“He wouldn’t say that if he was rich.”
“Why,” Sukey exclaimed before I could prevent her, “for the matter of that, Master John might own the Mumpseys’ land one day. That’s why he wanted that dockyment copied.”
“What?” said Harry, swinging round to scrutinise my face. “How can that be?”
I hesitated and then said at last: “I believe my mother’s father had a claim on the estate which he was defrauded of.”
Harry stared at me and whistled softly: “Well, well. Then if this here dockyment,” and he picked it up, “should turn out to be worth the whole estate, I reckon you owe Sukey and me a share of it.”
“And I promise to repay you a hundredfold the money you have lent me for it,” I said.
“A hundredfold!” he exclaimed. “You should give us a share of the estate. Say a quarter.”
“But that ain’t fair, Harry,” Sukey protested.
“Yes it is. For we’ve gived him more nor a quarter of all the money we have in the world, so it’s only fair that he should give us a quarter back.” He turned to me with a shrewd smile: “It’s a speculation and speculators get their money back in proportion, don’t they?”
“But you are imposing conditions after the event!” I objected.
“But you would have took it even if I’d been here and said the same then,” he insisted and would not yield this point.
At last, therefore, and reflecting that, if nothing else, it would give Harry a reason for preserving the parchment which he might otherwise be tempted to destroy, I consented to his terms.
“Write it on the back of the dockyment,” Harry insisted.
When I objected that I had neither pen nor ink, he mixed up some lamp-black, which he had scraped from the wall, with a little water and found me a pointed twig. With this I wrote below Mr Advowson’s careful calligraphy: “I John Mellamphy promise to give Harry Podger and Sukey Podger one quarter of the Huffam estate if ever I come into it, as God is my witness.” And then I signed it. Sukey replaced the package and shortly after this Harry went out.
The next morning Harry had not come back by the time I took my leave of Sukey. I travelled as before, but faster now that I was refreshed after my rest and impelled by a new sense of urgency.
I learned something — or believed I did — as I walked through Hertford a few days later, for late one evening, just as I passed the Blue Dragon inn where the coach had baited on the journey from Melthorpe that my mother and I made two years before, I noticed the name on a shop-board opposite: “Henry Mellamphy, Provisioner”. I recalled my mother telling me how she had chosen the name at random from such a source and while I walked on in search of a quiet outhouse to spend the night, there came back to me the memory of how upset she seemed to be on that occasion at the knowledge that we had reached Hertford. Could this be the origin of the name?
When I arose at dawn the next day I could see a darkness over the sky to the South. The weather was fine and as I slowly advanced all that day I kept my eyes on the far horizon where the smoke rose like a great dusty-coloured mountain, dark below and at the centre, but growing greyer and bluer as it melted at the periphery into the infinite clear sky. And then as the dusk came on, the edge of the distant hills was lit by an unearthly glow as the gas-lit shimmer of the great Babylon stretched from side to side of the vast horizon. I slept that night in another outhouse and as I wearily advanced the next day, the weather grew worse and worse. Late that afternoon I reached the top of Highgate-hill and looked down towards the dark ocean of mist through which glimmering lights shone. Somewhere in that vastness was my mother. But how would I find her in the midst of that huge and crowded waste?
I passed under the Archway and an hour later went through the turnpike-gate on the New Road with eleven-pence ha’penny in my pocket at a little before noon on the 11th. of November.
In the hope that my mother was still there, I had decided to go first to Mrs Fortisquince but without making myself known to her, for that would risk losing the advantage that she and Mr Steplight (Sancious, as I guessed) did not know my whereabouts, nor even that I was in London. I went into a stationer’s and parted with a penny in exchange for a sheet of paper, a quill and ink. I had had time to compose my letter in my mind so I now quickly wrote:
“To Mrs Mellamphy:
“I am in London. If you can, come as soon as possible or send someone to the church-yard where we rested after leaving Orchard-street. Sukey sends her best regards.”
I left it unsigned, folded it, then made my way to Mrs Fortisquince’s house in Golden-square and pushed it under the street-door. Then I went to the little church-yard to wait in the cold rain. I stayed there all that evening and all night and all the next day, when I was sure that my mother could not have received my letter. Then — very cautiously for fear that someone would be waiting for me there — I revisited the lodgings that we had lived in when we first arrived in London. Mrs Marrables and the rest of the household had heard nothing of her, and the same was true of Mrs Philliber at our old lodgings in Maddox-street. Now, feeling a growing sense of dread, I went back to Westminster and found a strange family who knew nothing of us living in the room we had shared with Miss Quilliam in Orchard-street. In desperation, I crossed the centre of the metropolis almost at a run, and when I had tapped at the kitchen-door of Mrs Malatratt’s house, the little maid opened it and started back as she recognised me. But when I asked for Miss Quilliam she told me she had not been back since the occasion when she had given her the letter for me.
“No,” she added, “I haven’t seed nothin’ on her since she got her dresses back.”
“Is that what was in the trunks?” I asked.
“Yes,” she sighed. “Such lovely silk ones as you nivver seed.”
How did she come by such things? I asked myself as I walked away.
By now I had exhausted all the possibilities I could think of except one, and that one I was very loath to pursue. However, I made my way to No. 5 Gough-square — for fortunately I had remembered the address.
When I knocked on the area-door it was opened by a young maid-servant.
“I am looking for a lady,” I began.
“What do you want of her?” she asked.
“She’s my mother,” I said. “I’ve come back to London from the country unexpectedly and she doesn’t know that I’m here.”
The girl looked at me curiously: “And is she one of the dress-lodgers?”
I didn’t know what she meant so I answered: “I believe she may be lodging in this house. Her name is Mrs Mellamphy.”
“Names don’t mean much,” she said. “And they’re all ‘Miss’ here. But there’s no-one of that name in the house. You’d best describe her.”
I did so and the girl shook her head: “That don’t fit none of the ladies that’s old enough to be your mam. It sounds a little like Miss Quilliam, but she’s much too young.”
“Miss Quilliam!” I exclaimed. “Is she here.”
The girl looked at me doubtfully: “Do you really know her? For I would be in terrible trouble if you was lying.”
“Yes,” I said. “And she may know where my mother is. Please let me see her.”
“How do I know you really know her?”
“Her name is Helen, isn’t it?”
The girl nodded: “I don’t know. But I believe you anyway. I can’t let you go up, though.”
“Then please ask her to come down. I’m sure she will if you tell her that John Mellamphy desperately needs to speak to her.”
“Mrs Purviance don’t like ’em to come down here,” the girl said. “I should lose my place if she ever knew. But I’ll risk it. Promise you won’t take nothin’ while I’m gone?”
I gave my word and with a last glance over her shoulder the girl went up the stairs. She was braver and more generous than many a soldier.
After a long wait she came down, followed by Miss Quilliam who paused at the foot of the stairs when she saw me and s
poke to the girl without taking her eyes off me: “Betsy, you’ve been very good. Would you be kind enough to leave us?”
Betsy went into the scullery and was heard for the next few minutes moving pots and pans about.
Even in the gloom of the kitchen I could see that Miss Quilliam’s circumstances were very different from the occasion of our last encounter. She was dressed in a beautiful silk gown trimmed with lace, and as soon as I saw this I was shaken by a terrible understanding as everything fell into place. In fact, I already knew the truth, but now I could not hide from myself that I knew it.
In the near-darkness I could not establish whether her cheeks were lightly rouged or if they were red with consciousness.
We both found it difficult to speak.
At last she said with dignity: “I hope you will not reproach me for having betrayed you and your mother when I was commissioned to go to Sir Perceval. I am quite innocent of that at least.”
“I know you are.”
She looked at me with surprise.
I answered: “I have recently learned something which puts that incident in a quite different light. I will explain in a moment, but please tell me first what news you have of my mother. I have lost her.”
She gazed at me for a moment: “I am afraid the news is not good.”
“You don’t mean … ?”
“Oh no. She is alive and well. Or reasonably so. Let me tell you what happened. I went to Sir Perceval and spoke to him and Lady Mompesson. They responded as your mother had anticipated. Their man of affairs, Mr Barbellion, was summoned to accompany me back to our lodgings with a large sum of money in bank-notes for the purchase of the document. When I found you had both fled — and remember that I had no notion why — Mr Barbellion was very angry at the futility of the visit I had led him upon. I owe it to myself to state that he gave me nothing. Now I was left destitute. I sold the few articles left in the room. Some of them were your mother’s and I owe you money for your share, but I cannot pay you for despite these gorgeous clothes I have nothing. Finally I decided to come to this house and accept Mrs Purviance’s hospitality.”
I thought she shuddered slightly.
“It is better than the alternative. I am at least protected.”
“And what of my mother?”
“Two weeks ago I saw her briefly.”
“Where?”
She looked at me gravely: “In this house.” I turned away in pain.
“Do not blame her,” Miss Quilliam went on. “She came to Mrs Purviance to ask her for help. She met me in the hall and reproached me for having betrayed her. I was astonished by her words, but I saw that it was best to leave her without attempting to defend myself. I think she came in all innocence believing that Mrs Purviance would give her food and shelter out of charity. Mrs Purviance told me she had been left with nothing after being cheated and lied to by people she believed were her friends.”
“Where is she now?”
“Mrs Purviance has another house nearby. So far as I know, she is still there.”
“Please tell me the address.”
“No. 12 East-Harding-street.”
She saw my anxiety to be gone and said, as a kind of farewell: “I am glad your mother will know that I did not betray her. I only wish I had money to give you. But I have none. I am only not starving. If I had more I would leave, and Mrs Purviance knows that very well.”
“May I find you here again?” I asked.
“I will help you and your mother as far as I am able to,” she replied. “But I fear it may be out of my power soon. Mrs Purviance wishes me to go to Paris. I am entirely in her hands now.”
We shook hands and I left. As swiftly as I could I found my way to East-Harding-street and took up my station opposite No. 12. After some time I saw a well-dressed and lady-like young woman leave the house, accompanied by a maid-servant. As they walked up the street the servant fell further and further behind her until as they turned the corner they seemed to have no connexion. Another half-hour passed and then a second young woman came to the house accompanied by a gentleman. They rang the bell and were quickly admitted. The door was held open after them and a man who looked like a servant out of livery and who appeared to have been following them, slipped in before it closed.
It was getting dark and as I watched and waited, the lamp-lighter began to make his way slowly along the street carrying his ladder laboriously from post to post. Now a third young woman arrived accompanied like the last by a gentleman and again followed at a distance — this time by an old woman. The gentleman who had accompanied the second woman left the house. Some time later the woman herself left followed by the man-servant. By this time I had seen enough.
Then another couple came down the street and turned up the steps. It was difficult in this light and at this distance to see clearly, but I thought I recognised the figure despite the unfamiliar clothes. I quickly crossed the street and went to the foot of the steps as the gentleman rang the bell. The woman wore beneath her coat a silk dress, she had a fine bonnet and carried an elegant umbrella and steel-chain reticule. They both had their backs to me as they waited for the door to be opened. The gentleman leaned close to the lady and whispered something. I heard in response a kind of coquettish laugh — ghastly in its bright falseness, but particularly ghastly to me.
“Mamma,” I said.
A face of horror was turned to me: the eyes unnaturally bright, the eyebrows painted and the cheeks inexpertly rouged. Beneath the paint and powder I could see that her cheeks were thin and her eyes feverish.
She backed away from me a few steps holding one arm up half-shielding her face: “Johnnie!” she cried.
As I looked at her in the light of a nearby street-lamp, I seemed to see her both as a stranger — so garishly dressed and made-up — and yet more penetratingly than ever before.
“What are you doing in London?” she exclaimed.
I believe she registered only the fact that it was I, and that I was not several hundred miles away. She did not notice how poorly I was clad. “Leave me,” she said. “Go back to where you are safe.” I shook my head, unable to speak.
“Leave me,” she moaned. “I am not your mother now.”
“What is going on?” said the gentleman. “Who is this boy?”
At that moment the door was opened by a severe-looking maid-servant of middle years.
“Will you come in,” she said, more as a command than an invitation.
The gentleman hesitated and made as if to enter.
“Go back to the school,” my mother said and began to turn away to go in.
I stepped forward and seized her arm.
“Come with me,” I said. “You do not need to go in there.”
“What is this charade?” the gentleman asked angrily.
“Come in, Miss Marigold,” the maid said sharply.
My mother hesitated, looking at me with an expression of timidity and shame.
“You know what I have become?”
She struggled for breath.
“Dearest,” I said. “Dearest mother, we will go away from here.”
“Will you come in,” said the servant angrily.
“No,” said my mother.
“I don’t understand this,” said the gentleman, raising his voice angrily, “but I believe it is some trick to …”
“What is going on here, Annie?” said Mrs Purviance, appearing suddenly behind the maid. “I will not have a scene in the street.”
“She won’t come in,” said the maid.
“I see,” said Mrs Purviance. Her eyes fell on me and I believe she took in the meaning of the tableau instantly. To my surprise, she looked beyond us out into the gloom of the street and called softly: “Edward!”
Instantly a tall man who must have been lurking a few yards off, came up the steps behind us.
Seeing him the gentleman turned and began to descend the steps. “It’s high time I was out of this,” he said.
“Wai
t, I beg you, my dear sir!” Mrs Purviance called, but he hurried down the steps and up the street. “Edward, bring her in and send the boy away,” she said softly.
“No, I’m never going back in there,” my mother cried. “Come, Johnnie.”
“Run, Mamma,” I cried.
She turned but Edward held out his arms to prevent her from descending the steps.
“Not with those clothes,” Mrs Purviance said.
She and the maid-servant seized my mother and as I moved forward to defend her Edward gripped me from behind so hard that my arms hurt.
“Bring the boy in!” Mrs Purviance ordered. “He’ll make too much noise out here. We’ve already lost one guest.”
“Help!” my mother shouted.
“Quiet her,” hissed Mrs Purviance and the maid tried to cover her mouth with her hand.
“Don’t struggle, Mamma,” I said. “They only want your clothes.”
In truth, I was not sure that that was all they did want, but I was afraid of what they would do to quieten her if she continued to struggle. We were dragged into the hall and the door was slammed behind us. My mother, still gripped by the two women, was sobbing and crying out and, to my horror, Mrs Purviance now struck her sharply across the face. I struggled but could not break free of Edward’s grasp, one of whose-hands was now clamped round my jaw to prevent me crying out.
“In there, quickly,” Mrs Purviance said, and we were hustled into a room that led off the hall.
She lit one low gas-light and then closed the door.
“Release them both,” she ordered, and my mother and I were let free. “Now, Miss Marigold,” she said, “I cannot believe you intend to leave the security of this house. You know what awaits you. You remember in what circumstances I found you?”
My mother sobbed.
“Well, do you?”
She nodded.
“You know that that will happen to you again if you leave the Rules and my protection,” Mrs Purviance went on. “Moreover, I gave security against your absconding and paid the necessary per centage of your debt. Have you forgotten that? Seventy pounds in total for the warrant of attorney and the payment to the Warden. How do you propose to repay me? You don’t think what you’ve earned for me nearly repays the expenses you’ve incurred, do you? Your board and lodging alone amount to a further twenty pounds. However, I am a generous woman. You may go if that is how you wish to repay my generosity to you at a time when you were destitute and in despair. But if you go, you leave here as you came: with nothing. Is that understood?”