There Was a Time

by Taylor Caldwell

  Sometimes the Englishman was disturbed by the uneasy suspicion that all was not entirely well “at ’ome” and throughout the Empire, that there were grave injustices and undeserved afflictions and many bunglings by too-cautious or too-expedient men.

  But he had the unshakable belief, also, that in good and proper time he could, and would, rectify these things, that it lay in his power to do so, that salutary changes did not occur overnight, except in disastrous convulsions which he earnestly repudiated and rejected, but came like the slow and implacable and resistless swell of the ocean, the flooding-in of the main. After all, had he not given the Magna Charta to the world? Had he not been the first to declare himself free of clergy and tyrants? Had he not been the first in history to establish a “Parliament by argument” and to enfranchise himself? These things had not come between dawn and sunset. They had come over the centuries, and were rooted in his own strength and in his own indomitable heart. Evil came like devouring locusts, but was gone on the morrow. The forest grew slowly, and no casual wind could uproot or disperse it.

  What the Englishman finally decreed was done, and it remained.

  CHAPTER 8

  Even in Frank’s memory it did not always rain in England.

  He remembered that last summer. He remembered his mother taking him by the hand and walking with him down Sandy Lane, past the last shops and the last houses, and down over a small wooden bridge, and down into Reddish Vale. Here he saw the quiet blue water lying between high green banks, and misty English skies flooded with soft, gauzy sunlight and afloat with silent clouds. Here, too, he saw lavender twilights and mauve mists and great oaks set ruggedly on great emerald knolls, lonely against empty heavens.

  Sometimes he and Maybelle sat on still hillsides, the gentle sun warm on their shoulders, their eyes encompassing rolling meadows filled with tranquil cows, their senses aware of the sweet smell of dreaming earth, and of hawthorn, and of scented breezes as bland as milk.

  He never knew where it was, nor could his mother tell him, but he remembered a blue twilight after rain, the fragrance of drenched roses, which shook crystal drops from their bowed heads, and the slow moving of snails on a flagged garden path. He remembered lilacs around the ancient door of a thatched cottage, white and purple lilacs with a scent that pierced the heart, and the poignant singing of a thrush.

  He remembered spring woods, filled with frail white light, and carpets of tiny, yellow-eyed violets, and green mist in the awakening trees. He remembered millions of miniature white daisies clinging to brown spring earth, like drifts of snow, and, overhead, a dreaming purple sky.

  He remembered the market place, full of grapes and yellow apples, plucked fowl, baskets of clean potatoes, the smell of fish and chips and beer, the laughter of women and the cries of playing children, and, over all, a sun like a benison. He remembered Stockport, where he rode in the upper deck of the omnibus, and his parents ate blood-puddings contentedly, as they sat, and gave him a bag of toffy. He remembered Belleview, the shrieks of the monkeys, the roar of the lions, the riding on the backs of the elephants, and monkey-nuts to be peeled and crunched eagerly between his teeth, and young women, with enormous hats and parasols, and feather boas about their necks, sitting on benches and laughing with dapper escorts.

  He remembered the pantomime at Christmas, his stocking hanging by the crackling fireplace, packages marked with the sooty fingers of Father Christmas, peppermint sticks and roasted chestnuts and browning goose, and the frozen pond where he skated amid the sharply cast shadows of crystal sun and gaunt trees. He remembered the carols that came sweetly through snow that fell like small white butterflies, and the sweetness and content of a blazing hearth in the black night.

  He remembered water-cress sandwiches and hot sweet tea, and daffodils in a yellow bowl on the white-spread tea table, and his mother placing a pot of honey and a plate of thinly sliced bread beside his plate, and his father by the window, reading the Manchester Guardian and commenting on various items in a sardonic voice.

  He knew, by now, that they were going to America, and he heard his mother’s loud grief and protests, and his father’s impatient replies that it would be only for a few years. “Good God, you’re not going into the wilderness!” Francis would say, throwing aside his newspaper. “Never mind what you heard about Indians, blast it! There’re no Indians in Bison, in spite of the name. It’s a big country, and it’s got cities, and the blinking place is full of money. What do you expect me to do? Stay and rot here the rest of my life?”

  But, most intensely of all, he remembered his first sight of death.

  He did not remember going to that farmhouse, but there, in his memory, he was, accompanied by two or three of the Worden children. He was in the big bare kitchen, standing beside a tiny coffin in which a baby lay, while the mother of the child, seemingly quite casual and undisturbed, combed her long, yellowish hair before the mirror that hung over the sink. Frank remembered disliking her, for, though he had never encountered death before, he knew that it was accompanied by grief, and he knew this instinctively. But there the stout young woman stood, swirling the straight tan lengths of her hair, carefully inserting her “rats,” meticulously and competently plunging hairpins, which she held ready in her firm mouth, into the masses of her coiffure. She had on a white shirtwaist, a locket about her neck, and a coarse brown skirt beneath which her hips bulged solidly. From time to time, abstractedly, she glanced in the mirror at the children who surrounded the small coffin, and Frank never forgot the cold hard glint of her green eyes, and her busy hands, and her air of brutal unconcern.

  The coffin stood on a table. It was white, and lined with cheap white silk, all ruffles. The baby lay under its white shroud, like a sleeping doll, its tiny hands curled limply at its sides. It could not have been more than five months old. Death had not removed all color from the round still face; golden lashes curved on its miniature cheeks. Its sweet little mouth smiled faintly. The child was like a flower dropped from its stem, and finality lay over it, with gentleness and silence.

  Frank gazed at the dead infant. He saw the golden curls lying so pathetically on the white cushion. He saw the smile, and the vulnerable, fallen hands. Suddenly, though he knew nothing of death, he was plunged into a terrible sorrow. His heart ached; his eyes burned, and there was a creeping heaviness in his limbs. He was a child who cried easily. He could not cry now. In some way he knew that he was in the presence of something inexorable, something profound and without explanation, before which tears were impotent.

  He stretched out his hand and touched the small marble fingers of the baby. He felt the coldness, the chill. It ran up his arm and engulfed his warm heart, and he experienced terror and grief and bitterness and a knowledge of mystery. The child was to be buried, he knew that. But he did not see the child in the earth, closed over forever in darkness and mould. He saw the child journeying through long and shifting mists, alone, clothed in awe, lost and mute.

  He did cry that night, at home, and Maybelle was very vexed. “Why did you go there?” she demanded, wiping away his tears. “You didn’t tell me. It’s not for a kiddie your age to see—death.”

  In an effort to console him, she told him of “heaven,” and she said that the baby was doubtless, at that very minute, playing in a garden and surrounded by angel infants like himself. Frank listened obediently, but his tears still flowed. He did not believe his mother. He did not know why he did not believe her. He could see only the baby floating away into the mists and the mystery, forever lost, forever silent, the ghost of a petal on dark seas.

  CHAPTER 9

  And now they were going to America!

  The February sun was warm. The fields were adrift with the exquisite little white daisies to be found nowhere but in England. The branches of the trees had softened, become gentle, and seemed pregnant with life. Here and there, the hawthorn bushes had tangled green gauze in their twigs. All the earth smelt of sweetness and freshness, and the water in Reddish Vale
was slowly turning as blue as windy spring skies.

  The Clairs were to sail from Liverpool on February 22, 1907. Now all the neighbors were friendly, crowding into the house to give their best wishes. Dr. Durham, dignified, sand-colored and cold, unbent so far as to pat Frank on the head and to shake hands with Francis. Mrs. Durham spoke sweetly as she sat near the fire and graciously sipped tea. The Wordens surged in and out of the rapidly emptying house, and the children were fascinated at the sound of hammers on the huge crates in the parlor. Maybelle wept; but she, too, was caught up in the general excitement. She was not an adventurous soul. However, she plainly saw the envy and wistfulness on her friends’ faces, and she acquired a new dignity and importance among them.

  Surprisingly, Miss Ballister expressed sincere regret to Francis, and she held Frank by the hand as she spoke: “This little boy is really clever, Mr. Clair. Really clever! He was a little hard to understand at first. He has very strange ways, which need understanding. He has a very bad temper, I am afraid, but don’t you like a child with spirit, Mr. Clair? He is shy, but takes what he wants. If he thinks he might not get it, he takes it and lets the fur fly afterwards. A little—a little—ruthless, you might say? He is very determined, for all his quietness, and he obeys just so he won’t vex. You say that is sly? Dear me, I don’t know. I really wouldn’t want to say. But it is my opinion that he is a very peaceable little boy, quiet and docile when he isn’t attacked or annoyed, but full of quite—quite—furious fire when someone gets in his way or is unjust. You can trust him, if you understand him. But if he is your enemy, you couldn’t trust him, not one inch, and he has a most prodigious memory for slights and unjust offenses against him.”

  Francis, scoffingly polite and protesting at this extravagance, shook his head. However, he was pleased. He looked down at Frank with objective appraisal. Well, yes, the little beggar did have a “different” look. He had lost that doltish expression, too. Almost intelligent. Perhaps more than intelligent. He was a pretty kid, too. Something like Maybelle in his coloring, but with sharp clear features. Perhaps he, Francis, would “make something” of him yet. After all, there was good blood in the family.

  So elated was Francis at Miss Ballister’s appreciation of his child that he gave her eight shillings as a “remembrance.”

  He was very kind to Frank for some time after that episode.

  The Clairs were to sail second-class, and this, too, was a source of envy among the neighbors on Mosston Street. No steerage, for the Clairs! Cabins and stewardesses and dining rooms full of silver and fine china and dignity. Mrs. Jamie Clair had sent fifty pounds towards the passage. She was “rolling in money” in America, the neighbors said impressively. She had her own carriage, and lived like a queen. She had sent her son photographs of herself, sitting in her carriage, clad in black silk with a good sable over her shoulders and a black frilled parasol over her head. Her expression had been full of majesty and stately forbearance. Behind her, the facade of an imposing house was faintly seen, with the lower reaches of white skirts, men’s trousers, and polished boots shown standing on the steps. Her lodgers, doubtless. But now she referred to them as her “guests.”

  Francis and Maybelle and little Frank were finely outfitted for the journey. For some reason which was never quite fathomed, Francis had equipped himself with a pair of black leather leggings, with straps and buckles. These were for America. Little Frank, who knew nothing of America, nevertheless had a sudden vision of black, impenetrable forests, of wild landscapes full of boulders, of mountains which had to be climbed on foot. He, too, wanted leggings, which were refused, of course. He came to the conclusion that his father would carry him constantly in America, for his own polished boots were not fit for such arduous exploration. In addition to the leggings, Francis had purchased a strange, black cloth hat, or cap, with a large visor, and very exciting in appearance. No one in Reddish had ever seen such a hat, and it inspired wonder. But Francis importantly informed his friends that such things were widely worn in America.

  Francis had acquired a handful of “cents.” These he gave to Frank and the Worden children. They never tired of these strange copper coins, so small, half the size of English pennies. “Cents.” Why, that was very odd. Everyone knew that a “scent” was a smell, a fragrance. But these strange Americans called their coinage by the name of perfume. Very strange people, indeed. Once Francis told his son, facetiously, that all American men ate with their feet on the table, and Frank had a dizzy vision of rows of tables, endless rows of men in shirtsleeves, eating ravenously, their boots crossed on white tablecloths.

  Mrs. Clair, from her advantageous position of two years’ residence in America, had written to warn them of the local climate. “It’s not like England, Francis. You’ll find it winter, when you land in March. Snow, and ice, and blizzards. That’s their name for the snowstorms. It goes on like that far into the end of April, and often into May. So, dress warm.”

  But Francis and Maybelle laughed richly at the absurdity of a winter extending into summer, even in that fantastic America. Why, one could plainly see, by the map, that Bison, New York, was farther south than Manchester, much farther south! Mrs. Jamie was “exaggerating.” However, as a concession to her weird notions, Francis bought himself a thick tweed suit (for which he was to thank God, later) and Maybelle outfitted herself in a pale-blue wool jacket and skirt, with blue silk facings. After some consideration, she decided to carry a warm coat also, but only over her arm. Why, it would be March, warm March, when they reached America!

  Little Frank had his two new blue serge suits, new polished boots, new round sailor hats, and new jackets with rows of white sailor braid on the collars. He never tired of looking at this magnificence, lovingly and carefully hung in his wardrobe. One was to be worn on shipboard, along with his old clothes. But the other was for “landing.” The rich Americans would have little cause to look down their noses at the Clairs when they arrived.

  For the first, and the last, time in his life, Francis Clair was not afraid, not cautious, not apprehensive. Some excitement had taken hold of him, some adventurousness. His very features changed, briefly. He was alive, his eyes sparkled, his uncertain voice became firm and strong. During the last week in England he walked with quiet arrogance down Mosston Street. He nodded with stately courtesy to greeters. He was important; he was envied; he was “looked up to.” Now an exhilaration flowed through his narrow veins. Anticipation threw back his shoulders; a new dignity caused him to move his head slowly on his neck and favor acquaintances with a remote look. His tones had authority and pride. Even Dr. Durham treated him with respect. This small, meagre little man, bald, equipped with newly fierce mustaches, was suddenly clothed in excitement and consequence. His speech was trenchant, listened to reverently. Like all meek men of his sort, insignificant and timorous, he took advantage of this transient prestige, and the mill folk hardly dared speak to him. He was bathed in glory.

  “Of course,” he said loftily to his new dear friend, Dr. Durham, “we’ll only have to stand it a few years. Then back we’ll be, with our pockets full of money. I expect to set up my own shop, perhaps in Manchester, or go into another line of business entirely. There are one or two formulas I’ve been going over in my mind. My own concoctions. There’s a fortune in them. But it needs money to launch them in the patent medicine market.”

  He thought of Beecham’s Pills. Why, the chap was a baronet now! And all out of a few pills. Pears’ Soap. Why, he knew the damn formula. Too simple for words. He, Francis Clair, had a formula for a much better soap, at much less cost. Some rare exquisite scent, now, to start the people sniffing, and a novel way of wrapping. It all needed money, of course, and money was to be had with absurd ease in America. He toyed with the idea of making his formulas in America, then shook his head. No, it was England, for him. Perhaps a baronetcy even. Let the nobs look down their noses. Titles built on pills, laxatives, hair tonics and soap were not to be jeered at, after all, especially when they had
money behind them. His heart beat wildly. His own carriages; his own little place in the country; winters at Torquay, or on the Riviera. Servants for Maybelle, a good public school for the boy. Hadn’t Miss Ballister said there was something in him? Arise, Sir Francis Clair. And then home to a banquet at Russell Square, and the carriages of the nobs seething in the streets of London around his great house. He might even get one of those steaming new motor cars for himself, and go swanking about with the best of them. Perhaps even a shooting-box in Scotland. Arise, Sir Francis Clair.

  He seemed to vibrate as he walked through the streets. He was no longer in Reddish, on Mosston Street. He was strolling through the streets of Paris, with gray gloves and a gold-headed cane in his hand, and gaiters on his feet.

  These, now, were the last days. Maybelle had given to the Wordens much of what could not be sold. The parlor, the living room, the bedrooms, were denuded. Crates stood before the cold parlor fireplace, huge crates filled with Maybelle’s precious feather beds, blankets and best linen sheets. Crates of her best china and silver, and ornaments and bric-a-brac. She packed them, hiding her silent tears. When she heard Francis hammering the tops on the crates, it was like the sound of nails being driven into a coffin.

  The last day came, a day of warm sun, of brilliant blue skies, of freshness and fragrance and teeming soft wind. It was February 22, 1907, and the air was like a holiday, even in Frank’s memory. A few last neighbors came to say goodbye. He had never heard the word before, and it, too, had, for him, a deathly sound of finality. The crates were gone. The rooms were empty, filled with sun for the first time in Frank’s memory. Now the house echoed, and all the rooms were strange, remote, closed against him in their emptiness.