 CHAPTER 25 Bitter Sweet A question which began to press heavily on Ruth's mind as the days went by was, what should she do when Susan went home? It began to be apparent that all the details connected with the reconstructed house were completed, and also that a skillful set of hired helpers were in their places. But it was equally apparent to her heart that she shrink from the thought of seeing Susan pack her trunk and go back to the Erskine homestead. She fitted so perfectly into the family life. She had already acquired such a remarkable degree of influence over the girls. They copied her ways and her words, and it had some time ago become apparent to Ruth that the sister of hers was in every respect worthy of being copied. Even her dress, taking its hints from Flossy Shipley's sweetly spoken words about which Ruth knew nothing, had taken such quietness of tone that, if it was not marked for its beauty, had perhaps higher praise in that it was not noticed at all, but had sunken into the minor place it was expected to fill. Ruth, in thinking the past all over, was amazed at the wholesale way in which she had finally adopted her sister. Just when she began to like her so well that it was a pleasure to have her company and a trial to think of her absence, she did not know. It seemed to her now as though she had always felt so, and yet she knew that somewhere along the line of her life there must have been a decided change of feeling. She is just splendid anyway. This was the final verdict. I don't care when I began to know it. I know it now. I wish I could have her with me always. If she and Father could live out here with us, how nice it would be. Father would like the country. It would rest and strengthen him. But oh, that woman, which two words spoken with an intensity of emphasis, that she allowed only the four walls of her room to hear, always referred to Mrs. Judge Erskine. She was quite as much of a trial as ever. Ruth could not conceive of a possibility of there ever being a time when she should want to see her. So she studied over the problem of how to keep Susan, and, like many another student found, after a few days, that it was worked out for her in a way that she would not have chosen. The news burst like a bombshell into their midst without note or warning. Judge Erskine had lost his fortune. Large though it had been, it slipped out of his grasp almost in an hour. The trouble has to do with the smallpox in religion, Judge Burnham said with something very like a sneer on his handsome face. I don't know which development should be blamed the most. During his exile from the office, his clerks made some very foolish moves as regarded investments, etc. And then the other disease reached such a form that he was beguiled into putting his name to two or three pieces of paper for others on the score of friendship, a piece of idiocy that during all his sane years he had warned me and every other businessman who came to him for advice from being beguiled into, and the result is financial ruin. There are worse ruins than that. Ruth said it hotly. Her husband's criticism of her father jarred. Oh, that is true enough. There are dishonorable ruins. This one is the soul of honor and of philanthropy for that matter. He has so much to sustain him, but he can't live on it. And Ruth, if you had ever known what it was to live on nothing, you could sympathize better with that sort of ruin. The hard part for me to bear would be that it was all so unnecessary if he had but lived up to the wisdom and business keenness which characterized all the earlier years of his life. He has taken to giving some very strange advice to his clients since he subscribed to his new views, advice which has taken thousands of dollars out of his business. Had to do it, he told me, his conscience wouldn't allow him to do otherwise. If that is true, I am really afraid that I couldn't afford to have a conscience. It is too expensive an article. How much of this was sincere and how much was a sort of sarcastic pleasantry? Ruth wished she knew. It was a new and rather startling thought that possibly the money which sustained her now had to do with the fact that her husband couldn't afford a sensitive conscience. She put the thought away as far from her as possible. At least she could do nothing with it now. The time for it was passed. She tried not to think what ground she had for expecting a high type of conscience from one who lived in cool dishonor of the claims of the Lord Jesus Christ. The immediate questions were, what would her father do? Also, what was there that she could do for him? Oh, he will give everything up, Judge Burnham said. Every penny, house and landed property and household goods, down to his very dog. Even his clothing is in danger. I saw it in his eyes. It is the disease which has pervaded his system. This new conscience of his won't let him do anything sensible. Judge Burnham said, Ruth, having endured all that she could, she was not skilled in endurance. I wish you would remember that you are speaking of my father and refrain from sneers. If his code of honor is higher than yours, he cannot help it, I suppose. At least you should be able to respect it, or failing in that, please respect my feelings. I beg your pardon, said Judge Burnham, quickly startled by the repressed fierceness of the tones. I did not mean to hurt your feelings, Ruth, but you do not understand business, and your father is really being very absurd with his strained ideas of equity. I understand conscience somewhat, Ruth said quickly, and she was stung with the thought that perhaps in the days gone by she had stifled hers. Now all this was certainly very sad talk to come between husband and wife, not six weeks after their marriage. Ruth felt it and deplored it and wept over it, and wondered how it would be possible to avoid subjects on which they did not think and feel alike. Meantime she ought to go and see her father. From this she shrank. How could she talk with him from any other standpoint than that in which she had always known him? A man of wealth and power in the business world, she felt that he must be utterly bowed down. He had always, in a lofty aristocratic way, attached full importance to wealth. How was he going to endure being suddenly thrown to the bottom of the ladder when he had for so many years rested securely on the top round? However, it was folly for her to avoid such an evident duty. She chose an hour when Mrs. Erskine would be undoubtedly engaged downstairs and slipped away to the train, having said nothing of her intention to her husband when he went to town an hour before, and without having as yet succeeded in arranging a single sentence that she felt would be helpful to her father, she suddenly and silently presented herself before him in the little room off the library which was sacred to his private use. He sat at the table writing his face pale indeed, but quiet, not exactly cheerful, yet certainly peaceful. He glanced up as the door opened and then arose quickly. Well, daughter, he said, you have come to see father in his trouble. That is right. Come in, dear, and have a seat. And with the old-time courtesy he drew an easy chair for her and waited while she seated herself. Then he sat down again in his large armchair before her. Yes, he said, I must begin again. I shall not get to where I was before. On your account I regret it. I wanted to leave you a fortune to do good with, but your husband has enough and it is all right. The Lord can choose what money he will have spent for him. You certainly need not think of me, father, as you say Judge Burnham has enough. And even at this moment there was a pain in Ruth's heart that she would not have had her father see for worlds as she wondered how much power she could have over his wealth to turn it into sources for good. My chief anxiety is what are you going to do? Well, he said, and there was a gleam of a smile on his face. I am going to climb up again with my wife's help. It isn't poverty, you know, thanks to her. Isn't it marvelous how she can have saved so much out of the paltry yearly sums? Haven't you heard about it? Why, she actually has that interest about $14,000 invested in my name, too. Isn't that a reward for the indignities I heaped upon her? His voice broke and the tears started in his eyes. I tell you, he said tremulously, I bore it all better than that. I knew I was not to blame for the financial downfall, but to find that the woman whom I had wronged had been all these years keeping coals of fire on my head just unmanned me. And he wiped the great tears from his cheeks while Ruth moved restlessly in her seat. She did not like to hear about his having wronged that woman. Neither did she like to have her father beholden to her for support. It is fortunate that she saved it, she said, and her voice was most unsympathetic. But after all, Father, it is your money. No, daughter, no, not a penny of it, ten times that some ought to belong to her. Think of trying to make money repair the injury which I was doing her, but it is most comforting to feel that I am to be beholden to her rather than to any other human being. Ruth did not think so. I have been wonderfully sustained, Ruth, her father continued. I said last night that it was almost worth losing a fortune to see how calmly the Lord Jesus could hold me. I haven't had a doubt nor an anxiety as to its being the right way from the first hour that I knew of the loss. Of course, I don't see why it should come, and really I don't believe I care to know. Why should I, when I can so entirely trust to his wisdom and love? There is another thing, daughter, the sweet came with the bitter and was so much more important that it overbalanced. Do you know that your mother had come into the sunlight of his love? She told me about it that very evening, and she says she owes her knowledge of the way to me. Isn't that a wonderful boon for the Lord to be still on such as I? Ruth turned almost away from him with an unaccountable irritability tugging at her heart. Your mother! He had never used those words to her before. They had slipped out now unconsciously. He had grown used to their sound in speaking to Susan. He did not see how they jarred. It frightened his daughter to realize how little she seemed to care whether a soul had been newborn or not. She could not take in its importance. I am sure I am very glad, she said, but her voice bore not the slightest trace of gladness. Then she went home, feeling that her spirit was not in accord with the tone of that house. He doesn't need my comfort, she told herself, and she said it almost bitterly. It was true enough he didn't. Not that he did not appreciate human sympathy and human love, but a greater than human strength had laid hold upon his weakness, and he was upborn. This, too, Ruth recognized, and even while she rejoiced in it, there mingled with the joy a strange pain. Following the money downfall came plans that were quite in accord with her wishes. They sprang into being apparently through a chance remark. It began with Ruth in a heavy sigh, as she said, she and Susan being alone. I don't know how to take the next step for those girls. It is absurd to think of sending them to school. At their age, and with their limited knowledge, they would be simply objects of ridicule. We must find a resident governess for them, but where to look for one who will have to teach young ladies what in these days quite little children are supposed to know, and yet remember that they are young ladies and treat them as such is a puzzle. I am sure I don't know where to look, nor how to describe what we need, the circumstances are so peculiar. Then she waited for Susan to answer, and so accustomed had she grown to being helped by that young lady's suggestions, that she waited hopefully, though without having the least conception of how a comparative stranger in the city could help in this emergency. There are plenty to get, Susan said. At least I suppose the world is full of teachers if you only knew just where to look for them. Oh, teachers! Yes, there are plenty of them if a teacher was all that was needed. But you know, Susan, the case is a very unusual one. We really need a woman who knows a good deal about everything, and who is as wise as a serpent. There is a chance to ruin the girls and make trouble for Judge Burnham and Misery for me, if we do not get just the right sort of person, and I am in doubt as to whether there is any right sort to be had. Whereupon Susan laughed and blushed a little as she said, After such an alarming statement of the requirements, I am not sure that I have the courage to propose a friend of mine. She doesn't lay claim to any of the gifts which you suggest. Ruth looked up, relieved, and smiling. Do you really know a teacher, Susan, whom you can recommend? I forgot that your acquaintance was extensive among scholars. You need not hesitate to suggest, for I assure you that your recommendation would go further with Judge Burnham and myself than anyone we know. For you understand the situation, and your judgment is to be relied upon. Of whom are you thinking and where is she to be found? I can almost promise her a situation. Whereupon Susan laughed outright. Really, she said, You make it very embarrassing work for me. I not only have to recommend myself, but actually force myself upon your observation. But since I intend to teach in the future, as I have done in the past, why not try me for a while since I am here? I think I would do until the girls were ready for somebody who could do better. If she had been watching her sister's face, she would have seen the puzzled look changed to one of radiant delight. Then that sister did what to one of her undemonstrative nature was a strange thing to do. She crossed to Susan's side and, bending down, kissed her eagerly on either cheek. I believe I am an idiot, she said, though I used to think I was capable of planning as well as most persons, but I never once thought of it. And I knew you meant to teach, too. It is the very thing. Nothing could be more delightful. Judge Burnham will think so, too. Oh Susan, you are one of my greatest comforts. End of Chapter 25, Recording by Tricia G. Chapter 26 of Ruth Erskine's Crosses This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Ruth Erskine's Crosses by Pansy. Chapter 26 These Be Thy Gods At last, in Ruth Burnham's home, life settled into routine. Everything was as she had planned it. She had tried two ways of life. For a season almost everything had gone contrary to her desires and plans. Then there came this period wherein she was permitted to carry out, in detail, all the schemes which seemed to her wise. In the earlier days of her Christian experience she had felt, if she did not say, that if she could but have the control of her own affairs humanly speaking, she could make things work together in a different and more helpful manner for herself and her friends. It was as if the Lord had taken her at her word, and opened the door for her to plan and carry out according to her will. The question was, did she find it a success? Was she now at last a happy growing Christian, one whose influence was felt in all the departments of her life? Oh, I am afraid that Ruth hated to admit, even to her own heart, how far from success she felt. Painful though the admission was, she had to make it to her conscience that she was neither a growing nor a happy Christian. What was the trouble? Why, in her heart and in her life there was conflict. She knew the right, and too often she did it not. Give me such an experience as that, and you may be sure that you have given the record of an unhappy and an unfruitful life. There were so many ways in which Ruth could see that she had erred. She meant to commence in just the right way. She had taken great credit to herself for her sacrifice of personal ease and pleasure for the taking up of hard crosses in connection with Judge Burnham's duties. Yet now she saw that there were crosses far more important, which she had not taken up at all. Almost as soon as she knelt alone in her own room to pray, she knelt in tears. First, because she was always alone, her husband never bowed with her, never read the Bible with her. Was this in part her fault? What if, in those first days when everything was new, and when he was on the alert to be her comfort, she had asked him to read with her, to kneel with her, and hear her pray? Was it not possible that he might have done so? Well, those first days were not so long gone by. Was it not just possible that he might join her now? Alas for Ruth, though the days of her marriage life had been so few, she could look back upon them and see inconsistencies in word and manner and action, which went far toward sealing her lips. Not that they should, but is it not the painful experience of each one of us that they so often do, if Ruth had but commenced right? It is so hard to make a beginning in the middle of a life. Besides, there had been many words spoken by Judge Burnham, which would serve to make it harder for him to yield to any innovations. If she had but beguiled him before these words were spoken, then, indeed, it is possible that some of them, at least, should never have been uttered. Only a few weeks a wife, and for how many of her husband's sins, was she already in a measure responsible. Then the girls were a source of pain to Ruth's conscience, not that they had not learned well her first lessons. It surprised, at times it almost alarmed her, to see with what eagerness they caught at the ribbons and ruffles, and all the outside adornments of life. They were entirely willing to give these, each and all, important place in their thoughts. She had given them intoxicating glimpses of the world of fashion, before their heads or hearts were poised enough not to be overbalanced. They had caught at the glimpse and made a fairyland of beauty out of it, and had resolved with all their young, strong might to belong to that fairyland, and they looked up to and reverenced Ruth, as the queen who had the power of opening these enchanted doors to them. You are to remember that, though backward, they were by no means brainless, having been kept in such marked seclusion all their lives, until the sudden opening of the outer doors upon them, and the sudden flinging them into the very midst of the world of what to wear and how to make it. Hearing little else during these first bewildering days, then the questions concerning this shade or that tint, and the comparative merits of ruffles or plates, and the comparative qualities of silks and velvets, and the absolute necessity of perfect fitting boots and gloves and hats, what wonder that they jumped to the conclusion that these things were the marks of power in the world, and were second in importance to nothing. Having plunged into her work with the same energy which characterized all Ruth's movements, how was she now to teach the lesson that these things were absolutely as nothings compared with a hundred other questions having to do with their lives? She worked at this problem and saw no more how to do it than she saw how to take back the first few weeks of married life and personal influence over her husband and live them over again. There was no solace in trying to talk her difficulties over with Susan, because she, while intensely sympathetic in regard to everyday matters, was gravely silent when Ruth wondered why the girls were so suddenly absorbed in the trivialities of life to the exclusion of more important things, and Ruth felt that her sister recognized her share in the matter and deplored it. About her husband she chose to be entirely silent herself. If Pride had not kept her so, the sense of wifely vows would have sealed her lips. At least she had high and sacred ideas of marriage vows. Alas for Ruth, there were other disquieting elements. She realized her husband's influence on herself. Try as she would, resolve as she might. Steadily she slipped away from her former moorings. Little things, so-called, were the occasions of the lapses, but they were not little in their effect on her spiritual life. How is it possible that you can desire to go to that stuffy little room and meet a dozen illiterate men and women? Or is it a mistaken sense of duty which impels you? This was her husband's question regarding the suggestion of Ruth that they go to the weekly prayer meeting. His tone was not unkind, but there was just a touch of railery in it which was at all times harder for Ruth to bear than positive coldness. You must be content to tolerate my tastes, she said, since you cannot sympathize with them. Endurance is the most that I can expect. He laughed good-naturedly. Now, Ruth, dear, don't be cross. I haven't the least idea of being so, and I propose to humor your whims to the last degree. I will even escort you to that most uninviting room and call for you again, enduring meantime with what grace I can, the sorrows of my country's solitude. What more can you expect? But in return for such magnanimity, you might enlighten my curiosity. Why do you go? How can I help being curious? In town now it was different. While I might even there question your choice of entertainments, at least you met people of culture with whom you had certain ideas in common. But really and truly, my dear wife, I am at home in this region of country, so far as knowledge of the mental caliber of the people is concerned, and I assure you you will look in vain for a man or woman of brains. Outside of the minister, who is well enough, I suppose, though he is a perfect bore to me, there is a general and most alarming paucity of ideas, besides which there is no gas in the church, you know, and kerosene lamps are fearful at their best, and these, I judge, are at their worst. So, taking the subject in all its bearings, I think I am justified in asking what can be your motive. Is it any wonder that there were tears in Ruth's eyes as she turned them toward her husband? How to explain to one who would not understand the meaning of her terms why she sought the little country prayer meeting? Judge Burnham, she said, speaking slowly and trying to choose words with care, is it unknown to you that I profess to expect to meet there with the Lord Jesus Christ? Oh, that indeed, he said, and the lightness of his tone so jarred on her that she shivered. I believe there is an article in your creed. I don't discredit it in its intellectual and spiritual sense, but what does it prove? I suppose you meet him equally in this room, and I suppose the surroundings of this room are as conducive to communication with the unseen presence as are those of that forlorn little square box of a church. Isn't that the most doleful building for a church that it was ever your misery to see? It is abominably ventilated. For that matter, churches nearly always are. I wonder if there is anything in church creeds that conscientiously holds people from observing the laws of health and comfort. I don't believe there is an opera house in the United States that would be tolerated for a season if the question of light and heat and ventilation had been ignored in it as entirely as they are in churches. What was there to be said to such as he? Perhaps Ruth said the best thing under the circumstances. Well, come, don't let us discuss the subject further. There is the bell. Please take me down to the poor little church, for I really want to go. Certainly, he said, rising promptly and making ready with a good-natured air. He attended her to the very door and was on its threshold in waiting when the hour of prayer was over and was gracious and attentive in the extreme during the rest of the evening, making no allusion to the prayer meeting after the first few mischievous and pointed questions as to the exercises, questions which tried Ruth's nerves to the utmost for the reason that the little meeting had been so utterly devoid of anything like life and earnestness that it was a trial rather than a help to her. Conversations not unlike these were common on prayer meeting evening, always conducted on Judge Burnham's part in the most gracious spirit, ending by accompanying her to the church door. She ceased to ask him to enter for the reason that she was not sure but it would be a positive injury to him to do so. One Wednesday evening he followed her to the parlor with the petition. Now, wifey, I have been most patiently good every meeting evening, since I had you all to myself, having given you up, if not willingly, at least uncomplainingly, to the companionship of those who are neither elevating nor inspiring. Now it is your turn to show yourself unselfish. I am a victim to one of my old-fashioned headaches tonight and want you to take care of me. To which proposition Ruth instantly agreed, the paying of conscience which she felt being not on account of the wife's obvious duty to care for a sick husband, but because of the instant throb of relief of which she was conscious in having a legitimate reason for escaping the prayer meeting. It was too painfully apparent, even to her own heart, that she had not enjoyed the hour of religious communion, that she had sighed inwardly when the door closed after her retreating husband, and she had gone back eagerly to his companionship directly after the hour of separation was over. It transpired that, on this occasion, his headache was not so severe, but that it admitted of his being entertained by his wife's voice reading aloud, and he was presently so far recovered as to sit up and join in her reading, giving her a lesson in the true rendering of Shakespeare which was most enjoyable to both. On the following Wednesday there was a concert of unusual interest in the city, and Ruth obeyed her husband's summons by telegraph to come down on the six o'clock train and attend. Of course it would not do to have him wait in the city for her and disappoint him. Another Wednesday and she went again to the little meeting, but it had in the interim grown more distasteful to her, and indeed there was this excuse for poor Ruth that the meeting was one of the dullest of its kind. There were no outside influences helping her. It was a matter of hard duty between her and her conscience. Perhaps when we consider that human nature is what it is, we should not think it strange that six weeks after the concert found Ruth accepting an invitation to a select party in town, forgetting utterly until in her estimation the acceptance was beyond recall that it was Wednesday evening. When she remembered it, she told her long-suffering conscience somewhat roughly that wives certainly had duties which they owed to their husbands. I have given you now only a specimen out of many influences which slowly and surely drew Ruth downstream. Susan looking on, feeling for the present powerless, except as that ever present resource, prayer, was left her, felt oftener perhaps than any other command, the force of that one sentence. Thou shalt have no other gods before me. Yet was not Ruth Burnham happy? Perhaps she had never, in her most discontented hours, been further from happiness. Her conscience was too enlightened and had in the last two years been too well cultivated for her not to know that she was going contrary very often to her former ideas of right. Too surely she felt that her husband's views, her husband's tastes, her husband's plans of life were at variance with hers. It was all very well to talk about his yielding and being led. He could yield to the inevitable, and there is a way of appearing to yield gracefully too, which develops itself as only a master stroke to the end that one may gain one's own way. This method Judge Burnham understood in all its details. His wife early in their married life began to realize it. She began to understand that he was, in a quiet, persistent way, actually jealous of the demands which her religion made upon her time in heart. It was not that he deliberately meant to overthrow this power which held her. Rather, he sought in a patient way to undermine it. Perhaps if Ruth had realized this, she might have been more on her guard. But Satan had succeeded in blinding her eyes by that most specious of all reasonings that she must, by her concession to his tastes and plans, win him over to her ways of thinking. In other words, she must, by doing wrong, convince him of the beauty that there was in a consistent Christian life and win him to the right way. In matters pertaining to this life, Ruth's slip would have curled and scorn over such logic. Why was it that she could not see plainly the ground whereon she trod? Is there, then, no rest in the Christian life? Is the promise come unto me and I will give you rest, utterly void and worthless? Has not God called his children to peace? Is there no peace which passeth understanding, such as the world can neither give nor take away? Why did not Ruth Burnham, with her educated mind and clear brain, ponder these things and determine whether, when she told herself that, of course, one must expect conflict and heart wars in this life, she was not there by making the eternal God false to his covenants? What was the trouble? Why the same thing which comes in so continually with its weary distractions, a divided heart? Whosoever, therefore, will be a friend of the world, is an enemy of God. That old solemn truth remains to-day, after eighteen hundred years of experience, a truth which many a world-tossed soul has proved, and Ruth Burnham had need to learn that it matters not whether the world be represented by a general glitter or by a loving husband, so that the object of special choice was placed before him, solemn effect must follow. Chapter 27 The Baptism of Suffering In the course of time it became to Susan Erskine, who was watching with eager interest the story of her sister's life, a question of painful moment as to how the watchful Christ would come to the rescue of his straying sheep. For, as the days passed, it grew most painfully apparent that Ruth was straying. She did not gain in the least. This being the case, it is, of course, equivalent to saying that she lost. Steadily her husband proved the fact that his was the stronger nature, and that he was leading not being led. Yet his wife did not get entirely out of the way, not far enough out indeed to claim the few pitiful returns that the world has for service. She stayed always in that wretched middle state, not belonging to the world fully, nor yet fully to Christ, hence continuous soreness of heart developing alternately in gloom and irritability. There came at last a messenger to her home and heart, a little, tender, helpless one, just helpless enough and clinging enough to gather all the tendrils of the heart around and bind them closely. How that baby was loved! There have been babies loved before, many a heart has bowed before the shrine of such an idol. But perhaps never baby, from grandfather down to the little hired nurse, whose duty it was in the course of time to keep said baby amused, had such patient, persistent, willing slaves as had this young heir of the house of Burnham. As for Ruth, she found that she had never even dreamed of the depth of mother love. A sort of general interest in healthy, cleanly, well-dressed children had been one of her pastimes. She had imagined herself somewhat fond of certain types of childhood, while aware that she shrink in horror from certain other types. But this new, strange rush of emotions which filled her heart almost to bursting was an experience of which she had had no conception. From that hour those who watched Ruth anxiously to see whether the sweet young life which was a part of herself would win her back to her covenant boughs, saw with ever deepening pain that this newborn soul was only another and a stronger idol. With all the fierceness of her strong nature, with all the unrest of her dissatisfied heart, did the mother bow before this tiny soul and bring it worship. She discovered at last that self-sacrifice was easy, that sleepless nights and restless days and the pressure of many cares and responsibilities were as nothing provided baby's comfort demanded any or all of these. Now she withdrew entirely from the prayer meetings and ceased her fitful attempts at being identified with the Sabbath school. She was even most rare in her attendance on the regular Sabbath service. Did not baby require a mother's care? This was her trust, God given surely if anything ever was, and therefore she was to consider it as a work from Him. There is no error so fatal as a half-truth. To be sure, this theory was not carried out in all respects. The mother found time for social life. She was seen frequently at concerts and lectures and entertainments of various sorts, but this, she said, was a duty she owed to her husband. And it really seemed as though there were no voice left in her heart to remind her that the duties she owed to Christ were being neglected. And Susan, watching and waiting, began to ask her heart half fearfully, how will he speak to her next? That he would speak to her and that effectually she fully believed, for Ruth was surely one of his own. How strange that she would wander and make it necessary for the shepherd to seek her with bleeding feet over the mountains, wild and bare, instead of resting securely and sweetly within the fold. Meantime the domestic machinery of the Burnham household worked more smoothly than it is always want to do under the peculiar family relations. Ruth, whatever her faults, was fully alive to the special cause of comfort in her household. She never ceased to realize that one of the greatest blessings of her lot in life was the sudden descent upon her of a sister. Such a faithful, thoughtful, self-sacrificing sister, one who really seemed to be as wise as a serpent and as harmless as a dove. Even Ruth, though she had an idea that she fully appreciated her, did not see the extent of her influence over those untutored girls. Daily her power over them increased. The development in them mentally was something of which their father was unceasingly proud. Not the less perhaps did it give him satisfaction because there was coupled with it a development of refinement of tone and manner, a growing sense of the fitness of things, and an evident and hearty relish for the advantages which his wealth was able to afford them. Over one thing Susan pondered and prayed, and watched with no little anxiety. The girls were willing to be her pupils in any other study, save that of personal religion. They were in a degree interested in Bible study, they by no means shrank from it, they respected her views, they talked freely with her as to creeds and doctrines, but when it came to pressing their personal need of Christ as a savior from sin, they were strangely apathetic. Had they inherited their father's distaste for all the personalities of religion, Susan questioned, or had their first delicious glimpse of this new world, given under the new mother's tutelage, so stamped their ambitions that they had no room for deeper thoughts. From this last solution she shrank, it made such an awfully solemn matter of personal responsibility. Yet when she saw the almost reverence in which they held this new mother's views of whatever pertained to outside life, she could not but feel that there had been stamped upon their hearts the belief that she who had reigned so long in the fashionable world knew all about the important things and had shown them what they were. At least Susan felt sure that, could Ruth have realized the influences she possessed over the unformed minds of her two daughters, she would have shrunken from using it for trivialities. As for Ruth, the girls had become secondary matters to her. She had carried her point, she had proved that dress and attention to the many refinements of life would make a vast difference in these two. She had shown their father that it was through sheer neglect that they grew to be the painful trials which they were. She had proved to him that her course was the right one. There was no skeleton in their country home now to be avoided painfully. The girls were not perfect in deportment, it is true, but so rapid had been their advancement in certain ways, and so skillful was the brain which planned their outward adornings, that they might safely endure introductions as Judge Burnham's daughters in any circle where it was desirable to present them. Ruth felt, watching them, that even the famous criminal lawyer himself would never have recognized in them the two distressing specimens which he had characterized as discarded American help. She had shown her husband also that country life was not only indurable, but in many respects desirable. Indeed, so satisfied had he become with his lovely royal home, that, when it was announced as important for baby's health that the entire season should be spent there, he offered no objection and agreed with alacrity to Ruth's plan that Susan should take the girls for a peep at life at Long Branch and leave them to the solitude of home. Very well, he had said, provided you will on their return, leave Susan in charge of his lordship and run away with me to the mountains for a few days. And Ruth had laughed and shrugged her handsome shoulders and exclaimed over the folly of trying to coax a mother from her six-month-old baby for any mountains in the world. And then she had looked proudly over toward the lace-curtained crib and rejoiced in the fact that the hero sleeping there had power enough to hold father as well as mother a meek worshiper at his shrine. For, if Judge Burnham really was an idolater, his only son was the supreme idol in his inmost heart. So the summer plans were carried out. Ruth serenely discussed seaside outfits and decided with the tone of one who realized that her word was law as to whether Minta would look better in a salmon-colored evening dress and whether Seraph was too young for a satin-trimmed one. Long ago Susan, apparently without thought on the subject, had started the habit of softening the objectionable name into this euphonious one. And Ruth remarked to her husband that perhaps time would develop the fact that there was almost a prophecy in the name if Seraph's voice continued to develop and strengthen sweetness under culture. On the whole there was serene satisfaction in the survey of her handiwork where these girls were concerned. They bade fair to do justice to her discernment and afford food for pride. Still, as I said, they were secondary. So that they were always well dressed and sat properly at table and entered a room properly and bowed gracefully to her collars and treated her with unfailing respect, she was at rest concerning them. Almost she had so troddened her conscience under foot that in these days had she really very little trouble in the thought that her best for them had ignored the best which life had for any soul. Susan packed and arranged and listened to her numerous directions and went off to take her first summering away from cares which of one sort or another had held her for a lifetime, went with a shade of anxiety on her face which was not for herself, nor yet because of her responsibility in regard to these two unfledged worldlings but for the Christian mother hovering over the lace-curtained crib in the rose-hued nursery, and her heart went murmuring, how will he speak to her next? Not many days after the next call of the shepherd came. You are prepared to hear what it was. That little sheltered, watched-over baby fell sick. Not very sick, not so but that the doctor went and came with a cheery air and told the anxious mother that they would have their darling as churk is ever in a day or two, and Judge Burnham believed him and laughed at the mother's dreary face and made light of her fears. But poor Ruth did not believe him and went about her mother cares and hung over her sick darling with an ever-increasing, deadening weight at her heart. He was not the family physician of the Erskins, Dr. Mitchell. Judge Burnham didn't believe in him, so the coming and going doctor was the one associated with the dark days wherein they had waited and watched over Ruth's father. Whether it was that association or whatever it was, Ruth shrank a little from Dr. Bacon and was not able to give him her full confidence. Dark days were these and they dragged their slow lengths along and brought regularly the longer and darker nights, for it is at night that we hang most hopelessly over our sick, and the silence and quietness of the home grew oppressive to Ruth. She wished for Susan, she would gladly have had the girls coming and going, yet it seemed foolish to send for them. There was a skillful nurse, and there were neighbors who, though they had been almost ignored by the fine family at the hill, yet directly they heard that there was sickness, came and went with their thoughtful offers of assistance. Why, even Mrs. Ferris, with her loud voice and her uncouth ways, came and was welcomed by Ruth because of the humble work which she did in the kitchen that tended to baby's comfort. And still the doctor came and went with his story that the baby would be all right in a few days, but the days of mending did not come, and the shadow deepened and darkened, though as yet it seemed to be seen only by the mother's heart. And in that heart a war was being waged, which in fierceness and length of conflict so far transcended all Ruth's other struggles with life as to make them pale into nothingness before her. And the struggle was such that no human heart could intermedal, for it was between Ruth and God. She realized in those days that she had actually had many a struggle with the great God before without recognizing it as such or at least calling it by its right name. At first there was wild fierce rebellion. She clung to her baby, held him indeed so fiercely that he wailed feebly and looked up into her face almost in terror, and she cried out that she could not, indeed, would not give him up, no, not even to the giver. And the little face grew daily more wasted, and the little hands more feeble, and the moments of wakeful recognition shorter, and the hours of half-stuper longer, and the doctor grew less cheery when he came, and Judge Burnham grew restless and nervous, went later every day to town and returned earlier, and was in his silent, restrained yet passionate way as rebellious as his wife. Chapter 28 The Oil of Joy Even yet the doctor had said no word of discouragement, and Judge Burnham had, though he had ceased laughing at Ruth's fears, sharply controverted them, and she, she felt she would have stricken down anyone who had breathed a word of danger. It was fearful enough to feel it, let no one dare to speak it. Once when Judge Burnham filled with pity for her loneliness during the hours when he was obliged to be away, suggested recalling the travelers, she turned toward him fiercely. Why, she asked him, what do you mean? Are you keeping something from me? Does the doctor tell you what he does not me? Judge Burnham, I will never forgive you if you deceive me. Why, no, he said. Ruth, no, why will you be so unreasonable? The doctor says he sees no ground as yet for special anxiety. He says to me just what he says to you. No one thinks of deception. I only felt that it would be less lonely with the girls at home, and Susan would be a comfort. Comfort, she said, still speaking sharply. Why have I need of comfort? I have my baby, and I can take care of him. And as for loneliness, the house is full from morning till night. One would think people never heard of a sick child before. They are always sick when teething. Why should we be so unreasonably frightened? And Judge Burnham turned away sighing, patient with his wife, for he saw that she was too wildly frightened to talk or act like a reasonable being. Among all the comers and goers, there was one who did not come. That was Mrs. Judge Erskine. Not that she would not have willingly been there both day and night, but poor Ruth, who had never recovered in the least from her early discomfort concerning the woman, in this time of her frenzy felt the dislike increasing to almost hatred. She tortured herself at times with imagining the exclamations that the odious grandmother would make over the change in her darling, until at last it grew to be almost an insanity to her. And she fiercely ordered that no word of any sort should be taken to her home. Father shall not be needlessly troubled, was outward reason enough, for Judge Erskine was not strong this season. So, beyond the knowledge that the child was not very well, was teething, and kept Ruth closely at home, the two people left in the old Erskine homestead together knew nothing. Slowly yet surely the shepherd was reaching after his stray sheep. By degrees her mood and her prayers changed. They lost their fierceness, but not one witt of their willpower. She began to feel herself in the hands of God. She gave up her defiance and came to him as a suppliant. She sat alone in the shadows of a long night of watching, and looked over her life, and saw plainly her mistakes, her wanderings, her sins. Then she fell on her knees beside that crib, one watching eye and listening ear intent on every change of expression or breathing in the darling, and then and there she proceeded to make terms with God. If he would only give her back her darling, her boy, she would live, oh, such a different life, a life of entire consecration, all she had and was and hoped to be, her husband, her baby, everything should be consecrated and held second to his love. Long she knelt there praying, but no answering voice spoke peace to her heart, and the struggle, though changed in its form, went on and on by degrees, and Ruth with her long preoccupied heart was very slow to learn the lesson. She was made to understand that God had never promised to compromise with his own, never promised to hear a prayer which began within if. Entire consecration meant all the ifs thrown down at the feet of the Lord for him to control as he would. Solemnly his voice spoke to her heart, spoke as plainly as though the sound of it had echoed in the silent room, and if I take your darling into my arms of infinite love, and shield him for you in heaven, what then? And Ruth realized with a shudder that then her heart said it would only be infinite mercy that could keep her from hating God. But when she realized this solemn, this awful truth, which proved rebellion in the heart that had longed professed allegiance, God be thanked that she did not get up from her kneeling and go away again with the burden. She knelt still, and with the solemn light of the all-seeing eye flashing down into her soul, she confessed it all. Her rebellion, her selfish determination to hold her treasure, whether God would or not, her selfish desire to compromise, her cowardly, pitiful subterfuge of promising him that which was already his by right, if he would submit to her plans. The long, sad, sinful story was laid bare before him, and then her torn heart said, Oh Christ, I cannot help it. I hold to my darling, and I cannot give him up, even when I would. Oh, Thou Savior of human souls, even in their sinfulness, what shall I do? Did ever such heart-cry go up to the Savior of souls in vain? You need not me to tell you that before the dawn of the coming morning filled the room, a voice of power had spoken peace, the plans and the subterfuges and the rebellings, and the ifs were all gone, as Thou wilt was the only voice left in that thoroughly bared and bleeding heart. It was even then that the shadow fell the darkest, when the doctor came next morning for the first time he shook his head. Things do not look so hopeful as they did here, he said, and Judge Burnham turning quickly toward his wife, looking to see her faint or lose her reason he hardly knew which phase of despair to expect, saw the pale changed face. Is there no hope, doctor? And her voice, though low, was certainly calmer than it had been for days. Well, said the doctor, relieved at her method of receiving his warning, I never like to say that. While there is life there is hope, you know, but the fact is I am disappointed in the turn that the trouble has taken. I am a good deal afraid of results. Had Ruth spoken her thoughts she would have said, I have been awfully afraid of results for a week, but a voice of greater power than yours has spoken to me now. It rests with him, not you, and I think he wants my darling. What she did say was, ought the girls to be summoned? Well, said Dr. Bacon regarding her curiously, if it is important that they should be here, I think I should telegraph. Then, presuming upon long acquaintance with Judge Burnham, he said as they passed down the hall together, upon my word, Burnham, you have the most unaccountable wife in the world. Comments are unnecessary, doctor, Judge Burnham said in his haughtiest tones, and the next instant the front door closed with a bang, and the father had shut himself and his pain into the little room at the end of the hall. What was he to do? Which way turn? How live? He had never until this moment had other than a passing anxiety. Now the whole crushing weight of the coming blow seemed to fall on him, and he had not the force of habit nor the knowledge of past experiences to drive him to his knees for a refuge. Instead his fierce heart raved. If Ruth had been in danger of hating God, he felt, yes, actually realized, that his heart was filled at this moment with a fierce and bitter hatred. Can you imagine what the trials of that day were to Ruth? Have you any knowledge of what a shock it is to a torn and bleeding heart, which yet feels that the Almighty Father, the everlasting Savior, holds her and her treasure in the hollow of his hand, to come in contact with one who fiercely, blasphemously tramples on that trust? In this moment of supreme pain it was given to Ruth's conscience to remember that she had chosen for her closest friend, one who made no profession of loyalty to her redeemer, the lover of her child. Why should she expect to rest on him now? This day, like all the other dark ones, drew toward its closing. The doctor watched and waited for and dispatched for did not come, and the night drew about them, and so it happened that, save the nurse and the household servants, the father and mother were alone with their baby. Early in the afternoon a sudden remembrance had come to Ruth, and she had turned from the crib long enough to say, let father know, and the messenger had gone, but even from him there was no response. So they watched and waited. Judge Burnham, in feverish madness of anxiety, hasted the floor and alternately raged at the absent doctor for not coming, and then wished he might never look upon his face again. Ruth stayed on her knees beside that crib, from which for hours she had not moved, and her lips continually formed that inaudible prayer, thy will be done. And really and truly the awful bitterness of the agony was gone out of her heart. There was a sound of wheels crunching the gravel drive, a bustle outside, somebody had come. Ruth glanced up, half fearfully. What was coming to break the solemn holiness of the hour? Not the doctor, surely, was such a bustle of noise. The door opened quickly, and they pressed in. Her father, a tall stranger just beside him, and Mrs. Judge Erskine. She pushed past them both. Dear heart, she said, bending down to the crib, but her words were for Ruth, not the baby. We just got the word. I brought Dr. Permily. I couldn't help it, child. I've seen him do such wonderful things. Your pa don't believe in his medicines, little bits of pills, you know. And he said your husband didn't, but la, what difference does that make? Men never do. They believe in getting them well, though. Come here, Dr. Permily. His pulse is real strong, and he looks to me as though he might. And here Mrs. Erskine paused for breath. She had been in the meantime, throwing off her wraps, touching the baby's hand with skillful fingers, touching the hot head, and rising at last to motion the doctor forward. The tall stranger. He came hesitatingly, looking toward the father, but Judge Burnham codded his name. Anything, doctor, anything, he said, hoarsely. Dr. Bacon has proven himself an idiot. It is too late now, but in heaven's name do something. Did it ever occur to you as strange that such men as Judge Burnham, in their hours of great mental pain, are very apt to call for blessings in heaven's name? It was a strange hour. Ruth, who had been hushed into silence and solemnity by the presence of the death angel, found herself world into the very midst of the struggle for life. Dr. Permily declared with Mrs. Erskine that there was still a good deal of strength, and he hoped. And then he stopped talking and went to work, quietly, skillfully, without commotion of any sort, yet issuing his orders with such swiftness and skill that mother and nurse, especially the former, were set to work to do instead of think. Especially was Mrs. Erskine alert, seeming to know with a sort of instinct, such as is noticeable in nurses who have a special calling for their work, what the doctor wanted done, and how to do it. Far into the night they obeyed and watched. At last the doctor rose up from a careful examination of his little patient. I believe, he said, speaking quietly, I believe there has been a change in the symptoms in the past two hours. If I mistake not the crisis is past. I think your little one will recover. At the sound of these words Judge Burnham strode over from his station at the head of the crib, and grasping the doctor's hand, is said to speak words, but his voice choked, and the self-possessed, polished gentleman lost every vestige of control and broke into a passion of tears. He is in God's hands, my friend, the new doctor said gently. He will do right, and I think he has given the little life back to you. As for Ruth, she turned one look away from her baby's face toward the doctors, and he said as he went out from the home, I declare that woman's eyes paid me tonight. There was little talk and much watching during the rest of the night and the day that followed. Mrs. Erskine kept her post, keeping up that sort of alert doing which the skillful nurse understands so well, and which thrills the heart of the watcher with eager hope. One of Judge Burnham's first morning duties was to send a curt and courteous note, if both terms are admissible, to Dr. Bacon asking for his bill. Then his own carriage waited at the train for the coming of Dr. Parmalie. Now look here, child, said Mrs. Erskine, as toward the midnight of the following night, Ruth turned for a moment from the crib and pressed her hand to her eyes. You are just to go to bed and get a night's sleep. We'll have you on our hands if you don't, as sure as the world, and that will be a nice mess for baby, bless his heart. Judge Burnham, you just take her and put her to bed. I'm going to sit by my little boy here the whole blessed night. I won't even wink, and when I undertake to watch, why I watch, and know how, though I do say it that shouldn't. So, through much protesting from Ruth and overruling by her father and husband, she was carried off to the room adjoining. In the gray dawn of another morning, she, having slept for four hours the sleep of utter exhaustion, started with a sudden, affrighted waking, wherein all the agony of the past days flashed over her, and, without waiting to remember the after scene of joy, rushed to her nursery. There was the little crib with its sleeping treasure. There on the couch lay the tired nurse sleeping quietly. There, at the crib's side, sat Mrs. Erskine, keeping her faithful, tireless vigil. She looked up with a reassuring smile as Ruth came in. What did you wake up for? He's as nice as a robin in a nest of down. He breathes just as easy, and the skin feels moist and natural. See how his little hair curls with the dampness? Anybody can see with half an eye that he is a great deal better. He'll get on now real fast, Dr. Parmoli says so. I never did see the like of them little pills. Ain't bigger than pinheads, neither. Ruth bent low over the crib. The bounding pulse was quiet and steady at last. The breath came in slow, soft respirations, with no horrible gratings. The beautiful little hand, resting on the pillow, was doubled up as in the grace in which he held it when in health. Suddenly there rushed over Ruth all the probabilities of that solemn night and all the blessings of this hour. After she had given him up utterly to God, after she had said, Though he slay me, yet will I trust. After she had said, I am thine forever, Lord, entirely, though with empty arms, then he had given her back her trust, offered her one more chance to train the soul for him. With the thought came also the remembrance of the door through which he had opened this blessed paradise of hope, and she turned suddenly and, burying her head in Mrs. Erskine's ample laugh, cried out. Oh mother, mother, God bless you forever. And the first tears that her tired eyes had felt for a week fell thick and fast. Land alive, said Mrs. Judge Erskine. Poor dear heart, you are all tuckered out. You just go right straight back to bed. I won't turn my eyes away from him, and he's all right anyhow. I know the signs. Bless your heart, I nursed Mrs. Stevens' baby only last week, and this very Dr. Permily was there, and I saw what them little pills and powders could do when the Lord chose to use them. You just go back, dearie, this minute. You can sleep all day as well as not. Grandma will take care of her blessed little darling, so she will. And Ruth went back to the bedside and to her knees, and among the sentences of her prayer that morning was this, from a full heart. Oh God, I thank thee that, despite all the blindness and rebellion of my heart, thou didst send to me a mother. Thou hast given me the oil of joy for mourning and the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness.