"No, mother, I do not wish to wear it. I prefer to dress plainly. I want Lord Upperton to see me just as I am, a simple girl, who has had few advantages to fit her for the life in which he moves. I cannot appear to be what I am not."

Ruth paused a moment as if considering whether she should speak the words upon her lips.

"Lord Upperton, you say, desires to pay his addresses to me and you have given consent. It is an honor for any lady to receive attentions from a gentleman of superior station, but I cannot promise you, mother, that I shall look with favor upon his suit, honorable though it may be."

It was said calmly but with resolution.

"I dare say, daughter, you may think so now. It is quite natural. It is just what I said when my mother informed me that Theodore, your father, had asked permission to pay his addresses to me. I said I would not see him; but I did, and have been very glad ever since.

After a little while, I used to listen for his footsteps. There were none like his. He always called Thursday evening after the lecture,[49] and I used to sit by the window an hour before it was time for him to put in an appearance, looking for him. So it will be with you, child. Now go to bed, dear, and think of the great honor which Lord Upperton is conferring upon us in asking for your hand!"

[Footnote 49: The lecture on Thursday of each week was inst.i.tuted by the Puritans soon after the settlement of Boston. There was a moral if not a legal obligation upon every person to attend it. Consequently in the earlier years of the Colony all business ceased, shops were closed, usual occupations suspended, and the entire community flocked to the meetinghouse of the parish to listen to the discourse of the minister. At the time this story begins, the obligation was not quite so binding as in former years.]

"Shall I give him my hand, if I cannot at the same time give him my heart?" Ruth asked, her earnest eyes scanning her mother's face.

"Oh, but you will do both, dear. Many a girl has asked the same question at first, but soon found that the heart and hand went together."

"I think," Ruth replied, "if one may judge from outward appearances, there are some women who have given their hands to their husbands, but never their hearts. I see faces, now and then, which make me think of what I have read descriptive of deserts where there is no water to quench the thirst, no oasis with its green palms giving grateful shade from the summer heat,--faces that tell of hunger and thirst for the bread and water of love and sympathy."

"You fancy it is so, and possibly here and there you may find a mismated couple, but, daughter, you will see things in a different light when once you get acquainted with Lord Upperton. I believe there is not another girl in Boston who would not jump at such a catch. You may not fancy him this moment, but in a short time you will say there is not another like him in all the world. You feel just as I did towards Theodore. At first, I almost hated him, because he presumed to ask permission to visit me, but now he is the best man that ever lived. Just think of the offer that has come to you in contrast with what your father had to offer me. Lord Upperton brings you his high station in life, his n.o.bility, his long line of ancestors, a barony, a castle with its ivied walls, a retinue of servants, his armorial bearings inscribed on banners borne by Crusaders. He will offer you rank, wealth, privilege, honor at his majesty's court. Theodore had only himself to offer me. He was not much then, but he is more now. I have done what I could to make him what he is, and now our daughter has the prospect of wearing laces such as are worn by d.u.c.h.esses; to be received at court; to be spoken of as Her Grace. Now to bed, dear, and be happy in thinking it over."

"But I do not love Lord Upperton, nor shall I ever care for him."

"Don't talk in that way, Ruth. You think so now, but when you are once married and begin to enjoy what will be yours,--a coach, waiting-maids to do your bidding, and are invited to the court of his majesty the king, and preside over your own table in the great baronial hall, with the high-born gentlemen and ladies doing you honor, it stands to reason that you will love him who brings these things to you."

"You speak, mother, of the society in which I shall move, but I have no taste for such a.s.sociations."

"Tush, child; you know nothing about it."

"Lord Upperton has given me a description of the employment and pleasures of the society in which he moves, and I have no desire to enter it. I shall not find happiness in its circles. I want to be just what I am, your daughter, in our happy home."

"But, Ruth, you cannot always be with us. Your father and I earnestly desire your future welfare and happiness. I am sure he will be surprised and pained to hear that you do not wish to receive the attentions of Lord Upperton."

Mr. Newville entered the room. He saw the trouble on the face of his daughter.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Ruth thinks she never can love Lord Upperton and does not desire to receive his attentions, but I have told her it is only a present whim, just as mine was towards you."

"Of course, daughter," said Mr. Newville, with fatherly dignity, "it could hardly be expected you would feel any very strong attachment for Lord Upperton on so short an acquaintance. Conjugal love is a plant of slow growth, but I think you would, ere long, appreciate the great honors and the high privileges which he would confer upon you, and that your heart would go out to him."

The troubled look upon the face of the daughter became more intense.

Her father as well as her mother would have her receive the attentions of a man between whom and herself there was no possible sympathy. What should she say? A tear trickled down her cheek: she made no movement to wipe it away, but lifted her loving eyes and gazed steadily into her father's.

"Since you both so earnestly desire it I will meet Lord Upperton to-morrow evening and hear what he has to say," she replied.

"You could hardly do otherwise. I think the more you see of him the better you will like him," said Mr. Newville.

"Of course you will, my child; and now, dear, think it over in your chamber. I am sure you will see that a great opportunity has come to you," said Mrs. Newville, giving her a kiss.

It was a summer night. The air was fragrant with the perfume of lilacs and apple-blooms. The young moon was going down in the west, throwing its departing beams upon the unfinished tower of King's Chapel. Ruth, looking out from her white-curtained window, beheld a handful of cloud drift across the crescent orb and dissolve in thin air. She could hear the footsteps of pa.s.sers along the street growing fainter as they receded. The bell on the Old Brick Meetinghouse struck the hour, and then, in the distance, she heard the watchman's voice, "Ten o'clock, and all is well." With perturbed spirit, she laid her head upon the white linen pillow which her own deft hands had made. So Lord Upperton was to solicit her heart and hand, and she had consented to meet him.

What should she say to him? Why should he, having an acquaintance with the n.o.ble families of England, come across the sea and offer his attentions to an obscure New England girl, and desire to make her mistress at Halford Castle? Ought she not to feel flattered in having a n.o.ble lord for a lover? The thought did not stir her blood. Why was she averse to receiving his attentions? What was there about him that made the thought repellent? Was he not a gentleman? Was he not polite? Did he not show proper respect not only to herself but to everybody? Why not make an effort to overcome her repugnance to him?

Would any other girl in Boston or anywhere else hesitate a moment over such an opportunity as had come to her to be called My Lady,--to be mistress of a ducal castle,--a position of power and influence among the lords and ladies of the kingdom? To have diamonds and pearls? To have precedence over others of lower station in social life? Questions came in troops before her; vain her attempts to answer them.

Again the deep tones of the bell rang upon the still night air, and once more she heard the watchman's voice announce the hour. For a moment it interrupted her reverie, but again the questioning went on.

Her father and mother not only had given their consent for Lord Upperton to make proposal, but they earnestly desired she should become his wife. She could understand the motives that animated them.

She was her father's idol, her mother's joy--very dear to them. Were they not ever doing what they could for her? Would not her marriage to Lord Upperton contribute to their happiness? Might not her father, through Lord Upperton's influence at court, attain a more exalted position? Would not her marriage fill her mother's life with happiness? Would it be an exhibition of filial duty were she to disappoint them? And yet, what right had they to make a decision for her when her own life's happiness was concerned? Was she not her own?

Had she not a right to do as she pleased? Ought she to sacrifice herself to their selfish interests? She did not like to think it was wholly selfishness on their part, but rather an earnest desire to provide for her future welfare. Ought she not to abide their judgment as to what was best for her? Could she ever be happy with Lord Upperton? Could she find pleasure in fine dressing, card playing, and masquerading as he had described them? What would such a life be worth? Were position in society, pleasure, gratification of self, to be the end and aim of life? There seemed to be another somebody beside herself propounding the questions; as if an unseen visitor were standing by her bedside in the silent night. Was she awake or dreaming? She had heard the great lawyer, James Otis, put questions to a witness in a court where her father in his judicial robe sat as magistrate. It seemed as if she herself had been summoned to a tribunal, and one more searching than the great lawyer was putting questions which she must answer. Should she give her hand to Lord Upperton and keep back her heart? Ought she to allow prospective pleasure or position to influence her choice? Could she in any way barter her future welfare for the present life and for the larger life beyond? Was Lord Upperton of such lofty character that she could render him honor and respect, even if she could not give to him a loving heart?

In the half-dreaming hour another face looked down upon her--the face of him, who, in a time of agony, had been as an angel of G.o.d, rescuing her from the hands of ruffians. Oh, if it were he who solicited permission to pay his addresses, how would she lean her head upon his bosom and rest contentedly clasped forever by those strong and loving arms! Through the intervening months his face had been ever present.

She lived again the hour of their first meeting, that of the afternoon tea-party, the launching of the Berinthia Brandon, the ride in the pung. She had received several letters from him, which were laid carefully away in her writing-desk. Many times had they been read and with increasing pleasure. He had not declared his undying love for her; the declaration was unwritten, but it was between the lines. He wanted to be more than he was, and she could help him. He wanted to do something for justice, truth, and liberty; to stand resolutely with those who were ready to make sacrifices for their fellow-men. What a sentence was this: "I want to be better than I am; I want to do something to make the world better than it is; and you are pointing the way."

Ever as she read the words her eyes had filled with tears. She pointing the way! Those words in one end of the scale, and Halford Castle and everything connected with it in the other, and the writing tipped the beam.

The night was sultry; her pulses bounding; her brow hot with fever.

She sat by the window to breathe the pure air. The stars were shining in their ethereal brightness; the dipper was wheeling around the polar star; the great white river, the milky way, was illumining the arch of heaven. She thought of Him who created the gleaming worlds. Beneath her window the fireflies were lighting their lamps, and living their little lives. She could hear the swallows crooning in their nests beneath the eaves.

"He made them; He cares for them; He will care for me," she said to herself. The night air cooled her brow, a holy peace and calm came to her troubled heart. Kneeling, she repeated as her prayer the psalm which the rector had read on Sunday.

"He that dwelleth in the secret place of the Most High Shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty.

I will say of the Lord, He is my refuge, and my strength.

My G.o.d, in Him will I trust."

In white garments, without adornment, Ruth Newville courtesied to Lord Upperton the following evening as he entered the parlor. Never before had she seemed to him, or to her father and mother, so beautiful, so sweet, and pure.

"Miss Newville," he said, "I take it for granted that you have been duly informed of the purpose of my visit this evening."

"I have, my lord."

"I come to offer you my hand and heart. I have been charmed by your qualities of character and your beauty, and I fain would make you mistress of Halford Castle. I am soon to return to England, and I desire to take you with me as my bride. I have received the gracious permission of your honored parents to begin my suit, and I fondly hope that I may receive an affirmative answer from your lips."

"My lord, I am not insensible of the honor you confer upon me, but I am not worthy of it. I am an obscure girl. I am not fitted to fill the exalted station in which you desire to place me."

"Pardon me, Miss Newville, I have met many a fair maiden, but none so charming as the flower which I desire to transplant from the Colonies to old England. My best judgment has selected you from them all."

"My lord, I appreciate your kind words, and what you would give me--your honor, respect, and love, and an exalted social position. I have heard from your lips somewhat concerning the life you would expect me to lead,--the society in which you would have me move. I trust you will pardon my frankness, but it does not attract me."

"I can quite understand you, dear Miss Newville; it is natural that you should shrink from such a change, but I am sure you would adorn the position."

"More than what I have said, my lord, I do not think I should be happy in such a position."

"Oh, I think you would. Certainly, it would be my desire to place before you every advantage that could contribute to your welfare and happiness. The n.o.bility of the realm would follow in your train. You would captivate them with your grace and beauty. No party, rout, or ball would be complete without you. I am sure that her most gracious majesty the queen would desire your presence at court to grace her receptions."

"You flatter me, my lord, but I do not think that fine dressing, the adornment of pearls and diamonds, promenading, dancing, card playing, and masquerading would give me the highest happiness. I think that life has a n.o.bler meaning. I should despise myself if I made them the end and aim of my existence."

Lord Upperton could not quite comprehend her. He was aware that across the sea many a mamma was laying her plans to make her daughter mistress of Halford, and the daughters had looked at him with languishing eyes, but here was a girl, guileless and pure, who was putting aside the great boon he would gladly bestow upon her. He must set before her the greatness of the gift. He described his estate--its parks, meadows, groves of oak, the herds of deer, flocks of pheasants; the rooms of the castle, the baronial hall, with antlers nailed upon the beams and rafters, banners that had been carried by ancestors at Crecy and Agincourt. He pictured life in London, scenes in Parliament, the queen's drawing-rooms, the pageantry and etiquette at St. James's.

Miss Newville heard him in silence.

"Whatever there is to be had, whatever will contribute to your happiness, I shall lay at your feet, dear Miss Newville."