The Torn Bible Part 6

"Get thee behind me, Satan; every gift of G.o.d _is_ good and perfect, and it is thou, thou false one, that pervertest them from the end for which they are given;" and Hubert, as he ceased speaking, took out his "torn Bible" to read: there was comfort there, and his heart became more cheerful, his faith stronger, as he read upon a soiled torn page of that precious book--"Fear thou not, for I am with thee; be not dismayed, for I am thy G.o.d: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness."

It mattered not to whom, nor under what circ.u.mstances, such pa.s.sages of Scripture were written--they were as effective to Hubert as though they had been penned for him alone; and he took them all to himself, and became more trusting and more holy. Neither Jew nor Gentile made a stone at which his feet were to stumble; as he opened his "torn Bible" and read, so he believed: the promise or the threatening, as it stood there, was what his heart received, and he believed now that G.o.d was near him, helping him to overcome the tempter.

CHAPTER IX.

TRUE FRIENDs.h.i.+P.

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 pa.s.sed away; the journey homeward was getting near its end, for the weather had been fine, and except that, on account of a death on board, the vessel stayed a day and a night at St. Helena, there were no interruptions. It was a lovely morning; the wind was hushed, there was scarcely a ripple upon the ocean, the vessel glided on without breaking the stillness, and Hubert sat on deck with his friend, enjoying the genial atmosphere of the temperate zone.

"Captain Goodwin," said the traveller, "I think our journey together is nearly ended."

"Are you not going to England?" immediately inquired Hubert.

"No--at least, not at present. In a few days we shall pa.s.s Portugal, and I may say farewell to you off Lisbon. I have a little matter on hand that takes me to that part: when I have finished it I hope to come to England; and I hope to meet you some day again. I trust that what we have seen of each other has not been unprofitable; something I have told you may remain in your memory, for I have told you many things concerning the ways of men in nearly every country that I have been to.

Your knowledge has been confined to India, which country I have traversed almost from one end to the other; and yet I have learnt very much 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, I hardly know what has been the cause--but of late years I have grown careless of the pure faith of my childhood, and have rather liked than otherwise anything that tended to increase a disbelief in G.o.d and a future life. Once let the thought that there is no future fix itself in the mind of a man, and a thousand other thoughts, more wicked than the first, follow, and there is little difficulty in disbelieving altogether; for it is the belief that there _is_ a future that const.i.tutes the key-stone in religion. Well, I had become sceptical; and, Goodwin, you perhaps little thought it, but it was you with your Bible, and all its precepts so exemplified in your conduct, that struck me, and made me look into my own heart to find how it was that you appeared so much more happy and contented than I was. I have often watched you; and your silent and, as you thought, unseen study of your Bible had a powerful effect upon me, and did more for me than any noisy demonstration would have done. When I first met with you I was in a state of mind to have laughed at you, if you had come and talked about conversion and grace, and prated off a host of Scripture texts. I had too long forsaken religion to be frightened back to it; and that is the mistake many good people make in their endeavours to bring back G.o.d's wandering children. When I saw you so consistent and so earnest in your religious duties, I know this, that I longed to be like you, and that longing led me to think of what I had once been, and by degrees things have changed with me. I have wanted to tell you this before, but have always been afraid to trust myself; it is because our journey is so nearly ended that I tell you now. And look here, Goodwin, when I have done what I have to do in Portugal I will come to England, where I shall hope to meet you; and by G.o.d's blessing, since there is no secret between us now, we will talk this matter over again. It may be a year before 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 was full, 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 time could be spent in reading G.o.d's word, and talking of His mercy to us both; the want of our doing so has made me at times sadly miss two friends I left in India; still, I have much enjoyed your society, and have learnt very much from you; for though our conversation has for the most part been upon secular things, you have given me very much to think about, and I thank G.o.d that I met with you. When I reach home," and Hubert sighed, "I should like to write to you; and if you will tell me where a letter will find you I will do so. I shall take up my quarters in the north of England."

The traveller gave Hubert an address which he said would find him, at least for the next three months, and then he added--

"The north of England! Ah! I well remember an incident that occurred once as I pa.s.sed through it on my way from Edinburgh to London. I have never been in that part since, and, as near as I can recollect, it is about four-and-twenty years ago. I was fifty-four years old yesterday, and I was thinking that I pa.s.sed my thirtieth birthday on the top of that stage-coach. Well, we were some distance north of York--I have forgotten the name of the place, but it was a charming little village--and at the top of a shady lane, at the garden gate of a pretty house, there were several people waiting to bid a young soldier good-bye. Young, indeed! he was only a lad, just fifteen, a fine-hearted, sprightly young fellow, and he was going off to India.

Well, he took his seat amongst the pa.s.sengers, called out good-bye, and off he went. I sat beside the coachman, and as I glanced round at him, I felt sorry for the boy, for, though he appeared cheerful enough, I had an idea that his cheerfulness was a little forced: the pa.s.sengers began to talk with him, and he really was a fine fellow. I never shall forget him--the very type of a handsome English youth. Excuse me, I was forgetting myself; it's but a simple story, after all: we can find something better to talk about."

"Oh, no, pray finish it; I am interested in your story. What became of the young soldier?"

"Well, it was rather curious that I was going south on purpose to bid my brother good-bye, and I found that this young soldier was going to India in my brother's s.h.i.+p."

"That was curious enough," said Hubert.

"It was; and when we alighted, after a long and tedious journey, in London, we went off to the s.h.i.+p together. How very often I have thought of that lad! He had evidently been well cared for by good religious parents, but perhaps from his school training, or I cannot tell what, he was certainly forgetting the instructions they had given him. Oh, how thoughtless and reckless he was! I watched him, for he had told us a little of his history; and as I was leaving the s.h.i.+p, I ventured to give him a word of advice, and tried to persuade him never to forget his duty to his parents: but I cannot tell you more about him. Poor lad! I never saw him again, nor ever heard of him after he reached India. I fear he died, for, soon after his regiment landed, many of the soldiers died of fever, and from what I can remember, I saw amongst the deaths in an Indian paper a soldier of his name; so, never hearing anything more of him, I concluded the poor fellow had succ.u.mbed to the climate."

"Why were you so anxious to hear something more of that lad in particular?" 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 I buried my wife: the sorrow, however, was greatly alleviated by a little son I had--he was two years old when his mother died, and just able to dissipate my grief by his innocent prattle. Years pa.s.sed away: wherever I 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 been charmed by the works that these travels helped to produce, little thought under what circ.u.mstances they were accomplished. Many a long journey, where conveyances could not go, have I taken, with my staff in hand, a little satchel at my side, and that boy on my back. At other times he has trotted by my side; and very often--most nights, indeed--with him sleeping in my arms, or seated beside his bed, I have penned most of my daily wanderings, for I never left him. For eight years after his mother died I never allowed him to go from my sight; but then he left me for ever."

"Not for ever," said Hubert; "you mean, he died? Well, you will go to him, 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. I believe 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--how is it?"

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 a minute or two, at last said--

"I have felt the same many, many times; indeed, there is scarcely a truth in the Bible that I have read, which, though I believed it at one time, I have been led to doubt it another. Many a time have I gone out into the court-yard of my quarters in India, that I might see some fresh object, because upon everything in my room there seemed to stand out in large gilded letters the word 'Unbelief.' Turn where I would sometimes, the very objects and things I wished to forget were always before my eyes; indeed, blasphemy has been upon my tongue when my heart has dictated prayers. Terrible hours they have been to me. And sometimes the falling of a piece of paper, the opening of a door, or the smallest possible sound you could conceive, has so alarmed me that I have actually been afraid of myself. No one but myself can know what I endured. But I don't feel anything of the sort now. _Prayer_ was the effectual remedy for me, and it will be so for you. I believe that such doubts and fears are extra mercies sent by G.o.d to bring us nearer to Him; 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 the heart can feel itself going out upwards,--I mean, when it utters the words, 'Lord, I believe, help thou mine unbelief,' depend upon it, that upon the other side of that pet.i.tion, written in words of fire, is the command to the tempter, 'Get thee behind me, Satan!'"

The stranger sighed, but then, thrusting his hands deeply into his coat pockets, as was his usual custom when in a thoughtful mood, he sat still looking over upon the broad blue sea. Hubert sat still beside him, and as the sailors moved about attending to their various duties, they gave many a glance at the two friends as they sat together. Ben had told them all something about these friends, and, though they were not all of the same way of thinking as Ben was, they imbibed from him an extra amount of respect for the Captain and the stranger; and had the part of the deck where they were accustomed to sit been a sacred part, it could not have been more free from intrusion than it was when they were there; so Hubert 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, and it was in Scotland that I buried my son; he lies beside his mother in the kirk-yard at Dunkeld; it is a pretty, quiet place, at the foot of the Grampian mountains, and there they lie--I hope to be buried there too some day. I did not think at one time that I should have lived thus long after them, but time has fled on, and it has worked its change in me. I remember that it was on my first journey after my loss that that lad rode with us to London. I shall never forget how startled I was when I first saw him: older, of course, he was, but such an exact resemblance did he bear to the one I had lost, that--it may have been a delusion--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 forgotten the incident until you brought it back to my memory, it happened so long ago."

"I wonder you forgot his name, though," said Hubert; "but time works upon the memory, and makes it less retentive."

"True; especially one that has been tried like mine has. I am not an old man--I am only a little over fifty, yet see how grey I am. I attribute it 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 you say 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 the heart. Now, whatever effect it may have upon the outward appearance, it most certainly leaves its impress within--leaves many a deep scar upon the heart: and we know that it leaves furrows on the brow; yet what a blessing suffering is!--it is often the last effort that G.o.d makes to reclaim the reckless sinner. When all other efforts have failed, and nothing seems effectual in bringing down man's proud heart, the Almighty smites that He may bless. I know it, for I have experienced it all; I have felt both the scourge and the blessing."

Hubert added this latter part because he feared lest his friend should think him presumptuous; but the stranger added, "Captain Goodwin, I am sure 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 these matters 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 But here," and he touched his forehead, "there are other thoughts. But if G.o.d spare me, I will come to you again when my business in Portugal is done, and then we will talk over these matters more fully. The world has been a wide one to me, but I have only a few friends in it, and am tired of rambling about it, so I shall return to England and come near to you."

"Do," said Hubert; "and may G.o.d spare you, and me too. I shall be glad indeed to see you; the heart grows better by communion, and I think somehow 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 be a source of pleasure to me, in many a sad hour that I feel will yet befall me, to look forward to our meeting again."

This, and much more, formed the matter for conversation between Hubert and his friend; and when the day had closed, and night drew on, they pa.s.sed an hour together by Hubert's lamp; for the heart which had unburdened itself seemed to have twined its tendrils more firmly round the wounded soldier.

CHAPTER X.

THE WANDERER'S RETURN.

Lead, kindly light, amid the evening gloom, Lead thou me on!

The night is dark, and I am far from home; Lead thou me on!--KEBLE.

Nearer and nearer drew the vessel homeward. Hubert and his friend had that morning kept below; there was a little luggage on a table upon the deck, and two or three people were standing near it; some of the sailors were evidently busy about one of the boats, but a casual observer could not have perceived that anything unusual was going on. Many, nearly all in the vessel, were gladdening their eyes with the first glimpse they were having of Europe; and as the coast of Portugal became more distinct, many hearts burst out with joy, for they were nearing home.

Hubert and his friend at length came on deck: Lisbon, with its n.o.ble bay and high lands, could be seen in the distance, and the boat was lowered to convey the pa.s.sengers to the small vessel that would take them up the river to the town. "Farewell!" it was the last word from Hubert's lips that sounded upon the traveller's ears as he was wafted over the billows that rolled upon the sh.o.r.es of Portugal; "Farewell!" echoed back upon the air, and Hubert, drawing a deep sigh, began already to feel lonely: he had made no other friend in the s.h.i.+p, and he returned to his cabin; he sat down, and began to think over the conversations he had had with his friend, and he wondered again and again whether he himself was not indeed that once reckless boy, who in years gone by had won the sympathies of the n.o.ble heart which had now won his. So many incidents in that short narrative had a counterpart in his memory, that at last nothing could persuade him but that it all referred to himself; then how sorry he felt that he had not told his friend more about himself; and, less at ease than he had felt for many months, he closed the door of his cabin, and buried his face in his hands.

Poor Hubert! His heart was growing as tender as it was once hard, and recent sickness had unfitted him to encounter, without emotion, the many visions of that youth-time which now came so vividly before him.