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 thing
of the past; the young, who had paid a sort of homage to him for his
warrior fame, had almost forgotten it, and had grown up to reverence him
for his goodness; and the aged, as he sat by many a dying bed, blessed
him with their latest breath. Ever, day by day, did Hubert take his
staff and go forth to comfort some less favoured brother; and the "torn
Bible"--guide of his present life--accusing, yet dear relic of his past,
soothed many a departing spirit, and helped to ripen his own for
Eternity.
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 occasionally
wrote, and occasionally received letters; still, it was a source of
great regret to him that he did not hear anything of the companion of
his voyage, with whom he parted off Lisbon. While the first year after
his return home was passing, he scarcely thought anything of not hearing
from 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 silent
regret, he began to conclude that he had died; though notwithstanding
this 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 his
friend became strong; perhaps upon the wish grew the hope; and then
Hubert would take his staff and wander up the hill-side, out to the
little white toll-gate, and then walk a mile or two down the broad road
that led to the south. There was a rude seat by the roadside, formed of
gnarled and moss-grown branches intermixed with stones; beside it was a
huge stone trough, which a kindly mountain stream kept ever filled with
water; over it, shading it from the sun, branched a stately oak; and
this spot was a resting-place for man and beast. Hubert often walked
there, sat down and rested beneath the tree, and looked with longing
eyes down the road; still his friend came not, and he as often returned
sadder than he went. How little he thought that his father had trodden
that same road with a heavy heart for many a year, in the fond hope of
meeting him, though there was but little probability in either instance
that the hope would be realized! one moment's reflection would have told
the heart so, but the heart under such circumstances seems unwilling to
reflect--or even if it does, the effect is transitory, and the heart
hopes on again against hope; and it is a blessed thing, this hope--for
how often in the dark hour it throws a ray of light upon the darkness
that is felt, and keeps a soul from despair!
Hubert had been six years at home, and for many months had not been
along the road where he was wont to go; indeed, he had sighed over the
memory of his friend, and at last had ceased to expect him; but now an
unexpected joy had befallen him, for Mr. Collinton was coming. Hubert
was delighted, and he read the letter many times over; his father was
delighted too, for Hubert had confided to that parent, whom he now so
loved and honoured, all his secret about the stranger, and the old man
partook of the longing to see the friend, a portion of whose life had
been so strangely linked with that of his son.
Hubert had often wondered how it was that the letter which he had
written to his friend, telling him of his safe arrival at home, had not
been answered; but it appeared that that letter had been duly received,
and that Mr. Collinton, acting upon its contents, was now, after a long
delay, making his way to Hulney.
One morning, after rising somewhat earlier than usual, Hubert took his
staff, went up the hill-side, and took his way towards the seat by the
roadside. It was still early, yet Hubert appeared to be in haste; he
passed 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, and
then 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, but
this was the last day of the week, and Hubert felt sure that it would
bring him, and he was not wrong. The coach, with its living burden, came
at last, and Hubert and his friend met again.
"Leave the luggage at my house," said Hubert to the coachman, whom he
now well knew, and then he and his friend sat down beneath the shady
tree. How glad they were to meet again! and then Hubert soon told him
that he was none other than the soldier lad who in years gone by had won
his heart. The stranger listened with astonishment; gazed at him with a
deeper earnestness than ever, and tears rushed to his eyes as he grasped
his hands. And why did he feel so? There was nothing now in the face of
that 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 of
his 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 taken
his way to that little northern village; for he had felt, ever since he
had parted with Hubert off Lisbon, all the emptiness of life without
pure religion. He had felt a void in his heart that nothing around him
could fill; and though he tarried longer upon the continent than he had
intended, he ever thought of Hubert; and as he told him, as they sat
together by the roadside, it was his memory and the hope of seeing him
again that had blessed his life, and made him long to join him, that
they might read and study God's Word.
"Why have you been so long in coming?" asked Hubert. "I thought, at
most, your absence would be but one year; but when it was two, then
three, 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 had
forgotten."
"No, no, you are right there; I never could forget: but travelling in
Portugal and Spain, those countries full of such deep interest, I know I
tarried; but when I was uneasy here in my heart, and my thoughts would
turn nowhere but to you, I prepared to make my way to you. Sometimes an
opportunity lost threw off my plans; sometimes the desponding mood I
had fallen into was suddenly dispersed by some event; and so I wandered
up and down, amongst the many beauties and enchantments of Spain--not
forgetting you, my friend, but tempting Providence by deferring to come
to you. Oh! it was a sin, and I felt it; but I hadn't you there, nor any
one to say the words you might have said. And so I lingered; but I gave
in at last. I was not happy there; and it has struck me many a time that
there is many a man in this world whose life has been a continuous
fluctuation between right and wrong--knowing what was right, being
anxious 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 it
not so? Still, there is that in man which makes him love to do good--do
right, I mean; and, as far as I can judge, man generally makes an effort
to 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 than
the standard laid down in God's Word. His inclination to do evil makes
him 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 is
perfectly right. When a man's heart is not right with God, he must ever
be going wrong; but, somehow, we don't like to be told it--I know I did
not. Think of the years I spent in India in all kinds of sin, and all
the time I wished the world to think well of me, and tried to persuade
myself that I was perfectly right. But what a life it was! How many
things occurred to tell me that I was wrong! but I would not hear, and
continued a wicked course, trying to please man, and caring nothing
whatever 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 and
responsible for the life I led there. I cannot look upon man without the
Bible as I do upon him with: it is the _only_ source from which we can
draw 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 is
responsible."
"Ah!" said the stranger, "I shall do now; we can talk these matters
over together; somehow, I know all this, but yet I cannot get on with it
alone. How is your father? is he still living?"
"Yes, and will be glad to see you; I have told him all we know of each
other, and he is waiting now for our coming; for, like myself, he
thought you would be here to-day."
As Hubert finished speaking, he and his friend rose from his seat and
walked to the village; and as they walked along Hubert told him of the
devastation that Death had caused in his home, and begged him, as he was
the last of his family, to make his dwelling with them.
It was a goodly welcome that met the stranger at Hubert's home; and
there was so much peace and happiness, sanctified by that religion which
he longed for, that he soon became as one of the family; and by paying a
yearly visit to the grave at Dunkeld, where he had buried his loved
ones, he lived for ten years with Hubert and his father; and when he
died, they mourned the loss of a Christian and a friend, and buried him
as he had wished in the grave of his wife and son. Five years more were
meted out to Hubert's father, and then they laid him with the dear ones
gone before, and carved a simple record upon the stone that covered the
grave where he and his wife lay.
"They sleep in Jesus," was all that Hubert told the world of them, and
very soon the grass and flowers covered that fond testimony.
Between Hubert and Dr. Martin, in India, a warm friendship continued for
many years; it ever cheered Hubert's heart to hear from his distant
friend, 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 a
stranger'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 had
always been the field of his labour, he lay down and died. It was not
his lot to hang up his weapons of warfare, and rest upon the laurels he
had won; his Master was the King of kings, in whose cause he spent all
his life. How could he rest? There was no reward on earth a sufficient
recompense for his labours; and though his body now rests in an unknown
distant tomb, yet, far away in the city of the great King, he has been
crowned with an immortal diadem. How many quiet unobtrusive Christians
there are, of whom the world knows nothing, who live to reclaim and
guide aright their weak and sinning brethren, and though they live and
appear to die unknown, they give to many a dying bed peace, when there
would be no peace; and they are often the ten--ay, the five--that save
the city.
Hubert was sad at the news of his friend's death, but he knew where he
should meet him again, and not as he felt when he remembered the young
sinning companion of his youth, the never-forgotten Harris; with a
grateful thankful heart he could think of him in heaven, and hope to
meet 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, the
orphan granddaughter of the village pastor, and they lived in the old
house with Hubert; and when, at last, the veteran's career was ended,
they followed him with many tears to the old churchyard, and Richard had
that seventh white stone carved to his memory. It is but a simple
unemblazoned record of one departed, yet travellers say it is a strange
device, that torn ill-used book, and ever and anon some one asks its
meaning.
Our story is ended, and we would ask the reader to remember that
Hubert's life is not a fiction. And shouldst thou ever wander to that
old churchyard, sit down amidst its shadows, amongst its silent dead;
perchance a fitful vision of thine own life may flit past thee, some
whisper may re-echo a mother's prayer or a father's counsel, and it may
not be altogether unprofitable to thee to remember the history of Hubert
and
"THE TORN BIBLE."
PRINTED BY
WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
LONDON AND BECCLES.
A Selected List
of
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from
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Catalogue.
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The Riders; or, Through Forest and Savannah with the "Red Cockades."
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This volume narrates the adventures of Claude, a nameless orphan, who
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"'Lost in African Jungles' transports us by the magic wand of Fred.
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The Fur Traders of the West; or, Adventures among the Redskins. By E.R.
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The One-Eyed Griffin, and other Fairy Tales. A Series of Original
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The Owl King, and other Fairy Stories. A Series of Original Tales by
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Grimms' Fairy Tales and Household Stories. Translated by Mrs. H.B. Paull
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Grimms' Goblins and Wonder Tales. Translated by Mrs. H.B. Paull and Mr.
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Andersen's Fairy Tales. Translated by Mrs. H.B. Paull. With numerous
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Prince Ubbely Bubble's Fairy Tales, and Glimpses from Elf-Land. By J.
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Holme Lee's Fairy Tales. The Story of Tuflongbo. With numerous Original
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Is a narrative of the wonderful life and adventures of Tuflongbo. When
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amongst whom his escapes are recorded, until he finally puts off his
shoes and vanishes into shadowland.
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_Transcriber's Notes:_
Obvious punctuation errors repaired.
Variations in hyphenation have been retained.
Page 46 "mame" changed to "name" ("his name honoured and respected")