Altogether, that evening stood out in Ruth Erskine’s memory, years afterward, as the most trying one of her life. There came days that were more serious in their results—days that left deeper scars—days of solemn sorrow, and bold, outspoken trouble. But for troubles, so petty that they irritated by their very smallness, while still they stung, this evening held foremost rank.
“I wonder,” she said, in inward irritation, as she watched Mrs. Erskine’s awkward transit across the room, on her father’s arm, and observed that her dress was too short for grace, and too low in the neck, and hung in swinging plaits in front—“I wonder if there are no dressmakers where they came from?” And then her lip curled in indignation with herself to think that such petty details should intrude upon her now. Another thing utterly dismayed her. She had thought so much about this evening, she had prayed so earnestly, she had almost expected to sail high above it, serene and safe, and do honor to the religion which she professed by the quietness of her surrender of home and happiness; for it truly seemed to her that she was surrendering both. But it was apparent to herself that she had failed, that she had dishonored her profession. And when this dreadful evening was finally over, she shut the door on the outer world with a groan, as she said, aloud and bitterly:
“Oh, I don’t know anything to prevent our home from being a place of perfect torment! Poor father! and poor me!”
If she could have heard Judge Burnham’s comment, made aloud also, in the privacy of his room, it might still have helped her.
“That girl has it in her power to make riot and ruin of this ill-assorted household, or to bring peace out of it all. I wonder which she will do?”
And yet, both Judge Burnham and Ruth Erskine were mistaken.