On comes the foe—to arms, to aims,We meet—'tis to death or glory;'Tis victory in all her charms,Or fame in Britain's story.—W. Smyth.
Three more years passed away: it had been a trying time, for a native tribe near a neighbouring jungle gave Hubert's regiment continual trouble; and now orders were received at the barracks to prepare for a battle, for large numbers of Hindoos were coming down from the hills, and several British regiments were on the march to assist the station that was menaced.
Hubert received the order, and gave it out again to his company, and then, without another word went to his rooms. It was not his usual way: he generally said something in praise of British bravery, and tried to inspire his men to action; but this time he was silent, and the soldiers did not let it pass without remark.
Never before had the order for battle been less welcome, and he was unable to account for the strange depression of his spirits; he joined none of his companions, but sat the whole evening by himself, and retired to rest much earlier than usual. His sleep, however, was disturbed, and once, in the still hour of night, he said aloud, "What ails me, that I cannot sleep? I am not ill: I wonder if anything is to happen to me—surely not; after nearly twenty-two years' service, I am to have better luck than be knocked off now; it is a pretty safe thing, they say, if one gets over the twentieth year. I shall see Old England yet." No more sleep, however, came to him; he thought of his home, his parents, and all to whom he had been dear, and he sighed deeply as he wished he had loved them better.
The morning sun had scarcely risen before the bugle sounded, and in a very short time the regiment was on the march, for they had six miles to go, and the heat would be against them later in the day.
On the previous evening, Hubert had passed some of the dull hours in looking over the littlerelics he had collected during his residence in India, and in filling up the box he had brought with him from England, he took out the remains of his Bible; it was sadly destroyed; the covers, some of the Old, and the greater part of the New Testament, were what remained of it, and after hesitating for a few minutes what he should do with it, he thrust it into a pocket in the left side of the bosom of his coat. It was there still; he had forgotten to remove it when he rose hastily at the sound of the bugle, and as he marched with his regiment, he little thought of the blessing which that torn, despised treasure would yet be to him. It was a long, toilsome march, through thick jungle, and the soldiers sat down to rest when they got through it, and waited to be joined by other forces. They had come out against a considerable village, the residence of a great chief, but not so well fortified by architectural defences as by the hordes of its savage inhabitants. From the spot where the soldiers rested they could see the place they had come to attack, and as the day was passing without the other regiments appearing, a council was held, and beneath the shadow of the palm treesthe soldiers received orders to remain quiet until new commands were issued.
The day at length was closing, and Hubert, with three brother officers, sat down beneath a tree together. At first they talked of the glory in fighting for their king and country, then other matters connected with military life followed; but as the time passed away, and the hours of night brought with them their fitful gloom, the conversation changed, and for the first time for many years Hubert talked of his home.
"It is a long time since I left England," he said; "many, many a year; and I have somehow neglected all my old friends there. I often wish I had acted differently, and thought a little more about them, and written to them sometimes; but it is no use regretting—not that I have much to regret, though, for letter-writing is a silly, dawdling business at best, and never was much in my way; but, however, should it so happen to-morrow that the chances run against me—you know what I mean—well, there's some one of the family left, perhaps, who will like to know the end of me; so let me ask a favour. Take this slip of paper, and if yourluck is better than mine, just send a letter to that address, and tell them where your old comrade fell, and tell them he—nay, tell them what you like."
The three officers each took down Hubert's address, and promised to perform his wish; but they too had friends and relations in Britain's distant isle, and they each asked of Hubert a similar boon, should the fortune of the day be his, not theirs; then, with a friendly grasp of the hand, they exchanged promises; and to think, perhaps, more deeply of the past, or the morrow, they bade each other good-night and lay down in silence on the ground. Only for a few hours did anything like stillness hover over the beleaguered village; at early dawn the natives, having heard that the English were surrounding them, came out in great numbers, to drive away or attack their invaders. A terrible fight now commenced, wearing any form but that of a set battle, and it lasted the whole day; but at length the chief was slain, and the Hindoos, upon hearing it, fled in all directions, leaving the English masters of the village. There had been a sad slaughter of the natives, and morethan two hundred of the English had fallen. Hubert's regiment had suffered considerably; but he and his three companions were spared, and they met again in the same place where they had passed the previous evening; neither wound nor mark of warfare was upon any of them; they were only fatigued, and, as they shook each other by the hand, they used some of their old familiar terms of friendship, and sat down again beneath the tree. There was no talk of home now, no thought of the gracious shield which had preserved them in the fight, no word of thanksgiving to Almighty God for their safety.
As night came on they proceeded to the captured village; but in the morning, as all the soldiers were not required to remain, Hubert's company, and one or two others, were ordered back to their respective barracks. Several of Hubert's company were missing; familiar faces were gone, and well-remembered voices were hushed; yet, with pride and high spirits, most of those that remained, after having helped to bury some of the dead, prepared to march as soon as the sun would permit. It was a beautiful evening when the soldiers started, but they had not gone very far before Hubert and some of the other officers fell a little behind the men, and sat down upon the short dry grass and weeds. Just as they were about to pursue their journey through the jungle, some beautiful birds attracted their attention, and they turned aside from the pathway in pursuit. This thoughtless act was attended with danger, for the evening was fast closing, and there was every probability that they would lose their way. At the suggestion of one, however, they turned back, and made all possible haste to overtake the soldiers. Night came on much more rapidly than they had expected, and before they had gone far in the jungle it grew very dark. They pushed on as rapidly as they could, but the path was unfamiliar to them, and they soon lost each other. Sometimes a rustling amongst the bushes made Hubert start, and once he thought he heard voices besides the scattered ones of his companions. Very soon, however, all was silent; they were all wandering different ways, and Hubert was alone. Once he thought of climbing into a tree, and staying there till daybreak, but he felt so confident that he couldnot have much further to go that he made another effort to reach the barracks. Suddenly a rustling in the bush startled him again, and laying his hand upon his sword he called out the watchword of his regiment. There was no answer, and thinking it perhaps some bird, he went on again, keeping up his courage by occasionally whistling. He had almost reached the edge of the jungle, for he had fortunately kept near the right path, when a wild shout fell upon his ear, a flash of light illumined all around him, and Hubert, stunned and wounded, fell to the ground.
The moon rose calmly in the sky, and her soft rays fell upon the trees beneath which Hubert lay. He was still insensible, and the brown grass around him was stained with blood. A slight breath of wind that passed over him, gently waved the dark hair from his wounded forehead; another ball had shattered his right leg, which had bent up beneath him as he fell.
Not far away, in the barracks, the next morning the roll was called; Hubert's companions had arrived safe during the night; they now told where they had missed him, and a piquet of men was sentout to search for him. They did not go far into the jungle before Hubert was found; he had partly recovered from his faintness, but was too exhausted to speak: they conveyed him to the hospital, where his wounds were dressed, and every attention was paid him, but he had lost so much blood as he lay all night upon the ground, that no hopes whatever were given of his recovery, and he lay several days without speaking a word.
The doctor came day after day, as often as he could snatch a moment from his duties, and sat down by Hubert's bed: he knew all about him, knew the life he had led, and felt all the weight of the dread thought of a soul passing into eternity unsaved. There he lay, that reckless, sinning one, now helpless, dying, and many a heartfelt prayer was breathed by the one friend that still clung to him, that he might not be taken away in his sin. It is not kith nor kin that bounds the Christian's love; like his Divine Master, he deems precious every human soul, and no matter 'neath what sky or colour, whether friend or foe, he cannot see that priceless thing perish without an effort to save it. Many a long hour the doctor sat and watched byHubert's bed: the leg had been set, and appeared favourable, but reason did not return, and it was for that he watched and prayed, and yet how that same reason had shunned and insulted him. Good man, he forgot all about himself now, and watched as a fond brother over the sufferer. His prayers were heard; Hubert awoke from insensibility, and occasionally spoke a word to those who attended him.
O, lost and found! All gentle souls belowTheir dearest welcome shall prepare, and proveSuch joy o'er thee as raptured seraphs know,Who learn their lesson at the throne of love.—Keble.
A week had passed. Hubert was slightly better, and there was a faint hope that he would ultimately recover. The doctor had been two or three times during each day to see him, and now, as the sun was setting, he came again. Weary as he was with his usual duties, he had still his Master's work to do, and as he took his seat by Hubert's bed he asked if he should read to him. Hubert knew quite well that the doctor's book was the Bible, and though he also knew that but very faint hopes were given of his recovery, he replied, "No, thank you; I shall perhaps soon be better, when I shall have plenty of time to read." The doctor tried to prevail, but Hubert resisted,until he became excited, when his friend, wishing him a good night, left him alone.
"Yes, I hope soon to be better," he repeated to himself, as the doctor left the room, though, as he gazed at the three empty beds near him, he little thought that the insensibility to all pain which occasionally stole over him, rendered the hope of his recovery very faint, and that unless a change took place his couch would soon be empty also.
Another and another day passed. Hubert was no better; and as the doctor again sat down beside him, he said, as he gently took the feverish hand, "My friend, perhaps you would like some one to send a letter to your friends in England; is there anything you would like to say? Shall I write for you?"
"Not now."
"Why not now? I have told you how precarious your state is: you had better send a few lines home: let me write something for you,—shall I?"
"No, no! I have no wish to write. They have not heard for more than twenty years; it is no use writing now, they may all be dead."
"Oh, no! that is not probable; and they will intime hear of the battle you have been in, and see your name amongst the wounded. It would comfort them greatly to hear from you; and if, as you say, you have not written for so long a time, how they would rejoice to find you had not forgotten them!"
"No, doctor," said Hubert, faintly, "it would be no joy to them, they cannot care for me now. I broke my mother's heart; I know it. I dreamt it once, years ago; and many a time the sad face I saw in my dream has come before me when I have least wanted it; many other things, too, doctor, I could tell you which forbid my writing. No, I cannot, at least not now—another time."
"No, my poor friend, not another time, write now: I'll write, shall I?"
"Write what, and to whom? No, I tell you, they are dead," and he turned his face away.
The doctor knew well that Hubert's illness was too serious a matter to be trifled with: everything was against him; it was the hottest season of the year, dissipation had undermined his constitution, and his mind was uneasy; and the thought had struck that good man, that if he could get Hubertto turn his thoughts homeward, reflection might bring remorse for his past life, and he might think of eternity. For a few seconds he stood still, gazing silently at his patient, wondering what he should do. It was not his custom to see a soldier die without feeling any concern; his own well-worn Bible testified how often he had used that sacred book; and written in the Book of Life were perhaps not a few names of erring yet repentant sinners, brought to know Christ by his humble efforts. "Soldier brother," he said, as he took the hot hand once again in his own, "I must not be refusedallI ask; let me read to you."
Hubert made no answer, and the doctor turned over the soiled pages of his Bible and read, with a soft clear voice, the fifty-first Psalm.—
"Have mercy upon me, O God, according to thy loving kindness; according unto the multitude of thy tender mercies blot out my transgressions," &c., &c.
The psalm was ended: none of its petitions, however, appeared to have touched the heart of the sick man, though their effect was great upon the doctor, who, kneeling down, poured out his soul'sgrief in a deep, heartfelt prayer, begged hard and earnestly for mercy and pardon for his suffering brother, and implored that a ray of light might beam into his heart. Never before had such a prayer sounded in Hubert's ear, and yet, when the good man rose from his knees, the only sound that he heard was, "Doctor, I can sleep."
"Good night, then," was the answer; "I shall come early in the morning, and before then, if you require me; good night."
"Good night;" and there was a gentle pressure of the hand; then the doctor left the room.
"Is he gone?" said Hubert, faintly, a few minutes after. "Oh! why did he leave me?" and the poor sufferer's eyes turned towards the door.
The watcher that night was a woman: it was not often that a woman tended the sick soldiers in the hospital where Hubert now lay, but it was his lot to be so fortunate on this occasion; and she was sitting beside an open window, looking out upon the sun, which was sinking in the west, and throwing, as she was thinking, its rays upon her English home, when she heard Hubert speak, and, hastening to his side, in an instant she asked him kindlyif he required anything. Perhaps his heart was too full, for he only turned his head away and sighed deeply.
"Captain," she said, as she bent over him, "does anything trouble you? Can I get you anything?" And as she gently smoothed back the hair upon his forehead, she thought she saw a tear roll down his sunburnt cheek. That tear was enough; the stern scenes she had witnessed during a long sojourn in India, had made her callous to many things, and left many a scar upon her heart; but she was woman still, and could not resist the power of that tear. She sat down upon the stool by the soldier's bed, chafed his hot hand in hers, cooled his brow again and again, and spoke soothingly and kindly to him; still he was silent, gave no answer to any of her kind inquiries, except by an occasional sigh.
"I know you are uneasy, Captain; tell me, oh, do tell me! I've asked you many things, and you have answered me nothing; do tell me what's the matter. What can I do for you?"
"Nothing."
"Yes, Captain, let me do something; shall I fetch Dr. Martin? What shall I do?"
"Will you read to me?"
"Yes, that I will;" and the nurse immediately fetched her Bible, and for a long time, by the dim flickering candle, her voice rose softly upon the stillness of that chamber, as she read of mercy and forgiveness to the penitent and heart-broken sinner.
It may have been that the sound of her voice had a soothing effect upon Hubert's ear, for he sank calmly to sleep, and his rest was peaceful. When he awoke, however, with the morning light, his pulse beat high, owing probably to the excitement of the previous day, and the doctor was still unable to give hope of his recovery; and after another day, when the shadows of evening drew on, that good man took his seat once more by the sufferer's bed, and read again, in hopes to soothe the troubled spirit and lead the uneasy thoughts to better things.
"Why do you come here, and sit and tire yourself reading to me? You must already be weary with your day's work. Why do you come here?" And Hubert, with a steady eye, gazed into the doctor's face as he made the inquiry.
"Why do I come?" replied the doctor, as he gently took Hubert's hand; but he felt his throatswell at that moment, and while he hesitated Hubert repeated, "Yes, why do you come?"
"Because it is my duty, and because I have a deep affection for you. Iamweary, but what matters that? You are more; so my necessity is not like yours. And another thing, I know you are unhappy."
"Who told you?"
"I have not needed to be told; I know it well enough. You know I know it, and for that cause I come to you, but the first thing I ask you, you refuse. You know not how great a comfort it would be to you to write home to your parents; there is much for you to do, but that is the first thing, for it is a holy duty."
"I have never done it, doctor, may God forgive me and I cannot do it now; it is too late, too late. You said right; I am not happy; the days and nights I have lain here have told me that all is too late now; the life I have led has been a wicked one, and if I die I am lost Oh, what shall I do?"
There was nothing stern in the doctor's heart; he had striven, and wept, and prayed earnestly thatHubert might see the error of his way, but now, at this confession and despair, he almost regretted that he had added to the sufferer's woes. There was no exulting over the poor sinner, but bending down close to Hubert's ear, he said—
"Fear not; pour out your heart's sorrow to God, for, deep as your sins are, Hecanandwillsave you, if, with a true, penitent, and broken heart, you confess all your sins to Him and throw yourself helpless on His mercy. You can do nothing for yourself; your own poor sorrowing heart is an offering Jesus Christ will accept if you will give it to Him. Don't hesitate, Christ is waiting to receive you; do, then, with godly sorrow, throw yourself upon His mercy."
"But I cannot," said Hubert. "It may be true, all you say, but I have sinned so long, or else I am different to other people. God may forgive such as you, but I have sinned too much."
"Oh no, not too much for God to forgive. He knows all you have done, and He knows all you need. Christ has died for you; why should you be lost?"
"Does God knowallI've done? Does He knowhow hard I tried to lead a better life?—and then Ellen died! No, I cannot believe it Go, go; leave me alone. What matters how I die? Go, and leave me as I am." And, clasping his hands tightly upon his bosom, he said with earnestness, as he looked upward, "Lord, have mercy upon me." Then he was exhausted; a faint hue came over his face, and the doctor, seeing that the strength of the sufferer was failing, stayed by his bedside to administer to his need. Hubert's hands had fallen upon the coverlet, and as the doctor took one in his own, he started at its strange coldness, and for a long time he chafed it. All, indeed, that could be done was done for Hubert, and throughout the long, sultry, silent night the nurse and doctor watched with Christian love beside the lonely bed. Hubert at length fell into a heavy sleep; it was the crisis of the fever, and never was infant slumber more softly guarded than that of his. And the next day went on; night came again; the sun in all its splendour went down in the western horizon, and the doctor crept softly into Hubert's chamber to take another look at the sleeper. He had gazed some minutes, he had breathed a prayer, and wasturning away when, with a gentle sigh, Hubert awoke. There was a ray of light upon his face; he was better; the fever had left him, and the doctor, after administering a cordial, gave him for the night to the care of the nurse, who well knew how to attend to him; and he assured Hubert that, if he attended to his instructions, his leg would be the only cause for uneasiness, and he hoped, by God's blessing, he would soon recover from that. Then, as he was leaving, he promised to come again the next morning and read to him. The morning came, the doctor was there, and he told all about God's mercy and love to the vilest of earth's sinners; then he knelt and prayed, with all the earnestness of his heart, for all God's grace to the sufferer; and with such simple words and touching sadness did he tell the Prodigal's story, that Hubert's unbelief and despair yielded at once to the mighty power of direct communication with God, and tears fell fast upon his pillow.
The doctor had been more than an hour with Hubert, and now onward to other sufferers he went, with his double mission. The scene in Hubert's room had urged him to be more earnestin his Master's cause, and his soul was full of prayer that a heavenly ray might illume Hubert's darkened heart and bring him to the feet of Jesus. Little did the sufferer know how earnestly that good man desired his salvation, and little did the regiment know, as its members saw him, with earnest thoughtful brow, wending his way beneath the shadow of the high wall, that in yonder lone building lay the cause of his toiling through the hot summer days, toiling again as night came round, growing more sallow and more gaunt, yet never seeming to weary. "My grace is sufficient for thee," was strictly exemplified in that earnest faithful disciple; God blessed him, and kept him a burning and a shining light, amidst all the sin and temptation of India's dark land; and though a scoff and a sneer were not unfrequently the reward of his efforts to reclaim the sinner, many a scoffer sent for him in the last sad hour, and a few testified, by a better life, to the holiness of his.
Each time the doctor returned to Hubert, he found him slightly better; his wounded forehead was nearly well, and his shattered leg was progressing favourably; all traces of feverishness weregone, and the doctor seemed pleased as he told him that though at present the least thing might bring on fever again, which would certainly be fatal, yet, if all went well, he hoped in a few days to be able to pronounce him out of danger.
"Pray that it may be so," said Hubert, "for I dare not die now: God has heard your last prayer; a week ago I could have died to rid my heart of its dreadful despair, and the terrible weight that was upon it, but not now. I do think there is a little hope for me—pray something for me, you know so well all about me;—how came you to know so much?"
The doctor, sitting down by the bed, said, "Goodwin, many a year has passed away since you and your companions first attracted my notice. I remember well the morning you landed in Calcutta, for, if you recollect, your own doctor died on the passage out, and I accepted the appointment as you lay out in the bay, and went down to meet you on landing. I was, of course, strange to all of you, but the thing that struck me most was the extreme youth of the regiment—the majority did not appear much over twenty years of age, and then there wasa good number of youths apparently about sixteen. I remember that many remarks were made at the time about you all, and I came to the conclusion that at least half of you had come to India to die. I have not been wrong either in that; but I am going from the point—I remember that I was particularly struck with you and a fair, gentle-looking companion you had."
Hubert sighed, "It was poor Harris."
"Yes, that was his name, poor fellow. Well, very soon I found out all about the life you were leading; your higher privileges were snares, not only to you and your companions, but to all the men, and the first grief I felt after joining you was at the reckless and sinful example you were setting. When first struck down with fever, how I longed, hoped, and prayed for your conversion. But you know how your life passed on, and I need not tell you that from that first hour of meeting you till now, I have watched you, and prayed for you, and I know quite well that God's Holy Spirit has often been striving very hard with you; but the warnings you have had have generally passed away like the dew upon the earth, and now the Almighty has mercifully stoppedyour career by this affliction. Don't let it pass like the others have done, but take your heart, with all its weight of sin, and lay it bare before God. He knows all your need, will help you in all your sorrows, pardon all your sins, and make you holy; but you must ask His aid—you must confess all your sin—you must pray to Him with a broken heart."
Hubert sighed, and then, after a moment's pause, said, "Doctor, it is no easy matter to do as you say I ought; and you judge me harshly when you say I have neglected all the warnings I have had. You remember poor Harris? Well, his death had more effect upon me than you know; for weeks and weeks I thought of nothing else, and tried very hard to change, but somehow I could not And then poor Ellen! you remember her? I should have been another man if she had lived; but no, I was not allowed to be better: I lost her, and I know I have been bad since; it drove me almost mad. But, Doctor, was it all my fault?" And Hubert burst into tears.
"Goodwin," said the doctor, as he took Hubert's hand, "beware how you rebuke the Almighty;His ways are not our ways; let me beg of you to have faith in Him now; if you are spared to recover, we will talk this point over together, but not now, time is too precious. Believe me, He does all things well, and willeth not that any should perish; if you will only in true faith, nothing doubting, turn to Him, confess your sins, and ask His mercy, you will be astonished how plain many things will appear that now seem dark and mysterious. Oh, do pray to Him!"
"I have," said Hubert, softly: "I thought yesterday that I never could, but last night, after you were gone, some words I learnt once when a child came all into my mind; they seemed all I wanted to say, and yet they were only part of a little child's prayer; indeed, I had long ago forgotten them. Doctor, will you pray?"
The good man knelt, and poured out his heart to Heaven for the long sinning but repenting brother; and it was a holy sight to see the tears streaming down the pallid cheek of the once gay, reckless soldier, as he listened to another's prayer in his behalf. The doctor's bosom was full also—the wanderer was at last coming home—the straying sheep was returning to the fold—the poor child of earth was yielding up his proud spirit to the hand that afflicted, yet was stretched out to save him—and the good man prayed that the sufferer might be pardoned, and spared to set forth the beauty of that holiness of life which he had so long neglected.
Another week had passed; each day as it dawned found Hubert somewhat better, but then each evening both the nurse and doctor watched anxiously beside his bed, for his state was precarious: one thing, however, that improved was the state of his mind;thatneither slumbered nor went back—but from the hour that he poured out his first earnest heart-breathings to Heaven, he became more penitent and more anxious; all the carelessness and indifference with which he had treated religion came like so many accusing spirits before him; but, though the reflection of his past life helped at times to blanch his sunken cheek, he was more at peace in his bosom than he had been since his childhood.
Everything that could possibly be done for Hubert he received from the nurse and doctor, andtheir attentions were blessed, for at last Hubert was pronounced "out of danger;" and though he would never again be fit for the army, there were hopes of his perfect recovery.
I will throw off this dead and useless part,As a strong runner, straining for his life,Unclasps a mantle to the hungry winds.Alexander Smith.
Five weeks more passed by, during which time Hubert grew in grace, and his soul appeared to be ripening for heaven; his health improved, and by the aid of a wheel-chair he could be moved to the window of his room, where he sat for many an hour reading the Bible, or enjoying the soft warm air, as he gazed out upon the forests and jungle that lay before him almost at his feet, or the snow-capped Himalayas in the distance.
One day, as he sat by the window, he asked the nurse if she knew what became of the coat he wore on the day when he was wounded.
"Oh, yes, Captain," she replied, "I took care ofit and put it away; if you wish to have it, I will fetch it for you."
"Thank you," said Hubert, "I should like to have it now." And the nurse went immediately to find it.
In a very few minutes the nurse returned, and, as she unfolded the coat, she said, "I fear it is very dirty, though these stains will be from the blood; I saw them when I folded it up, but I thought it best to take care of it, for I know soldiers generally prize the coat they were wounded in; I have sent many a one home to England to the friends of those who have died—you will, I hope, be able to take your own."
"I hope so, nurse, though it will be some time yet before I can go;" and then he began to examine the coat, and turned it over to find the pocket in the inside of the left breast: he found it, and there too was all that remained of his "torn Bible." Pale as his cheek was from pain and sickness, a deeper pallor came over it as he drew out the Bible, and the cover of it met his eye. What was the meaning of the small round hole he saw? All the truth flashed upon his mind at once; he knew whatit meant; and the cold perspiration stood out upon his forehead, as, with nervous hand, he turned over leaf by leaf until he came to a small bullet. It was not large, but sufficient to have destroyed life if it had penetrated his heart; and as he cast it upon the floor, he clasped the torn Bible to his bosom, and bent his head low over his mother's last gift—that despised and neglected treasure.
The nurse had seen all that Hubert did upon receiving his coat; she saw him draw the book from the pocket, tremble as he opened it, and then cast the bullet upon the floor; but she would have taken but little notice of all that, if she had not seen his head droop as though something deeply troubled him.
"Come, Captain," she said, "that book makes you think sad things; come, sir, keep up your spirits, and give me the book to keep till you are stronger."
"Don't touch it; leave it with me," said Hubert, pushing back her hand; "I am strong enough—go away."
"No, Captain, I must not go away; you are not strong enough to bear any excitement; it wouldjust throw you back again, after all our care of you. Think, sir, of getting well, not about that coat and book—I wish I had not brought them to you. I dare say when you see that coat all stained with blood and torn, you think about the narrow escape you have had: but cheer up, Captain, and don't think about it now."
"Look here," said Hubert, pointing to the cover of the book, "see what saved my life;" and then he relieved his heart by telling her all about that book; and as she listened she sat down upon a low chair before him, and, poor sympathizing one, she forgot, while her own tears fell as she heard the story he told, that she had, only a few minutes before, chided him for his sadness.
Three months had passed; Hubert's illness had been blessed to him: by the aid of crutches he moved about again, and frequently encountered his old companions; some of them had visited him in hospital, and there was a rumour in the regiment that Captain Goodwin had "gone religious." It caused some profane mirth amongst his comrades—the companions of his former life—and he felt ashamed to meet them. However, at last he didso, and it was when they came around him, and so warmly welcomed him back again, and expressed their hope that he would soon be restored to perfect health, that he told them, with a holy boldness, that he regretted his past life, and could never be one of their number again, unless they gave up their evil ways and walked with him in the path of holiness. As might have been expected, the confession on the part of Hubert was received, for the most part, with laughter and derision; but his heart was set upon the thing he sought, and from the hour he received the rebuff he determined, if possible, to commence a work amongst his reckless companions. The same spirit of earnestness and devotion which had helped Hubert in worldly advancement, marked his efforts now. He had partaken of heavenly things, and, like a true disciple, could not bear the thought of any soul perishing; so, leaning upon his crutches, with his torn Bible in his hand, he went as often as his strength would allow, and his own soul grew in grace as he told God's love to sinners to his comrades. Hubert did not labour very long at his new work; his wounds had been too severe to allow of his continuing in the army, andbefore another three months had passed, an order came for him to return to England.
At first the idea of going back to his own country was not welcome; indeed, India seemed to be his home more than England did, and as he turned to the nurse, who still attended him, he said—
"Nurse, I shall not go to England. How can I go with this poor useless leg? I had better stay here."
"But, Captain, your leg is not useless; the doctor says you may some day be able to walk with a stick."
"Does he? It will be very long first, I fear. No, I think I shall not go home; no one will know me, for it is not as though I went home all right."
"Bless you, sir," replied the nurse, "plenty will know you—your mother will, for one. I remember when our Tom ran away and went to sea, and was gone ten years, and we never heard a word about him; well, all at once, home he came, and the moment we caught sight of him at the garden gate, though he had grown from a boy to a stout man, we all cried out, 'Here's poor Tom.' We hadnever heard a word about his coming, or anything, yet we knew him, and all ran out to meet him. I remember it well; and how poor mother threw her arms round his neck and kissed him, and called him her darling, and I can't tell you what; then how she stood and cried, and scolded him for running away, and never writing; and then how she took up her apron to wipe away her tears, and then kissed and hugged him again. I never shall forget it. Poor mother! She and Tom are in heaven now. I watched beside them both, and though my heart nearly broke when I lost them, I had rather have them where they are than enduring the trials of this life."
"Did your brother die soon after he returned, then?" inquired Hubert.
"He only lived three years after he came home, for he had been very much beaten about, and his health was quite broken. Poor mother died six months before he did. The year after they died I married, and came out here, and I have seen some trouble. I buried three little children one after another, and then I buried my husband. They all lie just out there, under that large tree in thecorner of the burial-ground. I was ordered home, but I could not leave the spot where they were lying, so gave up my passage to England, and have stayed here ever since. I have only one wish, and that is to be buried just out there beside them. It is sixteen years since my husband died; and the first time you can get so far just go and see how nicely I keep his and the children's graves."
Hubert was interested in the woman's story; her patient devotion and affection won his heart, and he took the first opportunity of visiting the graves of her loved ones, and as he gazed upon the well-kept mounds before him, his thoughts sped over the ocean to a distant land, and he saw the village churchyard, with the grassy hillocks beneath which lay the remains of many members of his family, and lifting up his heart in prayer to God for humility and strength, he determined to bid farewell to India, and return to the fold from which he had wandered.
It was soon known that Hubert was going to England, and many ready hands and hearts assisted him in preparing to go. All his little property wascollected, several presents were given him, and many a regret was expressed at his leaving; all of which made it harder to go than he had anticipated, and he felt, as the time drew near, more and more sorry to leave. But there was no alternative; so he decided to sail in the first vessel that left Calcutta after he arrived there. The doctor, to whom Hubert had communicated his intention, came to him one evening and told him that, as he was at liberty to choose his own vessel, he could not do better than make his passage over the seas in theArctic. "She is a splendid ship," said the doctor, "and the captain is a religious man. I know him well. You will not be annoyed with riotous conduct in his vessel, and will have no cause to complain of the manner in which he observes the Sabbath."
"Ah, that will be the ship, then," replied Hubert; "but did you ever sail in it?"
"Yes, twice to the Cape of Good Hope and back; and I can assure you that I have been in many a church and have not heard the service with such comfort as I heard it in that ship. Our beautiful Liturgy was read with such deep earnestness and pathos that I thought then, and I have thoughtever since, that out on the ocean, with dangers around us, is the fittest place for those grand prayers to be breathed; for as I joined and as I listened, I thought I could see Christ beside me walking upon the sea, and my soul seemed carried up higher into heaven than it had ever been before."
"That was beautiful!" exclaimed Hubert; "I always like to hear you talk like that, doctor, it makes me feel something of the same kind. I shall like that ship; when will she sail?"
"I scarcely know, but it will not be long. She has been lying at Calcutta some time, and I should think is about returning to England; she has not gone, I know, because Lieutenant White told me last night that he intended sending a box to England by her. By the way, he can, perhaps, tell us when she will sail."
It was found, upon inquiry, that theArcticwould set sail in about ten days; so Hubert bade farewell as soon as he could to his friends, and, accompanied by the doctor, was in a few days on his way to Calcutta. He bore the fatigue of the journey better than he had expected, though he was very much exhausted, and was heartily glad when he reachedthe ship, and lay down to rest in his cabin. The doctor stayed all night, and then the next morning they took leave of each other, promising to continue the friendship which, to Hubert at least, had been such a blessing. Hubert did not at first feel all he had lost when the doctor left, for his mind was somewhat occupied in arranging his cabin, so as to be as comfortable as possible on the voyage; but this, of course, had an end, and a consciousness came over him that he was friendless on the wide world amongst strangers. At first he thought it would be better to keep so, and not leave his cabin at all, for, if he went on deck, the remarks or sympathy of the other passengers would be very annoying. They might pity him, and be kind and attentive to him in his weakness, but it would only make him feel more keenly the calamity which had fallen on him in the full vigour of his manhood; and then, as his thoughts rushed back, and he saw himself but a few months before so full of health and activity, he forgot the great blessing that had accompanied his illness, and his heart murmured and rebelled. A dark cloud seemed to have fallen over Hubert: for three days he maintained a gloomysilence in his cabin; and the sailor that waited upon him told his shipmates that it was a pity his honour had chosen the sea for a grave, for unless he changed he would, in his honest opinion, die before they were far out of the bay. "Tell him so, Ben, for you know it ain't lucky to have a death on board," said one of the sailors. However, Ben said nothing to Hubert, for in his own mind he began to think that the soldier had a sorrow, which would perhaps wear away in time; and the sailor was not wrong. It was a dark hour in Hubert's life—a weak yielding of the flesh; and who can wonder? In the short time that had passed since he had given up his evil ways, how much instruction and counsel he had received from the kind friend who had brought him to the vessel; and the kind nurse, so full of sympathy towards him, knowing all about him, had helped to buoy up his spirits when they were sinking, and by them the struggle between his old and his new nature had been lightened. How Hubert missed those two friends now! He never thought he could have cared for them half so much. In the gloomy thoughts that had come over him, he would have given much for one of them to havebeen near; but he was alone, and his nature warred with his spirit, and his bosom refused to be comforted. Many times he wished he could return to India, and reproached himself for having left: there, at least, there was some one that cared for him; now, where was he? Out on the sea, without a friend; and, perhaps, in the distant land to which he was going he might find himself friendless still. Friendless! the thought bowed him very low: but God knew the storm that was beating upon the heart of the returning wanderer, and the powerful hand of Omnipotence tempered the hurricane; for, like the distant sound of help, in the lull of the tempest, the words came suddenly into his mind—"I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee."
"Ah!" said Hubert, starting, and pointing upwards as he spoke, "Gracious God, I have a friend in Thee;" then, clasping his hands together, he prayed an earnest prayer that God would pardon the sin of his murmuring, help him to overcome the evil nature in his heart, and make him more holy.
Hubert's peace of mind returned as soon as he had poured out his grief in prayer, and Ben thesailor told his shipmates that they need not fear now, for his honour had taken a turn, and was quite cheerful-like. The evening of another day was closing, and Hubert came upon deck, amongst the other passengers, to take a last look of the land where the best years of his life had been passed, and where nearly all the remembered associations of his existence were centred.
The home of his boyhood, in that lovely English valley, had come before him in memory's brightest colours, as he lay sick and wounded in the hospital; and he thought of it too when he set out for England, but he could remember nothing at all of it, as he stood by the side of the vessel, looking back upon his manhood's home—the field of his fame. It was true that he had there strayed further from the right path, and sunk deeper into sin; that, if India had been the scene of his fame, it had also been the scene of his guilt; but then his heart whispered that it was there too he had mourned and repented, and if a deep sigh escaped his bosom, as he watched the last shadow of his Indian home fade from his view, it was because he was leaving it for ever.
Long after the last look had been taken, Hubert sat still upon deck, and was roused from his thoughtfulness by the words—
"Will you accept my arm, Captain, to your cabin? it is getting late."
"Thank you, I had forgotten, I see it is late; I can manage pretty well with my crutch. But no, since you kindly offer me your arm, I will accept it."
"Yes, do, Captain, the vessel is not over steady."
When Hubert reached his cabin, he turned his head to thank his friend, and then he saw that he was a man many years older than himself, with a clear open countenance and with hair deeply tinged with grey.
"You are welcome," said the stranger, "and I hope we shall become better acquainted, for we have a long voyage before us, which I, like you, appear to be making alone, and pleasant society will render it cheerful—good night."
"Good night," replied Hubert; "I hope it will be as you say," and, grasping his hand, he again said, "Good night."
They were now far out at sea; the high landsof India had sunk below the horizon; Ceylon, with its spicy perfumes, was passed; and Adam's Peak, the high towering sentinel of that wonderful island, had sunk also beneath the wave. Hubert enjoyed the sea; his health and spirits returned, and the time passed much more pleasantly than he had anticipated; he found his new friend a most agreeable companion, kind and considerate towards him, and, having been a great traveller, he was ever ready and willing to amuse Hubert, not only with accounts of the countries to which he had travelled, but also of England, which country he had left only five years before: he had been a wanderer all his life—he was born upon the sea, in his father's vessel, and being early deprived of his mother, he and his brother became the companions of all their father's voyages. Born, as it were, to a wandering life, a life which in after years they were in no way fitted to give up, his brother succeeded to the command of his father's ship, while he roamed to nearly every part of the world, and gave to society many valuable volumes of information on different parts of the earth and its people.
Hubert always listened with pleasure to the conversation of his friend; still there was ever a wish in his mind that the subject would change: he longed to hear him talk of higher things than those of earth, for never once, in all he said, did he make reference to the God of heaven—it seemed to be the god of this world that he worshipped; and Hubert sighed, as he thought that he had not proved the true friend he had hoped to find in him.
Back to the world we faithless turn'd,And far along the wild,With labour lost and sorrow earn'd,Our steps have been beguiled.—Keble.
The Sundays on board theArcticwere spent as the doctor had led Hubert to expect; and happy, holy days they were—no one enjoyed them more than Hubert, and on more than one occasion he spoke of them to his friend. His remarks, however, were never responded to heartily, and Hubert felt annoyed that he had formed a friendship with a man who seemed to have no interest in the chief of all his enjoyments. "It may be," said Hubert one day, as he sat alone in his cabin—"it may be because he has never been struck down as I have been; or it may be—Ah! what may it be?" Then he fell into a deep reverie, and wondered many things as to the cause of his friend's indifference to sacred things; and heprayed for a beam of light into the heart which appeared to him to be darkened. Hubert felt a growing anxiety about his friend—he knew they could not be companions very long; the journey, long as it yet was, was daily growing shorter, and he did not feel certain that he would not be in some way responsible if he allowed the present opportunity to pass.
Some timid Christians are frightened into silence by the mere worldly boldness of those amongst whom they dwell, but it was not so with Hubert. His companion was a quiet, unobtrusive man, as amiable and kind as it was possible to be; and yet Hubert had not boldness sufficient to tell him that the Bible was the theme he loved best, and heaven the chief place of his interest. And why was it? In that stranger there was education, refined taste and eloquence, united to the pursuits of a lifetime; and whatever resolution Hubert made when alone, he always failed to accomplish it when he came and sat down by his side. Sometimes the subject was upon Hubert's lips, and many times his hand was in his coat-pocket, in which the torn Bible lay; but then he feared to produce it, lest his friend, whoseemed to know the human heart so well, should reproach him for having taken up religion in his infirmity, when he had devoted his health and strength to dissipation and pleasure. It grieved him very much, for it made him ill at ease with himself: his Bible was his chief companion, it is true, and there was nothing that he loved so well. Sometimes he wondered at himself for taking such delight in it, and, acting upon the advice of his old friend the doctor, "to try and examine all the thoughts and intentions of the heart," he imposed upon himself many a search to find out, if possible, why it was that the pages of that torn book gave him such delight—why at times his tears would fall as he read it—and why sometimes his bosom would swell, and his heart beat, at the story it told him; but he could not find out how it was, he only knew that he loved it, and wanted others to love it too.
The ship made a rather quick run to the Cape, where she stayed a fortnight; and Hubert so much improved in strength, that he laid aside his crutch, and walked easily with two walking-sticks. With his returning strength his spirit and face grew morecheerful, and he began to feel a hankering for his home in England; it became a favourite thought, and after that a frequent topic of conversation.
"I have only one desire," he would sometimes say, "and that is, that those I left behind so many years ago may be alive to welcome me home."
"You can hardly expect it," said his friend on one occasion, as they sat together on deck. "A great many changes occur in the space of a quarter of a century, and it is generally those we love best who are taken the first away from us."
"Perhaps to draw our thoughts to heaven," said Hubert.
"Perhaps so," replied his friend; "but suppose it does not do it, and instead of our becoming very resigned and heavenly-minded we become reckless and desperate, and think of any place but heaven,—what then?"
"I don't know," said Hubert, "except that the man who could feel what you say must be one who has forgotten to worship God, and so when trouble comes upon him he hasn't God to help him to bear it."
The stranger looked earnestly into Hubert'sface; there might have been a home-thrust in that remark, for, heaving a deep sigh, he said, "I hope you have never known what it is to lose a friend very, very dear to you, and I hope you never will—yours is a beautiful delusion. I had it once, but I haven't it now, and I hope circumstances may never rob you of it."
"I hope not. But, my friend," said Hubert, laying his hand upon his arm, "Ihavelost one very,verydear to me, all I ever loved, and it is the beautiful delusion you name that has helped me to bear it; nay, it is not a delusion, it is a high hope—a hope that when this life is ended, and all who are dear to us have been taken away, we shall meet once again in heaven, to live together for ever."
Hubert's face had become animated while he spoke, and in his warmth he put his hand into his pocket, intending to bring out his Bible; but his friend checked him by saying, "What a strange, powerful influence the things we learn in our youth have over our lives! A holy precept instilled into us when we are lads, is a diamond set in an imperishable casket; and though the dust of careless,sceptical manhood may oftentimes cover over the gem, still it is there as bright as ever, ready to shine with its former lustre when the heart, trusting and believing, instead of doubting, fans off the black shadow of unbelief; surely it is then that God's Spirit breathes once again into man the breath of life."
"How I wish I could talk as you do!" said Hubert; "then I would tell you what I feel. But when I want to speak, I seem to feel so much that I have no words to express myself, and so I say but little. How is it, though, that you speak so of God? I thought you were unbelieving."
"And what have I said to make you think that I believe now?"
"You must," said Hubert, "else you would not speak so of the Spirit of God. When I spoke of God, you called it a delusion, and I said nothing like what you have said. You surely are not a sceptic? you must believe."
"I may believe some things, but not all that you do; for it has been an easy matter to forget all about the one true God in a country where so many gods are worshipped."
"Did you forget, with all your learning and eloquence? Didyouforget?"
"Yes; didn't you?"
"Oh yes, I did; I dare not tell you what I did, neither can I tell you what I have suffered, nor how good and gracious God has been to me. For more than twenty years I chose to live regardless of a future life—indeed, regardless of anything but sin. I always tremble when I think how I have lived, and yet see how gracious God has been to me; and though you, too, forget to serve Him, He has not forgotten to be gracious and merciful to you."
The stranger sat still, in a careless attitude, with his broad-brimmed straw hat shading his face, and his hands thrust into the pockets of his loose coat. He spoke nothing in answer to Hubert's remarks, and Hubert, after maintaining the silence for some time, rose from his seat and went to his cabin. Ben, the sailor, had opened the cabin window, against which the rippling of the calm sea occasionally threw a tiny crystal, and as Hubert entered, and saw Ben standing before the window, he said—
"Are you afraid the water will be in, Ben?"
"Oh no, your honour," said the sailor, touching the little bit of hair upon his forehead, "we're more than four feet above water at this window; but I was a-thinking, your honour, of the storm on the Sea of Galilee, and how our Saviour caused a great calm: it was a wonderful thing, and I dare say it made a good many believe on Him as didn't believe before. St. Mark says there was also some little ships besides the one Christ was in, and I dare say there was a good many in those ships as didn't believe Him at all; but it just wanted that great tempest to frighten 'em and make 'em believe."
"It might, indeed," replied Hubert, into whose heart a new light had suddenly shone, "for God, who knows all hearts, knew what was in theirs."
"True, your honour, and it's the same now; many men won't believe the Gospel until they are like, as it were, in the tempest, obliged to be struck down with illness, or such-like, I mean."
With the concluding words the sailor left the cabin, and Hubert sat down to read all about that storm on the Sea of Galilee; he had read it before,but never with such an interest as now, and it reminded him of the tempest that had once come upon him; and he saw a deep truth in the sailor's remark, that it is the storm that drives the sinner to Christ. Then he sat and wondered what he must do to try and convince his stranger friend of these things, and the prayer was almost upon his lips that some terrible tempest might overwhelm him, if it would bring him to the footstool of Jesus.
That night, as though in answer to his heart's desire, Hubert dreamt that his friend was "a vessel meet for the Master's use," and in a joyous burst of feeling he awoke.
"I know it, I am sure of it," he said to himself "he is a believer; a backslider, perhaps, but not a sceptic." And he longed for the daylight to come, that he might again seek his friend; and as he lay awake during the remainder of the night, he tried to throw many of the incidents of his own life round that of the stranger. He would give anything almost to hear something more of his history; what he had told him was not enough, and Hubert hoped for a closer and firmer friendship. A kindredwish seemed to have passed nearly at the same time through the mind of the stranger, for he had retired to rest with the hope that he might get to know something more of Hubert; and the next morning, when they met on deck, there was a cordial greeting, and they went and sat down on the seat they had occupied the day before. There were several passengers on board the ship, but Hubert and the stranger were exclusive in their friendship, so that when together they met with no interruption; and this time, as they talked of various things, with the wide-spread ocean around them, Hubert, after a pause, said—
"Did you ever read the story of Jesus Christ stilling the tempest on the Sea of Galilee?"
"Yes, many times; why?"
Then Hubert repeated what Ben the sailor had said; told, too, from whose honest heart the ideas came; and his bosom felt a thrill of pleasure at the earnest attention the stranger gave him.
"Well done, Ben," burst suddenly from his lips, "Why, Captain Goodwin, he's a clear-headed fellow. It's astonishing what remarkably good notions those sailors sometimes have."
Then he returned to Hubert's subject, painted in rich imagery the silent lake, the little vessels, and the sleeping Saviour; then the tempest, the alarm, the cry, "Save, or we perish," and the Omnipotent, "Peace, be still." He knew all about it; he likened the silent lake to man's heart in boasted security; the little vessels to the many sins of his indulgence; the sleeping Saviour, to conscience hushed by sin; the tempest, to man awakening; the alarm, to man seeking pardon; the cry, to man's heart broken in despair; and the "Peace, be still," the voice of a reconciled God, the sign-manual of forgiveness.
Hubert had never heard anything that told upon his heart with stronger power. Tears were in his eyes, and, drawing a long breath, he said—
"How could you make me think that there was anything that you did not believe in reference to God, when you know so much, and can explain so beautifully? Oh, if I knew only half what you do—if I had but a little of your power to express myself, what a Christian I would be."
"You don't know," said the stranger, laying his hand upon Hubert's raised arm. "The head maybe full of knowledge, and the tongue fluent in speech, and yet the heart may be cold. It has been said, that for a speaker to move the hearts of his hearers, he must himself feel the power of his subject. Now, in worldly matters it may be so, but I am inclined to think that in religious matters it is not obliged to be. There is in all things referring to man's soul a secret influence which does not necessarily require the fire of man's heart to make it effective. God's Spirit is alone sufficient to move the waters. Eloquence, indeed! Oh, beware how you covet it. Where is there anything finer than the testimony of Christ's divinity made by thedemonin the synagogue at Capernaum—'What have we to do with thee, thou Jesus of Nazareth? Art thou come to destroy us? I know thee who thou art, the Holy One of God.' Be assured that, after all, there is no sublimer strain that reaches the ears of the Most High than the contrite 'Lord, save, or we perish.'"
There was much earnestness in the stranger's manner, and the last words he uttered struck Hubert as a prayer coming up from the depths of that heart which, in the stillness of the previousnight, he had satisfied himself was not sceptical, but backsliding. Hubert's curiosity was more awakened, and just as he was about to ask his friend another question, they were interrupted by the sailors coming to the part of the vessel where they were seated, to attend to some portion of the rigging. Hubert, taking his stick, walked away slowly to his cabin, but his friend did not follow him, and he sat down in silence alone. How many subjects, during the voyage, that stranger had given Hubert to think about! and the time had passed so pleasantly that he had not missed, quite so much as he had anticipated, the friends in India. Many new lights had shone into his heart, and his mind had opened to more truths by the companionship he had made, and he felt now as much delighted with the friendship, as a short time before he had been disappointed; that short prayer, so emphatically spoken, had touched a deep feeling of his own heart, and he wondered whether the high order of intellect, the learning and eloquence of his friend, had not proved to him a snare, in the same way that the careless, reckless, self-will of his own nature had been to him.
"Great God!" he said, gazing upward, "guide the thoughts of my heart aright, lest I argue that some of thy gifts are given to man to his injury."
How humble Hubert had become, how ready to resign his own will to that of a higher! and many a prayer he breathed that day—for the evil thought came continually up in his mind, that God's gifts were not always for good. Do as he would, or think as he would, that same thought was uppermost in his mind, and he felt that it was the evil one grasping at the expiring hope of bringing him back to him again. Hubert's faith, however, was growing stronger every day: he had learnt to feel that without the guidance and protection of God he was a frail erring creature, and it led him to be frequently a suppliant, and frequently a receiver of heavenly strength.
"Get thee behind me, Satan; every gift of Godisgood and perfect, and it is thou, thou false one, that pervertest them from the end for which they are given;" and Hubert, as he ceased speaking, took out his "torn Bible" to read: there was comfort there, and his heart became more cheerful, his faith stronger, as he read upon a soiled tornpage of that precious book—"Fear thou not, for I am with thee; be not dismayed, for I am thy God: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness."
It mattered not to whom, nor under what circumstances, such passages of Scripture were written—they were as effective to Hubert as though they had been penned for him alone; and he took them all to himself, and became more trusting and more holy. Neither Jew nor Gentile made a stone at which his feet were to stumble; as he opened his "torn Bible" and read, so he believed: the promise or the threatening, as it stood there, was what his heart received, and he believed now that God was near him, helping him to overcome the tempter.