“I can no other.”
The congregation was amazed. What, between midnight and ten-thirty, compose such a thoroughly vertebrate address, find out such apt quotations, remember such illuminating human examples! It was a remarkable feat. The sermon on grace, heard in the evening, was just as well argued, though a little more tender in tone, which suited the starlight. The ordinary Resmond Street seat-holder felt that they were in luck’s way, they could not have a better man.
The Trustees and Deacons were to hold a joint meeting on the following Friday to discuss the latest candidates. On Wednesday morning old Mr. Tolefree received a letter from John Aquile, thanking him for his hospitality, and saying that on the writer’s return home on Monday, he had found awaiting him a definite offer of a post of assistant pastor in another church, with a fixed date for his decision.
“It is only fair to tell you this,” continued the letter, “though I should by no means wish you to understand that I mean necessarily to accept it. I liked much my experience in Annotsfield and should regard it as a privilege and honour to work under you.”
Mr. Tolefree hurried off as fast as his old legs would carry him to lay this letter before his chief Trustees. And it was here, perhaps, though I think here only, that the flaws in the West Riding character, as generally conceived, operated to bring about Resmond Street’s doom. For the moment the Trustees and Deacons heard that there was a chance some other church might snatch Mr. Aquile away from them, he became doubly valuable in their eyes. It was not in their competitive industrial nineteenth-century nature to allow an advantage to be wrested from them in this way; their business instincts were roused, they came to the meeting in a fighting spirit. Accordingly Mr. Aquile’s appointment was passed in a few moments, without that severe doctrinal examination which had been inflicted on the other applicants. It was only at the very moment when the question was being put to the vote that one of the original Trustees, Brigg by name—Brigg is such a frequent appellation in Annotsfield that one often has to descend to three Christian names to distinguish individuals; this was John James Joshua—turned to his neighbour and remarked:
“I suppose he’s all right by the Deed?”
“He was trained at the College,” replied his colleague, alluding to the Congregational establishment already referred to.
“Mr. Tolefree approved him,” put in a Deacon from the row behind.
“His text was sound,” said another.
Alderman Brigg nodded thoughtfully. In truth, the verse from which Mr. Aquile’s morning text was taken, a verse several times quoted in his sermon, was considered by many to bear a particularly Trust Deed interpretation, since it stated that no man could be justified in the sight of God by law, that is, as the Alderman believed, by any amount of good works, but only by faith. That Mr. Aquile had chanced to speak on this text because Mr. Tolefree had opened the subject to him the night before had not then occurred to Alderman Brigg, though it might have done so if he had been given more time.
“We haven’t heard such sermons in Resmond Street for a dozen years,” said Councillor Starbotton impatiently.
“We shall be lucky if we get Aquile at all, with those Norfolk chaps after him,” said another Brigg (William Thomas, no relation to the Alderman) grimly.
At this Alderman Brigg raised his hand, and the vote in favour of John Aquile was unanimous.
4
The young minister took up work in Resmond Street in the following January, and at once a tide of new fife flowed through the Resmond Street veins.
The Sunday School was revivified, for there was no longer any shortage of teachers; young women and young men were alike eager to work under Mr. Aquile. Their eagerness was not diminished by the high standards which he imposed; pleasant, friendly, undemanding in personal relationships, in anything which concerned the Lord’s work he was strict and even stern. All teachers had to attend special classes to ensure that their teaching of the children was sound and good; any slackness in preparation, attendance or handling was immediately noticed and firmly rebuked. Admirable sermons continued to pour from the Resmond Street pulpit; on ordinary Sundays the congregation awaited with keen interest their assistant pastor’s often recondite choice of text; on the great occasions of the Christian year, when the subject of his discourse was as it were pre-selected, Mr. Aquile always had something new to say. The choir augmented itself, so did the (temperance) Band of Hope; a Dorcas Society and a Mothers’ Meeting, the latter conducted by Mrs. John James Joshua Brigg, sprang into being; the collections for Home Missions (for which Mr. Aquile preached) went up by leaps and bounds.
In the following winter Mr. Aquile began to conduct on Wednesday afternoons—previously his only free time— literature classes for the ladies of his congregation. A good many of the young women who flocked to the first few of these soon fell off, for the intellectual travail required was beyond their range. Miss Eliza Starbotton and Miss Lucy Tolefree, however, were amongst those who attended very regularly.
Surprise was expressed in some quarters at the assiduity of Miss Starbotton, for she was regarded as the beauty of Resmond Street, absorbed almost entirely in the acquirement of masculine admiration. Small and deliciously slight, with a round little face and a snub nose, Eliza had big “baby blue” eyes, her father’s brilliant complexion, and masses of long and really beautiful fair hair, which veiled her to the waist when it escaped its controlling hairpins and came down. (Somehow, at parties, at picnics, on walks, when skating, in fact wherever admiring males were present, Eliza’s hair always did come down.) She was a good deal spoiled and petted by her father; indeed it was rumoured that Councillor Starbotton had replied solemnly to one suitor for her hand: “ Eliza is a hothouse flower.” Why therefore should she trouble to attend literature classes? Especially as she had recently accepted the suitor aforesaid, who chanced to be Alderman Brigg’s grandson, James Joshua Henry. Miss Starbotton could not, therefore—so argued Resmond Street —take any matrimonial interest in Mr. Aquile. So why did she go to his classes?
Miss Tolefree of course was considered both as beyond the age of such hopes, and as genuinely interested in literature. But the existence of these speculations indicated the general awareness that there were other young ladies in the congregation who took a warmer tone towards Mr. Aquile. (His very name, so unYorkshire, was so excitingly strange, rang so romantically in their ears.) But they were obliged to admire the assistant pastor wistfully and from afar, for he seemed not susceptible to any delicate feminine blandishments, while anything of a bolder kind simply died in his presence—vulgarity could not exist beneath the clear piercing glance of those luminous eyes. Mr. Aquile was apt, too, to foil the little schemes of the young ladies’ mothers to entangle him with their daughters’ charms, for when they invited him to tea (high Yorkshire tea) he was usually unable to accept owing to some platform or pulpit engagement, and when they made him presents he accepted them with warm thanks but on behalf of the poor. The Resmond Street congregation did not take umbrage on this account, however; being Yorkshire folk, they liked a man to hold his end up and be a man—they could not abide a fool who let himself be led by the nose.
For all the good causes of the town Mr. Aquile spoke on platforms; he sat on committees and exercised a sane and sensible influence on their deliberations; yet he never neglected Resmond Street business for more showy affairs, but always faithfully and eagerly performed anything he had promised to do. In leaving the Established Church for his present faith, he had experienced doubts and perplexities, anguish of mind, alienation (even though only temporary) from his family; in a word he had suffered. Accordingly he was well able to enter into the sufferings of others, and not a few in Annotsfield confided in him and asked his advice. Young ministers of other denominations told him their spiritual and congregational perplexities; sons confided their difficulties about their over-strict fathers, and perplexed fathers about their wayward sons. Warm-hearted, generous, tender to the weak, Mr. Aquile could (
and did) speak sternly where any meanness or false pride displayed itself. But it was noticeable that all who confided in him became thenceforward his firm friends.
“Mr. Aquile is a man I am proud to serve under,” said the Sunday School Superintendent emphatically. Perhaps only those who know Sunday School Superintendents will realise the full magnitude of this tribute.
All the Sunday School children, young and old, loved him dearly, in different ways, of course, according to their different capacities.
In a word, all Resmond Street rejoiced in their new pastor—until one Sunday morning towards the end of the year.
5
It does not matter what exactly he uttered in the pulpit that morning. We are not concerned with conflicting points of doctrine, and certainly not to decide which, if either, is right, but only to depict the havoc, the anguish, which divergent ideals can cause in persons of conscience, even in Annotsfield. It is enough to say that in the middle of his discourse Mr. Aquile made some statement not quite in accordance with the principles laid down in the Trust Deed. A barely perceptible stir, a very slight ripple, among the older members of the congregation, greeted it. Mr. Aquile, who like all good speakers felt every reaction amongst his audience instantly, imagined that he had not been properly understood, and reiterated his statement, expounding and expanding it so that the blood of some of his stricter hearers quite froze with horror. Old Mr. Tolefree was not present on that occasion, having been ordered to bed by his doctor for a few days’ rest. Accordingly Alderman Brigg took it upon himself to go up to Mr. Aquile at the close of the service and say bluntly:
“You were rather off your line this morning, Mr. Aquile.”
His tone was gruff, curt and condescending, and anyone not born in Yorkshire might be forgiven for finding it offensive.
“I don’t understand you, sir,” said the young minister proudly, flushing.
“Perhaps we had better leave the matter to Mr. Tolefree, Alderman,” put in William Thomas Brigg hastily at his elbow.
Mr. Aquile glanced from one to the other of the two Trustees—both short, solid, swarthy, high-coloured, bearded men clad in costly black broadcloth from Annotsfield looms, with thick gold watch-chains (costing a pound a link in days when a pound was thought a good weekly wage) displayed across their massive abdomens. The minister was genuinely perplexed as to the cause of the Alderman’s criticism, but felt that an affront was intended which he was not minded to accept.
“Perhaps that would be best,” he said coldly.
It says much for the strength of Mr. Aquile’s personality, and the dominance he had achieved over his congregation, that Alderman Brigg merely snorted and turned away without further protest. He visited Mr. Tolefree’s bedside that very afternoon, however, and laid the matter before him forcefully. He seemed to consider Mr. Tolefree in some way to blame, and this the old minister resented.
“You can’t deny you wanted him as assistant—you recommended him.”
“I recommended him because I thought his ministry would be fruitful to Resmond Street, and so it has proved.”
“You vouched for him being all right by the Deed.”
“I did nothing of the kind.”
“Well, we took it for granted like that he was all right, since you recommended him.”
“Then you had no right to do so,” said Mr. Tolefree sternly. “It is you Trustees who are responsible for the administration of the Deed, not I.”
“That’s all very well,” persisted Alderman Brigg, taking however a lower tone as he saw his pastor’s unyielding face: “But what are we going to do about it, eh? His appointment comes up for renewal next month, you know. I for one shan’t vote for him unless he’s all right by the Deed, and I know plenty of others that won’t either, Mr. Tolefree. Yet it’d be a pity to lose him.”
“It would be a great pity to lose him,” said Mr. Tolefree, pronouncing his words with great precision.
“Will you speak to him then, eh?”
“I will tell him what you say,” said Mr. Tolefree.
A few days later the pastor, now sitting by the fire downstairs with a rug over his knees, informed his assistant of the objections lodged to his doctrine by one of the Trustees. Mr. Aquile listened in grave astonishment.
“But I have heard nothing of this Deed, nothing of these provisions,” he said.
Mr. Tolefree handed him a copy of the Deed which Alderman Brigg had left in his hands.
“This matter will require much consideration,” said Mr. Aquile thoughtfully, turning its pages. “Some of these clauses, if literally interpreted, seem to me not merely narrow, but positively wrong, contrary to the spirit of Christ’s teaching, cold and inhumane.”
“Your appointment comes up for renewal next month,” said Mr. Tolefree drily.
“How providential that this matter has been raised before the Deacons’ meeting!” exclaimed Mr. Aquile. “We shall at least all know where we stand.”
“I fear we must lose you. I am very sorry,” said Mr. Tolefree.
“Have these clauses been assented to by all the Resmond Street members?” enquired Mr. Aquile. “Are they habitually used as a test of membership, I mean?”
“Not of late years,” said Mr. Tolefree.
“Is it your view that a majority of the church members would adhere to all the clauses?” Mr. Tolefree hesitated.
“Not a majority, I think,” he said. “No—probably not a majority. I understand,” he continued, “that before consenting to renew your appointment the Trustees will demand a declaration from you about the Deed.”
“I will seek a decision in prayer,” said Mr. Aquile. “And now I must not tire you further. Good afternoon.”
Mr. Tolefree rang a small handbell which stood on the table at his side—it was a thoughtful little gift from his assistant pastor—and Lucy came into the room.
“Mr. Aquile is leaving, Lucy.”
“Will you not stay to tea?” said Lucy.
“I fear I must not give myself that pleasure, Miss Lucy,” said Aquile in his gentle courteous tones. He bowed gravely and allowed her to precede him from the room.
When she had ushered him from the house Lucy returned and stood before her uncle, her eyes downcast, her long hands clasped loosely in front of her.
It was a pity, thought her uncle, that dear Lucy had not inherited any of the personal attractions of her father, Mr. Tolefree’s youngest brother, an ethereally handsome schoolteacher before he coughed his lungs out and died, leaving no savings and a wife and four children. Lucy, whom Mr. Tolefree and his wife had brought up since childhood, was a true Christian, a most tender and affectionate nurse and very dear to him, but alas, he thought sadly, she was small, plain and insignificant in appearance. Her russet eyebrows were too thick, her features too strongly marked, her mane of brown hair too plainly dressed, drawn back from her forehead to a knot in the nape of her neck, to reach any standard of feminine beauty known to Mr. Tolefree. She was nearing her thirties and would probably never marry, and what she would do after his death sometimes troubled her uncle. Her dress of plain dark stuff was very suitable for a minister’s spinster niece, thought Mr. Tolefree, eyeing it now, but not in the least becoming. The truth was that Lucy’s dress was perhaps a little older, a little less fashionable, a little more mended, than it had need to be. Since Lucy had not a penny of her own, her dresses depended on the benefactions of her uncle; Mr. Tolefree, unworldly, puritanic, theological, did not perhaps always notice quite soon enough his niece’s requirements in this respect, and Lucy was the last woman in the world to remind him of them.
“Well, my dear,” said Mr. Tolefree kindly, for he was truly fond of Lucy: “Are we to have our tea?”
“Uncle,” said Lucy quietly, raising her eyes to his—they were, thought Mr. Tolefree with something of a shock, fine eyes, large, brown and at present very lustrous—“Uncle, it lies on my conscience to tell you I disagree with you in this matter.”
“What matter, my dear
?” said Mr. Tolefree, surprised— Lucy had never disagreed with him before.
“The matter of the Deed and Mr. Aquile’s sermon.” Mr. Tolefree was quite astounded.
“You have heard of it?” he said. (Of course it no more entered his head that Lucy had been listening to his conversation with Mr. Aquile than it had entered Lucy’s to do so.)
“All Annotsfield has heard of it.”
“You exaggerate, my dear,” said Mr. Tolefree. “But I am sorry the matter should be generally canvassed in this way. About what do you disagree?”
“Mr. Aquile’s ministry is a noble one.”
“I grant that very freely,” said Mr. Tolefree, sadly shaking his head. “I do not hesitate to say that I love John Aquile as if he were my son, and I shall be very loth to part from him.”
“It seemed to me from his manner when leaving that you had advised him to quit Resmond Street.”
“The ministry at Resmond Street is bound by the Trust Deed,” began Mr. Tolefree.
“Are we to be bound by dead hands to do what we think wrong?”
“Wrong! Lucy, bethink yourself what you are saying,” said Mr. Tolefree sternly. “But certainly we are not so bound. Mr. Aquile must judge for himself. Only, if Mr. Aquile thinks the Trust Deed doctrines wrong, then he can no longer preach from the Resmond Street pulpit.”
“Is it not a pastor’s duty to denounce what is wrong and preach what is right?”
“The Resmond Street ministry is legally bound by the provisions of the Trust Deed,” cried Mr. Tolefree in a loud angry tone, banging his stick on the floor. He was angry because in fact he was uncertain; his head pulling one way and his heart the other.
“The letter killeth, the spirit giveth life,” said Lucy firmly.
Mr. Tolefree was as dumbfounded as if his quiet domestic tabby had turned and bit him.
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