“Unless I am mistaken, Judge Burnham would like to give Ruth a decided change.”
“Land alive!” said Mrs. Erskine, taking in his meaning, after a little, “I declare, now you speak of it, I shouldn’t wonder if he did.” Then she added, kindly, genuinely: “And I’m sure I hope it’s true; I tell you that child needs resting up.”
CHAPTER XVI.
SHADOWED JOYS.
ONE of the first experiences connected with Ruth’s new life was a surprise and a trial. She did not act in the matter as almost any other young lady would have done. Indeed, perhaps, you do not need to be told that it was not her nature to act as most others would in like circumstances. She kept the story an entire secret with her own heart. Not even her father suspected that matters were settled; perhaps, though, this last is to be accounted for by the fact that Judge Burnham went away, again on business, by the early train the morning after he had arranged for Ruth’s change of home and name, and did not return again for a week. During that week, as I say, Ruth hugged her new joy and kept her own counsel. Yet it was joy. Her heart was in this matter. Strangely enough it had been a surprise to her. She had understood Judge Burnham much less than others, looking on, had done, and so gradual and subtle had been the change in her own feeling from almost dislike to simple indifference, and from thence to quickened pulse and added interest in life at his approach, that she had not in the remotest sense realized the place which he held in her heart until his own words revealed it to her. That she liked him better than any other person, she began to know; but when she thought about it at all it seemed a most natural thing that she should. It was not saying a great deal, she told herself, for she really liked very few persons, and there had never been one so exceptionally kind and unselfish and patient. What should she do but like him? Sure enough! And yet, when he asked her to be his wife, it was as complete a surprise as human experiences could ever have for her. Desolate, afflicted, deserted, as she felt, it is no wonder that the revelation of another’s absorbed interest in her filled her heart.
As I say, then, she lived it alone for one delightful week. It was the afternoon of the day on which she expected Judge Burnham’s return, and she knew that his first step would be an interview with her father. She determined to be herself the bearer of the news to Susan. During this last week, whenever she thought of her sister, it had been a tender feeling of gratitude for all the quiet, unobtrusive help and kindness that she had shown since she first came into the family. Ruth determined to show that she reposed confidence in her, and for this purpose sought her room, ostensibly on some trivial errand, then lingered and looked at a book that lay open, face downward, as if to keep the place, on Susan’s little table. Susan herself was arranging her hair over at the dressing bureau. Ruth never forgot any of the details of this afternoon scene. She took up the little book and read the title, “The Rest of Faith.” It had a pleasant sound. Rest of any sort sounded pleasantly to Ruth. She saw that it was a religious book, and she dimly resolved that some other time, when she felt quieter, had less important plans to carry out, she would read this book, look more closely into this matter, and find, if she could, what it was that made the difference between Susan’s experience and her own. That there was a difference was so evident; and yet, without realizing it, Ruth’s happiness of the last few days was making her satisfied with her present attainments spiritually. No, not exactly satisfied, but willing to put the matter aside for a more convenient season.
“I have something to tell you that I think you will be interested to hear,” she said, at last, still turning the leaves of the little book, and feeling more embarrassed than she had supposed it possible for her to feel.