Quincunx

  In the days that followed Peter never left the house and this was as well for we noticed strange men — one of them the tall man I had seen — loitering at all hours outside. Papa was very busy at this time with Mr Escreet on some mysterious Busyness that I guessed was connected with the letter he had recieved with the Mompesson crest. And so it happened that during the period that followed Peter and I were brought much together by circumstances, and we soon discovered that our feelings towards each other were the same. It was a bitter blow to learn that the writ of lunacy had indeed been issued. At times he became very mellancolic as he reflected on his position and the humiliation of being indebted to the charity of those who were, despite our cousinhood, vertually strangers. He made it clear that he felt that in the circumstances in which he found himself — convicted of madness, pennyless and without any prospect of employment — he had no right to feel as he did about me. At last, however, he overcame his scruples and asked me to marry him and of course I accepted. The great question now was how Papa would recieve the news. Imagine our happiness when he declared himself delighted and said he had hoped that this would come about. I wept with joy and flung myself into his arms. I know he liked Peter and thought he had behaved well towards us. So you see, Johnnie, my Father and he liked each other very much and respected each other. I have never doubted that at least.

  To our surprize Papa said: The wedding must be as soon as possible. We need not wait for there can be no question of calling the banns or your Father, Peter, would learn your whereabouts. With that writ against you he can prevent the marriage from taking place, though if it can once be solemized, then it is completely unassailable. Apart from any other motive, he will try to prevent it because your heir would disinherit him. He summoned Mr Escreet who explained that all we had to do was to obtain a special licence from Doctors’ Commons specifying a particular church. Papa said: Then I suggest it be a week tomorrow and at the parish church of St. George’s-in-the-Fields which is so far from here that it should be safe. Peter and I were delighted at this. Then Papa said: We will have a very private affair. I will give you away, of course, my dear. Mr Escreet will be groomsman, and we will find witnesses at the church. Even our own domestics must not know. I have it! We will simply tell them to prepare for a dinner-party that day and only when we get back will we announce the cause of the cellarbration. Then Papa said something which astonished me: I shall invite Martin and his bride to dine with us. And I will not tell even them of the joyous occasion we will be cellarbrating until they arrive. His manner was very mysterious and I did not know what to think at the prospect of his healing the rift with his old frend. Martin to bring his new wife to my wedding! In the week that followed I interrupted him several times when he was with Mr Escreet and Peter, and they broke off with a guilty air. I worried, for I knew how far my Father allowed his better judgement to be overborne when the Suit was at issue. All went ahead as planned and the invitation was sent, and accepted by Martin. Under conditions of great secresy, a minature-painter came to take our likenesses for the locket that I have shewn you.

  The day came that should have been the happiest of my life — the 5th. of May. The weather was beautiful and the cerimony went off very well. We returned to Papa’s house for the wedding-breakfast at a little after midday. Papa announced the news to the servants and they became very exsited, the more so when he told them that they would be permitted to take the rest of the evening off once they had served dinner. Now Papa said he had something important to give to Peter to hold in trust for me. This was the Codacil which he now placed in the very same silver letter-case that was stolen from our cottage all those years ago. He made me promise that I would keep it safe and use it on behalf of my heir. He put in a letter as well which he told me was an explaination of legal matters. Then a little later that evening Martin and Mrs Fortisquince arrived and were told of the wedding. I didn’t dare to look at him, but they both said the proper things, though afterwards I caught Jemima looking at me rather strangely. It was a difficult situation altogether and considering this, we sat down to dinner in tolerably good spirits. Yet even on that day, the conversation turned, as it always seemed to, to the Suit for Martin began to talk about the Mompessons. He said: I was at Brook-street two days ago where I found the whole house upside down. I will tell you why so far as I understand it. But first, that reminds me, John, that I have brought … Papa interrupted him quite brusquely and I was surprized that he should leave a subject at all connected to the Suit once it had been started. He said: Come, old frend. Let us not talk Busyness on this day. Martin looked surprized but said nothing, though as the conversation moved on I noticed his wife staring at him and Papa. When the time came to bring in the dessert, my Father summoned the maids and the cook and presented them with four bottles of wine — two of champagne and two of madeira — and told them to be sure to drink the health of the bride and groom. He said he did not expect to see them above stairs until bed-time. They were delighted and went off to obey his orders. But now, as we drank our wine and ate the nuts and fruit, a quarrel sprang up between my Father and Peter. It was so sudden that I hardly knew where it came from. It was very striking that throughout it neither he nor Papa ever looked at me.

  Mr Escreet was the innocent cause of the argument. The topic was started by Martin for he asked Peter: Have you any idea of what you will do in the future, Mr Clothier? He replied: The only thing I know about is books. So I hope to set up on my own account as a book-seller. Mr Escreet said that that would require capital and Peter said: Yes, and Mr Huffam has generously promised to advance me a Loan. Mr Escreet looked puzzled at this and said to Papa: But surely the amount required will be beyond your present resources, Mr John? Papa answered, addressing Peter: I don’t have much left on account of the extortionate terms of the Loan that your respected sire has favoured me with. However, I dare say I can spare a hundred or two. I saw Peter frown but Mr Escreet said: That is generous, Mr John, very generous. I think if he had not spoken thus Peter might have let the subject pass, but unfortunately he said: Generous it may be, but I’m afraid a couple of hundred — or even twice that sum — will not enable me, Mr Huffam, to establish the connexion that will permit me to keep your daughter as I believe you would wish. Papa cried: Indeed? And how much did you imagine I could spare? How much money do you think I have, now that your Family has robbed me blind? If you want money from me, get your rascally Father to moderate his userious terms for the Loan. Peter said very quietly: I must ask you, sir, not to refer to my father in that manner. He has wronged me but I do not believe he has done evil to you. Papa struck the table and shouted: What! Are you sitting there, a guest in my house, and defending the behaviour of that wicked rogue, Silas Clothier? Martin and Mr Escreet both protested at my Father’s words, but I noticed that Mrs Fortisquince was looking on with a faint smile as if secretly grattified by what was taking place. Peter said: You did not have to borrow the money from him. At this Papa got to his feet, looking very wild and angry, and shouted: This is the morality of the tradesman! Take advantage of your customer’s weakness to force extortionate terms upon him and then congratulate yourself for having done Busyness asstutely. And to think that the husband of my daughter sits at my table and defends that morality. And at the same time, asks me to give him money to persue his own roguish tricks to the detriment of other honest folks. Well, all I can say, young man, is that you must be as insane as your Father and Brother profess to believe if you really expect me to give you any capital at all. When he said this he waited and looked at Peter. After a moment Peter stood up as well. Still he avoided looking at me and his demeanour was very extrordinary. He seemed almost ashamed of what he was saying. He said: I beg you to consider your words or you will say something irredemeable. Papa said: Say something irredemeable? I have done something irredemeable! I have married my daughter to a tradesman, a sion of an antient Family of money-lending sharks, a … a … in short, a Clothier, for I do not believe I can find a noun in the
English language as expressive of my contempt as that one. At this I rose and cried: Father, what are you saying? He did not even glance at me. Now Peter said: Sir, unless you withdraw your remarks you make it impossible — though this is our wedding-night — for my wife and me to stay under your roof any longer. Papa said: I won’t withdraw a sylable. Peter said: Then we must depart. Come, Mary, rise and make ready. Even now he did not look at me. I wept and pleaded with Papa to withdraw his words and begged Peter not to insist upon our leaving the house. Martin and Mr Escreet joined their voices to mine but my Father and Peter were unmovable. Peter asked me in an undertone if I had any money for he had none. I told him I had about thirty Pounds and he asked Mr Escreet to order a hackney-coach. I went upstairs to find the money and threw some cloathes into a box. I had never spent a night away from the house before and had little idea of what to take. I donned travelling-dress and came down. When the coach arrived, I took leave of Papa and the others in floods of tears and we boarded it. It drove off from my Father’s door, and so began my marriage. Peter instructed the coachman to drive to the Sarricen’s-head at Snow-hill. As I sat beside him I wondered if ever a wedding-night had begun more inauspisiously. Peter had shewn himself to be a complete stranger to me. When we reached the Inn he engaged a sitting-room where I waited while he and the hackney-driver took charge of our boxes. Peter returned a few minutes later to say that he would go to the book-keeper and secure our seats on the night-coach to Peterborough (on the way to Spalding), which was due to leave in a little more than an hour. I was amazed at this and asked him why we were going to Spalding. Did he have frends there? And why did we have to go so late? He said: I beg you, do not question me. And he opened his bag and unpacked a crimson great-coat which I had never seen before. He took off the one he was wearing which was green, and quickly left the room. I waited and waited and he did not come. Then at last he returned. He was away about forty minutes, I am sure it was no more. Forty-five at the very most. He came into the room smiling. (I am positive he was smiling.) When he approached me I saw that his hands were bloody. I started back in horror. He looked at his hands and said: Yes, I have cut myself. But don’t worry, it’s only a scratch or two. He washed the blood off at the wash-stand and when he turned again I noticed that the sleeve of his coat was torn. I drew his attention to it. He smiled and said: I will tell you everything when we have time. But it will take quite a lot of telling. So a few minutes later we boarded the coach and drove out into the dark streets. Peter remained silent until, as we left Islington behind us, he suddenly began to laugh. This was more frightening than anything, and I’m sure I need not tell you what I feared. Because of the presense of the other travellers I could not speak of what was uppermost in my mind and so we remained in silence.

  However, when, at about three hours after midnight, we reached the first stage from London — the Blue Dragon at Hertford — he said, in his old, smiling manner: We will stop here. You are too tired to go further, and there is no necessity for it. He pressed my hand and said: I will explain everything that has happened tonight as soon as we are alone. So we alighted, and he engaged a room and ordered a sort of supper. When it was brought to us we sat down to it and he began: My dear girl, how frightened you must have been. I hardly like to imagine what you must have thought: that you had married a madman at the very least. And that your Father had taken leave of his senses, too. But let me explain everything and set your mind at rest. What you saw tonight was a charade. I asked him what he meant and he said: It was a play, a representation, a piece of drollery. Your Father and I were not really quarrelling. It was all arranged between us beforehand. Johnnie, I did not know what to think. He said: Did you not notice how badly I performed my part? Whereas your Father entered into it so convincingly that I almost wondered if he were really angry. Kemble himself could not have acted better. But I dared not even look at you for fear that I would break down. I had been struck by this and now my doubts began to resede. He assured me that Papa’s wounding taunts had been discussed beforehand. I asked him why he and Papa had arranged this charade and he said that they had not trusted my powers of deception. The purpose had been to decieve Mr and Mrs Fortisquince and to make them believe that a complete rupture had taken place between Papa and ourselves. This was the only way to secure our safety and that of our children. He said: Far from our quarrelling over money, your Father gave me two hundred Pounds. He brought out a thick roll of bank-notes and at the sight of this I believed him. It was now very late, or, rather, very early and we were both very tired. All seemed well now but later he returned to the topic. He took from the pocket of his crimson great-coat a package wrapped in brown paper and said: This will explain everything. It was to fetch this that I went back to your Father’s house when I left you at the Sarricen’s-head. He had gone back there? I was amazed to learn it and my mind was in a turmoil once again.

  I asked him what was in it, but he said he would open it after breakfast and make all clear to me then. I begged him to open it immediately. I insisted, it was now nearly dawn. We argued about it but then at last he broke the seal, pulled open the wash-leather wrapping, and began to tug something from it. As it came free he said: Here it is! But then with a cry he dropped it on the floor. It was a thick bundle of bank-notes and it was covered in something dark and sticky! Peter’s hands were now red and as he stood looking at me with an expression of horror he exclaimed: What can this mean? How did this come to be here? He picked up the package and, holding it gingerly, looked inside it. Then he said: It’s not here! I begged him to tell me what he meant but he would say nothing. He insisted that he must go back to Papa’s house immediately and that I must stay at the Inn. When I protested, he said: You are safe here for no-one knows where you are. For you to return with me would defeat the whole purpose of our flight. He rang for a waiter and ordered a post-chaise for London immediately. Then he opened the silver letter-case and showed me the letter and the Codacil beneath it (which is how he got blood on the letter) and then gave it to me saying: Remember, if the Codacil were to fall into the hands of my Father you and your Father would be in danger. He left me most of the 200£ that he said Papa had given him but took the bank-notes that were smeared with … saying: Wherever they come from, they do not belong to me and I must return them. Then he washed his hands, embraced me and left the room. A few minutes later I heard the rattle of wheels and hooves and looked out of the sitting-room window. A post-chaise came out from the yard and passed through the arch into the street where, to my relief for I did not know what I feared, it turned back along the London road.

  CHAPTER 64

  37 Conduit-street, 24th. of September.

  What she said upset me so much and made me think about those terrible things. I had to go and see him. It was horible to see that place again. I must not say more for I do not want you ever to find it. The house was still there and exactly as I remembered it, but even shabbyer and more delappidated. I rang the bell and waited and then rang it again several times before I realized that the bell-pull was not working. So I knocked and knocked. At last someone came to the door and opened it a few inches to peer out. I declared who I was and there was a long silence. Then the door opened and Johnnie it was he! Just as he looked when I last saw him! I asked him if he lived there alone. He said: Who should live with me? An old woman comes in every day and cleans — unless she’s drunk. When I asked if I could come in he did not move for a moment, and then swung the door open. The hall was cold and dark and appeared not to have been cleaned for many years. He followed me saying: Why have you come now when you never came nor wrote all these long years? He seemed to be close to tears. I could not answer. I remembered how he had so often taken me upon his knee when I was a little child. But then I saw in the side-lobby that the sword and halbeard were hanging crossed on the wall in their old place. He saw me looking at them and said: I like things to be where they’ve always belonged.

  He said: Come to the plate-room. I have a fire there. John
nie the thought of going into that room. I said no. So he led me to the front-parlour. All the windows had their shutters closed and their moth-eaten and ragged curtains were drawn. We sat down and he offerred me wine, and I nodded to let him pour it but when he placed it on the table beside me I found I could not drink anything. He said: All these years I have wondered where you were, not knowing if you were alive or dead. Fortisquince would tell me nothing. Nothing. He always hated me. I don’t know why. Perhaps he believed something about me. Or he was jealous because your Father loved me. This was his revenge, to turn you against me and cut me out of your affections. What did he tell you? What evil thing did he make you believe about me? I tried to tell him there was nothing but he said: He must have poisoned your mind against me. Only consider, my whole working life has been passed in the service of your Family. Nearly seventy years. And then suddenly when your Father whom I loved like a son, when he … then to find myself shunned by … Oh Miss Mary, it was unkind. Nobody has called me that for so long. I began to weep. He took my hand and now in such a kindly tone he asked me to tell him everything that had happened to me. I told him a little and he said: Was there a child born? A Huffam heir? I must know that. I remembered how Martin had insisted that your birth be kept a secret. I asked him why he wanted to know and he grew angry again and said that I distrusted him. He cried: I’ve given the whole of my life to your Family. I’ve sacrificed everything — almost to my very soul. That seemed such a strange thing to say. I told him I knew how much my Family was indebted to him and he said No, I did not. Nobody living knew that. He said: You know I attended your Great-grandfather Jeoffrey on his deathbed? That I served your poor, wretched Grandfather as far as it lay within my power? And you ask why I should wish to know what the fate of the Family is now and whether it will endure? I said I would tell him what he wished to know if he would tell me what happened that night, the last time I had seen him. He said: So that is why you have come. Not to make amends for your neglect but because you want something from me. I could not deny it. Then he said: I gave evidence at the inquest and before the Grand Jury. Fortisquince must have told you. What more can I say now? I told him what Peter had said to me, that the quarrel was a charade. Was it true? He was a long time before he said: I will answer if you will tell me if a child was born? I told him that I had a child. It was so strange. He looked away and bent over as if in pain or joy, I could not tell. When he turned back his eyes were full of tears. He said: Then the Entail still holds. But you only said you bore a child. Tell me, is it still living? And is it a boy or a girl? I said I would only answer if he would tell me what he had promised. And he said: The quarrel was a charade.