Westray played the role of rejected lover most conscientiously; he
treated the episode of his refusal on strictly conventional lines. He
assured himself and his mother that the light of his life was
extinguished, that he was the most unhappy of mortals. It was at this
time that he wrote some verses called "Autumn," with a refrain of--
"For all my hopes are cold and dead,
And fallen like the fallen leaves,"
which were published in the _Clapton Methodist_, and afterwards set to
music by a young lady who wished to bind up another wounded heart. He
attempted to lie awake of nights with indifferent success, and hinted in
conversation at the depressing influence which insomnia exerts over its
victims. For several meals in succession he refused to eat heartily of
such dishes as he did not like, and his mother felt serious anxiety as
to his general state of health. She inveighed intemperately against
Anastasia for having refused her son, but then she would have inveighed
still more intemperately had Anastasia accepted him. She wearied him
with the portentous gloom which she affected in his presence, and quoted
Lady Clara Vere de Vere's cruelty in turning honest hearts to gall, till
even the rejected one was forced to smile bitterly at so inapposite a
parallel.
Though Mrs Westray senior poured out the vials of her wrath on
Anastasia for having refused to become Mrs Westray junior, she was at
heart devoutly glad at the turn events had taken. At heart Westray
could not have said whether he was glad or sorry. He told himself that
he was deeply in love with Anastasia, and that this love was further
ennobled by a chivalrous desire to shield her from evil; but he could
not altogether forget that the unfortunate event had at least saved him
from the unconventionality of marrying his landlady's niece. He told
himself that his grief was sincere and profound, but it was possible
that chagrin and wounded pride were after all his predominant feelings.
There were other reflections which he thrust aside as indecorous at this
acute stage of the tragedy, but which, nevertheless, were able to
exercise a mildly consoling influence in the background. He would be
spared the anxieties of early and impecunious marriage, his professional
career would not be weighted by family cares, the whole world was once
more open before him, and the slate clean. These were considerations
which could not prudently be overlooked, though it would be unseemly to
emphasise them too strongly when the poignancy of regret should dominate
every other feeling.
He wrote to Sir George Farquhar, and obtained ten days' leave of absence
on the score of indisposition; and he wrote to Miss Euphemia Joliffe to
tell her that he intended to seek other rooms. From the first he had
decided that this latter step was inevitable. He could not bear the
daily renewal of regret, the daily opening of the wound that would be
caused by the sight of Anastasia, or by such chance intercourse with her
as further residence at Bellevue Lodge must entail. There is no need to
speculate whether his decision was influenced in part by a concession to
humiliated pride; men do not take pleasure in revisiting the scenes of a
disastrous rout, and it must be admitted that the possibility of
summoning a lost love to his presence when he rang for boiling water,
had in it something of the grotesque. He had no difficulty in finding
other lodgings by correspondence, and he spared himself the necessity of
returning at all to his former abode by writing to ask Clerk Janaway to
move his belongings.
One morning, a month later, Miss Joliffe sat in that room which had been
occupied by the late Mr Sharnall. She was alone, for Anastasia had
gone to the office of the _Cullerne Advertiser_ with an announcement in
which one A.J. intimated that she was willing to take a post as
nursery-governess. It was a bright morning but cold, and Miss Joliffe
drew an old white knitted shawl closer about her, for there was no fire
in the grate. There was no fire because she could not afford it, yet
the sun pouring in through the windows made the room warmer than the
kitchen, where the embers had been allowed to die out since breakfast.
She and Anastasia did without fire on these bright autumn days to save
coals; they ate a cold dinner, and went early to bed for the same
reason, yet the stock in the cellar grew gradually less. Miss Joliffe
had examined it that very morning, and found it terribly small; nor was
there any money nor any credit left with which to replenish it.
On the table before her was a pile of papers, some yellow, some pink,
some white, some blue, but all neatly folded. They were folded
lengthways and to the same breadth, for they were Martin Joliffe's
bills, and he had been scrupulously neat and orderly in his habits. It
is true that there were among them some few that she had herself
contracted, but then she had always been careful to follow exactly her
brother's method both of folding and also of docketing them on the
exterior. Yes, no doubt she was immediately responsible for some, and
she knew just which they were from the outside without any need to open
them. She took up one of them: "Rose and Storey, importers of French
millinery, flowers, feathers, ribbons, etcetera. Mantle and jacket
show-rooms." Alas, alas! how frail is human nature! Even in the midst
of her misfortunes, even in the eclipse of old age, such words stirred
Miss Joliffe's interest--flowers, feathers, ribbons, mantles, and
jackets; she saw the delightful show-room 19, 20, 21, and 22, Market
Place, Cullerne--saw it in the dignified solitude of a summer morning
when a dress was to be tried on, saw it in the crush and glorious
scramble of a remnant sale. "Family and complimentary mourning,
costumes, skirts, etcetera; foreign and British silks, guaranteed
makes." After that the written entry seemed mere bathos: "Material and
trimming one bonnet, 11 shillings and 9 pence; one hat, 13 shillings 6
pence. Total, 1 pound 5 shillings 3 pence." It really was not worth
while making a fuss about, and the bunch of cherries and bit of spangled
net were well worth the 1 shilling 9 pence, that Anastasia's had cost
more than hers.
Hole, pharmaceutical chemist: "Drops, 1 shilling 6 pence; liniment, 1
shilling; mixture, 1 shilling 9 pence," repeated many times. "Cod-liver
oil, 1 shilling 3 pence, and 2 shillings 6 pence, and 1 shilling 3 pence
again. 2 pounds 13 shillings 2 pence, with 4 shillings 8 pence
interest," for the bill was four years old. That was for Anastasia at a
critical time when nothing seemed to suit her, and Dr Ennefer feared a
decline; but all the medicine for poor Martin was entered in Dr
Ennefer's own account.
Pilkington, the shoemaker, had his tale to tell: "Miss Joliffe:
Semi-pold. lace boots, treble soles, 1 pound 1 shilling 0 pence. Miss
A. Jol.: Semi-pold. lace boots, treble soles, 1 pound 1 shilling 0
pence. 6 pair mohair laces, 9 pence. 3 ditto, silk, 1 shilling." Yes,
she was indeed a guilty woman. It was she that had "run up" _these_
accounts, and she grew red to think that her own hand should have helped
to build so dismal a pile.
Debt, like every other habit that runs counter to the common good,
brings with it its own punishment, because society protects itself by
making unpleasant the ways of such as inconvenience their neighbours.
It is true that some are born with a special talent and capacity for
debt--they live on it, and live merrily withal, but most debtors feel
the weight of their chains, and suffer greater pangs than those which
they inflict on any defrauded creditor. If the millstone grinds slowly
it grinds small, and undischarged accounts bring more pain than the
goods to which they relate ever brought pleasure. Among such
bitternesses surely most bitter are the bills for things of which the
fruition has ceased--for worn-out finery, for withered flowers, for
drunk wine. Pilkington's boots, were they never so treble soled, could
not endure for ever, and Miss Joliffe's eyes followed unconsciously
under the table to where a vertical fissure showed the lining white at
the side of either boot. Where were new boots to come from now, whence
was to come clothing to wear, and bread to eat?
Nay, more, the day of passive endurance was past; action had begun. The
Cullerne Water Company threatened to cut off the water, the Cullerne Gas
Company threatened to cut off the gas. Eaves, the milkman, threatened a
summons unless that long, long bill of his (all built up of pitiful
little pints) was paid forthwith. The Thing had come to the _Triarii_,
Miss Joliffe's front was routed, the last rank was wavering. What was
she to do, whither was she to turn? She must sell some of the
furniture, but who would buy such old stuff? And if she sold furniture,
what lodger would take half-empty rooms? She looked wildly round, she
thrust her hands into the pile of papers, she turned them over with a
feverish action, till she seemed to be turning hay once more as a little
girl in the meadows at Wydcombe. Then she heard footsteps on the
pavement outside, and thought for a moment that it was Anastasia
returned before she was expected, till a heavy tread told her that a man
was coming, and she saw that it was Mr Joliffe, her cousin,
churchwarden and pork-butcher. His bulky and unwieldy form moved
levelly past the windows; he paused and looked up at the house as if to
make sure that he was not mistaken, and then he slowly mounted the
semicircular flight of stone steps and rang the bell.
In person he was tall, but disproportionately stout for his height. His
face was broad, and his loose double chin gave it a flabby appearance.
A pallid complexion and black-grey hair, brushed straightly down where
he was not bald, produced an impression of sanctimoniousness which was
increased by a fawning manner of speech. Mr Sharnall was used to call
him a hypocrite, but the aspersion was false, as such an aspersion
commonly is.
Hypocrites, in the pure and undiluted sense, rarely exist outside the
pages of fiction. Except in the lower classes, where deceit thrives
under the incentive of clerical patronage, men seldom assume
deliberately the garb of religion to obtain temporal advantages or to
further their own ends. It is probable that in nine cases out of ten,
where practice does not accord sufficiently with profession to please
the censorious, the discrepancy is due to inherent weakness of purpose,
to the duality of our nature, and not to any conscious deception. If a
man leading the lower life should find himself in religious, or
high-minded, or pure society, and speak or behave as if he were
religious, or high-minded, or pure, he does so in nine cases out of ten
not with any definite wish to deceive, but because he is temporarily
influenced by better company. For the time he believes what he says, or
has persuaded himself that he believes it. If he is froward with the
froward, so he is just with the just, and the more sympathetic and
susceptible his nature, the more amenable is he to temporary influences.
It is this chameleon adaptability that passes for hypocrisy.
Cousin Joliffe was no hypocrite, he acted up to his light; and even if
the light be a badly-trimmed, greasy, evil-smelling paraffin-lamp, the
man who acts up to it is only the more to be pitied. Cousin Joliffe was
one of those amateur ecclesiastics whose talk is of things religious,
whom Church questions interest, and who seem to have missed their
vocation in not having taken Orders. If Canon Parkyn had been a High
Churchman, Cousin Joliffe would have been High Church; but the Canon
being Low-Church, Cousin Joliffe was an earnest evangelical, as he
delighted to describe himself. He was rector's churchwarden, took a
leading part in prayer-meetings, with a keen interest in school-treats,
ham teas, and magic lanterns, and was particularly proud of having been
asked more than once to assist in the Mission Room at Carisbury, where
the Vicar of Christ Church carried on revival work among the somnolent
surroundings of a great cathedral. He was without any sense of humour
or any refinement of feeling--self-important, full of the dignity of his
office, thrifty to meanness, but he acted up to his light, and was no
hypocrite.
In that petty middle-class, narrow-minded and penuriously pretentious,
which was the main factor of Cullerne life, he possessed considerable
influence and authority. Among his immediate surroundings a word from
Churchwarden Joliffe carried more weight than an outsider would have
imagined, and long usage had credited him with the delicate position of
_censor morum_ to the community. Did the wife of a parishioner venture
into such a place of temptation as the theatre at Carisbury, was she
seen being sculled by young Bulteel in his new skiff of a summer
evening, the churchwarden was charged to interview her husband, to point
out to him privately the scandal that was being caused, and to show him
how his duty lay in keeping his belongings in better order. Was a man
trying to carry fire in his bosom by dalliance at the bar of the
Blandamer Arms, then a hint was given to his spouse that she should use
such influence as would ensure evenings being spent at home. Did a
young man waste the Sabbath afternoon in walking with his dog on
Cullerne Flat, he would receive "The Tishbite's Warning, a Discourse
showing the Necessity of a Proper Observance of the Lord's Day." Did a
pig-tailed hoyden giggle at the Grammar School boys from her pew in the
minster, the impropriety was reported by the churchwarden to her mother.
On such occasions he was scrupulous in assuming a frock-coat and a silk
hat. Both were well-worn, and designed in the fashion of another day;
but they were in his eyes insignia of office, and as he felt the tails
of the coat about his knees they seemed to him as it were the skirts of
Aaron's garment. Miss Joliffe was not slow to notice that he was thus
equipped this morning; she knew that he had come to pay her a visit of
circumstance, and swept her papers hurriedly into a drawer. She felt as
if they were guilty things these bills, as if she had been engaged in a
guilty action in even "going through" them, as if she had been detected
in doing that which she should not do, and guiltiest of all seemed the
very hurry of concealment with which she hid such compromising papers.
She tried to perform that feat of mental gymnastics called retaining
one's composure, the desperate and forced composure which the coiner
assumes when opening the door to the police, the composure which a woman
assumes in returning to her husband with the kisses of a lover tingling
on her lips. It _is_ a feat to change the current of the mind, to let
the burning thought that is dearest or bitterest to us go by the board,
to answer coherently to the banalities of conversation, to check the
throbbing pulse. The feat was beyond Miss Joliffe's powers; she was but
a poor actress, and the churchwarden saw that she was ill at ease as she
opened the door.
"Good-morning, cousin," he said with one of those interrogative glances
which are often more irritating and more difficult to parry than a
direct question; "you are not looking at all the thing this morning. I
hope you are not feeling unwell; I hope I do not intrude."
"Oh no," she said, making as good an attempt at continuous speech as the
quick beating of her heart allowed; "it is only that your visit is a
little surprise. I am a little flurried; I am not quite so young as I
was."
"Ay," he said, as she showed him into Mr Sharnall's room, "we are all
of us growing older; it behoves us to walk circumspectly, for we never
know when we may be taken." He looked at her so closely and
compassionately that she felt very old indeed; it really seemed as if
she ought to be "taken" at once, as if she was neglecting her duty in
not dying away incontinently. She drew the knitted shawl more tightly
round her spare and shivering body.
"I am afraid you will find this room a little cold," she said; "we are
having the kitchen chimney cleaned, so I was sitting here." She gave a
hurried glance at the bureau, feeling a suspicion that she might not
have shut the drawer tight, or that one of the bills might have somehow
got left out. No, all was safe, but her excuse had not deceived the
churchwarden.
"Phemie," he said, not unkindly, though the word brought tears to her
eyes, for it was the first time that anyone had called her by the old
childhood name since the night that Martin died--"Phemie, you should not
stint yourself in fires. It is a false economy; you must let me send
you a coal ticket."
"Oh no, thank you very much; we have plenty," she cried, speaking
quickly, for she would rather have starved outright, than that it should
be said a member of the Dorcas Society had taken a parish coal ticket.
He urged her no more, but took the chair that she offered him, feeling a
little uncomfortable withal, as a well-clothed and overfed man should,
in the presence of penury. It was true he had not been to see her for
some time; but, then, Bellevue Lodge was so far off, and he had been so
pressed with the cares of the parish and of his business. Besides that,
their walks of life were so different, and there was naturally a strong
objection to any kinswoman of his keeping a lodging-house. He felt
sorry now that compassion had betrayed him into calling her "cousin" and
"Phemie"; she certainly _was_ a distant kinswoman, but _not_, he
repeated to himself, a cousin; he hoped she had not noticed his
familiarity. He wiped his face with a pocket-handkerchief that had seen
some service, and gave an introductory cough.
"There is a little matter on which I should like to have a few words
with you," he said, and Miss Joliffe's heart was in her mouth; he _had_
heard, then, of these terrible debts and of the threatened summons.
"Forgive me if I go direct to business. I am a business man and a plain
man, and like plain speaking."
It is wonderful to what rude remarks, and unkind remarks and untrue
remarks such words as these commonly form the prelude, and how very few
of these plain speakers enjoy being plainly spoken to in turn.
"We were talking just now," he went on, "of the duty of walking
circumspectly, but it is our duty, Miss Joliffe, to see that those over
whom we are set in authority walk circumspectly as well. I mean no
reproach to you, but others beside me think it would be well that you
should keep closer watch over your niece. There is a nobleman of high
station that visits much too often at this house. I will _not_ name any
names"--and this with a tone of magnanimous forbearance--"but you will
guess who I mean, because the nobility is not that frequent hereabout.
I am sorry to have to speak of such things which ladies generally see
quick enough for themselves, but as churchwarden I can't shut my ears to
what is matter of town talk; and more by token when a namesake of my own
is concerned."
The composure which Miss Joliffe had been seeking in vain, came back to
her at the pork-butcher's words, partly in the relief that he had not
broached the subject of debts which had been foremost in her mind,
partly in the surprise and indignation occasioned by his talk of
Anastasia. Her manner and very appearance changed, and none would have
recognised the dispirited and broken-down old lady in the sharpness of
her rejoinder.
"Mr Joliffe," she apostrophised with tart dignity, "you must forgive me
for thinking that I know a good deal more about the nobleman in question
than you do, and I can assure you _he_ is a perfect gentleman. If he
has visited this house, it has been to see Mr Westray about the
restoration of the minster. I should have thought one that was
churchwarden would have known better than to go bandying scandals about
his betters; it is small encouragement for a nobleman to take an
interest in the church if the churchwarden is to backbite him for it."
She saw that her cousin was a little taken aback, and she carried the
war into the enemy's country, and gave another thrust.
"Not but what Lord Blandamer has called upon me too, apart from Mr
Westray. And what have you to say to _that_? If his lordship has
thought fit to honour me by drinking a cup of tea under my roof, there
are many in Cullerne would have been glad to get out their best china if
he had only asked himself to _their_ houses. And there are some might
well follow his example, and show themselves a little oftener to their
friends and relations."
The churchwarden wiped his face again, and puffed a little.
"Far be it from me," he said, dwelling on the expression with all the
pleasure that a man of slight education takes in a book phrase that he
has got by heart--"far be it from me to set scandals afloat--'twas _you_
that used the word scandal--but I have daughters of my own to consider.
I have nothing to say against Anastasia, who, I believe, is a good girl
enough"--and his patronising manner grated terribly on Miss
Joliffe--"though I wish I could see her take more interest in the
Sunday-school, but I won't hide from you that she has a way of carrying
herself and mincing her words which does _not_ befit her station. It
makes people take notice, and 'twould be more becoming she should drop
it, seeing she will have to earn her own living in service. I don't
want to say anything against Lord Blandamer either--he seems to be
well-intentioned to the church--but if tales are true the _old_ lord was
no better than he should be, and things have happened before now on your
side of the family, Miss Joliffe, that make connections feel
uncomfortable about Anastasia. We are told that the sins of the fathers
will be visited to the third and fourth generation."
"Well," Miss Joliffe said, and made a formidable pause on this adverb,
"if it is the manners of your side of the family to come and insult
people in their own houses, I am glad I belong to the other side."
She was alive to the profound gravity of such a sentiment, yet was
prepared to take her stand upon it, and awaited another charge from the
churchwarden with a dignity and confidence that would have become the
Old Guard. But no fierce passage of arms followed; there was a pause,
and if a dignified ending were desired the interview should here have
ended. But to ordinary mortals the sound of their own voices is so
musical as to deaden any sense of anticlimax; talking is continued for
talking's sake, and heroics tail off into desultory conversation. Both
sides were conscious that they had overstated their sentiments, and were
content to leave main issues undecided.
Miss Joliffe did not take the bills out of their drawer again after the
churchwarden had left her. The current of her ideas had been changed,
and for the moment she had no thought for anything except the innuendoes
of her visitor. She rehearsed to herself without difficulty the
occasions of Lord Blandamer's visits, and although she was fully
persuaded that any suspicions as to his motives were altogether without
foundation, she was forced to admit that he _had_ been at Bellevue Lodge
more than once when she had been absent. This was no doubt a pure
coincidence, but we were enjoined to be wise as serpents as well as
innocent as doves, and she would take care that no further occasion was
given for idle talk.
Anastasia on her return found her aunt unusually reserved and taciturn.
Miss Joliffe had determined to behave exactly as usual to Anastasia
because her niece was entirely free from fault; but she was vexed at
what the churchwarden had said, and her manner was so mysterious and
coldly dignified as to convince Anastasia that some cause for serious
annoyance had occurred. Did Anastasia remark that it was a close
morning, her aunt looked frowningly abstracted and gave no reply; did
Anastasia declare that she had not been able to get any 14
knitting-needles, they were quite out of them, her aunt said, "Oh!" in a
tone of rebuke and resignation which implied that there were far more
serious matters in the world than knitting-needles.
This dispensation lasted a full half-hour, but beyond that the kindly
old heart was quite unequal to supporting a proper hauteur. The sweet
warmth of her nature thawed the chilly exterior; she was ashamed of her
moodiness, and tried to "make up" for it to Anastasia by manifestation
of special affection. But she evaded her niece's attempts at probing
the matter, and was resolved that the girl should know nothing of Cousin
Joliffe's suggestions or even of the fact of his visit.
But if Anastasia knew nothing of these things, she was like to be
singular in her ignorance. All Cullerne knew; it was in the air. The
churchwarden had taken a few of the elders into his confidence, and
asked their advice as to the propriety of his visit of remonstrance.
The elders, male and female, heartily approved of his action, and had in
their turn taken into confidence a few of their intimate and
specially-to-be-trusted friends. Then ill-natured and tale-bearing Miss
Sharp told lying and mischief-making Mrs Flint, and lying and
mischief-making Mrs Flint talked the matter over at great length with
the Rector, who loved all kinds of gossip, especially of the
highly-spiced order. It was speedily matter of common knowledge that
Lord Blandamer was at the Hand of God (so ridiculous of a lodging-house
keeper christening a public-house Bellevue Lodge!) at _all_ hours of the
day _and_ night, and that Miss Joliffe was content to look at the
ceiling on such occasions; and worse, to go to meetings so as to leave
the field undisturbed (what intolerable hypocrisy making an excuse of
the Dorcas meetings!); that Lord Blandamer loaded--simply loaded--that
pert and good-for-nothing girl with presents; that even the young
architect was forced to change his lodgings by such disreputable
goings-on. People wondered how Miss Joliffe and her niece had the
effrontery to show themselves at church on Sundays; the younger
creature, at least, must have _some_ sense of shame left, for she never
ventured to exhibit in _public_ either the fine dresses or the jewellery
that her lover gave her.
Such stories came to Westray's ears, and stirred in him the modicum of
chivalry which leavens the lump of most men's being. He was still
smarting under his repulse, but he would have felt himself disgraced if
he had allowed the scandal to pass unchallenged, and he rebutted it with
such ardour that people shrugged their shoulders, and hinted that there
had been something between _him_, too, and Anastasia.
Clerk Janaway was inclined to take a distressingly opportunist and
matter-of-fact view of the question. He neither reprobated nor
defended. In his mind the Divine right of peers was firmly established.
So long as they were rich and spent their money freely, we should not
be too particular. They were to be judged by standards other than those
of common men; for his part, he was glad they had got in place of an old
curmudgeon a man who would take an interest in the Church, and spend
money on the place and the people. If he took a fancy to a pretty face,
where was the harm? 'Twas nothing to the likes of them, best let well
alone; and then he would cut short the churchwarden's wailings and godly
lamentations by "decanting" on the glories of Fording, and the boon it
was to the countryside to have the place kept up once more.
"Clerk Janaway, your sentiments do you no credit," said the pork-butcher
on one such occasion, for he was given to gossip with the sexton on
terms of condescending equality. "I have seen Fording myself, having
driven there with the Carisbury Field Club, and felt sure it must be a
source of temptation if not guarded against. That one man should live
in such a house is an impiety; he is led to go about like
Nebuchadnezzar, saying: `Is not this great Babylon that I have
builded?'"
"_He_ never builded it," said the clerk with some inconsequence; "'twere
builded centuries ago. I've heard 'tis that old no one don't know _who_
builded it. Your parents was Dissenters, Mr Joliffe, and never taught
you the Catechism when you was young; but as for me, I order myself to
my betters as I should, so long as they orders themselves to me. 'Taint
no use to say as how we're all level; you've only got to go to Mothers'
Meetings, my old missus says, to see that. 'Tis no use looking for too
much, nor eating salt with red herrings."
"Well, well," the other deprecated, "I'm not blaming his lordship so
much as them that lead him on."
"Don't go for to blame the girl, neither, too hardly; there's faults on
both sides. His grandfather didn't always toe the line, and there were
some on her side didn't set too good an example, neither. I've seen
many a queer thing in my time, and have got to think blood's blood, and
forerunners more to blame than children. If there's drink in fathers,
there'll be drink in sons and grandsons till 'tis worked out; and if
there's wild love in the mothers, daughters 'll likely sell their apples
too. No, no, God-amighty never made us equal, and don't expect us all
to be churchwardens. Some on us comes of virtuous forerunners, and are
born with wings at the back of our shoulders like you"--and he gave a
whimsical look at his listener's heavy figure--"to lift us up to the
vaulting; and some on us our fathers fits out with lead soles to the
bottom of our boots to keep us on the floor."
Saturday afternoon was Lord Blandamer's hour, and for three Saturdays
running Miss Joliffe deserted the Dorcas meeting in order to keep guard
at home. It rejoiced the moral hearts of ill-natured and tale-bearing
Miss Sharp and of lying and mischief-making Mrs Flint that the
disreputable old woman had at least the decency not to show herself
among her betters, but such defection was a sore trial to Miss Joliffe.
She told herself on each occasion that she _could_ not make such a
sacrifice again, and yet the love of Anastasia constrained her. To her
niece she offered the patent excuse of being unwell, but the girl
watched her with wonder and dismay chafe feverishly through the two
hours, which had been immemorially consecrated to these meetings. The
recurrence of a weekly pleasure, which seems so limitless in youth and
middle age, becomes less inexhaustible as life turns towards sunset.
Thirty takes lightly enough the foregoing of a Saturday reunion, the
uncongenial spending of a Sunday; but seventy can see the end of the
series, and grudges every unit of the total that remains.
For three Saturdays Miss Joliffe watched, and for three Saturdays no
suspicious visitor appeared.
"We have seen nothing of Lord Blandamer lately," she would remark at
frequent intervals with as much indifference as the subject would allow.
"There is nothing to bring him here now that Mr Westray has gone. Why
should he come?"
Why, indeed, and what difference would it make to her if he never came
again? These were questions that Anastasia had discussed with herself,
at every hour of every day of those blank three weeks. She had ample
time for such foolish discussions, for such vain imaginings, for she was
left much to herself, having no mind-companions either of her own age or
of any other. She was one of those unfortunate persons whose education
and instincts' unfit them for their position. The diversions of youth
had been denied her, the pleasures of dress or company had never been
within her reach. For pastime she was turned back continually to her
own thoughts, and an active imagination and much desultory reading had
educated her in a school of romance, which found no counterpart in the
life of Cullerne. She was proud at heart (and it is curious that those
are often the proudest who in their neighbours' estimation have least
cause for pride), but not conceited in manner in spite of Mr Joliffe's
animadversion on the mincing of her words. Yet it was not her pride
that had kept her from making friends, but merely the incompatibility of
mental temperament, which builds the barrier not so much between
education and ignorance, as between refinement and materialism, between
romance and commonplace.
That barrier is so insurmountable that any attempt upon it must end in
failure that is often pathetic from its very hopelessness; even the
warmth of ardent affection has never yet succeeded in evolving a mental
companionship from such discordant material. By kindly dispensation of
nature the breadth of the gulf, indeed, is hidden from those who cannot
cross it. They know it is there, they have some inkling of the
difference of view, but they think that love may build a bridge across,
or that in time they may find some other access to the further side.
Sometimes they fancy that they are nearer to the goal, that they walk
step and step with those they love; but this, alas! is not to be,
because the mental sympathy, the touch of illumination that welds minds
together, is wanting.
It was so with Miss Joliffe the elder--she longed to be near her niece,
and was so very far away; she thought that they went hand in hand, when
all the while a different mental outlook set them poles asunder. With
all her thousand good honest qualities, she was absolutely alien to the
girl; and Anastasia felt as if she was living among people of another
nation, among people who did not understand her language, and she took
refuge in silence.
The dulness of Cullerne had grown more oppressive to her in the last
year. She longed for a life something wider, she longed for sympathy.
She longed for what a tall and well-favoured maiden of her years most
naturally desires, however much she may be ignorant of her desire; she
longed for someone to admire her and to love her; she longed for someone
about whom she could weave a romance.
The junior partner in Rose and Storey perhaps discerned her need, and
tried to supply it. He paid her such odious compliments on the "hang of
her things," that she would never have entered the shop again, were it
not that Bellevue Lodge was bound hand and foot to Rose and Storey, for
they were undertakers as well as milliners; and, besides, the little
affair of the bonnets, the expenses of Martin's funeral, were still
unsatisfied. There was a young dairy farmer, with a face like a red
harvest moon, who stopped at her aunt's door on his way to market. He
would sell Miss Joliffe eggs and butter at wholesale prices, and grinned
in a most tiresome way whenever he caught sight of Anastasia. The
Rector patronised her insufferably; and though old Mr Noot was kind, he
treated her like a small child, and sometimes patted her cheek, which
she felt to be disconcerting at eighteen.
And then the Prince of Romance appeared in Lord Blandamer. The moment
that she first saw him on the doorstep that windy autumn afternoon, when
yellow leaves were flying, she recognised him for a prince. The moment
that he spoke to her she knew that he recognised her for a lady, and for
this she felt unspeakably glad and grateful. Since then the wonder had
grown. It grew all the faster from the hero's restraint. He had seen
Anastasia but little, he spoke but little to her, he never gave her even
a glance of interest, still less such glances as Westray launched at her
so lavishly. And yet the wonder grew. He was so different from other
men she had seen, so different from all the other people she had ever
met. She could not have told how she knew this, and yet she knew. It
must have been an atmosphere which followed him wherever he went--that
penumbra with which the gods wrap heroes--which told her he was
different.
The gambits of the great game of love are strangely limited, and there
is little variation in the after-play. If it were not for the personal
share we take, such doings would lack interest by reason of their
monotony, by their too close resemblance to the primeval type. This is
why the game seems dull enough to onlookers; they shock us with the
callousness with which they are apt to regard our ecstasies. This is
why the straightforward game palls sometimes on the players themselves
after a while; and why they are led to take refuge from dulness in
solving problems, in the tangled irregularities of the knight's move.
Anastasia would have smiled if she had been told that she had fallen in
love; it might have been a thin smile, pale as winter's sunshine, but
she would have smiled. It was _impossible_ for her to fall in love,
because she knew that kings no longer marry beggar-maids, and she was
far too well brought up to fall in love, except as a preliminary to
marriage. No heroine of Miss Austen would permit herself even to feel
attraction to a quarter from which no offer of marriage was possible;
therefore Anastasia could not have fallen in love. She certainly was
not in the least in love, but it was true Lord Blandamer interested her.
He interested her so much, in fact, as to be in her thoughts at all
hours of the day; it was strange that no matter with what things her
mind was occupied, his image should continually present itself. She
wondered why this was; perhaps it was his power--she thought it was the
feeling of his power, a very insolence of power that dominated all these
little folk, and yet was most powerful in its restraint. She liked to
think of the compact, close-knit body, of the curling, crisp, iron-grey
hair, of the grey eyes, and of the hard, clear-cut face. Yes, she liked
the face because it _was_ hard, because it had a resolute look in it
that said he meant to go whither he wished to go.
There was no doubt she must have taken considerable interest in him, for
she found herself dreading to pronounce his name even in the most
ordinary conversation, because she felt it difficult to keep her voice
at the dead level of indifference. She dreaded when others spoke of
him, and yet there was no other subject that occupied her so much. And
sometimes when they talked of him she had a curious feeling of jealousy,
a feeling that no one had a right even to talk of him except herself;
and she would smile to herself with a little scornful smile, because she
thought that she knew more about him, could understand him better than
them all. It was fortunate, perhaps, that the arbitrament of Cullerne
conversation did not rest with Anastasia, or there would have been but
little talking at this time; for if it seemed preposterous that others
should dare to discuss Lord Blandamer, it seemed equally preposterous
that they should take an interest in discussing anything else.
She certainly was _not_ in love; it was only the natural interest, she
told herself, that anyone--anyone with education and refinement--must
take in a strange and powerful character. Every detail about him
interested her. There was a fascination in his voice, there was a
melody in his low, clear voice that charmed, and made even trifling
remarks seem important. Did he but say it was a rainy afternoon, did he
but ask if Mr Westray were at home, there was such mystery in his tone
that no rabbinical cabalist ever read more between the lines than did
Miss Anastasia Joliffe. Even in her devotions thought wandered far from
the pew where she and her aunt sat in Cullerne Church; she found her
eyes looking for the sea-green and silver, for the nebuly coat in Abbot
Vinnicomb's window; and from the clear light yellow of the aureole round
John Baptist's head, fancy called up a whirl of faded lemon-coloured
acacia leaves, that were in the air that day the hero first appeared.
Yet, if heart wavered, head stood firm. He should never know her
interest in him; no word, no changing colour should ever betray her; he
should never guess that agitation sometimes scarcely left her breath to
make so short a rejoinder as "Good-night."
For three Saturdays, then, Miss Joliffe the elder sat on guard at
Bellevue Lodge; for three Saturday afternoons in succession, she sat and
chafed as the hours of the Dorcas meeting came and went. But nothing
happened; the heavens remained in their accustomed place, the minster
tower stood firm, and then she knew that the churchwarden had been
duped, that her own judgment had been right, that Lord Blandamer's only
motive for coming to her house had been to see Mr Westray, and that now
Mr Westray was gone Lord Blandamer would come no more. The fourth
Saturday arrived; Miss Joliffe was brighter than her niece had seen her
for a calendar month.
"I feel a good deal better, my dear, this afternoon," she said; "I think
I shall be able to go to the Dorcas meeting. The room gets so close
that I have avoided going of late, but I think I shall not feel it too
much to-day. I will just change, and put on my bonnet; you will not
mind staying at home while I am away, will you?" And so she went.
Anastasia sat in the window-seat of the lower room. The sash was open,
for the spring days were lengthening, and a soft, sweet air was moving
about sundown. She told herself that she was making a bodice; an open
workbox stood beside her, and there was spread around just such a medley
of patterns, linings, scissors, cotton-reels, and buttons as is required
for the proper and ceremonious carrying on of "work." But she was not
working. The bodice itself, the very cause and spring of all these
preparations, lay on her lap, and there, too, had fallen her hands. She
half sat, half lay back on the window-seat, roaming in fancy far away,
while she drank in the breath of the spring, and watched a little patch
of transparent yellow sky between the houses grow pinker and more
golden, as the sunset went on.
Then a man came down the street and mounted the steps in front of
Bellevue Lodge; but she did not see him, because he was walking in from
the country, and so did not pass her window. It was the door-bell that
first broke her dreams. She slid down from her perch, and hastened to
let her aunt in, for she had no doubt that it was Miss Joliffe who had
come back from the meeting. The opening of the front-door was not a
thing to be hurried through, for though there was little indeed in
Bellevue Lodge to attract burglars, and though if burglars came they
would surely select some approach other than the main entrance, yet Miss
Joliffe insisted that when she was from home the door should be secured
as if to stand a siege. So Anastasia drew the top bolt, and slipped the
chain, and unlocked the lock. There was a little difficulty with the
bottom bolt, and she had to cry out: "I am sorry for keeping you
waiting; this fastening _will_ stick." But it gave at last; she swung
the heavy door back, and found herself face to face with Lord Blandamer.