Читать книгу Anna of the Five Towns - Sheba Blake - Страница 7

The Special Teachers’ Meeting to which Willie Price had referred was one of the final preliminaries to a Revival—that is, a revival of godliness and Christian grace—about to be undertaken by the Wesleyan Methodist Society in Bursley. Its object was to arrange for a personal visitation of the parents of Sunday-school scholars in their homes. Hitherto Anna had felt but little interest in the Revival: it had several times been brought indirectly before her notice, but she had regarded it as a phenomenon which recurred at intervals in the cycle of religious activity, and as not in any way affecting herself. The gradual centring of public interest, however—that mysterious movement which, defying analysis, gathers force as it proceeds, and ends by coercing the most indifferent—had already modified her attitude towards this forthcoming event. It got about that the preacher who had been engaged, a specialist in revivals, was a man of miraculous powers: the number of souls which he had snatched from eternal torment was precisely stated, and it amounted to tens of thousands. He played the cornet to the glory of God, and his cornet was of silver: his more distant past had been ineffably wicked, and the faint rumour of that dead wickedness clung to his name like a piquant odour. As Anna walked up Trafalgar Road from Price’s she observed that the hoardings had been billed with great posters announcing the Revival and the revivalist, who was to commence his work on Friday night.

During tea Mr. Tellwright interrupted his perusal of the evening ‘Signal’ to give utterance to a rather remarkable speech.

‘Bless us!’ he said. ‘Th’ old trumpeter ‘ll turn the town upside down!’

‘Do you mean the revivalist, father?’ Anna asked.

‘Ay!’

‘He’s a beautiful man,’ Agnes exclaimed with enthusiasm. ‘Our teacher showed us his portrait after school this afternoon. I never saw such a beautiful man.’

Her father gazed hard at the child for an instant, cup in hand, and then turned to Anna with a slightly sardonic air.

‘What are you doing i’ this Revival, Anna?’

‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘Only there’s a teachers’ meeting about it to-morrow night, and I have to go to that. Young Mr. Price mentioned it to me specially to-day.’

A pause followed.

‘Didst get anything out o’ Price?’ Tellwright asked.

‘Yes; he gave me ten pounds. He wants you to go and look over the works—says they’re falling to pieces.’

‘Cheque, I reckon?’

She corrected the surmise.

‘Better give me them notes, Anna,’ he said after tea. ‘I’m going to th’ Bank i’ th’ morning, and I’ll pay ‘em in to your account.’

There was no reason why she should not have suggested the propriety of keeping at least one of the notes for her private use. But she dared not. She had never any money of her own, not a penny; and the effective possession of five pounds seemed far too audacious a dream. She hesitated to imagine her father’s reply to such a request, even to frame the request to herself. The thing, viewed close, was utterly impossible. And when she relinquished the notes she also, without being asked, gave up her cheque-book, deposit-book, and pass-book. She did this while ardently desiring to refrain from doing it, as it were under the compulsion of an invincible instinct. Afterwards she felt more at ease, as though some disturbing question had been settled once and for all.

During the whole of that evening she timorously expected Mynors, saying to herself however that he certainly would not call before Thursday. On Tuesday evening she started early for the teachers’ meeting. Her intention was to arrive among the first and to choose a seat in obscurity, since she knew well that every eye would be upon her. She was divided between the desire to see Mynors and the desire to avoid the ordeal of being seen by her colleagues in his presence. She trembled lest she should be incapable of commanding her mien so as to appear unconscious of this inspection by curious eyes.

The meeting was held in a large class-room, furnished with wooden seats, a chair and a small table. On the grey distempered walls hung a few Biblical cartoons depicting scenes in the life of Joseph and his brethren—but without reference to Potiphar’s wife. From the whitewashed ceiling depended a T-shaped gas-fitting, one burner of which showed a glimmer, though the sun had not yet set. The evening was oppressively warm, and through the wide-open window came the faint effluvium of populous cottages and the distant but raucous cries of children at play. When Anna entered a group of young men were talking eagerly round the table; among these was Willie Price, who greeted her. No others had come: she sat down in a corner by the door, invisible except from within the room. Gradually the place began to fill. Then at last Mynors entered: Anna recognised his authoritative step before she saw him. He walked quickly to the chair in front of the table, and, including all in a friendly and generous smile, said that in the absence of Mr. Titus Price it fell to him to take the chair: he was glad that so many had made a point of being present. Everyone sat down. He gave out a hymn, and led the singing himself, attacking the first note with an assurance born of practice. Then he prayed, and as he prayed Anna gazed at him intently. He was standing up, the ends of his fingers pressed against the top of the table. Very carefully dressed as usual, he wore a brilliant new red necktie, and a gardenia in his button-hole. He seemed happy, wholesome, earnest, and unaffected. He had the elasticity of youth with the firm wisdom of age. And it was as if he had never been younger and would never grow older, remaining always at just thirty and in his prime. Incomparable to the rest, he was clearly born to lead. He fulfilled his functions with tact, grace, and dignity. In such an affair as this present he disclosed the attributes of the skilled workman, whose easy and exact movements are a joy and wonder to the beholder. And behind all was the man, his excellent and strong nature, his kindliness, his sincerity. Yes, to Anna, Mynors was perfect that night; the reality of him exceeded her dreamy meditations. Fearful on the brink of an ecstatic bliss, she could scarcely believe that from the enticements of a thousand woman this paragon had been preserved for her. Like most of us, she lacked the high courage to grasp happiness boldly and without apprehension; she had not learnt that nothing is too good to be true.

Mynors’ prayer was a cogent appeal for the success of the Revival. He knew what he wanted, and confidently asked for it, approaching God with humility but with self-respect. The prayer was punctuated by Amens from various parts of the room. The atmosphere became suddenly fervent, emotional and devout. Here was lofty endeavour, idealism, a burning spirituality; and not all the pettinesses unavoidable in such an organisation as a Sunday-school could hide the difference between this impassioned altruism and the ignoble selfishness of the worldly. Anna felt, as she had often felt before, but more acutely now, that she existed only on the fringe of the Methodist society. She had not been converted; technically she was a lost creature: the converted knew it, and in some subtle way their bearing towards her, and others in her case, always showed that they knew it. Why did she teach? Not from the impulse of religious zeal. Why was she allowed to have charge of a class of immortal souls? The blind could not lead the blind, nor the lost save the lost. These considerations troubled her. Concience pricked, accusing her of a continual pretence. The role of professing Christian, through false shame, had seemed distastful to her: she had said that she could never stand up and say, ‘I am for Christ,’ without being uncomfortable. But now she was ashamed of her inability to profess Christ. She could conceive herself proud and happy in the very part which formerly she had despised. It was these believers, workers, exhorters, wrestlers with Satan, who had the right to disdain; not she. At that moment, as if divining her thoughts, Mynors prayed for those among them who were not converted. She blushed, and when the prayer was finished she feared lest every eye might seek hers in inquiry; but no one seemed to notice her.

Mynors sat down, and, seated, began to explain the arrangements for the Revival. He made it plain that prayers without industry would not achieve success. His remarks revealed the fact that underneath the broad religious structure of the enterprise, and supporting it, there was a basis of individual diplomacy and solicitation. The town had been mapped out into districts, and each of these was being importuned, as at an election: by the thoroughness and instancy of this canvass, quite as much as by the intensity of prayerful desire, would Christ conquer. The affair was a campaign before it was a prostration at the Throne of Grace. He spoke of the children, saying that in connection with these they, the teachers, had at once the highest privilege and the most sacred responsibility. He told of a special service for the children, and the need of visiting them in their homes and inviting the parents also to this feast of God. He wished every teacher during to-morrow and the next day and the next day to go through the list of his or her scholars’ names, and call if possible at every house. There must be no shirking. ‘Will you ladies do that?’ he exclaimed with an appealing, serious smile. ‘Will you, Miss Dickinson? Will you, Miss Machin? Will you, Mrs. Salt? Will you, Miss Sutton? Will you—’ Until at last it came: ‘Will you, Miss Tellwright?’ ‘I will,’ she answered, with averted eyes. ‘Thank you. Thank you all.’

Some others spoke, hopefully, enthusiastically, and one or two prayed. Then Mynors rose: ‘May the blessing of God the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost rest upon us now and for ever.’ ‘Amen,’ someone ejaculated. The meeting was over.

Anna passed rapidly out of he door, down the Quadrangle, and into Trafalgar Road. She was the first to leave, daring not to stay in the room a moment. She had seen him; he had not altered since Sunday; there was no disillusion, but a deepening of the original impression. Caught up by the soaring of his spirit, her spirit lifted, and she was conscious of vague but intense longing skyward. She could not reason or think in that dizzying hour, but she made resolutions which had no verbal form, yielding eagerly to his influence and his appeal. Not till she had reached the bottom of Duck Bank and was breasting the first rise towards Bleakridge did her pace slacken. Then a voice called to her from behind. She recognised it, and turned sharply beneath the shock. Mynors raised his hat and greeted her.

‘I’m coming to see your father,’ he said.

‘Yes?’ she said, and gave him her hand.

It was a very satisfactory meeting to-night,’ he began, and in a moment they were talking seriously of the Revival. With the most oblique delicacy, the most perfect assumption of equality between them, he allowed her to perceive his genuine and profound anxiety for her spiritual welfare. The atmosphere of the meeting was still round about him, the divine fire still uncooled. ‘I hope you will come to the first service on Friday night,’ he pleaded.

‘I must,’ she replied. ‘Oh, yes. I shall come.’

‘That is good,’ he said. ‘I particularly wanted your promise.’

They were at the door of the house. Agnes, obviously expectant and excited, answered the bell. With an effort Anna and Mynors passed into a lighter mood.

‘Father said you were coming, Mr. Mynors,’ said Agnes, and, turning to Anna, ‘I’ve set supper all myself.’

‘Have you?’ Mynors laughed. ‘Capital! You must let me give you a kiss for that.’ He bent down and kissed her, she holding up her face to his with no reluctance. Anna looked on, smiling.

Mr. Tellwright sat near the window of the back parlour, reading the paper. Twilight was at hand. He lowered his head as Mynors entered with Agnes in train, so as to see over his spectacles, which were half-way down his nose.

‘How d’ye do, Mr. Mynors? I was just going to begin my supper. I don’t wait, you know,’ and he glanced at the table.

‘Quite right,’ said Mynors, ‘so long as you wouldn’t eat it all. Would he have eaten it all, Agnes, do you think?’ Agnes pressed her head against Mynors’ arm and laughed shyly. The old man sardonically chuckled.

Anna, who was still in the passage, wondered what could be on the table. If it was only the usual morsel of cheese she felt that she should expire of mortification. She peeped: the cheese was at one end, and at the other a joint of beef, scarcely touched.

‘Nay, nay,’ said Tellwright, as if he had been engaged some seconds upon the joke, ‘I’d have saved ye the bone.’

Anna went upstairs to take off her hat, and immediately Agnes flew after her. The child was breathless with news.

‘Oh, Anna! As soon as you’d gone out father told me that Mr. Mynors was coming for supper. Did you know before?’

‘Not till Mr. Mynors told me, dear.’ It was characteristic of her father to say nothing until the last moment.

‘Yes, and he told me to put an extra plate, and I asked him if I had better put the beef on the table, and first he said " No,” cross—you know—and then he said I could please myself, so I put it on. Why has Mr. Mynors come, Anna?

‘How should I know? Some business between him and father, I expect.’

‘It’s very queer,’ said Agnes positively, with the child’s aptitude for looking a fact squarely in the face.

‘Why “queer”?’

‘You know it is, Anna,’ she frowned, and then breaking into a joyous smile: ‘But isn’t he nice? I think he’s lovely.’

‘Yes,’ Anna assented coldly.

‘But really?’ Agnes persisted.

Anna brushed her hair and determined not to put on the apron which she usually wore in the house.

‘Am I tidy, Anna?’

‘Yes. Run downstairs now. I am coming directly.’

‘I want to wait for you,’ Agnes pouted.

‘Very well, dear.’

They entered the parlour together, and Henry Mynors jumped up from his chair, and would not sit at table until they were seated. Then Mr. Tellwright carved the beef, giving each of them a very small piece, and taking only cheese for himself. Agnes handed the water-jug and the bread. Mynors talked about nothing in especial, but he talked and laughed the whole time; he even made the old man laugh, by a comical phrase aimed at Agnes’s mad passion for gilly-flowers. He seemed not to have detected any shortcomings in the table appointments—the coarse cloth and plates, the chipped tumblers, the pewter cruet, and the stumpy knives—which caused anguish in the heart of the housewife. He might have sat at such a table every night of his life.

‘May I trouble you for a little more beef?’ he asked presently, and Anna fancied a shade of mischief in his tone as he thus forced the old man into a tardy hospitality. ‘Thanks. And a morsel of fat.’

She wondered whether he guessed that she was worth fifty thousand pounds, and her father worth perhaps more.

But on the whole Anna enjoyed the meal. She was sorry when they had finished and Agnes had thanked God for the beef. It was not without considerable reluctance that she rose and left the side of the man whose arm she could have touched at any time during the previous twenty minutes. She had felt happy and perturbed in being so near to him, so intimate and free; already she knew his face by heart. The two girls carried the plates and dishes into the kitchen, Agnes making the last journey with the tablecloth, which Mynors had assisted her to fold.

‘Shut the door, Agnes,’ said the old man, getting up to light the gas. It was an order of dismissal to both his daughters. ‘Let me light that,’ Mynors exclaimed, and the gas was lighted before Mr. Tellwright had struck a match. Mynors turned on the full force of gas. Then Mr. Tellwright carefully lowered it. The summer quarter’s gas-bill at that house did not exceed five shillings.

Through the open windows of the kitchen and parlour, Anna could hear the voices of the two men in conversation, Mynors’ vivacious and changeful, her father’s monotonous, curt, and heavy. Once she caught the old man’s hard dry chuckle. The washing-up was done, Agnes had accomplished her home-lessons; the grandfather’s clock chimed the half-hour after nine.

‘You must go to bed, Agnes.’

‘Mustn’t I say good-night to him?’

‘No, I will say good-night for you.’

‘Don’t forget to. I shall ask you in the morning.’ The regular sound of talk still came from the parlour. A full moon passed along the cloudless sky. By its light and that of a glimmer of gas, Anna sat cleaning silver, or rather nickel, at the kitchen table. The spoons and forks were already clean, but she felt compelled to busy herself with something. At length the talk stopped and she heard the scraping of chair-legs. Should she return to the parlour? Or should she—? Even while she hesitated, the kitchen door opened.

‘Excuse me coming in here,’ said Mynors. ‘I wanted to say good-night to you.’

She sprang up and he took her hand. Could he feel the agitation of that hand?

‘Good-night.’

‘Good-night.’ He said it again.

‘And Agnes wished me to say good-night to you for her.’

‘Did she?’ He smiled; till then his face had been serious. ‘You won’t forget Friday?’

‘As if I could!’ she murmured after he had gone.