Rosabelle shaw, p.1
Rosabelle Shaw, page 1
ROSABELLE SHAW
D. E. Stevenson
First published by Chambers in 1937
Copyright © D. E. Stevenson 1967
This edition published in 2022 by Lume Books
30 Great Guildford Street,
Borough, SE1 0HS
The right of D. E. Stevenson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Part One… Seed Time
1 - Fanny comes to Torrisford
2 - The House of Shaws
3 - Misunderstandings and a reconciliation
4 - Fanny takes charge
5 - Fanny revisits her old home
6 - The old book is found
7 - Fanny hears the story of Rosabelle Shaw
8 - Rosabelle the Second
9 - Fanny walks in the Sun
10 - The wreck of the Fendris
11 - Fanny’s battle with Death
12 - Jacob the Supplanter
Part Two… Growth
13 - The Shaw children
14 - Storm in a teacup
15 - Mr. Wallace takes a hand
16 - Various aspects of Jay
17 - School years
18 - Summer holidays
Part Three… Ripening
19 - Christmas Eve
20 - First-Footing
21 - The field called Golgotha
22 - Rosabelle is warned
23 - Various gaieties and preparations for the dance
24 - The Dance at Shaws
25 - Rosabelle’s first proposal
26 - Jay leaves Shaws
27 - Rosabelle and John visit Mr. Wallace
28 - A mystery is solved
29 - Reconciliation
Part Four… Harvest
30 - War Sunday
31 - Mr. Wallace and Rosabelle
32 - Mr. Wallace decides on a course of action
33 - How war came to Torrisford
34 - Shaws and Langside combine for the harvest
35 - Rosabelle changes her mind
36 - Fanny tries to understand
37 - The marriage at Torrisford Church
38 - Harvest Home
39 - Rosabelle solves a problem
40 - Tom goes to France
41 - The wounded hero
42 - Heaven’s best gift
Prologue
On a certain cold, wet, windy night in Edinburgh, in the year eighteen ninety, Mr. James Dinwiddie, advocate, of Heriot Row, was dining with his friend Mr. Andrew Brown in the latter’s comfortable bachelor establishment in Randolph Crescent. The room was warm and cosy, the dinner excellent, and Mr Brown’s cellar was justly renowned for the quality of its port, Mr. Dinwiddie could not help thinking that bachelors did themselves uncommonly well But this thought was traitorous, and Mr. Dinwiddie banished it immediately; the dinner was no better than what he was used to at home, and if the wine were better, whose fault was that? Mr. Dinwiddie was the more able to banish the traitorous thought because he really was extremely comfortable and happy in his homelife. His wife had been dead for years, but his elder daughter, Alison, kept house for him in a competent manner, and his younger daughter. Fanny, was the apple of his eye. To-day was Fanny’s birthday—her nineteenth, to be exact—and the Dinwiddies were giving a dance at their house in Heriot Row to celebrate the occasion. Mr. Dinwiddie had been sent to dine with Mr. Brown so that he would be “out of the way” while the last-minute preparations were made.
“Another glass,” suggested Mr. Brown hospitably, breaking a short silence.
“Well, just a wee one,” agreed Mr. Dinwiddie. “I’ll need to be going. Andrew, I promised the girls I’d not be late.”
He drank his stirrup cup and rose, looking at his big gold repeater watch and comparing it with the marble clock which stood on the mantelpiece. It was nine-thirty now, and the dance was due to begin at ten, so it was high time he was on his way.
Mr. Brown accompanied his guest to the door and looked out at the slanting needles of rain with a shudder of disgust.
“It’s a wild night,” he said.
“You’ll not change your mind and come?” suggested Mr. Dinwiddie, more for the sake of saying something than because he had the smallest hope that his friend would come to the dance
“No, no, James. My dancing days are past,” replied Mr. Brown solemnly, “and I’ve work to do——”
Mr. Dinwiddie took this as a hint to be gone—as indeed it was, for the night air was cold, and Mr. Brown was anxious to get back to his warm fire. “I’ll not keep you, then,” said Mr. Dinwiddie. “I’d better be off—the girls will be wondering——” and so saying, he opened his umbrella and sallied forth into the rain.
Randolph Crescent was fairly sheltered, but when Mr. Dinwiddie turned through the gully of Great Stuart Street he met the full force of the east wind sweeping up from the Forth. It was indeed a wild night, wild and wet, and most uncommonly dark. The feeble light of the gas lamps scarcely relieved the gloom, for between the pools of yellow radiance which they shed, the darkness seemed to close in, blacker than ever. Mr. Dinwiddie was a sturdy little man, he inclined his umbrella to the gale and struggled along. There was a brief respite in Ainslie Place, and he paused here for a moment to get his breath. The small bare trees in the gardens were creaking and groaning like souls in torment, and a chimney-can which had fallen from its stack earlier in the evening came bowling along the cobble-stones and began to batter itself against the railings as if possessed.
Until now, Mr. Dinwiddie had been under the impression that he was the only inhabitant of the town foolish enough to be abroad on such a night, but now he saw, lurking in the doorway of a house, a tall dark figure wrapped in an Inverness cape, and as he pressed on, fighting against the swirls of wind which threatened to blow his umbrella inside out and even to sweep him off his feet, he felt, rather than heard or saw, that the tall dark figure had quitted the shelter of the doorway and was following him.
Mr. Dinwiddie was by no means a craven, but the night was dark, and the streets were deserted, and the passing glimpse of the figure—which was all he had obtained—had shown it to be extremely large and somewhat furtive. Various tales of robbery, assault, and violence flashed vaguely through his mind. In Moray Place there was comparative peace, save for unexpected eddies, and as he hurried on he could hear the footsteps pursuing him—he could hear them distinctly.
Mr. Dinwiddie was really frightened—and who shall blame him? He would have given a good deal for the sight of a policeman, or even for the sight of another pedestrian in the unfriendly gloom of the street; but not a creature was to be seen; indeed, it seemed as if he and his pursuer were alone in the night. Mr. Dinwiddie turned right into Darnaway Street and so came to Heriot Row. He was almost running, but the footsteps were still close behind, even, regular, full of purpose. Mr. Dinwiddie hastened on, he was nearing home now—another fifty yards—another twenty—he felt for his latch-key in his waistcoat pocket. Here it is! Good! I’ve diddled him! thought Mr. Dinwiddie, and he sprang up the steps and inserted the key in the door.
The tall figure was beside him and, as the door opened, it spoke in urgent tones:
“Mr. Dinwiddie—could I speak to you for a moment?”
Mr. Dinwiddie looked back; he was breathless and flustered but not too flustered to realise that the voice was the voice of an educated man.
Now that he saw that he had been needlessly alarmed, Mr. Dinwiddie was annoyed.
“You—you pursued me,” he said breathlessly.
“I’m sorry,” said the man humbly, “I am extremely sorry, sir—I wanted to speak to you.”
“This is a strange way of behaving——”
“I am extremely sorry—I could not help it—the matter is urgent. I should have waited——”
“You should indeed.”
“If you could spare me a few moments——”
“Well, well—I’ve not much time——”
The man seemed to take this as an invitation to come in. He followed Mr. Dinwiddie into the house and shut the door. The sudden change from storm to peace, from darkness to light was somewhat dazing, and for a few moments the two men stood upon the black-and-white marble pavement of the hall and looked at each other in silence, Mr. Dinwiddie was able to see the man properly now and take stock of him. He was a tall broad-shouldered man of about thirty years old. He had a fair moustache, rather full, as was the fashion of the day; his hair was fair too—fair with a reddish tinge—it grew rather high on his wide forehead. His face was wide at the eyes, narrowing to a rounded chin; it was a pleasant open face, ruddy and weather-beaten. His eyes were very blue. (A good-natured giant, thought Mr. Dinwiddie, who was used to judging men; if I’d seen his face I’d have been spared my fright.)
The water was dripping from the man’s wide cloak and from the bottoms of his trousers, making little puddles on the hall floor. Mr. Dinwiddie noticed the puddles. Alison will be wild, he thought—and then, as the dance came back to his mind, but it’ll be a deal sight worse before the evening is over—and heaved a sigh. “You’d better come into the study,” he said aloud.
The stranger followed him into the study and stood on the hearthrug by the fire. He be
“I thought you were after my purse,” he said, with a short laugh.
The man was abject in his apologies, so abject that the last trace of Mr. Dinwiddie’s annoyance vanished.
“Well, well!” he said. “We all make mistakes—we’ll say no more about it. Now, sir, what can I do for you?”
The man seemed to find difficulty in answering. “I—I don’t—I can’t——” he began.
Mr. Dinwiddie tried to help him out—“You were waiting for me?”
“Yes—I called here and they told me where you were dining, and that you would be back early, so I took the liberty of waiting for you.”
“Your business must be urgent, then?” suggested Mr. Dinwiddie. “It’s no night to be hanging about in the street.”
“It is urgent.”
“Well, well—out with it whatever it is.”
“I’m afraid you will be surprised.”
Mr. Dinwiddie smiled. He had been an advocate too long to be surprised at anything—or so he thought.
“Come, come, sir! you are wasting my time—and your own. It would have been better to approach me through your solicitors——”
“But it’s not business, Mr. Dinwiddie,” objected the man. “It’s just—I beg you to hear me out—I want to marry your daughter.”
Mr. Dinwiddie stared at his visitor incredulously—could he have heard aright? His first instinct was to throw the man out, but the man met his glance so frankly, so beseechingly, and with such complete humility that Mr. Dinwiddie’s heart softened towards him. After all, there was no harm in listening to what he had to say—he could be thrown out later, if necessary.
“You want to marry Alison?” said Mr. Dinwiddie at last.
“No, no—it is the younger Miss Dinwiddie,” said the man hastily, and, now that the ice was broken, the words poured out of him in a flood. “It was at the theatre last night—I saw you there and I was able to find out where you lived. I know nobody in Edinburgh, nobody at all—there was no other way—or so it seemed, but to approach you, sir. If I may be introduced to Miss Dinwiddie—that is all—it would be impossible to ask any more—if I may speak to her——”
The man was twisting his cap in his strong hands, wringing the water out of it on to the tiles of the grate, from whence it sent up a little cloud of steam. Mr. Dinwiddie watched him, fascinated. He was so bewildered by the strangeness of the interview that he could hardly follow the man’s words.
“Good Heavens!” he said at last. “Good Heavens! Who are you? This is most extraordinary—I don’t know what to say——”
“I know—I know! It’s dreadful—but what else could I do?”
“Where did you meet my daughter? How long have you known her?”
“I told you, sir, I saw her last night at the theatre.”
Mr. Dinwiddie gazed at him in amazement. It was no wonder to him that Fanny should have made another conquest, for she was the belle of Edinburgh—or so he had been led to believe—but this man had never even spoken to her. The thought crossed his mind that the man was mad.
“What else could I do?” demanded the man, looking earnestly at Mr. Dinwiddie. “What else could I do but come to you? There was no other way of meeting Miss Dinwiddie. I am a stranger to Edinburgh—I know nobody. There was no time to be lost—even now there may be somebody—perhaps she is already engaged to be married—I cannot believe——”
“You have chosen a strange hour to come and speak to me——” Mr. Dinwiddie began.
“I would have been here earlier.” said the man earnestly. “I would have been here this morning, but I had to go home and fetch the books.” He took from beneath his cloak two large, calf-bound ledgers and laid them on the table. “The trains are inconvenient,” he added, “and I had a long ride as well. But there was no use in coming to you without the books.”
“And what the devil am I to do with these books?” demanded Mr. Dinwiddie in bewilderment.
At this moment the door of the study was flung open and a young girl appeared on the threshold, a young girl in a primrose-yellow satin dress. The dress was of the latest fashion, with a tight-fitting bodice, and little puff sleeves, and a sweeping skirt which frothed round its wearer’s tiny feet in graceful flounces so that it looked for all the world like a frilly petalled primrose turned upside down. But if the dress were pretty, the girl was beautiful. She wore her dark glossy hair in loose curls on her forehead, and drawn into a knot at the nape of her graceful neck, her brown eyes were sparkling, her complexion was of milk and roses, and there was a bloom of youth upon her like the bloom on a grape. Her little ears peeped from beneath the soft curtain of her hair, faintly pink, like the inside of sea-shells. Her arms were white as snow, dimpled at the elbow and tapering into small perfectly shaped hands.
It was a vision which might well have bowled over the strongest man—even Mr. Dinwiddie, seasoned as he was to the charms of his younger daughter, was momentarily taken aback.
“Fanny!” he exclaimed rapturously.
She smiled, and the smallest whitest pearls showed for a moment between her lips. “Papa,” she cried, running up to him and laying her hand on his arm. “Papa, quick—the guests are arriving——”
Mr. Dinwiddie pulled himself together—“Fanny, this young gentleman——” he began, and then he stopped in bewilderment for the young gentleman had vanished.
“Who was it?” Fanny inquired, opening her brown eyes very wide and looking round the room. “Oh look, Papa, there are pools of water all over your carpet.”
“The young man was very wet.”
“He must have been,” Fanny declared. “Who was he, Papa?”
Mr. Dinwiddie opened one of the ledgers and read:
JOHN SHAW
SHAWS FARM, TORRISFORD
ACCOUNTS
Profit and Loss
He said, “That was Mr. John Shaw, my dear,” and followed his daughter upstairs.
The dance was a great success—even Mr. Dinwiddie, who knew very little about such matters, could see that his guests were enjoying themselves. He found himself thinking of Mr. John Shaw off and on during the evening, for the young gentleman had made an impression on his mind. His introduction to Mr. Shaw had not been altogether felicitous, but Mr. Dinwiddie had forgiven him and bore him no ill will. Indeed, it seemed to Mr. Dinwiddie, when he had time to consider the matter, that a young gentleman who was ready to brave the elements on such a night as this, and who came to do his wooing with his account books under his arm, might prove himself to be a good sound husband and a satisfactory son-in-law.
When Mr. Dinwiddie had time, he examined the account books with interest, and, although they were kept in a somewhat unconventional manner, he was able to satisfy himself as to the financial status of Mr. Shaw. There was no doubt at all but that Shaws Farm was an extremely well-run and paying concern. If Fanny liked this man she might do a lot worse. Mr. Dinwiddie was not at all anxious to lose his daughter, but he realised that she was bound to marry somebody, and there was a young Edinburgh gentleman—an impecunious and briefless advocate—who was giving him a good deal of anxiety. So Mr. Dinwiddie dipped his pen into the inkpot and wrote a short note—an extremely guarded and lawyer-like note—asking Mr. Shaw to call.
John Shaw called the following day. He was rather a quiet young man, but he was full of indomitable purpose, and he pursued Fanny with the same tenacity with which he had pursued her father on the night of the dance. Just at first he was extremely humble, and Fanny laughed at him and called him “the country cousin.” She found fault with his manners and his clothes, and teased him unmercifully. But Johnny did not mind the teasing; he took it in good part, since all he wanted was to see Fanny and be near her. His devotion never wavered, and Fanny began to depend upon him and to miss him if he did not come. It was extremely pleasant to have such an ardent admirer at her beck and call. He always arrived laden with flowers and chocolates, and was ready to do anything—or nothing—so long as he might have the pleasure of being near his divinity.
