CHAPTER XI. THE DOWNFALL In order to catch the Liverpool steamer at Douglas, it was necessary to leave Port Aaron at half past six in the morning, the freshness of the morning, and the smiles of the alderman and his wife, as they waved God's speed from the doorstep, filled Anna with a serene content which she certainly had not felt during the wakeful night. She forgot then the hours passed with her conscience in realizing how serious and solemn a thing was this engagement, made in an instant on the previous evening. All that remained in her mind, as she and Henry walked quickly down the road, was the tonic sensation of high resolves to be a worthy wife. The duties, rather than the joys of her condition, had lain nearest her hut until that moment of setting out, giving her an anxious and almost worried mean, which at breakfast neither Henry nor the Suttons could quite understand. But now the idea of duty ceased for a time to be paramount, and she loosed herself to the pleasures of the day in store. The harbor was full of low-wandering nests, through which the brown sails of the fishing smacks played at hide and seek. High above them the round forms of immense clouds were still carrying the colors of sunrise. The gentle salt wind on the cheek was like the touch of a life-giver. It was impossible on such a morning not to exalt in life, not to laugh childishly from irrational glee, not to dismiss the memory of grief and the apprehension of grief as morbid hallucinations. Miner's face expressed the double happiness of present and anticipated pleasure. He had once again succeeded, he who had never failed, and the voyage back to England was for him a triumphal progress. Anna responded eagerly to his mood. The day was an ecstasy, a bright expanse unstained. To Anna in particular it was a unique day, marking the apogee of her existence. In the years that followed she could always return to it and say to herself, That day I was happy, foolishly, ignorantly, but utterly, and all that I have since learned cannot alter it. I was happy. When they reached Shawport Station a cab was waiting for Anna. Down to her Henry had ordered it by telegraph. This considerateness was of a peace, she thought, with his masterly conduct of the entire journey. On the steamer, at Liverpool, in the train, nothing that an experienced traveller could devise had been lacking to her comfort. She got into the cab alone, while Miner's, followed by a boy in his bag, walked to his rooms in Mount Street. It had been arranged at Anna's wish that he should not appear at Manataris till suppertime. He from open for her the door of her home. It seemed to her that he was pleased. Well, Father, here I am again, you see. I last—they shook hands, and she indicated to the cabin where to deposit her ten box. She was glad and relieved to be back.  Where's Agnes, she asked, smiling at her father. In the glow of arrival she had a vague notion that her relations with him had been permanently softened by absence. I see thou's gotten into the habit of flitting about in cabs, he said, without answering her question. Well, Father, she said, smiling yet, there was the box. I couldn't carry the box. I reckon thou couldst have hired a lad to carry it for six pints. She did not reply. The cab man had gone to his vehicle. Aren't they going to pay the cabby? I paid him, Father. How much? She paused. Eighteen pints, Father. It was a lie. She had paid two shillings. She went eagerly into the kitchen and then into the parlour, where tea was set for one. Agnes was not there. Her is upstairs, Ephraim said, meeting Anna as she came into the lobby again. She ran softly upstairs and into the bedroom. Agnes was replacing ornaments on the mantelpiece with mathematical exactitude. After her arm was a duster, the child turned, stottled, and gave a little shriek. Eh, I didn't know you'd come. How early you are! They rushed towards each other, embraced and kissed. Anna was overcome by the pathos of her sister's loneliness in that grim house for fourteen days, while she, the elder, had been absorbed in selfish gaiety. The pale face, large, melancholy eyes, and long, thin arms were a silent accusation. She wondered that she could ever have brought herself to leave Agnes even for a day. Sitting down on the bed, she drew the child on her knee in a fury of love and kissed her again, weeping. Agnes cried, too, for sympathy.  She dried her eyes and in quite a different tone of voice asked, Has Mr. Miner's proposed to you? Anna could not avoid a blush at this simple and astounding query. She said, Yes. It was the one word of which she was capable under the circumstances. That was not the moment to tax Agnes with too much precocity and abruptness. You're engaged then? Oh, Anna, does it feel nice? It must. I knew you would be. How did you know, Agnes?  All the girls at school knew, too. I hope you didn't talk about it, said the elder sister. Oh, no, but they did. They were always talking about it. You never told me that. I, I didn't like to, Anna. Shall I have to call him Henry now? Yes, of course. When we're married he will be your brother-in-law. Shall you be married soon, Anna? Not for a very long time. When you are, shall I keep house alone? I can, you know. I shall never dare to call him Henry, but he's awfully nice, isn't he, Anna? Yes, when you are married, I shall keep house here, but I shall come to see you every day. Father will have to let me do that. Does father know you're engaged? Not yet, and you mustn't say anything. Henry is coming for supper, and then father will be told.  Oh, father? No, silly Henry, of course. I mean when he asked you. I think you are asking all the questions. Suppose I ask you some now. How have you managed with father? Has he been nice? Some days yes, said Agnes, after thinking a moment. We've had some new cups and sauces up from Mr. Miner's works, and father has swept the kitchen chimney. And oh, Anna, I asked him today if I kept house well, and he said, pretty well, and he gave me a penny. Look, it's the first bunny I've ever had, you know. I wanted you at night, Anna, and all the time, too. I've been frightfully busy. I cleaned silvers all afternoon. Anna, I have tried, and I've got some tea for you. I'll go down and make it. Now you mustn't come into the kitchen. I'll bring it to you in the parlor. I had my tea at crew, Anna was about to say, but refrained, in due course drinking the cup prepared by Agnes. She felt passionately sorry for Agnes, too young to feel the shadow which overhung her future. Anna would marry into freedom, but Agnes would remain the serf. Would Agnes marry? Could she? Would her father allow it? Anna had noticed that in families the youngest, headed in childhood, was often sacrificed in maturity. It was the last maid who must keep her maidenhood, and vicariously filial pay out of her own life the debt of all the rest. Mr. Miners is coming up for supper tonight. He wants to see you, Anna said to her father, as calmly as she could. The mice are grunted, but at eight o'clock, the hour immutably fixed for supper, Henry had not arrived. The meal proceeded, of course, without him. To Anna his absence was unaccountable and disturbing, for none could be more punctilious than he in the matter of appointments. She expected him every moment, but he did not appear.  Neither of them could talk, and a heavy silence fell upon the family group. A silence which her father, on that particular evening of Anna's return, resented. You'd done a tell-us-much, he remarked, when the supper was finished. She felt that the complaint was a just one. Even before supper, when nothing had occurred to preoccupy her, she had spoken little. There it seemed so much to tell. At poor Darren, and now there seemed nothing to tell. She ventured into a flaccid perfunctory account of Beatrice's illness, of the fishing, of the unfinished houses which had caught the fancy of Mr. Sutton. She said the sea had been smooth, that they had had something to eat at Liverpool, that the train for crew was very prompt, and then she could think of no more. Silence fell again. The supper things were cleared away and washed up. At a quarter past nine, Agnes, vainly begging permission to stay up in order to see Mr. Miners, was sent to bed, only partially comforted by a clothesbrush, long desired which Anna had brought for her as a present from the Isle of Man. Shall you tell Father yourself, now Henry hasn't come? The child asked Anna, who had gone upstairs to unpack her box. Yes, and Anna briefly. I wonder what he'll say, Agnes, reflected with that habit, always annoying to Anna, of meeting trouble half way. At a quarter to ten, Anna ceased to expect Miners, and finally braced herself to the ordeal of a solemn interview with her father, well knowing that she dared not leave him any longer in ignorance of her engagement. Already the old man was locking and bolting the door. He had wound up the kitchen clock. When he came back to the palla to extinguish the gas, she was standing by the mantelpiece. Father, she began, I've something I must tell you. Eh, what's that you say? His hand was on the gas-tap. He dropped it, examining her face curiously. Mr. Miners has asked me to marry him. He asked me last night. We settled he should come up tonight to see you. I can't think why he hasn't. It must be something very unexpected and important, for he'd have come. She trembled. Her heart beat violently. But the words were out, and she thanked God. Asked you to marry him, did he? The miser gazed at her quizzically out of his small blue eyes. Yes, father. And what did say? I said I would. Oh, thou saidst thou woods? I reckon it was for that, and as thou must go ganting off to seaside, eh? Father, I never dreamt of such a thing when Sutton's asked me to go. I do wish Henry, the cost of that Christian name, had come. He quite meant to come tonight. She could not help insisting on the propriety of Henry's intentions. Then I am for be consulted, eh? Of course, father. You soon made it up between ye. His tone was at the best brusque. But she breathed more easily, divining instantly from his manner that he meant to offer no violent objection to the engagement. She knew that only tact was needed now. The miser had indeed foreseen the possibility of this marriage for months past, and had long since decided in his own mind that Henry would make a satisfactory son-in-law. He from had no social ambitions. With all his meanness he was above them. He had nothing but contempt for rank, style, luxury, and the theory of what it is to be a lady and a gentleman. Yet by a curious contradiction, Henry's smartness of appearance, the smartness of an unrivaled commercial traveler, pleased him. He saw in Henry a young and sedate man of remarkable shrewdness, a man who had saved money, had made money for others, and was now making it for himself, a man who could be trusted absolutely to perform that feat of getting on, a safe and profoundly respectable man, at the same time audacious and imperturbable. He was well aware that Henry had really fallen in love with Anna, but nothing would have convinced him that Anna's money was not the primal cause of Henry's genuine passion for Anna's self. You like Henry, don't you, Father? Anna said. It was a failure in the desired tact, for Ephraim had never been known to admit that he liked anyone or anything. Such natures are capable of nothing more positive than toleration. He's a hard-headed chap, and he knows the value of money, I that he does. He knows which side his bread's butted on. A sinister emphasis marked the last sentence. Instead of remaining silent, Anna, in her nervousness, committed another imprudence. What do you mean, Father? She asked, pretending that she thought it impossible he could mean what he obviously did mean. How knows what I'm at, lass? Does think he isn't a marrying thee for thy brass? Does think he can to make a fine guess what thou art worth? But that one a bother thee as long as thou's hooked up a good-looking chap. Father! I, thou mayest bridle, but it's true, Anna, tell me. Securely conscious of the perfect purity of mine's affection, she was not in the least hurt. She even thought that her father's attitude was not quite sincere, an attitude partially due to mere willful churlishness. Henry has never even mentioned money to me, she said mildly. Apennot! He isn't as such a fool as that, he paused and continued. Thou free to wed, for me, lasses will do it, I reckon, and thee among the rest. She smiled, and on that smile he suddenly turned out the gas. Anna was glad that the colloquy had ended so well. Congratulations, endearments! Loving regard for her welfare! She had not expected these things, and was in no wise grieve by their absence. Groping her way towards the lobby, she considered herself lucky, and only wished that nothing had happened to keep mine's away. She wanted to tell him at once that her father had proved tractable. The next morning Tellrite, whose attendance at Chapel was losing the strictness of its old regularity, announced that he should stay at home. Sunday's dinner was to be a cold repast, and so Anna and Agnes went to Chapel. Anna's thoughts were wholly occupied with the prospect of seeing miners, and hearing the explanation of his absence on Saturday night. There he is, Agnes exclaimed loudly as they were approaching the chapel. Agnes said, Anna, when will you learn to behave in the street? Miners stood at the chapel gates. He was evidently awaiting them. He looked grave, almost sad. He raised his hat and shook hands with a particular friendliness for Agnes, who was speculating whether he would kiss Anna as his betrothed, or herself as being only a little girl, or both or neither of them. Her eyes already expressed a sort of ownership in him. I should like to speak to you a moment, Henry said. Will you come into the schoolyard? Agnes, you had better go straight into Chapel, said Anna. It was an ignominious disaster to the child, but she obeyed. I didn't give you up last night till nearly ten o'clock, Anna remarked, as they passed into the schoolyard. She was astonished to discover in herself an inclination to pout, to play the offended fair one, because Miners had failed in his appointment. Contemptuously she crushed it. Have you heard about Mr. Price, Miners began? No. What about him? Has anything happened? A very sad thing has happened, yes. He stopped from a motion. A superintendent has committed suicide. Killed himself, Anna gasped. He hanged himself yesterday afternoon at Edward Street, in the slip-house after the works were closed. Really had gone home, but he came back when his father didn't turn up for dinner and found him. Mr. Price was quite dead. He ran into my place to fetch me just as I was getting my tea. That was why I never came last night. Anna was speechless. I thought I would tell you myself, Henry resumed. It's an awful thing for the Sunday School and the whole society, too. He, a prominent Wesleyan, a worker among us. An awful thing, he repeated, dominated by the idea of the blow, thus dealt to the Methodist connection by the man now dead. Why did he do it, Anna demanded curtly. Miners shrugged his shoulders and ejaculated, business troubles, I suppose. It couldn't be anything else. At school this morning I simply announced that he was dead. Henry's voice broke, but he added after a pause. Young Price bore himself splendidly last night. Anna turned away in silence. I shall come up for tea, if I may, Henry said, and then they potted. He to the singing-seat, she to the portico of the chapel. People were talking in groups on the broad steps and in the vestibule. People knew of the calamity and had received from it a new interest in life. The town was aroused as if from a lethargy. Consternation and eager curiosity were on every face. Those who arrived in ignorance of the event were informed of it in impressive tones, and with intense satisfaction to the informer. Nothing of equal importance had happened in the society for decades. Anna walked up the aisle to her pew, filled with one thought. We drove him to it, father and I. Her fear was that the miser had renewed his terrible insistence during the previous fortnight. She forgot that she had disliked the dead man, that he had always seemed to her mean, pietistic, and two-faced. She forgot than impressing him for rent many months overdue. She and her father had acted within their just rights. Acted as Price himself would have acted in their place. She could think only of the strain, the agony, the despair that must have preceded the miserable tragedy. Old Price had atoned for all in one sublime sin, the sole deed that could lend dignity and pose to such a figure as his. Anna's feverish imagination reconstituted the scene in the slip-house. She saw it as something grand, accusing and unanswerable, and she could not dismiss a feeling of acute remorse, that she should have been engaged in pleasure at that very hour of death. Surely some instinct should have warned her that the hair which she had helped to hunt was at its last gasp. Mr. Sajant, the newly appointed second minister, was in the pulpit. A little earnest bachelor who emphasized every sentence with a continual trimmer of the voice. Brethren, he said after the second hymn, and his tones vibrated with a singular effect through the half-empty building. Before I proceed to my sermon, I have one word to say in reference to the awful event which is doubtless uppermost in the minds of all of you. It is not for us to judge the man who is now gone from us, ushered into the dread presence of his maker with the crime of self-murder upon his soul. I say it is not for us to judge him. The ways of the Almighty are past finding out. Therefore, at such a moment, we may fitly humble ourselves before the throne, and while prostrate there, let us intercede for the poor young man who is left behind bereft and full of grief and shame. We will engage in silent prayer. He lifted his hand and closed his eyes, and the congregation leaned forward against the fronts of the pews. The appealing face of Willie presented itself vividly to Anna. Who is it, Agnes asked, in a whisper of appalling distinctness, Anna frowned angrily and gave no reply. While the last hymn was being sung, Anna signed to Agnes that she wished to leave the chapel. Everyone would be aware that she was among Price's creditors, and she feared that if she stayed till the end of the service, some chatterer might draw her into a distressing conversation. The sisters went out, and Agnes' burning curiosity wasn't length relieved. Mr. Price has hanged himself, Anna said to her father when they reached home. The miser looked through the window for a moment. I am not surprised, he said. Suicisee that blood! Titus's uncle Elijah tried to kill himself twice before he died of gravel. Us and half to do some it, we had went street at last. She wanted to ask Ephraim if he had been demanding more rent lately, but she could not find courage to do so. Agnes had to go to Sunday school alone that afternoon. Without saying anything to her father, Anna decided to stay at home. She spent the time in her bedroom, idle, preoccupied, and did not come downstairs till half past three. Ephraim had gone out. Agnes presently returned, and then Henry came in with Mr. Telright. They were conversing amicably, and Anna knew that her engagement was finally and satisfactorily settled. During tea no reference was made to it, nor to the suicide. Miner's demeanor was quiet but cheerful. He had potlily recovered from the morning's agitation, and gave Ephraim and Agnes a vivacious account of the attractions of Fort Aaron. Anna noticed the amusement in his eye when Agnes' reddening said to him, Will you have some more bread and butter, Henry? It seemed to be tacitly understood afterwards that Agnes and her father would attend chapel, while Henry and Anna kept house. No one was ingenious enough to detect an impropriety in the arrangement. For some obscure reason, immediately upon the departure of the chapel-goers, Anna went into the kitchen, rattled some plates, stroked her hair mechanically, and then stole back again to the power. It was a chilly evening, and instead of walking up and down the strip of garden, the betrothed lovers sat together under the window. Anna wondered whether or not she was happy. The presence of miners was, at any rate, marvelously soothing. Did your father say anything about the price affair he began, yielding at once to the powerful hypnotism of the subject, which fascinated the whole town that night, and which Anna could bear neither to discuss nor to ignore? Not much, she said, and repeated to him her father's remark. Agnes told her all he knew, how Willie had discovered his father with his toes actually touching the floor, leaning slightly forward, quite dead, how he had then cut the rope and fetched miners, who went with him to the police station, how they had tied up the head of the corpse, and then waited till night to wheel the body on a hand-cott from Edward Street to the mortuary chamber at the police station, how the police had telephoned to the coroner and settled it once that the inquest should be held on Tuesday in the courtroom at the town hall, and how quiet, self-contained and dignified Willie had been, surprising everyone by this newfound manliness. It all seemed hideously real to Anna as Henry added detail to detail. I think I ought to tell you, she said very calmly, when he had finished the recital, that I, I am dreadfully upset over it. I can't help thinking that I, that Father and I, I mean, are somehow partly responsible for this. For Price's death, how? We have been so hard on him for his rent lately, you know. My dearest girl, what next? He took her hand in his. I assure you the idea is absurd. You've only got it because you're so sensitive and high-strung. I undertake to say Price was stuck fast everywhere, everywhere, hadn't a chance. Me, high-strung, she exclaimed, he kissed her lovingly, but beneath the feeling of reassurance, which by superior force he had imposed on her, there lay a feeling that she was treated like a frightened child, who must be tranquilized in the night. Nevertheless she was grateful for his kindness, and when she went to bed she obtained relief from the returning obsession of the suicide by making anew her bows to him. As a theatrical effect the death of Titus Price could scarcely have been surpassed. The town was profoundly moved by the spectacle of this abject, heroic surrender of all those pretenses by which society contrives to tolerate itself. He was a man whom no one respected, but everyone pretended to respect, who knew that he was respected by none, but pretended that he was respected by all, whose whole career was made up of dissimulations, religious, moral, and social. If any man could have been trusted to continue the decent sham to the end, and so preserve the general self-esteem, surely it was this man. But no! Suddenly abandoning all imposture, he transgresses openly, brazenly, and snatching a bit of hemp cries, Behold me! This is real human nature, this is the truth, the rest was lies, I lied, you lied, I confess it, and you shall confess it. Such a thunderclap shakes the very base of the microcosm. The young folk in particular could with difficulty believe their ears. It seemed incredible to them that Titus Price, the Methodist, the Sunday school superintendent, the loud champion of the highest virtues, should commit the sin of all sins, murder. They were dazed. The remembrance of his insincerity did nothing to mitigate the blow. In their view it was perhaps even worse that he had played false to his own falsity. The elders were a little less disturbed. The event was not unique in their experience. They had lived longer and felt these seismic shocks before. They could go back into the past and find other cases where a swift impulse had shattered the edifice of a lifetime. They knew that the history of families and of communities is crowded with disillusion. They had discovered that character is changeless, irrepressible, incurable. They were aware of the astonishing fact, which takes at least thirty years to learn that a Sunday school superintendent is a man, and the suicide of Titus Price, when they had realized it, served but to confirm their most secret and honest estimate of humanity. That estimate which they never confided to a soul. The young folk thought the Methodist society shamed and branded by the tragic incident, and imagined that years must elapse before it could again hold up its head in the town. The old folk were wiser. For seeing with certainty that in only a few days this all-engrossing phenomenon would lose its significance and be as though it had never been. Even in two days time had already begun its work, for by Tuesday morning the interest of the affair, on Sunday at the highest pitch, had waned so much that the thought of the inquest was capable of reviving it, although everyone knew that the case presented no unusual features, and that the coroner's inquiry would be nothing more than a formal ceremony. The almost greedy curiosity of Methodist circles lifted it to the level of a cause's celebra. The court was filled with irreproachable respectability when the coroner drove into the town, and each animated face said to its fellow, So you're here, are you, late comers of the official world councilors, guardians of the poor, members of the school board, and one or two of their ladies, were forced to intrigue for room with the police and the town hallkeeper, and having succeeded sank into their narrow seats with a sigh of expectancy and triumph. Late comers with less influence had to retire, and by a kind of sinister fascination were kept wandering about the corridor before they could decide to go home. The marketplace was occupied by hundreds of loafers who seemed to find a mystic satisfaction in beholding the coroner's dog-cott and the exterior of the building which now held the corpse. It was by accident that Anna was in the town. She knew that the inquest was to occur that morning, but had not dreamed of attending it, when, however, she saw the stir of excitement in the marketplace, and the police guarding the entrances of the town hall. She walked directly across the road, past the two offices at the east door, and into the dark main corridor of the building, which was dotted with small groups idly conversing. She was conscious of two things, of vehement curiosity and the existence somewhere in the precincts of a dead body, unsightly, monstrous, calm, silent, careless. The insensible origin of all this simmering ferment which disgusted her even while she shared in it. At a small door, half hidden by a curtain, she was startled to see miners. "'You hear?' he exclaimed, as it painfully surprised, and shook hands with a preoccupied air. They are examining Willie. I came outside while he was in the witness-box. Is the inquest going on in there?' she asked, pointing to the door. Each appeared to be concealing a certain resentment against the other, but this appearance was due only to nervous agitation. A policeman down the corridor called. "'Mr. Miners, a moment!' Henry hurried away, answering Anna's question as he went. "'Yes, in there. That's the witness's and juror's door. But please don't go in. I don't like you too, and it is sure to upset you.' She opened the door and went in. None said nay, and she found a few inches of standing-room behind the jury-box. A terrible stench nauseated her. The chamber was crammed and not a window open. There was silence in the court. No one seemed to be doing anything. But at last she perceived that the coroner, enthroned on the bench justice with writing in a book with blue leaves. In the witness-box stood William Price, dressed in black, with kid-loves, not lounging in an ungainly attitude as might have been expected, but perfectly erect. He kept his eyes fixed on the car in his head. Sarah Vaudry, Price's aged housekeeper, sat on a chair near the witness-box, weeping into a black-bordered handkerchief. That interval she raised her small, wrinkled, red face, with its glistening and flamed eyes, and then buried it again in the handkerchief. The members of the jury whom Anna could see only in profile shuffled to and fro on their long, pew-like seats. They were mostly working men, shabbily clothed. But the foreman was Mr. Leal, the provision-dealer, a freemason and a sideman at the parish church. The general public sat intent and vacuous, their minds gape, if not their mouths. Occasionally one whispered inaudibly to another. The jury, conscious of an official status, exchanged remarks in a whisper courageously loud. Several tall policemen, helmet in hand, stood in various corners of the room, and the coroner's officer sat near the witness-box to administer the oath. At length the coroner lifted his head. He was rather a young man, with a large, intelligent face. He wore eyeglasses, and his chin was covered with a short, wavy beard. His manner showed that while secretly proud of his supreme position in that assemblage, he was deliberately trying to make it appear that this exercise of judicial authority was nothing to him, that in truth these eternal inquiries, which interested others so deeply, were to him a weariness conscientiously endured. Now, Mr. Price, the coroner said blandly, and it was plain that he was being ceremoniously polite to an inferior, in obedience to the rules of good form. I must ask you some more questions. They may be inconvenient, even painful, but I am here simply as the instrument of the law, and I must do my duty. And these gentlemen here, he waved a hand in the direction of the jury, must be told the whole facts of the case. We know, of course, that the deceased committed suicide. That has been proved beyond doubt. But as I say, we have the right to know more. He paused, well satisfied with the sound of his voice, and evidently thinking that he had said something very weighty and impressive. What do you want to know, Willie Price demanded, his broad five-town speech contrasting with the Kincetonian accents of the coroner. The latter, who came originally from Manchester, was irritated by the brusque interruption, but he controlled his annoyance, at the same time glancing at the public as if to signify to them that he had learnt not to take too seriously the unintentional rudeness characteristic of their district. You say it was probably business troubles that caused your late father to commit the rash act? Yes. You are sure there was nothing else. What else could there be? Your late father was a widower? Yes. Now as to these business troubles, what were they? We were being pressed by creditors. Were you a partner with your late father? Yes. Oh, you were a partner with him. The jury seemed surprised, and the coroner wrote again. What was your share in the business? I don't know. You don't know. Surely that is rather singular. My father took me into the company not long since. We signed a deed, but I forget what was in it. My place was principally on the bank, not in the office. And so you were being pressed by creditors? Yes, and we were behind with the rent. Was the landlord pressing you too? Anna lowered her eyes. Fearful lest every head had turned towards her. Not then he had been, she, I mean. The landlord is a lady. He and the coroner faintly smiled. Then as regards the landlord the pressure was less than it had been. Yes, we had paid some rent and settled some other claims. Does it not seem strange the coroner began with a suave air of suggesting an idea? If you must know, will he surprisingly burst out, I believe it was the failure of a firm in London that owed us money that caused father to hang himself. Ah, exclaimed the coroner. When did you hear of that failure? By second post on Friday, 11 in the morning. I think we have heard enough, Mr. Coroner, said Leal, standing up in the jury box. We have decided on our verdict. Thank you, Mr. Price, said the coroner, dismissing Willie. He added in a tone of icy severity to the foreman. I had concluded my examination of the witness. Then he wrote further in his book. Now, gentlemen of the jury, the coroner resumed, having first cleared his throat. I think you will agree with me that this is a peculiarly painful case, yet at the same time Anna hastened from the court as impulsively as she had entered it. She could think of nothing but the quiet, silent, pitiful corpse, and all this vapid mouthing exasperated her beyond sufferance. On the Thursday afternoon Anna was sitting alone in the house with the Persian cat and a pile of stockings on her knee, darning. Agnes had with sorrow returned to school. Ephraim was out. The bell sounded violently, and Anna thinking that perhaps for some reason her father had chosen to enter by the front door, ran to open it. The visitor was Willie Price. He wore the new black suit which had figured in the car in his court. She invited him to the parlor, and they both sat down, tongue-tied. Now that she had learnt from his evidence given at the inquest that Ephraim had not been pressing for rent during her absence in the Isle of Man, she felt less like a criminal before Willie than she would have felt without that assurance. But at the best she was nervous, self-conscious, and shamed. She supposed that he had called to make some arrangement with reference to the tenure of the works, or more probably to announce a bankruptcy and stoppage. Well, Miss Tellwright Willie began, I've buried him, he's gone. The simple and profound grief and the restrained bitterness against all the world which were expressed in these words, the sole epitaph of Titus Price, nearly made Anna cry. She would have cried if the cat had not opportunely jumped on her knee again. She controlled herself by dint of stroking it. She sympathised with him more intensely in that first moment of his loneliness than she had ever sympathised with anyone, even Agnes. She wished passionately to shield, shelter, and comfort him, to do something, however small, to diminish his sorrow and humiliation, and this despite his size, his ungainliness, his coarse features, his rough voice, his lack of all the conventional refinements. A single look from his guileless and timid eyes atoned for every shot coming. Yet she could scarcely open her mouth. She knew not what to say. She had no phrases to soften the frightful blow which Providence had dealt him. I'm very sorry, she said, you must be relieved it's all over. If she could have been Mrs. Sutton for half an hour, but she was Anna and her feelings could only find outlet in her eyes. Happily young Price was of those meek ones who know by instinct the language of the eyes. You've come about the works, I suppose, she went on. Yes, he said, is your father in I want to see him very particular. He isn't in now, she replied, but he will be back by four o'clock. That's an hour. You don't know where he is. She shook her head. Well he continued, I must tell you then. I've come up to do it and do it I must. I can't come up again. Neither can I wait. You remember that bill of exchange as we gave you some weeks back towards rent? Yes, she said. There was a pause. He stood up and moved to the mantelpiece. Her gaze followed him intently, but she had no idea what he was about to say. It's forged, Miss Tellwright. He sat down again and seemed calmer, braver, ready to meet any conceivable set of consequences. Forge, she repeated, not immediately grasping the significance of the avowal. Mr. Sutton's name is forged on it, so I came to tell your father, but you'll do as well. I feel as if I should like to tell you all about it, he said, smiling sadly. Mr. Sutton had really given us a bill for thirty pounds, but we'd paid that away when Mr. Tellwright sent word down. You remember that he should put Bailus in if he didn't have twenty-five pounds next day. We were just turning the corner then, father said to me. There was a goodish sum due to us from a London firm in a month's time, and if we could only hold out till then, father said he could see daylight for us. But he knew as it'd be no getting round Mr. Tellwright, so he had the idea of using Mr. Sutton's name, just temporary-like. He sent me to the post office to buy a bill stamp, and he wrote out the bill all but the name. You take this up to Tellwrights, he says, and ask him to take it and hold it, and we'll redeem it, and that'll be all right. No harm done there, Will, he says. Then he tries Sutton's name on the back of an envelope. It's an easy signature, as you know, but he couldn't do it. Here, Will, he says, my old hand shakes. You have a goal, and he gives me a letter of Sutton's to copy from. I did it easy enough after a try or two. That'll be all right, Will, he says, and I put my head on and brought the bill up here. That's the truth, Miss Tellwright. It was the smash of that London firm that finished my poor old father off. Her one feeling was a sense of being herself a culprit. After all, it was her father's action more than anything else that led to the suicide, and he was her agent. Oh, Mr. Price, he said foolishly, whatever shall you do? There's nothing to be done, he replied. It was bound to be. It's our luck. We'd no thought but what we should bring you, thirty pound in cash, and get that bit of paper back and rip it up, and no one the worse. But we were always unlucky, me and him. All you've got to do is just to tell your father and say I'm ready to go to the police station when he gives the word. It's a bad business, but I'm ready for it. Can't we do something she naively inquired with the vision of a trial and sentence and years of prison? Your father keeps the bill, doesn't he, not you? I could ask him to destroy it. He wouldn't, said Willie. You'll excuse me saying that, Miss Tellwright, but he wouldn't. He rose as if to go, bitterly. As for Anna, she knew well that her father would never permit the bill to be destroyed, but in any cause she meant to comfort him then, to ease his lot, to send him away less grievous than he came. Listen, she said, standing up and abandoning the cat. I will see what can be done. Yes, something shall be done, something or other. I will come and see what the works tomorrow afternoon. You may rely on me. She saw hope brighten his eyes at the earnestness and resolution of her tone, and she felt richly rewarded. He never said another word, but gripped her hand with such force that she flinched in pain. When he had gone she perceived clearly the dire dilemma, but cared nothing in the first bliss of having reassured him. During tea it occurred to her that as soon as Agnes had gone to bed she would put the situation plainly before her father, and for the first and last time in her life assert herself. She would tell him that the affair was, after all, entirely her own. She would firmly demand possession of the bill of exchange, and she would insist on it being destroyed. She would point out to the old man that her promise having been given to Willie Price no other cause than this was possible. When planning this night's surprise on her father's obstinacy she found argument after argument auspicious of his success. The formidable tyrant was at last to meet his equal, in force, in resolution, and in pugnacity. The swiftness of her onrush would sweep him for once off his feet, at whatever cost she was bound to win, even though victory resulted in eternal enmity between father and daughter. She saw herself towering over him, morally with blazing eye and scornful nostril, and thus meditating on the grandeur of her adventure she fed her courage with indignation. By the act of death Titus Price had put her father forever in the wrong. His corpse accused the miser, and Anna, incapable now of seeing Oth save the pathos of suicide, acquiesced in the accusation with all the strength of her remorse. She did not reason, she felt. Reason was shriveled up in the fire of emotion. She almost trembled with the urgency of her desire to protect from further shame the figure of Willie Price. So frank, simple, innocent and big, and to protect also the lifeless and dishonored body of his parent. She reviewed the whole circumstances again and again, each time finding less excuse for her father's implacable and fatal cruelty. So her thoughts ran until the appointed hour of Agnes's bedtime. It was always necessary to remind Agnes of that hour. Left to herself the child would have stayed up till the very day of judgment. The clock struck, but Anna kept silence. To utter the word bedtime to Agnes was to open the attack on her father. And she felt as a conductor in opera-fields before setting in motion a complicated activity which may end in either triumph or an unspeakable fiasco. The child was reading, Anna looked and looked at her, and at length her lips were set for the phrase. Now, Agnes, when suddenly the old man first stalled her, is that winch going to sit here all night, he asked of Anna menacingly? Agnes shut her book and crept away. This accident was the ruin of Anna's scheme. Her father, always the favorite of circumstance, had by chance struck the first blow, ignorant of the battle that awaited him. He had unwittingly won it by putting her in the wrong, as Titus Price had put him in the wrong. She knew in a flash that her enterprise was hopeless. She knew that her father's position in regard to her was impregnable, that no moral force, no consciousness of right, would avail to overthrow that authority which she had herself made absolute by a lifelong submission.  And now, instead of finding arguments for success, she found arguments for failure. She divined all the retorts that he would fling at her. What about Mr. Sutton, in a sense the victim of this fraud? It was not merely a matter of thirty pounds. A man's name had been used. Was he, he from Telripe, and she his daughter to connive at a felony? The felony was done and could not be undone. Were they to render themselves liable, even in theory to a criminal prosecution? The tightest price had killed himself. What of that? If Willie Price was threatened with ruin, what of that? Them as made the bed must lie on it. At the best, and apart from any forgery, the prices had swindled their creditors, even in dying. Old price had been guilty of a commercial swindle, and was the fact that father and son between them had committed a direct and flagrant crime, to serve as an excuse for sympathizing with the survivor? Why was Anna so anxious to shield the forger? What claim had he? A forger was a forger, and that was the end of it. She went to bed without opening her mouth, irresolute, shamed and despairing. She tried to pray for guidance, but she could bring no sincerity of appeal into this prayer. It seemed an empty form, where indeed was her religion. She was obliged to acknowledge that the fervor of her aspirations had been steadily cooling for weeks. She was not a whit more a true Christian now than she had been before the revival. It appeared that she was incapable of real religion, possibly one of those souls foreordained to damnation. This admission added to the general sense of futility and increased her misery. She lay awake for hours, confronting her deliberate promise to Willie Price. Something shall be done. Rely on me. He was relying on her then, but on whom could she rely? To whom could she turn? It is significant that the idea of confiding in Henry Miners did not present itself for a single moment as practical. Miners had been kind to Willie in his trouble, but Anna almost resented this kindness on account of the condescending superiority which she thought she detected therein. It was as though she had overheard Miners saying to himself, Here is this poor crushed worm. It is my duty as a Christian to pity and succour him. I will do so. I am a righteous man. The thought of anyone stooping to Willie was hateful to her. She felt equal with him, as a mother feels equal with her child when it cries, and she soothes it. And she felt in another way that he was equal with her, as she thought of his sturdy and simple confession, and of the loyal love in his voice when he spoke of his father. She liked him for herding her hand, and for refusing to snatch at the slender chance of her father's clemency. She could never reveal Willie's sin if it was a sin to Henry Miners, that symbol of correctness and of success. She had fraternized with sinners like Christ, and with amazing injustice she was capable of deeming Miners a Pharisee because she could not find fault with him, because he lived and loved so impeccably and so triumphantly. There was only one person from whom she could have asked advice and help, and that wise and consoling heart was far away in the Isle of Man. Why won't Father give up the bill she demanded, half-allowed 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, nightgown and barefooted, crept with infinite precaution downstairs. The oilcloth on the stairs froze her feet, a cold gray light issuing through the glass square over the front door, showed that dawn was beginning. The door of the front parlor was shut. She opened it gently and went within. The object in the room was faintly visible. The bureau, the chair, the files of papers, the pictures, the books on the mantel shelf and the safe in the corner. The bureau she knew was never locked. Fear of their father had always kept its privacy in violet from Anna and Agnes, without the aid of a key. As Anna stood in front of it, a shaking figure with her 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 a recollection. She pulled it forth and scanned it. Three months after date paid to our order, accepted payable William Sutton. So here was the forgery. Here are 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 realized 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 catalog. 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 and tarot. Art going out? Yes, father. Where to? Downtown to buy some things. Seems thou art 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 cultless and wore a dirty apron.   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.  I got that paper and burnt it. He looked at her exactly as if he had nor understood. Does your father know? She still smiled at him happily. No, but I shall tell him this afternoon. It's all right. I 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 her self-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 the lease. There is to be a deed of arrangement with the creditors. My father she exclaimed, and she bade him goodbye. As she passed under the archway she heard a familiar voice. I reckon I shall find young Mr. Price in the office. He, from who had wandered into the packing-house, turned and saw her through the doorway. A second's delay, and she would have escaped. She stood waiting the storm, and then they walked out into the road together. Anna, what art doing here? She did not know what to say. What art doing here, he repeated coolly. Father, I was just going back home. He hesitated an instant. I'll go with thee, he said. They walked back to Manataris in silence. They had tea in silence, except that Agnes, with dreadful inopportune-ness, continually worried her father for a definite promise that she might leave school at Christmas. The idea was preposterous, but Agnes, fired by her recent success as a housekeeper, clung to it, ignorant of her imminent danger, and misinterpreting the signs of his face, she at last pushed her insistence too far. Get to bed this minute, he said, in a voice suddenly terrible. She perceived her error then, but it was too late. Looking wistfully at Anna, the child fled. I was told this morning, Miss Ephron began, as soon as Agnes was gone, that young Price had been seen coming to this house here yesterday afternoon. I thought as it was strange as thou said now about it to thy fiver, but I never suspected as a daughter of mine was up to any tricks. There was a hang-dog look on thy face this afternoon, when I asked where thou wast going, but I didn't think thou was lying to me. I wasn't, she began, and stopped. Thou was, now what is it? What's this carrying on between thee and will Price? I'll have it out of thee. There is no carrying on, Father, than why hast thou gotten secrets? Why dost thou go sneaking about to see him, sneaking, creeping, like any brazen maul? The miser was wounded in the one spot where there remained to him any sentiment capable of being wounded, his faith in the irreproachable absolute chastity in thought indeed of his womankind. Early Price came in here yesterday and began, white and calm, to see you, but you weren't in, so he saw me. He told me that bill of exchange, that blue paper for thirty pounds was forged. He said he had forged Mr. Sutton's name on it. She stopped expecting the thunder. Get on with thy tale, said he, from breathing loudly. He said he was ready to go to prison as soon as you gave the word, but I told him no such thing. I said it must be settled quietly. I told him to leave it to me. He was driven to the forgery, and I thought. Dost mean to say, the miser shouted, as that blasted scoundrel came here and told thee he'd forged a bill, and thou told him to leave it to thee to settle? Without waiting for an answer he jumped up and strove to the door, evidently with the intention of examining the forged document for himself. It isn't there, it isn't there, and a call to him wildly. What isn't there? The paper, I may as well tell you, Father, I got up early this morning and burned it. The man was staggered at this audacious and astounding impiety. It was mine, really, she continued, and I thought, Thou thought? Agnes upstairs heard that passionate and consuming roar.   A daughter of mine, and just promised to another man, Thou art an accomplice in forgery? Thou seized the scamp on the sly? Thou? He paused and then added with furious scorn. Shall speak of this to Henry Miners? I will tell him if you like, she said proudly. Look thee here, he hissed. If Thou breeze the word of this to Henry Miners, or any other man, I'll cut thy tongue out. A daughter of mine, if Thou breeze the word. I shall not, Father. It was finished, gray with frightful anger, he from left the room. End of Chapter 11 Recording by James O'Connor Randolph, Massachusetts, October 2009 Chapter 12 of Anna of the Five Towns This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Monique Michener. Anna of the Five Towns by Arnold Bennett Chapter 12 At the Prairie She was not to be pardoned. The offense was too monstrous, daring and final. At the same time the unimpeasable ire of the old man tended to weaken his power over her. All her life she had been terrorized by the fear of a wrath which had never reached the superlative degree until that day. Now that she had seen and felt the limit of his anger, she became aware that she could endure it. The curse was heavy, and perhaps more irksome than heavy, but she survived. She continued to breathe, eat, drink, and sleep. Her father's power stopped short of annihilation. Here, too, was a satisfaction, that things could not be worse, and still greater comfort lay in the fact that she had not only accomplished the deliverance, and still greater comfort lay in the fact that she had not only accomplished the deliverance of Willie Price, but had secured absolute secrecy concerning the episode. The next day was Saturday, when after breakfast it was Ephraim's custom to give Anna the weekly sovereign for housekeeping. Here, Agnes, he said, turning in his armchair to face the child, and drawing a sovereign from his waistcoat pocket, take charge of this, and mind ye make it go as far as ye can. His tone conveyed a subsidiary message, I am terribly angry, but I am not angry with you, however, behave yourself. The child mechanically took the coin, scared by this proof of an unprecedented domestic convulsion. Anna, with a tightening of the lips, rose and went into the kitchen. Agnes followed, after a discreet interval, and in silence gave up the sovereign. What is it all about Anna, she ventured to ask that night? Never mind, said Anna curtly. The question had never needed some courage, for at certain times Agnes would as easily have trifled with her father as with Anna. From that moment, with the passive fatalism characteristic of her years, Agnes' spirits began to rise again to the normal level. She accepted the new situation, and fitted herself into it with a child's adaptability. If Anna naturally felt a slight resentment against this too impartial, and apparently callous attitude on the part of the child, she never showed it. Nearly a week later, Anna received a postcard from Beatrice, announcing her complete recovery and the immediate return of her parents and herself to Bursley. That same afternoon, a cab encumbered with much luggage passed up the street as Anna was fixing clean curtains in her father's bedroom. Beatrice, on the lookout, waved a hand and smiled, and Anna responded to the signals.  On the Saturday afternoon, miners called, Anna was in the kitchen. She heard him scuffling with Agnes in the lobby, and then talking to her father. Three times she had seen him since her disgrace, and each time the secret bitterness of her soul, despite conscientious effort to repress it, had marred the meeting. It had been plain, indeed, that she was profoundly disturbed. He had affected at first not to observe the change in her, and she anticipated his questions, hinted briefly that the trouble was with her father, and had no reference to himself, and that she preferred not to discuss it at all, reassured and too young in courtship yet to presume Anna lovers' rights. He respected her wish, and endeavored by every art to restore her to equanimity. This time, as she went to greet him in the parlor, she resolved that he should see no more of the shadow. He noticed instantly the difference in her face. I've come to take you into Sutton's for tea, and for the evening he said eagerly, You must come. They are very anxious to see you. I've told your father, he added, Ephraim had vanished into his office. What did he say, Henry? She asked timidly. He said you must please yourself, of course. Come along, love. Mustn't she, Agnes? Agnes concurred and said that she would get her father's tea and his supper, too. You will come, he urged.  I'm ready, Henry, Anna said, a quarter of an hour later, and they went across to Sutton's. Anna, tell me all about it. Beatrice burst out when she and Anna had fled to her bedroom. I'm so glad. Do you love him really, truly? He's dreadfully fond of you. He told me so this morning. We had quite a long chat in the market. I think you're both very lucky, you know. She kissed Anna effusively for the third time. Anna looked at her smiling but silent. Well, Beatrice said, what do you want me to say? Oh, you are the funniest girl, Anna, I ever met. What do you want me to say, indeed? Beatrice added in a different tone. I imagine this affair was the least bit of a surprise to us. It wasn't. The fact is, Henry had, oh, well, never mind. Do you know, mother and dad used to think there was something between Henry and me, but there wasn't. You know, not really. I tell you that, so that you won't be able to say you were kept in the dark. When shall you be married, Anna? I haven't the least idea, Anna replied and began to question Beatrice about her convalescence. I'm perfectly well, Beatrice said. It's always the same.  Now, how long are you two chatterboxes going to stay here? It was Mrs. Sutton who came into the room. B, you've got those sewing, meeting letters to write. A, Anna, but I'm glad of this. You'll make him a good wife. You two will just suit each other. Anna could not but be impressed by this unaffected joy of her friends and the engagement. Her spirits rose and once more she saw visions of future happiness. At T, Alderman Sutton added his felicitations to the rest with that flattering air of intimate sympathy and comprehension which some middle-aged men can adopt towards young girls. The tea made especially magnificent in honor of the betrothal was such a meal as could only have been compassed in Staffordshire or Yorkshire, a high tea of the last richness and excellence, exquisitely gracious to the palate but ruthless in its demands on the stomach. At one end of the table, which glittered with silver, glass, and longshawe china, was a foul which had been boiled for four hours at the other, a hot pork pie, islanded, and knicker, which might have satisfied a regiment. Between these two dishes were all the delicacies which differentiate high tea from tea and on the quality of which the success of the meal really depends. Hot picklets, hot crumpets, hot toast, sardines with tomatoes, raisin bread, current bread, seed cake, lettuce, homemade marmalade, and homemade jams. The repast occupied over an hour and even then not a quarter of the food was consumed surrounded by all that good fare and goodwill with the older men on her left, Henry on her right, and a bright fire in front of her, Anna quickly caught the gaiety of the others. She forgot everything but the gladness of reunion, the joy of the moment, the luxurious comfort of the house. Conversation was busy with the doings of the Soutons at Port Aron after Anna and Henry had left. A listener would have caught fragments like this. You know such and such a point. No, not there over the hill. Well, we hired a carriage and drove. The weather was simply, Tom Kelly said he'd never. And that little guard on the railway came all the way down to the steamer. Did you see anything in the signal about the actress being drowned? Oh, it was awfully sad. We saw the corpse just after. Beatrice, will you hush? Wasn't it terrible about Titus Price? Beatrice exclaimed. Aye, my side, Mrs. Hutton glancing at Anna. You can never tell what's going to happen next. I'm always afraid to go away for the fear of something happening. A silence followed. When tea was finished, Beatrice was taken away by her mother to write the letters concerning the immediate resumption of sewing meetings. And for a little time Anna was left in the drawing room alone with the two men who began to talk about the affairs of the prices. It appeared that Mr. Sutton had been asked to become trustee for the creditors under a deed of arrangement and that he had hopes of being able to sell the business as a going concern. In the meantime, it would need careful management. Will Willie Price manage it? Anna inquired. The questions seemed to divert Henry and the Olderman to afford them a contemptuous and somewhat inimical amusement at the expense of Willie. No said the Olderman quietly but emphatically. Master William is fairly good on the works, said Henry, but in the office I imagine he is worse than useless. Grieved and confused, Anna bent down and moved a hassick in order to hide her faith. The attitude of these men to Willie Price, that victim of circumstances and of his own simplicity wounded Anna inexpressibly. She perceived that they could see in him only a defaulting deptor, that his misfortune made no appeal to their charity. She wondered that men so warmhearted and kind in some relations could be so hard in others. I had a talk with your father at the creditors meeting yesterday, said the Olderman. You won't lose much. Of course, you've got a preferential claim for six months' rent. He said this reassuringly as though it would give satisfaction. Anna did not know what a preferential claim might be, nor was she aware of any creditors meeting. She wished ardently that she might lose as much as possible, hundreds of pounds. She was relieved when Beatrice swept in her mother following. Now your worship, said Beatrice to her father. Seven stamps for these letters, please. Anna glanced up inquiringly on hearing the form of a dress. You don't mean to say that you don't know that father is going to be mayor this year, Beatrice asked. As a shock that this ignorance of affairs, yes, it was all settled rather late, wasn't it, dad?  As for the mayoress, A, B, Mrs. Sutton stopped her smiling.  Mother said I wasn't to mention it, said Beatrice, lest you should think we were putting on airs. Nay, not I, Mrs. Sutton protested. I said no such thing. Anna knows us too well for that, but I'm not so set up with this mayor business as some people will think I am, or as Beatrice is, miners added. At half past eight and again at nine, Anna said that she must go home, but the Sutton's now frankly absorbed in the topic of the mayorality, their secret preoccupation, would not spoil the confidential talk which had ensued by letting the lovers depart. It was nearly half past nine before Anna and Henry stood on the pavement outside, and Beatrice, after facetious farewells, had shut the door. Let us just walk round by the manor farm, Henry pleaded. It won't take more than a quarter of an hour or so. She agreed dutifully. The footpath ran at right angles to Trelfiger Road, past a quarry whose engine fires glowed in the dark, moonless, autumn night, and then across a field.  Immediately in front of them stretched acres of burning iron stone, a vast tremulous carpet of flame, woven in red, purple, and strange greens. Beyond were the skeleton-like silhouettes of pitheads and the solid forms of furnace and chimney shaft. In the distance, a canal reflected the gigantic illuminations of cold and bar ironworks. It was a scene mysterious and romantic enough to kindle the raptures of love, but Anna felt cold, melancholy, and apprehensive of vague sorrows. Why am I so, she asked herself, and tried in vain to shake off the mood. What will Willie Price do if the business is sold? she questioned the miners suddenly. Surely, he said to Soother, you aren't still worrying about that misfortune. I wish you had never gone near the inquest. The thing seems to have got on your mind. Oh, no, she protested with an air of cheerfulness. But I was just wondering. Well, Willie will have to do the best he can. Get a place somewhere, I suppose. It won't be much at the best. Had he guessed what perhaps hung on that answer, miners might have given it in a toneless callous and perfunctory. Could he have seen the tightening of her lips? He might even afterwards have repaired his error by some voluntary assurance that Willie Price should be watched over with a benevolent eye and protected with a strong arm. But how was he to know that in misprising Willie Price before her, he was misprising a child to his mother? He had done something for Willie Price and considered that he had done enough. His thoughts, moreover, were on other matters. Do you remember that day we went up to the park? He murmured fondly, that Sunday? I have never told you that. That evening I came out of chapel after the first hymn when I noticed you weren't there and walked up past your house. I couldn't help it. Something drew me. I nearly called in to see you, then I thought I had better not. I saw you, she said calmly. His warmth made her feel sad. I saw you stop at the gate. You did, but you weren't at the window. I saw you through the glass of the front door. Her voice grew fainter and more reluctant. Then you were watching. In the dark he seized her with such violence and kissed her so vehemently that she was startled out of herself. Oh, Henry, she exclaimed. Call me Harry, he entreated. His arms still round her waist.  No one else does or ever has done and no one shall now. Harry, she deliberately brings her mind to a positive determination. She must please him and she said it again. Harry, yes. It has a nice sound. Ephraim sat reading the signal in the parlor when she arrived home at five minutes to 10. Embued then with ideas of duty, submission and systematic kindness, she had an impulse to attempt a reconciliation with her father. Good night, father, she said. I hope I've not kept you up. He was deaf. She went to bed resigned, sad, but not gloomy. It was not for nothing that during all her life she had been accustomed to in felicity. Experience had taught her this, to be the mistress of herself. She knew that she could face any fact, even the fact of her dispassionate frigidity under Miners' caresses.  The engagement, which had hitherto been kept private, became the theme of universal gossip immediately upon the return of the Sutton's from the Isle of Man. Two words let fall by Beatrice in the St. Luke's covered market on Saturday morning had increased and multiplied till the whole town echoed with the news. Anna's private fortune rose as high as a quarter of a million. As for Henry Miners, it was said that Henry Miners knew what he was about. After all, he was like the rest, money, money. Of course, it was inconceivable that a fine, prosperous figure of a man, such as Miners, would have made up to her if she had not been simply rolling in money. Well, there was one thing to be said for young Miners. He would put money to good use. You might rely, he would not hoard it up same as it had been hoarded up. However, the more saved, the more for young Miners, so he needn't grumble. It was to be hoped he would make her dress herself a bit better, though indeed it hadn't been her fault she went about so shabby. The old skin-flint would never allow her a penny of her own, so tongues wagged. The first Sunday was a tiresome ordeal for Anna, both at school and at chapel. Well, I never seemed to be written like a note of exclamation on every brow. The monotony of the congratulations fatigued her as much as her involuntary efforts to grasp what each speaker had left unsaid, a venue window, malice, envy, or secrecy. Even the people in the shops during the next few days could not serve her without direct and curious reference to her private matters. The general opinion that she was a cold and bloodless creature was strengthened by her attitude at this period. But the apathy which she displayed was neither affected nor due to an excessive diffidence, and she seemed so she felt. She often wondered what would have happened to her if that vague something between Henry and Beatrice, to which Beatrice had confessed, had ever taken definite shape. Hancock came back from Lancashire last night, said miners, when he arrived at Manor Terrace on the next Saturday afternoon. Ephraim was in the room, and Henry evidently joyous and triumphant addressed both him and Anna. Is Hancock the commercial traveler? Anna asked. She knew that Hancock was the commercial traveler, but she experienced a nervous compulsion to make idle remarks in order to hide the breach of intercourse between her father and herself. Yes, said miners, he had a magnificent journey. How much? asked the miser. Henry named the amount of orders taken in a fortnight's journey. The miser ejaculated. That's better than a bat in the eye with a burnt stick. From him, this was the superlative of praise. You're making good money at any rate. We are, said miners. That reminds me, Ephraim remarked roughly, when dost thou think of getting wed? I'm not much for long engagements, and so I tell ye. He threw a cold glance sideways at Anna. The idea penetrated her heart like a stab. He wants to get me out of the house. Well, said miners, surprised at the question and the tone and looking at Anna as if for an explanation, I had scarcely thought of that. What does Anna say? I don't know, she murmured, and then more bravely in a louder voice and with a smile, the sooner the better she thought in her bitter and painful resentment. If he wants me to go, go I will. Henry tactfully passed on to another phase of the subject. I met Mr. Sutton yesterday, and he was telling me of Price's house up at Toft End. It belonged to Mr. Price, but of course, it was mortgaged up to the Hilt. The mortgages have taken possession, and Mr. Sutton said it would be to let cheap at Christmas. Of course, Willie and old Sarah Vaudry, the housekeeper would clear out. I was thinking it might do for us. It's not a bad sort of house, or rather, it won't be when it's repaired. What will they ask for it, Ephraim inquired? 25 or 28. It's a nice large house, four bedrooms, and a very good garden. Four bedrooms, the miser exclaimed. What does one with four bedrooms you'd have for keep a servant? Naturally, we should keep a servant, Miners said with calm politeness. You could get one of them new houses up by the park for 15 pounds, as would do you well enough, the miser protested against these dreams of extravagance. I don't care for that part of the town, said Miners. It's too new for my taste. After T. when Henry and Anna went out for their Saturday evening stroll, Miners suddenly suggested, why not go up and look through that house of prices? Won't it seem like turning them out if we happen to take it, she asked? Turning them out, Willie is bound to leave it. What use it to him? Besides, it's in the hands of the mortgages now. Why shouldn't we take it just as well as anybody else if it suits us? Anna had no reply, and she surrendered herself classically enough to his will. Nevertheless, she could not entirely banish a misgiving that Willie Price was again to be victimized. Infinitely more disturbing than this illogical sensation, however, was the instinctive and sure knowledge revealed in a flash that her father wished to be rid of her. So implacable, then, was his animosity against her. Never, never had she been so deeply hurt. The wound, in fact, was so severe that at first she felt only a numbness that reduced everything to unimportance, robbing her of volition. She walked up too toughed in as if walking in her sleep. Price's house, sometimes called Priory House, in accordance with the legend that a priory had once occupied the site, stood in the middle of the mean and struggling suburb of Toft End, which was flung up the hillside like a ragged scarf. Built of red brick, towards the end of the 18th century, double-fronted with small, evenly-disposed windows and a chimney stack at either side, it looked westward over the town smoke towards a horizon of hills. It had a long, narrow garden which ran parallel with the road. Behind it, adjoining, was a small, disused potworks already advanced in decay. On the north side and enclosed by a brick wall which surrounded also the garden was a small orchard of sterile and withered fruit trees. In parts, the wall had crumbled under the assaults of generations of boys and from the orchard through the gaps could be seen in expanse of gray-green field with a few abandoned pet shafts scattered over it. These shafts, imperfectly protected by ruinous masonry, presented an appearance strangely sinister and forlorn, raising visions in the mind of dark and mysterious depths, peopled with miserable ghosts of those who had toiled there in the days when to be a miner was to be a slave. The whole place, house and garden, looked ashamed and sad, with a shabby mournfulness acquired gradually from its inmates during many years, but nevertheless the house was substantial and the air on that height fresh and pure. Miners rang in vain at the front door and then they walked round the house to the orchard and discovered Sarah Vardry taking in clothes from a line, a diminutive and wasted figure with scanty gray hair, a tiny face permanently soured and bony hands contorted by rheumatism. My rheumatism's that bad, she said in response to greetings. I can scarce move about and this house is a regular barracks to keep clean. No, Willie's not in. He's at the works as usual. Saturday like any other day, I'm by myself here all day and every day, but I reckon us and be fitting soon. And me lived here eight and 20 years. Praise God, there's a mansion up there for me at last and not sorry shall I be when he calls. It must be very lonely for you, Miss Vardry said Miners. He knew exactly how to speak to this dame who lived her life like a fly between two panes of glass and who could find room in her head for only three ideas, namely, that God and herself were on terms of intimacy, that she was and had always been indispensable to the Price family and that her social status was far above that of a servant. It's a pity you never married, Miners added. Me, Mary? What would they had done without me? No, I'm no for marriage and never was. I'd be ashamed to be like some of them spinsters down at chapel, always hang around chapel yard on the off chance of a service to catch that their young Mr. Sergeant, the new minister, it's a sign of a hard winter, Miss Terrick. When the hay runs after the horse, that's what I say. Miss Talwright and myself are in search of a house. Miners gently interrupted the flow and gave her a peculiar glance, which she appreciated. We heard you and Willie were going to leave here and so we came up just to look over the place, if it's quite convenient to you. A, I understand you, she said, come in, but you might take things as you find them, Miss Terrick. Dismal and unkempt, the interior of the house matched the exterior. The carpets were threadbare. The discolored wallpapers hung loose on the walls. The ceilings were almost black. The paint had nearly been rubbed away from the woodwork. The exhausted furniture looked as if it would fall to pieces in despair if compelled to face the threatened ordeal of an auction sale. But to Anna the rooms were surprisingly large and there seemed so many of them. It was as if she were exploring an immense abode like a castle with odd chambers continually showing themselves in unexpected places. The upper story was even less inviting than the ground floor, barra, more chill, utterly comfortless. This is the best bedroom, said Miss Vaudry and a rare big room, too. It's not used now. He slept here while he sleeps at back. A very nice room, miners agree, blandly, and measured it, as he had done all the others with a two foot entered the figures in his pocketbook. Anna's eyes wandered uneasily across the room with this dismantled bed and decrepit mahogany suite. I'm glad he hanged himself at the works and not here, she thought. Then she looked out at the window. What a splendid view she remarked to miners. She saw that he had taken a fancy to the house. The sagacious fellow esteemed it, not as it was, but as it would be. Repapered, repainted, refurnished, the outer walls pointed, the garden stocked, everything cleansed, brightened, renewed. And there was indeed much to be said for his fancy. The house was large, with plenty of ground. The boundary wall secured that privacy which young husbands and young wives instinctively demand. The outlook was unlimited, the air the purest in the five towns, and the rent was low, because the great majority of those who could afford such a house would never deign to exist in a quarter so poverty stricken and unfashionable.  The venerable but not dignified town lay below them, a huddled medley of brown brick under a thick black cloud of smoke. The gold angel of the town hall gleamed in the evening light, and the dark squat tower of the parish church, sole relic of the past, stood out grim and obdurate amid the featureless buildings which surrounded it. To the north and east miles of Morland, the face by colories and murky hamlets ran to the horizon across the gray field at their feet, a figure slouched along past the abandoned pit shafts. They both recognized the man. There's Willie Price going home, said Miners. He looks tired, she said. She was relieved that they had not met him at the house. I say Miners began earnestly after a pause. Why shouldn't we get married soon? Since the old gentleman seems rather to expect it, he's been rather awkward lately, hasn't he? This was the only reference made by Miners to her father's temper. She nodded. How soon, she asked. Well, I was just thinking. Suppose, for the sake of argument, this house turns out all right. I couldn't get it thoroughly done up much before the middle of January. Couldn't begin till these people had moved. Suppose we said early in February. Yes. Could you be ready by that time? Oh, yes, she answered. I could be ready. Well, why shouldn't we fix February then? There's the question of Agnes, she said. Yes, and there will always be the question of Agnes. Your father will have to get a housekeeper. You and I will be able to see after little Agnes never fear. So with tenderness in his voice, he reassured her on that point. Why not February, she reflected. Why not tomorrow as father wants me out of the house? It was agreed. I've taken the prairie subject to your approval, Henry said, less than a fortnight later. From that time he invariably referred to the place as the prairie. It was on the very night after this eager announcement that the approaching tragedy came one step nearer. Beatrice in a modest evening dress with a white cloak, excited, hurried, and important, ran in to speak to Anna. The carriage was waiting outside. She and her father and mother had to attend a very important dinner at the mayor's house at Willport in connection with Mr. Sutton's impending mayoralty. Old Sarah Vajri had just sent down a girl to say that she was unwell, and would be grateful if Mrs. Sutton or Beatrice would visit her. It was a most unreasonable time for such a summons, but Sarah was a fidgety old crotchet, and knew how frightfully good-natured Mrs. Sutton was. Would Anna mind going up to Toft End? Would Anna come out to the carriage and personally assure Mrs. Sutton that old Sarah should be attended to?  It's very good of you, Anna, said Mrs. Sutton, when Anna went outside with Beatrice. But I think I'd better go myself. The poor old thing may feel slighted if I don't, and Beatrice can well take my place at the fair at Hillport, which I've no mind for. She was already half out of the carriage. Nothing of the kind, said Anna firmly, pushing her back. I shall be delighted to go and do what I can. That's right, Anna, said the alderman from the darkness of the carriage, where his shirt front-gleaned. Be said you'd go, and we're much obliged to you. I expect it will be nothing, said Beatrice, as the vehicle drove off. Sarah has served mother this trick before now. As Anna opened the garden gate of the prairie, she discerned a figure amid the rank bushes, which had been allowed to grow till they almost met across the narrow path leading to the front door of the house. It was a thick and mysterious night. Such a night as death chooses, and Anna jumped in vague terror at the apparition. Who's there, said a voice sharply? It's me, said Anna. Miss Vaudry sent down to ask Mrs. Sutton to come up and see her, but Mrs. Sutton had an engagement, so I came instead. The figure moved forward. It was Willie Price. He peered into her face, and she could see the mortal pallor of his cheeks. Oh, he exclaimed. It's Miss Tellerite, is it? Will you come in, Miss Tellerite? She followed him with beating heart, alarmed, apprehensive. The front door stood wide open, and at the far end of the gloomy passage a faint light shone from the open door of the kitchen. This way, he said, in the large, bare stone floor kitchen, Sarah Vaudry set limp and with closed eyes in an old rocking chair close to the fireless range. The window which gave on to the street was open. Through that window, Sarah and her extremity had called the child who ran down to Mrs. Sutton's. On the deal table were a dirty cup and saucer, a teapot, bread, butter, and a lighted candle, sole illumination of the chamber. I come home, and I find this, he said, daunted for a moment by the scene of misery, Anna could say nothing. I find this, he repeated, as if accusing God of spifaless, and he lifted the candle to show the apparently insensible form of the woman. Sarah's wrinkled and seen face had the flush of fever, and the features were drawn into the expression of a terrible anxiety. Her hands hung loose.  I wanted her to have the doctor yesterday, he said. But she wouldn't. Ever since you and Mr. Minor's called, she's been cleaning the house down. She said you'd happen be coming again soon, and the place wasn't fit to be seen. No use me arguing with her. You had better run for a doctor, Anna said. I was just going off when you came. She's been complaining more of her rheumatism and pain in her hips lately.  Wait a moment. Seeing that he was exhausted from lack of food, she cut a thick piece of bread and butter. Eat this as you go. She said, I can't eat. It'll choke me. Let it choke you, she said. You've got to swallow it. All of a hundred sorrows he must be treated as a child. As soon as Willie was gone, she took off her hat and jacket and lit a lamp. There was no gas in the kitchen. What's that like, the old woman axed perishly rousing herself and sitting up. I doubt I'll be late with Willie's tea. Ate Miss Terrick, what's a miss? You're not quite well, Miss Faudry, Anna answered. If you'll show me your room. I'll see you into bed. Without giving her a moment for hesitation, Anna seized the feeble creature under the arms, and so coaxing, supporting, caring, got her to bed. At length, she lay on the narrow mattress, panting, exhausted. It was Sarah's final effort. Anna lit fires in the kitchen and in the bedroom. And when Willie returned with Dr. McPherson, water was boiling and tea made. You'd better get a woman in, said the Dr. Kirtley in the kitchen when he had finished his examination of Sarah. Some neighbor for tonight. And I'll send a nurse up from the cottage hospital early tomorrow morning. Not that it will be the least use. She must have been dying for the last two days, at least. She's got pericarditis and pleurisy. She's breathing. I don't know how many to the minute. And her temperature is just about as high as it can be. It all follows from rheumatism, and then taking cold. Gross carelessness and neglect all through. I have no patience with such work. He turned angrily to Willie. I don't know what on earth you were thinking of, Mr. Price, not to send for me earlier. Willie, abashed and guilty, found nothing to say. His eye had the meek wistfulness of Homan Hunt's scapegoat. Mr. Price wanted her to have the doctor, said Anna, defending him with warmth, but she wouldn't. He is out at the works all day till late at night. How was he to know how she was? She could walk about. The tall doctor glanced at Anna and surprised, and at once modified his tone. Yes, he said. That's the curious thing. It passes me how she managed to get about. But there is no knowing what an obstinate woman won't force herself to do. I'll send the medicine up tonight and come along myself with the nurse early tomorrow. Meantime, keep careful to my instructions. That night remains forever fixed in Anna's memory, the grim rooms echoing and shadowy, the countless journeys up and down dark stairs and passages, Willie sitting always immovable in the kitchen, idle because there was nothing for him to do. Sarah incessantly panting on the trucker bed, the hard woman from up the street, buxom, kindly, useful, but fatuous in the endless monotony of her commiserations. Toward morning, Sarah Vodri gave sign of a desire to talk. I fought the fight, she murmured to Anna, who alone was in the bedroom with her. I fought the fight. I've kept the faith. In that box there, you'll see a purse. There's 17 pounds, six in it, that will pay for the funeral and Willie must have what's over. There would have been more for the lad, but he never paid me no wages this two years past. I never troubled him. Don't tell Willie that, Anna said impetuously. A bless you know, said the dying drudge, and then seemed to doze. Anna went to the kitchen and sent the woman upstairs. How was she, asked Willie without stirring? Anna shook her head. Neither her nor me will be here much longer, I'm thinking, he said, smiling warily. What, she exclaimed, startled. Mr. Sutton has arranged to sell our business as a going concern. Some people at Turnhill are buying it. I shall go to Australia. There's no room for me here. The creditors have promised to allow me 25 pounds, and I can get an assisted passage. Firstly, you'll know me no more. But I shall always remember you and what you've done. She longed to kneel at his feet and to comfort him and to cry.    The next day Sarah Vodri died. She who had never lived safe in the fetters of slavery and fanatism. After 50 years of ceaseless labor, she had gained the affection of one person and enough money to pay for her own funeral. Willie Price took a cheap lodging with the woman who had been called in on the night of Sarah's collapse. Before Christmas he was to sail to Melbourne. The prairie, deserted, gave up its rickety furniture to a van from Handbridge, where in an auction room the frail sticks lost their identity in a medley of other sticks and ceased to be. Then the bricklayer, the plasterer, the painter, and the paper hanger came to the prairie and whistled and sang in it. End of chapter 12, recording by Monique Michener, Randallstown, Maryland.


If you struggle to pray according to God's will, because your flesh is getting in the way, your emotions are getting in the way, praying in tongues allows you to put the flesh on the back burner. It allows you to put the flesh in the back seat, not even in the back seat, it's locked in the trunk.  You're praying according to the Spirit of God. You're praying according to God's perfect will for you. So when you pray in tongues, that is the power behind it. Because when I pray according to God's will, things begin to shift. Things in my life begin to shift. When I give utterance to the Holy Spirit's prayers, there's a level of surrender that takes place. There's a level of yielding that happens. Because you're yielding completely to the language of God. And you're not using your own understanding. You're not using your own preconceived notions.