Chapter XIII: The Lamp Lighted

"IT'S very kind of him to think about me," said Matthew Hill, as Robert Taylor sat by his bedside, and told him how Mr. Dixon, to whose office he had been sent to execute some delicate piece of work for them there, had felt interested in him, admired his skill, missed him, inquired about him, and hearing that he was ill, had commissioned Robert to find out his residence and attend to his condition.

"It is like himself and everything he does," said Robert, warmly; "it is a pleasure to work for such a master."

"Well, there isn't much the matter with me. I shall soon be right again; but I suppose I did a bit too much, not being over strong since I had rheumatic fever. And these good people, with the doctor at the head of them, want to poison me."

"Now, my friend," began Mrs. Brooks, "you just tell me this. Does your oath bind you never to taste anything that the doctor orders to strengthen and nourish you when you are sick? Because, if it does, it's little short of murder, I say, that's all." And the kind woman looked extremely indignant.

"We take no oath," said Robert, gently.

"No oath! Why, what is it, then? I thought you vowed before God to touch no strong drink."

"Then you are misinformed," answered Robert. "It is a promise to each other and our fellow-men, and a precaution for ourselves under temptation, and it is a disgrace to a man of feeling and honour to break his word: he proves himself unworthy to be trusted: but as there is no oath, failure is no perjury."

"Well to be sure; why, I thought every one that broke his pledge was an awful sinner, and must be punished in the next world as well as this."

"Did you ever break a resolution, Mrs. Brooks, a real solemn resolution to be better, and shake off some great fault, or do some great good?"

"Deary me yes, lots of times; I'm sure I don't pretend to be better than other people."

"Then you stand on the same footing as the poor fellow who breaks his pledge," said Robert.

"Goodness heart alive! Then what's to become of us all, I wonder?" cried Mrs. Brooks, in alarm.

"That's soon told," said Robert, in a modest but firm tone. "We must all go to the same Saviour, and beg for the same mercy, through the same blood shed on the cross, and free to all alike who come."

"Well to be sure," said Mrs. Brooks, looking earnestly in Robert's face; "to hear one as young as you talk like that. It quite does me good, I declare; for though I don't know very much about it myself—I've got so much to do, you see—yet I know religion when I see it in others. But about the wine and things, mayn't you take them on occasions like this?"

"I do not know of any pledge that sets aside the apostle's directions to Timothy after his illness," said Robert, turning to the sick man, "'Take a little wine for thy stomach's sake, and thine often infirmities;' inferring, I should think, that Timothy usually abstained, and needed the advice from Paul the aged, who could not mislead his young friend."

"If Paul stood there," said Matthew Hill, raising himself on his elbow, and speaking earnestly, "I believe he would say to me, Drink nothing of the sort, but be content to die first. What may be medicine to one, is poison and ruin to another. Might I ask you why you took the pledge?"

"My father is foreman of Mr. Dixon's works," said Robert, "and he has had a great deal of trouble with drunkenness among the men; so, for the sake of example, and to show that it is possible to do without strong drink, he took the pledge, and so did I when old enough to understand about it; and we have our reward. Nearly all the men are total abstainers, and a better set of workmen do not stand on British ground, nor men with happier homes and more comfortable families."

"Well now," said Matthew, "just suppose one of those men, once given to drinking, but now sober and steady, yet mistrusting himself if strong temptation beset him; if he took ill, would you put strong drink to his lips, and bid him take it to get well?"

"No," said Robert, promptly.

"But what if a doctor order it, and the patient feels that if he taste it, he is lost?"

"In such a case I would disobey the doctor, and trust in Christ the Saviour for life or death."

"Well, but suppose he dies?" questioned Mrs. Brooks.

"Then let him die sober," said Robert. "Better so than to fall back into sin, living the life and dying the death of a drunkard, a curse to himself and all belonging to him."

"Now that's the right sort," exclaimed the patient, with animation. "So now, young man, we understand each other. You can make it all out for yourself, and won't advise me again to touch the poison."

"But I am not the less hopeful of your recovery," said Robert, smiling. "The doctors have other tonics, and Mrs. Brooks can second them with her kitchen physic."

"I'll do my best, and he shall have some capital beef-tea at once," said the kind woman, trotting away to see if it were as good as she meant it to be.

"I don't know you," said Matthew, in a low voice, to Robert, as soon as they were alone, "but you come on a kind errand, and you are on my side in a matter that concerns me more than you think. You spoke of Christ the Saviour—you know him?"

"I trust so," said Robert.

"Then," said Matthew, eagerly, "can you, will you, ask Him to help me, to heal me?"

"Your soul, or your body?" asked Robert.

"Both," replied the sick man; "but my soul first, because it must last for ever; my body too, that I may use it as long as it lasts to try and make up for the evil I have done in it."

"But you cannot make up for it to the Almighty and Holy God," said Robert "The Bible says, 'Though thou wash thee with nitre, and take thee much soap,'—two things that signify the very best means of cleansing that man can invent,—'yet thine iniquity is marked before me, saith the Lord.' We need to have the old stains washed out before we can be fit to appear before Him. And then our fresh doings are so clumsy and weak and defiled after all, that we haven't the heart to think He can accept us for them."

"What do you mean? Will not our repentance be accepted?" asked Matthew, anxiously.

"Not as an atonement for past sin: tears cannot wash it away. If they could, the blood of the Lord Jesus Christ need never have been shed, and we could then take credit to ourselves for repenting; but the Bible says salvation is 'by faith, not of works, lest any man boast,' and 'faith' is 'the gift of God.' It is all God's own work from beginning to end: what He does He does completely, unmixed with any poor imperfect doings of ours."

"Well, I must do something. I want a religion, or a something that will keep me from a terrible sin," said Matthew, wearily. "I've resolved, and tried, and pledged, and done everything I can think of, and still I fall."

"We need a religion that will keep us from all sin," said Robert. "Did you ever try what love can do?"

"I loved my wife and children, but that did not restrain me when strongly tempted," said Matthew. He seemed to have forgotten all the provocations which he had been fond of pleading in excuse for himself.

"I mean the love of the Lord Jesus," said Robert, simply.

"No, I don't know Him well enough."

"I thought so," said Robert; "and now we have just got to the root of the matter. 'If thou knewest the gift of God'—But you can know it; and then you will join those who can say with his apostle,—

"'We love Him, because He first loved us.'

"'Unto Him that loved us, and washed us from our sins in his own blood, and hath made us kings and priests unto God and his Father, . . . be glory and dominion for ever and ever.'"

"'Washed us from our sins.' Yes, that's what we want," said Matthew, "and help to sin no more."

"And you can have both by giving yourself up to the Lord Jesus. Do as the hymn says:—

"'Just as I am, without one plea,
But that Thy blood was shed for me,
And that Thou bidst me come to Thee,
O Lamb of God, I come.'

"I dare bid you welcome to my Lord," continued Robert, earnestly. "There is no hindrance on His side; are 'you' willing?

"'Just as thou art, without one trace
Of love, or joy, or inward grace,
Or meetness for the heavenly place,
O guilty sinner, come!

"'Come hither, bring thy boding fears,
Thine aching heart, thy bursting tears;
'Tis mercy's voice salutes thine ears:
O trembling sinner, come!"

Matthew Hill gazed earnestly on the young speaker. "Oh that I had begun as you have!" he said. "You have taken God for the guide of your youth."

"You have not got very far beyond youth," said Robert. "There is time for you to take Him for everything you want. But let me read you a few lines about Him."

And from his little pocket Testament Robert read the story of the visit of Jesus to the house of Simon the Pharisee. *

* Luke vii. 36.

"You see, neither of the debtors had anything to pay, so 'He frankly forgave them both.' But the poor woman who felt that 'her sins which were many were forgiven,' 'loved much;' and never did she hate sin so truly as when her tears of love and penitence flowed over the feet of Jesus. He did not say 'thy love,' or 'thy tears,' or 'thy penitence hath saved thee,' but 'thy faith hath saved thee; go in peace.' She believed in His love to sinners, that He had come to seek and to save the lost. Do you think, as she knelt before Him and felt that He understood her gratitude and believed her love, and heard the beautiful permission to 'go in peace,' that she could go back to her sins, and forget her Saviour?"

"No, no, surely not," said Matthew.

"She had been too near to Jesus for that; she had found a principle that was stronger than sin, stronger than nature, stronger than temptation; faith and love would bear her above and through them all. If ever that heart mourned again, it would be when the hour had come in which that precious Saviour must be given up to his death of shame and anguish, to seal before God and man the covenant of mercy by which He had saved her soul and given her peace. To pierce the heart of Jesus, and put Him to shame, by our sins and inconsistencies, is the bitterest, darkest sorrow that can befall one who believes in Him. Oh, if there is a safeguard on earth, it is thus to be 'kept by the power of God through faith unto salvation.'"

"But to get it!" said Matthew. "Is it for me?"

"Dear fellow-sinner, that beautiful story was for you and me; 'written for our learning, that we through the patience and comfort' of it 'might have hope.' And the Lord Jesus has never changed from what he was that day, but is 'the same yesterday, to-day, and for ever.'"

"Lead me to Him, ask Him for me," faltered Matthew.

And Robert simply and earnestly, as a loved child speaks to a revered and beloved father, did as he was desired.

"Now," said Matthew, as his young visitor rose to go, "I do not think I am to die yet. If I cannot make up for the past to the holy God who so freely forgives, I may be spared to do my duty by my family; but I must get out as soon as possible, that I may hear of them. I expect a letter to be waiting for me at B—."

"Can I write to the postmaster to forward it?" asked Robert.

"No, thank you," replied Matthew, hesitating a little. "I don't want to give my address, so I call for my letters. I've had one or two, but not from the right person; and I believe walking so far, and anxiety, and (I'll not deny it) a glass I got to strengthen me, as I thought, all together knocked me up at last."

"May I come to see you again?" asked Robert.

"The sooner the better; and if you wouldn't mind just lending me that little book, I'll take good care of it until you come again. Please mark it at that place, 'Her sins which are many are forgiven;' 'Thy faith hath saved thee; go in peace.'"

"You have every kindness and attention that you need here, I suppose?" said Robert.

"Oh yes, they are kind, but I'm afraid they don't know much about this," replied Matthew, clasping the little Testament. "There's a deal to do, and all sorts of merry-making on a Sunday. And that kind little woman spoils the children, and their pretty sister, the dressmaker, isn't the best of tempers, and they get to fighting and screeching like wild things. There was a fearful row just before you came in."

"But if the younger ones are not well managed, you know, they are often very troublesome to the elder ones," said Robert, anxious to hope that Lydia might not be the chief cause of the mischief.

"That's true; but there's a way to speak, and do, that shows whether the elders are selfish and unfeeling or not; and I know too well that a pretty face doesn't make a woman all she ought to be. I've longed to tell Miss Lydia so, before she spoils her fortune by it. But I've enough to do to mind my own faults, and I shall long for the time that you come again."

Robert had a dull sort of feeling on his mind as he returned to give an account of his mission to his kind employers, but his sterling principles, learned from his Bible and his Christian parents, were firm; and by them he must stand, and would, at any cost.