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.

“Have you?” said Susan, brightly. “Good! I like to hear new things, especially when they have to do with my friends.” And there was that in her tone which made her sister understand that she desired to convey the thought that she felt close to Ruth, and wanted to be held in dear relations. For the first time in her life Ruth was conscious of being willing.

“Judge Burnham is to return to-day.”

“Yes, I heard you speaking of it.”

There was wonderment in Susan’s tone, almost as well as words could have done. It said: “What is there specially interesting in that?”

“Do you feel ready to receive him in a new relation?” Ruth asked, and she was vexed to feel the blood surging into her cheeks. “I think he has a desire to be very brotherly.”

“Oh, Ruth!”

There was no mistaking Susan’s tone this time. She had turned from the mirror and was surveying her sister with unmistakably mournful eyes, and there was astonished sorrow in her tones. What could be the trouble! Whatever it was Ruth resented it.

“Well,” she said haughtily, “I seem to have disturbed as well as surprised you. I was not aware that the news would be disagreeable.”

“I beg your pardon, Ruth. I am very much surprised. I had not supposed such a thing possible.”

“Why, pray?”

“Why, Ruth, dear, he is not a Christian?”

It would be impossible to describe to you the consternation in Susan’s face and voice, and the astonishment in Ruth’s.

“Well,” she said again, “it is surely not the first time you were conscious of that fact. He will be in no more danger in that respect with me for a wife. At least I trust he will not.”

Susan had no answer to make to this strange sentence. She stood, brush in hand, gazing bewilderingly at Ruth’s face for a moment. Then, recollecting herself, turned toward the mirror again, with the simple repeatal:

“I beg your pardon. I did not mean to hurt your feelings.”

As for Ruth, it would have been difficult for her to analyze her feelings. Were they hurt? Was she angry? If so, at what or whom? Her heart felt in a tumult.

Now, I want you to understand that, strange as it may appear, this was a new question to her. That Judge Burnham was not a Christian man she knew, and regretted. But, that it should affect her answer to his question was a thought which had not once presented itself. She turned and went out from that room without another word, and feeling that she never wanted to say any more words to that girl.

“It is no use,” she said, aloud and angrily. “We can never be anything to each other, and it is folly to try. We are set in different molds. I no sooner try to make a friend and confidant of her than some of her tiresome notions crop out and destroy it all.”

She knew that all this was nonsense. She knew it was the working of conscience on her own heart that was at this moment making her angry; and yet she found the same relief which possibly you and I have felt in blaming somebody for something, aloud, even while our hearts gainsayed our words.

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.”

Judge Burnham drew a heavy sigh.

“I said the story was a long one, but I can make it very brief.” He began: “You know that a life-time of joy, or misery can be expressed in one sentence. Well, I married when I was a boy; married in haste and repented at leisure, as many a boy has. My wife died when we had been living together for five years, and I have two daughters. They are almost women, I suppose, now. The oldest is seventeen, and they live at the place which you call my country-seat. Now, these are the headlines of the story. Perhaps you could imagine the rest better than I can tell you. The filling out would take hours, and would be disagreeable both to you and to me. I trust you will let me relieve you from the trial of hearing. There is one thing I specially desire to say to you before this conversation proceeds further: that is, I supposed, of course, you were familiar with these outlines, at least so far as my marriage is concerned, else I should have told you long ago. I have not meant to take any unfair advantage of you. I had not an idea that I was doing so.”

“Does my father know that you have daughters?” This was Ruth’s question, and her voice, low and constrained, sounded so strangely to herself that she remembered noticing it even then.

“I do not know. It is more than probable that he does not. Indeed, I am not sure that any acquaintance of mine in the city knows this part of my history. My married life was isolated from them all. I have not attempted to conceal it, and, at the same time, I have made no effort to tell it. I am painfully conscious of how all this must look to you, yet I know you will believe that I intended no deception. With regard to the—to my daughters, my professional life has kept me from them almost constantly, so that no idea of our home—yours and mine—is associated with them. I have no intention of burying you in the country, and indeed my errand here at this hour was to talk with you in regard to the merits of two hotels, at either of which we can secure desirable rooms.”

He hurried over this part of his sentence in a nervous way, as one who was trying, by a rapid change of subject, to turn the current of thought. Ruth brought him back to it with a question which stabbed him.

“But, Judge Burnham, what sort of a father can you have been all these years?” He flushed and paled under it, and under the steadiness of her gaze.

“I—I have hardly deserved the name of father, I suppose, and yet in some respects I have tried to do what it seemed to me I could. Ruth, you don’t understand the situation. You think you do, and it looks badly to you, but there are circumstances which make it a peculiarly trying one. However, they are not circumstances which need to touch you. I meant and I mean to shield you from all these trials. I asked you to be, not my housekeeper, not a care-taker of two girls who would be utterly uncongenial to you, but my wife, and—”

She interrupted him. “And do you suppose, Judge Burnham, that you and I can settle down to a life together of selfish enjoyment in each others’ society, ignoring the claims which your children have on you, and which, assuredly, if I become your wife, they will have on me? Could you respect me if I were willing to do so?”

It was clear that Judge Burnham was utterly confounded. He arose and stood confronting her, for she had risen to draw aside a fire-screen, and had not, in speaking, resumed her seat. “You do not understand,” he muttered, at last. “I have meant nothing wrong. I provide for them, and am willing to do so. I see that they are taken care of; I do not propose to desert them, but it would be simply preposterous to think of burying you up there in the country with that sort of companionship! You do not know what you are talking about. I have never for a moment, thought of such a thing.”

“Then it is clearly time to think. If I do not understand you, Judge Burnham, neither do you understand me. My life has been anything but a perfect one, or a happy one. I have gone so far wrong myself that it ill becomes me to find fault with others. But there is one thing I will never do. I will never come between a father and his children, separating them from the place which they ought to have beside him. Never!”