A CROSS OF LEAD.
I DO not know that I need even try to tell you about the succession
of petty trials and embarrassments that haunted Ruth Erskine’s way
during the next few days. They belonged to that class of trials hard to
endure—so hard, indeed, that at times the spirit shrinks away in mortal
terror, and feels that it can bear no more; and yet in the telling to
a listener they dwindle in importance. As for Ruth, she did not _tell_
them—she lived them.
Everything was so new; nothing in or about the house could go on
according to the old fashion; and yet there was no new fashion shaped.
She saw many a thing which she must not do, and but few things that
seemed to bear doing. She must stop in the act of ordering dinner, and
remember in confusion that it was not her business to order dinners
in this house any more. And yet she must remember that the nominal
mistress seemed to know no more about ordering dinners for a family of
eight than she knew about ten thousand other things that were waiting
for her attention. Poor Ruth struggled and groaned and wondered,
and rarely cried, but grew paler, if possible, than before, and her
forehead was continually drawn, either with lines of pain or of intense
self-suppression. She congratulated herself that her father escaped
some of the misery. He went early to his office, shutting the door
on the incongruous elements in his household with a sense of relief,
and going out into the business world, where everything and everybody
were as usual, and returning late, giving as little time to the home
puzzle as possible. Yet it wore on him. Ruth could see that, and it but
increased her burden to feel that the struggle she made to help was so
manifest a _struggle_, and was, in some sense, a failure.
He detained her one morning in the library, with that special word of
detention which as yet he had never applied to any one but her.
“My daughter, let me see you a moment before I go out. Do you think we
ought to try to have some friends come in, in a social way?”
At this question Ruth stood aghast. Her father’s friends had hitherto
not been hard for her to entertain—lawyers, judges, professional men
of different degrees of prominence, often without their wives, and
when the ladies were included they were of an age, as a rule, to
expect little in the way of entertainment from Ruth, except a gracious
attention to their comfort; so that, beyond very careful directions
issued to very competent servants, and a general outlook on the
perfected arrangements, little had been expected of her. But now it was
different; other than professional people would expect invitations;
and besides, the hostess was no hostess at all—would not know what to
do—and, what was infinitely more painful, what _not_ to do.
No wonder that Ruth was appalled over this new duty looming before her.
Yet of course it was a _duty_; she flushed over the thought that her
father had been obliged to suggest it. Of course people were expecting
introductions; of course they would call—hosts of them. How much better
it would be to have a gathering of a few friends before the great world
pounced in upon them, so they might feel that at least with a few the
ordeal of introduction was over.
“I don’t mean a large party,” her father hastened to explain. “Just
a few friends—not professional ones, you know, but some of your new
acquaintances in the church, perhaps. I thought you might like to have
a gathering somewhat like that which you told me of at our little
friend, Flossy Shipley’s.”
If he had not been looking down at the grate, just then, instead of
into his daughter’s face, he would have seen her start, and almost
catch her breath over this suggestion. It was not that she was jealous
of little Flossy, for whom her father had shown very special and tender
regard ever since the prayer-meeting which he attended in her company,
but it came to her with a sudden sense of the change that had fallen
upon them. To think that they—the _Erskines_—should be making an
attempt to have a social gathering like unto one that Flossy Shipley
had planned!
“We couldn’t do the things that she did,” Ruth said, quickly.
“The elements which we would have to bring together would be too
incongruous.”
“No,” he answered, “not exactly like hers, of course, but something
simple and informal. I thought your three friends would come, and
Dr. Dennis, you know, and people of that stamp, who understand and
will help us. Wouldn’t it be well to try to do something of the kind,
daughter, or doesn’t the idea meet with your approval?”
“Oh, yes,” she said, drawing in her breath. “Yes, father, we must do
something. I will try. But I hardly know how to commence. You know I am
not mistress of the house now; it makes it difficult for me.”
“I know,” he said, and the expression of his face led his daughter
instantly to regret that she had made such a remark. It was the life
she lived at this time—saying words, and regretting that she had done
so. They went on, however, perfecting the arrangements for the social
gathering. There had occurred to Ruth an instant trouble in the way,
which was that ever-present one in the American woman’s life—_clothes_.
“We can not hasten this thing,” she said. “There will need to be some
shopping done, and some dress-making—that is, I should think there
would need to be.”
She corrected herself, and the embarrassment involved in the fact that
she was not the mistress of the new comers presented itself. Suppose
they chose to think they had clothes enough, and proposed to appear in
any of the ill-made, badly-selected materials which seemed to compose
their wardrobe! If they were only two children, that she might shut up,
in a back room up-stairs, and turn the key on outsiders until such time
as they could be made presentable, what a relief it would be!
Evidently her father appreciated that embarrassment.
“I tried to arrange that matter before I came home,” he said. “I
furnished money and suggested as well as I could; but it didn’t work. I
hardly know what was the trouble. They didn’t understand, or something.
Ruth, what can you do about it? Is there any way of managing?”
Ruth tried to consider, while her cheeks flushed, and her heart beat
hard, in what way she could suggest to her father to manage his wife
and daughter.
“_Susan_ would listen to suggestions, I think,” she said, slowly. “But
I don’t know whether”—
And then she broke off, and recurred to another of the endless trials
of this time. If she and her father were to be compelled to hold
conversations concerning this woman, it was absolutely necessary that
they come to an understanding as to what to call her.
“Father,” she said, plunging desperately into the depths of the
question. “What am I to call her? Does she—or, do _you_—desire that I
should say mother?”
“No,” he said, quickly. “Surely not, unless”—
“Well, then,” Ruth said, after waiting in vain for him to conclude. “Am
I to say ‘Mrs. Erskine?’”
“Oh, I don’t know.”
He spoke in visible agitation, and commenced a nerve-distracting walk
up and down the room.
“I don’t know anything about any of this miserable business. Sometimes
I am very sorely tempted to wish that I had left everything as it was,
and gone on in my old life, and endured the results.”
“Don’t,” said Ruth, aghast at this evidence of desperate feeling, and
roused, for a moment, from minor considerations into a higher plane.
“Don’t feel in this way, father; we will do the best we can, and it
will all come out right; at least, we will try to do what is right.”
He came over to her then, standing before her, looking into her eyes,
and there was that half-appealing look in his which had touched her
before.
“Ruth, if we could—if there was any way that we could—manage to _like_
them a little, it would make the whole thing so much better, both for
them and us.”
What an amazing thing to say! what an almost ludicrous thing, when one
reflected that he was talking about his _wife_! Yet none knew better
than did Ruth that _names_ implying love did not make love! How pitiful
this appealing sentence was! How could her father ever hope to learn
to like this woman, who was his wife? For herself, she had not even
thought of such a thing as trying. The most she had planned for was
to endure, to tolerate—certainly not to like, most certainly never to
_love_! She stood dumbly before her father, having no word of help for
him. And presently he turned from her with a sigh; and, when he spoke
again, it was in a business-like tone:
“Well, daughter, do the best you can. Manage everything exactly as you
have been in the habit of doing. About the dress question, talk with
Susan, if you can; tell her what will be proper—what you want done.
I will see that her mother follows her directions. For the rest, we
will manage some way; we shall have to depend on the kindness of our
friends. Judge Burnham will help us in any way he can. He understands
matters.”
This suggested to Ruth to inquire in regard to him.
“What is Judge Burnham staying in town for? Where _is_ he staying,
anyway?”
“Why, he lives in town. He is practicing here. Didn’t you know it? He
has been absent a long time on professional business. I hardly know
how it has happened that you have never met him until now. He has a
country-seat ten miles or so away from the city. He is there a good
deal, I presume; but he boards now at the Leighton House. He was about
changing boarding places when we came home. It was for that reason,
among others, that I invited him to stop with us for a few days. You
like him, don’t you, Ruth?”
This last with a sudden change of tone, and almost anxiety expressed in
his manner.
“Oh, yes,” said Ruth, half in impatience, as one to whom the subject
was too unimportant to stop over. And she was conscious of a flitting
determination that, whatever other person she might be called upon to
like, she would never trouble herself to make any effort of that sort
for _him_.
And then she went away to plan for a party in which she was to
be the real head, while appearing before the world only as the
dutiful daughter; to plan, also, for the new mother and sister’s
toilets—whether they would, or not, trusting to her father’s authority
to make them submissive to her schemes.
A little more talk about that matter of liking people, Ruth was
destined to hear; and it developed ideas that bewildered her. It
chanced that Flossy Shipley came in for a little chat with Ruth,
over the recent astounding news connected with their mutual friend,
Marion. It chanced, also, that the new-comers were both up stairs for
the evening, Mrs. Erskine being one of those persons who indulge in
frequent sick-headaches, during which time her daughter Susan was her
devoted slave. So Judge Erskine sat with his daughter, book in hand,
because conversation between them was now of necessity on such trying
subjects that they mutually avoided it; but he rarely turned a leaf;
and he greeted Flossy Shipley with a smile of pleasure, and asked,
almost pleadingly, if he might stay and listen to their gossip. Very
glad assent, Flossy gave, and emphasized it by talking to Ruth with as
much apparent freedom as though he were absent.
“I like it,” she said, speaking of Marion. “I think she will make such
a perfectly splendid minister’s wife.”
Flossy still dealt largely in superlatives, and paid very little
attention to the grammatical position of her adjectives. “I am almost
sorry that I am not going to live here, so I could have the benefit of
her; she will be just as full of helpful plans for people! And when she
gets in a position to influence them you will see how much good she can
do. Ruth, were you very much surprised?”
“Greatly so. I imagined that she did not even admire Dr. Dennis very
much. I don’t know that she ever gave me reason to think so, except by
being silent sometimes, when I expected her to speak; but of course
that is accounted for now. Isn’t the marriage sudden?”
“More sudden than they had planned,” Flossy said. “Dr. Dennis found it
necessary to be absent just then on a matter of business, and to go
West, just in the direction they had proposed to go together, and he
was obliged to be absent for some time, which would give him little
chance for vacation later in the season, and, in short,” said Flossy,
with a bright smile, “I think if they would own it, they were very
lonely, and very anxious to enjoy each other’s society, and thought
they were wasting time, and set about finding reasons why they should
change their plans. You know reasons can almost always be found for
things, when we are very anxious to find them!”
“Is that so!” Judge Erskine asked, looking up from his book, and
speaking in so earnest a tone that both girls turned toward him
inquiringly. “Do you mean to say that if one were anxious to
change—well, say his opinion of a person, he could bring himself to do
it on reasonable grounds?”
It was a curious question, and to Ruth it was a very embarrassing one.
Her cheeks flushed painfully, and her eyes drooped to the bit of fancy
work which lay idly in her lap.
“That wasn’t quite what I was thinking about,” Flossy said, gently and
seriously, as one who realized that his question reached deeper than he
meant her to understand. “But I do truly think, sir, that if we feel
as though we _ought_ to change our opinion of a person, we can set
seriously about doing it and accomplish it.”
“In that case, you would not believe it necessary to have any enemies
in this world, would you?”
“Not real enemies, I think, though I wouldn’t want to be friends, of
course, with everybody. But—well, Judge Erskine, I can’t explain to
you what I mean. I don’t know how to reason, you see. All I can do is
to tell you what really occurred. There is a person whom I disliked;
he was very trying to me, and I had to be thrown in his society very
often, and I knew I ought to feel differently toward him, because, you
know, I couldn’t hope to be of the least help to him, unless I felt
differently. So I set myself earnestly to trying, and I succeeded. I
have the kindest possible feelings toward him, and I think I am gaining
a little influence.”
During this recital Flossy’s fair, peach-blossom cheek had taken a
deeper shade, and her eyes drooped low. She was giving what Judge
Erskine felt was a bit of heart-history, and he did not know that she
realized any personal application. How should the innocent little mouse
know anything about his affairs?
“Do you mind telling me how you set to work to accomplish this change?”
he asked, and his daughter knew that his voice was almost husky.
“First,” said Flossy, simply and gravely, “I prayed for him; I gave all
my soul to a desire for his conversion; I prayed to be shown how to
help him—how to act toward him; then I prayed for grace to like him,
to be interested in him, and to overlook his faults, or his failings;
and then—why, I am not sure there is any ‘then’ to it. It is all told
in that word ‘prayer.’ The Lord Jesus helped me, Judge Erskine; that is
the whole of it.”
“Do you really think we have a right to pray about the matter of our
likes and dislikes?” There was no mistaking the earnestness in Judge
Erskine’s voice this time.
Flossy turned wondering eyes on him, as she said, “Oh, yes, indeed!
The direction is, ‘Casting all your care upon him,’ and that is a
real care, you know.” Ah! _didn’t_ Judge Erskine know? “And then He
says, ‘In _everything_ by prayer and supplication, let your requests
be made known.’ I couldn’t doubt my right. Indeed it seemed to me to
be a duty, not only to pray, but actually to supplicate, to coax, you
know, just as I was so tempted to do when a child. It seemed blessed to
me to think that the Lord Jesus took such minute notice of our human
nature that he knew it would help us to be allowed to keep a subject
constantly before him, and to keep coaxing about it. Don’t you think
that is wonderful, Judge Erskine?”
“Wonderful!” repeated Judge Erskine, in a moved tone, and he arose and
began that pacing up and down the room, which always with him indicated
deep feeling. Ruth and Flossy presently continued their talk in a lower
tone, until Judge Erskine came toward them again and said, “I will bid
you good-night, I think, and thank you, my dear young lady. Your words
are strong and helpful; don’t forget them in any future experience of
life that you may have; perhaps they will help you through deep waters,
some day.”
Then he went to the library. As for Ruth, she sought her room with two
thoughts following her: one, that Flossy had been to her father what
_she_ had failed in being—a helper; and the other, that possibly she
might pray herself into a different state of feeling toward this woman
and this girl, who were to her now only heavy, _heavy_ crosses.