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.”