There was no voice in that little cabin to answer or direct Hubert in his outburst of passionate feeling; and, as he looked around at his sleeping comrades, he crept softly from his berth, and went and knelt down by his chest. The moon shone brightly through the tiny cabin window, and as he knelt by his chest he could see very well everything around him. He took out his Bible, and gazed wildly at it for a moment, scarce knowing what next to do; then rising as if a sudden thought had struck him, he tried to open the window that he might throw it into the sea: it was, however, too secure to open at his will, and, turning away after a fruitless effort, he sought a place to hide it. "Where shall I hide it?" he said, as he walked round and round his cabin; there was no nook or corner into which he could thrust it so that it should never meet his eye again. What could he do with it? He must wait for another opportunity; so, taking out nearly everything in his chest, he thrust it down into the farthest corner, heaped all his things upon it, made them secure, and then returned to his bed. The excitement of the moment was over, yet Hubert could not rest, and, as he turned himself upon his uneasy bed, he never once regretted the wicked thought that had led him to try and throw away his Bible; but the determination to dispose of it grew stronger.
Some weeks after this little event, the regiment arrived in India, and was ordered far up the country: the long, toilsome march which Hubert now had to undergo, initiated him into some of the realities of a soldier's life, and it was not long before he found that the career he had chosen was not so full of enjoyment as he had anticipated. He very often felt weary; the heat of the country depressed his spirits; and he often sighed deeply as he remembered the pleasant hills and valleys of his own land. The regiment had no sooner located itself in the new station, than Hubert and many others were struck down with fever. Death was busy amongst them, but the young prodigal was spared. Many a time he had wished to die; sick and amongst strangers, his mother's words had come home to him with double power, and he felt the bitter truth that there was indeed none who loved him, none to comfort him; it was a wonder he lived, for the fever was malignant, and the care bestowed upon the sick very little indeed. Poor Hubert! how was it he could not die? Young as he was, this illness taught him the sad lesson that where there is no love or interest there is an inhumanity in man; and as he grew better his heart became more hardened, for he began to cherish a hatred towards every one around him.
CHAPTER III.
THE BIBLE TORN.
Within this awful volume lies
The mystery of mysteries;
And better he had ne'er been born
Who reads to doubt or reads to scorn.—Scott.
We must pass over a few years. Hubert had overcome the effects of the climate, and the many dangers to which he had been exposed, helped, as they ever will, the heart, uninfluenced by religion, to make him more reckless and daring. Away from his sight, at the bottom of his chest, undisturbed, lay his Bible; beside it, too, lay his sister's desk, and the writing materials his mother had carefully packed for him: he seldom thought of the fond ones who had given him those things; but far away in England they ever thought of him, and watched and wept for a letter.
Hubert's regiment had seen a great deal of service, and it had not been his lot to escape the dangers of war. On one occasion he had been overcome and taken prisoner by some natives, and was only saved from being put to death in a cruel manner by an unexpected attack being made upon these Hindoos by a neighbouring chief, to repulse which they left Hubert and two of his companions in the care of some women, from whom they were rescued by a company of his regiment who had come out to search for him. In a few hours the attempt to save Hubert would have been in vain, for the Hindoos, hating the English, seldom allowed much time to elapse between the capture and the sacrifice. Many a narrow escape besides this, and many a wound—some slight and some severe—dotted the pathway of Hubert's life; and the seventh year of his residence in India was drawing to a close. The hot season had been unusually oppressive; nearly every disease which flesh is heir to had made fearful ravages amongst the soldiers, and Hubert was a second time struck down with fever. Mercy once again interposed, and, like the barren fig-tree, he was spared, that another opportunity might be given him to bear fruit. One morning, when he was getting better, the hospital nurse came to him with a letter in her hand, and asked if he thought it was for him; he took it from her, and for a few moments did not answer her: his heart smote him; but though his illness had slightly subdued him, he was old in sin, and had learnt how to overcome all feelings of tenderness; so, striving to check the thoughts that were forcing their way, he began to examine the postmarks and various written notices upon the outside of the letter; he soon found how far it had travelled in search of him, and now it was by a mere chance that he had received it.
"Why was this letter not sent after me?" inquired Hubert.
"Be thankful, sir, that you have received it now," said the nurse. "It has travelled after you a great way; but your regiment has been so much on the move that I am not surprised at its being delayed. I have seen it on the letter-rack more than eight months, and several others with it, and you would not have had it now if I had not remembered you."