 CHAPTER V. THE REVIVAL. Miner spent the two following afternoons in visiting the houses of her school-children. She had no talent for such work, which demands the vocal rather than the meditative temperament, and the apparent futility of her labours would have disgusted and disheartened her had she not been sustained and urged forward by the still active influence of Miners and the teacher's meeting. There were fifteen names in her class-book, and she went to each house, except for whose tenants were impeccable Wesleyan families, and would have considered themselves insulted by a quasi-didactic visit from an upstart like Anna. Of the eleven some parents were rude to her, others begged, and she had nothing to give. Others made perfunctory promises. Only two seemed to regard her as anything but a somewhat tiresome impertinence. The fault was doubtless her own. Nevertheless she found joy in the uncongenial and ill-performed task, the cold, fierce joy of the nun in her penance. When it was done, she said, I have done it, as one who had sworn to do it, come what might, yet without quite expecting to succeed. On the Friday afternoon, during tea, a boy brought up a large fool-scat packet addressed to Mr. Tellrite. From Mr. Miners, the boy said. Tellrite opened it leisurely after the boy had gone, and took out some sheets covered with figures which he carefully examined. Anna, he said, as she was clearing away the tea-things, I understand that going to the revival meeting to-night, I shall have a message as thou mightn't give to Mr. Miners. When she went upstairs to dress, she saw the Sutton's lander standing outside their house on the opposite side of the road. Mrs. Sutton came down the front steps, and got into the carriage, and was followed by a little restless, nervous alert man, who carried in his hand a black case of peculiar form. The revivalist! Anna exclaimed, remembering that he was to stay with the Sutton's during the revival week. Then this was the renowned crusader, and the case held his renowned cornet. The carriage drove off down Trafalgar Road, and Anna could see that the little man was talking vehemently and incessantly to Mrs. Sutton, who listened with evident interest. At the same time, the man's eyes were everywhere, absorbing all details of the street and houses with unquenchable curiosity. "'What is the message for Mr. Miners, father?' she asked, in the parlour, putting on her cotton-gloves. "'Oh!' he said, and then paused. She at the door asked. She shut it, not knowing what this cautiousness foreshadowed. Agnes was in the kitchen. "'It's a listen,' tell right began. "'Young Miners wants a partner with a couple of thousand pound, and he'd come to me. "'You understand it is what they call a sleeping partner he's after. "'He'll give a third share in his concern for two thousand pound now. "'I've looked into it, and there's money in it. "'He's no fool, and he's gotten hold of a good thing. "'He sent me up his stock-taking and balance sheet to-day, and I've been over the place with him. "'I'm telling the disslass, because I haven't a two thousand of my own idle just now, and I thought as thou might happen to like the investment. "'But, father, listen, I know as there's only four hundred a dime in the bank now, but next week you'll see the beginning of July, and dividends coming in. "'I've reckoned as you'll have nine fourteen hundred, he dividends an interest, and I can lend you a couple hundred in case of necessity. "'It's a rare chance, that best decade.' "'Of course, if you think it's all right, father, that's enough,' she said, without animation. "'And now tell him, D, I think it's all right,' he remarked sharply. "'You won't tell Miners as I say it's satisfactory. "'Tell him that, say, I say it's satisfactory. "'I shall want for to see him later on. "'He told me it couldn't have come up any night next week, so ask him to make it the week after. "'There's no hurry. Don't forget.' What surprised Anna most in the affair was that Henry Miners should have been able to tempt her father into a speculation. E. Frayme Tellwright, the investor, was usually as shy as a well-fed trout, and this capture of him by a youngster only two years established in business might fairly be regarded as a prodigious feat. It was indeed the highest distinction of Miners' commercial career. Henry was so prominently active in the Wesleyan society, that the members of that society, especially the women, were apt to ignore the other side of his individuality. They knew him supreme as a religious worker. They did not realize the likelihood of his becoming supreme in the staple manufacture. Left an orphan at seventeen, Miners belonged to a family now otherwise extinct in the five towns. One of those families, which by virtue of numbers, variety, and personal force, seemed to permeate a whole district, to be a calculable item of it, an essential part of its identity. The elders of the Miners' blood had once occupied the Red House opposite Tellwright's, now used as a school, and had there reared many children. The school building was still known as Miners', by old-fashioned people. Then the parents died in middle age. One daughter married in the north, another in the south. A third went to China as a missionary and died of fever. The eldest son died. The second had vanished into Canada and was reported to scape-race. The third was a sea-captain. Henry, the youngest, alone was left, and of all the family, Henry was the only one to be connected with the earthenware trade. There was no inherited money, and during ten years he had worked for a large firm in Turnhill, as clerk, as traveller, and last as manager, living always quietly in lodgings. In the fullness of time he gave notice to leave, was offered a partnership, and refused it. Taking a newly erected manufacturing in Bursley, near the canal, he started in business for himself, and it became known that, at the age of twenty-eight, he had saved fifteen hundred pounds. Equally expert in the labyrinths of manufacture and in the niceties of the markets, he was reckoned a peerless traveller, Miners inevitably flourished. These order-books were filled and flowing over at remunerative prices, and insufficiency of capital was the sole peril to which he was exposed. By the raising of a finger he could have had a dozen working-and-moneyed partners, but he had no desire for a working-partner. What he wanted was a capitalist who had confidence in him, Miners. In Ephraim Tellwright he found the man, whether it was by instinct, good luck, or skillful diplomacy that Miners secured this invaluable prize no one could positively say, and perhaps even he himself could not have cataloged all the obscure motives that had guided him to the shrewd miser of Manor Terrace. Anna had meant to reach Chapel before the commencement of the meeting, but the interview with her father through her late. As she entered the porch, an officer told her that the body of the Chapel was quite full, and that she should go into the gallery, where a few seats were left near the choir. She obeyed. Few holders had no rights at that service. The scene in the auditorium astonished her, effectually putting an end to the worldly preoccupation caused by her father's news. The historic Chapel was crowded almost in every part, and the congregation, impressed, excited, eager, sang the opening hymn with unprecedented vigor and sincerity. Above the rest could be heard the trained voices of a large choir, and even the choir, usually perfunctory, seemed to share the general fervour. In the vast mahogany pulpit, the Reverend Reginald Banks, the superintendent-minister, a stout, pale-faced man with pendant cheeks and cold grey eyes, stood impassively regarding the assemblage, and by his side was the Revivalist, a mannequin in comparison with his colleague. On the broad balustrade of the pulpit lay the cornet. The fiery and inquisitive eyes of the Revivalist probed into the furthest corners of the Chapel. Apparently no detail of any single face or of the florid decoration escaped him, and as Anna crept into a small empty pew next to East Wall, she felt that she too had been separately observed. Mr. Banks gave out the last verse of the hymn, and simultaneously with the leading chord from the organ, the Revivalist seized his cornet and joined the melody. Massive yet exultant the tones rose clear over the mighty volume of vocal sound, an incitement to Victoria's effort. The effect was instant, an ecstatic tremor seemed to pass through the congregation like wind through ripe corn, and at the close of the hymn it was not until the Revivalist had put down his cornet that the people resumed their seats. Amid the fru-fru of dresses and subdued clearing of throats Mr. Banks retired softly to the back of the pulpit, and the Revivalist mounting a stool suddenly dominated the congregation. His glance swept masterfully across the Chapel and round the gallery. He raised one hand with the stilling action of a mesmerist, and the people, either kneeling or inclined against the front of the pews, hid their faces from those eyes. It was as though the man had in a moment measured their iniquities and had courageously resolved to intercede for them with God, but was not very sanguine as to the result. Everyone except the organist who was searching his tune-book for the next tune, seemed to feel humbled, bitterly ashamed, as it were caught in the act of sin. There was a solemn and terrible pause. Then the Revivalist began. Behold us, O dread God, suppliant for thy mercy! His voice was rich and full, but at the same time sharp and decisive. The burning eyes were shut tight, and Anna, who had a profile view of his face, saw that every muscle of it was drawn tense. The man possessed an extraordinary histrionic gift, and he used it with imagination. He had two audiences, God and the congregation. God was not more distant from him than the congregation, or less real to him, or less a heart to be influenced. Declamatory and full of effects carefully calculated a work of art, in fact, his appeal showed no error of discretion in its approach to the Eternal, there was no minimizing of committed sin, nor yet an insincere and groveling self-accusation. A tyrant could not have taken offence at its tone, which seemed to pacify God while rendering the human audience still more contrite. The conclusion of the catalogue of wickedness and swift, confident turn to Christ's cross was marvelously impressive. The congregation burst out into sighs, groans, blessings, and amends, and the pillars of distant rural conventicals, who had travelled from the confines of the circuit to its centre in order to partake of this spiritual excitation, began to feel that they would not be disappointed. Let the Holy Ghost descend upon us now! The revivalist pleaded with restrained passion, and then, opening his eyes and looking at the clock in front of the gallery, he repeated, Now! Now! At twenty-one minutes past seven. Then his eyes, without shifting, seemed to ignore the clock, to gaze through it into some unworldly dimension, and he murmured in a soft dramatic whisper, I see the Divine Dove! The doors closed during prayer were opened, and more people entered. A youth came into Anna's pew. The superintendent-minister gave out another hymn, and when this was finished, the revivalist, who had been resting in a chair, came forward again. Friends and fellow-sinners, he said, A lot of you, fools that you are, have come here to-night to hear me play my cornet. Well, you have heard me, I have played the cornet, and I will play it again, I would play it on my head, if by so doing I could bring sinners to Christ. I have been called a mountibank. I am one, I glory in it, I am God's mountibank, doing God's precious business in my own way. But God's precious business cannot be carried on, even by a mountibank, without money, and there will be a collection towards the expenses of the revival. During the collection we will sing Rock of Ages, and you shall hear my cornet again. If you feel willing to give us your sixpences, give. But if you resent a collection, here he adopted the tone of ferocious sarcasm, keep your miserable sixpences, and get six penny-worth of miserable enjoyment out of them elsewhere. As the meeting proceeded, submitting itself more and more to the imperious hypnotism of the revivalist, Anna gradually became oppressed by a vague sensation, which was partly sorrow, and partly an inexplicable dull anger, anger at her own penitence. She felt as if everything was wrong, and could never by any possibility be righted. After two exhortations from the minister and the revivalist, and another him, the revivalist once more prayed, and as he did so, Anna looked stealthily about in a sick, preoccupied way. The youth at her side stared glumly in front of him, and as he did so, Anna looked stealthily about in a sick, preoccupied way. The youth at her side stared glumly in front of him. In the orchestra Henry Miners was whispering to the organist. In the body of the chapel the atmosphere was electric, perilous, overcharged with spiritual emotion. She was glad she was not down there. The voice of the revivalist ceased, but he kept the attitude of supplication. Sobs were heard in various quarters, and here and there an elder of the chapel could be seen talking quietly to some convicted sinner. The revivalist began softly to sing, Jesus you lover of my soul! And most of the congregation standing up joined him. But the sinners, stricken of the spirit, remained abjectly bent, tortured by conscience, pulled this way by Christ, and that by Satan. A few rows and went to the communion-rails, there to kneel in the sight of all. Mr. Banks descended from the pulpit, and opening the wicket which led to the communion table, spoke to these over the rails, reassuringly, as a nurse to a child. Other sinners, desirous of fuller and more intimate guidance, passed down the aisles, and so into the preacher's vestry at the eastern end of the chapel, and were followed there by class leaders and other proved servants of God. Among these last were Titus Price and Mr. Sutton. The blood of Christ atones, said the revivalist solemnly at the end of the hymn. The spirit of Christ is working among us. Let us engage in private breath. Let us drive the devil out of this chapel. More sighs and groans followed. Then someone cried out in sharp, shrill tones, praise him! And another cried, praise him! And an old woman's quavering voice sang the words, I know that my redeemer liveth. Anna was in despair at her own predicament, and the sense of sin was not more strong than the sense of being confused and publicly shamed. A man opened the pew-door, and sitting down by the youth's side began to talk with him. It was Henry Miners. Anna looked steadily away at the wall, fearful lest he should address her too. Presently the youth got up with a frenzied gesture and walked out of the gallery, followed by Miners. In a moment she saw the youth stepping awkwardly along the aisle beneath, towards the inquiry-room, his head forward, and the lower lip hanging as though he were sulky. Anna was now in the profoundest misery. The weight of her sins, of her ingratitude to God, lay on her like a physical and intolerable load, and she lost all feeling of shame, as a seasick voyager loses shame after an hour of nausea. She knew then that she could no longer go on living as a foretime. She shuddered at the thought of her tremendous responsibility to Agnes, Agnes, who took her for perfection. She recollected all her sins individually, lies, sloth, envy, vanity, even theft in her infancy. She heaped up all the wickedness of a lifetime, hysterically augmented it, and found a horrid pleasure in the exaggeration. Her virtuous acts shrank into nothingness. A man and then another emerged from the vestredor with beaming happy face. These were saved. They had yielded to Christ's persuasive invitation. Anna tried to imagine herself converted, or in the process of being converted. She could not. She could only sit, moveless, dull, and abject. She did not stir, even when the congregation rose for another hymn. In what did conversion consist? Was it to say the words, I believe? She repeated to herself softly, I believe, I believe. But nothing happened. Of course she believed. She had never doubted or dreamt of doubting that Jesus died on the cross to save her soul, her soul, from eternal damnation. She was probably unaware that any person in Christendom had doubted that fact so fundamental to her. What then was lacking? What was belief? What was faith? A venerable class leader came from the vestry, and slowly climbing the pulpit stairs, whispered in the ear of the revivalist. The latter faced the congregation with a cry of joy. Lord, he exclaimed, we bless thee, that seventeen souls have found thee. Lord, let the full crop be gathered, for the fields are white unto harvest." There was an exuberant chorus of praise to God. The door of the pew was opened gently, and Anna started to see Mrs. Sutton at her side. She had once guessed that miners had sent to her this angel of consolation. Are you near the light, dear Anna? Mrs. Sutton began. Anna searched for an answer. She now sat huddled up in the corner of the pew. Her face partially turned towards Mrs. Sutton, who looked mildly into her eyes. I don't know. Anna stammered, feeling like a naughty schoolgirl. A doubt whether the whole affair was not, after all, absurd, flashed through her, and was gone. But it is quite simple, said Mrs. Sutton. I cannot tell you anything you do not know. Cast out pride. Cast out pride. That is it. Nothing but earthly pride prevents you from realising the saving power of Christ. You are afraid, Anna, afraid to be humble. Be brave. It is so simple, so easy, if one will, but submit." Anna said nothing, had nothing to say, was conscious of nothing save excessive discomfort. Where do you feel your difficulty to be? asked Mrs. Sutton. I don't know, she answered, wearily. The happiness that awaits you is unspeakable. I have followed Christ for nearly fifty years, and my happiness increases daily. Sometimes I do not know how to contain it all. It surges above all the trials and disappointments of this world. Oh, Anna, if you will but believe! The aging woman's thin, distinguished face, crowned with abundant grey hair, glistened with love and compassion. And as Anna's eyes rested upon it, Anna felt that here was something tangible, something to lay hold on. I think I do believe, she said, weakly. You think? Are you sure? Are you not deceiving yourself? Belief is not with the lips, it is with the heart." There was a pause. Mr. Banks could be heard praying. I will go home, Anna whispered at length, and think it out for myself. Do, my dear girl, and God will help you. His sudden bent and kissed Anna affectionately, and then hurried away to offer her ministrations elsewhere. As Anna left the chapel, she encountered the chapel-keeper pacing regularly to and fro across the length of the broad steps. In the porch was a notice that cabinet photographs of the revivalist could be purchased on application at one shilling each. End of Chapter 5. Chapter 6 of Anna of the Five Towns. Willey. Anna closed the bedroom door softly. Through the open window came the tones of golden church-clock, famous for their sonority and richness, announcing eleven. Agnes lay asleep under the blue and white counterpane, on the side of the bed next to the wall, the bed-clothes pushed down and disclosing the upper half of her night-gown figure. She slept in absolute repose, with flushed cheek and every muscle lax, her hair by some chance drawn in a perfect straight line diagonally across the pillow. Anna glanced at her sister, the image of physical innocence and childish security, and then depositing the candle went to the window and looked out. The bedroom was over the kitchen and faced south. The moon was hidden by clouds, but clear stretches of sky showed thick-studded clusters of stars brightly winking. To the far right across the fields, the silhouette of Hillport Church could just be discerned on the ridge. In front, several miles away, the blast furnaces of golden bar and works shot up vast wreaths of yellow flame with canopies of tinted smoke. Still more distant were a thousand other lights crowning chimney and kiln, and nearer on the wastelands west of Bleakridge, long fields of burning ironstone glowed with all the strange colors of decadence. The entire landscape was illuminated and transformed by these unique pyrotechnics of labour atoning for its grime, and dull, weird sounds as of the breathing and sighings of a giant nocturnal creature filled the enchanted air. It was a romantic scene, a romantic summer night, barmy, delicate, and wrapped in meditation. But Anna saw nothing there save the repulsive evidences of manufacture, and had never seen anything else. She was still horribly acutely miserable, exhausted by the fruitless search for some solution of the enigma of sin, her sin in particular, and of redemption. She had cogitated in a vain circle until she was no longer capable of reasoned ideas. She gazed at the stars and into the limitable spaces beyond them, and thought of life and its inconceivable littleness as millions had done before in the presence of that same firmament. Then after a time her brain resumed its nightmare-like task. She began to probe herself anew. Would it have availed if she had walked publicly to the penitential form at the Communion Rail, and ranging herself with the working men and women, proved by that overt deed the sincerity of her contrition? She wished ardently that she had done so, yet knew well that such an act would always be impossible for her, even though the evasion of it meant eternal torture. Undoubtedly, as Mrs. Sutton had implied, she was proud, stiff-necked, obstinate in iniquity. Mrs. stirred slightly in her sleep, and Anna, aroused, dropped the blind, turned towards the room and began to undress, slowly with reflective pauses. Her melancholy became grim, sardonic. If she was doomed to destruction, so let it be. Suddenly half glad she knelt down and prayed. Prayed that pride might be cast out, burying her face in the coverlet, encaging the passionate effusion in a whisper, lest Agnes should be disturbed. Having prayed, she still knelt quiescent, her eyes were dry and burning. The last car thundered up the road, shaking the house, and she rose, finished undressing, blew out the candle, and slipped into bed by Agnes's side. She could not sleep, did not attempt to sleep, but abandoned herself meekly to despair. Her thoughts covered again the interminable round, and again, and yet again. In the twilight of the brief summer night, her accustomed eyes could distinguish every object in the room, all the bits of furniture which had been brought from Handbridge, and with which she had been familiar since her memory began. Everything appeared mean, despicable, cheerless. There was nothing to inspire. She dreamt impossibly of a high spirituality which would metamorphose all, change her life, lest glamour to the most pitiful surroundings, ennoble the most ignominious burdens, a spirituality never to be hers. At any rate she would tell her father in the morning that she was convicted of sin, and however hopelessly seeking salvation. She would tell both her father and Agnes at breakfast. The task would be difficult, but she swore to do it. She resolved. She endeavoured to sleep, and did sleep uneasily for a short period. When she woke the great business of the dawn had begun. She left the bed, and drawing up the blind looked forth. The furnace fires were pauling. A few milky clouds sailed in the vast pallid blue. It was cold just then, and she shivered. She went to the glass and examined her face carefully, but he gave no signs whatever of the inward warfare. She saw her plain and mended night-gown. Suppose she were married to Minas. Suppose he lay asleep in the bed where Agnes lay asleep. Involuntarily she glanced at Agnes to certify that the child and none else was indeed there, and got into bed hurriedly and hid herself, because she was ashamed to have had such a fancy. But she continued to think of Minas. She envied him for his cheerfulness, his joy, his goodness, his dignity, his tact, his sex. She envied every man. Even in the sphere of religion men were not fettered like women. No man, she thought, would acquiesce in the futility to which she was already half-resigned. A man would either ring salvation from the heavenly powers or race gloriously to hell. Minas? Minas was a god. She recollected her resolution to speak to her father and Agnes at breakfast, and shudderingly confirmed it, but less stoutly than before. Then an announcement made by Mr. Banks in Chapel on the previous evening presented itself, as though she was listening to it for the first time. It was the announcement of a prayer meeting for workers in the revival, to be held that Saturday morning at seven o'clock. She instantly decided to go to the meeting, and the decision seemed to give her new hope. Just there she might find peace. On that faint expectancy she fell asleep again, and did not wake till half-past six, after her usual hour. She heard noises in the yard. It was her father going towards the garden with a wheel-barrow. She dressed quickly, and when she had pinned on her hat she woke Agnes. Going out, sis? The child asked, sleepily, seeing her attire. Yes, dear, I'm going to the seven o'clock prayer meeting, and you must get breakfast. You can, can't you?" The child assented, glad of the chance. But what are you going to the prayer meeting for? Anna hesitated. Why not confess? No. I must go, she said, quietly at length. I shall be back before eight. Does father know? Agnes inquired apprehensively. No, dear. Anna shut the door quickly, went softly downstairs and along the passage, and crept into the street like a thief. Men and women and boys were on their way to work, with hurried, clattering steps, some munching thick pieces of bread as they went, all self-centered, apparently morose and not quite awake. The dust lay thick in the arid gutters, and in drifts across the pavement, as the night wind had blown it. Vircular traffic had not begun, and blinds were still drawn, and though the footpaths were busy, the street had a deserted and forlorn aspect. Anna walked hastily down the road, avoiding the glances of such as looked at her, but peering furtively at the faces of those who ignored her. All seemed callous, hoggishly careless of the everlasting verities. At first it appeared strange to her that the potent revival in the Wesleyan Chapel had produced no effect on these preoccupied people. Berkeley then continued its dull and even course. She wondered whether any of them guessed that she was going to the prayer meeting, and secretly sneered at her, therefore. When she had climbed Duckbank, she found to her surprise that the doors of the chapel were fast closed, though it was ten minutes past seven. Was there to be no prayer meeting? A momentary sensation of relief flashed through her, and then she saw that the gate of the schoolyard was open. She should have known that early morning prayers were never offered up in the chapel, but in the lecture hall. She crossed the quadrangle with beating heart, feeling now that she had embarked on a frightful enterprise. The door of the lecture hall was ajar. She pushed it and went in. At the other end of the hall a meager handful of worshippers were collected, and on the raised platform stood Mr. Banks, vapid, perfunctory, and fatigued. He gave out a verse and pitched the tune too high. But the singers with a heroic effort accomplished the verse without breaking down. The singing was thin and feeble, and the eagerness of one or two voices seemed strained, as though with a determination to make the best of things. Miners was not present, and Anna did not know whether to be sorry or glad at this. She recognized that to save herself all present were old believers, tried warriors of the Lord. There was only one other woman, Miss Sarah Vodrian, aged spinster, who kept house for Titus Price and his son, and found her sole diversion in the variety of her religious experiences. Before the hymn was finished a young man joined the assembly. It was the youth who had sat near Anna on the previous night, ecstatic and naïve bliss shone from his face. In his prayer the minister drew the attention of the deity to the fact that although a score or more of souls had been ingathered at the first service, the Methodists of Bursley were by no means satisfied. They wanted more. They wanted the whole of Bursley, and they would be content with no less. He begged that their earnest work might not be shamed before the world by partial success. In conclusion he sought the blessing of God on the revivalist, and asked that this tireless enthusiast might be led to husband his strength, at which there was a fervent amen. Several men prayed, and a pause ensued, all still kneeling. Then the minister said, in a tone of oily politeness, "'Will sister pray?' another pause followed. "'Sister tell right?' Sister would have welcomed death and damnation. She clasped her hands tightly, and longed for the endless moment to pass. At last Sarah Vodri gave a preliminary cough. Miss Vodri was always happy to pray aloud, and her invocations usually began with the same phrase, "'Lord, we thank thee that this day finds us with our bodies out of the grave, and our souls out of hell.' Afterwards the minister gave out another hymn, and as soon as the singing commenced Anna slipped away. Once in the yard she breathed a sigh of relief. Peace at the prayer meeting it was like coming out of prison. Peace was farther off than ever. Nay, she had actually forgotten her soul in the sensations of shame and discomfort. She had contrived only to make herself ridiculous, and perhaps the pious that their breakfast tables would discuss her and her father and their money and the queer life they led, if minors had been but present. She walked out into the street. It was twenty minutes to eight by the town hall clock. The last workman's car of the morning was just leaving Bursley. It was packed inside and outside, and the conductor hung in securely on the step. At the gates of the manufacturing opposite the chapel a man in a white smock stood placidly smoking a grape. A prayer meeting was a little thing, a trifle in the immense and regular activity of the town. This thought necessarily occurred to Anna. She hurried homewards, wondering what her father would say about that morning's unusual excursion. A couple of hundred yards distant from home she saw to her astonishment Agnes emerging from the front door of the house. The child ran rapidly down the street, not observing Anna till they were close upon each other. Oh, Anna, you forgot to buy the bacon yesterday. There isn't a scrap. When father's fearfully angry he gave me six months, and I'm going down to Leal's to get some as quick as ever I can. It was a thunderbolt to Anna, this seemingly petty misadventure. As she entered the house she felt a tear on her cheek. She was ashamed to weep, but she wept. This, after the fiasco of the prayer meeting, was a climax of woe. It overtapped and extinguished all the rest. Her soul was nothing to her now. She quickly took off her hat and ran to the kitchen. Agnes had put the breakfast-things on the tray ready for setting. The bread was cut, the coffee portioned into the jug, the fire burned bright, and the kettle sang. Anna took the cloth from the drawer in the oak dresser, and went to the parlour to lay the table. Mr. Tell Wright was at the end of the garden, pointing the wall, his back to the house. The table set. Anna observed that the room was only partly dusted. There was a duster on the mantelpiece. She seized it to finish, and at that moment the kitchen clock struck eight. Simultaneously Mr. Tell Wright dropped his trowel and came towards the house. She doggedly dusted one chair, and then turning coward flew away upstairs. The kitchen was barred to her, since her father would enter by the kitchen door. She had forgotten to buy bacon, and breakfast would be late. It was a calamity unique in her experience. She stood at the door of her bedroom, and waited vehemently for Agnes' return. At last the child raced breathlessly in. Anna flew to meet her. With incredible speed the bacon was whipped out of its wrapper, and Anna picked up the knife. At the first stroke she cut herself, and Agnes was obliged to bind the finger with rag. The clock struck for half an hour like a nail. It was twenty minutes to nine, forty minutes behind time, when the two girls hurried into the parlour, Anna bearing the bacon and hot plates, Agnes the bread and coffee. Mr. Tell Wright sat upright and ferocious in his chair, the image of a fence and wroth. Instead of reading his letters he had fed full of this ineffable grievance. The meal began in a desolating silence. The male creature's terrible displeasure permeated the whole room like an aether, invisible but carrying vibrations to the heart. Then, when he had eaten one piece of bacon, and cut his envelopes, the miser began to empty himself of some of his anger in stormy tones that might have uprooted trees. Anna ought to feel thoroughly ashamed. He could not imagine what she had been thinking of. Why didn't she tell him she was going to the prayer meeting? Why did she go to the prayer meeting, disarranging the whole household? How came she to forget the bacon? It was gross carelessness, a pretty example to her little sister. The fact was that since her birthday she had gotten above her zen. She was careless and extravagant. Look how thick the bacon was cut. He should not stand it much longer. And her finger all red and the blood dropping on the cloth, a nice sight at the meal. Go and tie it up again. Without a word she left the room to obey. Of course she had no defence. Agnes, her tears falling, pecked her food timidly like a bird, not daring to stir from her chair, even to assist at the finger. What did Anna say? Tellerite inquired fiercely, when Anna had come back into the room. Mr. Miners, she murmured, at a loss but vaguely apprehending for the trouble. Did you see him? Yes, father. Did you give him my message? I forgot it. Got in heaven she had forgotten the message. With a devastating grunt Mr. Tellerite walked speechless out of the room. The girls cleared the table, exchanging sympathy with a single mute glance. Anna's one satisfaction was that even as she had remembered the message she could not possibly have delivered it. The reframe Tellerite stayed in the front parlor till half-bast ten o'clock, unseen but felt like an angry god behind a cloud. The consciousness that he was there, unappeased and dangerous, remained uppermost in the minds of the two girls during the morning. At half-bast ten he opened the door. Agnes, he commanded, and Agnes ran to him from the kitchen with the speed of propitiation. Yes, father. Take this note down to prices, and don't wait for an answer. Yes, father. She was back in twenty minutes. Anna was sweeping the lobby. If Mr. Mann is cold while I'm out you must tell him to wait. Mr. Tellerite said to Agnes, pointedly ignoring Anna's presence. Then, having brushed his greenish hat on his sleeve, he went off towards town to buy meat and vegetables. He always did Saturday's marketing himself, at the butchers and in the St. Luke's covered market. He was a familiar and redoubtable figure. Among the salespeople who stood the market was a wrinkled, hardy old potato woman from the other side of Morthorn. Every Saturday the miser bested her in their higgling match, and nearly every Saturday she scornfully threw at him the same joke. Get me a lot at post office, Mr. Terrick, and I'll give you three benefit-stunts for Fathburn's Aitney. He seldom failed to laugh heartily at this. At dinner the girls could perceive that the shadow of his displeasure had slightly lifted, though he kept a frowning silence. Expert in all the symptoms of his moods, they knew that in a few hours he would begin to talk again, at first in monosyllables, and then in short detached sentences. An intimation of relief diffused itself through the house like a hint of spring in February. These domestic upheavals followed always the same course, and Anna had learnt to suffer the later stages of them with calmness and even with impassivity. Henry Miners had not called. She supposed that her father had expected him to call for the answer which she had forgotten to give him, and she had a hope that he would come in the afternoon. Once again she had the idea that something definite and satisfactory might result if she could only see him, that she might, as it were, gather inspiration from the mere sight of his face. After dinner, while the girls were washing the dinner things in the scullery, Agnes's quick ear caught the sound of voices in the parlour. They listened. Miners had come. Mr. Tellwright must have seen him from the front window and opened the door to him before he could ring. It's him," said Agnes, excited. Who? Anna asked self-consciously. Mr. Miners, of course, said the child sharply, making it quite plain that this affectation could not impose on her for a single instant. Anna! It was Mr. Tellwright's summons through the parlour window. She dried her hands, doffed her apron, and went to the parlour, animated by a thousand fears and expectations. Why was she to be included in the colloquy? Miners rose at her entrance and greeted her with conspicuous deference, a deference which made her feel ashamed. Oh! The old man growled, but he was obviously content. I gave Anna a message for you yesterday, Mr. Miners, but her forgot to deliver it, wench-like. You might have been saved the trouble of calling. Now, as you hear, I've some but to tell you. It'll be Anna's money, as I'll go into that concern of yours. I've none by me. In fact, I'm almost fast for brass. But all I've ne'er two thousand does make no matter in the Munstein. Anna says I'll go in we're on strength of my recommendation. This speech was evidently a perfect surprise for Henry Miners. For a moment he seemed to be at a loss. Then his face gave candid expression to a feeling of intense pleasure. You know all about this business, then, Miss Tellwright? She blushed. Father has told me something about it. And are you willing to be my partner? No, I didn't say that. Tellwright interrupted. It'll be Anna's money, but in my name. I see, said Miners gravely, but if it is Miss Anna's money, why should not she be the partner? He offered one of his courtly diplomatic smiles. Oh, but Anna began in deprecation. Tellwright laughed. Ah! He said, why not? It'll be experience for brass. Just so, said Miners. Anna stood silent like a child who is being talked about. There was a pause. Would you care for that arrangement, Miss Tellwright? Oh, yes, she said. I shall try to justify your confidence. I needn't say that I think you and your father will have no reason to be disappointed. Two thousand pounds is, of course, only a trifle to you, but it is a great deal to me, and he hesitated. Anna did not surmise that he was too much moved by the sight of her and the situation to continue, but this was the fact. There's no but one point, Mr. Miners, Tellwright said bluntly, and that's interest on the capital, as must be deducted before reckoning profits, us must have six percent. But I thought we had settled it at five, said Miners, with sudden firmness. When settled as usual of five, I know fifteen hundred. The miser replied with imperturbable audacity, but us, more than our six. I certainly thought we had thrashed that out fully, and agreed that the interest should be the same on each side. Miners was alert and defensive. Nay, young man, os mon ava six, we're takin' a risk!" Miners pressed his lips together. He was taken at a disadvantage. Mr. Tellwright, with unscrupulous cleverness, had utilized the effect on Miners of his daughter's presence to regain a position from which the younger man had definitely ousted him a few days before. Miners was annoyed, but he gave no sign of his annoyance. Very well, he said at length, with a private smile at Anna, to indicate that it was out of regard for her that he yielded. Mr. Tellwright made no pretense of concealing his satisfaction. He too smiled at Anna, sardonically. The last vestige of the morning's irritation vanished in a glow of triumph. I'm afraid I must go, said Miners, looking at his watch. There is a service at Chapel at Three. Our revivalist came down with Mrs. Sutton to look over the works this morning, and I told him I should be at the service, so I must. You coming, Mr. Tellwright? Nay, my lad, I'm old enough to leave it to youngens." Anna forced her courage to the verge of rashness, moved by a swift impulse. "'Will you wait one minute?' she said to Miners. I'm going to the service. If I'm late back farther, Agnes will see to the tea. Don't wait for me." She looked him straight in the face. It was one of the bravest acts of her life. After the episode of breakfast, to suggest a procedure which might entail any risk upon another meal was absolutely heroic. Tellwright glanced away from his daughter and at Miners. Anna hurried upstairs. "'O's thy lawyer, Mr. Miners?' Tellwright asked. "'Dane,' said Miners. "'That'll be convenient. Dane does my bit of business, too. I'll see him and make a bargain, we input partnership deed. He always works by a contract for me. I have no patience with six inapances." Miners ascended. "'You must come down some afternoon and look over the works,' he said to Anna, as they were walking down Trafalgar Road towards Chapel. "'I should like to,' Anna replied. "'I've never been over a works in my life.' "'No. You're going to be a partner in the best works of its size in Bursley,' Miners said enthusiastically. "'I'm glad of that,' she smiled. "'For I do believe I own the worst.' "'What? Prices, do you mean?' She nodded. "'Ah,' he exclaimed, and seemed to be thinking. "'I wasn't sure whether that belonged to you or your father. I'm afraid it isn't quite the best of properties, but perhaps I'd better say nothing about that. We had a grand meeting last night. Our little cornet-player quite lived up to his reputation, don't you think? "'Quite,' she said faintly. "'You enjoyed the meeting?' "'No,' she blurted out. "'Dismayed, but resolute, to be honest. There was a silence. But you were at the early prayer meeting this morning, I hear. She said nothing while they took a dozen paces, and then murmured, "'Yes.' Their eyes met for a second, hers full of trouble. "'Perhaps,' he said at length, "'Perhaps—excuse me, saying this, but you may be expecting too much.' "'Well,' she encouraged him, "'prepared now to finish what had begun. "'I mean,' he said earnestly, "'that I cannot promise you any sudden change of feeling, any sudden relief and certainty such as some people experience. At least I never had it. What is called conversion can happen in various ways. It is a question of living, of constant endeavour, with the example of Christ always before us. It need not always be a sudden wrench, you know, from the world. Perhaps you have been expecting too much,' he repeated, as though offering balm with that phrase. She thanked him sincerely, but not with her lips, only with the heart. He had revealed to her an avenue of release from a situation which had seemed on all sides fatally closed. She sprang eagerly towards it. She realised afresh how frightful was the dilemma from which there was now a hope of escape, and she was grateful accordingly. Before, she had not dared steadily to face its terrors. She wondered that even her father's displeasure or the project of the partnership had been able to divert her from the plight of her soul. Putting these mundane things firmly behind her, she concentrated the activities for her brain on that idea of Christ-like living, day by day, hour by hour, of a gradual aspiration towards Christ, and thereby an ultimate arrival at the state of being saved. This, she thought, she might accomplish. This gave opportunity of immediate effort, dispensing with the necessity of an impossible, violent, spiritual metamorphosis. They did not speak again until they had reached the gates of the chapel, when miners, who had to enter the choir from the back, bade her a quiet adieu. Anna enjoyed the service, which passed smoothly and uneventfully. At a revival night is the time of ecstasy and fervour and salvation. In the afternoon one must be content with preparatory praise and prayer. That evening, while father and daughters sat in the parlour after supper, there was a ring at the door. Agnes ran to open and found Willie Price. It had begun to rain, and the visitor, his jacket collar turned up, was wet and draggled. Agnes left him on the mat and ran back to the parlour. Young Mr. Price wants to see you, father. Tell the right motion to her to shut the door. You best see him, Anna. He said, it's none of my business. But what has he come about, father? That note that I sent down this morning I'd told old Titus as he would pay us £20 on Monday morning certain or us should distrain. They must compare £10, especially in bank notes, compare £20 and 30. And suppose he says he can't? Tell him he must. I've figured it out and changed my mind about that works. Old Titus isn't done for yet, though he's getting on that road. Us can screw another fifty out of him. That'll only leave six months, then, darling. Then us can turn him out. His gold bankrupts, us can't claim for our rent, afford the other creditors, and us'll have 100 or 120 in hand towards the door-and-door place up a bit for a no-tenant. Make him bankrupt, father, Anna exclaimed. It was the only part of the ingenious scheme which she had understood. Aye, he said laconically, but would Christ have driven Titus Price into the bankruptcy court? If he bears well and good, hadn't you better see Mr. William, father? Whose property is it, mine or thine? Toe-right growled. His good humour was still precarious, insecurely re-established, and Anna obediently left the room. After all, she said to herself, a debt is a debt, and honest people pay what they owe. It was in an uncomplacent tone that Anna invited Willie Price to the front parlor. Nervousness always made her seem harsh, and moreover she had not the trick of hiding firmness under suavity. Will you come this way, Mr. Price? Yes, he said, with ingratiating, eager compliance. Dusk was falling, and the room in shadow. She forgot to ask him to take a chair, so they both stood up during the interview. Hey, man, mate, in we had last night. He began twisting his hat. I saw you there, Mr. Right. Yes. Yes, there was a splendid muster of teachers. I wanted to be at the prayer-mate in this morning, but couldn't get away. Did you happen to go, Mr. Right? She saw that he knew she had been present, and gave him another curt mollicellable. She would have liked to be kind to him, to reassure him, to make him happy and comfortable, so ludicrous and touching were his efforts after a social urbanity which should appease. But just as much as he, she was unskilled in the subtle art of converse. Yes, he continued, and I was anxious to be at tonight's meeting, but the dad asked me to come up here, said I'd better. That term, the dad, uttered in William's slow, drawling voice, seemed to show tightest price in the new light to Anna, as a human creature loved, not as a mere gross physical organism. The effect was quite surprising. William went on. Can I see your father, Mr. Right? Is it about the rent? Yes, he said. Well, if you will tell me. Oh, I beg pardon, he said quickly. Of course, I know it's your property, but I thought, Mr. Teller, I'd always so after it for you. It was he that wrote the letter this morning, won't it? Yes, Anna replied. She did not explain the situation. The insist on another twenty pounds on Monday. Yes, she said. We paid ten last Monday. But there is still over a hundred owing. And no, but, oh, Mr. Teller, you mustn't be hard on us. Trade's bad. It says in the signal that trade is improving. She interrupted sharply. Does it? He said. But look at prices. They're cooked and there's no profit left. I'll show you, Mr. Right, my father and me have an hard struggle. Everything's against us and no works in particular, as you know. His tone was so earnest. So pathetic that tears of compassion almost rose to her eyes as she looked at those simple naive blue eyes of his. His lanky figure and clumsily fitting clothes. His feeble, placatory smile. The twitching movements of his long red hands all contributed to the effect of his defenselessness. She thought of the text, Blessed are the meek, and saw in a flash the deep truth of it. Here was she and her father rich, powerful, autocratic, and there were Willie Price and his father, commercial hares, hunted by hounds of creditors, hares that turned in plaintive appeal to those greedy jaws for mercy, and yet she, a hound, envied at that moment the hares. Blessed are the meek, blessed are the failures, blessed are the stupid, for they, unknown to themselves, have a grace which is denied to the haughty, the successful, and the wise. The very repulsiveness of old Titus, his underhand methods, his insincerities, only serve to increase her sympathy for the pair. How could Titus help being himself? Any more than Henry Biners could help being himself. And that idea led her to think of the prospective partnership, destined by every favourable sign to brilliant success, and to contrast it with the ignoble and forlorn undertaking in Edward Street. She tried to discover some method of soothing the young man's fears of being considerate to him without injuring her father's scheme. �If you will pay what you owe,� she said, �we will spend it all, every penny, on improving the works.� �Mr. Delwright,� he answered, with fatal emphasis, �we cannot pay!� Ah! she wished to follow Christ day by day, hour by hour, constantly to endeavour after saintliness. But what was she to do now? Left to herself, she might have said, in a burst of impulsive generosity, �I forgive you all the rears, start afresh.� But her father had to be reckoned with. �How much do you think you can pay on Monday?� she asked, coldly. At that moment her father entered the room. His first act was to light the gas. Willie Price's eyes blinked at the glare as though he were trembling before the anticipated decree of this implacable old man. Anna's heart beat with sympathetic apprehension. Tellwright shook hands grimly with the youth, who restated hurriedly what he had said to Anna. �It's all this, and� the old man began with finality and stopped. Anna caught a glance from him dismissing her. She went out in silence. On the Monday Titus Price paid another twenty pounds. Anna of the Five Towns by Arnold Bennett Chapter 7 The Sewing Meeting On an afternoon ten days later, Mr. Sutton's coachman, Barrett, by name, arrived at e-frame Tellwright's back door with the note. The Tellwrights were having tea. The note could be seen in his enormous hand, and Agnes went out. �An old show, if you please, miss� he said to her, touching his hat and giving a pull to the leather and belt, which, surrounding his waist, alone seemed to hold his frame together. Agnes, much impressed, took the note. She had never before seen that resplendent automaton apart from the equipage which he directed. Always afterwards Barrett formally saluted her in the streets, affording her thus every time a thrilling moment of delicious joy. �A letter, and there's an answer, and he's waiting� she cried, running into the parlour. �Less rawr!� said her father. �Here, give it to me. It's for Miss Tellwright. That's Anna, isn't it? Oh, send!� she put the grey envelope to her nose like a flower. Anna, secretly as excited as her sister, opened the note and read, �Landsdown House, Wednesday, dear Miss Tellwright. Mother gives tea to the Sunday School sowing meeting here tomorrow. Will you give us the pleasure of your company? I do not think you have been to any of the S.S.S. meetings yet, but we should all be glad to see you and have your assistance. Everyone is working very hard for the autumn bazaar, and mother has set her mind on the Sunday School stall being the best. Do come, will you? Excuse this short notice. You're sincerely Beatrice Sutton. P.S. We begin at three thirty. They want me to go to their sowing meeting tomorrow.� She exclaimed timidly to her father, pushing the note towards him across the table. �Must I go, father?� �I just ask me for. Please, this end. I'm out to do it.� �I don't want to go. Oh, S.S. do go!� Agnes pleaded. �Perhaps I'd better� she agreed, but with the misgivings of diffidence. �I haven't a rag to wear. They must have a new dress farther at once.� �As forgotten as that, there, Gorgeman� �Waiting�� he remarked curtly. �Shall I run and tell him you go?� Agnes suggested. �It'll be splendid for you. But don't be silly, dear, I must write. �Wilt write, then?� said the child energetically. �I'll get you the ink and paper.� She flew about, and hovered over Anna while the answer to the invitation was being written. Anna made her reply as short and simple as possible, and then tended it for her father's inspection. �Will that do?� he pretended to be nonchalant, but in fact he was somewhat interested. �As forgotten to put the date in� was all his comment, and he threw the note back. �I've put Wednesday. That's not the date. Does it matter? Beatrice Sutton only puts Wednesday.� His response was to walk out of the room. �Is he vexed?� Agnes asked anxiously. There had been a whole week of almost perfect amenity. The next day, at half-past three, Anna, having put on her best clothes, was ready to start. She had seen almost nothing of social life, and the prospect of taking part in this entertainment of the Sutton's filled her with trepidation. Should she arrive early, in which case she would have to talk more, or late, in which case there would be the ordeal of entering a crowded room? She could not decide. She went into her father's bedroom, whose window overlooked Trafalgar Road, and saw from behind a curtain that small groups of ladies were continually passing up the street to disappear into Alderman's Sutton's house. Most of the women she recognized, others she knew but vaguely by sight. Then the stream ceased, and suddenly she heard the kitchen clock strike four. She ran downstairs, agnus, swollen by importance, was carrying her father's tea into the parlour, and hastened out the back way. In another moment she was at the Sutton's front door. A servant, in black alpaca with white wristbands, cap, streams, and embroidered apron, each article the Dernier Cree from Bostock's great shop at Handbridge, asked her in a subdued and respectful tone to step within. Suddenly there had been no sight of the unusual, but once inside the house Anna found it a humming hive of activity. Women laden with stuffs and implements were crossing the picture-hung hall, their footsteps noiseless on the thick rugs which lay about in rich confusion. On either hand was an open door, and from each door came the sound of many eager voices. Beyond these doors a broad staircase rose majestically to unseen heights, closing the vista of the hall. As the servant was demanding Anna's name, Beatrice Sutton, radiant and gorgeous, came with a rush out of the room to the left, the dining-room, and taking her by both hands kissed her. My dear! We thought you were never coming! Everyone's here, except the men, of course. Come along upstairs and take your things off. I'm so glad you kept your promise. Did you think I should break it? said Anna, as they ascended the easy gradient of the stairs. Oh! No, my dear! But you're such a shy little bird! The conception of herself as a shy little bird amused Anna. By a curious chain of ideas she came to wonder who could clean those stairs the better. She or this gay and flitting butterfly in a pale green teagun. Beatrice led the way to a large bedroom, crowned with furniture and knick-knacks. There were three mirrors in this spacious apartment, one in the wardrobe, a chivalr-glass, and a third over the mantelpiece. The frame of the last was bordered with photographs. This is my room, said Beatrice. Will you put your things on the bed? The bed was already laden with hats, bonnets, jackets, and wraps. I hope your mother won't give me anything fancy to do. Anna said, I'm no good at anything except plain sewing. Oh! That's all right! Beatrice answered carelessly, it's all plain sewing. She drew a cardboard box from her pocket, and offered it to Anna. Here, have one. They were chocolate creams. Thanks! said Anna, taking one. Aren't they very expensive? I've never seen any like this before. Oh! Just ordinary! Four shillings a pound. Papa buys some for me. I simply dot on them. I love to eat them in bed, if I can't sleep. Beatrice made these statements with her mouthful. Don't you adore chocolates? She added. I don't know. Anna lamely replied, Yes, I like them. She only adored her sister, and perhaps God, and this was the first time she had tasted chocolate. I couldn't live without them, said Beatrice. Your hair is lovely. I never saw such a brown. What wash do you use? Wash, Anna repeated. Yes. Don't you put anything on it? No, never. Well, take care you don't lose it, that's all. Now will you come and have just a peep at my studio, when I paint you, no? I'd like you to see it before we go down. They proceeded to a small room on the second floor, with a sloping ceiling and a dormer window. I'm obliged to have this room, Beatrice explained, because it's the only one in the house with a north night, and of course you can't do without that. How do you like it? Anna said that she liked it very much. The walls of the room were hung with various odd curtains of eastern design. Attached somehow to these curtains, some coloured plates, bits of pewter, and a few fans were hung high, in apparently precarious suspense. Over down on the walls were pictures and sketches, chiefly unframed, of flowers, fishes, loaves of bread, candlesticks, mugs, oranges, and tea-trays. On an immense easel in the middle of the room was an unfinished portrait of a man. Who's that? Anna asked, ignorant of those rules of caution which are observed by the practised frequenter of studios. Don't you know? Beatrice exclaimed, shocked, that's for par. I'm doing his portrait. He sits in that chair there. The silly old master at the school won't let me draw from life yet. He keeps me to the antique. So I said to myself, I would study the living model at home. I'm dreadfully in earnest about it, you know. I really am. Mother says I work far too long up here. Anna was unable to perceive that the picture bore any resemblance to Alderman Sutton, except in the matter of the aldermanic robe, which she could now trace beneath the portrait's neck. The studies on the walls pleased her much better. Their realism amazed her. One could make out not only that here, for example, was a fish, there was no doubt that it was a halibut. The solid roundness of the oranges and the glitter on the tea-trays seemed miraculously achieved. Have you actually done all these? She asked, in genuine admiration. I think they're splendid. Oh yes, they're all mine, but they're only still life studies. Beatrice said contemptuously of them, but she was nevertheless flattered. I see now that it's Mr. Sutton, Anna said, pointing to the easel picture. Yes, it's far right enough. But I'm sure I'm boring you. Let's go down now, or perhaps we shall catch it from Mother. As Anna, in the wake of Beatrice, entered the drawing room, a dozen or more women glanced at her with keen curiosity, and the even flow of conversation ceased for a moment to be instantly resumed. In the centre of the room, with her back to the fireplace, Mrs. Sutton was seated at a square table, cutting out. Although the afternoon was warm, she had a white woolen wrap over her shoulders. For the rest, she was attired in plain black silk, with a large stuffed apron containing a pocket for scissors and chalk. She jumped up with the activity of which Beatrice had inherited apart, and greeted Anna, kissing her heartily. How are you, my dear? So pleased you have come! The time-worn phrases came from her thin, nervous lips, full of sincere and kindly welcome. Her wrinkled face broke into a warm, life-giving smile. Beatrice, find Miss Anna a chair. There were two chairs in the bay of the window, and one of them was occupied by Miss Dickinson, who Anna knew slightly. The other, being empty, was assigned to the latecomer. Now you want something to do, I suppose, said Beatrice. Please. Mother, let Miss Tell Wright have something to get on with at once. She has a lot of time to make up. Mrs. Sutton, who had sat down again, smiled across at Anna. Let me see now what can we give her? The several of those boys' nightgowns already teched, said Miss Dickinson, who was stitching at the boys' nightgown. His warm hall finished. And she picked up an inchoate garment from the floor. Perhaps Miss Tell Wright wouldn't end finishing it. Yes, I'll do my best at it, said Anna. The thoughtless girl had arrived at the sewing meeting without needles, or thimbles, or scissors. But one lady or another supplied these deficiencies, and soon she was at work. She stitched her best and her hardest, with head bent, and all her wits concentrated on the task. Most of the others seemed to be doing likewise, though not to the detriment of conversation. Beatrice sank down on a stool near her mother, and threading a needle with coloured silk took up a long piece of elaborate embroidery. The general subjects of talk were the revival, now over, with a superb record of seventy saved souls, the school-treat shortly to occur, the summer holidays, the fashions, and the change of ministers which would take place in August. The talkers were the wives and daughters of tradesmen and small manufacturers, together with a few girls of somewhat lower status employed in shops. It was for the sake of these latter that the sewing meeting was always fixed for the weekly half-holiday. The splendour of Mrs. Sutton's drawing-room was a little dazzling to most of the guests, and Mrs. Sutton herself seemed scarcely of a peace with it. The fact was that the luxury of the abode was mainly due to Alderman Sutton's inability to refuse anything to his daughter, whose tastes lay in the direction of rich draperies, large or quaint chairs, occasional tables, dwarf screens, hand-painted mirrors, and an opulence of bric-a-brac. The hand of Beatrice might be perceived everywhere, even in the position of the piano, whose back adorned with carelessly flung silks and photographs was turned away from the wall. The pictures on the walls had been acquired gradually by Mr. Sutton at auction sales. It was commonly held that he had an excellent taste in pictures, and that his daughter's aptitude for the arts came from him, and not from her mother. The gilt-cloak and side-pieces on the mantelpiece were also peculiarly Mr. Sutton's, having been publicly presented to him by the directors of a local building society, of which he had been chairman for many years. Less inhibited by all this unexampled luxury than she was reassured by the atmosphere of combined and homely effort, the loneliness of several of her companions and the kind, simple face of Mrs. Sutton, Anna quickly began to feel at ease. She paused in her work, and glancing around her happened to catch the eye of Miss Dickinson, who offered a remark about the weather. Miss Dickinson was the head assistant at a draper's in St. Luke's Square, and a pillar of the Sunday School, which, Sunday by Sunday, and year by year, had watched her develop from a rosy-cheeked girl into a confirmed spinster, with sallow and warted face. Miss Dickinson supported her mother, and was a pattern to her sex. She was lovable, but had never been loved. She would have made an admirable wife and mother. But fate had decided that this material was to be wasted. Miss Dickinson found compensation for the rigor of destiny in gossip, as innocent, as indiscreet. It was said that she had a tongue. A hear, said Miss Dickinson, lowering her contralto voice to a confidential tone, that you are going into partnership with Mr. Meinders, Miss Tellwright. The suddenness of the attack took Anna by surprise. Her first defensive impulse was boldly to deny the statement, or at the least to say that it was premature. A fortnight ago, under similar circumstances, she would not have hesitated to do so, but for more than a week Anna had been leading a new life, which chiefly meant a meticulous avoidance of the sins of speech. Never to deviate from the truth, never to utter an unkind or a thoughtless word, and whatever provocation, these were two of her self-imposed rules. Yes, she answered Miss Dickinson, I am. Rather a novelty, isn't it? Miss Dickinson smiled amiably. I don't know, said Anna. It's only a business arrangement. Father arranged it. Really, I have nothing to do with it, and I had no idea that people were talking about it. Oh, of course I should never breathe the syllable. Miss Dickinson said with emphasis, I make a practice of never talking about other people's affairs. I always find that best, don't you? But I happen to hear it mentioned in the shop. It's very funny how things get abroad, isn't it? Said Anna. Yes, indeed, Miss Dickinson concurred. Mr. Miners hasn't been to our sewing meetings for quite a long time, but I expect he'll turn up to-day. Anna took thought. Is this a sort of special meeting, then? Oh, not at all, but we all have said just now while you were upstairs that he would be sure to come. Miss Dickinson's features, skilled in innuendo, conveyed that which was too delicate for utterance. Anna said nothing. You'll see a good deal of him at your house, don't you?" Miss Dickinson continued. He comes sometimes to see father on business. Anna replied sharply, breaking one of her rules. Oh, of course I meant that. You didn't suppose I meant anything else, did you? Miss Dickinson smiled pleasantly. She was thirty-five years of age. Twenty of those years she had passed in a desolating routine. She had existed in the midst of life and never lived. She knew no finer joy than that which she at that moment experienced. Again Anna offered no reply. The door opened, and every eye was centred on the stately Mrs. Clayton Vernon, who, with Mrs. Banks the minister's wife, was in charge of the other half of the sewing-party in the dining-room. Mrs. Clayton Vernon had heroic proportions, a nose which everyone admitted to be aristocratic, exquisite tact, and the calm consciousness of social superiority. In Bursley she was a great lady. Her instincts were those of a great lady. And she would have been a great lady, no matter to what sphere her god had called her. She had abundant white hair, and water-flowered purple silk in the antique taste. Abertus, my dear! She began. You have deserted us! Have I, Mrs. Vernon? The girl answered, with involuntary deference, I was just coming in. Well, I am sent as a deputation from the other room to ask you to sing something. I am very busy, Mrs. Vernon. I shall never get this mantelcloth finished in time. We shall all work better for a little music, Mrs. Clayton Vernon urged. Your voice is a precious gift, and should be used for the benefit of all. We entreat, my dear girl. Bursley rose from the footstool, and dropped her in broidery. Thank you, said Mrs. Clayton Vernon. If both doors are left open, we shall hear her nicely. What would you like? Bursley asked. I once heard you sing Nazareth, and I shall never forget it. Sing that! It will do us all good. Mrs. Clayton Vernon departed with the large movement of an augusty, and Beatrice sat down to the piano, and removed her bracelets. The accompaniment is simply frightful towards the end, she said, looking at Anna with the grimace, excused mistakes. During the song Mrs. Sutton beckoned with her finger to Anna to come and occupy the stool vacated by Beatrice. Glad to leave the vicinity of Miss Dickinson, Anna obeyed, creeping on tiptoe across the intervening space. I thought I would like to have you near me, my dear." She whispered maternally. When Beatrice had sung the song, and somehow executed that accompaniment, which has terrorized whole multitudes of drawing-room pianists, there was a great deal of applause from both rooms. Mrs. Sutton bent down and whispered in Anna's ear. Her voice has been very well trained, has it not? Yes, very, Anna replied. But though Nazareth had seemed to her wonderful, she had neither understood it nor enjoyed it. She tried to like it, but the effect of it on her was bizarre rather than pleasing. Shortly after half-past five, the gong sounded for tea, and the ladies, bidden by Mrs. Sutton, unanimously thronged into the hall and towards a room at the back of the house. Beatrice came and took Anna by the arm. As they were crossing the hall, there was a ring at the door. There's father and Mr. Banks, too. Beatrice exclaimed, opening to them. Everyone in the vicinity, animated suddenly by this appearance of the male sex, turned with welcoming smiles. A greeting to all! The minister ejaculated, with formal suavity, as he removed his low hat. The alderman beamed a rather absent-minded goodwill on the entire company, and said, Well, I see we're just in time for tea. Then he kissed his daughter, and she accepted from him his hat and stick. Miss tell-right, Pa! Beatrice said, drawing Anna forward. He shook hands with her heartily, emerging for a moment from the bidingdon dream in which he seemed usually to exist. That air of being wrapped by some inward vision, common in very old men, probably signified nothing in the case of William Sutton. It was a habitual pose into which he had perhaps unconsciously fallen. The people connected it with his humble archaeological, geological and zoological hobbies, which had sprung from his membership of the Five Towns Field Club, and which most of his acquaintances regarded with amiable secret disdain. At a school-treat once, held at a popular rural resort, he had taken some of the teachers to a cave, and pointing out the wave-like formation of its roof, had told them that this particular phenomenon had actually been caused by the waves of the sea. The discovery, valid enough and perfectly substantiated by an inquiry into the levels, was extremely creditable to the amateur geologist, but it seriously impaired his reputation among the Wesleyan community as a shrewd man of the world. Few believed the statement, or even tried to believe it, and nearly all thenceforth looked on him as a man who must be humoured in his harmless hallucinations and inexplicable curiosities. On the other hand, the collection of arrow-heads, Roman pottery, fossils, and bird's eggs, which he had given to the museum in the Wedgwood Institution, was always viewed with municipal pride. The tea-room opened by a large French window into a conservatory, and a table was laid down the whole length of the room and the conservatory. Mr. Sutton sat at one end and the minister at the other, but neither Mrs. Sutton nor Beatrice occupied a distinctive place. The ancient clumsy custom of having tea-earns on the table itself had been abolished by Beatrice, who had read in a paper that carving was now never done at table, but by a neatly dressed parlor-maid at the side-board. Consequently, the tea-earns were exiled to the side-board, and the tea dispensed by a couple of maids. Thus, as Beatrice had explained to her mother, the hostess was left free to devote herself to the social arts. The board was richly spread with fancy breads and cakes, jams of Mrs. Sutton's own celebrated preserving, diverse sandwiches compiled by Beatrice, and one or two large examples of the famous Bursley pork pie. Numerous as the company was, several chairs remained empty after every one was seated, Anna found herself again next to Miss Dickinson, and five places from the minister in the conservatory. Beatrice and her mother were higher up in the room. Beatrice was sung by request of Mrs. Sutton. At first silence prevailed among the guests, and the inquiries of the maids about milk and sugar were almost painfully audible. Then Mr. Banks glancing up the long vista of the table, and pretending to describe some object in the distance, called out, "'A worthy host, I doubt not that you are there, but I can only see you with the eye of faith!' At this all laughed, and a natural ease was established. The minister and Mrs. Clayton Vernon, who sat on his right, exchanged badinage on the merits and demerits of pork pies, and their neighbours formed an appreciative audience. Then there was a sharp ring at the front door, and one of the maids went out. "'Didn't I tell you?' Miss Dickinson whispered to Anna. "'What?' asked Anna. "'That he would come to-day. Mr. Miners, I mean. "'Who can that be?' Mrs. Sutton's voice was heard from the room. "'I dare say it's Henry-mother,' Beatrice answered. Miners entered, joyous and self-possessed, a white rose in his coat. He shook hands with Mr. and Mrs. Sutton, sent a greeting down the table to Mr. Banks and Mrs. Clayton Vernon, and offered a general apology for being late. "'Sit here,' said Beatrice to him sharply, indicating a chair between Mrs. Banks and herself. "'Mrs. Banks has a word to say to you about the singing of that anthem last Sunday. Miners made some laughing rejoinder, and the voices sank so that Anna could not catch what was said. "'That's a new frock that Miss Sutton is wearing today,' Miss Dickinson remarked in an undertone. "'It looks new,' Anna agreed. "'Do you like it?' "'Yes, don't you?' "'It was made at Brunt's at Handbridge. It's quite the fashion to go there now,' said Miss Dickinson, and added, almost inaudibly. "'She's put it on for Mr. Miners. You saw how she saved that chair for him.' Anna made no reply. "'Did you know they were engaged once?' Miss Dickinson resumed. "'No,' said Anna. "'At least people said they were. It was all over the town. Oh, let me see, three years ago.' "'I hadn't heard,' said Anna. "'During the rest of the meal,' she said little. On some natures Miss Dickinson's gossip had the effect of bringing them to silence. Anna had not seen Miners since the previous Sunday, and now she was apparently unperceived by him. He talked gaily with Beatrice and Mrs. Banks. That group was a centre of animation. Anna envied their ease of manner, their smooth and sparkling flow of conversation. She had the sensation of feeling vulgar, clumsy, tug-tied. Miners and Beatrice possessed something which she would never possess. So they had been engaged. But had they, or was it an idle rumour, manufactured by one who spent her life in such creations?' Anna was conscious of misgivings. She had despised Beatrice once. But now it seemed that, after all, Beatrice was the natural equal of Henry Miners. Was it more likely that Miners or she, Anna, should be mistaken in Beatrice? That Beatrice had generous instincts, she was sure. Anna lost confidence in herself. She felt humbled, out of place, and shamed. "'If our hostess and company will kindly excuse me,' said the minister, with a pompous air, looking at his watch, I must go. I have an important appointment, or an appointment which some people think is important.' He got up and made various addures. The elaborate meal, complex with fifty dainties, each of which, had to be savoured, was not nearly over. The parson stopped in his course out the room to speak with Mrs. Sutton. After he had shaken hands with her, he caught the admired, violent eyes of his slim wife, a lady of independent fortune, whom the wives of circuit stewards found it difficult to please in the matter of furniture, and who, despite her forty years, still kept something of the pose of a spoiled beauty. As a minister's spouse, this languishing, but impeccable and invariably correct dame was unique, even in the experience of Mrs. Clayton Vernon. "'Shall you not be home early, Rex?' she asked, in the tone of a young wife, lounging amid the delicate odours of a boudoir. "'Am I love?' he replied, with the stern fixity of a histrionic martyr. "'Did you ever know me have a free evening?' The alderman accompanied his pastor to the door. After tea, Miners was one of the first to leave the room, and Anna one of the last, but he accosted her in the hall, on the way back to the drawing-room, and asked how she was, and how Agnes was, with such deference and sincerity of regard for herself and everything that was hers, that she could not fail to be impressed. Her sense of humiliation and of uncertainty was effaced by a single word, a single glance. Blifted by a delicious reassurance, she passed into the drawing-room, expecting him to follow. Strange to say, he did not do so. Work was resumed, but with less ardour than before. It was, in fact, impossible to be strenuously diligent after one of Mrs. Sutton's teas, and in every heart save those which beat over the most perfect and vigorous digestive organs, there was a feeling of repentance. The building-society's clock on the mantelpiece in tone seven. All expressed surprise at the lateness of the hour, and Mrs. Clayton Vernon, bleeding fatigue after her recent indisposition, quietly departed. As soon as she was gone, Anna said to Mrs. Sutton that she too must go. "'Why, my dear,' Mrs. Sutton asked, "'I shall be needed at home,' Anna replied. "'Ah, in that case I will come upstairs with you, my dear,' said Mrs. Sutton. When they were in the bedroom, Mrs. Sutton suddenly clasped her hand. "'How is it with you, dear Anna?' she said, gazing anxiously into the girl's eyes. Anna knew what she meant, but made no answer. "'Is it well?' the earnest old woman asked. "'I hope so,' said Anna, averting her eyes. "'I'm trying.' Mrs. Sutton kissed her almost passionately. "'Ah, my dear,' she exclaimed, with an impulsive gesture. "'I am glad, so glad. I did so want to have a word with you. You must lean hard,' as Miss Havagal says, "'lean hard on him. Do not be afraid.' And then, changing her tone, "'You are looking pale, Anna. You want a holiday. We shall be going to the Isle of Man in August or September. Would your father let you come with us?' "'I don't know,' said Anna. She knew, however, that he would not. Nevertheless the suggestion gave her much pleasure. "'We must see about that later,' said Mrs. Sutton. And they went downstairs. "'I must say good-bye to Beatrice. Where is she?' Anna said in the hall. One of the servants directed them to the dining-room. The alderman and Henry Miners were looking together at a large photogravure of sands The Soul's Awakening, which Mr. Sutton had recently bought. And Beatrice was exhibiting her embroidery to a group of ladies. Sundry's stitchers were scattered about, including Miss Dickinson. "'It's a great picture, a picture that makes you think,' Henry was saying, seriously. And the alderman, feeling as the artist might have felt, was obviously flattered by this sagacious praise. Anna said good-night to Miss Dickinson and then to Beatrice. Miners, hearing the word, turned round. "'Well, I must go. Good evening,' he said suddenly to the astonished alderman. "'What, now?' the latter inquired, scarcely pleased to find that Miners could tear himself away from the picture with so little difficulty. "'Yes.' "'Good-night, Mr. Miners,' said Anna. "'If I may, I will walk down with you,' Miners imperturbably answered. It was one of those dramatic moments which arrived without the slightest warning. The gleam of joyous satisfaction in Miss Dickinson's eyes showed that she alone had foreseen this declaration. For a declaration it was, and a formal declaration. Miners stood there, calm, confident, with masculine superiority, and his glance seemed to say to those swiftly alert women whose faces could not disguise a thrilling excitation. "'Yes. Let all know that I, Henry Miners, the desired of all, am honourably captive to this shy and perfect creature who is blushing because I have said what I have said.' Even the alderman forgot his photographia. Beatrice hurriedly resumed her explanation of the embroidery. "'How did you like the sewing-meeting?' Miners asked Anna when they were on the pavement. Anna paused. "'I think Mrs. Sutton is simply a splendid woman,' she said enthusiastically. When, in a moment far too short, they reached Tellerite's house, Miners obeying a mutual wish to which neither had given expression, followed Anna up the side entry, and so went to the yard, where they lingered for a few seconds. Old Tellerite could be seen at the extremity of the long, narrow garden, a garden which consisted chiefly of a grass-plot, sewn with clothed props, and a narrow bordering of flower-beds without flowers. This was invisible. The kitchen door stood ajar, and as this was the sole means of ingress from the yard, Anna, humming an air, pushed it open and entered, Miners in her wake. They stood on the threshold, happy, hesitating, confused, and looked at the kitchen as at something which they had not seen before. Anna's kitchen was the only satisfactory apartment in the house. Its furniture included a dresser of the simple and dignified kind, which is now assiduously collected by amateurs of old oak. It had four long, narrow shelves, holding plates and saucers. The cups were hung in a row on small brass hooks, screwed into the fronts of the shelves. Below the shelves were three drawers in a line with brass handles, and below the drawers was a large recess which held stone jars, a copper-preserving saucepan, and other receptacles. Twenty years of continuous polishing by a dynasty of priestesses of cleanliness had given to this dresser a rich, ripe tone which the cleverest trade trickster could not have imitated. In it was reflected the conscientious labour of generations. It had a soft and assuaged appearance as though it had never been new, and could never have been new. All its corners and edges had long lost the asperities of manufacture, and its smooth surfaces were marked by slight hollows, similar in spirit to those worn by the naked feet of pilgrims into the marble steps of a shrine. The flat portion over the drawers was scarred with hundreds of scratches, and yet even all these seemed to be incredibly ancient, and in some distant past to have partaken of the mellowness of the whole. The dark woodwork formed an admirable background for the crockery on the shelves, and a few of the old plates, hand painted according to some vanished secret in pigments which time could only improve, had the look of relationship by birth to the dresser. There must still be thousands of exactly similar dresses in the kitchens of the people, but they are gradually being transferred to the dining-rooms of curiosity-hunters. To Anna this piece of furniture which would have made the most taciturn collector vocal with joy was merely the dresser. He had always lamented that it contained no cupboard. In front of the fireless range was an old steel-kitchen fender with heavy fire-hounds it had in the middle of its flat top a circular lodgement for sauce-men's, but on this polished disk no sauce-men was ever placed. The fender was perhaps as old as the dresser, and the profound depths of its polish served to mitigate somewhat the newness of the patent-cold economising range which Tellerite had put in when he took the house. On the high mantelpiece were four tall brass candlesticks which, like the dresser, were silently awaiting their apotheosis at the hands of some collector. Beside these were two or three common mustard tins polished to counterfeit silver containing spices, also an abandoned coffee-mill and two flat irons. A grandfather's clock of oak to match the dresser stood to the left of the fireplace. It had a very large white dial with a grinning face in the centre, though it would only run for twenty-four hours. Its leisured movement seemed to have the certainty of a natural law, especially to Agnes, for Mr. Tellerite never forgot to wind it before going to bed. Under the window was a plain deal table with a white top and stained legs. Two winds of chairs completed the catalogue of furniture. The glistening floor was of red and black tiles, and in front of the fender lay a list hearth-rug, made by attaching innumerable bits of black cloth to a canvas base. On the painted walls were several grossest almanacs depicting sailors in the arms of lovers, children crossing brooks or monks swelling themselves with gargantuan repasts. Everything in this kitchen was absolutely bright and spotless, as clean as a cat in patterns, except the ceiling, darkened by fumes of gas. Everything was in perfect order, and had the humanised air of use and occupation, which nothing but use and occupation can impart to senseless objects. It was a kitchen where, in the housewife's phrase, you might eat off the floor, and to any bursely matron it would have constituted the highest possible certificate of Anna's character, not only as housewife, but as elder sister, for in her absence Agnes had washed the tea-things and put them away. "'This is the nicest room I know,' said Minas at length. "'Whatever do you mean?' Anna smiled, incapable, of course, of seeing the place with his eye. "'I mean, there is nothing to beat a clean, straight kitchen,' Minas replied, and there never will be. It wants only the mistress in a white apron to make it complete. "'Do you know, when I came in here the other night, and you were sitting at the table there, I thought the place was like a picture.' "'How funny,' said Anna, puzzled, but well satisfied. "'But won't you come into the parlour?' The Persian, with one ear, met them in the lobby, his tail flying, but cautiously sidled upstairs at the site of Minas. When Anna opened the door of the parlour, she saw Agnes seated at the table over her lessons, frowning and preoccupied. Tears were in her eyes. "'Why, what is the matter, Agnes?' she exclaimed. "'Oh, go away!' said the child, crossily, don't bother. "'But what's the matter, you're crying. No, I'm not. I'm doing my sums, and I can't—it can't!' The child burst into tears, just as Minas entered. His presence was a complete surprise to her. She hid her face in her pinafore, ashamed to be thus caught. "'Where is it?' said Minas. "'Where's this sum that won't come right?' He picked up the slate and examined it, while Agnes was finding herself again. "'Practice,' he exclaimed, as Agnes got as far as practice.' She gave him an instant glance, and murmured, "'Yes!' Before she could shelter her face he had kissed her. Anna was enchanted by his manner, and as for Agnes, she surrendered happily to him at once. He worked the sum, and she copied the figures into her exercise-book. Anna sat and watched. "'Now I must go,' said Minas. "'But surely you'll stay and see father?' Anna urged. "'No, I had really not meant to call. Good night, Agnes!' In a moment he was gone out of the room and the house. It was if, in obedience to a sudden impulse, he had forcibly torn himself away. "'Was he at the sewing meeting?' Agnes asked, adding in parenthesis, "'I never dreamt he was here, and I was frightfully vexed. I felt such a baby.' "'Yes, at least he came for tea. Why did he call here like that?' "'How can I tell?' Anna said. The child looked at her. "'It's awfully queer, isn't it?' She said slowly. "'Tell me all about the sewing meeting. Did they have cakes, or was it a plain tea? And did you go into Birch's Sutton's bedroom?' End of chapter 7