V
Ruth dried her eyes.
“You were quite right when you talked of wintering in the North, Harry,” she said at length, still somewhat tremulous. “It doesn't seem as though in the North this could possibly have happened. I think you know,” she took Lucilla's hand, “I think I shall try wintering in the North—I'll accept my uncle's invitation; I'll pull the string on the latchet, I'll go and have a look at the old man and at my bleak New England acres. After all,” added Ruth, with rather a wan smile, “I suppose it's something to have acres, though one has never realised the fact or thought of it before. I haven't an idea what mine are like, but it will be good to walk on them, to feel I've got them. Here I'm always made to feel such a plebeian.—Yes, I'm made to feel such a plebeian. Oh no, not by you,” Ruth clasped Lucilla's hand and looked affectionately, a trifle, too, defiantly towards Pontycroft, “but they all seem to think, even the rather ordinary ones, like Mrs. Wilberton and Stuart Seton, an American exists to be patronised. No pedigree. An American! Well, who knows, perhaps I have a pedigree. I'll go at least where I can't be patronised, where they know about me.”
Pontycroft gave a laugh, which rang not altogether gaily.
“In other words, Miss Adgate must have her experience,” he said.
“Miss Adgate's had all she wants of the old world.—She must be on with the new. Besides, her pride's been wounded.... A prince has offered her matrimony, morganatic but honourable marriage. That won't do for her. She's wounded in her feelings, outraged by the suggestion, and she includes the whole of Europe in her resentment. Oh, my dear young lady” said Pontycroft after another moment's silence, “don't talk to me of pride! You Americans are the devil for pride. Ruth, you've been toadied to and you fancy you've been patronised.... Well, well, have your experience. What great results from little causes flow! Prove to us that you're not only as good but a great deal better than any of us. We poor humble folk, we'll submit to anything, if when you've had your experience and are satisfied, you'll come back to us. But you don't mean it, you don't mean it! Or, if you go you'll return, you'll not forsake your adopted country, your father's friends, your's.”
Ruth's eyes darkened.
“Haven't you always, both of you, been too good to me?” she cried, reproachfully. “Ever since I was a little child, you and Lucilla, you know that you two have been, ever shall be, in my heart of hearts. But I must get away from all this; I must do something!... I must find myself!” she cried. “Say what you will, think what you like, this proposition is too loathsome. It has opened my eyes to so many things I had only felt, before! It may be all a question of wounded pride, as you say, but I know it's the proper sort of pride. I've seen it now, the whole, whole, unfriendly situation, in a flash. Lucilla,” she pleaded, “you'll sympathise with me; you won't condemn me if I go, you'll never think I love you an ounce the less?”
Lucilla stroked Ruth's hand.
“My dear,” said she, “the thing's a sheer incredible bolt out of the blue, incredible! I believe,” she said, rounding upon her brother, “I believe it's the outcome of Pontycroft's foolish talk,—the result of his passion for being paradoxical or perish. Here we were—having our teas quite innocently in the garden, like the dear nice people we are,—perfectly happy, absolutely content,—as why shouldn't we be in this paradise?” Lucilla opened her blue eyes wide upon the landscape and glanced accusingly at Pontycroft. “But you've precipitated us into a mess,” she said to him, “with your ribald talk about wintering in our water-soaked British Islands. Then comes this ridiculous letter,—and, of course, Ruth can't sit still under it. Yes, it is perhaps after all, a wholesome notion of yours, Ruth, a visit to your own country. It's the best bath you can take to wash out the taste left by Bertram's well-meant but preposterous letter. Besides,” she laughed, “you'll come back to us! America can't gobble you up for ever. But what shall we do without you!—And as for Harry, I feel sorry for him. He'll find no one to give him the change when he's in the mood for teasing, no one to keep him in his proper place. He'll become unbearable.”
“Oh,” fleered Pontycroft, “if Ruth forsakes us I will go back to my native land! I'll go where I can toast my shins before my fireside and experience the solid comforts of a British Winter.... I'll go home to my duties, go where I can worry my tenants, read Mudie the livelong day; feel that I, too, am somebody!”
Ruth smiled, rather forlornly.
“I want you to observe,” Pontycroft with mock contrition enlarged, “how one evil deed begets a quantity of others—a congeries of miseries out of which, at last, good springeth like the flowering beanstalk. In idle hour (mark the magic potency of words), I speak of wintering in the North. Now as you've been told more than once,—idleness is the parent of wickedness. Lucilla assures me that in my paradoxical idleness I am a parent to a quite unexpected degree. Now observe,—the offer of a morganatic marriage follows speedily on the heels of my sin, the sin of an idle paradox. Then Ruth becomes guilty of the sin of anger—tossing her pretty head and stamping her pretty foot, she declares she won't play in our yard any longer. She stamps her pretty foot and announces she's going back to her own New England apple orchard. The rudiments of her Nonconformist, New England conscience, thoroughly roused,—her thoughts fly towards home and her aged uncle. In my remorse, I, in virtue not to be outdone, decide to go back to my duties. Lucilla, conventionalised British matron that au fond she is, spite of her protests, already, because she must, assembles to her soul her list of social obligations at Dublin, the frocks to plan, and the dinner parties to give prior to the coming out and Presentation at Court of her eldest child. Home, home, home,” murmured Pontycroft, “sweet home is the tune we'll all be whistling within a month. Lucilla will carol it from her bog because it isn't considered polite to whistle in Ireland; but I, from my Saxon heath and Ruth from God's country will imitate the blackbirds. Could any tune be more acceptable to the Nonconformist conscience? Ruth, you perceive, already begins to dominate! Columbia, Ruler of the sea and wave—see how she sends us about our neglected and obvious affairs. High-ho for Winter in the North,” said Ponty. “But meantime I'm going to array myself for dinner and here comes Pietro.”
“Thank Heaven for the trivialities of life,” Lucilla put in with fervour. “Ruth, shall we don our best gowns in honour of the unexpected? Harry may dub this the call to duty; I know it's never anything so dull. I know that the spirit of adventure he's hailed has seized upon both of you, is lifting us all, will-he nill-he, out of our beautiful dolce far niente into something restless, violent, and tiresome. As for me—there's nothing, naught left for me, poor me! to do but to follow your lead.”
“Yes, by all means,” Ruth lightly acquiesced.
“We'll put our best frocks on; and let us hope the call to duty decked in purple and fine linen, masquerading as the spirit of adventure, may lead us up to consummations....” She broke off. “Devoutly to be wished for,” she whispered to herself under her breath.