Rosabelle shaw, p.30
Rosabelle Shaw, page 30
“Um’m?”
“Talk to me, Belle.”
She grinned at him mischievously. “Now, Tom,” she admonished him. “Now, Tom, you mustn’t go and get swollen-headed with all the attention you are receiving. Can’t you see I’m reading?”
“I hadn’t noticed it.”
“I suppose you think I ought to devote myself to you——”
“That was the idea.”
“——and because you are a ‘wounded soldier’ you can have exactly what you want?”
“Yes,” said Tom, putting on a peevish expression, “of course. I should. I’ve fought and bled for my country, so nothing’s too good for me.”
Rosabelle frowned at him. “Spoilt creature!” she declared, and then, quite suddenly, she could not be horrid to him any more—even in fun—and she leapt from her chair and came over to him and put her arms around his neck. “Darling,” she said, nestling against his shoulder, “you shall have what you want always if I can give it to you. What do you want, Tom? What do you want most in all the world?”
“I want that book you were reading,” said Tom, smiling into the cornflower-blue eyes that were so near his own.
The eyes twinkled with laughter. “Oh no, you can’t have this, it isn’t for the likes of you, my dear.”
“What is it?” he asked. “Why can’t I read it? You seemed to be enjoying it, Belle.”
“It’s Advice to a Wife,” Rosabelle told him, “and it’s most unsuitable for husbands. Mother gave it to me this morning when I was over at Shaws—it belonged to her mother before that——”
“Why did she give it you?” Tom wanted to know.
“Oh well,” said Rosabelle. “Oh well—I was just asking her something, and so—and so she gave me the book. She thought it might be useful, you see … and, of course, she doesn’t need it herself now … so she just gave it to me.”
“I thought it was funny!”
“So it is—frightfully funny—but it’s wise too,” declared Rosabelle. “It tells you exactly how to treat your husband on every occasion, and lots of other things besides. Perhaps, if you’re very good, I might read you a little bit.” She sat down on the ground beside his chair and began to turn over the leaves. There was a great deal of it which was quite unsuitable for a husband’s ears, but she thought she could find a piece to amuse him. “Here we are,” she said. “Now listen, Tom, here’s something to make your mouth water when you eat your margarine and drink your tea with no sugar in it, and spin out your weekly ration of meat and bread: ‘This is an age of luxury. Everything is artificial, and disease and weakness follow as a matter of course. In proof of my assertion that this is an age of luxury look at the present sumptuous style of living: carriages rolling about in every direction: dinner tables groaning under the weight of rich dinners: expensive wine flowing like water: grand dresses sweeping the streets, almost doing away with the need of scavengers.’ ”
Rosabelle paused here for a moment, and stretched out her long legs which were encased in riding-breeches, and neat brown boots, for Tom’s inspection.
“Yes,” said Tom, pretending to look at them critically. “They’re very shapely, and I know you’re proud of them.”
“Pig!” said Rosabelle affectionately. She then continued: “ ‘I say advisedly “sweeping the streets,” for green fields are, unfortunately, scarcely ever visited by ladies. We are almost in extravagance rivalling Ancient Rome just before luxury sapped her strength and laid her low.’ What d’you think of that, Tom?”
He laughed. “They’re always saying that. When was the book written, Belle?”
“It belonged to Mother’s mother—about 1840, I should think. Now listen to this: ‘If a lady has to travel half a mile she must have her carriage. Strange infatuation! Is she not aware that she has hundreds of muscles that require exercising? That she has lungs that require expanding? That she has nerves that demand bracing? That she has blood that needs circulating? … a lady should walk early in the morning,’ and that,” declared Rosabelle raising her eyes, “is about the only ‘ladylike’ thing I do, or so it seems.”
Tom was chuckling delightedly. “You’re not a lady, my lamb! You’re a farmer,” he pointed out.
“So it seems,” she agreed. “ ‘A lady should walk early in the morning, and not late in the evening. The dews of evening are dangerous’ (it’s a wonder I’m not dead, isn’t it?) ‘and are apt to give severe colds, fevers, and other diseases. Dew is more likely than rain to give cold, and what lady ever dreams of walking in the rain?’ (No, I can’t be a lady, that’s certain.)
“ ‘The dews of the evening most carefully shun,
Those tears of the sky for the loss of the sun.’
Chesterfield
“ ‘I have advised most carefully against walking in the evening, but my fair reader must not think that I am advocating her remaining indoors all day. The morning is the time for all gently bred women to take exercise, and how few avail themselves of its delights! A breath of wind is not allowed to blow on many a fair face, and what are the consequences? The cheek becomes sallow, “as wan as clay,” and bloodless; or if it have a colour, it is a hectic flush which tells of speedy decay. Sitting over the fire will spoil the complexion, causing it to be muddy, speckled, and sallow. The finest complexion I ever saw belonged to one who would never go, even in the coldest weather, near the fire: although she was nearly thirty years of age’ (“practically in her dotage,” commented Rosabelle) ‘her cheeks were like roses, and she had the most beautiful red and white colouring I ever beheld——’ ”
Tom was laughing so heartily now that Rosabelle had to stop.
He held out his hand for the tattered little book. “I must have it,” he declared.
“No, you shan’t,” Rosabelle told him, snatching it away.
“But why not? It’s just a curiosity.”
“I’ve told you—it’s not suitable for husbands. And it’s not just a curiosity, either, there’s quite a lot of sense in it.”
“Well, read me more of it, then.”
“I’ll read you the first bit,” Rosabelle told him. “It describes what a wife should be, and you will be able to judge how far your wife falls short of the ideal: ‘A good wife is Heaven’s last, best gift to man—his angel and minister of graces innumerable—his gem of many virtues—his casket of jewels;—her voice is sweet music—her smiles, his brightest day—her kiss, the guardian of his innocence—her arms, the pale of his safety, the balm of his health, the balsam of his life—her industry, his surest wealth—her economy, his safest steward—her lips, his fruitful counsellors—her bosom, the softest pillow of his cares—and her prayers, the ablest advocate of Heaven’s blessings on his head——’ ”
Rosabelle’s voice died away on the still air. She raised her head and looked at Tom to see if he were laughing, but Tom wasn’t laughing, he wasn’t even smiling—he was quite grave. “Yes,” he said slowly. “Yes, that’s what a good wife is like. That old Johnny knew … and I know … Heaven’s best gift——” He drew Rosabelle into his arms and held her there, tightly.
D. E. Stevenson, Rosabelle Shaw
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“Talk to me, Belle.”
She grinned at him mischievously. “Now, Tom,” she admonished him. “Now, Tom, you mustn’t go and get swollen-headed with all the attention you are receiving. Can’t you see I’m reading?”
“I hadn’t noticed it.”
“I suppose you think I ought to devote myself to you——”
“That was the idea.”
“——and because you are a ‘wounded soldier’ you can have exactly what you want?”
“Yes,” said Tom, putting on a peevish expression, “of course. I should. I’ve fought and bled for my country, so nothing’s too good for me.”
Rosabelle frowned at him. “Spoilt creature!” she declared, and then, quite suddenly, she could not be horrid to him any more—even in fun—and she leapt from her chair and came over to him and put her arms around his neck. “Darling,” she said, nestling against his shoulder, “you shall have what you want always if I can give it to you. What do you want, Tom? What do you want most in all the world?”
“I want that book you were reading,” said Tom, smiling into the cornflower-blue eyes that were so near his own.
The eyes twinkled with laughter. “Oh no, you can’t have this, it isn’t for the likes of you, my dear.”
“What is it?” he asked. “Why can’t I read it? You seemed to be enjoying it, Belle.”
“It’s Advice to a Wife,” Rosabelle told him, “and it’s most unsuitable for husbands. Mother gave it to me this morning when I was over at Shaws—it belonged to her mother before that——”
“Why did she give it you?” Tom wanted to know.
“Oh well,” said Rosabelle. “Oh well—I was just asking her something, and so—and so she gave me the book. She thought it might be useful, you see … and, of course, she doesn’t need it herself now … so she just gave it to me.”
“I thought it was funny!”
“So it is—frightfully funny—but it’s wise too,” declared Rosabelle. “It tells you exactly how to treat your husband on every occasion, and lots of other things besides. Perhaps, if you’re very good, I might read you a little bit.” She sat down on the ground beside his chair and began to turn over the leaves. There was a great deal of it which was quite unsuitable for a husband’s ears, but she thought she could find a piece to amuse him. “Here we are,” she said. “Now listen, Tom, here’s something to make your mouth water when you eat your margarine and drink your tea with no sugar in it, and spin out your weekly ration of meat and bread: ‘This is an age of luxury. Everything is artificial, and disease and weakness follow as a matter of course. In proof of my assertion that this is an age of luxury look at the present sumptuous style of living: carriages rolling about in every direction: dinner tables groaning under the weight of rich dinners: expensive wine flowing like water: grand dresses sweeping the streets, almost doing away with the need of scavengers.’ ”
Rosabelle paused here for a moment, and stretched out her long legs which were encased in riding-breeches, and neat brown boots, for Tom’s inspection.
“Yes,” said Tom, pretending to look at them critically. “They’re very shapely, and I know you’re proud of them.”
“Pig!” said Rosabelle affectionately. She then continued: “ ‘I say advisedly “sweeping the streets,” for green fields are, unfortunately, scarcely ever visited by ladies. We are almost in extravagance rivalling Ancient Rome just before luxury sapped her strength and laid her low.’ What d’you think of that, Tom?”
He laughed. “They’re always saying that. When was the book written, Belle?”
“It belonged to Mother’s mother—about 1840, I should think. Now listen to this: ‘If a lady has to travel half a mile she must have her carriage. Strange infatuation! Is she not aware that she has hundreds of muscles that require exercising? That she has lungs that require expanding? That she has nerves that demand bracing? That she has blood that needs circulating? … a lady should walk early in the morning,’ and that,” declared Rosabelle raising her eyes, “is about the only ‘ladylike’ thing I do, or so it seems.”
Tom was chuckling delightedly. “You’re not a lady, my lamb! You’re a farmer,” he pointed out.
“So it seems,” she agreed. “ ‘A lady should walk early in the morning, and not late in the evening. The dews of evening are dangerous’ (it’s a wonder I’m not dead, isn’t it?) ‘and are apt to give severe colds, fevers, and other diseases. Dew is more likely than rain to give cold, and what lady ever dreams of walking in the rain?’ (No, I can’t be a lady, that’s certain.)
“ ‘The dews of the evening most carefully shun,
Those tears of the sky for the loss of the sun.’
Chesterfield
“ ‘I have advised most carefully against walking in the evening, but my fair reader must not think that I am advocating her remaining indoors all day. The morning is the time for all gently bred women to take exercise, and how few avail themselves of its delights! A breath of wind is not allowed to blow on many a fair face, and what are the consequences? The cheek becomes sallow, “as wan as clay,” and bloodless; or if it have a colour, it is a hectic flush which tells of speedy decay. Sitting over the fire will spoil the complexion, causing it to be muddy, speckled, and sallow. The finest complexion I ever saw belonged to one who would never go, even in the coldest weather, near the fire: although she was nearly thirty years of age’ (“practically in her dotage,” commented Rosabelle) ‘her cheeks were like roses, and she had the most beautiful red and white colouring I ever beheld——’ ”
Tom was laughing so heartily now that Rosabelle had to stop.
He held out his hand for the tattered little book. “I must have it,” he declared.
“No, you shan’t,” Rosabelle told him, snatching it away.
“But why not? It’s just a curiosity.”
“I’ve told you—it’s not suitable for husbands. And it’s not just a curiosity, either, there’s quite a lot of sense in it.”
“Well, read me more of it, then.”
“I’ll read you the first bit,” Rosabelle told him. “It describes what a wife should be, and you will be able to judge how far your wife falls short of the ideal: ‘A good wife is Heaven’s last, best gift to man—his angel and minister of graces innumerable—his gem of many virtues—his casket of jewels;—her voice is sweet music—her smiles, his brightest day—her kiss, the guardian of his innocence—her arms, the pale of his safety, the balm of his health, the balsam of his life—her industry, his surest wealth—her economy, his safest steward—her lips, his fruitful counsellors—her bosom, the softest pillow of his cares—and her prayers, the ablest advocate of Heaven’s blessings on his head——’ ”
Rosabelle’s voice died away on the still air. She raised her head and looked at Tom to see if he were laughing, but Tom wasn’t laughing, he wasn’t even smiling—he was quite grave. “Yes,” he said slowly. “Yes, that’s what a good wife is like. That old Johnny knew … and I know … Heaven’s best gift——” He drew Rosabelle into his arms and held her there, tightly.
D. E. Stevenson, Rosabelle Shaw
