 Chapter 7 The Unexpected To judge from the sound a much merrier time than usual was being enjoyed in the parlours. Snatches of music, not suggestive of worship, mingled with gay laughter floated up to Mrs. Burnham over the broad staircase, serving to make Erskine restless and inattentive. He stopped frequently in the midst of his Bible lesson to ask, Whose voice was that? What do you suppose they laughed at then? Mama, do you think that they will sing that song in church tonight? And dozens of kindred questions. It was painfully evident that the sounds of mirth below stairs were more congenial to his ear than the Bible story above. Finally came a gentle tap on their closed door and the trim young girl whose duty it was to be always in readiness to do errands for everybody entered softly. Judge Burnham would like to have Master Erskine come downstairs for a little while, if you please. The little boy gave a merry spring from the hassec where he was kneeling beside his mother, but she put out a detaining hand. Do you know for what, Kate? No, ma'am, he only said, tell Master Erskine to come to his papa in the back parlor. Mama, I must go, mustn't I? You said I must always go when papa called. There was a little quivering of the boy's chin. He was evidently much afraid that the promised pleasure would be spoiled. Still his mother had no answer for him. Who are in the parlours, Kate? Indeed I don't know, ma'am. Doctor Waitley is there and Mr. Henderson, and I don't know who else. The music room seemed to be quite full. Mrs. Burnham repressed a little sigh, which she did not wish Kate to hear, and turned to the appealing eyes of her boy. Certainly you will go, dear, when papa calls, but you will come back as soon as you can, will you not? Remember, mama is all alone. He gave his gay little promise, too impatient to be gone, to stand still while the tender fingers brushed his curls, too much a baby to detect the pathos in those words, all alone. Kate was not deaf to them, however. She gave a swift, searching look at her mistress, and reported it in the cooks room that evening, as her opinion that there were a good many goings on in this house that Mrs. Burnham did not like, and she didn't believe she was altogether happy with all her grand ways. And if Mrs. Burnham, careful as she believes herself to be, does not guard her size and her tell-tale face more carefully in the future, before she is aware, the kitchen of her own home not only, but many another kitchen will gossip about her household skeletons. She set the door wide open after Erskine had left her, feeling painfully the loneliness made so much more deep by the constant hum of conversation which went on below, and putting steadily back the inclination to bury her face in her hands in cry, in order to strain her ears to hear, if possible, what was being said or done to entertain Erskine. It was the first time her shielding care of him on the Sabbath had been interfered with. She had wondered sometimes over it, for his father was very fond of him, and delighted to hear his steady chatter whenever he had opportunity to entertain Papa. Now the interruption had come in the shape of a call to the parlor to join in the entertainment or at least the amusement of Sunday guests. Ruth Erskine's father, long years before he was a Christian, had frowned upon any attempt to commonize the Sabbath day. He might read his newspapers, or if an intricate question was before him, consult his great tomes of law, but he did these things decorously in the quiet of his own study, and had not been in the habit of inviting even his most intimate friends to share his home on the Sabbath. Ruth had taken it for granted without giving the matter any thought that all gentlemen of culture were alike in this respect, and her husband's utter indifference to the recent innovations had been a revelation and an added pain to her. She saw very little indeed of Judge Burnham on Sundays now, and this too had been so gradual a process that she had not roused to it until it was an accomplished fact. Under one pretext and another he was constantly excusing himself from accompanying her to morning service, and his afternoons were generally spent in the library where he indulged himself in stray fragments from the current books and magazines, doing, he said, the only light reading for which his busy life gave him time. Ruth, who used to join him there until she found that his constant interruptions and outbursts of laughter over Erskine's quaint remarks made it impossible for her to hold the child's attention to his Bible lesson, had herself set the fashion of going with the child to her room. At first she intended it for but a little while, but on her return to the library she so frequently of late found her husband absent in the parlors or walking about the grounds that she had dropped the custom of seeking him and remained all the afternoon in her room. He used to lounge in a little before dinner and have a frolic with Erskine, but for several Sundays he had been engaged in the parlor and then had gone to town for an evening service, leaving his wife to absolute solitude after Erskine was sleeping. Occasionally Judge Burnham pronounced himself to be too indolent for the city, and then this husband and wife, who grew farther apart every day, got through a long evening as best they could. Judge Burnham, doing a little fragmentary reading for himself and a good deal of yawning and sleeping, was generally the one to propose that they retire early, as he had a hard week before him. A good deal of this was genuine fatigue, for it was true that, as he grew older, he absorbed himself more and more in business, and Ruth heard it from many outside sources that her husband had taken very high rank in his profession. She mourned much over these wasted hours, but the time seemed to have gone by when she could do other than mourn. She had offered once to read aloud to him and reminded him that he used to like her reading, but he answered laughingly, yet with that undertone of sarcasm which he now heard so much, that that was before such a great gulf fixed itself between their tastes, that he believed each had grown incapable of comprehending the other's literary tastes, and she had felt too wounded to press the question, so they had continued in their separate ways. A second interruption came to her on this afternoon. Kate began, Dr. Waitley's compliments, and if it was agreeable, he would like to see her downstairs a few minutes. Ruth's face flushed deeply. She was at a loss to understand the meaning of this. Dr. Waitley was not an old friend. He was a comparatively new acquaintance, even of her husband. She had met him by accident one evening in the library, and had taken an instant dislike to his face and manner. Since that time, his calls had been made almost entirely on sabbaths. There could not be a shadow of professional excuse for his message, for although he was an MD, Judge Burnham had laughingly remarked, but a few days ago, that he wore his title as an ornament rather than a badge of usefulness, and had added that he did not believe the man had sufficient energy ever to become a success in his profession. So although her husband occasionally told Ruth that she grew paler every day, and ought to consult a physician, certainly Dr. Waitley would not be the chosen one. Had the gentleman observed her habitual absence from the parlor on Sundays, and boldly determined to oblige her to receive him, the thought made the lady so indignant that she almost sent an unexplained refusal. Still, he was her husband's guest. What ought she to do? Kate, she said abruptly of the girl who was watching her curiously, is Judge Burnham in the parlor? Yes, it was he who sent the message. I thought you said it was from Dr. Waitley. Tell me exactly what was said, please. Why, Judge Burnham came to the door and spoke to me and said, Take Dr. Waitley's compliments to Mrs. Burnham and say to her that he would like to see her in the parlor. That is every word, ma'am. Then you may ask Judge Burnham if he will be kind enough to come to my room for a moment. I wish to speak with him. He came immediately and with an air of concern. Was anything wrong? Was she not feeling well? She waited for no preliminaries. Judge Burnham, will you tell me why Dr. Waitley wishes to see me at this time? Why really, my dear, I am not sure that I can supply a motive beyond the obvious one that it is naturally enough for a gentleman to ask to see the lady of the house. Does it strike you as such an unusual proceeding? Very unusual indeed. Dr. Waitley has been here sufficiently often, I should suppose, to have discovered that I do not receive calls on Sunday. Upon my word, my dear Ruth, I do not believe it has ever dawned upon him. He is not of that development. I imagine it just occurred to him that the polite thing to do would be to ask for the privilege of paying his respects to Mrs. Burnham, and he immediately did so. Then could you not have done me the favor of explaining that this is not the day on which I receive guests? Her manner may have been cold and haughty. Indeed on reflection I am sure it was. She felt very much hurt. Whether the guest had intended it as an embarrassment or not, surely her husband was sufficiently conversant with her views to have shielded her had he chosen to do so. She remembered the days in which, thinking very differently from her, he would still have guarded her carefully from any annoyance that he could. I don't think he remembered them just then. He thought only that his wife was making herself very disagreeable about a small matter. He had a way of lifting his eyebrows and smiling slightly behind his gray mustache. It always irritated Ruth that smile. It seemed to say to her, you have put yourself in a very foolish position, and the only thing left for you to do is to make your way out of it as gracefully as possible. He gave her at this moment that particularly irritating look and smile. Indeed, Mrs. Burnham, that is expecting almost too much of me. I do not pretend to be able to explain why my wife should consider it a sin to come down to her own parlor for a moment and say a courteous good afternoon to a friend of her husband, with whom he has been conversing for the last half hour. The peculiar lens necessary for discovering the heinousness of an action like that, even when done on the Sabbath day, has been by nature denied me, and I must not be expected to rise to the height of understanding it. If you have ever so slight a headache or are indisposed in any way, I will bear your regrets with what grace I can, but to enter into the metaphysics of the matter without a direct message from you ought hardly to be expected of a sinner like myself. He expected her to turn from him in cold indignation, and he proposed to laugh at her a little, good-naturedly, of course, and then to descend the stairs and say to his guest that Mrs. Burnham was not feeling equal to seeing her friends that afternoon and begged that the gentleman would kindly excuse her. He knew just how to do it, politely, cordially, and was not troubled by any conscience whatever in the matter. But his wife's nerves were too sore. She turned from him indeed, and her face burned. But there were other feelings beside indignation, though enough of that element was present or she would not have done what she did next. I beg your pardon, she said. I did not know I was putting too heavy a strain on your courtesy and kindness. I will give my message in person. She swept past him like a queen and went swiftly down the stairs. He followed her, still smiling, the uppermost feeling on his mind being one of curiosity as to what she would do. His wife was a lady. What could she do except to receive her collar graciously, of course? What she did was to move with the manner of a princess down the long parlor to the Elkove where Dr. Waitley stood by the piano. She acknowledged the presence of the younger guests only by a dignified inclination of the head as she went. Her voice was never clearer nor colder than when she said. After Waitley, my husband wishes me to say to you in person that it is not my custom to receive my friends on the Sabbath day. It is a matter which is very well understood among all my personal friends. Should you care to call on me at any time during the week, it will be my pleasure to meet you, but I am sure you will excuse me today. Judge Burnham was directly behind her, veiling his astonishment and chagrin as a well-trained man of the world can do. Ruth turned at once from the amazed, not to say embarrassed, Dr. Waitley, and addressed her husband. Judge Burnham, will you have the kindness to excuse Erskine from the parlor? I would like to take him with me to my room. Certainly, my dear, the gentleman said, his voice perfectly quiet, and he called Erskine in his usual tone, kissed him graciously, and told him Mama wanted him now, then attended his wife quite to the door, and held it open for her to pass, bowing as she did so, and he was never more angry in his life. Poor Mrs. Burnham, of all that embarrassed company below stairs, and I will do them the justice of saying that they were embarrassed, I think none were so much to be pitied as the angry and humiliated woman alone in her room, struggling with her passion and her sense of shame, and trying to appear as usual before the excited boy, who was by no means ready to leave the parlors, and come back to the quiet of this upper world. Why could I not have stayed, Mama? Papa liked to have me there, and they all did, I think. Sarah kissed me, and said it was nice to have a little boy to put her arm around. And I was good, I didn't talk at all, only when somebody asked me something. Mama, I wish I could go back just for a little while. It is lonesome up here, and I wanted to hear them sing. Sarah was just going to sing when you came in. Poor Mother! If this baby could only have given her kisses just then instead of coaxing to go away from her, it would have helped. It was an afternoon to remember. Poor Ruth was destined to realize fully that one may shut the doors with emphasis against tangible guests, and yet receive a whole troop of miscreants into one's heart to make havoc with holy time. As the storm of passion subsided, she had that hardest of all feelings to contend with, self-reproach. Reason being allowed once more to take her seat accused this Christian woman of having yielded not to conscience, but to rage. Possessed with this controlling influence, she had offered to her husband's guest what he would consider an insult. She had not only given him an utterly false idea of religion and its power over the human heart, but she had offended her husband unjustly. Perhaps this was really the worst sting in Ruth's sore heart, that her husband would be justified in utterly condemning her action also. And herein lay the real point of the sting, for at heart this woman was loyal. She knew the unbelieving husband would attribute the action to her religion, and persist in doing so when she realized only too well that it was the outburst of a moment's ungovernable indignation. CHAPTER 8 Slippery Ground In point of fact, that was what Judge Burnham did. The moment he had closed the door after his wife, he went straight to Dr. Waitley and held out his hand with a winning smile and said in tones distinct enough to be heard throughout the room, My friend, I hope you will allow me to apologize for what must appear unaccountable treatment. The fact is, my dear fellow, when religious fanaticism gets hold of a woman, she is really powerless before it, and I verily believe is not accountable for her acts. I am the one to blame, since I understand how completely this strange feeling sways my wife, I should not have delivered your message today. I beg you will pardon her and understand that no discourtesy was intended. It would have been the same if you had been a foreign ambassador. It was the best he could do for his wife's reputation. He knew this and he did it well, and Dr. Waitley, being a gentleman in society, at least accepted the apology with what grace he could muster and outward calm was restored. But there were outgrowths from the storm, as there always are when passion holds sway for ever so short a time over the human heart. It had been said publicly, as Ruth had feared it would be, that religion must bear the blame for this unladylike action, and people talked as people will. Those least acquainted said, what a pity it was that so fine a woman as Mrs. Burnham should be so completely under the control of fanatical ideas. They should think Judge Burnham would most fear for her reason. Others of them, less charitable, said that it was all very well for the judge to smooth over this little domestic hurricane, and he did it gracefully, but they believed, if the truth were told, that the poor fellow was used to them, and at any rate, if that was the style when it came to their turn to marry, they hoped they might be delivered from a religious termagant, for in their opinion they were the worst kind. The young ladies talked the matter over with their father and said, poor Papa, and kissed him, and said they were so sorry for him, and that he managed it all beautifully, that they felt at first as though they should sink through the floor, or at least wished that they could, but he was so gentle and so courteous, and they were so proud of him that they really almost forgot to be frightened and ashamed, because of their pride. And he felt himself to be a martyr who had borne himself very well indeed under persecution. Still, all this did not serve to make his indignation against his wife, one wit less fierce. Nor did it serve to help her, when, with flushed cheeks and eyes that were red with weeping, she turned to him frankly the first moment that they were alone, and said, Judge Burnham, I owe you an apology for this afternoon's experience. I beg you will forgive me. I ought not to have done what I did. Judge Burnham was engaged in removing his dress-coat and putting himself into his dressing gown. He had not seen his wife since the afternoon. She had sent a message by Kate to the effect that she would like to be excused from dinner, as she had a severe headache, and the judge had bowed in reply, and had not gone at once to see what he could do for the headache, as his courtesy had always heretofore led him to do. Also, he had gone with his daughters and some of their friends to the city for the evening, merely going through the form of sending Kate to ask if there was anything he could do for Mrs. Burnham's comfort before departing. So now, although it was nearly eleven o'clock, Ruth was waiting up for him, and had met him with the sentence I have given you. She waited to adjust the collar of his handsome dressing gown to his mind before he answered, speaking slowly, coldly. I should think there could not be two opinions about that. No, said Ruth, controlling an almost irresistible impulse to burst into tears. I should not expect anyone to think it right, and I am very sorry that I annoyed you. As to that, said the judge, putting his feet into some bright slippers that were waiting for them, I must bear my own annoyances as best I can, but I regret that a friend of mine should be rudely treated in my own house, at the hands of my wife. It was not, of course, what could have been possibly foreseen. Wasn't it a graceful way of telling her that no one could have foreseen that she would lay aside her ladyhood and descend to rudeness? Silence for a few minutes, and then the gentleman made what he intended to be a gracious statement. However, I made what apologies I could for you, and am glad indeed that the spell whatever it was is over, and you are returned to reasonable ground once more. Then was poor Ruth dismayed? Had her attempted undoing the mischief of the day been construed into a concession of principle for the future? She must explain at the risk of being misunderstood. Judge Burnham, I am afraid I have not made my meaning quite clear. I regret exceedingly the manner of my explanation today, but not the explanation. That is, it will be necessary for Dr. Waitley or any other person who wishes to call on me to understand that I do not receive on the Sabbath, but I know that I could and should have made it apparent in some other way and in a different spirit. Judge Burnham, suppose we dismiss the subject and retire. We are not likely to agree, however long we may discuss it, and for myself, I confess that I am weary of the whole thing. And this was the outcome of her attempt at reconciliation. A polite gentleman's displeasure can be manifested in unmistakable ways, even toward his wife. The very extreme punctiliousness with which her husband attended to the minutest detail of whatever pertained to her marked his cold dignity. There were none of the little carelessnesses, which are sometimes permitted, even enjoyed, where there is perfect familiarity and perfect confidence. Still as the days passed, the episode was not without its fruits, which were apparently helpful. The lady of the house struggled to show that she confessed herself, in a sense, in the wrong, and was willing to do all she could in the way of concession. She came to the parlor now each evening of her own will, not waiting to be summoned there by collars who inquired for her. This was a comfort, even to the young ladies, for there were always among the guests those whom they considered a bore to entertain, and to have mama in the front parlor to do the honors, leaving them free to saunter into the back parlor or the music room with favorite ones was as it should be in their estimation. Judge Burnham viewed the change with satisfied eyes, and was by no means unmindful when his wife made her entrance in a dark blue dress instead of the black which she had so long worn. He complimented her on her appearance, took a rose from the vase, and pushed it through the meshes of soft lace which she wore. During the evening he watched her with satisfied eyes as she entertained his friends, and, not having any marked interest in Dr. Waitley, confessed to himself that he didn't know but he owed the fellow a vote of thanks, if this was to be the result of his impudence. For in his secret heart Judge Burnham thought it was bordering on impudence for a comparative stranger to send a special request to his wife to receive him socially on Sunday afternoon out there in the country where Sunday calling was the exception and not the rule. The next thing was a dinner party, not a general and massive affair, but a little gathering of Judge Burnham's special friends whom he delighted to honor. Such a gathering has had not been in the house since Ruth's father went away, and Judge Burnham, watching his wife, who exerted all her powers of entertainment and overhearing one of the judges of the Supreme Court, pronounced her an unusually brilliant woman, assured himself that he could endure the momentary embarrassment of that Sunday afternoon proceeding very well indeed, and was heartily glad that it had occurred, that probably Ruth needed something of the sort to bring her to her senses. She was certainly a queen among women. Now that the ice was fairly broken, society should see what a jewel he had in his keeping. So altogether it was a much-molified and very well-contented husband who lounged among the cushions in the library after the fatigues of the successful evening were over, and watched his wife while she unfastened and placed in water the flowers she had worn, in which he had himself selected and arranged for her. They were very becoming, he said. I had no idea that simple flowers would fit your style so well, and there was a charming contrast which just suited me. Your style is rather regal, you know, and I have always thought of diamonds in connection with it. Ruth you were quite like your old self to-night, the self I used to admire before I appropriated it, only more matronly, of course, as became your years, and more beautiful, really. I think you ought to be grateful, my dear, few women of your age retain their youthful beauty as you have done. Ruth laughed in a pleased way. She cared extremely little for youthful beauty, but she did care for her husband's admiration, and it had been so long since he had expressed any that she felt her cheeks blush under the spell of his words. She was glad over having pleased him. She told herself that she ought to have done these things before, that she had been selfish and hateful, that it was perfectly natural for a man to desire to receive his friends in his own house, and that if she had realized how much he desired it, she would certainly not have waited so long. She put herself into a white wrapper that was almost more becoming than her dinner-dress, and came and sat beside him, and he reached over for the tassels of her wrapper and toyed with them, tossing them back and forth on her hand, and finally possessing himself of the hand, bent the shapely fingers back and forth at his will, while he chatted with her about a dozen careless nothings, as they had not chatted together actually for years, and Ruth's eyes were bright and her heart was glad. She began to see her way out of the mazes of discomfort which had surrounded her. She was somewhat astonished that the door of comfort seemed opening to her by way of the society which she had so much dreaded. But why not, after all? She had enjoyed the gathering herself. She knew how to entertain people, and she knew how to manage her domestic concerns, so that that portion of the entertainment could always be a success. What had she been thinking about all these months, not to take matters into her own hands and bring to their house, with her invitations, such people as she would enjoy meeting? Scarcely a name on the list which her husband had given her, but it was an honour to entertain. Suddenly into the midst of her complacent musings came her husband's voice. Why the way, Ruth, have the girls spoken to you about having the social gathering here chiefly of young people? Well, they will, in response to Ruth's negative reply. They have had it in mind for some time, and have been quite patient, I must say, for girls. I told them that, of course, while the lady of the house was in mourning, anything very general in the way of company would be in bad taste. But that as soon as we could comfortably bring it to pass, they should be gratified. We must do something especially attractive, I suppose, in return for their long waiting. I believe I will have Terence band come out. That would be unique and save an immense amount of trouble. What is your judgment about the floors? Would you rather have the carpets taken up or simply covered for the occasion? If you are proposing to make any changes as to carpets in the spring, perhaps they might as well be taken up now as at any time. To all of which Ruth listened with great sinking of heart. She was evidently supposed to be making ready for a dancing party and on a somewhat magnificent scale. She waved the question of carpet and launched another. Judge Burnham, don't you remember that I do not endorse dancing parties? Her manner was timid, almost appealing, as one would speak who dreaded exceedingly to broach an unpleasant theme. But the master of the house neither frowned nor growled. Instead he laughed. I don't remember. There were so many things that you did not endorse, you know. How could I be expected to bear them all in mind? However, the girls will not require you to endorse their amusement, I fancy. They need you to play the lady hospitable to their guests. You need not be bored for more than an hour or so, you know. Poor puzzled lady of the house, trying to walk two opposite ways at the same time. She glanced at the handsome man who was resting so luxuriously among his cushions, then looked down at her prisoned hand and sighed. The way was certainly bewildering. She tried again. But, Judge Burnham, you do not understand. How can I receive guests to my house and provide for them an entertainment of which I do not in the least approve? Would there not be something dishonorable in that? Beside, I would be placing myself in a false light before the world. But, my dear, you are not expected to approve. If one had to approve of all the silliness which goes on under one's own roof, even during the giving of a dinner party, it would be a tremendous strain on one's common sense. You cannot manage society, my queen, however much you may grace it, and I am willing to own that few women can match you in that. She knew he had answered her with sophistry and with flattery. Never mind, she would put the question in another form. Judge Burnham ought one to offer to others that which one believes may be a temptation and a snare. If I think there is actually harm in dancing, ought I to have anything to do with providing it as an amusement? You needn't, with a good natured laugh. I will engage the band and have the house put in proper array, and you may retire to your room with the first strain of gay music. I will even engage to lock you in if you fear the temptation to indulge will be too much for you. What reply could she make to this other than to look steadily at him with sorrowful eyes? When his laugh was over he added still good-naturedly and with a careless yawn. What about dancing, my dear, wherein lies the harm? Did you ever post me? Or so I have fallen from grace. I cannot recall a single argument for your side. Do you want to refresh yourself by putting me through a course? How instantly was Mrs. Burnham carried back to the days when she was Ruth Erskine, to Marion's dingy little upper room in the boarding-house, to Urie Mitchell's merry words, half on one side of the question, half on the other, to Flossie Shipley's sweet young face? How earnestly, Bibles in hand, had they forediscussed this very question years ago? How easily, in the light of Flossie Shipley's Bible verses, had they settled it? She could seem to hear Marion's voice again, saying, Girls, we have spent our strength vainly. It is our privilege to get up higher, to look at all these things from the mount whereon God will let us stand if we want to climb. And then they had climbed those girls. They were standing, at least so far as these trying little beginnings of religious experience were concerned, a way above them, troubled by them no more. All save herself. Here was she, after the lapse of years, sitting beside the one with whom she had spent the most of them, and he had gotten no farther than the old worn-out query, wherein lies the harm? The solemn question was, did this tell something of her own spiritual state? End of Chapter 8, Recording by Tricia G. Chapter 9 of Judge Burnham's Daughters. She looked at him curiously, half pitifully. How should she answer the question in a line with his moral development? Her look seemed to amuse and interest him. What is it, my dear? Do you feel in your soul that I haven't enough mental caliber to comprehend the argument? I'll promise to give the full powers of my mind to it if you will try me. Judge Burnham, do you want your daughters to be on such familiar terms with the gentleman whom they meet in society as the dance necessitates? Is your knowledge of human nature such as to make this desirable or even wise? He frowned slightly, and his voice was graver than it had been. That sounds badly, Ruth. It sounds as though you might be unpleasantly familiar with a human nature that is below you. You must have learned that sort of talk from people who think they must always drag the slums into argument. I am not talking about the class of people who are recognized in society as the slums. I mean the Tracy's, the Markums, and Mr. Peterson. Do you want your daughters to dance with them? He had apparently recovered his good humor. Oh, as to that, there are degrees even in good society. I shall want the girls to exercise common sense, of course, or failing in that, I will exercise it for them. I do not advocate indiscriminate dancing. If that is what you are after, you are entirely welcome to the admission. Yet the girls dance with these persons. I have heard them mention their names in such a connection. The sole point before us just now is whether we desire to stamp with our approval amusements which are liable to such dangers as these, and which may lead a stray young girls who do not understand enough about the wicked world to see any danger ahead. Mrs. Burnham, has it ever occurred to you that possibly our daughters may have been led into dangers because they were left, in a large degree, to face this society which it seems is such an ogre, quite without the presence and guarding counsel of their parents? I have a vivid recollection of a time when invitations were accepted by them and declined by you by the whole sale, while I, being a loyal and well-brought-up husband, of course, remained with my wife and left my girls to dance with whom they would. What about that responsibility? Her cheeks were growing unbecomingly red, but she answered steadily. You could not expect me to do what my conscience disapproved, even though you allowed the girls to go where I could not accompany them. You knew when you married me, Judge Burnham, that I professed to be guided by my conscience. Did I do wrong, do you think, in following its dictates? That depends. A fellow in court the other day argued that his conscience would not let him see his wife and children go hungry, so he stole a watch in order to feed them. This question of conscience is very obscure and miserably misunderstood. If you were a lawyer, you would know that the conscience is perverted every day to meet the demands of some crank. Her old friends again, how fully they had discussed the responsibilities of conscience and the necessity for educating it. Did her husband suppose that she had not studied and prayed over these matters? She was silent because she did not know how to reply to his pretense at arguing. His words seemed beneath her notice. After a moment's silence, he commenced again. I do not quite understand how you came to be such a slave to fanaticism, Ruth. It does not seem like you. Your father had a touch of it, to be sure, but I think he must have caught it from you since you go so far beyond him. It must be an outcrop from some ancient Puritan. Really, my dear, you ought to study these questions. Such narrowness is beneath you. Take, for example, that statement which you are so fond of making about leading others astray. Can't you see that if it really proves anything, it proves too much? How many people do you suppose injure themselves every day of their lives by gormandizing? Yet you would not, because of that, conclude that it was your Christian duty to give up the use of food. Oh, astute judge, to suppose that such baby as sophistry as that could pass with your keen-brained wife for reasoning. He waited for her reply with an air that said, now, my fair fanatic, haven't I put you in a corner? But Ruth was in no haste to respond. Busy memories had hold of her tonight. She had gone back again into that upper room. She could see Flossie's grave sweet face. She could hear Marian reading from her little old Bible. Were the dear girls with her in spirit tonight trying to help her, that they appeared to her inner consciousness so constantly? I should think, she said at last, that the answer to your question would depend almost entirely on the importance of food to our bodies. If the habit of taking food is one that we can lay aside at will, and still hold our place in the world and do our work, ought we not to carefully consider and decide whether we should in this thing set an example which would lead to the injury of others? Will you let me quote a few words to you from an old book on which I feed my conscience? And without waiting for her reply, she quoted the well-remembered words, not as Marian had done, but making her own substitution. But dancing commends us not to God, for neither if we dance are we the better, neither if we dance not are we the worse. But take heed, lest by any means this liberty of yours become a stumbling block to them that are weak. For if any man see thee which haste knowledge join the dance, shall not the conscience of him which is weak be emboldened to dance also? And through thy knowledge shall the weak brother perish for whom Christ died? But when ye sin so against the brethren and wound their weak conscience, ye sin against Christ. Wherefore, if dancing make my brother to offend, I will dance no more while the world standeth. Judge Burnham turned himself entirely on his cushions and gave his wife the benefit of a prolonged stare of astonishment. Are those words to be found in your Bible exactly as you have quoted them? Exactly as I have quoted them saved that, of course, I substitute dancing for Paul's word, meat, which was the question at issue when he presented the argument. Oh, spoken in a very significant tone, quite a substitute, I should say. Of course, if your conscience allows you to read the Bible with free substitutions, you can make it prove anything. But, Judge Burnham, really, have I changed the force of the argument in the least if you admit what you and I know to be the case that there have been people even this winter in this city led astray through the social dance? It was almost impossible for her to keep her lip from curling just a little in indignation. She could seem to hear Marion's voice again, as she said. Now, Yuri Mitchell, you are too bright to make such a remark as that. Her husband was also too bright for that. Judge Burnham yawned and turned one of the pillows and said, what time is it, my dear? Haven't we discussed this interesting subject long enough? You cannot make the world over if you try ever so hard. My candidate advice to you is not to try. You will have your peculiar views, I suppose, to the end of time. Don't let us quarrel about them. The girls haven't a drop of puritan blood in their veins. I'm afraid they will dance to the end of the chapter, but I will see to it that they choose partners of perfectly immaculate character. We have gone a long way astray from our starting point, which was whether we should have the carpets removed or covered. However, you can decide that at your leisure. Oh, by the way, if I were you, I would have that little room which we have been using as a sort of annex to the music room, cleared and fitted up with card tables. There are always some who prefer a quiet game to any other method of passing the time, and that seems to me the most convenient place for tables. And now, my dear, don't you think it would be well for us to close this day? It has been rather a fatiguing one. I'm afraid I shall need another dinner if we talk much longer. He smiled pleasantly on her, even stooped and kissed her as he rose up to light the gas in his dressing room. His manner was certainly very kind, kinder than it had been for months. But there was a painful little air of triumph about it as one who said, we have begun life on a new basis, my dear. It is true you insulted a friend of mine, but you thereby got your eyes opened and have discovered that you live in the world and must live in it. And you have taken your place in society once more, and society will show you that she has a groove in which you must walk. You are her prisoner, whether you will or not. And Ruth, as she went slowly, weirdly over to her dressing case and began to draw out pins and let down her hair, sighed heavily, not because she was subdued, but because she was perplexed. I am not a prisoner, she told herself firmly, nor a slave. I am the Lord's free woman. I am responsible only to him, and I will not bow my neck to this yoke of fashionable life. I will not appear to countenance what I do not approve. But oh, I see discord in weariness of soul before me, and I do not know which way to turn first. If only, just here she stopped. She must always stop at that point, even in her thoughts. What good to say now, if only my husband and I were agreed as to these matters. But there did float through her tired brain, the old solemn question, how shall two walk together except they be agreed? Away into the night, she studied the problem and arose the next morning, somewhat lighter of heart. She had resolved to see what genius and culture could do towards supplanting the usual amusements of the day. She would petition her husband to let her give the young ladies a surprise, an entertainment that she would promise should be altogether unique and more brilliant than anything the region had known. She would do this with the understanding that every detail should be left entirely in her hands and should be entirely secret until the eventful evening arrived. Thus guarded, she would see whether it was not possible for time and skill and money to evolve in evening's entertainment, even for fashionable people, which should have no objectionable features. Much engrossed by her scheme in ways of developing it, she roused from a half-dreamy attention to the usual dinner table chatter to alertness and caution. Robert, the host had ordered, unpack the case which came out with me this afternoon and bring a bottle of it to the table. It is a very choice orange wine, my dear, this to his wife as Robert parted to do his bidding. Something knew about its preparation. I did not give sufficient attention to understand what, but Dr. Westwood was enthusiastic over it and the point which I did notice was that he thought it would be excellent both for you and for Erskine. It seems he has noticed the boy lately and thinks he needs toning up and he says you need to enter on a regular course of tonics. He recommends the use of this orange wine at every meal and a little of it as often as you feel any thirst. Erskine is not sick. The mother's voice was not only startled but almost pleading in its notes as she studied the face of the fair boy at her side. Oh no, not sick but pale and frail looking. I told Dr. Westwood that I thought he was too closely housed. However, I have no doubt that the wine will be good for him. You shall make the first test of its quality, Mrs. Burnham. By this time he had poured a glass two-thirds full of the liquid and was himself holding it forward for his wife. Thank you, she said, trying to speak in a perfectly natural tone. I never used stimulants of any sort you remember. I feel not the slightest need for them and she made no movement toward the offered glass. But my dear, you must allow the physician to be the judge of that last. I assure you he was quite emphatic in his statements, so much so that I ordered a case of the wine before going to my office after meeting him. It was very thoughtful, certainly, and I will be grateful for the intention. But, indeed, I must decline to drink it. If I am really in need of medicine, a point which I by no means yield even on Dr. Westwood's testimony, I prefer to take it in the privacy of my own room where I can make all the rye faces I wish over offensive doses, not to mix it with my food. No thank you, for he was still holding forward the glass. I must really decline it. I have studied into the merits of orange wine somewhat and am not an admirer. Judge Burnham set the glass down at last, not quite gently, and his face was slightly flushed. Both the young ladies laughed lightly and Sarah said, why, Mama, where did you study medicine? You have one accomplishment which I did not know you possessed. How convenient will it be for us? We shall not need to summon a physician from the city. Mrs. Burnham made no reply. Indeed, she only half heard the valuable tongue. She was watching Judge Burnham with an anxiety which he might plainly have read had he chosen to look at her. He had filled a smaller glass about two-thirds full of the wine and was passing it to his son. Here, my boy, he said in decisive tones as though he were issuing a command instead of offering a luxury, drink that. Erskine, wait, his mother's voice as decisive as the father's but lower and more controlled. Then she addressed the father. Judge Burnham, may I beg you to excuse Erskine from drinking the wine? There are special reasons why I would like to talk with you about it before he takes any. Judge Burnham was very angry or he would not have allowed himself to be guilty of the rudeness which followed. After he has obeyed me, he said in haughty tones, I will be ready to talk with you. Drink that, my son, immediately. The startled boy received the glass in his hands but his mother's hand was placed quietly over the top while she spoke quickly. Erskine, papa will certainly excuse you if we explain to him that in obeying that direction you will not only be breaking a promise made to mama but to God. It was his son's questioning, half-frightened gaze and the certainty that he was sitting as Judge over the scene and would be sure to agree with his mother which was finally the controlling force in Judge Burnham's mind. He struggled for outward composure and presently with a forced laugh said, oh, if the case is as serious as that, of course nothing further can be said at present. But really, Mrs. Burnham, I think as a family we are a success in getting up unexpected scenes out of very small capital. I had not the remotest idea of rousing a moral earthquake when I went a mile out of my way this morning to see that the doctor's prescription was properly attended to. I think it would be well for us to come to some understanding in private about the management of our son. I beg your pardon for the publicity of the scene, said Ruth. It was nothing that I could have foreseen. It was the humiliation of this Christian woman that there were times when silence would have been golden in which she could not resist the temptation to sarcasm. End of chapter 9, recording by Tricia G. Chapter 10 of Judge Burnham's Daughters. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Judge Burnham's Daughters by Pansy. Chapter 10, Coming to an Understanding. Of course the question was not settled. Mrs. Burnham knew this and was anxious to bring it up again that there might at least be a full understanding with regard to Erskine. She began it unwisely as soon as they were alone before her excitement had had time to cool. However, she was quiet enough at first, repeating with a little more care and courtesy the statement that she had been sorry for the public discussion and had not thought to tell him that she and Erskine had been talking of these things but a few days before and that they had together taken a pledge never to touch anything that would intoxicate, a pledge which her husband interrupted her to say he thought was an exceedingly foolish and mischievous one. Pledges were serious things and should not be mouthed over by a child ignorant of what he was about. And then, with delicious disregard of logic, added that he should have supposed she would have had more wisdom than to have herself set up a barrier in the child's conscience in regard to the medicine which the family physician had prescribed. Ruth ignored the logic and the implied compliment to herself and held to her point. I do not mean to pledge him against the use of alcohol for extreme illness. Personally, I believe that medical skill can, if it chose, supply a substitute for alcoholic poison even in cases where it used to be considered a necessity. That was what Papa thought you remember and I know that we have very high medical authority to sustain the belief. But I am not prepared to set up my judgment against that of an attending physician where I know there is extreme danger. I do not know yet what I should do under such circumstances. I am afraid I should obey the doctor but in little everyday aches and pains and the weaknesses common to childhood. I am sure there is no necessity whatever of resorting to alcohol and that feature of the subject was decidedly included in our pledge. And I repeat that I think you have been very foolish in playing with pledges and all that sort of nonsense. The word of parents should be the highest law a child touches. However, you made a most unnecessary scene in this case for orange wine is free from the ingredient which has come under the ban of your displeasure. His wife turned fully toward him then and regarded him searchingly. Was this man ignorant really or did he suppose that she was? Do I understand you that there was no alcohol in the preparation of the orange wine which was on the table today? Well, of course it was fermented else it would not be fit to drink but the proportion of alcohol was so slight that a baby might have indulged in it without harm. It seemed unnecessary to make any reply to this so none was offered. The significant silence seemed to vex Judge Burnham. Suppose we try to understand each other. He said speaking more hotly than before. Am I to conclude from the exhibition we have had today that whenever you choose to countermand my orders to the child you consider yourself quite at liberty to do so in his presence to say nothing of the presence of others? If you have any such impression as this he added growing more angry as he proceeded. It is quite time we came to an understanding. I am not a household tyrant and I have never obtruded my views in regard to the child. Indeed while he was a baby it was my policy and my practice to leave him almost entirely in your hands. Perhaps I have carried this policy too far and led you to misunderstand me. But once for all let me say that I expect full and implicit and prompt obedience from him and failing to receive it shall certainly require it. I excused him today because the nature of your interference was such that no gentleman could do otherwise. But for the future you being fairly warned will not I hope force me at least in public to the painful necessity of pressing my commands contrary to your expressed will. If he was angry now and he had grown more so with each spoken word how shall his wife's state of mind be described? Her blood seemed fairly to boil in her veins. This entire harangue was so unlike her husband was so uncalled for. Had she not striven earnestly and successfully to instill into Erskine's mind the importance of unquestioning obedience to his father had she not put away her fears and anxieties many a time with stern hand in order to carry out some scheme of the father's over which the mother's heart trembled how utterly unfair and unkind was all this. Why should she be spoken to as though she were at best but a faithful nursemaid who could be trusted with the care of the child while he was a baby but who must resign her control as he grew older. There was no time for careful thought for schooling herself to the use of the right words. She spoke hastily, almost fiercely. Judge Burnham, I have done nothing to merit such language as that. I have always taught Erskine to obey you quite as unquestioningly as he did me. You know this to be the case and also that I appealed to you today to excuse him from the command giving you what I thought was a sufficient reason. Since you are so anxious that there should be an understanding between us I will try to speak as plainly as you have. I do mean that my boy shall be kept from the taint or the touch or even the smell of alcohol if determination and vigilance on my part can accomplish it. I tell you solemnly that much as my life is bound up in his entirely as I seem to be dependent on him for what happiness I have, I would rather stand beside his open grave and see him buried in his childish innocence than that he should live to be even a fashionable drunkard. And I warn you that I will not tamely submit to any tampering with him in this direction, to any scheme under pretext of medicine or tonic or whatever name Satan has planned to have the mixture called. I will take my boy and run away before I will endure anything of the kind. She turned from him the moment the last word was spoken and left the room but not quickly enough to escape his reply. Well, upon my word, this is the most astounding exhibition of Christian fanaticism that I have seen yet. The words pierced her, not because of their intense sarcasm nor because of the emphasis on the last word which was equal to saying that he was now prepared, however, for anything in that direction which could be imagined, but because of that one word, Christian, it brought her suddenly back to the recollection that as she lived religion before her husband, so he would judge of its power in her heart. Oh, miserable life that goaded her by the very force of her conscience into daily exhibitions that were a disgrace to the name she wore. Moreover, when she was quiet enough to think about it, she began to realize how very difficult she had made the way for her projected entertainment which was to supersede and outshine the fashionable world. Had she not made the attempt well-nigh impossible? Yet what could she have done? She tried to assure her conscience that she had no business with results, that she had but stood squarely up for her principles as she was in honor bound to do, but her conscience was altogether too well educated to be lulled in this manner. It insisted on assuring her that it was not the standing up for principle which could be criticized, but the manner of doing it. The next complication came the next morning. Mrs. Stuart Bacon sent up her card and would be glad to see Mrs. Burnham for a few minutes on important business. Roof knew her but slightly and being in no mood for strangers was tempted to declare herself engaged, but that phrase, important business, conquered and she went reluctantly to the parlor. Mrs. Bacon was a middle-aged lady with an earnest face and pleasant voice. Looking at her from across the aisle of the church, Roof remembered that she had dreamily told herself that sometimes she would like to become better acquainted with that face. Perhaps this was her opportunity. Yet this morning she did not think she wanted to become acquainted with anybody. It almost seemed to her that if she could go quite away from everybody she had ever seen before and stay a long time, she would be glad. Mrs. Bacon expressed her thanks at being received, though the hour was early for calls and said she would not abuse the kindness by unnecessary detention but would proceed at once to business. In the first place would not, dear Mrs. Burnham, join their organization. Her name had been on their list for several weeks as one whom they meant to petition, but she believed the opportunity had not here to foreoccurred. Still they confidently looked for her name and support. What was the organization? Roof questioned, struggling with the apathy she felt and trying hard to bring herself into line with women who were at work in the world. Why the WCTU, you know, spoke in confidently as though she would know the meaning of the magic letters in an instant. Your old pastor, Dr. Dennis, assured us that he believed we should find in you a most efficient helper. But Roof had been living out of the world. She could not remember what the letters meant. Dreamily she recalled her shatakwa experiences where the air was full of initials and tried to fit some of their meanings to the letters that flowed so glibly from Mrs. Bacon's tongue, but they would not fit. The caller must have observed her blank look for she hastened to the rescue. The Woman's Christian Temperance Union, you know, I beg your pardon for speaking in abbreviations. We women do it so much in our work that we forget it is not quite the way to speak to outsiders. Still, I don't regard you as an outsider. I know you are one of us. An intelligent Christian mother in these days is to be claimed as a matter of course. The Woman's Christian Temperance Union, Roof repeated the words aloud, slowly as if fascinated by them, her face aglow with interest. It sounded like fellowship and oneness of thought and feeling. Yes, Mrs. Bacon said heartily, feeling the sympathy in her hostess's voice. I knew you would be interested. We have quite a flourishing branch here and have accomplished some very desirable results, and she launched forth into an eager account of their late experiences. Roof listening felt her enthusiasm die slowly and her heart grow cold. It was of no use to think of joining these women in their work. She had never heard Judge Burnham mention the name of the organization, yet she was as sure as though he had talked for hours about it that he would regard their methods of work and even their work itself in some of its branches as unladylike and uncalled for. He had a very pronounced horror of women whom he regarded as having stepped out of their sphere. It would be foolish to widen the breach which was already between them by identifying herself with anything of this sort, but she would like to do it. She knew, of course, a great deal about the workings of the organization and had been more or less interested in its movements in the years gone by. As soon as she had roused from her dazed condition, she knew what the initials meant very well. Some of the doings of the society she had regarded with disapproval she remembered, but as she swiftly looked back on them now, she said perhaps the women were justified in all that they did. No doubt many of them were mothers. None of this, however, appeared in her words. When Mrs. Bacon reached a period, having closed with a renewal of her invitation, Ruth's reply was a brief, almost cold negative. She could not join the organization. She was in sympathy with them, of course, and respected their work. Every Christian woman must do that, but there were excellent reasons why she could not enroll herself as one of them. Mrs. Bacon was disappointed. She had evidently heard, either through Dr. Dennis or from some other source, that about Ruth which had made her confident of success. However, the refusal had been given in such a way as made it almost impossible for a lady to urge further. Well, she said, after a moment's dismayed silence, I am sorry, perhaps you will see it in a different light at some other time. Now, let me come at once to the special business whose need for haste precipitated, perhaps unwisely, the invitation I have just given you. I feel very sure, my dear Mrs. Burnham, that you will not put me off with a negative here. You know, of course, how earnestly we have struggled to keep the sale of liquor out of this corner of the world. And because we do not as yet belong to the city, and because it is a factory region, we have succeeded. Even the enemies of total abstinence do not think it wise to have liquor freely sold where their workmen can get it, you know. For their sons, strange to say, they have not so much regard. Well, up to this time our young men, if they use the stuff, must go to the city for it. It is true enough that with our constant trains back and forth, this can be very easily accomplished. Still, it is a sort of safeguard to those who have not yet been caught in the enemy's toils. But now a new danger menaces us. It is said that our largest hotel, the Shenandoah, has discovered that the law can be interpreted in such a manner that it will have a right to offer liquor to its guests, even though none can be sold elsewhere within our limits. What do you suppose we mothers think of that? We have sons, you know, who mingle freely with the guests at the Shenandoah and are frequently entertained by them. Are we to sit quietly by and see that poured before their eyes daily, which we have pledged our lives to keep from them, if possible? Do you believe we ought to do it, Mrs. Burnham? She was strongly excited. Her eyes fairly blazed with the intensity of her feelings, and every muscle of her face spoke for her. Ruth remembered that she had heard this woman's son mentioned as a young man who was unusually gifted. Was he also unusually tempted? She made haste to answer, her heart throbbing with sympathy. Suppose Erskine were nineteen. Assuredly I do think so, my dear madame, and if there is anything which you can do, I should think you would allow no obstacle to prevent your doing to the utmost. Thank you, I knew you were true at heart. Mrs. Burnham, if there is anything which you can do for us, will you do it? After what I have said, you can hardly doubt the heartiness of my reply to that question. The only trouble is, I realize only too well my own impotence. I have no influence whatever with the managers of the hotel. I have not even a speaking acquaintance with them, and if I had, it would not give me influence. How is it possible that I could accomplish anything which you, who have worked in these lines and understood the methods so well, could not do much better? Oh, my dear, we are far too well trained in our work to hope anything from hotel managers as a rule. The men who can consider such a proposition at all are not of the class that can be urged through their moral natures. Liquor-dealing hotel proprietors have no consciences, I virally believe. Nothing less impossible than a thou shalt not is going to affect anything in that direction. Why, one of these very gentlemen has a son who drinks to excess every time he goes to the city, and his father wants to make it more convenient to him, it seems. Then what can you think it possible for me to do under such circumstances, if they have the law on their side, or if it has been twisted so that it can appear to be on their side, and I have no doubt of that last, for nothing seems to be easier than to secure a lawyer who is skillful in misinterpreting the law to suit his client. What is there left to do? Everything, dear Mrs. Burnham, I am so glad to hear you speak in that eager way. Don't you suppose we recognize you as the power behind the throne? I told the ladies I felt sure you would be on our side, for though your boy is only five, the years go fast, and they make drunkards of them now at fifteen. This is a hurrying age, you know. I feel sure you will save us from the curse in our midst, dear Madame, for the sake of your boy and mine. Ruth looked utterly puzzled and also pained. What wild scheme had this excited woman in mind, which she fondly imagined would tie them over this present danger? She spoke low and gently in the hope of calming the evident excitement of her guest. I have not the remotest idea what you mean. Believe me, there is nothing that I would not do to help were it in my power, but how I can do anything I cannot imagine. Mrs. Bacon regarded her curiously, evidently puzzled in turn. Why, my dear Mrs. Burnham, she said at last, is it possible that you do not know that your husband is the owner of the Shenandoah, and that by the terms of the lease his consent must be obtained before any liquors can be brought into the house? End of Chapter 10, Recording by Tricia G. Chapter 11 of Judge Burnham's Daughters. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Judge Burnham's Daughters by Pansy. Chapter 11 WCTU No, Mrs. Burnham had not known this. Her husband's business interests were so extensive, and the pressure of care upon him so heavy, that even had he deemed it worth mentioning, he might not have thought of it at an opportune moment. And indeed he was so decidedly a man who threw off business cares the moment he reached his own door, and who never even thought of such a thing as chatting confidentially with his wife about them, that to have remarked, the Shenandoah property came into my hands today through the failure of the firm of Bell and Peeler would have had an absurdly inappropriate sound to him. So Ruth sat silent and appalled before the news, her husband the owner of the Shenandoah. This, then, was why she might naturally be supposed to have power in the question at issue, and her cheek paled over the realization of how powerless she was. Her instant change of manner was not lost on Mrs. Bacon, who shrewdly said to herself, she didn't know it before and it evidently makes a difference into whose pockets the results are to go. Oh, me, who would have supposed that a Christian woman with a son to rear would stop over considerations like these? And she was as correct in her conclusions as the majority of persons are who sit in judgment on the acts of their brothers and sisters. Mrs. Burnham spoke at last, slowly, choosing her words with care. She had no mind to show the sorrowful secrets of her home to Mrs. Bacon. You give me credit for altogether too much power, dear Madame. Gentlemen are noted, I believe, for supposing that their wives know nothing about business, and in my husband's case it would be fair enough. I profess to know very little in that line. Besides, Judge Burnham is preeminently a man who does not discuss business out of business hours, in proof of which I might tell you that I did not know he was the owner of the Shenandoah. The utmost that I can do is to repeat my assurance of sympathy and willingness to help in whatever way I can, at the same time reminding you that I may not be able to accomplish anything. Yet, as she went wearily up the stairs, after her collar had departed, she thought that nothing could be more un-propitious for her schemes in regard to the evening party than these questions of conscience which seemed to be pressing in on every hand. Nevertheless, as she thought more about Mrs. Bacon's petition, her courage rose. Judge Burnham might not be a total abstinence man, but he despised drunkenness, and, being a lawyer, well versed in the ways of the world, he must know how disastrous to the interests of a place which boasted of itself as a safe country home for young people would be the introduction of that which did more than anything else to make life unsaid. Besides, and on this she built strong hopes, Judge Burnham's pride would be at stake. Would he want it to go out through these earnest women that he feared for his rents to such a degree that he was willing to introduce wines and brandies as security? It would certainly have an offensive sound if she put it to him in that light. She thought so constantly about it and went over her arguments so many times that she worked herself into a state of feverish haste to have the interview over. She dreaded it but went steadily toward it with much the same feeling that one has in laying vigorous hold of any cross which must be born. If this thing must needs be, let me get through with it as speedily as possible. Judge Burnham was in his worst mood, courtly, suave, and sarcastic. Yes, he had met some of those interesting females who went about attending to other people's business. One always wondered who attended, meantime, to their homes. Women's constant talking unions they ought to be named, the tendency to talk steadily for an unprecedented length of time on subjects of which they knew nothing, seeming to be a marked feature of their organization so far as he had observed it. He had always thought that if he had been so unfortunate as to choose a wife with no more brains than to join herself to such a company, he might be justified for once in returning to the old blue laws and confining her on bread and water until she came to a better mind. Which particular member of the troupe had honored her with a call? Oh, yes, he had the honor of a speaking acquaintance with Mrs. Stewart Bacon. She had supposed her to be remarkable for nothing but a very ill-shaped mouth, but it seems she had other accomplishments. No wonder the mouth was ill-shaped, since it had such ungraceful work to do. Yes, he had the honor of being the owner of the Shenandoah. It had not entered his mind to object to the Lessie's proposition. Of course the law sustained him. It would be a return to the Dark Ages with interest if a man must be dictated to as to what he should have for his money at a hotel. There was nothing unpleasant about it, nothing that reasonable people could object to, merely light wines such as orange wine and the like, wholesome and refreshing beverages for refined people. The class of guests that patronized the Shenandoah would not be likely to demean themselves in any way. They took care to keep the prices too high for the common people. Oh, yes, the same law admitted light wines to the other, more common hotels of the place, of course, but he didn't own them and had nothing whatever to do with their affairs. As for his influence, he imagined that he should succeed in conducting himself in the future as in the past in such a way as to be above reproach, at least outside of his own family. Of course Mrs. Stewart Bacon and a few gossiping women of her clique would talk. That was their special forte as he had intimated. Probably he would come in for a share of the censure that they distributed so liberally, but he believed he was able to endure even that. In short, Ruth knew long before the interview was concluded that her plea was utterly hopeless. The very pride on which she had depended seemed to be a weapon turned against her. His pride would not permit him to seem to be swerved from his position one-half inch by what he was pleased to term, gossiping interference in what did not concern them. I have not given you an idea of the half he said. Through the entire interview he maintained his ironical tone and careless manner, omitting no opportunity for using the keen sarcasm in which nature and education had made him an expert, maintaining also his air of exceeding politeness and courteous attention, even vending to draw a rap closer about his wife when he saw that she shivered, and himself rearranging the open great fire which he knew was one of her luxuries, and finally pairing with much care in orange, half of which he presented to her on a fruit plate in the midst of one of her earnest arguments, with the smiling statement that perhaps she would not object to orange juice in that shape, although she had spurned his other offering meant for her refreshment. All together Ruth went from the room more utterly humiliated than she ever remembered to have been before. That she had signally failed was only too evident, that she had nothing but failure to report to the waiting and hopeful ladies was mortification enough, but there were deeper reaches to it than this. How had it happened that she, who had been so eagerly sought after, so earnestly and persistently wooed, chosen without a doubt because she was beloved, how had it come to pass that after the lapse of years she really had no more influence with her husband than this? Failing and appreciating her conscientious scruples, why did he not, at least in a matter of this kind, involving only money, take pleasure in yielding to her whims if he pleased to call them so? She knew husbands who gratified their wives from no higher motives than such as these. Why was not her wish in these matters a law to him which it gave him pleasure to follow? Long into the night Ruth questioned and wept and prayed and mourned. Nothing was plainer to her than that even the Christian life for which she thought she was all the while contending had been largely a failure. She had succeeded only in irritating her husband by her display of it. She had brought no sunshine into her home or life. She had not yielded in places where she could have done so as well as not. She had consulted her tastes instead of her husbands, even where conscience had had nothing to say. She had been a painstaking mother, but even here she had failed. Had she not often let her morbid fears of what might happen, not to the soul but to the beautiful body of the boy, push in and thwart some cherished scheme of his fathers? Was it, after all, any wonder that when she suddenly confronted him with her opinions and almost demanded from him actions in accordance with her ideas, that he should resort to sarcasm and irony and hold his ground? Never had poor Ruth's insulted conscience read her a sterner lecture than on that weary night, humiliating failure and the humiliating confession to her own heart that she was in a sense to blame. And the very hardest of it was that she saw no way out. She could not explain these things to her husband because he was on such a different moral plane from herself that he would utterly misunderstand her. He would think she had confessed herself as wrong in principle and would immediately, as indeed he had already done, plan for the most impossible concessions to his views. But in the meantime she must put aside all these burdens and decide just what to do. She had promised to report the result of her effort. How should she do it? She could write to the ladies, would explain that her husband had given his word before she knew anything about the matter and could not withdraw from it honorably. He had said as much, could she not repeat it? And was more detailed than this necessary? Yet her honest soul revolted from such a statement, for she knew at this moment that the matter was still not so fully settled but that had it been made to appear for Judge Burnham's interests to change. He would probably have done so. The furthest she got at last was to determine to wait another day until her intense excitement and pain had had time to dull a little before she attempted any report. Afterward she wondered whether even that had not been a concession to the enemy which had caused her more trouble. In point of fact two days passed and still she had made the waiting and anxious ladies no reply. As she went down to dinner on the evening of the second day she assured herself that she would write that letter the next morning before ten o'clock but she did not. Life had gone with her during these two days much as usual. She had seen almost nothing of her husband, he having been detained in town late, by reason of some professional perplexity. The young ladies were busy with their regular routine of society life. The week had perhaps been unusually gay and Ruth and her boy had spent much time alone. Was it fate she wondered or providence that led her that evening as they were on their way down to dinner to say with sudden fervor of appeal to the impressionable boy the words she did. They had been standing by the window watching for Papa and had seen reeling by a young man, scarcely that, a mere boy in years, well-dressed with the air even then of the well-bred about him but with that painful swaying in his walk that can mean but one thing. And the boy had been startled, dismayed, and had questioned eagerly and returned to the subject again and again and the mother with a terrible pain in her heart had recognized the young man as Mrs. Stuart Bacon's son. On the way downstairs, Erskine had put his other question, and then she had turned to him with this appeal. My boy, promise your mother that you will never touch a drop of anything that can possibly make you walk as that young man did. Why, Mama, I have promised you no, I promised you and I promised God. I know it, my darling, promise again, Mama loves to hear the words. Whatever happens, whoever asks you, unless you are very, very sick, and the doctor and Mama too, if I am there, say it is right. She could not help that little proviso, and the boy promised again. Then they went into the dining-room and that miserable orange wine was on the table. It had been on several times since the first scene connected with it, and the judge and his daughters had drank it when they would, but none had been offered to Mrs. Burnham or the child. Judge Burnham was not in an amiable mood. Heavy wrinkles made seams across his forehead, and his eyes had an irritable glitter in them. Truth to tell, he was not so indifferent to the tongues of a few gossiping women as he would have his wife imagine, and the Women's Christian Temperance Union, while waiting for their report from Mrs. Burnham, had by no means been idle, and sentences not complementary to his name had reached his ears several times during the day. These, in connection with certain other business perplexities, served to make him less ready than usual to throw aside care. I am afraid it must be admitted that it was pure maliciousness on the part of Minta that made her suddenly exclaim, looking at Erskine, how thin and pale that child is growing! He needs tonics, I believe. Here, Erskine, take a swallow of this, and see how nice it is. It will be good for you, and she held toward him her glass of wine. It was maliciousness, I suppose, but not very deep. She was rather fond of a little scene, such as would call a flush to her stepmother's face, and give them the benefit of a sharp passage at arms. She expected nothing more, but almost in the same breath with Erskine's, Oh, no, thank you, I don't want any, came his father's stern command. Erskine, do as your sister tells you at once. Then Erskine, trembling under the weight of the sternness, he had never been spoken to in that tone in his life before. Oh, but Papa, I can't. Please excuse me. I cannot drink any wine. Obey me immediately. Oh, but Papa, I can't, you know, I promised. Erskine, either obey me immediately, and take a drink from that glass, or go to my dressing-room, and wait there until I come. Trembling, frightened, half blind by the rush of tears, the little boy did not hesitate even for a second, but went across the room and out of the door. It was well that the meal was nearly concluded, and the servants had left the room. The mother felt that though her life had depended on it, she could neither have eaten another mouthful nor spoken another word. As for Minta to do her justice, she was half scared and wholly repentant. A messenger came just as they left the table with a business telegram for Judge Burnham. He detained the boy while he wrote a reply, and Ruth went with swift steps to his dressing-room. Mama, oh dear mama, said the frightened child. What made Papa speak so to me? Was I naughty? My darling, did you not keep the promise that you made to God? How could that be naughty? But it made Papa angry. Oh, dear mama, what will he do? Will he whip me, do you think, like the boy in the picture? My darling, that was a picture of a drunken man. You have no such father as that. Papa does not understand. He will let you explain, I think. I will see him myself if I can. And to the babies urging that she would stay with him, she turned resolutely away, assuring him that that would be treating Papa rudely, and that she would try to see him and explain what Erskine meant. But she did not. He went directly to his dressing-room by way of the library staircase and let himself in at the back door with his key. End of Chapter 11, Recording by Tricia G. Chapter 12 of Judge Burnham's Daughters. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Judge Burnham's Daughters by Pansy. Chapter 12 The Deed for the Will Mrs. Burnham, failing in her intention to wailay her husband, returned to her own room, which opened into the dressing-room. Too nervous to take a seat, she walked the floor, anxious, irresolute, miserable. She longed to go to her child, but would not insult her husband by seeming to be afraid to leave his son alone with him. Ominous silence reigned in the dressing-room. Judge Burnham had opened a drawer somewhat noisily on the moment of his entrance, but had spoken no word so far as his wife could hear. Suddenly on the quiet air came the sound of a blow, accompanied by a little wailing cry. O Papa, dear Papa, please don't. Mama said you wouldn't. She said you would let me explain that I couldn't because I have promised God. No reply at all from the angry father, save of the sort which seemed to scar Ruth's very soul. Her little sheltered darling, who had never before known what physical pain was, except as sickness had shown it to him. How could his father strike the little delicate hand, and for such a reason? His wife's whole soul rose up in rebellion. Please, Papa, let me tell you about it. Oh, Papa, you hurt me very much. But there was no reply. Should the mother rush in and before her child demand that this insulting demonstration of passion should cease? All her ideas of wifely loyalty rose up to object to this course, but she paced the floor like a caged lioness and said aloud, I cannot bear this. I ought not to bear it. It was well perhaps for all concerned that the scene was short. Judge Burnham spoke at last a few low words which his wife could not catch, and then immediately entered her room. Erskine's punishment had been neither prolonged nor severe. The average boy would probably have minded it but very little, would perhaps have even been used to such a mode of correction. But Ruth knew that her cherished son, with his unusually gentle and easily ruled nature, had inherited from her such a shrinking horror of anything in the form of a blow, that she felt sure he must be quivering from head to foot, not with physical pain, but with a sort of nervous terror which he did not understand and could not control. She was not therefore in a mood to receive her husband's words quietly. Mrs. Burnham, I request as a favor that you will not see Erskine again tonight. I have punished him for disobedience and told him to go immediately to bed. He had seen his wife in various states of mind in the course of the last half dozen years, but had never felt before and may never again the blaze that was in her eyes as she turned them fully on him and spoke in low, quick tones. It is a favor which will not be granted. You have been cruel and unjust. If you have a moral nature, you must by this time be ashamed of yourself. I shall go to my child at once and make what reparation I can for his father's injustice. Then, before he could recover himself sufficiently to detain her even with a word, she had disappeared through the door which led into Erskine's fair little room. As she had supposed she found the child sobbing violently. He had run into his room by the dressing room entrance. The instant his father released him and, burying his little brown head in the pillows, was trembling and moaning so that one who understood him less than his mother would have supposed him in mortal pain. In an instant he was gathered to her arms, covered with kisses and caresses, and overwhelmed with loving words. But he could not yet control the tempest of surprise and pain. Oh, mama! he sobbed. Oh, mama! he did. He did like the man in the picture. You said he wouldn't, and he did. Oh, mama! what can I do? Oh, mama! If Mrs. Burnham should live to be a white-haired old woman, she will never, I think, forget the experiences of that evening. It was not because the boy had been made to suffer physically. She had sense enough, even in her excitement, to understand that the punishment had been what people accustomed to such ways of dealing with their children would have called slight. But there are pains much deeper than those which the flesh can endure. She knew only too well that her child had lost faith in his father. How was it possible for the thoughtful boy, wise beyond his years, to think that he had been treated other than unjustly, especially in the light of the questions he asked and the answers she felt obligated to give? Did I do wrong, mama? You said I didn't. But if I didn't, why did papa punish me? You said they punished people who did wrong? My darling, I cannot think that you did anything wrong. You had made a solemn promise. Papa did not know it, did not understand. He thought you were disobedient. Oh, but mama, I told him. I told him that I had got down on my knees and promised God that I never would. And he didn't listen at all. Oh, mama, mama, will he punish me every time I try to keep my promise to God? Do you wonder that the troubled mother set her lips hard and set in her heart? No, he never shall. But she had grace enough not to say it aloud. Yet what must she say? She drew a low rocker and took the still trembling child in her arms, dipping her hand in cold water and then making with it soft cooling touches over the heated face and head, and speaking low and soothingly. My darling, mama's darling, there are some things that I cannot explain. When you are older you will understand. I do not think Papa will punish you in this way again. When he thinks it over, he will see that you meant to do right. Silence for a moment, then the voice went on firmly. Her decision had been made. Erskine, Papa does not think about some things as I do and as I believe God does, and as I want you to think. Someday I hope he will, and you and I must pray every day to the dear God to make Papa his follower in all things. In the meantime, my darling, what you and I find in the Bible that God has spoken, we will try to do always whether it is hard or easy, shall we not? She had never said so much before. Questions innumerable she had evaded or half answered after the manner of loyal Christian wives in divided homes. Now it seemed to her that the time had come when she must plainly say, there are things, solemn, all important things, about which we are not agreed. But what an ambition for a wife to make! Will she ever forget the pain of that last question, asked with a little sobbing sigh before her baby went to sleep? Oh, dear mama, why do not Papas and mamas both think like God? At the earliest possible hour when a call was admissible the next morning, Mrs. Burnham's card was sent up to Mrs. Stewart Bacon. She had determined to give her answer in person. She made no attempt at circumlocution, but came directly to the point. Mrs. Bacon, I have failed in the work given me to do. Perhaps you know from your experiences of life that husband and wife are not always as one where business matters are concerned. I think my husband believes his word to be pledged. No words of mine will express to you the regret that I feel at my failure. I have not shown myself so skillful a worker that you should care to have me join your ranks, but at the same time, I want to say to you that I have changed my mind since Tuesday. I want to join your union, and I pledge my personal support and effort in every direction where I can be made useful. So much at least for the cause Judge Burnham had accomplished. He was not a very self complacent man during the days that immediately followed. His wife's cold, stern words had burned deeply, and as soon as the first storm of passion was over, he could not but acknowledge to himself that there had been a shade of truth in them. What a surprising thing that he who had always prided himself on his liberality of thought and feeling who had always good naturedly argued that the various cranks of society should be allowed to ride their hobbies according to their own sweet wills, so long as they injured no one, that he should have so far forgotten himself as to command a child to do that which was not only contrary to his mother's teachings, but contrary to the baby's notions of what a supreme being demanded of him. Judge Burnham was by no means a Christian man. At the same time, he was very far removed from being an infidel. He often smiled, and occasionally he sneered, at some of the ideas belonging to Christianity. Still, he explained to himself that his smiles and sneers were for the outcroppings of ideas belonging to ignorant fanatics, not to the actual verities themselves. He assured himself that certain forms of worship were eminently fitting as offered to the Creator by the creature, also that certain outgrows of Christianity were elevating and worthy of all respect. He assured himself that he had never objected to his wife's position as a member of the Church. That was eminently a fitting position for a woman. It was the unreasoning submission which he gave to the demands of fanaticism that disturbed him. But that he should have so far forgotten himself as to allow his child to see that there was a difference of opinion between them was, he admitted, un-gently. Especially was it offensive to him that the difference of opinion should have shown itself in the line of a mere appetite, a thing which should, of course, be subordinate. As he thought of it, he actually could not help curling his lip at himself. It was of no use trying to restore his self-respect by saying that the issue between them had to be met and disobedience punished, no matter how trifling the occasion. He was perfectly aware that he had himself made the issue, made it unnecessarily, in a way that he would not have done, had he not been irritated about something else. And that, while it was a trifle to him, it was an intensely serious matter to the child. On the whole the gentleman did what might, perhaps, be called somewhat profitable thinking during the days that followed. To his wife he was unfailingly courteous, even kind, despite her cold, quiet dignity. He made no attempt to resent this. On the contrary, he even respected her for it. She had spoken some very plain words to him, words which stung deeply at the time, but he could not help the admission that there was truth in them. You will remember that he was a successful lawyer, accustomed to weighing questions carefully and giving decisions, and his judgment had given a decision in this case which by no means acquitted himself. He was not the sort of man who could frankly say, I was in the wrong, I beg you to forgive. Such a statement calls for a very high grade of character, calls perhaps for Christian character, though there have been men who knew how to say forgive me to mortals, not yet having learned to say it to Christ. Judge Burnham was not one, but he knew how to act the words gracefully and persistently. His little son helped him also to a smaller opinion of himself. No trace of resentment lingered on the child's sweet bright face. A little touch of shyness there was, a questioning half startled glance each time he met him afresh, as though he were wondering in his child's mind whether he had unwittingly given occasion for a fence, but receiving his father's smile, he sprang joyously into his arms and lavished kisses as before. They were inexpressibly sweet to the father's heart. Ruth, too, was glad over them. Her own soul had been hurt, but she did not wish the child to feel a lasting sting. He had settled the question for himself with the next morning's sunlight. Mama, he had said with his brightest smile, I've thought it all out. He did not want me to disobey you and God, but he had to punish me because I disobeyed him, don't you see? I don't mind it now. It didn't hurt me much. Only it was so dreadful, you know. But now that I understand, it doesn't seem bad. It was baby logic. Ruth had to smile over it. I'll beat behind the smile, there was a tear. But she made no attempt to reason the thought away. In fact, as the days passed, there seemed to be method in the reasoning. The objectionable wine was on the table once or twice, but none was offered to the child. And on the third day after the dinner table seen, Ruth overheard this order given by the master of the house. Robert, you need not serve any more of that wine at table. Mrs. Burnham doesn't care for it, and it isn't what I thought it was. Pack it away in the cellar. It may be needed some time. It was nearly a week afterward that Judge Burnham came home earlier by several hours than was his custom, and found both his wife and son in the library intent over a new book that had many illustrations. The child sprang to meet him as usual. Ruth tried to make her greeting cordial. She did not want to continue the wall of reserve that she had raised between her husband and herself, but she did not know how to lower it. That he had pained her unutterably was not to be denied, but that because of it she was henceforth to show only cold displeasure was, of course, folly. The more so because of the boy's constant lesson of confiding love. So now she closed her book and made some general inquiries as to the day's experiences, trying to make her voice sound free and social. But Judge Burnham was preoccupied. He set Erskine down after a few kisses, and, throwing himself into a vacant chair across the room from his wife, drew from his pocket a formidable looking document, bristling with seals, and tossed it to the child. Here, my boy, is a new plaything for you. A plaything? Why, Papa, what is it for? Is it sealed? Why, no, it is open, and it is all written over. How funny! Is it a great big letter? Not exactly. In law we call it a deed. And what is a deed? Judge Burnham laughed and glanced at his wife. It means in this case a transfer of property. Papa, I don't understand. Don't you? That is surprising. Let me see if I can explain. A deed, this deed at least, is to declare that I am no longer the owner of a certain piece of property, that I have given up all right and title to it from this time forth. Why have you done it, Papa? What property is it, and who has bought it? For good and sufficient reasons. I am to answer your questions in course, am I not? You ask three. The property is the house on the corner of Markham Square, known as the Shenandoah. It now belongs to a person by the name of Erskine Powers Burnham. Are you acquainted with him? The flesh on the child's face was pretty to see, but Judge Burnham was looking at his wife. Papa, that is my name, my whole name. But of course you can't mean me. Why not? Because why Papa, could a little boy have a great big house for his own? Would you give it to me? So it seems that deed says so. It needs only the addition of your mother's name to make it complete, and I have an idea that she can be persuaded to sign it. But Papa, what will I do with it? I'm not big enough, am I? You will be. Meantime you can consult with your mother as to what you will or will not have done, and you might retain me for your legal advisor. I will act in that capacity to the best of my abilities under your and your mama's directions. Mama, said Erskine, did you ever hear of anything so nice? A whole big house. And Ruth, looking past the boy, said, Thank you, thank you, more than words can tell.