CHAPTER XXXIII

AN EARLY MORNING CALL

[Illustration: 280.jpg Illustrated Capital]

Of course I was up the very next morning before the October sunrise, and

away through the wild and the woodland towards the Bagworthy water, at

the foot of the long cascade. The rising of the sun was noble in the

cold and warmth of it; peeping down the spread of light, he raised his

shoulder heavily over the edge of grey mountain, and wavering length of

upland. Beneath his gaze the dew-fogs dipped, and crept to the hollow

places; then stole away in line and column, holding skirts, and clinging

subtly at the sheltering corners, where rock hung over grass-land; while

the brave lines of the hills came forth, one beyond other gliding.

Then the woods arose in folds, like drapery of awakened mountains,

stately with a depth of awe, and memory of the tempests. Autumn's mellow

hand was on them, as they owned already, touched with gold, and red,

and olive; and their joy towards the sun was less to a bridegroom than a

father.

[Illustration: 281.jpg Autumn's mellow hand]

Yet before the floating impress of the woods could clear itself,

suddenly the gladsome light leaped over hill and valley, casting amber,

blue, and purple, and a tint of rich red rose; according to the scene

they lit on, and the curtain flung around; yet all alike dispelling fear

and the cloven hoof of darkness, all on the wings of hope advancing,

and proclaiming, “God is here.” Then life and joy sprang reassured

from every crouching hollow; every flower, and bud, and bird, had a

fluttering sense of them; and all the flashing of God's gaze merged into

soft beneficence.

So perhaps shall break upon us that eternal morning, when crag and chasm

shall be no more, neither hill and valley, nor great unvintaged ocean;

when glory shall not scare happiness, neither happiness envy glory;

but all things shall arise and shine in the light of the Father's

countenance, because itself is risen.

Who maketh His sun to rise upon both the just and the unjust. And surely

but for the saving clause, Doone Glen had been in darkness. Now, as I

stood with scanty breath--for few men could have won that climb--at

the top of the long defile, and the bottom of the mountain gorge all of

myself, and the pain of it, and the cark of my discontent fell away

into wonder and rapture. For I cannot help seeing things now and then,

slow-witted as I have a right to be; and perhaps because it comes so

rarely, the sight dwells with me like a picture.

The bar of rock, with the water-cleft breaking steeply through it, stood

bold and bare, and dark in shadow, grey with red gullies down it. But

the sun was beginning to glisten over the comb of the eastern highland,

and through an archway of the wood hung with old nests and ivy. The

lines of many a leaning tree were thrown, from the cliffs of the

foreland, down upon the sparkling grass at the foot of the western

crags. And through the dewy meadow's breast, fringed with shade, but

touched on one side with the sun-smile, ran the crystal water, curving

in its brightness like diverted hope.

On either bank, the blades of grass, making their last autumn growth,

pricked their spears and crisped their tuftings with the pearly purity.

The tenderness of their green appeared under the glaucous mantle; while

that grey suffusion, which is the blush of green life, spread its damask

chastity. Even then my soul was lifted, worried though my mind was: who

can see such large kind doings, and not be ashamed of human grief?

Not only unashamed of grief, but much abashed with joy, was I, when

I saw my Lorna coming, purer than the morning dew, than the sun more

bright and clear. That which made me love her so, that which lifted my

heart to her, as the Spring wind lifts the clouds, was the gayness of

her nature, and its inborn playfulness. And yet all this with maiden

shame, a conscious dream of things unknown, and a sense of fate about

them.

Down the valley still she came, not witting that I looked at her, having

ceased (through my own misprison) to expect me yet awhile; or at least

she told herself so. In the joy of awakened life and brightness of

the morning, she had cast all care away, and seemed to float upon the

sunrise, like a buoyant silver wave. Suddenly at sight of me, for I

leaped forth at once, in fear of seeming to watch her unawares, the

bloom upon her cheeks was deepened, and the radiance of her eyes; and

she came to meet me gladly.

“At last then, you are come, John. I thought you had forgotten me. I

could not make you understand--they have kept me prisoner every evening:

but come into my house; you are in danger here.”

[Illustration: 283.jpg At last then, you are come John]

Meanwhile I could not answer, being overcome with joy, but followed

to her little grotto, where I had been twice before. I knew that the

crowning moment of my life was coming--that Lorna would own her love for

me.

She made for awhile as if she dreamed not of the meaning of my gaze,

but tried to speak of other things, faltering now and then, and mantling

with a richer damask below her long eyelashes.

“This is not what I came to know,” I whispered very softly, “you know

what I am come to ask.”

“If you are come on purpose to ask anything, why do you delay so?” She

turned away very bravely, but I saw that her lips were trembling.

“I delay so long, because I fear; because my whole life hangs in balance

on a single word; because what I have near me now may never more be near

me after, though more than all the world, or than a thousand worlds,

to me.” As I spoke these words of passion in a low soft voice, Lorna

trembled more and more; but she made no answer, neither yet looked up at

me.

“I have loved you long and long,” I pursued, being reckless now, “when

you were a little child, as a boy I worshipped you: then when I saw

you a comely girl, as a stripling I adored you: now that you are a

full-grown maiden all the rest I do, and more--I love you more than

tongue can tell, or heart can hold in silence. I have waited long and

long; and though I am so far below you I can wait no longer; but must

have my answer.”

“You have been very faithful, John,” she murmured to the fern and moss;

“I suppose I must reward you.”

“That will not do for me,” I said; “I will not have reluctant liking,

nor assent for pity's sake; which only means endurance. I must have all

love, or none, I must have your heart of hearts; even as you have mine,

Lorna.”

While I spoke, she glanced up shyly through her fluttering lashes,

to prolong my doubt one moment, for her own delicious pride. Then she

opened wide upon me all the glorious depth and softness of her loving

eyes, and flung both arms around my neck, and answered with her heart on

mine,--

“Darling, you have won it all. I shall never be my own again. I am

yours, my own one, for ever and for ever.”

I am sure I know not what I did, or what I said thereafter, being

overcome with transport by her words and at her gaze. Only one thing I

remember, when she raised her bright lips to me, like a child, for me to

kiss, such a smile of sweet temptation met me through her flowing hair,

that I almost forgot my manners, giving her no time to breathe.

“That will do,” said Lorna gently, but violently blushing; “for the

present that will do, John. And now remember one thing, dear. All the

kindness is to be on my side; and you are to be very distant, as behoves

to a young maiden; except when I invite you. But you may kiss my hand,

John; oh, yes, you may kiss my hand, you know. Ah to be sure! I had

forgotten; how very stupid of me!”

For by this time I had taken one sweet hand and gazed on it, with the

pride of all the world to think that such a lovely thing was mine; and

then I slipped my little ring upon the wedding finger; and this time

Lorna kept it, and looked with fondness on its beauty, and clung to me

with a flood of tears.

“Every time you cry,” said I, drawing her closer to me “I shall consider

it an invitation not to be too distant. There now, none shall make you

weep. Darling, you shall sigh no more, but live in peace and happiness,

with me to guard and cherish you: and who shall dare to vex you?” But

she drew a long sad sigh, and looked at the ground with the great tears

rolling, and pressed one hand upon the trouble of her pure young breast.

“It can never, never be,” she murmured to herself alone: “Who am I, to

dream of it? Something in my heart tells me it can be so never, never.”