THE last was but the beginning of many talks which those two sisters held together concerning the meaning of the promises which Christ had made to his children. During the time Ruth received and accepted some new ideas; but it must be admitted that it was her intellect which accepted them, rather than her heart. She acknowledged that the Lord had plainly said his grace was sufficient for them, and that, having been tempted, he was able to succor those who were tempted; and that there should no temptation take his children except such as they were able to bear, because the faithful God would provide a way of escape. All these, I say, she admitted; they were plainly written in his word and must mean what they said. Still she went on, being tempted and yielding to the temptation, struggling against the gloom and unrest of her lot—struggling fiercely against the providence which had come between her and the Father, whom she began to realize she had worshiped rather than loved—struggling, fighting, baffled, wounded, defeated—only to rise up and struggle afresh, all the while admitting with her clear brain-power that he said: “As thy day, so shall thy strength be.” Why did she not have the strength? She dimly questioned with herself, occasionally, the why; she even deemed herself ill-treated because none of the promised strength came to her; but she passed over the searching question of the Lord to his waiting suppliant: “Believe ye that I am able to do this?” Had the Lord Jesus Christ appeared to Ruth in bodily presence and asked her this question she realized afterward that she would have been obliged to answer: “Oh, no, I don’t. You say you are able, and you say you are willing, and I believe that the words are yours, and that you have all power in heaven and earth, and yet—and yet—I don’t believe that you will do it for me.” To such strange and unaccountable depths of absurdity does unbelief lead us!
At last there came a day when Susan and she could not talk calmly about these things or any other—could not talk at all—could only weep, and wait, and kneel and dumbly pray, and then wait again, while life and death struggled fiercely together for the victim up-stairs, and it seemed that death would be the victor. Many days passed, and the dead-weight of enforced endurance still held Ruth a prisoner, and still she rebelled against the providence that had hemmed her in and shut her away from her father; still she rebelled at the thought of the nurse who bent over him in tireless watch, long before all attempts at securing outside help had been abandoned, Dr. Bacon having expressed himself more than satisfied.
“Never a better nurse took hold of a case,” he said, emphatically, to Ruth. “If your father recovers, and I can not help feeling hopeful, he will owe it more to her care than to any other human effort. She seems to know by instinct what and when and how, and I believe the woman never sleeps at all. She is just as alert and active and determined to-day as she was the first hour she went into his room, and the vigil has been long and sharp. I tell you what, Miss Ruth, you begin to understand, don’t you what this woman was raised up for? She was planned for just such a time as this. No money would have bought such nursing, and it has been a case in which nursing was two-thirds of it. She ought to be a professional nurse this minute. Shall I find a place for her when her services are not needed here in that capacity any longer? She could command grand wages.”
The well-meaning doctor had essayed to bring a smile to Ruth’s wan face; but it was made evident to him that he understood disease better than he did human nature—at least the sort of human nature of which she was composed. She drew herself up proudly, and her tone was unusually and unnecessarily haughty as she said:
“You forget, Dr. Bacon, that you are speaking of Mrs. Erskine.”
Then the doctor shrugged his shoulders, and, with a half-muttered “I beg pardon,” turned away.
“More of an iceberg than ever,” he muttered, a little louder, as he went down the hall. “I don’t know what Burnham is about, I am sure. I hope it is the other one he means.”
And then he slammed the door a little. He had left Ruth in a rage with him and with events and with her own heart. She resented his familiarity with the name which that woman bore, and she resented the fact that she bore the name. She was bitterly jealous of Mrs. Erskine’s position by that sick-bed. She did not believe in her nursing abilities. She knew she was fussy and officious and ignorant, three things that were horrible in a nurse. She knew her father must be a daily sufferer because of this. She by no means saw “what that woman was raised up for,” or why she should have been permitted to come in contact with her. Every day she chafed more under it, and the process made her grow hard and cold and silent to the woman’s daughter. So by degrees the burden grew heavier, and Susan, feeling that no word of hers could help, maintained at last a tender, patient silence, that to Ruth’s sore, angered heart was in itself almost an added sting.