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CHAPTER XVI
LORNA GROWING FORMIDABLE
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.
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.
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.
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 andbreath
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.
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