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CHAPTER XXII
After hearing that tale from Lorna, I went home in
sorry spirits, having added fear for her, and misery
about, to all my other ailments. And was it not quite
certain now that she, being owned full cousin to a peer
and lord of Scotland (although he was a dead one), must
have nought to do with me, a yeoman's son, and bound to
be the father of more yeomen? I had been very sorry
when first I heard about that poor young popinjay, and
would gladly have fought hard for him; but now it
struck me that after all he had no right to be there,
prowling (as it were) for Lorna, without any
invitation: and we farmers love not trespass. Still,
if I had seen the thing, I must have tried to save him.
Moreover, I was greatly vexed with my own hesitation,
stupidity, or shyness, or whatever else it was, which
had held me back from saying, ere she told her story,
what was in my heart to say, videlicet, that I must die
unless she let me love her. Not that I was fool enough
to think that she would answer me according to my
liking, or begin to care about me for a long time yet;
if indeed she ever should, which I hardly dared to
hope. But that I had heard from men more skillful in
the matter that it is wise to be in time, that so the
maids may begin to think, when they know that they are
thought of. And, to tell the truth, I had bitter
fears, on account of her wondrous beauty, lest some
young fellow of higher birth and finer parts, and
finish, might steal in before poor me, and cut me out
altogether. Thinking of which, I used to double my
great fist, without knowing it, and keep it in my
pocket ready.
But the worst of all was this, that in my great dismay
and anguish to see Lorna weeping so, I had promised not
to cause her any further trouble from anxiety and fear
of harm. And this, being brought to practice, meant
that I was not to show myself within the precincts of
Glen Doone, for at least another month. Unless indeed
(as I contrived to edge into the agreement) anything
should happen to increase her present trouble and every
day's uneasiness. In that case, she was to throw a
dark mantle, or covering of some sort, over a large
white stone which hung within the entrance to her
retreat--I mean the outer entrance--and which, though
unseen from the valley itself, was (as I had observed)
conspicuous from the height where I stood with Uncle
Reuben.
Now coming home so sad and weary, yet trying to console
myself with the thought that love o'erleapeth rank, and
must still be lord of all, I found a shameful thing
going on, which made me very angry. For it needs must
happen that young Marwood de Whichehalse, only son of
the Baron, riding home that very evening, from chasing
of the Exmoor bustards, with his hounds and serving-
men, should take the short cut through our farmyard,
and being dry from his exercise, should come and ask
for drink. And it needs must happen also that there
should be none to give it to him but my sister Annie.
I more than suspect that he had heard some report of
our Annie's comeliness, and had a mind to satisfy
himself upon the subject. Now, as he took the large
ox-horn of our quarantine-apple cider (which we always
keep apart from the rest, being too good except for the
quality), he let his fingers dwell on Annie's, by some
sort of accident, while he lifted his beaver gallantly,
and gazed on her face in the light from the west. Then
what did Annie do (as she herself told me afterwards)
but make her very best curtsey to him, being pleased
that he was pleased with her, while she thought what a
fine young man he was and so much breeding about him!
And in truth he was a dark, handsome fellow, hasty,
reckless, and changeable, with a look of sad destiny in
his black eyes that would make any woman pity him.
What he was thinking of our Annie is not for me to say,
although I may think that you could not have found
another such maiden on Exmoor, except (of course) my
Lorna.
Though young Squire Marwood was so thirsty, he spent
much time over his cider, or at any rate over the
ox-horn, and he made many bows to Annie, and drank
health to all the family, and spoke of me as if I had
been his very best friend at Blundell's; whereas he
knew well enough all the time that we had nought to say
to one another; he being three years older, and
therefore of course disdaining me. But while he was
casting about perhaps for some excuse to stop longer,
and Annie was beginning to fear lest mother should come
after her, or Eliza be at the window, or Betty up in
pigs' house, suddenly there came up to them, as if from
the very heart of the earth, that long, low, hollow,
mysterious sound which I spoke of in winter.
The young man started in his saddle, let the horn fall
on the horse-steps, and gazed all around in wonder;
while as for Annie, she turned like a ghost, and tried
to slam the door, but failed through the violence of
her trembling; (for never till now had any one heard it
so close at hand as you might say) or in the mere fall
of the twilight. And by this time there was no man, at
least in our parish, but knew--for the Parson himself
had told us so--that it was the devil groaning because
the Doones were too many for him.
Marwood de Whichehalse was not so alarmed but what he
saw a fine opportunity. He leaped from his horse, and
laid hold of dear Annie in a highly comforting manner;
and she never would tell us about it (being so shy and
modest), whether in breathing his comfort to her he
tried to take some from her pure lips. I hope he did
not, because that to me would seem not the deed of a
gentleman, and he was of good old family.
At this very moment, who should come into the end of
the passage upon them but the heavy writer of these
doings I, John Ridd myself, and walking the faster, it
may be, on account of the noise I mentioned. I entered
the house with some wrath upon me at seeing the
gazehounds in the yard; for it seems a cruel thing to
me to harass the birds in the breeding-time. And to my
amazement there I saw Squire Marwood among the
milk-pans with his arm around our Annie's waist, and
Annie all blushing and coaxing him off, for she was not
come to scold yet.
Perhaps I was wrong; God knows, and if I was, no doubt
I shall pay for it; but I gave him the flat of my hand
on his head, and down he went in the thick of the
milk-pans. He would have had my fist, I doubt, but for
having been at school with me; and after that it is
like enough he would never have spoken another word.
As it was, he lay stunned, with the cream running on
him; while I took poor Annie up and carried her in to
mother, who had heard the noise and was frightened.
Concerning this matter I asked no more, but held myself
ready to bear it out in any form convenient, feeling
that I had done my duty, and cared not for the
consequence; only for several days dear Annie seemed
frightened rather than grateful. But the oddest result
of it was that Eliza, who had so despised me, and made
very rude verses about me, now came trying to sit on my
knee, and kiss me, and give me the best of the pan.
However, I would not allow it, because I hate sudden
changes.
Another thing also astonished me--namely, a beautiful
letter from Marwood de Whichehalse himself (sent by a
groom soon afterwards), in which he apologised to me,
as if I had been his equal, for his rudeness to my
sister, which was not intended in the least, but came
of their common alarm at the moment, and his desire to
comfort her. Also he begged permission to come and see
me, as an old schoolfellow, and set everything straight
between us, as should be among honest Blundellites.
All this was so different to my idea of fighting out a
quarrel, when once it is upon a man, that I knew not
what to make of it, but bowed to higher breeding. Only
one thing I resolved upon, that come when he would he
should not see Annie. And to do my sister justice, she
had no desire to see him.
However, I am too easy, there is no doubt of that,
being very quick to forgive a man, and very slow to
suspect, unless he hath once lied to me. Moreover, as
to Annie, it had always seemed to me (much against my
wishes) that some shrewd love of a waiting sort was
between her and Tom Faggus: and though Tom had made his
fortune now, and everybody respected him, of course he
was not to be compared, in that point of
respectability, with those people who hanged the
robbers when fortune turned against them.
So young Squire Marwood came again, as though I had
never smitten him, and spoke of it in as light a way as
if we were still at school together. It was not in my
nature, of course, to keep any anger against him; and I
knew what a condescension it was for him to visit us.
And it is a very grievous thing, which touches small
landowners, to see an ancient family day by day
decaying: and when we heard that Ley Barton itself, and
all the Manor of Lynton were under a heavy mortgage
debt to John Lovering of Weare-Gifford, there was not
much, in our little way, that we would not gladly do or
suffer for the benefit of De Whichehalse.
Meanwhile the work of the farm was toward, and every
day gave us more ado to dispose of what itself was
doing. For after the long dry skeltering wind of March
and part of April, there had been a fortnight of soft
wet; and when the sun came forth again, hill and
valley, wood and meadow, could not make enough of him.
Many a spring have I seen since then, but never yet two
springs alike, and never one so beautiful. Or was it
that my love came forth and touched the world with
beauty?
The spring was in our valley now; creeping first for
shelter shyly in the pause of the blustering wind.
There the lambs came bleating to her, and the orchis
lifted up, and the thin dead leaves of clover lay for
the new ones to spring through. There the stiffest
things that sleep, the stubby oak, and the saplin'd
beech, dropped their brown defiance to her, and
prepared for a soft reply.
While her over-eager children (who had started forth to
meet her, through the frost and shower of sleet),
catkin'd hazel, gold-gloved withy, youthful elder, and
old woodbine, with all the tribe of good hedge-climbers
(who must hasten while haste they may)--was there one
of them that did not claim the merit of coming first?
There she stayed and held her revel, as soon as the
fear of frost was gone; all the air was a fount of
freshness, and the earth of gladness, and the laughing
waters prattled of the kindness of the sun.
But all this made it much harder for us, plying the hoe
and rake, to keep the fields with room upon them for
the corn to tiller. The winter wheat was well enough,
being sturdy and strong-sided; but the spring wheat and
the barley and the oats were overrun by ill weeds
growing faster. Therefore, as the old saying is,--
Farmer, that thy wife may thrive,
Let not burr and burdock wive;
And if thou wouldst keep thy son,
See that bine and gith have none.
So we were compelled to go down the field and up it,
striking in and out with care where the green blades
hung together, so that each had space to move in and to
spread its roots abroad. And I do assure you now,
though you may not believe me, it was harder work to
keep John Fry, Bill Dadds, and Jem Slocomb all in a
line and all moving nimbly to the tune of my own tool,
than it was to set out in the morning alone, and hoe
half an acre by dinner-time. For, instead of keeping
the good ash moving, they would for ever be finding
something to look at or to speak of, or at any rate, to
stop with; blaming the shape of their tools perhaps, or
talking about other people's affairs; or, what was most
irksome of all to me, taking advantage as married men,
and whispering jokes of no excellence about my having,
or having not, or being ashamed of a sweetheart. And
this went so far at last that I was forced to take two
of them and knock their heads together; after which
they worked with a better will.
When we met together in the evening round the kitchen
chimney-place, after the men had had their supper and
their heavy boots were gone, my mother and Eliza would
do their very utmost to learn what I was thinking of.
Not that we kept any fire now, after the crock was
emptied; but that we loved to see the ashes cooling,
and to be together. At these times Annie would never
ask me any crafty questions (as Eliza did), but would
sit with her hair untwined, and one hand underneath her
chin, sometimes looking softly at me, as much as to say
that she knew it all and I was no worse off than she.
But strange to say my mother dreamed not, even for an
instant, that it was possible for Annie to be thinking
of such a thing. She was so very good and quiet, and
careful of the linen, and clever about the cookery and
fowls and bacon-curing, that people used to laugh, and
say she would never look at a bachelor until her mother
ordered her. But I (perhaps from my own condition and
the sense of what it was) felt no certainty about this,
and even had another opinion, as was said before.
Often I was much inclined to speak to her about it, and
put her on her guard against the approaches of Tom
Faggus; but I could not find how to begin, and feared
to make a breach between us; knowing that if her mind
was set, no words of mine would alter it; although they
needs must grieve her deeply. Moreover, I felt that,
in this case, a certain homely Devonshire proverb would
come home to me; that one, I mean, which records that
the crock was calling the kettle smutty. Not, of
course, that I compared my innocent maid to a
highwayman; but that Annie might think her worse, and
would be too apt to do so, if indeed she loved Tom
Faggus. And our Cousin Tom, by this time, was living a
quiet and godly life; having retired almost from the
trade (except when he needed excitement, or came across
public officers), and having won the esteem of all
whose purses were in his power.
Perhaps it is needless for me to say that all this time
while my month was running--or rather crawling, for
never month went so slow as that with me--neither weed,
nor seed, nor cattle, nor my own mother's anxiety, nor
any care for my sister, kept me from looking once every
day, and even twice on a Sunday, for any sign of Lorna.
For my heart was ever weary; in the budding valleys,
and by the crystal waters, looking at the lambs in
fold, or the heifers on the mill, labouring in trickled
furrows, or among the beaded blades; halting fresh to
see the sun lift over the golden-vapoured ridge; or
doffing hat, from sweat of brow, to watch him sink in
the low gray sea; be it as it would of day, of work, or
night, or slumber, it was a weary heart I bore, and
fear was on the brink of it.
All the beauty of the spring went for happy men to
think of; all the increase of the year was for other
eyes to mark. Not a sign of any sunrise for me from my
fount of life, not a breath to stir the dead leaves
fallen on my heart's Spring.
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