[Illustration: “He has made everything beautiful in his time.” p. 112.]
RUTH ERSKINE’S CROSSES
BY
PANSY
Author of “Ester Ried,” “Julia Ried,” “Four Girls at Chautauqua,”
“Chautauqua Girls at Home,” etc.
[Illustration]
BOSTON
LOTHROP PUBLISHING COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1879,
BY
D. LOTHROP AND COMPANY.
_All rights reserved._
PANSY
TRADE-MARK REGISTERED JUNE 4, 1895.
CONTENTS.
PAGE.
CHAPTER I.
HER CROSS SEEMS HEAVY 7
CHAPTER II.
SIDE ISSUES 24
CHAPTER III.
A CROSS OF LEAD 40
CHAPTER IV.
BITTER HERBS 56
CHAPTER V.
SEEKING HELP 72
CHAPTER VI.
FROM DIFFERENT STANDPOINTS 88
CHAPTER VII.
ONE DROP OF OIL 104
CHAPTER VIII.
FINDING ONE’S CALLING 121
CHAPTER IX.
A SOCIETY CROSS 136
CHAPTER X.
OTHER PEOPLE’S CROSSES 151
CHAPTER XI.
A NEWLY-SHAPED CROSS 167
CHAPTER XII.
THE CROSS OF HELPLESSNESS 182
CHAPTER XIII.
LOOKING FOR AN EASY YOKE 197
CHAPTER XIV.
“THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY” 212
CHAPTER XV.
RESTS 227
CHAPTER XVI.
SHADOWED JOYS 243
CHAPTER XVII.
DUTY’S BURDEN 258
CHAPTER XVIII.
EMBARRASSMENT AND MERRIMENT 274
CHAPTER XIX.
MY DAUGHTERS 290
CHAPTER XX.
A SISTER NEEDED 306
CHAPTER XXI.
TRYING QUESTIONS 321
CHAPTER XXII.
“THAT WHICH SATISFIETH NOT” 337
CHAPTER XXIII.
WHEREFORE? 350
CHAPTER XXIV.
“HEARKEN UNTO ME” 364
CHAPTER XXV.
“BITTER-SWEET” 379
CHAPTER XXVI.
“THESE BE THY GODS” 393
CHAPTER XXVII.
THE BAPTISM OF SUFFERING 408
CHAPTER XXVIII.
“THE OIL OF JOY” 420
RUTH ERSKINE’S CROSSES.
CHAPTER I.
HER CROSS SEEMS HEAVY.
SHE stood in the hall, waiting. She heard the thud of trunks and
valises on the pavement outside. She heard her father’s voice giving
orders to driver and porter. She wondered why she did not step forward
and open the door. How would other girls greet their mothers? She
tried to think. Some of them she had seen—school-girls, with whom she
had gone home, in her earlier life, who were wont to rush into their
mother’s arms, and, with broken exclamations of delight, smother her
with kisses How strange it would be if she should do any such thing as
that! She did not know how to welcome a mother! How should she? She had
never learned.
Then there was that other one, almost harder to meet than a mother;
because her father, after all, had the most responsibility about
the mother; it was really his place to look after her needs and her
comfort. But this sister would naturally look to her for exclusive
attention. A sister! She, Ruth Erskine, with a grown-up sister, only a
few years younger than herself! And yet one whom she had not only never
seen, but, until the other day, of whose existence she had never heard!
How perfectly unnatural it all was!
Oh, if father had only, _only_ done differently! This cry she had
groaned out from the depths of her soul a hundred times, during the
two weeks of the father’s absence. After she had turned away from
the useless wail, “Oh, that all this had never been!” and resolutely
resolved not to be weak and worthless, and desert her father in
his need, and give herself up to vain regrets, she found that the
regretting only took another form. Since it was, and must be, and
could not honorably be gotten away from, why had he not faced the
necessity long ago, when she was a child? Why had they not grown up
together, feeling and understanding that they were sisters, and owed
to each other a sister’s forbearance?—she could not bring herself to
say _love_. If her father had only settled it years and years ago,
and brought the woman home, and made her position assured; and if the
people had long and long ago settled down to understanding it all, what
a blessed thing it would have been! Over and over, in various forms,
had this argument been held with Ruth and her rebellious heart, and it
had not helped her. It served to make her heart throb wildly, as she
stood there waiting. It served to make the few minutes that she waited
seem to her like avenging hours. It served to make her feel that her
lot was fearfully, exceptionally, hopelessly hard.
There had been daughters before, who were called on to meet new
mothers. Yes, but this was an old, old mother—so old that, in the
nature of things, she ought, years ago, to have been reconciled to
the event, and to have accepted it as a matter of course. But what
daughter, before this, had been called upon suddenly to greet, and to
receive in social equality an own sister? The more she thought of it,
the more unnerved she felt.
And so the door was opened at last by Judge Erskine himself. His
daughter had decreed that no servant should be in attendance. She
wanted as few lookers-on as possible.
“Well, daughter,” he said; and, even in that swift moment, she wondered
if he ever spoke that quiet-toned, “well, daughter,” to that other
one. Then she did come forward and hold out her hand, and receive her
father’s lingering kiss. Something in that, and in the look of his
eyes, as he put her back from him, and gazed for an instant into hers,
steadied her pulses, and made her turn with a welcome to the strangers.
There was an almost pleading look in those eyes of his.
“How do you do?” she said, simply, and not coldly; and she held out her
hand to the small, faded-looking woman, who shrank back, and seemed
bewildered, if not frightened. “Do you feel very tired with the long
journey?”
“Susan,” said her father, to the third figure, who was still over by
the door, engaged in counting the shawl-straps and satchels. “This is
my daughter Ruth.”
There was an air of ownership about this sentence, which was infinitely
helpful to Ruth. What if he had said, “This is your sister Ruth?” She
gave her hand. A cold hand it was, and she felt it tremble; but, even
in that supreme moment, she noticed that Susan’s hair was what, in
outspoken language, would be called red; and that she was taller than
accorded with grace, and her wrap, falling back from its confinings,
showed her dress to be short-waisted, and otherwise ill-fitting. Long
afterward Ruth smiled, as she thought of taking in such details at such
a moment.
It transpired that there was still another stranger awaiting
introduction—a gentleman, tall and grave, and with keen gray eyes, that
seemed looking through this family group, and drawing conclusions.
“My daughter, Judge Burnham.” This was Judge Erskine’s manner of
introduction. For the time, at least, he ignored the fact that he had
any other daughter. Very little attention did the daughter bestow
on Judge Burnham; eyes and wits were on the alert elsewhere. Here
were these new people to be gotten to their rooms, and then gotten
down again; and there was that awful supper-table to endure! She gave
herself to the business of planning an exit.
“Father, you want to go directly to your rooms, I suppose? I have rung
for Thomas, to attend to Judge Burnham, and I will do the honors of the
house for Susan.”
Very carefully trained were face and tone. Beyond a certain curious
poise of head, which those who knew her understood betokened a strong
pressure of self-control, there was nothing unusual. Really, the worst
for her was to come. If she could but have made herself feel that
to send a servant with this new sister would be the proper thing to
do, it would have been so much easier. But for the watchful eyes and
commenting tongue of that same servant she would have done it. But she
sternly resolved that everything which, to the servant’s eyes, would
look like formality, or like hospitality extended simply to guests,
should be dispensed with. It would do to ring for Thomas, to attend
Judge Burnham; but a daughter of the house must have no other escort
than herself. On the way up-stairs she wondered what she should say
when the room door closed on them both. Here, in the hall, it was only
necessary to ask which satchel should go up immediately, and which
trunk went to which room. But, when all the business was settled, what
then?
She began the minute the attending servant deposited the satchels, and
departed:
“Do you need to make any change in dress before tea, and can I assist
you in any way?”
For answer, the young girl thus addressed turned toward her earnest
gray eyes—eyes that were full of some strong feeling that she was
holding back—and said, with eager, heartful tones:
“I am just as sorry for you as I can be. If there is any way in which I
can help to make the cross less heavy, I wish you would tell me what it
is.”
Now, this was the last sentence that Ruth Erskine had expected to hear.
She had studied over possible conversations, and schooled herself to
almost every form, but not this.
“What do you mean?” she asked, returning the earnest gaze with one
full of bewilderment.
“Why, I mean that I have some dim conception of how hard, how _awfully_
hard all this is! Two strangers to come into your home and claim, not
the attention accorded to guests, but the position belonging to home!
It is dreadful! I have felt so sorry for you, and for myself, all day,
that I could not keep the tears from my eyes. I want to make myself as
endurable as possible. If you will only show me how I will try very
hard.”
What was Ruth Erskine to reply to this? It _was_ hard; she felt too
truthful to disclaim it. Just now it seemed to her almost impossible to
endure it. She tried to turn it off lightly.
“Oh, we shall live through it,” she said, and the attempt to make her
voice unconstrained startled even herself. Susan abated not one whit
the earnestness in her voice.
“I know we shall,” she said. “Because it must be done—because it is
right—and because we each have an Almighty Helper. I asked your father,
and mine, as soon as ever I saw him, whether you were a Christian. It
seemed to me it would be an impossible ordeal if you were not. He _is_
my father, Ruth. I know it is hard for you to hear me use that name,
which you have supposed for so many years belonged exclusively to you.
If it had been right, I could almost have made myself promise never to
use it. But it wouldn’t be the right way to manage, I am sure. Ruth,
you and I shall both breathe freer, and understand each other better,
if we admit from the first, that father has done wrong in this thing.
Now I know that is dreadful to say. But remember, he is my father. I
am not to blame because he loved your mother better than he ever could
mine. I am not to blame for a bit of the tragedy any more than you are.
And I have been a sufferer, just as you are. All my life I have been
without a father’s love and care. All my life I have had to imagine
what the name ‘father’ must mean. I am not blaming him; I am simply
looking at facts. We shall do better to face this thing. I really had
something to forgive. He admitted it. I have forgiven him utterly, and
my heart just bleeds for him and for you. But then we shall, as you
say, get through all the embarrassments, and come off conquerors in
the end.”
Utter silence on Ruth’s part. How shall I confess to you that this
conversation disappointed and angered her? She was nerved to bear
heavy crosses. If this new sister had been arrogant, or cringing, or
insufferably rude and exacting, I think Ruth would have borne it well.
But this simple, quiet facing of difficulties like a general—this
grave announcement that she, too, had been a sufferer—even the steady
tone in which she pronounced that word “father,” gave Ruth a shiver
of horror. The worst of it was—yes, the very _worst_ of it was—this
girl had spoken truth. She _was_ a sufferer, and through no fault of
her own, through Judge Erskine’s pride and self-will. Here was the
sting—it was her father’s fault—this father who had been one of her
strongest sources of pride during all her proud days of life. “It is
true enough,” she told herself, bitterly. “But she need not have spoken
it—I don’t want to hear it.” And then she turned away and went out of
the room—went down-stairs, and paused in the hall again, resting her
arm on that chair and trying to still the tumult in her angry heart.
As for the sister, looking after her with sad eyes, she turned the key
on her at last, and then went over to the great, beautiful bed—more
beautiful than any on which she had ever slept—and bowed before it
on her knees. What if Ruth Erskine had had to contend with a sister
who never got down on her knees! Yet she positively did not think of
that. It seemed to her that nothing could make the cross more bitter
than it was. She opened the door at last, quietly enough, and went
forward to where her father was standing, waiting for her, or for some
one—_something_ to come to him and help him in his bewilderment. He
looked ten years older than when she saw him two weeks ago, and there
was that appealing glance in his eyes that touched his daughter. A
moment before she had felt bitter toward him. It was gone now.
“I brought Judge Burnham home with me,” he said, speaking quickly, as
if to forestall any words from her. “He is an old friend. He was a pet
of your mother’s, Ruth, in his boyhood, and he knew all about her, and
about——this. I thought it would be better than to be quite alone at
first.”
“Yes,” Ruth said, in a tone that might be assenting, or it might simply
be answering. In her heart she did not believe that it would be better
for them to have Judge Burnham in their family circle, and she wished
him away. Was not the ordeal hard enough without having an outsider to
look on and comment?
“When will you be ready for supper?” she asked, and, though she tried
to make her voice sound naturally, she knew it was cold and hard.
“Why, as soon as Judge Burnham and——they come down,” he said,
hesitatingly. What were they all going to call each other? Should he
say “your mother,” or should he say “Mrs. Erskine?” He could not tell
which of the two seemed most objectionable to him, so he concluded to
make that foolish compromise and say “they.”
“Where did you leave Susan?” he questioned.
“In her room.”
Ruth’s tone was colder than before. Judge Erskine essayed to help her.
“She is the only alleviating drop in this bitter cup,” he said, looking
anxiously at Ruth for an assuring word. “It has been a comfort to me to
think that she seemed kind and thoughtful, and in every way disposed to
do right. She will be a comfort to you, I hope, daughter.”
Poor Ruth! If her father had said, “She is perfectly unendurable to
me; you must contrive in some way that I shall not have to see her or
hear her name,” it would have been an absolute relief to his daughter’s
hard-strained, quivering nerves. It was almost like an insult to have
him talk about her being a help and a comfort! She turned from him
abruptly, and felt the relief which the opening door and the entrance
of Judge Burnham gave.
The supper-bell pealed its summons through the house, and Judge Erskine
went in search of his wife; but Ruth called Irish Kate to “tell Miss
Erskine that tea was ready,” flushing to the roots of her hair over
the name “Miss Erskine,” and feeling vexed and mortified when she
found that Judge Burnham’s grave eyes were on her. Mrs. Erskine was
a dumpy little woman, who wore a breakfast-shawl of bright blue and
dingy brown shades, over a green dress, the green being of the shade
that fought, not only with the wearer’s complexion, but with the blue
of the breakfast-shawl. The whole effect was simply dreadful! Ruth,
looking at it, and at her, taking her in mentally from head to foot,
shuddered visibly. What a contrast to the grandeur of the man beside
her! And yet, what a pitiful thing human nature was, that it could be
so affected by adverse shades of blue and green, meeting on a sallow
skin! Before the tea was concluded, it transpired that there were worse
things than ill-fitting blues and greens. Mrs. Judge Erskine murdered
the most common phrases of the king’s English! She said, “Susan and
me was dreadful tired!” And she said, “There was enough for him and
I!” She even said his’n and your’n, those most detestable of all
provincialisms!
And Ruth Erskine sat opposite her, and realized that this woman must be
introduced into society as Mrs. Judge Erskine, her father’s wife! There
had been an awkward pause about the getting seated at the table. Ruth
had held back in doubt and confusion, and Mrs. Erskine had not seemed
to know what her proper place should be; and Judge Erskine had said, in
pleading tone: “Daughter, take your old place, this evening.” And then
Ruth had gone forward, with burning cheeks, and taken the seat opposite
her father, as usual, leaving Mrs. Erskine to sit at his right, where
she had arranged her own sitting. And this circumstance, added to all
the others, had held her thoughts captive, so that she heard not a word
of her father’s low, reverent blessing. Perhaps, if she had heard, it
might have helped her through the horrors of that evening. There was
one thing that helped her. It was the pallor of her father’s face. She
almost forgot herself and her own embarrassment in trying to realize
the misery of his position. Her voice took a gentle, filial tone when
she addressed him, that, if she had but known it, was like drops of oil
poured on the inflamed wounds which bled in his heart.
Altogether, that evening stood out in Ruth Erskine’s memory, years
afterward, as the most trying one of her life. There came days that
were more serious in their results—days that left deeper scars—days of
solemn sorrow, and bold, outspoken trouble. But for troubles, so petty
that they irritated by their very smallness, while still they stung,
this evening held foremost rank.
“I wonder,” she said, in inward irritation, as she watched Mrs.
Erskine’s awkward transit across the room, on her father’s arm, and
observed that her dress was too short for grace, and too low in the
neck, and hung in swinging plaits in front—“I wonder if there are
no dressmakers where they came from?” And then her lip curled in
indignation with herself to think that such petty details should
intrude upon her now. Another thing utterly dismayed her. She had
thought so much about this evening, she had prayed so earnestly, she
had almost expected to sail high above it, serene and safe, and do
honor to the religion which she professed by the quietness of her
surrender of home and happiness; for it truly seemed to her that she
was surrendering both. But it was apparent to herself that she had
failed, that she had dishonored her profession. And when this dreadful
evening was finally over, she shut the door on the outer world with a
groan, as she said, aloud and bitterly:
“Oh, I don’t know anything to prevent our home from being a place of
perfect torment! Poor father! and poor me!”
If she could have heard Judge Burnham’s comment, made aloud also, in
the privacy of his room, it might still have helped her.
“That girl has it in her power to make riot and ruin of this
ill-assorted household, or to bring peace out of it all. I wonder which
she will do?”
And yet, both Judge Burnham and Ruth Erskine were mistaken.