Rosabelle shaw, p.2
Rosabelle Shaw, page 2
Johnny was soon on an intimate footing at Heriot Row, for they all liked him, and he liked them. And then, as he lost his shyness and began to get impatient, he wanted more than just to sit at Fanny’s feet; so the humble adorer became a masterful wooer, and Fanny found—somewhat to her surprise—that she had fallen in love with him.
The marriage of Fanny Dinwiddie to Johnny Shaw caused a considerable stir in Edinburgh Society. Everybody knew the bride, but nobody knew the bridegroom. Some people said that Fanny had made a good match, others that she had thrown herself away, and there were at least half a dozen young gentlemen of Fanny’s acquaintance who declared themselves heart-broken and vowed eternal celibacy. But in spite of this the wedding was a gay affair. It was June, and the sun shone all day long. It shone upon gentlemen in silk hats, and ladies in gaily coloured satins with lacy parasols, slim bodices, and rustling petticoats. It shone upon the stream of beautifully groomed horses and highly polished carriages which wound its way slowly up the Mound to the Cathedral of St. Giles. The old building, cool and shadowy after the glare of the streets, was comfortably filled with the bride’s friends and relations.
Everybody agreed that Fanny, radiant in her white satin and lace, was a beautiful bride, and Mr. Shaw a handsome figure of a man. It is true that he did not look very happy, but few men have the nerve to brave the ordeal of a Society Wedding with a cheerful countenance.
After the ceremony the guests repaired to Heriot Row and fortified themselves with cakes and champagne. There were several speeches, and a great deal of chatter and laughter; then the bride and bridegroom departed in a blizzard of rice for a honeymoon on the Continent, and the guests faded away, and Mr. Dinwiddie and Alison were left to sweep up the rice and to finish the cake and the champagne at their leisure.
Mr. Dinwiddie sank into a chair and looked at his elder daughter somewhat helplessly. “Well, well, it’s all over,” he remarked.
Alison agreed that it was. “What a rush it’s been!” she added, “and how quiet it seems now that they’ve gone!”
“As long as she’s happy——” Mr. Dinwiddie said, with a sigh.
“Johnny’s nice,” declared Alison, “and they love each other, so she ought to be happy.”
Part One
… Seed Time
1
Fanny comes to Torrisford
The village of Torrisford is situated in the Lowlands of Scotland, about five miles inland from the North Sea. The country all about is agricultural, a fertile plain, dedicated to the culture of corn and root-crops, with an occasional field of succulent pasture to vary the monotony. The houses are of grey stone, roughly shaped, with snugly fitting roofs of blue slate. The main street of Torrisford is narrow and winding, paved with granite setts, and in this street there are (or were in those days before the coming of motor traffic) about a dozen shops, of which the saddler and the ironmonger were by far the most prosperous. Just outside the village was a blacksmith’s forge, from which the cheerful clang of hammer upon anvil and glowing metal could be heard from early morning to late afternoon. The old church—a pre-Reformation building of grey stone with a beautifully proportioned square tower—stood on a slight eminence overlooking the village. All about it were the graves of its long-dead parishioners, marked by tombstones in varying stages of decay, and it was surrounded by old trees, whose heavy green foliage made a pleasant shade.
Beside the church stood the Manse, an old-fashioned house, long and low, almost hidden from the casual passer-by by its wealth of roses. Mr. Wallace, the minister, was a bachelor of about sixty years old, and, apart from his parochial duties, his garden was the chief business and pleasure of his life.
On this particular morning of early July, Mr. Wallace was walking round his garden enjoying the fruits of his labours. He had planted his roses with his own hands, he had manured them and pruned them, and now they were in their glory, repaying him for his pains. It was very early, and Torrisford was scarcely awake. The dew lay like diamonds on the velvet petals of the flowers. Mr. Wallace had just stooped to smell a rose of surpassing beauty when he heard the sound of a horse’s hooves upon the road, and looking up he saw his friend Dr. Inglis riding into Torrisford on his well-known bay horse. Mr. Wallace called, and waved, and ran down to the gate with an agility which was somewhat surprising in a man of his years.
In small country places the doctor and the minister are often good friends, and it was so in Torrisford. Dr. Inglis was young, and had not been here long, but already he was part of the community, and already he admired and revered Mr. Wallace for his sterling worth; and Mr. Wallace was extremely fond of the young doctor, and was always glad to see him and have a crack. They talked over their various “cases” together, and sometimes they saw eye to eye, and sometimes they did not, but they were both sensible, tolerant, broadminded men and were ready to allow each other to hold opposite views.
“Hallo, Inglis—you’re very early,” Mr. Wallace exclaimed.
“Dear me—and here was I thinking I was very late,” returned Dr. Inglis, smiling a trifle wearily.
“You’ve been up all night?”
The doctor nodded.
“At Langside?”
“Yes—it’s a nice wee girl. Mr. Gilmour’s delighted, but Mrs. Gilmour had the effrontery to say she’d rather have had another boy. Women are all for boys—I’ve noticed that.”
“And men for girls.” added Mr. Wallace, with a twinkle in his eye.
Dr. Inglis swung himself off his horse and leaned over the gate. He had been up all night, but somehow or other he was in no mood for bed. It was very pleasant here, the sun was comfortably warm and the minister’s garden was a joy to behold.
“I’ve not seen you to speak to since the marriage,” he said in conversational tones. “It was a very grand affair, I believe.”
“It was all that,” declared Mr. Wallace gravely. “Why, man, the whole of Edinburgh must have been there. It was a sore ordeal for Johnny Shaw—you could see that—but he’s got a bonny wife for himself.”
“So Mr. Gilmour was saying. She’s a great beauty, he says. But will she ever settle down at Shaws, that’s the question. It seems to me that he would have been better to marry a country woman who was used to a quiet life.”
“It’s easy to see you’ve never been in love, Inglis,” said Mr. Wallace, with a chuckle.
“Oh, love,” declared Inglis, smiling. “I’ve no time for it, Mr. Wallace. It’s as much as I can do to cope with the babies.”
They laughed a little together at the subtle jest.
“But all the same, love isn’t everything,” declared the doctor, reverting to the subject of Johnny Shaw’s marriage, “and Shaws is a lonely spot.”
“You’ve been talking to Charlie Gilmour,” Mr. Wallace said.
Dr. Inglis laughed. “I’ve been talking to him the whole night,” he admitted. “We’ve put the world to rights between us.”
“You would, you would,” chuckled Mr. Wallace.
“We discussed Mr. Gladstone’s Cabinet, and the trouble in Egypt——”
“And Johnny Shaw’s matrimonial adventure.”
“That most of all,” agreed Dr. Inglis, smiling. “Mr. Gilmour does not approve of a farmer going off to the Continent for a honeymoon during the hay harvest.”
“He wouldn’t.”
At this moment a carriage, drawn by a grey horse, hove into sight. It was coming up the hill from Torrisford Station at a smart pace. The two men turned to look at it, and Dr. Inglis exclaimed, “Good Heavens! Talk of the devil—it’s the Shaws’ landau!”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” declared Mr. Wallace comfortably.
“It’s been to the station to meet the train—did you know they were arriving to-day?”
“I had a kind of inkling that they might be,” Mr. Wallace admitted. “The stationmaster told me last night that the London train was stopping at Torrisford this morning—and we haven’t so many visitors——”
By this time the carriage had drawn level with the Manse gate, and the doctor and the minister went forward hat in hand. Johnny Shaw greeted them delightedly and introduced them to his new wife with obvious pride.
“This is Mr. Wallace, Fanny,” he said. “And Dr. Inglis—two good friends of mine.”
Fanny smiled at them in her charming way, and Dr. Inglis decided that rumour had not lied. The new Mrs. Shaw was more than pretty, she was beautiful. He was so thunderstruck with her appearance that he remained dumb, staring at her, and allowed Mr. Wallace to do all the talking.
“Welcome to Torrisford, Mrs. Shaw!” said the minister in cordial tones.
“Thank you,” said Fanny. “Thank you very much.”
“You’ve brought us a good day,” he continued, “and the farmers will be grateful to you, for they’re wanting to get in their hay. But you’ll be hearing all about that from Johnny, I make no doubt.”
“I’ve not begun to grouse yet,” Johnny said. “And I was not sorry to see the rain in London. We were nearly baked alive in Paris, weren’t we, Fanny?”
“It was very hot,” she agreed.
“I hope you enjoyed your trip,” said Mr. Wallace politely.
“Thank you, yes, we did. It was most interesting.”
“I have only been once to France,” Mr. Wallace declared, “and what chiefly amazed me was the fact that Frenchmen seem quite incapable of understanding their own language. In fact, I found that the only method of making my requirements intelligible to the poor creatures was by voicing them in plain Scots.”
Fanny laughed delightedly. She had had the same difficulty and had been disappointed and humiliated to find her French (of which she was secretly proud) so inadequate, but Mr. Wallace’s joke took all the sting out of her unfortunate experience. She laughed until the tears came into her eyes. Mr. Wallace was vastly pleased by his success, and also pleased to find that the pretty Mrs. Shaw had a sense of humour which chimed with his own.
“Well, well—the Tower of Babel has a lot to answer for,” he declared, “but I’ll not keep you standing here, for you’ll be weary enough after your night journey, and anxious to see Shaws,” and so saying he stepped back and bowed, and the carriage rolled off up the road.
“What a nice man!” Fanny exclaimed, turning her bright brown eyes to her husband.
By this time they had left the village and were bowling along a narrow country road bordered by hedges of hawthorn set upon banks of green grass. The grass was full of wild flowers—bluebells (the true bluebells of Scotland) and yellow lady’s-bedstraw. It had rained in the night and the rain had cleared, the clouds had rolled away, and the sun was shining upon a clean and glistening world. On every leaf, on every green blade of grass a diamond shone. The air was fresh and clear, and a little breeze blew softly from the east. It was a perfect morning for Fanny’s introduction to her new home; the country was looking at its best. Even Johnny could not have wished for a better day. He glanced at Fanny and wondered what she was thinking—how would she like Shaws? Would it have been better to have introduced her to Shaws before they were married?—but there had been no time. The engagement had been short, and Fanny had moved in a perfect whirl of parties and dressmakers.
They descended a little hill into a valley where a burn ran. There were trees here, fine and tall and straight, and, beneath the trees, a carpet of last year’s leaves. They rolled over a hogbacked bridge and breasted a steep hill on the other side. Here old Cowie, the coachman, allowed the grey horse to fall into a walk, and Fanny and Johnny resumed their conversation.
“Why haven’t you told me more about Shaws?” Fanny inquired.
Johnny considered this. “I’m not good at describing things,” he said, “and there seemed to be so little time, I’d have told you if you’d asked me.”
This was all true, Fanny was very young and somewhat self-centred. She had not thought much about Johnny’s background. He had appeared out of the blue and had made himself at home in her life, so that she scarcely realised that he must have a life of his own of which she knew nothing. As for Johnny, he was so much in love that he could think of nothing but Fanny, and, when he was with Fanny. Shaws seemed far away. Besides, as he had truly said, Johnny Shaw was no hand at describing things at the best of times. So it had come about that Fanny knew little or nothing of her future home and it was only now when they were almost at the gates of Shaws that she began to wonder what it was like, and to be faintly surprised that she knew so little about it.
“Oh, Fanny, I hope you will like it!” Johnny said.
“Of course I shall like it.”
“It’s not big. you know. It’s quite a small house.”
“It is near the sea?”
“Quite near the sea,” Johnny assured her. “When the sea is rough you can hear the waves breaking on the shore.”
“I believe I can smell the sea,” Fanny exclaimed excitedly.
“You will see it in a moment,” he promised her.
When they reached the top of the hill the carriage stopped, and Fanny and Johnny got out and leaned upon a gate.
“There,” said Johnny. “That’s Shaws. You can see the chimneys of the house amongst those trees.”
Fanny gazed at the view in silence—it was very beautiful. Inland there were hills, rolling up to the skyline; they were hazy with the morning mist. The country between the hills and the sea was slightly undulating; it was divided into large fields in which wheat and barley and feathery oats waved and rippled in the sea-breeze, changing in colour from bright green to reseda as the wind sighed past. Here and there, fields of potatoes and other root crops, and small plantations of trees, varied the monotony of the scene. Beyond the fields was the sea—a strip of azure blue flecked with “white horses”; and a large and rocky islet, the home of innumerable seabirds, caught the eye by the unexpected massive beauty of its black-and-white cliffs and the green and verdant vegetation of its crown.
2
The House of Shaws
The house of Shaws lay in a fold of the ground close to the seashore, and from here only its chimneys were visible, poking out from the clump of trees which surrounded it on all sides. Fanny could see a grey film of smoke drifting inland from the twisted chimneys.
“Look, Fanny,” said Johnny Shaw, with some pride, “you can see all the farm from here. My fields stretch from here right down to the sea. I go east to that promontory of red rock jutting out into the sea, and west to that clump of beeches.”
Fanny’s eyes widened. She was amazed at the extent of her husband’s property. “Why, it’s miles and miles!” she exclaimed, raising her small sweet face to his in surprise. “Is it really all yours?”
“All ours,” replied Johnny, laughing delightedly.
“But you said it was small!”
“It was the house I was thinking of,” Johnny said. “The house isn’t big—and I’ve not taken much interest in it, I’m afraid. I’ve improved and added to the farm.”
“I shall take an interest in it,” Fanny declared.
“Of course you will,” Johnny said. “You must do what you like with the house.”
Fanny turned back and looked at the view. She was seeing her husband in a new light now. She was seeing him as a real person with a background of his own. The masterful wooer who had swept her off her feet, and the shy dream-companion of her somewhat unsatisfactory honeymoon, both vanished. They gave place to a real man, a man of substance, a person of authority and importance in his own sphere.
“Oh Johnny,” she cried. “Oh. Johnny—I think—I think I shall call you John.”
Johnny had been waiting anxiously for Fanny’s verdict, and he was so surprised when he heard it that he could hardly believe his ears.
“You will call me John!” he echoed, a trifle stupidly.
“Yes,” said Fanny, “I shall call you John. It’s a much more solid sort of name. You don’t mind, do you?”
Johnny—or John—roared with laughter. “You darling girl!” he said. “I don’t mind what you call me if only you are happy and like Shaws.”
They got back into the carriage and drove on towards the sea through a winding lane which turned and twisted hither and thither between the whispering corn. It was very peaceful, the only sound was the clip-clop of the grey’s hooves and the rattle of the carriage wheels on the hard ground. When they neared the house the road bent suddenly and descended a short steep hill, and Fanny saw a small burn prattling gaily down a little waterfall of red sandstone rocks. It was this burn which had carved out the little valley where the house of Shaws was built, and it continued its useful work by supplying the house and the farm with water. They drove through the farmsteading, with its byres and barns and stables all thatched with neatly banded straw, and here a little knot of farm-workers had congregated to see them pass, John waved to them gaily, and they touched their caps and smiled. A dog ran out and barked, and some grey pigeons, which had been feeding on a heap of dung, flew up into the air with a whirr of wings. The next moment they turned into a narrow stone gateway and drove up to the door of Shaws House.
Fanny saw that the house was built of grey stone; it was long and low and had bow-windows. The doorway was on a level with the drive and had a large flagstone as a step. On either side of this was a stone balustrade which served as a mounting-block.
The entrance-hall was papered in dark red; it was gloomy and shabby—John had never realised, until now, how shabby it was. Why hadn’t he done something about it—what a fool he had been! Fanny would hate the place, she was bound to hate it, and first impressions are so important.
“We’ll have it all done up,” he declared, as he led the way into the house. “You must choose the papers and have it just as you like. It won’t be nearly so bad when it’s been done up—oh, here’s Mrs. Curle—my housekeeper.”
