The Wax Fruit Trilogy

by Guy McCrone

  “Mungo’s going to be married.”

  “Married!” Mary and Sophia exclaimed together. Mungo? At the age of forty-three Mungo was getting married! It would be one of his farm-girls. The old story over again. It was too bad. Just when their children could do very well with a well-to-do bachelor uncle. Sophia had been planning pleasant, endearing little spells of housekeeping for Margy at the farm whenever she was old enough.

  Mungo looked up embarrassed but good-natured. “Well, what’s wrong? Any objections? Are ye not marrit yerselves?”

  “But tell us who the lady is, Mungo,” Bel said

  It was Arthur who spoke. “It’s Miss Ruanthorpe of Duntrafford.”

  “Miss Ruanthorpe!” Again Mary and Sophia exclaimed together, and thereafter sat quite dumb, saying nothing whatever.

  It was hardly for Bel—a mere town sparrow—to appreciate the shock of surprise to the two sisters. She had never known, like them, a country child’s reverence for the Big House. A reverence which was planted deep in any farm-child’s breast. In days gone by Sophia and Mary had hidden frightened, shy little faces in their mother’s skirts when Sir Charles, calling at the farm, had bent down to say a word to them.

  And now their brother Mungo, the least genteel, most clod-hopperish of all the boys, was going to marry Sir Charles’s daughter! No. They sought about for some link that would make this possible, and found none. And typically they did not seek to attribute it to any special qualities in their brother. Mungo was just Mungo. And Miss Ruanthorpe must just be very eccentric indeed.

  But it was very exciting. By themselves in the drawing-room after dinner, Mary, Sophia and Bel got their heads together. (Phœbe had gone up with Mrs. Barrowfield to visit her nephews and niece.) It would be a great upheaval in Mungo’s life. He was to be married quietly in two or three months’ time, and he and his wife were to occupy the Dower House of Duntrafford. His elder ploughman was to be put into the Laigh Farm house, but Mungo fully intended to go on looking after his farm, for it was his life’s work.

  Mary, roused out of her customary placidity, did not really see how this arrangement could possibly work. Sophia agreed with her.

  But there were other aspects. Mungo would shortly be as good as laird of the whole of the Duntrafford Estates for Sir Charles was seventy-nine—and therefore rich! Much richer than any of them. It was a little hard, Bel thought, now adding her theme to the trio, considering how the other boys had worked and how well they had been supported by their wives. Still, she said angelically, it was nice to think of anyone so worthy as Mungo having such good fortune. Apropos of nothing, Sophia said, “Mungo told me she was thirty-nine. They may have no children, of course.”

  All three sat and pondered this for some time. Each working out its implications in relation to themselves and their children.

  Presently Bel asked, “Do you know if she has any near relations?”

  “I don’t think she has anybody at all,” Mary said, and added, “I remember when I was a girl, Father and Mother saying so when her brother was killed at the hunt.”

  “Was he killed at the hunt? That must have been terrible,” Bel said, but her voice seemed considerably brighter as she added, “Still, that’s all the more reason, dear, to hope they do have children. After all, thirty-nine isn’t too late.”

  And then, as Phœbe had come back into the room, and you couldn’t possibly suggest that marriage might result in children before a young girl, she was reluctantly compelled to drop that aspect of the situation.

  But, from her point of view, there was an even more immediate, and—though she would never admit it—alarming aspect of this new alliance. They would have to make contacts with their new sister-in-law. They would have to meet her. She would have to come to stay. How would she expect to be treated? As the wife of Arthur she must ask her to stay at Grosvenor Terrace first. They had moved out West just in time! As she thought about it, courage returned. Yes. In this house she would be able to face the daughter of a baronet. David was always such a help—you could always go to him, socially naked and unashamed, and say to him simply, “What do I do next?” and he was much too sympathetic and good-natured ever to mock.

  When the men came upstairs they were all in the best of spirits, thanks to the excellent claret that David had said was the right thing to drink at a dinner-party. And also thanks to a good deal of port, which he had also said was the right thing to drink after one.

  If they were all very homely and affectionate, and very much their old selves, without formality or anything else, and did nothing but hang about and chatter, leaving the women to their own devices, Bel did not really mind much now. The family was the family. And she supposed she must let them go on being just that. With the prospect of further social advances to be made, social positions to be stormed in the near future, it was, perhaps, a comfort to her to find herself, for this evening at least, among those for whom she really need make no effort whatever.

  Chapter Eighteen

  AT exactly the right moment of exactly the right afternoon, Bel dressed herself in what she considered to be exactly the right clothes and, supported by Phœbe, set out to return Mrs. Hayburn’s call.

  The door was opened by a decorous maid—no detail of whose behaviour or dress escaped Bel—and they were requested to follow her upstairs.

  Bel was glad that they were left by themselves for a moment in Mrs. Hayburn’s large drawing-room, since it let her have a good look round. So this was the room where David had danced upon his first memorable visit? There was much that was old-fashioned and restrained, Bel thought. For Mrs. Hayburn’s idea of furnishing had been formed when fashion had not yet run to the riot of heavy German drapery and tassels, to the rich, meaningless ornamentation that marked the late ’seventies; formed when decoration had not quite moved away from Georgian simplicity. Bel liked the room. Much of it appealed to her natural good taste. She found herself determining to eliminate this and that in her own too modern house, and wondering how she could do it without offending Arthur who, of course, had had all the paying to do and was indiscriminately proud of all his new possessions.

  Presently the door opened and Mrs. Hayburn came towards them.

  Her manner was several degrees more genial than it would have been some days ago. For, since she had left her cards at Grosvenor Terrace, David had been here to see the boys, and had let fall the information that his brother—the Ayrshire one—was to marry into the county. Up to now the existence of David’s country brother had never been stressed, but in the sunshine of his astounding alliance, Mungo, simplest of souls, had budded and bloomed into a social asset.

  Still, all that was very well. Henry’s mother, however, was not yet by any means sure that she wanted Henry to marry Phœbe. Like a good and tactful parent, she must, of course, avoid all appearance of placing obstacles. But—well—it was surely her first duty to examine the young woman before her and decide for herself. Certainly his taste was excellent. Miss Moorhouse was a beautiful creature. She had never thought that Henry would have eyes for this sort of girl.

  Indeed, the two women before her made rather a splendid pair. Miss Moorhouse, dark and slender, with fine tempestuous colouring, and also that indefinable air of distinction that her brother David possessed. And her sister-in-law, fair, elegant and mature—her taste in dress a little too good, perhaps, a little too careful—and yet withal, impeccable.

  “It’s very kind of you to come to see me, Mrs. Moorhouse,” she said, begging them to sit down. “You see, we’ve known David for such a long time now. Yet it almost seemed as if he had no relatives.”

  Bel replied pleasantly that there were her own family, and the family of two married sisters in Glasgow.

  “Yes. He did mention you, of course. But for a long time I had no idea that some of your husband’s family were still left in Ayrshire. David only told us recently.”

  “Oh yes. The oldest of all. And it’s so amusing to think—at his time of life! We all thought
he was a confirmed bachelor, of course. And now he’s just got engaged to be married to the daughter of an old friend, Sir Charles Ruanthorpe.” There were times when Mungo’s impending eminence filled Bel with envy. But here, in Mrs. Hayburn’s presence, she could only be obliged to him.

  Mrs. Hayburn, who was nothing if not curious, was delighted that Mrs. Moorhouse looked like gossiping. She put her hand upon the bell-rope. “You’ll stay for tea?”

  Bel, who had heard it was not smart to drink tea upon a first visit, held up an elegant glove hand: “No, thank you. I’m sorry. We’re going on.”

  Phœbe vaguely wondered where Bel thought they were going on to, but dutifully held her tongue.

  “I’m sorry,” the old woman was saying; then she added: “The Ayrshire Moorhouses will go on staying in the country, of course?”

  At this moment the devil entered into Phœbe. Or so, at any rate, it seemed to Bel.

  “Oh yes, of course, Mrs. Hayburn. You see, my brother is just a working farmer. He says he won’t let his marriage make any difference to his work.” Too much play-acting had a strange effect upon Phœbe. It made her feel as though she were in an overheated room where she must, cost what it might, throw wide the windows. Bel coloured, but said nothing.

  A violent sort of girl this, old Mrs. Hayburn thought. She could see that Phœbe had embarrassed her sister-in-law. Why had she done it? Through sheer coltishness? Or was it by intention? Strangely, the sight of Bel’s confusion aroused within her a feeling of friendship. She so hated violence. And after all, why was the girl making a fuss? Her brother was going to marry a baronet’s daughter. He couldn’t just be a ploughman.

  And as they went on talking her liking for Bel increased. Mrs. Arthur Moorhouse was highly personable and unvulgar, and she seemed anxious to play the social game. She would not mind seeing her from time to time.

  But she was not so sure about Phœbe. This child spoke her mind much too frankly. Perhaps that had appealed to Henry, but she, for her part, did not approve of it. There was a fearlessness about the girl that she did not like. No. If it were at all possible she must steer her dreamy, unpractical son safely through this shoal. He had much better take one of the young ladies she had planned for him instead of this odd, stormy creature.

  II

  But Henry had other views, and Phœbe was to learn them very quickly.

  One evening, after a meal at Sophia’s, Phœbe found herself with the Butter children on the old Mill Road, down by the waters of the River Kelvin. She had decided to try to go home this way. It was a pleasant walk, she had heard. Wil and Margy had promised to come with her as far as the Flint Mill. A curious little road it was, down there in the gully. High above, on both sides, crescents and terraces were springing up—or stood, already built. But here, down out of it all, the rural past still lingered. It was June and you were in the country, if you didn’t raise your eyes. Here there were fresh leaves, the rushing river, and nothing but a white cottage and the mill. And though City sounds were shut out by the flow of the water, you heard the notes of the thrushes and the blackbirds in the bushes nearby. There was no traffic on this little lost road, which was, every day, becoming more engulfed in a thriving Victorian city. It was secluded and remote.

  Wil and Margy skipped along by Phœbe’s side showing her this and that. A robin’s nest. The wild hyacinths. A flowering lilac bush. Phœbe frisked with them. It was nice to have a rest from being grown up. When they came to the mill they hung about watching; for the men were working late.

  Suddenly a voice called: “Miss Moorhouse.” She turned round. It was Henry Hayburn. He was bareheaded, and carried a book in his hand. His black hair was shaken anyhow over his brow and his eyes were excited. With his dusty coat, his loose black tie, and his boyish beard, he looked, she thought, like the conventional picture of a poet.

  She held out her hand. “I didn’t expect to find you down here. What are you reading? Poetry?”

  He looked at her solemnly for a moment, surprised, as though he were not quite sure whether she was real, then he grinned. Colour came suddenly into his freckled white face. “No,” he said. “It’s not poetry. I never read poetry. I can’t be bothered with it.” He laid his hand on the pocket into which he had thrust his book and said with sudden earnestness: “No. This is a book about steam-pressure.”

  The difference was ludicrous enough. At another time or said by anybody else Phœbe would have laughed. But the tone of his voice, the lack of any sign from him that he was aware of having said anything comic, the fierce glint of enthusiasm in his eyes, suddenly gave the young girl a glimpse of that strange passion which was Henry’s heritage. That fierce, creative obsession. With iron, coal, water-power, electricity, expanding steam. It gave her a glimpse of the importance of these things to this young man. In a flash of unwonted insight—for her peasant blood was not particularly quick—she saw how much it meant to him to be numbered with the old and famous brotherhood of Glasgow’s engineers.

  Somehow she felt embarrassed. She looked about her. Wil and Margy were hanging over the fence by the mill-stream gazing at the water as it flowed into the mill. She called them.

  “Have you seen my nephew and niece before? Wil and Margy Butter. This is a friend of your Uncle David, Mr. Hayburn.”

  The Butter children shook hands. It amused them to see Phœbe suddenly grown up again. For a moment they stood grinning awkwardly before the unkempt young gentleman, then shortly they turned back to the mill and left Phœbe with him.

  “I suppose it’s possible for me to get home this way?” Phœbe said conversationally. “I don’t quite know where I am.”

  “Yes, it is,” he said. “But you have to go a bit farther up. Look here, I can take you.”

  Phœbe protested. “Oh, no! Please don’t let me bother you. I know there’s a footbridge somewhere.”

  He had become solemn again. He was looking now like a disappointed child. “I would like to show you the way. You can cross by the footbridge at the Three-Tree Well.” And as he was still looking at her like a spaniel who wants to be taken for a walk, Phœbe accepted.

  “All right. It’s very kind of you, Mr. Hayburn.”

  She called the children and they said goodbye.

  III

  The evening was warm. But the walk through the trees by the riverside was cool and pleasant. Henry paced along by her side, still saying little, though at their last meeting she had laughingly given him permission to talk. But she did not mind. It pleased her to imagine that she was out in the country far from the encroaching city. She could understand why in past days the valley of the Kelvin had been renowned for its beauty. Even now there was much left. They came to the bridge at the old ford. When they stood in the middle of it she stopped and, leaning on the rail, looked down into the water. The young man halted beside her. Midges were dancing. Birds were calling in the wooded bank on the farther side by the Three-Tree Well. Neither of them spoke for a time.

  Presently Phœbe looked at her companion. He was not looking down into the water any more. He was looking at herself intently. She smiled at him. “You can talk to me, you know. I gave you permission the last time I saw you.”

  “I remember,” he said bashfully. “It was very nice of you.”

  She tried to read his face, then laughed—a little defensively, perhaps. “Oh, don’t be too serious about it. It wasn’t much, really.”

  “Yes, it was.”

  She did not know what he meant, so she turned way and again gazed into the water as it ran beneath them.

  Once more he hung on the rail watching her. Her face was rosy with leaning.

  Still looking down, she spoke. “I’ve spoiled your evening for you,” and as he made to answer, “Yes I have. You came out with your book to read up something and enjoy yourself, and here you are seeing a young lady home because you think you ought to.”

  He was incapable of fine speeches, but he cried, “Oh no, Miss Moorhouse, I wanted to.”

  Sudden
ly she was touched. “It’s nice of you anyway. I’ll tell you something. When you told me what your book was about I realised just how much all that kind of thing—I mean your work, engineering—matters to you.”

  His eyes gleamed at her. “Did you, Miss Moorhouse?”

  “Yes.”

  “How could you possibly?”

  “I don’t know. Just a sudden look. Something.”

  This was wonderful. It was more. It was of great and exciting importance. That she, of all people, should know by instinct what his own people could not, or would not, grasp.

  “Mother and Stephen never would have, you know.”

  “What a pity!” she said simply.

  “I’m glad you do.”

  She looked at him quickly and straightened herself. “It’s nice of you to say that, Mr. Hayburn, but why you should care what I think, I don’t know. We’d better go on—” She was very young and, except in her own virgin thoughts, perhaps, the lands of tenderness were still hidden country, yet the tone of his voice had told her to be careful. She crossed the remainder of the bridge quickly, walking a little ahead of him But there she had to stop, for she was not sure how next to go. “Which way?” She turned to him smiling, determined to be pleasantly normal.

  “That way. It doesn’t matter.”

  Without waiting she turned and began going up the hill. Presently she stopped, panting for breath. It was strangely quiet here. Quiet and secluded. Queer to think that it was a stone’s-throw from Glasgow’s most fashionable Gardens. She stood still and looked back. He was coming up behind her. His face was flushed and troubled as though he were unravelling some conundrum in his mind.

  IV

  When he came level with her he caught her hand and said, “Miss Moorhouse, I want you to marry me.”

  It was said so absurdly simply, with so little seeming emotion, that Phœbe was seized with a mad feeling that she was acting charades—that presently they would have to go back to the beginning, and Henry would be told to put much more expression into it. But she couldn’t stand here, her hand in Henry’s, thinking about charades. She drew it away and said, “Mr. Hayburn, you’re talking nonsense.”