CHAPTER II

THE MISER¹'S DAUGHTER

Anna sat in the bay-window of the front parlour, her accustomed place on Sunday evenings in summer, and watched Mr. Tellwright and Agnes disappear down the slope of Trafalgar Road on their way to chapel². Trafalgar Road is the long thoroughfare which, under many aliases³, runs through the Five Towns from end to end, uniting them as a river might unite them. Ephraim Tellwright could remember the time when this part of it was a country lane, flanked by meadows and market gardens. Now it was a street of houses up to and beyond Bleakridge, where the Tellwrights lived; on the other side of the hill the houses came only in patches until the far-stretching borders of Hanbridge were reached. Within the municipal limits Bleakridge was the pleasantest quarter of Bursley—Hillport, abode⁵ of the highest fashion, had its own government and authority—and to reside 'at the top of Trafalgar Road' was still the final ambition of many citizens, though the natural growth of the town had robbed Bleakridge of some of that exclusive distinction which it once possessed⁶. Trafalgar Road, in its journey to Bleakridge from the centre of the town, underwent certain changes of character. First came a succession of manufactories and small shops; then, at the beginning of the rise, a quarter of a mile of superior cottages; and lastly, on the brow, occurred the houses of the comfortable-detached, semi-detached, and in terraces, with rentals⁷ from 25l. to 60l. a year. The Tellwrights lived in Manor⁸ Terrace (the name being a last reminder⁹ of the great farmstead which formerly¹⁰ occupied the western hill side): their house, of light yellow brick, was two-storied, with a long narrow garden behind, and the rent 30l. Exactly opposite was an antique red mansion¹¹, standing¹² back in its own ground—home of the Mynors family for two generations, but now a school, the Mynors family being extinct in the district save for one member. Somewhat higher up, still on the opposite side to Manor Terrace, came an imposing¹³ row of four new houses, said to be the best planned and best built in the town, each erected¹⁴ separately and occupied by its owner. The nearest of these four was Councillor Sutton's, valued at 60l. a year. Lower down, below Manor Terrace and on the same side, lived the Wesleyan superintendent¹⁵ minister, the vicar of St. Luke's Church, an alderman, and a doctor.

It was nearly six o'clock. The sun shone, but gentlier; and the earth lay cooling in the mild, pensive¹⁶ effulgence¹⁷ of a summer evening. Even the onrush of the steam-car, as it swept with a gay load of passengers to Hanbridge, seemed to be chastened; the bell of the Roman Catholic chapel sounded like the bell of some village church heard in the distance; the quick but sober tramp of the chapel-goers fell peacefully on the ear. The sense of calm increased, and, steeped in this meditative¹⁸ calm, Anna from the open window gazed idly down the perspective of the road, which ended a mile away in the dim concave forms of ovens suffused¹⁹ in a pale mist. A book from the Free Library lay on her lap; she could not read it. She was conscious of nothing save the quiet enchantment²⁰ of reverie. Her mind, stimulated²¹ by the emotions of the afternoon, broke the fetters²² of habitual²³ self-discipline, and ranged voluptuously²⁴ free over the whole field of recollection and anticipation²⁵. To remember, to hope: that was sufficient joy.

In the dissolving views of her own past, from which the rigour and pain seemed to have mysteriously departed, the chief figure was always her father—that sinister²⁶ and formidable individuality, whom her mind hated but her heart disobediently loved. Ephraim Tellwright[1] was one of the most extraordinary and most mysterious men in the Five Towns. The outer facts of his career were known to all, for his riches made him notorious; but of the secret and intimate man none knew anything except Anna, and what little Anna knew had come to her by divination²⁷ rather than discernment. A native of Hanbridge, he had inherited a small fortune from his father, who was a prominent Wesleyan Methodist. At thirty, owing mainly to investments in property which his calling of potter's valuer had helped him to choose with advantage, he was worth twenty thousand pounds, and he lived in lodgings²⁸ on a total expenditure²⁹ of about a hundred a year. When he was thirty-five he suddenly married, without any perceptible public wooing, the daughter of a wood merchant at Oldcastle, and shortly after the marriage his wife inherited from her father a sum of eighteen thousand pounds. The pair lived narrowly in a small house up at Pireford, between Hanbridge and Oldcastle. They visited no one, and were never seen together except on Sundays. She was a rosy-cheeked, very unassuming and simple woman, who smiled easily and talked with difficulty, and for the rest lived apparently³⁰ a servile life of satisfaction and content. After five years Anna was born, and in another five years Mrs. Tellwright died of erysipelas. The widower³¹ engaged a housekeeper³²: otherwise his existence proceeded without change. No stranger visited the house, the housekeeper never gossiped; but tales will spread, and people fell into the habit of regarding Tellwright's child and his housekeeper with commiseration³³.

During all this period he was what is termed 'a good Wesleyan,' preaching and teaching, and spending himself in the various activities of Hanbridge chapel. For many years he had been circuit treasurer³⁴. Among Anna's earliest memories was a picture of her father arriving late for supper one Sunday night in autumn after an anniversary service, and pouring out on the white tablecloth³⁵ the contents of numerous chamois-leather money-bags. She recalled the surprising dexterity³⁶ with which he counted the coins, the peculiar³⁷ smell of the bags, and her mother's bland³⁸ exclamation³⁹, 'Eh, Ephraim!' Tellwright belonged by birth to the Old Guard of Methodism; there was in his family a tradition of holy valour for the pure doctrine⁴⁰: his father, a Bursley man, had fought in the fight which preceded the famous Primitive⁴¹ Methodist Secession of 1808 at Bursley, and had also borne a notable part in the Warren affrays of '28, and the disastrous⁴² trouble of the Fly-Sheets in '49, when Methodism lost a hundred thousand members. As for Ephraim, he expounded⁴³ the mystery of the Atonement in village conventicles and grew garrulous⁴⁴ with God at prayer-meetings in the big Bethesda chapel; but he did these things as routine, without skill and without enthusiasm, because they gave him an unassailable position within the central group of the society. He was not, in fact, much smitten⁴⁵ with either the doctrinal or the spiritual side of Methodism. His chief interest lay in those fiscal⁴⁶ schemes of organisation⁴⁷ without whose aid no religious propaganda can possibly succeed. It was in the finance of salvation⁴⁸ that he rose supreme—the interminable alternation of debt-raising and new liability which provides a lasting⁴⁹ excitement for Nonconformists. In the negotiation⁵⁰ of mortgages, the artful arrangement of appeals, the planning of anniversaries and of mighty⁵¹ revivals⁵², he was an undisputed leader. To him the circuit was a 'going concern,' and he kept it in motion, serving the Lord in committee and over statements of account. The minister by his pleading might bring sinners to the penitent⁵³ form, but it was Ephraim Tellwright who reduced the cost per head of souls saved, and so widened the frontiers of the Kingdom of Heaven.

Three years after the death of his first wife it was rumoured⁵⁵ that he would marry again, and that his choice had fallen on a young orphan⁵⁶ girl, thirty years his junior, who 'assisted' at the stationer's shop where he bought his daily newspaper. The rumour⁵⁴ was well-founded. Anna, then eight years of age, vividly⁵⁷ remembered the home-coming of the pale wife, and her own sturdy attempts to explain, excuse, or assuage⁵⁸ to this wistful and fragile creature the implacable harshness of her father's temper. Agnes was born within a year, and the pale girl died of puerperal fever. In that year lay a whole tragedy, which could not have been more poignant⁵⁹ in its perfection if the year had been a thousand years. Ephraim promptly⁶⁰ re-engaged the old housekeeper, a course which filled Anna with secret childish revolt, for Anna was now nine, and accomplished⁶¹ in all domesticity. In another seven years the housekeeper died, a gaunt grey ruin, and Anna at sixteen became mistress of the household, with a small sister to cherish and control. About this time Anna began to perceive that her father was generally regarded as a man of great wealth, having few rivals in the entire region of the Five Towns, Definite knowledge, however, she had none: he never spoke⁶² of his affairs; she knew only that he possessed houses and other property in various places, that he always turned first to the money article in the newspaper, and that long envelopes arrived for him by post almost daily. But she had once heard the surmise⁶³ that he was worth sixty thousand of his own, apart from the fortune of his first wife, Anna's mother. Nevertheless, it did not occur to her to think of her father, in plain terms, as a miser, until one day she happened to read in the 'Staffordshire Signal' some particulars of the last will and testament⁶⁴ of William Wilbraham, J.P., who had just died. Mr. Wilbraham had been a famous magnate and benefactor⁶⁵ of the Five Towns; his revered⁶⁶ name was in every mouth; he had a fine seat, Hillport House, at Hillport; and his superb horses were constantly seen, winged and nervous, in the streets of Bursley and Hanbridge. The 'Signal' said that the net value of his estate⁶⁷ was sworn at fifty-nine thousand pounds. This single fact added a definite and startling significance to figures which had previously⁶⁸ conveyed nothing to Anna except an idea of vastness. The crude contrast between the things of Hillport House and the things of the six-roomed abode in Manor Terrace gave food for reflection, silent but profound.

Tellwright had long ago retired⁶⁹ from business, and three years after the housekeeper died he retired, practically, from religious work, to the grave detriment⁷⁰ of the Hanbridge circuit. In reply to sorrowful questioners, he said merely that he was getting old and needed rest, and that there ought to be plenty of younger men to fill his shoes. He gave up everything except his pew in the chapel. The circuit was astounded⁷¹ by this sudden defection of a class-leader, a local preacher, and an officer. It was an inexplicable⁷² fall from grace. Yet the solution of the problem was quite simple. Ephraim had lost interest in his religious avocations⁷³; they had ceased to amuse him, the old ardour had cooled. The phenomenon⁷⁴ is a common enough experience with men who have passed their fiftieth year—men, too, who began with the true and sacred zeal⁷⁵, which Tellwright never felt. The difference in Tellwright's case was that, characteristically, he at once yielded to the new instinct, caring naught⁷⁶ for public opinion. Soon afterwards, having purchased a lot of cottage property in Bursley, he decided⁷⁷ to migrate to the town of his fathers. He had more than one reason for doing so, but perhaps the chief was that he found the atmosphere of Hanbridge Wesleyan chapel rather uncongenial. The exodus⁷⁸ from it was his silent and malicious⁷⁹ retort to a silent rebuke⁸⁰.

He appeared now to grow younger, discarding in some measure a certain morose⁸¹ taciturnity which had hitherto marked his demeanour. He went amiably⁸² about in the manner of a veteran determined⁸³ to enjoy the brief existence of life's winter. His stout⁸⁴, stiff, deliberate yet alert figure became a familiar object to Bursley: that ruddy face, with its small blue eyes, smooth upper lip, and short grey beard under the smooth chin, seemed to pervade⁸⁵ the streets, offering everywhere the conundrum⁸⁶ of its vague smile. Though no friend ever crossed his doorstep, he had dozens of acquaintances of the footpath⁸⁷. He was not, however, a facile talker, and he seldom gave an opinion; nor were his remarks often noticeably shrewd. He existed within himself, unrevealed. To the crowd, of course, he was a marvellous legend, and moving always in the glory of that legend he received their wondering awe⁸⁸—an awe tinged⁸⁹ with contempt for his lack of ostentation⁹⁰ and public splendour. Commercial men with whom he had transacted⁹¹ business liked to discuss his abilities, thus disseminating⁹² that solid respect for him which had sprung from a personal experience of those abilities, and which not even the shabbiness of his clothes could weaken.

Anna was disturbed by the arrival at the front door of the milk-girl. Alternately with her father, she stayed at home on Sunday evenings, partly to receive the evening milk and partly to guard the house. The Persian cat with one ear preceded her to the door as soon as he heard the clatter⁹³ of the can. The stout little milk-girl dispensed⁹⁴ one pint⁹⁵ of milk into Anna's jug⁹⁶, and spilt an eleemosynary supply on the step for the cat. 'He does like it fresh, Miss,' said the milk-girl, smiling at the greedy cat, and then, with a 'Lovely evenin',' departed down the street, one fat red arm stretched horizontally out to balance the weight of the can in the other. Anna leaned idly against the doorpost, waiting while the cat finished, until at length the swaying figure of the milk-girl disappeared in the dip of the road. Suddenly she darted⁹⁷ within, shutting the door, and stood on the hall-mat in a startled attitude of dismay. She had caught sight of Henry Mynors in the distance, approaching the house. At that moment the kitchen clock struck seven, and Mynors, according to the rule of a lifetime, should have been in his place in the 'orchestra' (or, as some term it, the 'singing-seat') of the chapel, where he was an admired baritone. Anna dared not conjecture⁹⁸ what impulse had led him into this extraordinary, incredible deviation⁹⁹. She dared not conjecture, but despite herself she knew, and the knowledge shocked her sensitive and peremptory¹⁰⁰ conscience. Her heart began to beat rapidly; she was in distress¹⁰¹. Aware that her father and sister had left her alone, did he mean to call? It was absolutely impossible, yet she feared it, and blushed, all solitary¹⁰² there in the passage, for shame. Now she heard his sharp, decided footsteps, and through the glazed¹⁰³ panels of the door she could see the outline of his form. He stopped; his hand was on the gate, and she ceased to breathe. He pushed the gate open, and then, at the whisper of some blessed angel, he closed it again and continued his way up the street. After a few moments Anna carried the milk into the kitchen, and stood by the dresser, moveless, each muscle braced¹⁰⁴ in the intensity¹⁰⁵ of profound contemplation. Gradually the tears rose to her eyes and fell; they were the tincture of a strange and mystic joy, too poignant to be endured. As it were under compulsion she ran outside, and down the garden path to the low wall which looked over the grey fields of the valley up to Hillport. Exactly opposite, a mile and a half away, on the ridge⁴, was Hillport Church, dark and clear against the orange sky. To the right, and nearer, lay the central masses of the town, tier on tier of richly-coloured ovens and chimneys. Along the field-paths couples moved slowly. All was quiescent¹⁰⁶, languorous¹⁰⁷, beautiful in the glow of the sun's stately declension. Anna put her arms on the wall. Far more impressively than in the afternoon she realised that this was the end of one epoch¹⁰⁸ in her career and the beginning of another. Enthralled¹⁰⁹ by austere¹¹⁰ traditions and that stern conscience of hers, she had never permitted herself to dream of the possibility of an escape from the parental¹¹¹ servitude. She had never looked beyond the horizons of her present world, but had sought spiritual satisfaction in the ideas of duty and sacrifice. The worst tyrannies of her father never dulled the sense of her duty to him; and, without perhaps being aware of it, she had rather despised love and the dalliance of the sexes. In her attitude towards such things there had been not only a little contempt but also some disapproval¹¹², as though man were destined¹¹³ for higher ends. Now she saw, in a quick revelation, that it was the lovers, and not she, who had the right to scorn. She saw how miserably¹¹⁴ narrow, tepid¹¹⁵, and trickling¹¹⁶ the stream of her life had been, and had threatened to be. Now it gushed¹¹⁷ forth¹¹⁸ warm, impetuous, and full, opening out new and delicious vistas¹¹⁹. She lived; and she was finding the sight to see, the courage to enjoy. Now, as she leaned over the wall, she would not have cared if Henry Mynors indeed had called that night. She perceived something splendid and free in his abandonment of habit and discretion¹²⁰ at the bidding of a desire. To be the magnet which could draw that pattern and exemplar of seemliness from the strict orbit of virtuous¹²¹ custom! It was she, the miser's shabby daughter, who had caused this amazing phenomenon. The thought intoxicated¹²² her. Without the support of the wall she might have fallen. In a sort of trance she murmured these words: 'He loves me.'

This was Anna Tellwright, the ascetic¹²³, the prosaic¹²⁴, the impassive.

After an interval¹²⁵ which to her was as much like a minute as a century, she went back into the house. As she entered by the kitchen she heard an impatient knocking at the front door.

'At last,' said her father grimly, when she opened the door. In two words he had resumed his terrible sway over her. Agnes looked timidly from one to the other and slipped past them into the house.

'I was in the garden,' Anna explained. 'Have you been here long?' She tried to smile apologetically.

'Only about a quarter of an hour,' he answered, with a grimness still more portentous¹²⁶.

'He won't speak again to-night,' she thought fearfully. But she was mistaken. After he had carefully hung his best hat on the hat-rack, he turned towards her, and said, with a queer smile:

'Ye've been day-dreaming, eh, Sis?'

'Sis' was her pet name, used often by Agnes, but by her father only at the very rarest intervals¹²⁷. She was staggered at this change of front, so unaccountable in this man, who, when she had unwittingly annoyed him, was capable of keeping an awful silence for days together. What did he know? What had those old eyes seen?

'I forgot,' she stammered¹²⁸, gathering¹²⁹ herself together happily, 'I forgot the time.' She felt that after all there was a bond between them which nothing could break—the tie of blood. They were father and daughter, united by sympathies obscure but fundamental. Kissing was not in the Tellwright blood, but she had a fleeting¹³⁰ wish to hug the tyrant¹³¹.

[1] Tellwright: tile-wright, a name specially¹³² characteristic of, and possibly originating in, this clay-manufacturing district.