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 fainthope that he would ultimately recover. The doctor had been two or threetimes during each day to see him, and now, as the sun was setting, hecame again. Weary as he was with his usual duties, he had still hisMaster's work to do, and as he took his seat by Hubert's bed he asked ifhe should read to him. Hubert knew quite well that the doctor's book wasthe Bible, and though he also knew that but very faint hopes were givenof his recovery, he replied, "No, thank you; I shall perhaps soon bebetter, when I shall have plenty of time to read." The doctor tried toprevail, 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 doctorleft the room, though, as he gazed at the three empty beds near him, helittle thought that the insensibility to all pain which occasionallystole over him, rendered the hope of his recovery very faint, and thatunless a change took place his couch would soon be empty also.
Another and another day passed. Hubert was no better; and as the doctoragain 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 yourfriends in England; is there anything you would like to say? Shall Iwrite for you?"
"Not now."
"Why not now? I have told you how precarious your state is: you hadbetter 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 thantwenty 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 battleyou have been in, and see your name amongst the wounded. It wouldcomfort them greatly to hear from you; and if, as you say, you have notwritten for so long a time, how they would rejoice to find you had notforgotten them!"
"No, doctor," said Hubert, faintly, "it would be no joy to them, theycannot care for me now. I broke my mother's heart; I know it. I dreamtit once, years ago; and many a time the sad face I saw in my dream hascome 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 leastnot 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 turnedhis face away.
The doctor knew well that Hubert's illness was too serious a matter tobe trifled with: everything was against him; it was the hottest seasonof the year, dissipation had undermined his constitution, and his mindwas uneasy; and the thought had struck that good man, that if he couldget Hubert to turn his thoughts homeward, reflection might bringremorse for his past life, and he might think of eternity. For a fewseconds he stood still, gazing silently at his patient, wondering whathe should do. It was not his custom to see a soldier die without feelingany concern; his own well-worn Bible testified how often he had usedthat sacred book; and written in the Book of Life were perhaps not a fewnames of erring yet repentant sinners, brought to know Christ by hishumble efforts. "Soldier brother," he said, as he took the hot hand onceagain in his own, "I must not be refused _all_ I ask; let me read toyou."
Hubert made no answer, and the doctor turned over the soiled pages ofhis Bible and read, with a soft clear voice, the fifty-first Psalm.--
"Have mercy upon me, O God, according to thy loving kindness; accordingunto the multitude of thy tender mercies blot out my transgressions,"&c., &c.
The psalm was ended: none of its petitions, however, appeared to havetouched the heart of the sick man, though their effect was great uponthe doctor, who, kneeling down, poured out his soul's grief in a deep,heartfelt prayer, begged hard and earnestly for mercy and pardon for hissuffering brother, and implored that a ray of light might beam into hisheart. 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 thedoctor left the room.
"Is he gone?" said Hubert, faintly, a few minutes after. "Oh! why did heleave 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 tendedthe sick soldiers in the hospital where Hubert now lay, but it was hislot to be so fortunate on this occasion; and she was sitting beside anopen window, looking out upon the sun, which was sinking in the west,and throwing, as she was thinking, its rays upon her English home, whenshe heard Hubert speak, and, hastening to his side, in an instant sheasked him kindly if he required anything. Perhaps his heart was toofull, 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 uponhis forehead, she thought she saw a tear roll down his sunburnt cheek.That tear was enough; the stern scenes she had witnessed during a longsojourn in India, had made her callous to many things, and left many ascar upon her heart; but she was woman still, and could not resist thepower 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 spokesoothingly and kindly to him; still he was silent, gave no answer to anyof her kind inquiries, except by an occasional sigh.
"I know you are uneasy, Captain; tell me, oh, do tell me! I've asked youmany things, and you have answered me nothing; do tell me what's thematter. What can I do for you?"
"Nothing."
"Yes, Captain, let me do something; shall I fetch Dr. Martin? What shallI do?"
"Will you read to me?"
"Yes, that I will;" and the nurse immediately fetched her Bible, and fora long time, by the dim flickering candle, her voice rose softly uponthe stillness of that chamber, as she read of mercy and forgiveness tothe penitent and heart-broken sinner.
It may have been that the sound of her voice had a soothing effect uponHubert'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 wasstill unable to give hope of his recovery; and after another day, whenthe shadows of evening drew on, that good man took his seat once more bythe sufferer's bed, and read again, in hopes to soothe the troubledspirit and lead the uneasy thoughts to better things.
"Why do you come here, and sit and tire yourself reading to me? You mustalready be weary with your day's work. Why do you come here?" AndHubert, with a steady eye, gazed into the doctor's face as he made theinquiry.
"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 hesitatedHubert 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 notlike 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 knowit, and for that cause I come to you, but the first thing I ask you, yourefuse. You know not how great a comfort it would be to you to writehome to your parents; there is much for you to do, but that is the firstthing, for it is a holy duty."
"I have never done it, doctor, may God forgive me and I cannot do itnow; it is too late, too late. You said right; I am not happy; the daysand nights I have lain here have told me that all is too late now; thelife I have led has been a wicked one, and if I die I am lost Oh, whatshall I do?"
There was nothing stern in the d
octor's heart; he had striven, and wept,and prayed earnestly that Hubert might see the error of his way, butnow, at this confession and despair, he almost regretted that he hadadded to the sufferer's woes. There was no exulting over the poorsinner, but bending down close to Hubert's ear, he said--
"Fear not; pour out your heart's sorrow to God, for, deep as your sinsare, He _can_ and _will_ save you, if, with a true, penitent, and brokenheart, you confess all your sins to Him and throw yourself helpless onHis mercy. You can do nothing for yourself; your own poor sorrowingheart is an offering Jesus Christ will accept if you will give it toHim. Don't hesitate, Christ is waiting to receive you; do, then, withgodly sorrow, throw yourself upon His mercy."
"But I cannot," said Hubert. "It may be true, all you say, but I havesinned so long, or else I am different to other people. God may forgivesuch as you, but I have sinned too much."
"Oh no, not too much for God to forgive. He knows all you have done, andHe 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 abetter life?--and then Ellen died! No, I cannot believe it Go, go; leaveme 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, ashe looked upward, "Lord, have mercy upon me." Then he was exhausted; afaint hue came over his face, and the doctor, seeing that the strengthof the sufferer was failing, stayed by his bedside to administer to hisneed. Hubert's hands had fallen upon the coverlet, and as the doctortook one in his own, he started at its strange coldness, and for a longtime he chafed it. All, indeed, that could be done was done for Hubert,and throughout the long, sultry, silent night the nurse and doctorwatched with Christian love beside the lonely bed. Hubert at length fellinto a heavy sleep; it was the crisis of the fever, and never was infantslumber 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 westernhorizon, and the doctor crept softly into Hubert's chamber to takeanother look at the sleeper. He had gazed some minutes, he had breatheda 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 hadleft him, and the doctor, after administering a cordial, gave him forthe 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 legwould 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 tocome again the next morning and read to him. The morning came, thedoctor was there, and he told all about God's mercy and love to thevilest of earth's sinners; then he knelt and prayed, with all theearnestness of his heart, for all God's grace to the sufferer; and withsuch simple words and touching sadness did he tell the Prodigal's story,that Hubert's unbelief and despair yielded at once to the mighty powerof direct communication with God, and tears fell fast upon his pillow.
The doctor had been more than an hour with Hubert, and now onward toother sufferers he went, with his double mission. The scene in Hubert'sroom had urged him to be more earnest in his Master's cause, and hissoul was full of prayer that a heavenly ray might illume Hubert'sdarkened heart and bring him to the feet of Jesus. Little did thesufferer know how earnestly that good man desired his salvation, andlittle did the regiment know, as its members saw him, with earnestthoughtful brow, wending his way beneath the shadow of the high wall,that in yonder lone building lay the cause of his toiling through thehot summer days, toiling again as night came round, growing more sallowand more gaunt, yet never seeming to weary. "My grace is sufficient forthee," was strictly exemplified in that earnest faithful disciple; Godblessed him, and kept him a burning and a shining light, amidst all thesin and temptation of India's dark land; and though a scoff and a sneerwere 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 wasprogressing favourably; all traces of feverishness were gone, and thedoctor seemed pleased as he told him that though at present the leastthing 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 outof danger.
"Pray that it may be so," said Hubert, "for I dare not die now: God hasheard your last prayer; a week ago I could have died to rid my heart ofits dreadful despair, and the terrible weight that was upon it, but notnow. 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 haspassed away since you and your companions first attracted my notice. Iremember well the morning you landed in Calcutta, for, if you recollect,your own doctor died on the passage out, and I accepted the appointmentas 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 wasthe extreme youth of the regiment--the majority did not appear much overtwenty years of age, and then there was a good number of youthsapparently about sixteen. I remember that many remarks were made at thetime about you all, and I came to the conclusion that at least half ofyou had come to India to die. I have not been wrong either in that; butI am going from the point--I remember that I was particularly struckwith 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 allabout the life you were leading; your higher privileges were snares, notonly to you and your companions, but to all the men, and the first griefI felt after joining you was at the reckless and sinful example you weresetting. When first struck down with fever, how I longed, hoped, andprayed for your conversion. But you know how your life passed on, and Ineed not tell you that from that first hour of meeting you till now, Ihave watched you, and prayed for you, and I know quite well that God'sHoly Spirit has often been striving very hard with you; but the warningsyou have had have generally passed away like the dew upon the earth, andnow the Almighty has mercifully stopped your career by this affliction.Don't let it pass like the others have done, but take your heart, withall its weight of sin, and lay it bare before God. He knows all yourneed, will help you in all your sorrows, pardon all your sins, and makeyou holy; but you must ask His aid--you must confess all your sin--youmust pray to Him with a broken heart."
Hubert sighed, and then, after a moment's pause, said, "Doctor, it is noeasy matter to do as you say I ought; and you judge me harshly when yousay I have neglected all the warnings I have had. You remember poorHarris? Well, his death had more effect upon me than you know; for weeksand weeks I thought of nothing else, and tried very hard to change, butsomehow I could not And then poor Ellen! you remember her? I should havebeen another man if she had lived; but no, I was not allowed to bebetter: I lost her, and I know I have been bad since; it drove me almostmad. But, Doctor, was it all my fault?" And Hubert burst into tears.
"Goodwin," said the doctor, as he took Hubert's hand, "beware how yourebuke the Almighty; His ways are not our ways; let me beg of you tohave faith in Him now; if you are spared to recover, we will talk thispoint over together, but not now, time is too precious. Believe me, Hedoes all things well, and willeth not that any should perish; if youwill only in true faith, nothing doubting, turn to Him, confess yoursins, and ask His mercy, you will be astonished how plain many thingswill 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 achild came all into my mind; they seemed all I wanted to say, and yetthey were only part of a little child's prayer; indeed, I had long agoforgotten them. Doctor, will you pray?"
The good man knelt, and poured out his h
eart to Heaven for the longsinning but repenting brother; and it was a holy sight to see the tearsstreaming down the pallid cheek of the once gay, reckless soldier, as helistened to another's prayer in his behalf. The doctor's bosom was fullalso--the wanderer was at last coming home--the straying sheep wasreturning to the fold--the poor child of earth was yielding up his proudspirit to the hand that afflicted, yet was stretched out to savehim--and the good man prayed that the sufferer might be pardoned, andspared to set forth the beauty of that holiness of life which he had solong neglected.
Another week had passed; each day as it dawned found Hubert somewhatbetter, but then each evening both the nurse and doctor watchedanxiously beside his bed, for his state was precarious: one thing,however, that improved was the state of his mind; _that_ neitherslumbered nor went back--but from the hour that he poured out his firstearnest heart-breathings to Heaven, he became more penitent and moreanxious; all the carelessness and indifference with which he had treatedreligion came like so many accusing spirits before him; but, though thereflection 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 thenurse and doctor, and their attentions were blessed, for at last Hubertwas pronounced "out of danger;" and though he would never again be fitfor the army, there were hopes of his perfect recovery.