Lorna Doone

“Amen! So be it!” cried the clerk, who was far behind, being only a shoemaker.

Then Parson Bowden read some verses from the parish Bible, telling us to lift up our eyes, and look upon the fields already white to harvest; and then he laid the Bible down on the square head of the gate-post, and despite his gown and cassock, three good swipes he cut off corn, and laid them right end onwards. All this time the rest were huddling outside the gate, and along the lane, not daring to interfere with parson, but whispering how well he did it.

When he had stowed the corn like that, mother entered, leaning on me, and we both said, “Thank the Lord for all His mercies, and these the first-fruits of His hand!” And then the clerk gave out a psalm verse by verse, done very well; although he sneezed in the midst of it, from a beard of wheat thrust up his nose by the rival cobbler at Brendon. And when the psalm was sung, so strongly that the foxgloves on the bank were shaking, like a chime of bells, at it, Parson took a stoop of cider, and we all fell to at reaping.

Of course I mean the men, not women; although I know that up the country, women are allowed to reap; and right well they reap it, keeping row for row with men, comely, and in due order, yet, meseems, the men must ill attend to their own reaping-hooks, in fear lest the other cut themselves, being the weaker vessel. But in our part, women do what seems their proper business, following well behind the men, out of harm of the swinging hook, and stooping with their breasts and arms up they catch the swathes of corn, where the reapers cast them, and tucking them together tightly with a wisp laid under them, this they fetch around and twist, with a knee to keep it close; and lo, there is a goodly sheaf, ready to set up in stooks! After these the children come, gathering each for his little self, if the farmer be right-minded; until each hath a bundle made as big as himself and longer, and tumbles now and again with it, in the deeper part of the stubble.

We, the men, kept marching onwards down the flank of the yellow wall, with knees bent wide, and left arm bowed and right arm flashing steel. Each man in his several place, keeping down the rig or chine, on the right side of the reaper in front, and the left of the man that followed him, each making farther sweep and inroad into the golden breadth and depth, each casting leftwards his rich clearance on his foregoer’s double track.

So like half a wedge of wildfowl, to and fro we swept the field; and when to either hedge we came, sickles wanted whetting, and throats required moistening, and backs were in need of easing, and every man had much to say, and women wanted praising. Then all returned to the other end, with reaping-hooks beneath our arms, and dogs left to mind jackets.

But now, will you believe me well, or will you only laugh at me? For even in the world of wheat, when deep among the varnished crispness of the jointed stalks, and below the feathered yielding of the graceful heads, even as I gripped the swathes and swept the sickle round them, even as I flung them by to rest on brother stubble, through the whirling yellow world, and eagerness of reaping, came the vision of my love, as with downcast eyes she wondered at my power of passion. And then the sweet remembrance glowed brighter than the sun through wheat, through my very depth of heart, of how she raised those beaming eyes, and ripened in my breast rich hope. Even now I could descry, like high waves in the distance, the rounded heads and folded shadows of the wood of Bagworthy. Perhaps she was walking in the valley, and softly gazing up at them. Oh, to be a bird just there! I could see a bright mist hanging just above the Doone Glen. Perhaps it was shedding its drizzle upon her. Oh, to be a drop of rain! The very breeze which bowed the harvest to my bosom gently, might have come direct from Lorna, with her sweet voice laden. Ah, the flaws of air that wander where they will around her, fan her bright cheek, play with lashes, even revel in her hair and reveal her beauties—man is but a breath, we know, would I were such breath as that!

But confound it, while I ponder, with delicious dreams suspended, with my right arm hanging frustrate and the giant sickle drooped, with my left arm bowed for clasping something more germane than wheat, and my eyes not minding business, but intent on distant woods—confound it, what are the men about, and why am I left vapouring? They have taken advantage of me, the rogues! They are gone to the hedge for the cider-jars; they have had up the sledd of bread and meat, quite softly over the stubble, and if I can believe my eyes (so dazed with Lorna’s image), they are sitting down to an excellent dinner, before the church clock has gone eleven!

“John Fry, you big villain!” I cried, with John hanging up in the air by the scruff of his neck-cloth, but holding still by his knife and fork, and a goose-leg in between his lips, “John Fry, what mean you by this, sir?”

“Latt me dowun, or I can’t tell ‘e,” John answered with some difficulty. So I let him come down, and I must confess that he had reason on his side. “Plaise your worship”—John called me so, ever since I returned from London, firmly believing that the King had made me a magistrate at least; though I was to keep it secret—“us zeed as how your worship were took with thinkin’ of King’s business, in the middle of the whate-rigg: and so uz zed, ‘Latt un coom to his zell, us had better zave taime, by takking our dinner’; and here us be, praise your worship, and hopps no offence with thick iron spoon full of vried taties.”

I was glad enough to accept the ladle full of fried batatas, and to make the best of things, which is generally done by letting men have their own way. Therefore I managed to dine with them, although it was so early.

For according to all that I can find, in a long life and a varied one, twelve o’clock is the real time for a man to have his dinner. Then the sun is at his noon, calling halt to look around, and then the plants and leaves are turning, each with a little leisure time, before the work of the afternoon. Then is the balance of east and west, and then the right and left side of a man are in due proportion, and contribute fairly with harmonious fluids. And the health of this mode of life, and its reclaiming virtue are well set forth in our ancient rhyme,—

    “Sunrise, breakfast; sun high, dinner;     Sundown, sup; makes a saint of a sinner.”

Whish, the wheat falls! Whirl again; ye have had good dinners; give your master and mistress plenty to supply another year. And in truth we did reap well and fairly, through the whole of that afternoon, I not only keeping lead, but keeping the men up to it. We got through a matter of ten acres, ere the sun between the shocks broke his light on wheaten plumes, then hung his red cloak on the clouds, and fell into grey slumber.

Seeing this we wiped our sickles, and our breasts and foreheads, and soon were on the homeward road, looking forward to good supper.

Of course all the reapers came at night to the harvest-supper, and Parson Bowden to say the grace as well as to help to carve for us. And some help was needed there, I can well assure you; for the reapers had brave appetites, and most of their wives having babies were forced to eat as a duty. Neither failed they of this duty; cut and come again was the order of the evening, as it had been of the day; and I had no time to ask questions, but help meat and ladle gravy. All the while our darling Annie, with her sleeves tucked up, and her comely figure panting, was running about with a bucket of taties mashed with lard and cabbage. Even Lizzie had left her books, and was serving out beer and cider; while mother helped plum-pudding largely on pewter-plates with the mutton. And all the time, Betty Muxworthy was grunting in and out everywhere, not having space to scold even, but changing the dishes, serving the meat, poking the fire, and cooking more. But John Fry would not stir a peg, except with his knife and fork, having all the airs of a visitor, and his wife to keep him eating, till I thought there would be no end of it.

Then having eaten all they could, they prepared themselves, with one accord, for the business now of drinking. But first they lifted the neck of corn, dressed with ribbons 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     1     The corn, oh the corn, ‘tis the ripening of the corn!     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 corn, oh the corn, and the yellow, mellow corn!     Here’s to the corn, with the cups upon the board!     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.     2     The wheat, oh the wheat, ‘tis the ripening of the wheat!     All the day it has been hanging down its heavy head,     Bowing over on our bosoms with a beard of red:     ‘Tis the harvest, and the value makes the labour sweet.     (Chorus)     The wheat, oh the wheat, and the golden, golden wheat!     Here’s to the wheat, with the loaves upon the board!     We’ve been reaping all the day, and we never will be beat     And fetch it all to mow-yard, and then we’ll thank the Lord.     3     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!     ‘Tis the harvest and the barley must abide its time.     (Chorus)     The barley, oh the barley, and the barley ruddy brown!     Here’s to the barley, with the beer upon the board!     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.     4     The oats, oh the oats, ‘tis the ripening of the oats!     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.     5     The corn, oh the corn, and the blessing of the corn!     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 corn, oh the corn, and the yellow, mellow corn!     Thanks for the corn, with our bread upon the board!     So shall we acknowledge it, before we reap the morn,     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 the clerk not fit to compare with him in the matter of keeping 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; because it was a noble harvest, fit to thank the Lord for, without His thinking us hypocrites. For we had more 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 the sadness in her eyes that she was thinking just as I was. Presently, therefore, I slipped away from the 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.

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 entertained some evil will, and longing for a punishment. Therefore I was surprised (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?” I 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 truth 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 corner, 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 Lorna; and even so, I might not have loved her, if she had been ugly.

“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 impertinence of it, from a mere young girl like Annie, that I 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 indeed,” 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, and to lead me away a little, as far as the old yew-tree; for she would not tell me where she was.

But even in the shadow there, she was very long before beginning, and seemed to have two minds about it, or rather perhaps a dozen; and she laid her cheek against the tree, and sobbed till it was pitiful; and I knew what mother would say to her for spoiling her best frock so.

“Now will you stop?” I said at last, harder than I meant it, for I knew that she would go on all night, if any one encouraged her: and though not well acquainted with women, I understood my sisters; or else I must be a born fool—except, of course, that I never professed to understand Eliza.

“Yes, I will stop,” said Annie, panting; “you are very hard on me, John; but I know you mean it for the best. If somebody else—I am sure I don’t know who, and have no right to know, no doubt, but she must be a wicked thing—if somebody else had been taken so with a pain all round the heart, John, and no power of telling it, perhaps you would have coaxed, and kissed her, and come a little nearer, and made opportunity to be very loving.”

Now this was so exactly what I had tried to do to Lorna, that my breath was almost taken away at Annie’s so describing it. For a while I could not say a word, but wondered if she were a witch, which had never been in our family: and then, all of a sudden, I saw the way to beat her, with the devil at my elbow.

“From your knowledge of these things, Annie, you must have had them done to you. I demand to know this very moment who has taken such liberties.”

“Then, John, you shall never know, if you ask in that manner. Besides, it was no liberty in the least at all, Cousins have a right to do things—and when they are one’s godfather—” Here Annie stopped quite suddenly having so betrayed herself; but met me in the full moonlight, being resolved to face it out, with a good face put upon it.

“Alas, I feared it would come to this,” I answered very sadly; “I know he has been here many a time, without showing himself to me. There is nothing meaner than for a man to sneak, and steal a young maid’s heart, without her people knowing it.”

“You are not doing anything of that sort yourself then, dear John, are you?”

“Only a common highwayman!” I answered, without heeding her; “a man without an acre of his own, and liable to hang upon any common, and no other right of common over it—”

“John,” said my sister, “are the Doones privileged not to be hanged upon common land?”

At this I was so thunderstruck, that I leaped in the air like a shot rabbit, and rushed as hard as I could through the gate and across the yard, and back into the kitchen; and there I asked Farmer Nicholas Snowe to give me some tobacco, and to lend me a spare pipe.

This he did with a grateful manner, being now some five-fourths gone; and so I smoked the very first pipe that ever had entered my lips till then; and beyond a doubt it did me good, and spread my heart at leisure.

Meanwhile the reapers were mostly gone, to be up betimes in the morning; and some were led by their wives; and some had to lead their wives themselves, according to the capacity of man and wife respectively. But Betty was as lively as ever, bustling about with every one, and looking out for the chance of groats, which the better off might be free with. And over the kneading-pan next day, she dropped three and sixpence out of her pocket; and Lizzie could not tell for her life how much more might have been in it.

Now by this time I had almost finished smoking that pipe of tobacco, and wondering at myself for having so despised it hitherto, and making up my mind to have another trial to-morrow night, it began to occur to me that although dear Annie had behaved so very badly and rudely, and almost taken my breath away with the suddenness of her allusion, yet it was not kind of me to leave her out there at that time of night, all alone, and in such distress. Any of the reapers going home might be gotten so far beyond fear of ghosts as to venture into the churchyard; and although they would know a great deal better than to insult a sister of mine when sober, there was no telling what they might do in their present state of rejoicing. Moreover, it was only right that I should learn, for Lorna’s sake, how far Annie, or any one else, had penetrated our secret.

Therefore, I went forth at once, bearing my pipe in a skilful manner, as I had seen Farmer Nicholas do; and marking, with a new kind of pleasure, how the rings and wreaths of smoke hovered and fluttered in the moonlight, like a lark upon his carol. Poor Annie was gone back again to our father’s grave, and there she sat upon the turf, sobbing very gently, and not wishing to trouble any one. So I raised her tenderly, and made much of her, and consoled her, for I could not scold her there; and perhaps after all she was not to be blamed so much as Tom Faggus himself was. Annie was very grateful to me, and kissed me many times, and begged my pardon ever so often for her rudeness to me. And then having gone so far with it, and finding me so complaisant, she must needs try to go a little further, and to lead me away from her own affairs, and into mine concerning Lorna. But although it was clever enough of her she was not deep enough for me there; and I soon discovered that she knew nothing, not even the name of my darling; but only suspected from things she had seen, and put together like a woman. Upon this I brought her back again to Tom Faggus and his doings.

“My poor Annie, have you really promised him to be his wife?”

“Then after all you have no reason, John, no particular reason, I mean, for slighting poor Sally Snowe so?”

“Without even asking mother or me! Oh, Annie, it was wrong of you!”

“But, darling, you know that mother wishes you so much to marry Sally; and I am sure you could have her to-morrow. She dotes on the very ground—”

“I dare say he tells you that, Annie, that he dotes on the ground you walk upon—but did you believe him, child?”

“You may believe me, I assure you, John, and half the farm to be settled upon her, after the old man’s time; and though she gives herself little airs, it is only done to entice you; she has the very best hand in the dairy John, and the lightest at a turn-over cake—”

“Now, Annie, don’t talk nonsense so. I wish just to know the truth about you and Tom Faggus. Do you mean to marry him?”

“I to marry before my brother, and leave him with none to take care of him! Who can do him a red deer collop, except Sally herself, as I can? Come home, dear, at once, and I will do you one; for you never ate a morsel of supper, with all the people you had to attend upon.”

This was true enough; and seeing no chance of anything more than cross questions and crooked purposes, at which a girl was sure to beat me, I even allowed her to lead me home, with the thoughts of the collop uppermost. But I never counted upon being beaten so thoroughly as I was; for knowing me now to be off my guard, the young hussy stopped at the farmyard gate, as if with a brier entangling her, and while I was stooping to take it away, she looked me full in the face by the moonlight, and jerked out quite suddenly,—

“Can your love do a collop, John?”

“No, I should hope not,” I answered rashly; “she is not a mere cook-maid I should hope.”

“She is not half so pretty as Sally Snowe; I will answer for that,” said Annie.

“She is ten thousand times as pretty as ten thousand Sally Snowes,” I replied with great indignation.

“Oh, but look at Sally’s eyes!” cried my sister rapturously.

“Look at Lorna Doone’s,” said I; “and you would never look again at Sally’s.”

“Oh Lorna Doone. Lorna Doone!” exclaimed our Annie half-frightened, yet clapping her hands with triumph, at having found me out so: “Lorna Doone is the lovely maiden, who has stolen poor somebody’s heart so. Ah, I shall remember it; because it is so queer a name. But stop, I had better write it down. Lend me your hat, poor boy, to write on.”

“I have a great mind to lend you a box on the ear,” I answered her in my vexation, “and I would, if you had not been crying so, you sly good-for-nothing baggage. As it is, I shall keep it for Master Faggus, and add interest for keeping.”

“Oh no, John; oh no, John,” she begged me earnestly, being sobered in a moment. “Your hand is so terribly heavy, John; and he never would forgive you; although he is so good-hearted, he cannot put up with an insult. Promise me, dear John, that you will not strike him; and I will promise you faithfully to keep your secret, even from mother, and even from Cousin Tom himself.”

“And from Lizzie; most of all, from Lizzie,” I answered very eagerly, knowing too well which of my relations would be hardest with me.

“Of course from little Lizzie,” said Annie, with some contempt; “a young thing like her cannot be kept too long, in my opinion, from the knowledge of such subjects. And besides, I should be very sorry if Lizzie had the right to know your secrets, as I have, dearest John. Not a soul shall be the wiser for your having trusted me, John; although I shall be very wretched when you are late away at night, among those dreadful people.”