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 faint
hope that he would ultimately recover. The doctor had been two or three
times during each day to see him, and now, as the sun was setting, he
came again. Weary as he was with his usual duties, he had still his
Master's work to do, and as he took his seat by Hubert's bed he asked if
he should read to him. Hubert knew quite well that the doctor's book was
the Bible, and though he also knew that but very faint hopes were given
of his recovery, he replied, "No, thank you; I shall perhaps soon be
better, when I shall have plenty of time to read." The doctor tried to
prevail, 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 doctor
left the room, though, as he gazed at the three empty beds near him, he
little thought that the insensibility to all pain which occasionally
stole over him, rendered the hope of his recovery very faint, and that
unless a change took place his couch would soon be empty also.
Another and another day passed. Hubert was no better; and as the doctor
again 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 your
friends in England; is there anything you would like to say? Shall I
write for you?"
"Not now."
"Why not now? I have told you how precarious your state is: you had
better 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 than
twenty 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 battle
you have been in, and see your name amongst the wounded. It would
comfort them greatly to hear from you; and if, as you say, you have not
written for so long a time, how they would rejoice to find you had not
forgotten them!"
"No, doctor," said Hubert, faintly, "it would be no joy to them, they
cannot care for me now. I broke my mother's heart; I know it. I dreamt
it once, years ago; and many a time the sad face I saw in my dream has
come 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 least
not 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 turned
his face away.
The doctor knew well that Hubert's illness was too serious a matter to
be trifled with: everything was against him; it was the hottest season
of the year, dissipation had undermined his constitution, and his mind
was uneasy; and the thought had struck that good man, that if he could
get Hubert to turn his thoughts homeward, reflection might bring
remorse for his past life, and he might think of eternity. For a few
seconds he stood still, gazing silently at his patient, wondering what
he should do. It was not his custom to see a soldier die without feeling
any concern; his own well-worn Bible testified how often he had used
that sacred book; and written in the Book of Life were perhaps not a few
names of erring yet repentant sinners, brought to know Christ by his
humble efforts. "Soldier brother," he said, as he took the hot hand once
again in his own, "I must not be refused _all_ I ask; let me read to
you."
Hubert made no answer, and the doctor turned over the soiled pages of
his Bible and read, with a soft clear voice, the fifty-first Psalm.--
"Have mercy upon me, O God, according to thy loving kindness; according
unto the multitude of thy tender mercies blot out my transgressions,"
&c., &c.
The psalm was ended: none of its petitions, however, appeared to have
touched the heart of the sick man, though their effect was great upon
the doctor, who, kneeling down, poured out his soul's grief in a deep,
heartfelt prayer, begged hard and earnestly for mercy and pardon for his
suffering brother, and implored that a ray of light might beam into his
heart. 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 the
doctor left the room.
"Is he gone?" said Hubert, faintly, a few minutes after. "Oh! why did he
leave 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 tended
the sick soldiers in the hospital where Hubert now lay, but it was his
lot to be so fortunate on this occasion; and she was sitting beside an
open window, looking out upon the sun, which was sinking in the west,
and throwing, as she was thinking, its rays upon her English home, when
she heard Hubert speak, and, hastening to his side, in an instant she
asked him kindly if he required anything. Perhaps his heart was too
full, 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 upon
his forehead, she thought she saw a tear roll down his sunburnt cheek.
That tear was enough; the stern scenes she had witnessed during a long
sojourn in India, had made her callous to many things, and left many a
scar upon her heart; but she was woman still, and could not resist the
power 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 spoke
soothingly and kindly to him; still he was silent, gave no answer to any
of her kind inquiries, except by an occasional sigh.
"I know you are uneasy, Captain; tell me, oh, do tell me! I've asked you
many things, and you have answered me nothing; do tell me what's the
matter. What can I do for you?"
"Nothing."
"Yes, Captain, let me do something; shall I fetch Dr. Martin? What shall
I do?"
"Will you read to me?"
"Yes, that I will;" and the nurse immediately fetched her Bible, and for
a long time, by the dim flickering candle, her voice rose softly upon
the stillness of that chamber, as she read of mercy and forgiveness to
the penitent and heart-broken sinner.
It may have been that the sound of her voice had a soothing effect upon
Hubert'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 was
still unable to give hope of his recovery; and after another day, when
the shadows of evening drew on, that good man took his seat once more by
the sufferer's bed, and read again, in hopes to soothe the troubled
spirit and lead the uneasy thoughts to better things.
"Why do you come here, and sit and tire yourself reading to me? You must
already be weary with your day's work. Why do you come here?" And
Hubert, with a steady eye, gazed into the doctor's face as he made the
inquiry.
"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 hesitated
Hubert 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 not
like 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 know
it, and for that cause I come to you, but the first thing I ask you, you
refuse. You know not how great a comfort it would be to you to write
home to your parents; there is much for you to do, but that is the first
thing, for it is a holy duty."
"I have never done it, doctor, may God forgive me and I cannot do it
now; it is too late, too late. You said right; I am not happy; the days
and nights I have lain here have told me that all is too late now; the
life I have led has been a wicked one, and if I die I am lost Oh, what
shall I do?"
There was nothing stern in the doctor's heart; he had striven, and wept,
and prayed earnestly that Hubert might see the error of his way, but
now, at this confession and despair, he almost regretted that he had
added to the sufferer's woes. There was no exulting over the poor
sinner, but bending down close to Hubert's ear, he said--
"Fear not; pour out your heart's sorrow to God, for, deep as your sins
are, He _can_ and _will_ save you, if, with a true, penitent, and broken
heart, you confess all your sins to Him and throw yourself helpless on
His mercy. You can do nothing for yourself; your own poor sorrowing
heart is an offering Jesus Christ will accept if you will give it to
Him. Don't hesitate, Christ is waiting to receive you; do, then, with
godly sorrow, throw yourself upon His mercy."
"But I cannot," said Hubert. "It may be true, all you say, but I have
sinned so long, or else I am different to other people. God may forgive
such as you, but I have sinned too much."
"Oh no, not too much for God to forgive. He knows all you have done, and
He 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 a
better life?--and then Ellen died! No, I cannot believe it Go, go; leave
me 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, as
he looked upward, "Lord, have mercy upon me." Then he was exhausted; a
faint hue came over his face, and the doctor, seeing that the strength
of the sufferer was failing, stayed by his bedside to administer to his
need. Hubert's hands had fallen upon the coverlet, and as the doctor
took one in his own, he started at its strange coldness, and for a long
time he chafed it. All, indeed, that could be done was done for Hubert,
and throughout the long, sultry, silent night the nurse and doctor
watched with Christian love beside the lonely bed. Hubert at length fell
into a heavy sleep; it was the crisis of the fever, and never was infant
slumber 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 western
horizon, and the doctor crept softly into Hubert's chamber to take
another look at the sleeper. He had gazed some minutes, he had breathed
a 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 had
left him, and the doctor, after administering a cordial, gave him for
the 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 leg
would 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 to
come again the next morning and read to him. The morning came, the
doctor was there, and he told all about God's mercy and love to the
vilest of earth's sinners; then he knelt and prayed, with all the
earnestness of his heart, for all God's grace to the sufferer; and with
such simple words and touching sadness did he tell the Prodigal's story,
that Hubert's unbelief and despair yielded at once to the mighty power
of direct communication with God, and tears fell fast upon his pillow.
The doctor had been more than an hour with Hubert, and now onward to
other sufferers he went, with his double mission. The scene in Hubert's
room had urged him to be more earnest in his Master's cause, and his
soul was full of prayer that a heavenly ray might illume Hubert's
darkened heart and bring him to the feet of Jesus. Little did the
sufferer know how earnestly that good man desired his salvation, and
little did the regiment know, as its members saw him, with earnest
thoughtful brow, wending his way beneath the shadow of the high wall,
that in yonder lone building lay the cause of his toiling through the
hot summer days, toiling again as night came round, growing more sallow
and more gaunt, yet never seeming to weary. "My grace is sufficient for
thee," was strictly exemplified in that earnest faithful disciple; God
blessed him, and kept him a burning and a shining light, amidst all the
sin and temptation of India's dark land; and though a scoff and a sneer
were 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 was
progressing favourably; all traces of feverishness were gone, and the
doctor seemed pleased as he told him that though at present the least
thing 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 out
of danger.
"Pray that it may be so," said Hubert, "for I dare not die now: God has
heard your last prayer; a week ago I could have died to rid my heart of
its dreadful despair, and the terrible weight that was upon it, but not
now. 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 has
passed away since you and your companions first attracted my notice. I
remember well the morning you landed in Calcutta, for, if you recollect,
your own doctor died on the passage out, and I accepted the appointment
as 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 was
the extreme youth of the regiment--the majority did not appear much over
twenty years of age, and then there was a good number of youths
apparently about sixteen. I remember that many remarks were made at the
time about you all, and I came to the conclusion that at least half of
you had come to India to die. I have not been wrong either in that; but
I am going from the point--I remember that I was particularly struck
with 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 all
about the life you were leading; your higher privileges were snares, not
only to you and your companions, but to all the men, and the first grief
I felt after joining you was at the reckless and sinful example you were
setting. When first struck down with fever, how I longed, hoped, and
prayed for your conversion. But you know how your life passed on, and I
need not tell you that from that first hour of meeting you till now, I
have watched you, and prayed for you, and I know quite well that God's
Holy Spirit has often been striving very hard with you; but the warnings
you have had have generally passed away like the dew upon the earth, and
now the Almighty has mercifully stopped your career by this affliction.
Don't let it pass like the others have done, but take your heart, with
all its weight of sin, and lay it bare before God. He knows all your
need, will help you in all your sorrows, pardon all your sins, and make
you holy; but you must ask His aid--you must confess all your sin--you
must pray to Him with a broken heart."
Hubert sighed, and then, after a moment's pause, said, "Doctor, it is no
easy matter to do as you say I ought; and you judge me harshly when you
say I have neglected all the warnings I have had. You remember poor
Harris? Well, his death had more effect upon me than you know; for weeks
and weeks I thought of nothing else, and tried very hard to change, but
somehow I could not And then poor Ellen! you remember her? I should have
been another man if she had lived; but no, I was not allowed to be
better: I lost her, and I know I have been bad since; it drove me almost
mad. But, Doctor, was it all my fault?" And Hubert burst into tears.
"Goodwin," said the doctor, as he took Hubert's hand, "beware how you
rebuke the Almighty; His ways are not our ways; let me beg of you to
have faith in Him now; if you are spared to recover, we will talk this
point over together, but not now, time is too precious. Believe me, He
does all things well, and willeth not that any should perish; if you
will only in true faith, nothing doubting, turn to Him, confess your
sins, and ask His mercy, you will be astonished how plain many things
will 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 a
child came all into my mind; they seemed all I wanted to say, and yet
they were only part of a little child's prayer; indeed, I had long ago
forgotten them. Doctor, will you pray?"
The good man knelt, and poured out his heart to Heaven for the long
sinning but repenting brother; and it was a holy sight to see the tears
streaming down the pallid cheek of the once gay, reckless soldier, as he
listened to another's prayer in his behalf. The doctor's bosom was full
also--the wanderer was at last coming home--the straying sheep was
returning to the fold--the poor child of earth was yielding up his proud
spirit to the hand that afflicted, yet was stretched out to save
him--and the good man prayed that the sufferer might be pardoned, and
spared to set forth the beauty of that holiness of life which he had so
long neglected.
Another week had passed; each day as it dawned found Hubert somewhat
better, but then each evening both the nurse and doctor watched
anxiously beside his bed, for his state was precarious: one thing,
however, that improved was the state of his mind; _that_ neither
slumbered nor went back--but from the hour that he poured out his first
earnest heart-breathings to Heaven, he became more penitent and more
anxious; all the carelessness and indifference with which he had treated
religion came like so many accusing spirits before him; but, though the
reflection 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 the
nurse and doctor, and their attentions were blessed, for at last Hubert
was pronounced "out of danger;" and though he would never again be fit
for the army, there were hopes of his perfect recovery.