The Wax Fruit Trilogy

by Guy McCrone

  But now this second happening by the burn kept invading her thoughts. It came of its own accord, forcing her to give it endless reflection. She had been sorry, troubled, angry. She tried to puzzle out to herself why he had so stirred her. But she could find no answer. Was it a quality of fecklessness? An appeal to something protective in her make-up? The family told her she ran after lame ducks. Was Henry a lame duck? In a sense perhaps. But then he was said to be very clever in his way. Brilliant, she had heard said. At all events she didn’t know. But certainly, whatever her feeling, she was not in love with him she told herself.

  Now, as though the thought of him were not enough, he had taken to writing her letters. Long, rambling things, mostly about his work. It was quite plain to her that when she and what she stood for were not obsessing his mind, it was a mind that ran on a single track. Engineering was not only his calling. It was his passion. What would happen to the woman who married him? Would she find herself, shortly, a mere piece of furniture in his house? A creature, scarcely noticed, who was there to look after his comfort—to liberate his mind from distracting instincts that it might continue upon its own brilliant way? There were many self-effacing women who, if they loved him enough, would accept these conditions considering their lives fulfilled. She was made of different stuff. Often, recently, she had felt purposeless. Had asked herself, indeed, why the Almighty had seen fit to create her. But she was certainly not self-effacing. She kept turning over these things, but her thoughts could find no rest.

  The first days of September passed, and now there was the wedding. The family came flocking down, all of them. Mary and George, fat and placid, with their fat, placid children. The Butters. Sophia excited and talking her head off. Wil and Margy, brown and sprouting after their holiday, and looking really quite handsome children. Their father, William, as silent as usual. David, the ever correct and immaculate. And then Phœbe’s own people. Arthur, Bel and her nephew Arthur (the younger children had been left behind). Phœbe was delighted to see them. Little Arthur sulked at first and complained that she had never come to Glen Rosa, but he clung by her all through the day.

  Bel was beautifully dressed. A little too beautifully, too carefully, Phœbe thought, comparing her with the one or two Ruanthorpe guests. Indeed her own family looked, somehow, a little over-prosperous, too defensively confident, too urban, for their surroundings. Now it was Mungo, still countrified, but calm and solemn, who was in place. But the ceremony was a pleasantly simple one, performed, as had been arranged, in the Duntrafford drawing-room before the two families and the men and maid-servants of the estate. This suited Sir Charles and, somehow, it seemed right that these two should be united in the surroundings to which they were to belong.

  And in due course when all was over the Moorhouse clan trooped back to Glasgow, related now, by the bonds of holy matrimony, to a real live baronet, the owner of quite extensive lands. A matter for much secret complacency to most of them, though wild horses would not have dragged this from them. But Providence they felt had been kind to them in many ways, and was repaying them even more than they deserved for their devotion to the things that mattered. Such things as the commonsense practice of a good, sensible brand of religion and a strict attention to business.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “WHERE are you going to, Aunt Phœbe?” Arthur the Second, large enough to be promoted to the breakfast-room, and with a napkin tied round his neck, stopped for a moment from shovelling porridge into his manly mouth. He was a schoolboy now, Bel having sent him to the newly-built Kelvinside Academy which had just opened its doors “to enable pupils to qualify for the University and for commercial and professional pursuits”. It was to be, Bel understood, the most select establishment in Glasgow for the education of gentlemen’s sons.

  Arthur looked up at his aunt for an instant. He resented that she had come into the room wearing a hat and outdoor things. It meant that she was going to do something he wouldn’t be able to share in now that he must go to school.

  Phœbe slid an affectionate hand over his round head as she passed him on her way to look out of the window. “I’m going into town with your Papa,” she said. “I’ve got some shopping to do. Then I’m going to see your Granny. I’ve been home for nearly a fortnight, and I haven’t been to see her yet.”

  It was a fine autumn morning. The trees in front and across the Great Western Road in the Botanic Gardens had turned to brown and gold.

  “Finish your porridge, Arthur,” Bel said reprovingly.

  “Couldn’t you go on Saturday?” he asked anxiously.

  “No, dear. She’s going today. Hurry up, son.”

  “I’ll take you somewhere on Saturday. Where would you like to go?”

  Arthur smiled. “I don’t know. I’ll have to think,” he said, and attacked his porridge plate once more.

  Phœbe, still wandering about, bent over the still empty chair belonging to the master of the house and glanced casually over his folded morning Herald to see if there was anything in the way of shop announcements worthy of her interest. The first outside quarter page yielded nothing. Births and marriages of people she didn’t know. Bank notices.

  She picked up the paper, and held up the front page fully opened out. Wednesday the second of October 1878. An announcement of a new story beginning in the Weekly Herald: “Marguerite: or A Woman’s Wit.” A romance from Spanish History. “The story is essentially modern in spirit; antiquarian research has not been suffered to impair the action of the narrative.” She might spend a penny on that if she remembered. On Monday the seventh October, a return visit of the Comedy Opera Company. They would play “HMS Pinafore: or The Lass that Loved a Sailor” by Mr. Gilbert and Mr. Sullivan. She might try to tease David into taking her to that. Royal Botanic Gardens. In the Kibble Palace, Mr. Cole’s Splendid String Band. Tomorrow from seven to nine. She would keep away from that. She didn’t want to run into the Hayburn boys. She had not seen either of them since she had come back. If Henry had written, the letters had not been forwarded. She had, these days, a nervous desire, almost, to shut him out of her thoughts.

  This was better. “Mr. Copland of the Caledonian House in Sauchiehall Street is just home from Paris, and has made a happy selection of Rare and Beautiful Costumes, the surpassing beauty of which exhausts the vocabulary of ecstatic imagination.” And Millar’s at the Cross, and the Polytechnic had autumn shows too. She must really have a look round all these. She had better have her midday meal with old Mrs. Barrowfield and make a day of it. It was nice to be back in Glasgow again in this crisp autumn weather, to have all kinds of things to look at, and to be eighteen.

  She folded the Herald as she heard her brother’s step outside the door, and put it back by his plate.

  II

  The man of business was preoccupied. He was never at his most talkative in the morning. He greeted everybody curtly. Bel hurried to pour out his tea. Phœbe served his ham and eggs. While this was going on he stood warming himself in front of the fire. When he saw that his breakfast was awaiting him, he said, “Thanks,” and sat down abruptly. He took his first sip of tea, his first piece of ham, then put out his hand for his morning paper.

  “The City Bank?”

  Phœbe and Bel stopped to look at him as his quick hands folded the sheets to the news page.

  “What is it, dear?” Bel asked.

  Arthur read: “The City Bank of Glasgow has stopped payment. For some time past rumours have been in circulation unfavourable to the position of the bank; and these have been only too well founded.” He dived deeper and went on reading without comment.

  “Is that a very serious thing? What does stopping payment really mean, Arthur?” Bel asked.

  He paid no attention.

  “I hope we’ve got no money in it,” Phœbe said.

  “If it’s a serious thing, that would be dreadful. Arthur, you must tell us! Arthur!”

  “What is it?” He put down his Herald querulously.

  “Have
we got any money in the City Bank?”

  “No. We haven’t.”

  “What a good thing!”

  “Yes. This may be very serious.” He took up the paper again.

  “Will people be ruined?”

  “Very likely. There’ll be some fun in the town today.” He folded it up and pushed it into a pocket. “I’ll read the rest going in,” he said. He snapped up the remainder of his breakfast with lightning speed. Finished, he pushed himself back and got up. “If you’re coming with me, Phœbe, you’d better come,” he said. “This bank affair is going to be terrible,” he added. “It’ll affect trade. It’ll be a bad autumn for everybody. By the way, I believe David’s Hayburn friends are in, up to the neck. Somebody mentioned it at the Club the other day.”

  He did not give his sister time to ponder his words, for, in an instant more, he had seized his hat and was out on the pavement waiting for the tram. Phœbe hurried after him, well-used to this treatment. Arthur was the best brother in the world, even if he hadn’t time to wait for his ladies.

  When they had mounted the tram, however, he remembered he had his sister with him. For instead of swinging himself agilely up the little stairway to the roof, he came inside. This was occupied mostly by elderly men. The conductor rang the bell, the horses were off, and brother and sister settled down to the morning journey into the City.

  Presently Phœbe found herself wondering why everybody was talking to everybody else. Tram passengers were not usually so free with their talk. On the few occasions upon which she had had to go into town at this hour she had invariably found herself in the company of a tram-load of solemn, bearded, bewhiskered gentlemen; murmuring, perhaps, polite greetings to a newcomer, but for the most, sitting staring in front of them, their hands crossed stolidly over the ivory or ebony handles of their large umbrellas, pondering no doubt the matters of weight which the day held in store for them. But today all was animation and talk. The man next to Arthur had begun talking to him. He was talking of the City Bank. The two gentlemen on the other side of her were talking about the City Bank. Those opposite were talking about the City Bank. What a terrible thing it was! What had brought it about? What would be the extent of the damage done?

  To Phœbe, being a well-brought-up young woman, most of this business talk was Greek. The other banks were accepting its notes, one man said. That seemed to be a good thing. An old gentleman shook his head and said that wouldn’t last long. He had heard talk last night. The Exchange had been humming. He wouldn’t be surprised if the affair reached the criminal court. He turned and addressed a passenger sitting on his other side who, so far as Phœbe could tell, had until now said nothing. “What do you think, sir?”

  “I hope it’s not as bad as it looks, or I’ll be a ruined man.” For this man’s benefit the old gentleman immediately became falsely cheerful, but no one who was listening—least of all Phœbe—was convinced by his tone.

  As she sat swaying behind the trotting horses, she found herself staring at the gentleman who had said he might be a ruined man. She regarded him with her usual impersonal interest. He must be racked with anxiety. Did people express so little when they were faced with ruin? Did they merely sit quietly and look before them? Was she really hard, that she could not feel more for this stranger? Was there something left out of her make-up? Had she a limited supply of sympathy?

  The tram rattled on. Now the brakes were screaming as it descended Renfield Street. Now it had reached its terminus in St. Vincent Place. People were getting out. They were preparing to change round the horses.

  III

  Arthur asked her if she were going direct to his mother-in-law at Monteith Row—in which case she might accompany him by George’s Square and the Candleriggs. But Phœbe thanked him and said that she had promised herself to go down Buchanan Street, then by Argyle Street and the Trongate, so that she might see what was showing in the autumn shop-windows. Arthur bade her a hasty goodbye and hurried off.

  In Buchanan Street, too, there was an air of excitement. Phœbe, having been in the country for so long, set about examining each window display with immense relish. But presently she found her attention continually caught by the excited voices of passers-by. The City Bank. Always the City Bank. It was now long past nine. In front of the Glasgow Herald office there was a small crowd of people. She crossed over and asked a boy who looked like a young clerk what the crowd meant. They were trying to get further news of the City Bank. As she reached Argyle Street, morning passengers were pouring out of St. Enoch’s Square from the great, new-built railway station. Urchins selling late editions of the morning papers were doing a roaring trade.

  She took her way along Argyle Street. Here in the rush of Glasgow’s busiest street the excitement seemed swallowed up.

  For a time Phœbe let such windows as were worth looking at engross her. Her aim in coming into this undistinguished part was to spend some time in the great emporium known as the Royal Polytechnic, to have an entertaining and profitable look round.

  As she came opposite to it she stopped and crossed over. For some time the display in its many windows took all her attention. “Modes from Paris”, “The very latest from the City of Fashion.” What it had worn at its Great Exhibition this summer. The Polytechnic had sent its buyers, and nothing had escaped their notice. Glasgow’s ladies need consider themselves in no way behind in up-to-date elegance. They had merely to put themselves into the hands of the Polytechnic buyers. In one window there was a lithograph of the Prince of Wales and his lovely Princess Alexandra being shown round the Exhibition by deferential Frenchmen.

  Phœbe was enjoying herself thoroughly now. She took each of the many windows in turn, gazing her fill. At last she decided to buy some small thing as an excuse for going inside to see the still greater wonders there.

  She was turning to go back to the main entrance when she became conscious that people were hurrying along in excited knots on the other side of the street. For a moment she stood looking, and then, anxious to miss nothing, she picked up her skirts and ran over to see what it was all about. Presently she found herself at the corner of Virginia Street, a street which, in the ordinary way, was quiet, business-like, unobtrusive and without interest for a young girl. Some little way up there was a large crowd of people standing. All of them were gazing up at a doorway. In a moment more she had joined them. She saw now that those about her were very excited, pressing forward, it seemed, towards this door. She craned her neck to see better and was able to read the words “The City Bank of Glasgow, Head Office.”

  She spoke to a woman by her side. “Why is everybody waiting here?”

  The woman, poorly dressed in black, turned. “A don’t ken whit everybody’s waitin’ for. A jist ken A’m waitin’ till it’s ten o’clock, to let me get ma money oot o’ that place,” she said acidly.

  A man in front of them looked round. “You’ll get no money out o’ that place.”

  “Aye. A’ll get it oot.” The woman’s voice broke hysterically. “It’s ither that, or gang to the puirshoose.”

  “It’s ten now,” the man said, and as he spoke a clock somewhere could be heard striking out ten strokes. The hour when upon a normal day, all honourable banks threw open their doors and looked the world square in the face. But this one it seemed could not. Voices became more high-pitched and excited. Women began to weep. The special staff of police, who had been sent against serious trouble, kept shouting not to block the street entirely. Their continual cry of “Move on, please!” could be heard above the din. Here and there a sympathetic policeman could be seen telling a weeping woman to go home; that she was doing no good by standing here, that if she had City Bank notes in her possession she could turn them into coin elsewhere. From time to time people called out that they were ruined. They shouted the words “Robbers! Thieves! Scoundrels!”

  Now the police were forcing the crowd to make way. Phœbe, firmly wedged in now, was swept backwards. “Keep back there, please! Let these gentlemen
through!” Suddenly the crowd went silent. Was the miracle to happen? Was the bank after all to open its doors, just as though it were an ordinary morning. The solemn, black-clad men succeeded, with the help of the police, in pushing their way forward. But the door was merely half opened as they passed inside. The crowd did not like this. Why should these men be the only ones to get inside. Why shouldn’t they, too, be allowed to go in and ask for their money? There was a rush forward. Before the police and those inside could quite control them one or two slipped through.

  But almost at once the door was forced shut and the people were left murmuring.

  At last Phœbe decided she had had enough of it. These people would probably stand here all morning. There would be nothing more for her to see. She turned and began to extricate herself, shouldering her way determinedly among anxious faces. She could not help smiling a little to herself at the thought of how disapproving Bel would be at her boldness in allowing herself to be pushed about in this seedy crowd.

  IV

  She had wormed herself free and was in the act of setting straight her hat and her dress before walking off, when she saw a private carriage swing round out of Argyle Street, and come to a standstill by the edge of the pavement a little way down. A glance at the shining harness and the handsome, well-groomed horses told her it belonged to someone of consequence. Now, as she came nearer, she could see it was in some way familiar. Another step towards it brought complete recognition. It belonged to Mrs. Hayburn.

  Her brother’s words came back to her. “By the way, I believe David’s Hayburn friends are in, up to the neck.” Had they sent someone to find out? She would have turned and gone in the other direction, since, if the carriage contained a Hayburn the meeting would be awkward, but retreat was blocked by the throng. There was nothing for her but to go on. Just as she came up, Stephen and Henry jumped out, and began advancing towards her. Stephen was the first to recognise her.