Chapter 19. Charley Nurses Me

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_ CHAPTER XIX. CHARLEY NURSES ME

I saw no more of Clara. Mr Coningham came to bid me good-bye, and spoke very kindly. Mr Forest would have got a nurse for me, but Charley begged so earnestly to be allowed to return the service I had done for him that he yielded.

I was in great pain for more than a week. Charley's attentions were unremitting. In fact he nursed me more like a woman than a boy; and made me think with some contrition how poor my ministrations had been. Even after the worst was over, if I but moved, he was at my bedside in a moment. Certainly no nurse could have surpassed him. I could bear no one to touch me but him: from any one else I dreaded torture; and my medicine was administered to the very moment by my own old watch, which had been brought to do its duty at least respectably.

One afternoon, finding me tolerably comfortable, he said, 'Shall I read something to you, Wilfrid?'

He never called me Willie, as most of my friends did.

'I should like it,' I answered.

'What shall I read?' he asked.

'Hadn't you something in your head,' I rejoined, 'when you proposed it?'

'Well, I had; but I don't know if you would like it.'

'What did you think of, then?'

'I thought of a chapter in the New Testament.'

'How could you think I should not like that?'

'Because I never saw you say your prayers.'

'That is quite true. But you don't think I never say my prayers, although you never see me do it?'

The fact was, my uncle, amongst his other peculiarities, did not approve of teaching children to say their prayers. But he did not therefore leave me without instruction in the matter of praying--either the idlest or the most availing of human actions. He would say, 'When you want anything, ask for it, Willie; and if it is worth your having, you will have it. But don't fancy you are doing God any service by praying to him. He likes you to pray to him because he loves you, and wants you to love him. And whatever you do, don't go saying a lot of words you don't mean. If you think you ought to pray, say your Lord's Prayer, and have done with it.' I had no theory myself on the matter; but when I was in misery on the wild mountains, I had indeed prayed to God; and had even gone so far as to hope, when I got what I prayed for, that he had heard my prayer.

Charley made no reply.

'It seems to me better that sort of thing shouldn't be seen, Charley,' I persisted.

'Perhaps, Wilfrid; but I was taught to say my prayers regularly.' 'I don't think much of that either,' I answered. 'But I've said a good many prayers since I've been here, Charley. I can't say I'm sure it's of any use, but I can't help trying after something--I don't know what--something I want, and don't know how to get.'

'But it's only the prayer of faith that's heard--do you believe, Wilfrid?'

'I don't know. I daren't say I don't. I wish I could say I do. But I dare say things will be considered.'

'Wouldn't it be grand if it was true, Wilfrid?'

'What, Charley?'

'That God actually let his creatures see him--and--all that came of it, you know?'

'It would be grand indeed! But supposing it true, how could we be expected to believe it like them that saw him with their own eyes? _I_ couldn't be required to believe just as if I could have no doubt about it. It wouldn't be fair. Only--perhaps we haven't got the clew by the right end.'

'Perhaps not. But sometimes I hate the whole thing. And then again I feel as if I _must_ read all about it; not that I care for it exactly, but because a body must do something--because--I don't know how to say it--because of the misery, you know.'

'I don't know that I do know--quite. But now you have started the subject, I thought that was great nonsense Mr Forest was talking about the authority of the Church the other day.'

'Well, _I_ thought so, too. I don't see what right they have to say so and so, if they didn't hear him speak. As to what he meant, they may be right or they may be wrong. If they _have_ the gift of the Spirit, as they say--how am I to tell they have? All impostors claim it as well as the true men. If I had ever so little of the same gift myself, I suppose I could tell; but they say no one has till he believes--so they may be all humbugs for anything I can possibly tell; or they may be all true men, and yet I may fancy them all humbugs, and can't help it.'

I was quite as much astonished to hear Charley talk in this style as some readers will be doubtful whether a boy could have talked such good sense. I said nothing, and a silence followed.

'Would you like me to read to you, then?' he asked.

'Yes, I should; for, do you know, after all, I don't think there's anything like the New Testament.'

'Anything like it!' he repeated. 'I should think not! Only I wish I did know what it all meant. I wish I could talk to my father as I would to Jesus Christ if I saw _him_. But if I could talk to my father, he wouldn't understand me. He would speak to me as if I were the very scum of the universe for daring to have a doubt of what _he_ told me.'

'But he doesn't mean _himself_,' I said.

'Well, who told him?'

'The Bible.'

'And who told the Bible?'

'God, of course.'

'But how am I to know that? I only know that they say so. Do you know, Wilfrid--I _don't_ believe my father is quite sure himself, and that is what makes him in such a rage with anybody who doesn't think as he does. He's afraid it mayn't be true after all.'

I had never had a father to talk to, but I thought something must be wrong when a boy _couldn't_ talk to his father. My uncle was a better father than that came to.

Another pause followed, during which Charley searched for a chapter to fit the mood. I will not say what chapter he found, for, after all, I doubt if we had any real notion of what it meant. I know, however, that there were words in it which found their way to my conscience; and, let men of science or philosophy say what they will, the rousing of a man's conscience is the greatest event in his existence. In such a matter, the consciousness of the man himself is the sole witness. A Chinese can expose many of the absurdities and inconsistencies of the English: it is their own Shakspere who must bear witness to their sins and faults, as well as their truths and characteristics.

After this we had many conversations about such things, one of which I shall attempt to report by-and-by. Of course, in any such attempt all that can be done is to put the effect into fresh conversational form. What I have just written must at least be more orderly than what passed between us; but the spirit is much the same, and mere fact is of consequence only as it affects truth. _

Read next: Chapter 20. A Dream

Read previous: Chapter 18. Again The Ice-Cave

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