Chapter IV: The Gathering Cloud

MR. WASHBURN had for some time occupied his position as Secretary and Treasurer of the Missionary Association, and had become thoroughly identified with its interests, when after a Sunday of unusual fatigue, he went to his office in the city before returning to his home. It was a hot, sultry day in August, and he had risen in the morning with dizziness and pain in his head. Since then he had travelled forty miles in the cars, and he acknowledged to himself that it would be wise to reach home as soon as possible.

There was no one in the room with him but his clerk, who, by the way, was Barnes Bailey. As his dizziness increased, he tried to say, "I am not well. You had better call the doctor." But the words were too indistinct to be understood. This was the last of his recollection.

When he recovered his consciousness, he found himself in a chamber unfamiliar to him, no person in sight, but an exquisite picture of the Christ hanging on the wall opposite the bed. With his first movement, however, his wife started from her position at his side. Seeing that he recognized her, she uttered a fervent "Thank God!" then bent down and kissed his forehead, tears of joy, meanwhile, starting to her eyes.

"I remember," he said faintly. "I was ill and became unconscious. Where am I now?"

"With good friends, dear, but you mustn't talk. I'll tell you all, by-and-by."

"How long have I been here?"

"This is Wednesday. Barnes Bailey came out to Canterbury Monday noon. I found you had been brought here. Now you must rest; the Doctor will soon be in."

After a fortnight's convalescence Mr. Washburn was able to resume his labors, but during the succeeding autumn, he had several slight returns of what he called dizziness, and what his physician called indigestion. These were followed by longer or shorter periods of unconsciousness, no attack being as severe as the first.

On recovering from one of these, he found a letter on his office table in his own handwriting, which astonished and even alarmed him. The letter was addressed to a brother clergyman, but was so disconnected and one side of the object that it could not have failed of being misunderstood. He tore it into pieces and threw it into the waste basket, with a profound feeling of gratitude that it had not been sent. At the same time, he resolved that, when under the influence of these seizures, he would not attempt the transaction of business. Between the Rector and his clerk a pleasant relation existed, notwithstanding past events. Mrs. Washburn, too, after Barnes' apparent sympathy when her husband lay ill, treated him in a more unreserved manner than since his proposition for her daughter.

In the winter, Mr. Washburn was sensibly in more confirmed health than for several years. He went back and forth from his office nearly every day, instead of twice a week as at first. He labored without ceasing and with great success, but at length his wife was obliged to confess that he seemed to have a weight on his spirits. When he came home, instead of joining his family, he went at once to his study, and here his wife several times found him, sitting near his table, his head propped by his hand.

On her entrance, he always roused himself, and met her with a smile, but she was not deceived.

"What can it be?" she asked herself again and again.

Only one slight clue to the mystery was gained during the winter. She woke one night and found him pacing the chamber. Supposing her asleep, he spoke aloud in a wild, incoherent way. Then stopping, he threw his arms over his head, exclaiming,—

"Father in Heaven, help me! Am I losing my reason?"

Then falling on his knees, he prayed long and earnestly, though in tones too subdued for her to understand.

After this, for days when he was at home, she secretly watched him, but could discover not the slightest symptom of insanity.

In March, Mr. Temple, one of the gentlemen connected with the Mission Board, came to Canterbury, but without calling on Mr. Washburn. Marion and Ruth saw him go into several houses belonging to their former parishioners. Mrs. Washburn, to whom they stated the fact on their return home, thought nothing of the circumstance, and was much surprised when her husband exhibited great excitement, questioning each of his daughters on the subject, asking whether they were sure it was Mr. Temple, making them describe his appearance. Then when convinced that they had really seen him, sighing repeatedly.

Resolved at length to break through this reserve, his wife, the moment they were alone, inquired,—

"Of what consequence is it whether Mr. Temple made calls in Canterbury? You seemed to attach special importance to the fact."

"Because I know what he came for, and may God forgive him."

He uttered the words with a blanched face, but when she pressed him, "Henry, my husband, tell me. What is this mystery?"

He only said, faintly, "You will know soon enough, too soon, 'far' too soon."

The Saturday following, he hesitated long whether to fulfill an engagement to preach on missions in a distant parish. Twice his wife went to the study, but found the door locked.

Listening with some anxiety, she heard his voice in earnest supplication. Upon one petition he lingered long, as though his voice was stifled with grief.

"Father, help me to say, Thy will be done. But, O gracious God, if it
be right in Thy sight deliver me from snares too powerful for me."

For the first time, her courage gave way, and she hastened to her own chamber where for a long time, she wept convulsively. For months, anxious forebodings had weighed upon her spirits, and had seriously affected her health. It was with an effort she partook of food enough to sustain life, but she had never allowed her spirits to flag. Should her husband and children witness her despondence, they would feel that indeed all was lost.

When her grief had spent itself in tears, she fell on her knees to ask counsel of her Almighty Friend. Soothed and calmed by this exercise, she sat down to reflect upon her duty.

In a few minutes, she heard her husband's voice in the entry, asking,—

"Where's your mother, Ruth? I am going to take the next coach into town."

She hurried to meet him, one resolution having been born during the last hour, and this was to delay no longer to ask for that confidence which she felt that she had a right to demand. To her surprise, her husband's face was calm, almost peaceful.

Observing traces of tears on her cheek, he put his arm tenderly about her kissing her affectionately.

"Don't fear, my poor darling," he said. "Our sympathizing Saviour knows all our trials. I have been sadly wanting in faith, but I am comforted now by His gracious promises to His children."

"I'm sure I should feel better, Henry, if I knew the worst. I dread something, I know not what."

"Yes, dear. You have a right to know all that I do, but that will not solve the mystery which enshrouds me. I have had a letter this morning which calls me away on Monday, and I may not return till night; possibly not till Tuesday. Then I will tell you all that I know myself."

He took out his watch, glanced at the hour, then said hurriedly, "I have asked Marion to go in town with me. You do not object?"

"Would you rather have me go?"

"No, dear, not to-day. I almost wish Emily were here, for your sake, Mary, not for mine. Do the children suspect anything?"

"They often say how worn and sad papa looks, nothing more."

He sighed. "God knows," he faltered, "how painful it is for me to bring sorrow on their young lives. But I will trust. Yes, 'I will trust Him though He slay me.'"

It was nearly night when Marion returned, as she had taken advantage of her trip to do some necessary business for the family. As she opened the door into the sitting room, it was evident something had occurred to excite her. Though less impulsive than Emily, indeed she was usually quite calm, now her cheeks were crimson and her eyes flashing, while her whole appearance, as she tossed her travelling bag into the chair, betokened strong and perhaps angry emotion.

"I wish I hadn't gone to town," she exclaimed, in answer to three pairs of astonished eyes fixed full upon her. "I was never so vexed in all my life, not for myself, but for papa: poor, dear papa. He acted like a saint through it all. Oh, dear! I didn't know there were such horrid people in Canterbury. Mamma, what have we done that our old friends treat us so?"

"Do explain yourself, Marion. Treat us how?"

"Well, I'll try to tell you,—but I'm afraid I've done your shopping all wrong. I couldn't keep my mind on my errands a minute, and if I hadn't had your memorandum, I shouldn't have remembered half."

"Don't talk about memorandums," cried Ruth, impatiently. "You see how pale mamma is. You ought to tell her right off."

"I'm going to as soon as I get my breath. Oh, mamma, I'm so sorry for you!"—as she noticed her mother putting her trembling hands to her heart. "Perhaps I'd better not say any more."

"Go on," came feebly from the white lips. "Is your father safe?"

"Oh, yes. There is nothing the matter with him, only I do love him twenty thousand times better than ever. Well," with another glance at her mother's blanched face, "I'll tell you all about it."

"Papa and I walked dawn to the post office, and took the coach there. On the way, he urged me to be very attentive to you, mamma, and try to relieve you from all care,—and to keep Ruth and Josey at their lessons,—and to practice my music. I couldn't help thinking it was just as though he was going away for a year. I promised to be a good girl, and do my very best. Then he stopped at the door, and kissed me good-bye."

"Why, I'm going papa," I said.

"Oh, yes, I forgot. Get right in, my dear."

"Opposite us sat Hepsah Bancroft, just as stiff, with her nose up in the air. She looked me all over to my very shoes, and sniffed in a scornful manner. I tried not to care, and kept telling myself, 'She's a sour old maid,' but when she wouldn't return papa's bow, but stared at him as though he were a stranger, I wanted to scratch her. You know how papa visited her when she was so sick, and how we had to keep her supplied with jellies, because no one made them like ours, she said. Oh, I was real angry with her, and I'm glad I was. I'm sure it would have been wicked not to be.

"When we reached the four corners, Mr. Morse and his son-in-law, Joseph Gray, got in. Mr. Morse sat down by papa, before he saw who it was. When papa spoke and offered his hand, he started and the color flew all over his face. He just touched papa's fingers and let them drop, and after that, he turned and began to talk to Joseph as fast as he could. We had almost reached the city, when Hepsah Bancroft let her pocket-book fall. I saw it under her feet, but I was too angry to tell her. I hoped she'd lose it. She deserved to."

"Oh, Marion, my dear child!"

"Well, mamma, if you had been there, I believe you would have felt so too, good as you are. I wish you could have seen her nose. Oh, dear! After a while, papa saw the pocket-book, and picked it up for her."

"'I'm afraid you would meet with some inconvenience if you lost this,' he said, just as kindly as could be.

"What do you think she did? She snatched it from his hand, without even saying, thank you. The next minute, I heard her tell a woman next her, 'I'm sure I put it in my pocket. It's really getting unsafe to travel in these coaches. One never knows what is going to happen.'"

"Oh, dear, I hope I never shall feel so angry again! I had it on my lips to ask, 'Who do you suspect of stealing your old pocket-book?'

"When I happened to glance at papa, and there he was really smiling. He saw how I felt, and put his hand on mine, as he said in German, 'Never mind, my dear. As long as we have a clear conscience, it is of little consequence what others think of us.'"

"I think Hepsah Bancroft is hateful," exclaimed Josey; "I never will get her any more leaves or ferns."

"Yes, you will, Josey. Miss Bancroft has been very kind to you. I don't understand her conduct now, but I'm sure she'll be sorry some time."