University of Virginia Library

47. CHAPTER XLVII.
“IN THE FORGIVENESS OF SINS.”

THIS article of faith forms a part of the profession
of all Christendom, is solemnly recited every Sunday
and many week-days in the services of all Christian
churches that have a liturgy, whether Roman or
Greek or Anglican or Lutheran, and may, therefore, bid
fair to pass for a fundamental doctrine of Christianity.

Yet, if narrowly looked into, it is a proposition under
which there are more heretics and unbelievers than all
the other doctrines of religion put together.

Mrs. Maria Wouvermans, standing, like a mother in
Israel, in the most eligible pew of Dr. Cushing's church,
has just pronounced these words with all the rest of the
Apostles' Creed, which she has recited devoutly twice a
day every Sunday for forty years or more. She always
recited her creed in a good, strong, clear voice, designed
to rebuke the indolent or fastidious who only mumbled
or whispered, and made a deep reverence in the proper
place at the name of Jesus; and somehow it seemed to feel
as if she were witnessing a good confession, and were part
and parcel with the protesting saints and martyrs that, in
blue and red and gold, were shining down upon her
through the painted windows. This solemn standing
up in her best bonnet and reciting her Christian faith
every Sunday, was a weekly testimony against infidelity
and schism and lax doctrines of all kinds, and the good
lady gave it with unfaltering regularity. Nothing would
have shocked her more than to have it intimated to her
that she did not believe the articles of her own faith; and

yet, if there was anything in the world that Mrs. Maria
Wouvermans practically did n't believe in, and did n't
mean to believe in, it was “the forgiveness of sins.”

As long as people did exactly right, she had fellowship
and sympathy with them. When they did wrong,
she wished to have nothing more to do with them.
Nay, she seemed to consider it a part of public justice
and good morals to clear her skirts from all contact
with sinners. If she heard of penalties and troubles
that befell evil doers, it was with a face of grim satisfaction.
“It serves them right—just what they ought
to expect. I don't pity them in the least,” were familiar
phrases with her. If anybody did her an injury,
crossed her path, showed her disrespect or contumely,
she seemed to feel as free and full a liberty of soul to
hate them as if the Christian religion had never been
heard of. And, in particular, for the sins of women,
Aunt Maria had the true ingrain Saxon ferocity which
Sharon Turner describes as characteristic of the original
Saxon female in the earlier days of English history,
when the unchaste woman was pursued and beaten,
starved and frozen, from house to house, by the merciless
justice of her sisters.

It is the same spirit that has come down through
English law and literature, and shows itself in the old
popular ballad of “Jane Shore,” where, without a word
of pity, it is recorded how Jane Shore, the king's mistress,
after his death, first being made to do public
penance in a white sheet, was thereafter turned out to
be frozen and starved to death in the streets, and died
miserably in a ditch, from that time called Shoreditch.
A note tells us that there was one man who, moved by
pity, at one time sheltered the poor creature and gave
her food, for which he was thrown into prison, to the
great increase of her sorrow and misery.

It was in a somewhat similar spirit that Mrs. Wouvermans
regarded all sinning women. Her uniform ruling
in such cases was that they were to be let alone by all
decent people, and that if they fell into misery and want,
it was only just what they deserved, and she was glad of
it. What business had they to behave so? In her
view, all efforts to introduce sympathy and mercy into
prison discipline—all forbearance and pains-taking with
the sinful and lost in all places in society—was just so
much encouragement given to the criminal classes, and
one of the lax humanitarian tendencies of the age.
It is quite certain that had Mrs. Wouvermans been a
guest in old times at a certain Pharisee's house, where
the Master allowed a fallen woman to kiss His feet, she
would have joined in saying: “If this man were a
prophet he would have known what manner of woman
this is that toucheth him, for she is a sinner.” There
was certainly a marked difference of spirit between her
and that Jesus to whom she bowed so carefully whenever
she repeated the creed.

On this particular Sunday, Eva had come to church
with her aunt, and was going to dine with her, intent
on a mission of Christian diplomacy.

Some weeks had now passed since she left Maggie in
the mission retreat, and it was the belief of the matron
there, and the attending clergyman, that a change had
taken place in her, so radical and so deep that, if now
some new and better course of life were opened to her,
she might, under careful guidance, become a useful
member of society. Whatever views modern skepticism
may entertain in regard to what is commonly called the
preaching of the gospel, no sensible person conversant
with actual facts can help acknowledging that it does
produce in some cases the phenomenon called conversion,
and that conversion, when real, is a solution of all difficulties

in our days as it was in those of the first
apostles.

The first Christians were gathered from the dregs of
society, and the Master did not fear to say to the Pharisees,
“The publicans and harlots go into the kingdom
of heaven before you;” and St. Paul addresses those
who he says had been thieves and drunkards and revilers
and extortioners, with the words, “Ye are washed; ye
are sanctified; ye are justified in the name of the Lord
Jesus and by the spirit of God.”

It is on the power of the Divine spirit to effect such
changes, even in the most hopeless and forlorn subjects,
that Christians of every name depend for success; and
by this faith such places as the Home for the Fallen are
undertaken and kept up.

What people look for, and labor for, as is proved by
all experience, is more liable to happen than what they
do not expect and do not labor for. The experiment of
Mr. James was attended by many marked and sudden
instances of conversion and permanent change of character.
Maggie had been entrapped and drawn in by
Mother Moggs in one of those paroxysms of bitter despair
which burned in her bosom, when she saw, as she
thought, every respectable door of life closed upon her
and the way of virtue shut up beyond return. When she
thought how, while she was cast out as utterly beyond
hope, the man who had betrayed her and sinned with her
was respected, flattered, rich, caressed, and joined in
marriage to a pure and virtuous wife, a blind and keen
sense of injustice awoke every evil or revengeful passion
within her. “If they won't let me do good, I can do
mischief,” she thought, and she was now ready to do all
she could to work misery and ruin for a world that
would give her no place to do better. Mother Moggs
saw Maggie's brightness and smartness, and the remains

of her beauty. She flattered and soothed her. To say
the truth, Mother Moggs was by no means all devil.
She had large remains of that motherly nature which is
common to warm-blooded women of easy virtue. She
took Maggie's part, was indignant at her wrongs, and
offered her a shelter and a share in her business. Maggie
was to tend her bar; and by her talents and her
good looks and attractions Mother Moggs hoped to
double her liquor sales. What if it did ruin the men?
What if it was selling them ruin, madness, beggary—so
much the better;—had they not ruined her?

If Maggie had been left to her own ways, she might
have been the ruin of many. It was the Christ in the
heart of a woman who had the Christian love and Christian
courage to go after her and seek for her, that
brought to her salvation. The invisible Christ must be
made known through human eyes; he must speak
through a voice of earthly love, and a human hand
inspired by his spirit must be reached forth to save.

The sight of Eva's pure, sweet face in that den of
wickedness, the tears of pity in her eyes, the imploring
tones of her voice, had produced an electric revulsion in
Maggie's excitable nature. She was not, then, forsaken:
she was cared for, loved, followed even into the wilderness,
by one so far above her in rank and station. It was
an illustration of what Christian love was, which made
it possible to believe in the love of Christ. The hymns,
the prayers, that spoke of hope and salvation, had a vivid
meaning in the light of this interpretation. The enthusiasm
of gratitude that arose first towards Eva, overflowed
and bore the soul higher towards a Heavenly
Friend.

Maggie was now longing to come back and prove by
her devotion ard obedience her true repentance, and Eva
had decided to take her again. With two weddings

impending in the family, she felt that Maggie's skill with
the needle and her facility in matters pertaining to the
female toilet might do good service, and might give her
the sense of usefulness—the strength that comes from
something really accomplished.

Her former experience made her careful, however, of
those sore and sensitive conditions which attend the
return to virtue in those who have sinned, and which are
often severest where there is the most moral vitality, and
she was anxious to prevent any repetition on Aunt
Maria's part of former unwise proceedings. All the
other habitués of the house partook of her own feeling;
Alice and Angie were warmly interested for the poor
girl; and if Aunt Maria could be brought to tolerate the
arrangement, the danger of a sudden domiciliary visit
from her attended with inflammatory results might be
averted.

So Eva was very sweet and very persuasive in her
manner to-day, for Aunt Maria had been devoting herself
so entirely to the family service during the few weeks
past, that she felt in some sort under a debt of obligation
to her. The hardest person in the world to manage is a
sincere, willful, pig-headed, pertinacious friend who will
insist on doing you all sorts of kindnesses in a way that
plagues about as much as it helps you.

But Eva was the diplomatist of the family; the one
with the precise mixture of the suaviter in modo with the
fortiter in re. She had hitherto carried her points with
the good lady in a way that gave her great advantage, for
Aunt Maria was one of those happily self-complacent
people who do not fail to arrogate to themselves the
after the most strenuous efforts, to hinder, and Eva's
credit of all the good things that they have not been able,
housekeeping and social successes, so far, were quite a
feather in her cap. So, after dinner, Eva began with:

“Well, you know, Aunt Maria, what with these two
weddings coming on, there is to be a terrible pressure of
work—both coming the week after Easter, you see. So,”
she added quickly, “I think it quite lucky that I have
found Maggie and got her back again, for she is one of
the quickest and best seamstresses that I know of.”
Aunt Maria's brow suddenly darkened. Every trace of
good-humor vanished from her face as she said:

“Now do tell me, Eva, if you are going to be such a
fool, when you were once fairly quit of that girl, to bring
her back into your family.”

“Yes, Aunt, I thought it my Christian duty to take
care of her, and see that she did not go to utter ruin.”

“I don't know what you mean,” said Aunt Maria.
“I should say she had gone there now. Do you think
it your duty to turn your house into a Magdalen asylum?”

“No, I do not; but I do think it is our duty to try to
help and save this one girl whom we know—who is truly
repentant, and who wants to do well.”

“Repentant!” said Aunt Maria in a scornful tone.
“Do n't tell me. I know their tricks, and you'll just be
imposed on and get yourself into trouble. I know the
world, and I know all about it.” Eva now rose and
played her last card. “Aunt Maria,” she said, “You
profess to be a Christian and to follow the Saviour who
came to seek and save the lost, and I do n't think you do
right to treat with such scorn a poor girl that is trying to
do better.”

“It's pretty well of you, Miss, to lecture me in this
style! Trying to do better!” said Aunt Maria, “then
what did she go off for, when she was at your house and
you were doing all you could for her? It was just that
she wanted to go to the bad.”

“She went off, Aunt Maria,” said Eva, “because she

overheard all you said about her, the day you were at
my house. She heard you advising me to send her
mother away on her account, and saying that she was a
disgrace to me. No wonder she ran off.”

“Well, serves her right for listening! Listeners
never hear any good of themselves,” said Aunt Maria.

“Now, Aunty,” said Eva, “nobody has more respect
for your good qualities than I have, or more sense of
what we all owe you for your kindness to us; but I
must tell you fairly that, now I am married, you must
not come to my house to dictate about or interfere with
my family arrangements. You must understand that
Harry and I manage these matters ourselves and will not
allow any interference; and I tell you now that Maggie
is to be at our house, and under my care, and I request
that you will not come there to say or do anything which
may hurt her mother's feelings or hers.”

“Mighty fine,” said Aunt Maria, rising in wrath,
“when it has come to this, that servants are preferred
before me!”

“It has not come to that, Aunt Maria. It has simply
come to this: that I am to be sole mistress in my own
family, and sole judge of what it is right and proper to
do; and when I need your advice I shall ask it; but I
do n't want you to offer it unless I do.”

Having made this concluding speech while she was
putting on her bonnet and shawl, Eva now cheerfully
wished her aunt good afternoon, and made the best of
her way down-stairs.

“I do n't see, Eva, how you could get up the courage
to face your aunt down in that way,” said Mrs. Van
Arsdel, to whom Eva related the interview.

“Dear Mamma, it'll do her good. She will be as
sweet as a rose after the first week of indignation. Aunt
Maria is a sensible woman, after all, and resigns herself

to the inevitable. She worries and hectors you, my
precious Mammy, because you will let her. If you'd
show a brave face, she would n't do it; but it is n't in
you, you poor, lovely darling, and so she just preys upon
you; but Harry and I are resolved to make her stand
and give the countersign when she comes to our camp.”

And it is a fact that, a week after, Aunt Maria spent
a day with Eva in the balmiest state of grace, and made
no allusion whatever to the conversation above cited.
Nothing operates so healthfully on such moral constitutions
as a good dose of certainty.