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.