“Simply for this cause,” I answered, “that my old friend and true love, took not the smallest heed of me. Nor knew I where to find her.”
“What!” cried Lorna; and nothing more; being overcome with wondering; and much inclined to fall away, but for my assistance. I told her, over and over again, that not a single syllable of any message from her, or tidings of her welfare, had reached me, or any one of us, since the letter she left behind; except by soldier’s gossip.
“Oh, you poor dear John!” said Lorna, sighing at thought of my misery: “how wonderfully good of you, thinking of me as you must have done, not to marry that little plain thing (or perhaps I should say that lovely creature, for I have never seen her), Mistress Ruth—I forget her name; but something like a towel.”
“Ruth Huckaback is a worthy maid,” I answered with some dignity; “and she alone of all our world, except indeed poor Annie, has kept her confidence in you, and told me not to dread your rank, but trust your heart, Lady Lorna.”
“Then Ruth is my best friend,” she answered, “and is worthy of you, dear John. And now remember one thing, dear; if God should part us, as may be by nothing short of death, try to marry that little Ruth, when you cease to remember me. And now for the head-traitor. I have often suspected it: but she looks me in the face, and wishes—fearful things, which I cannot repeat.”
With these words, she moved an implement such as I had not seen before, and which made a ringing noise at a serious distance. And before I had ceased wondering—for if such things go on, we might ring the church bells, while sitting in our back-kitchen—little Gwenny Carfax came, with a grave and sullen face.
“Gwenny,” began my Lorna, in a tone of high rank and dignity, “go and fetch the letters which I gave you at various times for despatch to Mistress Ridd.”
“How can I fetch them, when they are gone? It be no use for him to tell no lies—”
“Now, Gwenny, can you look at me?” I asked, very sternly; for the matter was no joke to me, after a year’s unhappiness.
“I don’t want to look at ’ee. What should I look at a young man for, although he did offer to kiss me?”
I saw the spite and impudence of this last remark, and so did Lorna, although she could not quite refrain from smiling.
“Now, Gwenny, not to speak of that,” said Lorna, very demurely, “if you thought it honest to keep the letters, was it honest to keep the money?”
At this the Cornish maiden broke into a rage of honesty: “A putt the money by for ’ee. ’Ee shall have every farden of it.” And so she flung out of the room.
“And, Gwenny,” said Lorna very softly, following under the door-hangings; “if it is not honest to keep the money, it is not honest to keep the letters, which would have been worth more than any gold to those who were so kind to you. Your father shall know the whole, Gwenny, unless you tell the truth.”
“Now, a will tell all the truth,” this strange maiden answered, talking to herself at least as much as to her mistress, while she went out of sight and hearing. And then I was so glad at having my own Lorna once again, cleared of all contempt for us, and true to me through all of it, that I would have forgiven Gwenny for treason, or even forgery.
“I trusted her so much,” said Lorna, in her old ill-fortuned way; “and look how she has deceived me! That is why I love you, John (setting other things aside), because you never told me falsehood; and you never could, you know.”
“Well, I am not so sure of that. I think I could tell any lie, to have you, darling, all my own.”
“Yes. And perhaps it might be right. To other people besides us two. But you could not do it to me, John. You never could do it to me, you know.” Before I quite perceived my way to the bottom of the distinction—although beyond doubt a valid one—Gwenny came back with a leathern bag, and tossed it upon the table. Not a word did she vouchsafe to us; but stood there, looking injured.
“Go, and get your letters, John,” said Lorna very gravely; “or at least your mother’s letters, made of messages to you. As for Gwenny, she shall go before Lord Justice Jeffreys.” I knew that Lorna meant it not; but thought that the girl deserved a frightening; as indeed she did. But we both mistook the courage of this child of Cornwall. She stepped upon a little round thing, in the nature of a stool, such as I never had seen before, and thus delivered her sentiments.
“And you may take me, if you please, before the great Lord Jeffreys. I have done no more than duty, though I did it crookedly, and told a heap of lies, for your sake. And pretty gratitude I gets.”
“Much gratitude you have shown,” replied Lorna, “to Master Ridd, for all his kindness and his goodness to you. Who was it that went down, at the peril of his life, and brought your father to you, when you had lost him for months and months? Who was it? Answer me, Gwenny?”
“Girt Jan Ridd,” said the handmaid, very sulkily.
“What made you treat me so, little Gwenny?” I asked, for Lorna would not ask lest the reply should vex me.
“Because ’ee be’est below her so. Her shanna’ have a poor farmering chap, not even if her were a Carnishman. All her land, and all her birth—and who be you, I’d like to know?”
“Gwenny, you may go,” said Lorna, reddening with
