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CHAPTER XXXIII
AN EARLY MORNING CALL
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.
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.'
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.'
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