THE MISSIONARY ASSOCIATION.
LONG before Mr. Washburn had found the bottom of the purse presented
by his people, he had received an appointment to be Secretary and
Treasurer of one of the great benevolent societies of the day.
The appointment was particularly acceptable, as it brought him
into constant association with those who had long been intimate
friends,—gentlemen with whom he had labored and prayed for the
advancement of the cause of missions. This appointment also enabled him
to live in his own house at Canterbury.
Though his voice was still feeble, he was thankful to find that as
his general health became firm, he could speak with more ease. As his
business required him to visit the parishes in the Diocese, and as far
as possible to present the cause of missions, his first object was to
prepare a plain statement of facts, with which he was already perfectly
familiar. This lecture, or sermon, from the text, "Go ye into all the
world and preach the gospel to every creature," became exceedingly
popular. With various changes and amplifications, Mr. Washburn preached
it more than a hundred times in the course of the succeeding two years.
Never had the funds of the society been so large as during this period.
But to return to Mr. Washburn's family. Emily and Marion, the two
elder girls, had been educated by their father with great care. Emily,
in particular, discovered a special aptness for the acquisition of
languages, and her father, who ranked among the first as a classical
scholar, had taught her Latin and Greek. With German and French she was
also familiar,—Mr. Washburn having playfully enforced a law that there
should be a German day and a French day, when at meals not a word of
English should be spoken.
Music, both social and instrumental, was, however, Emily's specialty.
Long before her tiny fingers could span an octave, her mother commenced
teaching her the scales upon a piano brought with her as a bride. From
the time she was sixteen, Emily had enjoyed the advantage of a teacher
in the neighboring city, going thither twice a week for the purpose, in
an omnibus which ran hourly between the two places.
Except occasional visits to her aunt Emily and her grandmother Lawton,
the young girl had seen little of the world. It was quite natural,
therefore, that on her father being thrown out of employment, she
should urge her desire to leave home, and become a teacher of music.
This project at first met with strong opposition. But circumstances
arose which caused Emily to urge her request with great vigor, and her
parents, with reluctance, gave a conditional consent.
The circumstance alluded to was this. Mr. Bailey, or Barnes Bailey,
as he was universally called, had fallen into the habit of calling
at the house of his former Rector with great frequency, and when
there, directed much of his conversation to Emily. Mr. Washburn, in
the overflowing of a heart full of love and charity, entertained a
special regard for the young man, whom he believed himself to have
been instrumental in assisting, and whom he considered sincere in his
expressions of deep penitence. He therefore welcomed the gentleman with
great cordiality to his house and table. Mrs. Washburn, taking the
initiative from her husband, also treated him with marked kindness.
Not so Emily. When obliged to be present during his calls and visits,
she treated him as coolly as civility would allow. His approach to
the house was her signal for leaving it if possible, certainly, of
returning to her own chamber. As his attention to her became more
marked, her distrust and dislike of him increased. She began to shudder
when she met the glance of his usually cold, gray eye, but she kept
these feelings locked in her own breast. Not even to her sister Marion,
her loving confidant on almost every subject, did she hint at her
suspicions and her distrust; and so skilfully did she excuse herself on
the plea of other engagements that for a long time no one suspected her
motive in absenting herself from the room.
Barnes Bailey was, however, not a man to be hindered when he had set
his heart upon any object. He determined, if Emily would not see him,
she should read his letters, and from this time, presented her with
little missives delivered by her brother Josey, who was innocent enough
to believe what was told him by Barnes, that the notes contained Sunday
School questions. Whatever they did contain, Emily's fine eyes flashed
whenever she found one of these epistles on her table, and threw
several of them into the fire without reading.
A day soon arrived when she was obliged to meet the subject face to
face. Her father, one morning, requested her to walk with him to visit
an old parishioner who was dying in consumption. He then handed her a
letter which, with a smile, he requested her to read. It contained a
proposition for her hand in marriage, with the implication that the
writer had her consent to address her father.
"It is false!" she cried, her eyes flashing, and her thin nostrils
dilating with anger. "I have never given him the least encouragement.
The letters to which he here alludes, I threw into the fire without
unsealing."
"But why, my daughter? The offer he makes is an honorable one, though
I am far from wishing you to form an engagement at so early a period
of life. It took me by surprise at first. You are a mere child, only
little, loving Emily to me, my dear."
"I am almost out of my teens, father," she answered, returning his
smile, "old enough to decide that I never will marry Barnes Bailey."
"What reason shall I give him, child?"
"Tell him that I despise him, but he must be a fool not to know that
already. No, I don't think him a fool. I think him mean, low in his
tastes, and capable of any villainy to compass his ends. There,
father," she said with a shudder. "I have given you my answer, and I
hope never to hear his name again. I'm sure you and mother don't wish
to get rid of me."
Her father drew her hand still closer within his own, gazing with a
grave smile into her face, still glowing with unwonted excitement.
For some time they walked on in silence, the rector pondering upon,
and wondering at his daughter's words. He did not think it the time
to caution her against her too hasty judgment, but resolved to take
another opportunity to do so. On the whole, he was extremely gratified
that she had formed no attachment to a man who, after all, was stained
in the eyes of the community.
As they approached the house where the sick woman lived, Emily
slackened her steps.
"Father," she said, "I can't stay in Canterbury. I've been annoyed
with that man long enough. I wish you would consent to my writing Ella
Sampson. You know she is in Mrs. Duxbury's family school, where a few
weeks ago the situation of music teacher was vacant. If I write her at
once, I may get it. You would like me to be with Ella, and I'm sure I
could get a splendid note of recommendation from Monsieur Rolfe."
Mr. Washburn paused in his walk, and fixed his eyes absently on the
ground.
Presently he said, "I must consult your mother, child."
"Does she know of Barnes' letter, sir?" the color rising in her cheeks
again.
"Yes, she has read it."
"I'll go home and talk with her. If she consents, I will write to Ella
by the next mail. But, father, please say nothing of my plan, now or
any time. It is enough for any one that I have left town. I will not
have letters like this forwarded to me."
She looked in his face, read a half consent, and ran away, leaving him
to go into the house, and minister consolation to the dying woman.
At the end of two hours when he returned, Emily's letter to her friend
was already on its way.
In a week, she had joined Miss Sampson at the school, which was
situated in the large town of U—, two hundred miles from Canterbury.
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