Charlie Scott / or, There's Time Enough

by Unknown

T is Charlie's birthday: two years have passed away since the great going out to tea at Mrs. Greenwell's, and he is now fourteen years old. It is a very quiet and a very sad birthday for Charlie. His father is ill—his good, kind father. This illness had been coming on for the last six months. Many of his neighbours and fellow-workmen had noticed for some time that "John Heedman had a bad look," and would shake their heads and look significantly at each other as he passed by, with his slow gait, his stooping shoulders, and loud, hollow cough, now almost constant, and more painful than ever. Often when Charlie awoke in the night he would hear his father pacing the room, unable to rest, or even lie down. The first time he heard him, he thought "Father must be ill; he has gone downstairs," and springing out of bed, he crept lightly down to see what was the matter.

The shutters were thrown open, and the blind pulled up to the top. Charlie saw it was a calm, still night, and that every part of the sky visible from the window was spangled with a countless multitude of brilliant stars. His father stood at the window—he was leaning slightly forward—with clasped hands, and gazing up with eager, questioning eyes. Charlie felt that he was praying, and crept softly back. He sat down at the foot of the stairs to wait, feeling cold and shivering, and with a strange fear at his heart. He had not sat many minutes when he heard his father moving; then he called softly at the door, "Are you ill, father? can I do anything for you?"

"Why, Charlie, how is this?" said his father, taking him by the hand and bringing him into the room.

"I heard you down here, and I was afraid you were ill. Are you ill?" asked Charlie, anxiously.

"Not altogether ill, perhaps, Charlie, and yet not well. My cough is very bad to-night, I can get no rest; when I lie down I feel as if I should be suffocated. But how cold you are, my boy! run away to bed," he said, trying to speak more cheerfully, "or we shall be having you laid up next."

The cheerful tone did not deceive Charlie; he clung to him. "Father, you are worse than you say—tell me all; do not treat me like a little child; I am nearly fourteen years old."

His father stood for a moment undecided, then he sat down and drew Charlie to him and told him all; how he had felt lately that his cough was getting worse and worse, and his whole frame weaker; that he was afraid some disease of the lungs had taken a firm hold, and that he intended to take a rest the next week and see a doctor if he did not feel any better. "You must not think I am going to die at once," he said, feeling Charlie tremble; "even if I have disease of the lungs I may live a long while yet, if it is God's will. I want you to be a brave boy, and not let your mother see you going about grieving and looking sad, and adding to her sorrow, but do all you can to help and comfort her. If you love me, you will try to do this." Charlie promised to try, and after a few more words of comfort and encouragement John Heedman persuaded him to go to bed. "My dear boy," he said, "you know that your love is a great happiness to me, but you must not come down again if you hear me up in the night; it will make me unhappy if I think I keep you awake."

After this, although Charlie often heard his father of a night, he never came down again; but he crept softly out of bed and knelt down and prayed for him. He asked God to grant—if it were His will—that his father might get better; if not, that He would help him to bear his pain, for Jesus Christ's sake. It was not at all a grand, well-worded prayer, but it was simple, earnest, and heartfelt—just the sort of prayer God loves to listen to.

On the morning of Charlie's birthday, about a fortnight after that night he went down to his father, John Heedman was quite unable to go out to his work; he had been obliged to give up at last, and the doctor was called in. When Charlie was sent out of the room until the doctor's visit was over, he rushed out of the house, unable to bear the suspense, and wandering down to the beach, he lay down to think with his face hidden in his cap, as if to shut out the too joyous sunlight.

As he listened to the low, mournful surging of the waves, all his past life seemed to rise up before him; he remembered with bitter self-reproach how ill he had repaid the love and kindness of those dear ones at home; how often he had caused his mother hours of anxiety by his carelessness and procrastination; for Charlie had not altogether succeeded in conquering his great fault; how selfish he had been in every way. He remembered with shame how he had begged and worried for things without caring or thinking whether they could afford it; he had denied himself nothing, and now all this expense of his father's illness was coming upon them. If they had not taken him to keep when he was friendless, they would have had plenty of money saved, and would have wanted for nothing.