THE BIBLE TORN.
Within this awful volume lies
The mystery of mysteries;
And better he had ne'er been born
Who reads to doubt or reads to scorn.--SCOTT.
We must pass over a few years. Hubert had overcome the effects of the
climate, and the many dangers to which he had been exposed, helped, as
they ever will, the heart, uninfluenced by religion, to make him more
reckless and daring. Away from his sight, at the bottom of his chest,
undisturbed, lay his Bible; beside it, too, lay his sister's desk, and
the writing materials his mother had carefully packed for him: he seldom
thought of the fond ones who had given him those things; but far away in
England they ever thought of him, and watched and wept for a letter.
Hubert's regiment had seen a great deal of service, and it had not been
his lot to escape the dangers of war. On one occasion he had been
overcome and taken prisoner by some natives, and was only saved from
being put to death in a cruel manner by an unexpected attack being made
upon these Hindoos by a neighbouring chief, to repulse which they left
Hubert and two of his companions in the care of some women, from whom
they were rescued by a company of his regiment who had come out to
search for him. In a few hours the attempt to save Hubert would have
been in vain, for the Hindoos, hating the English, seldom allowed much
time to elapse between the capture and the sacrifice. Many a narrow
escape besides this, and many a wound--some slight and some
severe--dotted the pathway of Hubert's life; and the seventh year of his
residence in India was drawing to a close. The hot season had been
unusually oppressive; nearly every disease which flesh is heir to had
made fearful ravages amongst the soldiers, and Hubert was a second time
struck down with fever. Mercy once again interposed, and, like the
barren fig-tree, he was spared, that another opportunity might be given
him to bear fruit. One morning, when he was getting better, the hospital
nurse came to him with a letter in her hand, and asked if he thought it
was for him; he took it from her, and for a few moments did not answer
her: his heart smote him; but though his illness had slightly subdued
him, he was old in sin, and had learnt how to overcome all feelings of
tenderness; so, striving to check the thoughts that were forcing their
way, he began to examine the postmarks and various written notices upon
the outside of the letter; he soon found how far it had travelled in
search of him, and now it was by a mere chance that he had received it.
"Why was this letter not sent after me?" inquired Hubert.
"Be thankful, sir, that you have received it now," said the nurse. "It
has travelled after you a great way; but your regiment has been so much
on the move that I am not surprised at its being delayed. I have seen it
on the letter-rack more than eight months, and several others with it,
and you would not have had it now if I had not remembered you."
"Why, where did you see me before?"
"I nursed poor Captain White in the hospital at Jansi, and I knew you by
your coming so often to see him."
"I did not remember you."
"No, sir, perhaps not; but I did you, though it was only this morning
that I remembered anything about the letter, and that is how it is they
often get delayed: they are given to people very often, to send on, who
know nothing at all about them, and so they get put on one side, and
sometimes forgotten altogether. I suppose that was sent here because
someone knew that when you were stationed here a year ago, you were in
hospital with jaundice, and here it has been ever since."
"It is high time things were altered, then," replied Hubert, "if this is
how the letters are treated."
"Yes, sir, it is," said the nurse; "but you don't seem very anxious to
read your letter, now you have it."
Hubert said no more. Anxious indeed he was to know what that letter
contained, but fearful to open it; the battle, everything indeed in
warfare he could face with boldness, but before that silent, soiled,
fairy-like packet in his hand his whole nature quailed. Had he been
alone, perhaps he would not have opened it at all; but the eye of
another was upon him, and perhaps it was to save betrayal that he broke
the seal. It was from his father; there was nothing reproachful in it,
but a great deal of news about the family and their affectionate
remembrance of him; a long account of letters written, and their fears
that they had not reached him; then an earnest pleading that if he
received that he would write to them immediately, for their anxiety and
disappointment were very great.
Hubert read his letter several times; it was not the first he had
received, though perhaps it was the first that he really felt anxious to
answer; but he was too much out of health to reply to it then. It was
frequently a silent companion to him during the remainder of his stay in
the hospital, though when he grew better and returned again to his old
companions, somehow his father's letter was forgotten.
Hubert's illness had no effect upon him for good; it was sent, no doubt
in mercy, to check, at least for a time, the career he was running; but
health had returned, and so had he to his evil habits. Not one thought
did he ever willingly give to his parents, or the good precepts they had
tried to teach him; but when at times a few lines of a hymn, or a few
words of an early learnt prayer, would, in spite of all his efforts,
come across his mind, he had become so bold in sin that he cursed the
intruding memory of his purer days.
How little that young soldier thought of the merciful providence that
was watching over him! And it was doubtless in answer to his parents'
prayers that the little snatches of his early lessons were allowed to
intrude so repeatedly upon him, to bring him back, if possible, to a
better life. Take courage, mothers, even though the seed now sown seems
to perish as it falls; and continue to store up in the little mind
passages of holy writ, the simple prayer, and the childish hymn; long,
long may the soil remain barren, but a distant storm-cloud may shed its
torrents there, and then the fruit of thy labours may return like the
autumn grain, and ye shall reap, if ye faint not.
Hubert had grown very handsome, military fortune had smiled upon him,
and he had risen to be first lieutenant of his regiment Good abilities,
and great intelligence, with his merry, cheerful disposition, had won
him many favours; but those qualities were at the same time the snares
in his path: they were misapplied and misdirected, and too often were
the cause of his deepest errors.
One night, about nine years after Hubert had left England, he sat alone
in his room, with a heavier heart than he had ever before endured. His
sword lay upon the floor, part of his soldier's dress was thrown
carelessly upon a chair, a glass jug of water and a bottle were upon the
table, a loose grey cloak was wrapped around him, and his arm was in a
sling; he had been in battle that day, and severely cut upon the
shoulder; the doctor had attended to him and bound up the wound, and
Hubert, sick and dispirited, lounged in his easy chair in gloomy
silence. The doctor had tried to persuade him to go to bed, and Hubert
had promised to do so; but as soon as he was gone, the servant man was
dismissed from the room, and Hubert began to think. They must have been
terrible thoughts that could have produced such a look of despair; they
were not, however, about his wounded shoulder, nor the dangers he had
that day encountered; neither were they of his parents, to whom, in a
few months, the news of the battle would probably find its way. It was
altogether another matter which troubled him.
A companion, a fellow officer--the little lad who seated himself upon
the coil of rope and wept such tears as the vessel left England--had
grown up to manhood with Hubert, and had that morning gone out with him
to battle; they were full of spirit when they went, and for some time
fought nearly side by side; but there came unexpectedly a terrible
volley of shot from a portion of the enemy that lay concealed behind
some dense brushwood. Hubert's ranks were thinned, and, as he turned
round to rally and command his men, he missed his friend. It was a
critical moment; every energy and thought was required for the fight; so
that a glance behind, and a fleeting pang lest he had fallen, were all
that circumstances allowed, and Hubert rushed on.
The battle was won, the soldiers were returning, and Hubert was wounded;
he had made inquiry for his friend, but could hear nothing. As they
wound their way along, however, by the hill-side where the volley had
been fired, his heart beat quickly, for his own wound had made him feel
weak, and he could scarcely speak, when he saw two soldiers bending over
something lying on the grass. All his fears were realized as he slowly
came up to the scene; for there, stretched upon the ground, lay his
companion, dead. Oh! how the sight overcame him. If man is capable of
loving man, it was exemplified in Hubert; for his heart had deeply
entwined itself round his hapless comrade, and his first impulse was to
kneel beside him, and with his unwounded arm press him to his bosom as
he wept over his pallid brow. No thought, however, of the mercy which
had kept him from a similar fate came into his mind; no prayer of
thankfulness went up from his heart; but sorrowful and ill, he left his
friend, and leaning between the two soldiers, he at last, after great
difficulty, reached his quarters. After Hubert had been attended to by
the doctor, a second thought took the place of the first pure one; and,
as he sat alone, instead of pouring out his heart in deep gratitude to
his Almighty Preserver, he became irritated and angry, and amongst the
many thoughts that crowded upon him he remembered that his poor dead
companion was deeply in his debt. Much of their time had been spent
together at the gaming-table, and only a few evenings before, Hubert had
lent his companion all the money he had by him, including his last
month's pay; since then, Hubert had gambled, and been unsuccessful, and
had become involved for a considerable amount, which he had promised to
pay in a week; but his companion, who owed him sufficient to pay the
debt, was killed, and the difficulty into which he was suddenly plunged
drove him almost to despair.
"What shall I do?" he said, as he passionately struck the table; and
then, in the height of his frenzy, he said many bitter, cruel things
about his poor guilty companion who lay dead upon his bed in the
adjoining room.
"Oh, what shall I do?" he said again; and for some minutes he sat still,
gazing with a vacant stare upon the floor; then, as if moved by a sudden
impulse, he slowly rose from his chair, and, going into his bed-room, he
knelt down by his chest, intending to get some writing paper, that he
might reckon up all he owed, and see how far his own resources would
help him. Perhaps he was too absorbed to think of what he was doing, for
he took out a small parcel, and then, after replacing the things in his
chest, he went and sat down by the table. For some minutes he sat with
his face covered with his hands, as though he were in deep thought;
then he muttered something, and, snatching up the parcel, he broke the
string that tied it; one sharp pull drew the paper away, when out upon
the table fell his Bible. "Fool, to bring that!" he said, and then he
dashed it to the other end of the room. In striking the Bible it came
open, and as it came in contact with the corner of a chair two of its
leaves were torn out. There was a slight momentary regret in Hubert's
heart, when he found what he had done: he hated the book, and could not
bear it in his sight; and though he would have been glad to have been
rid of it, he never thought, nor perhaps ever intended destroying it in
that way, and he stepped across the room to gather it all up. Much of
his passion subsided as he sat down and tried to replace the torn
leaves. The days, however, had long since passed when he was accustomed
to read his Bible; he was now not only unfamiliar with that sacred book,
but all that he once knew appeared to have gone from his memory; and
though he turned over and over again one portion after another, to find
the part in Ezekiel from which the pages had been torn, it was of no
use, he could not replace them; so, with a nervous hand, he thrust them
into his pocket, and took the torn Bible back to his chest.
This little incident, though it produced no reflection, subdued for a
time the excitement under which he was labouring; and though he
disregarded the unseen hand that was dealing so mysteriously with him,
the first outburst of bad feeling respecting the difficulty into which
he had fallen by the death of his gambling companion was over, and,
leaving his room, he walked with gentle step to the one in which his
dead comrade lay. The years of folly and sin which Hubert had passed had
not quite dried up all the fountains of his heart; one of them, at
least, was flowing afresh as he closed the door and went up to the
remains of his dead friend. He raised the sheet which had been spread
over the corpse, and breathed the words, "Oh, poor Harris!" as he gazed
upon the once joyous face; then, sitting down beside him, he laid his
hand upon the cold forehead and wept as he had not done since his
childhood. He had seen death in many forms, and this was not the first
time he had lost a companion; but neither tear nor sigh had followed the
death of any one before: but for poor Harris, how he wept! Hubert had
loved him well. Death, which before had no effect upon him, overwhelmed
him now, and it was not until his own wounded arm grew very painful,
from the effects of touching the cold dead, that he rose to go away.
Harris was to be buried early on the morrow, and Hubert felt such a
strange bitterness at parting that he could scarcely go; but at last,
bending over him, he pressed one long, fervent kiss upon the silent lips
and turned away.
In passing along near the door, his eye caught what he thought to be a
piece of folded paper lying near the clothes of his friend; he picked it
up, and, upon opening it, found it to be a note from poor Harris--a few
lines written by him in pencil, as he lay dying upon the field of
battle; and there was not much upon the paper, but there was enough.
Poor Harris, in that brief note, begged the finder to convey the sad
story of his death to his mother, and tell her how bitterly he repented
having so long forgotten her; that he begged her to forgive him, and
earnestly implored the Lord Jesus to have mercy upon him; then came the
words--evidently written by a trembling hand--"Comrade, turn and repent;
not a moment may be given to you; tell Hubert Goodwin I am dead: he must
meet me again."
Hubert had never felt before what he did as he read that note--written
as the life-blood wasted, and he the subject of it; how he trembled,
bold, daring soldier that he was! it was the voice from the dead; and at
first he felt cold--so cold: his teeth chattered, and then a sudden heat
rushed over him, and the perspiration trickled down his face; his bosom
swelled, his breath grew short; at length, a long, deep groan burst from
his overcharged heart, and he went to his own room. Long, very long,
silent and alone, Hubert sat in his dreary chamber; there were but few
sounds without, and nothing but sighs and groans broke the stillness
within; the words on that blood-spotted note touched him deeply, struck
many a note of discord in his heart, tore into shreds the cloak of sin
and guilt he had worn so long, and exposed to him the part he had taken
in dragging his companion, once a pure, noble-hearted, susceptible boy,
down deep into the villanies of his own dissipated life. And he was to
meet him again--where?
The teaching of his childhood had not been in vain; the bread cast upon
the waters had not all perished; conscience whispered the truth, and
Hubert knew where he should meet Harris. The soldier's head bowed; he
felt he could not, he dare not, meet the soul he had ruined; the thought
of the terrible record against him broke down his spirit. "Great God!"
as he glanced upward, was all he uttered, in his despair, and his head
drooped again in deep anguish upon his bosom.