SIDE ISSUES.
HOW did they ever get into such a dreadful snarl as this, anyway?
It was Eurie Mitchel who asked this question. She had seated her
guests—Flossy Shipley and Marion Wilbur—in the two chairs her small
sleeping-room contained, and then curled herself, boarding-school
fashion, on the foot of her bed. To be sure it is against the rule,
at this present time, for girls in boarding-schools to make sofas of
their beds. So I have no doubt it was, when Eurie was a school-girl;
nevertheless, she did it.
“Where should I sit?” she asked her mother, one day, when that good
lady remonstrated. “On the floor?”
And her mother, looking around the room, and noting the scarcity of
chairs, and remembering that there were none to spare from any other
portion of the scantily-furnished house, said, “Sure enough!” and
laughed off the manifest poverty revealed in the answer, instead of
sighing over it. And Eurie went on, making a comfortable seat of her
bed, whenever occasion required.
On this particular evening they had been discussing affairs at the
Erskine mansion, and Eurie had broken in with her exclamation, and
waited for Marion to answer.
“Why,” said Marion, “I know very little about it. There are all sorts
of stories in town, just as is always the case; but you needn’t believe
any of them; there is not enough truth sprinkled in to save them. Ruth
says her father married at a time when he was weak, both in body and
mind—just getting up from a long and very serious illness, during which
this woman had nursed him with patience and skill, and, the doctors
said, saved his life. He discovered, in some way—I don’t know whether
she told him so or not, but somehow he made the discovery—that she lost
possession of her heart during the process, and that he had gotten it,
without any such intention on his part, and, in a fit of gratitude, he
married her in haste, and repented at leisure.”
“How perfectly absurd!” said Eurie, in indignation. “The idea that he
had no way of showing his gratitude but by standing up with her, and
assenting to half a dozen solemn statements, none of which were true,
and making promises that he couldn’t keep! I have no patience with that
sort of thing.”
“Well, but,” said Flossy, coming in with gentle tone and alleviating
words, just as she always did come into the talk of these two.
“The woman was a poor, friendless girl then, living a dreadful
boarding-house life, entirely dependent on her needle for her daily
bread. Think how sorry he must have been for her!”
Eurie’s lip curled.
“He might have been as sorry for me as he pleased, and I dare say I
shouldn’t have cared if he had expressed his sorrow in dollars and
cents; but to go and marry me, promise to love and cherish, and all
that sort of thing, and not to mean a word of it, was simply awful.”
“Have you been studying the marriage service lately?” Marion asked,
with a light laugh and a vivid blush. “You seem strangely familiar with
it.”
“Why, I have heard it several times in my life,” Eurie answered,
quickly, her cheeks answering the other’s blushes. “And I must say it
seems to me a ceremony not to be trifled with.”
“Oh, I think so too!” Flossy said, in great seriousness and sweet
earnestness. “But what I mean is, Judge Erskine, of course, did not
realize what he was promising. It was only a little after Ruth’s mother
died, you know, and he—well, I think he could not have known what he
was about.”
“I should think not!” said Eurie. “And then to deliberately desert
her afterward! living a lie all these years! I must say I think Judge
Erskine has behaved as badly as a man could.”
“No,” said Marion; “he has repented. He might have gone on with his
lie to the end of life, and she would have made no sign, it seems.
The _woman_ can keep a promise, whether he can or not. But think what
it must have cost him to have told all this to Ruth! Why, I would
rather tell my faults to the President than to Ruth Erskine! Oh, I
think he has shown that there is nobility in his nature, and sincerity
in his recent profession. It would have been so easy to have consoled
his conscience with the plea that it was too late to make amends.
Still, I confess I think as you do, Eurie. Marriage is a very solemn
covenant—not to be entered into lightly, I should think; and, when its
vows are taken, they are to be lived by. I don’t feel very gracious
toward Judge Erskine.”
“Still, if the Lord Jesus and his own daughter can forgive him, I think
we ought to be able to do so.”
It was Flossy’s voice again—low and quiet, but with that curious
suggestion of power behind it that Flossy’s voice had taken of late. It
served to quiet the two girls for a minute, then Marion said:
“Flossy Shipley, I’m not sure but you have our share of _brains_, as
well as heart. To be sure, in one sense it is none of our business. I
don’t believe he cares much whether we ever forgive him or not. But I
believe I shall, and feel sorry for him, too. What a precious muddle he
has made of life! How are they ever going to endure that woman?”
“Is she so very dreadful?”
This was Eurie’s insinuating question.
“Father and Nellis called, but I could not bring myself to go with
them. I was sure I shouldn’t know what to say to Ruth. I tried to have
them describe her, but father said she must be seen to be appreciated,
and Nell would do nothing but shrug his shoulders and whistle.”
“She is simply terrible!” Marion said, with emphasis. “I didn’t stay
fifteen minutes, and I heard more bad grammar and bad taste in the use
of language than I hear in school in a week. And her style of dressing
is—well,” said Marion, pausing to consider a strong way of putting
it—“is enough, I should think, to drive Ruth Erskine wild. You know I
am not remarkable for nervousness in that direction, and not supposed
to be posted as to styles; but really, it would try my sense of the
fitness of things considerably to have to tolerate such combinations
as she gets up. Then she is fussy and garrulous and ignorant, and, in
every way, disagreeable. I really don’t know how I am ever to—”
And at that point Marion Wilbur suddenly stopped.
“What about the daughter?” Eurie asked.
“Well,” said Marion, “I hardly know; she impresses you strangely. She
is homely; that is, at first sight you would consider her very homely
indeed; red hair—though why that shouldn’t be as much the orthodox
color as brown, is a matter of fashion I presume—but she is large
featured, and angular, and has the air and bearing that would be called
exceedingly plain; for all that, there is something very interesting
about her; I studied her for half an hour, and couldn’t decide what it
was. It isn’t her smile, for she was extremely grave, hardly smiled at
all. And I’m not sure that it is her conversation—I dare say that might
be called commonplace—but I came away having a feeling of respect for
her, a sort of liking that I couldn’t define, and couldn’t get away
from.”
“Nellis liked her,” said Eurie. “He was quite decided in his opinion;
said she was worth a dozen frippery girls with banged hair, and trains,
and all that sort of thing, but he couldn’t give a definite reason, any
more than you can, why he ‘approved of’ her, as he called it.”
“I don’t know what her tastes can be,” continued Marion. “She doesn’t
play at all, she told me, and she doesn’t sing, nor daub in paints;
that is one comfort for Ruth; she won’t have to endure the piano, nor
help hang mussy-looking pictures in ‘true lights’—whatever lights they
may be. But I should imagine she read some things that were worth
reading. She didn’t parade her knowledge, however, if she has any. In
short, she is a mystery, rather; I should like you to see her.”
“Perhaps she is fond of fancy-work,” suggested Flossy, somewhat
timidly; whereupon Marion laughed.
“I don’t fancy you are to find a kindred spirit in that direction, my
dear little Kittie!” she said, lightly. “No one to glance at Susan
Erskine would think of fancy-work, for the whole evening. There is
nothing in her face or manner, or about her attire, that would suggest
the possibility of her knowing anything about fancy matters of any
sort. I tell you her face is a strange one. I found myself quoting to
my ‘inner consciousness’ the sentence: ‘Life is real, life is earnest,’
every time I looked at the lines about her mouth. Whatever else she
can or can not do, I am morally certain that she can’t crochet. Girls,
think of that name—Susan Erskine! Doesn’t it sound strangely? How do
you suppose it sounds to Ruth? I tell you this whole thing is dreadful!
I can’t feel reconciled to it. Do you suppose she will have to call
that woman mother?”
“What does she call her now?”
“Well, principally she doesn’t call her at all. She says ‘you’ at
rare intervals when she has to speak to her, and she said ‘she,’
when she spoke of her to me; not speaking disagreeably you know, but
hesitatingly, as if she did not know what to say, or what would be
expected of her. Oh, Ruth does well; infinitely better than I should,
in her circumstances, I feel sure. I said as much to that disagreeable
Judge Burnham who keeps staying there, for no earthly reason, that
I can see, except to complicate Ruth’s trials. ‘How does your friend
bear up under it?’ he asked me, with an insinuating air, as though
he expected me to reveal volumes. ‘She bears it royally, just as she
always does everything,’ I said, and I was dreadfully tempted to add:
‘Don’t you see how patiently she endures your presence here?’ Just as
though I would tell him anything about it, if she tore around like a
lunatic!”
“Oh, well, now,” said Eurie, oracularly, “there are worse crosses in
life, I dare say, than Ruth’s having to call that woman mother.”
“Of course there are; nobody doubts it; the difficulty is that
particular type of cross has just now come to her, and while she
doesn’t have to bear those others which are worse, she _does_ have to
bear that; and it is a cross, and she needs grace to help her—just
exactly as much grace as though there wasn’t anyone on earth called on
to bear a harder trial. I never could understand why my burnt finger
should pain me any the less because somebody else had burned her entire
arm.”
At this point Flossy interrupted the conversation with one of those
innocent, earnest questions which she was always in these days asking,
to the no small confusion of some classes of people.
“Are these two women Christians?”
“That I don’t know,” Marion answered, after staring at the questioner
a moment in a half dazed way. “I wondered it, too, I remember. Flossy
Shipley, I thought of you while I sat there, and I said to myself, ‘She
would be certain to make the discovery in less time than I have spent
talking with them.’ But I don’t know how you do those things. What way
was there for me to tell? I couldn’t sit down beside them and say, ‘Are
you a Christian?’ could I? How is it to be done?”
Flossy looked bewildered.
“Why,” she said, hesitatingly, “I don’t know. I never thought there was
anything strange about it. Why shouldn’t those things be talked of as
well as any others? You discovered whether the young lady was fond of
music and painting. I can’t see why it wouldn’t have been just as easy
to have found out about her interests in more important matters.”
“But how would you have done it? Just suppose yourself to have been in
Judge Erskine’s parlor, surrounded by all those people who were there
last evening, how would you have introduced the subject which is of the
most importance?”
“Why,” said Flossy, looking puzzled, “how do I know? How can I tell
unless I had been there and talked it over? You might as well ask me
how I should have introduced the question whether—well, for instance,
whether they knew Mr. Roberts, supposing they had come from the same
city, and I had reason to think it possible—perhaps probable—that
they were his friends. It seems to me I should have referred to it
very naturally, and that I should have been apt to do it early in our
conversation. Now, you know it is quite possible—if not probable—that
they are intimate friends of the Lord Jesus. Why couldn’t I have asked
them about him?”
Marion and Eurie looked at each other in a sort of puzzled amusement,
then Marion said:
“Still I am not sure that you have answered my question about how to
begin on such a subject. You know you could have said, ‘Did you meet
Mr. Roberts in Boston?’ supposing them to have been in Boston. But you
could hardly say, ‘Did you meet the Lord Jesus there?’ I am not sure
but that sounds irreverent to you. I don’t mean it to be; I really want
to understand how those subjects present themselves to your mind.”
“I don’t believe I can tell you,” Flossy said, simply. “They have no
special way of presenting themselves. It is all so new to me that I
suppose I haven’t gotten used to it yet. I am always thinking about it,
and wondering whether any new people can tell me anything new. Now I am
interested in what you told me about that Susan, and I feel as though I
should like to ask her whether there were any very earnest Christians
where she used to live and whether they had any new ways of reading the
Bible, and whether the young ladies had a prayer-meeting, and all those
things, you know.”
Again Marion and Eurie exchanged glances. This didn’t sound abrupt,
or out of place, or in any sense offensive to ideas of propriety. Yet
who talked in that way among their acquaintances? And _how had_ Flossy
gotten ahead of them in all these things? It was a standing subject of
wonderment among those girls how Flossy had outstripped them.
They were silent for a few minutes. Then Eurie suddenly changed the
current of thought: “How strange that these changes should have come
to Ruth and we know nothing about it until a mother and sister were
actually domiciled! We are all so intimate, too. It seems that there
are matters about which we have not learned to talk together.”
“Ruth was always more reserved than the rest of us,” Flossy said. “I
am not so surprised at not knowing about _her_ affairs; we are more
communicative, I think. At least I have told you all about the changes
that are to come to me, and I think you would tell me if you had
anything startling, wouldn’t you?”
Marion rose up and went over to Flossy, and, bending, kissed her fair
cheek.
“You little pink blossom,” she said, with feeling, “I’ll tell you all
the nice things I can think of, one of these days. In the meantime I
must go home; and remember, Eurie, you are not to do anything dreadful
of any sort without telling Flossy and me beforehand.”
“I won’t,” said Eurie, with a conscious laugh, and the trio separated.
Two hours later Marion Wilbur was the recipient of the following note:
“DEAR MARION:—
“I promised to tell you—though I don’t intimate that
this comes under your prescribed limit of things
‘awful.’ Still, I want to tell you. I am almost sorry
that I have not been like little Flossy, and talked it
all over freely with you. Someway I couldn’t seem to.
The truth is, I am to be married, in six week’s time,
to Mr. Harrison. Think of my being a minister’s wife!
But he is going away from here and perhaps I can learn.
There! the ice is broken; now I can tell you about it.
Come as soon as you can, and, as Flossy says, ‘Have a
quiet little confidence.’ Lovingly,
“EURIE.”
It was about this very hour that Eurie opened and looked at, in a maze
of astonishment and bewilderment, a dainty envelope, of special size
and design, from which there fell Marion Wilbur’s wedding-cards!