Lorna Doone. Richard Doddridge Blackmore
if she had been too proud with me.
“Winnie shall stop here to-night,” said I, for Tom Faggus still said never a word all the while; but began to buckle his things on, for he knew that women are to be met with wool, as the cannon-balls were at the siege of Tiverton Castle; “mother, I tell you, Winnie shall stop; else I will go away with her, I never knew what it was, till now, to ride a horse worth riding.”
“Young man,” said Tom Faggus, still preparing sternly to depart, “you know more about a horse than any man on Exmoor. Your mother may well be proud of you, but she need have had no fear. As if I, Tom Faggus, your father’s cousin—and the only thing I am proud of—would ever have let you mount my mare, which dukes and princes have vainly sought, except for the courage in your eyes, and the look of your father about you. I knew you could ride when I saw you, and rarely you have conquered. But women don’t understand us. Good-bye, John; I am proud of you, and I hoped to have done you pleasure. And indeed I came full of some courtly tales, that would have made your hair stand up. But though not a crust have I tasted since this time yesterday, having given my meat to a widow, I will go and starve on the moor far sooner than eat the best supper that ever was cooked, in a place that has forgotten me.” With that he fetched a heavy sigh, as if it had been for my father; and feebly got upon Winnie’s back, and she came to say farewell to me. He lifted his hat to my mother, with a glance of sorrow, but never a word; and to me he said, “Open the gate, Cousin John, if you please. You have beaten her so, that she cannot leap it, poor thing.”
But before he was truly gone out of our yard, my mother came softly after him, with her afternoon apron across her eyes, and one hand ready to offer him. Nevertheless, he made as if he had not seen her, though he let his horse go slowly.
“Stop, Cousin Tom,” my mother said, “a word with you, before you go.”
“Why, bless my heart!” Tom Faggus cried, with the form of his countenance so changed, that I verily thought another man must have leaped into his clothes—“do I see my Cousin Sarah? I thought every one was ashamed of me, and afraid to offer me shelter, since I lost my best cousin, John Ridd. ‘Come here,’ he used to say, ‘Tom, come here, when you are worried, and my wife shall take good care of you.’ ‘Yes, dear John,’ I used to answer, ‘I know she promised my mother so; but people have taken to think against me, and so might Cousin Sarah.’ Ah, he was a man, a man! If you only heard how he answered me. But let that go, I am nothing now, since the day I lost Cousin Ridd.” And with that he began to push on again; but mother would not have it so.
“Oh, Tom, that was a loss indeed. And I am nothing either. And you should try to allow for me; though I never found any one that did.” And mother began to cry, though father had been dead so long; and I looked on with a stupid surprise, having stopped from crying long ago.
“I can tell you one that will,” cried Tom, jumping off Winnie, in a trice, and looking kindly at mother; “I can allow for you, Cousin Sarah, in everything but one. I am in some ways a bad man myself; but I know the value of a good one; and if you gave me orders, by God—” And he shook his fists towards Bagworthy Wood, just heaving up black in the sundown.
“Hush, Tom, hush, for God’s sake!” And mother meant me, without pointing at me; at least I thought she did. For she ever had weaned me from thoughts of revenge, and even from longings for judgment. “God knows best, boy,” she used to say, “let us wait His time, without wishing it.” And so, to tell the truth, I did; partly through her teaching, and partly through my own mild temper, and my knowledge that father, after all, was killed because he had thrashed them.
“Good-night, Cousin Sarah, good-night, Cousin Jack,” cried Tom, taking to the mare again; “many a mile I have to ride, and not a bit inside of me. No food or shelter this side of Exeford, and the night will be black as pitch, I trow. But it serves me right for indulging the lad, being taken with his looks so.”
“Cousin Tom,” said mother, and trying to get so that Annie and I could not hear her; “it would be a sad and unkinlike thing for you to despise our dwelling-house. We cannot entertain you, as the lordly inns on the road do; and we have small change of victuals. But the men will go home, being Saturday; and so you will have the fireside all to yourself and the children. There are some few collops of red deer’s flesh, and a ham just down from the chimney, and some dried salmon from Lynmouth weir, and cold roast-pig, and some oysters. And if none of those be to your liking, we could roast two woodcocks in half an hour, and Annie would make the toast for them. And the good folk made some mistake last week, going up the country, and left a keg of old Holland cordial in the coving of the wood-rick, having borrowed our Smiler, without asking leave. I fear there is something unrighteous about it. But what can a poor widow do? John Fry would have taken it, but for our Jack. Our Jack was a little too sharp for him.”
Ay, that I was; John Fry had got it, like a billet under his apron, going away in the gray of the morning, as if to kindle his fireplace. “Why, John,” I said, “what a heavy log! Let me have one end of it.” “Thank’e, Jan, no need of thiccy,” he answered, turning his back to me; “waife wanteth a log as will last all day, to kape the crock a zimmerin.” And he banged his gate upon my heels to make me stop and rub them. “Why, John,” said I, “you’m got a log with round holes in the end of it. Who has been cutting gun-wads? Just lift your apron, or I will.”
But, to return to Tom Faggus—he stopped to sup that night with us, and took a little of everything; a few oysters first, and then dried salmon, and then ham and eggs, done in small curled rashers, and then a few collops of venison toasted, and next to that a little cold roast-pig, and a woodcock on toast to finish with, before the Scheidam and hot water. And having changed his wet things first, he seemed to be in fair appetite, and praised Annie’s cooking mightily, with a kind of noise like a smack of his lips, and a rubbing of his hands together, whenever he could spare them.
He had gotten John Fry’s best small-clothes on, for he said he was not good enough to go into my father’s (which mother kept to look at), nor man enough to fill them. And in truth my mother was very glad that he refused, when I offered them. But John was over-proud to have it in his power to say that such a famous man had ever dwelt in any clothes of his; and afterwards he made show of them. For Mr. Faggus’s glory, then, though not so great as now it is, was spreading very fast indeed all about our neighbourhood, and even as far as Bridgewater.
Tom Faggus was a jovial soul, if ever there has been one, not making bones of little things, nor caring to seek evil. There was about him such a love of genuine human nature, that if a traveller said a good thing, he would give him back his purse again. It is true that he took people’s money more by force than fraud; and the law (being used to the inverse method) was bitterly moved against him, although he could quote precedent. These things I do not understand; having seen so much of robbery (some legal, some illegal), that I scarcely know, as here we say, one crow’s foot from the other. It is beyond me and above me, to discuss these subjects; and in truth I love the law right well, when it doth support me, and when I can lay it down to my liking, with prejudice to nobody. Loyal, too, to the King am I, as behoves churchwarden; and ready to make the best of him, as he generally requires. But after all, I could not see (until I grew much older, and came to have some property) why Tom Faggus, working hard, was called a robber and felon of great; while the King, doing nothing at all (as became his dignity), was liege-lord, and paramount owner; with everybody to thank him kindly for accepting tribute.
For the present, however, I learned nothing more as to what our cousin’s profession was; only that mother seemed frightened, and whispered to him now and then not to talk of something, because of the children being there; whereupon he always nodded with a sage expression, and applied himself to hollands.
“Now let us go and see Winnie, Jack,” he said to me after supper; “for the most part I feed her before myself; but she was so hot from the way you drove her. Now she must be grieving for me, and I never let her grieve long.”
I was too glad to go with him, and Annie came slyly after us. The filly was walking to and fro on the naked floor of the stable (for he would not let her have any straw, until he should make a bed for her), and without so much as a headstall on, for he would not have her fastened. “Do you take my mare for a dog?” he had said when John Fry brought