The Wax Fruit Trilogy

by Guy McCrone

  Arthur merely grunted once more.

  But Bel was determined to have her concert. She must use whatever means came to her hand. “No, I don’t think she’s bold or heartless,” she said after a moment. “In fact it was Miss Rennie who first thought of giving money to that poor little child, Arthur. I don’t think you are being quite fair, dear.”

  “Maybe not, but I can’t help it.”

  Bel tried her final shot. “After all, the child we gave the money to might have been one of the poor little children you saw in that terrible place.”

  Arthur said nothing to this. She took it as a good sign. She tried again. “Surely you must feel that we should do all we can, dear.”

  Arthur had retreated inside himself. He looked at the crowd of well-dressed people as they milled about in the wintry sunshine, elegant, slim-waisted ladies in their furs and finery, smilingly acknowledging the greetings of frock-coated, bearded men politely raising silk hats from sleek, macassared heads. A world that was taking little heed of the tragic world that was so near them. The balance was wrong somewhere. But it was difficult, this, unless you had seen the other side of the picture for yourself. No. It would be wrong if he stopped his wife’s generous impulses. A fashionable drawing-room concert did not seem a very effective way to attack the problem of the slums. But, after all, what could a nice woman do about it? Women could not leave their homes like men. Women didn’t go into the world, or at least only those brazen “New Women” did. And he had no wish for his wife to be one of these. Yes, he supposed she had better go on with it if she wanted to. She was a good girl, Bel, and had shown great understanding about the McCrimmons. But he didn’t want her to be permanently mixed up with this Rennie girl.

  “Is the Rennie lassie to be in Glasgow long?” he asked presently.

  “No. Only for a short time,” Bel said, anxiously trying to follow the train of his thought. “That’s why I was hoping we might decide about this at once.”

  Arthur considered the matter for a step or two further. “Well, if ye can manage it, I dare say ye had better do it,” he said.

  Bel was delighted. But she knew better than to show her delight. She received her husband’s permission as though he had conferred upon her a solemn mission.

  “Who will ye get to help ye?” he asked.

  Bel considered. “I think I’ll ask Mary,” she said, with a fine show of thoughtfulness. After all, his sister Mary was safe. None of them liked her much. But she was pious, and would give the occasion all the sanctity it needed. Besides, she was lazy, wouldn’t interfere, and her husband, George McNairn, was a baillie of the City.

  As she stood at her own front door waiting for her husband to find his latch-key, Bel felt uplifted. There was nothing like a walk in the Botanic Gardens to give you an appetite for roast beef.

  II

  Bel’s relationship with her husband’s married sisters was made up of some affection and much criticism. On the whole perhaps, she liked Sophia best, because, at every point, she felt herself Sophia’s superior: house, management of her children, personal looks—everything. And Sophia, good loquacious creature, would have been the first to admit it. Indeed, she would almost go out of her chattering way to tell Bel how well she looked, how well-run her house was, and however did she manage it? And that she, Sophia, somehow never seemed to have the time to keep herself and her possessions properly straight. She would even admit her own parsimony with an easy, flustered laugh. “Well, perhaps William and I were a wee bit mean about the special collection, dear, but with growing children it takes us all our time.” No, Bel could hold Sophia in comfortable, complacent contempt, and really quite like her.

  With Mary McNairn it was more difficult. She was the wife of a baillie of the City of Glasgow. Thirty-eight, still good-looking in a plump, smooth sort of way, and, Bel considered, unbearably smug. Yet Mary had her uses. Bel couldn’t quite do without Mary. For Mary and her husband, the baillie, represented official Glasgow. George McNairn had, in certain directions, influence; and the presence of himself and his wife would, at least, stamp any function with respectability. And it was just this that Bel wanted now. You had to be careful of your reputation when it came to associating with women like Lucy Rennie, who had actually, she gathered, stood upon the stage of a theatre. It was Bel’s ambition to be considered smart, but she abhorred the thought of being considered fast.

  And so in the week following the Sunday walk in the Botanic Gardens, Bel set out upon a visit to Albany Place.

  Mary was, as Bel had expected, enjoying her three o’clock tea. Enjoying was the word; for Mary saw to it that such means of enjoyment as toast dripping with butter and cakes dripping with cream should not be wanting. The McNairns were piously thankful to Providence for making so many good things available, and they were not slow to avail themselves of them.

  Mary was, on the whole, pleased to see Bel. Like most people who sit about and eat too much, she had a tendency to find life savourless at times. And this dull, early December day was one of these times. She was quite by herself. Her little twin daughters were out with the nurse-housemaid, and the boys were not yet home from school. Besides, Bel, she felt certain, was taking care of her figure, and would not sensibly reduce the supply of toast and cream sandwich intended for herself.

  “Well, Bel dear,” she said in her flat, pleasant voice. “This is a great surprise. We never see you, these days.” She presented her sister-in-law with a smooth, plump cheek.

  Bel settled her elegant self down in Mary’s snug, over-furnished little parlour. It was ridiculous for Mary to be wearing the black of middle age already. After all, she was only six years older than herself, Bel reckoned. In a calm, Madonna-like way, Mary used to be the beauty of the family. She should go for walks and eat less, and she would look as handsome as ever.

  Bel drew the gloves from her well-tended hands and accepted a cup of tea. She declined a succulent slab of toast. “No, thank you, dear. I’m not eating between meals. I read in a magazine that it’s very bad for the digestion.” But seeing something that might easily be offence in Mary’s eyes, and feeling her reproof had been too pointed, she changed her mind. “Well, dear, may I have one piece?” Bel was glad to see that Mary looked happier now.

  She made the proper inquiries. Mary’s children, she found to her intense relief, were all much as usual. The baillie was finding his business slow on account of the bad times this autumn. But as a member of the Town Council, he was very busy and, Bel was given to understand from the tone of Mary’s voice, his services were of the first importance to the welfare of the City.

  Bel said what was expected of her, and agreed that George McNairn must be very busy and important indeed. She even went so far as to say she couldn’t imagine how he did it all; although she was firmly convinced that her pompous, platitudinous and slow-moving brother-in-law did as little as he possibly could. Concord being established, however, she came to the reason of her visit.

  “I want your advice, dear, about something,” she began. “You see, I felt that as you and George went to so many official functions, you would be the best ones to help me.”

  Mary took up a fine lace handkerchief and wiped some melted butter from her fingers. If Bel had not been there, she would have licked them. It was a pity, she reflected, to waste good butter. She would be very glad to give Bel advice. Like many people who are too inert to pursue much activity themselves, she and her husband felt fully qualified to advise in the activities of others. She indicated, absent-mindedly helping herself now to an ample slice of cream sandwich, that if there was any point upon which she could advise Bel, Bel could count upon her so doing.

  “Well, dear, I suppose Sophia will have told you that Lucy Rennie, the daughter of an old neighbouring farmer of your father, has been singing in Glasgow. She became a professional singer. Wonderful, everybody says.”

  “I haven’t seen Sophia for a week or two. It’s time she was coming to see me,” was Mary’s only comment.


  Bel had to stop herself from feeling annoyed. Was Mary so self-centred that she could not be stimulated by this not uninteresting piece of news? News about someone she must have known as a girl.

  “Did you know Lucy Rennie?” she asked.

  “Yes; we knew all the Rennies.”

  And as Mary merely went on eating, Bel continued: “Well, Arthur and I think it would be such a good idea if Miss Rennie gave a little charity concert in our drawing-room. There have been so many appeals for the poor this winter.”

  Mary managed to catch some of the cream that looked like falling out at the other side of her cake by biting it just in time; then she asked: “How much will you have to pay Lucy Rennie?”

  “She’s offered to do it for nothing, dear.”

  Mary showed no surprise at this. She merely examined her cake to see that no more cream was eluding her. “At least you’ll need to pay a pianist,” she said.

  “Even if we have to, that won’t be much. Arthur would be glad to pay that. No, thanks, Mary. But I’ll have some tea. So we thought, perhaps, that you and George would help. Ask some well-known people to come. George might even approach the Lord Provost. You see, if it’s made important like that, you can really make something with a silver and gold collection.”

  Mary swallowed the last of her slice and again applied the lace handkerchief to her plump white finger. She had no objection to doing things that made her feel important. “I’ll speak to George about it, dear. His time’s very taken up just now, but he’ll help if he can.”

  “Miss Rennie’s coming to tea tomorrow, Mary. Would you care to come and meet her?”

  “No, thank you, dear. Our family never liked the Rennies.”

  “I can’t understand why.”

  “I don’t know, Bel. It’s just an old feeling. You say you met her at Sophia’s?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sophia should have let her be.”

  “She seems a very bright, good-mannered young lady,” Bel insisted.

  “I dare say. But I don’t know. Anyway, George and I will do our duty, when you tell us what you’ve arranged. It’s the charity that matters.”

  Really, Mary was maddening, Bel reflected as she made her way home. It was as though Mary had said to her: “We can’t touch pitch ourselves, dear, but we’ll do everything to help you if you want to touch it.” Oh, the smugness of these McNairns! But, for the moment, she must put up with it.

  III

  On the afternoon of the next day Miss Rennie paid her visit, and in doing so confirmed the good opinion Bel had formed of her. In the pleasant orderliness of her own drawing-room, Bel gave her tea, and heard her ideas concerning the evening of charitable music. A musician whose name was a household word in refined Glasgow would be her accompanist and would himself play pieces on the piano. She had, she said, persuaded him also to give his services for charity. Bel was delighted. It remained to fix the evening and the details of the entertainment. She would let Miss Rennie know.

  Looking in that evening, David found Bel in high feather. She was bursting with her project. She took him aside, wanting his advice about everything. What did he think about it? Wasn’t it a good idea? The McNairns were helping. They would bring some of official Glasgow. How many did he think the room would hold? Where did he think the piano ought to be? What about refreshment? What would be right and proper? David was the member of the family who went about. He must tell her. But as she talked, she began to feel a lack of enthusiasm. He seemed worried and anxious. By degrees it was borne in upon her that she was being selfish; that David had, perhaps, his own problems about which he had come for advice. Her mind went back to their last talk.

  “Well, David, and have you taken the advice I gave you?” she said presently. They were in the parlour of the house. David was in front of the fire looking down upon her.

  David did not answer at once, but colour came into his face.

  “Have you, David?”

  Again he waited a moment before he answered her. “I wrote her a letter tonight asking her to marry me. I posted it on my way up here.”

  “David!” She didn’t know what to make of all this. “David, sit down and tell me. Who is she? I don’t even know that.”

  “She’s the daughter of old Robert Dermott of Dermott Ships. They’re friends of the Hayburns.”

  Of course Bel had heard of them. But how could David have made up his mind so quickly? “Did you see her again as I said you should?”

  “Yes.”

  “And that settled it?”

  “I think so.”

  “Think, David? But you’ve just written to her to ask her to marry you!”

  “Well, I’m sure of it, then.”

  Strange boy. Why all this hurry? And why had he written to her? Why hadn’t he gone to see her? They neither of them spoke for a time. They sat, staring at the fire. Yet Bel felt she could not let it go at this.

  “But, David, is it all right?” she asked at length. “I feel that there’s more to be said. You haven’t rushed into this in a fit of—of, I don’t know what, really—well, because she’s rich, or you just want to be married or something?”

  “No. I’ve made up my mind.”

  “But are you happy about it? Will you be happy if she accepts you?”

  “Yes. I’m queer, Bel. I don’t think there’s any getting away from that. I’m quite certain that this marriage, if it comes off, will be the making of me. You yourself told me that some people don’t fall in love until they’re married. I like everything about Grace Dermott. I’m taking a chance.”

  They were interrupted at this moment, and Bel was grateful.

  There was nothing more, she felt, that could be said.

  Chapter Eight

  PRESENTLY David rose, and bidding the family goodnight took himself home. It was a wet, blustery night as he walked across to his rooms in Hillhead. On the corner of his own street was the pillar-box into which he had dropped his letter of proposal. He looked at its black shape. No. There was no getting it out. He turned into his own entrance. Draughts of air, eddying in from the street, were making the gas-light flicker. The scrubbed and whitened stone staircase was unwelcoming and chill. He sat down by his fireside thinking. He had come home from his visit to Grace Dermott pleased with himself and with her. Grace had been so gentle, so sensible. He had felt warmed and uplifted. Glad to find himseIf thus, he had fanned the flame, putting this warmth he had felt to the front of his mind and thrusting doubts back out of sight. His self-persuasion had been successful. It had ended in the letter he had written this evening. Now that a step that might be irretrievable was taken, he was suffering from the reaction. Alarmed by this crisis of his own making, he had gone round to Bel for comfort and advice. For the first time in his life, he had not found it. Bel could do nothing but chatter about the arrangements for the charity concert she was planning. And then, when he had told her, she had been very surprised and seemed anything but sure he had done rightly. Bel was not usually so obtuse as this. She knew his difficulties. At least she might have shown some understanding.

  David got up with a sigh. It had taken him something to write that letter. He thought of the young woman he had asked to be his wife. She was superior in his mind to any other he could think of. Even without Bel’s assurances, he felt he had done right.

  He turned to his sitting-room table preparing to reach up, turn out the jets in the gaselier that hung above it and go to bed. On the red baize table-cloth lay a clean pad of blotting-paper. He could see it had the reverse imprint of the short letter he had written to Grace. He tore off the sheet. Should he hold it up to the mirror to read again the words he had written? On a quick impulse, he crushed up the blotting-paper and thrust it into the fire. He stood watching the flame spring up and die away, then turned back to extinguish the light. There was nothing more he could do until he had received her reply.

  II

  Grace did not keep him waiting. After a day’s interval her an
swer came. It seemed to David a cool letter, telling him that she was much surprised at what she had found in his note, that he had given her no sign he had any such feelings towards her, and wouldn’t he come soon and discuss the matter with her?

  It was a curious thing that this young man, who was not insensitive, should go so far astray in his assessment of her reply. Didn’t Grace want him after all then, that she wanted to talk about it? Why discuss anything? What was there to discuss?

  He did not see that his proposal of marriage had been accepted; that there was nothing for her to do but answer his own formal letter with a formal letter of reply; that Grace was surprised and disappointed that he should have written to her, instead of coming to her himself to make his proposal; that if she had not wanted him, she would not have asked him to come on any account.

  But now this morning he must certainly go and see her. Through the good offices of his landlady he sent some excuse to Arthur for his absence from work, and set out for Aucheneame.

  It was unreal somehow, this short morning journey on the empty down-river train. There was nothing remarkable about it in itself, but some of its trivial details were to remain with him. The upcoming trains bearing businessmen to the City. It seemed so unaccountable that he should be going in the opposite direction. The misty Clyde. It was high water and shipping was brisk. A grain clipper had swung across the river and was holding up the traffic. Two steam-tugs were pulling it straight. The railway carriage was cold. The warming-pan was tepid. He would always have a picture of himself huddled into a corner wondering what the day would bring him.

  Now he was at the station. It was some distance to walk to the house. A low, chill mist was hanging in the fields. As he walked quickly up the drive, the trees on either side were dripping.

  A man in a striped apron answered his ring. Aucheneame did not expect visitors at this time of the morning. Yes, Miss Dermott was at home. What name would he say? David stood before the fire in the morning-parlour for what seemed a very long time. Why was she so slow in presenting herself? Was she afraid of him? After all, she merely wanted to discuss things with him. He went impatiently to the window.