Charles Palliser (28 page)

However, when I reached our house I saw a carriage standing outside it and this was so unusual that, instead of turning up the lane, I went directly to the front.

My mother and Bissett were standing on the steps with a strange gentleman, and they seemed to be in the middle of an argument while the rain fell heavily on them. My mother was holding something out to him and waving it at him. Bissett seemed to be trying to pull it away from her and the gentleman was making disclaiming gestures with his hands.

“I’ll give it to you if you’ll only bring him back,” my mother was crying.

Bissett was saying: “Give it to him, just give it to him!” And she was trying to snatch from her the silver document-case which was attached to her key-chain.

Meanwhile the gentleman was saying: “I know nothing of this. I only wish to purchase it.”

I approached and when my mother caught sight of me her face was transformed:

“Johnnie!” she cried.

She embraced me laughing and sobbing hysterically as the rain ran down our faces, and I tried to push her away.

“Oh thank heavens! Thank heavens!” she cried.

“I hope you will see now, madam, the absurdity of your allegations,” the gentleman said ill-temperedly, and I recognised him now as Mr Barbellion.

“What happened? What happened?” my mother cried, pressing me against her.

“Let go of me,” I protested. “Nobody tried to harm me. I got out of the garden by myself.”

“Why you wicked boy!” Bissett cried. “You’ve affrighted your poor mother nigh to death!”

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“There, madam, and I think you owe me an apology,” said Mr Barbellion.

“Go away, go!” my mother cried.

I burned with shame at her conduct and the more so at the haughty courtesy with which he responded: “Madam, I will bid you good-day.”

With slightly absurd dignity in view of the rain that was running down his cheeks, Mr Barbellion raised his hat and set off down the steps towards his carriage.

“Come inside, Mamma,” I said.

I led her in and shut the door. Bissett brought out the
sal volatile
and eventually my mother was calm. Anxious as I was to know what had happened, I was determined to say nothing until Bissett was out of the room. When at last she had withdrawn I asked my mother for her story. And so I learned that Mr Barbellion had presented himself not long before my return. My mother had instantly sent Bissett to find me and while she was doing so had reluctantly consented to an interview with the lawyer. He had talked again of taking custody of me, and my mother had understood him to be threatening to have me declared a ward of Chancery, though she refused to explain to me how this could be done. And then he had offered eighteen hundred pounds for the codicil. At that juncture Bissett had returned to say that I could not be found. My mother had instantly leapt to the conclusion that he had abducted me and was demanding the codicil in exchange for my return, and this is what had brought on the scene that I had interrupted.

“Even if I was wrong to accuse him this time,” she said, “I’m sure it was he who was responsible for the attempt last month. He is working for our enemy.”

“We don’t know who he is working for, Mamma,” I insisted.

“But Johnnie, eighteen hundred pounds! It was as if he knew that Sir Perceval offered us seventeen hundred! He has intelligencers everywhere!”

“Who does?”

“Our enemy!”

“Who is that? Please tell me.”

She would not, and I saw that it would be dangerous to press her any further. She kept repeating that he would do anything to get hold of the document.

“But Mr Barbellion didn’t take it even when you offered it to him and Bissett tried to make him,” I pointed out.

However, she was convinced that she was right. “And it’s all your fault, Johnnie,” she went on. “It was very wrong of you to disobey my orders and leave the garden like that.”

“It wasn’t my fault that Mr Barbellion chose to come just then,” I protested. “If he hadn’t, you would probably not have known I had gone and no harm would have been done.”

Bissett made up one of her strong sleeping-draughts and my mother retired early. For the rest of that long summer evening I thought over the events of the last few weeks. It seemed to me that my mother’s account of Mr Barbellion’s motives — or rather, his actions, for that was all we knew for sure — did not really make sense. Was she confused or was she hiding something from me?

A week or two after this I asked my mother about the sculpture in the garden. She explained to me that Uncle Martin’s father — who had originally bought the house —

used to be the land-agent at Hougham and had inhabited part of the old hall. (So that accounted for the old map I had found with the name “Fortisquince” on it.) When Uncle Martin’s mother came to live here

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in retirement she had brought the sculpture with her from the old hall as a keep-sake. So it had come from there! Perhaps even from the vacant place in the centre of the four trees!

A few days later came the following letter so strangely addressed that it was testimony to the intelligence of the Post-office that they had sent it even to the right county:

“Wrote from numbr 6 Cocks sqare spittlefeelds in londun on The 8 of Oggust

“dear Miss melermfy wich J am writen this for miss Digwid on acount of not been nor mistr D pertikler scullards for to say. thank yu very much for yowre goodnes to myself and joiy wich we had a bad truble com upon her when she com back to lundon for she fond our too yungers chilren poly and bily was took, and also the eldest gorn now mstr d heven gorn bac to the shoors in opes to beable to sen th rest of the munny toords crismuss an with bess opps and rspeks miss maggy diggwid her mark X”

Folded inside was a bank-note for two pounds. We discussed this for some time in the attempt to decypher its meaning, but remained unclear on several points. The next day my mother told me she had sent the money back and had told Mrs Digweed to regard the loan as a gift. She had also expressed her condolences if she had understood the letter correctly. She remarked rather mysteriously that she had told Mrs Digweed something that would make it impossible for her to repay the balance of the loan.

I understood the meaning of my mother’s words when, a little under three weeks later, I awoke from a deep slumber in what seemed the depths of the night to find her standing over my bed with a candle. She was looking down at me with an expression of suppressed excitement.

“What is the matter, Mamma?” I asked sleepily.

“You must get up and dress quickly, my dearest,” she said. “We must be ready to leave in half-an-hour.”

“To leave!” I exclaimed, sleep falling away from me. “Why, where are we going?”

“Come down now. Mrs Bissett is warming some milk for you.”

“But where are we going?”

“Do hurry, Johnnie,” she said, pulling back the bedclothes. I jumped out of bed and began to dress.

“Put on some warm clothes. It will be chilly when it gets late.”

“Is it not late already?” I asked.

“It is only a little after midnight. Make haste.”

“Are we going somewhere?”

“Yes.”

I was by now almost dressed.

“Where?” I demanded.

“I will not answer any questions.”

“Why not?”

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“Well, you haven’t always been very good at keeping secrets.”

I flushed at this reminder of my indiscretions to Mr Barbellion in the church-yard and before Sir Perceval and Lady Mompesson, and I reflected that there were others that she did not know of. Strangely, that made me even angrier: “It’s not fair. You must tell me.”

“I dare not take the risk, Johnnie. You might say something quite accidentally.”

“But who is there to tell? I won’t tell Bissett.” Then a suspicion occurred to me: “Or have you told her?”

“No. Mrs Bissett knew nothing until two hours ago when I asked her to stay up and help me pack. And she is very hurt that I haven’t told her any more.”

I was slightly mollified by this. When we went down and I found in the hall two trunks which I had only ever seen before in the attic I began to get very excited. One of them was already locked and secured by heavy leather straps; the other was open and almost full. We went to the kitchen where we found Bissett preparing a kind of cross between a late supper and an early breakfast. She was in a very sour mood indeed.

“Besides anythin’ else, if you had told me a-fore now I could have got things ready.”

“I’m sorry,” my mother cried. “Oh, Mrs Bissett, I hate to part with you like this, after all you’ve done. I do so hope you will find another place.”

“Too late to mind that now, Mrs Mellamphy,” Bissett replied, vigorously scraping the butter as thinly as possible on a slice of bread.

My mother sighed. “Hurry up, Johnnie. The chaise will be here soon.”

“A chaise! Where is it from?”

“I wrote to the Lion and the Unicorn in Sutton Valancy. It should arrive at half-past midnight.”

“And where will it take us?”

“Wait and see.”

“It don’t seem like regular Christen conduck, gallivanting off in the middle of the night like folk that haven’t paid their score.”

“But I’ve explained all of that, Mrs Bissett,” my mother protested mildly; “and you agreed to it. And you know, six pounds in lieu of notice is three months’ wages.”

I gasped at my mother’s generosity.

“Aye, but how much work is there going to be to sell the furniture and settle with the chandler’s and them others in the village, that’s what I been arstin’ meself ?”

“It shouldn’t take more than two weeks.”

Bissett sniffed. “And where am I to send the money left over from the sale when I’ve paid off the tradespeople?”

“I do not know yet. I have no lodgings arranged in … where we are going.”

Bissett slowly shook her head: “You don’t trust me, do you, Mrs Mellamphy?”

My mother looked at her for a moment and then turned to me as I was finishing my bowl of hot milk and fingers of bread and butter: “We can take very little with us now, Johnnie, so if there are any of your books or play-things that you really can’t bear to leave behind, go and find them now.”

I jumped up.

“Not so quick, young man,” Bissett said. “That boy’s so journey-proud he’ll do hisself or us some mischief.”

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Seizing a candle, I hurried out. And now the significance of what was about to happen overtook me. I would be leaving, in a very few minutes, the house in which I had, as far as I was aware, spent all my life, and going I knew not whither. Suddenly I thought of my map of London, and though I had no idea what our destination was, I decided I could not bear to set off without the reassurance that it offered. Quickly I found it, rolled it up, and placed it in one of the boxes waiting in the hall.

Now I wanted to bid farewell to the house and I went from room to room in a peculiar state of sorrowful excitement, lingering the most time in my own little chamber. My reverie was interrupted by the sound of a carriage drawing up outside and then by a knocking at the door which seemed — especially at that unhallowed hour — to thunder through the house. I went down to watch and in a few minutes our two trunks and our boxes had been loaded by the driver and post-boy.

When I went back to the kitchen I found (somewhat to my surprise and, I admit, my chagrin) that my mother and Bissett were now on much more amicable terms.

My mother was carefully wrapping something up : “I will take my embroidery and work-basket in the coach. I dare not lose it for if the worst happens, this is what will be keeping us, Johnnie.”

And so now my mother and I, warmly clad in top-coats and comforters, assembled in the hall for the final leave-taking. My mother put out her hand to our old servant and it was rather stiffly held and shaken.

“I hope we may meet again, Mrs Bissett,” my mother said, and I could see that she was about to weep.

“If not here below in this Vale of Tears, then in a better place, I trust, Mrs Mellamphy,” Bissett replied.

Suddenly my mother flung her arms around Bissett and embraced her. Bissett neither resisted nor returned her gesture but when my mother disengaged herself and stumbled through the door and down the steps I could see that the old servant was moved almost in spite of herself.

As she turned to me her expression was troubled: “You take care on her, Master Johnnie. She don’t always know what’s best to do. You’ll soon be old enough for it to be you as looks arter her.” She seemed to hesitate for a moment, before she said: “That Mr Barbellion, now. Your mother is mistook to be so a-feared on him. Trust him, for your own sake.”

“I’ll remember you said that, Bissett,” I answered.

We exchanged a long look.

She glanced away first and I held out my hand: “Goodbye,” I said.

She looked at my hand with surprise: “You seem so growed-up, Master Johnnie, I hardly know how to take leave of you.”

“Then let it be like this,” I replied and she took my outstretched hand.

“And yet,” she said wonderingly; “this is the same child as I’ve nussed on my knee when you was in petticoats.”

We shook hands and a moment later I clambered into the chaise. The driver closed the door and raised the steps and the vehicle moved off. As it pulled away we looked back and waved to the figure standing in the open door lit only by the candle she carried, and who held her arm up in a gesture of farewell.

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the sleeping village where hardly a light was showing — except where we passed labourers working their own plots by the light of lanthorns — I wondered whether the eyes of any secret watcher were upon us. In the blackness that surrounded us, it seemed unlikely.

There were occasional little flashes of light from glow-worms but only the faint moonlight shed any illumination when it peeked from behind a cloud. In its light my mother smiled at me reassuringly from her seat opposite, and I wondered if she were also thinking back over the years we had passed in Melthorpe and speculating on whether we would ever see the village again, or was she too much preoccupied with the difficulties that lay ahead of us? What, I wondered, was presaged by this disruption of the pattern of my life — the pattern, rather, that I had assumed?