“What is to be done, then?”
“Reform God’s people themselves,” replied the carpenter, to the horror of the pious old man. “When the right hand of fellowship is reached out to the front, instead of stuck behind the back when a poor man comes along, there’ll be plenty that’ll be glad to take it. Reform yer own people, Deac’n. ’Fore yer pick out of our eyes the motes we’ll be glad enough to get rid of, ye can get a fine lot of heavy lumber out of yer own.”
Soldiers of the Cross, no more than any other soldiers, should stand still and be peppered when unable to reply; at least so thought the Deacon, and he prudently withdrew.
Reform God’s people themselves! The Deacon was too old a boy to tell tales out of school, but he knew well enough there was room for reform. Of course there was—weren’t we all poor sinners?—when we would do good wasn’t evil ever present with us?—what business had other sinners to complain, when they wern’t, at least, any better? Besides, suppose he were to try to reform the ways of Brother Graves and Deacon Struggs and others he had in his mind—would they rest until they had attempted to reform him? And who was to know just what quantity and quality of reform was necessary? “Be not carried about with divers and strange doctrines.” The matter was too great for his comprehension, so he obeyed the injunction, “Commit thy way unto the Lord.”
But the Lord relegated the entire matter to the Deacon. Hay did a full day’s work, the Deacon made a neat little sum by recovering on an old judgment he had bought for a mere song, and the Deacon’s red cow made an addition to the family in the calf-pen; yet the Deacon was far from comfortable. The idea that certain people must stay away from God’s house until God’s people were reformed, seemed to the Deacon’s really human heart something terrible. If they would be so proud—and yet, people who would stand outside the meeting-house and listen, and pray and weep because their children were as badly off as they, could scarcely be very proud. He knew there couldn’t be many such, else this out-of-door congregation would be noticed—there certainly wasn’t a full congregation of modest mechanics in the vestibule of which Hay spoke, and yet, who could tell how many more were anxious and troubled on the subject of their eternal welfare.
What a pity it was that those working-men who wished to repair to the sanctuary could not have steady work and full pay! If he had only known all this early in the morning, he did not know but he might have hired him at three dollars; though, really, was a man to blame for doing his best in the labor market? “Ye cannot serve God and mammon.” Gracious! he could almost declare he heard the excited carpenter’s voice delivering that text. What had brought that text into his head just now?—he had never thought of it before.
The Deacon rolled and tossed on his bed, and the subject of his conversation with the carpenter tormented him so he could not sleep. Of one thing he was certain, and that was that the reform of the Church at Pawkin Centre was not to be relied on in an extremity, and was not such hungering and thirsting after righteousness an extreme case?—had he ever really known many such! If Hay only had means, the problem would afford its own solution. The good Deacon solemnly declared to himself that if Hay could give good security, he (the Deacon) would try to lend him the money.
But even this (to the Deacon) extraordinary concession was unproductive of sleep. “He that giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord.” There! he could hear that indignant carpenter again. What an unsatisfactory passage that was, to be sure! If it would only read the other way—it didn’t seem a bit business-like the way it stood. And yet, as the Deacon questioned himself there in the dark, he was forced to admit that he had a very small balance—even of loans—to his credit in the hands of the Lord. He had never lent to the Lord except in his usual business manner—as small a loan as would be accepted, on as extensive collaterals as he could exact. Oh, why did people ever forsake the simple raiment of their forefathers, and robe themselves in garments grievous in price, and stumbling-blocks in the path of their fellow-men?
But sleep failed even to follow this pious reflection. Suppose—only suppose, of course—that he were to give—lend, that is—lend Hay money enough to dress his family fit for church—think what a terrible lot of money it would take! A common neat suit for a man would cost at least thirty dollars, an overcoat nearly twice as much; a suit cloak, and other necessities for his wife would amount to as much more, and the children—oh, the thing couldn’t be done for less than two hundred and fifty dollars. Of course, it was entirely out of the question—he had only wondered what it would cost—that was all.
Still no sleep. He wished he hadn’t spoken with Hay about his soul—next time he would mind his own business. He wished he hadn’t employed Hay. He wished the meeting for consideration of the needs of the impenitent had never taken place. “No man can come to me except the Father which sent me draw him”—he wished he had remembered that passage, and quoted it at the meeting—it was no light matter to interfere with the Almighty’s plans.