She was born on Christmas Day, and so came, with her little white
face and solemn eyes, into her pale mother's life. She was worse than
fatherless. The beast of a man she might have come to call by that
sacred name, would now be beside the snowy cot, weeping in maudlin
rejoicing over his new treasure, if the mother had not resolutely put
him away some six months before.
The world knew him as Judge Barrett, a man of fine family, superb
talents, and a magnetic orator. He might be, perhaps, too convivial on
occasions, but was not this a common frailty among Kentucky's great
men? The wife knew him as besotted and disgusting. What mattered his
learning, his eloquence, his aristocratic blood, or ample income? To her
alone he brought his degraded mass of humanity day after day; and though
never personally unkind to her, or to the little boy that died, she was
enabled by the might of her tearless agony beside that tiny bier, to cut
the last tie that bound her to the blear-eyed creature sobbing on the
other side. The last tie? Ah, woe was she! The coming time brought into
her desolate life the frail link she must now take up; and in the first
bitter realization of her wronged womanhood, the mother-love lay
dormant.
As the months went by the little Ruth twined herself in every fiber
about that lonely mother's heart, till she was loved with a love that
was pain. So jealously guarded, too, that never once had the father's
eyes fallen upon her, not even by chance. In vain he sent appeals just
to look on his little daughter; he would ask no more. He was refused,
and the baby's nurse did not dare transgress.
By-and-by Ruth was old enough to understand; and then she wanted to know
who her papa was, and why he never came home as Masie Morrow's did. At
this her mother would be terrified, and clasping her treasure close,
would tell her she must never ask about her papa; he was a dreadful man.
"Like Jack, the Giant-killer, mumzie?"
"Oh, my dearie, he is a great deal worse."
Again Ruth said; "I know, mumzie, my papa is a great black thing like
the pictures on the circus papers!"
So it came to pass that Miss Ruth fell to thinking about her father till
it got to be a sort of mania with her--wondering and wondering what it
all meant. Her life was secluded, but she was fondly attached to her
grandparents and to a number of friends who were received at the house,
while her mother was most tenderly enshrined in the faithful little
heart.
The mother had a comfortable income, and provided her little girl with
the best masters. She was a quaint, white-faced, solemn-eyed creature,
as she had been from the first. She said "old" things, her black nurse
declared, and she knew her little "missy" was under a spell. If so, the
spell was tempered by an almost idolatrous love on the mother's part.
When she was getting to be a romping big girl, she had just as queer
ways; too old for a child, though the sober, owl-like look began to
soften to an earnest expression, which on occasions verged upon a
twinkle in the deep blue eyes. Distant friends were now writing letters
of inquiry, and her father's relatives persistently urged Mrs. Barrett
to send the child to them for a visit. At last she took Ruth and went;
she would not trust her out of her sight. She was a pale, pretty,
gentle-looking woman, with a will of iron. It was to Judge Barrett's
sister, Mrs. Stanton, in a neighboring town, that they came. They were
afraid to mention his name, or hint at a possible reconciliation; but
they managed to make the young Ruth very much in love with her new
aunt, and merry, pretty cousins.
Meanwhile her father had gone from bad to worse, a confirmed drunkard,
though rarely too far gone to make an eloquent stump-speech when
occasion required. So popular was he that he had the sympathy of the
community in his domestic estrangement. Some said his wife was too hard
and unforgiving; all agreed that he should have been permitted to see
his child.
Ruth was seventeen years old and had long since exerted her filial
influence to the extent of going to her aunt, Mrs. Stanton, whenever
she wished. She had come to be quite a sensation in her father's native
village, his hosts of friends readily tracing a likeness to himself. She
was a sweet, rather wilful maiden, not exactly pretty, but very refined
and attractive.
Judge Barrett had always found a bed at his sister's, no matter at
what hour of day or night he chose to stagger in; but the large family
combined efforts to prevent the contretemps of a meeting between him and
Ruth. Their promise to her mother was too sacred for trifling, and they
loved the girl too well to risk being deprived of her society. Destiny,
or chance, was too strong for them. It was on a bright, sunlit day, when
Ruth was in an animated discussion with her cousin Roger upon the merits
of Vassar College, recently thrown open to young women, which he
declared was only a place where they transformed a girl into a boy.
"Never go there, Coz, if you wish to retain an iota of your womanhood."
"Prejudice, prejudice;" she retorted. "I do believe in the higher
education of women and I am certainly going to Vassar, if I can persuade
my mother to part from me so long."
"Why not take her with you?" Mrs. Stanton was saying, when horror of
horrors, there appeared at the side door of the large sitting-room
a flushed and tangled-looking creature, tottering and righting up
alternately. All eyes were turned upon him, and every voice was dumb.
Steadying himself within the door, he slowly surveyed the young faces
grouped there, till his bloodshot gaze fell upon Ruth's white, wondering
countenance. Perhaps she reminded him of the wife who had repudiated
him. Perhaps some dawning instinct was at work. He staggered up to the
girl, who never once turned her eyes, and placing a hand upon her head,
said in the words of Childe Harold: "Is thy face like thy mother's, my
fair child?"
Tears sprang to every eye; but Ruth, first gasping as with a revelation
from some long-dormant recess of her brain, arose, and catching his hand
as it fell powerless, burst out:
"_Who_ are you? Are you my--father? Oh, tell me!" she appealed to
the group about her--"my father?" and stood breathless before him.
The word seemed to sober him with a mighty shock. He sank upon his
knees, her hands still clasping his, and burying his hot face in her
cool palms, murmured in choking accents:
"Her father--my child--my God, I thank thee!"
But the strain was too much. In a moment more he sank all in a heap upon
the floor, limp and lifeless.
Passionately the girl knelt beside him, and looked searchingly into his
now colorless face, while the others hastened with restoratives. Nor did
she leave him during the days of illness that followed, except when
obliged to rest. Little by little they had told her the story.
She only said: "Oh, I never dreamed he was like this. I used to think
he must be something inhuman, horrible. Then I found myself staring at
every stranger, especially if he was monstrous, or in the least hideous.
But I had given up all hope, and was afraid to ask."
"No, my dear child;" soothingly said her aunt, "your father is not
horrible, or hideous except that he is the slave of drink. He is not
inhuman, but a tender, loving creature. He is a gentleman, cultured and
learned. There is nothing fine in the language he cannot repeat, so
wonderful is his gift of memory. Oh, my child, can you not--will you not
help him? You can win him, I feel sure."
Ruth learned to love her father by reason of his idolatrous devotion
to her, as well as the powerful influence of his brilliant talents. In
those first days of convalescence he followed her feebly from room to
room, drinking in the joy of having her after the privation of years;
and one day folding her to his breast said:
"My precious child--my beautiful daughter--hear your father's vow! Come
what will, nevermore shall a drop of the accursed fire pass my lips. I
will redeem our name--I can and I will."
He kept his word. Ruth went to Vassar. She wrote long, loving letters to
her mother and father every week of her school life. Once she said to
her mother:
"You know what I wish, my darling mamma. You know that I long to unite
my two beloveds; but never shall I ask it. You must follow your own
heart. I believe my father will be worthy of us; I shall be guided by
you alone."
At first the mother was stricken down by the fierce throes of jealousy
and pain that rent her soul; but as time went on and she knew that she
was not supplanted, she grew quiescent. But she owned to herself that
she never could have sent Ruth away if it had not been to separate
her from her father as well.
On every side his praises were sung in her ears. He was rising higher
and higher in his profession, and one enormous fee in a contested will
case, had suddenly made him rich. Both were getting on toward middle
life, and he was slightly gray; but her brown hair lay in the same soft,
glossy bands, and her pure white face was placid as of yore.
Four years had passed, and Ruth's birthday was at hand. Her mind had
long been made up; and now Christmas light and gladness reigned supreme.
It was just at the close of the day when entering the fire-lit room upon
the arm of her tall, distinguished-looking father, she threw her arms
about her mother and whispered three words,--"For our sake!"
Then kneeling with courtly grace before her, he kissed the fair hand he
had won in his youth and in tones whose music had thrilled her girlish
heart, he spoke:
"My beloved, will you not trust me again? See--our darling has saved us
for each other."
And the last ray of the roseate sun lingered lovingly on the three as
the evening sank into blessed night.