So the days went by; not much joy in them for any one concerned. Away from Ruth’s influence, Judge Burnham was annoyed, to such a degree, that he could hardly make a civil answer to the most ordinary question; and his office clerks grumbled among themselves that, if it made such a bear of a man to know that in three weeks he was to have a wife, they hoped their turn would never come. Away from his presence, Ruth was grave to a degree that threw an added shadow over the home-life. Susan felt herself to be in disgrace with her sister, and had been unable thus far, to rise above it, and be helpful, as she would have liked to be. Judge Erskine, hearing more details from his friend than from his daughter, sympathized with her strong sense of duty, honored her, rejoiced in her strength of purpose, and was sorry for her, realizing, more than before, what a continuous chain of trial her life had been of late. Therefore, his tone was tender and sympathizing, when he spoke to her, but sad, as one who felt too deeply, and was not able to impart strength.
As for Mrs. Erskine, she had so much to say about the strangeness of it all—wondering how Judge Burnham could have managed to keep things so secret, and how the girls looked, whether they favored him, or their ma, and whether they would be comfortable sort of persons to get along with—that Ruth was driven to the very verge of distraction, and felt, at times, that, to get out of that house, into any other on earth, would be a relief.
There was much ado, also, about that wedding. Mrs. Erskine wanted marvelous things—an illumination, and a feast, and a crowd, and all the resources of the rain-bow, as to bridal toilet. But here, as in other matters, Ruth held steadily to her own way, and brought it to pass—a strictly private wedding, in the front parlor of her father’s house; not a person, outside of the Erskine family circle, to witness the ceremony, save Marion Dennis; she, by virtue of being Dr. Dennis’ wife, gained admission. But Marion Dennis’ tears fell fast behind the raised handkerchief, which shielded her face during the solemn prayer. She knew, in detail, some of Ruth’s plans. She knew, better than Ruth did—so she thought—that plans are sometimes hard to carry out. How many she had indulged and, at this moment, there sat at home, her haughty daughter, Grace, entirely unforgiving, because of her “meddling”—so she styled the earnest attempts to shield her from danger. To Marion, Ruth’s future had never looked less hopeful than it did on this marriage morning.
It may be that her own disappointments caused some of the flowing tears; but her heart ached for Ruth. What should she do without a Christian husband—a husband entirely in sympathy with every effort, and entirely tender with every failure of hers! What was Ruth to do, with Judge Burnham for a husband, instead of Dr. Dennis! How were the trials of life to be borne with any man living except this one!
Thus reasoned silly Marion—unconsciously, indeed; but that was as it seemed to her.
Well for Ruth, that even at this moment, she could look into the face of the man whom she had chosen, and feel: “It is after all, for him. There is no other person for whom I could begin this life.”
Said a friend, the other day, in sympathetic tones, as she spoke of a young bride going far from her home and her mother: “I feel so sorry for her. It is such a trying experience, all alone, away from all her early friends.”
“But,” I said, “after all, she doesn’t go as far as you told me you did, when you were married.”
The answer was quick:
“Oh, no; but then I had my husband, you know; and she—”