Chapter VII: The Burden Shared

MONDAY noon, Monday evening came, but the absent one, about whom were clustering so many anxious forebodings, did not return.

"Supper with papa's favorite dish of cream-toast, and he not here," exclaimed Ruth, after gazing down the street from the study window. "Let's tell Ann to set it in the warmer, mamma, and wait for the next coach."

This was agreed to by all except Joseph, who complained that he was "so" hungry. But the next coach and three succeeding ones lumbered by, and still the Rector came not.

"He said he might not be here till Tuesday," Mrs. Washburn reminded her daughters, trying to resist the gloom that seemed spreading all around them. "We had better have prayers and retire."

Turning aside from the chapter in course, she read with great feeling the ninety-first psalm, dwelling for a moment on the precious promise,—

"Surely He shall deliver thee from the snare of the fowler and from the noisome pestilence. He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings shalt thou trust."

"You have often seen the hen-mother," she said, "in time of danger, call her young brood and shelter them under her wings, covering them almost out of sight with her feathers. There they feel perfectly secure from harm. So our Heavenly Father, our Almighty Friend promises to shield His children from evil. Enemies may, indeed, lurk around and come very close, but with God for our protector, we may rest in quietness and peace."

"What a wonderful book the Bible is, mother," said Marion, with deep feeling. "It has words of comfort for everybody."

"Yes, my dear, which is one strong proof of its divine origin. Now let us sing your father's hymn,—

"'Nearer, my God, to thee—

"and then ask His loving care to be around us through the night."

The dear father was not forgotten in the petitions which followed. All the family joining in them were more willing after the sweet promises to which they had listened, to leave him in divine care.

Mrs. Washburn tarried a few minutes after the rest retired, then went to her daughters' chamber for a good-night kiss, glanced at Josey, who, with his arms thrown over his head, had forgotten all cares in the present or future, and then sought her own room.

The night was lovely. The moon was full, and its soft rays fell upon the floor; the shadows from a horse-chestnut tree near by flickering and changing into graceful pictures as the leaves outside were rustled in the gentle breeze.

Carrying the light she held in her hand into the hall, she drew the curtain to the top and stood gazing out upon the quiet scene. For some minutes she stood thus, her heart raised in prayer to the Creator of all this loveliness, when her attention was directed to a traveller coming toward her across the field opposite. Almost holding her breath with excitement, she kept her eyes fixed on the man until, as he leaped the wall and crossed the road to enter their gate, she recognized her husband.

"Where can he have come from on foot at this hour?" she asked herself, as she softly glided down the stairs to let him in.

She was so much astonished at the wild, haggard expression that met hers, that she was unable to articulate a word. She stood one moment absolutely dumb, holding the open door in her hand, till he asked sadly:

"Have you no welcome? I thought when all others failed me, I should be welcomed here."

"My dear husband, my own Henry. It was my surprise which, for a moment, kept me silent. I thank God that you have returned in safety."

"I am faint and weary," he murmured. "I have walked from P—."

"What, three miles beyond the city! Here, lie down on the sofa and let me cover you. You are perspiring so freely you will take cold. Now I will have something ready for you in a minute."

A door above opened softly, and a glad voice inquired,—

"Has papa come? I thought I heard papa's voice."

"Yes, dear, he has come."

"'Welcome, dear papa, welcome home!" shouted down Marion and Ruth. "We shall sleep better now that we know you are here."

"Poor girls! Poor children! Perhaps they will not say so to-morrow night. But I wrong them. O, God, forsake me not."

Like the true wife that she was, Mrs. Washburn put by her own anxiety, and soon appeared with a tray containing a covered dish, sugar, cream, and a plate of cold roast beef. She ran back for a plate, knife, fork and cup, saying, with a smile, as she set them before him,—

"Fortunately the tea-kettle was almost boiling. The tea will be ready in a minute."

He seemed scarcely to hear her. He had covered his face with his hands, and was breathing heavily.

"Come, Henry. You will feel better when you have eaten. This is Marion's toast. She made it for you, and insisted on keeping it, for we expected you every hour until the last coach came in."

"Look in the pocket of my coat for some papers," was all his reply.

She took out two letters, and asked, wondering, "Is that all?"

"Yes," after a glance at them, which caused a flush to rise all over his pale face. "I thought of tearing them to pieces. I was afraid I had."

The wife's heart beat wildly. Every moment her wonder increased. "What could he mean?" But she never doubted him.

Seeing that he made no movement to rise, she pulled a small table close to the sofa, poured out a cup of tea and held it toward him.

He took the cup and drained it.

"Yes," he said, "I need food. I have tasted nothing since—I can't remember when I ate anything. It seems so long ago. What day is it, Mary?"

"Monday, dear, Monday night. Now please me by eating this," laying a piece of rare beef upon his plate where she had already placed some toast.

He looked earnestly in her face, put up his finger and wiped away a tear which all her self-control could not keep back, then sighing heavily, turned to the food and did not stop until the plates were cleared.

"I feel better, stronger. Now, before you sleep, I must tell you the trial that has befallen me. Mary, dear, faithful wife, when we pledged our vows to each other, I did not anticipate that I should have to—But you shall read the Bishop's letter. I cannot tell you in words with what I am charged."

She took the envelope, her hands trembling so much that she could scarcely remove the note from its enclosure, and read the following words:—

"REV. HENRY WASHBURN,

"DEAR SIR:—It is with the most profound regret that I proceed to the accomplishment of a duty toward one whom I have highly esteemed and loved for his work's sake. I am credibly informed that there is a large deficit in the funds placed in your charge. Funds raised by yourself by contributions from churches in our diocese, for a purpose so sacred that it would have seemed that they were in no danger of being misapplied. Other circumstances in connection with this sad charge, have been related to me by those in whom I have confidence. I have endeavored hitherto to keep my mind unbiassed. There is a possibility of mistake.

"'It is unlikely,' I have urged to those who have come to me, 'that a brother whose character has been free from stain for forty years, should be led to commit sacrilege.'

"It is my wish to see you as soon as possible, and will remain in the
city till Tuesday morning for that purpose.

"Yours in Christ,—

"———— —————."

The Rector scarcely drew a breath, as he sat watching the effect of this communication upon his wife.

She read it through, and then with a gasp of excitement, tossed the letter upon the table.

"You staid in the city to see the Bishop, then," she asked, her voice tremulous with suppressed excitement. "I hope you insisted on his telling you from whom this infamous accusation originated. I hope you did not go to him faint from the want of food—as ghastly and pale as you came home. I hope you convinced him that you are as incapable of committing such a crime, as an angel from heaven. Oh, Henry, why didn't you tell me this long ago. I understand it all now,—the conversation suddenly checked as we entered, the looks askant, Hepsah Bancroft's sneers. Oh, that I had known this before! I would have—"

"Stop, Mary! I cannot say that the charge is unfounded."

"What!" starting away from him. "I cannot have heard aright. Oh, that I should live to hear my husband confess such a crime." With a cry which rent his heart, the poor wife fell forward, and would have struck the floor, had he not caught her, and laid her on the sofa.

"I feared such a result," he faltered, in the saddest tone.

Mary's condition began to alarm him. The fountain of her grief was unloosed, and she sobbed till her whole frame was convulsed.

"Oh, Henry, my heart is breaking. I wish I had died before you told me this. Oh, my Emily, so proud of her father's good name. Poor child! Poor children, all of them!"

"Mary! Mary! Hear me. I don't think you understood me. Surely you, who know me so well, cannot believe that I wilfully and in my right mind, abstracted money from the funds in my care."

Hope once more dawned in her eye, as she started up crying,—

"What do you mean, then?"

"You know those fits of unconsciousness? I was unfit for business then and I might have—but no, I cannot believe it. Mary, I depend on you to help me. I am bewildered. The torture and suspense of the last months have told upon my nerves. One thing I can say. Before God, I am innocent of wrong intention in this thing."

"Then I care for nothing else, not for Bishops or all the world." She clasped her arms around his neck, and imprinted passionate kisses on his forehead, eyes and lips. She caught his hands, and fondled them as she would the dearest treasure on earth.

"Forgive me," she sobbed, again and again, "for having doubted you for one instant. Nothing but your own words, which I misunderstood, could have made me doubt you. No, my husband, you erred only in this, that you did not confide to me your sorrows the first moment you were afflicted with them. Now let us kneel, and cast our burden on one better able to bear it than we are. One whose arms are already outstretched to take it."

"Will you pray, Mary?"

They kneeled side by side, the wife still clasping her husband's hand, while she uttered the following brief petitions:

"We are thankful, O Lord, that we are in the presence of one who knows the purposes of the heart, as well as the actions of the life, and that it is by our motives for good or for evil that we shall be judged, or condemned. We leave our cause with thee, pleading thy promises to appear for us, and bring to light that which is dark.

"Help us to avoid the sin of unkind thoughts to which we are tempted, and to rest upon Thee with the trust of little children. For our Saviour's sake, we, thy unworthy servants, ask these and all other favors. Amen."

"Now, Henry," she said, turning to her husband with a real smile, "having given our burden to the Lord, don't let us take it back again. Remember the sweet words you used to urge on me when you were ill, and I was so fearful of the result:

"'Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on Thee:
because he trusteth in Thee.'"