When Hubert reached his cabin, he turned his head to thank his friend, and then he saw that he was a man many years older than himself, with a clear open countenance and with hair deeply tinged with grey.

"You are welcome," said the stranger, "and I hope we shall become better acquainted, for we have a long voyage before us, which I, like you, appear to be making alone, and pleasant society will render it cheerful--good night."

"Good night," replied Hubert; "I hope it will be as you say," and, grasping his hand, he again said, "Good night."

They were now far out at sea; the high lands of India had sunk below the horizon; Ceylon, with its spicy perfumes, was pa.s.sed; and Adam's Peak, the high towering sentinel of that wonderful island, had sunk also beneath the wave. Hubert enjoyed the sea; his health and spirits returned, and the time pa.s.sed much more pleasantly than he had antic.i.p.ated; he found his new friend a most agreeable companion, kind and considerate towards him, and, having been a great traveller, he was ever ready and willing to amuse Hubert, not only with accounts of the countries to which he had travelled, but also of England, which country he had left only five years before: he had been a wanderer all his life--he was born upon the sea, in his father's vessel, and being early deprived of his mother, he and his brother became the companions of all their father's voyages. Born, as it were, to a wandering life, a life which in after years they were in no way fitted to give up, his brother succeeded to the command of his father's ship, while he roamed to nearly every part of the world, and gave to society many valuable volumes of information on different parts of the earth and its people.

Hubert always listened with pleasure to the conversation of his friend; still there was ever a wish in his mind that the subject would change: he longed to hear him talk of higher things than those of earth, for never once, in all he said, did he make reference to the G.o.d of heaven--it seemed to be the G.o.d of this world that he worshipped; and Hubert sighed, as he thought that he had not proved the true friend he had hoped to find in him.

CHAPTER VIII.

HOMEWARD BOUND.

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 pa.s.s.

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, un.o.btrusive 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 s.p.a.ce 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 G.o.d, and so when trouble comes upon him he hasn't G.o.d 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 circ.u.mstances may never rob you of it."

"I hope not. But, my friend," said Hubert, laying his hand upon his arm, "I _have_ lost one very, _very_ dear to me, all I ever loved, and it is the beautiful delusion you name that has helped me to bear it; nay, it is not a delusion, it is a high hope--a hope that when this life is ended, and all who are dear to us have been taken away, we shall meet once again in heaven, to live together for ever."

Hubert's face had become animated while he spoke, and in his warmth he put his hand into his pocket, intending to bring out his Bible; but his friend checked him by saying, "What a strange, powerful influence the things we learn in our youth have over our lives! A holy precept instilled into us when we are lads, is a diamond set in an imperishable casket; and though the dust of careless, sceptical manhood may oftentimes cover over the gem, still it is there as bright as ever, ready to shine with its former l.u.s.tre when the heart, trusting and believing, instead of doubting, fans off the black shadow of unbelief; surely it is then that G.o.d's Spirit breathes once again into man the breath of life."

"How I wish I could talk as you do!" said Hubert; "then I would tell you what I feel. But when I want to speak, I seem to feel so much that I have no words to express myself, and so I say but little. How is it, though, that you speak so of G.o.d? I thought you were unbelieving."

"And what have I said to make you think that I believe now?"

"You must," said Hubert, "else you would not speak so of the Spirit of G.o.d. When I spoke of G.o.d, you called it a delusion, and I said nothing like what you have said. You surely are not a sceptic? you must believe."

"I may believe some things, but not all that you do; for it has been an easy matter to forget all about the one true G.o.d in a country where so many G.o.ds are worshipped."

"Did you forget, with all your learning and eloquence? Did _you_ forget?"

"Yes; didn't you?"

"Oh yes, I did; I dare not tell you what I did, neither can I tell you what I have suffered, nor how good and gracious G.o.d has been to me. For more than twenty years I chose to live regardless of a future life--indeed, regardless of anything but sin. I always tremble when I think how I have lived, and yet see how gracious G.o.d has been to me; and though you, too, forget to serve Him, He has not forgotten to be gracious and merciful to you."

The stranger sat still, in a careless att.i.tude, with his broad-brimmed straw hat shading his face, and his hands thrust into the pockets of his loose coat. He spoke nothing in answer to Hubert's remarks, and Hubert, after maintaining the silence for some time, rose from his seat and went to his cabin. Ben, the sailor, had opened the cabin window, against which the rippling of the calm sea occasionally threw a tiny crystal, and as Hubert entered, and saw Ben standing before the window, he said--

"Are you afraid the water will be in, Ben?"

"Oh no, your honour," said the sailor, touching the little bit of hair upon his forehead, "we're more than four feet above water at this window; but I was a-thinking, your honour, of the storm on the Sea of Galilee, and how our Saviour caused a great calm: it was a wonderful thing, and I dare say it made a good many believe on Him as didn't believe before. St. Mark says there was also some little ships besides the one Christ was in, and I dare say there was a good many in those ships as didn't believe Him at all; but it just wanted that great tempest to frighten 'em and make 'em believe."

"It might, indeed," replied Hubert, into whose heart a new light had suddenly shone, "for G.o.d, who knows all hearts, knew what was in theirs."

"True, your honour, and it's the same now; many men won't believe the Gospel until they are like, as it were, in the tempest, obliged to be struck down with illness, or such-like, I mean."

With the concluding words the sailor left the cabin, and Hubert sat down to read all about that storm on the Sea of Galilee; he had read it before, but never with such an interest as now, and it reminded him of the tempest that had once come upon him; and he saw a deep truth in the sailor's remark, that it is the storm that drives the sinner to Christ.

Then he sat and wondered what he must do to try and convince his stranger friend of these things, and the prayer was almost upon his lips that some terrible tempest might overwhelm him, if it would bring him to the footstool of Jesus.

That night, as though in answer to his heart's desire, Hubert dreamt that his friend was "a vessel meet for the Master's use," and in a joyous burst of feeling he awoke.

"I know it, I am sure of it," he said to himself "he is a believer; a backslider, perhaps, but not a sceptic." And he longed for the daylight to come, that he might again seek his friend; and as he lay awake during the remainder of the night, he tried to throw many of the incidents of his own life round that of the stranger. He would give anything almost to hear something more of his history; what he had told him was not enough, and Hubert hoped for a closer and firmer friendship. A kindred wish seemed to have pa.s.sed nearly at the same time through the mind of the stranger, for he had retired to rest with the hope that he might get to know something more of Hubert; and the next morning, when they met on deck, there was a cordial greeting, and they went and sat down on the seat they had occupied the day before. There were several pa.s.sengers on board the ship, but Hubert and the stranger were exclusive in their friendship, so that when together they met with no interruption; and this time, as they talked of various things, with the wide-spread ocean around them, Hubert, after a pause, said--

"Did you ever read the story of Jesus Christ stilling the tempest on the Sea of Galilee?"

"Yes, many times; why?"

Then Hubert repeated what Ben the sailor had said; told, too, from whose honest heart the ideas came; and his bosom felt a thrill of pleasure at the earnest attention the stranger gave him.

"Well done, Ben," burst suddenly from his lips, "Why, Captain Goodwin, he's a clear-headed fellow. It's astonishing what remarkably good notions those sailors sometimes have."

Then he returned to Hubert's subject, painted in rich imagery the silent lake, the little vessels, and the sleeping Saviour; then the tempest, the alarm, the cry, "Save, or we perish," and the Omnipotent, "Peace, be still." He knew all about it; he likened the silent lake to man's heart in boasted security; the little vessels to the many sins of his indulgence; the sleeping Saviour, to conscience hushed by sin; the tempest, to man awakening; the alarm, to man seeking pardon; the cry, to man's heart broken in despair; and the "Peace, be still," the voice of a reconciled G.o.d, the sign-manual of forgiveness.

Hubert had never heard anything that told upon his heart with stronger power. Tears were in his eyes, and, drawing a long breath, he said--

"How could you make me think that there was anything that you did not believe in reference to G.o.d, when you know so much, and can explain so beautifully? Oh, if I knew only half what you do--if I had but a little of your power to express myself, what a Christian I would be."

"You don't know," said the stranger, laying his hand upon Hubert's raised arm. "The head may be full of knowledge, and the tongue fluent in speech, and yet the heart may be cold. It has been said, that for a speaker to move the hearts of his hearers, he must himself feel the power of his subject. Now, in worldly matters it may be so, but I am inclined to think that in religious matters it is not obliged to be.

There is in all things referring to man's soul a secret influence which does not necessarily require the fire of man's heart to make it effective. G.o.d's Spirit is alone sufficient to move the waters.

Eloquence, indeed! Oh, beware how you covet it. Where is there anything finer than the testimony of Christ's divinity made by the _demon_ in the synagogue at Capernaum--'What have we to do with thee, thou Jesus of Nazareth? Art thou come to destroy us? I know thee who thou art, the Holy One of G.o.d.' Be a.s.sured that, after all, there is no sublimer strain that reaches the ears of the Most High than the contrite 'Lord, save, or we perish.'"

There was much earnestness in the stranger's manner, and the last words he uttered struck Hubert as a prayer coming up from the depths of that heart which, in the stillness of the previous night, he had satisfied himself was not sceptical, but backsliding. Hubert's curiosity was more awakened, and just as he was about to ask his friend another question, they were interrupted by the sailors coming to the part of the vessel where they were seated, to attend to some portion of the rigging.

Hubert, taking his stick, walked away slowly to his cabin, but his friend did not follow him, and he sat down in silence alone. How many subjects, during the voyage, that stranger had given Hubert to think about! and the time had pa.s.sed so pleasantly that he had not missed, quite so much as he had antic.i.p.ated, the friends in India. Many new lights had shone into his heart, and his mind had opened to more truths by the companionship he had made, and he felt now as much delighted with the friendship, as a short time before he had been disappointed; that short prayer, so emphatically spoken, had touched a deep feeling of his own heart, and he wondered whether the high order of intellect, the learning and eloquence of his friend, had not proved to him a snare, in the same way that the careless, reckless, self-will of his own nature had been to him.

"Great G.o.d!" he said, gazing upward, "guide the thoughts of my heart aright, lest I argue that some of thy gifts are given to man to his injury."

How humble Hubert had become, how ready to resign his own will to that of a higher! and many a prayer he breathed that day--for the evil thought came continually up in his mind, that G.o.d's gifts were not always for good. Do as he would, or think as he would, that same thought was uppermost in his mind, and he felt that it was the evil one grasping at the expiring hope of bringing him back to him again. Hubert's faith, however, was growing stronger every day: he had learnt to feel that without the guidance and protection of G.o.d he was a frail erring creature, and it led him to be frequently a suppliant, and frequently a receiver of heavenly strength.