It was a spring morning, and perhaps it was the influence of it that made Ruth a little restless, satisfied neither with the out-doors nor the in-doors. Her sisters had gone to the city to show some country visitors Independence Hall, Girard College and Fairmount Water Works and Park, four objects which Americans cannot die peacefully, even in Naples, without having seen. But Ruth confessed that she was tired of them, and also of the Mint. She was tired of other things. She tried this morning an air or two upon the piano, sang a simple song in a sweet but slightly metallic9 voice, and then seating herself by the open window, read Philip’s letter. Was she thinking about Philip, as she gazed across the fresh lawn over the tree tops to the Chelton Hills, or of that world which his entrance, into her tradition-bound life had been one of the means of opening to her? Whatever she thought, she was not idly musing10, as one might see by the expression of her face. After a time she took up a book; it was a medical work, and to all appearance about as interesting to a girl of eighteen as the statutes11 at large; but her face was soon aglow12 over its pages, and she was so absorbed in it that she did not notice the entrance of her mother at the open door.
“Ruth?”
“Well, mother,” said the young student, looking up, with a shade of impatience13.
“I wanted to talk with thee a little about thy plans.”
“Mother; thee knows I couldn’t stand it at Westfield; the school stifled14 me, it’s a place to turn young people into dried fruit.”
“I know,” said Margaret Bolton, with a half anxious smile, “thee chafes15 against all the ways of Friends, but what will thee do? Why is thee so discontented?”
“If I must say it, mother, I want to go away, and get out of this dead level.”
With a look half of pain and half of pity, her mother answered, “I am sure thee is little interfered16 with; thee dresses as thee will, and goes where thee pleases, to any church thee likes, and thee has music. I had a visit yesterday from the society’s committee by way of discipline, because we have a piano in the house, which is against the rules.”
“I hope thee told the elders that father and I are responsible for the piano, and that, much as thee loves music, thee is never in the room when it is played. Fortunately father is already out of meeting, so they can’t discipline him. I heard father tell cousin Abner that he was whipped so often for whistling when he was a boy that he was determined17 to have what compensation he could get now.”
“Thy ways greatly try me, Ruth, and all thy relations. I desire thy happiness first of all, but thee is starting out on a dangerous path. Is thy father willing thee should go away to a school of the world’s people?”
“I have not asked him,” Ruth replied with a look that might imply that she was one of those determined little bodies who first made up her own mind and then compelled others to make up theirs in accordance with hers.
“And when thee has got the education thee wants, and lost all relish18 for the society of thy friends and the ways of thy ancestors, what then?”
Ruth turned square round to her mother, and with an impassive face and not the slightest change of tone, said,
“Mother, I’m going to study medicine?”
“Thee, study medicine! A slight frail22 girl like thee, study medicine! Does thee think thee could stand it six months? And the lectures, and the dissecting23 rooms, has thee thought of the dissecting rooms?”
“Mother,” said Ruth calmly, “I have thought it all over. I know I can go through the whole, clinics, dissecting room and all. Does thee think I lack nerve? What is there to fear in a person dead more than in a person living?”
“But thy health and strength, child; thee can never stand the severe application. And, besides, suppose thee does learn medicine?”
“I will practice it.”
“Here?”
“Here.”
“Where thee and thy family are known?”
“If I can get patients.”
“I hope at least, Ruth, thee will let us know when thee opens an office,” said her mother, with an approach to sarcasm24 that she rarely indulged in, as she rose and left the room.
Ruth sat quite still for a time, with face intent and flushed. It was out now. She had begun her open battle.
The sight-seers returned in high spirits from the city. Was there any building in Greece to compare with Girard College, was there ever such a magnificent pile of stone devised for the shelter of poor orphans25? Think of the stone shingles26 of the roof eight inches thick! Ruth asked the enthusiasts27 if they would like to live in such a sounding mausoleum, with its great halls and echoing rooms, and no comfortable place in it for the accommodation of any body? If they were orphans, would they like to be brought up in a Grecian temple?
And then there was Broad street! Wasn’t it the broadest and the longest street in the world? There certainly was no end to it, and even Ruth was Philadelphian enough to believe that a street ought not to have any end, or architectural point upon which the weary eye could rest.
But neither St. Girard, nor Broad street, neither wonders of the Mint nor the glories of the Hall where the ghosts of our fathers sit always signing the Declaration; impressed the visitors so much as the splendors28 of the Chestnut29 street windows, and the bargains on Eighth street. The truth is that the country cousins had come to town to attend the Yearly Meeting, and the amount of shopping that preceded that religious event was scarcely exceeded by the preparations for the opera in more worldly circles.
“Is thee going to the Yearly Meeting, Ruth?” asked one of the girls.
“I have nothing to wear,” replied that demure30 person. “If thee wants to see new bonnets31, orthodox to a shade and conformed to the letter of the true form, thee must go to the Arch Street Meeting. Any departure from either color or shape would be instantly taken note of. It has occupied mother a long time, to find at the shops the exact shade for her new bonnet32. Oh, thee must go by all means. But thee won’t see there a sweeter woman than mother.”
“And thee won’t go?”
“Why should I? I’ve been again and again. If I go to Meeting at all I like best to sit in the quiet old house in Germantown, where the windows are all open and I can see the trees, and hear the stir of the leaves. It’s such a crush at the Yearly Meeting at Arch Street, and then there’s the row of sleek-looking young men who line the curbstone and stare at us as we come out. No, I don’t feel at home there.”
That evening Ruth and her father sat late by the drawing-room fire, as they were quite apt to do at night. It was always a time of confidences.
“Thee has another letter from young Sterling,” said Eli Bolton.
“Yes. Philip has gone to the far west.”
“How far?”
“He doesn’t say, but it’s on the frontier, and on the map everything beyond it is marked ‘Indians’ and ‘desert,’ and looks as desolate33 as a Wednesday Meeting.”
“Humph. It was time for him to do something. Is he going to start a daily newspaper among the Kick-a-poos?”
“Father, thee’s unjust to Philip. He’s going into business.”
“What sort of business can a young man go into without capital?”
“He doesn’t say exactly what it is,” said Ruth a little dubiously35, “but it’s something about land and railroads, and thee knows, father, that fortunes are made nobody knows exactly how, in a new country.”
“I should think so, you innocent puss, and in an old one too. But Philip is honest, and he has talent enough, if he will stop scribbling36, to make his way. But thee may as well take care of theeself, Ruth, and not go dawdling37 along with a young man in his adventures, until thy own mind is a little more settled what thee wants.”
This excellent advice did not seem to impress Ruth greatly, for she was looking away with that abstraction of vision which often came into her grey eyes, and at length she exclaimed, with a sort of impatience,
“I wish I could go west, or south, or somewhere. What a box women are put into, measured for it, and put in young; if we go anywhere it’s in a box, veiled and pinioned38 and shut in by disabilities. Father, I should like to break things and get loose!”
What a sweet-voiced little innocent, it was to be sure.
“Thee will no doubt break things enough when thy time comes, child; women always have; but what does thee want now that thee hasn’t?”
“I want to be something, to make myself something, to do something. Why should I rust39, and be stupid, and sit in inaction because I am a girl? What would happen to me if thee should lose thy property and die? What one useful thing could I do for a living, for the support of mother and the children? And if I had a fortune, would thee want me to lead a useless life?”
“Has thy mother led a useless life?”
“Somewhat that depends upon whether her children amount to anything,” retorted the sharp little disputant. “What’s the good, father, of a series of human beings who don’t advance any?”
Friend Eli, who had long ago laid aside the Quaker dress, and was out of Meeting, and who in fact after a youth of doubt could not yet define his belief, nevertheless looked with some wonder at this fierce young eagle of his, hatched in a Friend’s dove-cote. But he only said,
“Has thee consulted thy mother about a career, I suppose it is a career thee wants?”
Ruth did not reply directly; she complained that her mother didn’t understand her. But that wise and placid20 woman understood the sweet rebel a great deal better than Ruth understood herself. She also had a history, possibly, and had sometime beaten her young wings against the cage of custom, and indulged in dreams of a new social order, and had passed through that fiery40 period when it seems possible for one mind, which has not yet tried its limits, to break up and re-arrange the world.
Ruth replied to Philip’s letter in due time and in the most cordial and unsentimental manner. Philip liked the letter, as he did everything she did; but he had a dim notion that there was more about herself in the letter than about him. He took it with him from the Southern Hotel, when he went to walk, and read it over and again in an unfrequented street as he stumbled along. The rather common-place and unformed hand-writing seemed to him peculiar41 and characteristic, different from that of any other woman.
Ruth was glad to hear that Philip had made a push into the world, and she was sure that his talent and courage would make a way for him. She should pray for his success at any rate, and especially that the Indians, in St. Louis, would not take his scalp.
Philip looked rather dubious34 at this sentence, and wished that he had written nothing about Indians.
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1
sterling
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| adj.英币的(纯粹的，货真价实的)；n.英国货币(英镑) | |
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suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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territorially
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metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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intrusive
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| adj.打搅的；侵扰的 | |
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7
thrift
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| adj.节约，节俭；n.节俭，节约 | |
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8
terrapin
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| n.泥龟；鳖 | |
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9
metallic
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| adj.金属的；金属制的；含金属的；产金属的；像金属的 | |
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10
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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11
statutes
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| 成文法( statute的名词复数 )； 法令； 法规； 章程 | |
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12
aglow
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| adj.发亮的；发红的；adv.发亮地 | |
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13
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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14
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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15
chafes
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| v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的第三人称单数 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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16
interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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17
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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18
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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19
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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20
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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21
placidity
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| n.平静，安静，温和 | |
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22
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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23
dissecting
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| v.解剖（动物等）( dissect的现在分词 )；仔细分析或研究 | |
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24
sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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25
orphans
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| 孤儿( orphan的名词复数 ) | |
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26
shingles
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| n.带状疱疹；（布满海边的）小圆石( shingle的名词复数 )；屋顶板；木瓦（板）；墙面板 | |
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27
enthusiasts
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| n.热心人，热衷者( enthusiast的名词复数 ) | |
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28
splendors
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| n.华丽( splendor的名词复数 )；壮丽；光辉；显赫 | |
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29
chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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30
demure
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| adj.严肃的；端庄的 | |
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31
bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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32
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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33
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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34
dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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35
dubiously
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| adv.可疑地，怀疑地 | |
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36
scribbling
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| n.乱涂[写]胡[乱]写的文章[作品]v.潦草的书写( scribble的现在分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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37
dawdling
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| adj.闲逛的，懒散的v.混（时间）( dawdle的现在分词 ) | |
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38
pinioned
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| v.抓住[捆住]（双臂）( pinion的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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39
rust
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| n.锈；v.生锈；(脑子)衰退 | |
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40
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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41
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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