Rosabelle shaw, p.18
Rosabelle Shaw, page 18
“But you’ll get married some day, won’t you—and I’ll be your bridesmaid.”
Rosabelle shook her head. “I shan’t get married,” she declared. “I shall be like Great Aunt Rosabelle, and stay at Shaws all my life.”
She kissed Janet and tucked her up in bed and ran downstairs. It’s going to be lovely, she thought, it’s going to be lovely. Oh, dear, how happy and excited I am!
Fanny was in the drawing-room rearranging some of the flowers; she pulled a daffodil forward to show to better advantage and stood back to get the effect.
“That’s better,” she said, and then she turned and smiled at Rosabelle. “They’ll be here soon.” she added. “You look nice, my dear, let me see your hair.”
Rosabelle turned obediently and allowed her mother to pin up a curl which had come out of place.
“Oh, Rosabelle, stand still!”
“I can’t,” said Rosabelle, laughing. “I simply can’t stand still—it’s so frightfully exciting.”
“You never could stand still,” Fanny declared. “Have you seen the fairy-lamps?”
“Yes, they’re lovely.”
Jay came in at the glass door with his taper in his hand. The conventional evening-dress showed off his lithe figure and toned down his foreign air. “What’s lovely?” he inquired.
“The lamps,” said Fanny. “They’re a great success.”
Jay slipped his arm round her waist. “You’re lovely,” he told her, kissing her lightly on her forehead. “You’ll be the belle of the ball—are you going to dance with me?”
“Dance with the girls,” laughed Fanny, delighted with the compliment from her beloved Jay.
“I want to dance with this girl,” he replied, “the pick of the bunch—pretty Fanny.”
Rosabelle watched the little scene with a queer pain in her heart. She thought: Why can’t I say nice things to Mother? Why can’t I tell her she looks pretty? It’s quite true, she is pretty—but I never thought of telling her so.
Fanny’s black charmeuse frock was very becoming, and the red roses in her corsage were “just right” for her dark beauty. Her figure was still slim and girlish, and her complexion as smooth and creamy as ever.
John came down, looking rather hot and flustered, with a white tie in his hand. “Will somebody tie this thing round my neck?” he demanded irritably. “I’ve spoilt three of them, and this is the last I’ve got.”
Jay turned at once. “Here we go,” he said, seizing the tie and lassoing John’s neck. “One, two, three—it’s all done by kindness.” His slender facile fingers made short work of the job.
John laughed, his irritation gone, and surveyed himself in the glass. “Am I all right, Jay?” he inquired.
“Most distinguished,” declared Jay gravely. “Sir John Shaw—of Shaws. May I offer you a cigarette, Sir John?”
“You impudent monkey!” laughed John. “You needn’t think you can fool me with your blarney. I’m a plain Scots farmer, that’s what I am.”
They had no time for any more nonsense, for the musicians appeared: a small fat man to play the piano, and a taller thinner man with a violin under his arm, and no sooner had they been settled, and the lamps moved to suit their convenience, than the sound of wheels on the gravelled drive, and the chatter of young voices in the hall, told that the first guests had arrived at Shaws.
24
The Dance at Shaws
The first hour of the dance was a sort of dream to Rosabelle, a blur of voices and lights and music:
“May I have the pleasure of a dance, Miss Shaw? Number nine? Thank you so much.” “May I introduce Mr. Watson?—Mr. Watson, Miss Shaw”; and then her own voice: “Libby, is your programme full? May I introduce Mr. Gilmour?—Mr. Gilmour. Miss Walker—Dr. Inglis, Miss Walker. Mamie, have you got a dance to spare?—Mr. Watson, Miss Gilmour.”
Then, somehow or other, she found herself dancing, whirling round the room in the heady mazes of a waltz, and then sitting out in Father’s office—a small bare room in which he conducted the business of the farm, but bare no longer, and indeed quite unrecognisable with its curtained drapery, comfortable chairs, and shaded light.
Dance followed dance, and Rosabelle, pursuing her way, caught sight of familiar figures that whirled and dipped, and dipped and whirled, on the polished floor. There was Isabel dancing with Jay, and enjoying herself thoroughly, and Mamie with Dr. Inglis, and Tom with Libby Walker; and now Father, who had declared that he could not and would not dance, was cruising round in a stately manner with Mrs. Gilmour—how funny they looked—while Mother stood at the door, watching and smiling to herself at the unexpected sight. It was the Lancers next, and what a business it was making up the sets! Rosabelle had to leave her partner, Tom Gilmour, standing on the floor, and rush about the room seizing timid couples and pushing them into place. “One more couple here—oh, you must dance. I’ll find you a partner—here you are. Now, are we all ready?” A nod to the violin, and they were off—tum-te-tiddly, um-te-tiddly—it was the Mikado Lancers, which Rosabelle adored.
When the fun and frolic of the Lancers was over, Tom said, “Let’s go outside, shall we?” and they stepped out of the glass doors into the cool dark garden with its myriads of glowing lamps and strolled together along Great Aunt Rosabelle’s Path. Tom had not much to say, but Rosabelle was content to walk beside him in silence, for she knew Tom so well, and he was a comfortable person to be with. There was never any need to make conversation with Tom, and Rosabelle liked that. They sat down on the garden seat, but not before Tom had dusted it and spread his handkerchief for Rosabelle to sit on. She smiled her thanks and said, “Sir Walter Raleigh, I presume,” and Tom bowed gravely and replied, “At your Majesty’s service—and that’s not just fun and foolery,” added Tom, in a more serious tone, “for I am at your service, Belle.”
“Nice old Tom,” Rosabelle said. “Sit down beside me—unless you’re afraid the seat is dirty. I’m afraid my handkerchief wouldn’t be much good to you. It’s a nice party, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” agreed Tom. He was silent for a moment or two, and then he said, “Your dress is pretty, Belle.”
“I’m glad you like it.”
“You look—lovely,” he told her in a low voice.
She was delighted with the compliment, and was about to reply when another couple appeared out of the gloom. It was Jay and Mamie Gilmour.
“Hallo!” said Jay, “It’s you, is it? We wondered who it was.”
“Yes, it’s us,” said Rosabelle, getting up from the seat. “We had better go back—I hear the music starting.”
They walked back together, and found an “extra” in progress, for the musicians had gone to have supper.
“Will you dance this with me?” Tom asked, as they stepped into the room. “You’re not booked for it, are you, Belle?”
“I’m not booked up for any of the extras,” Rosabelle replied, but she spoke in a hesitating voice, for the fact was she had left the extras unbooked on purpose in case Fanny should need her for anything, or in case there should be a dearth of partners amongst the other girls. Fanny had impressed upon her that she must not dance herself and leave her guests sitting out if she could help it, and Rosabelle had promised to observe this difficult law. She looked round the room now, and saw Jenny White sitting on a chair near the door, and her heart sank within her, for Jenny had been on her mind the whole evening. Jenny had developed amazingly since the days when Rosabelle had admired her and envied her voluptuous curves—the curves were altogether too overwhelming now, and she was too much of an armful to be popular. Jay must dance with her, thought Rosabelle, or perhaps Tom would. He’s so good-natured.
She was still wondering how to accomplish her charitable purpose when Jay appeared before her and bowed gravely. “My dance, Miss Shaw,” he declared with mock formality.
Tom objected to this. “But Rosabelle is dancing with me,” he said quickly.
Rosabelle began to explain that she intended to sit out this dance, but she did not get far with her explanation, for Jay took matters into his own hands. He slipped his arm round her waist and drew her on to the floor, and before Rosabelle knew where she was she found herself dancing. She looked back and saw the hurt, and bewildered expression on Tom’s face.
“Oh, Jay, stop—how naughty of you!” she cried. He laughed delightedly. “But I am naughty,” he told her in a low voice, with his lips close to her ear. “You’ve always known that, haven’t you?—and you don’t really want to stop!”
“You ought to dance with Jenny.”
“I will afterwards—perhaps. Pleasure first and business afterwards has always been my motto.”
Rosabelle said no more, she realised that it was too late to do anything, and she was too young and inexperienced to deal with the situation; besides, she did not want to stop, she was spell-bound by Jay’s dancing. His arm clasped her firmly round the waist, and his feet led hers with unfaltering ease—he was by far the best dancer in the room. The floor was half empty, so there was plenty of space for Jay to show his skill; he swept her round the room with long gliding strides, and reversed cunningly into a corner. There was no effort involved, and yet, for some reason Rosabelle was breathless. Jay’s dark head was so near her own, and again she smelt the clean soapy perfume of his hair. She felt again, as she had felt once before, that this was not Jay, but a stranger. The feeling had frightened her before, but now it thrilled her—she forgot all about Jenny, and Fanny’s eyes, which followed her round the room with surprise and disapproval, had no power to move her, there was nothing in her mind but the music, and the whirl of the dance, and Jay.
“You’re like a feather, Rosabelle,” he whispered.
“A large feather!”
“Yes, one of those large, soft, ostrich feathers, shaded to pale pink at the tips. … But, seriously, Rosabelle, you dance beautifully. Why didn’t I know about it before?”
Rosabelle could not answer, she had no breath for speech. It seemed strange that she had never danced with Jay before, and that neither of them had been aware of how well the other could dance.
“Have you any dances left?” he asked anxiously. “I don’t suppose you have—I haven’t any either, but I could have cut some …” he turned his head and smiled into her eyes. “Does that shock you dreadfully?”
Rosabelle was past being shocked at anything Jay might do. It was as if she were enchanted by a spell. She did not reply, and they swept on round the room. There was a young man at the piano—a friend of the Gilmours—who was an excellent performer and seemed quite indefatigable; he played a medley of popular waltzes—gliding from one to another, and ending up with Rosabelle’s favourite—Septembre. He had realised that Jay and Rosabelle were by far the best dancers in the room, and was playing for them—and them alone.
When at last the music stopped, Rosabelle was quite dazed. She sank into a cane-chair just outside the glass doors of the drawing-room with a sigh of relief.
“Did you enjoy it?” Jay asked, sitting down beside her on the step.
“Yes,” said Rosabelle, but she was not certain in her own mind that she had enjoyed it. There was a queer tumult in her breast, and a lassitude in all her limbs.
“You don’t sound—enthusiastic,” said Jay, smiling up at her. “Why is that, I wonder. Would you rather have danced with the flat-footed Tom?”
“I’m tired, I think.” said Rosabelle faintly.
“Nonsense! Feathers never get tired—especially feathers with pink tips—they float about in the wind without the slightest effort. Have you ever seen a feather dancing in the wind? It’s the prettiest sight.”
Rosabelle was recovering a little now, and the spell of the dance was fading. “You ought to dance with Jenny,” she said. “You know you ought, Jay. You haven’t danced with her once all the evening.”
“Oh dear!” said Jay, with feigned distress. “Oh dear, what a dreadful thing—I haven’t danced with her once all the evening.”
“I wish you would.” Rosabelle told him earnestly.
“Very well then, I will—if you tell me to.”
“I do tell you to.”
Jay sighed profoundly. “It’s settled then—the next extra is dedicated to the White Hippopotamus.”
Rosabelle had to laugh, but despite her laughter she felt a queer thrill of pleasure that Jay should have agreed to do what she asked. He was such a free creature, and prided himself upon the fact, and he followed his own path without reference to others—it was almost as if she had tamed a tiger.
“Look at the moon. Rosabelle,” he said in a low voice. “Look at it coming up behind the trees—how beautiful it is, how pure and white and unearthly! It puts my silly little lamps to shame with its soft clear light. I love the moon, don’t you?”
She looked at the moon and saw that it was as Jay had said; it was sailing up behind the trees, and the trees, still bare or budding, were patterned in dark tracery upon its silver disc. And then she turned and looked at Jay’s face; he had lifted his head a little, and the light of the moon shone upon his pale skin. It seemed to her an innocent face, pure and rapt as the face of a dévot. He’s good, she thought involuntarily, he really is good. He’s just different from other people as all those who have great gifts are different—all great musicians, and poets and painters. …
“I’ll tell you a secret Rosabelle,” said Jay suddenly, and he turned his head and smiled at her a trifle shyly. “You mustn’t laugh at me. Sometimes when the moon shines like this I feel I must go out. I can’t sleep. I can’t rest. So I climb out of my window and over the wash-house roof, and away I go to the woods. Have you ever heard me, Rosabelle?”
She shook her head. It was strange that she had not heard him, for his room was next door to hers, and their windows were close together.
“You can’t think how wonderful the woods are in the moonlight—the leaves are all silver and black, and the ground is patterned with silver lace. Come out and see the woods with me.”
“Perhaps—some time,” Rosabelle said.
“Come now,” said Jay, half-rising from the step as he spoke.
“Now!” exclaimed Rosabelle. “How can we, Jay? I’m booked up with dances to the very end, and so are you.”
He sighed. “How dreadful to be dutiful! Why must we be bound like this? Why can’t we do the things we want when we want to do them?”
“I thought you were enjoying the dance.”
“I was, but I don’t want to dance with a hippopotamus—after a feather, Rosabelle, I want to walk in the woods with you—now.”
“You know we can’t leave our guests——” Rosabelle began.
“Perhaps I know that you wouldn’t,” he interrupted her, smiling inscrutably.
“Well, why ask me then?”
“Ah, why? Try to guess why, Rosabelle. Is it because I want you so much, or is there another reason?” His dark eyes were alight with mischief, they were too close to hers, there was something fascinating, almost hypnotising in their gaze.
Rosabelle hesitated. Should she go with him—should she slip away just for a little while? Jay had evidently read her thoughts, for he laughed in a satisfied way. “No, my dear feather,” he told her. “You can’t come, but I like to think I could make you come if I would. I shan’t make you come with me—not to-night—for you wouldn’t be happy. You’re too dutiful, you know. All the time you would be thinking, at the back of your mind, that you shouldn’t have come, and the magic wouldn’t work. I must walk in the woods alone. Good-bye, feather.” He rose, a slim straight figure in his black clothes, and smiled down at her.
“Don’t go, Jay.”
“I must,” he declared. “The moon is calling me. You don’t understand how the moon calls her children, for you are a child of the sun with your fair hair and blue eyes. … Don’t tell Mother,” he added in a low voice, and the next moment he was gone.
Rosabelle felt as if she were waking from a trance, she slid back to reality with a sigh. What nonsense Jay had talked—and yet, at the time it had not seemed nonsense. She had felt a queer undercurrent of meaning in all he said, but she did not know what the meaning was. Jay had wanted her to go, yet, when she was on the point of consenting, he had changed his mind and gone alone. Jay always did what he pleased without consideration for others; she was not unduly surprised at his sudden whim, what surprised her was her own weakness. I nearly went, she thought in amazement, I would have gone—how strange! It would have been dreadful if I had gone—simply dreadful! Mother would have missed me and wondered where I was … how could I have hesitated, or thought for a moment that I could go off like that with Jay and leave our guests … and cut all my dances …
She was rested now, her heart had calmed down and was no longer jumping wildly beneath the soft chiffon of her frock. She rose and went back to the ballroom for the next dance, which happened to be a reel. Dr. Inglis was her partner for this; he had been looking for her somewhat anxiously, and his face brightened when he saw her come in. They took their places on the floor and waited for the others to form sets.
Rosabelle looked round the room, she was vitally aware of Jay’s absence—so much so that she felt as if everyone in the room must notice it and be surprised. Fanny would most certainly miss him, for she had a habit of watching Jay. The reel was an excellent one, but Rosabelle had no heart for it, and it seemed to her that with Jay’s departure the vim and sparkle had gone. Dance succeeded dance, and still he did not appear, and Rosabelle found it a real effort to smile and chatter to her partners, for half her mind was with Jay, walking in the quiet moonlit woods. Her certainty that Fanny would discover Jay’s absence was justified. Fanny seized Rosabelle’s arm as she passed and whispered anxiously, “Where’s Jay?” and Rosabelle had to pretend she did not know. All this was extremely worrying and disturbing, and it was a further worry at the beginning of each dance to have to look out for Jay’s deserted partners and provide a substitute.
Jay returned in time for the last extra, and danced it with Jenny White—so he kept his promise after all. He looked at Rosabelle over his shoulder and winked slyly, and Rosabelle was forced to smile. Strangely enough, all her irritation vanished the moment she saw him, and the troubles and trials of the evening were as if they had never been. She looked at him and saw that he was as immaculate as ever—not a hair of his dark head was out of place—and reflected that nobody could possibly guess that he had escaped from the ballroom and had walked in the woods by himself for half the night.
