University of Virginia Library

22. CHAPTER XXII.

IN mid-winter, an event occurred of unusual interest to the
inhabitants of the Montague house, and to the friends of
the young ladies who sought their society.

This was the arrival at the Sassacus Hotel of two young
gentlemen from the west.

It is the fashion in New England to give Indian names to
the public houses, not that the late lamented savage knew
how to keep a hotel, but that his warlike name may impress
the traveler who humbly craves shelter there, and make him
grateful to the noble and gentlemanly clerk if he is allowed
to depart with his scalp safe.

The two young gentlemen were neither students for the
Fallkill Seminary, nor lecturers on physiology, nor yet life
assurance solicitors, three suppositions that almost exhausted
the guessing power of the people at the hotel in respect to

the names of “Philip Sterling and Henry Brierly, Missouri,”
on the register. They were handsome enough fellows, that
was evident, browned by out-door exposure, and with a free
and lordly way about them that almost awed the hotel clerk
himself. Indeed, he very soon set down Mr. Brierly as a
gentleman of large fortune, with enormous interests on his
shoulders. Harry had a way of casually mentioning western
investments, through lines, the freighting business, and the
route through the Indian territory to Lower California, which
was calculated to give an importance to his lightest word.

“You've a pleasant town here, sir, and the most comfortable
looking hotel I've seen out of New York,” said Harry
to the clerk; “we shall stay here a few days if you can give
us a roomy suite of apartments.”

Harry usually had the best of everything, wherever he
went, as such fellows always do have in this accommodating
world. Philip would have been quite content with less expensive
quarters, but there was no resisting Harry's generosity
in such matters.

Railroad surveying and real-estate operations were at a
standstill during the winter in Missouri, and the young men
had taken advantage of the lull to come east, Philip to see if
there was any disposition in his friends, the railway contractors,
to give him a share in the Salt Lick Union Pacific
Extension, and Harry to open out to his uncle the prospects
of the new city at Stone's Landing, and to procure congressional
appropriations for the harbor and for making Goose
Run navigable. Harry had with him a map of that noble
stream and of the harbor, with a perfect net-work of rail-roads
centering in it, pictures of wharves, erowded with
steamboats, and of huge grain-elevators on the bank, all of
which grew out of the combined imaginations of Col. Sellers
and Mr. Brierly. The Colonel had entire confidence in
Harry's influence with Wall street, and with congressmen, to
bring about the consummation of their scheme, and he waited
his return in the empty house at Hawkeye, feeding his

pinched family upon the most gorgeous expectations with a
reckless prodigality.

“Don't let 'em into the thing more than is necessary,” says
the Colonel to Harry; “give 'em a small interest; a lot
apiece in the suburbs of the Landing ought to do a congressman,
but I reckon you'll have to mortgage a part of the city
itself to the brokers.”

Harry did not find that eagerness to lend money on Stone's
Landing in Wall street which Col. Sellers had expected, (it
had seen too many such maps as he exhibited), although his
uncle and some of the brokers looked with more favor on
the appropriation for improving the navigation of Columbus
River, and were not disinclined to form a company for that
purpose. An appropriation was a tangible thing, if you
could get hold of it, and it made little difference what it was
appropriated for, so long as you got hold of it.

Pending these weighty negotiations, Philip has persuaded
Harry to take a little run up to Fallkill, a not difficult task,
for that young man would at any time have turned his back
upon all the land in the West at sight of a new and pretty
face, and he had, it must be confessed, a facility in love making
which made it not at all an interference with the more
serious business of life. He could not, to be sure, conceive
how Philip could be interested in a young lady who was
studying medicine, but he had no objection to going, for he
did not doubt that there were other girls in Fallkill who were
worth a week's attention.

The young men were received at the house of the Montagues
with the hospitality which never failed there.

“We are glad to see you again,” exclaimed the Squire
heartily; “you are welcome Mr. Brierly, any friend of Phil's
is welcome at our house.”

“It's more like home to me, than any place except my own
home,” cried Philip, as he looked about the cheerful house
and went through a general hand-shaking.

“It's a long time, though, since you have been here to say

so,” Alice said, with her father's frankness of manner; and
I suspect we owe the visit now to your sudden interest in
the Fallkill Seminary.”

Philip's color came, as it had awkward way of doing in
his tell-tale face, but before he could stammer a reply, Harry
came in with,

“That accounts for Phil's wish to build a Seminary at
Stone's Landing, our place in Missouri, when Col. Sellers
insisted it should be a University. Phil appears to have a
weakness for Seminaries.”

“It would have been better for your friend Sellers,” retorted
Philip, “if he had had a weakness for district schools.
Col. Sellers, Miss Alice, is a great friend of Harry's, who is
always trying to build a house by beginning at the top.”

“I suppose it's as easy to build a University on paper as a
Seminary, and it looks better,” was Harry's reflection; at
which the Squire laughed, and said he quite agreed with him.
The old gentleman understood Stone's Landing a good deal
better than he would have done after an hour's talk with
either of it's expectant proprietors.

At this moment, and while Philip was trying to frame a
question that he found it exceedingly difficult to put into
words, the door opened quietly, and Ruth entered. Taking
in the group with a quick glance, her eye lighted up, and
with a merry smile she advanced and shook hands with Philip.
She was so unconstrained and sincerely cordial, that it made
that hero of the west feel somehow young, and very ill at
ease.

For months and months he had thought of this meeting
and pictured it to himself a hundred times, but he had never
imagined it would be like this. He should meet Ruth unexpectedly,
as she was walking alone from the school, perhaps,
or entering the room where he was waiting for her, and she
would cry “Oh! Phil,” and then check herself, and perhaps
blush, and Philip calm but eager and enthusiastic, would reassure
her by his warm manner, and he would take her hand

[ILLUSTRATION]

ANTICIPATION. REALITY.

[Description: 499EAF. Page 206. In-line image of a split screen. On one side a man and a woman are kissing, while in the other the same two are standing apart looking at one another.] impressively, and she would look up timidly, and, after his
long absence, perhaps he would be permitted to ——.
Good heavens, how many times he had come to this point,
and wondered if it could happen so. Well, well; he had
never supposed that he should be the one embarrassed, and
above all by a sincere and cordial welcome.

“We heard you were at the Sassacus House,” were Ruth's
first words; “and this I suppose is your friend?”

“I beg your pardon,” Philip at length blundered out, “this
is Mr. Brierly of whom I have written you.”

And Ruth welcomed Harry with a friendliness that
Philip thought was due to his friend, to be sure, but which
seemed to him too level with her reception of himself, but
which Harry received as his due from the other sex.

Questions were asked about the journey and about the
West, and the conversation became a general one, until Philip
at length found himself talking with the Squire in relation to

[ILLUSTRATION]

PHILIP HEARS HARRY ENTERTAINING RUTH.

[Description: 499EAF. Page 207. In-line image of a man and a woman sitting together at a desk. A slave is coming through the door.] land and railroads and things he couldn't keep his mind on;
especially as he heard Ruth and Harry in an animated discourse,
and caught the words “New York,” and “opera,” and
“reception,” and knew that Harry was giving his imagination
full range in the world of fashion.

Harry knew all about the opera, green room and all (at
least he said so) and knew a good many of the operas and
could make very entertaining stories of their plots, telling how
the soprano came in here, and the basso here, humming the
beginning of their airs—tum-ti-tum-ti-ti—suggesting the profound
dissatisfaction of the basso recitative—down-among-the-dead-men—and
touching off the whole with an airy grace
quite captivating; though he couldn't have sung a single air
through to save himself, and he hadn't an ear to know
whether it was sung correctly. All the same he doted on
the opera, and kept a box there, into which he lounged occasionally
to hear a favorite scene and meet his society friends.

If Ruth was ever in the city he should be happy to place his
box at the disposal of Ruth and her friends. Needless to
say that she was delighted with the offer.

When she told Philip of it, that discreet young fellow only
smiled, and said that he hoped she would be fortunate
enough to be in New York some evening when Harry had
not already given the use of his private box to some other
friend.

The Squire pressed the visitors to let him send for their
trunks and urged them to stay at his house, and Alice joined
in the invitation, but Philip had reasons for declining. They
staid to supper, however, and in the evening Philip had a
long talk apart with Ruth, a delightful hour to him, in which
she spoke freely of herself as of old, of her studies at Philadelphia
and of her plans, and she entered into his adventures
and prospects in the West with a genuine and almost sisterly
interest; an interest, however, which did not exactly satisfy
Philip—it was too general and not personal enough to suit
him. And with all her freedom in speaking of her own hopes,
Philip could not detect any reference to himself in them;
whereas he never undertook anything that he did not think
of Ruth in connection with it, he never made a plan that had
not reference to her, and he never thought of anything as
complete if she could not share it. Fortune, reputation—
these had no value to him except in Ruth's eyes, and there
were times when it seemed to him that if Ruth was not on
this earth, he should plunge off into some remote wilderness
and live in a purposeless seclusion.

“I hoped,” said Philip, “to get a little start in connection
with this new railroad, and make a little money, so that I
could come east and engage in something more suited to my
tastes. I shouldn't like to live in the West. Would you?

“It never occurred to me whether I would or not,” was
the unembarrassed reply. “One of our graduates went to
Chicago, and has a nice practice there. I don't know where I
shall go. It would mortify mother dreadfully to have me
driving about Philadelphia in a doctor's gig.”

Philip laughed at the idea of it. “And does it seem as
necessary to you to do it as it did before you came to Fallkill?”

It was a home question, and went deeper than Philip knew,
for Ruth at once thought of practicing her profession among
the young gentlemen and ladies of her acquaintance in the
village; but she was reluctant to admit to herself that her
notions of a career had undergone any change.

“Oh, I don't think I should come to Fallkill to practice,
but I must do something when I am through school; and
why not medicine?”

Philip would like to have explained why not, but the explanation
would be of no use if it were not already obvious
to Ruth.

Harry was equally in his element whether instructing
Squire Montague about the investment of capital in Missouri,
the improvement of Columbus River, the project he and
some gentlemen in New York had for making a shorter
Pacific connection with the Mississippi than the present one;
or diverting Mrs. Montague with his experience in cooking
in camp; or drawing for Miss Alice an amusing picture of
the social contrasts of New
England and the border
where he had been.

Harry was a very entertaining
fellow, having his
imagination to help his
memory, and telling his
stories as if he believed
them—as perhaps he did.
Alice was greatly amused
with Harry and listened so
seriously to his romancing
that he exceeded his usual limits. Chance allusions to his bachelor
establishment in town and the place of his family on the

Hudson, could not have been made by a millionaire more
naturally.

“I should think,” queried Alice, “you would rather stay
in New York than to try the rough life at the West you have
been speaking of.”

“Oh, adventure,” says Harry, “I get tired of New York.
And besides I got involved in some operations that I had to
see through. Parties in New York only last week wanted
me to go down into Arizona in a big diamond interest. I
told them, no, no speculation for me. I've got my interests
in Missouri; and I wouldn't leave Philip, as long as he stays
there.”

When the young gentlemen were on their way back to the
hotel, Mr. Philip, who was not in very good humor, broke
out,

“What the deuce, Harry, did you go on in that style to
the Montagues for?”

“Go on?” cried Harry. “Why shouldn't I try to make
a pleasant evening? And besides, ain't I going to do those
things? What difference does it make about the mood and
tense of a mere verb? Didn't uncle tell me only last Saturday,
that I might as well go down to Arizona and hunt for
diamonds? A fellow might as well make a good impression
as a poor one.”

“Nonsense. You'll get to believing your own romancing
by and by.”

“Well, you'll see. When Sellers and I get that appropriation,
I'll show you an establishment in town and another
on the Hudson and a box at the opera.”

“Yes, it will be like Col. Sellers' plantation at Hawkeye.
Did you ever see that?”

“Now, don't be cross, Phil. She's just superb, that little
woman. You never told me.”

“Who's just superb?” growled Philip, fancying this turn
of the conversation less than the other.

“Well, Mrs. Montague, if you must know.” And Harry

stopped to light a cigar, and then puffed on in silence.

The little quarrel didn't last over night, for Harry never
appeared to cherish any ill-will half a second, and Philip was
too sensible to continue a row about nothing; and he had
invited Harry to come with him.

The young gentlemen stayed in Fallkill a week, and were
every day at the Montagues, and took part in the winter
gaieties of the village. There were parties here and there to
which the friends of Ruth and the Montagues were of course
invited, and Harry in the generosity of his nature, gave in
return a little supper at the hotel, very simple indeed, with
dancing in the hall, and some refreshments passed round.
And Philip found the whole thing in the bill when he came
to pay it.

Before the week was over Philip thought he had a new
light on the character of Ruth. Her absorption in the
small gaieties of the society there surprised him. He had
few opportunities for serious conversation with her. There
was always some butterfly or another flitting about, and when
Philip showed by his manner that he was not pleased, Ruth
laughed merrily enough and rallied him on his soberness—she
declared he was getting to be grim and unsocial. He talked
indeed more with Alice than with Ruth, and scarcely concealed
from her the trouble that was in his mind. It needed,
in fact, no word from him, for she saw clearly enough what
was going forward, and knew her sex well enough to know
there was no remedy for it but time.

“Ruth is a dear girl, Philip, and has as much firmness of
purpose as ever, but don't you see she has just discovered that
she is fond of society? Don't you let her see you are selfish
about it, is my advice.”

The last evening they were to spend in Fallkill they were
at the Montagues, and Philip hoped that he would find Ruth
in a different mood. But she was never more gay, and there
was a spice of mischief in her eye and in her laugh. “Confound
it,” said Philip to himself, “she's in a perfect twitter.”

He would have liked to quarrel with her, and fling himself
out of the house in tragedy style, going perhaps so far as to
blindly wander off miles into the country and bathe his
throbbing brow in the chilling rain of the stars, as people do
in novels; but he had no opportunity. For Ruth was as
serenely unconscious of mischief as women can be at times,
and fascinated him more than ever with her little demurenesses
and half-confidences. She even said “Thee” to him
once in reproach for a cutting speech he began. And the
sweet little word made his heart beat like a trip-hammer, for
never in all her life had she said “thee” to him before.

Was she fascinated with Harry's careless bon homie and
gay assurance? Both chatted away in high spirits, and made
the evening whirl along in the most mirthful manner. Ruth
sang for Harry, and that young gentleman turned the leaves
for her at the piano, and put in a bass note now and then
where he thought it would tell.

Yes, it was a merry evening, and Philip was heartily glad
when it was over, and the long leave-taking with the family
was through with.

“Farewell Philip. Good night Mr. Brierly,” Ruth's clear
voice sounded after them as they went down the walk.

And she spoke Harry's name last, thought Philip.