Charles Palliser (12 page)

Sukey stood in red-faced confusion and cast a desperate look at me. Almost before I knew what I was going to say I heard the following glib speech issue from my mouth:

“When we got back to Over-Leigh, the ford had flooded so much that we couldn’t cross it there, and we had to go round by the path through Mortsey-wood.”

I tried not to look at Sukey who was staring at me.

“Then you must be hungry,” said my mother, and it was with a mixture of relief and dismay that I saw that my lie had been believed. I had spoken in order to protect Sukey for she was right: one could lie if it were justified. But if that were so then one could do other things and there was no longer any clear pattern to be followed through the world.

And beyond even that, I felt a sense of power and excitement at having created something which had been made real by my mother’s crediting it — an afternoon spent innocently and busily between Over-Leigh and Mortsey-wood.

Friends Lost

Let us imagine that we are standing, on a wintry afternoon some years ago, in the west-end of Town. The dusk thickens, rendering even gloomier that great prison-house of fashionable society, so that all those grim and lofty streets and squares seem in the gathering mist to be riding at anchor like so many aristocratic Hulks designated for the detention of Society and its transportation to the waste shores of fashionable boredom.

The grimmest and gloomiest of all of them is Brook-street. The grimmest and gloomiest of all the houses in Brook-street (which is, in point of fact, where we are) is one whose brightly-painted scutcheon over the street-door proclaims its aristocratic pretensions, as do the lofty and blank windows which gaze upon the opposite side of the street with a kind of grimace of fashionable hauteur. Of all these windows the loftiest and the blankest is the centre window of the huge state-room on the first floor.

Standing beside us on the pavement is an individual in a shabby great-coat who has the brim of his hat pulled down over his eyes. He is looking up at one of the houses. We, likewise, raise our heads, averting our eyes from the sight of Poverty and gazing instead towards the haunts of Wealth, Arrogance, and Power.

Only just visible, since no lights have yet been lit inside the room, against the centre window on the first floor is a tall figure. With the means at our disposal, however, we are not condemned to remain on this cold pavement but are able to enter the chamber.

From inside which, the figure can be seen to be that of a gentleman in black standing with his back against the window and addressing a lady and another gentleman. The lady sits on a chaise-longue, while the second gentleman reclines on a chair with a rug over his legs which are resting on a foot-stool in front of him.

Taking them in the order of courtesy, Arrogance — the lady on the chaise-longue— is the epitome of aristocratic British beauty, tall, stately, and handsome but with a suggestion of cruelty in her thin mouth. Wealth, reclining opposite her, bears in his visage the record alike of an ancient lineage and of centuries of spoliation — the cold blue eye of the brutal thane, the high nose of the acquisitive Norman, and the sallow jowls of the avaricious Tudor courtier jostling for the 49

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THE HUFFAMS

spoils of Dissolution. And as for Power, standing at the window, his character speaks only too clearly through the bushy black eyebrows, the jutting ridges above the eyes, and the reddish face of one who brooks no opposition from an inferior.

As we enter the room Power is saying: “But if this is the case, at least we now know that she has a child which, whatever the circumstances, was born in wedlock. And that is wholly to our advantage.”

“Assuming, of course,” the lady says languidly, “that her father’s legitimacy is not disproved.”

“Well, since the other side has not been able to achieve that in fifty years, I doubt if they will succeed now,” Power answers firmly but respectfully. “Though I would feel much reassured on that point if only the record of that marriage could be brought to light. And incidentally, this latest piece of intelligence has given me an idea of where to look for it.”

“How intriguing,” says Arrogance though she speaks without the vulgarity of manifest enthusiasm. “Do, pray, explain what you mean.”

“If you will permit me, I will make myself clear in a moment. But if this is indeed the woman we have been seeking, then the audacity of her choosing that village for her place of residence is breath-taking.”

“I examined my employee minutely,” the lady says in a cool and very dispassionate tone; “and she is absolutely certain that the servant accompanying the child mentioned the name.”

“It’s preposterous!” Wealth exclaims impatiently. “It’s a damn-fool notion. A fox don’t run to earth in the very kennels of the hounds that are chasing it!”

“At first hearing such a view was precisely my own,” comes the calm voice from the window. “But the fact is confirmed to my satisfaction by the connexion that exists with the place through her … protector, Fortisquince.”

“What course of action do you recommend?” the lady asks.

“I suggest that we make a direct approach and meanwhile continue with the more oblique initiatives we have already undertaken. For the first …”

He breaks off as two footmen enter carrying lighted candles.

“Shall we do the curtains now, my lady?” one of them asks.

“Yes, carry on, Edward.”

The gentleman in black moves away from the window and advances into the room while the footmen place the tapers on side-tables around the chamber and then draw the curtains. There is silence until the door has closed softly behind them. Then — for why should Power even notice Servitude? — he continues to speak as if there had been no interruption: “For the direct approach, I mean — with your approval — to take a journey into the country and speak to her myself.”

“Is that wise,” says Arrogance in surprise, “in view of the scrutiny that attends you? If the other side should find her … ”

She breaks off.

“I am confident I can elude my observers,” returns Power. “One of them is in the street at this moment which is why I was standing in the window. They are so spoiled by my generosity in making myself conspicuous that they become careless, and that is when I slip away.”

The lady smiles briefly and then says: “And do you believe she will part with it?”

Before he can reply the gentleman in the chair suddenly interjects: “Take a couple of stout fellows and force it from her.”

FRIENDS LOST

51

“With great respect, there is no reason, as I have so often had the honour to state, for turning the law into your enemy when you can use it as your ally.”

“I think we need not disinter that discussion again,” says the lady sharply.

“I believe, however, that she will see reason,” Power continues.

“Aye,” cries Wealth. “She must know that we hold all the aces.”

Power smiles at the lady: “I prefer to say that we have her in check. And while I am there I intend to make a further search for the missing record we spoke of a moment ago, for I am reminded of the connexion between that village and the history of your family and hers. The vestry or the graveyard may hold the record that we seek.” He pauses, glances cautiously towards Wealth, and then says: “I will also take the opportunity to discuss certain matters with the steward.”

The lady shakes her head at him warningly but it is too late for Wealth exclaims:

“Don’t bring that up again. Fellow’s worked for me for years. And his uncle before him.

I won’t hear a word against him.”

Smoothly Power goes on: “I was merely going to say that I would discuss with him the private bill for the enclosure of the common-land.”

“Indeed,” says the lady. “That wretched bill. Tell me, what progress has been made?”

The gentleman draws a sheaf of papers tied up in red cord from his portmanteau and at the lady’s invitation seats himself on the sopha beside her. He begins to untie the knots he has made. Ah, how many miseries lie enfolded by that cord! How many lives strangled by the knots he has made. We shall leave them at their work.

Although I often thought about Henrietta, Sukey and I never went to Hougham again together. Apart from any other consideration, her uncle did indeed die a few days later and so after that she had no reason to go.

In the months that passed — and winter began early that year — I noticed that my mother seemed particularly cast down after receiving letters from London, but she would not tell me if anything was wrong.

Christmas-tide approached and as I was returning from one of my walks with my mother or Sukey in the late afternoon we would meet bands of waits made up of local boys together with members of the church-orchestra carrying their instruments, all with Christmas green hung round them as they went from house to house (though never to ours) to solicit for candied fruit or small coins in return for their singing.

Late one morning a few days before Christmas I went into the kitchen, lured by the sweetly-pungent fragrance of cinnamon and ginger and cloves, and found Mrs Belflower grating spices and beating eggs as she made the Christmas Pudding — not, of course, for that festival but for the following year. (In fact, we were destined for the first time in my life to eat that pudding without her.)

“Will you help me by stirring in the charms?” she asked, indicating the little pile of coins and tokens on the table.

“Very well,” I said rather unenthusiastically, for although in past years I had enjoyed this task, I now felt I that it was a little beneath me.

52 THE

HUFFAMS

“Remember, you has to make a wish. But only one. And you mustn’t nivver tell it or it won’t come true.”

“Oh I remember all that. But I say, Mrs Belflower, will you finish telling me that story now?”

“Which one, my dear?”

“How the Mompessons stole the land from the Huffam family by deceit,” I said.

When she looked a blank I added: “You remember, Jemmy Huffam cheated his own son, John, out of his inheritance.”

“Now I rec’lleck, my dear. But jist put me in mind, where had I got to?”

“Jemmy having to kill his father because he’s borrowed money from Old Nick.”

“Aye, now I mind. Well, -when Jemmy arst for the money Old Nick said to him: ‘What have you got to pledge?’ And Jemmy answered: ‘Nought but my soul.’ And Nick said:

‘I’ll take that, but you’re still a young man and you might make me wait fifty year so you’ll have to promise more nor that a-fore I’ll lend you no money.’ Well, the long and the short of it was Old Nick told him ‘you must make a legal deed givin’ the estate to me and my heirs if so happen you don’t pay the money back.’”

“For his children would be Jemmy’s grandchildren anyway, wouldn’t they?”

“I daresay, my dear,” she replied rather absently. “(I’ll jist thicken it a little and then you might drop the fust coin in.) So Jemmy said: ‘I agree’. But then Old Nick said: ‘But you have a son, John, and if you try to keep him out of the estate he’ll have the law on his side. So we must draw up a contract between us that nothing can break.’ Well, he drew it up and Jemmy signed it with his own blood.”

“And then he murdered his father,” I cried, “by putting poison in his wine” (here I dropped in a worn six-pence) “and he died in agony.”

“Right enough. And his cries was heard all through that great house and even as far as

’Ougham.”

“Is that the house that is there now?” I asked quickly.

“The very one,” she said stirring steadily.

“Then it can’t have been!” I exclaimed in triumph. “For it wasn’t built then.”

“Why, I believe you’re right, my dear. There were an older house nearby which I don’t know what happened to it, and that’s where it were.” Undismayed, she went on comfortably: “Well, time passed and Jemmy kept up his evil ways, drinking and gambling and I don’t like to say what not. And one night he was playing dice with Sir Parceval Mumpsey. Now Sir Parceval …”

“But this can’t have been Sir Perceval!”

“And why not, my duck? (Put another o’ them charms in now.)”

“Because you said this was a long time ago and I know he’s still alive,” I said as I added to the mixture a badly bent George II guinea which was the finest of all the charms and was always found in my helping of the pudding.

“Then this must have been his father,” said Mrs Belflower imperturbably, “who was also called Sir Parceval. And he was very rich and owned thousands upon thousands of black slaves, and at his wedding in London the King and Queen come to see him married to one of the greatest ladies in the land, and hundreds of black slaves marched through the streets behind the bridal carriage which was all of gold. (I’m about ready for another charm. That old furrin coin with the lady’s head.) And so the night I was a-telling you on, he was playing Hazard with Jemmy ’Ougham and …”

FRIENDS LOST

53

“Hazard? What is that?”

“ “Tis a game at dice, as I understand.”

“But what does it mean?” dropping the charm into the bowl and closing my eyes briefly to make a wish — a wish that is only now close to coming true.