“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.