TRYING QUESTIONS.
YOU are to imagine much that was done inside that long, low house on
the hill during the next three weeks. A great deal can be done in three
weeks’ time. What _was_ actually accomplished would fill a good-sized
volume; so it is well that you are to imagine instead of read about it.
A great many wheels of progress were started during that very first
day—Ruth among the stores, Judge Burnham among the paper-hangers,
painters and draymen, Susan in the Erskine attic, sorting out and
packing many things that, according to Judge Erskine’s orders, were
Ruth’s exclusive property. By the time the five o’clock train received
the three, they were tired and satisfied.
Tired though they were, it was as late as midnight before all the
household settled into rest. Susan dropped into her place as naturally
as though it had been waiting for her all these years. The Ferris
family were departed bag and baggage, and the two Burnhams left behind
were red-eyed and disconsolate. Why not? The Ferrises were the only
friends they had ever known. Susan put a sympathetic arm around one
and kissed the other before she had been in the house five minutes,
and Ruth remembered with dismay that she had not thought of doing such
a thing. And, indeed, if I must tell you the truth concerning her, it
seemed almost an impossible thing to do! She had been for so many years
in the habit of bestowing her kisses rarely and to such an exceedingly
limited number of persons. Then they betook themselves, Susan and
Seraphina, to the kitchen. Confusion reigned. So it did all over the
house, except in the locked-up purity of Ruth’s two rooms. But before
midnight there was a comfortable place for Susan to sleep and most
satisfactory preparations in line for a breakfast the next morning.
It was that next morning which gave the two Burnham girls their first
touch of a cultured home. There was a little room, conveniently
situated as regarded the kitchen, which the instinct of taste had made
Ruth select at the first glance as a dining-room. Thither she and Susan
repaired early in the evening to make a survey.
“It needs painting,” said Susan, scanning the wood-work critically,
“and papering; and then, with a pretty carpet, it will be just
the thing. But, in the meantime, it is clean, and we can set the
breakfast-table here to-morrow morning, can’t we?”
“If we can get it in here to set,” Ruth answered, in a dubious tone.
“It is a long, horribly-shaped table, and none of _our_ furniture will
be here, you know.”
“Oh, I see my way out of that. There is a little table in that pantry,
or milk-room, or whatever is the name of it, that will do nicely for
a dining-table until we get settled; and, Ruth, shall we have some of
my muffins for breakfast? You remember Judge Burnham used to like
them when we gave them to him occasionally for tea. Oh, girls! I can
make delicious muffins, and if you are both down here by six o’clock
to-morrow morning I will teach you how, the first thing I do.”
This last to the two bewildered girls, who stood waiting to see what
astonishing thing would happen next. As for Ruth, she went up-stairs
to that gem of a room, smiling over the strangeness of the thought
that Susan was down-stairs in their kitchen, hers and Judge Burnham’s,
planning with his daughters to have muffins for breakfast! Also, she
thought, with a sense of satisfaction, of the great trunk packed with
silver, rare old pieces of her mother’s own, which had been held sacred
for her during all these years, and of the smaller and newer trunk
containing table drapery, which was a marvel of fineness and whiteness.
Both trunks had journeyed hither several days ago, and had this night
been opened to secure certain things which Susan’s morning plans had
called for.
So it was to the little room that the family came the next morning,
with its south window, into which the September sun slanted its rays
cheerily. The room itself was carpetless, and the chairs were wooden,
and there was no other attempt at furniture. But the table, laid
in snowy whiteness, and the napkins large and fine and of delicate
pattern, and the silver service gleaming before Ruth’s place, and the
silver forks and solid silver spoons, and the glittering goblets and
delicate china—for Susan had actually unpacked and washed and arranged
Ruth’s mother’s china—to say nothing of the aroma of coffee floating
in the air, and mingling not unpleasantly with the whiff of a vase of
autumn roses which blushed before Ruth’s plate.
All these things were a lesson in home refinements such as a week of
talking would never have accomplished, and which the Burnham girls sat
down to for the first time in their lives. It was curious to notice the
effect on them. Their conspicuous calicoes and stretched-back hair and
ungainly shoes were still painfully visible. But, for the first time,
apparently, it dawned upon them that things didn’t match. They surveyed
the table, which was as a picture to them, and then, with instinctive
movements, essayed to hide their awkward shoes under their too short
dresses, and blushed painfully over the impossibility of doing so. Ruth
noticed it, and smiled. They would be ready for her hand, she fancied,
when she came to an hour of leisure to arrange for them.
That breakfast scene was a cheery one. So much of home had already
entered into its elements that Judge Burnham cordially pronounced Susan
a fairy, and she as genially responded that she was a most substantial
one, and had had two substantial helpers, with a meaning glance toward
the girls.
“Indeed!” he said, in kindly tone, and then he glanced toward them.
That was a very pleasant way of showing good-will. The contrast between
this breakfast and the one to which they sat down but the morning
before was certainly very striking And, though the girls blushed
painfully, the tone in which he had spoken, and the glance which
accompanied his remark, did more for those daughters than all their
father’s lectures had accomplished.
Directly the muffins and the broiled steak and the amber coffee were
discussed, and, the meal concluded, business in that house commenced.
Thereafter it was a scene of organized disorder. The girls, under
Susan’s lead, proved, notwithstanding Mrs. Judge Erskine’s surmise,
very “efficient” helpers. They could not enter a room properly, they
could not use the King’s English very well, and they knew nothing
about the multitude of little accomplishments with which the girls of
their age usually consume time. But it transpired that they could wash
windows, and “paints,” and sweep walls, and even nail carpets. They
were both quick-witted and skillful over many of these employments,
and the hearty laugh which occasionally rung out from their vicinity,
when Susan was with them, showed plainly that they had lost their fear
of her; but their embarrassment, where either their father or Ruth was
concerned, did not decrease. And, indeed, in the whirl of plans which
had recently come upon them, these two had little leisure to cultivate
the daughters’ acquaintance. Ruth, after a few attempts at helping,
discreetly left the ordering of the hired helpers to Susan’s skillful
hands, and accompanied her husband on daily shopping excursions, where
her good taste and good sense were equally called into action.
In the course of time, and when there is a full purse to command
skillful helpers, the time need not be so very long drawn out. There
came a morning when it would have done your comfort-loving heart
good to have walked with Judge Burnham and his wife through the
reconstructed house! Nothing showy; nothing really expensive, as that
term is used in the fashionable world, had been attempted. Ruth’s
tastes were too well cultured for that. She knew, perfectly, that what
was quite in keeping with the lofty ceilings and massive windows of her
father’s house would be ridiculously out of place here. As you passed
with her from room to room you would have realized that nothing looked
out of place. Perhaps in the girl’s room as much thought had been
expended as in any place in that house.
Ruth had been amazed, not to say horrified, on the occasion of her
first visit to their room, to find that it was carpetless, curtainless,
and, I had almost said, furnitureless! An old-fashioned, high-post
bedstead, destitute of any pretense of beauty, and a plain-painted
stand, holding a tin basin and a broken-nosed milk pitcher! To Ruth,
whose one experience of life had to do with her father’s carefully
furnished house, where the servants’ rooms were well supplied with
the comforts, to say nothing of the luxuries of the toilet, this
looked simply barbarous. Judge Burnham, too, was shocked and subdued.
It had been years since he had been a caller in his daughters’ room,
and he had seemed to think that magic of some sort must have supplied
their wants. “I furnished money whenever it was asked for,” he said,
regarding Ruth with a sort of appealing air. “Now, that I think of it,
they were never extravagant in their demands; but I supposed I gave
them enough. At least, when I thought about it at all, I assured myself
that the Ferrises would certainly not be afraid to ask for more, if
more was needed.”
“The difficulty with the Ferris family was, that they had no tastes to
expend money for,” Ruth said, quietly, “but you can not wonder that
the girls are not just what we would like to see them. They certainly
have had no surroundings of any sort that would educate them in your
direction.”
After this talk he entered with heartiness into the plans for that
room, and when the delicate blue and pale gold carpet was laid—and
it reminded one of a sunset in a pure sky—and the white drapery was
looped with blue ribbons, rural fashion, and the gold-banded china was
gracefully disposed on the toilet case, and the dressing-bureau was
adorned with all the little daintinesses which Ruth understood so well
how to scatter, even to a blue and gold vase full of sweet-scented
blossoms, and the pretty cottage bedstead was luxuriously draped in
spotless white, plump pillows, ruffled pillow shams, all complete,
Ruth stood back and surveyed the entire effect with the most intense
satisfaction. What said the girls? Well, they _said_ nothing. But
their blazing cheeks and suspiciously wet eyes looked volumes, and for
several days they stepped about that room in a tiptoe fashion which
would have amused Ruth, had she seen it. They could not rally from the
feeling that everything about them was so delicate and pure that to
breathe upon, or touch, would be to mar a work of art.
Meantime, other matters had been progressing. Ruth had lain awake
half of one night and studied the immortal question of dress. She had
met and battled with, and conquered half a dozen forms of pride, and
then had boldly announced at the next morning’s breakfast-table, the
following:
“Judge Burnham, the girls and I want to go to the city to attend to
some dress-making. Shall we go in that mail-wagon, or how?”
Before this, I should have explained to you that Judge Burnham had
been, for some days, in an active state of trying horses, examining
carriages, and interviewing professional drivers. Also, several horses
and carriages had waited on them for trial, so that Ruth had taken
several rides to the cars on trial, and had once suggested that perhaps
it would be as economical a way of keeping a carriage as any, this
spending the season in making a choice. Therefore Judge Burnham laughed
as he answered:
“Why, no, there is to be a trial span here in time for the ten o’clock
train. I was about to propose a ride in honor of that occasion. Are
you going into town for the day?”
Ruth laughed.
“For the week, I am afraid. We shall probably be detained at the
dressmaker’s for some time, and, after that, I have many errands to do.”
Now the form in which her pride had met her last, was the shrinking
from going to town, and above all, going to the fashionable
dress-making and millinery establishments with those strange-looking
companions, for a critical survey of their wardrobe revealed the fact
that they had nothing which she considered decent. This was not the
first time that she had taken the subject into consideration. On the
contrary, it had been present with her during her shopping excursions,
and she had blessed the instinct which enabled her to see at a glance
just what shade or tint would suit the opposite complexions of the two
girls.
She had visited her dressmaker and made arrangements with her for
service. But the question had been, whether she could not smuggle them
off in some way to a quieter street among the less fashionable workers,
and secure for them a respectable outfit in which to appear at Madame
Delfort’s. It was over these and kindred plans that she had lain awake,
and finally abandoned them all, and resolved upon outright unconcern
in regard to what others might say or think. Nevertheless she winced
when the two girls came down arrayed in their best, bright plaids—for
Mrs. Ferris’ taste had run entirely in that direction—cheap hat adorned
with cheap flowers and brilliant ribbons, both flowers and ribbons more
or less soiled, and with no gloves at all. Seraphina reported that she
_had lost_ hers, and Araminta, that she _couldn’t find hers_. Between
those two states there is a distinction, though it may not appear at
first sight.
The trial carriage had arrived, and Judge Burnham seated his party,
himself wearing a disturbed face. He did not like the appearance of the
company with which he was to go to town. Ruth had thought of this, and
had tried to plan differently, but with a man’s obtuseness he had _not_
thought of it, and could not, or would not understand why he should go
in on the ten o’clock train, and the rest wait until twelve, especially
when his wife admitted herself to be in haste and they might all go
together. Fairly seated opposite his daughters, he saw a reason for
having gone earlier, and even looked about him, nervously, as the
carriage neared the depot, wishing there was yet some chance of escape.
A way opened. “Ah, good-morning, Judge! this is fortunate. I am in
search of you.” This was the greeting which he received from the depot
door. And he left Ruth standing on the steps and went forward to shake
hands with a tall, gray-haired man, in the prime of life. He came back
after a few moments, speaking rapidly. “Ruth, that is Parsons, the
famous criminal lawyer; he wants to consult me in regard to a case, and
is going farther on by the next train in search of a clue. I guess,
after all, I shall have to wait here for the twelve o’clock, and have a
talk with him; that is, if you do not object.”
“Oh, not at all!” Ruth said, breathing more freely. Her husband’s
daughters were less of a cross to her without him than with him. Every
man he met on the train knew and came to talk with him, while she was
a stranger. The famous criminal lawyer moved toward them, looking
interested, and Judge Burnham could hardly escape the ceremony of
introduction.
“Ah!” he said, bowing low to Mrs. Burnham, “very happy to meet you,
madam. I have known your husband for several years. I hear you are just
getting settled at your country-seat. Terrible task, isn’t it? But
pays, I suppose, when one gets fairly settled. I didn’t know until the
other day that you were rural in your tastes, Judge Burnham?”
All these sentences, spoken in the man-of-the-world tone, which
indicates that the person is talking for the sake of filling the time,
and all the while his practiced eye was taking in the group—Judge
Burnham with a slightly embarrassed manner and somewhat flushed
face; his elegant, high-bred wife, who was a trifle pale as she was
wont to be under strong feeling of any sort; and the two girls, in
_outre_ attire, standing a little apart, with wide eyes and flaming
cheeks, staring painfully. The criminal lawyer seemed to think that
the position demanded more words from him. “You are the victims of
the usual American nuisance, I see,” with the slightest possible
inclination of his head toward the two. “The inefficiency of hired
help is really the social puzzle of this country, I think. Foreigners
have immensely the advantage of us. Just returning a relay of the
condemned sort I suppose?”
There was the rising inflection to his sentence which marks a question,
and yet he rattled on, precisely like a man who expects no answer. Was
it because the train sounded its warning-whistle just then, that Judge
Burnham, though his face flushed and his eyes flashed, did not correct
the criminal lawyer’s mistake?