OUT OF THE DEPTHS;

OR,

THE RECTOR'S TRIAL.

———— BY

MRS. MADELINE LESLIE

AUTHOR OF "HOME LIFE," "LESLIE SERIES," "TIM THE SCISSORS GRINDER," ETC., ETC. ————

"Out of the depths have I cried to Thee, O Lord."—David.

BOSTON:

PUBLISHED BY IRA BRADLEY & CO.

SUCCESSORS TO HENRY HOYT.

Copyrighted By IRA BRADLEY & CO. 1879.

DEDICATION. —————

TO MY

Precious Little Ones,

THESE VOLUMES ARE INSCRIBED, BY THEIR LOVING

GRANDMOTHER.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I.

SUNSET

CHAPTER II.

RETROSPECTION

CHAPTER III.

THE MISSIONARY ASSOCIATION

CHAPTER IV.

THE GATHERING CLOUD

CHAPTER V.

THE CLERGYMAN'S DAUGHTER

CHAPTER VI.

FRIENDSHIP

CHAPTER VII.

THE BURDEN SHARED

CHAPTER VIII.

CONFIDENCE

CHAPTER IX.

AULD ROBIN GRAY

CHAPTER X.

THE SQUIRE'S PARTY

CHAPTER XI.

THE IMPORTANT LETTER

CHAPTER XII.

THE CRUEL INNUENDO

CHAPTER XIII.

THE DAUGHTER'S GRIEF

CHAPTER XIV.

COUNSEL AND CLIENT

CHAPTER XV.

"THY WILL BE DONE"

CHAPTER XVI.

THE TELEGRAM

CHAPTER XVII.

THE GATE OF HEAVEN

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE STRANGE PROPOSITION

CHAPTER XIX.

THE COMMITTEE OF REFERENCE

CHAPTER XX.

THE ASTOUNDING DISCOVERY

CHAPTER XXI.

GOD'S ANSWER TO PRAYER

CHAPTER XXII.

CONCLUSION

OUT OF THE DEPTHS.

CHAPTER I.

SUNSET.

IT was the close of a lovely day in October, in the year of our Lord—but no matter what year. The morning king had been heralded by a rich display of fireworks: and now his departure caused a gorgeous illumination of the whole western sky. Purple and orange and amber and scarlet, rose bank upon bank, each color vying with the others in its endeavor to do honor to the departing monarch.

The place was Canterbury, a thriving village in the suburbs of the large city of —.

In a room with a pretty bay window looking towards the West, and which was obviously used as a study or library, a man of grave, earnest countenance, sat gazing upon the gorgeous scene.

"Wondrous beauty!" he murmured. "The work of thy fingers, O God. Thou hast prepared the light and the sun."

"Shall I tell you, Henry?" inquired a soft voice at his side. "Of what I was thinking as I looked upon that display of splendor? These precious words flashed into my mind:

"'For the Lord God is a sun and shield.'

"Surely a Being who can paint the heavens like that before us, with the sun as a centre from which all those gorgeous hues radiate,—who likens himself to a sun, has power to throw light upon the darkest paths. Believe me, Henry, according to his promise, He will be a shield to us in the coming storm."

A profound sigh was for a moment the only answer. Then the man, trying to infuse a tone of hopefulness into his voice, said:

"Thank you, Mary, and I thank God continually, that in the midst of my trials, I have a hopeful wife. But," he added, sighing again, "I am heavily burdened. I feel strangely desponding to-night. The adversary of souls has been busy with me. I am ready to sink. If it were not for you and our children, I would like to flee and hide myself from the face of man."

"Oh, Henry! Oh, my husband! You have indeed been tempted. That would look like guilt, and you are as innocent of this crime as a new born babe."

"In intention, I certainly am."

"Well, isn't that enough to make us thankful all our lives? Suppose now, that you had violated your trust, you might then talk of hiding yourself from man: and I should want to take the children and fly with you. But we could not hide from God: and only think of the horror of feeling His anger,—of not daring to ask Him to be our friend and protector and sun and shield, and refuge from all danger. Oh, Henry, think of that; nothing certainly, now that you are innocent, can make us wretched, like knowing that our heavenly Father is angry with us."

"You are right, Mary, and I am wrong,—wanting in faith in Him who afflicteth his children for their profit. Like Job I will try to say,—

"'Shall we receive good at the hand of the Lord, and shall we not receive evil?'"

"Look, Henry, the sun has sunk out of sight, but we know, because we have the promise, that it shall rise again to-morrow to gladden our hearts. Why can't we feel the same confidence in his promise to work all things for good to those who love him. You remember the precious words you took for a text, just before your voice failed.

"'The Lord upholdeth all that fall, and raiseth up all those that be bowed down.'"

"Yes, Mary, those are indeed precious words. I have pleaded them in prayer, and felt their power of late as I never did before,—and the following verses,—

"'The Lord is nigh to all them that call upon Him, to all that call upon Him in truth. He will fulfil the desire of them that fear Him: He also will hear their cry, and will save them. The Lord preserveth all them that love Him: but all the wicked will he destroy.'"

"Oh, Henry, it does seem as if those words were written expressly for us. I have never felt so hopeful since—since our trouble came. I see now why we've had temptations from Satan. We've been trying to carry our burden ourselves, instead of asking help from above. We won't do so any more, will we?"

She passed her arm within his, as she spoke, and he turned his face towards hers, with a glance fraught with love, anxiety and tenderness. This expression was quickly followed by one of anguish, which in the deepening twilight she did not see. And it was happy for her that she did not.

The bell at this moment summoned them to supper, a summons they at once obeyed, and presently entered an adjoining apartment, sitting and dining room combined, where Marion, Ruth and Josey stood ready to receive the praises they felt to be their due for having prepared so tempting a repast.

A double pile of smoking hot waffles, buttered and sugared to the taste, was flanked on one side by a dish of stewed pears, and on the other by a plate of fresh gingerbread. Tea for the elders, and milk for the children, finished the bill of fare for the meal.

The Rector took his station behind his chair, and with his right hand slightly raised, as was his custom, proceeded to invoke God's blessing on the food his providence had provided, after which all took their seats.

While the younger ones, at least, enjoyed their meal unmindful of cares or anxieties, we will go back a few years in the history of the family, and explain the nature of the burden which had fallen on the parents.

CHAPTER II.

RETROSPECTION.

REV. Henry Washburn settled in the ministry at the age of twenty-eight years. Soon after his graduation from the divinity school,—where we may add he took first rank in his class—he was called to be Rector of St. Mark's, a flourishing parish in Canterbury. There was no Rectory, and he spent two-thirds of the small patrimony he had inherited from his parents, in purchasing a small house at a short distance from the then new church edifice. Connected with the house, and without which the owner would not sell, were fourteen acres of land in a lamentable state of starvation, for want of fertilization. For years this was only fit for the growth of sorrel, with occasional tufts of coarse grass, from which last it acquired the respectable name of pasturage.

To this home, the young Rector, a few months after his installation, brought his bride Mary Lawton, as ardent and full of zeal for the glorious cause of bringing souls to the knowledge and love of Christ, as her husband. By the blessing of his great Master upon his faithful, unwearying labors, his ministry had been eminently a successful one. The list of names in the catalogue of church members, doubled and trebled in the course of seventeen years, nor were they mere names, but live, working men, women and children, the majority of whom let their light shine to win others from darkness, instead of hiding it under a bushel.

Every man has his hobby, and it was true that the Rector had his. He talked about it in season and out of season. He preached upon it directly and indirectly. His hobby was founded upon this text as applied to Christians:—

"'By their fruits ye shall know them.'"

"It is of small value," he said, repeatedly, "for a man to make professions of godliness, if he does not live a godly, righteous and sober life. If he professes benevolence toward his fellow creatures, and will not give a dollar to save them from starvation, what is his profession worth? If he professes temperance, and is known to indulge in the wine cup—to visit drinking saloons, and prefers for associates men with bleared eyes and tottering limbs, will he be an honor or a disgrace to his profession? If he professes love to the Saviour, who shed his blood to procure pardon for the guilty, and never raises his voice to warn or to win those around him, what is his profession worth?"

While the church flourished, and its members became an example for others, the Rector's home grew more beautiful within and without. An immense, ark-like barn, stood at the lower end of his land, at the corner of two streets. At a convenient opportunity, he sold this and ten thousand feet of land, to a gentleman who finished the building off for a factory for painting oil-cloth. The money thus derived, gave him the means of adding another story to his small house, and an L in the rear of the kitchen; the room previously used for cooking being converted into a sitting and dining room. One of the front rooms was the Rector's study, the other a parlor, seldom used in winter. On the South end, a wide piazza without a covering, ran the whole length, including the portico covered with woodbine and prairie rose, which had been built with the house.

From the dwelling, the ground sloped suddenly down to the street, a distance of about fifty feet. Access to this had formerly been gained by an awkward flight of stone steps, and an overgrown foot-path to the front door. In the course of time, a pretty, shaded avenue was opened, which curved up from a gate on one side to the door, and then down to a gate at equal distance on the other. Then the old path was ploughed up, enriched and sodded with grass like the rest of the lawn—the stone steps given to a neighboring farmer in payment for the work on the new lawn.

Another year saw little patches of flowers in the form of rhombuses and rhomboids, and various other mathematical figures to suit the taste of the ladies: for by this time there were small duplicates of our friend Mary, the eldest, by name Emily, volunteering her opinion freely on the subject of landscape gardening, without waiting to be urged to do so.

Still later, the dearly loved home was rendered perfect,—to the inmates at least—by the bay window thrown out by Emily from papa's study, while he was gone to Convention. The means to pay John Pratt & Sons, carpenters and jobbers, being turned into this channel from the original one of purchasing a black silk dress, of quality sufficiently firm to stand alone, said silk to be a gift from Mrs. Emily Lawton, her aunt for whom she was named.

During all these years, the sum of three thousand dollars remaining from the Rector's patrimony, over and above the purchase of the farm, had been left at interest in a bank in the neighboring city, where it had swelled to what the owners considered a very neat little fortune. From time to time, as his family increased, his people had considerately added to his salary. He had a wife who was truly a helpmeet, four children like olive plants around his table, an affectionate, appreciative flock, and a wide field for usefulness in the service of a Master, whom his soul loved.

He often asked himself, "Was ever man so favored of the Lord as I am favored?"

Emily Lawton was in her eighteenth year, when her father, while returning from evening service at his mission chapel, was overtaken by a shower, and got so wet that a violent cold followed, which completely prostrated him. An affection of the lungs succeeded, the worst symptom being the entire loss of voice. A most pleasing solicitude was manifested by his people, who generously hired a supply for the pulpit, and allowed his salary to go on month after month. Then they voted him a generous sum to pay the expense of his spending one winter in a warmer climate, promising that his family should not want while he was away.

It was not till the end of a year from the commencement of his illness, that the parish with great reluctance consented to the sundering of the tie which had so happily bound them to their Rector for twenty years.

Mr. Washburn, on his return from the South, finding his voice still insufficient for the demands of the pulpit, sent his resignation to his wardens, with an earnest request that they would accept it, stating that his conscience would not allow him longer to remain their pastor, while not able to perform a pastor's duties: and closing with a fervent prayer that God would direct them to a man who would proclaim to them the truth as it is in Jesus, as he had, though in a most humble manner, endeavored to do.

This request caused great excitement in the parish. All the female portion exclaimed against it, and many of the male members. Churchwardens and vestry were inclined to the opinion that they had better hire a preacher for a year, and allow their dearly loved Rector time to recover. In the end, however, Mr. Washburn convinced them that it was wisest both for them and him, that a new Rector should be settled over them. He promised, however, to remain for the present among them, assuring them that they would always be like loved children to him and to his wife.

I wish to be minute concerning these facts, because of their connection with after events.

When the separation finally took place, a large number of the church and parish met at the house of their late Rector, and presented him with a purse of money as a token of their deep affection. No man was more prominent in expressing his regret at the resignation than a member bearing the euphonious name of Barnes Bailey, who had once incurred the censure of his Rector, and at length even expulsion from the church. He had, however, forsaken his evil ways, and been readmitted to the fellowship of the church.

If any one had ever doubted the sincerity of his penitence, and the truthfulness of his grateful affection toward one who had checked him in his downward career, his conduct on this occasion was calculated to set their doubts at rest. He shed tears as he warmly pressed Mr. Washburn's hand at parting, and thanked him for the faithfulness and watchful care which had "plucked him as a brand from the burning."

Still there was one who secretly doubted him, who distrusted his piety and his ready tears. This one was Emily Lawton, the Rector's daughter.

CHAPTER III.

THE MISSIONARY ASSOCIATION.

LONG before Mr. Washburn had found the bottom of the purse presented by his people, he had received an appointment to be Secretary and Treasurer of one of the great benevolent societies of the day. The appointment was particularly acceptable, as it brought him into constant association with those who had long been intimate friends,—gentlemen with whom he had labored and prayed for the advancement of the cause of missions. This appointment also enabled him to live in his own house at Canterbury.

Though his voice was still feeble, he was thankful to find that as his general health became firm, he could speak with more ease. As his business required him to visit the parishes in the Diocese, and as far as possible to present the cause of missions, his first object was to prepare a plain statement of facts, with which he was already perfectly familiar. This lecture, or sermon, from the text, "Go ye into all the world and preach the gospel to every creature," became exceedingly popular. With various changes and amplifications, Mr. Washburn preached it more than a hundred times in the course of the succeeding two years. Never had the funds of the society been so large as during this period.

But to return to Mr. Washburn's family. Emily and Marion, the two elder girls, had been educated by their father with great care. Emily, in particular, discovered a special aptness for the acquisition of languages, and her father, who ranked among the first as a classical scholar, had taught her Latin and Greek. With German and French she was also familiar,—Mr. Washburn having playfully enforced a law that there should be a German day and a French day, when at meals not a word of English should be spoken.

Music, both social and instrumental, was, however, Emily's specialty. Long before her tiny fingers could span an octave, her mother commenced teaching her the scales upon a piano brought with her as a bride. From the time she was sixteen, Emily had enjoyed the advantage of a teacher in the neighboring city, going thither twice a week for the purpose, in an omnibus which ran hourly between the two places.

Except occasional visits to her aunt Emily and her grandmother Lawton, the young girl had seen little of the world. It was quite natural, therefore, that on her father being thrown out of employment, she should urge her desire to leave home, and become a teacher of music.

This project at first met with strong opposition. But circumstances arose which caused Emily to urge her request with great vigor, and her parents, with reluctance, gave a conditional consent.

The circumstance alluded to was this. Mr. Bailey, or Barnes Bailey, as he was universally called, had fallen into the habit of calling at the house of his former Rector with great frequency, and when there, directed much of his conversation to Emily. Mr. Washburn, in the overflowing of a heart full of love and charity, entertained a special regard for the young man, whom he believed himself to have been instrumental in assisting, and whom he considered sincere in his expressions of deep penitence. He therefore welcomed the gentleman with great cordiality to his house and table. Mrs. Washburn, taking the initiative from her husband, also treated him with marked kindness.

Not so Emily. When obliged to be present during his calls and visits, she treated him as coolly as civility would allow. His approach to the house was her signal for leaving it if possible, certainly, of returning to her own chamber. As his attention to her became more marked, her distrust and dislike of him increased. She began to shudder when she met the glance of his usually cold, gray eye, but she kept these feelings locked in her own breast. Not even to her sister Marion, her loving confidant on almost every subject, did she hint at her suspicions and her distrust; and so skilfully did she excuse herself on the plea of other engagements that for a long time no one suspected her motive in absenting herself from the room.

Barnes Bailey was, however, not a man to be hindered when he had set his heart upon any object. He determined, if Emily would not see him, she should read his letters, and from this time, presented her with little missives delivered by her brother Josey, who was innocent enough to believe what was told him by Barnes, that the notes contained Sunday School questions. Whatever they did contain, Emily's fine eyes flashed whenever she found one of these epistles on her table, and threw several of them into the fire without reading.

A day soon arrived when she was obliged to meet the subject face to face. Her father, one morning, requested her to walk with him to visit an old parishioner who was dying in consumption. He then handed her a letter which, with a smile, he requested her to read. It contained a proposition for her hand in marriage, with the implication that the writer had her consent to address her father.

"It is false!" she cried, her eyes flashing, and her thin nostrils dilating with anger. "I have never given him the least encouragement. The letters to which he here alludes, I threw into the fire without unsealing."

"But why, my daughter? The offer he makes is an honorable one, though I am far from wishing you to form an engagement at so early a period of life. It took me by surprise at first. You are a mere child, only little, loving Emily to me, my dear."