Lorna, however, looked at me--for her eyes told more than tongue--as much as to say, 'Well, you are a stupid. We agreed to let that subject rest.' And then she saw that I was vexed at my own want of quickness;and so she spoke very kindly,--
'I meant about his poor son, dearest; the son of his old age almost; whose loss threw him into that dreadful cold--for he went, without hat, to look for him--which ended in his losing the use of his dear old ears. Ibelieve if we could only get him to Plover's Barrows for a month, he would be able to hear again. And look at his age! he is not much over seventy, John, you know; and I hope that you will be able to hear me, long after you are seventy, John.'
'Well,' said I, 'God settles that. Or at any rate, He leaves us time to think about those questions, when we are over fifty. Now let me know what you want, Lorna.
The idea of my being seventy! But you would still be beautiful.'
'To the one who loves me,' she answered, trying to make wrinkles in her pure bright forehead: 'but if you will have common sense, as you always will, John, whether Iwish it or otherwise--I want to know whether I am bound, in honour, and in conscience, to tell my dear and good old uncle what I know about his son?'
'First let me understand quite clearly,' said I, never being in a hurry, except when passion moves me, 'what his lordship thinks at present; and how far his mind is urged with sorrow and anxiety.' This was not the first time we had spoken of the matter.
'Why, you know, John, well enough,' she answered, wondering at my coolness, 'that my poor uncle stlll believes that his one beloved son will come to light and live again. He has made all arrangements accordingly: all his property is settled on that supposition. He knows that young Alan always was what he calls a "feckless ne'er-do-weel;" but he loves him all the more for that. He cannot believe that he will die, without his son coming back to him; and he always has a bedroom ready, and a bottle of Alan's favourite wine cool from out the cellar; he has made me work him a pair of slippers from the size of a mouldy boot; and if he hears of a new tobacco--much as he hates the smell of it--he will go to the other end of London to get some for Alan. Now you know how deaf he is; but if any one say, "Alan," even in the place outside the door, he will make his courteous bow to the very highest visitor, and be out there in a moment, and search the entire passage, and yet let no one know it.'
'It is a piteous thing,' I said; for Lorna's eyes were full of tears.
'And he means me to marry him. It is the pet scheme of his life. I am to grow more beautiful, and more highly taught, and graceful; until it pleases Alan to come back, and demand me. Can you understand this matter, John? Or do you think my uncle mad?'
'Lorna, I should be mad myself, to call any other man mad, for hoping.'
'Then will you tell me what to do? It makes me very sorrowful. For I know that Alan Brandir lies below the sod in Doone-valley.'
'And if you tell his father,' I answered softly, but clearly, 'in a few weeks he will lie below the sod in London; at least if there is any.'
'Perhaps you are right, John,' she replied: 'to lose hope must be a dreadful thing, when one is turned of seventy. Therefore I will never tell him.'
The other way in which I managed to help the good Earl Brandir was of less true moment to him; but as he could not know of the first, this was the one which moved him. And it happened pretty much as follows--though Ihardly like to tell, because it advanced me to such a height as I myself was giddy at; and which all my friends resented greatly (save those of my own family), and even now are sometimes bitter, in spite of all my humility. Now this is a matter of history, because the King was concerned in it; and being so strongly misunderstood, (especially in my own neighbourhood, Iwill overcome so far as I can) my diffidence in telling it.
The good Earl Brandir was a man of the noblest charity.
True charity begins at home, and so did his; and was afraid of losing the way, if it went abroad. So this good nobleman kept his money in a handsome pewter box, with his coat of arms upon it, and a double lid and locks. Moreover, there was a heavy chain, fixed to a staple in the wall, so that none might carry off the pewter with the gold inside of it. Lorna told me the box was full, for she had seen him go to it, and she often thought that it would be nice for us to begin the world with. I told her that she must not allow her mind to dwell upon things of this sort; being wholly against the last commandment set up in our church at Oare.
Now one evening towards September, when the days were drawing in, looking back at the house to see whether Lorna were looking after me, I espied (by a little glimpse, as it were) a pair of villainous fellows (about whom there could be no mistake) watching from the thicket-corner, some hundred yards or so behind the good Earl's dwelling. 'There is mischief afoot,' thought I to myself, being thoroughly conversant with theft, from my knowledge of the Doones; 'how will be the moon to-night, and when may we expect the watch?'
I found that neither moon nor watch could be looked for until the morning; the moon, of course, before the watch, and more likely to be punctual. Therefore Iresolved to wait, and see what those two villains did, and save (if it were possible) the Earl of Brandir's pewter box. But inasmuch as those bad men were almost sure to have seen me leaving the house and looking back, and striking out on the London road, I marched along at a merry pace, until they could not discern me;and then I fetched a compass round, and refreshed myself at a certain inn, entitled The Cross-bones and Buttons.
