 CHAPTER 13 Looking for an Easy Yoke Weary days now in store for Ruth Erskine, far more weary and dispiriting than she had imagined were possible to endure. It was such a strange experience to stand at the window and watch passers by, hurrying out of the neighborhood of the plague-spotted house, crossing the street at most inconvenient points to avoid a nearer contact. It was so strange to have day after day pass and never hear the sound of the doorbell, never see the face of a collar, never receive an invitation. In short it was a sudden shutting out of the world in which she had always lived and a shutting down into one narrow circle which repeated itself almost exactly every twenty-four hours. She and Susan must needs be companions now whether they would or not. They must sit down together three times a day at table and go through the forms of eating, not so repulsive a proceeding by the way as it had seemed to Ruth it must of necessity be with no one to serve. Susan had reduced the matter to a system and produced as if by magic the most appetizing dishes served in faultless style, and when the strangeness of sitting opposite each other and having no one to look at or talk to but themselves began to wear away they found it not an unpleasant break in the day's monotony to talk together while they waited on each other. Then there was the sick man's food to prepare and Susan exhausted her skill and Ruth contributed of her taste in graceful adornings. Judge Erskine still adhered to his resolution not to allow his daughter to visit him, so while that could be done for his comfort must be second-handed, but this little was a great relief to heart and brain. Then there was Judge Burnham a source of continual comfort. He seemed to be the only one of all the large circle of friends who failed to shun the stricken house. He was entirely free from fear and came and went at all hours and on all possible errands. Market man, postman, errand man in general, and unfailing friend. Not a day passed in which he did not make half a dozen calls and every evening found him an inmate of the quiet parlor with a new book or poem or perhaps only a fresh bouquet of sweet-smelling blossoms for the sisters. Finally his tokens of friendship and care were bestowed jointly on the sisters, he not choosing between them by a hair-breath. Still despite all the alleviating circumstances the way was weary and the time hung with increased heaviness on their hands, long hours of daylight in which there seemed to be nothing to settle to and in which there was as effectually nowhere to go as if they were held in by bolts and bars. If we were either of us fond of fancy work I believe it would be some relief, Ruth said wearily one afternoon as she closed her book after pronouncing it hopelessly dull. Flossy Shipley could spend days in making cunning little worsted dogs with curly tails and if there really were nothing else that she felt she ought to do I believe she could be quite happy in that. Susan laughed. One of us ought to have developed that talent perhaps, she said brightly, I don't know why you didn't. As for myself I never had the time and if I had the materials would have been beyond my purse, but I like pretty things. I have really often wished that I knew how to make some. You don't know how to teach me I suppose? No indeed and if I did I'm afraid I shouldn't do it. Everything ever seemed more utterly insipid to me though of course I never planned any such life as we are having now. Look here, Susan said, turning suddenly toward her sister and dropping the paper which she had been reading. I have a pleasant thought. We are almost tired of all sorts of books, but there is one book which never wears out. What if this time of absolute and enforced leisure should have been given us in which to get better acquainted with what it says? What if you and I should begin to study the Bible together? Ruth looked gloomy. I don't know much about the Bible, she said, and I don't know how to study it. I read a chapter every day and of course I get some help out of it, but I see so much that I don't understand and, well, to be frank, so much that it seems to me strange should have been put into the book at all when necessarily a great deal that we would like to know was left out, that it worries and disappoints me. She half expected to shock Susan and looked toward her with determined eyes, ready to sustain her position in case an argument was produced. But Susan only answered with a quiet, I know, I used to feel very much in the same way until I had a light given me to go by which shone upon some of the verses that had been so dark before. There was no lighting up of Ruth's face. I know what you mean, she said gravely. You mean that the Bible was a new book to you after you were converted. I have heard a great many people say that, but it doesn't help me as much as you might suppose it would. Of course it made a new book for me because the Bible was never anything to me at all until I was converted. I have passed years without looking into it. Indeed, I may say I never read it. When I was a schoolgirl, I used to find extracts from it in my parsing book, and some of them seemed to me very lofty sentiments, and several of them I committed to memory because of the beauty of their construction. But that was the extent of my acquaintance with the book. One of the first things I noticed a Christian say after I was converted was about the Bible, what a wonderful book it was to him, and how, every time he read a verse, it opened a new idea. I thought it would be that way with me, but it hasn't been. I love the Bible, that is, I love certain things which I find in it, but it doesn't seem to me as I thought it would. I can't say that I love to study it, or rather, perhaps I might say I don't know how to study it. I can memorize verses, of course, and I do, somewhat, when I find one that pleases me. But, well, I never told anyone about it, but it has disappointed me a little. Now she had shocked Susan. Anyway, she felt sure of it. She had lived long enough, even now, with this plain quiet sister, to have discovered that the Bible was a great fountain of help to her. She would not be able to understand why it was not the same to Ruth. Neither did Ruth understand it, and, though perhaps she did not realize even this, it was an undertone of longing to get at the secret of the difference between them which prompted her words. But Susan only smiled in a quiet, unsurprised way, and said, I understand you perfectly. I have been over the same ground. But you are not there now? Oh, no, I am not. And you learned to love the Bible by studying it? Well, that was the means, of course, but my real help was the revelation which God gave me of himself through the Spirit. No face could look blanker and gloomier than Ruth's. She was silent for a few minutes, then she commenced again, her voice having taken on a certain dogged resoluteness of tone, as one who thought, I will say it. I don't know why I am talking in this way to you. It is not natural for me to be communicative to any person. But I may as well tell you that my religion has been a disappointment to me. It is not what I thought it was. I expected to live such a different life from any that I had lived before. I expected to be earnest and successful and happy, and it seems to me that no way was ever more beset with difficulties than mine has been. When I really wanted to do right and tried, I was apparently as powerless as though I didn't care. I expected to be unselfish, and I am just as selfish so far as I can see as I ever was. I struggle with the feeling and pray over it, but it is there just the same. If for one half hour I succeed in overcoming it, I find it present with me the next hour in stronger force than before. It is all a disappointment. I knew the Christian life was a warfare, but some way I expected more to it than there is. I expected peace out of it, and I haven't got it. I have had many seasons of thinking the whole thing a delusion so far as I was concerned. But I cannot believe that, because in some respects I feel a decided change. I believe I belong to Christ, but I do so shrink from the struggles and trials and disappointments of this world. I feel just as though I wanted to shirk them all. Sometimes I think if he only would take me to heaven, where I could rest, I would be so grateful and happy. The hardness was gone out of her face now, and the tears were dropping silently on her closed book. "'Poor girl,' said Susan tenderly, "'poor tired heart, don't you think that the Lord Jesus can rest you anywhere except by the way of the grave? God is such a mistake, and I made it for so long that I know all about it. Don't you hear his voice calling to you to come and rest in him this minute?' "'I don't understand you. I am resting in him. That is, I feel sure at times. I feel sure now that he has prepared a place in heaven for me and will take me there as he says. But I am so tired of the road. I want to drop out from it now and be at rest.' Haven't you found his yoke easy and his burden light then? "'No, I haven't. I know it is my own fault, but it doesn't alter the fact or relieve the weariness. Then do you believe that he made a mistake when he said the yoke was easy?' Ruth arrested her tears to look up in wonder. "'Of course not,' she said quickly. I know it is owing to myself, but I don't know how to remedy it. There are those who find the statement meets their experience, I don't doubt, but it seems not to be for me.' "'But if that is so, don't you think he ought to have said, some of you will find the burden light, but others of you will have to struggle and flounder in the dark? You know he hasn't qualified it at all. He said, Come unto me, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, for it is light. But he said it to all who were heavy laden.' "'Well,' said Ruth after a thoughtful pause, I suppose that means his promise to save the soul eternally. I believe he has done that for me. But is that all he is able or willing to do, if he can save the soul eternally, cannot he give it peace and rest here? Why of course he could if it were his will, but I don't know that he has ever promised to do so. Do you suppose he who hates sin has made us so that we cannot keep from constantly grieving him by falling into sin, and has promised us no help from the burden until we get to heaven? I don't think that would be entire salvation.' "'What do you mean?' Ruth asked, turning a full wondering gaze on her sister. You surely don't believe that people are perfect in this world. Pass that thought just now, will you? Let me illustrate what I mean. I found my besetting sin to be to yield to constant fits of ill temper. It took almost nothing to rouse me, and the more I struggled and tossed about in my effort to grow better, the worse it seemed to me I became. If I was to depend on progressive goodness, as I supposed, when was I to begin to grow toward a better state? And when I succeeded, should I not really have accomplished my own rescue from sin? It troubled and tormented me, and I did not gain until I discovered that there were certain promises which, with conditions, meant me. For instance, there was one person who, when I came in contact with her, invariably made me angry. For months I never held a conversation with her that I did not say words which seemed to me afterward to be very sinful, and which angered her. This after I had prayed and struggled for self-control. One day I came across the promise, my grace is sufficient for thee. Sufficient for what? I asked, and I stopped before the words as if they had just been revealed. I found it to be unlimited as to quantity or time. It did not say, after you have done the best you can, struggled for years and gained a little, then my grace shall be sufficient. It did not say, my grace is sufficient for the great and trying experiences of this life, but not for the little everyday annoyances and trials which tempt you, you must look out for yourself. It was just an unlimited promise, my grace is sufficient, not for my sins, for those who have been faithful and successful, but for thee. Having made that discovery and felt my need, I assure you I was not long in claiming my rights. Now I want to ask you what that promise means. My grace is sufficient for thee, Ruth repeated slowly, thoughtfully, then she paused while Susan waited for an answer which came presently low toned in wondering. I am sure I don't know. I read the verse only yesterday, but it didn't occur to me that it had any reference to me. I don't know what I thought about it. But what does it seem to you that it says? Christ meant something by it, of course. What was it? I don't know, she said again thoughtfully, that is why it can't mean what it appears to, for then there would be nothing left to struggle about. Well, has Christ ever told you to struggle? On the contrary, hasn't he told you to rest? It seems to me, Ruth said, after revolving that thought, or some other, in silence for several minutes. It seems to me that one who thought as you do about these things would be claiming perfection, and if there is one doctrine above another that I despise, it is just that. I know one woman who is always talking about it and claiming that she hasn't sinned in so many months and all that nonsense. And really she is the most disagreeable woman I ever met in my life. Look here, said Susan, do you rely on the Lord Jesus for salvation, that is, do you believe you are a sinner and could do nothing for yourself, and he just had to come and do it for you and present your claim to heaven through himself? Why of course there is no other way. I know that I am a sinner and I know it is wonderful in him to have been willing to save me, but he has. Well now, aren't you afraid to claim that for fear people will think that you saved yourself? I don't understand, Ruth said gravely. Don't you? Why, you fear to claim Christ's promise to you that his grace is now sufficient for every demand that you choose to make on it, for fear people will think you consider yourself perfect. Why should they not, just as readily, think that because you relied on Christ for final salvation, therefore you relied on yourself? That is a foolish contradiction. Yes, isn't the other? I never heard anybody talk as you do, was Ruth's answer. I haven't a different Bible from yours, Susan said smiling. You admit to me that the promise about which we are talking is in yours and you read it yesterday. What I wonder is what you think it means. CHAPTER XIV THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY The last was but the beginning of many talks which those two sisters held together concerning the meaning of the promises which Christ had made to his children. During the time Ruth received and accepted some new ideas, but it must be admitted that it was her intellect which accepted them rather than her heart. She acknowledged that the Lord had plainly said his grace was sufficient for them and that having been tempted he was able to sucker those who were tempted and that there should be no temptation to take his children except such as they were able to bear because the faithful God would provide a way of escape. All these I say she admitted. They were plainly written in his word and must mean what they said. Still she went on being tempted and yielding to the temptation, struggling against the gloom and unrest of her lot, struggling fiercely against the providence which had come between her and the father whom she began to realize she had worshiped rather than loved, suffering, fighting, baffled, wounded, defeated, only to rise up and struggle afresh, all the while admitting with her clear brain power that he said, As thy day so shall thy strength be. Why did she not have the strength? She dimly questioned with herself occasionally the why. She even deemed herself ill-treated because none of the promised strength came to her. But she passed over the searching question of the Lord to his waiting suppliant, Believe ye that I am able to do this? Had the Lord Jesus Christ appeared to Ruth in bodily presence and asked her this question, she realized afterward that she would have been obliged to answer, Oh, no, I don't. You say you are able and you say you are willing, and I believe that the words are yours and that you have all power in heaven and earth. And yet, and yet, I don't believe that you will do it for me. To such strange and unaccountable depths of absurdity does unbelief lead us. At last there came a day when Susan and she could not talk calmly about these things or any other, could not talk at all, could only weep and wait and kneel and dumbly pray, and then wait again while life and death struggled fiercely together for the victim upstairs, and it seemed that death would be the victor. Many days passed, and the dead weight of enforced endurance still held Ruth a prisoner, and still she rebelled against the Providence that had hemmed her in and shut her away from her father. Still she rebelled at the thought of the nurse who bent over him in tireless watch, long before all attempts at securing outside help had been abandoned, Dr. Bacon having expressed himself more than satisfied. Never a better nurse took hold of a case, he said emphatically to Ruth. If your father recovers, and I cannot help feeling hopeful, he will owe it more to her care than to any other human effort. She seems to know by instinct what and when and how, and I believe the woman never sleeps at all. She is just as alert and active and determined today as she was the first hour she went into his room, and the vigil has been long and sharp. I tell you what, Ms. Ruth, you begin to understand, don't you, what this woman was raised up for? She was planned for just such a time as this. No money would have brought such nursing, and it has been a case in which nursing was two-thirds of it. She ought to be a professional nurse this minute. Shall I find a place for her when her services are not needed here in that capacity any longer? She could command grand wages. The well-meaning doctor had a say to bring a smile to Ruth's wan face, but it was made evident to him that he understood disease better than he did human nature, at least the sort of human nature of which she was composed. She drew herself up proudly, and her tone was unusually and unnecessarily haughty, as she said. You forget, Dr. Bacon, that you are speaking of Mrs. Erskine. Then the doctor shrugged his shoulders, and, with a half muttered, I beg pardon, turned away. More of an iceberg than ever, he muttered a little louder as he went down the hall. I don't know what Burnham is about, I am sure. I hope it is the other one he means. And then he slammed the door a little. He had left Ruth in a rage with him and with events and with her own heart. She resented his familiarity with the name which that woman bore, and she resented the fact that she bore the name. She was bitterly jealous of Mrs. Erskine's position by that sick bed. She did not believe in her nursing abilities. She knew she was fussy and officious and ignorant, three things that were horrible in a nurse. She knew her father must be a daily sufferer because of this. She by no means saw what that woman was raised up for, or why she should have been permitted to come in contact with her. Every day she chafed more under it, and the process made her grow hard and cold and silent to the woman's daughter. So by degrees the burden grew heavier, and Susan, feeling that no word of hers could help, maintained at last a tender, patient silence that to Ruth's sore, angered heart was in itself almost an added sting. It was in this spirit that they drew near to the hour when the question of life and death would be determined. Ruth's heart seemed like to burst with the conflict raging in it. Sorrow, anxiety, despair, she knew not what to call the burden, but she knew it was a burden. She spent hours in her own room, resenting all interruptions, resenting every call from Susan to come down and take a little nourishment, even almost disposed to resent the bulletins for which she waited breathlessly as they were from time to time spoken through the keyhole in Susan's low-toned voice. He is no worse than he was half an hour ago, Ruth, or the doctor thinks there must be a change before night, or, dear Ruth, he murmured your name a little while ago, the doctor said. Presently Ruth came out of her room and down to the library, came toward Susan sitting in a little rocker with her Bible in her lap, and said, speaking in a low tone so full of pent-up energy that in itself it was startling, Susan, if you know how to pray at all, kneel down now and pray for him. I can't. I have been trying for hours and have forgotten how to pray. Without a word of reply Susan arose quickly and dropped to her knees, Ruth kneeling beside her, and then the words of prayer which filled that room indicated that one heart at least knew how to pray, and felt the presence of the comforter pervading her soul. Long they knelt there, unwilling it seemed, to rise even after the audible prayer ceased, and it was thus that Judge Burnham found them, as with light, quick steps he crossed the hall in search of them, saying as he entered, courage, dear friends, the doctor believes that there is strong reason now for hope. The crisis passed, Judge Erskine rallied rapidly, much more rapidly than those who had watched over him in the violence of his sickness had deemed possible, and it came to pass that, after a few more tedious days of waiting, his room was opened once more to the presence of his daughter. Fully as she had supposed that she realized his illness, she was unprepared for the change which it had wrought and could hardly suppress a cry of dismay as she bent over him. Long afterward she wondered at herself as she recalled the fact that her first startled rebellious thought had been that there was not such a striking contrast now between him and his wife. There was another disappointment in store for her. She had looked forward to the time when she might reign in that sick room, might become her father's sole nurse in his convalescence, and succeed in banishing from his presence that which must have become so unendurable. She discovered that it was a difficult thing to banish a wife from her husband's sick room. Mrs. Erskine was, apparently, serenely unconscious that her presence was undesired by Ruth. She came and went freely, was cheery and loquacious as usual, discoursed on the dangers through which Judge Erskine had passed, and reiterated the fact that it was a mercy she didn't take the disease until, actually, Ruth was unable to feel that even this was a mercy. There was a bitterer side to it. Her father had changed in more ways than one. It appeared that his daughter's unavailing grief for him in becoming the victim of such a nurse was all wasted pity. He had not felt it an affliction. His voice had taken a gentle tone in which there was almost tenderness when he spoke to her. His eyes followed her movements with an unmistakable air of restfulness. He smiled on his daughter, but he asked his wife to raise his head and arrange his pillow. How was this to be accounted for? How could a few short weeks so change his feelings and tastes? She is a born nurse, Ruth admitted, looking on and watching the cheery skill with which she made all things comfortable. Who would have supposed that she could be other than fussy? Well, all persons have their mission. If she could have filled the place of a good, cheerful hospital nurse, how I should have liked her and how grateful I should feel to her now. And then she shuddered over the feeling that she did not now feel toward her an atom of gratitude. She looked forward to a moment when she could be left alone with her father. Of course he was grateful to this woman. His nature was higher than hers. Beside, he knew what she had done and borne for him here in this sick room. Of course he felt it and was so thoroughly a gentleman that he would show her, by look and action, that he appreciated it. But could his daughter once have him to herself for a little while? What a relief and comfort it would doubtless be to him. Even over this thought she chafed. If this woman only held the position in the house which would make it proper for her to say, you may leave us alone now for a while. My father and I wish to talk. I will ring when you are needed. With what gracious and grateful smiles she could have said those words. As it was, she planned. Don't you think it would be well for you to go to another room and try to get some rest? Yes, said Judge Erskine, turning his head and looking earnestly at her. If any human being ever needed rest, away from this scene of confusion, I think you must. Bless your heart, child, with a good-natured little laugh. I've rested ever so much. When you get used to it, you can sleep standing up with a bowl of gruel in one hand and a bottle of hot water in the other, ready for action. Just as soon as the anxiety was off, I got rest. And while I was anxious, you know, I lived on that, does about as well as sleep for keeping up strength. I guess you tried it yourself by the looks of your white cheeks and great big eyes. Land alive. I never see them look so big. Did you, Judge? But Susan says you behaved like a soldier. Well, I knew you would. I says to myself, says I, she is made of the stuff that will bear it and do her best. And it gave me strength to do my best for your paw, because I knew you was depending on me. Says I, I've got two sides to this responsibility now. There's the judge lying helpless and knowing that every single thing that's done for him for the next month or so must come through me. And there's his daughter downstairs, trusting to me to bring him through. And I did my level best. And then Ruth shuddered. It was impossible for her to feel anything but repulsion. At last Susan, wise-hearted Susan, came to her rescue. She had imperative need for mother in the kitchen for a few minutes. Ruth watched eagerly as she waddled away until the door was closed after her, then turned with hungry eyes toward her father, ready to pour out her pent-up soul as she never had done before. His eyes were turned toward the door, and he said as the retreating footsteps were lost to them, if you have joy in your heart, daughter, as I know you have for the restoration of your father, you owe it under God to that woman. I never even imagined anything like the utter self-abdignation that she showed. Disease in its most repulsive, most loathsome form held me in its grasp, until I know well I looked less like a human being than I did like some hideous wild animal. Why, I have seen even the doctor start back overcome for a moment by the sight. But she never started back, nor faltered in her patient persistent, tender care through it all. We both owe her our gratitude and our love, my daughter. Do you know Ruth well enough to understand that she poured out no pent-up tide of tenderness upon her father after that? She retired into her old silent self to such a degree that her father looked at her wonderingly at first, then half-wearily, and turned his head and closed his eyes that he might rest since she had nothing to say to him. It was two or three days afterward that she tried again. In the meantime she had chided herself sharply for her folly. Why had she allowed herself to be so cold, so apparently heartless, when her heart was so full of love? Was she really so demoralized, she asked herself, that she would have her father other than grateful for the care which had been bestowed? Of course he was grateful, and of course he desired to show it, as any noble nature should. After all, what had he said but that they both owed her a debt of gratitude and love? So we do, said Ruth sturdily. I should love a dog who had been kind to him. And then she suppressed an almost groan over the startling thought that, if this woman had been only a dog, she could have loved. But she was left alone with her father again. He had advanced to the sitting upstage, and she was to sit with him and amuse him, while Mrs. Erskine attended to some outside matter, Ruth neither knew nor cared what, so that she went away. She was tender and thoughtful, shading her father's weakened eyes from the light, picking up his dropped handkerchief, doing a dozen little nothings for him, and occasionally speaking some tender word. He was not disposed to talk much beyond asking a few general questions as to what had transpired during his absence from the world. Then presently he broke an interval of silence, during which he had sat with closed eyes by asking, Where is Susan? Susan, his daughter repeated, half startled. Why, she is in the kitchen, I presume, she generally is at this hour of the morning. She has had to be housekeeper and cook, and I hardly know what not during these queer days. She has fulfilled all the posts splendidly. I don't know what you would have eaten but for her. Here Ruth paused a moment to be gratified over her own advance in goodness. At least she could speak freely and in praise of Susan. Then she said, Do you want anything, father, that Susan can get for you? He unclosed his eyes and looked at her with a full meaning smile as he said slowly, I was not thinking of that, Susan, my dear, I meant my wife. You may call her, if you will, I feel somewhat tired and she knows just how to fix me for rest. Imagine Ruth Erskine going down the hall, down the stairs, through the library, out through the back hall, away to the linen closet and saying to Mrs. Judge Erskine in a low tone, Father wants you, ma'am. Plus his heart, said Mrs. Erskine, dropping the pile of fresh linen she was fumbling in. I hope he hasn't been freddy because I stayed so long. Then she fled up the stairs. Well, you are not very well versed in the knowledge of the depths of the human heart if you need to be told that this last experience was the bitterest drop in Ruth's cup of trouble. Hitherto it had been her father and herself bearing together a common trial. Now she felt that, some way, she had lost her father and gained nothing. Rather, lost, that she had sunken in her own estimation and that she was alone. End of Chapter 14, Recording by Tricia G. Chapter 15 of Ruth Erskine's Crosses. This LibriBox recording is in the public domain. Ruth Erskine's Crosses by Pansy. Chapter 15, Rests. It took some time for the Erskines to find their way back into the world. Rather, it took the world many weeks to be willing to receive them. What was reasonable caution at first became not only annoying but ludicrous as the weeks went by, and common sense suggested that all possibility of danger from contact with them was passed. There were those who could not believe that it would ever be safe to call on them again. Ruth, on her part, did not worry over this but suggested coldly that it would be an almost infinite relief if two-thirds of their calling acquaintances would continue frightened for the rest of their lives. In the domestic world it made more trouble. Servants and army of them, who were marshaled to and from intelligence offices, looked to scans at the doors and windows as if they half expected the demon of smallpox to take visible shape and pounce upon them, and it was found to be only the worst and most hopeless characters who had ventured into doubtful quarters, so that for days Susan was engaged in well managed skirmishes between girls who professed everything and knew nothing. Ruth had long before retired, vanquished from this portion of the field, and agreed that her forte did not lie in that direction. I haven't the least idea where it lies, she said aloud in gloomily, but she was in her own room and the door was locked and there was no other listener than the window light against which her brown head wearily leaned. She had not yet reached the point where she was willing to confess her disappointment at life to anybody else, but in truth it seemed that the world was too small for her. She was not needed at home nor elsewhere so far as she could see. Her father, as he relapsed into old duties, did not seek his former confidential footing with her. Indeed, he seemed rather to avoid it as one who might fear lest his own peace would be shaken. So Ruth thought at first, but one little private talk with him had dispelled the probability of that. I want to tell you something, daughter, he had said to her when they were left alone in the library the first day of his return to office life. At least I owe it to you to tell you something. I waited until I had really gotten back into the work-a-day world again because of a half-recognized fear which I seen now was cowardly and faithless that old scenes would recall old feelings. I hadn't experienced my daughter during those first few days when the Lord shut me out from you all. My Christian faith did not sustain me as it ought to have done. I mean by that that it was not the sort of faith which it ought to have been. I rebelled at the fierceness of the fire in which I had been placed. I felt that I could not bear it, that it was cruel and bitter. Most of all I rebelled at the presence of my wife. I felt that it was too much to be shut away from everything that life holds dear and to be shut up with that which had hitherto made life miserable. I cannot tell you of the struggle of the hopeless beatings of my bruised head against the bars of its cage. It almost unmans me even to think of those hours. And Judge Erskine paused and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. I will just hurry over the details, he said at last. There came an hour when I began to dimly comprehend that my redeemer was only answering some of the agonizing prayers that I had of late been constantly putting up to him. I had prayed, Ruth, for strength to do my whole duty, and in order to do it I plainly saw that I must feel differently from what I had been feeling, that I must get over this shrinking from a relation which I deliberately brought upon myself and one which I was bound by solemn covenant to sustain. I must have help. I must submit not only, but I must learn to be pitiful toward and patient with, and yet how could I? Christ showed me how. He let me see such a revelation of my own selfishness and hardness and pride as made me abhor myself in dust and ashes, and then he let me see such a revelation of human patience and tenderness and self-abdignation as filled me with gratitude and respect. Ruth, he has given me much more than I asked. I prayed for patience and tenderness, and he gave me not only those, but such a feeling of respect for one who could so entirely forget herself and do for another what my wife did for me, that I feel able to cherish her all the rest of my life. In short, Daughter, I feel that I could take even the vows of the marriage covenant upon my lips now and mean them in all simplicity and singleness of heart, and having taken them long ago, I ratify them now and mean to live by them as long as life lasts to us both, so help me, God. In all this, I do not forget the sin nor the suffering which that sin has entailed upon you, my dear precious Daughter, but I feel that I must do what I can to atone for it, and that shirking my duty as I have been doing in the past does not help you to bear your part. I know you have forgiven me, Ruth, and I know that God has. He has done more than that. In his infinite love and compassion, he has made the cross a comfort. And now, Daughter, I never wish to speak of this matter again. You asked me once if I wished you to call her mother. I have no desire to force your lips to what they do not mean, nor to oblige you to bear any more cross for your father than the sin has in itself laid upon you. But if, at any time in your future life, you feel that you care to say, mother, it will be a pleasant sound to my ears. Ruth reflected afterward with a sense of thankfulness that she had grace enough left to bend forward and kiss her father's white forehead and pass her hand tenderly over the moist flocks of gray hair above his temples. Then she went out and went away. She could have spoken no word just then. She was struggling with two conflicting feelings. In her soul she was glad for her father that he had got help and that his heavy cross was growing into peace. But all the same she felt now and felt with a dull aching at her heart which refused to be comforted that she herself had not found peace in it. That it was, if anything, more bitter than ever and that she had lost her father. Is it any wonder that life to her stretched out gloomily? Many changes had taken place during their enforced exile from the world. Urie Mitchell had married and gone and Flossie Shipley had married and gone, both of them to new homes and new friends and both of them had, by their departure, made great gulfs in Ruth's life. They had written her characteristic notes along with their wedding cards. Urie's ran thus. Dear Ruth, I fancy you bearing it like a martyr as I know you can. I always said you would make a magnificent martyr but I am so sorry that the experiment has come in such a shape that we can't look on and watch its becomingness. Also, I am very sorry that you cannot be present to see me stand up in the great big church without any bonnet, which is the way in which our baby characterizes the ceremony. In fact, I am almost as sorry about that as I am that father should have been out of town during the first few days of Judge Erskine's illness and so given that Dr. Bacon has a chance to be installed. Father doesn't happen to agree with him on some points and the care of smallpox patients is one thing in which they totally differ. However, your father is going on finally so far, I hear, and you know, my dear, the Dr. Bacon is very celebrated. So be as brave as you can and it will all come out right, I dare say. In fact, we know it will. Isn't that a comfort? There are ever so many things that I might say if I could, but you know I was never able to put my heart on paper. So imagine some of the heart thoughts which beat for you while I signed myself for the last time, Urie Mitchell. Ruth laughed over this note. It is so exactly like her, she murmured. I wonder if she will ever tone down. Flossies was smaller, daintier, delicately perfumed with the faintest touch of violets and red. Dear precious friend, the eternal God is thy refuge and underneath are the everlasting arms. How safe you are! O thou afflicted, tossed with tempest and not comforted, behold, I will lay thy stones with fair colors. With everlasting kindness will I have mercy on thee, sayeth the Lord thy Redeemer. Blessed Jesus, do for Ruth as thou hast said. This is Flossie Shipley's prayer for her dear friend, whom she will love and cherish forever. Over this note Ruth shed hot tears. She was touched and comforted and saddened. She realized more than ever before what a spiritual loss Flossie's going was to be to her and she did not come closer to the one who would have made amends for all losses. Perhaps she had never felt the dreariness of her existence more than she did on a certain evening, some weeks after the household had settled into its accustomed routine of life, which was like and yet utterly unlike what that life had been before the invasion of disease. It was dark outside and the rain was falling heavily. There was little chance of relief from monotony by the arrival of guests. Ruth wandered aimlessly through the library in search of a book that she felt willing to read and, finding none, turned at last to the sitting-room where Judge Erskine and his wife were sitting. Secure in the prospect of rain and therefore seclusion, he had arrayed himself in dressing gown and slippers and was resting his scarred, seemed face among the cushions of the easy chair, enjoying a luxury which was none other than that of having his gray hair carefully and steadily brushed, the brush passing with the regularity of a sentinel on its slow, soothing track guided by his wife's hand. While Judge Erskine's face bore unmistakable signs of reposeful rest, there was that in the scene which irritated Ruth almost beyond control. She passed quickly through the room into the most remote corner of the alcove which was curtained off from the main room and afforded a retreat for the piano and a pretext for anyone who desired to use it and be alone. It was not that she had ever waited thus upon her father. She had never thought of approaching him in this familiar way. Even had she dared to do so, their makeup was, after all, so utterly dissimilar that what was evidently a sedative to him would have driven his daughter fairly wild. To have anyone, however dear and familiar, touch her hair, draw a brush through it, would have irritated her nerves in her best days. She thought of it then as she sat down in the first seat that she reached after the friendly crimson curtains hit her from those two, sat with her chin resting in her two listless hands and tried to wonder what she should do if she were forced to lie among the cushions of that easy chair in there and have that woman brush her hair. I should choke her, I know I should, she said with sudden fierceness and then with scarcely less fierceness of tone and manner added, I hope it will never be my awful fate to have to be taken care of by her or to have to endure the sight of her presence about anyone I love. Oh, what is the matter with me? I grow wicked every hour. What will become of me? After all, there were those who were not afraid of the rain and were not to be kept from their purposes by it. Ruth listened indifferently at first and then with a touch of eagerness to the sound of the bell and the tones in the hall and then to the sound of Judge Burnham's step as he was being shown to the sitting room. The new help had been in the house just long enough to discover that he was a privileged and unceremonious guest. Ah, he said, pausing in the doorway. Am I disturbing, sick tonight, Judge? Come in, said Judge Erskine's hearty voice. No, I am not sick, only dreadfully lazy and being petted. When I was a boy and mother used to brush my hair, nothing soothed and rested me so much and I find I haven't lost the old habit. Have a chair and tell us the evening news. I haven't been out of the house since dinner. Nothing specially new, said Judge Burnham, dropping into an easy chair and looking around him inquiringly. Where are the ladies? Why, said Mrs. Erskine, brushing very steadily, Susan is in the kitchen. She mostly is these days. Such a time as we are having with servants. I wonder she don't get sick of the whole set and tell them to tramp. Just now, though, she has got hold of one who seems willing enough to learn. And Susan heard her pa say this noon that he believed he would like some muffins once more, so she is down there trying to teach Molly about setting muffins and beating of it into her to let them alone in the morning till she gets down to tend to them. Why, said Judge Erskine, in a tone of tenderness that jarred Ruth's ears, I wonder if she is attending to that. What a child she is. She will wear herself out waiting on me. There ain't a selfish streak about her, Mrs. Erskine said complacently, nor never was. But, la, you needn't fret about her, Judge. She loves to do it. She went down in the first place to tend to that, but she has got another string to her bow now. She found out that Molly didn't know how to read writing and had a letter from her mother that she couldn't make out, so Susan read it to her and the next thing was to write her an answer and she is at that now. And where is Miss Ruth? questioned Judge Burnham. The instant this long sentence was concluded. Why, she is moping. That's the best name I know for it. She is back there in the alcove. I thought she went to play, but she hasn't played a note. That child needs a change. I'm just that worried about her that her white face haunts me nights when I'm trying to sleep. She has had an awful hard siege. Her pa's so sick and she obliged to keep away from him and not being sure whether I knew more than a turnip about taking care of him. I wonder how she stood it. And I'm just afraid she will break down yet. She needs something to rest her up and give her some color in her cheeks. I keep telling her pa that he ought to do something. Suppose I go and help her mope. Judge Burnham said, rising in the midst of a flow of words and speedily making his way behind the red curtains. He came over to Ruth holding out both hands to greet her. How do you do? He said, and there was tender inquiry in the tone. You didn't know I was in town, did you? I came two days sooner than I had hoped. I didn't know you were out of town, said Ruth. I thought you had deserted us like the rest of our friends. So you didn't get my note? He asked, looking blank. Well, never mind. It was merely an explanation of an absence which I hoped you might notice. Mrs. Erskine says you are moping, Ruth. Is that true? She says you need a change and something to rest you up. I wish you would let me give you a change. Don't you think you could? A change, Ruth repeated with a little laugh and there was color enough in her cheeks just then. Why should I need a change? What do you mean? I mean a great deal. I want to give you such a change as will affect all your future life and mine. I would like to have you change name and home. Oh, Ruth, I would like to devote my life to the business of resting you up. Don't you believe I can do it? Now, I am sure there is no need for me to give you Ruth Erskine's answer. You probably understand what it was. Unless I am mistaken, you understand her better than she did herself. Up to this very moment, she actually had not realized what made up the bulk of her unrest this week. No, not the bulk either. There were graver questions even than this one which might well disturb her, but she had not understood her own footing with Judge Burnham, nor had scarcely a conception of his feelings toward her. The low murmur of talk went on after a little behind the red curtains and continued long after Judge Erskine and his wife went upstairs. Just as he was turning out the gas in their dressing room, that gentleman said, unless I am mistaken, Judge Burnham would like to give Ruth a decided change. Land alive, said Mrs. Erskine, taking in his meaning after a little. I declare, now you speak of it, I shouldn't wonder if he did. Then she added kindly, genuinely, and I'm sure I hope it's true. I tell you that child needs resting up. End of Chapter 15, recording by Trisha G. Chapter 16 of Ruth Erskine's Crosses This lip-revox recording is in the public domain. Ruth Erskine's Crosses by Pansy. Chapter 16, Shadowed Joys One of the first experiences connected with Ruth's new life was a surprise and a trial. She did not act in the manner as almost any other young lady would have done. Indeed, perhaps, you do not need to be told that it was not her nature to act as most others would in like circumstances. She kept the story an entire secret with her own heart. Not even her father suspected that matters were settled. Perhaps, though, this last is to be accounted for by the fact that Judge Burnham went away again on business by the early train the morning after he had arranged for Ruth's change of home and name and did not return again for a week. During that week, as I say, Ruth hugged her new joy and kept her own counsel. Yet it was joy. Her heart was in this matter. Strangely enough, it had been a surprise to her. She had understood Judge Burnham much less than others looking on had done, and so gradual and subtle had been the change in her own feeling from almost dislike to simple indifference and from thence to quickened pulse and added interest in life at his approach that she had not in the remotest sense realized the place which he held in her heart until his own words revealed it to her. That she liked him better than any other person she began to know. But when she thought about it at all, it seemed a most natural thing that she should. It was not saying a great deal she told herself for she really liked very few persons and there had never been one so exceptionally kind and unselfish and patient. What should she do but like him? Sure enough. And yet, when he asked her to be his wife, it was as complete a surprise as human experiences could ever have for her. Disconsolate, afflicted, deserted as she felt, it is no wonder that the revelation of another's absorbed interest in her filled her heart. As I say then, she lived it alone for one delightful week. It was the afternoon of the day on which she expected Judge Burnham's return and she knew that his first step would be an interview with her father. She determined to be herself the bearer of the news to Susan. During this last week, whenever she thought of her sister, it had been a tender feeling of gratitude for all the quiet, unobtrusive help and kindness that she had shown since she first came into the family. Ruth determined to show that she reposed confidence in her and for this purpose sought her room, ostensibly on some trivial errand, then lingered and looked at a book that lay open face downward as if to keep the place on Susan's little table. Susan herself was arranging her hair over at the dressing bureau. Ruth never forgot any of the details of this afternoon's scene. She took up the little book and read the title, The Rest of Faith. It had a pleasant sound. The rest of any sort sounded pleasantly to Ruth. She saw that it was a religious book and she dimly resolved that some other time, when she felt quieter, had less important plans to carry out, she would read this book, look more closely into this matter, and find if she could what it was that made the difference between Susan's experience and her own. That there was a difference was so evident and yet without realizing it, Susan's happiness of the last few days was making her satisfied with her present attainments spiritually. No, not exactly satisfied, but willing to put the matter aside for a more convenient season. I have something to tell you that I think you will be interested to hear, she said at last, still turning the leaves of the little book and feeling more embarrassed than she had supposed it possible for her to feel. Have you? said Susan brightly. Good, I like to hear new things, especially when they have to do with my friends. And there was that in her tone which made her sister understand that she desired to convey the thought that she felt close to Ruth and wanted to be held in dear relations. For the first time in her life, Ruth was conscious of being willing. Judge Burnham is to return today. Yes, I heard you speaking of it. There was wonderment in Susan's tone almost as well as words could have done, it said. What is there specially interesting in that? Do you feel ready to receive him in a new relation? Ruth asked and she was vexed to feel the blood surging into her cheeks. I think he has a desire to be very brotherly. Oh, Ruth, there was no mistaking Susan's tone this time. She had turned from the mirror and was surveying her sister with unmistakably mournful eyes and there was astonished sorrow in her tones. What could be the trouble? Whatever it was, Ruth resented it. Well, she said haughtily, I seem to have disturbed as well as surprised you. I was not aware that the news would be disagreeable. I beg your pardon, Ruth. I am very much surprised. I had not supposed such a thing possible. Why pray? Why, Ruth, dear, is he not a Christian? It would be impossible to describe to you the consternation in Susan's tone and voice and the astonishment in Ruth's. Well, she said again, it is surely not the first time that you are conscious of that fact. He will be in no more danger in that respect with me for a wife. At least I trust he will not. Susan had no answer to make to this strange sentence. She stood, brush in hand, gazing bewilderingly at Ruth's face for a moment, then recollecting herself, turned toward the mirror again with a simple repeatal. I beg your pardon. I did not mean to hurt your feelings. As for Ruth, it would have been difficult for her to analyze her feelings. Were they hurt? Was she angry? If so, at what or whom? Her heart felt in a tumult. Now I want you to understand that, as strange as it may appear, this was a new question to her, that Judge Burnham was not a Christian man she knew and regretted, but that it should affect her answer to his question was a thought which had not once presented itself. She turned and went from that room without another word, and feeling that she never wanted to say any more words to that girl. It is no use, she said, aloud and angrily. We can never be anything to each other, it is folly to try. We are set in different molds. I no sooner tried to make a friend in confidant of her than some of her tiresome notions crop out and destroy it all. She knew that all this was nonsense. She knew it was the working of conscience on her own heart that was at this moment making her angry, and yet she found the same relief which possibly you and I have felt in blaming somebody for something, aloud, even while our hearts gainsaid our words. It is not my purpose to linger over this part of Ruth Erskine's history. The time has come to go on to other scenes, but in this chapter I want to bridge the way by a word or two of explanation so that you may the better understand Ruth's mood and the governing principle of her actions in the days that followed. By degrees she came to a quieter state of mind, not however until the formalities of the new relation were arranged and Judge Burnham had become practically almost one of the family. She grew to realizing that it was a strange, perhaps an unaccountable thing, that she, a Christian, should have chosen for her lifelong friend and hourly companion, one who was really hardly a believer in the Christ to whom she had given herself. She grew to feeling that if this thought had come first before that promise was made, perhaps she ought to have made a different answer. But I shall have to confess that she drew in with this thought a long breath of relief as she told herself it was settled now. There was no escape from promises as solemn as those which had passed between them, that such covenants were doubtless in God's sight as sacred as the marriage relation itself and she was glad to the depths of her soul that she believed this reasoning to be correct. At the same time there was a curious sensation of aversion toward the one who had, as it seemed to her, rudely disturbed the first flush of her happiness. The glamour was gone from it all. Henceforth a dull pain, a sense of want, a questioning as to whether she was just where she should be came in with all the enjoyment and she struggled with the temptation to feel vindictive toward this disturber of her peace. Besides this she confided to Judge Burnham the fact that Susan thought she was doing wrong in engaging herself to a man who was not a Christian. And while he affected to laugh over it good-naturedly as a bit of fanaticism which would harm no one and which was the result of her narrow-minded life hitherto, it meant more than that to him, jarred upon him and Ruth could see that it did. It affected, perhaps insensibly, his manner toward the offending party. He was not as brotherly as he had designed being. And altogether Susan, since the change was to come, did not regret that Judge Burnham's disposition was to hurry it with all possible speed. Life was less pleasant to her now than it had been any time since her entrance into this distinguished family. The pleasant little blossom of tenderness which had seemed to be about to make itself fragrant before her sister and herself had received a rude blast and was likely to die outright. During the weeks that followed there were other developments which served to startle Ruth as hardly anything had done hitherto. This can best be explained by giving you the substance of a conversation between Judge Burnham and herself. I ought to tell you something, he said, and the brief sentence was preceded and followed by a pause of such length and by such evident embarrassment that Ruth's lap had a tinge of wonder in it, as she said. Then by all means I hope you will do so. I suppose it is not altogether new to you, he said inquiringly. Your father has doubtless told you somewhat of my past life. She shook her head. Absolutely nothing saved that you were like himself a lawyer resident in the city during term time and having a country seat somewhere. He didn't seem to be very clear as to that. Where is it? I think I shall be glad to live in the country. I never tried it, but I have an idea that it must be delightful to get away from the tumult of the city. Do you enjoy it? Judge Burnham's unaccountable embarrassment increased. You wouldn't like my country seat, he said decidedly. I never mean you to see it if it can be helped. There is a long story connected with it and with that part of my life. I am sorry that it is entirely new to you. The affair will be more difficult for you to comprehend. May I ask you if you mean you are utterly ignorant of my early life? Is it unknown to you that I have once been a married man? There was no mistaking the start and the flush of surprise if it was no deeper feeling that Ruth exhibited, but she answered quietly enough. I am entirely ignorant of your past history, viewed in any phase. Judge Burnham drew a heavy sigh. I said the story was a long one, but I can make it very brief, he began. You know that a lifetime of joy or misery can be expressed in one sentence. Well, I married when I was a boy, married in haste and repented at leisure as many a boy has. My wife died when we had been living together for five years and I have two daughters. They are almost women I suppose now. The oldest is 17 and they live at the place which you call my country's seat. Now these are the headlines of the story. Perhaps you could imagine the rest better than I can tell you. The filling out would take hours and would be disagreeable both to you and to me. I trust you will let me relieve you from the trial of hearing. There is one thing I especially desire to say to you before this conversation proceeds further. That is, I supposed, of course, you were familiar with these outlines, at least so far as my marriage is concerned, else I should have told you long ago. I have not meant to take any unfair advantage of you. I had not an idea that I was doing so. Does my father know that you have daughters? This was Ruth's question and her voice, low and constrained, sounded so strangely to herself that she remembered noticing it even then. I do not know. It is more than probable that he does not. Indeed, I am not sure that any acquaintance of mine in the city knows this part of my history. My married life was isolated from them all. I have not attempted to conceal it and at the same time I have made no effort to tell it. I am painfully conscious of how all this must look to you, yet I know you will believe that I intended no deception. With regard to my daughters, my professional life has kept me from them almost constantly so that no idea of our home, yours and mine, is associated with them. I have no intention of burying you in the country and indeed my errand here at this hour was to talk with you in regard to the merits of two hotels at either of which we can secure desirable rooms. He hurried over this part of his sentence in a nervous way as one who was trying by a rapid change of subject to turn the current of thought. Ruth brought him back to it with a question which stabbed him. But Judge Burnham, what sort of a father can you have been all these years? He flushed and paled under it and under the steadiness of her gaze. I have hardly deserved the name of father, I suppose, and yet in some respects I have tried to do what it seemed to me I could. Ruth, you don't understand the situation. You think you do and it looks badly to you, but there are circumstances which make it a peculiarly trying one. However, they are not circumstances which need to touch you. I meant and I mean to shield you from all these trials. I asked you to be not my housekeeper, not a caretaker of two girls who would be utterly uncongenial to you, but my wife and she interrupted him. And do you suppose, Judge Burnham, that you and I can settle down to a life together of selfish enjoyment in each other's society, ignoring the claims which your children have on you and which assuredly, if I become your wife, they will have on me? Could you respect me if I were willing to do so? It was clear that Judge Burnham was utterly confounded. He arose and stood confronting her, for she had risen to draw aside a fire screen and had not in speaking resumed her seat. You do not understand, he muttered at last. I have meant nothing wrong. I provide for them and am willing to do so. I see that they are taken care of. I do not propose to desert them, but it would be simply preposterous to think of burying you up there in the country with that sort of companionship. You do not know what you are talking about. I have never, for a moment, thought of such a thing. Then it is clearly time to think. If I do not understand you, Judge Burnham, neither do you understand me. My life has been anything but a perfect one or a happy one. I have gone so far wrong myself that it ill becomes me to find fault with others. But there is one thing I will never do. I will never come between a father and his children, separating them from the place which they ought to have beside him, never. End of chapter 16, recording by Tricia G. Chapter 17 of Ruth Erskine's Crosses. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Ruth Erskine's Crosses by Pansy. Chapter 17. Duties' Burden. By degrees, Judge Burnham began to understand the woman whom he had chosen for his wife. Hitherto he had been in the habit of being governed by his own will of bending forces to his strong purposes. Those occasional characters with whom he came in contact who refused to be molded by him, he had good-naturedly let alone, crossing their path as little as possible and teaching himself to believe that they were not worth managing, which was the sole reason why he did not manage them. But Ruth Erskine was a new experience. She would do what she believed to be the right thing and she would not yield her convictions to be governed by his judgment. He could not manage her and he had no wish to desert her. Clearly one of them must yield. The entire affair served to keep him in a perturbed state of mind. Ruth grew more settled, weeks went by, and her decisions were made, her plans formed, and she watched steadily toward their accomplishment. Not realizing it herself, she was yet engaged in making a compromise with her conscience. She believed herself, perhaps, to have done wrong in promising to become the wife of a man who ignored the principle which governed her life. She would not give back that promise, but she would make the life one of self-abdignation instead of what for one brief week it had seemed to her a resting place full of light. She would be his wife, but she would also be the mother of his daughters. She would live with them, for them, give up her plans, her tastes, her pursuits for their sake. In short, she would assume the martyrs garb in good earnest now and wear it for a lifetime. The more repulsive this course seemed to her, and it grew very repulsive indeed, the more steadily she clung to it, and it was not obstinacy you are to understand. It will do for such as Judge Burnham to call such resolves by that name, but you should know that Ruth Erskine was all the time governed by a solemn sense of duty. It was a cross, hard, cold, unenlightened by any gleams of peace, but for all that it started in a sense of duty. By degrees the long story much of it came to light, rather was dragged to light by a persistent method of cross-questioning which drove Judge Burnham to the very verge of desperation. Judge Burnham, she would begin, how have your daughters been cared for all these years? Why, he said, wriggling and trying to get away from his own sense of degradation, they had good care, at least I supposed it was. During their childhood their mother's sister lived there and took the sole charge of them. She was a kind-hearted woman enough and did her duty by them. But she died, you told me, when they were still children. Yes, that was when I was abroad. You see, when I went I expected to return in a year at most, but I stayed on, following one perplexing tangle after another in connection with my business affairs until four or five years slipped away. Meantime their aunt died and the old housekeeper who had lived with their family since the last century sometime took her place and managed for them as well as she could. I didn't realize how things were going. I imagined everything would come out right, you know. I don't see how they could, Ruth said coldly and Judge Burnham answered nothing. Didn't they attend school? Why, yes, they went to the country school out there, you know, when there was one. It is too near the city to secure good advantages and yet too far away for convenience. I meant, you see, to have them in town when I came home at the best schools and boarding with me, but I found it utterly impracticable, utterly so. You have no conception of what five years of absence will do for people. I can imagine something of what five years of neglect would do. Ruth said it icily as she could speak. Then he would say, oh, Ruth, in a tone which was intriguing and almost pitiful. And he would start up and pace back and forth through the room for a moment until brought back by one of her stabbing questions. How have they lived since your return? Why, right there, just where they always have lived, it is the only home they have ever known. And are they entirely alone? Why, no, the housekeeper of whom I told you had a daughter, a trustworthy woman, and when her mother died, this daughter moved to the house with her family and has taken care of them. And so, Judge Burnham, your two daughters have grown to young ladyhood, isolated from companionship and from education and from refinements of any sort, even from their own father, and have been the companions of ignorant hirelings. I tell you, Ruth, you must see them before you can understand this thing, he would exclaim and almost despair. I assuredly mean to, would be her quiet answer, which answered drove him nearer to desperation than he was before. At last he came and stood before her. You forced me to speak plainly, he said. I would have shielded you forever and you will not let me. These girls are not like your class of girls. They have no interest in refined pursuits. They have no refinement of feeling or manner. They have no desire for education. They do not even care to keep their persons in ordinarily tasteful attire. They care nothing for the refinements of home. They belong to a lower order of being. It is simply impossible to conceive of them as my children and it is utterly preposterous to think of your associating with them in any way. She was stilled at last, stunned it would seem, for she sat in utter silence for minutes that seemed to him hours while he stood before her and waited. When at last she spoke, her voice was not so cold as it had been, but it was controlled and intensely grave. And yet, Judge Burnham, they are your children and you are bound to them by the most solemn and sacred vows which it is possible for man to take on his lips. How can you ever hope to escape a just reward for ignoring them? Now I must tell you what I feel and mean. I do not intend to be hard or harsh and yet I intend to be true. I am not sure that I am acting or talking as other girls would under like circumstances but that is a question which has never troubled me. I am acting in what I believe to be the right way. You have asked me to be your wife and I have promised in good faith. It was before I knew any of this story which in a sense alters the ground on which we stood. I will tell you plainly what I believe I ought to do and what with my present views I must do. I will give my life to helping you in this matter. I will go up to that home of yours and hide myself with those girls and we will both do what we can to retrieve the mistakes of a lifetime. I will struggle and plan and endure for them. I am somewhat first in the duties which this sort of living involves as you know and in the crosses which it brings. Perhaps it was for this reason they were sent to me. I have chafed under them and been weak and worthless God knows and yet I feel that perhaps he is giving me another chance. I will try to do better work for him in your home than I have in my own. At any rate I must try. If I fail it shall be after the most solemn and earnest efforts that I can make. But as I said it must be tried. It is not all self-sacrifice Judge Burnham. I mean that I could not do it would not see that I had any right to do it if I had not given my heart to you. And if for the love of you I could not trust myself to help you in your duty. But you must fully understand that it seems unquestionably to be your duty. You must not shirk it. I must never help you to shirk it. I should not dare. I will go with you to that home and be with you a member of that family. But I can never make with you another home that does not include the family. I must never do it. Judge Burnham hoped to turn her away from this decision which was to him simply an awful one. Do you imagine that he accomplished it? I believe you know her better. It is necessary for you to remember that he did not understand the underlying motive by which she was governed. When she said, I must not do it, he did not understand that she meant her vows to Christ would not let her. He believed simply that she set her judgment above his in this matter and determined that she would not yield it. The struggle was a severe one. At times he felt as though he would say to her if she must not share with him the home he had so lovingly and tenderly planned for her, why then he must give her up. The only reason he did not say this was because he did not dare to try it. He had not the slightest intention of giving her up and he was afraid that she would take him at his word as assuredly she would have done. She was dearer to him in her obstinacy than anything in life and nothing must be risked. Therefore he was sorely set and as often as he renewed the struggle he came off worsted. How could it be otherwise when Ruth could constantly flee back to the unanswerable position, Judge Burnham it is wrong, I must not do it. What if he didn't understand her? He saw that she understood herself and meant what she said. So it came to pass that as the days went by and the hour for the marriage drew nearer and nearer, Judge Burnham felt the plans so dear to his heart slipping away from under his control. Ruth would be married. Well that was a great point gained but she would not go away for a wedding journey. She would not go to the grand hotel where he desired to take rooms. No, not for a day or hour. She would not have the trial of contrast between the few first bright days of each other and the dismal days following when they had each other with something constantly coming between. She would go directly to that country home and nowhere else. She would go to it just as it was. He was not to alter the surroundings or the outward life in one single respect. She meant to see the home influence which had molded those girls exactly as it had breezed about them without any outside hand to change it. She proposed to do the changing herself. One little bit of compromise her stern conscience admitted. Her future husband might fit up one room for her use, her private retreat, according to his individual taste and she would accept it from him as hers but the outer life that was to be lived as a family he must not touch. But Ruth, he said, you do not understand. Things have utterly gone to decay. There was no one to care or appreciate. There was no one to take care of anything and I let everything go. Very well, she said, then we will see what our united tastes can do towards setting everything right when we come to feel what is wanted. Then couldn't you go with me and see the place a few weeks before we go there and give directions such as you would like to see carried out, just a few you know, such as you can take in at a glance to make it a little more like home. She shook her head decidedly. No indeed, she was not going there to spy out the desolation of the land. She was going to it as a home and if as a home it was defective, together they, he, his daughters and herself would see what was needed and remodel it. How dismally he shook his head over that. He knew his daughters and she did not. He tried again. But Ruth, it is five miles from the railroad. How will it be possible to ride 10 miles by train and five by carriage, night and morning and attend to business? Easily, she said quietly, except in term time, the busiest season that my father ever had, we were in the country and he came out nearly every evening. In term time, we must all come into town and board, I suppose. He winced over this and was silent and felt himself giving up his last hope of holding this thing in check and began to realize that he loved this future wife of his very much indeed, else he would never submit to such a state of things. He believed it would last for but a little while, just long enough for her to see the hopelessness of things. But this seeing with her into all its hopelessness was what he shrank from. So the days went by, not much joy in them for anyone concerned. Away from Ruth's influence, Judge Burnham was annoyed to such a degree that he could hardly make a civil answer to the most ordinary question. And his office clerks crumbled among themselves that if it made such a bear of a man to know that in three weeks he was to have a wife, they hoped their turn would never come. Away from his presence, Ruth was grave to a degree that threw an added shadow over the home life. Susan felt herself to be in disgrace with her sister and had been unable thus far to rise above it and be helpful as she would have liked to be. Judge Erskine, hearing more details from his friend than from his daughter, sympathized with her strong sense of duty, honored her, rejoiced in her strength of purpose and was sorry for her, realizing more than before what a continuous chain of trial her life had been of late. Therefore, his tone was tender and sympathizing when he spoke to her, but sad as one who felt too deeply Susan was not able to impart strength. As for Mrs. Erskine, she had so much to say about the strangeness of it all, wondering how Judge Burnham could have managed to keep things so secret and how the girls looked, whether they favored him or their ma, and whether they would be comfortable sort of persons to get along with that Ruth was driven to the very verge of distraction and felt at times that to get out of that house into any other on earth would be a relief. There was much ado also about that wedding. Mrs. Erskine wanted marvelous things, an illumination and a feast and a crowd and all the resources of the rainbow as to bridle toilet, but here, as in other matters, Ruth held subtly to her own way and brought it to pass, a strictly private wedding in the front parlor of her father's house, not a person outside of the Erskine family circle to witness the ceremony saved Mary and Dennis. She, by virtue of being Dr. Dennis's wife, gained admission, but Mary and Dennis's tears fell fast behind the raised handkerchief, which shielded her face during the solemn prayer. She knew in detail some of Ruth's plans. She knew better than Ruth did, so she thought that plans are sometimes hard to carry out. How many she had indulged and at this moment there sat at home her haughty daughter, Grace, entirely unforgiving because of her meddling, so she styled the earnest attempts to shield her from danger. To Mary and Ruth's future had never looked less hopeful than it did on this marriage morning. It may be that her own disappointments caused some of the flowing tears, but her heart ached for Ruth. What should she do without a Christian husband, a husband entirely in sympathy with every effort and entirely tender with every failure of hers? What was Ruth to do with Judge Burnham for a husband instead of Dr. Dennis? How were the trials of life to be born with any man living except this one? Thus reasoned silly Marian unconsciously indeed, but that was as it seemed to her. Well, for Ruth that even at this moment she could look into the face of the man whom she had chosen and feel it is after all for him. There is no other person for whom I could begin this life. Said a friend the other day in sympathetic tones as she spoke of a young bride going far from her home and her mother. I feel so sorry for her. It is such a trying experience all alone away from her early friends. But I said after all she doesn't go as far as you told me you did when you were married. The answer was quick. Oh no, but then I had my husband, you know, and she and then she stopped to laugh. So it was a blessed thing that Ruth Burnham going out from the home which had sheltered her felt that she went with her husband. End of chapter 17, recording by Tricia G. Chapter 18 of Ruth Erskine's Crosses. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Ruth Erskine's Crosses by Pansy. Chapter 18, Embarrassment and Mirament. I suppose there was never a bride going out from her home with her husband who was more silent than was our Ruth. It was the silence of constraint too. It was such a little journey, 10 miles or so by train, then five by carriage and then what were they coming to? If only it had been her husband's happy home where treasures were waiting to greet him and be clasped to his heart, Ruth felt that it would have been so much easier. Yet I think very likely she did not understand her own heart. Probably the easiest excuse that we can make for ourselves or for our shrinking from duties is if it were only something else I could do it. I think it quite likely that had Ruth been going to just such a home as she imagined would make her cross lighter, she would have been jealous of those clasping hands and tender kisses. The human heart is a strange instrument played upon in all sorts of discords even when we think there is going to be music. As it is, the certainty of her husband's disapproval, the sense of strangeness and the sense of shrinking from the new trials and the questioning as to whether after all she had done right all served to depress Ruth's heart and hush her voice to such a degree that she felt speech was impossible. I want to linger a minute over one sentence, the questioning as to whether after all she had done right. There is no more miserable state of mind than this. It is such dreadful ground for the Christian to occupy. Yet practically half the Christians in the world are there. Theoretically, we believe ourselves to be led even in the common affairs of life by the all wise spirit of God. Theoretically, we believe that he can make no mistake. Theoretically, we believe that it is just as easy to get an answer from that spirit, a word behind thee as the Bible phrases it directing us which way to go as it is to hear our human friend answer to our call. But practically what do we believe? What is the reason that so much of our life is given up to mourning over possible mistakes? Is it because we choose to decide some questions for ourselves without bringing them to the test of prayer? Or because having asked for direction, we failed to watch for the answer or expect it and so lost the still small voice? Or is it sometimes because having heard the voice, we regret its direction and turn from it and choose our own? Ruth Burnham was conscious of none of these states. She had prayed over this matter. Indeed, it seemed to her that she had done little else than pray of late. And in some points, she was strong, feeling that her feet had been set upon a rock. But in others, there was at this too late moment a sense of faltering. Might she not, asked her conscience of her, have yielded somewhat? Would it have worked any ill for them both to have gone away from everything for a few weeks as Judge Burnham so desired to do and have learned to know and help each other and have learned to talk freely together about this new home and have grown stronger together before facing this manifest duty? I do not tell you she might have done all this. Perhaps her first physician that it would have been unwise and unhelpful was the right one. I think we do sometimes put added touches of our own to the cross that the father lays upon us, making it shade and gloom when he would have tinted it with sunlight. But I do not say that Ruth had done this. I don't know which was wise. What I am sure of is that she, having left it to Christ, having asked for his direction and having received it, for unless she thought she had been shown the step to take, assured she ought not to have stepped. She had no right to unrest herself and strap on to her heart the burden of that wearying question, did I after all do right? Judge Burnham could match her in quietness. He had her beside him at last. She was his wife, she bore his name. Henceforth their interests were won. Thus much of what he had months ago set himself steadily to accomplish had been accomplished. But not a touch of the details was according to his plans. The situation in which he found himself was so new and so bewildering that while he meant for her sake to make the best of it until such a time as she could see that she was wrong and he was right, yet truth to tell, he hardly knew how to set about making the best of it. He did what he could, no topic of conversation that suggested itself to his mind seemed entirely safe. And beside what used to try to converse for so short a journey. So he contented himself with opening her car window and dropping her blind and arranging her traveling shawl comfortably for a shoulder support and in other nameless, thoughtful ways making this bit of a journey bright with caretaking tenderness. It served to show Ruth how royally he would have cared for her in the longer journey which he wanted and which she wouldn't have. Whereupon she immediately said to her heart, perhaps it would have been better if I had yielded. And that made her miserable. There was no time to yield now. The station was called out and there was bustle and haste and no little nervousness in getting off in time for the train seemed before it fairly halted to have been sorry for that attempted accommodation and began to show signs of going on again that were nerve-distracting. It annoyed Judge Burnham to the degree that he said savagely to the conductor, it was hardly worthwhile to stop if you can't do it more comfortably. He would have liked so much to have been leisurely and comfortable to have done everything in a composed traveled manner. He understood so thoroughly all the details of traveled life. Why could he not show Ruth some of the comforts of it? That little station. It was in itself a curiosity to Ruth. She had not supposed that 10 miles away from a city, anything could be so diminutive. A long, low, unpainted building with benches for seats and loungers spitting tobacco juice for furniture. There was evidently something unusual to stare at. This was the presence of a quiet, tasteful carriage with handsome horses and a driver who indicated by the very flourish of his whip that this was a new locality to him. He and his horses and his carriage belonged unmistakably to city life and had rarely reached so far out. Is this your carriage? Ruth asked, surveying it with a touch of satisfaction as Judge Burnham made her comfortable among the cushions. No, it is from town. There are no carriages belonging to this enlightened region. How do your family reach the station then? They never reach it, he answered, composedly. He had resolved upon not trying to smooth over anything. But how did you get to and from the cars when you were stopping here? On the rare occasions when I was so unfortunate as to stop here, I sometimes caught the wagon which brings the mail and takes unfortunate passengers. Or if I were too early for that, there were certain milk carts and vegetable carts which gave me the privilege of a ride with a little persuasion in the shape of money. Nothing could be more studiedly polite than Judge Burnham's tone, but there was a covert sarcasm in every word he said. He seemed to Ruth to be thinking, I hope you realize the uncomfortable position into which your obstinacy has forced me. Evidently not a touch of help was to be had from him. What were they to talk about during that five miles of travel over a rough road? Ruth studied her brains to try to develop a subject that would not make them even more uncomfortable than they now felt. She was unfortunate in selection, but it seemed impossible to get away from the thoughts which were just now so prominently before them. She suddenly remembered a fact which surprised her and to which she gave instant expression. Judge Burnham, what are your daughter's names? The gentleman thus adressed wrinkled his forehead into a dozen frowns and shook himself as though he would like to shake away all remembrance of the subject before he said, their very names are a source of mortification to me. The elder is Seraphina and the other Araminta. What do you think of them? Ruth was silent and dismayed. This apparently trivial circumstance served to show her what a strange state of things existed in the home whether she was going. She didn't know how to answer her husband's question. She was sorry that she had asked any. There seemed no way out but to ask another which in truth pressed upon her. How do you soften such names? What do you call them when you address them? I call them nothing. I know of no way of smoothing such hopeless cognomance and I take refuge in silence or bewildering pronouns. Ruth pondered over this answer long enough to have her courage rise and to grow almost indignant. Then she spoke again. But Judge Burnham, I do not see how you could have allowed so strange a selection for girls in this age of the world. Why didn't you save them from such a lifelong inflection? Or was there some reason for the use of these names that dignifies them that makes them sacred? There is this sole reason for the names and for many things which you will find yourself unable to understand. Their mother was a hopeless victim to fourth rate sensation novels and named her daughters from that standpoint. I was in reality powerless to interfere. You may have discovered before this that I am not always able to follow out the dictates of my own judgment and others as well as myself have to suffer in consequence. What could Ruth answer to this? She felt its covert meaning and so sure was she beginning to feel that she had followed her own ideas instead of the leadings of any higher voice that she had not the heart to be offended with the plainness of the insinuation. But she realized that it was a strange conversation for a newly made husband and wife. She took refuge again in silence. Judge Burnham tried to talk. He asked if the seat she occupied was entirely comfortable and if she enjoyed riding and if she had tried the saddle or thought she would enjoy such exercise and presently he said, these are abominable roads. I am sorry to have you so roughly treated in the very beginning of our journey together. I did not want roughness to come to you Ruth. I thought that you had endured enough. She was sorry that he said this. Her tears were never nearer the surface than at this moment and she did not want to shed them. She began to talk rapidly to him about the beauty of the faraway hills which stretched bluely before them and he tried to help her effort and appreciate them. Still it was too apparent just then neither cared much for hills and it was almost a relief when the carriage at last drew up under a row of alms. These at least were beautiful. So was the long irregular grassy yard that stretched away up the hill and was shaded by noble old trees. It required but a moment to dismiss the carriage and then her husband gave her his arm and together they toiled up the straggling walk toward the long low building which was in dire need of paint. This yard is lovely, Ruth said and she wondered if her voice trembled very much. I used to like the yard a hundred years or so ago, he answered sadly. It really seems to me almost as long ago as that since I had any pleasant recollections of anything connected with it. Was it your mother's home? Yes, he said and his face grew tender and she was a good mother, Ruth. I loved the old house once for her sake. I think I can make you love it again for mine. Ruth said the words gently with a tender intonation that was very pleasant to hear and that not many people heard from her. Judge Burnham was aware of it and his grave face brightened a little. He reached after her hand and held it within his own and the pressure he gave it said what he could not speak. So they went up the steps of that low porch with lighter hearts after all than had seemed possible. The door at the end of that porch opened directly into the front room or keeping room as in the parlance of that region of country it was called though Ruth did not know it. The opening of that door was a revelation to her. She had never been in a real country room before. There were green paper shades to the windows worn with years and faded and little twinkling rays of the summer sunshine pushed in through innumerable tiny holes which holes curiously enough Ruth saw and remembered and associated forever after with that hour and moment. There was a red carpet on the floor of dingy colors and uneven weaving. Ruth did not even know the name of that style of carpet but she knew it was peculiar. There were cane seated chairs standing in solemn rows at proper intervals. There was a square table or stand if she had but known the proper name for it covered with a red cotton cloth having a gay border and fringed edges. There was a wooden chair or two shrinking back from contact with the smarter cane seated ones. And there was a large old fashioned high backed wooden rocker covered back and arms and sides with a gay patchwork cover a glow with red and green and yellow and it seemed to poor Ruth a hundred other dazzling colors and the whole effect reminded her forcibly of Mrs. Judge Erskine. Now you have a list of every article of furniture which this large room contained. No I forget the mantelpiece though Ruth did not. It was long and deep and high and was adorned with a curious picture or two which would bear studying before you could be sure what they were and with two large bright brass candlesticks and a tray and snuffers. Also in the center a fair sized kerosene lamp which looked depraved enough to smoke like a furnace without even waiting to be lighted. Also there were some oriental paintings in wooden frames on the wall. Are you so fortunate as not to understand what oriental paintings are? Then you will be unable to comprehend the description of Ruth's face as her eye rested on them. Judge Burnham was looking at her as her eye roped swiftly and silently over the scene not accepting the curious paper with which the walls were hung in a pattern long gone by. He stood a little at one side affecting to raise an unmanageable window sash. They were all unmanageable but in reality he was watching her and I must confess to you that this scene contrasted in his mind with the elegant home which his wife had left was fast taking a ludicrous side to him. The embarrassments were great and he knew that they would thicken upon him and yet the desire to laugh overcame all other emotions. His eyes danced and he bit his lips to restrain their mirth. But at last when Ruth turned and looked at him the expression in her face overcame him and he burst forth into laughter. It was a blessed thing for Ruth that she was able to join him. Sit down, he said, wheeling the gay rocker toward her. I am sure you never occupied so elegant a seat before. There is a great great cat belonging to the establishment who usually sits in state here but she has evidently vacated in your favor today. Ruth sank into the chair unable to speak. The strangeness of it all and the conflicting emotions stirring in her heart fairly took away the power of speech. Judge Burnham came and stood beside her. We have entered into this thing, Ruth, he said, and his voice was not so hard as it had been and there are embarrassments enough certainly connected with it and yet it is a home and it is our home, yours and mine and we are together forever. This of itself is joy enough to atone for almost anything. She was about to answer him and there was a smile on her face in the midst of tears in her eyes but they were interrupted. The door opened suddenly and an apparition in the shape of a child perhaps five years old appeared to them. A toe-headed child with staring blue eyes and wide open mouth. A child in a very pink dress not over clean and rather short. A child with bare feet and with her arms full of a great gray cat. She stared amazingly at them for a moment then turned and vanished. That is not mine at least, Judge Burnham said and the tone in which he said it was irresistible. His eyes met Ruth at that moment and all traces of tears had disappeared also all signs of sentiment. There was but one thing to do and they did it and the old house rang with peel after peel of uncontrollable laughter. End of chapter 18, recording by Tricia G.