Anna of the Five Towns

to tranquillize passion at thirty. Mynors was in love with Anna, and his love had its ardent moments; but in the main it was a temperate affection, an affection that walked circumspectly, with its eyes open, careful of its dignity, too proud to seem in a hurry; if, by impulse, it chanced now and then to leap forward, the involuntary movement was mastered and checked. Mynors called at Manor Terrace once a week, never on the same day of the week, nor without discussing business with the miser. Occasionally he accompanied Anna from school or chapel. Such methods were precisely to Anna’s taste. Like him, she loved prudence and decorum, preferring to make haste slowly. Since the Revival, they had only once talked together intimately; on that sole occasion Henry had suggested to her that she might care to join Mrs. Sutton’s class, which met on Monday nights; she accepted the hint with pleasure, and found a well of spiritual inspiration in Mrs. Sutton’s modest and simple yet fervent homilies. Mynors was not guilty of blowing both hot and cold. She was sure of him. She waited calmly for events, existing, as her habit was, in the future.

The future, then, meant the Isle of Man. Anna dreamed of an enchanted isle and hours of unimaginable rapture. For a whole week after Mrs. Sutton had won Ephraim’s consent, her vision never stooped to practical details. Then Beatrice called to see her; it was the morning after the treat, and Anna was brushing her muddy frock; she wore a large white apron, and held a cloth-brush in her hand as she opened the door.

“You’re busy?” said Beatrice.

“Yes,” said Anna, “but come in. Come into the kitchen⁠—do you mind?”

Beatrice was covered from neck to heel with a long mackintosh, which she threw off when entering the kitchen.

“Anyone else in the house?” she asked.

“No,” said Anna, smiling, as Beatrice seated herself, with a sigh of content, on the table.

“Well, let’s talk, then.” Beatrice drew from her pocket the indispensable chocolates and offered them to Anna. “I say, wasn’t last night perfectly awful? Henry got wet through in the end, and mother made him stop at our house, as he was at the trouble to take me home. Did you see him go down this morning?”

“No; why?” said Anna, stiffly.

“Oh⁠—no reason. Only I thought perhaps you did. I simply can’t tell you how glad I am that you’re coming with us to the Isle of Man; we shall have rare fun. We go every year, you know⁠—to Port Erin, a lovely little fishing village. All the fishermen know us there. Last year Henry hired a yacht for the fortnight, and we all went mackerel-fishing, every day; except sometimes Pa. Now and then Pa had a tendency to go fiddling in caves and things. I do hope it will be fine weather again by then, don’t you?”

“I’m looking forward to it, I can tell you,” Anna said. “What day are we supposed to start?”

“Saturday week.”

“So soon?” Anna was surprised at the proximity of the event.

“Yes; and quite late enough, too. We should start earlier, only the Dad always makes out he can’t. Men always pretend to be so frightfully busy, and I believe it’s all put on.” Beatrice continued to chat about the holiday, and then of a sudden she asked: “What are you going to wear?”

“Wear!” Anna repeated; and added, with hesitation: “I suppose one will want some new clothes?”

“Well, just a few! Now let me advise you. Take a blue serge skirt. Seawater won’t harm it, and if it’s dark enough it will look well to any mortal blouse. Secondly, you can’t have too many blouses; they’re always useful at the seaside. Plain straw-hats are my tip. A coat for nights, and thick boots. There! Of course no one ever dresses at Port Erin. It isn’t like Llandudno, and all that sort of thing. You don’t have to meet your young man on the pier, because there isn’t a pier.”

There was a pause. Anna did not know what to say. At length she ventured: “I’m not much for clothes, as I dare say you’ve noticed.”

“I think you always look nice, my dear,” Beatrice responded. Nothing was said as to Anna’s wealth, no reference made as to the discrepancy between that and the style of her garments. By a fiction, there was supposed to be no discrepancy.

“Do you make your own frocks?” Beatrice asked, later.

“Yes.”

“Do you know I thought you did. But they do you great credit. There’s few people can make a plain frock look decent.”

This conversation brought Anna with a shock to the level of earth. She perceived⁠—only too well⁠—a point which she had not hitherto fairly faced in her idyllic meditations: that her father was still a factor in the case. Since Mrs. Sutton’s visit both Anna and the miser avoided the subject of the holiday. “You can’t have too many blouses.” Did Beatrice, then, have blouses by the dozen? A coat, a serge skirt, straw hats (how many?)⁠—the catalogue frightened her. She began to suspect that she would not be able to go to the Isle of Man.

“About me going with Suttons to the Isle of Man?” she accosted her father, in the afternoon, outwardly calm, but with secret trembling.

“Well?” he exclaimed savagely.

“I shall want some money⁠—a little.” She would have given much not to have added that “little,” but it came out of itself.

“It’s a waste o’ time and money⁠—that’s what I call it. I can’t think why Suttons asked ye. Ye aren’t ill, are ye?” His savagery changed to sullenness.

“No, father; but as it’s arranged, I suppose I shall have to go.”

“Well, I’m none so set up with the idea mysen.”

“Shan’t you be all right with Agnes?”

“Oh, yes. I shall be all right. I don’t want much. I’ve no fads and fal-lals. How long art going to be away?”

“I don’t know. Didn’t Mrs. Sutton tell you? You arranged it.”

“That I didna’. Her said nowt to