Dance of the Years (16 page)

It all sounded very serious to James, but the brother and sister were still amused. They quoted passages from the play at each other, and James who knew them very well by this time realized that their chagrin must be considerable. It was not easy to discover what had happened at the performance, although they each gave him highly-coloured accounts. He took it they were exaggerating, but gathered that Phœbe had obtained one unorthodox titter by mistake, had lost her head and had not been able to resist attempting to gather a few more. If this was so, it had been a very dangerous proceeding, for these were the days of belligerent playgoing and James himself had seen the seats torn up in the theatre several times. He enquired into this aspect, discreetly, and was reassured by Samuel.

“Oh, dear me no, James. Our faithful patrons appeared delighted. Hysterically delighted, perhaps, but not at all unfriendly. There were one or two cries of ‘Shame,' a few demands for the return of cash, but no disturbance. Unfortunately our worthy proprietor and the London Thespian were not so easily beguiled. Our sister's muse is not the tragic kind, that has been proved.”

“I enjoyed it at the time, you know,” said Phœbe seriously.

“So much emerged, my chuck,” Samuel agreed yawning. “Damme James, I'm tired. Do you sit up with the girl while I go to bed.”

He got up from the couch as he spoke and wandered out of the room. In the doorway he paused. “It might have been worse,” he said.

“Of course it might,” she agreed, shaking back the stocking toe. “I might have actually poisoned myself. Good night.”

When the door had closed behind him she let down her skirt and took off her turban. She was very tired, and the bright colour which had been burning in her cheeks all the evening began to fade. It was one of her times for looking beautiful, James thought. There were shadows in her face which accentuated her high cheek-bones, and drew in the tiny upward curving lines at the corners of her wide mouth. He sat watching her.

He was very still, and in his country clothes and high, white neck cloth looked comfortingly solid in a very flimsy world. Phœbe glanced at him, and for a moment her blue eyes met his bright, round, black ones. Very thoughtfully, her eyes still on his, she came over to him and, without rising or moving more than was absolutely necessary, he put out a hand to take her own. Presently he opened his knees and drew her slowly into his embrace, closing himself round her, pressing her against him, breathing deeply the fragrance of her skin.

He was so glad there was no talk, no explanation, no preliminaries. He sat there, just holding her and felt like a thirsty man drinking great draughts of cool water. He had not realized how much he had wanted only that.

It was a long time before she moved, and then it was to put her arm round his neck. He could see her face within a foot of his own looking grave and eager, and far more like Juliet's than ever it had done on the stage.

“James,” she said, “let's go away to-night.”

“To-night?” he demanded, his heart leaping, as the way spread out clear.

“Why not? We've loved each other for a long time and haven't said so. Besides—besides, I don't want to see them all to-morrow morning, James.”

He hesitated for a long time because it was not fair. She was very insistent.

“You've got the horses,” she said. “Let's go now.”

It was not fair to take her like this, it made things too simple. Besides, she was too dear.

“Oh, why not?” she repeated, drawing away from him. “Oh, why not? Don't you want me, James?”

He exerted a little of his strength and she cried out that he was killing her.

“Please, James,” she said. “Please, James. We'll be so happy.”

It was about two in the morning when James went into Jed's room to tell the old man that he was taking the gig and the blue roan. Jed squirmed up on his elbow and lay blinking in the soft glare of the candle James was holding high to light the room.

“Har! You've got her then,” he said, although no word explicitly of Phœbe had ever passed between them.

“Yes,” said James, adding after a pause, “we'll be back in about a month maybe.”

“You ain't marrying of her?” There was both anxiety and belligerence in the old voice.

“No,” said James, but he sighed over it. “No, I'm not wedding.”

Jed lay down among the pillows again in peace.

“You want to look at that axle every fifty mile,” he called after James, “and keep your eye open for a good little cob. You don't want to waste your time entirely.”

Nearly a year after Queen Victoria came to the throne, James rode down to Sedgeford village in Middlesex to see Dorothy, who was getting very old.

It was nearly fifteen years since he and Phœbe had driven out of Ipswich in Jed's best gig, and a great deal had happened to him and to the world about him in the interval, and yet he himself was not greatly changed. He had grown darker as he grew older, and had become even sturdier so that he now appeared an attractive, heavy, intensely masculine sort of a man who had blue whites to his round, black eyes, and colour under the dark skin of his face. He was reputed to have considerable charm and liveliness, but there was no frivolousness in his appearance.

At the moment he was riding a well-mannered, weight-carrying bay cob whose skin glowed like polished wood, and who gave indication of great care. Indeed, the pair of them looked much as they intended to look; good, reliable, comfortable, and not beholden to anybody. James's black hair curled on the top of his head under his low cut grey hat, and his sideburns were short and well barbered. His leather breeches were excellently cut, his boots highly polished, and his green coat with the big buttons at the back sat snugly over his huge shoulders. He rode very carefully so as not to tire the horse, and as he passed through Kingston he gave the animal a pint of the warm ale he drank himself.

When he neared the cottage to which he had moved Dorothy some years before, just after Jed died, he noticed the thatch needed patching, and that there was a pale or two missing in the garden fence. He was not irritated by the observations, but made a note of them as something else that must be attended to. He took his horse round to the stable, and was pleased to see the clean straw and feed set ready for him. Only when he was sure the beast was comfortable did he go in.

He found Dorothy waiting, as he knew she would be. She was very much better than he had feared, and he was surprised to find how tremendously relieved he was. She was sitting up in her chair by the window looking very clean and expectant. She was not so very old, seventy-five is no great age in the East Country, but her years sat heavy on her, and had drawn the skin tight over her gaunt bones.
The hair under her cap was sparse, and the hands folded in her lap looked like brown talons; yet her bright eyes were nearly as sharp as they had ever been, and they took James in eagerly as he came towards her.

She looked over him, he thought, as old Larch would have looked over a beast, eyeing it carefully for any sign of poverty or weakness. To-day she was pleased with what she saw. He was a credit to her, a great credit, a fine little old boy.

He laughed and took her hands.

“Going to bid for me, Dorothy?”

She grinned up at him, her toothless mouth giving her a babyish, helpless look.

“Har! You'll do,” she said. “There's a glass of wine for you over there. Set down, and let me hear of you!”

They talked of intimate trivialities; of the girl who “did” for Dorothy; of the state of the roof; and of James's remarkably good health. They were both very happy. The July day drowsed outside and the sun gradually filled the little room and lit on the tiny chest of drawers, the gate-legged table, and the worn wool carpet which Dorothy had made herself long ago at Groats.

It was all very warm and still, and shabby and peaceful. James felt peculiarly at home; there were few places where he did get that feeling, but this was one of them. From here the picture of his life looked foreign and remote to him, like a novel. The tale of the past thirteen or fourteen years was apt to appear somewhat patchy and unreal, although if he examined it closely there was a pattern there, some sort of shape, a running line.

As far as his material fortunes were concerned, he had done remarkably well. His inheritance had increased, perhaps doubled, for his business ability had developed, and the lessons he had learned from Jed together with the close association he had kept up with the Jasons, had brought him considerable gains in his dealings in horse flesh. If Dorothy had taught him pride, Jed had shown him prudence, and under that strict hand he had learned to conserve his money. He kept very quiet about his horse dealings nowadays, considering them not quite respectable (as they were not), and had managed to convince even himself that he was the veriest amateur in the trade, but his natural flair, his knowledge, and, above all, his caution, could not but be rewarded.

All the same, he had contrived to remain a gentleman who dabbled in horse flesh. He also bought and sold other things in the same unobtrusive, amateurish fashion. He had an eye for property. The cottage in which they sat at this moment had been a little speculation which had turned out well. The district was growing, the land worth
five or six times what he had paid for it. Even his association with the theatre had not been unprofitable. His early attempts to act (he changed his name to Galley for the experiment) had soon convinced him that he had no talent in that direction; but that did not destroy his love for the stage. He remained an ardent supporter, and when the opportunity occurred, invested a considerable sum in the new Covent Garden Theatre, a speculation which paid him very well.

Yet for all his caution and gift for money making, if he did well he did not do too well. At every turn the self-imposed restriction against becoming an undisguised business man had hampered him, and kept him but moderately comfortable. It was an idiotic state of affairs, but in a transition period it is sometimes very difficult for a man to keep up with his own times, and James did not quite see all the changes taking place around him.

The new world, whose birth pangs old Galantry had so recklessly assumed to be death convulsions, was growing into a mighty youth.

The Industrial Revolution had so far produced wealth for many who had not had it before, and slavery for a great many more who had not had that either, and a bitter skin game was fast getting under way. At the same time, the Reform Bill had been passed, laying a corner-stone of the new democracy without the majority of folk realizing that once and for all the power of government had been wrested from the aristocracy, and that for the first time there was now no longer any real need to breed, or buy and fake one's way to power.

The French Wars were won, but not forgotten, and the loss of one great colony and the threatened loss of another had not passed unnoticed. The nation had had a great fright, and, much of the dead wood, both in ideas and personalities, had been swept away at least for the time being. The new nineteenth century son of the old rake of the eighteenth had buried his father and had set about keeping alive, and growing very strong, in every way possible.

The national mind plumping for safety and growth appears to have aimed with simple commonsense for wealth and progeny, relying on each to protect the other. The day of the damping-down and banking-up was at hand, and suppression, or rather, compression, with a view to making force was the order of the day.

Morals had tightened up in a way which would have startled old Galantry, and, because there was a purpose in this urge behind the change, public opinion kept them tight.

Women's clothes expressed the subtlety of this change perhaps more clearly than anything else. The natural mode, loose flowing and free, which made no pretences and few mysteries, had suddenly vanished, and in its place had come perhaps the most monstrously inviting and provoking costume of all time. Shoulders and bust appeared almost
naked, and were allied to the drawn-in and helpless waist, and the peeping pantalette all promise and prudery; while, most important of all, the full skirt of maternity had returned. Marriage, the ideal state for child-rearing, became a vital institution again. Illegal alliances were abhorred as anti-social, and the virtues were extolled and made important.

It was a grim, forthright, reviving time, and since human nature does not necessarily keep up with the fashion, there was so much individual cheating that it became a commonplace, and most men were expected to have a few secrets and usually built up a little façade for themselves to hide behind.

As he sat there opposite Dorothy, his glass in his hand, and a soft, vulnerable expression in his round, dark eyes, the façade James had made for himself became very apparent. The old woman glanced across at him.

“How is she?” she enquired.

“Wonderfully well,” he said briefly, and there was a long silence between them while Dorothy shaped her mouth to make words of which she always thought better just in time. Finally she came out with it.

“I don't like you mixed up with the wicked,” she said. “Time was when I didn't believe in hell, but I do now! You'll be damned, my little old boy, the way you're going on!”

James smiled at her awkwardly. He was not surprised, for it was some years now since Dorothy had been “catched,” as she said, by the Dissenters, and he was always having to lead the conversation away from the conversion she had in mind for him.

“You still go to them places of destruction?” she enquired.

“I still go to the theatre sometimes.”

“That poisons your mind, you know.”

“I don't think so.”

She closed her eyes, and he suspected she was putting up a prayer for him. Presently she smiled.

“I'm only a very silly, ignorant old woman,” she said, and seemed to take comfort from the fact, as if there might be a loophole in her entire faith, and James be all right and not doomed to eternal burning after all.