Miss Euphemia Joliffe devoted Saturday afternoons to Saint Sepulchre's
Dorcas Society. The meetings were held in a class-room of the Girls'
National School, and there a band of devoted females gathered week by
week to make garments for the poor. If there was in Cullerne some
threadbare gentility, and a great deal of middle-class struggling, there
was happily little actual poverty, as it is understood in great towns.
Thus the poor, to whom the clothes made by the Dorcas Society were
ultimately distributed, could sometimes afford to look the gift-horse in
the mouth, and to lament that good material had been marred in the
making. "They wept," the organist said, "when they showed the coats and
garments that Dorcas made, because they were so badly cut;" but this was
a libel, for there were many excellent needlewomen in the society, and
among the very best was Miss Euphemia Joliffe.
She was a staunch supporter of the church, and, had her circumstances
permitted, would have been a Scripture-reader or at least a district
visitor. But the world was so much with her, in the shape of domestic
necessities at Bellevue Lodge, as to render parish work impossible, and
so the Dorcas meeting was the only systematic philanthropy in which she
could venture to indulge. But in the discharge of this duty she was
regularity personified; neither wind nor rain, snow nor heat, sickness
nor amusement, stopped her, and she was to be found each and every
Saturday afternoon, from three to five, in the National School.
If the Dorcas Society was a duty for the little old lady, it was also a
pleasure--one of her few pleasures, and perhaps the greatest. She liked
the meetings, because on such occasions she felt herself to be the equal
of her more prosperous neighbours. It is the same feeling that makes
the half-witted attend funerals and church services. At such times they
feel themselves to be for once on an equal footing with their
fellow-men: all are reduced to the same level; there are no speeches to
be made, no accounts to be added up, no counsels to be given, no
decisions to be taken; all are as fools in the sight of God.
At the Dorcas meeting Miss Joliffe wore her "best things" with the
exception only of head-gear, for the wearing of her best bonnet was a
crowning grace reserved exclusively for the Sabbath. Her wardrobe was
too straightened to allow her "best" to follow the shifting seasons
closely. If it was bought as best for winter, it might have to play the
same role also in summer, and thus it fell sometimes to her lot to wear
alpaca in December, or, as on this day, to be adorned with a fur necklet
when the weather asked for muslin. Yet "in her best" she always felt
"fit to be seen"; and when it came to cutting out, or sewing, there were
none that excelled her.
Most of the members greeted her with a kind word, for even in a place
where envy, hatred and malice walked the streets arm in arm from sunrise
to sunset, Miss Euphemia had few enemies. Lying and slandering, and
speaking evil of their fellows, formed a staple occupation of the ladies
of Cullerne, as of many another small town; and to Miss Joliffe, who was
foolish and old-fashioned enough to think evil of no one, it had seemed
at first the only drawback of these delightful meetings that a great
deal of such highly-spiced talk was to be heard at them. But even this
fly was afterwards removed from the amber; for Mrs Bulteel--the
brewer's lady--who wore London dresses, and was much the most
fashionable person in Cullerne, proposed that some edifying book should
be read aloud on Dorcas afternoons to the assembled workers. It was
true that Mrs Flint said she only did so because she thought she had a
fine voice; but however that might be, she proposed it, and no one cared
to run counter to her. So Mrs Bulteel read properly religious stories,
of so touching a nature that an afternoon seldom passed without her
being herself dissolved in tears, and evoking sympathetic sniffs and
sobs from such as wished to stand in her good books. If Miss Joliffe
was not herself so easily moved by imaginary sorrow, she set it down to
some lack of loving-kindness in her own disposition, and mentally
congratulated the others on their superior sensitiveness.
Miss Joliffe was at the Dorcas meeting, Mr Sharnall was walking by the
riverside, Mr Westray was with the masons on the roof of the transept;
only Anastasia Joliffe was at Bellevue Lodge when the front-door-bell
rang. When her aunt was at home, Anastasia was not allowed to "wait on
the gentlemen," nor to answer the bell; but her aunt being absent, and
there being no one else in the house, she duly opened one leaf of the
great front-door, and found a gentleman standing on the semicircular
flight of steps outside. That he was a gentleman she knew at a glance,
for she had a _flair_ for such useless distinctions, though the genus
was not sufficiently common at Cullerne to allow her much practice in
its identification near home. It was, in fact, the stranger of the
tenor voice, and such is the quickness of woman's wit, that she learnt
in a moment as much concerning his outward appearance as the organist
and the choir-men and the clerk had learnt in an hour; and more besides,
for she saw that he was well dressed. There was about him a complete
absence of personal adornment. He wore no rings and no scarf-pin, even
his watch-chain was only of leather. His clothes were of so dark a grey
as to be almost black, but Miss Anastasia Joliffe knew that the cloth
was good, and the cut of the best. She had thrust a pencil into the
pages of "Northanger Abbey" to keep the place while she answered the
bell, and as the stranger stood before her, it seemed to her he might be
a Henry Tilney, and she was prepared, like a Catherine Morland, for some
momentous announcement when he opened his lips. Yet there came nothing
very weighty from them; he did not even inquire for lodgings, as she
half hoped that he would.
"Does the architect in charge of the works at the church lodge here? Is
Mr Westray at home?" was all he said.
"He does live here," she answered, "but is out just now, and we do not
expect him back till six. I think you will probably find him at the
church if you desire to see him."
"I have just come from the minster, but could see nothing of him there."
It served the stranger right that he should have missed the architect,
and been put to the trouble of walking as far as Bellevue Lodge, for his
inquiries must have been very perfunctory. If he had taken the trouble
to ask either organist or clerk, he would have learnt at once where Mr
Westray was.
"I wonder if you would allow me to write a note. If you could give me a
sheet of paper I should be glad to leave a message for him."
Anastasia gave him a glance from head to foot, rapid as an instantaneous
exposure. "Tramps" were a permanent bugbear to the ladies of Cullerne,
and a proper dread of such miscreants had been instilled into Anastasia
Joliffe by her aunt. It was, moreover, a standing rule of the house
that no strange men were to be admitted on any pretence, unless there
was some man-lodger at home, to grapple with them if occasion arose.
But the glance was sufficient to confirm her first verdict--he _was_ a
gentleman; there surely could not be such things as gentlemen-tramps.
So she answered "Oh, certainly," and showed him into Mr Sharnall's
room, because that was on the ground-floor.
The visitor gave a quick look round the room. If he had ever been in
the house before, Anastasia would have thought he was trying to identify
something that he remembered; but there was little to be seen except an
open piano, and the usual litter of music-books and manuscript paper.
"Thank you," he said; "can I write here? Is this Mr Westray's room?"
"No, another gentleman lodges here, but you can use this room to write
in. He is out, and would not mind in any case; he is a friend of Mr
Westray."
"I had rather write in Mr Westray's room if I may. You see I have
nothing to do with this other gentleman, and it might be awkward if he
came in and found me in his apartment."
It seemed to Anastasia that the information that the room in which they
stood was not Mr Westray's had in some way or other removed an anxiety
from the stranger's mind. There was a faint and indefinable indication
of relief in his manner, however much he professed to be embarrassed at
the discovery. It might have been, she thought, that he was a great
friend of Mr Westray, and had been sorry to think that his room should
be littered and untidy as Mr Sharnall's certainly was, and so was glad
when he found out his mistake.
"Mr Westray's room is at the top of the house," she said deprecatingly.
"It is no trouble to me, I assure you, to go up," he answered.
Anastasia hesitated again for an instant. If there were no
gentlemen-tramps, perhaps there were gentlemen-burglars, and she hastily
made a mental inventory of Mr Westray's belongings, but could think of
nothing among them likely to act as an incentive to crime. Still she
would not venture to show a strange man to the top of the house, when
there was no one at home but herself. The stranger ought not to have
asked her. He could not be a gentleman after all, or he would have seen
how irregular was such a request, unless he had indeed some particular
motive for wishing to see Mr Westray's room.
The stranger perceived her hesitation, and read her thoughts easily
enough.
"I beg your pardon," he said. "I ought, of course, to have explained
who it is who has the honour of speaking to you. I am Lord Blandamer,
and wish to write a few words to Mr Westray on questions connected with
the restoration of the church. Here is my card."
There was probably no lady in the town that would have received this
information with as great composure as did Anastasia Joliffe. Since the
death of his grandfather, the new Lord Blandamer had been a constant
theme of local gossip and surmise. He was a territorial magnate, he
owned the whole of the town, and the whole of the surrounding country.
His stately house of Fording could be seen on a clear day from the
minster tower. He was reputed to be a man of great talents and
distinguished appearance; he was not more than forty, and he was
unmarried. Yet no one had seen him since he came to man's estate; it
was said he had not been in Cullerne for twenty years.
There was a tale of some mysterious quarrel with his grandfather, which
had banished the young man from his home, and there had been no one to
take his part, for both his father and mother were drowned when he was a
baby. For a quarter of a century he had been a wanderer abroad: in
France and Germany, in Russia and Greece, in Italy and Spain. He was
believed to have visited the East, to have fought in Egypt, to have run
blockades in South America, to have found priceless diamonds in South
Africa. He had suffered the awful penances of the Fakirs, he had fasted
with the monks of Mount Athos; he had endured the silence of La Trappe;
men said that the Sheik-ul-Islam had himself bound the green turban
round Lord Blandamer's head. He could shoot, he could hunt, he could
fish, he could fight, he could sing, he could play all instruments; he
could speak all languages as fluently as his own; he was the very wisest
and the very handsomest, and--some hinted--the very wickedest man that
ever lived, yet no one had ever seen him. Here was indeed a conjunction
of romance for Anastasia, to find so mysterious and distinguished a
stranger face to face with her alone under the same roof; yet she showed
none of those hesitations, tremblings, or faintings that the situation
certainly demanded.
Martin Joliffe, her father, had been a handsome man all his life, and
had known it. In youth he prided himself on his good looks, and in old
age he was careful of his personal appearance. Even when his
circumstances were at their worst he had managed to obtain well-cut
clothes. They were not always of the newest, but they sat well on his
tall and upright figure; "Gentleman Joliffe" people called him, and
laughed, though perhaps something less ill-naturedly than was often the
case in Cullerne, and wondered whence a farmer's son had gotten such
manners. To Martin himself an aristocratic bearing was less an
affectation than a duty; his position demanded it, for he was in his own
eyes a Blandamer kept out of his rights.
It was his good appearance, even at five-and-forty, which induced Miss
Hunter of the Grove to run away with him, though Colonel Hunter had
promised to disown her if she ever married so far beneath her. She did
not, it is true, live long to endure her father's displeasure, but died
in giving birth to her first child. Even this sad result had failed to
melt the Colonel's heart. Contrary to all precedents of fiction, he
would have nothing to do with his little granddaughter, and sought
refuge from so untenable a position in removing from Cullerne. Nor was
Martin himself a man to feel a parent's obligations too acutely; so the
child was left to be brought up by Miss Joliffe, and to become an
addition to her cares, but much more to her joys. Martin Joliffe
considered that he had amply fulfilled his responsibilities in
christening his daughter Anastasia, a name which Debrett shows to have
been borne for generations by ladies of the Blandamer family; and,
having given so striking a proof of affection, he started off on one of
those periodic wanderings which were connected with his genealogical
researches, and was not seen again in Cullerne for a lustre.
For many years afterwards Martin showed but little interest in the
child. He came back to Cullerne at intervals; but was always absorbed
in his efforts to establish a right to the nebuly coat, and content to
leave the education and support of Anastasia entirely to his sister. It
was not till his daughter was fifteen that he exercised any paternal
authority; but, on his return from a long absence about that period, he
pointed out to Miss Joliffe, senior, that she had shamefully neglected
her niece's education, and that so lamentable a state of affairs must be
remedied at once. Miss Joliffe most sorrowfully admitted her
shortcomings, and asked Martin's forgiveness for her remissness. Nor
did it ever occur to her to plead in excuse that the duties of a
lodging-house, and the necessity of providing sustenance for herself and
Anastasia, made serious inroads on the time that ought, no doubt, to
have been devoted to education; or that the lack of means prevented her
from engaging teachers to supplement her own too limited instruction.
She had, in fact, been able to impart to Anastasia little except
reading, writing and arithmetic, some geography, a slight knowledge of
Miss Magnall's questions, a wonderful proficiency with the needle, an
unquenchable love of poetry and fiction, a charity for her neighbours
which was rare enough in Cullerne, and a fear of God which was sadly
inconsistent with the best Blandamer traditions.
The girl was not being brought up as became a Blandamer, Martin had
said; how was she to fill her position when she became the Honourable
Anastasia? She must learn French, not such rudiments as Miss Joliffe
had taught her, and he travestied his sister's "Doo, dellah,
derlapostrof, day" with a laugh that flushed her withered cheeks with
crimson, and made Anastasia cry as she held her aunt's hand under the
table; not _that_ kind of French, but something that would really pass
muster in society. And music, she _must_ study that; and Miss Joliffe
blushed again as she thought very humbly of some elementary duets in
which she had played a bass for Anastasia till household work and gout
conspired to rob her knotty fingers of all pliancy. It had been a great
pleasure to her, the playing of these duets with her niece; but they
must, of course, be very poor things, and quite out of date now, for she
had played them when she was a child herself, and on the very same piano
in the parlour at Wydcombe.
So she listened with attention while Martin revealed his scheme of
reform, and this was nothing less than the sending of Anastasia to Mrs
Howard's boarding-school at the county town of Carisbury. The project
took away his sister's breath, for Mrs Howard's was a finishing school
of repute, to which only Mrs Bulteel among Cullerne ladies could afford
to send her daughters. But Martin's high-minded generosity knew no
limits. "It was no use making two bites at a cherry; what had to be
done had better be done quickly." And he clinched the argument by
taking a canvas bag from his pocket, and pouring out a little heap of
sovereigns on to the table. Miss Joliffe's wonder as to how her brother
had become possessed of such wealth was lost in admiration of his
magnanimity, and if for an instant she thought wistfully of the relief
that a small portion of these riches would bring to the poverty-stricken
menage at Bellevue Lodge, she silenced such murmurings in a burst of
gratitude for the means of improvement that Providence had vouchsafed to
Anastasia. Martin counted out the sovereigns on the table; it was
better to pay in advance, and so make an impression in Anastasia's
favour, and to this Miss Joliffe agreed with much relief, for she had
feared that before the end of the term Martin would be off on his
travels again, and that she herself would be left to pay.
So Anastasia went to Carisbury, and Miss Joliffe broke her own rules,
and herself incurred a number of small debts because she could not bear
to think of her niece going to school with so meagre an equipment as she
then possessed, and yet had no ready money to buy better. Anastasia
remained for two half-years at Carisbury. She made such progress with
her music that after much wearisome and lifeless practising she could
stumble through Thalberg's variations on the air of "Home, Sweet Home";
but in French she never acquired the true Parisian accent, and would
revert at times to the "Doo, dellah, derlapostrof, day," of her earlier
teaching, though there is no record that these shortcomings were ever a
serious drawback to her in after-life. Besides such opportunities of
improvement, she enjoyed the privilege of association with thirty girls
of the upper middle-classes, and ate of the tree of knowledge of good
and evil, the fruits of which had hitherto escaped her notice. At the
end of her second term, however, she was forced to forego these
advantages, for Martin had left Cullerne without making any permanent
provision for his daughter's schooling; and there was in Mrs Howard's
prospectus a law, inexorable as that of gravity, that no pupil shall be
permitted to return to the academy whose account for the previous term
remains unsettled.
Thus Anastasia's schooling came to an end. There was some excuse put
forward that the air of Carisbury did not agree with her; and she never
knew the real reason till nearly two years later, by which time Miss
Joliffe's industry and self-denial had discharged the greater part of
Martin's obligation to Mrs Howard. The girl was glad to remain at
Cullerne, for she was deeply attached to Miss Joliffe; but she came back
much older in experience; her horizon had widened, and she was beginning
to take a more perspective view of life. These enlarged ideas bore
fruit both pleasant and unpleasant, for she was led to form a juster
estimate of her father's character, and when he next returned she found
it difficult to tolerate his selfishness and abuse of his sister's
devotion.
That this should be so was a cause of great grief to Miss Joliffe.
Though she herself felt for her niece a love which had in it something
of adoration, she was at the same time conscientious enough to remember
that a child's first duty should be towards its parents. Thus she
forced herself to lament that Anastasia should be more closely attached
to her than to Martin, and if there were times when she could not feel
properly dissatisfied that she possessed the first place in her niece's
affections, she tried to atone for this frailty by sacrificing
opportunities of being with the girl herself, and using every
opportunity of bringing her into her father's company. It was a
fruitless endeavour, as every endeavour to cultivate affection where no
real basis for it exists, must eternally remain fruitless. Martin was
wearied by his daughter's society, for he preferred to be alone, and set
no store by her except as a cooking, house-cleaning, and clothes-mending
machine; and Anastasia resented this attitude, and could find, moreover,
no interest in the torn peerage which was her father's Bible, or in the
genealogical research and jargon about the nebuly coat which formed the
staple of his conversation. Later on, when he came back for the last
time, her sense of duty enabled her to tend and nurse him with exemplary
patience, and to fulfil all those offices of affection which even the
most tender filial devotion could have suggested. She tried to believe
that his death brought her sorrow and not relief, and succeeded so well
that her aunt had no doubts at all upon the subject.
Martin Joliffe's illness and death had added to Anastasia's experience
of life by bringing her into contact with doctors and clergymen; and it
was no doubt this training, and the association with the superior
classes afforded by Mrs Howard's academy, that enabled her to stand the
shock of Lord Blandamer's announcement without giving any more
perceptible token of embarrassment than a very slight blush.
"Oh, of course there is no objection," she said, "to your writing in Mr
Westray's room. I will show you the way to it."
She accompanied him to the room, and having provided writing materials,
left him comfortably ensconced in Mr Westray's chair. As she pulled
the door to behind her in going out, something prompted her to look
round--perhaps it was merely a girl's light fancy, perhaps it was that
indefinite fascination which the consciousness that we are being looked
at sometimes exercises over us; but as she looked back her eyes met
those of Lord Blandamer, and she shut the door sharply, being annoyed at
her own foolishness.
She went back to the kitchen, for the kitchen of the Hand of God was so
large that Miss Joliffe and Anastasia used part of it for their
sitting-room, took the pencil out of "Northanger Abbey," and tried to
transport herself to Bath. Five minutes ago she had been in the Grand
Pump Room herself, and knew exactly where Mrs Allen and Isabella Thorpe
and Edward Morland were sitting; where Catherine was standing, and what
John Thorpe was saying to her when Tilney walked up. But alas!
Anastasia found no re-admission; the lights were put out, the Pump Room
was in darkness. A sad change to have happened in five minutes; but no
doubt the charmed circle had dispersed in a huff on finding that they no
longer occupied the first place in Miss Anastasia Joliffe's interest.
And, indeed, she missed them the less because she had discovered that
she herself possessed a wonderful talent for romance, and had already
begun the first chapter of a thrilling story.
Nearly half an hour passed before her aunt returned, and in the interval
Miss Austen's knights and dames had retired still farther into the
background, and Miss Anastasia's hero had entirely monopolised the
stage. It was twenty minutes past five when Miss Joliffe, senior,
returned from the Dorcas meeting; "precisely twenty minutes past five,"
as she remarked many times subsequently, with that factitious importance
which the ordinary mind attaches to the exact moment of any epoch-making
event.
"Is the water boiling, my dear?" she asked, sitting down at the kitchen
table. "I should like to have tea to-day before the gentlemen come in,
if you do not mind. The weather is quite oppressive, and the schoolroom
was very close because we only had one window open. Poor Mrs Bulteel
is so subject to take cold from draughts, and I very nearly fell asleep
while she was reading."
"I will get tea at once," Anastasia said; and then added, in a tone of
fine unconcern: "There is a gentleman waiting upstairs to see Mr
Westray."
"My dear," Miss Joliffe exclaimed deprecatingly, "how could you let
anyone in when I was not at home? It is exceedingly dangerous with so
many doubtful characters about. There is Mr Westray's presentation
inkstand, and the flower-picture for which I have been offered so much
money. Valuable paintings are often cut out of their frames; one never
has an idea what thieves may do."
There was the faintest trace of a smile about Anastasia's lips.
"I do not think we need trouble about that, dear Aunt Phemie, because I
am sure he is a gentleman. Here is his card. Look!" She handed Miss
Joliffe the insignificant little piece of white cardboard that held so
momentous a secret, and watched her aunt put on her spectacles to read
it.
Miss Joliffe focussed the card. There were only two words printed on
it, only "Lord Blandamer" in the most unpretending and simple
characters, but their effect was magical. Doubt and suspicion melted
suddenly away, and a look of radiant surprise overspread her
countenance, such as would have become a Constantine at the vision of
the Labarum. She was a thoroughly unworldly woman, thinking little of
the things of this life in general, and keeping her affections on that
which is to come, with the constancy and realisation that is so often
denied to those possessed of larger temporal means. Her views as to
right and wrong were defined and inflexible; she would have gone to the
stake most cheerfully rather than violate them, and unconsciously
lamented perhaps that civilisation has robbed the faithful of the luxury
of burning. Yet with all this were inextricably bound up certain little
weaknesses among which figured a fondness for great names, and a
somewhat exaggerated consideration for the lofty ones of this earth.
Had she been privileged to be within the same four walls as a peer at a
bazaar or missionary meeting, she would have revelled in a great
opportunity; but to find Lord Blandamer under her own roof was a grace
so wondrous and surprising as almost to overwhelm her.
"Lord Blandamer!" she faltered, as soon as she had collected herself a
little. "I hope Mr Westray's room was tidy. I dusted it thoroughly
this morning, but I wish he had given some notice of his intention to
call. I should be so vexed if he found anything dusty. What is he
doing, Anastasia? Did he say he would wait till Mr Westray came back?"
"He said he would write a note for Mr Westray. I found him writing
things."
"I hope you gave his lordship Mr Westray's presentation inkstand."
"No, I did not think of that; but there was the little black inkstand,
and plenty of ink in it."
"Dear me, dear me!" Miss Joliffe said, ruminating on so extraordinary a
position, "to think that Lord Blandamer, whom no one has ever seen,
should have come to Cullerne at last, and is now in this very house. I
will just change this bonnet for my Sunday one," she added, looking at
herself in the glass, "and then tell his lordship how very welcome he
is, and ask him if I can get anything for him. He will see at once,
from my bonnet, that I have only just returned, otherwise it would
appear to him very remiss of me not to have paid him my respects before.
Yes, I think it is undoubtedly more fitting to appear in a bonnet."
Anastasia was a little perturbed at the idea of her aunt's interview
with Lord Blandamer. She pictured to herself Miss Joliffe's excess of
zeal, the compliments which she would think it necessary to shower upon
him the marked attention and homage which he might interpret as
servility, though it was only intended as a proper deference to exalted
rank. Anastasia was quite unaccountably anxious that the family should
appear to the distinguished visitor in as favourable a light as
possible, and thought for a moment of trying to persuade Miss Joliffe
that there was no need for her to see Lord Blandamer at all, unless he
summoned her. But she was of a philosophic temperament, and in a moment
had rebuked her own folly. What could any impression of Lord
Blandamer's matter to her? she would probably never see him again unless
she opened the door when he went out. Why should he think anything at
all about a commonplace lodging-house, and its inmates? And if such
trivial matters did ever enter his thoughts, a man so clever as he would
make allowance for those of a different station to himself, and would
see what a good woman her aunt was in spite of any little mannerisms.
So she made no remonstrance, but sat heroically quiet in her chair, and
re-opened "Northanger Abbey" with a determination to entirely forget
Lord Blandamer, and the foolish excitement which his visit had created.