Rustication

by Charles Palliser

Mr Davenant Burgoyne, of course, the younger girl said.

  I thought his Christian name was “Davenant”?

  Enid addressed me for the first time: You were mistaken. His full name is “Willoughby Gerald Davenant Burgoyne”. She recited that ridiculous succession of syllables with an almost proprietorial air. Then she added: Only his most intimate friends call him “Willoughby”.

  That was the name Mother blurted out when I took her by surprise in the scullery. It is proof! The man I saw Effie with yesterday is indeed Davenant Burgoyne. Euphemia has been meeting him and that has become widely known and so her good name is in tatters. The day I came home he must have been expected as a visitor and that is why Euphemia had dressed for dinner and why she went out in the rain to warn him not to enter the house.

  Guinevere was studying my face. You look surprised, Mr Shenstone. Have you heard anyone speak of “Willoughby”? Or of his lodgings in Hill Street?

  At that point Enid uttered a sound that was so strange that it took me a moment to realise that it was a laugh.

  People talk of falling suddenly in love but little is said of how you can fall just as precipitately out of it.

  It was at this moment, looking at their faces brimming with gleeful malice, that I grasped the point of the story they told yesterday. The one about the young woman who was seen leaving a gentleman’s lodgings late at night. I wanted to say something that would throw their spite back in their faces. I said: I am astonished that you should pass on tittle-tattle about people’s private lives.

  It wasn’t so private, Guinevere said. The girl intended to be seen. It was a mantrap. She had made a dead set at the gentleman and hoped to compromise him so that he would have to make a proposal of marriage.

  I said: I grasp your meaning perfectly. She trusted to his honour and he turned out to have none.

  The girl enjoyed that but Enid said indignantly: He refused to be blackmailed by a shameless adventuress.

  Enid is not just spiteful. She’s stupid as well. Is that worse than being clever and malicious like her sister?

  She turned, and without even the briefest goodbye, both girls walked away.

  6 o’clock.

  I’ll probably never speak to either of them again. And I hope I never do. How could I have ever thought Enid worthy of my interest? To see her laughing at me behind her hand. How wrong I have been. What a fool. Cold, cold. Cold-hearted creature. That thin-lipped smile while she and her sister were trying to cause me pain. She’s a heartless shrew.

  A ¼ past 6 o’clock.

  My heart is hardened, the blossoms of love have withered. I will never love again.

  ½ past 6 o’clock.

  Found the moment to slip the little gift from the shop into Betsy’s hand. She was surprised and I think pleased. I whispered: We will talk later.

  7 o’clock.

  Effie has just accosted me and pulled me into the damp old dining-room at the back of the house and said: I know exactly what you get up to.

  I said: What do you mean?

  She said: Up in your room. It’s disgusting, that foul practice of yours. And if you don’t leave the house tomorrow or on Monday at the latest, I’m going to tell Mother.

  I said I had no idea what she was referring to.

  She was leaning so close that I felt her breath on my cheek. She said: You’re going to hurt her horribly when she finds out but you don’t care about that, do you?

  I said: You want me to go so that you can continue your scandalous conduct.

  I just pushed past her and left the room.

  ½ past 7 o’clock.

  Awful. Awful. I’ve never seen Mother so distraught. So unable to cope with her feelings.

  About an hour ago she summoned me into the parlour where she and Euphemia were trying to keep warm in front of a miser’s fire of three lumps of coal. I could see how upset she was. She showed me the letter I had seen at breakfast and said it came from Uncle Thomas this morning and that he has been informed that I have been rusticated for “gross misconduct”.

  Before I could open my mouth, Euphemia said: You weren’t rusticated for failing an examination. It was because of your debts, wasn’t it? And they wouldn’t send you down for just twenty pounds.

  I had to admit that the total was about seventy.

  Mother gasped. Oh, Richard, you lied to me!

  Euphemia said: At every turn you have tried to hide the truth from us. First you had come home early because you had no money for your holiday. Then you had been suspended for failing an examination. Then for debts of twenty pounds. Is there some further disclosure to come?

  How like Father she sounded!

  With a heavy heart I promised that this was the whole of my offences.

  What did you spend it on, Richard? Mother asked.

  Euphemia cut in: The question is not where the money went but where it came from. How did you manage to get so deeply into debt?

  I said nothing.

  She hissed: You’ve brought shame on all of us.

  Her words stung me into saying: You can’t talk about shame. The whole neighbourhood is gossiping about you. I ran into the Quance girls this afternoon . . .

  Those primped up little vixens! How dare you listen to anything they say about me. The farrow of that evil old sow.

  They said you’ve compromised yourself.

  Mother started to speak but Euphemia rudely waved her to be silent: No, Mother. I want him to go on.

  I saw you myself.

  Tell me what you are talking about? she said coldly.

  I saw you with your friend, your paramour, your what-you-will, on the Battlefield yesterday afternoon.

  Mother said in terror: What are you saying, Richard?

  I said: I saw her with Mr Davenant Burgoyne.

  I turned back to Euphemia and saw that she was stunned. She and Mother were looking at each other in a state of amazement.

  I said to my sister: Mother has told me about your attachment to him in the autumn that was broken off by his uncle. Obviously you’ve continued to meet him.

  I had never seen my sister so angry. Her face was white and her lips were pressed into a thin line: You can’t imagine I care for that dissolute pampered perjurer!

  I’ve seen you walking arm-in-arm with him, I said.

  You snivelling little sneak. How dare you meddle in my business. You talk about my reputation. What about yours? She came up to me and whispered: I’ll make sure Mother and everyone else everyone knows about your nastiness: sneaking around the countryside at night and spying on people and trying to see things that shouldn’t be seen. She turned to Mother: He must leave the house immediately. I won’t have him here any longer.

  Leave the room, Richard, Mother said.

  I was only too pleased to oblige. From the coldness of the dining-room I heard their voices murmuring.

  After a few minutes my sister came to the door and said curtly: Mother wishes you to go to her.

  I joined her in the passage but she turned away and hurried towards the stairs. Mother was sitting where she had been. She looked small and old. I had barely seated myself when she said: Richard, I’m asking you, no, I’m ordering you, to leave. Go away for two weeks. Don’t ask me why. For my sake and for your sister’s, just go.

  What have I done?

  This harassment of your sister.

  Mother, people are saying she visited Mr Davenant Burgoyne at his lodgings. At night.

  Looking down at her hands folded on her lap, she said: I don’t know why you would say such a thing about your own sister.

  Is it true, Mother?

  She looked up and said: Of course it’s not true.

  She has never been a good liar. I had a feeling she was hiding something so I persisted: He has lodgings in the town, in Hill Street. Euphemia was seen leaving late at night.

  Then that’s nonsense! I happen to know that Mr Davenant Burgoyne lives at his uncle’s.

  The earl’s house?

  Yes. Hi
s townhouse on Castle Parade.

  So those little imps were just trying to torment me with spiteful lies. I said: I’m sorry, Mother. I shouldn’t have said that about Effie. It worried and upset you unnecessarily. Please forgive me.

  No, Richard, she said. I won’t forgive you. It’s not just that. By incurring those debts you’ve sabotaged everything I managed to rescue from the wreckage. The College is angry with you, Thomas is furious. Don’t you understand how vital it is that Euphemia be able to go into society and meet young men from good families? I have to see her settled and there isn’t much time. Where is the money to come from? On top of that, you’ve annoyed Mrs Quance by your absurd attempt to befriend a woman condemned—rightly or wrongly—by Society. And you’ve lied to me. Your behaviour is unacceptable, Richard. You must leave immediately. You must go tomorrow morning and not return for at least a fortnight.

  Mother, I would if I had anywhere to go.

  I interpret this as a refusal.

  I’m not refusing, Mother. I can’t comply.

  Very well. I have been contemplating a way to settle this and now I see no alternative. I am going to say something and then you will leave the room immediately and without speaking. You will think over what I have said and then you will come back in one hour and give me your response. Do you understand?

  I nodded.

  If at eight o’clock you tell me you will not leave, you will have to be told something so shocking and horrible that simply by hearing it, you will inflict irreparable harm on all three of us.

  ½ past 8 o’clock.

  Mother only pretends to care about me. All she really cares about is Euphemia. Well, if that’s how she feels, I’ll go away and I’ll never come back. See how she feels about that!

  Mother’s revelation must be about Father. People said unkind things about him and I don’t want to hear them. I might not have loved him as much as a dutiful son should, but I respected him and I don’t want that to change.

  I went downstairs and found Mother sitting precisely as I had left her. I said: Mother, I will go away.

  Thank goodness for that, she said and turned away so that I could not see her face. She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief and then looked at me again and said: There will always be room for you here.

  I said: I’ve thought of someone I can go to in Thurchester. I’ll write now and should have a reply by Tuesday. I can leave the same day. Is that soon enough for you?

  She put her hand on mine without saying anything.

  She must guess that I am referring to Bartlemew but all her objections to him are now suspended in the higher interest of getting me out of the house!

  ½ past 11 o’clock.

  When all was quiet I slipped down to the kitchen and, as I had hoped, found the girl still polishing pans and putting them away. The only light came from a single oil-lamp standing on a sideboard and when she turned to me the half-light and the shadows flattered her and she was almost handsome. I asked if she had liked my little gift and she nodded and looked down.

  Are you happy here, Betsy? I asked.

  I’m happier here than any place else I might be, Master Richard.

  I said: I’m going away, Betsy. I’m leaving here on Tuesday and I don’t know when I’ll come back.

  I think that’s for the best, sir, she said with her back to me as she lifted a pan onto a high shelf.

  It wasn’t the response I had hoped for. I said, perhaps rather impatiently: Why are all you females so anxious to make me go? Is there some sort of conspiracy amongst you to get rid of me?

  Now she did turn to me. She looked discomfited. Her mouth was slightly open and her eyes seemed huge in the shadows. In spite of my irritation at her remark, I felt a strong desire to lean forward and kiss her.

  Sunday 20th of December, 10 o’clock.

  Have just written to Bartlemew. Shameful to be asking him for a favour.

  2 o’clock.

  Set off for church. As we approached the village Mother told me to run on quickly and take my letter to the post and then catch them up. There was nobody in the dark little shop apart from Mrs Darnton who scowled as she took the letter from me.

  Memorandum: OPENING BAL: 9s. 9½d. EXP: Stamp: 1d. FINAL BAL: 9s. 8½d.

  It suddenly occurred to me to ask her the postal direction of Davenant Burgoyne. She glared at me with open contempt and said: Why? Do you intend to send him a letter?

  What business is it of hers if I do? And why the emphasis on him as if I’ve been handing in other letters?

  As I left the shop Old Hannah, the letter-carrier, came out behind me and I suddenly heard: Young fellow! I stopped and she caught up. Don’t let Madame Sourpuss know I’ve told you, but the earl’s nevy lodges in the rear premises of his uncle’s house.

  Castle Parade? I asked.

  It’s round the back. It’s the same building but it’s called Hill Street.

  I thanked her and ran on and caught up with Mother and Euphemia and we reached the church with some time in hand.

  · · ·

  Was Mother misleading me deliberately or did she not realise the two addresses refer to the same building?

  · · ·

  We found General Quance mounted on the steps of the porch and reviewing her forces. In response to our bows and smiles we received only the curtest salute.

  At that moment Mrs Paytress appeared at the lych-gate and hurried towards us with a smile, raising her veil. Mother looked straight at her and when she was only a few yards away, showed the poor woman her back. While this was happening, Euphemia fiddled with a ribbon on her dress and then turned without raising her eyes and followed Mother into the church. I saw a look of dismay appear on Mrs Paytress’s face and then she lowered her veil and slowed her pace. I tried to catch her eye but I don’t think she noticed me.

  Mrs Quance’s pebbly little eyes lurking in their folds of flesh had watched the whole episode unfold and I saw an expression of gratification pucker her mouth with anticipation. At the end of the service as we came out she rewarded Mother with a smile that was more unnerving than any grimace and then engaged her and Effie in conversation: How were we settling in? Did we need any advice or information to make our lives more agreeable?

  We have crossed the lines and are now marching under the Quances’ colours! I’m ashamed of Mother.

  ½ past midnight.

  Warm only in bed. The air like a blunt knife scraping against my skin. We all have chilblains and cold-sores though we wear mittens indoors. Our hands are chapped as if gnawed by the frost.

  [A page is left blank here in the Journal. Note by CP.]

  Monday 21st of December, 9 o’clock in the evening.

  Everything has changed. Euphemia wants me to stay! And to accompany her to the ball!

  And to cap it all, Mrs Yass is leaving.

  Yet today began badly. After Effie went off to Lady Terrewest’s, Old Hannah brought Mother another letter from Uncle Thomas. As we sat over the remains of breakfast, she read it with a frown.

  Then she said: I don’t understand. Why does someone called Webster demand seventy-four pounds from Thomas?

  So it has come to that. I had to explain that he is the father of the friend who lent me that sum.

  She frowned and said: I don’t think your uncle will be very pleased.

  · · ·

  Shortly before luncheon there was a commanding rap at the front door. Mother and Betsy stared at each other in terror and it fell to me to venture into the hall and open the door. There stood a tall man-servant in livery holding out an envelope addressed to Euphemia from Mrs Quance. Mother and I were frantic with curiosity. Could it be about the famous tickets, we wondered.

  I spent an hour packing and making ready to leave in the morning.

  · · ·

  As soon as Effie got back this afternoon I saw that her mood was transformed and she behaved to me in a perfectly friendly manner for the first time. That’s what makes me think it wasn’t just the tickets
. Because of course that is what the letter was about. A pair was available for her and Mother. And that news was conveyed in a charming note from Mrs Quance in which she invited Effie and mother to tea on the Sunday after Christmas.

  I was not named. Am I being snubbed or am I too unimportant to be remembered? To be snubbed is at least a form of recognition.

  I said something about being sorry not to be going to the ball.

  Of course you must come, Effie said graciously.

  You’re forgetting that I will have gone long before the 9th.

  Why should you go? Effie exclaimed. Mother, Richard may stay, mayn’t he?

  Here was a reversal indeed! I couldn’t decipher Mother’s expression. She studied Effie’s features. If you so wish, she said.

  I do wish it, Effie said. Then she turned to me: I will ask Mrs Quance for a half-ticket.

  Darling girl, Mother exclaimed. Can we afford it? It’s half a guinea. Let Richard take mine.

  No, Mother. I’ll pay for all the tickets.

  But there’s also the cost of the rooms and hire of a carriage.

  I have an idea about that, Effie said mysteriously.

  How could Effie find a guinea and a half?

  Anyway, she said, think what we’ll save by dismissing Mrs Yass.

  Are we dismissing her? Mother asked and her voice trembled.

  Of course. She can’t cook. Then she looked at Mother meaningfully and said: And we don’t need her.

  Dearest girl, Mother cried and jumped up and ran round and embraced her and kissed her. She sat down again almost in tears. What a relief it will be to have that woman out of the house.

  Mother got excited at the prospect of a ball and put her hands over her head and executed a few mincing steps in what I suppose was the style of twenty or thirty years ago. Effie ran to the pianoforte and began to play an old-fashioned polka and Mother danced around the room. It was strange. I suddenly saw her as a girl in her teens. I turned away.

  I caught Effie smiling at me. As she played she tossed her head and the hair fell against her cheek while all the time she kept her gaze on me.

  · · ·

  During dinner Effie offered to play duets with me since I now had my flute and so we played some little pieces together. Mother listened and said to Euphemia: I’m so glad that at least one of you has inherited my musical talent. When I was young I had a lovely voice. Everyone said so. I gave it up for you children, as I gave up so many of my pleasures.