Dance of the Years (33 page)

His main reason for calling, however, was to see more of Debby. He had said she reminded him of a wild moss rose. She did. James had not considered wild moss roses; Septimus had. The moss rose is not the dog rose; it is an untidy, cabbagy little bloom, pink and woolly and innocent, and very sweet smelling.

Septimus had heard his father, Lucius Galantry, tell the story of James, and to him it had appeared romantic. Hence the exciting word “wild” in his description.

When Debby came in to the drawing-room at Penton Place she was
just exactly as he had imagined her. The curl fell down again just as she got in to the room, and a flicker of amusement passed under his hooded lids. Debby did not see it.

For all she knew he might have been the boy she had expected. Debby did not raise her eyes.

Miss Malagrowther, the deportment instructress at Miss Marchbanks', had one edict which she drilled into her pupils with the same determination with which a sergeant insists that no man will forget his rifle. She said: “No nice young lady ever raises her eyes above a gentleman's knees when she is first introduced to him.”

Debby learned her lesson painfully, but once there the habit stayed. She never did. She lived to be a hundred, and she never did. On this occasion she thought that Mr. Galantry had lovely boots.

Septimus was compelled to do all the work, and he was delighted. He introduced himself as her cousin, and said that he had brought messages of goodwill from Lucius, who was growing very old. Deborah hardly heard what he said; she only thought he had a very attractive voice.

She spoke her formal piece about her “dear Papa” being too unwell to receive him, and then stood so still and so shy, her face so pink and her lashes so black on her cheek, that Septimus, who was not quite so dashing in the ordinary way, became possessed of unusual boldness.

“Is it permitted for cousins to kiss?” he enquired, his eyes dancing.

Miss Deborah Galantry was startled out of her wits, but once again Miss Malagrowther came to her rescue.

“My hand,” said Debby, thrusting out a brown fist with more determination than grace.

Delighted astonishment passed over Mr. Galantry's sophisticated face. He crowed. There was no other word in Debby's vocabulary for that peculiar, triumphant sound, which was only half a laugh. He bent over her hand charmingly and said something she did not quite catch, but it sounded like “sweet.”

Having got the introductions over, Debby raised her bright, black eyes and was momentarily nonplussed to see a complete stranger. Septimus straightened himself to find her staring at him.

“That's better,” he said. “What's the matter, cousin? Am I not at all what you expected?”

“Oh, much better,” said Debby, involuntarily advancing out of her own safe ground away from Miss Malagrowther, only to retract immediately. “Please be seated, sir—I mean cousin,” she said. “I trust you do not find the weather too warm.”

It was midwinter and freezing, but the word had slipped out. It was the sort of silly mistake she was always making in class, and
weariness came over her. It was no good; she was going to muff it.

Septimus was reading her thoughts; not a difficult proceeding, for Debby had the most expressive face which lit up and clouded every other minute.

“Suppose you sit down, too,” he suggested. “Now tell me, have you seen Miss Deveraux lately?”

“No,” said Debby, adding frankly, “Papa does not wish it.” She felt this was a dangerous statement to leave floating in the air, and yet was at a loss to explain it. The complicated machinery for polite conversation spread out in front of her like a tray of ivory bobbins, all of which she was expected to use at once. To her relief he nodded as if she had told him everything, and his eyes, which were beginning to fascinate her because they were so like her father's, yet much more experienced although he was younger, rested on her face.

“Wealthy and fashionable friends can be a responsibility, and not greatly entertaining. Don't worry, Deborah,” he said.

She could have taken it that she was neither wealthy or fashionable, but he did not mean that, and she knew he did not. He was very easy to talk to, almost an old friend.

Unfortunately they talked too long, and Boxer appeared to say that the master was enquiring for his daughter. This was serious. Septimus realized what a gaffe it was quicker even than Debby, and he made most sincere apologies. Debby was alarmed by James, but even more alarmed to lose Septimus. She made the prescribed parting speech.

“It has been most agreeable of you to call. I will inform my father of all your kind enquiries.” But added on her own account: “Oh, cousin, I do so hope you will come again.”

Septimus took her hand and pressed it. As old Galantry had felt the racing life in Shulie running through his arm, when he walked with it across her shoulder in the copse behind Jason's house, so Septimus was aware of something unusual which was also something he needed very badly, when he first touched Debby, but the power was diluted in this generation, and the sensation was far less extreme. He had no idea what it was.

He guessed that he might very easily fall in love with her; he thought she was the dearest little muff, not too little, either, but strong and very healthy, and not too mysterious for comfort.

Debby felt he was romance miraculously made easy and without the intense embarrassment she usually associated with it. She felt bereft when he went away, and was nearly in tears she was so lonely, when she trotted up to James.

James said that three-quarters of an hour was a fantastic time for a first call, and asked her what the devil she thought she had been
up to. All the same, he was pleased by the visit. Even as late as his middle age, any gesture from the first family would have found him disinterested, but that time had passed, and he had nearly forgotten the details which had led up to his flight to “The Golden Boar.”

He sat thinking of Lucius and Young Will with something of the same affection he usually reserved for Groats and Dorothy and his father. He could not remember much about them except, absurdly enough, Young Will's very high waisted white breeches as he had sat in the candle-light talking about schools. It seemed a very long time ago.

James was not at all well. He had had a ridiculous accident. It was the kind of mishap which often took off a very healthy old dog, he reflected, and the thought brought out his little grunting laugh. He had had a fight.

It had happened on the first cold day of the autumn, about dusk. By this time the Walworth Road was fast losing its early respectability, and as he turned out of the main thoroughfare into the gloom of a side street a figure had snatched at the watch chain just visible between the swinging sides of his coat. The incident had happened very quickly. James whipped up his heavy ash plant and brought it down so savagely on the retreating arm, and with such tremendous strength behind the blow that the larger bone was fractured at the wrist. It was a tremendous swipe. The muscles of James's back and shoulders were still mighty, and he still had no idea of their power. Also he was very angry. The watch was the one which he had bought to replace that which he had given to Blackberry. It had cost him fifty pounds, and he heard it drop on to the bricks of the road. In his rage he dived at the man, caught him round the hips just as he was darting away, and brought him down on the stones. He kicked James in the thigh, but the old man held on grimly until the crowd came up.

At the police station James had had his first heart attack. The excruciating pain in his chest astonished as well as frightened him, and the faintness which was the first he had ever known in his life, which followed it, warned him that the damage was serious.

The police had been very sympathetic, and the Charge Sergeant, who had seen the punishment done to the thief, could not resist a word of congratulation.

“That was a werry fine blow, sir,” he said. “You're a remarkably powerful man, if I may say so. Werry phenomenally strong, ain't you?”

James felt the enquiry was an impertinence, but he recognized the compliment.

“Yes,” he said. “I've been very strong all my life.”

“Never done nothing wiv it, sir?” enquired the Sergeant, who appeared to be fascinated.

“No,” said James, thinking how ill he felt. “No, of course not.”

But on the way home in the shaky cab it occurred to him that there was no “of course” about it. It had been an asset which had not fitted into his scheme of things.

In his unnerved state, a fear which was part superstition took hold of him, and he thought there might well be something very wrong indeed about that. He was still considering it when they helped him out and got him to bed.

He was up again in a couple of days, but everyone could see the change in him, while he suffered from no delusion.

With no grace at all he submitted to an examination by the doctor who had attended Jinny. It was a depressing business, and James's remark that the “vet.” didn't seem to think he was “worth his fodder” was made before the man was well out of the room, and embarrassed William and Deborah, who were both present.

William did not like the vulgarity of the fight. He belonged to the new, more precious age, and he instructed Debby to speak of her poor Papa's ‘accident' and not of his ‘affray,' which was the word she was using.

James thought they were both damned silly, and wondered aloud sometimes what would become of them all when he was in Hell.

“Hades, dear Papa,” said Debby mildly on these occasions.

James had not the heart even to swear at her. He kept to his room most of the time, sitting by his fire and thinking.

It was at this period that Septimus had called, and James was most interested in Debby's description. The picture she drew was detailed, and reminded him forcibly of old Will Galantry. He very much wished he had made the effort and seen the youngster. So he was particularly pleased a few days later when he got a letter from Lucius. It was written in a fine hand, which was not at all unsteady, but so small that James, who was affronted by its vigour, had to ask Debby to read it to him.

My dear Bro. James
, she began.

“He calls you brother, Papa. Is he your brother?”

“That depends,” said James. “Read on.”

“Very well, dear Papa.”

My dear Bro. James
,

I felt I should write to thank you for your courtesy to my youngest son, Septimus, who, so he tells me, called upon you the other day and
was graciously received by your charming daughter. I hear from him that she is a most elegant young lady and a beauty as well, for the which I congratulate you. My own daughters are excellent women, but even their devoted father could never ascribe them handsome
.

It is a long time since we met, James. I have been trying to reckon it up, and I make it close on fifty years, which is too long. I daresay we older boys seemed very “antiquated” to you when we came down to our father's funeral. I don't blame you for going off as you did
.

What happened to that good woman, whose name I forget, who was the “dragon at the gate” in those days? Of course she must be dead by this time. I have never forgotten her. The latter-day servants are not like the old ones, are they
?

I go out very little now, but sit by my fire and think of the past. My wife died many years ago and my girls are married. One man-servant, nearly as old as I am, looks after me
.

Putney is a long way from Penton Place, but if you are still striding about—I took it that nothing more than an attack of ‘pincher' kept you to your room when S. called—I should indeed be very glad to see you. You and I are the last of us
.

Will's son, who is another William, is squiring it in the West, and the others went the way of all flesh long ago. At any rate, I hope you will let Septimus wait on you again. He is a good fellow, more like our father than any of us. His verse is thought well of in some quarters. I cannot speak for it myself, not being of a poetical turn of mind. But it seems well enough
!

Let me hear of you, James
.

Yours very sincerely
,

Lucius Galantry
.

No
. 1,
Riverside Way
,

Putney
.

When Debby finished reading she held her breath. James was watching the fire.

“So,” he said suddenly, “so, my girl.”

Debby's heart rose because he did not sound angry; there was no doubt about it. Dear Papa sounded smug. Of course, William had to be shown the letter.

He was some time coming, and Debby waited in agony. Her helplessness was complete; for the young woman of her day and class to take an independent step was to take it off the top of a very narrow pedestal. Debby could see that James was in the process of turning over the responsibilities of his household, of which she was a part, to William, and naturally he had become overwhelmingly important to her.

William was becoming pretty important all round at this time. He was a man of considerable business, not big business, perhaps, in the sense which the term acquired later, but big enough. A great deal bigger than
The Converted World
, at any rate. Already he was developing that unapproachableness which was so noticeable in him afterwards. He was beginning to expect people to be silent when he spoke, and to be impressed when he took an interest in them. He spoke with authority, and he had given up discussing his affairs with James since the old man's principles had begun to look a little over-simple to him. At the moment he was very busy.

Mr. Walter Raven had put him on to a very good thing.

Just lately William had begun to take an interest in Debby. He was bringing his mind to bear upon her, and she found it an alarming experience. Sometimes she caught him looking at her with an expression which made her feel inhuman, as if she were a shop, perhaps, or a house he was thinking of buying and turning into something else. This was a difficult thought for Debby, and not one she would have mentioned to James even had she been able to express it. But it made her feel very apprehensive.