“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
