SHADOWED JOYS.
ONE of the first experiences connected with Ruth’s new life was a
surprise and a trial. She did not act in the matter as almost any other
young lady would have done. Indeed, perhaps, you do not need to be
told that it was not her _nature_ to act as most others would in like
circumstances. She kept the story an entire secret with her own heart.
Not even her father suspected that matters were settled; perhaps,
though, this last is to be accounted for by the fact that Judge Burnham
went away, again on business, by the early train the morning after
he had arranged for Ruth’s change of home and name, and did not
return again for a week. During that week, as I say, Ruth hugged her
new joy and kept her own counsel. Yet it was _joy_. Her heart was in
this matter. Strangely enough it had been a surprise to her. She had
understood Judge Burnham much less than others, looking on, had done,
and so gradual and subtle had been the change in her own feeling from
almost dislike to simple indifference, and from thence to quickened
pulse and added interest in life at his approach, that she had not in
the remotest sense realized the place which he held in her heart until
his own words revealed it to her. That she liked him better than any
other person, she began to know; but when she thought about it at all
it seemed a most natural thing that she should. It was not saying a
great deal, she told herself, for she really liked very few persons,
and there had never been one so exceptionally kind and unselfish and
patient. What should she do but like him? Sure enough! And yet, when
he asked her to be his wife, it was as complete a surprise as human
experiences could ever have for her. Desolate, afflicted, deserted, as
she felt, it is no wonder that the revelation of another’s absorbed
interest in her filled her heart.
As I say, then, she lived it alone for one delightful week. It was the
afternoon of the day on which she expected Judge Burnham’s return, and
she knew that his first step would be an interview with her father.
She determined to be herself the bearer of the news to Susan. During
this last week, whenever she thought of her sister, it had been a
tender feeling of gratitude for all the quiet, unobtrusive help and
kindness that she had shown since she first came into the family.
Ruth determined to show that she reposed confidence in her, and for
this purpose sought her room, ostensibly on some trivial errand, then
lingered and looked at a book that lay open, face downward, as if to
keep the place, on Susan’s little table. Susan herself was arranging
her hair over at the dressing bureau. Ruth never forgot any of the
details of this afternoon scene. She took up the little book and read
the title, “The Rest of Faith.” It had a pleasant sound. _Rest_ of any
sort sounded pleasantly to Ruth. She saw that it was a religious book,
and she dimly resolved that some other time, when she felt quieter,
had less important plans to carry out, she would read this book, look
more closely into this matter, and find, if she could, what it was
that made the difference between Susan’s experience and her own. That
there was a difference was _so_ evident; and yet, without realizing it,
Ruth’s happiness of the last few days was making her satisfied with her
present attainments spiritually. No, not exactly satisfied, but willing
to put the matter aside for a more convenient season.
“I have something to tell you that I think you will be interested to
hear,” she said, at last, still turning the leaves of the little book,
and feeling more embarrassed than she had supposed it possible for
_her_ to feel.
“Have you?” said Susan, brightly. “Good! I like to hear new things,
especially when they have to do with my friends.” And there was that in
her tone which made her sister understand that she desired to convey
the thought that she felt close to Ruth, and wanted to be held in dear
relations. For the first time in her life Ruth was conscious of being
willing.
“Judge Burnham is to return to-day.”
“Yes, I heard you speaking of it.”
There was wonderment in Susan’s tone, almost as well as words could
have done. It said: “What is there specially interesting in that?”
“Do you feel ready to receive him in a new relation?” Ruth asked, and
she was vexed to feel the blood surging into her cheeks. “I think he
has a desire to be very brotherly.”
“Oh, Ruth!”
There was no mistaking Susan’s tone this time. She had turned from
the mirror and was surveying her sister with unmistakably mournful
eyes, and there was astonished sorrow in her tones. What could be the
trouble! Whatever it was Ruth resented it.
“Well,” she said haughtily, “I seem to have disturbed as well as
surprised you. I was not aware that the news would be disagreeable.”
“I beg your pardon, Ruth. I _am_ very much surprised. I had not
supposed such a thing possible.”
“Why, pray?”
“Why, Ruth, dear, he is not a Christian?”
It would be impossible to describe to you the consternation in Susan’s
face and voice, and the astonishment in Ruth’s.
“Well,” she said again, “it is surely not the first time you were
conscious of that fact. He will be in no more danger in that respect
with me for a wife. At least I trust he will not.”
Susan had no answer to make to this strange sentence. She stood, brush
in hand, gazing bewilderingly at Ruth’s face for a moment. Then,
recollecting herself, turned toward the mirror again, with the simple
repeatal:
“I beg your pardon. I did not mean to hurt your feelings.”
As for Ruth, it would have been difficult for her to analyze her
feelings. _Were_ they hurt? Was she angry? If so, at what or whom? Her
heart felt in a tumult.
Now, I want you to understand that, strange as it may appear, this
was a new question to her. That Judge Burnham was not a Christian man
she knew, and regretted. But, that it should affect her answer to his
question was a thought which had not once presented itself. She turned
and went out from that room without another word, and feeling that she
never wanted to say any more words to that girl.
“It is no use,” she said, aloud and angrily. “We can never be anything
to each other, and it is folly to try. We are set in different molds.
I no sooner try to make a friend and confidant of her than some of her
tiresome notions crop out and destroy it all.”
She knew that all this was nonsense. She knew it was the working of
conscience on her own heart that was at this moment making her angry;
and yet she found the same relief which possibly you and I have felt in
blaming somebody for something, aloud, even while our hearts gainsayed
our words.
It is not my purpose to linger over this part of Ruth Erskine’s
history. The time has come to go on to other scenes. But in this
chapter I want to bridge the way, by a word or two of explanation,
so that you may the better understand Ruth’s mood, and the governing
principle of her actions, in the days that followed.
By degrees she came to a quieter state of mind—not, however, until the
formalities of the new relation were arranged, and Judge Burnham had
become practically almost one of the family. She grew to realizing that
it was a strange, perhaps an unaccountable thing that she, a Christian,
should have chosen for her life-long friend and hourly companion
one who was really hardly a believer in the Christ to whom she had
given herself. She grew to feeling that if this thought had come
first, before that promise was made, perhaps she ought to have made a
different answer. But I shall have to confess that she drew in with
this thought a long breath of relief as she told herself it was settled
_now_. There was no escape from promises as solemn as those which had
passed between them; that such covenants were, doubtless, in God’s
sight, as sacred as the marriage relation itself, and she was glad, to
the depths of her soul, that she believed this reasoning to be correct.
At the same time there was a curious sensation of aversion toward the
one who had, as it seemed to her, rudely disturbed the first flush of
her happiness. The glamour was gone from it all. Henceforth a dull
pain, a sense of want, a questioning as to whether she was just where
she should be, came in with all the enjoyment and she struggled
with the temptation to feel vindictive toward this disturber of her
peace. Besides this, she confided to Judge Burnham the fact that Susan
thought she was doing wrong in engaging herself to a man who was not a
Christian; and, while he affected to laugh over it good-naturedly, as a
bit of fanaticism which would harm no one, and which was the result of
her narrow-minded life hitherto, it meant more than that to him—jarred
upon him—and Ruth could see that it did. It affected, perhaps
insensibly, his manner toward the offending party. He was not as
“brotherly” as he had designed being; and altogether, Susan, since the
change was to come, did not regret that Judge Burnham’s disposition was
to hurry it with all possible speed. Life was less pleasant to her now
than it had been any time since her entrance into this distinguished
family. The pleasant little blossom of tenderness which had seemed
to be about to make itself fragrant for her sister and herself had
received a rude blast, and was likely to die outright.
During the weeks that followed there were other developments which
served to startle Ruth as hardly anything had done hitherto. They can
best be explained by giving you the substance of a conversation between
Judge Burnham and herself.
“I ought to tell you something,” he said, and the brief sentence was
preceded and followed by a pause of such length, and by such evident
embarrassment, that Ruth’s laugh had a tinge of wonder in it, as she
said, “Then, by all means I hope you will do so.”
“I suppose it is not altogether new to you?” he said, inquiringly.
“Your father has doubtless told you somewhat of my past life.”
She shook her head. “Absolutely nothing, save that you were, like
himself, a lawyer, resident in the city during term-time, and having
a country-seat somewhere. He didn’t seem to be very clear as to that.
Where is it? I think I shall be glad to live in the country. I never
tried it, but I have an idea that it must be delightful to get away
from the tumult of the city. Do you enjoy it?”
Judge Burnham’s unaccountable embarrassment increased. “You wouldn’t
like _my_ country-seat,” he said decidedly. “I never mean you to see
it, if it can be helped. There is a long story connected with it, and
with that part of my life. I am sorry that it is entirely new to you;
the affair will be more difficult for you to comprehend. May I ask you
if you mean you are _utterly_ ignorant of my early life? Is it unknown
to you that I have once been a married man?”
There was no mistaking the start and the flush of surprise, if it was
no deeper feeling, that Ruth exhibited. But she answered quietly enough:
“I am entirely ignorant of your past history, viewed in any phase.”
Judge Burnham drew a heavy sigh.
“I said the story was a long one, but I can make it very brief.” He
began: “You know that a life-time of joy, or misery can be expressed
in one sentence. Well, I married when I was a boy; married in haste
and repented at leisure, as many a boy has. My wife died when we had
been living together for five years, and I have two daughters. They are
almost women, I suppose, now. The oldest is seventeen, and they live at
the place which you call my country-seat. Now, these are the headlines
of the story. Perhaps you could imagine the rest better than I can tell
you. The filling out would take hours, and would be disagreeable both
to you and to me. I trust you will let me relieve you from the trial
of hearing. There is one thing I specially desire to say to you before
this conversation proceeds further: that is, I supposed, of course, you
were familiar with these outlines, at least so far as my marriage is
concerned, else I should have told you long ago. I have not meant to
take any unfair advantage of you. I had not an idea that I was doing
so.”
“Does my father know that you have daughters?” This was Ruth’s
question, and her voice, low and constrained, sounded so strangely to
herself that she remembered noticing it even then.
“I do not know. It is more than probable that he does not. Indeed,
I am not sure that any acquaintance of mine in the city knows this
part of my history. My married life was isolated from them all. I
have not attempted to conceal it, and, at the same time, I have made
no effort to tell it. I am painfully conscious of how all this must
look to you, yet I know you will believe that I intended no deception.
With regard to the—to my daughters, my professional life has kept me
from them almost constantly, so that no idea of _our_ home—yours and
mine—is associated with them. I have no intention of burying you in the
country, and indeed my errand here at this hour was to talk with you in
regard to the merits of two hotels, at either of which we can secure
desirable rooms.”
He hurried over this part of his sentence in a nervous way, as one
who was trying, by a rapid change of subject, to turn the current of
thought. Ruth brought him back to it with a question which stabbed him.
“But, Judge Burnham, what sort of a father can you have been all these
years?” He flushed and paled under it, and under the steadiness of her
gaze.
“I—I have hardly deserved the name of father, I suppose, and yet in
some respects I have tried to do what it seemed to me I could. Ruth,
you don’t understand the situation. You think you do, and it looks
badly to you, but there are circumstances which make it a peculiarly
trying one. However, they are not circumstances which need to touch
_you_. I meant and I mean to shield you from all these trials. I asked
you to be, not my housekeeper, not a care-taker of two girls who would
be utterly uncongenial to you, but my _wife_, and—”
She interrupted him. “And do you suppose, Judge Burnham, that you and I
can settle down to a life together of selfish enjoyment in each others’
society, ignoring the claims which your children have on you, and
which, assuredly, if I become your wife, they _will have_ on me? Could
you respect me if I were willing to do so?”
It was clear that Judge Burnham was utterly confounded. He arose and
stood confronting her, for she had risen to draw aside a fire-screen,
and had not, in speaking, resumed her seat. “You do not understand,”
he muttered, at last. “I have meant nothing wrong. I provide for them,
and am willing to do so. I see that they are taken care of; I do not
propose to desert them, but it would be simply preposterous to think of
burying you up there in the country with that sort of companionship!
You do not know what you are talking about. I have never for a moment,
thought of such a thing.”
“Then it is clearly time to think. If I do not understand _you_, Judge
Burnham, neither do you understand me. My life has been anything but
a perfect one, or a happy one. I have gone so far wrong myself that
it ill becomes me to find fault with others. But there is one thing I
will never do. I will never come between a father and his children,
separating them from the place which they ought to have beside him.
_Never!_”