CHAPTER XVII.

RICH TOWARD GOD.

ONE June Sunday there came into the parish church a new preacher, never before seen within its precincts. A charity sermon was foretold for that morning, and Mr. Rossiter had summoned a clerical acquaintance from a distance. He did not very often indulge his congregation with variety in their spiritual fare. Charity sermons and strange preachers were contrary to the traditions of Riversmouth, and he was at all times anxious to avoid giving needless offence to his aged patron. Occasionally, however, he broke through this rule, and he had done so now.

Lady Halcot was in her pew, as she seldom failed to be, despite her increasing infirmities. She counted it her duty to set a good example; and, though unwell for some days past, she was there.

Charity sermons are not, as a rule, peculiarly spirit-stirring addresses; but this charity sermon promised early to be somewhat exceptional in its nature. The preacher was a middle-aged man, of a rugged and fervid aspect, yet a gentleman. He said little about the immediate object for which help was needed, taking at once a broader stand. Also, he kept away from the smooth and sleepy lines of much pulpit phraseology, and spoke in terse every-day language, such as he might have used in conversation, always to the point, nevertheless always reverent. Such clothing of ideas in words might almost take the place of eloquence. Mr. Rossiter, with all his earnestness, had not yet learnt this secret of speaking straight to men's hearts in strong Saxon English; and he began to take a lesson for himself, as he sat watching his congregation wake up from its ordinary air of drowsy submission.

"Twelfth chapter of St. Luke, twentieth and twenty-first verses. 'But God said unto him, Thou fool, this night thy soul shall be required of thee: then whose shall those things be which thou hast provided? So is he that layeth up treasure for himself, and IS NOT RICH TOWARD GOD.'"

The closing words rang solemnly through the building. The clergyman, indulging in no circumlocutions, with the half-closed Bible clasped in his hands, went straight to the point.

"Which among you all, my friends, can count himself thus 'rich toward God'?

"You are strangers to me, and I am a stranger to you. Of your families, your homes, your circumstances, I know nothing. But this much I know, that not one among you is without his treasure laid up, whether for himself or for his God.

"Wealth is a matter which men see differently from different standpoints. A man may be rich in his own or others' estimation with five hundred a year. A man may be poor, at least in his own estimation, with ten thousand a year. The exact 'how much' that each one has is not the question. You have your wealth, more or less; you have your possessions, great or small; you have your treasures that you have provided; you have these things in some sort, every one of you. Now comes the vital question. Is it only treasure for self, mere pelf of earthly storehouses, subject to mildew, moth, and flame? One night or day thy soul shall be required of thee. Then whose shall that poor worthless rubbish be which thou hast so carefully provided? Not thine, in any case.

"'Not rich toward God.' There is the gist of the matter. You may have your 'much goods laid up for many years.' You may have your thousands or tens of thousands descending to you from your forefathers. You may have your luxurious home, your high position, your care and comfort and delicate fare, fruits of industry in generations past. Or you may have striven and fought your own way upwards from poverty to comparative wealth, till now you can sit with your hands before you, and look placidly round, confident in the knowledge that want and poverty cannot touch you. Of course that 'cannot' is far from absolute. Riches do 'take to themselves wings' unexpectedly sometimes. You know this, yet you feel secure. You have your possessions inherited by descent or gained through labour of hand or brain, and you know you are comfortably provided for, till—till—

"My friends, till when?"

The question came sharply, breaking into the slowly-uttered syllables which preceded it. He paused for an instant, and the silence was intense. Lady Halcot looked stern and pale. She thought the preacher meant herself. Mr. Widrington, seated near, felt equally sure that he was the person intended.

"'This night,' the summons came thus. It may be 'this night' to any one of us. Suppose the call came now to you, whose should those things be which you have provided—those things which have filled your hearts and lives hitherto? Have you treasure laid up in the heavens?

"'Surely every man walketh in a vain show; he heapeth up riches, and knoweth not who shall gather them.' YOU may make your plans and form your wills, and those plans and wills may or may not be carried out after you are gone. What if they are? You will not be here to see it. What of yourself, stripped of all your wealth, of all your position, of all that you have sought and valued and stored and laid up,—yourself, standing, a cold and poverty-stricken soul, before the Eternal God? 'Not rich toward God,' in the hour of death. It is an awful thought. 'Lo, this is the man that made not God his strength, but trusted in the abundance of his riches, and strengthened himself in his "substance."' So in the margin.

"I do not for a moment say that wealth is a sin. No gift of God can in itself be evil. I say only that wealth is a danger. Poverty is a danger too, though of a different kind. No condition of life is without its dangers. If you hold your treasures of any kind as from God, they will not harm you.

"'How hardly shall they that have riches enter into the kingdom of God!' Yes, because 'they trust in the abundance of their riches'! That is why. God made Abraham aboundingly rich, and Abraham was none the worse in heart and spirit; for his trust was in God, not in his wealth. So too with Job. When his riches were swept away, he could still say of God, 'Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him.' Which of you could speak those words from the bottom of the heart, if your best treasures were taken away? And mark,—treasure does not always mean money. There may be treasures in the shape of mental powers, treasures in the shape of loved friends or relatives, as well as treasures in the shape of wealth. Those who have not one have another of these.

"'The blessing of the Lord it maketh rich, and He addeth no sorrow with it.' My friends, do not make it needful that He should add sorrow. Take heed that your hearts are rich toward God with the wealth which Christ alone can give; and neither riches nor poverty will hurt you then.

"Remember, every one of you, treasure-holders of any kind or degree, that which you have is not your own. It is the Lord's. You have to use it for your God; and by and by He will demand from you a solemn account of the use which you have made of it. Are you prepared to yield this account?

"The need for which I plead to-day is one among many needs. I do not seek merely to move your pity, or to stir your feelings in the hope of loosening your purse-strings. The principle of the matter lies far deeper than any surface stir of pitiful feeling. God has given to each one of us so much of the good things of this world. Are we heaping them together for ourselves, or are we using them for God, counting them as lent, while the true God-given riches of forgiveness and peace and joy are in our hearts for evermore?

"Using them for God means more than an occasional shilling put into the plate at church, or an occasional penny tossed to a beggar. It means more than plans of kindness and schemes of generosity. It means doing what you do for Christ's sake. It means doing what you do as unto the Lord Himself.

"There is a deadly sin spoken of in the Bible. Listen:

"'The wicked shall be turned into hell . . . and all the nations that FORGET GOD.'

"And again,—'The wicked through the pride of his countenance will not seek after God. God is not in all his thoughts.' Only forgetfulness again! How much has God been in our thoughts this past week? Put the question to yourselves. 'Consider this, ye that FORGET GOD.'

"Only forgetfulness! A small matter in the eyes of many. It will not seem a small matter in that hour when you stand face to face with the Eternal God, whom you through long years of life have habitually forgotten.

"Forgotten Him in your work! Forgotten Him in your duties! Forgotten Him in your pleasures! Forgotten Him in your money-earning! Forgotten Him in your money-spending!

"And yet—He is your Father. He has not forgotten your needs. The Lord Jesus did not forget to die for you. The Holy Spirit does not forget to plead with you."

So far the sermon proceeded, the effect of the preacher's brief, clear utterances being enhanced by his impressive earnestness and by a mellow voice of strong feeling.

Suddenly, and without the slightest warning, as regarded the greater number present, there was a heavy "thud." Lady Halcot lay senseless upon the floor of the large square pew.

Two or three friends near said afterwards that they had observed a livid whiteness creeping over the old lady's face, but had not thought much of it. Miss Withers, the only sleepy person in the congregation, had noticed nothing; and Gwendoline, absorbed in attention to the preacher, had been equally oblivious. The collapse of Lady Halcot's powers was so instantaneous that neither could be in time to break the force of her fall, but Gwendoline was the first to lift her head.

A general stir took place, and the thread of close attention was broken. The clergyman came to a sudden pause, and people around craned their necks to observe, with eager whispers, two or three young ladies becoming slightly hysterical. Help was at hand, and before many seconds had elapsed, the little bent figure was carried into the vestry. There, with the help of fresh air and remedies, Lady Halcot slowly revived.

"It must have been the heat. I never fainted in my life before," she said uneasily. "So very strange! If I had guessed that anything of the kind was coming on, I should have walked out. It must have made quite a disturbance. Thanks; I do not require the salts, Miss Withers. I am quite well."

But when she stood up to walk to her carriage, Lady Halcot fell back again in semi-unconsciousness.

The disturbance in church had not been slight, and many found it difficult to give further attention to the sermon. With some, however, the event had rather deepened the effect of the preacher's words, and among these was Mr. Widrington. For so chatty a man, he was strangely silent during the remainder of the day; and a clue to his silence came at night.

"Wife," he said tremblingly, "I can't get out of my head the things I heard this morning. It's an awful thought that all these years I have been forgetting God,—forgetting Him in my getting, and my spending too. I didn't mean to, but I have. It was awful to see the old lady go down like that, and to think it was, maybe, the call come all of a sudden. I hope it isn't, but there's no knowing; and I hope, if it is, she's got her treasure in heaven all right. But I'm sure I haven't. It's time we should see to it, wifie."

The preacher came and went, and his first sermon in Riversmouth was also his last there. But the words flung broadcast upon the soil that day sprang up and grew and bore fruit; not only in the heart of little old Mr. Widrington.