. I belong to the side of the King : and I want some breakfast.' These fellows were truly hospitable; that much will I say for them. Being accustomed to Arab ways, they could toss a grill, or fritter, or the inner meaning of an egg, into any form they pleased, comely and very good to I eat; and it led me to think of Annie. So I made the rarest breakfast any man might hope for, after all his troubles; and getting on with these brown fellows better than could be expected, I craved permission to light a pipe, if not disagreeable. Hearing this, they roared at me, with a superior laughter, and asked me, whether or not, I knew! the tobacco-leaf from the chick-weed; and when I was! forced to answer no, not having gone into the subject, but! being content with anything brown, they clapped me on| the back and swore they had never seen any one like me« Upon the whole this pleased me much; for I do not wist to be taken always as of the common pattern: and sc we smoked admirable tobacco — for they would not have any of mine, though very courteous concerning it — anc LORNA DOONE 553 ly deliver- ag me up, 5m tell one I upon), I ibt and un- ome again, dutjr, and ae mischief of change which our smed likely her be; and roud of me g my break- jven beyond lambs, from asaders, met sir barrels of 3 road, over and we mean re a stoup of I was beginning to understand a little of what they told me; when up came those confounded lambs, who had shown more tail than head to me, in the Unliay, as I mentioned. Now these men upset everything. Having been among wrestlers so much as my duty compelled me to be, and having learned the necessity of the rest which follows the conflict, and the right of discussion which all people have to pay their sixpence to enter; and how they ob- trude this right, and their wisdom, upon the man who has laboured, until he forgets all the work he did, and begins to think that they did it; having some knowledge of this sort of thing, and the flux of minds swimming in liquor, I foresaw a brawl, as plainly as if it were Bear Street in Barnstaple. And a brawl there was, without any error, except of the men who hit their friends, and those who defended their enemies. My partners ir breakfast and beer-can swore that I was no prisoner, but the best and most loyal subject, and the finest-hearted fellow they had ever the luck to meet with. Whereas the men from the linhay swore that I was a rebel miscreant; and have me they would, with a rope's-end ready, in spite of every [violent language] who had got drunk at my expense, and been misled by my [strong word] lies. While this fight was going on (and its mere occurrence shows, perhaps, that my conversation in those days was not entirely despicable — else why should my new friends fight for me, when I had paid for the ale, and therefore won the wrong tense of gratitude?) it was in my power at any moment to take horse and go. And this would have been my wisest plan, and a very great saving of money; but somehow I felt as if it would be a mean thing to slip off so. Even while I was hesitating, and the men were oreaking each other's heads, a superior officer rode up, with his sword drawn, and his face on fire. 'What, my la'nbs, my lambs!' he cried, smiting with the flat of his sword; 'is this how you waste my time and my purse, when you ought to be catching a hundred prisoners, worth ten pounds apiece to me? Who is this young fellow we have here? Speak up, sirrah; what art thou, and how much will thy good mother pay for thee?' 'My mother will pay naught for me,' I answered; while ' ^ribi f9U backi and glowered at one another : 'so .v. fM »i H \r: % w < 1 ■!» ■ 1 1^ 554 LORNA DOONE please your worship, I am no rebel; but an honest far- mer, and well-proved of loyalty.' 'Ha, ha; a farmer art thou? Those fellows alwRvs pay the best. Good farmer, come to yon barren ti ; thou shalt make it fruitful.' Colonel Kirke made a sign to his men, and before I could think of resistance, stout new ropes were flung around me; and with three men on either side I was led along very painfully. And now I saw, and repented deeply of my careless folly, in stopping with those boon- companions, instead of being far away. But the newness of their manners to me, and their mode of regarding the world (differing so much from mine own), as well as the flavour of their tobacco, had made me quite forget my duty to the farm and to myself. Yet methought they would be tender to me, after all our speeches : how then was I disappointed, when the men who had drimk my beer, drew on those grievous ropes, twice as hard as the men I had been at strife with ! Yet this may have been from no ill will; but simply that having fallen under suspicion of laxity, they were compelled, in self-defence, now to be over-zealous. Nevertheless, however pure and godly might be their motives, I beheld myself m a grievous case, and likely to get the worst of it. For the face of the Colonel was hard and stern as a block of bogwood oak; and though the men might pity me and think me unjustly executed, yet they must obey their orders, or themselves be put to death. Therefore I addressed myself to the Colonel, in a most ingratiating manner; beggmg him not to sully the glory of his victory, and dwelling upon my pure inno- cence, and even good service to our lord the King. But Colonel Kirke only gave command that I should be smitten in the mouth; which office Bob, whom I had flung so hard out of the linhay, performed with great zeal and efficiency. But being aware of the coming smack, I thrust forth a pair of teeth; upon which the knuckles of my good friend made a melancholy shipwreck. It is not in my power to tell half the thoughts that moved me, when we came to the fatal tree, and saw two men hanging there already, as innocent perhaps as I was, and henc^orth entirely harmless. Though ordered by the Colonel to look steadfastly upon them, I could not bear to do so; upon which he called me a paltry coward, LORNA DOONE 555 lonest far- ws alwavs Eirren ti ; td before I were flung B I was led d repented those boon- ;he newness garding the well as the 3 forget my lought they i : how then I drunk my hard as the Y have been [alien under self-defence, ght be their md likely to lel was hard though the xecuted, yet ; be put to Colonel, in to sully the pure inno- King. But . should be ^hom I had with great u.j.ina smack, [he knuckles p wreck, bughts that e, and saw perhaps as igh ordered f could not Itry coward, and promised my breeches to anjr man who would spit upon my countenance. This vile thing Bob, being angered perhaps by the smarting wound of his knuckles, bravely stepped forward to do for me, trusting no doubt to the rope I was led with. But, unluckily as it proved for him, my right arm was free for a moment; and therewith I dealt him such a blow, that he never spake again. For this thing I have often grieved; but the provocation was very sore to the pride of a young man; and I trust that God has forgiven me. At the sound and sight of that bitter stroke, the other men drew back; and Colonel Kirke, now black in the face with fury and vexation, gave orders for to shoot me, and cast me into the ditch hard by. The men raised their pieces, and pointed at me, waiting for the word to fire; and I, being quite overcome by the hurry of these events, and quite unprepared to die yet, could only think all upside down about Loma, and my mother, and wonder what each would say to it. I spread my hands before my eyes, not being so brave as some men; and hoping, in some foolish way, to cover my heart with my elbows. I heard the breath of all around, as if my skull were a sounding-board; and knew even how the different men were fingering their triggers. And a cold sweat broke all over me, as the Colonel, pro- longing his enjoyment, began slowly to say, 'Fire.' But while he was yet dwelling on the 'F,' the hoofs of a horse dashed out on the road, and horse and horseman flung themselves betwixt me and the gun muzzles. So narrowly was I saved that one man could not check his trigger: his musket went off, and the ball struck the horse on the withers, and scared him exceedingly. He be- gan to lash out with his heels all around, and the Colonel was glad to keep clear of him; and the men made excuse to lower their guns, not really wishing to shoot me. *How now, Captain Stickles?' cried Kirke, the more angry because he had shown his cowardice; 'dare you, sir, to come betwixt me and my lawful prisoner?' 'Nay, hearken one moment, Colonel,' replied my old [friend Jeremy; and his damaged voice was the sweetest sound I had heard for many a day; 'for your own sake, I hearken.' He looked so full of momentous tidings, that Colonel Kirke made a sign to his men not to shoot me till further orders; and then he went aside with Stickles, so that in spite of all my anxiety I could not catch what :*! 556 LORNA DOONE 'r passed between them. But I fancied that the name of the Lord Chief-J ustice Jefireys was spoken more than once, and with emphasis and deference. 'Then I leave him in your hands. Captain Stickles,' said Kirke at last, so that all might hear him; and though the news was good for me, the smile of baffled malice made his dark face look most hideous; 'and I shall hold you answerable for the custody of this prisoner.' 'Colonel Kirke, I will answer for him,' Master Stickles replied, with a grave bow, and one hand on his breast: 'John Ridd, you are my prisoner. Follow me, John Ridd.' Upon that, those precious lambs flocked away, leaving the rope still around me; and some were glad, and some were sorry, not to see me swinging. Being free of my arms again, I touched my hat to Colonel Kirke, as became his rank and experience; but he did not condescend to return my short salutation, having espied in the distance a prisoner, out of whom he might make iponey. I wrung the hand of Jeremy Stickles, for his truth and goodness; and he almost wept (for since his wound he had been a weakened man) as he answered, 'Turn for turn, John. You saved my life from the Doones; and by the mercy of God, I have saved you from a far worse company. Let your sister Annie know it.' CHAPTER LXVI mi' SUITABLE DEVOTION Now Kickums was not like Winnie, any more than a man is like a woman; and so he had not followed my I fortunes, except at his own distance. No doubt but what he felt a certain interest in me; but his interest! was not devotion; and man might go his way and be I hanged, rather than horse would meet hardship. There- fore, seeing things to be bad, and his master involved in I trouble, what did this horse do but start for the ease and comfort of Plover's Barrows, and the plentiful ration of oats abiding in his own manger. For this I do not| blame him. It is the manner of mankind. B 1 1 LORNA DOONE of the Ks frlT"'^'^ ^t least "^entv S^ ?l ^^"ght and spread rfl^^P^"- 'ather than fin/t" ''^^ ''y some natural doubte7-,^'^°"« °"^ peoplf " Ye^t'\"'^y home, keep hii.''°"''ted ,f any could Mtc^or cat^Sr'"^ ^'^ B Jeremy Stickles assured n, ^ ''°""' despatch to^„^^ *° °btain an order ^Ih'^tJ^ ^ «*'" not fouDH {„ '"'°°' as a susoectPrt J^*"''*!'- for mv the pZnage offh '^''«"^°" and beC°t^'Jf^'^' ""* 'in a few hfur=- J?^^ ^"^^ Lord Jeffrevr -p ° .''^ ""'let r°f3 ^"^iht,^''"''^ ^'«'-ranWS<^r J Moreover T Yo, ^ ^ mother and letter to a man who said that he knew him, and acceptec a shilling to tee to it. -^^vi^^n-^ ■ LORNA DOONE 559 For fear of any unpleasant change, we set forth at once for London; and truly thankful may I be that God in His mercy spared me the sight of the cruel and bloody work wi^ which the whole country reeked and howled during the next fortnight. I have heard things that set my hair on end, and made me loathe good meat for days; but I make a point of setting down only the things which I saw done; and in this particular C€ise, not many will quarrel with my decision. Enough, therefore, that we rode on (for Stickles had found me a horse at last) as far as Wells, where we slept that night; and being joined in the morning by several troopers and orderlies, we made a slow but saSe journey to London, by way of Bath and Reading. The sight of London warmed my heart with various emotions, such as a cordial man must draw from the heart of all humanity. Here there are auick ways and manners, and the rapid sense of knowledge, and the power of understanding, ere a word be spoken. Whereas at Oare, you must say a thing three times, very slowly, before it gets inside the skull of the good man you are addressing. And yet we are far more clever there than in any parish for fifteen miles. But what moved me most, when I saw again the noble oil and tallow of the London lights, and the dripping torches at almost every comer, and the handsome sign- boards, was the thought that here my Loma lived, and walked, and took the air, and perhaps thought now and then of the old days in the good farm-house. Although I would make no approach to her, any more than she had done to me (upon which grief I have not dwelt, for [fear of seeming selfish), yet Qiere must be some large chance, or the little chance might be enlarged, of falling in with the maiden somehow, and learning how her mind was set. K against me, all should be over. I was not the man to sigh and cry for love, like a Romeo: none I should even guess my grief, except my sister Annie. But if Loma loved me still — as in my heart of hearts II hoped — ^then would I for no one care, except her own delicious self. Rank and title, wealth and grandeur, all should go to the winds, before they scared me from my |own true love. Thinking thus, I went to bed in the centre of London [town, and was bitten so grievously^ by creatures whose •^<« ^^^^^^^^^^^^^Kb *>. ^"^K #, ^,^. ^^^. A^#\<^ IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) /A ^/ 4 y "" M% 1.0 I.I 130 "^^ 1^1 2.5 2.2 i;^ IIIIIM i.8 1.25 1.4 1.6 « 6" ► <^ V] // ^^ (9 / Photographic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, NY. 14580 (716) 873-4503 ^\^ ii */. \ 0,^ <^ ■*^' 56o LORNA DOONE ^ iy^ name is 'legion/ mad with the delight of getting a whole- some farmer among them, that verily I was ashamed to walk in the courtly parts of the town next day, having lumps upon my face of the size of a picklins walnut. The landlord said that this was nothing; and that he expected, in two days at the utmost, a very fresh young Irishman, for whom they would all forsake me. Never- theless, I declined to wait, unless he could find me a hayrick to sleep in; for the insects of grass only tickle. He assured me that no hayrick cj.>uld now be found in London; upon which I was forced to leave him, and with mutual esteem we parted. The next night I had better luck, being introduced to a decent widow, of very high Scotch origin. That house was swept and garnished so, that not a bit was left to eat, for either man or insect. The change of air having made me hungry, I wanted something after supper; being quite ready to pay for it, and showing my purse as a symptom. But the face of Widow MacAlister, when I proposed to have some more food, was a thing to be drawn (if it could be drawn further) by our new caricaturist. Therefore I left her also; for liefer would I be eaten myself than have nothing to eat; and so I came back to my old furrier; the which was a thoroughly hearty man, and welcomed me to my room again, with two shillings added to the rent, in the joy of his heart at seeing me. Being under parole to Master Stickles, I only weni out betwixt certain hours; because I was accounted as liable io be called upvon; for what purpose I knevr not, but hoped it might be a good one. I felt it a loss, and a hindrance to me, that I was so bound to remain at home during the session of the courts of law; for thereby the chance of ever beholding Loma was very greatly con- tracted, if not altogether annihilated. For these were the very hours in which the people of fashion, and the high world, were wont to appear to the rest of mankind, so as to encourage them. And of course by this time, the Lady Lorna was high among people of fashion, and was not I likely to be seen out of fashionable hours. It is true that there were some places of expensive entertainment, at which the better sort of mankind might be seen and studied, in their hours of relaxation, by those of the lower order, who could pay sufficiently. But alas, my LORNA DOONE was my own pride^if S^ ^*^®^ causes^nart n* w . betwixt a month ^^ ^appened that I ab^e iw "^^i^^ Lorna. It Vp^^^^^^^/^^ weeks' Hm/ f^ ^° London her, and spy'^^^1"^^^ *^at I shouTd 'g^anr ^ ?^ is your po?? feitg!,Vi f ^"^ '^y (^^ «ean to^savl "^t ''''J:^^^ you, by meanf^i? farmer, a man who if^^' -^^^ ^<^'"« to c^aw^l S yiu;Va'^°S\'^^'"^ God's sake show a H^f '.^^* you may uiAr m ^^^ to take Z^lur^^^^^^'-^-re-arai^^t^i tM^' of all knowkdg^lS^* Wortant i^l most fn.^"^^^'^ the titled peoih ^^ ^"T<^« of being abTefn ^ff^^ft^g hk). havi^gt male SCf^'^ (^h^e ^4'^°e ^* 1"°"* lives and otherwise wt fu P®®"' ^^ cloa.k7hL^t^' j«me so p°ea«^rth,tT,^"S^' ^e -id inan'??"''^^ ^ Ifrous higfi At thJ. ^ ^"^'^ her birtt ^"J t'^'' ^e- l-for tlifbetter J'il "^y T" <=°Mtena^ f^'J ''^ "^o^- ra-bSs'-nTas'^fS!' - S s'cot^rs^*o&£her P yea think so you aS ^^'^ ^^ °^ °m EngST^^iS?/^- Rer^b^^es'iji«lh^'^hf4!^^^^^^ $t2 LORNA DOONE u i\ 1 mi.: .If I t Argyle, who has lately made a sad mistake, and paid for it most sadly. And her father was descended from the King Dugal, who fought against Alexander the Great. No, no. Master Ridd; none of your promiscuous blood, such as runs in the veins of half our modem j)eerage.' 'Why should you trouble yourself about it, Master Ramsack?' I replied: 'let them all go their own ways: and let us all look up to them, whether they come by hook or crook.' 'Not at all, not at all, my lad. That is not the way to regard it. We look up at the well-bom men, and side- ways at the base-bom.' 'Then we are all base-bom ourselves. I will look up to no man, except for what himself has done.' 'Come, Master Ridd, you might be lashed from New- gate to Tyburn and back again, once a week, for a twelvemonth, if some people heard you. Keep your tongue more close, young man; or here you lodge no longer; albeit I love your company, which smells to me of file hayfield. Ah, I have not seen a hayfield for nine- and-twenty years, John Ridd. The cursed moths keep me at home, every day of the summer.* 'Spread your furs on the haycocks,' I answered very boldly: 'the indoor moth cannot abide the presence of the outdoor ones.* 'Is it so?' he answered: *I never thought of that before. And yet I have known such strange things happen in the way of fur, that I can well believe it. If you only knew, Tohn, the way in which they lay their eggs, and how mey work tail-foremost ' 'Tell me nothing of the kind,' I replied, with equal! confidence: 'they cannot work tail-foremost; and they have no tails to work with.' For I knew a little about] grubs, and the ignorance concerning them, which wel have no right to put up with. However, not to go intol that (for t£e argument lasted a fortnight; and then wasl only come so far as to begin again). Master Ramsackl soon convinced me of the things I knew already; the| excellence of Loma's birth, as well as her lofty place at Court, and beauty, and wealth, and elegance. But these only made me sigh, and wish that I were bom tc them. From Master Ramsack I discovered that the noblem? to whose charge Lady Lorna had been committed, by] LORNA DOONE 563 and paid for led from the r the G:eat. icuous blood, Q peerage.' it it, Master r own ways: hey come by 3t the way to ten, and side- ; will look up .one.' Bd from New- , week, for a . Keep your you lodge no i smells to me rfield for nine- d moths keep I answered very he presence of ought of that .trange things believe it. If they lay their d, with equal ost; and they a little about m, which we jot to go into and then was Ister Ramsack already; the] lofty place a,i .nee. But were bom tc Ithe noblemi )mmitted, byl the Court of Chancery, was Earl Brandir of Lochawe, her poor mother's uncle. For the Countess of Dugal was daughter, and only child, of the last Lord Lome, whose sister had married Sir Ensor Doone; while he himself had maiTied the sister of Earl Brandir. This nobleman had a country house near the village of Kensington; and here bis niece dwelled v/ith him, when she was not in attendance on Her Majesty the Queen, who had taken a liking to her. Now since the King had begun to attend the celebration of mass, in the chapel at Whitehall — and not at Westminster Abbey, as our gossips had averred — ^he had givea order that the doors should be thrown open, so that all who could make interest to get into the antechamber, might see this form of worship. Master Ramsack told me that Loma was there almost every Simday; their Majesties being most anxious to have the presence of all tie nobility of the Catholic per- suasion, so as to make a goodly -ihow. And the worthy furrier, having influence with the door-keepers, kindly obtained admittance for me, one Sunday, into the ante- chamber. Here I took care to be in waiting, before the Royal procession entered; but being unknown, and of no high rank, I was not allowed to stand forward among the better people, but ordered back into a comer very dark and dismal; the verger remarking, with a grin, that I could see over all other heads, and must not set my own so high. Being frightened to And myself among so many people of great rank and gorgeous apparel, I blushed at the notice drawn upon me by this uncourteous fellow; and silently fell back into the comer by the hangings. You may suppose that my heart beat high, when the King and Queen appeared, and entered, followed by the Duke of Norfolk, bearing the sword of state, and by several other noblemen, and people of repute. Then the doors of the chapel were thrown wide open; and though I could only see a little, being in the comer so, I thought I that it was beautiful. Bowers of rich silk were there, and plenty of metal shining, and polished wood with lovely carving; flowers too of the noblest kind, and candles made by somebody who had learned how to clarify tallow. This last thing amazed me more than all, for our dips never will come clear, melt the mutton-fat how you will. And methought that this hanging of flowers \ ■ 564 LORNA DOONE y; i ^ m h4 p^t ' i '4 f>Vt Hfef about was a pretty thing; for if a man can worship God best of all beneath a tree, as the natural instinct is, surely when by fault of climate the tree would be too apt to drip, the very best make-believe is to have enough and to spare of flowers; which to the dwellers in London seem to have grown on the tree denied them. Be that as it may, when the King and Queen crossed the threshold, a mighty flourish of trumpets arose, and a waving of banners. The Knights of the Garter (who- ever they be) were to attend that day in state; and some went in, and some stayed out, and it made me think ofi the difference betwixt the ewes and the wethers. For the ewes will go wherever you lead them; but the wethers will not, having strong opinions, and meaning to abide by them. And one man I noticed was of the wethers, to wit the Duke of Norfolk; who stopped outside with the sword of state, like a beadle with a rapping-rod. This has taken more to tell than the time it happened in. For after all the men were gone, some to this side, some to that, according to their feelings, a number of ladies, beautifully dressed, being of the Queen's retinue, began to enter, and were stared at three times as much as the men had been. And indeed they were worth looking atl (which men never are to my ideas, when they trickl themselves with gewgaws), but none was so well worth] eye-service as my own beloved Lorna. She enterec modestly and shyly, with her eyes upon tiie ground, knowing the rudeness of the gallants, and the large sui she was priced at. Her dress was of the purest white, very] sweet and simple, without a line of ornament, for she herself adorned it. The way she walked, and touched her skirt f rather than seemed to hold it up), with a white hand bearing one red rose, this, and her stately supple neck, and the flowing of her hair, would show, at a dis-j tance of a hundred yards, that she could be none but Lorna Doone. Lorna Doone of my early love; in tiie days when she blushed for her name before me, by reason oj dishonesty; but now the Lady Lorna Dugal; as far beyonc reproach as above my poor aSection. All my heart, anc all my mind, gathered themselves upon her. Would shj see me, or would she pass? Was there instinct in our loveF By some strange chance she saw me. Or was i\ through our destiny? While with eyes kept sedulously on the marble floor, to shim the weight ol admiratioi LORNA DOONE 565 vorship God ict is, surely } too apt to lOUgh and to ^ondon seem ueen crossed ;s arose, and Garter (who- te; and some me think of irethers. For t the wethers ling to abide iC wethers, to side with the ng-rod. This happened in. tiis side, some iber of ladies, •etinue, began i much as the rth looking at m they trick 30 well worthj She entere" the ground :he large sun it white, ver\ ent, for sh( touched he [with a whit itately supi)l LOW, at a dis be none bu ; in the day by reason ol IS far beyonf ly heart, an< Would sb in our love Or was i jt sedulousl t admiratio: thrust too boldly on them, while with rhy quick steps she passed, some one (perhaps with purpose) trod on the skirt of her clear white dress, — with the quickness taught her by many a scene of danger, she looked up, and her eyes met mine. As I gazed upon her, steadfastly, yearningly, yet with some reproach, and more of jmde than humility, she made me one of the courtly bcws which I do so much detest; yet even that was sweet and graceful, when my Lorna did it. But the colour of her pure clear cheeks was nearly as deep as that of my own, when she went on for the religious work. And the shining of her eyes was owing to an unpaid debt of tears. Upon the whole I was satisfied. Lorna had seen me, and had not (according to the phrase of the high world then) even tried to *cut' me. Whether this low phrase is bom of their own stupid meanness, or whether it comes of necessity exercised on a man without money, I know not, and I care not. But one thing I know right well; any man who 'cuts' a man (except for vice or meanness) should be quartered without quarter. All these proud thoughts rose within me as- the lovely Iform of Lorna went inside, and was no more seen. And then I felt how coarse I was; how apt to think strong |thoughts, and so on; without brains to bear mc; out: ven as a hen's egg, laid without enough of lime, and looking only a poor jelly. Nevertheless, I waited on; as my usual manner is. For be beaten, while running away, is ten times worse an to face it out, and take it, and have done with it. at least I have always found, because of reproach of onscience : and all the things those clever people carried in inside, at large, made me long for our Parson Bowden at he might know how to act. While I stored up, in my memory, enough to keep our rson going through six pipes on a Saturday night — ^to ve it as right as could be next day — a lean man with yellow beard, too thin for a good Catholic (which ligion always fattens), came up to me, working side- ays, in the manner of a female crab. 'This is not to my liking,' I said: 'if aught thou hast, eak plainly; while they make that horrible noise inside.' Nothing had this man to say; but with many sighs, cause I was not of the proper faith, he took my repro- 566 LORP^A DOONE 14 LSr bate hand to save me: and with several religious tears, looked up at me, and winked with one eye. Although the skin of my palms was thick, I felt a little suggestion there, a«? of a gentle leaf in spring, fearing to seem too forward. I paid the man, and he went happy; for the! standard of heretical silver is purer than that of the] Catholics. Then I lifted up my little billet; and in i:hat darkl corner read it, with a strong rainbow of colours coming from the angled light. And in mine eyes there was! enough to make rainbow of strongest sun, as my anger] clouded off. Not that it began so well; but that in my heart I knewl (ere three lines were through me) that I was with all| heart loved — and beyond that, who may need? The darling of my life went on, as if I were of her own rank,! or even better than she was; and she dotted her 'i's/f and crossed her 't's,* as if I were at least a schoolmasterj All of it was done in pencil; but as plain as plain coulc be. In my coffin it shall lie, with my ring and something else. Therefore will I not expose it. to every man whc buys this book, and haply thinks that he has bought md to the bottom of my heart. Enough for men of gentlJ birth (who never are inquisitive) that my love told me] in her letter, just to come and see her. I ran away, and could not stop. To behold even herj at the moment, would have dashed my fancy's joy. Yej my brain was so amiss, that I must do something. There) fore to the river Thames, with all speed, I hurried; an{ keeping all my best clothes on (indued for sake of Lorna)) into the quiet stream I leaped, and swam as far as Londoij Bridge, and ate nobler dinner afterwards. CHAPTER LXVII LORNA STILL IS LORNA Although a man may be as simple as the flowers of field; knowing when, but scarcely why, he closes to tt bitter wind; and feeling why, but scarcely when, opens to the genial sun; yet without his questing miirl into the capsule of himself — ^to do which is a misery— 1( tea st< one, 'V^ tre lAur Bdt] the )di LORNA DOONE 567 gioj^^®^'^^' I may have a general notion how he happens to be getting on. need? er own rank, ted her 'i's,' schoolmaster ,s plain coul nd somethini ery man wh^ 3 suggestion! j £gj^ myself to be getting on better than at any time to seem J?^i since the last wheat-harvest, as I took the lane to Ken- )py; tor ^jj^lsington upon the Monday evening. Por althoupjh no time that 01 ^n^lyvas given in my Loma's letter, I was not mclined to , J , Iwait more than decency required. And though I went 1 mat aarKH^^^ watched the house, decency v/ould not allow me to °^+S ^^^^°^ll"iock on the Sunday evening, especially when I found s there ^^^lat the corner that his lordship was at home, as my ang :m jy^^ lanes and fields between Charing Cross and the t+ T Ic e l^^^g® °^ Kensington, are, or were at that time, more heart ./r^^Y|lthan reasonably infested with footpads and with high (vas y^^"^^, Bwaymen. However, my stature and noUy club kept these needr 'rBfellows from doing more than casting sheep's eyes ac me. er own ranK,|p^j. j^ ^^^ ^^^^ ^^^^ daylight, and the view of the ted ner 'Mictant villages, Chelsea, Battersea, Tyburn, and others, well as a few large houses, among the hams and to- ards the river, made it seem less lonely. Therefore I ing a song in the broadest Exmoor dialect, which caused " v» ht mM'^ httle amazement in the minds of all who met me. as "O^^^g^lJ When I came to Earl Brandir's house, my natural nen 01 g MQodesty forbade me to appear at the door for guests; love toiQ fcerefore I went to the entrance for servants and re- , . Bainers. Here, to my great surprise, who should come and old even ftt me in but little Gwenny Carfax, whose verjr existence \^ 305^, Bad alnv^st escaped mjr recollection. Her mistress, no tnmg. 1 oiiJ?^^"t» ^a-d seen me coming, and sent her to save trouble. hurrieo, m^^ ^^®^ ^ offered to kiss Gwenny, in my joy and com- ,ke 01 r'O . 'jlort to see a farm-house face again, she looked ashamed, ar as i-o j^^ turned away, and would hardly speak to me. I followed her to a little room, furnished very daintily; d there she ordered me to wait, in a most ungracious nner. 'Well,* thought I, *if the mistress and the maid e alike in temper, better it had been for me to abide at ter Ramsack's.' But almost ere my thought was ne, I heard the light quick step which I knew as well 'Watch/ my dog, knew mine; and my breast began tremble, like the trembling of an arch ere the keystone .u-put in. closes to "l^jinost er« I hoped — ^for fear and hope were so entan- ly w*^®^ JlBd that they hindered one another— the velvet hangings esting mti I ^^ doorway parted, with a Utile doubt, and then a misery ^%q^ f^^^ puj. qq i^^ Lorna, in her perfect beauty, stood lowers of 568 LORNA DOONE *4' before the crimson folds, and her dress was all pure while, and her cheeks were rosy pink, and her lips were scarlet. Like a maiden, with skill and sense checking violent impulse, she stayed there for one moment only, just tc be admired; and then like a woman, she came to mej seeing how alarmed I was. The hand she oifered me took, and raised it to my lips with fear, as a thing toe good for me. 'Is that all?' she whispered; and then nei eyes gleamed up at me; and in another instant, she wa^ weeping on my breast. 'Darling Lorna, Lady Lorna,' I cried, in astonishment] yet unable but to keep her closer to me, and closer] 'surely, though I love you so, this is not as it should be.f 'Yes, it is, John. Yes, it is. Nothing else should evej be. Oh, why have you behaved so?' 'I am behaving,' I replied, 'to the very best of m^ ability. There is no other man in the world could hoi] you so, without kissing you.' 'Then why don't you do it, John?' asked Lorna looking up at me, with a flash of her old fun. Now this matter, proverbially, is not for discussior and repetition. Enough that we said nothing more thai 'Oh, John, how glad I am!* and 'Lorna, Lorna, Lorna! for about five minutes. Then my darling drew bac proudly, with blushing cheeks, and tear-bright eyes, si began to cross-examine me. 'Master John Ridd, you shall tell the truth, the who! truth, and nothing but the truth. I have been in Cha.i eery, sir; and can detect a story. Now why have yc never, for more than a twelvemonth, taken the smallej notice of your old friend. Mistress Lorna Doonef Although she spoke in this lightsome mann jr, as if made no difference, I saw that her quick heart was moj ing, and the flash of her eyes controlled. 'Simply for this cause/ I answered, 'that my oi friend and true love, took not the smallest heed of m| Nor knew I where to find her.' 'What!* cried Lorna; and nothing move; being ove come with wondering; and much inclined to fall aw£ but for my assistance. I told her, over and over agaij that not a single syllable of any message from her, tidings of her welfare, had reached me, or any one of since the letter she left behind; except by soldiei gossip. 11 .1 'OK ^^^^^ ^OONE allpure whilej . ^^. you poor dear t«u ., 3^9 )s were scarlet I t^pugiit of my miserS "fu^" ' '^^^ Lorna «i,,>,u t only, just tl.t^at li&e pkin thfn^" /^"'^ ^pe done, ifot 1 L^"""' . came {o mel^^f 1/ ^^eatSre for I hU n^^^^ ^ «^°"?d ^v S^ e otfered me M"^ ^^^S^t her name- K,f never seen her) MJsf rSJ^ rT^^* as a thing tol '^utf HuckabS 'is a Vn^^v.^^^'^^ W'a towel' ^"^ : and then nM°^^ dignity; 'and sL T^^^^^ °^aid/ I answ^rin -.u Stan, she ^afce^-M^ astonishmentf^* Lorn°a.'*° '"^'^ y°" ^aak. "b^ufet youThe^r e, and closeri JJen Ruth is mv b^^ f ^ ^ , ' y .est o. Jj-^b^^niBl»"-teSl rid could l^ofe -|P-^e,-, -,.j „l'o'- the nei; ^h^ ^member that vJ^AI^^"?"^ «''th n her old illfu.. ."^ * t'*''«e days. It i ^' comfortablv pnH i Loma. 'Cl S'v^°^ ^« knoffi ^ lowers, and frSS,' ^^ ^ad lost *rMe%^!r|<'„^„V^ m»Cl^^^^^^^^ ■ii i 572 LORNA DOONE f'. »fl ! 11 Therefore was I quite resolved not to have a word to say, while this young queen of wealth and beauty, and of noblemen's desire, made her mind up how to act for her pur^'st happiness. But to do her justice, this was not the first thing she was thinking of: the test of her judgment was only this, 'How will my love be happiest?' i 'Now, John,' she cried; for she was so quick that she I always had my thoughts beforehand; 'why will you be I backward, as if you cared not for me? Do you dream that I am doubting? My mind has been made up, good John, that you must be my husband, for — ^well, I will not say how long, lest you should laugh at my folly. But I believe it was ever since you came, with your stockings off, and the loaches. Right early for me to make up my mind; but you know that you made up yours, John; and, of course, I knew it; and that had a great effect on me. Now, after all this age of loving, shall a trifle| sever us?' I told her that it was no trifle, but a most important! thing, to abandon wealth, and honour, and the brilliance| of high life, and be despised by every one for such abun- dant folly. Moreover, tiiat T should appear a knave fori taking advantage of her youtn, and boundless generosity,! and ruining (as men would say) a noble maid by my! selfishness. And I told her outright, having worked! myself up by my own conversation, that she was bound] to consult her guardian, and that without his knowledge,} I would come no more to see her. Her flash of pride at these last words made her look like an empress; and I| was about to explain myself better, but she put fortt her hand and stopped me. *I think that condition should rather have proceedec from me. You are mistaken. Master Ridd, in supposing that I would think of receiving you in secret. It wa^ a different thing in Glen Doone, where all except yoursel were thieves, and when I was but a simple child, anc oppressed with constant fear. You are quite right ir threatening to visit me thus no more; but I think yoi] might have waited for an invitation, sir.* 'And you are quite right. Lady Loma, in pointing ouj my presumption. It is a fault mat must ever be founc in any speech of mine to you.* This I said so humbly, and not with any bittemes LORNA DOONE 373 ; a word to jeauty, and V to act for this was not test of her y love be ick that she' will you be I > you dream ide up, good -well, I will ay folly. But our stockings make up my yours, John; t great efEect shall a trifle] 3st important the brilliance or such abun- : a knave for| iss generosity, maid by my ,ving worked le was bound! |is knowledge, ;h of pride at apress; and I 5ie put forth re proceeded in supposini :ret. It wai kept yoursel \e child, an< lite right ii I think yoi [pointing ou rer be founf ^y bittemei — ^for I knew that I had gone too far — and made her so polite a bow, that she forgave me in a moment, and we begged each other's pardon. 'Now, will you allow me just to explain my own view of this matter, John?' said she, once more my darling. 'It may be a veiy foolish view, but I shall never change it. Please not to mterrupt me, dear, until you have heard me to the end. In the first place, it is quite certain that neither you nor I can be happy without the other. Then what stands between us? Worldly position, and nothing else. I have no more education uian you have, John Ridd; nay, and not so much. My birth and ancestry are not one whit more pure than yours, although they may be better known. Your descent from ancient freeholders, for five-and-twenty generations of good, honest men, although you bear no coat of arms, is better than the lineage of nine proud English noblemen out of every ten I meet with. In manners, though your mighty strength, and hatred of any meanness, sometimes break out in violence — of which I must try to cure you, dear — in manners, if kindness, and gentleness, and modesty are the true things wanted, you are immeasurably above any of our Court-gallants; who indeed have very little. As for difference of religion, we allow for one another, neither having been brought up in a bitterly pious manner.' Here, though the tears were in my eyes, at the loving things love said of me, I could not help a little iaugh at the notion of any bitter piety being found among the Doones, or even in mother, for that matter. Loma miled, in her slyest manner, and went on again: — 'Now, you see, I have proved my point; there is othing between us but worldly position— if you can efend me against the Doones, for which, I trow, I may rust you. And worldly position means wealth, and title, nd the right to be in great houses, and the pleasure of ing envied. I have not been here for a year, John, thout learning something. Oh, I hate it; how I hate it! if all the people I know, there are but two, besides my ncle, who do not either covet, or detest me. And who re those two, think you?* 'Gwenny, for one,' I answered. 'Yes, Gwenny, for one. And the Queen, for the othe^ . he one is too far below me (I mean, in her own opinion}, d the other too high above. As for the women who 374 LOKNA DOONE I- ' ; 1 dislike me, without having even heard my voice, I simply have nothing to do with them. As for the men who covet me, for my land and money, i merely compare them with you, John Ridd; and all thought of them is over. Oh, John, you must never forsake me, however cross I am to you. I thought you would have gone, just now; and though I would not move to stop you, my heart] would have broken.' 'You don't catch me go in a hurry,' I answered very! sensibly, 'when the loveliest maiden in all the world, and the best, and the dearest, loves me. All my fear of| you is gone, darling Loma, all my fear ' 'Is it possible you could fear me, John, after all we| have been through together? Now you promised not tc interrupt me; is this fair behaviour? Well, let me see where I left ofiE — oh, that my heart would have broken.) Upon that point, I will say no more, lest you should gro\ conceited, John; if anything could make you so. But do assure you that half London — however, upon tha^ point also I will check my power of speech, lest you thinl me conceited. And now to put aside all nonsense; thougl I have talked none for a year, John, having been sc unhappy; and now it is such a relief to me * 'Then talk it for an hour,' said I; 'and let me sit anc watch you. To me it is the very sweetest of all sweetesj wisdom.' 'Nay, there is no time,* she answered, glancing at jewelled timepiece, scarcely larger than an oyster, whicl she drew from her waist-oand; and then she pushed i] away, in confusion, lest its wealth should startle me 'My uncle will come home in less than half an hour, dear I and you are not the one to take a side-passage, an J avoid him. I shall tell him that you have been here; anj that I mean you to come again.' As Loma said this, with a manner as confident as nee be, I saw that she had learned in town the power of he beauty, and knew t^aat she could do with most me aught she set her mind upon. And as she stood ther^ flushed with pride and faith in her own loveliness, ai radiant with the love itself, I felt that she must exactly as she pleased with every one. For now, in tur^ and elegance, and richness, and variety, there was notl ing to coQipare wi^h her face, unless it were her figurj Therefore I gave i i, and said, — » « ice, I simply n who covet [npare them lem is over. ever cross I 5, just now;] I, my heart swered very the world,! my fear of I LORNA DOONE 575 no CHAPTER LXVIH J°HN IS JOHN NO WNGER It would be h^rA t "Wch I lived iori loLT *° *«" the state „f • . k Of the m "« ?5?: ^ thought not^ fu^,^^' s^nce the me sit an; ill sweetesi ncing at 3ter, whic! pushed ii 'tartle mc our, dear ssage, am I here; am k of the men whA J ^^i^^S^t not^ ^eT;, ^^'^^ the M^ed them ^r „T"" ««* *eir wLS „tf t^f I ^^«n. ^"t John ifxywlt'?!; """""^''^ tSle^*''°"* having "oi), and hr»,«:^ t «^®^t fatness (whinh „ "^^^ and worrv [9^ John wouW^o^'^'' "^ e^ytim^f°'T« "I^ ^S'th^S^ K' ' ^"'"^ '''''"'• ^- <^^-T^v^: Wch he reioS§'„r" * *'«^« of the dried i' .™ Lizzie's ^«. with'a h?tfe° Wy- ^^joTfor L^rnt^'a If ^^' « Ss wside it «« ^Tii * towards the +»ii ' j™'' green '"en- oritilt^f *l*''°t«eofbran^.U*?** r^^w-laid 'de bntter.°M^r^;« been ««I»t'Ss of fr^^*?' «''' good advicrSin" '"yse" ttere w^s a w.^°?«- .tV;4VlM*'iSa„r^ fEP-ss'S! I^f :^,X' ^ve 57^ LORNA DOONE J' 'i IS I' i m nol mil of I exc Doc (old enough to be her grandfather), because on the Sun- day after the hanging of a Countisbury man, he had I 5^, preached a beautiful sermon about Christian love; which I hji Lizzie, with her sharp eyes, found to be the work of good I j^s Bishop Ken. Also I read that the Doones were quiet; the| to parishes round about having united to feed them well through the harvest time, so that after the day's hard work, the farmers might go to bed at night. And this plan had been found to answer well, and to save much trouble on both sides, so that everybody wondered iti _ had not been done before. But Lizzie thought that thelj ^s Doones could hardly be expected much longer to put upl^^s with it, and probably would not have done so now, but! that for a little adversity; to wit, that the famous Colonel coul( Kirke had, in the most outrageous manner, hanged nJ j f less than six of them, who were captured among thJenab rebels; for he said that men of their rank and breedinglas j and above all of their reUglon, should have known betteajmanv than to join plough-boys, and carters, and pickaxemen|ui qo against our Lord the King, and his Holiness the Popelmin^] This hanging of so many Doones caused some indignatioi among people who were used to them; and it seemed fi a while to check the rest from any spirit of enterprise. Moreover, I found from this same letter (which w; pinned upon the knuckle of a leg of mutton, for fear being lost in straw) that good Tom Faggus was at homl^as th again, and nearly cured of his dreadful wound; but iife too tended to go to war no more, only to mind his famil\|Lom And it grieved him more than anything he ever coullient have imagined, that his duty to his family, and ^ovtrnes strong power of his conscience, so totally forbade him 1 'j ^j come up and see after me. For now his design was to leaEean o a new life, and be in charity with all men. Many bettJ j thoi men than he had been hanged, he saw no cause to doublacl end but by the grace of God he hoped himself to cheat iW^uld m gallows. Eg the There was no further news of moment in this velig; ^^^ clever letter, except that the price of horses' shoes wJLorna gone up again, though already twopence-farthing eaaan ton and that Betty had broken her lover's head with tie asre* stocking full of money; and then in the comer it wlat I w written that the distinguished man of war, and worsh|e spoki ful scholar, Master Bloxham, was now promoted to tal'i ^^g^^ the tolls, and catch all the rebels around our part. |j ^ge a LD s we ome And twc nd th on the Sun- 1 r.^ ^OI?NA DOONfi t. And thislS^*!; wuid never be brou^h^ 1^*' f°«l of a^rv S-1 . save muchlei^r *°nghts towards K* *^ ","''««tand thlLt?"^ pondered ilSe? /h°"*'K'^^° h\d ^cu?d ih"^"** "P°"m s a': ;ht that their ha^ A**^"™ he cordiallv rt»tf . ?^ maiden fron, tK 'r to put uJLs toldT'l *r °f «>e« out oftf' 1°^ '««r„i"g\^^? 30 now, bulaat hL h™^' ^« Pitted me * L «''°'^ (^^ the sto^ -rf°?SS« - -- - - ^^e-d-.^| indignatio4s we sav , i^ ^ *^°"^^ lieJp EarJ p. J. ^ ^^^e up mv seemed fofcomenf ^i '^^^'^ ^^^^ hranSv^^A^''^^^'''' '^ would bS^ I X '&■ 578 LORNA DOONE 111'* If , m Ml i ; 1 r (1 1 cold — ^for he went, without hat, to look for him— which ended in his losing the use of his dear old ears. I believe if we could only get him to Plover's Barrows for a month, he would be able to heau: again. And look at his age I he is not much over seventy, John, you know; and i hope that you will be able to hear me, long after you are seventy, John/ 'Well,' said I. 'God settles that. Or at any rate, He leaves us time to think about those questions, when we are over fifty. Now let me know what you want, Lorna. The idea of my being seventy I But you would still be beautiful.' 'To the one who loves nle,' she answered, trying to| make wrinkles in her pure bright forehead: 'but if you| will have common sense, as you always will, John, whether I wish it or otherwise — I want to know whether! I am bound, in honour, and in conscience, to tell myj dear and good old uncle what I know about his son?' 'Firdt let me understand quite cleatly,' said I, never being in a hurry, except when passion moves me, 'whatBl he his lordship thinks at present; and how far his mind islheig urged with sorrow and anxiety.' This wais not the firstlresej time we had spoken of the matter. I now 'Wh)r» you know, John, well enough,' she answered,! Now wondering at my coolness, 'that my poor uncle stilflconc( believes tnat his one beloved son will come to light an(fl(espe live again. He has made ail arrangements accordingly » so fa all his property is settled on that supposition. He knows Th that young Alan alv/ays was what he calls a "feckles«chari1 ne'er-do-weel;" but he loves him all the more for thatBwas a He fcannot believe that he will die, without his son comBgood ing back to him; and he alwi^ys has a bedroom ready, ancBbox, \ a bottle of Alan's favourite wine cool from out the cellarBlocks. he has made me work him a pair of slippers from the sizlstaple of a mouldy boot; and if he hears of a new tobacco-ln^ith i much as he hates the smell of it— ^he will go to the otheBfu^' fc end of London to get some for Alan. Now you know howhat it deaf he is; but if any one say, "Alan," even irt the placBtoId h( outside the door, he will make his courteous bow to thBhings very highest visitor, and be out there in a moment, anfcandn search the entire passage, and yet let no one know it.B Now 'It is a piteous thing,' I said; for Lorna's eyes vveiyere di full of tears. B^rna i 'And he means me to marry him. It is the pet schenv* It w( lim— which s. I believe rows for a look at his know; and g after you y rate, He 5, when we int, Lorna. uld still be . trying to 'but if you ^ill, John. )w whether to tell my tiis son?' id I, never me> 'what lis mind isj 5t the first! LORNA DOONE of hi lif ■»-'^ujN£ height is I myself ww'Sdr'i* ^^^^^nced mT^T^^ resented greasy (3a^?&J*l^d '^hich all my Sendt Z»*^'"^^*° l^Wck!?'i*,f°l''"- "hen the davs w Ji fe ,';!;■ i [iff tlf^ 580 LORNA DOONE could be no mistake) watching from the thicket-corner, some hundred yards or so behmd the good Earl's dwell- ing. 'There is mischief afoot,' thought I to myself, being thoroughly conversant with theft, from my know- ledge of the Doones; 'how will be the moon to-night, and when may we expect the watch?' I found that neither moon nor watch could be looked for until the morning; the moon, of course, before the watch, and more likely to be punctual. Therefore I re solved to wait, and see what those two villains did, and save (if it were possible) the Earl of Brandir's pewter box. But inasmuch as liiose bad men were almost sure to have seen me leaving the house and looking back, and striking out on the London road, I marched along at a merry pace, until they could not discern me; and then I fetched a compass round, and refreshed myself at a| certain inn, entitled The Cross-bones and Buttons. Here I remained until it was very nearly as dark as I pitch; and the house being full of footpads and cut-l throats, I thought it right to leave them. One or two! came after me, in the hope of designing a stratagem;] but I dropped them in the darkness; and knowing all the neighbourhood well, I took up my position, twc hours before midnight, among the shrubs at the easterr end of Lord Brandir's mansion. Hence, although I mighl not see, I could scarcely fail to hear, if any unlawful entrance either at back or front were made. From my own observation, I thought it likely that th^ attack would be in the rear; and so indeed it came tc pass. For when all the lights were quenched, and all th^ house was quiet, I heard a low and wily whistle from clump of trees close by; and then three figures passe(j between me and a whitewashed wall, and came to window which opened into a part of the servants' base ment. This window was carefully raised by some one ii side the house; and after a little whispering, and some thing which sounded like a kiss, all the three men enterec' 'Oh, you villains ! ' I said to myself, 'this is worse thaj any Doone job; because there is treachery in it ' Bi without waiting to consider the subject from a mora point of view, I crept along the wall, and entered vei quietly after them; being rather uneasy about my lif^ because I bore no fire-arms, and had nothing more the my holly sta£E. for even a violent combat. LORNA DOONE these vL**'!. *'"'"«««>'• of deeo r. . ''''' «^/,°r at S th?o'l"°* "« ^°bbeTaL,7' If"'^'^'' bnlliant necklar«. u.^'^ "t Annie) »ho u J through therefore if hi ' ^^"^^ then wi, h ^ \"^'^ 'ost that box; which rn^T't'' "'« doubly "''" °"'y birthright to wrestip ,.o„^^ ^ delicately fas » r„- following ca"f;^°' ^'though l^Zy ZZh^° ^^ '«a™ed maid, afd s&. ■''\"8''t' "roTght 'g^ thf "^^ .=t°ne). h" ''*^K t'^^ me^fnto i'lU""^^ ^^^hone^t hand'''*"™"" tnere she pav« lu * ""^^© piace raii*»^ ^'^na. x saw boasting ^*^" *''«'» •cordials, and i'coHhP^"*'^; ^"d Not to be tn« 1 "*'*"^ them inclined to be r * .fS °ver it—which fi,« by the aid of^i ,^°''°"'ed them from thl J'^^'^ """ch bedroom, which jf'* ^^7 bore,^ faj a' ^""''^ng-bout, [■ns that I mgh/A *"' ''«'=*"se Ixjrna h,^'[ '^"'^"dir's that no hors" SnM'*'"""\the tapelt^^ R^?* 'r'"?"'" ** to therein, imbfs L h,7l^ ''^ shod as the hnr^* ^ ''^d said to his fW And T * *^t ^°°t of a frol aTf!',^^^^ =hod f-~burst into Far) il^ "^f^®' and no chnHf ^®^® ^^^ee 71 w I I Ff;SW si-l [/•( M m ,1' It •fe 582 LORNA DOONE yet fouler words, this man was demanding the key of the box, which the other men could by no means open, neither drag it from the chain. 'I tell you/ said this aged Earl, beginning to under- stand at last what these rogues were up for; 'I will give no kev to you. It all belongs to my boy, Alan. No one else shall have a farthing.' 'Then you may count your moments, lord. The key is in your old cramped hand. One, two, and at three, I shoot you.' I saw that the old man was abroad; not with fear, but I with great wonder, and the regrets of deafness. And I saw that rather would he be shot than let these men go rob his son, buried now, or laid to bleach in the tangles of the wood, three, or it might be four years agone, but still alive to his father. Hereupon my heart was moved; and I resolved to interfere. The thief with tlie pistol beganl to count, as I crossed the floor very quietly, while the| old Earl fearfully gazed at the muzzle, but clenched still tighter his wrinkled hand. The villain, with hair all over his eyes, and the great horse-pistol levelled, criec 'three,' and pulled the trigger; but luckily, at that verj moment, I struck up the barrel with my staff, so that the shot pierced the tester, and then with a spin and thwack I brought the good holly down upon the rascal's head, in a manner which stretched him upon the floor. Meanwhile the other two robbers had taken the alarm] and rushed at me, one with a pistol and one with hanger; which force J me to be very lively. Fearing th^ pistol most, I flung the heavy velvet curtain of the bee across, that he might not see where to aim at me, an(j then stooping very quickly I caught up the senseles robber, and set him up for a shield and target; where upon he was shot immediately, without having the pai of knowing it; and a happy thing it was for him. No\ the other two were at my mercy, being men below tl average strength; and no hanger, except in most skilfi hands, as well as Arm and strong ones, has any chancI to a powerful man armed witli a stout cudgel, anj thoroughly practised in single-stick. So I took these two rogues, and bound them togethe^ and leaving them under charge of the butler (a wort and shrewd Scotchman), I myself went in search of constables, whom, after some few hours, I found; neithd LORNA DOONE to pries'' T„''"">k but What they could t.. "' Fith to bim o ° l®"^ in« a hundrflH ^1 , ^^nej-ous r 584 LORNA DOONE M-: 'Iji^^ ilk 5(1 'Si. ! beyond all possible doubt, these were the very precious fellows from perjury turned to robbery. Being fully assured at last of this, His Majesty hrul rubbed his nands, and ordered the boots of a stricter I pattern (which he himself had invented) to be brought at once, that he might have them in the best possible order. And he oiled them himself, and expressect his fear that there was no man in London quite competent to work them. Nevertheless he would try one or two, rather than wait for his pleasure, till the torturer came from Edin-| burgh. The next thing he did was to send for me; and in great alarm and flurry I put on my best clothes, and hired fashionable hairdresser, and drank half a gallon of alej because both my hands were shaking. Then forth I set, with my holly staff, wishing myself well out of it. I was shown at once, and before I desired it, into His Majesty's presence, and there I stood most humbly, and made the best bow I could think of. As I could not advance any farther — ^for I saw that th« Queen was present, which frightened me tenfold — Hi^ Majesty, in the most gracious manner, came down th^ room to encourage me. And as I remained with my heac bent down, he told me to stand up, and look at him. 'I have seen thee before, young man,' he said; 'thj form is not one to be forgotten. Where was it? Thou ai most likely to know.' 'May it please Your Most Gracious Majesty the King,! I answered, finding my voice in a manner which surprise^ myself; 'it was in the Royal Chapel.' Now I meant no harm whatever by this. I ought tj have said the 'Ante-chapel,' but I could not remembf the word, and feared to keep the Kin^ looking at me. 'I am well-pleased,' said His Majesty, with a smu which almost made his dark and stubborn face loc pleasant, 'to find that our greatest subject, greatest mean in the bodily form, is also a good Catholic. Th( needest not say otherwise. The time shall be, and tha right soon, when men shall be proud of the one true faith] Here he stopped, having gone rather far ! but the gleal of his heavy eyes was such that I durst not contradicj 'This is that great Johann Heed,' said Her Majest coming forward, because the King was in meditatioi 'for whom I have so much heard, from the dear, del ry precious LORNA DOONE J «wiXA^A 1-MJONE 4Teet^tkli?.- '" "°' °' *h» blaclc countre. .,,. • "] I have tried to writ« i* v " °' bat it w£„^R"-^'^'^- a loyal and rfth^v "'''^ 8oo,l Jhounds^ver^^fn '^1"^* *" catch two o? ft, '"" •■"°'"«'nan; na m great^one anl^hl.^V °" ''y heretics. And to m=t "11''=' '""od- nd hired alus anyttiw'iJ. "'^^ ''*'•«'" '' was rare mvt!.*''^'" «hoot on of alelon th/Xb* l^e^1?'°°', *hou can?t caS^ l^n ' ?°* a^'^" :orth I setJlad?'-*^ "' "^« Hercules. What is thJ'lh^"/ honours, E it. I wafl 'Well • «i^ t , ^ ''"'^^ ambition f Majesty 'amake the m^t!;* ^?^^ thinking a little ;,n^ down thfl 'A good lad I a ^^^^ she h my heacjlooked at thp A ^^^^ S^^od lad/ said fh rr- Thou afnce «,e ti feg^AXTl" LT ^°'^-'-. 'ever the King,p; t at W^"^' ,^"^ '-« hold ?ur fa™\^'th him^^ 1 surpriseMood har^este rL^n-^'^ ^^^ «o. We have hJ^.K^"' from »ut for mvsMfT'^"'^' aod might snono^ ^"^ *^''«« very : ought tf ■ThouXlfhJ ""^"^ •* "ot-' ^^ " '=°a' °f arms; remlmblt W« o::.?SurSo-«.V°f *i ->- lad • said the Ki^ Ir ■^■■n cssins^'^ 4 HI HB:f R li iS^vl^^nRS^K ^ ^mB LwflVim'i K V^Hw Pnlf^Hnn ' 'HI EIHHbIIl- iH itl^Hltrr' ' '^ 1 W-l ' wjE^f f [ «ii mfflH K i irn^ f^ -inKir''' ' A-, atJEc i^-ir^WIgn '^' Iu'MHHi [ ^''' IftHH d'flH wjlHlfii ' '^' ISHi oRWHj m i^H W^^^^^B^B^^Il 586 LORNA DOONE what the Snowes would think of it. And I said to the Kin^, without forms of speech, — 'Sir, I am very much obliged. But ^hat be I to do with it?' CHAPTER LXIX NOT TO BE PUT UP WITH The coat of arms, devised for me by the Royal heralds, was of great size, and rich colours, and full of bright imaginings. They did me ihe honour to consult me first, and to take no notice of my advice. For I begged that there might be a good-sized cow on it, so as to stamp our pats of butter before they went to market : also a horse on the other side, and a fleck snowed up at the bottom. But the gentlemen would not hear of this; and to find something more appropriate, they inquired strictly into] the annals of our family. 1 told them, of course, all abou King Alfred; upon which they settled that one quartei should be, three cakes on a bar, with a Hon regardant, done upon a field of gold. Also I told them that ve likely there had been a Ridd in the battle fought, not ve: far from Plover's Barrows, by the Earl of Devon again the Danes, when Hubba their chief was killed, and thi sacred standard taken. As some of the Danes are said ti be buried, even upon land of ours, and we call the; graves (if such they be) even to this day 'barrows,* t heralds quite agreea with me that a Ridd might have be there, or thereabouts; and if he was there, he was aim certain to have done his best, being in sight of hea and home; and it was plain that he must have had g legs to be at the same time both there and in Atheln and good legs are an argument for good arms; and suj posing a man of this sort to have done his utmost (as manner of the Ridds is), it was next to certain that himself must have captured the standard. Moreover, name of our farm was pure proof; a plover being a wil bird, just the same as a raven is. Upon this chain reasoning, and without any weak misgivings, ^ey chargel gj rny growing escutcheon with a black raven on a grouiiboi: of red. And the next thing which I mentioned pofccui sessing absolute certainty, to wit, that a pig wifiter f a g fi b fc gi m as as ca ga sh( to\ 2 !na1 ik( rn s t or nd un, nu er ith LORNA DOONE 5ii7 said to the be I to do also a norse t the bottom, W and to find I strictly into| iirse, all abou' ,t one quarte two heads had been born upon our farm, not more than two hundred years agone (although he died within a week), my third quarter was made at once, by a two- headed boar with noble tusks, sable upon si.ver. All this was very fierce and fine; and so I pressed for a peaceful corner in the lower dexter, and obtained a wheat-sheaf set upright, gold upon a field of green. Here I was inclined to pause, and admire the effect; for even De Whichehalse could not show a bearing so magni- ficent. But the heralds said that it looked a mere sign- oyal heralds,! board, without a good motto under it; and the motto ull of bright! must have my name in it. Ihey offered me first, 'Ridd suit me first,! ^^^ rtdendus*] but I said, 'for God's sake, gentlemen, let '. begged that! ^le forget my Latin.' Then they proposed, 'Ridd .eadeth to stamp out| riddles' : but I begged them not to set down such a lie; for no Ridd ever had made, or made out, such a thing as a middle, since Exmoor itself began. Thirdly, they gave me, *Ridd ever be ridden,' and fearing to make any further objections, I let them inscribe it in bronze upon blue. The heralds thought that the King would pay for this noble achievement; but His Majesty, although Ion regardant! graciously pleased with their ingenuity, declined in the lem that verwniost decided manner to pay a farthing towards it; and |Ught, not verwas i had now no money left, the heralds became as blue Devon againslas azure, and as red as gules; until Her Majesty the Queen illed, and thjcame forward very kindly, and said that if His Majesty gave me a coat of arms, I was not to pay for it; therefore she herself did so quite handsomely, and felt goodwill towards me in consequence. Now being in a hurry — so far at least as it is in my he was almojnature to hurry — ^to get to the end of this narrative, is it ght of hearmkely that I would have dwelled so long upon my coat of ave had gcMftrms, but for some good reason? And this good reason in Athelnejs that Loma took the greatest pride in it, and thought [rms; and sujor at any rate said) that it quite threw into the shade, tmost (as t%nd eclipsed, all her own ancient glories. And half in rtaln that Jlun, and half in earnest, she called me 'Sir John' so con- Moreover, tli|inually, that at last I was almost angry with her; until er eyes were bedewed with tears; and then I was angry ith myself. Beginning to be short of money, and growing anxious on a grouiibout t^ie farm, longing also to show myself and my noble entioned polscutcheon to mother, i took advantage of Lady Lorna's a pig ^viflter•8t with the Queen, to obtain my acquittance and les are said we call theij |*barrows,* tl Ight have bee being a wm this chain L they charge -•i 5^8 LORNA DOONE I :l f I*'? t I* full discharge from even nominal custody. It had been intended to keep me in waiting, until the return of Lord Jeffreys, from that awful circuit of shambles, through which his name is still used by mothers to frighten their children into bed. And right glad was I — for even London shrank with horror at the news — to escape a man so bloodthirsty, savage, and even to his friends (among whom I was reckoned) malignant. Earl Brandir was greatly pleased with me, not only for having saved his life, but for saving that which he valued more, the wealth laid by for Lord Alan. And he intro- duced me to many great people, who quite kindly en- couraged me, and promised to help me in every way when they heard how the King had spoken. As for the furrier, he could never have enough of my society; and this worthy man, praying my commendation, demanded of me one thing only — to speak of him as I found him. As I had found him many a Sunday, furbishing up old furs for new, with a glaze to conceal the moths' raveiges, I begged him to reconsider the point, and not to demand such accuracy. He said, 'Well, well; all trades had tricks, especially the trick of business; and I must take him — if I were his true friend — according to his own description.' This I was glad enough to do; because it saved so much! trouble, and I had no money to spend with him. But vStill he requested the use of my name; and I begged himj to do the best with it, as I never had kept a banker. And the 'John Ridd cuffs,* and the 'Sir John mantles,' I and the Holly-staff capes,' he put into his window, as the winter was coming on, ay and sold (for everybody was I burning with gossip about me), must have made this goodl man's fortune; since the excess of price over value is the] true test of success in life. To come away from all this stuff, which grieves a man] in London — when the brisk air of tiie autumn cleared its way to Ludgate Hill, and clever 'prentices ran out, anc sniffed at it, and fed upon it (having little else to eat); and when the horses from the country were a goodly sight to see, with the rasp of winter bristles rising tiirough anc" among the soft summer-coat; and when the new strav began to come in, golden with the harvest gloss, anc smelling most divinely at those strange livery-stablesj where the nags are put quite tail to tail; and when all the London folk themselves are asking about whit< LORNA DOONE a'yel&3&^^°."^ °f childhood); then 1 , '"" And hef^ilf ^ "^^^ ^s she did of thHl^il^l® ^^ ™uch 've on, without figh^ne Aki^"^ H^^ enough for lu^^ ??^«.^*''<^^ °n sand ind cIW '^i^^^ «P^«ad o? wate ever fon. ii. . thousand of thp »^>r ^^^^S' and before lever felt the plunge of hnoir^, exhaustless ocean hit rtinl^ '=''^^'' « fl°cks Se/u'^^^'iS °f the haul nets Of each othS!^ " ' "« *°° --h given to S^fe^^^ HiiS-^--S^l.-«eversha,l. hved tn i!^"li° °"/ own morSs pL"!>r,^ enough 390 LORNA DOONE It^'' iK' and I left it to people who bad no room; and thought that my fortune must be heavy, if it would not move without pushing. Loma cried when I came awav (which gave me great satisfaction^, and she sent a whole trunkful of things for mother and Annie, and even Lizzie. And she seemed to think, though she said it not, that I made my own occa- sion for going, and might have stayed on till the winter. Whereas I knew well thai my mother would think (and every one on the farm the same) that here I had been in London, lagging, and taking my pleasure, and looking at shops, upon pretence of King's business, and leaving the harvest to reap itself, not to mention the spending of money; while all the time there was nothing whatever, except my own love of adventure and sport, to keep me from coming home again. But I knew that my coat of arms, and title, would turn every bit of this grumbling into fine admiration. And so it fell out, to a greater extent than even I desired; for aU the parishes round about united in a sumptuous dinner, at the Mother Melldrum inn — ^for now that good lady was dead, and her name and face set on a sign-post — ^to which I was invited, so that it was as good as a summons. And if my health was no better next day, it was not from want of good wishes, any more than from stint of the liquor. It is needless to say that the real gentry for a long time treated my new honours with contempt and ridicule; but gradually as they found that I was not such a fool as to claim any equality with them, but went about my farm- work, and threw another man at wrestUng, and touched my hat to the magistrates, just the same as ever; some] gentlemen of the highest blood— of which we think a great | deal more than of gold, around our neighbourhood — actually expressed a desire to make my acquaintance. And when, in a manner quite straightforward, and wholly i free from bitterness, I thanked them for this (which appeared to me the highest honour yet offered me), but declined to go into their company because it would make me uncomfortable, and themselves as well, in a different way, they did what nearly all Englishmen do,| when a thing is right and sensible. Tney shook hands with me; and said that they could not deny but that there was reason in my view of the matter. And although they] LORNA DOONE 591 ight that without me great hings for seined to wn occa- e winter, dnk (and i been in ooking at aving the ending of whatever, > keep me ly coat of grumbling in even 1 dted in a L — ^for now ace set on it was as no better any more long time icule; but fool as to my f arm- d touched ver; some nk a great lurhood — aintance. ^d wholly is (which me), but I it would! ell, in a| Ihmen do, _ nds with! [there was lugh they themselves must be the losers — which was a handsome thing to say — ^they would wait until I was a little older and more aware of my own value. Now this reminds me how it is that an English gentle- man is so far in front of foreign noblemen and princes. I have seen at times, a little, both of one and of the other, and making more than due allowance for the difficulties of language, and the difference of training, upon the whole, the balance is in favour of our people. And this, because we have two weights, solid and (even in scale of manners) outweighing all light ccmplaisance; to wit, the inborn love of justice, and Qie power of abiding. Yet some people may be surprised that men with any love of justice, whether inborn or otherwise, could con- tinue to abide the arrogance, and rapacity, and tyranny of the Doones. For now as the winter passed, the Doones were not keeping themselves at home, as in honour they were bound to do. Twenty sheep a week, and one fat ox, and two stout red deer (for wholesome change of diet) , as well as threescore bushels of flour, and two hogsheads and a half of cider, and a hundredweight of candles, not to mention other things of almost every variety which they got by insisting upon it — surely these might have sufficed to keep the people in their place, with no outburst of wantonness. Nevertheless, it was not so; they had made complaint about something — ^too much ewe-mutton, I think it was — and in spite of all the pledges given, they had ridden forth, and carried away two maidens of our neighbourhood. Now these two maidens were known, because they had served the beer at an ale-house; and many men who had looked at them, over a pint or quart vessel (especially as they were comely girls), thought that it was very hard for them to go in that way, and perhaps themselves unwilling. A.nd their mother (although she had taken some money, which the Doones were always full of) declared that it wag a robbery; and thouffh it increased for a while the [custom, that must soon fall o£E again. And who would I have her two girls now, clever as they were and good ? Before we had finished meditating upon this loose I outrage— for so I at least would call it, though people accustomed to the law may take a different view of it —we had newt of a thing far worse, which turned the ; t IP ; i 1 1 ;CI hearts of our women sick. This I will tell in most careful language, so as to give offence to none, if skill of words may help it.* Mistress Margery Badcock, a healthy and upright young woman, with a good rich colour, and one of the finest ben-roosts anywhere round our neighbourhood, was nursing her child about six of the clock, and looking out for her husband. Now this child was too old to be nursed, as everybody told her; for he could run, say two yards alone, and perhaps four or five, by holding to handles. And he had a way of looking round, and spreading his legs, and laughing, with his brave little body well fetched up, after a desperate journey to the end of the table, which his mother said nothing could equal. Neverthe- less, he would come to be nursed, as regular as a clock, almost; and, inasmuch as he was the first, both father and mother made much of him; for God only knew whether they could ever compass such another one. Christopher Badcock was a tenant farmer, in the parish of Martinhoe, renting some fifty acres of land, with a right of common attached to them; and at this particular time, being now the month of February, and fine open weather, he was hard at work ploughing and preparing for spring corn. Therefore his wife was not surprised although the dusk was falling, that farmer Christopher should be at work in 'blind man's holiday,* as we call it. But she was surprised, nay astonished, when by the light of the kitchen fire (brightened up for her husband), she saw six or seven great armed men burst into the room upon her; and she screamed so that the maid in the back I kitchen heard her, but was afraid to come to help. Two of the strongest and fiercest men at once seized poor young | Margery; and though she fought for her child and home, she was but an infant herself in their hands. In spite I of tears, and shrieks, and struggles, they tore the babe from the mother's arms, and cast it on the lime ash floor; then they bore her away to their horses (for by this time sh'3 was senseless), and telling the others to sack the house, rode off with their prize to the valley. And from the description of one of those two, who carried off the poor * The following story is stricUy true ; and true It is that the country-people I ro"'^ to a man. at this dastard cruelty, and did what the Government failed to| 3st careful I of words ght young the finest ood, was loking out 36 nursed, two yards ) handles, sading his (11 fetched :he table, Neverthe- 3 a clock, th father ily knew one. he parish I, with a )articular &ne open )aring for surprised ristopher 5 we call I-ORNA DOONE 1 by the usband), the room the back Ip. Two or young id home. In spite ;he babe sh floor; his time le house, rom thei the poor ..^^^he^ia^tchen. and sta.pf,, ^tL^V^^Z ^ hT£K^'«^Wted,^So*° ^"^^^ -"""t his of the floor ^^^'''"S ^^ voice but a ']i?«f ^°"* *° 6et ali master and ni^«,f °l!l« »«ant wha't ^^ri^te^^* babyr'iStincf ^SX^^'^y «> « it haVb'et h"^^^' day with her- i^Y^fl *°®° reason misht \!f ^^^ °^° she wished him "* *^e ^^hild being Sm of ^^ ^?^ ^e enough to «»a+ ^^/J^ 1 us m a starving r>/^Si ^"'^ *iie the fack° my*bo^'"° ^"l" ^^eSX^ a^^'.^'^ »ot supper?' ^ °°y- What was farmw +« u *^®^ °f lof '^^^tt »V"- - t-. and a J ^ '" 39?- XDRNA DOONE r ." i; im In. 'No game ! Then let us have a game of loriot with the baby ! It will be the best thing that could befall a lusty infant heretic. Ride a cock-horse to Banbury Cross. Bye, bye, baby Bunting; toss him up, and let me see if my wrist be steady.' The cruelty of this man is a thing it makes me sick to speak of; enough that when the poor baby fell (without attempt at cry or scream, thinking it part of his usual play, when tiiey tossed him up, to come down again), the maid in the oven of the back-kitchen, not being any door between, heard them say as follows, — ' If any man asketh who killed thee. Say 'twas the Doones of Bagworthy.' * Now I think that when we heard this story, and poor Kit Badcock came all around, in a sort of half-crazy manner, not looking up at any one, but dropping his eyes, and asking whether we thought he bad been well-treated, and seeming void of regard for life, if this were all the style of it; then having known him a lusty man, and a fine singer in an ale-house, and much inclined to lay down the law, as show a high hand about women, I really think that it moved us more than if he had gone about ranting, and raving, and vowing revenge upon every CHAPTER LXX COMPELLED TO VOLUNTEER There had been some trouble in our own home during the previous autumn, while yet I was in London. For certain i noted fugitives from the army of King Monmouth (which { he himself had deserted, in a low and currish manner), having failed to obtain free shipment from the coast I neatr Watersmouth, had returned into the wilds of Exmobr, trusting to lurk, and be comlorted among the common people. Neither were they disappointed, for al certain lengm of time; nor in the end was l^eir dis-| appointment caused by fault on our part. Major Wadel was one of them; an active and well-meaning man; but! prone to fail in courage, upon lasting trial; although in| a moment ready. Sqi^lre John Whichehalse (not the] • Always prosouaccd ' Badgery.' v,v,.^ . .-^ + ... : with the ill a lusty ry Cross. me see if le sick to (without his usual n again). )eing any and poor lalf -crazy his eyes, I- treated, e all the n, and a lay down I really ne about >^ every iring the r certain ti (which nanner), iie coast, vilds ofj long thai d, for aj leir dis- )r Wade lan; but lOugh in not the LORNA DOONE tod b^'°^r^,'J°°« to Gn^ Howe ott^J?^^^^^'^ thine don^*' ^ greatest comforter- „-?*v «*''»"' "ho ever, ^y means of Serceani tii^® ^°^ liospitalitv hV^^ , smith's foSe a^rf ^^^^^ ^" around me pf ^k u, scarce comlout nf ^^ ^^^ndon aleho^e- fn?? *'^^^^- tombston^ Th °^ 'i^"''^^' b"t they ffSt mr^* ^ ^°"^d * Not our Parson bowh ^^arJcen to none of this. 596 LORNA DOONE \u'\il 11- mm All they said was 'Try to lead us; and we will try not to run away.* This seemed to me to be common sense, and good stuff, instead of mere bragging; moreover, I myself was moved by the bitter wrongs of Margery, having known her at the Sunday-school, ere ever I went to Tiverton; and having in those days, serious thoughts of making her my sweetheart; although she was three years my elder. But now I felt this difficulty — the Doones had behaved very well to our farm, and to mother, and all of us, while I was away in London. Therefore, would it not be shabby, and mean, for me to attack them now? Yet being pressed still harder and harder, as day by day the excitement grew (with more and more talking over it, and no one else coming forward to undertake the business, I agreed at last to this; that if the Doones, upon fair challenge, would not endeavour to make amends by giving up Mistress Margery, as well as the man who had slain the babe, then I vould lead the expedition, and do my best to subdue them. All our men were con- tent with this, being thoroughly well assured from experi- ence, that the haughty robbers would only shoot any man who durst approach them with such proposal. And then arose a difficult question — who was to talje the risk of making overtures so unpleasant? I waited for the rest to offer; and as none was ready, the burden fell on me, and seemed to be of my own inviting. Hence I undertook the task, sooner than reason about it; for to give the cause of everything is worse than to go through with it. It may have been three of the afternoon, when leaving my witnesses behind (for they preferred the background) I appeared with our Lizzie's white handkerchief upon a kidney-bean stick, at the entrance to the robbers' dwell- ing. Scarce knowing what might come of it, I had taken the wise precaution of fastening a Bible over my heart, and another across my spinal column, in case of having to run away, with rude men shooting after me. For my mother said that the Word of God would stop a two-inch bullet, with three ounces of powder behind it. Now I took no weapons, save those of the Spirit, for fear of being misunderstood. But I could not bring myself to think that any of honourable birth would take advantage of an unarmed man coming in guise of peace to them. try not to [ood stuff, as moved vn her at rton; and ig her my der. But Lved very i, while I 3 shabby, T-'r s day by e talking rtake the Doones, e amends man who pedition, vere con- n experi- any man I to tate [ waited 3 burden . Hence it; for to through I leaving aground) upon a j' dwell- id taken Y heart, : having For my wo-inch Now I fear of yself to i^antage ) them. Aiulr- LORNADOONE -rtSn len«r^f'"t" "' "-'"^ "e'd good at , . '"' appeared Inrf hi ™^-' inasmuch as twf '^ '"^^^ ^r a violence: to 1 ^^n^i*"/ °^ ^Y purp^l" ,?•=""* »oo„es where I hS ^l^"** ^^^h the Capt^n- ^i^f^"^' "''"'out this. o/coS^e r^ "°t "i^g'" *» spy abouJ^ ,n ^2^^ stop spying, becaus; I ^^^ ^^ °°'=«; ^1 wan?^i'''"«- ^o 0"ts already ThereW°r°"S'' l^^^vvled^^ol all? "°™ one hand in ^''^'^e™re, I stood waiting ? ^il, '"s and njarket^ and th^.f °^''«t deling ^^^^, steadily, with but wi4 thaV&tV°£?' ""^ fl^sh^of stoon' ,r/°fully. troubled u,Sj„u ?* ™°fcing Jittle an2„ ^"^"ntumelv- we recent behaS,-.^ "JJignation had arioorT^ ^'^ That -night not bl aS "e^H'*"^«« youn/^e? fo'?°''f.'" ^t I condemn him ^i+jT^?^^' and for whirh : °' '^^«=h he But I beKe,S'^^^°"t knowing the iXhtf^f^l"^""'^ not ' and giving up that ii4i 598 LORNA DOONE \ 'i i If odious brute who had slain the liarmless infant, we would take no further motion; and tiJrgs should go on as usual. As I put this in the fewest words that would meet my purpose, I was grieved to see a disdainful smile spread on his sallow countenance. Then he made me a bow of mock courtesy, and replied as follows, — 'Sir John, your new honours have turned your poor head, as might have been expected. We are not in the habit of deserting anything that belongs to us; far less our sacred relatives. The insolence of your demand well- nigh outdoes the ingratitude. If there be a man upon Exmoor who has grossly ill-used us, kidnapped our young women, and slain half a dozen of our young men, you are that outrageous rogue, Sir John. And after all this, how have we behaved? We have laid no hand upon your farm, we have not carried ofE your women, we have even allowed you to take our Queen, by creeping and crawling treachery; and we have given you leave of absence to help your cousin the highwayman, and to come home with a title. And now, how do you requite us? By inflaming the boorish indignation at a Uttle frolic of our young men; and by coming with insolent demands, to yield to which would ruin us. Ah, you ungrateful viper!' As he turned away in sorrow from me, shaking his head at my badness, I became so overcome (never having been quite assured, even by people's praises, about my own goodness); moreover, the light which he threw upon &ings differed so greatly from my own, that, in a word — not to be too long — I feared that I was a villain. And with many bitter pangs — for I have bad things to repent of — I began at my leisure to ask myself whether or not this bill of indictment against John Ridd was true. Some of it I knew to be (however much I condemned myself) altogether out of reason; for insta-nce, about my going away with Loma very quietl;;, over the snow, and to save my love from being staived away from me. In this there was no creeping neither crawling treachery; for all was done with sliding; and yet I was so out of training for being charged by other people beyond mine own conscience, that Carver Doone's harsh words came on me, like prickly spinach sown with raking. Therefore I replied, and said, -— Uf^f- tj^yii s-mcj v-dtf 'It ia true that I owe you gratitude, sir, for a certain I "* "^ forbearance; and It ,. f„ *» Queen bwaS "/ «~'J deeds as you c.J ''"t"?°* 'Peak before, and kSli?"}. '*"'^«*^ ^^^- havW sto>- ^ r" for me to dwell^nn!f "°*''' and bro4er tv "• '°°« much about v«..,^°°j'°"'; any more Sf n r ^"," "»* grandeur .^'"- -«-<^««i me with ato^Fe t?d »eS; ' 'aCf !i £^F^atTe ^d^S a^J^^'^^ -'<> ^ h?n^.t^^ -« -^y--^-^itV.'^^,xii^^ Now after all mv Irn, • ' ^'' «>e most dis- cWef, I did my bert +1' i"*?'' "*" the chance ^V* ?° '^ith a quiet voice 4^1 ■,'=^™'y at hii^ --^°^ "'«- our rfa„\j ;""^?' farewell. Car,,^ t->-' with'a nu4'"J;„.'"'«t 4° '°°k calmly at hi'^'""=!,°^ ««" ^nralSS--^ Xn%£f r-- ^^■pif;^ W: E' V Hbi 600 LOHNA DOONE ;' H ^^- it upon the heaver triggers; and the volley sang with a roar behind it, down the avenue of crags. With one thing and another, and most of all the treachery of this dastard scheme, I was so amazed that I turned and ran, at the very top of my speed, away from these vile fellows; and luckily for me, they had not an- other charge to send after me. And thus by good fortime, I escaped; but with a bitter heart, and mind at their treacherous usage. • Without any further hesitation, I agreed to take com- mand of the honest men who were burning to punish, ay and destroy, those outlaws, as now beyond all bearing. One condition, however, I made, namely, that tta Coun- sellor should be spared if possible; not because he was less a villain than any of the others, but that he seemed less violent; and above all, had been good to Annie. And I found hard work to make them listen to my wish upon this point; for of all the Doones, Sir Counsellor had made himself most hated, by his love of law and reason. We arranged that all our men should come and fall into order with pike and musket, over against our dung- hill, and we settled early in the day, that their wives might come and look at them. For most of these men had good wives; quite different from sweethearts, such as the militia had; women indeed who could hold to a man, and see to him, and bury him — if his luck were evil — and perhaps have no one afterwards. And all these women pressed their rights upon their precious husbands, and brought so many children with them, and made such a fuss, and hugging, and racing after little legs, that our farm-yard might be taken for an out-door school for babies rather Sian a review ground. I myself was to and fro among the children continually; for if I love anything in the world, foremost I love children. They warm, and yet they cool our hearts, as we think of what we were, and what in young clothes we hoped to be; and how many things have come across. And to see our motives moving in the little things that know not what their aim or object is, must almost or ought at least, to lead us home, and soften us. For either end of life is home; both source and issue being God. Nevertheless, I must confess that the children were a plague sometimes. They never could have enough of ing with a of all the mazed that away from lad not an- od fortune, id at their • take com- Eunish, ay bearing. ; tta Coun- ise he was he seemed nnie. And wish upon had made ason. e and fall our dung- heir wives ie men had uch as the man, and evil — and ■se women ands, and de such a . that our school for ntinually; St I love ir hearts, 3g clothes ne across, lings that almost or us. For sue being their ]egs alitp) ™°S "Pon my nert^/ ^^ °^ tuggine at neck and croDv^i^K"*"^ *he peril of m,^"™P so veh^ were sometimersn 1^°.'""' them; f all^,^™ *» go faster Wight aimo™2 wen^ ^'^ tJ^nicS ot J°" ^''a* they «4o£t -«^^«il ?f Oee^g£^ over, they^SS\^^ f'i'^°^*y ov,T^l^^ ^^ '^ about, tofeteh ?^"".»tmo3t amon^^Sf^^^^banc fneans. sevtra? ^"2?*^ f"' oaSe*£f'S"^^«v, fi^m Tiverto'? °ithe yeomanitfLl^S- And .^eans,;sev:S? Ke*^ f°' ou^li^e S't^-F-^d ''toes, the^^ap^^ '''^^ hea^swoS/'" ^'"^ ^asmuch '•ea^e^o^ff ^Ur u^ea^^r^^ ^'" ^^^ easterly wf ^°''°^' except at fiV^^' ^^^^ now oni. ssH Ffr ^'11 r^- - "^S? s^nci' ^"^ ^^nie o^e^^^^^^^^^ority frZ^Ti^^ ^^ ^eld sence, as well as wk ^ l^P «s with his adfw "'^- Also ^^om he brouffht fr^ t? ^^^^ of stonf ^^® ^^^ pre- §^ven the old ont?°'^ I>ulverton |w J T^ehousemen ^^%^ to his inte?e^f ?^ £"* "P^n hil'lnH ?if ^ « Wor-' &old mine-^vet «I ^^xckles^for th^ . ^ *^® 'ast attaclT ^e Crown a lic^r! ? *^®^ diggings ho?^ ^^^n fuUv for dread «* xv '^o longer anxr T ■^^^^"y royaltv TuT ' •"f 1... «»™ a,. S &„^ m" 6o3 LORNA DOONE '4 than might be helped, he promised that when we had fixed the moment for an assault on the valley, a score of them should come to aid us, headed by Simon Carfax, and armed with the guns which they always kept for the protection of their gold. Now whether it were Uncle Ben, or whether it were Tom Faggus, or even my own self — ^for all three of us claimed the sole honour— is more than I think fair to settle without allowing them a voice. But at any rate, a clever thing was devised among us; and perhaps it would be the fairest thing to say that this bright stratagem (worthy of the great Duke himself) wais contribui;ed, little by little, among the entire three of us, all having pipes, and schnapps-and-water, in the chimney-comdr. How- ever, the world, which always judges according to reputa- tion, vowed that so fine a stroke of war could only come from a highwayman; and so Tom Faggus got all the honour, at less perhaps than a third of the cost. Not to attempt to rob him of it — ^for robbers, more than any other, contend for rights of property — ^let me try to describe this grand artifice. It was known that the Doones were fond of money, as well as strong driiik, and other things; and more especially fond of gold, when they could get it pure and fine. Therefore it was agreed that in this way we should tempt them; for we knew that they looked with ridicule upon our rustic preparations; after repulsing; King's troopers, and the militia of two counties, was it likely that they shduld yield their fortress to a set of ploughboys? We, for our part, felt of course, the power of this reasoning, and that where regular troops had failed, half -armed countrymen must fail, except by superior judgment and harmony of action. Though per- haps the militia would have sufficed, if they had only fought against the foe, instead of against each other. From these things we to<>k warning; having failed through over-confidence, was it not possible now to make the enemy fail through the selfsame cause? - . Hence, what we devised was this; to delude from home I forces a part of the robbers, and fall by surprise on the other I ^ould part. We caused it to be spread abroad that a large heap I -^^^^^ * of gold was now collected at the mine of the Wizard's I ^" ^^F Slough. And when this rumour must have reached them, I ^®ntur through women who came to and fro, as some entirely I P9^^^e faithful to them were allowed to do, we sent Captain I ^'^^I'nc 1 we had a score of fi Carfax, pt for the r it were ree of us k fair to any rate, J it would 'tratagem i:ed, little ag pipes, r. How- reputa- nly come fc all the rs, more — ^let me that the ig drink, Id, when LS agreed aew that arations; 1 of two r fortress f course, ir troops tcept by ugh per- lad only h other, through take the LORNA DOONE i-.-f . Simon C^rf ■^ "°ONE interview ^A 7i? ^«<*8r of littl. r. ^3 gnevances atraJnS: ^^ *° set f orth = r f"** as it were Pwtly th?oufrrte^; °'^"«« of tte n^*.°^ i«agi^ gain to betrfy 4to t^?"*' P'^YO^V ^'^ ^ °^ *aice tt^e ^^ iTnt^"^ °«° quX^U? ^« Up to moors, under hi. „"* wasmucjf as thi ?^' a"*! «iey to armed ^e I)^^'=°°'™a°^g our ,?yes;ancfSri^\*h«"''^P°n to th<^e "^h l^"" ^^ ^ '^e h exploding^An? "" *?°^aritv wrth iS *^? deveres? venture, befiust^e m^*^ "P«» Frid^v hSk! ^x* "ade I powder was rnn^ "P"" "'ould beu^f^ ?8^* tor our Ktemoon ' '=°°^« ^om DuJverton ^^ ^T' ^'"^ "w I V -. .,,1, .,, *°^ Friday ■1 to4 LORNA DOONE ■I I I' mi- Uncle Reuben did not mean to expose himself to shoot- ing, his time of life for risk of life being now well over and the residue too valuable. But his counsels, and his influence, and above all his warehousemen, well practised in beating carpets, were of true service to us. His miners also did great wonders, having a grudge against the Doones; as indeed who had not for thirty miles round their valley? It was settled that the yeomen, having good horses under them, should give account (with the miners' help) of as many Doones as might be despatched to plunder the pretended gold. And as soon as we knew that this party of robbers, be it more or less, was out of hearing from the valley, we were to fall to, ostensibly at the Doone-gate (which was impregnable now), but in reality upon their rear, by means of my old water-slide. For I had chosen twenty young fellows, partly miners, and partly ware- housemen, and sheep farmers, and some of other voca- tions, but all to be relied upon for spirit and power of climbing. And with proper tools to aid us, and myself to lead the way, I felt no doubt whatever but that we could all attain the crest where first I had met with Loma. Upon the whole, I rejoiced that Loma was not present now. It must have been irksome to her feelings to have all her kindred and old associates (much as she kept aloof from them) put to death without ceremony, or else putting all of us to death. For all of us were resolved this time to have no more shilly-shallying; but to go through with a nasty business, in the style of honest Englishmen, when the question comes to 'Your life or mine.' There was hardly a man among us who had not suffered bitterly from the miscreants now before us. One had lost his wife perhaps, another had lost a daughter — according to their ages, another had lost bis favourite cow; in a word, there was scarcely any one who had not to complain of a hayrick; and what surprised me then, not now, was that the men least injured made the greatest push concerning it. But be the wrong too great to speak of, or too small to swear about, from poor Kit Badcock to rich Master Huckaback, there was not one but went heart and soul for stamping out these firebrands. The moon was lifting well above the shoulder of the uplands, when we, the chosen band, set forth, having the short cut along the valleys to foot of the Bagworthyj E to shoot- well over s, and his '■ practised lis miners gainst the Lies round od horses lers' help) under the this party : from the oone-gate pon their id chosen tly ware- her voca- power of id myself : that we bh Loma. •t present 3 to have :ept aloof e putting this time ugh with en, when t suffered One had ughter-— Favourite had not ne then, greatest to speak Badcock >ut went , ^ LORNA DOONE 2^ater; and therefor** Ko • 605 to fetch round thf ^^^^^8 allowed th^ .- * our climb m?Hi ^ ?°°^ and hills w^ « ' ^^^ ^« ^our, on the^tei^7 ^M^'^ ^ ^«^^e '^ed W^^t to begin stationed unon ^- ^''^^' ^^^ere ToSf^^I-*^^ heights J^eep out ofTSon" ^ ^.^^^ ^^^'^ r^ue'^rs^o^ V been uspH +« -^ "^^^ "lat was fho ^, ^"^st, so as to was to fi^e hif t' ^"'^ *° wateh to &^^« «:here I had And tten tte m^'n^"^* ^ silver Wp X*^"'^'"^^ '" in white witw^° ^^"^ "P the ioBt^nJ ^e meadows, the water^^^. ^V^l ^"^ so being wonH '.^^ ^J^rself ali'd'a^^ l°nd*h^>?^e^S;,toh'n'^^^^^^ to his wa;-rdlt,^"'« ''fought a counttn'^TS °"t of people to m.m^Tilh''^ «°°« to sleep^eav^f " A^'* M'l^i rib*™ "s;?te„i^y nor of the rocks, but of the loaded guns we bore. If any man slipped, off might go his gun, and however good his meaning, I being first was most likely to take far more than I fain would apprehend. For this cause, I had debated with Uncle Ben and with Cousin Tom as to the expediency of our climbing witli guns unloaded. But they, not being in the way them- selves, assured me that there was nothing to fear, except through uncommon clumsiness; and that as for charging our guns at the top, even veteran troops could scarcely be trusted to perform it properly in the hurry, and the darkness, and the noise of fignting before them. However, thank God, though a gun went off, no one was any the worse for it, neither did the Doones notice it, in the thick of th« firing in front of them. For the orders to those of the sham attack, conducted by Tom Faggus, were to make the greatest possible noise, without exposure of themselves; until we, in the rear, had fallen to; which John Fry was again to give the signal of. Therefore we, of the chosen band, stole up the meadow quietly, keeping in the blots of shade, and hollow of the watercourse. And the earliest notice the Counsellor had, or any one else, of our presence, was the blazing of the log- wood house, where lived that villain Carver. It was my especial privilege to set this house on fire; upon which I had insisted, exclusively and conclusively. No other hand but mine should lay a brand, or strike steel on flint for it; I had made all preparations carefully for a goodly blaze. And I must confess that I rubbed my hands, with a strong delight and comfort, when I saw the home of that man, who had fired so many houses, having i its turn of smoke, and blaze, and of crackling fury. We took good care, however, to bum no innocent | women or children in that most righteous destruction. For we brought them all out beforehand; some were glad, and some were sorry; according to their dispositions.! For Carver had ten or a dozen wives; and perhaps that had something to do with his taking the loss of Lorna so easily. One child I noticed, as I saved him; a fair and handsome little fellow, whom (if Carver Doone could love amrthing on earth beside his wretched self) he did love. The boy climbed on my back and rode; and muchl as I hated his father, it was not in my heart to say or dol a thing to vex him. 3re. If any er good his e far more n and with nbing with way them- 3ar, except )r charging Id scarcely y, and the I. )ff , no one s notice it, For the d by Tom le, without had fallen Ell of. le meadow low of the sellor had, ing of the T. It was pon which No other 5 steel on uUy for a ibbed my I saw the 33, having ry. innocent struct ion. vere ^lad, positions, laps that ot Lorna i fair and ne could f) he did: nd muchj say or do i-ORNA DOONE ^ *^^j\jSA DOONE to three SJh,^:..-^"* "°t before w'^"".''."-*" the covJ?t to three otherf;. ^"* "°t before we h«H''.'?i°*«<:ovSi bidding K go fe?' th''?' S*^ We womel TJ^"^^ •t. With I Se^^i '^•'°*i '» J>«indred so d.W ^^"^ «>em clowns in Se^t^l^''^^^ "aderf™t?h^*J?« Sate, »°d above the ^cil^t^hJ^'^ *^en the S^,S^^"™Ptuous of the forest p^rt^K^ ^' «=MF». and da^^ « ^^ leaped to ahootSr to «vaT^ ^^^'^^er^ho^T' *' «>ey their chS A? iT' ^^'^ t^« cha"fwa»? ^^^ ''obbtd his own gun first /h '«""' ^°m old iw ' *«* »"ch for half of tEeD^nL.'^°'^''jnaskeU werH,' T^° '«^«Iled 6o3 LORN A DOONE If-: Ir.;. ;;."■♦' were right; for while the valley was filled with howling, and with shrieks of women, and the beams of the blazing houses fell, and hissed in the bubbling river; all the rest of the Doones leaped at us, like so many demons. They fired wildly, not seeing us well among the hazel bushes; and then they clubbed their muskets, or drew their swords, as might be; and furiously drove at us. For a moment, altiiough we were twice their number, we fell back before their valorous fame, and the power | of their onset. For my part, admiring their courage greatly, and counting it slur upon manliness that two should be down upon one so, I withheld my hand awhile; for I cared to meet none but Carver; and he was not among them. The whirl and hurry of this fight, and the hard blows raining down — for now all guns were empty — took away my power of seeing, or reasoning upon anything. Yet one thing I saw, which dwelled long with me; and that was Christopher Badcock spending his life to get Charley's. How he had found out, none may tell; both being dead so long ago; but, at any rate, he had found out that Charley was the man who had robbed him of his wife and honour. It was Carver Doone who took her away, but Charleworth Doone was beside him; and, according to cast of dice, she fell to Charley's share. All this Kit Badcock (who was mad, according to our measures) had discovered, and treasured up; and now was his revenge- time. ' - ^i: He had come into the conflict without a weapon of any kind; only begging me to let him be in the very thick of it. For him, he said, life was no matter, after the loss of his wife and child; but death was matter to him, and he meant to make the most of it. Such a face I never saw, and never hope to see again, as when poor Kit Badcock spied Charley coming towards us. We had thought this man a patient fool, a philosopher of a little sort, or one who could feel nothing. And his quiet manner of going about, and the gentleness of his answers (when some brutes asked him where his wife was, and whether his baby had been well-trussed), these I a a lil an an th on vei wit eve 1 the] latt — fc but fore] Froim up, V of du thegc every han s -fron nen b had misled us to think that the man would turn the mild eturn cheek to everything. But I, in the loneliness of ourr® we barn, had listened, and had wept with him. PossibJ Therefore was I not surprised, so much .-^.s all the restp'' ha L.l :h howling, the blazing all the rest ons. They zel bushes; drew their us. ir number, the power ir courage \ that two nd awhile; e was not it, and the ere empty ning upon long with Jnding his 3eing dead i out that i his wife her away, according U this Kit sures) had s revenge- ►on of any Y thick of r the loss him, and e I never poor Kit lilosopher And his ess of his his wife 3d), these the mild !s of our i the rest ^ORNA DOONE cA:^^' SoZ 'TT'' of red li,ht Kit ""' his seisin of riX ' *^ ^ *<> some inler/ff;^ '''®"* "P to and dipH 4.u^P* ^°" hunff unnn , '*^^6®ty -Badcock like not to teU of slauRhte " th ""i! ''^^ "loT^as u„°°t* only Dholes stiSleft ??? *^^* ^an^Marfntn^^* ^« CHAPTER LXXII From that great rr.r.f • tWtnVr"'^"-"^: wS - ^e broken kgo<^ordtim«^ Pu°P'« grambSs "*H^ ''^'* *«o"nt -etumed on the ?o i °"^ clearance of Sose rif ^^''^^^^^e^ 6x0 LORNA DOOKE ■in-i care for them? Again how should we answer to the jus- tices of the peace, or perhaps even to Lord Jeffreys, for having, without even a warrant, taken the law into our own hands, and abated our nuisance so forciblv? And then, what was to be done with the spoil, which was of great value; though the diamond necklace came not to public light? For we saw a mighty host of claimants already leaping up for booty. Every man who had ever been robbed, expected usury on his loss; the lords of the manors demanded the whole; and so did the King's Commissioner of revenue at Porlock; and so did the men who had fought our battle; while even the parsons, both Bowden and Powell, and another who had no parish in it, threatened us with the just wrath of the Church, unless each had tithes of the whole of it. Now "this was not as it ought to be; and it seemed as if by burning the nest of robbers, we had but hatched their eggs; untu being made sole guardian of the captured treasure (by reason of my known honesty) I hit upon a plan, which gave very little satisfaction; yet carried this advantage, that the grumblers argued against one another and for 9ie most part came to blows; which renewed their goodwill to me, as being abused by the adversary. And my plan was no more than this — not to pay a farthing to lord of manor, parson, or even King's Com- missioner, but after making good some of the recent and proven losses — ^where the men could not ajfford to lose- to pay the residue (which might be worth some fifty thousand pounds) into the Exchequer at Westminster; and then let all the claimants file what wills they pleased in Chancery. Now this was a very noble device, for the mere name of Chancery, and the high repute of the fees therein, and i low repute of the lawyers, and the comfortable know-| ledge lliat the woolsack itself is the golden fleece, absorb- ing gold for ever, if the standard be but pureil consideration of these things staved off at once the lords of the manors, and all the little fanners, and even those whom most I feared; videlicet, the parsons. And the! King's Commissioner was compelled to profess himself I contented, although of all he was most aggrieved; for his| pickings would have been goodly. Moreover, by this plan I made — although I neveri thought of that— a mighty friend worth all the enemies J to the jus- Bffreys, for w into our bly? And icn was of me not to claimants :> had ever )rds of the he King's d the men sons, both > parish in e Church, emed as if ched their captured lit upon a irried this le another Jwed their lary. to pay a ig's Com- ecent and to lose— ome fifty Jtminster; y pleased ere name >rein, and •le know- i, absorb- iit pure; the lords I ''en those And the I himself 1; for his °f excelfence) wL X^^ Perhaps of en^L^* «»» now ,„ head of thn P^ l***® great Lord ?L ®'^6y, rather than Ws kindness tei„^ r" ^ '^e W%f ^P^™"*^ the Pere brief of tri^^T?^ *^« hundred ^n^, *''« ."""aJni, for wnocent, it wmT^^'I* °»t °f tendT^^}^' "''*''°ut the I^rd ChiW jMtic^*^*' ''"* that proved^h'^ P*°Ple werl as showJM %iw ^ ™nch the sfeaw * "*! ""erit of tte Jne force of th.» , *""*!' "nan. Now +k SH"' when he tude for a JiSi argument; and no?T.** ^«fi^ had seen Wtt°? coSc^'^"^' 'O'^hinSl'^'e^i^^P'omoted J,t--that I didnS ev^n7"K «« «> long t™. °^ ""^-and I high promotion jJS^i«o«' at the ta^;^??""^ believe have led me to^f^l that my knovried^l x'^'^.J^fireys's y^ss to pav into an nffi^"^"« « the mattfr- f *^'« '^onW ^I ha/ 1„^^ tte S?/ and not t"anv offl ""■ '?y °hject .upon the receirS rJ **'=t' could I haty °™«al; neitter of E.wty.Sd'x^fn*''^ Common W d"^* ^ ^^chMnef tnie lesS S^M.n*"'^'* fo"" its mMv^V* Chancel^"?^^ head of the lanr ^^ ^as this-Lord ^ chances. But the POfession ,^Sat ^„1 ^'"°*t head o1 fc^^ "eingnow ^ne. And aselves ill- ed though 1. had been : Badcock Dpened to meado"', Obsen lite tL...j^ panels of iched the oor. Per- )r making it was the who was and con ly falsely t fellows, ut surely )ur many I e a noblel ^ou are ai ^m ten ^"^ "*° " -«^teer4 ^irf-^-^t^ f?t,t^ly. John; however pa™ .„,i thought as much L f'i^yso". Carver.' P^'"" weH^'wL"* *^''"^"" ^aU^*e^^f "'"'=h »« -long-' I »'ho slew your faSii. '">' Possession c^^^ '°"8 ago. ?ce What are jewds fT" ^'« y"" wiU fiT^Vu'^y "O". We? Baubles anrf f t° ™«' youne maJr I?^ ^''^ "eck- they have led me fn^'*— I detest them' f ™y ^nje of age, good Sir W,n ^"''^^'" for. When";,.™"' *1^« «ns only for a Dure-'°„2vyou will scorn aM T" .''ome to my gojl have^aadt mv"«^* '=°"^«°^ce "y^ri!:,^d car^ He looked so ho^^^^*? '^'^ God ' ' ^' ^et me Kj^V^^^fy' rt^tfee^e^ -r '•- ^^e ^"rsin^&jL-^^^^^^^^ as if his heart wei%'P''f,?<^s ^s br£lt and fh° "°^'« and gentleman t^^^?-^ lr"'"g-- "-hereas i hart^'°'^\" out. happened to contS, 'I'^^^ast more than J^^" *^'^ old ^>" you aoDl^,^ ^"'''" goods thanspnf"""^' as if it very tight all «> ^v?^' Wnd sir ' r i^S*'?^^"*- ;-atify lour pL?e^:^?^'«/, '^f I I^ace !t f^**' ^^^P'"? him heart, no doub? 1^^^ '^^ The pledl^f"'" Po^^er to ' °' "^''^ '* ^^ at tg s ^U^,„"P?n your 6X4 LORNA DOONE m: m ■f With these words, and some apology for having rOv^ourse to strong measures, I thrust my nand inside his waistcoat, and drew forth I oma's necklace, purely sparkling in the moonlight, like the dancing ot new stars. The old man made a stab at me, with a knife which I had not espied; but the vicious onset failed; and then he knelt, and clasped his hands. *Oh, for God's sake, John, my son, rob me not in that manner. They belong to me; and I love them so; I would give almost my life for them. There is one jewel I can look at for hours» and see all the lights of heaven in it; which I never shall see elsewhere. All my wretched, wicked life — oh, Tohn, I am a sad hypocrite — ^but give me back my iewels. Or else kill me here; I am a babe in your hands; but I must have back my jewels.' As his beautiful white hair fell away from his noble forehead, like a silver wreath of glory, and his powerful face, for once, was moved with real emotion, I was so amazed and overcome by the grand contradictions of nature, that verily I was on the point of Riving him back the necklace. But honesty, which is said to be the first instinct of all the Ridds (though I myself never found it so), happened here to occur to me, and so I said, without more haste than might be expected, — 'Sir Counsellor, I cannot give you what does not belong to me. But if you will show me that particular diamond v/hich is heaven to you, I will take upon myself the risk and the folly of cutting it out for you. And with that you must go contented; and I beseech you not to starve with that jewel upon your lips.' Seeing no nope of better terms, he showed me his pet| love of a jewel; and I thouji^ht of what Loma was to me, as I cut it out (with the hmge of my knife severing the I snakes of gold) and placed it in his careful hand. Another moment, and he was gone, and away through Gwenny's postern; and. God knows what became of him. Now as to Carver, the thing was this — ^so far as I could ascertain from the valiant ruiners, no two of whom toldl the same sto y, any more than one of them told it twice. The band of froones which sallied forth for the robbery ofl the pretended convoy was met by Simon Carfax, accord- ing to arrangement, at the riined house called The| Warren, in that part of Bagworthy Forest where the rivei Exe (as yet & very small stream) runs through it. Th< mer this to E N. villa weir- led t hall, 'Ci Doon the li -■^. ..-■:& ng recourse J waistcoat, clinR in the le old man not espied; knelt, and not in that iiem so; I J one jewel I of heaven ' wretched, — but give 1 a babe in 1/ \ his noble is powerful , I was so dictions of 5 him back )e the first sr found it d, without not belong r diamond 5lf the risk h that you tarve with ne his pet vas to me, I vering the . Another Gwenny'sl as I could jrhom told i it twice. 'obbery of| X, accord- illed The| ; the rivei 1 it. Th( Warren as .n "''''''''' ''^^^^ ^-^eated^Cm'k^tLT?.""^^ '^i^^^^n^^^^ ''\ ^ «»« old If^ng, and shoot'nTJnH t'.P^'^ ^^^e res^^orh' ^J"^ ^^^ never made a great J^^t^\ ^^wever Sfi 'r,^""* ^ few ^f peacefully ^p2*^^,.^»stako than in honfni^?'" ^V'^^ *^e green foresf^^* 4^® ^^"^s of a trn„^^i"^ *° end his from the brc^k at dL^^^:°^^y- Fo^af h^^^'"' ^"d i„ t^e Poones i^n "^^ ^'th his flv-rn/^ ^e came home goW, under t^*^ ?'^'^«^t'*ard of S«"«^. ^''^ Warren g?ne in the oth^I* *° ^'^«to"'e, or t ™S "^e: and fte the Door„3, that for ~"^ °^ J^^s desim h ' ?"'^"'« this SXf sol?* ta^-=t^«°"°r l?e°r«en^t!'^K?^ to nature"^"" '^"' "'"^ feith for Sim^ "as b.*'^"'' ''°^-^ , .Now Simon, havin„ . "* according ^ amy, wher; ttr^?,*"** ""ese floH^ers nt *u ^eir-work of ttrw