THE IMPORTANT LETTER.
IN the morning following Reverend Mr. Washburn's interview with the
Bishop, breakfast and family prayers were delayed an hour or two past
the usual time by the arrival of a stranger on business. They were
still sitting at the table when a boy mounted on a pony, trotted up to
the gate, jumped off, and came to the door with a letter.
"I think no answer is expected," he said, bowing politely, as Marion
took the letter from him, mounted again, and was off out of sight.
Mrs. Washburn saw her husband's face flush as he glanced at the
address, and retired with him at once to the study, to know the nature
of the contents.
"It's from the Bishop," he said, seating himself with a heavy sigh. "It
is strange he writes so soon."
He tore it open, but as though he dreaded further pain.
Before he had time to read, his wife placed her hand over the page.
"Wait a minute," she said. And she brought him a glass containing a
mixture of iron and quinine. "Now," she added cheerfully, "I hope you
will look less like a convicted thief. Why, Henry, if I were a stranger
to you, I should condemn you by your own actions." Her voice sounded as
though she meant what she said.
He bore the reproof so meekly that her heart reproached her for
severity, and she added quickly—
"I know, dear, how much you've suffered, and that you are unnerved by
sleepless nights."
"Your words seemed hard at first, Mary, but I'm not sure that they are
not just the tonic I need."
He turned to the letter, and she, sitting by his side, read it with
him. It was in these words:—
"DEAR BROTHER:—I could not sleep last night, as my mind dwelt
constantly on our late interview. I am compelled to take a more
hopeful view of your case, and I have risen this morning to drop
you a note, which the son of my host will take to you. Perhaps I am
premature in giving my opinion; but to a Christian brother who has been
found faithful to the cause of his divine Master for so many years,
I cannot refrain from saying that your whole appearance yesterday,
your manly grief at being suspected of crime, your earnest wish for a
thorough investigation of facts, your evident desire that no dishonor
shall be done through you to the cause of Christ,—all this has made
me feel confident that your accusers are laboring under a strange
misapprehension.
"I agree with you that the sooner a Committee of Reference can be
appointed, the better it will be for the Association and for you. I
wish that you would consider this communication confidential for the
present.
"With Christian love I am yours in the fellowship of the Gospel.
"———— —————."
Tears of gratitude dropped from Mrs. Washburn's eyes as she read, but
she quickly wiped them away.
"There, Henry, the Lord has raised you up one good strong friend," she
exclaimed, as the Rector rose, and with his hands behind him, began to
pace the room. "Now I want you to tell me all from the beginning. When
did you first learn of this accusation?"
"In March, I go over the accounts in reference to the Quarterly report
which comes out in April. We have one large book in the office in which
I keep the account of all moneys collected from parishes, or other
funds of the Association. This is called a journal. Another book is
devoted to the record of all expenditures, including the rent of the
office, salary of clerks, money paid for printing reports, and also my
travelling expenses. My salary, you know, comes in another way, and is
paid me in quarterly installments."
"Are those the large leather-bound books that I have seen on the
shelves over your desk?"
"Yes; they are open to any members of the Board, though I think they
seldom examine them until the yearly business meeting. Besides these
books, I have a private account-book which I keep locked in my desk,
where I jot down my travelling expenses. I do this on Monday while the
sum is fresh in mind. I write it in this way, 'Preached in —; cost of
trip so much.' Now —" He stopped walking, his eyes fixed in thought.
How many times during the last six months had his wife seen him thus
abstracted, as though trying to peer into the past or the future. She
waited a minute, and then said softly—
"What is it, dear?"
"It always seems as though there was something I ought to remember. And
yet, when I try to fix my thoughts or assist my memory, it is gone."
"Perhaps I can help you. Tell me what clue you have."
"None at all. That is what I want. If I had a clue, it seems to me I
could follow it out. I have tried so much to recall every event. There
does seem floating through my memory like a half-remembered dream, the
recollection of a large sum which I have either received or expended.
If so, it must have been at a time when the confusion of my head
rendered me unfit for business."
"Let that go now, Henry, and tell me about the office books."
"There is a discrepancy in the accounts. Several thousand dollars of
money credited on the pages of the ledger are not accounted for."
"Will the money in bank which you have settled on me cover the
deficiency?"
"More than twice over."
"Then the Association need lose nothing."
He stopped walking and gazed earnestly in her face, his chin quivering
with emotion.
"Would you give up your little patrimony, Mary?"
"Every cent of it. I would go out to work, and live on one meal a day,
rather than have the Association lose a dollar through your means."
"Oh, what a relief! I believed it would be so. I have tried to ask you
many times, but was unable."
"In your usual state of health, you would never have doubted it for a
moment. Have you told me all?"
"Not quite. In my private account-book, there is certainly some want of
exactness. For instance, there is a trip to and from —, costing five
dollars, put down twice, and several more expensive journeys not, put
down at all."
"When do these mistakes occur?"
"At the period when my head was worst."
"And this time against your own interest?"
"Yes, and leave me more than twenty dollars out of pocket."
"I am glad of that. I don't think it's so very bad."
"The fact that is most against me is this. In my April report, I
represented the books as balancing. Indeed, I am so sure they did, I
could almost take my oath of it. Yet figures do not lie, and they are
nearly four thousand dollars against me."
"Did the Bishop speak of this discrepancy in the books?"
"In general only. It was evident that he was acquainted with the facts.
Indeed, he said Mr. Temple had told him."
"Shall you answer the Bishop's letter?"
"It requires no answer."
"What do you propose to do?"
"First of all, I shall write to the Association, requesting that a
meeting be called 'at once,' to examine the books, and everything
relating to the charges. Then I intend to get together matter for my
next report, which will be called for in October."
"You mean the report to the Association merely, not the annual one
which is published."
"Yes, but I confess I feel physically unable to go to town."
"Why not write your letter to the Association, and send Marion with
it? Joseph can go with her, and bring the books home. Yes," seeing her
husband hesitate, "that will be best."
She did not leave the study, till she saw him seated at his table with
paper before him: then she went into the sitting room and calling Ruth
and Marion, related to them in brief the facts she had heard from her
husband.
Poor Marion! Her face flushed with anger. "How dare any one accuse him,
my good father?" she exclaimed. "Why, he is the best man in the world,
and wouldn't touch a penny that didn't belong to him, to save all our
lives."
"Is that what has made Papa and you so sober?" inquired Ruth, eagerly.
"Yes, my dear. Your father has borne his grief alone to try to save us:
and I have suffered in seeing him suffer, though I knew not the cause
till last night."
"Oh, I'm so glad! I'm so very glad!" Ruth clasped her hands, while
tears of relief rolled down her cheeks.
"What do you mean?" asked Marion, almost angrily. "How can you be glad?"
"Because it's so much better than I was afraid. I thought papa was in
a consumption. I heard some of the ladies talking about him in Sunday
School. One said, 'He's running down hill very fast,' and Miss Cross
answered, 'He'll never outlive it. Oh, dear!' Then when they saw me
looking at them, they touched each other and moved away. I've been
frightened about dear papa ever since."
Mrs. Washburn silently drew the loving girl to her side, and kissed
her. Presently she said,—
"Yes, darling. This sorrow is nothing to that. Let us thank God, and
take courage. It won't do for us to let papa see that we are cast down,
and fearful concerning the result of the trial."
"Oh, mamma!" screamed Marion. "Will papa be tried?"
"Certainly. It is his own wish. He has already told the Bishop that he
should demand a thorough investigation. At this minute, he is writing
a letter to the Association, requesting them to appoint a time. And
Marion, he wishes you to take it to his office, and bring home his
books—the large leather ones in the case over his desk. You had better
get ready at once."
"Will you read this, Mary?" asked Mr. Washburn, holding up a letter he
had written.
She took it, and sat down by his side. It began:—
"'To the members of the Missionary Association:'
"GENTLEMEN:—Having learned that certain charges reflecting on my
integrity, and the faithful performance of my duties as Secretary and
Treasurer of your society, have been preferred against me, I request
that a Committee be immediately appointed to investigate the truth or
falsity of these charges, and to confer on all subjects connected with
my relations to the Association.
"With great respect,
"Your fellow laborer in the gospel of Christ,
"HENRY WASHBURN."
"Just right, dear," she said, returning it to him. "Not an unnecessary
word. Shall Marion leave it at the office?"
"Yes, she may give it to Mr. Bailey, and say that I wish it to be in
the hands of the Committee at the earliest possible moment. Stay, I
will write Mr. Bailey my wish, and also an order for the books."
"Now, Henry, you must drink this, and take a walk with me," said his
wife, about an hour after Marion started for the city.
She held a goblet toward him foaming with froth. "Egg, milk and sugar,"
she explained, laughing. "It will strengthen you; drink every drop."
"Do you really think I had better go out?"
"Yes, I do. You have had a sweet sleep. I came in twice, and you did
not awake. Now the air is delightful, and I want your company."
"Where are you going?"
"To see Widow Marsh. She has not many days to live."
"Ah! I should like to see her once more."
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