CHAPTER IX.
“OFF TO THE WARS.”
The next day Ernest and the Doctor were alone in the study. The former seemed to be a little restless, like a man who wishes to say something, but knows not how to begin; the latter was tranquil as usual, poring over his theological books. Ernest would try to read, and then glance up uneasily at the calm old man upon whose open face God had put the seal of honesty. Ernest became fidgety. But presently he spoke:
“Will you give me your attention just a moment, Doctor?”
“Certainly; I am at your service,” replied the Doctor, laying his open book on the table.
“You believe the Confession of Faith?” asked Ernest with a merry twinkle, which escaped the preacher’s notice.
“Undoubtedly, I do.”
“Yesterday you said you believed that God ordained whatsoever comes to pass.”
“Yes, I believe that, too.”
“Without exception?”
“Yes,” replied the Doctor, unsuspiciously.
“Well, then,” said Ernest, casting his eyes to the floor, “Miss Mildred has agreed to become Mrs. Edgefield, when this ‘cruel war is over.’ If the Lord has ordained that, you will, of course, offer no objection.”
The old minister broke out into a hearty laugh in which he was joined by Ernest.
“That is a clever turning of the table, my young friend,” said the Doctor pleasantly. “But all that is really ordained is that she has agreed to the arrangement.”
“Yes sir, that is all.”
“I mean so far as we actually know. We know not what God has in store for any of us. I believe that the Lord directs every Christian in his affairs. If you have won Mildred’s heart, I shall offer no objection to your union whenever it may please her to consummate it. These are very uncertain times, and the good Lord only knows what may become of any of us.”
“We can but hope, sir,” said Ernest.
“Hope and pray,” replied the Doctor.
Ernest was now happy and unhappy—a thrilling contradiction which all will understand who have been in the same condition. He must leave in a few hours. Would he ever return? There lay before him the prospect of a long and bloody war. How many battles like that of Bull Run could he go through, and escape with his life? He had already been severely wounded in the first fight in which he had been engaged. The chances seemed to be against him. Yet did not God control the events of battle? Could He not save and protect whom He would? Something similar to this the Doctor said to Ernest the morning he was to rejoin his command.
“The doctrine which we have several times discussed,” said the Doctor, “has always proved to be a source of great comfort to me, and it will be to you, if you can believe it. Just think that your destiny is in God’s hands, and what need you fear? It is this that makes Jackson the Stonewall that the lamented Bee called him with his dying breath. I am told that Jackson is almost a fatalist. But, whatever may be his doctrinal errors, he is a firm believer in God’s sovereignty. The consequence is, he is afraid of nothing.”
“But are there not men as brave as he is, who do not believe this doctrine?” asked Ernest.
“Yes, in one sense. I do not mean to say that men are lacking in courage who reject the doctrine which we have discussed. But there is something in Jackson which is more than courage. It is his sublime, inflexible faith. There are numbers of men who will go unflinchingly into any of the dangers of battle, but they are animated by a spirit of desperation, by human feelings, such as pride, ambition, and the like. But Jackson puts himself unreservedly in the hands of God, and accepts whatever comes without a murmur. He knows that he can never be killed till God speaks the word, and it is this firm belief that gives such adamantine solidity to his grand and exalted character.”
That morning when all knelt around the family altar, it was a most solemn and affecting scene. Ernest was now regarded as one of the family. The Doctor read a portion of Scripture suitable to the occasion, and they sang with quivering voices three or four stanzas of that familiar old hymn, which seems destined to go sounding down through all the ages till the last of the redeemed are gathered home:
“How firm a foundation, ye saints of the Lord,
Is laid for your faith in His excellent word.”
Then all knelt down to pray. Ernest had the feeling of Jacob when, alone at Bethel, his head pillowed upon rock the patriarch said, “surely the Lord is in this place.” A holy influence gently stole over his soul, as the Doctor, in a husky voice, prayed for their guest. All arose in tears. Ernest shed tears too, but they were strange tears. His faith was firmer, and he felt that he could trust himself in the hands of God.
Alas! those were days that tried men’s souls! When the “soldier boy” went from his home, it was like shaking hands over the grave. The mother drew her darling son to her breast and imprinted burning kisses upon his brow. He broke loose from her frantic embrace, and in a few days afterwards, the news was brought that he was sleeping in the soldier’s bloody grave. Young husbands and wives parted to meet no more till the last trump shall call them up on the resurrection morn. No pen can describe the awful scenes of those four years of fratricidal strife. Sad! sad! sad!
Ernest was accompanied by Mildred to the depot. They rode in a buggy while Dr. Arrington came on horse-back in the rear. The young man endeavored to be lively and cheerful, and this humor was encouraged by Mildred. Yet both could see through this disguised mutual gaiety. It was not natural. Frequently there were long pauses in their conversation. Such is generally the case with two friends, about to part in a very short time, who feel that they ought to talk, but can think of no topic suitable to the occasion. I have seen two brothers, one of whom was condemned to be shot for a military offence, hold their last interview; it was a silent meeting. So when Ernest and Mildred tried to keep up a cheerful conversation, they would often relapse into silence.
“O, my Mildred,” cried Ernest with deep emotion, as they neared the depot, “I can keep up this false show no longer. I am not cheerful. The thought of leaving you is as bitter as death, and I may as well give vent to my real feelings. I could almost wish that I had never met you. My thoughts will all run out to you. O, I fear we shall never meet again.”
“Why should we look on the dark side of the picture?” asked Mildred, in low, sweet tones. “There is a kind Father above who rules in the affairs of men. Whatever may happen, be assured the Judge of all the earth will do right. ‘Our times are in His hands.’ He will do that which is best for us. He can throw His everlasting arms around you, and shield you in the terrors of the hottest battle. The Mighty God controls all things.”
“I see,” said Ernest, trying to smile, “that you too, endeavor to comfort yourself with that ‘horrid’ Presbyterian doctrine. You rely on that on all occasions.”
“Certainly I do,” replied Mildred. “I get as much comfort from it as from any truth taught in God’s Holy Word.”
“I am almost convinced,” said Ernest, “that predestination is a doctrine of the Bible, but I wish I could bring it into practical affairs, as you do.”
“It is easy to do,” replied Mildred. “Just put yourself unreservedly into the hands of God, and go out boldly in the discharge of duty. Of what should you be afraid?”
“Sometimes,” said Ernest, “I think perhaps it is predestinated that I shall be lost.”
“If you have that fear, it is an evidence that you are not so predestinated. If you were a reprobate, you would have no such fear. You would be indifferent.”
“If I am one of the elect,” asked Ernest, “how may I know it with certainty?”
“God does not leave us to grope in doubt and darkness,” replied Mildred. “If you love the people of God, love the Church and its services, love religion, love to meditate upon heavenly things, and love to read your Bible, you know that you love the Lord Jesus. That is a certain indication that the heart has been renewed. God has said that His people shall never perish. They were chosen before the foundation of the world. If then, I was chosen from all eternity, how happy I ought to feel; and I will add, how happy I do feel. This doctrine of election and predestination, which is so horrible to some people, is the greatest source of comfort to me.”
“You ought to be the wife of a minister,” said Ernest, thoughtfully.
“I would ask no higher destiny in this world,” modestly replied Mildred.
“There is a Baptist preacher in my town,” said Ernest, “who has tried to make me believe that I am called to preach.”
“What made him think so?”
Ernest then briefly related the circumstances in regard to the matter, with which the reader is acquainted. Mildred listened with the most intense interest, and a flash of joy suddenly illuminated her face.
“I am glad you told me that,” she said, “for now I cannot but believe that God is preparing you for His work just as He did Moses in the land of Midian. Go on, then; do your duty, and have faith in God. I will try to believe that you will be brought through all dangers in safety. God has something for you to do. Are you willing to walk in the path which providence points out?”
“I am.”
“Then have no fears.”
And from that moment she appeared so cheerful and confident, and seemed to have such strong faith in the divine goodness, love and care, that Ernest caught her spirit. By the time they arrived at the depot he was in much better spirits.
“I am now satisfied,” he said, as they were about to part, “that there is something more practical in the doctrines of the Presbyterian Church than I had ever dreamed of. Henceforth I shall try to bring them into my life as you do. But I am very skeptical by nature, and when I leave you I may again fall into doubt. God bless you, my dear Mildred, for helping to lift the clouds from my soul. I feel hopeful. But pray for me, that my faith fail not.”
Mildred tried hard to restrain her tears, but it was in vain. They were tears of joy mingled with tears of sadness. The train was heard rumbling in the distance, and Mildred said: “I hope you will not regard me as a Cassandra, if I prophesy that you will at last return to us in safety?”
“You shall be as a Deborah to me,” replied Ernest. “You must write to me every day.”
“Every day?”
“What I mean is, keep a sort of daily journal, and send it to me once a week, if possible. I will do the same, and it will be a source of pleasure to us.”
The foregoing is no fancy-sketch, but an actual occurrence, and shows how the dearest friends separated during the terrible, uncertain days of the Great Rebellion.
Presently the train came dashing in, and Ernest stepped on the platform, waved his hand to Mildred, and entered the coach. The conductor shouted “All aboard.” The bell rang: sizz—sizz—click—click—and a moment after, a young lady with a solemn face was seen in a buggy, driving slowly and thoughtfully from the depot. Her thoughts followed the train whose roaring she could hear in the distance. When she reached home, how sad all nature appeared! She went to her room, locked the door, fell upon her knees, and prayed God, with all the earnestness of her soul, to shield and protect him upon whom her temporal happiness depended. Hers was a sacred love which God sanctioned.
Ernest, as the train went dashing along through forest and fields, sank down into a seat, and without effort directed his imagination to the residence of the good Doctor Arrington. He thanked God in his heart for sending him to that house. Suppose he had not been wounded, he thought, or suppose he had fallen upon some other part of the field, the probability was, Dr. Arrington would not have found him. How could he fail to recognize the hand of God in all these little circumstances? Then, he prayed the Lord still to be with him, and direct all his footsteps.
In connection with such thoughts as these, his memory revived scenes which had transpired the previous year. He recalled the agony of his unrequited love for Clara Vanclure. He had thought that he never could recover from the wound which she had so ruthlessly inflicted. Three months, or less, after his rejection, she had married his rival, contrary to the wishes of her father. He became enraged when she informed him that she had discarded Ernest Edgefield.
“You have acted like a—a—simpleton,” he exclaimed, suppressing with difficulty a much harsher appellation. “Whom do you expect to marry, I should like to know?”
“Mr. Comston,” she answered hesitatingly.
“Well, well, that surpasses my comprehension—surpasses my comprehension,” he cried. “I should like to know what you fancy in him—yes, fancy in him. Ernest is worth a thousand such cinnamon-scented popinjays—yes, cinnamon-scented popinjays.”
“Mr. Comston does not use cinnamon,” Clara ventured to say apologetically.
“If he don’t,” exclaimed the irritated parent, “he uses musk which is worse, and bear’s oil, and such other tomfoolery—other tomfoolery.”
Clara blushed, but said nothing more, wisely allowing her provoked progenitor to give vent to his indignation till the storm of wrath should subside. Resistance would only increase its fury.
But she married, and Ernest saw her become the bride of his rival; for she had sent him a card to her wedding, and Ernest went, to show her how little he cared.
All this now appeared like some dim dream that flitted through his mind years ago. How thankful he now felt that Comston had removed to the town of —— in time to prevent a complicated involution of the threads of destiny. If that young man had made his advent a few weeks later, the conjugal infelicity of Ernest would have been an assured fact—at least he felt so now. What an insignificant being Clara now appeared when put in contrast with the intelligent, accomplished and pious Mildred Arrington. He almost shuddered as he thought of the narrow escape he had made. And the question came up in his mind, did God have nothing to do with this? If the sparrow does not escape the beneficent observation of the Supreme Being, surely His intelligent creatures will receive a due share of the divine watchfulness and loving care.
Again, while the train was thundering along its iron track, sad and gloomy thoughts and doubts, calculated to banish all cheerfulness, would suddenly spring up in his mind, and the trembling light of hope would almost disappear in the darkness. He recalled the old adage, “Man proposes, God disposes.” Suppose his intended union, after all, with Mildred should not be in accord with the Divine purpose? Could he give her up? Would he not rebel, and murmur against God’s will? Alas! how hard it is for a human being to tread the appointed path of destiny with his will in complete subjection to that of the Heavenly Father! At times, man cannot but think that his own chosen way is best. The retrospective view convinces him of his folly and infirmity.
“While I mused, the fire burned,” said the Psalmist. While the train rattled along, Ernest thought and mused. Presently a brakesman cried out, “—— Station.” Ernest gathered up his baggage, and in a short time was shaking hands with his comrades-in-arms.