Rosabelle shaw, p.3
Rosabelle Shaw, page 3
Mrs. Curle was a gloomy sort of woman, gaunt and dark, with high cheek-bones and a grim mouth. She appeared from the back premises and offered to show Fanny her room. Fanny followed her upstairs, looking about her with interest. The house was very old, and it was also very shabby, but Fanny thought it could be “made nice.” She would have clean light paper on the walls, and white paint on the doors and skirting-boards. On the whole she was pleased with her new home, and it was really more fun to do it up oneself than to find it in good order. The stairs were of stone, set in a tower and winding upwards like the steps in a lighthouse. There were windows in the walls, long narrow windows with small panes. Fanny stopped at one of the windows and looked out; below her was a walled garden with trees and pillar roses, and huge bushes of lavender, but the place was a mass of weeds—a perfect jungle of vegetation. Beyond the wall of the garden she saw sand-dunes, and hillocks covered with bent-grass which glittered in the sunshine, and beyond the sand-dunes was the sea. Fanny’s eyes were held by the scene—she was enchanted by its brightness. She stood here for a few moments dreaming over it—I am seeing it for the first time, she thought, but I shall see it a hundred times, a hundred thousand times—before I die. Her mind tried to explore the future, tried to pierce the veil and divine what was in store for her. She felt it was all here in this house, like a play waiting to be acted.
Mrs. Curle’s harsh voice interrupted her reverie. “This way, please,” said Mrs. Curle. “If you’re wanting to see the bedroom I’d be obliged if you’d come. I’ve the dinner to see to.”
Fanny tore herself away and went on up the stairs; she looked about her as she went, noticing the shabby walls and the worn carpets. The house itself was rather charming with its thick walls and unexpected corners, but the furniture was dreadful—I could change it gradually, she thought. Mrs. Curle watched Fanny in silence while she took off her travelling coat and hat and laid them on the bed. She watched Fanny go to the mirror and tidy her hair. Fanny could feel the woman’s disapproval and it made her nervous—she was not used to people who disapproved of her. If she’s going to be horrid she will have to go, thought Fanny, as she combed out her fringe of fluffy curls and smoothed her dress.
She found John walking up and down the drawing-room in an agitated manner. “It’s dreadful!” he said, when he saw Fanny. “I never realised how gloomy and shabby it was, Whatever can we do?”
“Don’t worry,” said Fanny. “A little paper and paint will soon smarten it up—I like this room.”
It was a pretty room of unusual shape, long and low-ceilinged, with a bow-window at one end of the side wall. The bow-window had glass doors which opened out into the garden.
“Do you like it?” asked John, with a glimmering of hope in his gloomy tones. “Do you really like it, Fanny?”
“I like it immensely,” Fanny declared.
There was a picture hanging on the long wall of the room, a picture of a girl in an old-fashioned Empire gown. Fanny’s eyes were drawn to it at once. There was something very charming about the girl; she had blue eyes (like John’s) and a wide brow, her hair was very fair and silky, and her mouth, though somewhat large for real beauty, was set in delicious curves.
“That’s my great-aunt Rosabelle Shaw,” John said. “I can just remember her. She was old when I knew her, of course, but she was still quite like the picture.”
“It’s a lovely picture,” Fanny said.
3
Misunderstandings and a reconciliation
Fanny was a good deal stronger than she looked, but by the evening she was very tired, not so much physically as nervously. Her spirit was unutterably weary. John had shown her everything on the farm—horses, cows, pigs, stables, barns and byres, and all the various agricultural implements which were his especial pride. He had been so anxious for her to like everything, and so desperately afraid that she would be disappointed with Shaws, that Fanny had been obliged to admire all she saw with more enthusiasm than she actually felt. Her stock of superlatives had been exhausted quite early in the tour, and she found it difficult, if not impossible, to find words of praise to satisfy her husband. What Fanny had really enjoyed was the little walk after tea. They had strolled down to the shore together, and had stood there in silence, watching the sea. The tide was going out, and the wet sands of Shaws Bay glistened like silver in the afternoon sunshine. Shaws Bay was an almost perfect semicircle; it started from the house of Shaws and swept eastwards for almost two miles. At the east end of the bay there was a high cliff of red sandstone. It was crowned with turf, and a few stunted trees. At the west end of the bay. close by Shaws House, a line of jagged rocks and boulders thrust out into the sea like a rough sort of pier, at the end of which was a large, wedge-shaped rock. The waves were breaking on this rock, and covering it with spray. Just at their feet the Shaws burn rippled past. It spread out over the sands like a silver fan and found its way seaward through innumerable small channels. Between the sands and the fields were high dunes, crested with grey spiky grass which waved in the wind and glittered in the sunshine like the spears of a pigmy host. Far out at sea a small sailing-ship battled eastwards against the increasing breeze.
John showed Fanny the various points of interest with pride, and Fanny was able to admire them more wholeheartedly than the farm. You had to know something about pigs and cows and horses to admire them intelligently—and Fanny was lamentably ignorant of such matters—but you could admire sea and rocks and wide smooth sands without any knowledge at all—or so Fanny found.
“This is Shaws Bay,” John said. “And there, on the left, is the Spanish Rock. You see the jagged line of boulders sticking out into the sea, and then, at the end of them, a big sharp rock?—Well, that’s it. One of the Spanish galleons was wrecked there—one of the Armada—at least that’s the story. They say she went down with all hands, and it may be true. Some people say that there are more rocks on the coast of Britain that are said to have wrecked Spanish galleons than there were Spanish galleons to be wrecked—I don’t know. It’s a bad place anyway. When the tide’s in, those boulders are covered—just covered and no more—and the Spanish Rock sticks up like a knife out of the sea. I remember when I was a child a ship was driven on to the rock—it was broken up like matchwood.”
“Are there wrecks now?” Fanny had asked, her eyes wide with horror.
“Sometimes,” John admitted, “but not nearly so many now that steam is so universal. A steamship is not nearly so helpless as a sailing-ship, you know.”
Fanny thought of all this as they sat in the drawing-room after supper; the farm, and all to do with it, was a sort of blur in her mind, but Shaws Bay was clear, so clear that if she shut her eyes she could see the glistening sands stretching eastwards in the afternoon sun.
They had opened the glass doors into the garden—for the night was warm—and Fanny was sitting near them in a low chair with John at her feet.
“The garden is dreadful,” John said suddenly. “I never bothered about it since Mother died. I’ll send a man to weed it to-morrow.”
“I’d like to have it nice,” Fanny agreed.
“Of course. Oh, Fanny, do you really like Shaws?”
“Yes,” said Fanny quietly. It was perhaps the twentieth time that she had answered the question, and she was too weary to enthuse about it any more.
“Fanny!” John cried, turning round and gazing up into her face, “Fanny, you don’t like it!”
“I do,” she declared, trying to sound convincing.
“How could you like it?” John continued wretchedly. “It’s not what you have been used to—I was mad to think you would be happy here, it’s not like Heriot Row.”
“No, it’s quite different,” Fanny agreed. “But don’t you see——”
“It’s poor and shabby and mean,” John declared, looking round the drawing-room and noting the washed-out chintzes with their ragged frills, the faded curtains and shabby walls. “It’s a wretched place—I see that now.”
“Oh, John!” she cried. “Do stop—I can’t bear it.”
“I thought this was going to be the happiest day of my life,” he went on. “What a fool I was! D’you think I can’t see how you hate it all—you hated the farm——”
“I didn’t,” Fanny cried. “It was only that I didn’t understand it—if you had left me alone——”
“Oh, Fanny, why did you marry me?”
Fanny did not answer that. She was very young and untried, and his words hurt her profoundly. She had married John because she loved him—surely he knew that. He was being cruel and unreasonable. Why couldn’t he trust her to play her part? Why couldn’t he give her time to settle down?
“You will be miserable here—I see that,” John said in despairing tones, “and I shall be miserable too. Oh, Fanny, why didn’t you marry somebody else—somebody who could have given you all that you are used to?”
His passionate words died away into the still air. Fanny leaned back and shut her eyes. Her heart was beating so fast that she could scarcely find the breath to answer him. “It is you who are making me miserable,” she said at last in a trembling voice.
“I?”
“Yes, you. Why can’t you trust me? I do like Shaws and I will love it if you give me time—give me time——” Her voice broke and she turned away her head so that he should not see her tears. Oh Heavens, what had happened to John? Why was he so strange, all of a sudden? Couldn’t he see that she was tired, tired to death? Couldn’t he see that all she wanted was comfort, and reassurance, and a broad shoulder to lean on?
“Fanny, what shall we do?” he cried. “If you hate this place—if you can’t be happy here—I shall die.”
She said in a stifled voice, “I’m tired, I’m tired—I can’t bear it any more—I can’t bear it——”
John was terrified when he realised that she was crying. “Oh, Fanny, don’t cry,” he implored. “You shall go home to-morrow. I’ll take you home myself and explain everything—only don’t cry.”
“But I don’t want to go home,” wailed Fanny.
“You don’t want to——”
“No, of course not—it’s just because I’m tired and you’re torturing me. I’ve told you I like Shaws, and I’ve told you that I love you. Oh, Johnny, why can’t you believe me and trust me?”
He was silent for a moment, trying to understand. “It’s because I love you so much—too much——” he said at last.
“Not too much,” she objected, wiping her eyes and trying to control her tears.
“Too much for my peace of mind,” said John in a strangled voice.
She began to understand then, in a vague way. She began to see the reason for his unreason. She loved him dearly, but not in the fiercely passionate manner in which he loved her—Fanny had not got it in her to love like that. She began to realise that he was suffering, that his love for her made him suffer—it seemed dreadful to her that it should be so. She began to see the events of the day in a new light and to realise that it was because he loved her that he had tortured her with his doubts. He had said “If you can’t be happy here I shall die,” and this extravagant-sounding statement was just a plain fact, or at least John believed it to be so; for John was not given to high-sounding words, he was undemonstrative, he was almost too reserved. He must be stirred to the very depths before he could give vent to such a dramatic cry. She saw all this—not clearly as yet, but vaguely and subconsciously—and the awful responsibility of John’s love terrified her.
“Oh, John!” she said in a trembling voice, “Oh, John, how can I help you?”
He shook his head. She could not help him—it was something inside himself that he must tackle and overcome. He was ashamed of himself now—he had made Fanny cry, and that was terrible. He must be more gentle with Fanny, he must try to love her in a more unselfish way.
“I will try to be—different,” he said humbly.
Fanny put her hand on his shoulder. “I don’t want you to be different,” she told him gently. “I only want you to trust me. God has given us to each other and He will help us to understand and trust each other if we ask Him.”
4
Fanny takes charge
Fanny Shaw settled down into her new life like a bird settling upon its nest. Her nature was happy, and she was able to adapt herself to her changed conditions without much trouble. She missed the gaiety and the excitement of her former state, but she was wise enough to see that she had had her playtime. She had promised to be John’s wife and it never occurred to her to look back nor to regret her decision, beneath her soft and gentle exterior there was firmness and strength, and in the adaptation which must take place in every true marriage it was John’s nature which changed most. John grew to love Fanny in a different way, to trust her judgment and defer to it. Quite unconsciously he realised Fanny’s point of view, and, quite unconsciously, it became his. In his daily life, as he went about the farm ordering his business, the men found him more sympathetic and understanding. They found him readier to pardon small sins of omission, but less ready to pardon anything in the nature of cruelty or vice.
John had told Fanny that she could do what she liked in the house, and Fanny took him at his word. The first thing she did was to dismiss Mrs. Curle, and to engage two young girls from the village to fill her place. John was somewhat alarmed at this high-handed action, for Mrs. Curle had been at Shaws in his mother’s time, and he had grown to think her indispensable. He remonstrated with Fanny, thinking that she could easily be turned from her purpose, and was amazed to find that his Dresden China wife had a core of rock. “You said that I could do what I liked in the house.” Fanny pointed out, smiling at him in the sweetest fashion imaginable, “and so,” she continued, taking up a thread of green silk, and threading her needle with a flick of her small capable fingers (for she was making green cushion covers for the drawing-room chairs), “and so the best thing for you to do is to say to Mrs. Curle that the management of the house is now in the hands of Mrs. Shaw, and that you would no sooner think of interfering in domestic matters than she would think of interfering in the affairs of the farm.”
John blinked once or twice, he was so surprised. He was surprised, not only by Fanny’s calm assumption of authority, but also to discover that she knew all about the little private talk which he had had with Mrs. Curle. How could Fanny know that Mrs. Curle had waylaid him and demanded that he should rescind the order of dismissal that she had received from Mrs. Shaw, and that he, wax in the hands of the designing woman, had promised that he would speak to Mrs. Shaw and that all would be well? Fanny couldn’t possibly know this, and yet it almost seemed that she must know it, otherwise she would scarcely have put into his mouth such apt and unanswerable words to reply to Mrs. Curle.
“Yes,” said John. “Yes, I could say that, couldn’t I?”
“Of course you could,” agreed Fanny cheerfully, “and we shall be a great deal more comfortable when she has gone. Hold this a moment, John dear, while I try whether the cushion fits properly.”
So John knelt down on the floor, and held the green silk cover, and the cushion was slipped in and found to be a perfect fit, and no more was said about Mrs. Curle, either then or at any other time.
Fanny had been brought up in a somewhat narrow and conventional pattern; her religion was conventional too, but, for all that, it was a real power in her life. She was distressed to find that John had very little religion. John believed in God in a vague sort of way, but he did not go out of his way to worship Him. Perhaps John’s religion could have been summed up best in the old saying, “God helps those that help themselves.” John helped himself, he did his duty and hoped for the best. On Sunday mornings he preferred to ride round his fields rather than to attend church. He found the Day of Rest useful and profitable, for on this day he could map out the week’s work; he could inspect hedges and drains at his leisure and arrange to have them attended to. So Fanny went to church at Torrisford alone in the old carriage, with Will Cowie to drive her there and back. Very little was said on the subject, but John knew that Fanny was sorry to go alone, and his Sunday rides grew less profitable. He began to wish that he had started from the beginning to go to church with Fanny. It was difficult now, for the habit was made, and Fanny seemed to take it for granted that she should go to church alone. I wish to goodness I knew what to do, thought John, mooching along on his chestnut cob, and quite forgetting to observe the condition of his fields.
Fanny drove over to Torrisford and sat alone in the Shaws pew. She wore her best silk dress with the fashionable “leg of mutton” sleeves and a large hat of black straw, turned up in front and trimmed with pink roses to match the dress. Her small sweet face seemed even smaller and sweeter framed in its black halo, and the sleeves—absurd though they were—enhanced the trimness of her trim waist. She was aware that her presence caused a little stir amongst the congregation of farmers and their wives and dependants, and she liked the feeling. Shaws Farm was the biggest farm in the neighbourhood, and everybody knew Johnny Shaw and was interested to see the smart Edinburgh lady whom he had married.
One Sunday, when Fanny had been at Shaws for about six weeks, she found herself too early for service. It was a lovely morning, warm and sunny, and Fanny wandered into the old graveyard, looking with interest at the mossy stones and tracing Shaw names on their weather-worn surfaces. Here was a James Shaw—that must be John’s father. His wife was laid beside him, and three little children—James, Mary, and Jean—all of whom had died young. Fanny was aware that John had had a brother and two sisters, but she had not thought much about it. The small graves brought it home to her and made her sad. She wandered on a little farther, and here the graves were older, and in worse repair. She found more Shaws—Johns and Williams, with their wives and families—and here was a James Shaw, who had died in 1822—that would be John’s great-grandfather. Beside him lay his wife and two daughters—Jean and Rosabelle.
