Ignoring me the woman said to my mother: “This is journey-man work. Look at the size of them stitches and the unevenness of the lines. I’d send any girl out of my shop what did work like that. And it’s a provincial style as well. Take it away and begone with you.”
I cannot bring myself to describe how we dragged ourselves out of there nor how, after finding explanations of the woman’s attitude that served to rally each other’s spirits (for our previous night’s quarrel was quite forgotten), we tried other shops, only to hear the same verdict — though usually less offensively worded.
So now at last accepting the impossibility of what she had been hoping for, my mother consented to visit the other registry-offices. Here, however, my worst fears were confirmed for we met with the same reception as at the first one: there were far too many educated women competing for places for there to be any likelihood of employment for one without excellent references, experience and a greater degree of proficiency than my mother could claim. At each office we remembered to enquire for Miss Quilliam, and it was strange that although none of the clerks could tell us anything of her, they always seemed to recognise the name as soon as we mentioned it.
The realization that even the dreaded recourse of governess was not open to her was a heavy blow for my mother. And so now we began the dreary round again, this time visiting those much more squalid registry-offices which undertook to find positions as lady’s companions or children’s nurses. But even here the lack of a reference from a previous employer or even of a “good name” — a character reference from a respectable individual — proved to be an insurmountable obstacle since we had decided that we dared not ask Mrs Fortisquince.
“Is there no-one who knew you before you lived in Melthorpe?” I asked her again after a day of renewed disappointments.
She shook her head. “My father and I lived very quietly. We knew almost no-one.”
“What about whoever it was you went to see that day soon after we arrived?” I demanded irritably.
She shuddered and shook her head: “Oh no, that wouldn’t serve at all.”
Yet even if she could have found such work and we were enriched by our little capital due from Bissett, I could see that, since the usual terms were “all found” and 10£ a year, living would be very hard and there would certainly be nothing to spare for my education.
At last, deciding that her only marketable skill lay in her ability as a plain needlewoman, my mother went back to the first mantua-maker’s shop in Regent-street from which we had been turned away.
By chance we encountered in the mews the woman who had spoken to us kindly before, and when my mother explained what she had come for this time, she said: “Let me see your hands.” She took them in her own: “So white and fine. Look at mine.”
They were as hard as horn and yet were covered in little sores where she had been pricked by the needles.
“Nobody will take you on, my dear. You could not work fast enough. Nor could you stand the long hours. Fourteen, at least, and often sixteen or seventeen, and sometimes we have to work all night at no notice. And all for ten shilling a week.” She glanced at me and added in a low voice: “But a young woman with a pretty face need never go hungry in London.”
My mother blushed as if at the compliment and I felt reassured by this. There were kind people here after all and we would be all right.
She was at least correct in her assumption that my mother would fail to find employment, though it was only after we had spent many hours walking the long grey streets without success that we acknowledged this.
By the end of the following week — that is the third after we had sent the letter — there was still no reply from Melthorpe. Now worried by this at last, my mother wrote again. Our little reserve of capital was disappearing quickly and the rent which had seemed so self-denyingly parsimonious when we had moved from our original lodgings, now began to seem an extravagance that was no longer justifiable. Yet we were reluctant to move again because of the waste of time and money involved, and when a smaller chamber at the top of the house came available at 5s. a week we negotiated with Mrs Philliber and moved into it.
The room — which was a section of the garret that had been boarded off — had no fireplace so we now ate our food cold or occasionally treated ourselves to something hot from a nearby pastry-cook. The weather was still mild but it would be getting colder, and I wondered how we could face the winter there. It was a dreary little chamber with hardly any view except of the neighbouring rooves and no sunshine, and perhaps because of this our spirits gradually wore down. Often in the late afternoon while my mother was out searching for work, I would sit with a book in my hand and look out between the chimney-pots to watch the sparrows in the eaves hopping around like tiny cripples on crutches, and then suddenly whirring their wings and taking flight out of my sight — and how I envied them!
After spending the day traipsing around the streets — for a coach was now out of the question even for the longest journeys and there were no omnibuses at that period — my mother was exhausted and often wet through if it had been raining. As the weather grew colder, the thin summer clothes that were all we had became increasingly inadequate, and we had seriously to deplete our little capital in order to buy ourselves great-coats.
It became my mother’s custom to make herself a bowl of negus every evening, though as we grew poorer she dispensed first with the eggs and then the milk and finally the spices. It was as if — or so it seemed to me — she was trying to convince herself by this ritual that all was well. And certainly she grew more cheerful afterwards, though she was frequently out of sorts in the morning.
By the time a month had passed since the first letter to Bissett, we had only four pounds left and I privately calculated that, with rent and food, we were living at the rate of 12s. a week. It was clear to me that without the money we were expecting, we could not continue long at this rate. And when the winter was upon us we would need to spend money to keep warm, perhaps necessitating a move to another room for I could not see how we could live without a fire.
BOOK II
Understandings
CHAPTER 31
Once again Mr Sancious finds himself outside the door of No. 27 Golden-square. When he is led into the presence of the widow she smiles coldly and says: “Why, Mr Sancious, what can you want of me?”
“It concerns Mrs Mellamphy again. Or, rather, Mrs Clothier. Ma’am, I am desperate. I throw myself at your feet. I must find her.”
“Gracious heavens, Mr Sancious! Such passion! Has she absconded without settling your account?”
She indicates that he should sit, and as he does so Mr Sancious forces his lips to part and draw back from his teeth: “Oh very droll, ma’am. Ha-ha. But this is deeply embarrassing to me. Indeed, more than embarrassing. She has disappeared and I believe she may have come to Town. I must find her.”
“Your concern for her welfare does you credit. But am I to assume that you are no longer in her confidence, as you once boasted of being?”
The attorney flushes: “The truth is, ma’am, she lost some money in a speculation over which I advised her.”
“And she has taken into her head the notion that you did not deal with her honestly?”
The attorney fails to conceal his astonishment: “You are very acute, madam. That is exactly the case. Her suspicions are quite absurd, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Have you any idea where she might be?”
“Set your mind at rest on that score. She is in Town.”
“Oh thank heavens.”
“I have seen and spoken to her in this very room not three weeks ago.”
“Then pray tell me where she is.”
“Wait, Mr Sancious. We must understand each other perfectly. I think you were not frank with me on the last occasion we met.”
“Madam!”
“Do you remember that I asked you whether you had Mrs Clothier’s interests at heart? If
I were to ask you that question now, what would you answer?”
The two watch each other very closely.
Then the attorney says: “My answer would be that I have them at heart precisely to the extent that you have yourself.”
The young widow smiles.
“That is very satisfactory,” she says. “But before I tell you anything, I must know why you desire to find her and who you are working for.”
He hesitates and she says: “Come, frankness, Mr Sancious. You can’t be disbarred for it, you know.” When he still fails to reply she says: “I suspect that your principal is Mr Silas Clothier.”
“You are right,” he answers in surprise. “And since you know that, then you must understand how vital it is to his interests to obtain the document which Mrs Clothier has in her possession.”
“The document,” she repeats vaguely.
“That the Mompessons are trying to obtain,” he says, “because it destroys their right to the Hougham property.”
He breaks off for Mrs Fortisquince turns away suddenly.
“Are you all right, madam? Shall I ring for your maid?”
“No, I am quite well, I thank you.” After a moment, she turns back to him: “Mr Sancious, I will help you. But I must tell you frankly that I too have no idea where Mrs Clothier is now, beyond the mere fact that she is in London.”
“Then I have told you this for nothing!” the attorney says angrily, rising to his feet.
“No, Mr Sancious. For I believe I may be able to assist you. I take it that Mr Clothier will reward you for finding her?”
He nods.
“In that case, I am sure you and I will be able to reach an understanding.”
He seats himself again.
“However,” she continues, “it is absolutely crucial that my involvement be kept from Mr Clothier.”
He looks at her curiously and she says: “Oh, the reason for that has to do with long-past events. You could have no interest in them. But there are matters on which you and I have a common interest.”
“My dear madam,” the little lawyer says, “from this moment on, your interests are mine.”
CHAPTER 32
When, even by the end of November, no reply had come from Melthorpe, we had found ourselves facing a crisis: we had no money to pay the following week’s rent. As this moment had approached I had begged my mother to tell Mrs Philliber the frank truth as soon as possible, but she would not. Having given up the search for work, she had begun to spend the day listlessly in that increasingly cold little room until it was time to go to the post-office. On the way home she would purchase our supper and something for the negus, and it was on the latter item that much of our money had gone.
My mother had delayed the crisis by promising Mrs Philliber that the money was coming, but one morning at the beginning of December — by which time we owed a week in arrears — the landlady came boldly into our little chamber and said bluntly: “It ain’t coming, is it?”
“Why, how can you say such a thing!” my mother cried. “I expect it tomorrow.”
“No,” I said. “I’m afraid it seems that it isn’t.”
“Johnnie!” my mother cried.
“I ain’t a cruel woman,” Mrs Philliber said. “But I’ve my own to think on and I must be paid.” She looked round the room curiously: “Surely you must have something you could sell?”
My mother followed her gaze in alarm as it swept the naked room, and I saw her seize and hide the fatal piece of material.
Her gaze swung back to rest upon us: “Them clothes you’re wearing would fetch a few pound,” she said. “And they’re for summer so what will you do now that winter’s upon us? Why don’t you sell ’em? Then you can pay me what you owe and still buy some slops for winter?”
My mother resisted the idea of exchanging our own clothes for inferior and second-hand garments, but eventually we managed to bring her round.
“Let me trade ’em for you,” Mrs Philliber said. “I’ll wager I could git more for ’em than what you could. And I promise I won’t cheat you.”
I believed her and so we came to an agreement under which she would take a small commission and, of course, deduct her rent. She estimated that they would fetch some five or six pounds clear of the exchange, and this was encouraging news for we could live on such a sum for some time.
We gave them to her, reducing ourselves to our great-coats. As she was about to leave the room with them over her arm, she suddenly looked at my mother closely: “Is that case silver?” she asked, indicating the slender container that hung at my mother’s waist.
“No, only silver-gilt.”
“I’ll wager I could get a pound or two for it,” she said. “And something for your ring.” She raised her eyes to my mother’s neck. “But I’d take my oath that locket is silver.”
My mother gripped it in alarm: “I would not think of parting with this.”
“Don’t be silly, Mamma,” I cried.
“Oh? It has tender associations for you, does it?” Mrs Philliber enquired with sympathetic inquisitiveness.
“I … yes,” my mother stammered.
The landlady shook her head: “Well, my dear, the time may come when it’s all that stands between you and starvation. And if it does, I think that you could get four or five pound for it. You shouldn’t take less than three. Remember what I said.”
She left the room.
“Now, Mamma,” I said, “you must not be silly about that locket.”
“Johnnie, don’t speak to me like that.”
“But you don’t understand,” I cried. “We have nothing. And the money from Melthorpe is not going to come.”
Now that I was being so frank I brought up something that I had often thought about: “And we must think of selling the codicil to Sir Perceval.”
“No!” she cried. “Anything but that.”
We quarrelled about it and by the time Mrs Philliber returned we were both sullen and resentful. However, we were cheered by her news for she had been as good as her word and once she had taken her back-rent we were left with enough to keep us for a few more months. Moreover, I was delighted with what Mrs Philliber had purchased: a pair of white cord trowsers with a blue waistcoat and matching cut-away jacket with brass buttons and a white beaver-hat.
We still hoped for the money to arrive from Melthorpe, and even discussed the daring possibility of my mother’s going down there by the public coach as an outside passenger to find out what had happened. However, this would have cost at least five pounds and we decided that this was too great a risk to undertake.
No news came in the next weeks and by the time Christmas was upon us, my mother had given up hope of finding work without a character. A few days before the festival she suggested to me that it would be a good idea to pay our respects to Mrs Fortisquince and find out how she was disposed towards us in our present plight in the hope that she might offer some help.
I could not argue against the wisdom of the proposal but I stood out for one condition: “By all means, but let us not reveal to her where we are living.”
My mother agreed to this and suggested that we should take her a gift.
“How could we?” I demanded.
She picked up that ill-fated piece of embroidery and said sadly: “I am sure she will value this. She always loved good things.”
We observed the day itself very frugally with a small fowl which Mrs Philliber permitted my mother to broil at her kitchen-fire, and with mince-pies from the pastry-cook. In the afternoon we set off through the silent streets.
When we knocked on the door the young maid-servant answered it with a smile of welcome: “Oh, Mrs Mellamphy, it is good to see you again. The miss’is is from home, but I know she’ll be sorry for missing you, for she has often said she hoped as you’d come back.”
My mother beamed at me in triumph and said: “Then may we wait?”
“Oh ma’am, I’m a-feared she’s gone down into the country. She wo
n’t be back till the day arter tomorrer. But please to leave me your direction for I know she was anxious to find you.”
“She has gone away at Christmas?” my mother exclaimed. “I hope there is nothing amiss?”
“Oh no,” she replied, adding with the perfect appearance of logic: “She’s only gone to Canterbury.”
My mother handed over our gift and asked her to wish her mistress the season’s greetings from us.
“Very well, Mrs Mellamphy,” she said. “But will you tell me your address, please?”
I touched her arm warningly.
“We are about to move to a new one,” she said, remembering the excuse we had prepared. “I will let Mrs Fortisquince know it when I know where it is myself.”
“But please tell me where you live now, ma’am. The miss’is expressly told me that if you ever come while she was from home, I should find it out. I will get into trouble if you don’t tell me.”
My mother blushed and looked at me in dismay.
“We will send word of it in a few days,” I said rather magnificently, as if we had ranks of servants at our bidding. Then I took my mother’s arm to lead her away.
“Well said, Johnnie,” she whispered.
“I wonder why Mrs Fortisquince is so anxious to find us.”
“Perhaps she wishes to help us.”
She said it without conviction and it seemed to me that she accepted this as evidence that Mrs Fortisquince was not to be trusted.
As the months passed and our money ran out again, we drifted towards another crisis and one to which I could see no favourable outcome if my mother persisted in refusing to sell either the case or the ring.
I thought often about the codicil for which Sir Perceval and then Mr Barbellion had offered us so much money. Seventeen hundred pounds would end all our worries, and it was reassuring to know that in the last resort we could presumably raise money by that means. But at the same time I began to feel a vague sense that without knowing why they were so anxious to obtain it, it would be a mistake to part with it. Perhaps my mother had very sound reasons for her unwillingness to surrender it. I recalled the day she had shewn me the locket and spoken of a decision she was trying to make. It involved a choice between the possibility of wealth but the certainty of danger if she chose not to do something. Now I believed I understood: alarmed by the burglary, she had been thinking of destroying the codicil. Then surely I was right to suspect that it might be the means to our entering upon great riches!