Charles Palliser (55 page)

Gradually I won Henrietta’s trust and became that timid creature’s first — or almost her first — friend. The idyll, however, could not last and the family, apart from Mr Mompesson who would not be drawn from the pleasures of the capital, came down later in the year, as you know, for it was shortly after that when I first met Johnnie. Now I saw how my employers neglected and disparaged my little charge, and permitted Tom to bully and torment her. This was bad enough but when, after Christmas, the whole household removed back to the house in Brook-street, an unexpected difficulty presented itself. Although I tried as far as possible to exclude myself from the family —-

and that was not difficult for my chamber and Henrietta’s were on an upper floor and we usually consumed our meals together in the school-room — it was impossible to be altogether withdrawn. I therefore encountered Mr Mompesson on several occasions and before long found that I could not conceal from myself an attention on his part towards me. This was something I had not had to endure even from his boorish brother — in whose company I had sometimes found myself down at Hougham — whose intellectual resources were fully engaged by his dogs and his horses. Naturally I attempted to avoid Mr Mompesson as far as possible, but he began to force his presence upon me, and worse, find occasions to speak to me alone. When I made it a rule never to address him save in the presence of a third person, he grew increasingly importunate and offensive on the few occasions when I was unable to avoid his company.

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finally, he found me one day alone in the library, barred my egress, attempted unacceptable freedoms, and, at last, growing angry at my resistance, delivered himself of a remark that was unpardonable. In deep distress I forced my way past him and went immediately to Sir Perceval and Lady Mompesson. I burst upon them in their sitting-room distraught and almost in tears, complaining of their son’s conduct in a manner that should have compelled belief and respect. The effect of the way they received me was like a blow on the cheek. They treated me with haughty disdain, implying that I was making too much of what was no more than a display of youthful high spirits. I withdrew with as much dignity as I could and once back in my room concluded that this refusal to take my charge seriously put me in an impossible position. A young woman in my situation could not risk exposure to conduct of the kind Mr Mompesson was inflicting upon me, and I saw clearly that my wisest course was to seek other employment. Yet I also knew that the situation I faced was the perennial lot of young governesses — particularly those unfortunate enough to be possessed of personal attractions which exposed them to danger. And so I felt that I had to triumph over the situation instead of fleeing from it, with the near certainty of encountering it again. An even more powerful motive for remaining than this was my desire not to abandon Henrietta. Since we had come to the London mansion I had learned from her great-aunt, who had rooms in the house, something of the motives that had led Henrietta’s guardians to take her under their protection.

I therefore resolved to stay but to keep myself apprised of other situations in case my position at Brook-street became unendurable. It was for this reason that I registered myself with the London General Office, and very fortunate that decision turned out to be since it was by that means that you and John discovered me.

One evening Mr Mompesson found me alone in the library — an eventuality I tried to avoid, but I could not completely deny myself the pleasure of reading. In marked contrast to earlier occasions, however, he represented himself as extremely apologetic for his previous behaviour. Glad to conciliate him, I accepted his apologies. Then in the most charming manner — for he can be very charming — he told me he wished me to do him the honour of accompanying him, with a party of friends, to Vauxhall-pleasure-gardens the following evening in order to make amends to me for his past conduct. He assured me that one of the party would be a widowed lady of the utmost respectability, a Mrs Purviance, who was an old acquaintance of his mother.

I felt that it would be unwise to reject his invitation if it were truly tendered in a spirit of reconciliation, because to do so might be to encourage him to return to his former demeanour towards me. Also, if I am completely frank, the idea of a party of pleasure did not repel me, stultified as I was by the narrow penury of my way of life. Yet I could not but be suspicious of his motives and so I told him that I insisted on hearing from his parents not merely their consent to his proposal, but their express desire that I should accompany him and his companions; for otherwise, I argued, there would be an impropriety in a mere governess being included in such a party. Though I expected and half hoped that he would

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reject this stipulation out of hand, he seized eagerly upon it, said that it was as much as he had expected, and insisted on ringing the bell to summon a servant to ask his parents to admit him to their presence. The footman, Edward, took the message, but returned to say that Sir Perceval and Lady Mompesson had withdrawn for the night — although it was only a little after ten.

Mr Mompesson appeared cast down by this, but then he suggested that I write them a note instead. I consented, and dashed off a few lines, in which I did not request their permission to accompany their son but rather indicated that he had invited me and that I was unwilling to accept unless they particularly wished it. At Mr Mompesson’s suggestion, I mentioned the name of Mrs Purviance as one of the proposed party. A few minutes later Edward brought back a three-cornered note of the kind that I had received before, the contents of which — in Sir Perceval’s distinctive hand, which would be called illegible from anyone of lesser rank — were to the effect that he and his wife not merely approved of the proposed party, but positively desired that I should accept the invitation. You may imagine the conflict of emotions I experienced: there are occasions when we wish to be impelled into an action by which we are tempted but against which our judgement protests. Though apprehensive — and yet excited, too — I felt that I was bound by my undertaking to Mr Mompesson to accept his parents’ decision, and I therefore consented to make one of the party. As you may conceive, I passed a restless night. I will forgive you if you smile when I tell you that my want of an appropriate costume was a cause of considerable concern, and the next day I had great difficulty in adapting what clothes I had to fit the occasion in the little time free from my responsibilities. Henrietta, though much less interested in dress than most girls of her age, aided me in my preparations and lent me her cachemire shawl. And the maid who waited upon herself and her great-aunt, kindly offered to dress my hair.

The following evening found me, then, modestly, though adequately, attired and waiting anxiously in my room. Because Sir Perceval and Lady Mompesson were dining out, Mr Mompesson had arranged that after taking them to their engagement, the carriage should return for us. So at nine o’clock I came down to find Mr Mompesson in the Great Parlour in the company of Mrs Purviance, in appearance a very respectable lady of about fifty years of age who, from her conversation, was on terms of intimacy with numerous members of the aristocracy and who expressed her regret at not having the opportunity of seeing Lady Mompesson that evening.

It was, therefore, with a sense of reassurance that I entered the carriage and was driven to the gardens — in itself an adventure for me. At the gate we met by previous arrangement the fourth member of our party, a young man whose surname I did not hear but whom Mr Mompesson addressed as Harry. He was handsome, though rather poorly dressed, and as I was soon to discover, very clever and extremely charming.

This gentleman escorted us into the gardens while Mr Mompesson paid at the door.

As we walked about in the drawn-out summer dusk, I, naturally, conversed mainly with Mrs Purviance, who impressed me as a woman of fashion and taste. The conversation of the gentlemen seemed, from the snatches I heard, to be confined to the green baize and the turf, for it was all of how “Such-and-Such had dropped a monkey at the fishmonger’s” and “whether the filly would take the bit”.

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When the conversation became more general, it seemed to me that Mr Mompesson was taking pains to speak to me with respect and courtesy as if to one of his own rank, and for the first time I began to feel that he had qualities which had not previously been apparent.

It was a beautiful evening and for an hour or two we strolled about looking at the coloured lanthorns hidden in the branches of the trees, admiring the fountains and the new cosmorama and the Moorish-tower, and listening to the orchestra which performed in a painted and arched stand in the centre. Around us were the most fashionable and elegant members of Society and I was very excited to be mingling with them on terms of equality. As the evening wore on, however, the better families grew fewer and an altogether different clientèle appeared: servants aping their masters, apprentices on stolen leave, and servant-girls with their sweet-hearts. I believe it was upon seeing this and observing my dismay at it, that Mr Mompesson proposed that we should dine.

Mrs Purviance assented readily but Harry said: “Why, I don’t believe I’m hungry. In fact, I’m sure I’m not.”

“Set your mind at rest, Harry. I shall pay for everything,” Mr Mompesson said, leading us towards the supper-room. “No, I beg of you, Harry, don’t protest.”

“I shouldn’t dream of it,” Harry said, also smiling. “For here you are, industriously increasing your credit.”

“How’s that? You mean decreasing it?”

“On the contrary. Why, going into debt is like digging the foundations of a house: the deeper you go, the higher the house may rise. You can always know who is deepest in debt by the opulence of their establishment.”

“There is some truth in that,” Mrs Purviance said, as we seated ourselves at one of the tables protected by a painted awning. The table had an elegant epergne heaped with rare fruits and sweetmeats, and a little way away a band of French horns and clarinets were playing French waltzes.

Mrs Purviance went on: “I recall that shortly before he was forced to flee his creditors, Lord Quantock added a ball-room to Quantock Castle.”

“By that chop-logic, my dear fellow,” Mr Mompesson said to the other young man, “I should have taken you for a millionaire.”

“So here you are, Mompesson,” Harry continued, parrying Mr Mompesson’s remark with a smile, “digging away as industriously as any Irish navigator. Have you ever considered, Miss Quilliam, how very hard a fashionable debtor has to work? And all from mere selflessness! Only from pity for his creditors, for if he goes for smash then he’ll bring down whole families of honest money-lenders. Why, do you know, Miss Quilliam, Mompesson here has a family of Jews whose happiness depends entirely upon him?”

“There is some truth in your nonsense, Harry.”

“There is always truth in it,” he interrupted. “As someone said of Virgil, I fling about my nonsense with an air of majesty.”

“Indeed,” Mr Mompesson resumed. “If the truth be known, my creditors begged me to borrow of them.”

“Precisely! You hooked them and not the other way round, as is usually supposed.

And it weighs on you, I know — the security of all those little Abrahams and Rebeccas.

No wonder you envy me, for true peace of mind comes only when one has nothing.”

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“If that is so,” said Mr Mompesson, “then my family will soon attain the state of highest bliss.”

“Fie, Mr Mompesson!” Mrs Purviance exclaimed. “You should not jest upon such matters!”

“Fear not, Mompesson, for there will always be greedy fools enough to lend you more.

Did not Horace (or one of those old Romans) refer to this when he said: credit is long, life is short?”

“I’m confounded if I know. I had a little Latin beaten into me at school but it was painlessly taken out again at the ’Varsity. I leave book-learning and all that sort of collar-work to you.”

“It’s true that I have to work hard,” Harry said, looking a little put out at this; “but you’ve studied for your profession, too: the life of a leisured gentleman is not easy. Why, my friend Pamplin sometimes takes an hour choosing his neckcloth.”

“A most elegant young gentleman,” Mrs Purviance murmured, smiling at me.

“You’re fortunate to be spared such labour,” Mr Mompesson said with a satirical smile. “For you have but two of that article: one for use and one for superfluity.”

“And am therefore all the more of a gentleman,” Harry said lightly. “For according to one definition I have read, a man is a gentleman if he has no visible means of gaining his livelihood. And that is certainly my case.”

“I believe an invisible means is implied, Harry,” Mr Mompesson said. “For otherwise your definition would mean that hundreds of gentlemen are confined in Newgate and several dozen hanged there every year.”

“In equity that should be so,” Harry said with a droll smile. “But most of the

‘gentlemen’ you refer to have an invisible means of gaining their livelihood, so your reservation can hardly apply. A better definition I have heard is that a man will not be black-balled by White’s if he ties a good knot to his handkerchief, keeps his hands out of his breeches-pockets, and says nothing.”

“But that test would permit even my brother Tom to pass muster!” Mr Mompesson cried.

“For shame, Mr Mompesson,” Mrs Purviance protested mildly, trying not to smile with the two young gentlemen.

Feeling that I should say something or be convicted by my silence of stupidity or pride, I said: “A gentleman is surely one whose birth and breeding are matched by his manners and conduct, whatever his personal fortune may be.”

“How well you express it, my dear,” Mrs Purviance said.

“Excellent sentiments,” Harry said. Then he went on with a smile that did not conceal his anger: “And yet a man whose manners are those of a boor and whose conduct is infamously irregular, is received as a gentleman in a family where he would not be given a place as the meanest servant. You know whom I refer to, Mompesson.”