Dance of the Years

by Margery Allingham

  James’s present difficulty lay in the simple fact that, considered as a wife for him, a woman who was both bastard and play-actress was not acceptable to any single one of the few people who were literally all the world to him. This in itself was unfortunate enough, but there was an even more awkward side to it. The true objection lay, not so much with Phœbe, as with himself. Jed and Dorothy objected to the alliance because in their opinion James’s breeding could not afford it. There was no mere snobbery in the matter, they were far more practical than that. As far as they were concerned marriage was solely a means to an end, which is to say, to progeny, and that was their paramount consideration.

  Jed had put it to James very plainly only a few days before.

  “I hope you’ll forgive me for being so personal,” he had said, using the opening with a certain amount of justification for once in a while, “but you want to be wonderfully careful how you marry. Wedding will be a terrible serious thing for you. You don’t never want to think about gooing along with one of they old players, y’know. Some gentlemen is forgive if they takes one of they, but some ain’t. They’re a pretty little old lot, but they’re nothing more than gyppos. We don’t think much to they, we don’t.”

  He could hardly have put it more brutally, and now as James leaned over the gate in the darkness he knew there was no possible hope that he might have meant any less than he said. Worst of all, in his heart he could only agree with him. The real objection was little to do with Phœbe, the main weakness was his own. There had been one dangerous cross-breeding, and the risk must not be taken again. His position which they had built up for him so carefully was at stake.

  He thrust his hands in his pocket and wandered back along the road. He thought it was a seriously foolish matter in a seriously foolish world, and the only person in whom he could imagine confiding was Phœbe herself, or possibly Samuel, and that was hardly possible in the circumstances. He cursed himself for falling in love with Phœbe; it had cost him his two best friends. Yet as he walked along in the darkness he knew he was in love with her, and that despite the grim commonsense of his training and temperament, he would have her if she cost him the world.

  There was one way out of all the difficulties, of course, but he did not feel inclined even to consider it, although Jed had put it to him fairly plainly. Phœbe was too good to be a mistress, too dear. He had made up his mind to marry her; it was the question he had come out to decide, and having settled it he walked on more quickly for he suspected it was getting very late.

  He ought to have gone to the theatre instead of wandering out on to the road, for it was to have been a great night there. Phœbe was taking the first great part of her career, and he should have been present. Indeed, had it not been for her little note asking him to be sure and come, he might not have forced himself to take a decision so soon. But the prospect of seeing her again had made that imperative.

  He had not been near the company for over a fortnight, but Whippy, who was the world’s most industrious gossip, had kept him posted in all the details of the great occasion. It was to be “Romeo and Juliet,” he had reported, for Mr. Webb, the London actor who was honouring Ipswich for one week only, had insisted on including Mercutio in his repertoire. This inconsiderate move had embarrassed the stock company considerably, since Mrs. Venture the proprietor’s wife, who normally played all the more important of Shakespeare’s women, was within an ace of being brought to bed with her second child, and while it was considered seemly and even piquant for her to portray Lady Macbeth when in such a condition, her appearance thus as Juliet was thought to be unsuitable. There had been a great many conferences, so Whippy said, and finally amid a great deal of excitement, Phœbe had been given her chance.

  James felt guilty about avoiding the performance, but he was glad he had. He did not want to have to think of Phœbe and tragedy in the same breath; he felt it incongruous. Phœbe was Beatrice, Rosalind, Kate Hardcastle, not Juliet.

  As he came through the town he realized that he had missed the show altogether. Already most of the houses were dark and the streets almost empty. He went round to the back of the theatre and was just in time to catch Clover, the doorkeeper, who was locking up. The old man was deaf as an egg, but affable as usual. His first words were enlightening.

  “She h’aint here,” he said, “don’t suppose you’ll see her again. Disgraceful! Mr. Webb couldn’t contain himself when he spoke to her. He’s got a wonderful voice, even I could hear him meself. ‘Madam,’ he says, ‘in London tragedy is tragedy; in Hipswich I see you prefer farce.’ She soon went off after that and her Ma with her. The old lady was a-crying and she was a-laughing; quite a comedy it was.”

  James could get very little more out of him, but it seemed clear that Phœbe’s début as a tragedy queen had not been an unqualified success. He stood at the end of the windy street hesitating for a moment or two before he turned to go up to the Butter Market. He had never become a part of the exciting, moonlit world of the theatre any more than he had ever really become a part of Jed’s horsey fraternity. There as elsewhere he had always been but a half-brother. But he had seen a great deal of it and he could guess the kind of crisis which the present debacle would provoke.

  James admired the Thorpes’ sophistication and their lively fancies opened new vistas to him, but he had few illusions about either of them. They belonged, he knew, to a very shadowy universe; a place of high-lights and darkness, of great exultations and wild despairs. He thought he had better go and see Phœbe at once.

  The bonnet shop was in darkness when he arrived, and he threw pebbles up at the first floor windows until Samuel put his head out. To James’s surprise he seemed in very good spirits.

  “Galantry,” he cried, “my dear fellow. Just the man. Come in. Come in. Wait a moment and I’ll open the door.”

  He was still chattering when James followed him up the stairs, and his voice, which was still very nearly as squeaky as when he had been a child, sounded positively elated. Yet as far as James could gather the great night on which so many hopes had been builded had been something of a fiasco.

  “Fantastic, my dear James,” Samuel insisted earnestly, as they turned into the large, untidy sitting-room. “Sublimely ridiculous. Juliet the clown. Juliet getting her laughs every time. An entirely new conception. We impressed the Londoner.”

  James was not heartened by the information, he had seen Samuel in this mood before. He looked round anxiously for Phœbe, but there was no sign of her. He was about to enquire after her when she appeared.

  The inner door, which led into the bedroom, was suddenly thrown open, and she stood on the threshold. It was a dramatic entrance for one in disgrace, but not a tragic one. She had hitched up her skirts to make a travesty of a doublet and trunk hose, and had twisted a black stocking round her head, so arranged that the toe flapped over her eyes not at all unlike the monstrous lock of which Mr. Webb was reputed to be so proud. Her arms were folded and her eyes peered at them from beneath the turban.

  “Madam,” she said, and immediately the London actor, complete with all his eccentricities, stood glowering before James. “Madam, in the Capital we reverrre our trrragedy.”

  It was a comic picture, for behind her there was a clear view of the bed in which Mrs. Thorpe sat upright in a mighty white night-cap. The lady held a steaming glass in one hand and a handkerchief in the other, and was protesting her shame at Phœbe’s disgrace at the top of her voice. James began to laugh aloud and Samuel turned on him.

  “That’s nothing, my dear fellow,” he said, “you should have seen her in the tomb.”

  At this there was a fresh outburst of wailing from Mrs. Thorpe, and Phœbe broke out laughing herself. Altogether it was a most hilarious gathering. James shut the bedroom door for their mother himself, and Mrs. Thorpe assured him in a stage whisper that she devoutly prayed that she should never see the morning light.

  It all sounded very serious to James, but the brother and sister were still amu
sed. 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.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  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.