It is not my purpose to linger over this part of Ruth Erskine’s history. The time has come to go on to other scenes. But in this chapter I want to bridge the way, by a word or two of explanation, so that you may the better understand Ruth’s mood, and the governing principle of her actions, in the days that followed.
By degrees she came to a quieter state of mind—not, however, until the formalities of the new relation were arranged, and Judge Burnham had become practically almost one of the family. She grew to realizing that it was a strange, perhaps an unaccountable thing that she, a Christian, should have chosen for her life-long friend and hourly companion one who was really hardly a believer in the Christ to whom she had given herself. She grew to feeling that if this thought had come first, before that promise was made, perhaps she ought to have made a different answer. But I shall have to confess that she drew in with this thought a long breath of relief as she told herself it was settled now. There was no escape from promises as solemn as those which had passed between them; that such covenants were, doubtless, in God’s sight, as sacred as the marriage relation itself, and she was glad, to the depths of her soul, that she believed this reasoning to be correct.
At the same time there was a curious sensation of aversion toward the one who had, as it seemed to her, rudely disturbed the first flush of her happiness. The glamour was gone from it all. Henceforth a dull pain, a sense of want, a questioning as to whether she was just where she should be, came in with all the enjoyment and she struggled with the temptation to feel vindictive toward this disturber of her peace. Besides this, she confided to Judge Burnham the fact that Susan thought she was doing wrong in engaging herself to a man who was not a Christian; and, while he affected to laugh over it good-naturedly, as a bit of fanaticism which would harm no one, and which was the result of her narrow-minded life hitherto, it meant more than that to him—jarred upon him—and Ruth could see that it did. It affected, perhaps insensibly, his manner toward the offending party. He was not as “brotherly” as he had designed being; and altogether, Susan, since the change was to come, did not regret that Judge Burnham’s disposition was to hurry it with all possible speed. Life was less pleasant to her now than it had been any time since her entrance into this distinguished family. The pleasant little blossom of tenderness which had seemed to be about to make itself fragrant for her sister and herself had received a rude blast, and was likely to die outright.
During the weeks that followed there were other developments which served to startle Ruth as hardly anything had done hitherto. They can best be explained by giving you the substance of a conversation between Judge Burnham and herself.
“I ought to tell you something,” he said, and the brief sentence was preceded and followed by a pause of such length, and by such evident embarrassment, that Ruth’s laugh had a tinge of wonder in it, as she said, “Then, by all means I hope you will do so.”
“I suppose it is not altogether new to you?” he said, inquiringly. “Your father has doubtless told you somewhat of my past life.”
She shook her head. “Absolutely nothing, save that you were, like himself, a lawyer, resident in the city during term-time, and having a country-seat somewhere. He didn’t seem to be very clear as to that. Where is it? I think I shall be glad to live in the country. I never tried it, but I have an idea that it must be delightful to get away from the tumult of the city. Do you enjoy it?”
Judge Burnham’s unaccountable embarrassment increased. “You wouldn’t like my country-seat,” he said decidedly. “I never mean you to see it, if it can be helped. There is a long story connected with it, and with that part of my life. I am sorry that it is entirely new to you; the affair will be more difficult for you to comprehend. May I ask you if you mean you are utterly ignorant of my early life? Is it unknown to you that I have once been a married man?”
There was no mistaking the start and the flush of surprise, if it was no deeper feeling, that Ruth exhibited. But she answered quietly enough:
“I am entirely ignorant of your past history, viewed in any phase.”