CHAPTER VI.

THE TIME FOR REFLECTION.

O, lost and found! All gentle souls below Their dearest welcome shall prepare, and prove Such 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 in time 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 Hubert to 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 refused _all_ I 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's grief 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 kindly if 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 throat swell 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. I _am_ weary, 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 that Hubert 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, He _can_ and _will_ save 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 know _all_ I've done? Does He know how 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 was turning 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 earnest in 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 were gone, 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 was a 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 stopped your 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; _that_ neither 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, and their 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.