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 thingof the past; the young, who had paid a sort of homage to him for hiswarrior fame, had almost forgotten it, and had grown up to reverence himfor his goodness; and the aged, as he sat by many a dying bed, blessedhim with their latest breath. Ever, day by day, did Hubert take hisstaff and go forth to comfort some less favoured brother; and the "tornBible"--guide of his present life--accusing, yet dear relic of his past,soothed many a departing spirit, and helped to ripen his own forEternity.
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 occasionallywrote, and occasionally received letters; still, it was a source ofgreat regret to him that he did not hear anything of the companion ofhis voyage, with whom he parted off Lisbon. While the first year afterhis return home was passing, he scarcely thought anything of not hearingfrom 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 silentregret, he began to conclude that he had died; though notwithstandingthis 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 hisfriend became strong; perhaps upon the wish grew the hope; and thenHubert would take his staff and wander up the hill-side, out to thelittle white toll-gate, and then walk a mile or two down the broad roadthat led to the south. There was a rude seat by the roadside, formed ofgnarled and moss-grown branches intermixed with stones; beside it was ahuge stone trough, which a kindly mountain stream kept ever filled withwater; over it, shading it from the sun, branched a stately oak; andthis spot was a resting-place for man and beast. Hubert often walkedthere, sat down and rested beneath the tree, and looked with longingeyes down the road; still his friend came not, and he as often returnedsadder than he went. How little he thought that his father had troddenthat same road with a heavy heart for many a year, in the fond hope ofmeeting him, though there was but little probability in either instancethat the hope would be realized! one moment's reflection would have toldthe heart so, but the heart under such circumstances seems unwilling toreflect--or even if it does, the effect is transitory, and the hearthopes on again against hope; and it is a blessed thing, this hope--forhow often in the dark hour it throws a ray of light upon the darknessthat is felt, and keeps a soul from despair!
Hubert had been six years at home, and for many months had not beenalong the road where he was wont to go; indeed, he had sighed over thememory of his friend, and at last had ceased to expect him; but now anunexpected joy had befallen him, for Mr. Collinton was coming. Hubertwas delighted, and he read the letter many times over; his father wasdelighted too, for Hubert had confided to that parent, whom he now soloved and honoured, all his secret about the stranger, and the old manpartook of the longing to see the friend, a portion of whose life hadbeen so strangely linked with that of his son.
Hubert had often wondered how it was that the letter which he hadwritten to his friend, telling him of his safe arrival at home, had notbeen answered; but it appeared that that letter had been duly received,and that Mr. Collinton, acting upon its contents, was now, after a longdelay, making his way to Hulney.
One morning, after rising somewhat earlier than usual, Hubert took hisstaff, went up the hill-side, and took his way towards the seat by theroadside. It was still early, yet Hubert appeared to be in haste; hepassed 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, andthen 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, butthis was the last day of the week, and Hubert felt sure that it wouldbring him, and he was not wrong. The coach, with its living burden, cameat last, and Hubert and his friend met again.
"Leave the luggage at my house," said Hubert to the coachman, whom henow well knew, and then he and his friend sat down beneath the shadytree. How glad they were to meet again! and then Hubert soon told himthat he was none other than the soldier lad who in years gone by had wonhis heart. The stranger listened with astonishment; gazed at him with adeeper earnestness than ever, and tears rushed to his eyes as he graspedhis hands. And why did he feel so? There was nothing now in the face ofthat 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 ofhis 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 takenhis way to that little northern village; for he had felt, ever since hehad parted with Hubert off Lisbon, all the emptiness of life withoutpure religion. He had felt a void in his heart that nothing around himcould fill; and though he tarried longer upon the continent than he hadintended, he ever thought of Hubert; and as he told him, as they sattogether by the roadside, it was his memory and the hope of seeing himagain that had blessed his life, and made him long to join him, thatthey might read and study God's Word.
"Why have you been so long in coming?" asked Hubert. "I thought, atmost, your absence would be but one year; but when it was two, thenthree, 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 hadforgotten."
"No, no, you are right there; I never could forget: but travelling inPortugal and Spain, those countries full of such deep interest, I know Itarried; but when I was uneasy here in my heart, and my thoughts wouldturn nowhere but to you, I prepared to make my way to you. Sometimes anopportunity lost threw off my plans; sometimes the desponding mood Ihad fallen into was suddenly dispersed by some event; and so I wanderedup and down, amongst the many beauties and enchantments of Spain--notforgetting you, my friend, but tempting Providence by deferring to cometo you. Oh! it was a sin, and I felt it; but I hadn't you there, nor anyone to say the words you might have said. And so I lingered; but I gavein at last. I was not happy there; and it has struck me many a time thatthere is many a man in this world whose life has been a continuousfluctuation between right and wrong--knowing what was right, beinganxious 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 itnot so? Still, there is that in man which makes him love to do good--doright, I mean; and, as far as I can judge, man generally makes an effortto 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 thanthe standard laid down in God's Word. His inclination to do evil makeshim 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 isperfectly right. When a man's heart is not right with God, he must everbe going wrong; but, somehow, we don't like to be told it--I know I didnot. Think of the years I spent in India in all kinds of sin, and allthe time I wished the world to think well of me, and tried to persuademyself that I was perfectly right. But what a life it was! How manythings occurred to tell me that I was wrong! but I would not hear, andcontinued a wicked course, trying to please man, and caring nothingwhatever 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 andresponsible for the life I led there. I cannot look upon man without theBible as I do upon him with: it is the _only_ source from which we candraw 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 isresponsible."
"Ah!" said the stranger
, "I shall do now; we can talk these mattersover together; somehow, I know all this, but yet I cannot get on with italone. How is your father? is he still living?"
"Yes, and will be glad to see you; I have told him all we know of eachother, and he is waiting now for our coming; for, like myself, hethought you would be here to-day."
As Hubert finished speaking, he and his friend rose from his seat andwalked to the village; and as they walked along Hubert told him of thedevastation that Death had caused in his home, and begged him, as he wasthe last of his family, to make his dwelling with them.
It was a goodly welcome that met the stranger at Hubert's home; andthere was so much peace and happiness, sanctified by that religion whichhe longed for, that he soon became as one of the family; and by paying ayearly visit to the grave at Dunkeld, where he had buried his lovedones, he lived for ten years with Hubert and his father; and when hedied, they mourned the loss of a Christian and a friend, and buried himas he had wished in the grave of his wife and son. Five years more weremeted out to Hubert's father, and then they laid him with the dear onesgone before, and carved a simple record upon the stone that covered thegrave where he and his wife lay.
"They sleep in Jesus," was all that Hubert told the world of them, andvery soon the grass and flowers covered that fond testimony.
Between Hubert and Dr. Martin, in India, a warm friendship continued formany years; it ever cheered Hubert's heart to hear from his distantfriend, 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 astranger'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 hadalways been the field of his labour, he lay down and died. It was nothis lot to hang up his weapons of warfare, and rest upon the laurels hehad won; his Master was the King of kings, in whose cause he spent allhis life. How could he rest? There was no reward on earth a sufficientrecompense for his labours; and though his body now rests in an unknowndistant tomb, yet, far away in the city of the great King, he has beencrowned with an immortal diadem. How many quiet unobtrusive Christiansthere are, of whom the world knows nothing, who live to reclaim andguide aright their weak and sinning brethren, and though they live andappear to die unknown, they give to many a dying bed peace, when therewould be no peace; and they are often the ten--ay, the five--that savethe city.
Hubert was sad at the news of his friend's death, but he knew where heshould meet him again, and not as he felt when he remembered the youngsinning companion of his youth, the never-forgotten Harris; with agrateful thankful heart he could think of him in heaven, and hope tomeet 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, theorphan granddaughter of the village pastor, and they lived in the oldhouse with Hubert; and when, at last, the veteran's career was ended,they followed him with many tears to the old churchyard, and Richard hadthat seventh white stone carved to his memory. It is but a simpleunemblazoned record of one departed, yet travellers say it is a strangedevice, that torn ill-used book, and ever and anon some one asks itsmeaning.
Our story is ended, and we would ask the reader to remember thatHubert's life is not a fiction. And shouldst thou ever wander to thatold churchyard, sit down amidst its shadows, amongst its silent dead;perchance a fitful vision of thine own life may flit past thee, somewhisper may re-echo a mother's prayer or a father's counsel, and it maynot be altogether unprofitable to thee to remember the history of Hubertand
"THE TORN BIBLE."
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES.