Apples of Gold

by Warwick Deeping

  "He is going to want me," she thought, "he is going to want me."

  Those who saw Douce during the March days were aware of a change in her. There was more colour in her cheeks and a deeper lustre in her eyes; her mouth had ripened, and her face had that indefinable soft bloom which characterizes an inward and happy ardour. Spaniards Court observed her and was wisely indulgent. She came into it once or twice on Jordan's arm, and sometimes she came alone, and Mrs. Mary, with her head among the hyacinths in the pots upon her window-sill, smiled softly in her heart.

  "You pretty thing," she said, meeting Douce and kissing her, "you pretty thing!"

  They were very kind to Douce, and their kindness accepted her. She lost her air of austerity, and even began to be playful with Thomas Nando and to coquette with his fatherly teasings, filling his pipe for him, and coming like a bird to perch upon his knee.

  "Well, well," said he to Mrs. Mary, "I suppose these young things will be making a nest here when we go to roost in the new house."

  Douce was allowing herself to forget Mr. Stephen Marwick, but Mr. Marwick was not forgetting her. He had been nearer to her than she had guessed, and those little bright eyes of his had observed her with a menacing and purposeful intentness. Mr. Marwick had no morals. He had always acted upon the assumption that all the chicanery and the clever ingenuities of life are justified by success. The only people who are damned are the people who fail.

  He had not accepted failure. He knew that he had not been very far from setting his seal to the document. There were various other methods which could be carried out by certain shady persons without any immediate danger to himself. He was in a position to lay his hands upon such people and to persuade them to do as he pleased.

  After all, it was a very old trick, but the oldest tricks are not the least successful. He was a little gentleman who knew a thing or two. He had the virtue of persistence.

  "Possession is half the law," and he would have added, "the whole of marriage."

  XXXIII

  Mrs. Mary's hyacinths had faded, and had given place to pots of red and white tulips, when a negro in a very red coat and the whitest of wigs walked into Spaniards Court and knocked at Thomas Nando's door.

  Meg opened it to him.

  "Good day, m'arm. Mister March—he lives here?"

  The negro smiled, and with such a flashing of white teeth that Meg's face had to reflect the smile. Yes, Mr. March did live here, and what did the black gentleman want with him?

  Sambo produced a letter.

  "For Mister March."

  "Are you to wait for an answer?"

  "No, m'arm."

  "And who may the letter be from?"

  "Mister March, he will know."

  "O, will he!"

  She shut the door on Sambo, and holding the letter delicately she carried it up to Jordan's room and laid it on his table. But when Meg had laid it there she was persuaded to take it up again, to turn it over and over, to smell it, and hold it up to the light. The letter provoked her. It was a lady's letter, and Meg could remember other occasions when Jordan had received such letters which—according to Meg's observations—were not missives calculated to make a man either contented or happy. She assumed it to be a love-letter. "I know your kind," she reflected; "you come—smelling of lavender—from some fine lady who can't let a handsome man alone. And just when things are going so prettily! Well, perhaps he won't be fooled by you. He's nothink like so taken with women as he used to be."

  Jordan had gone out to the new house where the spring and Mr. Mactavish had made an end of the winter's ugliness. Grey flagstones and turf and trees had taken the place of the mud and the rubbish; a gravelled drive led round from the iron gates to the stable; there were flower beds edged with box and full of gilliflowers and tulips and red and white daisies. The fruit trees in Tom Nando's old garden were in bloom, and the oaks in the wood beyond the little paddock were showing buds of bronze and of gold. The house stood there in red and white completeness, solid, and good, and clean, ready for the paper-hangers and the furnishers, sleeking itself in the sunlight like a pretty woman in a new gown.

  Jordan had the place to himself that afternoon, for the gardener's wife, after seeing to the fires that were kept burning to dry the house, had gone across to her own cottage. The house surprised Jordan. It seemed to him that hitherto he had never see it as it was, complete, cleansed, set in its green setting with the sun shining on it out of a blue sky. He wandered about the garden; he went from room to room, happy and yet not so happy as he wished to be, vaguely aware of some presence, some memory that was not part of the house. He stood in the long parlour with its two windows and its white-painted walls. One window showed him the sunk garden with its stone cistern, paved paths, its clipped yews and box trees; the other opened upon that stretch of vivid grass with the oak wood flashing gold leaf buds at the end of it. He stood looking from one to the other. He was caught by a sudden thought, a memory that conjured up a sense of vague and unfulfilled desire. He remembered the day when he had built a causeway of planks for Mrs. Merris, and had loathed the mud, and the men, and the newness. She had taken all the glamour away and carried it off with her in her coach. How well he remembered it!

  He found the same mood stealing upon him now. Yet, why should he think of her? What was he to her, or she to him? The mud had gone, and so had the illusion that her beauty could have any meaning for him. But was it a mere matter of beauty? Was it her beauty, her richness of texture, that had made the new house seem raw and ugly, a boy's toy-house, a thing that was finished with before it had been completed? Had there not been something more than that, a subtle challenging of the future, a mysterious wounding of his ambition, a voice that had said: "This is your first play-box. You shall build better than this." He stood and mused; he went out again, and wandered about the garden, looking at the house critically, with a new sense of its limitations and of his. He rebelled against the mood. He saw that the house was handsome, and solid, and well built. And what a fool mood was this! To let the thought of a woman come in and spoil it, and make him yearn vaguely for something else when life might be as solid and as well set as this thing of stone and of brick. Here was a reality, a fact, a substantial accomplishment. Women and the spring were alike in the mischief they made, filling a man's mind with vague discontents and vapours, wounding him with a sense of something yet to be sought for and desired. What did a man want? If he had health, strength, money, a wife, children, some reputation in the world, what more could he ask for? The rest was all moonlight and madness.

  Jordan had issued an order to himself that he should think of it in that way. He locked the door, took the key across to the gardener's cottage, and walked home, changing the smell of the green country for the smell of the city, and assuring himself that both were good. He was alive; he had work to do. Wenches smiled at him. He was Jordan March, a man to be treated with respect.

  He went up to his room and found that letter.

  "We have become like strangers. I have been away into the country, but having returned I still live in Garter Street. You may come and see me."

  He stood holding the letter in his hand.

  His first thought was of the strangeness of its coming to him at this moment when he had fought a battle with himself concerning her. His second thought was that he would not go.

  "Why re-open a path that had begun to be overgrown?"

  No, he would not go. And so sure was he of his decision, and so high-handed in dealing with the temptation that he tore up her letter, and scattered the pieces in the grate. That settled it. There was to be no more moonlight. He would get on with his life and his work, marry and settle down, and remain solidly in Spaniards Court until two dear people should pass away, leaving him the new house and an old memory. Surely a man could make up his mind and keep it in that condition?

  He went down to Mrs. Mary for his cup of chocolate, remembering that Douce should be there, for she had promised to come this after
noon. Mrs. Mary was sitting on the blue settee with her head close to her tulips, but Mrs. Mary was alone. Tom was at Wood's coffee-house with a party of friends.

  "What, all alone, mother?"

  She looked at him with a glimmer of wise humour in her eyes.

  "It seems so. I expect she will come to-morrow."

  Jordan felt vaguely ruffled. He had wanted Douce to be here, because she seemed to be part of the promise he had made to himself, and her absence annoyed him. It was as though he had counted on being helped to forget someone else by looking at her, and he found nothing but a little old lady who had smiled at him as though his air of annoyance pleased her. His restlessness returned, and with a doubled force. He stood by the window and stared.

  Meg came in with the chocolate.

  "Your pardon, Mr. Jordan, but I put a letter on your table."

  "I saw it."

  His voice had a rough edge to it, and he had a feeling that these two women exchanged glances behind his back. He suspected that Meg had gossiped about that letter to Mrs. Mary, and that they were both wondering what was inside it. Women could never let anything alone. They wanted to arrange a man's life for him, just as they mended his shirts and kept his house in order, but without appearing to manage anything. They pulled invisible strings.

  "Confound me—if I marry," he thought, taking a mouthful of the chocolate and finding it too hot.

  He had burnt his tongue, but was silent over it, only to find Meg reappearing fussily with a jug of milk.

  "I'm afraid it's scalded you, Mr. Jordan. That fool Polly will never learn to be ought else but a fool."

  "Perhaps we are all like that," said Jordan, accepting the milk, and realizing how carefully women watch a man.

  He was angry with himself for feeling that his sudden inward outburst against marriage was a confession of fear. Was it possible for a man to be afraid of women? Was he afraid of Mrs. Merris?

  No, of course not! Then, why tear up a letter and make such a mystery of it? He was not afraid of any woman.

  "I may be late for supper, mother."

  "O, well, my dear, Meg can keep some for you."

  That was all she said, and yet Jordan felt convinced that she knew where he was going, and that it was to see the writer of the letter.

  He went to her, half angry, half proud, and wholly resisting, but directly the door opened and he saw her, he knew that he had forgiven her everything. Yet, what had he to forgive? What harm had she ever done him? It was only that the indolent rich beauty of her had got into his head and blood and made him sanely mad. She was sitting by the open window just as he first remembered her, as though it amused her to watch the people who passed and to make a story of them to herself. She turned slowly when Sambo showed him in. She smiled. He stood there, bowing stiffly, and realizing something in her smile that was new to him. He had thought that he had known her face so well, and yet it was different, more baffling, more appealing. She looked at him as though she knew all that was passing inside him and understood it, as though she understood everything in life and could still smile. He saw not only a very beautiful woman, but also a very sympathetic and a very wise one.

  "Well," she said; "I have been away in the country. Did you know?"

  "No, madam, I did not know."

  She half-closed her eyes and pointed him to a chair. He had not been near the house since his meeting with Sfex, and she had expected that.

  "And how are you?"

  "I am very well, madam. And I hope you are well, and that Miss Stamford——"

  "We are all in perfect health, including Poor Poll."

  He saw her eyes light up. She seemed amused—but very gently amused, and then just when he was realizing that one particular expression it changed to something else. She looked out of the window, and he saw her profile against the dark background of the house across the way.

  "You were not coming here again," she said; "is not that so?"

  He felt as he might have felt had some inexperienced boy touched him with a sword. Where was the parry? Was there a parry to such a question?

  "No," he said, "that is true."

  She did not move or turn her head, but continued to gaze out of the window.

  "Thank you. I wished to know. Let me tell you that I understood your reason."

  He said nothing.

  "I think that you and Lord Sfex had met before."

  "We had."

  "Yes; he contrived that I should know. I have given orders that Lord Sfex shall not be admitted to my house."

  And suddenly she rose, smiled at him, and stood waiting, and Jordan knew—without being able to explain to himself how he knew it—that she expected him to go. It was a gentle dismissal, a dismissal that made it plain to him that he might come again, that she gave him the right to enter her house, while refusing it to Sfex. He had a feeling of life rushing to his head, yet he stood very still, looking at her.

  "Madam—I am and shall always be—your very devoted servant."

  Her eyes met his.

  "Mr. March—I judge people for myself. I take them for what they are to me. I wanted you to know."

  He bowed to her and found himself on the stairs. He had been in that room for less than five minutes, and he had come out of it with the knowledge that a great and wonderful thing had happened. Beyond doubt Sfex had told her of the Bacchus affair and had added other romances to it, and she had gone away, but on her return she had sent for him and re-admitted him into her life with the gesture of one throwing a poisonous letter into the fire. He was astonished and he was touched. Also, he felt deeply exultant, but with an exultation that owed nothing to an ungenerous vanity. She was above such vanity. Lesser men might have suspected her of a graceful wantonness, but Jordan knew she was not that sort of woman. She had behaved to him like a very great lady, and in the spirit he went down on his knee and touched her hand with his lips.

  He lost himself in the street. He felt higher than the houses, and looking over the tops of them at far away and splendid things. His mood of the afternoon appeared to him as something inexpressibly weak and mean. He had been sneering at her and at the thoughts and ambitions she had stirred in him, and in sneering at her he had been sneering at himself.

  "I wanted you to know."

  What words were those, proud words, generous words! He repeated them to himself with gratitude and a man's deep tenderness. Her window was higher than ever, and she more mysterious and more significant. She had beckoned and spoken.

  "I know—but I trust you."

  Never had the fine temper of him felt itself so challenged, and so ready to be what she willed it to be. He had a sense of growth, of lightness, and of strength, a strange and mounting confidence in himself and in the future which lay like a landscape half-hidden in the mists of the dawn. Was it possible, was it possible? She had smiled at him with a bewildering and splendid kindness, and had shut the door in the face of George Sfex.

  Jordan was still in another world when he entered Spaniards Court. He walked towards the familiar doorway, seeing nothing as a wakeful man sees it. He did not notice the opening of the lattice in Mrs. Mary's parlour window, or see her face above the pots of red and white tulips.

  "Jordan—Jordan!"

  Her voice brought him back to earth. It had some quality of emotion that dissolved a man's dreams. He half paused, turning to the window.

  "Yes—mother?"

  "Come in. We have been waiting. Something has happened."

  There were three people in the parlour—Mrs. Mary, Tom Nando, and Maurice St. Croix. Mrs. Mary was sitting in the middle of the blue settee, with eyes like the eyes of an anxious bird. Tom Nando was sucking at an empty pipe. St. Croix stood by the fireplace, looking like a man who was both angry and afraid.

  "Why—what's the matter?"

  Jordan glanced from one to the other, and it was Mrs. Mary who answered his question.

  "Something has happened to Douce."

  "To Douce!"

&n
bsp; He turned instinctively to St. Croix.

  "What is it?"

  St. Croix's voice was thin and harsh.

  "Douce has disappeared. She went out yesterday, and she never returned. I did not hear till this morning."

  XXXIV

  The door of Mr. Marwick's house at Tottenham opened and closed, showing a momentary streak of yellow light which winked like an eye at the backs of the two men who went slowly down the gravel path to the gate. The moon was up, and the black shadows of Mr. Marwick's shrubs lay across his path.

  One of the men paused.

  "Do you think he was lying?"

  He turned and looked back at the house, the lower half of his face in the moonlight, the upper half shaded by his hat. His teeth showed between his tight lips.

  "The old devil!"

  Jordan put a hand on his shoulder.

  "He let us search the house. He looked quite white and shocked when you told him."

  "I would not trust him a yard."

  "But, man, what more could we do? To have twisted his neck would have been a fool's game unless we were sure that he had something to hide. Besides, he offered to help us."

  "Perhaps he will. It might be useful to him if we found Douce."

  They moved on, but when they reached the gate Jordan put his hand again on St. Croix's shoulder.

  "What do you really think has happened?"

  "Well—what do you?"

  They looked at each other in the moonlight.

  "She had nothing to make her unhappy?"

  "No. To tell you the truth, March—I think she was beginning to be rather happy."

  "Oh!"

  "You are a little fond of her, aren't you?"

  Jordan did not answer for a moment, and he felt St. Croix's eyes on his face.

  "Of course. And was that making her happy?"

  "I don't want to discuss my sister's emotions—but I think it was."

  Jordan opened the gate, but he did it as though he were paying no attention to what he was doing.