Rosabelle shaw, p.29
Rosabelle Shaw, page 29
“Coo-ee!” called Bill again.
“It’s all right, I’m coming!”
They met on the path which wound up into the woods from the garden gate.
“It’s the potato-man, I suppose,” Rosabelle said.
“No,” said Bill.
There was something queer in his tone, and Rosabelle looked at him quickly, anxiously. “What is it?” she asked, and then, as he did not reply, “Oh, Bill, quick—tell me quickly—it’s not—not——”
“It’s all right,” Bill replied. “He’s wounded, that’s all—just wounded, Belle.”
Rosabelle felt as if every bit of strength drained out of her body, her knees shook so that she could scarcely stand. She could not speak, for her tongue had gone dry and stuck to the roof of her mouth, she could only gaze at Bill questioningly, beseechingly.
“It’s all right,” he babbled nervously, trying to reassure her. “It’s all right, really. It just says ‘wounded.’ Here it is, Belle, you can see for yourself——” he continued, holding out the flimsy telegraph form which he was carrying in his hand. “You can see for yourself … it just says ‘wounded’ … it doesn’t say ‘seriously,’ or ‘dangerously,’ or anything like that … just ‘wounded’ … that’s nothing, Belle, absolutely nothing … in fact, it’s rather good, you know, because he’ll be coming home … and you’ll see him.”
“Oh, Bill,” said Rosabelle in agonised tones.
“Just wounded,” insisted Bill. “It’s nothing, honestly. Mother said I was to tell you … and you’re to come back with me to the house at once because she wants to see you. … Mother says it’s a good thing, really … he’ll be out of the fighting, and quite safe. You see that, don’t you, Belle?”
He was thoroughly frightened now—Belle looked so strange. She didn’t speak, or cry, or anything. She looked like a person turned to stone. “It’s all right, old thing,” he declared. “It really is all right. It would have said ‘seriously’ if it had been anything bad. Come along and see Mother—she’ll tell you——” He slipped his strong young arm round her waist, and they went down to the old house through the sunshiny woods.
Fanny was waiting for them at the garden gate; she was very pale, but perfectly composed, for there was brave stuff in Fanny, and she had drawn on her reserves for Rosabelle’s sake. “Here you are,” she said in a calm matter-of-fact voice. “Bill has told you about it. There’s no need to worry too much, you know.”
“Mother!” cried Rosabelle, flinging herself into Fanny’s arms. “Oh, Mother, I can’t bear it—honestly I can’t—I could just bear it and no more when he was fit and well … but now … now he’s wounded … perhaps he’s dying … I can’t bear it now … I can’t.”
Fanny hugged her tightly. “I know,” she comforted, and it seemed to her as if the child Rosabelle had come back to her, and that she, Fanny, was of some use again in this horrible pain-stricken world, “I know you can’t bear it, my poor, poor lamb. I couldn’t have borne it if John——”
“It’s not fair!” Rosabelle declared. “No, it’s not right. Tom belongs to me … I ought to be there, wherever he is. Oh, Mother, where is he? What have they done with him?”
“You will be there,” Fanny promised, patting her shoulder soothingly. “You can go to him as soon as ever we hear where he is. We’ll hear in a day or two, my lamb.”
They went into the house together and left Bill standing. He watched them out of sight and then he began kicking a hole in the lawn with his huge hob-nailed farm-boots. (It was an unsightly hole, and caused John a good deal of bewilderment when he came across it some days later.) “Oh, damn!” cried Bill, kicking savagely. “Oh, damn and blast! Oh won’t I give them hell when I’m eighteen. …”
41
The wounded hero
Tom had left Torrisford in the autumn, he returned when summer was at its height. Rosabelle had seen him in the hospital, of course, but the hospital was near Newcastle and she could not be spared from Langside to stay there long. He had been wounded in the foot by a trench mortar, and his foot was so badly damaged that he had nearly lost it. Only his iron constitution had pulled him through his long and serious illness—that, and the determination not to leave his wife. …
The hollyhocks were tall and stately in Langside garden when Rosabelle made the last-minute preparations for Tom’s reception, and ran down to the garage to get the car. She was driving over to Torrisford herself to meet him at the station and bring him home, and her eyes were bright with eagerness and happiness at the thought of seeing him again. It had been a tremendous struggle getting the house opened up and cleaned. Fanny had lent old Kate, and she and Rosabelle and a girl from the village had worked at it early and late. Everything was ready now, and very nice it looked—Tom would be pleased to see the dear old place again.
When Rosabelle reached Torrisford Station she found a crowd of people waiting for the train, and she wondered what on earth had brought them there so early. Mr. Brown, the provost of Torrisford was there, in company with all the town council and a host of other people—shopkeepers and other inhabitants of the place. She looked around in bewilderment, and then Mr. Brown came forward to speak to her, and she realised with a thrill of horror that these people had all come to meet Tom.
Tom will simply hate it! Rosabelle thought. Oh dear, whatever shall I do! How can they have heard that he was coming to-day?—but, of course, everybody knows everything here, and they probably heard about it through that girl Lizzie who has been helping at Langside.
While these uncomfortable reflections were racing through her mind, Rosabelle was smiling and chatting to the provost, and shaking hands with the members of the town council, for it would never do to appear ungracious after all the trouble they had taken to come. But, oh, I wish they hadn’t! she thought. Poor dears, why ever didn’t they stay at home! Whatever will Tom say when he sees them!
The train slid into the station, snorting and puffing with self-importance, and Tom climbed out of it with difficulty. Rosabelle left the provost and ran to help him; she found his crutches and got down his bag from the rack. Then the provost advanced with outstretched hand. …
Tom bore the unexpected ovation better than she had dared to hope. He smiled, and shook everybody by the hand and replied politely to all the questions and congratulations. When this was over, the provost made a speech—mercifully short—in which the words “wounded hero” and “grateful country” occurred several times with due emphasis, and everybody cheered, and Tom bowed and smiled again, and was conducted in triumph to the car.
Rosabelle was thankful when it was over; she let in the clutch and drove off as rapidly as possible to evade any further demonstrations. She hardly dared to look at Tom. Would he be angry, or would he laugh at the absurd scene?
Tom said nothing until they were clear of the village, rattling along the road towards Langside Farm, and then he leaned back and sighed. “The conquering hero!” he said bitterly. “The conquering hero returns from the war! Why didn’t they have out the choir, or the village band, I wonder?”
It was so unlike Tom to talk in this strain that Rosabelle was quite frightened. “But you are,” she said, somewhat incoherently. “I know they were silly, but they meant well … it’s because you fought for them … don’t you see … because you were wounded.”
“I know that’s the idea,” he admitted.
“Well, then——”
“But I didn’t fight for them.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I was no use—no use at all,” declared Tom ruefully. “I trained for months, and I was less than a week in the line. I’ve cost my ‘grateful country’ a great deal of money, and I’ve wasted a year, and I shall be lame for the rest of my life—that’s my ‘war record,’ Belle. I never saw a German—barring a few dead ones—and I certainly never killed one. Wonderful record, isn’t it?”
“You did your best,” Rosabelle pointed out.
“I did my best—and a damned poor best it was,” he declared. “Do you remember my saying that I felt so strong that I felt as if it would make a lot of difference if I went?” He laughed mirthlessly. “I’d have been better to stay at home and get on with my own job. I’ve wasted a year, that’s all I’ve done.”
“You were just unlucky,” said Rosabelle comfortingly, but in her own mind she thought otherwise. She thought that Tom was extremely fortunate to have got out of the mælstrom so easily, and she knew that she herself was incredibly blessed.
“I never was meant for a soldier,” continued Tom, “that’s the real truth. I’m a farmer, not a soldier—you told me that, and you were right. I said they could make me into a soldier, and I was wrong.”
“I’m glad you went, anyway,” said Rosabelle, and she added wisely, “I believe you’ll be glad too, some day, for if you hadn’t gone you would always have thought about it and regretted it and wondered whether you ought to have gone. You’ve done what you could, and you’ve come back to me. I’m happy, Tom.”
“If you’re happy so am I,” declared Tom more cheerfully.
The bitter feelings with which Tom had returned had been engendered by the long months of pain and loneliness which he had endured. He had lain awake night after night in his narrow hospital bed and thought about the futility of his “war record.” The news from the front was bad, Germany was pushing on towards Paris and the coast, every man was needed to stem the grey tide, and here was he, lying in hospital, a helpless useless log.
Tom was very glad to get home to Langside, and it was delightful to be with Rosabelle again, but his feeling of rebellion remained, indeed he chafed more than ever at the inactivity forced upon him by his wounded foot. It was dreadful that Rosabelle should work like a slave while he sat in the garden in a long chair and smoked his pipe! The dearth of able-bodied labourers was acute, and everybody was doing double work—everybody except himself. Rosabelle was up early, and she was hard at it all day long, directing, supervising, and sharing in the work. Tom knew, of course, that if he complained, or railed against his fate, he would only make Rosabelle’s Jot harder to bear. She would be miserable about him, and that would never do, so he locked up his wretchedness in his own breast and fought his private battle in silence.
One fine morning Tom was sitting in the garden with his bad foot propped up on a cushion; he had been reading the paper, but it was depressing news, and he had let it slip out of his hands on to the ground. What good was it to depress himself further? He was “out of it” now, and could never be “in it” again—they did not want cripples at the front. Tom frowned at the thought, and then he looked up and saw Mr. Wallace coming out of the house.
The old man came down the path slowly, leaning on his stick, and Tom thought that he looked very frail and somewhat dazed—he looked as if he had had a bad fright, but what could have frightened him?
“What a turn you gave me, Tom!” said Mr. Wallace, as he shook Tom’s outstretched hand.
“I gave you!” Tom exclaimed in amazement.
Mr. Wallace smiled, a trifle wanly. “Indeed, you did,” he declared. “I’m an old man now, you know, and sometimes I feel a wee bit vague … when I came out of the house I suddenly went back half a century.”
“Sit down and tell me about it,” said Tom sympathetically.
“Well, it was like this,” began Mr. Wallace, taking the other chair. “When I first came to Torrisford your grandfather was here—a fine man he was, and as kind and courteous as you could find in a day’s march, except when he was afflicted with the gout.”
Tom laughed at that, he could not help it.
“Ay, you may laugh, but it was no laughing matter when your grandfather had the gout. There was one day I came over to see him, and he was sitting on this very spot, and, if I’m not mistaken, on the very chair you’re sitting on at this moment. At all events, when I came out from the house just now it seemed to me that time had swung backwards and your grandfather was here again in the flesh. He was just such another as you,” continued Mr. Wallace reminiscently. “Yes, you’re the very spit of him, Tom, gammy foot and all; but the point is (I’ve a habit of wandering off the point these days), the point is. I’d come over to see your grandfather that day, and to speak to him about teinds. Your grandfather could not thole them at the best of times, and when his gout troubled him he was apt to be a wee bit hot-tempered, and what did he do but start throwing things at me,” said Mr. Wallace, chuckling at the recollection. “Yes, he did—first his book, and then his pillow. Ha, ha, ha, he was a fine old gentleman, was your grandfather!”
Tom laughed too. He had been a little doubtful as to how the anecdote should be taken, but if Mr. Wallace saw the humour of it, laughter was obviously permissible. “No wonder you got a shock when you saw me!” Tom declared.
“I got the shock of my life,” admitted Mr. Wallace.
They were now on an intimate footing and felt very friendly and companionable (perhaps this had been the purpose at the back of Mr. Wallace’s mind when he told Tom the story, for he was a wily old gentleman, and was well aware that a friendly intimate atmosphere is essential to the exchange of confidences), so they went on to speak of other matters of more serious importance. They spoke of Rosabelle, for she was uppermost in both their minds, and then they spoke of Jay.
“I’ll tell you this much,” Mr. Wallace said. “Jay’s far away … and he’s well … and he’ll not starve.”
“You know where he is!” exclaimed Tom in surprise.
Mr. Wallace nodded. “You can tell Rosabelle or not. Do as you think best.”
Tom thought about it. “I’ll tell her if she asks, Mr. Wallace,” he said at last. “She never speaks of him. I wish I knew … if she ever thinks of him.”
“I do not think you need be anxious,” said the old minister slowly. “No. I think he’s fading from her mind. She’s got enough to think of. But, if he should return, see and take a firm line with Jay.”
“I will,” declared Tom grimly.
Mr. Wallace looked at Tom’s six-foot-two, and his face broke into a smile. “That’s the stuff,” he said. “Now tell me about the foot—is it improving?”
“It’s improving slowly,” Tom replied, and then he burst out. “Oh, Mr. Wallace, I don’t know how to bear it—Rosabelle slaving like a nigger all day, and me having to lie here—it’s nearly driving me mad …” Once started, Tom could not stop; he told Mr. Wallace everything, all his bitter feelings about the futile part he had played in the war, mixed up with his feelings for Rosabelle, and his rebellion against his enforced idleness, and the struggle he was having to hide his wretchedness beneath a placid front.
The old minister listened to it with a grave face; it was quite obvious that he understood and sympathised with Tom, for every now and then he nodded his head, or shook it sadly as occasion required.
“It’s awful, grousing like this,” said Tom at last, “bothering you with all my silly troubles, but I simply couldn’t help it, Mr. Wallace—I felt as if I would burst if I didn’t tell somebody.”
“I’m glad I came.”
“So am I,” declared Tom. “I feel better already.”
“That’s right,” Mr. Wallace said. “That’s fine, Tom.”
He got up to go, but he did not go at once. He stood and looked at Tom gravely for a moment or two.
“What are you thinking about?” Tom asked him.
“Just this,” said Mr. Wallace. “We’d all like to be heroes and go about killing dragons—I wanted it myself, so I know—but we cannot choose the manner in which we are to serve. Remember that, Tom—we’ve just got to serve in the manner we’re allowed.”
“But I’m not serving at all,” said Tom ruefully.
“ ‘They also serve who only stand and wait,’ ” the old man told him, smiling at him in a friendly way.
They parted then, well pleased with each other. Tom sat on in the garden pondering Mr. Wallace’s words, and he was able to make a philosophy out of them which helped him immeasurably. Mr. Wallace returned to Torrisford in the car, convinced that Rosabelle’s husband was a real man—a man after his own heart—who would guard her with his life if need should come. “Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace,” said Mr. Wallace reverently.
42
Heaven’s best gift
There was really no necessity for Rosabelle to be pitied, for in spite of the hard work she was happy and contented. She had got Tom safely home from the war, and nothing else mattered. Tom was here at Langside, he was sitting in the garden waiting for her to come home—this thought was always present in her mind, and it lightened the day’s work. They talked over farm matters together, and this helped her, for it took some of the responsibility off her shoulders, and it was the responsibility which had been so hard to bear. They discussed the different problems of farm management: which field should be put into roots, and which into pasture, and whether the pigs should be sold or fattened for the market—there were a hundred small matters of this sort to be decided, and Tom took a vital interest in all of them.
One Sunday afternoon Tom and Rosabelle were sitting in the garden; it was September now, and the chrysanthemums were in bud. Rosabelle had planted a big bed full of them, for they were easy things to grow, and required so little attention. It was very warm and still, a golden autumn day. Rosabelle had brought out another chair and was sitting quite near Tom; she was reading a book—it was obviously a most amusing and enthralling piece of literature, for her eyes were bright with interest and every now and then a little gurgle of subdued laughter forced itself from between her lips. Tom laid down his own book and watched her with tender amusement—what a darling she was!
“Belle!” he said at last.
