“Here’s two fives,” he said, shutting down the desk with the sigh of a crocodile.
“Liar! You said you had nothing!” her unspoken thought ran, and at the same instant the Sunday-school and everything connected with it grievously sank in her estimation; she contrasted this scene with that on the previous day with the peccant schoolgirl: it was an hour of disillusion. Taking the notes, she gave a receipt and rose to go.
“Tell ye father”—it seemed to Anna that this phrase was always on his lips—“tell ye father he must come down and look at the state this place is in,” said Mr. Price, enheartened by the heroic payment of ten pounds. Anna said nothing; she thought a fire would do more good than anything else to the foul, squalid buildings: the passing fancy coincided with Mr. Price’s secret and most intense desire.
Outside she saw Willie Price superintending the lifting of a crate on to a railway lorry. After twirling in the air, the crate sank safely into the wagon. Young Price was perspiring.
“Warm afternoon, Miss Tellwright,” he called to her as she passed, with his pleasant bashful smile. She gave an affirmative. Then he came to her, still smiling, his face full of an intention to say something, however insignificant.
“I suppose you’ll be at the Special Teachers’ Meeting tomorrow night,” he remarked.
“I hope to be,” she said. That was all: William had achieved his small-talk: they parted.
“So father and Mr. Mynors are going into partnership,” she kept saying to herself on the way home.
IV
A Visit
The Special Teachers’ Meeting to which Willie Price had referred was one of the final preliminaries to a Revival—that is, a revival of godliness and Christian grace—about to be undertaken by the Wesleyan Methodist Society in Bursley. Its object was to arrange for a personal visitation of the parents of Sunday-school scholars in their homes. Hitherto Anna had felt but little interest in the Revival: it had several times been brought indirectly before her notice, but she had regarded it as a phenomenon which recurred at intervals in the cycle of religious activity, and as not in any way affecting herself. The gradual centring of public interest, however—that mysterious movement which, defying analysis, gathers force as it proceeds, and ends by coercing the most indifferent—had already modified her attitude towards this forthcoming event. It got about that the preacher who had been engaged, a specialist in revivals, was a man of miraculous powers: the number of souls which he had snatched from eternal torment was precisely stated, and it amounted to tens of thousands. He played the cornet to the glory of God, and his cornet was of silver: his more distant past had been ineffably wicked, and the faint rumour of that dead wickedness clung to his name like a piquant odour. As Anna walked up Trafalgar Road from Price’s she observed that the hoardings had been billed with great posters announcing the Revival and the revivalist, who was to commence his work on Friday night.
During tea Mr. Tellwright interrupted his perusal of the evening Signal to give utterance to a rather remarkable speech.
“Bless us!” he said. “Th’ old trumpeter’ll turn the town upside down!”
“Do you mean the revivalist, father?” Anna asked.
“Ay!”
“He’s a beautiful man,” Agnes exclaimed with enthusiasm. “Our teacher showed us his portrait after school this afternoon. I never saw such a beautiful man.”
Her father gazed hard at the child for an instant, cup in hand, and then turned to Anna with a slightly sardonic air.
“What are you doing i’ this Revival, Anna?”
“Nothing,” she said. “Only there’s a teachers’ meeting about it tomorrow night, and I have to go to that. Young Mr. Price mentioned it to me specially today.”
A pause followed.
“Didst get anything out o’ Price?” Tellwright asked.
“Yes; he gave me ten pounds. He wants you to go and look over the works—says they’re falling to pieces.”
“Cheque, I reckon?”
She corrected the surmise.
“Better give me them notes, Anna,” he said after tea. “I’m going to th’ Bank i’ th’ morning, and I’ll pay ’em in to your account.”
There was no reason why she should not have suggested the propriety of keeping at least one of the notes for her private use. But she dared not. She had never any money of her own, not a penny; and the effective possession of five pounds seemed far too audacious a dream. She hesitated to imagine her father’s reply to such a request, even to frame the request to herself. The thing, viewed close, was utterly impossible. And when she relinquished the notes she also, without being asked, gave up her chequebook, deposit-book, and passbook. She did this while ardently desiring to refrain from doing it, as it were under the compulsion of an invincible instinct. Afterwards she felt more at ease, as though some disturbing question had been settled once and for all.
During the whole of that evening she timorously expected Mynors, saying to herself however that he certainly would not call before Thursday. On Tuesday evening she started early for the teachers’ meeting. Her intention was to arrive among the first and to choose a seat in obscurity, since she knew well that every eye would be upon her. She was divided between the desire to see Mynors and the desire to avoid the ordeal of being seen by her colleagues in his presence. She trembled lest she should be incapable of commanding her mien so as to appear unconscious of this inspection by curious eyes.
The meeting was held in a large classroom, furnished with wooden seats, a chair and a small table. On the grey distempered walls hung a few Biblical cartoons depicting scenes in the life of Joseph and his brethren—but without reference to Potiphar’s wife. From the whitewashed ceiling depended a
