Anna of the Five Towns · Chapter 6 (2/3)

“Agnes!” he commanded, and Agnes ran to him from the kitchen with the speed of propitiation.

“Yes, father.”

“Take this note down to Price’s, and don’t wait for an answer.”

“Yes, father.”

She was back in twenty minutes. Anna was sweeping the lobby.

“If Mr. Mynors calls while I’m out, you mun tell him to wait,” Mr. Tellwright said to Agnes, pointedly ignoring Anna’s presence. Then, having brushed his greenish hat on his sleeve he went off towards town to buy meat and vegetables. He always did Saturday’s marketing himself. At the butcher’s and in the St. Luke’s covered market he was a familiar and redoubtable figure. Among the salespeople who stood the market was a wrinkled, hardy old potato-woman from the other side of Moorthorne: every Saturday the miser bested her in their higgling-match, and nearly every Saturday she scornfully threw at him the same joke: “Get thee along to th’ post-office, Master Terrick:4 happen they’ll give thee sixpenn’orth o’ stamps for fivepence ha’penny.” He seldom failed to laugh heartily at this.

At dinner the girls could perceive that the shadow of his displeasure had slightly lifted, though he kept a frowning silence. Expert in all the symptoms of his moods, they knew that in a few hours he would begin to talk again, at first in monosyllables, and then in short detached sentences. An intimation of relief diffused itself through the house like a hint of spring in February.

These domestic upheavals followed always the same course, and Anna had learnt to suffer the later stages of them with calmness and even with impassivity. Henry Mynors had not called. She supposed that her father had expected him to call for the answer which she had forgotten to give him, and she had a hope that he would come in the afternoon: once again she had the idea that something definite and satisfactory might result if she could only see him⁠—that she might, as it were, gather inspiration from the mere sight of his face. After dinner, while the girls were washing the dinner things in the scullery, Agnes’s quick ear caught the sound of voices in the parlour. They listened. Mynors had come. Mr. Tellwright must have seen him from the front window and opened the door to him before he could ring.

“It’s him,” said Agnes, excited.

“Who?” Anna asked, self-consciously.

“Mr. Mynors, of course,” said the child sharply, making it quite plain that this affectation could not impose on her for a single instant.

“Anna!” It was Mr. Tellwright’s summons, through the parlour window. She dried her hands, doffed her apron, and went to the parlour, animated by a thousand fears and expectations. Why was she to be included in the colloquy?

Mynors rose at her entrance and greeted her with conspicuous deference, a deference which made her feel ashamed.

“Hum!” the old man growled, but he was obviously content. “I gave Anna a message for ye yesterday, Mr. Mynors, but her forgot to deliver it, wench-like. Ye might ha’ been saved th’ trouble o’ calling. Now as ye’re here, I’ve summat for tell ye. It’ll be Anna’s money as’ll go into that concern o’ yours. I’ve none by me; in fact, I’m a’most fast for brass, but her’ll have as near two thousand as makes no matter in a month’s time, and her says her’ll go in wi’ you on th’ strength o’ my recommendation.”

This speech was evidently a perfect surprise for Henry Mynors. For a moment he seemed to be at a loss; then his face gave candid expression to a feeling of intense pleasure.

“You know all about this business then, Miss Tellwright?”

She blushed. “Father has told me something about it.”

“And are you willing to be my partner?”

“Nay, I did na’ say that,” Tellwright interrupted. “It’ll be Anna’s money, but i’ my name.”

“I see,” said Mynors gravely. “But if it is Miss Anna’s money, why should not she be the partner?” He offered one of his courtly diplomatic smiles.

“Oh⁠—but⁠—” Anna began in deprecation.

Tellwright laughed. “Ay!” he said, “why not? It’ll be experience for th’ lass.”

“Just so,” said Mynors.

Anna stood silent, like a child who is being talked about. There was a pause.

“Would you care for that arrangement, Miss Tellwright?”

“Oh, yes,” she said.

“I shall try to justify your confidence. I needn’t say that I think you and your father will have no reason to be disappointed. Two thousand pounds is of course only a trifle to you, but it is a great deal to me, and⁠—and⁠—” He hesitated. Anna did not surmise that he was too much moved by the sight of her, and the situation, to continue, but this was the fact.

“There’s nobbut one point, Mr. Mynors,” Tellwright said bluntly, “and that’s the interest on th’ capital, as must be deducted before reckoning profits. Us must have six percent.”

“But I thought we had settled it at five,” said Mynors with sudden firmness.

“We ’n settled as you shall have five on your fifteen hundred,” the miser replied with imperturbable audacity, “but us mun have our six.”

“I certainly thought we had thrashed that out fully, and agreed that the interest should be the same on each side.” Mynors was alert and defensive.

“Nay, young man. Us mun have our six. We’re takkin’ a risk.”

Mynors pressed his lips together. He was taken at a disadvantage. Mr. Tellwright, with unscrupulous cleverness, had utilized the effect on Mynors of his daughter’s presence to regain a position from which the younger man had definitely ousted him a few days before. Mynors was annoyed, but he gave no sign of his annoyance.

“Very well,” he said at length, with a private smile at Anna to indicate that it was out of regard for her that he yielded.

Mr. Tellwright made no pretence of concealing his satisfaction. He, too, smiled at Anna, sardonically: the last vestige of the morning’s irritation vanished in a glow of triumph.

“I’m afraid I must go,” said Mynors, looking at his watch. “There is a service at chapel at three. Our Revivalist came down with Mrs. Sutton to look over the works this morning, and I told him I should be at the service. So I must. You coming, Mr. Tellwright?”

“Nay, my lad. I’m owd enough to leave it to young uns.”

Anna forced her courage to the verge of rashness, moved by a swift impulse.

“Will you wait one minute?” she said to Mynors. “I am going to the service. If I’m late back, father, Agnes will see to the tea. Don’t wait for me.” She looked him straight in the face. It was one of the bravest acts of her life. After the episode of breakfast, to suggest a procedure which might entail any risk upon another meal was absolutely heroic. Tellwright glanced away from his daughter, and at Mynors. Anna hurried upstairs.

“Who’s thy lawyer, Mr. Mynors?” Tellwright asked.

“Dane,” said Mynors.

“That’ll be convenient. Dane does my bit o’ business, too. I’ll see him, and make a bargain wi’ him for th’ partnership deed. He always works by contract for me. I’ve no patience wi’ six-and-eight-pences.”

Mynors assented.

“You must come down some afternoon and look over the works,” he said to Anna as they were walking down Trafalgar Road towards chapel.

“I should like to,” Anna replied. “I’ve never been over a works in my life.”

“No? You are going to be a partner in the best works of its size in Bursley,” Mynors said enthusiastically.

“I’m glad of that,” she smiled, “for I do believe I own the worst.”

“What⁠—Price’s do you mean?”

She nodded.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, and seemed to be thinking. “I wasn’t sure whether that belonged to you or your father. I’m afraid it isn’t quite the best of properties. But perhaps I’d better say nothing about that. We had a grand meeting last night. Our little cornet-player quite lived up to his reputation, don’t you think?”

“Quite,” she said faintly.

“You enjoyed the meeting?”

“No,” she blurted out, dismayed but resolute to be honest.

There was a silence.

“But you were at the early prayer-meeting this morning, I hear.”

She said nothing while they took a dozen paces, and then murmured, “Yes.”

Their eyes met for a second, hers full of trouble.

“Perhaps,” he said at length, “perhaps⁠—excuse me saying this⁠—but you may be expecting too much⁠—”

“Well?” she encouraged him, prepared now to finish what had been begun.

“I mean,” he said, earnestly, “that I⁠—we⁠—cannot promise you any sudden change of feeling, any sudden relief and certainty, such as some people experience. At least, I never had it. What is called conversion can happen in various ways. It is a question of living, of constant endeavour, with the example of Christ always before us. It need not always be a sudden wrench, you know, from the world. Perhaps you have been expecting too much,” he repeated, as though offering balm with that phrase.

She thanked him sincerely, but not with her lips, only with the heart. He had revealed to her an avenue of release from a situation which had seemed on all sides fatally closed. She sprang eagerly towards it. She realised afresh how frightful was the dilemma from which there was now a hope of escape, and she was grateful accordingly. Before, she had not dared steadily to face its terrors. She wondered that even her father’s displeasure or the project of the partnership had been able to divert her from the plight of her soul. Putting these mundane things firmly behind her, she concentrated the activities of her brain on that idea of Christ-like living, day by day, hour by hour, of a gradual aspiration towards Christ and thereby an ultimate arrival at the state of being saved. This she thought she might accomplish; this gave opportunity of immediate effort, dispensing with the necessity of an impossible violent spiritual metamorphosis. They did not speak again until they had reached the gates of the chapel, when Mynors, who had to enter the choir from the back, bade her a quiet adieu. Anna enjoyed the service, which passed smoothly and uneventfully. At a Revival, night is the time of ecstasy and fervour and salvation; in the afternoon one must be content with preparatory praise and prayer.

That evening, while father and daughters sat in the parlour after supper, there was a ring at the door. Agnes ran to open, and found Willie Price. It had begun to rain, and the visitor, his jacket-collar turned up, was wet and draggled. Agnes left him on the mat and ran back to the parlour.

“Young Mr. Price wants to see you, father.”

Tellwright motioned to her to shut the door.

“You’d best see him, Anna,” he said. “It’s none my business.”

“But what has he come about, father?”

“That note as I sent down this morning. I told owd Titus as he mun pay us twenty pun’ on Monday morning certain, or us should distrain. Them as can pay ten pun, especially in bank notes, can pay twenty pun, and thirty.”

“And suppose he says he can’t?”

“Tell him he must. I’ve figured it out and changed my mind about that works. Owd Titus isna’ done for yet, though he’s getting on that road. Us can screw another fifty out o’ him, that’ll only leave six months rent owing; then us can turn him out. He’ll go bankrupt; us can claim for our rent afore th’ other creditors, and us’ll have a hundred or a hundred and twenty in hand towards doing the owd place up a bit for a new tenant.”

“Make him bankrupt, father?” Anna exclaimed. It was the only part of the ingenious scheme which she had understood.

“Ay!” he said laconically.

“But⁠—” (Would Christ have driven Titus Price into the bankruptcy court?)

“If he pays, well and good.”

“Hadn’t you better see Mr. William, father?”

“Whose property is it, mine or thine?” Tellwright growled. His good humour was still precarious, insecurely reestablished, and Anna obediently left the room. After all, she said to herself, a debt is a debt, and honest people pay what they owe.

It was in an uncomplaisant tone that Anna invited Willie Price to the front parlour: nervousness always made her seem harsh and moreover she had not the trick of hiding firmness under suavity.

“Will you come this way, Mr. Price?”

“Yes,” he said with ingratiating, eager compliance. Dusk was falling, and the room in shadow. She forgot to ask him to take a chair, so they both stood up during the interview.

“A grand meeting we had last night,” he began, twisting his hat. “I saw you there, Miss Tellwright.”

“Yes.”

“Yes. There was a splendid muster of teachers. I wanted to be at the prayer-meeting this morning, but couldn’t get away. Did you happen to go, Miss Tellwright?”

She saw that he knew that she had been present, and gave him another curt monosyllable. She would have liked to be kind to him, to reassure him, to make him happy and comfortable, so ludicrous and touching were his efforts after a social urbanity which should appease; but, just as much as he, she was unskilled in the subtle arts of converse.

“Yes,” he continued, “and I was anxious to be at tonight’s meeting, but the dad asked me to come up here. He said I’d better.” That term, “the dad,” uttered in William’s slow, drawling voice, seemed to show Titus Price in a new light to Anna, as a human creature loved, not as a mere gross physical organism: the effect was quite surprising. William went on: “Can I see your father, Miss Tellwright?”

“Is it about the rent?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Well, if you will tell me⁠—”

“Oh! I beg pardon,” he said quickly. “Of course I know it’s your property, but I thought Mr. Tellwright always saw after it for you. It was he that wrote that letter this morning, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Anna replied. She did not explain the situation.

“You insist on another twenty pounds on Monday?”

“Yes,” she said.

“We paid ten last Monday.”

“But there is still over a hundred owing.”

“I know, but⁠—oh, Miss Tellwright, you mustn’t be hard on us. Trade’s bad.”

“It says in the Signal that trade is improving,” she interrupted sharply.

“Does it?” he said. “But look at prices; they’re cut till there’s no profit left. I assure you, Miss Tellwright, my father and me are having a hard struggle. Everything’s against us, and the works in particular, as you know.”

His tone was so earnest, so pathetic, that tears of compassion almost rose to her eyes as she looked at those simple naive blue eyes of his. His lanky figure and clumsily-fitting clothes, his feeble placatory smile, the twitching movements of his long red hands, all contributed to the effect of his defencelessness. She thought of the test: “Blessed are the meek,” and saw in a flash the deep truth of it. Here were she and her father, rich, powerful, autocratic; and there were Willie Price and his father, commercial hares hunted by hounds of creditors, hares that turned in plaintive appeal to those greedy jaws for mercy. And yet, she, a hound, envied at that moment the hares. Blessed are the meek, blessed are the failures, blessed are the stupid, for they, unknown to themselves, have a grace which is denied to the haughty, the successful, and the wise. The very repulsiveness of old Titus, his underhand methods, his insincerities, only served to increase her sympathy for the pair. How could Titus help being himself any more than Henry Mynors could help being himself? And that idea led her to think of the prospective partnership, destined by every favourable sign to brilliant success, and to contrast it with the ignoble and forlorn undertaking in Edward Street.

She tried to discover some method of soothing the young man’s fears, of being considerate to him without injuring her father’s scheme.

“If you will pay what you owe,” she said, “we will spend it all, every penny, on improving the works.”

“Miss Tellwright,” he answered with fatal emphasis, “we cannot pay.”

Ah! She wished to follow Christ day by day, hour by hour⁠—constantly to endeavour after saintliness. What was she to do now? Left to herself, she might have said in a burst of impulsive generosity, “I forgive you all arrears. Start afresh.” But her father had to be reckoned with⁠ ⁠…

“How much do you think you can pay on Monday?” she asked coldly.