CHAPTER IX.
TRUE FRIENDSHIP.
Then, potent with the spell of heaven, Go, and thine erring brother gain; Entice him home to be forgiven, Till he, too, see his Saviour plain.--KEBLE.
Three weeks more passed away; the journey homeward was getting near itsend, for the weather had been fine, and except that, on account of adeath on board, the vessel stayed a day and a night at St. Helena, therewere no interruptions. It was a lovely morning; the wind was hushed,there was scarcely a ripple upon the ocean, the vessel glided on withoutbreaking the stillness, and Hubert sat on deck with his friend, enjoyingthe genial atmosphere of the temperate zone.
"Captain Goodwin," said the traveller, "I think our journey together isnearly ended."
"Are you not going to England?" immediately inquired Hubert.
"No--at least, not at present. In a few days we shall pass Portugal, andI may say farewell to you off Lisbon. I have a little matter on handthat takes me to that part: when I have finished it I hope to come toEngland; and I hope to meet you some day again. I trust that what wehave seen of each other has not been unprofitable; something I have toldyou may remain in your memory, for I have told you many thingsconcerning the ways of men in nearly every country that I have been to.Your knowledge has been confined to India, which country I havetraversed almost from one end to the other; and yet I have learnt verymuch from you; and, now that we are about to part, I will tell you how.It may be that, mixing so much amongst Indian idolatry, or, indeed, Ihardly know what has been the cause--but of late years I have growncareless of the pure faith of my childhood, and have rather liked thanotherwise anything that tended to increase a disbelief in God and afuture life. Once let the thought that there is no future fix itself inthe mind of a man, and a thousand other thoughts, more wicked than thefirst, follow, and there is little difficulty in disbelievingaltogether; for it is the belief that there _is_ a future thatconstitutes the key-stone in religion. Well, I had become sceptical;and, Goodwin, you perhaps little thought it, but it was you with yourBible, and all its precepts so exemplified in your conduct, that struckme, and made me look into my own heart to find how it was that youappeared so much more happy and contented than I was. I have oftenwatched you; and your silent and, as you thought, unseen study of yourBible had a powerful effect upon me, and did more for me than any noisydemonstration would have done. When I first met with you I was in astate of mind to have laughed at you, if you had come and talked aboutconversion and grace, and prated off a host of Scripture texts. I hadtoo long forsaken religion to be frightened back to it; and that is themistake many good people make in their endeavours to bring back God'swandering children. When I saw you so consistent and so earnest in yourreligious duties, I know this, that I longed to be like you, and thatlonging led me to think of what I had once been, and by degrees thingshave changed with me. I have wanted to tell you this before, but havealways been afraid to trust myself; it is because our journey is sonearly ended that I tell you now. And look here, Goodwin, when I havedone what I have to do in Portugal I will come to England, where I shallhope to meet you; and by God's blessing, since there is no secretbetween us now, we will talk this matter over again. It may be a yearbefore I come, perhaps longer; but remember, if I am spared, I _will_come, for I shall never forget you."
"Neither shall I you," said Hubert, grasping his hand; but his heart wasfull, and for some minutes he said no more. At length he continued, "Oh,I am sorry to part with you; I have often wished that some of our timecould be spent in reading God's word, and talking of His mercy to usboth; the want of our doing so has made me at times sadly miss twofriends I left in India; still, I have much enjoyed your society, andhave learnt very much from you; for though our conversation has for themost part been upon secular things, you have given me very much to thinkabout, and I thank God that I met with you. When I reach home," andHubert sighed, "I should like to write to you; and if you will tell mewhere a letter will find you I will do so. I shall take up my quartersin the north of England."
The traveller gave Hubert an address which he said would find him, atleast for the next three months, and then he added--
"The north of England! Ah! I well remember an incident that occurredonce as I passed through it on my way from Edinburgh to London. I havenever been in that part since, and, as near as I can recollect, it isabout four-and-twenty years ago. I was fifty-four years old yesterday,and I was thinking that I passed my thirtieth birthday on the top ofthat stage-coach. Well, we were some distance north of York--I haveforgotten the name of the place, but it was a charming littlevillage--and at the top of a shady lane, at the garden gate of a prettyhouse, there were several people waiting to bid a young soldiergood-bye. Young, indeed! he was only a lad, just fifteen, afine-hearted, sprightly young fellow, and he was going off to India.Well, he took his seat amongst the passengers, called out good-bye, andoff he went. I sat beside the coachman, and as I glanced round at him, Ifelt sorry for the boy, for, though he appeared cheerful enough, I hadan idea that his cheerfulness was a little forced: the passengers beganto talk with him, and he really was a fine fellow. I never shall forgethim--the very type of a handsome English youth. Excuse me, I wasforgetting myself; it's but a simple story, after all: we can findsomething better to talk about."
"Oh, no, pray finish it; I am interested in your story. What became ofthe young soldier?"
"Well, it was rather curious that I was going south on purpose to bid mybrother good-bye, and I found that this young soldier was going to Indiain my brother's ship."
"That was curious enough," said Hubert.
"It was; and when we alighted, after a long and tedious journey, inLondon, we went off to the ship together. How very often I have thoughtof that lad! He had evidently been well cared for by good religiousparents, but perhaps from his school training, or I cannot tell what, hewas certainly forgetting the instructions they had given him. Oh, howthoughtless and reckless he was! I watched him, for he had told us alittle of his history; and as I was leaving the ship, I ventured to givehim a word of advice, and tried to persuade him never to forget hisduty to his parents: but I cannot tell you more about him. Poor lad! Inever saw him again, nor ever heard of him after he reached India. Ifear he died, for, soon after his regiment landed, many of the soldiersdied of fever, and from what I can remember, I saw amongst the deaths inan Indian paper a soldier of his name; so, never hearing anything moreof him, I concluded the poor fellow had succumbed to the climate."
"Why were you so anxious to hear something more of that lad inparticular?" inquired Hubert.
"Ah! were I to tell you it would be a long story. I don't know, though,that I need tell all. I think I once told you some of my early history.Well, I married at an early age, and three years after my marriage Iburied my wife: the sorrow, however, was greatly alleviated by a littleson I had--he was two years old when his mother died, and just able todissipate my grief by his innocent prattle. Years passed away: whereverI went I took my boy. I travelled through Germany and Prussia with him,and it has often occurred to me that the many people who have beencharmed by the works that these travels helped to produce, littlethought under what circumstances they were accomplished. Many a longjourney, where conveyances could not go, have I taken, with my staff inhand, a little satchel at my side, and that boy on my back. At othertimes he has trotted by my side; and very often--most nights,indeed--with him sleeping in my arms, or seated beside his bed, I havepenned most of my daily wanderings, for I never left him. For eightyears after his mother died I never allowed him to go from my sight; butthen he left me for ever."
"Not for ever," said Hubert; "you mean, he died? Well, you will go tohim, though he will not return to you."
"Why do you say so?"
"Because I believe it, and so do you."
"Yes, I do: but now, tell me how it is that I cannot always think so. Ibelieve it all as well as you do, and yet, when I sit alone and think,my thoughts are not the same as when we sit and talk together--ho
w isit?"
There was an earnestness in the stranger's manner, and also in his eye,as he put this question to Hubert, who, after sitting unmoved for aminute or two, at last said--
"I have felt the same many, many times; indeed, there is scarcely atruth in the Bible that I have read, which, though I believed it at onetime, I have been led to doubt it another. Many a time have I gone outinto the court-yard of my quarters in India, that I might see some freshobject, because upon everything in my room there seemed to stand out inlarge gilded letters the word 'Unbelief.' Turn where I would sometimes,the very objects and things I wished to forget were always before myeyes; indeed, blasphemy has been upon my tongue when my heart hasdictated prayers. Terrible hours they have been to me. And sometimes thefalling of a piece of paper, the opening of a door, or the smallestpossible sound you could conceive, has so alarmed me that I haveactually been afraid of myself. No one but myself can know what Iendured. But I don't feel anything of the sort now. _Prayer_ was theeffectual remedy for me, and it will be so for you. I believe that suchdoubts and fears are extra mercies sent by God to bring us nearer toHim; so, when you feel anything of the kind, try what prayer will do.There is a great deal of seeming prayer that isn't prayer; but when theheart can feel itself going out upwards,--I mean, when it utters thewords, 'Lord, I believe, help thou mine unbelief,' depend upon it, thatupon the other side of that petition, written in words of fire, is thecommand to the tempter, 'Get thee behind me, Satan!'"
The stranger sighed, but then, thrusting his hands deeply into his coatpockets, as was his usual custom when in a thoughtful mood, he sat stilllooking over upon the broad blue sea. Hubert sat still beside him, andas the sailors moved about attending to their various duties, they gavemany a glance at the two friends as they sat together. Ben had told themall something about these friends, and, though they were not all of thesame way of thinking as Ben was, they imbibed from him an extra amountof respect for the Captain and the stranger; and had the part of thedeck where they were accustomed to sit been a sacred part, it could nothave been more free from intrusion than it was when they were there; soHubert sat and thought; so did his friend, who was the first to speak.
"Yes, it is so," he said; "I know it is all true; I shall go to _them_.And now let me finish my story. I had returned from the Continent, andit was in Scotland that I buried my son; he lies beside his mother inthe kirk-yard at Dunkeld; it is a pretty, quiet place, at the foot ofthe Grampian mountains, and there they lie--I hope to be buried theretoo some day. I did not think at one time that I should have lived thuslong after them, but time has fled on, and it has worked its change inme. I remember that it was on my first journey after my loss that thatlad rode with us to London. I shall never forget how startled I was whenI first saw him: older, of course, he was, but such an exact resemblancedid he bear to the one I had lost, that--it may have been adelusion--some of my affection for the dead seemed to centre in him."
"What was his name?" inquired Hubert.
"I cannot tell now, I had forgotten it long ago; indeed, I had forgottenthe incident until you brought it back to my memory, it happened so longago."
"I wonder you forgot his name, though," said Hubert; "but time worksupon the memory, and makes it less retentive."
"True; especially one that has been tried like mine has. I am not an oldman--I am only a little over fifty, yet see how grey I am. I attributeit to my memory being overtasked."
"And to early and deep sorrow, perhaps," replied Hubert.
"Well, the philosophy of that I neither argue nor dispute: what do yousay to it?"
Hubert smiled, and, taking from his pocket his "torn Bible," he said,"Here we have a high authority for the fact that suffering purifies theheart. Now, whatever effect it may have upon the outward appearance, itmost certainly leaves its impress within--leaves many a deep scar uponthe heart: and we know that it leaves furrows on the brow; yet what ablessing suffering is!--it is often the last effort that God makes toreclaim the reckless sinner. When all other efforts have failed, andnothing seems effectual in bringing down man's proud heart, the Almightysmites that He may bless. I know it, for I have experienced it all; Ihave felt both the scourge and the blessing."
Hubert added this latter part because he feared lest his friend shouldthink him presumptuous; but the stranger added, "Captain Goodwin, I amsure you must have felt a good deal of what you have often talked about,and I would give much to be always as thoroughly settled in thesematters as you are. What you say, I feel to be all perfectly true.Here," he said, placing his hand upon his heart, "it is all right Buthere," and he touched his forehead, "there are other thoughts. But ifGod spare me, I will come to you again when my business in Portugal isdone, and then we will talk over these matters more fully. The world hasbeen a wide one to me, but I have only a few friends in it, and am tiredof rambling about it, so I shall return to England and come near toyou."
"Do," said Hubert; "and may God spare you, and me too. I shall be gladindeed to see you; the heart grows better by communion, and I thinksomehow that there is many a kindred feeling between us; at any rate,our voyage has been rendered pleasant by our having met, and it will bea source of pleasure to me, in many a sad hour that I feel will yetbefall me, to look forward to our meeting again."
This, and much more, formed the matter for conversation between Hubertand his friend; and when the day had closed, and night drew on, theypassed an hour together by Hubert's lamp; for the heart which hadunburdened itself seemed to have twined its tendrils more firmly roundthe wounded soldier.