The Loving Spirit Part 14

'Father's poorly,' she told him. 'He's up in bed and seems so weak. I don't know whether 'tis tiredness only or if I should call the doctor. Come up and see what you think.'

He found his father propped up by pillows, his face white and sunken, his eyes gazing vacantly to the open window, and his thin hands plucking nervously at the sheet.The veins stood out on his temples, and his lips were blue.'Is that you, Sammie?' he murmured.

Joseph knew at once that his father was dying.

'Fetch the doctor,' he said in a low tone to Mary, and she went at once, frightened and distressed.

'It's Joe, father,' he said gently, and going towards the bed he took his father's hand. 'Be there anythin' I can do for ye?'

'Back from the sea, boy, eh?' Thomas Coombe peered up at his son. 'I can't see ye without my spectacles, but I'm sure you'm well and hearty, an' glad to be home. Give my compliments to Captain Collins, that worthy man.'

'That's right, father. Why not try an' get a little sleep, dear?'

Thomas moved his head fretfully about the pillow. 'I ought to be down at the yard,' he said. 'They'll be launchin' that new boat tomorrow forenoon, and I'm blessed if those boys will do it proper. The Squire will be vexed if anythin' goes wrong, an' your brothers haven't the experience that's mine.'

Squire Trelawney had been dead twenty years, and his nephew lived up at the House now.

Joseph felt the tears coming into his eyes.They rolled down his cheek and into his beard.

The afternoon quietly faded, and the sky was streaked with crimson and golden patterns. They shone upon the surface of the harbour water. From the yard came the steady clanging of hammers, as planks were nailed into the ribs of some new s.h.i.+p. Presently Mary returned. The old doctor was dead, and this new one was a younger man, and a stranger to Plyn. He held Thomas's wrist and felt his pulse.

'I can't do anything for him,' he said gently. 'I'm afraid his time has come. There's very little life left, you see, and I think he will be gone in a few hours. There will be no pain. Would he care to see the parson?'

Mary threw her ap.r.o.n over her head and began to cry softly to herself. Joseph saw she would be the better for something to do.

'Go down to the yard and tell Sam and Herbie to come at once, and Philip too if you can find him at the office.'

Then when she was gone he took his place once more at Thomas's bedside. The old man muttered sentences from time to time, but it was impossible to catch what he said. The orange light dwindled in the sky. Long shadows crept across the floor. Suddenly the sound of hammers ceased down at the yard. Joseph knew that his brothers had been told.

With the silence Thomas spoke in a clear, firm voice.

'They've stopped work for the night,' he said, 'the boys will be comin' home to supper.'

'Yes, father.'

'I reckon as all will be quiet now, till mornin' agen, won't it Joe?'

'Aye, that's so, dear.'

For a few minutes there was silence, and then Thomas spoke again.

'I don't fancy as I'll read the Bible, not just at present. Seems as though my eyes is come over terrible dim, and I'll fancy restin' awhile. Maybe Mary'll read it later on, when I feels refreshed.'

'Just as you like, father.'

The house was very still. Down in the parlour below the old clock was ticking on the wall. Joseph could hear the sound through the thin boards of the floor.

Quietly the other brothers made their way into the room, followed by Mary. Philip had been impossible to find, and it was too far to run and fetch Lizzie.The tears were flowing fast down Herbert's cheeks, but Samuel knelt beside the bed and whispered in a low tone:'Be there somethin' you require, father?'

Thomas felt for his head in the gathering dusk.

'That you, Sammie? I'm glad you'm come. You'll have a tidy wrist for the saw if you practise hard, sonnie, but you must always heed my advice in all things, so see.'

His voice wavered uncertainly, he tried to raise himself on the pillow. 'How the evenin's do draw in for sartin, we'll be havin' the light for supper now regular. I can mind the time when 'twas sweet to feel the fall o' dusk on Plyn, and me, as a young chap in a tidy way, callin' your mother up to Castle ruin . . .'

He leaned back exhausted, and closed his eyes. The breathing came slow and harsh now, difficult to control. The three men waited beside their father, with Mary at the window. For a long time he did not speak, and the room was quite dark. No one thought of lighting a candle.

Then he spoke once more, his voice sounding immeasurably tired, and coming from far away.

'Janie,' he said, 'Janie, where are you to?'

Joseph bent low over the bed and watched his father's eyes. They opened wide and looked into his.

'You'll not be forsakin' me, la.s.s, I'm thinkin'.We'll bide a tidy while together, you an' I. D'you know that it's terrible strong the love I have for you, Janie, leavin' me all of a tremble at times like a flummoxed lad.' He held out his two hands and covered Joseph's eyes, and then sighed gently and so fell asleep.

Thomas Coombe was buried beside his wife Janet in Lanoc Churchyard, next to the thorn hedge and the old elm tree.Their tombstone stands today, high above the waving gra.s.s, with long stems of ivy cl.u.s.tered about their names. Beneath the inscription are these words in faded lettering: 'Sweet Rest at Last.'

In early spring the first primroses nestle here, and the scattered blossom falls from a forsaken orchard beside the lane.

8.

Albert Coombe had gone to sea beside his father the Skipper, and his cousin d.i.c.k. Charles was at a training camp for soldiers away in the Midlands somewhere. Only Christopher remained at home, pleading his health as an excuse for not going to sea. He was working down at the yard with his uncles and his three cousins, and imagined that he was wasting his time. Christopher could not banish the demon of restlessness that was ever at large within him. He loathed and detested the thought of being a sailor, his only experience these eight years ago had never been forgotten. He read the disappointment in his father's eyes. Every time Joseph returned the son was aware of the unspoken question that never pa.s.sed his lips. 'Will you come with me this time?' Then ashamed, miserable, half-rebellious at heart, Christopher would show his father that even if he was a poor sailor, he would make a splendid workman. Secretly he disliked the business, he dreamt of leaving Plyn and seeking his fortune farther afield, but had no idea how this could come about.

Meanwhile, the father must have patience. Joseph was now fifty, and had not yet wearied of the sea or of his s.h.i.+p. He was as strong and as powerful as he had ever been, with little trace of grey in his dark hair and beard. He had never known a day's illness. The only thing that troubled him occasionally was his eyesight. At times his right eye became sore and bloodshot, and the pupil greatly distended in size. He had no idea of the cause of this. Every now and again this eye would fail to register, as though there was a film partially obscuring the sight, and then all would be clear again, and the shooting pain that was part of the trouble would also pa.s.s away. Joseph said nothing of this to anyone; he refused to admit to himself that there might be anything serious connected with it, as obstinate as Janet herself had been with her faltering heart. Nothing mattered but that the Janet Coombe still held her high reputation as the fleetest schooner of Plyn, and that son Christopher would soon become a man.

Just before Whitsun of 1885, Joseph returned to Plyn after an exceptionally long voyage. He had been twice to St John's, Newfoundland, for fish, which had to be taken down to the Mediterranean, and then had secured good freights from St Michaels to the Mersey, making three runs. It was now the latter part of June, and he looked forward to a peaceful, happy time while at home before setting forth again. Christopher pulled out to the Janet Coombe as soon as the s.h.i.+p dropped anchor. Joseph looked about him with pleasure. There were several boats rowing up and down the harbour, and some children were bathing in the Cove beneath the Castle. Real glorious summer weather. He promised himself some days' fis.h.i.+ng round the bay, with Christopher perhaps at his side.

'Well, Chris, son,' he said, 'it's good to be back again for a spell, eh Albie? You sh.o.r.e folk don't appreciate home like we poor sailors.'

Christopher flushed, and bit his lip. Joseph noticed this at once, and cursed his tact. Poor dear lad, after all it was only his health that kept him from the sea.

'What's the news, son?'

'Sister's well, and brother Charlie writes pleased enough from barracks. Both aunties are in good health an' lookin' forward to seein' you up home. We've a lot of work on at the yard, and cousin Tom and James and I are working on a boat from morning till night, so I'm fearin' I shan't be able to be with you as much as I'd hoped, father.'

'Never mind, Chris, I like to know as you'm busy, an' your uncles are pleased with you.'

'They say that Uncle Philip is courting at last, but who the party is I cannot say.'

'Philip courtin'?' Joseph threw back his head and roared with laughter. 'The man is crazy. Why, I reckon he doesn't even know how to handle a woman. If he gets one it'll be for sake of his riches, and not for his lovely person.'

The boys laughed, and Joseph went off to the office highly amused at the thought of his youngest brother in love.

Philip received him with his usual superior smile, and waved him to a chair. Joseph made no bones about the matter, and tackled him at once. 'So you'm goin' to bow to petticoat rule at last, be you, Philip?' he said, winking, and holding out his hand.

Philip went a dark crimson.

'I have no idea what you mean,' he said slowly.

'Oh! come, my dear fellow, none of your airs an' graces with me. Let's have a look at the lady, I'll soon tell you if she's bed-worthy or not.' Joseph nearly choked with delight to see his brother wince at his expression. It reminded him of the old days when he had hurt his feelings over some book.

'There old chap, I didn't mean to be aggravatin'. I'm sure I'll be highly pleased to see you settle down and be human, an' your wife'll be a lucky woman. Now to business.'

Joseph would have thought no more of the matter, and, indeed, at once dismissed it from his mind. But Philip had taken his jest in the wrong way. He was filled with loathing for this conceited, c.o.c.ksure elder brother, who had always had any woman he had fancied.

He resented his height and his still obvious powers of attraction, he would have lost half his fortune to see Joseph show some signs of middle age.When the accounts of the s.h.i.+p were settled, and Joseph was preparing to depart, Philip, like a narrow-minded, spiteful woman, could not resist flinging a venomous dart.

'It's true I may be settling down shortly, Joe,' he said, 'and I look forward to many happy years beside a young wife. I'm in the lucky position to be able to give a woman anything she may take a fancy for, a large house and servants. I wonder you don't marry again, some good hard-working soul of your own age. You're fifty, aren't you, brother? You'll have to think of retiring soon and letting a younger man take your place. Good afternoon. My respects to your family.'

'Dirty little worm,' thought Joseph to himself. 'By Jesus, I'd like him to see who's the younger man when it comes to a fight, him or me. He's not quarter of a man, an' can only fall back on words to keep his countenance.'

Nevertheless Joseph could not forget his brother's closing sentence. He climbed up to the Castle ruins and thought it out. Yes, heavens above, it was true in a way. He was fifty, a middle-aged man, and he had never realized it.

His boys were grown up or nearly, and yet he still felt as young as they did. Philip was a fool. A man is as old as he feels, and Joseph felt thirty, at times younger. He leaned back on the gra.s.s, and lit his pipe. Pity Katherine the child was not yet at a more companionable age, but she was still at school. Anyway, she was a queer little thing. The two nieces were well-meaning, but a trifle heavy on the hand. He must look up Lizzie tomorrow, and see how that attractive boy was shaping.

From where he lay he could see Janet Coombe riding to her buoy. What a beauty she was, with her sheer, and her long lines. Janet's s.h.i.+p . . . He sighed and closed his eyes, longing for her at his side.

The bell chimed out the hour from Lanoc Church; he supposed he must make an appearance at his home, and also call on the brothers at the yard. He emptied his pipe, stretched himself, and rose to his feet, wondering idly where Christopher had vanished to.

Suddenly a faint cry caught his attention.

He looked towards the direction from where the sound had come, and saw someone huddled in a little heap by the stile to the cliff walk. He at once walked to the spot, and saw that the person was a girl, with a basket on her arm filled with primroses, and she was weeping, clutching at her foot.

'What's come over you, my dear?' he inquired, and knelt beside her, feeling her ankle.

The girl ceased sobbing, and looked up at him from under her hat. He saw a pair of large troubled hazel eyes, and coils of red golden hair twisted about her ears.

'I hurt my leg jumping the stile,' she said shyly, 'an' when I tried to walk it pained me something terrible.'

'Ah!' said Joseph, not taking his eyes off the golden curl that crept about her cheek.

'That's a bad business. Let me touch it an' see if 'tes strained.'

He moved his hand about the foot and ankle, and the girl seemed to show no sign of pain.

'I reckon it's not strained, merely a twist,' he said, wis.h.i.+ng she would look up at him again.

'I'm glad of that,' she smiled. 'Maybe if I bide here awhile I'll be able to walk home.'

'Not on your life,' said Joseph coolly, and he picked her up in his arms as if she were no more than a child. The girl blushed, and Joseph noticed this. He also noticed the long golden lashes that swept her cheeks when her eyes were lowered. He tightened his hold, and her head rested on his shoulder.

'Tell me your name if I may be so abrupt,' he asked her.

'Annie Tabb, Captain Coombe.'

'How d'you know who I am?' he said curiously.

'Why, mercy, everyone knows you in Plyn,' she smiled.

'Are you Reuben Tabb's daughter?'

'Yes, for sure, the second girl. There's eight in family.'

Joseph had been at school with Reuben Tabb, and this was his child. That took him back a bit, a good many years. Oh, h.e.l.l, he was middle-aged, Philip was right. As old as this girl's father- 'And what's your age, Miss Annie, makin' so bold as to inquire?'

'Just turned nineteen, Captain Coombe, but folks say I look younger, which is most vexing.'

Joseph glanced at her pouting mouth and laughed.

'D'you like to be old?' he said, teasing her, 'and crawl about the town with a shawl on your shoulders and a lace cap on your head?'

'You're playing with me, Captain Coombe,' the girl turned away her head and frowned. 'I mean I likes to be taken for a young woman and not a silly child.'

'That's easy enough,' whispered Joseph slyly, watching her face. She was blus.h.i.+ng again, and biting her lip.

'Where d'you live?'

'Just round the corner, the third house over there with the cream curtains. Oh! please let me go, I shouldn't care for folks to see us, and I'm sure I can walk - now.'

'Why not let me take you a little farther - as far as the gate?'

'No. Oh! no.'

Joseph put her down.

'Are you feelin' strong?' he asked her.

'Yes, honest, Captain Coombe. 'Tis nothing at all, for the fuss I made up the field.'

She held out her hand to him.

'You've got a nice load of primroses here, I see,' said Joseph, searching about for some reason to detain her.

'Yes, they're my favourite flowers.'

'Will you be wantin' any more, I wonder?'

'Oh! certain. I expect I'll be goin' up tomorrow to the hedges to get another basketful.'

Joseph took a handful and examined them carefully. 'Why, these baint nearly fresh enough. You don't find the best 'uns in the cliff hedges. Now down by Polmear Valley there's some beauties, only you'd never get there by yourself, with all those p.r.i.c.kly brambles and one thing an' another.'

'There now, what a pity!' she sighed.The golden curl slipped a little down her cheek.