CHAPTER XL

TWO FOOLS TOGETHER

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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,* 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.

* If John Ridd lived until the year 1740 (as so strong a man

was bound to do), he must have seen almost a harder frost;

and perhaps it put an end to him; for then he would be some

fourscore years old. But tradition makes him “keep yatt,” as

he says, up to fivescore years.--Ed. L.D.

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.”

He kept his great eyes fixed upon me with their icy fire (as if he

scorned both life and death), and on his haughty lips some slight

amusement at my trouble; and then he raised one hand (as if I were a

poor dumb creature), and pointed to the door. Although my heart rebelled

and kindled at his proud disdain, I could not disobey him freely; but

made a low salute, and went straightway in search of Lorna.

I found my love (or not my love; according as now she should behave; for

I was very desperate, being put upon so sadly); Lorna Doone was crying

softly at a little window, and listening to the river's grief. I laid

my heavy arm around her, not with any air of claiming or of forcing

her thoughts to me, but only just to comfort her, and ask what she was

thinking of. To my arm she made no answer, neither to my seeking eyes;

but to my heart, once for all, she spoke with her own upon it. Not a

word, nor sound between us; not even a kiss was interchanged; but man,

or maid, who has ever loved hath learned our understanding.

Therefore it came to pass, that we saw fit to enter Sir Ensor's room in

the following manner. Lorna, with her right hand swallowed entirely by

the palm of mine, and her waist retired from view by means of my left

arm. All one side of her hair came down, in a way to be remembered, upon

the left and fairest part of my favourite otter-skin waistcoat; and

her head as well would have lain there doubtless, but for the danger

of walking so. I, for my part, was too far gone to lag behind in the

matter; but carried my love bravely, fearing neither death nor hell,

while she abode beside me.

Old Sir Ensor looked much astonished. For forty years he had been obeyed

and feared by all around him; and he knew that I had feared him vastly,

before I got hold of Lorna. And indeed I was still afraid of him; only

for loving Lorna so, and having to protect her.

Then I made him a bow, to the very best of all I had learned both at

Tiverton and in London; after that I waited for him to begin, as became

his age and rank in life.

“Ye two fools!” he said at last, with a depth of contempt which no words

may express; “ye two fools!”

“May it please your worship,” I answered softly; “maybe we are not such

fools as we look. But though we be, we are well content, so long as we

may be two fools together.”

“Why, John,” said the old man, with a spark, as of smiling in his eyes;

“thou art not altogether the clumsy yokel, and the clod, I took thee

for.”

“Oh, no, grandfather; oh, dear grandfather,” cried Lorna, with such zeal

and flashing, that her hands went forward; “nobody knows what John Ridd

is, because he is so modest. I mean, nobody except me, dear.” And here

she turned to me again, and rose upon tiptoe, and kissed me.

“I have seen a little o' the world,” said the old man, while I was half

ashamed, although so proud of Lorna; “but this is beyond all I have

seen, and nearly all I have heard of. It is more fit for southern

climates than for the fogs of Exmoor.”

“It is fit for all the world, your worship; with your honour's good

leave, and will,” I answered in humility, being still ashamed of it;

“when it happens so to people, there is nothing that can stop it, sir.”

Now Sir Ensor Doone was leaning back upon his brown chair-rail, which

was built like a triangle, as in old farmhouses (from one of which it

had come, no doubt, free from expense or gratitude); and as I spoke he

coughed a little; and he sighed a good deal more; and perhaps his dying

heart desired to open time again, with such a lift of warmth and hope as

he descried in our eyes, and arms. I could not understand him then; any

more than a baby playing with his grandfather's spectacles; nevertheless

I wondered whether, at his time of life, or rather on the brink of

death, he was thinking of his youth and pride.

“Fools you are; be fools for ever,” said Sir Ensor Doone, at last; while

we feared to break his thoughts, but let each other know our own, with

little ways of pressure; “it is the best thing I can wish you; boy and

girl, be boy and girl, until you have grandchildren.”

Partly in bitterness he spoke, and partly in pure weariness, and then

he turned so as not to see us; and his white hair fell, like a shroud,

around him.