CHAPTER XXXV

RUTH IS NOT LIKE LORNA

[Illustration: 292.jpg Carver Doone]

Although by our mother's reluctant consent a large part of the obstacles

between Annie and her lover appeared to be removed, on the other hand

Lorna and myself gained little, except as regarded comfort of mind, and

some ease to the conscience. Moreover, our chance of frequent meetings

and delightful converse was much impaired, at least for the present;

because though mother was not aware of my narrow escape from Carver

Doone, she made me promise never to risk my life by needless visits.

And upon this point, that is to say, the necessity of the visit, she was

well content, as she said, to leave me to my own good sense and honour;

only begging me always to tell her of my intention beforehand. This

pledge, however, for her own sake, I declined to give; knowing how

wretched she would be during all the time of my absence; and, on that

account, I promised instead, that I would always give her a full account

of my adventure upon returning.

Now my mother, as might be expected, began at once to cast about for

some means of relieving me from all further peril, and herself from

great anxiety. She was full of plans for fetching Lorna, in some

wonderful manner, out of the power of the Doones entirely, and into her

own hands, where she was to remain for at least a twelve-month, learning

all mother and Annie could teach her of dairy business, and farm-house

life, and the best mode of packing butter. And all this arose from my

happening to say, without meaning anything, how the poor dear had longed

for quiet, and a life of simplicity, and a rest away from violence!

Bless thee, mother--now long in heaven, there is no need to bless thee;

but it often makes a dimness now in my well-worn eyes, when I think of

thy loving-kindness, warmth, and romantic innocence.

As to stealing my beloved from that vile Glen Doone, the deed itself was

not impossible, nor beyond my daring; but in the first place would she

come, leaving her old grandfather to die without her tendence? And

even if, through fear of Carver and that wicked Counsellor, she should

consent to fly, would it be possible to keep her without a regiment of

soldiers? Would not the Doones at once ride forth to scour the country

for their queen, and finding her (as they must do), burn our house, and

murder us, and carry her back triumphantly?

All this I laid before my mother, and to such effect that she

acknowledged, with a sigh that nothing else remained for me (in the

present state of matters) except to keep a careful watch upon Lorna from

safe distance, observe the policy of the Doones, and wait for a tide in

their affairs. Meanwhile I might even fall in love (as mother unwisely

hinted) with a certain more peaceful heiress, although of inferior

blood, who would be daily at my elbow. I am not sure but what dear

mother herself would have been disappointed, had I proved myself so

fickle; and my disdain and indignation at the mere suggestion did not so

much displease her; for she only smiled and answered,--

“Well, it is not for me to say; God knows what is good for us. Likings

will not come to order; otherwise I should not be where I am this day.

And of one thing I am rather glad; Uncle Reuben well deserves that his

pet scheme should miscarry. He who called my boy a coward, an ignoble

coward, because he would not join some crack-brained plan against the

valley which sheltered his beloved one! And all the time this dreadful

'coward' risking his life daily there, without a word to any one! How

glad I am that you will not have, for all her miserable money, that

little dwarfish granddaughter of the insolent old miser!”

She turned, and by her side was standing poor Ruth Huckaback herself,

white, and sad, and looking steadily at my mother's face, which became

as red as a plum while her breath deserted her.

[Illustration: 294.jpg Poor Ruth Huckaback herself]

“If you please, madam,” said the little maiden, with her large calm eyes

unwavering, “it is not my fault, but God Almighty's, that I am a little

dwarfish creature. I knew not that you regarded me with so much contempt

on that account; neither have you told my grandfather, at least

within my hearing, that he was an insolent old miser. When I return to

Dulverton, which I trust to do to-morrow (for it is too late to-day),

I shall be careful not to tell him your opinion of him, lest I should

thwart any schemes you may have upon his property. I thank you all for

your kindness to me, which has been very great, far more than a little

dwarfish creature could, for her own sake, expect. I will only add for

your further guidance one more little truth. It is by no means certain

that my grandfather will settle any of his miserable money upon me. If

I offend him, as I would in a moment, for the sake of a brave and

straightforward man”--here she gave me a glance which I scarcely knew

what to do with--“my grandfather, upright as he is, would leave me

without a shilling. And I often wish it were so. So many miseries come

upon me from the miserable money--” Here she broke down, and burst out

crying, and ran away with a faint good-bye; while we three looked at one

another, and felt that we had the worst of it.

“Impudent little dwarf!” said my mother, recovering her breath after

ever so long. “Oh, John, how thankful you ought to be! What a life she

would have led you!”

“Well, I am sure!” said Annie, throwing her arms around poor mother:

“who could have thought that little atomy had such an outrageous spirit!

For my part I cannot think how she can have been sly enough to hide it

in that crafty manner, that John might think her an angel!”

“Well, for my part,” I answered, laughing, “I never admired Ruth

Huckaback half, or a quarter so much before. She is rare stuff. I would

have been glad to have married her to-morrow, if I had never seen my

Lorna.”

“And a nice nobody I should have been, in my own house!” cried mother:

“I never can be thankful enough to darling Lorna for saving me. Did you

see how her eyes flashed?”

“That I did; and very fine they were. Now nine maidens out of ten would

have feigned not to have heard one word that was said, and have borne

black malice in their hearts. Come, Annie, now, would not you have done

so?”

“I think,” said Annie, “although of course I cannot tell, you know,

John, that I should have been ashamed at hearing what was never meant

for me, and should have been almost as angry with myself as anybody.”

“So you would,” replied my mother; “so any daughter of mine would have

done, instead of railing and reviling. However, I am very sorry that any

words of mine which the poor little thing chose to overhear should have

made her so forget herself. I shall beg her pardon before she goes, and

I shall expect her to beg mine.”

“That she will never do,” said I; “a more resolute little maiden never

yet had right upon her side; although it was a mere accident. I might

have said the same thing myself, and she was hard upon you, mother

dear.”

After this, we said no more, at least about that matter; and little

Ruth, the next morning, left us, in spite of all that we could do. She

vowed an everlasting friendship to my younger sister Eliza; but she

looked at Annie with some resentment, when they said good-bye, for being

so much taller. At any rate so Annie fancied, but she may have been

quite wrong. I rode beside the little maid till far beyond Exeford, when

all danger of the moor was past, and then I left her with John Fry, not

wishing to be too particular, after all the talk about her money. She

had tears in her eyes when she bade me farewell, and she sent a kind

message home to mother, and promised to come again at Christmas, if she

could win permission.

[Illustration: 296.jpg She had tears in her eyes]

Upon the whole, my opinion was that she had behaved uncommonly well for

a maid whose self-love was outraged, with spirit, I mean, and proper

pride; and yet with a great endeavour to forgive, which is, meseems, the

hardest of all things to a woman, outside of her own family.

After this, for another month, nothing worthy of notice happened, except

of course that I found it needful, according to the strictest good sense

and honour, to visit Lorna immediately after my discourse with mother,

and to tell her all about it. My beauty gave me one sweet kiss with all

her heart (as she always did, when she kissed at all), and I begged for

one more to take to our mother, and before leaving, I obtained it. It

is not for me to tell all she said, even supposing (what is not likely)

that any one cared to know it, being more and more peculiar to ourselves

and no one else. But one thing that she said was this, and I took good

care to carry it, word for word, to my mother and Annie:--

“I never can believe, dear John, that after all the crime and outrage

wrought by my reckless family, it ever can be meant for me to settle

down to peace and comfort in a simple household. With all my heart I

long for home; any home, however dull and wearisome to those used to

it, would seem a paradise to me, if only free from brawl and tumult,

and such as I could call my own. But even if God would allow me this, in

lieu of my wild inheritance, it is quite certain that the Doones never

can and never will.”

Again, when I told her how my mother and Annie, as well as myself,

longed to have her at Plover's Barrows, and teach her all the quiet

duties in which she was sure to take such delight, she only answered

with a bright blush, that while her grandfather was living she would

never leave him; and that even if she were free, certain ruin was all

she should bring to any house that received her, at least within the

utmost reach of her amiable family. This was too plain to be denied,

and seeing my dejection at it, she told me bravely that we must hope for

better times, if possible, and asked how long I would wait for her.

“Not a day if I had my will,” I answered very warmly; at which she

turned away confused, and would not look at me for awhile; “but all my

life,” I went on to say, “if my fortune is so ill. And how long would

you wait for me, Lorna?”

“Till I could get you,” she answered slyly, with a smile which

was brighter to me than the brightest wit could be. “And now,” she

continued, “you bound me, John, with a very beautiful ring to you, and

when I dare not wear it, I carry it always on my heart. But I will bind

you to me, you dearest, with the very poorest and plainest thing that

ever you set eyes on. I could give you fifty fairer ones, but they would

not be honest; and I love you for your honesty, and nothing else of

course, John; so don't you be conceited. Look at it, what a queer

old thing! There are some ancient marks upon it, very grotesque and

wonderful; it looks like a cat in a tree almost, but never mind what it

looks like. This old ring must have been a giant's; therefore it will

fit you perhaps, you enormous John. It has been on the front of my old

glass necklace (which my grandfather found them taking away, and very

soon made them give back again) ever since I can remember; and long

before that, as some woman told me. Now you seem very greatly amazed;

pray what thinks my lord of it?”

“That is worth fifty of the pearl thing which I gave you, you darling;

and that I will not take it from you.”

“Then you will never take me, that is all. I will have nothing to do

with a gentleman”--

“No gentleman, dear--a yeoman.”

“Very well, a yeoman--nothing to do with a yeoman who will not accept my

love-gage. So, if you please, give it back again, and take your lovely

ring back.”

She looked at me in such a manner, half in earnest, half in jest, and

three times three in love, that in spite of all good resolutions, and

her own faint protest, I was forced to abandon all firm ideas, and kiss

her till she was quite ashamed, and her head hung on my bosom, with the

night of her hair shed over me. Then I placed the pearl ring back on the

soft elastic bend of the finger she held up to scold me; and on my own

smallest finger drew the heavy hoop she had given me. I considered this

with satisfaction, until my darling recovered herself; and then I began

very gravely about it, to keep her (if I could) from chiding me:--

“Mistress Lorna, this is not the ring of any giant. It is nothing more

nor less than a very ancient thumb-ring, such as once in my father's

time was ploughed up out of the ground in our farm, and sent to learned

doctors, who told us all about it, but kept the ring for their trouble.

I will accept it, my own one love; and it shall go to my grave with

me.” And so it shall, unless there be villains who would dare to rob the

dead.

Now I have spoken about this ring (though I scarcely meant to do so,

and would rather keep to myself things so very holy) because it holds an

important part in the history of my Lorna. I asked her where the glass

necklace was from which the ring was fastened, and which she had worn

in her childhood, and she answered that she hardly knew, but remembered

that her grandfather had begged her to give it up to him, when she was

ten years old or so, and had promised to keep it for her until she

could take care of it; at the same time giving her back the ring, and

fastening it from her pretty neck, and telling her to be proud of it.

And so she always had been, and now from her sweet breast she took it,

and it became John Ridd's delight.

All this, or at least great part of it, I told my mother truly,

according to my promise; and she was greatly pleased with Lorna for

having been so good to me, and for speaking so very sensibly; and then

she looked at the great gold ring, but could by no means interpret it.

Only she was quite certain, as indeed I myself was, that it must have

belonged to an ancient race of great consideration, and high rank,

in their time. Upon which I was for taking it off, lest it should be

degraded by a common farmer's finger. But mother said “No,” with tears

in her eyes; “if the common farmer had won the great lady of the ancient

race, what were rings and old-world trinkets, when compared to the

living jewel?” Being quite of her opinion in this, and loving the ring

(which had no gem in it) as the token of my priceless gem, I resolved to

wear it at any cost, except when I should be ploughing, or doing things

likely to break it; although I must own that it felt very queer (for I

never had throttled a finger before), and it looked very queer, for a

length of time, upon my great hard-working hand.

And before I got used to my ring, or people could think that it belonged

to me (plain and ungarnished though it was), and before I went to see

Lorna again, having failed to find any necessity, and remembering my

duty to mother, we all had something else to think of, not so pleasant,

and more puzzling.