“I don’t think that would have been possible,” Ruth answered, her tone somewhat subdued, as it always was, by a realization of her father’s deeper wound. “But, I wish with all my heart, I saw a way to escape from some of this calling. There are hundreds, almost, yet to make, and some of them more formidable than any that we have attempted; and the list continues to swell every day.”
The father had no answer; he saw no way out. And yet a way was coming, swiftly—one which would help them both out of this dilemma, at least. It was the very next morning that Judge Erskine failed to appear at the breakfast-table and his wife brought word that he was most uncommon restless all night, and pretty fevery, and resisted all her suggestions to give him a good sweat, or to drink any boneset-tea, or even to soak his feet in mustard-water. Consequence was, he didn’t feel able to raise his head from his pillow, and wouldn’t so much as let her speak of any breakfast, though she did tell over several things to him, that she thought he might relish.
Ruth groaned inwardly, not so much at anxiety for her father—his sicknesses were slight affairs soon over, and his most sovereign remedy had hitherto been to be let alone. How, then, had he borne this fearful infliction of sympathy and fertile suggestion?
But the sickness, whatever it was, did not pass away, as others had done. Ruth visiting him, and seeing the fevered face and anxious eyes, felt a nameless dread, and entreated that Dr. Bacon might at once be summoned, being even more alarmed at the fact that her father immediately acquiesced. Dr. Bacon was slow in coming, being a man much sought after in his profession. But he was also unprecedentedly slow in leaving, making a call, the length of which amazed Ruth and at which she did not know whether to be alarmed or relieved. During its continuance Judge Burnham stopped to inquire as to some law papers, and also apparently to make a call, for he tarried after he found that he could not accomplish his original errand, and was in the hall, in the act of leaving, when the doctor came, with slow and thoughtful tread, down-stairs. That gentleman caught at his familiar face, as if it were a relief.
“Ah, good morning, Judge,” he said. “This is opportune. May I have a word with you?”
And then he unceremoniously pushed open the library door, and both gentlemen retired within, leaving Ruth perplexed, and perhaps a little annoyed. The door closed upon them. Dr. Bacon was not long in making known his thoughts:
“Judge, are you an intimate friend of this family?”
“Why,” said Judge Burnham, hesitating, and flushing a little over the question, “I hardly know whether I may claim exceeding intimacy; the Judge is not apt to have very intimate friends. Perhaps I come as near it as anybody. Yes, I think I may say I am considered a friend—by him, at least. Why, may I ask?”
“Because they need a friend—one who is not afraid of himself or his feelings, and can help them plan, and perhaps execute.”
“What on earth do you mean? Is the Judge so very sick?”