“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 passers 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 noble 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 noble 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.