THE next thing that occurred to mar the peace of this much-tried young lady—she went out calling with her step-mother. This duty was passed over just as long as it would do to ignore the claims of society, she being finally driven to it by realizing that more talk was being made by not going than would be likely to result from going. Then, with foreboding heart, she made ready. She planned at first to escape it all and have her father the victim. But there were two difficulties. He had rarely made other than professional calls, or most ceremonious ones on persons high in the profession, and, therefore this whole matter would be so new to him that to tide the bewildered wife through it would be well-nigh impossible. And, besides, Ruth felt the necessity of being present, to know the very worst that could be said or done, and to attempt going as a trio was not to be thought of for a moment. There was one bright spot in her annoyances: It was pleasant to remember the look of relief which gleamed over her father’s face when she told him he could be excused from attendance on them if he chose. “I can save him so much, at least,” she told herself, and it helped her to make ready. “If she would only keep perfectly quiet!” she murmured again to herself, as she waited at the door of her mother’s room for the last glove to be drawn on, and marked what an effect the rich black silk, with its perfect fitting seams, and perfectly draped folds had on the dumpy figure. “If she only could get along without talking she would do very well.”

Great attention had been paid by Ruth to the details of this toilet. The soft laces at throat and wrist, the rich mantle, the shapely hat with the unmistakable air of “style” about it, even to the gloves of exactly the right shade and size, had each been objects of separate study; and Mrs. Erskine, though occasionally she had fond memories of the green silk dress, and the red bow—which she began to be dimly conscious were never destined to shine together—yet took in so much of the general effect as filled her with surprise and reconciled her to the position of lay figure in Ruth’s hands, looking upon her step-daughter with the same degree of surprised awe that a statue might, could it be gifted with life and behold itself getting draped for the tableau.

The calls started nicely, Flossy Shipley’s being the first home at which they halted. Flossy, in her sweet, winning, indescribable way, decoyed Mrs. Erskine into a corner easy chair, and engaged her in low-toned, earnest, even absorbed conversation, while Ruth tried to unbend from her dignity and chat with Flossy’s cheery, social mother. Glancing from time to time toward the elder woman and the fair young girl, and noting the fact that both were unmistakably interested in their subject for conversation, Ruth found herself wondering what it could be. Whatever it was she was grateful, and gave Flossy a most informal and tender kiss at parting, by way of expressing her relief.

Then, too, Dr. and Mrs. Dennis were at home, and were joyfully glad to see them, and Dr. Dennis held Mrs. Erskine’s attention, leaving Ruth free to talk with, and look at, and wonder over Marion, she seemed so fresh and bright and glad; full of eagerness, full of plans, full of heartiness, for any and everything that might be mentioned. “She is at least ten years younger than I ever knew her to be,” was Ruth’s mental conclusion as she watched the expressive face. There was no restraint in their talk. Ruth felt, that for the time-being, she could throw off the burden of responsibility and have a good time. She did not know what Dr. Dennis was saying to her step-mother, and she did not care, it was so pleasant to feel that she could trust him, that he was a friend, and would neither repeat to others the mistakes of the uncultured woman with whom he talked, nor laugh about them with Marion when she was gone. Ruth not only respected and liked, but thoroughly trusted her pastor.

“I am glad she married him,” she told herself, glancing from one to the other, and feeling, rather than noticing, that they were both evidently heartily glad about the same thing. “They are just exactly suited to each other, and that is saying a good deal for them both. What a blessed change the brightness of this room must be when she compares it with that little den of hers, up the third flight of stairs!” Yes, and there was another side to that. What a nameless charm, as of home, she had thrown over the propriety of the parsonage parlor! Before, it had been a room—pleasant and proper, and well-cared for, as became the parsonage parlor—now, it was home! Presently, too, came Gracie, with her beautiful face and gracious manner, free and cordial and at ease. “Mamma,” she said as naturally as though it had been a name constantly on her lips; and, indeed, it was plain that she enjoyed the name. There were no sad contrasts to dim her eyes, or quicken the beatings of her heart, the real mother having only had time to give her darling one clinging kiss before God called her home. “She may well be proud of such a mother as her father has brought to her,” Ruth thought, looking from one to the other, and noting the glance of sympathy which passed between them. And then she sighed, being drawn back to her heavier lot. Marion’s dreary life had blossomed into brightness, while all that was ever bright had gone out of hers; at least so it seemed to her. Then she arose, realizing that nothing of this afternoon’s crosses would be borne if she whiled the time on Flossy Shipley and Marion Dennis.

From the moment that the two were seated in Mrs. Schuyler Colman’s parlor peace left Ruth’s heart. Here was responsibility, solemn and overwhelming—how to tide this uncultured woman through the shoals and breakers of this aristocratic atmosphere. No sooner was Mrs. Erskine fairly seated than she broke the proprieties of the occasion with the exclamation:

“Why, my patience! if there isn’t Dr. Mason Kent, staring right straight at me! What a splendid likeness! I declare I most feel as though he ought to speak to me.”

“Was Dr. Kent an acquaintance of yours?”

Nothing could be colder, more lofty, more in keeping with the proprieties, than the tone in which Mrs. Schuyler Colman asked the question.

“An acquaintance! why I guess he was. I sewed in his house nigh on two months before his oldest daughter was married. They had a regular seamstress in the house, one who belonged to the family, you know. O! they were high up in the world, I tell you. But she needed extra help when the rush came, and there was always lots of plain sewing to do, anyway, and the woman I sewed for last recommended me, and I got in. It was a nice place. They gave good pay; better than I ever got anywhere else, and I always remembered Dr. Kent; he was as kind as he could be.”

Shall I try to describe to you the glow on Ruth Erskine’s face? What had become of her haughty indifference to other people’s opinions? What had become of her loftily expressed scorn of persons who indulged in pride of station, or pride of birth? Ah! little this young woman knew about her own heart. Gradually she was discovering that she had plenty of pride of birth and station and name. The thing which had seemed plebeian to her was to exhibit such pride in a marked way before others.

Mrs. Colman seemed to consider it necessary to make some reply:

“Dr. Kent is an uncle of mine,” she said, and her voice was freezing in its dignity.

“You don’t say! Where is he now? How I should like to see the dear old man! I wonder, Ruth, that your pa didn’t tell me his relatives lived here. It was at his house that I first saw your pa. I shall never forget that night, if I live to be a hundred. They had a party, or a dinner, or—well, I forget what the name of it was; but it was after the wedding, you know, and crowds of fashionables was there. I was in a back passage, helping sort out the rubbers and things that had got mixed up; and I peeked out to see them march to dinner; and I see them all as plain as day. I said then—says I, to Mirandy Bates, the girl that I was helping: ‘That tall man with the long whiskers and pale face is the stylishest one amongst ’em, I think.’ And who do you suppose it was but your pa! Land alive! I had just as much idea of marrying him, then, as I had of flying and no more.”

“I should suppose so,” said Mrs. Schuyler Colman. She could not resist the temptation of saying it, though Ruth darted a lightning glance at her from eyes that were gleaming in a face that had become very pale. She arose suddenly, remarking that they were making a very lengthy call; and Mrs. Erskine, to whom the call seemed very short, began to be uncomfortably conscious that she had been talking a great deal, and perhaps not to Ruth’s liking. She relapsed into an embarrassed silence, and made her adieu in the most awkward manner possible. Had Ruth taken counsel of her own nerves, she would have felt it impossible to endure more, and have beaten a retreat; but to sustain her was the memory of the fact that certain calls must be made, and, that if she did not make them, her father must. When it came to the martyr spirit, and she could realize that she was being martyrized in her father’s place, she could endure. But, oh, if she could only manage to give this dreadful woman a hint as to the proprieties! And yet, suppose she stopped that dreadful tide of reminiscences, what would the woman talk about? Still, at all hazards, it must be risked:

“I do not think,” she began, in a tone so constrained that the very sound of it frightened her step-mother. “I do not think that my father would like to have you refer to your past life, among his friends.”

“My patience!” said Mrs. Judge Erskine. “Why not? I never done anything to be ashamed of—never in my life. I was an honest, respectable girl. There ain’t one who knew me but could tell you that; and, as to being poor, why, I couldn’t help that, you know; and I ain’t been rich such a dreadful long time that I’ve forgot how it felt, neither. Not that your pa kept me close; he never did that. But I kept myself close, you see, because I had no kind of a notion that he was so rich.”

This was worse than the former strain. Ruth was almost desperate:

“It makes no difference to me how poor you were, Madam, but it is not the custom in society to tell all about one’s private affairs.”

And then, in the next breath, she wondered what Judge Erskine would have said, could he have heard her address his wife in that tone, and with those words. At least she had frightened her into silence. And they rang at Mrs. Huntington’s and were admitted—an angry woman, with flashing eyes, and a cowed woman, who wished she was at home, and didn’t know what to say. Poor Ruth was sorry that she had interfered. Perhaps any sort of talk would have been less observable than this awkward, half frightened silence; also, Judge Burnham was in the room, at the other end of the parlor, among the books, as one familiar there. Mrs. Huntington belonged to the profession. Was it more or less embarrassing because of his presence? Ruth could not bring herself to being sure which it was. Mrs. Huntington was a genial woman, though an exceedingly stylish one; but she knew as little how to put a frightened, constrained person at ease, as it was possible to know about anything; and yet her heart was good enough.

“I suppose you attended the concert, last evening, Mrs. Erskine?” she said, addressing that lady with a smile, and in a winning tone of voice. But Mrs. Erskine looked over at Ruth, in the absurd fashion of a naughty child, who, having been punished for some misdemeanor, glances at you, to be sure that he is not offending in the same way again. Ruth was selecting a card from her case to leave for Miss Almina Huntington, and apparently gave no notice to her mother. Left thus to her own resources, what could she do but answer, as best she knew how?

“Well, no, I didn’t. Judge Erskine got tickets, and said he would take me if I wanted to go; but I didn’t want to go. The fact is, I suppose, it is want of education, or something; but I ain’t a might of taste for those concerts. I like singing, too. I used to go to singing-school, when I was a girl, and I was reckoned to have a good voice, and I used to like it first-rate—sang in the choir, you know, and all that; but these fiddle-dee-dee, screech-owl performances that they get off nowadays, and call music, I can’t stand, nohow. I went to one of ’em. I thought I’d like to please Judge Erskine, you know, and I went; and they said it was fine, and perfectly glorious, and all that; but I didn’t think so, and that’s the whole of it. I gaped and gaped the whole blessed evening. I was ashamed of myself, but I couldn’t help it. I tried to listen, too, and get the best of it, but it was just yelp and howl, and I couldn’t make out a word, no more than if it had been in Dutch; and I dunno but it was. I don’t like ’em, and I can’t help it.”

Mrs. Erskine was growing independent and indignant. Silence was not her forte, and, in the few minutes which she had spent thus, she had resolved not to pretend to be what she wasn’t.

“I don’t like them yelping, half-dressed women, nor them roaring men,” she said, swiftly, to herself, “and I mean to say so. Why shouldn’t I?”

Poor Ruth! It was not that she enjoyed or admired operatic singing, or the usual style of modern concert singing. In a calm, dignified, haughty way, she had been heard to say that she thought music had degenerated, and was being put to very unintellectual uses in these days, in comparison with what had been its place. But that was such a very different thing from talking about “fiddle-dee-dee,” and “screeching,” and “howling,” and, above all, “gaping!” What could be said? Mrs. Huntington was not equal to the occasion. She was no more capable of appreciating what there was of beauty in the singing than her caller was, but she was aware that society expected her to appreciate it; so she did it! Judge Burnham came to the rescue:

“You are precisely of my mind, Mrs Erskine,” he said, appearing from the recesses of the back parlor, and bowing to Ruth, while he advanced to offer his hand to her step-mother. “You have characterized the recent concerts in the exact language that they deserve. Such singing is not music; it is simply ‘fiddle-dee-dee!’”

“Why, Judge Burnham!”

This, in an expostulating tone, from Mrs. Huntington.

“Fact, my dear Madam. It was simply screeching, last evening; nothing else in the world. I was a victim, and I defy anyone, with a cultured taste, to have enjoyed it. It was almost an impossibility to endure. Mrs. Erskine, I want to show you a picture, which I think you will like, if you will step this way with me.”

And he escorted the gratified little woman down the length of the parlor, and devoted himself carefully to her, during the rest of the very brief call which Ruth made. He came, also, to the very door-steps with her, talking still to the mother, covering with dextrous gallantry her awkwardness of manner and movement.

“Thank you,” said Ruth, in a low tone, as he turned to her with a parting bow. She could not help it, and she did not fail to notice the gleam of pleasure which lighted his grave face at her words.

“Aren’t you tired?” she asked her mother, as they moved away from the Huntington mansion. Her martyr spirit had passed from her. She felt utterly worn, as if it were impossible for her to endure more. “Don’t you want to go home?”

“Bless you, yes. I’m clear tuckered out. I didn’t dream that it was such awful hard work to make calls. I don’t wonder your pa didn’t want to go. Yes, let’s go home, for the land’s sake!”

And they went home. When Ruth thought of Judge Burnham at all, during the next few days, it was with a sense of gratitude, which was new, and not unpleasant.