“Daughter, shall we try to go to prayer-meeting to-night?”
The first prayer-meeting since this invasion into their home! Ruth had not forgotten it; instead, she had been looking forward all day to that meeting, as a refuge for her storm-tossed soul. Without giving really definite thought to it, she yet felt that there, at least, would be help and comfort; and not once had it occurred to her that the new-comers must be invited to attend. She realized, now, with a throb of pain, that it was this sense of fleeing from their presence which had helped to give pleasantness to the thought of the meeting. Was it possible that “they” must be taken?
“Father, I can’t,” she said, turning and facing him with glowing face and defiant eyes. “I have tried to-day to help, and have been an awful failure. I just feel as though I could not endure it. No, I say, let us stay at home with our misery, and not parade it before a gaping world. No, I am not going to prayer-meeting to-night.”
Her father turned from her, and walked, without another word, to the library, whither, according to the new rules of the house, they went directly after tea, for prayer. Ruth could not help noticing that her father’s tall, handsome form stooped, as though he were bowed with suddenly-added years. The moment those words were spoken, she felt that she would have given worlds to have unsaid them; but to take back what has been said in haste and folly is oftentimes an impossible task. She chose the darkest corner of the library, and felt that, if she could have crouched in it, out of sight forever, it would have been happiness. Her father’s voice, as he read the psalm for the evening, was low and tremulous. He had by no means gotten used to these new duties—had not felt their comfort, nor recognized in them a help. As yet he was in the realm of hard duty. His prayer touched Ruth as no prayer had ever done before. It opened the fountains of tears. On rising from her knees, she turned quickly to the window, to hide her disturbed face, and to determine whether she should follow her father from the room, and apologizing for the hard, unhelpful words which she had spoken, say that, of course, they must go to prayer-meeting. He did not wait for her tardy resolution, but turned at once to his wife:
“Will you and Susan accompany me to our weekly meeting? I feel that we need all the help we can get, and that is one of the sources of supply.”
Susan answered promptly, and with a glad ring in her voice that he could not have failed to notice. She was so glad to hear that this was the evening for the meeting. She had been thinking about it to-day, and wondering whether it were, and whether she could go. As for the mother, she said, hesitatingly:
“Why, yes,” she supposed so. There was nothing to hinder, that she knew of. She was no great hand for going out evenings, though, to be sure, going out in a city, where the walks were good and the streets as light as day, was a different affair from blundering along in the dark, as she had been obliged to do. Susan always went to prayer-meeting; but she hadn’t never went in her life, as she knew of; but then, of course, if he wanted to go, she would go along.
It was not possible, apparently, for Mrs. Erskine to answer a question briefly. She was full of reminiscences. They went to prayer-meeting—“father and mother and daughter.” Ruth said this sentence over after they were all gone—said it as she listened to the sound of their retreating footsteps—her father, and all the mother she had ever known, and their daughter. She was left out! Her father had not given her opportunity to change her mind. He had simply said, as they passed out, “I am sorry, daughter, that you do not feel like accompanying us.” If he had but said, “Daughter, won’t you go?” she would have choked down the tears and answered, “Yes.” But she could not bring her pride, or her grief, to make this concession. She honestly did not know whether to call it pride or grief.
Bitterly sorry was she to miss the prayer-meeting. She began to feel that, even with those two present, it might have helped her. So sorry was she that, had she dared to traverse the streets alone, she would have made ready and followed. While she still stood, looking out drearily, too sad now even for tears, the bell sounded through the quiet house, and, giving little heed to it, she was presently startled by the advent of Judge Burnham.
“Thomas thought no one was in,” he said, coming toward her, after an instant’s surprised pause, “and I ventured to avail myself of your father’s cordial invitations, and come in to consult a book which he has, and I haven’t.”