The Wax Fruit Trilogy

by Guy McCrone

  How damp it was this morning! It was becoming so foggy that he could scarcely see the river down there in the distance across the fields. He turned his head quickly. The door had opened and closed. She was standing with her back to it, her hands behind her. Her face was flushed, uncertain.

  “Miss Dermott!” He moved to meet her as she came forward hesitating. Suddenly David’s heart was caught up in a wave of gentleness for this girl. She seemed so unsure, so little the imperious mistress whose favour must be sought. He took her hand.

  “I got your answer,” he said lamely.

  “Yes, I—”

  He looked down at her. Her eyes were brimming, though she was trying to smile. Her face was turned to him, expecting his kiss.

  He kissed her and held her in his arms, letting her sob away the fullness of her heart. He could feel her body trembling against his, the body that it would be his duty to possess; its yielding contact was agreeable and vaguely stirring. All sorts of things passed through David’s surprised and sharply conscious mind. He knew he was not unhappy. Life would go on now. He was holding the mother of his children in his arms. Unmated discontent was behind him. There was expectation now. There would be adjustments, but it would be easy with a gently loving woman. Their joint life would be full and prosperous. They had nothing to do but go forward.

  As he stood there holding Grace Dermott, and thinking these thoughts—thoughts that at such a moment had no right to be in his mind—David made himself a solemn promise. He, and he alone, was answerable for this engagement entered into. He had offered himself as her husband, and whatever came now, he would stand by her to the end.

  III

  And now, this one step taken, it was easy. It was easy to sit by her and watch her happiness unfolding itself; to find her gently, shyly taking possession of him. Did David like this? She was glad, for she liked it too. Did David detest that? She was glad, for she never could bear it. She was joyfully, tenderly exploring his thoughts and his feelings.

  It would have taken someone of less sensibility than David Moorhouse to remain unmoved. She loved him deeply and must have done so for some time. That was evident. There was nothing bold in her possession of him, but it was plain that her heart was fixed. He had never realised that anyone could feel so tenderly about another. It shook him to find himself the object of this tenderness. It filled him with awe. And, made as he was, it was not difficult for him to respond. It was easy to tell himself that he loved her and to tell her so in turn.

  Presently her mother burst into the room. They sprang to their feet.

  Mrs. Dermott’s monumental person was covered by a voluminous Inverness cape. She was on the point of going out. She came to a standstill at the door with a loud “Good gracious!”

  David’s eyes followed Grace as she went to her mother and told her. She hoped that her mother and father would see their way to allow it.

  “I don’t suppose there’s any allow about it, now you’ve made up your minds,” Grace’s mother said, advancing genially. “What’s your first name, by the way, Mr. Moorhouse?—I forget.”

  “David.” Its possessor smiled. Here was normality; his familiar, everyday world.

  “You had better kiss an old woman and get it over, David. I know Robert will be pleased. He’s very fond of you. You had better stay to lunch, then go into Glasgow and see him at the office. It’s always better to get the business side of things over and done with, and then we can get on with our plans. You’ll come back for the weekend. Grace and you will want to see each other, and there will be so much for us to talk about. I’ll probably spend Sunday writing letters.”

  David smiled and submitted. He wondered that Grace said so little. But it was evident to him that Mrs. Dermott’s daughter was used to this kind of thing. There was no mistaking the older woman’s pleasure, and she was showing it in the way that came most natural to her—by going into an orgy of arranging.

  Already he was being made to feel a part of the mechanism of the Dermotts’ world. It was something stronger than himself. But he was rather pleased than otherwise. Its restrictions would not chafe. It would suit him very well. He must do now what he was told, and let things take their conventional course.

  Sometime during next week polite Glasgow would open its morning paper to read that Mr. David Moorhouse, youngest brother of Mr. Mungo Ruanthorpe-Moorhouse of Duntrafford, Ayrshire, had engaged himself to marry Grace, only daughter of Mr. Robert Dermott of Aucheneame, Dumbartonshire, and Chairman of Dermott Ships Limited. And on the whole this would give David satisfaction. He was taking the road he wanted to go.

  Chapter Nine

  LUCY RENNIE had her lodging in Garnethill. It may seem strange, perhaps, that a young woman of Miss Rennie’s attainments should live in the quarter of Glasgow that has long been assigned to theatrical folks and to undistinguished foreigners, but she was a woman of the world and could very well look after herself. Yet there was nothing of the “New Woman” about her. “New Women” were pugnacious, brandished umbrellas and had big feet—or thus the comic papers of the time showed them. But for all that, Miss Rennie was fully qualified to go her own ways according to her own not uncharming fashion. She had not been a music student forced to live anyhow in London and Paris without learning independence. She knew very well when the polite conventions could be useful. But she had no scruples over breaking them when they were merely a drag. The rooms she occupied were better than most of their kind. They had been recommended to her by a fellow-singer, and they suited her purpose. They were clean, had an air of gentility, and were not threadbare. There was a piano that was usable, and her landlady, a former actress, was a motherly soul who did not bother her with questions.

  As she sat by her fire, plump and pink in a warm dressinggown, drinking a final cup of breakfast tea, and looking very much like the heroine of the novel a French acquaintance had lent her, two letters were brought. The first was in her father’s hand—a laborious farmer’s hand, one that seldom held a pen. It was a letter in reply to one of her own, and it contained a reproach that although she had been in Scotland for some time now, she had not yet bothered to see her family in Ayrshire. Her father reminded her that bygones were bygones; that her independence would not be criticised, and that those at home were anxious to see her.

  She folded the letter thoughtfully. She had promised herself to go at New Year, but that was still some weeks away. She would visit the old man before that. It was only fair, perhaps. She had paid a flying visit when her mother died some three years ago. Since then she had not seen him. It would be more of a duty than a pleasure. The past nine years lay between her and the people at home. She had struggled, and studied, and lived this way and that. Now she had work of her own, behaviour of her own, tastes of her own. She did not intend to change them. Her mind went back to the man who had paid for her first lessons in London. She had been wise to free herself of him quickly, to go on by herself. That episode had been unpleasant, but it had taught her her world.

  She brushed these thoughts out of her mind, and settling down once more, she broke the seal of the other letter. It was from Mrs. Arthur Moorhouse. The letter was conventionally kind. She had discussed the matter with her husband and, like Mrs. Moorhouse herself, he was delighted and grateful to Miss Rennie for all the trouble she was taking. They hoped to have some of official Glasgow present, through the good services of their sister, who was the wife of Baillie George McNairn. Miss Rennie would certainly remember her as Mary Moorhouse.

  Lucy sat wondering now why she had bothered to offer Mrs. Arthur Moorhouse her services. Because she held it as a rule always to make a good impression when she could? Or because she had been spontaneously moved by the little, ragged children? But it was strange that she should be doing it for the wife of a Moorhouse. Her father had never liked the Moorhouse family much. She had forgotten why. Perhaps it was that they were irritatingly prosperous, working for their prosperity, and in the case of Mungo Moorhouse, the eldest, marrying
into prosperity. And now only yesterday she had read in the morning paper that the youngest Moorhouse was to make an excellent match. In childhood, David had been a friend of hers. They had bird-nested and gone to the village school together. But the Moorhouses were so conventional, so cut to a pattern, such complacent, Scotch provincials.

  Yet, an appearance in Mrs. Arthur Moorhouse’s drawing-room would do her no harm professionally. At all events it was letting her name be known. Mrs. Moorhouse seemed a pleasant sort of woman, and one among whose friends she might later find rich pupils. Lucy got up, took pen and ink, and informed Mrs. Moorhouse that the day appointed would suit her very well. She also wrote to her father that she would be with him at Greenhead Farm the following weekend.

  II

  Miss Rennie was not a famous prima donna. She was a working musician who had to cut her coat according to her cloth. It was not her custom to buy a first-class ticket for a railway journey, when a third-class ticket would do. But this afternoon it had been very cold, snow was threatening, and she had made up her mind that, for all the additional expense, it would be worth her while travelling in comfort to her father’s farm in central Ayrshire.

  As she came through from the booking-hall she found herself under the gigantic glass arch of the new railway station of St. Enoch’s. For a moment she looked about her with curiosity. It was one of the sights of Glasgow, this great station which was barely yet completed, and its novelty caught her interest.

  Her train was waiting. Lucy found an empty first-class carriage, wrapped her travelling-rug about her and sat down. There was a Friday-night animation about other travellers. Weekending was coming much into vogue. Businessmen who could afford to live in the mansion houses that heretofore had been occupied by the gentry, were beginning more and more to gather their friends about them from Friday night to Monday morning, to forget for two days of the week at least that they were men of business, and to ape the ways of the people whose houses they were increasingly coming to occupy.

  Presently, as she sat idly watching the crowd pass her window, hoping, as every railway traveller hopes, that she would be left in peace, her interest was aroused on seeing Mrs. Arthur Moorhouse pass down the platform accompanied by a woman who seemed in some way familiar. The two women passed her, looked in without recognition, then came back, opened the door, and the woman who accompanied Mrs. Moorhouse got in. As the train was on the point of going she laid down her belongings quickly, then turned to the open window to bid her companion goodbye.

  As Mrs. Moorhouse had not seen her, Miss Rennie did not feel there was anything to be gained by making herself known. Presently the train moved off, slowly puffing its way out of the great new station into the evening, rounding the old steeple of the Merchants’ House, crossing a windswept, leaden Clyde, passing the growing suburbs on the south side of the river, and speeding out into the open country.

  Miss Rennie examined her travelling companion with some curiosity. Herself a farmer’s daughter, she knew very well, merely from the look of her, that this was a woman of the county. There was nothing of the town about her country clothes, her stout boots, and the air with which she arranged herself and her parcels. Presently she remembered. This was Miss Ruanthorpe, the daughter of her father’s landlord, old Sir Charles Ruanthorpe of Duntrafford. She had not seen Miss Ruanthorpe for some ten years. But, of course, now she was not Miss Ruanthorpe any longer. She was the wife of Mungo Moorhouse of the Laigh Farm. Sitting demurely in her corner, Miss Rennie examined her fellow-passenger with interest. So this rather distinguished woman was the new bride? They said in the county that she had pursued the farmer of the Laigh Farm for years.

  The train jogged on across the wintry country. Neither of the women exchanged a word. It was evident to Lucy that Mrs. Mungo Moorhouse had no idea who she was. And a tenant’s daughter could be of no great interest. The journey was tedious. The train stopped at this station and that. Doors slammed bleakly as passengers alighted on windy platforms. Interest in Mrs. Moorhouse had quickly evaporated. It was too cold to be interested in anything. There was nothing to do but sit grimly, with her eyes shut, waiting for the train to arrive.

  Suddenly she became aware that Mrs. Mungo Moorhouse was asking something of her. The request was a strange one on such an evening. She asked if she might let some air in, as she felt the carriage strangely stuffy. Lucy opened her eyes in surprise. She saw that the colour was gone from her companion’s face. In another moment Mrs. Moorhouse had fainted. This was alarming. For a moment she did not know what to do. But she was not a young woman who lost her head. She succeeded in laying Mrs. Moorhouse flat along the seat and undoing anything that might constrict her breathing. Presently Lucy saw with much relief that she was coming to herself. That was better. She remembered a little flask of spirits, that, as a person whose calling required her to travel much, she always carried with her.

  Now Mrs. Moorhouse was sitting up again, tremulous a little but restored, and apologising for doing anything so silly. It had never happened to her before, she protested. She was sincerely sorry for having caused the young lady any sort of shock.

  III

  Mungo Moorhouse—or Mungo Ruanthorpe-Moorhouse, as he was now called in deference to the wishes of his eighty-year-old father-in-law, Sir Charles Ruanthorpe, Baronet, of Duntrafford, Ayrshire—stood in the midst of the prosperity he had married himself into, hastily swallowing down cups of tea. He had come back early from overseeing his farm, for in less than an hour he was to meet his wife Margaret at the railway station. As the winter evening had turned very cold, he had come home first to fetch an additional rug or two and a warm wrap, so that Margaret should not be chilled in the open pony-trap.

  Mungo was nervous. He was forty-four and his wife was forty. They had been married for some three months. It was late to be starting life. And late for Margaret to be paying the kind of visit she had been paying to a Glasgow doctor today. But they were both country bred and strong as horses, and the hope of an heir, even if his surname had to be Ruanthorpe-Moorhouse instead of Ruanthorpe, was the one thing that old Sir Charles and Lady Ruanthorpe clung to. If Margaret’s news was good tonight it would give the old people a new lease of life. He put down his empty cup and, going to the window, pushed back the heavy curtains, trying to look out. In the darkness it was difficult to see anything but the lamps of the trap moving up and down in front of the house, as a groom walked the pony back and forth to keep it warm. Presently he saw that a light powdering of snow was lying on the sill of the window. This was annoying. He turned back into the warm little Dower House parlour. He would have to go at once, to give himself time. The road might be difficult. It would be dangerous to hurry.

  The fire was burning well enough, but he lifted the coal-scuttle in his strong farmer’s hands and emptied additional coal upon it. Margaret must be warm. She had spent last night at his brother Arthur’s house in Glasgow. It was the first night since their marriage that they had been apart. He was as eager as a youngster over his wife’s home-coming.

  As he struggled into his heavy driving-coat in the little hall, he shouted in the hope that some servant would hear him: “Ye better keep an eye on that fire.”

  A maid came running, a surprised look on her face. “Is anything wrong, sir?”

  “There’s a lot of coal on that fire. Watch it doesna fall out.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He was not yet in the way of ringing bells and giving orders to starched parlourmaids. He had shouted to the girls at the Laigh Farm when he wanted them. That had been good enough. He was not like his brother David, who had been caught young and turned into a gentleman. But Margaret seemed to like his farmer’s ways, so why should he bother?

  On the doorstep he stood looking about him into the darkness. Feathers of snow were wheeling slowly down around him. He shouted to the groom, “Are ye there, Davie?”

  The man brought the trap over.

  “It’s a pity to see that snow,” Mungo said.


  “Aye. It’ll be a cold run home for the mistress.”

  “I’ll need to watch where I’m going.” Mungo ran his hand down the neck of his pony, then he climbed in and took the reins. For an instant the groom stood watching the beams from the lamp of the trap as they lit up the snow on either side of the short Dower House drive. Presently there was nothing but the sound of hoof-claps lightly muffled by the new-fallen snow. The man took a short cut through the shrubbery to the Duntrafford stables and the harness-room fire.

  IV

  The snow was falling thickly as Mungo, having covered his pony as best he could, waited in front of the country railway station. This delay was tedious. It was no night for a beast to be kept standing.

  But as Mungo stood at his pony’s head, the snow alighting gently upon his shoulders, he was strangely excited. What news was Margaret bringing him? It seemed quite unreal that, at his age, things should have taken this turn. He had gone on for so long working; first, for his father at the Laigh Farm, and then later by himself. He had taken his life for granted. He had been interested and busy. That had been enough. He had no opportunity to marry in his younger days, and had not, perhaps, even thought of doing so. Then, as it seemed to him suddenly, he was the husband of the laird’s daughter. And this very night he was standing in the snow, his placid heart beating like the heart of a twenty-year-old, waiting to hear from her if he was to be the father of the laird’s grandchild.

  Suddenly the night was pierced by the scream of a whistle. There was an increasing roar, and a splash of fiery red in the snowy darkness. The drivers of dog-carts and carriages jumped to their places. There was a rush and hurrying on the ill-lit platform. There was the beat of slowing wheels; the lighted rows of moving windows. The evening train had come to a halt.