Rosabelle Shaw, page 16
“Well—just one,” said Jay—he could scarcely refuse.
“Juist yin—or twa—or mebbe hawf a dizzen,” declared Russell, laughing, and pushed his violin into Jay’s hands.
Everybody sat down where they could find a place—on chairs and tables and on the floor—and Jay stood in the middle of the floor with Russell’s fiddle under his chin. The light from the lamp which hung from a beam in the ceiling shed a yellow glow on his pale face and his black wavy hair. Rosabelle noticed that his eyes were very bright—they were positively glittering—and she wondered what it was that had excited him so. She wondered also, as she watched his face, what he was going to play to his expectant audience. Would he give them what they would enjoy—the old Scottish airs which they all knew and loved—or would he play something he liked himself—something far above their head which they could not possibly understand? She knew Jay so well—the incalculable impish humour of him—and yet she could not read him to-night, nor understand his mood. As a rule, he was patronising and superior with the farm-hands—the grand seigneur, proud and aloof—and for that reason he was by no means popular at the cottages (Rosabelle knew this well), but to-night he had shown a new facet of his personality, and had descended to their level with friendly camaraderie. Rosabelle could not understand it at all, she felt as if she had opened an old well-known book and had found quite a different story between the familiar covers.
Jay drew the bow tenderly over the strings; he played a few chords and then drifted into the melody of “Annie Laurie.” They all knew that, and their faces brightened at the familiar tune. He gave them a few bars of that—a mere taste—and then imperceptibly into “Kathleen Mavourneen.” This was not nearly so popular, for it was Irish, and not their own, but it was a pretty melody and Jay played it well. He was a little handicapped by the fact that Russell’s fiddle was an inferior instrument to his own, but he soon found and overcame its limitations. When Jay played as he was playing now, with his whole soul in the music, it was impossible not to be moved, for there was a queer haunting sadness in his playing, and even a lively tune took on a minor quality and brought a lump to one’s throat. Jay wove variations on the theme—half a dozen impromptu variations; it was a delightful performance, full of consummate art. When he had done with “Kathleen Mavourneen” he slid imperceptibly into the plaintive lament for Robert Emmet—“She is Far from the Land where her Young Hero Sleeps,” and he ended up his selection with “The Wearin’ o’ the Green.”
His audience applauded politely at the end, but the selection he had chosen to play did not bring down the house as a medley of Scottish airs would have done. It was strange, Rosabelle thought, that he had not given them what they wanted; he had been angling for popularity all the evening, and now he had thrown away this last tremendous opportunity of crowning his success. Had he thrown it away deliberately, or was it an error of judgment?—but Jay was too clever to make such a mistake as that.
Russell was the only one in the room who realised the virtuosity of the performance.
“Eh, Maister Jay!” he said in admiration, “and tae think it wus me that learned ye tae string a fiddle! Ye’ve gane a lang road syne.”
Jay smiled. He handed the fiddle to Russell and tore himself away. There was more handshaking, and more good wishes, and more whisky to be drunk before they would let him go, but at last he and Rosabelle escaped and were out in the sweet, cold, night air again, walking back to Shaws.
“I feel most awfully queer,” remarked Jay. “It’s all that whisky——”
“Oh, Jay.”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “It’s just that I’m not used to the stuff—I don’t like it much—but I had to drink it——”
Rosabelle chuckled. “What does it feel like?” she inquired.
“It feels—damned queer,” he declared a trifle thickly, “and it’s—getting queerer——” He slipped his arm through hers, and leaned on it as they went along. It seemed to Rosabelle rather a joke that the whisky had affected Jay like this. Drunken men were abhorrent to her, but Jay was no drunkard—his worst enemies could not have accused him of the vice; indeed, it was only because he was of such an abstemious nature that the whisky had affected him so potently. The road home seemed so long, and Jay leaned so heavily upon her arm, that Rosabelle was thankful when at last they arrived safely at Shaws House. The door had been left on the latch for Jay’s convenience, so there was no difficulty about getting in. Rosabelle steered her somewhat helpless companion into the hall, and he leaned against the banisters while she fastened the door. The house was dark and quiet, for it was after two o’clock and everybody had gone to bed—or so it seemed.
“Good Lord—I do feel queer!” Jay said. “How’m I going to get upshtairsh?”
“I’ll help you,” Rosabelle declared, with a little chuckle.
They tackled the stairs together, Jay clinging to her arm with one hand and to the banisters with the other. When they were half-way up Rosabelle began to laugh—she tried to stifle her laughter, but she couldn’t manage it—Jay laughed too.
“Oh, my goodness!” Rosabelle said. “I can’t help it—oh dear, we shall waken everybody in the house!”
They were leaning against the wall in helpless merriment when the door of the spare room opened and Aunt Alison came out on to the landing.
“Rosabelle—Jay——” she whispered, “what does this mean?”
Her appearance sobered them at once, for she looked so stern and forbidding—Rosabelle had never seen her so severe.
“It’s all right.” Rosabelle told her. “We’ve been to the Russells’ party——”
“Come into my room—I want to speak to you,” said Alison; “you’ll wake the whole house if you go on like that.”
They followed her into her room somewhat sheepishly, and Jay leaned against the wall. He knew that he would be all right if he did not have to speak—Rosabelle could do the talking.
“Now perhaps you will explain matters,” said Alison.
“It’s all right,” said Rosabelle again. “I wanted to go first-footing with Jay, so he took me—that’s all.”
Alison looked from one to the other anxiously. The truth was, she had discovered that Rosabelle was not in bed, and she had been frightened at the discovery—frightened and dismayed. She had not known whether to wake Fanny and John and tell them about their daughter’s absence, or to keep the matter to herself, and she had spent a miserable hour trying to make up her mind which course to pursue. She had no idea where Rosabelle had gone, nor what she was doing. It seemed reasonable to suppose that she had gone with Jay, but even if this were so there was still cause for anxiety—for Alison did not trust Jay a yard.
“We went to the Russells’ party,” Rosabelle told her earnestly, “and they had a reel. We couldn’t get away before—honestly, Aunt Alison.”
Alison scarcely knew what to say. “Jay—Jay had no business to take you——” she began in a hesitating way.
“It was only a joke. You’re not angry, are you? I wanted to go with Jay.”
“I’ve been nearly demented,” Alison said in a low voice, “nearly demented. I went to your room to say good night, and you weren’t there—it wasn’t right of you, Rosabelle.”
“What harm could happen to me here—at Shaws?” asked Rosabelle in surprise.
Alison looked at Jay, she looked at him questioningly.
“It’s all right,” he said. “Belle’s all right.”
“Jay, you’re drunk!”
“I know,” he said, nodding gravely.
“Disgusting!” cried Alison. “Simply disgusting!”
Rosabelle rushed to his defence. “He couldn’t help it,” she declared earnestly. “Honestly, he couldn’t. It wasn’t his fault at all. They made him drink it—and you know what their whisky is like—frightfully strong. Jay’s not used to whisky, that’s all. Oh, don’t be cross, Aunt Alison, and don’t tell Mother—or anybody—he couldn’t help it—really.”
Alison sighed. She was almost glad that Jay was drunk, for now her worst anxiety was allayed. Indeed, that anxiety now seemed not only foolish but unworthy. They were only children, after all. She scarcely knew what to say, for she saw quite clearly that she must tread warily here.
“Very well,” she said at last. “Very well, we’ll say no more about it. Now, Rosabelle, go off to bed. I’ll see Jay safely into his, for it’s quite obvious,” she said, with a return to her usual dry humour, “it’s quite obvious that he’ll never find his way there himself.”
21
The field called Golgotha
Jay had to put up with a good deal of chaff about his first-footing when the family met at breakfast. He took it in good part, and kept his own counsel, but after breakfast, when he and John were riding round the farm, he was more communicative.
“I drank too much of their beastly whisky,” he said, laughing a trifle ruefully. “My head feels like a cannon-ball this morning.”
John laughed. “That’ll learn ye,” he said.
“It has,” agreed Jay. “I felt awful. Aunt Alison helped me to bed.”
John looked at him in surprise. “You must have been pretty bad,” he said. “Don’t let it happen again.”
“I won’t,” said Jay grimly. “It was horrible.”
They said no more. John was rather pleased that the boy had told him about it frankly—frankness was what John admired more than anything else. After all, there was no need for Jay to have said anything, and that made his confession all the more laudable. John had found Jay improved out of all recognition when he came home from school and settled down at Shaws. At first he had distrusted the improvement, and had kept a wary eye upon the boy, but he had soon found that there was no need for the wary eye. Jay was a different creature; he was polite and pleasant and amusing. He picked up the work very quickly, for he was clever and intelligent—there had never been any doubt about that—and he made himself very useful to John. They rode about the farm together, and John taught Jay all that he could; he showed him the differences in the soil, and told him why certain weeds flourished in one part of the farm where the soil was light and sandy, and why other fields—with heavy loam—were afflicted with a different species of weed. He showed him an ear of good grain and an ear of inferior grain, and explained the reason for the difference. He explained the rotation of crops, and discoursed upon the diseases of potatoes and other roots. He pointed out ditches which must be drained, and hedges which must be pruned or mended, and fields which must be manured. Jay listened intently, and remembered what he had been told, and gradually John began to depend upon him and even to consult him about matters connected with the farm. John would say: “By the way, that ditch has never been cleared—the ditch in the Fifty Acre field above the burn,” and Jay would smile and say: “It’s all right, I told Burnett you said it was to be done. He’s sent two men up there this morning.” “You’ll make a farmer yet,” John would laugh, and Jay would join in the laughter.
At first John had thought that Jay would shirk the hard work, for he had always been a shirker, but apparently he had changed in that also, for shortly after his arrival John had found him working in the hayfield with the men. Jay had taken off his coat, and his brow was wet with perspiration; he grinned and waved his hand as John rode by. John was delighted to see him taking a hand with the hay—hard work was good for young fellows, so John thought. Unfortunately, however, hard work did not seem to suit Jay, and he was in bed for two days after his unwonted exercise with pains in all his limbs. He lay in bed, reading a novel, and made no complaint. “It’s my own fault,” he declared, when John looked in to see him. “I don’t seem to be able to work hard like other fellows.”
“Well, you mustn’t do it then,” said John firmly. “There are plenty of men on the place, and it’s no use knocking yourself up like this.” So Jay was forbidden to work hard, and he took the embargo wonderfully meekly. He rode about the farm with John, and learned all he could: he went for messages, and did the shopping in Torrisford, and he took over John’s accounts—the big brown books—and inaugurated a new and much more efficient system of book-keeping. Whenever he had time he practised his violin, and in the evenings he played backgammon with Fanny, and gradually and naturally he built up for himself a pleasant life at Shaws.
I should miss him, John thought, as they rode up the path by the side of the burn together. I should miss him now if he went away. He’s got a good head on him, and he’s shaping well—I wonder if Bill will be as good.
The burn was full that morning, for the frost had gone in the night and all the ditches were emptying themselves into the little stream. The whole air seemed full of tricklings and gurglings and drippings, and the horses’ hooves sank into the soft ground and came out with sucking noises. They passed the field which had been partly drained by O’Malley so long ago. The unfinished drills had fallen in, and the whole place was overgrown with rushes and a tangle of rank grass. John was used to seeing this blot upon his orderly farm—it had ceased to irk him—and he had kept to his resolution that the field should not be touched. Burnett had spoken to him about it until he was tired, and had then given up the struggle, reflecting that even the most sensible of men were sometimes “a wee bit daft” on some subject.
“Father,” said Jay, as they rode by, “that field is a perfect disgrace. I spoke to Burnett about it, and he said to ask you.”
“Oh, he did, did he?” said John smiling grimly.
“Yes, aren’t you going to do something about it?”
“What would you suggest?” inquired John, in an amused voice.
“I should drain it first,” Jay replied. “Do let me have a try, Father. Let me have a couple of men—it wouldn’t take long—and then we could clean it with a potato crop.”
“You seem to know all about it.”
“Do let me—please,” said Jay eagerly.
“Listen, Jay, I’ll give you two men for a fortnight, and when you’re ready I’ll plough it for you, and I’ll give you the seed, but the field will be yours—your very own—and you can sell the potatoes yourself.”
Jay’s dark eyes glowed with pleasure. “Oh, Father!” he exclaimed. “Oh, you are good to me. Thank you—thank you very, very much. I love the idea of having a little bit of Shaws for my very own.”
“Well, that’s settled then,” John said, cutting short his thanks. “But there’s to be no digging yourself, Jay, or you’ll knock yourself up and I’ll get into trouble over it.”
It was a sudden impulse which had made John bestow this field upon Jay; he scarcely understood his own motive in doing so, but somehow it seemed right that this particular bit of Shaws should belong to Jay, for perhaps it was this field which had robbed Jay of his proper home. So the field which John had called Golgotha was drained and ploughed and planted, and was no longer a blot upon the fair name of Shaws.
22
Rosabelle is warned
One mild morning in February Mr. Wallace was pottering in his garden. He was a very old man now, and had retired from his duties, but as the new minister was unmarried, and did not require the Manse, Mr. Wallace had remained on in his old home. It was an arrangement that suited everybody, for Mr. Bain was glad of the old man’s help and counsel, and Mr. Wallace would have broken his heart if he had had to leave his beloved parish, and his beloved garden, both of which he had tended so carefully for so many years. The old minister was strolling about enjoying the sunshine and the songs of the birds when he heard the clatter of horses’ hooves on the road, and, looking up, saw Rosabelle Shaw dismounting at his gate.
“Willie!” he cried, “Willie, here’s Miss Shaw, Run and take her horse, there’s a good lad.”
Willie was only too ready to stop gardening and play the part of groom—he was off to the gate like a rocket.
Mr. Wallace followed more slowly. “Well, Rosabelle, here you are at last!” he said, smiling with pleasure.
“Here I am,” Rosabelle agreed, taking his hands in hers, and smiling back into the kind old face. “I would have been over to see you before, Mr. Wallace, but we’ve been so busy——”
“Of course—you’ve had the house full. I understand, my dear. It’s just that I’ve been longing for a sight of you—and you’re grown-up, now.”
“Nineteen next birthday,” said Rosabelle gravely.
“It’s a great age,” declared Mr. Wallace with twinkling eyes. “Come away in, my dear, and tell me what it feels like to be nearly nineteen, and I’ll tell you what it feels like to be getting on for ninety.”
“What nonsense! You’re not nearly as old as that!” cried Rosabelle.
“Getting on, getting on,” said Mr. Wallace, “but it’s wonderful how young I feel sometimes. It’s just now and then that I feel the burden of my years—and most unpleasant it is.”
Rosabelle followed him into his study, and looked round her with interest. It was a familiar room, for she had spent many hours here, and it was unchanged. Here was the very chair in which she had sat, poring over her books—how long ago it seemed—the marks of her fidgeting feet were still clearly to be seen on the cross-bar between the front legs. The carpet was as shabby as ever—but seemed no shabbier—and the scratches on the bookcase were exactly the same as before. Rosabelle knew these scratches so well, for her eyes had rested upon them a thousand times as she struggled with the dates of Bannockburn and Flodden, or the intricacies of fractions and decimal points. Everything here was the same, and only she had changed, grown up from the small untidy tomboy into a young woman, slim and tall and straight.
Perhaps Mr. Wallace was thinking the same thing as he looked at his guest, for there was a tender whimsical curve to his mouth. Rosabelle would never be as beautiful as her mother, but in his eyes she was far more attractive, for it was her type that he admired—corn-coloured hair, and a creamy skin, and the cornflower-blue eyes of the Shaws.
