“You like Henry, don’t you, father?” Anna said. It was a failure in the desired tact, for Ephraim had never been known to admit that he liked anyone or anything. Such natures are capable of nothing more positive than toleration.
“He’s a hardheaded chap, and he knows the value o’ money. Ay! that he does; he knows which side his bread’s buttered on.” A sinister emphasis marked the last sentence.
Instead of remaining silent, Anna, in her nervousness, committed another imprudence. “What do you mean, father?” she asked, pretending that she thought it impossible he could mean what he obviously did mean.
“Thou knows what I’m at, lass. Dost think he isna’ marrying thee for thy brass? Dost think as he canna’ make a fine guess what thou’rt worth? But that wunna’ bother thee as long as thou’st hooked a good-looking chap.”
“Father!”
“Ay! thou mayst bridle; but it’s true. Dunna’ tell me.”
Securely conscious of the perfect purity of Mynors’ affection, she was not in the least hurt. She even thought that her father’s attitude was not quite sincere, an attitude partially due to mere wilful churlishness. “Henry has never even mentioned money to me,” she said mildly.
“Happen not; he isna’ such a fool as that.” He paused, and continued: “Thou’rt free to wed, for me. Lasses will do it, I reckon, and thee among th’ rest.” She smiled, and on that smile he suddenly turned out the gas. Anna was glad that the colloquy had ended so well. Congratulations, endearments, loving regard for her welfare: she had not expected these things, and was in no wise grieved by their absence. Groping her way towards the lobby, she considered herself lucky, and only wished that nothing had happened to keep Mynors away. She wanted to tell him at once that her father had proved tractable.
The next morning, Tellwright, whose attendance at chapel was losing the strictness of its old regularity, announced that he should stay at home. Sunday’s dinner was to be a cold repast, and so Anna and Agnes went to chapel. Anna’s thoughts were wholly occupied with the prospect of seeing Mynors, and hearing the explanation of his absence on Saturday night.
“There he is!” Agnes exclaimed loudly, as they were approaching the chapel.
“Agnes,” said Anna, “when will you learn to behave in the street?”
Mynors stood at the chapel-gates; he was evidently awaiting them. He looked grave, almost sad. He raised his hat and shook hands, with a particular friendliness for Agnes, who was speculating whether he would kiss Anna, as his betrothed, or herself, as being only a little girl, or both or neither of them. Her eyes already expressed a sort of ownership in him.
“I should like to speak to you a moment,” Henry said. “Will you come into the schoolyard?”
“Agnes, you had better go straight into chapel,” said Anna. It was an ignominious disaster to the child, but she obeyed.
“I didn’t give you up last night till nearly ten o’clock,” Anna remarked as they passed into the schoolyard. She was astonished to discover in herself an inclination to pout, to play the offended fair one, because Mynors had failed in his appointment. Contemptuously she crushed it.
“Have you heard about Mr. Price?” Mynors began.
“No. What about him? Has anything happened?”
“A very sad thing has happened. Yes—” He stopped, from emotion. “Our superintendent has committed suicide!”
“Killed himself?” Anna gasped.
“He hanged himself yesterday afternoon at Edward Street, in the slip-house after the works were closed. Willie had gone home, but he came back, when his father didn’t turn up for dinner, and found him. Mr. Price was quite dead. He ran in to my place to fetch me just as I was getting my tea. That was why I never came last night.”
Anna was speechless.
“I thought I would tell you myself,” Henry resumed. “It’s an awful thing for the Sunday-school, and the whole society, too. He, a prominent Wesleyan, a worker among us! An awful thing!” he repeated, dominated by the idea of the blow thus dealt to the Methodist connection by the man now dead.
“Why did he do it?” Anna demanded, curtly.
Mynors shrugged his shoulders, and ejaculated: “Business troubles, I suppose; it couldn’t be anything else. At school this morning I simply announced that he was dead.” Henry’s voice broke, but he added, after a pause: “Young Price bore himself splendidly last night.”
Anna turned away in silence. “I shall come up for tea, if I may,” Henry said, and then they parted, he to the singing-seat, she to the portico of the chapel. People were talking in groups on the broad steps and in the vestibule. All knew of the calamity, and had received from it a new interest in life. The town was aroused as if from a lethargy. Consternation and eager curiosity were on every face. Those who arrived in ignorance of the event were informed of it in impressive tones, and with intense satisfaction to the informer; nothing of equal importance had happened in the society for decades. Anna walked up the aisle to her pew, filled with one thought:
“We drove him to it, father and I.”
Her fear
