Anna of the Five Towns | Page 9

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 retired from business, and three years after the
housekeeper died he retired, practically, from religious work, to the
grave detriment 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 astounded
by this sudden defection of a class-leader, a local preacher, and an
officer. It was an inexplicable fall from grace. Yet the solution of the
problem was quite simple. Ephraim had lost interest in his religious
avocations; they had ceased to amuse him, the old ardour had cooled.
The phenomenon is a common enough experience with men who have
passed their fiftieth year--men, too, who began with the true and sacred
zeal, which Tellwright never felt. The difference in Tellwright's case
was that, characteristically, he at once yielded to the new instinct,
caring naught for public opinion. Soon afterwards, having purchased a
lot of cottage property in Bursley, he decided 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 exodus from it was his silent and malicious
retort to a silent rebuke.
He appeared now to grow younger, discarding in some measure a
certain morose taciturnity which had hitherto marked his demeanour.
He went amiably about in the manner of a veteran determined to enjoy
the brief existence of life's winter. His stout, 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 pervade the streets, offering everywhere the

conundrum of its vague smile. Though no friend ever crossed his
doorstep, he had dozens of acquaintances of the footpath. 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 awe--an
awe tinged with contempt for his lack of ostentation and public
splendour. Commercial men with whom he had transacted business
liked to discuss his abilities, thus disseminating 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 clatter of the can. The stout little milk-girl dispensed one pint of
milk into Anna's jug, 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 darted 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 conjecture what impulse
had led him into this extraordinary, incredible deviation She dared not
conjecture, but despite herself she knew, and the knowledge shocked
her sensitive and peremptory conscience. Her heart began to beat
rapidly; she was in distress. 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 solitary there in the passage, for shame. Now she
heard his sharp, decided footsteps, and through the glazed 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