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diff --git a/6690-0.txt b/6690-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2a62871 --- /dev/null +++ b/6690-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,8696 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Revolution in Tanner's Lane, by Mark +Rutherford + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: The Revolution in Tanner's Lane + + +Author: Mark Rutherford + + + +Release Date: August 12, 2014 [eBook #6690] +[This file was first posted on January 12, 2003] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE REVOLUTION IN TANNER'S LANE*** + + +Transcribed from the 1913 Hodder and Stoughton edition by David Price, +email ccx074@pglaf.org + + [Picture: Woman in church] + + + + + + THE REVOLUTION IN + TANNER’S LANE + + + BY + MARK RUTHERFORD + + [Picture: Decorative graphic] + + HODDER & STOUGHTON’S + SEVENPENNY LIBRARY + + * * * * * + + HODDER AND STOUGHTON + LONDON NEW YORK TORONTO + + + + +CONTENTS + +CHAPTER PAGE + I. THE WORLD OUTSIDE 9 + II. OUTSIDE PIKE STREET 24 + III. THE THEATRE 33 + IV. A FRIEND OF THE PEOPLE 41 + V. THE HORIZON WIDENS 46 + VI. TEA À LA MODE 58 + VII. JEPHTHAH 66 + VIII. UNCONVENTIONAL JUSTICE 75 + IX. A STRAIN ON THE CABLE 83 + X. DISINTEGRATION BY DEGREES 97 + XI. POLITICS AND PAULINE 107 + XII. ONE BODY AND ONE SPIRIT 115 + XIII. TO THE GREEKS FOOLISHNESS 120 + XIV. THE SCHOOL OF ADVERSITY: THE SIXTH FORM 134 + THEREOF + XV. END OF THE BEGINNING 148 + XVI. COWFOLD 155 + XVII. WHEN WILT THOU ARISE OUT OF THY SLEEP? YET A 168 + LITTLE SLEEP + XVIII. A RELIGIOUS PICNIC 175 + XIX. “THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN IS LIKE UNTO LEAVEN” 182 + XX. THE REVEREND THOMAS BROAD’S EXPOSITION OF 188 + ROMANS VIII. 7 + XXI. THE WISDOM OF THE SERPENT 195 + XXII. THE ORACLE WARNS—AFTER THE EVENT 199 + XXIII. FURTHER DEVELOPMENT 208 + XXIV. “I CAME NOT TO SEND PEACE, BUT A SWORD” 215 + XXV. “AND A MAN’S FOES SHALL BE THEY OF HIS OWN 231 + HOUSEHOLD” + XXVI. A PROFESSIONAL CONSULTATION 239 + XXVII. MR. BROAD’S LAST CHURCH MEETING—LATIMER CHAPEL 247 + + “Per various casus, per tot discrimina rerum, + Tendimus in Latium; sedes ubi fata quietas + Ostendunt. Illic fas regna resurgere Trojæ. + Durate, et vosmet rebus servate secundis.” + + —_Virgil_. + + “By diuers casis, sere parrellis and sufferance + Unto Itaill we ettill (aim) quhare destanye + Has schap (shaped) for vs ane rest and quiet harbrye + Predestinatis thare Troye sall ryse agane. + Be stout on prosper fortoun to remane.” + + —_Gwain Douglas’s translation_. + + + + +CHAPTER I +THE WORLD OUTSIDE + + +THE 20th April 1814, an almost cloudless, perfectly sunny day, saw all +London astir. On that day Lewis the Eighteenth was to come from Hartwell +in triumph, summoned by France to the throne of his ancestors. London +had not enjoyed too much gaiety that year. It was the year of the great +frost. Nothing like it had been known in the memory of man. In the West +of England, where snow is rare, roads were impassable and mails could not +be delivered. Four dead men were dug out of a deep drift about ten miles +west of Exeter. Even at Plymouth, close to the soft south-western ocean, +the average depth of the fall was twenty inches, and there was no other +way of getting eastwards than by pack-horses. The Great North Road was +completely blocked, and there was a barricade over it near Godmanchester +of from six to ten feet high. The Oxford coach was buried. Some +passengers inside were rescued with great difficulty, and their lives +were barely saved. The Solway Firth at Workington resembled the Arctic +Sea, and the Thames was so completely frozen over between Blackfriars and +London Bridges that people were able, not only to walk across, but to +erect booths on the ice. Coals, of course, rose to famine prices in +London, as it was then dependent solely upon water-carriage for its +supply. The Father of his people, the Prince Regent, was much moved by +the general distress of “a large and meritorious class of industrious +persons,” as he called them, and issued a circular to all Lords +Lieutenant ordering them to provide all practicable means of removing +obstructions from the highways. + +However, on this 20th April the London mob forgot the frost, forgot the +quartern loaf and the national debt, and prepared for a holiday, inspired +thereto, not so much by Lewis the Eighteenth as by the warmth and +brilliant sky. There are two factors in all human bliss—an object and +the subject. The object may be a trifle, but the condition of the +subject is most important. Turn a man out with his digestion in perfect +order, with the spring in the air and in his veins, and he will cheer +anything, any Lewis, Lord Liverpool, dog, cat, or rat who may cross his +path. Not that this is intended as a sufficient explanation of the +Bourbon reception. Far from it; but it does mitigate it a trifle. At +eleven o’clock in the forenoon two troops of the Oxford Blues drew up at +Kilburn turnpike to await the sacred arrival. The Prince Regent himself +went as far as Stanmore to meet his August Brother. When the August +Brother reached the village, the excited inhabitants thereof took the +horses out of the carriage and drew him through the street. The Prince, +standing at the door of the principal inn, was in readiness to salute +him, and this he did by embracing him! There have been some remarkable +embraces in history. Joseph fell on Israel’s neck, and Israel said unto +Joseph, “Now let me die, since I have seen thy face:” Paul, after +preaching at Ephesus, calling the elders of the Church to witness that, +for the space of three years, he ceased not to warn every one night and +day with tears, kneeled down and prayed, so that they all wept sore and +fell on his neck: Romeo took a last embrace of Juliet in the vault, and +sealed the doors of breath with a righteous kiss: Penelope embraced +Ulysses, who was welcome to her as land is welcome to shipwrecked +swimmers escaping from the grey seawater—there have, we say, been some +remarkable embraces on this earth since time began, but none more +remarkable than that on the steps of the Abercorn Arms. The Divine +couple then drove in solemn procession to town. From the park corner for +three-quarters of a mile or so was a line of private carriages, filled +with most fashionable people, the ladies all standing on the seats. The +French Royalist flag waved everywhere. All along the Kilburn Road, then +thinly lined with houses, it was triumphant, and even the trees were +decorated with it. Arriving by way of Cumberland Gate at Piccadilly, +Lewis was escorted, amidst uproarious rejoicing, to Grillon’s Hotel in +Albemarle Street. There, in reply to an address from the Prince, he +“ascribed, under Providence,” to his Royal Highness and the British +people his present blissful condition; and soon afterwards, being +extremely tired, went to bed. This was on a Wednesday. The next day, +Thursday, His Sacred Majesty, or Most Christian Majesty, as he was then +called, was solemnly made a Knight of the Garter, the Bishops of +Salisbury and Winchester assisting. On Friday he received the +corporation of London, and on Saturday the 23rd he prepared to take his +departure. There was a great crowd in the street when he came out of the +hotel and immense applause; the mob crying out, “God bless your Majesty!” +as if they owed him all they had, and even their lives. It was very +touching, people thought at the time, and so it was. Is there anything +more touching than the waste of human loyalty and love? As we read the +history of the Highlands or a story of Jacobite loyalty such as that of +Cooper’s Admiral Bluewater, dear to boys, we sadden that destiny should +decree that in a world in which piety is not too plentiful it should run +so pitifully to waste, and that men and women should weep hot tears and +break their hearts over bran-stuffing and wax. + +Amidst the hooraying multitude that Saturday April morning was one man at +least, Zachariah Coleman by name, who did not hooray, and did not lift +his hat even when the Sacred Majesty appeared on the hotel steps. He was +a smallish, thin-faced, lean creature in workman’s clothes; his +complexion was white, blanched by office air, and his hands were black +with printer’s ink. + +“Off with your tile, you b—y Corsican!” exclaimed a roaring voice behind +him. Zachariah turned round, and found the request came from a drayman +weighing about eighteen stone; but the tile was not removed. In an +instant it was sent flying to the other side of the road, where it was +trodden on, picked up, and passed forward in the air amidst laughter and +jeers, till it was finally lost. + +Zachariah was not pugnacious, and could not very well be so in the +presence of his huge antagonist; but he was no coward, and not seeing for +the moment that his hat had hopelessly gone, he turned round savagely, +and laying hold of the drayman, said: + +“You ruffian, give it me back; if I am a Corsican, are you an +Englishman?” + +“Take that for your b—y beaver,” said the other, and dealt him a blow +with the fist right in his face, which staggered and stupefied him, +covering him with blood. + +The bystanders, observing the disparity between the two men, instantly +took Zachariah’s side, and called out “Shame, shame!” Nor did they +confine themselves to ejaculations, for a young fellow of about eight and +twenty, well dressed, with a bottle-green coat of broadcloth, buttoned +close, stepped up to the drayman. + +“Knock my tile off, beer-barrel.” + +The drayman instantly responded by a clutch at it, but before he could +touch it he had an awful cut across the lips, delivered with such +scientific accuracy from the left shoulder that it was clear it came from +a disciple of Jackson or Tom Cribb. The crowd now became intensely +delighted and excited, and a cry of “A ring, a ring!” was raised. The +drayman, blind with rage, let out with his right arm with force enough to +fell an ox, but the stroke was most artistically parried, and the +response was another fearful gash over the right eye. By this time the +patriot had had enough, and declined to continue the contest. His foe, +too, seemed to have no desire for any further display of his powers, and +retired smilingly, edging his way to the pavement, where he found poor +Zachariah almost helpless. + +“Holloa, my republican friend, d—n it, that’s a nasty lick you’ve got, +and from one of the people too; that makes it harder to bear, eh? Never +mind, he’s worse off than you are.” + +Zachariah thanked him as well as he could for defending him. + +“Not a word; haven’t got a scratch myself. Come along with me;” and he +dragged him along Piccadilly into a public-house in Swallow Street, where +apparently he was well known. Water was called for; Zachariah was +sponged, the wound strapped up, some brandy given him, and the stranger, +ordering a hackney coach, told the driver to take the gentleman home. + +“Wait a bit,” he called, as the coach drove off. “You may feel faint; +I’ll go home with you,” and in a moment he was by Zachariah’s side. The +coach found its way slowly through the streets to some lodgings in +Clerkenwell. It was well the stranger did go, for his companion on +arrival was hardly able to crawl upstairs to give a coherent account to +his wife of what had happened. + +Zachariah Coleman, working man, printer, was in April 1814 about thirty +years old. He was employed in a jobbing office in the city, where he was +compositor and pressman as well. He had been married in January 1814 to +a woman a year younger than himself, who attended the meeting-house at +Hackney, whither he went on the Sunday. He was a Dissenter in religion, +and a fierce Radical in politics, as many of the Dissenters in that day +were. He was not a ranter or revivalist, but what was called a moderate +Calvinist; that is to say, he held to Calvinism as his undoubted creed, +but when it came to the push in actual practice he modified it. In this +respect he was inconsistent; but who is there who is not? His theology +probably had no more gaps in it than that of the latest and most +enlightened preacher who denies miracles and affirms the Universal +Benevolence. His present biographer, from intimate acquaintance with the +class to which Zachariah belonged, takes this opportunity to protest +against the general assumption that the Calvinists of that day, or of any +day, arrived at their belief by putting out their eyes and accepting +blindly the authority of St. Paul or anybody else. It may be questioned, +indeed, whether any religious body has ever stood so distinctly upon the +understanding and has used its intellect with such rigorous activity, as +the Puritans, from whom Zachariah was a genuine descendant. Even if +Calvinism had been carved on tables of stone and handed down from heaven +by the Almighty Hand, it would not have lived if it had not have found to +agree more or less with the facts, and it was because it was a deduction +from what nobody can help seeing that it was so vital, the Epistle to the +Romans serving as the inspired confirmation of an experience. Zachariah +was a great reader of all kinds of books—a lover especially of Bunyan and +Milton; as logical in his politics as in his religion; and he defended +the execution of Charles the First on the ground that the people had just +as much right to put a king to death as a judge had to order the +execution of any other criminal. + +The courtship between Zachariah and the lady who became his wife had been +short, for there could be no mistake, as they had known one another so +long. She was black-haired, with a perfectly oval face, always dressed +with the most scrupulous neatness, and with a certain plain tightness +which Zachariah admired. She had exquisitely white and perfect teeth, a +pale, clear complexion, and the reputation of being a most sensible +woman. She was not a beauty, but she was good-looking; the weak points +in her face being her eyes, which were mere inexpressive optic organs, +and her mouth, which, when shut, seemed too much shut, just as if it were +compressed by an effort of the will or by a spring. These, however, +Zachariah thought minor matters, if, indeed, he ever noticed them. “The +great thing was, that she was”—sometimes this and sometimes that—and so +it was settled. Unfortunately in marriage it is so difficult to be sure +of what the great thing is, and what the little thing is, the little +thing becoming so frightfully big afterwards! Theologically, Mrs. +Zachariah was as strict as her husband, and more so, as far as outward +observance went, for her strictness was not tempered by those secular +interests which to him were so dear. She read little or nothing—nothing, +indeed, on week-days, and even the _Morning Chronicle_, which Zachariah +occasionally borrowed, was folded up when he had done with it and put +under the tea-caddy till it was returned. On Sundays she took up a book +in the afternoon, but she carefully prepared herself for the operation as +though it were a sacramental service. When the dinner-things were washed +up, when the hearth was swept and the kettle on the fire, having put on +her best Sunday dress, it was her custom to go to the window, always to +the window, never to the fire—where she would open Boston’s _Fourfold +State_ and hold it up in front of her with both hands. This, however, +did not last long, for on the arrival of the milkman the volume was +replaced, and it was necessary to make preparations for tea. + +The hackney coach drove up to the house in Rosoman Street where Zachariah +dwelt on the first floor. He was too weak to go upstairs by himself, and +he and his friend therefore walked into the front room together. It was +in complete order, although it was so early in the morning. Everything +was dusted; even the lower fire-bar had not a speck of ashes on it, and +on the hob already was a saucepan in which Mrs. Coleman proposed to cook +the one o’clock dinner. On the walls were portraits of Sir Francis +Burdett, Major Cartwright, and the mezzotint engraving of Sadler’s +Bunyan. Two black silhouettes—one of Zachariah and the other of his +wife—were suspended on each side of the mantelpiece. + +Mrs. Coleman was busily engaged in the bedroom, but hearing the +footsteps, she immediately entered. She was slightly taken aback at +seeing Zachariah in such a plight, and uttered a little scream, but the +bottle-green stranger, making her a profound bow, arrested her. + +“Pardon me, my dear madam, there is nothing seriously the matter. Your +husband has had the misfortune to be the victim of a most blackguardly +assault; but I am sure that, under your care, he will be all right in a +day or two; and, with your permission, I take my leave.” + +Mrs. Coleman was irritated. The first emotion was not sympathy. +Absolutely the first was annoyance at being seen without proper notice by +such a fine-looking gentleman. She had, however, no real cause for +vexation under this head. She had tied a white handkerchief over her +hair, fastening it under her chin, as her manner was when doing her +morning’s work, and she had on her white apron; but she was trim and +faultless, and the white handkerchief did but set off her black hair and +marble complexion. Her second emotion, too, was not sympathy. Zachariah +was at home at the wrong time. Her ordinary household arrangements were +upset. He might possibly be ill, and then there would be a mess and +confusion. The thought of sickness was intolerable to her, because it +“put everything out.” Rising up at the back of these two emotions came, +haltingly, a third when she looked her husband in the face. She could +not help it, and she did really pity him. + +“I am sure it is very kind of you,” she replied. + +Zachariah had as yet spoken no word, nor had she moved towards him. The +stranger was departing. + +“Stop!” cried Zachariah, “you have not told me your name. I am too faint +to say how much I owe you for your protection and kindness.” + +“Nonsense. My name is Maitland—Major Maitland, 1A Albany. Good-bye.” + +He was at the top of the stairs, when he turned round, and looking at +Mrs. Coleman, observed musingly, “I think I’ll send my doctor, and, if +you will permit me, will call in a day or two.” + +She thanked him; he took her hand, politely pressed it to his lips, and +rode off in the coach which had been waiting for him. + +“What has happened, my dear? Tell me all about it,” she inquired as she +went back into the parlour, with just the least colour on her cheek, and +perceptibly a little happier than she was five minutes before. She did +nothing more than put her hand on his shoulder, but he brightened +immediately. He told her the tale, and when it was over desired to lie +down and to have some tea. + +Emotion number two returned to Mrs. Coleman immediately. Tea at that +time, the things having been all cleared away and washed up! She did +not, however, like openly to object, but she did go so far as to suggest +that perhaps cold water would be better, as there might be inflammation. +Zachariah, although he was accustomed to give way, begged for tea; and it +was made ready, but not with water boiled there. She would not again put +the copper kettle on the fire, as it was just cleaned, but she asked to +be allowed to use that which belonged to the neighbour downstairs who +kept the shop. The tea-things were replaced when Zachariah had finished, +and his wife returned to her duties, leaving him sitting in the +straight-backed Windsor-chair, looking into the grate and feeling very +miserable. + +In the afternoon Rosoman Street was startled to see a grand carriage stop +at Zachariah’s door, and out stepped the grand doctor, who, after some +little hesitation and inquiry, made his way upstairs. Having examined +our friend, he pronounced him free from all mortal or even serious +injury—it was a case of contusion and shaken nerves, which required a +little alterative medicine, and on the day after to-morrow the patient, +although bruised and sore in the mouth, might go back to work. + +The next morning he was better, but nevertheless he was depressed. It +was now three months since his wedding-day, and the pomp and beauty of +the sunrise, gold and scarlet bars with intermediate lakes of softest +blue, had been obscured by leaden clouds, which showed no break and let +loose a cold drizzling rain. How was it? He often asked himself that +question, but could obtain no satisfactory answer. Had anything changed? +Was his wife anything which he did not know her to be three months ago? +Certainly not. He could not accuse her of passing herself off upon him +with false pretences. What she had always represented herself to be she +was now. There she stood precisely as she stood twelve months ago, when +he asked her to become his wife, and he thought when she said “yes” that +no man was more blessed than he. It was, he feared, true he did not love +her, nor she him; but why could not they have found that out before? +What a cruel destiny was this which drew a veil before his eyes and led +him blindfold over the precipice! He at first thought, when his joy +began to ebb in February or March, that it would rise again, and that he +would see matters in a different light; but the spring was here, and the +tide had not turned. It never would turn now, and he became at last +aware of the sad truth—the saddest a man can know—that he had missed the +great delight of existence. His chance had come, and had gone. +Henceforth all that was said and sung about love and home would find no +echo in him. He was paralysed, dead in half of his soul, and would have +to exist with the other half as well he could. He had done no wrong: he +had done his best; he had not sold himself to the flesh or the devil, +and, Calvinist as he was, he was tempted at times to question the justice +of such a punishment. If he put his finger in the fire and got burnt, he +was able to bow to the wisdom which taught him in that plain way that he +was not to put his finger in the fire. But wherein lay the beneficence +of visiting a simple mistake—one which he could not avoid—with a curse +worse than the Jewish curse of excommunication—“the anathema wherewith +Joshua cursed Jericho; the curse which Elisha laid upon the children; all +the curses which are written in the law. Cursed be he by day, and cursed +be he by night: cursed be he in sleeping, and cursed be he in waking: +cursed in going out, and cursed in coming in.” Neither the wretched +victim nor the world at large was any better for such a visitation, for +it was neither remedial nor monitory. Ah, so it is! The murderer is +hung at Newgate, and if he himself is not improved by the process, +perhaps a few wicked people are frightened; but men and women are put to +a worse death every day by slow strangulation which endures for a +lifetime, and, as far as we can see, no lesson is learned by anybody, and +no good is done. + +Zachariah, however, did not give way to despair, for he was not a man to +despair. His religion was a part of himself. He had immortality before +him, in which he thanked God there was no marrying nor giving in +marriage. This doctrine, however, did not live in him as the other +dogmas of his creed, for it was not one in which his intellect had such a +share. On the other hand, predestination was dear to him. God knew him +as closely as He knew the angel next His throne, and had marked out his +course with as much concern as that of the seraph. What God’s purposes +were he did not know. He took a sort of sullen pride in not knowing, and +he marched along, footsore and wounded, in obedience to the orders of his +great Chief. Only thirty years old, and only three months a husband, he +had already learned renunciation. There was to be no joy in life? Then +he would be satisfied if it were tolerable, and he strove to dismiss all +his dreams and do his best with what lay before him. Oh my hero! +Perhaps somewhere or other—let us hope it is true—a book is kept in which +human worth is duly appraised, and in that book, if such a volume there +be, we shall find that the divinest heroism is not that of the man who, +holding life cheap, puts his back against a wall, and is shot by +Government soldiers, assured that he will live ever afterwards as a +martyr and saint: a diviner heroism is that of the poor printer, who, in +dingy, smoky Rosoman Street, Clerkenwell, with forty years before him, +determined to live through them, as far as he could, without a murmur, +although there was to be no pleasure in them. A diviner heroism is this, +but divinest of all, is that of him who can in these days do what +Zachariah did, and without Zachariah’s faith. + +The next evening, just as Zachariah and his wife were sitting down to +tea, there was a tap at the door, and in walked Major Maitland. He was +now in full afternoon costume, and, if not dandyish, was undeniably well +dressed. Making a profound bow to Mrs. Coleman, he advanced to the +fireplace and instantly shook hands with Zachariah. + +“Well, my republican, you are better, although the beery loyalist has +left his mark upon you.” + +“Certainly, much better; but where I should have been, sir, if it had not +been for you, I don’t know.” + +“Ah, well; it was an absolute pleasure to me to teach the blackguard that +cheering a Bourbon costs something. My God, though, a man must be a fool +who has to be taught that! I wonder what it _has_ cost us. Why, I see +you’ve got my friend, Major Cartwright, up there.” + +Zachariah and his wife started a moment at what they considered the +profane introduction of God’s name; but it was not exactly swearing, and +Major Maitland’s relationship to them was remarkable. They were +therefore silent. + +“A true friend of the people,” continued Maitland, “is Major Cartwright; +but he does not go quite far enough to please me.” + +“As for the people so-called,” quoth Zachariah, “I doubt whether they are +worth saving. Look at the mob we saw the day before yesterday. I think +not of the people. But there is a people, even in these days of Ahab, +whose feet may yet be on the necks of their enemies.” + +“Why, you are an aristocrat,” said Maitland, smiling; “only you want to +abolish the present aristocracy and give us another. You must not judge +us by what you saw in Piccadilly, and while you are still smarting from +that smasher on your eye. London, I grant you, is not, and never was, a +fair specimen. But, even in London, you must not be deceived. You don’t +know its real temper; and then, as to not being worth saving—why, the +worse men are the more they want saving. However, we are both agreed +about this—crew, Liverpool, the Prince Regent, and his friends.” A +strong word was about to escape before “crew,” but the Major saw that he +was in a house where it would be out of place. “I wish you’d join our +Friends of the People. We want two or three determined fellows like you. +We are all safe.” + +“What are the ‘Friends of the People’?” + +“Oh, it’s a club of—a—good fellows who meet twice a week for a little +talk about affairs. Come with me next Friday and see.” + +Zachariah hesitated a moment, and then consented. + +“All right; I’ll fetch you.” He was going away, and picked up from the +table a book he had brought with him. + +“By the way, you will not be at work till to-morrow. I’ll leave you this +to amuse you. It has not been out long. Thirteen thousand copies were +sold the first day. It is the _Corsair_—Byron’s _Corsair_. My God, it +_is_ poetry and no mistake! Not exactly, perhaps, in your line; but you +are a man of sense, and if that doesn’t make your heart leap in you I’m +much mistaken. Lord Byron is a neighbour of mine in the Albany. I know +him by sight. I’ve waited a whole livelong morning at my window to see +him go out. So much the more fool you, you’ll say. Ah, well, wait till +you have read the _Corsair_.” + +The Major shook hands. Mrs. Coleman, who had been totally silent during +the interview, excepting when she asked him if he would join in a cup of +tea—an offer most gracefully declined—followed him to the top of the +stairs. As before, he kissed her hand, made her a profound bow, and was +off. When she came back into the room the faint flush on the cheek was +repeated, and there was the same unusual little rippling overflow of +kindness to her husband. + +In the evening Zachariah took up the book. Byron was not, indeed, in his +line. He took no interest in him, although, like every other Englishman, +he had heard much about him. He had passed on his way to Albemarle +Street the entrance to the Albany. Byron was lying there asleep, but +Zachariah, although he knew he was within fifty yards of him, felt no +emotion whatever. This was remarkable, for Byron’s influence, even in +1814, was singular, beyond that of all predecessors and successors, in +the wideness of its range. He was read by everybody. Men and women who +were accessible to no other poetry were accessible to his, and old +sea-captains, merchants, tradesmen, clerks, tailors, milliners, as well +as the best judges in the land repeated his verses by the page. + +Mrs. Coleman, having cleared away the tea-things, sat knitting till +half-past six. It was prayer-meeting night, and she never missed going. +Zachariah generally accompanied her, but he was not quite presentable, +and stayed at home. He went on with the _Corsair_, and as he read his +heart warmed, and he unconsciously found himself declaiming several of +the most glowing and eloquent lines aloud. He was by nature a poet; +essentially so, for he loved everything which lifted him above what is +commonplace. Isaiah, Milton, a storm, a revolution, a great passion—with +these he was at home; and his education, mainly on the Old Testament, +contributed greatly to the development both of the strength and weakness +of his character. For such as he are weak as well as strong; weak in the +absence of the innumerable little sympathies and worldlinesses which make +life delightful, and but too apt to despise and tread upon those gentle +flowers which are as really here as the sun and the stars, and are nearer +to us. Zachariah found in the _Corsair_ exactly what answered to his own +inmost self, down to its very depths. The lofty style, the scorn of what +is mean and base, the courage—root of all virtue—that dares and evermore +dares in the very last extremity, the love of the illimitable, of +freedom, and the cadences like the fall of waves on a sea-shore were +attractive to him beyond measure. More than this, there was Love. His +own love was a failure, and yet it was impossible for him to indulge for +a moment his imagination elsewhere. The difference between him and his +wife might have risen to absolute aversion, and yet no wandering fancy +would ever have been encouraged towards any woman living. But when he +came to Medora’s song: + + “Deep in my soul that tender secret dwells, + Lonely and lost to light for evermore, + Save when to thine my heart responsive swells, + Then trembles into silence as before.” + +and more particularly the second verse: + + “There, in its centre, a sepulchral lamp + Burns the slow flame, eternal—but unseen; + Which not the darkness of despair can damp, + Though vain its ray as it had never been.” + +love again asserted itself. It was not love for a person; perhaps it was +hardly love so much as the capacity for love. Whatever it may be, +henceforth this is what love will be in him, and it will be fully +maintained, though it knows no actual object. It will manifest itself in +suppressed force, seeking for exit in a thousand directions; sometimes +grotesque perhaps, but always force. It will give energy to expression, +vitality to his admiration of the beautiful, devotion to his worship, +enthusiasm to his zeal for freedom. More than this, it will _not_ make +his private life unbearable by contrast; rather the reverse. The vision +of Medora will not intensify the shadow over Rosoman Street, Clerkenwell, +but will soften it. + + + + +CHAPTER II +OUTSIDE PIKE STREET + + +ON the Friday evening the Major called for Zachariah. He had not yet +returned, but his wife was at home. The tea-things were ready, the +kettle was on the hob, and she sat knitting at the window. Her visitor +knocked at the door; she rose, and he entered. This time he was a little +less formal, for after making his bow he shook her hand. She, too, was +not quite so stiff, and begged him to be seated. + +“Upon my word, madam,” he began, “if I were as well looked after as Mr. +Coleman, I doubt if I should be so anxious as he is to change the +existing order of things. You would think there is some excuse for me if +you were to see the misery and privation of my lodgings. Nobody cares a +straw, and as for dust and dirt, they would drive you distracted.” + +Mrs. Zachariah smiled, and shifted one of her little white-stockinged +feet over the other. She had on the neatest of sandals, with black +ribbons, which crossed over the instep. It was one of Zachariah’s weak +points, she considered, that he did not seem to care sufficiently for +cleanliness, and when he came in he would sometimes put his black hand, +before he had washed, on the white tea-cloth, or on the back of a chair, +and leave behind him a patch of printer’s ink. It was bad enough to be +obliged always to wipe the door-handles. + +“I do my best; but as for dirt, you cannot be so badly off in the Albany +as we are in Clerkenwell. Clerkenwell is very disagreeable, but we are +obliged to live here.” + +“If Clerkenwell is so bad, all the more honour to you for your triumph.” + +“Oh, I don’t know about honour; my husband says it is simply my nature.” + +“Nature! All the better. I could never live with anybody who was always +trying and trying and struggling. I believe in Nature. Don’t you?” + +This was an abstract inquiry beyond Mrs. Zachariah’s scope. “It is some +people’s nature to like to be tidy,” she contented herself with +observing; “and others do not care for it.” + +“Oh, perhaps it is because I am a soldier, and accustomed to order, that +I care for it above everything.” + +Mrs. Zachariah started for a moment. She reflected. She had forgotten +it—that she was talking to an officer in His Majesty’s service. + +“Have you seen much fighting, sir?” + +“Oh, well, for the matter of that, have had my share. I was at Talavera, +and suffer a good deal now in damp weather, from having slept so much in +the open air.” + +“Dear me, that is very hard! My husband is rheumatic, and finds Tarver’s +embrocation do him more good than anything. Will you try it if I give +you some?” + +“With profound gratitude.” Mrs. Coleman filled an empty bottle, took a +piece of folded brown paper out of the fireplace cupboard, untied a coil +of twine, made up a compact little parcel, and gave it to the Major. + +“A thousand thanks. If faith now can really cure, I shall be well in a +week.” + +Mrs. Zachariah smiled again. + +“Are you Dissenters?” he asked abruptly. + +“Yes. Independents.” + +“I am not surprised. Ever since Cromwell’s days you have always been on +the side of liberty; but are you strict—I don’t know exactly what to call +it—go to the prayer-meetings—and so on?” + +“We are both members of the church, and Mr. Coleman is a deacon,” replied +Mrs. Zachariah, with a gravity not hitherto observable. + +She looked out of the window, and saw him coming down the street. She +placed the kettle nearer the fire, put the tea in the teapot, and sat +down again. He came upstairs, went straight into his bedroom, cleaned +himself as much as possible, changed his coat, and entered. The Major, +being pressed, consented to take tea, and Mrs. Zachariah was a cheerful +and even talkative hostess, to the surprise of at least one member of the +company. She sat next to her husband, and the Major sat opposite. Three +silver spoons and silver sugar-tongs had been put on the table. +Ordinarily the spoons were pewter. Zachariah, fond of sugar, was in the +habit of taking it with his fingers—a practice to which Mrs. Zachariah +strongly objected, and with some reason. It was dirty, and as his hands +were none of the whitest, the neighbouring lumps became soiled, and +acquired a flavour which did not add to their sweetness. She had told +him of it a score of times; but he did not amend, and seemed to think her +particularity rather a vice than a virtue. So it is that, as love gilds +all defects, lack of love sees nothing but defect in what is truly +estimable. Notwithstanding the sugar-tongs, Zachariah—excusable, +perhaps, this time, considering the warmth of the speech he was making +against the late war—pushed them aside, and helped himself after the +usual fashion. A cloud came over Mrs. Zachariah’s face; she compressed +her lips in downright anger, pushed the tongs towards him with a rattle, +and trod on his foot at the same time. His oration came to an end; he +looked round, became confused, and was suddenly silent; but the Major +gallantly came to the rescue by jumping up to prevent Mrs. Zachariah from +moving in order to put more water on the tea. + +“Excuse me, pray;” but as he had risen somewhat suddenly to reach the +kettle, he caught the table-cloth on his knee, and in a moment his cup +and saucer and the plate were on the floor in twenty pieces, and the tea +running all over the carpet. Zachariah looked at his wife, and expected +to see her half frantic. But no; though it was her best china, she +stopped the Major’s apologies, and assured him, with something almost +like laughter, that it was not of the slightest consequence. “Tea +doesn’t stain; I hope it has not gone on your coat;” and producing a +duster from the cupboard, the evil, save the loss of the crockery, was +remedied in a couple of minutes. + +At half-past seven o’clock the Major and Zachariah departed. They walked +across the top of Hatton Garden, and so onwards till they came to Red +Lion Street. Entering a low passage at the side of a small public-house, +they went up some stairs, and found themselves opposite a door which was +locked. The Major gave three taps and then paused. A moment afterwards +he tapped again twice; the lock was turned, and he was admitted. +Zachariah found himself in a spacious kind of loft. There was a table +running down the middle, and round it were seated about a dozen men, most +of whom were smoking and drinking beer. They welcomed the Major with +rappings, and he moved towards the empty chair at the head of the board. + +“You’re late, chairman,” said one. + +“Been to fetch a new comrade.” + +“Is that the cove? He looks all right. Here’s your health, guv’nor, and +d—n all tyrants.” With that he took a pull at the beer. + +“Swear him,” said the Major. + +A disagreeable-looking man with a big round nose, small red eyes, +unshaven face, and slightly unsteady voice, rose, laid down his pipe, and +beckoned to Zachariah, who advanced towards him. + +The Secretary—for he it was—produced a memorandum-book, and began with a +stutter: + +“In the sacred name of—” + +“Stop!” cried Zachariah, “I don’t swear.” + +“That will do,” shouted the Major across a hubbub which arose—“religious. +I’ll answer for him: let him sign; that’s enough.” + +“You _are_ answerable,” growled the Secretary “if he’s a d—d spy we’ll +have his blood, that’s all, and yours too, Major.” The Major took no +notice, and Zachariah put his name in the book, the roll of the Red Lion +Friends of the People. + +“Business, Mr. Secretary—the last minutes.” + +The minutes were read, and an adjourned debate was then renewed on a +motion to organise public meetings to petition in favour of Parliamentary +Reform. The reader must understand that politics in those days were +somewhat different from the politics of fifty or sixty years later. +Bread was thirteenpence a quartern loaf; the national debt, with a much +smaller population, was what it is now; everything was taxed, and wages +were very low. But what was most galling was the fact that the misery, +the taxes, and the debt had been accumulated, not by the will of the +people, but by a corrupt House of Commons, the property of +borough-mongers, for the sake of supporting the Bourbons directly, but +indirectly and chiefly the House of Hanover and the hated aristocracy. +There was also a scandalous list of jobs and pensions. Years afterwards, +when the Government was forced to look into abuses, the Reverend Thomas +Thurlow, to take one example amongst others, was awarded, as compensation +for the loss of his two offices, Patentee of Bankrupts and Keeper of +Hanaper, the modest allowance annually until his death of £11,380 14s. +6d. The men and women of that time, although there were scarcely any +newspapers, were not fools, and there was not a Nottingham weaver who put +a morsel of bread in his hungry belly who did not know that two morsels +might have gone there if there were no impost on foreign corn to maintain +rents, and if there were no interest to pay on money borrowed to keep +these sacred kings and lords safe in their palaces and parks. Opinion at +the Red Lion Friends of the People Club was much divided. Some were for +demonstrations and agitation, whilst others were for physical force. The +discussion went on irregularly amidst much tumult. + +“How long would they have waited over the water if they had done nothing +but jaw? They met together and tore down the Bastile, and that’s what we +must do.” + +“That may be true,” said a small white-faced man who neither smoked nor +drank, “but what followed? You don’t do anything really till you’ve +reasoned it out.” + +“It’s my belief, parson,” retorted the other, “that you are in a d—d +funk. This is not the place for Methodists.” + +“Order, order!” shouted the chairman. + +“I am not a Methodist,” quietly replied the other; “unless you mean by +Methodist a man who fears God and loves his Saviour. I am not ashamed to +own that, and I am none the worse for it as far as I know. As for being +a coward, we shall see.” + +The Secretary meanwhile had gone on with his beer. Despite his notorious +failing, he had been chosen for the post because in his sober moments he +was quick with his pen. He was not a working man; nay, it was said he +had been at Oxford. His present profession was that of attorney’s clerk. +He got up and began a harangue about Brutus. + +“There’s one way of dealing with tyrants—the old way, Mr. Chairman. +Death to them all, say I; the short cut; none of your palaver; what’s the +use of palavering?” + +He was a little shaky, took hold of the rail of his chair, and as he sat +down broke his pipe. + +Some slight applause followed; but the majority were either against him, +or thought it better to be silent. + +The discussion continued irregularly, and Zachariah noticed that about +half-a-dozen of those present took no part in it. At about ten o’clock +the chairman declared the meeting at an end; and it was quite time he did +so, for the smoke and the drink had done their work. + +As Zachariah came out, a man stood by his side whom he had scarcely +noticed during the evening. He was evidently a shoemaker. There was a +smell of leather about him, and his hands and face were grimy. He had a +slightly turned-up nose, smallish eyes, half hidden under very black +eyebrows, and his lips were thin and straight. His voice was exceedingly +high-pitched, and had something creaking in it like the sound of an +ill-greased axle. He spoke with emphasis, but not quite like an +Englishman, was fond of alliteration, and often, in the middle of a +sentence, paused to search for a word which pleased him. Having found +it, the remainder of the sentence was poised and cast from him like a +dart. His style was a curious mixture of foreign imperfection and +rhetoric—a rhetoric, however, by no means affected. It might have been +so in another person, but it was not so in him. + +“Going east?” said he. + +“Yes.” + +“If you want company, I’ll walk with you. What do you think of the +Friends?” + +Zachariah, it will be borne in mind, although he was a Democrat, had +never really seen the world. He belonged to a religious sect. He +believed in the people, it is true, but it was a people of Cromwellian +Independents. He purposely avoided the company of men who used profane +language, and never in his life entered a tavern. He did not know what +the masses really were; for although he worked with his hands, printers +were rather a superior set of fellows, and his was an old-established +shop which took the best of its class. When brought actually into +contact with swearers and drunkards as patriots and reformers he was more +than a little shocked. + +“Not much,” quoth he. + +“Not worse than our virtuous substitute for a sovereign?” + +“No, certainly.” + +“You object to giving them votes, but is not the opinion of the silliest +as good as that of Lord Sidmouth?” + +“That’s no reason for giving them votes.” + +“I should like to behold the experiment of a new form of misgovernment. +If we are to be eternally enslaved to fools and swindlers, why not a +change? We have had regal misrule and aristocratic swindling long +enough.” + +“Seriously, my friend,” he continued, “study that immortal charter, the +Declaration of the Rights of Man.” + +He stopped in the street, and with an oratorical air repeated the +well-known lines, “Men are born and always continue free, and equal in +respect of their rights. . . . Every citizen has a right, either by +himself or by his representative, to a free voice in determining the +necessity of public contributions, the appropriation of them, and their +amount, mode of assessment, and duration.” He knew them by heart. “It +is the truth,” he continued: “you must come to that, unless you believe +in the Divine appointment of dynasties. There is no logical repose +between Lord Liverpool and the Declaration. What is the real difference +between him and you? None but a question of degree. He does not believe +in absolute monarchy, and stays at this point. You go a little lower. +You are both alike. How dare you say, ‘My brother, I am more honest and +more religious than you; pay me half-a-crown and I will spend it for your +welfare’? You cannot tell me that. You know I should have a _right_ to +reject you. I refuse to be coerced. I prefer freedom to—felicity.” + +Zachariah was puzzled. He was not one of those persons who can see no +escape from an argument and yet are not convinced; one of those happy +creatures to whom the operations of the intellect are a joke—who, if they +are shown that the three angles of a triangle are equal to two right +angles, decline to disprove it, but act as if they were but one. To +Zachariah the appeal “Where will you stop?” was generally successful. If +his understanding told him he could not stop, he went on. And yet it so +often happens that if we do go on we are dissatisfied; we cannot doubt +each successive step, but we doubt the conclusion. We arrive serenely at +the end, and lo! it is an absurdity which common sense, as we call it, +demolishes with scoffs and laughter. + +They had walked down to Holborn in order to avoid the rather dangerous +quarter of Gray’s Inn Lane. Presently they were overtaken by the +Secretary, staggering under more liquor. He did not recognise them, and +rolled on. The shoemaker instantly detached himself from Zachariah and +followed the drunken official. He was about to turn into a public-house, +when his friend came up to him softly, abstracted a book which was +sticking out of his pocket, laid hold of him by the arm, and marched off +with him across the street and through Great Turnstile. + +Sunday came, and Zachariah and his wife attended the services at Pike +Street Meeting-house, conducted by that worthy servant of God, the +Reverend Thomas Bradshaw. He was at that time preaching a series of +sermons on the Gospel Covenant, and he enlarged upon the distinction +between those with whom the covenant was made and those with whom there +was none, save of judgment. The poorest and the weakest, if they were +sons of God, were more blessed than the strongest who were not. These +were nothing: “they should go out like the smoke of a candle with an ill +favour; whereas the weak and simple ones are upholden, and go from +strength to strength, and increase with the increasings of God.” +Zachariah was rather confused by what had happened during the week, and +his mind, especially during the long prayer, wandered a good deal much to +his discomfort. + + + + +CHAPTER III +THE THEATRE + + +MAJOR MAITLAND was very fond of the theatre, and as he had grown fond of +Zachariah, and frequently called at his house, sometimes on business and +sometimes for pleasure, he often asked his friend to accompany him. But +for a long time he held out. The theatre and dancing in 1814 were an +abomination to the Independents. Since 1814 they have advanced, and +consequently they not only go to plays and dance like other Christians, +but the freer, less prejudiced, and more enlightened encourage the +ballet, spend their holidays in Paris, and study French character there. +Zachariah, however, had a side open to literature, and though he had +never seen a play acted, he read plays. He read Shakespeare, and had +often thought how wonderful one of his dramas must be on the stage. So +it fell out that at last he yielded, and it was arranged that Mrs. and +Mr. Coleman should go with the Major to Drury Lane to see the great +Edmund Kean in “Othello.” The day was fixed, and Mrs. Coleman was busy +for a long time beforehand in furbishing up and altering her +wedding-dress, so that she might make a decent figure. She was all +excitement, and as happy as she could well be. For months Zachariah had +not known her to be so communicative. She seemed to take an interest in +politics; she discussed with him the report that Bonaparte was mad, and +Zachariah, on his part, told her what had happened to him during the day, +and what he had read in the newspapers. The Prince Regent had been to +Oxford, and verses had been composed in his honour. Mr. Bosanquet had +recited to the Prince an ode, or something of the kind, and had ventured, +after dilating on the enormous services rendered by kings in general to +the community during the last twenty years, to warn them: + + “But ye yourselves must bow: your praise be given + To Him, the Lord of lords, your King in heaven.” + +And Mrs. Zachariah, with a smile and unwonted wit, wondered whether Mr. +Bosanquet would not be prosecuted for such treasonable sentiments. +Zachariah hardly knew what to make of his wife’s gaiety, but he was glad. +He thought that perhaps he was answerable for her silence and coldness, +and he determined at all costs to try and amend, and, however weary he +might be when he came home at night, that he would speak and get her to +speak too. + +The eventful evening arrived. Zachariah was to get away as early as he +could; the Major was to call at about six. After Zachariah had washed +and dressed, they were to take a hackney coach together. At the +appointed hour the Major appeared, and found Mrs. Zachariah already in +her best clothes and tea ready. She was charming—finished from the +uttermost hair on her head to the sole of her slipper—and the +dove-coloured, somewhat Quakerish tint of her wedding-gown suited her +admirably. Quarter-past six came, but there was no Zachariah, and she +thought she would make the tea, as he was never long over his meals. +Half-past six, and he was not there. The two now sat down, and began to +listen to every sound. The coach was ordered at a quarter to seven. + +“What shall we do?” said the Major. “I cannot send you on and wait for +him.” + +“No. How vexing it is! It is just like—” and she stopped. + +“We must stay where we are, I suppose; it is rather a pity to miss being +there when Kean first comes on.” + +She was in a fretful agony of impatience. She rose and looked out of the +window, thought she heard somebody on the stairs, went outside on the +landing, returned, walked up and down, and mentally cursed her husband, +not profanely—she dared not do that—but with curses none the less +intense. Poor man! he had been kept by a job he had to finish. She +might have thought this possible, and, in fact, did think it possible; +but it made no difference in the hatred which she permitted to rise +against him. At last her animosity relaxed, and she began to regard him +with more composure, and even with pleasure. + +“Had you not better go and leave me here, so that we may follow? I do +not know what has happened, and I am sure he would be so sorry if you +were to be disappointed.” + +She turned her eyes anxiously towards the Major. + +“That will never do. You know nothing about the theatre. No! no!” + +She paused and stamped her little foot, and looked again out of the +window. + +The coachman knocked at the door, and when she went down asked her how +long he had to wait. + +She came back, and throwing herself on a chair, fairly gave way to her +mortification, and cried out, “It is too bad—too bad!—it is, really.” + +“I’ll tell you what,” replied the Major. “Do you mind coming with me? +We will leave one of the tickets which I have bought, and we can add a +message that he is to follow, and that we will keep his place for him. +Put on your bonnet at once, and I will scribble a line to him.” + +Mrs. Zachariah did not see any other course open; her wrath once more +disappeared, and in another moment she was busy before the looking-glass. +The note was written, and pinned to the ticket, both being stuck on the +mantelpiece in a conspicuous place, so that Zachariah might see them +directly he arrived. In exuberant spirits she added in her own hand, +“Make as much haste as you can, my dear,” and subscribed her initials. +It was a tremendously hot afternoon and, what with the fire and the +weather and the tea, the air was very oppressive. She threw the bottom +sash open a little wider therefore, and the two rolled off to Drury Lane. +As the door slammed behind them, the draught caught the ticket and note, +and in a moment they were in the flames and consumed. + +Ten minutes afterwards in came Zachariah. He had run all the way, and +was dripping with perspiration. He rushed upstairs, but there was +nobody. He stared round him, looked at the plates, saw that two had been +there, rushed down again, and asked the woman in the shop: + +“Has Mrs. Coleman left any message?” + +“No. She went off with that gentleman that comes here now and then; but +she never said nothing to me,” and Zachariah thought he saw something +like a grin on her face. + +It may be as well to say that he never dreamed of any real injury done to +him by his wife, and, in truth, the Major was incapable of doing him any. +He was gay, unorthodox, a man who went about in the world, romantic, +republican, but he never would have condescended to seduce a woman, and +least of all a woman belonging to a friend. He paid women whom he +admired all kinds of attentions, but they were nothing more than the +gallantry of the age. Although they were nothing, however, to him, they +were a good deal more than nothing to Mrs. Zachariah. The symbolism of +an act varies much, and what may be mere sport to one is sin in another. +The Major’s easy manners and very free courtesy were innocent so far as +he was concerned; but when his rigid, religious companion in the hackney +coach felt them sweet, and was better pleased with them than she had ever +been with her husband’s caresses, she sinned, and she knew that she +sinned. + +What curiously composite creatures we are! Zachariah for a moment was +half pleased, for she had now clearly wronged him. The next moment, +however, he was wretched. He took up the teapot; it was empty; the +tea-caddy was locked up. It was a mere trifle, but, as he said to +himself, the merest trifles are important if they are significant. He +brooded, therefore, over the empty teapot and locked tea-caddy for fully +five minutes. She had not only gone without him, but had forgotten him. +At the end of the five minutes teapot and tea-caddy had swollen to +enormous dimensions and had become the basis of large generalisations. +“I would rather,” he exclaimed, “be condemned to be led out and hung if I +knew one human soul would love me for a week beforehand and honour me +afterwards, than live half a century and be nothing to any living +creature.” Presently, however, it occurred to him that, although in the +abstract this might be true yet at that particular moment he was a fool; +and he made the best of his way to Drury Lane. He managed to find his +way into the gallery just as Kean came on the stage in the second scene +of the first act. Far down below him, through the misty air, he thought +he could see his wife and the Major; but he was in an instant arrested by +the play. It was all new to him; the huge building, the thousands of +excited, eager faces, the lights, and the scenery. He had not listened, +moreover, to a dozen sentences from the great actor before he had +forgotten himself and was in Venice, absorbed in the fortunes of the +Moor. What a blessing is this for which we have to thank the playwright +and his interpreters, to be able to step out of the dingy, dreary London +streets, with all their wretched corrosive cares, and at least for three +hours to be swayed by nobler passions. For three hours the little petty +self, with all its mean surroundings, withdraws: we breathe a different +atmosphere, we are jealous, glad, weep, laugh with Shakespeare’s +jealousy, gladness, tears, and laughter! What priggishness, too, is that +which objects to Shakespeare on a stage because no acting can realise the +ideal formed by solitary reading! Are we really sure of it? Are we +really sure that Garrick or Kean or Siddons, with all their genius and +study, fall short of a lazy dream in an arm-chair! Kean had not only a +thousand things to tell Zachariah—meanings in innumerable passages which +had before been overlooked—but he gave the character of Othello such +vivid distinctness that it might almost be called a creation. He was +exactly the kind of actor, moreover, to impress him. He was great, +grand, passionate, overwhelming with a like emotion the apprentice and +the critic. Everybody after listening to a play or reading a book uses +it when he comes to himself again to fill his own pitcher, and the Cyprus +tragedy lent itself to Zachariah as an illustration of his own +Clerkenwell sorrows and as a gospel for them, although his were so +different from those of the Moor. Why did he so easily suspect +Desdemona? Is it not improbable that a man with any faith in woman, and +such a woman, should proceed to murder on such evidence? If Othello had +reflected for a moment, he would have seen that everything might have +been explained. Why did he not question, sift, examine, before taking +such tremendous revenge?—and for the moment the story seemed unnatural. +But then he considered again that men and women, if they do not murder +one another, do actually, in everyday life, for no reason whatever, come +to wrong conclusions about each other; utterly and to the end of their +lines misconstrue and lose each other. Nay, it seems to be a kind of +luxury to them to believe that those who could and would love them are +false to them. We make haste to doubt the divinest fidelity; we drive +the dagger into each other, and we smother the Desdemona who would have +been the light of life to us, not because of any deadly difference or +grievous injury, but because we idly and wilfully reject. + +The tale, evermore is: + + “Of one whose hand, + Like the base Indian, threw a pearl away + Richer than all his tribe.” + +So said Zachariah to himself as he came out into Drury Lane and walked +eastwards. His wife and the Major were back before him. The Major did +not wait but returned at once to Albany Street, leaving Mrs. Coleman to +sit up for her husband. He was not hurrying himself, and could not free +himself from the crowd so easily as those who left from below. The +consequence was that he was a full half-hour behind her, and she was not +particularly pleased at having been kept so long out of her bed. When +she let him in all that she said was, “Oh, here you are at last,” and +immediately retired. Strange to say, she forgot all about family +worship—never before omitted, however late it might be. If she had taken +the trouble to ask him whether he had seen her message and the ticket so +much might have been cleared up. Of course he, too, ought to have spoken +to her; it was the natural thing to do, and it was extraordinary that he +did not. But he let her go; she knelt down by her bed, prayed her prayer +to her God, and in five minutes was asleep. Zachariah ten minutes +afterwards prayed his prayer to _his_ God, and lay down, but not to +sleep. No sooner was his head on his pillow than the play was before his +eyes, and Othello, Desdemona, and Iago moved and spoke again for hours. +Then came the thoughts with which he had left the theatre and the +revulsion on reaching home. Burning with excitement at what was a +discovery to him, he had entered his house with even an enthusiasm for +his wife, and an impatient desire to try upon her the experiment which he +thought would reveal so much to him and make him wealthy for ever. But +when she met him he was struck dumb. He was shut up again in his old +prison, and what was so hopeful three hours before was all vanity. So he +struggled through the short night, and, as soon as he could, rose and +went out. This was a frequent practice, and his wife was not surprised +when she woke to find he had gone. She was in the best of spirits again, +and when he returned, after offering him the usual morning greeting, she +inquired at once in what part of the theatre he was, and why he had not +used the ticket. + +“We waited for you till the last moment; we should have been too late if +we had stayed an instant longer, and I made sure you would come +directly.” + +“Ticket—what ticket? I saw no ticket?” + +“We left it on the mantelpiece, and there was a message with it.” + +His face brightened, but he said nothing. A rush of blood rose to his +head; he moved towards her and kissed her. + +“What a wretch you must have thought me!” she said half laughingly, as +she instantly smoothed her hair again, which he had ruffled. “But what +has become of the ticket?” + +“Fell in the fire most likely; the window was open when I came in, and +the draught blew the picture over the mantelpiece nearly off its hook.” + +The breakfast was the happiest meal they had had for months. Zachariah +did his best to overcome his natural indisposition to talk. Except when +he was very much excited, he always found conversation with his wife too +difficult on any save the most commonplace topics, although he was +eloquent enough in company which suited him. She listened to him, +recalling with great pleasure the events of the preceding evening. She +was even affectionate—affectionate for her—and playfully patted his +shoulder as he went out, warning him not to be so late again. What was +the cause of her gaiety? Was she thinking improperly of the Major? No. +If she had gone with Zachariah alone to the theatre would she have been +so cheerful? No. Did she really think she loved her husband better? +Yes. The human heart, even the heart of Mrs. Coleman, is beyond our +analysis. + + + + +CHAPTER IV +A FRIEND OF THE PEOPLE + + +THE Friends of the People continued their meetings, and Zachariah +attended regularly, although, after about three months’ experience, he +began to doubt whether any advance was being made. The immediate subject +of discussion now was a projected meeting in Spitalfields, and each +branch of the Society was to organise its own contingent. All this was +perfectly harmless. There was a good deal of wild talk occasionally; but +it mostly came from Mr. Secretary, especially when he had had his beer. +One evening he had taken more than enough, and was decidedly staggering +as he walked down Lamb’s Conduit Street homewards. Zachariah was at some +distance, and in front of him, in close converse, were his shoemaking +friend, the Major, and a third man whom he could not recognise. The +Secretary swayed himself across Holborn and into Chancery Lane, the +others following. Presently they came up to him, passed him, and turned +off to the left, leaving him to continue his troubled voyage southwards. +The night air, however, was a little too much for him, and when he got to +Fleet Street he was under the necessity of supporting himself against a +wall. He became more and more seditious as he became more and more +muddled, so that at last he attracted the attention of a constable who +laid hold of him and locked him up for the night. In the morning he was +very much surprised to find himself in a cell, feeling very miserable, +charged with being drunk and disorderly, and, what was ten times worse, +with uttering blasphemy against the Prince Regent. It may as well be +mentioned here that the greatest precautions had been taken to prevent +any knowledge by the authorities of the proceedings of the Friends of the +People. The Habeas Corpus Act was not yet suspended, but the times were +exceedingly dangerous. The Friends, therefore, never left in a body nor +by the same door. Watch was always kept with the utmost strictness, not +only on the stairs, but from a window which commanded the street. No +written summons was ever sent to attend any meeting, ordinary or +extraordinary. Mr. Secretary, therefore, was much disconcerted when he +found that his pockets were emptied of all his official documents. He +languished in his cell till about twelve o’clock, very sick and very +anxious, when he was put into a cab, and, to his great surprise, instead +of being taken to a police court, was carried to Whitehall. There he was +introduced to an elderly gentleman, who sat at the head of a long table +covered with green cloth. A younger man, apparently a clerk, sat at a +smaller table by the fire and wrote, seeming to take no notice whatever +of what was going on. Mr. Secretary expected to hear something about +transportation, and to be denounced as an enemy of the human race; but he +was pleasantly disappointed. + +“Sorry to see a respectable person like you in such a position.” + +Mr. Secretary wondered how the gentleman knew he was respectable; but was +silent. He was not now in an eloquent or seditious humour. + +“You may imagine that we know you, or we should not have taken the +trouble to bring you here. We should merely have had you committed for +trial.” + +The Secretary thought of his empty pockets. In truth it was the Major +who had emptied them before he crossed Holborn; but of course he +suspected the constable. + +“You must be aware that you have exposed yourself to heavy penalties. I +prefer, however, to think of you as a well-meaning but misguided person. +What good do you think you can do? I can assure you that the Government +are fully aware of the distress which prevails, and will do all they can +to alleviate it. If you have any grievances, why not seek their redress +by legitimate and constitutional means?” + +The Secretary was flattered. He had never been brought face to face with +one of the governing classes before. He looked round; everything was so +quiet, so pacific; there were no fetters nor thumbscrews; the sun was +lighting up the park; children were playing in it, and the necessity for +a revolution was not on that particular spot quite apparent. + +A messenger now entered carrying some sandwiches and a little decanter of +wine on a tray, covered with the whitest of cloths. + +“It struck me,” continued the official, taking a sandwich and pouring out +a glass of wine, “when I heard of your arrest, that I should like myself +to have a talk with you. We really are most loth to proceed to +extremities, and you have, I understand, a wife and children. I need not +tell you what we could do with you if we liked. Now, just consider, my +friend. I don’t want you to give up one single principle; but is it +worth your while to be sent to jail and to have your home broken up +merely because you want to achieve your object in the wrong way, and in a +foolish way? Keep your principles; we do not object; but don’t go out +into the road with them. And you, as an intelligent man, must see that +you will not get what you desire by violence as soon as you will by +lawful methods. Is the difference between us worth such a price as you +will have to pay?” + +The Secretary hesitated; he could not speak; he was very faint and +nervous. + +“Ah, you’ve had nothing to eat, I dare say.” + +The bell was rung, and was answered immediately. + +“Bring some bread and cheese and beer.” + +The bread and cheese and beer were brought. + +“Sit down there and have something; I will go on with my work, and we +will finish our talk afterwards.” + +The Secretary could not eat much bread and cheese, but he drank the beer +greedily. + +When he had finished the clerk left the room. The Commissioner—for he +was one of the Commissioners of His Majesty’s Treasury—followed him to +the door, closed it, not without satisfying himself that the constable +was at his post outside, returned to his seat, opened his drawer, saw +that a pistol and five guineas were there, and then began: + +“Now, look here, my dear sir, let me speak plainly with you and come to +an understanding. We have made inquiries about you; we believe you to be +a good sort of fellow, and we are not going to prosecute you. We do +hope, however, that, should you hear anything which is—well—really +treasonable, you will let us know. Treason, I am sure, is as dreadful to +you as it is to me. The Government, as I said before, are most desirous +of helping those who really deserve it; and to prove this, as I +understand you are out of work, just accept that little trifle.” + +The guineas were handed to Mr. Secretary, who looked at them doubtfully. +With the beer his conscience had returned, and he broke out: + +“If you want me to be a d—d spy, d—d if I do!” The Commissioner was not +in the least disconcerted. “Spy, my man!—who mentioned the word? The +money was offered because you haven’t got a sixpence. Haven’t I told you +you are not required to give up a single principle? Have I asked you to +denounce a single companion? All I have requested you to do, as an +honest citizen, is to give me a hint if you hear of anything which would +be as perilous to you as to me.” + +The Secretary after his brief explosion felt flaccid. He was subject to +violent oscillations, and he looked at the five guineas again. He was +very weak—weak naturally, and weaker through a long course of alcohol. +He was, therefore, prone to obscure, crooked, silly devices, at any rate +when he was sober. Half drunk he was very bold; but when he had no +liquor inside him he could _not_ do what was straight. He had not +strength sufficient, if two courses were open, to cast aside the one for +which there were the fewer and less conclusive reasons, and to take the +proper path, as if no other were before him. A sane, strong person is +not the prey of reasons: a person like Mr. Secretary can never free +himself from them, and after he has arrived at some kind of determination +is still uncertain and harks back. With the roar of the flames of the +Cities of the Plain in his ears, he stops, and is half afraid that it was +his duty after all to stay and try and put them out. The Secretary, +therefore, pondered again. The money was given on no condition that was +worth anything. For aught he knew, the Commissioner had his books and +papers already. He could take the guineas and be just as free as he was +before. He could even give a part of it to the funds of the Friends. +There obtruded, moreover, visions of Newgate, and his hands slowly crept +to the coins. + +“I am a Radical, sir, and I don’t mind who knows it.” + +“Nothing penal in that. Every man has a right to his own political +creed.” + +The fingers crept closer and touched the gold. + +“If I thought you wanted to bribe me, I’d rot before I had anything to do +with you.” + +The Commissioner smiled. There was no necessity to say anything more, +for the guineas were disappearing and finally, though slowly, chinked +down into Mr. Secretary’s pocket. + +The Commissioner held out his hand. + +The Secretary before he took it looked loftier than ever. + +“I hope you understand me, sir, clearly.” + +“I _do_ understand you clearly.” + +The Secretary shook the hand; the Commissioner went with him to the door. + +“Show this gentleman downstairs.” + +The constable, without a look of surprise, went downstairs, and Mr. +Secretary found himself in the street. + +Mr. Commissioner drank another glass of wine, and then pencilled +something in a little memorandum book, which he put under the pistol. +The drawer had two locks, and he carefully locked both with two little +keys attached to a ribbon which he wore round his neck. + + + + +CHAPTER V +THE HORIZON WIDENS + + +JEAN CAILLAUD, shoemaker, whom we have met before, commonly called John +Kaylow, friend of the Major and member of the Society of the Friends of +the People, was by birth a Frenchman. He had originally come to this +country in 1795, bringing with him a daughter, Pauline, about four or +five years old. Why he came nobody knew, nor did anybody know who was +the mother of the child. He soon obtained plenty of employment, for he +was an admirable workman, and learned to speak English well. Pauline +naturally spoke both English and French. Her education was accomplished +with some difficulty, though it was not such a task as it might have +been, because Jean’s occupation kept him at home; his house being in one +of the streets in that complication of little alleys and thoroughfares to +most Londoners utterly unknown; within the sound of St. Bride’s +nevertheless, and lying about a hundred yards north of Fleet Street. If +the explorer goes up a court nearly opposite Bouverie Street, he will +emerge from a covered ditch into one that is opened, about six feet wide. +Presently the ditch ends in another and wider ditch running east and +west. The western one turns northward, and then westward again, roofs +itself over, squeezes itself till it becomes little less than a +rectangular pipe, and finally discharges itself under an oil and +colourman’s house in Fetter Lane. The eastern arm, strange to say, +suddenly expands, and one side of it, for no earthly reason, is set back +with an open space in front of it, partitioned by low palings. +Immediately beyond, as if in a fit of sudden contrition for such +extravagance, the passage or gutter contracts itself to its very +narrowest and, diving under a printing-office shows itself in Shoe Lane. +The houses in these trenches were not by any means of the worst kind. In +the aforesaid expansion they were even genteel, or at any rate aspired to +be so, and each had its own brass knocker and kept its front-door shut +with decent sobriety and reticence. On the top floor of one of these +tenements lodged Jean Caillaud and Pauline. They had three rooms between +them; one was Jean’s bedchamber, one Pauline’s, and one was workroom and +living-room, where Jean made ball-slippers and light goods—this being his +branch of the trade—and Pauline helped him. The workroom faced the +north, and was exactly on a level with an innumerable multitude of red +chimney-pots pouring forth stinking smoke which, for the six winter +months, generally darkened the air during the whole day. But +occasionally Nature resumed her rights, and it was possible to feel that +sky, stars, sun, and moon still existed, and were not blotted out by the +obscurations of what is called civilised life. There came, occasionally, +wild nights in October or November, with a gale from the south-west and +then, when almost everybody had gone to bed and the fires were out, the +clouds, illuminated by the moon, rushed across the heavens, and the Great +Bear hung over the dismal waste of smutty tiles with the same solemnity +with which it hangs over the mountains, the sea, or the desert. Early in +the morning, too, in summer, between three and four o’clock in June, +there were sights to be seen worth seeing. The distance was clear for +miles, and the heights of Highgate were visible, proclaiming the gospel +of a beyond and beyond even to Kent’s Court, and that its immediate +surroundings were mercifully not infinite. The light made even the +nearest bit of soot-grimed, twisted, rotten brickwork beautiful, and +occasionally, but at very rare intervals, the odour of London was +vanquished, and a genuine breath from the Brixton fields was able to find +its way uncontaminated across the river. Jean and Pauline were, on the +whole, fond of the court. They often thought they would prefer the +country, and talked about it; but it is very much to be doubted, if they +had been placed in Devonshire, whether they would not have turned back +uneasily after a time to their garret. They both liked the excitement of +the city, and the feeling that they were so near to everything that was +stirring in men’s minds. The long stretch of lonely sea-shore is all +very well, very beautiful, and, maybe, very instructive to many people; +but to most persons half-an-hour’s rational conversation is much more +profitable. Pauline was not a particularly beautiful girl. Her hair was +black, and, although there was a great deal of it, it was coarse and +untidy. Her complexion was sallow—not as clear as it might be—and +underneath the cheek-bones there were slight depressions. She had grown +up without an attachment, so far as her father knew, and indeed so far as +she knew. She had one redeeming virtue—redeeming especially to Jean, who +was with her alone so much. She had an intellect, and it was one which +sought for constant expression; consequently she was never dull. If she +was dull, she was ill. She had none of that horrible mental constriction +which makes some English women so insupportably tedious. The last thing +she read, the last thing she thought, came out with vivacity and force, +and she did not need the stimulus of a great excitement to reveal what +was in her. Living as she did at work side by side with her father all +day, she knew all his thoughts and read all his books. Neither of them +ever went to church. They were not atheists, nor had they entirely +pushed aside the religious questions which torment men’s minds. They +believed in what they called a Supreme Being, whom they thought to be +just and good; but they went no further. They were revolutionary, and +when Jean joined the Friends of the People, he and the Major and one +other man became a kind of interior secret committee, which really +directed the affairs of the branch. Companions they had none, except the +Major and one or two compatriots; but they were drawn to Zachariah, and +Zachariah was drawn to them, very soon after he became a member of the +Society. The first time he went to Kent’s Court with Jean was one night +after a meeting. The two walked home together, and Zachariah turned in +for an hour, as it was but ten o’clock. There had been a grand +thanksgiving at St. Paul’s that day. The Prince Regent had returned +thanks to Almighty God for the restoration of peace. The Houses of +Parliament were there, with the Foreign Ambassadors, the City +Corporation, the Duke of Wellington, Field-Marshal Blucher, peeresses, +and society generally. The Royal Dukes, Sussex, Kent, York, and +Gloucester, were each drawn by six horses and escorted by a separate +party of the Guards. It took eight horses to drag the Prince himself to +divine service, and he, too, was encompassed by soldiers. Arrived at the +cathedral, he was marshalled to a kind of pew surmounted by a lofty +crimson-and-gold canopy. There he sat alone, worshipped his Creator, and +listened to a sermon by the Bishop of Chester. Neither Jean nor Pauline +troubled themselves to go out, and indeed it would not have been of much +use if they had tried; for it was by no means certain that Almighty God, +who had been so kind as to get rid of Napoleon, would not permit a row in +the streets. Consequently, every avenue which led to the line of the +procession was strictly blocked. They heard the music from a distance, +and although they both hated Bonaparte, it had not a pleasant sound in +their ears. It was the sound of triumph over Frenchmen, and, +furthermore, with all their dislike to the tyrant, they were proud of his +genius. + +Walking towards Clerkenwell that evening, the streets being clear, save +for a number of drunken men and women, who were testifying to the +orthodoxy of their religious and political faith by rolling about the +kennel in various stages of intoxication, Jean pressed Zachariah to go +upstairs with him. Pauline had prepared supper for herself and her +father, and a very frugal meal it was, for neither of them could drink +beer nor spirits, and they could not afford wine. Pauline and Zachariah +were duly introduced, and Zachariah looked around him. The room was not +dirty, but it was extremely unlike his own. Shoe-making implements and +unfinished jobs lay here and there without being “put away.” An old sofa +served as a seat, and on it were a pair of lasts, a bit of a French +newspaper, and a plateful of small onions and lettuce, which could not +find a place on the little table. Zachariah, upstairs in Rosoman Street, +had often felt just as if he were in his Sunday clothes and new boots. +He never could make out what was the reason for it. There are some +houses in which we are always uncomfortable. Our freedom is fettered, +and we can no more take our ease in them than in a glass and china shop. +We breathe with a sense of oppression, and the surroundings are like +repellant _chevaux de frise_. Zachariah had no such feelings here. +There was disorder, it is true; but, on the other hand, there was no +polished tea-caddy to stare at him and claim equal rights against him, +defying him to disturb it. He was asked to sit upon the sofa, and in so +doing upset the plateful of salad upon the floor. Pauline smiled, was +down upon her knees in an instant, before he could prevent her, picked up +the vegetables and put them back again. To tell the truth, they were +rather dirty; and she, therefore, washed them in a hand-basin. Zachariah +asked her if she had been out that day. + +“I?—to go with the Lord Mayor and bless the good God for giving us back +Louis Bourbon? No Mr. Coleman; if the good God did give us Louis back +again, I wouldn’t bless Him for it, and I don’t think He had much to do +with it. So there were two reasons why I didn’t go.” + +Zachariah was a little puzzled, a little shocked, and a little out of his +element. + +“I thought you might have gone to see the procession and hear the music.” + +“I hate processions. Whenever I see one, and am squeezed and trampled on +just because those fine people may ride by, I am humiliated and +miserable. As for the music, I hate that too. It is all alike, and +might as well be done by machinery. Come, you are eating nothing. What +conspiracy have you and my father hatched to-night?” + +“Conspiracy!” said Jean. “Who are the conspirators? Not we. The +conspirators are those thieves who have been to St. Paul’s.” + +“To give thanks,” said Pauline. “If I were up there in the sky, +shouldn’t I laugh at them. How comical it is! Did they give thanks for +Austerlitz or Jena?” + +“That’s about the worst of it,” replied Jean. “It is one vast plot to +make the people believe lies. I shouldn’t so much mind their robbing the +country of its money to keep themselves comfortable, but what is the +meaning of their _Te Deums_? I tell you again,”—and he repeated the +words with much emphasis—“it is a vast plot to make men believe a lie. I +abhor them for that ten times more than for taking my money to replace +Louis.” + +“Oh,” resumed Pauline, “_if_ I were only up in the sky for an hour, I +would have thundered and lightened on them just as they got to the top of +Ludgate Hill, and scattered a score or so of them. I wonder if they +would have thanked Providence for their escape? O father, such a joke! +The Major told me the other day of an old gentleman he knew who was +riding along in his carriage. A fireball fell and killed the coachman. +The old gentleman, talking about it afterwards, said that +“_providentially_ it struck the box-seat.” + +Zachariah, although a firm believer in his faith, and not a coward, was +tempted to be silent. He was heavy and slow in action, and this kind of +company was strange to him. Furthermore, Pauline was not an open enemy, +and notwithstanding her little blasphemies, she was attractive. But then +he remembered with shame that he was ordered to testify to the truth +wherever he might be, and unable to find anything of his own by which he +could express himself, a text of the Bible came into his mind, and, half +to himself, he repeated it aloud: + +“I form the light and create darkness: I make peace and create evil; I +the Lord do all these things.” + +“What is that?” said Jean. “Repeat it.” + +Zachariah slowly repeated it. He had intended to add to it something +which might satisfy his conscience and rebuke Pauline, but he could not. + +“Whence is that?” said Jean. + +“From the Bible; give me one and I will show it to you.” + +There was no English Bible in the house. It was a book not much used; +but Pauline presently produced a French version, and Jean read the +passage—“_Qui forme la lumière_, _et qui crée les ténèbres_; _qui fait la +paix_, _et qui crée l’adversité_; _c’est moi_, _l’Eternel_, _qui fais +toutes les choses là_.” + +Pauline bent over her father and read it again. + +“_Qui crée l’adversité_,” she said. “Do you believe that?” + +“If it is there I do,” said Zachariah. + +“Well, I don’t.” + +“What’s adversity to hell fire? If He made hell-fire, why not adversity? +Besides, if He did not, who did?” + +“Don’t know a bit, and don’t mean to bother myself about it.” + +“Right!” broke in Jean—“right, my child; bother—that is a good word. +Don’t bother yourself about anything when—bothering will not benefit. +There is so much in the world which will—bear a botheration out of which +some profit will arise. Now, then, clear the room, and let Zachariah see +your art.” + +The plates and dishes were all put in a heap and the table pushed aside. +Pauline retired for a few moments, and presently came back in a short +dress of black velvet, which reached about half-way down from the knee to +the ankle. It was trimmed with red; she had stuck a red artificial +flower in her hair, and had on a pair of red stockings with dancing +slippers, probably of her own make. Over her shoulders was a light gauzy +shawl. Her father took his station in a corner, and motioned to +Zachariah to compress himself into another. By dint of some little +management and piling up the chairs an unoccupied space of about twelve +feet square was obtained. Pauline began dancing, her father accompanying +her with an oboe. It was a very curious performance. It was nothing +like ordinary opera-dancing, and equally unlike any movement ever seen at +a ball. It was a series of graceful evolutions with the shawl which was +flung, now on one shoulder and now on the other, each movement +exquisitely resolving itself, with the most perfect ease, into the one +following, and designed apparently to show the capacity of a beautiful +figure for poetic expression. Wave fell into wave along every line of +her body, and occasionally a posture was arrested, to pass away in an +instant into some new combination. There was no definite character in +the dance beyond mere beauty. It was melody for melody’s sake. A +remarkable change, too, came over the face of the performer. She looked +serious; but it was not a seriousness produced by any strain. It was +rather the calm which is found on the face of the statue of a goddess. +In none of her attitudes was there a trace of coquettishness, although +some were most attractive. One in particular was so. She held a corner +of the shawl high above her with her right hand, and her right foot was +advanced so as to show her whole frame extended excepting the neck; the +head being bent downward and sideways. + +Suddenly Jean ceased; Pauline threw the shawl over both her shoulders, +made a profound curtsey, and retired; but in five minutes she was back +again in her ordinary clothes. Zachariah was in sore confusion. He had +never seen anything of the kind before. + +He had been brought up in a school which would have considered such an +exhibition as the work of the devil. He was distressed too to find that +the old Adam was still so strong within him that he detected a secret +pleasure in what he had seen. He would have liked to have got up and +denounced Jean and Pauline, but somehow he could not. His great great +grandfather would have done it, beyond a doubt, but Zachariah sat still. + +“Did you ever perform in public?” he asked. + +“No. I was taught when I was very young; but I have never danced except +to please father and his friends.” + +This was a relief, and some kind of an excuse. He felt not quite such a +reprobate; but again he reflected that when he was looking at her he did +not know that she was not in a theatre every night in the week. He +expected that Jean would offer some further explanation of the unusual +accomplishment which his daughter had acquired; but he was silent, and +Zachariah rose to depart, for it was eleven o’clock. Jean apparently was +a little restless at the absence of approval on Zachariah’s part, and at +last he said abruptly: + +“What do you think of her?” + +Zachariah hesitated, and Pauline came to the rescue. “Father, what a +shame! Don’t put him in such an awkward position.” + +“It was very wonderful,” stammered Zachariah, “but we are not used to +that kind of thing.” + +“Who are the ‘we’?” said Pauline. “Ah, of course you are Puritans. I am +a—what do you call it?—a daughter, no, that isn’t it—a child of the +devil. I won’t have that though. My father isn’t the devil. Even _you_ +wouldn’t say that, Mr. Coleman. Ah, I have no business to joke, you look +so solemn; you think my tricks are satanic; but what was it in your book, +‘_C’est moi_, _l’Eternel_, _qui fais toutes les choses là_’?” and as +Zachariah advanced to the doors he made him a bow with a grace which no +lady of quality could have surpassed. + +He walked home with many unusual thoughts. It was the first time he had +ever been in the company of a woman of any liveliness of temperament, and +with an intellect which was on equal terms with that of a man. In his +own Calvinistic Dissenting society the pious women who were members of +the church took little or no interest in the mental life of their +husband. They read no books, knew nothing of politics, were +astonishingly ignorant, and lived in their household duties. To be with +a woman who could stand up against him was a new experience. Here was a +girl to whom every thought her father possessed was familiar! + +But there was another experience. From his youth upwards he had been +trained with every weapon in the chapel armoury, and yet he now found +himself as powerless as the merest novice to prevent the very sinful +occupation of dwelling upon every attitude of Pauline, and outlining +every one of her limbs. Do what he might, her image was for ever before +his eyes, and reconstructed itself after every attempt to abolish it, +just as a reflected image in a pool slowly but inevitably gathers itself +together again after each disturbance of the water. When he got home, he +found, to his surprise, that his wife was still sitting up. She had been +to the weekly prayer-meeting, and was not in a very pleasant temper. She +was not spiteful, but unusually frigid. She felt herself to be better +than her husband, and she asked him if he could not arrange in future +that his political meetings might not interfere with his religious +duties. + +“Your absence, too, was noticed, and Mrs. Carver asked me how it was that +Mr. Coleman could let me go home alone. She offered to tell Mr. Carver +to come home with me; but I refused.” + +Delightfully generous of Mrs. Carver! That was the sort of kindness for +which she and many of her Pike Street friends were so distinguished; and +Mrs. Coleman not only felt it deeply, but was glad of the opportunity of +letting Mr. Coleman know how good the Carvers were. + +It was late, but Mrs. Coleman produced the Bible. Zachariah opened it +rather mechanically. They were going regularly through it at family +worship, and had got into Numbers. The portion for that evening was part +of the 26th chapter: “And these are they that were numbered of the +Levites after their families: of Gershon, the family of the Gershonites: +of Kohath, the family of the Kohathites: of Merari, the family of the +Merarites,” &c., &c. Zachariah, having read about a dozen verses, knelt +down and prayed; but, alas, even in his prayer he saw Pauline’s red +stockings. + +The next morning his wife was more pleasant, and even +talkative—talkative, that is to say, for her. Something had struck her. + +“My dear,” quoth she, as they sat at breakfast, “what a pity it is that +the Major is not a converted character!” + +Zachariah could not but think so too. + +“I have been wondering if we could get him to attend our chapel. Who +knows?—some word might go to his heart which might be as the seed sown on +good ground.” + +“Have you tried to convert him yourself?” + +“Oh no, Zachariah! I don’t think that would be quite proper.” + +She screwed up her lips a little, and then, looking down at her knees +very demurely, smoothed her apron. + +“Why not, my dear? Surely it is our duty to testify to the belief that +is in us. Poor Christiana, left alone, says, as you will remember, ‘O +neighbour, knew you but as much as I do, I doubt not but that you would +go with me.’” + +“Ah, yes, that was all very well then.” She again smoothed her apron. +“Besides, you know,” she added suddenly, “there were no public means of +grace in the City of Destruction. Have _you_ said anything to the +Major?” + +“No.” + +She did not push her advantage, and the unpleasant fact again stood +before Zachariah’s eyes, as it had stood a hundred times before them +lately, that when he had been with sinners he had been just what they +were, barring the use of profane language. What had he done for his +master with the Major, with Jean, and with Pauline?—and the awful figure +of the Crucified seemed to rise before him and rebuke him. He was +wretched: he had resolved over and over again to break out against those +who belonged to the world, to abjure them and all their works. Somehow +or other, though, he had not done it. + +“Suppose,” said Mrs. Zachariah, “we were to ask the Major here on Sunday +afternoon to tea, and to chapel afterwards.” + +“Certainly.” He was rather pleased with the proposition. He would be +able to bear witness in this way at any rate to the truth. + +“Perhaps we might at the same time ask Jean Caillaud, his friend. Would +to God”—his wife started—“would to God,” he exclaimed fervently, “that +these men could be brought into the Church of Christ!” + +“To be sure. Ask Mr. Caillaud, then, too.” + +“If we do, we must ask his daughter also; he would not go out without +her.” + +“I was not aware he had a daughter. You never told me anything about +her.” + +“I never saw her till the other evening.” + +“I don’t know anything of her. She is a foreigner too. I hope she is a +respectable young person.” + +“I know very little; but she is more English than foreign. Jean has been +here a good many years, and she came over when she was quite young. I +think she must come.” + +“Very well.” And so it was settled. + +Zachariah that night vowed to his Redeemer that, come what might, he +would never again give Him occasion to look at him with averted face and +ask if he was ashamed of Him. The text ran in his ears: “_Whosoever +therefore shall be ashamed of me and of My words in this adulterous and +sinful generation_, _of him also shall the Son of man be ashamed_, _when +He cometh in the glory of His Father with the holy angels_.” + + + + +CHAPTER VI +TEA À LA MODE + + +SUNDAY afternoon came. It was the strangest party. Pauline, on being +introduced to Mrs. Coleman, made a profound curtsey, which Mrs. Coleman +returned by an inclination of her head, as if she consented to recognise +Pauline, but to go no further. Tea was served early, as chapel began at +half-past six. Mrs. Coleman, although it was Sunday, was very busy. She +had made hot buttered toast, and she had bought some muffins, but had +appeased her conscience by telling the boy that she would not pay for +them till Monday. The milk was always obtained on the same terms. She +also purchased some water-cresses; but the water-cress man demanded +prompt cash settlement, and she was in a strait. At last the desire for +the water-cresses prevailed, and she said: + +“How much?” + +“Three-halfpence.” + +“Now, mind I give you twopence for yourself—mind I give it you. I do not +approve of buying and selling on Sunday. We will settle about the other +ha’porth another time.” + +“All right, ma’am; if you like it that way, it’s no odds to me;” and Mrs. +Coleman went her way upstairs really believing that she had prevented the +commission of a crime. + +Let those of us cast the stone who can take oath that in their own +morality there is no casuistry. Probably ours is worse than hers, +because hers was traditional and ours is self-manufactured. + +Everything being at last in order, Mrs. Coleman, looking rather warm, but +still very neat and very charming, sat at the head of the table, with her +back to the fireplace; the Major was on her right, Jean on her left, +Pauline next to him, and opposite to her Zachariah. Zachariah and his +wife believed in asking a blessing on their food; but, curiously enough, +in 1814, even amongst the strictest sort, it had come to be the custom +not to ask it at breakfast or tea, but only at dinner; although breakfast +and tea in those days certainly needed a blessing as much as dinner, for +they were substantial meals. An exception was made in favour of public +tea-meetings. At a public tea-meeting a blessing was always asked and a +hymn was always sung. + +For some time nothing remarkable was said. The weather was very hot, and +Mrs. Coleman complained. It had been necessary to keep up a fire for the +sake of the kettle. The Major promptly responded to her confession of +faintness by opening the window wider, by getting a shawl to put over the +back of her chair; and these little attentions she rewarded by smiles and +particular watchfulness over his plate and cup. At last he and Jean fell +to talking about the jubilee which was to take place on the first of the +next month to celebrate the centenary of the “accession of the +illustrious family of Brunswick to the throne”—so ran the public notice. +There was to be a grand display in the parks, a sham naval action on the +Serpentine, and a balloon ascent. + +“Are you going, Caillaud?” said the Major. “It will be a holiday.” + +“We,” cried Pauline—“we! I should think not. _We_ go to rejoice over +your House of Brunswick; and it is to be the anniversary of your battle +of the Nile too! _We_ go! No, no.” + +“What’s your objection to the House of Brunswick? And as for the battle +of the Nile, you are no friend to Napoleon.” So replied the Major, who +always took a pleasure in exciting Pauline. + +“The House of Brunswick! Why should we thank God for them; thank God for +the stupidest race that ever sat upon a throne; thank God for +stupidity—and in a king, Major? God, the Maker of the sun and stars—to +call upon the nation to bless Him for your Prince Regent. As for the +Nile, I am, as you say, no friend to Napoleon, but I am French. It is +horrible to me to think—I saw him the other day—that your Brunswick +Prince is in London and Napoleon is in Elba.” + +“God, after all,” said the Major, laughing, “is not so hostile to +stupidity, then; as you suppose.” + +“Ah! don’t plague me, Major; that’s what you are always trying to do. +I’m not going to thank the Supreme for the Brunswicks. I don’t believe +He wanted them here.” + +Pauline’s religion was full of the most lamentable inconsistencies, which +the Major was very fond of exposing, but without much effect, and her +faith was restored after every assault with wonderful celerity. By way +of excuse for her we may be permitted to say that a perfectly consistent, +unassailable creed, in which conclusion follows from premiss in +unimpeachable order, is impossible. We cannot construct such a creed +about any man or woman we know, and least of all about the universe. We +acknowledge opposites which we have no power to bring together; and +Pauline, although she knew nothing of philosophy, may not have been +completely wrong with her Supreme who hated the Brunswicks and +nevertheless sanctioned Carlton House. + +Pauline surprised Mrs. Zachariah considerably. A woman, and more +particularly a young woman, even supposing her to be quite orthodox, who +behaved in that style amongst the members of Pike Street, would have been +like a wild seagull in a farmyard of peaceful, clucking, brown-speckled +fowls. All the chapel maidens and matrons, of course, were serious; but +their seriousness was decent and in order. Mrs. Coleman was therefore +scandalised, nervous, and dumb. Jean, as his manner was when his +daughter expressed herself strongly, was also silent. His love for her +was a consuming, hungry fire. It utterly extinguished all trace, not +merely of selfishness, but of self, in him, and he was perfectly content, +when Pauline spoke well, to remain quiet, and not allow a word of his to +disturb the effect which he thought she ought to produce. + +The Major, as a man of the world, thought the conversation was becoming a +little too metaphysical, and asked Mrs. Coleman gaily if she would like +to see the _fête_. + +“Really, I hardly know what to say. I suppose”—and this was said with a +peculiar acidity—“there is nothing wrong in it? Zachariah, my dear, +would you like to go?” + +Zachariah did not reply. His thoughts were elsewhere. But at last the +spirit moved in him: + +“Miss Pauline, your Supreme Being won’t help you very far. There is no +light save in God’s Holy Word. God hath concluded them all in unbelief +that He might have mercy upon all. As by one man’s disobedience many +were made sinners, so by the obedience of One shall many be made +righteous. That is the explanation; that is the gospel. God allows all +this wickedness that His own glory may be manifested thereby, and His own +love in sending Jesus Christ to save us: that, as sin hath reigned unto +death, even so might grace reign through righteousness unto eternal life +by Jesus Christ our Lord. Do you ask me why does God wink at the crimes +of kings and murderers? What if God, willing to show His wrath, and to +make His power known, endured with much long-suffering the vessels of +wrath fitted to destruction, and that He might make known the riches of +His glory on the vessels of mercy which He had afore prepared unto glory, +even us whom He had called? Miss Pauline, the mere light of human reason +will never save you or give you peace. Unless you believe God’s Word you +are lost; lost here and hereafter; lost _here_ even, for until you +believe it you wander in a fog of ever deepening confusion. All is dark +and inexplicable.” + +Being very much excited, he used largely the words of St. Paul, and not +his own. How clear it all seemed to him, how indisputable! Childish +association and years of unquestioning repetition gave an absolute +certainty to what was almost unmeaning to other people. + +Mrs. Zachariah, although she had expressed a strong desire for the +Major’s conversion, and was the only other representative of the chapel +present, was very fidgety and uncomfortable during this speech. She had +an exquisite art, which she sometimes practised, of dropping her husband, +or rather bringing him down. So, when there was a pause, everybody being +moved at least by his earnestness, she said: + +“My dear, will you take any more tea?” + +He was looking on the table-cloth, with his head on his hands, and did +not answer. + +“Major Maitland, may I give you some more tea?” + +“No, thank you.” The Major too was impressed—more impressed than the +lady who sat next to him, and she felt rebuffed and annoyed. To Pauline, +Zachariah had spoken Hebrew; but his passion was human, and her heart +leapt out to meet him, although she knew not what answer to make. Her +father was in the same position; but the Major’s case was a little +different. He had certainly at some time or other read the Epistle to +the Romans, and some expressions were not entirely unfamiliar to him. + +“‘Vessels of wrath fitted to destruction!’—a strong and noble phrase. +Who are your vessels of wrath, Coleman?” + +Caillaud and Pauline saw a little light, but it was speedily eclipsed +again. + +“The unregenerate.” + +“Who are they?” + +“Those whom God has not called.” + +“Castlereagh, Liverpool, Sidmouth, and the rest of the gang, for +example?” + +Zachariah felt that the moment had come. + +“Yes, yes; but not only they. More than they. God help me if I deny the +Cross of Christ—all of us into whose hearts God’s grace has not been +poured—we, you, all of us, if we have not been born of the Spirit and +redeemed by the sacrifice of His Son.” + +Zachariah put in the “us” and the “we,” it will be observed. It was a +concession to blunt the sharpness of that dreadful dividing-line. + +“We? Not yourself, Caillaud, and Pauline?” + +He could not face the question. Something within him said that he ought +to have gone further; that he ought to have singled out the Major, +Caillaud, and Pauline; held them fast, looked straight into their eyes, +and told them each one there and then that they were in the bonds of +iniquity, sold unto Satan, and in danger of hell-fire. But, alas! he was +at least a century and a half too late. He struggled, wrestled, self +against self, and failed, not through want of courage, but because he +wanted a deeper conviction. The system was still the same, even to its +smallest details, but the application had become difficult. The +application, indeed, was a good deal left to the sinner himself. That +was the difference. Phrases had been invented or discovered which served +to express modern hesitation to bring the accepted doctrine into actual, +direct, week-day practice. It was in that way that it was gradually bled +into impotence. One of these phrases came into his mind. It was from +his favourite author: + +“‘Who art thou that judgest?’ It is not for me, Major Maitland.” + +Ah, but, Zachariah, do you not remember that Paul is not speaking of +those who deny the Lord, but of the weak in faith; of differences in +eating and drinking, and the observation of days? Whether he remembered +it or not, he could say no more. Caillaud, the Major, Pauline, condemned +to the everlasting consequences of the wrath of the Almighty! He could +not pronounce such a sentence, and yet his conscience whispered that just +for want of the last nail in a sure place what he had built would come +tumbling to the ground. During the conversation the time had stolen +away, and, to their horror, Zachariah and his wife discovered that it was +a quarter-past six. He hastily informed his guests that he had hoped +they would attend him to his chapel. Would they go? The Major +consented. He had nothing particular on hand, but Caillaud and Pauline +refused. Zachariah was particularly urgent that these two should +accompany him, but they were steadfast, for all set religious +performances were hateful to them. + +“No, Coleman, no more; I know what it all means.” + +“And I,” added Pauline, “cannot sit still with so many respectable +people; I never could. I have been to church, and always felt impelled +to do something peculiar in it which would have made them turn me out. I +cannot, too, endure preaching. I cannot tolerate that man up in the +pulpit looking down over all the people—so wise and so self-satisfied. I +want to pull him out and say. ‘Here, you, sir, come here and let me see +if you can tell me two or three things I want to know.’ Then, Mr. +Coleman, I am never well in a great building, especially in a church; I +have such a weight upon my head as if the roof were resting on it.” + +He looked mournfully at her, but there was no time to remonstrate. Mrs. +Zachariah was ready, in her Sunday best of sober bluish cloud-colour. +Although it was her Sunday best, there was not a single thread of finery +on it, and there was not a single crease nor spot. She bade Caillaud and +Pauline good-bye with much cheerfulness, and tripped downstairs. The +Major had preceded her, but Zachariah lingered for a moment with the +other two. + +“Come, my dear, make haste, we shall be so late.” + +“Go on with the Major; I shall catch you in a moment; I walk faster than +you. I must close the window a trifle, and take two or three of the +coals off the fire.” + +Caillaud and Pauline lingered too. The three were infinitely nearer to +one another than they knew. Zachariah thought he was so far, and yet he +was so close. The man rose up behind the Calvinist, and reached out arms +to touch and embrace his friends. + +“Good-bye, Caillaud; good-bye, Pauline! May God in His mercy bless and +save you. God bless you!” + +Caillaud looked steadfastly at him for a moment, and then, in his +half-forgotten French fashion, threw his arms round his neck, and the two +remained for a moment locked together, Pauline standing by herself apart. +She came forward, took Zachariah’s hand, when it was free, in both her +own, held her head back a little, as if for clearness of survey, and said +slowly, “God bless you, Mr. Coleman.” She then went downstairs. Her +father followed her, and Zachariah went after his wife and the Major, +whom, however, he did not overtake till he reached the chapel door, where +they were both waiting for him. + + + + +CHAPTER VII +JEPHTHAH + + +THE Reverend Thomas Bradshaw, of Pike Street Meeting-House, was not a +descendant from Bradshaw the regicide, but claimed that he belonged to +the same family. He was in 1814 about fifty years old, and minister of +one of the most important churches in the eastern part of London. He was +tall and spare, and showed his height in the pulpit, for he always spoke +without a note, and used a small Bible, which he held close to his eyes. +He was a good classical scholar, and he understood Hebrew, too, as well +as few men in that day understood it. He had a commanding figure, ruled +his church like a despot; had a crowded congregation, of which the larger +portion was masculine; and believed in predestination and the final +perseverance of the saints. He was rather unequal in his discourses, for +he had a tendency to moodiness, and, at times, even to hypochondria. +When this temper was upon him he was combative or melancholy; and +sometimes, to the disgust of many who came from all parts of London to +listen to him, he did not preach in the proper sense of the word, but +read a chapter, made a comment or two upon it, caused a hymn to be sung, +and then dismissed his congregation with the briefest of prayers. +Although he took no active part in politics, he was republican through +and through, and never hesitated for a moment in those degenerate days to +say what he thought about any scandal. In this respect he differed from +his fellow-ministers, who, under the pretence of increasing zeal for +religion, had daily fewer and fewer points of contact with the world +outside. Mr. Bradshaw had been married when he was about thirty; but his +wife died in giving birth to a daughter, who also died,—and for twenty +years he had been a widower, with no thought of changing his condition. +He was understood to have peculiar opinions about second marriages, +although he kept them very much to himself. One thing, however, was +known, that for a twelvemonth after the death of his wife he was away +from England, and that he came back an altered man to his people in +Bedfordshire, where at that time he was settled. His discourses were +remarkably strong, and of a kind seldom, or indeed never, heard now. +They taxed the whole mental powers of his audience, and were utterly +unlike the simple stuff which became fashionable with the Evangelistic +movement. Many of them, taken down by some of his hearers, survive in +manuscript to the present day. They will not, as a rule, bear printing, +because the assumption on which they rest is not now assumed; but if it +be granted, they are unanswerable; and it is curious that even now and +then, although they are never for a moment anything else than a strict +deduction from what we in the latter half of the century consider +unproven or even false, they express themselves in the same terms as the +newest philosophy. Occasionally too, more particularly when he sets +himself the task of getting into the interior of a Bible character, he is +intensely dramatic, and what are shadows to the careless reader become +living human beings, with the reddest of blood visible under their skin. + +On this particular evening Mr. Bradshaw took the story of Jephthah’s +daughter:—“The Spirit of the Lord came upon Jephthah.” Here is an +abstract of his discourse. “It _was_ the Spirit of the Lord, +notwithstanding what happened. I beg you also to note that there is a +mistranslation in our version. The Hebrew has it, ‘Then it shall be, +that _whosoever_’—not _whatsoever_—‘cometh forth of the doors of my house +to meet me, when I return in peace from the children of Ammon, shall +surely be the Lord’s, and I will offer _him_’—not _it_—‘up for a +burnt-offering.’ Nevertheless I believe my text—it _was_ the Spirit of +the Lord. This Hebrew soldier was the son of a harlot. He was driven by +his brethren out of his father’s house. Ammon made war upon Israel, and +in their distress the elders of Israel went to fetch Jephthah. Mark, my +friends, God’s election. The children of the lawful wife are passed by, +and the child of the harlot is chosen. Jephthah forgets his grievances +and becomes captain of the host. Ammon is over against them. Jephthah’s +rash vow—this is sometimes called. I say it is not a rash vow. It may +be rash to those who have never been brought to extremity by the children +of Ammon—to those who have not cared whether Ammon or Christ wins. Men +and women sitting here in comfortable pews”—this was said with a kind of +snarl—“may talk of Jephthah’s rash vow. God be with them, what do they +know of the struggles of such a soul? It does not say so directly in the +Bible, but we are led to infer it, that Jephthah was successful because +of his vow. ‘The Lord delivered them into his hands.’ He would not have +done it if He had been displeased with the ‘rash vow’” (another snarl). +“He smote them from Aroer even till thou come to Minnith. Ah, but what +follows? The Omnipotent and Omniscient might have ordered it, surely, +that a slave might have met Jephthah. Why, in His mercy, did He not do +it? Who are we that we should question what He did? But if we may not +inquire too closely into His designs, it is permitted us, my friends, +when His reason accords with ours, to try and show it. Jephthah had +played for a great stake. Ought the Almighty—let us speak it with +reverence—to have let him off with an ox, or even with a serf? I say +that if we are to conquer Ammon we must pay for it, and we ought to pay +for it. Yes, and perhaps God wanted the girl—who can tell? Jephthah +comes back in triumph. Let me read the passage to you:—‘Behold his +daughter came out to meet him with timbrels and with dances: _and she was +his only child_: _beside her he had neither son nor daughter_. And it +came to pass, when he saw her, that he rent his clothes, and said, Alas, +my daughter! thou hast brought me very low, and thou art one of them that +trouble me: for I have opened my mouth unto the Lord, and I cannot go +back.’ Now, you read poetry, I dare say—what you call poetry. I say in +all of it—all, at least, I have seen—nothing comes up to that. ‘_She was +his only child_: _beside her he had neither son nor daughter_.’”—(Mr. +Bradshaw’s voice broke a little as he went over the words again with +great deliberation and infinite pathos.)—“The inspired writer leaves the +fact just as it stands, and is content. Inspiration itself can do +nothing to make it more touching than it is in its own bare nakedness. +There is no thought in Jephthah of recantation, nor in the maiden of +revolt, but nevertheless he has his own sorrow. _He is brought very +low_. God does not rebuke him for his grief. He knows well enough, my +dear friends, the nature which He took upon Himself—nay, are we not the +breath of His nostrils, created in His image? He does not anywhere, +therefore, I say, forbid that we should even break our hearts over those +we love and lose. She asks for two months by herself upon the mountains +before her death. What a time for him! At the end of the two months God +held him still to his vow; he did not shrink; she submitted, and was +slain. But you will want me to tell you in conclusion where the gospel +is in all this. Gospel! I say that the blessed gospel is in the Old +Testament as well as in the New. I say that the Word of God is one, and +that His message is here this night for you and me, as distinctly as it +is at the end of the sacred volume. Observe, as I have told you before, +that Jephthah is the son of the harlot. He hath mercy on whom He will +have mercy. He calls them His people who are not His people; and He +calls her beloved which was not beloved. God at any rate is no stickler +for hereditary rights. Moreover, it does not follow because you, my +hearers, have God-fearing parents, that God has elected you. He may have +chosen, instead of you, instead of me, the wretchedest creature outside, +whose rags we will not touch. But to what did God elect Jephthah? To a +respectable, easy, decent existence, with money at interest, regular +meals, sleep after them, and unbroken rest at night? He elected him to +that tremendous oath and that tremendous penalty. He elected him to the +agony he endured while she was away upon the hills! That is God’s +election; an election to the cross and to the cry, ‘Eli, Eli, lama +Sabachthani.’ ‘Yes,’ you will say, ‘but He elected him to the victory +over Ammon.’ Doubtless He did; but what cared Jephthah for his victory +over Ammon when she came to meet him, or, indeed, for the rest of his +life? What is a victory, what are triumphal arches and the praise of all +creation to a lonely man? Be sure, if God elects you, He elects you to +suffering. Whom He loveth He chasteneth, and His stripes are not +play-work. Ammon will not be conquered unless your heart be well nigh +broken. I tell you, too, as Christ’s minister, that you are not to +direct your course according to your own desires. You are not to say,—‘I +will give up this and that so that I may be saved.’ Did not St. Paul +wish himself accursed from Christ for his brethren? If God should +command you to go down to the bottomless pit in fulfilment of His blessed +designs, it is your place to go. Out with self—I was about to say this +damned self; and if Israel calls, if Christ calls, take not a sheep or +ox—that is easy enough—but take your choicest possession, take your own +heart, your own blood, your very self, to the altar.” + +During the sermon the Major was much excited. Apart altogether from the +effect of the actual words spoken, Mr. Bradshaw had a singular and +contagious power over men. The three, Mrs. Coleman, the Major, and +Zachariah, came out together. Mrs. Zachariah stayed behind in the lobby +for some female friend to whom she wished to speak about a Sunday-school +tea-meeting which was to take place that week. The other two stood +aside, ill at ease, amongst the crowd pressing out into the street. +Presently Mrs. Coleman found her friend, whom she at once informed that +Major Maitland and her husband were waiting for her, and that therefore +she had not a moment to spare. That little triumph accomplished, she had +nothing of importance to say about the tea-meeting, and rejoined her +party with great good-humour. She walked between the Major and +Zachariah, and at once asked the Major how he “enjoyed the service.” The +phrase was very unpleasant to Zachariah, but he was silent. + +“Well, ma’am,” said the Major, “Mr. Bradshaw is a very remarkable man. +It is a long time since any speaker stirred me as he did. He is a born +orator, if ever there was one.” + +“I could have wished,” said Zachariah, “as you are not often in chapel, +that his sermon had been founded on some passage in the New Testament +which would have given him the opportunity of more simply expounding the +gospel of Christ.” + +“He could not have been better, I should think. He went to my heart, +though it is rather a difficult passage in the case of a man about town +like me; and I tell you what, Coleman, he made me determine I would read +the Bible again. What a story that is!” + +“Major, I thank God if you will read it; and not for the stories in it, +save as all are part of one story—the story of God’s redeeming mercy.” + +The Major made no reply, for the word was unwinged. + +Mrs. Zachariah was silent, but when they came to their door both she and +her husband pressed him to come in. He refused, however; he would stroll +homeward, he said, and have a smoke as he went. + +“He touched me, Coleman, he did. I thought, between you and me”—and he +spoke softly—“I had not now got such a tender place; I thought it was all +healed over long ago. I cannot come in. You’ll excuse me. Yes, I’ll +just wander back to Piccadilly. I could not talk.” + +They parted, and Zachariah and his wife went upstairs. Their supper was +soon ready. + +“Jane,” he said slowly, “I did not receive much assistance from you in my +endeavours to bring our friends to a knowledge of the truth. I thought +that, as you desired the attempt, you would have helped me a little.” + +“There is a reason for everything; and, what is more, I do not consider +it right to take upon myself what belongs to a minister. It may do more +harm than good.” + +“Take upon yourself what belongs to a minister! My dear Jane, is nobody +but a minister to bear witness for the Master?” + +“Of course I did not mean to say that; you know I did not. Why do you +catch at my words? Perhaps, if you had not been quite so forward, Mr. +Caillaud and his daughter might have gone to chapel.” + +After supper, and when he was alone, Zachariah sat for some time without +moving. He presently rose and opened the Bible again, which lay on the +table—the Bible which belonged to his father—and turned to the fly-leaf +on which was written the family history. There was the record of his +father’s marriage, dated on the day of the event. There was the record +of his own birth. There was the record of his mother’s death, still in +his father’s writing, but in an altered hand, the letters not so +distinct, and the strokes crooked and formed with difficulty. There was +the record of Zachariah’s own marriage. A cloud of shapeless, +inarticulate sentiment obscured the man’s eyes and brain. He could not +define what he felt, but he did feel. He could not bear it, and he shut +the book, opening it again at the twenty-second Psalm—the one which the +disciples of Jesus called to mind on the night of the crucifixion. It +was one which Mr. Bradshaw often read, and Zachariah had noted in it a +few corrections made in the translation: + + “_My God_, _my God_, _why hast Thou forsaken me_? _Our fathers + trusted in Thee_; _they trusted_, _and Thou didst deliver them_. . . + . _Be not far from me_; _for trouble is near_; _for there is none to + help_. . . . _Be Thou not far from me_, _O Lord_: _O my strength_, + _haste Thee to help me_. . . . _Save me from the lion’s mouth_: _and + from the horns of the wild oxen Thou hast answered me_.” + +“From the horns of the wild oxen”—that correction had often been precious +to Zachariah. When at the point of being pinned to the ground—so he +understood it—help had arisen; risen up from the earth, and might again +arise. It was upon the first part of the text he dwelt now. It came +upon him with fearful distinctness that he was alone—that he could never +hope for sympathy from his wife as long as he lived. Mr. Bradshaw’s +words that evening recurred to him. God’s purpose in choosing to smite +Jephthah in that way was partly intelligible, and, after all, Jephthah +was elected to redeem his country too. But what could be God’s purpose +in electing one of his servants to indifference and absence of affection +where he had a right to expect it? Could anybody be better for not being +loved? Even Zachariah could not think it possible. But Mr. Bradshaw’s +words again recurred. Who was he that he should question God’s designs? +It might be part of the Divine design that he, Zachariah Coleman, should +not be made better by anything. It might be part of that design, part of +a fulfilment of a plan devised by the Infinite One, that he should be +broken, nay, perhaps not saved. Mr. Bradshaw’s doctrine that night was +nothing new. Zachariah had believed from his childhood, or had thought +he believed, that the potter had power over the clay—of the same lump to +make one vessel unto honour and another unto dishonour; and that the +thing formed unto dishonour could not reply and say to him that formed +it: ‘Why hast thou made me thus?’ Nevertheless, to believe it generally +was one thing; to believe it as a truth for him was another. Darkness, +the darkness as of the crucifixion night, seemed over and around him. +Poor wretch! he thought he was struggling with his weakness; but he was +in reality struggling against his own strength. _Why_ had God so +decreed? Do what he could, that fatal _why_, the protest of his reason, +asserted itself; and yet he cursed himself for permitting it, believing +it to be a sin. He walked about his room for some relief. He looked out +of the window. It was getting late; the sky was clearing, as it does in +London at that hour, and he saw the stars. There was nothing to help him +there. They mocked him rather with their imperturbable, obstinate +stillness. At last he turned round, fell upon his knees, and poured out +himself before his Maker, entreating Him for light. He rose from the +ground, looked again out of the window, and the first flush of the +morning was just visible. Light was coming to the world in obedience to +the Divine command, but not to him. He was exhausted, and crept into his +bedroom, undressing without candle, and without a sound. For a few +minutes he thought he should never sleep again, save in his grave; but an +unseen Hand presently touched him, and he knew nothing till he was +awakened by the broad day streaming over him. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII +UNCONVENTIONAL JUSTICE + + +IN December, 1814, a steamboat was set in motion on the Limehouse Canal, +the Lord Mayor and other distinguished persons being on board. In the +same month Joanna Southcott died. She had announced that on the 19th +October she was to be delivered of the Prince of Peace, although she was +then sixty years old. Thousands of persons believed her, and a cradle +was made. The Prince of Peace did not arrive, and in a little more than +two months poor Joanna had departed, the cause of her departure having +being certified as dropsy. Death did not diminish the number of her +disciples, for they took refuge in the hope of her resurrection. “The +arm of the Lord is not shortened,” they truly affirmed; and even to this +day there are people who are waiting for the fulfilment of Joanna’s +prophecies and the appearance of the “second Shiloh.” Zachariah had been +frequently twitted in joke by his profane companions in the +printing-office upon his supposed belief in the delusion. It was their +delight to assume that all the “pious ones,” as they called them, were +alike; and on the morning of the 30th of December, the day after Joanna +expired, they were more than usually tormenting. Zachariah did not +remonstrate. In his conscientious eagerness to bear witness for his +Master, he had often tried his hand upon his mates; but he had never had +the smallest success, and had now desisted. Moreover, his thoughts were +that morning with his comrades, the Friends of the People. He hummed to +himself the lines from _Lara_: + + “Within that land was many a malcontent, + Who cursed the tyranny to which he bent; + That soil full many a wringing despot saw, + Who worked his wantonness in form of law: + Long war without and frequent broil within + Had made a path for blood and giant sin.” + +The last meeting had been unusually exciting. Differences of opinion had +arisen as to future procedure, many of the members, the Secretary +included, advocating action; but what they understood by it is very +difficult to say. A special call had been made for that night, and +Zachariah was in a difficulty. His native sternness and detestation of +kings and their ministers would have led him almost to any length; but he +had a sober head on his shoulders. So had the Major, and so had +Caillaud. Consequently they held back, and insisted, before stirring a +step towards actual revolution, that there should be some fair chance of +support and success. The Major in particular warned them of the +necessity of drill; and plainly told them also that, not only were the +middle classes all against them, but their own class was hostile. This +was perfectly true, although it was a truth so unpleasant that he had to +endure some very strong language, and even hints of treason. No wonder: +for it is undoubtedly very bitter to be obliged to believe that the men +whom we want to help do not themselves wish to be helped. To work hard +for those who will thank us, to head a majority against oppressors, is a +brave thing; but far more honour is due to the Maitlands, Caillauds, +Colemans, and others of that stamp who strove for thirty years from the +outbreak of the French revolution onwards, not merely to rend the chains +of the prisoners, but had to achieve the more difficult task of +convincing them that they would be happier if they were free. These +heroes are forgotten, or nearly so. Who remembers the poor creatures who +met in the early mornings on the Lancashire moors or were shot by the +yeomanry? They sleep in graves over which stands no tombstone, or +probably their bodies have been carted away to make room for a railway +which has been driven through their resting-place. They saw the truth +before those whom the world delights to honour as its political +redeemers; but they have perished utterly from our recollection, and will +never be mentioned in history. Will there ever be a great Day of Assize +when a just judgment shall be pronounced; when all the impostors who have +been crowned for what they did not deserve will be stripped, and the +Divine word will be heard calling upon the faithful to inherit the +kingdom,—who, when “I was an hungered gave me meat, when I was thirsty +gave me drink; when I was a stranger took me in; when I was naked visited +me; when I was in prison came unto me?” Never! It was a dream of an +enthusiastic Galilean youth, and let us not desire that it may ever come +true. Let us rather gladly consent to be crushed into indistinguishable +dust, with no hope of record: rejoicing only if some infinitesimal +portion of the good work may be achieved by our obliteration, and content +to be remembered only in that anthem which in the future it will be +ordained shall be sung in our religious services in honour of all holy +apostles and martyrs who have left no name. + +The night before the special meeting a gentleman in a blue cloak, and +with a cigar in his mouth, sauntered past the entrance to Carter’s Rents, +where Mr. Secretary lived. It was getting late, but he was evidently not +in a hurry, and seemed to enjoy the coolness of the air, for presently he +turned and walked past the entrance again. He took out his watch—it was +a quarter to eleven o’clock—and he cursed Mr. Secretary and the +beer-shops which had probably detained him. A constable came by, but +never showed himself in the least degree inquisitive; although it was odd +that anybody should select Carter’s Rents for a stroll. Presently Mr. +Secretary came in sight, a trifle, but not much, the worse for liquor. +It was odd, also, that he took no notice of the blue cloak and cigar, but +went straight to his own lodging. The other, after a few moments +followed; and it was a third time odd that he should find the door +unbolted and go upstairs. All this, we say, would have been strange to a +spectator, but it was not so to these three persons. Presently the one +first named found himself in Mr. Secretary’s somewhat squalid room. He +then stood disclosed as the assistant whom the Secretary had first seen +at Whitehall sitting in the Commissioner’s Office. This was not the +second nor third interview which had taken place since then. + +“Well, Mr. Hardy, what do you want here to-night?” + +“Well, my friend, you know, I suppose. How goes the game?” + +“D—m me if I _do_ know. If you think I am going to split, you are very +much mistaken.” + +“Split! Who wants you to split? Why, there’s nothing to split about. I +can tell you just as much as you can tell me.” + +“Why do you come here then?” + +“For the pleasure of seeing you, and to—” Mr. Hardy put his hand +carelessly in his pocket, a movement which was followed by a metallic +jingle—“and just to—to—explain one or two little matters.” + +The Secretary observed that he was very tired. + +“Are you? I believe I am tired too.” + +Mr. Hardy took out a little case-bottle with brandy in it, and the +Secretary, without saying a word, produced two mugs and a jug of water. +The brandy was mixed by Mr. Hardy; but his share of the spirit differed +from that assigned to his friend. + +“Split!” he continued; “no, I should think not. But we want you to help +us. The Major and one or two more had better be kept out of harm’s way +for a little while; and we propose not to hurt them, but to take care of +them a bit, you understand? And if, the next time, he and the others +will be there—we have been looking for the Major for three or four days, +but he is not to be found in his old quarters—we will just give them a +call. When will you have your next meeting? They will be all handy +then.” + +“You can find that out without my help. It’s to-morrow.” + +“Ah! I suppose you’ve had a stormy discussion. I hope your moderate +counsels prevailed.” + +Mr. Secretary winked and gave his head a twist on one side, as if he +meant thereby to say: “You don’t catch me.” + +“It’s a pity,” continued Mr. Hardy, taking no notice, “that some men are +always for rushing into extremities. Why don’t they try and redress +their grievances, if they have any, in the legitimate way which you +yourself propose—by petition?” + +It so happened that a couple of hours before, Mr. Secretary having been +somewhat noisy and insubordinate, the Major had been obliged to rule him +out of order and request his silence. The insult—for so he considered +it—was rankling in him. + +“Because,” he replied, “we have amongst us two or three d—d conceited, +stuck-up fools, who think they are going to ride over us. By God, they +are mistaken though! They are the chaps who do all the mischief. Not +that I’d say anything against them—no, notwithstanding I stand up against +them.” + +“Do all the mischief—yes, you’ve just hit it. I do believe that if it +were not for these fellows the others would be quiet enough.” + +The Secretary took a little more brandy and water. The sense of wrong +within him was like an open wound, and the brandy inflamed it. He also +began to think that it would not be a bad thing for him if he could +seclude the Major, Caillaud, and Zachariah for a season. Zachariah in +particular he mortally hated. + +“What some of these fine folks would like to do, you see, Mr. Hardy, is +to persuade us poor devils to get up the row, while they _direct_ it. +_Direct_ it, that’s their word; but we’re not going to be humbugged.” + +“Too wide awake, I should say.” + +“I should say so too. We are to be told off for the Bank of England, and +they are to show it to us at the other end of Cheapside.” + +“Bank of England,” said Mr. Hardy, laughing; “that’s a joke. You might +run your heads a long while against that before you get in. You don’t +drink your brandy and water.” + +The Secretary took another gulp. “And he’s a military man—a military +man—a military man.” He was getting rather stupid now, and repeated the +phrase each of the three times with increasing unsteadiness, but also +with increasing contempt. + +Mr. Hardy took our his watch. It was getting on towards midnight. +“Good-bye; glad to see you all right,” and he turned to leave. There was +a jingling of coin again, and when he had left Mr. Secretary took up the +five sovereigns which had found their way to the table and put them in +his pocket. His visitor picked his way downstairs. The constable was +still pacing up and down Carter’s Rents, but again did not seem to +observe him, and he walked meditatively to Jermyn Street. He was at his +office by half-past nine, and his chief was only half-an-hour later. + +The Major had thought it prudent to change his address; and, furthermore, +it was the object of the Government to make his arrest, with that of his +colleagues, at the place of meeting, not only to save trouble, but +because it would look better. Mr. Hardy had found out, therefore, all he +wanted to know, and was enabled to confirm his opinion that the Major was +the head of the conspiracy. + +But underneath Mr. Secretary’s mine was a deeper mine; for as the Major +sat at breakfast the next morning a note came for him, the messenger +leaving directly he delivered it to the servant. It was very brief:—“No +meeting to-night. Warn all except the Secretary, who has already been +acquainted.” There was no signature, and he did not know the +handwriting. He reflected for a little while, and then determined to +consult Caillaud and Coleman, who were his informal Cabinet. He had no +difficulty in finding Coleman, but the Caillauds were not at home, and it +was agreed that postponement could do no harm. A message was therefore +left at Caillaud’s house, and one was sent to every one of the members, +but two or three could not be discovered. + +Meanwhile Mr. Secretary, who, strange to say, had _not_ been acquainted, +had been a little overcome by Mr. Hardy’s brandy on the top of the beer +he had taken beforehand, and woke in the morning very miserable. Finding +the five guineas in his pocket, he was tempted to a public-house hard by, +in order that he might cool his stomach and raise his spirits with a +draught or two of ale. He remained there a little too long, and on +reaching home was obliged to go to bed again. He awoke about six, and +then it came into his still somewhat confused brain that he had to attend +the meeting. At half-past seven he accordingly took his departure. +Meanwhile the Major and Zachariah had determined to post themselves in +Red Lion Street, to intercept those of their comrades with whom they had +not been able to communicate, and also to see what was going to happen. +At a quarter to eight the Secretary turned out of Holborn, and when he +came a little nearer, Zachariah saw that at a distance of fifty yards +there was a constable following him. He came on slowly until he was +abreast of a narrow court, when suddenly there was a pistol-shot, and he +was dead on the pavement. Zachariah’s first impulse was to rush forward, +but he saw the constable running, followed by others, and he discerned in +an instant that to attempt to assist would lead to his own arrest and do +no good. He managed, however, to reach the Major, and for two or three +moments they stood stock-still on the edge of the pavement struck with +amazement. Presently a woman passed them with a thick veil over her +face. + +“Home,” she said; “don’t stay here like fools. Pack up your things and +be off. You’ll be in prison to-morrow morning.” + +“Be off!” gasped Zachariah; “be off!—where?” + +“Anywhere!” and she had gone. + +The constables, after putting the corpse in a hackney coach, proceeded to +the room; but it was dark and empty. They had no directions to do +anything more that night, and returned to Bow Street. The next morning, +however, as soon as it was light, a Secretary of State’s warrant, backed +by sufficient force, was presented at the lodgings of Caillaud and +Zachariah. The birds had flown, and not a soul could tell what had +become of them. In Zachariah’s street, which was rather a Radical +quarter, the official inquiries were not answered politely, and one of +the constables received on the top of his head an old pail with slops in +it. The minutest investigation failed to discover to whom the pail +belonged. + + + + +CHAPTER IX +A STRAIN ON THE CABLE + + +BOW STREET was completely at fault, and never discovered the secret of +that assassination. It was clear that neither the Major nor Coleman were +the murderers, as they had been noticed at some distance from the spot +where the Secretary fell by several persons who described them +accurately. Nor was Caillaud suspected, as the constable testified that +he passed him on the opposite side of the street, as he followed the +Secretary. The only conclusion, according to Bow Street, which was free +from all doubt was, that whoever did the deed was a committee consisting +of a single member. A reward of £500 did not bring forward anybody who +knew anything about the business. As for Caillaud, his daughter and the +Major, the next morning saw them far on the way to Dover, and eventually +they arrived at Paris in safety. Zachariah, when he reached home, found +his wife gone. A note lay for him there, probably from the same hand +which warned the Major, telling him not to lose an instant, but to join +in Islington one of the mails to Manchester. His wife would start that +night from St. Martin’s le Grand by a coach which went by another road. +He was always prompt, and in five minutes he was out of the house. The +fare was carefully folded by his unknown friend in the letter. He just +managed as directed, to secure a place, not by the regular Manchester +mail, but by one which went through Barnet and stopped to take up +passengers at the “Angel.” He climbed upon the roof, and presently was +travelling rapidly through Holloway and Highgate. He found, to his +relief, that nobody had heard of the murder, and he was left pretty much +to his own reflections. His first thoughts were an attempt to unravel +the mystery. Why was it so sudden? Why had no word not hint of what was +intended reached him? He could not guess. In those days the clubs were +so beset with spies that frequently the most important resolutions were +taken by one man, who confided in nobody. It was winter, but fortunately +Zachariah was well wrapped up. He journeyed on, hour after hour, in a +state of mazed bewilderment, one thought tumbling over another, and when +morning broke over the flats he had not advanced a single step in the +determination of his future path. Nothing is more painful to a man of +any energy than the inability to put things in order in himself—to place +before himself what he has to do, and arrange the means for doing it. To +be the passive victim of a rushing stream of disconnected impressions is +torture, especially if the emergency be urgent. So when the sun came up +Zachariah began to be ashamed of himself that the night had passed in +these idiotic moonings, which had left him just where he was, and he +tried to settle what he was to do when he reached Manchester. He did not +know a soul; but he could conjecture why he was advised to go thither. +It was a disaffected town, and Friends of the People were very strong +there. His first duty was to get a lodging, his second to get work, and +his third to find out a minister of God under whom he could worship. He +put this last, not because it was the least important, but because he had +the most time to decide upon it. At about ten o’clock at night he came +to his journey’s end, and to his joy saw his wife waiting for him. They +went at once to a small inn hard by, and Mrs. Coleman began to overwhelm +him with interrogation; but he quietly suggested that not a syllable +should be spoken till they had had some rest, and that they should +swallow their supper and go to bed. In the morning Zachariah rose and +looked out of the window. He saw nothing but a small backyard in which +some miserable, scraggy fowls were crouching under a cart to protect +themselves from the rain, which was falling heavily through the dim, +smoky air. His spirits sank. He had no fear of apprehension or +prosecution, but the prospect before him was depressing. Although he was +a poor man, he had not been accustomed to oscillations of fortune, and he +was in an utterly strange place, with five pounds in his pocket, and +nothing to do. + +He was, however, resolved not to yield, and thought it best to begin with +his wife before she could begin with him. + +“Now, my dear, tell me what has happened, who sent you here, and what +kind of a journey you have had?” + +“Mr. Bradshaw came about seven o’clock, and told me the Government was +about to suppress the Friends of the People; that you did not know it; +that I must go to Manchester; that you would come after me; and that a +message would be left for you. He took me to the coach, and paid for +me.” + +“Mr. Bradshaw! Did he tell you anything more?” + +“No; except that he did not think we should be pursued, and that he would +send our things after us when he knew where we were.” + +“You have not heard anything more, then?” + +“No.” + +“You haven’t heard that the Secretary was shot?” + +“Shot! Oh dear! Zachariah, what will become of us?” + +Her husband then told her what he knew, she listening with great +eagerness and in silence. + +“Oh, Zachariah, what will become of us?” she broke out again. + +“There is no reason to worry yourself, Jane; it is perfectly easy for me +to prove my innocence. It is better for us, however, to stay here for a +time. The Government won’t go any further with us; they will search for +the murderer—that’s all.” + +“Why, then, are we sent here and the others are let alone? I suppose the +Major is not here?” + +“I cannot say.” + +“To think I should ever come to this! I haven’t got a rag with me beyond +what I have on. I haven’t got any clean things; a nice sort of creature +I am to go out of doors. And it all had nothing to do with us.” + +“Nothing to do with us! My dear Jane, do you mean that we are not to +help other people, but sit at home and enjoy ourselves? Besides, if you +thought it wrong, why did you not say so before?” + +“How was I to know what you were doing? You never told me anything; you +never do. One thing I do know is that we shall starve and I suppose I +shall have to go about and beg. I haven’t even another pair of shoes or +stockings to my feet.” + +Zachariah pondered for a moment. His first impulse was something very +different; but at last he rose, went up to his wife, kissed her softly on +the forehead, and said: + +“Never mind, my dear; courage, you will have your clothes next week. +Come with me and look out for a lodging.” + +Mrs. Zachariah, however, shook herself free—not violently, but still +decidedly—from his caresses. + +“Most likely seized by the Government. Look for a lodging! That’s just +like you! How can I go out in this pouring rain?” + +Zachariah lately, at any rate, had ceased to expect much affection in his +wife for him; but he thought she was sensible, and equal to any +complexity of circumstances, or even to disaster. He thought this, not +on any positive evidence; but he concluded, somewhat absurdly, that her +coldness meant common sense and capacity for facing trouble courageously +and with deliberation. He had now to find out his mistake, and to learn +that the absence of emotion neither proves, nor is even a ground for +suspecting, any good whatever of a person; that, on the contrary, it is a +ground for suspecting weakness, and possibly imbecility. + +Mrs. Coleman refused to go out, and after breakfast Zachariah went by +himself, having first inquired what was a likely quarter. As he wandered +along much that had been before him again and again once more recurred to +him. He had been overtaken by calamity, and he had not heard from his +wife one single expression of sympathy, nor had he received one single +idea which could help him. She had thought of nothing but herself, and +even of herself not reasonably. She was not the helpmeet which he felt +he had a right to expect. He could have endured any defect, so it +seemed, if only he could have had love; he could have endured the want of +love if only he could have had a counsellor. But he had neither, and he +rebelled, questioning the justice of his lot. Then he fell into the old +familiar controversy with himself, and it was curiously characteristic of +him, that, as he paced those dismal Manchester pavements, all their gloom +disappeared as he re-argued the universal problem of which his case was +an example. He admitted the unquestionable right of the Almighty to damn +three parts of creation to eternal hell if so He willed; why not, then, +one sinner like Zachariah Coleman to a weary pilgrimage for thirty or +forty years? He rebuked himself when he found that he had all his life +assented so easily to the doctrine of God’s absolute authority in the +election and disposal of the creatures He had made, and yet that he +revolted when God touched him, and awarded him a punishment which, in +comparison with the eternal loss of His presence, was as nothing. At +last—and here, through his religion, he came down to the only consolation +possible for him—he said to himself, “Thus hath He decreed; it is foolish +to struggle against His ordinances; we can but submit.” “A poor gospel,” +says his critic. Poor!—yes, it may be; but it is the gospel according to +Job, and any other is a mere mirage. “Doth the hawk fly by thy wisdom +and stretch her wings towards the south?” Confess ignorance and the +folly of insurrection, and there is a chance that even the irremediable +will be somewhat mitigated. Poor!—yes; but it is genuine; and this at +least must be said for Puritanism, that of all the theologies and +philosophies it is the most honest in its recognition of the facts; the +most real, if we penetrate to the heart of it, in the remedy which it +offers. + +He found two small furnished rooms which would answer his purpose till +his own furniture should arrive, and he and his wife took possession that +same morning. He then wrote to his landlord in London—a man whom he knew +he could trust—and directed him to send his goods. For the present, +although he had no fear whatever of any prosecution, he thought fit to +adopt a feigned name, with which we need not trouble ourselves. In the +afternoon he sallied out to seek employment. The weather had cleared, +but Mrs. Coleman still refused to accompany him, and she occupied herself +moodily with setting the place to rights, as she called it, although, as +it happened, it was particularly neat and clean. There was not so much +printing done in Manchester then as now, and Zachariah had no success. +He came home about seven o’clock, weary and disheartened. His wife was +one of those women who under misfortune show all that is worst in them, +as many women in misfortune show all that is best. + +“You might have been sure you would get nothing to do here. If, as you +say, there is no danger, why did you not stay in London?” + +“You know all about it, my dear; we were warned to come.” + +“Yes, but why in such a hurry? Why didn’t you stop to think?” + +“It is all very well to say so now, but there were only a few minutes in +which to decide. Besides, when I got home I found you gone.” + +Mrs. Zachariah conveniently took no notice of the last part of this +remark, which, of course, settled the whole question, but continued: + +“Ah, well, I suppose it’s all right; but I’m sure we shall starve—I am +convinced we shall. Oh! I wish my poor dear mother were alive! I have +no home to go to. What _will_ become of us?” + +He lost his patience a little. + +“Jane,” he said, “what is our religion worth if it does not support us in +times like these? Does it not teach us to bow to God’s will? Surely we, +who have had such advantages, ought to behave under our trials better +than those who have been brought up like heathens. God will not leave +us. Don’t you remember Mr. Bradshaw’s sermon upon the passage through +the Red Sea. When the Israelites were brought down to the very shore +with nothing but destruction before them, a way was opened. What did Mr. +Bradshaw bid us observe? The Egyptians were close behind—so close that +the Israelites saw them; the sea was in front. The road was not made +till the enemy was upon them, and then the waters were divided and became +a wall unto them on their right hand and on their left; the very waters, +Mr. Bradshaw remarked, which before were their terror. God, too, might +have sent them a different way; no doubt He might, but He chose _that_ +way.” + +“Zachariah, I heard Mr. Bradshaw as well as yourself; I am a member of +the church just as much as you are, and I don’t think it becoming of you +to preach to me as if you were a minister.” Her voice rose and became +shriller as she went on. “I will not stand it. Who are you that you +should talk to me so?—bad enough to bring me down here to die, without +treating me as if I were an unconverted character. Oh! if I had but a +home to go to!” and she covered her face with her apron and became +hysterical. + +What a revelation! By this time he had looked often into the soul of the +woman whom he had chosen—the woman with whom he was to be for ever in +this world—and had discovered that there was nothing, nothing, absolutely +nothing which answered anything in himself with a smile of recognition; +but he now looked again, and found something worse than emptiness. He +found lurking in the obscure darkness a reptile with cruel fangs which at +any moment might turn upon him when he was at his weakest and least able +to defend himself. He had that in him by nature which would have +prompted him to desperate deeds. He could have flung himself from her +with a curse, or even have killed himself in order to escape from his +difficulty. But whatever there was in him originally had been changed. +Upon the wild stem had been grafted a nobler slip, which drew all its sap +from the old root, but had civilised and sweetened its acrid juices. He +leaned over his wife, caressed her, gave her water, and restored her. + +“God knows,” he said, “I did not mean to preach to you. God in heaven +knows I need that somebody should preach to me.” He knelt down before +her as she remained leaning back in the chair, and he repeated the Lord’s +Prayer: “_Give us this day our daily bread_. _Forgive us our trespasses +as we forgive them that trespass against us_.” But will it be believed +that as he rose from his knees, before he had actually straightened his +limbs, two lines from the “_Corsair_” flashed into his mind, not +particularly apposite, but there they were: + + “She rose—she sprung—she clung to his embrace + Till his heart heaved beneath her hidden face?” + +Whence had they descended? He was troubled at their sudden intrusion, +and he went silently to the window, moodily gazing into the street. His +wife, left to herself, recovered, and prepared supper. There was no +reconciliation, at least on her side. She was not capable of +reconciliation. Her temper exhausted itself gradually. With her the +storm never broke up nobly and with magnificent forgetfulness into clear +spaces of azure, with the singing of birds and with hot sunshine turning +into diamonds every remaining drop of the deluge which had threatened +ruin; the change was always rather to a uniformly obscured sky and a cold +drizzle which lasted all day. + +The next morning he renewed his quest. He was away all day long, but he +had no success. He was now getting very anxious. He was expecting his +furniture, which he had directed to be sent to the inn where they had +first stayed, and he would have to pay for the carriage. His landlord +had insisted on a week’s rent beforehand, so that, putting aside the sum +for the carrier, he had now two pounds left. He thought of appealing to +his friends; but he had a great horror of asking for charity, and could +not bring himself to do it. + +The third, fourth, and fifth day passed, with no result. On the seventh +day he found that his goods had come; but he decided not to move, as it +meant expense. He took away a chest of clothes, and remained where he +was. By way of recoil from the older doctrine that suffering does men +good, it has been said that it does no good. Both statements are true, +and both untrue. Many it merely brutalises. Half the crime of the world +is caused by suffering, and half its virtues are due to happiness. +Nevertheless suffering, actual personal suffering, is the mother of +innumerable beneficial experiences, and unless we are so weak that we +yield and break, it extracts from us genuine answers to many questions +which, without it, we either do not put to ourselves, or, if they are +asked, are turned aside with traditional replies. A man who is strong +and survives can hardly pace the pavements of a city for days searching +for employment, his pocket every day becoming lighter, without feeling in +after life that he is richer by something which all the universities in +the world could not have given him. The most dramatic of poets cannot +imagine, even afar off, what such a man feels and thinks, especially if +his temperament be nervous and foreboding. How foreign, hard, repellent, +are the streets in which he is a stranger, alone amidst a crowd of people +all intent upon their own occupation, whilst he has none! At noon, when +business is at its height, he, with nothing to do, sits down on a seat in +an open place, or, may be, on the doorstep of an empty house, unties the +little parcel he has brought with him, and eats his dry bread. He casts +up in his mind the shops he has visited; he reflects that he has taken +all the more promising first, and that not more than two or three are +left. He thinks of the vast waste of the city all round him; its miles +of houses; and he has a more vivid sense of abandonment than if he were +on a plank in the middle of the Atlantic. Towards the end of the +afternoon the pressure in the offices and banks increases; the clerks +hurry hither and thither; he has no share whatever in the excitement; he +is an intrusion. He lingers about aimlessly, and presently the great +tide turns outwards and flows towards the suburbs. Every vehicle which +passes him is crowded with happy folk who have earned their living and +are going home. He has earned nothing. Let anybody who wants to test +the strength of the stalk of carle hemp in him try it by the wringing +strain of a day thus spent! How humiliating are the repulses he +encounters! Most employers to whom a request is made for something to do +prefer to treat it as a petition for aims, and answer accordingly. They +understand what is wanted before a word is spoken, and bawl out “No! +Shut the door after you.” One man to whom Zachariah applied was opening +his letters. For a moment he did not pay the slightest attention, but as +Zachariah continued waiting, he shouted with an oath, “What do you stand +staring there for? Be off!” There was once a time when Zachariah would +have stood up against the wretch; but he could not do it now, and he +retreated in silence. Nevertheless, when he got out into the Street he +felt as if he could have rushed back and gripped the brute’s throat till +he had squeezed the soul out of his carcass. Those of us who have craved +unsuccessfully for permission to do what the Maker of us all has fitted +us to do alone understand how revolutions are generated. Talk about the +atrocities of the Revolution! All the atrocities of the democracy heaped +together ever since the world began would not equal, if we had any gauge +by which to measure them, the atrocities perpetrated in a week upon the +poor, simply because they are poor; and the marvel rather is, not that +there is every now and then a September massacre at which all the world +shrieks, but that such horrors are so infrequent. Again, I say, let no +man judge communist or anarchist _till he has asked for leave to work_, +and a “Damn your eyes!” has rung in his ears. + +Zachariah had some self-respect; he was cared for by God, and in God’s +Book was a registered decree concerning him. These men treated him as if +he were not a person, an individual soul, but as an atom of a mass to be +swept out anywhere, into the gutter—into the river. He was staggered for +a time. Hundreds and thousands of human beings swarmed past him, and he +could not help saying to himself as he looked up to the grey sky, “Is it +true, then? Does God really know anything about me? Are we not born by +the million every week, like spawn, and crushed out of existence like +spawn? Is not humanity the commonest and cheapest thing in the world?” +But as yet his faith was unshaken, and he repelled the doubt as a +temptation of Satan. Blessed is the man who can assign promptly +everything which is not in harmony with himself to a devil, and so get +rid of it. The pitiful case is that of the distracted mortal who knows +not what is the degree of authority which his thoughts and impulses +possess; who is constantly bewildered by contrary messages, and has no +evidence as to their authenticity. Zachariah had his rule still; the +suggestion in the street was tried by it; found to be false; was labelled +accordingly, and he was relieved. + +The dread of the real, obvious danger was not so horrible as a vague, +shapeless fear which haunted him. It was a coward enemy, for it seized +him when he was most tired and most depressed. What is that nameless +terror? Is it a momentary revelation of the infinite abyss which +surrounds us; from the sight of which we are mercifully protected by a +painted vapour, by an illusion that unspeakable darkness which we all of +us know to exist, but which we hypocritically deny, and determine never +to confess to one another? Here again, however, Zachariah had his +advantage over others. He had his precedent. He remembered that +quagmire in the immortal Progress into which, if even a good man falls, +he can find no bottom; he remembered that gloom so profound “that +ofttimes, when he lifted up his foot to set forward, he knew not where or +upon what he should set it next;” he remembered the flame and smoke, the +sparks and hideous noises, the things that cared not for Christian’s +sword, so that he was forced to betake himself to another weapon called +All-prayer; he remembered how that Christian “_was so confounded that he +did not know his own voice_;” he remembered the voice of a man as going +before, saying, “_Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death +I will fear none ill_, _for Thou art with me_.” Lastly, he remembered +that by-and-by the day broke, and Christian cried, “_He hath turned the +shadow of death into the morning_.” He remembered all this; he could +connect his trouble with the trouble of others; he could give it a place +in the dispensation of things, and could therefore lift himself above it. + +He had now been in Manchester a fortnight, and his little store had +dwindled down to five shillings. It was Saturday night. On the Sunday, +as his last chance, he meant to write to Mr. Bradshaw. He went out on +the Sunday morning, and had persuaded his wife to accompany him. They +entered the first place of worship they saw. It was a Methodist chapel, +and the preacher was Arminian in the extreme. It was the first time +Zachariah had ever been present at a Methodist service. The congregation +sang with much fervour, and during the prayer, which was very long, they +broke in upon it with ejaculations of their own, such as “Hear him, O +Lord!”—“Lord have mercy on us!” + +The preacher spoke a broad Lancashire dialect, and was very dramatic. He +pictured God’s efforts to save a soul. Under the pulpit ledge was the +imaginary bottomless pit of this world—not of the next. He leaned over +and pretended to be drawing the soul up with a cord. “He comes, he +comes!” he cried; “God be praised he is safe!” and he landed him on the +Bible. The congregation gave a great groan of relief. “There he is on +the Rock of Ages! No, no, he slips; the Devil has him!” The preacher +tried to rescue him: “He is gone—gone!” and he bent over the pulpit in +agony. The people almost shrieked. “Gone—gone!” he said again with most +moving pathos, and was still for a moment. Then gathering himself up, he +solemnly repeated the terrible verses: “_For it is impossible for those +who were once enlightened_, _and have tasted of the heavenly gift_, _and +were made partakers of the Holy Ghost_, _and have tasted the good word of +God_, _and the powers of the world to come_, _if they shall fall away_, +_to renew them again unto repentance_; _seeing they crucify to themselves +the Son of God afresh_, _and put Him to an open shame_.” Zachariah knew +that text well. Round it had raged the polemics of ages. Mr. Bradshaw +had never referred to it but once, and all the elder members of his +congregation were eager in the extreme to hear what he had to say about +it. He boldly declared that it had nothing to do with the elect. He was +compelled to do so. Following his master Calvin, he made it apply to +outsiders. The elect, says Calvin, are beyond the risk of fatal fall. +But “I deny,” he goes on to say, that “there is any reason why God may +not bestow even on the reprobate a taste of His favour; may irradiate +their minds with some scintillations of His light; may touch them with +some sense of His goodness; may somehow engrave His word on their minds.” +Horrible, most horrible, we scream, that the Almighty should thus play +with those whom He means to destroy; but let us once more remember that +these men did not idly believe in such cruelty. They were forced into +their belief by the demands of their understanding, and their assent was +more meritorious than the weak protests of so-called enlightenment. +Zachariah, pondering absently on what he had heard, was passing out of +the chapel when a hand was gently laid on his shoulder. + +“Ah, friend, what are you doing here?” + +He turned round and recognised William Ogden, who had been sent by the +Hampden Club in Manchester some six months before as a delegate to the +Friends of the People in London. The two walked some distance together, +and Zachariah gave him the history of the last three weeks. With the +murder he was, of course, acquainted. Ogden was a letterpress printer, +and when he heard that Zachariah was in such straits, he said that he +thought he might perhaps find him a job for the present, and told him to +come to his office on the following morning. Zachariah’s heart rejoiced +that his bread would not fail, but he characteristically rejoiced even +more at this signal proof that his trust in his God was justified. When +he reached home he proposed to his wife that they should at once kneel +down and thank God for His mercy. + +“Of course, Zachariah; but you are not yet sure you will get anything. I +will take off my things directly.” + +“Need you wait to take off your things, my dear?” + +“Really, Zachariah, you do make such strange remarks sometimes. I need +not wait; but I am sure it will be more becoming, and it will give you an +opportunity to think over what you are going to say.” + +Accordingly Mrs. Coleman retired for about five minutes. On her return +she observed that it was the time for regular family prayer, and she +produced the Bible. Zachariah had indeed had the opportunity to think, +and he had thought very rapidly. The mere opening of the sacred Book, +however, always acted as a spell, and when its heavy lids fell down on +either side the room cleared itself of all haunting, intrusive evil +spirits. He read the seventeenth chapter of Exodus, the story of the +water brought out of the rock; and he thanked the Almighty with great +earnestness for the favour shown him, never once expressing a doubt that +he would not be successful. He was not mistaken, for Ogden had a place +for him, just as good and just as permanent as the one he had left in +London. + + + + +CHAPTER X +DISINTEGRATION BY DEGREES + + +WE must now advance a little more rapidly. It was in the beginning of +1815 that Zachariah found himself settled in Manchester. That eventful +year passed without any external change, so far as he was concerned. He +became a member of the Hampden Club, to which Ogden and Bamford belonged; +but he heard nothing of Maitland nor of Caillaud. He had a letter now +and then from Mr. Bradshaw and it was a sore trial to him that nobody +could be found in Manchester to take the place of that worthy man of God. +He could not attach himself definitely to any church in the town, and the +habit grew upon him of wandering into this or the other chapel as his +fancy led him. His comrades often met on Sunday evenings. At first he +would not go; but he was afterwards persuaded to do so. The reasons +which induced him to alter his mind were, in the first place, the piety, +methodistic most of it, which was then mixed up with politics; and +secondly, a growing fierceness of temper, which made the cause of the +people a religion. From 1816 downwards it may be questioned whether he +would not have felt himself more akin with any of his democratic friends, +who were really in earnest over the great struggle, than with a sleek +half Tory professor of the gospel, however orthodox he might have been. +In 1816 the situation of the working classes had become almost +intolerable. Towards the end of the year wheat rose to a quarter, and +incendiarism was common all over England. A sense of insecurity and +terror took possession of everybody. Secret outrages, especially fires +by night, chill the courage of the bravest, as those know well enough who +have lived in an agricultural county, when, just before going to bed, +great lights are seen on the horizon; when men and women collect on +bridges or on hill tops, asking “Where is it?” and when fire-engines +tearing through the streets arrive useless at their journey’s end because +the hose has been cut. One evening in November 1816, Zachariah was +walking home to his lodgings. A special meeting of the club had been +called for the following Sunday to consider a proposal made for a march +of the unemployed upon London. Three persons passed him—two men and a +woman—who turned round and looked at him and then went on. He did not +recognise them, but he noticed that they stopped opposite a window, and +as he came up they looked at him again. He could not be mistaken; they +were the Major, Caillaud, and his daughter. The most joyous recognition +followed, and Zachariah insisted on their going home with him. It often +happens that we become increasingly intimate with one another even when +we are shut out from all intercourse. Zachariah had not seen the Major +nor Caillaud nor Pauline for two years, and not a single thought had been +interchanged. Nevertheless he was much nearer and dearer to them than he +was before. He had unconsciously moved on a line rapidly sweeping round +into parallelism with theirs. The relationship between himself and his +wife during those two years had become, not openly hostile, it is true, +but it was neutral. Long ago he had given up the habit of talking to her +about politics, the thing which lay nearest to his heart just then. The +pumping effort of bringing out a single sentence in her presence on any +abstract topic was incredible, and so he learned at last to come home, +though his heart and mind were full to bursting, and say nothing more to +her than that he had seen her friend Mrs. Sykes, or bought his tea at a +different shop. On the other hand, the revolutionary literature of the +time, and more particularly Byron, increasingly interested him. The very +wildness and remoteness of Byron’s romance was just what suited him. It +is all very well for the happy and well-to-do to talk scornfully of +poetic sentimentality. Those to whom a natural outlet for their +affection is denied know better. They instinctively turn to books which +are the farthest removed from commonplace and are in a sense unreal. Not +to the prosperous man, a dweller in beautiful scenery, well married to an +intelligent wife, is Byron precious, but to the poor wretch, say some +City clerk, with an aspiration beyond his desk, who has two rooms in +Camberwell and who before he knew what he was doing made a +marriage—well—which was a mistake, but who is able to turn to that island +in the summer sea, where dwells Kaled, his mistress—Kaled, the Dark Page +disguised as a man, who watches her beloved dying: + + “Who nothing fears, nor feels, nor heeds, nor sees, + Save that damp brow which rests upon his knees; + Save that pale aspect, where the eye, though dim, + Held all the light that shone on earth for him.” + +When they came indoors, and Mrs. Zachariah heard on the stairs the tramp +of other feet besides those of her husband, she prepared herself to be +put out of temper. Not that she could ever be really surprised. She was +not one of those persons who keep a house orderly for the sake of +appearances. She would have been just the same if she had been living +alone, shipwrecked on a solitary island in the Pacific. She was the born +natural enemy of dirt, dust, untidiness, and of every kind of +irregularity, as the cat is the born natural enemy of the mouse. The +sight of dirt, in fact, gave her a quiet kind of delight, because she +foresaw the pleasure of annihilating it. Irregularity was just as +hateful to her. She could not sit still if one ornament on the +mantelpiece looked one way and the other another way, and she would have +risen from her deathbed, if she could have done so, to put a chair +straight. She was not, therefore, aggrieved in expectancy because she +was not fit to be seen. It was rather because she resented any +interruption of domestic order of which she had not been previously +forewarned. As it happened, however the Major came first, and striding +into the room, he shook her hand with considerable fervour and kissed it +gallantly. Her gathering ill-temper disappeared with the promptitude of +a flash. It was a muddy night; the Major had not carefully wiped his +boots, and the footmarks were all over the floor. She saw them, but they +were nothing. + +“My dear Mrs. Coleman, how are you? What a blessing to be here again in +your comfortable quarters.” + +“Really, Major Maitland, it is very good of you to say so. I am very +glad to see you again. Where have you been? I thought we had lost you +for ever.” + +Caillaud and his daughter had followed. They bowed to her formally, and +she begged them to be seated. + +“Then, my dear madam,” continued the Major, laughing, “you must have +thought me dead. You might have known that if I had not been dead I must +have come back.” + +She coloured just a trifle, but made no reply further than to invite all +the company to have supper. + +Zachariah was somewhat surprised. He did not know what sort of a supper +it could be; but he was silent. She asked Pauline to take off her +bonnet, and then proceeded to lay the cloth. For five minutes, or +perhaps ten minutes, she disappeared, and then there came, not only bread +and cheese, but cold ham, a plentiful supply of beer, and, more wonderful +still, a small cold beefsteak pie. Everything was produced as easily as +if it had been the ordinary fare, and Zachariah was astonished at his +wife’s equality to the emergency. Whence she obtained the ham and +beefsteak pie he could not conjecture. She apologised for having nothing +hot; would have had something better if she had known, etc., etc., and +then sat down at the head of the table. The Major sat on her right, +Pauline next to him, and opposite to Pauline, Caillaud and Zachariah. +Their hostess immediately began to ask questions about the events of that +fatal night when they all left London. + +The Major, however, interposed, and said that it would perhaps be better +if nothing was said upon that subject. + +“A dismal topic,” he observed; “talking about it can do no good, and I +for one don’t want to be upset by thinking about it just before I go to +bed.” + +“At least,” said Zachariah, “you can tell us why you are in Manchester?” + +“Certainly,” replied the Major. “In the first place, Paris is not quite +so pleasant as it used to be; London, too, is not attractive; and we +thought that, on the whole, Manchester was to be preferred. Moreover, a +good deal will have to be done during the next twelvemonth, and +Manchester will do it. You will hear all about it when your club meets +next time.” + +“You’ve been in Paris?” said Mrs. Zachariah. “Isn’t it very wicked?” + +“Well, that depends on what you call wicked.” + +“Surely there cannot be two opinions on that point.” + +“It does seem so; and yet when you live abroad you find that things which +are made a great deal of here are not thought so much of there; and, what +is very curious, they think other things very wrong there of which we +take no account here.” + +“Is that because they are not Christians?” + +“Oh dear no; I am speaking of good Christian people; at least so I take +them to be. And really, when you come to consider it, we all of us make +a great fuss about our own little bit of virtue, and undervalue the +rest—I cannot tell upon whose authority.” + +“But are they not, Major, dreadfully immoral in France?” + +Pauline leaned over her plate and looked Mrs. Coleman straight in the +face. + +“Mrs. Coleman, you are English; you—” + +Her father put up his hand; he foresaw what was coming, and that upon +this subject Pauline would have defied all the rules of hospitality. So +he replied calmly, but with the calm of suppressed force: + +“Mrs. Coleman, as my daughter says, you are English; you are excusable. +I will not dispute with you, but I will tell you a little story.” + +“Will you not take some more beer, Mr. Caillaud, before you begin?” + +“No, thank you, madam, I have finished.” + +Caillaud pushed away his plate, on which three parts of what was given +him, including all the ham, remained untouched, and began—his Gallicisms +and broken English have been corrected in the version now before the +reader: + +“In 1790 a young man named Dupin was living in Paris, in the house of his +father, who was a banker there. The Dupins were rich, and the son kept a +mistress, a girl named Victorine. Dupin the younger had developed into +one of the worst of men. He was strictly correct in all his dealings, +sober, guilty of none of the riotous excesses which often distinguish +youth at that age, and most attentive to business; but he was utterly +self-regarding, hard, and emotionless. What could have induced Victorine +to love him I do not know; but love him she did, and her love instead of +being a folly, was her glory. If love were always to be in proportion to +desert, measured out in strictest and justest huckstering conformity +therewith, what a poor thing it would be! The love at least of a woman +is as the love of the Supreme Himself, and just as magnificent. +Victorine was faithful to Dupin; and poor and handsome as she was, never +wronged him by a loose look. Well, Dupin’s father said his son must +marry, and the son saw how reasonable and how necessary the proposal was. +He did marry, and he cut himself adrift from Victorine without the least +compunction, allowing her a small sum weekly, insufficient to keep her. +There was no scene when they parted, for his determination was +communicated to her by letter. Three months afterwards she had a child +of whom he was the father. Did she quietly take the money and say +nothing? Did she tear up the letter in a frenzy and return him the +fragments? She did neither. She wrote to him and told him that she +would not touch his gold. She would never forget him, but she could not +be beholden to him now for a crust of bread. She had done no wrong +hitherto—so she said, Mrs. Coleman; I only repeat her words—they are not +mine. But to live on him after he had left her would be a mortal crime. +So they separated, a victim she—both victims, I may say—to this cursed +thing we call Society. One of the conditions on which the money was to +have been given was, that she should never again recognise him in any way +whatever. This half of the bargain she faithfully observed. For some +months she was alone, trying to keep herself and her child, but at last +she was taken up by a working stone-mason named Legouvé. In 1793 came +the Terror, and the Dupins were denounced and thrown into the Luxembourg. +Legouvé was one of the Committee of Public Safety. It came to the +recollection of the younger Dupin as he lay expecting death that he had +heard that the girl Victorine had gone to live with Legouvé, and a ray of +light dawned on him in his dungeon. He commissioned his wife to call on +Victorine and implore her to help them. She did so. Ah, that was a +wonderful sight—so like the Revolution! Madame Dupin, in her silks and +satins, had often passed the ragged Victorine in the streets, and, of +course, had never taken the slightest notice of her. Now Madame was +kneeling to her! Respectability was in the dust before that which was +not by any means respectable; the legitimate before the illegitimate! +Oh, it was, I say, a wonderful sight in Victorine’s wretched garret! She +was touched with pity, and, furthermore, the memory of her old days with +Dupin and her love for him revived. Legouvé was frightfully jealous, and +she knew that if she pleaded Dupin’s cause before him she would make +matters worse. A sudden thought struck her. She went to Couthon and +demanded an audience. + +“‘Couthon,’ she said, ‘are the Dupins to die?’ + +“‘Yes, to-morrow.’ + +“‘Dupin the younger is the father of my child.’ + +“‘And he has deserted you, and you hate him. He shall die.’ + +“‘Pardon me, I do not hate him.’ + +“‘Ah, you love him still; but that is no reason why he should be spared, +my pretty one. We must do our duty. They are plotters against the +Republic, and must go.’ + +“‘Couthon, they must live. Consider; shall that man ascend the scaffold +with the thought in his heart that I could have rescued him, and that I +did not; that I have had my revenge? Besides, what will be said?—that +the Republic uses justice to satisfy private vengeance. All the women in +my quarter know who I am.’ + +“‘That is a fancy.’ + +“‘Fancy! Is it a fancy to murder Dupin’s wife—murder all that is good in +her—murder the belief in her for ever that there is such a thing as +generosity? You do not wish to kill the soul? That is the way with +tyrants, but not with the Republic.’ + +“Thus Victorine strove with Couthon, and he at last yielded. Dupin and +his father were released that night, and before daybreak they were all +out of Paris and safe. In the morning Legouvé found that they were +liberated, and on asking Couthon the reason, was answered with a smile +that they had an eloquent advocate. Victorine had warned Couthon not to +mention her name, and he kept his promise; but Legouvé conjectured but +too truly. He went home, and in a furious rage taxed Victorine with +infidelity to him, in favour of the man who had abandoned her. He would +not listen to her, and thrust her from him with curses. I say nothing +more about her history. I will only say this, that Pauline is that child +who was born to her after Dupin left her. I say it because I am so proud +that Pauline has had such a mother!” + +“Pauline her daughter!” said Zachariah. “I thought she was your +daughter.” + +“She is my daughter: I became her father.” + +Everybody was silent. + +“Ah, you say nothing,” said Caillaud; “I am not surprised. You are +astonished. Well may you be so that such a creature should ever have +lived. What would Jesus Christ have said to her?” + +The company soon afterwards rose to go. + +“Good-bye, Mrs. Coleman,” said the Major in his careless way; “I am glad +to find Manchester does not disagree with you. At least, I should think +it does not.” + +“Oh no, Major Maitland, I like it quite as well as London. Mind, you +promise to come again _soon_—very soon.” + +The Major had gone downstairs first. She had followed him to the first +landing, and then returned to bid Pauline and Caillaud good-bye. She +stood like a statue while Pauline put on her hat. + +“Good-night, madam,” said Caillaud, slightly bowing. + +“Good-night, madam,” said Pauline, not bowing in the least. + +“Good-night,” she replied, without relaxing her rigidity. + +As soon as they were in the street Pauline said, “Father, I abhor that +woman. If she lives she will kill her husband.” + +Mrs. Coleman, on the other hand, at the same moment said, “Zachariah, +Pauline and Caillaud cannot come to this house again.” + +“Why not?” + +“Why not, Zachariah? I am astonished at you! The child of a woman who +lived in open sin!” + +He made no reply. Years ago not a doubt would have crossed his mind. +That a member of Mr. Bradshaw’s church could receive such people as +Caillaud and Pauline would have seemed impossible. Nevertheless, neither +Caillaud nor Pauline were now repugnant to him; nor did he feel that any +soundless gulf separated them from him, although, so far as he knew his +opinions had undergone no change. + +Mrs. Coleman forbore to pursue the subject, for her thoughts went off +upon another theme, and she was inwardly wondering whether the Major +would ever invite her to the theatre again. Just as she was going to +sleep, the figure of the Major hovering before her eyes, she suddenly +bethought herself that Pauline, if not handsome, was attractive. She +started, and lay awake for an hour. When she rose in the morning the +same thought again presented itself, to dwell with her hence forwards, +and to gnaw her continually like vitriol. + + + + +CHAPTER XI +POLITICS AND PAULINE + + +SOON after this visit debates arose in Zachariah’s club which afterwards +ended in the famous march of the Blanketeers, as they were called. +Matters were becoming very serious, and the Government was thoroughly +alarmed, as well it might be, at the discontent which was manifest all +over the country. The Prince Regent was insulted as he went to open +Parliament, and the windows of his carriage were broken. It was thought, +and with some reason, that the army could not be trusted. One thing is +certain, that the reformers found their way into the barracks at +Knightsbridge and had lunch there at the expense of the soldiers, who +discussed Hone’s pamphlets and roared with laughter over the _Political +Litany_. The Prince Regent communicated to both Houses certain papers, +and recommended that they should at once be taken into consideration. +They contained evidence, so the royal message asserted, of treasonable +combinations “to alienate the affections of His Majesty’s subjects from +His Majesty’s person and Government,” &c. Secret committees were +appointed to consider them both by Lords and Commons, and in about a +fortnight they made their reports. The text was the Spitalfields meeting +of the preceding 2nd of December. A mob had made it an excuse to march +through the city and plunder some shops. Some of the charges brought +against the clubs by the Lords’ Committee do not now seem so very +appalling. One was, that they were agitating for universal suffrage and +annual Parliaments—“projects,” say the Committee, “which evidently +involve, not any qualified or partial change but a total subversion of +the British constitution.” Another charge was the advocacy of “parochial +partnership in land, on the principle that the landholders are not +proprietors in chief; that they are but stewards of the public; that the +land is the people’s farm; that landed monopoly is contrary to the spirit +of Christianity and destructive of the independence and morality of +mankind.” The Reform party in Parliament endeavoured to prove that the +country was in no real danger, and that the singularly harsh measures +proposed were altogether unnecessary. That was true. There was nothing +to be feared, because there was no organisation; but nevertheless, +especially in the manufacturing towns, the suffering was fearful and the +hatred of the Government most bitter. What is so lamentable in the +history of those times is the undisciplined wildness and feebleness of +the attempts made by the people to better themselves. Nothing is more +saddening than the spectacle of a huge mass of humanity goaded, writhing, +starving, and yet so ignorant that it cannot choose capable leaders, +cannot obey them if perchance it gets them, and does not even know how to +name its wrongs. The governing classes are apt to mistake the absurdity +of the manner in which a popular demand expresses itself for absurdity of +the demand itself; but in truth the absurdity of the expression makes the +demand more noteworthy and terrible. Bamford, when he came to London in +the beginning of 1817, records the impression which the clubs made upon +him. He went to several and found them all alike; “each man with his +porter-pot before him and a pipe in his mouth; many speaking at once, +more talkers than thinkers; more speakers than listeners. Presently +‘Order’ would be called, and comparative silence would ensue; a speaker, +stranger or citizen, would be announced with much courtesy and +compliment. ‘Hear, hear, hear’ would follow, with clapping of hands and +knocking of knuckles on the tables, till the half-pints danced; then a +speech, with compliments to some brother orator or popular statesman; +next a resolution in favour of Parliamentary Reform, and a speech to +second it; an amendment on some minor point would follow; a seconding of +that; a breach of order by some individual of warm temperament; half a +dozen would rise to set him right; a dozen to put them down; and the +vociferation and gesticulation would become loud and confounding.” + +The Manchester clubs had set their hearts upon an expedition to +London—thousands strong; each man with a blanket to protect him and a +petition in his hand. The discussion on this project was long and eager. +The Major, Caillaud and Zachariah steadfastly opposed it; not because of +its hardihood, but because of its folly. They were outvoted; but they +conceived themselves loyally bound to make it a success. Zachariah and +Caillaud were not of much use in organisation, and the whole burden fell +upon the Major. Externally gay, and to most persons justifying the +charge of frivolity, he was really nothing of the kind when he had once +settled down to the work he was born to do. His levity was the mere idle +sport of a mind unattached and seeking its own proper object. He was +like a cat, which will play with a ball or its own tail in the sunshine, +but if a mouse or a bird crosses its path will fasten on it with sudden +ferocity. He wrought like a slave during the two months before the +eventful 10th March 1817, and well nigh broke his heart over the +business. Everything had to be done subterraneously; for though the +Habeas Corpus Act was not yet suspended, preparations for what looked +like war were perilous. But this was not the greatest difficulty. He +pleaded for dictatorial powers, and at once found he had made himself +suspected thereby. He was told bluntly that working men did not mean to +exchange one despot for another, and that they were just as good as he +was. Any other man would have thrown up his commission in disgust, but +not so Major Maitland. He persevered unflaggingly, although a +sub-committee had been appointed to act with him and check his +proceedings. The secretary of this very sub-committee, who was also +treasurer, was one of the causes of the failure of the enterprise, for +when the march began neither he nor the funds with which he had been +entrusted could be found. After the club meetings in the evening there +was often an adjournment to Caillaud’s lodgings, where the Major, +Zachariah, Caillaud, and Pauline sat up till close upon midnight. One +evening there was an informal conference of this kind prior to the club +meeting on the following night. The Major was not present, for he was +engaged in making some arrangements for the commissariat on the march. +He had always insisted on it that they were indispensable, and he had +been bitterly opposed the week before by some of his brethren, who were +in favour of extempore foraging which looked very much like plunder. He +carried his point, notwithstanding some sarcastic abuse and insinuations +of half-heartedness, which had touched also Caillaud and Zachariah, who +supported him. Zachariah was much depressed. + +“Mr. Coleman, you are dull,” said Pauline. “What is the matter?” + +“Dull!—that’s not exactly the word. I was thinking of to-morrow.” + +“Ah! I thought so. Well?” + +Zachariah hesitated a little. “Is it worth all the trouble?” at last he +said, an old familiar doubt recurring to him—“Is it worth all the trouble +to save them? What are they?—and, after all, what can we do for them? +Suppose we succeed, and a hundred thousand creatures like those who +blackguarded us last week get votes, and get their taxes reduced, and get +all they want, what then?” + +Pauline broke in with all the eagerness of a woman who is struck with an +idea—“Stop, stop, Mr. Coleman. Here is the mistake you make. Grant it +all—grant your achievement is ridiculously small—is it not worth the +sacrifice of two or three like you and me to accomplish it? That is our +error. We think ourselves of such mighty importance. The question is, +whether we are of such importance, and whether the progress of the world +one inch will not be cheaply purchased by the annihilation of a score of +us. You believe in what you call salvation. You would struggle and die +to save a soul; but in reality you can never save a man; you must be +content to struggle and die to save a little bit of him—to prevent one +habit from descending to his children. You won’t save him wholly, but +you may arrest the propagation of an evil trick, and so improve a +trifle—just a trifle—whole generations to come. Besides, I don’t believe +what you will do is nothing. ‘Give a hundred thousand blackguard +creatures votes’—well, that is something. You are disappointed they do +not at once become converted and all go to chapel. That is not the way +of the Supreme. Your hundred thousand get votes, and perhaps are none +the better, and die as they were before they had votes. But the Supreme +has a million, or millions, of years before Him.” + +Zachariah was silent. Fond of dialectic, he generally strove to present +the other side; but he felt no disposition to do so now, and he tried +rather to connect what she had said with something which he already +believed. + +“True,” he said at last; “true, or true in part. What are we?—what are +we?” and so Pauline’s philosophy seemed to reconcile itself with one of +his favourite dogmas, but it had not quite the same meaning which it had +for him ten years ago. + +“Besides,” said Caillaud, “we hate Liverpool and all his crew. When I +think of that speech at the opening of Parliament I become violent. +There it is; I have stuck it up over the mantelpiece: + + “_Deeply as I lament the pressure of these evils upon the country_, + _I am sensible that they are of a nature not to admit of an immediate + remedy_. _But whilst I observe with peculiar satisfaction the + fortitude with which so many privations have been borne_, _and the + active benevolence which has been employed to mitigate them_, _I am + persuaded that the great sources of our national prosperity are + essentially unimpaired_; _and I entertain a confident expectation + that the native energy of the country will at no distant period + surmount all the difficulties in which we are involved_.” + +“My God,” continued Caillaud, “I could drive a knife into the heart of +the man who thus talks!” + +“No murder, Caillaud,” said Zachariah. + +“Well, no. What is it but a word? Let us say sacrifice. Do you call +the death of your Charles a murder? No; and the reason why you do not is +what? Not that it was decreed by a Court. There have been many murders +decreed by Courts according to law. Was not the death of your Jesus +Christ a murder? Murder means death for base, selfish ends. What said +Jesus—that He came to send a sword? Of course He did. Every idea is a +sword. What a God He was! He was the first who ever cared for the +people—for the real people, the poor, the ignorant, the fools, the +weak-minded, the slaves. The Greeks and Romans thought nothing of these. +I salute thee, O Thou Son of the People!” and Caillaud took down a little +crucifix which, strange to say, always hung in his room, and reverently +inclined himself to it. “A child of the people,” he continued, “in +everything, simple, foolish, wise, ragged, Divine, martyred Hero.” + +Zachariah was not astonished at this melodramatic display, for he knew +Caillaud well; and although this was a little more theatrical than +anything he had ever seen before, it was not out of keeping with his +friend’s character. Nor was it insincere, for Caillaud was not an +Englishman. Moreover, there is often more insincerity in purposely +lowering the expression beneath the thought, and denying the thought +thereby, than in a little exaggeration. Zachariah, although he was a +Briton, had no liking for that hypocrisy which takes a pride in reducing +the extraordinary to the commonplace, and in forcing an ignoble form upon +that which is highest. The conversation went no further. At last +Caillaud said: + +“Come, Pauline, a tune; we have not had one for a long time.” + +Pauline smiled, and went into her little room. Meanwhile her father +removed chairs and table, piling them one on another so as to leave a +clear space. He and Zachariah crouched into the recess by the fireplace. +Pauline entered in the self same short black dress trimmed with red, with +the red artificial flower, wearing the same red stockings and +dancing-slippers, but without the shawl. The performance this time was +not quite what it was when Zachariah had seen it in London. Between +herself and the corner where Zachariah and her father were seated she now +had an imaginary partner, before whom she advanced, receded, bowed, +displayed herself in the most exquisitely graceful attitudes, never once +overstepping the mark, and yet showing every limb and line to the utmost +advantage. Zachariah, as before, followed every movement with +eager—shall we say with hungry eyes? He was so unused to exhibitions of +this kind that their grace was not, as it should have been, their only +charm; for, as we before observed, in his chapel circle even ordinary +dancing was a thing prohibited. The severity of manners to which he had +been accustomed tended to produce an effect the very opposite to that +which was designed; for it can hardly be doubted that if it were the +custom in England for women to conceal the face, a glimpse of an eye or a +nose would excite unpleasant thoughts. + +The dance came to an end, and as it was getting late Zachariah rose. + +“Stop,” said Caillaud. “It is agreed that if they persist on this march, +one or the other of us goes too. The Major will be sure to go. Which +shall it be, you or me?” + +“We will draw lots.” + +“Good.” And Zachariah departed, Pauline laughingly making him one of her +costume curtseys. He was very awkward. He never knew how to conduct +himself becomingly, or with even good manners, on commonplace occasions. +When he was excited in argument he was completely equal to the best +company, and he would have held his own on level terms at a Duke’s +dinner-party, provided only the conversation were interesting. But when +he was not intellectually excited he was lubberly. He did not know what +response to make to Pauline’s graceful adieu, and retreated sheepishly. +When he got home he found his wife waiting for him. The supper was +cleared away, and, as usual, she was reading, or pretending to be +reading, the Bible. + +“You have had supper, of course?” There was a peculiar tone in the “of +course,” as if she meant to imply not merely that it was late, but that +he had preferred to have it with somebody else. + +“I do not want any.” + +“Then we had better have prayers.” + + + + +CHAPTER XII +ONE BODY AND ONE SPIRIT + + +NEXT week Zachariah found it necessary to consult with Caillaud again. +The Major was to be there. The intended meeting was announced to Mrs. +Coleman by her husband at breakfast on the day before, and he informed +her that he should probably be late, and that no supper need be kept for +him. + +“Why do you never meet here, Zachariah? Why must it always be at +Caillaud’s?” + +“Did you not say that they should not come to this house again?” + +“Yes; but I meant I did not want to see them as friends. On business +there is no reason why Caillaud should not come.” + +“I cannot draw the line.” + +“Zachariah, do you mean to call unconverted infidels your friends?” + +They were his friends—he felt they were—and they were dear to him; but he +was hardly able as yet to confess it, even to himself. + +“It will not do,” he said. “Besides, Caillaud will be sure to bring his +daughter.” + +“She will not be so bold as to come if she is not asked. Do _I_ go with +you anywhere except when I am asked?” + +“She has always been used to go out with her father wherever he goes. +She knows all his affairs, and is very useful to him.” + +“So it seems. She must be _very_ useful. Well, if it must be so, and it +is on business, invite her too.” + +“I think still it will be better at Caillaud’s; there more room. There +would be five of us.” + +“How do you make five?” + +“There is the Major. And why, by the way, do you object to Caillaud and +Pauline more than the Major? He is not converted.” + +“There is plenty of room here. I didn’t say I didn’t object to the +Major. Besides, there is a difference between French infidels and +English people, even if they are not church members. But I see how it +is. You want to go there, and you will go. I am of no use to you. You +care nothing for me. You can talk to such dreadful creatures as Caillaud +and that woman who lives with him, and you never talk to me. Oh, I wish +Mr. Bradshaw were here, or I were back again at home! What would Mr. +Bradshaw say?” + +Mrs. Coleman covered her face in her hands. Zachariah felt no pity. His +anger was roused. He was able to say hard things at times, and there was +even a touch of brutality in him. + +“Whose fault is it that I do not talk to you? When did I ever get any +help from you? What do you understand about what concerns me, and when +have you ever tried to understand anything? Your home is no home to me. +My life is blasted, and it might have been different. The meeting shall +not be here, and I will do as I please.” + +He went out of the room in a rage, and downstairs into the street, going +straight to his work. It is a terrible moment when the first bitter +quarrel takes place, and when hatred, even if it be hatred for the moment +only first finds expression. That moment can never be recalled! Is it +ever really forgotten, or really forgiven? Some of us can call to mind a +word, just one word, spoken, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty years ago, +which rings in our ears even to-day as distinctly as when it was uttered, +and forces the blood into the head as it did then. When Zachariah +returned that night he and his wife spoke to each other as if nothing had +happened, but they spoke only about indifferent things. The next day +Mrs. Coleman wondered whether, after all, he would repent; but the +evening came and she waited and waited in vain. The poor woman for hours +and hours had thought one thought and one thought only, until at last she +could bear it no longer. At about eight o’clock she rose, put on her +cloak, and went out of doors. She made straight for Caillaud’s house. +It was cold, and the sky was clear at intervals, with masses of clouds +sweeping over the nearly full moon. What she was to do when she got to +Caillaud’s had not entered her head. She came to the door and stopped. +It had just begun to rain heavily. The sitting-room was on the +ground-floor, abutting on the pavement. The blind was drawn down, but +not closely, and she could see inside. Caillaud, Pauline, and Zachariah +were there, but not the Major. Caillaud was sitting by the fireside; her +husband and Pauline were talking earnestly across the table. Apparently +both of them were much interested, and his face was lighted up as she +never saw it when he was with her. She was fascinated, and could not +move. It was a dull lonely street and nobody was to be seen that wet +night. She had no protection from the weather but her cloak, and in ten +minutes, as the rain came down more heavily, she was wet through and +shivering from head to foot—she who was usually so careful, so precise, +so singularly averse from anything like disorder. Still she +watched—watched every movement of those two—every smile, every gesture; +and when Caillaud went out of the room, perhaps to fetch something, she +watched with increasing and self-forgetting intensity. She had not heard +footsteps approaching. The wind had risen; the storm was ever fiercer +and fiercer, and the feverish energy which poured itself into her eyes +had drained and deadened every other sense. + +“Well, my good woman, what do you want?” + +She turned with a start, and it was the Major! + +“Mrs. Coleman! Good God! what are you doing here? You are soaked. Why +don’t you come in?” + +“Oh no, Major Maitland indeed I cannot. I—I had been out, and I had just +stopped a moment. I didn’t know it was going to rain.” + +“But I say you are dripping. Come in and see your husband; he will go +with you.” + +“Oh no, Major, please don’t; please don’t mention it to him; oh no, +please don’t; he would be very vexed. I shall be all right; I will go on +at once and dry myself.” + +“You cannot go alone. I will see you as far as your house. Here, take +my coat and put it over your shoulders.” + +The Major took off a heavy cloak with capes, wrapped it round her, drew +her arm through his, and they went to her lodgings. She forgot +Zachariah, Caillaud, and Pauline. When they arrived she returned the +cloak and thanked him. She dared not ask him upstairs and he made no +offer to stay. + +“Please say nothing to my husband; promise you will not. He would be in +such a way if he thought I had been out; but I could not help it.” + +“Oh, certainly not, Mrs. Coleman, if you wish it; though I am sure he +wouldn’t, he couldn’t be angry with you.” + +She lingered as he took the coat. + +“Come inside and put it on, Major Maitland; why, it is you who are +dripping now. You will not wear that over your sopped clothes. Cannot I +lend you something? Won’t you have something hot to drink?” + +“No, thank you. I think not; it is not so bad as all that.” + +He shook hands with her and had gone. + +She went upstairs into her dark room. The fire was out. She lighted no +candle, but sat down just as she was, put her head on the table, and +sobbed as if her heart would break. She was very seldom overcome by +emotion of this kind, and used to be proud that she had never once in her +life fainted, and was not given to hysterics. Checked at last by a +deadly shivering which came over her, she took off her wet garments, +threw them over a chair, and crept into bed, revolving in her mind the +explanation which she could give to her husband. When she saw him, and +he inquired about her clothes, she offered some trifling excuse, which +seemed very readily to satisfy him, for he made scarcely any reply, and +was soon asleep. This time it was her turn to lie awake, and the morning +found her restless, and with every symptom of a serious illness +approaching. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII +TO THE GREEKS FOOLISHNESS + + +NEITHER Mrs. Coleman nor her husband thought it anything worse than a +feverish cold, and he went to his work. It was a club night, the night +on which the final arrangements for the march were to be made, and he did +not like to be away. His wife was to lie in bed; but a woman in the +house offered to wait upon her and bring what little food she wanted. It +was settled at the club that the Major should accompany the expedition +and Zachariah and Caillaud having drawn lots, the lot fell upon Caillaud. +A last attempt was made to dissuade the majority from the undertaking; +but it had been made before, not only by our three friends, but by other +Lancashire societies, and had failed. The only effect its renewal had +now was a disagreeable and groundless insinuation which was unendurable. +On his return from the meeting Zachariah was alarmed. His wife was in +great pain, and had taken next to nothing all day. Late as it was, he +went for a doctor, who would give no opinion as to the nature of the +disease then, but merely ordered her some kind of sedative mixture, which +happily gave her a little sleep. Zachariah was a working man and a poor +man. Occasionally it does happen that a working man and a poor man has +nerves, and never does his poverty appear so hateful to him as when he +has sickness in his house. + +The mere discomforts of poverty are bad enough—the hunger and cold of +it—but worse than all is the impossibility of being decently ill, or +decently dying, or of paying any attention to those who take it into +their heads to be ill or to die. A man tolerably well off can at least +get his wife some help when she is laid up, and when she is near her end +can remain with her to take her last kiss and blessing. Not so the +bricklayer’s labourer. If his wife is in bed, he must depend upon +charity for medicine and attendance. And although he knows he will never +see her again, he is forced away to the job on which he is employed; for +if he does not go he will lose it, and must apply to the parish for a +funeral. Happily the poor are not slow to help one another. The present +writer has known women who have to toil hard all day long, sit up night +after night with their neighbours, and watch them with the most tender +care. Zachariah found it so in his case. A fellow-lodger, the mother of +half-a-dozen children, a woman against whom the Colemans had conceived a +prejudice, and whom they had avoided, came forward and modestly asked +Zachariah if she might “look after” Mrs. Coleman while he was away. He +thought for a moment of sundry harsh things which he had said about her, +and then a well-known parable came into his mind about a certain +Samaritan, and he could have hugged her with joy at her offer. + +Mrs. Carter was one of those healthy, somewhat red-faced, gay creatures +whom nothing represses. She was never melancholy with those who were +suffering; not because she had no sympathy for she was profoundly +sympathetic—but because she was subduable. Her pulse was quick, and her +heart so sound that her blood, rich and strong—blood with never a taint +in it—renewed every moment every fibre of her brain. Her very presence +to those who were desponding was a magnetic charm and she could put to +flight legions of hypochondriacal fancies with a cheery word. Critics +said she ruled her husband; but what husband would not rejoice in being +so ruled? He came home weary and he did not want to rule. He wanted to +be directed, and he gladly saw the reins in the hands of his “missus,” of +whom he was justly proud. She conducted all the conversation; she spent +his money, and even bought him his own clothes; and although she said a +sharp thing or two now and then, she never really quarrelled with him. +The eldest of her six children was only twelve years old, and she was not +over methodical, so that her apartments were rather confused and +disorderly. She was not, however, dirty, and would not tolerate dirt +even in her boys, to whom, by the way, she administered very short and +sharp corrections sometimes. If they came to the table with grimy paws, +the first intimation they had that their mother noticed it was a rap on +the knuckles with the handle of a knife which sent the bread and butter +flying out of their fingers. She read no books, and, what was odd in +those days, did not go to chapel or church; but she had her “opinions,” +as she called them, upon everything which was stirring in the world, and +never was behindhand in the news. She was really happier when she found +that she had to look after Mrs. Coleman. She bustled about, taking +directions from the doctor—not without some scepticism, for she had +notions of her own on the subject of disease—and going up and down stairs +continually to see how her patient was getting on. It was curious that +although she was a heavy woman she was so active. She was always on her +legs from morning to night, and never seemed fatigued. Indeed, when she +sat still she was rather uncomfortable; and this was her weak point, for +her restlessness interfered with sewing and mending, which she +abominated. + +The time for the march was close at hand. The Habeas Corpus Act had +meanwhile been suspended and every reformer had to walk very warily. +Ogden, in whose office it will be remembered that Zachariah was engaged, +had issued a handbill informing all the inhabitants of Manchester and its +neighbourhood that on the 10th March a meeting would be held near St. +Peter’s Church of those persons who had determined to carry their +petitions to London. Zachariah, going to his shop, as usual, on the +morning of the 10th—a Monday—was astonished to find that Ogden was +arrested and in prison. + +We must, however, for a time, follow the fortunes of Caillaud and the +Major on that day. They were both astir at five o’clock, and joined one +another at the club. All the members were to assemble there at seven. +Never was the Major more despondent. As for organisation, there was +none, and every proposal he had made had been thwarted. He saw well +enough, as a soldier, that ten times the enthusiasm at his command would +never carry a hundred men to London in that cold weather, and that if +twenty thousand started, the number would be the difficulty. The +Yeomanry cavalry were under orders to oppose them, and what could an +undisciplined mob do against a semi-military force? The end of it would +be the prompt dispersion of the pilgrims and the discredit of the cause. +Nevertheless, both he and Caillaud had determined not to desert it. The +absence of all preparations on the part of these poor Blanketeers was, in +truth, very touching, as it showed the innocent confidence which they had +in the justice of their contention. Their avowed object was to present a +petition personally to the Prince Regent, that they might “undeceive” +him; as if such a thing were possible, or, being possible, would be of +the slightest service. The whole country would rise and help them; their +journey would be a triumphal procession; they were not a hostile army; +the women would come to the doors and offer them bread and milk; they +would reach London; Lord Liverpool would resign; and they would come back +to Manchester with banners flying, having saved their country. At nine +o’clock the club was in St. Peter’s fields, and a kind of platform had +been erected, from which an address was to be given. Caillaud and the +Major were down below. Both of them were aghast at what they saw. +Thousands of men were present with whom they were unacquainted, who had +been attracted by Ogden’s proclamation; some with coats; others without +coats; some with sticks; some with petitions; but most of them with +blankets, which they had rolled up like knapsacks. The Major’s heart +sank within him. What on earth could he do? Nothing except accompany +them and try to prevent collision with the troops. The magistrates were +distracted by no doubts whatever. They read the Riot Act, although there +was no riot, nor the semblance of one, and forthwith surrounded the +platform and carried off everyone on it to prison. The crowd was then +chased by the soldiers and special constables, till all power of +combination was at an end. About three hundred however, were collected, +and found their way to Ardwick Green. They had been joined by others on +the route, and the Major informally reviewed his men. Never, surely, was +there such a regiment! never, surely, did any regiment go on such an +errand! Ragged many of them; ignorant all, fanatical, penniless, they +determined, in spite of all arguments, to proceed. He pointed out that +if they could be so easily scattered when they were thousands strong, +every one of them would be cut down or captured before they were twenty +miles on the road. He was answered as before with contempt and +suspicions of cowardice. A Methodist, half-starved, grey-haired, with +black rings round his eyes and a yellow face, harangued them. + +“My friends,” he said, “we have been told to go back; that we are too few +to accomplish the task to which we have set ourselves. What said the +Lord unto Gideon, Judges vii.: ‘The people that are with thee are too +many for me to give the Midianites into their hands lest Israel vaunt +themselves against me, saying, Mine own hand hath saved me. Now +therefore go to, proclaim in the ears of the people, saying, Whosoever is +fearful and afraid, let him return and depart early from Gilead.’ Well, +twenty-two thousand went back and at last Gideon had only the three +hundred who lapped the water. By those three hundred Israel was saved +from the Midianites. Our thousands have left us; but we shall triumph. +It may be the Lord’s will that more should depart. It may be that there +are yet too many. I say, then, in the words of Gideon, ‘Whosoever is +fearful and afraid, let him return.’ Is there anybody?” (Loud shouts +answered “None.”) “The Lord is with us,” continued the speaker—“the +sword of the Lord and of Gideon!” Every one shouted again. + +Respectable Manchester was frightened when the Blanketeers met, and +laughed them to scorn when they were dispersed. No wonder at the +laughter. What could be more absurd? And yet, when we call to mind the +THING then on the throne; the THING that gave £180 for an evening coat, +and incurred enormous debts, while his people were perishing; the THING +that drank and lied and whored; the THING that never did nor said nor +thought anything that was not utterly brutish and contemptible—when we +think that the THING was a monarch, Heaven-ordained, so it was said, on +which side does the absurdity really lie? Of a truth, not only is the +wisdom of this world foolishness, as it ever was, but that which to this +world is foolishness is adjudged wisdom by the Eternal Arbiter. The +Blanketeers shivering on Ardwick Green, the weavers who afterwards +drilled on the Lancashire moors, and were hung according to law, or +killed at Peterloo, are less ridiculous than those who hung or sabred +them, less ridiculous than the Crimean war and numberless dignified +events in human history, the united achievements of the sovereigns and +ministries of Europe. + +The route of the three hundred was towards Stockport; but when they +reached the bridge they found it occupied by the Yeomanry and a troop of +the Life Guards. To attempt to force a passage was impossible; but +numbers threw themselves into the river, and so crossed. The soldiers +then withdrew into Stockport town, and the bridge was left open to the +main body. When they got into the street on the other side the soldiers +and police dashed at them, and arrested everybody whom they could catch. +The Major was foremost in the crowd, endeavouring to preserve some sort +of discipline, and one of the Yeomanry, suspecting him to be a leader, +rode up to him, and, leaning from his horse, collared him. He was +unarmed; but he was a powerful man, and wrenched himself free. The +soldier drew his sword, and although Caillaud was close by, and attempted +to parry the blow with a stick, the Major lay a dead man on the ground. +The next moment, however, the soldier himself was dead—dead from a +pistol-shot fired by Caillaud, who was instantly seized, handed over to a +guard, and marched off with a score of others to Manchester jail. A +remnant only of the Blanketeers escaped from Stockport, and a smaller +remnant got to Macclesfield. There there was no shelter for them, and +many of them lay in the streets all night. When the morning dawned only +twenty went on into Staffordshire, and these shortly afterwards +separated, and wandered back to Manchester. The sword of Gideon was, +alas! not the sword of the Lord, and aching hearts in that bitter March +weather felt that there was something worse than the cold to be borne at +they struggled homewards. Others, amongst whom was our Methodist orator, +were not discouraged. It is a poor religion which makes no provision for +disaster, and even for apparently final failure. The test of faith is +its power under defeat, and these silly God-fearing souls argued to +themselves that their Master’s time was not their time; that perhaps they +were being punished for their sins, and that when it pleased Him they +would triumph. Essentially right they were, right in every particular, +excepting, perhaps, that it was not for their own sins that this sore +visitation came upon them. Visitation for sin it was certainly, but a +visitation for the sins of others—such is the way of Providence, and has +been ever since the world began, much to the amazement of many reflective +persons. Thou hast laid on Him the iniquity of us all, and Jesus is +crucified rather than the Scribes and Pharisees! Yet could we really +wish it otherwise? Would it have been better in the end that Caiaphas +and the elders should have been nailed upon Calvary, and Jesus die at a +good old age, crowned with honour? It was not yet God’s time in 1817, +but God’s time was helped forward, as it generally is, by this +anticipation of it. It is a commonplace that a premature outbreak puts +back the hands of the clock and is a blunder. Nine times out of ten this +is untrue, and a revolt instantaneously quenched in blood is not merely +the precursor, but the direct progenitor of success. + +We will spend no time over the death of Major Maitland. The tragic +interest, as one of our greatest masters has said, lies not with the +corpse but with the mourners, and we turn back to Zachariah. Ogden’s +office was shut. On the night after the breakdown at Stockport a note in +pencil was left at Zachariah’s house, in Pauline’s handwriting. It was +very short:—“Fly for your life—they will have you to-night—P.” + +Fly for his life! But how could he fly, with his wife in bed and with no +work before him? Would it not be base to leave her? Then it occurred to +him that if he were taken and imprisoned, he would be altogether +incapable of helping her. He determined to speak to Mrs. Carter. He +showed her the note, and she was troubled with no hesitation of any kind. + +“My good man,” she said, “you be off this minute. That’s what you’ve got +to do. Never mind your wife; I’ll see after her. Expense? Lord, Mr. +Coleman what’s that? She don’t eat much. Besides, we’ll settle all +about that afterwards.” + +Zachariah hesitated. + +“Now don’t stand shilly-shallying and a-thinking and a-thinking,—that +never did anybody any good. I can’t a-bear a man as thinks and thinks +when there’s anything to be done as plain as the nose in his face. +Where’s your bag?” + +Mrs. Carter was out of the room in an instant, and in ten minutes came +back with a change of clothes. + +“Now, let us know where you are; but don’t send your letters here. You +write to my sister; there’s her address. You needn’t go up there; your +wife’s asleep. I’ll bid her good-bye for you. Take my advice—get out of +this county somewhere, and get out of Manchester to-night.” + +“I must go upstairs to get some money,” and Zachariah stole into his +bedroom to take half a little hoard which was in a desk there. His wife, +as Mrs. Carter had said, was asleep. He went to her bedside and looked +at her. She was pale and worn. Lying there unconscious, all the defects +which had separated him from her vanished. In sleep and death the divine +element of which we are compounded reappears, and we cease to hate or +criticise; we can only weep or pray. He looked and looked again. The +hours of first love and courtship passed before him; he remembered what +she was to him then, and he thought that perhaps the fault, after all, +might have been on his side, and that he had perhaps not tried to +understand her. He thought of her loneliness—taken away by him into a +land of strangers—and now he was about to desert her; he thought, too, +that she also was one of God’s children just as much as he was; perhaps +more so. The tears filled his eyes, although he was a hard, strong man +not used to tears, and something rose in his throat and almost choked +him. He was about to embrace her; but he dared not disturb her. He +knelt down at the foot of the bed, and in an agony besought his God to +have mercy on him. “God have mercy on me! God have mercy on her!” That +was all he could say—nothing else, although he had been used to praying +habitually. His face was upon her feet, as she lay stretched out there, +and he softly uncovered one of them, so gently that she could not +perceive it. Spotlessly white it was, and once upon a time she was so +attractive to him because she was so exquisitely scrupulous! He bent his +lips over it, kissed it—she stirred, but did not wake; a great cry almost +broke from him, but he stifled it and rose. There was a knock at the +door, and he started. It was Mrs. Carter. + +“Come,” she said as he went out, “you have been here long enough. Poor +dear man!—there, there—of course it’s hard to bear—poor dear man!”—and +the good creature put her hand affectionately on his shoulder. + +“I don’t know how it is,” she continued, wiping her eyes with her apron, +“I can’t a-bear to see a man cry. It always upsets me. My husband ain’t +done it above once or twice in his life, and, Lord, I’d sooner a cried +myself all night long. Good-bye, my dear, good-bye, good-bye; God bless +you! It will all come right.” + +In another minute Zachariah was out of doors. It was dark, and getting +late. The cold air revived him but he could not for some time come to +any determination as to what he ought to do next. He was not well +acquainted with the country round Manchester, and he could not decide to +what point of the compass it would be safest to bend his steps. At last +he remembered that at any rate he must escape from the town boundaries, +and get a night’s lodging somewhere outside them. With the morning some +light would possibly dawn upon him. + +Pauline’s warning was well-timed, for the constables made a descent upon +Caillaud’s lodgings as soon as they got him into jail, and thence +proceeded to Coleman’s. They insisted on a search, and Mrs. Carter gave +them a bit of her mind, for they went into every room of the house, and +even into Mrs. Coleman’s bedroom. + +“I’ll tell you what it is, Mr. Nadin,” she said, turning towards the +notorious chief constable, “if God A’mighty had to settle who was to be +hung in Manchester, it wouldn’t be any of them poor Blanketeers. +Wouldn’t you like to strip the clothes off the bed? That would be just +in your line.” + +“Hold your damned tongue!” quoth Mr. Nadin; but, nevertheless, seeing his +men grinning and a little ashamed of themselves, he ordered them back. + +Meanwhile Zachariah pursued his way north-westward unchallenged, and at +last came to a roadside inn, which he thought looked safe. He walked in, +and found half a dozen decent-looking men sitting round a fire and +smoking. One of them was a parson, and another was one of the parish +overseers. It was about half-past ten, and they were not merry, but a +trifle boozy and stupid. Zachariah called for a pint of beer and some +bread and cheese, and asked if he could have a bed. The man who served +him didn’t know; but would go and see. Presently the overseer was +beckoned out of the room, and the man came back again and informed +Zachariah that there was no bed for him, and that he had better make +haste with his supper, as the house would close at eleven. In a minute +or two the door opened again, and a poor, emaciated weaver entered and +asked the overseer for some help. His wife, he said, was down with the +fever; he had no work; he had had no victuals all day, and he and his +family were starving. He was evidently known to the company. + +“Ah,” said the overseer, “no work, and the fever and starving; that’s +what they always say. I’ll bet a sovereign you’ve been after them +Blanketeers.” + +“It’s a judgment on you,” observed the parson. “You and your like go +setting class against class; you never come near the church, and then you +wonder God Almighty punishes you.” + +“You can come on your knees to us when it suits you, and you’d burn my +rick to-morrow,” said a third. + +“There’s a lot of fever amongst ’em down my way,” said another, whose +voice was rather thick, “and a damned lot of expense they are, too, for +physic and funerals. It’s my belief that they catch it out of spite.” + +“Aren’t you going to give me nothing?” said the man. “There isn’t a +mouthful of food in the place, and the wife may be dead before the +morning.” + +“Well, what do you say, parson?” said the overseer. + +“I say we’ve got quite enough to do to help those who deserve help,” he +replied, “and that it’s flying in the face of Providence to interfere +with its judgment.” With that he knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and +took a great gulp of his brandy-and-water. + +There was an echo of assent. + +“God have mercy on me!” said the man, as he sat down on the form by the +table. Zachariah touched him gently, and pushed the plate and jug to +him. He looked at Zachariah, and without saying a word, devoured it +greedily. He just had time to finish, for the landlord, entering the +room, roughly ordered them to turn out. Out they went accordingly. + +“The Lord in heaven curse them!” exclaimed Zachariah’s companion when +they were in the road. “I could have ripped ’em up, every one of ’em. +My wife is in bed with her wits a-wandering, and there a’nt a lump of +coal, nor a crumb of bread, nor a farthing in the house.” + +“Hush, my friend, cursing is of no use.” + +“Ah! it’s all very well to talk; you’ve got money maybe.” + +“Not much. I too have no work, no lodging, and I’m driven away from +home. Here’s half of what’s left.” + +“What a sinner I am!” said the other. “You wouldn’t think it, to hear me +go on as I did, but I am a Methodist. The last two or three days, +though, I’ve been like a raving madman. That’s the worst of it. +Starvation has brought the devil into me. I’m not a-going to take all +that though, master; I’ll take some of it; and if ever I prayed to the +Throne of Grace in my life, I’ll pray for you. Who are you? Where are +you going?” + +Zachariah felt that he could safely trust him, and told him what had +happened. + +“I haven’t got a bit of straw myself on which to put you; but you come +along with me.” + +They walked together for about half a mile, till they came to a barn. +There was a haystack close by, and they dragged some of the dry hay into +it. + +“You’d better be away from these parts afore it’s light, and, if you take +my advice, Liverpool is the best place for you.” + +He was right. Liverpool was a large town, and, what was of more +consequence, it was not so revolutionary as Manchester, and the search +there for the suspected was not so strict. The road was explained, so +far as Zachariah’s friend knew it, and they parted. + +Zachariah slept but little, and at four o’clock, with a bright moon, he +started. He met with no particular adventure, and in the evening found +himself once more in a wilderness of strange streets, with no outlook, +face to face with the Red Sea. Happy is the man who, if he is to have an +experience of this kind, is trained to it when young, and is not suddenly +brought to it after a life of security. Zachariah, although he was +desponding, could now say he had been in the same straits before, and had +survived. That is the consolation of all consolations to us. We have +actually touched and handled the skeleton, and after all we have not been +struck dead. {132} + + “O socii, neque enim ignari sumus ante malorum, + O passi graviora, dabit Deus his quoque finem. + Vos et Scyllæam rabiem penitusque sonantes + Accestis scopulos; vos et Cyclopia saxa + Experti. Revocate animos, moestumque timorem + Mittite; forsan et hæc olim meminisse juvabit.” + +He wandered down to the water and saw a ship cleared for some port across +the Atlantic. A longing seized him to go with her. Over the sea,—he +thought there he would be at rest. So we all think, and as we watch the +vessels dropping below the horizon in the sunset cloud, we imagine them +bound with a happy crew to islands of the blest, the truth being that the +cloud is a storm, and the destined port is as commonplace and full of +misery as the one they have left. Zachariah, however, did not suffer +himself to dream. He went diligently and systematically to work; but +this time all his efforts were fruitless. He called on every +printing-office he could find, and there was not one which wanted a hand, +or saw any prospect of wanting one. He thought of trying the river-side; +but he stood no chance there, as he had never been accustomed to carry +heavy weights. His money was running short, and at last, when evening +came on the third day, and he was faint with fatigue, his heart sank. He +was ill, too, and sickness began to cloud his brain. As the power of +internal resistance diminishes, the circumstance of the external world +presses on us like the air upon an exhausted glass ball, and finally +crushes us. It saddened him, too, to think, as it has saddened thousands +before him, that the fight which he fought, and the death which, perhaps, +was in front of him, were so mean. Ophelia dies; Juliet dies, and we +fancy that their fate, although terrible, is more enviable than that of a +pauper who drops undramatically on London stones. He came to his lodging +at the close of the third day, wet, tired, hungry, and with a headache. +There was nobody to suggest anything to him or offer him anything. He +went to bed, and a thousand images, uncontrolled, rushed backwards and +forwards before him. He became excited, so that he could not rest, and +after walking about his room till nearly daylight, turned into bed again. +When morning had fairly arrived he tried to rise, but he was beaten. He +lay still till about eleven, and then the woman who kept the +lodging-house appeared and asked him if he was going to stay all day +where he was. He told her he was very bad; but she went away without a +word, and he saw nothing more of her. Towards night he became worse and +finally delirious. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV +THE SCHOOL OF ADVERSITY: THE SIXTH FORM THEREOF + + +WHEN Zachariah came to himself he was in a large, long, whitewashed room, +with twenty beds or more in it. A woman in a greyish check dress was +standing near him. + +“Where am I?” he said. + +“Where are yer?” she said; “why, in the workus infirmary, to be sure, +with me a-looking after yer. Where would yer be?” + +Zachariah relapsed and was still. The next time he opened his eyes the +woman had left him. It was true he was in the workhouse, and a workhouse +then was not what it is now. Who can possibly describe what it was? Who +can possibly convey to anybody who has not known what it was by actual +imprisonment in it any adequate sense of its gloom; of the utter, +callous, brutal indifference of the so-called nurses; of the neglect of +the poor patients by those who were paid to attend to them; of the +absence of even common decency; of the desperate persistent attempts made +by everybody concerned to impress upon the wretched mortals who were +brought there that they were chargeable to the parish and put there for +form’s sake, prior to being shovelled into a hole in the adjoining +churchyard? The infirmary nurses were taken from the other side of the +building—sometimes for very strange reasons. The master appointed them, +and was not bound to account to anybody for his preferences. One woman +had given him much trouble. She was a stout, lazy brute, who had no +business in the House, and who went in and out just as she liked. One +day something displeased her, and she attacked him with such fury and +suddenness that he would have been a dead man in a few minutes if she had +not been pulled off. But he dared not report her. She knew too much +about him, and she was moved a few days afterwards to look after the +sick. She it was who spoke to Zachariah. She, however, was not by any +means the worst. Worse than her were the old, degraded, sodden, +gin-drinking hags, who had all their lives breathed pauper air and pauper +contamination; women with not one single vestige of their Maker’s hand +left upon them, and incapable, even under the greatest provocation, of +any human emotion; who would see a dying mother call upon Christ, or cry +for her husband and children, and would swear at her and try to smother +her into silence. As for the doctor, he was hired at the lowest possible +rate, and was allowed a certain sum for drugs. It was utterly +insufficient to provide anything except the very commonest physic; and +what could he do in the midst of such a system, even if he had been +inclined to do anything? He accordingly did next to nothing; walked +through the wards, and left his patients pretty much to Providence. They +were robbed even of their food. They were not much to be pitied for +being robbed of the stimulants, for every drop, including the “port +wine,” was obtained by the directors from those of their number or from +their friends who were in the trade, and it was mostly poisonous. Death +is always terrible—terrible on the battlefield; terrible in a sinking +ship; terrible to the exile—but the present writer, who has seen Death in +the “House” of years gone by, cannot imagine that he can ever be so +distinctively the King of Terrors as he was there. The thought that +thousands and thousands of human beings, some of them tender-hearted, +have had to face him there is more horrifying than the thought of French +soldiers freezing in their blood on the Borodino, or of Inquisitional +tortures. It is one of those thoughts which ought not to be thought—a +thought to be suppressed, for it leads to atheism, or even something +worse than mere denial of a God. Thank Heaven that the present +generation of the poor has been relieved at least of one argument in +favour of the creed that the world is governed by the Devil! Thank +Heaven that the modern hospital, with its sisters gently nurtured, +devoted to their duty with that pious earnestness which is a true +religion, has supplied some evidence of a Theocracy. + +Zachariah looked round again. There was an old male attendant near him. +He had on a brown rough coat with brass buttons, and shoes which were +much too big for him. They were supplied in sizes, and never fitted. +The old men always took those that were too large. They had as their +place of exercise a paved courtyard surrounded by high brick walls, and +they all collected on the sunny side, and walked up and down there, +making a clapping noise with their feet as the shoes slipped off their +heels. This sound was characteristic of the whole building. It was to +be heard everywhere. + +“You’ve been very bad,” said the old man, “but you’ll get better now; it +a’nt many as get better here.” + +He was a poor-looking, half-fed creature, with a cadaverous face. He had +the special, workhouse, bloodless aspect—just as if he had lived on +nothing stronger than gruel and had never smelt fresh air. The air, by +the way, of those wards was something peculiar. It had no distinctive +odour—that is to say, no odour which was specially this or that; but it +had one that bore the same relation to ordinary odours which well-ground +London mud bears to ordinary colours. The old man’s face, too, had +nothing distinctive in it. The only thing certainly predicable of him +was, that nothing could be predicated of him. He was neither selfish nor +generous; neither a liar nor truthful; neither believed anything, nor +disbelieved anything; was neither good nor bad; had no hope hereafter, +nor any doubt. + +“Who are you?” said Zachariah. + +“Well, that ain’t easy to say. I does odd jobs here as the nurses don’t +do, and I gets a little extra ration.” + +“How long have I been here?” + +“About a fortnight.” + +Zachariah was too weak to say anything more, and fell asleep again. Next +day he was better, and he then thought of his wife; he thought of +Caillaud, the Major, and Pauline; but he had no power to reflect +connectedly. He was in that miserable condition in which objects present +themselves in a tumbling crowd, one following the other with +inconceivable rapidity, the brain possessing no power to disentangle the +chaos. He could not detach the condition of his wife, for example, and +determine what ought to be done; he could not even bring himself to +decide if it would be best to let her know where he was. No sooner did +he try to turn his attention to her, even for a moment, than the Major +came before him, and then his other friends, and then the workhouse and +the dread of death there. Mercifully he went to sleep again, and after +another long night’s rest he was much stronger. He was able now—first +sign of restored power—to settle that he ought before everything to +communicate with Mrs. Carter, and he inquired of the old man if he could +write. + +“Oh, yes, I can write,” said he, and something like a gleam of light +passed over his countenance at being asked to practise an art almost +forgotten in those walls. + +A letter was accordingly written to Mrs. Carter, at her sister’s address, +telling her briefly what had happened, but that she was not to be +alarmed, as the writer was rapidly recovering. He was able to sign his +name; but when the letter was finished, he reflected that he had not got +a coin in his pocket with which to pay the postage. One of the +institutions of the workhouse was, however, a kind of pawnshop kept by +one of the under-masters, as they were called, and Zachariah got a +shilling advanced on a pocket-knife. The letter, therefore, was duly +despatched, and he gave his secretary a penny for his trouble. This led +to a little further intimacy, and Zachariah asked him how he came there. + +“I don’t know,” he replied. “I was born in the country, and when I was +fourteen, my father apprenticed me to the watchmaking. He was well +off—my father was—and when I was out of my time he set me up in business +in Liverpool. It was a business as had been established some time—a +fairish business it was. But when I came to Liverpool I felt dull.” + +“What do you mean by dull? Stupid?” + +“No, not exactly that. You know what dull means, don’t you?—low-spirited +like—got nothing to talk about. Well, I can’t tell how it come about, +but I was always dull, and have been so ever since. I got married soon +after I was settled. My wife was a good sort of woman, but she wasn’t +cheerful, and she wasn’t very strong. Somehow the business fell off. +Customers as used to come didn’t come, and I got no new ones. I did my +work pretty well; but still, for all that, things went down and down by +degrees. I never could make out why, except that people liked to be +talked to, and I had nothing particular to say to any of them when they +came in. The shop, too, ought to have been painted more often, and I +ought to have had something in the window, but, as I say, I was always +dull, and my wife wasn’t strong. At last I was obliged to give up and go +to journey-work; but when I got old I couldn’t see, and was put in here.” + +“But,” said Zachariah, “is that all? Why, you are nearly seventy years +old. You must have something more to tell me.” + +“No. I don’t know as I have; that seems about all.” + +“But what became of your father? He was well off. What became of his +money when he died?” + +“I’d had my share.” + +“Had you no brothers nor sisters to help you?” + +“Yes, I had some.” + +“Did they let you come here?” + +“Why, you see, as I’ve told you before, I was dull, and my wife wasn’t +strong. They never came much to see me. It was my fault; I never had +nothing to say to them.” + +“Had you no children?” + +“Yes, I had a son and daughter.” + +“Are they alive now?” + +“Yes—both of them; at least I haven’t heard as they are dead.” + +“And able to keep themselves?” + +“They used to be.” + +“And do you mean that your son and daughter let you go to the workhouse?” + +The old man was a little disturbed, and for a moment some slight sign of +nervous excitement revealed itself in his lustreless eyes. + +“I haven’t see anything of ’em for years.” + +“Did you quarrel?” + +“No, we didn’t quarrel; but they left off visiting us. They both of them +married, and went out a good bit, and were gayer than we were. We used +to ask them, and then they’d look in sometimes: but never except when +they were asked, and always seemed to wish to get away. We never had +nothing to show anybody, nor nothing to give anybody; for we didn’t drink +and I never smoked. They went away too, both of them, from Liverpool, +somewhere towards London.” + +“But when you broke down didn’t you inform them?” + +“No. I hadn’t heard anything of them for so long. I thought I might as +well get into the House. It will do very well.” + +“Didn’t you know anybody belonging to your church or chapel?” + +“Well, we went to church; but when the business dropped we left off +going, for nothing much seemed to come of it, and nobody ever spoke to +us.” + +“Wouldn’t you like to get out of this place?” + +“No—I don’t know as I should now; I shouldn’t know what to do, and it +won’t last long.” + +“How old are you?” + +“Sixty-five.” + +It puzzled Zachariah that the man’s story of his life was so short—all +told in five minutes. + +“But did you never have any adventures? Did you never hear about +anything, or see anybody worth remembering? Tell me all about yourself. +We’ve got nothing to do.” + +“I don’t recollect anything particular after I came to Liverpool. Things +seemed to go on pretty much in the same way.” + +“But you got married, and your wife died?” + +“Yes—I got married, and she died.” + +“What was your wife’s name?” + +“Her name was Jenkins; she was the daughter of the saddler that lived +next door.” + +“Couldn’t her friends have helped you?” + +“After she died they had nothing more to do with me.” + +“And you really cannot tell me any more?” + +“No—how can I? What more is there to tell? It’s all alike.” + +The old pauper was called away, and went shuffling along to the door, +leaving Zachariah to his meditations. + +Another day passed, and he was lying half asleep when a visitor was +announced, and close upon the announcement stood before him—who should it +be?—no other than Mrs. Carter, out of breath, radiant, healthy, +impetuous. + +“God bless the poor dear man!” she burst out; “to think of finding you +here, and not to have told us before. But I suppose you couldn’t. +Directly as I got your letter off I came, and here I am, you see.” + +Her presence was like the south-west wind and sunlight after long +north-easterly gloom and frost. Astonishing is that happy power which +some people possess which enables them at once to dispel depression and +even disease. A woman like Mrs. Carter comes into a house where there is +misery and darkness; where the sufferer is possessed by demons; +unnameable apprehensions, which thicken his blood and make him cry for +death, and they retreat precipitately, as their brethren were fabled to +retreat at the sign of the cross. No man who is so blessed as to have a +friend with that magnetic force in him need disbelieve in much of what is +recorded as miraculous. Zachariah felt as if a draught of good wine had +been poured down his throat. But he instantly asked: + +“How is my wife?” + +“She is all right; but you mustn’t bother about her. You must come out +at once. You mustn’t go back to Manchester just yet—not as they’d care +much about you now; Nadin’s got plenty of work to do, and wouldn’t +concern himself about you—but you aren’t well enough and are better away. +Now, look here—I’ll tell you what I’ve been and done. I’ve got a cousin +living here in Liverpool, as good a soul as ever lived. I goes to her +and tells her you must stay there.” + +“But how can I? Just think of the trouble and expense. I don’t know +her.” + +“Lord a mercy, there you are again—trouble and expense! What trouble +will you be? And as for expense, one would think you’d been living like +a Lord Mayor to hear you talk. What are we made for if not to help one +another?” + +“I can’t walk; and shouldn’t I be obliged to get the doctor’s +permission?” + +“Walk! Of course you can’t. And what did my husband say to me before I +started? Says he, ‘You’ll have to get a conveyance to take him.’ ‘Leave +me alone for that,’ says I; ‘although right you are.’ And I says to my +cousin’s husband, who drives a hackney coach, ‘Just you drop down and +carry him home. It won’t be ten minutes out of your time.’ So he’ll be +here in about a quarter of an hour. As for the doctor, I understand as +much about you as he does, and, doctor or no doctor, you won’t sleep in +this bed to-night. I’ll go and tell the head nurse or master, or +somebody or the other, that you are off. You just put on your clothes.” + +In a short time she returned, found Zachariah dressed, wrapped him round +in shawls and rugs, helped him downstairs, put him into the coach, and +brought him to her cousin’s. It was a little house, in a long uniform +street; but a good deal of pains had been taken with it to make it +something special. There were two bedroom windows in front, on the upper +storey, and each one had flowers outside. The flower-pots were prevented +from falling off the ledge by a lattice-work wrought in the centre into a +little gate—an actual little gate. What purpose it was intended to +answer is a mystery; but being there the owner of the flower-pots +unfastened it every morning when the sill was dusted, and removed them +through it, although lifting them would have been a much simpler +operation. There were flowers in the sitting-room downstairs too; but +they were inside, as the window was flush with the pavement. This +sitting-room was never used except on Sundays. It was about nine feet +square, and it had in it a cupboard on either side of the fireplace, a +black horse-hair sofa alongside the wall on the right-hand side of the +door, red curtains, a black horse-hair arm-chair, three other chairs to +match, a little round table, two large shells, a framed sampler on the +wall representing first the letters of the alphabet, then the figures 1, +2, 3, &c., and, finally, a very blue Jesus talking to a very red woman of +Samaria on a very yellow well—underneath, the inscription and date, +“Margaret Curtin, 10th March 1785.” The only other decorations—for +pictures were dear in those days—were two silhouettes, male, and female, +one at each corner of the mantelpiece, and two earthenware dogs which sat +eternally looking at one another on the top of one of the cupboards. On +the cupboard farthest away from the window was a large Bible with +pictures in it and notes, and, strange to say, a copy of Ferguson’s +Astronomy and a handsome quarto edition in three volumes of Cook’s First +Voyage. Everything was as neat and clean as it could possibly be; but +Mr. and Mrs. Hocking had no children, and had saved a little money. + +Into this apartment Zachariah was brought. There was a fire burning, +though it was not cold, and on the table, covered with a perfectly white +cloth, stood a basin of broth, with some toast, a little brandy in a +wine-glass, a jug of water, and a tumbler. The books, including the +Bible, had apparently not been read much, and were probably an heirloom. +As Zachariah began to recover strength he read the Ferguson. It was the +first time he had ever thought seriously of Astronomy, and it opened a +new world to him. His religion had centred all his thoughts upon the +earth as the theatre of the history of the universe, and although he knew +theoretically that it was but a subordinate planet, he had not realised +that it was so. For him, practically, this little globe had been the +principal object of the Creator’s attention. Ferguson told him also, to +his amazement, that the earth moved in a resisting medium, and that one +day it would surely fall into the sun. That day would be the end of the +world, and of everything in it. He learned something about the magnitude +of the planets and the distances of the fixed stars, and noted that his +author, pious as he is, cannot admit that planets or stars were created +for the sake of man. He dwelt upon these facts, more especially upon the +first till the ground seemed to disappear under his feet, and he fell +into that strange condition in which people in earthquake countries are +said to be when their houses begin to tremble. We may laugh, and call +him a fool to be disturbed by a forecast of what is not going to happen +for millions of years; but he was not a fool. He was one of those +unhappy creatures whom an idea has power to shake, and almost to +overmaster. Ferguson was a Christian, and the thought of the destruction +of our present dwelling-place, with every particle of life on it, did not +trouble him. He had his refuge in Revelation. Zachariah too was a +Christian, but the muscles of his Christianity were—now at any rate, +whatever they may once have been—not firm enough to strangle this new +terror. His supernatural heaven had receded into shadow; he was giddy, +and did not know where he was. He did not feel to their full extent the +tremendous consequences of this new doctrine, and the shock which it has +given to so much philosophy and so many theories, but he felt quite +enough, and wished he had never opened the volume. There are many +truths, no doubt, which we are not robust enough to bear. In the main it +is correct that the only way to conquer is boldly to face every fact, +however horrible it may seem to be, and think, and think, till we pass it +and come to a higher fact; but often we are too weak, and perish in the +attempt. As we lie prostrate, we curse the day on which our eyes were +opened, and we cry in despair that it would have been better for us to +have been born oxen or swine than men. It is an experience, I suppose, +not new that in certain diseased conditions some single fear may fasten +on the wretched victim so that he is almost beside himself. He is +unaware that this fear in itself is of no importance, for it is nothing +but an index of ill-health, which might find expression in a hundred +other ways. He is unconscious of the ill-health except through his +fancy, and regards it as an intellectual result. It is an affliction +worse ten thousand times than any direct physical pain which ends in +pain. Zachariah could not but admit that he was still physically weak; +he had every reason, therefore, for supposing that his mental agony was +connected with his sickness, but he could not bring himself to believe +that it was so, and he wrestled with his nightmares and argued with them +as though they were mere logical inferences. However, he began to get +better, and forthwith other matters occupied his mind. His difficulty +was not fairly slain, pierced through the midst by some heaven-directed +arrow, but it was evaded and forgotten. Health, sweet blood, unimpeded +action of the heart, are the divine narcotics which put to sleep these +enemies to our peace and enable us to pass happily through life. Without +these blessings a man need not stir three steps without finding a foe +able to give him his death-stroke. + +Zachariah longed to see his wife again; but he could not bring her to +Liverpool until he had some work to do. At last the day came when he was +able to say that he was once more earning his living, and one evening +when he reached home she was there too. Mrs. Carter had herself brought +her to Liverpool, but had gone back again to Manchester at once, as she +could not stay the night. When he first set eyes on his wife he was +astonished at the change in her. She was whiter, if possible, than ever, +thin in the face, dark-ringed about the eyes, and very weak. But +otherwise she was what she had always been. The hair was just as smooth, +everything about her just as spotlessly clean and unruffled, and she sat +as she always did, rather upright and straight, as if she preferred the +discomfort of a somewhat rigid position to the greater discomfort of +disarranging her gown. + +Zachariah had much to say. During the whole of the four hours before +bedtime he did not once feel that drying-up of conversation which used to +be so painful to him. It is true she herself said little or nothing, but +that was of no moment. She was strengthless, and he did not expect her +to talk. So long as he could speak he was happy. The next morning came, +and with it came Hope, as it usually came to him in the morning, and he +kissed her with passionate fervour as he went out, rejoicing to think +that, although she was so feeble, she was recovering; that he could once +more look forward as in earlier days, to the evening, and forgetting +every cloud which had ever come between them. Alas, when the night of +that very day came he found his little store exhausted, and he and the +companion of his life sat together for a quarter of an hour or more +without speaking a word. He proposed reading a book, and took up the +Ferguson, thinking he could extract from it something which might +interest her; but she was so irresponsive, and evidently cared so little +for it, that he ceased. It was but eight o’clock, and how to fill up the +time he did not know. At last he said he would just take a turn outside +and look at the weather. He went out and stood under the stars of which +he had been reading. The meeting, after such a separation, was scarcely +twenty-four hours old, and yet he felt once more the old weariness and +the old inability to profit by her society or care for it. He wished, or +half wished, that there might have existed such differences between them +that they could have totally disregarded or even hated one another. The +futility, however, of any raving was soon perfectly clear to him. He +might as well have strained at a chain which held him fast by the leg, +and he therefore strove to quiet himself. He came back, after being +absent longer than he intended and found she was upstairs. He sat down +and meditated again, but came to no conclusion, for no conclusion was +possible. The next evening, after they had sat dumb for some moments, he +said, “My dear; you don’t seem well.” + +“I am not well, as you know. You yourself don’t seem well.” + +He felt suddenly as if he would have liked to throw himself on his knees +before her, and to have it all out with her; to say to her all he had +said to himself; to expose all his misery to her; to try to find out +whether she still loved him; to break or thaw the shell of ice which +seemed to have frozen round her. But he could not do it. He was on the +point of doing it, when he looked at her face, and there was something in +it which stopped him. No such confidence was possible, and he went back +into himself again. + +“Shall I read to you?” + +“Yes, if you like.” + +“What shall I read?” + +“I don’t care; anything you please.” + +“Shall it be Cook’s Voyages?” + +“I have just said I really do not care.” + +He took down the Cook’s Voyages; but after about ten minutes he could not +go on and he put it back in its place. + +“Caillaud’s trial is to take place next week,” he observed after a long +pause. + +“Horrible man!” she exclaimed, with a sudden increase of energy. “I +understand that it was in defending him Major Maitland lost his life.” + +“My dear, you are quite wrong. He was defending Major Maitland, and shot +the soldier who killed him.” + +“Quite wrong, am I? Of course I am quite wrong!” + +“I was at head-quarters, you remember.” + +“Yes, you were; but you were not near Major Maitland.” + +Zachariah raised his eyes; he thought he detected, he was sure he +detected, in the tone of this sentence a distinct sneer. + +“I was not with Major Maitland; my duties called me elsewhere; but I am +more likely to know what happened than any gossiping outsider.” + +“I don’t believe in your foreign infidels.” + +“_My_ foreign infidels! You have no right to call them my infidels, if +you mean that, I am one. But let me tell you again you are mistaken. +Besides, supposing you are right, I don’t see why he should be a horrible +man. He will probably be executed for what he did.” + +“It was he and that daughter of his who dragged you and the Major into +all this trouble.” + +“On the contrary, Caillaud, as well as myself and the Major, did all we +could to prevent the march. You must admit I understand what I am +talking about. I was at every meeting.” + +“As usual, nothing I say is right. It was to be expected that you would +take the part of the Caillauds.” + +Zachariah did not reply. It was supper-time; the chapter from the Bible +was duly read, the prayer duly prayed, and husband and wife afterwards +once more, each in turn, silently at the bedside, with more or less of +sincerity or pathos, sought Him who was the Maker of both. It struck +Zachariah during his devotions—a rather unwelcome interruption—that his +wife as well as himself was in close communication with the Almighty. + + + + +CHAPTER XV +END OF THE BEGINNING + + +THE trial took place at Lancaster. Zachariah was sorely tempted to go; +but, in the first place, he had no money, and, in the second place, he +feared arrest. Not that he would have cared two pins if he had been put +into jail; but he could not abandon his wife. He was perfectly certain +what the result would be, but nevertheless, on the day when the news was +due, he could not rest. There was a mail coach which ran from Lancaster +to Liverpool, starting from Lancaster in the afternoon and reaching +Liverpool between eleven and twelve at night. He went out about that +time and loitered about the coach-office as if he were waiting for a +friend. Presently he heard the wheels and the rapid trot of the horses. +His heart failed him, and he could almost have fainted. + +“What’s the news?” said the clerk to the coachman. “All the whole d—d +lot convicted, and one of ’em going to be hung.” + +“One of them hung! Which one is that?” + +“Why, him as killed the soldier, of course—the Frenchman.” + +“A d—d good job too,” replied the clerk. “I should like to serve every — +Frenchman in the country the same way.” + +Zachariah could not listen any longer, but went home, and all night long +a continuous series of fearful images passed before his eyes—condemned +cells, ropes, gallows and the actual fall of the victim, down to the +contortion of his muscles. He made up his mind on the following day that +he would see Caillaud before he died, and he told his wife he was going. +She was silent for a moment, and then she said: + +“You will do as you like, I suppose: but I cannot see what is the use of +it. You can do no good; you will lose your place here; it will cost you +something; and when you get there you may have to stop there.” + +Zachariah could not restrain himself. + +“Good God!” he cried, “you hear that one of my best friends is about to +be hung, and you sit there like a statue—not a single word of sympathy or +horror—you care no more than a stone. _Use_ of going! I tell you I will +go if I starve, or have to rot in jail all my lifetime. Furthermore, I +will go this instant.” + +He went out of the room in a rage, rammed a few things into a bag, and +was out of the house in ten minutes. He was excusably unjust to his +wife—excusably, because he could not help thinking that she was hard, and +even cruel. Yet really she was not so, or if she was, she was not +necessarily so, for injustice, not only to others, but to ourselves, is +always begotten by a false relationship. There were multitudes of men in +the world, worse than Zachariah, with whom she would have been, not only +happier, but better. He, poor man, with all his virtues, stimulated and +developed all that was disagreeable in her. + +He was in no mood to rest, and walked on all that night. Amidst all his +troubles he could not help being struck with the solemn, silent +procession overhead. It was perfectly clear—so clear that the heavens +were not a surface, but a depth, and the stars of a lesser magnitude were +so numerous and brilliant that they obscured the forms of the greater +constellations. Presently the first hint of day appeared in the east. +We must remember that this was the year 1817, before, so it is commonly +supposed, men knew what it was properly to admire a cloud or a rock. +Zachariah was not, therefore, on a level with the most ordinary +subscriber to a modern circulating library. Nevertheless he could not +help noticing—we will say he did no more—the wonderful, the sacredly +beautiful, drama which noiselessly displayed itself before him. Over in +the east the intense deep blue of the sky softened a little. Then the +trees in that quarter began to contrast themselves against the background +and reveal their distinguishing shapes. Swiftly, and yet with such even +velocity that in no one minute did there seem to be any progress compared +with the minute preceding, the darkness was thinned, and resolved itself +overhead into pure sapphire, shaded into yellow below and in front of +him, while in the west it was still almost black. The grassy floor of +the meadows now showed its colour, grey green, with the dew lying on it, +and in the glimmer under the hedge might be discerned a hare or two +stirring. Star by star disappeared, until none were left, save Venus, +shining like a lamp till the very moment almost when the sun’s disc +touched the horizon. Half a dozen larks mounted and poured forth that +ecstasy which no bird but the lark can translate. More amazing than the +loveliness of scene, sound, and scent around him was the sense of +irrestisible movement. He stopped to watch it, for it grew so rapid that +he could almost detect definite pulsations. Throb followed throb every +second with increasing force, and in a moment more a burning speck of +gold was visible, and behold it was day! He slowly turned his eyes away +and walked onwards. + +Lancaster was reached on the second evening after he left Liverpool. He +could not travel fast nor long together, for he was not yet completely +strong. He secured a bed in a low part of the town, at a public-house, +and on the morning of the third day presented himself at the prison door. +After some formalities he was admitted, and taken by a warder along a +corridor with whitewashed walls to the condemned cell where Caillaud lay. +The warder looked through a grating, and said to Zachariah that a visitor +was already there. Two were not allowed at a time, but he would tell the +prisoner that somebody was waiting for him. + +“Let’s see, what’s your name?” said the warder. Then it suddenly struck +him that he had been fool enough, in the excitement of entering the +prison, to sign his real name in the book. There was no help for it now, +and he repeated that it was Coleman. + +“Ah yes, Coleman,” echoed the man, in a manner which was significant. + +“Who is the other visitor?” said Zachariah. + +“It is his daughter.” + +His first thought was to ask to be let in, but his next was, that it +would be profanity to disturb the intercourse of father and child, and he +was silent. However, he had been announced, and Caillaud appeared at the +grating begging permission for his friend to enter. It was at first +refused; but presently something seemed to strike the jailer, for he +relented with a smile. + +“You won’t want to come again?” he observed interrogatively. + +“No; that is to say, I think not.” + +“No; that is to say, I think not,” he repeated slowly, word for word, +adding, “I shall have to stay with you while you are together.” + +Zachariah entered, the warder locking the door behind him, and seating +himself on the edge of the bedstead, where he remained during the whole +of the interview, jingling his keys and perfectly unmoved. + +The three friends spoke not a word for nearly five minutes. Zachariah +was never suddenly equal to any occasion which made any great demands +upon him. It often made him miserable that it was so. Here he was, in +the presence of one whom he had so much loved, and who was about to leave +him for ever, and he had nothing to say. That could have been endured +could he but have _felt_ and showed his feeling, could he but have cast +himself upon his neck and wept over him, but he was numbed and apparently +immovable. It was Caillaud who first broke the silence. + +“It appears I shall have to console you rather than you me; believe me, I +care no more about dying, as mere dying, than I do about walking across +this room. There are two things which disturb me—the apprehension of +some pain, and bidding good-bye to Pauline and you, and two or three +more.” + +There was, after all, but just a touch needed to break up Zachariah and +melt him. + +“You are happier than I,” he cried. “Your work is at an end. No more +care for things done or undone; you are discharged, and nobly discharged, +with honour. But as for me!” + +“With honour!” and Caillaud smiled. “To be hung like a forger of +bank-notes—not even to be shot—and then to be forgotten. Forgotten +utterly! This does not happen to be one of those revolutions which men +remember.” + +“No! men will not remember,” said Pauline, with an elevation of voice and +manner almost oratorical. “Men will not remember, but there is a memory +in the world which forgets nothing.” + +“Do you know,” said Caillaud, “I have always loved adventure, and at +times I look forward to death with curiosity and interest, just as if I +were going to a foreign country.” + +“Tell me,” said Zachariah, “if there is anything I can do.” + +“Nothing. I would ask you to see that Pauline comes to no harm, but she +can take care of herself. I have nothing to give you in parting. They +have taken everything from me.” + +“What a brute I am! I shall never see you again, and I cannot speak,” +sobbed Zachariah. + +“Speak! What need is there of speaking? What is there which can be said +at such a time? To tell you the truth, Coleman, I hardly cared about +having you here. I did not want to imperil the calm which is now happily +upon me; we all of us have something unaccountable and uncontrollable in +us, and I do not know how soon it may wake in me. But I did wish to see +you, in order that your mind might be at peace about me. Come, +good-bye!” + +Caillaud put his hand on Zachariah’s shoulder. + +“This will not do,” he said. “For my sake forbear. I can face what I +have to go through next Monday if am not shaken. Come, Pauline, you too, +my child, must leave me for a bit.” + +Zachariah looked at Pauline, who rose and threw her shawl over her +shoulders. Her lips were tightly shut, but she was herself. The warder +opened the door. Zachariah took his friend’s hand, held it for a moment, +and then threw his arms round his neck. There is a pathos in parting +which the mere loss through absence does not explain. We all of us feel +it, even if there is to be a meeting again in a few months, and we are +overcome by incomprehensible emotion when we turn back down the pier, +unable any longer to discern the waving of the handkerchief, or when the +railway train turns the curve in the cutting and leaves us standing on +the platform. Infinitely pathetic, therefore, is the moment when we +separate for ever. + +Caillaud was unsettled for an instant, and then, slowly untwining the +embrace, he made a sign to Pauline, who took Zachariah’s hand and led him +outside; the heavy well-oiled bolt of the lock shooting back under the +key with a smooth strong thud between them. She walked down the corridor +alone, not noticing that he had not followed her, and had just passed out +of sight when an officer stepped up to him and said: + +“Your name is Coleman?” + +“Yes.” + +“Sorry to hear it. My name is Nadin. You know me, I think. You must +consider yourself my prisoner.” + +Zachariah was in prison for two years. He had not been there three +months when his wife died. + + * * * * + +Let us now look forward to 1821; let us walk down one of the new streets +just beginning to stretch northwards from Pentonville; let us stop +opposite a little house, with a little palisade in front, enclosing a +little garden five and twenty feet long and fifteen feet broad; let us +peep through the chink between the blind and the window. We see +Zachariah and Pauline. Another year passes; we peep through the same +chink again. A cradle is there, in which lies Marie Pauline Coleman; but +where is the mother? She is not there, and the father alone sits +watching the child. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI +COWFOLD + + +COWFOLD, half village, half town, lies about three miles to the west of +the great North Road from London to York. As you go from London, about +fifty miles from the Post-Office in St. Martin’s le Grand—the fiftieth +milestone is just beyond the turning—you will see a hand-post with three +arms on it; on one is written in large letters, “To LONDON;” on the +second, in equally large letters, “To YORK;” and on the third, in small +italic letters, “_To Cowfold_.” Two or three years before the events +narrated in the following chapters took place—that is to say, about +twenty years after the death of Zachariah’s second wife—a hundred coaches +a day rolled past that hand-post, and about two miles beyond it was a +huge inn, with stables like cavalry barracks, where horses were changed. +No coach went through Cowfold. When the inhabitants wished to go +northwards or southwards they walked or drove to the junction, and waited +on the little grassy triangle till a coach came by which had room for +them. When they returned they were deposited at the same spot, and the +passengers who were going through from London to York or Scotland, or who +were coming up to London, always seemed to despise people who were taken +up or who were left by the roadside there. + +There was, perhaps, some reason for this contempt. The North Road was at +that time one of the finest roads in the world, broad, hard-metalled, and +sound in the wettest weather. That which led to Cowfold was under the +control of the parish, and in winter-time was very bad indeed. When you +looked down it it seemed as if it led nowhere, and indeed the inhabitants +of the town were completely shut off from any close communication with +the outer world. How strange it was to emerge from the end of the lane +and to see those wonderful words, “To LONDON,” “To YORK!” What an +opening into infinity! Boys of a slightly imaginative turn of mind—for +there were boys with imagination even in Cowfold—would, on a holiday +trudge the three miles eastward merely to get to the post and enjoy the +romance of those mysterious fingers. No wonder; for the excitement +begotten by the long stretch of the road—London at one end, York at the +other—by the sight of the _Star_, _Rover_, _Eclipse_, or _Times_ racing +along at twelve miles an hour, and by the inscriptions on them, was worth +a whole afternoon’s cricket or wandering in the fields. Cowfold itself +supplied no such stimulus. The only thing like it was the mail-cart, +which every evening took the letters from the post-office, disappeared +into the dark, nobody could tell whither, and brought letters in the +morning, nobody could tell whence, before the inhabitants were out of +bed. There was a vague belief that it went about fifteen miles and +“caught” something somewhere; but nobody knew for certain, except the +postmistress and the mail-cart driver, who were always remarkably +reticent on the point. The driver was dressed in red, carried a long +horn slung at the side of the cart, and was popularly believed also to +have pistols with him. He never accosted anybody; sat on a solitary +perch just big enough for him; swayed always backwards and forwards a +little in a melancholy fashion as he rode; was never seen during the +day-time, and was not, in any proper sense, a Cowfold person. + +Cowfold had four streets, or, more correctly, only two, which crossed one +another at right angles in the middle of the town, and formed there a +kind of square or open place, in which, on Saturdays, a market was held. + +The “Angel” was in this square, and the shops grouped themselves round +it. In the centre was a large pump with a great leaden spout that had a +hole bored in it at the side. By stopping up the mouth of the spout with +the hand it was possible through this hole to get a good drink, if a +friend was willing to work the handle; and as the square was a public +playground, the pump did good service, especially amongst the boys, all +of whom preferred it greatly to a commonplace mug. On Sundays it was +invariably chained up; for although it was no breach of the Sabbath to +use the pump in the backyard, the line was drawn there, and it would have +been voted by nine-tenths of Cowfold as decidedly immoral to get water +from the one outside. The shops were a draper’s, a grocer’s, an +ironmonger’s, a butcher’s and a baker’s. All these were regular shops, +with shop-windows, and were within sight of one another. + +There were also other houses where things were sold; but these were mere +dwelling-houses, and were at the poorer and more remote ends of Cowfold. +None of the regular shops aforesaid were strictly what they professed to +be. Each of them diverged towards “the general.” The draper sold boots +and shoes; the grocer sold drugs, stationery, horse and cow medicines, +and sheep ointment; and the ironmonger dealt in crockery. Even the +butcher was more than a butcher, for he was never to be seen at his +chopping block, and his wife did all the retail work. He himself was in +the “jobbing” line, and was always jogging about in a cart, in the hind +part of which, covered with a net, was a calf or a couple of pigs. Three +out of the four streets ran out in cottages; but one was more +aristocratic. This was Church Street, which contained the church and the +parsonage. It also had in it four red brick houses, each surrounded with +large gardens. In one lived a brewer who had a brewery in Cowfold, and +owned a dozen beer-shops in the neighbourhood; another was a seminary for +young ladies; in the third lived the doctor; and in the fourth old Mr. +and Mrs. Muston, who had no children, had been there for fifty years; and +this, so far as Cowfold was aware, was all their history. Mr. and Mrs. +Muston and the seminary were the main strength of the church. To be sure +the doctor and the landlord of the “Angel” professed devotion to the +Establishment, but they were never inside the church, except just now and +then, and were charitably excused because of their peculiar calling. The +rest of Cowfold was Dissenting or “went nowhere.” There were three +chapels; one the chapel, orthodox, Independent, holding about seven +hundred persons, and more particularly to be described presently; the +second Wesleyan, new, stuccoed, with grained doors and cast-iron railing; +the third, strict Baptist, ultra-Calvinistic, Antinomian according to the +other sects, dark, down an alley, mean, surrounded by a small +long-grassed graveyard, and named ZOAR in large letters over the long +window in front. The “went nowhere” class was apparently not very +considerable. On Sunday morning at twelve o’clock Cowfold looked as if +it had been swept clean. It was only by comparison between the total +number of church-goers and chapel-goers and the total population that it +could be believed that there was anybody absent from the means of grace; +but if a view could have been taken of the back premises an explanation +would have been discovered. Men and women “did up their gardens,” or +found, for a variety of reasons, that they were forced to stay at home. +In the evening they grew bolder, and strolled through the meadows. It +is, however, only fair to respectable Cowfold to say that it knew nothing +of these creatures, except by employing them on week-days. + +With regard to the Wesleyan Chapel, nothing much need be said. Its creed +was imported, and it had no roots in the town. The Church disliked it +because it was Dissenting, and the Dissenters disliked it because it was +half-Church, and, above all, Tory. It was supported mainly by the +brewer, who was drawn thither for many reasons, one of which was +political. Another was, that he was not in trade, and although he +objected to be confounded with his neighbours who stood behind counters, +the Church did not altogether suit him, because there Mr. and Mrs. Muston +and the seminary stood in his way. Lastly, as he owned beer-shops, +supplied liquor which was a proverb throughout the county, and did a +somewhat doubtful business according to the more pious of the Cowfold +Christians, he preferred to be accredited as a religious person by +Methodism than by any other sect, the stamp of Methodism standing out in +somewhat higher relief. + +As for Zoar, it was a place apart. Its minister was a big, large-jawed, +heavy-eyed man, who lived in a little cottage hard by. His wife was a +very plain-looking person, who wore even on Sundays a cotton gown without +any ornament, and who took her husband’s arm as they walked down the lane +to the chapel. The Independent minister, the Wesleyan minister, and, of +course, the rector had nothing to do with the minister of Zoar. This was +not because of any heresy or difference of doctrine, but because he was a +poor man and poor persons sat under him. Nevertheless he was not in any +way a characteristic Calvinist. The Calvinistic creed was stuck in him +as in a lump of fat, and had no organising influence upon him whatever. +He had no weight in Cowfold, took part in none of its affairs, and his +ministrations were confined to about fifty sullen, half stupid, wholly +ignorant people who found in the Zoar services something sleepier and +requiring less mental exertion than they needed elsewhere; although it +must be said that the demands made upon the intellect in none of the +places of worship were very extensive. There was a small endowment +attached to Zoar, and on this, with the garden and house rent free, the +minister lived. Once now and then—perhaps once in every three or four +years—there was a baptism in Zoar, and at such times it was crowded. The +children of the congregation, as a rule fell away from it as they grew +up; but occasionally a girl remained faithful and was formally admitted +to its communion. In front of the pulpit was an open space usually +covered; but the boards could be taken up, and then a large kind of tank +was disclosed, which was filled with water when the ceremony was +performed. After hymns had been sung the minister went down into the +water, and the candidate appeared dressed in a long white robe very much +like a night-gown. The dear sister, during a short address, stood on the +brink of the tank for a few moments, and then descended into it beside +the minister, who, taking her by the neck and round the waist, ducked her +fairly and completely. She emerged, and walked dripping into the vestry, +where it was always said that hot brandy and water was ready. + +Many of us have felt that we would give all our books if we could but see +with our own eyes how a single day was passed by a single ancient Jewish, +Greek, or Roman family; how the house was opened in the morning; how the +meals were prepared; what was said; how the husband, wife, and children +went about their work; what clothes they wore, and what were their +amusements. Would that the present historian could do as much for +Cowfold! Would that he could bring back one blue summer morning, one +afternoon and evening, and reproduce exactly what happened in Cowfold +Square, in one of the Cowfold shops, in one of the Cowfold parlours, and +in one Cowfold brain and heart. Could this be done with strictest +accuracy, a book would be written, although Cowfold was not Athens, Rome, +nor Jerusalem, which would live for many many years longer than much of +the literature of this century. But alas! the preliminary image in the +mind of the writer is faint enough, and when he comes to trace it, the +pencil swerves and goes off into something utterly unlike it. An +attempt, however, to show what the waking hours in Cowfold Square were +like may not be out of place. The shopkeeper came into his shop at +half-past seven, about half an hour after the shutters had been taken +down by his apprentice. At eight o’clock breakfast was ready; but before +breakfast there was family worship, and a chapter was read from the +Bible, followed by an extempore prayer from the head of the household. +If the master happened to be absent, it was not considered proper that +the mistress should pray extempore, and she used a book of “Family +Devotions.” A very solid breakfast followed, and business began. It was +very slow, but it was very human—much more so than business at the +present day in the City. Every customer had something to say beyond his +own immediate errand, and the shop was the place where everything +touching Cowfold interests was abundantly discussed. Cowfold too, did +much trade in the country round it. Most of the inhabitants kept a gig, +and two or three times, perhaps, in a week a journey somewhere or other +was necessary which was not in the least like a journey in a railway +train. Debts in the villages were collected by the creditor in person, +who called and invited his debtors to a most substantial dinner at the +inn. At one o’clock Cowfold dined. Between one and two nobody was to be +seen in the streets, and the doors were either fastened or a bell was put +upon them. After dinner the same duties returned in the shop; but inside +the house dinner was the turning-point of the day. When the “things were +washed, up,” servant and mistress began to smarten themselves, and +disappearing into their bedrooms, emerged at four, to make preparations +for tea, the meal most enjoyed in all Cowfold. If any spark of wit slept +in any Cowfoldian male or female, it appeared then. No invitations to +dinner were ever heard of; but tea was the opportunity for hospitality, +especially amongst women. The minister, when he visited, invariably came +to tea. The news circulated at tea, and, in fact, at tea between five +and six, Cowfold, if its intellect could have been measured by a properly +constructed gauge, would have been found many degrees higher in the scale +than at any other hour. Granted that the conversation was personal, +trivial, and even scandalous, it was in a measure philosophical. +Cowfold, though it knew nothing, or next to nothing of abstractions, took +immense interest in the creatures in which they were embodied. It would +have turned a deaf ear to any debate on the nature of ethical obligation; +but it was very keen indeed in apportioning blame to its neighbours who +had sinned, and in deciding how far they had gone wrong. Cowfold in +other words believed that flesh and blood, and not ideas, are the school +and the religion for most of us, and that we learn a language by the +examples rather than by the rules. The young scholar fresh from his +study is impatient at what he considers the unprofitable gossip about the +people round the corner; but when he gets older he sees that often it is +much better than his books, and that distinctions are expressed by a +washerwoman, if the objects to be distinguished eat and drink and sleep, +which he would find it difficult to make with his symbols. Moreover, the +little Cowfold clubs and parties understood what they were saying, and so +far had an advantage over the clubs and parties which, since the days of +penny newspapers, now discuss in Cowfold the designs of Russia, the +graduation of the Income Tax, or the merits and demerits of the +administration. The Cowfold horizon has now been widened, to use the +phrase of an enlightened gentleman who came down and lectured there on +the criminality of the advertisement duty; but unfortunately the eyes +remain the same. Cowfold now looks abroad, and is very eloquent upon the +fog in the distance, and the objects it thinks it sees therein; but, +alas! what it has gained in inclusive breadth it has lost in definition. +Politics, however, were not unknown in Cowfold; for before 1832 it was a +borough, and after 1832 it was one of the principal polling-places for +the county. Nevertheless it was only on the eve of an election that +anybody dabbled in them, and even then they were very rudimentary. The +science to most of the voters meant nothing more than a preference of +blue to yellow, or yellow to blue; and women had nothing whatever to do +with it, excepting that wives always, of course, took their husbands’ +colours. Politics, too, as a rule, were not mentioned in private houses. +They were mostly reserved for the “Angel,” and for the brandies and water +and pipes which collected there in the evening. + +To return. After tea the master went back once more to his counter, and +the shutters were put up at eight. From eight to nine was an hour of +which no account can be given: The lights were left burning in the shops, +and the neighbour across the way looked in and remained talking till his +supper was ready. Supper at nine, generally hot, was an institution +never omitted, and, like tea, was convivial; but the conviviality was of +a distinctly lower order. Everybody had whisky, gin, or brandy +afterwards, and every male person who was of age smoked. There was, as a +rule, no excess, but the remarks were apt to be disconnected and woolly; +and the wife, who never had grog for herself, but always sipped her +husband’s went to sleep. Eleven o’clock saw all Cowfold in bed, and +disturbed only by such dreams as were begotten of the previous liver and +bacon and alcohol. + +There were no villains amongst that portion of the inhabitants with which +this history principally concerns itself, nor was a single adventure of +any kind ever known to happen beyond the adventures of being born, +getting married, falling sick, and dying, with now and then an accident +from a gig. Consequently it might be thought that there was no romance +in Cowfold. There could not be a greater mistake. The history of every +boy or girl of ordinary make is one of robbery, murder, imprisonment, +death sentence, filing of chains, scaling of prison walls, recapture, +scaffold, reprieve, poison, and pistols; the difference between such a +history and that in the authorised versions being merely circumstantial. +The garden of Eden, the murder of Cain, the deluge, the salvation of +Noah, the exodus from Egypt, David and Bathsheba, with the murder of +Uriah, the Assyrian invasion, the Incarnation, the Atonement, and the +Resurrection from the Dead; to say nothing of the Decline and Fall of the +Roman Empire, the tragedy of Count Cenci, the execution of Mary Queen of +Scots, the Inquisition in Spain, and Revolt of the Netherlands, all +happened in Cowfold, as well as elsewhere, and were perhaps more +interesting there because they could be studied in detail and the records +were authentic. + +Church Street, Cowfold—that is to say, the street in which the church +stood—was tolerably broad going east and west, so that the sun shone full +on the white window-frames and red brick of Mr. Muston’s house, in which +everything seemed to sleep in eternal calm. On the opposite side was the +seminary, also red brick and white paint, facing the north; but, to make +amends, the garden had a southern aspect, and the back of the house was +covered with a huge magnolia whose edges curled round to the western +side, so that it could be seen by wayfarers. It was a sight not to be +forgotten—the red brick, the white paint, the July sun; the magnolia +leaves, the flanking elms on the east high above the chimneys, the +glimpse of the acre of lawn through the great gates when they happened to +be open, the peace, so profound, of summer noon! How lovely it looks as +it hovers unsteadily before the eye, seen through the transfiguring haze +of so many years! It was really, there is no doubt about it, handsomer +than the stuccoed villa which stares at us over the way; but yet, if +Cowfold Church Street, red brick, white paint, elms, lawn, and midsummer +repose could be restored at the present moment, would it be exactly what +the vision of it is? What is this magic gift which even for the humblest +of us paints and frames these enchanting pictures? It is nothing less +than the genius which is common to humanity. If we are not able to draw +or model, we possess the power to select, group, and clothe with an ideal +grace, which is the very soul of art, and every man and woman, every +bush, nay, every cabbage, cup, and saucer, provided only it be not +actually before us, becomes part of a divine picture. Would that we +could do with the present what we do with the past! We _can_ do +something if we try. + +At the end of Church Street came the vicarage, and then the churchyard, +with the church. Beyond was the park, which half embraced Cowfold, for +it was possible to enter it not only from Church Street, but from North +Street, which ran at right angles to it. The Hall was not much. It was +a large plain stone mansion, built in the earlier part of the eighteenth +century; but in front of the main entrance was a double row of limes +stretching for a quarter of a mile, and the whole of the park was broken +up into soft swelling hills, from whose tops, owing to the flatness of +the country round, an almost immeasurable distance could be seen, +gradually losing itself in deepening mist of tenderest blue. The park, +too, was not rigidly circumscribed. Public roads led through it. It +melted on two or three sides into cultivated fields, and even the private +garden of the Hall seemed a part of it, for there was nothing between +them but a kind of grassy ditch and an almost invisible fence. The +domain of Cowfold Hall was the glory of Cowfold and the pride of its +inhabitants. The modern love of scenery was not known in Cowfold, and +still less was that worship of landscape and nature known which, as +before observed, is peculiar to the generation born under the influence +of Wordsworth. We have learnt, however, from Zachariah that even before +Wordsworth’s days people were sometimes touched by dawn or sunset. The +morning cheered, the moon lent pathos and sentiment, and the stars awoke +unanswerable interrogations in Cowfold, although it knew no poetry, save +Dr. Watts, Pollok’s _Course of Time_, and here and there a little of +Cowper. Under the avenue, too, whose slender columns, in triple rows on +either side, rose to an immense height, and met in a roof overhead with +all the grace of cathedral stone, and without its superincumbent weight +and imprisonment—a roof that was not impervious to the sunlight, but let +it pass and fall in quivering flakes on the ground—Cowfold generally took +off its hat, partly, no doubt, because the place was cool, but also as an +act of homage. Here and in the woods adjoining youths and maidens for +three hundred years had walked and made love, for, though the existing +house was new, it stood on the site of a far older building. Dead men +and women, lord and churl, gone to indistinguishable dust, or even beyond +that—gone perhaps, into vapour and gas, which had been blown to New +Zealand, and become men and women again—had burned with passion here, and +vowed a union which was to last beyond the Judgment Day. They wept here, +quarrelled here, rushed again into one another’s arms here, swore to one +another here, when Henry the Eighth was king; and they wept here, +quarrelled here, embraced here, swore here, in exactly the same mad +fashion, when William the Fourth sat upon the throne. Half-way up the +avenue was a stone pillar commanding a gentle descent, one way to the +Hall, and the other way to the lodge. It set forth the anguish of a +former lord of the time of Queen Anne, who had lost his wife when she was +twenty-six years old. She was beneath him in rank, but very beautiful, +and his affection for her had fought with and triumphed over the cruel +opposition of father, mother, and relations, who had other designs. He +had made enemies of them all; but he won his wife, and, casting her in +the scale, father, mother, and friends were as gossamer. She died two +years after the wedding—to the very day. Rich in her love, he had never +taken a thought to propitiate anybody, nor to make friends with the +Mammon of Unrighteousness, and when she suddenly departed, he turned +round and found himself alone. So far from knocking at men’s doors, he +more fiercely hated those who now, touched with pity, would gladly have +welcomed him. He broke from them all, lived his own life, was reputed to +be a freethinker, and when he came to his estate, a long while +afterwards, he put up the obelisk, and recorded in Latin how Death, the +foul adulterer, had ravished his sweet bride—the coward Death whom no man +could challenge—and that the inconsolable bridegroom had erected this +monument in memory of her matchless virtues. That was all: no blessed +resurrection nor trust in the Saviour. The Reverend John Broad, minister +of Tanner’s Lane Chapel, when he brought visitors here regularly +translated the epitaph. He was not very good at Latin, but he had +somehow found out its meaning. He always observed that it was not +classic, and consequently not easy to render. He pointed out, too, as a +further curiosity, which somewhat increased the difficulty to any +ordinary person, that V was used for U, and I for J. He never, as might +be expected, omitted to enlarge upon the omission of any reference to the +Atoning Blood and the Life to Come, and remarked how the poor man’s +sufferings would have been entirely “assuaged”—a favourite word with Mr. +Broad—if he had believed in those “remedies.” At the same time Mr. Broad +dwelt upon the “associations” of the avenue, which, he thought, added +much to its natural “attractiveness.” Cowfold thought so too, and +welcomed the words as exactly expressing what it felt. John Broad and +Cowfold were right, and more right, perhaps, than they knew. The +draper’s young man, who walked through the park with his arm round his +young woman’s waist, looked up at the obelisk, repeated its story, and +became more serious. Thus it came to pass that the old lord’s love lived +again somewhat in the apprentice, and that which to the apprentice seemed +most particularly himself was a little bit of the self of the Queen +Anne’s earl long since asleep in the vault under Cowfold Church. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII +WHEN WILT THOU ARISE OUT OF THY SLEEP? YET A LITTLE SLEEP + + +THE Reverend John Broad was minister of Tanner’s Lane Chapel, or, more +properly, Meeting-house, a three gabled building, with the date 1688 upon +it, which stood in a short street leading out of North Street. Why it +was called Tanner’s Lane nobody knew; for not in the memory of man had +any tanner carried on his trade there. There was nothing of any +consequence in it but the meeting-house, and when people said Tanner’s +Lane this was what they meant. There were about seven hundred and fifty +sittings in it, and on Sundays it was tolerably full, for it was attended +by large numbers of people from the surrounding villages, who came in +gigs and carts, and brought their dinners with them, which they ate in +the vestry. It was, in fact, the centre of the Dissenting activity for a +whole district. It had small affiliated meeting-houses in places like +Sheepgate, Hackston Green, and Bull’s Cross, in which service was held on +Sunday evening by the deacons of Tanner’s Lane, or by some of the young +men whom Mr. Broad prepared to be missionaries. For a great many years +the congregation had apparently undergone no change in character; but the +uniformity was only apparent. The fervid piety of Cowper’s time and of +the Evangelical revival was a thing almost of the past. The Reverend +John Broad was certainly not of the Revival type. He was a big, +gross-feeding, heavy person, with heavy ox-face and large mouth, who +might have been bad enough for anything if nature had ordained that he +should have been born in a hovel at Sheepgate or in the Black Country. +As it happened, his father was a woollen draper, and John was brought up +to the trade as a youth; got tired of it, thought he might do something +more respectable; went to a Dissenting College; took charge of a little +chapel in Buckinghamshire; married early; was removed to Tanner’s Lane, +and became a preacher of the Gospel. He was moderate in all of what he +called his “views;” neither ultra-Calvinist nor Arminian not rigid upon +Baptism, and certainly much unlike his lean and fervid predecessor, the +Reverend James Harden, M.A., who was educated at Cambridge; threw up all +his chances there when he became convinced of sin; cast in his lot with +the Independents, and wrestled even unto blood with the world, the flesh, +and the devil in Cowfold for thirty years, till he was gathered to his +rest. A fiery, ardent, untamable soul was Harden’s, bold and +uncompromising. He never scrupled to tell anybody what he thought, and +would send an arrow sharp and swift through any iniquity, no matter where +it might couch. He absolutely ruled Cowfold, hated by many, beloved by +many, feared by all—a genuine soldier of the Cross. Mr. Broad very much +preferred the indirect mode of doing good, and if he thought a brother +had done wrong, contented himself with praying in private for him. He +was, however, not a hypocrite, that is to say, not an ordinary novel or +stage hypocrite. There is no such thing as a human being simply +hypocritical or simply sincere. We are all hypocrites, more or less, in +every word and every action, and, what is more, in every thought. It is +a question simply of degree. Furthermore, there are degrees of natural +capacity for sincerity, and Mr. Broad was probably as sincere as his +build of soul and body allowed him to be. Certainly no doubt as to the +truth of what he preached ever crossed his mind. He could not doubt, for +there was no doubt in the air; and yet he could not believe as Harden +believed, for neither was Harden’s belief now in the air. Nor was Mr. +Broad a criminal in any sense. He was upright, on the whole, in all his +transactions, although a little greedy and hard, people thought, when the +trustees proposed to remit to Widow Oakfield, on her husband’s death, +half the rent of a small field belonging to the meeting-house, and +contributing a modest sum to Mr. Broad’s revenue. He objected. Widow +Oakfield was poor; but then she did not belong to Tanner’s Lane, and was +said to have relations who could help her. Mr. Broad loved his wife +decently, brought up his children decently, and not the slightest breath +of scandal ever tarnished his well-polished reputation. On some points +he was most particular, and no young woman who came to him with her +experience before she was admitted into the church was ever seen by him +alone. Always was a deacon present, and all Cowfold admitted that the +minister was most discreet. Another recommendation, too, was that he was +temperate in his drink. He was not so in his meat. Supper was his great +meal, and he would then consume beef, ham, or sausages, hot potatoes, +mixed pickles, fruit pies, bread, cheese, and celery in quantities which +were remarkable even in those days; but he never drank anything but +beer—a pint at dinner and a pint at supper. + +On one Monday afternoon in July, 1840, Mr. and Mrs. Broad sat at tea in +the study. This was Mr. Broad’s habit on Monday afternoon. On that day, +after the three sermons on the Sunday, he always professed himself +“Mondayish.” The morning was given over to calling in the town; when he +had dined he slept in his large leathern chair; and at five husband and +wife had tea by themselves. Thomas, the eldest son, and his two younger +sisters, Priscilla and Tryphosa, aged seventeen and fifteen, were sent to +the dining-room. Mr. Broad never omitted this custom of spending an hour +and a half on Monday with Mrs. Broad. It gave them an opportunity of +talking over the affairs of the congregation, and it added to Mr. Broad’s +importance with the missionary students, because they saw how great were +the weight and fatigue of the pastoral office. + +A flock like that which was shepherded by Mr. Broad required some +management. Mrs. Broad took the women, and Mr. Broad the men; but Mrs. +Broad was not a very able tactician. She was a Flavel by birth, and came +from a distant part of the country. Her father was a Dissenting +minister; but he was Dr. Flavel, with a great chapel in a great town. +Consequently she gave herself airs, and occasionally let fall, to the +great displeasure of the Cowfold ladies, words which implied some +disparagement of Cowfold. She was a shortish, stout, upright little +woman, who used a large fan and spoke with an accent strange to the +Midlands. She was not a great help to the minister, because she was not +sufficiently flexible and insinuating for her position; but nevertheless +they always worked together, and she followed as well as she could the +directions of her astuter husband, who, considering his bovine cast, was +endowed with quite a preternatural sagacity in the secular business of +his profession. + +On this particular afternoon, however, the subject of the conversation +was not the congregation, but young Thomas Broad, aged eighteen, the +exact, and almost ridiculously exact, counterpart of his father. He had +never been allowed to go to school, but had been taught at home. There +was only one day-school in Cowfold, and his mother objected to the +“mixture.” She had been heard to say as much, and Cowfold resented this +too, and the Cowfold youths resented it by holding Tommy Broad in extreme +contempt. He had never been properly a boy, for he could play at no +boyish games; had a tallowy, unpleasant complexion, went for formal +walks, and carried gloves. But though in a sense incompletely developed, +he was not incompletely developed in another direction. He was at what +is called an awkward age, and both father and mother had detected in him +an alarming tendency to enjoy the society of young women—a tendency much +stimulated by his unnatural mode of life. Thomas was already a member of +the church and was a teacher in the Sunday-school; but his mother was +uneasy, for a serious attachment between Thomas and anybody in the town +would have been very distasteful to her. The tea having been poured out, +and Mr. Broad having fairly settled down upon the buttered toast and +radishes, Mrs. Broad began: + +“Have you thought anything more about Thomas, my dear?” + +Being a minister’s son, he was never called Tom by either papa or mamma. + +“Yes, my love; but it is very difficult to know how to proceed +judiciously in such a case.” + +“Mrs. Allen asked me, last Wednesday, when he was going to leave home, +and I told her we had not made up our minds. She said that her brother +in Birmingham wanted a youth in his office, but my answer was directly +that we had quite determined that Thomas should not enter into any +trade.” + +“What did she say?” + +“That she was not surprised, for she hardly thought Thomas was fitted for +it.” + +The minister looked grave and perplexed, for Mr. Allen was in trade, and +was a deacon. Mrs. Broad proceeded: + +“I am quite sure Thomas ought to be a minister; and I am quite sure, too, +he ought to leave Cowfold and go to college.” + +“Don’t you think this event might be procrastinated; the expense would be +considerable.” + +“Well, my dear, Fanny Allen came here to tea the day before yesterday. +When she went away she could not find her clogs. I was on the landing, +and saw what happened, though they did not think it. Fanny’s brother was +waiting outside. Priscilla had gone somewhere far the moment—I don’t +know where—and Tryphosa was upstairs. Thomas said he would look for the +clogs, and presently I saw him fastening them for her. Then he walked +with her down the garden. I just went into the front bedroom and looked. +It was not very dark, and,—well, I may be mistaken, but I do believe—” +The rest of the sentence was wanting. Mrs. Broad stopped at this point. +She felt it was more becoming to do so. She shifted on her chair with a +fidgety motion, threw her head back a little, looked up at the portrait +of Dr. Flavel in gown and bands which hung over the fireplace, +straightened her gown upon her knees, and pushed it forward over her feet +so as to cover them altogether—a mute protest against the impropriety of +the scene she had partly described. Mr. Broad inwardly would have liked +her to go on; but he always wore his white neckerchief, except when he +was in bed, and he was still the Reverend John Broad, although nobody but +his wife was with him. He therefore refrained, but after a while slowly +observed: + +“Thomas has not made much progress in systematic theology.” + +“They do not require much on admission, do they? He knows the outlines, +and I am sure the committee will recollect my father and be glad to get +Thomas. I have heard that the social position of the candidates is not +what it used to be, and that they wish to obtain some of a superior +stamp, who ultimately may be found adapted to metropolitan churches.” + +“One of the questions last year, my dear, was upon the office of the +Comforter, and you remember Josiah Collins was remanded. I hardly think +Thomas is sufficiently instructed on that subject at present; and there +are others. On the whole, it is preferable that he should not go till +September twelvemonths.” + +“His personal piety would have weight.” + +“Undoubtedly.” + +There was a pause, and Mrs. Broad then continued: + +“Well, my dear, you know best; but what about Fanny? I shall not ask her +again. How very forward, and indeed altogether”— Another stoppage, +another twitch at her gown, with another fidget on the chair, the eyes +going up to Dr. Flavel’s bands as before. “In _our_ house too—to put +herself in Thomas’s way!” + +Ah! Mrs. Broad, are you sure Thomas did not go out of his way—even in +your house, that eminently respectable, eminently orthodox residence—even +Thomas, your Samuel, who had been granted to the Lord, and who, to use +his own words when his written religious autobiography was read at the +church-meeting, being the child of pious parents, and of many prayers, +had never been exposed to those assaults of the enemy of souls which +beset ordinary young men, and consequently had not undergone a sudden +conversion? + +“But,” observed Mr. Broad, leaning back in his easy-chair, and half +covering his face with his great broad, fat hand, “we shall offend the +Allens if Fanny does not come, and we shall injure the cause.” + +“Has George Allen, Fanny’s brother, prayed at the prayer-meeting yet? He +was admitted two months ago.” + +“No.” + +“Then ask his father to let him pray; and we need not invite Fanny till +Thomas has left.” + +The papa objected that perhaps Thomas might go to the Allen’s, but the +mamma, with Dr. Flavel’s bands before her, assured him that Thomas would +do nothing of the kind. So it was settled that Mr. Broad should call at +the Allen’s to-morrow, and suggest that George should “engage” on the +following Thursday. This, it was confidently hoped, would prevent any +suspicion on their part that Fanny had been put aside. Of course, once +having begun, George would be regularly on the list. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII +A RELIGIOUS PICNIC + + +OCCASIONALLY, in the summer months, Tanner’s Lane indulged in a picnic; +that is to say, the principal members of the congregation, with their +wives and children, had an early dinner, and went in gigs and four-wheel +chaises to Shott Woods, taking hampers of bread, cake, jam, butter, ham, +and other eatables with them. At Shott Woods, in a small green space +under an immense oak, a fire was lighted and tea was prepared. Mr. Broad +and his family always joined the party. These were the days when +Dissenters had no set amusements, and the entertainment at Shott mainly +consisted in getting the sticks for the fire, fetching the water, and +waiting on one another; the waiting being particularly pleasant to the +younger people. Dancing, of course, was not thought of. In 1840 it may +safely be said that there were not twenty Independent families in Great +Britain in which it would have been tolerated, and, moreover, none but +the rich learned to dance. + +No dancing-master ever came into Cowfold; there was no music-master +there; no concert was ever given; and Cowfold, in fact, never “saw nor +heard anything;” to use a modern phrase, save a travelling menagerie with +a brass band. What an existence! How _did_ they live? It’s certain, +however, that they did live, and, on the whole, enjoyed their life. + +The picnics were generally on a Monday, as a kind of compliment to Mr. +Broad, who was supposed to need rest and change on Monday, and who was +also supposed not to be able to spare the time on any other day. About a +month after the conversation recorded in the previous chapter Tanner’s +Lane was jogging along to Shott on one of its excursions. It was a +brilliant, blazing afternoon towards the end of August. The corn stood +in shocks, and a week with that sun would see it all stacked. There was +no dreary suburb round Cowfold, neither town nor country, to shut out +country influences. The fields came up to the gardens and orchards at +the back of half the houses, and flowed irregularly, like an inundation, +into the angles of the streets. As you walked past the great gate of the +“Angel” yard you could see the meadow at the bottom belonging to Hundred +Acres. Consequently all Cowfold took an interest in agriculture, and +knew a good deal about it. Every shopkeeper was half a farmer, and +understood the points of a pig or a horse. Cowfold was not a town +properly speaking, but the country a little thickened and congested. The +conversation turned upon the crops, and more particularly upon turnips +and drainage, both of them a new importation. Hitherto all the parishes +round had no drainage whatever, excepting along the bottoms of the +ridges, and the now familiar red pipes had just made their appearance on +a farm belonging to a stranger to those parts—a young fellow from +Norfolk. Everybody was sceptical, and called him a fool. Everybody +wanted to know how water was going to get through fifteen inches of heavy +land when it would lie for two days where a horse trod. However, the +pipes went in, and it so happened that the first wet day after they were +laid was a Sunday. The congregation in Shott Church was very restless, +although the sermon was unusually short. One by one they crept out, and +presently they were followed by the parson. All of them had collected in +the pouring rain and were watching the outfall in the ditches. To their +unspeakable amazement the pipes were all running! Shott scratched its +head and was utterly bewildered. A new idea in a brain not accustomed to +the invasion of ideas produces a disturbance like a revolution. It +causes giddiness almost as bad as that of a fit, and an extremely +unpleasant sensation of having been whirled round and turned head over +heels. It was the beginning of new things in Shott, the beginning of a +breakdown in its traditions; a belief in something outside the ordinary +parochial uniformities was forced into the skull of every man, woman, and +child by the evidence of the senses; and when other beliefs asked, in the +course of time, for admittance they found the entrance easier than it +would have been otherwise. + +The elderly occupants of the Tanner’s Lane gigs and chaises talked +exclusively upon these and other cognate topics. The sons and daughters +talked about other things utterly unworthy of any record in a serious +history. Delightful their chatter was to them. What does it signify to +eighteen years what is said on such an afternoon by seventeen years, when +seventeen years is in a charming white muslin dress, with the prettiest +hat? Words are of importance between me and you, who care little or +nothing for one another. But there is a thrice blessed time when words +are nothing. The real word is that which is not uttered. We may be +silent, or we may be eloquent with nonsense or sense—it is all one. So +it was between George Allen and Miss Priscilla Broad, who at the present +moment were sitting next to one another. George was a broad, hearty, +sandy-haired, sanguine-faced young fellow of one and twenty, eldest son +of the ironmonger. His education had been that of the middle classes of +those days. Leaving school at fourteen, he had been apprenticed to his +father for seven years, and had worked at the forge down the backyard +before coming into the front shop. On week-days he generally wore a +waistcoat with sleeves and a black apron. He was never dirty; in fact, +he was rather particular as to neatness and cleanliness; but he was +always a little dingy and iron-coloured, as retail ironmongers are apt to +be. He was now in charge of the business under his father; stood behind +the counter; weighed nails; examined locks brought for repair; went to +the different houses in Cowfold with a man under him to look at +boiler-pipes, the man wearing a cap and George a tall hat. He had a +hard, healthy, honest life, was up at six o’clock in the morning, ate +well, and slept well. He was always permitted by his father to go on +these excursions, and, in fact, they could not have been a success +without him. If anything went wrong he was always the man to set it +right. If a horse became restive, George was invariably the one to jump +out, and nobody else thought of stirring. He had good expectations. The +house in which the Allens lived was their own. Mr. Allen did a thriving +trade, not only in Cowfold, but in all the country round, and +particularly among the village blacksmiths, to whom he sold iron. He had +steadily saved money, and had enlarged the original little back parlour +into a room which would hold comfortably a tea-party of ten or a dozen. + +Miss Priscilla Broad was framed after a different model. Her face was +not much unlike that of one of those women of the Restoration so familiar +to us in half a hundred pictures. Not that Restoration levity and +Restoration manners were chargeable to Miss Priscilla. She never forgot +her parentage; but there were the same kind of prettiness, the same +sideways look, the same simper about the lips, and there were the same +flat unilluminated eyes. She had darkish brown hair, which fell in +rather formal curls on her shoulder, and she was commonly thought to be +“delicate.” Like her sister and brother, she had never been to school, +on account of the “mixture,” but had been taught by her mother. Her +accomplishments included Scripture and English history, arithmetic, +geography, the use of the globes, and dates. She had a very difficult +part to play in Cowfold, for she was obliged to visit freely all Tanner’s +Lane, but at the same time to hold herself above it and not to form any +exclusive friendships. These would have been most injudicious, because, +in the first place, they would have excited jealousy, and, in the next +place, the minister’s daughter could not be expected to be very intimate +with anybody belonging to the congregation. She was not particularly +popular with the majority, and was even thought to be just a bit of a +fool. But what could she have been with such surroundings? The time had +passed when religion could be talked on week-days, and the present time, +when ministers’ children learn French, German, and Latin, and read +selected plays of Shakespeare, had not come. Miss Priscilla Broad found +it very difficult, also, to steer her course properly amongst the young +men in Cowfold. Mrs. Broad would not have permitted any one of them for +a moment to dream of an alliance with her family. As soon might a +Princess of the Blood Royal unite herself with an ordinary knight. Miss +Broad, however, as her resources within herself were not particularly +strong, thought about little or nothing else than ensnaring the hearts of +the younger Cowfold males—that is to say, the hearts which were +converted, and yet she encouraged none of them, save by a general +acceptance of little attentions, by little mincing smiles, and little +mincing speeches. + +“Such a beautiful day,” said George, “and such pleasant company!” + +“Really, Mr. Allen, don’t you think it would have been pleasanter for you +in front?” + +“What did you say, my dear?” came immediately from her mother, the +ever-watchful dragon just before them. She forthwith turned a little +round, for the sun was on her left hand, and with her right eye kept +Priscilla well in view for the rest of the journey. + +In the chaise behind pretty much the same story was told, but with a +difference. In the back part were Mr. Thomas Broad and Miss Fanny Allen. +The arrangement which brought these two together was most objectionable +to Mrs. Broad; but unfortunately she was a little late in starting, and +it was made before she arrived. She could not, without insulting the +Allens, have it altered; but she consoled herself by vowing that it +should not stand on the return journey in the dusk. Miss Fanny was +flattered that the minister’s son should be by her side, and the +minister’s son was not in the least deterred from playing with Miss Fanny +by the weight of responsibility which oppressed and checked his sister. +He did not laugh much; he had not a nature for wholesome laughter, but he +chuckled, lengthened his lips, half shut his eyes; asked his companion +whether the rail did not hurt her, put his arm on the top, so that she +might lean against it, and talked in a manner which even she would have +considered a little silly and a little odd, if his position, that of a +student for the ministry, had not surrounded him with such a halo of +glory. + +Presently Shott Woods were reached; the parcels and hampers were +unpacked, the fire was lit, the tea prepared, and the pastor asked a +blessing. Everybody sat on the grass, save the reverend gentleman and +his wife, who had chairs which had been brought on purpose. It would not +have been considered proper that Mr. or Mrs. Broad should sit upon the +grass, and indeed physically it would have been inconvenient to Mr. Broad +to do so. He ate his ham in considerable quantities, adding thereto much +plumcake, and excusing himself on the ground that the ride had given him +an appetite. The meal being over, grace was said, and the victuals that +were left were repacked. About an hour remained before the return +journey began. This was usually passed in sauntering about or in walking +to the springs, a mile away, down one of the grass drives. Mrs. Broad +never for a moment lost sight of Thomas, and pressed him as much as +possible into her service; but when Mrs. Allen announced that the young +people had all determined to go to the springs, Mrs. Broad could not hold +out. Accordingly off they started, under strict orders to be back by +eight. They mixed themselves up pretty indiscriminately as they left +their seniors; but after a while certain affinities displayed themselves, +George being found with Priscilla, for example, and Thomas with Fanny. +The party kept together; but Thomas and Fanny lagged somewhat till they +came to a little opening in the underwood, which Thomas said was a short +cut, and he pressed her to try it with him. She agreed, and they slipped +out of sight nearly, but not, quite, unobserved. Thomas professed +himself afraid Fanny might be tired, and offered his arm. She again +consented, not without a flutter, and so they reached a clearing with +three or four paths branching from it. Thomas was puzzled, and as for +Fanny, she knew nothing. To add to their perplexity some drops of rain +were felt. She was a little frightened, and was anxious to try one of +the most likely tracks which looked, she thought, as if it went to the +springs, where they could take shelter in the cottage with the others. +Thomas, however, was doubtful, and proposed that they should stand up in +a shed which had been used for faggot-making. The rain, which now came +down heavily, enforced his arguments, and she felt obliged to stay till +the shower had ceased. + +“Only think, Fanny,” he said, “to be here alone with you!” + +He called her Fanny now; he had always called her Miss Allen before. + +“Yes,” said she, not knowing what answer to make. + +“You are cold,” he added, with a little trembling in his voice and a +little more light than usual in his eyes. + +“Oh no, I am not cold.” + +“I know you are,” and he took her hand; “why, it is quite cold.” + +“Oh dear no, Mr. Thomas, it is really not cold,” and she made a movement +to withdraw it, but it remained. + +The touch of the hand caused his voice to shake a little more than +before. + +“I say you are cold; come a little closer to me. What will your mamma +say if you catch a chill?” and he drew Fanny a little nearer to him. The +thick blood now drove through him with increasing speed: everything +seemed in a mist, and a little perspiration was on his forehead. His arm +found its way round Fanny’s waist, and he pressed her closer and closer +to him till his hot lips were upon her cheek. She made two or three +futile attempts to release herself; but she might as well have striven +with that brazen, red-hot idol who was made to clasp his victims to +death. She was frightened and screamed, when suddenly a strong man’s +voice was heard calling “Fanny, Fanny.” It was her brother. Knowing +that she and Thomas had no umbrellas, he had brought them a couple. + +“But, Fanny,” he cried, “did I not hear you scream? What was the +matter?” + +“Nothing,” hastily interposed Thomas; “she thought she saw it lighten.” +Fanny looked at Thomas for a moment; but she was scared and bewildered, +and held her peace. + +The three went down to the rendezvous together, where the rest of the +party had already assembled. Mrs. Broad had been very uneasy when she +found that Thomas and Fanny were the only absentees, and she had urged +George the moment she saw him to look for his sister without a moment’s +delay. The excuse of the rain was given and accepted; but Mrs. Broad +felt convinced from Fanny’s forward look that she had once more thrown +herself in the way of her beloved child, her delicate Samuel. She was +increasingly anxious that he should go to college, and his papa promised +at once to transmit the application. Meanwhile, in the few days left +before the examination, he undertook to improve Thomas where he was +weakest, that is to say, in Systematic Theology, and more particularly in +the doctrine of the Comforter. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX +“THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN IS LIKE UNTO LEAVEN” + + +MR. ISAAC ALLEN, Fanny’s father, was an ardent Whig in politics—what in +later years would have been called a Radical. He had been apprenticed in +London, and had attended Mr. Bradshaw’s ministrations there. He was the +chosen friend of Zachariah Coleman; but although he loved Zachariah, he +had held but little intercourse with him during his first marriage. +There were family reasons for the estrangement, due principally to a +quarrel between Mrs. Isaac and the first Mrs. Zachariah. But after Mrs. +Zachariah had died and her husband suffered so much Isaac was drawn to +him again. He was proud of him as a martyr for a good cause, and he +often saw him when he went to London on business. + +It was in consequence of these London visits that books appeared on the +little book-shelf in Cowfold Square which were to be found nowhere else +in the town, at any rate not in the Dissenting portion of it. It was a +little bookcase, it is true, for people in country places were not great +readers in those days; but Sir Walter Scott was there, and upstairs in +Mr. Allen’s room there was Byron—not an uncut copy, but one well used +both by husband and wife. Mrs. Allen was not a particularly robust +woman, although she was energetic. Often without warning, she would not +make her appearance till twelve or one o’clock in the day, and would have +her fire alight in her bedroom and take her breakfast in bed. It was +well understood when she was not at the table with the others that the +house was to be kept quiet. After a cup of tea—nothing more—she rose and +sat reading for a good two hours. It was not that she was particularly +unwell—she simply needed rest. Every now and then retreat from the world +and perfect isolation were a necessity to her. If she forced herself to +come downstairs when she ought to be by herself she became really ill. +Occasionally the fire was alight in the evening, too, and she would be +off the moment tea was over, Isaac frequently joining her then, although +he never remained with her in the morning. She was almost sure to escape +on the day following any excitement or undue worry about household +affairs. She knew Sir Walter Scott from end to end, and as few people +knew him. He had been to her, and to her husband too, what he can only +be to people leading a dull life far from the world. He had broken up +its monotony and created a new universe! He had introduced them into a +royal society of noble friends. He had added to the ordinary motives +which prompted Cowfold action a thousand higher motives. Then there was +the charm of the magician, so sanative, so blessed, felt directly any +volume of that glorious number was opened. _Kenilworth_ or _Redgauntlet_ +was taken down, and the reader was at once in another country and in +another age, transported as if by some Arabian charm away from Cowfold +cares. If anywhere in another world the blessings which men have +conferred here are taken into account in distributing reward, surely the +choicest in the store of the Most High will be reserved for His servant +Scott! It may be said of others that they have made the world wise or +rich, but of him it must be said that _he_, _more than all_, _has made +the world happier_—wiser too, wiser through its happiness. + +Of the influence of Byron nothing more need be said here, because so much +has been said before. It may seem strange that the deacon of a +Dissenting chapel and his wife could read him, and could continue to wait +upon the ministrations of the Reverend John Broad; but I am only stating +a fact. Mrs. Allen could repeat page after page of _Childe Harold_, and +yet she went diligently to Tanner’s Lane. Part of what was read exhaled +in the almost republican politics of the Allen household; but it had also +its effect in another direction, and it was always felt by the Broads +that the Allens were questionable members of the flock. They were +gathered into the fold on Sunday, and had the genuine J. B. on their +wool, but there was a cross in them. There was nothing which could be +urged against them. No word of heresy ever escaped them, no symptom of +disbelief was ever seen and yet Mr. Broad often desired exceedingly that +they were different, was never at ease with them, and in his heart of +hearts bitterly hated them. After all that can be said by way of +explanation, there was much in this concealed animosity of Mr. Broad +which was unaccountable. It was concealed because he was far too +worldly-wise to show it openly; but it was none the less intense. +Indeed, it was so intense as to be almost inconsistent with Mr. Broad’s +cast of character, and his biographer is at a loss to find the precise +point where it naturally connects itself with the main stem from which +branch off the rest of his virtues and vices. However, there it was, and +perhaps some shrewder psychologist may be able to explain how such a +passion could be begotten in a nature otherwise so somnolent. + +For this literary leaven in the Allen’s household, as we have said, +Zachariah was answerable. Mrs. Allen loved him as she loved her father, +and he wrote to her long letters, through which travelled into Cowfold +Square all the thought of the Revolution. He never went to Cowfold +himself, nor could he ever be persuaded to let little Pauline go. She +had been frequently invited, but he always declined the invitation +courteously on the ground that he could not spare her. The fame of her +beauty and abilities had, however, reached Cowfold, and so it came to +pass that when Mr. Thomas Broad, junior, being duly instructed in the +doctrine of the Comforter, entered the Dissenting College in London, he +determined that at the first opportunity he would call and see her. He +had been privately warned both by his father and mother that he was on no +account to visit this particular friend of the Allens, firstly, because +Zachariah was reputed to be, “inclined towards infidelity,” and secondly, +because, summing up the whole argument, he was not “considered +respectable.” + +“Of course, my dear, you know his history,” quoth Mrs. Broad, “and it +would very much interfere with your usefulness if you were to be intimate +with him.” + +Little Pauline had by this time grown to be a woman, or very nearly one. +She had, as in nine times, perhaps, out of ten is the case, inherited her +temperament from her mother. She had also inherited something more, for +she was like her in face. She had the same luxuriantly dark hair—a +wonder to behold when it was let down over her shoulders—the same grey +eyes, the same singularly erect attitude, and lips which, although they +were not tight and screwed up, were always set with decision. But her +distinguishing peculiarity was her inherited vivacity, which was +perfectly natural, but frequently exposed her—just as it did her +mother—to the charge of being theatrical. The criticism was as unjust in +her case as in that of her mother, if by being theatrical we mean being +unreal. The unreal person is the half-alive languid person. Pauline +felt what she said, and acted it in every gesture. Her precious +promptitude of expression made her invaluable as a companion to her +father. He was English all over and all through; hypochondriacal, with a +strong tendency to self-involution and self-absorption. She was only +half English, or rather altogether French, and when he came home in the +evening he often felt as if some heavy obstruction in his brain and about +his heart were suddenly dissolved. She and her mother were like Hercules +in the house of Admetus. Before Hercules has promised to rescue Alcestis +we feel that the darkness has disappeared. Pauline was loved by her +father with intense passion. When she was a little child, and he was +left alone with a bitter sense of wrong, a feeling that he had more than +his proper share of life’s misery, his heart was closed, and he cared for +no friendship. But the man’s nature could not be thus thwarted, and +gradually it poured itself out in full flood—denied exit elsewhere—at +this one small point. He rejoiced to find that he had not stiffened into +death, and he often went up to her bedside as she lay asleep, and the +tears came, and he thanked God, not only for her but for his tears. He +could not afford to bring her up like a lady, but he did his best to give +her a good education. He was very anxious that she should learn French, +and as she was wonderfully quick at languages, she managed in a very +short time to speak it fluently. + + + + +CHAPTER XX +THE REVEREND THOMAS BROAD’S EXPOSITION OF ROMANS VIII. 7 + + +SUCH was the Coleman household when Mr. Thomas Broad called one fine +Monday afternoon about three months after he had been at college. He had +preached his first sermon on the Sunday before, in a village about twelve +miles from London in a north-easterly direction, somewhere in the flat +regions of Essex. Mr. Thomas was in unusually good humour, for he had +not broken down, and thought he had crowned himself with glory. The +trial, to be sure, was not very severe. The so-called chapel was the +downstairs living-room of a cottage holding at a squeeze about +five-and-twenty people. Nevertheless, there was a desk at one corner, +with two candles on either side, and Mr. Thomas was actually, for the +first time, elevated above an audience. It consisted of the wheelwright +and his wife, both very old, half a dozen labourers, with their wives, +and two or three children. The old wheelwright, as he was in business, +was called the “principal support of the cause.” The “cause,” however, +was not particularly prosperous, nor its supporters enthusiastic. It was +“supplied” always by a succession of first-year’s students, who made +their experiments on the _corpus vile_ here. Spiritual teaching, +spiritual guidance, these poor peasants had none, and when the Monday +came they went to their work in the marshes and elsewhere, and lived +their blind lives under grey skies, with nothing left in them of the +Sunday, save the recollection of a certain routine performed which might +one day save them from some disaster with which flames and brimstone had +something to do. It was not, however, a reality to them. Neither the +future nor the past was real to them; no spiritual existence was real; +nothing, in fact, save the most stimulant sensation. Once upon a time, a +man, looking towards the celestial city, saw “The reflection of the sun +upon the city (for the city was of pure gold), so exceeding glorious that +he could not as yet with open face behold it, save through an instrument +made for that purpose;” but Mr. Thomas Broad and his hearers needed no +smoked glass now to prevent injury to their eyes. Mr. Thomas had put on +a white neckerchief, had mounted the desk, and had spoken for +three-quarters of an hour from the text, “The carnal mind is at enmity +with God.” He had received during the last three weeks his first +lectures on the “Scheme of Salvation,” and his discourse was a +reproduction of his notes thereon. The wheelwright and his wife, and the +six labourers with their wives, listened as oxen might listen, wandered +home along the lanes heavy-footed like oxen, with heads towards the +ground, and went heavily to bed. The elder student who had accompanied +Mr. Thomas informed him that, on the whole, he had acquitted himself very +well, but that it would be better, perhaps, in future to be a little +simpler, and avoid what “may be called the metaphysics of Redemption.” + +“No doubt,” said he, “they are very attractive, and of enormous +importance. There is no objection to expound them before a cultivated +congregation in London; but in the villages we cannot be too plain—that, +at least, is my experience. Simply tell them we are all sinners, and +deserve damnation. God sent His Son into the world. If we believe in +Him we shall be saved; if not, we shall be lost. There is no mystery in +that; everybody can understand it; and people are never weary of hearing +the old old gospel.” + +Mr. Thomas was well contented with himself, as we have said, when he +knocked at Zachariah’s door. It was opened by Pauline. He took off his +hat and smiled. + +“My name is Broad. I come from Cowfold, and know the Allens very well. +I am now living in London, and having heard of you so often, I thought I +should like to call.” + +“Pray come in,” she said; “I am very glad to see you. I wish my father +were here.” + +He was shown into the little front room, and after some inquiries about +his relations Pauline asked him where was his abode in London. + +“At the Independent College. I am studying for the ministry.” + +Pauline was not quite sure what “the ministry” meant; but as Mr. Thomas +had yesterday’s white tie round his neck—he always “dirtied out” the +Sunday’s neckerchief on Monday, and wore a black one on the other +week-days—she guessed his occupation. + +“Dear me! you must be tired with walking so far.” + +“Oh no, not tired with walking; but the fact is I am a little Mondayish.” + +“A little what?” + +Mr. Thomas giggled a little. “Ah, you young ladies, of course, don’t +know what that means. I had to conduct a service in the country +yesterday, and am rather fatigued. I am generally so on Mondays, and I +always relax on that day.” This, it is to be remembered, was his first +Monday. + +Pauline regretted very much that she had no wine in the house; neither +had they any beer. They were not total abstainers, but nothing of the +kind was kept in their small store-closet. + +“Oh, thank you; never mind.” He took a bottle of smelling-salts from the +mantelpiece and smelt it. The conversation flagged a little. Pauline +sat at the window, and Mr. Thomas at the table. At last he observed. + +“Are you alone all day?” + +“Generally, except on Sunday. Father does not get home till late.” + +“Dear me! And you are not dull nor afraid?” + +“Dull or afraid! Why?” + +“Oh, well,” he sniggered, “dull—why, young ladies, you know, usually like +society. At least,” and he laughed a little greasy laugh at his wit, “we +like theirs. And then—afraid—well, if my sister were so attractive”—he +looked to see if this pretty compliment was effective—“I should not like +her to be without anybody in the house.” + +Pauline became impatient. She rose. “When you come again,” she said, “I +hope my father will be here.” + +Mr. Thomas rose too. He had begun to feel awkward. For want of +something better to say, he asked whose was the portrait over the +mantelpiece. + +“Major Cartwright.” + +“Major Cartwright! Dear me, is that Major Cartwright?” He had never +heard of him before, but he did not like to profess ignorance of a Major. + +“And this likeness of this young gentleman?” he inquired, looking at +Pauline sideways, with an odious simper on his lips. “Nobody I know, I +suppose?” + +“My father when he was one-and-twenty.” She moved towards the door. Mr. +Thomas closed his fat eyes till they became almost slits, simpered still +more effectively, as he thought, trusted he might have the pleasure of +calling again, and departed. + +Pauline returned, opened the window and door for ten minutes, and went +upstairs. When she saw her father she told him briefly that she had +entertained a visitor, and expressed her utter loathing of him in terms +so strong that he was obliged to check her. He did not want a quarrel +with any of Isaac’s friends. + +Mr. Thomas, having returned to the college, did not delay to communicate +by mysterious hints to his colleagues that he was on visiting terms with +a most delightfully charming person, and sunned himself deliciously in +their bantering congratulations. About three weeks afterwards he thought +he might safely repeat his visit; but he was in a difficulty. He was not +quite so stupid as not to see that, the next time he went, it ought to be +when her father was present, and yet he preferred his absence. At last +he determined he would go about tea-time. He was quite sure that Mr. +Coleman would not have returned then; but he could assume that he had, +and would propose to wait for him. He therefore duly presented himself +at half-past five. + +“Good-evening, Miss Coleman. Is your father at home?” + +“No, not yet,” replied Pauline, holding the door doubtingly. + +“Oh, I am so sorry;” and, to Pauline’s surprise, he entered without any +further ceremony. She hardly knew what to do; but she followed him as he +walked into the room, where she had just laid the tea-things and put the +bread and butter on the table. + +“Oh, tea!” he cried. “Dear me, it would be very rude of me to ask myself +to tea, and yet, do you know, Miss Coleman, I can hardly help it.” + +“I am afraid my father will not be here till eight.” He sat down. + +“That is very unfortunate. You will tell him I came on purpose to see +him.” + +Pauline hesitated whether she should or should not inform Mr. Thomas that +his presence was disagreeable, but her father’s caution recurred to her, +and she poured out a cup for her visitor. + +It was one of his peculiarities that tea, of which he took enormous +quantities, made him garrulous, and he expatiated much upon his college. +By degrees, however, he became silent, and as he was sitting with his +face to the window, he shifted his chair to the opposite side, under the +pretence that the light dazzled his eyes. Pauline shifted too, +apparently to make room for him, but really to get farther from him. + +“Do people generally say that you take after your mother?” he said. + +“I believe I am like my mother in many things.” + +Another pause. He became fidgety; the half smile, half grin which he +almost perpetually wore passed altogether from his face, and he looked +uncomfortable and dangerous. Pauline felt him to be so, and resolved +that, come what might, he should never set foot in the house again. + +“You have such black hair,” he observed. + +She rose to take away the tea-things. + +“I am afraid,” said she, “that I must go out; I have one or two +commissions to execute.” + +He remained seated, and observed that surely she would not go alone. + +“Why not?” and having collected the tea-things, she was on the point of +leaving. He then rose, and she bade him good-bye. He held out his hand, +and she took it in hers, but he did not let it go, and having pulled it +upwards with much force, kissed it. He still held it, and before the +astonished Pauline knew what he was doing his arm was round her waist. +At that moment the little front gate swung back. Nobody was there; but +the Reverend Thomas was alarmed, and in an instant she had freed herself, +and had placed the table between them. + +“What do you mean, you Gadarene pig, you scoundrel, by insulting a +stranger in this way?” she cried. “Away! My father will know what to do +with you.” + +“Oh, if you please, Miss Coleman, pray say nothing about it, pray do not +mention it to your father; I do not know what the consequences will be; I +really meant nothing; I really did not”—which was entirely true. + +“You who propose to teach religion to people! I ought to stop you; but +no, I will not be dragged into the mud.” + +A sudden thought struck her. He was shaky, and was holding on by the +table. “I will be silent,” she cried—what a relief it was to him to hear +her say that! “but I will mark you,” and before he could comprehend what +she was doing she had seized a little pair of scissors which lay near +her, had caught his wrist, and had scored a deep cross on the back of the +hand. The blood burst out and she threw him a handkerchief. + +“Take that and be gone!” + +He was so amazed and terrified, not only at the sight of the blood, but +at her extraordinary behaviour, that he turned ghastly white. The pain, +however, recalled him to his senses; he rolled the handkerchief over the +wound, twisted his own round it too, for the red stain came through +Pauline’s cambric, and departed. The account current in the college was, +that he had torn himself against a nail in a fence. The accident was a +little inconvenient on the following Sunday, when he had to preach at +Hogsbridge Corner; but as he reproduced the sermon on the carnal mind, +which he knew pretty well by heart, he was not nervous. He had made it +much simpler, in accordance with the advice given on a former occasion. +He had struck out the metaphysics and had put in a new head—“Neither +indeed _can_ be.” “The apostle did not merely state a fact that the +carnal mind was not subject to the law of God; he said, ‘Neither indeed +_can_ be.’ Mark, my brethren, the force of the neither can.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXI +THE WISDOM OF THE SERPENT + + +GEORGE ALLEN meanwhile, at Cowfold, languished in love with Priscilla +Broad, who was now a comely girl of eighteen. Mrs. Broad had, of course, +discovered what was in the wind, and her pride suffered a severe shock. +She had destined Priscilla, as the daughter of a Flavel, for a London +minister, and that she should marry a tradesman was intolerable. Worse +still, a tradesman in Cowfold! What would become of their influence in +the town, she continually argued with Mr. Broad, if they became connected +with a member of their congregation? She thought it would be a serious +hindrance to their usefulness. But Mr. Broad was not so sure, although +he hated the Allens; and Priscilla, somehow or other, was not so sure, +for, despite her mother’s constant hints about their vulgarity, she not +infrequently discovered that something was wanted from the shop, and +bought it herself. + +One Monday afternoon, Mr. Broad having thrown the silk handkerchief off +his face and bestirred himself at the sight of the radishes, +water-cresses, tea, and hot buttered toast, thus addressed his wife: + +“My love, I am not altogether inclined to discountenance the attentions +which George pays to Priscilla. There are so many circumstances to be +taken into account.” + +“It is a great trouble to me, John, and I really think if anything of the +kind were to happen, at least you would have to seek another cause. Just +consider the position in which I should stand towards Mrs. Allen. +Besides, I am sure it will interfere with your duties here if we are +obliged to take notice of the Allens more than of other people in the +town.” + +“To seek for another cause, my love? That is a very grave matter at my +time of life. You remember too, that there is an endowment here.” + +“Quite so; and that is the more reason why we should not permit the +attachment.” + +“But, my love, as I observed, there are so many circumstances to be taken +into account. You know as well as I do in what aspect I view the Allens, +and what my sentiments with regard to them are—personally that is to say, +and not as minister of the gospel. Perhaps Providence, my dear, intends +this opportunity as a means whereby the emotions of my poor sinful +nature—emotions which may have been uncharitable—may be converted into +brotherly love. Then we must recollect that Isaac is a prominent member +of the church and a deacon. Thirdly, in all probability, if we do not +permit Priscilla to marry George, offence will be taken and they may +withdraw their subscription, which, I believe, comes altogether to twenty +pounds per annum. Fourthly, the Allens have been blessed with an unusual +share of worldly prosperity, and George is about to become a partner. +Fifthly and lastly”—Mr. Broad had acquired a habit of dividing his most +ordinary conversation into heads—“it is by no means improbable that I may +need a co-pastor before long, and we shall secure the Allens’ powerful +influence in favour of Thomas.” + +Mrs. Broad felt the full force of these arguments. + +“I should think,” she added, “that George, after marriage, cannot live at +the shop.” + +“No, that will not be possible; they must take a private house.” + +So it was agreed, without any reference to the question whether Priscilla +and George cared for one another, that no opposition should be offered. +The Allens themselves, father and mother, were by no means so eager for +the honour of the match as Mrs. Broad supposed them to be, for Mrs. +Isaac, particularly proud of her husband, and a little proud of their +comfortable business and their comfortable property, was not dazzled by +the Flavel ancestry. + +When George formally asked permission of Mr. Broad to sanction his +addresses, a meeting between the parents became necessary, and Mrs. Broad +called on Mrs. Allen. She was asked into the dining-room at the back of +the shop. At that time, at any rate in Cowfold, the drawing-room, which +was upstairs, was an inaccessible sanctuary, save on Sunday and on high +tea-party days. Mrs. Broad looked round at the solid mahogany furniture; +cast her eyes on the port and sherry standing on the sideboard, in +accordance with Cowfold custom; observed that not a single thing in the +room was worn or shabby; that everything was dusted with absolute nicety, +for the Allens kept two servants; and became a little reconciled to her +lot. + +Mrs. Allen presently appeared in her black silk dress, with her gold +watch hanging in front, and saluted the minister’s wife with the usual +good-humoured, slightly democratic freedom which always annoyed Mrs. +Broad. + +“My dear Mrs. Allen,” began Mrs. Broad, “I have called to announce to you +a surprising piece of intelligence, although I dare say you know it all. +Your son George has asked Mr. Broad to be allowed to consider himself as +Priscilla’s suitor. We have discussed the matter together, and I have +come to know what your views are. I may say that we had +destined—hoped—that—er—Priscilla would find her sphere as a minister’s +wife in the metropolis; but it is best, perhaps, to follow the leadings +of Providence.” + +“Well, Mrs. Broad, I must say I was a little bit disappointed myself—to +tell you the plain truth; but it is of no use to contradict young people +in love with one another.” + +Mrs. Broad was astonished. Disappointed! But she remembered her +husband’s admonitions. So she contented herself with an insinuation. + +“What I meant, my dear Mrs. Allen, was that, as the Flavels have been a +ministerial family for so long, it would have been gratifying to me, of +course, if Priscilla had bestowed herself upon—upon somebody occupying +the same position.” + +“That is just what my mother used to say. I was a Burton, you remember. +They were large tanners in Northamptonshire, and she did not like my +going to a shop. But you know, Mrs. Broad, you had better be in a shop +and have plenty of everything, and not have to pinch and screw, than have +a brass knocker on your door, and not be able to pay for the clothes you +wear. That’s my belief, at any rate.” + +The dart entered Mrs. Broad’s soul. She remembered some +“procrastination”—to use her husband’s favourite word—in settling a +draper’s bill, even when it was diminished by the pew rent, and she +wondered if Mrs. Allen knew the facts. Of course she did; all Cowfold +knew every fact connected with everybody in the town. She discerned it +was best to retreat. + +“I wished to tell you, Mrs. Allen, that we do not intend to offer the +least objection”—she thought that perhaps a little professional unction +might reduce her antagonist—“and I am sure I pray that God will bless +their union.” + +“As I said before, Mrs. Broad, neither shall we object. We shall let +George do as he likes. He is a real good boy, worth a princess, and if +he chooses to have Miss Broad, we shan’t hinder him. She will always be +welcome here, and it will be a consolation to you to know she will never +want anything.” Mrs. Allen shook her silk dress out a little, and +offered Mrs. Broad a glass of wine. Her feelings were a little +flustered, and she needed support, but she refused. + +“No thank you, Mrs. Allen. I must be going.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXII +THE ORACLE WARNS—AFTER THE EVENT + + +IT is no part of my business to tell the story of the love-making between +George and Priscilla. Such stories have been told too often. Every +weakness in her was translated by George into some particularly +attractive virtue. He saw nothing, heard nothing, which was not to her +advantage. Once, indeed, when he was writing the letter that was for +ever to decide his destiny, it crossed his mind that this was an epoch—a +parting of the ways—and he hesitated as he folded it up. But no warning +voice was heard; nothing smote him; he was doing what he believed to be +the best; he was allowed to go on without a single remonstrant sign. The +messenger was despatched, and his fate was sealed. His mother and father +had held anxious debate. They believed Priscilla to be silly, and the +question was whether they should tell George so. The more they reflected +on the affair the less they liked it; but it was agreed that they could +do nothing, and that to dissuade their son would only embitter him +against them. + +“Perhaps,” said Mrs. Allen, “when she has a family she will be better.” + +Mrs. Allen had a belief that children cured a woman of many follies. + +Nevertheless the mother could not refrain, when she had to talk to George +about his engagement, from “letting out” just a word. + +“I hope you will be happy, my dear boy. The great thing is not to have a +fool for a wife. There has never, to my knowledge, been a woman amongst +the Burtons or the Allens who was a fool.” + +George felt nothing at the time, for he suspected nothing; but the words +somehow remained with him, and reappeared later on in black intensity +like invisible writing under heat. + +So they were married, and went to live in a cottage, small, but very +respectable, in the Shott Road. For the first six months both were in +bliss. Priscilla was constantly backwards and forwards to her mother, +who took upon herself at once the whole direction of her affairs; but +there was no rupture with the Allens, for, whatever her other faults +might be, Priscilla was not given to making quarrels, and there was +little or no bitterness or evil temper in her. George came home after +his work was over at the shop, and sometimes went out to supper with his +wife, or read to her the newspaper, which came once a week. Like his +father, he was an ardent politician, and, from the very beginning of the +struggle, an enthusiastic Free Trader. The Free Trade creed was, indeed, +the cause of serious embarrassment, for not only were the customers +agricultural and Protectionist, but the deacons at Tanner’s Lane, being +nearly all either farmers or connected with the land, were also +Protectionist, and Mr. Broad had a hard time of it. For himself, he +expressed no opinion; but once, at a deacons’ meeting, when it looked as +if some controversy would arise, he begged Brother Allen to remember +that, though we might be wise as serpents, we were also commanded to be +harmless as doves. There was a small charity connected with the chapel, +which was distributed, not in money, but in bread, and Brother Allen, not +being able to contain himself, had let fall a word or two about the price +of bread which would have raised a storm if Mr. Broad had not poured on +the troubled waters that oil of which he was a perfect reservoir. + +George did his best to instruct his wife in the merits of the +controversy, and when he found anything in his newspaper read it aloud to +her. + +“You see, Priscilla,” he said one evening, “it stands to reason that if +foreign corn pays a duty, the price of every quarter grown here is +raised, and this increased price goes into the farmer’s or landlord’s +pocket: Why should I, or why should my men, pay twopence more for every +loaf to buy Miss Wootton a piano?” + +“Really, George, do you mean to say that they are going to buy Miss +Wootton a piano?” + +“My dear, I said that when they buy a loaf of bread twopence out of it +goes to buy Miss Wootton’s piano!” repeated George, laying an emphasis on +every word. “I did not mean, of course, that they put their twopences in +her pocket. The point is, that the duty enables Wootton to get more for +his corn.” + +“Well,” said Priscilla triumphantly, “I can tell you she is _not_ going +to have a piano. She’s going to have a little organ instead, because she +can play tunes better on an organ, and it’s more suitable for her; so +there’s an end of that.” + +“It doesn’t matter whether it is an organ or piano,” said George, “the +principle is the same.” + +“Well, but you said a piano; I don’t think the principle is the same. If +I were she I would sooner have the piano.” + +A shade of perplexed trouble crossed George’s face, and some creases +appeared in his forehead; but he smoothed them away and laid down his +paper. + +“Priscilla, put away your work for a moment and just listen.” + +Priscilla was making something in the shape of netting by means of pins +and a long loop which was fastened under her foot. + +“I can listen, George; there is no occasion to put it away.” + +“Well then,” he answered, placing both his elbows on the table, and +resting his face upon them, “all corn which comes into this country pays +a duty—that you understand. Consequently it cannot be sold here for less +than sixty shillings a quarter. Of course, if that is the case, English +wheat is kept up to a higher price than it would fetch it there was no +duty. Therefore bread is, as I calculate, about twopence a loaf dearer +than it ought to be. And why should it be? That’s what I want to know.” + +“I believe,” said Priscilla, “we might save a good bit by baking at +home.” + +“Yes, yes; but never mind that now. You know that foreign corn pays a +duty. You do know that?” + +“Yes,” said Priscilla, because there was nothing else to be said. + +“Well, then, you must see that, if that be so, farmers can obtain a +higher price for English corn.” + +Poor Priscilla really did her best to comprehend. She stopped her +knitting for a moment, put her knitting-pin to her lips, and answered +very slowly and solemnly “Ye-es.” + +“Ah; but I know when you say ‘Ye-es’ like that you do not understand.” + +“I do understand,” she retorted, with a little asperity. + +“Well then, repeat it, and let us see.” + +“No, I shall not.” + +“Dear Priscilla, I am not vexed: but I only wanted to make it quite plain +to you. The duty on foreign corn is a tax in favour of the farmer, or +perhaps the landlord, just as distinctly as if the tax-collector carried +the coin from our till and gave it them.” + +“Of course it is quite plain,” she responded, making a bold stroke for +her life. “Of course it is quite plain we are taxed”—George’s face grew +bright, for he thought the truth had dawned upon her—“because the farmers +have to pay the duty on foreign corn.” + +He took up his newspaper, held it open so as to cover his face, was +silent for a few minutes, and then, pulling out his watch, declared it +was time to go to bed. She gathered up her netting, looked at him +doubtfully as she passed, and went upstairs. + +The roof of George’s house had a kind of depression or well in the middle +of it, whence ran a rainwater pipe, which passed down inside, and so, +under the floor, to the soft-water cistern. A bad piece of construction, +thought he, and he wished, if he could have done so, to improve it; but +there was no way of altering it without pulling the whole place to +pieces. One day, a very short time after the talk about Free Trade, a +fearful storm of rain broke over Cowfold, and he was startled by Ellen, +his servant, running into the shop and telling him that the staircase was +flooded, and missis wanted him at once. He put on his coat and was off +in a moment. When he got there Priscilla met him at the door crying, and +in a great fright. The well up aloft was full of water, and it was +pouring in torrents through the little window. It had gone through the +floor of the bedroom and into the dining-room, pulling down with it about +half the ceiling, which lay in a horrid mess upon the dining table and +the carpet, George saw in an instant what was the matter. He ran up the +steps to the well, pulled out a quantity of straw and dirt which blocked +up the entrance to the pipe; the water disappeared in two minutes, and +all further danger was arrested. + +“Why on earth,” he cried in half a passion, “did not you think to clear +away the rubbish, instead of wasting your time in sending for me? It +ought to have entered into anybody’s head to do such a simple thing as +that.” + +“How was I to know?” replied Mrs. George. “I am not an ironmonger. What +have I to do with pipes? You shouldn’t have had such a thing.” + +Ellen stood looking at the wreck. + +“We don’t want you;” said George savagely; “go into the kitchen,” and he +shut the dining-room door. There the husband and wife stood face to face +with one another, with the drip, drip, drip still proceeding, the ruined +plaster, and the spoilt furniture. + +“I don’t care,” he broke out, “one brass farthing for it all; but what I +do care for is that you should not have had the sense to unstop that +pipe.” + +She said nothing, but cried bitterly. At last she sat down and sobbed +out: “O George, George, you are in a rage with me; you are tired of me; +you are disappointed with me. Oh! what shall I do, what _shall_ I do?” +Poor child! her pretty curls fell over her face as she covered it with +her long white hands. George was touched with pity in an instant, and +his arms were round her neck. He kissed her fervently, and besought her +not to think anything of what he had said. He took out his handkerchief, +wiped her eyes tenderly, lifted one of her arms and put it round his neck +as he pulled a chair towards him and sat down beside her. Nothing she +loved like caresses! She knew what _their_ import was, though she could +not follow his economical logic, and she clung to him, and buried her +face on his shoulder. At that moment, as he drew her heavy brown tresses +over him, smothered his eyes and mouth in them, and then looked down +through them on the white, sweet beauty they shadowed, he forgot or +overlooked everything, and was once more completely happy. + +Suddenly she released herself. “What shall we do to-night, George, the +bedroom will be so damp?” + +He recovered himself, and admitted that they could not sleep there. +There was the spare bedroom; but the wet had come in there too. + +“I will sleep at father’s, and you sleep at home too. We will have fires +alight, and we shall be dry enough to-morrow. You be off now, my dear; I +will see about it all.” + +So George had the fires alight, got in a man to help him, and they swept +and scoured and aired till it was dark. In a day or two the plasterer +could mend the ceiling. + +Priscilla had left, and, excepting the servant, who was upstairs, George +was alone. He looked round, walked about—what was it? Was he tired? It +could not be that; he was never tired. He left as soon as he could and +went back to the shop. After telling the tale of the calamity which had +befallen him he announced—it was now supper-time—that he was going to +stay all night. Mother, father, and sister were delighted to have +him—“It looked like old times again;” but George was not in much of a +mood for talking, and at ten o’clock went upstairs; his early departure +being, of course, set down to the worry he had gone through. He turned +into bed. Generally speaking he thought no more of sleep than he did of +breathing; it came as naturally as the air into his lungs; but what was +this new experience? Half an hour, an hour, after he had laid down he +was still awake, and worse than awake; for his thoughts were of a +different cast from his waking thoughts; fearful forebodings; a horror of +great darkness. He rose and bathed his head in cold water, and lay down +again; but it was of no use, and he walked about his room. What an epoch +is the first sleepless night—the night when the first wrench has been +given us by the Destinies to loosen us from the love of life; when we +have first said to ourselves that there are worse things than death! + +George’s father always slept well, but the mother stirred at the +slightest sound. She heard her boy on the other side of the wall pacing +to and fro, and she slipped out of bed, put on her dressing-gown, and +went to listen. Presently she knocked gently. + +“George, my dear, aren’t you well?” + +“Yes, mother; nothing the matter.” + +“Let me in.” + +He let her in, and sat down. The moon shone brightly, and there was no +need for any other light. + +The mother came and sat beside her child. + +“George, my dear, there is something on you mind? What is it?—tell me.” + +“Nothing, mother; nothing indeed.” + +She answered by taking his cold hand in both her own and putting it on +her lap. Presently he disengaged himself and went to the window. She +sat still for a moment, and followed him. She looked up in his face; the +moonlight was full upon it; there was no moisture in his eyes, but his +lips quivered. She led him away, and got him to sit down again, taking +his hand as before, but speaking no word. Suddenly, without warning, his +head was on his mother’s bosom, and he was weeping as if his heart would +break. Another first experience to him and to her; the first time he had +ever wept since he was a child and cried over a fall or because it was +dark. She supported that heavy head with the arm which had carried him +before he could walk alone; she kissed him, and her tears flowed with +his; but still she was silent. There was no reason why she should make +further inquiry; she knew it all. By themselves there they remained till +he became a little calmer, and then he begged her to leave him. She +wished to stay, but he would not permit it, and she withdrew. When she +reached her bedroom her husband was still asleep, and although she feared +to wake him, she could no longer contain herself, and falling on her +knees with her face in the bedclothes, so that she might not be heard, +she cried to her Maker to have mercy on her child. She was not a woman +much given to religious exercises, but she prayed that night such a +prayer as had not been prayed in Tanner’s Lane since its foundation was +laid. For this cause shall a man leave father and mother and cleave to +his wife? Ah, yes! he does leave them; but in his heart does he never go +back? And if he never does, does his mother ever leave him? + +In the morning Mrs. Allen was a little pale, and was asked by her husband +if she was unwell, but she held her peace. George, too, rose, went about +his work, and in the afternoon walked up to the cottage to meet his wife +there. She was bright and smiling, and had a thousand things to tell him +about what her mamma said, and how mamma hoped that the nasty pipe would +be altered and never ought to have been there; and how she was coming +after tea to talk to him, and how she herself, Priscilla, had got a plan. + +“What is it?” said George. + +“Why, I would put a grating, or something, over the pipe, so that it +shouldn’t get stopped up.” + +“But if the grating got stopped up that would be just as bad.” + +“Well then, I wouldn’t have a well there at all. Why don’t you cover it +over?” + +‘“But what are you to do with the window? You cannot block out the +light.” + +So Priscilla’s “plans,” as she called them, were nothing. And though +George had a plan which he thought might answer, he did not consult her +about it. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII +FURTHER DEVELOPMENT + + +SIX months afterwards Priscilla was about to give birth to her +first-born. At Mrs. Allen’s earnest request old nurse Barton had been +engaged, who nursed Mrs. Allen when George came into the world, and loved +him like her own child. As a counterpoise, Mrs. Broad, who had desired a +nurse from a distance, whom she knew, installed herself with Priscilla. +Nurse Barton had a great dislike to Mrs. Broad, although she attended Mr. +Broad’s ministrations at Tanner’s Lane. She was not a member of the +church, and never could be got to propose herself for membership. There +was, in fact, a slight flavour of Paganism about her. She was considered +to belong to the “world,” and it was only her age and undoubted skill +which saved her practice amongst the Tanner’s Lane ladies. There was a +rival in the town; but she was a younger woman, and never went out to any +of the respectable houses, save when Mrs. Barton was not available. + +The child was safely born, and as soon as nurse Barton could be spared +for an hour or two she went to Mrs. Allen, whom she found alone. The +good woman then gave Mrs. Allen her opinions, which, by the way, she +always gave with prefect frankness. + +“Thank the Lord-i-mercy this ’ere job, Mrs. Allen, is near at an end. If +it ’adn’t been my dear boy George’s wife, never would I have set foot in +that ’ouse.” + +“Why not?” + +“Why not? Now, Mrs. Allen, you know as well as I do. To see that there +Mrs. Broad! She might ’ave ordered me about; that wouldn’t a been +nothin’; but to see ’er a orderin’ ’_im_, and a ridin’ on ’im like a +wooden rockin’-’orse, and with no more feelin’! A nasty, prancin’, +’igh-’eaded creatur’. Thinks I to myself, often and often, if things was +different I’d let yer know, that I would; but I ’eld my tong. It ’ud a +been wuss for us all, p’r’aps, if I ’adn’t.” + +“I should think so,” said Mrs. Allen; “remember she is the minister’s +wife.” + +“Minister’s wife!” repeated Mrs. Barton, and with much scorn. “And then +them children of hern. Lord be praised I never brought such things as +them into the world. That was her fine nuss as she must get down from +London; and pretty creaturs they are!” + +“Hush, hush; George has one of them, and she is mine.” + +“I can’t ’elp it, ma’am, I must speak out. I say as he ought to ’ave +married somebody better nor ’er; though I don’t mind a tellin’ of yer +she’s the best of the lot. Why did the Lord in heaven, as sent Jesus +Christ to die for our souls, let my George ’ave such a woman as that? +What poor silly creaturs we all are!” and the old woman, bending her head +down, shook it mournfully and rubbed her knees with her hand. She was +thinking of him as he lay in her lap years and years ago, and pondering, +in her disconnected, incoherent way, over the mysteries which are +mysteries to us as much as to her. + +Mrs. Broad, who was in constant attendance upon Priscilla, at the very +earliest moment pronounced the baby a Flavel, and made haste to tell +father and mother so. There was no mistaking a refinement, so to say, in +the features and an expression in the eye. George, of course, was nearly +banished for a time, and was much with his father and mother. At length, +however, the hour arrived when the nurse took her departure, and, Mrs. +Broad having also somewhat retired, he began to see a little more of his +wife; but it was very little. She was altogether shut up in maternal +cares—closed round, apparently, from the whole world. He was not +altogether displeased, but he did at times think that she might give him +a moment now and then, especially as he was greatly interested in the +coming county election. It was rather too early in the day for a Free +Trader to stand as a candidate, but two Whigs, of whom they had great +hopes, had been put up, and both George and his father were most +energetic in canvassing and on committees. + +Mr. Broad had decided not to vote. He did not deny that his sympathies +were not with the Tories, but as a minister of religion it would be +better for him to remain neutral. This annoyed the Allens and damaged +their cause. At a meeting held by the Tories one of the speakers called +upon the audience to observe that all the respectable people, with very +few exceptions, were on their side. “Why,” cried he, “I’ll bet you, my +friends, all Lombard Street to a china orange that they don’t get even +the Dissenting parson to vote for the Radicals. Of course he won’t, and +why? Just because he’s a cut above his congregation, and knows a little +more than they do, and belongs to the intelligent classes.” + +George bethought himself that perhaps he might do something through +Priscilla to influence her mother, and he determined to speak to her +about it. He came home one evening after attending a committee, and +found supper ready. Priscilla was downstairs, sitting with the door +open. + +“Hadn’t we better shut the door?” said George; “it is rather cold.” + +“No, no, George; I shouldn’t hear the baby.” + +“But Ellen is upstairs.” + +“Yes; but then she might go to sleep.” + +“My dear,” began George, “I wish your father could be got to vote +straight. You see that by not doing so he goes against all the +principles of the Independents. Ever since they have been in existence +they have always stood up for freedom, and we are having the large yellow +flag worked with the words, Civil and Religious Liberty. It will be a +bad thing for us if he holds aloof. I cannot understand,” he continued, +getting eloquent, “how a Dissenting minister can make up his mind not to +vote against a party which has been answerable for all the oppression and +all the wrongs in English history, and for all our useless wars, and +actually persecuted his predecessors in this very meeting-house in which +he now preaches. Besides, to say nothing about the past, just look at +what we have before us now. The Tories are the most bitter opponents of +Free Trade. I can’t tell you how I feel about it, and I do think that if +you were to speak to your mother she would perhaps induce him to change +his mind.” + +It was a long time since he had said so much all at once to his wife. + +“George, George, I am sure he’s awake!” and she was off out of the room +in an instant. Presently she returned. + +“Mamma came here this afternoon and brought his hood—a new one—such a +lovely hood!—and she says he looks more than ever like a Flavel in it.” + +“I don’t believe you listened to a word of what I was saying.” + +“Oh yes, I did; you always think I don’t listen; but I can listen to you +and watch for him too.” + +“What did I say?” + +“Never mind, I know.” + +“I cannot understand,” he said sullenly, and diverted for a moment from +his subject, “why mamma should be always telling _you_ he is a Flavel.” + +“Well, really, George, why shouldn’t she? Tryphosa said the other day +that if you were to take away grandpapa Flavel’s wig and bands from the +picture in the _Evangelical Magazine_ he would be just like him.” + +“It seems to me,” replied George, “that if there’s any nonsense going +about the town, it always comes to you. People don’t talk such rubbish +to me.” + +What the effect of this speech might have been cannot be told, for at +this moment the baby did really cry, and Priscilla departed hastily for +the night. She never spoke to her mother about the election, for, as +George suspected, she had not paid the slightest attention to him; and as +to exchanging with her mother a single word upon such a subject as +politics, or upon any other subject which was in any way impersonal,—she +never did such a thing in her life. + +It was the uniform practice of the Reverend John Broad to walk down the +main Street of Cowfold on Monday morning, and to interchange a few words +with any of his congregation whom he might happen to meet. This pastoral +perambulation not only added importance to him, and made him a figure in +Cowfold, but, coming always on Monday, served to give people some notion +of a preoccupation during the other days of the week which was forbidden, +for mental reasons, on the day after Sunday. On this particular Monday +Mr. Broad was passing Mr. Allen’s shop, and seeing father and son there, +went in. Mr. Allen himself was at a desk which stood near the window, +and George was at the counter, in a black apron, weighing nails. + +After an unimportant remark or two about the weather, Mr. Allen began in +a cheery tone, so as to prevent offence: + +“Mr. Broad, we are sorry we cannot persuade you to vote for the good +cause.” + +Mr. Broad’s large mouth lengthened itself, and his little eyes had an +unpleasant light in them. + +“Brother Allen, I have made this matter the subject of much meditation, +and I may even say of prayer, and I have come to the conclusion it will +be better for me to occupy a neutral position.” + +“Why, Mr. Broad? You cannot doubt on which side the right lies.” + +“No; but then there are so many things to be considered, so many +responsibilities, and my first care, you see, must be the ministerial +office and the church which Providence has placed in my charge.” + +“But, Mr. Broad, there are only two or three of them who are Tory.” + +“Only old Bushel and another farmer or two,” interrupted George. + +Mr. Broad looked severely at George, but did not condescend to answer +him. + +“Those two or three, Brother Allen, require consideration as much as +ourselves. Brother Bushel is, I may say, a pillar of the cause, a most +faithful follower of the Lord; and what are political questions compared +with that? How could I justify myself if my liberty were to become a +stumbling-block to my brother. The house of God without Brother Bushel +to give out the hymns on Sunday would, I am sure, not be the same house +of God to any of us.” + +“But, Mr. Broad, do you think he will be so silly as to be offended +because you exercise the same right which he claims for himself?” + +“Ah, Brother Allen—offended! You remember, no doubt, the text, +‘Wherefore, if meat make my brother to offend, I will eat no flesh while +the world standeth.’” + +It is a very good thing to have at one’s elbow a Bible of rules for our +guidance; but unfortunately we relieve ourselves very often of the most +necessary inquiry whether the rule applies to the particular case in +hand. Mr. Allen had the greatest possible respect for St. Paul, but he +felt sure the apostle was where he had no business to be just at that +particular moment. George also saw the irrelevance of the quotation, and +discerned exactly where it did not fit. + +“Mr. Broad, I am sure I don’t pretend to know what St. Paul thought as +well as you do—of course not—but do you think that voting is like eating +meat? Is it not a duty to express our convictions on such questions as +those now before the country? It didn’t much matter whether a man ate +meat which had been offered to an idol or not, but it does matter how we +are governed.” + +Mr. Broad turned round on George, and smiled with a smile which was +certainly not a sign of affection, but otherwise did not notice him. + +“Well, Mr. Broad,” continued Mr. Allen, “all I can say is, I regret it; +and I am sure you will excuse me if I also say that we too deserve some +consideration. You forget that your refusal to declare yourself may be +stumbling-block to _us_.” + +“I hope not, I hope not. George, how is Priscilla, and how is her child? +Are they both quite well?” and with a pontifical benediction the minister +moved away. When he got home he consulted the oracle; not on his knees, +but sitting in his arm-chair; that is to say, Mrs. Broad at the Monday +afternoon tea, and she relieved his anxiety. There was no fear of any +secession on the part of the Allens, connected as they were with them +through Priscilla. On the other hand, Brother Bushel, although he gave +out the hymns, had already had a quarrel with the singing pew because +they would not more frequently perform a tune with a solo for the double +bass, which he always accompanied with his own bass voice, and Mr. Broad +had found it difficult to restore peace; the flute and clarionet justly +urging that they never had solos, and why the double bass, who only +played from ear, and not half as many notes as they played, should be +allowed to show off they didn’t know. Mr. Bushel, too, contributed ten +pounds a year to the cause, and Piddingfold Green Chapel was but a mile +farther off from him than Cowfold. There were allies of the Allens in +Tanner’s Lane, no doubt; but none of them would be likely to desert so +long as the Allens themselves remained. Therefore Providence seemed to +point out to Mr. and Mrs. Broad that their course was clear. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV +“I CAME NOT TO SEND PEACE, BUT A SWORD” + + +MR. ALLEN, having business in London, determined to go on Saturday, and +spend the next day with Zachariah. Although he always called on his old +friend whenever he could do so, he was not often away from home on a +Sunday. He also resolved to take George with him. Accordingly on +Saturday morning they were up early and caught a coach on the North Road. +The coaches by this time had fallen off considerably, for the Birmingham +railway was open, and there was even some talk of a branch through +Cowfold; but there were still perhaps a dozen which ran to places a good +way east of the line. Father and son dismounted at the “George and Blue +Boar,” where they were to sleep. Sunday was to be spent with the +Colemans, whom George had seen before but very seldom; never, indeed, +since he was a boy. + +Zachariah still went to Pike Street Chapel, but only in the morning to +hear Mr. Bradshaw, who was now an old man, and could not preach twice. +On that particular Sunday on which Zachariah, Pauline, Mr. Allen, and +George heard him he took for his text the thirteenth verse of the twelfth +chapter of Deuteronomy: “Take heed to thyself that thou offer not thy +burnt offerings in every place thou seest.” He put down his spectacles +after he had read these words, for he never used a note, and said: “If +your religion doesn’t help you, it is no religion for you; you had better +be without it. I don’t mean if it doesn’t help you to a knowledge of a +future life or of the way to heaven. Everybody will say his religion +does that. What I do mean is, that the sign of a true religion—true for +_you_, is this—Does it assist you to bear your own private +difficulties?—does it really?—not the difficulties of the schools and +theology, but those of the parlour and countinghouse; ay, difficulties +most difficult, those with persons nearest to you? . . . Everybody ought +to have his _own_ religion. In one sense we are all disciples of Christ, +but nevertheless each man has troubles peculiar to himself, and it is +absurd to expect that any book system will be sufficient for each one of +us at all points. You must make your own religion, and it is only what +you make yourself which will be of any use to you. Don’t be disturbed if +you find it is not of much use to other persons. Stick to it yourself if +it is really your own, a bit of yourself. There are, however, in the +Book of God universal truths, and the wonderful thing about them is, that +they are at the same time more particularly adapted to you and me and all +our innermost wants than anything we can discover for ourselves. That is +the miracle of inspiration. For thousands and thousands of years some of +the sayings here have comforted those who have well nigh despaired in the +desert of the world. The wisdom of millions of apostles, of heroes, of +martyrs, of poor field labourers, of solitary widows, of orphans of the +destitute, of men driven to their last extremity has been the wisdom of +this volume—not their own, and yet most truly theirs. . . . Here is a +word for us this morning: ‘_Take heed to thyself that thou offer not thy +burnt offerings in every place thou seest_.’ Ah, what a word it is! You +and I are not idolaters, and there is no danger of our being so. For you +and me this is not a warning against idolatry. What is it for us then? +Reserve yourself; discriminate in your worship. Reserve yourself, I say; +but what is the implication? What says the next verse? ‘_In the place +which the Lord shall choose_;’ that is to say, keep your worship for the +Highest. Do not squander yourself, but, on the other hand, before the +shrine of the Lord offer all your love and adoration. What a practical +application this has! . . . I desire to come a little closer to you. +What are the consequences of not obeying this Divine law? You will not +be struck dead nor excommunicated, you will be simply _disappointed_. +Your burnt offering will receive no answer; you will not be blessed +through it; you will come to see that you have been pouring forth your +treasure, and something worse, your heart’s blood—not the blood of +cattle—before that which is no God—a nothing, in fact. ‘Vanity of +vanities,’ you will cry, ‘all is vanity.’ My young friends, young men +and young women, you are particularly prone to go wrong in this matter. +You not only lay your possessions but yourselves on altars by the +roadside.” + +It was the first time George had ever heard anything from any public +speaker which came home to him, and he wondered if Mr. Bradshaw knew his +history. He interpreted the discourse after his own way, and Priscilla +was ever before him. + +They came back to the little house, and sat down to dinner in the little +front room. There were portraits on the walls—nothing else but +portraits—and the collection at first sight was inconsistent. Major +Cartwright was still there; there were also Byron, Bunyan, Scott, Paine, +Burns, Mr. Bradshaw, and Rousseau. It was closely expressive of its +owners. Zachariah and Pauline were private persons; they were, happily +for them, committed to nothing, and were not subsidised by their +reputations to defend a system. They were consequently free to think at +large, and if they admired both Bunyan and Rousseau, they were at liberty +to do so. Zachariah, in a measure, and a very large measure, had +remained faithful to his earliest beliefs—who is there that does not?—and +although they had been modified, they were still there; and he listened +to Mr. Bradshaw with the faith of thirty years ago. He also believed in +a good many things he had learned without him, and perhaps the old and +the new were not so discordant as at first sight they might have seemed +to be. He was not, in fact, despite all his love of logic, the “yes _or_ +no” from which most people cannot escape, but a “yes _and_ no”; not +immorally and through lack of resolution, but by reason of an original +receptivity and the circumstances of his training. If he had been merely +a student the case would have been different but he was not a student. +He was a journeyman printer; and hard work has a tendency to demolish the +distinctions of dialectics. He had also been to school outside his shop, +and had learned many lessons, often confusing and apparently +contradictory. Blanketeer marches; his first wife; the workhouse +imprisonment; his second wife; the little Pauline had each come to him +with its own special message, and the net result was a character, but a +character disappointing to persons who prefer men and women of linear +magnitude to those of three dimensions. + +After dinner the conversation turned upon politics and Mr. Allen +described his interview with Mr. Broad, regretting that the movement in +the district round Cowfold would receive no countenance from the minister +of the very sect which ought to be its chief support. + +“A sad falling off,” said Zachariah, “from the days, even in my time, +when the Dissenters were the insurrectionary class. Mr. Bradshaw, last +Sunday, after his sermon, shut his Bible, and told the people that he did +not now interfere much in political matters; but he felt he should not be +doing his duty if he did not tell those whom he taught which way they +ought to vote, and that what he had preached to them for so many years +would be poor stuff if it did not compel them into a protest against +taxing the poor for the sake of the rich.” + +“Yes,” replied Mr. Allen; “but then Broad never has taught what Bradshaw +teaches; he never seems to me to see anything clearly; at least he never +makes me see anything clearly; the whole world is in a fog to him.” + +“From what I have heard of Mr. Broad,” said Pauline, “I should think the +explanation of him is very simple; he is a hypocrite—an ordinary +hypocrite. What is the use of going out of the way to seek for +explanations of such commonplace persons?” + +“Pauline, Pauline,” cried Zachariah, “you surely forget, my child, in +whose company you are!” + +“Oh, as for that,” said George, “Miss Coleman needn’t mind me. I haven’t +married Mr. Broad, and my father is quite right. For that matter, I +believe Miss Coleman is right too.” + +“Well,” said Mr. Allen, “it is rather strong to say a man is an ordinary +hypocrite, and it is not easy to prove it.” + +“Not easy to prove it,” said Pauline, shifting a little her chair and +looking straight at Mr. Allen, with great earnestness; “hypocrisy is the +one thing easiest to prove. I can tell whether a man is a hypocrite +before I know anything else about him. I may not for a long time be able +to say what else he may be, but before he speaks, almost, I can detect +whether he is sincere.” + +“You women,” said Zachariah, with a smile, “or you girls rather, are so +positive. Just as though the world were divided like the goats and the +sheep in the gospel. That is a passage that I never could quite +understand. I never, hardly, see a pure breed either of goat or sheep. +I never see anybody who deserves to go straight to heaven or who deserves +to go straight to hell. When the judgment day comes it will be a +difficult task. Why, Pauline, my dear, I am a humbug myself.” + +“Ah well, I have heard all that before; but, nevertheless, what I say is +true. Some men, using speech as God meant men to use it, are liars, and +some are not. Of course not entirely so, nor at all times. We cannot +speak mere truth; we are not made to speak it. For all that you are not +a liar.” + +“Anyhow, I shall go on,” said Mr. Allen. “We shall have a desperate +fight, and shall most likely lose; but no Tory shall sit for our county +if I can help it.” + +“Of course you will go on,” said Zachariah. “So shall I go on. We are +to have a meeting in Clerkenwell to-morrow night, although, to tell you +the truth, I don’t feel exactly the interest in the struggle which I did +in those of five-and-twenty years ago, when we had to whisper our +treasons to one another in locked rooms and put sentries at the doors. +You know nothing about those times, George.” + +“I wish I had,” said George, with an unusual passion, which surprised his +father and caused Pauline to lift her eyes from the table and look at +him. “I only wish I had. I can’t speak as father can, and I often say +to myself I should like to take myself off to some foreign country where +men get shot for what they call conspiracy. If I knew such a country I +half believe I would go to-morrow.” + +“Which means,” said Pauline, “that there would be an end of you and your +services. If you care anything for a cause, you can do something better +than get shot for it; and if you want martyrdom, there is a nobler +martyrdom than death. The Christians who were trundled in barrels with +spikes in them deserve higher honour than those who died in a moment, +before they could recant. The highest form of martyrdom, though, is not +even living for the sake of a cause, but living without one, merely +because it is your duty to live. If you are called upon to testify to a +great truth, it is easy to sing in flames. Yes, yes, Mr. George, the +saints whom I would canonise are not martyrs for a cause, but those who +have none.” + +George thought that what Pauline said—just as he had thought of Mr. +Bradshaw’s sermon—seemed to be said for him; and yet what did she know +about him? Nothing. He was silent. All were silent, for it is +difficult to follow anybody who pitches the conversation at so high a +level; and Zachariah, who alone could have maintained it, was dreaming +over his lost Pauline and gazing on the sacred pictures which were hung +in the chamber of his heart. Just at that moment he was looking at the +one of his wife as a girl; the room in which he was sitting had gone; he +was in the court near Fleet Street; she had cleared the space for the +dance; she had begun, and he was watching her with all the passion of his +youth. The conversation gradually turned to something more indifferent, +and the company broke up. + +On the Monday George and his father went home. It is very depressing, +after being with people who have been at their best, and with whom we +have been at our best, to descend upon ordinary existence. George felt +it particularly as he stood in the shop on Tuesday morning and reflected +that for the whole of that day—for his father was out—he should probably +not say nor hear a word for which he cared a single straw. But there was +to be an election meeting that evening, and Mr. Allen was to speak, and +George, of course, must be there. The evening came, and the room at the +Mechanics’ Institute, which had just been established in Cowfold, was +crowded. Admission was not by ticket, so that, though the Whigs had +convened it, there was a strong muster of the enemy. Mr. Allen moved the +first resolution in a stirring speech, which was constitutionally +interrupted with appeals to him to go home and questions about a grey +mare—“_How about old Pinfold’s grey mare_?”—which seemed conclusive and +humorous to the last degree. Old Pinfold was a well-known character in +Cowfold, horse-dealer, pig-jobber, attendant at races, with no definite +occupation, and the grey mare was an animal which he managed to impose +upon Mr. Allen, who sued him and lost. When Mr. Allen’s resolution had +been duly seconded, one Rogers, a publican, got up and said he had +something to say. There was indescribable confusion, some crying, “Turn +him out;” others “Pitch into ’em, Bill.” Bill Rogers was well known as +the funny man in Cowfold, a half-drunken buffoon, whose wit, such as it +was, was retailed all over the place; a man who was specially pleased if +he could be present in any assembly collected for any serious purpose and +turn it into ridicule. He got upon a chair, not far from where George +sat, but refused to go upon the platform. “No, thank yer my friends, I’m +best down here; up there’s the place for the gentlefolk, the clever uns, +them as buy grey mares!”—(roars of laughter)—“but, Mr. Chairman, with +your permission”—and here Bill put his had upon his chest and made a most +profound bow to the chair, which caused more laughter—“there is just one +question I should like to ask—not about the grey mare, sir”—(roars of +laughter again)—“but I see a young gentleman here beknown to us +all”—(points to George)—“and I should just like to ask him, does his +mother-in-law—not his mother, you observe, sir—does his mother-in-law +know he’s out?” Once more there was an explosion, for Mr. Broad’s +refusal to take part in the contest was generally ascribed to Mrs. Broad. +George sat still for a moment, hardly realising his position, and then +the blood rose to his head; up crashed across the forms, and before the +grin had settled into smoothness on Bill’s half-intoxicated features +there was a grip like that of a giant on his greasy coat collar; he was +dragged amidst shouts and blows to the door, George nothing heeding, and +dismissed with such energy that he fell prostrate on the pavement. His +friends had in vain attempted to stop George’s wrathful progress; but +they were in a minority. + +Next Saturday a report of the scene appeared in the county newspaper, +giving full particulars, considerably exaggerated; and Mr. Broad read all +about it to Mrs. Broad on Saturday afternoon, in the interval between the +preparation of his two sermons. He had heard the story on the following +day; but here was an authentic account in print. Mrs. Broad was of +opinion that it was shocking; so vulgar, so low; her poor dear Priscilla, +and so forth. Mr. Broad’s sullen animosity was so much stimulated that +it had overcome his customary circumspection, and on the Sunday evening +he preached from the text, “Pure religion and undefiled before God and +the Father is this, To visit the fatherless and widows in their +affliction, and to keep himself unspotted from the world.” Mr. Broad +remarked that the Apostle James made no mention here of the scheme of +redemption; not because that was not the chief part of religion, but +because he was considering religion in the aspect—he was very fond of +this word “aspect”—which it presented to those outside the Church. He +called upon his hearers to reflect with him for a few moments, in the +first place, upon what religion was not; secondly, upon what it was; and +thirdly, he would invite their attention to a few practical conclusions. +He observed that religion did not consist in vain strife upon earthly +matters, which only tended towards divisions in the Body of Christ. “At +such a time as this, my brethren, it is important for us to remember that +these disputes, especially if they are conducted with unseemly heat, are +detrimental to the interests of the soul and give occasion to the enemy +to blaspheme.” When Mr. Broad came to the secondly, and to that +sub-division of it which dealt with freedom from worldly spots, he +repeated the words with some emphasis, “‘Unspotted from the world.’ +Think, my friends, of what this involves. Spots! The world spots and +stains! We are not called upon to withdraw ourselves from the world—the +apostle does not say that—but to keep ourselves unspotted, uncontaminated +he appears to mean, by worldly influence. The word unspotted in the +original bears that interpretation—uncontaminated. Therefore, though we +must be in the world, we are not to be _of_ the world, but to set an +example to it. In the world! Yes, my brethren, we must necessarily be +in the world; that is the condition imposed upon us by the Divine +Providence, because we are in a state of probation; we are so +constituted, with a body, and with fleshly appetites, that we must be in +the world; but we must be separate from it and its controversies, which +are so unimportant compared with our eternal welfare.” + +Mr. Bushel sat on high at his desk, where he gave out the hymns, and +coughed every now and then, and looked straight at the pew where the +Allens and George sat. Mr. Bushel knew well enough that, although he was +just as ardent on the other side, the sermon was not meant for him, and +not one of Mr. Broad’s remarks touched him. He thought only of the +Allens, and rejoiced inwardly. George walked home with Priscilla in +silence. At supper-time he suddenly said: + +“I think your father might have found something better to do than preach +at me.” + +Priscilla was shocked. She had never heard a criticism on her father +before. + +“Really, George, what are you thinking of to talk in that way about a +sermon, and on a Sunday night too?” + +“He did preach at me; and if he has anything to say against me, why +doesn’t he come and say it here or at the shop?” + +“O George, this is dreadful! Besides, mamma _did_ come and talk to me.” + +“What has that got to do with it? Well, what did your mother say?” + +“Why, she told me all about this meeting, and how you fought a man and +nearly killed him, and you a member at Tanner’s Lane, and how you +oughtn’t to have been there at all, and what Mr. Bushel was going to do.” + +“Oughtn’t to have been there at all? Why not? I don’t believe you know +any more than this table why I was there.” + +“Oh yes, I do. You never tell me anything, but Mrs. Bushel told me. You +want to get them all turned out of their farms.” + +“Bosh! There you are again!—the pains I took the other night again to +make you comprehend what Free Trade meant. I knew you didn’t understand +a word about it; and if you did understand, you wouldn’t believe me. You +never take any notice of anything I say; but if Mrs. Bushel or any other +blockhead tells you anything, you believe that directly.” + +Priscilla’s eyes filled; she took out her handkerchief, and went +upstairs. George sat still for a while, and then followed her. He found +her sitting by the baby’s cradle, her head on her hands and sobbing. It +touched him beyond measure to see how she retreated to her child; he went +to her; his anger was once more forgotten, and once more he was +reconciled with kisses and self-humiliation. The next morning, however, +as he went to the square, the conversation of the night before returned +to him. “What does it all mean?” he cried to himself. “Would to God it +were either one thing or another! I could be happy if I really cared for +her, and if I hated her downright I could endure it like any other +calamity which cannot be altered; but this is more than I can bear!” + +The Allens, father and mother, held anxious debate whether they should +take any notice of the attack by their pastor, and in the end determined +to do nothing. They considered, and rightly considered, that any action +on their part would only make George’s position more difficult, and he +was the first person to be considered. + +Next Saturday there was some business to be done in London, and George +went, this time by himself. On the Sunday morning he called on the +Colemans, and found Zachariah at home, but Pauline away. Mr. Bradshaw, +too, was not to preach that day. It was wet, and Zachariah and George +sat and talked, first about the election, and then about other +indifferent subjects. Conversation—even of the best, and between two +friends—is poor work when one of the two suffers from some secret sorrow +which he cannot reveal, and George grew weary. Zachariah knew what was +the matter with him, and had known it for a long while, but was too +tender to hint his knowledge. Nevertheless, remembering his own history, +he pitied the poor boy exceedingly. He loved him as his own child, for +his father’s sake, and loved him all the more for an experience so nearly +resembling another which he recollected too well. + +“How is it Mr. Bradshaw is not preaching to-day?” said George. + +“He is ill; I am afraid he is breaking up; and latterly he has been +worried by the small attacks made upon him by people who are afraid to +say anything distinctly.” + +“What kind of attacks?” + +“Well, they insinuate that he is Arian.” + +“What is that?” + +Zachariah explained the case as well as he could, and George was much +interested. + +“Arian or not, I tell you one thing, Mr. Coleman, that Mr. Bradshaw, +whenever I have heard him, seems to help me as Mr. Broad never does. I +never think about what Mr. Broad says except when I am in chapel, and +sometimes not then.” + +“Bradshaw speaks from himself. He said a thing last Sunday which stuck +by me, and would have pleased a country lad like you more than it did +three parts of his congregation, who are not so familiar with country +life as he is. He told us he was out for a holiday, and saw some men +hoeing in a field—‘Hoeing the charlock,’ he said to himself; but when he +came nearer he found they were hoeing turnips—hoeing up the poor plants +themselves, which lay dying all around; hoeing them up to let the other +plants have room to grow. + +“I have known men,” added Zachariah after a pause, “from whose life so +much—all love, for example—has been cut out; and the effect has been, not +ruin, but growth in other directions which we should never have seen +without it.” + +Zachariah took down a little book from his shelf, and wrote George’s name +in it. + +“There, my boy, it is not much to look at, but I know nothing better, and +keep it always in your pocket. It is the _Imitation of Christ_. You +will find a good deal in it which will suit you, and you will say, as I +have said a thousand times over it, that other people may write of +science or philosophy, but this man writes about me.” + +He put it on the table, and George opened it at the sentence, “_He that +can best tell how to suffer will best keep himself in peace_. _That man +is conqueror of himself_, _and lord of the world_, _the friend of +Christ_, _and the heir of heaven_.” He turned over the leaves again—“_He +to whom the Eternal Word speaketh is delivered from a world of +unnecessary conceptions_.” Zachariah bent his head near him and gently +expounded the texts. As the exposition grew George’s heart dilated, and +he was carried beyond his troubles. It was the birth in him—even in him, +a Cowfold ironmonger, not a scholar by any means—of what philosophers +call the _idea_, that Incarnation which has ever been our Redemption. He +said nothing to Zachariah about his own affairs, nor did Zachariah, as +before observed, say anything to him; but the two knew one another, and +felt that they knew one another as intimately as if George had imparted +to his friend the minutest details of his unhappiness with his wife. + +Towards the end of the afternoon Pauline returned, and inquired how the +battle went in Cowfold. + +“I am afraid we shall be beaten. Sometimes I don’t seem to care much +about it.” + +“Don’t care! Why not?” + +“Oh, we talk and talk, father and I, and somehow people’s minds are made +up without talking, and nobody ever changes. When we have our meetings, +who is it who comes? Does Bushel come? Not a bit of it. We only get +our own set.” + +“Well,” said Zachariah, the old man’s republican revolutionary ardour +returning, “this is about the only struggle in which I have felt much +interest of late years. I should like to have cheap bread, and what is +more, I should like to deprive the landlords of that bit of the price +which makes the bread dear. I agree with you, my boy. Endless +discussion is all very well—forms ‘public opinion,’ they say; but I wish +a stop could be put to it when it has come round to where it began; that +one side could say to the other, ‘You have heard all our logic, and we +have heard all yours;’ now then, let us settle it. ‘Who is the strongest +and best drilled?’ I believe in insurrection. Everlasting debate—and it +is not genuine debate, for nobody really ranges himself alongside his +enemy’s strongest points—demoralises us all. It encourages all sorts of +sophistry, becomes mere manœuvring, and saps people’s faith in the truth. +In half an hour, if two persons were to sit opposite one another, they +could muster every single reason for and against Free Trade. What is the +use of going on after that? Moreover, insurrection strengthens the +belief of men in the right. A man who voluntarily incurs the risk of +being shot believes ever afterwards, if he escapes, a little more +earnestly than he did before. ‘Who is on the Lord’s side, let him come +unto me,’ says the flag. Insurrection strengthens, too, the faith of +others. When a company of poor men meet together and declare that things +have got to such a pass that they will either kill their enemies or die +themselves, the world then thinks there must, after all, be _some_ +difference between right and wrong.” + +“Father, that is all past now. We must settle our quarrels in the +appointed way. Don’t say anything to discourage Mr. Allen. Besides, +people are not so immovable as you think. How they alter I don’t know; +but they do alter. There is a much larger minority in favour of Free +Trade than there was ten years ago.” + +“All past now, is it? You will see one of these days.” + +It was time for tea, and Pauline left to get the tea-things. In the +evening they strolled out for a walk through Barnsbury and up Maiden +Lane, then a real and pretty lane stretching north-westwards through +hedges to Highgate. After they had gone a few hundred yards Zachariah +went back; he had forgotten something, and George and Pauline walked on +slowly together. The street was crowded, for it was just about church +time, but on the opposite side of the road George saw somebody whom he +knew, but who took no notice of him. + +“How odd!” he said to Pauline; “that is Tom Broad! What is he doing +here, I wonder?” + +Pauline made no answer, and at that moment Zachariah rejoined them. + +The reason for Mr. Thomas Broad’s appearance in that quarter will be best +explained by the following letter, which he had received the day before +from his father:— + + “MY DEAR THOMAS,—I was very glad to hear of your success at Mr. + Martin’s chapel, at Hackney, on Sunday afternoon. Although it was + nothing more than an afternoon service, you must remember that it is + the first invitation to a metropolitan pulpit which you have + received. It would be as well if you were to call on Mr. Martin at + your earliest convenience, and also on Mr. Chandler, in Leather Lane, + whom you mentioned to me, and who, I believe, is a prominent deacon. + The choice of your subject was judicious, although it is not so easy + to fix the character of a discourse for the afternoon as for the + morning or evening. ‘_I will give him a white stone_’ is a text I + have used myself with great profit. A young minister, I need hardly + say, my dear Thomas, ought to confine himself to what is generally + accepted, and not to particularise. For this reason he should avoid + not only all disputed topics, but, as far as possible, all reference + to particular offences. I always myself doubted the wisdom, for + example, of sermons against covetousness, or worldliness, or + hypocrisy. Let us follow our Lord and Master, and warn our hearers + against sin, and leave the application to the Holy Spirit. I only + mention this matter now because I have found two or three young + students err in this direction, and the error, I am sure, militates + against their usefulness. + + “Your dear mamma and Tryphosa are both quite well. Not so Priscilla. + I grieve to say she is _not_ well. George’s conduct lately has been + very strange. I am afraid that he will be a trouble not only to us, + but to the Church of Christ. Both he and his father have kindled + strife amongst us in this unhappy election contest, for which, as a + minister of God’s Word, I have held aloof. For one or two Sundays + the Allens have absented themselves from Divine service in the + evening, and we know that there has been no sickness in the house. I + feel certain that before long they will withdraw their subscription. + I have good reason to believe that their friend, Mr. Coleman, + exercises a very baleful influence upon them. However, God’s will be + done! These are the trials which His servants who minister to His + flock must expect. Good-bye, my dear Thomas. Mamma and Tryphosa + send their love. Give diligence to make your calling and election + sure.—Your affectionate father, + + “JOHN BROAD. + + “_P.S._—It will be as well, perhaps, if you can ascertain whether the + Allens visit the Colemans, and more particularly if George goes + there. The Coleman household consists, I believe, of a father and + daughter. You will remember that Coleman has been a convict, and, I + have heard, has tendencies towards infidelity. Priscilla informs me + that Mr. Allen and George will be in London to-morrow; but she does + not know what they are going to do there. You will doubtless be able + to obtain the information I desire, and on future occasions I will + also advise you when either George or his father is in the + metropolis.” + +Mr. Thomas Broad had his own reasons for complying with his father’s +request. He hated the Colemans and George with as much active malignity +as was possible to his heavy unctuous nature. Why he should hate the +Colemans is intelligible, and his hatred to George can also be explained, +partly through sympathy between father and son, and partly because the +hatred of a person like Thomas Broad to a person like George Allen needs +no explanation. + + + + +CHAPTER XXV +“AND A MAN’S FOES SHALL BE THEY OF HIS OWN HOUSEHOLD” + + +THE county polling day meanwhile drew near, and with its approach party +spirit rose and the mutual exasperation of both sides increased. George +and his father were out every evening at the Institute or canvassing, and +George’s first attempts at public speaking were a success. At length the +day dawned which was to decide their fate. Cowfold was the polling +station for a large district, and both sides fully recognised its +importance. The Democratic colour was orange, and the Tory was purple. +Everybody wore rosettes, and bands of music went about the town, carrying +flags and banners, which had such an effect upon the Cowfold population, +more particularly upon that portion of it which knew nothing whatever of +the questions at issue, that the mere sound of the instruments or sight +of a bit of bunting tied to a pole was sufficient to enable them to dare +a broken head, or even death. Beer may have been partly the cause of +this peculiar mental condition, but not entirely, for sober persons felt +the contagion. We may laugh at it if we please, and no doubt it is +evidence of the weakness of human nature; but, like much more evidence of +the same order, it is double-voiced, and testifies also to our strength. + +Priscilla was staying that night with her mother. Mr. Broad’s house, at +the end of the town, was very quiet, and George did not care to leave her +alone with the servant. Those were the days when the state of the poll +was published every hour, and as Cowfold lay near the centre of the +county a very fair opinion could be formed of the progress of the voting. +By three o’clock it was known that up to eleven parties were neck and +neck, and the excitement grew more and more intense. Every public-house +in Cowfold was free, and soon after dinner-time there was not a single +person in the place who was ever drunk before who had not found it +necessary to get drunk then in order to support the strain on his nerves. +Four o’clock came, and the polling-booth was shut; the numbers were made +up, and the two committees now anxiously awaited the news from the +outlying districts. The general impression seemed to be that the popular +candidate would win by about a dozen, and by eight o’clock a crowd had +assembled before the “Cross Keys” to give due welcome to the desired +announcement. Ten o’clock came, and the mob began to get impatient and +unruly. Then there was a stir and a roar, and the whole assemblage +rushed off to the “Angel,” in the square. On the balcony was a huge +placard, with the purple hero at the top—1837—and below was the orange +favourite, in small and ignominious figures—1831. Bushel stood at the +open window waving his hat, apparently half frantic. Just underneath him +was a smaller crowd of the purple faction, who were cheering and bawling +with all their might as the enemy came in sight. In an instant the +conflict had begun. The purple banners were the first objects of attack, +and disappeared every one of them, in less than five minutes, underfoot. +Seen from one of the upper storeys of the houses, the square looked like +a great pot full of boiling confusion. By degrees the wearers of purple +were driven hard against the “Angel” yard-gates, which opened to receive +them; some who were not successful in securing admittance escaping, with +bloody heads, down the side lane, and so out across the fields. There +was great difficulty in shutting the gates again; but the “Angel” +hostlers appeared on the scene with pitchforks and other weapons, which +caused an ebb of the tide for a moment. They managed in the nick of time +to swing the gates together, and the heavy wooden bar was thrown across +them. The orange party was now triumphant, but very unhappy, because it +was able to do no further mischief. Suddenly Bushel was seen again at +the window, and, as it was afterwards averred, made some insulting +gesture. A stone was the prompt response, and in five minutes there was +not a whole pane of glass left in the front of the building. “Have old +Bushel out! Smoke ’em out!” was shouted, and a rush followed towards the +door. But the insurgents had no siege train for such a fortress, and the +sight of two or three fowling-pieces somewhat damped their courage. They +therefore turned off, wrecked the brewer’s house, and forced the “Angel” +tap, which was separated from the main building. The spirit-casks were +broached, and men turned the gin and brandy taps into their mouths +without waiting for glasses. Many of them, especially those who first +entered, were at once overcome and dropped, lying about in the room and +in the gutter perfectly insensible. The remainder, who could only drink +what was left, became more and more riotous, and a general sack of all +purple property was imminent. Mr. Allen was at the “Cross Keys,” but +George was at home, and as he watched the scene he saw the mob take a +kind of lurch and sway along the street which led to Mr. Broad’s. He +thought he heard Mr. Broad’s name, and in an instant he had buttoned-up +his coat, taken the heaviest stick he could find, and was off. He had +the greatest difficulty in forcing his way, and he did not reach the +front of the crowd till it was opposite Mr. Broad’s and the destruction +of the windows had begun. He leaped over the iron railing, and presented +himself at the gate with the orange rosette on his coat and the stick in +his right hand. He was just in time, for yells of “Psalm-singing old +hypocrite!” were already in the air, and the fence was being stormed. +George administered to the foremost ruffian a blow on the shoulder which +felled him on the path outside, and then, standing on the low brick wall +on which the railings rested, showed his rosette, brandished his club, +and made some kind of inarticulate expostulation, which, happily for him +and Mr. Broad, was received with cheers. Whether taken by itself it +would have been effectual or not cannot be said, for just at that moment +a more powerful auxiliary appeared. When the “Angel” was abandoned the +imprisoned garrison, amongst whom were one or two county magistrates, +held a brief consultation. They organised their force and marched out, +the well-to-do folk in front and abreast, armed with bludgeons, the +“Angel” dependents—and about fifty more of the refugees coming in the +rear, every garden and stable weapon of offence being distributed amongst +them. They had the advantage, of course, of being sober. They advanced +at a run, and their tramp was heard just as George was beginning to try +the effect of his eloquence. Panic and scattering flight at once +followed, not, however, before some dozen or so of the fugitives had +recovered what little sense they ever had by virtue of sundry hard knocks +on their skulls, and a dozen more or so had been captured. By twelve +o’clock Cowfold was quiet and peaceable. + +Citizens were left to wonder how their town, lying usually so sleepily +still, like a farmyard on a summer Sunday afternoon, could ever transform +itself after this fashion. Men unknown and never before seen seemed +suddenly to spring out of the earth, and as suddenly to disappear. Who +were they? Respectable Cowfold, which thought it knew everybody in the +place, could not tell. There was no sign of their existence on the next +day. People gathered together and looked at the mischief wrought the +night before, and talked everlastingly about it; but the doers of it +vanished, rapt away apparently into an invisible world. On Sunday next, +at one o’clock, Cowfold Square, save for a few windows not yet mended, +looked just as it always looked; that is to say, not a soul was visible +in it, and the pump was, as usual, chained. + +The band of rescuers had passed George as he stood in the garden, and +when they had gone he knocked at the door. It was a long time before +anybody came, but at last it was partly opened, just as far as the chain +would permit, and the Reverend John Broad, looking very white and with a +candle in his hand appeared. + +“It is I, George, Mr. Broad. Please tell me how Priscilla is, and—how +you all are after your fright. I will not come in if you are all well.” + +“No, Mr. George, you will not come in. I little thought that a member of +Tanner’s Lane Church, and my daughter’s husband, would associate himself +with such disgraceful proceedings as those we have witnessed this +evening.” + +“But, Mr. Broad, you are quite mistaken. I was not with the mob. I came +here as soon as I could to protect you.” + +Mr. Broad, terrified and wrathful, had, however, disappeared, and George +heard the bolts drawn. He was beside himself with passion, and knocked +again and again, but there was no answer. He was inclined to try and +break open the door at first, or seek an entrance through a window, but +he thought of Priscilla, and desisted. + +He was turning homewards, when he reflected that it would be useless to +attempt to go to sleep, and he wandered out into the country towards +Piddingfold, pondering over many things. The reaction of that night had +been too severe. His ardour was again almost entirely quenched when he +saw the men for whom he had worked, and who professed themselves his +supporters, filthily drunk. A noble sentence, however, from the _Idler_ +came into his mind—his mother had a copy of the _Idler_ in her bedroom, +and read and re-read it, and oftentimes quoted it to her husband and her +son—“_He that has improved the virtue or advanced the happiness of one +fellow-creature . . . may be contented with his own performance_; _and_, +_with respect to mortals like himself_, _may demand_, _like Augustus_, +_to be dismissed at his departure with applause_.” He reflected that he, +an ironmonger’s son, was not born to save the world, and if the great Dr. +Johnson could say what he did, with how little ought not a humble Cowfold +tradesman to be satisfied! We all of us have too vast a conception of +the duty which Providence has imposed upon us; and one great service +which modern geology and astronomy have rendered is the abatement of the +fever by which earnest people are so often consumed. But George’s +meditations all through that night were in the main about his wife, and +as soon as he reached his shop in the morning, the first thing he did was +to write a note to her telling her to come home. This she did, although +her mother and father objected, and George found her there at +dinner-time. She looked pale and careworn, but this, of course, was set +down to fright. She was unusually quiet, and George forbore to say +anything about her father’s behaviour. He dreaded rather to open the +subject; he could not tell to what it might lead. Priscilla knew all +about George’s repulse from her father’s door, and George could tell she +knew it. + +His father and he had determined that Cowfold would not be a pleasant +place for them on the following Sunday, and that business, moreover, +demanded their presence in London. Thither, accordingly, they went on +the Saturday, as usual; and Priscilla naturally communicating their +intention to her mother, Mr. Thomas Broad received an epistle from his +father something like one we have already read, but still more imperative +in its orders that the dutiful son should see whether the Allens made +Zachariah’s house their head-quarters. That they did not sleep there was +well-known, but it was believed they had constant intercourse with that +unregenerate person, a disciple of Voltaire, as the Reverend John Broad +firmly believed, and it would be “advantageous to possess accumulated +evidence of the fact.” Priscilla knew that they lodged always at the +“George and Blue Boar”; but how they spent their time on Sunday she did +not know. There was also a postscript, this time with a new import: + + “It has been reported that Coleman’s daughter is a young female not + without a certain degree of attractiveness. It may perhaps, my dear + Thomas, be some day of service to me and to the church if you were to + inform me whether you have observed any tendencies towards + familiarity between George and this person. I need not at the + present moment give you my reasons for this inquiry. It will be + sufficient to say that I have nothing more in view than the welfare + of the flock which Divine Providence has committed to my charge.” + +Mr. Thomas did his duty, and a letter was received by his father on the +following Tuesday, which was carefully locked up in the drawer in which +the sermons were preserved. + +The next day—that is to say, on Wednesday—George was at work, as usual, +when his little maid came to say that her mistress was very bad, and +would he go home directly? She had been unwell for some days, but it was +not thought that there was anything serious the matter with her. George +followed the girl at once, and found Priscilla in bed with a violent +headache and very feverish. The doctor came, and pronounced it a case of +“low fever,” a disease well enough known in Cowfold. Let us make the +dismal story as brief as possible. Nurse Barton, hearing of her “dear +boy’s” trouble, presented herself uninvited that evening at ten o’clock, +and insisted that George should not sit up. She remained in the house, +notwithstanding Mrs. Broad’s assurances that she really was not wanted, +and watched over Priscilla till the end came. + +About a week afterwards, just when Priscilla seemed to be getting a +little better—she had been delirious, but her senses had returned—and +Mrs. Allen, who had been in the house all day, had departed, a change for +the worse took place, and the doctor was summoned. George, sitting in +the parlour alone, heard Nurse Barton come downstairs. + +“My dear boy,” she said as she entered, “God in His mercy strengthen you +in this trial as He has laid upon you, but I thought I’d just come and +tell you myself. The doctor wor a-comm’, but I said ‘No; my boy shall +hear it from me.’ I don’t think as your wife will get better; she don’t +seem to pull herself up a bit. She a’nt got no strength no more than a +fly. You’d better see her, I think.” + +“Who is there?” + +“Her mother and the doctor.” + +“Can’t you get rid of them?” + +“All right, my dear. I must stay with you both, but you won’t mind +me—God bless you!” and the woman put her arms round George’s neck and +kissed him tenderly. + +She returned, and presently she redeemed her promise, for she actually +got Mrs. Broad away. At first she was obstinate, but Priscilla whispered +that she wished to see her husband alone, and the doctor took upon him to +warn Mrs. Broad that resistance on her part might be dangerous. She then +retreated with him, and George found himself by the bedside. His wife +was so prostrate that she was hardly able to make herself heard, but she +lifted up her finger and made a sign that he should bend his head down to +her. He bent it down, and her damp brown hair—the beautiful brown hair +he had loved so—lay on his forehead, and its scent was all about him once +more. + +“George, my dear,” she just breathed out, “I am a poor silly girl, but I +always loved you.” + +He stopped her instantly with his kisses, but Death had stopped her too. +He recoiled for a moment, and with a sudden scream. “O God, she’s gone!” +he fell into the arms of his nurse, who stood behind him. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI +A PROFESSIONAL CONSULTATION + + +THREE months passed, during which the Allens’ pew was vacant at Tanner’s +Lane. George remained at home with his only child, or was at his +mother’s, or, shocking to relate, was in the fields, but not at chapel; +nor were any of his family there. During the whole of these three months +one image was for ever before his eyes. What self-accusations! Of what +injustice had he not been guilty? Little things, at the time unnoticed, +turns of her head, smiles, the fall of her hair—oh, that sweet sweet +brown hair!—all came back to him, and were as real before him as the +garden wall. He thought of her lying in her grave—she whom he had +caressed—of what was going on down there, under the turf, and he feared +he should go mad. Where was she? Gone, for ever gone—gone before he had +been able to make her understand how much he really loved her, and so +send her to sleep in peace. But was she not in heaven? Would he not see +her again? He did not know. Strange to say, but true, he, a member of +Tanner’s Lane Church, who had never read a sceptical book in his life, +was obliged to confess, perhaps not consciously, but none the less +actually, he did not know. + +In those dark three months the gospel according to Tanner’s Lane did +nothing for him, and he was cast forth to wrestle with his sufferings +alone. It is surely a terrible charge to bring against a religious +system, that in the conflict which has to be waged by every son of Adam +with disease, misfortune, death, the believers in it are provided with +neither armour nor weapons. Surely a real religion, handed down from +century to century, ought to have accumulated a store of consolatory +truths which will be of some help to us in time of need. If it can tell +us nothing, if we cannot face a single disaster any the better for it, +and if we never dream of turning to it when we are in distress, of what +value is it? There is one religious teacher, however, which seldom fails +those who are in health, and, at last, did not fail him. He was helped +by no priest and by no philosophy; but Nature helped him, the beneficent +Power which heals the burn or scar and covers it with new skin. + +At the end of the three months the Reverend John Broad received a brief +note from Mr. Allen announcing that their pew at the chapel could be +considered vacant, and that the subscription would be discontinued. +Within a week Mr. Broad invited Brother Bushel, Brother Wainwright the +cart-builder and blacksmith, and Brother Scotton the auctioneer, to a +private meeting at his own house. In a short speech Mr. Broad said that +he had sought a preliminary conference with them to lay before them the +relationship in which the Allens stood to the church in Tanner’s Lane. +They had formally ceased to attend his ministrations, but of course, as +yet, they remained on the church books. It was a matter which he, as the +minister of the flock, felt could not any longer be overlooked. He would +say nothing of the part which the Allens had taken in the late unhappy +controversies which had distracted the town, excepting that he considered +they had displayed a heat and animosity inconsistent with their +professions and detrimental to the best interests of the cause. + +“I agree with that, Mr. Broad,” interrupted Mr. Bushel; “and I may say +that, as you know, if you had done nothing, _I should_; for how any +member of the—gospel—could live in—and go on—peace harmony with all men +in the Church of Christ, I, at, least—that’s my opinion.” Mr. Bushel was +shortnecked, and shook his head always while he was talking, apparently +in order to disengage his meaning, which consequently issued in broken +fragments. + +Mr. Broad resumed—“I may, however, observe that George Allen was in +company with the intoxicated mob which devastated Cowfold; and although +he has asserted that he merely endeavoured to control its excesses—and +such appears to be the view taken by the civil authorities who have +prosecuted the perpetrators of the outrages—we, as members, my dear +brethren, of Christ’s Body, have to be guided by other considerations. +While upon this subject of George Allen, I may say, with as much delicacy +as is permissible to a faithful minister of God’s holy Word, that I fear +George has been—a—h’m—what shall I say?—at least led astray by an unhappy +intimacy with a female residing in the metropolis who is an infidel. I +have no doubt in my own mind that the knowledge of this fact accelerated +the departure of my dear daughter, whose sorrow was of a twofold +character—sorrow, in the first place, with regard to her husband’s +unfaithfulness, causing her thereby much personal affliction, which, +however, endureth but for a moment, for she now inherits a far more +exceeding weight of glory”—Mr. Broad’s week-day and extempore quotations +from the Bible were always rather muddled—“and, in the second place, +sorrow for her husband’s soul. I think we have distinct evidence of this +intimacy, which I shall be able to produce at the proper moment. We have +all observed, too, that whilst the Allens have not latterly attended +Divine Service at Tanner’s Lane, they have not seceded to another place +of worship. Finally, and by way of conclusion, let me remark that I have +wrestled long with the Lord to know what was my duty towards these +apostates and towards the Church of Christ. I considered at first I +ought to remonstrate privately with Mr. Allen; but, alas! he has shown a +recalcitrant disposition whenever I have attempted to approach him. I +have consulted Brother Bushel on the subject; indeed, I may say that +Brother Bushel had previously intimated to me the necessity of taking +some steps in the matter, and had assured me that he could not any longer +occupy the prominent position which he now occupies in the church—so +much, I may say, to our own edification and advantage—if something were +not done. We think, therefore, that the church should be privately +convoked for deliberation. Brother Wainwright, what counsel have you to +give?” + +Brother Wainwright always had a heavy account with Brother Bushel. He +was a little man, with a little round head covered with straggling hair, +which came over his forehead. He sat with his hat between his knees, +looked into it, scratched his head, and said with a jerk, “Oi agree with +Brother Bushel.” + +“Brother Scotton, what do you say?” + +Brother Scotton was a Cowfold man, tall and thin, superintendent of the +Sunday-school, and to a considerable extent independent of village +custom. He was not only an auctioneer, but a land surveyor; he also +valued furniture, and when there were any houses to be let, drew up +agreements, made inventories, and had even been known to prepare leases. +There was always, therefore, a legal flavour about him, and he prided +himself on his distant professional relationship to full-blown +attorneyhood. It was tacitly understood in Cowfold that his opinion in +certain cases was at least equal to that of Mortimer, Wake, Collins & +Mortimer who acted as solicitors for half the county. Mr. Scotton, too, +represented Cowfold urban intelligence as against agricultural rusticity; +and another point in his favour was, that he had an office—no shop—with a +wire blind in the window with the words, “Scotton, Land Agent, +Auctioneer, and Appraiser,” painted on it. On Mr. Broad’s present appeal +for his verdict, he put himself in a meditative attitude, stretched out +his legs to their full length, threw his head back, took his lower lip in +his left hand, pulled up his legs again, bent forward, put his hands on +his knees, and looked sideways at Mr. Broad. + +“I suppose that Mr. Allen and his son will have the charges communicated +to them, Mr. Broad, and be summoned to attend the meeting?” + +“What do you say, Brother Bushel?” + +“Don’t see no use in it. All very well them lawyers”—a snap at +Scotton—“come and argyfy—I hate argyfying, I do myself—never seed no good +on it. Get rid of a man—I do. ‘Sickly sheep infects the flock and +pisons all the rest.’” These last words formed part of a hymn of which +Brother Bushel was fond. + +“What do you say, Brother Wainwright?” + +Brother Wainwright, although he could do nothing but agree with Brother +Bushel, and never did anything but agree with him, preferred to make a +show of reflection. He again looked in his hat, shut his mouth fast; +again scratched his head; again shook it a little, and with another jerk, +as if announcing a conclusion at which he had arrived with great +certainty, but after a severe mental effort, he said: + +“Oi go with Brother Bushel, _Oi_ do.” + +“Well,” said Scotton, extending his legs again and gazing at the ceiling, +“I must nevertheless be permitted to adhere—” + +“Adhere,” interrupted Bushel. “What’s the use of talking like that? You +always adhere—what for, I should like to know?” + +Scotton went on with dignity, not noticing the attack. + +“Adhere, I was about to say, Mr. Broad, to my previously expressed +opinion. I am not at all sure that the Allens have not a legal status, +and that an action would not lie if we proceeded without due formalities. +Tanner’s Lane, you must recollect, is in a peculiar position, and there +is an endowment.” + +Mr. Scotton had this advantage over Cowfold generally, that if he knew +nothing about the law himself, excepting so far as bids at a sale were +concerned, Cowfold knew less, and the mention of the endowment somewhat +disturbed Mr. Broad’s mind. + +“Brother Bushel is no doubt quite justified in his anxiety to avoid +discussion, which will in all probability lead to no useful result; but, +on the other hand, it will be as well, perhaps, to proceed with caution.” + +“Well,” ejaculated Bushel, “do as yer like; you’ll see you’ll get in an +argyfication and a mess, you take my word on it.” + +“Suppose,” said Mr. Broad, his face shining as he spoke, “we hit upon a +third course, the _via media_, you know, Brother Scotton”—Brother Scotton +nodded approvingly, as much as to say, “_I_ know; but how about +Bushel?”—“the _via media_, and have a friendly meeting of the most +influential members of the church—a majority—and determine upon a course +of action, which we can afterwards ratify at the formal meeting, at which +the Allens will be present. We shall in this way, it seems to me, +prevent much debate, and practically arrive at a conclusion beforehand.” + +“Yes,” said Scotton—very slowly. “I don’t see, at the present moment, +any particular objection; but I should not like to commit myself.” + +“How does it strike you, Brother Bushel?” + +“Arter that, I suppose Scotton ull want some sort of a dockyment sent. +I’m agin all dockyments. Why, what’ll Allen do? Take it over to +Collins—Mortimer—stamp it, ten-and-sixpenny stamp. What will yer do +then?” + +“No, Brother Bushel; I apprehend that it will be my duty as pastor to +write to the Allens a simple letter—a simple pastoral letter—announcing +that a church meeting will be convened at a certain hour in the vestry, +to consider some statements—charges—naming them—not going into +unnecessary detail, and requesting their attendance.” + +“That’s better; that wouldn’t be a dockyment, I s’pose; and yet praps he +might stamp that. Resolution arterwards. Time they were out of it. +Come on, Wainwright, gettin’ dark.” + +“Well then, we agree,” said Mr. Broad—“happily agree; and I trust that +the Lord will yet prosper His Zion, and heal the breaches thereof. Will +any of you take any refreshments before you go? Will you, Brother +Bushel?” + +Brother Bushel did not believe in Mr. Broad’s refreshments, save those +which were spiritual, and declined them with some abruptness, preferring +much a glass of hot brown brandy and water at the inn where his horse +was. Brother Wainwright would have taken anything, but was bound to +follow Brother Bushel, who was about to give him a lift homewards; and +Brother Scotton was a teetotaller, one of the first who was converted to +total abstinence in Cowfold, and just a trifle suspected at Tanner’s +Lane, and by Bushel in particular, on that account. Water-drinking was +not a heresy to which any definite objection could be raised; but +Tanner’s Lane always felt that if once a man differed so far from his +fellows as not to drink beer and spirits, there was no knowing where the +division might end. “It was the thin end of the wedge,” Mr. Broad +observed confidentially to Bushel once when the subject was mentioned. + +The preliminary meeting, therefore, was held, and Mr. Broad having +communicated the charges against the Allens—absenting themselves from +public worship, disturbance of the peace of the church, intercourse with +infidel associates, and finally so far as George was concerned, +“questionable behaviour,” as Mr. Broad delicately put it, “with an +infidel female”—it was determined to call them to account. There was +some difference of opinion, however. It was thought by some that all +reference to the election, direct or indirect, should be avoided, for the +majority in Tanner’s Lane was certainly not Tory. But Brother Bushel +seemed to consider this the head and front of the offence, and declared +that if this were not part of the indictment he would resign. He also +was opposed to giving the Allens any information beforehand, and, if he +had been allowed to have his own way, would not have permitted them to +attend. He would have them “cut off,” he said, “there and then, +summararlilly.” He got into great difficulties with this last word, and +before he could get rid of it had to shake his head several times. +Others thought it would be dangerous to act in this style; and there +seemed no chance of any agreement, until Mr. Broad once more “healed the +incipient division” by proposing another _via media_, which was carried. +It was determined that there should be only an allusion to the political +charge. It was to be subsidiary. In fact, it was not to be a political +charge at all, but a moral charge, although, as Mr. Broad privately +explained to Brother Bushel, it would come to the same thing in the end. +Then Mr. Broad, as he had suggested at an earlier stage, was himself to +write a letter to the Allens, stating in “general terms” the +dissatisfaction felt by the church and its minister with them, and +requesting their appearance in the vestry on the day named. Brother +Scotton was still malcontent, but as he was in a minority he held his +peace. He resolved, however, on his own account, to acquaint the Allens +with what had happened, and prepare them. They were no particular +friends of his, but Bushel also was no particular friend, and his +auctioneering trade had at least educated him, in the disputes amongst +buyers, to hold the scales of justice a little more evenly than they were +held by Bushel’s hands. + +Neither George nor his father were much disturbed by any of the items in +Scotton’s information nor by Mr. Broad’s letter, save the reference to +Pauline. It is true it was very remote, but the meaning, especially +after Scotton’s explanation, was obvious, and George was in a fury which +his father found it very difficult to repress. For himself George did +not care, but he did care that Pauline’s name should not be dragged into +the wretched squabble. Father and son both agreed that the case should +be laid before Zachariah; but when Mr. Allen came back from London he +merely said, in answer to George’s inquiries, that Zachariah and himself +were in perfect accord, and that at the meeting George was not to +interfere. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII +MR. BROAD’S LAST CHURCH MEETING—LATIMER CHAPEL + + +THE eventful evening at last arrived. It had been announced from the +pulpit on the Sunday before that a special meeting of the church would be +held on the following Wednesday to consider certain questions of +discipline—nothing more—as it was not thought proper before the general +congregation to introduce matters with which the church alone was +qualified to deal. Everybody, however, knew what was intended, and when +Wednesday night came the vestry was crowded. Mr. Broad sat in a seat +slightly elevated at the end of the room, with a desk before him. On his +right hand was Brother Bushel, on the left was Brother Scotton, and on +the front bench were Brother Wainwright and a few of the more important +members, amongst whom was Thomas Broad, who, although it was a week-day, +was in full ministerial costume; that is to say, he wore his black—not +pepper-and-salt—trousers and a white neckerchief. Mr. Allen and George +were at the back of the room. There were no women there, for although +women were members as well as men, it was always an understood thing at +Tanner’s Lane that they were to take no part in the business of the +community. Seven o’clock having struck, Mr. Broad rose and said, “Let us +pray.” He prayed for about ten minutes, and besought the Almighty to +shed abroad His Holy Spirit upon them for their guidance. As the chosen +people had been brought through the wilderness and delivered from the +manifold perils therein, so God, he hoped, would lead His flock then +assembled, through the dangers which encompassed them. Oh that they +might be wise as serpents and harmless as doves! Might they for ever +cleave to the faith once delivered to the saints! Might they never be +led astray to doubt the efficacy of the Blood of the Atonement once +offered by the Son of God! Might they, through their Saviour’s merits, +secure at last an entrance into those mansions where all the saints of +God, those faithful souls whom He had elected as His own, of His own +eternal foreknowledge, would abide for ever, in full fruition of the joys +promised in His Word. + +The prayer over, Mr. Broad rose and said that he was there that night to +discharge a most painful duty—one which, if he had taken counsel with +flesh and blood, he would most gladly have avoided. But he was a humble +servant of their common Lord and Master. It behoved him to cease not to +warn every one night and day; to remember that the Holy Ghost had made +him an overseer to feed the church of God which He had purchased with His +precious blood. He had done nothing in this matter without constant +recurrence to the footstool of grace, and he had also consulted with some +of his dear brethren in Christ whom he saw near him. They would have +observed that Brother Allen and his family had for some time absented +themselves from the means of grace. He should have said nothing upon +this point if they had joined any other Christian community. If even +they had attended the Established Church, he would have been silent, for +he was free to confess that in other religious bodies besides their own +God had faithful servants who held fast to the fundamental doctrines of +His book. But it was notorious, alas! that his dear brother had gone +NOWHERE! In the face of the apostolic command not to forsake the +assembling of themselves together, what could they do but suspect that +his dear brother’s belief had been undermined—sapped, he would say? But +to that point he would return presently. Then, again, they were all +familiar with the circumstances attending the late political contest in +the county. He knew that many of his dear brethren differed one from +another concerning matters relating to this world, although they were +all, blessed be God, one in Christ, members of His body. He himself had +thought it better to follow as far as he could, the example of his Lord +and Master to render unto Cæsar the things that are Cæsar’s, and to lead +a quiet and peaceable life in all godliness and honesty. He would not +for a moment, however, condemn any who differed from him in carnal +policy. But his dear Brother Allen and his son had overstepped the line; +and, considering this was a mixed church, he was of opinion that they +should have acted—what should he say?—with more Christian consideration. +More than this, Mr. George Allen was known to have abetted an unruly mob, +a position highly unbecoming, he might say, to one occupying the position +of member at Tanner’s Lane. But he might, perhaps, be permitted to dwell +for a moment on another point. His dear Brother Allen and his son +had—there was no doubt of it—consorted with infidels, one of whom had +been convicted by the laws of his country—a convict—and it was through +their instrumentality that his brethren had been led to wander from the +fold. This was the secret of the calamity which had overtaken the +church. Wolves, he would say—yes, wolves, grievous wolves—had entered +in, not sparing the flock. Let them consider what an Infidel was! It +meant a man who denied his Maker, Revelation, a life beyond the grave, +and who made awful jests upon the Holy Scriptures! He had evidence that +in this miserable household there was a portrait of that dreadful +blasphemer Voltaire, who on his deathbed cried out in vain for that +salvation which he had so impiously refused, and amidst shrieks +of—despair, which chilled with terror those who stood by him, was carried +off by the Enemy of Souls to the lake that burneth with brimstone, where +their worm dieth not and the fire is not quenched.—(Sensation.) (This +was a famous paragraph in one of Mr. Broad’s sermons preached on great +occasions, and particularly when he supplied a metropolitan pulpit. The +story had been contradicted twice in the county paper by a Frenchman, a +retired teacher of his native language, who had somehow heard of the +insult offered to his great countryman, and a copy of the contradiction +had been sent to Mr. Broad. He was content with observing that its +author was a Frenchman, and therefore probably an atheist, “with no +consciousness of moral obligation.” Voltaire’s diabolic disappearance +continued, therefore, to be one of Mr. Broad’s most striking +effects.)—This was a subject of great delicacy. They knew how closely +related he was to Brother Allen through that dear saint now in glory. He +did not—he could not—(Mr. Broad seemed to be affected)—allude in any +detail to what had happened; but still it was his duty to point out that +Mr. George Allen had been in constant intercourse with a female in an +infidel family—yes, before his wife’s death he had been seen with her +_alone_! _Alone_ with an infidel female! He only hoped that the +knowledge of this fact did not accelerate the departure of his blessed +daughter—daughter in the flesh and daughter in Christ. He could not +measure the extent of that intercourse; the Searcher of hearts alone +could do that, save the parties concerned; but, of course, as she was an +unbeliever, they must fear the worst. For himself, he had felt that this +was the root of everything. They would judge for themselves how +fervently he must have appealed to the Mercy-seat, considering his +position and relationship with his dear brother, before he had seen his +way to take the present course; but at last God had revealed Himself to +him, and he now committed the case to them. Might God have mercy on +them, and His Spirit lead them. + +Mr. Allen and George had scarcely restrained themselves, and George, +notwithstanding his father’s injunction, leapt up before the concluding +sentences were out of Mr. Broad’s mouth. Mr. Scotton, however, rose, and +Mr. Allen pulled George down. Mr. Scotton wished to say just one word. +They could not, he was sure, overestimate the gravity of the situation. +They were called together upon a most solemn occasion. Their worthy +pastor had spoken as a minister of the gospel. He, Mr. Scotton, as a +layman, wished just to remind them that they were exercising judicial +functions—(Brother Bushel fidgeted and got very red)—and that it was +necessary they should proceed in proper order. With regard to two of the +charges, the evidence was fully before them; that is to say, absence from +public worship and what might perhaps be thought want of consideration +for the peace of the church.—(“Praps,” grunted Bushel—“praps +indeed.”)—But with regard to the third charge, the evidence was _not_ +before them, and as this was the most important of the three he would +suggest before going any farther that they should hear what Mr. Broad +could produce. + +Brother Bushel objected. It was very seldom indeed that he offered any +remarks in public; but this time he could not refrain, and introduced +himself as follows: + +“Brother Scotton says ‘praps.’ I don’t say ‘praps,’ when people go +settin’ class agin class. Praps nobody’s windows was broke! Evidence! +Hasn’t our minister told us George Allen has been to London? He wouldn’t +tell us an untruth. Due respec’, Brother Scotton—no lawyering—none of +that—of them functions—’specially when it’s infidels and ricks may be +afire—aught I know.” + +Mr. Broad interposed. He quite understood Brother Bushel’s ardour for +the truth, but he was prepared to produce some simple corroboration of +what he had affirmed, which would, he thought, satisfy Brother Scotton +and the brethren generally. “Thomas,” quoth Mr. Broad, “will you please +step forward and say what you know?” + +Mr. Thomas thereupon advanced to the table, and said it would ill become +him to expatiate on the present occasion. He would confine himself to +obeying the mandate of his father. He then reported that he had been led +to visit the Colemans at first as friends of the Allens, and not knowing +their devilish tendencies. God had, however, he hoped, mercifully +protected him. If it had not been for God’s grace, where might he not +have been that day? It was true that they were disciples of the French +sceptic; his likeness was on the walls; his books were on the +bookshelves! Mr. George Allen had been in the habit of associating not +only with Mr. Coleman, but with the daughter, and with the daughter +_alone_! as has already been stated. She was also an infidel—more so, +perhaps, than her father; and Satan had a way, as they all knew, of +instilling the deadly poison so seductively that unwary souls were often +lost, lost, lost beyond recall, before they could truly be said to be +aware of it. He wished, therefore, that evening to confess again, as, +indeed, he had just confessed before, that by grace he had been saved. +It is not of him that willeth, nor of him that runneth, but of God that +showeth mercy. He trembled to think how near he himself had been to the +pit of destruction, lured by the devices of the great Enemy of Souls; but +praise be to God he had been saved, not through own merits, but through +the merits of his Redeemer. + +Mr. Broad purred with pleasure during this oration, and looked round on +the audience for their approval. Mr. Allen was now completely quieted. +The speech had acted like a charm. He rose immediately. + +“Mr. Broad,” he said deliberately, but with much emphasis—you might have +heard a pin drop—“the value of the testimony just given depends upon +character of the witness. May I ask him to explain _how he came by that +scar on the back of his hand_?” + +Mr. Allen remained standing. There was no sign of an answer. He sat +down for a moment but still there was no movement. He rose again. + +“Mr. Broad, as there is no reply, will you permit me to give the +explanation?” + +Mr. Thomas Broad then slowly erected himself near the table at which his +father was sitting. He held on by it hard, and gulped down half a glass +of water which was there. His tallowy face looked more tallowy than +ever, and his voice shook most unpleasantly as he was just heard to say +that he did not know with what object the question was put—that it—that +it—seemed—seemed irrel—irrelev—and these were the last syllables ever +heard from the lips of Mr. Thomas in Tanner’s Lane, for he dropped into +his seat and apparently fainted. There was great confusion while his +recovery was attempted. He was conveyed into the chapel, more water was +given him, smelling-salts applied, and in due time he regained his +senses; but his father, on his return to the vestry, announced that after +what had happened the meeting had perhaps better be adjourned. He felt +it impossible to go any further just then. Tanner’s Lane Church, +therefore, departed, much musing, and was never again summoned on that +business. Mr. Allen had some thoughts of demanding another meeting and a +formal acquittal, but the pastor was suddenly struck with paralysis, and +although he lingered for nearly two years, he preached no more. So it +came to pass that George and his father are on the church books till this +day. There was, of course, endless gossip as to the meaning of Mr. +Allen’s appeal. Whether George ever knew what it was is more than I can +say, but it is certain that Cowfold never knew. Mr. Allen always +resolutely repelled all questions, saying that it would be time enough to +go further when he was next attacked. The Broads, mother and daughter, +asserted that no doubt Thomas had a mark upon the back of his hand, but +that it had been caused by a nail in a fence, and that he had fainted +through indisposition. This theory, however, was obviously ridiculous, +for Mr. Allen’s reference had no meaning if Thomas had met with a simple +accident. Mrs. Broad saw that her son’s explanation, greatly as she +trusted him, was weak, and at last Thomas, with Christian compunction, +admitted that the fence was the palings of the College garden, over which +he had once clambered when he was too late for admittance at the College +gates. This was true. Mr. Thomas on the very evening of his interview +with Pauline, had obtained admission over the palings, had been detected, +and there had been an inquiry by the authorities; but the scar, as we +know, had another origin. Mrs. Broad was compelled to circulate this +story, and accompanied it with many apologies and much regret. It was +the sorrow of her life, she said; but, at the same time, she must add +that her son was delayed by no fault of his. The President had +investigated the matter, and had contented himself with a reprimand. Her +friends would understand that Thomas would prefer, under the +circumstances, not to visit Cowfold again, and considering her dear +husband’s sickness, she could not advise that prosecution of the Allens +should be pressed. + +Cowfold, however, was not satisfied. Mr. Allen would not, as a man of +the world, have thought so much of such an indiscretion. Why was Mr. +Thomas late? Cowfold could not endure simple suspense of judgment. Any +theory, however wild, is more tolerable than a confession that the facts +are not sufficient for a decision, and the common opinion, corroborated, +it was declared, by surest testimony, was that Mr. Thomas had been to the +theatre. There was not a tittle of evidence to support this story, but +everybody was certain it was true. Everybody repeated it, and constant +repetition will harden the loosest hearsay into a creed far more +unshakable than faith in the law of gravity. + +Just before Mr. Broad’s last illness, the secession of the Allens was +imitated by about twenty of the younger members of the congregation, who +met together on Sunday, under Mr. Allen’s guidance, and worshipped by +themselves, each of them in turn making some attempt at an exposition of +the Bible and a short address. By the time Mr. Broad died Tanner’s Lane +had sunk very low; but when his successor was chosen the seceders +exercised their rights, and were strong enough to elect a student fresh +from college, who had taken an M.A. degree at the University of London. +He preached his first sermon from the text, “I am crucified with Christ,” +and told his hearers, with fluent self-confidence, that salvation meant +perfect sympathy with Christ—“Not I, but Christ liveth in me;” that the +office of Christ was not to reconcile God to man, but man to God; and +this is effected in proportion as Christ dwells in us, bringing us more +and more into harmony with the Divine. The Atonement is indeed the +central doctrine, the pivot of Christianity, but it is an at_one_ment, a +making of one mind. To which Tanner’s Lane listened with much wonderment +and not without uncomfortable mental disturbance, the elder members +complaining particularly that this was not the simple gospel, and that +the trumpet gave an uncertain sound. But opposition gradually died out; +the meeting-house was rebuilt, and called Latimer Chapel. The afternoon +service was dropped and turned into a service for the Sunday-school +children; an organ was bought and a choir trained; the minister gave +week-day lectures on secular subjects, and became a trustee of the +Cowfold charity schools, recently enlarged under a new scheme. He +brought home a wife one day who could read German; joined the County +Archæological Society, and wrote a paper on the discoveries made when the +railway station was built on what was supposed to be an ancient British +encampment. For Cowfold was to become an important junction on the new +line to the north, and Mr. Bushel’s death had been accelerated by +vexation through seeing a survey carried across his own fields. + +As for Mrs. Broad and Tryphosa, they left Cowfold and went into +Lancashire, to be near uncle Flavel. George, notwithstanding the new +doctrine in Latimer Chapel and the improvement in the Cowfold atmosphere, +was restless, and before the revolution just described was completed, had +been entirely overcome with a desire to emigrate with his child. His +father and mother not only did not oppose, but decided to accompany. Mr. +Allen had saved money, and though he and his wife were getting on in +years, there was nothing in either of them of that subsidence into +indifferent sloth which is the great mistake of advancing age. Both were +keen in their desire to know the last new thing, eager to recognise the +last new truth, forgetful of the past, dwelling in the present, and, +consequently, they remained young. They were younger, at any rate, just +now than George; and it was his, not exactly melancholy, but lack of zest +for life, which mainly induced them so readily to assent to his plans. +One bright June morning, therefore, saw them, with their children, on the +deck of the Liverpool vessel which was to take them to America. Oh day +of days, when after years of limitation, monotony, and embarrassment, we +see it all behind us, and face a new future with an illimitable prospect! +George once more felt his bosom’s lord sit lightly on his throne; once +more felt that the sunlight and blue sky were able to cheer him. So they +went away to the West, and we take leave of them. + +What became of Zachariah and Pauline? At present I do not know. + + * * * * * + + THE END + + * * * * * + + _London_ _Hodder and Stoughton_ _1913_ + + + + +FOOTNOTES + + + {132} “O ze (ye) my feris (companions) and deir freyndis, quod he, + Of bywent perillis not ignorant ben we, + Ze have sustenit gretir dangeris unkend, + Like as hereof God sall make sone ane end: + The rage of Silla, that huge sweste (whirlpool) in the se + Ze have eschapit and passit eik (each) have ze: + The euer (pot) routand (roaring) Caribdis rokkis fell + The craggis quhare monstruous Cyclopes dwell: + Ze are expert: pluk up zour harts, I zou pray, + This dolorous drede expell and do away. + Sum tyme thereon to think may help perchance.” + + —_Gawin Douglas_. + + “Endure and conquer! Jove will soon dispose, + To future good, our past and present woes. + With me, the rocks of Scylla you have tried; + Th’ inhuman Cyclops, and his den defied. + What greater ills hereafter can you bear! + Resume your courage, and dismiss your care. + An hour will come, with pleasure to relate + Your sorrows past, as benefits of fate.” + + —_Dryden_. + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE REVOLUTION IN TANNER'S LANE*** + + +******* This file should be named 6690-0.txt or 6690-0.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/6/6/9/6690 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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