CHAPTER XIII.

AT REST.

Gales from heaven, if so He will, Sweeter melodies can wake On the lonely mountain rill Than the meeting waters make. Who hath the Father and the Son, May be left, but not alone.--KEBLE.

Years rolled away. Hubert's history in the village became almost a thing of the past; the young, who had paid a sort of homage to him for his warrior fame, had almost forgotten it, and had grown up to reverence him for his goodness; and the aged, as he sat by many a dying bed, blessed him with their latest breath. Ever, day by day, did Hubert take his staff and go forth to comfort some less favoured brother; and the "torn Bible"--guide of his present life--accusing, yet dear relic of his past, soothed many a departing spirit, and helped to ripen his own for Eternity.

Since Hubert's reunion with his father, he had found many new friends, but he did not forget his old ones: to those in India he occasionally wrote, and occasionally received letters; still, it was a source of great regret to him that he did not hear anything of the companion of his voyage, with whom he parted off Lisbon. While the first year after his return home was passing, he scarcely thought anything of not hearing from him; but the second year, and third, and now the fifth had come, without tidings of his friend, and, with a pang of deep and silent regret, he began to conclude that he had died; though notwithstanding this thought, there was a lingering hope that his friend would yet come; and it was sometimes when his heart felt sad, that the wish for his friend became strong; perhaps upon the wish grew the hope; and then Hubert would take his staff and wander up the hill-side, out to the little white toll-gate, and then walk a mile or two down the broad road that led to the south. There was a rude seat by the roadside, formed of gnarled and moss-grown branches intermixed with stones; beside it was a huge stone trough, which a kindly mountain stream kept ever filled with water; over it, shading it from the sun, branched a stately oak; and this spot was a resting-place for man and beast. Hubert often walked there, sat down and rested beneath the tree, and looked with longing eyes down the road; still his friend came not, and he as often returned sadder than he went. How little he thought that his father had trodden that same road with a heavy heart for many a year, in the fond hope of meeting him, though there was but little probability in either instance that the hope would be realized! one moment's reflection would have told the heart so, but the heart under such circumstances seems unwilling to reflect--or even if it does, the effect is transitory, and the heart hopes on again against hope; and it is a blessed thing, this hope--for how often in the dark hour it throws a ray of light upon the darkness that is felt, and keeps a soul from despair!

Hubert had been six years at home, and for many months had not been along the road where he was wont to go; indeed, he had sighed over the memory of his friend, and at last had ceased to expect him; but now an unexpected joy had befallen him, for Mr. Collinton was coming. Hubert was delighted, and he read the letter many times over; his father was delighted too, for Hubert had confided to that parent, whom he now so loved and honoured, all his secret about the stranger, and the old man partook of the longing to see the friend, a portion of whose life had been so strangely linked with that of his son.

Hubert had often wondered how it was that the letter which he had written to his friend, telling him of his safe arrival at home, had not been answered; but it appeared that that letter had been duly received, and that Mr. Collinton, acting upon its contents, was now, after a long delay, making his way to Hulney.

One morning, after rising somewhat earlier than usual, Hubert took his staff, went up the hill-side, and took his way towards the seat by the roadside. It was still early, yet Hubert appeared to be in haste; he passed the white toll-gate, wished good morning to the man who kept it, and stayed a moment to inquire what time the coach would pass by, and then he went on his way again until he came to the seat by the roadside, when he sat down and looked with an anxious eye for the coach coming. Mr. Collinton had not told him the exact day that he would come, but this was the last day of the week, and Hubert felt sure that it would bring him, and he was not wrong. The coach, with its living burden, came at last, and Hubert and his friend met again.

"Leave the luggage at my house," said Hubert to the coachman, whom he now well knew, and then he and his friend sat down beneath the shady tree. How glad they were to meet again! and then Hubert soon told him that he was none other than the soldier lad who in years gone by had won his heart. The stranger listened with astonishment; gazed at him with a deeper earnestness than ever, and tears rushed to his eyes as he grasped his hands. And why did he feel so? There was nothing now in the face of that war-worn soldier which reminded him of the dear one he had buried, nothing now to make him feel, as he once said he had felt, that some of his love for the dead seemed to centre in him; and yet he did love him, and it was to find him again that he had given up the world, and taken his way to that little northern village; for he had felt, ever since he had parted with Hubert off Lisbon, all the emptiness of life without pure religion. He had felt a void in his heart that nothing around him could fill; and though he tarried longer upon the continent than he had intended, he ever thought of Hubert; and as he told him, as they sat together by the roadside, it was his memory and the hope of seeing him again that had blessed his life, and made him long to join him, that they might read and study God's Word.

"Why have you been so long in coming?" asked Hubert. "I thought, at most, your absence would be but one year; but when it was two, then three, and now nearly six, I gave you up."

"And thought me dead, perhaps?"

"Yes, sometimes I thought it might be so, for I could not think you had forgotten."

"No, no, you are right there; I never could forget: but travelling in Portugal and Spain, those countries full of such deep interest, I know I tarried; but when I was uneasy here in my heart, and my thoughts would turn nowhere but to you, I prepared to make my way to you. Sometimes an opportunity lost threw off my plans; sometimes the desponding mood I had fallen into was suddenly dispersed by some event; and so I wandered up and down, amongst the many beauties and enchantments of Spain--not forgetting you, my friend, but tempting Providence by deferring to come to you. Oh! it was a sin, and I felt it; but I hadn't you there, nor any one to say the words you might have said. And so I lingered; but I gave in at last. I was not happy there; and it has struck me many a time that there is many a man in this world whose life has been a continuous fluctuation between right and wrong--knowing what was right, being anxious to do what was right, and yet ever doing wrong: how is it?"

"My friend," said Hubert, putting his hand upon the stranger's knee, "the Bible says that the heart of man is inclined to do evil; and is it not so? Still, there is that in man which makes him love to do good--do right, I mean; and, as far as I can judge, man generally makes an effort to do so. But here is the mistake: he too often has a false idea of what _is_ right, and follows his own notions of right and wrong, rather than the standard laid down in God's Word. His inclination to do evil makes him too often try to make out that evil to be good; and so he goes on, spending a whole life in error, while all the time he fancies he is perfectly right. When a man's heart is not right with God, he must ever be going wrong; but, somehow, we don't like to be told it--I know I did not. Think of the years I spent in India in all kinds of sin, and all the time I wished the world to think well of me, and tried to persuade myself that I was perfectly right. But what a life it was! How many things occurred to tell me that I was wrong! but I would not hear, and continued a wicked course, trying to please man, and caring nothing whatever about God. I was worse than the heathen."

"How? you had the Bible with you in India."

"I had," replied Hubert, "and therefore I was the more guilty and responsible for the life I led there. I cannot look upon man without the Bible as I do upon him with: it is the _only_ source from which we can draw a perfect rule of life; and if man has it not, how can he know? Whether he reads it or not is another matter: if he have it at all he is responsible."

"Ah!" said the stranger, "I shall do now; we can talk these matters over together; somehow, I know all this, but yet I cannot get on with it alone. How is your father? is he still living?"

"Yes, and will be glad to see you; I have told him all we know of each other, and he is waiting now for our coming; for, like myself, he thought you would be here to-day."

As Hubert finished speaking, he and his friend rose from his seat and walked to the village; and as they walked along Hubert told him of the devastation that Death had caused in his home, and begged him, as he was the last of his family, to make his dwelling with them.

It was a goodly welcome that met the stranger at Hubert's home; and there was so much peace and happiness, sanctified by that religion which he longed for, that he soon became as one of the family; and by paying a yearly visit to the grave at Dunkeld, where he had buried his loved ones, he lived for ten years with Hubert and his father; and when he died, they mourned the loss of a Christian and a friend, and buried him as he had wished in the grave of his wife and son. Five years more were meted out to Hubert's father, and then they laid him with the dear ones gone before, and carved a simple record upon the stone that covered the grave where he and his wife lay.

"They sleep in Jesus," was all that Hubert told the world of them, and very soon the grass and flowers covered that fond testimony.

Between Hubert and Dr. Martin, in India, a warm friendship continued for many years; it ever cheered Hubert's heart to hear from his distant friend, for he owed him much, and heard from him gladly; but one day, after a longer silence than usual, there came a letter written by a stranger's hand, bearing the unwelcome news that the good man was gone. He had spent a long life of usefulness, and, in the land which had always been the field of his labour, he lay down and died. It was not his lot to hang up his weapons of warfare, and rest upon the laurels he had won; his Master was the King of kings, in whose cause he spent all his life. How could he rest? There was no reward on earth a sufficient recompense for his labours; and though his body now rests in an unknown distant tomb, yet, far away in the city of the great King, he has been crowned with an immortal diadem. How many quiet unobtrusive Christians there are, of whom the world knows nothing, who live to reclaim and guide aright their weak and sinning brethren, and though they live and appear to die unknown, they give to many a dying bed peace, when there would be no peace; and they are often the ten--ay, the five--that save the city.

Hubert was sad at the news of his friend's death, but he knew where he should meet him again, and not as he felt when he remembered the young sinning companion of his youth, the never-forgotten Harris; with a grateful thankful heart he could think of him in heaven, and hope to meet him there.

Once more let us turn to Hubert's home. Young Richard, dear good boy, when he grew to manhood, married the playfellow of his childhood, the orphan granddaughter of the village pastor, and they lived in the old house with Hubert; and when, at last, the veteran's career was ended, they followed him with many tears to the old churchyard, and Richard had that seventh white stone carved to his memory. It is but a simple unemblazoned record of one departed, yet travellers say it is a strange device, that torn ill-used book, and ever and anon some one asks its meaning.

Our story is ended, and we would ask the reader to remember that Hubert's life is not a fiction. And shouldst thou ever wander to that old churchyard, sit down amidst its shadows, amongst its silent dead; perchance a fitful vision of thine own life may flit past thee, some whisper may re-echo a mother's prayer or a father's counsel, and it may not be altogether unprofitable to thee to remember the history of Hubert and

"THE TORN BIBLE."

PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES.

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_Transcriber's Notes:_

Obvious punctuation errors repaired. Variations in hyphenation have been retained. Page 46 "mame" changed to "name" ("his name honoured and respected")