Chapter 28 — John has Hope of Lorna
Much as I longed to know more about Lorna， and though all my heart was yearning， I could not reconcile it yet with my duty to mother and Annie， to leave them on the following day， which happened to be a Sunday. For lo， before breakfast was out of our mouths， there came all the men of the farm， and their wives， and even the two crow-boys， dressed as if going to Barnstaple fair， to inquire how Master John was， and whether it was true that the King had made him one of his body-guard； and if so， what was to be done with the belt for the championship of the West-Counties wrestling， which I had held now for a year or more， and none were ready to challenge it. Strange to say， this last point seemed the most important of all to them； and none asked who was to manage the farm， or answer for their wages； but all asked who was to wear the belt.
To this I replied， after shaking hands twice over all round with all of them， that I meant to wear the belt myself， for the honour of Oare parish， so long as ever God gave me strength and health to meet all-comers； for I had never been asked to be body-guard， and if asked I would never have done it. Some of them cried that the King must be mazed， not to keep me for his protection， in these violent times of Popery. I could have told them that the King was not in the least afraid of Papists， but on the contrary， very fond of them； however， I held my tongue， remembering what Judge Jeffreys bade me.
In church， the whole congregation， man， woman， and child （except， indeed， the Snowe girls， who only looked when I was not watching）， turned on me with one accord， and stared so steadfastly， to get some reflection of the King from me， that they forgot the time to kneel down and the parson was forced to speak to them. If I coughed， or moved my book， or bowed， or even said ‘Amen，’ glances were exchanged which meant—‘That he hath learned in London town， and most likely from His Majesty.’
However， all this went off in time， and people became even angry with me for not being sharper （as they said）， or smarter， or a whit more fashionable， for all the great company I had seen， and all the wondrous things wasted upon me.
But though I may have been none the wiser by reason of my stay in London， at any rate I was much the better in virtue of coming home again. For now I had learned the joy of quiet， and the gratitude for good things round us， and the love we owe to others （even those who must be kind）， for their indulgence to us. All this， before my journey， had been too much as a matter of course to me； but having missed it now I knew that it was a gift， and might be lost. Moreover， I had pined so much， in the dust and heat of that great town， for trees， and fields， and running waters， and the sounds of country life， and the air of country winds， that never more could I grow weary of those soft enjoyments； or at least I thought so then.
To awake as the summer sun came slanting over the hill-tops， with hope on every beam adance to the laughter of the morning； to see the leaves across the window ruffling on the fresh new air， and the tendrils of the powdery vine turning from their beaded sleep. Then the lustrous meadows far beyond the thatch of the garden-wall， yet seen beneath the hanging scollops of the walnut-tree， all awaking， dressed in pearl， all amazed at their own glistening， like a maid at her own ideas. Down them troop the lowing kine， walking each with a step of character （even as men and women do）， yet all alike with toss of horns， and spread of udders ready. From them without a word， we turn to the farm-yard proper， seen on the right， and dryly strawed from the petty rush of the pitch-paved runnel. Round it stand the snug out-buildings， barn， corn-chamber， cider-press， stables， with a blinker‘d horse in every doorway munching， while his driver tightens buckles， whistles and looks down the lane， dallying to begin his labour till the milkmaids be gone by. Here the cock comes forth at last；—where has he been lingering？—eggs may tell to-morrow—he claps his wings and shouts ’cock-a-doodle‘； and no other cock dare look at him. Two or three go sidling off， waiting till their spurs be grown； and then the crowd of partlets comes， chattering how their lord has dreamed， and crowed at two in the morning， and praying that the old brown rat would only dare to face him. But while the cock is crowing still， and the pullet world admiring him， who comes up but the old turkey-cock， with all his family round him. Then the geese at the lower end begin to thrust their breasts out， and mum their down-bits， and look at the gander and scream shrill joy for the conflict； while the ducks in pond show nothing but tail， in proof of their strict neutrality.
While yet we dread for the coming event， and the fight which would jar on the morning， behold the grandmother of sows， gruffly grunting right and left with muzzle which no ring may tame （not being matrimonial）， hulks across between the two， moving all each side at once， and then all of the other side as if she were chined down the middle， and afraid of spilling the salt from her. As this mighty view of lard hides each combatant from the other， gladly each retires and boasts how he would have slain his neighbour， but that old sow drove the other away， and no wonder he was afraid of her， after all the chicks she had eaten.
And so it goes on； and so the sun comes， stronger from his drink of dew； and the cattle in the byres， and the horses from the stable， and the men from cottage-door， each has had his rest and food， all smell alike of hay and straw， and every one must hie to work， be it drag， or draw， or delve.
So thought I on the Monday morning； while my own work lay before me， and I was plotting how to quit it， void of harm to every one， and let my love have work a little—hardest perhaps of all work， and yet as sure as sunrise. I knew that my first day‘s task on the farm would be strictly watched by every one， even by my gentle mother， to see what I had learned in London. But could I let still another day pass， for Lorna to think me faithless？
I felt much inclined to tell dear mother all about Lorna， and how I loved her， yet had no hope of winning her. Often and often， I had longed to do this， and have done with it. But the thought of my father‘s terrible death， at the hands of the Doones， prevented me. And it seemed to me foolish and mean to grieve mother， without any chance of my suit ever speeding. If once Lorna loved me， my mother should know it； and it would be the greatest happiness to me to have no concealment from her， though at first she was sure to grieve terribly. But I saw no more chance of Lorna loving me， than of the man in the moon coming down； or rather of the moon coming down to the man， as related in old mythology.
Now the merriment of the small birds， and the clear voice of the waters， and the lowing of cattle in meadows， and the view of no houses （except just our own and a neighbour‘s）， and the knowledge of everybody around， their kindness of heart and simplicity， and love of their neighbour’s doings，—all these could not help or please me at all， and many of them were much against me， in my secret depth of longing and dark tumult of the mind. Many people may think me foolish， especially after coming from London， where many nice maids looked at me （on account of my bulk and stature）， and I might have been fitted up with a sweetheart， in spite of my west-country twang， and the smallness of my purse； if only I had said the word. But nay； I have contempt for a man whose heart is like a shirt-stud （such as I saw in London cards）， fitted into one to-day， sitting bravely on the breast； plucked out on the morrow morn， and the place that knew it， gone.
Now， what did I do but take my chance； reckless whether any one heeded me or not， only craving Lorna‘s heed， and time for ten words to her. Therefore I left the men of the farm as far away as might be， after making them work with me （which no man round our parts could do， to his own satisfaction）， and then knowing them to be well weary， very unlike to follow me—and still more unlike to tell of me， for each had his London present—I strode right away， in good trust of my speed， without any more misgivings； but resolved to face the worst of it， and to try to be home for supper.
And first I went， I know not why， to the crest of the broken highland， whence I had agreed to watch for any mark or signal. And sure enough at last I saw （when it was too late to see） that the white stone had been covered over with a cloth or mantle，—the sign that something had arisen to make Lorna want me. For a moment I stood amazed at my evil fortune； that I should be too late， in the very thing of all things on which my heart was set！ Then after eyeing sorrowfully every crick and cranny to be sure that not a single flutter of my love was visible， off I set， with small respect either for my knees or neck， to make the round of the outer cliffs， and come up my old access.
Nothing could stop me； it was not long， although to me it seemed an age， before I stood in the niche of rock at the head of the slippery watercourse， and gazed into the quiet glen， where my foolish heart was dwelling. Notwithstanding doubts of right， notwithstanding sense of duty， and despite all manly striving， and the great love of my home， there my heart was ever dwelling， knowing what a fool it was， and content to know it.
Many birds came twittering round me in the gold of August； many trees showed twinkling beauty， as the sun went lower； and the lines of water fell， from wrinkles into dimples. Little heeding， there I crouched； though with sense of everything that afterwards should move me， like a picture or a dream； and everything went by me softly， while my heart was gazing.
At last， a little figure came， not insignificant （I mean）， but looking very light and slender in the moving shadows， gently here and softly there， as if vague of purpose， with a gloss of tender movement， in and out the wealth of trees， and liberty of the meadow. Who was I to crouch， or doubt， or look at her from a distance； what matter if they killed me now， and one tear came to bury me？ Therefore I rushed out at once， as if shot-guns were unknown yet； not from any real courage， but from prisoned love burst forth.
I know not whether my own Lorna was afraid of what I looked， or what I might say to her， or of her own thoughts of me； all I know is that she looked frightened， when I hoped for gladness. Perhaps the power of my joy was more than maiden liked to own， or in any way to answer to； and to tell the truth， it seemed as if I might now forget myself； while she would take good care of it. This makes a man grow thoughtful； unless， as some low fellows do， he believe all women hypocrites.
Therefore I went slowly towards her， taken back in my impulse； and said all I could come to say， with some distress in doing it.
‘Mistress Lorna， I had hope that you were in need of me.’
‘Oh， yes； but that was long ago； two months ago， or more， sir.’ And saying this she looked away， as if it all were over. But I was now so dazed and frightened， that it took my breath away， and I could not answer， feeling sure that I was robbed and some one else had won her. And I tried to turn away， without another word， and go.
But I could not help one stupid sob， though mad with myself for allowing it， but it came too sharp for pride to stay it， and it told a world of things. Lorna heard it， and ran to me， with her bright eyes full of wonder， pity， and great kindness， as if amazed that I had more than a simple liking for her. Then she held out both hands to me； and I took and looked at them.
‘Master Ridd， I did not mean，’ she whispered， very softly， ‘I did not mean to vex you.’
‘If you would be loath to vex me， none else in this world can do it，’ I answered out of my great love， but fearing yet to look at her， mine eyes not being strong enough.
‘Come away from this bright place，’ she answered， trembling in her turn； ‘I am watched and spied of late. Come beneath the shadows， John.’
I would have leaped into the valley of the shadow of death （as described by the late John Bunyan）， only to hear her call me ‘John’； though Apollyon were lurking there， and Despair should lock me in.
She stole across the silent grass； but I strode hotly after her； fear was all beyond me now， except the fear of losing her. I could not but behold her manner， as she went before me， all her grace， and lovely sweetness， and her sense of what she was.
She led me to her own rich bower， which I told of once before； and if in spring it were a sight， what was it in summer glory？ But although my mind had notice of its fairness and its wonder， not a heed my heart took of it， neither dwelt it in my presence more than flowing water. All that in my presence dwelt， all that in my heart was felt， was the maiden moving gently， and afraid to look at me.
For now the power of my love was abiding on her， new to her， unknown to her； not a thing to speak about， nor even to think clearly； only just to feel and wonder， with a pain of sweetness. She could look at me no more， neither could she look away， with a studied manner—only to let fall her eyes， and blush， and be put out with me， and still more with herself.
I left her quite alone； though close， though tingling to have hold of her. Even her right hand was dropped and lay among the mosses. Neither did I try to steal one glimpse below her eyelids. Life and death to me were hanging on the first glance I should win； yet I let it be so.
After long or short—I know not， yet ere I was weary， ere I yet began to think or wish for any answer—Lorna slowly raised her eyelids， with a gleam of dew below them， and looked at me doubtfully. Any look with so much in it never met my gaze before.
‘Darling， do you love me？’ was all that I could say to her.
‘Yes， I like you very much，’ she answered， with her eyes gone from me， and her dark hair falling over， so as not to show me things.
‘But do you love me， Lorna， Lorna； do you love me more than all the world？’
‘No， to be sure not. Now why should I？’
‘In truth， I know not why you should. Only I hoped that you did， Lorna. Either love me not at all， or as I love you for ever.’
‘John I love you very much； and I would not grieve you. You are the bravest， and the kindest， and the simplest of all men—I mean of all people—I like you very much， Master Ridd， and I think of you almost every day.’
‘That will not do for me， Lorna. Not almost every day I think， but every instant of my life， of you. For you I would give up my home， my love of all the world beside， my duty to my dearest ones， for you I would give up my life， and hope of life beyond it. Do you love me so？’
‘Not by any means，’ said Lorna； ‘no， I like you very much， when you do not talk so wildly； and I like to see you come as if you would fill our valley up， and I like to think that even Carver would be nothing in your hands—but as to liking you like that， what should make it likely？ especially when I have made the signal， and for some two months or more you have never even answered it！ If you like me so ferociously， why do you leave me for other people to do just as they like with me？’
‘To do as they liked！ Oh， Lorna， not to make you marry Carver？’
‘No， Master Ridd， be not frightened so； it makes me fear to look at you.’
‘But you have not married Carver yet？ Say quick！ Why keep me waiting so？’
‘Of course I have not， Master Ridd. Should I be here if I had， think you， and allowing you to like me so， and to hold my hand， and make me laugh， as I declare you almost do sometimes？ And at other times you frighten me.’
‘Did they want you to marry Carver？ Tell me all the truth of it.’
‘Not yet， not yet. They are not half so impetuous as you are， John. I am only just seventeen， you know， and who is to think of marrying？ But they wanted me to give my word， and be formally betrothed to him in the presence of my grandfather. It seems that something frightened them. There is a youth named Charleworth Doone， every one calls him “Charlie”； a headstrong and a gay young man， very gallant in his looks and manner； and my uncle， the Counsellor， chose to fancy that Charlie looked at me too much， coming by my grandfather’s cottage.‘
Here Lorna blushed so that I was frightened， and began to hate this Charlie more， a great deal more， than even Carver Doone.
‘He had better not，’ said I； ‘I will fling him over it， if he dare. He shall see thee through the roof， Lorna， if at all he see thee.’
‘Master Ridd， you are worse than Carver！ I thought you were so kind-hearted. Well， they wanted me to promise， and even to swear a solemn oath （a thing I have never done in my life） that I would wed my eldest cousin， this same Carver Doone， who is twice as old as I am， being thirty-five and upwards. That was why I gave the token that I wished to see you， Master Ridd. They pointed out how much it was for the peace of all the family， and for mine own benefit； but I would not listen for a moment， though the Counsellor was most eloquent， and my grandfather begged me to consider， and Carver smiled his pleasantest， which is a truly frightful thing. Then both he and his crafty father were for using force with me； but Sir Ensor would not hear of it； and they have put off that extreme until he shall be past its knowledge， or， at least， beyond preventing it. And now I am watched， and spied， and followed， and half my little liberty seems to be taken from me. I could not be here speaking with you， even in my own nook and refuge， but for the aid， and skill， and courage of dear little Gwenny Carfax. She is now my chief reliance， and through her alone I hope to baffle all my enemies， since others have forsaken me.’
Tears of sorrow and reproach were lurking in her soft dark eyes， until in fewest words I told her that my seeming negligence was nothing but my bitter loss and wretched absence far away； of which I had so vainly striven to give any tidings without danger to her. When she heard all this， and saw what I had brought from London （which was nothing less than a ring of pearls with a sapphire in the midst of them， as pretty as could well be found）， she let the gentle tears flow fast， and came and sat so close beside me， that I trembled like a folded sheep at the bleating of her lamb. But recovering comfort quickly， without more ado， I raised her left hand and observed it with a nice regard， wondering at the small blue veins， and curves， and tapering whiteness， and the points it finished with. My wonder seemed to please her much， herself so well accustomed to it， and not fond of watching it. And then， before she could say a word， or guess what I was up to， as quick as ever I turned hand in a bout of wrestling， on her finger was my ring—sapphire for the veins of blue， and pearls to match white fingers.
‘Oh， you crafty Master Ridd！’ said Lorna， looking up at me， and blushing now a far brighter blush than when she spoke of Charlie； ‘I thought that you were much too simple ever to do this sort of thing. No wonder you can catch the fish， as when first I saw you.’
‘Have I caught you， little fish？ Or must all my life be spent in hopeless angling for you？’
‘Neither one nor the other， John！ You have not caught me yet altogether， though I like you dearly John； and if you will only keep away， I shall like you more and more. As for hopeless angling， John—that all others shall have until I tell you otherwise.’
With the large tears in her eyes—tears which seemed to me to rise partly from her want to love me with the power of my love—she put her pure bright lips， half smiling， half prone to reply to tears， against my forehead lined with trouble， doubt， and eager longing. And then she drew my ring from off that snowy twig her finger， and held it out to me； and then， seeing how my face was falling， thrice she touched it with her lips， and sweetly gave it back to me. ‘John， I dare not take it now； else I should be cheating you. I will try to love you dearly， even as you deserve and wish. Keep it for me just till then. Something tells me I shall earn it in a very little time. Perhaps you will be sorry then， sorry when it is all too late， to be loved by such as I am.’
What could I do at her mournful tone， but kiss a thousand times the hand which she put up to warn me， and vow that I would rather die with one assurance of her love， than without it live for ever with all beside that the world could give？ Upon this she looked so lovely， with her dark eyelashes trembling， and her soft eyes full of light， and the colour of clear sunrise mounting on her cheeks and brow， that I was forced to turn away， being overcome with beauty.
‘Dearest darling， love of my life，’ I whispered through her clouds of hair； ‘how long must I wait to know， how long must I linger doubting whether you can ever stoop from your birth and wondrous beauty to a poor， coarse hind like me， an ignorant unlettered yeoman—’
‘I will not have you revile yourself，’ said Lorna， very tenderly—just as I had meant to make her. ‘You are not rude and unlettered， John. You know a great deal more than I do； you have learned both Greek and Latin， as you told me long ago， and you have been at the very best school in the West of England. None of us but my grandfather， and the Counsellor （who is a great scholar）， can compare with you in this. And though I have laughed at your manner of speech， I only laughed in fun， John； I never meant to vex you by it， nor knew that it had done so.’
‘Naught you say can vex me， dear，’ I answered， as she leaned towards me in her generous sorrow； ‘unless you say “Begone， John Ridd； I love another more than you.”’
‘Then I shall never vex you， John. Never， I mean， by saying that. Now， John， if you please， be quiet—’
For I was carried away so much by hearing her calling me ‘John’ so often， and the music of her voice， and the way she bent toward me， and the shadow of soft weeping in the sunlight of her eyes， that some of my great hand was creeping in a manner not to be imagined， and far less explained， toward the lithesome， wholesome curving underneath her mantle-fold， and out of sight and harm， as I thought； not being her front waist. However， I was dashed with that， and pretended not to mean it； only to pluck some lady-fern， whose elegance did me no good.
‘Now， John，’ said Lorna， being so quick that not even a lover could cheat her， and observing my confusion more intently than she need have done. ‘Master John Ridd， it is high time for you to go home to your mother. I love your mother very much from what you have told me about her， and I will not have her cheated.’
‘If you truly love my mother，’ said I， very craftily ‘the only way to show it is by truly loving me.’
Upon that she laughed at me in the sweetest manner， and with such provoking ways， and such come-and-go of glances， and beginning of quick blushes， which she tried to laugh away， that
I knew， as well as if she herself had told me， by some knowledge （void of reasoning， and the surer for it）， I knew quite well， while all my heart was burning hot within me， and mine eyes were shy of hers， and her eyes were shy of mine； for certain and for ever this I knew—as in a glory—that Lorna Doone had now begun and would go on to love me.