A CLASS MEETING
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.