The Loving Spirit Part 15

'Listen here,' he said carelessly, 'you mustn't go ruinin' your clothes down i' the Valley, all by your lonesome.And it's wicked to waste such primroses. I'll walk that way with pleasure, if you've a mind for the stroll, an' see you don't scratch those pretty hands of yours.'

'Oh! Captain Coombe, I wouldn't think . . .' began the girl, casting down her eyes demurely, and hanging her head. 'Did you ever?' she thought to herself, and her heart beat excitedly because of this tall handsome sailor, with his warm eyes that made her heart feel daft like a bleating sheep.

Joseph made great pretence of sighing, watching her out of the tail of one eye.

'Ah! well, it can't be helped.The flowers must fade for want o' pickin'. Good evenin', Miss Annie.'

He was turning away when she called him back.

'Wait - wait a minute, Captain Coombe. P'raps if 'tes fine tomorrow evenin', I'll be walkin' that way with a basket.'

She spoke a little breathlessly, the colour flaming into her cheeks. Joseph looked at her feet, and allowed his gaze to travel up the whole of her until he reached her eyes.

'There's somethin' tells me there won't be no rain tomorrow, an' it's terrible pleasant to rest in the shade of the Valley,' he called softly.Then he went away, and strode down the road, while she watched him out of sight.

Joseph rolled a quid of tobacco and stuffed it in his cheek. And Philip had said he was fifty ... What a cursed fool the man was; why, he felt twenty-five, younger than he had ever felt in his life. He threw back his head and laughed. It was good to be back in Plyn.

O! where are ye goin' to, my pretty maid-O! where are you goin', my honey he whistled, and waved his hand to an old man leaning over a garden gate. He was young, young . . .

Joseph woke the next morning with a strange feeling in his heart. He sprang out of bed and wondered why it was he pulled aside the blind with such an eager hand to glance at the blue sky overhead, and note the direction of the wind. Then he remembered Annie Tabb, and cursed himself for a fool, though pleased enough for all that.

Joseph sang as he dressed before the open window. He was overcome suddenly with a love for Plyn and a joy of living. Long days stretched out before him, with Christopher perhaps busy, but somehow he felt that his hours would not be lonely or empty. He went down to breakfast in a very cheerful frame of mind, chatted gaily with his two nieces, who were so alike he could scarce tell them apart, walked with his daughter Katherine up to school and bid her be a good girl and learn her lessons well, then strolled round to the yard for a chat with his brothers Samuel and Herbert.

At four o'clock Joseph turned his back on Plyn, and strode away over the fields as though his legs would not carry him quickly enough, although he knew he was an hour before his time.

As he heard five strike from Lanoc Church above him, he emptied his pipe and straightened his collar, and looked towards the path that led to the stile on which he leaned. His hands were hot and his feet were cold. d.a.m.n her, she wasn't coming, the little flirt. At twenty past five he saw a figure with a basket on her arm making her way through the fields. He took a newspaper from his pocket and pretended to read.

When Annie reached him he pretended not to see her.The girl put out her hand timidly and touched his arm.

'Captain Coombe,' she said shyly.

Joseph made play of starting, and lowered his paper. 'Bless my soul,' he said, 'so you've turned up after all. Well, I must say I never expected you.'

Annie pouted and withdrew her hand. 'If you don't care for my company I won't worry you,' she answered, deeply hurt, and was for drawing off by herself. But Joseph calmly took her basket from her, and without a word lifted her over the stile, putting her down the other side, flushed and indignant.

'You've rough manners, Captain Coombe, with never as much as by your leave,' she began.

'It's a way we sailors have,' he told her, hiding his laughter, and set off along the Valley with her beside him.

The world could go hang now for all he cared.

It was a funny thing that with two of them at the work they should take so long to fill one basket, and also rest as often as they did. Then Annie saw some tall wild iris growing the other side of the stream, and cried out that she wanted them and must have them. So Joseph strode through the water, soaking his boots, and began to pluck them for her, and then came over very foolish and said she must come there with him, for he was no hand at distinguis.h.i.+ng the ones she liked.

'No, I can't, for 'tes dirty, an' I've no mind to be bedraggled in my best gown.'

'Oh! 'tes your best, is it?' said he. 'Well, I'm mighty pleased at the compliment, for there's few women who'd risk their skirts down in the Valley, because a sailor asked for her company.'

Then Annie protested she had not put it on for him, but Joseph, conceited fellow that he was, cared not a jot for her denial, and asked whether she'd join him over the stream.

'No, I'll not be wettin' my feet;' she shook her head, and with two splashes he was at her side again, picking her up in his arms and bearing her across. 'Least said, soonest mended,' he whispered in her ear, and proceeded to stagger under her weight and breathe loudly, and protest she was too much for him.

Then Annie said no one had ever called her heavy before, and he vowed if any other man had as much as touched her he'd knock his face in for him. So they both laughed, and then came to rest on a bank where the iris grew next the stream, and Joseph spread his coat for her to sit on, while he squatted on the edge and took hold of her hand, saying she had wounded it on a thorn.

''Tisn't true, Captain Coombe,' said Annie, ''tes a middlin' sort o' scratch that I did hasty-like last night with my brooch.'

'Well, I must see the brooch,' said Joseph. 'Is this it?' and he bent towards the fancy piece of jewellery that was pinned at the lace collar round her neck.

'Yes,' she murmured; 'no, you can't touch it,' for he was about to unclasp it, and that would mean him leaning very close indeed, which would make her come over awkward, though she hoped for it all the same.

He sat back on his heels, and watched her, while she rested, a little disappointed that he had made no attempt to kiss her, which was just as Joseph intended her to feel; and when he glanced at her for an instant, and saw the look in her eye, he smiled to himself and knew he would have her.

And the evening pa.s.sed very pleasantly, with no love-making in words, and in a flash it seemed they were walking home across the fields, both remembering the four stiles that had to be crossed, and glad that there was no other way back to Plyn.

Joseph went with her to her garden gate, very correct and as he should be, and said they must go walking again some time when it suited her, and then, as there was no reason for him to linger, he made his way down the hill, sending Annie to her room in a flutter of excitement to peep at herself in the gla.s.s and watch him from her window; while he saw nothing of the houses he pa.s.sed, nor the neighbours, nor the s.h.i.+ps at anchor in the harbour, nor even heard the voice of Christopher calling him from the yard, but only a girl that had never been kissed yet by any man.

9.

Joseph was in love. He was more blindly and pa.s.sionately in love than he had ever been in his life. He could not remember having wanted anyone as he now wanted Annie Tabb of Plyn, just nineteen, and only five years older than his own young daughter. His age made little difference to him.

His marriage with Susan had been the result of a longing to be understood, an unconscious craving to rest his head in her lap and forget his loneliness. In this she had failed him, and perceiving his tenderness unwanted he had loved her casually, carelessly, without feeling, and the last eleven years of their married life he had been no more to her than the bread-winner, and she his housekeeper. Now, all the natural instincts, repressed for so long, were awake once more, and Joseph could neither sleep nor eat for the one thought that tormented him night and day - that he must have Annie, and that nothing in the whole world mattered but this. He wors.h.i.+pped her youth and her beauty, he longed to be able to share this and become part of it. In the old days women and girls had been the same to him, he had thought nothing of their years but only of a certain look in their eye which meant they understood what he was after. Now, all was changed.

The thought of Annie's innocence and inexperience tormented him. Why had he never understood this before? Joseph did not realize that his fifty years made these qualities so precious, and that twenty years back he would have scorned them as worthless and uninteresting.At thirty he desired Susan, older than himself, to care for his wants. Now at fifty he desired Annie, like a symbol of spent youth in which to recover himself, to turn his back on the spectre of age which lay ahead, and to linger in this fair land of promise by his side.

So while son Christopher toiled in the yard, restless and discontented, aching for some sort of freedom, Joseph the father hung about by a certain garden gate, one moment believing himself in heaven, and the next unwittingly plunged in the depths of despair. There seemed to him no possible reason why a beautiful young thing like Annie Tabb should return his pa.s.sion, unless it was from sheer concentration and will-power on the part of himself, thought Joseph, as he paced to and fro at the top of the hill - after the child had kept him waiting for nearly three-quarters of an hour, and then when she did appear with a heightened colour and s.h.i.+ning eyes, excusing herself, his dark mood instantly vanished and he was certain that it would only be a matter of days before she gave way to him. Often in the evenings now they would stroll across the fields to Polmear Valley, Annie making the excuse at home that she was walking with a girl acquaintance, for she doubted her parents' approval of this bewildering friends.h.i.+p with Captain Joe, who, for all their difference in age, would scarcely be accepted as a suitable companion by those who remembered his early escapades. She herself had often listened to the shocking tales her aunts told one another, middle-aged married women now, of twenty and thirty years back when Joseph Coombe had run wild in Plyn, and though this bearded widower was respected enough now, she could not help feeling secretly that he was little changed, especially when he looked in her eyes and held up his arms to lift her over a stile. The thought that she was playing with fire, of whose power she was uncertain, thrilled young Miss Annie, and turned her head. What did it matter after all? Folks hadn't noticed them walking of an evening, and she didn't care about anything as long as she knew her handsome skipper was waiting for her at the top of the cliff path. All his family had noticed Joseph's high spirits, but they none of them guessed the reason. Christopher was greatly relieved to see his father made no attempt to question him on when he would go to sea, and Albert, surmising that the Janet Coombe would not be sailing again for some weeks, took the opportunity of slipping away and visiting his brother Charles in camp.

Mary and Martha found their uncle excessively pleasant and agreeable this time, and not nearly as frightening and overbearing as he was generally. Even Katherine forgot her natural awe, and looked upon her father as someone human after all, instead of a tall gruff stranger, who hardly recognized her when he pa.s.sed her on her way from school.

Joseph scarcely knew himself. He began to dress with greater care, and to take some sort of a pride in his appearance. He noticed with satisfaction that his dark hair was free from grey.

There was a glorious spell of weather at the moment, and he would wake up in the mornings and hear the gulls shouting 'Annie,' and the waves calling 'Annie' as they broke against the rocks; even the soft summer breezes whispered her name, and the air was full of her.

In a week it would be Whitsun and holiday, and this was the limit of time he had imposed upon himself. On the Sat.u.r.day before the holiday Joseph had occasion to step into the office of Hogg and Williams (the name had not been changed) to see his brother Philip over some matter of insurance which was due. To his surprise Annie Tabb came out of the door as he was about to walk in. She flushed when she saw him, and would have made her escape, but he barred her way and would not let her pa.s.s.

'Why, whatever are you doin' in the office?' he asked jokingly. 'Thinkin' of becomin' a s.h.i.+powner?'

'No, Captain Joe,' she said. 'And there never was such a man as you for askin' questions, one way an' another. I had to go in with a message to Mr Coombe from my mother.'

'Sakes alive!' said Joe. 'So you know brother Philip, do you? And what do you think of him?'

Annie twisted her handkerchief. 'I consider him a real gentleman, and very agreeable. He's always polite and attentive, and knows just the sort of things a girl requires. Look, he gave me this bracelet for my birthday.'

Joseph frowned, very much taken aback. 'How long have you known him?' he asked, somewhat roughly.

'Why, deary me, I really forget,' laughed Annie affectedly. 'He often comes of a Sunday up to our place and drinks a dish of tea with mother and me. I must have told you that before now, Captain Joe.'

'That you never have, Miss Annie, I'll lay my oath on it.'

'Well, it ain't such a grand matter for all I can see, Plyn bein' a smallish place an' neighbourly. An' now I must be step-pin' along back.'

'Don't you forget you'm comin' to the fair with me Monday night?'

'No - there, I never promised.'

'I reckon you did, you little flirt.'

'An' don't call me names, or I shan't speak to you. We'll see about Monday - I'll think it over.'

He would have none of this play though, and held out his arm to prevent her.

'You've got to say "Yes" about the fair Monday afore you leave this buildin'.'

'Oh! Captain Joe, you're impossible.'

'Say "Yes" - Annie.'

'Well, I never did - it's Christian names now, is it?'

'Say "Yes" an' quick about it, or you'll be late home, I reckon.'

There was a silence for a moment while they both pretended to be angry.

'Oh! bother you. I'll come,' said the girl at length, never having had any intention of refusing, of which Joseph was well aware. So he stepped aside and allowed her to pa.s.s, and then walked into his brother's office, smiling foolishly like a drunkard. Philip was seated at his desk, idle for once, with his hands clasped behind his head, and gazing apparently into s.p.a.ce. He too was smiling, but neither brother was aware of the other's appearance.

'How do, Joe?' said one.

'Well enough, thank ye, Philip,' replied the other.

'Weather's very seasonable. I hope it holds over the holiday. '

'Aye, 'twill be a sore pity if it should come to rain, spoilin' folks' enjoyment an' all.'

Both brothers hoped to end the interview as soon as possible, for they were neither of them at ease in one another's company.

'Well, that's that,' said Joseph, as he blotted some doc.u.ment, and wiped his inky fingers on his handkerchief. Writing and signing anything was a labour he detested.

Philip scanned it carefully, and placed it away in a drawer. He glanced at his brother, and grudgingly admitted to himself he had never seen him in better health.

'What do you find to do with yourself in your spare time, Joe?' he inquired with some curiosity. 'Plyn must seem a dull little hole compared to places abroad.'

'It baint so bad for all that,' smiled Joseph, 'an' I find my hours filled pleasantly enough. You're the queer one, Philip, a regular dark horse in my opinion. n.o.body ever sees you when you've shut up the office. D'you still read as much as you did in the old days?'

'Yes - a pretty fair amount, but I've been thinking of other things lately. I'm not so old that I make myself into a hermit, you know. I'm still a comparatively young man.'

Joseph was tickled at this. He remembered the story of Philip's courting, which he had put out of his mind.

'I s'pose you'll be springin' a marriage on us all, sudden like, one of these days, Philip?' he laughed.

The brother made no attempt to conceal a smile of satisfaction.

'Perhaps, Joe - perhaps. In fact I may say it is extremely likely that I shall take the plunge in the near future.'

'Providin' the lady is willin' of course,' teased Joseph.

'Providing she is willing, naturally. But I think I can safely say I have no fears on that score.'

'Well, it's a wonderful consolation when you're in love to know that the sentiment is returned,' pondered Joseph. 'Though I often consider uncertainty is part of the excitement myself.'

'What a statement coming from a man of fifty,' said Philip cuttingly. 'Haven't you put all these ideas out of your head yet?'

Joseph laughed.

'Never make certain of a woman until you've got her, Philip,' he said. 'There's all my years' experience for you, an' wis.h.i.+n' you luck.'

'Oh! nonsense, Joe, things are changed nowadays. It's position that a woman seeks, and a house and servants; if a man can offer his future wife these things, there's no need to bother about anything else, she'll come to him willingly enough.'

'Think so? I rather doubt it, Philip. There's mighty little consolation in fine furniture if you've a cold bed-companion. Let's hope you'll make a good job of it, though I reckon a few lessons from an expert would do you no harm.'

'It's evidently impossible for you to rise above coa.r.s.eness, Joe,' said Philip. 'I admit her youth is a very great attraction to me, and her physical appearance is - blinding, to say the least of it. I'm convinced I have only to say the word and she will accept. Besides, I have a certain amount of influence with her family.'

'When are ye thinkin' of gettin' yourself spliced, then?' asked Joseph.

'Well, I haven't actually decided,' replied Philip coolly. 'I had thought of speaking my mind after the holiday.'

Joseph visualized the conventional scene. Philip standing in the parlour, very stiff and formal, with the young lady seated in a chair, as prim as b.u.t.ter. A fine Whitsun triumph. While he, Joseph, would be riding a whirlie horse with his girl before him, then carrying her away to the silent cliffs. What was Philip saying?

'. . . so I am quite certain she will not refuse me. Every girl wishes to better herself, and she'd be a little fool if she turned me down. Here, Joe, I've got her likeness here in my desk. Stole if off her mother. I suppose she's young enough to be your daughter . . .'

Joseph looked over his brother's shoulder straight into the face of Annie Tabb.

'Christ Jesus-'

'Yes - she's a little beauty, isn't she? It doesn't do her justice though. Now if-Why, where on earth . . .' Philip rose to his feet in astonishment and ran to the door. But Joseph was gone. He was half-way along the street, and already turning the corner and up the hill. He reached the summit just as a girl was about to turn in at her garden gate.

'Hullo! You again, Captain Joe?'

'Come here,' he said unsteadily. 'You'll have to be late for your dinner, because I want to talk to you. Come away to the cliff for a minute, I won't keep you long.'

He was dragging her by the hand. 'What in the world has come over you?'

He made no answer, but waited until they came to a seat, some distance from the Castle, where he sat her down beside him.

'My brother Philip has been making love to you,' he began at once.