knew a woman’s nature too well to think them improbable, but she also knew how steadfast Ruth was in her purposes, and that, as a brook breaks into ripples and eddies and dances and sports by the way, and yet keeps on to the sea, it was in Ruth’s nature to give back cheerful answer to the solicitations of friendliness and pleasure, to appear idly delaying even, and sporting in the sunshine, while the current of her resolution flowed steadily on.
That Ruth had this delight in the mere surface play of life that she could, for instance, be interested in that somewhat serious by-play called “flirtation,” or take any delight in the exercise of those little arts of pleasing and winning which are none the less genuine and charming because they are not intellectual, Ruth, herself, had never suspected until she went to Fallkill. She had believed it her duty to subdue her gaiety of temperament, and let nothing divert her from what are called serious pursuits: In her limited experience she brought everything to the judgment of her own conscience, and settled the affairs of all the world in her own serene judgment hall. Perhaps her mother saw this, and saw also that there was nothing in the Friends’ society to prevent her from growing more and more opinionated.
When Ruth returned to Philadelphia, it must be confessed — though it would not have been by her — that a medical career did seem a little less necessary for her than formerly; and coming back in a glow of triumph, as it were, and in the consciousness of the freedom and life in a lively society and in new and sympathetic friendship, she anticipated pleasure in an attempt to break up the stiffness and levelness of the society at home, and infusing into it something of the motion and sparkle which were so agreeable at Fallkill. She expected visits from her new friends, she would have company, the new books and the periodicals about which all the world was talking, and, in short, she would have life.
For a little while she lived in this atmosphere which she had brought with her. Her mother was delighted with this change in her, with the improvement in her health and the interest she exhibited in home affairs. Her father enjoyed the society of his favorite daughter as he did few things besides; he liked her mirthful and teasing ways, and not less a keen battle over something she had read. He had been a great reader all his life, and a remarkable memory had stored his mind with encyclopaedic information. It was one of Ruth’s delights to cram herself with some out of the way subject and endeavor to catch her father; but she almost always failed. Mr. Bolton liked company, a house full of it, and the mirth of young people, and he would have willingly entered into any revolutionary plans Ruth might have suggested in relation to Friends’ society.
But custom and the fixed order are stronger than the most enthusiastic and rebellious young lady, as Ruth very soon found. In spite of all her brave efforts, her frequent correspondence, and her determined animation, her books and her music, she found herself settling into the clutches of the old monotony, and as she realized the hopelessness of her endeavors, the medical scheme took new hold of her, and seemed to her the only method of escape.
“Mother, thee does not know how different it is in Fallkill, how much more interesting the people are one meets, how much more life there is.”
“But thee will find the world, child, pretty much all the same, when thee knows it better. I thought once as thee does now, and had as little thought of being a Friend as thee has. Perhaps when thee has seen more, thee will better appreciate a quiet life.”
“Thee married young. I shall not marry young, and perhaps not at all,” said Ruth, with a look of vast experience.
“Perhaps thee doesn’t know thee own mind; I have known persons of thy age who did not. Did thee see anybody whom thee would like to live with always in Fallkill?”
“Not always,” replied Ruth with a little laugh. “Mother, I think I wouldn’t say ‘always’ to any one until I have a profession and am as independent as he is. Then my love would be a free act, and not in any way a necessity.”
Margaret Bolton smiled at this new-fangled philosophy. “Thee will find that love, Ruth, is a thing thee won’t reason about, when it comes, nor make any bargains about. Thee wrote that Philip Sterling was at Fallkill.”
“Yes, and Henry Brierly, a friend of his; a very amusing young fellow and not so serious-minded as Philip, but a bit of a fop maybe.”
“And thee preferred the fop to the serious-minded?”
“I didn’t prefer anybody; but Henry Brierly was good company, which Philip wasn’t always.”
“Did thee know thee father had been in correspondence with Philip?”
Ruth looked up surprised and with a plain question in her eyes.
“Oh, it’s not about thee.”
“What then?” and if there was any shade of disappointment in her tone, probably Ruth herself did not know it.
“It’s about some land up in the country. That man Bigler has got father into another speculation.”
“That odious man! Why will father have anything to do with him? Is it that railroad?”
“Yes. Father advanced money and took land as security, and whatever has gone with the money and the bonds, he has on his hands a large tract of wild land.”
“And what has Philip to do with that?”
“It has good timber, if it could ever be got out, and father says that there must be coal in it; it’s in a coal region. He wants Philip to survey it, and examine it for indications of coal.”
“It’s another of father’s fortunes, I suppose,” said Ruth. “He has put away so many fortunes for us that I’m afraid we never shall find them.”
Ruth was interested in it nevertheless, and perhaps mainly because Philip was to be connected with the enterprise. Mr. Bigler came to dinner with her father next day, and talked a great deal about Mr. Bolton’s magnificent tract of land, extolled the sagacity that led him to secure such a property, and led the talk along to another railroad which would open a northern communication to this very land.
“Pennybacker says it’s full of coal, he’s no doubt of it, and a railroad to strike the Erie would make it a fortune.”
“Suppose you take the land and work the thing up, Mr. Bigler; you may have the tract for three dollars an acre.”
“You’d throw it away, then,” replied Mr. Bigler, “and I’m not the man to take advantage of a friend. But if you’ll put a mortgage on it for the northern road, I wouldn’t mind taking an interest, if Pennybacker is willing; but Pennybacker, you know, don’t go much on land, he sticks to the legislature.” And Mr. Bigler laughed.
When Mr. Bigler had gone, Ruth asked her father about Philip’s connection with the land scheme.
“There’s nothing definite,” said Mr. Bolton. “Philip is showing aptitude for his profession. I hear the best reports of him in New York, though those sharpers don’t intend to do anything but use him. I’ve written and offered him employment in surveying and examining the land. We want to know what it is. And if there is anything in it that his enterprise can dig out, he shall have an interest. I should be glad to give the young fellow a lift.”
All his life Eli Bolton had been giving young fellows a lift, and shouldering the loses when things turned out unfortunately. His ledger, take-it-altogether, would not show a balance on the right side; but perhaps the losses on his books will turn out to be credits in a world where accounts are kept on a different basis. The left hand of the ledger will appear the right, looked at from the other side.
Philip, wrote to Ruth rather a comical account of the bursting up of the city of Napoleon and the navigation improvement scheme, of Harry’s flight and the Colonel’s discomfiture. Harry left in such a hurry that he hadn’t even time to bid Miss Laura Hawkins goodbye, but he had no doubt that Harry would console himself with the next pretty face he saw — a remark which was thrown in for Ruth’s benefit. Col. Sellers had in all probability, by this time, some other equally brilliant speculation in his brain.
As