Jenny: A Village Idyl

by M. A. Curtois

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.