THE STRANGE STORY.
JUDGE ERSKINE was in his library, pacing slowly back and forth, his
forehead lined with heavy wrinkles, and his face wearing the expression
of one involved in deep and troubled thought. He had just come home from
the evening meeting, the last meeting of the series that had held the
attention of so many hearts during four weeks of harvest time.
Judge Erskine had been a silent and attentive listener. All through the
solemnities of the sermon, that seemed written for his sake, and to
point right at him, he had never moved his keen, steady eyes away from
the preacher's face. The text of that sermon he was not likely to
forget. He had looked it up, and read it, with its connections, the
moment he reached the privacy of his library.
"The harvest is past, the summer is ended, and we are not saved." That
was the text. Judge Erskine said it over and over to his own soul. It
was true; it fitted his condition as precisely as though it had been
written for him. The harvest that would tell for eternity had been
reaped all around him. He had looked, and listened, and resolved; and
still he stood outside, ungarnered.
Moreover, one portion of the solemn sermon fitted him, also. When Dr.
Dennis spoke of those who had let this season pass, unhelped, because
they had an inner life that would not bear the gaze of the public,
because they were not willing to drag out their past and cast it away
from them, Judge Erskine had started and fixed a stern glance on the
preacher.
Did he know his secret, that had been hidden away with such persistent
care? What scoundrel could have enlightened him? This, only for a
moment; then he settled back and realized his folly. Dr. Dennis knew
nothing of himself or his past. Then came that other awfully solemn
thought--there was One who did? Could it be that his voice had
instructed the pastor what special point to make in that sermon, with
such emphasis and power? Was the keen eye of the Eternal God pointing
his finger, now, at him, and saying; "Thou art the man?"
He _knew_ all this was true; he knew that the work of the past month had
greatly moved him; he knew on the evening when the text had been,
"Almost thou persuadest _me_ to be a Christian," that he had felt
himself _almost_ persuaded; he knew then, as he did now, that but one
thing stood in the way of his entire persuasion.
As he walked up and down his library on this evening, he felt fully
persuaded in his own mind that the time had arrived when he was being
called on persistently for a decision. More than that, he felt that the
decision was to be not only for time, but for eternity; that he _must_
settle the question of his future then and there. He had locked the door
after him, as he came into the library, with a sort of grim
determination to settle the question before he stepped into the outside
world again. How would it be settled? He did not know himself. He did
not dare to think how it would end; he simply felt that the conflict
must end.
Meantime, Ruth was up-stairs on her knees, praying for her father. Her
heart felt very heavy. She had prayed for this father with all her soul;
prayed, with what she felt was a degree of faith, that this evening, at
the meeting, he might settle the question at issue, and settle it
forever. She had felt a bitter, and almost an overwhelming,
disappointment that the meeting closed and left him just where he had
stood for a month.
There seemed nothing left to do. She had not spared her words, her
entreaties. She had gotten bravely over her fears of approaching her
father. But now it seemed to her that there was nothing left to say. She
could still pray, and it was with a half-despairing cry that she fell on
her knees, realizing in her very soul that only the power of God could
convert her father. Into the midst of this longing, clinging cry for
help there came a knock.
"Judge Erskine would like to have you come to the library for a few
minutes, if you have not retired."
This was Katie Flinn's message. And Ruth, as she swiftly set about
obeying the summons, said:
"Oh, Katie, pray for father!" for among those who, during the last few
weeks, had learned to pray was Katie Flinn. Poor Katie, with the simple
child-like faith and loving heart which she brought to the service, was
destined to be a shining light in a dark world; and the glory thereof
would sparkle forever in Flossy Shipley's crown.
Judge Erskine turned as his daughter opened the door, and motioned her
to a seat. Then he continued his walk. Something in his face hushed into
silence the words that were on her lips; but presently he stopped before
her, and his voice startled her with its strangeness.
"My daughter, I have something to tell you, and something to ask you. I
shall have to cause you great grief and shame, and I want to begin first
by asking you to forgive your father."
Ruth felt her face growing pale. What _could_ he mean? Had she not
always looked up to him as above most men, even Christian
men?--faultless in his business transactions, blameless in his life? She
attempted to speak, and yet felt that she did not know what to say.
Apparently he expected no word from her; for he went on hurriedly:
"You have, during these few weeks past, shown a sort of interest in me,
that I never saw manifested before. I have reason to think that you have
concluded, lately, that the most earnest desire you can have concerning
your father, is to see him a Christian man? I can conscientiously tell
you that I have felt the necessity for this experience as I never did
before; that I realize its importance, and that I want it; yet there is
something in the way, something that I must do, and confess, and abide
by for the future, that I shrink from more on your account than my own.
My child, do you want this thing enough to endure disgrace and
humiliation, and a cross, heavy and hopeless, all your life?"
"Father," she said, half rising, and looking at him with a bewildered
air, a vague doubt of his sanity, and a half fear of his presence,
creeping into her heart, "what can you possibly mean? How can disgrace,
or cross-bearing, or trouble of any sort, be connected with _you_? I
cannot understand you."
"I know you can not. You think I am talking wildly, and you are half
afraid of me; but I am perfectly sane. I wish, with all my soul, that a
certain portion of my life could be called a wild dream of a disordered
brain; but it is solemnly true. Ruth, if I come out before the world and
avow myself a Christian man, with the determination to abide by the
teachings of the Lord Jesus Christ, it involves my bringing to this
house a woman who will have to be recognized as my wife, and a girl who
will have to share with you as my daughter; a woman whom you will have
to call mother, and a girl who is your sister. Are you equal to that?"
Every trace of blood left Ruth Erskine's face. Her father watched her
narrowly, with his hand touching the bell-rope; it seemed as if she must
faint; but she motioned his hand away.
"Don't ring," were the first words she said; "I am not going to faint.
Father, tell me what you mean."
The actual avowal made, and the fact established that his daughter was
able to bear it, and to still keep the story between themselves, seemed
to quiet Judge Erskine. His intense and almost uncontrollable excitement
subsided; the wild look in his eyes calmed, and, drawing a chair beside
his daughter, he began in a low steady voice to tell her the strange
story:
"Acts that involve a lifetime of trouble can be told in a few words,
Ruth. When your mother died I was almost insane with grief; I can't tell
you about that time; I was young and I was gay, and full of plans, and
aims, and intentions, in all of which she had been involved. Then came
the sudden blank, and it almost unsettled my reason. There was a young
woman boarding at the same house where I went, who was kind to me, who
befriended me in various ways, and tried to help me to endure my sorrow.
She grew to be almost necessary to my endurance of myself. After a
little I married her. I did not take this step till I found that my
friendship with her, or, rather hers with me, was compromising her in
the eyes of others. Let me hurry over it, Ruth. We lived together but a
few weeks; then I was obliged to go abroad. Away from old scenes and
associations, and plunged into business cares, I gradually recovered my
usual tone of mind. But it was not till I came home again that I
discovered what a fatal blunder I had made. That young woman had not a
single idea in common with my plans and aims in life; she was ignorant,
uncultured, and, it seemed to me, unendurable. How I ever allowed myself
to be such a fool I do not know. But up to this time, I had at least,
not been a villain. I didn't desert her, Ruth; I made a deliberate
compromise with her; she was to take her child and go away, hundreds of
miles away, where I would not be likely ever to come in contact with her
again, and I was to take your mother's child and go where I pleased. Of
course I was to support her, and I have done so ever since; that was
eighteen years ago; she is still living, and the daughter is living. I
have always been careful to keep them supplied with money; I have tried
to have done for the girl what money could do; but I have never seen
their faces since that time. Now, Ruth, you know the miserable story.
There are a hundred details that I could give you, that perhaps would
lead you to have more pity for your father, if it did not lead you to
despise him more for his weakness. It is hard to be despised by one's
child. I tell you truly, Ruth, that the bitterest of this bitterness is
the thought of you."
The proud man's lip quivered and his voice trembled, just here.
Poor Ruth Erskine! "I am willing to do _anything_," she had said to
Marion, not two hours before; and here was a thing, the possibility of
which she had never dreamed, staring her in the face, waiting to be
done, and she felt that she could not do it. Oh, why was it necessary?
"Why not let everything be as it has been?" said that wily villain
Satan, whispering in her ears. "They were false vows; they are better
broken than kept. He does not love her, though he said he did. And how
can we ever endure it, the shame, the disgrace, the horrid explanations,
our name, the _Erskine_ name, on everybody's lips, common loafers
sneering at us? And then to have the family changed; myself to be only a
back figure; a mother who is not, and never _was_ my mother, taking my
place; and the other one-- Oh, it can not be possible that we must
endure this! There must be some other way. They are doubtless contented,
why could it not remain as it is?"
As if to answer her unspoken thoughts, Judge Erskine suddenly said:
"I have canvassed the entire subject in all its bearings, you may be
sure of that. I am living a lie. I am saying my wife is dead, when a
woman to whom before God I gave that name is living; I am saying that I
have but one child, when there is another to whom I am as certainly
father as I am to you. I am leaving them, nay, obliging them, to live a
daily lie. I have assured myself to a certainty that one sin can never
be atoned for by another sin; there is but one atonement; and the Source
of all help says, 'If we _confess_ our sins, he is faithful and just to
forgive us our sins; and to cleanse us from _all_ unrighteousness.' I
know there is only one way of cleansing, daughter."
"Get thee behind me, Satan." The only perfect life gave that sentence
once, not alone for Himself; thank God he has many a time since enabled
his weak children of the flesh to repeat it in triumph. The grace came
then and there to Ruth Erskine. She rose up from her chair, and going
over to her father did what she had never remembered doing in her life
before. She bent down and wound both arms around his neck and kissed
him. Her voice was low and steady:
"Father, don't let this, or anything earthly, stand between you and
Christ. You are not a sinner above all others. It is only the
interposing hand of God that has kept me from taking sinful vows upon my
lips. Let us do just what is right. Send for them to come home, and I
will try to be a daughter and a sister; and I will stand by you, and
help you in every possible way. There are harder trials than ours will
be, after all."
It was his daughter who finally and utterly broke the proud, haughty
heart. Judge Erskine bowed himself before her and sobbed like a child in
the bitterness and the humiliation of his soul.
"God bless you," he said, at last, in broken utterance. "There is an
Almighty Saviour; I need nothing more than your words to convince me of
the truth of that. If love to him can lead your heart to such
forgiveness as this, what must his forgiveness be? Ruth, you have saved
my soul; I will give up the struggle; I have tried to fight it out; I
have tried to say that I could not; for my own sake, and for my own
name, it seemed impossible. Then when I got beyond that, and felt that
for myself, if I could have rest in the love of Christ, and could feel
that he forgave me, I cared for nothing else. Then I said, 'I can not do
this, for my child's sake; I can never plunge her into this depth of sin
and shame.' Then, my daughter, there came to me a message from God, and
of all those that _could_ come to a miserable man like me, it was this:
'He that loveth son or daughter more than me, is not worthy of me.' Then
I saw that I must be willing even to lose your love, to make you despise
me; and that was the bitterest cup of all. But, thank God, he has spared
me this. God bless you, my daughter."
There was something almost terrible to Ruth, in seeing her cold, calm
father so moved. She had never realized what awfully solemn things
_tears_ were till she saw them on her father's cheeks, and felt them
falling hot on her head, from eyes so unused to weeping. The kisses she
gave him were very soft and clinging--full of tender, soothing touches.
Then father and daughter knelt together, and the long, long struggle
with sin and pride and _silence_ was concluded.
Do you think this was a lasting victory for Ruth Erskine? You do not
understand the power of "that old serpent, the Devil," if you can not
think how he came to her again and again in the silence of her own room,
even into the midst of her rejoicings over the newly-washed soul, even
while the joy in heaven among the angels was still ringing out over her
father, came whispering to her heart to say:
"Oh, I can't, I can't. Think of it! The Erskines! How _can_ we endure
it? Is it _possible_ that we must? Perhaps the woman would rather live
as she is."
As if _that_ had anything to do with the question of right and wrong!
The very next instant Ruth curled her lip sneeringly over her own folly.
She never forgot that night, nor how the conflict waged. She tried to
imagine herself saying "mother" to one who really had a nominal right to
the title. Not that it was an unfamiliar word to her. The old aunt who
had occupied the mother's place in the household since Ruth was a wee
creature of two years, she had learned almost from the instincts of
childhood to call "mamma." And as she grew older and was unused to any
other name for Mrs. Wheeler, the widowed aunt, she toned it into the
familiar and comfortable word "mother," and had always spoken to and of
her in that name.
Yet she knew very well how little the title meant to her. She had loved
this old lady with a sort of pitying, patronizing love, realizing even
very early in her life that she, herself, had more self-reliance, more
executive ability, in her little finger, than was spread all over the
placid lady who early learned that "Ruthie" was to do precisely as she
pleased.
Such a cipher was this same old lady in the household, that when a long
lost son appeared on the surface, during Ruth's absence at Chautauqua,
proving, sturdy old Californian as he was, to have a home and place for
his mother, and a heart to take her with him, her departure caused
scarcely a ripple in the well-ordered household of the Erskines.
She had been its nominal head for eighteen years, but the real head who
was absent at Chautauqua, had three or four perfectly trained servants,
who knew their young mistress' will so well, that they could execute it
in her absence as well as when she was present.
So when Ruth took, in the eyes of everybody, the position that had
really been hers so long, it made no sort of change in her plans or
ways. And beyond a certain lingering tenderness when she spoke of her by
that familiar title, "mother," there was no indication that the woman
who had had so constant and intimate connection with her life was
remembered.
But this name applied to another, and that other, one whom she had never
seen in her life, and who yet was actually to occupy the position of
head of the household--her father's wife, in the eyes of society her
mother, spoken of as such, herself asked, "How is your mother?" or "What
does your mother think of this?" Would anyone dare to use that name to
her? No one had so spoken of her aunt. They all knew she was only her
aunt, though she chose to pet her by the use of that tender name. Could
she bear all these things and a hundred others that would come up?
"Marion," she said the next day as she chanced to meet that young lady
on the street, "I have something to tell you. I want to call on you to
witness that I shall never again be guilty of that vainglorious
absurdity of saying that I am ready for anything. One can never know
whether this is true or not; at least I am sure I never can. What I am
to say in the future is simply, 'Lord, make me willing to do what there
is for me to do this day.' Remember that in a few days you will
understand what I mean."
Then she went on. Marion pondered over it. She did not understand it at
all. What trial could have come to Ruth that had brought her the
knowledge of the weakness of her own heart? She wondered if it had also
brought her peace.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]