SORROW, HUMILIATION, AND REPENTANCE.
We are quite sure that you have been very glad to read of the progress
which Charlie has made since we first met him on the pier a little
sunburnt boy only eight years old. You have seen what good, kind friends
he met with; how well he was trained; how nobly he came out when his
father was ill in denying himself and going down the mine, and how he
was rewarded; and you have seen, too, how he tried to do something for
God in helping Brownlee and Bob White; and yet we are so sorry to have
to tell you that all this time his old habit of putting off was still
growing up with him, and latterly a good deal of self-righteousness had
crept into his heart. Unconsciously he began to have a very high opinion
of himself, and would often think with pride how different he was from
many boys that he knew.
Unfortunately he seemed to have no idea how completely he was in the
power of his old enemy, procrastination. It would have made our story
much too long if we had told you every instance in which he gave way to
it, but we think you will see that this habit of putting off was his
besetting sin, the one flaw in his character. The ship was sailing
pleasantly along, with decks clean swept, with colours flying, and all
looking well and prosperous; but there was a leak, one little
treacherous leak, which, if it remained unnoticed and unstopped, would
soon bring confusion and destruction upon the ship, gay and gallant
though she looked.
We may often be deceived in ourselves, and think that we are going on
well, but God cannot be deceived. He sees us as we really are, not as we
appear to ourselves and to others. He is training each one of us, and He
saw in Charlie's case that a fiery trial was needed to burn out of him
that besetting sin that had been so long indulged. Just as gold is
purified by being passed through a fiery furnace, so our hearts need to
be purified sometimes by great sorrows, by fiery trials; and so it was
that Charlie had to suffer a most bitter, a most sad and humiliating
fall.
Eleven months had passed since John Heedman first called in the doctor;
he had lingered so long, but now the end was very near. He would not
hear of Charlie staying away from his work, although Mr. Carlton had
kindly offered to let him have a few days at home.
One evening when Charlie came in from work his mother gave him a letter.
"You had better go straight to the post with it," she said, afraid that
he would put off. "Your father is very anxious it should go by
to-night's post. Now, Charlie, _do_ take care," she said, anxiously.
Charlie's good opinion of himself--his pride--was touched.
"I wish, mother, you wouldn't talk to me as if you thought I didn't know
what I was about," he said, in an angry tone, slamming the door after
him as he went out. He had not gone far when he met Bob White, who was
going with a note from the clergyman to get some books out of the
library. "Come with me," said Bob, "and we'll have a look through the
books."
"I've got to go to the post office," said Charlie, "but there's time
enough yet; I'll go with you." He argued with himself, "What's the use
of putting the letter in ever so long before post-time if it won't go a
bit the quicker." He was in an irritable humour, angry to think that
_he_ should have been doubted. If he had been like Tom Brown, or Joe
Denton, or any of those careless fellows, it would have been a different
thing.
Arrived at the library, both the boys were soon interested in looking
over the books, and the time flew rapidly. "I'll just glance at these,"
thought Charlie, taking out two more with very attractive titles, "and
then I must be off to the post."
Charlie took up a third, determined that it _should_ be the last, when
Bob said, "I think you had better inquire how the time goes."
"It's nothing like time for the post to close yet, is it, sir?" he asked
of the librarian.
"It only wants three minutes to the time; it is not possible for you to
save it, I am afraid."
Charlie dashed down the broad steps and along the streets as hard as he
could run; but he was too late, the post had just gone, and he was
obliged to drop the letter into the empty box. He walked slowly home,
out of breath and out of temper, hoping no questions would be asked. "I
don't see why I should say it was too late unless I'm asked," he argued,
shrinking from confessing to his mother that she was justified in
doubting him. Nothing was said about the letter that night; his father
was much worse, and everything else was forgotten. Charlie was almost
heartbroken to see him so ill, and miserable at the thought that he was
deceiving him about the letter.
The next morning, as he was leaving the room to go out to his work, his
father called him back. "Charlie," he said, "I am expecting a sister of
mine to-night, and I want you to go to the train and meet her; she would
get the letter you posted last night this morning, and will have time to
get here by the half-past eight train to-night." He paused for a moment.
Why did not Charlie undeceive him about the letter _at once_? He made
up his mind to tell him, but put it off until his father had finished
all he had to say.
"I have not seen my sister for years," said John Heedman; "she is the
only relative I have living, but some misunderstanding rose up between
us after my mother's death--at least, she took offence, and I do not
know the reason even now. I wrote several times, but she did not answer.
That letter you posted last night was to her; she will come, I know,
when she hears that I am so near death. There must be something to
explain away, and I am anxious for a reconciliation before I die;
indeed, it is the only earthly wish I have left." He said this so
earnestly, and with such an anxious, longing expression in his eyes,
that Charlie was obliged to turn away; he could not bear it.
How _could_ he tell him that she had not got the letter? If only he had
confessed his neglect the same night, before he knew the contents of the
letter, it would not have been half so bad.
"You had better go now, my boy," said his father, kindly, "or you'll be
late at work."
Charlie went. I need not tell you that he had a miserable day.
At night his father called him into his room and gave him as careful a
description of his sister as he could to guide him in knowing her.
Charlie dressed and went to the station, and walked up and down the
platform until the train came in, gazed at the people, and walked home
again. It seemed as if he could not help it; instead of recovering
himself after the first false step, he had gone on sinking deeper and
deeper into sin and deception; he seemed powerless to help himself.
"Hasn't she come?" exclaimed his mother, seeing he was alone. "Oh dear,
what will your father do? he has been almost living upon the expectation
of seeing her these last few hours; he has watched the door ever since
you went out. I'm afraid the disappointment will throw him back sadly."
Charlie could not trust himself to speak, but turned into the sick room.
His father was propped up with pillows, and looked eagerly to the door
when Charlie entered; he still waited in expectation until Mrs. Heedman
came in and closed the door. "Where is she?" he asked; "where is Jane?"
"She has not come," said Mrs. Heedman, gently; "perhaps to-morrow
morning will bring her.--You posted that letter in time, Charlie?" she
asked.
"Yes, mother," Charlie answered, in desperation, and in a very low
voice.
"It will be too late to-morrow," said John Heedman, sinking back on his
pillows exhausted--"it will be too late." He lay so still for about an
hour that Charlie thought he slept; after that he called Charlie to him,
and wished him to sit up that night with his mother. He spoke very
tenderly and lovingly, and told Charlie how happy his gratitude and love
and obedience had made him, and how he thanked God that Charlie had
never told him an untruth or deceived him, although he had still grave
faults to overcome. He spoke for some time, every word sending a pang
to Charlie's heart, who knew how unworthy he was of his confidence and
praise. He sobbed hysterically, but was unable to speak.
What a night that was for Charlie, as he sat there with his mother hour
after hour in the still and darkened room! His anguish and remorse
became unbearable. How could he let his father die without undeceiving
him and asking his forgiveness? He could not--he must not. Oh! if he had
only spoken at first, when the first false step was taken, he would not
have been led into all this sinful deceit, and that terrible lie would
never have been told. Now it was such a difficult task--and yet he must
do it. He glanced at the timepiece: when the hour-hand reached one he
would tell him; he would think now what he had better say--how he should
begin. How fast that hour seemed to fly! It was one o'clock, and he had
nothing ready to say; he dare not begin; he would wait until two,
perhaps his father would be awake then. Two o'clock came; his father
still slept, looking so calm and peaceful--how could he disturb him to
listen to his sad tale of sin and shame?
Soon after his father awoke; he started up and looked anxiously round.
Charlie and his mother felt instinctively that it was death. In his
terror, Charlie sprang towards him. "Father, forgive me," he burst out,
in an imploring tone. "I did _not_ post the letter in time. I told a
lie--forgive me--speak to me! pray forgive me!" A look of unutterable
anguish passed over his father's face. Charlie waited for an answer,
but none came. His father was far away from him--he was at rest; he was
in that home where sin and sorrow cannot come.
It is useless attempting to describe Charlie's misery, it was so great.
His father, who had so loved and trusted him, had at last died, with his
hope in him crushed, his confidence in him broken. His father had died,
listening to his confession of sin and deception, and without being able
to judge whether his repentance was sincere. The confession came too
late for his forgiveness or counsel.
The thought of all this completely crushed Charlie. For hours he sat
crouching on the floor in his own room, without a single comforting
thought. He had not only deceived his father, he had offended God. He
sat in his misery, feeling careless whether he lived or died. No tears
came, but his heart throbbed with a dull, aching pain that was
unbearable.
It was a bitter, bitter lesson to Charlie, but it did its work; it led
him to think and pray more earnestly, and to watch; and by degrees the
darling sin that had been so long indulged was crushed and rooted out.
You will be glad to know that he grew up to manhood, admired and
respected by those who knew him not only for his talent as an engineer,
but for his upright Christian character. One thing he was noted for,
that was punctuality. "No fear of Scott being behind time or putting
off," would often be said of him.
His good mother lived many years to see and share his happiness; and
Harry Greenwell, who had always insisted that Charlie would come out
well in the end, was delighted to see his prophecy fulfilled.
Yet, in the midst of his prosperity, how often Charlie's thoughts went
back to that sad, sad time! all the old feelings of pain and regret
would come back at the remembrance of his sin, and that look of anguish
on his father's face, that could never be forgotten. Yet, although these
thoughts left him saddened for a while, they also left him full of
thankfulness to the Saviour, whose blood cleanseth from all sin, and
grateful to the all-wise and merciful God, who had sent the trial to him
in kindness and love. He saw clearly that if he had only humbly watched
_at first_, that bitter day would have been spared.
J. AND W. RIDER, PRINTERS, LONDON.