Numerous as the company was, several chairs remained empty after everyone was seated. Anna found herself again next to Miss d.i.c.kinson, and five places from the minister, in the conservatory. Beatrice and her mother were higher up, in the room. Grace was sung, by request of Mrs. Sutton. At first, silence prevailed among the guests, and the inquiries of the maids about milk and sugar were almost painfully audible. Then Mr. Banks, glancing up the long vista of the table and pretending to descry some object in the distance, called out:
"Worthy host, I doubt not you are there, but I can only see you with the eye of faith."
At this all laughed, and a natural ease was established. The minister and Mrs. Clayton Vernon, who sat on his right, exchanged badinage on the merits and demerits of pork-pies, and their neighbours formed an appreciative audience. Then there was a sharp ring at the front door, and one of the maids went out.
"Didn"t I tell you?" Miss d.i.c.kinson whispered to Anna.
"What?" asked Anna.
"That he would come to-day--Mr. Mynors, I mean."
"Who can that be?" Mrs. Sutton"s voice was heard from the room.
"I dare say it"s Henry, mother," Beatrice answered.
Mynors entered, joyous and self-possessed, a white rose in his coat: he shook hands with Mr. and Mrs. Sutton, sent a greeting down the table to Mr. Banks and Mrs. Clayton Vernon, and offered a general apology for being late.
"Sit here," said Beatrice to him, sharply, indicating a chair between Mrs. Banks and herself. "Mrs. Banks has a word to say to you about the singing of that anthem last Sunday."
Mynors made some laughing rejoinder, and the voices sank so that Anna could not catch what was said.
"That"s a new frock that Miss Sutton is wearing to-day," Miss d.i.c.kinson remarked in an undertone.
"It looks new," Anna agreed.
"Do you like it?"
"Yes. Don"t you?"
"Hum! Yes. It was made at Brunt"s at Hanbridge. It"s quite the fashion to go there now," said Miss d.i.c.kinson, and added, almost inaudibly, "She"s put it on for Mr. Mynors. You saw how she saved that chair for him."
Anna made no reply.
"Did you know they were engaged once?" Miss d.i.c.kinson resumed.
"No," said Anna.
"At least people said they were. It was all over the town--oh! let me see, three years ago."
"I had not heard," said Anna.
During the rest of the meal she said little. On some natures Miss d.i.c.kinson"s gossip had the effect of bringing them to silence. Anna had not seen Mynors since the previous Sunday, and now she was apparently unperceived by him. He talked gaily with Beatrice and Mrs.
Banks: that group was a centre of animation. Anna envied their ease of manner, their smooth and sparkling flow of conversation. She had the sensation of feeling vulgar, clumsy, tongue-tied; Mynors and Beatrice possessed something which she would never possess. So they had been engaged! But had they? Or was it an idle rumour, manufactured by one who spent her life in such creations? Anna was conscious of misgivings. She had despised Beatrice once, but now it seemed that after all Beatrice was the natural equal of Henry Mynors. Was it more likely that Mynors or she, Anna, should be mistaken in Beatrice? That Beatrice had generous instincts she was sure. Anna lost confidence in herself; she felt humbled, out-of-place, and shamed.
"If our hostess and the company will kindly excuse me," said the minister with a pompous air, looking at his watch, "I must go. I have an important appointment, or an appointment which some people think is important."
He got up and made various adieux. The elaborate meal, complex with fifty dainties each of which had to be savoured, was not nearly over.
The parson stopped in his course up the room to speak with Mrs. Sutton.
After he had shaken hands with her, he caught the admired violet eyes of his slim wife, a lady of independent fortune whom the wives of circuit stewards found it difficult to please in the matter of furniture, and who despite her forty years still kept something of the pose of a spoiled beauty. As a minister"s spouse this languishing but impeccable and invariably correct dame was unique even in the experience of Mrs. Clayton Vernon.
"Shall you not be home early, Rex?" she asked in the tone of a young wife lounging amid the delicate odours of a boudoir.
"My love," he replied with the stern fixity of a histrionic martyr, "did you ever know me have a free evening?"
The Alderman accompanied his pastor to the door.
After tea, Mynors was one of the first to leave the room, and Anna one of the last, but he accosted her in the hall, on the way back to the drawing-room, and asked how she was, and how Agnes was, with such deference and sincerity of regard for herself and everything that was hers that she could not fail to be impressed. Her sense of humiliation and of uncertainty was effaced by a single word, a single glance.
Uplifted by a delicious rea.s.surance, she pa.s.sed into the drawing-room, expecting him to follow: strange to say, he did not do so. Work was resumed, but with less ardour than before. It was in fact impossible to be strenuously diligent after one of Mrs. Sutton"s teas, and in every heart, save those which beat over the most perfect and vigorous digestive organs, there was a feeling of repentance. The building-society"s clock on the mantel-piece intoned seven: all expressed surprise at the lateness of the hour, and Mrs. Clayton Vernon, pleading fatigue after her recent indisposition, quietly departed. As soon as she was gone, Anna said to Mrs. Sutton that she too must go.
"Why, my dear?" Mrs. Sutton asked.
"I shall be needed at home," Anna replied.
"Ah! In that case---- I will come upstairs with you, my dear," said Mrs. Sutton.
When they were in the bedroom, Mrs. Sutton suddenly clasped her hand.
"How is it with you, dear Anna?" she said, gazing anxiously into the girl"s eyes. Anna knew what she meant, but made no answer. "Is it well?" the earnest old woman asked.
"I hope so," said Anna, averting her eyes, "I am trying."
Mrs. Sutton kissed her almost pa.s.sionately. "Ah! my dear," she exclaimed with an impulsive gesture, "I am glad, so glad. I did so want to have a word with you. You must "lean hard," as Miss Havergal says. "Lean hard" on Him. Do not be afraid." And then, changing her tone: "You are looking pale, Anna. You want a holiday. We shall be going to the Isle of Man in August or September. Would your father let you come with us?"
"I don"t know," said Anna. She knew, however, that he would not.
Nevertheless the suggestion gave her much pleasure.
"We must see about that later," said Mrs. Sutton, and they went downstairs.
"I must say good-bye to Beatrice. Where is she?" Anna said in the hall. One of the servants directed them to the dining-room. The Alderman and Henry Mynors were looking together at a large photogravure of Sant"s "The Soul"s Awakening," which Mr. Sutton had recently bought, and Beatrice was exhibiting her embroidery to a group of ladies: sundry st.i.tchers were scattered about, including Miss d.i.c.kinson.
"It is a great picture--a picture that makes you think," Henry was saying, seriously, and the Alderman, feeling as the artist might have felt, was obviously flattered by this sagacious praise.
Anna said good-night to Miss d.i.c.kinson and then to Beatrice. Mynors, hearing the words, turned round. "Well, I must go. Good evening," he said suddenly to the astonished Alderman.
"What? Now?" the latter inquired, scarcely pleased to find that Mynors could tear himself away from the picture with so little difficulty.
"Yes."
"Good-night, Mr. Mynors," said Anna.
"If I may I will walk down with you," Mynors imperturbably answered.
It was one of those dramatic moments which arrive without the slightest warning. The gleam of joyous satisfaction in Miss d.i.c.kinson"s eyes showed that she alone had foreseen this declaration. For a declaration it was, and a formal declaration. Mynors stood there calm, confident with masculine superiority, and his glance seemed to say to those swiftly alert women, whose faces could not disguise a thrilling excitation: "Yes. Let all know that I, Henry Mynors, the desired of all, am honourably captive to this shy and perfect creature who is blushing because I have said what I have said." Even the Alderman forgot his photogravure. Beatrice hurriedly resumed her explanation of the embroidery.
"How did you like the sewing meeting?" Mynors asked Anna when they were on the pavement.
Anna paused. "I think Mrs. Sutton is simply a splendid woman," she said enthusiastically.
When, in a moment far too short, they reached Tellwright"s house, Mynors, obeying a mutual wish to which neither had given expression, followed Anna up the side entry, and so into the yard, where they lingered for a few seconds. Old Tellwright could be seen at the extremity of the long narrow garden--a garden which consisted chiefly of a gra.s.s-plot sown with clothes-props and a narrow bordering of flower beds without flowers. Agnes was invisible. The kitchen-door stood ajar, and as this was the sole means of ingress from the yard Anna, humming an air, pushed it open and entered, Mynors in her wake.
They stood on the threshold, happy, hesitating, confused, and looked at the kitchen as at something which they had not seen before. Anna"s kitchen was the only satisfactory apartment in the house. Its furniture included a dresser of the simple and dignified kind which is now a.s.siduously collected by amateurs of old oak. It had four long narrow shelves holding plates and saucers; the cups were hung in a row on small bra.s.s hooks screwed into the fronts of the shelves. Below the shelves were three drawers in a line, with bra.s.s handles, and below the drawers was a large recess which held stone jars, a copper preserving-saucepan, and other receptacles. Seventy years of continuous polishing by a dynasty of priestesses of cleanliness had given to this dresser a rich ripe tone which the cleverest trade-trickster could not have imitated. In it was reflected the conscientious labour of generations. It had a soft and a.s.suaged appearance, as though it had never been new and could never have been new. All its corners and edges had long lost the asperities of manufacture, and its smooth surfaces were marked by slight hollows similar in spirit to those worn by the naked feet of pilgrims into the marble steps of a shrine. The flat portion over the drawers was scarred with hundreds of scratches, and yet even all these seemed to be incredibly ancient, and in some distant past to have partaken of the mellowness of the whole. The dark woodwork formed an admirable background for the crockery on the shelves, and a few of the old plates, hand-painted according to some vanished secret in pigments which time could only improve, had the look of relationship by birth to the dresser. There must still be thousands of exactly similar dressers in the kitchens of the people, but they are gradually being transferred to the dining rooms of curiosity-hunters. To Anna this piece of furniture, which would have made the most taciturn collector vocal with joy, was merely "the dresser." She had always lamented that it contained no cupboard. In front of the fireless range was an old steel kitchen fender with heavy fire-irons. It had in the middle of its flat top a circular lodgment for saucepans, but on this polished disc no saucepan was ever placed. The fender was perhaps as old as the dresser, and the profound depths of its polish served to mitigate somewhat the newness of the patent coal-economising range which Tellwright had had put in when he took the house. On the high mantelpiece were four tall bra.s.s candlesticks which, like the dresser, were silently awaiting their apotheosis at the hands of some collector.