of the housekeeper still engaged with the workman. They appeared to be having a difference of opinion, for the man tried several times to turn away but she continued to address him until he had to turn back.
“She is very short-sighted and must not be able to see you,” the little girl continued.
“But when she does, she will tell you to go away and I will be punished.”
“Punished?” I asked. “In what way?”
“I will certainly be sent to bed without my tea,” she said in a very matter-of-fact tone.
And then added: “And perhaps whipped.”
“Whipped?”
She withdrew one hand from the muff and I saw that the back of it had a series of painful red welts across it.
“Then perhaps,” I said, “I should go away before she sees me.”
45
THE HUFFAMS
“No,” the child replied very definitely; “I should like to talk to you for a little longer.
There is no-one else here to talk to.”
“Have you no brothers or sisters?” I enquired.
“No. There is only Mrs Peppercorn and Betsy, and two other servants whom I am not permitted to speak to.”
“And is there no-one else in that big house?” I asked.
“No-one at all,” she said. “But, you see, most of it is shut up. We only use a few of the rooms. I wish there were other children here. Do you have brothers and sisters?”
“No,” I said; “I don’t know any other children either.”
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“John Mellamphy,” I replied.
“Is that all?” she asked in surprise.
“Yes. What’s yours?” I answered.
“It’s very long. Do you want to hear all of it?”
“Yes, please,” I said.
She took a breath, closed her eyes, and recited: “Henrietta Louisa Amelia Lydia Hougham Palphramond.” She opened her eyes and (still in a single breath) explained:
“My mother was called Louisa, and Henrietta and Lydia are for my great-aunts. I don’t know about the others, though.”
“But Hougham?” I exclaimed. “Is that spelt like the name of this village?”
“Yes,” she said. “H-o-u-g-h-a-m.”
Prompted by the desire to show that I, too, possessed a claim greater than might be implied by the bare two names I had admitted, I exclaimed: “I’ve got that name too! At least, I believe my grandfather’s name was the same as that, only spelt ‘H-u-f-f-a-m’.
That’s the name of the family that used to own this house and this village and all the land around here, you know.”
“Oh I don’t think that can be right,” she said.
“Oh yes it is.” (What an unpleasantly contradictory little girl it was!) “You see the Mumpseys … ”I hesitated. “They got it from the Huffams.”
“The Mumpseys! You mean the Mompessons. Only the village-people pronounce it that way.”
I flushed with shame. Of course I knew that name from the memorials in the church.
Why had I not made the connexion when Mrs Belflower mentioned it?
“You must be mistaken, you see,” Henrietta went on, “because I know that my guardian’s grandfather built this house.”
“But perhaps his name was Huffam?”
“I don’t think so, for my guardian is Sir Perceval Mompesson.”
I burned with humiliation. Then the wretched Mrs Belflower had got it completely wrong and so probably my idea that I was connected with this place was mistaken. It was this girl who belonged here if Sir Perceval Mompesson was her guardian!
Absorbed as we were in our conversation, we had not noticed that the housekeeper had left the workman and approached the gate until she spoke from a few yards away:
“I shall write to Mr Assinder to complain of the insolence of that fellow. He has the effrontery to tell me that that window cannot be repaired without …” She broke off, raised the lorgnette which hung by a chain round her neck, and then exclaimed: “Miss Henrietta! Is that a boy ?”
“Yes, Mrs Peppercorn,” said Henrietta calmly.
A WISE CHILD
47
“Can you possibly be talking to a village child in defiance of your guardian’s
“She is very short-sighted and must not be able to see you,” the little girl continued.
“But when she does, she will tell you to go away and I will be punished.”
“Punished?” I asked. “In what way?”
“I will certainly be sent to bed without my tea,” she said in a very matter-of-fact tone.
And then added: “And perhaps whipped.”
“Whipped?”
She withdrew one hand from the muff and I saw that the back of it had a series of painful red welts across it.
“Then perhaps,” I said, “I should go away before she sees me.”
45
THE HUFFAMS
“No,” the child replied very definitely; “I should like to talk to you for a little longer.
There is no-one else here to talk to.”
“Have you no brothers or sisters?” I enquired.
“No. There is only Mrs Peppercorn and Betsy, and two other servants whom I am not permitted to speak to.”
“And is there no-one else in that big house?” I asked.
“No-one at all,” she said. “But, you see, most of it is shut up. We only use a few of the rooms. I wish there were other children here. Do you have brothers and sisters?”
“No,” I said; “I don’t know any other children either.”
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“John Mellamphy,” I replied.
“Is that all?” she asked in surprise.
“Yes. What’s yours?” I answered.
“It’s very long. Do you want to hear all of it?”
“Yes, please,” I said.
She took a breath, closed her eyes, and recited: “Henrietta Louisa Amelia Lydia Hougham Palphramond.” She opened her eyes and (still in a single breath) explained:
“My mother was called Louisa, and Henrietta and Lydia are for my great-aunts. I don’t know about the others, though.”
“But Hougham?” I exclaimed. “Is that spelt like the name of this village?”
“Yes,” she said. “H-o-u-g-h-a-m.”
Prompted by the desire to show that I, too, possessed a claim greater than might be implied by the bare two names I had admitted, I exclaimed: “I’ve got that name too! At least, I believe my grandfather’s name was the same as that, only spelt ‘H-u-f-f-a-m’.
That’s the name of the family that used to own this house and this village and all the land around here, you know.”
“Oh I don’t think that can be right,” she said.
“Oh yes it is.” (What an unpleasantly contradictory little girl it was!) “You see the Mumpseys … ”I hesitated. “They got it from the Huffams.”
“The Mumpseys! You mean the Mompessons. Only the village-people pronounce it that way.”
I flushed with shame. Of course I knew that name from the memorials in the church.
Why had I not made the connexion when Mrs Belflower mentioned it?
“You must be mistaken, you see,” Henrietta went on, “because I know that my guardian’s grandfather built this house.”
“But perhaps his name was Huffam?”
“I don’t think so, for my guardian is Sir Perceval Mompesson.”
I burned with humiliation. Then the wretched Mrs Belflower had got it completely wrong and so probably my idea that I was connected with this place was mistaken. It was this girl who belonged here if Sir Perceval Mompesson was her guardian!
Absorbed as we were in our conversation, we had not noticed that the housekeeper had left the workman and approached the gate until she spoke from a few yards away:
“I shall write to Mr Assinder to complain of the insolence of that fellow. He has the effrontery to tell me that that window cannot be repaired without …” She broke off, raised the lorgnette which hung by a chain round her neck, and then exclaimed: “Miss Henrietta! Is that a boy ?”
“Yes, Mrs Peppercorn,” said Henrietta calmly.
A WISE CHILD
47
“Can you possibly be talking to a village child in defiance of your guardian’s
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