THE room in which Mr Bender had chosen to hold his Meeting, for the benefit of some adherents who could not get to the town, was in a lane in the village of Harmenton, on the brink of the eminence which looks on Lindum hill. A most retired lane! which went down hill so steeply that it lay upon different levels all the way, and was further protected on one side by a wall, over which the branches of trees were green against the sky. The turning from the road was opposite a red building, so square, and with such rounded windows, that it seemed to proclaim itself a chapel, only that, to guard against the possibility of such delusion, ‘Village School’ was announced in large letters on each side of the door. If you strolled down this lane on an August afternoon, pleased with the retirement, the steepness, the quaintness of the place, you were rewarded at last by the view from a lower road, which looked over the Squire’s plantation to the valley and the town—Lindum lay there before you, shrouded with foundry-smoke, with its river flowing in the valley underneath it, and above the slope of the city and the hill the great cathedral, distinct against the sky. But the scholars of Mr Bender had no wish for idle strolling, they had hastened at once to the room where the class was held.
That was a small room—so small, it must be owned, as seriously to inconvenience the members of the class, who were, however, at that moment more disposed to think of their benefits than of their trials. When Annie and Alice entered, tired with an August walk, with the yellow corn marigolds they had gathered in their hands, they found already assembled a company of eight, including the mistress of the house, and ‘Mr Bender of the town.’ The company sat on chairs against the wall, Mr Bender at a little table in the centre of the room—Annie was too nervous in this unwonted position to observe any more than these simple facts at first. It was only when she had risen from her knees—for she and Alice had knelt down side by side—that she became aware of another experience, for every eye in the room was turned on her. With the crimson of pride and shyness on her cheek, she sat down on her wooden chair, and fixed her eyes on the ground.
‘Mr Bender,’ said Alice, rising, and going up to him, and holding out her hand with simple grace, ‘I’m glad to be able to get to the class to-day, and I’ve brought a friend with me as has not been before. She doesn’t wish to speak, ’cause she’s not been used to it’ (the girls had arranged this matter as they walked), ‘but she will be glad to listen to the others, and to hear the words that you have to say to them. And I hope Mrs Bender is better of her cold, I’m sorry she hasn’t been able to be here.’
Mr Bender thanked her, and said his mother was better, looking at her the while with considerable interest; and then his glance wandered past her to the chair against the wall on which was seated the friend whom she had introduced. He was but human, if he was a class-leader, and that may account for the fact that he looked hard and long, and that it seemed to need something of an effort for him to withdraw his glance and speak again. He said then in formal terms that he was glad to welcome the visitor, and that if she should, after all, feel disposed to speak he was sure they would all listen with interest to her words. With that, Alice returned to her seat by the side of Annie, and without any further delay the class began.
It began with a hymn, which went somewhat drearily, each verse of it being read before it was sung, an arrangement which has an invariable tendency to check any fervour in singing. The hymn was succeeded by a prayer, extempore; after which they all rose and took their seats again; and after a little preliminary cough, Mr Bender, as leader, addressed himself to speak.
He appeared to be taken with nervousness, a circumstance which surprised the members, and was no doubt owing to the disconcerting influence of the presence of a stranger. He was a young man, very thin and pale, with reddish hair, and a somewhat scanty moustache, and that indefinable something in addition to his white tie which proclaimed him at once to be a minister. For the rest, he appeared sincere enough, perhaps a little young in all senses for a spiritual guide, but with his inexperience redeemed by earnestness, and not marred by any conscious pride. For a minute he worked his foot upon the ground; then he overcame his reluctance, and spoke.
‘I’ve been thinking, my sisters,’ he said, ‘of a great day in my life, a day when I was in Newark many years ago, when my heart was troubled with thoughts and cares, and I hadn’t found peace, and did not know what to do. It was just such a summer’s morn as this has been, and I stood in the great market-square that’s paved with stones, and looked at the lights and shadows on the stones, and the church-spire behind the houses rising up into the sky. I was standing in front of an old house in the corner, when I heard a Voice in my heart that spoke to me; it called to me to put all my sins away, and to turn unto Him that has power to save. I heard the Voice speaking as I stood there in Newark, and my life found the peace it sought, and it abode with me.’
Ah! the Voice, the Voice in our hearts that comes to us from above, that speaks in our ears and tells us what to do—what marvel if those who struggle in the tumult should long for the guidance that can heal and save—that Annie should raise her eyes in astonishment at the thought of a help so simple and direct, so different from all the blind and weary struggles that closed round her life like the gloom of mist at night? Mr Bender could see the inquiring eyes she raised, the dark, lovely eyes which seemed to plead for help; and a sense as of help required pierced to his heart, with which perchance rose some other feelings too, some feelings less manageable and more imperious than any that he had ever known before. He was a preacher, and righteous and sincere, but not with the strength of iron, or the hardness of a stone; without unkindness it might be reasonably foretold that he would soon be in love with some member of his class. He had been impressed by the farmer’s daughter with her grave, simple grace, but at this moment he did not think of her.
And—alas! that our emotions are wont to serve us ill—these very feelings checked and controlled his words, so that with an unwonted desire for oratory, he found himself compelled to stammer and then be still. No matter! he might be able to draw words from this young stranger, who had such speaking eyes—and for the present no doubt it would be best that he should be silent and let other members speak. So, after a moment’s pause to gain attention, he called on the member who sat nearest to him on the right—and Annie heard, for the first time, not without surprise, the formula in which such demands are made. A maiden brought up in a cottage craves to be addressed as ‘Miss’; but no such vanities ruled the councils here.
‘Jane Smithson, tell us, please, how the Lord has been dealing with you.’
Jane Smithson began at once, and had a great deal to say, so much, indeed, that all were soon tired of her, although she contrived to introduce into her words as little information as might be about herself. She spoke indeed both of trials, prayers, and praises, of the necessity for repentance and for faith, but always in such a regular, even tone as let no glimpse of her inner life be seen. She seemed to be about thirty, and might have been a servant, was dressed neatly in black, and wore an old, silk mantle; and round her face, which was somewhat plump, though sallow, was a round black bonnet that was tied beneath her chin. Before the end of her words, which were wearisome, Annie had begun to thrill and flush with fear, for she was herself on the right hand of the speaker, with Alice seated on the other side of her. Oh! what should she do if she were herself addressed?.... and how could these people talk so of their religion? her passionate, silent nature revolted from their words. As the endless voice drew to a close at last, her heart choked her breath with terror; she drove her nails into the palms of both her hands, and kept her eyes firmly bent upon the ground. She would not look up, even if she were addressed, and he would see that she did not mean to answer.
‘Alice Robson, tell us, please, how the Lord has been dealing with you.’
The shock of relief, and perhaps of disappointment—relief and disappointment can be so strangely mixed!—was considerably softened for Annie by the wonder how Alice would ever be able to find courage enough to speak. She need not have wondered, for in spite of her reserve the farmer’s daughter could bear such an ordeal well. Alice answered softly and very modestly, but yet in a manner that arrested attention; for the absence of formality is a quality to be noticed in a Class.
‘I’ve been troubled lately,’ said Alice, softly, quietly, with a slight quiver in her voice, a faint colour in her cheek; ‘I’ve been thinking of one as seems to be in danger, and feeling as if in some way I ought to help. An’ then I’ve wondered if it was all selfishness in me, an’ if I was really only feared to lose a friend; but I hope I’ll be taught to feel as I ought to do, an’ as the one I fear for ’ll be kept from harm an’ wrong.’
Mr Bender bent towards her to give her his advice (he had only said a few words in answer to the first member’s speech), whilst the whole class was stirred by some visible curiosity with regard to the mysterious friend of whom she had spoken. ‘It’s Tim,’ thought Annie, after rapid consideration, with which was mingled a thrill of irresistible anger—of anger that the mention of one whom she had learned to think her property could bring the colour to another woman’s cheek. So hopelessly mistaken do we all become when we attempt to penetrate another’s heart.
For Alice had bent her head, the words of advice being ended, with all her mind full of fear and prayer for Nat, the passionate, wilful boy who clung to her heart by the very reason of his passion and wilfulness. ‘She isn’t a good girl—oh! she’s not,’ cried Alice; ‘she likes every man as comes near to look at her; an’ he seems so excited about it—an’ I can’t think it is good for him to come up to t’ Farm, an’ work for her. Mr Bender says I’m to trust, but it is hard to go on trusting when everything goes wrong.’ It was perhaps natural that she should not question herself about the nature of the feeling that wrung such fear from her. She kept her head bent and did her best to ‘trusten,’ though with some soreness of perplexity in her heart.
The other members had meanwhile had their say, and in speeches of varying length had all attempted to communicate their spiritual condition to Mr Bender’s ears. It must be owned that they were rather less than more successful, unless indeed he had the discernment to read between the lines—and such discernment was not especially apparent in the words of advice which he addressed to them. The six who spoke were of very different ages, from the stout mistress of the house to an hysterical servant-girl; the other four being two sisters, dressmakers, the young wife of a labourer, and a teacher in the village-school. These related their feelings in conventional sentences, to which he replied with words of exhortation; the regularity being only broken by the trembling servant-girl, who thought herself reproved, broke down all at once, and sobbed. When she had been consoled by Mr Bender, who became somewhat agitated, the line of speakers was completed; for with one exception, the stranger and visitor, each had taken her part, and had no more to say. There followed a pause, and all began to wonder whether it was not time for the Class to be closed.
‘It is not late,’ said Mr Bender, nervously, without daring this time to raise his eyes from the ground; ‘we have a few minutes in which it may be possible for us to listen to one more experience. Will our sister, who is a stranger, consent to be persuaded to say a few words about herself to us?’
Silence. Excitement. Annie sat resolutely upright, with her eyes as resolutely downcast; her face burning, her heart throbbing, and her lips compressed. Mr Bender glanced at her with visible disappointment; he waited an instant, then he spoke to her again:
‘We Methodists have learned the comfort of joining together when we wait on the Lord; we believe that we are often able to find consolation and instruction from the lips of each other at such times as these. Has our sister any difficulty on which she would ask our advice, or any sorrow which she may ask us to share?’
Still silence. Greater excitement. The face of Annie was flaming, but her lips continued to close upon each other. For one instant the minister gazed upon her silently, then he rose from his chair, and gave the number of the hymn. If, at that moment, she felt the impulse of confession, it was then too late, and the time for speech was gone.
Ah! would it have been better if that troubled, silent nature could have compelled itself to speak, to give words to the conflict that raged within its heart, and seek for some help that might avail to save? Would future misery have been averted, if that opportunity had met with response? I cannot tell; I can only say, that to Annie, such public confession would have been unnatural; her whole nature shrank from laying bare to strangers the inmost recesses she veiled even from herself. She had come to the Class with some vague hope of assistance, but it was not in such ways that her trouble could find relief; to speak of her anguish seemed impossible, and she could not speak without speaking honestly. And yet, at that moment, she was troubled, thrilled, excited, her heart had been touched, although her lips were silent! She stood with the members, and from their united tones came the pathetic cadence of a hymn—she heard the voices of her companions rise and fall, if she had opened her own lips she would have broken down into tears.
‘When the weary, seeking rest, to Thy goodness flee,
When the heavy-laden cast all their load on Thee,
When the troubled, seeking peace, on Thy name shall call,
When the sinner, seeking life, at Thy feet shall fall ...
Hear then, in love, O Lord, the cry, from heaven, Thy dwelling-place on high.’
The voices ceased, the members knelt, prayed silently, rose again, the Class meeting was over....
Scarce a word passed between the two girls, as, unaccompanied, they found their way over the fields towards their homes, whilst slanting sunlight fell on them, and on the meadows, and on corn-fields ripening beneath the summer sun. At the gates of the yard they paused and kissed each other, then silently separated, and Annie went on to her home; her passionate thoughts still struggling beneath an impulse of duty which had been unknown to her before.
‘I will be good,’ thought poor Annie, desperately; ‘I willent meet him within the fields again; if he wants to have me he must come up to t’ house, and tell before mother all he has to say. I would ha’ told mother about him long ago, but I didn’t like sin’ he allays begged me not; it seemed so hard on him as is like a gentleman to be tied to me who am but a village girl. But I will be honest; I’ll have no double-dealing; I’ll give him up sooner than do wrong for him.’ As the words trembled on her lips she turned the handle of the cottage door; she entered and crossed the threshold of her home. And in an instant she stood still, struck with dismay—her father was there, he had returned once more.