CHAPTER VII.

WHAT THE TORN BIBLE HAD DONE FOR HUBERT.

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 of it 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 what it 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 would just 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 did so, 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, and before 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 had never 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 the corner 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 was collected, 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 the _Arctic_. "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 thought ever 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 the _Arctic_ would 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 reached the 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 gloomy silence 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 have been 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 the sailor 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 lands of 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.