Lorna Doone: A Romance of Exmoor
“I take the privilege, Mistress Ruth, of saluting you according to
kinship, and the ordering of the Canons.” And therewith I bussed her
well, and put my arm around her waist, being so terribly restricted in
the matter of Lorna, and knowing the use of practice. Not that I had any
warmth--all that was darling Lorna's--only out of pure gallantry, and my
knowledge of London fashions. Ruth blushed to such a pitch at this, and
looked up at me with such a gleam; as if I must have my own way; that
all my love of kissing sunk, and I felt that I was wronging her. Only
my mother had told me, when the girls were out of the way, to do all I
could to please darling Ruth, and I had gone about it accordingly.
Now Ruth as yet had never heard a word about dear Lorna; and when she
led me into the kitchen (where everything looked beautiful), and told me
not to mind, for a moment, about the scrubbing of my boots, because she
would only be too glad to clean it all up after me, and told me how glad
she was to see me, blushing more at every word, and recalling some of
them, and stooping down for pots and pans, when I looked at her too
ruddily--all these things came upon me so, without any legal notice,
that I could only look at Ruth, and think how very good she was, and how
bright her handles were; and wonder if I had wronged her. Once or twice,
I began--this I say upon my honour--to endeavour to explain exactly, how
we were at Plover's Barrows; how we all had been bound to fight, and had
defeated the enemy, keeping their queen amongst us. But Ruth would
make some great mistake between Lorna and Gwenny Carfax, and gave me no
chance to set her aright, and cared about nothing much, except some news
of Sally Snowe.
What could I do with this little thing? All my sense of modesty, and
value for my dinner, were against my over-pressing all the graceful
hints I had given about Lorna. Ruth was just a girl of that sort, who
will not believe one word, except from her own seeing; not so much
from any doubt, as from the practice of using eyes which have been in
business.
I asked Cousin Ruth (as we used to call her, though the cousinship was
distant) what was become of Uncle Ben, and how it was that we never
heard anything of or from him now. She replied that she hardly knew
what to make of her grandfather's manner of carrying on, for the last
half-year or more. He was apt to leave his home, she said, at any hour
of the day or night; going none knew whither, and returning no one
might say when. And his dress, in her opinion, was enough to frighten
a hodman, of a scavenger of the roads, instead of the decent suit
of kersey, or of Sabbath doeskins, such as had won the respect and
reverence of his fellow-townsmen. But the worst of all things was, as
she confessed with tears in her eyes, that the poor old gentleman had
something weighing heavily on his mind.
“It will shorten his days, Cousin Ridd,” she said, for she never would
call me Cousin John; “he has no enjoyment of anything that he eats or
drinks, nor even in counting his money, as he used to do all Sunday;
indeed no pleasure in anything, unless it be smoking his pipe, and
thinking and staring at bits of brown stone, which he pulls, every now
and then, out of his pockets. And the business he used to take such
pride in is now left almost entirely to the foreman, and to me.”
“And what will become of you, dear Ruth, if anything happens to the old
man?”
“I am sure I know not,” she answered simply; “and I cannot bear to think
of it. It must depend, I suppose, upon dear grandfather's pleasure about
me.”
“It must rather depend,” said I, though having no business to say it,
“upon your own good pleasure, Ruth; for all the world will pay court to
you.”
“That is the very thing which I never could endure. I have begged dear
grandfather to leave no chance of that. When he has threatened me with
poverty, as he does sometimes, I have always met him truly, with the
answer that I feared one thing a great deal worse than poverty; namely,
to be an heiress. But I cannot make him believe it. Only think how
strange, Cousin Ridd, I cannot make him believe it.”
“It is not strange at all,” I answered; “considering how he values
money. Neither would any one else believe you, except by looking into
your true, and very pretty eyes, dear.”
Now I beg that no one will suspect for a single moment, either that I
did not mean exactly what I said, or meant a single atom more, or would
not have said the same, if Lorna had been standing by. What I had always
liked in Ruth, was the calm, straightforward gaze, and beauty of her
large brown eyes. Indeed I had spoken of them to Lorna, as the only ones
to be compared (though not for more than a moment) to her own, for truth
and light, but never for depth and softness. But now the little maiden
dropped them, and turned away, without reply.
“I will go and see to my horse,” I said; “the boy that has taken him
seemed surprised at his having no horns on his forehead. Perhaps he will
lead him into the shop, and feed him upon broadcloth.”
“Oh, he is such a stupid boy,” Ruth answered with great sympathy: “how
quick of you to observe that now: and you call yourself 'Slow John
Ridd!' I never did see such a stupid boy: sometimes he spoils my temper.
But you must be back in half an hour, at the latest, Cousin Ridd. You
see I remember what you are; when once you get among horses, or cows, or
things of that sort.”
“Things of that sort! Well done, Ruth! One would think you were quite a
Cockney.”
Uncle Reuben did not come home to his dinner; and his granddaughter said
she had strictest orders never to expect him. Therefore we had none to
dine with us, except the foreman of the shop, a worthy man, named
Thomas Cockram, fifty years of age or so. He seemed to me to have strong
intentions of his own about little Ruth, and on that account to regard
me with a wholly undue malevolence. And perhaps, in order to justify
him, I may have been more attentive to her than otherwise need have
been; at any rate, Ruth and I were pleasant; and he the very opposite.
“My dear Cousin Ruth,” I said, on purpose to vex Master Cockram, because
he eyed us so heavily, and squinted to unluckily, “we have long been
looking for you at our Plover's Barrows farm. You remember how you used
to love hunting for eggs in the morning, and hiding up in the tallat
with Lizzie, for me to seek you among the hay, when the sun was down.
Ah, Master Cockram, those are the things young people find
their pleasure in, not in selling a yard of serge, and giving
twopence-halfpenny change, and writing 'settled' at the bottom, with a
pencil that has blacked their teeth. Now, Master Cockram, you ought to
come as far as our good farm, at once, and eat two new-laid eggs for
breakfast, and be made to look quite young again. Our good Annie would
cook for you; and you should have the hot new milk and the pope's eye
from the mutton; and every foot of you would become a yard in about a
fortnight.” And hereupon, I spread my chest, to show him an example.
Ruth could not keep her countenance: but I saw that she thought it wrong
of me; and would scold me, if ever I gave her the chance of taking those
little liberties. However, he deserved it all, according to my young
ideas, for his great impertinence in aiming at my cousin.
But what I said was far less grievous to a man of honest mind than
little Ruth's own behaviour. I could hardly have believed that so
thoroughly true a girl, and one so proud and upright, could have got rid
of any man so cleverly as she got rid of Master Thomas Cockram. She gave
him not even a glass of wine, but commended to his notice, with a sweet
and thoughtful gravity, some invoice which must be corrected, before her
dear grandfather should return; and to amend which three great ledgers
must be searched from first to last. Thomas Cockram winked at me, with
the worst of his two wrong eyes; as much as to say, “I understand it;
but I cannot help myself. Only you look out, if ever”--and before he had
finished winking, the door was shut behind him. Then Ruth said to me in
the simplest manner, “You have ridden far today, Cousin Ridd; and have
far to ride to get home again. What will dear Aunt Ridd say, if we send
you away without nourishment? All the keys are in my keeping, and
dear grandfather has the finest wine, not to be matched in the west of
England, as I have heard good judges say; though I know not wine from
cider. Do you like the wine of Oporto, or the wine of Xeres?”
“I know not one from the other, fair cousin, except by the colour,” I
answered: “but the sound of Oporto is nobler, and richer. Suppose we try
wine of Oporto.”
The good little creature went and fetched a black bottle of an ancient
cast, covered with dust and cobwebs. These I was anxious to shake aside;
and indeed I thought that the wine would be better for being roused up a
little. Ruth, however, would not hear a single word to that purport;
and seeing that she knew more about it, I left her to manage it. And the
result was very fine indeed, to wit, a sparkling rosy liquor, dancing
with little flakes of light, and scented like new violets. With this I
was so pleased and gay, and Ruth so glad to see me gay, that we quite
forgot how the time went on; and though my fair cousin would not be
persuaded to take a second glass herself, she kept on filling mine so
fast that it was never empty, though I did my best to keep it so.
“What is a little drop like this to a man of your size and strength,
Cousin Ridd?” she said, with her cheeks just brushed with rose, which
made her look very beautiful; “I have heard you say that your head is so
thick--or rather so clear, you ought to say--that no liquor ever moves
it.”
“That is right enough,” I answered; “what a witch you must be, dear
Ruth, to have remembered that now!”
“Oh, I remember every word I have ever heard you say, Cousin Ridd;
because your voice is so deep, you know, and you talk so little. Now
it is useless to say 'no'. These bottles hold almost nothing. Dear
grandfather will not come home, I fear, until long after you are gone.
What will Aunt Ridd think of me, I am sure? You are all so dreadfully
hospitable. Now not another 'no,' Cousin Ridd. We must have another
bottle.”
“Well, must is must,” I answered, with a certain resignation. “I cannot
bear bad manners, dear; and how old are you next birthday?”
“Eighteen, dear John;” said Ruth, coming over with the empty bottle;
and I was pleased at her calling me “John,” and had a great mind to kiss
her. However, I thought of my Lorna suddenly, and of the anger I should
feel if a man went on with her so; therefore I lay back in my chair, to
wait for the other bottle.
“Do you remember how we danced that night?” I asked, while she was
opening it; “and how you were afraid of me first, because I looked so
tall, dear?”
“Yes, and so very broad, Cousin Ridd. I thought that you would eat me.
But I have come to know, since then, how very kind and good you are.”
“And will you come and dance again, at my wedding, Cousin Ruth?”
She nearly let the bottle fall, the last of which she was sloping
carefully into a vessel of bright glass; and then she raised her hand
again, and finished it judiciously. And after that, she took the window,
to see that all her work was clear; and then she poured me out a glass
and said, with very pale cheeks, but else no sign of meaning about her,
“What did you ask me, Cousin Ridd?”
“Nothing of any importance, Ruth; only we are so fond of you. I mean to
be married as soon as I can. Will you come and help us?”
“To be sure I will, Cousin Ridd--unless, unless, dear grandfather cannot
spare me from the business.” She went away; and her breast was heaving,