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.

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.

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 atonement, 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.