After a moment two more figures approached from round the corner of the house. I watched them, knowing that I should move away from the gate, but something prevented me. The great empty house of Hougham (or was it Huffam?) seemed to have touched some chord inside me, and awakened, it seemed to me, an echo in my innermost being whose summons I was powerless to resist.
As the newcomers came close enough for me to be able to make them out, I saw that they were a little girl of about my age and a tall, elderly lady, and that both of them were dressed in black. The lady stopped to talk to the workman, but the little girl must have seen me for she continued to walk slowly up to the gate opposite me. Her face was very pale — so pale that I wondered if she had been ill — so that her dark eyes looked all the darker. She held her hands inside a muff she carried in front of her, and a strange, solemn little figure she made altogether.
“You’re not one of the village boys, are you?” she said.
Under the terms of the promise I had given my mother, I wasn’t allowed to speak to strangers, but, I reasoned to myself, surely this only referred to adults and so a little girl did not count.
“No,” I replied.
“I’m strictly forbidden to have anything to do with the children from the village,” she explained.
“But don’t you live in the village?”
“No. I live here.”
“Do you mean in that big house?” I wondered.
“Yes.”
She spoke as if it were the least interesting fact in the world.
“Is that lady your mother?”
“No,” she replied. “My mother is dead. And so is my father. You see, I’m an orphan.”
An orphan? Here was an interesting word and I felt envious of her right to it. Then I supposed I was at least halfway towards being an orphan too.
“That lady is the housekeeper here,” she explained. “Of course, I should have a governess. I’ve had several, but my guardians said that none of them suited. Mrs Peppercorn is very strict about not allowing me to speak to strangers.”
Behind the little girl I could see the tall figure of the housekeeper still engaged with the workman. They appeared to be having a difference of opinion, for the man tried several times to turn away but she continued to address him until he had to turn back.
“She is very short-sighted and must not be able to see you,” the little girl continued. “But when she does, she will tell you to go away and I will be punished.”
“Punished?” I asked. “In what way?”
“I will certainly be sent to bed without my tea,” she said in a very matter-of-fact tone. And then added: “And perhaps whipped.”
“Whipped?”
She withdrew one hand from the muff and I saw that the back of it had a series of painful red welts across it.
“Then perhaps,” I said, “I should go away before she sees me.”
“No,” the child replied very definitely; “I should like to talk to you for a little longer. There is no-one else here to talk to.”
“Have you no brothers or sisters?” I enquired.
“No. There is only Mrs Peppercorn and Betsy, and two other servants whom I am not permitted to speak to.”
“And is there no-one else in that big house?” I asked.
“No-one at all,” she said. “But, you see, most of it is shut up. We only use a few of the rooms. I wish there were other children here. Do you have brothers and sisters?”
“No,” I said; “I don’t know any other children either.”
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“John Mellamphy,” I replied.
“Is that all?” she asked in surprise.
“Yes. What’s yours?” I answered.
“It’s very long. Do you want to hear all of it?”
“Yes, please,” I said.
She took a breath, closed her eyes, and recited: “Henrietta Louisa Amelia Lydia Hougham Palphramond.” She opened her eyes and (still in a single breath) explained: “My mother was called Louisa, and Henrietta and Lydia are for my great-aunts. I don’t know about the others, though.”
“But Hougham?” I exclaimed. “Is that spelt like the name of this village?”
“Yes,” she said. “H-o-u-g-h-a-m.”
Prompted by the desire to show that I, too, possessed a claim greater than might be implied by the bare two names I had admitted, I exclaimed: “I’ve got that name too! At least, I believe my grandfather’s name was the same as that, only spelt ‘H-u-f-f-a-m’. That’s the name of the family that used to own this house and this village and all the land around here, you know.”
“Oh I don’t think that can be right,” she said.
“Oh yes it is.” (What an unpleasantly contradictory little girl it was!) “You see the Mumpseys …” I hesitated. “They got it from the Huffams.”
“The Mumpseys! You mean the Mompessons. Only the village-people pronounce it that way.”
I flushed with shame. Of course I knew that name from the memorials in the church. Why had I not made the connexion when Mrs Belflower mentioned it?
“You must be mistaken, you see,” Henrietta went on, “because I know that my guardian’s grandfather built this house.”
“But perhaps his name was Huffam?”
“I don’t think so, for my guardian is Sir Perceval Mompesson.”
I burned with humiliation. Then the wretched Mrs Belflower had got it completely wrong and so probably my idea that I was connected with this place was mistaken. It was this girl who belonged here if Sir Perceval Mompesson was her guardian!
Absorbed as we were in our conversation, we had not noticed that the housekeeper had left the workman and approached the gate until she spoke from a few yards away:
“I shall write to Mr Assinder to complain of the insolence of that fellow. He has the effrontery to tell me that that window cannot be repaired without …” She broke off, raised the lorgnette which hung by a chain round her neck, and then exclaimed: “Miss Henrietta! Is that a boy?”
“Yes, Mrs Peppercorn,” said Henrietta calmly.
“Can you possibly be talking to a village child in defiance of your guardian’s strictest injunctions?”
“He’s not from the village, Mrs Peppercorn,” said Henrietta coldly.
“Indeed?” The housekeeper stared at me through her lorgnette. “I see he appears to be a gentleman’s son.” Then she said: “What is your father’s name?”
The question threw me into confusion. For one thing, I was deeply conscious of my undertaking to my mother not to speak to strangers, and yet surely I could not be so impolite as to refuse to answer a direct question?
“He is called John Mellamphy,” Henrietta said.
“Mellamphy,” she repeated. “I know of no good family of that name in the vicinity. However that may be, Miss Henrietta, you have disobeyed Sir Perceval’s instructions. We will return to the house immediately while I consider your punishment.”
“Although he is a stranger, Mrs Peppercorn,” Henrietta said, “yet he says his grandfather was called Huffam which is one of my names, so perhaps he is not quite a complete stranger.”
“Indeed?” said the housekeeper, turning back towards me quickly. “Where does your father live, Master Mellamphy?”
“I cannot tell you.”
The housekeeper’s mouth tightened into a thin line at what she must have taken for a piece of impertinence, and she was about to speak when Sukey came running up: “Oh Master Johnnie!” she exclaimed. “You bad boy! You know you mustn’t talk to strangers. What would your mother say?”
She seized my hand and began to pull me away: “Come,” she said. “We’re going to be late. Melthorpe’s a good hour’s walk from here.”
As I turned away, I caught a last glimpse of Henrietta still standing with her pale face pressed against the black iron-work of the gate like a prisoner, while the housekeeper placed a black-gloved hand upon her shoulder.
“Oh, Master Johnnie,” said
Sukey as we hurried out of the village; “I hope you haven’t got me into trouble. Please don’t say nought about coming here this arternoon. Not to your mother, and not to nobody besides.”
“But Sukey, if my mother asks where we’ve been, I can’t tell her a direct lie, can I?”
She halted suddenly and since she was still holding my hand, brought me to a stop too. She turned to face me and said solemnly: “I beg you, Master Johnnie, don’t say nought that might make me lose my place. I know you’re a good-hearted boy at bottom and wouldn’t want to do no harm to my fambly.”
“Will you promise to let me go up to the ’pike when we go our walks together, and stay there as long as I want?” She nodded. “Very well, then. I promise.”
We walked on again, and after a few yards Sukey broke out: “Oh, I wish we hadn’t come to ’Ougham today. I don’t know what ill mayn’t come of it. And my uncle is going fast. And then my poor aunt’ll be turned out.”
I was hardly listening for I was wondering how it could be that Henrietta and I were connected and whether that meant that I was also linked in some way with the Mompesson family.
When we got home my mother, hearing us at the back door, came into the kitchen as we were removing our outer garments: “You’re back very late,” she said. “I was worried about you. Where have you been?”
The question was addressed to both of us. I blushed and looked away, but instantly Sukey, also bright red, replied: “We went by Over-Leigh way, ma’am. And the lanes was very bad.”
“But you must have gone further than that,” said my mother. “You’re more than an hour later than usual.”
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.
BOOK II
Friends Lost
CHAPTER 6
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 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 interjec
ts: “Take a couple of stout fellows and force it from her.”
“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.
CHAPTER 7
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.