Rosabelle Shaw, page 11
Fanny’s light voice broke the uncomfortable silence. She was miserable when John was vexed, for she still loved him dearly. Why can’t he be sensible about Jay? she thought, he is so unreasonable. He knows quite well how delicate Jay is, and all the trouble I’ve had with him.
“What have you been doing, Jay?” she said aloud.
“Riding,” replied the boy, in his light musical voice.
“You forgot the time, I suppose,” John remarked with heavy sarcasm.
“No, I knew I would be late.”
“And you didn’t care,” John said—he was really angry now—“you didn’t care, because you knew you would receive no punishment—this is really intolerable.”
Jay looked up with an expression of surprised innocence. “But I thought you knew,” he said.
“Knew what?” demanded John.
“Knew that I would be late.”
“How could I know?” said John angrily. “This is just foolery—I won’t stand for it. Where have you been?”
“I rode over to Langside with a message.”
“A message?” John exclaimed. “What sort of message?”
“A message to the mason. He’s working at Langside, and Burnett wants him here next week.”
“There,” said Fanny, smiling. “You see, John, he couldn’t help being late.”
John saw that himself, but he was still angry with Jay. It was so like Jay to have a good reason for being late, and not to produce it until he had roused a storm. He had a faculty for putting John in the wrong.
“Why didn’t you say so?” John muttered.
“Say so!” Jay echoed with an innocent, slightly bewildered air. “But I have said so.”
“Why didn’t you say where you’d been when you came in?” said John irritably.
The incident was petty, but it was infuriating because John knew that the child had done it on purpose. Jay was not afraid of John’s wrath, for he could shelter from it behind Fanny’s petticoats; indeed, he took a malicious pleasure in rousing a storm—it amused him to see John and Fanny at loggerheads, and it pleased him to have Fanny ranged upon his side against the others. Jay was jealous of John, he wanted all Fanny’s love and attention, and he wanted it all the time.
John was still grumbling to himself. Any other boy would have come into the room with an apology on his lips—“Sorry I’m late, but I had to ride over to Langside with a message for Burnett”—and the whole thing would have been cleared up in a moment, but this was not Jay’s way of doing things.
“I don’t think I want any more,” said Jay to Fanny in a low voice. He pushed away his plate as he spoke, and looked at her with his pathetic eyes.
“Oh, Jay! Your nice chicken!” Fanny cried in dismay. “Just a little more, darling—Father’s not angry with you. He knows you couldn’t help being late … it was very useful of you to take a message for Burnett,” she added, looking at John reproachfully.
“I’m not angry with him for being late,” John tried to explain. “But I think he might have apologised, and given us the reason for it when he came in.”
“I thought Burnett would have told you,” Jay said, and his lip quivered.
“Oh, goodness! What a fuss to make about nothing!” Fanny exclaimed. “Really, John, it’s quite absurd.”
John realised the absurdity of it quite as clearly as Fanny, but he also realised the tragedy of it. He and Fanny loved each other as much as ever, but they were always quarrelling now—quarrelling over Jay. He rose from the table and began to fill his pipe. It was no use saying any more, or trying to explain, because that only made things worse. He saw no way to improve matters—none at all.
The other children had finished, and at a sign from Fanny they slipped down from the table and ran off, glad to escape from the uncomfortable atmosphere. Kate fetched Janet to have her afternoon rest, and only Jay remained, sitting at the table, picking distastefully at his rice pudding and cream, while Fanny watched him and urged him to eat. It crossed John’s mind as he looked at them that Jay would eat his dinner much better if Fanny left him alone, but he knew he could never tell her so. Fanny would only think this another mark of his injustice to Jay. He could almost hear her reproachful reply, “Oh, John, you know how difficult it is to get him to eat enough, you know how delicate he is—why are you always so hard on Jay?”
Why was he hard on Jay, John wondered. He was hard on Jay because Fanny was too soft, and the balance must be kept. And John thought—if only I could like the child how much easier it would be!
Bill and Rosabelle were delighted to have escaped from the dining-room. They had arranged to go over to Langside that afternoon, and had obtained their mother’s consent, but they knew only too well that when a row started all sort of troublesome complications might arise. Jay could be trusted to fan the flames, and Bill and Rosabelle were often the scapegoats.
“She’s forgotten about Langside,” Bill said, as they scampered through the hall.
“I know—but she said we could,” Rosabelle replied.
“We can go without him,” said Bill eagerly.
Rosabelle nodded—she was never one to waste words.
They ran down to the shed where they kept their bicycles, and wheeled them out.
“Shall I stick a nail in his tyre?” Bill inquired. “Then he couldn’t come—it’s much nicer without him.”
“You’d better not. He’d be sure to guess, and you’d get into a row,” Rosabelle replied. She mounted her bicycle and rode off. Bill, after a longing glance at Jay’s machine, followed more slowly. Belle was right, of course—she usually was—but it was a pity all the same.
It did not take the children long to cover the three odd miles to Langside. The road was well known to them (for the Gilmours were their best friends), and they cut it short by taking a path through the woods. This path was not really suitable for bicycles, for it was steep and stony and was intersected by the roots of trees, but Bill and Rosabelle were fearless riders. They pushed on at a smart pace, bumping and skidding from side to side in a manner that would have made a “grown up” faint with horror.
Langside Farm was smaller than Shaws, but the house itself was comfortable and cosy. It was an old house, built of grey stone, with rambling passages, and queer little steps in unexpected places. The house stood in a pleasant garden some miles from the sea, and there was a good-sized orchard attached to it. The Shaw children loved the orchard—for there was none at Shaws—and Langside was always associated in their minds with ripe rosy apples and golden juicy pears.
Mrs. Gilmour saw the children arrive, and ran out to welcome them. She was very fond of Bill and Rosabelle.
“Here you are!” she cried. “Tom and Mamie are in the orchard, but you had better have a drink before you go down—your faces are crimson——”
“It’s so frightfully hot—and we hurried,” Rosabelle explained.
“What about some lemonade?” inquired Mrs. Gilmour.
“Lemonade would be topping,” said Bill quickly. “Is it the fizzy kind, by any chance?”
It was the fizzy kind, and the children each drank a glassful of it with tremendous relish.
“Thank you very much, Mrs. Gilmour,” said Rosabelle, putting her glass down, “and Bill thanks you too—say thank you, Bill.”
“Thank you,” said Bill gruffly. He found gratitude difficult, especially when it was thrust upon him.
“That’s right,” Mrs. Gilmour said. “Now off you go—I won’t keep you.”
They ran off and found Tom and Mamie in the orchard as their mother had said. Indeed, there was scarcely any necessity to be told, for the orchard was a well-known haunt. The apples were not ripe yet, of course, and this was a pity, but the trees provided a pleasant shade, and the grass was soft to lie on. The two White girls were there too—Jenny and Isabel—they had spent the morning at Langside, and had stayed to lunch.
“Come on,” Mamie cried. “Why are you so late? It’s too hot for hide-and-seek, so we’re playing a quiet game.”
The little group were sitting under the trees—sitting or sprawling according to inclination—and Bill and Rosabelle flopped down in the circle. They were younger than the others, but that did not matter much, for Rosabelle was so full of life and vigour that she would never be left behind, and where Rosabelle went Bill followed.
Tom Gilmour was sixteen now—he was a big fair boy, rather loosely made, and somewhat awkward and coltish in his movements. He had been at Loretto for some years, and was doing well there, but he was a humble soul, and was not too grand to play with his small sister and her friends during his holidays—indeed, he found it on the whole a pleasant change from the rough-and-tumble of the big school. It was just as well that Tom was content to take his pleasures where he could find them, for there were no boys of his own age in the district and he would have found the holidays somewhat long and boring if he had been less easy to please. Tom looked up and smiled at the Shaws children—they amused him—and his soft grey eyes brightened when he saw that Jay had not come, for he did not like Jay.
“Where’s Jay, is he coming?” Mamie inquired, and then, without waiting for an answer, she continued, “Well, never mind—let’s get on with the game.”
“What is the game?” asked Rosabelle, with interest.
“It’s called Truth,” said Mamie. “Bill’s rather young to play, but he can listen——”
“I’m not too young,” Bill declared stoutly. “I can do anything that you can do, Mamie, so there.”
Rosabelle was aware that Bill’s youth was a grief to him, and she did not want an argument on the subject. “Tell us about the game, Mamie,” she said hastily.
“Somebody asks questions, and you’ve got to answer truthfully,” Mamie explained.
“It sounds easy,” Rosabelle remarked.
“Not for Mamie,” said Bill, and dodged a clod of earth with practised ease.
“Now that’s enough,” growled Tom, in his half-cracked voice. “Shut up, both of you. It’s Jenny’s turn to ask.”
Jenny White was the eldest of the party. She was a plump girl of seventeen years old, with black pigtails and a round rosy face. Rosabelle admired and envied her looks—she was like the heroine of a story-book. Oh dear, thought Rosabelle regretfully, oh dear, I wish my chest stuck out like that—and her hair is so lovely—dark hair is much the nicest——
“Now then,” said Tom, “go on, Jenny. You can start with me if you like.”
Jenny giggled. “I’ll start with Mamie,” she said, “and leave you to the end. Mamie, what do you like doing best in all the world?”
“She likes eating,” said Bill promptly, “that’s why she’s so fat.”
“Oh, do be quiet!” cried Rosabelle. “You’ll have to go if you’re going to be silly.”
“Make me go then!”
“I’ll make you go,” declared Tom, “if you don’t behave yourself properly.”
Bill eyed Tom a trifle doubtfully, and subsided.
Mamie had scarcely noticed the interruption, she was thinking of her reply. “Reading, I think,” she said at last. “But there are so many nice things—bathing and riding are nice too.”
“Dull,” declared Isabel, tossing her head.
“Well, here’s a question for you,” said Jenny mischievously, “and mind you answer truthfully—did you take that ribbon out of my drawer?”
Isabel got rather red, “Yes, I did,” she said, “so there! Now you know, and I hope you’re satisfied.”
Everyone was delighted at this glimpse of the private lives of the White sisters—for what is more amusing than a display of dirty linen?—and everybody was a trifle disappointed when the incident blew over without further revelations or recriminations.
Jenny had come to Bill now. “What is your favourite pudding?” she asked him hastily.
“Chocolate pudding,” said Bill. “But I like meringues almost as much, and I like strawberry tarts, and syrup dumpling,” he added dreamily, “and vanilla ices, and plum pudding, and apple tart with cream——”
“Oh, stop it, for pity’s sake!” Rosabelle cried. “Bill would go on like that for hours,” she added, with sisterly frankness.
“Do think of more exciting questions, Jenny,” Mamie said. “It’s a boring game unless the questions are really thrilling.”
Jenny thought for a moment. “All right!” she said. “Here’s one for Belle. Could you love a person who was a thief?”
Rosabelle thought about it seriously—could she? Could she love Bill, for instance, if she knew he was a thief? “Yes,” she said at last. “Yes, I think I could if I loved them before.”
“Oh, Belle!” cried Mamie in amazement. “Oh, Belle, you couldn’t—you couldn’t love a thief!”
“Only if I loved them before,” Rosabelle explained. “And only if they were a thief in a big sort of way—not if they were a mean sneak-thief, of course.”
“Oh, Belle! Surely it would be worse—the more they stole the worse it would be!”
“You’d think so,” Rosabelle agreed, with a puzzled frown. “But that’s not how I would feel—I know I wouldn’t.”
“I know what Belle means,” Tom said, but he could not explain his feelings either. They argued somewhat heatedly about the matter for several minutes without getting much further.
“It’s too hot for this,” declared Rosabelle at last, pushing back her hair from her damp forehead. “I think this game is hotter than hide-and-seek.”
“I must ask Tom a question first,” said Jenny hastily.
“What are you going to ask me?” inquired Tom.
“Who do you love best in the world?” she asked, looking at him with melting brown eyes.
Tom blushed to the roots of his hair. “I’m not going to answer that,” he said. “No, I’m not. I don’t care what you say.”
“You must answer,” cried Isabel, jumping up and down excitedly, “that’s the rule of the game. Everybody has to answer. I didn’t like answering about the dirty old ribbon, but I had to.”
“No, he needn’t!” Rosabelle cried. “Why should he if he doesn’t want to? It’s only a game, anyway.”
“It’s a silly game,” cried Bill.
“He loves Mother best,” declared Mamie, “don’t you, Tom? You love Mother best.”
Tom would not answer. He sat there, smiling a trifle self-consciously while the storm raged round him. The Whites had initiated the game, and they took Tom’s attitude as a personal insult. Wild words were said, and the party broke up in confusion. “We had better go home,” said Jenny bitterly, and, as nobody pressed them to remain, they found their bicycles and rode away in dignified silence. Tom took Bill to look at the pigs, and Rosabelle and Mamie were left sitting under the tree.
“They’re getting soft and silly,” declared Mamie, referring to her departed guests. It was a somewhat peculiar stricture to make in view of the tremendous row which had just occurred, but Rosabelle knew exactly what was meant.
“Yes,” she said thoughtfully.
“She wanted Tom to say he loved her best—silly thing!” continued Tom’s sister, “as if he would! She’s soft and silly—and Isabel’s nearly as bad. I hope I shan’t get soft and silly when I’m sixteen.”
“I shan’t, anyway,” Rosabelle declared. “You needn’t get like that if you don’t want to.”
“Most people do.” said Mamie sadly.
Rosabelle picked a juicy piece of grass and chewed it meditatively: she was always happiest when she had something to chew. “I think she’s pretty—Jenny, I mean,” said Rosabelle seriously. “I’d like to be pretty, but I wouldn’t like to be soft.”
“If you were pretty you’d be soft,” replied her friend with unconscious brutality. “People always are They think about love, and clothes—they all do. I’m glad I’m not pretty.”
Rosabelle looked at her friend consideringly. Mamie was dark, and her hair was slightly wavy, and she had nice eyes—grey and soft like Tom’s—but her face was freckled, and she wore a cumbersome gold plate on her front teeth. “I believe you’d be quite pretty without your plate and your freckles,” said Rosabelle at last, with devastating frankness.
15
Mr. Wallace takes a hand
John and Fanny were walking up and down Great Aunt Rosabelle’s Path. It was an old custom of theirs, and a pleasant custom, to walk here in the garden after supper. At this time of day, when the children were in bed, John and Fanny were nearer in spirit than at any other time. With Fanny’s arm tucked into his, and Fanny’s light voice chattering in his ear, John could almost believe that all was well between them. On this particular night John was strangely silent, he only half heard Fanny’s words and his replies were inattentive, and soon Fanny’s voice died away and they walked up and down in silence.
“What is the matter, John?” asked Fanny.
John sighed—he did not want to speak of the matter that was in his mind, for he knew that trouble would come of it, but there was no way out. He said at last, “I saw Mr. Wallace to-day. He was talking about Jay. He thinks Jay ought to go to school.”
“But there isn’t a school here!” exclaimed Fanny in surprise.
“Boarding-school,” said John.
Fanny stopped on the path and faced him in horror. “Boarding-school!” she cried. “Boarding-school for Jay! Oh, John, you know how delicate he is!”
“Perhaps it would do him good,” John suggested.
“How could it?”
“Mr. Wallace thinks it would. He says that Jay ought to be with other boys.”
“Mr. Wallace doesn’t understand Jay,” Fanny cried. “He doesn’t realise all the care that Jay needs——”
“I think he understands Jay pretty well.”
“You want to get rid of Jay,” she continued wildly, “that’s what it is—I might have known you would plot with Mr. Wallace—and you would get rid of Jay if he went to school, because he would die.”
“Oh, Fanny!” said John.
There was such a depth of sorrow in John’s tone that she was ashamed of her words—ashamed and conscience-stricken. She said quickly, “I’m sorry. Oh, John, why are we always quarrelling about Jay? It’s horrid. Why is it? Why can’t you be reasonable about Jay? Why won’t you try to understand him?”
