DUTY’S BURDEN.
BY degrees Judge Burnham began to understand the woman whom he had
chosen for his wife. Hitherto he had been in the habit of being
governed by his own will, of bending forces to his strong purposes.
Those occasional characters with whom he came in contact, who refused
to be molded by him, he had good-naturedly let alone, crossing their
path as little as possible, and teaching himself to believe that they
were not worth managing, which was the sole reason why he did not
manage them. But Ruth Erskine was a new experience—she _would do_ what
she believed to be the right thing; and she _would not_ yield her
convictions to be governed by his judgment. He could not manage _her_,
and he had no wish to desert her. Clearly one of them must yield. The
entire affair served to keep him in a perturbed state of mind.
Ruth grew more settled. Weeks went by, and her decisions were made, her
plans formed, and she walked steadily toward their accomplishment. Not
realizing it herself, she was yet engaged in making a compromise with
her conscience. She believed herself, perhaps, to have done wrong in
promising to become the wife of a man who ignored the principle which
governed her life. She would not give back that promise, but she would
make the life one of self-abnegation, instead of—what for one brief
week it had seemed to her—a resting place, full of light. She would be
his wife, but she would also be the mother of his daughters; she would
live with them, for them; give up her plans, her tastes, her pursuits,
for their sake. In short, she would assume the martyr’s garb in good
earnest now, and wear it for a lifetime. The more repulsive this course
seemed to her—and it grew very repulsive indeed—the more steadily she
clung to it; and it was not obstinacy, you are to understand. It will
do for such as Judge Burnham to call such resolves by that name; but
you should know that Ruth Erskine was all the time governed by a solemn
sense of duty. It was _cross_, hard, cold, unlightened by any gleams of
peace; but for all that it started in a sense of _duty_.
By degrees the “long story,” much of it, came to light—rather was
dragged to light—by a persistent method of cross-questioning which
drove Judge Burnham to the very verge of desperation.
“Judge Burnham,” she would begin, “how have your daughters been cared
for all these years?”
“Why,” he said, wriggling and trying to get away from his own sense of
degradation, “they had good care; at least I supposed it was. During
their childhood their mother’s sister lived there, and took the sole
charge of them. She was a kind-hearted woman enough, and did her duty
by them.”
“But she died, you told me, when they were still children.”
“Yes, that was when I was abroad. You see when I went I expected to
return in a year at most, but I staid on, following one perplexing
tangle after another in connection with my business affairs, until
four or five years slipped away. Meantime their aunt died, and the old
housekeeper, who had lived with their family since the last century
sometime, took her place, and managed for them as well as she could. I
didn’t realize how things were going. I imagined everything would come
out right, you know.”
“I don’t see how they could,” Ruth said, coldly, and Judge Burnham
answered nothing.
“Didn’t they attend school?”
“Why, yes, they went to the country school out there, you know, when
there was one. It is too near the city to secure good advantages, and
yet too far away for convenience. I meant, you see, to have them in
town, when I came home, at the best schools, and boarding with me, but
I found it utterly impracticable—utterly so. You have no conception of
what five years of absence will do for people.”
“I can imagine something of what five years of neglect would do.”
Ruth said it icily—as she _could_ speak. Then he would say, “Oh, Ruth!”
in a tone which was entreating and almost pitiful. And he would start
up and pace back and forth through the room for a moment, until brought
back by one of her stabbing questions.
“How have they lived since your return?”
“Why, right there, just where they always have lived. It is the only
home they have ever known.”
“And they are entirely alone?”
“Why, no. The housekeeper, of whom I told you, had a daughter, a
trustworthy woman, and when her mother died this daughter moved to the
house, with her family, and has taken care of them.”
“And so, Judge Burnham, your two daughters have grown to young
ladyhood, isolated from companionship, and from education, and from
refinements of every sort, even from their own father, and have been
the companions of ignorant hirelings!”
“I tell you, Ruth, you must see them before you can understand this
thing,” he would exclaim, in almost despair.
“I assuredly mean to,” would be her quiet answer, which answer drove
him nearer to desperation than he was before. At last he came and stood
before her.
“You force me to speak plainly,” he said. “I would have shielded you
forever, and you will not let me. These girls are not like your class
of girls. They have no interest in refined pursuits. They have no
refinement of feeling or manner. They have no desire for education.
They do not even care to keep their persons in ordinarily tasteful
attire. They care nothing for the refinements of home. They belong to a
lower order of being. It is simply impossible to conceive of them as my
children; and it is utterly preposterous to think of your associating
with them in any way.”
She was stilled at last—stunned, it would seem—for she sat in utter
silence for minutes that seemed to him hours, while he stood before her
and waited. When at last she spoke, her voice was not so cold as it had
been, but it was controlled and intensely grave.
“And yet, Judge Burnham, they _are_ your children, and you are bound
to them by the most solemn and sacred vows which it is possible for
a man to take on his lips. How can you ever hope to escape a just
reward for ignoring them? Now, I must tell you what I feel and mean. I
do not intend to be hard or harsh, and yet I intend to be true. I am
not sure that I am acting or talking as other girls would, under like
circumstances; but that is a question which has never troubled me. I am
acting in what I believe to be the right way. You have asked me to be
your wife, and I have promised in good faith. It was before I knew any
of this story, which, in a sense, alters the ground on which we stood.
I will tell you plainly what I believe I ought to do, and what, with
my present views, I _must_ do. I will give my life to helping you in
this matter. I will go up to that home of yours and hide myself with
those girls, and we will both do what we can to retrieve the mistakes
of a lifetime. I will struggle and plan and endure for them. I am
somewhat versed in the duties which this sort of living involves, as
you know, and in the crosses which it brings. Perhaps it was for this
reason they were sent to me. I have chafed under them, and been weak
and worthless, God knows; and yet I feel that perhaps he is giving me
another chance. I will try to do better work for him, in your home,
than I have in my own. At any rate, I _must try_. If I fail, it shall
be after the most solemn and earnest efforts that I can make. But,
as I said, it _must be_ tried. This is not all self-sacrifice, Judge
Burnham. I mean that I could not do it, would not see that I had any
right to do it, if I had not given my heart to _you_; and if for the
love of you I could not trust myself to help you in _your_ duty. But
you must fully understand that it seems unquestionably to be your duty.
You must not shirk it; I must never help you to shirk it; I should not
dare. I will go with you to that home, and be with you a member of
that family. But I can never make with you another home that does not
include the _family_. I _must never do it_.”
Judge Burnham hoped to turn her away from this decision, which was, to
him, simply an awful one! Do you imagine that he accomplished it? I
believe you know her better. It is necessary for you to remember that
he did not understand the underlying motive by which she was governed.
When she said, “I _must_ not do it,” he did not understand that she
meant her vows to Christ would not let her. He believed, simply, that
she set her judgment above his, in this matter, and determined that
she _would_ not yield it. The struggle was a severe one. At times he
felt as though he would say to her, if she “_must_ not” share with him
the home he had so lovingly and tenderly planned for her, why, then,
_he_ must give her up. The only reason that he did not say this, was
because he did not dare to try it. He had not the slightest intention
of giving her up; and he was afraid she would take him at his word, as
assuredly she would have done. She was dearer to him, in her obstinacy,
than anything in life—and nothing must be risked. Therefore was he sore
beset; and, as often as he renewed the struggle, he came off worsted.
How could it be otherwise, when Ruth could constantly flee back to that
unanswerable position—“Judge Burnham, it is _wrong_; I _must_ not do
it?” What if _he_ didn’t understand her? He saw that she understood
herself, and meant what she said.
So it came to pass that, as the days went by, and the hour for the
marriage drew nearer and nearer, Judge Burnham felt the plans, so dear
to his heart, slipping away from under his control. Ruth would be
_married_. Well, that was a great point gained. But she would not go
away for a wedding journey; she would not go to the Grand Hotel, where
he desired to take rooms—no, not for a day, or hour. She would not have
the trial of contrast between the few, first bright days of each other,
and the dismal days following, when they had each other, with something
constantly coming between. She would go directly to that country home,
and nowhere else She would go to it just as it was. He was not to alter
the surroundings or the outward life, in one single respect. She meant
to see the home influence which had molded those girls exactly as it
had breathed about them, without any outside hand to change it. She
proposed to do the changing herself. One little bit of compromise her
stern conscience admitted—her future husband might fit up one room for
her use—her private retreat—according to his individual taste, and she
would accept it from him as hers. But the outer life, that was to be
lived as a family, he must not touch.
“But Ruth,” he said, “you do not understand. Things have utterly gone
to decay. There was no one to care, or appreciate; there was no one to
_take_ care of anything, and I let everything go.”
“Very well,” she said; “then we will see what our united tastes can do,
toward setting everything right, when we come to feel what is wanted.”
“Then couldn’t you go with me and see the place, a few weeks before we
go there, and give directions, such as you would like to see carried
out?—just a few, you know, such as you can take in at a glance, to make
it a little more like home?”
She shook her head decidedly. No, indeed. She was not going there to
spy out the desolation of the land. She was going to it as a _home_;
and if, as a home, it was defective, together they—he, his daughters
and herself—would see what was needed, and remodel it.
How dismally he shook his head over that! He knew his daughters, and
she did not. He tried again:
“But, Ruth, it is five miles from the railroad. How will it be possible
to ride ten miles by train, and five by carriage, night and morning,
and attend to business?”
“Easily,” she said, quietly; “except in term-time. The busiest season
that my father ever had we were in the country, and he came out nearly
every evening. In term-time we must _all_ come into town and board, I
suppose.”
He winced over this, and was silent, and felt himself giving up his
last hope of holding this thing in check, and began to realize that he
loved this future wife of his very much indeed, else he could never
submit to such a state of things. He believed it would last for but
a little while—just long enough for her to see the hopelessness of
things. But this “seeing,” with her, into all its hopelessness, was
what he shrank from.
So the days went by; not much joy in them for any one concerned.
Away from Ruth’s influence, Judge Burnham was annoyed, to such a
degree, that he could hardly make a civil answer to the most ordinary
question; and his office clerks grumbled among themselves that, if
it made such a bear of a man to know that in three weeks he was to
have a wife, they hoped their turn would never come. Away from his
presence, Ruth was grave to a degree that threw an added shadow over
the home-life. Susan felt herself to be in disgrace with her sister,
and had been unable thus far, to rise above it, and be helpful, as
she would have liked to be. Judge Erskine, hearing more details from
his friend than from his daughter, sympathized with her strong sense
of duty, honored her, rejoiced in her strength of purpose, and was
_sorry_ for her, realizing, more than before, what a continuous chain
of trial her life had been of late. Therefore, his tone was tender and
sympathizing, when he spoke to her, but sad, as one who felt _too_
deeply, and was not able to impart strength.
As for Mrs. Erskine, she had so much to say about the strangeness of it
all—wondering how Judge Burnham could have managed to keep things so
secret, and how the girls looked, whether they favored him, or their
ma, and whether they would be comfortable sort of persons to get along
with—that Ruth was driven to the very verge of distraction, and felt,
at times, that, to get out of that house, into any other on earth,
would be a relief.
There was much ado, also, about that wedding. Mrs. Erskine wanted
marvelous things—an illumination, and a feast, and a crowd, and all
the resources of the rain-bow, as to bridal toilet. But here, as in
other matters, Ruth held steadily to her own way, and brought it to
pass—a strictly private wedding, in the front parlor of her father’s
house; not a person, outside of the Erskine family circle, to witness
the ceremony, save Marion Dennis; she, by virtue of being Dr. Dennis’
wife, gained admission. But Marion Dennis’ tears fell fast behind
the raised handkerchief, which shielded her face during the solemn
prayer. She knew, in detail, some of Ruth’s plans. She knew, better
than Ruth did—so _she_ thought—that plans are sometimes hard to carry
out. How many _she_ had indulged and, at this moment, there sat at
home, her haughty daughter, Grace, entirely unforgiving, because of
_her_ “meddling”—so she styled the earnest attempts to shield her from
danger. To Marion, Ruth’s future had never looked less hopeful than it
did on this marriage morning.
It may be that her own disappointments caused some of the flowing
tears; but her _heart_ ached for Ruth. What should _she_ do without a
Christian husband—a husband entirely in sympathy with every effort, and
entirely tender with every failure of hers! What was Ruth to do, with
Judge Burnham for a husband, instead of Dr. Dennis! How were the trials
of life to be borne with any man living except this _one_!
Thus reasoned silly Marion—unconsciously, indeed; but that was as it
seemed to her.
Well for Ruth, that even at this moment, she could look into the face
of the man whom she had chosen, and feel: “It is after all, for _him_.
There is no other person for whom I could begin this life.”
Said a friend, the other day, in sympathetic tones, as she spoke of a
young bride going far from her home and her mother: “I feel _so_ sorry
for her. It is such a trying experience, all alone, away from all her
early friends.”
“But,” I said, “after all, she doesn’t go as far as you told me you
did, when you were married.”
The answer was quick:
“Oh, no; but then I had _my husband_, you know; and she—”
And then she stopped to laugh.
So it was a blessed thing that Ruth Burnham, going out from the home
which had sheltered her, felt that she went _with her husband_.