“Jenny Lavender?” was the next suggestion.
“Ay. I thought not you knew how I’d set my heart on her, ever since she was that high,” said Tom, indicating a length of about a yard. “I’ve never thought o’ none but her all my life. But she’s that taken up with a sorry popinjay of a fellow, she’ll not hear me now. I’d always thought Jenny’d be my wife.”
Poor Tom’s voice was very doleful, for his heart was sore.
“Thou’d alway thought so,” said the quiet voice. “But what if the Lord thinks otherway, Tom?”
Tom came to a sudden stop.
“Uncle Anthony! Eh, but you don’t—” and Tom’s words went no further.
“My lad, thou’rt but a babe in Christ. ’Tisn’t so many months since thou first set foot in the narrow way. Dost thou think He means Jenny Lavender for thee, and that thy feet should run faster in the way of His commandments for having her running alongside thee? Art thou well assured she wouldn’t run the other way?”
Old Anthony had spoken the truth. Tom was but a very young Christian, of some six months’ standing. He had never dreamed of any antagonism arising between his love to Christ and his love to Jenny Lavender. Stay—had he not? What was that faint something, without a name—a sort of vague uneasiness, which had seemed to creep over him whenever he had seen her during those months—a sense of incongruity between her light prattle and his own inmost thoughts and holiest feelings? It was so slight that as yet he had never faced it. He recognised now it was because his heart had refused to face it. And conscience told him, speaking loudly this time, that he must hold back no longer.
“Uncle Anthony,” he said, in a troubled voice, “I’m sore afeard I’ve not set the Lord afore me in that matter. I never saw it so afore. But now you’ve set me on it, I can’t deny that we shouldn’t pull same way. But what then? Must I give her up? Mayn’t I pray the Lord to touch her heart, and give her to me, any longer?”
The old man looked into the sorrowful eyes of the young man, whom he loved as dearly as if he had been his own son.