A VISIT FROM THE COUNSELLOR
[Illustration: 455.jpg 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
to the last degree. And when it is so, it is desperate: no man, after
imbibing ideas of that sort, can in any way be useful.”
“Oh yes, sir, John is very useful. He can do as much work as three other
men; and you should see him load a sledd, sir.”
“I was speaking, madam, of higher usefulness,--power of the brain and
heart. The main thing for us upon earth is to take a large view of
things. But while we talk of the heart, what is my niece Lorna
doing, that she does not come and thank me, for my perhaps too prompt
concession to her youthful fancies? Ah, if I had wanted thanks, I should
have been more stubborn.”
Lorna, being challenged thus, came up and looked at her uncle, with
her noble eyes fixed full upon his, which beneath his white eyebrows
glistened, like dormer windows piled with snow.
“For what am I to thank you, uncle?”
“My dear niece, I have told you. For removing the heaviest obstacle,
which to a mind so well regulated could possibly have existed, between
your dutiful self and the object of your affections.”
“Well, uncle, I should be very grateful, if I thought that you did
so from love of me; or if I did not know that you have something yet
concealed from me.”
“And my consent,” said the Counsellor, “is the more meritorious, the
more liberal, frank, and candid, in the face of an existing fact, and a
very clearly established one; which might have appeared to weaker minds
in the light of an impediment; but to my loftier view of matrimony seems
quite a recommendation.”
“What fact do you mean, sir? Is it one that I ought to know?”
“In my opinion it is, good niece. It forms, to my mind, so fine a basis
for the invariable harmony of the matrimonial state. To be brief--as I
always endeavour to be, without becoming obscure--you two young people
(ah, what a gift is youth! one can never be too thankful for it) you
will have the rare advantage of commencing married life, with a subject
of common interest to discuss, whenever you weary of--well, say of one
another; if you can now, by any means, conceive such a possibility. And
perfect justice meted out: mutual goodwill resulting, from the sense of
reciprocity.”
“I do not understand you, sir. Why can you not say what you mean, at
once?”
“My dear child, I prolong your suspense. Curiosity is the most powerful
of all feminine instincts; and therefore the most delightful, when not
prematurely satisfied. However, if you must have my strong realities,
here they are. Your father slew dear John's father, and dear John's
father slew yours.”
Having said thus much, the Counsellor leaned back upon his chair, and
shaded his calm white-bearded eyes from the rays of our tallow candles.
He was a man who liked to look, rather than to be looked at. But Lorna
came to me for aid; and I went up to Lorna and mother looked at both of
us.
Then feeling that I must speak first (as no one would begin it), I took
my darling round the waist, and led her up to the Counsellor; while she
tried to bear it bravely; yet must lean on me, or did.
“Now, Sir Counsellor Doone,” I said, with Lorna squeezing both my hands,
I never yet knew how (considering that she was walking all the time, or
something like it); “you know right well, Sir Counsellor, that Sir Ensor
Doone gave approval.” I cannot tell what made me think of this: but so
it came upon me.
“Approval to what, good rustic John? To the slaughter so reciprocal?”
“No, sir, not to that; even if it ever happened; which I do not believe.
But to the love betwixt me and Lorna; which your story shall not break,
without more evidence than your word. And even so, shall never break; if
Lorna thinks as I do.”
The maiden gave me a little touch, as much as to say, “You are right,
darling: give it to him, again, like that.” However, I held my peace,
well knowing that too many words do mischief.
Then mother looked at me with wonder, being herself too amazed to speak;
and the Counsellor looked, with great wrath in his eyes, which he tried
to keep from burning.
“How say you then, John Ridd,” he cried, stretching out one hand, like
Elijah; “is this a thing of the sort you love? Is this what you are used
to?”
“So please your worship,” I answered; “no kind of violence can surprise
us, since first came Doones upon Exmoor. Up to that time none heard
of harm; except of taking a purse, maybe, or cutting a strange sheep's
throat. And the poor folk who did this were hanged, with some benefit of
clergy. But ever since the Doones came first, we are used to anything.”
“Thou varlet,” cried the Counsellor, with the colour of his eyes quite
changed with the sparkles of his fury; “is this the way we are to deal
with such a low-bred clod as thou? To question the doings of our people,
and to talk of clergy! What, dream you not that we could have clergy,
and of the right sort, too, if only we cared to have them? Tush! Am I to
spend my time arguing with a plough-tail Bob?”
“If your worship will hearken to me,” I answered very modestly, not
wishing to speak harshly, with Lorna looking up at me; “there are many
things that might be said without any kind of argument, which I would
never wish to try with one of your worship's learning. And in the first
place it seems to me that if our fathers hated one another bitterly, yet
neither won the victory, only mutual discomfiture; surely that is but
a reason why we should be wiser than they, and make it up in this
generation by goodwill and loving”--
“Oh, John, you wiser than your father!” mother broke upon me here; “not
but what you might be as wise, when you come to be old enough.”
“Young people of the present age,” said the Counsellor severely, “have
no right feeling of any sort, upon the simplest matter. Lorna Doone,
stand forth from contact with that heir of parricide; and state in your
own mellifluous voice, whether you regard this slaughter as a pleasant
trifle.”
“You know, without any words of mine,” she answered very softly, yet not
withdrawing from my hand, “that although I have been seasoned well to
every kind of outrage, among my gentle relatives, I have not yet so
purely lost all sense of right and wrong as to receive what you have
said, as lightly as you declared it. You think it a happy basis for our
future concord. I do not quite think that, my uncle; neither do I quite
believe that a word of it is true. In our happy valley, nine-tenths of
what is said is false; and you were always wont to argue that true
and false are but a blind turned upon a pivot. Without any failure of
respect for your character, good uncle, I decline politely to believe a
word of what you have told me. And even if it were proved to me, all I
can say is this, if my John will have me, I am his for ever.”
This long speech was too much for her; she had overrated her strength
about it, and the sustenance of irony. So at last she fell into my arms,
which had long been waiting for her; and there she lay with no other
sound, except a gurgling in her throat.
“You old villain,” cried my mother, shaking her fist at the Counsellor,
while I could do nothing else but hold, and bend across, my darling, and
whisper to deaf ears; “What is the good of the quality; if this is
all that comes of it? Out of the way! You know the words that make the
deadly mischief; but not the ways that heal them. Give me that bottle,
if hands you have; what is the use of Counsellors?”
I saw that dear mother was carried away; and indeed I myself was
something like it; with the pale face upon my bosom, and the heaving of
the heart, and the heat and cold all through me, as my darling breathed
or lay. Meanwhile the Counsellor stood back, and seemed a little sorry;
although of course it was not in his power to be at all ashamed of
himself.
“My sweet love, my darling child,” our mother went on to Lorna, in a way
that I shall never forget, though I live to be a hundred; “pretty pet,
not a word of it is true, upon that old liar's oath; and if every word
were true, poor chick, you should have our John all the more for it.
You and John were made by God and meant for one another, whatever falls
between you. Little lamb, look up and speak: here is your own John and
I; and the devil take the Counsellor.”
I was amazed at mother's words, being so unlike her; while I loved her
all the more because she forgot herself so. In another moment in ran
Annie, ay and Lizzie also, knowing by some mystic sense (which I have
often noticed, but never could explain) that something was astir,
belonging to the world of women, yet foreign to the eyes of men. And now
the Counsellor, being well-born, although such a heartless miscreant,
beckoned to me to come away; which I, being smothered with women, was
only too glad to do, as soon as my own love would let go of me.
“That is the worst of them,” said the old man; when I had led him into
our kitchen, with an apology at every step, and given him hot schnapps
and water, and a cigarro of brave Tom Faggus: “you never can say much,
sir, in the way of reasoning (however gently meant and put) but what
these women will fly out. It is wiser to put a wild bird in a cage, and
expect him to sit and look at you, and chirp without a feather rumpled,
than it is to expect a woman to answer reason reasonably.” Saying this,
he looked at his puff of smoke as if it contained more reason.
“I am sure I do not know, sir,” I answered according to a phrase which
has always been my favourite, on account of its general truth: moreover,
he was now our guest, and had right to be treated accordingly: “I am,
as you see, not acquainted with the ways of women, except my mother and
sisters.”
“Except not even them, my son,” said the Counsellor, now having finished
his glass, without much consultation about it; “if you once understand
your mother and sisters--why you understand the lot of them.”
He made a twist in his cloud of smoke, and dashed his finger through
it, so that I could not follow his meaning, and in manners liked not to
press him.
“Now of this business, John,” he said, after getting to the bottom of
the second glass, and having a trifle or so to eat, and praising our
chimney-corner; “taking you on the whole, you know, you are wonderfully
good people; and instead of giving me up to the soldiers, as you might
have done, you are doing your best to make me drunk.”
“Not at all, sir,” I answered; “not at all, your worship. Let me mix
you another glass. We rarely have a great gentleman by the side of our
embers and oven. I only beg your pardon, sir, that my sister Annie (who
knows where to find all the good pans and the lard) could not wait upon
you this evening; and I fear they have done it with dripping instead,
and in a pan with the bottom burned. But old Betty quite loses her head
sometimes, by dint of over-scolding.”
“My son,” replied the Counsellor, standing across the front of the fire,
to prove his strict sobriety: “I meant to come down upon you to-night;
but you have turned the tables upon me. Not through any skill on your
part, nor through any paltry weakness as to love (and all that stuff,
which boys and girls spin tops at, or knock dolls' noses together), but
through your simple way of taking me, as a man to be believed; combined
with the comfort of this place, and the choice tobacco and cordials. I
have not enjoyed an evening so much, God bless me if I know when!”
“Your worship,” said I, “makes me more proud than I well know what to
do with. Of all the things that please and lead us into happy sleep
at night, the first and chiefest is to think that we have pleased a
visitor.”
“Then, John, thou hast deserved good sleep; for I am not pleased easily.
But although our family is not so high now as it hath been, I have
enough of the gentleman left to be pleased when good people try me. My
father, Sir Ensor, was better than I in this great element of birth, and
my son Carver is far worse. _Aetas parentum_, what is it, my boy? I hear
that you have been at a grammar-school.”
“So I have, your worship, and at a very good one; but I only got far
enough to make more tail than head of Latin.”
“Let that pass,” said the Counsellor; “John, thou art all the wiser.”
And the old man shook his hoary locks, as if Latin had been his ruin.
I looked at him sadly, and wondered whether it might have so ruined me,
but for God's mercy in stopping it.