A NEWLY-SHAPED CROSS.
RUTH Erskine, meantime, was keeping up her struggle, having intervals
when she seemed to be making headway, and felt as though she had
reached higher ground, only to be dropped suddenly down again, into the
depths of despair by some unfortunate encounter with the new-comers. No
more definite comment on the existing state of things could be made,
than is shadowed in that expression, “New-comers.” They still continued
to be thought of as such in the house. They did not drift into the
family ways or customs—they did not assimilate. Everything was so new
to them, so unlike their entire former education, that much of the
time they stood one side and looked on, instead of mingling and having
their individuality lost in the union. So far as Mrs. Erskine was
concerned, she did not look on _quietly_. It had been no part of her
discipline to learn quietness. She talked everywhere, under the most
trying circumstances, and she seemed always to chance upon the things
to say that were particularly unfortunate just then and there. This
being the case, it is perhaps not strange that the rasping processes
were so numerous that there was not time between them for healings.
Judge Erskine, on his part, made nearly as little progress. Being a man
of faultless grace and bearing, and being noted for fastidiousness,
made him pre-eminently susceptible to wounds in these directions.
Generally, he and Ruth maintained the strictest silence toward each
other concerning their trials, they having, by tacit consent, agreed
upon that as the safest course; but, occasionally, they were rasped
into comparing notes. In the hall one morning, where many of their
confidential conversations were held, during these days, her father
stopped her, with an almost petitioning question:
“Daughter, was it very trying, yesterday, when Mrs. Blakesley called?”
“As trying as it could be, sir,” Ruth answered, still smarting so much
under that recent infliction that she could not bring her voice to a
sympathetic tone. “Mrs. Blakesley, being a woman who hasn’t an ounce
of brains herself, has, as you may imagine, none to spare for other
people. Indeed, father, I sometimes feel as though this matter of
making and receiving calls was going to be too complicated a thing for
me. I never was fond of such duties, as you may remember, and now it is
absolute torture, long drawn out.”
“I know it,” he said, wincing, and growing paler under each stabbing
word from his daughter’s lips. “It was all folly, I am afraid. I
thought we would try to do just right; but I do not know but we would
have felt it less, and they been just as happy, if we had resolutely
closed our doors on society altogether, and borne this thing among
ourselves.”
What these two people needed was some strong voice to remind them how
many, and how much harder troubles life had, than they had been called
upon to bear. Despite Marion Dennis’ opinion, this is—or it should be—a
help. By comparison with other’s trials, we ought to be led to feel the
lesser nature of our own. Failing in that, it sometimes happens to us
to decide as to which of our _own_ trials has the heaviest hand.
“I don’t think that would have been possible,” Ruth answered, her tone
somewhat subdued, as it always was, by a realization of her father’s
deeper wound. “But, I wish with all my heart, I saw a way to escape
from some of this calling. There are hundreds, almost, yet to make, and
some of them more formidable than any that we have attempted; and the
list continues to swell every day.”
The father had no answer; he saw no way out. And yet a way was coming,
swiftly—one which would help them both out of this dilemma, at least.
It was the very next morning that Judge Erskine failed to appear
at the breakfast-table and his wife brought word that he was most
uncommon restless all night, and pretty fevery, and resisted all her
suggestions to give him a good sweat, or to drink any boneset-tea, or
even to soak his feet in mustard-water. Consequence was, he didn’t feel
able to raise his head from his pillow, and wouldn’t so much as let her
speak of any breakfast, though she _did_ tell over several things to
him, that she thought he might relish.
Ruth groaned inwardly, not so much at anxiety for her father—his
sicknesses were slight affairs soon over, and his most sovereign remedy
had hitherto been to be let alone. How, then, had he borne this fearful
infliction of sympathy and fertile suggestion?
But the sickness, whatever it was, did not pass away, as others had
done. Ruth visiting him, and seeing the fevered face and anxious
eyes, felt a nameless dread, and entreated that Dr. Bacon might at
once be summoned, being even more alarmed at the fact that her father
immediately acquiesced. Dr. Bacon was slow in coming, being a man much
sought after in his profession. But he was also unprecedentedly slow
in leaving, making a call, the length of which amazed Ruth and at
which she did not know whether to be alarmed or relieved. During its
continuance Judge Burnham stopped to inquire as to some law papers, and
also apparently to make a call, for he tarried after he found that he
could not accomplish his original errand, and was in the hall, in the
act of leaving, when the doctor came, with slow and thoughtful tread,
down-stairs. That gentleman caught at his familiar face, as if it were
a relief.
“Ah, good morning, Judge,” he said. “This is opportune. May I have a
word with you?”
And then he unceremoniously pushed open the library door, and both
gentlemen retired within, leaving Ruth perplexed, and perhaps a little
annoyed. The door closed upon them. Dr. Bacon was not long in making
known his thoughts:
“Judge, are you an intimate friend of this family?”
“Why,” said Judge Burnham, hesitating, and flushing a little over the
question, “I hardly know whether I may claim exceeding intimacy; the
Judge is not apt to have very intimate friends. Perhaps I come as near
it as anybody. Yes, I think I may say I am considered a friend—by
_him_, at least. Why, may I ask?”
“Because they need a friend—one who is not afraid of himself or his
feelings, and can help them plan, and perhaps execute.”
“What on earth do you mean? Is the Judge so very sick?”
“Well, as to that, he is likely to be sick enough—sicker, indeed, than
I care to have his daughter realize, just at present. But the _nature_
of the sickness is the trouble. It is a very marked case of a very
undesirable type of small-pox! Now, don’t back out of the nearest door,
and leave me in the lurch, for I depend on you.”
This last, as Judge Burnham uttered an exclamation of dismay, and
stepped backward. The sentence recalled his self-possession.
“Don’t be disturbed,” he said, and his tones were somewhat haughty. “I
have not the slightest intention of fleeing. I shall be glad to serve
him and his—his family, to the best of my ability. But what is there
for me to do? Is he aware of the situation?”
“Most decidedly so. I didn’t mince matters with him; he is not one
that will bear it; he knows all that I do, and is as clear-headed as
usual; he knows certain things that must _not_ be done. For instance,
his daughter Ruth is, on no account, to be allowed to put her head
inside the door. He was peremptory about that and must be obeyed,
though there is no earthly fear of infection for some days yet; but I
have given my word of honor that it shall be as he says. The trouble
is, they will be left in the lurch. There isn’t a small-pox nurse in
the city that I know of. I would have given fifty dollars an hour,
almost, for a good one last night, and, besides, the servants must be
informed, and they will leave to a man, or a woman. In books you are
always reading of heroic servants who are willing to take their lives
in their hands and stand by their mistresses through anything. I wish
I could find a few of them! I would promise them high wages. Well,
now, what you can do first, is to explain the state of affairs to Miss
Erskine. I would sooner try to explain to an iceberg, or a volcano—I am
never quite sure which she is. And then, if you have any wits, set them
to work to establish communication between this house and the outer
world. In other words, do what you can for them, _if_ you can. You know
better than I do whether you are on sufficient terms of intimacy to do
anything with her. The old lady must be told, I suppose, though Judge
Erskine didn’t mention her at all. Perhaps she will want to get out of
the house, somewhere, and very likely you can manage that. At least the
first thing of importance is to tell Miss Ruth. Will you do it?”
“Y-e-s,” said Judge Burnham, speaking slowly and hesitatingly. It was
by no means the sort of communication that he desired to make to her,
yet he felt an instant desire to stand by her, and, if disagreeable
tidings must be given, bear them himself, in whatever alleviating way
he might.
“Very well,” answered the doctor, promptly. He was spending a great
deal of time, on this case, and was getting in haste. “I ought to have
been off fifteen minutes ago, but Judge Erskine wanted all the affairs
of the nation arranged before I left. He knows what he wants, and, so
far as it is within the compass of human possibility, he intends to
have it. Will you see Miss Ruth at once, and do what planning you
can? Meantime, I will make one more dash for a nurse. No one is to go
up to Judge Erskine until I see him again. I fancy he wants to do some
thinking for himself. That is his peremptory order, and it will be
well enough to obey it. There is no sort of danger of infection now,
you understand, but he is quite as well off alone, for a little. Now,
I positively must go. I will look in on my way down the square, and
report further.”
And then the great doctor took himself off leaving Judge Burnham with
the worst case on his hands that had ever fallen to his professional
life. He walked slowly toward the door, but before he could pass out it
was pushed open by Ruth, her face white and frightened. “Judge Burnham
what has happened? what is the matter? is my father so very sick? and
why am I not to be allowed to go to him?”
“One thing at a time, dear friend,” he said, and his voice had a touch
of sympathy that could not have escaped her. “Your father is not
alarmingly sick, but the sickness is of such a nature that he will not
have you exposed to it even for a moment. It was his first thought.”
And then he pushed a chair forward and gently placed her in it, and sat
down beside her, telling her briefly, rapidly, in a half professional
manner, all he knew himself. He was a good student of human nature; his
success in his profession would have proved that, and he knew it was
the surest way to hold her self-controlled and ready for intelligent
thought. He had not misjudged her character. She neither cried out
nor fainted; she had been pale enough before, but her face whitened a
little and she covered her eyes with her hands for an instant. It was a
curious revelation to her of the strangeness of these human hearts of
ours, when she remembered afterward that, flashing along with the other
crowding thoughts as to what, and how, there came the swift memory of
the yesterday’s talk, and the instant realization of the fact that
they would have neither to make nor receive any more of those dreadful
calls, for some time, at least. Just a moment of hiding behind those
hands and then she was ready for action. “Judge Burnham, have you
thought what ought to be done first, and if you have, will you help
me? It makes it harder because my father will not let me come to him.
If we could talk together, if he would let me be his nurse, I could—”
and then she hesitated, and her lip began to quiver. She remembered
that her father was the one person whom she had to love.
“There is no use in talking about that,” Judge Burnham said, hastily;
“the doctor said he ought, by all means, to be humored in this matter;
that it would help to keep him calm, and thus hold the disease in
check; you should not have a thought of going to him. Some nurse can
surely be found; people will do anything for money. I suppose, Miss
Erskine, it will be necessary to tell the other members of the family?”
“Of course,” Ruth said, and she tried not to shiver, visibly, as she
thought of what Mrs. Erskine might say, and wondered whether she was
one of those women who were ignorantly and wildly afraid of infection,
and whether there would be a scene with her, and what Susan would
do, or say. Then she thought of the servants. “Hannah and Thomas and
the rest ought to be told, ought they not, Judge Burnham?” Then she
suddenly roused from her half-suppressed, appealing tones, and rising,
said, “How foolishly I am talking! This thing has startled me so. Of
course they must be told; and it should be done at once; I will take no
unfair advantage of them in any way. Yes, I will tell Mrs. Erskine and
my sister. Thank you, Judge Burnham.”
And that gentleman began to consider himself as almost dismissed from
her presence.
“What can I do for you, first?” he asked her, eagerly; “I am not one
of those who are afraid of anything, Miss Erskine; in mortal guise,
at least. I am going up to see your father, and since you can not go
yourself, you might make me your messenger, to say anything that you
would say, that you are willing to have me repeat.”
Her eyes brightened. “Thank you,” she said, “it is very pleasant to
feel that you do not want to desert us. But I will not trouble papa,
until I can tell him that we are arranged somehow, and that he need not
worry.”
She went down first to the kitchen regions and summoned the working
force, telling them in brief, clear language, what had fallen upon
the house, and offering them each two weeks’ wages in advance and good
characters. She was young and had not been put to many such tests. They
were not “servants in a book,” it appeared, for they every one, eagerly
caught at their liberty and were nervously anxious to get out of the
plague-stricken house, not even desiring to wait until Ruth could get
her pocket-book and make good her word. _They_ were young and ignorant,
and in the great outside world they had friends; life was dear to them.
Who shall blame them? And yet, I desire to say, just here, that it is
_not_ in books only that noble, self-sacrificing exceptions to this
form of selfishness are found; I have known kitchens that ought to have
glowed with the beauty of the strong, unselfish hearts beating there,
through danger, and trial, and harassing toil. It only happened that
Ruth Erskine had none of those about her, and, within half an hour
after the first word had reached them, she stood alone in her deserted
kitchen, trying to get her nerves quiet for the next, and, to her,
more trying ordeal. What would those new elements in the household
say? Was Mrs. Erskine given to hysteria, and would these startling
developments produce an attack? Would they want to get away from the
house? Could they be gotten away, quietly, to some safe place? Would
Susan be willing to go? How would _she_ take the news? Ruth puzzled
her brain some weary minutes in trying to decide just how they would
act, and whether she had courage to tell them, and whether it were not
altogether possible that Mrs. Erskine might be moved to make such an
outcry as should disturb the sick man, up-stairs. At last she gave over
the attempt to arrange their actions for them, and went to summon them
to the library, with an air of forced calmness and a determination to
have this worst feature of the side issues over, as soon as possible.