The Torn Bible Part 7

"G.o.d grant that I may find them living!" he said earnestly; but then his memory brought back again some of the forebodings and inward whisperings which had often, in bygone years, checked for a moment his reckless course, and his heart told him again that his mother was no more. It came like a deep sorrow to Hubert, like a mighty wave throwing back every torrent upon which it rolled; but he had learnt how to contend with grief, and soon the dim cabin lamp was lighted, and, as night grew dark, he sat and read the much-treasured portion of his mother's Bible.

He gained comfort as he read page after page, and it may have been that the lamp grew brighter; at any rate, Hubert's face wore a happier beam, and when the sailor came into the cabin, he said, "Good evening, your honour; glad to see your honour looking better and cheerful like."

"Better, Ben! have I looked ill to-day?"

"Not ill, exactly, your honour," said Ben, "but a little landsman-like, just about the time the pa.s.sengers for Portugal got adrift, when Mr.

Collinton, yer honour's friend, left."

"Well, Ben, I was sorry to lose him; but how late it is! why, I have been reading two hours."

With the a.s.sistance of the sailor, Hubert retired to rest, but, just as Ben was leaving the cabin, Hubert requested that he would reach him the Bible that lay upon the table.

"I have a better Bible than this, yer honour," said Ben, as he handed the book; "I mean one that has it all in, not torn as this is; and, if yer honour likes, I'll fetch it, though it's not to every one I'd lend it."

"Why do you offer to lend it to me, then?"

"Because, yer honour, I'm sure you think a great deal of the Bible, and it's a pity you haven't one with all in; this has been bad enough used, at any rate, but some folks don't care how they destroy the Bible. I'm glad it's got into yer honour's hands; but, if you'll accept the loan of mine, I shall be proud to lend it to you; there's not a leaf out; it was the last thing my poor mother ever gave me, and I have used it now over twenty years."

"Thank you, Ben, I do not wish it; mine is torn, I know, but it will do for me. Thank you all the same. Good night."

Hubert was glad when he found himself alone; he was in the habit of talking with Ben, but the sailor's homely remarks were not quite agreeable to him now. Poor untaught fellow! how n.o.bly he appeared to rise in that night's shadows; children of penury, perhaps, he and his mother, yet how rich in affection! Hubert thought many times of that sailor's Bible; like his own, it was a mother's gift, but it had _all_ in, while his had been ruthlessly destroyed. Memory brought back many a long-forgotten scene, when his hard heart strove to rise against the silent admonitions which the sight of that book was ever wont to give; and, as he grasped all that was left to him now, a deep and heartfelt prayer from his penitent heart ascended to the throne of G.o.d.

The vessel in which Hubert sailed had made a quick run to England, and, in a few days after the pa.s.sengers left for Portugal, Hubert landed upon the sh.o.r.es of his native country; and never before had he felt so lonely. He was home without a home; however, being still under orders from the East India Company, he referred to his papers, and then immediately proceeded to London. Lame, without friends, and amongst strangers, Hubert longed to be making his way to his own native village, but he was compelled to tarry some time in London; at length, however, he received his discharge with a handsome pension, and was at liberty to go where he pleased.

Now Hubert felt undecided; he scarcely knew what to do. At one time he thought of writing home, and telling them he was coming; but to whom could he write? Then he thought of taking the coach at once home, but another thought made him abandon that; for his heart was not yet schooled to the task of facing those he had so cruelly injured.

Hesitating what to do, another week pa.s.sed by, and his conscience, at length, so smote him for lingering, that after arranging about his luggage, which was still at the custom-house, and which he preferred should for the present remain there, he set out with one small trunk, and commenced his journey northward. So many years had pa.s.sed since Hubert had come along the road by which he was returning, that he might have been In a foreign land: he remembered nothing, but he thought the country beautiful; and, when evening came on, he alighted from the coach, and stayed for the night at a small town. The journey had been rather too much for him: still he felt anxious to be getting on; so, when the coach pa.s.sed through the town on the following day, he proceeded some distance further. Four days had pa.s.sed. Hubert, by short stages, was drawing near his home, and the nearer he came to it, the more anxious and nervous grew his heart; he would have given much to have known which of his family remained. Once, years ago, while in a frenzied mood, when rage and pa.s.sion overcame him, he was suddenly called back to reason by a mystic shadow crossing his vision: it may have been that a heated brain brought before his fierce eye that which startled him; but the remembrance of that moment had seldom left him, and he felt certain that his mother, at least, was missing in his father's household.

Another short journey had been made, and a candle was placed upon the parlour table in the little village inn where Hubert, tired and weary, intended staying for the night. Many of the villagers had seen him leave the coach at the inn door; he was wrapped in a blue cloak, and walked lame, resting upon a stick; his bearing, perhaps, or it may have been a whisper, told them that he was a soldier, and there was a fair chance of a good evening for the landlord of the King George.

One by one the parlour received its guests, and more candles were brought in; a log too--for it was the month of October--found its way to the fire, and the landlord told his wife to see to the customers, for he was going to join the company in the parlour.

Hubert saw with some uneasiness the people coming in, and he would gladly have retired to rest; but his coming was an event they were unwilling to let pa.s.s un.o.bserved, and they gathered round him with so much kindness and sympathy, that Hubert felt constrained to stay with them.

The old arm-chair in the corner, which was sacred to two purposes--namely, once a year, when they had beaten the bounds, the vicar sat in it in the tent to partake of the roast beef, which was bountifully provided for those good old observers of ancient customs; and, once a year, when the village club was held the lord of the manor occupied it again. Duly polished every week was that dark oak chair, and not even the sage-looking cat attempted to usurp it. This evening, that honoured seat was drawn up to the fire, a large cushion was placed in it, and there the tired soldier rested.

They saw he was lame, and one went and fetched a soft stool for his wounded leg; then as they sat around him, with their honest sympathetic hearts beating warmly towards the brave defenders of their country, what could Hubert do but tell them of the battles won, and many incidents that make up the soldier's life in India? He had much to tell, and they listened eagerly to him till the hour grew late, and Hubert felt that a soldier's heart still beat in his bosom, and the fire of his youth had not died out. They felt it too, but their enthusiasm was tempered by the constant reference that Hubert made to the G.o.d who had preserved him.

They parted for the night as the village clock struck eleven, and many of them wondered, as they walked homeward, where he was going, and why he was travelling alone--questions they had not yet ventured to ask; but they promised each other before they parted that they would come again to the inn on the morrow.

CHAPTER XI.

HOME AT LAST.

My father's house once more, In its own moonlight beauty! yet around Something amidst the dewy calm profound Broods, never marked before.

My soul grows faint with fear, Even as if angel steps had mark'd the sod; I tremble when I move--the voice of G.o.d Is in the foliage here.

Hubert was not much refreshed when the morrow came; the weather had changed during the night, and the rain fell heavily, and his wounded leg was so painful that he determined upon not proceeding on his journey, but requested permission to walk in the well-kept secluded garden at the back of the house, if the rain cleared off.

It was a dreary morning, but about noon the sun shone out, and Hubert, leaning upon his staff, bent his steps to the snug little summer-house in the garden. It was a quiet spot, and Hubert was glad to be there alone. The storm was over, the few remaining autumn flowers were fading, and the leaves were falling thickly from the trees, and Hubert, as he looked upon the scene around him, drew a deep sigh, and taking from his pocket his "torn Bible," began to read.

Absorbed in what he was doing, he did not see a little boy approach the summer-house, and it was not until a small spade fell accidentally from the child's hand that he noticed him.

"Ah! do you live here?" inquired Hubert

"No, sir, but grandfather does, and he told me you were here."

"Did he send you to me?"

"No, sir, but he told me you had fought a great many battles, and I wanted to see you because I am going to be a soldier--when I'm a man, I mean."

"How old are you now?"

"I'm eight, sir; but, you know, I shall be older soon, and perhaps as big as you are."

"Perhaps so," said Hubert, with a smile; "and what's your name?"

"Frank, sir--Frank Lyons--the same as father's and grandfather's; but they are not soldiers, you know. I am going to be a soldier." And then, fixing his eyes upon a medal which Hubert wore upon his breast, he eagerly asked all about it. Hubert was amused at the little fellow, and answered many an inquiry that he made, and as he was listening to something Hubert was saying, all at once he caught sight of the "torn Bible," and taking it in his hand, he said--

"Is this a Bible, sir? Oh, how it's torn! Did It get torn like this in the battles?"

"No, child; but," pointing to the hole in the cover, "it got that in the last battle I was in."

Frank looked for some time at the hole the bullet had made; then looking up into Hubert's face, he said, thoughtfully--

"Sir, don't you think G.o.d was very good to take care of you in the battles?"

"He was, child; He has always been good to me."

"Then why did you let any one be so wicked as to tear this Bible so?"

Hubert kissed the boy's cheek: he could not answer the home-thrust, but taking the Bible from his hand, said--

"Good bye, Frank; now run away home."

The child went away as he was desired, but Hubert's heart reproached him in a moment; he thought he had been harsh, so, bending forward, he called the little fellow back.

There was a tear in the boy's eye when he returned, and stood gazing up again into Hubert's face, which convinced Hubert that he had disappointed him; so, taking his little hand, he said--

"Frank, do you wish to ask me anything more?"

"Yes, sir, I want to ask all about being a soldier."

Hubert could not resist, nor refuse to listen to the inquiries of that little heart. And there they sat--the once disobedient, sinning, reckless son, and the little artless child. It relieved the older bosom to talk of the past, and Hubert told into that little ear more than he had told any one before. It was a strange sympathy; but the boy drew closer to him, leant his little arms upon the veteran's knee as he gazed earnestly into his face, while Hubert told him something of his own youth-time, and about being a soldier.