CHAPTER XII.

MEMORIES OF CHILDISH DAYS.

I stand on the brink of a river, The river of life to me, Where the billows of memory quiver, And rise and fall like the sea.

I read in their tremulous motion The records of many a year, And like voices that come from the ocean Are the muffled words I hear.--ANON.

A bright morning beamed upon Hubert as he awoke from his slumber in his childhood's home. He looked round the room; somehow there were many things in it that he could recollect. There was the dark oak chest, with curious figures carved upon the front, which had often been a source of terror to him in early days, because on one occasion he was told that they were the likenesses of certain naughty boys, whose remains he verily believed were within that black chest, and though for many years he had forgotten all about it, the story, and the nurse who told it, came all back fresh into his memory. Then there was the old-fashioned furniture upon the bed. "Why!" and he looked at it again, "it is the same, the very same that covered me when last I slept here." And that large arm-chair behind the door, he knew _that_; he remembered that it was taken up there when his grandfather died, and he also remembered that it was where he always put his clothes when he went to bed. Many other things there were that he remembered: very little, indeed, seemed changed; and, as he looked round, his eyes lighted upon a stick, a bow, and a kite, tied together, hanging on the wall. He arose from his bed, and began to dress himself, scanning as he did so the various objects in his room. Presently he saw a small picture over the mantel-shelf, and went to look at it. He started back--it was intended for himself. Whether it had been a good likeness he was not able to judge, but it represented him as a young soldier just going from home, and beneath it was written, "Our Hubert." It had been drawn from memory, and placed there in remembrance of the lost one. Beneath it, on the mantel-shelf, was a little box, and Hubert raised the lid. Something more! Yes, something more. In that box lay a pair of slippers; they were little ones--a child of eight years old might have worn them; and Hubert, as he was just closing the lid, saw written inside it, "Our Hubert's." "Mine, mine!" he said, as he took them out. "Not mine!" But then some flash of memory lighted up the past, and he thought he could remember when they were his. Over these little slippers the soldier sat down and wept; for the truth had suddenly come to him, and he pictured his parents, gathering up every little thing that he had owned, remembering all about him, except that he had gone away and forgotten them; placing from the heart upon canvas the features of the rebellious one, and loving him fondly to the last. Perhaps over these little slippers they had shed many a tear; since they had covered the little feet, those feet had gone astray. What a dear relic they were of the past! how they reminded him of a time when he was pure and innocent! And he said, as he brushed away the tears from his cheeks--

"Oh! If I had only died then, I should have caused no sorrow, nor felt any, but been in heaven with the angels."

"Yes, Hubert, you would have caused sorrow," some spirit near him might have whispered; "first-born of that dwelling, they could not spare thee. He who gave thee as a blessing at the first, means thee to be a blessing still."

Hubert replaced the slippers, and went downstairs to meet his father.

The old man was there first. Years had passed since he had risen so early; but new life seemed to have been given to him; and, as he met his long-lost son at the door, he forgot that he was no longer the little child of his love; he forgot, too, all the sorrow he had been to him; forgot the long years he had mourned him; and clasped him fondly to his heart.

"Hubert," said his father, "it is thirty-nine years this very day since I received you, my first-born child; a second time you have been born to me, and we shall do well to rejoice. Your mother, dear sainted one, I would that she were here with us; but we will not wish her back--she is happier in heaven, and we will not sorrow because she's gone; it would seem like reproaching that good God who, in His mercy, has restored you to me. Yes, boy, I know well that she bitterly wept your loss--your absence, I mean; but she wept the death of other dear ones, and God took her to them: we shall, I hope, join them soon. Heaven bless you!"

It was a happy day, sanctified by a holy joy. Many friends, including the good minister of the parish, who, thirty-nine years before, received Hubert at the font, and prayed to Heaven to bless him, brought their meed of welcome to the wanderer, and that faithful servant of his heavenly Master spoke comfort to his aged fellow-pilgrim's heart.

"Master Goodwin," he said, "I told you, years ago, that if ye pray and do indeed believe, that ye shall receive--it shall be as ye ask; it is the prayer without faith that wins no blessing. God does not give us all we ask, because we are sinning creatures, and know not what we ask; but then, how many of us pray for things that we never want! and if we had only ourselves to judge what is best for us, instead of receiving a blessing, we should often receive a curse. When the heart asks God to teach it to pray, and then asks a blessing, believing that if it is God's will that prayer will be granted, depend upon that, that prayer _is_ answered; if the actual thing is not given, the heart receives something in another way--at any rate, it _does_ get a blessing. How many years you have prayed for that son, and how many times you murmured, and thought God had forgotten! but He never forgets; He has remembered all your grief, and answered, what prayer? Why, the prayer of faith. If you look back you will find that it is only of late years that you have borne your sorrows without murmuring; they have been heavy, we know; yet, for how many years the gilding of your prayers was tarnished by the breath of sorrowful repining? and perhaps it was when your heart could really say 'Thy will be done,' that the cloud of your troubles began to disperse, and the blessing was given. Oh that men would always praise the Lord for His goodness! How well He knows all our need! He knows when to smite and when to heal, and they who continue faithful unto death, to them shall that mysterious Providence be more fully revealed. If much sorrow has been your portion, so has much blessing. It is better to have saints in heaven than rebellious children on earth: and God has been very gracious to you."

"He has, indeed," said Hubert's father. "I feel it more truly now." And as he grasped the faithful pastor's hand, he said, "He gave you to this parish as one of my blessings, and your prayers have perhaps helped to restore me my son. Pray with us now, for our joy may be too great."

They knelt: a deep and earnest prayer fell from the pastor's lips upon the stillness of the hour, and the tear upon the cheek told its power on the heart. The prayer was over, and the good man, bidding them adieu for the present, left them to rejoice over the once lost one, while he, in the spirit of his mission, withdrew himself from the world, and thanked God for having brought back the wandering sheep.

Hubert's return had filled his father with such joy that he would scarcely tell him anything about the family, so anxious was he to hear all about himself; and it was some time after his arrival before he heard of all the bereavement of that household. All gone! all whom he had left in the beauty and strength of youth, when he went out to India, had been swept to the tomb; not one left round that desolate hearth, except the little orphan Richard, now nine years old, the only child of his second brother, who, with his young wife, had sunk into an early grave. One by one the hand of death had taken them from the fireside, and it was now his turn to mourn them. He saw plainly now how it was that his father had received him so fondly. Poor old man! his home had been sadly lonely; the household gods had been all broken, and his aged heart nearly so. Hubert looked at his father as he told the history of each one as they had departed, and conscience told him that there was before him a braver warrior than he had ever seen before--one who had fought a stern battle, and had ever been in the thickest of the fight. Hubert's heart beat; he felt that he had added heavily to the burden and heat of his father's day, and, falling upon his knee before his parent, he cried, as his hands covered his face, "Oh, father, forgive me!"

"Forgive you! Oh, Hubert, did I forget to say I had forgiven you long ago? There is nothing now to forgive, but I bless you for coming home. Let the past be the past. Bless you for coming home to me! God is good; He gave, He has a right to take, but He has given you to me again." But the truth seemed to shine upon the old man's mind, and putting his arm round Hubert's neck, he said--

"Ah! well, it's all forgiven; you might have done other than you have done, perhaps; but never mind;" and he wept tears of joy upon the bosom of his son. This little rebuke from Hubert's father was more welcome than the caresses he received, and Hubert opened his heart upon it, and began to tell his father of things which had befallen him in India; hitherto he had seldom spoken, except in answer to his father's many questions, for there was a weight of remorse in his bosom which nothing yet had removed; but now he was assured of his father's forgiveness, and a smile lighted up his hitherto sad face, as they sat round the fire telling many a story of his distant home; his father was delighted, and young Richard drew his little chair beside his veteran uncle, to listen also. Many a week passed by; Hubert had ever something to tell his father, but of all the history of the past, or of all the fame he had won, nothing was so dear to the old man's heart as the "torn Bible;" he made Hubert tell again and again all about it, its long neglect, and its abuse. The field of battle, the capture, and the rescue from the Indians, and even the dreadful night in the jungle, when Hubert's life-blood was draining from his wounds, were nothing compared with the strong will broken, the heart subdued, and the torn, despised Bible giving back a new and better life to the prodigal. Oh, how the old man loved to dwell upon that! many prayers from the long since silent heart had been answered then, and he ever repeated in Hubert's ear the words, "Oh, yes, she knew all about it, for she was one of the angels in heaven that rejoiced when you repented."

Hubert grew happier in the society of his father; and though at times a kind of reflection on his past life would cast a sort of thoughtful sadness over his brow, yet his health daily improved, and his heart became more and more attuned to the will of God.