Rosabelle shaw, p.5
Rosabelle Shaw, page 5
“Well,” said Fanny, “there is a reason. I mean—I’m not sure, of course—because I don’t know—I don’t know much about it, you see—but I think, perhaps——”
“Not really!” cried Alison in amazement and delight. “Oh, Fanny, you don’t mean——”
“Yes I do,” declared Fanny. “At least I think—but I thought perhaps you’d know——” and here followed a whispered account of various strange symptoms which might—or might not—have an interesting significance.
Unfortunately Alison’s ignorance upon the subject was quite as abysmal as Fanny’s, for young girls—and even older girls—were supposed to be as innocent as flowers in those far-off days. And, although they were often not quite so innocent as their elders hoped, they were usually completely devoid of any useful knowledge of biology or medicine.
“Couldn’t you ask one of your neighbours?” Alison suggested, somewhat helplessly. “That Mrs. Gilmour you told me about—she’s just had a baby, so she’s sure to know.”
“I could,” Fanny agreed doubtfully. “At least, I suppose I could—but I don’t want to. Oh, Alison, don’t you know anything at all?”
Poor Alison was almost at her wits’ end. It was dreadful to feel that she had failed Fanny in her hour of need. And then, quite suddenly, she had an idea: a positively brilliant and heaven-sent inspiration. She sprang up and rushed upstairs to the attic and began to hunt distractedly for a book—a certain curious book which her mother had possessed, and which Alison had found, after her mother’s death, buried beneath a heap of lawn nightdresses in her mother’s bottom drawer. The book was entitled “Advice to a Wife,” and Alison, after peeping into it with pardonable curiosity, had decided that it was a “horrid book” and had stuffed it away in the attic where it could not do any harm. She had never thought about it again until this minute when Fanny’s plight had brought it back to her mind.
After a little while Alison returned with the book in her hand. It was a paper-covered book, somewhat dirty and extremely dog-eared. “Here it is, Fanny,” she said. “It’s written by a doctor, you see, so it must be all right, mustn’t it? And what a mercy that I didn’t burn it—as I very nearly did. It just shows.”
Alison sat down on the floor beside Fanny, and for a few minutes there was a silence while Fanny turned over the pages and read a bit here and there.
Presently Fanny giggled. “Oh, do listen to this!” she exclaimed. “ ‘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 faithful counsellors—her bosom, the softest pillow of his cares—and her prayers, the ablest advocate of Heaven’s blessings on his head——’ That’s by Jeremy Taylor,” Fanny added, “and I only hope his wife was quite satisfactory to him.”
“Mercy!” said Alison, in astonishment.
“ ‘The advice I am about to offer my fair reader,’ ” continued Fanny, “ ‘is of the greatest importance, and demands her deepest attention. How many wives are there with broken health, with feeble constitutions and with childless homes! Their name is legion…. My anxious endeavours in the following pages will be to point out remedies for the evil, and to lay down rules—rules which I hope my fair reader will strenuously follow. My theme, then, is Health—the Health of Wives…. If a wife is to be healthy and strong, she must use the means—she must sow the seeds of health before she can reap the full harvest of health; health will not come by merely wishing for it. The means are not always at first pleasant; but, like many other things, habit makes them so. Early rising, for instance, is not agreeable to the lazy, or to those fond of bed; but it is essentially necessary to sound health. Exercise is troublesome to the indolent; but no woman can be really strong without it. Thorough ablution of the whole body is distasteful to one not accustomed to much washing—to one labouring under a kind of hydrophobia—but there is no perfect health without the daily cleansing of the whole skin.’ ”
Fanny had to stop here, she was laughing so much that she could not go on. “Oh, Alison!” she cried. “Oh, Alison—hydrophobia!”
“It’s as well you’ve put in a new bath,” Alison declared with a delighted chuckle. “Go on, Fanny, what next?”
Fanny turned over the pages. “ ‘Idleness is the mother of many diseases,’ ” she continued, “ ‘she breeds them and fosters them. Idleness makes people miserable. Idleness is certainly the hardest work in the world…. It frequently happens that a lady surrounded with every luxury and every comfort, drags out a miserable existence. She cannot say that she ever, even for a single day, really feels well and strong. This is not to live—“For life is not to live, but to be well”—Martial. The life of such a one is wearisome, in the extreme; she carries about with her a load, grievous to be borne; and, although all around her and about her might be bright and cheerful, a dark cloud of despondency overshadows her, and she becomes as helpless and “as weak as wailing infancy”—Crabbe…. The fact is, a wife nowadays is too artificial; she lives on excitement; it is like drinking no wine but champagne, and, like champagne taken in excess, it soon plays sad havoc with her constitution. The pure and exquisite enjoyments of nature are, with her, too commonplace, tame, low and vulgar. How little does such a wife know of the domestic happiness so graphically and sweetly described by that poet of affections—Cowper! Perhaps a fashionable lady might say “I cannot give up fashionable amusements” … but fashion is oftentimes but another name for suicide and baby-slaughter—for “massacre of the innocents!” Heaven help the poor unfortunate little child whose mother is a votary of fashion, who spends her time in a round and whirl of fashionable life, and leaves her child to the tender mercies of servants. Such a mother is more unnatural than a wild beast; for a wild beast, as a rule, is tender and attentive to its offspring, scarcely ever, for a moment, allowing its young to be out of its sight. Truly, fashionable life deadens the feelings and affections.’ ” Fanny put down the book and looked at her sister with twinkling eyes. “You’d better give up those balls, Alison,” she declared.
“Not at all,” retorted Alison. “It’s wives the man’s talking about, not spinsters. I can do what I please.”
The contention was unanswerable, so Fanny returned to the book—“ ‘Oh, that my countrywomen should prefer the contaminated and foul air of ball and concert rooms to the fresh, sweet, and health-giving air of the country!’ ” she declaimed. “ ‘Oh, if a wife would think a little more of God’s grand remedies—exercise and fresh air! Encompassed as she is with every luxury—partaking of all the delicacies of the season, of the richest viands, and of the choicest wines—decked out in costly apparel—reclining on the softest cushions—surrounded with exquisite scenery, with troups of friends, and bevies of servants;—yet, notwithstanding all these apparent advantages, she is oftentimes one of the most debilitated, complaining, “nervous,” hysterical, and miserable of mortals.’ ”
“Mercy!” Alison exclaimed. “It’s a good whipping that woman wanted!”
Fanny laughed and agreed. “Now, here’s the other side of the picture,” she said. “ ‘The quiet retirement of her own home ought to be the young wife’s greatest pleasure and her most precious privilege. Home is—or ought to be—the Kingdom of Woman, and she should be its reigning potentate … a husband soon becomes tired of grand performances on the piano, of crochet and worsted work and of other minor employments; but he can always appreciate a comfortable, clean, well-ordered, bright, cheerful, happy home, and a good dinner…. Pope has painted an admirable portrait of a wife, which is well worth studying and engraving on the memory——
“ ‘She who ne’er answers till her husband cools,
Or, if she rules him, never shows she rules;
Charms by accepting, by submitting, sways,
Yet has her humour most when she obeys.’ ”
“Well, you may laugh,” Alison said, “but there’s a good deal of sense in it all the same—for all the funny, old-fashioned way he writes.”
Fanny thought so too. She could not help laughing—but it was all true. She had thought herself “rather clever” when she had discovered the right way to manage John, but apparently her method was not new. “Yes,” said Fanny thoughtfully, “the old doctor seems to know what he is talking about—I must say that for him—and, if he is as sensible in other ways, the book may be of use to me. I think I’ll take it home with me, Alison.”
7
Fanny hears the story of Rosabelle Shaw
The shabby old-fashioned book, which had caused so much amusement, was put into Fanny’s bag and returned with her to Shaws, and by dint of exercising her common sense, accepting some of the advice and rejecting that which did not apply to her conditions, Fanny succeeded in coming to terms with the old doctor. In fact, Fanny came to rely upon the old doctor a good deal, not only for advice and guidance, but also for amusement, and soon she began to visualise him as a real person—a short tubby little man immaculately dressed in the fashion of Mr. Pickwick. Indeed he was very like Mr. Pickwick (so Fanny imagined) except for his face, which was stern and grave as befitted his calling. His trenchant criticism of the lazy discontented wife helped Fanny through the long, dark, dreary winter, helped her to fight against lassitude and boredom and the loneliness of her days. I won’t be like that woman, Fanny declared, and she smiled at herself in the mirror, and went downstairs to John with the smile fixed firmly on her face.
Fanny was extremely lonely this first winter at Shaws. She was used to a bright house with young people dropping in, and to the constant companionship of an adoring sister; she was used to parties, and theatricals, and to busy mornings at the shops. Here there was practically no social life—John was out all day—and Fanny was left to her own devices. She found it difficult to amuse herself, for her education had been insufficient. She was no reader, and she could not sit and sew all day long. The garden was her chief joy, and her chief employment—indeed, without the garden Fanny would have been in sad case. She walked in the garden and planned how she would have it, she worked in it herself when she felt able, and she directed the activities of the farm-boy who had been detailed by John to weed the beds and trim the box hedges.
The garden was a pleasant place, the high walls sheltered it from the cold winds. A wide path, paved with uneven flagstones, led down the centre from the drawing-room windows to a small arbour in which there was a comfortable wooden seat. When the weeds were cleared away and the borders tidied, Fanny saw that this path must be the main theme of her garden, and that the beds on either side of it must be filled with gay flowers. She knew nothing of herbaceous borders, but her artistic sense told her to group her plants in clumps—the low-growing plants near the path, and the higher ones at the back. The clearing and replanting of the garden took a long time—in fact it took years—for Fanny, in her ignorance, made a good many mistakes.
There were more important things than weeding and planting accomplished in the garden that winter. First and foremost the garden filled Fanny’s empty days, and helped her to take root in her new home; secondly, it brought her into touch with Robbie, the farm-boy, and made him her slave for life; and thirdly, through Robbie, Fanny came to know, and be known to, the rest of the small population of Shaws, and was able to make friends with the women who lived in the cottages. She liked the women, and they liked her, for Fanny was an adaptable creature and had no airs and graces. She would walk down to the little row of cottages that faced the sea, and were protected from the tearing wind by the ridge of sand-dunes; she would sit down and accept a cup of tea, and chat away in a friendly manner, and she would admire the children and give advice about their health—quite sensible advice, culled from the old doctor’s book.
The winter was a very open one, and in December the chrysanthemums were still blooming. There was little frost at Shaws owing to its sheltered position and its proximity to the sea. One fine afternoon Mr. Wallace arrived at Shaws to call; Fanny was in the garden, and she came to meet him with a smile and showed him her hands, which were covered with earth.
“You will not want to shake hands with me to-day,” she declared.
“That’s where you’re wrong, Mrs. Shaw,” replied the minister. “I’m a lover of the good earth, and never so happy as when I am working with it myself.” (Mr. Wallace was well aware that Shaws must be a dull place for a young woman from the town, and he was delighted to find his new parishioner with a smiling face and dirty hands.) “Well, well!” he continued, looking about him. “This is indeed a pleasant sight. The garden used to be a pretty place, and it has grieved me sorely to see it neglected and overgrown with weeds.”
“It’s dreadful!” Fanny said. “Sometimes I despair of ever getting it right.”
“Gardens take time and patience. Flowers have their peculiarities, and must be humoured and cosseted like pretty women.”
Fanny smiled—it was so like a man to talk in this strain. In Fanny’s opinion it was women who did the humouring and cosseting, it was women who tended the gardens of the world, but Mr. Wallace could not be expected to understand that.
They walked round the garden together, and Fanny told him her plans. Mr. Wallace knew a good deal about flowers, and he was more than willing to help.
“It looks worse now than when I started,” Fanny said in despairing tones; “it was all green and pretty when I started, and now it is in a horrid mess.”
“You have done wonders,” Mr. Wallace comforted her. “You will need some manure for your roses, but Johnny can give you as much as you want. I will send you some cuttings to put in—indeed, I will come and put them in for you, so that there shall be no mistakes.”
They walked down the centre path and sat on the wooden seat in the arbour. Here the weeds were still untouched. The rambler roses, which had degenerated into briars, made a canopy above their heads. There was a pleasant smell from the bonfire which Robbie had lighted in the far corner of the garden to burn up the rubbish. A robin, perky and cheerful, hopped about quite near them in the pale winter sunshine looking for his dinner.
“Tell me more about Rosabelle Shaw,” said Fanny suddenly.
Mr. Wallace was delighted to talk about Rosabelle Shaw, but he sat silent for a little before he began, savouring the pleasure of the moment. It was so peaceful in the garden, so quiet and still—Nature was falling asleep.
“It is difficult to know where to start,” said Mr. Wallace at last. “When I came to Torrisford first—as assistant to old Mr. Brown—Rosabelle Shaw was here. She kept house for her brother and his child, for his wife had died when the child was born. To me—a young man then—Rosabelle Shaw was Shaws. She must have been sixty when I knew her, but she did not seem old. She was so active, so interested, so vital.”
“What was she like to look at?”
“She was like the picture still—you’ve seen the picture—that calm placid glance which was so wise, so sincere, so searching—there was nothing hid from it. There were forty years between us—or nearly as much—but she was ageless. I was proud to call her my friend”—he sighed; “forty years is a long time,” he added sadly.
Fanny did not understand. “But you were friends anyway, in spite of the years——”
“We were friends,” he said, and left it at that. He had no delusions about the depth of Fanny’s mind. She was pretty and sweet, but there were certain things that she would never understand, and his feeling for Rosabelle Shaw was one of them.
“I used to sit here with her,” continued Mr. Wallace, after a little silence; “she loved this seat—it was hers—she had it made from the timbers of the ship which was wrecked at Shaws the night she was born. You’ve heard about it, perhaps?”
Fanny shook her head.
“That was how she came to be called Rosabelle,” Mr. Wallace explained. “A ship went ashore on the reef the night she was born—the Rosabelle she was called—and every soul aboard her was saved. The sea had gone down a bit by the time she broke up, and James Shaw—Rosabelle’s father—swam out to them with a rope—it was a rare feat of courage and endurance. The ship was a French brig, and her crew were full of admiration and gratitude. They declared that James Shaw was their saviour, as indeed he was. So James Shaw got a present from the captain and the officers, a fine clock with the inscription on it——”
“The clock in the hall—I’ve often wondered about it!” Fanny exclaimed.
“——and Rosabelle Shaw got her name.”
“A pretty name,” said Fanny. “Did she live at Shaws all her life?”
“All her life,” nodded Mr. Wallace. “It was she who had the trees planted to shelter the house from the wind. And she had the garden walled, and planted it. She made the broad path, and she had this seat made from the timbers of the old wreck—Shaws owes many of its amenities to Miss Rosabelle.”
“Tell me more,” Fanny urged.
“What more d’ye want to know?” inquired Mr. Wallace, smiling at her eager face. “Rosabelle Shaw lived at Shaws and grew up into a lovely woman. She kept house for her brother and his motherless boy. Her brother was older than she, a fine man, courtly and polished in his old-fashioned way. He loved books, and was a mine of strange, out-of-the-way information, a very gold-mine to me. I was young then, and it was my chief delight to dine at Shaws: I would sit and listen to him the whole evening, taking mental notes of every word that fell from his lips.”
“That was John’s grandfather,” Fanny said.
“It was,” agreed Mr. Wallace. “Now young James—Johnny’s father—was a different sort of man altogether. He was a good man, and a good farmer, but he had not the fine brain of old James nor the attractive personality. When he got married, Miss Rosabelle left Shaws House and took up her abode in a cottage near the sea. It’s the grieve’s cottage now.”
