Rosabelle shaw, p.25
Rosabelle Shaw, page 25
“All right, we’ll knock off,” she said, and added gravely, “You mustn’t overtire yourself, Tom.”
He laughed delightedly, and led the way to a shady spot where a hawthorn tree had grown from the hedge. “Sit down there, you giant,” he told her. “I’ll go and forage for food.”
35
Rosabelle changes her mind
Rosabelle lay down on the dry ground, put her hands under her head and stared up at the little jagged bits of blue sky which showed between the green leaves. The stubbly ends of the cut corn were prickly hard, but Rosabelle did not mind that. It was bliss to rest in the shade after the long hot morning in the glaring sun.
After a little, Tom had returned with a basket under his arm. He stood and looked at her and smiled. “The giant at rest!” he said. “Look here, some of them are going up to the house—your father and Bill—would you rather do that or picnic here? Mother said I was to ask you.”
“Let’s picnic here,” said Rosabelle quickly, “it’s so lovely.”
“That’s what I was hoping you’d say,” declared Tom. He sat down beside her and unpacked the basket.
There were all sorts of good things in the basket, and Rosabelle was hungry. They ate in silence for a little, munching away contentedly and looking at the scene of their labours with some satisfaction, but when the first edge of their hunger had been taken off they began to talk. Tom was very cheerful to-day, she had rarely seen him in such good spirits; he insisted on calling her “the giant,” and declared that she not only worked like one, but ate like one too.
“I suppose you think I’m eating more than my share,” said Rosabelle with feigned annoyance, “You’re greedy, that’s all. That last sandwich belongs to me.”
Tom roared with laughter.
The farm-hands were having their dinner beneath another, larger tree farther down the field, and they seemed to be very happy together. The subdued murmur of talk and laughter drifted to Rosabelle’s ears.
“It’s been a success,” Tom said, following her eyes to the group.
“A social success,” Rosabelle agreed.
“The two farms combine well, don’t they?” This remark was made in a somewhat significant tone, and Rosabelle, understanding all that was implied, blushed under her tan.
At that moment John appeared. “Hallo, are you still eating?” he inquired in a jocular tone. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere, Tom. We’re nearly finished our field.” He had plucked some ears of corn, and was rubbing them between his hands as he spoke. He blew away the chaff and examined the grain, then he put it into his mouth and savoured it.
Tom watched him anxiously. “It’s good stuff, Mr. Shaw!”
“It’s splendid,” John replied. “You’ve a fine crop, Tom—I’ve rarely seen better. It’s full in the ear and long in the straw—even Burnett is quite enthusiastic!”
“We’ll need it,” Tom said gravely.
“What have you two been up to all the morning?” John inquired.
“Working, of course,” said Rosabelle.
“She’s a splendid worker,” added Tom.
“I like it,” Rosabelle declared, “it’s such clean work, and I love to feel that I’m doing something useful. Isn’t it queer to think that there has to be a war to show us that work like this is good … and worth doing?”
The two men were silent for a minute. It was a silence that often came when the war was mentioned. They remained perfectly still—as if they were turned to stone—and there was a strained expression in their eyes. Were they listening—listening for the noise of guns? It was impossible that they should actually hear that sound, for they were too far away, but sometimes it almost seemed that they could hear them … thundering out death and destruction. It was so peaceful in that Scottish field so still and brightly coloured—golden corn, green hedges, and blue sky.
“I wanted to tell you,” said Tom at last, “I’ve been trying to join up, but they won’t have me unless I can guarantee that the farm won’t suffer in my absence. I told them that I would get a grieve to carry on—but it’s not easy to get a good grieve. I’ve been wondering whether you would keep an eye on Langside, Mr. Shaw, if I put a grieve in. It seems a lot to ask——”
“I’d have to think about it,” said John with his usual caution. “I can understand your wanting to go, but it seems to me your work lies here—we need our farmers.”
“That’s true, sir,” Tom agreed, “but the farm could be run just the same if I put a grieve in—especially if you could keep an eye on it for me.”
Rosabelle had been listening to the conversation, and now she broke into it somewhat breathless. “You couldn’t do it, Father,” she said. “You know quite well that it would be impossible. Shaws is as much as you can manage.”
“But Tom doesn’t mean me to run the farm,” John pointed out, “he just means me to keep an eye on the grieve——”
“You couldn’t do it,” declared Rosabelle again.
Tom looked at her in surprise, and somehow she was unable to meet his gaze in her usual frank manner.
“Well, well, we’ll see how things go,” said John comfortably. “There’s no hurry about it, and the war may be over by Christmas. Our first job is to get the harvest in.”
He stayed a little longer, chatting about the latest news from the front, and then went off to the other field. By this time their workers had finished their meal, and the machines had started again. Rosabelle sat up and put on her hat. “We must get on with the work,” she declared.
“Not quite yet,” said Tom firmly. “Not quite yet, Belle. This is the hottest time of the day when even giants rest from the labours.” He sat down beside her again as he spoke, and looked at her straightly. “Besides, I want to talk to you,” he added.”
“You’ve been talking to me for ages,” said Rosabelle lightly.
“Why don’t you want me to join up, Belle?”
Rosabelle was silent.
“I feel I ought to,” Tom said seriously. “I feel I want to. The war won’t be over by Christmas, you know. I thought at first it would be over very soon, and that was why I didn’t go. I thought it wasn’t worth while. I thought that by the time I had been trained the whole thing would be over, and that it would be better to stick to my own job—the job I knew how to do … and there was the harvest to be considered. …”
Rosabelle was silent still.
He waited for a moment or two and then he said, “You don’t want me to go. Belle?”
“No,” said Rosabelle. “You’re a farmer, not a soldier. We need farmers.”
“We need every strong man to fight,” Tom declared earnestly, “and I’m very strong. It’s an absurd feeling, of course, but I feel so strong that I feel as if it would make a lot of difference if I went. Perhaps you’ll laugh at that—I know it’s silly.”
Rosabelle did not laugh. She said again, “You’re a farmer, Tom.”
“They could make me into a soldier,” he replied.
There was a little silence, and then Rosabelle said, “It’s true. I don’t want you to go. I suppose it’s selfish of me, but I don’t want you to go. You see … I feel safer when I know that you’re here.”
A slow flush mounted to Tom’s forehead. “Belle,” he cried, “oh, Belle, that’s good—if you feel like that——”
“Yes, I do,” she said, nodding.
“Then perhaps——”
“Yes,” she said in a low voice. “Yes, Tom. You said I was to tell you if I changed my mind … and I promised …”
“Belle, you mean—you mean you will marry me!” he cried. “Belle, darling … really and truly?”
The field was full of people, and although they were all too busily at work to pay any attention to Tom and Rosabelle sitting in the shade near the hedge, their presence was a restraining influence upon Tom’s excitement. He took her hand, and Rosabelle let him hold it, but there was no other display of feeling between them, and Rosabelle was glad of this, for she was not ready yet for anything more.
“Listen, Tom,” she said gravely. “I’m going to tell you everything, and then you can say whether you want me or not.”
“Want you! Of course I want you … on any terms. I told you that before.”
“It doesn’t seem fair,” she breathed.
“But why——”
“Because I don’t love you.”
“Belle——”
“No; listen, Tom. I like you more than anybody—yes, more than anybody in the world, and I know I can trust you, but I don’t love you, Tom.”
“You don’t know what love is,” he told her.
“But I do,” said Rosabelle, “I do know … that’s just it.”
He was still holding her hand, and now he spread it out between his own and looked at it. What a lovely hand it was, strong and flexible, with long fingers and pink almond-shaped nails! The outside of it was golden brown, burned with the sun, but the palm was pink and soft as a rose-leaf. He would have liked to press his lips against that pink soft palm, but he refrained, for he saw that he must be very patient and quiet.
“Belle, dear,” he said gently, “there are different kinds of love. I know Jay fascinated you—I knew it at the time, and I was frightened. I suspected it that Christmas Eve when we played hide-and-seek and I passed you on the stair, and I knew it for certain at the dance. I was frightened, Belle, desperately frightened, for I would rather see you dead than married to Jay—it sounds dreadful, but it’s true.”
“Oh, I know,” she said in a shaking voice, “I know you’re right. He was like a sort of enchantment … I was like wax. Oh, Tom, keep me safe.”
“I will keep you safe,” said Tom gravely.
36
Fanny tries to understand
The afternoon was like a dream to Rosabelle. She and Tom worked side by side in the harvest-field building up the endless array of stooks. Sometimes, as they placed their sheaves together, their hands touched, and they smiled into each other’s eyes at their shared secret. Presently there was only a small square of standing corn in the middle of the big field, a small square full of rustlings and squeakings, for all the living inhabitants of the field had retreated yard by yard before the terrifying noise of the machine, and were waiting there—waiting for they knew not what horror to befall them.
“Come!” said Tom, straightening his back and dusting the chaff from his hands. “Come, we’ll leave them to finish the job.”
Rosabelle was glad to go, for she did not want to see the slaughter of the creatures when the last piece was cut. She laid down the sheaf she was carrying, and followed Tom from the field.
When they had gone a little way down the shady lane which led to Langside House he stopped and looked at her questioningly, and seeing that she did not withdraw from him he took her in his arms and kissed her. It was a very gentle kiss, tender and loving.
Rosabelle looked up into his eyes, and saw that he was anxious as to how she would take this first embrace.
“Dear Tom,” she said, laughing a little at the gravity of his expression. “Don’t look so frightened! I’m very fond of you, you know, I rather liked it.”
Tom had to laugh too. “Then I’ll do it again,” he said, and did so more thoroughly.
They walked on after that, and Rosabelle slipped her hand through his arm. It was a nice, strong, safe arm, and she liked the feel of it. “Tom, are we going to tell them?” she asked.
“That’s for you to say.”
“Let’s tell them,” said Rosabelle. “There’s nothing to wait for.”
John was in the drawing-room talking to Mrs. Gilmour and Mamie and waiting for Rosabelle to come, so that they could ride home together. They all looked up when the two came in, and the conversation died away.
“I believe they’ve guessed our news,” said Tom with a shy smile.
“Oh, Tom!” cried Mamie. “Oh, Belle—it’s not difficult to guess … if you only saw your faces!” She jumped up and ran to Rosabelle and hugged her. “Belle, it’s true, isn’t it—you’re going to marry Tom? Oh, darling Belle, I’ve been hoping and hoping for this. …”
“Tom!” cried Mrs. Gilmour in delight.
“Rosabelle!” cried John in amazement.
Rosabelle disengaged herself gently from Mamie’s embrace, and turned to her father. “You’re pleased, aren’t you?” she said, putting her arms around his neck. “Of course, you’re pleased!”
“My dear,” said John in bewilderment, “my dear child … it’s such a surprise … I never thought … how old are you?”
“Older than Mother was when you married her,” declared Rosabelle, laughing at him.
They were all pleased, of course, when they had recovered from their surprise—why shouldn’t they be pleased? Mrs. Gilmour had known Rosabelle since she was an infant, and had always been fond of her. Indeed, Rosabelle was like a second daughter to Mrs. Gilmour, and perhaps this was the reason she had been blind to Tom’s infatuation. John had been blind too, but he was well aware of Tom’s sterling worth, and he saw now, clearly enough, that he could not have asked for a son-in-law more after his own heart. Mamie had not been blind, she had been hoping for this event for months—Belle would be a real sister now—it was almost too good to be true. She ran and fetched a bottle of champagne and a tray of glasses, and put them on the table. “We must drink their healths!” she said breathlessly, and the hand that poured out the sparkling wine shook with excitement.
It was all a little unreal to Rosabelle—the fuss, the excitement, the congratulations, the babble of broken conversation, the questions, and friendly raillery:
“How long has this been going on?”
“Well, I never thought——”
“You’ve been very secretive about it!”
“So that was why——”
“So this is the result of combining forces for the harvest!”
“Shaws and Langside!” said Tom, raising his glass.
They drank the toast—all of them—saying solemnly, “Shaws and Langside.”
When the first rush of excitement had died down a little, they began to talk of plans, though, of course, nothing could be settled until Fanny had been consulted—John was firm about that.
“There will be no more talk of joining up, now, I suppose,” said John somewhat slyly.
He spoke to Tom, but it was Rosabelle who answered. “Tom must do as he thinks best,” she said bravely. “I hate the thought of him going, but if he really wants to … well, I won’t prevent him … only …”
“Only what?” asked Tom anxiously.
“Only we must be married first,” Rosabelle said.
Fanny was less surprised than John had been when she heard the news, for she had known for some time that her daughter was of marriageable age. She liked Tom, and he was certainly the most eligible young man in the district, but it seemed to her a very unromantic affair. How different her own girlhood had been, and her own marriage! It was sad that Rosabelle had missed all the gaiety which had been her portion. Fanny thought of her own youth—the admiration and adulation, the stately balls and merry dances, the amateur theatricals—what fun they had been—the chatter and buzz of gay young voices, the pretty frocks, and the love affairs. Rosabelle had missed all that—all the delight of being young and pretty and admired—it seemed sad to Fanny that Rosabelle should marry and settle down and take on the responsibilities of life without having tasted the sweets. She realised vaguely that Rosabelle was quite different from herself. Rosabelle took life more seriously than she had ever done, she did not crave for excitement, and admiration, and pretty clothes. Rosabelle would not know how to manage a string of lovers and keep them dancing attendance upon her lightest whim as Fanny had known so well how to do. Was this her nature, Fanny wondered, or merely the result of her so different upbringing? If only she could have had one Edinburgh Season, Fanny thought wistfully, just to see how she got on—because she’s really very pretty and attractive—and it would have been fun chaperoning her and meeting everybody again, but, of course, it’s not a bit of use thinking about that, because there won’t be any Season this year with the war and everything. Oh dear, how horrible it all is!
Fanny was even more dismayed when she discovered that the marriage was to take place so soon. Her own engagement had been three months, and even that had been considered almost indecently short. What fun her engagement had been! A whirl and a rush of parties and dressmakers, and John, so exigent, appearing from Torrisford at all sorts of odd times, quite unexpectedly, just as she was dashing off to be fitted, or to buy linen, or to choose her hats, and declaring that he had to come because he couldn’t stay away from her another minute, and crushing her dress, and disarranging her hair, and assuring her that she was the most beautiful creature in the world, and the most adorable. Yes, John had been quite mad about her, and his madness had been tremendously exciting. He was a most romantic lover, and the very fact that he appeared out of the blue and departed into it again added to his glamour in Fanny’s eyes. It was lovely to be engaged, and if Fanny had had her way the engagement would have lasted twice as long before being consummated in marriage—three times as long if only John had not been so impatient, so dreadfully masterful. For marriage, thought Fanny, marriage is a very difficult sort of affair, an awkward sort of affair—especially just at first. I’d defy anybody to enjoy marriage, she thought, somewhat naïvely, I’d defy anybody to enjoy marriage … until they got used to it. …
“I really think you should wait,” Fanny told her daughter. “I do, honestly, darling. It’s such fun being engaged—the nicest time of all, really—and you can never have it again. I loved my engagement—every moment of it. Wait until after the war,” said Fanny persuasively. “Let Tom go—if he must—and tell him you’ll marry him when he comes back. It’s good for men to have to wait a little while for something they want,” declared Fanny, smiling reminiscently, “so just let him see from the very beginning that he can’t have it all his own way.”
