Dance of the Years Page 7

  After this eloquent outburst, which appeared to exhaust him, he settled back in his chair and lowered his eyes.

  “James is my son,” said old Galantry, and the listening James, who was learning fast and hard, was made very proud and pleased in the midst of his misery by the note of dignity and protection. He looked up hopefully.

  “Little Will is my son,” said Young Will, cocking an eye at his father. “Ever since they got wind of your intention, his mother and her father have been making my life a scourge. I trust you will forgive me for the suggestion, but I don’t suppose, sir, that James’s mother and—er—grandfather have been exercising the same pressure on you.”

  There was a moment of complete silence and James glanced at his father confidently, but suddenly his rock gave way under him. The two men were looking at each other steadily, and the two pairs of hooded, overwise eyes met and wavered. Presently they both began to laugh.

  They gave James a glass of wine and he drank it slowly although he hated it, and was on the verge of choking anyway. Afterwards he went out of the room, crossed the hall, and climbed out of the library window.

  It was growing dark in the plantation to the east of the house, and he edged through it to the verge of the field beyond. He lay in the grass and wept, until he was cold. Finally he sat up and looked up over the waves of green which were fast turning grey in the failing light. His sight was phenomenal, and he watched single fronds of feathery goose-grass, and the little hairs upon them all bending gracefully before the light wind. The air was cool and soft and smelled so sweet that his sense seemed to faint before he could savour it all. He sat there motionless, feeling himself soothed, and comforted as actually as though something were stroking his very heart.

  It was a strange, lovely, physical experience; as if the sweet earth had hugged him, and held him close and made little noises to take his mind off the whole species and their savagery. Under these caresses his self-confidence gradually returned. From the time he had come out of the house he had been feeling simply, but now he began to think once more, and the first thing he thought was that after all it did not matter; and presently he slid into a mood which became typical of him later. It was great, strong, bull-headed obstinacy. Very well then, he thought. In spite of Shulie, in spite of people, in spite of a certain cartyness, in spite of anything the world had in the box for him, he would go on and grow into himself, and whatsoever tried to stop him should go down at last before his determination if it took him for ever to do it. He sat hunched up in the long grass, a small square figure, black against the deepening grey, lonely and solid, and master of the situation once again.

  Chapter Seven

  It is quite possible that the life he would have led in a fashionable Public School in the early nineteenth century would have broken James, but the experience was not for him. He went to Mr. Philby’s “Establishment for the Sons of Gentlemen,” not in London, but upon the London road, and Little Will, his nephew, went to Westminster, where he was a fairly unmolested, ineffectual little scrub.

  At Mr. Philby’s school in Kelvedon, much of James’s self-esteem was restored. Whatever he might have been elsewhere, in that little community he was a whale. If the story followed him (it was the ditch which took everybody’s fancy), it was not such a good story to that homely money-conscious stronghold as was Squire Galantry of Groats Hall.

  The building was one of those slabs of Queen Anne housing built on the road verge to save land, which are very impressive in front, but which prove to be very thin through, with a pathetic sort of pretentiousness which can never hope to deceive anybody who can step inside. Mr. Philby had a grand reception room for the parents, but most of his teaching was done in two large brew houses at the back. They were cold in winter and draughty in any weather, but James barely noticed the discomfort. Neither then, or ever, did he bother about ease of body. This was no virtue in him, he was so physically tough that as long as conditions were not actually harmful, he scarcely noticed them.

  In those days the town of Kelvedon was a great Baptist centre. Mr. Philby had a bent head which was not unlike a bean, and shrewd monkey eyes. He was a leading resident and a great local snob. He combined this with a strong leaning towards the new order, somehow making himself appear more well bred by disapproving so strongly of well-bred goings on. His wife said he was more refined than the Prince Regent, a remark which made old Galantry laugh so much when James repeated it that he never dared quote the lady again.

  James was not particularly clever at first, but he learned to write beautifully, and his penmanship became exquisite as he grew older.

  Joseph Philby was a practical man, and as his school was intended for the sons of professional men, not then so exclusive as they became later, he pleased the parents by instructing his pupils in sensible things like accounts, and the art of composing business letters, as well as enough Latin to decipher the footnotes in books of reminiscences. James enjoyed the actual business of writing, and also he liked the axioms he copied so carefully. He found the world so remarkably confusing and contradictory that he felt a few solid statements of fact were very comforting. Unfortunately some of the maxims in his copybook were not quite so reliable as others.

  “Good reputation is supported by honest actions” he wrote truly enough six times in copper plate; and on the next page, “Knowledge promotes and improves virtue”—a far more dubious gospel. The one which fascinated him was the simple caution, “Beware of imitating expensive persons,” for he could not imagine why they in particular should be so specially sensitive.

  The business letters were an education in themselves. James wrote notes from imaginary tea merchants in Thames Street to non-existent grocers; he recommended fictitious young men as travellers to the fur trade, and arranged credits for mythical business men from the continent.

  The last letter in his book purported to come from a Mr. John Herapath, imagined by James to look remarkably like the sad young miller who sat three pews away from him in church. James was twelve and a half at the time, and was beginning to take life very seriously.

  Gentlemen, he wrote, I beg to acknowledge the receipt of your letter of the 23rd instant, which should have been answered in course of post; but I was absent on a short journey expecting to collect sufficient to discharge your account.

  I regret that I have not been successful, though you need not be under any misapprehension to your ultimate payment. You are aware I took this concern under manifest disadvantages, having to purchase a heavy and not very valuable stock for which prompt payment was made.

  I am not fond of giving bills if they can possibly be avoided, but if it would be any satisfaction to you, you can draw upon me for the amount of one hundred and seventy-nine pounds twelve shillings and sixpence at thirty days date and may fully rely on the acceptance being met.

  I am, Gentlemen, your obedient servant, John Herapath.

  This dignified and reassuring document was not entirely James’s own work, for he had help with the more formal phrases from Mr. Selsey, the usher, who seemed to think it slightly funny. But the main part of it was his own, and he was aware of its subtleties. He was proud of it, and looked for Mr. Philby’s approbation when he should read it out in class. To his chagrin, when the great moment came, the Headmaster made no comment at all, but instead glanced rather curiously at the stolid little boy with the hooded eyes, before he put the copybook down and took up someone else’s.

  The fact was that already James was beginning to betray a flair for business. This was not altogether extraordinary, for his mother’s people were by tradition absorbed by it. It was the bargaining, the give and take, the never-mentioned fight which went on all the time in business which delighted him. Mr. Philby observed this, and did not altogether approve. He was disappointed in James.

  Although he was preparing most of his pupils for business life, he felt James owed it to them all to be different. He hoped James was going to be an Independent Gentleman, and as such ought
in decency to be a bit of a fool in business. From Mr. Philby’s point of view James’s presence at school was a fortunate accident, and he sincerely hoped James was not going to let him down by being good at these commercial studies; only the day before James alone had been successful in answering the question: “If I buy fourteen yards of cloth for ten guineas, how many Flemish ells can I buy for two hundred and eighty-three pounds seventeen shillings and twopence at the same rate?”

  Mr. Philby thought it a pity, and he told his wife that he was not at all sure he was doing his duty by the boy. Mrs. Philby, who was as plump and symmetrical as her husband was slender and bent, was even more upset, for she had received old Galantry when he had called to inspect the establishment, and had been pleasantly fluttered by him. She could not bear that such a distinguished stranger should ever think slightingly of the school, and she begged Mr. Philby to speak to James. It was a delicate job for any schoolmaster, and Mr. Philby waited his opportunity. It came when he invited James to walk home with him from evensong behind the others.

  “You are taking a greater interest in your work, Galantry, I see,” said Mr. Philby.

  “Yes, sir,” said James brightly, looking up with happy anticipation.

  “I am pleased to see it,” continued Mr. Philby mendaciously, his bent head held even further on one side than usual. “Very pleased to see it. But there is one point I should like to mention. There are some subjects taught in this school that other boys will find more useful than you will. Do you understand me, Galantry?”

  James was alarmed; this was not praise after all; something had gone wrong. He had made a mistake again somewhere.

  “No, sir,” he said truthfully. Mr. Philby sighed. The wretched little boy was going to be difficult.

  “Bills,” said Mr. Philby. “You are not likely ever to be in a position to give bills, Galantry.”

  Poor James was overcome with shame. True, he had only done what he had been taught to do, but he felt degraded, found out; discovered to be by nature the sort of person who would buy a shop, get into difficulties, and have to give bills, not be able to meet them, and have to be saved at the last moment by some sneering and contemptuous relative.

  Mr. Philby knew a great deal about boys, and James’s silence and crimson face awakened his conscience. “We won’t take it to heart, Galantry,” he said. “We’ll just concentrate on the sort of thing which will be useful to you in after life, shall we?”

  “Yes, sir,” said James.

  “Such as Latin,” continued Mr. Philby hopefully.

  James peered down a shady vista of years in which Latin would be of great use to him. It did not look attractive. He was dreadfully ashamed; it was another incident like the terrible affair of the mole; his “carty” nature had let him down again. That evening he discussed the problem with his only real friend.

  This was a peculiar little boy called Samuel Thorpe. He was a year older than James, and was a small, white-faced creature with long, lank black hair who always seemed to have slightly unsuitable clothes. These were really extraordinarily varied; some very fine, and some positively ragged. Yet Samuel never minded. He always seemed to get away with his disadvantages somehow, for he skated over those who could be skated over, and had a genius for capitalizing the others. James admired him tremendously for this, and did his best to imitate his outlook, which in a man would have been cynical, and in a little boy was merely rum.

  In the normal way James had a much better bedroom than Samuel because, presumably, he paid more. Samuel slept in the north attic where a parapet blocked up at least three parts of the small window. He shared it with three others and would have been with them now, but a case of illness had occurred up there, and just for the night a narrow bed had been put up for him in James’s room at the owner’s invitation.

  James was playing host, and doing it remarkably well. The day before, Donald had called in with a hamper from Dorothy, so that in the fashion of the time he was able to offer his guest a cold bird, some fat ham, a tart, and a glass of old Galantry’s second-best port. Not only this but by a judicious bribe of at least two-thirds of the bottle of brandy which Dorothy always sent in case of illness, he had arranged with Mr. Philby’s one manservant to bring them up a bowl of hot, weak punch to end the meal. As the two sat on their beds and sipped the hot, sour stuff, James brought up the subject of the letter as casually as he could, and was gratified to find Samuel interested. Samuel said he had been delighted with the letter and John Herepath Harduppe had become a character in his mind. To explain what he meant, he rose and bracing up his pantaloons until the ends fitted tightly round his calves, he stuck his wrists out of his jacket sleeves and struck an attitude of dignified melancholy.

  “Alas, Mr. Galantry,” he said, striving to make his voice less squeaky than usual. “I have not yet been successful, although you need not be under any misapprehension to your ultimate payment. Take heart, sir; the time will come!” And as he finished he looked up with such an expression of unconvincing optimism that James choked over his punch; a thing he would not have had happen for the world. When he recovered he came out with his story of the injustice of Mr. Philby.

  Samuel left off fooling at once and sat down. “Old Philly knows which side his bread is buttered, James me boy,” he said, looking very wise. “He’s a clever old devil; lots of brains in Philly.”

  “I suppose so,” agreed James, trying to echo the sophistication without success.

  “No supposing about it, my dear fellow. He’s thinking of his school, not of you, isn’t he? You’re the star boarder, Master Galantry. You’re in the Academy’s shop window. You’ve got to be the dear little swell that everyone would like to think their own sons are, but which they don’t want them to be because they can’t afford it! Clever old Philly! He can shout when he likes and keep quiet when he likes. See how quiet he’s kept about me.”

  James looked up with interest, but said nothing. There was a considerable mystery about Samuel. He himself gave several different versions of his home life, all highly coloured. At one time he had been badly bullied, but as the years had gone on he had gradually become accepted and had been left in peace.

  Mr. Philby was never unkind to Samuel, but he contrived to keep him, as it were, at arms’ length. James took a deep breath. He wanted to confide in somebody, and Samuel was very close to him.

  “It worried me,” he said, “because I can’t really help it. There’s a sort of streak which keeps coming out in me. I’ve never told anybody, but my mother was a gypsy.”

  “Pooh,” said Samuel, “that’s only romantic. My mother’s an actress; that’s why old Philly keeps me so quiet.”

  “An actress?” said James blankly. In spite of his fellow feeling for Samuel the information shocked him considerably. “I say! And your father’s dead, isn’t he?”

  Samuel hesitated. His blue eyes looked almost black in their slitted sockets, and James thought they were smiling although the rest of his face was grave.

  “My father was a noble soldier, my dear James,” he said. “Covered all over with gold and wounds, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  James was silent. He was not at all sure Samuel was serious. If he was, of course, it was a sad subject; if not, he was being indelicate. Still, if his mother really was an actress that explained much. Samuel was quite right. Mr. Philby was not a Non-Conformist, but he did live in a nest of them, and the Dissenter’s view of the stage at that time was quite definite. It was Hell’s own ante-room, and that was all there was to it.

  James sat on his bed, his sticky fingers grasping his warm glass, and looked remarkably like Shulie. He was thinking how complicated it all was. The discovery that whole dozens of groups of adult persons honestly believed utterly different things filled him with that sense of mingled injustice and despair which must come once to every child.

  Samuel appeared to be thinking on the same lines.

  “Look’ee, James,” he said. “If I had gone to one of the big school
s, I should have got on better, always providing my mother had kept a coach. That’s the first thing they ask you at Westminster, you know. If you can say ‘Yes,’ they leave you alone. I should have been all right because actresses are in fashion among the swells. All the best people marry actresses. Lord Thurlow, Lord Craven, Mr. Becher, Robert Heathcoat, Mr. Coutts; every one of them married a woman on the stage. It’s only among the thick-headed John Bulls that the actress is not considered fit for polite society.

  “So you see, had it not been that I have no coach, I might be quite in the mode. I tell you, James, one thing becomes very clear to me. It’s silly.”

  “What is?”

  “All of it.” Samuel was enjoying himself. “It’s all mad. The world is unreasonable, James, ain’t it? There’s only one thing for poor devils like us to do in it, and that’s to find out what is the admiration of the company we happen to be with, and then to ascribe to it. That’s what I say.”

  James suspected he was quoting somebody, and was not so impressed as he might have been. “I shan’t,” he said, “I shall be myself.”

  “The Gypsy Squire?” said Samuel. “It sounds like a play, don’t it? Let’s write it.”

  James blushed. He wished he had not told Samuel about Shulie.

  “No,” he said angrily, “I’m not a gypsy. I shall be myself, my father’s son.”