Love and Money

by Phyllis Bentley

  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.

  10

  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, o
bserved 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.

  “You remember Eliza, John,” said Lucy at his elbow: “Mrs. James Brigg, you know.”

  The introduction was perhaps not unnecessary, for the former Eliza Starbotton had changed so much since her marriage that for a moment Mr. Aquile had not recognised her. The wonderful fair hair was still as abundant as ever, though now draped in over-elaborate coils about her head; but her brilliant complexion had faded and her rounded features, once almost baby-like in their contour and texture, looked pinched and pale.

  “We go to Salem,” she said hastily, rising from a chair by the fire and giving him her hand.

  “Yes, yes. And these are your children,” said Mr. Aquile, seating himself beside his wife on a settee and taking the little girl by the hand.

  “Yes. Alice and Henry,” said Mrs. Brigg, smoothing Alice’s fair hair. “I didn’t know it was the Dorcas meeting— I just called in to see mother—James is coming to fetch us soon.”

  At first, naturally, Alice was shy and hung back, and Baby Henry, sucking his thumb in his mother’s arms, gazed in solemn question at the newcomer. But Mr. Aquile, as has been said, was quite irresistible to children. He was genuinely and seriously interested in them, and talked to them about their affairs without any of that facetious and factitious condescension which children so abominate. Besides, his hands were strong and gentle, his smile loving and warm. They felt safe with him. In no time at all Alice was sitting on his knee describing the dolls’ pram which her grandfather had brought from London for her, and Baby Henry was playing a kind of infant tattoo with Mr. Aquile’s left hand.

  There was the sound of arrivals at the front door and Councillor Starbotton bustled cheerfully in, followed by his son-in-law.

  James Joshua Henry Brigg was at this time in appearance a younger edition of his grandfather: shortish, solid, swarthy, high-coloured, not unhandsome, with the strong, blunt features of an obstinate man. He walked straight over to Mr. Aquile and lifted Alice peremptorily out of his lap. Eliza exclaimed, and the husband and wife exchanged a look.

  Years of married misery were in that look. To anyone with eyes to see it was clear that James Joshua Henry Brigg had been bitterly jealous of Eliza’s attendance at Mr. Aquile’s literature classes and admiration for Mr. Aquile during their engagement; that he had married her after the Trust Deed row out of obstinacy, lust of the flesh and a determination not to be bossed by anyone, even his grandfather; that as soon as he had her to wife he thought he had paid too high a price for her and did not scruple to let her know it. In Eliza’s look, for those who could see, there was the angry resentment of the spoiled child deprived of its cosseting, the misery of the woman despised by her husband, and the proud determination never to let her father know her wretchedness. Now Mr. Aquile’s perceptions were extremely keen, extremely sensitive; keener and more sensitive perhaps than those of anyone else at that time in Annotsfield.

  “James!” said Eliza, reproving her husband’s rudeness.

  “Well, lovey!” said James Brigg to Alice in a loud hearty tone, kissing her and in general playing the doting father to her—this was not all affectation, for he doted indeed on Alice; but he did not object to exaggerating his devotion to vex his wife and make her jealous. Alice, who as children do instinctively knew all this, with a side glance of triumph down at her mother threw her arms ecstatically round her father’s neck.

  “Mr. Aquile is here, James,” said Eliza in a cool light tone.

  “Oh! How do you do, Mr. Aquile?” said James in an offhand tone, smiling.

  “We are just leaving—I fear we must not wait for that cup of tea,” said Mr. Aquile, starting up.

  “Oh, but it’s here now,” wailed Mrs. Starbotton, advancing into the room, teapot in hand.

  “Aye, drink it up before you go—it’s perishing cold outside,” said Councillor Starbotton, who had noticed nothing amiss.

  The pastor drank the cup of scalding tea in record time, and the Aquiles left.

  “James Brigg has become a disagreeable young man, I think,” said Lucy to her husband, as arm in arm they fought their way home through the driving sleet under one umbrella. “I don’t think Eliza is very happy with him.”

  Mr. Aquile sighed. “I fear not,” he said.

  It was in the early hours of the following morning that Lucy suddenly started awake. Some sound had broken her sleep, she knew not what. She stretched out her hand towards her husband, but his place was empty. Then a long shuddering sigh came out of the darkness. Lucy sat up, tossing her heavy russet plaits back over her shoulders, and taking matches from a candlestick which stood at the bedside, made a light. Her husband was revealed kneeling by the bed in an attitude of prayer, his hands stretched out and clenched in tense supplication, his head bowed upon the coverlet. Not presuming to intrude upon his devotions, Lucy silently plucked a shawl from a nearby chair and laid it gently over his shoulders. He raised his head; his face was agonised—white, distorted, and beaded with sweat.

  “John! Are you ill?” exclaimed Lucy, alarmed.

  “Only in soul,” whispered John Aquile.

  “In soul? Few have healthier souls than you,” said Lucy firmly.

  “No. Lucy, I was wrong. I acted in pride, in spiritual arrogance.”

  “Never!” said Lucy.

  “Yes—in the matter of the Trust Deed. I am not sure that I was right.”

  “But I am sure, husband,” said Lucy, gently caressing his hair.

  “Look at the terrible consequences of my action.”

  “Emmanuel is a splendid consequence.”

  “But that poor young woman this afternoon, and her husband. Their lives are ruined. Full of hate and bitterness. Even the child—even that little Alice, Lucy—is being led into wickedness and sin.”

  “You must not take the sins of others upon your shoulders, John.”

  “And your uncle’s death was all my fault.”

  “It was not you who brought the Chancery action.”

  “I provoked it.”

  “But look at Emmanuel, John!” exclaimed Lucy. “Emmanuel is doing the Lord’s work magnificently. Annotsfield would be spiritually poorer without Emmanuel. It is an example to all, a shining light. If you had not fought the Trust Deed, Emmanuel would not exist.”

  “The balance of good and evil in the consequences of my actions is very difficult to judge,” said Mr. Aquile, frowning.

  “It is not for you to judge. God is the judge” quoted Lucy firmly.

  “Yes. Yes. Perhaps you are right. One must do one’s best and leave the rest. My own Lucy, what should I do without you?”

  He seemed reassured; his face resumed its usual contours, he exclaimed in a natural tone that he was cold, sprang into bed and soon fell heavily asleep.

  Nevertheless, this was the beginning of the first of his three nervous breakdowns. He woke next morning with a severe headache, rose only by a strong effort of will, and could eat no breakfast. The weather was s
till very inclement, and Lucy urged him to stay in. He agreed apathetically and sat down at his desk to make notes for his next Sunday’s sermon. But when Lucy took him a bowl of broth a couple of hours later the paper was still blank and he lay slumped in his chair, his eyes closed, his forehead a knot of pain. When she spoke his name he opened his eyes and gazed at her with infinite weariness, but did not move or answer.

  The doctor whom Lucy summoned diagnosed severe nervous overstrain, culminating in collapse.

  “Consider what he has been through, Mrs. Aquile,” he said, “in the last few years! All that trouble in Resmond Street, and the Chancery case, and then the burden of the building of the new church! Anxiety, worry, public criticism, public ordeal, a load of responsibility, and all the time incessant mental work. Mr. Aquile is so sensitive, too, so warm-hearted; he feels everything more than most men. He needs a complete rest. Three months’ holiday at least. Take him away from Annotsfield and don’t let him look at a book.”