Charles Palliser (51 page)

“Pray come in, dear young lady,” said Mr Silverlight, rising and placing the bottle out of the way beneath a coat.

“You are very civil, sir, but I would not venture into the private apartments of two gentlemen.”

“Then pray be seated here at the fire,” said Mrs Peachment, who had over-heard this.

“And let the gentlemen come forth.”

“That is very hospitable of you!” Mr Pentecost cried advancing ceremoniously into the Peachments’ portion of the room as if into a strange house, bowing courteously at his hosts.

When we were all comfortable Miss Quilliam asked me : “What progress have you made in your studies?”

“I have been learning about Justice,” I answered cautiously.

“Humbug!” cried Pentecost.

“Noblest of Man’s creations,” Mr Silverlight sighed.

“And about the law of real property,” I finished.

“And how the rights of property must be reduced,” Mr Silverlight said.

“On the contrary. How it is the primary function of the Law to protect property!”

“Quite correct,” said Miss Quilliam. “For that is the basis of our freedom.”

“How sad to see young Loveliness holding hands with aged Cynicism!” Mr Silverlight cried. “Property is a crime against society!”

Miss Quilliam and Mr Pentecost glanced at each other in mutual disbelief at this.

Before either could answer Dick Peachment said: “Then for s’iety to take it back ain’t no crime. And I’m a member of s’iety, ain’t I?”

“Well said,” cried Mr Pentecost while his companion looked dismayed at this practical application of his dictum.

“Oh, sir, please don’t encourage the boy,” his father said.

“You see where your doctrines lead, gentlemen?” Miss Quilliam said reproachfully.

“The corruption of this misguided youth will lie upon your consciences.”

“And why shouldn’t I sarve meself ?” Dick asked. “I’ve often heerd you two genel’men tell as how all the nobs do.”

“There is no reason at all why not, so long as you recognise the risk of being caught.”

“Mr Pentecost!” Miss Quilliam exclaimed.

“Dear young lady, the Law is no more than an arbitrary construct designed to protect the wealthy.”

“This is pernicious, Mr Pentecost. The Law has real moral force for each individual : to dwell in society is not to have the freedom to choose which laws to obey as one might choose which bonnet to put on.”

“On the contrary, dear young lady. One chooses to obey or disregard the Law simply on the calculus of self-interest. Whether one is a duke with an income of fifteen thousand a year or a pick-pocket, one asks oneself the same question: is it easier to obey this particular law or can I profit from breaking it? In almost every case the duke answers yes, the pick-pocket answers no for the Law was 234 THE

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designed by the former against the interests of the latter. The rest of us have to answer differently according to each case.”

As I looked at the shocked faces around me — except for Dick’s which wore a reflective expression — I felt a profound sense of excitement mingled with feelings of dismay, for if this was right, then everything was arbitrary and uncertain.

“I cannot stay any longer to hear such abominable ideas,” Miss Quilliam said, rising to her feet.

“Dear lady, I will accompany you,” Mr Silverlight said with a reproachful glance at his friend. “I have something I wish to say to you and Mrs Mellamphy.”

When they had gone, and Mr Pentecost and I had retired to his tent, I said: “But if you believe that self-interest is the ruling principle of human affairs …”

Then I paused, not knowing how to express my point delicately.

“How have I done so badly for myself ?” Mr Pentecost said. “Well, people don’t always manage to live by their principles, I’m afraid. I was a sad disappointment to my family in this respect. They were in trade and when they realized how unfit I was to inherit my father’s connexion, he took a very high-minded step and disinherited me —

as he was quite right to do, for I would only have lost the money. I have always lost any money I ever had.”

“Do you mean you have been unlucky like Mr Silverlight?”

“Gracious me, have I taught you nothing? There is no such thing as luck. I brought my woes upon myself by once foolishly acting against my principles. As a consequence, I am being sought by creditors, though I have nothing to give them. Fortunately they do not know where I am.”

He had acted against his principles. I was afraid to think what he might mean, but, needing to get away, I left him a few minutes later. I returned to our own room feeling, as always when I entered it from the Peachments, that it was much gloomier than the other which was always full of people and life.

Now I found Mr Silverlight saying to my mother and Miss Quilliam: “Dear ladies, some friends of mine and of Pentecost — excellent people though simple, very simple —

are holding a … well, an assembly or rout or what you will, a week tomorrow night. It would be a privilege to be permitted to escort you there.”

I saw my mother blush with pleasure.

“Thank you,” Miss Quilliam replied gravely. “We would be honoured, would we not, Mary?”

“Yes,” my mother cried. “I haven’t been to anything like that for simply ages.” Then she frowned: “Oh, but Helen, only think: we have nothing to wear!”

Miss Quilliam glanced at Mr Silverlight who smiled very charmingly and said: “Set your minds at rest. The elegant and unaffected apparel in which I see you now will be perfectly in order.”

This remark did not achieve its aim, for when he had gone my mother was full of the great question of what to wear and how to appear at her best.

“Do you think, Helen,” she said after a reflective pause, “we might meet someone there … I mean, some gentlefolks who will appreciate us for what we are and take pity on us and help us to take up our rightful position in society?”

Seeing that Miss Quilliam was at a loss for a reply, I asked: “Am I to come, Mamma?

What shall I wear?”

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“Why, Johnnie, I think you’re too young to go to a ball. And besides, you haven’t been invited, you know.”

The great day announced by Mr Silverlight came at last and my mother and Miss Quilliam finished work early and spent a couple of hours dressing each other’s hair and helping each other with their clothes. By nine o’clock, when there was a knock at the door, they really did look very handsome and lady-like. When Mr Silverlight and his friend entered, the two ladies — both of whom were now offended with Mr Pentecost —

managed to greet him with a display of goodwill. The two gentlemen, too, looked quite elegant — particularly Mr Silverlight who had clearly taken even more trouble than usual with his toilette.

“It’s such a fine night,” that gentleman said with a smile, “that I thought we might walk, if you were agreeable.”

“Indeed,” said Mr Pentecost, smiling at Miss Quilliam and my mother; “it’s really no distance at all.”

“Yes,” said my mother. “Let us by all means leave the carriage at home.”

Mr Silverlight laughed as if she had said something rather clever.

And so, the ladies holding their dresses above the mud of the unpaved way, we set off

— for I had prevailed upon my mother to permit me to come. With the aid of Mr Pentecost’s lanthorn, we went a little way along Orchard-street and turned up a dark alley into New-square. This mis-named place was no more than a court of low dwellings, work-shops and store-houses thrown up a few decades before in the back-gardens of the former fine mansions of Orchard-street. From somewhere in a corner of the dark yard in which we found ourselves, we heard the scrape of fiddles, the lilting of cornets and fifes, and the drone of pipes, all punctuated by the crash of dancing feet. We went up to one of the low door-ways and as we stood at the threshold, my mother turned to Miss Quilliam in dismay. Before us we could see a large chamber — really a kind of rotting outhouse — which was blazing with the glare of rushlights secured to the bare walls which were splashed with lime where the plaister still clung to the decaying bricks. There was a swirling mass of bodies and shadows, for people were dancing in couples or in groups on the earthen floor, while others were drinking from great pewter cans and singing.

“But this isn’t …” said my mother and faltered.

I could see how disappointed she was and it made me angry with her.

“Come, dear ladies,” said Mr Silverlight, advancing into the building.

We walked a little way in and were assailed by a strong smell of mould and rotting wood mingling with the acrid stench of the burning rushes and the odour of heated human beings crowding together, and tobacco and drink.

“I can’t stay here!” my mother gasped. “Not with these people.”

“My dear lady, I don’t know quite what you anticipated,” said Mr Silverlight. “Our good hosts are poor unhappy exiles of Erin — our sad sister-island — and therefore somewhat rough and ready in their ways, but perfectly respectable in their own manner, I promise you.”

“Let us leave, Helen,” my mother whispered.

At that moment a man came forward: “Why, bless your Worships’ honour. We’re glad to see you at the jig. And so would Thady be for he loved a ranty.”

“Thady?” Miss Quilliam repeated. “Is this your friend who is our host, Mr Silverlight?”

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“Sure and Thady isn’t the host,” the Irishman went on. “This is for him. We are waking poor Thady.”

“Waking him!” cried Miss Quilliam. “Why, can he be asleep in all this noise?”

The man laughed: “Asleep, do you say?
Acushla machree!
But will you see him?”

Without waiting for our response he turned and we all followed him to a corner of the shed where there was a straw palliasse with a candle in a silver-gilt candle-stick at the head and the foot. An old woman wrapped in a dark and ragged cloak was squatting on the floor at the head. As I looked at the body, I recognised Thady as a neighbour of ours.

Saying something to the crone in their own language, the man poured some liquid from a jug into a tumbler which he then held out to her, and then did the same for my mother and Miss Quilliam.

“It comes to this in the end,” he said. “So we might as well enjoy ourselves.”

My mother seized the tumbler and drank it down. Then she flung it aside and plunged forward into the mass of dancers and Mr Silverlight hurried after her. I watched as they began to waltz, whirling in and out amongst the others.

As I listened to the wild lilting of the fiddles playing reels and the moaning of the bagpipes and screeching of the fifes, all counterpointed against the stamping feet, it occurred to me that we might have been in a cabin in the far west of Ireland.

My mother was still dancing with Mr Silverlight and as they passed me I saw her smiling at him and reflected that this was the first time for a long period that I had seen her happy — though I could not have known that it would also be the last. Seeing her partner smile back at her as he held her I wasn’t sure that I really liked Mr Silverlight after all.

Now Mr Pentecost held Miss Quilliam rather stiffly and they sedately picked their way through the couples and the lines of men linking arms and dancing in rings in the Hibernian fashion. As I sipped my beer by the wall I wondered if I was alone in feeling that the gaiety on display bore a desperate air, as if for everyone there the pleasure in the moment was overshadowed by fear of what lay ahead now that the winter was approaching.

The rushlights casting long shadows on the filthy walls as the dancers swirled were beginning to assume strange forms when I heard a voice saying: “Come, it’s time you were in bed, young fellow.”

Mr Pentecost took my arm and hurried me back to our house, almost carrying me upstairs and into our room. He gently laid me on my bed and I quickly fell asleep so that I never knew when my mother and Miss Quilliam returned. I did not ask them the next morning for they were both pale and tired and my mother complained of a head-ache.

My fears were vindicated, for this turned out to have been the last happy moment before the long slide into disaster brought about by the imminence of winter and the consequent slackening in trade. This meant that Mr Peachment was able to give my mother and Miss Quilliam less and less work. They tried various other expedients to keep themselves profitably employed — pin-making, button-manufacture, lappel-sewing

— but with little success. There were so many people prepared and able to work even longer hours than they could

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and for even less remuneration, that they could not compete. And so by the beginning of October our plight was desperate.

By now the three of us were making about five shillings a week in total and even this was decreasing. The rent was three shillings and the landlord’s deputy allowed no arrears, so that the first Saturday we were unable to pay we would find ourselves homeless from the following Monday. We were only able to survive on Miss Quilliam’s slender savings which she insisted on sharing with us, and it was clear that unless trade picked up substantially, we would soon be destitute. Moreover, as the winter approached our expenses would increase considerably for we would need to burn both coal and tallow-candles in order to be able to work for longer hours. Moreover, neither my mother nor I had any winter clothes. In the light of this, it seemed to me that the time had come to sell the locket.

So one evening in the middle of October when Miss Quilliam was next door with the Peachments and my mother was still sewing by the little light that remained, I raised the question.

“Mamma, we cannot continue to live on Miss Quilliam’s money.”

She looked at me in alarm: “What can we do?”

“We must sell the locket.”

She gasped and reached for it where it hung: “I knew you were going to say that. I don’t think I could bear to lose it.”

“But we have no choice.”

“It is the only thing I have left to remind me of that brief time when I was happy.”

Tired, cold and hungry as I was after a day on the streets, I felt a surge of irritation: