CHAPTER IV.
ELLEN BUCHAN.
She was the pride
Of her familiar sphere,—the daily joy
Of all who on her gracefulness might gaze,
And in the light and music of her way
Have a companion's portion. Who could feel,
While looking upon beauty such as hers,
That it would ever perish?—Willis.
That night, and for many days, Hubert knew no peace; sleeping or waking, Harris was ever in his thoughts; turn where he would, there was a remembrance of his dead companion, the loss of whom he deeply mourned. Out of health himself, his bereavement was more felt, especially as he was unable to seek other comrades with whom he might drive gloomy thoughts away. At other times, when he had been ill, Harris had ever sought him; but now, no one save those who waited upon him entered his room, and he began to hate the sound of their footsteps, because he felt that he paid for their sympathy. Poor Harris! how he missed him; how long the days seemed, and how slow his recovery! Who shall say it was not an opportunity vouchsafed by the Almighty to bring back his own wandering soul? Why did he not pray in his hours of distress? No; the heart long used to the neglect of that holy privilege and duty but ill knows how to fly to the throne of grace in the hour of woe, and too often throws back the hand of God with ungrateful murmurings. Hubert never once poured out his burden of distress, never once looked to that loving God whose eye, notwithstanding his wickedness, watched over him with a father's love, but fretted and repined at the calamity which had befallen him, until every pure and good feeling fled away once more, and he began to be as cold and callous about the death of poor Harris as he was about other things.
Time, the great soother of woe in the human heart, threw its power over Hubert; as it passed, it brought him returning health, and, once again mingling in the busy scenes of his profession, the wounded arm, the dead companion, and the warning, all shared the doom of the other events of his life: they were gone, and he was happy in forgetting them. The difficulty into which he had fallen with respect to his money matters, however, taught him a lesson; and though he again joined the society of many of his former companions, he never again fell into that terrible vice which had so nearly ruined his worldly prospects.
Some weeks had passed away; all the little effects belonging to poor Harris were being collected, for the captain of his company had found amongst some letters the names of some of the poor fellow's relations in England. Hubert heard of what was being done, and one morning, meeting the doctor of the regiment, they began talking the matter over. "I can tell you where his mother lives," said Hubert, "if you will step into my rooms; for now I remember it, I have by me a little note for her,—at least I have her address upon it."
They walked along together, talking of various matters, and having reached Hubert's rooms he took from a little desk a small piece of paper, and, without a thought, said, as he handed it to the doctor, "I think you'll find it on that."
The doctor read the note, and as he did so a sad expression stole over his face, and then, looking at Hubert, he said, "Oh, Goodwin, what a letter! Poor Harris! What a warning for us all. And what an escape you had; the ball passed you, but it pierced his lungs. It might have been your lot; though I trust a better account than this would have been sent home of you."
"Come now, doctor, no preaching; I cannot tell what account will be given of me when I'm knocked off."