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.

“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