Rosabelle shaw, p.26
Rosabelle Shaw, page 26
“But it’s me just as much as Tom,” Rosabelle declared, with a deplorable lack of grammar. “I want to be safely married before he goes.”
Fanny gazed at her daughter in amazement. “Safely married,” she echoed. “But, my dear, what do you mean? You can trust Tom anywhere. He’s mad about you in his own quiet way. Besides——”
“It isn’t that at all,” Rosabelle put in.
“Besides, what about your clothes?” inquired Fanny, ignoring the interruption. “How on earth are we to get your clothes——”
“Oh, clothes!” exclaimed Rosabelle, as if clothes were of small importance in the scheme of things.
Fanny sighed. She had always loved pretty clothes—and still did so; these young people were so difficult to understand. They despised pretty clothes, and strode upon their Fate. They knew everything … or at least one supposed they must know everything … Fanny had been so innocent when she was young. …
“Clothes!” said Rosabelle again. “Clothes don’t matter. There’s a war on, you know.”
Fanny knew, only too well, that there was a war on. It was a strange war to her, quite different from what she had expected though what she expected it would be hard to say. After it had once become an established fact, there was no excitement about the war for Fanny, no thrills or glory, and it did not spell danger, nor privation, nor any personal anxiety or sorrow, for her husband was too old and her son too young to fight. The war for Fanny merely meant hard work (for one of her maids had been taken to help in the dairy, and she was left to run the somewhat unwieldy old house with no help but that of Kate, who had been at Shaws ever since Mrs. Curle’s departure, and had become almost like one of the family from the long association), and it meant extraordinary difficulties in the way of supplies; it meant extra curtains of thick material for all the windows, so that the lights of Shaws should not shine seawards and provide a mark for enemy submarines or airships; and it meant the emancipation of the young, and Rosabelle marrying Tom Gilmour at a moment’s notice without a proper trousseau.
She had tackled John about this last strange outcome of the war, and John had looked at her somewhat sadly and said, “I can’t prevent it, Fanny—how can I? Tom might never come back. This war—it’s a young people’s war, you know. They’ve got to bear the brunt of it, and it’s only fair that they should have the liberty to arrange their own lives. Bill and Rosabelle are doing the work of grown-up people—we ought to be grateful to them. You and I must take a back seat, my dear. We’re too old—too old to fight, and therefore too old to direct their lives.”
She saw that what John said was true. It was a young people’s war. Bill and Rosabelle had realised that subconsciously; they were doing the work of grown-up people, and they demanded the liberty of their actions. They were quite nice about it, of course, but that only made it more difficult. They listened politely to all that you said, and then they kissed you warmly—and went their own way. They treated you almost as if you were a somewhat troublesome and stupid, but dearly loved child who must be cosseted and petted, but whose assumption of authority was rather a joke.
Fanny thought of all this now, and she began to understand vaguely the reason for it. This daughter of hers, who professed to despise clothes, was somehow more “grown-up” than she was. Rosabelle was not young any more; she had put aside the frivolities and irresponsibilities of youth, and was taking her own life into her own hands and moulding it into the pattern that she desired. She might be moulding it into the wrong pattern, of course, for she lacked experience, but if so she would bear the consequences and accept the blame without complaint. She knew what she was doing, and was doing it with open eyes.
“Oh, well!” said Fanny at last, “I can’t say anything—Father has given his consent. If you really want to rush off and get married, you must just do it. The world is a topsy-turvy place just now, and I don’t understand it.”
“Darling, I knew you’d be sensible!” exclaimed Rosabelle, kissing her warmly.
37
The marriage at Torrisford Church
Tom and Rosabelle were married at Torrisford Church. It was a Saturday afternoon, and people came from all over the district to attend the ceremony, for everybody knew Tom Gilmour and respected him, and Rosabelle Shaw was universally beloved. They were married by Mr. Wallace, tall and dignified in his black gown and snow-white bands. The service was short, but it was very moving, for this was the first “war wedding” in Torrisford Church, and everybody knew that Tom Gilmour was going to the front. The shadow of the war hung over the two young people standing so straight and still before the Communion Table—it was almost a visible shadow. This marriage differed from other marriages where the future stretched out bright and flowery before the married couple, for the future of these young people was dark and ominous, veiled in the clouds of war. Fanny, sitting beside John in the front pew, was moved to tears by the sweet solemnity of the service. Her own marriage was so clear to her that it might have been yesterday—but how different it had been! She had started forth on her married life with gay insouciance, with bright hopes and childish anticipation. She had enjoyed the fuss and the excitement of being the chief figure of the day, and her only fears—how incredibly babyish they seemed—had been as to whether an infinitesimal spot on her chin might develop into an unsightly pimple—which would destroy Johnny’s love for ever—and that her striped tarlatan, which Alison had insisted upon ordering, would look old-fashioned and démodé in Paris. She had thought of the tarlatan even at the actual moment of the ceremony—so deeply concerned about it was she—and had wondered whether the puff sleeves were “right,” or whether she would have been better with long fitting sleeves of organdie like the picture in Miss Davidson’s Queen.
Life is different now, thought Fanny miserably, it’s sterner and grimmer. It will never be the same again. It will never be gay and flowery and irresponsible. She wiped her eyes a trifle furtively, and slipped her hand into John’s, and felt the warmth and the loving pressure, and was a little comforted. John was hers, anyway, that was one thing to cling to in these shifting sands. He was “too old,” thank God! and so he was hers, and nobody could take him away from her ever.
Alison had come from Edinburgh for the occasion—a slightly alarmed and bewildered Alison, for to her Rosabelle was still a child, and the news had come upon her like a bolt from the blue. She, too, compared this wedding with Fanny’s, and was unutterably saddened by the comparison, and she, too, looked back upon the gaiety of her youth and grieved for Rosabelle’s sake. Mamie and Janet were bridesmaids, and Bill was Tom’s best man. He was extremely proud of his responsible position, and extremely hot and uncomfortable in a stiff collar and starched shirt after the comfortable, easy, working clothes which he had lived in for so long.
There was a reception at Shaws after the marriage, for Fanny had insisted upon that, and, despite the short time at her disposal and the lack of maids, she had managed to move all the drawing-room furniture and procure some sort of wedding-cake—in short, to make reasonable preparations. Champagne was terribly dear—it was odd that the war should have affected this commodity, but, fortunately, there was sufficient in the Shaws cellars to make champagne cup, so honour was satisfied. Fanny recovered from her depression in the buzz and laughter of the reception, and was almost herself again, talking and smiling and pressing wedding-cake upon her more timid guests, and answering the questions of the curious with a brave display of authority.
“Oh, yes, they’ve always been devoted to each other—a boy and girl friendship—still very young, of course, but we could not stand in their way once Tom had decided that it was his duty to go. … No. No honeymoon, I’m afraid, for Tom starts threshing on Monday, and he must be there … yes, the young people are going to Langside, they will be there till Tom goes, and then Rosabelle will come home to Shaws.”
It had been settled also that Mrs. Gilmour and Mamie would remain on at Langside until Tom came home from the war. “We’ll turn out then,” Mrs. Gilmour had told Fanny, “and leave the place for the young people—it’s only fair. And you needn’t pity me,” she had added, “for I’ve always wanted to live in Edinburgh, and it will be much more amusing for Mamie too.” Fanny had found it hard to believe that Mrs. Gilmour would be glad to leave Langside, for she would have hated to turn out of Shaws and make room for another woman—whoever it might be—but she pretended to believe it, because it was more comfortable to do so—more comfortable for everybody concerned—and she even chaffed Mrs. Gilmour and Mamie a little in a pleasant friendly way about the gay time they would have in Edinburgh “when the war is over.”
Janet was the only one of the family who enjoyed Rosabelle’s marriage—and she enjoyed it thoroughly. She had no memories of other days with which to compare it, and fear of the future did not trouble her. It seemed to Janet that Rosabelle’s marriage was a gay and delightful affair. Everybody was so nice, and so friendly, and darling Belle was the most beautiful bride in the world. Mary Macfarlane’s sister was not in it with darling Belle, for, in spite of her numerous lovers, she was not married yet—not even properly engaged—and Janet’s sister was married now, actually married, and Janet had been her bridesmaid. Sucks to Mary! thought Janet in delight, and accepted a second glass of champagne cup from Tom’s young cousin, Alan Gilmour, and drank it hastily in case her mother should see it and wrest it from her before the last drop had gone down. Alan watched her in some surprise, mingled with very real admiration, for Janet was quite the prettiest girl he had ever seen. And Janet took Alan under her wing and teased him and bewitched him—for she was her mother all over again.
Langside House was empty when Tom drove his bride home, for Mrs. Gilmour and Mamie were spending the evening at Shaws. They went into the house together, hand in hand, and Rosabelle felt that the house welcomed her. There was a kindly, friendly atmosphere about it—she had always loved Langside, and now it was to be her home. Mamie had put flowers on the table in the hall—great heavy-headed chrysanthemums, golden and bronze—and these gave a festive air to the somewhat shabby place. Rosabelle knew that they had been put there for her by her friend, and she understood their message—it was a message of welcome and love—and she thought how like Mamie it was to have thought of putting them there. Mamie was sweet. She might have been a little jealous, she might have been a little vexed at the thought of Rosabelle coming to Langside as Tom’s wife and turning her out of her own well-loved home—nobody could have blamed her if she had been just a little vexed—but Mamie had no selfishness in all her nature, and she was sincerely happy in the happiness of her brother and her friend.
Tom led the way upstairs to the old schoolroom, which was now his “den.” How familiar this room was to Rosabelle! She had played here so often, acting charades, hunting the thimble, making toffee or roasting chestnuts at the old-fashioned fire with its basket grate and wide chimney. She had sat there so often with Mamie discussing dolls or books, and eating apples out of the box which stood in the corner by the battered desk. To-day, quite unconsciously, Rosabelle made a bee-line for the apple box and selected one with care. “It’s a good idea,” she said, as she had often said before, and bit into the crisp flesh with her sharp white teeth.
Tom was a little nervous—he was still unsure of Rosabelle, and the immediate future was somewhat alarming. “What’s a good idea?” he inquired.
“Apples,” said Rosabelle, smiling.
Tom smiled too, and then he said, “Mother thought we might like to have this room as our own—she said I was to tell you—we can sit here in the evenings instead of downstairs if we want to. Mother thinks it’s awful not to have a honeymoon,” he added.
“They all do, poor darlings!” Rosabelle declared.
Tom took up the poker and stirred the sleepy fire. “Come and sit down,” he said. “You must be tired, aren’t you? I’m nearly dead, and my head is buzzing—all those jabbering people!”
“It was noisy,” Rosabelle agreed, “and I hate noise, but Mother was quite happy, bless her.”
“What a good thing we both like quietness!” he exclaimed.
“Quietness and apples,” she amended, smiling.
“Quietness and apples,” agreed Tom.
He had got the girl that he wanted now—she was actually his wife—the girl that he had loved so long. He should have been happy, and he was (so he told himself firmly). He was happy as long as he did not look ahead into the future—the future was clouded. He was going to the war because he felt he must—he no longer wanted to go, but he was young and strong; how could he stay at home and let other men give their lives to keep him safe? But the thing that worried him and disturbed his rest was this: what would happen to Rosabelle if anything happened to him? If he were killed and Jay returned; if he were wounded, blinded, or maimed, and Jay returned; if Jay returned——
38
Harvest Home
Tom and Rosabelle spent Sunday very quietly together. They walked on the sands, and sat on the rocks. There was a high wind from the east—a boisterous wind which whipped the tops off the waves as they came racing towards the shore and sent the spray flying in rainbow-hued showers. The wind whipped colour into Rosabelle’s cheeks, and blew her soft hair about until she looked like a fair golliwog, with sapphire-blue eyes. But Tom liked her like that—he much preferred this untidy and rosy-cheeked damsel to the grand and beautiful bride of yesterday. She was more his, somehow, and in any case, whatever she had looked like, he would have been too mazed and dazed with happiness to see. She walked in a mist of beauty—so Tom thought—his own, his very own, his very beautiful darling Belle.
That day was a lull, a breathing-space between their marriage and the spate of hard work which lay before them. They talked a lot, sitting in the shelter of a boulder and watching the flying spray, and the seagulls diving, and the clouds scudding like torn cotton-wool across the azure sky. Tom talked about Canada and his experiences there, and the huge golden fields of corn which stretched as far as eye could see, and he told Rosabelle about the farm where he had boarded, about the rough hard life and the rough hard men and women who lived it. Then Rosabelle’s turn came, and she told Tom about Belgium, the quiet grey cities with their beautiful old churches, dim with stained glass, of the carillons of bells, and the slow quiet rivers that slid past, and the slow quiet people, courtly and old-fashioned and kind. “What has become of them all?” Rosabelle said sadly. “Oh, Tom, I can hardly bear to think of them—Madame Leport and petit Albert, with his big, soft brown eyes. I used to think their hatred and fear of the Germans was foolish—a sort of pose—unreal like a child’s fear of ogres and giants—but it wasn’t. How they will hate the occupation of their country, for they’re proud, you know, as proud as we are in their own way.”
“We shall deliver them,” Tom declared. “It may take a long time—I think it will—but we shall deliver them in the end.”
The long quiet Sunday passed, and Monday dawned. Tom and Rosabelle rose early and donned their working clothes, they ate a hurried breakfast and went out to the fields, and all day long they laboured piling the dry sheaves of corn into the wagons which plied to and from the stackyard where the threshing machine was at work. The two farms had combined again for the “leading,” and the work went forward gaily and rapidly as before. The days fled past, and when Langside was finished they went over to Shaws and started there. It was a strange honeymoon, but it did not seem strange to them, for the farm work had become natural to them now. It had to be done, and so they did it and never thought to complain. Rosabelle’s back ached, but she would not give in, for they were working against time. The clouds were banking up and a change in the weather was imminent, and it was vitally important that the corn should be safely harvested before the rain. They worked against time—men and women alike, all bound together by the feeling that they were one nation, one kin. There was an attempt at the usual festivity—the Harvest Home—when the last wagon had rumbled into Shaws yard, but it was a hollow sort of festivity, for everybody was dead tired and anxious, and everybody was aware that Tom had only been waiting for the harvest to be over before he went off to the war.
“So it’s over,” Rosabelle said, as they walked back to Langside that night. It was late, for they had stayed to dinner at Shaws, and the moon was sailing in a clouded sky, high over the tree-tops.
“It’s over,” Tom agreed, and he sighed a little wearily. Rosabelle slipped her hand through his arm and clung to him. “Tom, it’s not too late to change your mind—must you go?”
“I must,” he declared firmly. “I should hate myself for ever if I didn’t go—and I must go soon.”
They had reached the steading by this time—Langside steading—and as they passed the byre door a girl stepped out of the shadows and laid her hand on Tom’s arm. Rosabelle knew the girl at once—it was Reena O’Malley—and she drew back a little with a sharp intake of breath.
“Maister Gilmour!” said the girl, “I’ve been waiting for you.”
“What d’you want?” Tom asked her.
“I’m wanting to speak to Mistress Gilmour.”
Rosabelle noticed that the girl had a pleasant voice, soft and rather deep, and her accent was quite attractive; it was neither the Scottish Lowland burr nor the Irish drawl, but a slight mixture of both.
“Mrs. Gilmour is tired,” said Tom, and Rosabelle suddenly realised that they were speaking of her—and not of Tom’s mother as she had at first supposed.
“I will not keep her a minute.” the girl declared. “I am going away to-morrow—to munitions—it is only for a minute, Maister Gilmour.”
“We had better see what she wants,” Rosabelle whispered.
