Apples of Gold

by Warwick Deeping

  "March——"

  Jordan saw a hand resting on the top bar of the gate, and he laid one of his own hands over it.

  "Well—what are we going to do?"

  Jordan felt St. Croix's hand turn and grip his.

  "I should like her to know——"

  "Of course."

  "To-night. May I tell her that you——"

  "Tell her that we have met and talked, and that I can lend you the money. You need tell her nothing else."

  "But I should like to tell her. She ought to know the kind of man you are."

  "O—that's nothing. She did a much finer thing. Now, if we could find that precious horse of mine. Or we can hire at the next inn. But look here, you have been hit on the head and robbed, and I happen to come along——"

  "That lie will do for the world, March, but not for everybody. Why, man, you will have nothing to boast about!"

  "I don't think I care for boasters. Let us try and find the horse."

  They were in luck, for they found the horse cropping the grass about three hundred yards down the road. Jordan made him out in the darkness, and when he called to him the beast whinnied and came to him at once, though he was still scared and timid.

  "That's all right, old lad. Have a good feed. Get up, St. Croix; I'll walk."

  "I'm quite up to walking."

  "No, you are not," said Jordan; "a man who has been hit on the head and robbed has to make some show for Dick and Harry. Up with you!"

  St. Croix mounted the horse.

  Douce was sitting before her cracked mirror and putting her hair into plaits before getting into bed, when she heard a voice calling to her out of the night.

  "Douce—Douce!"

  The voice came from the garden, and she went to the lattice and opened it. The night was very dark, and she could distinguish no one below.

  "Who is there?"

  "Maurice. Come down, Sis; I have something to tell you."

  His voice thrilled her, for there was emotion in it, a vibrant eagerness. She put on a cloak and her shoes, took her candle and went down the stairs. Maurice was leaning against one of the yew trees when she opened the door.

  "What is it—Maurice? O—your face!"

  "Never mind my face," and he put an arm about her and took her into the empty parlour.

  The fire was still burning, and Maurice sat down by it, while Douce held the candle. She stood and looked at him with wide, dark eyes.

  "What has happened? Something has happened."

  "Yes—something has happened. You need not marry Marwick."

  She stood very still, but the flame of the candle flickered slightly.

  "Is it true?"

  "It is true."

  He got up suddenly and blew out the candle.

  "Now, I will tell you. Sit down by the fire, Sis. It will not take very long."

  And so he told her everything that had happened that night, holding her hand, and watching the dwindling redness of the fire. It seemed to him that he had been cold at first, but that it grew warm and alive. She asked no questions, but just sat there and listened. A great happiness may fold its tired winds in silence.

  "You will try and forgive me, Douce?"

  He felt the pressure of her hand.

  "I have forgiven you."

  "Dear—I believe you have. March said you had done a fine thing, and that man understands. Do you know, Sis——"

  "I know nothing," she said, trembling.

  "I will tell you. It was not so much for my sake—but for yours. I believe that Jordan March——"

  But she made a little restraining and protesting gesture.

  "No, no; let that be, Maurice."

  She sighed, but it was a happy sigh, like the first deep breath drawn after hours of pain.

  "And now—your poor face. What can I do? And you will sleep here?"

  She lit the candle again and mothered this man who had brought her so near to disaster, for it is not difficult to be kind in moments of great happiness.

  "Perhaps—perhaps," she said to herself when she curled herself up in bed, "perhaps I shall see him to-morrow."

  XXXII

  Mrs. Merris opened her crimson fan and held it between her face and the fire, for Sambo, southern creature that he was, had a heavy and a generous hand with the coal-box.

  Mrs. Merris was thinking, unhindered by the agitation of Miss Stamford's knitting needles and by the anxious glances her aunt flicked at her from under her lace cap. Miss Stamford was very much disturbed. She had been trying to do her duty, or what had been suggested to her as her duty, but she was beginning to feel that she had been maladroit in the doing of it.

  "What clumsy things men are!"

  To be given such an answer after all her careful fluffing up of feathers and her preparation of the nest in which to lay the egg!

  "Clumsy, my dear! I am afraid——Well, I hope you do appreciate my motive?"

  Her niece had turned and smiled on her, one of those smiles which express everything and nothing.

  "I do, dear, and his."

  Then, silence had settled between them like a screen of glass. Mrs. Merris had turned her chin more towards the fire, opened her fan, rested her elbow on her left knee, and left her face uncovered for Miss Stamford to study it at her leisure. She sat quite still. She seemed to go off into deep thought, her eyes fixed steadily on one of the brass fire-dogs. Her face was masked. Miss Stamford, thoroughly uncomfortable, and feeling herself shut out behind the glass screen of Mrs. Merris's silent composure, sat and clicked with her needles and fidgeted with her foot. Mariana did not mind being stared at! She did not seem to realize that her aunt had eyes and an agitated soul! Now, what did that mean?

  Yes, men were very crude creatures, and sometimes they were cowardly creatures. Yet they had a certain cleverness in explaining their motives to themselves and to each other, and in persuading women that what they did was chivalrous or discreet or subtle. To persuade a foolish and good-natured maiden lady that she had a certain duty to perform! To suggest to her that certain words would fall more nicely from her lips than from the lips of a man! Confessions about another man! Did George Sfex believe that he had done the thing rather prettily, or was he just a malicious grin in a wig and court clothes?

  Men! What was there lovable in men? What did one love in them? The animal, the boy, the comrade, the hurt dog? Perhaps! But the mere creature who made of life an epigram? Never. A woman would rather have her man a little foolish, lovably foolish, than coldly clever. Satire, wit, never yet kept a woman awake at night letting the candle of life burn to the socket.

  She raised her head. There was something mocking, brilliantly combative in her eyes.

  "So, Aunt Julia, Mr. March has been a rather wild fellow."

  Miss Stamford had the face of a canary, an agitated canary. Poll, her parrot, had a much deeper and shrewder eye.

  "My dear, it would seem so. All sorts of women, actresses!"

  "Terrible!"

  "I do really think, dear, that it was kind and brave of Lord Sfex——"

  "To you, yes. But why not to me?"

  "My dear!" said Miss Stamford, looking shocked. "How could he?"

  She dared not glance at her niece, but gave all her attention to her clicking needles.

  Mrs. Merris smiled.

  "The wild heart of youth," she said.

  She moved her fan to and fro, so that the firelight came and went in her eyes.

  "My dear Aunt Julia, I was going to ask you a question, but I see that it would be a superfluous question. Of course, you do not expect me to ask Mr. March here again?"

  Miss Stamford gave her a frightened glance.

  "My dear, how could you?"

  "Is that your view? But I imagine that Sfex will present himself regularly."

  "And why should he not?"

  "If you were to try to answer that question! We always stop at half-way houses—if they appear comfortable and convenient. I shall give——"


  But suddenly she closed her fan as though she were closing an argument.

  "I shall give myself a holiday, for a month."

  She was a woman who was able to satisfy her wishes, and since the March winds were drying the roads, she had her coach overhauled and her baggage packed, and leaving Miss Stamford in Garter Street, she set out on her unconventional journey. Protests, even panic protests, had no effect on her. "My dear, yon cannot travel alone. It is not done. You may be robbed, or be upset in a ditch."

  "Well, I can got out of the ditch. And it is done, because I am going to do it. I want you to stay behind and explain to your dear Lord Sfex."

  Miss Stamford was very much upset.

  "But what am I to say to him?"

  "Why, anything you please. Say that I have gone on tour to see all my relations. What does it matter? I don't like the man."

  "You don't like him?"

  "I detest him."

  "Really, my dear, are you sure that——?"

  "O, quite sure. You can tell him so, or ask Poll to tell him so. Poll and I agree."

  Mrs. Mariana's coach carried her into Oxford on the very afternoon that Jordan set out on a certain expedition which, when he came to approach its climax, appeared more delicate than it had seemed. "Now, what the deuce am I to say to her? I can't walk into the house as though I had brought her ransom in my pocket." He had seen Maurice that morning, a Maurice who had come away from a dog-and-cat affair with Mr. Marwick. "I handed him the money, March. Bowyer went with me. You should have seen his face. 'Sir,' said he, 'I did not think your sister was a young lady who sold herself.' O—well, that's finished, thanks to you. I shall not forget. My father knows; I told him, and, would you believe me, he was inclined to regret Marwick as a future son-in-law. Faith, it's a fact! My father must have come out of the Dead Sea, March. But you will go and see Douce. I know she wants to see you." Jordan had promised to go that very afternoon. Poor little Douce; she had behaved very finely.

  But Jordan could not make up his mind what to say to her. He felt that he had her pride in his hand, and he carried it rather awkwardly and self-consciously, like a boy with a flower. The colour of the sky had changed. Douce no longer belonged to another man; she belonged to herself, and there was a sort of pause in Jordan's tenderness towards her. He felt strangely less sure of himself than he had done three days ago; he wanted to see Douce, to look at her, to find out how she affected him. At the back of his mind was a sense of vague self-disgust, a feeling that he was driving himself towards an emotion that should have been a matter of pure impulse and of instinct. He felt rather ungenerous about it. Douce had done a fine thing, yet he was going to her less impulsively than a man should go to the girl whom he had begun to think of as his mate.

  Douce expected him. She had spent much time over her hair; she had washed it, and fluffed it out under a white cap threaded with black ribbons. Her eyes seemed to match the black ribbon, but her skin had a faint colour, like the tinting of a shell. She sat at the parlour window which commanded the gate, and pretended to be busy with her sewing.

  Her father had gone out. There had been a little passage of arms between them, in which the girl had imposed very definite orders upon a surprised old man.

  "Douce, you are keeping me waiting."

  "I am not going out, sir. Mr. March is expected."

  "March! Then I had better stay."

  "You need not stay, sir. Mr. March is coming to see me, not you. I wish to express my gratitude to him. I do not think that you and Mr. March have anything to say to each other."

  "It is not seemly for you to receive a young man—alone—in this room. I cannot permit it."

  "Indeed, sir! I am surprised! You allowed me to drive alone with Mr. Marwick. To-day I wish to have the use of this parlour to receive a man who is a gentleman."

  She had stood up against Mr. Sylvester. The senile and self-sufficient length of him had been opposed by this firm little body, by the will of a young woman who had suddenly grown very determined because her desired lover was near. Youth had stood up to age and had dominated it.

  "If you must stay I will have a fire lit in the other room."

  But Sylvester had waggled his goat's beard and gone forth alone with an air of shuffling perplexity. Youth had something which he had lost, a hardness, and ardent obstinacy; he did not understand it, but he had felt its impact upon the brittle shell of his dry old soul.

  Douce sat at the window. She could see the path, the grass verges, the elm suckers in the hedge powdered with the faint greenness of an early spring, the dark slats of the gate, and above the hedge the intense blue and whiteness of a swift March sky. Masses of cloud were being blown across the heavens between splashes of hard sunshine. The wind was strong. She saw the hedge shaken by it, the grass flattened into little silvery tremblings. A clump of Lent lilies shook their golden heads. She heard the roaring of the great elms, a sound of fierce rejoicing in the strength and the steadfastness of life. The clouds hurried. And she sat and sewed and waited, though her heart caught all the hurry and movement of the world outside her window.

  Presently she raised her head, for she had heard the familiar click of the wooden gate-latch. She saw Jordan coming up the path, walking slowly, and looking at one of the upper windows. She did not hurry, but laid her work upon the table, and remained in her chair until she heard his knock. Her very leisureliness in going to the door was the leisureliness of an obstinate self-restraint, a woman's instinctive concealment of her own emotion.

  Douce opened the door to him. She gave him the faintest of smiles. She looked mysteriously grave.

  "Will you come in, Mr. March?"

  Jordan's gravity matched hers. He stood bare-headed and bowed to her, but she felt that his eyes saw more than they seemed to see.

  "Thank you. What a wind there is!"

  "Yes, a real March day."

  Her eyes smiled, and then became instantly serious.

  "One of my days! What does it mean to be born in March?"

  "I am sure I do not know," she said, drawing back and making way for him with no lightening of her gravity; "we had no one to tell us fairy tales when we were young. Shall I take your hat?"

  "I will put it here—if I may."

  "Yes."

  "I had it blown off at the corner of your lane, and it fell into a puddle."

  "Then it should need drying."

  "I think it does."

  "I will put it on a chair in front of the fire."

  Jordan followed her into the room, and remained standing until she desired him to be seated. They were very polite to each other, and their formalism might have satisfied the most exacting of fathers. Douce had placed Jordan in Mr. Sylvester's chair with his back to the window, while she took the oak joint-stool with the padded top. She faced him squarely with her air of austere dignity.

  "Mr. March, I wish to thank you for your very great kindness to my brother."

  He smiled at her, and seemed unable to find anything to say.

  "Well, now that you have thanked me, let us forget it."

  "It will be impossible for me to forget it. I do not think, Mr. March, that I wish to forget it."

  There was a pause. Jordan saw a quick and sensitive colour rise to her face and then melt away again; her eyes had given him a sense of momentary brightness, only to become darker than before. Her hands lay folded in her lap. They made no movement. Indeed, no part of her seemed to move, and her stillness had a very peculiar effect on him. Her seriousness, her breathless dignity were what the man in him had somehow vaguely desired. He recognized the rightness of her, the instinctive pride of her still pallor crowned by the glow of her brilliant hair. Had she studied her part she could not have chosen a more potent attitude. It appealed to him, it touched him, it provoked him to a sudden large tenderness. How much more had she had to bear and to hide than he had, and how very finely she bore it.

  "There is something which I, too, do not wish to forget."

  Sh
e met his eyes, and was aware of a new depth in them. He was looking at her as she had wished him to look. Her two hands clasped each other more firmly.

  "I am glad," she said.

  He made a movement of bending towards her.

  "I think I know what courage is. I cannot say what I feel about it, about what you did for your brother."

  He saw her whole face redden.

  "Please—please, don't. I wish to forget it."

  "Of course. I know that you must wish to forget—a part of it. But I shall not forget it, Douce. It has made me feel rather humble, a little fellow. I came here wanting to tell you how I had felt about it, and I did not know how to tell you. But you have made me tell you, and I am glad."

  He saw her lowered lashes, and the hands lying quietly in her lap.

  "I did not mean to make you say anything."

  "I know that. And, I think, that is why I was able to say it."

  Douce knew that Jordan had come very near to her, and the sense of his nearness made her tremble. But she was extraordinarily and instinctively right in her attitude towards him, and in her little air of austere restraint. It was as though she had divined intuitively how to make herself most felt by this big man, and yet there was no conscious posing in her self-possession. He had come very near to her, and suddenly she drew back, gently, with a sensitive and quiet closing of the petals. She had a feeling that he must not approach her too easily, that she must not let him touch her for quite a long while yet.

  Again, she was right. For Jordan was aware of this closing of her petals. He was gently and gravely shut out, and this sense of exclusion made him more hers than he had been before. So many women had opened their arms to him, and looked him hotly in the eyes, that this little thing with her pale face and her dark glances made him feel that the thing which is not won easily is the one thing worth having.

  He did not stay long with her, but when Douce watched him go down the path she knew that he would come again, and knew it as surely as a woman can know anything. She pressed her two hands to her cheeks and let herself feel all that she had not dared to feel.