“Agnes,” said the housewife, “set another cup and saucer and plate.” Agnes threw down her hat and satchel of books, eager to show hospitality.
“It still keeps very warm,” Anna remarked, as Mrs. Sutton was silent.
“It’s beautifully cool here,” said Mrs. Sutton. “I see you’ve got your kitchen like a new pin, Anna, if you’ll excuse me saying so. Henry was very enthusiastic about this kitchen the other night, at our house.”
“What! Mr. Mynors?” Anna reddened to the eyes.
“Yes, my dear; and he’s a very particular young man, you know.”
The kettle conveniently boiled at that moment, and Anna went to the range to make the tea.
“Tea is all ready, Mrs. Sutton,” she said at length. “I’m sure you could do with a cup.”
“That I could,” said Mrs. Sutton. “It’s what I’ve come for.”
“We have tea at four. Father will be glad to see you.” The clock struck, and they went into the parlour, Anna carrying the teapot and the hot-water jug. Agnes had preceded them. The old man was sitting expectant in his chair.
“Well, Mr. Tellwright,” said the visitor, “you see I’ve called to see you, and to beg a cup of tea. I overtook Agnes coming home from school—overtook her, mind—me, at my age!” Ephraim rose slowly and shook hands.
“You’re welcome,” he said curtly, but with a kindliness that amazed Anna. She was unaware that in past days he had known Mrs. Sutton as a young and charming girl, a vision that had stirred poetic ideas in hundreds of prosaic breasts, Tellwright’s included. There was scarcely a middle-aged male Wesleyan in Bursley and Hanbridge who had not a peculiar regard for Mrs. Sutton, and who did not think that he alone truly appreciated her.
“What an’ you bin tiring yourself with this afternoon?” he asked, when they had begun tea, and Mrs. Sutton had refused a second piece of bread-and-butter.
“What have I been doing? I’ve been seeing to some inside repairs to the superintendent’s house. Be thankful you aren’t a circuit-steward’s wife, Anna.”
“Why, does she have to see to the repairs of the minister’s house?” Anna asked, surprised.
“I should just think she does. She has to stand between the minister’s wife and the funds of the society. And Mrs. Reginald Banks has been used to the very best of everything. She’s just a bit exacting, though I must say she’s willing enough to spend her own money too. She wants a new boiler in the scullery now, and I’m sure her boiler is a great deal better than ours. But we must try to please her. She isn’t used to us rough folks and our ways. Mr. Banks said to me this afternoon that he tried always to shield her from the worries of this world.” She smiled almost imperceptibly.
There was a ring at the bell, and Agnes, much perturbed by the august arrival, let in Mr. Banks himself.
“Shall I enter, my little dear?” said Mr. Banks. “Your father, your sister, in?”
“It ne’er rains but it pours,” said Tellwright, who had caught the minister’s voice.
“Speak of angels—” said Mrs. Sutton, laughing quietly.
The minister came grandly into the parlour. “Ah! How do you do, brother Tellwright, and you, Miss Tellwright? Mrs. Sutton, we two seem happily fated to meet this afternoon. Don’t let me disturb you, I beg—I cannot stay. My time is very limited. I wish I could call oftener, brother Tellwright; but really the new regime leaves no time for pastoral visits. I was saying to my wife only this morning that I haven’t had a free afternoon for a month.” He accepted a cup of tea.
“Us’n have a tea-party this afternoon,” said Tellwright quasi-privately to Mrs. Sutton.
“And now,” the minister resumed, “I’ve come to beg. The special fund, you know, Mr. Tellwright, to clear off the debt on the new school-buildings. I referred to it from the pulpit last Sabbath. It’s not in my province to go round begging, but someone must do it.”
“Well, for me, I’m beforehand with you, Mr. Banks,” said Mrs. Sutton, “for it’s on that very errand I’ve called to see Mr. Tellwright this afternoon. His name is on my list.”
“Ah! Then I leave our brother to your superior persuasions.”
“Come, Mr. Tellwright,” said Mrs. Sutton, “you’re between two fires, and you’ll get no mercy. What will you give?”
The miser foresaw a probable discomfiture, and sought for some means of escape.
“What are others giving?” he asked.
“My husband is giving fifty pounds, and you could buy him up, lock, stock, and barrel.”
“Nay, nay!” said Tellwright, aghast at this sum. He had underrated the importance of the Building Fund.
“And I,” said the parson solemnly, “I have but fifty pounds in the world, but I am giving twenty to this fund.”
“Then you’re giving too much,” said Tellwright with quick brusqueness. “You canna’ afford it.”
“The Lord will provide,” said the parson.
“Happen He will, happen not. It’s as well you’ve gotten a rich wife, Mr. Banks.”
The parson’s dignity was obviously wounded, and Anna wondered timidly what would occur next. Mrs. Sutton interposed. “Come now, Mr. Tellwright,” she said again, “to the point: what will you give?”
“I’ll think it over and let you hear,” said Ephraim.
“Oh, no! That won’t do at all, will it, Mr. Banks? I, at any rate, am not going away without a definite promise. As an old and good Wesleyan, of course you will feel it your duty to be generous with us.”
“You used to be a pillar of the Hanbridge circuit—was it not so?” said Mr. Banks to the miser, recovering himself.
“So they used to say,” Tellwright replied grimly. “That was because I cleared ’em of debt in ten years. But they’ve slipped into th’ ditch again sin’ I left ’em.”
“But if I am right, you do not meet8 with us,” the minister pursued imperturbably.
“No.”
“My own class is at three on Saturdays,” said the minister. “I should be glad to see you.”
“I tell you what I’ll do,” said the miser to
