Anna of the Five Towns

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 piece 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 clock 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 intimidated by all this unexampled luxury than she was reassured by the atmosphere of combined and homely effort, the lowliness 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 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 rigour of destiny in gossip, as innocent as indiscreet. It was said that she had a tongue.

“I hear,” said Miss Dickinson, lowering her contralto voice to a confidential tone, “that you are going into partnership with Mr. Mynors, 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, under 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 a 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 happened 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. Mynors hasn’t been to our sewing meetings for quite a long time, but I expect he’ll turn up today.”

Anna took thought. “Is this a sort of special meeting, then?”

“Oh, not at all. But we all of us 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 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 wore a flowered purple silk, in the antique taste.

“Beatrice, 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’m very busy, Mrs. Vernon. I shall never get this mantel-cloth 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.”

Beatrice arose from the footstool and dropped her embroidery.

“Thank you,” said Mrs. Clayton Vernon. “If both doors are left open we shall hear nicely.”

“What would you like?” Beatrice 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 argosy, and Beatrice sat down to the piano and removed her bracelets. “The accompaniment is simply frightful towards the end,” she