R. D. Blackmore - Lorna Doone

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Grieving much for the loss of the King, however greatly it might be (as
the parson had declared it was, while telling 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 would be likely to ensue.

And I myself was of this number, riding sadly home again; although bound
to the King as churchwarden now; which dignity, next to the parson's in
rank, is with us (as it ought to be in every good parish) hereditary.
For who can stick to the church like the man whose father stuck to it
before him; and who knows all the little ins, and great outs, which must
in these troublous times come across?

But though appointed at last, by virtue of being best farmer in the
parish (as well as by vice of mismanagement on the part of my mother,
and Nicholas Snowe, who had thoroughly mixed up everything, being too
quick-headed); yet, while I dwelled with pride upon the fact that I
stood in the King's shoes, as the manager and promoter of the Church of
England, and I knew that we must miss His Majesty (whose arms were above
the 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-twenty ricks; counting grain, and straw, and
hay. Moreover, 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 lawlessness, and a good excuse for everybody.
And after this--or rather before it, and first of all indeed (if I must
state the true order)--arose upon me the thought of Lorna, and how these
things would affect her fate.

And indeed I must admit that it had occurred to me sometimes, or been
suggested by others, that the Lady Lorna had not behaved altogether
kindly, since her departure from among us. For although in those days
the post (as we call the service of letter-carrying, which now comes
within twenty miles of us) did not extend to our part of the world, yet
it might have been possible to procure for hire a man who would ride
post, if Lorna feared to trust the pack-horses, or the troopers, who
went to and fro. Yet no message whatever had reached us; neither any
token even of her safety in London. As 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 Lorna 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 weather growing quite beautiful, and so mild that the
trees were budding, and the cattle full of happiness, I could not but
think of the difference between the world of to-day and the world of
this day twelvemonth. Then all was howling 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 so 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 struck the
crest of some cold drift, and bowed it.

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, and took, and taking,
told the special tone of everything. All this lay upon my heart, without
a word of thinking, spreading light and shadow there, and the soft
delight 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 Lorna.

Then I thought of promise fair; such as glowed around me, where the
red rocks held the sun, when he was departed; and the distant crags
endeavoured to retain his memory. But as evening spread across them,
shading with a silent fold, all the colour stole away; all remembrance
waned and died.

"So it has been with love," I thought, "and with simple truth and
warmth. The maid has chosen the glittering stars, instead of the plain
daylight."

Nevertheless I would not give in, although in deep 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, however, was more easy to attempt than to achieve; and by the time
I came down the hill, I was none the wiser. 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.

There was not a moment for lamenting. All the mourning must be ready (if
we cared to beat the Snowes) in eight-and-forty hours: and, although
it was Sunday night, mother now feeling sure of the thing, sat up with
Lizzie, cutting patterns, and stitching things on brown paper, and
snipping, and laying the fashions down, and requesting all opinions, yet
when given, scorning them; insomuch that I grew weary even of tobacco
(which had comforted me since Lorna), and prayed her to go on until the
King should be alive again.

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! after what I have cut up!"

"It would be just like 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 stuff."

"Well, good lack, I am a fool! Three tables pegged with needles! The
Lord in His mercy keep His Majesty, if ever He hath gotten him!"

By this device we went to bed; and not another stitch was struck until
the troopers had office-tidings that the King was truly dead. Hence the
Snowes beat us by a day; and both old Betty and Lizzie laid the blame
upon me, as usual.

Almost before we had put off the mourning, which as loyal subjects we
kept for the King three months and a week; rumours of disturbances, of
plottings, and of outbreak began to stir among us. We heard of fighting
in Scotland, and buying of ships on the continent, and of arms in Dorset
and Somerset; and we kept our beacon in readiness to give signals of a
landing; or rather the soldiers did. For we, having trustworthy reports
that the King had been to high mass himself in the Abbey of Westminster,
making all the bishops go with him, and all the guards in London, and
then tortured all the Protestants who dared to wait outside, moreover
had received from the Pope a flower grown in the Virgin Mary's garden,
and warranted to last for ever, we of the moderate party, hearing all
this and ten times as much, and having no love for this sour James,
such as we had for the lively Charles, were ready to wait for what might
happen, rather than care about stopping it. Therefore we listened to
rumours gladly, and shook our heads with gravity, and predicted, every
man something, but scarce any two the same. Nevertheless, in our part,
things went on as usual, until the middle of June was nigh. We ploughed
the ground, and sowed the corn, and tended the cattle, and heeded every
one his neighbour's business, as carefully as heretofore; and the only
thing that moved us much was that Annie had a baby. This being a very
fine child with blue eyes, and christened "John" in compliment to me,
and with me for his godfather, it is natural to suppose that I thought
a good deal about him; and when 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 horseshoes in it, and where the news is apt to come
first of all to our neighbourhood (except upon a Sunday), while we were
talking of the hay-crop, and of a great sheep-stealer, round the corner
came a man upon a piebald horse looking flagged and weary. But seeing
half a dozen of us, young, and brisk, and hearty, he made a flourish
with his horse, and waved a blue flag vehemently, shouting with great
glory,--

[Illustration: 582.jpg Waved a blue flag vehemently]

"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 the man was too
small to quarrel with: yet knowing Lorna to be a "papist," as we choose
to call them--though they might as well call us "kingists," after the
head of our Church--I thought that this scurvy scampish knave might show
them the way to the place he mentioned, unless his courage failed him.

"Papist yourself, be you?" said the fellow, not daring 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 thrust it into the blacksmith's
fire, and blew the bellows thrice at it. No one dared attempt to stop
me, for my mood had not been sweet of late; and of course they knew my
strength.

The man rode on with a muttering noise, having won no recruits from us,
by force of my example: and he stopped at the ale-house farther down,
where the road goes away from the Lynn-stream. Some of us went thither
after a time, when our horses were shodden and rasped, for although we
might not like the man, we might be glad of his tidings, which seemed to
be something wonderful. He had set up his blue flag in the tap-room, and
was teaching every one.

"Here coom'th Maister Jan Ridd," 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 off, 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 will 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 they 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."

For the next fortnight we were daily troubled with conflicting rumours,
each man relating what he desired, rather than what he had right, to
believe. We were 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 had risen as one man for him, and all
the militia had joined his ranks; that Taunton, and Bridgwater, and
Bristowe, were all mad with delight, the two former being in his hands,
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
apprehended, had confessed himself an impostor and a papist as bad as
the King was.

We longed for Colonel Stickles (as he always became in time of war,
though he fell back to Captain, and even Lieutenant, directly the fight
was over), for then we should 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 collection of all
his writings. All the soldiers had been ordered away at full speed for
Exeter, to join the Duke of Albemarle, 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 lively, and to teach me that look of wisdom
which is bred of practice only, and the hearing of many lies. 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 their prophecies increased in
strength according to contradiction. 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,
especially since 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 that we had concealed the truth from them.

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 in all my
life, it was at this particular time, and as stern and strong as could
be. I had resolved to let things pass,--to hear about them gladly, to
encourage all my friends to talk, and myself 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 mowing about noon, or
a little later, to fetch some cider for all of us, and to eat a morsel
of bacon. For mowing was no joke that year, the summer being wonderfully
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 found 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!"

"You 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 be compressed in a
syllable. "Well, John, no doubt you are right about it. I will try not
to notice things. But it is a hard thing, after all my care, to see
everything going to ruin. But what can be expected of a girl who knows
all the kings of Carthage?"

"There were no kings of Carthage, Annie. They were called, why let me
see--they were called--oh, something else."

"Never mind what they were called," said Annie; "will they cook our
dinner for us? But now, John, I am in such trouble. All this talk is
make-believe."

"Don't you cry, my dear: don't cry, my darling sister," I answered,
as she dropped into the worn place of the settle, and bent above her
infant, rocking as if both their hearts were one: "don't you know,
Annie, I cannot tell, but I know, or at least I mean, I have heard the
men of experience say, it is so bad for the baby."

"Perhaps I know that as well as you do, John," said Annie, looking up at
me with a gleam of her old laughing: "but how can I help crying; I am in
such trouble."

"Tell me what it is, my dear. Any grief of yours will vex me greatly;
but I will try to bear it."

"Then, John, it is just this. Tom has gone off with the rebels; and you
must, oh, you must go after him."

[Illustration: 586.jpg Tailpiece]

CHAPTER LXIII

JOHN IS WORSTED BY THE WOMEN

[Illustration: 587.jpg Illustrated Capital]

Moved as I was by Annie's tears, and gentle style of coaxing, and most
of all by my love for her, I yet declared that I could not go, and leave
our house and homestead, far less my dear mother and Lizzie, at the
mercy of the merciless Doones.

"Is that all your objection, John?" asked Annie, in her quick panting
way: "would you go but for that, John?"

"Now," I said, "be in no such hurry"--for while I was gradually
yielding, I liked to pass it through my fingers, as if my fingers shaped
it: "there are many things to be thought about, and many ways of viewing
it."

"Oh, you never can have loved Lorna! No wonder you gave her up so! John,
you can love nobody, but your oat-ricks, and your hay-ricks."

"Sister mine, because I rant not, neither rave of what I feel, can you
be so shallow as to dream that I feel nothing? What is your love for
Tom Faggus? What is your love for your baby (pretty darling as he is)
to compare with such a love as for ever dwells with me? Because I do not
prate of it; because it is beyond me, not only to express, but even form
to my own heart in thoughts; because I do not shape my face, and would
scorn to play to it, as a thing of acting, and lay it out before you,
are you fools enough to think--" but here I stopped, having said more
than was usual with me.

"I am very sorry, John. Dear John, I am so sorry. What a shallow fool I
am!"

"I will go seek your husband," I said, to change the 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 like 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 daddy's sake, darling; you precious soul, for daddy's
sake." I 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
corner to cupboard, exactly as if she had never been married; only
without an apron on. And then she said, "Now to your mowers, John; and
make the most of this fine afternoon; kiss your godson before you go."
And I, being used to obey her, in little things of that sort, kissed the
baby, and took my cans, and went back to my scythe again.

By the time I came home it was dark night, and pouring again with a
foggy rain, such as we have in July, even more than in January. Being
soaked all through, and through, and with water squelching in my boots,
like a pump with a bad bucket, I was only too glad to find Annie's
bright face, and quick figure, flitting in and out the firelight,
instead of Lizzie sitting grandly, with a feast of literature, and not
a drop of gravy. Mother was in the corner also, with her cheery-coloured
ribbons glistening very nice by candle-light, looking at Annie now and
then, with memories of her babyhood; and then at her having a baby: yet
half afraid of praising her much, for fear of that young Lizzie. But
Lizzie showed no jealousy: she truly loved our Annie (now that she
was gone from us), and she wanted to know all sorts of things, and she
adored the baby. Therefore Annie was allowed to attend to me, as she
used to do.

"Now, John, you must start the first thing in the morning," she said,
when the others had left the room, but somehow she stuck to the baby,
"to fetch me back my rebel, according to your promise."

"Not so," I replied, misliking the job, "all I promised was to go, if
this house were assured against any onslaught of the Doones."

"Just so; and here is that assurance." With these words she drew forth a
paper, and laid it on my knee with triumph, enjoying my amazement. This,
as you may suppose was great; not only at the document, but also at her
possession of it. For in truth it was no less than a formal undertaking,
on the part of the Doones, not to attack Plover's Barrows farm, or
molest any of the inmates, or carry off any chattels, during the absence
of John Ridd upon a special errand. This document was signed not only
by the Counsellor, but by many other Doones: whether Carver's name were
there, I could not say for certain; as of course he would not sign it
under his name of "Carver," and I had never heard Lorna say to what (if
any) he had been baptized.

In the face of such a deed as this, I could no longer refuse to go; and
having received my promise, Annie told me (as was only fair) how she had
procured that paper. It was both a clever and courageous act; and would
have seemed to me, at first sight, far beyond Annie's power. But none
may gauge a woman's power, when her love and faith are moved.

The first thing Annie had done was this: she made herself look ugly.
This was not an easy thing; but she had learned a great deal from her
husband, upon the subject of disguises. It hurt her feelings not a
little to make so sad a fright of herself; but what could it matter?--if
she lost Tom, she must be a far greater fright in earnest, than now
she was in seeming. And then she left her child asleep, under Betty
Muxworthy's tendance--for Betty took to that child, as if there never
had been a child before--and away she went in her own "spring-cart" (as
the name of that engine proved to be), without a word 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 man 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 for Sir Counsellor
himself, and must be conducted to him. To him accordingly she was led,
without even any hoodwinking, for she had spectacles over her eyes, and
made believe not to see ten yards.