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
