Apples of Gold

by Warwick Deeping

  Jordan's eyes lit up, and he was able to take the laugh against himself.

  "Something happened to me this morning."

  "What?"

  "A raw squire hit me clean and fair on the ribs. It woke me up."

  "Hit you! What the devil were you doing, Dan?"

  "Thinking of something else—the new house and all that."

  Nando frowned, but Mrs. Mary breathed a sigh of relief.

  "That's not like our reputation, Dan."

  "No, sir; but I made it right with the gentleman. Did it ever happen to you?"

  Nando stared at him, his fork half-way between his plate and his lips. A little crinkle of a smile crossed his face, and he glanced momentarily at Mrs. Mary.

  "Well, now I come to think of it, it did."

  "And when was that, sir?"

  "To tell you the truth, Dan, it was on the morning of the day after I had first seen your mother."

  For some reason or other all three of them appeared interested in their platters, but it was Jordan who extracted the moral from the story.

  "It does not do to dream when you have a sword in your hand. A man ought to keep his eyes on his work."

  "Sure," said Nando, "but a man is not a machine, my son."

  Mrs. Mary was still unconvinced, for her husband's recalling of that incident of their early life had quickened her own suspicions. She could not see a man of Jordan's age absorbed in the building of a house, and her thoughts still searched for the woman. She had heard of Mrs. Merris, but she had never seen her; and yet she was right in wondering whether Jordan had some picture of this lady hidden at the back of his mind. He had, but he did not realize the significance of the picture. It was more like an altar-piece than a miniature that a man carries over his heart.

  Jordan's thoughts went often to the house in Garter Street. He saw Mrs. Merris so occasionally, and knew so little of her real life, that he often wondered what she did, how she passed the hours, what friends she had. He had been thinking about her that morning, and had he been able to see her in her house he might have thought more of his fencing and less of his dreams.

  Two coaches stood outside Mrs. Mariana's house, the one a red coach with black wheels, the other black and yellow. Half a dozen servants lounged on her doorstep, and two coachmen had left their boxes and were examining each other's horses. The panels of each coach carried a coat-of-arms. The sun shone full along the street with its chequer of red houses and green gardens, and there were no shadows, but only one long stretch of sunlit road.

  Up above in the drawing-room a little group of men and women made it plain to themselves and Mrs. Merris that the polite world had discovered her. It had become the fashion to speak of her as "the beautiful Virginian," to describe her as elegant and charming, and to spread the report that she was rich. Already more than one gentleman had discovered that she was chaste. Aunt Julian, sitting at the garden window with her embroidery frame and her parrot, twittered and smirked and watched the interplay. It was evident that the widow could marry again whenever she pleased, for quite a number of gentlemen were ready to persuade her that a second marriage may be more blessed than the first.

  They came at first with their aunts or their sisters or their mothers, and then, having sacrificed to the social duty, they came alone and met each other. They sat or stood around her chair, trying to be as witty and as exquisite and as compelling as their persons, brains and tailors would permit. They pretended to laugh at each other's jokes. They paid court to Aunt Julian, stroked the head of her green parrot, and spoilt the bird's modesty by persistently calling her "Pretty Poll."

  Their coats were as gay as the bird's green back, and there were times when some of them talked no more wisely than poor Poll. The bird's alert eye missed nothing, and often, when her drawing-room had emptied itself, Mrs. Mariana would go and stroke the parrot's head and ask the bird what she thought of them.

  "And how did they please you to-day, Poll?"

  Poll would produce her second remark.

  "What a queer world—what a queer world!"

  "It is, my dear. Aunt Julia, your bird is wiser than many of the men."

  She remained herself in spite of all this homage. Always there was a little humorous gleam at the back of her dark eyes, as though she knew exactly what all this enthusiasm was worth. She kept these men at a little distance from her chair, showing no particular favour to any one of them, and remaining serene and smiling when they tried to outstay each other—and they often did.

  There was one gentleman who was very successful in this game of outstaying all rivals. He was very tall, very pale, with ironical eyes and a chin that jutted out like the lower horn of the new moon. His presence seemed to exert a sense of pressure in the room. Slowly but surely, with satirical quietness and restrained arrogance, he forced the lesser men to disappear. He touched them with his cold eyes, and they became babbling fools or self-conscious puppets.

  Sfex outstayed them all on this particular day. He stood by Mrs. Mariana's chair, looking down at the warm glowing beauty of her, her smooth completeness, her exquisite maturity, and coveting it and her as an arrogant and clever man covets the richest fruit on the wall. His wit contended with her subtle, smiling languor. She was deep, and he felt her deepness. She was one of those rare women who are never obvious and dull.

  "Well, dear lady, if you have not heard an Italian sing you must grant me the honour of taking you to hear her. I have a box for to-night."

  "I will come with pleasure," she said, "but on conditions."

  "Name them."

  She gave him a half-veiled, upward look.

  "Aunt Julia has never been to the opera."

  "That is soon remedied."

  "And Aunt Julia is never parted from her parrot. Where Aunt Julia goes Poll goes, too."

  Sfex gave one of his icy smiles.

  "Well, Poll shall go to the opera. I dare say she can behave more prettily than most of the scatter-brains who go there and chatter. She can call the whole world queer."

  "Which it is."

  "Certainly. We will teach her to shout, 'Bravo—bravo,' and to criticize the ladies' heads and dresses."

  "And that is why the opera exists."

  "Of course."

  When George—Baron Sfex—had bowed over her hand and gone she remained at the window in a half-smiling, half-scornful reverie, fanning herself gently, while Miss Stamford went on with the sorting of her silks.

  "A most witty gentleman, my dear."

  "O, witty—yes! But how dull to spend one's life watching the glitter of an iceberg."

  "He has very fine manners."

  "Yes, beautifully cut. The ring is always on the hand, you know."

  She gave a little impatient flick of the fan, and, rising, went to stroke the parrot.

  "We are very wise people, Poll, aren't we?"

  For concerning men—the mass of men—Mrs. Mariana had no illusions. She knew just how much and how little they wanted—a glass of wine, a dinner, a pair of lips. Each day was the same.

  She returned to the open window, as though the air and the sunlight called her.

  "Yes, how futile," she thought, "how evanescent! Give me a man who does not class me with his dinner, a man whose passion is to accomplish something, and who would let me share in the accomplishing of it."

  XXV

  When a young woman comes to pay a call, but hesitates and turns back and then changes her mind once more, her vacillations are not without significance to another woman who happens to be on the watch. Mary Nando, seated in her parlour and busy with her needle, saw a girl enter Spaniards Court, walk half-way across it, and then falter and turn back. The girl was wearing a black cloak and hood, and the edge of a basket showed under her cloak.

  "Why, my dear, what are we afraid of?"

  It would seem that Douce asked herself that same question, and answered it by turning about again and crossing the court to the Nandos' door. Mrs. Mary remained where she was, diligentl
y sewing, for when a bird is shy the less stir one makes the better. She heard Douce's knock, a very undetermined little knock, but Meg happened to be coming down the stairs and heard it.

  "Miss St. Croix, ma'am."

  Douce came into the room as though she were half-afraid to find Jordan there. Her eyes looked like two little dark, fixed points. Mrs. Mary put her work on the table and smiled at her, but made no attempt to rise.

  "Why, what a stranger you are! I'm glad to see you, my dear."

  She held her head in a certain way that should have suggested to Douce that she expected Douce to kiss her. Mrs. Mary was very kissable, even to other women, but Douce did not kiss her. She sat down on the blue settee, kept her basket beside her and put back her hood.

  "I am on my way to my brother," she said.

  She sat there very stiffly with her hands in her lap, rigid with disapproval, disapproval of herself and of the motive that had made her enter Spaniards Court and knock at Thomas Nando's door. She was one of those passionate and sensitive little women to whom love does not come easily and who may show no mercy to their own emotions. She was rigid, but with a rigidity that trembled.

  Now, it was quite natural that Douce should visit her brother, nor did her pausing by the way to look in on Mrs. Mary call for any explanation; but a difficult pride will always try to explain everything. Mrs. Mary had her own understanding of the thing that was troubling Douce.

  "La, you are going to call on Mr. Maurice?"

  "Yes," said Douce.

  "And is he still in the same lodging, my dear?"

  "The same."

  "And how is he?"

  "Very well, thank you."

  "And Mr. Sylvester?"

  "I think he is much as usual."

  "He keeps you very much tied, my dear."

  "I don't regret it."

  "Of course not. I quite understand that, my dear."

  They kept it up between them like two children playing solemnly at catch-ball, throwing their remarks at each other and returning them with perfect gravity. Mrs. Mary resumed her sewing. When you are painfully conscious of another person's discomfort it is comforting to appear at ease and using your hands.

  There was a short silence, a pause in the game of the exchanging of trivialities, and Mrs. Mary felt that it would have to be re-started. She was too much aware of the rigid little figure seated on the blue settee.

  "Mr. Maurice must be doing very well with Mr. Durand."

  "I hope so," said Douce. "I have been mending some of his linen."

  "What, you still do that?"

  "Yes."

  "Really," said Mrs. Mary, "it is time that the young gentleman found a wife to do it for him! All the same, I am mending one of Jordan's shirts."

  She gave Douce a very kind look, a look that said:

  "Come down off your perch, you little bird. I'm your very good friend." But the look had no effect on Douce. If anything she grew more rigid, more severe in her inward scolding of herself. Mrs. Mary fancied that the girl was listening, and ready to take flight at the first sound.

  "My dear, you are difficult!" she thought.

  She bent her head over her work, and after a moment's reflection put out another lure.

  "I have been thinking the same about Jordan, my dear."

  Douce questioned her with her eyes.

  "You see, he is building this fine house for us, and when we move into it I've been thinking he will want someone here."

  She raised her head and gave Douce a sudden encouraging smile. She was going as near to the girl as she could without touching that tense, sensitive surface, for Mrs. Mary had been coming to the decision that if Jordan must marry she would like him to marry Douce St. Croix.

  "Yes, men need so much looking after," said Douce, with an air of staid severity.

  "I think Jordan would be quite easy. You must marry a man with a good temper, my dear."

  There was a moment's silence, and then Douce cut the conversation in two with the abruptness of a young woman snipping a piece of ribbon with a pair of scissors.

  "I shall never marry. I have my father."

  She laid a sudden hand on her basket, and put her other hand to her hood.

  "O, come, my dear," said Mrs. Mary, "there is no hurry. Mr. Nando will be in at any moment for a cup of chocolate, and you are a favourite of his, you know."

  She said nothing about Jordan, knowing that it was Jordan whom Douce both longed and feared to meet; but Douce would not be persuaded, and the more Mrs. Mary tried persuasion the more determined Douce was to go. Her haste had a touch of severity. She came near to snubbing poor Mrs. Mary, who was trying to pour the oil of her sympathy upon a difficult situation.

  Douce pulled her hood forward over her white cap and red hair, and, giving Mrs. Mary a curtsy, made towards the door.

  "I must leave this with my brother and hurry home. Father is so uneasy if I am away for long."

  "Very well, my dear, you know best. But one can humour men too much."

  Douce had her hand on the latch, and as she lifted it she heard footsteps in the passage. Panic seized her. She opened the door and found herself face to face with Jordan. They looked at each other, the man gravely kind, the girl like a piece of ivory carved so finely that her features seemed too thin. Her little red mouth was vaguely sullen, and after the first glance her eyes avoided his.

  "What, going already?" said Jordan.

  He was in her way, and he remained in her way for a moment, though she gave him to understand as clearly as she could that she wished him out of it. She clutched her basket a little more firmly and looked beyond towards the door.

  "I'm afraid I am in a hurry."

  "I have tried to persuade her to stay," said the voice of Mrs. Mary, "but she is going to her brother's, and Mr. Sylvester is all alone."

  Jordan glanced at Mrs. Mary. It seemed to him that her eyes were telling him to do something, to make up his mind on a certain matter; but he could not read the inward meaning of her message. He hesitated. He looked down at Douce and then turned to open the courtyard door for her. He had a feeling that Douce wanted to go, but he did not realize that had the man in him forced her to stay she would have stayed, a secret traitress to her pride.

  "I have not seen Maurice for a long while," said he, opening the door for her.

  She gave him the faintest of curtsies, and passed through without looking at him.

  "Thank you, Mr. March."

  Jordan watched her cross the courtyard, walking very quickly with her little head bent down. When she had disappeared he closed the door and went in to Mrs. Mary.

  "I have ordered a coach to be here at four o'clock, mother."

  "O," said she, looking at him queerly.

  "I am taking you over to see how the house is getting on."

  "Thank you, my dear; how very kind of you. We might have given Douce a lift back home."

  "Of course. I never thought of it. Shall I go after her?"

  Mrs. Mary folded up her work and laid it on the table.

  "I think it is too late now, Jordan. Go and see if your father is awake. He was taking a nap upstairs on his day-bed."

  Douce made her way into the Strand, her face set like a piece of ivory, the eyes very black in it and very still. Her lips looked pale, as though she had bitten the blood from them with her small white teeth. She was angry with herself, and humiliated by this very anger. It was monstrous that a daughter of Sylvester St. Croix should be so fiercely human.

  She walked into the bookshop and found a snuff-coloured old man sitting behind a table and polishing his spectacles. This old man, whose name was Truscott, managed the bookshop for Maurice's pious widow. He was a funny old thing with a square bald head, and projecting eyes that threatened to fall out on to the table in front of him. His nose was shapeless, like a lump of dough.

  "Good day, my dear," he said to Douce; "what can I do for you?"

  Douce was feeling dear to nobody, and she was abrupt with this
grotesque old man.

  "Is Mrs. Lovibond within? I have something for Mr. St. Croix."

  The old man blinked at her, put on his spectacles, got up and opened the door leading into the parlour at the back of the shop.

  "A young woman to see you, ma'am. Will you walk in."

  Almost he had again called her "my dear," but his voice fell away into an inarticulate mumbling. Douce walked in, to find Mrs. Lovibond trimming a white muslin cap with cerise-coloured ribbon, a very worldly cap for a religious widow. Douce and Mrs. Lovibond had met twice before, and on each occasion they had chilled each other, though the widow had used her succulent voice and a rich smile on Douce. Mrs. Lovibond was a large white woman with very black hair, dark eyes of a curious roundness, a nose that spread out broadly at the tip, and a big mouth that was never still. She was capacious, and there was something about her capaciousness that both repelled and interested Douce. The widow suggested a bed, clean and nicely made, and her face was the white-laced pillow. But there was a slyness somewhere, an invitation, a provoking smoothness that did not refuse to be tumbled.

  "Bless me," said the lady, "it is Miss St. Croix."

  Douce stood austere and still.

  "I have brought something for my brother, Mrs. Lovibond."

  The widow rose with the pink-ribboned cap perched on her left hand. She looked roguish.

  "And that one thing is a pretty face, my dear! He's upstairs, too, to see it. There's a gentleman with him, but that's of no consequence."

  Her manner caressed Douce, and Douce had a feeling that this caressing mood was studied. It was not even like the purring of a cat.

  "If Mr. Maurice is engaged——"

  "Bless us," said Mrs. Lovibond, "do you think the gentleman who is with him will quarrel with such an interruption."

  She took Douce upstairs, moving slowly and making the stairs creak under her largeness; and yet this slow largeness of hers had an attraction which was felt by Douce, but which she did not understand. She found herself wondering whether Maurice liked Mrs. Lovibond. Certainly, she was very kind, and yet "kind" was not quite the word. That cap with the pink ribbons, and that large, alluring softness which was like the white surface of a bed!