The Wax Fruit Trilogy

by Guy McCrone

  And, when at last they had come to the end of the seemingly endless Haupt Allee, and their horses, rounding the Lusthaus, dropped to the traditional walk for the beginning of the return journey, the glimpses of the distant town through the green, the circle of blue mountains behind it, with the Habsburgwarte standing plumb above the centre of the Haupt Allee like the sight on a rifle, and the spire of Saint Stephen’s dreaming in the sunshine a little on the left.

  As again she lay in the darkness that night, sleep did not come at once. Still she was milling in the colourful traffic. Still she saw fashionable gloved hands raised in salutation. Still the endless line of giant trees bearing their candles. Still the perfume. Still a brassy phrase of distant music from the People’s Prater.

  Henry, from his breathing, did not seem to be asleep either.

  “Henry.”

  “What is it, dear?”

  “Wouldn’t Bel have enjoyed seeing everything today?”

  But Bel’s letter was still in the pocket of the jacket he had not so long since taken off. Tonight he did not feel particularly well disposed towards Bel.

  “Yes, I dare say she would,” was his only comment. Then he added: “I must get to sleep. I want to be at the works early tomorrow.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  THE beginning of June found Bel unsettled. Things were not going as she would have them go.

  In the first place there was the question of holidays. Both the Arthurs, father and son, clamoured to go back to Arran. Her mother, who seemed, these days, to be determined to go against her, took their side. This year Bel had wanted somewhere more conventional. The freedom of Arran was demoralising. Each September, when she got the children home to Grosvenor Terrace after two months of running wild, it took her some weeks, and a strictness she had no pleasure in exerting, to bring them back to the ways of gentility.

  Then there was George McNairn. Now, when he did go to business, it was only to drive down in a cab for a couple of hours, and come back utterly exhausted. Bel had never liked Mary and George much; but Mary was her husband’s sister, and very much a part of her life. Mary must be helped. George could not leave Glasgow this summer, and Mary would not, of course, leave George. That meant seeing to the children, providing for their holiday and taking them off Mary’s full and sorrowful hands. Sophia was too muddle-headed to help. Good-natured though she might be, she was no rock for Mary to cling to.

  No. Mary’s children must be removed, kept well and happy and forgotten about during this unhappy summer of their father’s illness.

  Arran, then, was the place. So the farmhouse was retaken; and Mrs. Barrowfield stoutly undertook to keep house throughout the two months of occupancy, bringing with her her own old and none too willing maids. Sarah would go down to look to Bel’s children and also the little McNairn twin girls. Grosvenor Terrace and Albany Place must remain open. If the Arran contingent were packed together like sardines; if young cousins and maids from different households fought with each other like wild cats, then that was quite in the Arran tradition. Her mother, Bel assured herself a little callously, was more placid than she was, and would survive.

  Sophia, having heard of this arrangement, announced, irresponsibly, that she thought she would like to go to Arran too. “You see, Bel dear, I’ll be able to help with the children when you have to be in town. The only thing is, of course, that if I take my little maid with me, I don’t know what I’ll do with William. I don’t suppose Arthur would like his company when he’s by himself in Grosvenor Terrace?”

  Bel had looked to having Grosvenor Terrace as a sanctuary to which she might run from the pandemonium of Brodick. Now even the sanctuary was to be invaded. But if the summer was to be ruined, let it be ruined thoroughly. Yes, William and everybody else might come to Grosvenor Terrace!

  When she told Arthur, he was furious; which did not improve her own temper. She pointed out to her husband, not without some heat, that she had made all these arrangements to help his relatives—not hers; that the thought of this summer made her sick; and that the least he could do was to hold his tongue and go through with it.

  But something quite other than these things lay at the source of Bel’s discontent. It was her anxiety over Phœbe. Not content with Phœbe’s reply, that she intended to stay in Austria with her husband, Bel had written to Henry, lecturing him on his responsibility towards so young a wife. She had waited for more than two weeks, then had received this reply:

  “DEAR BEL,

  “I would have written to you sooner, but both of us have been very busy getting into this small house. We have taken it for the summer. Our friends say that it is the right place for Phœbe to be, and that the heat is never too much up here in the woods. But Phœbe will have told you that already. About her coming home. There is no question of it. There is every kind of help in Vienna when the time comes. It is said they are further advanced in these things than we are. So please do not write to us about this again. Our minds are made up. We both join in sending our love to everybody.”

  “Yours affectionately,

  “HENRY HAYBURN”

  This letter made Bel very angry. She, the centre and pivot of the Moorhouses, did not like to find herself thrust back into her place, and told to stay there, by this, the newest and certainly the least-loved member of the family. No, Henry was adding impertinence to Phœbe’s stubbornness.

  Bel rang for the carriage. She would show this letter to her mother. Wounded self-importance and baffled anxiety heaped themselves high upon her already blazing annoyance. She thrust the letter under Mrs. Barrowfield’s nose.

  “There, Mother. What do you think of that?”

  “Dear me, Bel. What is it?” Mrs. Barrowfield took up her spectacles and rubbed them with deliberation. What was Bel in such a to-do about now?

  Bel watched her as she stood reading the letter. When the old woman looked up, there was actually a grin of mischief in her face. Her daughter could hardly believe her eyes.

  “That’s one in the eye for you, my lady,” she said, handing Bel back the letter. “Did I not tell ye to let them alone?—No! Here! Stop!”

  But Bel had flounced out of the house again. Now her mother, looking down, could see her getting back into the carriage! Silly girl! She might have stayed for a cup of tea. But Mrs. Barrowfield was not unduly troubled. In her teens Bel had done this kind of thing quite often. And she had always come back repentant. She wasn’t a really bad-tempered lassie. The old lady called to Maggie to bring only one cup.

  II

  On the same evening Arthur came, bringing his brother Mungo with him. Mungo, following upon a visit of compassion to Mary McNairn, had appeared at the office this afternoon. Arthur, who wanted to talk over the McNairn situation, had persuaded him to send a telegram saying he would remain at Grosvenor Terrace for the night.

  Bel, dark as her mood was, was not displeased to see him. He brought with him an air of the country. He was solemn, responsible and friendly. Mungo, at least, was neither troubling her spirit nor needing her help. His good-natured simplicity, combined with his dignity and his solid bank balance, recommended him to her. His coming tonight and his preparedness to do what he could to help poor Mary in her difficulty was a great comfort. Bel felt that everything was not being left to Arthur and herself. Mungo, in this family of plaguey relatives, was one relative who did not plague.

  He had scarcely arrived before he brought out a letter from Margaret addressed to herself. On edge, Bel opened it a little apprehensively. The other letter she had opened today had brought her no pleasure. This one ran:

  “MY DEAR BEL,

  “I give this to Mungo to hand over to Arthur if he does not see yourself. I do hope he remembers. I am writing to say what a great pleasure it would be if you could come down here to the Dower House for some days; indeed, for as long as you can. You have shown me so much kindness, which I have never yet had any opportunity to repay. I know you are a busy person, but do try to find time to come. If Art
hur can manage a weekend, that will make it perfect. At least we can offer you a rest. I shall see to it that our noisy son is not allowed to disturb you. The gardens are beginning to look lovely. I should so much like you to see them. We are most distressed to hear about George McNairn. He is the reason for Mungo’s coming to Glasgow. I hope your family is well.

  “Your affectionate sister,

  “MARGARET RUANTHORPE-MOORHOUSE.”

  Normally, going by herself to the Dower House to spend some days would not have appealed to Bel. She had never reached intimacy with Margaret. But just at present Bel was sick of intimacies. Margaret’s cool good-nature, her unpossessiveness, even the fact that she could write of her year-old-son, Charles Mungo, without doting, appealed to Bel. The idea of well-bred simplicity and rest at the Duntrafford Dower House suddenly enchanted her.

  Mungo added his invitation to Margaret’s. She had told him to bring Bel back with him if, by chance, it could be managed. To Arthur’s surprise, Bel accepted.

  Bel, immaculate as always, was astonished a little at Margaret’s appearance next evening. She had driven the pony-trap to the station herself. She wore a helmet-shaped fishing-cap of faded tweed that had originally belonged to Sir Charles. It was skewered to her somewhat untidy head by several formidable hatpins. Fishing-flies clung to it. Her Inverness cape was patched and faded, too, and her strong gauntlet gloves looked as though she had used them for weeding. Her handsome red face became even redder, and her fine teeth flashed resplendent, as she bent to give Bel one hand, while she held the reins in the other.

  Clearly, here in the country Margaret was in her own element. Her manners were much more warm and not nearly so stiff. Could she be shy, and at some loss, when she came among her husband’s relatives in the City?

  “My dear Bel, how are you? This is very nice of you indeed! I’m so glad Mungo has persuaded you!” And as Mungo got Bel into the trap and followed after her himself, Margaret went on: “I’m afraid you’re going to have a very dull time with us! Still, I’ve got one or two surprises for you. And tonight I am taking you over to the House to have dinner. Mother would be furious if she thought I was keeping you to myself. I promise you, it’s only the family! I won’t say any more!” She looked slyly at Mungo now. Bel wondered why. “Oh, is this your luggage the porter is bringing? Thank you, Macmillan. Yes, pile it all in here. That’s splendid! What a lot of people we know at the station tonight, Mungo! Of course, it’s Friday. Oh, hullo! How are you? On Sunday afternoon? Well, I think we’d like to very much. Oh, this is my sister-in-law, Mrs. Arthur Moorhouse. Oh, hullo! And how are you? When? On Monday to dinner? No, we’ve nothing.”

  And so it went on. Margaret seemed to be holding court in the pony-trap—presenting Bel, announcing triumphantly that she could not possibly let her go for a week at least, as she would miss this invitation and that. Bel wondered if this was the country’s idea of a rest. But it was impossible for her to refuse, with the givers of the invitations standing there hanging upon her reply.

  At last Margaret turned the pony’s head and they were off. As she did so she laughed. “The thing is,” she said gaily, “I don’t often drive to the station like this. And when I do, I seem to run into everybody. And they all seem ready to pounce. You see, Mungo and I are frightful recluses really. And it makes it worse when we do appear. Still, we have to go sometime, and I’m so pleased we have you here to go with us. I was afraid Duntrafford might be dreadfully dull for you after Glasgow.”

  As the pony trotted downhill in the warm June evening, Bel sat silent, fatigued and apprehensive. Must she go the round of all these grand people she did not know, whose loud voices and high falutin manners seemed to her genteel, City Scotchness, as though they were all acting—rather self-consciously, but much delighted with themselves—in some charade? She had been lured down here with the promise of peace, rest and a garden. Now it would seem she was in the middle of a whirl such as she did not know at home. She was glad she had packed her best evening dress, just on chance. It would be put, it seemed, to much use.

  III

  There was a chatter of voices as Bel, following Margaret, and attended by Mungo, ascended the staircase to the drawing-room of Duntrafford House some hours later.

  “Now, my dear,” Margaret announced as they stood aside to have the door thrown open, “this is surprise number one.”

  And a surprise it indeed was. For, as Bel advanced to take Lady Ruanthorpe’s hand, she saw that the room held David, Grace and Mrs. Dermott.

  “Look who’s with me!” Margaret called triumphantly.

  Bel, as ever, rose to the occasion. Her sudden shyness gave her cheeks colour, and to her confident, somewhat provincial manners, a charming—almost a young girl’s hesitancy. For a moment as he watched her, David caught a glimpse of the young Bel Barrowfield his brother Arthur had presented to him more than ten years ago. Her close-fitting dress of lace and lilac satin. Her fair, carefully arranged hair. Her fine eyes and elegant mouth. Her clear skin. The effect she made was excellent.

  Bel, sensing the surprise and pleasure at her unexpected appearance, paid back this friendly homage with a full measure of charm.

  Lady Ruanthorpe kissed her for the first time in her life. “This is wonderful, my dear! But why didn’t you tell us, Margaret? Charles, ring for Campbell. He must lay another place.”

  But old Sir Charles paid no attention. He left arrangements to his daughter. He was advancing to meet the lovely Mrs. Arthur Moorhouse. A smart girl, this sister-in-law of Margaret’s. He wished his own women could get the same kind of spit and polish on themselves. He gave her both hands, and likewise, quite unexpectedly, bestowed upon Bel an avuncular kiss. Thereafter he called to Margaret to order up champagne.

  Mrs. Dermott, too, hailed her with pleasure. “You didn’t expect to find me here, did you, Bel? But Lady Ruanthorpe very kindly asked me with David and Grace. You see, Mrs. Moorhouse, we’ve been writing to each other about the Indigent Mothers for years, and we both felt it would be such a good thing if we could really meet and thrash them out. I promised not to quarrel with Sir Charles about our grandsons.” Mrs. Dermott manœuvred herself round in her chair to look slyly—if anything so large as Mrs. Dermott could look slyly—at her host.

  But Sir Charles did not hear. He was delightedly filling a glass of sherry to give to his beautiful guest.

  Had Bel known these relatives would be at Duntrafford, she certainly would not have come. But now their presence—as the familiar so often does in an unfamiliar setting—reassured and pleased her. To meet Grace and David, smiling and affectionate, seemed to her like suddenly meeting her own children.

  And as she sat at Sir Charles’s right hand at dinner, basking in his approval, even Mrs. Dermott did not seem so dogmatic and tiresome.

  It was hard work responding to the flatteries of her host. But it was a pleasant labour. For so long now, no one else had required a like effort of her. Her beloved Arthur merely grunted at her and accepted her as part of the furniture. She was grateful to the old man for bothering to remind her that, conscientious mother and busy housewife though she might be, she still had a reasonable measure of good looks and charm. Yes, tonight she would indulge herself. She would allow herself to be as wilful and petted as she pleased.

  During a pause in the conversation Mrs. Dermott bent forward to ask her: “Did you know, Bel, that David has just taken Sophia’s boy into Dermott Ships?”

  Bel was amazed. She could only repeat: “Dermott Ships?”

  “Yes. Sophia spoke to me about it, and I mentioned it to David. He was delighted to have his own nephew, of course. And he says young William has made a very good start.”

  Had Bel been less anxious to keep up the façade of charm before Sir Charles, she would have asked questions. But her tired and flattered head was swimming a little from the unaccustomed glass of sherry, and now at the table a sip or two of champagne.

  She had spoken to Arthur about David’s behaviour, and Arthur had sai
d it was neither for himself nor Bel to interfere. Now it seemed Mrs. Dermott had taken things in hand and the matter was settled! In spite of herself, Bel wondered how. For a moment she felt a stab of jealousy; a shaft of resentment piercing the glowing cloud of well-being that enveloped her. She must ask Sophia about this later. But almost at once her thoughts, rather inconsequently, floated off yet again into her rosy surroundings.

  “I’m certain he’s a clever boy,” Mrs. Dermott said after a moment, puzzled, a little, at Bel’s smiling unresponsiveness.

  “Oh!—Wil? Yes, I’m sure he is.”

  But Sir Charles felt the ladies had said enough about their own affairs. He frowned a little, swallowed some champagne, and turned to Mrs. Dermott, demanding:

  “What school have you put your grandson down for? We’ve put Charlie down for Eton.”

  IV

  In the drawing-room before the men came, Bel found herself alone with Mrs. Dermott and Lady Ruanthorpe. Grace had carried Margaret off to see the rival baby, Robert David, now asleep upstairs.

  If, thanks to black coffee, her thoughts were rather less misted than they had been at the dinner-table, Bel was still a little above herself; a little drunk with unaccustomed flattery; a little too confident that Bel Moorhouse could do no wrong.

  For a moment, as they talked, the nagging pain which was Phœbe pulled at her heart-strings. She sat silent, watching Mrs. Dermott and Lady Ruanthorpe: the forceful, shipping prince’s widow, and the sharp old lady of the county with her natural habit of command. They were strong personalities, both of them; more informed, more travelled, better bred than herself. Bel’s snobbery was prepared to think them wiser than they were.