Love and Money (24 page)

The rage and mortification which these proceedings caused the faithful of Resmond Street can be imagined. In a half-empty church, under temporary makeshift pastors, Alderman Brigg sang as loud as three in order to show how glad he was to have got rid of Mr. Aquile. When he heard of Lucy's defection he turned purple, and the veins in his forehead throbbed so violently that his wife feared he would have a stroke—it was particularly infuriating because the remaining Trustees were planning to raise a little fund for Lucy, to supplement the very small provision made for her by her uncle. Now they were in doubt what to do; they rather inclined to be generous but their wives warned them that the women of the depleted congregation would not receive the proposed fund well, for they resented Lucy's disloyalty, as they called it.

“The truth is, you women all want to be off to the Albert yourselves,” growled the Alderman.

The New Independents' place of worship was called the Albert Hall, and “them at the Albert” and “down at the Albert” were frequent preludes to derogatory, not to say derisive and jeering, remarks at Resmond Street during this period.

“It was you said it, Joshua, not me,” returned his wife somewhat tartly.

Lucy solved the Trustees' problem by intimating privately to Mrs. Brigg, in a chilling interview, that in the circumstances she would think it wrong to accept any monetary assistance from her uncle's former congregation.

“I'm sure you're right, Miss Tolefree,” said Mrs. Brigg coldly.

“Good,” said Lucy, maddeningly cheerful.

She withdrew to a very simple lodging in the house of the caretaker of the Albert Hall, and devoted herself to the only professions open to her, needlework and a little governessing. It was indeed plain living and high thinking for Lucy, but she looked most exasperatingly contented—in Resmond Street her smile was resented as an Albert triumph.

For its part, Resmond Street was destitute of triumphs, unless one occurrence might be elevated into a triumph because it was perhaps a disappointment to Councillor Starbotton. It had been noticed that Councillor Star-botton's daughter Eliza, Mrs. James Joshua Henry Brigg, was not present at the fateful secession meeting. At the time her absence had been attributed (in whispers, of course, for it was still only 1881) to the fact that she was undergoing a difficult first pregnancy. But when this was over and her daughter safely born, to the glee of Resmond Street the young couple did not join the New Independents. It is true that neither did they return to Resmond Street; they attended Salem, a place of worship in a suburb of Annotsfield which was nearer their married home. Councillor and Mrs. Starbotton of course took the fine that this was perfectly natural and to be expected; but some people said that James Brigg still had a hopeful eye on his grandfather's wealth, and chose this rather cunning neutrality in order to avoid a fatal break with either the Brigg or the Starbotton connection.

“Fred Starbotton would never break with his daughter,” replied those who knew him best, with conviction. “He dotes on her.”

This was all the more reason, thought the first speakers, for the Councillor to be disappointed by his daughter's defection from the Albert.

But this was the only Resmond Street triumph, and their derisive jeers at the Albert soon turned to sullen silence. For the New Independents began to prosper exceedingly. They held a public meeting in their Albert, inviting anyone
interested to attend; the hall was crammed, Mr. Aquile spoke magnificently, the affair occupied three columns of the
Annotsfield Pioneer,
many new members joined. With eager enthusiasm the congregation set about creating all the subsidiary departments of an active church. Soon they had a Sunday School—the collection at the inaugural meeting totalled more than a hundred and fifty pounds—a voluntary mixed choir, a Dorcas meeting and a branch of the Band of Hope. Mr. Aquile, glowing with deep inner happiness, worked hard from morning till night; he started a religious library for the use of all, he set apart one night a week to receive members in need of consolation or advice, he visited the poor and sick indefatigably, he gave training classes to his teachers and of course taught superbly in the Sunday School himself. The Chancery case had, to his own astonishment, brought him fame throughout Nonconformist England, and wherever religious freedom was believed in or dauntless character admired, he was welcomed as a hero. Invitations to important and wealthy pastorates poured in upon him; he refused them all by the next post. Members of other churches, even of other denominations, crowded into the Albert, whereupon Mr. Aquile delivered a rather stern sermon on the importance of regular, steady attendance at one's own church. Many more new members joined the Albert. . . . Scarcely six months had elapsed since the Chancery case when “them at the Albert” felt able to decide to build themselves a church and a school. Twelve months later they viewed and approved architects' plans for a scheme to cost ten thousand pounds, of which nearly four thousand had already been subscribed.

It was after this meeting that Mr. Aquile, walking with a light step homewards with Councillor Starbotton, as they stood at the corner where their ways parted to say goodnight, said suddenly:

“May I ask your advice on an important private matter, Councillor?”

Councillor Starbotton's heart fell into his elegant brown boots.

“He's going to accept another pastorate,” he thought, “and if he leaves us the New Independents are finished. But how can I advise him against his own interests?” Aloud he said gruffly: “Well?”

“Do you think,” said Mr. Aquile in a hesitating manner much unlike his usual calm confidence: “Do you think, sir, I now have the right to marry?”

Councillor Starbotton gaped at him. In the light of the gas lamp Mr. Aquile looked young and somehow ingenuous, and it occurred to the Councillor that his pastor, who had been through so much so unflinchingly, to whom they all looked for leadership, from whom they unfailingly received wise counsel and admirable example, really was a young man with a young man's natural desires and impulses. He felt shocked and sorry; they had exploited the lad abominably— and yet, an unwise marriage would rock the New Independents to their foundation. In fact, Mr. Aquile
was
their foundation.

“Is my income sufficiently stable to warrant my asking a woman to share it?” asked Mr. Aquile impatiently. “Should I be expecting too much from our new church, if I took a wife ?”

“You have the right to marry,” said Councillor Star botton. “But who—” in spite of himself his voice quavered

—“who is she?”

“Surely you know that!” exclaimed Mr. Aquile. “Surely my intentions are no secret? It is Miss Lucy Tolefree,” he concluded firmly.

Councillor Starbotton, to whom Lucy Tolefree was a plain old maid, irrevocably on the shelf, only to be married out of pity for her poverty and her long years' devotion to her uncle, between his relief—for Lucy would rouse no female jealousy—and his admiration was somewhat shaken and allowed his true sentiments to appear.

“You're a good man, Mr. Aquile!” he exclaimed.

“No, no!” cried Mr. Aquile. “It is not as you suppose. I have long loved her. I have only waited till I thought it right—consistent with my duty—to lay my hopes before her. Do you wish me well?”

“I wish you well,” returned Councillor Starbotton solemnly.

The engagement—for of course Lucy, who had loved John Aquile from the first moment she saw him, accepted him at once with a quiet but abundant joy—was a nine days' wonder. The hero of the Chancery case, the great preacher, whose sermons could fill any church whose pulpit he could be persuaded to ascend, a man to whom the wealthiest Nonconformist of the land would gladly have married his youngest and most beautiful daughter—Mr. Aquile to marry plain, poor, insignificant Lucy Tolefree! For a few days even Mr. Aquile's prestige reeled under the blow.

But only for a few days. The first time any church member, man or woman, met Lucy in her new capacity as the betrothed of the Rev. John Spencer Aquile, they came away convinced that Mr. Aquile had after all known, as they said nodding their heads wisely, what he was about. They had always taken it for granted, of course, that Lucy was possessed of absolute integrity and true Christian principles; they knew that she had nursed her uncle with admirable skill and uncomplaining devotion, while her Sunday School class had always deeply respected her; now the New Independents perceived also that she had great natural dignity, had read much and could talk well. She presided at meetings with competence and tact, made modest and sensible speeches when necessary, entertained visiting ministers and lecturers with perfect composure, did not usurp authority but was by no means to be “put down” by anyone rash enough to attempt to override her. Moreover, now that she glowed with the happiness of a loved woman, she appeared much less plain than they had imagined. Her profile, it appeared, was noble in its clear straight lines, and that simple way of doing her abundant russet hair was tasteful, even elegant—Councillor Starbotton had seen something like it, he thought, in Academy pictures in London. Her brown eyes, now often beaming and merry, were really quite beautiful; even her figure seemed trim and neat, not to be despised—especially in her new black silk dress.

The material for this dress, so stiffly handsome that, in the parlance of the day, it could “stand alone,” was the gift of an anonymous admirer. Lucy, in doubt whether to accept it, consulted Mr. Aquile, confiding to him her suspicion (well justified) that the silk had come from Alderman Brigg. Mr. Aquile laughed.

“I hope so indeed,” he said happily. “It would give me great pleasure to think so.”

“You wish me to accept it, then, John?” said Lucy, smiling also.

“Wear it thankfully, my dear,” said Mr. Aquile, kissing her.

The wedding was a tremendous affair. The Albert was not, of course, licensed for marriages, but it seemed that every Nonconformist body in Annotsfield (except Resmond Street) would be glad to lend their church for the occasion, and the offers to perform the ceremony were so numerous as to be embarrassing. Eventually one of Mr. Aquile's many young Annotsfield friends secured the honour. The New Independents presented their pastor with a purse of gold containing a hundred guineas, and a gold watch and chain, as wedding gifts. The watch-chain, though not perhaps quite as costly as the one worn by Alderman Brigg, was handsome; appropriately enough of the kind known as an
albert,
it had a gold bar in the middle of its length which, threaded through a buttonhole of the waistcoat, secured chain and watch if the watch chanced to fall from the pocket.

A period of very great happiness now began for Mr. Aquile.

His married life was everything that could be wished, save that no children as yet blessed the union; he often spoke to his friends of the joys of his home.

With the New Independents everything flourished. A large piece of land was leased in a central position not half a mile from Resmond Street, and the foundation stone of a school was laid by the Sunday School Superintendent on Easter Monday after a tremendous procession of scholars.
The walls rose; to stroll round the site and note how much the building had grown since the last visit became a regular source of pleasure to the members. Next year the memorial corner stone of the new church was laid by the Mayor of Annotsfield himself. The congregation, led by Mr. Aquile, had decided to call this new church Emmanuel, a name which, since it meant
God with Us,
vexed Resmond Street perhaps more than any other could. Presently the new school was opened, with a quite terrific conversazione (then a very dashing word in Annotsfield) at which Lucy wore her black silk dress. Then at last the massive block of buildings was completed and Emmanuel Church itself was opened for public worship. Outside, the church was considered to be a rather exciting blend of the traditional and the modern, with an imitation Norman doorway, a couple of small but well-chiselled angels, and a short slender pointed tower. Within, everything was tasteful (thanks to Mr. Aquile) and of good quality (thanks to Councillor Starbotton).

For the opening service the church was crammed; chairs and benches had to be fetched from the school and arranged in the aisles to accommodate the congregation. The organ was pronounced very fine, the choir excelled itself, and Mr. Aquile's sermon on the word
Emmanuel
formed, with some references to the circumstances of the building of the church, the subject of a middle leader in the great
Manchester Guardian.
There were nearly four hundred members on the church roll and a thousand registered Sunday School scholars; the voluntary staff, of teachers and church officers, numbered sixty-two. The joy and pride of the Emmanuel congregation in their church, their own creation, was justifiably great.

Truly it seemed that the night of weeping was over for Mr. Aquile and the morning of joy had come.

One cold afternoon towards the end of February the sky, which had been bright and sunny, rather suddenly clouded and a heavy sleety rain began to fall. Mr. Aquile, looking up
from the desk where he was preparing his Sunday School lessons for his teachers' class that night, observed this, and remembering that Lucy had gone to a Dorcas committee meeting at the house of Councillor Starbotton without her cloak, he hastily thrust on his coat and hat, took Lucy's cloak and umbrella and set out to fetch her home, hoping to be in time to catch her before she left shelter. (All this was utterly characteristic of the man; his keen perception and clear memory, his tender consideration, his swift unselfish action.)

He reached the house to find other members of the committee just leaving, and Lucy hesitating on the doorstep, for the sleet was unpleasantly heavy. Of course Mrs. Starbotton, a plump, still pretty rather silly woman who never attempted to understand her husband but followed him admiringly, invited Mr. Aquile to come in and have a cup of tea. He accepted, and entered the room where cups and cakes, relics of the committee's tea, still stood about on “occasional” tables. There was plenty of tea left in the massive silver teapot, but Mrs. Starbotton, a notable housewife in a county of notable housewives, of course could not offer stewed tea to her pastor; she whisked the teapot off to the kitchen to make a fresh brew.