Lorna Doone: A Romance of Exmoor
like a rick of under-carried hay. And she stood at the window long,
trying to make yawns of sighs.
For my part, I knew not what to do. And yet I could think about it, as
I never could with Lorna; with whom I was always in a whirl, from the
power of my love. So I thought some time about it; and perceived that it
was the manliest way, just to tell her everything; except that I feared
she liked me. But it seemed to me unaccountable that she did not even
ask the name of my intended wife. Perhaps she thought that it must be
Sally; or perhaps she feared to trust her voice.
“Come and sit by me, dear Ruth; and listen to a long, long story, how
things have come about with me.”
“No, thank you, Cousin Ridd,” she answered; “at least I mean that I
shall be happy--that I shall be ready to hear you--to listen to you, I
mean of course. But I would rather stay where I am, and have the air--or
rather be able to watch for dear grandfather coming home. He is so kind
and good to me. What should I do without him?”
Then I told her how, for years and years, I had been attached to Lorna,
and all the dangers and difficulties which had so long beset us, and
how I hoped that these were passing, and no other might come between
us, except on the score of religion; upon which point I trusted soon
to overcome my mother's objections. And then I told her how poor, and
helpless, and alone in the world, my Lorna was; and how sad all her
youth had been, until I brought her away at last. And many other little
things I mentioned, which there is no need for me again to dwell upon.
Ruth heard it all without a word, and without once looking at me; and
only by her attitude could I guess that she was weeping. Then when all
my tale was told, she asked in a low and gentle voice, but still without
showing her face to me,--
“And does she love you, Cousin Ridd? Does she say that she loves you
with--with all her heart?”
“Certainly, she does,” I answered. “Do you think it impossible for one
like her to do so?”
She said no more; but crossed the room before I had time to look at her,
and came behind my chair, and kissed me gently on the forehead.
“I hope you may be very happy, with--I mean in your new life,” she
whispered very softly; “as happy as you deserve to be, and as happy as
you can make others be. Now how I have been neglecting you! I am quite
ashamed of myself for thinking only of grandfather: and it makes me so
low-spirited. You have told me a very nice romance, and I have never
even helped you to a glass of wine. Here, pour it for yourself, dear
cousin; I shall be back again directly.”
With that she was out of the door in a moment; and when she came back,
you would not have thought that a tear had dimmed those large bright
eyes, or wandered down those pale clear cheeks. Only her hands were cold
and trembling: and she made me help myself.
Uncle Reuben did not appear at all; and Ruth, who had promised to come
and see us, and stay for a fortnight at our house (if her grandfather
could spare her), now discovered, before I left, that she must not think
of doing so. Perhaps she was right in deciding thus; at any rate it had
now become improper for me to press her. And yet I now desired tenfold
that she should consent to come, thinking that Lorna herself would work
the speediest cure of her passing whim.
For such, I tried to persuade myself, was the nature of Ruth's regard
for me: and upon looking back I could not charge myself with any
misconduct towards the little maiden. I had never sought her company, I
had never trifled with her (at least until that very day), and being so
engrossed with my own love, I had scarcely ever thought of her. And the
maiden would never have thought of me, except as a clumsy yokel, but for
my mother's and sister's meddling, and their wily suggestions. I believe
they had told the little soul that I was deeply in love with her;
although they both stoutly denied it. But who can place trust in a
woman's word, when it comes to a question of match-making?
CHAPTER LI
A VISIT FROM THE COUNSELLOR
Now while I was riding home that evening, with a tender conscience
about Ruth, although not a wounded one, I guessed but little that all
my thoughts were needed much for my own affairs. So however it proved
to be; for as I came in, soon after dark, my sister Eliza met me at
the corner of the cheese-room, and she said, “Don't go in there, John,”
pointing to mother's room; “until I have had a talk with you.”
“In the name of Moses,” I inquired, having picked up that phrase at
Dulverton; “what are you at about me now? There is no peace for a quiet
fellow.”
“It is nothing we are at,” she answered; “neither may you make light of
it. It is something very important about Mistress Lorna Doone.”
“Let us have it at once,” I cried; “I can bear anything about Lorna,
except that she does not care for me.”
“It has nothing to do with that, John. And I am quite sure that
you never need fear anything of that sort. She perfectly wearies me
sometimes, although her voice is so soft and sweet, about your endless
perfections.”
“Bless her little heart!” I said; “the subject is inexhaustible.”
“No doubt,” replied Lizzie, in the driest manner; “especially to your
sisters. However this is no time to joke. I fear you will get the worst
of it, John. Do you know a man of about Gwenny's shape, nearly as broad
as he is long, but about six times the size of Gwenny, and with a
length of snow-white hair, and a thickness also; as the copses were last
winter. He never can comb it, that is quite certain, with any comb yet
invented.”
“Then you go and offer your services. There are few things you cannot
scarify. I know the man from your description, although I have never
seen him. Now where is my Lorna?”
“Your Lorna is with Annie, having a good cry, I believe; and Annie too
glad to second her. She knows that this great man is here, and knows
that he wants to see her. But she begged to defer the interview, until
dear John's return.”
“What a nasty way you have of telling the very commonest piece of news!”
I said, on purpose to pay her out. “What man will ever fancy you, you
unlucky little snapper? Now, no more nursery talk for me. I will go and
settle this business. You had better go and dress your dolls; if you can
give them clothes unpoisoned.” Hereupon Lizzie burst into a perfect roar
of tears; feeling that she had the worst of it. And I took her up, and
begged her pardon; although she scarcely deserved it; for she knew that
I was out of luck, and she might have spared her satire.
I was almost sure that the man who was come must be the Counsellor
himself; of whom I felt much keener fear than of his son Carver. And
knowing that his visit boded ill to me and Lorna, I went and sought
my dear; and led her with a heavy heart, from the maiden's room to
mother's, to meet our dreadful visitor.
Mother was standing by the door, making curtseys now and then, and
listening to a long harangue upon the rights of state and land, which
the Counsellor (having found that she was the owner of her property, and
knew nothing of her title to it) was encouraged to deliver it. My dear
mother stood gazing at him, spell-bound by his eloquence, and only
hoping that he would stop. He was shaking his hair upon his shoulders,
in the power of his words, and his wrath at some little thing, which he
declared to be quite illegal.
Then I ventured to show myself, in the flesh, before him; although he
feigned not to see me; but he advanced with zeal to Lorna; holding out
both hands at once.
“My darling child, my dearest niece; how wonderfully well you look!
Mistress Ridd, I give you credit. This is the country of good things. I
never would have believed our Queen could have looked so royal. Surely
of all virtues, hospitality is the finest, and the most romantic.
Dearest Lorna, kiss your uncle; it is quite a privilege.”
“Perhaps it is to you, sir,” said Lorna, who could never quite check her
sense of oddity; “but I fear that you have smoked tobacco, which spoils
reciprocity.”
“You are right, my child. How keen your scent is! It is always so with
us. Your grandfather was noted for his olfactory powers. Ah, a great
loss, dear Mrs. Ridd, a terrible loss to this neighbourhood! As one of
our great writers says--I think it must be Milton--'We ne'er shall look
upon his like again.'”
“With your good leave sir,” I broke in, “Master Milton could never
have written so sweet and simple a line as that. It is one of the great
Shakespeare.”
“Woe is me for my neglect!” said the Counsellor, bowing airily; “this
must be your son, Mistress Ridd, the great John, the wrestler. And one
who meddles with the Muses! Ah, since I was young, how everything is
changed, madam! Except indeed the beauty of women, which seems to me to
increase every year.” Here the old villain bowed to my mother; and she
blushed, and made another curtsey, and really did look very nice.
“Now though I have quoted the poets amiss, as your son informs me (for
which I tender my best thanks, and must amend my reading), I can hardly
be wrong in assuming that this young armiger must be the too attractive
cynosure to our poor little maiden. And for my part, she is welcome to
him. I have never been one of those who dwell upon distinctions of rank,
and birth, and such like; as if they were in the heart of nature, and
must be eternal. In early youth, I may have thought so, and been full
of that little pride. But now I have long accounted it one of the first
axioms of political economy--you are following me, Mistress Ridd?”
“Well, sir, I am doing my best; but I cannot quite keep up with you.”
“Never mind, madam; I will be slower. But your son's intelligence is so
quick--”
“I see, sir; you thought that mine must be. But no; it all comes from
his father, sir. His father was that quick and clever--”
“Ah, I can well suppose it, madam. And a credit he is to both of you.
Now, to return to our muttons--a figure which you will appreciate--I may
now be regarded, I think, as this young lady's legal guardian; although
I have not had the honour of being formally appointed such. Her father
was the eldest son of Sir Ensor Doone; and I happened to be the second
son; and as young maidens cannot be baronets, I suppose I am 'Sir
Counsellor.' Is it so, Mistress Ridd, according to your theory of
genealogy?”
“I am sure I don't know, sir,” my mother answered carefully; “I know not
anything of that name, sir, except in the Gospel of Matthew: but I see
not why it should be otherwise.”
“Good, madam! I may look upon that as your sanction and approval: and
the College of Heralds shall hear of it. And in return, as Lorna's
guardian, I give my full and ready consent to her marriage with your
son, madam.”
“Oh, how good of you, sir, how kind! Well, I always did say, that the
learnedest people were, almost always, the best and kindest, and the
most simple-hearted.”
“Madam, that is a great sentiment. What a goodly couple they will be!
and if we can add him to our strength--”
“Oh no, sir, oh no!” cried mother: “you really must not think of it. He
has always been brought up so honest--”
“Hem! that makes a difference. A decided disqualification for domestic
life among the Doones. But, surely, he might get over those prejudices,
madam?”
“Oh no, sir! he never can: he never can indeed. When he was only that
high, sir, he could not steal even an apple, when some wicked boys tried
to mislead him.”
“Ah,” replied the Counsellor, shaking his white head gravely; “then I
greatly fear that his case is quite incurable. I have known such cases;
violent prejudice, bred entirely of education, and anti-economical