It was nearly six o'clock. The sun shone, but gentlier; and the earth lay cooling in the mild, pensive15 effulgence16 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 meditative17 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 suffused18 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 enchantment19 of reverie. Her mind, stimulated20 by the emotions of the afternoon, broke the fetters21 of habitual22 self-discipline, and ranged voluptuously23 free over the whole field of recollection and anticipation24. 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 sinister25 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 divination26 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 lodgings27 on a total expenditure28 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 apparently29 a servile life of satisfaction and content. After five years Anna was born, and in another five years Mrs. Tellwright died of erysipelas. The widower30 engaged a housekeeper31: 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 commiseration32.
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 rumoured54 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 rumour55 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 miser33, 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 estate was sworn at fifty-nine thousand pounds. This single fact added a definite and startling significance to figures which had previously67 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 retired68 from business, and three years after the housekeeper died he retired, practically, from religious work, to the grave detriment69 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 astounded70 by this sudden defection of a class-leader, a local preacher, and an officer. It was an inexplicable71 fall from grace. Yet the solution of the problem was quite simple. Ephraim had lost interest in his religious avocations72; 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 zeal73, which Tellwright never felt. The difference in Tellwright's case was that, characteristically, he at once yielded to the new instinct, caring naught74 for public opinion. Soon afterwards, having purchased a lot of cottage property in Bursley, he decided75 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 exodus76 from it was his silent and malicious77 retort to a silent rebuke78.
He appeared now to grow younger, discarding in some measure a certain morose79 taciturnity which had hitherto marked his demeanour. He went amiably80 about in the manner of a veteran determined81 to enjoy the brief existence of life's winter. His stout82, 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 pervade83 the streets, offering everywhere the conundrum84 of its vague smile. Though no friend ever crossed his doorstep, he had dozens of acquaintances of the footpath85. 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 awe86—an awe tinged87 with contempt for his lack of ostentation88 and public splendour. Commercial men with whom he had transacted89 business liked to discuss his abilities, thus disseminating90 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 clatter91 of the can. The stout little milk-girl dispensed92 one pint93 of milk into Anna's jug94, 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 darted95 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 conjecture96 what impulse had led him into this extraordinary, incredible deviation97. She dared not conjecture, but despite herself she knew, and the knowledge shocked her sensitive and peremptory98 conscience. Her heart began to beat rapidly; she was in distress99. 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 solitary100 there in the passage, for shame. Now she heard his sharp, decided footsteps, and through the glazed101 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 braced102 in the intensity103 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 ridge3, 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 quiescent104, languorous105, 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 epoch106 in her career and the beginning of another. Enthralled107 by austere108 traditions and that stern conscience of hers, she had never permitted herself to dream of the possibility of an escape from the parental109 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 disapproval110, as though man were destined111 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 miserably112 narrow, tepid113, and trickling114 the stream of her life had been, and had threatened to be. Now it gushed115 forth116 warm, impetuous, and full, opening out new and delicious vistas117. 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 discretion118 at the bidding of a desire. To be the magnet which could draw that pattern and exemplar of seemliness from the strict orbit of virtuous119 custom! It was she, the miser's shabby daughter, who had caused this amazing phenomenon. The thought intoxicated120 her. Without the support of the wall she might have fallen. In a sort of trance she murmured these words: 'He loves me.'
After an interval123 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 portentous124.
'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 intervals125. 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 stammered126, gathering127 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 fleeting128 wish to hug the tyrant129.
Tellwright: tile-wright, a name specially130 characteristic of, and possibly originating in, this clay-manufacturing district.
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1
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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aliases
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| n.别名，化名( alias的名词复数 ) | |
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ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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rentals
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| n.租费，租金额( rental的名词复数 ) | |
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manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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superintendent
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| n.监督人，主管，总监；(英国)警务长 | |
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pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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effulgence
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| n.光辉 | |
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meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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suffused
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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fetters
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| n.脚镣( fetter的名词复数 )；束缚v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的第三人称单数 ) | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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voluptuously
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| adv.风骚地，体态丰满地 | |
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anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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divination
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| n.占卜，预测 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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commiseration
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| n.怜悯，同情 | |
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miser
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| n.守财奴，吝啬鬼 (adj.miserly) | |
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treasurer
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| n.司库，财务主管 | |
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tablecloth
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| n.桌布，台布 | |
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dexterity
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| n.(手的)灵巧，灵活 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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expounded
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| 论述，详细讲解( expound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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garrulous
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| adj.唠叨的，多话的 | |
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smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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fiscal
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| adj.财政的，会计的，国库的，国库岁入的 | |
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organisation
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| n.组织，安排，团体，有机休 | |
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salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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negotiation
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| n.谈判，协商 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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revivals
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| n.复活( revival的名词复数 )；再生；复兴；（老戏多年后）重新上演 | |
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penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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rumoured
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| adj.谣传的；传说的；风 | |
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rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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assuage
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| v.缓和，减轻，镇定 | |
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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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62
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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testament
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| n.遗嘱；证明 | |
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benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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revered
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| v.崇敬，尊崇，敬畏( revere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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detriment
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| n.损害；损害物，造成损害的根源 | |
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astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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avocations
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| n.业余爱好，嗜好( avocation的名词复数 )；职业 | |
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zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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76
exodus
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| v.大批离去，成群外出 | |
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malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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78
rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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79
morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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80
amiably
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| adv.和蔼可亲地，亲切地 | |
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81
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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83
pervade
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| v.弥漫，遍及，充满，渗透，漫延 | |
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84
conundrum
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| n.谜语；难题 | |
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85
footpath
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| n.小路，人行道 | |
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86
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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87
tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88
ostentation
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| n.夸耀，卖弄 | |
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89
transacted
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| v.办理（业务等）( transact的过去式和过去分词 )；交易，谈判 | |
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90
disseminating
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| 散布，传播( disseminate的现在分词 ) | |
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91
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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dispensed
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| v.分配( dispense的过去式和过去分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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93
pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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94
jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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95
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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97
deviation
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| n.背离，偏离；偏差，偏向；离题 | |
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peremptory
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| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
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99
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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101
glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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102
braced
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| adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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103
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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104
quiescent
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| adj.静止的，不活动的，寂静的 | |
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105
languorous
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| adj.怠惰的，没精打采的 | |
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106
epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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107
enthralled
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| 迷住，吸引住( enthrall的过去式和过去分词 )； 使感到非常愉快 | |
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108
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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109
parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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110
disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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111
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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112
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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113
tepid
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| adj.微温的，温热的，不太热心的 | |
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114
trickling
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| n.油画底色含油太多而成泡沫状突起v.滴( trickle的现在分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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115
gushed
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| v.喷，涌( gush的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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116
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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117
vistas
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| 长条形景色( vista的名词复数 )； 回顾； 展望； （未来可能发生的）一系列情景 | |
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118
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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119
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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120
intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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121
ascetic
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| adj.禁欲的；严肃的 | |
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122
prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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123
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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124
portentous
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| adj.不祥的，可怕的，装腔作势的 | |
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125
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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126
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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127
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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128
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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129
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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130
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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