Part 10

“How singular,” she reflected. “The transformation has taken place overnight. It is almost as though I had been here forever! And to-day I feel as though I had a destiny--as though Fate had something up her sleeve here for me. I've begun like one of Henry Harland's heroines and I'm convinced that whatever the Powers are preparing for me--I shall accept it here,--just as I accept all this--gratefully, gaily, without demur.”

Ruth glanced at the violet hills and the guileless meadows and a thrill passed through her. She jumped up, a white hand held to shade her face.

“_Basta!_ I've rested long enough, the sun here is too hot,” said Miss Adgate. “I think I'll discover what lies beyond, in the heart of that wood there,” and off she started, blushing at her emotion.

A company of crows in a distant field caw-cawed, querulously, at her. Their raucous voices fitted the rough woodland, the vigorous autumn smells, the haze of the mellow golden morning. She came again to the little brown brook gurgling quietly over its bed of brown stones and leaves and the fancy took her to follow its course. Wet feet were of no consequence, determined to see all of her possessions Ruth skirted its purling side and discovered presently that here the brook, lifted from the earth by hand of artifice, was confined to a long, shallow, wooden aqueduct, an aqueduct open to the air and to the tracery of boughs above and to blue skies reflected in the water. Through this conduit the little brook bubbled and bounded, clear as crystal; icy cold to the touch as she dipped her hand in and let the water run along her wrist.

“Ah,” thought the young lady, “this must be our famous spring!--I've reached the headquarters of the Nile or I'm very near them.” And through the trees in truth, she perceived, further on, a rough hut, built to protect the stream's source from inroads of man and beasts.

She sat herself on a fallen tree trunk, leaned back and gazed with half-closed eyelids into the network of branches--oaks, larches, birch, hazel, maple,--nearly bare of foliage. Here again, the ground, checkered with green moss-patches was interspersed with little plants, “which must be all a-flower in the spring,” thought Ruth and she vowed that when spring came she would return to pluck them.

Then--presto!... Without a note of warning--the agreeable independence of her mood vanished. Lucilla, Pontycroft!... Her mind, her heart, her very soul yearned for them. And a homesick longing for the finished, for the humanly beautiful, the artistically beautiful,--an intense craving and desire for a familiar European face--smote her.

“But,-----” she puzzled, “would they, those I want most to see, _could they endure this wilderness?_ No--not Lucilla! Not Lucilla with her love of luxury and her disdain of short skirts.” She laughed. “Pontycroft? Perhaps,” her heart fluttered. She knew he doted upon old, formal gardens, well-clipped lawns; had delight in the glorious army of letters and of art,--that he found in the society too, of princes, entertainment. Still, it might be possible.... He would, at all events, have some whimsical thing to say about it all. She began to fancy that she heard his voice.

“If he were here,” Ruth told herself, “I should ask him to interpret the horrid vision I had last night.” Ruth shivered as she recalled it; rapidly she began an imaginary conversation.

“I was lying in the big, carved, four-post family bedstead in my bedroom,” Ruth informed him. “I was half asleep and half awake and I saw myself coming up the steps into the house just as I did when I arrived. As I came, the house door opened, quickly, from within, and four people rushed towards me, with open arms. One was my father.--He clasped me tenderly and said: 'Welcome, welcome home!'... Behind him, a tall, large, old man clasped me in his arms and he cried: 'Welcome, welcome home!' Then came another and with the same words bade me welcome; I felt very happy, and so glad that I had come! But running down the stairs of the house arrived a tiny, meagre, old lady, whose corkscrew curls bobbed at either side her face. She cried: 'Welcome, welcome!' in a shrill, high voice, seizing me in her embrace. 'Welcome!' she cried again, 'but _look out!--We can bite!_' And as she said it her two sharp white teeth went through my lips till I screamed with pain and started up--all a-tremble--and then I fell back onto the bed and shook for an hour.”

“My sweet child!” the sane amused voice of Pontycroft made reply. “These old four-post family bedsteads are dangerous affairs to sleep in. _Quant-à-moi_, I've always avoided 'em.... I'll have nothing whatever to do with them. If my great-aunt, from whom I inherited Pontycroft, had not been of my way o' thinking I should have sold those at Pontycroft to the old furniture dealer in the village. Fortunately, that fearless lady lifted the obloquy of the act from my shoulders by disposing of them herself. One day, while my uncle, her husband, scoured the high seas under Nelson, she got rid of all the old family four-posters. When he returned from the war and asked what had become of 'em she acknowledged she'd discovered a preference for bronze beds and had sent to France for a dozen. But he was far too thankful to be at home again. 'Peace now, at any price,' said he. And he never mentioned four-posters to his lady-wife again, but slept and snored contentedly, for forty odd years, in a red-gold, steel enamelled affair, free of family traditions. You'd better follow my aunt's example, Ruth. Send to Boston for a nice new white enamelled bedstead with a nice new wire mattress and let no more family ghosts worry your ingenuous small head.”

“But, what did it mean? After all, it happened, or I'm mad,” Ruth laughing, heard herself insist.

“Oh,” said Pontycroft,--he gave her one of his droll glances--“if you want your midnight vision interpreted you must ask some older sage, even, than I, to do it. I should say, were it not too obvious to be true, that apple pie with an under crust....”

“Nonsense,” interrupted Ruth.

“The sort invented by your French ancestress, Priscilla Mulline Alden (I've heard she was a rare _cordon bleu_)” went on Pontycroft, unperturbed, “together with New England brown bread--but--that's all too obvious to be true... what are you laughing at?” he queried, artlessly.

“I'm laughing at the Brown Bread,” retorted Ruth, and she laughed aloud, “there wasn't any.”

“There should have been,” said Ponty, with a deprecating lift of the eyebrows. “It's _de rigueur_ with baked beans.”

“But your little story,” he continued, lighting his cigarette, “belongs probably to those mysterious reflex actions of ancestry acting on a sensitive nervous organisation. You can't expect me to explain them. See, though, that you do look out. Don't, manifestly, offend your ancestors and they won't offend you, and there's my interpretation.”

Again Ruth laughed aloud, gleefully, at the tones of Ponty's voice and again a little thrill of pain and hope pierced her breast. She looked at her watch. It was almost noon and she turned towards home through the glade, by the path along the brook.

VI

But the adventure of her walk had not come to an end yet.

The path widened into a grass-grown road. The day was so hot she regretted she hadn't brought her sunshade, but she walked with light buoyant steps, unreflecting,--amused by the antics of two blue, belated butterflies who, not perished with the summer, convinced it had come back a little, danced ahead of her chasing the shadows; they fluttered to the right and to the left, and came at last to rest upon a withered mullen stalk a few yards in advance of her. Ruth watched them while they sought greedily, making a rapid tour of the dried stem, for some lone flower upon which to replenish their hungry attenuated little stomachs. She almost held her breath, as she paused to watch the quest and she wished she might, by a wave of her stick, restore fresh succulence to the weeds, when--

“Halt, stop!” cried a voice.

Instinctively, Ruth shrank back.

“There's a snake ahead of you--there--just across the path. Don't move!” cried the voice.

Miss Adgate stood perfectly still. She saw a man run by her; she heard the sharp report of a gun. The smell of gunpowder filled her nostrils and the terror of the sudden cry made her feel sick.

“There he is!” cried the owner of the voice.

An excited young man presented upon the muzzle of his gun a viscous two feet of snake, an object that limply resembled the straight, flat limb of a tree. “A copperhead. 'Tis the only deadly dangerous beast in these harmless woods. As I'm alive, if you had put your foot on him you would, indeed, have found him deadly.”

He extended the flabby thing for Ruth's inspection, but the young lady looked away--her arm instinctively went out to clutch at something.

“No cause for fright, Miss Adgate,” said the young chap. He proffered a hand to steady her. “I'm afraid I gave you a terrible scare,” he added, apologetic, and he looked at her with concern, “but that was better than the bite. You're quite white; sit down a moment. You'll soon feel better.”

Ruth covered her face with her hands.

“Thank God!” she said, with an involuntary shudder, but she did not sit down.

“Are there many of those creatures in the woods?” she asked, but she felt ashamed of her weakness.

“No, especially not at this time of year. The warm sun brought this one out. You should never walk about here in low shoes, though, Miss Adgate.”

“You know my name,” Ruth said, surprised.

“I take it for granted you're General Adgate's niece, having a walk through your woods. The whole town knows you arrived last night,” answered the young man, with a bow, smiling at her.

His smile was pleasant, he looked at her with friendly interest. In shabby tweeds and a pair of leggings, a game-bag slung over his shoulder, he was evidently out for a day's shooting.

“Don't think I'm a trespasser, though I can't show you my permit. But your uncle and I are old friends,” he vouchsafed. “I'm privileged, I must tell you, to shoot here when I like. In fact, I rather fancy the quail you sat down to at supper last night was the product of my game-bag.”

It occurred to Ruth that this remark came somehow with bad taste--the speaker's eyes shone, however, with so kindly a light she hadn't the heart to resent it.

“You are a marvellous shot,” was all she said.

“I served under your uncle in the Cuban War,” the young man told her. “We had sharp fighting then, Miss Adgate. But we're well drilled, here in Oldbridge--not a man jack of us but can pick an ace on a playing card at fifty paces. That's all due to your uncle who supervises the rifle-practice at the Armoury, to say nothing of coaching us in military tactics, which he's past master in.”

“Ah!” said Ruth, interested. “I supposed he was the most peaceable of retired military men.”

“Peaceable and retired if you like. But in times of peace, prepare for war.... The way we are made to answer up to call on drill nights would cause your blood to freeze, Miss Adgate.”

“_Ma ché!_ I thought I'd come to a quiet, sleepy New England town where all was love and peace! The day after I arrive I learn I am in a hotbed of militarism,” laughed Ruth.

“You're right,” the young man replied seriously, striding beside her. “General Adgate, you see, has been through two wars. He received his brevet of General in the war between the North and the South. He realises the importance of preparing for emergencies, now that we've taken our place among the nations. He's a splendid chap. Not one of us but would walk or fight our way to death for him.... And it's always been so. Why, they tell this story when he was just a Captain, in the War of Secession. The enemy was pouring bomb and shell into his entrenchments. He ordered his soldiers on their bellies, and in the midst of the cannonading up he got, stood,--coolly lighting a cigarette: 'Now, my men,' said he, 'rush for them!' The men rose in a body, leapt the entrenchments, fell upon the enemy. Of course the enemy was routed! we captured and brought back guns and ammunition with cheers to camp. Then it was, I believe, he was breveted General Adgate.”

Ruth had a shiver of pride as she listened. “But now,” continued her informant, “worse luck, in these cowardly moneyed times, there's no fun to be got out of war! You stand up, of course, to be slaughtered wholesale. Now--the best shot has little hope of bringing down his man--there's nothing to practise on but quail and partridge in the old General's woods.”

“And snakes,” put in Ruth, laughing.

“Snakes,” repeated the young fellow, with a merry laugh. “Thrice blessed copperheads!” went his mental reservation,--so quickly is youth inflamed in America. “But a bounty's on every one of these wretches, Miss Adgate,” he said aloud (and Ruth, fortunately, perhaps, was not a mind reader.) “They've almost disappeared. Truth is, like the rest of us, this one came out to welcome you, poor devil, and he's met with a sad end! Since the new law a snake may not look at a lady.”

They had reached, as they strolled, the foot of the Adgate hill. As they neared the gate the young man paused.

“I must bid you good-bye,” said he, lifting his hat, “it's long past noon,--almost your luncheon hour.”

“Oh,” Ruth suggested, “since you and my uncle are friends won't you come in to us for lunch? You shall go back to your shooting, your rescuing of damsels, when we've refreshed you. I dare say there's some of that quail left,” she added, with an occult smile.

“Miss Adgate,”--the young man visibly struggled with temptation.... “Miss Adgate,” he looked into the pretty flushed face and he felt himself smitten to the heart's core. “That's very good of you; I'm afraid, though, you don't know our New England customs. You've a hospitable, beautiful English habit, but you've not been here long enough to know that we don't ask folk unexpected-like to lunch; not unless they're blood relatives or bosom friends. Tradition, ceremony, convention forbid it and a gorgon more awful still. Her name is--Maria-Jane!”

“Oh!...” Ruth laughed. “But she's paid for that! It is part of her duty....”

“Ah, _dear_ Miss Adgate, you won't find it easy. Love won't buy them, money won't purchase them, though I dare say,--you'll have a way with you will make them see black white. But if you risk asking me, I won't, and for your sake--accept--though I'm horribly tempted to. Besides, think of it, tradition, ceremony, convention.”

Ruth felt herself getting angry. Here was a youth she didn't care twopence for, who had done her more than a civility, but who presumed to instruct her in a provincial code of manners. She would show him she was mistress of her household--then be done with him.

“What ceremony, what convention?” she demanded coldly.

“Oh,” the young man replied undaunted, “no one wants his neighbour to know he sits down to a joint, a couple of vegetables and apple pie for his midday meal. We make such a lot of fuss here when we ask people to eat with us.”

“But that's precisely the staple of every one's luncheon in England, from Commoner to Lord,” cried Ruth. “No one makes a secret of it--it's called the children's dinner. Whatever frills may be added, there or here, the joint, the vegetables and the pudding, which amounts to the pie, are invariably present and the most patronised. I assure you it's the luncheon every one ought to eat. And now,” she commanded, “open the gate and shut it behind you, and be satisfied to partake of our vegetables, our joint and our pudding without further ado.”

“I accept,” said the delighted young fellow. “But if General Adgate turns me out-o'-doors, I shall bend to the New England custom I was brought up in and not hold you responsible for my discomfiture.”

They ascended the hill, over the softest, greenest turf; they went under the apple trees despoiled of apples,--passed through the rustic gate, and entered the garden. To the youth, the garden was all fragrant of blossoms which must have burst into flower over night. Such delusive things have a trick of happening, in New England, to an old garden, to welcome the desired person, and Ruth, though she didn't suspect it, had already become the desired person in the eyes of her victim. The syringa tree under which they went spread for them a miraculous white canopy; the white pinks threw forth aromatic scents which penetrated by the door into the house as Ruth brought her companion to General Adgate, seated before a rousing wood fire reading his newspapers in the drawing-room.

VII

Miss Adgate preceded her companion.

“Uncle,” she boldly proclaimed, “I've brought a friend of yours to luncheon.” General Adgate looked up from his book. “Why--Rutherford! glad to see you,” he said, shaking hands none too cordially. “So,” he smiled as he pushed a chair forward for Ruth, “my niece waylaid you, did she?”

“No,” Ruth told him. “I was waylaid by a serpent in our woods. Mr. Rutherford happened by at the right moment to rescue me.” Then Ruth went to the ancient gilt mirror above the fireplace and withdrew the pins from her hat and rang for Paolina.

“So you saved the lady's life,” General Adgate chuckled. “Well done, Rutherford, my son--a plausible opening to the story to please the matter-of-fact public. As though the public were matter-of-fact!--Nothing is really improbable enough for the public, provided life's in the telling. We're ready to swallow the most unconscionable lies! But though you've lost no time in making the opening ordinary, Rutherford, we shall see what may be done to reward you.”

“Oh,” objected Rutherford, with happy laughter,--“you of all men should know it--the service of Beauty brings its own reward to those lucky enough to serve it?”

“Lunch is served, Miss,” announced Martha patly, putting her head in at the door.

“Oh, a plate, please, Martha, for this gentleman,” said Ruth.

A shade (was it a look of displeasure?) crept into Martha's face; the reply came meekly. “Yes, Miss,” she answered--and disappeared.

Miss Adgate threw a gay glance at Rutherford, he returned it with one he meant to make eloquent of his admiration. But Ruth was saying, in that ravishing voice of hers: “Shall we go in?” She swept by him into the low-ceilinged, white-panelled dining-room with an air of dignity in her slim, young figure which Rutherford thought suited it to perfection.

VIII

Poor old Rutherford is fond of recalling that memorable luncheon to this day. Ruth's joyous soul frothed into fun which sounded at times so exactly like Pontycroft that he seemed to be at her elbow. For a reason not hard to seek, to sophisticated minds, General Adgate, too, seemed in high spirits. Rutherford--well--we know what infatuated young men are--excellent company because they laugh at a word, could applaud the dullest saw. Neither Ruth nor General Adgate spoke in saws; by a saw we mean the easy pert phrase, _la phrase toute faite_ which passes so readily for wit in any land. General Adgate was an accomplished raconteur. He could tell a story with an economy of language, a grace worthy the subtlest story-writers; the point, unexpected when it came, brought the house down. Ruth listened--astonished, and led him on. Rutherford's haww-hawws, more appreciative than musical, provided the essential base to the trio.

When lunch was over Ruth ordered coffee to be served in the drawing-room. “You're a daring creature! I've never had the courage to ask Martha to do that,” objected General Adgate.

“But don't you always have coffee after luncheon?” she asked.

“Yes, but I must e'en drink it where it's brought to me, at table.”

“Poor dear! You see the advantage of having a woman by who fears nothing.”

“I see the advantage of having a fair niece to minister to my poor human wants,” gallantly responded the General. “And to make life extremely worth while, hey Rutherford?”

“Miss Adgate is an adorable hostess. If I don't envy you as her uncle, General, it is because I find her perfect as Lady of Barracks Hill,” said Rutherford. He said it with a flush and with the fear upon him that he had said too much.

But Martha just then had entered bearing the coffee; Ruth, indicating the Japanese tea-table, took no notice of his speech. The table, the shining silver Georgian service on its silver tray were placed before her.

“Where did you get this old service, Uncle?” Ruth asked as she lifted the elongated, graceful coffee-pot by its ebony handle and began to pour the coffee.

“Martha must have unearthed that from the cupboard upstairs,” answered her uncle. “The salver has been put away for years. It belonged to your great-grandmother. But how did they manage to give it such a polish?”

“Miss Adgate's maid helped me, sir,” Martha vouchsafed in her primmest voice. “We tried that new powder. It took no time at all.”

She left the room with her chin up as who should say: “We know the proper thing to do, when there's someone at hand who knows we ought to know it.”

“Well!” exclaimed Rutherford, confounded.

“Ruth's a mistress as gives satisfaction,” General Adgate laughed softly while Martha's footsteps receded towards the kitchen. “I believe, Rutherford, we'll be having our afternoon tea here yet, in the British fashion.”

“_Ma, da vero! come si fa?_” cried Ruth, lapsing into Italian in her surprise, “don't you _always_ have afternoon tea?”

“We have _tea_, Miss Adgate,” Rutherford answered merrily, “tea with cold meat, stewed fruit and cake at six o'clock. Not a minute later, mind you. Martha and Bridget have something better to do than to be serving even you all day. By seven of the clock one is off with one's young man or running over to mother's.... You need not inquire at what hour we get back, we have the latch-key, and your breakfast's generally served on time.” Ruth cast a wild look at General Adgate.

He bowed his diminished head: “I'm afraid it's true,” he murmured.

“Is it--a--universal habit,--in Oldbridge?” asked Ruth, her eyes dancing.

“It has to be the universal habit,” answered Rutherford. “We simply can't help ourselves. We could get no one at all to wait upon us if we didn't conform to it. The--the--and the--are the only people in town who are known to have late dinners and that's because, hopelessly Europeanised, they don't care what they pay their girls, and keep a butler. Even they are obliged to dine at seven;--besides,” laughed Rutherford, “late dinners _ain't 'ealthy!_”

“After all,” said Ruth, thoughtfully, “the custom is primitive, not to say Puritan; I think it suits Oldbridge. Our forefathers had to do with less service I suppose. And as you say, late dinners _ain't 'ealthy_. But Paolina shall give us our afternoon tea, at four, Uncle. It will make her feel at home to serve it to us. But aren't you famished for some music? I want to try the Steinway. This morning when I came down I raised the lid and saw the name.”