“Ought the girls to be summoned?”
“Well,” said Dr. Bacon, regarding her curiously, “if it is important that they should be here, I think I should telegraph.”
Then, presuming upon long acquaintance with Judge Burnham, he said, as they passed down the hall together:
“Upon my word, Burnham, you have the most unaccountable wife in the world.”
“Comments are unnecessary, Doctor,” Judge Burnham said, in his haughtiest tones, and the next instant the front door closed with a bang, and the father had shut himself and his pain into the little room at the end of the hall. What was he to do? which way turn? how live? He had never until this moment had other than a passing anxiety. Now the whole crushing weight of the coming blow seemed to fall on him, and he had not the force of habit, nor the knowledge of past experiences, to drive him to his knees for a refuge. Instead, his fierce heart raved. If Ruth had been in danger of hating God, he felt, yes, actually realized, that his heart was filled at this moment with a fierce and bitter hatred. Can you imagine what the trials of that day were to Ruth? Have you any knowledge of what a shock it is to a torn and bleeding heart, which yet feels that the Almighty Father, the Everlasting Saviour, holds her and her treasure in the hollow of his hand, to come in contact with one who fiercely, blasphemously tramples on that trust? In this moment of supreme pain, it was given to Ruth’s conscience to remember that she had chosen for her closest friend one who made no profession of loyalty to her Redeemer—the Lover of her child. Why should she expect to rest on him now?
This day, like all the other dark ones, drew toward its closing; the Doctor watched and waited for, and dispatched for, did not come, and the night drew about them; and it so happened that, save the nurse and the household servants, the father and mother were alone with their baby. Early in the afternoon, a sudden remembrance had come to Ruth, and she had turned from the crib long enough to say, “Let father know.” And the messenger had gone, but even from him there was no response.
So they watched and waited. Judge Burnham, in feverish madness of anxiety, paced the floor, and alternately raged at the absent Doctor for not coming, and then wished he might never look upon his face again. Ruth staid on her knees beside that crib, from which for hours she had not moved, and her lips continually formed that inaudible prayer, “Thy will be done.” And really and truly the awful bitterness of the agony was gone out of her heart. There was a sound of wheels crunching the graveled drive—a bustle outside; somebody had come. Ruth glanced up, half fearfully. What was coming to break the solemn holiness of the hour? Not the Doctor, surely, with such bustle of noise. The door opened quickly, and they pressed in—her father, a tall stranger just beside him, and Mrs. Judge Erskine! She pushed past them both.
“Dear heart,” she said, bending down to the crib, but her words were for Ruth, not the baby. “We just got the word. I brought Dr. Parmelee; I couldn’t help it, child; I’ve seen him do such wonderful things. Your pa don’t believe in his medicines—little bits of pills, you know—and he said your husband didn’t but, la! what difference does that make? Men never do. They believe in getting ’em well, though. Come here, Dr. Parmelee. His pulse is real strong, and he looks to me as though he might—”
And here Mrs. Erskine paused for breath. She had been, in the meantime, throwing off her wraps, touching the baby’s hand with skillful fingers, touching the hot head, and rising at last to motion the Doctor forward—the tall stranger. He came hesitatingly, looking toward the father; but Judge Burnham caught at his name.
“Anything, Doctor—anything!” he said, hoarsely. “Dr. Bacon has proved himself an idiot. It is too late now; but, in heaven’s name, do something.”