SEEKING HELP.
FOR the rest of the day Ruth was in gloom; indeed, I might almost say
she was in despair. In a dim, dreary sort of way, she felt that her
refuge had failed her. If it really was not going to help her to read
in the Bible and pray, what _was_ she to do? Now, I do not mean that
she suddenly lost faith in the Bible, or in prayer, but simply that
despairing thoughts, like these, ran riot through her brain, and she
gave them attention; also, she felt as though any effort to help,
or any attempt to like these people—nay, even to tolerate them—was
impossible. Mrs. Erskine’s good-natured coarseness of tone and speech,
her horrible arrangement of words and phrases, her frequent allusions
to “your pa,” in the free, careless tone which indicated a partnership
of interest between them, were all so many horrors to the refined,
reserved, low-voiced daughter.
“I will just shut myself into my room,” she said, pacing back and forth
like a caged lion. “I will not try to associate with them; it can never
be done; they can not be improved; there is no hope in that direction:
there is nothing to build on. I must just take care of myself, and see
to it that I do not sink to their level.”
Carrying out this plan, or, rather, allowing herself to glide along
with it, she turned away with almost a shiver from her father’s
question, that evening, addressed to her in a low tone, as the family
were leaving the dining-room:
“Daughter, shall we try to go to prayer-meeting to-night?”
The first prayer-meeting since this invasion into their home! Ruth had
not forgotten it; instead, she had been looking forward all day to
that meeting, as a refuge for her storm-tossed soul. Without giving
really definite thought to it, she yet felt that there, at least,
would be help and comfort; and not once had it occurred to her that the
new-comers must be invited to attend. She realized, now, with a throb
of pain, that it was this sense of fleeing from their presence which
had helped to give pleasantness to the thought of the meeting. Was it
possible that “_they_” must be taken?
“Father, I can’t,” she said, turning and facing him with glowing face
and defiant eyes. “I have tried to-day to help, and have been an awful
failure. I just feel as though I could not endure it. No, I say, let us
stay at home with our misery, and not parade it before a gaping world.
No, I am not going to prayer-meeting to-night.”
Her father turned from her, and walked, without another word, to the
library, whither, according to the new rules of the house, they went
directly after tea, for prayer. Ruth could not help noticing that her
father’s tall, handsome form stooped, as though he were bowed with
suddenly-added years. The moment those words were spoken, she felt that
she would have given worlds to have unsaid them; but to take back what
has been said in haste and folly is oftentimes an impossible task.
She chose the darkest corner of the library, and felt that, if she
could have crouched in it, out of sight forever, it would have been
happiness. Her father’s voice, as he read the psalm for the evening,
was low and tremulous. He had by no means gotten used to these new
duties—had not felt their comfort, nor recognized in them a help. As
yet he was in the realm of hard _duty_. His prayer touched Ruth as
no prayer had ever done before. It opened the fountains of tears. On
rising from her knees, she turned quickly to the window, to hide her
disturbed face, and to determine whether she should follow her father
from the room, and apologizing for the hard, unhelpful words which she
had spoken, say that, of course, they must go to prayer-meeting. He did
not wait for her tardy resolution, but turned at once to his wife:
“Will you and Susan accompany me to our weekly meeting? I feel that we
need all the help we can get, and that is one of the sources of supply.”
Susan answered promptly, and with a glad ring in her voice that he
could not have failed to notice. She was so glad to hear that this was
the evening for the meeting. She had been thinking about it to-day, and
wondering whether it were, and whether she could go. As for the mother,
she said, hesitatingly:
“Why, yes,” she supposed so. There was nothing to hinder, that she knew
of. She was no great hand for going out evenings, though, to be sure,
going out in a city, where the walks were good and the streets as light
as day, was a different affair from blundering along in the dark, as
_she_ had been obliged to do. Susan always went to prayer-meeting; but
she hadn’t never went in her life, as she knew of; but then, of course,
if _he_ wanted to go, she would go along.
It was not possible, apparently, for Mrs. Erskine to answer a
question briefly. She was full of reminiscences. They went to
prayer-meeting—“father and mother and daughter.” Ruth said this
sentence over after they were all gone—said it as she listened to the
sound of their retreating footsteps—her father, and all the mother
she had ever known, and their daughter. She was left out! Her father
had not given her opportunity to change her mind. He had simply said,
as they passed out, “I am sorry, daughter, that you do not feel like
accompanying us.” If he had but said, “Daughter, won’t you go?” she
would have choked down the tears and answered, “Yes.” But she could not
bring her pride, or her grief, to make this concession. She honestly
did not know whether to call it pride or grief.
Bitterly sorry was she to miss the prayer-meeting. She began to feel
that, even with those two present, it might have helped her. So sorry
was she that, had she dared to traverse the streets alone, she would
have made ready and followed. While she still stood, looking out
drearily, too sad now even for tears, the bell sounded through the
quiet house, and, giving little heed to it, she was presently startled
by the advent of Judge Burnham.
“Thomas thought no one was in,” he said, coming toward her, after an
instant’s surprised pause, “and I ventured to avail myself of your
father’s cordial invitations, and come in to consult a book which he
has, and I haven’t.”
It was well for Judge Burnham’s peace of mind that he had not come in
expecting to see Ruth. She was in the mood to resent such an intrusion,
but since it was only books that he wanted, he was welcome. She
motioned toward the rows and rows of solemn-looking volumes, as she
said:
“Help yourself, Judge Burnham, and make yourself as comfortable as you
can. My father’s friends are always welcome to his library.”
Then Judge Burnham said a strange and unexpected word. Standing
there, looking at her with those keen, grave eyes of his, thinking,
apparently, not of books at all, he said:
“I wish I could help _you_.”
Something in the tone and something in the emphasis caused a vivid
blush to spread over Ruth’s face. She commenced a haughty sentence:
“Thank you; I am sure it is kind; but—” She was about to say, “but, I
do not feel in need of help.”
She was stopped by the swift realization that this was not true. She
felt, in one sense, in deeper need of help than she had ever done
before. Her voice faltered over the words, and finally she stopped, her
eyes drooping as they were not wont to droop before others, and those
traitorous tears shone in them again. The tearful mood was as foreign
to her usual self as possible, and she felt afraid to trust herself to
speak further. Besides, what could she say?
Judge Burnham spoke again, earnestly, respectfully:
“I hope you will forgive my intrusion of sympathy, but I do feel
for you—perhaps in a way that you can hardly appreciate. There are
circumstances in my own hard life that serve to make me in deep
sympathy with your present trial. Besides, your father has confided in
me fully, and I knew _your_ mother. When I was a boy of fourteen she
was a woman, young and beautiful and good. She helped me in a hundred
of those nameless ways in which a woman can help a motherless boy. If
there was any way in which I could serve her daughter it would give me
sincerest pleasure to do so.”
He was so frank and sincere and grave that Ruth could hardly help being
sincere also.
“I need help,” she said, raising her eyes for an instant to his, “but
I do not imagine that you, or any human being, can give it me. I shall
have to get a victory over my own heart before anything can help me.
I am ashamed of myself, and disheartened. Things that I mean to do I
utterly fail in, and things that above all others I don’t intend to do
I drop into, almost of necessity, it seems to me.”
What a pity that this man, who wanted to help, had not been familiar
with the old-time cry of the sin-sick soul, “For the good that I would
I do not, but the evil which I would not that I do.” But he was not
familiar with that book of the law of the human heart. Still he essayed
to comfort.
“I think you are too hard on yourself. I told you that your father had
made a confidant of me, and among other things he has repeatedly told
me what a help and strengthener you were to him. He said that he never
would have been able to carry this hard matter through but for your
strong, unselfish words. It was of you he thought most, and when you
were unselfish he felt that he could be.”
Ruth needed this crumb of comfort and yet it had its bitter side, and
brought another rush of tears.
“He will never speak such words again,” she said, and her voice
trembled. “I have failed him utterly. To-night he asked me to go to the
prayer-meeting, and I refused. I said I could never go out with them
anywhere, and that we ought to stay at home and hide our shame.”
And having broken through the wall of reserve to this degree poor Ruth
gave way utterly, and dropped into a chair, weeping bitterly. Presently
she said:
“I would give the world to be able to take it back again; but I can’t.
I should have gone to the meeting to-night—there was no excuse. I have
dishonored my Saviour as well as my father.”
Judge Burnham looked down at her in perplexed dismay. No definite
purpose had been in his mind, beyond a very strange sympathy for her,
and a desire to show it. But he did not in the least know how to deal
with tears, nor with trouble which reached to so deep and solemn a
place in the heart as this. He was one of those reverent, correct
moralists, professing to honor the Bible as a very wise and a very
good book, professing to respect religion and honor the name of God;
and knowing no more about any of these subjects than that profession
indicates when it goes no farther. How was he to comfort one whose
bitterest tears were being shed because she had dishonored the Lord? He
waited irresolute for a moment, then, as if a sudden and very brilliant
thought had struck him, his face brightened.
“If that prayer-meeting would really be a source of help to you, Miss
Erskine,” and he tried not to have his tone appear incredulous, though
at that very moment he was occupied in wondering what it could possibly
do for her, “why not reconsider your decision and attend it? I will see
you safely there with pleasure, and I presume your coming would gratify
your father in his present mood.”
For, to this man, the religion of his old friend Judge Erskine was
simply a “mood,” which he expected to be exchanged presently for some
other fancy.
Ruth looked up quickly. Was there possibly an escape from this torture
of self-reproach? Was there a chance to show her father that she was
bitterly ashamed of herself?
“Isn’t it too late?” she asked, and the eagerness in her voice was
apparent.
“Oh, no, I should think not,” and Judge Burnham drew his watch. “I am
not very well versed in the ways of these gatherings, but if it were a
lecture, or concert, it is not enough past the hour to cause remark. I
am quite willing to brave criticism in that respect, if you say so.”
Had Ruth been less engrossed with the affairs of her own troubled
heart she would have taken in the strangeness of this offer on Judge
Burnham’s part to accompany her to a prayer-meeting. Truth to tell he
could have echoed Mrs. Erskine’s statement, that “she hadn’t never went
in her life as she knew of.” He smiled now over the newness of his
position, and yet he cared very little about it. There _were_ matters
in which Judge Burnham had moral courage enough to face the whole
world. To appear in a social meeting with Judge Erskine’s daughter
was one of them. As for Ruth, true to her nature, she thought nothing
about it, but made ready with a speed and an eagerness that would have
amazed her attendant, could he have seen her.
So it came to pass that the First Church prayer-meeting again had a
sensation. The prayer-room was quite full. Since the revival there had
been none of those distressing meetings composed of a handful of the
most staid members of the church, but on this particular evening there
were more present than usual. There were some who were not in the habit
of being seen there, even of late. Shall I venture to tell the reason?
The simple truth is, that Dr. Dennis and Marion Wilbur’s wedding-cards
were out. As Eurie Mitchell has before told you, many things had
conspired to make their change of plans advisable, and so, instead
of being married in the front-room of the old western farm-house,
according to Marion’s fancy, the ceremony was to take place in the
First Church on the following evening, and every member of that church,
young and old, large and small, had received a special invitation to be
present.
Now, it is a mistake to suppose that general gossip is confined to
small villages and towns, where everybody knows everybody’s business
better than he knows it himself. I think the experience of others will
testify to the truth of the statement that gossip runs riot everywhere.
In the larger towns or cities, it runs in eddies, or circles. This
clique, or this set, or this grade of society, is, to a man and woman,
as deeply interested in what the particular circle are to _do_, or
_wear_, or _be_, next, as though they lived in a place measuring three
square miles. So, while there were those in this nameless city of
which we write, who said, when they heard of the coming ceremony: “Dr.
Dennis! Why he is pastor of the First Church, isn’t he? or is it the
Central Church? Who is Marion Wilbur? does anybody know?” And while
there were those who rushed to and fro through the streets of the city,
passing under the shadow of the great First Church, who did not know
that there was to be a wedding there, who could not tell you the name
of the pastor of the church, nor even whether it had a pastor or not,
and who had never heard of Marion Wilbur in their lives, and never
would, till those lives were ended, though some of them brushed past
her occasionally, there were undeniably those who hurried through
their duties this evening, or shook off their weariness, or _ennui_, or
deferred other engagements and made it convenient to go to the First
Church prayer-meeting, for no better reasons than a curious desire to
see whether Dr. Dennis would appear any different from usual on the
night before his marriage, and whether Marion would be out, and whether
she _could_ look as unconscious and unconcerned as she always had, and
also what she _would wear_! whether she would cling to that old brown
dress to the very last! and whether Grace Dennis would be present, and
whether she would sit with Marion as they remembered she had, several
times, or where? These, and a dozen other matters of equal importance
and interest, had actually contributed to the filling of the seats in
the First Church chapel! Well, there are worse absorptions than even
these. I am not certain that there was a disagreeable word or thought
connected with these queries, and yet how sad a thing to think that the
Lord of the vineyard is actually indebted to such trivialities for the
ingathering of the workers in his vineyard to consult with him as to
the work? Alas! alas! many of them were not workers at all, but drones.
After all, since a higher motive could not touch these people, shall we
not be glad that any motive, so long as it was not actually a _sinful_
one, brought them within the sound of prayer and praise? They were
there anyway, and the service was commenced, and the hymn that followed
the pastor’s prayer was being sung, when the opening door revealed to
the surprised gazers the forms of Ruth Erskine and Judge Burnham! Now
Judge Burnham was one who would, on no account, have exerted himself
to see how Dr. Dennis would appear, or how Marion Wilbur would dress,
since none of these motives moved him. The question was, What had?