CHAPTER XVI

LORNA GROWING FORMIDABLE

[Illustration: 128.jpg Illustrated Capital]

Having reconnoitred thus the position of the enemy, Master Huckaback, on

the homeward road, cross-examined me in a manner not at all desirable.

For he had noted my confusion and eager gaze at something unseen by

him in the valley, and thereupon he made up his mind to know everything

about it. In this, however, he partly failed; for although I was no hand

at fence, and would not tell him a falsehood, I managed so to hold my

peace that he put himself upon the wrong track, and continued thereon

with many vaunts of his shrewdness and experience, and some chuckles at

my simplicity. Thus much however, he learned aright, that I had been in

the Doone valley several years before, and might be brought upon strong

inducement to venture there again. But as to the mode of my getting in,

the things I saw, and my thoughts upon them, he not only failed to learn

the truth, but certified himself into an obstinacy of error, from which

no after-knowledge was able to deliver him. And this he did, not only

because I happened to say very little, but forasmuch as he disbelieved

half of the truth I told him, through his own too great sagacity.

Upon one point, however, he succeeded more easily than he expected,

viz. in making me promise to visit the place again, as soon as occasion

offered, and to hold my own counsel about it. But I could not help

smiling at one thing, that according to his point of view my own counsel

meant my own and Master Reuben Huckaback's.

Now he being gone, as he went next day, to his favourite town of

Dulverton, and leaving behind him shadowy promise of the mountains he

would do for me, my spirit began to burn and pant for something to go on

with; and nothing showed a braver hope of movement and adventure than a

lonely visit to Glen Doone, by way of the perilous passage discovered in

my boyhood. Therefore I waited for nothing more than the slow arrival of

new small-clothes made by a good tailor at Porlock, for I was wishful

to look my best; and when they were come and approved, I started,

regardless of the expense, and forgetting (like a fool) how badly they

would take the water.

What with urging of the tailor, and my own misgivings, the time was now

come round again to the high-day of St. Valentine, when all our maids

were full of lovers, and all the lads looked foolish. And none of them

more sheepish or innocent than I myself, albeit twenty-one years old,

and not afraid of men much, but terrified of women, at least, if they

were comely. And what of all things scared me most was the thought of

my own size, and knowledge of my strength, which came like knots upon

me daily. In honest truth I tell this thing, (which often since hath

puzzled me, when I came to mix with men more), I was to that degree

ashamed of my thickness and my stature, in the presence of a woman,

that I would not put a trunk of wood on the fire in the kitchen, but

let Annie scold me well, with a smile to follow, and with her own plump

hands lift up a little log, and fuel it. Many a time I longed to be no

bigger than John Fry was; whom now (when insolent) I took with my left

hand by the waist-stuff, and set him on my hat, and gave him little

chance to tread it; until he spoke of his family, and requested to come

down again.

[Illustration: 129.jpg Let Annie scold me well]

Now taking for good omen this, that I was a seven-year Valentine, though

much too big for a Cupidon, I chose a seven-foot staff of ash, and fixed

a loach-fork in it, to look as I had looked before; and leaving word

upon matters of business, out of the back door I went, and so through

the little orchard, and down the brawling Lynn-brook. Not being now

so much afraid, I struck across the thicket land between the meeting

waters, and came upon the Bagworthy stream near the great black

whirlpool. Nothing amazed me so much as to find how shallow the stream

now looked to me, although the pool was still as black and greedy as it

used to be. And still the great rocky slide was dark and difficult to

climb; though the water, which once had taken my knees, was satisfied

now with my ankles. After some labour, I reached the top; and halted to

look about me well, before trusting to broad daylight.

The winter (as I said before) had been a very mild one; and now the

spring was toward so that bank and bush were touched with it. The valley

into which I gazed was fair with early promise, having shelter from the

wind and taking all the sunshine. The willow-bushes over the stream

hung as if they were angling with tasseled floats of gold and silver,

bursting like a bean-pod. Between them came the water laughing, like

a maid at her own dancing, and spread with that young blue which never

lives beyond the April. And on either bank, the meadow ruffled as

the breeze came by, opening (through new tuft, of green) daisy-bud or

celandine, or a shy glimpse now and then of the love-lorn primrose.

[Illustration: 131.jpg The meadow ruffled in the breeze]

Though I am so blank of wit, or perhaps for that same reason, these

little things come and dwell with me, and I am happy about them, and

long for nothing better. I feel with every blade of grass, as if it had

a history; and make a child of every bud as though it knew and loved me.

And being so, they seem to tell me of my own delusions, how I am no more

than they, except in self-importance.

While I was forgetting much of many things that harm one, and letting of

my thoughts go wild to sounds and sights of nature, a sweeter note than

thrush or ouzel ever wooed a mate in, floated on the valley breeze at

the quiet turn of sundown. The words were of an ancient song, fit to

laugh or cry at.

[Illustration: 132.jpg Willow-Bushes over the stream]

“Love, an if there be one,

Come my love to be,

My love is for the one

Loving unto me.

Not for me the show, love,

Of a gilded bliss;

Only thou must know, love,

What my value is.

If in all the earth, love,

Thou hast none but me,

This shall be my worth, love:

To be cheap to thee.

But, if so thou ever

Strivest to be free,

'Twill be my endeavour

To be dear to thee.

So shall I have plea, love,

Is thy heart and breath

Clinging still to thee, love,

In the doom of death.”

All this I took in with great eagerness, not for the sake of the meaning

(which is no doubt an allegory), but for the power and richness, and

softness of the singing, which seemed to me better than we ever had even

in Oare church. But all the time I kept myself in a black niche of the

rock, where the fall of the water began, lest the sweet singer (espying

me) should be alarmed, and flee away. But presently I ventured to look

forth where a bush was; and then I beheld the loveliest sight--one

glimpse of which was enough to make me kneel in the coldest water.

By the side of the stream she was coming to me, even among the

primroses, as if she loved them all; and every flower looked the

brighter, as her eyes were on them, I could not see what her face was,

my heart so awoke and trembled; only that her hair was flowing from

a wreath of white violets, and the grace of her coming was like the

appearance of the first wind-flower. The pale gleam over the western

cliffs threw a shadow of light behind her, as if the sun were lingering.

Never do I see that light from the closing of the west, even in these my

aged days, without thinking of her. Ah me, if it comes to that, what do

I see of earth or heaven, without thinking of her?

The tremulous thrill of her song was hanging on her open lips; and she

glanced around, as if the birds were accustomed to make answer. To me it

was a thing of terror to behold such beauty, and feel myself the while

to be so very low and common. But scarcely knowing what I did, as if

a rope were drawing me, I came from the dark mouth of the chasm; and

stood, afraid to look at her.

She was turning to fly, not knowing me, and frightened, perhaps, at

my stature, when I fell on the grass (as I fell before her seven years

agone that day), and I just said, “Lorna Doone!”

She knew me at once, from my manner and ways, and a smile broke through

her trembling, as sunshine comes through aspen-leaves; and being so

clever, she saw, of course, that she needed not to fear me.

“Oh, indeed,” she cried, with a feint of anger (because she had shown

her cowardice, and yet in her heart she was laughing); “oh, if you

please, who are you, sir, and how do you know my name?”

“I am John Ridd,” I answered; “the boy who gave you those beautiful

fish, when you were only a little thing, seven years ago to-day.”

“Yes, the poor boy who was frightened so, and obliged to hide here in

the water.”

“And do you remember how kind you were, and saved my life by your

quickness, and went away riding upon a great man's shoulder, as if you

had never seen me, and yet looked back through the willow-trees?”

“Oh, yes, I remember everything; because it was so rare to see any

except--I mean because I happen to remember. But you seem not to

remember, sir, how perilous this place is.”

For she had kept her eyes upon me; large eyes of a softness, a

brightness, and a dignity which made me feel as if I must for ever love

and yet for ever know myself unworthy. Unless themselves should fill

with love, which is the spring of all things. And so I could not answer

her, but was overcome with thinking and feeling and confusion. Neither

could I look again; only waited for the melody which made every word

like a poem to me, the melody of her voice. But she had not the least

idea of what was going on with me, any more than I myself had.

“I think, Master Ridd, you cannot know,” she said, with her eyes taken

from me, “what the dangers of this place are, and the nature of the

people.”

“Yes, I know enough of that; and I am frightened greatly, all the time,

when I do not look at you.”

She was too young to answer me in the style some maidens would have

used; the manner, I mean, which now we call from a foreign word

“coquettish.” And more than that, she was trembling from real fear of

violence, lest strong hands might be laid on me, and a miserable end

of it. And to tell the truth, I grew afraid; perhaps from a kind of

sympathy, and because I knew that evil comes more readily than good to

us.

Therefore, without more ado, or taking any advantage--although I would

have been glad at heart, if needs had been, to kiss her (without any

thought of rudeness)--it struck me that I had better go, and have no

more to say to her until next time of coming. So would she look the more

for me and think the more about me, and not grow weary of my words and

the want of change there is in me. For, of course, I knew what a churl I

was compared to her birth and appearance; but meanwhile I might improve

myself and learn a musical instrument. “The wind hath a draw after

flying straw” is a saying we have in Devonshire, made, peradventure, by

somebody who had seen the ways of women.

“Mistress Lorna, I will depart”--mark you, I thought that a powerful

word--“in fear of causing disquiet. If any rogue shot me it would grieve

you; I make bold to say it, and it would be the death of mother. Few

mothers have such a son as me. Try to think of me now and then, and I

will bring you some new-laid eggs, for our young blue hen is beginning.”

“I thank you heartily,” said Lorna; “but you need not come to see me.

You can put them in my little bower, where I am almost always--I mean

whither daily I repair to read and to be away from them.”

“Only show me where it is. Thrice a day I will come and stop--”

“Nay, Master Ridd, I would never show thee--never, because of

peril--only that so happens it thou hast found the way already.”

And she smiled with a light that made me care to cry out for no other

way, except to her dear heart. But only to myself I cried for anything

at all, having enough of man in me to be bashful with young maidens. So

I touched her white hand softly when she gave it to me, and (fancying

that she had sighed) was touched at heart about it, and resolved to

yield her all my goods, although my mother was living; and then grew

angry with myself (for a mile or more of walking) to think she would

condescend so; and then, for the rest of the homeward road, was mad with

every man in the world who would dare to think of having her.

[Illustration: 136.jpg Tailpiece]