Rosabelle shaw, p.19
Rosabelle Shaw, page 19
The dance finished with the Post Horn gallop in tremendous style, and the guests were sped on their ways with hot soup. Jay went out and helped to start the cars, which had been parked on the gravel sweep before the house. He was very good with cars, and his services were much appreciated; he ran about hither and thither, cranking recalcitrant engines and directing the drivers as they backed and manœuvred in the crowded space. Soon all were gone and only the Shaws family were left in the large bare drawing-room.
“I think it was a success!” said Fanny with some complacency.
“Of course it was,” declared Jay, who was drinking a cup of soup with obvious enjoyment. “It was a roaring success, wasn’t it, Rosabelle?”
“It was a lovely, lovely dance,” she agreed. She had quite forgotten that she had ever thought the evening too long.
Fanny looked at her daughter and smiled. “I thought you looked nice,” she said. “Poor Jenny—what a mountain! I’m glad you danced with her, Jay.”
“Rosabelle made me,” he said, a trifle ruefully.
Fanny’s face suddenly changed, and her smile faded. “Rosabelle!” she exclaimed, “Rosabelle, my dear—your corals—have you lost them?”
Rosabelle felt for her precious necklace and found it gone. “Oh, Mother!” she cried. “Where can it be?”
“When did you have it last?” inquired Fanny.
“Don’t worry, it can’t be far away. We’ll find it all right,” said Jay.
Rosabelle sank down on to a sofa; she was very tired, and the loss of her coral necklace seemed a frightful catastrophe, so frightful that she could hardly restrain her tears.
“My dear lamb, don’t worry,” said Jay comfortingly. “You had it on when you were dancing with me—we’ll find it all right.”
They began to search the room, somewhat feverishly, feeling down the backs of the chairs, shaking the cushions and peering into the corners. John, who had been having a drink in the dining-room, came in and joined in the search.
“We shan’t find it,” Rosabelle said in a shaky voice, “I know we shan’t—it’s gone——”
“We’re bound to find it,” said John, “it can’t be far away.”
“I’ll go and have a look in the garden,” added Jay, “perhaps it fell off when you were outside.”
They looked everywhere, but the necklace could not be found, and at last John declared that they must go to bed. “You’re all tired out,” he said, smiling at Rosabelle kindly. “We’ll find it to-morrow—don’t worry about it, my dear.”
“Oh, Father,” she cried, clinging to his arm, “I loved my necklace so much——”
“We’ll find it to-morrow,” he said again. “Go off to bed now, you’re tired … you’re dead beat, and no wonder, it has been a most exhausting night.”
Fanny took her hand and they went upstairs together, but Jay remained, he was still searching. He shook the curtains, and looked beneath the cushions for perhaps the twentieth time. “I do wish we could find it,” he said anxiously. “Rosabelle was so happy. This has spoilt the whole evening for her.”
“Yes, I wish we could,” agreed John. “It would be a relief to my mind if we could find the wretched thing—not only for Rosabelle’s sake.”
“You mean——”
“I mean,” said John grimly, “I mean, it’s a damned unpleasant thing to feel that one of our guests must be a thief.”
25
Rosabelle’s first proposal
The morning after the dance was a busy one, for the whole house had to be cleaned and the furniture restored to its usual places. Fanny had expected that the lost necklace would turn up during the upheaval, but there was no sign of it. Rosabelle was too sensible to make much fuss about her loss, but Janet was inconsolable. It was she who had fastened the necklace, and perhaps she had not fastened it properly; she wept until her small face was red and swollen, and nothing that anybody could say or do would convince her that she was not to blame. By lunch-time the house had resumed its normal appearance, and in the afternoon Rosabelle declared that she was going for a ride.
“Take Rory, then,” Jay said. “I’ve got to drive Father over to Torrisford in the car, and Rory needs a little exercise.”
So Rosabelle took Rory and went for a gallop on the sands.
It was a glorious day for riding, a real April day with a breeze from the west and flying clouds. The sea was blue near the shore, shading to green as it spread to the horizon. The tide was far out, and the brown sands were firm and flat. Here and there were small pools which looked like sheets of blue glass from the reflection of the skies. Rory was very frisky at first, and shied at every pool, but he settled down after his gallop and consented to walk along quietly at the edge of the sea. It was lovely there on the sands, so peaceful and sunny, the waves fell on the shore with a splash of white foam, and the seagulls circled and dived far out at sea. Rosabelle took off her hat and let the cool sea-breeze blow through her hair, and the slight headache which had troubled her all morning was dispelled by the sweet fresh air.
She was riding back towards Shaws when she saw another rider coming down the track from the old house. It was Tom Gilmour, mounted on the big brown horse which carried his tall frame so well. Rosabelle waved her hat and cantered to meet him, for she felt somewhat guilty about Tom, and wanted to put things right.
“Hallo, Tom!” she cried. “How are you feeling after last night?”
“I’m very well,” Tom declared, “and you look splendid, so I won’t ask you how you are. It’s bad luck losing your necklace,” he added sympathetically. “Mrs. Shaw told me about it—you were wearing it when you danced with me.”
“It’s funny, isn’t it?” Rosabelle said. “You’d think it would have turned up somewhere.”
“It may turn up yet.”
“No, I have a feeling that it’s gone for good,” she told him, rather sadly, and then she added philosophically. “Oh, well, it can’t be helped. It’s no use worrying about it any more. Do you want to see Father? He’s gone over to Torrisford with Jay.”
“I came to see you,” said Tom gravely. He turned his horse and they began to walk along the sands side by side.
Rosabelle wondered what to say; she wanted very much to explain and apologise for what had happened at the dance, but she did not know how to begin. The more she thought over the incident, the more inexplicable it seemed. She did not understand it herself, so how could she hope to explain it to Tom? Jay had simply carried her off under Tom’s very nose—and she had gone with him without a word.
She was still searching for something to say which would put matters right, when Tom continued:
“We’ve always been good friends, haven’t we, Belle?”
“Of course we have,” said Rosabelle eagerly. “Of course we have, Tom, and we always will be friends, won’t we?”
Tom did not answer at once, and Rosabelle looked at him somewhat anxiously. Surely Tom was not so offended that he was going to withdraw his friendship from her—that was unthinkable. “We’ll always be friends, won’t we, Tom?” she said again.
“I want more than that, Belle,” said Tom gently.
“More!” echoed Rosabelle in amazement.
“Much, much more,” Tom told her. “Oh, Belle, dear—is there any chance at all?—No, don’t answer yet, just listen to me for a moment. I know you don’t love me as I love you—you’re so young—I meant to wait patiently until you were older, but I see that I mustn’t wait any longer … it’s too dangerous.”
“Oh, Tom!” cried Rosabelle in dismay. “Don’t say any more——”
“I must,” he declared. “I must say it now—Belle, will you marry me?”
“Oh, Tom!”
“Please do—dear Belle, please, please do. I can make you happy, I know I can, and you would be safe with me.”
“Safe?” exclaimed Rosabelle in surprise,
“Yes, safer.”
“But what do you mean?” she asked in bewilderment. “I’m quite safe now.”
He was silent for a few moments, and it was evident that he was searching for words. At last he said, “I can’t explain, but you would be safe with me. I’m not very brilliant, or amusing—I know that—but I’m awfully solid and—and faithful, and—Oh, Belle, I love you dearly—I can’t tell you how much I love you—I’ve loved you ever since you were a tiny child, and I’ve always thought—When Belle’s grown-up we’ll be married.”
“Oh, Tom … I’ve never thought it … not once.”
“I know you haven’t, but think of it now, and don’t say anything until you’ve really thought about it seriously. Think of us together at Langside,” he continued earnestly, “you like Langside, don’t you? And you would be so near Shaws—you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“But I don’t love you—not like that,” Rosabelle told him. “I like you awfully much as a friend—but not like that at all.”
“You’ll love me afterwards,” he declared. “It’s just because you’re so young and sweet, and innocent. I won’t bother you, darling. I promise that. I’ll wait patiently … you like me, and you trust me … I’ve got enough love for both of us … I love you dearly, Rosabelle …”
“Oh, please stop!” cried Rosabelle desperately. She felt as if she were being forced into this marriage against her will, and it was so absurd. Why should she marry Tom if she did not love him? Why should she marry anybody?
“I can’t stop,” said Tom doggedly. “It seems—I know it seems queer for me to keep on at you like this, but—but there is a reason. Belle, I can wait for you to love me, but I want you to promise to marry me, I want us to be engaged.”
“I can’t do that—why should I? Oh, Tom, please be sensible. I can’t marry you, because I don’t love you. Besides——”
“No, no, don’t say it, Belle,” he cried, putting out his hand to stop her. “Don’t say it’s because you love somebody else.”
Rosabelle began to get slightly annoyed with him now. “Don’t be so silly, Tom,” she said—it was her old phrase, and it fell naturally from her lips. “Don’t be so silly, I was only going to say, ‘Besides, I don’t want to get married at all,’ that’s all.”
“Why not?”
“Why should I? I’m quite happy as I am.”
They rode on together for a few minutes in silence, and then Tom continued: “Think it over, Belle—will you? Don’t decide now. It’s a new idea, and perhaps you need time to get used to it. I’m sorry if I seem a nuisance, but I can’t help that—I must do all I can——”
“You’re not a nuisance,” said Rosabelle quickly. “It’s awfully nice of you, Tom, and I know it’s a great honour—but I can’t—I simply can’t! Please don’t say any more about it.”
Tom considered her words for a few moments, he was obviously wondering whether it would be any good to persuade her further. At last he said, “Well, I won’t say any more now if that’s how you feel, but you must promise faithfully to tell me if you change your mind. I shall always love you, Belle—I’m not a changeable person.”
She knew that. “Oh, Tom, I wish you could find somebody else,” she said sadly.
“I don’t want anybody else—I don’t want ‘a wife,’ I want you. … We’re still friends, aren’t we?” he added. “And if you ever want anything you’ll tell me—because I would do anything for you, Belle.”
“Of course we’re friends,” Rosabelle declared.
“Promise,” said Tom anxiously, “promise that you’ll tell me if you change your mind—if you feel you could bear to marry me; and promise that you’ll tell me if there’s anything I can do for you—ever.”
Rosabelle promised gravely. They were empty promises, she thought, because she could not imagine herself marrying Tom, nor needing his help, but it was the least she could do for him, and he seemed satisfied with the crumbs.
They had reached the end of the bay by this time, and they turned in silent accord and cantered back to Shaws. A cloud had come over the sun, and all at once the world seemed grey and cold. Rosabelle shivered. She had been happy, and now she was miserable, for it was horrible to have to hurt Tom. Why on earth couldn’t men be friends without all this stupid business of falling in love?
They rode up through the soft sand and took the path to Shaws House, and as they passed the gate which led to the cottages Rosabelle saw a girl waiting there. It was the girl who had been at the Russells’ Hogmanay party. Rosabelle recognised her at once. She wondered again—as she had wondered before—who the girl could be, and she was somewhat surprised when Tom waved his whip and called out a cheery greeting.
“Who is that girl?” she inquired. “I’ve seen her here before, but she doesn’t belong to Shaws.”
“She belongs to Langside—her name is Reena O’Malley,” Tom replied.
“She’s very pretty,” said Rosabelle thoughtfully.
Tom agreed. “She’s an Irish Rose,” he said. “It’s funny, isn’t it, that people should run so true to type—just like pedigree animals. But perhaps it would be funnier if they didn’t. You’d get a shock if a racehorse foaled a carthorse, or vice versa. Reena’s father is a typical Irishman—a wild sort of creature, but a good worker—and the girl takes after him; she’s a typical Irish colleen, with her dark brown hair, and her creamy skin, and her eyes ‘put in with a dirty thumb’ as the saying is. She’s a nice girl too. I’m taking her on as assistant dairymaid. O’Malley used to work at Shaws before he came to Langside, so I expect that’s why you’ve seen her here before—they probably know the Shaws folk pretty well—but it’s an old story, for they’ve been at Langside ever since the girl was born.”
Rosabelle did not speak. She was very much upset by her first proposal. Tom had said that he still wanted to be her friend, but it could never be the same—she knew that, and was miserable about it, for she was very fond of Tom. Even now he was different, for it was quite unlike Tom to chatter like this; he was talking for the sake of talking, because silence between them was embarrassing. They were no longer comfortable with each other as they had been before. He’s spoilt everything, she thought wretchedly, it can never be the same, never.
“You’re not listening, Belle,” said Tom, smiling at her a trifle shyly.
“Oh yes, I was,” she replied hastily. “You said her father used to work at Shaws—why did he leave here?”
Tom thought for a moment. “I don’t know,” he said slowly. “To tell you the truth, I’ve always felt there was some mystery about it.”
Shaws settled down into its usual groove. Everything was the same as before, thought Rosabelle as she gathered flowers and helped to make jam, and practised her scales on the old piano; but she knew in her heart that things were not quite the same, and it was Jay who made them different. Ever since their dance together—that stolen dance which had caused such a queer upheaval in Rosabelle’s breast—Jay had been like a new person to her. They shared a secret now, and the secret shone in Jay’s dark eyes when they met hers. It was as if the shared secret gave him some strange power over her from which she could not escape. He played tricks upon her, not uncomfortable impish tricks like those he used to love, but queer little intimate tricks which amused her and yet disturbed her strangely. One morning, when she was practising in the drawing-room, he came up behind her, very quietly, and his long thin fingers closed over her eyes. “Guess who it is,” he said, in a false gruff voice.
“Oh, Jay, don’t be silly!” said Rosabelle, laughing. “Who else but you would play such a prank?”
Jay laughed too, and removed his hands. “No,” he said, “you couldn’t imagine Mother doing that, somehow. It’s not her line, bless her!”
Rosabelle played another scale. She was very anxious to improve her music. She played well, but not brilliantly, and her music had always suffered by comparison with Jay’s. It seemed so useless to work hard and practise for hours when Jay (who scarcely ever practised in the real sense of the word) could play a hundred times better than she could.
“Industrious Rosabelle!” he said, smiling down at her. “I wish I had half your concentration.”
“You don’t need it.”
“I should be much better if I practised,” he told her, “but I can’t be bothered. When I get hold of my violin I want to play. I want to play all the music that’s shut up inside my head.”
Rosabelle said nothing, and then she swung round on the stool and faced him. “Jay,” she began, a trifle shyly, “I heard you last night——”
“Where did you hear me?”
“On the roof.”
“It was the cat,” he declared with mock gravity.
“No, it was you.”
Jay looked at her for a few moments, and his face broke into a smile. “Well, what if it was?” he said. “I told you that I was moonstruck, didn’t I?” He lowered his voice, almost to a whisper, and continued: “The moon called me—and I had to go. I peeped into your room before I went, but you were asleep and I hadn’t the heart to wake you. … You’ve no idea how pretty you look when you’re asleep, Rosabelle.”
Her heart missed a beat and then raced one. Somehow the idea that Jay had come into her room and looked down at her when she was asleep was troubling—it was also strangely exciting, but why this should be she did not know. She pulled herself together and replied calmly enough: “Why do you do it, Jay? You look tired—and no wonder——”
“It’s so lovely,” he said, in a dreamy voice, “just like fairyland. The woods are enchanted at night. I went and sat in the Robber’s Castle and listened to all the quiet rustling sounds that you only hear at night … little animals turning over in their sleep, and moles burrowing… an owl lives in the old tree—you didn’t know that, did you?—he has a nest high up in a hollow branch. He flew back home just as dawn was breaking, and was very much surprised and put out to find me there … Come with me some night, Rosabelle.”
