The seven stalls, ranged round the room like so many bowers of beauty, draped and frilled and floriated, and still laden with countless articles of use and ornament, were continually reinforced with purchasers by emissaries canvassing the crowd which filled the middle of the paper-strewn floor. The horse was not only taken to the water, but compelled to drink; and many a man who, outside, would have laughed at the risk of being robbed, was robbed openly, shamelessly, under the gaze of ministers and class-leaders. Bouquets were sold at a shilling each, and at the refreshment stall a glass of milk cost sixpence. The noise rivalled that of a fair; there was no quiet anywhere, save in the farthest recess of each stall, where the lady in supreme charge of it, like a spider in the middle of its web, watched customers and cashbox with equal cupidity.
Mrs. Sutton, at seven o’clock, had not returned from tea, and Anna and Beatrice, who managed the Sunday-school stall in her absence, feared that she had at last succumbed under the strain. But shortly afterwards she hurried back breathless to her place.
“See that, Anna? It will be reckoned in our returns,” she said, exhibiting a piece of paper. It was Ephraim’s cheque for twenty-five pounds promised months ago, but on a condition which had not been fulfilled.
“She has the secret of persuading him,” thought Anna. “Why have I never found it?”
Then Agnes, in a new white frock, came up with three shillings, proceeds of bouquets.
“But you must take that to the flower-stall, my pet,” said Mrs. Sutton.
“Can’t I give it to you?” the child pleaded. “I want your stall to be the best.”
Mynors arrived next, with something concealed in tissue-paper. He removed the paper, and showed, in a frame of crimson plush, a common white plate decorated with a simple band and line, and a monogram in the centre—“A. T.” Anna blushed, recognising the plate which she had painted that afternoon in July at Mynors’ works.
“Can you sell this?” Mynors asked Mrs. Sutton.
“I’ll try to,” said Mrs. Sutton doubtfully—not in the secret. “What’s it meant for?”
“Try to sell it to me,” said Mynors.
“Well,” she laughed, “what will you give?”
“A couple of sovereigns.”
“Make it guineas.”
He paid the money, and requested Anna to keep the plate for him.
At nine o’clock it was announced that, though raffling was forbidden, the bazaar would be enlivened by an auction. A licensed auctioneer was brought, and the sale commenced. The auctioneer, however, failed to attune himself to the wild spirit of the hour, and his professional efforts would have resulted in a fiasco had not Mynors, perceiving the danger, leaped to the platform and masterfully assumed the hammer. Mynors surpassed himself in the kind of wit that amuses an excited crowd, and the auction soon monopolised the attention of the room; it was always afterwards remembered as the crowning success of the bazaar. The incredible man took ten pounds in twenty minutes. During this episode Anna, who had been left alone in the stall, first noticed Willie Price in the room. His ship sailed on the Monday, but steerage passengers had to be aboard on Sunday, and he was saying goodbye to a few acquaintances. He seemed quite cheerful, as he walked about with his hands in his pockets, chatting with this one and that; it was the false and hysterical gaiety that precedes a final separation. As soon as he saw Anna he came towards her.
“Well, goodbye, Miss Tellwright,” he said jauntily. “I leave for Liverpool tomorrow morning. Wish me luck.”
Nothing more; no word, no accent, to recall the terrible but sublime past.
“I do,” she answered. They shook hands. Others approaching, he drifted away. Her glance followed him like a beneficent influence.
For three days she had carried in her pocket an envelope containing a banknote for a hundred pounds, intending by some device to force it on him as a parting gift. Now the last chance was lost, and she had not even attempted this difficult feat of charity. Such futility, she reflected, self-scorning, was of a piece with her life. “He hasn’t really gone. He hasn’t really gone,” she kept repeating, and yet knew well that he had gone.
“Do you know what they are saying, Anna?” said Beatrice, when, after eleven o’clock, the bazaar was closed to the public, and the stall-holders and their assistants were preparing to depart, their movements hastened by the stern aspect of the town-hall keeper.
“No. What?” said Anna; and in the same moment guessed.
“They say old Titus Price embezzled fifty pounds from the building fund, and Henry made it up, privately, so that there shouldn’t be a scandal. Just fancy! Do you believe it?”
The secret was abroad. She looked round the room, and saw it in every face.
“Who says?” Anna demanded fiercely.
“It’s all over the place. Miss Dickinson told me.”
“You will be glad to know, ladies,” Mynors’ voice sang out from the platform, “that the total proceeds, so far as we can calculate them now, exceed five hundred and twenty-five pounds.”
There was clapping of hands, which died out suddenly.
“Now Agnes,” Anna called, “come along, quick; you’re as white as a sheet. Good night, Mrs. Sutton; good night, Bee.”
Mynors was still occupied on the platform.
The town-hall keeper extinguished some of the lights. The bazaar was over.
XIV
End of a Simple Soul
The next morning, at half-past seven, Anna was standing in the garden-doorway of the Priory. The sun had just risen, the air was cold; roof and pavement were damp; rain had fallen, and more was to fall. A door opened higher up the street, and Willie
