THE CRUEL INNUENDO.
ELIZABETH MARSH had been one of the early fruits of the Rector's
faithful preaching, and for nearly twenty years had been a devout
member of St. Mark's church. She was poor in the world's esteem, but
rich in faith, looking forward to the glorious inheritance laid up for
her in heaven. Between the humble widow and her pastor there had ever
been a tie which death itself could not sever. She had often told him
that it was one source of her joy that duty had not called him away to
a distance, for it was from his lips she hoped to hear the last prayer
in which she could join on earth. And it was her earnest desire that he
should perform the funeral services when God called her home.
As they entered the lowly cottage, they saw her lying on the bed, while
a young girl stood near wiping the death moisture from her forehead. At
first, she did not recognize Mrs. Washburn, who hastily advanced and
bent over her. But when made to understand that her pastor was by her
side, she revived, her whole countenance illumined with joy.
After partaking of the cordial which Mrs. Washburn had brought, she
pointed upward, exclaiming with rapture,—
"I'm almost home. Soon I shall see my Saviour and dwell with him
forever."
She signified her wish to hear a few verses from her favorite portions
of Scripture, and while the Rector was finding the places, herself
repeated Christ's words.
"'Let not your heart be troubled . . . In my Father's house are many
mansions—I go to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a
place for you, I will come again, and receive you unto myself; that
where I am, ye may be also.'"
The Rector read the last chapters of St. John's Revelation, concerning
the new Jerusalem, and then asked,—
"Shall I pray with you?"
"Yes, yes, pray once more. I have almost done with prayer. Soon I shall
begin to praise—praise Him forever and ever."
"For what shall I pray?"
"That He will make me patient to the end."
He made a short prayer, when she instantly added,—
"O, my gracious Father, bless him who first drew my feet from the ways
of sin. Fill his soul so full of Thy love that all the trials and
vexations of this world may seem less than nothing to him. Give him
living faith in Thy promises; and when he comes to the end of life,
take away the sting of death, as Thou hast taken it from Thy poor
hand-maid—"
The last words were scarcely audible; the strength that had momentarily
revived sank again. Her eyes soon became fixed, and with a few feeble
gasps, the lamp of life went out, to be relighted and shine forever and
ever in the Paradise above.
Mrs. Washburn sent the young girl for a neighbor to assist in
performing the last offices, and then left, promising to send a shroud
and cap for the funeral.
"I was glad to be there," remarked the Rector, after they had walked
for some time in silence.
"Her prayer seemed almost prophetic. Do you think, Henry, she has ever
heard of your present trial?"
"She seemed to refer to present trial. She has now, through the
abounding mercy of God, entered upon a state of bliss. No doubt, when
she looks back to her life here, her poverty and years of pains seem
less than nothing to her. May God in infinite mercy grant us a like
peaceful exit."
The effect of this scene was most happy on the mind of the Rector. The
reflection that life is only a state of probation—this world a place to
tarry in for a night on our journey heavenward, made it easier to bear
the trial which met him on his return home.
Marion had come back from the city, but without the books. She was
in such a state of excitement that at first she could not give an
intelligible account of what had transpired.
"Come with me, my child," said Mrs. Washburn. "You will feel better
after you have bathed those burning cheeks."
Then requesting her husband to relate to Ruth the scene they had
witnessed, she hastened to Marion's chamber.
"Oh, mamma, look at this paper! It is shameful! I wonder God lets
people do such wicked things."
"Hush, my child. God, our Father, knows what is best for us."
Marion had been frantically tearing open a newspaper she had snatched
from her pocket, and now in an unsteady voice read aloud,—
"'We regret to learn that in one of our most prominent benevolent
societies, the fraud which has for some time been suspected, has been
traced to the Treasurer, Rev. H. W., a gentleman who has enjoyed the
confidence and affection of the churches for years. It is said that
thousands of dollars, the contributions of widows and orphans to the
cause of missions, has been diverted from its sacred object, and has
not been accounted for.'"
Mrs. Washburn sank back into a chair, and for one moment the chamber
seemed whirling around her.
"Cruel! Cruel!" she murmured. But almost instantly rousing herself she
asked, "Who did you see at the office?"
"Barnes Bailey was there alone when I went in. I gave him the letter
for the Committee, and then I asked him for the books, showing him
papa's order.
"'I don't know about that,' he said, and his face grew very red. 'I'm
not sure that your father has a right to take them from the office.'
He kept twirling the order around in his fingers, and presently said,
'Wait a minute.' And then started to go down stairs.
"I heard somebody coming up, and recognized Mr. Temple's voice talking
with Barnes. I couldn't hear Barnes, but Mr. Temple said, 'I think as
you do, that under existing circumstances it would not be prudent.'
"Then they both came back to the office, and Barnes took papa's letter
from the table and gave it to him.
"I waited a little while, and then I said, 'I want to get the next
omnibus. Will you please put up the books?'
"'Tell your father he had better come to the office if he wants them,'
Barnes said. 'It isn't usual to send account-books out of town.'
"I didn't answer a word but walked out of the room pretty quick. When
I was in the omnibus, a boy came to the door with papers, and I bought
one to try and take up my mind. Almost the first thing I saw was this
horrid paragraph."
"There is the dinner-bell, Marion. Try to calm yourself, and come down."
"Shall you tell papa about the—the papers?"
"Yes, but not to-night. I mean to write Emily this evening. We can't
keep our trouble from her any longer."
"She will want to come home directly. I'm sure of it, mamma."
"I shall advise her to stay in U—, for the present."
To her surprise, Mr. Washburn looked perfectly unruffled when she
entered the dining room. He was listening to some story of Josey's, and
smiled quite in his old way at the boy.
After they were seated at the table, and grace had been said, he told
them of the peaceful end of their old friend, and in his own peculiarly
happy manner, urged each of his children so to live that whenever death
should come, he would not be an unwelcome messenger.
It was evident to all that the poor widow's last words, and her earnest
prayer for him, had caused an elevation of soul which quite raised him
above the petty vexations of the day.
The next morning, Mr. Washburn prepared to go to his office.
And when Marion, with a quickly beating heart, asked, "Shall I go
with you papa?" he answered with a smile, "No, my dear, that isn't
necessary."
He returned at the usual time, and, in answer to his wife's
questioning, replied that he had done a good day's work, and did not
feel unusually fatigued.
"What excuse did Barnes make for his impertinent reply about the books?"
"I gave him no opportunity for conversation. I did remind him that I
regretted his frequent absences of late, and added that every one whom
I employed in the office, must prove himself faithful, by obedience to
my orders."
"Do you intend to preach next Sunday?"
"Yes. I made an engagement to-day, and also for the Sunday following."
"Did you say anything to the Bishop about preaching while the trial is
pending?"
"Yes. I told him that while my own conscience absolved me from all
intentional wrong in regard to the Association, I considered it my duty
to preach as I have done; and he agreed with me. It was the Bishop who
sent the two gentlemen to my office to-day, to engage my services."
"During your absence in town, Mr. Whiting called in reference to Widow
Marsh's funeral. He said she sent for him a week ago, and told him it
was her desire that you should read the burial service, and he said he
hoped you would feel able to do so. He evidently was in earnest."
"Did you say that I would?"
"I told him, he had better call this evening. The funeral is to-morrow
in church."
At the hour appointed, the body of the church was filled,—Rev. Mr.
Whiting having taken pains to spread the notice that the former Rector
would perform the service. After the opening prayer, Mr. Washburn,
in a few words, gave a sketch of the conversion, life of prayer, and
triumphant entrance into glory of the deceased, and closed by urging
each one of his beloved people so to live, that he might die the death
of the righteous, and his last end be like his.
As the congregation dispersed, many paused to seize the hand of
their loved Rector, while from more than one, came low spoken words,
sometimes accompanied with tears.
"I shall never forget that you won me to the Saviour."
"I always pray for my dear Rector."
"A godly life, such as for more than twenty years you have lived among
us, is the best refutation of slander."
This last was from a silver haired man more than eighty years old. Mrs.
Washburn could not refrain from raising his withered hand to her lips,
as she said,—
"Thank you, sir. You have done us good."
To be sure, there were others who stood aloof,—who avoided meeting the
eye of the Rector, and among them those with whom he had been most
intimate. But he cherished no resentment toward them. He only repeated
the words, as if to himself, "But the greatest of all is charity.
Charity which hopeth all things,—thinketh no evil."
During the remainder of the week, Mr. Washburn confessed that he felt
better in health,—that his nerves were firmer, and his spirits more
hopeful than for many months. Since his trials were approaching a
crisis, he was conscious of an Almighty arm placed about him for his
support. And like a child tired of carrying his burden, he leaned
lovingly on the gracious helper. Morning and evening at the family
altar, he betook himself and his family to the throne of grace, and
there making known his wants, entreated his watchful Father to give
him the wisdom, strength, gentleness and charity, necessary in this
emergency.
These prayers were not offered in vain.
As his courage rose, and Mrs. Washburn found herself not absolutely
needed, she began to be tormented with doubts as to the result of the
trial. Her husband had confessed to her that he had never been present
on a similar occasion, and therefore had little idea what course
would be pursued. Whether the Committee would be competent to summon
witnesses, or to oblige any one to give evidence, he was not sure. She
began to dread the occasion, and to feel a strange misgiving concerning
the mode of trial.
On Monday, the Rector returned from preaching, and brought with him
from the office an answer from his letter to the Committee. It was very
kind, and on the whole was quite satisfactory with one exception. This
was that owing to circumstances which they declared beyond their power
to control, the Committee of Reference with whom the case had been
charged, would not be able to meet until quite the last of November.
This was nearly two months from the present time.
Mrs. Washburn, who had secretly almost hoped for some delay, now felt
that she could scarcely endure the suspense for so long a period.
Ah, how little did she realize that their Father was leading them by
paths which they knew not, but which would result to their good and His
own glory.
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