“Oh, as to that, there is nothing to do. I dare say I may express the gratitude which I feel for the help that she gave me, but I don’t even know whether I can bring myself to do that. I can’t get over the sense of strangeness and embarrassment. But weren’t those grand words that she quoted to-night? I declare such a truth as that ought to take us through anything! It lifts me out of myself for the time-being and I feel as though I could live my life patiently and earnestly. I’ll tell you, Judge, what I thought as I sat in that seat to-night and looked over at you. I wished with all my soul that you might be induced to look into this matter for yourself, and see the reasonableness of it all. Did you ever give it special attention, my friend? In fact, I know you didn’t, because a man of your discernment could have come to but one conclusion, had you thought closely about it.”
“That is a compliment to my discernment, and I appreciate it,” Judge Burnham said, with a faint attempt at a smile. “I am not sure that I ever gave the subject what you call ‘special attention.’ And yet I think I have a reasonable degree of respect for religion and the Bible. You have often heard me express my opinion of the literary merits of that book, I think.”
“Oh, yes,” said Judge Erskine, with a little sigh. “‘Literary merits!’ Yes, I know you respect the Bible and admire it, and all that sort of thing; but that is very different from living by it. I respected it myself for forty years. The thing is to stand ‘justified’ in God’s sight. Think of that! People like you and me, who have made mistakes all our lives—mistakes that seem past all rectifying—and yet, in God’s sight, they are as if they had not been, through the atoning blood! Isn’t that a glorious thought?”
“Mistakes are not sins, Judge,” his friend added, and he spoke the words somewhat haughtily. In his heart he added: “They are a couple of fanatics, he and his daughter. I don’t understand either of them.” In truth, he was staggered. It might do to attribute fanaticism, or undue exaltation of mood, to Miss Erskine, possibly; but he had known the cool-headed Judge long and well. Was it likely that anything which would not bear close and logical looking into could get possession of him to a degree that it had—even to a degree that was transforming his life?
CHAPTER VII.
ONE DROP OF OIL
NOW you know that some of you are anxious to hear all about that marriage which took place in the First Church, the next evening. You want to be told how the bride was dressed, and whether she had any bridesmaids, and whether Dr. Dennis appeared well, and how Grace Dennis was dressed, and how she acted, and who performed the ceremony, and whether it was a lengthy one, and every little detail of the whole matter; also, you are desirous of knowing how the “little gathering” that the Erskines gave, soon after, was managed—whether Mrs. Erskine became reconciled to the “black silk” and the “lace bow;” whether Susan proved to be yielding, or obstinate, and how Ruth bore up under the numerous petty embarrassments, which you plainly foresee the evening had in store for her. But, then, there are those discerning and sympathetic beings—the critics—standing all ready to pronounce on us, and say, that we are “prolix” and “commonplace” and “tedious;” that we spend too much time in telling about trivialities, and do not give the startling points fast enough, as if that were not exactly what we and they are doing all the time! Who lives exclamation points every day? There comes occasionally one into most lives (and assuredly Ruth Erskine believed that hers had come to her); but, for the most part, lives are made up of commas and interrogations and dashes. There is this comfort about professional critics—those that live behind the scenes know that when they are particularly hard on a book, one of two things is the case—either they have been touched in a sensitive spot by some of the characters delineated or opinions expressed, or else they have an attack of indigestion, and the first subject that comes under their dissecting-knives must bear the savage consequences. Very well, let us give them a touch of “trivialities.” The bride’s dress was a soft sheeny grey, just the sort of dress for enduring a long, westward-bound journey, and yet rich enough, and soft enough, and delicate enough to look appropriate in the church. As for Dr. Dennis. There is this satisfaction about a man’s dress, it is easy of description. When you have said it was black, and neat-fitting, what is there left to say? Some gentlemen look exceedingly well dressed, and some look ungainly; and every one of them may have on black clothes, that look to the uninitiated as though they were well-fitted. What makes the difference? What lady can tell?