R. D. Blackmore - Lorna Doone

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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. And when I beheld a tall grey shape, of
something or another, moving at the lower end of the 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 in
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 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
courage, but that on the very turn and bending of my footsteps, the
woman in the distance lifted up her staff to me, so that I was bound to
stop.

And now, being brought face to face, by the will of God (as one might
say) with anything that might come of it, I kept myself quite straight
and stiff, and thrust away all white feather, trusting in my Bible
still, hoping that it would protect me, though I had disobeyed it. But
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 more near to me;
and I was glad to sit down on a rock because my knees were shaking so. I
tried to think of many things, but none of them would come to me; and I
could not take my eyes away, though I prayed God to be near me.

But when she was come so nigh to me that I could descry her features,
there was something in her countenance that made me not dislike her. She
looked as if she had been visited by many troubles, and had felt them
one by one, yet held enough of kindly nature still to grieve for others.
Long white hair, on either side, was falling down below her chin; and
through her wrinkles clear bright eyes seemed to spread themselves upon
me. Though I had plenty of time to think, I was taken by surprise no
less, and unable to say anything; yet eager to hear 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, nor to be blessed
for barn-gun. Give me forth thy hand, John Ridd; 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.

"Have no fear of me, my son; I have no gift to harm thee; and if I had,
it should be idle. Now, if thou hast any wit, tell me why I love thee."

"I never had any wit, mother," I answered in our Devonshire way; "and
never set eyes on thee before, to the furthest of my knowledge."

"And yet I know thee as well, John, as if thou wert 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
most 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 and that, so clearly, I
remembered all about it (a thing that happened last August), and thought
how stupid I must have been not to learn more of the little girl who had
fallen into the black pit, with a basketful of whortleberries, and
who might have been gulfed if her little dog had not spied me in the
distance. I carried her on my back to mother; and then we dressed her
all anew, and took her where she ordered us; but she did not tell us
who she was, nor anything more than her Christian name, and that she was
eight years old, and fond of fried batatas. And we did not seek to ask
her more; as our manner is with visitors.

But thinking of this little story, and seeing how she looked at me, I
lost my fear of Mother Melldrum, and began to like her; partly because I
had helped her grandchild, and partly that if she were so wise, no need
would have been for me to save the little thing from drowning. Therefore
I stood up and said, though scarcely yet established in my power against
hers,--

"Good mother, the shoe she lost was in the mire, and 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 gazed 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 thee?"

"It is something to thy mother, John, and something to thyself, I trow;
and nothing worse could befall thee."

I waited for her to speak again, because she had spoken so sadly that it
took my breath away.

"John Ridd, if thou hast any value for thy body or thy soul, thy mother,
or thy father's name, have nought to do with any Doone."

She gazed at me in earnest so, and raised her voice in saying it, until
the whole valley, curving like a great bell echoed "Doone," that it
seemed to me my heart was gone for every one and everything. If it were
God's will for me to have no more of Lorna, let a sign come out of the
rocks, and I would try to believe it. But no sign came, and I turned to
the woman, and longed that she had been a man.

"You poor thing, with bones and blades, pails of water, and door-keys,
what know you about the destiny of a maiden such as Lorna? Chilblains
you may treat, and bone-shave, ringworm, and the scaldings; even scabby
sheep may limp the better for your strikings. John the Baptist and his
cousins, with the wool and hyssop, are for mares, and ailing dogs, and
fowls that have the jaundice. Look at me now, Mother Melldrum, 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 and comfort. His enemy stood
between him and the last leap he had taken; there was nothing left him
but to fight, or be hurled into the sea, five hundred feet below.

"Lie down, lie down!" I shouted to him, as if he were a dog, for I had
seen a battle like this before, and knew that the sheep had no chance of
life except from his greater weight, and the difficulty of moving him.

[Illustration: 150.jpg "Lie down!" I shouted]

"Lie down, lie down, John Ridd!" cried Mother Melldrum, mocking me, but
without a sign of smiling.

The poor sheep turned, upon my voice, and looked at me so piteously that
I could look no longer; but ran with all my speed to try and save him
from the combat. He saw that I could not be in time, for the goat was
bucking to leap at him, and so the good wether stooped his forehead,
with the harmless horns curling aside of it; and the goat flung his
heels up, and rushed at him, with quick sharp jumps and tricks of
movement, and the points of his long horns always foremost, and his
little scut cocked like a gun-hammer.

As I ran up the steep of the rock, I could not see what they were doing,
but the sheep must have fought very bravely at last, and yielded his
ground quite slowly, and I hoped almost to save him. But just as my head
topped the platform of rock, I saw him flung from it backward, with a
sad low moan and a gurgle. His body made quite a short noise in the air,
like a bucket thrown down a well shaft, and I could not tell when it
struck the water, except 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

[Illustration: 152.jpg Illustrated Capital]

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 of hand than heart to me.

[Illustration: 153.jpg Fields spread with growth]

But when the weather changed in earnest, and the frost was gone, and
the south-west wind blew softly, and the lambs were at play with the
daisies, it was more than I could do to keep from thought of Lorna.
For now the fields were spread with growth, and the waters clad with
sunshine, and light and shadow, step by step, wandered over the furzy
cleves. All the sides of the hilly wood were gathered in and out with
green, silver-grey, or russet points, according to the several manner of
the trees beginning. And if one stood beneath an elm, with any heart to
look at it, lo! all the ground was strewn with flakes (too small to know
their meaning), and all the sprays above were rasped and trembling with
a redness. And so I stopped beneath the tree, and carved L.D. upon it,
and wondered at the buds of thought that seemed to swell inside me.

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 and many a time I tried, and more than once began the
thing; but there came a dryness in my throat, and a knocking under the
roof of my mouth, and a longing to put it off again, as perhaps might be
the wisest. And then I would remember too that I had no right to speak
of Lorna as if she were common property.

This time I longed to take my gun, and was half resolved to do so;
because it seemed so hard a thing to be shot at and have no chance of
shooting; but when I came to remember the steepness and the slippery
nature of the waterslide, there seemed but little likelihood of keeping
dry the powder. Therefore I was armed with nothing but a good stout
holly staff, seasoned well for many a winter in our back-kitchen
chimney.

Although my heart was leaping high with the prospect of some adventure,
and the fear of meeting Lorna, I could not but be gladdened by the
softness of the weather, and the welcome way of everything. There was
that power all round, that power and that goodness, which make us come,
as it were, outside our bodily selves, to share them. Over and beside us
breathes the joy of hope and promise; under foot are troubles past; in
the distance bowering newness tempts us ever forward. We quicken with
largesse of life, and spring with vivid mystery.

And, in good sooth, I had to spring, and no mystery about it, ere ever I
got to the top of the rift leading into Doone-glade. For the stream was
rushing down in strength, and raving at every corner; a mort of rain
having fallen last night and no wind come to wipe it. However, I reached
the head ere dark with more difficulty 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 holly-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.

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 again. Suddenly my sleep was
broken by a shade cast over me; between me and the low sunlight Lorna
Doone was standing.

"Master Ridd, are you mad?" she said, and took my hand to move me.

"Not mad, but half asleep," I answered, feigning not to notice her, that
so she might keep hold of me.

"Come away, come away, if you care for life. The patrol will be here
directly. Be quick, Master Ridd, let me hide thee."

"I will not stir a step," said I, though being in the greatest fright
that might be well imagined, "unless you call me 'John.'"

"Well, John, then--Master John Ridd, be quick, if you have any to care
for you."

"I have many that care for me," I said, just to let her know; "and I
will follow you, Mistress Lorna, albeit without any hurry, unless there
be peril to more than me."

Without another word she led me, though with many timid glances towards
the upper valley, to, and into, her little bower, where the inlet
through the rock was. I am almost sure that I spoke before (though I
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 the
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 plainest
thing of all to see, at any rate by day light, 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 Lorna laughed at my fear of it,
for she drew her water thence. But on the left was a narrow crevice,
very difficult to espy, and having a sweep of grey ivy laid, like a
slouching beaver, over it. A man here coming from the brightness of the
outer air, with eyes dazed by the twilight, would never think of seeing
this and following it to its meaning.

Lorna raised the screen for me, but I had much ado to pass, on account
of bulk and stature. Instead of being proud of my size (as it seemed to
me she ought to be) Lorna laughed so quietly that I was ready to knock
my head or elbows against 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.

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
spring-tide; but moss was in abundant life, some feathering, and some
gobleted, and some with fringe of red to it. Overhead there was no
ceiling but the sky itself, flaked with little clouds of April whitely
wandering over it. The floor was made of soft low grass, mixed with moss
and primroses; and in a niche of shelter moved the delicate wood-sorrel.
Here and there, around the sides, were "chairs of living stone," as some
Latin writer says, whose name has quite escaped me; and in the midst a
tiny spring arose, with crystal beads in it, and a soft voice as of
a laughing dream, and dimples like a sleeping babe. Then, after going
round a little, with surprise of daylight, the water overwelled the
edge, and softly went through lines of light to shadows and an untold
bourne.

While I was gazing at all these things with wonder and some sadness,
Lorna turned upon me lightly (as her manner was) and said,--

"Where are the new-laid eggs, Master Ridd? Or hath blue hen ceased
laying?"

I did not altogether like the way in which she said it with a sort of
dialect, as if my speech could be laughed at.

"Here be some," I answered, speaking as if in spite of her. "I would
have brought thee twice as many, but that I feared to crush them in the
narrow ways, Mistress Lorna."

[Illustration: 157.jpg Here be some Mistress Lorna]

And so I laid her out two dozen upon the moss of the rock-ledge,
unwinding the wisp of hay from each as it came safe out of my pocket.
Lorna looked with growing wonder, as I added one to one; and when I
had placed them side by side, and bidden her now to tell them, to my
amazement what did she do but burst into a flood of tears.

"What have I done?" I asked, with shame, scarce daring even to look
at her, because her grief was not like Annie's--a thing that could be
coaxed away, and left a joy in going--"oh, what have I done to vex you
so?"

"It is nothing done by you, Master Ridd," she answered, very proudly, as
if nought I did could matter; "it is only something that comes upon me
with the scent of the pure true clover-hay. Moreover, you have been too
kind; and I am not used to kindness."

Some sort of awkwardness was on me, at her words and weeping, as if I
would like to say something, but feared to make things worse perhaps
than they were already. Therefore I abstained from speech, as I would
in my own pain. And as it happened, this was the way to make her tell me
more about it. Not that I was curious, beyond what pity urged me and
the strange affairs around her; and now I gazed upon the floor, lest I
should seem to watch her; but none the less for that I knew all that she
was doing.

Lorna went a little way, as if she would not think of me nor care for
one so careless; and all my heart gave a sudden jump, to go like a mad
thing after her; until she turned of her own accord, and with a little
sigh came back to me. Her eyes were soft with trouble's shadow, and
the proud lift of her neck was gone, and beauty's vanity borne down by
woman's want of sustenance.

"Master Ridd," she said in the softest voice that ever flowed between
two lips, "have I done aught to offend you?"

Hereupon it went hard with me, not to catch her up and kiss her, in the
manner in which she was looking; only it smote me suddenly that this
would be a low advantage of her trust and helplessness. She seemed to
know what I would be at, and to doubt very greatly about it, 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 that I said,
within my heart and through it, "John Ridd, be on thy very best manners
with this lonely maiden."

Lorna liked me all the better for my good forbearance; because she did
not love me yet, and had not thought about it; at least so far as I
knew. And though her eyes were so beauteous, so very soft and kindly,
there was (to my apprehension) some great power in them, as if she would
not have a thing, unless her judgment leaped with it.

But now her judgment leaped with me, because I had behaved so well; and
being of quick urgent nature--such as I delight in, for the change
from mine own slowness--she, without any let or hindrance, sitting over
against me, now raising and now dropping fringe over those sweet
eyes that were the road-lights of her tongue, Lorna told me all about
everything I wished to know, every little thing she knew, except indeed
that point of points, how Master Ridd stood with her.

Although it wearied me no whit, it might be wearisome for folk who
cannot look at Lorna, to hear the story all in speech, exactly as she
told it; therefore let me put it shortly, to the best of my remembrance.

Nay, pardon me, whosoever thou art, for seeming fickle and rude to thee;
I have tried to do as first proposed, to tell the tale in my own words,
as of another's fortune. But, lo! I was beset at once with many heavy
obstacles, which grew as I went onward, until I knew not where I was,
and mingled past and present. And two of these difficulties only were
enough to stop me; the one that I must coldly speak without the force of
pity, the other that I, off and on, confused myself with Lorna, 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.

[Illustration: 159.jpg Tailpiece]

CHAPTER XX

LORNA BEGINS HER STORY

[Illustration: 160.jpg Illustrated Capital]

"I cannot go through all my thoughts so as to make them clear to you,
nor have I 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 sometimes with laughter, 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 worth 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 such pains to teach me. She was a lady of
high repute and lofty ways, and learning, but grieved and harassed more
and more by the coarseness, and the violence, and the ignorance around
her. In vain she strove, from year to year, to make the young men
hearken, to teach them what became their birth, and give them sense of
honour. It was her favourite word, poor thing! and they called her 'Old
Aunt Honour.' Very often she used to say that I was her only comfort,
and I am sure she was my only one; and when she died it was more to me
than if I had lost a mother.

"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 their 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.