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 God, 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 God, 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.”