START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DEEP WATERS*** E-text prepared by Martin Pettit and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org) Note: Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See https://archive.org/details/deepwatersorstra00croz DEEP WATERS, Or A Strange Story by REV. R. H. CROZIER, Author of âFiery Trials,â âAraphel,â âCave of Hegobar,â âConfederate Spy,â âBloody Junto,â &c., &c. âWhen through the Deep Waters I call thee to go.â St. Louis: Publishing House Of Farris, Smith & Co. 919 Olive Street. Copyright by R. H. Crozier. All Rights Reserved. CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. PAGE. The Young Graduate 5 CHAPTER II. A Great Change 30 CHAPTER III. The Mysterious Voice 51 CHAPTER IV. A Rival 76 CHAPTER V. Deep Waters 99 CHAPTER VI. Manassas 126 CHAPTER VII. After the Battle 136 CHAPTER VIII. Hard Truths 151 CHAPTER IX. âOff to the Warsâ 168 CHAPTER X. A Dangerous Mission 182 CHAPTER XI. A Brave Girl 196 CHAPTER XII. In Prison 209 CHAPTER XIII. A Desperate Man 226 CHAPTER XIV. Dark Hours 245 CHAPTER XV. A Remarkable Event 260 CHAPTER XVI. A Confederate Marriage 277 CHAPTER XVII. Peace 283 CHAPTER XVIII. The Drunkard 295 CHAPTER XIX. The Crime 308 CHAPTER XX. The Prison 317 CHAPTER XXI. The Trial 329 CHAPTER XXII. The Last Scene 341 The Sermon 350 DEEP WATERS. CHAPTER I. THE YOUNG GRADUATE. In the latter part of June 18-- the little city of Oxford, Miss., was teeming with visitors, not only from various portions of the State, but from the adjoining States of Tennessee, Alabama, Arkansas and Louisiana. This concourse of people was no unusual spectacle to the citizens of Oxford; for it was but the gathering that occurred regularly once a year. The center of attraction to this fashionable, well-dressed assemblage was the University of Mississippi, which has sent forth hundreds of young men intellectually equipped for the stern struggle for existence--a struggle, the contemplation and investigation of which gave birth to Mr. Darwinâs doctrine of âThe survival of the fittest.â What was the meaning of this concourse? It was _Commencement day_. The University would again dismiss another class of her children to assume the grave responsibilities of citizenship, and to enter into the new and strange relations for which they had been preparing by years of diligent study. At last, they were to lay aside the _toga virilis trita_, and don the _toga pexa_ of manhood. It was the last day, and the exercises of the graduating class were to close the weekâs programme. At an early hour the crowd of visitors and the citizens of Oxford began to fill up the chapel, and by the time the speaking was to begin, the large and commodious structure was packed with a dense mass of eager, intelligent humanity; for it was generally the _elite_ of the country that gathered here on these interesting occasions. The class of this year was unusually large, and was distinguished for intellectual attainments. Sitting in the long row of chairs in front of the _rostrum_, they constituted as fine a body of young men as could be collected from the South. What a variety of destinies lay before them! How many would ever rise to eminence in any department of human activity! How many would go down to premature graves without any opportunity of justifying the fond anticipations of their friends! How many would disappoint the expectations of their affectionate parents, many of whom proudly gazed upon them as they performed their parts in the programme! There was much speculation that day as to what these young men would achieve upon the arena of active life. It would be, no doubt, very interesting if we could trace the subsequent history of each and all, but our present undertaking will compel us to confine our attention to only one of the class, whose career was sufficiently remarkable to be rescued from the darkness of that obscurity in which the large majority of his mates have disappeared. At length the speaking began. The first speaker was listened to with attention which novelty secures. The next found a difficulty in making himself heard in the remoter parts of the building, the consequence of which was considerable whispering in the seats that were beyond the compass of his voice. The next four or five speakers labored under the disadvantage of trying to overcome that buzz and hum of conversation, _sotto voce_, which is generally a disturbing element when the orator cannot reach the whole of his audience. But a wonderful change was soon to come over this congregation, now becoming rapidly demoralized by forgetting or ignoring the demands of etiquette. For when the next speaker was called, a young man responded whose pale cast of countenance indicated the worldâs ideal student. His splendid _physique_ at once arrested the attention of the entire assembly, and there was a strange, sudden lull, for which no one could account. Those in the rear of the chapel straightened themselves, and leaned forward, as if fearful that they would lose the first words of the orator. The ladies ceased fanning, and fastened their eyes upon the elegant form now standing in graceful attitude on the crowded rostrum. It was evident that something unusual was expected. Would the assembly be disappointed and disgusted? Would the external marks of genius prove fallacious? The young man bowed gracefully, straightened himself, paused for an instant, and gazed modestly, but in perfect self-possession, at the sea of upturned, eager faces. Slowly came forth the first sentences flowing on a voice as clear as a silver trumpet, and yet as soft as the breeze which was at that moment soughing through the broad oaks of the surrounding forest. The tones, and, in fact, everything else about the young man appeared to be in consonance with his subject, which the audience saw, on glancing at the programme, was âMan was made to mourn.â It was a theme which, of course, admitted of no profound reasoning, and no startling argument. None was attempted, and none was expected. The auditors tacitly offered their emotions to be swayed as the orator willed. The people made no resistance, but seemed to yield at once to the strange, subtile influence which was stealing over them, and insinuating itself into their hearts like an invisible current of electricity. The smiles vanished from every face as the youthful speaker, in a slightly quivering voice, portrayed scenes of human sorrow and suffering, in order to establish his proposition. In a little while tears were seen rolling down grave cheeks. Young ladies endeavored to laugh at the âridiculous scene,â as some called it, but the crystal drops glistened in their eyes. At last, when the young man sat down, nothing was heard but suppressed sobs and efforts to clear the nasal duct of its liquid obstructions. At first there was no applause: people seemed unwilling that the spell should be broken. But presently, seeming to realize that the effort deserved more than the silent attestation of the lachrymal gland, they suddenly burst forth into thunders of applause, such as had never before awoke echoes in the classic grove that sheltered the chapel. Those who had printed programmes again looked at the name of this young man. It was Ernest Edgefield. Who was he? Whence did he come? Such were the questions which immediately followed this effort, the most remarkable that had ever been witnessed in the University of Mississippi. It was ascertained that day, that there was nothing very eventful or wonderful in his history. His parents had died when he was small, leaving, however, sufficient means to support him till he could obtain a collegiate education. Such was his brief history. But what would be his future? Everybody felt that his career would be brilliant; that the young man must achieve a degree of success commensurate with his wonderful oratory. We will at once follow up his footsteps. Ernest determined to adopt the law as his profession. He now had barely funds to defray his expenses through the Law School, but as he did not wish to lose time, he resolved to exhaust his entire means in the completion of his legal education. At the expiration of two years he was graduated with distinction; but he was penniless, and had to begin the battle with nothing but his education and energy. His guardian, with whom our reader will soon become better acquainted, agreed to board him without pay till the young manâs efforts should be crowned with that material success, which the Reverend gentleman thought must attend the exercise of such talents as his young ward possessed. When the parents of Ernest died, he was left to the care of a minister of the Baptist denomination, in whom they had unbounded confidence. His name was Joseph Hillston. He at once took the boy to his house, and made no difference between him and his own children. By a judicious management of the small property left in his hands, Mr. Hillston kept the youth in college till his education was completed, at which time Ernest had attained his majority. Mr. Hillston then turned over to him the remainder of his property, which, as stated, was entirely absorbed by his two yearâs course at the Law School. And now he had no money, but he was animated by a lofty purpose, and a determination to conquer, before which he felt that difficulties must vanish. No one seemed to doubt that the brilliant young lawyer, with his splendid accomplishments, would subordinate destiny to his will, and would soon stand at the head of the legal fraternity. Indeed, some predicted that he would, at last, reach the highest office that the people could bestow. And why should he not? Not a single element of success was lacking, so far as his friends could see. His attainments appeared to be equal to the demands of the most vaulting ambition. What, then, should he care for difficulties, except as a stimulus to arouse his energies? But what little, insignificant trifles turn the barque of destiny into channels of which the pilot never dreamed! It is not violent storms that change the course of this allegorical barque; because the pilot is prepared for great disturbances and obstacles. It was a moment of sleep that caused Palinurus to fall over-board into the sea: a hurricane could not have produced the same disastrous result. It is the little things that change the current of human life. A spiderâs web sometimes turns the vesselâs helm: the echo of a word destroys the equilibrium of circumstances. Late in life man finds himself driven into a port which had never entered into the programme of possibilities. All this will be illustrated in the progress of the present story. A few days after Ernest returned from the Law School, there was seen on the door of an unpretending office, in his native town, a square piece of metal, exhibiting in gilded letters, â_Ernest Edgefield, Attorney at Law_.â Our young lawyer had not the most remote idea of settling permanently in this little town, where he would have to fritter away his energies and cramp his mind in such narrow litigation as must arise in rural courts, but he fully intended, after a while, to seek a field of broader dimensions, which would call forth all his legal lore, and cause him to put forth all the strength of which he was capable. His present location was only the stepping-stone to his loftier aspirations, and which, he thought, would detain him only till he could acquire sufficient means to justify his removal to some city where his talents could find room for development. It was not long before Ernestâs fond hopes and the justifiable expectations of his friends began to emerge from the shade of possibilities into the sunshine of realities. Legal business flowed in, and Ernest, at the very outset of his career, found himself entrusted with the management of as important cases as ever require judicial investigation in a provincial court. But Ernest could not thus go on forever, thinking of nothing but the immediate object of his ambition, and dreaming only of deeds and legal parchments and bags of gold. At an early day in his career a path of destiny began to open in the misty future, different from that which he had at first marked out for himself. In the town there lived a young lady whom he had known from childhood. For several years, however, she had occupied scarcely a single thought of his, attributable to the fact that both had been absent at school. Both returned home the same month to enter upon their respective careers, which seemed to be as far apart as zenith and nadir, since the charming, gilded path of ease, leisure and idleness lay before the one, and the path of work, diligence, and activity lay before the other. Clara Vanclure was the only child of a wealthy merchant. Her prospects were regarded as very brilliant, since the probability was, she would inherit all her fatherâs property, consisting of lands and plantations as well as stores, and estimated at not less than two millions of dollars. As might be expected, she was a âspoiled child,â yet, she was beautiful, and accomplished to the full extent of her capacities, which, strict truth compels us to say, were not, by any means, of the highest order. But the dazzling mantle of vast wealth hides a mighty multitude of faults. There is a confusing glamour about âgreat possessions,â which so fascinates and bewitches, that the judgment of men cannot be properly exercised. The sneering cynic, like growling Diogenes, may affect to despise wealth, but in his heart he respects the owner, who controls such a source of commercial power and social influence. We may have a contempt for the rich manâs character, but in spite of ourselves, we stand in awe of the Magicianâs mysterious ring which he wears on his finger. It was wealth that gave an additional luster to Miss Vanclureâs accomplishments. When Ernest again met the young lady, after a separation of several years, both were changed by the uncontrollable vicissitudes of time. She especially had developed from an awkward Miss of fifteen, into a symmetrically-proportioned woman. In the catalogue of her recommendations, her physical attractions were certainly well calculated to make an impression upon any susceptible heart. Ernest was not insensible to the charms of beauty, and he at once acknowledged Claraâs claims to the highest order of corporeal graces. He immediately renewed his acquaintance with his _quondam_ school-fellow, (for both had attended the same school when they were children) to which she was, by no means averse. Our reader will be afflicted with no long story of love and courtship. It is always very entertaining to a certain class of young people to read the entire history of two lovers--their honeyed utterances, poetical effusions, delightful promenades by moonlight--their petty jealousies, sad misunderstandings, little quarrels, succeeded by reconciliation that only places mutual rehabilitation upon a firmer basis--all this might be highly interesting, but we must hasten on to the narration of more important events. It is sufficient to say that as soon as Ernestâs success became an assured fact, he proposed to the fair Clara, and was accepted. Old Mr. Vanclure was secretly delighted at the prospect of such an alliance, for he was not one of those simpletons who would have their children sacrifice their temporal happiness upon the altar of Mammon. Clara would have a large estate, and only needed a husband who had the ability to manage it. Mr. Vanclure, now advanced in years, had felt considerable anxiety in regard to his daughterâs future, but the perplexing problem seemed about to end in a felicitous solution, and a great burden was lifted from his mind, when one day Ernest called for the purpose of asking his consent to a closer relationship between Miss Vanclure and himself. He had been among the first to discover the excellency and solidity of the young manâs moral character, and he was not so blinded by parental love that he could not easily perceive the moral infirmities of his own child. He knew that she would need a protector and a guardian as long as she should live. Therefore, having been fearful that Clara would become the prey of some worthless adventurer, he could scarcely conceal his joy when Ernest approached him upon this delicate subject. However, the old gentleman seemed to think it advisable to mask his happy feelings under the guise of a little opposition, and he said: âAh? I was hardly expecting this--at least so soon--yes, so soon.â âWhy not, Mr. Vanclure?â âWhy not? Why because you arânt settled in life--yes, settled in life.â âI have now a respectable income,â said Ernest, âif you are alluding to that, and it is increasing gradually, but surely.â âI have no doubt, Ernest,â replied Mr. Vanclure, with more tenderness than he wished to manifest, âthat you will succeed--yes, you will succeed. But still, both of you are rather young to marry.â âWe think differently,â answered Ernest, with a smile, âI am nearly twenty five.â âAh? are you that old? Well, bless me, I believe you are, since I come to think about it. Dear me! how time does fly--yes, how time does fly. You have got to be a man before I thought about it. Young people do grow up so fast--so fast--and Clara is a grown woman, too. Well; well.â âSince you have discovered that we are both grown,â said Ernest with a smile, âmay I hope that you will not oppose our wishes?â âAnd if I did,â answered Mr. Vanclure, not knowing what he ought to say, âWhat would you do--yes, what would you do?â âI should endeavor to overcome your opposition.â âAnd I guess you think youâd succeed with your eloquence. You lawyers are cunning dogs,â said the old gentleman, breaking into a laugh, which, rather than otherwise, indicated approval of this feature of the legal character, âyes, cunning dogs. If I give you a chance to argue the case, Iâm satisfied Iâll lose; for youâll convince me that Clara will land in eternal perdition unless she marries you--yes marries you--and nobody else. I donât want to get into an argument with you lawyers. So if the arrangement suits Clara, Iâll have nothing more to say. It will take a lawyer anyhow to manage the estate to which she will fall heir some of these days. The thing is now getting beyond my comprehension, and I will soon have to get a lawyer to untangle some of my affairs--yes, some of my affairs.â In this way the old man gave his consent. Here we must say that the reader would do Ernest the grossest injustice to suppose that the metallic virtue of the young lady was the chief consideration that influenced his affections. Clara appeared lovely in his eyes, and he would have been willing to enter into the matrimonial relation without any prospect of dower. Nearly every one in the community believed that Ernest was governed in this _affaire du cÅur_ by mercenary considerations. There is nothing more certain than that an impecunious man who pays his addresses to a wealthy woman, will incur the imputation of improper motives. It is a sad fact, that the world is envious. People, in their secret souls, dislike to see their neighbors lifted by sudden prosperity to an elevation above their own level. Why should not such good fortune have happened to themselves? is the galling, latent thought of their hearts, to which they would be ashamed to give audible expression. The thought lurks in the darkest recesses of the breast like a slimy viper, and well deserves a place in the horrid abode of that fearful envy, so graphically described by Ovid: _Pallor in ore sedet, macies in corpore toto,_ _Nusquam recta acies; livent rubigine dentes,_ _Pectora felle virent, lingua est suffusa veneno._[1] But Ernest truly loved Clara, though he might not himself have been able to explain the source of attraction, as love is not a passion subject to the human will. Mr. Hillston at an early period of the courtship, perceived his infatuation, and as he took a deep interest in the welfare of his ward, he could not but feel some misgivings as to the propriety of the union. One day Ernest informed him of his engagement, and the old man shook his head unconsciously in an ominous manner, which did not escape Ernestâs observation. âYou do not seem to approve of my selection?â said Ernest inquiringly. Mr. Hillston had made no remark after this communication, but sat still with an ambiguous expression upon his face. âIt is not for me to approve or disapprove in matters of this kind,â was Mr. Hillstonâs reply, which was not very satisfactory to his ward, who was looking at the old minister in surprise. âI thought surely you would congratulate me,â said Ernest, with a faint, forced smile. âThe ides of March have come, but not gone,â answered Mr. Hillston, shaking his head. âI do not understand you, Mr. Hillston.â âHow can I congratulate you, my dear boy, when I cannot foresee the end?â âCan you do that in any case, sir?â âTrue enough: but sometimes, and in some cases, we fear the termination.â âPlease do not speak in riddles, Mr. Hillston. Is not the prospect flattering?â âIn one sense, yes. So far as material prosperity is concerned, I can see no possible objection. But money, my dear Ernest, does not always bring happiness.â âDo you suppose I am base enough to marry for money?â interrupted Ernest with an angry flush. âNo, no,â hastily answered Mr. Hillston. âI have a better opinion of you than that. But the world judges of marriages by outward circumstances. If both parties start out in life with great wealth, people generally think they are happy matches. But there are other things to be considered in a woman besides wealth, beauty and external accomplishments. A good, solid moral character is of far more value than a great fortune. A womanâs character is the first thing to be considered. Sometimes young people hurry into marriage without ever pausing to ascertain whether there may not be incompatibilities and incongruities that will forever exclude happiness from their abode. Now, my dear boy, have you thought of all this?â âCertainly I have,â replied Ernest, impatiently. âDo you mean to insinuate that Miss Vanclure is destitute of moral worth?â âI did not say that. I only asked if you had thought about, as I should have said, the dissimilarity of your characters.â But, noticing Ernestâs expression of dissatisfaction, âI have not intimated that Miss Clara is morally deficient. I would only advise you to be cautious. In such matters, young people should âmake haste slowly.â However, I do not presume to give you advice on this subject. Every man must choose to suit himself.â âThe choice I have made,â said Ernest quickly, âsuits me.â âThen there is nothing more to be said,â replied Mr. Hillston coolly. âBut you do not seem to like it.â âThat has nothing to do with it. It is your affair, and if you are pleased, no one else has the right to say a word.â âMr. Hillston,â said Ernest, suddenly lowering his voice from the high key of self-sufficiency and independence to a subdued tone, âyou have been a father to me, and you know I have been guided by you. I have confidence in your judgment; and now if you see me about to commit an error, one that may wreck my happiness, ought not common charity, to say nothing of the relation you sustain to me, induce you to kindly point out my mistake? I can see clearly that you are not pleased at my prospective marriage. Now tell me plainly what is the matter?â âMy dear Ernest,â said the old man, with the tenderness of a parent, âyou know that I have ever treated you as one of my own children, and have ever consulted your interest. I would not hesitate to give you advice in this important matter if I knew how. I will only say this, if you will take no offence--â âNo, no,â interrupted Ernest eagerly, âI will not. Go on, say what you please.â âWell, then, I fear that the great dissimilarity between your characters may prove a source of annoyance, if not trouble. You are grave and serious in your disposition, while Miss Clara is the very opposite.â âThat may be true,â replied Ernest, âbut might not this very dissimilarity be an advantage to both of us?â âIt might, and then it might not. At any rate, therein lies the danger I apprehend. You ought to pray to God to direct you in so serious a business as this.â âBut I am not a churchman, Mr. Hillston.â âYou cannot regard God then as your friend?â âO yes, I suppose He is; but I do not know that God would concern Himself with so small an affair as my marriage.â âWhat! if God takes note of the flight of the sparrow, and the flower of the field, think you He will totally overlook the welfare of His intelligent creatures? Do you not believe the Lord has something to do with everything that happens?â âI do not know, sir. I am no Presbyterian. I understand they hold to some such doctrine as that. But I have never had any special liking for that denomination.â âNeither am I a Presbyterian. I am a Baptist, as you know. But do you suppose that Presbyterians are the only people who advocate the doctrine of special providence?â âI do not know that they are, but from all that I can learn, they push it to extremes.â âI believe it,â said Mr. Hillston, emphatically, âas firmly as any Presbyterian I ever saw, and I believe it to its fullest extent, and in all its bearings. I am not willing that the Presbyterians shall claim as a distinctive dogma of theirs a doctrine to which the Baptist Church holds with as much tenacity as they do.â âDo you believe, then, that God would concern Himself with so small a matter as the marriage of two human beings?â âI certainty do.â âDo you believe, then, that God is a matchmaker?â asked Ernest, with a laugh. âI believe God will direct His people in all their affairs, when they ask Him in faith.â âBut suppose I am not one of His people?â âIf you are not,â said Mr. Hillston, with deep solemnity, âI am very sorry for you. It is your own fault, if you are not.â âWould it be of any avail for me to ask Godâs direction, when I am not one of His people, as you call them?â âNot if you are determined to go on in your sins. If you make a full surrender of yourself to Him, I have no doubt He will assist and guide you. However, in that case you would be one of His people. But how could you expect Godâs favor and friendship, if you stand to Him in the relation of an enemy?â âI do not know,â answered Ernest thoughtfully, and then after a moment he added, âI suppose I will have to look out for myself.â âI dislike to hear you talk that way, my dear boy,â said Mr. Hillston kindly, âfor if you proclaim your independence of the Divine Being, you will lead a most wretched life.â âI did not mean that in any spirit of irreverence,â quickly answered Ernest. âAll I meant was that, if I was not one of Godâs people, I would have to take care of myself. I have the utmost respect for the Christian religion. My conduct, as you know, has proved that I have.â âYes, I know you are a moralist, and you may be one of Godâs children, notwithstanding the fact that you are living in sin.â âI do not understand you,â said Ernest. âI know you do not, but the time may come when you will. I will pray God to direct you, since you cannot do so for yourself. His will, no doubt, will be accomplished. You have not married Clara yet, and perhaps you may never do so.â âBut I rather think I will,â said Ernest with considerable energy. âMy boy, do not speak so positively. If God does not intend that it shall be so, you will never marry her.â âI should like to know what is to prevent it?â âI know not. But remember, âMan proposes, but God disposes.â You cannot overcome your Maker.â âI do not propose to enter into any contest with God; because I do not think He cares whether I do this thing or that thing. Therefore I repeat that I will marry Clara.â âWhen it happens,â said Mr. Hillston, smiling, âwe will talk more about it. Do not be too confident, my boy.â Ernest went to his office, wondering what in the world the old preacher could mean. Did he intend to predict that the âconsummation to be devoutly wished,â at least by himself, would, at last, prove only an idle dream? What would be the use, he thought, of asking God to direct him in so simple an affair as a marriage? Besides, it was too late now. Like CÃ¦sar, he had crossed the Rubicon, and he must go on. He loved Clara with all his heart--why, then, should he not fulfill his engagement? He would do it. Alas! how short-sighted is man? How quickly are his deep-laid schemes, his skillfully-concocted plans, suddenly overthrown by some unforseen circumstance which had never entered as a factor into his calculations? Man is frequently standing on the very verge of a volcano, and knows it not till the soil crumbles beneath his feet. FOOTNOTE: [1] A paleness rests on her face, leanness in the whole body, Never looks direct; her teeth are black with rust: Her breast green with gall; her tongue is dripping with venom. CHAPTER II. A GREAT CHANGE. It is sometimes the case that we have premonitions that vaguely forewarn us of approaching ill fortune. Not a cloud appears above the horizon of our life, and yet we instinctively shrink from an undefinable something that seems to reach far out in advance of the shadow of coming events. Probably there are powers in the human mind whose development has been prevented by the dread of superstition. The animal seeks shelter from the approaching storm before man has discovered the slightest indication of atmospheric disturbance, or whatever it may be that warns the unreasoning brute of impending danger. May there not be some similar delicate instinct in man that perceives the advancing peril while it is still below the horizon of reality? Who knows? Or discarding human philosophy as insufficient to furnish a solution, may we not regard this shadowy _mene tekel upharsin_ as an emanation from a supernatural source? Men are so skeptical and incredulous and so afraid of âsuperstitionâ that they will attribute incomprehensible events to any cause rather than divine interposition. Some assume that miracles never have been performed; and others, that the days of miracles have passed away, and in consequence of this assumption, they ascribe nothing to the hand of Omnipotence. Evolution, correlated forces, natural selection, origin of species, and such terms have left no place in the nomenclature of science for the recognition of the hand of Deity. Unholy skepticism declares that divine direction in the affairs of men is but the unfounded fancy of religious fanaticism. But we do know that in ancient times the Lord sent warnings through the medium of dreams and visions. By what authority do we assume that such means of communication have been abolished? At any rate, such a feeling, a feeling of vague uneasiness, mingled with the thoughts of Ernest Edgefield. He was engaged to be married, and had the utmost confidence in the fidelity and stability of his affianced; and yet he was disturbed by a dim, indistinct sense of unrest, which defied all efforts of analysis. It was like trying to follow an obscure mist by the uncertain light of the moon. He endeavored to reason himself out of his foolish apprehensions. What had he to fear? The course of his own true love seemed to be running smooth. In a few weeks the engagement would be consummated. Then, why this dread? Was it not, after all, produced by Mr. Hillstonâs ambiguous innuendoes? But what made the old preacher disbelieve, or at least doubt, that his marriage with Miss Vanclure would ever take place? There was no rival in the case to awaken his jealousy. Indeed, he felt a little vexed at his kind guardian for throwing out such insinuations. Then he would endeavor to banish the indefinable dread which had seized upon him. We who have passed through the scenes of youth, know something of the petty follies, the disquiet, the foolish _ennui_ at times, which distinguish the young man whose heart has been lacerated by the golden arrow of the mischievous little son of Venus. Ernest rarely failed to call once a day at the enchanting domicile of his intended, and if he failed, he frequently made atonement for his negligence by two visits on the next day. While he was in this state of cardiac effervescence, the wheels of time rolled on, unfolding events which had slumbered so long in the bosom of the future. Who can tell what a day may bring forth? Amid the multitudinous events that are continually rushing into reality, like the soldiers of an army in the charge, who can make provision against those unforeseen contingencies which are forever arising? Who can control the chariot of destiny? Perhaps no event was so little expected as that which seemed to change the current of Ernestâs destiny, a few weeks antecedent to his contemplated marriage. Not to delay with moralizing, an Evangelist by the name of Coyt made his advent into the quiet town where Ernest lived, on the invitation of the Presbyterian church. Great expectations had been formed by many of the more pious brethren, who had read accounts of Dr. Coytâs wonderful success at other places. His services were eagerly desired and sought all over the country. At last he entered the little town of ---- and began a series of earnest, soul-searching sermons, which he had repeated so often that he could frequently predict what result would follow the delivery of each. Large, expectant congregations attended his meetings from the very outset, since his evangelistic fame had preceded him. For several days the preacher produced no great visible effects, and there were scarcely any signs of spiritual life, except such as were discernible in the numerous petitions sent in by anxious brethren, requesting prayer for sons, daughters, wives, or other relatives and friends. At length this request was read out to the congregation: âPlease pray for a young lawyer, who is moral and worthy in every respect, but is lacking the one thing needful.â Ernest was present, and heard the reading of this petition. Who could it be but himself? At first, a flash of displeasure, to call it by the mildest name, passed over his handsome face. Who was the person that had the impudence to direct attention to him? But all harsh thoughts soon passed away, when he reflected that the petitioner, whoever it might be, desired only his good. The process of rigid introspection succeeded his first unpleasant thoughts, and he at once gave attention to the contest between conscience and passion that had mysteriously begun. He seemed to be only a spectator of the conflict of antagonistic forces in his soul. There are times, says one of the most profound and philosophical women of the nineteenth century, when our passions speak for us, and we stand by and look on in astonishment. There is something similar to this in the process of spiritual regeneration. Questions and answers suddenly arise in the mind, as of concealed beings in whispered consultation, and we appear to ourselves to be listening to the mysterious dialogue. So it was with Ernest Edgefield, as he sat in the church engaged in self-examination. It appeared to him that he had suddenly awakened out of an alarming dream. He had been in a moral sleep all his life, and had never reflected seriously upon the unknown eternity which was distant but a single step. A âstill small voiceâ seemed to come on the very breeze, and whispered: âWhat folly this young man has displayed in thinking of nothing but the things of time and sense.â Ernest almost started. âWhat am I living for?â he asked himself. âIn a few weeks I shall be married, and will give renewed attention to business. But time will flow on: and if I live, I will soon be an old man, and I must die, and then--and then--what?â Ernest was neither infidel nor skeptic: indeed, he only needed that his fears should be aroused as a precedent condition to becoming an active Christian. After prayer had been offered up for the âyoung lawyer,â and while thoughts, conclusions and convictions were all mingling together in the mind of Ernest, he looked at Clara, who was sitting where he could see her face. Their eyes met. She was gazing at him with an expression which he could easily interpret, and if she had spoken in an audible voice, he could not more clearly have understood her to say: âIsnât it ridiculous?â The young man almost shuddered. Why did a great yawning abyss seem to open suddenly between them? The depression which had for some days weighed down his spirits, all at once appeared like a heavy rock upon his breast, causing something like a sickening sensation to creep through his troubled heart. However, in his present state of newly aroused emotions, to which he had been such an utter stranger all his life, he felt that a subject of more vital importance than even his marriage deserved his immediate attention. Accordingly he turned his gaze upon the preacher, who announced his text: âThou art weighed in the balances, and art found wanting.â Dr. Coyt, in the progress of his discourse, drew a word-picture, upon which his audience gazed in profound, breathless silence. No one looked upon this picture more intently than Ernest. He saw himself alone with his Creator and the balances which were to determine his everlasting destiny. Never before had Ernestâs relations to time and eternity appeared in so vivid a light. The next morning after this, as the sun kissed the glowing horizon, darkness and doubt were dispelled from the soul of Ernest by the enlightening beams of the Sun of Righteousness. He had found that âpeace which passeth all understanding,â and he was strangely happy. That day, without saying a word to any one upon the subject, he went forward to indicate his purpose of joining the church. âWhich church do you desire to join?â asked Dr. Coyt. âI have not yet determined,â replied Ernest. âI only wish now to let it be known that I have come out upon the Lordâs side. I intend to investigate the doctrines of the different denominations, and I shall join that one I like best.â âThat is right,â replied the Doctor. âTake time for reflection, so that you will have no trouble in the future. Select that church in which you think you can be the happiest.â Those who feel any interest in this story will, of course, desire to know what effect the meeting had upon Clara. Ernest had been so absorbed in his own spiritual troubles that he had had no conversation with her since the hour when he had become interested upon the subject of his personal salvation. But that evening, after he had signified his intention of attaching himself to the church, he paid her a visit. She was not present at the morning service, and knew nothing of the step he had taken. After the exchange of ordinary civilities, she said with a significant flippancy which was chilling to Ernestâs heart: âHow have you enjoyed the show?â âShow!â exclaimed Ernest, bestowing upon her a solemn look of inquiry. âYes,â said Clara, not seeming to notice his serious air. âIt is as good as any show. Wasnât it funny to have them all praying for you?â âI do not see where there was any fun,â said Ernest with an expression of disappointment upon his face, âand I am truly sorry to hear you talk so lightly about such solemn things. They are too sacred to admit of sport.â âSo, they have got you, too, have they?â asked Clara, breaking into a merry laugh. âWell, I confess I am astonished.â âWhy should you be? I cannot see that it is a matter of such profound amazement for a man to join the church.â âHave you really joined the church?â âI have, or at least gave notice this morning that I would do so, and I earnestly wish, my dear Clara, that you would make up your mind to the same thing. That is needed to complete our happiness.â She made no reply, but laughed in a tone which it would have required no expert physiognomist to pronounce one of derision. âWhat is it that is so amusing?â asked Ernest in vexation. âI had hoped that you would talk seriously about this matter of such vital importance.â âThe idea of my joining the church, and giving up my dancing and all other amusements, is simply preposterous. It is funny.â âBut suppose you were to die,â said Ernest, âwhat would become of you? Are you willing to sacrifice your soul for a few worldly pleasures which, after all, add nothing to your happiness?â âWhy, are you going to turn preacher, too?â said Clara with an amused expression. âThatâs just the way Dr. Coyt has been preaching for the last five or six days.â âI am no preacher, and never expect to be,â replied Ernest, âbut that is no reason why I should not want my friends saved, especially such a friend as you will be.â Clara bit her cherry nether lip, and laying aside her mood of levity, said: âI should like to know what we are to do in this world, if we are forbidden to enjoy life. That is what I dislike about religious people. They are so gloomy, and can talk about nothing but death. I hate to be with them.â This was spoken in such a way as to cause Ernest to see again the yawning chasm gaping between them. âO, my dear Clara!â he exclaimed with trembling tenderness, âhow you are mistaken!â âWhy, how do you know?â she asked in surprise. âYou have not been one of them long enough to find out, I should think. How did you become so wise, all of a sudden?â Ernest was not at all pleased with the manner in which she addressed him, but he durst not manifest the least vexation in the critical juncture of his amatory affairs. He felt that a quarrel might terminate in a final overthrow of the fond hopes upon which his heart had fed for months past. He, therefore, spoke as mildly and affectionately as possible: âI have learned something about it even in the last few hours. I have never experienced such a sense of love, joy and peace in all my previous life. I am astonished at myself for never having turned my attention sooner to eternal things. All these years, since I reached the line of moral responsibility, have been almost wasted, or, at least, the spiritual enjoyments of all this time have been lost to me; and how I regret it!â âHow you do talk?â exclaimed Clara. âDo you expect to keep up such lecturing all our lives? If you do, we may as well--â âMay as well what?â asked Ernest with a sinking heart. âMay as well follow divergent paths,â she said with a timidity which implied that she, by no means, desired the proposition to be accepted. âNo, my dear Clara, I shall not mention it again if it is unpleasant to you. I shall leave you in the hands of God and continue to pray for you. I think you will take a different view of the matter after a while.â âBut I would as soon you would talk to me as to look at me as if I were a criminal.â âI do not think,â said Ernest, âthat religion will convert me into a long-faced monk. On the contrary, I expect to be more cheerful and happy than I could be otherwise. You are the one to look solemn and gloomy.â âYou expect,â said Clara, not appearing to notice the last remark, âyou expect to give up dancing, as most church people do.â âCertainly. I cannot do violence to my conscience by indulging in an amusement which I regard as of doubtful propriety, to say the least of it.â âWhere is the harm in dancing? Church people condemn it, but I never could see any sin in it--not the least.â âBut there would be sin in it to me with my present views,â said Ernest. âYou used to like it as well as I did.â âYes, that is true; but the time has come when I must and will renounce it.â âYou expect me to give it up, too?â âThat is a matter to be determined by your own conscience. I shall not interfere.â âThere is the theatre--you will give that up too?â âI feel that I must do that, too.â âThen,â said Clara with a slight frown, âwhat congeniality of taste and pursuits is there between us?â âWhy, my loved one,â said Ernest with a smile, âfortunately theatres and dances occupy but a small portion of our time.â âWho will escort me when I want to go?â Ernest loved his affianced with such an intensity that he dreaded to get into an unpleasant controversy that might culminate fatally to his hopes. If he were too puritanical and inflexible, he thought, she might sever all the ties between them--an event which made him shudder to contemplate; so he replied: âAll congeniality of taste between us need not be destroyed because you may fancy some amusements which I do not. It could scarcely be expected that two human beings should think exactly alike. With regard to your dancing, I leave it to your conscience and to time which usually destroys our relish for most of the sports and enjoyments of youth. I have strong hopes that you will sooner or later perceive the necessity of leaving the paths of moral ruin and renouncing the pleasures of sin for the more solid and substantial pleasures of religion.â Clara said nothing, but sat still gazing into the forest which spread out in the distance--gazing with that vacant air which indicates the absence of attention to any object upon which her eyes might be fixed. Ernest could form no idea as to the character of her thoughts from the expression of her fair countenance, and he began to fear that he had said too much, and thought that perhaps he would better endeavor to remove every difficulty that might prove an obstacle to their union. He did not want to leave any grounds for one of those unfortunate misunderstandings between lovers which so frequently grow out of nothing. He therefore said with an air of cheerfulness and tenderness; âYou need not suppose, my loved one, that I will be forever preaching to you. That is not my calling. Have I given you offence by anything I have said? I mean by all I have said only that there is a time for all things--a time to dance and a time to give religion a prominent place in our thoughts.â âO, no; Iâm not offended, but you make me feel gloomy. It is bad enough to hear these things about death at church, where we expect it. I didnât know that we had to make religion a topic of private conversation.â âNo, we are not forced to do so; but I thought it a suitable time to talk about it now when the subject is occupying the attention of the whole community.â âI candidly confess I donât like to talk about such things,â said Clara with a serious air. âI have always had a sort of horror of religion. In my mind it is associated with death and other disagreeable things.â âBut these disagreeable things,â said Ernest, âas you call them, are stubborn realities which we cannot avoid. Sooner or later, we must face them, whether we like or not. Would we not, then, better regulate our lives so that these very gloomy things shall
{'title': 'Deep Waters; Or, A Strange Story by R. H. Crozier', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}