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!_”