Rustication

by Charles Palliser

  Yes, to become an unpaid nanny and chaperone!

  The tea—to which I suspect she is unaccustomed—loosened her tongue and she informed us that the Rector inherited rather a lot of money recently. So Enid is an heiress and therefore has a fair chance of scooping an earl.

  She hinted that Davenant Burgoyne was on the point of proposing marriage and gleefully revealed that the Lloyds were furious that their own daughter had seen the prize snatched from her grasp.

  When the bones of that had been sucked dry, Mother asked: Now Mrs Paytress is a friend of the Lloyds, is she not?

  Ah, Mrs Paytress, said Miss Bittlestone with the relish of a hungry diner seeing a new dish approaching. Now there is a lady about whom there is much speculation. She has almost wilfully excited curiosity. She brought her own servants with her and none of them will reveal the smallest parcel of information about her. She positively defies her neighbours not to be suspicious. And there are many things to be curious about. Odd comings and goings in carriages late at night. Unearthly cries of rage or pain at all hours.

  We savoured this juicy mouthful together in silence. Then Mother turned to me and said: That reminds me, Richard, that we promised to return her umbrella. Will you do it now, please?

  I pointed out that I had not finished my cup of tea and was given a reprieve.

  This was my chance to find out something.

  Miss Bittlestone, I asked, the earl’s nephew is his heir, is he not?

  The Honourable Mr Davenant Burgoyne, she confirmed with a sort of verbal curtsy. She strews titles and dignities like a maiden throwing blossoms round a maypole.

  I went on: Now suppose, just for the sake of the argument, that Mr Davenant Burgoyne dies without leaving an heir . . .

  The old lady gave a little scream—a stylised sketch of outraged horror which I accepted as a sacrifice to the proprieties which was the price of admission to the raree-show of speculation into which I was luring her and after a moment I carried on: In that case, to whom would the earldom and the fortune descend?

  Oh, Master Shenstone, she said with her hand on her heart. What a dreadful question. And especially after that lamentable incident in which poor Mr Davenant Burgoyne was nearly killed.

  You mean the accident? I asked.

  She looked at me slyly. I mean his injury, Master Shenstone. And the answer to your question is that the earl has no other legitimate nephew. So the title would go to a distant cousin.

  And the estate—the land and money?

  Miss Bittlestone lowered her eyes. They would pass to the nearest relative of the earl.

  And who is that? I asked.

  Without looking up she muttered: I understand that it is a connection of the earl’s late brother.

  I made one last attempt: I can imagine that Mr Davenant Burgoyne is considered quite a prize: a title and a fortune. The earl must be concerned about his choice of a wife.

  Oh I could tell you a story about that, Miss Bittlestone exclaimed. About the way a ruthless family prevented a young man from marrying the girl he loved. Then she flushed and said: Oh, I shouldn’t have mentioned it.

  Oh you can’t titillate us so brazenly and then disappoint us, Effie cried.

  Miss Bittlestone looked coy and apprehensive at the same time: I shouldn’t say any more. It will only get me into trouble.

  How intriguing, Effie said with the most seductive smile. We’re all longing to hear it.

  Well, Miss Bittlestone said, you must promise solemnly never to breathe a word of it to a living soul. Then the old creature began: A few years ago there was a family living in . . . well, let’s just say a large town in the West of England. They had a daughter of seventeen. The father was a man of the cloth—dear me! I shouldn’t have said that! Anyway, he was a vicar and there was a young man who attended his church whose family was terribly grand and when he reached his majority he would inherit a vast fortune and one day become a viscount.

  And something occurred, Effie suggested, between this fortunate individual and the vicar’s daughter?

  They fell madly in love, the old lady gasped. Isn’t that romantic? But his relatives put every obstacle imaginable in their path and eventually removed him from Bath and carried him off to Brighton.

  And did the young lady abandon herself to despair? Euphemia asked innocently.

  As it happened, Miss Bittlestone said, her family took a holiday in Brighton just a week or two later and she found a means of communicating with her lover.

  Richard, Mother said sharply. You’ve finished your tea. Take the umbrella back now.

  I had no choice.

  When I knocked at the front door of Mrs Paytress’s house it was opened by a man-servant whom I had not seen before. Short and stocky like a retired jockey gone to seed. I handed him the umbrella.

  As I was coming out of the gateway of the drive I almost bumped into two people who were passing at that moment. They were an old man—who was carrying a huge leather bag—and a girl.

  Good day, I said. Are you on your way to visit Mrs Paytress?

  The old gentleman looked astonished at this greeting and professed not to know who she was so that I had to explain that I had taken him for Mr Fourdrinier.

  But that is my name! he exclaimed.

  It turned out that I had misunderstood Mrs Paytress. She must have heard of Mr Fourdrinier and his archaeological explorations, but she does not know him personally.

  We both laughed once this confusion was cleared up. Then we introduced ourselves properly. I liked him immediately. His face is a type that I became used to in Cambridge among the dons. It is that of a child in a man of fifty: innocent, round-cheeked, and inquisitive. Behind his tiny round pince-nez glasses are a pair of twinkling eyes. From under his hat a few carefully-cherished locks of thin grey hair cautiously extend like tendrils feeling their way towards the light. When he is not speaking his lips are pursed with a worried frown so that he looks as if he might be wondering whether to jump across a deep chasm. His coat-pockets bulge with instruments—presumably for measuring and recording his finds—so that he looks like a professor pretending to be a naval officer.

  He waved his hand at the girl and said: This is my niece.

  I shook hands with Miss Fourdrinier. She is very pretty indeed and has a lovely modest manner. She looked down and said nothing. In fact, she did not utter a word during the entire encounter. It was hard to catch more than a glimpse of her sweet face now and then but eventually I pieced it together: delicate features like fine porcelain with the most charming little snub nose that made her look like a Meissen shepherdess.

  We were going the same way for a while since they were heading for the Battlefield and we walked along together. I asked him about his interest in archaeology and in a rush of enthusiasm, he told me he was hoping to carry out an excavation on Monument Hill, the distinctive mound with the tower atop. Then he went on quickly: What is really interesting is that the local people still call it by its old name: “Fawler Hill”. Do you know Anglo-Saxon?

  I’m afraid not.

  Well, the word comes from “fag flor” meaning “decorated floor.” And that is the name of a village where a Roman villa with a mosaic floor was recently found.

  And so you think there is a Roman villa with such a floor near the hill?

  I’m convinced of it. The street, the old Roman paved way, runs within a few hundred yards. Stratton is from “straet tun” meaning “the town of the street”.

  He broke off suddenly and demanded: You’re not finding this tedious, I hope?

  On the contrary. It is fascinating.

  He smiled with pleasure and said: I’m not invited to people’s houses. I am considered a bore because I talk so much about old pottery and bones. And I am happy to accept that term. In my view, a bore is a man who is keener on amusing himself than on entertaining his neighbours.

  I indicated my enthusiastic interest and he reached into a pocket and pulled out a handful of coloured stones. And I’ve
found these tesserae from a mosaic. They prove the existence of such a villa.

  He stopped suddenly and, glaring at the tower, exclaimed: I hope to God that damned monument was not placed on top of it.

  Why was it erected?

  It commemorates the battle fought there during the Civil War, he said. It was put up about a century later by a member of the Burgoyne family. He glanced at the girl and lowered his voice: He was a notorious rakehell and furnished it for the entertaining of young women in the neighbourhood whom he lured there with trinkets.

  I know something of the Burgoynes, I said. I live in Herriard House and am descended from the family of that name.

  Indeed? The old gentleman looked at me with interest.

  I told him I had heard the story of the Herriard who had eloped with a girl from the Burgoyne family and been followed back to his house by her brothers and killed. I repeated the words of the old countryman about the fate of a newborn child.

  There are documents confirming something like that, Mr Fourdrinier said.

  We then discussed—well, Mr Fourdrinier did most of the talking—the following subjects: the controversy over the age of fossils; Paley’s Evidences and the absurdity of his arguments in defence of Bishop Ussher’s chronology of the Creation which put the date at 4004 B.C.; Ockham’s razor which dispenses with irrelevancies and the consequent redundancy of any notion of a Creator (videlicet the recent work of Mr Darwin).

  As we conversed the girl attended to us with such an intelligent expression that I was sure she was about to contribute something. I looked at her several times in order to bring her into the conversation but she always looked down demurely and uttered not a word.

  When we had been talking for about a ¼ of an hour, she suddenly touched the old man on the arm. He broke off and apologised for having to curtail our discussion and he invited me to come and find him any fine afternoon.

  Then he added with a smile: You must come to tea one day and we can continue this conversation.

  I should like that very much, I said. What is the address?

  He hesitated and it seemed to me that he did not like my asking that. He said: I’ll send my man over with a note in a day or two giving directions.

  Is it the old Hall at Bickleigh Farrant? I’ve heard it’s for sale.

  I had the idea—insane, as I now realise—of sending a poem to the girl. I really seemed to have offended him. But if I was to go to tea there, I would need to know where it was!

  Very grudgingly he said: No, it’s Heyshott House in the village of that name.

  I said to the girl: Miss Fourdrinier, I look forward to meeting you again.

  She looked at the old man with a smile but did not speak.

  To my surprise he frowned and said with sudden irritation: My niece is very shy. Then he turned and walked away with the girl scurrying along behind him.

  Don’t know what to make of that.

  · · ·

  When I got home I found Mother and Euphemia in the parlour which stank horribly of coal-smoke. I said: So Miss Bittlestone finished her story eventually, I assume?

  Mother smiled and said: She is rather “tongue-free” as my old nurse used to say, but she had better not tell that story to too many people.

  I think we all know who the family was who were so desperate to marry a daughter to a wealthy peer, I said.

  Effie looked at me: You were missed after you’d gone.

  Mother explained that the chimney started smoking shortly after I’d left and they had felt the want of a masculine mind on the premises.

  It was probably the change in the direction of the wind, I suggested. It draws badly at the best of times.

  I don’t know if that can be right, Mother said. There were very strange noises coming from it. Scratchings and flutings.

  I tried to peer up the great chimney but could see nothing.

  It is puzzling, I said. Some imp of mischief made me say: Perhaps it’s a restless spirit. I wonder how many wretched little climbing-boys have perished in that chimney. Perhaps the ghost of one of them lingers on in pain. Mother shuddered. I said: It puts me in mind of something I heard recently.

  I told them about my encounter with Mr Fourdrinier and the girl and said that he had confirmed the historical truth of the story Mother had told us.

  Then I said: But Mother, you left out part of the story. And it must relate to this very fireplace since it’s the principal one in the house. When the brothers came here and killed our ancestor and took their sister home, they also flung her newborn baby into the fire.

  To my astonishment Euphemia uttered a harsh exclamation that seemed to come from deep within her and stood bolt upright, pale as milk. Then she ran from the room.

  I was left staring at Mother in astonishment.

  She shook her head: Oh, Richard. Didn’t it occur to you that that is not a story to tell so lightly? Particularly to a young woman.

  She hurried out after her.

  Can Euphemia be afraid of ghosts? So solidly planted on the earth and so superior to my own flights of fancy?

  Effie didn’t appear for dinner and Mother sent Betsy up to her with something. While we ate I told Mother that I simply do not understand Euphemia any more—as if I ever did! What was she so upset about? Was it something Mother could tell me? Apparently not because she slipped away from that subject with all her skill in evading topics she does not want to discuss.

  When she pulled the curtains back before retiring for the night, she called out to me to come and look. Snowflakes were falling gently from the dark grey sky, turning and glittering as they floated to the ground.

  11 o’clock.

  The truth is that the debts I have incurred are greater than I have revealed to my mother. I am trying to shield her from worry. The money I owe was advanced to me by a friend called Edmund Webster whose family is now demanding its repayment and I fear they might make an approach to yourself.

  · · ·

  Just before dinner I was in the kitchen with Mother and I asked the cook: What are you preparing for us, Mrs Yass?

  She said: Well, for you, young genelman, it ain’t going to be tartar and vinegar.

  Then she cackled like an old witch and Mother shooed me out.

  · · ·

  ½ past 11 o’clock.

  Heard a scampering sound behind the wainscoting a few moments ago. Rats. They’ve been living here at least as long as the Herriards! And recently in considerably better style.

  Midnight.

  A few minutes ago I parted the curtains and looked out at the falling snow. I happened to notice that the curtain across one of Euphemia’s windows was not properly drawn. Since there was a candle alight in the room I could see a figure moving which I was pretty sure was my sister. Then I seemed to see another person in the room but at that moment the candle was extinguished. Was it Mother?

  · · ·

  What a sweet little face the Fourdrinier girl has. And such a beautiful slender neck. How I would love to run my hands round it. I touch it with my lips. It feels like the petals of a rose. My arms are around her.

  [A passage in Greek letters begins here. Note by CP.]

  We are in this room. I am lying with her on my bed holding her, with my mouth rubbing softly against her neck and my hands are stroking her and my hard thing is digging into her. She says What’s that? like a child finding a new toy and she reaches round and she feels my thing and she rubs along it with her fingers and I put my hands on her . . .

  Δ

  [The passage in Greek letters ends here. Note by CP.]

  1 o’clock.

  Strange how the barking of those dogs sounds so much louder across the snow.

  I’m sure the others are all asleep. I have waited long enough. I can wait no longer to transcend the limitations of our earthbound existence. The little ritual that Edmund taught me—he the officiant and I the acolyte—is a transmutation, a sacrament of the imagination. The little dark rubbery ball that I a
m about to melt with the flame of the candle and then drop into the bowl of my pipe, redeems the world. The first draughts seem to warm my whole body bringing a sense of peace and yet a thrilling awareness of infinite possibilities. I am not fleeing from daily reality but experiencing it more intensely.

  · · ·

  ∑

  2 o’clock.

  I can’t hear a sound now. Just the distant chafing of the waves against the shore. The unnumbered pebbles.

  ½ past 5 o’clock.

  I’ve just returned from the other side of Stratton Herriard. What pleasure to steal from a slumbering house and roam the countryside unseen. I walked through the silent villages. All the windows were blank. Night and darkness belong to me. While my neighbours dream, I come and go around their houses. Peer through their windows if they have a candle still flickering.

  I wandered across the unlit fields and marshes until I came to the edge of the land where the sea frets unrestingly. The moon hung like a golden ring that had been snapped in two while the ocean rippled like the back of a wrinkled old woman’s hand. I made out boats near the shore with lanterns gleaming through the mist and realised that fishermen were at work.

  I circled round and walked back along the muddy shore.

  Friday 18th of December, noon.

  Woke up this morning with a thumping headache and found several inches of snow had fallen since I got home. The house lies under a great feathery muff. There are Siberian drafts under the doors and the ill-fitting windows are rattling in their frames. The roads will be impassable for a couple of days so that there can be no question of my leaving. I don’t know if I’m pleased about that or horrified.

  · · ·

  Mother suddenly asked me: Did I hear you coming in very late last night?

  Before I could think, I found that I had denied it.

  I was weak last night and I must not give in to temptation so soon again.