Anna of the Five Towns

The yard was all silent and empty under the burning afternoon heat, which had made its asphalt springy like turf, when suddenly the children threw themselves out of the great doors at either end of the Sunday-school⁠—boys from the right, girls from the left⁠—in two howling, impetuous streams, that widened, eddied, intermingled and formed backwaters until the whole quadrangle was full of clamour and movement. Many of the scholars carried prize-books bound in vivid tints, and proudly exhibited these volumes to their companions and to the teachers, who, tall, languid, and condescending, soon began to appear amid the restless throng. Near the left-hand door a little girl of twelve years, dressed in a cream coloured frock, with a wide and heavy straw hat, stood quietly kicking her foal-like legs against the wall. She was one of those who had won a prize, and once or twice she took the treasure from under her arm to glance at its frontispiece with a vague smile of satisfaction. For a time her bright eyes were fixed expectantly on the doorway; then they would wander, and she started to count the windows of the various Connectional buildings which on three sides enclosed the yard⁠—chapel, school, lecture-hall, and chapel-keeper’s house. Most of the children had already squeezed through the narrow iron gate into the street beyond, where a steam-car was rumbling and clattering up Duck Bank, attended by its immense shadow. The teachers remained a little behind. Gradually dropping the pedagogic pose, and happy in the virtuous sensation of duty accomplished, they forgot the frets and fatigues of the day, and grew amiably vivacious among themselves. With an instinctive mutual complacency the two sexes mixed again after separation.

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.

At length he turned.

“Anna,” he said in his harsh, abrupt tones, and then stopped for a moment before continuing. His thick, short fingers held the list which he had previously been consulting. She waited in bewilderment. “It’s your birthday, ye told me. I hadna’ forgotten. Ye’re of age today, and there’s summat for ye. Your mother had a fortune of her own, and under your grandfeyther’s will it comes to you when you’re twenty-one. I’m the trustee. Your mother had eighteen thousand pounds i’ Government stock.” He laid a slight sneering emphasis on the last two words. “That was near twenty-five year ago. I’ve nigh on trebled it for ye, what wi’ good investments and interest accumulating. Thou’rt worth”⁠—here he changed to the second personal singular, a habit with him⁠—“thou’rt worth this day as near fifty thousand as makes no matter, Anna. And that’s a tidy bit.”

“Fifty thousand⁠—pounds!” she exclaimed aghast.

“Ay, lass.”

She tried to speak calmly. “Do you mean it’s mine, father?”

“It’s thine, under thy grandfeyther’s will⁠—haven’t I told thee? I’m bound by law for to give it to thee this day, and thou mun give me a receipt in due form for the securities. Here they are, and here’s the list. Tak’ the list, Anna, and read it to me while I check off.”

She mechanically took the blue paper and read:

“Toft End Colliery and Brickworks Limited, five hundred shares of ten pounds.”

“They paid ten percent last year,” he said, “and with coal up as it is they’ll pay fiftane this. Let’s see what thy arithmetic is worth, lass. How much is fiftane percent on five thousand pun?”

She had forgotten to buy bacon, and breakfast would be late: it was a calamity unique in her experience! She stood at the door of her bedroom, and waited, vehemently, for Agnes’s return. At last the child raced breathlessly in; Anna flew to meet her. With incredible speed the bacon was whipped out of its wrapper, and Anna picked up the knife. At the first stroke she cut herself, and Agnes was obliged to bind the finger with rag. The clock struck the half-hour like a knell. It was twenty minutes to nine, forty minutes behind time, when the two girls hurried into the parlour, Anna bearing the bacon and hot plates, Agnes the bread and coffee. Mr. Tellwright sat upright and ferocious in his chair, the image of offence and wrath. Instead of reading his letters he had fed full of this ineffable grievance. The meal began in a desolating silence. The male creature’s terrible displeasure permeated the whole room like an ether, invisible but carrying vibrations to the heart. Then, when he had eaten one piece of bacon, and cut his envelopes, the miser began to empty himself of some of his anger in stormy tones that might have uprooted trees. Anna ought to feel thoroughly ashamed. He could not imagine what she had been thinking of. Why didn’t she tell him she was going to the prayer-meeting? Why did she go to the prayer-meeting, disarranging the whole household? How came she to forget the bacon? It was gross carelessness. A pretty example to her little sister! The fact was that since her birthday she had gotten above hersen. She was careless and extravagant. Look how thick the bacon was cut. He should not stand it much longer. And her finger all red, and the blood dropping on the cloth: a nice sight at a meal! Go and tie it up again.

“Anna,” he said, “it’s no use making a long story of it. I’m tremendously in love with you; you know I am.”

He stepped back, still holding her hand. She could say nothing.

“Well?” he ventured. “Didn’t you know?”

“I thought⁠—I thought,” she murmured stupidly, “I thought you liked me.”

“I can’t tell you how I admire you. I’m not going to praise you to your face, but I simply never met anyone like you. From the very first moment I saw you, it was the same. It’s something in your face, Anna⁠—Anna, will you be my wife?”

The actual question was put in a precise, polite, somewhat conventional tone. To Anna he was never more himself than at that moment.

She could not speak; she could not analyse her feelings; she could not even think. She was adrift. At last she stammered: “We’ve only known each other⁠—”

“Oh, dear,” he exclaimed masterfully, “what does that matter? If it had been a dozen years instead of one, that would have made no difference.” She drew her hand timidly away, but he took it again. She felt that he dominated her and would decide for her. “Say yes.”

“Yes,” she said.