RESTS.
IT took some time for the Erskines to find their way back into the
world—rather it took the world many weeks to be willing to receive
them. What was reasonable caution at first became not only annoying
but ludicrous, as the weeks went by, and common-sense suggested that
all possibility of danger from contact with them was past; there were
those who _could not_ believe that it would ever be safe to call on
them again. Ruth, on her part did not worry over this, but suggested,
coldly, that it would be an almost infinite relief if two-thirds of
their calling acquaintances would continue frightened for the rest of
their lives.
In the domestic world it made more trouble. Servants—an army of
them—who were marshaled to and from intelligence offices, looked
askance at the doors and windows, as if they half expected the demon of
small-pox to take visible shape and pounce upon them, and it was found
to be only the worst and most hopeless characters who had ventured into
doubtful quarters, so that for days Susan was engaged in well-managed
skirmishes between girls who professed everything and knew nothing.
Ruth had long before retired, vanquished from this portion of the
field, and agreed that her forte did not lie in that direction. “I
haven’t the least idea where it lies,” she said aloud, and gloomily.
But she was in her own room, and the door was locked, and there was
no other listener than the window-light, against which her brown head
wearily leaned. She had not yet reached the point where she was willing
to confess her disappointment at life to anybody else, but in truth
it seemed that the world was too small for her. She was not needed
at home, nor elsewhere, so far as she could see. Her father, as he
relapsed into old duties, did not seek his former confidential footing
with her; indeed, he seemed rather to avoid it, as one who might fear
lest his own peace would be shaken. So Ruth thought at first, but one
little private talk with him had dispelled the probability of that.
“I want to tell you something, daughter,” he had said to her when
they were left alone in the library, the first day of his return to
office-life. “At least I owe it to you to tell you something. I waited
until I had really gotten back into the work-a-day world again, because
of a half recognized fear which I see now was cowardly and faithless,
that old scenes would recall old feelings. I had an experience, my
daughter, during those first few days when the Lord shut me out from
you all. My Christian faith did not sustain me as it ought to have
done. I mean by that, that it was not the sort of faith which it ought
to have been. I rebelled at the fierceness of the fire in which I
had been placed. I felt that I could not bear it; that it was cruel
and bitter. Most of all, I rebelled at the presence of my wife. I
felt that it was too much to be shut away from everything that life
holds dear, and to be shut up with that which had hitherto made life
miserable. I can not tell you of the struggle, of the hopeless beatings
of my bruised head against the bars of its cage. It almost unmans me
even to think of those hours.” And Judge Erskine paused and wiped the
perspiration from his forehead. “I will just hurry over the details,”
he said at last. “There came an hour when I began to dimly comprehend
that my Redeemer was only answering some of the agonizing prayers that
I had of late been constantly putting up to him. I had prayed, Ruth,
for strength to do my whole duty, and in order to do it I plainly
saw that I must feel differently from what I had been feeling; that
I must get over this shrinking from a relation which I deliberately
brought upon myself, and one which I was bound, by solemn covenant, to
sustain. I must have help; I must submit, not only, but I must learn
to be pitiful toward, and patient with, and yet how _could_ I? Christ
showed me how. He let me see such a revelation of my own selfishness,
and hardness, and pride, as made me abhor myself in ‘dust and ashes,’
and then he let me see such a revelation of human patience, and
tenderness, and self-abnegation, as filled me with gratitude and
respect. Ruth, he has given me much more than I asked. I prayed for
patience and tenderness and he gave me not only those, but such a
feeling of respect for one who could so entirely forget herself, and do
for another what my wife did for me, that I feel able to cherish her
all the rest of my life. In short, daughter, I feel that I could take
even the vows of the marriage-covenant upon my lips now, and mean them
in all simplicity and singleness of heart. And having taken them long
ago I ratify them now, and mean to live by them as long as life lasts
to us both, so help me God. In all this I do not forget the sin, nor
the suffering which that sin has entailed upon you, my dear, precious
daughter, but I feel that I must do what I can to atone for it, and
that shirking my duty, as I have been doing in the past, does not help
you to bear your part. I know you have forgiven me, Ruth, and I know
that God has. He has done more than that. In his infinite love and
compassion he has made the cross a comfort. And now, daughter, I never
wish to speak of this matter again. You asked me, once, if I wished
you to call her mother. I have no desire to force your lips to what
they do not mean, nor to oblige you to bear any more cross for your
father, than the sin has, in itself, laid upon you, but if, at any time
in your future life, you feel that you care to say, ‘Mother,’ it will
be a pleasant sound to my ears.”
Ruth reflected, afterward, with a sense of thankfulness, that she had
grace enough left to bend forward and kiss her father’s white forehead,
and pass her hand tenderly over the moist locks of gray hair above his
temples. Then she went out and went away. She could have spoken no word
just then. She was struggling with two conflicting feelings. In her
soul she was glad for her father; that he had got help, and that his
heavy cross was growing into peace. But all the same—she felt now, and
felt with a dull aching at her heart which refused to be comforted,
that she herself had not found peace in it; that it was, if anything,
more bitter than ever, and that she had lost her father. Is it any
wonder that life to her stretched out gloomily?
Many changes had taken place during their enforced exile from the
world. Eurie Mitchell had married and gone, and Flossy Shipley had
married and gone, both of them to new homes and new friends, and both
of them had, by their departure, made great gulfs in Ruth’s life. They
had written her characteristic notes along with their wedding cards.
Eurie’s ran thus:
“_Dear Ruth_—I fancy you bearing it like a martyr,
as I know you can. I always said you would make
a magnificent martyr, but I am so sorry that the
experiment has come in such a shape that we can’t look
on and watch its becomingness. Also, I am very sorry
that you can not be present to see me ‘stand up in the
great big church without any bonnet!’ which is the way
in which our baby characterizes the ceremony. In fact,
I am almost as sorry about that as I am that father
should have been out of town during the first few days
of Judge Erskine’s illness, and so given that Dr.
Bacon a chance to be installed. Father doesn’t happen
to agree with him on some points, and the care of
small-pox patients is one thing in which they totally
differ. However, your father is going on finely, so
far, I hear, and you know, my dear, that Dr. Bacon
_is very_ celebrated; so be as brave as you can and it
will all come out right, I dare say. In fact we _know_
it will. Isn’t that a comfort? There are ever so many
things that I might say if I could, but you know I was
never able to put my heart on paper. So imagine some
of the heart-thoughts which beat for you, while I sign
myself for the last time,
“EURIE MITCHELL.”
Ruth laughed over this note. “It is so exactly like her,” she murmured.
“I wonder if she will ever tone down?”
Flossy’s was smaller, daintier, delicately perfumed with the faintest
touch of violets, and read:
“_Dear, Precious Friend_—‘The eternal God is thy
refuge, and underneath are the everlasting arms.’ How
safe you are! ‘Oh, thou afflicted, tossed with tempest
and not comforted! Behold, I will lay thy stones with
fair colors; with everlasting kindness will I have
mercy on thee, saith the Lord, thy Redeemer.’ Blessed
Jesus, do for Ruth ‘As thou hast said.’ This is Flossy
Shipley’s prayer for her dear friend, whom she will
love and cherish forever.”
Over this note Ruth shed hot tears. She was touched and comforted and
saddened; she realized more than ever before what a spiritual loss
Flossy’s going was to be to her, and she did not come closer to the One
who would have made amends for all losses.
Perhaps she had never felt the dreariness of her existence more than
she did on a certain evening, some weeks after the household had
settled into its accustomed routine of life, which was like and yet
utterly unlike what that life had been before the invasion of disease.
It was dark outside, and the rain was falling heavily; there was little
chance of relief from monotony by the arrival of guests. Ruth wandered
aimlessly through the library in search of a book that she felt willing
to read, and, finding none, turned at last to the sitting-room, where
Judge Erskine and his wife were sitting. Secure in the prospect of
rain, and therefore seclusion, he had arrayed himself in dressing-gown
and slippers, and was resting his scarred, seamed face among the
cushions of the easy-chair, enjoying a luxury, which was none other
than that of having his gray hair carefully and steadily brushed, the
brush passing with the regularity of a sentinel on its slow, soothing
track, guided by his wife’s hand, while Judge Erskine’s face bore
unmistakable signs of reposeful rest. There was that in the scene which
irritated Ruth almost beyond control. She passed quickly through the
room, into the most remote corner of the alcove, which was curtained
off from the main room, and afforded a retreat for the piano, and a
pretext for any one who desired to use it and be alone. It was not
that _she_ had ever waited thus upon her father; she had never thought
of approaching him in this familiar way. Even had she dared to do so,
their make-up was, after all, so utterly dissimilar that, what was
evidently a sedative to him, would have driven his daughter fairly
wild. To have any one, however dear and familiar, touch her hair,
draw a brush through it, would have irritated her nerves in her best
days. She thought of it then, as she sat down in the first seat that
she reached, after the friendly crimson curtains hid her from those
two—sat with her chin resting in her two listless hands, and tried to
wonder what she should do if she were forced to lie among the cushions
of that easy-chair in there, and have _that_ woman brush her hair.
“I should choke her, I know I should!” she said, with sudden
fierceness; and then, with scarcely less fierceness of tone and manner
added: “I hope it will never be my awful fate to have to be taken care
of by her, or to have to endure the sight of her presence about any one
I love. Oh, what is the matter with me! I grow wicked every hour. What
_will_ become of me?”
After all, there were those who were not afraid of the rain, and were
not to be kept from their purposes by it. Ruth listened indifferently
at first, then with a touch of eagerness, to the sound of the bell,
and the tones in the hall, and then to the sound of Judge Burnham’s
step as he was being shown to the sitting-room. The new help had been
in the house just long enough to discover that he was a privileged and
unceremonious guest.
“Ah!” he said, pausing in the doorway “Am I disturbing? Sick to-night,
Judge?”
“Come in,” said Judge Erskine’s hearty voice. “No, I am not sick, only
dreadfully lazy and being petted. When I was a boy, and mother used
to brush my hair, nothing soothed and rested me so much, and I find I
haven’t lost the old habit. Have a chair, and tell us the evening news.
I haven’t been out of the house since dinner.”
“Nothing specially new,” said Judge Burnham, dropping into an
easy-chair and looking around him inquiringly. “Where are the ladies?”
“Why,” said Mrs. Erskine, brushing away steadily, “Susan is in the
kitchen; she mostly is these days. Such a time as we are having with
servants; I wonder she don’t get sick of the whole set and tell them
to tramp. Just now, though, she has got hold of one who seems willing
enough to learn; and Susan heard her pa say this noon that he believed
he would like some muffins once more, so she is down there trying to
teach Mollie about setting muffins, and beating of it into her to let
them alone in the morning till _she_ gets down to ’tend to them.”
“Why,” said Judge Erskine, in a tone of tenderness that jarred Ruth’s
ears, “I wonder if she is attending to that? What a child she is! She
will wear herself out waiting on me.”
“There ain’t a selfish streak about her,” Mrs. Erskine said,
complacently “nor never was. But la! you needn’t fret about her,
Judge; she loves to do it. She went down in the first place to ’tend
to that, but she has got another string to her bow now; she found out
that Mollie didn’t know how to read writing, and had a letter from her
mother that she couldn’t make out, so Susan read it to her, and the
next thing was to write her an answer, and she is at that now.”
“And where is Miss Ruth?” questioned Judge Burnham, the instant this
long sentence was concluded.
“Why, she is moping—that’s the best name I know for it. She is back
there in the alcove. I thought she went to play, but she hasn’t played
a note. That child needs a change. I’m just that worried about her that
her white face haunts me nights when I’m trying to sleep. She has
had an awful hard siege; her pa so sick, and she obliged to keep away
from him, and not being sure whether I knew more than a turnip about
taking care of him—I wonder how she stood it. And I’m just afraid she
will break down yet. She needs something to rest her up and give her
some color in her cheeks. I keep telling her pa that he ought to do
something.”
“Suppose I go and help her mope,” Judge Burnham said, rising in the
midst of a flow of words, and speedily making his way behind the red
curtains.
He came over to Ruth, holding out both hands to greet her.
“How do you do?” he said, and there was tender inquiry in the tone.
“You didn’t know I was in town, did you? I came two days sooner than I
had hoped.”
“I didn’t know you were out of town,” said Ruth. “I thought you had
deserted us like the rest of our friends.”
“So you didn’t get my note?” he asked, looking blank. “Well, never
mind; it was merely an explanation of an absence which I hoped you
might notice. Mrs. Erskine says you are moping, Ruth. Is it true? She
says you need a change and something to rest you up. I wish you would
let me give you a change. Don’t you think you could?”
“A change!” Ruth repeated, with a little laugh, and there was color
enough in her cheeks just then.
“Why should _I_ need a change? What do you mean?”
“I mean a great deal. I want to give you such a change as will affect
all your future life and mine. I would like to have you change name
and home. Oh, Ruth, I would like to devote my life to the business of
‘resting you up.’ Don’t you believe I can do it?”
Now, I am sure there is no need for me to give you Ruth Erskine’s
answer. You probably understand what it was. Unless I am mistaken, you
understand her better than she did herself. Up to this very moment she
actually had not realized what made up the bulk of her unrest this
week. No, not the bulk either; there were graver questions even than
this one which might well disturb her, but she had not understood her
own footing with Judge Burnham, nor had scarcely a conception of his
feelings toward her.
The low murmur of talk went on, after a little, behind the red
curtains, and continued long after Judge Erskine and his wife went
up-stairs. Just as he was turning out the gas in their dressing-room,
that gentleman said:
“Unless I am mistaken, Judge Burnham would like to give Ruth a decided
change.”
“Land alive!” said Mrs. Erskine, taking in his meaning, after a little,
“I declare, now you speak of it, I shouldn’t wonder if he did.” Then
she added, kindly, genuinely: “And I’m sure I hope it’s true; I tell
you that child needs resting up.”