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Title: Deep Waters
       Or A Strange Story


Author: R. H. (Robert Hoskins) Crozier



Release Date: May 26, 2021  [eBook #65445]

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8


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DEEP WATERS,


Or A Strange Story

by

REV. R. H. CROZIER,

Author of “Fiery Trials,” “Araphel,” “Cave of Hegobar,” “Confederate
Spy,” “Bloody Junto,” &c., &c.


“When through the Deep Waters I call thee to go.”






St. Louis:
Publishing House Of Farris, Smith & Co.
919 Olive Street.

Copyright by R. H. Crozier.
All Rights Reserved.




CONTENTS.


CHAPTER I.
                              PAGE.
The Young Graduate                5


CHAPTER II.

A Great Change                   30


CHAPTER III.

The Mysterious Voice             51


CHAPTER IV.

A Rival                          76


CHAPTER V.

Deep Waters                      99


CHAPTER VI.

Manassas                        126


CHAPTER VII.

After the Battle                136


CHAPTER VIII.

Hard Truths                     151


CHAPTER IX.

“Off to the Wars”               168


CHAPTER X.

A Dangerous Mission             182


CHAPTER XI.

A Brave Girl                    196


CHAPTER XII.

In Prison                       209


CHAPTER XIII.

A Desperate Man                 226


CHAPTER XIV.

Dark Hours                      245


CHAPTER XV.

A Remarkable Event              260


CHAPTER XVI.

A Confederate Marriage          277


CHAPTER XVII.

Peace                           283


CHAPTER XVIII.

The Drunkard                    295


CHAPTER XIX.

The Crime                       308


CHAPTER XX.

The Prison                      317


CHAPTER XXI.

The Trial                       329


CHAPTER XXII.

The Last Scene                  341


The Sermon                      350




DEEP WATERS.




CHAPTER I.

THE YOUNG GRADUATE.


In the latter part of June 18-- the little city of Oxford, Miss.,
was teeming with visitors, not only from various portions of the
State, but from the adjoining States of Tennessee, Alabama, Arkansas
and Louisiana. This concourse of people was no unusual spectacle to
the citizens of Oxford; for it was but the gathering that occurred
regularly once a year. The center of attraction to this fashionable,
well-dressed assemblage was the University of Mississippi, which has
sent forth hundreds of young men intellectually equipped for the stern
struggle for existence--a struggle, the contemplation and investigation
of which gave birth to Mr. Darwin’s doctrine of “The survival of the
fittest.” What was the meaning of this concourse? It was _Commencement
day_. The University would again dismiss another class of her children
to assume the grave responsibilities of citizenship, and to enter
into the new and strange relations for which they had been preparing
by years of diligent study. At last, they were to lay aside the _toga
virilis trita_, and don the _toga pexa_ of manhood. It was the last
day, and the exercises of the graduating class were to close the week’s
programme.

At an early hour the crowd of visitors and the citizens of Oxford
began to fill up the chapel, and by the time the speaking was to
begin, the large and commodious structure was packed with a dense mass
of eager, intelligent humanity; for it was generally the _elite_ of
the country that gathered here on these interesting occasions. The
class of this year was unusually large, and was distinguished for
intellectual attainments. Sitting in the long row of chairs in front of
the _rostrum_, they constituted as fine a body of young men as could
be collected from the South. What a variety of destinies lay before
them! How many would ever rise to eminence in any department of human
activity! How many would go down to premature graves without any
opportunity of justifying the fond anticipations of their friends! How
many would disappoint the expectations of their affectionate parents,
many of whom proudly gazed upon them as they performed their parts in
the programme! There was much speculation that day as to what these
young men would achieve upon the arena of active life. It would be, no
doubt, very interesting if we could trace the subsequent history of
each and all, but our present undertaking will compel us to confine
our attention to only one of the class, whose career was sufficiently
remarkable to be rescued from the darkness of that obscurity in which
the large majority of his mates have disappeared.

At length the speaking began. The first speaker was listened to
with attention which novelty secures. The next found a difficulty
in making himself heard in the remoter parts of the building, the
consequence of which was considerable whispering in the seats that
were beyond the compass of his voice. The next four or five speakers
labored under the disadvantage of trying to overcome that buzz and
hum of conversation, _sotto voce_, which is generally a disturbing
element when the orator cannot reach the whole of his audience.
But a wonderful change was soon to come over this congregation, now
becoming rapidly demoralized by forgetting or ignoring the demands of
etiquette. For when the next speaker was called, a young man responded
whose pale cast of countenance indicated the world’s ideal student.
His splendid _physique_ at once arrested the attention of the entire
assembly, and there was a strange, sudden lull, for which no one could
account. Those in the rear of the chapel straightened themselves, and
leaned forward, as if fearful that they would lose the first words of
the orator. The ladies ceased fanning, and fastened their eyes upon
the elegant form now standing in graceful attitude on the crowded
rostrum. It was evident that something unusual was expected. Would the
assembly be disappointed and disgusted? Would the external marks of
genius prove fallacious? The young man bowed gracefully, straightened
himself, paused for an instant, and gazed modestly, but in perfect
self-possession, at the sea of upturned, eager faces. Slowly came
forth the first sentences flowing on a voice as clear as a silver
trumpet, and yet as soft as the breeze which was at that moment
soughing through the broad oaks of the surrounding forest. The tones,
and, in fact, everything else about the young man appeared to be in
consonance with his subject, which the audience saw, on glancing at
the programme, was “Man was made to mourn.” It was a theme which, of
course, admitted of no profound reasoning, and no startling argument.
None was attempted, and none was expected. The auditors tacitly offered
their emotions to be swayed as the orator willed. The people made
no resistance, but seemed to yield at once to the strange, subtile
influence which was stealing over them, and insinuating itself into
their hearts like an invisible current of electricity. The smiles
vanished from every face as the youthful speaker, in a slightly
quivering voice, portrayed scenes of human sorrow and suffering, in
order to establish his proposition. In a little while tears were seen
rolling down grave cheeks. Young ladies endeavored to laugh at the
“ridiculous scene,” as some called it, but the crystal drops glistened
in their eyes. At last, when the young man sat down, nothing was heard
but suppressed sobs and efforts to clear the nasal duct of its liquid
obstructions. At first there was no applause: people seemed unwilling
that the spell should be broken. But presently, seeming to realize that
the effort deserved more than the silent attestation of the lachrymal
gland, they suddenly burst forth into thunders of applause, such as
had never before awoke echoes in the classic grove that sheltered the
chapel. Those who had printed programmes again looked at the name of
this young man. It was Ernest Edgefield.

Who was he? Whence did he come? Such were the questions which
immediately followed this effort, the most remarkable that had ever
been witnessed in the University of Mississippi. It was ascertained
that day, that there was nothing very eventful or wonderful in his
history. His parents had died when he was small, leaving, however,
sufficient means to support him till he could obtain a collegiate
education. Such was his brief history. But what would be his future?
Everybody felt that his career would be brilliant; that the young
man must achieve a degree of success commensurate with his wonderful
oratory. We will at once follow up his footsteps.

Ernest determined to adopt the law as his profession. He now had
barely funds to defray his expenses through the Law School, but as he
did not wish to lose time, he resolved to exhaust his entire means
in the completion of his legal education. At the expiration of two
years he was graduated with distinction; but he was penniless, and had
to begin the battle with nothing but his education and energy. His
guardian, with whom our reader will soon become better acquainted,
agreed to board him without pay till the young man’s efforts should
be crowned with that material success, which the Reverend gentleman
thought must attend the exercise of such talents as his young ward
possessed. When the parents of Ernest died, he was left to the care
of a minister of the Baptist denomination, in whom they had unbounded
confidence. His name was Joseph Hillston. He at once took the boy to
his house, and made no difference between him and his own children. By
a judicious management of the small property left in his hands, Mr.
Hillston kept the youth in college till his education was completed,
at which time Ernest had attained his majority. Mr. Hillston then
turned over to him the remainder of his property, which, as stated,
was entirely absorbed by his two year’s course at the Law School. And
now he had no money, but he was animated by a lofty purpose, and a
determination to conquer, before which he felt that difficulties must
vanish. No one seemed to doubt that the brilliant young lawyer, with
his splendid accomplishments, would subordinate destiny to his will,
and would soon stand at the head of the legal fraternity. Indeed, some
predicted that he would, at last, reach the highest office that the
people could bestow. And why should he not? Not a single element of
success was lacking, so far as his friends could see. His attainments
appeared to be equal to the demands of the most vaulting ambition.
What, then, should he care for difficulties, except as a stimulus to
arouse his energies?

But what little, insignificant trifles turn the barque of destiny into
channels of which the pilot never dreamed! It is not violent storms
that change the course of this allegorical barque; because the pilot is
prepared for great disturbances and obstacles. It was a moment of sleep
that caused Palinurus to fall over-board into the sea: a hurricane
could not have produced the same disastrous result. It is the little
things that change the current of human life. A spider’s web sometimes
turns the vessel’s helm: the echo of a word destroys the equilibrium of
circumstances. Late in life man finds himself driven into a port which
had never entered into the programme of possibilities. All this will be
illustrated in the progress of the present story.

A few days after Ernest returned from the Law School, there was seen on
the door of an unpretending office, in his native town, a square piece
of metal, exhibiting in gilded letters, “_Ernest Edgefield, Attorney at
Law_.”

Our young lawyer had not the most remote idea of settling permanently
in this little town, where he would have to fritter away his energies
and cramp his mind in such narrow litigation as must arise in rural
courts, but he fully intended, after a while, to seek a field of
broader dimensions, which would call forth all his legal lore, and
cause him to put forth all the strength of which he was capable.
His present location was only the stepping-stone to his loftier
aspirations, and which, he thought, would detain him only till he could
acquire sufficient means to justify his removal to some city where his
talents could find room for development.

It was not long before Ernest’s fond hopes and the justifiable
expectations of his friends began to emerge from the shade of
possibilities into the sunshine of realities. Legal business flowed in,
and Ernest, at the very outset of his career, found himself entrusted
with the management of as important cases as ever require judicial
investigation in a provincial court.

But Ernest could not thus go on forever, thinking of nothing but the
immediate object of his ambition, and dreaming only of deeds and legal
parchments and bags of gold. At an early day in his career a path of
destiny began to open in the misty future, different from that which he
had at first marked out for himself. In the town there lived a young
lady whom he had known from childhood. For several years, however, she
had occupied scarcely a single thought of his, attributable to the fact
that both had been absent at school. Both returned home the same month
to enter upon their respective careers, which seemed to be as far apart
as zenith and nadir, since the charming, gilded path of ease, leisure
and idleness lay before the one, and the path of work, diligence, and
activity lay before the other.

Clara Vanclure was the only child of a wealthy merchant. Her prospects
were regarded as very brilliant, since the probability was, she would
inherit all her father’s property, consisting of lands and plantations
as well as stores, and estimated at not less than two millions of
dollars. As might be expected, she was a “spoiled child,” yet, she
was beautiful, and accomplished to the full extent of her capacities,
which, strict truth compels us to say, were not, by any means, of
the highest order. But the dazzling mantle of vast wealth hides a
mighty multitude of faults. There is a confusing glamour about “great
possessions,” which so fascinates and bewitches, that the judgment of
men cannot be properly exercised. The sneering cynic, like growling
Diogenes, may affect to despise wealth, but in his heart he respects
the owner, who controls such a source of commercial power and social
influence. We may have a contempt for the rich man’s character, but in
spite of ourselves, we stand in awe of the Magician’s mysterious ring
which he wears on his finger. It was wealth that gave an additional
luster to Miss Vanclure’s accomplishments.

When Ernest again met the young lady, after a separation of several
years, both were changed by the uncontrollable vicissitudes of
time. She especially had developed from an awkward Miss of fifteen,
into a symmetrically-proportioned woman. In the catalogue of her
recommendations, her physical attractions were certainly well
calculated to make an impression upon any susceptible heart. Ernest was
not insensible to the charms of beauty, and he at once acknowledged
Clara’s claims to the highest order of corporeal graces. He immediately
renewed his acquaintance with his _quondam_ school-fellow, (for
both had attended the same school when they were children) to which
she was, by no means averse. Our reader will be afflicted with no
long story of love and courtship. It is always very entertaining to
a certain class of young people to read the entire history of two
lovers--their honeyed utterances, poetical effusions, delightful
promenades by moonlight--their petty jealousies, sad misunderstandings,
little quarrels, succeeded by reconciliation that only places mutual
rehabilitation upon a firmer basis--all this might be highly
interesting, but we must hasten on to the narration of more important
events. It is sufficient to say that as soon as Ernest’s success became
an assured fact, he proposed to the fair Clara, and was accepted.
Old Mr. Vanclure was secretly delighted at the prospect of such an
alliance, for he was not one of those simpletons who would have their
children sacrifice their temporal happiness upon the altar of Mammon.
Clara would have a large estate, and only needed a husband who had
the ability to manage it. Mr. Vanclure, now advanced in years, had
felt considerable anxiety in regard to his daughter’s future, but the
perplexing problem seemed about to end in a felicitous solution, and
a great burden was lifted from his mind, when one day Ernest called
for the purpose of asking his consent to a closer relationship between
Miss Vanclure and himself. He had been among the first to discover the
excellency and solidity of the young man’s moral character, and he
was not so blinded by parental love that he could not easily perceive
the moral infirmities of his own child. He knew that she would need
a protector and a guardian as long as she should live. Therefore,
having been fearful that Clara would become the prey of some worthless
adventurer, he could scarcely conceal his joy when Ernest approached
him upon this delicate subject. However, the old gentleman seemed to
think it advisable to mask his happy feelings under the guise of a
little opposition, and he said:

“Ah? I was hardly expecting this--at least so soon--yes, so soon.”

“Why not, Mr. Vanclure?”

“Why not? Why because you ar’nt settled in life--yes, settled in life.”

“I have now a respectable income,” said Ernest, “if you are alluding to
that, and it is increasing gradually, but surely.”

“I have no doubt, Ernest,” replied Mr. Vanclure, with more tenderness
than he wished to manifest, “that you will succeed--yes, you will
succeed. But still, both of you are rather young to marry.”

“We think differently,” answered Ernest, with a smile, “I am nearly
twenty five.”

“Ah? are you that old? Well, bless me, I believe you are, since I come
to think about it. Dear me! how time does fly--yes, how time does fly.
You have got to be a man before I thought about it. Young people do
grow up so fast--so fast--and Clara is a grown woman, too. Well; well.”

“Since you have discovered that we are both grown,” said Ernest with a
smile, “may I hope that you will not oppose our wishes?”

“And if I did,” answered Mr. Vanclure, not knowing what he ought to
say, “What would you do--yes, what would you do?”

“I should endeavor to overcome your opposition.”

“And I guess you think you’d succeed with your eloquence. You lawyers
are cunning dogs,” said the old gentleman, breaking into a laugh,
which, rather than otherwise, indicated approval of this feature of the
legal character, “yes, cunning dogs. If I give you a chance to argue
the case, I’m satisfied I’ll lose; for you’ll convince me that Clara
will land in eternal perdition unless she marries you--yes marries
you--and nobody else. I don’t want to get into an argument with you
lawyers. So if the arrangement suits Clara, I’ll have nothing more to
say. It will take a lawyer anyhow to manage the estate to which she
will fall heir some of these days. The thing is now getting beyond my
comprehension, and I will soon have to get a lawyer to untangle some
of my affairs--yes, some of my affairs.”

In this way the old man gave his consent.

Here we must say that the reader would do Ernest the grossest injustice
to suppose that the metallic virtue of the young lady was the chief
consideration that influenced his affections. Clara appeared lovely in
his eyes, and he would have been willing to enter into the matrimonial
relation without any prospect of dower. Nearly every one in the
community believed that Ernest was governed in this _affaire du cœur_
by mercenary considerations. There is nothing more certain than that an
impecunious man who pays his addresses to a wealthy woman, will incur
the imputation of improper motives. It is a sad fact, that the world is
envious. People, in their secret souls, dislike to see their neighbors
lifted by sudden prosperity to an elevation above their own level.
Why should not such good fortune have happened to themselves? is the
galling, latent thought of their hearts, to which they would be ashamed
to give audible expression. The thought lurks in the darkest recesses
of the breast like a slimy viper, and well deserves a place in the
horrid abode of that fearful envy, so graphically described by Ovid:


     _Pallor in ore sedet, macies in corpore toto,_
     _Nusquam recta acies; livent rubigine dentes,_
     _Pectora felle virent, lingua est suffusa veneno._[1]


But Ernest truly loved Clara, though he might not himself have been
able to explain the source of attraction, as love is not a passion
subject to the human will. Mr. Hillston at an early period of the
courtship, perceived his infatuation, and as he took a deep interest
in the welfare of his ward, he could not but feel some misgivings as
to the propriety of the union. One day Ernest informed him of his
engagement, and the old man shook his head unconsciously in an ominous
manner, which did not escape Ernest’s observation.

“You do not seem to approve of my selection?” said Ernest inquiringly.
Mr. Hillston had made no remark after this communication, but sat still
with an ambiguous expression upon his face.

“It is not for me to approve or disapprove in matters of this kind,”
was Mr. Hillston’s reply, which was not very satisfactory to his ward,
who was looking at the old minister in surprise.

“I thought surely you would congratulate me,” said Ernest, with a
faint, forced smile.

“The ides of March have come, but not gone,” answered Mr. Hillston,
shaking his head.

“I do not understand you, Mr. Hillston.”

“How can I congratulate you, my dear boy, when I cannot foresee the
end?”

“Can you do that in any case, sir?”

“True enough: but sometimes, and in some cases, we fear the
termination.”

“Please do not speak in riddles, Mr. Hillston. Is not the prospect
flattering?”

“In one sense, yes. So far as material prosperity is concerned, I can
see no possible objection. But money, my dear Ernest, does not always
bring happiness.”

“Do you suppose I am base enough to marry for money?” interrupted
Ernest with an angry flush.

“No, no,” hastily answered Mr. Hillston. “I have a better opinion
of you than that. But the world judges of marriages by outward
circumstances. If both parties start out in life with great wealth,
people generally think they are happy matches. But there are other
things to be considered in a woman besides wealth, beauty and external
accomplishments. A good, solid moral character is of far more value
than a great fortune. A woman’s character is the first thing to be
considered. Sometimes young people hurry into marriage without ever
pausing to ascertain whether there may not be incompatibilities and
incongruities that will forever exclude happiness from their abode.
Now, my dear boy, have you thought of all this?”

“Certainly I have,” replied Ernest, impatiently. “Do you mean to
insinuate that Miss Vanclure is destitute of moral worth?”

“I did not say that. I only asked if you had thought about, as I
should have said, the dissimilarity of your characters.” But, noticing
Ernest’s expression of dissatisfaction, “I have not intimated that Miss
Clara is morally deficient. I would only advise you to be cautious. In
such matters, young people should ‘make haste slowly.’ However, I do
not presume to give you advice on this subject. Every man must choose
to suit himself.”

“The choice I have made,” said Ernest quickly, “suits me.”

“Then there is nothing more to be said,” replied Mr. Hillston coolly.

“But you do not seem to like it.”

“That has nothing to do with it. It is your affair, and if you are
pleased, no one else has the right to say a word.”

“Mr. Hillston,” said Ernest, suddenly lowering his voice from the high
key of self-sufficiency and independence to a subdued tone, “you have
been a father to me, and you know I have been guided by you. I have
confidence in your judgment; and now if you see me about to commit an
error, one that may wreck my happiness, ought not common charity, to
say nothing of the relation you sustain to me, induce you to kindly
point out my mistake? I can see clearly that you are not pleased at my
prospective marriage. Now tell me plainly what is the matter?”

“My dear Ernest,” said the old man, with the tenderness of a parent,
“you know that I have ever treated you as one of my own children, and
have ever consulted your interest. I would not hesitate to give you
advice in this important matter if I knew how. I will only say this,
if you will take no offence--”

“No, no,” interrupted Ernest eagerly, “I will not. Go on, say what you
please.”

“Well, then, I fear that the great dissimilarity between your
characters may prove a source of annoyance, if not trouble. You are
grave and serious in your disposition, while Miss Clara is the very
opposite.”

“That may be true,” replied Ernest, “but might not this very
dissimilarity be an advantage to both of us?”

“It might, and then it might not. At any rate, therein lies the danger
I apprehend. You ought to pray to God to direct you in so serious a
business as this.”

“But I am not a churchman, Mr. Hillston.”

“You cannot regard God then as your friend?”

“O yes, I suppose He is; but I do not know that God would concern
Himself with so small an affair as my marriage.”

“What! if God takes note of the flight of the sparrow, and the flower
of the field, think you He will totally overlook the welfare of His
intelligent creatures? Do you not believe the Lord has something to do
with everything that happens?”

“I do not know, sir. I am no Presbyterian. I understand they hold to
some such doctrine as that. But I have never had any special liking for
that denomination.”

“Neither am I a Presbyterian. I am a Baptist, as you know. But do
you suppose that Presbyterians are the only people who advocate the
doctrine of special providence?”

“I do not know that they are, but from all that I can learn, they push
it to extremes.”

“I believe it,” said Mr. Hillston, emphatically, “as firmly as any
Presbyterian I ever saw, and I believe it to its fullest extent, and in
all its bearings. I am not willing that the Presbyterians shall claim
as a distinctive dogma of theirs a doctrine to which the Baptist Church
holds with as much tenacity as they do.”

“Do you believe, then, that God would concern Himself with so small a
matter as the marriage of two human beings?”

“I certainty do.”

“Do you believe, then, that God is a matchmaker?” asked Ernest, with a
laugh.

“I believe God will direct His people in all their affairs, when they
ask Him in faith.”

“But suppose I am not one of His people?”

“If you are not,” said Mr. Hillston, with deep solemnity, “I am very
sorry for you. It is your own fault, if you are not.”

“Would it be of any avail for me to ask God’s direction, when I am not
one of His people, as you call them?”

“Not if you are determined to go on in your sins. If you make a full
surrender of yourself to Him, I have no doubt He will assist and guide
you. However, in that case you would be one of His people. But how
could you expect God’s favor and friendship, if you stand to Him in the
relation of an enemy?”

“I do not know,” answered Ernest thoughtfully, and then after a moment
he added, “I suppose I will have to look out for myself.”

“I dislike to hear you talk that way, my dear boy,” said Mr. Hillston
kindly, “for if you proclaim your independence of the Divine Being, you
will lead a most wretched life.”

“I did not mean that in any spirit of irreverence,” quickly answered
Ernest. “All I meant was that, if I was not one of God’s people, I
would have to take care of myself. I have the utmost respect for the
Christian religion. My conduct, as you know, has proved that I have.”

“Yes, I know you are a moralist, and you may be one of God’s children,
notwithstanding the fact that you are living in sin.”

“I do not understand you,” said Ernest.

“I know you do not, but the time may come when you will. I will pray
God to direct you, since you cannot do so for yourself. His will,
no doubt, will be accomplished. You have not married Clara yet, and
perhaps you may never do so.”

“But I rather think I will,” said Ernest with considerable energy.

“My boy, do not speak so positively. If God does not intend that it
shall be so, you will never marry her.”

“I should like to know what is to prevent it?”

“I know not. But remember, ‘Man proposes, but God disposes.’ You cannot
overcome your Maker.”

“I do not propose to enter into any contest with God; because I do
not think He cares whether I do this thing or that thing. Therefore I
repeat that I will marry Clara.”

“When it happens,” said Mr. Hillston, smiling, “we will talk more about
it. Do not be too confident, my boy.”

Ernest went to his office, wondering what in the world the old preacher
could mean. Did he intend to predict that the “consummation to be
devoutly wished,” at least by himself, would, at last, prove only an
idle dream? What would be the use, he thought, of asking God to direct
him in so simple an affair as a marriage? Besides, it was too late
now. Like Cæsar, he had crossed the Rubicon, and he must go on. He
loved Clara with all his heart--why, then, should he not fulfill his
engagement? He would do it.

Alas! how short-sighted is man? How quickly are his deep-laid schemes,
his skillfully-concocted plans, suddenly overthrown by some unforseen
circumstance which had never entered as a factor into his calculations?
Man is frequently standing on the very verge of a volcano, and knows it
not till the soil crumbles beneath his feet.

FOOTNOTE:

[1] A paleness rests on her face, leanness in the whole body, Never
looks direct; her teeth are black with rust: Her breast green with
gall; her tongue is dripping with venom.




CHAPTER II.

A GREAT CHANGE.


It is sometimes the case that we have premonitions that vaguely
forewarn us of approaching ill fortune. Not a cloud appears above
the horizon of our life, and yet we instinctively shrink from an
undefinable something that seems to reach far out in advance of the
shadow of coming events. Probably there are powers in the human mind
whose development has been prevented by the dread of superstition.
The animal seeks shelter from the approaching storm before man has
discovered the slightest indication of atmospheric disturbance, or
whatever it may be that warns the unreasoning brute of impending
danger. May there not be some similar delicate instinct in man that
perceives the advancing peril while it is still below the horizon of
reality? Who knows? Or discarding human philosophy as insufficient
to furnish a solution, may we not regard this shadowy _mene tekel
upharsin_ as an emanation from a supernatural source? Men are so
skeptical and incredulous and so afraid of “superstition” that they
will attribute incomprehensible events to any cause rather than divine
interposition. Some assume that miracles never have been performed; and
others, that the days of miracles have passed away, and in consequence
of this assumption, they ascribe nothing to the hand of Omnipotence.
Evolution, correlated forces, natural selection, origin of species,
and such terms have left no place in the nomenclature of science for
the recognition of the hand of Deity. Unholy skepticism declares that
divine direction in the affairs of men is but the unfounded fancy
of religious fanaticism. But we do know that in ancient times the
Lord sent warnings through the medium of dreams and visions. By what
authority do we assume that such means of communication have been
abolished? At any rate, such a feeling, a feeling of vague uneasiness,
mingled with the thoughts of Ernest Edgefield. He was engaged to be
married, and had the utmost confidence in the fidelity and stability
of his affianced; and yet he was disturbed by a dim, indistinct sense
of unrest, which defied all efforts of analysis. It was like trying
to follow an obscure mist by the uncertain light of the moon. He
endeavored to reason himself out of his foolish apprehensions. What
had he to fear? The course of his own true love seemed to be running
smooth. In a few weeks the engagement would be consummated. Then,
why this dread? Was it not, after all, produced by Mr. Hillston’s
ambiguous innuendoes? But what made the old preacher disbelieve, or
at least doubt, that his marriage with Miss Vanclure would ever take
place? There was no rival in the case to awaken his jealousy. Indeed,
he felt a little vexed at his kind guardian for throwing out such
insinuations. Then he would endeavor to banish the indefinable dread
which had seized upon him. We who have passed through the scenes of
youth, know something of the petty follies, the disquiet, the foolish
_ennui_ at times, which distinguish the young man whose heart has been
lacerated by the golden arrow of the mischievous little son of Venus.
Ernest rarely failed to call once a day at the enchanting domicile of
his intended, and if he failed, he frequently made atonement for his
negligence by two visits on the next day. While he was in this state
of cardiac effervescence, the wheels of time rolled on, unfolding
events which had slumbered so long in the bosom of the future. Who can
tell what a day may bring forth? Amid the multitudinous events that are
continually rushing into reality, like the soldiers of an army in the
charge, who can make provision against those unforeseen contingencies
which are forever arising? Who can control the chariot of destiny?

Perhaps no event was so little expected as that which seemed to
change the current of Ernest’s destiny, a few weeks antecedent to his
contemplated marriage. Not to delay with moralizing, an Evangelist
by the name of Coyt made his advent into the quiet town where Ernest
lived, on the invitation of the Presbyterian church. Great expectations
had been formed by many of the more pious brethren, who had read
accounts of Dr. Coyt’s wonderful success at other places. His services
were eagerly desired and sought all over the country.

At last he entered the little town of ---- and began a series of
earnest, soul-searching sermons, which he had repeated so often that
he could frequently predict what result would follow the delivery of
each. Large, expectant congregations attended his meetings from the
very outset, since his evangelistic fame had preceded him. For several
days the preacher produced no great visible effects, and there were
scarcely any signs of spiritual life, except such as were discernible
in the numerous petitions sent in by anxious brethren, requesting
prayer for sons, daughters, wives, or other relatives and friends. At
length this request was read out to the congregation:

“Please pray for a young lawyer, who is moral and worthy in every
respect, but is lacking the one thing needful.”

Ernest was present, and heard the reading of this petition. Who could
it be but himself? At first, a flash of displeasure, to call it by the
mildest name, passed over his handsome face. Who was the person that
had the impudence to direct attention to him? But all harsh thoughts
soon passed away, when he reflected that the petitioner, whoever it
might be, desired only his good. The process of rigid introspection
succeeded his first unpleasant thoughts, and he at once gave attention
to the contest between conscience and passion that had mysteriously
begun. He seemed to be only a spectator of the conflict of antagonistic
forces in his soul. There are times, says one of the most profound and
philosophical women of the nineteenth century, when our passions speak
for us, and we stand by and look on in astonishment. There is something
similar to this in the process of spiritual regeneration. Questions
and answers suddenly arise in the mind, as of concealed beings in
whispered consultation, and we appear to ourselves to be listening to
the mysterious dialogue. So it was with Ernest Edgefield, as he sat
in the church engaged in self-examination. It appeared to him that
he had suddenly awakened out of an alarming dream. He had been in a
moral sleep all his life, and had never reflected seriously upon the
unknown eternity which was distant but a single step. A “still small
voice” seemed to come on the very breeze, and whispered: “What folly
this young man has displayed in thinking of nothing but the things
of time and sense.” Ernest almost started. “What am I living for?”
he asked himself. “In a few weeks I shall be married, and will give
renewed attention to business. But time will flow on: and if I live,
I will soon be an old man, and I must die, and then--and then--what?”
Ernest was neither infidel nor skeptic: indeed, he only needed that his
fears should be aroused as a precedent condition to becoming an active
Christian. After prayer had been offered up for the “young lawyer,”
and while thoughts, conclusions and convictions were all mingling
together in the mind of Ernest, he looked at Clara, who was sitting
where he could see her face. Their eyes met. She was gazing at him with
an expression which he could easily interpret, and if she had spoken
in an audible voice, he could not more clearly have understood her to
say: “Isn’t it ridiculous?” The young man almost shuddered. Why did a
great yawning abyss seem to open suddenly between them? The depression
which had for some days weighed down his spirits, all at once appeared
like a heavy rock upon his breast, causing something like a sickening
sensation to creep through his troubled heart. However, in his present
state of newly aroused emotions, to which he had been such an utter
stranger all his life, he felt that a subject of more vital importance
than even his marriage deserved his immediate attention. Accordingly
he turned his gaze upon the preacher, who announced his text: “Thou
art weighed in the balances, and art found wanting.” Dr. Coyt, in the
progress of his discourse, drew a word-picture, upon which his audience
gazed in profound, breathless silence. No one looked upon this picture
more intently than Ernest. He saw himself alone with his Creator and
the balances which were to determine his everlasting destiny. Never
before had Ernest’s relations to time and eternity appeared in so vivid
a light. The next morning after this, as the sun kissed the glowing
horizon, darkness and doubt were dispelled from the soul of Ernest by
the enlightening beams of the Sun of Righteousness. He had found that
“peace which passeth all understanding,” and he was strangely happy.

That day, without saying a word to any one upon the subject, he went
forward to indicate his purpose of joining the church.

“Which church do you desire to join?” asked Dr. Coyt.

“I have not yet determined,” replied Ernest. “I only wish now to let
it be known that I have come out upon the Lord’s side. I intend to
investigate the doctrines of the different denominations, and I shall
join that one I like best.”

“That is right,” replied the Doctor. “Take time for reflection, so that
you will have no trouble in the future. Select that church in which you
think you can be the happiest.”

Those who feel any interest in this story will, of course, desire
to know what effect the meeting had upon Clara. Ernest had been so
absorbed in his own spiritual troubles that he had had no conversation
with her since the hour when he had become interested upon the subject
of his personal salvation. But that evening, after he had signified his
intention of attaching himself to the church, he paid her a visit. She
was not present at the morning service, and knew nothing of the step he
had taken. After the exchange of ordinary civilities, she said with a
significant flippancy which was chilling to Ernest’s heart:

“How have you enjoyed the show?”

“Show!” exclaimed Ernest, bestowing upon her a solemn look of inquiry.

“Yes,” said Clara, not seeming to notice his serious air. “It is as
good as any show. Wasn’t it funny to have them all praying for you?”

“I do not see where there was any fun,” said Ernest with an expression
of disappointment upon his face, “and I am truly sorry to hear you talk
so lightly about such solemn things. They are too sacred to admit of
sport.”

“So, they have got you, too, have they?” asked Clara, breaking into a
merry laugh. “Well, I confess I am astonished.”

“Why should you be? I cannot see that it is a matter of such profound
amazement for a man to join the church.”

“Have you really joined the church?”

“I have, or at least gave notice this morning that I would do so, and I
earnestly wish, my dear Clara, that you would make up your mind to the
same thing. That is needed to complete our happiness.”

She made no reply, but laughed in a tone which it would have required
no expert physiognomist to pronounce one of derision.

“What is it that is so amusing?” asked Ernest in vexation. “I had
hoped that you would talk seriously about this matter of such vital
importance.”

“The idea of my joining the church, and giving up my dancing and all
other amusements, is simply preposterous. It is funny.”

“But suppose you were to die,” said Ernest, “what would become of you?
Are you willing to sacrifice your soul for a few worldly pleasures
which, after all, add nothing to your happiness?”

“Why, are you going to turn preacher, too?” said Clara with an amused
expression. “That’s just the way Dr. Coyt has been preaching for the
last five or six days.”

“I am no preacher, and never expect to be,” replied Ernest, “but that
is no reason why I should not want my friends saved, especially such a
friend as you will be.”

Clara bit her cherry nether lip, and laying aside her mood of levity,
said:

“I should like to know what we are to do in this world, if we are
forbidden to enjoy life. That is what I dislike about religious people.
They are so gloomy, and can talk about nothing but death. I hate to be
with them.”

This was spoken in such a way as to cause Ernest to see again the
yawning chasm gaping between them.

“O, my dear Clara!” he exclaimed with trembling tenderness, “how you
are mistaken!”

“Why, how do you know?” she asked in surprise. “You have not been one
of them long enough to find out, I should think. How did you become so
wise, all of a sudden?”

Ernest was not at all pleased with the manner in which she addressed
him, but he durst not manifest the least vexation in the critical
juncture of his amatory affairs. He felt that a quarrel might terminate
in a final overthrow of the fond hopes upon which his heart had fed
for months past. He, therefore, spoke as mildly and affectionately as
possible:

“I have learned something about it even in the last few hours. I
have never experienced such a sense of love, joy and peace in all my
previous life. I am astonished at myself for never having turned my
attention sooner to eternal things. All these years, since I reached
the line of moral responsibility, have been almost wasted, or, at
least, the spiritual enjoyments of all this time have been lost to me;
and how I regret it!”

“How you do talk?” exclaimed Clara. “Do you expect to keep up such
lecturing all our lives? If you do, we may as well--”

“May as well what?” asked Ernest with a sinking heart.

“May as well follow divergent paths,” she said with a timidity which
implied that she, by no means, desired the proposition to be accepted.

“No, my dear Clara, I shall not mention it again if it is unpleasant
to you. I shall leave you in the hands of God and continue to pray
for you. I think you will take a different view of the matter after a
while.”

“But I would as soon you would talk to me as to look at me as if I were
a criminal.”

“I do not think,” said Ernest, “that religion will convert me into a
long-faced monk. On the contrary, I expect to be more cheerful and
happy than I could be otherwise. You are the one to look solemn and
gloomy.”

“You expect,” said Clara, not appearing to notice the last remark, “you
expect to give up dancing, as most church people do.”

“Certainly. I cannot do violence to my conscience by indulging in an
amusement which I regard as of doubtful propriety, to say the least of
it.”

“Where is the harm in dancing? Church people condemn it, but I never
could see any sin in it--not the least.”

“But there would be sin in it to me with my present views,” said Ernest.

“You used to like it as well as I did.”

“Yes, that is true; but the time has come when I must and will renounce
it.”

“You expect me to give it up, too?”

“That is a matter to be determined by your own conscience. I shall not
interfere.”

“There is the theatre--you will give that up too?”

“I feel that I must do that, too.”

“Then,” said Clara with a slight frown, “what congeniality of taste and
pursuits is there between us?”

“Why, my loved one,” said Ernest with a smile, “fortunately theatres
and dances occupy but a small portion of our time.”

“Who will escort me when I want to go?”

Ernest loved his affianced with such an intensity that he dreaded to
get into an unpleasant controversy that might culminate fatally to his
hopes. If he were too puritanical and inflexible, he thought, she might
sever all the ties between them--an event which made him shudder to
contemplate; so he replied:

“All congeniality of taste between us need not be destroyed because
you may fancy some amusements which I do not. It could scarcely be
expected that two human beings should think exactly alike. With regard
to your dancing, I leave it to your conscience and to time which
usually destroys our relish for most of the sports and enjoyments of
youth. I have strong hopes that you will sooner or later perceive
the necessity of leaving the paths of moral ruin and renouncing the
pleasures of sin for the more solid and substantial pleasures of
religion.”

Clara said nothing, but sat still gazing into the forest which spread
out in the distance--gazing with that vacant air which indicates the
absence of attention to any object upon which her eyes might be fixed.
Ernest could form no idea as to the character of her thoughts from the
expression of her fair countenance, and he began to fear that he had
said too much, and thought that perhaps he would better endeavor to
remove every difficulty that might prove an obstacle to their union.
He did not want to leave any grounds for one of those unfortunate
misunderstandings between lovers which so frequently grow out of
nothing. He therefore said with an air of cheerfulness and tenderness;

“You need not suppose, my loved one, that I will be forever preaching
to you. That is not my calling. Have I given you offence by anything I
have said? I mean by all I have said only that there is a time for all
things--a time to dance and a time to give religion a prominent place
in our thoughts.”

“O, no; I’m not offended, but you make me feel gloomy. It is bad
enough to hear these things about death at church, where we expect
it. I didn’t know that we had to make religion a topic of private
conversation.”

“No, we are not forced to do so; but I thought it a suitable time to
talk about it now when the subject is occupying the attention of the
whole community.”

“I candidly confess I don’t like to talk about such things,” said Clara
with a serious air. “I have always had a sort of horror of religion. In
my mind it is associated with death and other disagreeable things.”

“But these disagreeable things,” said Ernest, “as you call them, are
stubborn realities which we cannot avoid. Sooner or later, we must
face them, whether we like or not. Would we not, then, better regulate
our lives so that these very gloomy things shall become sources of
pleasure?”

“O, I suppose so,” said Clara dryly, “if death could ever be a pleasant
subject of conversation.”

“Not long since,” replied Ernest with the deepest solemnity, “I
entertained the very same views which you do. I would not think about
death when I could possibly banish it from my mind, and I contemplated
it for an instant as some horrible monster which I must face after a
while. I regarded it with as much dread as ever the celebrated Dr.
Samuel Johnson did. But now,” and as he spoke an expression of deep joy
flashed over his features, “I do not dread the event as such an awful
calamity. I even love to think about it.”

“What! do you want to die?” cried Clara.

“No: I did not say that,” calmly replied Ernest.

“No man in the enjoyment of health really desires to die; for in some
respects, it is a terrible ordeal from which poor, weak human nature
shrinks. I have no disposition to court death: I want to live for your
sake, for you know with what depth and intensity I love you, and loving
you thus, I should like, above all things, to see you in a condition
that would enable you to exclaim with rapture, ‘O death, where is thy
sting? O grave, where is thy victory?’ What a happy thought to me that
we should be one on earth, and then when we cross over the dark river,
our purified souls should be knit together in the bonds of a higher,
nobler affection than is possible here; and then that we should stroll
hand-in-hand in the heavenly groves, along the banks of the crystal
river, under the fruit trees whose leaves are for the healing of the
nations, never more to be disturbed by any misapprehensions, nor even
by a discordant word or thought. We shall be one in heart, soul and
mind. This is what I call true marriage. It is a contract not to end
with time, but it goes on through the numberless ages of eternity.
O, what a glorious prospect!” he exclaimed with features lit up with
pure, holy joy; and then he paused for an instant as if overwhelmed
and lost in the contemplation of indescribable scenes which “eye hath
not seen nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man.”
After a moment he continued: “On the other hand, what an awful thought!
It makes me shudder. O, if you remain as you now are, we shall be
separated forever, when we part at the grave. Then where will you go?
If you miss the glory-land, there is only one more place--the lake
that burns with fire and brimstone--a place where their worm dieth
not and the fire is not quenched. If there is no fire there, as some
contend, then it is a place of black, thick darkness. The lost soul,
cast out into the illimitable regions of uninhabited space, away beyond
the last star that glitters on the outskirts of visible creation,
will go wandering round and round, or if too weary to make an effort,
it will begin falling, like a bird with folded wings, and keep on
falling, falling, down and down, forever down--no company but your own
thoughts--no sound heard but your own breathing--no sweet music--no
voice of friend--no light--nothing but the horrors of eternal,
impenetrable darkness. You may suppose you will have companions--but
what will be their character? Not kind friends, to speak words of
consolation, but malevolent fiends whose delight it will be to torment.
All the horrors so graphically described by Dante may be awful
realities. Can you blame me, then, for feeling the deepest anxiety on
your account? I should be the happiest man in town if you could make
up your mind to join the church.”

“O, I could not think of such a thing!” exclaimed Clara. “You have
already given me the blues. I fear you will never be yourself again.
You are so changed. But reading that awful old Dante is enough to
frighten any one out of his senses. I tried to read it not long since,
but it was so foolish and absurd, I dropped it in disgust. But haven’t
you preached long enough? I do believe you will be a preacher yet.”

“No; I have no such idea as that. But I should be sorry to think that
preachers are the only persons to whom it is allowable to talk about
religion. However, I am a changed man, and I am glad you can perceive
it. I hope I may never again be the wicked man I have been. But I shall
not further press the subject upon your attention, and I promise not to
mention it again till you are in the proper mood to talk about it.”

The foregoing conversation is no integral part of the present story,
and might have been omitted entirely, but we have recorded it at length
to show what different views young people entertain in regard to the
highest destiny a human being can achieve. What makes such a vast
difference, when there are precisely the same incentives to action
in both? Some quickly cut the Gordian knot by attributing it to the
difference in their wills, which, we may bring this chapter to an end
by saying, is quite a convenient way of avoiding _Deep Waters_.

[Illustration: Decoration]




CHAPTER III.

THE MYSTERIOUS VOICE.


The protracted meeting, which had continued fourteen days, was ended.
Dr. Coyt, the Evangelist, took his leave in order to carry blessings
to other places. No one could deny that a wonderful change had taken
place in the moral aspect of the town. Some, who had been regarded as
the worst characters in the community, astonished their neighbors by
an immediate reformation. Saloon-keepers joined the church. Gamblers
forsook their evil ways. Lukewarm church members were fired with
renewed zeal. The whole town seemed to be animated by one impulse and
one purpose. But such a great disturbance of public thought could not
in the nature of things be maintained for any lengthy period. Public
feeling, like water, seeks its level. A state of effervescence is not
its normal condition. Consequently the foam-crested waves must soon
subside into customary tranquillity. Men return to their vocations, and
their thoughts revert to trade and traffic. The things of eternity
which had so recently absorbed attention, must now be partly laid aside.

Ernest was not different from other men in the general aspect of human
nature. He too had to resume his books and legal documents. Judging
from his outward conduct, no one could have imagined the depth of the
work of grace in his heart. But internally, he was leading a quite
different life. His energies were put forth for the accomplishment of
one object--his personal salvation. In the short space of a week he had
lost that ambition whose only object is self-gratification. It is not
meant that he had no desire to excel and to rise to a high position
in his profession, for religion does not require the suppression of
every impulse of this character, but Ernest had no disposition to
gain victories merely to elicit the admiration and applause of his
fellow men. After the meeting, he endeavored to apply himself to
business with his former diligence. But there was one peculiarity
in his efforts for which he could not account, and which he did not
understand clearly till some years afterwards. He could not and did not
feel the same interest in his profession, for which so lately he had
a most enthusiastic love. Try never so hard to confine his attention
to his law books, his mind would wander off to very unsecular affairs.
Endeavoring to plunge into the profundities of Kent’s Commentaries,
he would meet with a sentence or a word which would remind him of
some theological commentary. Ernest, in a short time after his
conversion, had become so much interested in the study of the Holy
Scriptures that he had added to his library the commentaries of Henry,
Clarke and Scott. He found himself more frequently pondering over
the signification of passages of holy writ than paragraphs of law.
He spent much time in reading and searching the Scriptures--like the
Bereans--time, which the spirit of the world said should have been
given to the duties of his calling. This internal conflict threw Ernest
into a state of perplexity. He was becoming an enigma to himself. He
could not imagine why his vocation should become distasteful. The
finger of destiny was pointing in a new direction, but it was concealed
by the mists of the future. For some wise reason the path of duty is
not always clearly indicated. The divine economy is so inwrought with
human affairs that no man can determine the extent of the supernatural
guidance that may be furnished.

While in this state of mind, Ernest went to church one Sabbath. The
minister, who was a stranger, read the fourteenth chapter of John as
his lesson, and at the proper time announced as his text the first and
second verses--“Let not your heart be troubled. Ye believe in God,
believe also in me,” etc. Ernest assumed a comfortable physical posture
in the expectation of hearing a soul-thrilling sermon--an expectation
justified by the abundant consolation which can be legitimately drawn
from the entire chapter. There was a large congregation and all seemed
to be eager to catch every word that should be uttered. The preacher
began in a rather low nasal “whine,” as the people called it--a not
very classical term to be sure, but very expressive and generally
understood, if nothing else could be said in its favor. His manner
was cold and not at all _en rapport_ with his environments, but
Ernest thought and hoped that he would “warm up” with his subject as
he proceeded. He was doomed to disappointment: for the preacher kept
on with the same whine, with no more variation than there is in the
ringing of a bell. The vocal part was utterly incongruous with the
theme. The preacher stood stone still, nothing moving but his lips,
and looking like a talking statue. His hands were gently folded on his
breast and his eyes were fixed with immovable rigidity upon something
on the floor immediately in front of the pulpit. His whole manner was
the best imaginable remedy for insomnia, which was soon proved by the
state of delightful unconsciousness into which many of the audience
had fallen at the expiration of the first half-hour. Ernest made brave
and persistent efforts to confine his attention to the minister’s
monotonous sentences and to resist the feeling of somnolence which
was quietly and gradually creeping over him. When the service finally
ended, Ernest left the church with a feeling of spiritual lassitude--a
consciousness that the hour had been unprofitable, not to say that he
was a little vexed, too.

“Why does the Church send out such men to preach?” he asked himself
as he walked slowly homeward. “This man’s intentions, no doubt, are
good, but his education is wofully deficient, and he does not seem to
understand the first rudiment of oratory. The ecclesiastical body that
put him in this responsible position are more censurable than he is.
What a grand text he had! If a man could preach at all, it does seem
that he could get a splendid sermon out of that passage. I believe I
could do it myself. Let me see. There is that old college speech of
mine--Man was made to mourn,--it would apply admirably to the first
head. Look abroad over the world. How many things there are which
are calculated to trouble the heart. Of all this the preacher never
said a word. I moved an audience to tears with the same subject when
there was nothing but human sympathy to which I could appeal. But with
the precious hopes and promises of the gospel in his hands, he put
a portion of his congregation to sleep. Then there are the blessed
mansions which the Savior promised to His true followers. ‘I go to
prepare a place for you,’ said our Lord. Why there is a grand sermon
in that one brief sentence. ‘I go,’ said Christ. Where did He go? Why
did He go? Why did He not remain forever on earth? The answer is,
that He might send the Comforter. Then, for what purpose did He go?
To prepare mansions for all true believers. What a glorious thought!
What does He prepare? A place. Then the conclusion is, that heaven is a
tangible locality. For whom is He preparing a place? ‘For you.’ But the
disciples stood there as the representatives of all true believers for
all time. So I should have said, had I been in that preacher’s place
to-day: ‘Brethren, Jesus says I am preparing a place for you.’ Then
I would go on to describe this blessed place from intimations thrown
out in the Bible itself. There are the shining city, the jasper walls,
the golden streets, the crystal river, the Trees of Life, the Great
White Throne, and the mighty multitude which no man can number. With
these grand and sublime thoughts in easy reach, the preacher never said
one word to brighten our hopes and strengthen our faith. But instead
of producing such an effect, he threw us into a state of stupid,
half-unconsciousness. What a failure!”

Presently, while Ernest was musing in this loose, random way, a
voice--a “still, small voice,” as it were, seemed to come out of the
atmosphere, and ask: “_Why not then preach yourself?_” It was the
fiery finger of destiny flashing before him, and Ernest was startled.
He answered, almost speaking in audible tones: “Because I am not
qualified. I have no call to such work. I am a lawyer. I do not know
how to preach.”

“But you have just preached a sermon,” quickly answered the voice. “I
only _thought_ what the preacher might have said,” replied Ernest.

“Then why not speak your thoughts to a congregation?” asked the
mysterious voice.

We do not wish, by any means, to make the impression that this was an
actual supernatural dialogue. It was probably subjective. We use the
word “probably,” because we have no right to affirm that God, even in
this age of skepticism, never addresses men in audible tones; or what
amounts to the same thing. He, no doubt, so operates upon the human
conscience as to make subjective mental processes appear objective. At
any rate, Ernest was a little startled by this colloquy, which had the
appearance of reality. He was so absorbed that he did not notice where
he was. He was slowly walking with his head bowed down, and ran against
some one soon after the voice appeared to utter the last words. It was
Mr. Hillston, at whose house Ernest was still boarding. The collision
occurred at the gate. Ernest sprang back, and looked in surprise.

“O, Mr. Hillston,” he cried, “I beg your pardon, sir. I was not looking
up. I was thinking, yea, almost talking.”

“And to whom were you talking, my young friend?” asked the old
gentleman.

“I scarcely know, sir, that is, I can hardly determine whether it was
to myself, or some invisible being in the air?”

“That is a little strange; but what was the subject of your
conversation?”

“I will tell you how it was.”

Ernest then related what had occurred. When he had finished, he could
not fail to notice the serious expression of Mr. Hillston’s face.

“What do you think about it?” asked Ernest.

“Do you think the circumstance needs interpretation?” asked Mr.
Hillston. “Do you not perceive the meaning?”

“I do not know that it has any particular meaning,” answered Ernest.

“My boy,” spoke the old man with deep solemnity, “does it not occur to
you that it is God’s call to the ministry?”

“No sir,” quickly replied Ernest. “Do not tell me that. I cannot
believe it. I will not think it upon such evidence?”

“Yes, you will think it, and believe it, too. You may decline, if you
will; you may offer resistance, but that voice will follow you up, and
haunt you like a ghost. If you will not go into the work willingly, God
will drive you into it, as he did Paul.”

“What! smite me with blindness?”

“I do not say that,” answered Mr. Hillston slowly, “but He will so
shape and direct circumstances as to force you to do His bidding. You
may flee like Jonah, but events, possibly misfortunes, will be the
‘great fish’ to swallow you up, and cast you out where you will be glad
to cry aloud to men to repent.”

“You almost frighten me,” exclaimed Ernest. “I cannot regard what I
have told you as constituting a call from God to preach. I am not
superstitious. I do not believe as you do, anyhow.”

“What do you mean, my boy?” asked the old man, looking at him in
surprise.

“Do you not remember what you said the other day about election and
free agency. I believe in free agency. I do not think that God forces
men to do things. But you,” continued Ernest with a laugh, “are a
regular old blue-stocking Presbyterian.”

“I cannot suffer you, my young friend, to give up to the Presbyterians
exclusively the most precious doctrines of the Bible. You are very
much mistaken if you think that Presbyterians are the only people who
believe in election and the final perseverance of the saints.”

“Do you believe that other horrid doctrine of Predestination? No;
surely not.”

“You have asked me a direct question,” said Mr. Hillston, “and have
presumed to answer for me. But your answer is incorrect: for as much
as you may be surprised, I tell you that I do believe the ‘horrid
doctrine’ of Predestination.”

“Well, I am surprised to hear you say so. For I thought that even
Presbyterians shrank from averring it openly.”

“You may be surprised now; but when you investigate more closely, you
may be a Predestinarian yourself, if you will lay aside prejudice.”

“I do not see how I ever can be, with all deference to you, sir; for
the doctrine is horrible to me.”

“What is so horrible, my boy?” asked the old man kindly. “But let us
go into the house. Now,” continued Mr. Hillston, as they both seated
themselves, “tell me what is so horrible?”

“Why, that God should condemn men to eternal torment even before they
are born. What can be more cruel and unjust?”

“That would be ‘horrible’ if God were blind, as men are. But let us
look at this ‘horrible doctrine’ from other standpoints. You probably
know that some people, in order to avoid the difficulties of Divine
sovereignty, strip God of one of His attributes by saying that the Lord
does not choose to foreknow human destiny, that is, individual destiny.
Now if that were true, man would be a perfect free moral agent, would
he?”

“Undoubtedly, he would, sir.”

“That is what a great many people say,” answered Mr. Hillston, “in
the very face of Scriptures to the contrary. But never mind: for the
present, we will assume that God does not choose to exercise His
foreknowledge. Well, men follow the bent of their owns wills, and
shape their own destinies. At last the world comes to an end. God opens
the Books--that is, He looks back over the past, and discovers what
men have done, and settles their doom according to their deeds, do you
think that would be right?”

“O, yes,” said Ernest, “that would certainly be just, according to my
ideas.”

“Very well. In looking back, the mere knowledge which God acquires does
not affect men’s conduct, does it?”

“What do you mean by ‘affect’?”

“I mean His knowledge would not change their deeds, one way or the
other?”

“No: of course, His knowledge would have no effect upon their past
conduct.”

“Then, if you please, tell me what is the difference between God’s
looking back over the past and looking forward over the future. How
would His knowledge affect human destinies in the one case more than in
the other?”

Ernest thought for a moment, and then said:

“Why, there is this difference: whatever God foreknows must take
place.”

“Undoubtedly,” said Mr. Hillston, “but does God’s after-knowledge
affect the conduct of men?”

“No, sir.”

“Then how does God’s foreknowledge differ from his
after-knowledge--that is the question. Is there any difference?”

“Just at this moment,” replied Ernest in some confusion, “I am not
prepared to say; but it does seem to me unjust in God to sentence men
to torment before they are born.”

“But if the condemnation is for the same sins, why not condemn before
they are born as well as after?”

“You have taken a turn that I was not expecting,” answered Ernest. “I
confess I had never thought of it in that way.”

“No, and that is what is the matter with the most of those who oppose
the doctrine of predestination. They even deny fore-knowledge to God,
not pausing to reflect that mere knowledge has no effect upon the
destinies of men. They represent God as in the attitude of a human
judge. But we must never forget that His ways are not as our ways,
and His thoughts, not as our thoughts. Predestination is a mysterious
doctrine, and there is something about it which no man can understand.
And yet, when we investigate it in the light of the Holy Scriptures,
and study the examples illustrating it, there is not as much difficulty
as some people imagine. I do not think you have investigated in this
way.”

“No, sir; but I intend to do so.”

“That is right. Study your Bible closely; honestly mark all the
passages that teach this ‘horrid doctrine,’ and let us talk about it
again. I have no doubt that you will study the Bible more closely than
you have ever done, since you are going to be a minister of the gospel.”

“There, you are reckoning without your host,” said Ernest. “I have no
idea of ever being a preacher. I am not qualified. Why, it would be
presumption in me to think about it.”

“Mark my words, Ernest,” said Mr. Hillston solemnly, “you will be a
preacher or a ruined man. The Holy Spirit, if I am not very greatly
mistaken, is opening the way, and showing you the path. I beg you, do
not neglect and disregard plain indications. I cannot help thinking
that you are a chosen vessel for some great purpose, and if so, you
will see no peace till you obey the voice of God. If you are in doubt,
pray to the Lord for light, and it will be given. The Master will
certainly make clear the path of duty.”

Ernest was silent, and Mr. Hillston concluded it would be prudent to
say nothing more at that time. The young man went to his office soon
after, and fell into deep thought. Was it possible, he asked himself,
that he was destined to become a preacher? The thought became more
intolerable as he reflected upon it. He wished that he had not tried
his power of sermonizing, for it was this that had given origin to what
Mr. Hillston had the boldness to pronounce a call to the ministry.
Was it in this way that God chose his ministers? But suppose this was
a divine call, how could he refuse to obey? Would he rebel against
God’s expressed will? But surely this was no call, at least it was not
sufficient. There certainly was no voice. He would wait, and pray for
more light. Would he not lose Clara Vanclure? Would she ever consent to
be a preacher’s wife?

This latter question, propounded to himself, had some influence,
probably in causing him to come to the conclusion not to rush hastily
into the ministry upon an invitation which existed, he thought, only in
his imagination. Accordingly, he endeavored to dismiss the perplexing
subject from his mind. To his great relief, he found no difficulty
in losing himself in the pages of a volume which he took from one of
the shelves of his library. It was Dr. Dick’s “Philosophy of a Future
State.” For pleasant and profitable Sunday reading, no better books can
be found than Dick’s several volumes on moral and religious subjects.
Ernest was so absorbed in his book that he thought no more about the
“call to preach” for the remainder of the Sabbath evening.

The next morning when he returned to his office as usual and began
reading Blackstone, the words of the preacher’s text on the previous
day suddenly flashed into his mind. He quickly dropped his book and
began thinking. Presently he almost sprang from his seat, for on the
opposite side of the table, on which his head had been resting, there
sat a visitor, who was curiously gazing at him.

“Ah! been asleep, have you?” said Mr. Vanclure, for it was he.

“No, sir,” said Ernest confusedly, “I was in a sort of reverie.”

“Things of that sort don’t pay much--no, sir, don’t pay much. I have
been too busy all my life for anything of that kind. People must keep
wide awake in this world to succeed--yes, sir, to succeed.”

“My vocation is different from yours, Mr. Vanclure, you know. When we
lawyers meet with a knotty problem sometimes, we stop to think, and
occasionally we get to dreaming: it is not unnatural.”

“Well,” said the old merchant abruptly, “I have come to say something
about a delicate matter--a delicate matter. If it was ordinary
business, I’d know how to begin--how to begin. But it’s another sort of
affair.”

“Just suppose it to be business of an ordinary character, Mr. Vanclure,
and begin at once,” said Ernest with a feeling of dread.

“Well,” said the merchant in a fidgety manner, “I thought you and Clara
were engaged to be married--engaged to be married pretty soon, and
things were floating along smoothly, you know. Yes, sir, and I had
given my consent, you remember, at your solicitation, and I was making
my arrangements accordingly, for you see I had confidence in you,
Ernest, since I have known you from a child--yes from a child. I told
you, don’t you remember, that I had some business affairs which I could
not manage--could not manage, because I’m no lawyer.”

“Well,” interrupted Ernest, “you can tell me what the business is, and
I will do the best I can with it.”

“But you don’t understand, Ernest--you don’t understand. It wouldn’t
be proper just yet to tell you. I said it was a delicate matter--a
delicate matter, just as things now are. You see I thought everything
was working well. I thought this contract between you and Clara would
soon be executed--would soon be executed, and then I could with
propriety put this business in your hands--in your hands, Ernest,
because you would, you would sustain a closer relation to me than you
do now, and then I could let you know all my plans--know all my plans,
which wouldn’t be proper just yet--just yet, you know. You understand
how I am situated.”

“I cannot say that I do,” replied Ernest with a smile, “for you have
told me nothing in regard to your situation.”

“I have told you all I can, Ernest--all I can till that affair comes
off--comes off.”

“What affair, Mr. Vanclure?”

“The engagement between you and Clara, of course, of course. I thought
all would be over in a few weeks--yes, in a few weeks. But I fear there
is a misunderstanding somewhere, and I thought there’d be no harm in
finding out--in finding out, you see.”

“What is it you wish to find out, Mr. Vanclure?”

“Well, you see, I got a hint from Clara, a hint from Clara, and I
thought I’d better find out,--better find out.”

“I am perfectly willing to give you any information in my possession,”
said Ernest.

“I thought so, I thought so, and I’ll come to the point at once.
You see it was a lawyer I wanted. A preacher and a lawyer are very
different people. I could make no use of a preacher--no, sir, no use of
a preacher, you understand?”

“I do not understand, Mr. Vanclure.”

“I got a hint from Clara--a hint from Clara, and I thought I’d better
come, and find out about it, before it’s too late.”

“What is it you wish to find out, Mr. Vanclure?” interrupted Ernest.

“Why, I thought you’d see at once--yes, at once, after my explanation.”

Ernest smiled internally.

“I confess, Mr. Vanclure, that I am so obtuse mentally, that I have
failed to understand your explanation.”

“What? can’t you see--can’t you see that a lawyer and a preacher are
two different people--two different people?”

“Yes, sir; I see that clearly.”

“Well, I gave you to understand that a lawyer would suit me--would suit
me, and I thought you were a lawyer.”

“So I am.”

“But are you going to give up law, and be a preacher--be a preacher?”

“Who said I was, Mr. Vanclure?”

“I told you I got a hint from Clara--a hint from Clara, you understand?”

“I believe I do,” said Ernest thoughtfully. “It seems that Miss Clara
has thrown out a hint that I would be a preacher?”

“Precisely, precisely.”

“And suppose I should be, Mr. Vanclure, how could it affect present
relations?”

“Why, you see, a preacher is not the sort of man, the sort of man,
that would suit my purposes. A preacher is no business man, Ernest--no
business man. This thing of going over the country, with your ward-robe
in a pair of saddle-bags--yes, in a pair of saddle-bags, and living
from hand to mouth--well, I can’t see the necessity of it in this case,
in this case. Although Clara gave me a hint, I didn’t much believe
it--I didn’t much believe it--because, Ernest, there is no necessity
for it, no earthly necessity for it. You will not be forced to go
into that poor business--that poor business; but don’t misunderstand;
I’m not opposed to the Church--it’s a very good thing in its place--a
very good thing, and I pay my part to keep it going. But, as I said,
a preacher is not the sort of man I bargained for--it was a lawyer I
wanted, and I had my heart set on this matter, and I expected to put
the business in your hands--in your hands.”

“Why are you opposed to preachers, Mr. Vanclure?”

“You misunderstand, Ernest, you misunderstand. I haven’t said I was
opposed to them. I have nothing against them, nothing against them.
They are useful men, in some respects, in some respects; but they are
not business men, not business men. How could a preacher attend to my
business? I don’t see why you should want to quit your profession, quit
your profession, and be a preacher; you understand, don’t you?”

“I gather from your remarks, Mr. Vanclure, that if it is my intention
to be a preacher, you would oppose the marriage of Miss Clara and
myself--is that your meaning?”

“Well, I didn’t say that I’d oppose it: I only said that a preacher
wouldn’t suit me; no, wouldn’t suit me. A preacher wouldn’t have time
to attend to business, even if he were a business man, and I never saw
one that was--one that was.”

“I have no idea of ever being a preacher, Mr. Vanclure, and I cannot
imagine why Miss Clara should have drawn such an inference from
anything I said.”

“I told Clara that she must be mistaken, must be mistaken. Then I
understand that you never will be a preacher?”

“I have no such intention, sir.”

“Well, that’s enough said; I’ll go now, and I’d advise you to see Clara
about this affair, and give her the assurance you have given me.” Mr.
Vanclure left hurriedly.

Ernest had an interview with Clara that evening, which terminated in
the assurance, on her part, that if he ever became a preacher, she
would at once file an application for a divorce.

[Illustration: Decoration]




CHAPTER IV.

A RIVAL.


An event soon occurred in the town which aroused feelings and emotions
in the breast of Ernest, the statical condition of which had never
before been disturbed. A family moved into the town, among whose
members was a young man about the age of Ernest. A few days after their
arrival, a sign was seen over a store-door in large black letters--A.
J. Comston & Son. The “son” belonging to this firm is the only one
of the family whose life projects into the present history. Xerxes
Comston was the equal of Ernest in physical attractions, and his
superior in almost everything pertaining to the elegant frivolities and
conventional refinements of fashionable society. He was emphatically
a man of the world--a disciple of Chesterfield, who had made social
etiquette a special study. He had no depth of intellect and no solid
education, but was master of that small talk, silvery nonsense, so
delightful to vacuous minds. It is a well-known fact that truly
educated men, who have “drunk deep of the Pierian spring,” rarely ever
shine in promiscuous society. They appear timid and destitute of ideas,
while men who have collected only the scum of ephemeral literature, and
studied terpsichorean gymnastics, and committed to memory a stock of
witticisms pleasing to light-headed women, pass in society at a value
far more than their real worth. Xerxes was a man of this description.
He had studied dinner-table etiquette and ball-room dynamics more than
any other branch of human literature. The comparison between Ernest and
Xerxes in regard to moral excellences would be like that of Brobdingnag
and Lilliputian. Yet in fashionable assemblies, where Ernest would
sit in embarrassed silence, Xerxes would rattle away with astonishing
and entertaining volubility--a volubility without ideas, but still,
necessary to preserve the regular flow of the stream of conversation.
Men like Ernest are frequently voted “stupid” by the gilded butterflies
of society, when the truth is, they can scarcely ever find a
“pleasure-party” that can appreciate the subjects with which they are
familiar. They are not unsocial, as is generally supposed, but they
dwell in a world of thought, a world which is so sparsely settled that
they necessarily spend much or most of their time in solitude. This
class is quite small. Hence, speaking metaphorically, they live in a
wilderness in which there is here and there a house inhabited by a
literary recluse.

Ernest and Xerxes were, as to moral character, like Zenith and Nadir.

Not many days elapsed before Xerxes sought and formed the acquaintance
of Clara Vanclure. Her prospective fortune made a deep impression upon
his heart. He had heard of the relation between Ernest and the young
lady, but he acted toward her as though he were perfectly ignorant
of the ties which bound her to another. The civil law had given no
validity to this gossamer tenure, and till that should be done, the
conscience of Xerxes stood not in the way of his endeavoring to produce
an alienation between the engaged lovers. However, he never intimated
to any one that he entertained such a purpose.

At length there was to be a grand ball in the town, and the young
people generally were filled with delightful expectations. A few days
before it occurred, Ernest called upon his intended. He had visited her
regularly three or four times a week since his profession of religion,
and had not once alluded to the subject which was so repulsive to her.
When there was a pause in the conversation on the evening just referred
to, she suddenly said:

“Are you going to the ball, next Tuesday evening?”

He looked earnestly at her, while a shade of sorrow and disappointment
passed over his face.

“My dear Clara,” he said in a subdued tone, “how can you ask me such a
question, after the conversation we once had on this subject?”

“I didn’t know but that you might have changed your notion,” she
replied.

“I thought you would give me credit for more stability of purpose than
that.”

“Well, I’m sure I can see no harm in going to a ball,” was her
rejoinder.

“That means you are going, does it?” asked Ernest.

“I rather think I shall,” she replied with an air of firmness,
indicating expectancy of opposition.

“Well, do as you please,” he said.

“I am sorry you cannot go,” she remarked, after a brief pause, “because
I shall be forced to accept another escort.”

“Who?” asked Ernest with an air of indifference that nettled Clara’s
feelings.

“Mr. Comston.”

Ernest made a sudden movement which she noticed with pleasure. The
first pang of jealousy had shot through his heart, stinging, tearing,
sickening, shocking like a barbed arrow. It had not seriously occurred
to him before, that there might be a rupture of the engagement into
which she had so solemnly entered. He had regarded her as his wife, or
at least, so near to that relation that the possibility of losing her,
had not disturbed his thoughts. Suddenly this peril flashed into his
mind, accompanied by a feeling of strong dislike toward the young man,
whose name she had just pronounced with alarming tenderness. He tried
to re-assure himself. Why should he for a moment doubt her constancy?
How could she possibly prefer this _dude_ to himself? No, no; how could
she? And yet--. He dreaded to give definite shape to the vague thought
confusedly working to the surface. Clara perceived her advantage.

“You would not go,” she said, “what then, was I to do? I’m bound to
have an escort.”

“I have offered no objection,” Ernest replied in a sorrowful tone, “and
yet,” he continued timidly, “might you not have accepted an escort with
more congeniality than exists between you and that one?”

“I don’t see the necessity of so much congeniality in a dancing
companion,” she answered. “Besides, Mr. Comston is a nice, elegant
gentleman, and is, by no means, dull.”

The last remark was like gall to Ernest, and he felt strongly tempted
to express his opinion about the moral character of his rival: but
on second thought, he concluded that silence on that head would be
prudent. He at once changed the subject of conversation, and nothing
more was said about the dance.

At the time appointed, Xerxes called to escort Clara to the ball.
That evening he paid her very marked attention, and endeavored in
every possible way, except the agency of the tongue, to convey
to her the knowledge that she occupied a conspicuous place in his
affections. Clara was at no loss to interpret his look and manners. She
understood that earnest, inquiring gaze which seemed to be searching
into the depths of her soul. It was not the bold, impudent stare of
the accomplished libertine, but the skillful maneuvering of a man who
knew how to express tender feelings silently, whether they had real
existence or not. He gazed, it is true, but in such a way as to make
the impression upon the young lady that it was the timid, stealthy
act of a despairing lover. He acted as though he had unintentionally
betrayed the state of his affections, and yet he was well aware that
this betrayal had not escaped the observation of the young lady; for we
sometimes seem to know that certain persons are looking at us, when we
do not see them. If Xerxes had gazed boldly at Clara, she would have
taken offence; but his appeared to be stolen glances, and she felt
flattered.

As they returned late from the ball-room, he said to her as soon as
they were in the open air:

“Well, how have you enjoyed the evening?”

“Very much, indeed,” she said, “how has it been with yourself?”

“I do not know why it was,” he answered, “but I never enjoyed an
evening so much in my life. I wish we could have a dance every week, or
even oftener.”

“I say ‘Amen’ to that,” exclaimed Clara, “for this is an awful dull
town.”

“I find it so myself,” replied Xerxes. “There are so few young ladies
here.”

“So few?” answered Clara in surprise. “I thought there were a great
many.”

“Yes, but I mean congenial spirits. They make no impression upon me.
The fault, however, may be mine. I may not know how to entertain them.
I have not been accustomed to a great deal of female society.”

“You dance beautifully, which made me conclude that you were a great
lady’s man.”

“I am at a loss to imagine upon what you could base such a conclusion.”

“Is not dancing associated with ladies? You said you had enjoyed the
evening. I was simple enough to think that it was the presence of
ladies that caused the time to pass off so agreeably.”

“I am indebted to you for that,” he answered quickly. “If you will
allow me to say it, you are so different from the rest.”

“If you really believe that, I must thank you for the compliment you
intend.”

Thus they chatted till they reached Clara’s home. As he was taking his
leave, Xerxes said in an earnest, appealing tone:

“If you will allow me to call occasionally, it would be a great favor,
and enable me to kill at least some of the time that hangs so heavily
upon my hands?”

“Certainly: I would be pleased to have you call, for I’m frequently
afflicted with dreadful _ennui_ myself,” was the imprudent permission
of this betrothed young lady. When they separated, Clara said to
herself:

“What a pleasant man he is. I do believe he is more entertaining than
Ernest, who, with his religion and his great education, is so solemn.
He doesn’t act like a young man at all. But he is so smart, and I can
always be proud of him. Besides, papa has so much confidence in him.
But I do wish he were just a little more like Mr. Comston.”

And Xerxes thought as he went away:

“She is very beautiful. This, with her thousands, makes her a prize
worth winning. She has not yet mentioned the name of that religious
lawyer. Look sharp, my zealous friend! if you don’t mind, I’ll play
you a trick yet. You may be engaged to her, but ‘there’s many a slip
betwixt the cup and the lip.’”

And here we leave them in darkness.

The next evening Ernest called again, and found Clara in the parlor.
She had slept till noon.

“I hope you are feeling well after your last evening’s dissipation,” he
said pleasantly, as he seated himself.

“I never felt better,” she answered. “I believe the exercise was an
advantage to me. I don’t see why you should call it dissipation.”

“Dissipation it is when compared with some other things, especially
those more solid pursuits which improve the mind.”

“Do you think of nothing but improving the mind?” asked Clara. “Don’t
you believe in any recreation at all?”

“Certainly, but different people have different kinds of recreation.”

“What is your kind? I should like to know.”

“I will tell you,” answered Ernest. “I take a walk or ride every day
for the benefit of my physical organization. To rest my mind I read
light literature.”

“And is that the way you propose to spend your life?” inquired Clara
looking at him anxiously.

“Why should I not?”

“Of course, you can do as you please,” said Clara, showing some signs
of vexation. “But isn’t it rather selfish?”

“It may appear so at present, because I am alone a great deal. But ere
long I shall have a lovable companion who can share these pleasures
with me.”

Clara could not fail to understand his meaning, and now, for the first
time, it occurred to her what a gloomy life she must lead with this
solemn man of books. She had no great taste for literature: Ernest, on
the other hand, was a thorough bibliophilist. He would, no doubt, want
her to read to him what he called light literature, which would prove
rather heavy to her; and he would expect her to be deeply interested in
it. Xerxes, on the contrary, would be a gay companion, and would take
her to balls, theaters, and other places of amusement. This comparison
passed rapidly through her mind.

“Do you not think that will be a pleasant way to spend life?” asked
Ernest, after the pause that followed his last remark.

“It may be for those who like it,” she answered very dryly.

“Don’t you think,” asked Ernest, “that intellectual pleasures are the
most solid and substantial of all? I take the view that we are put here
to cultivate our minds and hearts, and not to be creatures of mere
sensuality. How much better are we than the brutes, if our whole aim
is only to ‘eat, drink, and be merry.’ That is the way they spend the
golden hours of life.”

“I suppose you mean, then, to call me a brute,” said Clara, inclined to
pout.

“No, no,” cried Ernest quickly, “I had no such meaning.”

“But I cannot enjoy books like you. You know that,” she said peevishly.

“You will learn, though, I trust.”

“I don’t think I ever will,” she replied.

“What do you like, then?” inquired Ernest, trying to smile.

“Things that you don’t, it seems. I like theaters and dances.”

“But in the course of time you will desire pleasures more substantial
than these.”

“I don’t know that I will.”

Clara seemed to be out of humor all that evening, and when Ernest left
his heart was filled with misgivings. He thought and feared that he had
discovered a change in her manner toward him. She was evidently more
distant than she had been since their engagement. He was melancholy.
But what could he do to put an end to this dreadful suspense? He
determined that he would persuade Clara to appoint an earlier day for
their marriage.

Availing himself of the privilege allowed him, Xerxes called the next
evening. This young man had traveled considerably, and had lived in the
city of New York for several years. He had not been seated long before
he gave Clara an animated description of the theaters of Paris. She
listened like one entranced. Perceiving her profound interest, he soon
discovered how to entertain her.

“How I should like to travel,” said Clara, with a deep-drawn sigh.

“Yes, it is very pleasant to make the tour of the world with a
congenial companion.”

“I should think so,” she said. “Which city do you like best?”

“Paris, undoubtedly. You can spend a life there, looking at the
curiosities. There is the Louvre, the Tuilleries, the bridges, the arcs
and a thousand other things that I cannot think of now. I read Victor
Hugo’s Les Miserables while I was there, and went to the streets and
other places he mentions. It made the story much more interesting. Did
you ever read that work?”

“No, sir, I never did.”

“I have a copy, and will bring it to you if you would like to read it.”

“Indeed, I should like to do so. We can get no books in this dull town.”

“Well may you call it dull,” said Xerxes. “I told my father the other
day that I felt that I would have to dissolve our partnership. I don’t
believe I can stand the country much longer. Father came here to have a
quiet time, but it is almost too quiet for me.”

These two talked about nothing but parties, dances, shows and the
like the remainder of the evening, and the young lady thought she had
been highly entertained. Xerxes had touched responsive chords in her
nature whose very existence Ernest had ignored. After his departure,
she, at first timidly asked herself the question if she really had any
true affection for Ernest. Was he a suitable companion for her? After
their marriage, was it not evident that he would expect her to take a
deep interest in the stupid books to which he was devoted. Xerxes was
like herself and she thought how happy she could be with an elegant
gentleman who would take delight in the things of which she was so fond.

With such communings as these she fell asleep. She dreamed that she was
wandering in a wide plain, and that she was weary and sad on account
of a great sorrow which had come over her, which was the loss of her
parents. She sat down on a stone, covered her face with her hands, and
wept. Hearing a deep-drawn sigh at her side, she looked around, and
beheld Ernest. He mingled his tears with hers, and pointed upward.
Suddenly he disappeared. Again she bowed her head, and wept afresh.
Then she heard a joyous laugh, and rising up, she saw Xerxes standing
before her. “Why weep?” he said. “Enjoy life. Come with me to yon
throng of dancers, and drown your sorrow.” She cast her eyes in the
direction in which he was pointing, and beheld a company gayly dressed,
whirling amid gorgeous flowers under gigantic oaks. She gave her hand
to the smiling Xerxes, and they were soon mingling with the giddy
pleasure-seekers.

When Clara awoke, the superstition of her nature, more or less of which
all of us have, inclined her to put an interpretation upon her dream
which was decidedly unfavorable to Ernest. Did not the dream foreshadow
a fearful destiny, if she married him? All that day she was in a state
of perplexing indecision. But circumstances soon enabled her to reach a
conclusion; for Xerxes, to her surprise, called that very evening. He
looked sad, and seemed to be greatly embarrassed.

“I cannot stay long,” he said as soon as they were seated. “I have come
to bid you adieu.”

“What!” exclaimed Clara in unfeigned astonishment, but suddenly
restraining her emotion, she said:

“O, you are going off on business?”

“No: I don’t expect to return.”

“Why--is--it--is it not a sudden conclusion?”

“It is,” said Xerxes. “I reached it on leaving you yesterday evening. I
learned something that at once decided me.”

“It seems that it was something disagreeable, judging by your looks?”

“Yes, the most disagreeable news I ever heard in my life,” exclaimed
Xerxes. “I cannot remain here any longer. I wish I had known it sooner.
I should have controlled my foolish heart, and saved myself a world of
sorrow.”

“I don’t understand you,” said Clara.

“I know you don’t, but to be plain, you are the cause of my trouble.”

“I? How can I be?”

“I will tell you,” said Xerxes, speaking as if he were in the deepest
distress. “I heard of your engagement yesterday evening. I had
permitted myself to entertain hopes in regard to you, not dreaming that
I had a rival. I do think you ought to have informed me of this fact,
in common charity.”

“You never asked me, Mr. Comston.”

“No: but when you saw my infatuation, you might have thrown out a hint,
that your heart was pre-occupied. But you allowed me to go on in my
blindness till I have become hopelessly entangled in the web of Cupid.
I love you to madness. O, why did you not warn me?” exclaimed Xerxes in
a voice of such exquisite anguish that Clara felt sorry, and yet glad.

“I think it would have been presumptuous in me to have done so. I did
not know that you cared anything for me.”

“Well, it is useless to talk about it, I suppose. I go with a great
wound in my heart which nothing on earth can cure. You are lost to me
forever. The thought drives me mad. I cannot remain here.”

“Why should you go?” asked Clara timidly.

“Do you suppose I could stay here, and see you the bride of another?
No, no, never.”

“Another? whom do you mean?”

“Why, you know--Mr. Edgefield.”

“I don’t think I will ever be his bride,” replied Clara in a low,
hesitating tone.

“Are you not engaged to him?” asked Xerxes eagerly.

“Yes: but since he has joined the Christians, I have been thinking of
breaking it off. He has become too solemn to suit me.”

“O, if you will only give me the slightest grounds for hope, this town
would be the dearest spot on earth to me. Tell me that I may try to win
you, and I will be raised at once from the very depths of despair to
the pinnacle of felicity.”

Xerxes had used this very expression at least a dozen times to
different damsels, but he now spoke it with all the freshness of a
first utterance, and it had the same effect upon Clara as if it had
been the spontaneous outgush of a sentiment struggling to find vent in
suitable language. Subsequent events will show what reply Clara made.

Ernest could not be blind to the frequency of Xerxes’ visits, and he
determined to put an end to them by a marriage at an early day as he
could prevail upon Clara to appoint. He had not doubted her constancy,
but since the ball he dreaded the consequences of the comparisons
between himself and his rival, which it was but natural the young lady
should institute. Accordingly, the next time he called, he directed the
conversation to their engagement, and said earnestly:

“I hope, my dear Clara, you will appoint the day for our union. This
you have not yet done. You have only said it would be in the next few
weeks, which is indefinite. I can see no use in waiting longer. Please
make the day as near in the future as possible.”

Clara’s beautiful face at once assumed an expression of ominous
seriousness but she spoke promptly and directly:

“I am thinking of asking you to release me from that hasty engagement.”

Ernest turned pale. He made no attempt to conceal his amazement and
anguish. For a moment he sat as if petrified, or as if he did not
clearly understand her. Surely she could not mean what these words
signified: he could not believe it, for did she not love him? Why break
the engagement? O, she must be tantalizing him for sport--yes, that was
all. He would humor this pleasantry. Then he tried to smile, but it was
an expressionless distortion of his face. “You want a divorce, do you?”
he asked in a husky voice. “Well, that will be hard to get.”

“I said nothing about a divorce,” she replied in a cold manner.

“You did not use that word, I know, but an engagement, Clara, solemnly
entered into is equivalent to marriage in the sight of God. You are
mine; how can I release you?”

“I see no difficulty in the way whatever. I’m not yours: I only
promised to be.”

“Well, are you going to deliberately violate your promise, your solemn
vow, which God witnessed? How can you do such a thing? Did you mean
what you said?”

“Certainly, I did, but I have changed my mind: I don’t want to marry
you.”

“O, Clara, Clara,” he cried in agony, “you crush me into the dust! You
do not mean what you say--tell me, you do not mean it. You merely want
to tantalize me. Well, dear, do you not see that I cannot endure it?
I never could appreciate jokes. Come, you have had enough sport. Be
serious, and appoint the day for our marriage.”

“Mr. Edgefield,” she said firmly, “I’m not joking; I’m in earnest, and
I ask you to release me from the engagement.”

“Ask God to release you,” cried Ernest wildly, “and see if He will do
it. You are mine, Clara. How can I give you up? It would be a sin.”

“O, pshaw!” said Clara contemptuously, “I see no sin in it. I’ll never
marry you. Don’t you understand that?”

“I see how it is,” suddenly cried Ernest, “that tippling fop has
deceived you. You surely would not think of rejecting me for a stranger
whose moral character is bad? You are too wise for that. Your father
will not permit you to be so foolish.”

“I give you to understand, sir,” said Clara reddening with anger, “my
father will not compel me to marry any one against my will. You have
insulted me. Leave me, and never speak to me again.”

“O, Clara, Clara,” cried Ernest, wringing his hands in anguish, “do not
drive me from you in this cruel way. I beg your pardon. I scarcely knew
what I was saying. Forgive me, if I said anything offensive.”

“I’ll forgive you, if you will leave me, and promise never again to
call, except as a friend.”

Ernest fixed his eyes upon her face, and gazed so strangely that she
shrank, and hung her head. He was trembling like the wind-shaken aspen.
He was standing on the verge of an abyss of darkness, and felt the
ground giving way under his feet. He felt as if the foundations of his
being were breaking up, and drifting off, leaving him to sink down
into the horrid blackness. How could he cry to God to sustain him in
this supreme hour of distress! The chilling waves were rolling over
him: a great suffocating lump seemed to be forming in his heart. His
soul reeled. He looked up to the ceiling of the room, and seemed to be
trying to see through it, and beyond it. His lips worked and twitched
convulsively. O, it is pitiable to see a strong man suddenly hurled
from his normal tranquillity down to the dust of abject despair, at the
feet of an unworthy woman!

Clara gazed at him with feelings of mingled compassion and alarm. She
was still more astonished, when he suddenly rose to his feet, and,
without appearing to see her, walked out of the parlor. She noticed
that his face was bloodless, and his lips were firmly compressed as
though he were holding back some terrible thought which was struggling
to find egress. In a few moments his rapid footsteps had died away.

“What a strange man!” she said. “I wonder what he is going to do? I
didn’t think he would take it so hard as that. But marriage would have
made us both miserable.”

Thus there was a sudden divergence of the path of destiny. There is
nothing more common in the affairs of this life than these unexpected
transitions from one condition to another. We may carefully spread the
warp on the loom, but the shuttle which holds the woof, is projected by
an unseen hand. Our well-settled purposes, our deep-laid schemes, are
thwarted, and scattered to the winds. We stand astounded and appalled
in the wreck of our hopes and plans, not knowing what to do, when
presently we turn, and behold a new path opened, and uncontrollable
circumstances force us to pursue it.

[Illustration: Decoration]




CHAPTER V.

DEEP WATERS.


It was a bright moon-lit night, and the town of ---- showed dimly
in the silvery sheen which vaguely illuminated the half of every
object. It was calm and quiet. The people were sitting in groups on
the galleries, porticoes and piazzas of their respective residences,
enjoying the cooling breezes that stole out of the circumjacent forests
and crept gently along the deserted streets.


     “’Twas one of those delicious nights,
       So common in the climes of Greece,
     When day withdraws but half his lights,
       And all is moonshine, balm and peace.”


Ernest and Mr. Hillston were sitting in the gallery of the preacher’s
residence. The young man was sad and silent.

“Ernest,” said Mr. Hillston kindly, “what is the matter with you? You
have not been like yourself for two or three days. You seem to be in
deep trouble.”

“So I am, Mr. Hillston. I am wading through the ‘deep waters’ about
which you sing.”

“I knew there was something the matter. Is it anything you can tell?
Sometimes it is a great relief to unbosom ourselves to a kind friend,
who can sympathize with us, if nothing more.”

“I do not mind telling you, Mr. Hillston, though I cannot see that it
will do any good.”

“You do not know that. I have lived a long time in this world, and
have, at least, tried to comfort a great many people under clouds of
sorrow. Probably I might be able to give you some advice which would be
useful.”

“Well, you know I was engaged to be married to Clara Vanclure?”

“Yes; you told me that.”

“She has broken the engagement.”

“For what reason?”

“I suspect that Comston has deceived her.”

“Did you have no quarrel with her? Frequently young people fall out
about trifles, and soon become reconciled.”

“No; we had no quarrel. She discarded me coolly and deliberately.”

“Well, my dear boy,” said Mr. Hillston, with tenderness, “it is no more
than I expected.”

“Why?” asked Ernest.

“Do you not remember some weeks ago, when you told me about the affair,
that you thought I did not approve your choice?”

“Yes, sir, distinctly.”

“I did not think you had made a wise selection, and as I did not
congratulate you then, I now congratulate you on the happy termination
of the affair.”

“You are cruel, Mr. Hillston,” said Ernest, in a tone of bitterness.

“Far from it, my boy. I know you must suffer for a while. But mark what
I say: you will, no doubt, see the day when you will regard it as the
best that could have happened to you. I was surprised at your choice,
but as the poet says:


     ‘Lovers are blind, and cannot see
     The petty faults themselves commit.’


But I could see that Miss Clara would not suit you at all. She
has as few qualifications for a minister’s wife as any lady of my
acquaintance.”

“Minister’s wife!” exclaimed Ernest. “She would not have been a
minister’s wife.”

“I see you are still disposed to disobey the Divine call; but you would
better yield, or your present trouble will be only the beginning of
sorrows. I have no doubt that it is foreordained that you shall be a
preacher of the gospel.”

“Look here, Mr. Hillston,” cried Ernest suddenly, “I have been reading
my Bible to discover if that doctrine of predestination is taught.”

“Well, do you find it in God’s Word?” quietly asked Mr. Hillston.

“I think not, sir. On the contrary, I find all through it that man is a
free agent.”

“My dear boy, who denies that man is a free agent? I am sure that
I will endorse every passage which you can cite that teaches human
responsibility.”

“Why, I do not see, Mr. Hillston, how you can possibly reconcile
predestination with man’s free moral agency.”

“I do not pretend to do so, Ernest. You are like a good many people
I know, who think that predestination is not taught in God’s Word,
because they cannot make it harmonize with free agency. I have
frequently been amused at some ministers who undertook to show that
there is no such doctrine as fore-ordination in the Bible. They quoted
those passages which prove that man is a free agent, and then at once
jumped to the conclusion that God could not shape or control human
destiny. We must accept both doctrines, for both are clearly taught in
the Scriptures. You cannot understand the Trinity, but your failure to
comprehend it is no proof of its falsity, is it?”

“No, sir, of course not. But I did not think you could hold to
predestination and free agency at the same time. What do you do with
the passage of Scripture which says that ‘Christ tasted death for every
man?’”

“Do with it? I accept it without hesitation as a precious truth.”

“Well, well, well,” said Ernest, as though greatly perplexed, “and yet
you say that some men were condemned from all eternity. How in the
world can that be? ‘Whosoever will,’ says the Scripture, ‘let him take
the water of life freely.’”

“Certainly,” answered the preacher, gently. “I quote that in every
sermon I preach, and urge sinners to avail themselves of the
world-embracing invitation.”

“But if their destiny is already determined, what is the use of your
preaching to them and urging them?”

“Now, my boy, don’t begin at the roof to build your house, but commence
at the foundation, and work upward. Suppose I show that this ‘horrid
doctrine,’ as some people call it, is contained in God’s Word?”

“Well, I wish you would,” said Ernest. “I am open to conviction.”

“Then let us go into my study, and appeal to the Blessed Book itself;
for it should be final in every theological controversy.”

They were soon seated, and the old man arranged his spectacles, and
opened the Bible.

“It seems to me,” said Mr. Hillston, “that the eighth and ninth
chapters of the epistle to the Romans ought to remove every doubt on
this subject. You have surely noticed the celebrated passage, Romans
8:29. Now here it is: ‘Whom He did fore-know, He did _predestinate_.’
What does predestinate mean? It has only one meaning.”

“That is true,” said Ernest, “but might it not refer to the righteous
_character_? He did fore-know and predestinate the righteous character.
I can admit that.”

“How will you separate a man from his character?” asked Mr. Hillston.
“You might just as well talk of separating sugar from its sweetness.
What is the character of sugar? It is sweet. Can you deprive it of
this attribute without utterly destroying it? Certain qualities and
attributes constitute character, and make the man. If a man has no
character, he is a brute. Godliness, holiness, etc., are nothing
till they become concrete by entering into the moral constitution of
an individual. It is in vain, then, to talk about God’s saving the
‘righteous character,’ because that is nothing but an abstraction.
Besides, Paul says, ‘whom’ He did fore-know, not ‘what.’”

“I will take back the word ‘character,’ if you will allow me,” said
Ernest, “and say that God predestinates the righteous _man_.”

“Very well,” replied Mr. Hillston. “We agree, then, it is the
_individual_ that is foreordained to salvation. All denominations are
agreed that there is an election of some sort. Let me ask upon what
principle you think God elects men to salvation?”

“Why, sir, God elects those to salvation who He fore-saw would repent
of their sins.”

“That view,” said Mr. Hillston, “is a flat contradiction of what Paul
says. The apostle describes the several steps or processes in the
believer’s salvation. He does not say that God predestinated those
who would repent, but those ‘whom He did predestinate He _called_,
and them that He called He _justified_.’ According to your view, the
passage ought to say: ‘Them whom He justified, on account of their
repentance, He predestinated.’ The plain meaning of the passage is,
that God predestinated some men to salvation, and in consequence of
that election, He _called_ them and _justified_ them. The apostle
reiterates this view in some of the other epistles. Here is Eph. 1:3,
4, 5: ‘Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ who hath
blessed us with all spiritual blessings in heavenly places in Christ.
According as He hath chosen us in Him before the foundation of the
world, that we should be holy and without blame before Him in love.
Having predestinated us unto the adoption of children by Jesus Christ
to Himself according to the good pleasure of His will.’ Now,” continued
Mr. Hillston, “ought not this passage to put an end to all controversy?
The apostle declares there was an election. When? He says ‘before the
foundation of the world.’ Why did He choose us? Was it because we were
righteous? No. Was it because God fore-saw that we would repent? No. He
chose us that ‘we _should become holy and with out blame_.’ Now what do
you say?”

“I confess,” said Ernest, “that such passages puzzle me no little. Why
does God choose some men to salvation, and pass by others, when all are
guilty alike?”

“Ah! there’s the difficulty,” said Mr. Hillston. “The good Lord has not
informed us on what principle He makes the choice. If we knew that,
there would be an end of all discussion. All we know about it is, that
it is ‘according to the good pleasure of His will.’ Is not that a
sufficient reason?”

“Somehow, this doctrine of predestination appears to me to be unjust,”
said Ernest, looking confused. “You say that God passes by some men
without giving them an opportunity to be saved.”

“I did not say that, Ernest.”

“Well, it amounts to that.”

“On the contrary, they do have an opportunity to be saved. The
invitations of the gospel are extended to all alike, and all could be
saved, if they would. No man ever was lost simply on account of the
‘eternal decrees.’”

“Why, how can they be saved,” asked Ernest, “if it is predestinated
that they shall not accept the invitations offered to them?”

“But, my young friend, the Bible does not say that they _shall_ not
accept, but that they _will_ not. ‘Ye _will not_ come unto me that ye
might have life,’ said our Lord. The greatest obstacle in the way of
human salvation is found in the perversity of the _will_. If men only
_willed_ to be saved, they could be. How, then, is there injustice in
predestination?”

“Well,” said Ernest, “if some men are foreordained to eternal death, I
should like to know what is the use of your preaching to them?”

“When you get to be a minister, if you discard predestination and
election, I want to ask you a question or two,” said Mr. Hillston.
“Assuming that you are a preacher, I will ask you these questions now.”

“Very well; proceed.”

“You believe in God’s fore-knowledge?”

“Certainly.”

“Do you believe that all men will be saved?”

“No, sir; some will be lost,” answered Ernest.

“That is certain, is it?”

“Of course, it is.”

“Then,” said Mr. Hillston, “what is the use of your preaching to
certain men that God knows will be lost? Will not the same result
follow in both instances?”

“Yes, sir; but I throw the responsibility of refusing upon themselves.”

“Let us settle one thing at a time, if you please,” said Mr. Hillston.
“We are not talking about where the responsibility belongs; but, at
present, we want to get at the facts. I ask you, if God fore-knows that
some men will be lost, is not their destiny as much fixed as if it had
been decreed? Answer that.”

“I suppose it would be,” replied Ernest hesitatingly, as though he were
fearful of admitting too much, “but God’s fore-knowledge has no effect
upon human destiny.”

“It does not matter about that just now. People,” continued Mr.
Hillston, “frequently ask me the question which you have propounded.
What is the use of preaching to men that are certain to be lost? You
must not try to make me remove an objection which applies with as much
force to your system as to mine. God commands us to preach the gospel
to every creature, and that is reason enough. You remember that God
commanded Ezekiel to preach to the dry bones in the valley. The prophet
might have said, ‘What is the use? These bones have no life and no
sense. They cannot hear: it is foolish to talk to them.’ But God said,
‘Preach to them.’ Sinners are in the condition of those dry bones; but
God tells me to preach to them. I obey; I know not who are to be lost:
my duty is to preach, and God quickens whom He will.”

“I see the unfairness of my question,” said Ernest honestly. “But there
is an absurdity in the doctrine of predestination, if I only knew how
to point it out.”

“Look here, my boy,” said Mr. Hillston kindly, “how can you call that
an ‘absurdity’ which the Bible so clearly teaches?”

“I beg pardon, Mr. Hillston; I will recall the offensive word. I will
substitute the word injustice for absurdity.”

“Your apology does not mend the matter,” answered Mr. Hillston, “for
are you going to accuse God of injustice?”

“No, sir; but the question is whether it is a doctrine of the Bible.”

“Exactly. We agreed to let the Bible settle it,” said Mr. Hillston.
“I have already called your attention to several passages which
undoubtedly teach it. I can refer to instances and passages almost
without number in the Scriptures. The Bible certainly is not silent on
the subject, whether we can understand it or not.”

“I cannot understand,” said Ernest, “how a man can be a free agent, and
yet his destiny is already fixed.”

“And yet, the Bible is full of instances which prove clearly that
predestination and free agency operate in perfect harmony.”

“Name one,” said Ernest.

“Well, take the case of Judas Iscariot: it was predicted by Isaiah that
the Lord Jesus should be betrayed for thirty pieces of silver. Will you
not admit that God had Judas in His mind, when this prophecy was made?”

“Certainly,” replied Ernest, “for a betrayal necessarily implies a
betrayer.”

“Undoubtedly, because God could not foresee a betrayal disconnected
entirely from any individual. You will also admit that after the
prediction was made, it must be fulfilled, and Judas must betray
Christ?”

“I do not see that I must admit that.”

“But you must, though,” said Mr. Hillston.

“Why must I?” asked Ernest.

“Well, suppose Judas had not betrayed the Lord for thirty pieces of
silver, what would have become of Isaiah’s prophecy? Would it not have
been falsified?”

“I suppose so,” said Ernest a little doggedly.

“Suppose so!” cried Mr. Hillston. “How can there possibly be any doubt
about it? After a prophesy is uttered, and even written down, it must
be fulfilled, or God’s word is falsified.”

“Yes; I admit that, for the sake of argument.”

“Well, when the proper time arrived, Judas betrayed the Lord. He
evidently performed a part which was predestinated. Was he not a free
agent?”

“Not if he was compelled to do as he did,” answered Ernest.

“No, if he was compelled,” replied Mr. Hillston, “but where was the
compulsion? He was carrying out his own will and if he was, that makes
him a free agent. His conduct afterwards proves that he never felt
that he was constrained by any extraneous influence. The crucifixion
was foretold with all its attendant prominent circumstances, and to
prove that it was predestinated, let us turn to Acts 2:23. ‘_Him being
delivered by the determinate counsel and fore-knowledge of God, ye have
taken, and by wicked hands have crucified and slain._’

“Here it is emphatically declared that Jesus was delivered by the
determinate counsel of God. To show that the actors in the disgraceful
tragedy were free agents, it is said that they crucified Him with
_wicked_ hands. But to put it beyond all dispute, that it was all
predestinated, let us turn to Acts 4:27-28: ‘_For of a truth against
thy holy child Jesus, whom Thou hast anointed, both Herod and Pontius
Pilate, with the Gentiles, and the people of Israel, were gathered
together, for to do whatsoever thy hand and thy counsel determined
before to be done._’

“Here, the actors are all clearly specified. They met at a certain
place. For what? To do whatsoever God had determined before should be
done. You can get no other meaning out of it. Dr. Adam Clarke saw a
difficulty here, and he took the liberty to transpose the passage so
as to make it read thus: ‘_For a truth against thy holy child Jesus,
whom Thou hast anointed, for to do whatsoever thy hand and thy counsel
determined before to be done._’

“Dr. Clarke thus makes the predestination clause apply to Jesus,
instead of Herod, and the others. It seems the Doctor did not mind
stripping Jesus of free agency, just so he could preserve it to men.
But Mr. Benson, who had no leaning towards predestination, says that
such a transposition as Clarke makes is unauthorized and unnecessary.”

“Do you think,” asked Ernest, “that Dr. Clarke was insincere? I mean,
do you believe he discovered the doctrine of predestination in that
passage, and then deliberately tried to eliminate it?”

“O, no,” replied Mr. Hillston, “I think he honestly believed that
the doctrine of predestination, as taught by most Baptist ministers
and especially by the Presbyterian Church, has no foundation in
the Scriptures, and thus believing, he could not admit the plain
meaning of what seems to me a plain passage. He, no doubt, thought by
transposing a clause, he would make the Bible say what was intended.
But what does the Doctor gain by this transposition? If Jesus was not
a free agent, we are under no obligation to Him for fulfilling the law
in our stead and suffering for us. He was merely undergoing a penalty
which He could not avoid. Was it not necessary that Jesus should be a
free agent as well as that men should?”

“But according to your view,” said Ernest, “He could be a free agent,
and yet His career be fore-ordained.”

“Exactly, but according to Dr. Clarke’s view, if His career was
foreordained, He could not be a free agent; that is the difference.
These men, Herod, Pilate, and the others, carried out their own will
and the Divine will at the same time, and I see no difficulty in it.
That is the great advantage the predestinarian has. When he meets
with a passage that teaches predestination, he admits it; and when he
meets with another that teaches free agency, he admits it. He makes
no pause to try to reconcile them, because he sees no inconsistency.
But when Dr. Clarke, and those who believe like him, come to one of
these passages, ‘hard to be understood,’ as Peter says, they halt
and endeavor to harmonize it with their belief. When the Bible, in
speaking of Pharaoh, says, “For this purpose have I raised thee up,” we
predestinarians at once acknowledge God’s hand, and we read on without
stopping to explain. But Dr. Clarke comes to it and finds an obstacle.
He must pause and try to determine what is meant by ‘raising up,’ and
must explain it so as not to interfere with man’s free agency. We read
that God hardened Pharaoh’s heart and in the next passage we read that
Pharaoh hardened his own heart. We predestinarians find no difficulty
here, for we see the two doctrines working together in perfect
harmony, but Dr. Clarke becomes puzzled. ‘How is this?’ he says. ‘If
God hardened Pharaoh’s heart, how could Pharaoh have hardened his own
heart?’ So the good Doctor must enter into a long explanation of this
hardening process.”

“One of the passages you have quoted,” said Ernest, who appeared
to be confused by perplexing thoughts, “says, ‘according to the
fore-knowledge.’ Could it not have been that God merely fore-saw what
Judas and others would do and based the prophecy upon foreknowledge?”

“That only removes the difficulty one step,” replied Mr. Hillston.
“For whatever God fore-saw, must take place. But the passage says also
‘determinate counsels.’ What does that mean?”

“I know you think it means predestination.”

“I certainly do,” replied Mr. Hillston. “But I think we have found
predestination in at least two instances which prove that there
is no conflict between the two principles we are discussing. If
fore-ordination and free agency could work in harmony in the case of
Judas, why not in the case of every human being. I want to ask you a
question right here.”

“I will answer it, if I can,” said Ernest.

“You have already acknowledged that God fore-knows all things, ‘every
deed which men will perform and even every thought which will pass
through their minds’. Now suppose God should order some Jeremiah to
write out the history of every human being: we would have a tremendous
book of prophecy which would include every individual of the human
race. You will admit that all these prophecies would have to be
accomplished or God’s word would be falsified. You will admit, also,
that if no one knew anything about this great and enormous book except
the writer, men would be free agents? How could merely recording their
actions without their knowledge affect their conduct?”

“It could not,” said Ernest.

“Well, then, are men’s actions any the less uncertain because they are
not written out in a book? The history of every human being is written
out in the Divine Mind. Is that history any the less uncertain because
it is not published in a tangible volume? God’s not fore-telling
what He fore-knows, does not leave men at liberty to change their
conduct. If it did, the Lord could fore-know nothing with certainty.
If then God could write out the history of every human being without
doing the least violence to his free agency, how can you object to
predestination? My history is fixed, and so is yours and every other
man’s, and that is predestination.”

Ernest said nothing, and Mr. Hillston continued:

“But let us turn to the Scriptures again. Here is John 15:16: ‘_Ye
have not chosen me, but I have chosen you_.’ Again, 1 Cor. 1:26: ‘_For
ye see your calling, brethren, how that not many wise men after the
flesh, not many mighty, not many noble are called_,’ etc. I could refer
to a great many passages of similar import. Is not election clearly
taught in such Scriptures? Then it is said that God did not choose His
people on account of their righteous character, but that He might make
them righteous. When they were chosen, they were children of wrath even
as others. This is proved in the 15th chapter of John, where Jesus,
speaking of His people under the similitude of sheep, says: “Other
sheep I have which are not of this fold”--that is they were in the
world out of the fold; they were sinners and yet were God’s people, to
be brought in, when it should please God.

“I do no see how anyone can read the eighth and ninth chapters of
Romans without believing in the doctrine of predestination and
election. Paul there answers the very objections which are to this
day urged against divine fore-ordination. Peter certainly understood
Paul to advocate this ‘horrid doctrine,’ for he says it is ‘hard to be
understood.’ If Paul was writing about free agency, there was no need
to say it was hard to be understood.”

“I have read these chapters,” said Ernest, “and I confess they are
mysterious.”

“What makes them mysterious?” asked Mr. Hillston. “Don’t you see if
you can eliminate predestination and election out of them, they would
not be mysterious? Why do so many people stumble over these chapters
especially? It is because their foot strikes against these two hard
doctrines.”

“You have used the word ‘election,’” said Ernest, “but do not some
people say that it applies only to the election of classes or nations
to temporal privileges, and not to the election of individuals to
eternal salvation?”

“Yes; but let us settle that point by the Scriptures. Turn to Acts
13:48: ‘_And when the Gentiles heard this they were glad, and glorified
the word of the Lord; and as many as were ordained to eternal life
believed_.’ Some people have wished that the last clause could be
transposed so as to read: ‘_As many as believed were ordained to
eternal life_.’ But it is too plain to be tampered with in this way.
Again, in second Thessalonians 2:13: ‘_But we are bound to give thanks
always to God for you, brethren, beloved of the Lord, because God
hath from the beginning chosen you to salvation through sanctification
of the Spirit and belief of the truth_.’ Again, Hebrews 12:23: ‘_To
the general assembly and Church of the first-born which are written
in heaven_.’ Again, Philippians 4:3: ‘_Whose names are in the book of
life_.’ I could go on, and cite I know not how many more passages,
all proving that there is an election of individuals unto eternal
salvation.”

“There is evidently an election of individuals,” said Ernest, “but why
could it not be based upon men’s foreseen repentance and faith. I could
accept that doctrine.”

“No doubt,” answered the preacher, “for that is more agreeable to
the carnal heart. Men like so much to deserve salvation by their own
works--their own faith and repentance. According to the Scriptures,
this election is based upon God’s will. But if you will modify your
position a little, I think we can agree. If you will say that this
election is based upon faith and repentance brought about by the Holy
Spirit, we need not have any further discussion.”

“But I do not mean that. I mean that men perceive the truth and act
upon it.”

“Of themselves, do you mean?”

“Well, with the assistance of the Holy Spirit.”

“But men,” said Mr. Hillston, “are represented in the Scriptures as
dead in trespasses and sins. Lazarus is a fit type of the sinner. Could
Lazarus have raised himself from the grave without the assistance
of the Lord? Is it not evident that he could do nothing till he
was actually restored to life? So it was with the man who had the
diseased arm. He could not make an effort till the limb was healed.
‘By grace are ye saved,’ says the Scripture, ‘through faith, and that
not of yourselves; it is the gift of God.’ Are not all these passages
sufficient to convince and satisfy you?”

“Of course, I must believe what the Bible says,” replied Ernest, “but
it does appear strange to me how a man can be a free agent, and yet his
destiny is fixed.”

“No one ever denied that it is strange. Indeed, it is incomprehensible;
but we are not to reject it on that account. All we have to do is to
ascertain whether it is contained in God’s Word or not. But after all,
what do we mean by predestination? Why just this, that God had a
purpose in view in the creation of the world. He surely was not trying
experiments. He did not put men in the world, and turn them loose, to
see what they would do. You will not deny that He fore-knew who would
be saved and who would be lost?”

“No, I do not deny that.”

“Well, there is no power in mere fore knowledge. Would not God, then,
have to exercise power in order to accomplish what He fore-knew?”

“It seems that He would, sir.”

“Well, that is predestination. It is the execution of the divine
purpose. So you see that, without predestination, God could not have
made the world--could not have created man. Notwithstanding that He
fore-saw some would be lost, He determined to create them, and that
determination on the part of God, is predestination. Then, eliminate
predestination, and you represent God in the attitude of a sort of
empiricist. He creates men without any particular purpose in view.
Besides, there is another difficulty. When there was nothing in
existence, how could God foresee anything except what He had determined
upon? Would not God have to determine that things should be, before
He could fore-see them? I cannot imagine how the Lord could have made
the world without predestination. Man, with his limited wisdom, never
undertakes enterprises without determining something in regard to them.
Do you suppose that God put men here without any purpose?”

“No, sir; of course, He had a purpose.”

“Really, when you admit that, there is no use of discussion, for that
purpose is predestination. We can ascertain what God’s purposes are,
only by what takes place. We see that some men are lost and some are
saved, and all this must be in accordance with God’s purpose, and that
is what we mean by predestination.”

“You can beat me in argument,” suddenly exclaimed Ernest. “I have not
studied the question sufficiently.”

“The more you study it,” said Mr. Hillston, “the more you will be
convinced that it is the doctrine of the Bible.”

“Whenever I am convinced,” replied Ernest, “you may rest assured that
I will accept it. But I am not satisfied. What you have said appears
reasonable; but I know there is something to be said on the other
side, if I knew how to get at it.”

“I don’t know,” answered Mr. Hillston; “you have mentioned the usual
objections that men urge against it. But when you find any good
argument on your side, let me know what it is. Let me caution you
on one point, though. Do not seek out those passages of Scripture
which teach free agency, and put them against the passages that favor
predestination. For that is only fighting Scripture with Scripture.
You must not make the Bible contradict itself, but you must try to
reconcile these seemingly antagonistic passages. In the meantime, try
to apply this doctrine to your own case. Your steps are ordered by the
Lord. Recognize God’s hand in your affairs, and thus predestination
becomes a practical, comforting doctrine, instead of that ‘horrid
thing’ which some people call it.”

Ernest took his leave. He was almost convinced by the arguments of Mr.
Hillston, but he was not yet prepared to acknowledge it.

Men pride themselves upon consistency, and some will even cling to an
error rather than appear fickle-minded. Away, we say, with such absurd
and false consistency! It is morally degrading.




CHAPTER VI.

MANASSAS.


While the never-ceasing march of time was unfolding the events which
have been narrated, others of a more startling and melancholy character
were evolving from the womb of the future. We have now reached the
historical year of 1861, which has already taken its place along with
other famous periods that have marked the turning points in humanity’s
progress. The reader, in order fully to understand the present story,
must again gaze in imagination at the gloomy clouds of war, and listen
to the awful earthquake of battle, the sharp rattle of musketry, varied
with the deep bass of cannon, the thundering tramp of cavalry, the
deafening shouts of the victor, and the piteous groans of the wounded
and dying.

On the morning of the 21st July 1861, at early dawn, the boom of a
single cannon broke the solemn stillness and sacred silence of the
Lord’s day. It was the signal gun of Manassas, fired by the Federal
troops opposite the stone bridge which spans the now celebrated rivulet
known as Bull Run. It was thirty minutes past six o’clock when this gun
awoke the first echoes of the initial battle of the so-called great
“Rebellion.”

General McDowell, as rapidly as possible, pushed forward his forces to
the main point of attack, which was the left wing of the Confederate
army, resting at the stone bridge. It appears that it was General
Beauregard’s intention to make an aggressive movement by attacking the
enemy’s left wing, but suddenly his plan was turned against himself,
and he was forced to act upon the defensive. General Hunter threw his
command forward, and crossed Bull Run some distance above the stone
bridge. The extreme Confederate left was held by Evans who had only
fifteen companies of infantry and Latham’s battery of six-pounders.
A demonstration was made in his front at stone bridge while Hunter
was crossing at Suddle ford. As soon as this movement of Hunter’s was
reported to Evans, he took eleven companies, leaving four to guard the
bridge, and with this small force rapidly went forward to sustain the
shock of 30,000 men. It seemed impossible that this little Spartan
band could stand before the impetuous onset of an enthusiastic army,
outnumbering them by twenty to one. But Beauregard and Johnson were
several miles off, and Evans must assume the responsibility of giving
shape to the battle. History hardly gives this man the praise which
is due, who, without any authority to order up reinforcements, had
to initiate a movement of his own in the very face of the defeated
plans of the commanding General. Had it not been for Evan’s prompt
action and his quick comprehension of the critical situation, the
whole Confederate army might soon have been thrown into inextricable
confusion. But Evans, at once, perceived the necessity of checking
McDowell’s army till Beauregard could form a new line of battle, and
send forward the necessary reinforcements. The struggle that took place
was bitter and determined, for both parties were in a state of military
effervescence. The Northern army especially was drunk with enthusiasm,
and anticipated an easy victory over the poorly-equipped “rebels.”
Many Congressmen and citizens, including elegant ladies, had come from
Washington to participate in the celebration of the grand victory
which they had no doubt would be achieved. They had sent to Centerville
all kinds of delicacies, fine wines and the like, with which they
expected to have a splendid collation as soon as the battle should be
ended. We may here mention a fact, to which Northern historians have
never given much prominence, if they have not deliberately suppressed
it: Several wagons were loaded with hand-cuffs, with which to manacle
the captured “rebels” and lead them along the streets of Washington in
triumph. The Federals were, therefore, much enraged when they found
their march checked by this handfull of “rebels”--a single regiment
from South Carolina and a company from Wheat’s battallion. It could not
be expected that Evans could hold his position for any great length of
time against such terrible odds. He was gradually driven back. But the
gallant Bee soon came up. His arrival was most timely, for the whole
Southern line was now giving way, reeling, staggering under the hot,
concentrated fire of McDowell’s army. Bee rapidly advanced with four
regiments, and the battle was, at once, renewed with additional fury.
For an hour, this brigade, with the few bleeding companies of Evans,
decimated by their heroic effort to check the advance of a whole army,
stood their ground, and fought with a desperation born of pride and
patriotism. It seems that Beauregard had made no preparations for an
attack at this point.

Twelve o’clock arrived, and found the little army of Bee and Evans in a
most critical condition. It was slowly falling back. There would soon
have been a panic, had not Bee discovered the famous brigade of the
immortal “Stonewall” Jackson, coming to his relief. “General,” groaned
Bee, as he galloped back, begrimed with the smoke and dust of battle,
“they are beating us back.” “Sir, we will give them the bayonet,”
calmly and curtly replied the Man of Iron. Bee immediately rushed back
to his disordered and disheartened soldiers, and pointing with his
sword, cried out: “Look at Jackson, men, standing like a _stone wall_.”
And thus on that bloody field, amid the roar of battle and the groans
of the dying, the hero was christened with a name which has superseded
that given by his parents.

Again the battle was renewed. Jackson held his position for an hour,
which enabled Beauregard to hurry forward troops from the lower
fords of Bull Run. When Beauregard and Johnson arrived on the field
about twelve o’clock, the day was going against the Confederates. But
fortunately, while the “rebels” were wavering, and would in a short
time have been utterly defeated, there was an inexplicable lull in the
fight. The Federals had halted. At that time they were novices in the
art of war, and did not appreciate the importance of those critical
junctures when the fortunes of both parties are trembling in the
balance, or when nothing is needed but a vigorous movement to secure a
decided victory. But in half an hour, Beauregard had reestablished his
lines, and the contest was again renewed. Fresh troops were arriving on
both sides.

From one till after three o’clock, the historian is unable to follow
the cloud of this battle. This period was what an elegant writer calls
the _quid obscurum_ of battle. The war-cloud was broken up, and floated
about in uncertainty. Victory, trembling in doubt, hovered over one
party and then the other. Nobody can tell what was done. Tactics had
become useless. Each individual soldier was his own commander. It was
a wild sozzle--an enormous street _melee_. Batteries were charged and
captured, and in a moment afterwards, re-captured. There was no base
anywhere; everything was shifting. Volumes of smoke rolled up; cannon
roared; muskets rattled; shouts and groans--all mingled together in
one horrid bedlam of confusion. For two hours there was this irregular
contest, in which men fought more as individuals than as companies.

Three o’clock came. The fortunes of the Confederates were extremely
dark. They had lost some of their best and bravest officers. Hampton
was shot while leading on his men in desperation. The noble Bee, who
had baptized Jackson with blood, fell mortally wounded at the head of
the Alabamians in the thickest of the fray, grasping his sword and
urging on his men with his dying breath. The magnanimous Barton, while
rallying the seventh Georgia, was shot through the head, and as he
fell, exclaimed: “They have killed me, but never give up the field,”
and his pure, brave spirit winged its flight away from this awful scene
of carnage, confusion and death. Fisher, of the “old North State,” was
killed; Colonels Gartrell and Falkner were _hors de combat_. Many
officers of lower grade, whose names will never be known, lay stretched
upon the ground, never to rise again.

But the supreme moment had come. Both parties now prepared for the
final blow. It was four o’clock, and the evening was hot and sultry.
The Federal army was drawn up in the form of a crescent. They begin
to advance. They expect, it seems, to flank the left wing of the
Confederate army. What was their amazement to find themselves suddenly
confronted and flanked on their right wing by 1700 fresh troops. It
was the army of Kirby Smith, for which Johnson had been so anxiously
looking for several hours. Indeed, he had gone back to hasten forward
these troops, who came on the railroad; but as there was not a moment
to lose, the cars were stopped, and the troops were hastily hurried
from the train in the forest. This arrival added another feature to
Bull Run that made up its similarity to the battle of Waterloo in 1815.
If the reader will take the trouble to compare these two battles, he
will discover that there was a striking resemblance between them, in
several respects. Hugo’s letter A, with some slight modifications,
will apply to Bull Run. The whole fight of Waterloo was for the plateau
of Mont St. Jean: the whole fight of Bull Run was for a plateau,
where the battle began and ended. In the afternoon, there was the
same irregular contest. Toward nightfall Blucher burst upon the field
like a terrible avalanche, before which the dismayed French fled in
terror. About four o’clock in the evening of that Sabbath day, just
as Beauregard gave the order to his entire line to advance, Kirby
Smith, like Blucher, suddenly emerged from the woods, and burst like a
thunder-clap upon the scene. This, at once, changed the whole aspect of
the fight. The disheartened Federals gave way on the right, and fled
before the intrepid soldiers of Kirby Smith. At the same time, the
entire “rebel” army charged with reviving hopes and renewed energy. The
Federals disappeared like phantoms from the gory scene, leaving clouds
of smoke, abandoned wagons, wounded and dead men, to mark the spot
where they had so lately fought with a courage and desperation worthy
of their blood. Kirby Smith had saved the day.

Soon the roar of battle ceased, and the “rebel yell” announced to
those in the distance that the first important battle of the war had
terminated in favor of the “Great Rebellion.” The “Grand Army,” which
had, that Sabbath morning, marched out with so firm a step, rolled back
upon Washington in broken fragments. It may appear a strange fact in
history, but that one battle terminated the whole campaign of the year
1861.

The enemy has gone, and the storm of battle has subsided. We can now
quietly walk over the terrible field, and examine its gory wake. In
the final charge, the second Mississippi, with the exception of one
regiment, was on the extreme left wing of the Confederate army. Just
at the time that Kirby Smith’s bayonet flashed like lightning into the
cloud of battle, a young officer was seen to wave his sword, and fall
to the earth with a groan. It was Ernest Edgefield.

[Illustration: Decoration]




CHAPTER VII.

AFTER THE BATTLE.


Sometimes in battle a soldier suddenly finds himself prostrated to the
earth. He knows not what has happened. A dizziness comes over him.
Then he glances down at his limbs, and discovers that he is bleeding.
He knows he is wounded, but he cannot tell to what extent. It may be
a fearful shot which will end his mortal existence the next moment,
or it may be only a severe shock that has touched no vital part. When
Ernest fell, it was a moment before he could clearly comprehend what
had occurred. One of his company ran to him, and asked:

“Are you much hurt?”

“Yes; I fear I have received a long furlough.”

The soldier tore off some of his clothing, and, after a brief
examination, said:

“It is a severe wound, Captain, but I don’t think it is fatal. Shall I
stay with you?”

“No, no, go on with the boys. Never mind me. We have whipped them,
thank God, and I can die, if it is His will, with a clear conscience.
Go on with the boys.”

The soldier gathered up his military implements, and pushed on with his
comrades in pursuit of the flying foe, and Ernest was left alone with
the wounded, dead and dying. Presently he fell into a train of thought
as follows:

“Perhaps this is another warning. I have totally disregarded what Mr.
Hillston says is my call to the ministry. Shall I now promise God, as I
lie here, that I will yield to the call, if He will spare my life? No;
for I cannot believe that I am called of God. Why does not God give me
some reliable evidence, if He really wants me to be a minister? I shall
wait a while yet. But suppose I die?” He could not make up his mind to
preach.

At six o’clock, an elderly gentleman, with an honest, open, benevolent
countenance came to the spot where Ernest was lying. He was the first
wounded soldier the gentleman reached.

“What is your condition, my young friend?” he asked in a kindly voice.

“I am wounded here in the side,” said Ernest.

“Could you travel in a buggy a few miles?”

“I think I could, sir.”

“Then, if you can, I would be pleased to take you to my house, where
you can have proper attention and good nursing. Will you go? I will
assist you into the buggy.”

“Yes, sir; I will accept your kind offer. How far do you have to go?”

“About six miles; but it is a good road, and we can make the drive in
an hour. I could hear the fighting all day from my house. At noon,
during the lull, I supposed the battle might be over, and I started to
the scene of action. But when I had driven three miles, I discovered
that the fight was renewed with redoubled fury. When it ended, I
learned from a courier how the day had gone, and I came on to do what I
could for our wounded. It will afford me pleasure to take care of you
till you are again ready for duty?”

“I shall be under lasting obligations, sir,” replied Ernest.

At once, Ernest was assisted into the buggy, and driven along at a slow
pace till they reached the gentleman’s residence at eight o’clock
in the evening. This gentleman was a Presbyterian minister, by name
Dr. Arrington. His family consisted of a wife and three daughters,
the elder of whom was about twenty years of age--an intelligent, well
educated young lady. She had completed her education the previous year
at one of the best female colleges of Virginia. We cannot say that she
was perfectly beautiful, for, though her features seemed faultless when
contemplated singly, yet the grouping was somehow a little defective.
No one could tell what was lacking, but there was something. But the
perfection of her features enabled her to bear a most rigid inspection,
and she improved greatly on acquaintance. She had a decidedly classical
cast of countenance. In conversation her face beamed with intelligence
and sympathy, which made her appear handsome and lovely. She belonged,
in a word, to that class, who attract more by their moral excellencies
than their physical graces. Mildred Arrington, however, possessed
a symmetrical figure, and her every movement betrayed elegance of
manners and refinement of taste and intellectual culture. All who were
intimately acquainted with her, thought her beautiful.

With this kind family Ernest remained for many days, while his wound
was slowly healing. Dr. Arrington had an excellent library, in which
he and his family spent much of their time. They were an intellectual
family. Ernest here spent some of the happiest hours of his life, in
the company of the three girls, especially Mildred. The Doctor was also
a congenial companion, and loved to talk. He was an earnest Christian,
who believed, though, in getting as much legitimate happiness out of
this mortal life as possible. There was none of the Pharisee in his
composition. He received the gospel with the simple faith of a child,
and so preached it. He believed in providing innocent amusements for
his family. The consequence was, there was no nicer place to visit and
no happier home in all the country than Dr. Arrington’s. His residence
was full of sunshine, and no discordant sound was ever heard beneath
that roof.

It will not appear wonderful, then, that the days passed rapidly away
in the consciousness of Ernest, who felt loth to put an end to the
period of his convalescence. But at last he began to painfully realize
that he could not remain much longer, with propriety, beneath this
hospitable roof. When he thought of leaving Mildred he discovered that
it filled him with the keenest pain. But why should it? If he really
loved her, why not propose, at once, and bind her to him by a tie which
nothing but death could sever? He must go back to the army in a few
days, and the probability was, he could never see her again.

It was hardly reasonable to suppose that he could go through many such
scenes as those of Bull Run, and escape with his life. But he felt that
he could not bid farewell to this happy family without the prospect of
a closer relationship with them in the future. He believed that he had
endeared himself to them; but one thing was certain, they had so wound
themselves around his heart that the thought of never seeing them again
was intolerable.

One day about a week before his departure, he was walking in the lawn
in company with Mildred. Presently Ernest fell into a reverie that made
his face appear more solemn than usual. He was aroused by a soft voice
at his side:

“You appear to be in a profound study.”

“So I was,” replied Ernest, heaving a deep sigh.

“It was something unpleasant, was it not?”

“What makes you think so?”

“I noticed your countenance,” answered Mildred, “just now, which was
expressive of pain.”

“You are a good physiognomist,” replied Ernest. “I was just thinking
that in a few days more I must return to my command.”

“And is it so painful to fight for your country?” quickly asked Mildred.

“You misunderstand me,” said Ernest. “It is no reluctance to serve my
country: for God knows that I am willing to die for the independence of
the Confederate States, if necessary. But there are things to me more
bitter than death itself.”

“You talk in riddles, Captain.”

“Yes; because I was talking to myself partly. It is due to you that I
should explain myself.” After a pause, he continued: “I have had few
associates in my life. My father and mother left me a lonely orphan
when I was a small boy. From various causes, which I need not weary
you by relating, my life has not been very happy. I have found very
few congenial companions among either sex. I have now prepared your
mind for the reception of the fact, that the time spent beneath your
father’s roof, is the happiest portion of my existence. I was thinking
just now, that I must soon leave, and the probability is, I shall never
again see you and the family till we shall all meet in the eternal
world.”

“Why should you take such a gloomy view, Captain?” asked Mildred,
slightly coloring. “We destroy our happiness by anticipating
misfortunes that may never befall us. You may go through the war, and
come out with honors budding thick upon your brow. Why not look forward
to promotion? Who knows,” she continued, trying to smile, “but that you
may be a General?”

“No; I have no ambition in that way. I do not want any greater
responsibility than the command of a single company involves.”

There was a pause, which was broken by Mildred suddenly saying:

“What foolish thoughts will sometimes flash into our minds.”

“What mean you?” asked Ernest.

“I was just thinking what an astounding victory you could gain, if you
had control of that one force, from which all the forces of nature, I
think, are derived.”

This idea of Mildred’s was fully elaborated by Lord Lytton, some few
years afterwards, and the force was called _vrill_. But as we are not
writing a treatise on science, we will proceed with our story.

“O,” she continued gaily, “do you not wish you had something of that
sort?”

“I have had such foolish thoughts a thousand times,” replied Ernest,
breaking into a laugh, “but I did not know that anybody else had such
absurd fancies. I found myself wishing for miraculous powers on the
battle field of Bull Run a short time since. When our soldiers were
about to retreat in a wild panic in the evening, I almost cried aloud
for a cyclone to hurl upon those dark columns. How quickly I thought I
would annihilate them. Was it not preposterous?”

And they both laughed.

“I should be ashamed,” said Mildred, “to let any one know what wild
fancies pass through this dwarfish brain of mine. The truth is, I live
in an ideal world. I often find myself wishing that I could visit some
‘New Utopia.’”

“What a coincidence,” said Ernest, looking at the young lady in
surprise.

“What is?” she asked.

“That you and I should be dreaming about the same absurdities.”

“Well, I do not know,” replied Mildred. “I have never cared to mention
my silly reveries to any one. Indeed, it is the first time in my life
that I have alluded to them.”

“May you not be wrong to call them ‘silly’? Some of the happiest
moments of my life have been spent in this way. I frequently discover
myself traveling about in some of Munchausen’s wonderful vehicles, and
I become so absorbed that my imaginings appear as realities.”

“I, too, do the same thing,” said Mildred, turning her blue eyes upon
him in surprise.

“Miss Mildred,” spoke up Ernest after a brief pause, “our minds seem to
have been constructed in the same molds. Henceforth I shall be forever
meeting you in my psychological peregrinations. I have no doubt that I
shall often rove back to this beautiful yard and these grand oaks, when
I am sitting around the bivouac fire or meditating in my tent.”

Mildred began to look serious, and to turn her face in order to conceal
the treacherous blushes which, she felt, must be mantling her cheeks.

“I am glad to think,” she answered in a low, hesitating tone, “that
your imprisonment here has been rendered tolerable.”

“Tolerable!” cried Ernest. “I wish such imprisonment could last
forever!”

“What!” exclaimed Mildred, feigning not to understand, “would you be
willing to be cooped up while your comrades are fighting the battles of
liberty? Sometimes I wish I could go myself, and that I were an Amazon
stout enough to shoulder a cannon. The poor South needs every soldier
she can get. You must, therefore, dismiss your Utopian dreams and enter
into gory and awful realities.”

“If I know myself,” said Ernest, “I do not shrink from those realities.
But I need something to inflame my zeal.”

“What do you need?” she asked, wishing after the inquiry had been made,
that she had propounded some other question.

“I have told you,” he replied, “that I have no intimate friends. My
affections are roving around like the ‘wandering Jew,’ seeking some
object upon which to concentrate. The object that comes within their
focus will find no reason to complain of their lack of intensity. Do
you understand me?”

“I cannot say that I do,” answered Mildred, “but I should think that
the goddess of Liberty would be sufficient to elicit all the better
feelings and aspirations of your soul.”

“The goddess of Liberty may call forth a certain class of affections,
but there is another group which requires a more substantial being.”
Mildred said nothing, but looked thoughtful. She understood what
Ernest meant, yet he had spoken so vaguely that she was reminded of
the amiable Pickwick and the widow Bardell, which association of ideas
caused her to laugh out-right. Ernest gazed at her in amazement and
pain.

“What is it that amuses you so?” he asked in a tone indicative of
displeasure.

“Please excuse me, Captain,” she said deprecatingly. “I was not, I
assure you, laughing at anything you said. It was only a foolish and
ridiculous thought that suddenly came into my mind. I beg your pardon,”
she said earnestly.

“Granted,” he replied, “if you will only be serious for a moment.”

“Certainly, I will.”

“I will speak plainly so that you cannot misunderstand me. The truth
is, I love you.”

“O, Captain,” she exclaimed with solemn earnestness, “what a time for
such a declaration!”

“Why?” asked Ernest.

“Why, we are on the threshold of a terrible war which will end, we know
not when.”

“That is the very reason I want a love to sustain me under the trials
which await me. My nature demands love. I am gloomy and wretched
without it.”

“How have you managed this long, Captain?”

“I will tell you all about it.” And he gave her a full account of all
the circumstances of his past life, after which Mildred with a cunning
smile, said:

“It seems, then, I am second choice.”

“You are mistaken. I did not know my own heart then. I never had for
her the deep, ineffable affection I have for you. After this honest
explanation must I leave you without hope? If I do, it matters little
to me what shall become of me. I shall consider that ball from the
enemy’s gun a mercy that shall put an end to my misery. But with your
love, I shall be the happiest soldier in the army. I shall have an
object for which to live. Can you, will you give me any hope?”

Ernest perceived that Mildred was violently agitated, and he felt
encouraged.

“Tell me,” he urged, “that you will be mine, when this cruel war is
over, if I come out the fiery crucible alive.”

“I am glad you have given me time to reflect about the matter,” she
said at last. “I will candidly say this: if you are alive and I am,
when the war ends, and the feelings of neither undergo any change, it
shall be as you wish. Is that sufficient?”

So these two young people, with that pure affection, glowing in their
hearts, which is sanctioned by the Allwise God, standing under the
broad-spreading oaks, agreed to enter into the sacred relation which
constitutes the very foundation of human society. Why should older
persons, who have lost the ardor, aspirations and hopes of youth, sneer
at what they are pleased to call “sickly love stories?” God implanted
these sacred affections in the human heart to bind society together,
and it is these which make man a gregarious animal. Is that pure love
which leads to the marriage relation only evidence of a kind of folly
that deserves to be ridiculed? Why do prudish, righteous-over-much
people, calling themselves critics, cry out against stories which
illustrate social realities, and which seek to inspire the youth of
our country with proper respect and reverence for a heaven-sanctioned
institution? Why is it that extremely pious people profess such an
aversion to “love scenes”--scenes that are every day realities in the
ranks of the purest and most refined society? Such scenes as we have
described, call them “love-sick,” who will, actually transpired during
the war, and many a soldier found a God-sent wife in the hospitals.
These love affairs mingle with the gravest concerns of human life.
Why, then, omit them from the pages of a story which is intended to
be a true picture? There is nothing startling or sensational in them.
Indeed, they are so old, common and customary that they derive any
interest they may possess from new combinations of circumstances.
Eliminate these circumstances, and nothing is left but an occurrence
that transpires every hour of the day. We may here say that there is
nothing in this volume that should prevent it from occupying a place on
the shelves of any Sabbath-school library.




CHAPTER VIII.

HARD TRUTHS.


During the time that Ernest was confined in the house of Dr. Arrington,
he had had several discussions with that gentleman, of doctrines which
are regarded by the world as distinctive dogmas of the Presbyterian
Church. They were conducted on both sides with the utmost calmness,
politeness and good-will. It is a fact that generally men cannot engage
in discussions of religious questions with moderation. They are often
more acrimonious than politicians. But the Doctor was naturally calm
and tranquil, and Ernest found that his first belief was beginning to
totter on its foundation. Mildred, too, believed this “horrid doctrine
of predestination,” which, in the mind of Ernest, had a tendency to
strip it of its forbidding aspects. But still he was not perfectly
satisfied. The discussions which he had with Dr. Arrington, were, on
his part, designed more to elicit information and proof than sustain
his own assumed position; in different language, Ernest took the “wrong
side” in order that the Doctor might overturn it.

Two or three days before Ernest was to start to his command, he was
sitting in the Doctor’s study looking over the Westminster Confession
of Faith. The Doctor, glancing up presently, and seeing how the young
man was employed, said pleasantly:

“You have tackled what the world calls a ‘hard book,’ Captain.”

“The world, in my opinion,” answered Ernest, with a smile, “is not much
to blame for taking that view of it.”

“No doubt,” said the Doctor, “the doctrines which it proclaims are
‘hard to be understood,’ as Paul himself declared.”

“You will have it that Paul was speaking of predestination, will you,
Doctor?”

“He certainly must have been. Of what else could he have been speaking?
If he was discussing free agency, I am sure there is no difficulty in
that. What is there in free agency to make Paul say, ‘The Lord will
have mercy on whom He will have mercy’? What is there in free agency to
make Peter open his eyes and wonder, and declare that it was ‘hard to
be understood?’ What is there in free agency that people could ‘wrest
to their own destruction?’”

“What is there in predestination that people can wrest to their
destruction?” asked Ernest.

“Why just this,” replied the Doctor: “Men said, and say it to this day,
‘Well, if my destiny is fixed, I shall make no effort to be saved, for
I cannot change my destiny; I intend to take my fill of sin.’ That
is the way they wrest it to their destruction. Any one who really
believes the doctrine of predestination never talks in that way. On the
contrary, if he believes that he is one of the elect, he will be the
more earnest and diligent in making that election sure.”

“But,” said Ernest, “what is the use of his diligence, if he is one of
the elect? He will be saved anyhow.”

“That is the way people talked in Paul’s day,” replied the Doctor, “but
I will answer you. Do you not remember that the Lord promised Gideon he
should gain the victory with his three hundred men? Why did not Gideon
say, ‘if that is so, I shall do nothing; I shall employ no strategy,
but I shall wait for the Lord to conquer His enemies.’ When God told
Paul, as he was tossed in a frail vessel on the storm-lashed sea, that
he and all on board should certainly be saved, why did not the apostle
tell the sailors to sit down quietly, and they should all reach the
land in safety? Why, the knowledge that they should be saved inspired
the crew with hope, and courage to renewed efforts to work out their
salvation. This doctrine arouses the believer’s energies, instead of
begetting a spirit of indolence and rebellion.”

While the Doctor was speaking, Ernest was slowly turning the pages of
the Confession of Faith, as if looking for some particular passage,
and at the same time as if paying strict attention to what was said.
Just as the preacher closed his last remark, Ernest came to the third
chapter and said:

“What does this mean, Doctor?”

“What is it?”

“‘God from all eternity did, by the most wise and holy counsel of His
will freely and unchangeably ordain whatsoever comes to pass.’”

“Now,” continued Ernest quickly closing the book with his thumb
between the leaves, “there it is--‘God ordains whatsoever comes to
pass.’ It seems there is no exception, murder, sin, robberies and
all. Whatever I do, then, good or bad, God ordained it. How am I
responsible? If that clause does not destroy man’s free agency, I
cannot understand the meaning of words. Surely, Doctor, you do not
endorse this book? You do not believe that God is the author of sin?”

The Doctor looked at Ernest in astonishment, smiled, and said:

“Are you certain it says just exactly that?”

“If I can read, it says that.”

“You are like a great many other people,” said the Doctor, “who find
fault with the Confession, and jump to conclusions, without really
knowing what it does say. Now, if you please, open the book, and read
on--read it all--that is the whole paragraph; for you paused in the
middle of a sentence.”

Ernest read:

“God from all eternity did, by the most wise and holy counsel of His
own will, freely and unchangeably ordain whatsoever comes to pass;
yet so as thereby neither is God the author of sin; nor is violence
offered to the will of the creatures, nor is the liberty or contingency
of second causes taken away, but rather established.”

“Now, that makes a considerable difference, does it not?” asked the
Doctor.

“But it does say, Doctor, that God ordains whatsoever comes to pass.
The exceptional clause does not deny this, but simply affirms that
God is not the author of sin. But does it not say that God ordains
whatsoever comes to pass?”

“Certainly, it does.”

“Every event?”

“Undoubtedly. There is no exception.”

“Well,” said Ernest with a triumphant air, “last week Mr. Jones killed
Tom Smith in cold blood. It was deliberate assassination--murder in the
first degree. Now, did God ordain that or not?”

“God ordained it in this way: He did not decree that Jones should kill
Smith without any connection with other events. But He fore-saw that
certain causes would operate so as to culminate in the murder; yet
He permitted those causes to operate, for the accomplishment of some
wise purpose. The difficulty is, we cannot see things as God does. We
consider it as an awful calamity that Jones should kill Smith, when we
have no idea what the divine purpose is. The murder was not an isolated
circumstance, but it was the legitimate result of certain other causes
which the two men themselves might have controlled, so far as their own
free agency was concerned. But Jones had murder in his heart, and the
Lord permitted him to follow his own inclinations. Now, God fore-saw,
from all eternity, that this murder would grow out of other events, yet
He determined to permit those events to occur, and in that sense He
ordained it. But you, surely, cannot infer that God is the author of
the murder. God is not the author of men’s actions. He did not force
Jones to kill Smith. But let me ask you a question. Suppose lightning
had killed Mr. Smith, instead of Jones’ knife, would you say that God
had anything to do with it, or was it a pure accident?”

“It was not an accident,” said Ernest, “in the usual acceptation of the
word.”

“You are correct, because with God there is no accident. Well, if
the Lord chose to destroy Smith by a knife in the hands of a wicked
man, instead of lightning, what right have we to cry out, ‘horrible!
horrible!’ God sends diseases upon men, and innocent babes and women,
and good men are swept off by thousands; shall we accuse the Lord of
cruelty and injustice?”

“No; He has the right to do that.”

“And so He has the right to remove His creatures in whatever way He
may please,” said the Doctor. “I firmly believe that God ordained
the present war--not arbitrarily, though,--not as an isolated
circumstance; but it has legitimately grown out of causes that have
been working together for years. Men, goaded on to desperation by
their own evil passions, meet upon the field and destroy each other.
They are conscious that they are acting as free agents. We have no
more right then, to impeach divine goodness for permitting this
wholesale butchery, than we have for allowing Jones to kill Smith, or
some disease to destroy the innocent babe. We make a great mistake
by supposing that there ought not to be violent deaths; they are the
necessary concomitants of sin, and must ever result from the inexorable
law of cause and effect.”

“Well,” said Ernest, “if it was ordained that Jones should kill Smith,
Jones ought not to be punished for the deed.”

“My dear Captain,” said the Doctor good humoredly, “a lawyer like you,
ought not to quibble in that way. The mere fact that God permits crime
does not destroy human responsibility. You might just as well say
that Judas ought not to have been punished for betraying the Savior.
Undoubtedly it was ordained that he should perform that deed of shame;
because it was foretold centuries before our Lord’s advent.”

Ernest knew not what reply to make. The Doctor had answered his
objections. So he turned the leaves of the book, and said:

“Here is another passage which seems to me to need explanation.”

“What is it?”

Ernest read as follows:

“By the decree of God, for the manifestation of His glory, some
men and angels are predestinated unto everlasting life, and others
fore-ordained to everlasting death.

“These men and angels, thus predestinated and fore-ordained, are
particularly and unchangeably designed and their number is so certain
that it cannot be either increased or diminished.”

“That reads rather harsh, does it not?” asked the Doctor.

“Yes, sir; it does.”

“And yet it is what the Bible says.”

“Where will I find that?”

“Turn to Romans 9:22-25: ‘What if God, willing to show His wrath, and
to make His power known, endured with much long suffering, the vessels
of wrath fitted to destruction; and that He might make known the riches
of His glory on the vessels of mercy, which He had afore prepared unto
glory?’”

“That does seem to teach that there are two classes,” said Ernest.

“Undoubtedly, it does.”

“But it says,” continued Ernest, “that this number is so fixed and
certain that it can neither be increased nor diminished.”

“There is surely no difficulty in that,” said the Doctor. “It is a
mathematical fact, and would be true, if the Scriptures said nothing
about it. Leaving predestination entirely out of the question, that
would be true. For on the Day of Judgment, when the destiny of every
human being is settled, there will be a certain number saved, and a
certain number lost. Now, can the number be increased or diminished?
I never could see why anybody should object to that clause, when it is
true according to the doctrine of every religious denomination in the
world.”

“Well,” said Ernest laughing, “here is more of this hard doctrine.”

“Let us hear it,” said the Doctor.

Ernest read as follows:

“Those of mankind that are predestinated unto life, God, before
the foundation of the world was laid, according to His eternal and
immutable purpose, and the secret counsel and good pleasure of His
will, out of His mere free grace and love, without any foresight of
faith or good works--”

“Yes,” exclaimed Ernest, breaking off suddenly, “there it is--without
any foresight of faith or good works--saved arbitrarily.”

Again the Doctor gazed at Ernest in surprise. “My young friend,” said
the Doctor, with an amused expression, “you do not pause, for a moment,
to reflect what the paragraph does really mean, but you at once jump to
unauthorized conclusions.”

“I have read it _verbatim_,” replied Ernest.

“But you did not read it all. You have read just as our opposers do
who give garbled extracts from the Confession, and then draw the most
absurd inferences. You stopped in the middle of the sentence. Read it
all.”

Ernest read:

“Without any foresight of faith or good works, or perseverance in
either of them, or any other thing in the creature, as conditions, or
causes moving Him thereunto.”

“The meaning,” said the Doctor, “is that God did not choose His people
on account of their faith and good works. Faith itself is the gift of
God. All men are in a state of guilt by nature. How, then, could the
Lord fore-see faith and good works in any of them, growing out of their
evil natures? How could they possibly perform good works without a
regenerated heart?”

“For what did He choose them, then?”

“I can answer you only in the language of His own Word, which says,
it was ‘according to the good pleasure of His will.’ Certainly, the
Lord has some good reason for saving a portion of the human race and
rejecting, or rather passing by the rest, but He has nowhere acquainted
us with that reason. If election is such a ‘hard’ doctrine, what would
have been the result, if God had not made any choice at all, but left
men to follow the bent of their own wills, how many do you suppose
would have been saved? The carnal heart is enmity against God. Could
men, then have chosen God? Verily not. Christ Himself declares, ‘No
man can come unto me, except the Father, which sent me, draw him.’ Do
you not see clearly, then, that, without this much-abused doctrine of
election, no human being could possibly be saved? It is a doctrine
which the Church cannot afford to give up, and it is a doctrine to
which every denomination holds in some form. We differ only as to the
principle upon which the election is based. We Presbyterians, adhere
rigidly to the Bible, and say that God’s choice grows out of His own
will and pleasure, while our opposers affirm that it is founded upon
the good works of the creature, and thus make salvation a matter of
debt, and not of pure, free grace. That is the difference between us,
and I leave it to you, with the Bible as your guide, to determine which
view is the more Scriptural.”

“There is another thing I should like to ask you about,” said Ernest,
feeling that he could produce no further objections.

“What is it? I will answer to the best of my knowledge and ability.”

“I have heard it said that some Presbyterian preachers hold to the view
that there are infants in hell ‘not a span long.’”

“Did you ever hear one say such a thing?” asked the Doctor.

“No sir; I never did.”

“And did you ever see anybody that heard a Presbyterian minister preach
it?”

“No, sir.”

“No; and you never will,” said the Doctor with emphasis. “That is an
old slander without the slightest foundation. We would instantly depose
any Presbyterian minister who would dare to make such an assertion. The
truth is, we believe that all infants that die are saved.”

“Your Confession says something about infants, does it not, Doctor?”

“O, yes. Give me the book, and I will find it for you. Here it is.
Chapter X: ‘Elect infants, dying in infancy, are regenerated and saved
by Christ through the Spirit, who worketh when, and where, and how He
pleaseth.’”

“Elect infants, Doctor? Does not that imply that there are non-elect
infants?”

“You can put that construction upon it, if you wish,” said the Doctor;
“but the term is explained in several ways. I really do not know which
view the framers of the Confession intended we should take. So we are
at liberty to construe it in that way which appears most consistent to
us.”

“What is your construction?”

“It is this: all mankind are evidently divided into two classes--the
elect and the non-elect--the saved and the lost. You believe that, do
you not?”

“O, yes; that is true.”

“Well, of course, the non-elect are sinners in their infancy as well as
in after life. In that sense there are non-elect infants; but we do not
believe that any of them die in infancy.”

“But how do you know that they do not?”

“Because Christ says, that ‘of such is the kingdom of heaven.’”

“According to your view, then,” said Ernest, “there are non-elect
infants, but they do not die in infancy?”

“Exactly,” replied the Doctor. “But there is another explanation.
Some say the framers of the Confession put in the word ‘elect’ not
to divide infants into two classes, but to show upon what principle
they are saved; they are _elected_ to salvation. You know, John uses
the expression, ‘the elect lady’ and her sister. This certainly would
not mean that there was a non-elect lady. Again, in the form for the
baptism of infants in the Methodist Discipline, the minister prays
that ‘_this child may be numbered among the elect children of God_.’
We would not, of course, insist that the Methodists believe that there
are _non-elect_ children. Some say that the Confession means by ‘elect
infants,’ just what the Methodists do in their form of baptism. But
after all, the Presbyterian Church is the only one probably whose
doctrine does consistently save infants. We declare they are saved
by _election_. If not, tell me how they can be saved? They cannot
repent and believe as adults do. Then do you not see, if they are not
_elected_ by a merciful Father, they must be lost forever?”

“Upon my word,” quickly and honestly exclaimed Ernest, “I had never
looked at the subject in that light. You have taught me something I
never knew before.”

“I am glad,” replied the Doctor, “if I have helped you out of any
difficulty.”

“I candidly acknowledge, Doctor, that the more I study this deep
subject, the more reasonable and Scriptural it seems.”

And here the discussion ended for that day. Ernest, seeing Mildred
walking in the yard and clipping flowers, vacated his seat and joined
her. The Doctor looked at him, as he left, and a perceptible smile
stole over his benevolent face.

[Illustration: Decoration]




CHAPTER IX.

“OFF TO THE WARS.”


The next day Ernest and the Doctor were alone in the study. The former
seemed to be a little restless, like a man who wishes to say something,
but knows not how to begin; the latter was tranquil as usual, poring
over his theological books. Ernest would try to read, and then glance
up uneasily at the calm old man upon whose open face God had put the
seal of honesty. Ernest became fidgety. But presently he spoke:

“Will you give me your attention just a moment, Doctor?”

“Certainly; I am at your service,” replied the Doctor, laying his open
book on the table.

“You believe the Confession of Faith?” asked Ernest with a merry
twinkle, which escaped the preacher’s notice.

“Undoubtedly, I do.”

“Yesterday you said you believed that God ordained whatsoever comes to
pass.”

“Yes, I believe that, too.”

“Without exception?”

“Yes,” replied the Doctor, unsuspiciously.

“Well, then,” said Ernest, casting his eyes to the floor, “Miss Mildred
has agreed to become Mrs. Edgefield, when this ‘cruel war is over.’ If
the Lord has ordained that, you will, of course, offer no objection.”

The old minister broke out into a hearty laugh in which he was joined
by Ernest.

“That is a clever turning of the table, my young friend,” said the
Doctor pleasantly. “But all that is really ordained is that she has
agreed to the arrangement.”

“Yes sir, that is all.”

“I mean so far as we actually know. We know not what God has in store
for any of us. I believe that the Lord directs every Christian in his
affairs. If you have won Mildred’s heart, I shall offer no objection to
your union whenever it may please her to consummate it. These are very
uncertain times, and the good Lord only knows what may become of any of
us.”

“We can but hope, sir,” said Ernest.

“Hope and pray,” replied the Doctor.

Ernest was now happy and unhappy--a thrilling contradiction which all
will understand who have been in the same condition. He must leave in
a few hours. Would he ever return? There lay before him the prospect
of a long and bloody war. How many battles like that of Bull Run could
he go through, and escape with his life? He had already been severely
wounded in the first fight in which he had been engaged. The chances
seemed to be against him. Yet did not God control the events of battle?
Could He not save and protect whom He would? Something similar to this
the Doctor said to Ernest the morning he was to rejoin his command.

“The doctrine which we have several times discussed,” said the Doctor,
“has always proved to be a source of great comfort to me, and it will
be to you, if you can believe it. Just think that your destiny is in
God’s hands, and what need you fear? It is this that makes Jackson the
_Stonewall_ that the lamented Bee called him with his dying breath. I
am told that Jackson is almost a fatalist. But, whatever may be his
doctrinal errors, he is a firm believer in God’s sovereignty. The
consequence is, he is afraid of nothing.”

“But are there not men as brave as he is, who do not believe this
doctrine?” asked Ernest.

“Yes, in one sense. I do not mean to say that men are lacking in
courage who reject the doctrine which we have discussed. But there is
something in Jackson which is more than courage. It is his sublime,
inflexible faith. There are numbers of men who will go unflinchingly
into any of the dangers of battle, but they are animated by a spirit of
desperation, by human feelings, such as pride, ambition, and the like.
But Jackson puts himself unreservedly in the hands of God, and accepts
whatever comes without a murmur. He knows that he can never be killed
till God speaks the word, and it is this firm belief that gives such
adamantine solidity to his grand and exalted character.”

That morning when all knelt around the family altar, it was a most
solemn and affecting scene. Ernest was now regarded as one of the
family. The Doctor read a portion of Scripture suitable to the
occasion, and they sang with quivering voices three or four stanzas
of that familiar old hymn, which seems destined to go sounding down
through all the ages till the last of the redeemed are gathered home:


     “How firm a foundation, ye saints of the Lord,
     Is laid for your faith in His excellent word.”


Then all knelt down to pray. Ernest had the feeling of Jacob when, alone
at Bethel, his head pillowed upon rock the patriarch said, “surely the
Lord is in this place.” A holy influence gently stole over his soul,
as the Doctor, in a husky voice, prayed for their guest. All arose in
tears. Ernest shed tears too, but they were strange tears. His faith
was firmer, and he felt that he could trust himself in the hands of God.

Alas! those were days that tried men’s souls! When the “soldier boy”
went from his home, it was like shaking hands over the grave. The
mother drew her darling son to her breast and imprinted burning kisses
upon his brow. He broke loose from her frantic embrace, and in a few
days afterwards, the news was brought that he was sleeping in the
soldier’s bloody grave. Young husbands and wives parted to meet no more
till the last trump shall call them up on the resurrection morn. No
pen can describe the awful scenes of those four years of fratricidal
strife. Sad! sad! sad!

Ernest was accompanied by Mildred to the depot. They rode in a buggy
while Dr. Arrington came on horse-back in the rear. The young man
endeavored to be lively and cheerful, and this humor was encouraged
by Mildred. Yet both could see through this disguised mutual gaiety.
It was not natural. Frequently there were long pauses in their
conversation. Such is generally the case with two friends, about to
part in a very short time, who feel that they ought to talk, but can
think of no topic suitable to the occasion. I have seen two brothers,
one of whom was condemned to be shot for a military offence, hold their
last interview; it was a _silent_ meeting. So when Ernest and Mildred
_tried_ to keep up a cheerful conversation, they would often relapse
into silence.

“O, my Mildred,” cried Ernest with deep emotion, as they neared the
depot, “I can keep up this false show no longer. I am not cheerful.
The thought of leaving you is as bitter as death, and I may as well
give vent to my real feelings. I could almost wish that I had never met
you. My thoughts will all run out to you. O, I fear we shall never meet
again.”

“Why should we look on the dark side of the picture?” asked Mildred,
in low, sweet tones. “There is a kind Father above who rules in the
affairs of men. Whatever may happen, be assured the Judge of all the
earth will do right. ‘Our times are in His hands.’ He will do that
which is best for us. He can throw His everlasting arms around you,
and shield you in the terrors of the hottest battle. The Mighty God
controls all things.”

“I see,” said Ernest, trying to smile, “that you too, endeavor to
comfort yourself with that ‘horrid’ Presbyterian doctrine. You rely on
that on all occasions.”

“Certainly I do,” replied Mildred. “I get as much comfort from it as
from any truth taught in God’s Holy Word.”

“I am almost convinced,” said Ernest, “that predestination is a
doctrine of the Bible, but I wish I could bring it into practical
affairs, as you do.”

“It is easy to do,” replied Mildred. “Just put yourself unreservedly
into the hands of God, and go out boldly in the discharge of duty. Of
what should you be afraid?”

“Sometimes,” said Ernest, “I think perhaps it is predestinated that I
shall be lost.”

“If you have that fear, it is an evidence that you are not so
predestinated. If you were a reprobate, you would have no such fear.
You would be indifferent.”

“If I am one of the elect,” asked Ernest, “how may I know it with
certainty?”

“God does not leave us to grope in doubt and darkness,” replied
Mildred. “If you love the people of God, love the Church and its
services, love religion, love to meditate upon heavenly things, and
love to read your Bible, you know that you love the Lord Jesus. That is
a certain indication that the heart has been renewed. God has said that
His people shall never perish. They were chosen before the foundation
of the world. If then, I was chosen from all eternity, how happy I
ought to feel; and I will add, how happy I do feel. This doctrine of
election and predestination, which is so horrible to some people, is
the greatest source of comfort to me.”

“You ought to be the wife of a minister,” said Ernest, thoughtfully.

“I would ask no higher destiny in this world,” modestly replied Mildred.

“There is a Baptist preacher in my town,” said Ernest, “who has tried
to make me believe that I am called to preach.”

“What made him think so?”

Ernest then briefly related the circumstances in regard to the matter,
with which the reader is acquainted. Mildred listened with the most
intense interest, and a flash of joy suddenly illuminated her face.

“I am glad you told me that,” she said, “for now I cannot but believe
that God is preparing you for His work just as He did Moses in the land
of Midian. Go on, then; do your duty, and have faith in God. I will try
to believe that you will be brought through all dangers in safety. God
has something for you to do. Are you willing to walk in the path which
providence points out?”

“I am.”

“Then have no fears.”

And from that moment she appeared so cheerful and confident, and seemed
to have such strong faith in the divine goodness, love and care, that
Ernest caught her spirit. By the time they arrived at the depot he was
in much better spirits.

“I am now satisfied,” he said, as they were about to part, “that there
is something more practical in the doctrines of the Presbyterian Church
than I had ever dreamed of. Henceforth I shall try to bring them into
my life as you do. But I am very skeptical by nature, and when I leave
you I may again fall into doubt. God bless you, my dear Mildred, for
helping to lift the clouds from my soul. I feel hopeful. But pray for
me, that my faith fail not.”

Mildred tried hard to restrain her tears, but it was in vain. They
were tears of joy mingled with tears of sadness. The train was heard
rumbling in the distance, and Mildred said: “I hope you will not regard
me as a Cassandra, if I prophesy that you will at last return to us in
safety?”

“You shall be as a Deborah to me,” replied Ernest. “You must write to
me every day.”

“Every day?”

“What I mean is, keep a sort of daily journal, and send it to me once
a week, if possible. I will do the same, and it will be a source of
pleasure to us.”

The foregoing is no fancy-sketch, but an actual occurrence, and shows
how the dearest friends separated during the terrible, uncertain days
of the Great Rebellion.

Presently the train came dashing in, and Ernest stepped on
the platform, waved his hand to Mildred, and entered the
coach. The conductor shouted “All aboard.” The bell rang:
sizz--sizz--click--click--and a moment after, a young lady with a
solemn face was seen in a buggy, driving slowly and thoughtfully from
the depot. Her thoughts followed the train whose roaring she could hear
in the distance. When she reached home, how sad all nature appeared!
She went to her room, locked the door, fell upon her knees, and prayed
God, with all the earnestness of her soul, to shield and protect him
upon whom her temporal happiness depended. Hers was a sacred love which
God sanctioned.

Ernest, as the train went dashing along through forest and fields, sank
down into a seat, and without effort directed his imagination to the
residence of the good Doctor Arrington. He thanked God in his heart
for sending him to that house. Suppose he had not been wounded, he
thought, or suppose he had fallen upon some other part of the field,
the probability was, Dr. Arrington would not have found him. How could
he fail to recognize the hand of God in all these little circumstances?
Then, he prayed the Lord still to be with him, and direct all his
footsteps.

In connection with such thoughts as these, his memory revived scenes
which had transpired the previous year. He recalled the agony of his
unrequited love for Clara Vanclure. He had thought that he never could
recover from the wound which she had so ruthlessly inflicted. Three
months, or less, after his rejection, she had married his rival,
contrary to the wishes of her father. He became enraged when she
informed him that she had discarded Ernest Edgefield.

“You have acted like a--a--simpleton,” he exclaimed, suppressing with
difficulty a much harsher appellation. “Whom do you expect to marry, I
should like to know?”

“Mr. Comston,” she answered hesitatingly.

“Well, well, that surpasses my comprehension--surpasses my
comprehension,” he cried. “I should like to know what you fancy
in him--yes, fancy in him. Ernest is worth a thousand such
cinnamon-scented popinjays--yes, cinnamon-scented popinjays.”

“Mr. Comston does not use cinnamon,” Clara ventured to say
apologetically.

“If he don’t,” exclaimed the irritated parent, “he uses musk which is
worse, and bear’s oil, and such other tomfoolery--other tomfoolery.”

Clara blushed, but said nothing more, wisely allowing her provoked
progenitor to give vent to his indignation till the storm of wrath
should subside. Resistance would only increase its fury.

But she married, and Ernest saw her become the bride of his rival; for
she had sent him a card to her wedding, and Ernest went, to show her
how little he cared.

All this now appeared like some dim dream that flitted through his mind
years ago. How thankful he now felt that Comston had removed to the
town of ---- in time to prevent a complicated involution of the threads
of destiny. If that young man had made his advent a few weeks later,
the conjugal infelicity of Ernest would have been an assured fact--at
least he felt so now. What an insignificant being Clara now appeared
when put in contrast with the intelligent, accomplished and pious
Mildred Arrington. He almost shuddered as he thought of the narrow
escape he had made. And the question came up in his mind, did God have
nothing to do with this? If the sparrow does not escape the beneficent
observation of the Supreme Being, surely His intelligent creatures will
receive a due share of the divine watchfulness and loving care.

Again, while the train was thundering along its iron track, sad and
gloomy thoughts and doubts, calculated to banish all cheerfulness,
would suddenly spring up in his mind, and the trembling light of hope
would almost disappear in the darkness. He recalled the old adage, “Man
proposes, God disposes.” Suppose his intended union, after all, with
Mildred should not be in accord with the Divine purpose? Could he give
her up? Would he not rebel, and murmur against God’s will? Alas! how
hard it is for a human being to tread the appointed path of destiny
with his will in complete subjection to that of the Heavenly Father!
At times, man cannot but think that his own chosen way is best. The
retrospective view convinces him of his folly and infirmity.

“While I mused, the fire burned,” said the Psalmist. While the train
rattled along, Ernest thought and mused. Presently a brakesman cried
out, “---- Station.” Ernest gathered up his baggage, and in a short
time was shaking hands with his comrades-in-arms.




CHAPTER X.

A DANGEROUS MISSION.


In the progress of the present story we have now come to some of those
strange, startling, and almost incredible events which prove the truth
of the old proverb, “Truth is stranger than Fiction,” and which could
occur only in those times when the foundations of society are shaken by
martial upheavals and commotions.

We stop at a small farm-house a few miles from Manassas, and not far
from the residence of Dr. Arrington. It is in the afternoon of a
beautiful day. We open the door of one room of the little farm-house,
and find ourselves in the presence of two Confederate officers, of high
rank, who are engaged in an earnest conversation. Both have long since
passed into history, and are inseparably connected with the “Great
Rebellion.” The whole history of any war is, in fact, comprised in the
biographies of a few individuals. The lives of Lee, Grant, Jackson,
Sherman, and a few others that could be readily named, cover the entire
field of the War of Secession.

It is not essential to our story that we should give the names of the
two Generals to whom reference has just been made. For reasons which
are clear to the author, it is deemed advisable to leave our reader
the pleasure of identifying them, if he can. Merely for the sake of
convenience we will designate one as General A. and the other as
General B. As we stand in one corner of the room, eaves-dropping, as is
the privilege of the Novelist, we hear the following colloquy:

“It will require a peculiar person for the business,” said Gen. A. in
a rather low tone. “It must be a woman--and a woman of intelligence,
discretion and courage.”

“I know just such a one,” replied Gen. B., “but I should dislike to ask
her to run the risk that must be incurred.”

“These are times,” answered Gen. A., “which demand sacrifices. Our
Southern men and women should be willing to incur danger for the sake
of their country. Cannot the South furnish an Iphigenia if one is
necessary to the success of our arms?”

“No doubt, many can be found,” replied Gen. B., “but I should dislike
to sacrifice any of our noble women, if it could possibly be avoided.”

“Would it not be better,” coolly asked Gen. A., “to sacrifice a woman
in the prosecution of this business than a good soldier? But who is the
lady you mentioned? We can discuss the ethics of the case at some other
time.”

“It is the daughter of Dr. Arrington,” answered Gen. B. “I dined with
his family last Sabbath, and I was impressed with the idea that the
young lady is just such a woman as you have described.”

“I am willing,” said Gen. A., “to take your judgment in this case. When
can we have an interview with her, do you suppose?”

“Any time we may call, I think.”

“Suppose we go at once, then,” said Gen. A. “The business is urgent.”

Accordingly the two officers mounted their horses. Half an hour later
they alighted at Dr. Arrington’s residence. They were met by the
Doctor, and shown into the parlor. After talking a short time upon
general topics, Gen. B. broached the particular subject that had caused
the visit.

“Dr. Arrington,” said he, “Gen. A. is in search of a person to perform
a delicate and hazardous duty. The service is of such a nature that no
one but a lady can perform it well, and it must be a lady of bravery,
discretion and intelligence.”

“I do not know where you can find one in this community who will
fulfill such requirements,” said the Doctor.

“I have taken the liberty,” said Gen. B., without seeming to have
noticed the Doctor’s remark, “to suggest your daughter, Miss Mildred.”

“I doubt,” replied the Doctor, “that she possesses the qualifications
you have named--at least, I do not know that she is brave.”

“Probably,” suggested Gen. A., “you have never seen her courage put to
the test.”

“No, I cannot say that I have.”

“However,” continued Gen. A., “the business I have in hand requires
more tact than courage.”

“Is it a perilous business, General?”

“Perilous in case of detection; yes, sir.”

“I profess to love my country,” said the Doctor, “and I am willing to
make sacrifices for it, but I cannot speak for my daughter. I will
call her, if you wish, and let her speak for herself.”

“If you please,” said Gen. A. “We mentioned the matter to you first in
order to get your consent to an interview with her.”

The Doctor went out of the room, and in a few moments returned with
Mildred, introducing her to Gen. A., who had never seen her before. An
explanation of how and why Gen. B. had formed the acquaintance of this
family would, no doubt, lead at once to his personal identification.

“Shall I remain in the room?” asked the Doctor, after Mildred was
seated.

“Certainly; we expected you to do so,” replied Gen. A.

The true, actual history of the war of 1861 will never be written. It
cannot be. It is only general events that the dignity of history will
condescend to record. Take the battle of Bull Run, which has been so
briefly described in previous pages of our story. Scarcely anything
more than the events which we have outlined will go down to future
generations. The thousand little incidents which constituted the very
_essence_ of the fight, and give to it a coloring which the historical
brush must ever miss, will never be known. The history of a battle is
nothing more than a picture of it: three-fourths of the scenes are left
out.

From one till three o’clock who can tell what occurred on the field
of Bull Run? The war-cloud floated in fragments: it was like a fog.
The contest seemed to dwindle almost into individual combats. The grim
warriors were mixed up in a dense cloud of smoke, through which the
historian cannot see clearly. It was not till after three o’clock that
the battle presented an aspect that comes within the scope of history.
To get the correct history of those two or three hours, each individual
like Ernest would have to tell what occurred within his sight. Little
incidents, though thrilling, such as we are about to relate, are
rejected from the domain of sober history. Individual deeds of daring
and heroism, necessity demands shall find their place in the province
of biography. Accordingly that which Mildred performed will be found
recorded nowhere except in the pages of this story.

“We have a mission,” said Gen. A. presently, “which only a lady can
accomplish, and Gen. B. has suggested you as a person who would be
likely to undertake it; and this is the object of our present visit.”

Mildred looked surprised.

“If it is anything I can do, General,” she said, “I think I have
sufficient patriotism to undertake it.”

“I have no doubt of that. But, to make a long story short, we want a
lady to go into the capital--Washington City, I mean.”

Gen. A. watched her face closely and critically as he said this.
Mildred did not appear to be amazed at this information, but she
quietly said:

“Will that be easy to do?”

“I do not know; it depends upon the tact of the person that tries it,”
answered Gen. A.

“I infer, then,” she said, “that I would have to avoid the pickets and
sentinels?”

“Not so much that as other things which I will explain to you. But I
shall not conceal the fact from you, that if you are detected, the
consequences will be enough to terrify not only a lady, but a desperate
man.”

“Death, would it be?” she asked in a firm, but gentle tone which
convinced Gen. A. that Gen. B. was not mistaken in his estimate of her
character.

“Death, and ‘death by hanging’,” answered Gen. A. with an emphasis
designed to test her nerves.

“O, General!” exclaimed the Doctor in some alarm, “that is asking too
much of my child. She is too delicate and timid to take such a risk.”

“I shall not insist upon anyone’s undertaking it,” replied Gen. A. with
a disappointed look. “Gen. B. here suggested that your daughter would
be the kind of person we need, but if you object we will say no more
about it.”

“My kind father has spoken hastily,” said Mildred with dignity. “I do
not know why the women of our country should not sometimes risk their
lives as well as the soldiers. Suppose I should lose my life, it is
no more than hundreds have already done. I am not afraid. I will go,
General, unless my father positively forbids it.”

“There will be no very great risk, though, after all,” said Gen. A.,
“especially after you are in the city. I have a paper to be delivered
to a certain person in Washington. If you were caught with that paper,
you would no doubt be treated as a spy, but a lady of intelligence and
tact can conceal it.”

“Could I not commit the contents to memory and write them out after I
get into the city?” asked Mildred.

“No; the person who is to receive it must have the original paper.”

Mildred reflected for a moment, and turning to the Doctor said:

“Father, I am willing to do this small service for the General.”

“It is no small service, I should think,” interrupted the Doctor.

“No,” replied the General, “it is a very great service, one which will
bring your country under obligations.”

“What do you say, father?” asked Mildred.

“My child,” said the doctor with some emotion, “I cannot encourage
you to do it. I will leave it to your own judgment. I, however, would
prefer to undertake the mission myself, if that would answer.”

“If the business,” answered Gen. A., “could be accomplished by a man,
we have any number of soldiers in camp who would cheerfully volunteer,
but no person will answer but an intelligent lady. You will see that
when I enter into fuller explanations.”

“If this be so, father, it seems to me that I ought to perform this
service for the country. The enemy can but destroy this body, if I
should be detected. Suppose, General,” turning to him, “you can find no
lady who will undertake the affair, what will be the consequence?”

“That will be difficult to foretell or foresee,” replied Gen. A. “It
might cause the loss of a great battle. On the other hand, her going
might result in achieving the independence of the Confederate States.
Very little affairs of this kind frequently result in great things.”

“Then, father,” said Mildred with firmness, “I can no longer hesitate.
We helpless women ought to serve our country in some way in the hour of
need. Will you give your consent, father.”

“I can not tell you either to go or to stay,” answered the Doctor. “Do
as you please.”

“Then, General, I will go and do the best I can for you. What is it you
wish me to do?”

“When can you start?” asked Gen. A.

“To-morrow, if you desire it.”

“Very well: now give me your attention and I will tell you what is to
be done. The paper of which I spoke is this,” taking a folded document
from his pocket. “You see this is a map.”

It is not necessary to enter into details in regard to this map.
Besides it might not be advisable to unfold any portion of the secret
history of the “Great Rebellion” at this time when some of the actors
in the scenes we are now describing are yet living.

“This,” continued the General, “is to be delivered to a gentleman by
the name of Beall.”

“What is his address?” asked Mildred.

“That I am not able to give you at present,” responded Gen. A. “He
changes his quarters frequently; but there are five hotels at which he
stops, and you will find him registered in one of them.” The General
here informed her how she could identify Beall, with whose melancholy
history our reader is probably acquainted. “This paper must be put into
the hands of Captain Beall,” continued Gen. A., “and no one else.”

“Yes, I understand,” said Mildred.

“The principal danger,” the General went on, “lies in this. If
you should be arrested with this paper on your person or in your
possession, your fidelity to your country will cost you very dearly,
you understand.”

“Yes, sir, my life will be the price.”

“When you meet Beall,” coolly resumed Gen. A., “he will give you
another paper which you are to bring to me. Of course I will have to
leave some of the details to your own good sense and tact. If you
should get into any difficulty, do not lose your presence of mind and
self-possession. Keep cool under all circumstances, and I think you
will soon come back to us in safety.”

After some further directions and explanations, which can be omitted
without detriment to our story, the General said:

“Now, you fully understand what is to be done; are you still willing to
go?”

Mildred looked appealingly at her father, but he said not a word.

“What do you say, father?” she again asked.

“I candidly confess,” he replied at last “that I dislike to see my
daughter subjected to exposure of this sort. Probably the result may
be such as makes me shudder to think about it, and then my gray hairs
would be brought in sorrow to my grave. In that case, I never could
forgive myself for not having forbidden her to go.”

“Well,” said Gen. A., “I shall not even now insist upon her going.
She can still decline if she wish. The danger is just what I have
represented it. If,” turning to Mildred, “you shrink from it, you would
better decline at once.”

“It is not the danger I dread,” answered Mildred. “I am willing to
serve my country in any way I can, even to the extent of shedding
my blood, but I dislike to do anything that will cause my father to
suffer. But I have already told you I would go, and so I will unless my
father sees proper to exercise his parental authority and forbids it.”

“I shall not forbid,” said the Doctor. “I want you to consult your own
feelings and judgment and act accordingly.”

“Then General,” said Mildred with firmness, “I shall start in the
morning. There is no use of any further discussion.”

“God bless you!” exclaimed General B., who had not taken any part in
the conversation. “I thought I could not be mistaken in your character.
I knew your religious training had developed those very traits which
peculiarly qualify you for this perilous undertaking. May God protect
and crown the undertaking with deserved success.”

As the officers were riding away, Gen. B. said:

“What a pity it would be if that noble girl should be arrested and--”

“Hanged?” spoke up Gen. A., finishing the uncompleted sentence.

“Yes; it would be terrible,” answered Gen. B.

“Well,” said Gen. A. deliberately, “war signifies bloodshed. If the
young lady falls a victim, does not the occasion demand the sacrifice.”

And the two officers rode on.

[Illustration: Decoration]




CHAPTER XI.

A BRAVE GIRL.


It might seem strange to the reader who is unacquainted with the nature
of war, that a young, intelligent, and accomplished lady should have
undertaken such an enterprise as that partly described in the previous
chapter. But it must be remembered that war introduces customs and
modes of thought which would be subversive of our notions of propriety
in times of peace. The women of the South were frequently thrown by
the force of circumstances into strange and unusual situations during
the dark and stormy days of the “Great Rebellion.” They had to perform
many duties which would have been palpable violations of the laws of
etiquette under different circumstances. Besides, we are all creatures
of habit, and our character depends upon our education. This fact is
our authority for the assertion, that in our social relations there is
scarcely anything, if there is really anything, proper or improper
_per se_--anything inherently absolute. Many of our terms are merely
relative: they have no fixed definition. No absolute rules can be laid
down that shall determine whether a given line of conduct is modest
or immodest. Circumstances only can determine. An angel, for instance
could use language in the pulpit which ordinary ministers of the
Gospel would not dare to employ. One nation regards a thing as proper,
which another considers improper. Hence, there can be no fixed code of
propriety.

Bearing these facts in mind, we can understand why it was that Mildred
could see no impropriety in undertaking to make her way alone into
Washington--which she did in less than forty-eight hours after the
interview with the two Confederate Generals. The statement of this
fact is sufficient, without entering into particulars in regard to the
difficulties which she encountered. She remained in the city three days
till she found the unfortunate Captain Beall, to whom she delivered
the papers, and from whom she received others for Gen. A. Her mission
having been successfully accomplished, she returned, and reported to
the Confederate officer. His rather stern face assumed a smile, as he
took her by the hand and congratulated her upon her success.

“Here is a check for a thousand dollars,” he said as she finished her
report.

“But I did not expect to be paid, General,” she said. “I undertook the
mission because I love my country, and desire to do something in the
struggle for independence.”

“You are not a soldier,” replied Gen. A. “We have no right to your
services without compensation. This is only a partial reward for what
you have done.”

“I do not ask any remuneration.”

“You have been in danger,” said Gen. A. “Besides, I will want you to go
on a similar mission in a few days, and I have no right to your time. I
am aware that the salary of ministers is small, and funds do not come
amiss. You have earned this money, and I insist upon your taking it. It
is yours.”

“I can do with it as I please?” asked Mildred after a short pause.

“Certainly you can.”

“Then,” said Mildred, “I will take it. I know how I can use it to good
purpose.”

“Well,” said the General, handing her the check, “can you go on a
similar mission?”

“To the same place?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, sir; I will go.”

“When can you start?”

“To-morrow, if necessary.”

“I am truly glad,” said Gen. A. “for I have another paper which ought
to be in Washington now. I was afraid to entrust it to you till you had
proved that it was practicable to go in and out of the city. But since
you know now exactly what to do, I feel that there will be little risk.”

“It, too, is a dangerous paper, is it?”

“It is, and if you are detected with it, the death of another party
will be the consequence. If you can manage to give it to Capt. Beall
there will be no danger to you.”

“I can do that,” replied Mildred. “I know how to find him.”

“You see,” said Gen. A. “I have written the message on this pocket
handkerchief so that you can conceal it in your clothing.”

“Yes, sir,” said Mildred, taking the handkerchief, “I can conceal this
so that it will escape the most rigid search.”

“I can trust you for that,” said the General.

“If nothing providential interferes,” said Mildred, “I shall start in
the morning.”

“Thank you,” answered Gen. A. “When you return, you shall receive your
reward.”

“We will talk about that when I get back,” she said, as she took her
leave.

Accordingly, the next morning she again started for the city of
Washington, without the slightest misgiving or premonition of evil.
Indeed what had she to fear? She knew exactly how to proceed. She,
therefore, boldly entered the city, after having complied with
such military requisitions as were necessary in those days. It was
frequently the case that the most elegant ladies of the South, mounted
upon bales of cotton in an ox-wagon, went shopping in cities that were
under Federal jurisdiction. Some had to take the oath of allegiance
to the U. S. Government, and others, by their extreme cleverness,
managed to “get through the lines” without compromising their fealty
to the Confederacy. It is not necessary to describe Mildred’s military
maneuvers in order to secure both ingress and egress. But more light
will be thrown on this subject as the story proceeds.

Again Mildred was in Washington. She registered at the very same hotel
at which she had put up before. This was the first mistake that she
had made. For even her first visit had aroused the suspicions of
the head clerk. However, without manifesting the least surprise, he
assigned her to a room, remarking that it would be half an hour before
the chamber would be ready for occupancy.

“You can sit in the parlor for that length of time?” he asked with a
bland smile.

“Certainly,” replied Mildred.

“Thanks,” he said, bowing politely. “Please step this way.”

Mildred followed him to the elegant parlor, and seated herself on one
of the luxurious sofas.

“I will return in a short time,” said the urbane clerk, “and have you
shown to your room. Please make yourself comfortable.”

He bowed himself out of the apartment, and was gone about twenty
minutes. Seating himself, he manifested a disposition to engage in
conversation--at which Mildred exhibited surprise as well as aversion.

“You have no friends in the city, lady?” he said half inquiringly and
half declaratively. She could construe it either way.

“Sir?” said Mildred in a tone that plainly indicated disinclination to
talk.

“I made a remark about your friends,” said the clerk, “but it does not
matter. You have been to the city before have you not?”

“I have, sir,” answered Mildred in a frigid tone. “Is my room ready?”

“Not quite, ma’am. The chambermaid will be in presently. How long will
you want the room?” asked the clerk.

“Why do you wish to know?”

“O, merely to know. Sometimes we like to know how long our guests will
remain--it is a matter of--of--convenience.”

“I will notify you when I am ready to vacate it,” said Mildred coldly.

“O, yes, of course, you can retain it as long as you wish. I meant no
offence. Have you heard the news?”

“What news?” asked Mildred.

“Why, a terrible battle has been fought--it was on yesterday at ----:
an awful fight.”

“No, sir, I have not heard of it,” answered Mildred changing to a more
gentle tone, yet expressive of indifference.

“You do not seem to take much interest in military affairs?” remarked
the clerk. “I thought everybody was eager to hear of the success of our
arms. The Rebels received a fearful chastisement yesterday.”

“They did?” asked Mildred, trying to appear indifferent under the
searching gaze of this impudent clerk.

“Indeed, they did. You will hear the guns booming presently in honor
of the great victory. There were ten thousand rebels killed, yes,
left dead on the field. Wasn’t it glorious? Wasn’t it glorious?” he
exclaimed rubbing his hands in glee.

“I see nothing glorious in shedding human blood,” replied Mildred.

“Don’t you rejoice at hearing of the defeat of the rebels, and that so
many thousands were killed?” inquired the clerk.

“God forbid,” exclaimed Mildred with more warmth than she intended to
manifest, “that I should rejoice at the death of any human being.”

“But the rebels have got to be killed, you know, in order to bring the
war to an end and to restore the Union.”

“That may be so,” answered Mildred, drawn into a conversation in spite
of herself, “but I dislike to hear of wholesale murder. The great God
did not put His intelligent creatures here to butcher each other. I
cannot, therefore, but think that war is a sin.”

“No doubt, the aggressive party is guilty,” answered the clerk. “The
rebels brought on the war. Don’t you think, then, that the rebels are
responsible for all the blood that has been, and may be shed?”

“I was speaking on general principles,” answered Mildred. “It does not
become me to measure the degree of guilt that may attach to either
party. It is a sin to commit murder; it is a violation of God’s
commandment.”

“Is it, when done in self-defence?”

“I suppose,” replied Mildred, “that if homicide is absolutely necessary
to the preservation of one’s life, it would be justifiable. But in the
case of war, who is to determine which party is fighting purely in
self-defence?”

“In the present war,” said the clerk, “I don’t see how there can be any
doubt about it. The rebels fired the first gun, and dishonored the flag
of our country.”

“Yet,” said Mildred, “the rebels claim that they are fighting in
self-defence.”

“Do you sympathize with the rebels?” asked the clerk, looking narrowly
into her face, as though he would read her thoughts. “Probably you may
be a Copper-head?”

“I did not say I sympathized with either party,” answered Mildred
quietly.

“No; but one would infer that you leaned toward the rebels.”

“I do not know upon what you could base such an inference,” rejoined
Mildred, “for I have not used an expression that could be construed
into sympathy for either side. I told you I was speaking only on
general principles.”

“Do you mind telling with which party you do sympathize?” quoth the
clerk.

“I am neither politician, nor soldier, nor am I regarded as a citizen
by the law,” answered Mildred. “You will, therefore, please excuse me
from any expression of opinion on this subject. Why should you wish to
know?”

“Why should you mind expressing an opinion?”

“It is not necessary, is it?” asked Mildred.

“No, ma’am; it is not a matter of life or death,” replied the smiling
clerk, “but I can imagine no good reason why you should be so extremely
cautious--that is, unless you have come upon some illegal business.”

For an instant Mildred seemed startled at this insinuation.

“I’m sure I asked a civil question,” said the clerk.

“Certainly,” answered Mildred with a little birdlike laugh, intended to
ward off suspicion, “but I should like to know by what authority you
propound questions to me.”

“O,” said the clerk, breaking into a laugh, “I am no court of
inquisition. I questioned you only by the authority of social
etiquette. It is no breach of politeness, I hope, to ask ordinary
questions in a common conversation. We sometimes ask questions merely
for the sake of vivifying conversation.”

“The authority of social etiquette,” replied Mildred, “is sometimes
insolent, and even ordinary questions may in times of public
disturbance lead to grave consequences.”

“I had no intention of making so serious a matter of it,” said the
clerk. “I asked the question more for the sake of saying something than
anything else. Certainly, if you wish to conceal your opinions and
sentiments, I’m no inquisitor to try to force you to reveal them. I,
however, admire your prudence, since you are a stranger in the city.”

Mildred suddenly laughed outright.

“What do you see in my remark,” inquired the clerk very soberly, “to
excite your risibility?”

“I was laughing at your making so serious a matter out of nothing,”
answered Mildred. “You speak of my prudence, as if I were some astute
diplomatist who had come to Washington to negotiate a treaty of peace,
or some other important business. The whole of my prudence consists in
not directly answering questions that might lead to the discussion of
unpleasant topics.”

“Why is the war such an unpleasant subject?” asked the clerk. “It ought
to be agreeable to all loyal people to hear about the destruction of
rebels. I wish I could kill some of them myself.”

“If you have such a blood-thirsty disposition,” said Mildred a little
contemptuously, “I think you could easily find opportunities to gratify
it.”

“You may be sure, if I could stand the exposure which camp life
involves, I should have gone out at the first tap of the drum. Besides,
I have a family.”

“There are soldiers on both sides who have families,” said Mildred.

“I only wish I had physical strength,” said the clerk. “Nothing would
delight me more than to kill rebels.”

Mildred could not suppress a smile of derision, for the clerk was a
large, well-developed man, presenting every aspect of perfect health.
This exhibition of contempt did not escape his notice, since he closely
watched her throughout the entire interview. He felt provoked at her
insinuations, but he was too polite to manifest his vexation.

“But here comes the chamber-maid,” he said, “who will show you to your
room. I hope you may have a pleasant time in the city, if the business
upon which you have come will permit you to seek pleasure.”

“How do you know that I have come upon any business?” asked Mildred.

“Strangers generally have business, when they visit the city,” said the
clerk significantly, as Mildred thought. But she concluded that she
would say nothing more. Rising, she silently followed the chamber-maid.
The clerk walked back to his desk in a thoughtful mood; and this is
what was passing through his mind:

“That is one of those proud Southern women, and she is bent upon
mischief. Well, if she is not very cautious, I shall trap her as I have
done others. She seems to be an intelligent, accomplished woman, but
what is she doing here alone? If she is a spy, as I begin to suspect,
and is detected, what a fate awaits her!”




CHAPTER XII.

IN PRISON.


As soon as the chamber-maid’s footsteps had died away, Mildred locked
the door, and sat down to think. Suffering herself to be drawn into an
interview with a stranger was her second blunder, as she now perceived.
Why had the clerk manifested such a sudden interest in her affairs?
Did he not suspect her? What made her so foolish as to engage in a
conversation with him? She could not but feel a little uneasy and
anxious, and she determined to transact her business as quickly as
possible, and leave the city. As soon as she would rid herself of Gen.
A.’s message she would be out of danger. She must find Beall at once.

She then rose from her seat, and looked around the room, and even
under the bed. She cast her eyes up to the ceiling, and as she did
so imagined that she heard a sudden, but slight movement overhead.
A small bit of plaster dropped to the floor. She at once made the
discovery that about two feet square of the plaster had fallen off, or
at least was gone. This fact, under ordinary circumstances, would have
made no impression upon her mind, but now it awakened her suspicions,
and she narrowly examined the unsightly blemish. Why should it not
have been repaired? But it may have been recently done. To discover
whether this might be so, she examined the carpet immediately under
it, but she saw only a few grains of sand, and the little lump that
had just fallen. Perhaps Sir Isaac, in the same length of time, did
not study more profoundly in regard to the descent of that famous
apple which revolutionized philosophy, than Mildred did about that
insignificant bit of rubbish. Was its fall, too, due simply to the
law of gravitation, or was it caused by some eavesdropper? After
reflecting for some moments, a new thought seemed suddenly to flash
into her mind, for she partially disrobed herself, as if to rest, and
lay upon the bed, pretending to fall into a deep sleep. She was, in
fact, wide awake, listening with all her ears. An hour passed away, and
she arose. Taking a pair of small scissors from her pocket, she cut
a small aperture in the lining of her dress so that she could secure
easy access to the General’s manuscript pocket-handkerchief. This done,
she drew her chair to the window where she could look down upon the
busy street. She gazed at the crowds rushing along in pursuit of the
varied objects that occupy the attention of the inhabitants of a gay
city, like the capital of the United States. She beheld officers of
every grade walking among the throng with proud, military step, who
appeared to glory more in their magnificent _physique_ and splendid,
spotless uniform, than in the deeds of valor they had performed on the
field of battle. In this gay, beautiful city, she felt a keen sense
of loneliness. There was, so far as she knew, only one person in all
the place, whose sympathies were like her own, and she had no intimate
acquaintance with him. This person was Capt. Beall. She now determined
to find him at once, deliver the General’s document, and immediately
start homeward. Accordingly, she rose from her chair, donned her
cephalic attire, and opened the door. She started back in amazement
and horror! There stood before her a policeman, a woman, and the
head-clerk with whom she had conversed not more than two hours since.
What awful thoughts now came crowding into her mind! It is impossible
to describe them. Persons who have been in similar situations remember
how active is the mind in the first moment of surprise. The sense of
danger, the line of defence, the means of escape, all are discussed
in a few seconds. Thoughts such as these, and a hundred others of a
different character, flashed in the most rapid succession through
Mildred’s mind. Among other things Gen. A.’s cautions came vividly to
her memory. He had told her how necessary is self-possession, and she
was now making the most desperate efforts to be calm. The trio stood
watching her face, as she gazed steadily at them. As they said nothing,
she presently, in a quiet tone broke the silence.

“I am patiently waiting to learn the object of this intrusion,” she
said with dignity.

“We are not guilty of intrusion,” replied the clerk, “we are merely
standing before the door.”

“If that is all,” said Mildred calmly, “please let me pass, and you can
enjoy your harmless pleasure to your heart’s content.”

“Not so fast, sarcastic lady,” spoke the clerk. “You must give a
better account of yourself than you did a while ago. I suspected your
disloyalty to the Federal Government sufficiently to induce me to make
an effort to ascertain if my suspicions were correct.”

“What effort do you propose to make?”

“Would you object to being searched?”

“For what?” asked Mildred with inward trepidation, as she perceived
treachery gradually unfolding. For one moment the most bitter hatred
toward that deceptive clerk sprang up in her heart, and she felt that
she could have taken his life. But it was only for a moment.

“We wish to see if you have anything contraband,” replied the clerk.

“I suppose you intend to search me anyhow, whether I consent or not?”

“We don’t like to resort to force,” answered the clerk, “and we hope
you’ll readily give your consent. Indeed, a willingness on your part to
submit will be taken as evidence of your loyalty to the government.”

“I do not see it in that light,” said Mildred as quietly as possible.
“What have I done to arouse your suspicions?”

“That does not matter, lady,” replied the clerk. “I have no feeling of
malice toward you. I sincerely hope that I am mistaken, and that you
may prove as innocent of any sinister intentions towards the government
as the angels of heaven. I was prepossessed in your favor by your
general appearance and your conversation. But if you have come to the
city with any dark purpose, it is but natural that you should oppose
being searched.”

“Can you not see,” asked Mildred, speaking slowly, “that it is a
personal indignity to be subjected to a search?”

“Not in such times as these,” said the clerk. “It is generally the
case, that, when innocent people are suspected, they demand an
investigation, instead of shrinking from it.”

“That depends upon circumstances,” replied Mildred coolly. She was
endeavoring to prolong the conversation as much as possible in order
to think what was best to be done. If she could avoid this search,
she would be safe. A score of schemes rapidly presented themselves
during these few moments. She thought of bribery; but that would be
an acknowledgment of guilt. If there had been a fire in the room, she
would have hastily thrown the dangerous kerchief into it; in that case
all that the authorities could do would be to imprison her for a while
as a suspicious character. But there was no fire, and she did not have
even a match. If Mildred had only known it, all her scheming was to no
purpose, for she had been watched. That wiry, pert little woman, one
of the trio had been in the room over-head, which had been prepared
for suspicious characters. When Mildred had suddenly looked up to the
ceiling, in her examination of the room, the woman involuntarily drew
back, and in so doing had caused the lump of loose plaster to fall. She
saw Mildred make the rent in the dress, and that was enough. Mildred
at last came to the conclusion that it would be advisable to submit
with the best grace possible, and trust to Providence for protection.
Sending up a silent, but earnest prayer, she said:

“I suppose you have brought this lady to do the work? If so, it is
useless to discuss the matter. So proceed.”

“That is right,” said the clerk. “You can both go into the room, and
close the door. This officer and myself will await the result in the
hall, here.”

Accordingly the little woman, with eyes, as Mildred thought, keen
enough to see through a mill-stone, entered the apartment, and closed
the door.

“Well, what do you wish?” asked Mildred.

“Let me have your dress first, please.”

“You wish me to take it off?”

“Yes, take it off.”

“What do you expect to find?” asked Mildred. “You can feel the dress
anywhere, and you will discover no papers.”

“Take it off,” said the woman sharply. “I don’t know what I will find.
I’ll show you when I am through searching.”

Mildred deliberately removed the garment, and while so doing, made
two or three unsuccessful attempts to withdraw the treacherous
kerchief unobserved; but the diminutive woman was watching with an
Argus-eyed vigilance that would have instantly detected any suspicious
manipulation. The little lady took it, turned it inside out, and
stretched it upon the bed. In an instant her keen eyes fell upon the
fatal rent. Mildred felt a choking sensation when she perceived the
nimble fingers deftly close upon the General’s handkerchief.

“O, heaven! what shall I do?” was her inward exclamation as she saw the
kerchief quickly jerked out. She felt a sickening sensation creeping
over her. She tried hard to preserve her equanimity. Would falsehood
avail in this instance? or should she tell the truth, and meet death
with Christian resignation?

“Ah! what is this?” exclaimed the little woman, holding up the kerchief
by two corners, and gazing at it with a most provoking air of triumph.

Mildred’s first impulse was to snatch the terrible document from her
hands, and thrust it in the fire, but alas! there was no fire in the
room.

“It may be some old rag,” said Mildred in a hoarse, trembling voice,
“put in to thicken the lining.” It was the first time in her life that
she had practiced prevarication, and the words seemed to blister her
tongue.

“Hardly probable,” said the Lilliputian lady with an ironical smile.
“Hardly probable; it is almost new, don’t you see? But I will give it
to Mr. Twombly, and let him examine it while I continue the work.”

Accordingly, she opened the door, gave the kerchief to the clerk, and
resumed the search. But a half hour’s further investigation revealed
nothing else of a suspicious character. The woman said:

“Well, unless that handkerchief contains evidences of disloyalty you
will go free. Put on your clothing. I will assist you.”

In a little time Mildred was again presentable, and the door being
re-opened, the two men entered without ceremony. The little woman was
the first to speak.

“That’s the only suspicious article I’ve been able to discover.”

“And that is enough,” said the clerk. “Alas! young lady, we are forced
to arrest you as a spy. I am sorry for you.”

“I do not need your sympathy,” said Mildred indignantly. “I would
rather be anything than a detestable informer, showing a ‘Devil’s
purpose with an angel’s face’--sneaking among your unsuspecting
guests, smiling and fawning upon them in order to convert their blood
into gold. ‘I’d rather be a dog and bay the moon than such a Roman.’
Yes, I’d rather die a thousand times than act the base part of a
contemptible hypocrite.”

“High! wrathful lady,” exclaimed the clerk without betraying any
symptoms of vexation and annoyance, “how can you blame me for
discharging my duty to my country?”

“Don’t you remember that King Philip said he loved the treason, but
despised the traitor? That is the case with your masters; they love
your treachery, but they hate you. Every honest man heartily execrates
a cold-blooded, villainous informer,” cried the enraged Mildred.

“Nevertheless, young lady,” coolly said the clerk, “it is our duty to
arrest you as a spy.”

“I am no spy,” exclaimed Mildred. “I have not come to Washington to
find out anything of a military character. I call God to witness that I
have not come here for any such purpose.”

“Why, don’t you know the contents of this document?” asked the clerk.

“God in heaven, who sees me, knows that I never read a single word, or
syllable of it.”

“Then,” said the clerk in surprise, “you know not what a dangerous
handkerchief you have been carrying.”

“Yes, sir; I knew it was attended with some sort of danger, but I do
emphatically deny being a spy. All I had to do was to deliver the
handkerchief to a certain person, and go back home.”

“And that person is named here,” replied the clerk. “I wouldn’t given a
snap of my finger for his life.”

Mildred turned pale on hearing this, and on re-calling the fact that
General A. had told her that if she were detected, a third party would
be compromised.

“Notwithstanding your unnecessary abuse of myself,” said the clerk, “I
hope your excuse will be considered sufficient to procure your release.
Your friends have made a mere tool of you for the accomplishment of
their own purpose. But I must take you to head-quarters. If you will
promise to go along quietly, I will accompany you myself; if you are
not, I will turn you over to the police.”

“I will go with you,” said Mildred, who was now ready almost to faint.

The clerk and Mildred descended to the street, and entered a passing
hack. In a few moments they alighted at the head-quarters of Gen. ----,
to whom the clerk delivered the handkerchief. He read it over twice and
said:

“A pretty kettle of fish is this! Are you the bearer of this, young
lady?”

“I am, sir.”

“She had it carefully concealed in her clothing, General,” spoke up the
clerk. “I suspected her, and had her watched.”

“You have done your country a great service,” replied the General.
“Have you arrested the other party?”

“No, sir, I thought it best to deliver that article to you first.”

“Very well,” answered the General. “I thank you heartily for what
you have done. Now, young lady,” continued the General, turning his
attention to Mildred who was pale but calm, “how came you with this
document?”

Mildred had concocted a falsehood which might have obscured her
connection with the affair with a shadow of dubitation. But in early
life the little story of George Washington and the cherry tree had made
a deep, ineffaceable impression upon her mind, and neither could she
“tell a lie.” If she spoke at all, she determined to tell the truth,
let the consequences be what they might. So she answered:

“I brought it to a certain person in this city.”

“What is his name?”

“I cannot tell,” she replied. “You can do as you please with me, but I
shall not compromise others.”

“It does not matter,” replied the General. “His name is Beall. I shall
have him arrested in an hour or so. He is an important character, it
seems. Do you not know, lady, that you are acting the spy?”

“No, sir. I deny being a spy.”

“I pity your ignorance,” replied the officer. “You are exactly in the
attitude of a spy. The penalty--do you know what it is?”

“Death, is it not?” replied Mildred calmly.

“Death, and death by hanging.”

“O, General!” exclaimed Mildred, whose feelings were alternating
between trepidation and tranquility. “Can you not pardon me when I was
ignorant that I was acting in such a capacity?”

“I never knew a spy to be pardoned,” said the General thoughtfully.
“There was universal sympathy for the unfortunate Major Andre,
and Washington would have saved him, if possible. But the law is
inexorable. I have no power to do anything. You will have to be tried
by a military court, and you can easily imagine what will be the
result. A spy always takes his life in his hands, well knowing the
consequences of detection. If you are ignorant of these consequences, I
am truly sorry for you. You will,” he continued, turning to the clerk,
“give the lady a room in your hotel, and I will send a guard to stand
at the door to prevent escape. I do not care to send so elegant a lady
to a common prison. Give her a room from which there is no practicable
egress except through the door.”

“I understand, General,” replied the clerk. “The corner room of the
fourth story is perfectly safe.”

“General,” said Mildred who had been trying to be brave, “may I write
to my parents?”

If the officer had spoken harshly, she could have borne her misfortune
more courageously, but he spoke kindly, and the womanish heart would
betray itself. Under such circumstances, without tears, she would have
been untrue to her sex. The General was touched, as nearly all men
are, by the sight of a beautiful woman down whose cheeks are flowing
the evidences of her distress. When the grim old General looked at
the innocent truth-telling face of this magnanimous girl, upon whose
features God had stamped the seal of honesty, and especially when
she broke down at the thought of the distress of her parents, and
Ernest, all the better feelings of his heart were touched. His chivalry
prompted him to release her, but the claims of duty were paramount.
He, at the time, thought that surely no court-martial would deal with
her as with one of the “rougher sex.” Her innocence, beauty, and
intelligence would be her defense, and, under all circumstances, would
be a greater protection than a Roman shield. He, therefore, replied:

“Certainly, you may. This gentleman,” turning to the clerk, “will see
that you have everything that you want. Remember, sir, she is a lady,
and treat her accordingly.”

“She herself will testify, General, that I have extended to her the
treatment which every lady deserves, notwithstanding the fact, that she
abused me roundly for simply discharging my duty.”

When they again entered the hack, such a sense of the awfulness of
her situation came over Mildred that she covered her face, and sobbed
audibly. Her woman nature strongly asserted itself, and she yielded.
For the first time a sense of shame reddened the cheeks of the clerk,
sitting silent in front of her.

“Confound it,” said he to himself, “what great deed have I done? She is
nothing but an innocent girl, ignorant of her own danger. If it were
some sharp man, I might feel self-complacent. The man to whom she was
to deliver that handkerchief is really the guilty party. But it is too
late now. I must obey orders.”

They soon reached the hotel, and in ten minutes Mildred found herself
in the corner room of the fourth story. And she sat down, and wept
bitterly.

[Illustration: Decoration]




CHAPTER XIII.

A DESPERATE MAN.


The army to which Ernest belonged was encamped on the banks of the
historical river ----. The year was drawing to a close. To Ernest
the days dragged heavily by, as there are few amusements in military
camps that are sufficient to divert one’s mind from introspectional
processes. It was this prolonged subjectivity--this constant brooding
over one’s own thoughts, inseparable from camp life, that produced
_ennui_, or more frequently, that exquisite _nostalgia_, which often
terminated in death. Ernest had kept up a regular correspondence with
Mildred, which occupied much of his time, and made his own thoughts
pleasant companions. She had not written a word in regard to her visits
to Washington, and he, of course, supposed that she was at home.

One morning a letter was delivered to him, post-marked from
Mildred’s office, but directed in a chirography which was not hers.
This circumstance at once aroused, in his mind, the most fearful
apprehensions. He thought of a hundred calamities, in a few moments,
that might have overtaken her--probably she had suddenly died--she
might be sick--she had married someone--the enemy had made a raid and
carried off the whole family, and this thought made him clench his
hand and grind his teeth. Why did he not open the epistle at once, and
end his suspense? Because he was endeavoring to prepare his mind for
the reception of distressing news, like a man who sees the avalanche
coming, and braces himself against the nearest rock that promises
to offer successful resistance against the coming shock. The first
Lieutenant of his company was in the tent, to whom Ernest, holding up
the letter, said:

“I fear this will put an end to all my fondly cherished hopes.”

“Is it from _her_?” inquired the Lieutenant.

“No, not from her,” said Ernest, “but it bears the post-mark of her
office.”

“Well, why don’t you open it?”

“Because it appears to me like a Pandora’s box, and I dread the evils
it contains.”

“Hope was left behind, you know.”

“Yes; but I fear that hope, in this instance, will be the first to wing
her flight away from me,” said Ernest.

“Never climb the hill till you get to it,” said the Lieutenant. “Why
allow yourself to suffer the pangs of imaginary evils?”

“It is foolish, Lieutenant.”

Ernest slowly opened the envelope, took out the folded sheet, and
glanced at the subscriber’s signature. It was from Dr. Arrington. The
Lieutenant noticed that a deathly pallor spread over his face, and his
hands trembled violently, but he said nothing till Ernest had finished
the letter. He was transformed into the very embodiment of despair.

“What is the matter?” kindly and anxiously asked the Lieutenant, his
personal friend.

“I cannot tell,” Ernest almost groaned out. “There, read for yourself.”

The Lieutenant carefully read Dr. Arrington’s account of the arrest and
imprisonment of his daughter.

“It is terrible news,” said the Lieutenant, “and there is no use
disguising it. Yet as long as there is life, there is hope.”

“Oh! Great Heavens!” exclaimed Ernest, springing to his feet, “the
villains may have already executed her! You know how hurriedly they
do these things. If they have--,” shaking his head and grinding his
teeth--“If they have, I will be avenged. Yes, they shall pay for her
blood. I shall have only one object to live for--to avenge her death.
In the next battle, Lieutenant, I desire you to command the company. I
want a gun--I must have a gun. I cannot stand still while there will be
such opportunities for spilling their blood. Yes, sir, I will make them
pay dearly for such shameful, diabolical murder.”

“Now, come, my friend,” said the Lieutenant, “you will try to ascend
the mountain before you reach it. Sufficient unto the day is the evil
thereof. You have no proof whatever that the execution has taken place,
and your surmises may be without the shadow of foundation. Besides,
you are a Christian--a follower of the meek and lowly Lamb, who when
He was reviled, reviled not again. Does it become you to be talking of
revenge? ‘Vengeance is mine,’ saith the Lord. You must not murmur at
the dispensations of divine providence.”

“What!” interrupted Ernest, “do you call this a dispensation of
providence? Do you believe that God would deliberately bring about such
a dreadful event as that?”

“Why not that as well as any other event? Don’t you believe that God
has something to do with this war?”

“Yes, I suppose He has, in a sort of general way.”

“General way?” exclaimed the Lieutenant. “Why, generalities are made up
of particulars. How can there be a general providence, as some people
call it, without special acts? Well, this misfortune of yours, as you
regard it, is one of the events of the war. It is not a mere accident.”

“Do you pretend to say,” asked Ernest in an agitated manner, “that God
selected my loved one especially for the purpose of being sacrificed?
Do you say that?”

“Why not her as well as anybody else, granting your premises? But you
are a little too fast, my friend. You have no reliable information that
she has been sacrificed. You’re assuming too much.”

“She will be treated as a spy,” said Ernest, “and you know what that
means. I can never forgive Gen. A. for inveigling her into such an
affair. Why did he not get me, or some other man to go?”

“You do not know what Gen. A.’s reasons were,” said the Lieutenant.
“Captain, you need to be taught a lesson of humility, if you will
pardon me for saying it. God says, ‘love your enemies,’ and here you
are, wishing to murder yours, and are manifesting an unforgiving spirit
even toward your friends. I believe you are a Christian, but I fear you
will have to be chastened by sorrow and suffering. You would better ask
God to give you meekness of spirit and resignation to His will, before
you are made to bow by calamities. Your rebellion will be punished. The
Scripture says, ‘Whom the Lord loveth, He chasteneth.’ Submit, before a
‘worse thing happen unto thee.’”

“It is difficult for me to believe just as you do,” answered Ernest in
a gentler tone. “You belong to the Presbyterian Church that holds to
the doctrine that God ordains whatsoever comes to pass. I confess that
I am disposed to believe the theory, but somehow I cannot bring it into
the practical affairs of life.”

“You remember what Nebuchadnezzar was punished for?” asked the
Lieutenant. “It was for denying the Divine Sovereignty. God punishes
men for the same offence now. He tells us He is a jealous God; He
demands that we shall recognize His hand in all our affairs.”

“I wish I could fully and firmly believe as you do,” said Ernest
thoughtfully. “I can see that the doctrines of the Presbyterian Church
are better adapted to the necessities of man’s nature than those of any
other Church. I notice too, that Presbyterians seem to bear up under
misfortunes better than other people. And this I must attribute to the
comfort they find in their doctrines.”

“There is much truth in what you say,” replied the Lieutenant. “I was
not reared a Presbyterian, but after I was grown, I was particularly
struck with their quiet way of doing things--a way destitute of
boisterous zeal and ostentatious fussiness. Then when I investigated
their doctrines, I found them Scriptural. I confess I do not see how
any man can fail to believe these doctrines, with the Bible in his
hands. Do you not think that the doctrine of the Divine Sovereignty is
taught in the Bible?”

“It does seem to be,” said Ernest; “but this doctrine of election does
not, at times, appear to be consistent with justice.”

“Where is the inconsistency?”

“Why, that Jesus died for some men, and left the rest of mankind to
perish in their sins, and then to hold these men responsible for what
they could not help.”

“Who advocates such a view as that?” asked the Lieutenant, who was a
pious and intelligent member of the Presbyterian Church.

“Why, do not you Presbyterians believe that?”

“No, sir; we believe that Christ tasted death for every man, as the
Scriptures declare. He made an atonement sufficient to save every son
and daughter of Adam. No man is lost on account of any limitation or
defect in the atonement, nor on account of an eternal decree. All
could be saved, if they only had the will. It is nothing but the
perverse will in men that prevents their salvation. But I should like
to ask what you believe in regard to the atonement? You may as well be
thinking about this as brooding over your troubles.”

“Yes; let us have a discussion--anything to keep my mind off this
misfortune till I am prepared to think calmly about it. In reply,
then, to your inquiry, I say I scarcely know what to think. It would
seem reasonable to me, though, that Christ died for all precisely
alike--for one just as much as another. All were on the same level. By
His death He removed the obstacles placed in the way by original sin
or Adam’s transgression. He thus made salvation possible to all men.
Christ provided the means, and left it to man’s choice whether he would
use the means or not. That would seem just and right.”

“So it might at the first glance,” answered the Lieutenant, “and it is
the way men would like to have it. Nothing could be more agreeable to
the carnal heart. But let us calmly examine your position. You think
then that Jesus died for no individual in particular, but for the whole
race of men in general?”

“That seems to be reasonable,” replied Ernest, “and no one could
complain.”

“Yes, reasonable according to man’s notions,” rejoined the Lieutenant,
“and according to the principles of mere human philosophy. But the
main objection to it, is that it is in diametrical opposition to the
Scriptures. For they emphatically declare that Christ gave Himself for
the Church. All through the New Testament we find such expressions as
‘died for His people.’ Jesus, Himself repeatedly spoke of ‘His people’
for whom He would give His life.”

“But does not the Bible say ‘He was made a propitiation not only for
our sins, but for the sins of the whole world?’ What does that mean?”

“Well, suppose Christ had not died at all, how many would have been
saved?”

“None at all,” said Ernest.

“Then the answer is that Jesus died _sufficiently_ for all the world,
but effectually for His own people. He made such an atonement that
every one could be saved who wanted to be. And this is the meaning of
every passage of Scripture which is similar to the one cited by you.”

“But,” asked Ernest, “what was the use of dying _sufficiently_ for all,
when it was known that all would not be saved?”

“Christ had to die for the elect,” replied the Lieutenant, “and in so
doing He died sufficiently to save the entire world. If the atonement
is sufficient to save all, that throws the responsibility of the
damnation of those who are lost upon themselves. But how much broader
do you want the atonement, if it takes in all who want to be saved? Why
should you want Christ to make an effectual atonement for those who do
not want to be saved?”

“I confess that is a puzzling question,” answered Ernest.

“Besides,” continued the Lieutenant, “your position is contrary to
sound philosophy.”

“How is that?”

“You say it is left to men to choose their own destinies. Now suppose
that not one of the human race had accepted Christ, would not the
atonement have been a failure? Would not Jesus have died in vain?”

“It does seem so,” said Ernest.

“Do you suppose,” continued the Lieutenant, “that the Lord was trying
experiments?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean this,” answered the Lieutenant. “if God was experimenting, He
virtually said: ‘Son, go into the world, and make an atonement for
the sins of all mankind; perhaps, some may avail themselves of the
provisions of this scheme which we have adopted, but we do not know
that a single individual will be saved.’ Do you not suppose that God
had some definite purpose to accomplish in the atonement? If not, He
was less wise than men are. Even we, weak human beings, never go to
work without some plan and some object.”

“Of course,” said Ernest, “I admit that God had a definite purpose in
view.”

“Do you not believe that God’s purpose will be achieved?” asked the
Lieutenant.

“Certainly, it will.”

“Then,” said the Lieutenant, “if the Lord intended to save all men, why
are they not saved?”

“Because they will not be.”

“You are then driven to the conclusion,” replied the Lieutenant, “that
men are more powerful than God. He wants to save them, and intends to
save them, but they will not allow Him. They defeat God’s intentions.”

“No; I do not mean that exactly,” said Ernest.

“Well, what do you mean?”

“Why,” answered Ernest, “I mean that God made equal provisions for all,
and determined to treat all alike.”

“Then all the plan you admit was, that Christ made a sort of general
atonement, but determined nothing in regard to the salvation of any
particular individual? It was not certain that any would be saved?”

“O, of course, He knew that some would be saved, and some lost.”

“Yes,” replied the Lieutenant, “He knew that some would be saved, and
some lost--just put it on that ground; now, Christ died _effectually_
for those who He knew would be saved, and yet sufficiently to save
those who He knew would be lost; and this is the election which my
Church advocates, that is, leaving out fore-knowledge as the ground
upon which the scheme of redemption is based; for God’s choice of the
elect does not depend upon anything in the creature. But I am showing
that your own position leads to a kind of predestination. Do you not
see that your position also runs into the broadest universalism?”

“How does it?” asked Ernest.

“Why, your idea is, that God, to be impartial, must treat all
alike--give all the same opportunities, and bring the same influences
to bear upon all. Now let us see how that will work. Mr. A. is
convinced by the Holy Spirit, and is converted, as we may say: he is
saved; Mr. B. his neighbor, must be treated in the same way, or God
would be partial.”

“God gives both the same opportunities,” said Ernest, “but one resists
and the other yields.”

“Then,” said the Lieutenant, “you have mankind divided into two
classes--one resists, and is certain to be lost, and the other yields,
and is certain to be saved. What is that but predestination?”

“I mean,” said Ernest, “that God gives each class sufficient grace to
save them, if they would use it.”

“It is well,” replied the Lieutenant, “that you brought in that ‘if.’
Certainly, ‘if’ they would use it. The grace is sufficient, do you not
see, to save one class, but not the other? So here is predestination
again. The line is drawn between the two classes, and one class can
never be saved, because the grace given is not sufficient to induce
them to make an effort to secure salvation.”

“Well,” said Ernest, “do you not make God unjust in not giving them
sufficient grace?”

“If He did give every man sufficient grace to save him,” said the
Lieutenant, “then every man would be saved. What is that but the
broadest universalism?”

Ernest made no reply.

“But you are not a universalist,” continued the Lieutenant. “If
not, you must believe the doctrine of election; there is no other
alternative. The difference between us is this: I affirm that God
elects His people upon a principle with which He has not acquainted
us; you say that the election depends upon men themselves; and
you divide men into two classes, and the individuals of one class
are so constituted that it is certain they will resist all sacred
influences, and consequently will inevitably be lost. This is as rigid
predestination as ever John Calvin advocated.”

“You have a way of making me say things I do not mean, Lieutenant.”

“No,” answered the Lieutenant, “I merely followed out the proposition
you laid down to its legitimate consequences. I do not see how you can
escape these consequences, and I would be glad if you would show me how
to avoid them. For, I confess that there is something about it which
sorely puzzles me, and troubles me.”

“I thought you professed to fully understand it,” said Ernest.

“On the contrary, I do not understand it. I merely take the Bible at
what it says. But I never pretended to reconcile election with human
free agency. We can go to a certain point, and there we must stop.”

“What is it that perplexes you so?”

“Well,” answered the Lieutenant, “some people assert that God desires
and wills every human being to be saved. Now, if He does, why does
He not save them? Why does He not accomplish His own will? He,
undoubtedly, has the power.”

“We might answer,” replied Ernest, “that God will not destroy their
free agency.”

“Is it so important and necessary to preserve free agency that men
must suffer eternal torment for it?” asked the Lieutenant. “Would it
not be better to destroy their free agency than to permit men to use
it to their own destruction? We cannot deny that God could save every
man if He really desired and willed to do so. He could speak to them
with an audible voice or show them a great light, as He did Paul, and
in this way bring the entire human race into the fold of the Lord
Jesus Christ. But it is as clear as anything can be, that God never
intended to save all men. If He did, what was there to defeat the
divine intention? If you say that men will not let Him save them, then
men have more power than God. In fact, any position you may take that
is not in harmony with the Westminster Confession of Faith will end
in confusion and darkness. Why not, then, take the plain Scriptures on
the subject? All through God’s word the two classes, the lost and the
saved, are spoken of. You may account for the damnation of sinners on
any principle you please; you may say that God has nothing to do with
it, if you will; you may say that men are perfectly free agents; that
there is no such doctrine as election in the Scriptures; you may blot
out predestination, but nevertheless the fact stares you in the face
that there are the Saved and the Lost. We must judge of God’s purpose
by what takes place. Men are saved every day. Men are lost every day.
Now, all this is in accordance with the divine will or opposed to it;
one or the other. If it is in accordance with God’s will, this is the
election for which we contend. But if it is opposed to the divine will,
we are forced to the conclusion that God has not sufficient power to
accomplish what He wants.”

“As I told you, Lieutenant,” said Ernest, “I am inclined to the
doctrine of the Presbyterian Church. I can see that there is more
comfort in it than the opposite, and it is certainly more Scriptural.”

“The opposite is too vague and loose,” answered the Lieutenant. “The
believer has too little security. According to the view of some people,
the Christian may be in a state of grace to-day, and to-morrow in a
state of condemnation. If I believed that, I should be miserable, for I
should never know whether I was safe or not. I prefer to believe God’s
own declaration, which is that He will complete the good work He has
begun, and that His people shall never perish.”

“I believe that, myself,” said Ernest. “I have been talking on this
subject more to keep my mind off my misfortune than for anything else,
but it is in vain. How can I help thinking of it? My mind is now like
a volcano in a state of activity. I cannot stand this. I cannot lie
here in camp doing nothing, while she is languishing in prison. Good
heavens! it is enough to drive me mad.”

“Let us pray to God for direction.”

“With all my heart,” answered Ernest. “Please pray for me.”

They both knelt down, and the Lieutenant in a low voice prayed
earnestly for his friend, that God would sustain him and bring him in
triumph out of all his troubles. When they arose, the Lieutenant said:

“Now let us have faith in God, but that does not mean that we are not
to be active ourselves. What course do you intend to pursue?”

“I must go into Washington City,” said Ernest.

“How can you do that?” inquired the Lieutenant.

“I do not know, but I must go. Perhaps Gen. A. can assist me. He ought
to do so, since he is the cause of the calamity. I shall go to him at
once. The train will be here in two hours. I cannot stay here; I will
desert first.”

And Ernest dashed out of the tent and rushed off like a mad man.

[Illustration: Decoration]




CHAPTER XIV.

DARK HOURS.


The rapid pace of Ernest soon brought him to the quarters of his
Brigadier General, a man whose name is inseparably connected with the
battle of Bull Run. After the Brigadier had heard the touching story of
Mildred’s arrest and incarceration, he gave, without hesitation, the
distressed young man a permit to visit Gen. A.

In less than two hours after this, Ernest was thundering along toward
Gen. A.’s headquarters, which he reached about four o’clock in the
evening. After the ceremony necessary to secure access to a General, he
entered the little farm house to which allusion has already been made,
and introduced himself. There is never much social intercourse between
the higher and subordinate officers of an army. There is a great gulf
between them which is rarely crossed. In visiting a high officer, it
is not expected that the subaltern shall make familiar remarks about
the weather or any other ordinary topic. He must come to business _in
medias res_.

“Well, sir, what can I do for you?” asked Gen. A. in that impatient
military tone which indicates that the applicant must talk fast and to
the point.

“Some days ago, sir,” said Ernest, stung by his frigid reception, “you
sent a young lady of this neighborhood into Washington, where she was
arrested and will probably be doomed to death, if she has not already
been.”

“Well?”

“Well!” exclaimed Ernest, vexed at the General’s coolness and seeming
indifference, “she is my affianced.”

“Well, go on.”

“Are you not going to make some effort for her relief,” cried Ernest,
warming into boldness, “or do you propose to let her perish?”

“I should like to know what I can do?” quoth Gen. A.

“I do not know what you can do,” cried Ernest in desperation, “but you
ought to do something, since you are the cause of her misfortune.”

“Am I to be held responsible for all the calamities which the war may
bring upon citizens and soldiers?” broke out the General. “If so, I
shall resign my position at once. The young lady herself will not hold
me to such responsibility. She went with a full knowledge of what she
would have to encounter.”

“Suppose she did, sir, does that make it any the less necessary that
efforts should be made to save her?”

“I would save her, if I could,” said the officer.

“General,” cried Ernest, overcome by his conflicting emotions,
“something must be done for her relief. It seems to me that you are too
indifferent about it.”

The General looked at him in surprise and with an expression of
sternness, but Ernest was now deeply agitated, and he met the official
_coup d’oeil_ without the slightest indication of servility.

“I cannot stay here in camp,” continued Ernest, “when the being who is
dearer to me than life is in such imminent danger. You cannot expect me
to be a good soldier under such circumstances.”

“Well, what do you want?” asked Gen. A.

“I must do something,” replied Ernest. “Can you aid me in getting into
Washington?”

“If you were there, what could you do?”

“I do not know what, General, but I am willing to risk my life in the
attempt to save her.”

“I cannot see,” said the General, whose feelings were beginning to
soften at the sight of the young man’s distress, “what you could do if
you were in the city.”

“General, I must go.”

“If you do go, you are liable to be arrested as a spy yourself.”

“I will have to take that risk. General. How did you enable her to go
into the city?”

“O, that is managed easily enough.”

“Then, General, in heaven’s name, let me go,” exclaimed Ernest, “let me
go. If I do not save her, I will return and devote my life to avenging
her death. I will be the bravest soldier in your army.”

“Very well, sir, you can try it.”

“Thanks, General, ten thousand thanks. I shall never forget your
kindness as long as I live. When can I start?”

“Whenever you please,” said Gen. A.

“Then I will go at once,” said Ernest, “I do not want to lose a
moment.”

Gen. A. immediately gave Ernest the necessary directions. It is no
part of our story to explain how Gen. A. enabled people to go in and
out of Washington. It is sufficient to say that he did it. As we have
already remarked, the real history of the war has never been written,
and never will be. The most thrilling portions of it will remain in
eternal obscurity. Many stirring incidents will linger for a while in
individual memories, and will enliven the fire-sides of families for
a few years, and then perish forever. Not many ever knew how Ernest
made his way into Washington, but the next day he saw the capitol of
the United States. This, however, was the least of his difficulties.
How could he find Mildred? And what could he do after finding her? But
he determined to make every effort in his power, trusting to chance to
furnish opportunities. Fortune soon seemed to favor him. For the next
day after his arrival, he was standing on a certain street, which it
is not necessary to name, gazing about in a vacant way, while thoughts
were revolving in his mind, connected with the object of his visit.
He was opposite the hotel at which he was stopping. Accidentally,
it seemed, casting his eye upward, he beheld a lady at the window
of the corner room of the fourth story. She was looking down on the
crowds below as they went hurrying along the street. Ernest, after
a moment’s examination, recognized her. He waved his hand till, at
last, he attracted her attention. Mildred gazed at him earnestly for
a moment, and waved responsively in token of recognition. Ernest
placed his fingers upon his mouth in a significant manner, which she
understood. He stood for a brief space in profound study, but suddenly
disappearing, crossed the street, and entered the hotel. He ascended
to the fourth story where his own room was located. Mildred was on the
same floor in the corner room. He had noticed the guard at the door,
but till now, knew not who the prisoner was. Approaching the sentinel,
he spoke in a tone sufficiently loud for Mildred to hear:

“Whom are you guarding?”

“It seems to be a leddy,” replied an Irishman, “but how shud I know who
she be?”

“What are your instructions?” asked Ernest.

“Why, to let no one in nor out, to be shure.”

“Is the door locked?” asked Ernest.

“Faith is it, and the kay is gone.”

“Who has it?”

“The Capting, I guess.”

“What is the lady confined for?”

“Narry bit do I know.”

“Will you not let me speak to this lady through the keyhole?” asked
Ernest.

“Och! what would ye be afther doin’? Do ye want me to be a traitor to
my counthry?”

“No, no; I do not want you to be a traitor,” said Ernest in a low tone.
“Are you a married man or not?”

“Faith no, but I expect to be, as soon as this whar is over, which I
hope wont be a ghreat toime; an’ then I’ll be marrhid to one of the
moust beautiful geerls in the whoul city.”

“Then listen to me, my friend. You are engaged to be married, and so
am I. Now suppose your girl were confined in that room, and I should
be standing guard in your place, and you should come up, and ask me to
let you speak one little word to her through the keyhole, and I should
refuse, what would you think of me?”

“Faith, I’d take you to be a mane rascal.”

“Well,” said Ernest eagerly, “the girl you have in that room has
promised to marry me. I have not spoken to her for several months. Now,
will you drive me away without letting me speak to her?”

“Och; that’s it, is it? By the houly St. Pathrick, I cud niver find it
in me heart to deny a feller that small a favor. Biddy would call me
a mane dog, ef I was to do as dhirty a trick as that. It’s spaking to
her, is it? Well spake, but be as quick as you ken.”

“Thank you, thank you, my good friend,” said Ernest, as tremblingly he
applied his mouth to the key-hole.

“Mildred? Mildred!” he called.

“O, Ernest, is it you?” she asked, drawing her chair to the door.

“Yes; are you well?”

“I am, except heart-sickness.”

“I do not know how you have stood it.” replied Ernest. “But what are
your prospects?”

“O! they are dark, Ernest, so dark at times. But how came you here?”

“I came to find out about you.”

“Are you not in danger?” she asked.

“I do not know. I never thought of any personal danger. O, Mildred, you
cannot imagine what I have endured. But the worst has not come.”

“Try to be brave,” she said. “There is a God who rules in the affairs
of men. I have not lost faith in Him. I am in His hands, and I know
He can raise up friends to aid me in the darkest hours of misfortune.
I spend the most of my time in prayer, and were it not for my belief,
I fear I should lose my mind. I try so hard to be reconciled to God’s
will, but sometimes, when I think of my parents and sisters, it is hard
to keep down the spirit of rebellion.”

“If anything worse than imprisonment happens to you,” said Ernest, “I
shall be tempted to doubt the goodness and justice of God.”

“Do not talk that way,” she said, as if horrified. “I would rather die
a thousand times than have one harsh thought of my God. Our times are
in His hands, and He has determined when and how we shall die, and He
will do right. I am distressed not so much on account of myself as of
my family.”

“You have no thought for me?” asked Ernest.

“Yes, I include you with the family.”

“O, Mildred!” he exclaimed in tones of anguish, “I love you better
than my own life. God knows if I could take your place, and restore you
to freedom, I would willingly and cheerfully do it.”

“I believe you, Ernest, but I could not ask you to make such a
sacrifice, even if it were possible. But the good Lord knows what is
best. I have no fears.”

“Do you have any hope of escape?”

“I cannot say that I have any particular hope. I have no plans at all.
I leave the matter in God’s hands. He has appointed the time, place and
manner of my death, and I cannot die till God’s time arrives. You know
in what faith my father has trained me. I will trust my God though He
slay me.”

“O, Mildred, I do wish I had such a firm faith as yours. It seems to
sustain you under the most fearful circumstances.”

“So it does. Sometimes,” she continued with tears of joy in her eyes,
“I feel happy at the thought of so soon going to the blessed mansions
which Jesus is preparing for them that love Him.”

“And, sometimes, Mildred, I hate myself for my spiritual infirmities.
While you can look upon death as a blessing, I cannot but see in it a
calamity--I cannot regard it as anything else--that you should be taken
from me and your family in the prime of life, especially--. I cannot
finish the sentence.”

“You were going to say,” replied Mildred with perfect calmness,
“especially if I should die such a violent death as makes you shudder
to contemplate.”

“Yes, yes,” said Ernest in an agitated manner, “it maddens me to think
about it. I can never forgive Gen. A. for bringing you into this awful
situation.”

“But you must do it, Ernest. God requires it at your hands.”

“O, Mildred, I cannot see the hand of a merciful providence in this
misfortune,” suddenly cried Ernest. “It appears cruel.”

“You are very rebellious,” rejoined Mildred gently, “and I am sorry to
see it. You will have to learn to guard your tongue and thoughts, or
God will mercifully subdue your proud spirit by a worse misfortune.”

“What can be worse than this?” cried Ernest bitterly. “I would be
better reconciled if I were in your place.”

“Then, perhaps, God is now causing you to pass under the chastening rod
by allowing the misfortune, as you call it, to befall me. The loss
of my life, at this time, may be necessary to the accomplishment of
some good purpose. Suppose I should die, the separation from my loved
ones will not be long. Thank God! We will all soon meet under brighter
skies, where no cannon roars, no tear is shed, no sickness comes, no
death invades, but where there is universal peace, joy and love.”

“O, Mildred,” exclaimed Ernest, “you are so much better than I am. You
are as pure as the angels, and I am not worthy of you. I I wish I could
believe this Presbyterian doctrine as you do. I can see that it is this
which enables you to bear up under the darkest trials, and in the face
of death.”

“I am not so good and pure as you seem to believe,” answered Mildred,
“but I am glad to say I fully endorse the doctrines of the Presbyterian
Church. Yet there are moments when the spirit of rebellion rises up in
me. Frequently I find myself shedding tears.”

“I do not see how you can help it,” said Ernest in surprise. “Surely
there is no rebellion in that.”

“I fear there is,” replied Mildred. “It seems like anticipating God’s
purposes. What is the use of grieving over a misfortune that may never
come? God may send deliverance in some very unexpected way. Nothing is
too hard for Him.”

“O, Mildred, I feel as helpless as a child. I have worked my way into
this city, and now, having found you, I can do nothing. You have had no
trial, I infer.”

“No, not yet.”

“You may have to languish here for months before they reach your case.
I know something about the military courts.”

“Probably you will put your own life in jeopardy by remaining here,”
said Mildred. “You can be of no advantage to me and you would better
return.”

“I would not be worthy of you, if I could not cheerfully risk my life
for you. Have you heard nothing from Gen. A.?”

“Not a word.”

“I feel as if I never can forgive him.”

“You are very wrong,” answered Mildred mildly. “Gen. A. could never
have persuaded me to undertake such a business if I had not wanted
to serve my country. My life is of no more value than the lives of
thousands of soldiers who fall upon every field.”

At this juncture the Irishman who had moved off several paces from the
door approached and said:

“Haven’t you talked long enough?”

“Do you ever become tired of talking to your girl?” asked Ernest.

“No, i’ faith,” replied the guard. “Biddy is a rose, she is, an’
she don’t give me much chance to talk--she has such a lively tongue
herself. But I’m afeerd for ye to stay here iny longer.”

“I will not impose upon you,” replied Ernest, “nor take advantage of
your kindness. I am so much obliged to you.”

“I hope ye’v hed a pleasint chat with the leddy,” said the Irishman.

“Yes, but let me bid her adieu.”

“Certainly ye may, an’ I’ll move mesilf off so’s I may’nt hear your
swate words. I know how ’tis with Biddy, mesilf.”

“Mildred,” said Ernest, “the sentinel will not permit us to converse
longer. I must leave you and I know not when I can see you again. The
next guard may not be as kind as this one.”

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“Not far. My room is on this floor. I shall watch for any chance for
saving you that may arise. God bless you. Good-by.”

“Good-by. Pray for me.”

“I need to ask your prayers,” replied Ernest. The young man turned
sorrowfully away, went to his room, fell upon his knees, and cried to
God in anguish of spirit. He prayed that he might have the sublime
faith of Mildred. He felt humbled under a sense of his helplessness.

It seems to be natural to us to cry to the Supreme Being in the hours
of distress. The most immoral men will pray to God when misfortunes
come upon them. They have no faith in it, but the inner soul becomes
frightened; it almost proclaims its independence of its physical
environments, and expresses its wants through the reluctant organs of
the body. Therefore, wicked men pray in times of danger.

[Illustration: Decoration]




CHAPTER XV.

A REMARKABLE EVENT.


It was night. The stars looked down from their blue dome upon the
lamp-lit streets of Washington. Busy feet went hurrying along this way
and that. Small groups could be seen standing at different places,
discussing some question of an exciting character. If we draw near to
any of these groups, we will hear such expressions as “great victory,”
“hard fight,” “four hundred rebels killed.” But we are not now
specially concerned with this “glorious news,” which had come on the
telegraph wires.

Let us pause before that large hotel, standing on a certain street,
which shall be nameless. Then let us enter, and ascend to the corner
room of the fourth story. The door is locked, and on the outside stands
a sentinel with musket in hand. Inside there is a lady on her knees.
She has been informed that her trial will take place on the ensuing
day. Three days have passed since her interview with Ernest. Gen.
A. had told her what would be the consequence of detection with that
handkerchief in her possession. The result of the trial may, therefore,
be easily anticipated. The fate of a spy is “death by hanging.”

Mildred well knew what she had to expect, but strange to say, the
dark prospect excited no alarm. Probably she could not make a reality
of the impending danger. This is what the world would say. We are
creatures of hope, and we do not yield to despair till the last chance
is gone. But the Christian is sustained in the most awful calamities
by something higher than any human hope of deliverance. In the darkest
hours of trial, a mysterious influence pervades the Christian’s breast,
produces a holy calm, a sacred joy, and elevates the soul in triumph
above earthly sufferings and sorrows. Unbelievers may pronounce it a
delusion, but, nevertheless, it is a delusion which brings happiness;
and if this be so, the delusion is just as useful and comforting as
though death should put an end to the entire man--both body and soul.

After arising from her knees, Mildred seated herself at the window,
and gazed down upon the scenes below. At that moment she felt not a
particle of fear or mistrust. She was perfectly resigned to the will of
the Heavenly Father, let it be expressed in what aspect it might. She
gave herself up to this ecstatic sense of security, feeling as if she
were nestling, like a timid bird in the Omnipotent Hand. Were “coming
events casting their shadows before?”

While in this strange state of feeling, she was startled by a gentle
rap on her door. This was so unusual that she waited for a repetition
of the signal. There was a louder tap.

“What is wanted?” she asked.

She heard the click of a key, and the door stood open. Her lamp threw
its rays upon the form of a young man dressed in the Federal uniform.
He took off his cap, bowed, and looked straight at Mildred. She glanced
at his face, and with a little cry of joy sprang toward him.

“O, Will, can it be you?” she exclaimed.

“It is I, cousin Mildred.”

Without another word, she threw her arms around his neck, and pent-up
tears flowed without restraint. The officer brushed the drops from his
own eyes, and said:

“Come, cousin, you’ll make me ashamed of myself. It is weakness in a
soldier to cry. Sit down and let me look at you. I have not seen you
for five years. Upon my word, you’ve got to be right good-looking.”

“Why have you not called to see me before?”

“Now don’t begin to scold before I’ve had time to say ‘howdy’;” said
the officer gaily. “I didn’t know you were here. My company has been
guarding you too, but I did not see you, nor hear your name called.
To-day I happened to be in the room where they are holding court, and I
heard one of the officers say that the case of Mildred Arrington would
come first to-morrow morning. I ascertained the charges against you,
and I’ve come to see whether it was my cousin Mildred; and sure enough
it is. But I never expected to find you in such a place--at least, in
such a predicament. It seems you are a spy.”

“That I deny, cousin Will, if I know what it is to be a spy.”

“Well, it amounts to the same thing. Your accomplice was tried to-day.”

“Who.”

“You know--one Capt. Beall.”

“And what?” asked Mildred.

“Why, he will hang next Friday--that’s all.”

We may here remark that it is a matter of history that Capt. Beall was
executed as a spy, and met his dismal fate with an undaunted courage
that excited the admiration, and pity of his enemies--I say pity,
because we all dislike to see a brave, noble man put to an ignominious
death.

“I am very sorry,” said Mildred.

“No doubt, you are; but what is to become of yourself, my pretty
cousin?”

“Why, has not God sent you to release me?” asked Mildred with the
simple faith of a child.

“O, you old blue-stocking Presbyterian!” cried Capt. Benner, breaking
into a laugh. “That is so like you. You get into an ugly scrape, and
ask God to help you out of it, and a kind-hearted young fellow calls to
see you, and you forthwith jump to the conclusion that the Lord sent
him to save you. What a faith you do have. But don’t be too fast,”
continued the officer, with a merry twinkle, “you are a rebel, and I
am a union man. I don’t know whether I ought to have called at all
or not. But how do you expect me to save you? Do you want me to be a
traitor? Do you want me to release a dangerous spy? Say, now?”

“No, cousin. If it endangers you, let me be. I am ready to be
sacrificed on the altar of my country,” said Mildred.

“O, ho! you want to be a martyr, do you?”

“No; I have no ambition in that way,” replied Mildred. “I would prefer
to go home to my family; but I do not want you to take any risks to
save me.”

“Do you suppose I could release a prisoner without taking risks? To be
sure, my fair cousin, I will have to take risks.”

“Then, leave me alone,” said Mildred.

“Leave you to be hanged, you mean?”

“Yes, if that is the penalty.”

“And after that deplorable event,” said the officer, “could I ever look
my mother in the face? Could I see Uncle Arrington again, and good Aunt
Jennie? After the war, when I go down South again, and call at uncle’s,
and I should hold out my hand, he would start back and say, ‘No, I
cannot touch that hand; it is stained with poor Mildred’s blood.’ And
aunt would say, ‘Leave me, Will, I cannot bear to look at you.’ How do
you suppose I would feel, eh? I guess I should go off like Judas did,
and hang myself--I think I would.”

“Well, let us be serious, Will. I am in no humor for sport now. Do not
keep me in suspense. What have you come for?”

“Didn’t you say, just now, that God sent me? I wish I could think it.
It would be a great relief to my conscience.”

“How is that?”

“Why, don’t you see, I’ve got to play false to my government and my
country, if I give you freedom?”

“Is that painful to your conscience?”

“If I say yes, then you will become stubborn, and refuse to accept the
boon of freedom. So, that you may have no scruples, I will tell you
that I have a convenient conscience--one that will stretch. I never was
raised, like you, a regular, old blue-stocking Presbyterian. Sometimes,
though, I wish I had been. For there is no doubt in my mind that the
Presbyterian is the most solid and substantial Church on earth.[2] My
mother, you know, is a Presbyterian, and my father belongs to the ----
Church. I notice that she is the firmer character, and I can say with
truth, more consistent, religiously. I take after my father; and that,
I guess, is a good thing for you.”

“Why is it?” asked Mildred.

“Why, don’t you see, if I were a rigid Presbyterian, I should hesitate
about giving you liberty? I should be afraid of doing violence to my
conscience. Waiving that, however, I think I have been a faithful
servant of my government, and they might allow me to release one
wretched prisoner.”

“Why could you not get a pardon for me, and thus save your conscience?”
asked Mildred.

“How green you women are! Don’t you know there is no pardon for a spy?
Don’t you remember Maj. Andre, of the Revolutionary war? Washington
would not even let the poor fellow select his own mode of quitting
‘these low grounds of sorrow.’ The punishment for this great sin of
espionage is death, and death by hanging.”

“Can you free me,” asked Mildred, “without compromising your own
safety?”

“I will have to take some risks, of course, but you needn’t give
yourself any uneasiness on my account, my fair cousin. Can you make
your way home, if you were out of this building? Can you go alone?”

“Certainly, but it will not be necessary.”

“What! you’ve got another accomplice?”

“I shall not conceal anything from you, Will, since you are so kind,”
replied Mildred, while a deep blush spread over her features. “I am
engaged to be married to a young man who is here. His room is on this
floor.”

“Indeed! what a pretty, romantic scrape you have got into! It would
do to go into a novel. But you have made such an honest confession,
though, that I can’t have the pleasure of teasing you. Is he a Rebel
too?”

“Yes, he is.”

“Wouldn’t it be patriotic, if I were to have him arrested, and tried as
a spy? Two romantic lovers hanged on a sour apple tree!”

“You might call it patriotic,” said Mildred, “but what would I call it?”

“O, treacherous, mean, diabolical, and the like. But we’ve got to act
now,” taking out his watch. “What do you want me to do? Can you and the
young man who is so interesting, manage the matter if you can get out
of the city?”

“Certainly.”

“When can you see him?”

“I suppose he is in his room,” replied Mildred.

“What number?”

“No. 18.”

“I’ll go see him at once.”

Accordingly, the officer went to the designated number, and tapped
on the door. A footstep was heard inside, and the door was opened
by Ernest. Seeing a Federal officer standing before him, he was
disagreeably surprised. The first thought that entered his mind was
that he had been watched, and this man had come to arrest him. The
prospect was enough to make him turn pale. Benner observed his alarm,
and said with a smile:

“Is your name Edgefield?”

“Who told you that I bore such a name?” asked Ernest, in ill-concealed
surprise.

“It does not matter who told me, is the information correct?”

“I do not like to answer questions in regard to myself till I
understand your object.”

“My object is, to establish your identity.”

“For what purpose?” asked Ernest.

“If you know what is for your own good,” replied Benner, “you will
answer candidly.”

“Supposing that to be my name, what then?”

“If that’s your name, come with me.”

“Where,” asked Ernest.

“To that lady in the corner room.”

Ernest looked more astonished than ever, on hearing this, but thought
it best to obey in silence. Both entered the room, and Mildred said:

“Allow me to introduce, Capt. Edgefield, my cousin, Capt. Benner.”

Ernest, at first, appeared puzzled and bewildered, but he soon took in
the situation, and his feelings vibrated to the opposite extreme. He
was elevated from the depths of darkness to the pinnacle of light. Of
course, he thought the young man had come to bring deliverance to his
kinswoman. At that moment, too, a sense of his ingratitude toward God
flashed into his mind. In a subdued tone he inquired how Capt. Benner
had discovered his cousin. He was told in a very few words what the
reader knows concerning the affair. Ernest relapsed into silence, and
bitterly reproached himself for his lack of confidence in the kind
Heavenly Father. Here God was bringing the blind by a way they knew
not, and was preparing deliverance, while he had been indulging in
harsh reflections toward the Giver of all good. It was a lesson which
he never forgot. From that moment he became a firm believer in the
doctrines of grace as held by the Presbyterian Church.

We hope we are not taking undue advantage of any interest that may
be excited by the present story to give undeserved prominence to
the Presbyterian Church. The effect which her doctrines have upon
individual and national character is admitted by thoughtful historians.
Buckle, in his History of Civilization, does justice to them. According
to him, they are better adapted to democratic institutions than any
other published creeds. It will be found that those who have believed
in these doctrines, which some people call “horrible,” have ever been
the most stubborn, uncompromising advocates of human rights. They
have been foremost in all the great conflicts for freedom. These
same doctrines underlaid the Reformation of the 16th century, as is
evident to the most cursory reader. We are, by no means, attempting to
disparage other Churches, but our present undertaking will not allow us
to point out their excellences. We will now proceed with the story. We
need not detail the conversation which took place among the trio, nor
attempt to describe the happiness of the two who were in the greatest
danger. Ernest was so overwhelmed by this evident demonstration of
divine providence that he did not have much to say. He was thinking.
Mildred acted as though she were not greatly surprised. She had sent up
many earnest prayers to the Throne of Grace and she was not astounded
that her petitions were answered.

“Well,” said Benner, presently, when it was time to bring the interview
to an end, “you must leave about 12 o’clock, when most honest people
are asleep. I will see that the way is clear in the hotel. You must
both be dressed as union soldiers, at least till you get to the
forests. I will have the clothing here in time.”

Capt. Benner then left, but returned at 30 minutes past 11 o’clock.
Mildred and Ernest were soon transformed into Federal soldiers, at
least, in appearance. Each was armed with a musket, and no one, without
an unusually close inspection, would have supposed they were other than
they appeared to be. And now all was ready.

As the clock struck 12, two Federal soldiers issued from ---- hotel,
and walked leisurely along the streets. In a short time they left the
lamps glimmering in the distance, and plunged into the darkness of the
forest. Two miles from the city they mounted their horses which had
been left in the care of a friend.

Early the next day, they suddenly ran upon a union soldier, who was
a vidette. This route had not been occupied by Federal soldiers
before, as it was scarcely anything more than a path. The young people
were very much surprised, but Ernest in an instant recovered his
self-possession, and decided upon his plan of action. He was still
dressed in the Federal uniform, and had his musket, besides his own
pistol. They came upon the soldier in a sudden turn of the path, and
were within a few paces of him before they discovered him. The vidette,
taking Ernest to be what this garb indicated, without raising his gun,
called out:

“Halt! who goes there?”

He had barely uttered the words before Ernest leveled his gun, and
exclaimed:

“Surrender!”

“Who are you?” cried the astounded soldier.

“Drop your gun,” exclaimed Ernest sternly, “or I shall kill you.”

The amazed vidette, perceiving that resistance would be in vain, let
his gun drop to the earth.

“Now,” said Ernest, “I have no disposition to harm you. All we want is
to pass you. Are you willing to let us go?”

“How can I hinder you,” asked the soldier “when I am disarmed?”

“But you must promise not to pursue us.”

“Where are you going?” asked the soldier.

“That is my business,” replied Ernest.

“Certainly. I promise then.”

“Promise,” said Ernest, “that you will remain on your horse for fifteen
minutes, and not touch that gun, and will give no alarm after we are
gone.”

“I promise,” answered the soldier.

“To make assurance doubly sure,” continued Ernest, “I will take your
cartridges.”

“O, don’t do that,” begged the vidette. “I will promise just as you
want me to.”

“Why are you so opposed to giving up your cartridges?”

“Because I am accountable for them. I don’t intend to say anything
about this affair, because the boys would laugh at me, and I might be
punished too. Just go, and get out of the way as quick as you can, and
I give you my word of honor that you shall not hear another word from
me. But how am I to account for the loss of my cartridges?”

“You seem to be honest,” said Ernest, “and I believe I will try you.”

The two immediately rode on, and the soldier kept his word, so far as
Ernest knew.

That morning, while Mildred and Ernest were making their escape, the
first passers-by saw a long rope, reaching from the corner room of the
fourth story of ---- hotel, down to the pavement below. They knew not
what it meant. About 9 o’clock though, when the Court-Martial sent for
the female prisoner, it was discovered that the “bird had flown.” The
sentinel, who had been stationed at the door about twelve o’clock,
could give no account of the escape. The door was locked, and he heard
nothing. It was presently noised abroad that the lady spy had escaped,
and soon hundreds of people gathered in the streets, looked up at the
dangling rope, and wondered how a lady could have climbed down such a
fearful distance. The general opinion was that she was a brave, daring
woman, who was confined to this one mode of escape. “Of course,” they
said, “she had friends in the city, who assisted her in the perilous
undertaking.” At any rate, she was gone. The chief clerk at the hotel,
who had been instrumental in her arrest, was not of the rabid class
who regretted her timely flight. “I don’t care,” he said with a smile.
“I don’t believe she was a spy anyhow. Even if she was, and they had
hanged her, I believe I should have felt guilty of murder.”

Nothing more was ever found out about it, and Capt. Benner bore the
character of a true and loyal soldier till the horrid war came to an
end. Some years afterwards he met Mildred, and laughingly explained his
scheme, remarking that, “people might have had sense enough to know
that she could not have escaped in that way.”

“Possibly I might, though,” she said. “There is no telling what one can
do, when life depends upon it.” And she laughed as she thought of how
she would have appeared, dangling by her hands on a rope between heaven
and earth.

FOOTNOTE:

[2] An intelligent member of the Methodist denomination once spoke
these very words to the author of this story.




CHAPTER XVI.

A CONFEDERATE MARRIAGE.


We now return to our two fugitives. They met with no other adventure,
and arrived that evening at Dr. Arrington’s residence. The old
gentleman would have gone into Washington himself when Mildred was
arrested, but Ernest persuaded him to remain at home with his family,
promising to promptly inform him if his presence should become
necessary.

It is impossible to portray the scene which occurred when the two rode
up and alighted. Mrs. Arrington, who had been almost brokenhearted,
could not control her feelings in the transition from despair to joy.
This arrival was like the coming back of the dead. The good lady must
cry aloud. The Doctor was more calm, but the tears gently coursed down
his cheek in gratitude to God for the restoration of his child. It was
an hour or more before the family equilibrium approximated its normal
condition sufficiently to admit of tranquil conversation. After a
while the Doctor said:

“We must now have a special service--a service of gratitude, for I feel
that my many earnest prayers have been answered.”

The family assembled in the parlor, and the Doctor selected some
portions of Scripture suitable to the occasion, and all humbly and
reverently bowed upon their knees. Such an out-pouring of thanksgiving
never before was witnessed around that altar. This was a family of
faith. They regarded God as the source of every blessing. The Doctor
had no more doubt that God had restored his child, in answer to prayer,
than he had of his own existence. Ernest, however, who loved to hear
the old man defend his position, suggested that the same thing might
have happened if there had been no prayers in the case.

“I am surprised at you,” answered the Doctor. “I do not know that I
ever saw the hand of God more clearly revealed in my affairs.”

“But still,” said Ernest, “does it not all appear natural? Your nephew
was in the city, and hearing of his cousin’s imprisonment, what is more
natural than that he should restore her to liberty?”

“I remember,” said Mrs. Arrington, “how we were all distressed when we
heard that Will had joined the Northern army. Little did we think that
Mildred’s life depended upon it. How short sighted we are!”

“And suppose,” said the Doctor, “that Will had not been in the
court-room when the officer made the remark about her trial. You told
us of this a while ago. This might have appeared accidental, but still
it happened exactly at the right time. Suppose Will had not gone into
that room at the moment he did, the trial would have ended the next
day, and Mildred in all probability, would have never been sent back
to the hotel, but to a dismal felon’s cell to await her execution, and
then Will would not have been able to release her.”

“You say, Doctor,” answered Ernest, “that these things happened at
the right time. Suppose this deliverance had occurred earlier, what
difference would it have made?”

“We do not understand all God’s ways and purposes,” replied the Doctor;
“but granting that this deliverance had occurred two or three days
earlier, you would not have been present to give your assistance. Then
suppose Mildred had tried to make her way alone, she might have been
re-captured by that vidette you told us about. I do not see how you can
fail to recognize divine providence in all this.”

“I do recognize it fully,” replied Ernest. “You must not think, Doctor,
that I am disposed to doubt a supernatural providence. One reason why I
asked the question which I did was to get your views. I wanted to hear
you point out the particulars as you have done. I am glad to say that
this severe trial has proved beneficial to me. I do not think I will
ever again be as skeptical as I have been. I have had a lesson.”

“Let it be a lesson to us all,” answered the Doctor, “ever to have
implicit faith in God.”

The next day Ernest requested a private interview with the Doctor. They
met in the study, and Ernest said:

“I must return soon to the army, and, to make a long story short,
I have come to ask you to perform the marriage ceremony for me and
Mildred to-day.”

“To-day!” exclaimed the Doctor in surprise.

“Yes, sir; why not?”

“I do not suppose she is ready,” said the Doctor.

“It will not take long to get ready,” remarked Ernest. “People do not
expect grand weddings such times as these.”

“No; but what put this sudden notion into your head?” asked the Doctor
a little bluntly.

“We have come to the conclusion that there is no use waiting any
longer.”

“Well, if it is Mildred’s wish,” replied the Doctor thoughtfully, “I
shall interpose no objection.”

Accordingly, that very evening a few friends assembled at the Doctor’s
residence, and at 8 o’clock Ernest and Mildred were pronounced “husband
and wife.”

During those times young people entered into the marriage relation
without much ceremony, and upon short notice. In many parts of the
country it was impossible to procure suitable “wedding garments,” and
the soldiers frequently married in their ordinary uniforms.

Ernest remained with his bride three or four days, and then started
“off to the wars” again. It was a great and severe trial to the two
young people to separate. They might never meet again in this world.
Many a young man left his young wife, and in a few days afterwards he
was slumbering in the soldier’s bloody grave.

“Mildred,” said Ernest in a husky tone, “pray for me. I have faith in
your prayers.”

“Do not doubt my praying for you,” she said, while tears glistened in
her eyes. “You will never be out of my mind a moment.”

“It does look hard,” said Ernest, “that we should be separated by the
yawning gulf of war just as we are upon the threshold of life. I never
knew the depth of my affection for you till now.”

“You will not suffer, after all, as I shall,” replied Mildred. “You
will have the exciting scenes of war to occupy your thoughts, and I
shall have nothing to think about but you. O, the long weary days that
must pass away! I shall think of you as constantly exposed to dangers.”

And so they separated, both saying in their hearts, as they went their
respective ways:

“O, shall we ever meet again?”




CHAPTER XVII.

PEACE.


The frightful clouds of war have rolled away. The smoke of battle has
dissolved into the darkness of the Past. The blood-spots have been
washed out by the rains and dews of heaven. Blessed Peace spreads
out her snow-white pinions, dripping balm for wounded hearts, from
the granite hills of New England to the smiling prairies of the Lone
Star State. The little hillocks of earth that rise up all over the
South mark the gory fields where the enraged warriors met in the
death-struggle. We can again re-visit the awful spots where once the
earth groaned under the tread of men and horses rushing head-long
to the fray, and we can call up the phantom forms, and make them
re-enact the bloody tragedies of battle in solemn silence. The gloomy
cedar-brakes of Murfreesboro, the plateau of Bull Run, the dark stream
of Chickamauga, the rugged Mount that looks down upon Chattanooga, the
black hills of Vicksburg, pock-marked by the shells of a fifty-days’
siege--are all there yet, dumb witnesses to the ferocity of human
passions. To-day, at all these, and many other places, we can take the
torch of history, and relight the terrible scenes enacted in the now
silent past. We see long lines of soldiers start up in battle array,
grasping the deadly musket, and solemnly preparing to die, in that
ominous lull which always precedes the mighty shock of battle. There is
a strange silence. The very forests seem to be holding their breath in
expectation of a storm more awful than the cyclone of nature. What is
it? The awful _pause of Death_.

Presently a single gun breaks the oppressive silence. The work of
destruction begins. Heavy volumes of smoke rise up all over the
forests. Men on horse-back are seen flying in every direction. One
remarkable man, clad in a red flannel shirt, symbolical of the fierce
spirit within, is seen galloping from one scene of carnage to another,
under the inspiration of a courage that never failed. At last, he reels
and falls, and the fiery form of A. P. Hill disappears from the scenes
of history forever.

It is remarkable that Lee and Jackson in their last moments on
earth, when they were unconscious of all temporal things, and their
imaginations were roving lawlessly over the gory fields where they had
been such prominent actors, both called for A. P. Hill. It is a high
compliment to the hero’s military genius. But Jackson himself went down
in the thundering cyclone of war, and was seen no more. Alas! such men
as these had to be swept from the path of destiny before the divine
purpose could be accomplished. We mourn for our fallen braves, and yet
we thank God that such scenes as gave them undying fame have ceased,
we hope, forever, in these States now cemented with intermingling
fraternal blood!

One bright morning in April, 1865, the members of Dr. Arrington’s
family were all seated around the breakfast table. Every face wore
a sad, anxious expression. The news of Lee’s surrender, which some
doubted, had been received, but not the particulars of his last battle.
Who had fallen? Mildred looked at the smoking dishes, but could not
eat. Where was Ernest? She had seen him but three or four times since
their marriage, and he had been in all of Lee’s battles. O, could it be
possible that he had been killed in the last fight? The thought made
her shudder.

“Why do you not eat?” asked the Doctor kindly.

“How can I, father?” Mildred answered sadly. “I am heart-sick. This
suspense is awful.”

“Have faith in God,” said the Doctor. “The last time we heard from
Ernest he was well. What reason have you to suppose he is otherwise
now?”

“There has been a battle or two since then, and some are killed in
every fight.”

“Do not anticipate, my child. Never make trouble for yourself. What is
the use of grieving over imaginary calamities?”

“I know, father, that you are right; but it is so hard to be perfectly
resigned to God’s will.”

“You have not ascertained what God’s will is in this instance; but even
should it be that which you dread, I do not deny that it will be hard
to bear. It is natural for us to think that God should let us have our
way in some things at least. But we should never forget that God knows
what is best for us, and He always does the best for us, if we put
ourselves unreservedly in His hands.”

“I know that is true,” replied Mildred. “But, sometimes I am
rebellious. If Ernest does not come back,” she continued in quivering
tones, “it seems to me I can never again be happy in this world.”

“Then be happy!” exclaimed a voice at the door. Mildred instantly
looked up, gave a little scream of joy, sprang from her seat, and
was locked in Ernest’s arms. What a transition! We shall not attempt
to describe it. There are some emotions of the human heart that are
beyond the reach of words. They are too sacred and deep to be expressed
by human language. Every trace of sadness immediately vanished from
Mildred’s face, which was lit up with a holy joy and peace that made
her look radiant. Presently when there was comparative quiet, the
Doctor said:

“Well, has Lee really surrendered?”

“I am sorry to say he has,” replied Ernest. “Here is my discharge from
the service.”

“And you have not been wounded,” asked Mildred, “since you were home
last?”

“I have not received a graze,” he replied.

“Well,” she said with tears springing into her eyes, “let me go to
my room, and return thanks to God, and ask His forgiveness for my
thoughts. I cannot eat till I do.”

As she went out Mrs. Arrington said:

“You have a treasure, Ernest, in that girl, if I do say it myself.”

“I am well aware of that, Madam, and I am indebted to the war for it. I
have learned that God brings good out of evil. I never would have heard
of Mildred, had it not been for the battle of Manassas. I am sorry,
though, our cause is lost.”

“But it is God’s will,” quickly spoke up the Doctor, “and we should be
thankful that it is no worse.”

“I am sure it is bad enough,” replied Ernest. “We have lost our
independence.”

“It may appear to you to be a great calamity,” said the Doctor, “but I
have no doubt it is a blessing in disguise. Two different governments
could not exist in this glorious land of ours. I have never believed
that we would succeed. I was fearful that we were in the wrong. But
it is in vain to discuss such questions now. All is over, and we must
submit. ‘Promotion cometh neither from the East nor the West, but God
setteth up one, and pulleth down another.’”

Mildred now returned to the dining-room, and all partook of the meal
with hearts glowing with gratitude. Do not the angels hover over, and
smile upon, such a social scene?

The next day the family assembled in the parlor to hold a consultation,
at the request of Ernest.

“Well,” said the Doctor, smiling upon the group, “‘the cruel war is
over,’ and we must now all return to the blessed arts of peace. I
suppose you will resume the practice of law,” he continued, turning to
Ernest.

“No, I think not, Doctor,” answered Ernest. “I called this family
meeting in order to lay my plans before you. After my marriage, when
I returned to my command again, I solemnly promised God that if He
would spare my life, I would devote my energies to His service in the
ministry. I am here alive, without having received another wound. Now
do you not think I ought to regard my vows?”

“O, my dear Ernest,” cried Mildred eagerly, “I have prayed God to put
it in your heart to become a minister, and now, it seems, my prayer is
answered.”

“I did not know,” said Ernest, “but that you might have an ambition for
something higher.”

“Higher!” exclaimed Mildred in surprise. “What can be higher?”

“I did not mean ‘higher’ in the sense that you understand,” replied
Ernest, “but the world, you know, regards some other professions as
higher.”

“But the ministry is not a profession,” answered Mildred. “I cannot
imagine what greater honor a human being can enjoy than to be called to
do God’s work.”

“I have now no greater ambition myself than to be an humble minister of
the gospel,” replied Ernest.

“It is well,” said the Doctor, “that you employ the word humble. I am
sorry to say that there are ambitious men in the Church who desire to
acquire great reputation as preachers, and who seek after high places
in the Church. I hope you have no such disposition as that?”

“No, Doctor, if I know my own heart. I desire to be useful.”

“Let us be plain,” continued the Doctor, “that you may not, in the
future, regret the step you have taken. Be sure that you are influenced
by the proper motives. I hope you have not entered into a sort of
contract with the Lord--that is, you do not propose to become a
minister because God has brought you safe out of the war?”

“No, sir; I firmly believe I was called years ago, but I resisted.
I think I would have been a preacher if there had been no war. But
probably the war has caused me to enter it sooner than I might have
done otherwise.”

“You feel, then, that it is your duty to preach?” asked the Doctor.

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“Then, there is no more to be said about it,” answered the Doctor. “The
sooner you begin the better. I believe I have not asked you under what
ecclesiastical auspices you propose to preach?”

“The Presbyterian, of course,” said Ernest with a smile. “I suppose my
dear Mildred would hardly consent to anything else.”

“O, I am not so prejudiced as all that,” answered Mildred laughing. “If
you felt it your duty to attach yourself to any other orthodox Church,
I should not oppose you. But to tell you the truth, I love my Church to
such an extent that I could never be happy in any other, and I never
could feel the same zeal in another.”

“Mildred is a true blue,” said the Doctor with a laugh, “and I am glad
to think you will find her a useful helpmeet in your work.”

“I expect she will make a better pastor than I,” said Ernest, “for I am
not as social as she is. I fear that this thing of visiting will be the
most troublesome duty I shall have to perform.”

“People will require a great deal of you in that respect,” said the
Doctor. “You will find that most of them wish you to visit them not
on account of their spiritual interests: but it is the social feature
they regard. I have noticed that most Presbyterian ministers are more
reserved in their manners than those of some other denominations. This
is, no doubt, to be attributed to the long course of mental discipline
to which they are subjected. They acquire the habit of solitary study
till the social feature of their nature is considerably impaired. On
this account I have known some ministers to be accused of stiffness,
pride and formality, who were humble, godly men. They really did not
understand the demands of social etiquette. You will have to cultivate
this feature.”

“What is the use of social visiting, Doctor?”

“Whether there is use in it or not, people require it,” replied the
Doctor. “You will find some of them very unreasonable. They will
complain if you do not call every week.”

“How then, shall I ever find time to study?” asked Ernest.

“You must take it. You can not please everybody, try never so hard.”

And for a long time the Doctor gave the young man excellent advice,
which we need not detail, as it would be of no great interest to the
general reader. Besides, we are well aware, that people do not read a
story for the sake of the moral, but for their own entertainment. So
we shall proceed, at once, to relate the most interesting events of
Ernest’s life.

The next month, the Presbytery of ---- met, and received Ernest under
its care. Instead of going to a Seminary, it was allowed him to take
a course of Theological study under the tuition of Dr. Arrington. At
the expiration of a year he stood his examination, and having received
a call from the Presbyterian church in his own town, he was regularly
ordained a minister of the gospel. His trial sermon aroused universal
wonder and admiration. The people had rarely ever witnessed such
oratorical power in the pulpit. Every one predicted for him a brilliant
career of usefulness. No young minister ever entered upon his work with
more flattering prospects.

Ernest was praised and complimented sufficiently to have turned an
older head, but he now possessed too much of the grace of humility
to be affected by human applause. The great object with him was the
approval of the Master and his own conscience. With the settlement of
Ernest in his charge it might seem that our story had reached a point
at which it could properly and happily be brought to an end, but we
have other interesting events yet to relate.

[Illustration: Decoration]




CHAPTER XVIII.

THE DRUNKARD.


Ernest entered upon his work in two or three weeks after his
ordination. This was the first time he had seen his native town since
he left it in 1861. Things had undergone a great change during the four
years of war. The prosperity of the place was a thing of the past.
Many wealthy families had been reduced to abject beggary. Old Mr.
Vanclure had died in 1862, and his son-in-law had administered upon
his estate. If Comston had been a man of moral habits, he could have
saved a handsome property for his wife, but he was dissipated, and was
passionately addicted to gambling. He had pursued a course during the
war which had brought him into disgrace, having avoided conscription
by hiding in the cane-brakes. When the war came to an end, he found
himself in possession of only three thousand dollars. By judicious
management of even this amount, he might have gained an honorable
livelihood; but he soon lost it all at the gambling table. Finally, he
became a sot.

Poor Clara had to resort to her needle for bread, and she gained only
a precarious, scanty subsistence for herself and her unworthy husband,
who sometimes spent her hard earnings for drink.

Affairs were in this condition when Ernest returned to his native
town to take charge of the church. As soon as he had heard of Clara’s
misfortunes, he called to see her. He met with a cold reception, for
she had become hardened. But by kindness, he soon induced her to talk
freely. Presently she said:

“I know you think I made a great blunder.”

“How?” asked Ernest timidly, suspecting what she was going to say.

“In my marriage,” she answered with decided emphasis. “You know that I
rejected you. Are you not glad to see me humbled?”

“God forbid!” exclaimed Ernest energetically. “I sympathize with you.
The good Lord knows I am sorry for you.”

“They tell me you are a preacher now?”

“It is true, I am glad to say.”

“O,” she exclaimed suddenly, “I wish Xerxes were a preacher--yes,
anything than what he is. I reckon you’ve heard all about him.”

“I have heard some things,” replied Ernest.

“He has got to be a regular drunkard,” she said, “and I am tired of
him. He treats me cruelly. I think he once loved me, and I could have
lived happily with him, but he got to drinking, and that has proved his
ruin. He is not the same man.”

“I am truly sorry for you,” replied Ernest. “But you are not without
hope.”

“Where is there any hope for me?” she cried. “I never expect to be
happy again.”

“You can be, if you will,” said Ernest solemnly, as he looked pityingly
at the sad woman.

“How can I? I should like to know.”

“There is a happiness,” answered Ernest, “far superior to any this
world affords.”

“Where is it?” she cried.

“In Christ Jesus.”

“Yes, I expected you to say that, or something like it. But how could I
be a Christian, miserable and wretched as I am?”

“The Lord never turns away any who come to Him,” replied Ernest.

“But I’m not ready for that yet,” she said with candor. “I want to
enjoy the world for a while. I think I deserve it. If I had not
married, I might have been happy, but it is impossible now, with such a
husband as mine.”

At this moment, Comston came from town, and staggered into the room.
Clara blushed with shame and vexation, but recovering herself, looked
at him without uttering a word.

“Why, how d’ye do, Edgefield,” he exclaimed in a boisterous tone,
and with the drunkard’s slow stammering and stuttering. “It’s the
first--first time--I’ve met ye--since you--you--er got back from
the--er wars. How you make it--er now, ole feller, eh?”

“O, I am in good health,” said Ernest, dryly.

“Well, I’m--er truly glad to give you--er--er the right hand--er of--er
welcome. Would you--er ’a known this ’er--er little ’oman--er of mine,
at--er first sight, eh? She used ter--er--er be right down--er good
lookin’--but--er the last year--er she’s--er begun--ter break--er
little--yes--er you see, eh? Arn’t it so, Clarer, eh? You see--er the
cruel war--er broke us up, like it did--er everybody else--er.”

“Yes,” said Ernest, more to relieve Clara of embarrassment than to
keep up a conversation with a foolish inebriate, “the war proved
disastrous to most of our people.”

“Indeed--er did it. I lost heavily--er--by it--myself--ruined--dead
broke--er--brought down--er to--er abject pov--er--er--tee--er, as
the--saying is--er. Cruel--thing--it was. I--er didn’t have--er--much
to do--er--with it--you see--er,--eh? I was--er long-headed--I saw how
the--er--thing--was agoin’, an’--er--I tried ter--save my scalp--eh?
I told Clarer--there was’nt--any use--er--of my--goin’. She was a
great--er--patriarch--you know--er-wanted--er ter eat Yankees--up--er.
But--er I don’t--love that--er sort of--er flesh. It is--not--er--half
as good--er--as fish. I went--a--fishin’--most of the time, and--er--we
had a--jolly time--er--we did. It was--better--than shootin’
yer--feller--man in--er cold--blood. The Yankees--had--never done
me--any harm,--an’ I could’nt make--up my mind ter--murder ’em--’thout
provocation--you see, eh? But I hear--you’ve got to be--a preacher, eh?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Ernest in a manner which convinced Clara that the
passing scene was painful to his feelings. She could easily perceive
that he was enduring her maudlin husband for her sake.

“Well--er,” continued Comston, “it’s a--nice--er profession--,
not--much--er money in it--though--eh? Like the ole Injun said--poor
preach--poor pay--er. I don’t--er mean that for you--though--er.
You--used ter be--er--a good law--yer, and--if--er you preach--as well
as you--talk--I don’t see--why--er you shouldn’t succeed--er. I’m
a-comin’ ’round to--er hear you preach--er--some Sunday--if you don’t
object--eh?”

“I should be glad to have you as one of my audience,” replied Ernest.

“We’ll make two--er--of iz audience, won’t we, Clarer, eh?”

She made no reply, but endeavored to appear as though she had not heard
him.

“Now, come, Clarer--don’t try to put on--airs--before the preacher--er.
I ain’t jealous--a--bit--er. No, for I know--you prefer me--ter all
the--er men on earth, don’t you--er, dear, eh? What--won’t you--speak
to me? Never mind, Parson, when you go--er she’ll be pleasant enough.
Some--times she gets--into one of her--er--contantnums before--er
company--and there’s no doin’ anything with her--have ter let ’er
alone till she--sobers up--er.”

“I must be going,” suddenly said Ernest, rising. “I have some other
calls to make.”

“Thank you for your visit,” said Clara. “Call again if you can.”

“Yes--er--come again, Parson,--if I arn’t at home--Clarer will--er
entertain you.”

Clara left the parlor, as Ernest did, and Comston fell asleep upon
a sofa. When he awoke, he had partly emerged from his state of
intoxication. Arising, and going into Clara’s room, he said:

“Had a nice time with the preacher, dear? I think, though, you might
have treated me with a little more respect. You wouldn’t speak to me.
What is the matter?”

“You have made a fool of yourself,” cried Clara, in anger and vexation.
“I have told you I wanted you to keep away from me when you are drunk.
You make a brute of yourself.”

“Why, I thought I was entertaining the minister very nicely. You
wouldn’t talk to him, and it wouldn’t do for all of us to sit still
like Quakers, would it?”

“You made a complete fool of yourself,” she said with face flashing
with anger. “I am getting so I hate you--yes, I hate you.”

“Now don’t provoke me, dear. You know I can’t control my savage temper
when I’m aroused. Don’t you remember how you provoked me the other day
till I was about to strike you?”

“Yes, sir, I remember your brutality, and I tell you now I am not going
to stand it much longer, either.”

“What will you do?” asked Comston.

“I am not going to live with a man who is such a coward as to strike
a defenceless woman. Here you are bragging about it, as if you had
performed some wonderful deed. If you ever attempt to strike me again,
I will leave you--yes, I will apply for a divorce.”

“O, no, you wouldn’t do that, dear? Who would provide for you?”

“Who provides for me now? I should like to know. If I did not support
myself, I should starve. You know that.”

“O, no, you wouldn’t starve, dear. You’ve never starved yet, have you?
Do you ’spose Xerxes Comston would let you starve? Nobody can say that
of my wife. But, come, Clara, let’s be friends. I haven’t drunk much
to-day, and I’m going to quit the business entirely--you hear that?”

“Yes; I have heard it five hundred times. I have lost all confidence in
you. I expect nothing but to see you go down to a drunkard’s grave.”

“You want me to die? O, ho! ho! that’s it, is it? Well I am not
going to fill any drunkard’s grave. From now on, I’m going to be a
better man. We’ll go to hear that preacher preach; it will do us both
good--make Christians out of us, I hope. Won’t you go?”

“I do not think,” said Clara with a sneer, “that you will ever be sober
enough to go.”

“Yes, I will, though. You see if I don’t.”

We have lengthened this domestic scene sufficiently to enable the
reader to understand the relations between this unhappy husband and
wife; and to prepare his mind for a better comprehension of events that
are soon to be related.

The next evening Ernest met Comston on the street. Comston was sober,
from the fact that he had no money to buy the fiery beverage for which
he was now thirsting.

“Mr. Edgefield,” said Comston, who had a dim consciousness that he had
used improper language on the previous evening, “I want to offer you
an apology for my conduct yesterday. I hope you are not offended.”

“No apology is necessary,” replied Ernest. “I am sorry that you have
formed such awful, ruinous habits.”

“You are not as sorry as I am,” said Comston, speaking with emphasis.

“Why do you not leave off your terrible habits, then?” said Ernest.

“I’ve tried again and again,” said Comston, bursting into tears, “but
it seems,” he continued, half sobbing, “that I cannot. O, you have no
idea what a consuming thirst torments me. I must have brandy, or I will
die.”

“No, you would not die,” answered Ernest, “if you had the will to
resist. But that, I doubt not, is gone. And now you can never quit so
long as you rely on yourself.”

“On whom must I rely?” asked Comston.

“Christ,” said Ernest solemnly. “Nothing, I fear, will ever enable you
to quit your evil ways, but the grace of God.”

“How am I to get the grace of God?”

“Only by faithful prayer.”

“Do you think I could quit in that way?”

“Yes,” answered Ernest.

“Well, I’d give worlds to be as I once was. I am ashamed of myself. But
if I am left to myself, I never can reform. Will you help me?”

“Will you put yourself in my hands?” asked Ernest. “Will you do as I
tell you? If you will, you can reform.”

“But I know what you’ll tell me,” cried Comston. “You’ll say, never
touch another drop. I can’t quit suddenly. You make no allowance for my
appetite.”

“Yes, I do,” replied Ernest. “I will give you a substitute for strong
drink.”

“All right,” said Comston. “I will do it.”

“Very well,” said Ernest. “Now you must promise me to keep away from
the saloons.”

“I’ll do it.”

“To prove your sincerity, turn around like a man, and go home.”

“When will you give me that substitute?” asked Comston, hesitating.

“Go home,” said Ernest, “and remain till I come with it.”

Comston, without another word, at once went home sober, to the surprise
of his wife. He remained till his burning appetite destroyed his
self-control. He could stand it no longer. Snatching up his hat he
rushed off toward town. Drink he must have. As he was turning a corner,
he stood face to face with Ernest.

“Do not go there, Comston,” he said. “Is this the way you obey me? You
promised to put yourself in my hands.”

“But you said,” exclaimed Comston, “that you would give me a
substitute, and you didn’t do it. I stayed as long as I could. Why
didn’t you come, and help me, as you promised?”

“I desired to measure your will-power,” replied Ernest. “I wanted to
test your manhood. I told you I would come. Why could you not believe
me?”

“I was afraid you would put it off too long,” replied Comston. “I am
dying.”

“Let us go back,” said Ernest.

“But where is the substitute?”

“I have it. Come on,” commanded Ernest.

“Let us hurry,” said Comston.

It was now dark, and they both hurried along to Comston’s residence.
As soon as they had entered the drunkard’s bed-room, Ernest drew from
his pocket a vial, and poured out some of the mixture into a glass of
water, which Comston eagerly drank. Ernest gave him two more glasses,
and then the inebriate seemed satisfied. In an hour Ernest left him in
a profound sleep, which he knew would last till morning.

[Illustration: Decoration]




CHAPTER XIX.

THE CRIME.


When a man acquires the habit of indulging in strong drink, it
requires a will of iron to break it. Few men have the physical and
moral fortitude to offer the necessary resistance. The intense,
consuming thirst paralyzes the mental energies. The wretched victim
will risk life itself to gratify his raging appetite. Poor Comston
had not descended to such a depth of moral degradation that he had no
disposition to free himself from the shackles of his terrible foe. In
his sober moments he most earnestly wished that he could free himself
from the vicious demon which clung to him with the tenacity of Sinbad’s
Old Man of the Sea. But the saloon was like a load-stone--a cynosure
which drew Comston with an attraction that he had not the moral nerve
to resist. When the appetite was upon him, it seemed impossible to pass
the open door. The fragrance of the wines, issuing from the interior
of the dram-shop, acted upon his senses with all the force of the law
of gravitation, and he went in almost in the same way that a stone
falls to the earth when it is thrown up into the air.

Comston woke up early the next morning from the stupor into which
Ernest’s substitute had thrown him. He felt that he was burning up.
His terrible appetite made him forget, or ignore his promises to the
preacher. What cared he for reformation, when he believed himself
dying--dying for the want of brandy. In spite of the entreaties of his
wife, he put on his hat, to go to town.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“O, just to town a little while--that’s all.”

“But you promised Mr. Edgefield that you would not go. Come back.”

“I’ll be back in a few moments.”

And off he rushed, determined to have a dram if he should have to sell
his very clothing. While he is walking along rapidly, let us secretly
and silently enter the saloon to which he is hastening. We see two men
in the room, and they are engaged in a bitter quarrel. Presently the
man, who is partially under the influence of ardent spirits, springs
toward the saloon-keeper, exclaiming:

“I’m not going to stand this any longer. You’ve got all my money, and I
must have another drink, and I’ll have it, or I’ll kill you.”

A brief scuffle ensues, which, however, lasts only half a minute. The
man falls, crying:

“You’ve killed me. I wish to God there was a witness--but it’s too
late. I’m a dead man, curse you.”

Then he fell heavily to the floor.

“You brought it on yourself,” said the saloon-keeper. “You forced me to
kill you.”

At this moment Comston hastily entered the saloon, and without looking
around, cried:

“For God’s sake give me a drink! I haven’t a cent. Take my
clothes--anything--I’ll die if I can’t get a dram.”

An idea seemed to strike the saloon-keeper, whose agitation Comston had
not observed, for he said:

“Well, here, drink.”

“Thank you, thank you,” exclaimed Comston, clutching the glass, and
draining it to the very dregs.

In a few moments the saloon-keeper said:

“Comston, I’ll give you another drink if you’ll drag that drunken
feller out there under the trees. He fell down, and cut himself on the
corner of that bench, and is bleeding considerably.”

“I’ll do it,” exclaimed Comston, upon whom the brandy was beginning
to have some effect. He stooped down to lift up the fallen man, but
glancing at the ghastly face, he exclaimed:

“Why, Good Gracious! he’s dead, arn’t he?”

“O, no--dead drunk--that’s all.”

“Well, may be he is,” said Comston, who was more anxious about the
anticipated dram than the fate of a fellow-being. “I’ll take him out
anyhow.”

Seizing the dead man in his arms, he dragged him out of the door, and
while so doing, his own clothing was plentifully besmeared with blood.
As he reached the trees, two men passed by, one of whom said:

“Hello, Comston! what are you doin’? Been fightin’, have you?”

“Not much,” replied Comston, who wanted it thought that he was a man of
pugnacious tendencies. “He gave me some of his impudence, and I slapped
him over.”

This brief specimen of Comston’s braggadocio appeared to delight the
saloon keeper.

Comston left his human burden under a tree, and hurried back into the
saloon.

“Give me the drink you promised!” he said.

“Yes, here it is, and it is a good one,” said the cunning
saloon-keeper. “Take it, for you’ve earned it,” he continued, laughing.
“He was heavy, warn’t he?”

“Yes, he was.”

Comston took the glass brimful of strong brandy, tossed it off as
though it had been cool water, went out, and seated himself under one
of the shade trees only a few paces from the dead man.

It was no unusual thing to see men lying under the trees in front of
the saloon. Accordingly several hours passed away before the corpse
attracted any special attention. Comston, in half an hour was so much
intoxicated, that he fell from the bench, and lay upon the ground in a
state of utter unconsciousness. The crowd, accustomed to assemble there
every day, gathered in, and among them the two who had seen Comston
dragging the body out of the house. One of these, who had spoken first,
looking at the corpse closely, exclaimed to the saloon-keeper:

“Look here, Blicker, I do believe Jones is dead! I’ll feel his pulse.”

“I reckon not,” replied Blicker, with perfect _nonchalance_. “Him and
Comston got into a scuffle about three hours ago, and Comston snatched
up my knife which was on the counter, and made a slash at Jones, and I
took the knife away from him. Comston knocked him down, and I thought
Jones was too drunk to get up. I saw that Jones was bleeding, and I
ordered Comston to take him out, as I didn’t want blood on my floor.
Comston, as you saw, dragged him out, but I didn’t ’spose he was hurt
much.”

“As shore as shootin’”, cried the man, “he’s dead! He hasn’t a bit of
pulse.”

“Go for a Doctor,” said Blicker.

“I’ll step over to Dr. Warner’s office,” said the man. “I see him
riding up now.”

It was not more than five minutes before Dr. Warner was on the spot. A
very brief examination proved that Jones was dead. He had been stabbed
to the heart.

“Who did it?” asked the Doctor.

“That feller, I reckon,” pointing to the prostrate form of Comston,
spoke up the man who gave the version of the affair, which, in
connection with that of the saloon-keeper, made it evident that Comston
was the criminal.

It was several hours before Comston was sufficiently sober to
comprehend that he was accused of a most awful crime. When he awoke
from his drunken sleep, the constable was near by, who had a warrant
for his arrest.

“Come,” said he to Comston, “you’re my prisoner. Come on to jail.”

“To jail!” cried Comston. “You’re joking! What have I done to go to
jail for?”

“O, you pretend not to know, do you? Well, probably you was so drunk
that you didn’t know what you was a doin’. Don’t you know that you
killed Jones this morning?”

“No, I don’t,” exclaimed Comston in the utmost alarm, now looking at
his bloody clothes, and recalling the events of the morning. Soon his
mind was clear.

“I dragged Jones out under the tree for a drink of brandy,” said
Comston. “I can prove that by Blicker himself.”

“Didn’t you tell Bill Dodds, while you were dragging him, that you had
a fight with him, and slapped him over?” asked one.

“O, I said that in fun,” exclaimed Comston. “I only thought Jones was
drunk.”

“You’ll find it dear sort of fun,” said one.

“Say, Blicker,” cried Comston, now thoroughly aroused to the fearful
realities of his situation, “didn’t you give me a drink to drag Jones
out of your house this very morning--didn’t you?”

“Why, no, Comston,” answered Blicker coolly, “I don’t keep brandy to
give away. You’ve forgot all about the fight you had with Jones this
morning.”

“It’s a lie! It’s a lie!” frantically cried Comston. “I never even had
any quarrel with Jones. He was a good friend, and I never thought of
fighting with him.”

“Poor feller!” said Blicker, with affected pity, “you was so drunk you
can’t remember that you made a slash at Jones with my knife that was on
the counter.”

“O, Blicker, Blicker!” exclaimed Comston, “how can you stand there and
tell such an infamous lie? You know you gave me two drinks--one free,
and the other to drag Jones out.”

“Whether he did or not,” interposed the constable, “you’re in for it
now. I am compelled to take you to jail. When your trial comes off, you
can have a chance to prove your innocence.”

“I’m not going to jail!” cried Comston wildly. “I’ve done nothing to
go there for. What do you want to put an innocent man in prison for? I
should like to know.”

“Get up, and come along,” cried the constable sternly, “or I’ll
hand-cuff you.”

“O, my God!” exclaimed Comston, now completely sobered. “Turn me loose,
Dick Bonds. You know I didn’t do it.”

“Come along, I say!” cried the constable.

“Please let me speak to Blicker,” entreated the terror-stricken man,
turning to the saloon-keeper. “O, Blicker, you’re a gentleman. Wow
don’t let me go to jail.”

“How can I prevent it?” asked Blicker.

“Why, you know very well that I didn’t so much as strike Jones, if
you’d only say so. Now come, be honest, Blicker.”

“Will you go,” asked the constable, producing a pair of hand-cuffs,
“without these?”

“O, yes, I’ll go,” said Comston in anguish. “Surely Blicker will tell
the truth when he is put on his oath.”

And Comston was locked up in the jail.




CHAPTER XX.

THE PRISON.


Immediately after the arrest and imprisonment of Comston, Ernest
called to see Clara in order to give such comfort as the circumstances
would allow. He did not find her in tears, as he had expected. On
the contrary, her face, though sad, wore a hard, stony expression.
She acted as those unfortunate wives, who have lost their affection
for their husbands, and who are looking forward to be released by
the divorce of nature. The drunkard’s wife can be freed only by the
premature death of her husband. She may not desire such a termination
to her continual troubles, but she lives in constant expectation of
such an end, and when it does come, she is not greatly surprised, for
it is nothing more than she has anticipated. Clara was just in this
condition. She had once loved Xerxes Comston as much as it was in her
nature to love any one. But this affection had been eradicated by his
brutal conduct and disgusting habits.

“I do assure you,” said Ernest, “I sympathize with you in your trials.
Such misfortunes look dark to us, but God is good and kind, and we must
be resigned to His holy will. All is for the best.”

“You think, then,” cried Clara, “it is best that Mr. Comston should
kill Mr. Jones, and be hanged for it, do you?”

“We must not jump to conclusions,” mildly answered Ernest. “No trial
has taken place, and we surely ought not to judge of the divine
purposes before they are developed. Even after they are accomplished,
we may not understand them. I have no doubt, that in every instance,
God brings good out of evil.”

“Do you believe,” asked Clara, “that God has anything to do with this
horrible affair?” And she looked at him almost savagely.

“Certainly,” replied Ernest gently, “I believe that God has something
to do with every event.”

“Do you think,” exclaimed Clara, “that God made my husband a drunkard?”

“No, certainly not,” answered Ernest. “He made himself a an--inebriate.
He is a free-agent, and the Lord permitted him to exercise his powers.
God is not the author of men’s sins. He does not force them to sin. But
if Mr. Comston killed Mr. Jones, which I do not think has been proved
yet, you may rest assured that the Lord will bring good out of it in
some way, and make it redound to His glory.”

“I don’t see how that can be,” said Clara.

“You may never see it in this world,” replied Ernest, “and you may live
to see the day, when you will feel thankful for this very misfortune,
as you now regard it.”

“Look here,” suddenly exclaimed Clara, “if that day ever comes when I
shall feel that I ought to be thankful, I promise to join your church,
and try to be a Christian.”

“Why not try to be a Christian anyhow?” asked Ernest. “You must not try
to make a bargain and contract with God.”

“How is that?” said Clara.

“Why, you say in your heart, if God will give me certain things,
grant certain desires, I will be a Christian. The Lord will accept no
such service as that. You must make a full surrender of yourself to
Christ--unconditional and forever. Determine to serve Him whether your
wishes are granted or not. Trust Him, though He slay you.”

“O,” said Clara, “I cannot be a Christian. I have suffered too much.”

“So much the more reason why you should be a Christian,” answered
Ernest. “You have seen the folly of this world’s pursuits. Now seek
that happiness which the world can neither give nor take away.”

“I don’t know how to begin, even if I had the disposition,” replied
Clara sulkily. “I once was happy. I enjoyed myself, and never thought
of religion. If God is so good and so kind, as you say, why does He not
give me that sort of happiness--the sort that I really crave?”

“How long would it last?” asked Ernest. “Only a few years. The time
will come when you can no longer enjoy these pleasures of sense. You
will lose the ardor of youth. Age will steal upon you, and you will
lose all relish for temporal things. You will then feel the need of
something more substantial. Why not begin now to lay up treasures in
heaven?”

“Shall I feel more happy, if I do?” asked this spiritually ignorant,
thoroughly worldly-minded woman. “Will God care for me, and supply my
wants?”

“Undoubtedly, if you devote yourself to His service from the proper
motives?”

“What is the proper motive?”

“Why,” answered Ernest, “you must serve the Master, not with the object
of receiving earthly good, but with the view of making your calling and
election sure.”

“I don’t know what to do,” replied Clara, thoughtfully and seriously.

“Give yourself, at once, to Christ, pray for the enlightening
influences of the Holy Spirit, and God will bless you.”

“How can I do all this?” suddenly and impatiently cried Clara, “when
I am suffering for the----.” She paused, and appeared to be greatly
embarrassed.

“Nothing, though,” she added.

“Mrs. Comston,” said Ernest compassionately, “God knows I would be a
friend and brother to you. I want your soul saved. Confide in me. Are
you afraid to trust me, and acquaint me with your troubles, whatever
they maybe?”

“No, I’m not afraid to trust you,” she answered, with tears springing
into her eyes, “but I’m proud. I’m ashamed to tell anyone.” She could
say no more for several moments, and Ernest waited till she became
more tranquil.

“You seem to be the only friend I have in the world,” she continued
presently. “I once had plenty of friends, but when misfortunes overtook
me, they deserted me, and I have met with nothing but rebukes and
insults. I have got so I hate people. I didn’t know the world was so
full of mean wretches. People used to envy me, because I had money, but
they seemed to me to rejoice when I was brought down to poverty and
social degradation. If I wished to be good, I don’t see how I could.”

“Tell me your troubles,” urged Ernest kindly, “and, perhaps, I can be
of service.”

“It is humiliating to confess,” she said, turning her blushing face,
“but the truth is, I can get no work to do. I have had nothing to eat
since yesterday. It seems that I must starve, and that, too, when I am
willing to labor. But don’t misconstrue my motives. I’m no beggar. I’m
not appealing to you for relief, and I don’t want you to mention what I
have told you. I tell it to you to show you how difficult it would be
for me to be good, when I hate people for my misfortunes.”

Ernest expressed no surprise at this distressing information, but he
said no more on the subject of religion, well knowing that hunger is
not very compatible with spirituality.

“The world is not so bad as you think it,” he replied. “You do your
neighbors injustice by concealing your condition.”

“Don’t,” cried Clara, starting up, “don’t tell them for the world. I
despise to be regarded as an object of pity.”

“Trust me,” rising to leave. “I shall not betray your confidence.”

In a little while after his departure, a cart drove up to Clara’s door,
and the driver unloaded sufficient provisions to last for several
weeks. Poor Clara was overwhelmed by this expression of kindness, and
she went to her room, and “wept bitterly.” Several lady members of
Ernest’s church called the next evening with offers of employment. They
acted and talked in such a manner that she was satisfied they were not
acquainted with her true condition. In her heart she thanked Ernest for
the delicacy with which he had come to her relief. The ladies spoke
words of sympathy. All this had a tendency to open the woman’s darkened
heart to spiritual influences.

Ernest waited two days before he called at the prison to see Comston.
Not being able to procure strong drink, the prisoner was perfectly
sober. The poor fellow was humbled and subdued by the misfortunes which
darkened his pathway.

“How are you to-day?” asked Ernest kindly.

“I’ve been in torment,” he replied. “I want brandy, and it seems I’ll
die, if I can’t get it. Give me some.”

“Comston,” said Ernest gently, but firmly, “now is your time to break
off your evil habit. If you do not, you are ruined.”

“I’m already ruined,” groaned the wretched victim. “But I never thought
that I would be accused of murder. God in heaven knows that I never
killed poor Jones. I’m as innocent of that as you are. Blicker told
an infamous lie. I believe he did it himself, and is using me as a
scape-goat.”

“But circumstances,” remarked Ernest, “seem to be against you at
present. However, I have not come to talk about that. I want to save
your soul.”

“Why,” cried Comston, in visible alarm, “you can’t believe I’ll be put
to death, do you? It would be an everlasting disgrace to--to--hang an
innocent man.”

“But you will have to die sometime, Comston--sooner or later, and I do
not want your soul lost. I have come to pray with you, and for you.
Will you join me?”

“O, yes, if you think it will do any good.”

Ernest read suitable portions of Scripture, and prayed for the unhappy
man, whose feelings were at last deeply moved.

Comston, the next day, stood his trial in the Magistrate’s court,
and without entering into the details, which would be of no special
interest to the reader, it is sufficient to state that he was bound
over to the Circuit Court, which would convene at the expiration of
five months. As this was no bailable case, Comston had to be confined
in jail.

Frequently our greatest misfortunes are blessings in disguise, as the
Sacred Scriptures abundantly demonstrate. Comston’s incarceration,
was at least a spiritual blessing to him. He could not procure ardent
spirits, and the consequence was, that, in a few weeks, his physical
constitution began to recuperate, and he at last mastered his terrible
appetite. But this was not all. Ernest visited him nearly every day,
prayed with him, instructed him, till finally the poor fellow had
reason to rejoice in a brighter hope than had ever thrilled his heart
before. There could be no doubt about his complete reformation. This,
in connection with Comston’s emphatic assertion of his innocence, had a
tendency to arouse public sympathy in his favor. No one believed that
he was a murderer _at heart_, even if he had taken Jones’ life. The
theory was, that it was done in a drunken quarrel, without there being
any intention to kill.

But all this was not the full extent of the blessing. The husband and
wife were also reconciled. Clara, who, too, had found that “peace
which passeth all understanding,” visited him in the jail--indeed,
spent the most of her time there. Xerxes “was himself again,” and her
buried affection for him revived. So notwithstanding the unfavorable
circumstances which surrounded them, they were comparatively happy.
They were not without hope.

Ernest, in these hours of trial, proved a brother. He attended to
Comston’s outside affairs, and, among other things, secured the
services of a good lawyer.

The five months had nearly passed away, and only a few days remained
before the trial would occur. Now, let us visit the jail for the last
time. Only Clara, Comston and Ernest were present.

“O,” said Comston earnestly, “if I could only get out of this
difficulty, what a different man I’d be! what a different life I’d
lead! I’ve lost the taste for brandy, and now take a solemn oath that
not another drop of the vile stuff shall ever go down my throat. O, Mr.
Edgefield, pray God to get me out of this trouble, and I promise to be
a true Christian as long as I live.”

“Now, Mrs. Comston,” said Ernest pleasantly, “you have heard his vow,
do you think he would keep it?”

“If he wouldn’t,” she said emphatically, “he would be the meanest
ingrate that ever lived on earth.”

“Well,” said Ernest, “I believe he will perform his vows. I shall not
see you any more before the trial. Let us pray together once more for
God’s assistance.”

When they arose from their knees, Clara seemed more cheerful and said:

“Somehow I feel hopeful.”

“So do I,” said Ernest, so emphatically that both looked at him in
surprise.

“But upon what can you base a hope?” asked Clara, gazing searchingly
into his face.

“Have faith in God,” replied Ernest. “He can raise up friends for us.”

“But we want _witnesses_,” said Clara.

“God can raise up _unexpected_ witnesses,” replied Ernest mysteriously.
“But good-by.”

And he left in haste.

[Illustration: Decoration]




CHAPTER XXI.

THE TRIAL.


At last, the Circuit Court met. Three or four days were consumed with
other business, and the case of the State against Xerxes Comston was
called.

“Are you ready for trial?” asked the Judge.

“Ready,” replied the Prosecutor.

“Ready,” promptly answered the Counsel for the defence, to the surprise
of every one. For obvious reasons, it is generally the practice to
postpone murder cases as long as possible.

“Proceed then,” said His Honor.

The impanelling of the Jury was the first step to be taken. This was
quickly done, too, for, to general surprise, Mr. Greenlee, who had
undertaken to defend Comston, offered no objection to any juror, if
he only had a fair measure of common sense. He did not, evidently,
care for the character of the jury, and did not appear to manifest
the least uneasiness or anxiety. He was calm and collected, as
though he had no fears as to the final result. People looked at him
in astonishment, but the lawyer paid no attention to their amazement.
Blicker cast suspicious glances at him. Clara was sitting in the bar
near her husband, seemingly in deep distress. But when she occasionally
looked at Greenlee’s calm face, her hope revived. Ernest was also
present, and did not seem to be anxious. Greenlee, instead of trying
to retard the progress of the case, manifested a willingness to hasten
it forward. His whole manner was surprising to the District Attorney,
who was under the impression that a verdict of condemnation must be the
inevitable result.

At length, the indictment was read, and then followed the examination
of witnesses. The first was Blicker, who stated the circumstances that
were favorable to his own case, with which the reader is acquainted.
The two men were then introduced who had seen Comston dragging the dead
man under the trees. They also stated the language which the criminal
had employed. This united testimony appeared to be conclusive. The
spectators, who were generally in sympathy with the accused, looked
solemn. All had hoped that the trial itself would develop something
that would be favorable to Comston. No one wanted him punished. But how
could he escape in the face of such overwhelming evidence?

A long-drawn sigh was heard at Comston’s side. It came from Clara, who
seemed suddenly to give way to despair. Again, she turned her head, and
looked at Ernest. Could she be mistaken? Was there not a perceptible
smile upon his face? She then glanced at Greenlee. His countenance wore
the same serene, imperturbable expression. There was a short pause in
the proceedings when the Prosecutor said:

“We have no more witnesses. I do not know,” he continued with an air of
triumph, “why Mr. Greenlee foregoes his privilege of cross-examining
the witnesses for the State. He can do so yet, if he wishes. I would
prefer that he should do it.”

“Their testimony,” replied Greenlee, “can go to the jury for what it is
worth.”

“Do you mean to insinuate that it is worth nothing?” asked the District
Attorney.

“Has the counsel for the defense,” interrupted His Honor, “no
witnesses?”

Every one expected to hear a sorrowful “no.” But what was the universal
astonishment and joy, when Greenlee quietly replied:

“We have one.”

Then mouths and eyes were opened with curiosity. The spectators seemed
to hold their breath lest they should lose the name of the unexpected
witness, or as if the only chance for Comston had wings, and might be
frightened away by heavy respiration. Comston and Clara looked up,
leaned forward, and subjected Greenlee’s tranquil face to a quick,
close search.

“Call your witness,” said the Court.

“Let Rev. Mr. Edgefield be sworn,” said Greenlee mildly and quietly.

Ernest rose from his chair, and deliberately stepped to the Clerk’s
desk, where he was sworn, and then placed himself in the witness’ seat.
It was one of those strange, unexpected scenes, which sometimes occur
in gloomy court-rooms, and which change the entire aspect of the case.
Clara now understood that smile on the preacher’s face. Ernest knew
all about it, she thought. And who, but God, had sent him? She was
awe-struck by the thought, and felt as one who had just witnessed, or
rather was about to witness, a miracle. Comston had similar feelings.
Both could have cast themselves upon the floor, and kissed the witness’
feet. What a friend he was! How good, and kind, and merciful was God,
in raising up such a noble witness at the moment when it seemed that
hope was about to wing a returnless flight! How both their hearts
were melted to tenderness toward their Creator! for it was the firm
conviction of both that God had sent His own messenger to see justice
done. Ernest had not spoken a word, but they felt that his testimony,
whatever it was, would be conclusive.

“Tell what you know about this case,” said Mr. Greenlee.

Ernest spoke in a firm, emphatic tone, that carried conviction to every
heart:

“On the morning of the ---- day, of ----, I rose earlier than usual.
The day before I had remained with Comston, and kept him away from the
saloon. He had promised to reform. But, I confess, I had little hope of
any reformation, if he was left alone, and I determined to watch him
another day; and this accounts for my early rising on that particular
morning. I started toward the saloon, and when I had nearly reached
there, I saw Comston coming out of his gate. I then concealed myself
in the rear of the saloon, waiting for Comston to come, intending to
persuade him to return home. When I had hidden myself, I heard two
men quarreling inside, both of whose voices I instantly recognized.
Presently, I heard Jones exclaim:

“‘I won’t stand it any longer.’

“Then I heard a rush over the floor. There was a scuffle for only a few
seconds, and I heard Jones cry out:

“‘You have stabbed me--, you have killed me!’

“He employed some other words which I did not hear distinctly. Then I
heard a body fall heavily to the floor, and all was still. A moment
afterwards, I heard Comston enter the room, and beg for a drink,
stating that he had no money. I heard the rattling of glasses; then
there was silence. In a short time I heard Blicker say:

“‘I will give you another drink, if you will drag that drunken man
under the tree.’

“‘I will do it’, said Comston. He seemed to be lifting the man, and I
heard him exclaim:

“‘Jones is dead, ain’t he?’

“‘No,’ replied Blicker, ‘He is dead drunk; he fell on the bench, and
cut himself, and he is bleeding.’

“I then heard a sound as of one man dragging another over the floor. At
this moment I heard footsteps approaching and I left.”

“That is the God’s truth!” cried Comston in a voice trembling with
emotion.

“Silence!” cried the Sheriff.

Clara could scarcely restrain her deeply agitated feelings. How
she wanted to fall on her knees, and thank Ernest for this strange
interference. The District Attorney was astounded. Blicker, as pale as
death, had started out of the room at a rapid pace.

“Sheriff!” exclaimed the Judge, “arrest Mr. Blicker, if you please.”

“I am not running,” said Blicker, who suddenly seemed to recollect that
flight was an evidence of guilt. “I was only changing my seat. That
preacher has made up that lie.”

“How came you never to have said anything about this before?” said the
District Attorney angrily, turning to Ernest, “Why did you not give
in this testimony in the committing court, and save the expense and
trouble of this trial?”

“I had a very good reason for it,” said Ernest, “I was anxious for
the reformation of Mr. Comston, and I believed that nothing but
imprisonment for several months would ever cure him of his evil habits.
Surely, the salvation of a human soul is worth the few dollars that it
may cost the county.”

“You have pursued a very strange course, it seems to me,” said the
District Attorney. “Suppose you had taken sick and died before the
trial came off, you would have left your friend in a sad predicament.”

“Not at all, sir,” replied Ernest. “I made provision for contingencies
of that sort. You may ask Mr. Greenlee.”

“I will state,” said Mr. Greenlee, “that a few days after this killing,
Mr. Edgefield made his deposition to the facts he has just stated, and
signed it in the presence of two witnesses. However, that is perfectly
irrelevant. We have no use whatever for the deposition.”

“Will your Honor permit such a proceeding as this?” asked the District
Attorney.

“Certainly,” answered the Court, “Mr. Edgefield was never summoned as a
witness in the committing court.”

“But still,” said the District Attorney, “ought he not to have appeared
anyhow?”

“Mr. Edgefield,” said the Court, “has given his reason for not doing
so. The jury can take his testimony for what it is worth.”

The jury, at once, retired, but they returned in about ten minutes, and
moved slowly up to the Judge’s stand.

“Are you agreed, gentlemen?” said the Court.

“We are,” replied the foreman. The Clerk then took a paper from the
hands of the foreman, and read the following in substance:

“We, the jury in the case of the State against Xerxes Comston, find
that the defendant is not guilty.”

Immediately there was a great shout which shook the building.

“Silence! silence!” cried the Sheriff; but he might as well have spoken
to a cyclone. Nothing could be heard but shouts of gladness, thus
showing what a deep interest the public had felt in this trial. Comston
rose from his seat and tottered toward Ernest, around whose neck he
threw his arms, and wept like a child.

Clara exclaimed aloud:

“Praised be God! I shall serve Him the remainder of my days.”

There were few dry eyes in the room. It resembled some of the scenes
of an old-fashioned camp-meeting. The crowd looked at Ernest with a
species of awe. They could not have felt more reverence if Abraham
himself had come back from the dead and testified in the case.

Comston and his wife immediately left the court-room amid the plaudits
of the crowd that the terror of the law could not control.

Within two days, Comston had obtained a position as clerk in a store,
and soon began to prosper.

The next time that Ernest called, both gave him such a joyful and
grateful greeting that he felt compensated for all the trouble and
inconvenience to which he had been subjected. After conversing a while,
Ernest said:

“Surely, you now see the hand of God in your affairs?”

“Yes,” replied Comston, “and I am a different man, and, by God’s grace,
intend to lead a different life.”

“And what has Mrs. Comston to say?” asked Ernest with a smile.

“I am perfectly overwhelmed,” she answered. “I feel as one in a dream,
and you appear to me as our guardian angel. God must have sent you
here.”

“I hope so, my friends,” replied Ernest, “but give all the glory to
God. I am only an humble instrument in His hands. But,” he added after
a short pause, “you will now both join the church, will you not, and
lead Christian lives?”

“I will,” answered Comston emphatically. “I’ve not forgotten my vow.”

“And so will I,” replied Clara.

“What church will you join? I do not believe I have ever asked you.”

“The Presbyterian--your church,” answered Comston. “I like its
comforting doctrines. They are certainly the right thing when one is
in trouble. I’ve heard some people talk very hard about the eternal
decrees, but, as you told me, the doctrine of election is taught in the
Bible, and I find it there.”

“A few months ago,” said Clara, “I had an abhorrence of predestination,
but now I have no doubt that it is a doctrine of God’s Book. If it is
not taught in the 8th and 9th chapters of Romans, I cannot understand
language. So I can be nothing but a Presbyterian.”

Accordingly, the next Sabbath both were received into the church of
their choice. Ernest never had more faithful, zealous members, and
more staunch friends. If Comston heard any one complaining in regard
to Ernest, or any thing he did, it made him impatient, and he defended
his beloved pastor and friend, with unlimited warmth of feeling. God
prospered him in business, and in a few years Comston had a store of
his own. He became a liberal and cheerful supporter of the Church and
all its institutions. Clara contracted habits of economy and diligence,
and was foremost in all church work, such as ladies could perform. We
close the chapter with the remark that Blicker was tried for murder,
and condemned to the penitentiary for the period of his natural life.

[Illustration: Decoration]




CHAPTER XXII.

THE LAST SCENE.


The lives of a great many people are distinguished by a few romantic
events, but no man’s life is one continuous series of startling
incidents. Life flows in a regular channel, and its romantic portions
are mere episodes. The great bulk of mankind are doomed to toil for the
necessaries of existence. Hence, every day is alike. They go through
the same dull routine--the same tread-mill process of eat, drink,
sleep, work.

It could not, therefore, be reasonably expected that the career of a
minister, like Ernest, living in a quiet provincial town, should be
distinguished for thrilling experiences. The clerical life is generally
tranquil and unromantic. The preacher visits the sick, comforts the
distressed, resolves the doubts of the skeptical, preaches the gospel,
Sabbath after Sabbath, and in this way the days glide by till death
transfers him to a higher state of existence. After the remarkable
episode, involving Comston’s startling history, nothing occurred, for
years, in the life of Ernest which would be of interest to the mere
story reader. At present he is performing his ministerial duties,
assisted by Mildred, with unostentatious piety.

One Sabbath there was an unusually large congregation assembled in
Ernest’s church. It had been published that he would, by special
request, preach a doctrinal sermon.

On Monday morning there was considerable excitement throughout the
community. Many of those who had believed the opposite doctrine, were
caused to reflect, and made to examine the ground-work of their creed.
Little groups gathered on the streets and in the stores to discuss the
sermon of the day before.

“Well,” said good old father Grimshaw, “if I believed as Brother
Edgefield does, I would never go to church any more. In fact, I’d never
do anything, but I’d take my fill of sin--yes I would.”

“I am utterly astounded,” answered a Presbyterian elder, “to hear you
talk that way, father Grimshaw. If you were to take your fill of sin,
how could you be a Christian? Can a Christian love sin?”

“Why, what difference would it make whether I am a Christian or not?”
cried the old man. “If I’m to be saved, I’ll be saved anyhow, and if
I’m to be lost, I’ll be lost anyhow, no matter what I may do.”

“Look here, father Grimshaw,” said the elder, “did Brother Edgefield
say anything like that?”

“If he didn’t say it, that’s what his doctrine leads to.”

“I confess,” said the elder mildly, “that I cannot see that it leads
to any such conclusion. But that is the way with some of you people.
You draw your inferences, and take them as the doctrines of the
Presbyterian Church. You know that Brother Edgefield said that all
could be saved who wanted to be. I should like to know how much broader
you desire the plan of salvation. Do you want God to save people,
_nolens volens_?”

“No, sir,” replied father Grimshaw. “But if certain people are
fore-ordained to eternal death, how can any of them be saved?”

“Brother Edgefield made that as plain as anything could be,” replied
the Elder. “But I will answer your question. Of course, if they are
fore-ordained to eternal death, they cannot be saved, but whose fault
is it? God does not prevent their salvation. It is nothing but their
own wicked hearts--their own perverse will. No man ever was lost simply
on account of predestination.”

“But why don’t they have the will?” asked father Grimshaw.

“I do not know, but that is the truth,” replied the elder. “Their lack
of the will is not to be attributed to any eternal decree, and if
that be so, I am sure the sinner can charge the loss of his soul to
nobody but himself. We naturally hold every man responsible for his own
character. If a man is a thief, it is not natural for us to think that
God made him so. Neither do we hold the Lord responsible for any man’s
will. If, then, the sinner lacks the disposition to be saved, surely
he cannot charge God with injustice. Every man has the consciousness
that he could be a Christian, if he only desired to be. Then, I ask
you, in the name of common sense, how does predestination prevent his
salvation?”

“I don’t know how to argue the question,” cried father Grimshaw
testily, “but it does appear horrible to me that God should choose one
man to eternal life and condemn another to eternal death, when both
are alike by nature--both sinners.”

“Let me ask you,” said the elder, “if God was under any obligations to
save any one?”

“No, certainly not.”

“If He were to send all to eternal torment, would it be just?” asked
the Elder.

“Yes,” answered father Grimshaw.

“Well, then, if God, in mercy, choose to save a large portion of the
human race, and leave the rest to perish in their sins, _and on account
of their sins_, how is any injustice done them?”

“Because they have as much right to be chosen as the others,” said
father Grimshaw.

“Right!” said the elder, “What right do they have? I suppose if the
Governor were to pardon two or three convicts, he is bound to pardon
all, is he? Why, my dear, sir, your position runs squarely into
Universalism!”

“How does it?”

“Why, you say that one man has as much right to be saved as another. If
then, God saves one, He must save all. What is that but Universalism?”
asked the Elder.

“He’s got you there, father Grimshaw,” cried one of the by-standers
with a laugh.

“I repeat, father Grimshaw,” continued the elder, “no man is punished
on account of predestination, but on account of his sins. Show me a man
who feels that he must be lost by reason of the eternal decrees, and I
promise to give up the doctrine.”

“I can’t for my life,” said father Grimshaw, “understand why some are
chosen, and others are passed by.”

“No,” replied the elder, “if we understood that, Peter never would have
said that Paul ‘wrote things hard to be understood.’ If we only knew
what God’s reasons are, there would be no difficulty and no mystery in
the doctrine of predestination. But we are told that the secret things
belong unto the Lord, and those which are revealed are for us and our
children.”

“Well, you Presbyterians,” said father Grimshaw, “have a way of getting
around things so that it is hard to keep up with you. I cannot argue
the point, but the doctrine looks strange to me--don’t look right
somehow.”

“No,” replied the elder, “that is what people said in Paul’s day. It
did not look right to some of the disciples of Christ, and they went
back, and ‘walked with Him no more.’ People always have found fault
with this doctrine, and I suppose will do so till the end of the
world.”

“I must say,” spoke up a man by the name of Wallerton, “that Mr.
Edgefield made it plain to my mind. I never knew before what
Presbyterians do believe.”

“What!” exclaimed father Grimshaw, “are you going to turn Presbyterian?”

“Well,” answered Wallerton, “I fully endorse what Mr. Edgefield said
yesterday. If that makes me a Presbyterian, I am one.”

“All may believe that please,” cried father Grimshaw, “but I never
will. You may out-argue me, but you are not going to make me believe
that predestination is right, no sir--never.”

“But what will you do with the Scripture?” asked Wallerton. “It says,
‘Whom He did foreknow, He did predestinate.’ Now what does predestinate
mean?”

“I don’t know,” cried father Grimshaw, giving way to a feeling closely
related to anger, “but there ain’t no predestination in it--not a bit
of it.”

“If there is not,” replied Wallerton, “I should like to know where to
find it.”

“You’ll find it no where, but in the Presbyterian Confession of Faith,”
cried the old man.

“Well, I am convinced,” said Wallerton, “that it is the true doctrine.
I love to believe it too, because I can see that there is more comfort
in it than in the other.”

“What comfort is there in it?” cried the old man, raising his hand in
holy horror.

“Why just this,” replied Wallerton, “I am trying to serve God. It does
me good, then, to think that I have been elected from all eternity to
salvation, and, therefore I can never perish.”

“If you believe that,” exclaimed the old man, “then go on, and sin as
much as you please. You’ll be saved anyhow.”

“But I do not want to sin,” replied Wallerton, looking at him in
surprise. “That is the very thing I pray God to deliver me from.
Instead of desiring to sin, I pray to become more holy. I do not ask
God to save me in my sins, but from them. I should think I would make a
poor return of gratitude to God, if He should give me the evidence of
my election, and I should say to Him, I will, then, serve the devil.
What sort of religion is that?”

“You will make a Presbyterian out of me, Wallerton, if you talk much
longer,” said another by-stander.

“Father Grimshaw,” continued Wallerton, laughing, “you’ve got this
doctrine wrong; you are mixed up on it.”

“If I am, I guess I’ll stay mixed up,” replied the old man, shaking his
head. Rising, he limped off on his stick, leaving the group wondering
at his prejudice.

Father Grimshaw was a type of that class that will not be convinced by
anything. Many people reject the doctrines of the Presbyterian Church,
especially predestination, because such doctrines are repugnant to
their feelings, and are not in harmony with their preconceived opinions.

We may here state that all the parties who have been conspicuous in
these pages, are alive at the present writing, and our story must come
to an end.

There was so much discussion in regard to the doctrinal sermon which
Ernest had preached, that the elders of his church requested it for
publication. He thought it advisable to comply with their request, in
order that there might be no misconstruction of his views. We present
the outlines of the sermon to our readers, leaving it to them to draw
their own conclusions.




THE SERMON.

     “For whom He did foreknow He also did predestinate to be conformed
     to the image of His Son.”--_Romans viii: 29._


I have quoted only one clause of the verse, because I have not time
to elaborate the several doctrines to which the apostle calls our
attention. On this occasion, I desire to make some few remarks on the
divine purpose. In one sermon I can do little more than present only a
few of the reasons which Presbyterians have for believing the doctrine
of predestination. Without taking up the time in further preliminaries,
I proceed, at once, to discuss the doctrine that is announced in our
text. We can hardly misapprehend the text. But to remove all possible
ground of misconstruction and misunderstanding, let us notice in
what sense “foreknowledge” is employed. There can be no doubt as to
the meaning of predestination. No one will dispute that it means to
“appoint,” or “destine beforehand.” “To foreknow,” says Adam Clarke,
“here signifies to design beforehand, or at the first forming of the
scheme.” Without, therefore, doing the least violence to the text, I
am justifiable in translating, “whom He elected or designed before He
did predestinate.” The term predestinate embraces both the decrees of
election and reprobation. Some persons are disposed to limit the word
to election. But no good reason can be assigned for such restriction,
as God determined the final condition of both classes. Permit me to
say here, that we ought to enter into the discussion of this subject
with feelings of the deepest solemnity and reverence. I know it is
revolting to the carnal heart to think that the eternal destiny of men
is settled before they are born. It is repugnant to human pride; but
above all things let us avoid warping and perverting the truth of the
Scripture so as to bring it in harmony with our feelings and desires.
If we allow ourselves to do violence to God’s Word, in order to
support a theory, we shall run into serious error. Men, impelled more
by feeling than reason, have embraced the doctrine of universalism.
I am sure I could have no objection to the doctrine of universalism,
if it could be established from God’s written Word. I want no one to
go to hell, and I would be glad to think that all of Adam’s race will
be saved at last. I, for one, hold to the doctrine of predestination,
not only because it is agreeable to my feelings, but because I believe
it to be taught in God’s Word. If it were not taught there, I would
not have the least objection to renouncing it. Now let us, as briefly
as possible, see whether or not it is promulgated in the Bible. I
begin with _Election_. Is it to be found in the Scriptures? If so, it
is our duty to accept it, no matter if we cannot make it square with
our notions of the fitness of things. The definition of election is,
that it is the choice which God, in the exercise of sovereign grace,
made of certain individuals of mankind to enjoy salvation by Jesus
Christ. I do not think the position can be successfully combatted,
that God has elected some to salvation in preference to others. There
are many passages of Scripture that establish the position. But I have
time to call attention to only a few of them. Romans 16: 13: “Salute
Rufus chosen in the Lord.” “I have manifested thy name unto the men
which Thou gavest me out of the world.” “When the Gentiles heard this,
they were glad, and glorified the word of the Lord, and as many as
were ordained to eternal life, believed.” “I have much people in this
city” * * * * “to them who are the called of the Lord according to his
purpose,” “Ye have not chosen me, but I have chosen you, that ye should
go and bring forth fruit, and that your fruit should remain.” “He said
to Moses, I will have mercy on whom I will have mercy, and I will have
compassion on whom I will have compassion.” “So then, it is not to him
that willeth nor him that runneth, but of God that showeth mercy.” “Who
hath saved us and _called_ us with a holy calling, not according to our
work, but according to His own purpose and grace which was given us in
Christ Jesus, before the world began.” “According as He hath chosen
us, in Him, before the foundation of the world, that we should be holy
and without blame before Him in love.” These are but a few passages
that establish the doctrine of predestination and election. It would
require a volume to contain the passages of Scripture that teach the
doctrine both by precept and example. Some persons admit the doctrine
of election with certain modifications. They say it is an election of
_character_; they affirm that God elected the righteous character. I
cannot see what is gained by this attempt to separate an individual
from his character. It is character that makes the man. It would be
just as reasonable to talk of extracting the sweetness from sugar as
to make a distinction between an individual and his character. But
leaving out the passages which I have just quoted, our text settles
the point. It says plainly, _whom_, not _what_, he did foreknow.
All through the Scripture, election is spoken of as applicable to
individuals, and not characters. Some say, God elected to salvation
those who He foresaw would believe and repent. If Paul meant no more
than this in the epistle to the Romans, he used language for which
there was no necessity. Why should he exclaim with such solemnity, “Who
art thou, oh, man, that repliest against God”? If Paul did not hold to
the doctrine of predestination, it is strange that Peter should have
said that Paul “wrote things hard to be understood.” There is not the
least difficulty in understanding the proposition that God elected
those He foresaw would believe and repent. No Presbyterian would deny
that proposition in its literal sense, for it is certain that those
who are elected, do believe and repent. God never elected any one that
does not believe and repent. But those who oppose the doctrines of
the Presbyterian Church, assert that God elected some to salvation on
account of their foreseen faith, and their voluntary compliance with
God’s requirements. Well, if this position be correct, there was no
necessity of Peter’s saying that Paul wrote things hard to understand,
because no one could fail to understand such a proposition, and no one
could reply against God, not even the worst sinner on the face of the
earth, if Paul meant no more than that every man’s salvation is placed
in his own hands; because this is the very thing for which the natural
man has ever clamored. No one would object to the doctrine of salvation
on account of foreseen faith and righteousness, or righteous works,
if it were taught in the Scriptures; because it is in accordance with
human notions of things. It is a philosophical idea. I will cheerfully
concede the point that the main system that stands opposed to the
doctrines of the Presbyterian Church has the merit of philosophy. But
this is one great objection to it. The Bible is no book of philosophy.
It announces truths in disconnected order, some of which, owing to the
weakness of our finite minds, appear to be contradictory. But the chief
objection to this doctrine of foreseen faith and works as a ground of
salvation, is that it does not appear to be consonant to the divine
will. Paul tells us why we are chosen. He says “according as He hath
chosen us in Him before the foundation of the world, that we should be
holy and without blame before Him in love.” We were not chosen because
we were already holy, but that we should become so. Then he goes on
to say: “He having predestinated us unto the adoption of children by
Jesus Christ to Himself according to the _good pleasure of His will_.”
That is the reason why we were chosen; it was the good pleasure of His
will. He does not say that we were chosen on account of our foreseen
faith and works. I hope no one will understand me as affirming that we
are saved without faith. We must have faith; but it is not the ground
of our salvation. Besides, faith itself is the gift of God. It is a
well-settled principle in all orthodox theology, that man is dead in
trespasses and sin. How God could foresee that a man in this condition
could, of himself, exercise faith, it is difficult to conceive. It
requires the Holy Spirit to awaken men to life. Without such an
operation, no man is capable of spiritual activity. If this be granted,
then, we can easily see in what sense faith is the gift of God. Now to
bring the discussion down to the narrowest possible limits, I will lay
down a proposition which cannot be disputed.

First, God made choice of some to be saved. On what principle was the
choice based? Why, to use plain language, God chose some on account of
some good in them; or some evil in them; or the choice was simply His
good will and pleasure. Well, there was no good in them, consequently
God could not have chosen them on that account. There was not a
naturally righteous character on the face of the earth. If men had been
left to themselves to believe, not a single individual of the human
race would have been saved. Again, God is too holy to have chosen men
on account of the evil in them. I presume no one will contend for any
such doctrine as this. Then, the conclusion of the whole matter is,
that God chose some men to salvation because it was His good will and
pleasure.

Some cry out that this would be unjust. They say that God should not
make distinctions, and that He should be impartial. I do not see where
the injustice is. To illustrate: Here are five criminals condemned
to death. If the Governor should pardon two of them, is there any
injustice to the remaining three? The objector says there would be,
unless the Governor has some good reason for showing clemency in the
case of the two. For the sake of argument, we will admit it. God also
has His reasons for His choice; but these reasons, so far as His secret
purposes are concerned, have never been revealed to us. All we now know
is that He will have mercy on whom He will have mercy. Men somehow,
seem to think that God has no right to make distinctions among the sons
of Adam; and that He is bound to put all on the same level, and if He
saves one, He is bound to give all the same opportunity to be saved.
But God is under no sort of obligation to save any one. If the Lord has
no right to make distinctions, then we are driven to the conclusion
that the universalist has the true doctrine. Because it would follow
that if God saves one, then He must employ such means in the case of
every individual as would result in His salvation. If it required a
miracle to convince Paul, and it would require a miracle to convince
me, God would be bound to perform it. So all must be saved. The only
safe position is to take God’s Word at what it says. It speaks of
the elect as individuals, and not mere characters, and it speaks of
them as chosen before the foundation of the world, because of God’s
good will and pleasure. Now let us notice the other class whom God
has not chosen--the class of reprobates. The idea of reprobation is
necessarily implied in the idea of election. So if we prove one, the
other is virtually established. They are correlative terms, and men
do violence to Scripture and logic when they admit election and deny
reprobation. When out of some objects a choice is made, those not
chosen are certainly rejected. When objects are presented to a person
for the selection of some, even if he speak not a word, he says by his
actions: “This I will take, and this I will not take.” It is in vain
to say that nothing has been done to them; but that they were left in
the precise condition in which they were found. There certainly has
been some sort of act of mind in refusing them, or passing them by.
But leaving out the question of logical consistency, we would have
no zeal in the advocacy of such a doctrine were it not taught in the
Scriptures. We could well afford to admit a logical inconsistency, if
by the admission we could get rid of this doctrine which has aroused
a spirit of rebellious wrath in the heart of the natural man. We may
lift up our hands in holy horror at the idea of reprobation, but the
Scriptures affirm it in language plain enough. There are so many
passages bearing on the subject, that I have not time to call attention
to them all. I refer to only a few as specimens. The Scriptures say
concerning Pharaoh, ‘For this same purpose have I raised thee up,’ etc.
“Therefore hath He mercy on whom He will have mercy, and whom He will
He hardeneth.” “What if God, willing to show His wrath, and to make
His power known, endured with much long-suffering the vessels of wrath
fitted to destruction.” “Men of corrupt mind, _reprobate_ concerning
the faith.” “There are certain men crept in unawares who were before
of old _ordained_ to this condemnation,” etc. Again, we read of those
whose names are not written in the Book of Life. I could quote other
passages just as strong and conclusive as those referred to. Throughout
the whole Scriptures, from Genesis to Revelation, we are taught both
by precept and example, that there is a line running between the
people of God and those doomed to eternal destruction. Therefore, we
conclude that the framers of the Westminster Confession of Faith were
justifiable in inserting that much-abused article: “By the decree
of God, for the manifestation of His glory, some men and angels are
predestinated unto everlasting life, and others are fore-ordained to
everlasting death.” The idea is expressed in no ambiguous terms. These
men perceived the doctrine in God’s Word, and they did not shrink from
avowing it, without the least sugar-coating.

And now, if reasoning from logical premises would be of any avail;
if it be thought necessary to support scriptural truth by logical
processes, I would say that only three propositions can be made in
regard to the salvation of men:

First, All men will be saved.

Second, All men will be lost.

Third, A part of the human race will be saved, and a part lost.

We can easily prove by the holy Scriptures that the first two
propositions are not true. Then, we are bound to admit that the
_third_ is true. This is a fixed fact. The question is, when was it
fixed in the mind of God? The Scripture says the elect were chosen
before the foundation of the world. The point for which we contend is
that the fact was fixed by the Lord. It was not simply foreseen as
a fact that would arise independently of divine interposition, but
it was predetermined. It was God who determined it. This is the kind
of predestination to which the Presbyterian Church holds. Whatever
objections may be urged against it, we believe it to be taught in God’s
Word. There are questions in regard to it which no human being can
answer. We are confronted with the question, how fore-ordination and
man’s free agency can be reconciled. It is certainly no good reason
for the rejection of a doctrine that we cannot fully understand it.
Who can understand the Trinity? Who can comprehend the dual existence
of our Lord Jesus? Such truths we receive on faith, and not because
they are in harmony with reason. But it is not right to require that
Predestinarians shall remove objections which apply with equal force
to the theological system of those who so bitterly oppose us. For
instance, how can fore-knowledge be reconciled with man’s free agency?
Whatever God fore-knows must come to pass.

We, too, believe with others, that so far as free agency is concerned,
every man on the face of the earth could be saved, if he only had the
_will_ to come to Christ. But some will not accept; and that fact
was fixed in the Eternal Mind, away back before the foundation of
the world, as well as the other fact, that some would accept. It is
in vain to say that this result was merely fore-seen. When there was
nothing in existence, how could God fore-see anything except what He
had determined should be? Permit me to use a plain illustration: Here
stands a sculptor before a block of marble. There are millions of
possible images and forms in that marble. With his chisel the artist
can develop _one_ image. That must first exist as a conception in
his mind. After a while the beautiful statue is brought out as the
result of a predetermination. Or the sculptor might produce _two_
images--three--four--a hundred. There are millions of possible forms
in the marble, but the workman determines what forms he will develop.
Applying the illustration, there were millions of possible events or
circumstances before the divine Mind. The Lord could have made this
world larger or smaller; He could have made Adam a very different being
from what he was. But God chose, predetermined, to make this world just
the size it is. God selected the events that take place out of millions
that might have taken place, as the sculptor chose the images which he
would develop. If the Lord did not select, or predetermine, the precise
events that occur in time, who did make the selection? Was the All Wise
God merely trying experiments? What would we think of a sculptor who
should go to work on his block of marble without any conception or plan
in his mind? How, then, can we believe that God would place men in the
world, and devise the scheme of redemption without selecting the exact
results in His own Omniscient Mind? The Lord has His own purposes,
and these purposes will be accomplished; and this is predestination.
Therefore, I do not hesitate to endorse another article of our
Confession of Faith, which has been often assailed with un-christian
virulence: “God hath fore-ordained whatsoever comes to pass.”

Here I would observe that the objection is without foundation that, if
predestination be true, it is in vain for men to make any effort to be
saved. This is a gross perversion of the doctrine. God does not decree
that any one shall be doomed to eternal torment who desires to enjoy
heaven, and who is willing to accept the terms of salvation. Show me
the sinner who is thirsting for the waters of Life, and I will show you
one whose name is written in the Book of Heaven as an heir of God. Now,
how much broader do we want the plan of salvation, if it embraces all
that desire salvation on Scriptural terms? If the sinner is disposed to
repent, he has no reason to suppose that he belongs to the reprobate
class. But some men want an excuse for continuing in sin, and these are
the persons who, Peter said, would “wrest the Scriptures to their own
destruction.”

Another argument in support of this doctrine is the fact that Paul
mentions, and comments upon the very objections that are to this day
urged against the doctrines of the Presbyterian Church. It is evident
that the apostle taught precisely what the Confession of Faith does.
We have to meet the very same objections which he met, and refuted. We
know that this doctrine has ever been revolting to men of the world.
You remember, when Christ said, “No man can come unto me except the
Father which hath sent me, draw him,” some of His disciples “went back,
and walked with Him no more.”

I have no doubt the doctrine of predestination will be opposed to
the end of time. But it can never be destroyed. You may revise the
Confession of Faith till every vestige of it disappears, but that
does not blot it out from the pages of God’s Word. To get rid of that
doctrine, the whole Bible must be revised from Genesis to Revelation.
Strike out from the Scriptures every thing that is said in regard to
predestination; expunge every passage from which the doctrine may be
deduced by plain inference, and there is nothing left but Universalism.

Predestination and man’s free agency are both taught in the Holy
Scriptures. Recognize this fact, and you will find little difficulty
in harmonizing passages that may appear to some persons to be
antagonistic. Reject either doctrine, and you will run into serious
error. There is Fatalism, on the one side; and on the other, there is
a broad Liberality of sentiment among men which receives no support
from God’s Word. Hence we honestly believe that the position of the
Presbyterian Church is the only true way to steer in safety between
Scylla and Charybdis.

[Illustration: finis.]




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+-------------------------------------------------+
|Transcriber’s note:                              |
|                                                 |
|Obvious typographic errors have been corrected.  |
|                                                 |
+-------------------------------------------------+



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