A VISIT
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 women 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. Conscience
pricked, accusing her of a continual pretence. The _rôle_ of
professing Christian, through false shame, had seemed distasteful 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
anile: '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.