THE DAUGHTER'S GRIEF.
THE acquaintance so earnestly desired by Cecilia Lawrence, between
her brother and Emily, progressed but slowly. Notwithstanding that he
prolonged his stay from one day to another, for reasons which seemed
frivolous to every one but himself, yet with the exception of two
occasions, he had never enjoyed free conversation with her. On both of
these occasions he had accidentally met her walking alone.
The first time, she was walking quite through the village to a small
cottage beyond, where a servant of Mrs. Duxbury lay ill, when she met
him, and he instantly turned, went with her to the house, and only left
her when they reached her own door. The second time, it was almost
dark, and he was passing a large house, and heard Miss Washburn's voice
at the door.
"Do let me speak to my brother," said a fresh, girlish voice. "He will
be very happy to go home with you."
"No, indeed," answered Emily. "It is my own fault for staying so late,
but I don't think I shall be afraid. I walk very fast, you know.
Good-bye."
When she reached the gate, she was a little startled by seeing a tall
form directly in her path.
"Good evening, Miss Washburn," he said. "I was passing and heard your
remark. I don't think it wise for young ladies to be out alone at this
hour." So saying, he took her hand, placed it on his arm, in the most
matter of fact way, and went on at once with the conversation which
they had commenced during their first walk.
Unconsciously to herself, the young teacher was led on to talk of her
home, her parents, of Marion and Ruth. Of Josey and her wish that he
should be a lawyer,—of herself and the desire she had felt from a
child to travel in the old world. To hear the famous composers of her
favorite music, and see with her own eyes the paintings of the old
masters.
He listened as he would to a child, and said at last, "No doubt you
will go some time."
"Oh, no!" she exclaimed, laughing. "That is my very airiest castle. I
never expect to go, but I long for it all the same."
This was just as they parted, and he held her hand, while he said—
"I'm a good prophet, I think you will go."
Now he and his sister had left town, and to Cecilia's intense regret
without any arrangement having been made for Emily to pass the winter
in Washington, where, as the bride of her brother, she would have
made such a pleasing sensation. She still believed this would have
been accomplished, had it not been for a force behind the mysterious
letters, which continued to arrive at regular intervals during his
whole visit at Judge Wilson's, and which she was persuaded drew her
brother's heart in an opposite direction.
So the last kisses had been interchanged, the last adieus uttered, with
a promise on both sides of writing frequently.
The week following, the class in German had been called, and sat in the
recitation room wondering at the very unusual want of punctuality in
their teacher, when Mr. Duxbury opened the door.
"Young ladies," he said, gravely, "your recitation will be omitted
to-day. You will be prepared with a double lesson to-morrow. You are
dismissed."
The class broke up suddenly, and the girls surrounding Mr. Duxbury
begged to be told what was the reason Miss Washburn did not come.
"Is she ill? Is any one dead? I hope she is not going to leave?"
"I think I may tell you that she has received sad intelligence from
home. I'm sure you will all be very considerate of her feelings. Show
your sympathy when you see her, without intruding on her sorrow. When
she is able to speak of it, she will tell you herself."
Mr. Duxbury subscribed for several daily papers in which he was in
the habit of advertising his school. On the morning of which we have
spoken, Emily, having a few spare minutes before the school would be
called to order, took up a late issue, and glanced down the columns.
Suddenly her eyes became fixed on one short paragraph, her heart beats
almost to suffocation as she sees her father's name in full, and oh,
horror of horrors! in such a connection.
It was a paragraph similar to one which had so excited Marion's
indignation, but in this instance, with the full name instead of the
initials.
Mrs. Duxbury happening to pass through the hall at that moment, flew
to the poor girl as she suddenly, and for almost the first time in her
life, sank fainting to the floor. The newspaper was torn to pieces, and
the contents scattered under the table.
Hastily summoning her husband, with the help of one of the servants,
Emily was carried to her chamber, where she lay so long unconscious
that the lady was leaving the room to call a physician, when the poor
girl opened her eyes, and with a wild shriek, exclaimed,—
"It is false! It is cruelly false! Oh, it will kill me!"
Finding herself in her own room, and upon the bed, she sprang up,
saying, "I ought to be packing my trunk. I must go home. I must start
in the next train." Then a copious flood of tears came to her relief.
Dismissing every one from the chamber, Mrs. Duxbury drew the sobbing
girl to a chair, and endeavored to draw from her the cause of her
sudden grief.
"Oh, the paper, the cruel newspaper!" sobbed Emily. "Where is it? I
tore it up. No one must see it. The story is false. My dear, good,
honest father. Oh, how dreadful!"
"Shall I go and see whether the paper is destroyed or not?"
"Oh, if you would! But what shall I do? I can never be happy again. I
ought to be at home to comfort my dear father. And mother, how she will
mourn!"
Mrs. Duxbury left the room, wondering what had occurred, and soon
returned with scraps of the newspaper, which she crushed together in
her hand.
"Tell me all about it, my poor child," said the lady soothingly. "You
know I love you dearly, and for your sake, all who belong to you."
"I can't! I can't! It's too dreadful! Oh, Mrs. Duxbury, if you knew my
dear father, you'd be sure it isn't true! He would cut off his hands
before he would take what was not his own."
"And is such an outrageous charge brought against him? No wonder you
are angry. Tell me all about it, dear. Perhaps I can advise you what to
do."
Then Emily, with a shudder, hid her burning blushes in her hands, and
in an unsteady voice repeated the horrid words she had seen in the
paper.
"Have your parents ever hinted at any trial through which they were
passing?"
"Not a word," cried Emily, with sudden hope. "Is it possible there can
be two treasurers by the name of Henry Washburn?"
"That is not very probable, but still I think you are laboring under a
mistake. If it were true, your parents would never allow you to run the
risk of reading it in a public journal."
"I thought they wrote in uncommonly good spirits," said Emily, wiping
away her tears. "Mrs. Duxbury, did you ever have such a dreadful trial?
I can't pray, or any thing. I can only feel how terrible such a charge
must be to my dear, godly father. Don't you think I ought to go right
home?"
"Certainly not, until you hear from your parents. If it will be any
relief to you, Joseph shall go to the office when the morning mail
comes in. That will give you letters, if there are any, five or six
hours in advance of the usual time."
"Thank you. Oh, Mrs. Duxbury, I'm making you a great deal of trouble!
My heart aches so, I can't bear to see any body but you, and my
scholars will wonder where I am."
"Never mind the girls, dear. You must remember that your trouble is
my trouble, and I shall try to help you all I can. You know, my poor
child, where to go for abiding strength. I am going to leave you for a
little while. When Joseph comes back, I will bring you a letter if I
can."
Poor Emily When she was alone, she threw herself on her knees beside
the bed, and though her sobs were too frequent for audible petitions,
yet her whole heart went out to her sympathizing Saviour in a cry for
help, and for submission to bear whatever trials might be sent upon
her. Then she arose, and after bathing her swollen eyes, sat down to
reflect on the past. The very vagueness of the rumor, made it far
more distressing to her. Not for one instant did she give credit to
the terrible accusation, but she longed to know whether it had come
suddenly upon him. Who had dared point a finger at him? Were the score
of years in which he had walked blameless in the sight of his brethren,
of no account? What course would he pursue? Would her mother sink or
rise in such an emergency? And then poor Marion and Ruth. Josey was
too young to feel the affliction as the rest would. By the time Mrs.
Duxbury returned, her brain reeled with overwhelming suggestions.
"Why, my child, how pale you are," said the kind lady coming in with
a letter in her hand. "Here is something to cheer you, I hope and
believe. I shall give you half an hour to read it. See what a thick one
it is."
Probably in all her happy life, Emily had never read a letter of such
absorbing interest as the ten closely written pages she held in her
hand. Her mother began in her usual manner.
"Dear child," and then went on.
"An item relating to your father has found its way into the papers,
and I sit down this evening to write you in advance of your weekly
letter from home, lest you should happen to see it, and imagine the
circumstance much worse than they are. If you could take a peep into
the study at this moment, and see your father tied by twine strings to
Josey, at the same time that he is endeavoring to find out a puzzle
that the little rogue has brought home from school; and if you could
hear your father's hearty laugh at Josey's exultant airs, as he says,—
"'You can't find it out, papa. Will you give it up? It's real easy when
you know it,' then you would be sure that a good conscience can well
afford to wait God's time to bring to light whatever is momentarily
dark and obscure. Yet, Emily, we are in the midst of trial, and it is
right you should know about it. The only mistake your father has made,
of which I am aware, is, that for months this cloud has been hanging
over him, and he has kept it from us, hoping to save us from anxiety."
Mrs. Washburn then proceeded to relate the circumstance in detail. In
closing, she said,—
"I feel better, dear child, for having told you all this. I don't fear
the result of the trial, but I do dread the trial itself. I am resolved
to be present, and if Marion can control her indignation sufficiently
to keep quiet, I shall let her accompany me. I wish exceedingly that
we had a friend in whom we could confide, who would act as counsel for
your father. He confesses that he knows nothing whatever of the steps
he ought to take in preparation, or whether he ought to take any. But
the Bishop has proved himself very friendly, and will probably do all
that is needful.
"Widow Marsh died in triumph last Monday, with a prayer for your father
still on her lips. We were both present. It was good to be there. Oh,
my child, if we only live in the fear and love of God, it is easy, yes,
blessed to die, and go to a world where all is love and joy and peace."
Emily still sat with the open sheets in her hand, when, after a low
tap, Mrs. Duxbury reentered the chamber.
"I see," she said, with an affectionate kiss, "that your long letter
has relieved you. You have lost the strained expression of pain."
"Mrs. Duxbury," cried Emily, impulsively, "I am going to prove to
you how much I love you, and how grateful I am for your kindness, by
reading you mother's letter. I suppose," she added, wiping her eyes,
"that it will be made public, and I want you and Mr. Duxbury to know
all about it."
"Thank you, Emily. I don't think you will regret your confidence."
The young girl began with the first sheet and read every word. When she
came to the part where her mother said—
"Your father told the Bishop he wished to have a thorough investigation
of the whole affair,—"
with a burst of filial tears, Emily exclaimed—
"That doesn't look like a man who has defrauded the treasury."
Mrs. Duxbury sat very quiet during the reading, and when the letter was
finished, she seemed to be lost in thought. At last she said,—
"I know something of these ecclesiastical counsels or meetings of
reference, or whatever they are called. Tell me, Emily, am I right
about your father? Is he a man who believes every one as good as
himself?"
"Yes; he is wholly unsuspicious of evil."
"So I thought. Now to be examined by a company of gentlemen, even
though each individual is a saint by himself, needs a man who unites
the wisdom of the serpent with the harmlessness of the dove. I had a
friend, my dear, a cousin, who was under trial once, and—" she shook
her head in an expressive manner—"he was sacrificed,—yes, and when
he was in his grave with a broken heart, the truth which would have
vindicated him, all came out."
"Don't cry so, child. I tell you as a warning, your father isn't fit,
by his own confession, to conduct his case, and he must have some legal
friend to conduct it for him. Why don't you go to Judge Wilson and
consult him? He's a good friend to you, and as true as steel."
"I will! I will! Oh, Mrs. Duxbury, I feel better already. Does it cost
a great deal to employ a lawyer? You know I have more than a thousand
dollars. How gladly I will use that."
"Money is no consideration in such a case, Emily. I've had experience,
you know."
"I'm going to Judge Wilson's now. I'll tell him about that horrid piece
in the paper, and then read him mother's letter."
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