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Updated: May 8, 2025
Joseph Tomkins and Joliffe the keeper remained for some time in silence, as they stood together looking along the path in which the figures of the Knight of Ditchley and pretty Mistress Alice had disappeared behind the trees. They then gazed on each other in doubt, as men who scarce knew whether they stood on hostile or on friendly terms together, and were at a loss how to open a conversation.
"Oh, I can't go into that now," the organist said; "I have told you too much, perhaps, already. You won't let Miss Joliffe guess I have said anything, will you? She is Michael Joliffe's own child his only child but she loved her half-brother dearly, and doesn't like his cranks being talked about.
In spite of all the indifference which the organist had affected when he first heard the news, he showed a surprising readiness to discuss the affair with all comers, and exhibited no trace of his usual impatience with Miss Joliffe, so long as she was talking of Lord Blandamer.
Then, in a fit of pained abstraction, Miss Joliffe had made such a bad calculation as entirely to spoil a flannel petticoat with a rheumatic belt and camphor pockets, which she had looked upon as something of a chef d'oeuvre. But when she got back to Bellevue Lodge her vexation vanished, and was entirely absorbed in solicitude for her niece.
"Joliffe, you know me well?" "I do, sir," replied Joceline, "and could admit you with all my heart; but, alas! sir, you see I am not key-keeper Here is the gentleman whose warrant I must walk by The Lord help me, seeing times are such as they be!" "And when that gentleman, who I think may be Master Desborough's valet"
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.
Full of anxious thought, he went to the apartment of Victor Lee, in which Joliffe told him he would find the party assembled. The sound of laughter, as he laid his hand on the lock of the door, almost made him start, so singularly did it jar with the doubtful and melancholy reflections which engaged his own mind.
"In the devil's name what is this?" muttered Sir William Howe to a gentleman beside him; "a procession of the regicide judges of King Charles the martyr?" "These," said Colonel Joliffe, breaking silence almost for the first time that evening, "these, if I interpret them aright, are the Puritan governors the rulers of the old original Democracy of Massachusetts.
A chill was indicated, and Miss Joliffe put her to bed at once. Bed is a first aid that even ambulance classes have not entirely taught us to dispense with; it is, moreover, a poor man's remedy, being exceedingly cheap, if, indeed, the poor man is rich enough to have a bed at all.
It was afterward affirmed that Sir William Howe had repeated that selfsame gesture of rage and sorrow when for the last time, and as the last royal governor, he passed through the portal of the province-house. "Hark! The procession moves," said Miss Joliffe.
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