Back to the world we faithless turn'd,
And far along the wild,
With labour lost and sorrow earn'd,
Our steps have been beguiled.—Keble.
The Sundays on board the Arctic were spent as the doctor had led Hubert to expect; and happy, holy days they were—no one enjoyed them more than Hubert, and on more than one occasion he spoke of them to his friend. His remarks, however, were never responded to heartily, and Hubert felt annoyed that he had formed a friendship with a man who seemed to have no interest in the chief of all his enjoyments. "It may be," said Hubert one day, as he sat alone in his cabin—"it may be because he has never been struck down as I have been; or it may be—Ah! what may it be?" Then he fell into a deep reverie, and wondered many things as to the cause of his friend's indifference to sacred things; and he prayed for a beam of light into the heart which appeared to him to be darkened. Hubert felt a growing anxiety about his friend—he knew they could not be companions very long; the journey, long as it yet was, was daily growing shorter, and he did not feel certain that he would not be in some way responsible if he allowed the present opportunity to pass.
Some timid Christians are frightened into silence by the mere worldly boldness of those amongst whom they dwell, but it was not so with Hubert. His companion was a quiet, unobtrusive man, as amiable and kind as it was possible to be; and yet Hubert had not boldness sufficient to tell him that the Bible was the theme he loved best, and heaven the chief place of his interest. And why was it? In that stranger there was education, refined taste and eloquence, united to the pursuits of a lifetime; and whatever resolution Hubert made when alone, he always failed to accomplish it when he came and sat down by his side. Sometimes the subject was upon Hubert's lips, and many times his hand was in his coat-pocket, in which the torn Bible lay; but then he feared to produce it, lest his friend, who seemed to know the human heart so well, should reproach him for having taken up religion in his infirmity, when he had devoted his health and strength to dissipation and pleasure. It grieved him very much, for it made him ill at ease with himself: his Bible was his chief companion, it is true, and there was nothing that he loved so well. Sometimes he wondered at himself for taking such delight in it, and, acting upon the advice of his old friend the doctor, "to try and examine all the thoughts and intentions of the heart," he imposed upon himself many a search to find out, if possible, why it was that the pages of that torn book gave him such delight—why at times his tears would fall as he read it—and why sometimes his bosom would swell, and his heart beat, at the story it told him; but he could not find out how it was, he only knew that he loved it, and wanted others to love it too.
The ship made a rather quick run to the Cape, where she stayed a fortnight; and Hubert so much improved in strength, that he laid aside his crutch, and walked easily with two walking-sticks. With his returning strength his spirit and face grew more cheerful, and he began to feel a hankering for his home in England; it became a favourite thought, and after that a frequent topic of conversation.
"I have only one desire," he would sometimes say, "and that is, that those I left behind so many years ago may be alive to welcome me home."
"You can hardly expect it," said his friend on one occasion, as they sat together on deck. "A great many changes occur in the space of a quarter of a century, and it is generally those we love best who are taken the first away from us."
"Perhaps to draw our thoughts to heaven," said Hubert.
"Perhaps so," replied his friend; "but suppose it does not do it, and instead of our becoming very resigned and heavenly-minded we become reckless and desperate, and think of any place but heaven,—what then?"
"I don't know," said Hubert, "except that the man who could feel what you say must be one who has forgotten to worship God, and so when trouble comes upon him he hasn't God to help him to bear it."
The stranger looked earnestly into Hubert's face; there might have been a home-thrust in that remark, for, heaving a deep sigh, he said, "I hope you have never known what it is to lose a friend very, very dear to you, and I hope you never will—yours is a beautiful delusion. I had it once, but I haven't it now, and I hope circumstances may never rob you of it."