“THE OIL OF JOY.”
EVEN yet the doctor had said no word of discouragement. And Judge
Burnham had, though he had ceased laughing at Ruth fears, sharply
controverted them. And she?—she felt she would have stricken down any
one who had breathed a word of danger. It was fearful enough to feel
it; let no one dare to _speak_ it. Once when Judge Burnham—filled with
pity for her loneliness during the hours when he was obliged to be
away—suggested recalling the travellers, she turned toward him fiercely:
“Why?” she asked him; “what do you mean? Are you keeping something from
me? Does the Doctor tell you what he does not me? Judge Burnham, I
will never forgive you if you deceive me.”
“Why, no,” he said, “Ruth, no; why will you be so unreasonable? The
Doctor says he sees no ground as yet for special anxiety. He says to me
just what he says to you. No one thinks of deception. I only felt that
it would be less lonely with the girls at home; and Susan would be a
comfort.”
“Comfort!” she said, still speaking sharply. “Why have I need of
comfort? I have my baby, and I can take care of him; and as for
loneliness, the house is full from morning till night. One would think
people never heard of a sick child before. They are always sick when
teething. Why should we be so unreasonably frightened?”
And Judge Burnham turned away sighing, patient with his wife, for he
saw that she was too wildly frightened to talk or act like a reasonable
being.
Among all the comers and goers there was one who did not come. That
was Mrs. Judge Erskine. Not that she would not have willingly been
there both day and night; but poor Ruth, who had never recovered in the
least from her early discomfort concerning the woman, in this time of
her frenzy felt the dislike increasing to almost hatred. She tortured
herself at times with imagining the exclamations that the odious
grandmother would make over the change in her darling, until at last
it grew to be almost an insanity to her; and she fiercely ordered that
no word of any sort should be taken to her home. “Father shall not be
needlessly troubled,” was outward reason enough, for Judge Erskine was
not strong this season; so, beyond the knowledge that the child was not
very well, was teething, and kept Ruth closely at home, the two people
left in the old Erskine homestead together knew nothing.
Slowly yet surely, the Shepherd was reaching after his stray sheep. By
degrees her mood and her prayers changed; they lost their fierceness,
but not one whit of their will-power. She began to feel herself in the
hands of God. She gave up her defiance, and came to him as a suppliant.
She sat alone in the shadows of a long night of watching, and looked
over her life, and saw plainly her mistakes, her wanderings, her sins.
Then she fell on her knees beside that crib, one watching eye and
listening ear intent on every change of expression or breathing in the
darling, and then and there she proceeded to make terms with God. If
he would only give her back her darling, her boy, she would live, oh
_such_ a different life!—a life of entire consecration. All she had,
and was, and hoped to be, her husband, her baby—everything should be
consecrated, be held second to his love. Long she knelt there praying,
but no answering voice spoke peace to her heart. And the struggle,
though changed in its form, went on and on by degrees, and Ruth with
her long preoccupied heart was very slow to learn the lesson. She was
made to understand that God had never promised to compromise with his
own, never promised to hear a prayer which began with an “if.” Entire
consecration meant all the ifs thrown down at the feet of the Lord,
for him to control as he would. Solemnly his voice spoke to her heart,
spoke as plainly as though the sound of it had echoed in the silent
room: “And _if_ I take your darling into my arms of infinite love, and
shield him for you in heaven, what then?” And Ruth realized with a
shudder that then, her heart said it would only be infinite mercy that
could keep her from hating God! But when she realized this solemn,
this _awful_ truth, which proved rebellion in the heart that had long
professed allegiance, God be thanked that she did not get up from her
kneeling and go away again with the burden. She knelt still, and, with
the solemn light of the All-seeing Eye flashing down into her soul, she
confessed it all—her rebellion, her selfish determination to hold her
treasure whether God would or not, her selfish desire to compromise,
her cowardly, pitiful subterfuge of promising him that which was
already his by right, _if_ he would submit to her plans. The long, sad,
sinful story was laid bare before him, and then her torn heart said:
“Oh, Christ, I can not help it; I hold to my darling, and I _can not_
give him up, even when I would. Oh, thou Saviour of human souls, even
in their sinfulness, what shall I do?” Did ever such heart-cry go up to
the Saviour of souls in vain?
You do not need me to tell you that before the dawn of the coming
morning filled the room a voice of power had spoken peace. The plans,
and the subterfuges, and the rebellings, and the “ifs,” all were gone.
“As thou wilt,” was the only voice left in that thoroughly bared and
bleeding heart.
It was even then that the shadow fell the darkest. When the doctor came
next morning, for the first time he shook his head.
“Things do not look so hopeful as they did, here,” he said.
And Judge Burnham, turning quickly toward his wife, looking to see her
faint or lose her reason (he hardly knew which phase of despair to
expect), saw the pale, changed face.
“Is there no hope, Doctor?” and her voice though low, was certainly
calmer than it had been for days.
“Well,” said the Doctor, relieved at her method of receiving his
warning, “I never like to say that. While there is life there is hope,
you know; but the fact is, I am disappointed in the turn that the
trouble has taken. I am a good deal afraid of results.”
Had Ruth spoken her thoughts, she would have said: “I have been awfully
afraid of results for a week; but a voice of greater power than yours
has spoken to me now. It rests with Him, not you; and I think he wants
my darling.” What she _did_ say was:
“Ought the girls to be summoned?”
“Well,” said Dr. Bacon, regarding her curiously, “if it is important
that they should be here, I think I should telegraph.”
Then, presuming upon long acquaintance with Judge Burnham, he said, as
they passed down the hall together:
“Upon my word, Burnham, you have the most unaccountable wife in the
world.”
“Comments are unnecessary, Doctor,” Judge Burnham said, in his
haughtiest tones, and the next instant the front door closed with a
bang, and the father had shut himself and his pain into the little
room at the end of the hall. What was _he_ to do? which way turn?
how live? He had never until this moment had other than a passing
anxiety. Now the whole crushing weight of the coming blow seemed to
fall on him, and he had not the force of habit, nor the knowledge of
past experiences, to drive him to his knees for a refuge. Instead, his
fierce heart raved. If Ruth had been in danger of hating God, he felt,
yes, actually realized, that his heart was filled at this moment with
a fierce and bitter hatred. Can you imagine what the trials of that
day were to Ruth? Have you any knowledge of what a shock it is to a
torn and bleeding heart, which yet feels that the Almighty Father, the
Everlasting Saviour, holds her and her treasure in the hollow of his
hand, to come in contact with one who fiercely, blasphemously tramples
on that trust? In this moment of supreme pain, it was given to Ruth’s
conscience to remember that she had chosen for her closest friend one
who made no profession of loyalty to her Redeemer—the _Lover_ of her
child. Why should she expect to rest on him now?
This day, like all the other dark ones, drew toward its closing; the
Doctor watched and waited for, and dispatched for, did not come, and
the night drew about them; and it so happened that, save the nurse and
the household servants, the father and mother were alone with their
baby. Early in the afternoon, a sudden remembrance had come to Ruth,
and she had turned from the crib long enough to say, “Let father
know.” And the messenger had gone, but even from him there was no
response.
So they watched and waited. Judge Burnham, in feverish madness of
anxiety, paced the floor, and alternately raged at the absent Doctor
for not coming, and then wished he might never look upon his face
again. Ruth staid on her knees beside that crib, from which for hours
she had not moved, and her lips continually formed that inaudible
prayer, “Thy will be done.” And really and truly the awful bitterness
of the agony was gone out of her heart. There was a sound of wheels
crunching the graveled drive—a bustle outside; somebody had come.
Ruth glanced up, half fearfully. What was coming to break the solemn
holiness of the hour? Not the Doctor, surely, with such bustle of
noise. The door opened quickly, and they pressed in—her father, a tall
stranger just beside him, and Mrs. Judge Erskine! _She_ pushed past
them both.
“Dear heart,” she said, bending down to the crib, but her words were
for Ruth, not the baby. “We just got the word. I brought Dr. Parmelee;
I couldn’t help it, child; I’ve seen him do such wonderful things.
Your pa don’t believe in his medicines—little bits of pills, you
know—and he said your husband didn’t but, la! what difference does that
make? Men never do. They believe in getting ’em well, though. Come
here, Dr. Parmelee. His pulse is real strong, and he looks to me as
though he might—”
And here Mrs. Erskine paused for breath. She had been, in the meantime,
throwing off her wraps, touching the baby’s hand with skillful fingers,
touching the hot head, and rising at last to motion the Doctor
forward—the tall stranger. He came hesitatingly, looking toward the
father; but Judge Burnham caught at his name.
“Anything, Doctor—anything!” he said, hoarsely. “Dr. Bacon has proved
himself an idiot. It is too late now; but, in heaven’s name, do
something.”
Did it ever occur to you as strange that such men as Judge Burnham, in
their hours of great mental pain, are very apt to call for blessings in
“heaven’s name?”
It was a strange hour! Ruth, who had been hushed into silence and
solemnity by the presence of the Death Angel, found herself whirled
into the very midst of the struggle for life. Dr. Parmelee declared,
with Mrs. Erskine, that there was still a good deal of strength,
and he hoped. And then he stopped talking and went to work—quietly,
skillfully, without commotion of any sort, yet issuing his orders with
such swiftness and skill that mother and nurse, especially the former,
were set to work to _do_ instead of think. Especially was Mrs. Erskine
alert, seeming to know by a sort of instinct, such as is noticeable
in nurses who have a special calling for their work, what the Doctor
wanted done, and how to do it. Far into the night they obeyed and
watched. At last the Doctor rose up from a careful examination of his
little patient.
“I believe,” he said, speaking quietly, “I believe there has been a
change in the symptoms in the past two hours. If I mistake not, the
crisis is past. I think your little one will recover.”
At the sound of these words, Judge Burnham strode over from his station
at the head of the crib, and, grasping the Doctor’s hand, essayed to
speak words, but his voice choked, and the self-possessed, polished
gentleman lost every vestige of control, and broke into a passion of
tears.
“He is in God’s hands, my friend,” the new Doctor said gently; “he will
do right; and I think he has given the little life back to you.”
As for Ruth, she turned one look away from her baby’s face toward the
Doctor’s; and he said as he went out from the home: “I declare that
woman’s eyes paid me to-night.”
There was little talk and much watching during the rest of the night
and the day that followed. Mrs. Erskine kept her post, keeping up that
sort of alert _doing_ which the skillful nurse understands so well,
and which thrills the heart of a watcher with eager hope. One of Judge
Burnham’s first morning duties was to send a curt and courteous note—if
both terms are admissible—to Dr. Bacon, asking for his bill. Then his
own carriage waited at the train for the coming of Dr. Parmelee.
“Now, look here, child,” said Mrs. Erskine, as, toward the midnight of
the following night, Ruth turned for a moment from the crib and pressed
her hand to her eyes, “you are just to go to bed and get a night’s
sleep. We’ll have _you_ on our hands, if you don’t, as sure as the
world; and that will be a nice mess for baby, bless his heart. Judge
Burnham, you just take her and put her to bed. I’m going to sit by my
little boy, here, the whole blessed night; I won’t even wink; and when
I undertake to watch, why I _watch_, and know how, though I do say it
that shouldn’t.”
So, through much protesting from Ruth, and overruling by her father
and husband, she was carried off to the room adjoining. In the gray
dawn of another morning, she, having slept for four hours the sleep of
utter exhaustion, started with a sudden, affrighted waking, wherein
all the agony of the past days flashed over her, and, without waiting
to remember the after-scene of joy, rushed to her nursery. There was
the little crib, with its sleeping treasure; there on the couch, lay
the tired nurse, sleeping quietly; there, at the crib’s side, sat Mrs.
Erskine, keeping her faithful, tireless vigil. She looked up with a
reassuring smile as Ruth came in.
“What did you wake up for? He’s as nice as a robin in a nest of down.
He breathes just as easy! and the skin feels moist and natural. See
how his little hair curls with the dampness! Anybody can see with half
an eye that he is a great deal better. He’ll get on now real fast, Dr.
Parmelee says so. I never did see the like of them little pills! Ain’t
bigger than pin-heads, neither.”
Ruth bent low over the crib. The bounding pulse was quiet and steady
at last; the breath came in slow, soft respirations, with no horrible
gratings; the beautiful little hand, resting on the pillow, was doubled
up as in the grace in which he held it when in health. Suddenly there
rushed over Ruth all the probabilities of that solemn night, and all
the blessings of this hour. After she had given him up utterly to God;
after she had said, “Though he slay me, yet will I trust;” after she
had said, “I am thine forever, Lord, _entirely_, though with empty
arms,” then he had given her back her trust—offered her one more chance
to train the soul for him. With the thought came also the remembrance
of the door through which he had opened this blessed paradise of hope,
and she turned suddenly, and, burying her head in Mrs. Erskine’s ample
lap, cried out: “Oh, mother, mother! God bless you forever!” And the
first tears that her tired eyes had felt for a week fell thick and fast.
“Land alive!” said Mrs. Judge Erskine. “Poor, dear heart! You are all
tuckered out! You just go right straight back to bed. I won’t turn my
eyes away from him, and he’s all right anyhow. I know the signs. Bless
your heart, I nursed Mrs. Stevens’ baby only last week, and this very
Dr. Parmelee was there; and I saw what them little pills and powders
could do when the Lord chose to use ’em. You just go back, dearie, this
minute. You can sleep all day as well as not. Grandma’ll take care of
her blessed little darling, so she will.”
And Ruth went back to the bedside, and to her knees; and among the
sentences of her prayer that morning was this, from a full heart:
“O God! I thank thee, that, despite all the blindness and rebellion of
my heart, thou didst send to me a _mother_. Thou hast given me ‘the
oil of joy for mourning, and the garment of praise for the spirit of
heaviness.’”
THE END.
* * * * *
Transcriber’s Notes:
Obvious punctuation errors repaired. Sometimes easy-chair contains a
hyphen, sometimes not. This was retained as printed.
Page 102, “Esrkine” changed to “Erskine” (Judge Erskine, with a)
Page 146, “that” changed to “than” (observable than this awkward)
Page 272, “unconsiously” changed to “unconsciously” (silly
Marion—unconsciously)
Page 295, “futher” changed to “further” (until further pressed)
Page 297, “gotton” changed to “gotten” (supper was gotten through)
Page 312, “gotton” changed to “gotten” (have gotten beyond the)
Page 322, “symyathetic” changed to “sympathetic” (put a sympathetic arm)
Page 367, “occured” changed to “occurred” (which occurred that day)
Page 418, “oppresive” changed to “oppressive” (home grew oppressive)
Page 418, “assistence” changed to “assistance” (thoughtful offers of
assistance)
Page 430, “skillfuly” changed to “skillfully” (skillfully, without
commotion)
End of Project Gutenberg's Ruth Erskine's Cross, by Isabella Alden and Pansy