Rosabelle shaw, p.20
Rosabelle Shaw, page 20
“Perhaps,” she said in a hesitating voice. There were two forces at work in Rosabelle, one of them urging her to go with Jay and the other holding her back. She had turned towards the piano now, her hands rested idly upon the yellowed keys, and she thought: If he woke me and said “Come” I would have to go with him whether I wanted to or not—and Jay knows that.
Rosabelle was surprised and a little disappointed when the time passed and he did not waken her and say “Come,” but she reflected that Jay’s moods were incalculable. He was so “touchy” that if you did not seem eager to do what he wanted he would make you wait his pleasure for another chance. She thought: He is making me wait, and I shall pretend that I have forgotten all about it; but, in her heart of hearts, she knew that he knew she had not forgotten—you could never fool Jay.
Except for this secret struggle between them, there was smooth friendliness and harmony at Shaws. The world seemed bright and happy to Rosabelle, and the very flowers in the garden more beautiful and luxuriant than ever before.
26
Jay leaves Shaws
The summer holidays came and went, and in October the weather broke. There were heavy storms that autumn, and the seaweed was piled high upon the beach. John sent his carts down and collected the seaweed to manure his fields—great piles of brown ribbon seaweed, slimy with salt. The carts rattled and lurched over the stony track, and returned laden, spilling part of their burden on the road. So all around Shaws, in the steading, and on the lanes, scattered seaweed lay rotting in the rain, and in the fields the men worked with their pitchforks spreading it about.
One night when Rosabelle had been asleep some hours she woke to find the wind whistling in the chimney, and knew that yet another storm was on its way. She lay and listened to it for a little while, and gradually became aware of another noise besides the wind. It was Jay moving about in his room next door, walking up and down as if he could not rest. Rosabelle knew that Jay hated storms, and she wondered whether it was the imminence of the storm which was affecting him, or whether perhaps he was ill. She lay still for a little while wondering what to do, and at last she rose, and put on her dressing-gown and opened his door.
It was very late, but he had not undressed; he was pacing up and down like a caged animal.
“Jay!” she whispered. “What’s the matter—what is it, Jay?”
He stopped in the middle of the floor and looked at her strangely, and she saw that he was very pale, and his eyes were heavy and shadowed. She saw, too, that his hair, which was always so smooth and immaculate, was rough and disordered as though he had plucked at it with frantic fingers.
“Jay!” she said again, in dismay.
He sat down on the bed and took his head in his hands, leaning forward and gazing at the floor.
“What is it?” she asked again. “What is it, Jay? Is it the storm—or what?”
“It’s—it’s toothache, that’s all,” he said irritably.
“Toothache!”
“Yes, toothache—I’ve had it for hours.”
“Oh, Jay! I thought you looked bad at dinner—was it aching then?”
Jay nodded.
“Oh, Jay—how horrible—you must go to the dentist.”
“Yes,” he said slowly. “Yes, I might do that——”
“How silly you are! Of course you must go to the dentist—hadn’t you thought of that?”
He raised his eyes from the floor and smiled at her. “No, I hadn’t thought of it,” he admitted, “it’s quite a new idea—and an excellent one. I must go to Edinburgh and see the dentist.”
“Of course you must,” she declared in a sensible, matter-of-fact way. “I’ll drive, you over to Torrisford in the morning, and you can catch the eleven-five. You can go to Aunt Alison to lunch.”
“Practical person!” said Jay.
“Well, somebody must be practical.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “I wonder if Father would mind if I stayed for a few days in Edinburgh,” he said. “There’s a Symphony Concert on Saturday at the Music Hall——”
Rosabelle laughed. “Oh, Jay, have you really got toothache?—No, I don’t mean to be horrid,” she added hastily, “only it does fit in rather well, doesn’t it? Why shouldn’t you stay and go to the concert? Father won’t mind a bit.”
“I hate asking him,” Jay said slowly. “He’s been so kind, and there’s a good deal to do just now, but honestly I feel as if I needed a little change.”
“I’ll ask him,” Rosabelle promised. “It will be all right—you’ll see. And now I’ll go downstairs and find a clove for your tooth, and you must try to get some sleep.”
John made no difficulties about Jay’s visit to Edinburgh; the boy had earned a holiday, and a few days away from his work would do him good. It was arranged at breakfast that he should catch the eleven-five at Torrisford, and go to the dentist in the afternoon. Fanny and John were somewhat anxious and distressed at his appearance, and Rosabelle felt that there was little doubt that he was in real pain, for his eyes were shadowy with sleeplessness, and his face haggard and drawn.
“Why on earth didn’t you have that tooth seen to before?” John inquired, somewhat irritably, for the sight of pain always annoyed him. “It can’t have started all of a sudden, surely.”
“I’ve had twinges,” admitted Jay ruefully, “but I just didn’t bother—I hate going to the dentist, you know.”
“Well, you’ll be glad of his services now,” declared John; “see and not leave it so long another time—and while you’re in Edinburgh you can go to the Show and buy that bull we were talking about. Come into the office before you go and I’ll give you all the instructions.”
There was no way of letting Alison know of Jay’s arrival, but that did not matter. Jay would report at Heriot Row, and Alison could be depended upon to see that he was well looked after. So Jay packed his bag, fetched his violin—without which he never stirred a foot—and received John’s instructions about the bull, while Rosabelle got the car ready to take him to the station. He said good-bye to Fanny at the front door, and for a moment he clung to her almost desperately.
“Jay!” she said in dismay. “What is it? Is your tooth very bad?”
“Simply horrible,” he replied. “I didn’t sleep a wink all night. Do I look a rag?”
“Yes, you do,” said Fanny. “Will you be all right, darling? Would you like me to come——”
“No, no, of course not—but you’re a lamb to think of it. I love you dreadfully——” He kissed her again, and ran out to the car.
They said very little on the way to Torrisford, for Rosabelle was intent upon her driving, and Jay was crouched down in the seat beside her with his scarf pulled up round his face. She was worried about him, for he really looked ill, but she reflected that perhaps he was not really as bad as he seemed, for Jay was never good at bearing pain—when he had anything the matter with him he drooped like a sick bird, and absorbed every ounce of sympathy he could get. She saw him into the train with efficiency and dispatch, and stood on the platform waiting for it to go.
“You’ll feel all right once it’s out,” she told him comfortingly.
“Yes,” he agreed. “Don’t you wish you were coming too?”
Rosabelle had not thought of it, but now that he had put it into her mind she found that she did wish it. How pleasant it would be to spend a few days with Aunt Alison and see the shops.
“Perhaps when you come back——” she said hopefully.
The train departed with Jay to Edinburgh, and Rosabelle did some shopping in the village and returned home in time for lunch. The house seemed strangely empty and quiet, for Jay was so vital, and so full of personality, that his absence left a vacuum at Shaws. Rosabelle went about her usual duties in a dreamlike way; she did the flowers, she practised, and she exercised Rory on the beach. In the evening Dr. Inglis dropped in unexpectedly, and was inveigled by John into a game of whist, and Rosabelle was glad of the slight diversion. Whist was old-fashioned now—it was a game called Bridge that was all the rage in Edinburgh—but John Shaw would never consent to have it explained to him, for he liked old ways best, and was wont to say that you couldn’t teach an old dog new tricks.
“And where’s Jay?” inquired the doctor, as he gathered up the cards and shuffled them neatly.
“He has gone to Edinburgh,” Fanny said.
“The boy needed a change,” added John comfortably.
Dr. Inglis paused for a moment and looked thoughtful. “I wanted to see Jay,” he said slowly.
“You’ll see him when he comes back,” Fanny promised.
Two days passed without incident, and on Saturday morning Fanny found a letter waiting for her on the breakfast-table.
“It’s from Alison,” she announced—quite unnecessarily, for John and Rosabelle were almost as familiar as she was with Alison’s neat firm hand.
“It will be to tell you of Jay’s arrival,” said John teasingly, “and to say that she has aired his bed and ordered his prunes.”
Fanny did not reply, there was a little frown between her eyes which deepened as she read. “How funny!” she said at last, turning the letter backwards and forwards in her hands.
“What’s funny?” John inquired.
“She doesn’t mention Jay at all,” declared Fanny in a bewildered voice, “it’s all about Janty’s dancing class.”
“She wrote it before he arrived,” said John easily. He stretched out his hand for the marmalade, and helped himself generously as he spoke.
“And posted it in Bill’s pocket,” added Rosabelle, laughing.
“Well, she dated it wrong then,” Fanny said, “and that’s not like Alison. I can’t understand it at all—could anything have happened?”
“What a fuss!” said John lightly. “What a fuss about nothing! You’d think Jay was about five years old. D’you think he’s been kidnapped between here and Edinburgh, or what?”
“I’m not fussing,” Fanny declared a trifle irritably. “I’m only puzzled.”
Rosabelle was puzzled too, and there was a little undercurrent of anxiety in her mind. She scarcely knew what she feared, but she had a feeling that there was something wrong.
“We could send a wire to Heriot Row,” she suggested.
John had finished his breakfast now. He rose and lighted his pipe. “You’ll do”—puff, puff—“no such thing,” he said firmly. Puff, puff—“You and your wires! Jay’s all right. What d’you think could happen!” and he walked out of the room, grumbling to himself.
What a fuss to make, he thought, as he pulled on his boots and got ready to go out. It’s just like women to make a fuss about nothing. I’ll not hear another word about it. They make a fool of the boy! And then he laughed to himself and thought: I wonder what he’s up to; perhaps the young rascal thought it would be better fun to visit some of his friends than to spend a week-end at Alison’s, there’s no knowing … but, if that’s so, I wish he’d told us … it’s not as if we would have objected. Rather funny really, because he’s usually so frank and open about things; look at the way he told me about getting squiffy at the Hogmanay party …
John was still turning it over in his mind as he came downstairs and found Rosabelle waiting for him with the car. He was going over to Torrisford to see the slater about some repairs to the roof of the old byre, and as he could not—or would not—learn to drive himself, he was obliged to have somebody to drive him. Contrary to his expectations, Rosabelle did not speak of Jay, she was silent and abstracted. She had arrived at the same conclusion as John—namely that Jay had gone to stay with some of his Edinburgh friends—and, like John, she regretted the fact that Jay had not been frank about his intention. It was an underhand thing to do, and unnecessarily underhand. Rosabelle had plenty of food for thought as she drove through the familiar lanes towards Torrisford. It was no wonder that she was silent.
They had passed over the hog-backed bridge and were running through the woods when a man stepped out from amongst the trees and held up his hand, and Rosabelle stopped the car and gazed at him in surprise. He was a tall broad-shouldered man, with grizzled hair and a grey moustache, and was respectably dressed in brown corduroy breeches and leggings, and a grey tweed coat. He came to the car, and spoke to John.
“Maister Shaw,” he said urgently.
“Why, it’s O’Malley!” exclaimed John in amazement.
“Sure it’s meself,” declared the man. “I’m wanting to spake to yez, Maister Shaw. Ye can guess what I’m wanting——”
Rosabelle had been observing the man closely, and she saw that he was labouring under some strong excitement or passion, for his eyes smouldered, and his huge work-worn hand, which rested upon the side of the car, was trembling violently.
“Don’t talk nonsense,” said John sharply. “How do I know what you want?”
“Is that the way av it?” exclaimed the man furiously. “I’ll tell yez thin—it’s that black divil I’m looking for—where has he got to?”
“What do you mean, O’Malley? How dare you stop me like this? You must be drunk!”
“Drunk is it?” cried O’Malley, laughing in an ugly way. “Is it drunk I am? Sure, that’s a quair thing at this hour! Yez see this stick, Maister Shaw?” he continued, waving a thick ashplant stick which he was holding. “Yez see this? It’s for him I’ve cut it—for that black divil, so it is.”
John gazed at the man in bewilderment.
“Tell him that,” continued O’Malley grimly. “He’ll know the maining of it soon enough. Tell him O’Malley’s cut a stick and is waiting to break it on his back.”
“Tell who?”
“Jay, av course.”
The two men eyed each other for a moment, and then O’Malley’s eyes fell. “I see yer not knowing about it,” he said uneasily. “It’s a bad business … it’s me daughter, Maister Shaw, me only daughter—and she not eighteen yet.”
John was still completely at sea as to what the man was talking about. “Can you not speak plain English, O’Malley?” he exclaimed testily. “What has Mr. Jay to do with your daughter?”
“He’s wronged her,” declared O’Malley. “Are ye wanting it plainer than that?”
“What!” cried John. “What! I’ll not believe a word——”
O’Malley interrupted him with a string of oaths. “So ye’ll not belaive me,” he cried, and he raised the heavy stick and swung it menacingly. Rosabelle was frankly terrified—he was so powerful and obviously beside himself with rage. She expected to see the stick descend upon her father’s head and dash his brains out. “Ye’ll not belaive me,” the man continued, shouting at the top of his voice. “No, ye’ll not belaive the truth when ye’re hearing it, for the black divil’s decaived yez—he’d decaive the Angel Michael, so he would, with his soft-sawdering ways. He’s black all through, I tell yez. He’s bethrayed me daughter—and she no more than a babe—they were maiting in the woods night after night, and nobody the wiser. He’s bethrayed her and ruined her—so he has—and that’s the truth, Maister Shaw, belaive it or not.”
John gazed at the man blankly. He was so utterly dumb-foundered that he could not speak, and he had quite forgotten Rosabelle sitting beside him in the car, listening to every word of the sordid tale.
O’Malley saw that he was still incredulous, and continued in calmer tones: “Sure it’s not aisy to belaive—it’s meself knows that—but it’s the truth I’m telling yez. Where would be the sense of me decaiving yez?—tell me that, Maister Shaw. It’s true, ivery word av it—and more—I swear it by the Blessed Virgin.”
John could not doubt the man’s words, they were pregnant with sincerity. He gazed at O’Malley in dismay.
“What are yez going to do about it, Maister Shaw?” inquired O’Malley at last.
“I can’t——” said John vaguely. “I don’t know what to say——”
Rosabelle had listened to the man’s words in horrified silence. She was a child of her generation, and therefore somewhat ignorant of the seamy side of life. Her reading had been carefully supervised by Fanny, but she had read Adam Bede, for Adam Bede was a “classic,” and Fanny—who never read herself—adhered to the popular belief that all classics are suitable for the young. Rosabelle had read Adam Bede with care, for it was quite different from anything she had read before, and she remembered it now, and remembered Hetty’s strange experiences and ultimate fate. Her brain worked quickly, and she was intelligent enough to put two and two together and make four. She was shocked and distressed, but she did not realise all that it meant—just at first. She did not see—as she saw later—what Jay’s misdoings meant to her, for she was thinking of her father, and not of herself. She was thinking of her father, and she saw his distress clearly; he was far too upset to tackle the situation in the proper way. He must be removed from O’Malley’s presence as quickly as possible, before he said anything that he might afterwards regret.
“I think it would be best if you could come and see my father when he has had time to think it over,” said Rosabelle in a quiet voice.
The two men had quite forgotten Rosabelle—they looked at her in surprise.
“Come and see my father some evening,” she added in a sensible, matter-of-fact voice, and with that she let in the clutch and the car moved off.
O’Malley did not try to detain them; perhaps he was too surprised by the suddenness of their departure, or perhaps he thought that it would be better to allow John time to reflect upon his words. He stood in the road and watched them out of sight.
“Rosabelle!” said John. There was a wealth of meaning in the way he said her name, and Rosabelle understood the significance of it. She understood how horrified he was that she had heard the sordid story from O’Malley’s lips. She did not reply to his exclamation, for she could not trust herself to speak. She was beginning to realise the meaning of it all—the meaning of it to herself—and her heart was full of pain. She drove on towards Torrisford mechanically—for the car had been heading in that direction and her one idea had been to rescue her father from O’Malley—but she had no idea where she was going, nor what she should do when she reached the village.
