“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.

CHAPTER XXIX

REAPING LEADS TO REVELLING

[Illustration:  236.jpg The Signal]

Although I was under interdict for two months from my darling—­“one for your sake, one for mine,” she had whispered, with her head withdrawn, yet not so very far from me—­lighter heart was not on Exmoor than I bore for half the time, and even for three quarters.  For she was safe; I knew that daily by a mode of signals well-contrived between us now, on the strength of our experience.  “I have nothing now to fear, John,” she had said to me, as we parted; “it is true that I am spied and watched, but Gwenny is too keen for them.  While I have my grandfather to prevent all violence; and little Gwenny to keep watch on those who try to watch me; and you, above all others, John, ready at a moment, if the worst comes to the worst—­this neglected Lorna Doone was never in such case before.  Therefore do not squeeze my hand, John; I am safe without it, and you do not know your strength.”

Ah, I knew my strength right well.  Hill and valley scarcely seemed to be step and landing for me; fiercest cattle I would play with, making them go backward, and afraid of hurting them, like John Fry with his terrier; even rooted trees seemed to me but as sticks I could smite down, except for my love of everything.  The love of all things was upon me, and a softness to them all, and a sense of having something even such as they had.