“Why won’t father give up the bill?” she demanded, half aloud, in sullen wrath. She could not frame the answer in words, but nevertheless she knew it and felt it. Such an act of grace would have been impossible to her father’s nature—that was all.
Suddenly the expression of her face changed from utter disgust into a bitter and proud smile. Without thinking further, without daring to think, she rose out of bed and, nightgowned and barefooted, crept with infinite precaution downstairs. The oilcloth on the stairs froze her feet; a cold, grey light issuing through the glass square over the front door showed that dawn was beginning. The door of the front-parlour was shut; she opened it gently, and went within. Every object in the room was faintly visible, the bureau, the chair, the files of papers, the pictures, the books on the mantelshelf, and the safe in the corner. The bureau, she knew, was never locked; fear of their father had always kept its privacy inviolate from Anna and Agnes, without the aid of a key. As Anna stood in front of it, a shaking figure with hair hanging loose, she dimly remembered having one day seen a blue paper among white in the pigeonholes. But if the bill was not there she vowed that she would steal her father’s keys while he slept, and force the safe. She opened the bureau, and at once saw the edge of a blue paper corresponding with her recollection. She pulled it forth and scanned it. “Three months after date pay to our order … Accepted payable, William Sutton.”
So here was the forgery, here the two words for which Willie Price might have gone to prison! What a trifle! She tore the flimsy document to bits, and crumpled the bits into a little ball. How should she dispose of the ball? After a moment’s reflection she went into the kitchen, stretched on tiptoe to reach the matchbox from the high mantelpiece, struck a match, and burnt the ball in the grate. Then, with a restrained and sinister laugh, she ran softly upstairs.
“What’s the matter, Anna?” Agnes was sitting up in bed, wide awake.
“Nothing; go to sleep, and don’t bother,” Anna angrily whispered.
Had she closed the lid of the bureau? She was compelled to return in order to make sure. Yes, it was closed. When at length she lay in bed, breathless, her heart violently beating, her feet like icicles, she realised what she had done. She had saved Willie Price, but she had ruined herself with her father. She knew well that he would never forgive her.
On the following afternoon she planned to hurry to Edward Street and back while Ephraim and Agnes were both out of the house. But for some reason her father sat persistently after dinner, conning a sale catalogue. At a quarter to three he had not moved. She decided to go at any risks. She put on her hat and jacket, and opened the front door. He heard her.
“Anna!” he called sharply. She obeyed the summons in terror. “Art going out?”
“Yes, father.”
“Where to?”
“Down town to buy some things.”
“Seems thou’rt always buying.”
That was all; he let her free. In an unworthy attempt to appease her conscience she did in fact go first into the town; she bought some wool; the trick was despicable. Then she hastened to Edward Street. The decrepit works seemed to have undergone no change. She had expected the business would be suspended, and Willie Price alone on the bank; but manufacture was proceeding as usual. She went direct to the office, fancying, as she climbed the stairs, that every window of all the workshops was full of eyes to discern her purpose. Without knocking, she pushed against the unlatched door and entered. Willie was lolling in his father’s chair, gloomy, meditative, apparently idle. He was coatless, and wore a dirty apron; a battered hat was at the back of his head, and his great hands which lay on the desk in front of him, were soiled. He sprang up, flushing red, and she shut the door; they were alone together.
“I’m all in my dirt,” he murmured apologetically. Simple and silly creature, to imagine that she cared for his dirt!
“It’s all right,” she said; “you needn’t worry any more. It’s all right.” They were glorious words for her, and her face shone.
“What do you mean?” he asked gruffly.
“Why,” she smiled, full of happiness, “I got that paper and burnt it!”
He looked at her exactly as if he had not understood. “Does your father know?”
She still smiled at him happily. “No; but I shall tell him this afternoon. It’s all right. I’ve burnt it.”
He sank down in the chair, and, laying his head on the desk, burst into sobbing tears. She stood over him, and put a hand on the sleeve of his shirt. At that touch he sobbed more violently.
“Mr. Price, what is it?” She asked the question in a calm, soothing tone.
He glanced up at her, his face wet, yet apparently not shamed by the tears. She could not meet his gaze without herself crying, and so she turned her head. “I was only thinking,” he stammered, “only thinking—what an angel you are.”
Only the meek, the timid, the silent, can, in moments of deep feeling, use this language of hyperbole without seeming ridiculous.
He was her great child, and she knew that he worshipped her. Oh, ineffable power, that out of misfortune canst create divine happiness!
Later, he remarked in his ordinary tone: “I was expecting your father here this afternoon about
