One fine December morning Ruth walked with Miranda on the hill. She was
beginning to have projects.
“Miranda!” said she,--“Heaven knows where you picked the name up,” mused
Ruth. “Dear kitten, I believe I'll invite my European friends here! The
fashion is in Europe to come and have a look at America. I'll keep open
house, and you and I and General Adgate shall receive the most famous
people in Europe at Barracks Hill. And we'll show them what they ought
to be curious about, what they've seen only in books,--we'll show them a
beautiful old New England town enriched from all sources yet keeping its
distinct New England flavour. And I'll give to Oldbridge the enlivening
experience,” she said with a gleam, “of hobbing and of nobbing with
every light-minded modern who doesn't take life's trivialities solemnly;
with every human of talent who cultivates the sweet tonic spirit of
levity.”
Miranda listened, his chrysoprase eyes widened--contracted--blazed with
intelligent sympathy.
“I'm with you, if it's anything that has to do with fun,” he loudly
purred.
Miranda was not a kitten--Miranda was a sleek, a superb tortoise-shell
cat. A cat of the masculine persuasion who could have counted six
or seven summers if a day. General Adgate had, in “a tonic spirit of
levity,” christened him at his birth Miranda--it may be because the
Master of Barracks Hill had likened himself that day to Prospero.
Be this as may be, Miranda had kept his youth; his idea of beer and
skittles was still to play at any game he could find a playmate for; he,
at least, was all for sociability.
And it was his friendly habit to follow Ruth, running along the wall of
the terrace at her left as she paced the hill. Now, when she addressed
him, he drew himself lazily, along the warm stones, stretched himself
infinitely, clawed the rough stones deluged in December sunshine, and
assuming an irresistible attitude as she spoke, pricked his ears. Then,
with a bound made across the turf to an apple-tree, mad for a frolic. He
ran up its grey side, lichen-covered, paused, looked down, and jeered at
her over his shoulder.
“Why don't you follow me?” he taunted. Took, the next moment, his leap
over her head, landed at her feet, was scuttling deliriously through
wheel ruts, grass-grown, passage of last year's cartwheels. Burrowing
under accumulations of brown crackling leaves, flattening himself
lengthwise, poking out a pink nose at her, he showed a pair of
questioning, mischievous eyes.
“Send out your invitations,” counselled he, “but first, catch me!”
Ruth plunged to a great rustle of dry leaves, and light and
irresponsible as they Miranda darted to a sheltering juniper. Ruth tried
to seize him--useless vanity, for he was quicksilver. Up another tree
ere she could lay hands on him, he, perhaps not disdainful of a little
petting, and at all events Bon Prince, finally relented; he allowed her
at last to have her way, come close and take him in her arms.
“You're a duck,” said Ruth, laughing, scratching his ears, laying her
cheek against his fur all glossy and fragrant of wood odours. “Such a
mercurial duck! You make me feel thrice welcome here. I believe you are
the spirit of the place. Yes--the little friendly spirit of the house
who attracts and keeps those who love it for its good--who uses every
wile, too, and coquetry to do so.”
Miranda at her words slipped struggling through Ruth's arms to earth,
arched his back, rubbed himself against her skirts, purred loud and
long--circling round her, tail in air and as who should say: “Yes, yes,
no doubt. But let us waste no time in sentiment,” and away he bounded to
a remoter corner of the hill.
“Of course! he's showing me the place,” she cried. In genuine enjoyment
of the sport she ran, eyes brimming with laughter, after the clever
fellow as he trotted on; he beguiled her here and he beguiled her there;
he discovered nooks to her full of interest and variety. And as she
abandoned herself to the game, played and romped with him, it occurred
to her once again that this, all this--was not all this verily part of a
sort of terrestrial Paradise?
Here,--the chimneys of the house just visible below, here, aloof in a
beautiful world,--she stood on the brow of her hill among gnarled fine
old apple trees. She went up to one, she laid her cheek against it.
“Yes, I can understand what a sight you were in the Garden of Eden,” she
whispered. “In Spring, when your rosy blossoms are out,--in Autumn
when you are hung with ripe red and golden fruit! And, yes--Henry
Pontycroft's prophecy is fulfilled.... Here is Eve, sulking in her
native apple orchard!”
“Derrièr' chez mon père,