A CONFEDERATE MARRIAGE.
We now return to our two fugitives. They met with no other adventure, and arrived that evening at Dr. Arrington’s residence. The old gentleman would have gone into Washington himself when Mildred was arrested, but Ernest persuaded him to remain at home with his family, promising to promptly inform him if his presence should become necessary.
It is impossible to portray the scene which occurred when the two rode up and alighted. Mrs. Arrington, who had been almost brokenhearted, could not control her feelings in the transition from despair to joy. This arrival was like the coming back of the dead. The good lady must cry aloud. The Doctor was more calm, but the tears gently coursed down his cheek in gratitude to God for the restoration of his child. It was an hour or more before the family equilibrium approximated its normal condition sufficiently to admit oftranquil conversation. After a while the Doctor said:
“We must now have a special service—a service of gratitude, for I feel that my many earnest prayers have been answered.”
The family assembled in the parlor, and the Doctor selected some portions of Scripture suitable to the occasion, and all humbly and reverently bowed upon their knees. Such an out-pouring of thanksgiving never before was witnessed around that altar. This was a family of faith. They regarded God as the source of every blessing. The Doctor had no more doubt that God had restored his child, in answer to prayer, than he had of his own existence. Ernest, however, who loved to hear the old man defend his position, suggested that the same thing might have happened if there had been no prayers in the case.
“I am surprised at you,” answered the Doctor. “I do not know that I ever saw the hand of God more clearly revealed in my affairs.”
“But still,” said Ernest, “does it not all appear natural? Your nephew was in the city, and hearing of his cousin’s imprisonment, what is more natural than that he should restore her to liberty?”
“I remember,” said Mrs. Arrington, “how we were all distressed when we heard that Will had joined the Northern army. Little did we think that Mildred’s life depended upon it. How shortsighted we are!”
“And suppose,” said the Doctor, “that Will had not been in the court-room when the officer made the remark about her trial. You told us of this a while ago. This might have appeared accidental, but still it happened exactly at the right time. Suppose Will had not gone into that room at the moment he did, the trial would have ended the next day, and Mildred in all probability, would have never been sent back to the hotel, but to a dismal felon’s cell to await her execution, and then Will would not have been able to release her.”
“You say, Doctor,” answered Ernest, “that these things happened at the right time. Suppose this deliverance had occurred earlier, what difference would it have made?”
“We do not understand all God’s ways and purposes,” replied the Doctor; “but granting that this deliverance had occurred two or three days earlier, you would not have been present to give your assistance. Thensuppose Mildred had tried to make her way alone, she might have been re-captured by that vidette you told us about. I do not see how you can fail to recognize divine providence in all this.”
“I do recognize it fully,” replied Ernest. “You must not think, Doctor, that I am disposed to doubt a supernatural providence. One reason why I asked the question which I did was to get your views. I wanted to hear you point out the particulars as you have done. I am glad to say that this severe trial has proved beneficial to me. I do not think I will ever again be as skeptical as I have been. I have had a lesson.”
“Let it be a lesson to us all,” answered the Doctor, “ever to have implicit faith in God.”
The next day Ernest requested a private interview with the Doctor. They met in the study, and Ernest said:
“I must return soon to the army, and, to make a long story short, I have come to ask you to perform the marriage ceremony for me and Mildred to-day.”
“To-day!” exclaimed the Doctor in surprise.
“Yes, sir; why not?”
“I do not suppose she is ready,” said the Doctor.
“It will not take long to get ready,” remarked Ernest. “People do not expect grand weddings such times as these.”
“No; but what put this sudden notion into your head?” asked the Doctor a little bluntly.
“We have come to the conclusion that there is no use waiting any longer.”
“Well, if it is Mildred’s wish,” replied the Doctor thoughtfully, “I shall interpose no objection.”
Accordingly, that very evening a few friends assembled at the Doctor’s residence, and at 8 o’clock Ernest and Mildred were pronounced “husband and wife.”
During those times young people entered into the marriage relation without much ceremony, and upon short notice. In many parts of the country it was impossible to procure suitable “wedding garments,” and the soldiers frequently married in their ordinary uniforms.
Ernest remained with his bride three or four days, and then started “off to the wars” again. It was a great and severe trial to the two young people to separate. They might never meet again in this world. Many ayoung man left his young wife, and in a few days afterwards he was slumbering in the soldier’s bloody grave.
“Mildred,” said Ernest in a husky tone, “pray for me. I have faith in your prayers.”
“Do not doubt my praying for you,” she said, while tears glistened in her eyes. “You will never be out of my mind a moment.”
“It does look hard,” said Ernest, “that we should be separated by the yawning gulf of war just as we are upon the threshold of life. I never knew the depth of my affection for you till now.”
“You will not suffer, after all, as I shall,” replied Mildred. “You will have the exciting scenes of war to occupy your thoughts, and I shall have nothing to think about but you. O, the long weary days that must pass away! I shall think of you as constantly exposed to dangers.”
And so they separated, both saying in their hearts, as they went their respective ways:
“O, shall we ever meet again?”
PEACE.
The frightful clouds of war have rolled away. The smoke of battle has dissolved into the darkness of the Past. The blood-spots have been washed out by the rains and dews of heaven. Blessed Peace spreads out her snow-white pinions, dripping balm for wounded hearts, from the granite hills of New England to the smiling prairies of the Lone Star State. The little hillocks of earth that rise up all over the South mark the gory fields where the enraged warriors met in the death-struggle. We can again re-visit the awful spots where once the earth groaned under the tread of men and horses rushing head-long to the fray, and we can call up the phantom forms, and make them re-enact the bloody tragedies of battle in solemn silence. The gloomy cedar-brakes of Murfreesboro, the plateau of Bull Run, the dark stream of Chickamauga, the rugged Mount that looks down upon Chattanooga, theblack hills of Vicksburg, pock-marked by the shells of a fifty-days’ siege—are all there yet, dumb witnesses to the ferocity of human passions. To-day, at all these, and many other places, we can take the torch of history, and relight the terrible scenes enacted in the now silent past. We see long lines of soldiers start up in battle array, grasping the deadly musket, and solemnly preparing to die, in that ominous lull which always precedes the mighty shock of battle. There is a strange silence. The very forests seem to be holding their breath in expectation of a storm more awful than the cyclone of nature. What is it? The awfulpause of Death.
Presently a single gun breaks the oppressive silence. The work of destruction begins. Heavy volumes of smoke rise up all over the forests. Men on horse-back are seen flying in every direction. One remarkable man, clad in a red flannel shirt, symbolical of the fierce spirit within, is seen galloping from one scene of carnage to another, under the inspiration of a courage that never failed. At last, he reels and falls, and the fiery form of A. P. Hill disappears from the scenes of history forever.
It is remarkable that Lee and Jackson intheir last moments on earth, when they were unconscious of all temporal things, and their imaginations were roving lawlessly over the gory fields where they had been such prominent actors, both called for A. P. Hill. It is a high compliment to the hero’s military genius. But Jackson himself went down in the thundering cyclone of war, and was seen no more. Alas! such men as these had to be swept from the path of destiny before the divine purpose could be accomplished. We mourn for our fallen braves, and yet we thank God that such scenes as gave them undying fame have ceased, we hope, forever, in these States now cemented with intermingling fraternal blood!
One bright morning in April, 1865, the members of Dr. Arrington’s family were all seated around the breakfast table. Every face wore a sad, anxious expression. The news of Lee’s surrender, which some doubted, had been received, but not the particulars of his last battle. Who had fallen? Mildred looked at the smoking dishes, but could not eat. Where was Ernest? She had seen him but three or four times since their marriage, and he had been in all of Lee’s battles. O, could it be possible that he had been killed in the last fight? The thought made her shudder.
“Why do you not eat?” asked the Doctor kindly.
“How can I, father?” Mildred answered sadly. “I am heart-sick. This suspense is awful.”
“Have faith in God,” said the Doctor. “The last time we heard from Ernest he was well. What reason have you to suppose he is otherwise now?”
“There has been a battle or two since then, and some are killed in every fight.”
“Do not anticipate, my child. Never make trouble for yourself. What is the use of grieving over imaginary calamities?”
“I know, father, that you are right; but it is so hard to be perfectly resigned to God’s will.”
“You have not ascertained what God’s will is in this instance; but even should it be that which you dread, I do not deny that it will be hard to bear. It is natural for us to think that God should let us have our way in some things at least. But we should never forget that God knows what is best for us, and He always does the best for us, if we put ourselves unreservedly in His hands.”
“I know that is true,” replied Mildred.“But, sometimes I am rebellious. If Ernest does not come back,” she continued in quivering tones, “it seems to me I can never again be happy in this world.”
“Then be happy!” exclaimed a voice at the door. Mildred instantly looked up, gave a little scream of joy, sprang from her seat, and was locked in Ernest’s arms. What a transition! We shall not attempt to describe it. There are some emotions of the human heart that are beyond the reach of words. They are too sacred and deep to be expressed by human language. Every trace of sadness immediately vanished from Mildred’s face, which was lit up with a holy joy and peace that made her look radiant. Presently when there was comparative quiet, the Doctor said:
“Well, has Lee really surrendered?”
“I am sorry to say he has,” replied Ernest. “Here is my discharge from the service.”
“And you have not been wounded,” asked Mildred, “since you were home last?”
“I have not received a graze,” he replied.
“Well,” she said with tears springing into her eyes, “let me go to my room, and return thanks to God, and ask His forgiveness for my thoughts. I cannot eat till I do.”
As she went out Mrs. Arrington said:
“You have a treasure, Ernest, in that girl, if I do say it myself.”
“I am well aware of that, Madam, and I am indebted to the war for it. I have learned that God brings good out of evil. I never would have heard of Mildred, had it not been for the battle of Manassas. I am sorry, though, our cause is lost.”
“But it is God’s will,” quickly spoke up the Doctor, “and we should be thankful that it is no worse.”
“I am sure it is bad enough,” replied Ernest. “We have lost our independence.”
“It may appear to you to be a great calamity,” said the Doctor, “but I have no doubt it is a blessing in disguise. Two different governments could not exist in this glorious land of ours. I have never believed that we would succeed. I was fearful that we were in the wrong. But it is in vain to discuss such questions now. All is over, and we must submit. ‘Promotion cometh neither from the East nor the West, but God setteth up one, and pulleth down another.’”
Mildred now returned to the dining-room, and all partook of the meal with heartsglowing with gratitude. Do not the angels hover over, and smile upon, such a social scene?
The next day the family assembled in the parlor to hold a consultation, at the request of Ernest.
“Well,” said the Doctor, smiling upon the group, “‘the cruel war is over,’ and we must now all return to the blessed arts of peace. I suppose you will resume the practice of law,” he continued, turning to Ernest.
“No, I think not, Doctor,” answered Ernest. “I called this family meeting in order to lay my plans before you. After my marriage, when I returned to my command again, I solemnly promised God that if He would spare my life, I would devote my energies to His service in the ministry. I am here alive, without having received another wound. Now do you not think I ought to regard my vows?”
“O, my dear Ernest,” cried Mildred eagerly, “I have prayed God to put it in your heart to become a minister, and now, it seems, my prayer is answered.”
“I did not know,” said Ernest, “but that you might have an ambition for something higher.”
“Higher!” exclaimed Mildred in surprise. “What can be higher?”
“I did not mean ‘higher’ in the sense that you understand,” replied Ernest, “but the world, you know, regards some other professions as higher.”
“But the ministry is not a profession,” answered Mildred. “I cannot imagine what greater honor a human being can enjoy than to be called to do God’s work.”
“I have now no greater ambition myself than to be an humble minister of the gospel,” replied Ernest.
“It is well,” said the Doctor, “that you employ the word humble. I am sorry to say that there are ambitious men in the Church who desire to acquire great reputation as preachers, and who seek after high places in the Church. I hope you have no such disposition as that?”
“No, Doctor, if I know my own heart. I desire to be useful.”
“Let us be plain,” continued the Doctor, “that you may not, in the future, regret the step you have taken. Be sure that you are influenced by the proper motives. I hope you have not entered into a sort of contract with the Lord—that is, you do not propose to become a minister because God has brought you safe out of the war?”
“No, sir; I firmly believe I was called years ago, but I resisted. I think I would have been a preacher if there had been no war. But probably the war has caused me to enter it sooner than I might have done otherwise.”
“You feel, then, that it is your duty to preach?” asked the Doctor.
“Yes, sir, I do.”
“Then, there is no more to be said about it,” answered the Doctor. “The sooner you begin the better. I believe I have not asked you under what ecclesiastical auspices you propose to preach?”
“The Presbyterian, of course,” said Ernest with a smile. “I suppose my dear Mildred would hardly consent to anything else.”
“O, I am not so prejudiced as all that,” answered Mildred laughing. “If you felt it your duty to attach yourself to any other orthodox Church, I should not oppose you. But to tell you the truth, I love my Church to such an extent that I could never be happy in any other, and I never could feel the same zeal in another.”
“Mildred is a true blue,” said the Doctor with a laugh, “and I am glad to think you will find her a useful helpmeet in your work.”
“I expect she will make a better pastor than I,” said Ernest, “for I am not as social as she is. I fear that this thing of visiting will be the most troublesome duty I shall have to perform.”
“People will require a great deal of you in that respect,” said the Doctor. “You will find that most of them wish you to visit them not on account of their spiritual interests: but it is the social feature they regard. I have noticed that most Presbyterian ministers are more reserved in their manners than those of some other denominations. This is, no doubt, to be attributed to the long course of mental discipline to which they are subjected. They acquire the habit of solitary study till the social feature of their nature is considerably impaired. On this account I have known some ministers to be accused of stiffness, pride and formality, who were humble, godly men. They really did not understand the demands of social etiquette. You will have to cultivate this feature.”
“What is the use of social visiting, Doctor?”
“Whether there is use in it or not, people require it,” replied the Doctor. “You will find some of them very unreasonable. They will complain if you do not call every week.”
“How then, shall I ever find time to study?” asked Ernest.
“You must take it. You can not please everybody, try never so hard.”
And for a long time the Doctor gave the young man excellent advice, which we need not detail, as it would be of no great interest to the general reader. Besides, we are well aware, that people do not read a story for the sake of the moral, but for their own entertainment. So we shall proceed, at once, to relate the most interesting events of Ernest’s life.
The next month, the Presbytery of —— met, and received Ernest under its care. Instead of going to a Seminary, it was allowed him to take a course of Theological study under the tuition of Dr. Arrington. At the expiration of a year he stood his examination, and having received a call from the Presbyterian church in his own town, he was regularly ordained a minister of the gospel. His trial sermon aroused universal wonder and admiration. The people had rarely ever witnessed such oratorical power in the pulpit. Every one predicted for him a brilliant career of usefulness. No young minister ever entered upon his work with more flattering prospects.
Ernest was praised and complimented sufficiently to have turned an older head, but he now possessed too much of the grace of humility to be affected by human applause. The great object with him was the approval of the Master and his own conscience. With the settlement of Ernest in his charge it might seem that our story had reached a point at which it could properly and happily be brought to an end, but we have other interesting events yet to relate.
THE DRUNKARD.
Ernest entered upon his work in two or three weeks after his ordination. This was the first time he had seen his native town since he left it in 1861. Things had undergone a great change during the four years of war. The prosperity of the place was a thing of the past. Many wealthy families had been reduced to abject beggary. Old Mr. Vanclure had died in 1862, and his son-in-law had administered upon his estate. If Comston had been a man of moral habits, he could have saved a handsome property for his wife, but he was dissipated, and was passionately addicted to gambling. He had pursued a course during the war which had brought him into disgrace, having avoided conscription by hiding in the cane-brakes. When the war came to an end, he found himself in possession of only three thousand dollars. By judicious management of even this amount, he mighthave gained an honorable livelihood; but he soon lost it all at the gambling table. Finally, he became a sot.
Poor Clara had to resort to her needle for bread, and she gained only a precarious, scanty subsistence for herself and her unworthy husband, who sometimes spent her hard earnings for drink.
Affairs were in this condition when Ernest returned to his native town to take charge of the church. As soon as he had heard of Clara’s misfortunes, he called to see her. He met with a cold reception, for she had become hardened. But by kindness, he soon induced her to talk freely. Presently she said:
“I know you think I made a great blunder.”
“How?” asked Ernest timidly, suspecting what she was going to say.
“In my marriage,” she answered with decided emphasis. “You know that I rejected you. Are you not glad to see me humbled?”
“God forbid!” exclaimed Ernest energetically. “I sympathize with you. The good Lord knows I am sorry for you.”
“They tell me you are a preacher now?”
“It is true, I am glad to say.”
“O,” she exclaimed suddenly, “I wishXerxes were a preacher—yes, anything than what he is. I reckon you’ve heard all about him.”
“I have heard some things,” replied Ernest.
“He has got to be a regular drunkard,” she said, “and I am tired of him. He treats me cruelly. I think he once loved me, and I could have lived happily with him, but he got to drinking, and that has proved his ruin. He is not the same man.”
“I am truly sorry for you,” replied Ernest. “But you are not without hope.”
“Where is there any hope for me?” she cried. “I never expect to be happy again.”
“You can be, if you will,” said Ernest solemnly, as he looked pityingly at the sad woman.
“How can I? I should like to know.”
“There is a happiness,” answered Ernest, “far superior to any this world affords.”
“Where is it?” she cried.
“In Christ Jesus.”
“Yes, I expected you to say that, or something like it. But how could I be a Christian, miserable and wretched as I am?”
“The Lord never turns away any who come to Him,” replied Ernest.
“But I’m not ready for that yet,” she said with candor. “I want to enjoy the world for a while. I think I deserve it. If I had not married, I might have been happy, but it is impossible now, with such a husband as mine.”
At this moment, Comston came from town, and staggered into the room. Clara blushed with shame and vexation, but recovering herself, looked at him without uttering a word.
“Why, how d’ye do, Edgefield,” he exclaimed in a boisterous tone, and with the drunkard’s slow stammering and stuttering. “It’s the first—first time—I’ve met ye—since you—you—er got back from the—er wars. How you make it—er now, ole feller, eh?”
“O, I am in good health,” said Ernest, dryly.
“Well, I’m—er truly glad to give you—er—er the right hand—er of—er welcome. Would you—er ’a known this ’er—er little ’oman—er of mine, at—er first sight, eh? She used ter—er—er be right down—er good lookin’—but—er the last year—er she’s—er begun—ter break—er little—yes—er you see, eh? Arn’t it so, Clarer, eh? You see—er the cruel war—er broke us up, like it did—er everybody else—er.”
“Yes,” said Ernest, more to relieve Clara ofembarrassment than to keep up a conversation with a foolish inebriate, “the war proved disastrous to most of our people.”
“Indeed—er did it. I lost heavily—er—by it—myself—ruined—dead broke—er—brought down—er to—er abject pov—er—er—tee—er, as the—saying is—er. Cruel—thing—it was. I—er didn’t have—er—much to do—er—with it—you see—er,—eh? I was—er long-headed—I saw how the—er—thing—was agoin’, an’—er—I tried ter—save my scalp—eh? I told Clarer—there was’nt—any use—er—of my—goin’. She was a great—er—patriarch—you know—er-wanted—er ter eat Yankees—up—er. But—er I don’t—love that—er sort of—er flesh. It is—not—er—half as good—er—as fish. I went—a—fishin’—most of the time, and—er—we had a—jolly time—er—we did. It was—better—than shootin’ yer—feller—man in—er cold—blood. The Yankees—had—never done me—any harm,—an’ I could’nt make—up my mind ter—murder ’em—’thout provocation—you see, eh? But I hear—you’ve got to be—a preacher, eh?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Ernest in a manner which convinced Clara that the passing scene was painful to his feelings. She could easilyperceive that he was enduring her maudlin husband for her sake.
“Well—er,” continued Comston, “it’s a—nice—er profession—, not—much—er money in it—though—eh? Like the ole Injun said—poor preach—poor pay—er. I don’t—er mean that for you—though—er. You—used ter be—er—a good law—yer, and—if—er you preach—as well as you—talk—I don’t see—why—er you shouldn’t succeed—er. I’m a-comin’ ’round to—er hear you preach—er—some Sunday—if you don’t object—eh?”
“I should be glad to have you as one of my audience,” replied Ernest.
“We’ll make two—er—of iz audience, won’t we, Clarer, eh?”
She made no reply, but endeavored to appear as though she had not heard him.
“Now, come, Clarer—don’t try to put on—airs—before the preacher—er. I ain’t jealous—a—bit—er. No, for I know—you prefer me—ter all the—er men on earth, don’t you—er, dear, eh? What—won’t you—speak to me? Never mind, Parson, when you go—er she’ll be pleasant enough. Some—times she gets—into one of her—er—contantnums before—er company—and there’s no doin’ anything withher—have ter let ’er alone till she—sobers up—er.”
“I must be going,” suddenly said Ernest, rising. “I have some other calls to make.”
“Thank you for your visit,” said Clara. “Call again if you can.”
“Yes—er—come again, Parson,—if I arn’t at home—Clarer will—er entertain you.”
Clara left the parlor, as Ernest did, and Comston fell asleep upon a sofa. When he awoke, he had partly emerged from his state of intoxication. Arising, and going into Clara’s room, he said:
“Had a nice time with the preacher, dear? I think, though, you might have treated me with a little more respect. You wouldn’t speak to me. What is the matter?”
“You have made a fool of yourself,” cried Clara, in anger and vexation. “I have told you I wanted you to keep away from me when you are drunk. You make a brute of yourself.”
“Why, I thought I was entertaining the minister very nicely. You wouldn’t talk to him, and it wouldn’t do for all of us to sit still like Quakers, would it?”
“You made a complete fool of yourself,”she said with face flashing with anger. “I am getting so I hate you—yes, I hate you.”
“Now don’t provoke me, dear. You know I can’t control my savage temper when I’m aroused. Don’t you remember how you provoked me the other day till I was about to strike you?”
“Yes, sir, I remember your brutality, and I tell you now I am not going to stand it much longer, either.”
“What will you do?” asked Comston.
“I am not going to live with a man who is such a coward as to strike a defenceless woman. Here you are bragging about it, as if you had performed some wonderful deed. If you ever attempt to strike me again, I will leave you—yes, I will apply for a divorce.”
“O, no, you wouldn’t do that, dear? Who would provide for you?”
“Who provides for me now? I should like to know. If I did not support myself, I should starve. You know that.”
“O, no, you wouldn’t starve, dear. You’ve never starved yet, have you? Do you ’spose Xerxes Comston would let you starve? Nobody can say that of my wife. But, come, Clara, let’s be friends. I haven’t drunk much to-day,and I’m going to quit the business entirely—you hear that?”
“Yes; I have heard it five hundred times. I have lost all confidence in you. I expect nothing but to see you go down to a drunkard’s grave.”
“You want me to die? O, ho! ho! that’s it, is it? Well I am not going to fill any drunkard’s grave. From now on, I’m going to be a better man. We’ll go to hear that preacher preach; it will do us both good—make Christians out of us, I hope. Won’t you go?”
“I do not think,” said Clara with a sneer, “that you will ever be sober enough to go.”
“Yes, I will, though. You see if I don’t.”
We have lengthened this domestic scene sufficiently to enable the reader to understand the relations between this unhappy husband and wife; and to prepare his mind for a better comprehension of events that are soon to be related.
The next evening Ernest met Comston on the street. Comston was sober, from the fact that he had no money to buy the fiery beverage for which he was now thirsting.
“Mr. Edgefield,” said Comston, who had a dim consciousness that he had used improperlanguage on the previous evening, “I want to offer you an apology for my conduct yesterday. I hope you are not offended.”
“No apology is necessary,” replied Ernest. “I am sorry that you have formed such awful, ruinous habits.”
“You are not as sorry as I am,” said Comston, speaking with emphasis.
“Why do you not leave off your terrible habits, then?” said Ernest.
“I’ve tried again and again,” said Comston, bursting into tears, “but it seems,” he continued, half sobbing, “that I cannot. O, you have no idea what a consuming thirst torments me. I must have brandy, or I will die.”
“No, you would not die,” answered Ernest, “if you had the will to resist. But that, I doubt not, is gone. And now you can never quit so long as you rely on yourself.”
“On whom must I rely?” asked Comston.
“Christ,” said Ernest solemnly. “Nothing, I fear, will ever enable you to quit your evil ways, but the grace of God.”
“How am I to get the grace of God?”
“Only by faithful prayer.”
“Do you think I could quit in that way?”
“Yes,” answered Ernest.
“Well, I’d give worlds to be as I once was. I am ashamed of myself. But if I am left to myself, I never can reform. Will you help me?”
“Will you put yourself in my hands?” asked Ernest. “Will you do as I tell you? If you will, you can reform.”
“But I know what you’ll tell me,” cried Comston. “You’ll say, never touch another drop. I can’t quit suddenly. You make no allowance for my appetite.”
“Yes, I do,” replied Ernest. “I will give you a substitute for strong drink.”
“All right,” said Comston. “I will do it.”
“Very well,” said Ernest. “Now you must promise me to keep away from the saloons.”
“I’ll do it.”
“To prove your sincerity, turn around like a man, and go home.”
“When will you give me that substitute?” asked Comston, hesitating.
“Go home,” said Ernest, “and remain till I come with it.”
Comston, without another word, at once went home sober, to the surprise of his wife. He remained till his burning appetite destroyed his self-control. He could stand it nolonger. Snatching up his hat he rushed off toward town. Drink he must have. As he was turning a corner, he stood face to face with Ernest.
“Do not go there, Comston,” he said. “Is this the way you obey me? You promised to put yourself in my hands.”
“But you said,” exclaimed Comston, “that you would give me a substitute, and you didn’t do it. I stayed as long as I could. Why didn’t you come, and help me, as you promised?”
“I desired to measure your will-power,” replied Ernest. “I wanted to test your manhood. I told you I would come. Why could you not believe me?”
“I was afraid you would put it off too long,” replied Comston. “I am dying.”
“Let us go back,” said Ernest.
“But where is the substitute?”
“I have it. Come on,” commanded Ernest.
“Let us hurry,” said Comston.
It was now dark, and they both hurried along to Comston’s residence. As soon as they had entered the drunkard’s bed-room, Ernest drew from his pocket a vial, and poured out some of the mixture into a glass of water,which Comston eagerly drank. Ernest gave him two more glasses, and then the inebriate seemed satisfied. In an hour Ernest left him in a profound sleep, which he knew would last till morning.
THE CRIME.
When a man acquires the habit of indulging in strong drink, it requires a will of iron to break it. Few men have the physical and moral fortitude to offer the necessary resistance. The intense, consuming thirst paralyzes the mental energies. The wretched victim will risk life itself to gratify his raging appetite. Poor Comston had not descended to such a depth of moral degradation that he had no disposition to free himself from the shackles of his terrible foe. In his sober moments he most earnestly wished that he could free himself from the vicious demon which clung to him with the tenacity of Sinbad’s Old Man of the Sea. But the saloon was like a load-stone—a cynosure which drew Comston with an attraction that he had not the moral nerve to resist. When the appetite was upon him, it seemed impossible to pass the open door. The fragrance of thewines, issuing from the interior of the dram-shop, acted upon his senses with all the force of the law of gravitation, and he went in almost in the same way that a stone falls to the earth when it is thrown up into the air.
Comston woke up early the next morning from the stupor into which Ernest’s substitute had thrown him. He felt that he was burning up. His terrible appetite made him forget, or ignore his promises to the preacher. What cared he for reformation, when he believed himself dying—dying for the want of brandy. In spite of the entreaties of his wife, he put on his hat, to go to town.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“O, just to town a little while—that’s all.”
“But you promised Mr. Edgefield that you would not go. Come back.”
“I’ll be back in a few moments.”
And off he rushed, determined to have a dram if he should have to sell his very clothing. While he is walking along rapidly, let us secretly and silently enter the saloon to which he is hastening. We see two men in the room, and they are engaged in a bitter quarrel. Presently the man, who is partially under the influence of ardent spirits, springs toward the saloon-keeper, exclaiming:
“I’m not going to stand this any longer. You’ve got all my money, and I must have another drink, and I’ll have it, or I’ll kill you.”
A brief scuffle ensues, which, however, lasts only half a minute. The man falls, crying:
“You’ve killed me. I wish to God there was a witness—but it’s too late. I’m a dead man, curse you.”
Then he fell heavily to the floor.
“You brought it on yourself,” said the saloon-keeper. “You forced me to kill you.”
At this moment Comston hastily entered the saloon, and without looking around, cried:
“For God’s sake give me a drink! I haven’t a cent. Take my clothes—anything—I’ll die if I can’t get a dram.”
An idea seemed to strike the saloon-keeper, whose agitation Comston had not observed, for he said:
“Well, here, drink.”
“Thank you, thank you,” exclaimed Comston, clutching the glass, and draining it to the very dregs.
In a few moments the saloon-keeper said:
“Comston, I’ll give you another drink ifyou’ll drag that drunken feller out there under the trees. He fell down, and cut himself on the corner of that bench, and is bleeding considerably.”
“I’ll do it,” exclaimed Comston, upon whom the brandy was beginning to have some effect. He stooped down to lift up the fallen man, but glancing at the ghastly face, he exclaimed:
“Why, Good Gracious! he’s dead, arn’t he?”
“O, no—dead drunk—that’s all.”
“Well, may be he is,” said Comston, who was more anxious about the anticipated dram than the fate of a fellow-being. “I’ll take him out anyhow.”
Seizing the dead man in his arms, he dragged him out of the door, and while so doing, his own clothing was plentifully besmeared with blood. As he reached the trees, two men passed by, one of whom said:
“Hello, Comston! what are you doin’? Been fightin’, have you?”
“Not much,” replied Comston, who wanted it thought that he was a man of pugnacious tendencies. “He gave me some of his impudence, and I slapped him over.”
This brief specimen of Comston’s braggadocio appeared to delight the saloon keeper.
Comston left his human burden under a tree, and hurried back into the saloon.
“Give me the drink you promised!” he said.
“Yes, here it is, and it is a good one,” said the cunning saloon-keeper. “Take it, for you’ve earned it,” he continued, laughing. “He was heavy, warn’t he?”
“Yes, he was.”
Comston took the glass brimful of strong brandy, tossed it off as though it had been cool water, went out, and seated himself under one of the shade trees only a few paces from the dead man.
It was no unusual thing to see men lying under the trees in front of the saloon. Accordingly several hours passed away before the corpse attracted any special attention. Comston, in half an hour was so much intoxicated, that he fell from the bench, and lay upon the ground in a state of utter unconsciousness. The crowd, accustomed to assemble there every day, gathered in, and among them the two who had seen Comston dragging the body out of the house. One of these, who had spoken first, looking at the corpse closely, exclaimed to the saloon-keeper:
“Look here, Blicker, I do believe Jones is dead! I’ll feel his pulse.”
“I reckon not,” replied Blicker, with perfectnonchalance. “Him and Comston got into a scuffle about three hours ago, and Comston snatched up my knife which was on the counter, and made a slash at Jones, and I took the knife away from him. Comston knocked him down, and I thought Jones was too drunk to get up. I saw that Jones was bleeding, and I ordered Comston to take him out, as I didn’t want blood on my floor. Comston, as you saw, dragged him out, but I didn’t ’spose he was hurt much.”
“As shore as shootin’”, cried the man, “he’s dead! He hasn’t a bit of pulse.”
“Go for a Doctor,” said Blicker.
“I’ll step over to Dr. Warner’s office,” said the man. “I see him riding up now.”
It was not more than five minutes before Dr. Warner was on the spot. A very brief examination proved that Jones was dead. He had been stabbed to the heart.
“Who did it?” asked the Doctor.
“That feller, I reckon,” pointing to the prostrate form of Comston, spoke up the man who gave the version of the affair, which, in connection with that of the saloon-keeper, made it evident that Comston was the criminal.
It was several hours before Comston was sufficiently sober to comprehend that he was accused of a most awful crime. When he awoke from his drunken sleep, the constable was near by, who had a warrant for his arrest.
“Come,” said he to Comston, “you’re my prisoner. Come on to jail.”
“To jail!” cried Comston. “You’re joking! What have I done to go to jail for?”
“O, you pretend not to know, do you? Well, probably you was so drunk that you didn’t know what you was a doin’. Don’t you know that you killed Jones this morning?”
“No, I don’t,” exclaimed Comston in the utmost alarm, now looking at his bloody clothes, and recalling the events of the morning. Soon his mind was clear.
“I dragged Jones out under the tree for a drink of brandy,” said Comston. “I can prove that by Blicker himself.”
“Didn’t you tell Bill Dodds, while you were dragging him, that you had a fight with him, and slapped him over?” asked one.
“O, I said that in fun,” exclaimed Comston. “I only thought Jones was drunk.”
“You’ll find it dear sort of fun,” said one.
“Say, Blicker,” cried Comston, now thoroughly aroused to the fearful realities of his situation, “didn’t you give me a drink to drag Jones out of your house this very morning—didn’t you?”
“Why, no, Comston,” answered Blicker coolly, “I don’t keep brandy to give away. You’ve forgot all about the fight you had with Jones this morning.”
“It’s a lie! It’s a lie!” frantically cried Comston. “I never even had any quarrel with Jones. He was a good friend, and I never thought of fighting with him.”
“Poor feller!” said Blicker, with affected pity, “you was so drunk you can’t remember that you made a slash at Jones with my knife that was on the counter.”
“O, Blicker, Blicker!” exclaimed Comston, “how can you stand there and tell such an infamous lie? You know you gave me two drinks—one free, and the other to drag Jones out.”
“Whether he did or not,” interposed the constable, “you’re in for it now. I am compelled to take you to jail. When your trial comes off, you can have a chance to prove your innocence.”
“I’m not going to jail!” cried Comston wildly. “I’ve done nothing to go there for. What do you want to put an innocent man in prison for? I should like to know.”
“Get up, and come along,” cried the constable sternly, “or I’ll hand-cuff you.”
“O, my God!” exclaimed Comston, now completely sobered. “Turn me loose, Dick Bonds. You know I didn’t do it.”
“Come along, I say!” cried the constable.
“Please let me speak to Blicker,” entreated the terror-stricken man, turning to the saloon-keeper. “O, Blicker, you’re a gentleman. Wow don’t let me go to jail.”
“How can I prevent it?” asked Blicker.
“Why, you know very well that I didn’t so much as strike Jones, if you’d only say so. Now come, be honest, Blicker.”
“Will you go,” asked the constable, producing a pair of hand-cuffs, “without these?”
“O, yes, I’ll go,” said Comston in anguish. “Surely Blicker will tell the truth when he is put on his oath.”
And Comston was locked up in the jail.
THE PRISON.
Immediately after the arrest and imprisonment of Comston, Ernest called to see Clara in order to give such comfort as the circumstances would allow. He did not find her in tears, as he had expected. On the contrary, her face, though sad, wore a hard, stony expression. She acted as those unfortunate wives, who have lost their affection for their husbands, and who are looking forward to be released by the divorce of nature. The drunkard’s wife can be freed only by the premature death of her husband. She may not desire such a termination to her continual troubles, but she lives in constant expectation of such an end, and when it does come, she is not greatly surprised, for it is nothing more than she has anticipated. Clara was just in this condition. She had once loved Xerxes Comston as much as it was in her nature to love any one. But thisaffection had been eradicated by his brutal conduct and disgusting habits.
“I do assure you,” said Ernest, “I sympathize with you in your trials. Such misfortunes look dark to us, but God is good and kind, and we must be resigned to His holy will. All is for the best.”
“You think, then,” cried Clara, “it is best that Mr. Comston should kill Mr. Jones, and be hanged for it, do you?”
“We must not jump to conclusions,” mildly answered Ernest. “No trial has taken place, and we surely ought not to judge of the divine purposes before they are developed. Even after they are accomplished, we may not understand them. I have no doubt, that in every instance, God brings good out of evil.”
“Do you believe,” asked Clara, “that God has anything to do with this horrible affair?” And she looked at him almost savagely.
“Certainly,” replied Ernest gently, “I believe that God has something to do with every event.”
“Do you think,” exclaimed Clara, “that God made my husband a drunkard?”
“No, certainly not,” answered Ernest. “He made himself a an—inebriate. He is a free-agent,and the Lord permitted him to exercise his powers. God is not the author of men’s sins. He does not force them to sin. But if Mr. Comston killed Mr. Jones, which I do not think has been proved yet, you may rest assured that the Lord will bring good out of it in some way, and make it redound to His glory.”
“I don’t see how that can be,” said Clara.
“You may never see it in this world,” replied Ernest, “and you may live to see the day, when you will feel thankful for this very misfortune, as you now regard it.”
“Look here,” suddenly exclaimed Clara, “if that day ever comes when I shall feel that I ought to be thankful, I promise to join your church, and try to be a Christian.”
“Why not try to be a Christian anyhow?” asked Ernest. “You must not try to make a bargain and contract with God.”
“How is that?” said Clara.
“Why, you say in your heart, if God will give me certain things, grant certain desires, I will be a Christian. The Lord will accept no such service as that. You must make a full surrender of yourself to Christ—unconditional and forever. Determine to serve Him whetheryour wishes are granted or not. Trust Him, though He slay you.”
“O,” said Clara, “I cannot be a Christian. I have suffered too much.”
“So much the more reason why you should be a Christian,” answered Ernest. “You have seen the folly of this world’s pursuits. Now seek that happiness which the world can neither give nor take away.”
“I don’t know how to begin, even if I had the disposition,” replied Clara sulkily. “I once was happy. I enjoyed myself, and never thought of religion. If God is so good and so kind, as you say, why does He not give me that sort of happiness—the sort that I really crave?”
“How long would it last?” asked Ernest. “Only a few years. The time will come when you can no longer enjoy these pleasures of sense. You will lose the ardor of youth. Age will steal upon you, and you will lose all relish for temporal things. You will then feel the need of something more substantial. Why not begin now to lay up treasures in heaven?”
“Shall I feel more happy, if I do?” asked this spiritually ignorant, thoroughly worldly-minded woman. “Will God care for me, and supply my wants?”
“Undoubtedly, if you devote yourself to His service from the proper motives?”
“What is the proper motive?”
“Why,” answered Ernest, “you must serve the Master, not with the object of receiving earthly good, but with the view of making your calling and election sure.”
“I don’t know what to do,” replied Clara, thoughtfully and seriously.
“Give yourself, at once, to Christ, pray for the enlightening influences of the Holy Spirit, and God will bless you.”
“How can I do all this?” suddenly and impatiently cried Clara, “when I am suffering for the——.” She paused, and appeared to be greatly embarrassed.
“Nothing, though,” she added.
“Mrs. Comston,” said Ernest compassionately, “God knows I would be a friend and brother to you. I want your soul saved. Confide in me. Are you afraid to trust me, and acquaint me with your troubles, whatever they maybe?”
“No, I’m not afraid to trust you,” she answered, with tears springing into her eyes, “but I’m proud. I’m ashamed to tell anyone.” She could say no more for severalmoments, and Ernest waited till she became more tranquil.
“You seem to be the only friend I have in the world,” she continued presently. “I once had plenty of friends, but when misfortunes overtook me, they deserted me, and I have met with nothing but rebukes and insults. I have got so I hate people. I didn’t know the world was so full of mean wretches. People used to envy me, because I had money, but they seemed to me to rejoice when I was brought down to poverty and social degradation. If I wished to be good, I don’t see how I could.”
“Tell me your troubles,” urged Ernest kindly, “and, perhaps, I can be of service.”
“It is humiliating to confess,” she said, turning her blushing face, “but the truth is, I can get no work to do. I have had nothing to eat since yesterday. It seems that I must starve, and that, too, when I am willing to labor. But don’t misconstrue my motives. I’m no beggar. I’m not appealing to you for relief, and I don’t want you to mention what I have told you. I tell it to you to show you how difficult it would be for me to be good, when I hate people for my misfortunes.”
Ernest expressed no surprise at this distressing information, but he said no more on the subject of religion, well knowing that hunger is not very compatible with spirituality.
“The world is not so bad as you think it,” he replied. “You do your neighbors injustice by concealing your condition.”
“Don’t,” cried Clara, starting up, “don’t tell them for the world. I despise to be regarded as an object of pity.”
“Trust me,” rising to leave. “I shall not betray your confidence.”
In a little while after his departure, a cart drove up to Clara’s door, and the driver unloaded sufficient provisions to last for several weeks. Poor Clara was overwhelmed by this expression of kindness, and she went to her room, and “wept bitterly.” Several lady members of Ernest’s church called the next evening with offers of employment. They acted and talked in such a manner that she was satisfied they were not acquainted with her true condition. In her heart she thanked Ernest for the delicacy with which he had come to her relief. The ladies spoke words of sympathy. All this had a tendency to open the woman’s darkened heart to spiritual influences.
Ernest waited two days before he called at the prison to see Comston. Not being able to procure strong drink, the prisoner was perfectly sober. The poor fellow was humbled and subdued by the misfortunes which darkened his pathway.
“How are you to-day?” asked Ernest kindly.
“I’ve been in torment,” he replied. “I want brandy, and it seems I’ll die, if I can’t get it. Give me some.”
“Comston,” said Ernest gently, but firmly, “now is your time to break off your evil habit. If you do not, you are ruined.”
“I’m already ruined,” groaned the wretched victim. “But I never thought that I would be accused of murder. God in heaven knows that I never killed poor Jones. I’m as innocent of that as you are. Blicker told an infamous lie. I believe he did it himself, and is using me as a scape-goat.”
“But circumstances,” remarked Ernest, “seem to be against you at present. However, I have not come to talk about that. I want to save your soul.”
“Why,” cried Comston, in visible alarm, “you can’t believe I’ll be put to death, do you?It would be an everlasting disgrace to—to—hang an innocent man.”
“But you will have to die sometime, Comston—sooner or later, and I do not want your soul lost. I have come to pray with you, and for you. Will you join me?”
“O, yes, if you think it will do any good.”
Ernest read suitable portions of Scripture, and prayed for the unhappy man, whose feelings were at last deeply moved.
Comston, the next day, stood his trial in the Magistrate’s court, and without entering into the details, which would be of no special interest to the reader, it is sufficient to state that he was bound over to the Circuit Court, which would convene at the expiration of five months. As this was no bailable case, Comston had to be confined in jail.
Frequently our greatest misfortunes are blessings in disguise, as the Sacred Scriptures abundantly demonstrate. Comston’s incarceration, was at least a spiritual blessing to him. He could not procure ardent spirits, and the consequence was, that, in a few weeks, his physical constitution began to recuperate, and he at last mastered his terrible appetite. But this was not all. Ernest visited him nearlyevery day, prayed with him, instructed him, till finally the poor fellow had reason to rejoice in a brighter hope than had ever thrilled his heart before. There could be no doubt about his complete reformation. This, in connection with Comston’s emphatic assertion of his innocence, had a tendency to arouse public sympathy in his favor. No one believed that he was a murdererat heart, even if he had taken Jones’ life. The theory was, that it was done in a drunken quarrel, without there being any intention to kill.
But all this was not the full extent of the blessing. The husband and wife were also reconciled. Clara, who, too, had found that “peace which passeth all understanding,” visited him in the jail—indeed, spent the most of her time there. Xerxes “was himself again,” and her buried affection for him revived. So notwithstanding the unfavorable circumstances which surrounded them, they were comparatively happy. They were not without hope.
Ernest, in these hours of trial, proved a brother. He attended to Comston’s outside affairs, and, among other things, secured the services of a good lawyer.
The five months had nearly passed away, and only a few days remained before the trial would occur. Now, let us visit the jail for the last time. Only Clara, Comston and Ernest were present.
“O,” said Comston earnestly, “if I could only get out of this difficulty, what a different man I’d be! what a different life I’d lead! I’ve lost the taste for brandy, and now take a solemn oath that not another drop of the vile stuff shall ever go down my throat. O, Mr. Edgefield, pray God to get me out of this trouble, and I promise to be a true Christian as long as I live.”
“Now, Mrs. Comston,” said Ernest pleasantly, “you have heard his vow, do you think he would keep it?”
“If he wouldn’t,” she said emphatically, “he would be the meanest ingrate that ever lived on earth.”
“Well,” said Ernest, “I believe he will perform his vows. I shall not see you any more before the trial. Let us pray together once more for God’s assistance.”
When they arose from their knees, Clara seemed more cheerful and said:
“Somehow I feel hopeful.”
“So do I,” said Ernest, so emphatically that both looked at him in surprise.
“But upon what can you base a hope?” asked Clara, gazing searchingly into his face.
“Have faith in God,” replied Ernest. “He can raise up friends for us.”
“But we wantwitnesses,” said Clara.
“God can raise upunexpectedwitnesses,” replied Ernest mysteriously. “But good-by.”
And he left in haste.