Chapter Eight

The Wicked Rejoice When the Righteous Stumble

 Set a watch, O LORD, before my mouth; keep the door of my lips.
Psalm 141:3

The winter months wore away with no apparent change in the position of the two neighbors, unless it might be that Mr. Mayhew's prejudices against Deacon Herman deepened instead of being obliterated by time. Where others saw much to admire and imitate, he only discerned an ignoble spirit veiling its true character from a desire for the popular favor. The very concessions which were dictated by a love for peace he attributed to the same unworthy motive. Mr. Mayhew's ox-sled, heavily loaded with oak timber, through the carelessness of inefficient John, became imbedded in a snowdrift. Night was closing in. The storm was violent. Deacon Herman, although weary, left his warm fireside and unfinished supper to volunteer his assistance. When the sled was free again, instead of expressing gratitude, Mr. Mayhew endeavored to recompense the service with money. If this had been received the feeling of obligation would have been less oppressive. To Mr. Mayhew there was a sense of degradation coupled with the reception of a favor, and the little kindnesses, which are worth more than silver or gold, he regarded with scorn.

"It is not so much the act as the feeling that prompted it that I value," said Mrs. Mayhew, when she displayed a plate of honey in the comb, that Mrs. Herman had sent in for the benefit of Agnes, then sick with a cold. "When I receive such tokens it always makes me feel that there is more good in the world, and it makes me feel warmer toward everybody."

"Mine never gets in a glow so quick," responded Mr. Mayhew. "It takes more than a pound of honey or a few smooth words which cost nothing to melt me down."

Poor Mrs. Mayhew wished her husband was more impressible, To manifest her appreciation of the many benefits bestowed by her neighbors, she sent Cyrus with a jug of milk, Mrs. Herman's supply from her own dairy being cut off for a season.

When spring came with its appropriate employments, Mr. Mayhew was surprised to see Dick Armstrong among Deacon Herman's corps of laborers. Dick now wore a decent hat and a clean pair of overalls. Indeed, the whole aspect of his outer man was essentially improved. He was improved in other respects, as was evinced by his care to avoid the use of low and unbecoming language, and to do his work in the right manner, whether under the supervision of another or not.

"What have you got that fellow for?" inquired Mr. Mayhew, designating Dick by the point of his goad.

"To work on my farm this summer," was the reply. "He came to me two months ago, and told me he wanted a place where he could have steady employment. I wanted to hire, so we made an agreement."

Mr. Mayhew was angry. "I did not think you would bring such a good-for-nothing scamp into the neighborhood. We shall not be able to raise a chicken or gather a single watermelon this summer. It was bad enough when he was at Bald Hill, but he will do ten times as much mischief now."

"I do not think you will be troubled," was the rejoinder. "I confess I felt some anxiety, though not from the causes you mention. I was fearful he might use phrases I do not wish my children to hear. However, though he has worked for me a week, I have heard but one profane word, and that one was checked before it was fairly out of his mouth."

"You might as well teach the wind not to blow as Dick Armstrong not to swear, or steal either," answered Mr. Mayhew. "But if you felt as you say you did, I can't understand how you came to hire him."

"I pitied him, especially after I saw what a miserable home he has. I believe there is good in him, though the poor boy has never had much to draw it out. Kindness has a wonderful effect upon such temperaments."

"Deacon Herman," exclaimed Mr. Mayhew, now thoroughly enraged, "you are a hypocrite! You can get more work out of that boy for a little money than you can wring out of a decent youth, so you make believe you will hire him out of charity and good-will. You don't care how much he steals from your neighbors, provided you make a gaining bargain. If you would say so right out, I should have a better opinion of you."

Deacon Herman's cheek flushed. He had already borne much from Mr. Mayhew. Often he had striven against the rising tide of passion, and choked down the vehement retort which was on its way to his lips. However, this time the weakness of human nature conquered. He answered hastily, unguardedly, passionately, and in a manner little befitting a professed disciple of the meek and lowly Jesus. A quick temper was one of his infirmities, perhaps the besetting sin against which he needed to exercise the most careful vigilance. He was not on his guard now. It might be that in his morning prayer he had not inserted the petition, "Lead us not into temptation," which we should always breathe when we come into the presence of our Father. And so he yielded.

The two men parted in anger. Mr. Mayhew went to gloat over this new proof of what he considered outside goodness, and to be more confirmed in his belief of the hollowness of religion. Deacon Herman went to lament the sin into which he had fallen, and to humble himself before the God against whom it was committed. The Christian, though zealously laboring to overcome evil in himself, does not gain the entire victory in this life. The way to the heavenly city is one of struggle and conflict, often watered by the tears of erring yet penitent pilgrims.

Several hours afterward, when the long shadows stretching from the west were heralds of approaching sunset, Deacon Herman sought Mr. Mayhew. The latter was sitting in his piazza, his favorite spot when the toils of the day were ended, with his wife by his side, and little Emma nestling in his arms. Cyrus was there too, engaged in twining a climbing rose around the pillars that supported the roof.

"I come to tell you, neighbor," the visitor began, "that I was wrong in what I said this morning. I have no excuse to make. I don't wish to make any. I simply came to acknowledge my fault and ask your charity."

Mr. Mayhew bent his face toward Emma to conceal his real emotion. All day long he had nursed bitterness in his heart, blended with secret exultation that Deacon Herman, the man whose good deeds had raised him to a high place in public estimation, had shown himself weak and fallible. "It is no worse for me to run my sawmill Sundays than it is for him to show such a temper," he had said to white-headed Mr. Bates. "Show me a man who always does right, and I will give up my infidelity." Now there was a revulsion in his feelings, for he knew that at times it requires a higher degree of self-abnegation to voluntarily confess a wrong act than at other times to refrain from its committal.

"Let it pass, then," he answered, coldly. "It only convinced me of what I believed before, that you are no better than I am, if I don't pretend to have so much religion. All the difference is that I act out just what I am, while you try to cover up the bad with this flimsy veil of goodness."

"I make no pretensions to be better, Friend Mayhew." was the meek response. "Perhaps I have not naturally half as much good in me, and because I know myself to be a poor lost sinner, unable to live aright, I do trust in Christ for salvation. I believe my faith is better than yours, inasmuch as it will help me struggle more effectually against the temptations of this life, even if we leave the last great enemy out of the account. We need to lean on something stronger than we are."

Mr. Mayhew was in haste to close the conference. He observed that both his wife and Cyrus listened with eager interest, and he felt a strange reluctance to discuss religious matters in their presence. "Enough has been said," he interposed, in his former cold tone. "You may go your way, and I shall go mine. With such different opinions as we cherish, it is not likely there can ever be much fellowship between us."

Deacon Herman extended his hand at parting, but, though Mr. Mayhew took it, he did not return its warm pressure.

From this time, Mr. Mayhew scarcely treated his neighbor with the outward show of civility. He would gladly have prohibited all intercourse between the families, had not the troubled faces of his wife and children, when his wish was mentioned, caused him to relinquish the idea. On one point, however, he was obstinate. When the time came for Agnes' birthday party, she was forbidden to ask Carrie Herman, a decision that neither tears nor entreaties availed to change. Afterward, when Mrs. Herman invited a few of her friends to tea, though Mrs. Mayhew pleaded for permission to go, the same stubborn will compelled her to remain at home.

Deacon Herman, on the other hand, never lost an opportunity of rendering a neighborly charity, and such occasions are sure to come when one's heart earnestly desires their performance. When his early peas were ready for the table, two weeks before other farmers dreamed of having such a luxury, Edgar was sent with a generous supply to Mr. Mayhew. After this, Mr. Mayhew, being drawn as a juror, was obliged to leave home for a week, and during his absence his children were conveyed to school, and his interests carefully attended to by Deacon Herman.

That autumn his squashes failed to mature, a fact which he mentioned in his neighbor's presence, coupled with regret for the deprivation. "Never mind," was the response, "my squashes have done finely this year. Dennis said he did not know where he could find a place to put them all. So, with your permission, he will take a few to your cellar."

Mr. Mayhew felt a strange sensation in his throat. Could it be that the squashes were choking him? Still he did not reject the gift, for Deacon Herman's manner of conferring the favor made it seem as if he were the person obliged instead of the recipient.