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 thoughtsrevert 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 humanaffairs 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 allen rapportwith 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 morevariation 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 tounderstand 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? Toprepare 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 destinyflashing 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 onlythoughtwhat 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 thelast 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 deepsolemnity, “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 theother 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 fore-know 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 issomething 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 chosenvessel 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 Ihad 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 Ernestwith 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 somerespects, 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.
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, sodelightful 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 Liliputian. 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 withwhich 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 thetown, 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 anair 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 thisdudeto 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 theagency 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 dreadfulennuimyself,” 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 herthousands, 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 placesof 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 hadtouched 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 ofdancers, 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 becomehopelessly 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 slightestgrounds 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 thenext 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 Godto 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 morecommon 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.