SOME years ago, when Effie was living in London, a friend wrote to her saying, “There is a poor girl named Charlotte P., who is ill in an invalid Home not far from you. The lady who sent her there would be glad if you would go sometimes and see her, for she has no friends in London, and must feel lonely.” Effie went at once to the Home. She was taken into a bright, pleasant-looking sitting-room, where she was left for a time alone. The room was very simply furnished, but everything was quaint and pretty: it was like a room in an old picture. Effie had time to look about her, and to observe the little prints of saints and angels, and the bookcase full of books which Effie knew too well, for she had once been very fond of those old legends of the saints, and of story books which tell us how people find their way to heaven by baptism and by good works. After a while two Sisters of Mercy came into the room. They were pretty, gentle-looking young women, and they looked all the prettier from wearing a very simple gray dress and neat white caps. Effie asked if she might see Charlotte P., to which one of them replied, “I am sorry to refuse you, but Charlotte is too ill to talk, or to see visitors. We are very much afraid of exciting her, and have to keep her very quiet.”
“What’s that about, Sister Mary?” said a gentleman, who had suddenly walked in, and who was, as Effie afterward discovered, the doctor.
“The lady asked to see Charlotte P.,” said Sister Mary, rather stiffly, “but I have told her it might be very bad for Charlotte to see visitors, so ill as she is to-day.”
Effie felt quite awe-struck by the solemn dignity with which Sister Mary said these words. But it was not so with the doctor, who looked amused.
“Fiddlesticks!” he said; “I have just seen her. She is not a bit too ill — do her a world of good. Take the lady up there at once.”
A black cloud came over Sister Mary’s face, but there was no help for it, and she therefore led the way in silence up the stairs.
“There,” she said, pointing to a door, “Charlotte is in bed. You can go in.” And so saying, she disappeared down the stairs.
Effie opened the door and went in. There were only two people in the room, and, as only one was in bed, it was easy to know which was Charlotte. The other person was a woman who sat in front of the fire, her feet on the fender, reading a book. As her back was towards Effie, she could not help seeing the book, which was a novel. Charlotte was sitting up in bed. She was an innocent-looking girl, with a very sweet face and golden hair.
“There is no time to be lost,” Effie thought, “in speaking to Charlotte about her soul, for it is very unlikely I shall ever be allowed to see her again.” So, when she had asked her a few questions about her health, she said to her, “Charlotte, are you saved?”
Charlotte looked at her in silence. But the woman who was reading turned suddenly round, and fixed her great black eyes on Effie’s face. She was quite young, but she looked strangely miserable.
“Since I came here,” she said, “I believe that it is impossible to be saved.”
“Why do you say that?” Effie asked.
“I say it,” she answered, “because there are so many, many things that one has to do before one can be saved. I don’t see how one can ever do them.”
“What are they?” asked Effie.
“I can hardly tell you,” she said. First of all, I must repent of my sins — of all — all of my sins. I must confess them, and be very, very sorry for them. Then I must leave them off, and then I must do good works, and I must pray very much. And I shall never know when I have repented enough, or prayed enough, or done good works enough to be saved. I can never, never know, and I try not to think about it.” And then the poor girl put down her book, and covered her face with her hands, and began to cry.
“Who told you that you must do all those things before you can be saved?” asked Effie.
“The ladies here say so, and Mr. Black, the chaplain,” she answered.
“Do you know what God has said about it?”
“No,” she said, “I know only what I have told you.”
“It is time then you should know what God says. I wish you very much to listen whilst I read to you what He has said. ‘Be it known unto you therefore,’ He says, ‘that through this Man’ (that is, Jesus) ‘is preached unto you the forgiveness of sins; and by Him all that believe are justified from all things.’ What is it you have to believe It is to believe that which really happened, namely, that the Lord Jesus Christ, who is God as well as Man, bore the whole punishment of all your sins. God says, ‘Christ died for our sins. Christ died for the ungodly. When we were enemies we were reconciled to God’ (not by our own doings or feelings, but) ‘by the death of His Son.’ And God says, ‘To him that worketh not, but believeth on Him that justifieth the ungodly, his faith is counted for righteousness.’ Also Jesus said, ‘Verily, verily, I say unto you, He that heareth My word, and believeth on Him that sent Me, hath everlasting life, and shall not come into condemnation, but is passed from death unto life.’”
Effie read on more of these wonderful sayings of God, and the two girls listened as if for their lives.
“It seems then that God will forgive us entirely, and at once, if we go straight to Him, and believe that Jesus died for our sins,” said the girl with black eyes, whose name was Louisa.
“Yes, you are quite right,” said Effie, “entirely, and at once. For He is perfectly satisfied, not with your repentance, or prayers, or works, but with the work of His Son, the work done by Jesus on the Cross. He did the work to save us, and He did it perfectly. You need not think ‘have I done enough?’ Of course you have not, and you never can. But the question, is ‘Has Jesus done enough to save me?’ God says He has, and we must believe God.”
After a few words more, Effie said, “Goodbye, I will come again if I can.”
“Oh, don’t go,” said Charlotte and Louisa together. Then Charlotte whispered to Louisa, and Louisa said, “We want to ask you something more. If it is really true that God forgives us Himself, at once, and entirely, what good would Mr. Black’s forgiveness do us? What can we want more than God’s forgiveness?”
“Why should you want Mr. Black’s forgiveness?” said Effie; “you have sinned against God, not against Mr. Black. It is God’s forgiveness that we need. And when we have it, what more can we have?”
“I thought so,” said Louisa. “But they tell us here that we are only forgiven when Mr. Black forgives us. Now I see that we may go straight to God Himself. That is all we want.” And so Effie left them, much fearing that she would see them no more.
A few days after she went again to the Home, and was received as before by Sister Mary.
“Can I see Charlotte?” inquired Effie.
“Yes,” replied Sister Mary; “you can see her. But you will be kind enough to allow me to be in the room. I have to mark the linen,” she added, taking up a large basket, and a bottle of marking ink, with which she led the way to Charlotte’s room.
This time it was a larger room, with other persons in it, some up, and some in bed. Amongst them was Louisa. Other Sisters were there also. The room, like all the other rooms in the Home, was bright and pretty, and so clean and comfortable that, could one have found sick people, who had only bodies and no souls, one would gladly have sent them there. Sister Mary sat down at Effie’s elbow, and began her task. Effie now found she had left her Bible at home, but she saw one on a table not far off. “Sister Mary, would you kindly lend me a Bible?” she asked.
“Indeed,” replied Sister Mary, rather sternly, “it is perfectly needless for you to read the Bible to Charlotte. So many ladies come here and read the Bible, more of it is quite unnecessary.”
Effie, however, took the Bible from the table, and said, “I am sure you will allow me to read three verses. I do not wish to read more, and I will not stay long.” She waited for a moment for Sister Mary’s answer, but as she remained silent Effie read the three wonderful verses in John 3. “As Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, even so must the Son of Man be lifted up that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have eternal life. For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.” “There was but one way,” said Effie, “for the poor dying people in the wilderness to be saved from death. The fiery serpents had bitten them, and there was no escape till God told Moses to put up the brazen serpent on the pole. Then there was a way to be saved from death — one way only. It was to look at that brazen serpent. God did not tell them to do anything but look at that. For what could they do besides? They were dying. He did not tell them to feel anything, or to ask for anything. He told them to look. And it is Jesus Himself who tells us that He was meant by that brazen serpent, and that we are meant by the dying people, and that there is one only way by which we can be saved from everlasting death, by looking to Jesus, who was lifted up on the Cross for our sins. We look, and we are saved.”
At this moment some visitors came in, and Sister Mary rose to speak to them. Charlotte seized the opportunity. She leaned across the bed, and whispered to Effie, “All my sins are forgiven. I know it. I know that what they tell me here is wrong. I was taught at school how Jesus saves us, and now I am saved.”
And then as Sister Mary returned to her marking, Effie took leave of her, and remarked that a cloud had settled upon her face, which was in strange contrast to the bright smile upon the face of Charlotte.
When she next went to the Home, not long afterward, the front door was opened to her by Sister Mary herself. “You cannot see Charlotte,” she said at once, very decidedly. “She is dying.”
Effie was surprised, for Charlotte had looked stronger and better the last time, and she could hardly believe in this sudden change. “I will come again to-morrow,” she said, “and perhaps she will be able to see me then.”
“I have told you she is in the very act of dying,” repeated Sister Mary.
“In any case,” said Effie, “I will call tomorrow. She may perhaps have revived by that time.”
“It is no use to call to-morrow if she does revive,” replied Sister Mary. “To-morrow is Saturday. No visitors are allowed here except on Sundays, and that is another reason too why you can’t see her to-day.”
“But,” said Effie, “I have been here twice before. Neither time was it on Sunday, and you never said a word to me about visitors being forbidden to come on week days. I am unable to come on Sunday, but I am quite sure the Lady Superior will allow me to call to-morrow, when I tell her that Miss H. desired me to see Charlotte. Where shall I find her?”
“She is not here, she is out,” replied Sister Mary.
“I will write her a note this evening, and I am sure she will give me leave to call whenever I am able to do so,” said Effie. “Good-bye.”
But Sister Mary did not return the goodbye. She stood with the door in her hand, as though she were meditating. “Perhaps I had better be candid with you,” she said suddenly.
“By all means,” replied Effie, “it is always the best plan to tell the truth.”
Sister Mary then led the way with great solemnity to a small room at the end of the passage. A crucifix and two chairs were the only furniture that Effie could remember there. “It’s a painful duty — but it is a duty,” she began, “to tell you my real reason for forbidding you to see Charlotte. The fact is, that the last time you were here, you broke the rules of the Home, and cannot, therefore, be allowed to continue your visits.”
“I am sorry I broke the rules,” replied Effie. “I would not have done so had I been aware of it. But I was quite ignorant of the rules, and, therefore, I hope you will excuse it. May I ask what was the rule I broke?”
“You read the Bible,” said Sister Mary. “That is entirely against the rules.”
“But,” said Effie, “you remember that when I asked you for a Bible, you told me that so many ladies came to read the Bible, it was quite unnecessary that I should do so too. How then could I suppose it was against the rules?”
Sister Mary looked confused. “Suppose, after all, I let you go up this time,” she said. “Only promise me that you will not read the Bible. You may have a story-book to read to Charlotte, if you like.”
“But,” said Effie, for she felt really bewildered by this proposal, “you told me five minutes ago Charlotte is in the act of dying. You now say I may go and read her a storybook. Why should you wish me to read a story-book to a dying person?”
“I don’t want you to read a story-book,” replied Sister Mary. “I thought you wanted to read. All I ask you to promise is, that you will not read the Bible.”
“I will promise you that,” said Effie. “I can say all I have to say. I will read nothing.”
Sister Mary rose and led the way upstairs. Her hand was already upon Charlotte’s door, when she turned suddenly round, and said — “Before I let you in you must promise me one thing more. Promise me that you will not speak to Charlotte about Christ.”
For a moment Effie remained speechless. Could Sister Mary really mean this? “Promise me that,” she repeated.
“I will not promise you that,” said Effie. “What else have I to speak about to a dying person? I have nothing else to say.”
“Then you will not go in,” said Sister Mary, very decidedly. And she pointed down the stairs, meaning that Effie was to follow the direction of her finger. She then led her back to the small room with the two chairs.
Effie had now forgotten Charlotte altogether, in the thought that Sister Mary had a soul, and that this might be the one only opportunity for speaking to her of aim whose name she had forbidden to the dying girl.
“Why,” she asked her, “should you desire me not to speak to a dying person of the only Saviour? Is there any other way to be saved besides believing in Jesus?”
“Of course,” said Sister Mary, scornfully, “I know as well as you do that we must believe in Jesus. But we must also do good works. And that you leave out. It is paiul to me to tell you, but I believe I ought to tell you, that after you came here last time, there was what I may call a riot — yes, positively a riot — in the ward upstairs where Charlotte was. It was the day you read to them about that snake. And you said the people had only to look at the snake and be well all at once. And, when you were gone, that girl Louisa stood up and told us all to our faces that we were leading them in a wrong road, and that there was only one way to be saved, and that was just simply believing in Jesus — nothing else! And she said people who believed were saved at once— there and then! You may think what were our feelings at being preached to by a girl like Louisa. That she should take upon herself to teach us! And there is Charlotte led away by it, and thinking herself saved! And we who know Charlotte, and consider that she needs a great deal more to make her fit for heaven, can only be shocked and grieved at her presumption and pride.”
“Yet you would have me read a storybook to her in her last moments, and you, who think that she is not saved, forbid me to speak to her of the only Saviour.”
Sister Mary looked at Effie with a disdainful smile, and drawing herself up to her full height, she said, “I am quite sure that you are not at all aware what a holy house this is. Did you bat know it, you would certainly not think it necessary to come here and speak of Christ.”
“I did not know,” replied Effie, “that it is the mark of a holy place that the name of Christ is forbidden there. Is not heaven a holy place; even holier than this house? If ever we meet in heaven, do you think that there we shall speak of Him? Sister Mary, do you expect to be there one day?”
“I humbly hope I shall go there,” replied Sister Mary.
“If it is to the precious blood of Christ that we are trusting, we may know that we shall be there,” said Effie, “for the work of Christ is a perfect work. He said upon the cross, ‘It is finished.’ There is nothing more to add to it to make us fit for heaven. No repentance, no prayers, no works can be added on to His perfect work, for ‘It is finished.’ We can bring Him nothing — nothing but our sins. He gives us everything, for He Himself has won heaven for us by His precious blood, and ‘To him that worketh not, but believeth on Him that justifieth the ungodly’ (not the godly, but the ungodly), ‘his faith is counted for righteousness.’”
Sister Mary, who had but just spoken of her humble hope, said with an icy smile, “You speak to me just as if I had to be saved like a drunkard in the streets.”
“If you think there are two ways to be saved, one for you and one for the drunkard, Sister Mary, you have never yet known what the way is; yes, you, and the drunkards, and the thieves, and the vilest of sinners must all be saved in the same way, or not at all. It is as a vile, lost sinner that you must come to Christ, and take the same place that they do. The filthy rags of their sinfulness, and the filthy rags of your righteousness are of equal value before God. When you believe that, you will be glad to believe that the blood of Christ is that which is so precious in the eyes of God that it opens heaven to the chief of sinners.”
“I have no wish to argue with you,” was the answer of Sister Mary. She led the way to the front door, took the key from her girdle, and in another moment Effie stood alone in the square.
Poor Sister Mary! It was only a few years before that Effie had thought and spoken as she had done. She could only pity her, for she knew that she was miserable. She could remember only too well the wretchedness of the heart that has never yet been able to say, “He loved me, and gave Himself for me.” She saw Sister Mary only once more, and then, to her surprise, she allowed her to see Charlotte all alone, having made no further difficulties, except by telling her that she had been moved to a room up five flights of stairs, which would be very tiring for Effie to climb. Charlotte was better, and was bright and happy. She was just going to be moved to a hospital, for Sister Mary and the other Sisters were all going away for a holiday. Effie, too, was leaving London.
Some months after, she met with a Bible-woman who had been ill in a hospital. In the next bed to her, Charlotte P. had died. She said to the last that her sins were forgiven, that she was trusting in Jesus only, and that she was perfectly happy.
Effie could never find out what became of Louisa. She had left the Home before Charlotte died, quite cured. We can only hope that she has “preached” to many more lost sinners as simply and faithfully as she preached to the Sisters in the Home. For though women are not called to be preachers as men are, they have many opportunities of speaking, like the woman of Sychar, to those with whom they have to do. And if this is called preaching they may bear the reproach.
F. B.