If her dress was no longer threadbare, it was still of the neatest black, and if she had taken to wearing every day the moss-agate brooch which had formerly been reserved for Sundays, she was still the very same old sweet-tempered, spontaneous, Miss Joliffe as in time past. Westray looked at her with something like affection.
“Sit down,” he said, offering her a chair; “did you say you had brought the picture with you?” and he scanned her as if he expected to see it produced from her pocket.
“Yes,” she said; “my maid is bringing it upstairs”—and there was just a suspicion of hesitation on the word “maid,” that showed that she was still unaccustomed to the luxury of being waited on.
It was with great difficulty that she had been persuaded to accept such an allowance at Anastasia’s hands, as would enable her to live on at Bellevue Lodge and keep a single servant; and if it brought her infinite relief to find that Lord Blandamer had paid all Martin’s bills within a week of his engagement, such generosity filled her at the same time with a multitude of scruples. Lord Blandamer had wished her to live with them at Fording, but he was far too considerate and appreciative of the situation to insist on this proposal when he saw that such a change would be uncongenial to her. So she remained at Cullerne, and spent her time in receiving with dignity visits from the innumerable friends that she found she now possessed, and in the fullest enjoyment of church services, meetings, parish work, and other privileges.
“It is very good of you, Miss Joliffe,” Westray said; “it is very kind of you to think of the picture. But,” he went on, with a too vivid recollection of the painting, “I know how much you have always prized it, and I could not bear to take it away from Bellevue Lodge. You see, Mr. Sharnall, who was part owner with me, is dead; I am only making you a present of half of it, so you must accept that from me as a little token of gratitude for all the kindness you have shown me. You have been very kind to me, you know,” he said with a sigh, which was meant to recall Miss Joliffe’s friendliness, and his own grief, in the affair of the proposal.
Miss Joliffe was quick to take the cue, and her voice was full of sympathy. “Dear Mr. Westray, you know how glad I should have been if all could have happened as you wished. Yet we should try to recognise the ordering of Providence in these things, and bear sorrow with meekness. But about the picture, you must let me have my own way this once. There may come a time, and that before very long, when I shall be able to buy it back from you just as we arranged, and then I am sure you will let me have it. But for the present it must be with you, and if anything should happen to me I should wish you to keep it altogether.”
Westray had meant to insist on her retaining the picture; he would not for a second time submit to be haunted with the gaudy flowers and the green caterpillar. But while she spoke, there fell upon him one of those gusty changes of purpose to which he was peculiarly liable. There came into his mind that strange insistence with which Sharnall had begged him at all hazards to retain possession of the picture. It seemed as if there might be some mysterious influence which had brought Miss Joliffe with it just now, and that he might be playing false to his trust with Sharnall if he sent it back again. So he did not remain obdurate, but said: “Well, if you really wish it, I will keep the picture for a time, and whenever you want it you can take it back again.” While he was speaking there was a sound of stumbling on the stairs outside, and a bang as if something heavy had been let drop.
“It is that stupid girl again,” Miss Joliffe said; “she is always tumbling about. I am sure she has broken more china in the six months she has been with me than was broken before in six years.”
They went to the door, and as Westray opened it great red-faced and smiling Anne Janaway walked in, bearing the glorious picture of the flowers and caterpillar.
“What have you been doing now?” her mistress asked sharply.
“Very sorry, mum,” said the maid, mingling some indignation with her apology, “this here gurt paint tripped I up. I’m sure I hope I haven’t hurt un”—and she planted the picture on the floor against the table.
Miss Joliffe scanned the picture with an eye which was trained to detect the very flakiest chip on a saucer, the very faintest scratch upon a teapot.
“Dear me, dear me!” she said, “the beautiful frame is ruined; the bottom piece is broken almost clean off.”
“Oh, come,” Westray said in a pacifying tone, while he lifted the picture and laid it flat on the table, “things are not so bad as all that.”
He saw that the piece which formed the bottom of the frame was indeed detached at both corners and ready to fall away, but he pushed it back into position with his hand till it stuck in its place, and left little damage apparent to a casual observer.
“See,” he said, “it looks nearly all right. A little glue will quite repair the mischief tomorrow I am sure I wonder
