the torn bible or _hubert's best friend_ by alice somerton author of "layton croft" etc. london frederick warne and co. and new york to glanville and his eight schoolfellows. perhaps, dear boys, you wonder why i should have dedicated this little book to you: it is that you may feel a deeper interest in it, and imbibe, from reading it, an earnest love and reverence for your bible, which, like a good angel, can guide you safely through the world as long as you live. like hubert's mother, i ask you to read a portion every day; and, whatever be the battle of life you may have to fight, may god's blessing attend you, making you humble towards him, dutiful to your parents, and a blessing to mankind. believe me, yours affectionately, alice somerton. the torn bible. chapter i. hubert's departure from home. may thy goodness share with thy birthright! * * * * * * * what heaven more will that these may furnish and my prayers pluck down, fall on thy head! farewell.--shakespeare. the rural and picturesque village of hulney, in the north of england, is a charming place; it is almost surrounded with well-wooded hills, and the little rivulets, which ever murmur down their sides, run into the limpid stream along the banks of which most of the cottages are built. at the north end of the village, on the slope of a hill, is the church, so thickly covered with ivy that the only portions of the stonework visible are part of the ancient tower and the chancel window. legend and historic fact hang their mantle round this old church. history tells us that the brave, yet often cruel, margaret, wife of henry vi., fled there after a defeat in one of her battles; and it is also recorded that one hundred of the heroes of flodden field rested there on their return from the victory. modern times have added to the interest which clings to this old place, and one thing especially which draws attention will form the subject of this story. in that old churchyard, where the children of many generations lie side by side, there is many a touching or interesting record; but the stranger ever lingers the longest near seven white grave-stones, all bearing the name of goodwin. upon the one which has the most recent date is the following inscription:--"sacred to the memory of hubert goodwin, aged seventy years;" and below this a book, partly destroyed, with several of the loose leaves, is carved upon the stone: and though, perhaps, this description of it may not be striking, the exquisite carving of that destroyed book is such that people ask its meaning, and they are told that it is a "torn bible." hubert goodwin, the tenant of that grave, was the eldest of six children, blessed with pious and affectionate parents, well to do in the world, and descended from a family of some distinction. great pains were bestowed upon hubert's education, as he grew up to youth; but from his birth he was of such a passionate turn, and at times so ungovernable, that he was the source of all the sorrow that for many years fell to the lot of his parents: he was different to their other children, and many a time when reproof had been necessary, and the little wayward one, after a troubled day, had retired to rest, his mother's heart, still heavy, led her softly to the bed where he lay sleeping, and there, kneeling down, she would commend him again, with perhaps a deeper earnestness, to that one who knew all her trouble, and whom she knew could alone help her. once the boy awoke as his mother knelt beside him, and, as though in answer to her prayer that his heart might be changed, he burst into tears, and, throwing his arms round her neck, expressed deep sorrow at having grieved her, and promised to try and do better. poor mother! her joy was brief; in a very short time he was as undutiful and rebellious as ever, and so he continued until he reached the age of twelve years, when, as he had determined upon being a soldier, his parents, much against their wish, sent him to a military school, to be educated for the army. a year rolled away, and all the accounts that came from the master of hubert's school informed his parents that he was a bold, unruly boy--a great deal of trouble to his teachers--but he would probably tame down a little in time, and do very well for the profession he had chosen. many and many a time these parents wept over the letters which spoke thus of their son: they wished him to be a good soldier--one fearing and serving god--and they oftentimes repeated their tale of sorrow to their good pastor, in whom they were wont to confide; but his meed of comfort was ever the same. what other could he offer? good man, he knelt with them, directed them to the source of true comfort, the lord jesus christ, and tried to lighten their hearts' burden by drawing them nearer to the hand that afflicted them. when hubert had been three years at school, he obtained, through the influence of friends, a cadetship in one of the regiments belonging to the east india company; he was still only a boy, and his parents had rather he had not gone entirely away from them so soon, for they felt, and with some truth, that while he was at school he was at least under their protection, if not their guidance. hubert, however, came home to them a fine noble-looking youth, delighted at the prospect before him, and as proud and vain as possible at being at last really a soldier. how much his parents loved him, and how they tried to persuade themselves that the vivacity and recklessness he showed arose more from the hilarity of a heart buoyant with youthful spirits, than from an evil nature! but when, on the first sabbath after his return home, he scoffed at the manner in which they observed that holy day, another arrow pierced their bosoms, another bitter drop fell into their cup of sorrow. during the three years hubert had been at school, his parents had gradually observed that, though he did perhaps attend to most of their wishes, there was a careless sort of indifference about him; and though they were always glad to see him in his vacations, they were as glad to see him go back to school, because their home was more peaceful, and every one was happier when he was not there. think of this, boys, whoever you may be, that are reading this story, and when you spend a short time with those kind parents who love you so much, let them see, by your kindness and willing obedience, that you wish to love them as much as they love you; and never let them have to say that their home is happier when you are not there: no, rather let them rejoice at your coming home, welcome you, and think of you as the bright light that cheers every one in their dwelling; and if they can do that, be assured that god will bless you. only a fortnight's leave of absence had been granted to hubert, and one week had gone. the way in which he had spoken of sacred things, and of the manner in which they had observed the sabbath, roused his mother; and though her reproof was gentle, she was earnest, and tried all she could to influence him to better thoughts. she told him of the many snares and dangers he would have to encounter, and the many temptations that ever lurk along the path of youth; of the strange country to which he was going; and of the doubly incurred danger of going forth in his own strength. he listened as she talked to him; but along that way which she so dreaded, all his hope and young imagination were centred, and he grew restless and impatient to be gone. they were busy in hubert's home; brothers and sisters all helped to forward the things necessary for their eldest brother's future comfort, and they sat later than usual round the fire the last night of his stay with them; for everything was ready, and the mail-coach would take him from them early on the morrow. the ship which was to convey hubert to india was to sail from portsmouth, and as his father was in ill-health, there was some concern in the family circle about his having to take the journey alone; he promised, however, to write immediately he reached the vessel, and so, with many a kiss and many a prayer, the family separated for the night. it was a lovely autumn morning in the year ; everything round hubert's home looked beautiful, and his brothers and sisters, as they clustered around him, and gave him their last kisses, each extorted a promise that he would write a long letter to them very soon. excitement had driven off every regret at parting with him, and one young brother ran off long before the time, to keep watch at the gate for the coach coming. the time for hubert to go drew near, and his father, infirm from recent sickness, took his hand as he bade him farewell, and laying the other upon his head, reminded him once more of lessons long ago taught, and long ago forgotten; gave him again good counsel concerning his future life; then pressed him earnestly to his heart, and prayed god to keep him. then came his mother; she had already poured out the deep sorrow she felt at his leaving her, and had endeavoured to school herself to the parting; without a word she threw her arms round his neck, and bent her head for some minutes over him. "oh, hubert," she at length said, "when sickness or trouble comes upon you, you will be far from home, and there will be none of us, who love you so dearly, near to comfort you, and no one to try and guide you right; but see here, i have a bible; take it, treasure it as my last gift, and promise me that you will read it every day. i care not how little you read, but promise that you will read some: you will never regret it, and may it teach you the way to heaven." "i _will_ read it, mother; i wish i were as good as you are; i know i am not like the others. mother dear, don't cry; i will try and do as you wish; good-bye!" and after kissing her affectionately he hurried from the house. the coach was at the gate, round which the children gathered, and for a few minutes every one seemed busy. the servant-man was there with hubert's trunk and a small leather bag; the nurse had come round from the back garden with the baby; cook followed, and stood a little way behind the gate with her arms half wrapped up in her apron; and the housemaid stood at one of the open bed-room windows; while on the steps of the door were his parents, joining in the farewell to the first-born. pilot, the house-dog, seemed to have some notion of the passing event, for he had come to the gate too, and did not, as was his usual custom, race and gambol with the children, but sat down amongst them all, apparently in a thoughtful mood. hubert kissed his brothers and sisters, and then took his seat amongst the passengers; then came many a good-bye, and waving of handkerchiefs, and the coach rolled away. "he's gone," said his father, as the coach wended its way round the hill. "never mind, mary; it was not for this we trained him, but we've done our duty, i hope, in letting him go, for he was determined, and would perhaps soon have taken his own way; poor lad! perhaps amongst strangers he will do better than with us; but i would sooner have buried him--sooner, by far, have laid him in the churchyard--than he should have taken this course. what is the use of trying to make children good? tears, prayers, self-denials, what is the use of them all, if the result is like this?" so he murmured, and then bowed his head and wept, and his wife, instead of receiving comfort from him, became the comforter; for, putting her arm round his neck, she replied, "oh, yes, dear, our prayers and tears have brought us many blessings; see the other children, how good they are; don't murmur. god may yet bless us in hubert; it is terrible to part with him in this way; but it may yet be a blessing to us all: god knows." then she sat down and wept with her husband over this first great sorrow; and they _did_ weep; they and god alone knew the depth of the woe that had come upon them; the first-born pride of their home and hearts going from them, perhaps for ever, without one religious impression, or care for the future, was a sorrow that none around could lighten, and they knelt down and prayed fervently for that reckless son, and tried to feel a deeper trust in him who, though depriving them of one blessing, gave them many. chapter ii. too late for the post-bag. be wise to-day; 'tis madness to defer; next day the fatal precedent will plead; thus on, till wisdom is pushed out of life. young. meantime, hubert went on his way, and a feeling of sadness came over him after he lost sight of his home amongst the trees; for the thought had come into his mind that perhaps he might never see it again. for a moment his heart beat quickly, and he gave a deep sigh; then, putting his hand into the leather bag, he was just going to take out his mother's present to him, when a man, who sat opposite, said, "i suppose, young soldier, you are off to join your regiment?" "yes," replied hubert, with a smile; and as he drew his hand from the bag, he continued, "we are ordered to the east indies." "east indies, eh? you'll soon see a little life, then; they tell me there's plenty of fighting going on out yonder, though we don't get much of it in the newspaper. but you are very young?" "yes, i'm the youngest cadet in the regiment; i'm just turned fifteen; but i shall be as brave as any of the others, i dare say: and i mean to make as good a soldier." "no doubt of it," replied more than one of the passengers, and the coachman, who had heard the conversation, cracked his whip, as he chimed in, "hear! hear! well done!" then, as the coach rolled along over many a mile, they talked of nothing but hubert and the sphere of his future existence. it feasted the boy's pride; and every other thought fled away, and he forgot all about his home and his bible. it was the morning of the third day since hubert started, when, after many changes and delays, the journey was almost ended, and in less than an hour they would be in london. "do you go to your ship at once?" inquired a gentleman who was seated beside the coachman, and who had not only come all the journey with hubert, but who appeared particularly interested in him. "i should like to go very much," replied the boy, "because i know no one in london, though my leave of absence is not up till to-morrow." "my brother is captain of your vessel," said the stranger; "so, if you like, we can go together, for i am on the way to say good-bye to him." nothing could have suited hubert better; so, upon leaving the coach, which reached london as the clocks were striking five, they hurried off to the street where the mail started for portsmouth, and after travelling all day they reached the vessel. how happy was hubert that night! what a joyous glow was on his cheek! several of his old companions were there, and not one of them appeared to have any sorrow at leaving friends and home; they greeted each other with light hearts and buoyant spirits, talked of the varied enjoyments of the past holiday, and laughed loud and long, as they sat together in the mess-room. here and there, apart from the young ones, in nook and corner, or leaning over the side of the vessel, an older head resting upon the hand, told that with some, at least, the pang of parting from home and dear ones had left its impress upon the heart of the soldier; and there was one young lad, a stranger, only one month older than hubert, seated upon a coil of rope, weeping as though his heart would break. the little cabin-boy, a child of eleven, tried to soothe him, but the sailors, as they passed by, said, "let him alone, boy, and he'll join his messmates below all the sooner." night closed at last, and for a few hours, at least, there was silence: sleep may not have visited every pillow, but the loud laugh was hushed, and the stillness of night rested upon the vessel. it was late the next morning when hubert left his cabin; all was noise and confusion; hundreds of soldiers were moving about, and hubert, to escape from the turmoil, was preparing to go ashore when a superior officer touched him on the shoulder and desired him to remain in the vessel. hubert was vexed at the order, and sat down gloomily upon a seat; the time, however, passed quickly by, and at noon, when the bugle sounded to summon all visitors on deck, that they might be sent on shore, he had forgotten his anger, and was one of the most cheerful there. the friends were gone, all the partings were over, the gangways were secured, and everything was ready. wind and tide in favour, time was precious, and the roll was called: every soldier, to a man, answered to his name, and they gave three hearty cheers for king george, their regiment, and old england. "the ship will weigh anchor in less than an hour," said a voice close to hubert's ear, and, turning round, he saw the gentleman who had accompanied him from his home. "oh, how do you do?" said hubert, shaking hands with him. "do you sail with us?" "no, only just a mile or so, then i shall return in a boat. have you a letter to your parents? if so, i shall be happy to post it for you." hubert's face turned red: he had forgotten to write, and he replied, "i have not a letter." "perhaps you have already sent one?" "yes," said hubert; "i mean no; i have not written; the ship sails so soon, and i have been so engaged that i forgot." "forgot?" said the stranger, retaining his hand. "what! forget to write to those parents you may never see again? come, my lad, that looks ill in a soldier; take a friend's advice, and write a letter at once; if i cannot take it, you will have an opportunity of sending it before many days pass, and your parents must be anxious about you: try and remember all the good counsels they gave you before you left, and never forget them. good-bye; remember what i say; good-bye." there was much warmth in the stranger's manner as he shook hubert's hand, into whose young heart every good resolution returned, and he hastened to the cabin which he was to share with three other cadets. he was silent and thoughtful as he unpacked his chest to find his writing materials, and there the previous evening he had placed his bible. as he raised the lid, his eye fell upon his mother's last gift, and more earnestly than before he determined upon writing a long letter. the paper was found, and the writing-desk, which a dear little sister had given him, was opened, when in rushed the three noisy companions of his cabin, and made so much disturbance that he found it impossible to write; so, thinking that he should have plenty of time "to-morrow," he put his things back again into his chest, and became as noisy as the others. another opportunity was lost, another good resolution broken, for the society of noisy and riotous companions; and it may be that the many evils and sorrows of his after-life were but the fruits of his neglecting this first great duty. had he remembered his parents and their counsels, and cherished the little germ of goodness that was springing up in his heart, heavenly dews might have descended upon the flower, and kept him from the ways of evil. the vessel at last set sail, and order was restored. hubert was upon deck, and as he looked over the side of the ship, and saw the white cliffs of his country fading from his view, he for once felt lonely--felt he was leaving all he loved, and he wished he had written home. "just a line: i might do it now," he said to himself. he found, however, upon turning to go below, that he would be required to perform one of his military duties almost immediately, so that he could not write then; and he felt such a mixture of sorrow and vexation, that the feelings of the boy mocked, as it were, the dress he wore; and, leaning his head over the side of the ship, more than one large tear mingled with the waters of the deep. their first night at sea came on: how calm and beautiful it was! there was scarcely a ripple upon the ocean; the bright stars in the high vault of heaven looked down like so many gentle friends upon the eyes that gazed up at them, and the pale moonbeams lighted up the pathway for those wanderers on the waters. hubert was not happy; many, many times he fancied he could hear his mother speaking to him, and he would have given much if he had only written to her. it was then he again remembered his bible, and the promise to read it, which promise he now determined to perform, and as soon as he could conveniently go to his cabin, he did so, opened his chest, and took out the book, intending to read. "how small it is," he thought, "and how pretty!" then he turned over leaf by leaf; he knew not where to begin: he could remember nothing at all about it, and it ended in his putting it back in his chest and going to his bed. sleep soon silenced every thought, no letter was written home, not a word of the bible was read, promise and resolutions had passed away with his sorrow, and hubert little thought, as he silenced the monitor within, how hard it would be to return to the duty he was neglecting. the ship had now been a fortnight at sea; it had passed through the bay of biscay, and was off the coast of portugal, when the soldiers were informed that in about an hour a vessel would pass very near to them; and, as the sea was calm, a boat would leave in forty minutes to carry letters for england to the passing ship. "forty minutes," said hubert aloud, and apparently pleased, for he hurried off, as many more did, to avail themselves of the opportunity of writing home. forty minutes, however, was too long a time for hubert, and he returned again to the deck, to seek a companion and inquire what he intended to do, before he sat down to write himself. thoughts of neglected duty and unkindness to his parents had frequently disturbed hubert's mind; try as he would to sweep every remembrance of his disobedience away, the thought would come that he had not done right; but, instead of sorrowing and making an effort to repair the ill he had done, he tried to persuade himself that he was cowardly in giving way to his feelings; so he endeavoured to smother the rising affection that stole upon him during the first few days he was upon the sea, and the result was that he became more reckless than ever. "letters ready?" all at once startled hubert, as he stood talking to his companion upon the deck: there was the man with the bag collecting them, and his was not written. the bag was sealed, the boat was pushed off, the last chance, probably for months, was gone, and, as he began to hum a tune, he walked away to the other end of the ship. he looked over the side, and a momentary feeling of vexation came over him as he saw the little boat carrying its treasure, its bag of home letters; but he was learning now to defy his conscience, and sang louder the snatch of song that rushed to his aid, and seemed to be all he wanted to throw back the better feelings of his heart. many weeks had passed since that noble vessel left england; its white sails were still spread in the breeze, and it was wafted on over the sea. hubert had tried very hard to forget all about his home; the recollections of it were not pleasant, they were too accusing for him to indulge in; there was a holiness about it which ill-accorded with the life he was leading, and the effort he continually made to suppress every thought of it frequently caused him to fall deeper into sin. one night, when in the height of glee in the mess-room, when songs were being sung, and the giddy laugh rang out upon the silent waters, and hubert was joining fully in the mirth of his comrades, he suddenly remembered that he had in his chest a book of sea-songs, and hastened away to get it. he knew pretty well where to put his hand upon it; so, when he reached his cabin, he never thought of lighting his little lamp, but knelt down beside his chest in the dark. it was scarcely the work of a minute; his chest was re-locked, and he skipped away back to the mess-room; his hand was upon the door, when all at once his eye fell upon the book he had brought; it was not the one he had intended to bring--it was not the song-book, but the bible. he started when he saw what he had; and how was it that a sudden chill sped like lightning over him? how was it that on that sultry night he felt so cold? his hand trembled, his heart beat quickly, but the tempter was by his side, and he gave utterance to many an evil thought as he turned back to change that unwelcome treasure. the bible was exchanged for the song-book, and hubert was again with his comrades, where he became more riotous than before, and was nearly the last to retire to rest. there was silence once more in the ship, for it was midnight, and all except the few who kept the night-watch were sleeping. hubert had perhaps fallen asleep as soon as any of his companions, but his rest was short, for he started up in alarm. he tried to remember what it was that had disturbed him, but could not. he looked around to see if either of his comrades were moving, but their deep, heavy breathing told him they slept; and then he lay down again in his own berth. there, in that still hour, as he listened to the soft wind passing through the rigging, and the slow measured tread of the sentinels on deck, he all at once thought of his english home, thought of his broken faith with his mother, thought of his bible. "it is no use," he said aloud, "i cannot alter it now; how i wish i had but just written home! fool that i was not to do so; and that book, how i wish she had never given it to me; it will make me a coward: in fact it does; i never go to my chest, but there it is; i'll burn it--i'll throw it away; how i wish i had never had it!" and he struck the side of his berth with his clenched fist as he spoke. 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." "why, where did you see me before?" "i nursed poor captain white in the hospital at jansi, and i knew you by your coming so often to see him." "i did not remember you." "no, sir, perhaps not; but i did you, though it was only this morning that i remembered anything about the letter, and that is how it is they often get delayed: they are given to people very often, to send on, who know nothing at all about them, and so they get put on one side, and sometimes forgotten altogether. i suppose that was sent here because someone knew that when you were stationed here a year ago, you were in hospital with jaundice, and here it has been ever since." "it is high time things were altered, then," replied hubert, "if this is how the letters are treated." "yes, sir, it is," said the nurse; "but you don't seem very anxious to read your letter, now you have it." hubert said no more. anxious indeed he was to know what that letter contained, but fearful to open it; the battle, everything indeed in warfare he could face with boldness, but before that silent, soiled, fairy-like packet in his hand his whole nature quailed. had he been alone, perhaps he would not have opened it at all; but the eye of another was upon him, and perhaps it was to save betrayal that he broke the seal. it was from his father; there was nothing reproachful in it, but a great deal of news about the family and their affectionate remembrance of him; a long account of letters written, and their fears that they had not reached him; then an earnest pleading that if he received that he would write to them immediately, for their anxiety and disappointment were very great. hubert read his letter several times; it was not the first he had received, though perhaps it was the first that he really felt anxious to answer; but he was too much out of health to reply to it then. it was frequently a silent companion to him during the remainder of his stay in the hospital, though when he grew better and returned again to his old companions, somehow his father's letter was forgotten. hubert's illness had no effect upon him for good; it was sent, no doubt in mercy, to check, at least for a time, the career he was running; but health had returned, and so had he to his evil habits. not one thought did he ever willingly give to his parents, or the good precepts they had tried to teach him; but when at times a few lines of a hymn, or a few words of an early learnt prayer, would, in spite of all his efforts, come across his mind, he had become so bold in sin that he cursed the intruding memory of his purer days. how little that young soldier thought of the merciful providence that was watching over him! and it was doubtless in answer to his parents' prayers that the little snatches of his early lessons were allowed to intrude so repeatedly upon him, to bring him back, if possible, to a better life. take courage, mothers, even though the seed now sown seems to perish as it falls; and continue to store up in the little mind passages of holy writ, the simple prayer, and the childish hymn; long, long may the soil remain barren, but a distant storm-cloud may shed its torrents there, and then the fruit of thy labours may return like the autumn grain, and ye shall reap, if ye faint not. 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. 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." "a true one, i have no doubt," was the reply. "perhaps so; but i don't care what people say; i do my duty, no one can deny that, and soldiers can't be preachers." "but they can be christians, and find as much need of the bible as the sword. as much! ah! more; it is a double weapon, a sword and a shield: try it, goodwin, if you never have, and see if i am not correct. if any man is in heaven, my father is; he was thirty-four years a soldier, fought in forty-one battles, and had as many wounds. and what preserved him? what made him go cheerfully through all the trials of a soldier's life? what made his name honoured and respected, as you yourself have often observed? was it the battles he fought, or the fame he won? no. he read his bible every day of his life, and tried to live as that holy book says men ought to live. he infused, by god's help, the same spirit into his company, and many a year must roll by before the words, 'good captain martin,' will cease to be heard; and the influence of his example will linger still longer. no one can tell the power of example; and it is a serious reflection that we each have to answer for the amount we exercise over our fellow creatures." hubert had thrown himself into an easy chain, and, with his hands thrust into his pockets, he silently listened to the doctor; but now he replied: "but surely we cannot possibly help persons imitating what we do. i don't see that we are to be responsible for the folly and evil deeds of others." "certainly not, goodwin; but still, how can we be sure that our conduct has not caused many of the deeds you mention? thousands of noble-hearted pure-minded youths who have entered the army have been ruined, both in body and soul, by the example of some wicked comrade." "do you refer to harris?" asked hubert, starting up from his seat; "because if you do, i may tell you at once that i am not going to be accused of anything he did. if he chose to make a fool of himself, it is nothing to me: my conscience is clear." "i refer to truth," said the doctor, "and my own experience; and if we would only ask ourselves how far our conduct will affect those around us, we should be better men. man _will_ imitate, and it is what he imitates that ennobles or debases him; it is example which has filled the heart of man with all that is good and noble, and it has also helped to make up long catalogues of crime. our blessed saviour knew the power of it when he said to his disciples, 'be ye perfect, as i am perfect.'" the calm and gentle manner of the doctor subdued hubert's rising anger, and as he listened to him _he_ also felt the deep power of example. before any other man who had dared to refer to harris, as his heart told him the doctor had done, he would have given way to the passion which his guilty conscience prompted; but there was an overpowering influence in the calm demeanour of that good man, which hubert felt; and when he was gone the room seemed very lonely, and hubert paced it with rapid stride, as he thought over the past: the life he had led and was still leading, the dead harris, and the warning note smote upon his memory, and he wished--oh, how earnestly he wished!--that he were but half like that good man who had just left him. it was a difficult matter, however, for hubert to profit much by what had transpired; the wish to lead a better life was earnest enough, but old habits and evil associates had forged their chains of fascination round him, and he went out to seek company which would soon snap the silver cord of purity that was beginning once more to form holy tracery on his heart. thus it ever is with the heart that is continually striving against the influences and power of the spirit. to keep down the still small voice of conscience, nothing is so effectual as the whirlwind of pleasure, and man runs headlong from one sin to another, until the fatal hour dawns when god's spirit will no longer strive. repeated warnings disregarded, and opportunities neglected, ruined hubert's better nature: in scenes of dissipation the germs of holiness perished, and he sank down deep, deeper still into sin, growing older in wickedness as he grew stronger in manhood, belying, as many do, the noble image on his brow by the mark of _cain_ upon his heart. it was seldom that the regiment to which hubert belonged remained longer than a few years in one place, so that his stock of worldly possessions had not greatly increased; but it was eighteen years since he left home, and he was now about changing into another regiment, one more stationary than his own, and marrying the daughter of an old english resident at agra. during the time hubert had been in india, he had experienced many vicissitudes often marching through the country, often in battle, and occasionally sick and in hospital. he had grown from the pretty rosy boy to a tall, dark sunburnt man, and was now a captain. in military things he had improved; but though of those who went out with him to india more than half had either fallen in battle or died of disease, nothing softened his heart, and it was a wicked boast he frequently made in the mess-room, that when he was unable to fight any longer he would think about going home and being religious. thus he went on wasting the vigour of his life, tempting by his blasphemy the merciful god that was sparing him, neglecting every opportunity for repentance, and occasionally tearing up his bible. the doctor, who had been nearly the same time in the regiment that hubert had, but who in age was ten years his senior, never lost an opportunity of trying to influence the soldiers for good. many a rebuff was the reward of the good man's efforts, but he never wearied. hubert, though he listened to him once, had grown vain with his military promotion, and shunned the good man who had once brought his heart near to heaven. dr. martin, however, never lost sight of the reckless sinner, but breathed many a sigh as he thought of one so gifted, and placed so far above the wants of life, rushing fast to his ruin; and then he prayed, with all the earnestness of a devoted heart, that god's spirit would stay him in his course of sin. like a gleam of light upon a darkened object came the intelligence that hubert was about to be married to ellen buchan. nearly every one in agra knew her, and there were but few who did not also know how good she was; she and her family were distinguished for their piety, and many a darkened soul in the idolatrous city where they resided learnt by their teaching and example to place christianity above the idol-worship of their childhood, and became followers of the meek and lowly jesus. surely such companionship as ellen buchan would be a blessing to hubert, and a change must come upon him, else he would be no helpmate for one so good as she was; and the doctor wondered whether a change had not already come over him, by his having expressed an intention of moving into another regiment. how fervently he hoped that it might be so; and though he now seldom exchanged a word with hubert, he did not forget him, but still hoped that he might lead a better life. imperceptibly to hubert, a change had indeed stolen over him since he knew ellen; many of his old haunts were forsaken, former friends were given up, and hubert had something to bear from the taunting words and manners of his old associates; but he had other thoughts, new habits were being formed, life had a thousand charms, and his face beamed more joyous and more handsome every day; his chief desire was to sell out, and purchase in the regiment stationed at agra. a few disappointments attended hubert's change of regiment: it was delayed longer than he had expected; still, the matter was now, to all appearance, nearly settled, and preparations were being made for the marriage. if hubert had ever been thoroughly happy, he appeared so now: his past life, with all its associations, was absorbed in the present, in ellen every thought was centred. alas! how frail are man's hopes. one sultry evening a messenger came to tell hubert to come at once to mr. buchan's, for something had happened. with a beating heart and hurried step he hastened to the house, but there was sorrow there. ellen had been complaining all day, and, as the evening drew on, her illness increased, and she was found to be suffering from fever. hubert was frightened, for the fever had been prevalent, and frequently fatal. that night and the next day he stayed at the house, and then, how dreadful came the intelligence that her life was despaired of! now hubert felt, perhaps for the first time in his life, the bitter woe of hopes all crushed; for the thought of losing ellen was terrible. what could he do! all around him was a scene of woe. changed he apparently was in his conduct and habits, but his heart was the same, and his sorrow gave way to murmuring and raving about the affliction. how earnestly he hoped for her recovery, yet how unchastened was his spirit! for upon meeting dr. martin, who, after inquiring about ellen, added kindly, "i hope, if only for your sake, she will recover," he replied sharply, "sir, you hope nothing of the kind; if she dies you will upbraid and taunt me." unjust and cruel as this remark was, the doctor pitied and forgave him, and stood gazing after him as he turned away. ellen died. we need not tell the deep bereavement it was to all who loved her. reader! it matters nothing to thee; but there was a home made desolate, and more than one heart riven. such is life! a time will come when the deep mystery of such dealings shall be explained; till then, hope on! trust on! believe on! satan would tempt thee in the weak, trying hour to doubt, but remember god does not willingly afflict; the finest gold has been seven times purified, and happy is he who can look upward, even though it be through his tears, and say, "it is thy will, lord; do with me as it seemeth thee good." all who knew hubert pitied him under the deep affliction which had befallen him, and for a time his spirit bowed beneath it; he overcame it, however, sooner than many had expected, joined himself again to many of his old companions, and gave up all intention of selling out of his regiment, and very soon he bade farewell to the friends he had made in agra, and moved with his regiment to a station further up the country. chapter v. hubert wounded. on comes the foe--to arms, to aims, we meet--'tis to death or glory; 'tis victory in all her charms, or fame in britain's story.--w. smyth. three more years passed away: it had been a trying time, for a native tribe near a neighbouring jungle gave hubert's regiment continual trouble; and now orders were received at the barracks to prepare for a battle, for large numbers of hindoos were coming down from the hills, and several british regiments were on the march to assist the station that was menaced. hubert received the order, and gave it out again to his company, and then, without another word went to his rooms. it was not his usual way: he generally said something in praise of british bravery, and tried to inspire his men to action; but this time he was silent, and the soldiers did not let it pass without remark. never before had the order for battle been less welcome, and he was unable to account for the strange depression of his spirits; he joined none of his companions, but sat the whole evening by himself, and retired to rest much earlier than usual. his sleep, however, was disturbed, and once, in the still hour of night, he said aloud, "what ails me, that i cannot sleep? i am not ill: i wonder if anything is to happen to me--surely not; after nearly twenty-two years' service, i am to have better luck than be knocked off now; it is a pretty safe thing, they say, if one gets over the twentieth year. i shall see old england yet." no more sleep, however, came to him; he thought of his home, his parents, and all to whom he had been dear, and he sighed deeply as he wished he had loved them better. the morning sun had scarcely risen before the bugle sounded, and in a very short time the regiment was on the march, for they had six miles to go, and the heat would be against them later in the day. on the previous evening, hubert had passed some of the dull hours in looking over the little relics he had collected during his residence in india, and in filling up the box he had brought with him from england, he took out the remains of his bible; it was sadly destroyed; the covers, some of the old, and the greater part of the new testament, were what remained of it, and after hesitating for a few minutes what he should do with it, he thrust it into a pocket in the left side of the bosom of his coat. it was there still; he had forgotten to remove it when he rose hastily at the sound of the bugle, and as he marched with his regiment, he little thought of the blessing which that torn, despised treasure would yet be to him. it was a long, toilsome march, through thick jungle, and the soldiers sat down to rest when they got through it, and waited to be joined by other forces. they had come out against a considerable village, the residence of a great chief, but not so well fortified by architectural defences as by the hordes of its savage inhabitants. from the spot where the soldiers rested they could see the place they had come to attack, and as the day was passing without the other regiments appearing, a council was held, and beneath the shadow of the palm trees the soldiers received orders to remain quiet until new commands were issued. the day at length was closing, and hubert, with three brother officers, sat down beneath a tree together. at first they talked of the glory in fighting for their king and country, then other matters connected with military life followed; but as the time passed away, and the hours of night brought with them their fitful gloom, the conversation changed, and for the first time for many years hubert talked of his home. "it is a long time since i left england," he said; "many, many a year; and i have somehow neglected all my old friends there. i often wish i had acted differently, and thought a little more about them, and written to them sometimes; but it is no use regretting--not that i have much to regret, though, for letter-writing is a silly, dawdling business at best, and never was much in my way; but, however, should it so happen to-morrow that the chances run against me--you know what i mean--well, there's some one of the family left, perhaps, who will like to know the end of me; so let me ask a favour. take this slip of paper, and if your luck is better than mine, just send a letter to that address, and tell them where your old comrade fell, and tell them he--nay, tell them what you like." the three officers each took down hubert's address, and promised to perform his wish; but they too had friends and relations in britain's distant isle, and they each asked of hubert a similar boon, should the fortune of the day be his, not theirs; then, with a friendly grasp of the hand, they exchanged promises; and to think, perhaps, more deeply of the past, or the morrow, they bade each other good-night and lay down in silence on the ground. only for a few hours did anything like stillness hover over the beleaguered village; at early dawn the natives, having heard that the english were surrounding them, came out in great numbers, to drive away or attack their invaders. a terrible fight now commenced, wearing any form but that of a set battle, and it lasted the whole day; but at length the chief was slain, and the hindoos, upon hearing it, fled in all directions, leaving the english masters of the village. there had been a sad slaughter of the natives, and more than two hundred of the english had fallen. hubert's regiment had suffered considerably; but he and his three companions were spared, and they met again in the same place where they had passed the previous evening; neither wound nor mark of warfare was upon any of them; they were only fatigued, and, as they shook each other by the hand, they used some of their old familiar terms of friendship, and sat down again beneath the tree. there was no talk of home now, no thought of the gracious shield which had preserved them in the fight, no word of thanksgiving to almighty god for their safety. as night came on they proceeded to the captured village; but in the morning, as all the soldiers were not required to remain, hubert's company, and one or two others, were ordered back to their respective barracks. several of hubert's company were missing; familiar faces were gone, and well-remembered voices were hushed; yet, with pride and high spirits, most of those that remained, after having helped to bury some of the dead, prepared to march as soon as the sun would permit. it was a beautiful evening when the soldiers started, but they had not gone very far before hubert and some of the other officers fell a little behind the men, and sat down upon the short dry grass and weeds. just as they were about to pursue their journey through the jungle, some beautiful birds attracted their attention, and they turned aside from the pathway in pursuit. this thoughtless act was attended with danger, for the evening was fast closing, and there was every probability that they would lose their way. at the suggestion of one, however, they turned back, and made all possible haste to overtake the soldiers. night came on much more rapidly than they had expected, and before they had gone far in the jungle it grew very dark. they pushed on as rapidly as they could, but the path was unfamiliar to them, and they soon lost each other. sometimes a rustling amongst the bushes made hubert start, and once he thought he heard voices besides the scattered ones of his companions. very soon, however, all was silent; they were all wandering different ways, and hubert was alone. once he thought of climbing into a tree, and staying there till daybreak, but he felt so confident that he could not have much further to go that he made another effort to reach the barracks. suddenly a rustling in the bush startled him again, and laying his hand upon his sword he called out the watchword of his regiment. there was no answer, and thinking it perhaps some bird, he went on again, keeping up his courage by occasionally whistling. he had almost reached the edge of the jungle, for he had fortunately kept near the right path, when a wild shout fell upon his ear, a flash of light illumined all around him, and hubert, stunned and wounded, fell to the ground. the moon rose calmly in the sky, and her soft rays fell upon the trees beneath which hubert lay. he was still insensible, and the brown grass around him was stained with blood. a slight breath of wind that passed over him, gently waved the dark hair from his wounded forehead; another ball had shattered his right leg, which had bent up beneath him as he fell. not far away, in the barracks, the next morning the roll was called; hubert's companions had arrived safe during the night; they now told where they had missed him, and a piquet of men was sent out to search for him. they did not go far into the jungle before hubert was found; he had partly recovered from his faintness, but was too exhausted to speak: they conveyed him to the hospital, where his wounds were dressed, and every attention was paid him, but he had lost so much blood as he lay all night upon the ground, that no hopes whatever were given of his recovery, and he lay several days without speaking a word. the doctor came day after day, as often as he could snatch a moment from his duties, and sat down by hubert's bed: he knew all about him, knew the life he had led, and felt all the weight of the dread thought of a soul passing into eternity unsaved. there he lay, that reckless, sinning one, now helpless, dying, and many a heartfelt prayer was breathed by the one friend that still clung to him, that he might not be taken away in his sin. it is not kith nor kin that bounds the christian's love; like his divine master, he deems precious every human soul, and no matter 'neath what sky or colour, whether friend or foe, he cannot see that priceless thing perish without an effort to save it. many a long hour the doctor sat and watched by hubert's bed: the leg had been set, and appeared favourable, but reason did not return, and it was for that he watched and prayed, and yet how that same reason had shunned and insulted him. good man, he forgot all about himself now, and watched as a fond brother over the sufferer. his prayers were heard; hubert awoke from insensibility, and occasionally spoke a word to those who attended him. chapter vi. the time for reflection. o, lost and found! all gentle souls below their dearest welcome shall prepare, and prove such joy o'er thee as raptured seraphs know, who learn their lesson at the throne of love.--keble. a week had passed. hubert was slightly better, and there was a faint hope that he would ultimately recover. the doctor had been two or three times during each day to see him, and now, as the sun was setting, he came again. weary as he was with his usual duties, he had still his master's work to do, and as he took his seat by hubert's bed he asked if he should read to him. hubert knew quite well that the doctor's book was the bible, and though he also knew that but very faint hopes were given of his recovery, he replied, "no, thank you; i shall perhaps soon be better, when i shall have plenty of time to read." the doctor tried to prevail, but hubert resisted, until he became excited, when his friend, wishing him a good night, left him alone. "yes, i hope soon to be better," he repeated to himself, as the doctor left the room, though, as he gazed at the three empty beds near him, he little thought that the insensibility to all pain which occasionally stole over him, rendered the hope of his recovery very faint, and that unless a change took place his couch would soon be empty also. another and another day passed. hubert was no better; and as the doctor again sat down beside him, he said, as he gently took the feverish hand, "my friend, perhaps you would like some one to send a letter to your friends in england; is there anything you would like to say? shall i write for you?" "not now." "why not now? i have told you how precarious your state is: you had better send a few lines home: let me write something for you,--shall i?" "no, no! i have no wish to write. they have not heard for more than twenty years; it is no use writing now, they may all be dead." "oh, no! that is not probable; and they will in time hear of the battle you have been in, and see your name amongst the wounded. it would comfort them greatly to hear from you; and if, as you say, you have not written for so long a time, how they would rejoice to find you had not forgotten them!" "no, doctor," said hubert, faintly, "it would be no joy to them, they cannot care for me now. i broke my mother's heart; i know it. i dreamt it once, years ago; and many a time the sad face i saw in my dream has come before me when i have least wanted it; many other things, too, doctor, i could tell you which forbid my writing. no, i cannot, at least not now--another time." "no, my poor friend, not another time, write now: i'll write, shall i?" "write what, and to whom? no, i tell you, they are dead," and he turned his face away. the doctor knew well that hubert's illness was too serious a matter to be trifled with: everything was against him; it was the hottest season of the year, dissipation had undermined his constitution, and his mind was uneasy; and the thought had struck that good man, that if he could get hubert to turn his thoughts homeward, reflection might bring remorse for his past life, and he might think of eternity. for a few seconds he stood still, gazing silently at his patient, wondering what he should do. it was not his custom to see a soldier die without feeling any concern; his own well-worn bible testified how often he had used that sacred book; and written in the book of life were perhaps not a few names of erring yet repentant sinners, brought to know christ by his humble efforts. "soldier brother," he said, as he took the hot hand once again in his own, "i must not be refused _all_ i ask; let me read to you." hubert made no answer, and the doctor turned over the soiled pages of his bible and read, with a soft clear voice, the fifty-first psalm.-- "have mercy upon me, o god, according to thy loving kindness; according unto the multitude of thy tender mercies blot out my transgressions," &c., &c. the psalm was ended: none of its petitions, however, appeared to have touched the heart of the sick man, though their effect was great upon the doctor, who, kneeling down, poured out his soul's grief in a deep, heartfelt prayer, begged hard and earnestly for mercy and pardon for his suffering brother, and implored that a ray of light might beam into his heart. never before had such a prayer sounded in hubert's ear, and yet, when the good man rose from his knees, the only sound that he heard was, "doctor, i can sleep." "good night, then," was the answer; "i shall come early in the morning, and before then, if you require me; good night." "good night;" and there was a gentle pressure of the hand; then the doctor left the room. "is he gone?" said hubert, faintly, a few minutes after. "oh! why did he leave me?" and the poor sufferer's eyes turned towards the door. the watcher that night was a woman: it was not often that a woman tended the sick soldiers in the hospital where hubert now lay, but it was his lot to be so fortunate on this occasion; and she was sitting beside an open window, looking out upon the sun, which was sinking in the west, and throwing, as she was thinking, its rays upon her english home, when she heard hubert speak, and, hastening to his side, in an instant she asked him kindly if he required anything. perhaps his heart was too full, for he only turned his head away and sighed deeply. "captain," she said, as she bent over him, "does anything trouble you? can i get you anything?" and as she gently smoothed back the hair upon his forehead, she thought she saw a tear roll down his sunburnt cheek. that tear was enough; the stern scenes she had witnessed during a long sojourn in india, had made her callous to many things, and left many a scar upon her heart; but she was woman still, and could not resist the power of that tear. she sat down upon the stool by the soldier's bed, chafed his hot hand in hers, cooled his brow again and again, and spoke soothingly and kindly to him; still he was silent, gave no answer to any of her kind inquiries, except by an occasional sigh. "i know you are uneasy, captain; tell me, oh, do tell me! i've asked you many things, and you have answered me nothing; do tell me what's the matter. what can i do for you?" "nothing." "yes, captain, let me do something; shall i fetch dr. martin? what shall i do?" "will you read to me?" "yes, that i will;" and the nurse immediately fetched her bible, and for a long time, by the dim flickering candle, her voice rose softly upon the stillness of that chamber, as she read of mercy and forgiveness to the penitent and heart-broken sinner. it may have been that the sound of her voice had a soothing effect upon hubert's ear, for he sank calmly to sleep, and his rest was peaceful. when he awoke, however, with the morning light, his pulse beat high, owing probably to the excitement of the previous day, and the doctor was still unable to give hope of his recovery; and after another day, when the shadows of evening drew on, that good man took his seat once more by the sufferer's bed, and read again, in hopes to soothe the troubled spirit and lead the uneasy thoughts to better things. "why do you come here, and sit and tire yourself reading to me? you must already be weary with your day's work. why do you come here?" and hubert, with a steady eye, gazed into the doctor's face as he made the inquiry. "why do i come?" replied the doctor, as he gently took hubert's hand; but he felt his throat swell at that moment, and while he hesitated hubert repeated, "yes, why do you come?" "because it is my duty, and because i have a deep affection for you. i _am_ weary, but what matters that? you are more; so my necessity is not like yours. and another thing, i know you are unhappy." "who told you?" "i have not needed to be told; i know it well enough. you know i know it, and for that cause i come to you, but the first thing i ask you, you refuse. you know not how great a comfort it would be to you to write home to your parents; there is much for you to do, but that is the first thing, for it is a holy duty." "i have never done it, doctor, may god forgive me and i cannot do it now; it is too late, too late. you said right; i am not happy; the days and nights i have lain here have told me that all is too late now; the life i have led has been a wicked one, and if i die i am lost oh, what shall i do?" there was nothing stern in the doctor's heart; he had striven, and wept, and prayed earnestly that hubert might see the error of his way, but now, at this confession and despair, he almost regretted that he had added to the sufferer's woes. there was no exulting over the poor sinner, but bending down close to hubert's ear, he said-- "fear not; pour out your heart's sorrow to god, for, deep as your sins are, he _can_ and _will_ save you, if, with a true, penitent, and broken heart, you confess all your sins to him and throw yourself helpless on his mercy. you can do nothing for yourself; your own poor sorrowing heart is an offering jesus christ will accept if you will give it to him. don't hesitate, christ is waiting to receive you; do, then, with godly sorrow, throw yourself upon his mercy." "but i cannot," said hubert. "it may be true, all you say, but i have sinned so long, or else i am different to other people. god may forgive such as you, but i have sinned too much." "oh no, not too much for god to forgive. he knows all you have done, and he knows all you need. christ has died for you; why should you be lost?" "does god know _all_ i've done? does he know how hard i tried to lead a better life?--and then ellen died! no, i cannot believe it go, go; leave me alone. what matters how i die? go, and leave me as i am." and, clasping his hands tightly upon his bosom, he said with earnestness, as he looked upward, "lord, have mercy upon me." then he was exhausted; a faint hue came over his face, and the doctor, seeing that the strength of the sufferer was failing, stayed by his bedside to administer to his need. hubert's hands had fallen upon the coverlet, and as the doctor took one in his own, he started at its strange coldness, and for a long time he chafed it. all, indeed, that could be done was done for hubert, and throughout the long, sultry, silent night the nurse and doctor watched with christian love beside the lonely bed. hubert at length fell into a heavy sleep; it was the crisis of the fever, and never was infant slumber more softly guarded than that of his. and the next day went on; night came again; the sun in all its splendour went down in the western horizon, and the doctor crept softly into hubert's chamber to take another look at the sleeper. he had gazed some minutes, he had breathed a prayer, and was turning away when, with a gentle sigh, hubert awoke. there was a ray of light upon his face; he was better; the fever had left him, and the doctor, after administering a cordial, gave him for the night to the care of the nurse, who well knew how to attend to him; and he assured hubert that, if he attended to his instructions, his leg would be the only cause for uneasiness, and he hoped, by god's blessing, he would soon recover from that. then, as he was leaving, he promised to come again the next morning and read to him. the morning came, the doctor was there, and he told all about god's mercy and love to the vilest of earth's sinners; then he knelt and prayed, with all the earnestness of his heart, for all god's grace to the sufferer; and with such simple words and touching sadness did he tell the prodigal's story, that hubert's unbelief and despair yielded at once to the mighty power of direct communication with god, and tears fell fast upon his pillow. the doctor had been more than an hour with hubert, and now onward to other sufferers he went, with his double mission. the scene in hubert's room had urged him to be more earnest in his master's cause, and his soul was full of prayer that a heavenly ray might illume hubert's darkened heart and bring him to the feet of jesus. little did the sufferer know how earnestly that good man desired his salvation, and little did the regiment know, as its members saw him, with earnest thoughtful brow, wending his way beneath the shadow of the high wall, that in yonder lone building lay the cause of his toiling through the hot summer days, toiling again as night came round, growing more sallow and more gaunt, yet never seeming to weary. "my grace is sufficient for thee," was strictly exemplified in that earnest faithful disciple; god blessed him, and kept him a burning and a shining light, amidst all the sin and temptation of india's dark land; and though a scoff and a sneer were not unfrequently the reward of his efforts to reclaim the sinner, many a scoffer sent for him in the last sad hour, and a few testified, by a better life, to the holiness of his. each time the doctor returned to hubert, he found him slightly better; his wounded forehead was nearly well, and his shattered leg was progressing favourably; all traces of feverishness were gone, and the doctor seemed pleased as he told him that though at present the least thing might bring on fever again, which would certainly be fatal, yet, if all went well, he hoped in a few days to be able to pronounce him out of danger. "pray that it may be so," said hubert, "for i dare not die now: god has heard your last prayer; a week ago i could have died to rid my heart of its dreadful despair, and the terrible weight that was upon it, but not now. i do think there is a little hope for me--pray something for me, you know so well all about me;--how came you to know so much?" the doctor, sitting down by the bed, said, "goodwin, many a year has passed away since you and your companions first attracted my notice. i remember well the morning you landed in calcutta, for, if you recollect, your own doctor died on the passage out, and i accepted the appointment as you lay out in the bay, and went down to meet you on landing. i was, of course, strange to all of you, but the thing that struck me most was the extreme youth of the regiment--the majority did not appear much over twenty years of age, and then there was a good number of youths apparently about sixteen. i remember that many remarks were made at the time about you all, and i came to the conclusion that at least half of you had come to india to die. i have not been wrong either in that; but i am going from the point--i remember that i was particularly struck with you and a fair, gentle-looking companion you had." hubert sighed, "it was poor harris." "yes, that was his name, poor fellow. well, very soon i found out all about the life you were leading; your higher privileges were snares, not only to you and your companions, but to all the men, and the first grief i felt after joining you was at the reckless and sinful example you were setting. when first struck down with fever, how i longed, hoped, and prayed for your conversion. but you know how your life passed on, and i need not tell you that from that first hour of meeting you till now, i have watched you, and prayed for you, and i know quite well that god's holy spirit has often been striving very hard with you; but the warnings you have had have generally passed away like the dew upon the earth, and now the almighty has mercifully stopped your career by this affliction. don't let it pass like the others have done, but take your heart, with all its weight of sin, and lay it bare before god. he knows all your need, will help you in all your sorrows, pardon all your sins, and make you holy; but you must ask his aid--you must confess all your sin--you must pray to him with a broken heart." hubert sighed, and then, after a moment's pause, said, "doctor, it is no easy matter to do as you say i ought; and you judge me harshly when you say i have neglected all the warnings i have had. you remember poor harris? well, his death had more effect upon me than you know; for weeks and weeks i thought of nothing else, and tried very hard to change, but somehow i could not and then poor ellen! you remember her? i should have been another man if she had lived; but no, i was not allowed to be better: i lost her, and i know i have been bad since; it drove me almost mad. but, doctor, was it all my fault?" and hubert burst into tears. "goodwin," said the doctor, as he took hubert's hand, "beware how you rebuke the almighty; his ways are not our ways; let me beg of you to have faith in him now; if you are spared to recover, we will talk this point over together, but not now, time is too precious. believe me, he does all things well, and willeth not that any should perish; if you will only in true faith, nothing doubting, turn to him, confess your sins, and ask his mercy, you will be astonished how plain many things will appear that now seem dark and mysterious. oh, do pray to him!" "i have," said hubert, softly: "i thought yesterday that i never could, but last night, after you were gone, some words i learnt once when a child came all into my mind; they seemed all i wanted to say, and yet they were only part of a little child's prayer; indeed, i had long ago forgotten them. doctor, will you pray?" the good man knelt, and poured out his heart to heaven for the long sinning but repenting brother; and it was a holy sight to see the tears streaming down the pallid cheek of the once gay, reckless soldier, as he listened to another's prayer in his behalf. the doctor's bosom was full also--the wanderer was at last coming home--the straying sheep was returning to the fold--the poor child of earth was yielding up his proud spirit to the hand that afflicted, yet was stretched out to save him--and the good man prayed that the sufferer might be pardoned, and spared to set forth the beauty of that holiness of life which he had so long neglected. another week had passed; each day as it dawned found hubert somewhat better, but then each evening both the nurse and doctor watched anxiously beside his bed, for his state was precarious: one thing, however, that improved was the state of his mind; _that_ neither slumbered nor went back--but from the hour that he poured out his first earnest heart-breathings to heaven, he became more penitent and more anxious; all the carelessness and indifference with which he had treated religion came like so many accusing spirits before him; but, though the reflection of his past life helped at times to blanch his sunken cheek, he was more at peace in his bosom than he had been since his childhood. everything that could possibly be done for hubert he received from the nurse and doctor, and their attentions were blessed, for at last hubert was pronounced "out of danger;" and though he would never again be fit for the army, there were hopes of his perfect recovery. chapter vii. what the torn bible had done for hubert. i will throw off this dead and useless part, as a strong runner, straining for his life, unclasps a mantle to the hungry winds. alexander smith. five weeks more passed by, during which time hubert grew in grace, and his soul appeared to be ripening for heaven; his health improved, and by the aid of a wheel-chair he could be moved to the window of his room, where he sat for many an hour reading the bible, or enjoying the soft warm air, as he gazed out upon the forests and jungle that lay before him almost at his feet, or the snow-capped himalayas in the distance. one day, as he sat by the window, he asked the nurse if she knew what became of the coat he wore on the day when he was wounded. "oh, yes, captain," she replied, "i took care of it and put it away; if you wish to have it, i will fetch it for you." "thank you," said hubert, "i should like to have it now." and the nurse went immediately to find it. in a very few minutes the nurse returned, and, as she unfolded the coat, she said, "i fear it is very dirty, though these stains will be from the blood; i saw them when i folded it up, but i thought it best to take care of it, for i know soldiers generally prize the coat they were wounded in; i have sent many a one home to england to the friends of those who have died--you will, i hope, be able to take your own." "i hope so, nurse, though it will be some time yet before i can go;" and then he began to examine the coat, and turned it over to find the pocket in the inside of the left breast: he found it, and there too was all that remained of his "torn bible." pale as his cheek was from pain and sickness, a deeper pallor came over it as he drew out the bible, and the cover of it met his eye. what was the meaning of the small round hole he saw? all the truth flashed upon his mind at once; he knew what it meant; and the cold perspiration stood out upon his forehead, as, with nervous hand, he turned over leaf by leaf until he came to a small bullet. it was not large, but sufficient to have destroyed life if it had penetrated his heart; and as he cast it upon the floor, he clasped the torn bible to his bosom, and bent his head low over his mother's last gift--that despised and neglected treasure. the nurse had seen all that hubert did upon receiving his coat; she saw him draw the book from the pocket, tremble as he opened it, and then cast the bullet upon the floor; but she would have taken but little notice of all that, if she had not seen his head droop as though something deeply troubled him. "come, captain," she said, "that book makes you think sad things; come, sir, keep up your spirits, and give me the book to keep till you are stronger." "don't touch it; leave it with me," said hubert, pushing back her hand; "i am strong enough--go away." "no, captain, i must not go away; you are not strong enough to bear any excitement; it would just throw you back again, after all our care of you. think, sir, of getting well, not about that coat and book--i wish i had not brought them to you. i dare say when you see that coat all stained with blood and torn, you think about the narrow escape you have had: but cheer up, captain, and don't think about it now." "look here," said hubert, pointing to the cover of the book, "see what saved my life;" and then he relieved his heart by telling her all about that book; and as she listened she sat down upon a low chair before him, and, poor sympathizing one, she forgot, while her own tears fell as she heard the story he told, that she had, only a few minutes before, chided him for his sadness. three months had passed; hubert's illness had been blessed to him: by the aid of crutches he moved about again, and frequently encountered his old companions; some of them had visited him in hospital, and there was a rumour in the regiment that captain goodwin had "gone religious." it caused some profane mirth amongst his comrades--the companions of his former life--and he felt ashamed to meet them. however, at last he did so, and it was when they came around him, and so warmly welcomed him back again, and expressed their hope that he would soon be restored to perfect health, that he told them, with a holy boldness, that he regretted his past life, and could never be one of their number again, unless they gave up their evil ways and walked with him in the path of holiness. as might have been expected, the confession on the part of hubert was received, for the most part, with laughter and derision; but his heart was set upon the thing he sought, and from the hour he received the rebuff he determined, if possible, to commence a work amongst his reckless companions. the same spirit of earnestness and devotion which had helped hubert in worldly advancement, marked his efforts now. he had partaken of heavenly things, and, like a true disciple, could not bear the thought of any soul perishing; so, leaning upon his crutches, with his torn bible in his hand, he went as often as his strength would allow, and his own soul grew in grace as he told god's love to sinners to his comrades. hubert did not labour very long at his new work; his wounds had been too severe to allow of his continuing in the army, and before another three months had passed, an order came for him to return to england. at first the idea of going back to his own country was not welcome; indeed, india seemed to be his home more than england did, and as he turned to the nurse, who still attended him, he said-- "nurse, i shall not go to england. how can i go with this poor useless leg? i had better stay here." "but, captain, your leg is not useless; the doctor says you may some day be able to walk with a stick." "does he? it will be very long first, i fear. no, i think i shall not go home; no one will know me, for it is not as though i went home all right." "bless you, sir," replied the nurse, "plenty will know you--your mother will, for one. i remember when our tom ran away and went to sea, and was gone ten years, and we never heard a word about him; well, all at once, home he came, and the moment we caught sight of him at the garden gate, though he had grown from a boy to a stout man, we all cried out, 'here's poor tom.' we had never heard a word about his coming, or anything, yet we knew him, and all ran out to meet him. i remember it well; and how poor mother threw her arms round his neck and kissed him, and called him her darling, and i can't tell you what; then how she stood and cried, and scolded him for running away, and never writing; and then how she took up her apron to wipe away her tears, and then kissed and hugged him again. i never shall forget it. poor mother! she and tom are in heaven now. i watched beside them both, and though my heart nearly broke when i lost them, i had rather have them where they are than enduring the trials of this life." "did your brother die soon after he returned, then?" inquired hubert. "he only lived three years after he came home, for he had been very much beaten about, and his health was quite broken. poor mother died six months before he did. the year after they died i married, and came out here, and i have seen some trouble. i buried three little children one after another, and then i buried my husband. they all lie just out there, under that large tree in the corner of the burial-ground. i was ordered home, but i could not leave the spot where they were lying, so gave up my passage to england, and have stayed here ever since. i have only one wish, and that is to be buried just out there beside them. it is sixteen years since my husband died; and the first time you can get so far just go and see how nicely i keep his and the children's graves." hubert was interested in the woman's story; her patient devotion and affection won his heart, and he took the first opportunity of visiting the graves of her loved ones, and as he gazed upon the well-kept mounds before him, his thoughts sped over the ocean to a distant land, and he saw the village churchyard, with the grassy hillocks beneath which lay the remains of many members of his family, and lifting up his heart in prayer to god for humility and strength, he determined to bid farewell to india, and return to the fold from which he had wandered. it was soon known that hubert was going to england, and many ready hands and hearts assisted him in preparing to go. all his little property was collected, several presents were given him, and many a regret was expressed at his leaving; all of which made it harder to go than he had anticipated, and he felt, as the time drew near, more and more sorry to leave. but there was no alternative; so he decided to sail in the first vessel that left calcutta after he arrived there. the doctor, to whom hubert had communicated his intention, came to him one evening and told him that, as he was at liberty to choose his own vessel, he could not do better than make his passage over the seas in the _arctic_. "she is a splendid ship," said the doctor, "and the captain is a religious man. i know him well. you will not be annoyed with riotous conduct in his vessel, and will have no cause to complain of the manner in which he observes the sabbath." "ah, that will be the ship, then," replied hubert; "but did you ever sail in it?" "yes, twice to the cape of good hope and back; and i can assure you that i have been in many a church and have not heard the service with such comfort as i heard it in that ship. our beautiful liturgy was read with such deep earnestness and pathos that i thought then, and i have thought ever since, that out on the ocean, with dangers around us, is the fittest place for those grand prayers to be breathed; for as i joined and as i listened, i thought i could see christ beside me walking upon the sea, and my soul seemed carried up higher into heaven than it had ever been before." "that was beautiful!" exclaimed hubert; "i always like to hear you talk like that, doctor, it makes me feel something of the same kind. i shall like that ship; when will she sail?" "i scarcely know, but it will not be long. she has been lying at calcutta some time, and i should think is about returning to england; she has not gone, i know, because lieutenant white told me last night that he intended sending a box to england by her. by the way, he can, perhaps, tell us when she will sail." it was found, upon inquiry, that the _arctic_ would set sail in about ten days; so hubert bade farewell as soon as he could to his friends, and, accompanied by the doctor, was in a few days on his way to calcutta. he bore the fatigue of the journey better than he had expected, though he was very much exhausted, and was heartily glad when he reached the ship, and lay down to rest in his cabin. the doctor stayed all night, and then the next morning they took leave of each other, promising to continue the friendship which, to hubert at least, had been such a blessing. hubert did not at first feel all he had lost when the doctor left, for his mind was somewhat occupied in arranging his cabin, so as to be as comfortable as possible on the voyage; but this, of course, had an end, and a consciousness came over him that he was friendless on the wide world amongst strangers. at first he thought it would be better to keep so, and not leave his cabin at all, for, if he went on deck, the remarks or sympathy of the other passengers would be very annoying. they might pity him, and be kind and attentive to him in his weakness, but it would only make him feel more keenly the calamity which had fallen on him in the full vigour of his manhood; and then, as his thoughts rushed back, and he saw himself but a few months before so full of health and activity, he forgot the great blessing that had accompanied his illness, and his heart murmured and rebelled. a dark cloud seemed to have fallen over hubert: for three days he maintained a gloomy silence in his cabin; and the sailor that waited upon him told his shipmates that it was a pity his honour had chosen the sea for a grave, for unless he changed he would, in his honest opinion, die before they were far out of the bay. "tell him so, ben, for you know it ain't lucky to have a death on board," said one of the sailors. however, ben said nothing to hubert, for in his own mind he began to think that the soldier had a sorrow, which would perhaps wear away in time; and the sailor was not wrong. it was a dark hour in hubert's life--a weak yielding of the flesh; and who can wonder? in the short time that had passed since he had given up his evil ways, how much instruction and counsel he had received from the kind friend who had brought him to the vessel; and the kind nurse, so full of sympathy towards him, knowing all about him, had helped to buoy up his spirits when they were sinking, and by them the struggle between his old and his new nature had been lightened. how hubert missed those two friends now! he never thought he could have cared for them half so much. in the gloomy thoughts that had come over him, he would have given much for one of them to have been near; but he was alone, and his nature warred with his spirit, and his bosom refused to be comforted. many times he wished he could return to india, and reproached himself for having left: there, at least, there was some one that cared for him; now, where was he? out on the sea, without a friend; and, perhaps, in the distant land to which he was going he might find himself friendless still. friendless! the thought bowed him very low: but god knew the storm that was beating upon the heart of the returning wanderer, and the powerful hand of omnipotence tempered the hurricane; for, like the distant sound of help, in the lull of the tempest, the words came suddenly into his mind--"i will never leave thee, nor forsake thee." "ah!" said hubert, starting, and pointing upwards as he spoke, "gracious god, i have a friend in thee;" then, clasping his hands together, he prayed an earnest prayer that god would pardon the sin of his murmuring, help him to overcome the evil nature in his heart, and make him more holy. hubert's peace of mind returned as soon as he had poured out his grief in prayer, and ben the sailor told his shipmates that they need not fear now, for his honour had taken a turn, and was quite cheerful-like. the evening of another day was closing, and hubert came upon deck, amongst the other passengers, to take a last look of the land where the best years of his life had been passed, and where nearly all the remembered associations of his existence were centred. the home of his boyhood, in that lovely english valley, had come before him in memory's brightest colours, as he lay sick and wounded in the hospital; and he thought of it too when he set out for england, but he could remember nothing at all of it, as he stood by the side of the vessel, looking back upon his manhood's home--the field of his fame. it was true that he had there strayed further from the right path, and sunk deeper into sin; that, if india had been the scene of his fame, it had also been the scene of his guilt; but then his heart whispered that it was there too he had mourned and repented, and if a deep sigh escaped his bosom, as he watched the last shadow of his indian home fade from his view, it was because he was leaving it for ever. long after the last look had been taken, hubert sat still upon deck, and was roused from his thoughtfulness by the words-- "will you accept my arm, captain, to your cabin? it is getting late." "thank you, i had forgotten, i see it is late; i can manage pretty well with my crutch. but no, since you kindly offer me your arm, i will accept it." "yes, do, captain, the vessel is not over steady." 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 passed; 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 passed much more pleasantly than he had anticipated; 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 god of heaven--it seemed to be the god 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 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." "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 lustre when the heart, trusting and believing, instead of doubting, fans off the black shadow of unbelief; surely it is then that god'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 god? 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 god. when i spoke of god, 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 god in a country where so many gods 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 god 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 god 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 attitude, 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 god, 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 passed 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 passengers 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 god, 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 god, 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. god'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 god.' be assured 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 passed so pleasantly that he had not missed, quite so much as he had anticipated, 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 god!" 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 god'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 god he was a frail erring creature, and it led him to be frequently a suppliant, and frequently a receiver of heavenly strength. "get thee behind me, satan; every gift of god _is_ good and perfect, and it is thou, thou false one, that pervertest them from the end for which they are given;" and hubert, as he ceased speaking, took out his "torn bible" to read: there was comfort there, and his heart became more cheerful, his faith stronger, as he read upon a soiled torn page of that precious book--"fear thou not, for i am with thee; be not dismayed, for i am thy god: i will strengthen thee; yea, i will help thee; yea, i will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness." it mattered not to whom, nor under what circumstances, such passages of scripture were written--they were as effective to hubert as though they had been penned for him alone; and he took them all to himself, and became more trusting and more holy. neither jew nor gentile made a stone at which his feet were to stumble; as he opened his "torn bible" and read, so he believed: the promise or the threatening, as it stood there, was what his heart received, and he believed now that god was near him, helping him to overcome the tempter. chapter ix. true friendship. then, potent with the spell of heaven, go, and thine erring brother gain; entice him home to be forgiven, till he, too, see his saviour plain.--keble. three weeks more passed away; the journey homeward was getting near its end, for the weather had been fine, and except that, on account of a death on board, the vessel stayed a day and a night at st. helena, there were no interruptions. it was a lovely morning; the wind was hushed, there was scarcely a ripple upon the ocean, the vessel glided on without breaking the stillness, and hubert sat on deck with his friend, enjoying the genial atmosphere of the temperate zone. "captain goodwin," said the traveller, "i think our journey together is nearly ended." "are you not going to england?" immediately inquired hubert. "no--at least, not at present. in a few days we shall pass portugal, and i may say farewell to you off lisbon. i have a little matter on hand that takes me to that part: when i have finished it i hope to come to england; and i hope to meet you some day again. i trust that what we have seen of each other has not been unprofitable; something i have told you may remain in your memory, for i have told you many things concerning the ways of men in nearly every country that i have been to. your knowledge has been confined to india, which country i have traversed almost from one end to the other; and yet i have learnt very much from you; and, now that we are about to part, i will tell you how. it may be that, mixing so much amongst indian idolatry, or, indeed, i hardly know what has been the cause--but of late years i have grown careless of the pure faith of my childhood, and have rather liked than otherwise anything that tended to increase a disbelief in god and a future life. once let the thought that there is no future fix itself in the mind of a man, and a thousand other thoughts, more wicked than the first, follow, and there is little difficulty in disbelieving altogether; for it is the belief that there _is_ a future that constitutes the key-stone in religion. well, i had become sceptical; and, goodwin, you perhaps little thought it, but it was you with your bible, and all its precepts so exemplified in your conduct, that struck me, and made me look into my own heart to find how it was that you appeared so much more happy and contented than i was. i have often watched you; and your silent and, as you thought, unseen study of your bible had a powerful effect upon me, and did more for me than any noisy demonstration would have done. when i first met with you i was in a state of mind to have laughed at you, if you had come and talked about conversion and grace, and prated off a host of scripture texts. i had too long forsaken religion to be frightened back to it; and that is the mistake many good people make in their endeavours to bring back god's wandering children. when i saw you so consistent and so earnest in your religious duties, i know this, that i longed to be like you, and that longing led me to think of what i had once been, and by degrees things have changed with me. i have wanted to tell you this before, but have always been afraid to trust myself; it is because our journey is so nearly ended that i tell you now. and look here, goodwin, when i have done what i have to do in portugal i will come to england, where i shall hope to meet you; and by god's blessing, since there is no secret between us now, we will talk this matter over again. it may be a year before i come, perhaps longer; but remember, if i am spared, i _will_ come, for i shall never forget you." "neither shall i you," said hubert, grasping his hand; but his heart was full, and for some minutes he said no more. at length he continued, "oh, i am sorry to part with you; i have often wished that some of our time could be spent in reading god's word, and talking of his mercy to us both; the want of our doing so has made me at times sadly miss two friends i left in india; still, i have much enjoyed your society, and have learnt very much from you; for though our conversation has for the most part been upon secular things, you have given me very much to think about, and i thank god that i met with you. when i reach home," and hubert sighed, "i should like to write to you; and if you will tell me where a letter will find you i will do so. i shall take up my quarters in the north of england." the traveller gave hubert an address which he said would find him, at least for the next three months, and then he added-- "the north of england! ah! i well remember an incident that occurred once as i passed through it on my way from edinburgh to london. i have never been in that part since, and, as near as i can recollect, it is about four-and-twenty years ago. i was fifty-four years old yesterday, and i was thinking that i passed my thirtieth birthday on the top of that stage-coach. well, we were some distance north of york--i have forgotten the name of the place, but it was a charming little village--and at the top of a shady lane, at the garden gate of a pretty house, there were several people waiting to bid a young soldier good-bye. young, indeed! he was only a lad, just fifteen, a fine-hearted, sprightly young fellow, and he was going off to india. well, he took his seat amongst the passengers, called out good-bye, and off he went. i sat beside the coachman, and as i glanced round at him, i felt sorry for the boy, for, though he appeared cheerful enough, i had an idea that his cheerfulness was a little forced: the passengers began to talk with him, and he really was a fine fellow. i never shall forget him--the very type of a handsome english youth. excuse me, i was forgetting myself; it's but a simple story, after all: we can find something better to talk about." "oh, no, pray finish it; i am interested in your story. what became of the young soldier?" "well, it was rather curious that i was going south on purpose to bid my brother good-bye, and i found that this young soldier was going to india in my brother's ship." "that was curious enough," said hubert. "it was; and when we alighted, after a long and tedious journey, in london, we went off to the ship together. how very often i have thought of that lad! he had evidently been well cared for by good religious parents, but perhaps from his school training, or i cannot tell what, he was certainly forgetting the instructions they had given him. oh, how thoughtless and reckless he was! i watched him, for he had told us a little of his history; and as i was leaving the ship, i ventured to give him a word of advice, and tried to persuade him never to forget his duty to his parents: but i cannot tell you more about him. poor lad! i never saw him again, nor ever heard of him after he reached india. i fear he died, for, soon after his regiment landed, many of the soldiers died of fever, and from what i can remember, i saw amongst the deaths in an indian paper a soldier of his name; so, never hearing anything more of him, i concluded the poor fellow had succumbed to the climate." "why were you so anxious to hear something more of that lad in particular?" inquired hubert. "ah! were i to tell you it would be a long story. i don't know, though, that i need tell all. i think i once told you some of my early history. well, i married at an early age, and three years after my marriage i buried my wife: the sorrow, however, was greatly alleviated by a little son i had--he was two years old when his mother died, and just able to dissipate my grief by his innocent prattle. years passed away: wherever i went i took my boy. i travelled through germany and prussia with him, and it has often occurred to me that the many people who have been charmed by the works that these travels helped to produce, little thought under what circumstances they were accomplished. many a long journey, where conveyances could not go, have i taken, with my staff in hand, a little satchel at my side, and that boy on my back. at other times he has trotted by my side; and very often--most nights, indeed--with him sleeping in my arms, or seated beside his bed, i have penned most of my daily wanderings, for i never left him. for eight years after his mother died i never allowed him to go from my sight; but then he left me for ever." "not for ever," said hubert; "you mean, he died? well, you will go to him, though he will not return to you." "why do you say so?" "because i believe it, and so do you." "yes, i do: but now, tell me how it is that i cannot always think so. i believe it all as well as you do, and yet, when i sit alone and think, my thoughts are not the same as when we sit and talk together--how is it?" there was an earnestness in the stranger's manner, and also in his eye, as he put this question to hubert, who, after sitting unmoved for a minute or two, at last said-- "i have felt the same many, many times; indeed, there is scarcely a truth in the bible that i have read, which, though i believed it at one time, i have been led to doubt it another. many a time have i gone out into the court-yard of my quarters in india, that i might see some fresh object, because upon everything in my room there seemed to stand out in large gilded letters the word 'unbelief.' turn where i would sometimes, the very objects and things i wished to forget were always before my eyes; indeed, blasphemy has been upon my tongue when my heart has dictated prayers. terrible hours they have been to me. and sometimes the falling of a piece of paper, the opening of a door, or the smallest possible sound you could conceive, has so alarmed me that i have actually been afraid of myself. no one but myself can know what i endured. but i don't feel anything of the sort now. _prayer_ was the effectual remedy for me, and it will be so for you. i believe that such doubts and fears are extra mercies sent by god to bring us nearer to him; so, when you feel anything of the kind, try what prayer will do. there is a great deal of seeming prayer that isn't prayer; but when the heart can feel itself going out upwards,--i mean, when it utters the words, 'lord, i believe, help thou mine unbelief,' depend upon it, that upon the other side of that petition, written in words of fire, is the command to the tempter, 'get thee behind me, satan!'" the stranger sighed, but then, thrusting his hands deeply into his coat pockets, as was his usual custom when in a thoughtful mood, he sat still looking over upon the broad blue sea. hubert sat still beside him, and as the sailors moved about attending to their various duties, they gave many a glance at the two friends as they sat together. ben had told them all something about these friends, and, though they were not all of the same way of thinking as ben was, they imbibed from him an extra amount of respect for the captain and the stranger; and had the part of the deck where they were accustomed to sit been a sacred part, it could not have been more free from intrusion than it was when they were there; so hubert sat and thought; so did his friend, who was the first to speak. "yes, it is so," he said; "i know it is all true; i shall go to _them_. and now let me finish my story. i had returned from the continent, and it was in scotland that i buried my son; he lies beside his mother in the kirk-yard at dunkeld; it is a pretty, quiet place, at the foot of the grampian mountains, and there they lie--i hope to be buried there too some day. i did not think at one time that i should have lived thus long after them, but time has fled on, and it has worked its change in me. i remember that it was on my first journey after my loss that that lad rode with us to london. i shall never forget how startled i was when i first saw him: older, of course, he was, but such an exact resemblance did he bear to the one i had lost, that--it may have been a delusion--some of my affection for the dead seemed to centre in him." "what was his name?" inquired hubert. "i cannot tell now, i had forgotten it long ago; indeed, i had forgotten the incident until you brought it back to my memory, it happened so long ago." "i wonder you forgot his name, though," said hubert; "but time works upon the memory, and makes it less retentive." "true; especially one that has been tried like mine has. i am not an old man--i am only a little over fifty, yet see how grey i am. i attribute it to my memory being overtasked." "and to early and deep sorrow, perhaps," replied hubert. "well, the philosophy of that i neither argue nor dispute: what do you say to it?" hubert smiled, and, taking from his pocket his "torn bible," he said, "here we have a high authority for the fact that suffering purifies the heart. now, whatever effect it may have upon the outward appearance, it most certainly leaves its impress within--leaves many a deep scar upon the heart: and we know that it leaves furrows on the brow; yet what a blessing suffering is!--it is often the last effort that god makes to reclaim the reckless sinner. when all other efforts have failed, and nothing seems effectual in bringing down man's proud heart, the almighty smites that he may bless. i know it, for i have experienced it all; i have felt both the scourge and the blessing." hubert added this latter part because he feared lest his friend should think him presumptuous; but the stranger added, "captain goodwin, i am sure you must have felt a good deal of what you have often talked about, and i would give much to be always as thoroughly settled in these matters as you are. what you say, i feel to be all perfectly true. here," he said, placing his hand upon his heart, "it is all right but here," and he touched his forehead, "there are other thoughts. but if god spare me, i will come to you again when my business in portugal is done, and then we will talk over these matters more fully. the world has been a wide one to me, but i have only a few friends in it, and am tired of rambling about it, so i shall return to england and come near to you." "do," said hubert; "and may god spare you, and me too. i shall be glad indeed to see you; the heart grows better by communion, and i think somehow that there is many a kindred feeling between us; at any rate, our voyage has been rendered pleasant by our having met, and it will be a source of pleasure to me, in many a sad hour that i feel will yet befall me, to look forward to our meeting again." this, and much more, formed the matter for conversation between hubert and his friend; and when the day had closed, and night drew on, they passed an hour together by hubert's lamp; for the heart which had unburdened itself seemed to have twined its tendrils more firmly round the wounded soldier. chapter x. the wanderer's return. lead, kindly light, amid the evening gloom, lead thou me on! the night is dark, and i am far from home; lead thou me on!--keble. nearer and nearer drew the vessel homeward. hubert and his friend had that morning kept below; there was a little luggage on a table upon the deck, and two or three people were standing near it; some of the sailors were evidently busy about one of the boats, but a casual observer could not have perceived that anything unusual was going on. many, nearly all in the vessel, were gladdening their eyes with the first glimpse they were having of europe; and as the coast of portugal became more distinct, many hearts burst out with joy, for they were nearing home. hubert and his friend at length came on deck: lisbon, with its noble bay and high lands, could be seen in the distance, and the boat was lowered to convey the passengers to the small vessel that would take them up the river to the town. "farewell!" it was the last word from hubert's lips that sounded upon the traveller's ears as he was wafted over the billows that rolled upon the shores of portugal; "farewell!" echoed back upon the air, and hubert, drawing a deep sigh, began already to feel lonely: he had made no other friend in the ship, and he returned to his cabin; he sat down, and began to think over the conversations he had had with his friend, and he wondered again and again whether he himself was not indeed that once reckless boy, who in years gone by had won the sympathies of the noble heart which had now won his. so many incidents in that short narrative had a counterpart in his memory, that at last nothing could persuade him but that it all referred to himself; then how sorry he felt that he had not told his friend more about himself; and, less at ease than he had felt for many months, he closed the door of his cabin, and buried his face in his hands. poor hubert! his heart was growing as tender as it was once hard, and recent sickness had unfitted him to encounter, without emotion, the many visions of that youth-time which now came so vividly before him. "god grant that i may find them living!" he said earnestly; but then his memory brought back again some of the forebodings and inward whisperings which had often, in bygone years, checked for a moment his reckless course, and his heart told him again that his mother was no more. it came like a deep sorrow to hubert, like a mighty wave throwing back every torrent upon which it rolled; but he had learnt how to contend with grief, and soon the dim cabin lamp was lighted, and, as night grew dark, he sat and read the much-treasured portion of his mother's bible. he gained comfort as he read page after page, and it may have been that the lamp grew brighter; at any rate, hubert's face wore a happier beam, and when the sailor came into the cabin, he said, "good evening, your honour; glad to see your honour looking better and cheerful like." "better, ben! have i looked ill to-day?" "not ill, exactly, your honour," said ben, "but a little landsman-like, just about the time the passengers for portugal got adrift, when mr. collinton, yer honour's friend, left." "well, ben, i was sorry to lose him; but how late it is! why, i have been reading two hours." with the assistance of the sailor, hubert retired to rest, but, just as ben was leaving the cabin, hubert requested that he would reach him the bible that lay upon the table. "i have a better bible than this, yer honour," said ben, as he handed the book; "i mean one that has it all in, not torn as this is; and, if yer honour likes, i'll fetch it, though it's not to every one i'd lend it." "why do you offer to lend it to me, then?" "because, yer honour, i'm sure you think a great deal of the bible, and it's a pity you haven't one with all in; this has been bad enough used, at any rate, but some folks don't care how they destroy the bible. i'm glad it's got into yer honour's hands; but, if you'll accept the loan of mine, i shall be proud to lend it to you; there's not a leaf out; it was the last thing my poor mother ever gave me, and i have used it now over twenty years." "thank you, ben, i do not wish it; mine is torn, i know, but it will do for me. thank you all the same. good night." hubert was glad when he found himself alone; he was in the habit of talking with ben, but the sailor's homely remarks were not quite agreeable to him now. poor untaught fellow! how nobly he appeared to rise in that night's shadows; children of penury, perhaps, he and his mother, yet how rich in affection! hubert thought many times of that sailor's bible; like his own, it was a mother's gift, but it had _all_ in, while his had been ruthlessly destroyed. memory brought back many a long-forgotten scene, when his hard heart strove to rise against the silent admonitions which the sight of that book was ever wont to give; and, as he grasped all that was left to him now, a deep and heartfelt prayer from his penitent heart ascended to the throne of god. the vessel in which hubert sailed had made a quick run to england, and, in a few days after the passengers left for portugal, hubert landed upon the shores of his native country; and never before had he felt so lonely. he was home without a home; however, being still under orders from the east india company, he referred to his papers, and then immediately proceeded to london. lame, without friends, and amongst strangers, hubert longed to be making his way to his own native village, but he was compelled to tarry some time in london; at length, however, he received his discharge with a handsome pension, and was at liberty to go where he pleased. now hubert felt undecided; he scarcely knew what to do. at one time he thought of writing home, and telling them he was coming; but to whom could he write? then he thought of taking the coach at once home, but another thought made him abandon that; for his heart was not yet schooled to the task of facing those he had so cruelly injured. hesitating what to do, another week passed by, and his conscience, at length, so smote him for lingering, that after arranging about his luggage, which was still at the custom-house, and which he preferred should for the present remain there, he set out with one small trunk, and commenced his journey northward. so many years had passed since hubert had come along the road by which he was returning, that he might have been in a foreign land: he remembered nothing, but he thought the country beautiful; and, when evening came on, he alighted from the coach, and stayed for the night at a small town. the journey had been rather too much for him: still he felt anxious to be getting on; so, when the coach passed through the town on the following day, he proceeded some distance further. four days had passed. hubert, by short stages, was drawing near his home, and the nearer he came to it, the more anxious and nervous grew his heart; he would have given much to have known which of his family remained. once, years ago, while in a frenzied mood, when rage and passion overcame him, he was suddenly called back to reason by a mystic shadow crossing his vision: it may have been that a heated brain brought before his fierce eye that which startled him; but the remembrance of that moment had seldom left him, and he felt certain that his mother, at least, was missing in his father's household. another short journey had been made, and a candle was placed upon the parlour table in the little village inn where hubert, tired and weary, intended staying for the night. many of the villagers had seen him leave the coach at the inn door; he was wrapped in a blue cloak, and walked lame, resting upon a stick; his bearing, perhaps, or it may have been a whisper, told them that he was a soldier, and there was a fair chance of a good evening for the landlord of the king george. one by one the parlour received its guests, and more candles were brought in; a log too--for it was the month of october--found its way to the fire, and the landlord told his wife to see to the customers, for he was going to join the company in the parlour. hubert saw with some uneasiness the people coming in, and he would gladly have retired to rest; but his coming was an event they were unwilling to let pass unobserved, and they gathered round him with so much kindness and sympathy, that hubert felt constrained to stay with them. the old arm-chair in the corner, which was sacred to two purposes--namely, once a year, when they had beaten the bounds, the vicar sat in it in the tent to partake of the roast beef, which was bountifully provided for those good old observers of ancient customs; and, once a year, when the village club was held the lord of the manor occupied it again. duly polished every week was that dark oak chair, and not even the sage-looking cat attempted to usurp it. this evening, that honoured seat was drawn up to the fire, a large cushion was placed in it, and there the tired soldier rested. they saw he was lame, and one went and fetched a soft stool for his wounded leg; then as they sat around him, with their honest sympathetic hearts beating warmly towards the brave defenders of their country, what could hubert do but tell them of the battles won, and many incidents that make up the soldier's life in india? he had much to tell, and they listened eagerly to him till the hour grew late, and hubert felt that a soldier's heart still beat in his bosom, and the fire of his youth had not died out. they felt it too, but their enthusiasm was tempered by the constant reference that hubert made to the god who had preserved him. they parted for the night as the village clock struck eleven, and many of them wondered, as they walked homeward, where he was going, and why he was travelling alone--questions they had not yet ventured to ask; but they promised each other before they parted that they would come again to the inn on the morrow. chapter xi. home at last. my father's house once more, in its own moonlight beauty! yet around something amidst the dewy calm profound broods, never marked before. * * * * my soul grows faint with fear, even as if angel steps had mark'd the sod; i tremble when i move--the voice of god is in the foliage here. hubert was not much refreshed when the morrow came; the weather had changed during the night, and the rain fell heavily, and his wounded leg was so painful that he determined upon not proceeding on his journey, but requested permission to walk in the well-kept secluded garden at the back of the house, if the rain cleared off. it was a dreary morning, but about noon the sun shone out, and hubert, leaning upon his staff, bent his steps to the snug little summer-house in the garden. it was a quiet spot, and hubert was glad to be there alone. the storm was over, the few remaining autumn flowers were fading, and the leaves were falling thickly from the trees, and hubert, as he looked upon the scene around him, drew a deep sigh, and taking from his pocket his "torn bible," began to read. absorbed in what he was doing, he did not see a little boy approach the summer-house, and it was not until a small spade fell accidentally from the child's hand that he noticed him. "ah! do you live here?" inquired hubert "no, sir, but grandfather does, and he told me you were here." "did he send you to me?" "no, sir, but he told me you had fought a great many battles, and i wanted to see you because i am going to be a soldier--when i'm a man, i mean." "how old are you now?" "i'm eight, sir; but, you know, i shall be older soon, and perhaps as big as you are." "perhaps so," said hubert, with a smile; "and what's your name?" "frank, sir--frank lyons--the same as father's and grandfather's; but they are not soldiers, you know. i am going to be a soldier." and then, fixing his eyes upon a medal which hubert wore upon his breast, he eagerly asked all about it. hubert was amused at the little fellow, and answered many an inquiry that he made, and as he was listening to something hubert was saying, all at once he caught sight of the "torn bible," and taking it in his hand, he said-- "is this a bible, sir? oh, how it's torn! did it get torn like this in the battles?" "no, child; but," pointing to the hole in the cover, "it got that in the last battle i was in." frank looked for some time at the hole the bullet had made; then looking up into hubert's face, he said, thoughtfully-- "sir, don't you think god was very good to take care of you in the battles?" "he was, child; he has always been good to me." "then why did you let any one be so wicked as to tear this bible so?" hubert kissed the boy's cheek: he could not answer the home-thrust, but taking the bible from his hand, said-- "good bye, frank; now run away home." the child went away as he was desired, but hubert's heart reproached him in a moment; he thought he had been harsh, so, bending forward, he called the little fellow back. there was a tear in the boy's eye when he returned, and stood gazing up again into hubert's face, which convinced hubert that he had disappointed him; so, taking his little hand, he said-- "frank, do you wish to ask me anything more?" "yes, sir, i want to ask all about being a soldier." hubert could not resist, nor refuse to listen to the inquiries of that little heart. and there they sat--the once disobedient, sinning, reckless son, and the little artless child. it relieved the older bosom to talk of the past, and hubert told into that little ear more than he had told any one before. it was a strange sympathy; but the boy drew closer to him, leant his little arms upon the veteran's knee as he gazed earnestly into his face, while hubert told him something of his own youth-time, and about being a soldier. "then you have been a soldier longer than i've been born," said frank. "how glad your mother will be to see you! i think i should run all the way; i would not stop at all till i got home." "but could you run, frank, if you were as lame as i am?" "no, sir, i could not; but then i would ride--i would never stop anywhere until i got home." "but if you were in pain what would you do?" "oh, i would not mind it at all; soldiers ought never to mind pain. when charley wheeled the big barrow over my feet i did not cry, though he hurt me dreadfully, because i am going to be a soldier. but that is grandfather calling me. good bye, sir." in an instant the boy was gone; and hubert, bending forward, looked out along the side pathway down which he had run. he watched him until he was out of sight, and then his thoughts turned upon himself. why was he contented in tarrying there? how was it that he felt no spirit to hurry onward? he looked up at the sky; the clouds were breaking, and the sun shone brightly. "oh that i were at home," he uttered, "and all the past forgiven! how can i face it?" but no good thought came into his mind to help him in his difficulty; and he sat for some time gazing vacantly into the garden. "yes, little frank," he suddenly exclaimed, "they will be glad to see me; i'll not stay here." and taking his stick in his hand, he drew his cloak around him, and went into the house. the good people were somewhat unwilling to part with their visitor, but hubert was determined to go; and, as he parted with the kind people, they were astonished to see him kiss little frank, and then to hear him say-- "good bye, frank. i'm not going to stop any more till i get home. learn to read your bible; and i hope you will make a good soldier." the old landlord felt honoured at the notice hubert had taken of his grandson, and as he removed his own little old black hat from his head, he turned to the child, and said-- "your bow, franky; make a bow to his honour--it may be he's a general." general or not, it mattered but little to frank, for, taking hubert's hand, he said-- "good bye, sir; i _will_ try and be a good soldier." many little incidents, besides the one here recorded, befell hubert as he journeyed homeward; and, though he was long upon the way, he might have been longer, had not little frank's words--"how glad your mother will be to see you!"--so rung in his ears, that he felt compelled to go on; and the next afternoon to that on which he left the village inn, his heart began to beat as he thought he recognized some old places. ah, yes! there was the old white toll-gate--he knew it was just one mile from his home; so here he alighted from the coach, and, leaving his luggage with the man who kept the gate, he walked gently on his way. the day was closing, the labourers were returning from the field, and hubert looked earnestly into the face of many he met, to see if he could recognize any of them. he did not in his heart quite wish to be known, but the incentive to find some friend of other years was powerful, and there was a slight hope for a familiar face; he, however, met no one that he knew, so he turned aside into a shady lane. hubert knew the place well; often in his boyish days that lane had been his play-place--it was his favourite haunt; and there now he sat down upon the same old grey stone, round which so many memories of the past still hovered. from that large stone seat nearly every house in the village could be seen, and there in the valley it lay, in all the same calm beauty in which it had often risen before his view as he lay down beneath the sultry skies of india; there, too, was the cottage, with its white walls, over which the ivy still roamed at will--the same garden, not a path or tree seemed changed; there was the same white-painted gate, near which his family stood when he said the last good bye to them; everything, indeed, looked the same--there appeared no change, save that which his heart led him to expect; and his coat felt tighter than usual across his chest as he looked down from the hill upon his early home. he knew the way well--he saw the narrow pathway that would lead him out against the gate of his father's house, and yet he had not courage to go there. night drew on, and still hubert sat upon the stone; many persons passed him, and more than one gazed earnestly at him, for his dress was not familiar to them; and he heard them whisper as they passed, "who is he?" a few, more curious than the others, returned to take another look at him, but he was gone. "i am a coward," he had whispered to himself, and in the closing shadow of the night had trodden the narrow pathway, and reached the white gate of his home. the walk down the hill-side had wearied him, and he stayed a moment to rest upon his staff before he entered. he may have stayed longer than he intended, for an aged man, leaning also upon a staff, startled him by saying-- "you appear tired, sir; pray, have you far to go?" "not far; i hope to lodge in the village to-night. does mrs. bird keep the white swan now?" "mrs. bird? nay, she's in yonder churchyard; it's many a year since she died. you may have been here before, but it must be long since." "very long," said hubert, with a sigh. "it is more than twenty years. since then i have been fighting in the wars in india. sir, i am a soldier." "a soldier!" said the old man. "ah! and from india--come in and rest a bit. from india, did you say? i once had a son there--come in, talk with me, if only for an hour. it may be that i may hear something of my boy. he went away nearly twenty-four years ago, and i never heard from him afterwards. sometimes i think he is dead, and then sometimes i don't. the neighbours feel sure he is dead, but sometimes i have an idea that i shall yet hear from him--i scarcely dare to hope it, though. come, soldier, don't stand here, the evening is cold: walk up to the house; my little richard will know where you can lodge for the night. he knows every one in the village." without uttering a single word, hubert followed the old man. richard saw them coming, and, at his grandfather's bidding, drew another chair to the fire for the stranger. the old man changed his shoes, and then, putting his feet upon a stool before the fire, turned his face to hubert, as he said-- "there was a time when the very name of a soldier was hateful to me, but circumstances change one. i had a care for all my lads, but for that one that went into the army i had the most care, and it was better, perhaps, that he should be taken from me. for more than twenty years, though, i refused to be comforted for his loss, but i now do feel that it was god's will, for that boy was our eldest, and we thought a deal too much of him until he rebelled against us. he often stood between us and our maker--i mean he had our first and best thoughts. it will not do, soldier, for the heart to worship more than one, and that one must be god. our poor lad, god forgive him! paid us ill for our care--he was ungrateful--he forgot us. bitterly, indeed, we felt the truth of the proverb, that 'sharper than a serpent's tooth is an unthankful child,'" and the old man brushed away a tear; then, looking into the stranger's face, he added, "did you ever hear of a hubert goodwin in india?" "hubert goodwin?" repeated hubert, with a husky voice. "goodwin?--but why should you think your son is dead, or that he has forgotten you? he may have written, or something may have prevented him. his letters may have been lost, or a thousand things happened, and he may have regretted the silence as much as you have." "is it possible," replied the old man, much excited, "that my poor lad ever thought i had forgotten him?" and he bowed his whitened head. before this little scene was half finished, the unworthiness of the part he was playing smote hubert's heart; he had never intended offering any excuse for his past misconduct, and he felt so self-convicted at the sight of the grief he had so unwittingly caused, that, raising up the old man's head, he said, with deep emotion, "no, father! father, i had forgotten--not you." "what, hubert!" cried the old man, pushing him back, and wildly gazing at him. "hubert! my hubert! no!" then he laughed, and then, pointing upward, he added: "perhaps he's up in heaven with the others, poor lad. i'll tell him there that i never forgot him: poor lad, he'll forgive me; i never forgot him." while the old man was speaking, young richard whispered something to hubert, who immediately moved behind his father's high-backed chair. "grandfather, dear," said the boy, as he kissed his cheek, "why do you cry?" "i don't know, boy. oh, yes, just some thoughts of your uncle hubert! but--" and he stared about, "where is the soldier? where is he, richard? was i dreaming? was it hubert?--has he returned?--where, where is he? fetch him, richard." "i'm here, father;" and hubert, as well as he was able, knelt before the old man. "oh, hubert!" were the only words that were uttered, for the recognition in one moment was complete; long, very long, the old man wept upon the bosom of his son, and hubert wept too; young richard cried, perhaps because his dear old grandfather did; but martha, the faithful servant of forty years, knew all the sorrows of her good old master--knew, too, all about the wandering sheep that had come home. she remembered when he was a little lamb in the fold, and she mingled the overflowings of her heart with the others; then she went and closed all the casement shutters, for they wished to have the joy of that first meeting to themselves. the prodigal had indeed returned, but friends and neighbours must not come and make merry yet--the fatted calf must not be killed till to-morrow. no one intruded upon the scenes of hubert's home on the evening of his return. the joy of once again seeing him--the answer to so many prayers--came as a new link in the chain of the old man's existence; he would have no supplication, no confession from his erring son: it was enough that the wanderer had returned; and it was _more_ than enough; it was a joy that he had often prayed for, though his hope of knowing it had long since died, that hubert might become a child of god. poor old man! how tenderly and lovingly he strained his long-lost son to his bosom! and the most severe reproofs, denied forgiveness, or the bitterest reproaches, would not have been so hard for hubert to endure as the tender affection of his deeply-injured father. night closed around, and the old man sat later by the fireside than he had done for years, for much of life's vigour had returned with his hopes and joy; he breathed the evening prayers with a deeper fervour; he joined in the evening hymn with a voice less tremulous than the others, and he walked without his staff to his bed. poor bereaved heart! nearly all had been taken from him; none save the little orphan grandson had been left for him to love; the waters of affliction had rolled deeply over his head; but the heart, consecrated to heaven, had learnt to bow meekly to the rod, and now the most bitter cup of his life had been filled with joy. "thy will be done," was the old man's closing prayer, as he lay down upon his pillow that night, and there was a holy calmness upon his brow, for peace and gratitude filled his heart. different, indeed, were the feelings hubert endured; and, as he shut himself in his bed-room--the bed-room of his boyhood--there was a deep struggle in his heart. more vividly than ever came the sins of his past life before him, and great indeed was the remorse he felt for the long years of woe he had caused. how he longed to tell all his repentance to his father! but the old man had forgiven him without: it would not, however, wipe away the sin he had committed; and the remembrance was like an inward fire--burning and burning continually. there was one, however, who _would_ listen to his woe; and hubert, on bended knee, poured it out from his swelling heart; no eloquence, no effort was needed; and as the hours of that night of deep repentance passed on, hubert drew nearer and nearer to his father in heaven, and the chastened heart became lightened; then he sank to sleep as calmly as his father had done. chapter xii. memories of childish days. i stand on the brink of a river, the river of life to me, where the billows of memory quiver, and rise and fall like the sea. i read in their tremulous motion the records of many a year, and like voices that come from the ocean are the muffled words i hear.--anon. a bright morning beamed upon hubert as he awoke from his slumber in his childhood's home. he looked round the room; somehow there were many things in it that he could recollect. there was the dark oak chest, with curious figures carved upon the front, which had often been a source of terror to him in early days, because on one occasion he was told that they were the likenesses of certain naughty boys, whose remains he verily believed were within that black chest, and though for many years he had forgotten all about it, the story, and the nurse who told it, came all back fresh into his memory. then there was the old-fashioned furniture upon the bed. "why!" and he looked at it again, "it is the same, the very same that covered me when last i slept here." and that large arm-chair behind the door, he knew _that_; he remembered that it was taken up there when his grandfather died, and he also remembered that it was where he always put his clothes when he went to bed. many other things there were that he remembered: very little, indeed, seemed changed; and, as he looked round, his eyes lighted upon a stick, a bow, and a kite, tied together, hanging on the wall. he arose from his bed, and began to dress himself, scanning as he did so the various objects in his room. presently he saw a small picture over the mantel-shelf, and went to look at it. he started back--it was intended for himself. whether it had been a good likeness he was not able to judge, but it represented him as a young soldier just going from home, and beneath it was written, "our hubert." it had been drawn from memory, and placed there in remembrance of the lost one. beneath it, on the mantel-shelf, was a little box, and hubert raised the lid. something more! yes, something more. in that box lay a pair of slippers; they were little ones--a child of eight years old might have worn them; and hubert, as he was just closing the lid, saw written inside it, "our hubert's." "mine, mine!" he said, as he took them out. "not mine!" but then some flash of memory lighted up the past, and he thought he could remember when they were his. over these little slippers the soldier sat down and wept; for the truth had suddenly come to him, and he pictured his parents, gathering up every little thing that he had owned, remembering all about him, except that he had gone away and forgotten them; placing from the heart upon canvas the features of the rebellious one, and loving him fondly to the last. perhaps over these little slippers they had shed many a tear; since they had covered the little feet, those feet had gone astray. what a dear relic they were of the past! how they reminded him of a time when he was pure and innocent! and he said, as he brushed away the tears from his cheeks-- "oh! if i had only died then, i should have caused no sorrow, nor felt any, but been in heaven with the angels." "yes, hubert, you would have caused sorrow," some spirit near him might have whispered; "first-born of that dwelling, they could not spare thee. he who gave thee as a blessing at the first, means thee to be a blessing still." hubert replaced the slippers, and went downstairs to meet his father. the old man was there first. years had passed since he had risen so early; but new life seemed to have been given to him; and, as he met his long-lost son at the door, he forgot that he was no longer the little child of his love; he forgot, too, all the sorrow he had been to him; forgot the long years he had mourned him; and clasped him fondly to his heart. "hubert," said his father, "it is thirty-nine years this very day since i received you, my first-born child; a second time you have been born to me, and we shall do well to rejoice. your mother, dear sainted one, i would that she were here with us; but we will not wish her back--she is happier in heaven, and we will not sorrow because she's gone; it would seem like reproaching that good god who, in his mercy, has restored you to me. yes, boy, i know well that she bitterly wept your loss--your absence, i mean; but she wept the death of other dear ones, and god took her to them: we shall, i hope, join them soon. heaven bless you!" it was a happy day, sanctified by a holy joy. many friends, including the good minister of the parish, who, thirty-nine years before, received hubert at the font, and prayed to heaven to bless him, brought their meed of welcome to the wanderer, and that faithful servant of his heavenly master spoke comfort to his aged fellow-pilgrim's heart. "master goodwin," he said, "i told you, years ago, that if ye pray and do indeed believe, that ye shall receive--it shall be as ye ask; it is the prayer without faith that wins no blessing. god does not give us all we ask, because we are sinning creatures, and know not what we ask; but then, how many of us pray for things that we never want! and if we had only ourselves to judge what is best for us, instead of receiving a blessing, we should often receive a curse. when the heart asks god to teach it to pray, and then asks a blessing, believing that if it is god's will that prayer will be granted, depend upon that, that prayer _is_ answered; if the actual thing is not given, the heart receives something in another way--at any rate, it _does_ get a blessing. how many years you have prayed for that son, and how many times you murmured, and thought god had forgotten! but he never forgets; he has remembered all your grief, and answered, what prayer? why, the prayer of faith. if you look back you will find that it is only of late years that you have borne your sorrows without murmuring; they have been heavy, we know; yet, for how many years the gilding of your prayers was tarnished by the breath of sorrowful repining? and perhaps it was when your heart could really say 'thy will be done,' that the cloud of your troubles began to disperse, and the blessing was given. oh that men would always praise the lord for his goodness! how well he knows all our need! he knows when to smite and when to heal, and they who continue faithful unto death, to them shall that mysterious providence be more fully revealed. if much sorrow has been your portion, so has much blessing. it is better to have saints in heaven than rebellious children on earth: and god has been very gracious to you." "he has, indeed," said hubert's father. "i feel it more truly now." and as he grasped the faithful pastor's hand, he said, "he gave you to this parish as one of my blessings, and your prayers have perhaps helped to restore me my son. pray with us now, for our joy may be too great." they knelt: a deep and earnest prayer fell from the pastor's lips upon the stillness of the hour, and the tear upon the cheek told its power on the heart. the prayer was over, and the good man, bidding them adieu for the present, left them to rejoice over the once lost one, while he, in the spirit of his mission, withdrew himself from the world, and thanked god for having brought back the wandering sheep. hubert's return had filled his father with such joy that he would scarcely tell him anything about the family, so anxious was he to hear all about himself; and it was some time after his arrival before he heard of all the bereavement of that household. all gone! all whom he had left in the beauty and strength of youth, when he went out to india, had been swept to the tomb; not one left round that desolate hearth, except the little orphan richard, now nine years old, the only child of his second brother, who, with his young wife, had sunk into an early grave. one by one the hand of death had taken them from the fireside, and it was now his turn to mourn them. he saw plainly now how it was that his father had received him so fondly. poor old man! his home had been sadly lonely; the household gods had been all broken, and his aged heart nearly so. hubert looked at his father as he told the history of each one as they had departed, and conscience told him that there was before him a braver warrior than he had ever seen before--one who had fought a stern battle, and had ever been in the thickest of the fight. hubert's heart beat; he felt that he had added heavily to the burden and heat of his father's day, and, falling upon his knee before his parent, he cried, as his hands covered his face, "oh, father, forgive me!" "forgive you! oh, hubert, did i forget to say i had forgiven you long ago? there is nothing now to forgive, but i bless you for coming home. let the past be the past. bless you for coming home to me! god is good; he gave, he has a right to take, but he has given you to me again." but the truth seemed to shine upon the old man's mind, and putting his arm round hubert's neck, he said-- "ah! well, it's all forgiven; you might have done other than you have done, perhaps; but never mind;" and he wept tears of joy upon the bosom of his son. this little rebuke from hubert's father was more welcome than the caresses he received, and hubert opened his heart upon it, and began to tell his father of things which had befallen him in india; hitherto he had seldom spoken, except in answer to his father's many questions, for there was a weight of remorse in his bosom which nothing yet had removed; but now he was assured of his father's forgiveness, and a smile lighted up his hitherto sad face, as they sat round the fire telling many a story of his distant home; his father was delighted, and young richard drew his little chair beside his veteran uncle, to listen also. many a week passed by; hubert had ever something to tell his father, but of all the history of the past, or of all the fame he had won, nothing was so dear to the old man's heart as the "torn bible;" he made hubert tell again and again all about it, its long neglect, and its abuse. the field of battle, the capture, and the rescue from the indians, and even the dreadful night in the jungle, when hubert's life-blood was draining from his wounds, were nothing compared with the strong will broken, the heart subdued, and the torn, despised bible giving back a new and better life to the prodigal. oh, how the old man loved to dwell upon that! many prayers from the long since silent heart had been answered then, and he ever repeated in hubert's ear the words, "oh, yes, she knew all about it, for she was one of the angels in heaven that rejoiced when you repented." hubert grew happier in the society of his father; and though at times a kind of reflection on his past life would cast a sort of thoughtful sadness over his brow, yet his health daily improved, and his heart became more and more attuned to the will of god. chapter xiii. at rest. gales from heaven, if so he will, sweeter melodies can wake on the lonely mountain rill than the meeting waters make. who hath the father and the son, may be left, but not alone.--keble. years rolled away. hubert's history in the village became almost a thing of the past; the young, who had paid a sort of homage to him for his warrior fame, had almost forgotten it, and had grown up to reverence him for his goodness; and the aged, as he sat by many a dying bed, blessed him with their latest breath. ever, day by day, did hubert take his staff and go forth to comfort some less favoured brother; and the "torn bible"--guide of his present life--accusing, yet dear relic of his past, soothed many a departing spirit, and helped to ripen his own for eternity. since hubert's reunion with his father, he had found many new friends, but he did not forget his old ones: to those in india he occasionally wrote, and occasionally received letters; still, it was a source of great regret to him that he did not hear anything of the companion of his voyage, with whom he parted off lisbon. while the first year after his return home was passing, he scarcely thought anything of not hearing from him; but the second year, and third, and now the fifth had come, without tidings of his friend, and, with a pang of deep and silent regret, he began to conclude that he had died; though notwithstanding this thought, there was a lingering hope that his friend would yet come; and it was sometimes when his heart felt sad, that the wish for his friend became strong; perhaps upon the wish grew the hope; and then hubert would take his staff and wander up the hill-side, out to the little white toll-gate, and then walk a mile or two down the broad road that led to the south. there was a rude seat by the roadside, formed of gnarled and moss-grown branches intermixed with stones; beside it was a huge stone trough, which a kindly mountain stream kept ever filled with water; over it, shading it from the sun, branched a stately oak; and this spot was a resting-place for man and beast. hubert often walked there, sat down and rested beneath the tree, and looked with longing eyes down the road; still his friend came not, and he as often returned sadder than he went. how little he thought that his father had trodden that same road with a heavy heart for many a year, in the fond hope of meeting him, though there was but little probability in either instance that the hope would be realized! one moment's reflection would have told the heart so, but the heart under such circumstances seems unwilling to reflect--or even if it does, the effect is transitory, and the heart hopes on again against hope; and it is a blessed thing, this hope--for how often in the dark hour it throws a ray of light upon the darkness that is felt, and keeps a soul from despair! hubert had been six years at home, and for many months had not been along the road where he was wont to go; indeed, he had sighed over the memory of his friend, and at last had ceased to expect him; but now an unexpected joy had befallen him, for mr. collinton was coming. hubert was delighted, and he read the letter many times over; his father was delighted too, for hubert had confided to that parent, whom he now so loved and honoured, all his secret about the stranger, and the old man partook of the longing to see the friend, a portion of whose life had been so strangely linked with that of his son. hubert had often wondered how it was that the letter which he had written to his friend, telling him of his safe arrival at home, had not been answered; but it appeared that that letter had been duly received, and that mr. collinton, acting upon its contents, was now, after a long delay, making his way to hulney. one morning, after rising somewhat earlier than usual, hubert took his staff, went up the hill-side, and took his way towards the seat by the roadside. it was still early, yet hubert appeared to be in haste; he passed the white toll-gate, wished good morning to the man who kept it, and stayed a moment to inquire what time the coach would pass by, and then he went on his way again until he came to the seat by the roadside, when he sat down and looked with an anxious eye for the coach coming. mr. collinton had not told him the exact day that he would come, but this was the last day of the week, and hubert felt sure that it would bring him, and he was not wrong. the coach, with its living burden, came at last, and hubert and his friend met again. "leave the luggage at my house," said hubert to the coachman, whom he now well knew, and then he and his friend sat down beneath the shady tree. how glad they were to meet again! and then hubert soon told him that he was none other than the soldier lad who in years gone by had won his heart. the stranger listened with astonishment; gazed at him with a deeper earnestness than ever, and tears rushed to his eyes as he grasped his hands. and why did he feel so? there was nothing now in the face of that war-worn soldier which reminded him of the dear one he had buried, nothing now to make him feel, as he once said he had felt, that some of his love for the dead seemed to centre in him; and yet he did love him, and it was to find him again that he had given up the world, and taken his way to that little northern village; for he had felt, ever since he had parted with hubert off lisbon, all the emptiness of life without pure religion. he had felt a void in his heart that nothing around him could fill; and though he tarried longer upon the continent than he had intended, he ever thought of hubert; and as he told him, as they sat together by the roadside, it was his memory and the hope of seeing him again that had blessed his life, and made him long to join him, that they might read and study god's word. "why have you been so long in coming?" asked hubert. "i thought, at most, your absence would be but one year; but when it was two, then three, and now nearly six, i gave you up." "and thought me dead, perhaps?" "yes, sometimes i thought it might be so, for i could not think you had forgotten." "no, no, you are right there; i never could forget: but travelling in portugal and spain, those countries full of such deep interest, i know i tarried; but when i was uneasy here in my heart, and my thoughts would turn nowhere but to you, i prepared to make my way to you. sometimes an opportunity lost threw off my plans; sometimes the desponding mood i had fallen into was suddenly dispersed by some event; and so i wandered up and down, amongst the many beauties and enchantments of spain--not forgetting you, my friend, but tempting providence by deferring to come to you. oh! it was a sin, and i felt it; but i hadn't you there, nor any one to say the words you might have said. and so i lingered; but i gave in at last. i was not happy there; and it has struck me many a time that there is many a man in this world whose life has been a continuous fluctuation between right and wrong--knowing what was right, being anxious to do what was right, and yet ever doing wrong: how is it?" "my friend," said hubert, putting his hand upon the stranger's knee, "the bible says that the heart of man is inclined to do evil; and is it not so? still, there is that in man which makes him love to do good--do right, i mean; and, as far as i can judge, man generally makes an effort to do so. but here is the mistake: he too often has a false idea of what _is_ right, and follows his own notions of right and wrong, rather than the standard laid down in god's word. his inclination to do evil makes him too often try to make out that evil to be good; and so he goes on, spending a whole life in error, while all the time he fancies he is perfectly right. when a man's heart is not right with god, he must ever be going wrong; but, somehow, we don't like to be told it--i know i did not. think of the years i spent in india in all kinds of sin, and all the time i wished the world to think well of me, and tried to persuade myself that i was perfectly right. but what a life it was! how many things occurred to tell me that i was wrong! but i would not hear, and continued a wicked course, trying to please man, and caring nothing whatever about god. i was worse than the heathen." "how? you had the bible with you in india." "i had," replied hubert, "and therefore i was the more guilty and responsible for the life i led there. i cannot look upon man without the bible as i do upon him with: it is the _only_ source from which we can draw a perfect rule of life; and if man has it not, how can he know? whether he reads it or not is another matter: if he have it at all he is responsible." "ah!" said the stranger, "i shall do now; we can talk these matters over together; somehow, i know all this, but yet i cannot get on with it alone. how is your father? is he still living?" "yes, and will be glad to see you; i have told him all we know of each other, and he is waiting now for our coming; for, like myself, he thought you would be here to-day." as hubert finished speaking, he and his friend rose from his seat and walked to the village; and as they walked along hubert told him of the devastation that death had caused in his home, and begged him, as he was the last of his family, to make his dwelling with them. it was a goodly welcome that met the stranger at hubert's home; and there was so much peace and happiness, sanctified by that religion which he longed for, that he soon became as one of the family; and by paying a yearly visit to the grave at dunkeld, where he had buried his loved ones, he lived for ten years with hubert and his father; and when he died, they mourned the loss of a christian and a friend, and buried him as he had wished in the grave of his wife and son. five years more were meted out to hubert's father, and then they laid him with the dear ones gone before, and carved a simple record upon the stone that covered the grave where he and his wife lay. "they sleep in jesus," was all that hubert told the world of them, and very soon the grass and flowers covered that fond testimony. between hubert and dr. martin, in india, a warm friendship continued for many years; it ever cheered hubert's heart to hear from his distant friend, for he owed him much, and heard from him gladly; but one day, after a longer silence than usual, there came a letter written by a stranger's hand, bearing the unwelcome news that the good man was gone. he had spent a long life of usefulness, and, in the land which had always been the field of his labour, he lay down and died. it was not his lot to hang up his weapons of warfare, and rest upon the laurels he had won; his master was the king of kings, in whose cause he spent all his life. how could he rest? there was no reward on earth a sufficient recompense for his labours; and though his body now rests in an unknown distant tomb, yet, far away in the city of the great king, he has been crowned with an immortal diadem. how many quiet unobtrusive christians there are, of whom the world knows nothing, who live to reclaim and guide aright their weak and sinning brethren, and though they live and appear to die unknown, they give to many a dying bed peace, when there would be no peace; and they are often the ten--ay, the five--that save the city. hubert was sad at the news of his friend's death, but he knew where he should meet him again, and not as he felt when he remembered the young sinning companion of his youth, the never-forgotten harris; with a grateful thankful heart he could think of him in heaven, and hope to meet him there. once more let us turn to hubert's home. young richard, dear good boy, when he grew to manhood, married the playfellow of his childhood, the orphan granddaughter of the village pastor, and they lived in the old house with hubert; and when, at last, the veteran's career was ended, they followed him with many tears to the old churchyard, and richard had that seventh white stone carved to his memory. it is but a simple unemblazoned record of one departed, yet travellers say it is a strange device, that torn ill-used book, and ever and anon some one asks its meaning. our story is ended, and we would ask the reader to remember that hubert's life is not a fiction. and shouldst thou ever wander to that old churchyard, sit down amidst its shadows, amongst its silent dead; perchance a fitful vision of thine own life may flit past thee, some whisper may re-echo a mother's prayer or a father's counsel, and it may not be altogether unprofitable to thee to remember the history of hubert and "the torn bible." printed by william clowes and sons, limited, london and beccles. a selected list of new and recent publications from messrs. frederick warne & co.'s catalogue. new illustrated books for boys. the orchid seekers. a story of adventure in borneo. by ashmore russan and fredk. boyle. with sixteen original illustrations by alfred pearse and m.f. hartley. in large crown vo, cloth gilt, bevelled boards, price s. "boys will be grateful to the joint authors.... no reader can complain of lack of interest or sensation in the narrative...."--_daily telegraph._ "a capital story of adventure, such as would delight most boys, and gratify many of their elders.... written with great spirit. the authors are to be congratulated on producing a story full of thrilling incident without violating probabilities."--_saturday review._ the riders; or, through forest and savannah with the "red cockades." by ashmore russan and fredk. boyle. with twenty-six original illustrations by alfred pearse. in large crown vo, cloth gilt, bevelled boards, price s. "most daring and attractive story of travel, peril, and adventure. the book is of higher literary class than many of its rivals, and as a present for a youth of mature age cannot well be beaten."--_daily telegraph._ young tom bowling. a story of the boys of the british navy. by j.c. hutcheson. fully illustrated by j.b. greene. in large crown vo, cloth gilt, bevelled boards, price s. "it is a spirited and adventurous tale about several brave boys of the british navy, who, besides getting through a multitude of monkey tricks aboard a man-of-war, see some 'sarvice' in administering to the arab slave-traders that correction which these inhuman monsters so richly deserve. the book has a number of excellent pictures."--_scotsman._ "as a sea-yarn, with plenty of rollicking fun, exciting adventure, and play of varied character, it should commend itself to all boy-readers. mr. hutcheson has skilfully contrived to give as a background to the story a very true and vivid and convincing description of the duties, occupations, and routine work of the boys of the british navy, and it is this element in the book which gives it an importance beyond that of a mere story of adventure."--_daily mail._ _chandos house, bedford street, strand, london_ new illustrated books for boys. the boys of fairmead. by m.c. rowsell. with original illustrations by chris hammond. in large crown vo, cloth gilt, bev. boards, price s. d. "it is always a pleasure to take up a book by miss rowsell, whether she writes for juveniles or adults, whether her pen be employed in history, biography, or fiction, she invariably shows the cultured mind and the polished diction of the writer, thinker and gentlewoman. this book has adventure, and it has to a marked degree humour. essentially a book for boys, their elders will read it with pleasure."--_public opinion._ the fortunes of claude. by edgar pickering. illustrated by lancelot speed. in large crown vo, cloth gilt, price s. d. this volume narrates the adventures of claude, a nameless orphan, who finds not only his name, but fortune and relations, whilst serving in the army of "bonnie prince charlie." he takes part in the battle of culloden, his escape therefrom and subsequent adventures will be read with breathless interest by every boy who is the fortunate possessor of this book. the illustrations by mr. speed add much to the interest of the story. a chase round the world. by robert overton. illustrated by a. monro. in large crown vo, cloth gilt, price s. d. the boy hero in this tale is occupied throughout in an honourable endeavour to clear his father's name from the shadow of suspicion which rests upon it, and to recover a stolen treasure. how he succeeds in his quest, which carries him round the world and leads to many strange adventures we leave to the readers of the story to find out. suffice it to say that the plot is admirably worked out, and there is not a dull page from cover to cover. _chandos house, bedford street, strand, london_ new illustrated books for boys. in quest of sheba's treasure. a perilous adventure by sea and land. by s. walkey. illustrated by g. hutchinson. in large crown vo, cloth gilt, bevelled boards, price s. d. "a rousing book of adventure is 'in quest of sheba's treasure,' by s. walkey, a tale of the days of nelson (of whom, however, we get but a glimpse) and of some bold devon lads who went off to the bedouin desert in quest of the treasure of the queen of sheba, to which they had obtained a clue. and after many perils and breathless escapes they find it."--_glasgow herald._ lost in african jungles. by frederick whishaw. with four original illustrations by j.b. greene. in large crown vo, cloth gilt, bevelled boards, price s. d. "'lost in african jungles' transports us by the magic wand of fred. whishaw to the other side of the world, where plenty of perils from men and beasts abound. apart from being an excellent entertainment in itself, the book will serve to illustrate the difficulties encountered by british colonists in the conquest of lobengula."--_birmingham gazette._ the fur traders of the west; or, adventures among the redskins. by e.r. suffling. with numerous illustrations by andriolli and lancelot speed. in large crown vo, cloth gilt, bevelled boards, price s. d. "the perilous but successful career of the cornish family who settled in the wild oregon country to trade for skins with the indians is depicted with unflagging spirit, and much varied information is skilfully mingled with the incidents of the story."--_manchester guardian._ _chandos house, bedford street, strand, london_ new illustrated books for girls. mona st. claire. by annie e. armstrong. with six illustrations by g.d. hammond, r.i. in large crown vo, cloth gilt, bevelled boards, price s. d. "one is always glad to welcome literature thoroughly pure in its tone, and such as youth can read with enjoyment. this is happily the case with the present volume, which contains within its dainty covers a wholesome and withal a stirring story."--_lloyd's news._ my ladies three. by annie e. armstrong. with six illustrations by g.d. hammond, r.i. in large crown vo, cloth gilt, bevelled boards, price s. d. "this is a pretty gentle tale of a young girl's romance in the days which we connect with memories of queen anne, of johnson and goldsmith, of gold-laced waistcoats and three-cornered hats. the story is charming in its detail, for its fresh dainty picturing of the old-fashioned country life and of the ways and manners of the country gentlefolk of a by-gone time."--_school board chronicle._ my friend anne. by jessie armstrong. with six illustrations by g.d. hammond, r.i. in large crown vo, cloth gilt, bevelled boards, price s. d. a well-written tale of the days of anne boleyn, and the court of henry viii., where for the most part the scene is laid, is depicted with accuracy, and yet at the same time with an interest which cannot fail to please the most critical of readers. _chandos house, bedford street, strand, london_ new illustrated fairy tales. in large crown vo, art linen, gilt top, or cloth gilt, bevelled boards, price s. d. each. the one-eyed griffin, and other fairy tales. a series of original stories by herbert e. inman. with numerous illustrations by e.a. mason. "this book contains several stories in addition to 'the one-eyed griffin,' which is the chief item among them. this narrative is that of a little boy who enters into the realms of fabulous monsters, where he encounters the giants can't, won't, and don't care, into whose terrible clutches has fallen the lady of his heart. with the aid of the one-eyed griffin he succeeds in overcoming them, and the story succeeds, in allegorical fashion, to detail the difficulties which befall the diminutive hero. the illustrations are singularly happy in their delineation of the subject, and will win the affections of the youthful circle for whose benefit the volume has been produced."--_daily telegraph._ icelandic fairy tales. by mrs. a.w. hall. with twenty-six original illustrations from drawings by e.a. mason. "a young reader could scarcely have a more promising introduction to the literature of the sagas. sigurd and frithjof and ingeborg are not indeed such imposing creatures as they are in the sterner tales; but they are always people whom every child ought to know, and the giants are giants of the proper sort."--_the scotsman._ the owl king, and other fairy stories. a series of original tales by herbert e. inman. with numerous illustrations by e.a. mason. "so great is the cry among the little people for a fresh story--one they have not heard before--that it is a relief to be able with 'the owl king' to satisfy for awhile their seemingly insatiable appetite. 'the owl king' will soon, however, become established among the old-time favourites, for a good story once told travels with wonderful swiftness."--_family circle._ _chandos house, bedford street, strand, london_ new illustrated fairy tales. in large crown vo, art linen, gilt top, or cloth gilt, bevelled boards, price s. d. each. grimms' fairy tales and household stories. translated by mrs. h.b. paull and mr. l.a. wheatley. with numerous original illustrations and coloured plates. grimms' goblins and wonder tales. translated by mrs. h.b. paull and mr. l.a. wheatley. with numerous original illustrations and coloured plates. these two volumes of famous stories, collected by the brothers grimm in the fertile and imaginative field of their native land, have an ever-growing number of readers, and are assured a hearty welcome from all who delight in finding really high-class children's literature, issued in a thoroughly attractive and up-to-date style. andersen's fairy tales. translated by mrs. h.b. paull. with numerous original illustrations and coloured plates. andersen's tales for the young. translated by mrs. h.b. paull. with numerous original illustrations and coloured plates. amongst all the various editions of andersen's popular tales, none will be found to surpass these editions for fidelity in translation, fulness of text, and excellence of get-up. the tales are world-wide favourites, known to nursery-land of all nations. _chandos house, bedford street, strand, london_ new illustrated fairy tales. in large crown vo, art linen, gilt top, or cloth gilt, gilt, bevelled boards, price s. d. each. prince ubbely bubble's fairy tales, and glimpses from elf-land. by j. templeton lucas. with numerous illustrations by barnard, phiz, ellen edwards, &c. the favourite themes of childhood are here, in a series of fascinating stories, of which the first is "the perseverance of prince ubbely bubble," and amongst numerous other tales are told those of "the six goblin eggs," "tom and the ogre," "the adventures of john, the son of jack the giant killer," etc. the old, old fairy tales. edited by mrs. valentine. with numerous original illustrations and coloured plates. the well-known favourites, "puss in boots," "the white cat," "tom thumb," and others, are comprised in this collection, which embraces, as its name implies, all the oft-told tales. holme lee's fairy tales. the story of tuflongbo. with numerous original illustrations. is a narrative of the wonderful life and adventures of tuflongbo. when he grows up, he goes on a great journey, falls into the hands of giants, amongst whom his escapes are recorded, until he finally puts off his shoes and vanishes into shadowland. _chandos house, bedford street, strand, london_ _transcriber's notes:_ obvious punctuation errors repaired. variations in hyphenation have been retained. page "mame" changed to "name" ("his name honoured and respected") http://www.freeliterature.org (images generously made available by the internet archive.) the judgment books a story by e. f. benson author of "dodo" illustrated new york harper & brothers publishers [illustration: "he cut and stabbed the figure in fifty places"] chapter i the terrace to the south of penalva forest lay basking in the sunshine of an early september afternoon, and the very bees which kept passing in and out from the two hives beneath the laurel shrubbery to the right seemed going about their work with most unproverbial drowsiness. a flight of some eight steps led down from the centre of the terrace to the lawn below, where a tennis-court was marked out, and by the bottom of the steps ran a gravel-path which sloped up past the beehives to join the terrace at the far end. in the gutter by this path lay a tennis-ball, neglected and desolate. below the lawn the ground sloped quickly away in a stretch of stubbly hay-field, just shorn of its aftermath, down to a fence, which lay straggling along a line of brown seaweed-covered rocks, over which the waveless water of the estuary of the fal crept up silently at high tide. a little iron staircase, the lower steps of which, and the clasp which fastened it to the wall, were fringed with oozy, amphibious growth, communicated with the beach on one side and the field on the other. except for this clearing to the south of the house, the woods climbed up steeply from almost the water's edge to the back of a broad cornish moor, all purple and gold with gorse and heather, and resonant with bees. irresponsible drowsiness seemed the key-note of the scene. at a corner of the lawn, lying full length on a wicker sofa beneath the shade of the trees, lay jack armitage, also irresponsibly drowsy. he would have said he was meditating. being an artist, he conceded to himself the right to meditate as often and as long as he pleased, but just now his meditations were entirely confined to vague thoughts that it was tea-time; and that, on the whole, he would not have another pipe; so he thrust his hands into his coat-pockets and only thought about tea. perhaps the familiar and still warm bowl of his favorite brierwood was responsible for his change of intention; in any case, it is certain that he drew it out and began to fill it with the careful precision of those who know that the good gift of tobacco is squandered if it is bestowed aimlessly or carelessly into its censer. he had been staying with frank trevor, the owner of this delightful place, for nearly a month, and he had sketched and talked art, in which he disagreed with his host on every question admitting two opinions--and these are legion--all day and a considerable part of the night. frank, who was even more orthodox than himself on the subject of meditation, had finished, some two months before, the portrait at which he had been working; and, as his habit was, had worked much too hard while he was at it, had knocked himself up, and for the last eight weeks had spent his time in sitting in the sun serene and idle. jack was leaving next day, and had passed the morning in the woods finishing a charming sketch of the estuary seen through a foreground of trees. at lunch frank had said he was going to sit in the garden till tea-time, after which they were going on the river; but he had not appeared, and jack for the last hour or two had been intermittently wondering what he was doing. at this moment frank was sitting in a low chair in his studio doing nothing. but he had been having a rather emotional afternoon all by himself, seeing little private ghosts of his own, and he looked excited and troubled. in his idle intervals he always kept the door of his studio locked, and neither went in himself nor allowed any one else to. but this afternoon he had wanted a book which he thought might be there, and before he found it he had found something else which had raised all the ghosts of his decameron, and had indirectly made him resolve to begin work again at once. in his search he had taken down from the shelves a book he had not touched for some years, and out of its pages there slipped a torn yellow programme of a concert at one of the café chantants in paris. it went on bowing and fluttering in its fall; and as he picked it up and looked at it for a moment idly the ghosts began to rise. there was one ghost in particular which, like moses' rod, soon swallowed up all the other ghosts. she had been to that concert with him--she had been to other concerts with him; and in another moment he had crumpled up the momentous little yellow programme and flung it into the grate. he walked up and down the room for a minute or two, for the ghost was still visible, and then, by a very natural effect of reaction, he picked up the programme again, smoothed it out, and put it back on the table. what a hot, stifling night it had been! paris lay gasping and choking as in a vapor-bath. they had soon left the concert, and walked about in the garden. even the moonlight seemed hot, and every now and then a little peevish wind ruffled the tree-tops, and then grabbed at the earth below, raising a cloud of stinging dust--a horrible night! he had left paris next day for a holiday, and had spent a month at new quay, on the north coast of cornwall. how restful and delicious it was! it seemed the solution of all difficulties to pass quiet, uneventful days in that little backwater of life, away from towns and jostling crowds; above all, away from paris--beautiful, terrible paris! he lived a good deal with the artist set there, charming and intelligent folk, who prattled innocently of sunsets and foregrounds, and led a simple, healthy life. he had fallen in love with simple, healthy lives; he began to hate the thought of the streets and the gas and the glitter of paris. he spent long days on the shore listening to the low murmur of the sound-quenched waves, and long nights with the fisher-folks on the sea, catching mackerel. in those long, still hours he could think that the sea was like some living thing, breathing slowly and steadily in sleep, and he a child leaning on her breast, safe in her care, alone with the great tender mother of mankind. one morning--how well he remembered it!--after a night on the sea, he had landed a mile or so from the village, and had walked along the shore alone as the dawn was breaking, and, coming round a little jutting promontory of rock, he had found two or three fishermen who had just pulled their net to land, naked but for a cloth round the waist, gathered round a little fire they had made on the beach, where they had broiled a few of their haul; and as he paused and spoke to them, for they were old friends, one offered him a piece of broiled fish, and another, who had not been out, but had helped them to bring in the net, had brought down some bread and honey-comb, and he ate the fish and honey-comb on the shore of the sea as day broke.... and it was on that same morning he first met margery his wife. she had come with some friends of his from london by the night train, and they were all going down to the bathing-machine, after their night's journey, when frank arrived at the village. he had known at once that the world only held one woman for him. their days of courtship were few. within three weeks of the time they had met frank had proposed to her and been accepted. one afternoon, with the fine, bold honesty of love, he had told her that he had led such a life as other men lead, that his record was not stainless, and that she ought to know before she bound up her life with him. but margery had stopped him. she had said she did not wish to know; that she loved him, and was not that enough? but frank still felt that she had better know; if ghosts were to rise between them it was less startling if she knew what ghosts to expect. but she had started as if in pain, and said: "ah, don't, frank; you hurt me when you talk like that. it is dead and past. ah, i knew that. well, then, bury it--let us bury it together." and he obeyed her, and buried it. he thought over all this as he sat with the crumpled programme in his hand. was it ever possible to bury a thing entirely? had not everything which we thought dead a terrible faculty of raising itself at most unexpected moments? a scrap of paper--a few words in a printed book--these could be the last trump for a buried sin, and it would rise. he got up off the sofa--these were ugly thoughts--and went on looking for the book he had come to find. ah, there it was in its paper cover--_dr. jekyll and mr. hyde_. he had bought it on his way down from london, but had not yet looked at it. he opened it and glanced at a few pages; and then, sitting down where he had been before, read the whole book straight through. he was strangely excited and wrought upon by it, and his mind was beginning to grope in the darkness after an idea. yes, surely, this was the essence of portrait-painting: not to present a man as he was at a particular moment, in one particular part, with the emblem of one particular pursuit by him--an artist with his canvas, a sculptor with his clay--but the whole man, his jekyll and his hyde together in one picture. then in a moment his mind, as it were, found the handle of the door for which it had been groping in darkness, and flung it open, letting in the full blaze of a complete idea. there is only one human being on earth whom any artist who ever lived could paint completely. it is only a man himself who wholly knows both the side he turns to the world and the side he would hide even from himself but cannot. frank's hands trembled nervously, and his breath came and went quickly. he would paint himself as no man yet had ever painted either himself or any one else. he would put his jekyll and hyde on the canvas for men to wonder at and to be silent before. he would do what no artist had ever yet done. he thought of that room in the uffizi at florence which holds the portrait of the italian families, each painted by himself: raphael, with his young, beardless face--raphael, the painter, and no more; andrea del sarto, not the painter, but the liver. each of them had painted marvellously outside themselves--one gift, one way of love. but he would do more: he would paint himself as the husband and lover of margery, the jekyll of himself, who had known and knew the best capabilities for loving in his nature; and he would paint his hyde, the man who had lived as other men in paris--a bohemian, careless, worthless, finding this thing and that honey at the moment, but to the soul wormwood and bitterness. the wormwood should be there, and the honey; his love for his wife and his rejection and loathing of those earlier days which he had thought were dead, but which had risen and without their honey. his own face, painted by himself, should be the book out of which he should be judged; for love and lust, happiness and misery, innocence and guilt--all unite their indelible marks there, and no one can ever efface the other. then, because he felt he was on the threshold of something new, and because all men, the strongest and weakest alike, are afraid, desperately afraid, of everything which they know nothing of, he became suddenly frightened. what would this thing be? he asked himself. what would happen to himself when he had done it? would he have raised his dead permanently? would they refuse to be buried again now that he had of his own will perpetuated them in his art? and margery, what would she have to say to the ghosts she would not allow him to tell her about? but he was not a coward, and he did not mean to turn back because of this sudden spasm of fright. he would begin to-morrow; he could not help beginning at once, for, as he often told margery, when the idea was ready he had to record it; the artist's inexorable need for expression could not be gainsaid or trifled with. it must come out. frank trevor had a very mobile face, a face which his feelings played on freely as a breeze ruffling a moorland pool of water. his dark-gray eyes, set deep under their black eyebrows, were kindled and glowing with excitement. in such moments he looked strikingly handsome, though his features, taken singly, were not faultless. his mouth was too short and too full-lipped for actual beauty; but now, as he sat there, the very eagerness and vitality that came and went, as now one aspect of his idea and now another struck him, gave a fineness to every feature that made it worthy of an admiration which a more perfectly moulded face might well have failed to deserve. but there was another fear as well, a fear so fantastic that he was almost ashamed of it; but, as he thought of it, it grew upon him. he had always felt when he painted a portrait that virtue went out of him; that he put actually a part of his personality into his picture. what, then, would happen if he painted his own portrait completely? he knew his idea was fantastic and unreasonable; but the fear--a fear again of something that was new--was there, lurking in a shaded corner of his mind. but of this he could speak to margery, and margery's cool, smiling way of dealing with phantasms always had a most evaporating effect on them. of the other fear he had wished to speak to her once, but she did not wish to hear, and he wished to speak to her of it no longer. he looked at his watch and found it was nearly tea-time; he had been there over two hours, and he wondered to himself whether it had seemed more like two years or two minutes. he rose to go, but before leaving the room he took a long look round it, feeling that he was looking at it for perhaps the last time; at any rate, that it could never look the same again. "we only register a change in ourselves," he thought, "by the impression that other things make on us. if our taste changes we say that a thing we used to think beautiful is ugly. it is not so--it is the same as it always was. i cannot paint this picture without changing myself. what will the change be?" the yellow, crumpled programme and the copy of _jekyll and hyde_ lay together unregarded on the table. when we have drunk our medicine we do not concern ourselves with the medicine-bottle--unless, like the immortal mrs. pullet, we take a vague, melancholy pleasure in recalling how much medicine we have taken. but that dear lady's worst enemies could not have found a single point in common between her and frank trevor. chapter ii jack armitage, as we know, though he was aware it was tea-time, was filling his pipe. he had accomplished this to his satisfaction, and had just got it comfortably under way when mrs. trevor, also with tea in her mind, came down the steps leading from the terrace and strolled towards him. "where's frank?" she asked. "i thought he said he was going to sit about with you till tea?" "he said so," said jack; "but he went into his studio to get a book, and he has not appeared since." "well, i suppose he's in the house," she said. "in any case it's five, and we sha'n't get more than two hours on the river. so come in." jack often caught himself regretting he was not a portrait-painter when he looked at mrs. trevor. she was, he told himself, one of the beauties of all time, and her black hair, black eyes, and delicately chiselled nose had caused many young men on the slightest acquaintance to wish that she had not decided to change her maiden name to trevor. it was also noticeable that as their acquaintance became less slight their regret became proportionately keener. frank had done a portrait of her, the first that brought him prominently into notice, and, as jack thought, his best. by one of those daring experiments which in his hands seemed always to succeed, he had represented her a tall, stately figure, dressed in white, standing in front of a great chinese screen covered with writhing dragons in blue and gold, a nightmare of hideous forms in wonderful colors. it was a bold experiment, but certainly, to jack's mind, he had managed with miraculous success to bring out what was almost as characteristic of his wife's mind as her beauty was of her body, and which, for want of a better word, he called her wholesomeness. the contrast between that and the exquisite deformities behind her hit eyes, so to speak, straight in the face. but it hit fair, and it was triumphant. mrs. trevor paused on the edge of the gravel-path and picked up the lonely tennis-ball. "to think that it should have been there all the time!" she said. "how blind you are, mr. armitage!" jack rose and knocked out his pipe. "the fates are unkind," he said. "you call me in to tea just when i've lit my pipe, and then go and blame me for not finding the tennis-ball, which you told me was not worth while looking for." "i didn't know it was in the gutter," she said. "i thought it had gone into the flower-beds." "nor did i know it was in the gutter, or i should have looked for it there." margery laughed. "i wish you were stopping on longer," she said, "and not going to-morrow. surely you needn't go?" "you are too kind, but the fates are still unkind," he said. "i have already put it off a week, during which time my brother has been languishing alone at new quay." "to new quay? i didn't know you were going there. frank and i know new quay very well." frank was in the drawing-room when they went in, giving orders that the studio should be thoroughly swept out and dusted that evening. "i'm going to begin painting to-morrow," he announced, abruptly, to the others as they came in. margery turned to jack. "no more tennis for me unless you stop," she said. "have you ever been with us when frank is painting? i see nothing of him all day, and he gobbles his meals and scowls at the butler." the footman came in again with the tea-things. "and take that big looking-glass out of the spare bedroom," said frank to him, "and put it in the studio." "what do you want a looking-glass for?" asked his wife, as the man left the room. frank got up, and walked restlessly up and down. "i begin to-morrow," he said; "i've got the idea ready. i can see it. until then it is no use trying to paint; but when that comes, it is no use not trying." "but what's the looking-glass for?" repeated margery. "ah, yes, i haven't told you. i'm going to paint a portrait of myself." "that's my advice," observed margery. "i've often suggested that to you, haven't i, frank?" "you have. i wonder if you did wisely? this afternoon, however, other things suggested it to me." "have you been meditating?" asked jack, sympathetically. "i've been meditating all afternoon. why didn't you come out, as you said you would, and meditate with me?" "i had a little private meditation of my own," said frank. "it demanded solitude." "is it bills?" asked margery. "you know, dear, i told you that you'd be sorry for paying a hundred guineas for that horse." frank laughed. "no, it's not bills--at least, not bills that make demands of cash. give me some tea, margy." the evening was warm and fine, but cloudless, and after dinner the three sat out on the terrace listening to the footfalls of night stealing on tiptoe in the woods round them. the full moon, shining through white skeins of drifting cloud, cast a strange, diffused light, and the air, alert with the coming rain, seemed full of those delicate scents which are imperceptible during the day. once a hare ran out from the cover across the lawn, where it sat up for a few moments, with ears cocked forward, until it heard the rustle of margery's dress, as she moved to look in the direction of frank's finger pointing at it, and then scuttled noiselessly off. they had been silent for some little time, but at last frank spoke. he wanted to tell margery of his fantastic fear, that fear which she might hear about; or, rather, to let her find it out, and pour cool common-sense on it. "i feel just as i did on my last night at home, before i went to school for the first time," he said. "i feel as if i had never painted a portrait before. i have had a long holiday, i know; but still it is not as if i had never been to school before. i wonder why i feel like that?" "most of one's fears are for very harmless things," observed jack. "one sees a bogie and runs away, but it is probably only a turnip and a candle. naturally one is nervous about a new thing. one doesn't quite know what it may turn out to be. but, as a rule, if it isn't a turnip and a candle, it is a sheet and a mask. equally inoffensive really, but unexpected." "ah, but i don't usually feel like that," said frank. "in fact, i never have before. one is like a plant. when one has flowered once, it is fairly certain that the next flowers will be like the last, if one puts anything of one's self into it. of course if one faces one's self one may put out a monstrosity, but i am not facing myself. yet, somehow, i am as afraid as if i were going to produce something horrible and unnatural. but i can't face myself; i can't blossom under glass." "that's such a nice theory for you, dear," said margery, "especially if you are inclined to be lazy." frank made a little hopeless gesture of impatience. "lazy, industrious--industrious, lazy; what have those to do with it? you don't understand me a bit. when the time has come that i should paint, i do so inevitably; if the time has not come, it is impossible for me to paint. i know that you think artists are idle, desultory, bohemian, irregular. that is part of their nature as artists. a man who grinds out so much a day is not and cannot be an artist. the sap flows, and we bud; the sap recedes, and for us it is winter-time. you do not call a tree lazy in winter because it does not put out leaves?" "but a tree, at any rate, is regular," said margery; "besides, evergreens." "yes, and everlasting flowers," said frank, impatiently. "the tree is only a simile. but we are not dead when we don't produce any more than the tree is dead in december." margery frowned. this theory of frank's was her pet aversion, but she could not get him to give it up. "then do you mean to say that all effort is valueless?" "no, no!" cried frank; "the whole process of production is frantic, passionate effort to realize what one sees. but no amount of effort will make one see anything. i could do you a picture, which you would probably think very pretty, every day, if you liked, of 'love in a cottage,' or some such inanity." jack crossed his legs, thoughtfully. "the great objection of love in a cottage," he said, "is that it is so hard to find a really suitable cottage." frank laughed. "a courageous attempt to change the subject," he said. "but i'm not going to talk nonsense to-night." "i think you're talking awful nonsense, dear," said margery, candidly. "you will see i am serious in a minute," said frank. "i was saying i could paint that sort of thing at any time, but it would not be part of me. and the only pictures worth doing are those which are part of one's self. every real picture tells you, of course, something about what it represents; but it tells you a great deal about the man who painted it, and that is the most important of the two. and i cannot--and, what is more, i don't choose to--paint anything into which i do not put part of myself." "mind you look about the woods after i've gone," said jack, "and if you see a leg or an arm of mine lying about, send it to me, beach hotel, new quay." frank threw himself back in his chair with a laugh. "my dear jack," he said, "for a clever man you are a confounded idiot. no one ever accused you of putting a nail-paring of your own into any of your pictures. of course you are a landscape-painter--that makes a certain difference. a landscape-painter paints what he sees, and only some of that; a portrait-painter--a real portrait-painter--paints what he knows and feels, and when he paints the virtue goes out of him." "and the more he knows, the more virtue goes out of him, i suppose," said jack. "you know yourself pretty well--what will happen when you paint yourself?" frank grew suddenly grave. "that's exactly what i want to know myself. that was what i meant when i said i felt like a little boy going to school for the first time--it will be something new. i have only painted four portraits in my life, and each of them definitely took something out of me--changed me; and from each--i am telling you sober truth--i absorbed something of the sitter. and when i paint myself--" "i suppose you will go out like a candle," interrupted jack. "total disappearance of a rising english artist; and of the portrait, what? shall we think it is you? will it walk about and talk? will it get your vitality?" frank got quickly out of his chair and stood before them. his thin, tall figure looked almost ghostly in the strange half-light, and he spoke rapidly and excitedly. "that is exactly what i am afraid of," he said. "i am afraid--i confess it--i am afraid of many things about this portrait, and that is one of them. i began to paint myself once before--i have never told even margery this--but i had to stop. but this afternoon several things made themselves irresistible, and i must try again. i was in bad health when i tried before, and one evening when i went into the studio and saw it--it was more than half finished--i had a sudden giddy feeling that i did not know which was me--the portrait or myself. i knew i was on the verge of something new and unknown, that if i went on with it i should go mad or go to heaven; and when i moved towards it i saw it--i _did_ see it--take a step towards me." "looking-glass," said margery. "go on, dear." [illustration: "'i am afraid--i confess it'"] "then i was frightened. i ran away. next day i came back and tore the picture into shreds. but now i am braver. besides, brave or not, i must do it. i lost a great deal, i know, by not going on with it, but i could not. oh yes, you may laugh if you like, but it is true. you may even say that what i lost was exactly what one always does lose when one is afraid of doing something. one loses self-command. one is less able to do the thing next time one tries. i lost all that, but i lost a great deal more: i lost the chance of knowing what happens to a man if he parts with himself." "don't be silly, frank," said margery, suddenly. "how can a man part with himself?" "in two ways at least. he may go mad or he may die. i dare say it doesn't matter much, if one only has produced something worth producing; but it frightened me." despite herself, perhaps because fear is the most contagious of diseases, margery felt a little frightened, too, about this new portrait. but she rallied. "when the time comes for us to die we die," she said, "and we can't help it. but we can all avoid being very silly while we live--at least, you can, and you are the case in point." frank resumed his seat, and spoke less quickly and excitedly. "i know it all sounds ridiculous and absurd," he said; "but if i paint my portrait as i think i am going to, i shall put all myself into it. it will be a wonderful thing--there will be no picture like it. but i tell you, plainly and soberly--i am not feverish, you may feel my pulse if you like--that if i paint it as i believe i can, something will happen to me. it will be my soul as well as my body you will see there. ah, there are a hundred dangers in the way. what will happen to me i don't pretend to guess. moreover, i am frightened about it." once again, for a moment, margery was frightened too. frank's fear and earnestness were very catching. but she summoned her common-sense to her aid. such things did not happen; it was impossible in a civilized country towards the end of the nineteenth century. "oh, my dear boy," she said, "it is so like you to tell us that it will be a wonderful thing, and that there will be no picture like it. it will be even more like you, if, after you have made an admirable beginning, you say it is a horror and put your foot through it, vowing you will never set brush to canvas again. i suppose it is all part of the artistic temperament." frank thought of his other fear, of which he could not tell margery, which she had refused to hear of before. he laid his hand on her arm. "margery, tell me not to do it," he said, earnestly. "if you will tell me not to do it, i won't." "my dear frank, you told us just now that it was inevitable you should. but why should i tell you not to do it? i think it would be the best thing in the world for you." "well, we shall see. jack, why should you go away to-morrow? why not stop and be a witness?" "no, i must go," said jack, "but if mrs. trevor will send me a post-card, or wire, if you show any grave symptoms of going to heaven or bedlam, i will come back at once--i promise that. dear me, how anxious i shall feel! just these words, you know: 'mr. trevor going to bedlam' or 'going to heaven,' and i'll come at once. but i must go to-morrow. i've been expected at new quay for a week. besides, i've painted so many beech-trees here that they will say i am going to paint all the trees in england, just as moore has painted all the english channel. i hear he's begun on the atlantic." frank laughed. "i fear he certainly has painted a great many square miles of sea. however, supposing they lost all the admiralty charts, how useful it would be! they would soon be able to reproduce them from his pictures, for they certainly are exactly like the sea." "but they are all like the bellman's chart in the 'hunting of the shark,'" said margery, "without the least vestige of land." "what would be the effect on you, frank," asked the other, "if you painted a few hundred miles of sea? i suppose you would be found drowned in your studio some morning, and they would be able to fix the place where you were drowned by seeing what you were painting last. but there are difficulties in the way." "he must be very careful only to paint shallow places," said margery, "where he can't be drowned. oh, frank, perhaps it's your astral body that goes hopping about from picture to picture!" "astral fiddlesticks!" said frank. "come, let's go in." he paused for a moment on the threshold of the long french window opening into the drawing-room. "but if any one, particularly you, margery," he said, "ever mistakes my portrait for myself, i shall know that the particular fear i have been telling you about is likely to be realized. and then, if you wish, we will discuss the advisability of my going on with it. but i begin to-morrow." chapter iii armitage had to leave at half-past eight the next morning, for it was a ten-mile drive to truro, the nearest station, and he breakfasted alone. rain had fallen heavily during the night, but it had cleared up before morning, and everything looked deliciously fresh and clean. ten minutes before his carriage came round margery appeared, and they walked together up and down the terrace until it was time for him to be off. margery was looking a little tired and worried, as if she had not slept well. "i shall have breakfast with frank in his studio after you have gone," she said, "so until your carriage comes we'll take a turn out-of-doors. there is something so extraordinarily sweet about the open air." "frank didn't seem to me to profit by it much last night." margery frowned. "i don't know what's the matter with me," she said. "all that nonsense which frank talked last night must have got on my nerves. don't you know those long, half-waking dreams one has sometimes when one is not quite certain whether what one hears or sees is real or not? once last night i woke like that. i thought at first it was part of my dream, and heard frank talking in his sleep. 'margery,' he said, 'that isn't me at all. this is me. surely you know me. do i look so terrible?'" "why should he think he looked terrible?" said jack. "i don't know. then he went rambling on: 'i tried to bury it, and you would not let me tell you.' of course, his mind must have been running on what he said yesterday evening as we came in, for he went on repeating, 'don't you know me? don't you know me?' and this morning he got up at daybreak, and i haven't seen him since." margery stopped to pick a couple of rosebuds and put them in the front of her dress. she had no hat on, and the light wind blew through her hair with a deliciously bracing effect. she turned towards the sea, and sniffed in the salt freshness with wide nostrils like a young thorough-bred horse. "if frank would only be out-of-doors for two hours a day while he was working, i shouldn't mind," she said; "but he sticks in his studio, and then his digestion gets out of order, and he becomes astral. and my mother wants us to go to the lizard to-morrow--they've taken a house for the summer--and spend a couple of days. i think i shall go, but yet i don't like to leave frank. it's no use trying to get him to come." "but you aren't nervous, are you?" asked jack. "i thought you were so particularly sensible last night. frank is awfully fantastic--he always was; but fundamentally he's sane enough. probably it will be a wonderful picture--he is usually right about his pictures--and he will be excessively nervous and irritable while he is doing it, and refreshingly idle when it's done. that's the way he usually has." "but it's an unhealthy way of doing things," said margery. "i wish he was more regular." "the wind bloweth where it listeth," said jack, "and it blows very often on him. isn't that enough?" "well, then, i wish i had a barometer," said she. "the hurricane comes down without warning. but i'm not nervous--at least, i don't mean to be. it is just one of frank's ridiculous notions. all the same, as he said last night, when he does do a really good portrait it has a very definite effect on him." "in what way? i don't understand." "do you remember his picture of mr. bracebridge? it was in the academy the year after his portrait of me, though it was painted first. you know every one said it was wicked to paint a thing like that--that he might as well have painted mr. bracebridge without any clothes on as without any body on." "without any body on?" "yes; somehow--even i felt it, and i am not artistic--frank managed to paint his soul. i could have written an exhaustive analysis of mr. bracebridge's character from that portrait." "and the effect on frank?" "mr. bracebridge is a charming man, you know," said margery, "but he is really unable to tell the truth. it sounds very ridiculous, but for six weeks frank really became the most awful liar." jack stopped short. "but the thing is absurd. in any case, what does he mean by saying that he doesn't know what will happen when he paints himself? it seems to me that in the case of mr. bracebridge, so far from frank putting a lot of himself into the picture, he unfortunately absorbed a lot of mr. bracebridge into himself." "frank was quite unconscious he had become a liar," said margery; "but what he means is this: he put a lot of his own personality into the picture--really the whole thing is so absurd that i am ashamed to tell you about it--and consequently weakened himself, or, as he would express it, emptied himself. and being in this state, mr. bracebridge's little weakness impressed itself on him. that certainly happened, and it seems to me only likely. we are all affected by any one with whom we are much taken up, but what frank assumes is the loss of his own personality. that is absurd." "frank was like a hypnotic subject, in fact," said jack--"at least, they say that they give themselves up, and subject themselves to another's will. but even then--and, like you, i think the whole thing is nonsense--how will the painting of his own portrait affect him?" "like this: he puts his whole personality into it and receives nothing in exchange; no other personality will, so to speak, feed him. really, he is very silly." the sound of carriage-wheels caused them to turn in their stroll and walk back again to the house. "incidentally," asked jack, "how did he cease to be a liar?" margery looked at him openly and frankly. "oh, by painting me. i am very truthful." "did he absorb any other characteristic?" "yes; he became less fantastic for a time. you see i am very unimaginative." "then you had better get him to paint another portrait of you while he is doing this. won't that preserve the balance?" the fresh air and sunshine were having their legitimate effect on margery, and had sufficiently cancelled her troubled night. she broke out into a light laugh. "oh, that would be too dreadfully complicated," she said. "let's see--what would happen? he would put his personality into both portraits, and get back some of mine, and so he would cease to be himself and become a watery reminiscence of me. it's as bad as equations. really, mr. armitage, i am beginning to think you believe in it yourself." "no, i don't; not a bit more than you do. well, i must say good-bye to frank, and tell him not to become too astral." frank was standing in front of his easel with the charcoal in his hand. he had caught a very characteristic pose of his figure with extraordinary success, and margery and jack exchanged a rapid glance as they saw it; for though they had both avowed that they did not believe a word of "frank's nonsense," they both felt it to be a certain relief when they saw how brilliantly frank had sketched it in. there was a certain sureness about his lines that seemed to give both bedlam and heaven a most satisfactory remoteness. but they both noticed that frank had drawn the face already and erased it, and it was only represented by a few half-obliterated lines. frank did not look up when they entered, and jack crossed the room to him. "i'm just off," he said, seeing that the other did not look up, "and i've come to say good-bye. i've enjoyed my visit enormously--quite enormously." frank started and winced as if he had been struck, and, looking up, saw armitage for the first time. he drew his hand over his eyes as if he had just been awakened and his eyes were still heavy with sleep. "ah, jack, i didn't see you. what time is it? where are you going?" even as he spoke he turned to the easel again and went on drawing. "i'm going away," said jack. "i'm going to new quay." "of course you are. well, good-bye. drop in and see us at any time. i'm very busy," and he was lost in his work. jack laid his hand on his shoulder. "don't overdo it, old boy," he said. "you soon knock up, you know, if you don't take exercise. and it won't be half so good if you slave at it all day. half the artistic sense is good digestion." "no, i'll be very careful," said frank, half to himself. "take your hand away, please; i'm drawing in that piece." "i shall tell them to send breakfast in here at once, frank," said margery. "i'm going to have breakfast here with you." frank made no reply, and the two left the room together. armitage was suddenly loath to go, but the carriage was at the door, and it was obviously absurd to stop just because--because frank had talked a great deal of nonsense the evening before, and had made a wonderfully clever sketch of himself, but for some reason had been dissatisfied with the drawing of the face. somehow that little point interested him, and he wanted to assure himself that no significance was to be attached to it. besides, frank was in better hands than his, for he left behind him this splendidly sensible woman, a sort of apotheosis of common-sense, in whom that rare but prosaic virtue became something keen and subtle. she had said that she thought all this idea of frank's about his personality was ridiculous. besides, she could always telegraph to new quay. that obliterated face had caught margery's attention as well as his, and as they walked down the corridor to the front door she said: "did you notice that frank had drawn in the face and then rubbed it out?" "yes; i wondered if you had noticed it too." "why do you think he did that?" asked margery. "i don't know; i suppose it didn't satisfy him." margery frowned. "i don't know either. frank is usually so rapid about the drawing. and he always draws the face as soon as he has got a few of the lines of the body in. really i don't know, only i noticed it." but just before jack drove off an impulse prompted him to say, "beach hotel, new quay, you know. i will be sure to come if you telegraph." "yes, many thanks. i shall remember. it is very good of you to promise to come at once; but i don't think it's very likely, you know, that i shall telegraph. good-bye." margery waited till the carriage disappeared between the trees, and then went in to tell them to send breakfast to the studio at once. and as she walked back there she allowed to herself, with her habitual honesty, that her will was in collision with her inclinations. she had a great gift of forcing herself to do anything which her will told her she had better do. in dealing with other people also her will asserted its predominance, and if it was in collision with theirs they had been heard to remark that she was obstinate, while if it went in harness with them they said, "dear margery is so firm!" and congratulated themselves and her. and when, as on this occasion, her will was in collision with her own inclinations, it exhibited itself in a splendid self-control. she felt a trifle lonely and inadequate when she saw armitage drive off; but, as she told herself, her sense of loneliness and inadequacy were not due to the fact that she was frightened at being alone with frank and his ghostly enemies, but because she had determined to fight those ghostly enemies; to force frank, as far as in her lay, to paint the portrait of himself, and finish it at all costs. this, she persuaded herself, would be a real and final defeat of his fantastic tendencies, his irregularity, his fits of complete laziness whenever ideas did not beat loud at the door of his imagination. it was absurd to sit at home and wait for the idea to call; art had to look for ideas in all sorts of places. and it was with a fine show of justification that she said to herself that many of his wild ideas would be routed if she could only make him go through with this portrait, and see him stand in front of the finished work and say, "it is all i ever hoped it would be, and i am still a sane man." surely if she could help in any way to make him do that, it would be no slight cause for self-congratulation. genius was often bitter, but frank was not that; more often it was fantastic, and frank should be fantastic no longer. "what harm can come to him through this?" she reasoned. "i am quite sure"--already she liked to tell herself she was quite sure--"that he will not lose his personality, because such things do not happen. that he will be awfully savage and silent while he is painting i fully expect; but that does not matter. what does matter is that he should see, when it is finished, what a goose he has been." breakfast had just been brought in when margery returned to the studio, but frank was still working. she sat down at once and began to make tea. "you'd much better have your breakfast now," she said, "and go on working afterwards; but i suppose, as usual, you will let everything get cold and nasty. eggs and bacon and cold grouse. i'm going to begin." margery helped herself to eggs and bacon, and poured out some tea; but she had scarcely caught the flavor of her first sip when frank suddenly left his canvas and sat down by her. "i'm tired," he said, "and my hand is heavy." "it will be lighter after breakfast," said margery, cheerfully. "eat, frank." "no, i shall eat soon. i want to sit by you and look at you. margery darling, what a trial it must be to have me for a husband!" there was something very wistful and pathetic in his voice, and margery felt moved. "ah, frank," she said, "i don't find it so." frank was looking at her with eager eyes, as a dog looks at his master. he had taken up her hand, and was stroking it gently with his long, nervous fingers. suddenly he jumped up. "i see, i see," he said. "i have been drawing something that wasn't me at all. i can do it now. margery, will you come and stand very close to me, so that when i look in the glass i can see you too?" margery rose from her half-eaten breakfast, and went across the room to where his easel was. "so?" she said. frank picked up the charcoal, and began drawing rapidly. in ten minutes he had done what he had been trying to do for the last two hours. "there," he said, "that is your husband. and now go back to your breakfast, margery. i must begin to paint at once!" margery looked at the face he had drawn. "why, it is you," she said. "and, frank, you look just as you looked when i met you that morning on the beach at new quay." "that is what i mean," said frank. chapter iv margery finished her breakfast with a sense of relief. she wanted this portrait to be done quickly and easily, without incident or difficulty, and the fact that frank had completely got over his odd inability to draw the face as he wished was very encouraging. she left a parting injunction with him to eat his breakfast before lunch, and take himself out for half an hour's stroll. frank got his palette ready and stood brush in hand. he glanced at his own reflection in the looking-glass and back to the face on the canvas, then back again. "it is very odd," he murmured to himself. "i saw it so clearly just now." he stood looking from one to the other, and a frown gathered on his face. when margery had been there with him he had seen something quite different to what he saw now. he had seen himself as she saw him, but the face which frowned back at him from the looking-glass was the face of another man. he laid the palette and the dry brushes down, and took a piece of paper and began drawing on it. line for line he reproduced the face he had drawn earlier in the morning, which he had erased once. "it is no good," he said; "i must draw what i am, not what margery thinks me." and, taking a piece of breadcrumb from the breakfast-table, he rubbed out the face which he had drawn when margery was standing at his side. he looked again at the sketch he had made. he felt that he could not draw it any other way. the eyelids were a little drooped; the whole face a little faded, but still eager. the noises of a gay city were in its ears; the eyes, half unfocussed, looking outward and a little sideways, were half amused, half wearied. the mouth smiled slightly, and the lips were parted; but the smile was not altogether wholesome. but through it all the face had a wistful expression--the tired eyes seemed to long for something different from the things which were sweet and bitter and bad, but had not the strength to cease from looking on them. frank took up his crayon again. there was still something about the mouth which did not satisfy him. he looked at his reflection and back again several times before he saw what was wanting. then he made two rapid strokes, increasing the line of shadow in the mouth, and the thing was finished. the expression he had tried to catch for so long was there, and he wondered whether margery would see it with the same eyes as he did. later in the morning margery strolled into the studio again, expecting to find him painting. he was drawing busily when she entered, and did not look up. the face which she had seen him draw at breakfast-time was gone, and some faintly indicated lines of another face had taken its place. frank always drew with extreme care, but usually with great rapidity, and to her eyes he seemed to have done nothing since she had left him. "well, how goes it?" she asked. "it goes slowly, but i am working very carefully," he said. he stood away from the portrait and let her see it. he had strengthened the outline since she had been in at breakfast, and sketched in the background. "why, it's splendid!" she said. "that's exactly the way you loll on the edge of the table. frank, it's awfully good. but why have you rubbed out the face?" frank looked up. "ah, yes; i rubbed it out directly after you left me, and made a sketch of what it was going to be like, and i forgot to put it in again. i'll do it now. there is a great deal of careful work about the hands, too." "what are you doing?" asked margery, examining them. "it looks as if you were smoothing out a crumpled piece of paper." "ah, you think that?" said frank, absently. "i wondered if you would think i was crumpling a piece of paper up." "oh no," said she, confidently; "you are smoothing it out. what does it mean? what's the paper--a programme or something?" "yes, a programme or something." he emphasized the faint lines on the face, and again stood aside. "look!" "oh, frank, that won't do at all. you look as if you were a convict or something horrible, or as if that piece of paper in your hands was an unpaid bill which you were trying not to pay." frank laughed a little bitter laugh. "my drawing has been very successful," he said. margery was still looking at the face. "it is horrible," she said. "yet i don't see where it is wrong. it's very like you, somehow." she looked from the picture to her husband, and saw that his face was puzzled and anxious. "i see what it is," she said. "you've been worrying and growling over it till your face really began to look something like what you were drawing. oh, frank, you haven't had breakfast yet. sit down and have it at once. it all comes of having no breakfast." "is that all, do you think?" asked he. "is that the face of a man who is only guilty of not eating his breakfast? it looks to me guilty, somehow." "yes, that's why it's guilty. your face is guilty, too. when you've eaten your breakfast and smoked that horrid little black pipe of yours, it won't look guilty any more." frank was looking at what he had done with the air of a disinterested spectator. "it seems to me that that brute there has done something worse than not eat his breakfast," he said. "nonsense. i'm going to get you some fresh tea because this is cold, and there's that sweet little cold grouse dying, so to speak, to be eaten. you begin on it while i get the tea." frank felt exhausted and hungry, and he sat down and proceeded to cut the "sweet little grouse" of which margery had spoken. he had a strange sense of having just awakened from a dream, or else having just fallen asleep and begun dreaming. he could not tell which seemed the most real--the hours he had just spent before the canvas, or the present moment with margery in his thoughts. he only knew that the two were quite distinct and different. suddenly he dropped his knife and fork with a crash, and turned to the picture again. yes, there was no doubt about it. there was a curious look in the lines of the face, especially in the mouth, which suggested guilt; and yet, as margery had said, it was very like him. margery's fears and doubts had returned to her for a moment with renewed force as she looked at the face frank had drawn, but she had spent an hour out-of-doors, and the fresh autumn air had been hellebore to fantastic thoughts, and, by a violent effort, she had torn her vague disquiet out of her mind, and her manner to frank had been perfectly natural. she soon returned with a teapot of fresh tea, and chatted to him while he breakfasted. "what part of your personality has gone this morning?" she asked. "it seems to me that you are just as sulky as you always are when you are painting. that's unfortunate, because this afternoon we play tennis at the fortescues', and if you are sulky, why, there'll be a pair of you--you and mr. f. oh, but what a dreadful man, frank! i don't love him one bit more than one christian is bound to love another, and he's a presbyterian at that!" "oh, i can't go to the fortescues'," said frank. "i want to get on with this. i've been working very hard, yet i haven't finished drawing it yet." "don't interrupt," said margery. "then we come home after tea, and the rev. mr. greenock dines with us, and the rev. mrs.--particularly the rev. mrs." "there are some people," said frank, "who make me feel as i imagine rabbits must feel when they find a ferret has been put into their burrow--i want to run away." "yes, dear, i know exactly what you mean. she's got plenty of personality." margery's presence was wonderfully soothing to frank. she carried an atmosphere of sanity about with her which could not fail to make itself felt. he leaned back in his chair and thought no more of the portrait. "oh, i forgot to tell you," she went on. "mother wants us both to come over to the lizard and stay with her a couple of nights. she leaves on thursday, you know, and i've hardly seen her." "i can't possibly go," said frank. "i can't leave my painting when i've only just begun it." "i wish you'd come," said margery. "margery, how silly you are! i couldn't possibly. but--but there's no reason why you shouldn't go." he suddenly sprang up. "margery, tell me not to go on with it," he said, "and if you'll do that i'll come. but i can't leave it." "frank, how silly you are. i shall do nothing of the kind. i wish you would leave it for a couple of days and come with me, but i know it's no use arguing with you. i shall go, i think, for one night, not for two; so if i start to-morrow morning i shall get back on friday evening. i must see mother again before she leaves cornwall." frank walked back to the easel. "what's the matter with it?" he said, impatiently. "you've only made yourself look very cross, dear," said margery, placidly. "you often do look cross, you know, but i should not advise you to paint yourself as cross as you are. oh, frank, i've got a brilliant idea!" "what's that?" "why, put all the crossness out of your personality into the picture, and then you'll never be cross any more. oh, i'm so glad i thought of that!" frank had picked up the charcoal and put a few finishing lines to the face. "i've drawn it in carefully and freely, as if it was a black-and-white sketch," he said. "there, that's what i saw all morning, except just when you were breakfasting here." "oh, frank, you do look a brute!" said margery. "i'm not going to stop in the room with that, nor are you, because you are coming for a little walk till lunch-time. you have to see hooper about mending that gate down to the rocks, and tell him, when he marks out the tennis-court, he must do it according to measurement, and not as his own exuberant fancy prompts. it's about a hundred feet long. come away out." frank turned from the easel. "yes, i'll come," he said. "i can't get on with that just now; i don't know why; but unless i paint it as i see it i can't paint it at all, and i see it like that." "well, nobody can say you've flattered yourself," said margery, consolingly. they strolled out through the sweet-smelling woods, full of scents after the night's rain, and already beginning to turn gold and russet. a light mist still hung over the edges of the estuary, and five miles away, at falmouth harbor, the tall masts of the ships seemed to prick the skein of vapor like needles. the tide was up, and covered more than half of the little iron steps below the gate which had to be repaired, and long, brown-fingered sea-weed swung to and fro in the gentle swell of the water, like the hands of some blind man groping upward for light. color, air, and sound alike seemed subdued and mellow, and with margery by him frank's phantoms seemed to catch something of the prevailing tranquillity, and retired into the dim, aqueous mists, instead of hovering insistently round him, black-winged, scarlet-robed. "i think i'll come to the fortescues', after all, this afternoon," said frank, as they turned homeward. "why, of course you will." "there's no 'of course' about it, dear," said frank; "but i feel as if i couldn't paint to-day." "how dreadfully lazy you are!" said margery, inconsistently. "you'd never do anything if it wasn't for me. but you must promise to work very hard and sensibly to-morrow and next day, and when i come back i shall expect to see it more than half finished." "sensibly!" said frank, impatiently; "there is no such thing. all good work is done in a sort of madness or somnambulism--i don't know which. everything worth doing is done by men possessed of demons." "the demon of crossness seems to have haunted you this morning," said margery. "but you needn't make yourself crosser than is consistent with truth." "but supposing i can't paint it in any other way than what you saw this morning?" asked frank. "what am i to do, then?" "there! now you are asking my advice," said margery, triumphantly, "although you always insist that i know nothing about art. why, of course, you must paint it as you see it. you are forever saying that yourself." "well, you won't like it," said frank. "if you'll promise to eat your breakfast at nine and your lunch at two, and not work more than seven hours a day and go out not less than three, i will chance it. mr. armitage was so right when he said that good digestion was half the artistic sense." "and the other half is bad dreams," said frank. "no; if you have good digestion, you don't have bad dreams." frank walked on in silence. "if i only knew what was the matter with it," he said, at length, "i could correct it. but i don't, and i think it must be right. it's very odd." "it's not a bit odd; it's only because you didn't eat your breakfast. and now you've got to eat your lunch." frank smoked a cigarette in his studio afterwards while margery was getting ready. soon he heard her calling, and got up to go. he stood for a moment in front of the portrait before leaving the room, and a momentary spasm of uncontrollable fear seized him. "my god!" he said, "she goes away to-morrow; and i--i shall be left alone with this!" chapter v frank got through his tennis-party without discredit. margery's presence seemed to have exorcised--for the time being, at any rate--the demon which he said possessed him, and there was no apparent similarity between his nature and mr. fortescue's. ease of manner and a certain picturesqueness were natural to him, and margery found herself forgetting the slightly disturbing events of the last twenty-four hours. mr. and mrs. greenock, who dined with them that evening, were gifted with oppressive personalities. frank once said that he always felt as if raphael's clouds had descended on him when he talked to this gentleman. raphael's clouds, he maintained, were very likely big with blessing, but were somewhat solid in texture, and resembled benedictory feather-beds rather than benedictory clouds. the environment of benediction was possibly good for one in the long-run, but he himself considered it rather suffocating at the time. mrs. greenock, on the other hand, was an example of what americans perhaps mean by a "very bright woman." she was oppressively bright. she had bright blue eyes, which suggested buttons covered with shiny american cloth, and a nose like a ship's prow, which seemed to cut the air when she moved. she asked artists questions about their art and musicians about their music, and if she had met a crossing-sweeper she would certainly have asked him questions about his crossing. this, she was persuaded, was the best way of improving an already superior intellect, as hers admittedly was. there is a great deal to be said for her view--there always was a great deal to be said for her views, and she usually said most of it herself. she always made a point of saying that she could remember anything you happened to tell her, in order to give tom, or harry, or jane a really professional opinion in case they should happen to ask her questions on the subject in hand. she may, in fact, be described as a lioness-woman, who bore away all possible scraps to feed her whelps. her methods of obtaining the scraps, however, as frank had suggested, reminded one of a ferret at work. she had the same bright, cruel way of peering restlessly about. mr. and mrs. greenock were loudly and insistently punctual, and when frank came into the drawing-room that evening he found his guests already there. mrs. greenock was snapping up pieces of information from margery, and mr. greenock's attitude gave the beholder to understand that the blessing of the church hovered over this instructive intercourse. mrs. greenock instantly annexed frank, as being able to give her more professional, and therefore more nutritive, scraps of intellectual food than his wife. she had a rich barytone voice and an impressive delivery. "i'm sure you'll think me dreadfully ignorant," she said; "but when dear kate asked me when leonardo died i was unable to tell her within ten years. now, what was the date?" "i really could not say for certain," said frank; "i forget the exact year, if i ever knew it." mrs. greenock heaved a sigh of relief. "thank you so much, mr. trevor," she said. "then may i tell dear kate that even you don't know for certain, and so it cannot have been an epoch-making year? when one knows so little and wants to know so much, it is always worth while remembering that there is something one need not know. now, which would you say was the most epoch-making year in the history of art?" frank felt helpless with the bright, cruel eyes of the ferret fastened on his face, and he shifted nervously from one foot to the other. "it would be hard to say that any one year was epoch-making," he replied; "but i should say that the italian renaissance generally was the greatest epoch. may i take you in to dinner?" mrs. greenock turned her eyes up to the ceiling as if in a sudden spasm of gratitude. "thank you so much for telling me that. algernon dear, did you hear what mr. trevor said about the italian renaissance? he agrees with us." mrs. greenock unfolded her napkin as if she were in expectation of finding the manna of professional opinion wrapped up in it, and was a little disappointed on discovering only a piece of ordinary bread. "and what, mr. trevor, if i may ask you this--what is the subject of your next picture? naturally i wish to know exactly all that is going on round me. that is the only way, is it not, of being able to trace the tendencies of art? historical, romantic, realistic--what?" "i've just begun a portrait of myself," said frank. mrs. greenock laid down the spoonful of soup she was raising to her lips, as if the mental food she was receiving was more suited to supply her needs than _potage à la bonne femme_. "thank you so much," she ejaculated. "algernon dear, mr. trevor is doing a portrait of himself. remind me to tell harry that as soon as we get home. ah, what a revelation it will be! an artist's portrait of himself--the portrait of you by yourself. that is the only true way for artists to teach us, to show us theirselves--what they are, not only what they look like." frank crumbled his bread with subdued violence. "you have hit the nail on the head," he replied. "that is exactly what i mean to do." mrs. greenock was delighted. this was a sort of testimonial to the superiority of her intellect, written in the hand of a professional. "please tell me more," she said, rejecting an _entrée_. "there is nothing to tell," he said; "you have got to the root of the matter. a portrait should be, as you say, the man himself, not what he looks like. we are often very different to what we look like, and a gallery of real portraits would be a very startling thing. so many portraits are merely colored photographs. my endeavor is that this shall be something more than that." "yes!" said mrs. greenock, eagerly. "you shall see it if you wish," said frank, "but it will not be finished for a couple of days yet. my wife goes away to-morrow for a night, and as i shall be alone i shall work very hard at it. it--" frank was speaking in his lowest audible tones, but he stopped suddenly. he was afraid for a moment that he would actually lose all control over himself. as he spoke all his strange dreams and fancies surged back over his mind, and he could hardly prevent himself from crying aloud. he looked up and caught margery's eye, and she, seeing that something was wrong, referred a point which she or mr. greenock had been discussing to his wife. meantime frank pulled himself together, but registered a solemn vow that never till the crack of doom should mrs. greenock set foot in his house again. he and margery had had a small tussle over the necessity of asking the vicar to dinner, but margery had insisted that every one always asked the vicar to dine, and frank, of weaker will than she, had acquiesced. poor mrs. greenock had unconsciously launched herself on very thin ice, and frank inwardly absolved himself from all responsibility if she tried the experiment again. when the two ladies left the room mr. greenock's feather-bed descents began in earnest. it was trying, but he was less likely to go in dangerous places than his predatory wife. he would not drink any more wine, and he would not smoke; but when frank proposed that they should join the ladies, he said: "it so seldom happens, in this secluded corner of the world, that i can converse with men who have lived their lives in a sphere so different to mine, that i confess i should much enjoy a little longer talk with you." "yes, i suppose you get few visitors here," said frank. "the visitors we get here," said mr. greenock, "are chiefly tourists who are not inclined for an interchange of thought and experience. sometimes i see them in our little church-yard where so many men of note are buried, but they do not stop. indeed, it would indicate a morbid tendency if they did." "i have often noticed how many names one knows are on the graves in your church-yard," said frank. "it is a solemn thought," said mr. greenock, "that in our little church-yard lies all that is mortal of so many brilliant intellects and exceptional abilities. 'green grows the grass on their graves,' as my wife beautifully expressed it the other day in a little lyric." "dear me, i did not know that mrs. greenock wrote poetry," said frank. "she is a sonneteer of considerable power," said the vicar. frank, who had always thought of mrs. greenock in the light of a puritan rather than a sonneteer, gave a sudden choke of laughter. but mr. greenock was arranging his next sentence and did not hear it. "her verses are always distinguished by their thoughtfully chosen similes," he continued, "and their flow of harmonious language." "you can hardly feel out of the world if you always have a poet by you." "the career of a poet," said mr. greenock, "is always beset with snares and difficulties. on the one hand, there is the danger of a too easily gained popularity, and, on the other, the discouraging effect of the absence of an audience." "i am sure i can guess to which danger mrs. greenock is most exposed," said frank, rather wildly. "you are pleased to say so," said the vicar, with an appreciative wave of his hand. "in point of fact, some verses of hers which have appeared from time to time in a local paper have attracted much not unmerited attention. she is preparing a small volume of verse-idyls for publication." mr. greenock rose, as if further interchange of thought and experience could not but be bathos after this, and frank and he joined the ladies. mrs. greenock was seized with sensitiveness when she heard that frank had learned about the forthcoming verse-idyls, but soon recovered sufficiently to make some very true though not very original remarks on the beauty of the moonlit sea, and pressed frank to tell her whether any one had ever painted a moonlit scene. frank cast a glance of concentrated hatred at the unoffending moon, and proceeded to answer. "in this imperfect world," he said, "it would surely be too much to expect that we can convince any one else. it is sufficient if we can convince ourselves. what on earth does the opinion of the foolish crowd matter to an artist? their praise is almost more distasteful than their censure. have you ever seen a critic? i met one once at dinner, and--god forgive him, for i cannot--he admired my pictures. he admired them all, and he admired them for the wrong reasons. he admired just that which was intelligible to him. he added insult to injury by praising them in one of those penny-in-the-slot journals, as some one says. no man has a right to criticise a picture unless he knows more about art than the man who painted it. carry conviction to any one else? wait till the day when your poems seem ugly to you, when all you write seems commonplace and trivial; you will not care about convincing other people then. you will say, 'it is enough if i can write a line which seems to me only not execrable.' extremes meet, and contentment comes only to those who know nothing or who nearly know all." mrs. greenock stared at him in amazement. this was not at all her idea of the cultured, refined artist, the man who would say pretty things in beautiful language, and ask to borrow the _penalva gazette_ which contained her poem on "a corner in a country church-yard." she drew on her gloves as if to shield herself from a blustering wind. frank, i am sorry to say, felt an evil pleasure in the shock he had given her. he had spoken without malice aforethought, but the malice certainly came in when he had finished speaking. what right had this verse-idyl woman to tell him what a portrait should be, to speak to him of that which he hardly dared think of himself, and drag his nightmare out on to the table-cloth? his voice rose a tone as he went on. "you call one thing pretty, another ugly," he said. "believe me, art knows no such terms. a thing is true or it is false, and the cruelty of it is that if we have as much as a grain of falsehood in our whole sense of truth, the thing is worthless. therefore, in this picture i am doing i have tried to be absolutely truthful; as you said at dinner, i have tried to paint what i am without extenuation or concealment. would you like to see it? you would probably call it a hideous caricature, because in this terribly cruel human life no man knows what is good in him, but only what is bad. it is those who love us only who know if there is any good in us--" his voice sank again, and as his eye rested on margery the hardness softened from his face and it was transformed. "dear me, i have been talking a lot of shop, i am afraid," he said; "but i have the privilege or the misfortune--i hardly know which--to be terribly in earnest, and i have committed the unpardonable breach of manners to make you the unwilling recipient of my earnestness. ah, margery is going to sing to us." poor mrs. greenock felt as if she had asked for a little bread and been pelted with quartern loaves. she felt almost too sore and knocked about to eat it herself, much less to put pieces in her pocket for tom and harry and jane. but the fact that margery was singing made it natural for her to be silent, and she finished putting on her gloves, and, so to speak, tidied herself up again. in fact, before they left she had recovered enough to be able to thank frank for the extremely interesting conversation they had had, and to remind him of his promise to show her the picture. "i will send you a note when it is done," said he. "margery is going away to-morrow for the inside of two days, and i expect it will be finished in three or four days at the most." chapter vi margery left early next morning, since, by the ingenious and tortuous route pursued by the cornish lines, it was a day's journey from penalva to the lizard. frank drove with her to the station, and promised to do as he was told, and not work more than seven hours a day and not less than four. he had quite recovered his equanimity, and spoke of the portrait without fear or despair. but when they got in sight of the station, and again when a puff of white steam and a thin, shrill whistle came to them as they stood on the platform, through the blue-white morning mist, a terror came and looked him in the face, and he clung to margery like a frightened child. "margery, you will come back to-morrow, won't you?" he said. "ah, need you go at all?" margery was disappointed. she had thought that frank had got over his fantastic fears, he had been so like himself during the drive. but she was absolutely determined to go through with this. to yield once was to yield twice, and she would not yield. frank must be cured of this sort of thing, and the only way to cure him was to make him do what he feared--to make him give himself absolute final evidence that personalities did not vanish away before portraits like ghosts at daybreak. but, as a matter of fact, frank's fear was the fear he had not spoken to her of. the danger of losing her swallowed up the danger of losing himself. "oh, frank, don't be a fool!" she said. "here's the train. have you had my bag labelled? of course i shall be back to-morrow. good-bye, old boy!" and with another whistle and puff of steam the train was off. frank drove home again like a man possessed. margery had gone, and there remained to him only one thing, and until he was with that time ran to waste. the horses, freshened by the cool, clean air, flew over the hard road, but frank still urged them on. as soon as they drew up by the door frank jumped down, leaving the reins on their backs, and went to his studio. there in the corner stood his worst self, and he set to work in earnest. to-day there was no waiting, no puzzling over an idea he could not realize. the evil face smiled as it looked at the yellow little programme, and the long-fingered hands smoothed out its creases with a lingering, loving touch. desire and the fulfilment of desire were there, and into the soul had the leanness of it entered. and because, as he had said, no man knows the best of himself, but only the worst, there was but little trace in the face of the man who had loved margery and whom margery had loved; yet in the eyes was the trace of what had been lost, and if not regret, at least the longing to be able to regret. the better part was not wholly dead, though half smothered under the weight of evil. as he painted he began to realize that it would be so. had margery been there, he felt the better part would have been recorded too; but the devil is a highwayman who waits for men who are alone, and he is stronger than a solitary man, though he be st. anthony himself. but margery was away, and her absence was almost as the draught that transformed jekyll into hyde. so for those two days he worked alone, as he had never worked before, but as he has often worked since, utterly absorbed in his painting, and eating ravenously, but for a few moments only, when his food was brought to him. as the hours went on the conviction came over him that he was right both about the strange fear he had spoken of to margery and about the other fear of which he had spoken to none. his conscious self seemed to be passing into the portrait, and one by one, like drops of bitter water, his past life flowed higher and higher round him. far off he thought he could see margery, but she gave no sign. she did not beckon to him to come, she was not alive to the danger of the rising waters. soon it would be too late. the first evening, after the daylight had fallen and he could no longer paint, he threw himself down on the sofa. the work of the last few days stood opposite him, and the red glow of the sunset, not yet quite faded from the sky, still made it clearly visible, though the value of the colors was lost. frank felt like a man who, after a long, sleepless night of pain, feels that if only he could forget everything for a moment he might doze off into a slumber that would take an hour or two out of life. but the pain, as it were, stood before him, mastering him. it may only have been that his nerves, abnormally excited after the strain of working, played him false; but it seemed to him that, in spite of the fading light, the portrait was as clear as ever; and as he was sitting wondering at this, half encouraging himself to believe it, he was suddenly aware that the figure he had painted cast a shadow on to the background which he had never put there. as he had painted it, the shadow fell on the left side of the face, but now it seemed that the shadow was on the right side of the face, exactly as it would naturally be cast by the light coming from the window. at that moment he knew what fear was--cold fear that clutches at the heart--and he sat there a moment unable to move, almost expecting to hear it speak to him. then, with an effort of will so strong that it seemed like a straining of the body, he walked up to it, turned it round to the wall, and left the room. that night he had an odd dream, the result again of the excitement of the day, but so strangely natural that he hardly knew next morning whether it had happened or not. he dreamed he went back to the studio, finding everything exactly as he had left it--the portrait turned with its face to the wall, and his brushes and palette where he had laid them down when it had become too dark to paint. the servants had brought in lights, and had laid the day's paper on the table. he was conscious of utter weariness of mind and body, and he longed for margery, but knew that she was away. the yellow programme of the café chantant lay on a shelf of the bookcase, where he had put it in the leaves of _jekyll and hyde_, and he took the two down together, as he had done a few days before, and mechanically his mind again retraced the life it had before suggested to him. suddenly an utter loathing of it all, more complete than he had ever felt, came over him, and he tried to tear the programme up. but it seemed to be made of a thin sheet of some hard substance, and it would not tear. then he tried to crush it under his foot, but it would not even bend. the bitter, unimaginable agony of not being able to destroy it awoke him, and he found morning had come. all that day he worked, and once again as evening fell he sat on the sofa, staring blankly at what he had done. once again the shadow shifted on the painted face, and fell where the light from the window would naturally cast it, and once again cold fear clutched at his heart. at that moment he heard steps along the passage, steps which he knew, and margery entered. "frank," she said, opening the door, "are you there?" a long figure sprang off the sofa and ran across the room to her, half smothering her in caresses. "oh, margery, i'm so glad you've come," he said--"so glad. you don't know what it has been without you. margery, promise you won't go away again till it is finished. you won't go away again, will you?" margery shuddered and drew back a moment, she hardly knew why. "why, frank, what's the matter?" she asked. "have you seen a ghost--or what?" "the place is full of ghosts," said he. "but they won't trouble me any more now you've come back. let's go out, away from here." "but i want to see the portrait first," said she. "ah, the portrait!" frank took two quick steps to where it was standing, and wheeled it round with its face to the wall. "not to-night," he said. "please don't look at it to-night. you can't see it by this light." "i know i can't," said she, "but i only wanted to peep at it to see if it had got on." "it has got on," said frank, "it has got on wonderfully. but don't look at it to-night. it is terrible after sunset." margery raised her eyebrows. "oh, don't be so silly," she said. "however, i don't mind waiting till to-morrow. is it good?" "come out of this place, and i'll tell you about it." outside the west was still luminous with the sunken sun, and as they stepped out on to the terrace margery turned to look at frank. his face seemed terribly tired and anxious, and there were deep shades beneath his eyes. but again, as a few moments before in the shadow, she involuntarily shrank from him. there was something in his face more than what mere weariness and anxiety would produce--something she had seen in the face he had sketched two days ago, and the something she knew she had shrunk from before, though she had not seen it. but in a moment she pulled herself together; if she were going to go in for fantastic fears too, the allowance of sanity between them would not be enough for daily consumption. frank, however, noticed it at once. "ah, you too," he said, bitterly--"even you desert me." margery took hold of his arm. "don't talk sheer, silly nonsense," she said. "i don't know what you mean. i know what's the matter with you. you've been working all day and not going out." "yes, i know i have. i couldn't help it. but never mind that now. i have got you back. margery, you don't give me up really, do you?" "frank, what do you mean?" she asked. "i--i mean--i mean nothing. i don't know what i am saying. i've been working too hard, and i have got dazed and stupid." he turned to look at the blaze on the waters to the west. "ah, how beautiful it is!" he exclaimed. "i wish i were a landscape-painter. but you are more beautiful, margery. but it is safer to be a landscape-painter, so much safer!" margery stopped and faced him. "now, frank, tell me the truth. have you been out since i left you yesterday morning?" "no." "how long have you been working each day?" "i don't know. i didn't look at my watch. all day, i suppose; and the days are long--terribly long--and the nights too. the nights are even longer, but one can't work then." margery was frightened, and, being frightened, she got angry with herself and him. "oh, you really are too annoying," she said, with a stamp of her foot. "you get yourself into bad health by overworking and not taking any exercise--you've got the family liver, you know--and then you tell me the house is full of ghosts, and conjure up all sorts of absurd fancies about losing your personality, frightening yourself and me. frank, it's too bad!" frank looked up suddenly at her. "you too? are you frightened too? god help me if you are frightened too!" "no, i'm not frightened," said margery, "but i'm angry and ashamed of you. you're no better than a silly child." "margery," said he, in his lowest audible tone, "i'll never touch the picture again if you wish. tell me to destroy it and i will, and we'll go for a holiday together. i--i want a holiday; i've been working too hard. or it would be better if you went in very quietly and cut it up. i don't want to go near it. it doesn't like me. tell me to destroy it." "no, no!" cried margery, "that's the very thing i will not do. and fancy saying you want a holiday! you've just had two months' holiday. but that's no reason why you should work like a lunatic. of course any one can go mad if they like--it's only a question of whether you think you are going to." "margery, tell me truthfully," said frank, "do you think i am going mad?" "of course i don't. i only think you are very, very silly. but i've known that ever since i knew you at all. it's a great pity." they strolled up and down for a few moments in silence. the magic of margery's presence was beginning to work on frank, and after a little space of silence he laughed to himself almost naturally. "margery, you are doing me good," he said. "i've been terribly lonely without you." "and terribly silly, it appears." "perhaps i have. anyhow, i like to hear you tell me so. i should like to think i had been silly, but i don't know." "i'm afraid if you've been silly the portrait will be silly too," said she. "is it silly, frank?" "it's wonderful," said he, suddenly stopping short. "it is not only like me, but it's me--at least, if you will stop with me while i work it will be all me. i shall feel safer if you are there." "then i won't be there," said margery. "you are not a child any longer, and you must work alone. you always say you can't work if any one else is there." "well, i don't suppose it matters," said frank, with returning confidence. "the fact that i know you are in the house will be enough. but the portrait--it's wonderful! i can't think why i loathe it so." "you loathe it because you have been working at it in a ridiculous manner," said margery. "to-morrow i regulate your day for you. i shall leave you your morning to yourself, and after lunch you shall come out with me for two hours at least. we will go up some of those little creeks where we went two years ago. come in now. it's nearly dinner-time." when they were alone and a portrait was in progress they often sat in the studio after dinner; but to-night, when margery proposed it, frank started up from where he was sitting. "no, margery," he said, "please let us sit here. i don't want to go to the studio at all." "it's the scene of your crime," said margery. frank turned pale. "what crime?" he asked. "what do you know of my crimes?" margery put down the paper she was reading and burst out laughing. "you really are too ridiculous," she said. "are you and i going to play the second act of a melodrama? your crime of working all day and taking no exercise." "oh, i see," said frank. "well, don't let us visit the scene of my crimes to-night." margery had determined that, whatever frank did, she would behave quite naturally, and not allow herself to indulge even in disturbing thoughts. so she laughed again, and wiped off frank's remark from her mind. otherwise his behavior that evening was quite reassuring. often when he was painting he had an aversion to being left alone in the intervals, and though this perhaps was more marked than usual, margery did not allow it to disquiet her. the painting of a portrait was always rather a trying time, though frank's explanation of this did not seem to her in the least satisfactory. "when one paints," he had said to her once, "one is much more exposed to other influences. one's soul, so to speak, is on the surface, and i want some one near me who will keep an eye on it, and i feel safe if i have your eye on me, margery. you know, when religious people have been to church or to a revivalist meeting, they are much more susceptible to what they see, whether it is sin or sanctity; that is just because their souls have come to the surface. it is very unwise to go to see a lot of strange people when you are in that state. no one knows what influence they may have on you. but i know what influence you have on me." "i wish my influence would make you a little less silly," she had replied. margery went to bed quite happy in her mind, except on one point. she had been gifted by nature with a superb serenity which it took much blustering wind to ruffle, and in the main frank's behavior was different, not in kind, but only in degree, from what she had seen before when he was painting. he always got nervous and excited over a picture which he really gave himself up to; he always talked ridiculous nonsense about personalities and influences, and though his childlike desire to be with her when he was not working was more accentuated than usual, she drew the very natural conclusion that he was more absorbed than usual in his work. but there was one point which troubled her: she had quite unaccountably shrunk from him when he ran to meet her across the studio, and she had shrunk from him again when she saw his face. she told herself that this was her own silliness, not his, and that it was ridiculous of her to try to cure frank of his absurdities while she was so absurd herself. she had shrunk back involuntarily, as if from an evil thing. "how absurd and ridiculous of me," she said to herself, as she settled herself in bed. "frank is frank, and it is his idea that he is ceasing or will cease to be frank which i have thought all along is so supremely silly, and which i think supremely silly still. yet i shrank from him as i would from a man who had committed a crime." then suddenly another thought came to join this one in her brain: "what crimes? what do you know of my crimes?" the contact and the electric spark had been instantaneous, for she wrenched the two thoughts apart. but they had come together, and between them they had generated a spark of light. and so, without knowing it, she knew for a moment what was frank's secret which he dared not tell her. chapter vii frank got up, as his custom was, very early next morning, and went straight to the studio; and margery, keeping to the resolve of the night before, left him alone all morning. she had sent his breakfast in to him, but ate hers alone in her morning-room. the knowledge that she was with him had had a quieting effect on frank, and he had slept deep and dreamlessly. as he walked along the passage to his studio he felt that he hardly feared what he would find there. how could the ghost of what was dead in him have any chance, so to speak, against the near, living reality of margery and margery's love? was not good more powerful than evil? but when he entered the studio and had wheeled the portrait back into its place, the supremacy of one side of his nature over the other was reversed instantaneously--almost without consciousness of transition. the power which the thing his hands had been working out for the last few days had acquired was becoming overwhelming. when margery was with him, actually with him, she still held up his better part; but when he was alone with this, all that was good sank like lead in an unplumbed sea. he was like some heathen who makes with his own hands an idol of stone or wood, and then bows down before that which he himself made, believing that it is lord over him. all morning margery successfully fought against her inclination to go to frank, for she was clear in her own mind that he had to work out his salvation alone. he was afraid of being alone, and the only way to teach him not to be afraid was to let him learn in solitude that there was nothing to be afraid of. so she yawned an hour away over a two-volume novel by a popular author, wrote a letter to her mother, ordered dinner, and tried to think she was very busy. but it was with a certain sense of relief that she heard the clock strike one, and, shutting up her book, she went to the studio. frank was standing with his back to the door, and did not look up from his work when she entered. she came up behind him and saw what he had wished her not to see the night before, and understood why. he always worked rapidly though never hurriedly, and she knew at once what the finished picture would be like. the "idea" was recorded. she gave a sudden start and a little cry as sharp and involuntary as the cry of physical pain, for the meaning of the first rough sketch which had puzzled her was now worked out, and she saw before her the face of a guilty man. she shrank and shuddered as she had shrunk when her husband ran to meet her across the studio the night before, and as she had shrunk from him when she saw his face, for the face that looked out from that canvas was the same as her husband's face which had so startled and repelled her. it was the face of a man who has wilfully stifled certain nobler impulses for the sake of something wicked, and who was stifling them still. it was the face of a man who has fallen, and when she turned to look at frank she saw that he had in the portrait seized on something that stared from every line of his features. "ah, frank," she cried, "but what has happened? it is horrible, and you--you are horrible, too!" frank did not seem to hear, for he went on painting; but she heard him murmur below his breath: "yes, horrible, horrible!" for the moment margery lost her nerve completely. she was incontrollably frightened. "frank, frank!" she cried, hysterically. then she cursed her own folly. that was not the way to teach him. she laid one hand on his arm, and with her voice again in control, "leave off painting," she said--"leave off painting at once and look at me!" this time he heard. his right hand, holding a brush filled with paint, dropped nervelessly to his side, and the brush slid from his fingers on to the floor. in that moment his face changed. the vicious, guilty lines softened and faded, and his expression became that of a frightened child. "ah, margery," he cried, "what has happened? why were you not here? what have i been doing?" margery had got between him and the picture, and before he had finished speaking she had wheeled it round with its face to the wall. "you've been working long enough," she said, "and you are coming out for a bit." "yes, that will be nice," said frank, picking up the brush he had dropped and examining it. "why, it is quite full of paint," he added, as if this remarkable discovery was quite worth comment. "you dear, how extraordinary!" said margery. "you usually paint with dry brushes, don't you?" "oh, i've been painting all morning, so i have!" said frank, in the same listless, tired voice, and his eye wandered to the easel which margery had turned round. "no, you've got to let it alone," said she, guessing his intention. "you are not going to work any more till this afternoon." frank passed his hands over his eyes. "i'm rather tired," he said. "i think i won't go for a walk. i'll sit down here if you will stop with me." "very good, for ten minutes; and then you must come out. it's a lovely morning, and we'll only stroll." frank looked out of the window. "my god! it is a lovely morning," he said--"it is insolently lovely. i've been dreaming, i think. those trees look as if they were dreaming, too. i wonder if they have such horrible dreams as i? i think i must have been asleep. i feel queer and only half awake, and i've had bad dreams--horrid dreams." "did he have nasty dreams?" said she, sympathetically. "he said he was going to work so hard, and he's dreamed instead." frank seemed hardly to hear her. "it began by my wondering whether i ought to go on with that portrait or not," he said. "i kept thinking--" "you shall go on with it, frank," broke in margery, suddenly, afraid of letting herself consent--"i tell you that you must go on with it." frank roused himself at the sound of her eager voice. "you don't understand," he said. "i know that i am running a certain risk if i do. i told you about one of those risks i was running, didn't i? it was that, partly, i was drawing about all morning. i thought i was in danger all the time. i was running the risk of losing myself, or becoming something quite different to what i am. i ran the risk of losing you, myself--all i care for, except my art." "and with a big 'a,' dear?" asked margery. "with the very biggest 'a,' and all scarlet." "the _scarlet letter_," said margery, triumphantly, "which you were reading last week? that accounts for _that_ symptom. go on and be more explicit!" "i know you think it is all absurd," said frank, "but i am a better judge than you. i know myself better than you know me--better, please god, than you will ever know me. however, you won't understand that. but with regard to what i told you: when i paint a picture, you think the net result is i and a picture, instead of i alone. but you are wrong. there is only i just as before; and inasmuch as there is a picture, there is less of myself here in my clothes." "a picture is oil-paint," said margery, "and you buy that at shops." "yes, and brushes too," said frank; "but a picture is not only oil-paint and brushes." "go on," said margery. "well, have i got any right to do it? in other pictures it has not mattered because one recuperates by degrees, and one does not put all one's self into them. but painting this i feel differently. i am going into it, slowly but inevitably. i shall put all i am into it--at least, all i know of while i am painting; and what will happen to this thing here" (he pointed to himself) "i can't say. all the time i was painting, that thought with others was with me, as if it had been written in fire on my brain. have i got any business to run risks which i can't estimate? i know i have a certain duty to perform to you and others, and is it right for me to risk all that for a painted thing?" he stood up. "margery," he said, "that is not all. shall i tell you the rest? there is another risk i run much more important, and much more terrible. may i tell you?" "no, you may not," said margery, decidedly. "it simply makes these fantastic fears more real to you to speak of them. you shall not tell me. and now we are going out. but i have one thing to tell you. listen to me, frank," she said, standing up and facing him. "as you said just now, you know nothing of the risk you run. all you do know is that it is in your power, as you believe, and as i believe, to do something really good if you go on with that picture. i don't say that i shall like it, but it may be a splendid piece of work without that. are you an artist, or a silly child, frightened of ghosts? i want you to finish it because i think it may teach you that you have a large number of silly ideas in your head, and when you see that none of them are fulfilled it may help you to get rid of them--in fact, i believe i want you to finish it for the same reason for which you are afraid to finish it. you say you will lose your personality, or some of your personality. i say you will get rid of a great many silly ideas. if you lose that part of your personality i shall be delighted--in fact, it is the best thing that could happen to you. as for your other fears, i don't know what they are, and i don't want to know. to speak of them encourages you to believe in them. there! now you've worked enough for the present, and we'll go for a stroll till lunch; and after lunch we'll go out again, and you can work for another hour or two before it gets dark." it required all margery's resolution and self-control to get through this speech. it was not a pretty thing that had looked out at her from the easel, and the look she had seen twice on frank's face, and felt once, was not pretty either. that his work had a very definite and startling effect on him she knew from personal experience, but that anything could happen to him she entirely declined to believe. he was cross, irritable, odious, as she often told him, when he was interested in his work, but when it was over he became calm, unruffled, and delightful again. she was fully determined he should do this portrait, and to himself she allowed that it would be a relief when it was finished. frank got up at once with unusual docility. as a rule, he scowled and snarled when she fetched him away from his work, and made himself generally disagreeable. this uncommon state of things gave margery great surprise. "well, why don't you say you'll be blessed if you come?" she asked, moving towards the door. "ah, i'm quite willing to come," he said. "why shouldn't i come? i always would come anywhere with you." he followed her towards the door, and in passing suddenly caught sight of the easel. he looked round like a child afraid of being detected in doing something it ought not, and before margery could stop him he had taken two quick steps towards it and turned it round. in a moment his mood changed. "do you see that?" he said in a whisper, as if the thing would overhear him. "that's what i was all the morning when you were not here, and i knew i oughtn't to be painting. wait a minute, margy; i want to finish a bit i was working at!" his face grew suddenly pale, and the look of guilt descended on it like a mist, blotting out the features. "that's what you are making of me," he said. "give me my palette. quick! i sha'n't be a minute." but margery caught up, as she had often done before, his palette and brushes from the table where he had left them, and fled with them to the door. "give them to me at once!" shouted frank, holding out his hand for them, but still looking at the picture. margery gave one long-drawn breath of pain and horror when she looked at frank's face, and then, a blessed sense of humor coming to her aid, she broke out into a light laugh--half hysterical and half amused. "oh, frank," she cried, "you look exactly like irving in 'macbeth' when he says, 'this is a sorry sight! i never saw a sorrier.'" at the sound of her voice, more particularly at the sound of her laugh, he turned and looked at her, and the horror faded from his face. "what have i been saying?" he asked. "you said, 'give me the daggers!'--oh no, lady macbeth says that. well, here they are. come to me, frank, and i'll give you them." frank walked obediently up to her, as she stood in the entrance to the passage, and as soon as he was outside the studio she banged the door and stood in front of it triumphantly. "here are the daggers," she said, "but you are not going to use them now. you shall finish that picture, but not like a madman. and if you look like macbeth any more i shall simply die of it; or i shall behave like lady macbeth, and then there will be a pair of us. i shall walk in my sleep down to the sea, and wash my hands all day till it gets quite red. now you're coming out. march!" chapter viii after lunch frank and margery went down to the river and cruised about in a little boat, exploring, as they had explored a hundred times before, the unexpected but well-known little creeks which ran up between the hummocks of the broad-backed hills, shut in and shadowed by delicate-leaved beech-trees. when the tide was high it was possible to get some way up into these wooded retreats, and by remaining very still, or going quickly and silently round a corner, you might sometimes catch sight of a kingfisher flashing up from the shallows and darting along the lane of flecked sunlight like a jewel flung through the air. there had been a frost, the first of the year, the night before, and the broad-leaved docks and hemlocks lining the banks had still drops of moisture on their leaves like pearls or moon-stones _semées_ on to green velvet. the woods had taken a deeper autumnal tint in the last two days, and already the five-ribbed chestnut leaves, the first of all to fall, were lying scattered on the ground. every now and then a rabbit scuttled away to seek the protection of thicker undergrowth, or a young cock pheasant, as yet unmolested, stood and looked at the intruders. margery was surprised to find how great the relief of getting frank away from his picture was. the horrible guilty look on the portrait's face, and, more than that, the knowledge that it was a terribly true realization of her husband's expression, disturbed her more than she liked to admit even to herself. but nothing, she determined--not if all the ghosts out of the _decameron_ sat in her husband's eyes--should make her abandon her resolution of compelling frank to finish it. she did not believe in occult phenomena of this description; no painting of any portrait could alter the painter's nature. to get tired and anxious was not the same as losing your personality; the first, if one was working well and hard, was inevitable; the second was impossible, it was nonsense. decidedly she did not believe in the possibility of his losing his personality. but with all her resolutions to the contrary, she could not help wondering what the other fear, which she had forbidden him to tell her, was. vaguely in her own mind she connected it with that strange shudder she had felt when she saw him the night before; and quite irrelevantly, as it seemed to her, the image came into her mind of something hidden rising to the surface--of the sea giving up its dead.... it was on this point alone she distrusted herself and all the resolutions she had made. she did not yet know clearly what she feared, but she realized dimly that there was a possibility of its becoming clearer to her, and that when it became clearer she would have to decide afresh. at present her one desire was that he should finish the portrait, and finish it as quickly as possible. but at any rate she had frank with her now, as she had known him and loved him all their life together. that love she would not risk, but at present she did not see where the risk could come in. with her, and away from the portrait, he was again completely himself. he looked tired and was rather silent, and often when she turned from her place in the bow (where she was looking for concealed snags or roots in the water) to him, as he punted the boat quietly along with an oar, for the stream was narrow to row in, she saw him standing still, oar in hand, looking at her, and when their eyes met he smiled. "it is like that first afternoon we were here, margy, isn't it?" he said on one of these occasions. "do you remember? we got here on a september morning, after travelling all night from london, and after lunch we came up this very creek." "yes, frank, and i feel just as i did then." "what did you feel?" "why--why, that i had got you all to myself at last, and that i did not care about anything else." "ah, my god!" cried frank, suddenly. "what is it?" asked she. frank ran the boat into a little hollow made in the side of the creek by a small stream, now nearly summer dry, and came and sat down on the bank just above her. "margy dear," he said, "i want to ask you something quite soberly. i am not excited nor overwrought in any way, am i? i am quite calm and sensible. it is not as if that horrible thing were with us. it is about that i want to talk to you--about the picture. all this morning, as i told you, i knew i ought not to go on with it, but i went on because it had a terrible evil fascination for me. and now, too, i know i ought not to go on with it. it is wicked. this morning i thought of that afternoon we spent here before, and i knew i was sacrificing that. then i did not care, but now you are all the world to me, as you always have been except when i am with that thing. it was that first day we came here to this very spot that was fixed in my mind. and now we are here in the same place, and on just such another day, let us talk about it." "oh, frank, don't be a coward," said margery, appealingly. "you know exactly what i think about it. of course all my inclination goes with you, but, but--" she raised herself from the boat and put her hand on his knee. "frank, you don't doubt me, do you? there is nothing in the world i could weigh against you and your love, but we must be reasonable. if you had a very strong presentiment that you would be drowned as we sailed home i should very likely be dreadfully uncomfortable, but i wouldn't have you walk back instead for anything. there are many things of which we know nothing--presentiments, fears, all the horrors, in fact--and it would be like children to take them into our reckoning or let them direct us. it is for your sake, not mine, that i want you to go on with that portrait. if i followed my inclination i should say, 'tear it up and let us sit here together for ever and ever.'" frank leaned forward and spoke entreatingly. "margy, tell me to tear it up--ah, do, dear, and you may do with me whatever you wish--only tell me to destroy it!" margery shook her head hopelessly. "don't disappoint me, frank," she said. "i care for nothing in the world compared to you; but what reason could i give for doing this? i think you often get excited and upset over your work, but that is worth while, because you do good work and you are not permanently upset. you wouldn't give up being an artist for that. and if i saw any reason for telling you to stop this, i would do it. it is because i care for you and all your possibilities that i tell you to go on with it." margery thought for a moment of the portrait and the terrible likeness it bore to her husband, and she hesitated. but no; the whole thing was too fantastic, too vague. she did not even know what she was afraid of. "it isn't the pleasant or the easy course i am taking," she continued. "that wasn't a pleasant look on your face when you shouted at me to give you your palette this morning?" frank looked puzzled. "what did i do?" he asked. "when did i shout at you?" "this morning, just before we came out. you shouted awfully loud, and you looked like macbeth. it is just because i don't want you to look like macbeth permanently that i insist on your going on with it. i want you to get macbeth out of your system. that fantastic idea of yours, that you would run a risk, was the original cause of all this nonsense, and when you have finished the picture and seen that you have run no risk, you will know that i am right." frank stood up. "to-morrow may be too late," he said. "do you really tell me to go on with it?" "frank, dear, don't be melodramatic. you were just as nice as you could be all the way up here. yes, i tell you to go on with it." frank's arms dropped by his side, and for a moment he stood quite still. the leaves whispered in the trees, and the rippling stream tapped against the boat. then for a moment the breeze dropped, and the boat swung round with the current. the water made no sound against it as it moved slowly round, and there was silence--tense, absolute silence. then margery lay back in the boat and laughed. her laugh sounded strange in her own ears. "i am sure this is one of the occasions on which we ought to hear only the beating of our own hearts; but, as a matter of fact, i don't. come, frank, don't stand there like a hop-pole." frank slowly let his eyes rest on her, but he did not answer her smile. margery paused a moment. "come," she said again, "let us go a little higher. there is plenty of water." frank pushed the boat out from the bank and jumped in. "then it is all over," he said. "i must go home at once. i must get on with the portrait immediately. i cannot last if i am not quick. there's no time to lose, margy. please let me get back at once." he paused a moment. "margy, give me one kiss, will you?" he said. "perhaps, perhaps-- ah, my darling, cannot you do what i ask?" he had raised himself and clung round her neck, kissing her again and again. but she, afraid of yielding, afraid of sacrificing her reason even to that she loved best in the world, unwound his arms. "no, frank, i have said i cannot. oh, my dear, don't you understand? frank, frank!" but he shook his head and took up the oar. "why are you in such a hurry?" she asked, after a moment, seeing he did not look at her again. "what time is it?" "i don't know," said frank, quickly. "i only know that if i am to finish it i must finish it at once. it will take us nearly an hour to get home, and it is too dark to work after five." the wind, since that sudden lull, had blown only fitfully by gusts, and by the time they had emerged into the estuary it had died out altogether. "the wind has dropped," said he. "the winds and the stars fight against me. we sha'n't be able to sail." he took up the sculls, and rowed as if he were rowing a race. "what's the matter?" asked margery. "why are you in such a hurry? it is not late." "you don't understand," he said. "there is a hurry. i must get back. oh, why can't you understand? i must have you or it, and you--you have given me up." "frank, what do you mean?" asked margery, bewilderedly. "you have given me up for it--it, that painted horror you saw, that--that-- margery, do listen to me just once more. you don't understand, dear, but i don't mind that. only trust me; only tell me to stop painting it--to destroy it!" he leaned on his oars a moment, waiting for her answer. "what is the matter with you?" she asked. "why do you speak to me like that? what nonsense it all is! i can't advise you to give it up because i think it much better for you that you should go on with it." he waited for her answer, and then bent to the oars again. the green water hissed by them as the light boat cut through the calm surface. margery was sitting in the stern managing the rudder, and it required all her nerve to guide the boat among the rocks that stood out from the shallower water. frank's terrible earnestness troubled her, but it did not shake her resolution. look at it what way she might, her deliberate conclusion was that it was better he should go on with it. there was no reason--there really was no reason why he should not, and there was every reason why he should. she wondered if he had better see a doctor. that he was in good health two days ago she knew for certain, but the mind can react upon the body, and his mind was certainly out of sorts. however, she had decided that the best ultimate cure for his mind was to finish the picture, and she determined to let things be. "when will it be done?" she asked, after a pause. "to-morrow," said frank, without stopping rowing, "and the part that is important will be done to-night. don't come into the studio, please, till it is too dark to paint. i can't paint with you there." margery felt a little hurt in her mind. she had meant to sit with him, as he had asked her to that morning. however, it was best to let him have his way, and she said no more. it was scarcely half an hour after they had left the creek that they came opposite the little iron staircase leading down to the rocks. the tide was out, and frank beached the boat on the shingle at the bottom of the rocks, jumped out, and drew it in. his pale face was flushed and dripping with sweat. "you'd better change before you begin work," said margery, as he helped her out, "or you'll catch cold." frank burst out with a grating, unnatural laugh. "change! i should think i am going to change! i wonder if you'll like the change!" he walked on in front of her, and when he reached the terrace broke into a run. margery heard the door of the studio bang behind him. chapter ix margery followed frank more slowly up to the house. she had won her point; she had refused in the face of all her own inclinations and his feelings to tell him to leave the picture unfinished or to destroy it, and having succeeded in that for which she had been so intensely anxious, the reaction followed. left to herself, she wondered if she had been right; whether she were wise to trust to reason rather than instinct; whether she had not perhaps in some dim, uncomprehended way put frank in a position of terrible danger. but where or what, in the name of all that is rational, could the danger be? yet there rose up before her, as if in answer to her question, the remembrance of frank's face while he was painting. could she account for that rationally? she was bound to confess she could not. it was a great relief to know that it would soon be over. the important part frank had told her would be done to-day, in an hour or two. in the whole range of human possibilities she could think of nothing which could happen in an hour or two which would justify frank's fears. he was not well, she thought; but she regarded the finishing of this portrait as a sort of slight surgical operation which would remove the cause of his mental disease from which his bodily indisposition sprang. for the present she had to get through an hour or two alone, and she busied herself with small, unnecessary duties, and read more of the small, unnecessary book, by a popular author, which we have referred to before. a little before five the post came in, and among other letters for her was a note from jack armitage. "and how goes the portrait?" he concluded, "and am i to be summoned to see a descent into bedlam or an ascent into heaven? oddly enough, there is an artist here of transcendental tendencies who holds exactly the same views as frank. he believes in the danger of losing one's personality, but he also believes in the danger of raising ghosts from one's past life if one paints a portrait of one's self. luckily, frank feels only the danger of losing his personality, and does not think about the ghost-raising. i am glad for his peace of mind--and, perhaps, for you too--that this is so. to fight two sets of ghosts simultaneously might well be too much for one woman, even for you!" margery laid down the letter, and the voice of reason within her became gradually less insistent, and then died away. frank had spoken of another danger more terrible than the one he had told her about, and she would not hear him. there had been a look on his face that frightened and horrified her, and she would not think of it. once on the beach at new quay he had wished to tell her something, and she would not hear him. but the thing was impossible. true; but she was afraid. she felt suddenly unable to cope with his fears, now that she had begun to share them. then armitage's last words came back to her--"beach hotel, new quay. i will come at once." margery felt ashamed of yielding, but she justified her yielding to herself. the presence of another person in the house would be a good thing. she knew the absolute necessity of keeping her nerves in perfect order, and there is nothing so infectious as disorders of the nerves. she got her hat and walked straight off to the village in order to send the telegram. she felt as if she did not even wish her own servants to know she was doing it, and preferred to send it herself than giving it to one of them. the sun was already sinking to its setting, but there would be plenty of time to walk down and get back before it was dark. frank had said that the portrait was terrible after sunset, and though she tried to laugh at the thought, the laugh would not come. decidedly, armitage's presence would be a good thing. it took her a minute or two to send the telegram satisfactorily, but eventually she wrote: "nothing is wrong, but please come. frank is rather trying." she left the office and walked back quickly up the village, only to run into mrs. greenock, at the corner by the vicarage. though she was anxious to get back, it was impossible not to exchange a few words. "and how does the portrait get on?" asked that estimable woman. "i had such a deeply interesting conversation with mr. trevor about it when we dined at your house. is it wonderful? is it a revelation? does it show us what he is, not only what he looks like?" "frank's very much excited about it," said margery, "which is always a good sign. i think he is satisfied." "and when will it be finished?" asked mrs. greenock. "your husband was so good as to tell me i might see it when it was done. i am looking forward to an intellectual as well as an artistic treat." "it ought to be done to-morrow," said margery. "he has been working very hard." "a giant," murmured mrs. greenock--"a gigantic personality. are you walking home? may i not accompany you a little way? i too have been hard at work to-day, and i have come out to get a breath of fresh air, and perhaps an idea or two." mrs. greenock walked with margery up to the lodge-gates, beguiling the tedium of the way with instructive discourse, and kept her several moments longer there, bidding her observe the exquisite glow in the western sky where the sun had already gone down. margery saw with annoyance that mrs. greenock had been quite right--the sun had already set, and the twilight was falling in darker and darker layers over the earth when she reached the house. she went quickly up the passage leading to the studio and opened the door. frank was standing on the other side of the room, with his face turned towards her, a piece of crumpled paper in his hands. the shadow cast from the window fell on the right side of his face, but in the dim light she could see that there was that expression of guilt and horror on it which she had seen there twice before. "why, frank," she said, "you can't paint by this light!" something stirring at her elbow made her turn round quickly. frank was sitting in a deep chair in the shadow, staring blankly before him. she had mistaken the portrait for her husband. * * * * * for a moment neither of them spoke or moved. then frank got out of the chair where he was sitting and crossed the room to where the horrible fac-simile of himself stood against the wall, and putting himself unconsciously, margery felt, into the same attitude, turned to her. "i have worked quickly to-night," he said. "i have almost finished." margery looked suddenly back at the portrait, and noticed with a cold, growing horror that she had been the victim of some illusion. the light from the window cast no shadow at all on to it, and the shadow on the face was painted on the left side, not the right. frank paused, and margery knew that her telegram would be useless. the matter was between herself and frank. if help could reach him it must come from her. in a moment she understood all. the vague fear, the disconnected hints, the thing he had wished to tell her once at new quay, and once again that morning, the guilty face, her own shrinking, formed links of a connected chain. she had shrunk from what was evil, as frank had shrunk from it and loathed it when she was there; but the fascination of which, interpreted by his artistic passion, he had been unable to resist. his own skill had raised the thing that he had thought was dead into new life, and now it asserted its old supremacy. in a few moments he spoke again. "do you see how like we are?" he said, speaking slowly, as if he had some difficulty in finding words. "no wonder you mistook it for me. you cannot see it properly in this light; in the daylight the likeness is even more extraordinary. is it not clever of me to have painted such a picture? there is no picture like it in the world. it must go to the academy next year, margery, as a posthumous work. it is a creation. i have made a man!" frank paused, but margery said nothing. "there were some things about me you did not know before--things which were part of me, and had been vital to me," he went on. "once or twice i wished to tell you of them, but you would not hear. now you see them. i think you cannot help seeing them. you can see them in the portrait's face and in mine--clearest in mine; but to-morrow they will be quite as clear in the other. they say that hearing firing brings corpses to the surface. i dare say it is true--at any rate, i have brought corpses to the surface. they are not pretty; corpses seldom are." margery came a step nearer to him, though her flesh cried out against it. "frank! frank!" she said. "wait a moment," said he. "i wish to tell you more. a critic has no right, as i said, to criticise unless he knows more about the picture than the artist, but the artist may criticise his own picture. this is my picture--all mine. and it is me. it is all true. do you remember last sunday, margy, when greenock read about the judgment books being opened, and every man being judged by what was written in them? by-the-way, mrs. greenock writes sonnets. he said she was an accomplished sonneteer. well, do you know what those books are? they are nothing else than the faces, the real faces, of the men who are being judged. what chance do you think i shall have, for that is my book you see painted there--an illuminated manuscript. why did you wish me to do it so much? can you read it all? can you see the café chantant in it? can you see paris, and the cruelty and the sweetness and bitterness of it? can you see claire in it, petite claire, and the end, the whole of it, the pleasure, the weariness, the--the morgue? yes, that was where i saw her last." "no, frank, no," said margery; "don't tell me." "it is not pleasant," said he. "it is not amusing to go to hell, as i have gone. this is not a nice book to read; i wish now i had never written it--'the life and adventures of frank trevor,' by himself." the horror of great darkness had come on margery. she felt the physical result, which is stronger than all things in the world except love. she loved frank and frank loved her. there was still a chance. frank had picked up from the table the little yellow programme which he had painted and held it in his hands, turning it over and over. "it won't break," he said, "it won't bend. my god! what am i to do? but--but i have written my judgment book; yet there are some chapters which i have not written. i cannot remember them. they were some chapters you and i wrote together about-- but you will have forgotten--you gave me up. margy, cannot you remember what they were? there was one chapter we wrote down in that little creek where we went to-day." frank stopped, and looked about the room as if he were searching for something. in that pause love triumphed. margery went to him quickly. the physical revolt was dead, for she loved him. she laid her hand on his shoulder. "frank," she said, "do you remember that you asked me whether i wished you to go on with that picture? i said i did, but i am here to tell you that i have changed my mind. i think you had better not go on with it. tear it up, burn it. it is not good; it is devilish. and when you have done that we will go and find those chapters you spoke of, which we wrote together, you and i alone. did you think they were lost? could you not remember them? i remember them all. i have them quite safe. there are none of them lost." for a moment a look of intense relief came over frank's face. even in the darkness margery could see that it had changed utterly. she glanced with sick horror at the portrait which only five minutes before she had thought was actually her husband. but almost immediately he shook his head. "no, i must finish it now," he said. "i do not believe in death-bed repentance. there is very little more to do, for i have worked quickly to-day. just one thing wants doing--a shadow is to be deepened in the mouth. do you see what i mean? no, it is too dark for you to see it, though i can see it quite clearly. i wish i could explain to you what i mean, but you will never understand. don't you see it is i who stand there on that easel? this thing which you think is me is nearly dead. it is like pygmalion, isn't it, only the other way round? he made his statue come to life, but i have put my life into that picture. if ever the story of pygmalion is true, i could have done that; it is easier than what i have done." "yes, dear," said margery, "i knew the picture would be a wonderful thing. but it is too dark to look at it now and too dark for you to paint. let us come away, and we will find those chapters you spoke of. i have got them all, i tell you. they seem to me very good and very important--quite as important now, and much better, than the chapters you have written there." she put her hand through frank's arm, and all her soul went into that touch. "come," she said; "they are not here." for one moment she felt frank's arm tremble under the loving press of her fingers, but he said nothing and did not move. "you asked me to kiss you this afternoon," she said; "and now, frank, i ask you to kiss me. kiss me on the lips, for we are husband and wife." and standing by that painted horror he kissed her. "and now come out for a few moments," said margery, "for i cannot tell you here." frank obeyed, and together in silence they walked out on to the terrace. "let us sit down here," said she, "and i will tell you what you have forgotten." "those other chapters?" asked frank. "i want them, for the picture is not complete." "yes, those other chapters. they are very short. just this, frank, that i loved you, and love you now. i see what your fear was: it was fear for me, not for yourself. you thought that if you painted this picture you would have to put something into it which i did not know--something you were afraid of my hearing. i know it, and i am not afraid. but the chapters we wrote together are still true; they are the truest part of all. your picture is not complete. it wants the most essential part of all." once more she felt a tremor go through his arm, but still he said nothing. "you told me i did not understand what you meant," she said, "but i understand now. and you too did not understand me if you thought that anything in the world could make any difference to my love for you. we have all of us in our natures something not nice to look at, but what we stand or fall by is our beautiful chapters. you cannot destroy them, frank, though you thought you could, because they belong to me as well as you, and i will not have them destroyed. you thought you had lost them, but you have not. they are here. you may read them now with me." margery paused, and on the silence came the sudden, quick-drawn breath that opens the gates of tears. in a moment she felt frank's arms round her, and his hands clasped about her neck. "margy! margy!" he whispered, "have you got them now, even now? my god! how little i knew! you shrank from me, and i thought you had given me up; that there was nothing left to me but that--that horror. but what can i do? my judgment book is written. is not that true too?" "do you remember what you said?" asked margery. "did you not tell me that you loathed what you were painting? why did you loathe it?" "why did i loathe it? why, because it was--something horrible, wretched!" "let us go to the studio," said margery. "no, no!" cried he; "anywhere but there." "come, frank," she said, "you must come with me." in the passage hung a trophy made of knives and swords which frank had once bought in the soudan. margery took down one of these, a thick steel dagger, short and two-edged. on the table below stood a lamp, and this she took in her other hand. "open the door," she said to frank. then she gave the dagger into his hand, and with the lamp, she stood opposite the picture. "now!" she said. he stood for a moment feeling the edge of the dagger, looking at margery. then with a sudden movement he grasped the side of the easel with one hand, and with the other plunged the dagger through the face. "you devil, you devil!" he said. he cut and stabbed the picture in fifty places. the torn shreds he ripped off and threw on the ground, trampling on them or picking them up to tear them again, and in a few moments all that there was left was a few shreds hanging from the frame. jack armitage arrived next day. he never knew why margery had sent for him, but she thanked him so genuinely for coming that he was not sorry he came. the end