Love and Money (23 page)

Mr. Aquile was eventually chosen by the seat-holders as pastor.

Alderman Brigg in a full meeting of Trustees—extraordinary stories were told of old Trustees being hauled
almost off their death-beds by Alderman Brigg in order to attend—moved to give the pastor six months' notice, but the resolution was lost by eleven votes to ten.

Mr. Aquile continued, in pulpit and prayer, to wrestle with what he believed to be his opponents' harsh and harmful heresy.

This tussle went on for a couple of years.

It was on a wild, wet February evening in 1880 when Lucy Tolefree, who was just descending the stairs after putting her uncle to bed, heard a loud agitated knocking at the front door. She ran to open it. Mr. Aquile stood there, flushed and panting.

“I'm afraid my uncle has retired,” said Lucy. At this Mr. Aquile looked so distressed that after a moment's hesitation she added: “But come in.”

Mr. Aquile stepped inside and Lucy closed the door behind him. It was now that she noticed he lacked hat, overcoat and gloves; the shoulders of his coat were wet and beads of moisture glistened on his hair.

“Is there anything wrong?” said Lucy.

He thrust a scroll with a dangling seal into her hands.

“I did not understand they hated me like this,” he panted.

Lucy straightened out the scroll. It was, in fact, a writ citing John Spencer Aquile and the eleven Trustees who favoured him to appear before the Court of Chancery; John James Joshua Brigg and the remaining Trustees had brought an action to restrain Mr. Aquile from officiating as pastor, and to have new Trustees elected (in place of those whose validity was questioned) who would execute faithfully the provisions of the Trust Deed.

“Well! I am defeated and must leave Resmond Street,” said Mr. Aquile.

“Why? Will you not fight the case?” said Lucy.

“I have no money to do so,” said Mr. Aquile.

“Councillor Starbotton has money,” said Lucy quietly.

“You think I should fight?”

“Yes! Fight!” said Lucy.

Mr. Aquile drew a deep breath and straightened his shoulders.

“You are right, Miss Lucy,” he said. “I will not trouble your uncle. I will go straight to Councillor Starbotton.”

“He no doubt has already received a similar document,” pointed out Lucy.

“Yes. I will go at once.”

“It would be best to call at your lodgings first for your hat and coat.”

“You are always right, Miss Lucy,” said Mr. Aquile.

Councillor Starbotton was not, however, at home when his pastor called; he was in the massive residence (richly furnished in the worst Victorian taste) of Alderman Brigg.

“Do you mean to go through with this, then, Joshua?” he asked grimly. “You'll really do it, eh?”

“I
have
done it,” retorted the Alderman in a tone of triumph. “It was you who first mentioned going to Chancery, think on.”

“In that case everything's finished between you and me.”

“It's been finished a long time, to my way of thinking.”

“What about your lad and my girl, then?”

“If my James marries your Eliza he can look elsewhere than my warehouse for his living, and so I've told him.”

“Gentlemen,” said Mr. Aquile, who was ushered in at this point: “Rather than be the cause of unhappiness to two young hearts, I will leave Resmond Street immediately.”

“It's too late to say that,” said Councillor Starbotton grimly. “I'm not going to be made to look a fool in front of all Annotsfield.”

“You'll contest the case, then?” said Alderman Brigg.

“Aye!”

“You'll have to reach pretty far down into your pocket, Fred,” said the Alderman.

“What's that to you? My pocket'll stand it.”

“But what about young Mr. James and Miss Eliza?” said Mr. Aquile gravely.

“If he's any kind of a man he'll stick to her. If not, she doesn't want him.”

“You'll rue this, Fred!” shouted the Alderman.

“You'll rue it worse,” said the Councillor.

The Court of Chancery is not noted for expedition, and it was nearly a year before the case was tried.

The chief event of this year as far as Resmond Street was concerned was the marriage of Mr. James Joshua Henry Brigg and Miss Eliza Starbotton. For the Alderman's grandson was as stubborn as the Alderman. He declared flatly that as far as the Trust Deed was concerned, he didn't care one way or the other, though on the whole he thought his grandfather was in the right of it, but he intended to marry the girl he was engaged to, choose how. His grandfather thereupon threw him out of the firm of Thomas Brigg & Sons, Merchants, and Councillor Starbotton took him into his firm of cloth manufacturers—Messrs. Starbotton, Brigg & Co. exist very prosperously to this day. The wedding was naturally a very moving occasion for Mr. Aquile, who performed the ceremony. His voice shook a little as he pronounced the young couple man and wife, and the short address he gave was considered by good judges to be one of the noblest descriptions of true marriage ever heard. The chapel was thronged by well-wishers—that is, by persons who supported Mr. Aquile.

At length the case came on; it was heard by the Vice-Chancellor in the Chancery Division of the HiglT'Court of Justice, in London, and occupied six days.

Poor old Mr. Tolefree was summoned as a witness by the plaintiffs, that is, by Alderman Brigg and his nine co-trustees.

“Is it really essential for my uncle to give evidence?” Lucy asked the Alderman.

“Aye, I reckon it is.”

“In that case I must accompany him.”

Alderman Brigg scowled.

“He's not fit to travel alone.”

“Well, all right—I'll arrange it,” said the Alderman in an ungracious tone.

The journey was a nightmare. The month was January and the weather inclement; an iron frost and a cold, sullen grey sky marked their departure from Annotsfield; in London there was no frost but its place was taken by a bitter north-east wind. The Alderman had reserved three compartments for the Trustees and their witnesses; this was well-meant but proved uncomfortable for Lucy as the only woman of the party. It was, of course, agony to her to hear the Trustees' rough comments on Mr. Aquile, nor did Mr. Tolefree enjoy these, but suffered a continuing torment of indecision.

The Court was both draughty and stuffy; Lucy wrapped her uncle in a large shawl but his hands remained cold as ice. It was clear to Lucy that Mr. Tolefree was ill; he ate little or nothing, was very unsteady on his feet and fell into short uneasy dozes in the middle of a word. She dreaded unspeakably his appearance in the witness-box; the ordeal would be terrible to him; besides, her uncle being the soul of truthfulness, she doubted gravely whether his evidence would be altogether pleasing to Alderman Brigg. On the other hand, now that she heard the exposition of the plaintiffs' case by the famous Q,.C. the Alderman had hired, she saw for the first time its legal aspect, and feared for Mr. Aquile. The defendants' representative was also a Q,.C, but he was much less effective than the prosecuting counsel. Lucy, whose ears were attuned to the defendants' comments, heard much grumbling about their barrister from Councillor Starbotton, but she thought she saw that he was an able man struggling with an impossible case. His only success was indeed with poor Mr. Tolefree, from whom he extracted the admission that even before the coming of Mr. Aquile the Resmond Street congregation was not solidly united upon the Trust Deed doctrines.

“The
opinions
of all the members of the church were
not
in harmony with the Trust Deed, I should say,” quavered Mr. Tolefree, carefully choosing his words to express the truth exactly as he saw it, “but the church itself was in a state of harmony and peacefulness.”

Alderman Brigg scowled and pursed his hps, displeased, and at the close of that session pushed past Mr. Tolefree roughly.

To Lucy's bitter disappointment Mr. Aquile himself was not called, and his Counsel's final speech was dull and full of small quibbles carrying no conviction. Long before the trial was over she knew its result, yet still the blow fell heavily when it came; the Vice-Chancellor gave judgment for the plaintiffs. The defendant John Spencer Aquile was pronounced not competent or qualified to exercise the office of the Pastor of the church and congregation worshipping at Resmond Street Chapel, Annotsfield in the County of York, and was ordered to be preremptorily restrained from doing so. No costs were awarded, however, and it was clear to everyone, even Alderman Brigg, that the Vice-Chancellor was not in love with the Trust Deed. But the law was the law; Mr. Aquile could no longer be pastor of Resmond Street.

White, haggard, and as if stunned, Mr. Aquile lingered in the Court as though he could not believe that the case was really over. Lucy with her uncle on her arm made slow progress towards the doors, for Mr. Tolefree could hardly stand and the plaintiffs, too absorbed in their triumph to notice her need of assistance, had gone on ahead. As uncle and niece passed him, Mr. Aquile gave a start.

“Allow me,” he said, stepping forward.

He put his strong arm about the old man and supported him from the Court.

Poor Mr. Tolefree, staggering along, looked up piteously into his former assistant's face.

“I couldn't help it, John,” he said. “I had to tell the truth. I'm sorry.”

“You behaved, as always, as a Christian should,” said Mr. Aquile, guiding him to a bench in the lobby.

“Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning”
said Lucy softly.

For a moment Mr. Aquile's eyes met hers, then he bowed gravely and withdrew. He was still pale and haggard, but he seemed now in complete control of himself.

Somehow Lucy got Mr. Tolefree back to Annotsfield and
put him to bed. He developed pneumonia and was dead within a week.

“You won't let Aquile take the funeral service, Miss Lucy,” Alderman Brigg commanded.

“There is no man my uncle would have preferred,” said Lucy truthfully.

The difficulty was got over by inviting Mr. Tolefree's eldest son, now a distinguished divine in Manchester, to officiate. Mr. Aquile, however, to the scandal of some, was present both in the church and at the Annotsfield cemetery. His face was grave with loving grief, but did not, as some Resmond Street members thought it should, show any signs of remorse.

The Vice-Chancellor had ruled that three months' notice, or salary in lieu, must be given by Resmond Street to Mr. Aquile. He refused the salary, and was accordingly within his rights in attending a large meeting of his supporters held in the Resmond Street schoolroom a week after Mr. Tolefree's death.

Two hundred and fifty Resmond Street members of both sexes were present, including Councillor Starbotton, several Trustees and Deacons and the Sunday School Superintendent. With courage, obstinacy and as much excitement as a Yorkshire audience can bring itself to show, the meeting decided unanimously to secede from Resmond Street—to withdraw their membership, and worship where that freedom of religious opinion for which their forefathers suffered would be secured to them. After this bold and well-framed resolution (drawn up by the Superintendent) had been carried, the meeting settled back into the usual Annotsfield practical common sense. A list of subscribers was drawn up then and there, and a committee was appointed to hire a hall for Sunday worship and look round for a harmonium.

As Mr. Aquile came down from the platform surrounded by his more prominent supporters, hands were stretched out to him from every side. He was much moved, and shook
them warmly. Annotsfield folk are not given to eloquence, but they left their erstwhile pastor in no doubt of their feelings. They nodded vigorously, said: “Aye, well!” and “We'll be there!” and “They'll miss us more nor we'll miss them!” and “Never you mind, Mr. Aquile!” It was quite a triumphal progress. Suddenly he stopped before a small figure in mourning, and exclaimed: “Miss Lucy!”

“I came to wish the new venture well,” said Lucy in her quiet pleasant tones, giving him her hand.

“It is indeed good—it is noble—it is like you, Miss Lucy. Dare we venture to hope—will you leave Resmond Street and join us?”

“Yes,” said Lucy clearly.

A hall was duly leased and a harmonium hired for the New Independents, as they called themselves.

The first few moments of the first New Independent service were uncomfortable. The hall, though dingy in dark brown and green paint, was clean, but terribly secular. The cane chairs, the bare wooden floor, a spent match or two here and there, the absence of pulpit and Communion Table, differed so markedly from their customary soberly handsome religious furnishings as to make the congregation feel somehow not quite respectable. They shrank towards each other for protection; their faces were tightly closed lest they reveal their dismay; the Superintendent had not quite got the hang of the harmonium and their singing was deplorable. But then Mr. Aquile prayed for a blessing upon their new venture in such sincere and moving terms that they were all deeply affected; and then he preached on the text
When they were but a few men in number (Ps. 105. xii)
and they felt themselves in line with every movement for religious freedom which had ever stirred the world. He prayed again, and this time implored help to subdue all feelings of enmity or division of their hearts against their former brothers of Resmond Street. The singing of the last hymn filled every cranny of the bleak hall; the Superintendent smiled, indeed he almost winked, when, by chance,
amidst the joyous rolling chords he was now venturing, he made a mistake on the harmonium; Councillor Starbotton winked back at him. By the end of the service the congregation felt so much a Church, a body, that they stayed to appoint a committee to draft themselves a Constitution.

The committee duly drafted, the congregation approved; everyone put his or hand willingly into his or her pocket, and (on a very small stipend but as big as they could manage) the Rev. John Spencer Aquile was appointed first pastor of the New Independent Church.