Love and Money

by Phyllis Bentley

  The congregation, deeply distressed by the thought that their young pastor had sacrificed his health to bring them fame—for Emmanuel was certainly famous these days— contributed handsomely to a holiday fund, and Mr. and Mrs. Aquile set off for Switzerland for three months.

  As soon as the train left Annotsfield Mr. Aquile began to look better; his listless eyes brightened, his leaden complexion took on a clearer hue. Amid the superb mountain scenery— the peaks, the pines, the rushing torrents, the clear crisp sunny air—he gradually regained health. Always a great walker, he presently began to make long excursions with guides or even by himself, Lucy remaining at the hotel, for she saw he wished to be alone with himself and his God. On returning from one of these he kissed her with especial tenderness, and she felt a change in his appearance and demeanour without being able to define exactly what it was.

  “You are happier now, dearest?” she ventured.

  “Yes. I have wrestled out a course of action for myself. I cannot undo the past, Lucy, but I can atone for it by the future. That is my duty and I will strive to perform it.”

  “I do not believe any atonement is called for,” said Lucy staunchly. “Your actions were noble.”

  Her husband gave her a sad smile and shook his head.

  “But that it is your duty to lead and guide Emmanuel, I do believe,” concluded Lucy.

  They returned to England. Only Lucy saw how her husband’s ease and confidence clouded, how the burden seemed to increase upon his shoulders, with every yard they advanced towards Annotsfield. When at last they were actually in their little home, whence the pointed tower of Emmanuel could be seen, the whole weight of the stone buildings seemed to bear down upon his neck. He made a great effort—only Lucy knew how great—and took up his duties with even more zeal, if that were possible, than before. His sermons during this period, on texts relating to responsibility, humility, vainglory, and kindred subjects, had a profundity, a poignancy which really astonished his hearers; hard-headed business men and practical, realistic Yorkshire housewives actually sobbed aloud as they listened. He was unanimously invited to preside at a Yorkshire missionary conference to be held in Annotsfield—a rare honour for so young a man. He carried out his duties to admiration and closed the highly successful conference amid universal applause. But next morning as he and his wife were dressing, Lucy heard a low sigh of distress and turning to him saw that he had buttoned his shirt unevenly and was fumbling in vain with clumsy fingers to set it right. He swayed on his feet and in a moment fell forward into her arms.

  This time Lucy felt they could not call upon the congregation for aid. But there were always plenty of friends who were only too glad, or whose parents were only too glad, to give Mr. Aquile hospitality. He paid short visits to one or two such friends, without his wife, and returned apparently restored to health.

  But now the Emmanuel congregation had to suffer all the pangs of pity for Mr. Aquile which Resmond Street had suffered on account of old Mr. Tolefree, and these pangs were increased by the fact of Mr. Aquile’s youth. It was Mr. Aquile now who grew terribly thin, whose shoulders bowed, who gave out announcements incorrectly, whose sentences in prayer and sermon trailed off, not certainly into shapeless mumblings but into agonised searchings, as yet ultimately successful, for words. This was sad enough in an old minister of many years’ service, but in a man still in his late thirties it was heartrending. Lucy privately urged the doctor to persuade her husband to read his sermons. The doctor did so with some skill, strictly forbidding Mr. Aquile to indulge in any extempore speaking, as though it were a luxury, and it was clear that the veto was a relief to the young pastor. But the first time he read a sermon in Emmanuel such a ripple of horrified astonishment ran through the congregation that he could not but feel it, and his talk thereafter was often turned to the time when he should be able to preach without manuscript again. He was determined to do it, he said, with a kind of humble cheerfulness which harrowed his hearers, and was practising learning by heart and reciting short paragraphs, in preparation.

  Only Lucy knew what self-command he had to exercise to force himself to enter Emmanuel at all. To him the big church, the crowded school, were emblems, reminders, of his own sin. Even Lucy, because she was niece to old Mr. Tolefree, of whose death he believed himself guilty, reminded him of his sin. As for her black silk dress—which after all these years still remained, a trifle modified, her best, its durability a tribute to Alderman Brigg’s purse—Mr. Aquile looked at it as a flagellant saint of old might have looked at his scourge. Yet he struggled on manfully, Sunday by Sunday reading short essays (which grew more and more confused) in the church which he had once enthralled by his eloquence, and attending every meeting where his presence was officially required.

  At last there came a Sunday when, as he stood in the pulpit with his manuscript before him, Lucy to her horror saw him sway upon his feet. He began to read, but could only continue with the greatest difficulty; his face was white and became beaded with sweat as he proceeded, and he held tightly to the wooden rail before him. His subject was atonement. At the end, in a clear ringing voice more like his former tones than any he had used of late, he said:

  “My friends, I offer you my apologies for not having done this important subject the justice which it and you deserve.”

  “You’ll have to take another holiday,” said Councillor Starbotton—he was still not an Alderman owing to Alderman Brigg’s machinations—seriously to him before Sunday School that afternoon.

  “Do you think so?” said Mr. Aquile sadly.

  “I’m sure of it. Go off tomorrow morning for a couple of weeks. Somewhere bracing, by the sea. Why not Blackpool?”

  “The rough seas there are often very fine,” put in Lucy.

  “Yes—well—if you think so,” said Mr. Aquile mildly. “I own I should be glad of a rest.”

  “How are you off for cash? Would you like your next quarter’s salary in advance, eh?” suggested Councillor Starbotton, thrusting his hand into his breast pocket.

  “No, no—we are amply provided. Are we not, Lucy?”

  “Yes, indeed,” agreed Lucy.

  She spoke without enthusiasm, however. No household was ever more frugally and correctly managed than the Aquiles’ and they always had a small sum of money laid by. But owing to Mr. Aquile’s recent travels, modest though they were, and to chemists’ bills—the doctor refused all payment—the present sum would not suffice, Lucy knew, to pay for more than few days’ holiday for one person. She dreaded the thought of her husband travelling alone. But there was no help for it; the Aquiles were not the people to anticipate salaries or take the charity of Councillors, while another appeal to the congregation was out of the question. Accordingly next morning Mr. Aquile left for Blackpool by himself.

  He stayed at a modest boarding-house where he immediately became a great favourite, but he spent much of his time with a friend of his, a young minister from the neighbouring town of Hudley, who chanced to be holidaying with his wife and young children in lodgings not far away. It is from this minister, and from one of the guests in the boarding-house, that the events of these days in Blackpool are known.

  As it chanced, strong winds from the west made the sea exceptionally rough during several days, and the two men took long walks beside it, enjoying the spectacle of wind and wave in conflict, and “talking,” as the Hudley minister said with discretion, “about old times.” Mr. Aquile as usual became a great favourite with his friend’s children; he bought them both a small toy and paid for switchback rides for them. He also gave money to some little girls who were singing for a living on the promenade, and coming across a little boy who had fallen while carrying some groceries and was crying, helped to pick up the scattered articles and laid a penny “as a plaster” on the little fellow’s bruised forehead.

  Presently the Hudley family’s holiday ended and they returned to Yorkshire. Mr. Aquile came with them to the station to see them off. He carried the little boy in h
is arms and was very helpful about the luggage; it seemed to his friend that he was better and more cheerful than when they had first met on the front; he hoped his own views about Resmond Street had been helpful to his dearly loved colleague. Mr. Aquile promised to send the minister’s wife a poem they had discussed, and actually posted it off to her that afternoon.

  Evening drew in; the sea rose.

  Meanwhile in Annotsfield a meeting of the Deacons and Managing Committee of Emmanuel Church was taking place. Councillor Starbotton had obtained a medical opinion on Mr. Aquile’s health from his physician, who stated emphatically that the pastor required a year’s holiday, out of Annotsfield and entirely free from care. He now reported this, and Mr. Aquile’s illnesses and absences formed the subject of a lengthy and sympathetic discussion. To continue to pay Mr. Aquile’s salary and to supply the pulpit during a year’s absence would be a costly business, yet the original Resmond Street members all felt bound to that course. Younger members, who did not know quite so much about Mr. Aquile’s services to Emmanuel, were restive about the dropping attendances at the services; they hinted that Mr. Aquile ought to retire on half pay and enable the church to secure a full-time pastor, some active and promising man. When the vote was taken, however, a large majority were in favour of agreeing to the advised holiday, paying Mr. Aquile his full salary, and supplying the pulpit out of church funds during his absence. It was decided to send Mr. Aquile a letter informing him of these discussions, as such a communication would tend to cheer him. The meeting broke up well pleased with itself, enjoying its own generosity and staunchness.

  About the time the members were parting, Mr. Aquile, having dined at his modest “hydro” and had a few minutes’ pleasant talk with some of his fellow-guests, went out for his customary stroll before going to bed—he was sleeping ill and the fresh air and exercise helped him.

  A fierce westerly gale drove torn clouds across the face of the moon and lashed the sea to fury; great waves advanced upon the land in angry leaps till they towered black and gleaming in the moonlight, then thundered down upon the shore in a raging turmoil of white surf.

  Mr. Aquile smiled in enjoyment of the magnificent spectacle, and climbed down the low cliff to the sandy beach in order to view more closely this wonderful work of God.

  Next morning, Alderman Brigg on his way to his warehouse in Annotsfield encountered Councillor Starbotton walking hurriedly towards the railway station. He was so obviously a man stricken by grief that the Alderman was startled. He stopped.

  “What’s up, Councillor? Is it your Eliza?” he said, unpleasant visions of his grandson’s wife dying in childbirth flocking to his mind.

  “No. It’s Mr. Aquile. He’s been found dead on the Blackpool beach.”

  “Never!”

  “Aye, it’s true. The Blackpool police wired the Annotsfield police, and they fetched me to tell poor Lucy. I’m off to Blackpool now to identify him and so on.”

  There was a pause. The two men gazed at each other.

  “I’ll come with you, Fred,” said Alderman Brigg.

  12

  As the news of Mr. Aquile’s death gradually spread through Annotsfield that morning the sensation was profound; the awful tidings struck the hearts of many like a physical blow. Pity for Lucy, grief for her husband, horror at the strange circumstances of his death, were expressed in a thousand Annotsfield homes, mills and offices that day, and not unnaturally a thousand speculations arose as to the manner of Mr. Aquile’s end. His body had been found by fishermen on the morning following the storm, face downwards, half embedded in the sand. Because of his state of health, his failing mental powers, the possibility of suicide was widely canvassed.

  But here Lucy performed her supreme service for her husband. At the inquest she stated outright, not shunning the dreaded word, that suicide was impossible, since such an act would be contrary to her husband’s religious beliefs. She reported the odd fainting fits which had recently overtaken Mr. Aquile, referring to the attack he had sustained on his last appearance in the Emmanuel pulpit. It was clear to her, she said, that he had fallen forward unconscious, not into her arms as so often before, but into the raging waves, which had drawn him back with them into eternity. This hypothesis was supported by the medical evidence, for the small amount of sea water discovered in the deceased’s internal organs proved that he had been unconscious when drowned, unconscious when he entered the sea. There were some members of Emmanuel, however, who were so anxious that the verdict should not be suicide that they pressed for one of manslaughter. Mr. Aquile’s purse was gone, and also the gold watch and albert chain presented to him on his wedding day. Because of the central bar in the watch chain, they thought it impossible that the sea should have washed chain and watch away. There was a bruise on Mr. Aquile’s forehead. Could he not have been assaulted and robbed? Lucy did not think so. With a touch of dry humour she said that her husband was more likely to have converted a robber from his evil ways and taken a missionary subscription from him than to have allowed himself to be robbed. That the body when dead had been robbed, she easily believed; but she felt that any prosecution of the thief, if and when found, would have been displeasing to her husband, and accordingly she showed no zeal in discovering the malefactor, if any. Her calm good sense, her clarity and firmness, quietened public opinion and preserved her husband’s reputation.

  On the Sunday following the death of John Spencer Aquile, sermons were preached on his life and work in almost every pulpit in the town; the tributes from old and young, from every sect and denomination, were remarkable for their moving warmth and affection.

  His funeral next day was an extraordinary affair, the account of which occupied five columns in the Annotsfield Pioneer. It was early discovered by the Emmanuel Deacons that the attendance at the service was likely to be large, and they therefore arranged that admission should be by ticket. This displeased Lucy, but she learned of it too late to make any alteration, and as things turned out, the provision was probably a proper one, as otherwise those of nearest intimacy to Mr. Aquile might not have succeeded in entering the church, so great was the throng. No fewer than sixty-one ministers were present, while twenty-eight out of the thirty-three members of the choir, large numbers of Sunday School teachers—eight young men of whom carried the coffin—and scholars, many young people from the Christian Guild, and hundreds of the Emmanuel congregation, completely filled the church. Outside a large crowd of persons assembled, many of them wearing mourning. (It must be remembered that in those days, to leave one’s work in the afternoon for anything less than a family bereavement, meant to lose half a day’s pay; the sacrifice was considerable and indicated a very genuine feeling.) The first hymn began:

  Calmly, calmly lay him down,

  He hath fought a noble fight,

  He hath battled for the right,

  He hath won the fadeless crown.

  The choir also rendered the Stainer anthem What are these which are arrayed in white robes very beautifully, and the address, by the ministerial friend who had married John Spencer Aquile to Lucy, even today after three-quarters of a century still throbs with deep and sincere emotion. It is not often that these rather stilted addresses end with the words: Farewell, dear loving friend, till we meet again in the home of God, but this was the tribute paid to John Spencer Aquile.

  There was a rather long delay outside Emmanuel at the conclusion of the service, while the very large procession was marshalled by the Chief Constable of Annotsfield. Great numbers of people assembled along the line of route to the Annotsfield cemetery, and manifested deep sympathy as Lucy, with Councillor and Mrs. Starbotton, drove slowly past. Even the Church of England was not unmoved; the bell of the Annotsfield Parish Church was tolled, and as the procession passed the church gate, the vicar of Annotsfield and another vicar of the Established Church came out, joined the sixty-one ministers aforesaid and proceeded with them to the cemetery.

  As the huge cortège made the awkward turn down the
hill to the gates of the cemetery, a solitary figure was seen standing at the opposite corner of the road. He stood motionless, in an attitude of deep respect, bareheaded, his silk hat in his hand. Tears rolled down his swarthy cheeks. It was Alderman Brigg.

  So the Annotsfield Pioneer was probably not far wrong when it stated that all Annotsfield and all Nonconformist England mourned John Spencer Aquile.

  Perhaps the only person, indeed, who did not lament his death was Lucy. With her firm faith in an after-life, she quite simply knew that now her husband’s anguish of soul was over, his anxieties of conscience laid to rest. The souls of the righteous are in the hands of God, thought Lucy, and there shall no torment touch them. That John Spencer Aquile would be greeted by the Lord he served with the words Well done, thou good and faithful servant, was as certain to Lucy as her own love and loss.

  13

  Fifty years later, the Annotsfield Corporation expressed its desire to buy the Resmond Street chapel, pull it down and put municipal offices in its place. Since the Town Hall occupied the other side of Resmond Street, the site was convenient for this purpose, and the moribund condition of the chapel as a community justified the proposal. Faced with this impending dissolution, the small remaining congregation conceived the sensible and business-like notion of reuniting themselves with Emmanuel Church. Their pastor, at the suggestion of the originator of the idea, laid the suggestion tentatively before the pastor of Emmanuel, who in turn laid it before the members of his church. Emmanuel gave a cordial welcome to the scheme. United worship was conducted during several months, the service being taken on alternate Sundays by the Emmanuel and Resmond Street pastors, according to the varying customs of the two congregations.

  At the end of this time votes were taken on the project. The Emmanuel members decided without a single dissentient to proceed with the union scheme; at Resmond Street a similar motion was passed by a majority of eighty-five per cent. The joint committee appointed to draw up a scheme of union, dealing with financial provisions, change of name for Emmanuel, and so on, could not however agree. It was therefore decided that each church should formulate its own scheme, both schemes then to be submitted to an outside independent advisory body, for their judgment as to which would best serve the religious needs of Annotsfield. The advisory body sat, considered both schemes, made its recommendations. Emmanuel accepted these recommendations. Resmond Street refused. The Union movement thereupon terminated.