Lorna Doone

“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, wull ‘e Miss Luzzie, or a ‘wunt goo on no vurder. Vaine little tayl I’ll tull’ ee, if so be thee zits quite. Wull, as I 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 tullin 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 warranties; 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?’

“Nothing at all, John,” our Annie answered; “only the horrible ferocity of that miserable blacksmith.”

“That be nayther here nor there,” John continued, with some wrath at his own interruption: “Blacksmith knawed whutt the Squire had been; and veared to lose his own custom, if Squire tuk to shooin’ again. Shutt any man I would myzell as intervared wi’ my trade laike. ‘Lucky for thee,’ said Bill Blacksmith, ‘as thee bee’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 looked 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 handsome 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’ girt 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, tulling 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 ‘un?’ 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 horsebarck, 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 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 Blacksmith, grinning; ‘another coom to help us. What a grave gentleman! A warship of the pace, at laste!’

“For 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 of 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.’ With that he offered his commission; but Squire Maunder told the truth, that he could not rade even words in print, much less written karakters.2 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 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 service, and crave instructions from you.’”

“Then a waving of hats began, and a bowing, and making 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 off, 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 priming. 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 said, 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.

“‘Then, one, two, dree, and shutt!’ cries Squire Maunder, standing up in the irons of his stirrups.

“Thereupon they all blazed out, and the noise of it went all round the hills; with a girt thick cloud arising, and all the air smelling of powder. Before the cloud was gone so much as ten yards on the wind, the gentleman 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 Squire Maunder’s head, and tother to Sir Richard Blewitt’s.

“‘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 Christmas all of you! And the merrier both for rich and poor, when gentlemen see their almsgiving. Lest you deny yourselves the pleasure, I will aid your warships. And to save you the trouble of following me, when your guns be loaded—this is my strawberry mare, gentlemen, only with a little cream on her. Gentlemen all, in the name of the King, I thank you.’

“All this while he was casting their money among the poor folk by the handful; and then he spak kaindly to the red mare, and wor over the back of the hill in two zeconds, and best part of two maile away, I reckon, afore ever a gun wor loaded.”3

CHAPTER XL

TWO FOOLS TOGETHER

That story of John Fry’s, instead of causing any amusement, gave us great disquietude; not only because it showed that Tom Faggus could not resist sudden temptation and the delight of wildness, but also that we greatly feared lest the King’s pardon might be annulled, and all his kindness cancelled, by a reckless deed of that sort. It was true (as Annie insisted continually, even with tears, to wear in her arguments) that Tom had not brought away anything, except the warrants, which were of no use at 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 the poor, a man who forced them to remember, and so to do good to themselves and to others, was a public benefactor, and entitled to every blessing. But I knew, and so Lizzie 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.

Therefore I said, once for all (and both my sisters always listened when I used the deep voice from my chest):

“Tom Faggus hath done wrong herein; wrong to himself, and to our Annie. All he need have done was to show his pardon, and the magistrates would have rejoiced with him. He might have led a most godly life, and have been respected by everybody; and knowing how brave Tom is, I thought that he would have done as much. Now if I were in love with a maid”—I put it thus for the sake of poor Lizzie—“never would I so imperil my life, and her fortune in life along with me, for the sake of a poor diversion. A man’s first duty is to the women, who are forced to hang upon him”—

“Oh, John, not that horrible word,” cried Annie, to my great surprise, and serious interruption; “oh, John, any word but that!” And she burst forth crying terribly.

“What word, Lizzie? What does the wench mean?” I asked, in the saddest vexation; seeing no good to ask Annie at all, for she carried on most dreadfully.

“Don’t you know, you stupid lout?” said Lizzie, completing my wonderment, by the scorn of her quicker intelligence; “if you don’t know, axe about?”

And with that, I was forced to be content; for Lizzie took Annie in such a manner (on purpose to vex me, as 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 I 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 I could not see that any of these great thoughts and ideas applied at all to my Lorna; but that she was a different being; not woman enough to do anything bad, yet enough of a woman for man to adore.

And now a thing came to pass which tested my adoration 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 Doone, 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 I 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, during 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, except 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 the beds of dead leaves around it, and there was nothing I cared to do, except blow on my fingers, and long for more wit.

For a frost was beginning, which made a great difference 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,4 neither hope ever to see again; a time when it was impossible to milk 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 no 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 journey, 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 anxious?

When it grew towards dark, I was just beginning to prepare for my circuit around the hills; but suddenly Watch 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 mine, as if she 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; and her can’t die, or at least her won’t, without first considering thee.”

“Considering me!” I cried; “what can Sir Ensor Doone want with considering me? Has Mistress Lorna told him?”

“All concerning thee, and thy doings; when she knowed old man were so near his end. That vexed he was about thy low 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 burn and shiver.”

And in truth, it made me both burn and shiver, to know that I must either go straight to the presence of Sir Ensor Doone, or give up Lorna, once for all, and rightly be despised by her. For the first time of my life, 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 that he had one to give, which even a worse man might suppose), while she deceived him about herself, and the life she had undertaken.

Therefore, with great misgiving of myself, but no ill thought of my darling, I sent Watch home, and followed Gwenny; who led me along very rapidly, with her short broad form gliding down the hollow, from which she had first appeared. Here at the bottom, she entered a thicket of gray ash stubs and black holly, with rocks around it gnarled with roots, and hung with masks of ivy. Here in a dark and lonely corner, with a pixie ring before 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 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 in 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 untempting, 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 by the waterside. Gwenny said something to them, and although they stared very hard at me, they let me pass without hindrance. It is not too much to say that when the little maid opened Sir Ensor’s door, my heart thumped, quite as much with terror as with hope of Lorna’s presence.

But in a moment the fear was gone, for Lorna was 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—and showed her the tip of my thumb as I said it—for old Sir Ensor, and all his wrath, so long as I had his granddaughter’s love.

Now I tried to think this as I said it, so as to save it from being a lie; but somehow or other it did not answer, and I was vexed with myself both ways. But Lorna took me by the hand as bravely as she could, and led me into a little passage where I could hear the river moaning and the branches rustling.

Here I passed as long a minute as fear ever cheated time of, saying to myself continually that there was nothing to be frightened at, yet growing more and more afraid by reason of so reasoning. At last my Lorna came back very pale, as I saw by the candle she carried, and whispered, “Now be patient, dearest. Never mind what he says to you; neither attempt to answer him. Look at him gently and steadfastly, and, if you can, with some 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 in 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 afeared 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. Therefore I made a low obeisance, and tried not to shiver. Only I groaned that Lorna thought it good manners to leave us two together.

“Ah,” said the old man, and his voice seemed to come from a cavern of skeletons; “are you that great John Ridd?”

“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?”

“Yes, I knew right well,” I answered, “that I have set mine eyes far above my rank.”

“Are you ignorant that Lorna Doone is born 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 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 this style of speech, “the Ridds, of Oare, have been honest men twice as long as the Doones have been rogues.”

“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 anybody 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 other 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 again. 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 some reliance in woman’s pride. You will pledge your word in Lorna’s presence never to see or to seek her again; never even to think of her more. Now call her, for I am weary.”