EMBARRASSMENT AND MERRIMENT.
I SUPPOSE there was never a bride going out from her home, with her
husband, who was more silent than was our Ruth. It was the silence of
constraint, too. It was such a little journey! ten miles or so, by
train, then five by carriage, and then—what _were_ they coming to? If
only it had been her husband’s happy home, where treasures were waiting
to greet him, and be clasped to his heart, Ruth felt that it would have
been _so_ much easier.
Yet I think, very likely, she did not understand her own heart.
Probably the easiest excuse that we can make for ourselves, or for our
shrinking from duties, is, “If it were _only_ something else, I could
do it.” I think it quite likely that had Ruth been going to just such
a home as she imagined would make her cross lighter, she would have
been jealous of those clasping hands and tender kisses. The human heart
is a strange instrument, played upon in all sorts of discords, even
when we think there is going to be music. As it was, the certainty of
her husband’s disapproval, the sense of strangeness, and the sense of
shrinking from the new trials, and the questioning as to whether, after
all, she had done right, all served to depress Ruth’s heart and hush
her voice, to such a degree that she felt speech was impossible. I want
to linger a minute over one sentence—the questioning as to whether,
after all, she had done right. There is no more miserable state of
mind than this. It is such dreadful ground for the _Christian_ to
occupy! Yet, practically, half the Christians in the world are there.
Theoretically, we believe ourselves to be led, even in the common
affairs of life, by the All-wise Spirit of God; theoretically, we
believe that _He_ can make no mistake; theoretically, we believe that
it is just as easy to get an answer from that Spirit—“a word behind
thee,” as the Bible phrases it, directing us which way to go—as it is
to hear our human friend answer to our call. But, practically, what
_do_ we believe? What is the reason that so much of our life is given
up to mourning over _possible_ mistakes? Is it because we choose to
decide some questions for ourselves without bringing them to the test
of prayer? or because, having asked for direction, we failed to watch
for the answer, or expect it, and so lost the “still small voice?”
Or is it, sometimes, because having heard the voice, we regret its
direction and turn from it, and choose our own?
Ruth Burnham was conscious of none of these states. She had prayed
over this matter; indeed, it seemed to her that she had done little
else than pray, of late; and, in some points, she was strong, feeling
that her feet had been set upon a rock. But in others there was, at
this too late moment, a sense of faltering. “Might she not,” asked her
conscience of her, “have yielded somewhat? Would it have worked any ill
for them both to have gone away from everybody for a few weeks, as
Judge Burnham so desired to do, and have learned to know and help each
other, and have learned to talk freely together about this new home,
and have grown stronger together, before facing this manifest duty?”
I do not tell you she might have done all this. Perhaps her first
position, that it would have been unwise and unhelpful, was the right
one. I think we do, sometimes, put added touches of our own to the
cross that the Father lays upon us, making it shade in gloom, when he
would have tinted it with the sunlight. But I do not say that Ruth had
done this. I don’t know which was wise. What I _am_ sure of is, that
she, having left it to Christ; having asked for his direction, and
having received it (for unless she thought she had been shown the step
to take, assured she ought not to have stepped,) she had no right to
unrest herself and strap on to her heart the burden of that wearying
question, “_Did_ I, after all, do right?”
Judge Burnham could match her in quietness. He had her beside him at
last. She was his wife; she bore his name; henceforth their interests
were one. Thus much of what he had months ago set himself steadily to
accomplish had been accomplished. But not a touch of the details was
according to his plans. The situation in which he found himself was so
new and so bewildering, that while he meant, for her sake, to make the
best of it until such time as she should see that she was wrong and he
right, yet, truth to tell, he hardly knew how to set about making the
best of it.
He did what he could. No topic for conversation that suggested
itself to his mind seemed entirely safe. And, beside, what use to
try to converse for so short a journey? So he contented himself with
opening her car-window, and dropping her blind, and arranging her
travelling-shawl comfortably for a shoulder-support, and in other
nameless, thoughtful ways making this bit of a journey bright with
care-taking tenderness. It served to show Ruth how royally he would
have cared for her in the longer journey which he wanted, and which she
wouldn’t have. Whereupon she immediately said to her heart “Perhaps it
would have been better if I had yielded.” And that made her miserable.
There was no time to yield now. The station was called out, and there
was bustle and haste and no little nervousness in getting off in time,
for the train seemed, before it fairly halted, to have been sorry
for that attempt at accommodation, and began to show signs of going
on again that were nerve-distracting. It annoyed Judge Burnham to
the degree that he said, savagely, to the conductor, “It was hardly
worth while to stop, if you can’t do it more comfortably.” He would
have liked so much to have been leisurely and comfortable; to have
done everything in a composed, travelled manner; he understood so
thoroughly all the details of travelled life. Why _could_ he not show
Ruth some of the comforts of it? That little station! It was in itself
a curiosity to Ruth. She had not supposed, that ten miles away from a
city, anything could be so diminutive. A long, low, unpainted building,
with benches for seats, and loungers spitting tobacco-juice for
furniture. There was evidently something unusual to stare at. This was
the presence of a quiet, tasteful carriage, with handsome horses, and
a driver who indicated, by the very flourish of his whip, that this
was a new locality to him. He and his horses and his carriage belonged,
unmistakably, to city-life, and had rarely reached so far out.
“Is this your carriage?” Ruth asked, surveying it with a touch of
satisfaction as Judge Burnham made her comfortable among the cushions.
“No, it is from town. There are no carriages belonging to this
enlightened region.”
“How do your family reach the station, then?”
“They never reach it,” he answered, composedly. He had resolved upon
not trying to smooth over anything.
“But how did you get to and from the cars when you were stopping here?”
“On the rare occasions when I was so unfortunate as to stop here I
sometimes caught the wagon which brings the mail and takes unfortunate
passengers; or, if I were too early for that, there were certain
milk-carts and vegetable-carts which gave me the privilege of a ride,
with a little persuasion in the shape of money.”
Nothing could be more studiedly polite than Judge Burnham’s tone; but
there was a covert sarcasm in every word he said. He seemed to Ruth to
be thinking, “I hope you realize the uncomfortable position into which
your obstinacy has forced me.”
Evidently not a touch of help was to be had from him. What were they
to talk about during that five miles of travel over a rough road? Ruth
studied her brains to try to develop a subject that would not make them
even more uncomfortable than they now felt. She was unfortunate in
selection, but it seemed impossible to get away from the thoughts which
were just now so prominently before them. She suddenly remembered a
fact which surprised her, and to which she gave instant expression.
“Judge Burnham, what are your daughter’s names?”
The gentleman thus addressed wrinkled his forehead into a dozen
frowns, and shook himself, as though he would like to shake away all
remembrance of the subject, before he said:
“Their very names are a source of mortification to me. The elder is
Seraphina and the other Araminta. What do you think of them?”
Ruth was silent and dismayed. This apparently trivial circumstance
served to show her what a strange state of things existed in the home
whither she was going. She didn’t know how to answer her husband’s
question. She was sorry that she had asked any. There seemed no way out
but to ask another, which, in truth, pressed upon her.
“How do you soften such names? What do you call them when you address
them?”
“I call them nothing. I know of no way of smoothing such hopeless
cognomens, and I take refuge in silence, or bewildering pronouns.”
Ruth pondered over this answer long enough to have her courage rise and
to grow almost indignant. Then she spoke again:
“But, Judge Burnham, I do not see how you could have allowed so strange
a selection for girls in this age of the world. Why didn’t you save
them from such a life-long infliction? Or, was there some reason for
the use of these names that dignifies them—that makes them sacred?”
“There is this sole reason for the names, and for many things which you
will find yourself unable to understand. Their mother was a hopeless
victim to fourth-rate sensation novels, and named her daughters from
that standpoint. I was in reality powerless to interfere. You may have
discovered before this that I am not always able to follow out the
dictates of my own judgment, and others, as well as myself, have to
suffer in consequence.”
What could Ruth answer to this? She felt its covert meaning; and so
sure was she beginning to feel that she had followed her own ideas,
instead of the leadings of any higher voice, that she had not the heart
to be offended with the plainness of the insinuation. But she realized
that it was a strange conversation for a newly-made husband and wife.
She took refuge again in silence. Judge Burnham tried to talk. He asked
if the seat she occupied was entirely comfortable, and if she enjoyed
riding, and if she had tried the saddle, or thought she would enjoy
such exercise, and presently he said:
“These are abominable roads. I am sorry to have you so roughly treated
in the very beginning of our journey together. I did not want roughness
to come to you, Ruth. I thought that you had endured enough.”
She was sorry that he said this. Her tears were never nearer the
surface than at this moment, and she did not want to shed them. She
began to talk rapidly to him about the beauty of the far-away hills
which stretched bluely before them, and he tried to help her effort and
appreciate them. Still it was too apparent just then neither cared much
for hills; and it was almost a relief when the carriage at last drew up
under a row of elms. These, at least, were beautiful. So was the long,
irregular, grassy yard that stretched away up the hill, and was shaded
by noble old trees. It required but a moment to dismiss the carriage,
and then her husband gave her his arm, and together they toiled up the
straggling walk toward the long, low building, which was in dire need
of paint.
“This yard is lovely,” Ruth said, and she wondered if her voice
trembled very much.
“I used to like the yard, a hundred years or so ago,” he answered
sadly. “It really seems to me almost as long ago as that since I had
any pleasant recollections of anything connected with it.”
“Was it your mother’s home?”
“Yes,” he said, and his face grew tender. “And she was a good mother,
Ruth; I loved the old house once for her sake.”
“I think I can make you love it again for mine.” Ruth said the words
gently, with a tender intonation that was very pleasant to hear, and
that not many people heard from her. Judge Burnham was aware of it, and
his grave face brightened a little. He reached after her hand, and held
it within his own, and the pressure he gave it said what he could not
speak. So they went up the steps of that low porch with lighter hearts,
after all, than had seemed possible.
The door at the end of that porch opened directly into the front room,
or “keeping room,” as, in the parlance of that region of country, it
was called, though Ruth did not know it. The opening of that door was
a revelation to her. She had never been in a real country room before.
There were green paper shades to the windows, worn with years, and
faded; and little twinkling rays of the summer sunshine pushed in
through innumerable tiny holes, which holes, curiously enough, Ruth
saw and remembered, and associated forever after with that hour and
moment. There was a rag carpet on the floor, of dingy colors and uneven
weaving. Ruth did not even know the name of that style of carpet, but
she knew it was peculiar. There were cane-seated chairs, standing in
solemn rows at proper intervals. There was a square table or “stand,”
if she had but known the proper name for it, covered with a red cotton
cloth having a gay border and fringed edges. There was a wooden chair
or two, shrinking back from contact with the “smarter” cane-seated
ones; and there was a large, old-fashioned, high-backed wooden rocker,
covered back and arms and sides, with a gay patch-work cover, aglow
with red and green and yellow, and it seemed, to poor Ruth, a hundred
other dazzling colors, and the whole effect reminded her forcibly of
Mrs. Judge Erskine!
Now, you have a list of every article of furniture which this large
room contained. No, I forget the mantle-piece, though Ruth did not.
It was long and deep and high, and was adorned with a curious picture
or two, which would bear studying before you could be sure what they
were, and with two large, bright, brass candlesticks, and a tray and
snuffers. Also, in the center, a fair-sized kerosene lamp, which looked
depraved enough to smoke like a furnace, without even waiting to be
lighted! Also, there were some oriental paintings in wooden frames
on the wall. Are you so fortunate as not to understand what oriental
paintings are? Then you will be unable to comprehend a description
of Ruth’s face as her eye rested on them! Judge Burnham was looking
at her as her eye roved swiftly and silently over this scene, not
excepting the curious paper, with which the walls were hung in a
pattern long gone by. He stood a little at one side, affecting to
raise an unmanageable window sash. They were all unmanageable; but in
reality he was watching her, and I must confess to you that this scene,
contrasted in his mind with the elegant home which his wife had left,
was fast taking a ludicrous side to him. The embarrassments were great,
and he knew that they would thicken upon him, and yet the desire to
laugh overcame all other emotions. His eyes danced, and he bit his lips
to restrain their mirth. But at last, when Ruth turned and looked at
him, the expression in her face overcame him, and he burst forth into
laughter.
It was a blessed thing for Ruth that she was able to join him.
“Sit down,” he said, wheeling the gay rocker toward her. “I am sure
you never occupied so elegant a seat before. There is a great gray cat
belonging to the establishment who usually sits in state here, but she
has evidently vacated in your favor to-day.”
Ruth sank into the chair, unable to speak; the strangeness of it all,
and the conflicting emotions stirring in her heart fairly took away the
power of speech. Judge Burnham came and stood beside her.
“We have entered into this thing, Ruth,” he said, and his voice was not
so hard as it had been, “and there are embarrassments enough certainly
connected with it, and yet it is a home, and it is _our_ home—yours and
mine—and we are _together forever_. This, of itself, is joy enough to
atone for almost anything.”
She was about to answer him, and there was a smile on her face, in the
midst of tears in her eyes; but they were interrupted. The door opened
suddenly, and an apparition in the shape of a child, perhaps five
years old, appeared to them—a tow-headed child with staring blue eyes
and wide-open mouth—a child in a very pink dress, not over-clean and
rather short,—a child with bare feet, and with her arms full of a great
gray cat. She stared amazingly at them for a moment, then turned and
vanished.
“_That_ is not mine, at least,” Judge Burnham said, and the tone in
which he said it was irresistible.
His eyes met Ruth’s at that moment, and all traces of tears had
disappeared, also all signs of sentiment. There was but one thing to
do, and they did it; and the old house rang with peal after peal of
uncontrollable laughter.