The Loving Spirit Part 4

Early in the new year Thomas Coombe took Janet for a visit to Plymouth. He had been well paid for the turning out of a smart cutter in November, and pleased with his work and the money in his pocket, he considered there would be no harm in spending part of it on a holiday for himself and his wife. In those days it was quite a journey, especially in winter, and they were obliged to make their way by carrier's cart to Carne, and put up there for the night, going on to Plymouth next morning by coach - arriving there in the afternoon.

The two children were left in the care of Janet's mother. Janet had never in her life been away from Plyn before, and she was nearly dumbfounded at the big town. Thomas was delighted at her astonishment, and took much pleasure in showing her all there was to be seen, and professing himself the best guide in the world. He liked to show his familiarity with the names of the streets and the shops, though it was a good few years since he himself had been there.

'Why, mercy, Thomas,' she would say, 'how ever is it that you can recollect so many names, when all the streets look so alike, an' us never losin' ourselves at all.'

''Tes quite simple, Janie,' he boasted. 'It don't take a man like me long to get the hang of a place. I dare say it seems difficult for you, comin' from Plyn with no knowledge of anythin' bigger.'

'Well, I don't know about that,' says Janet, her chin in the air, 'an' it's terrible high an' mighty you'm considerin' yourself, all said an' done. Anyway, I knows the cliffs an' the woods round Plyn better'n you ever will, I reckon. If there's ever a bit of a mist, you'll be goin' round an' round in a circle, an' me home hours ago, layin' the supper.'

Thomas remained silent, for by now he had learnt Janet would ever have the last say in a matter. Nevertheless she was awed by the shops, and approved of Thomas's choice of a warm grey cape for her, and the pretty trim bonnet to match.

'Fancy the price,' she whispered in his ear, 'why 'tis no less than highway robbery.'

'I like you to have the best, my dear,' he said, as proud and lofty as Squire Trelawny himself. Many a man turned to look at her in the streets, as she walked with her arm in his.

She was a good-looker, was Janet, with her thick dark hair, her wide far-seeing eyes, and the determined mouth and chin. She carried herself like a queen. Thomas was aware of the glances cast at her by the many sailors about Plymouth, and he looked to see how she would take it. Generally she would walk beside him unaware, but once some fellow, probably the worse for drink, lurched purposely against her, and brushed her new cape with his dirty fingers.

Thomas wanted to interfere, but Janet took the matter into her own hands, and the sailor, expecting her to shrink back with a cry of fear, had a taste of her temper instead.

'You've forgotten your manners, my man,' she said swiftly. 'In Cornwall 'tes polite to take off your hat when you walk into a lady,' and before the man had time to reply she had seized his cap from his head, and flung it into the dirty water of the harbour. 'That'll clean the cobwebs for you,' she told him, and gathering her skirts in her hand, she made her way along the street, with Thomas behind her blus.h.i.+ng and a little ill at ease.

''Twas my place to have done that, Janie,' he reproved her. 'I admire you for your pluck, but 'twas scarcely a womanly action.'

'Would you have me leavin' his dirty paw on my new cape?' said she, in a proper fury, yet smiling in spite of herself at his red face. 'If you don't keep quiet I'll be sendin' your hat over to join his!' And Thomas knew that she'd keep her word, and care not a jot for his discomfort.

Nearly five days they were in Plymouth, and then time was up for them to be back.

Thomas placed their two bundles ready for leaving, when Janet, who had been looking out of the window in silence, suddenly spoke.

''Tes really fine an' glorious weather for the time of the year,' she said in a careless tone.

Thomas agreed, little realizing that he was falling into a trap.

'It's as calm on the water as if it were summer, I'm sure,' she went on. 'With a fine breeze we'd be in Plyn before night-fall, where as it is we'm obliged to delay in Carne for the evenin', till the cart comes for us tomorrow forenoon.'

'Aye, the waste of it. In summer there's boats go to and fro this part o' the coast, but o' course there's none this time of the year,' he told her.

'Ah! that's where you're wrong,' said Janet. 'There's a boat goes today. While you were fiddlin' in here, I went outside and spoke to the captain. The boat sails at noon, an' we'd be in Plyn by this evenin' for certain.'

Thomas rubbed his chin doubtfully. Janet had her chin in the air, and a glint in her eye he knew well.

'Supposin' it came on to blow hard?' he said weakly.

'Well, what if it did. I'm not afeard, are you?'

He made a last effort to withstand her.

'There'd be no room for us, Janie, we'd be i' the way.'

'Oh! no, there's no use in sayin' that, Thomas; it happens I've arranged it all with the captain, he'll take us willing.' And with that she seized the two bundles in her hands, bade a smiling good-bye to the lodging-keeper, and stepped from the house across the road, calling to him over her shoulder.

They made their way towards that part of the harbour where their boat was moored alongside the quay. Thomas had expected that Janet would have pleaded for one more glance at the shops before they turned their steps in this direction, but he was mistaken. His wife was not going to waste her time over ribbons and stuffs when there were s.h.i.+ps to be seen.

She lingered about the quays, admiring the forest of tall spars stretching to the sky, and surprised him with her knowledge of the names of the spars, and various parts of the rigging.

'You thought I spent my time learnin' to sew an' to cook, did you,' she said scornfully, 'an' me playin' truant all the while, an' running to the beach, with nothin' in my mind but to learn all I could about a s.h.i.+p.'

'It's a queer thing how you ever came to be the woman you are, Janie,' marvelled her husband.

She laughed and slipped her hand in his.

'I'm not so much changed, for all that,' she said softly.

At length they came to the s.h.i.+p Watersprite, and climbed aboard.

The captain made as if to help Janet, but she shook her head indignantly, and seizing her skirts in one hand and the rope in the other, she mounted the rough ladder that was hanging over the side. Once on deck she looked about her in interest, instead of descending at once to the cabin, which, as Thomas whispered to her, was the proper place for a woman. He himself fell to criticizing the lines and the build of the little s.h.i.+p, though he was careful to say nothing aloud.

In spite of what the captain had a.s.sured them, it was well two hours before they were under way, and nearly five in the afternoon.

'We shan't be home before midnight if we're home at all,' said Thomas, and he glanced uneasily at the sky where the clouds were gathering fast from the south-west.

'Looks like a change in the weather,' he said to the captain.

Janet was enchanted at the idea of a rough voyage, but Thomas was thinking of the children at home, and cursed himself for his weakness in giving way to her.

It was too late now to turn back, they were out of the Sound and heading for the open sea, with Rame Head away on their quarter.

'If it comes on thicker we shall have a job beatin' against it, eh, captain?' said Thomas.

'Oh! no, there may be a squall or two,' laughed the sailor, 'nothin' to hurt. There's no anger in it, as far as I can see. Should it come on bad we'll try for St Brides instead.'

But Thomas had no desire to spend the night at St Brides, and he scarcely trusted the captain's ability to find the entrance to the little harbour after dark, with the great projecting island outside it, barely a quarter of a mile to the westward.

It was dark soon and raining. Janet had been persuaded to go below, and to keep herself warm by the side of the small stove.

Thomas stayed with her, every now and then going on deck to find out what progress had been made.

The boat was rolling badly but neither of them was ill. They sat in silence, listening to the creaking and straining of the mast, and the sound of the wind and the rain.

Janet saw by Thomas's face that he was uneasy in his mind, and she blamed herself, but all the same there was a wild feeling in her heart to think she was on a s.h.i.+p in the middle of the sea, and that the wind held danger.

She would have liked to be on deck with the men, hauling at ropes and blistering her hands, or clinging with all her strength to the straining wheel.

'Why wasn't I born a man?' she thought. 'To be up there now i' the midst of it,' and she felt the fact of her s.e.x to be like a chain to her feet, as bad as the hampering petticoats around her ankles.

She longed for the other one to be with her tonight, he who was part of her, with his dark hair and his dark eyes so like her own. He who had not come yet, but who stared at her out of the future, and walked with her in her dreams.They would not be sitting like two prisoners in the cabin, they would be standing together on the deck, with their hair wild and soaked by the wind and the sea, and laughter on their lips. She could picture him with his hand on the wheel, and his eyes every now and again cast aloft to watch the trim of his sails, and then descending upon her with one warm swift glance.

Long legs and square shoulders like Thomas's, but heavier built and stronger. Then a beckon of his free hand to her, and his arm about her waist, and throwing back his head and laughing the way he did.

She knew the sound of his voice, low and careless-like, and the very smell and feel of his flesh.

Janet closed her eyes and prayed.

'Oh! my love, come soon - for it's weary and sore I am of waitin',' and when she opened her eyes she saw Thomas her husband standing before her, like the shadow and the reflection of the one she loved.

He came and knelt beside her.

'There's more beauty in your face tonight, Janie, than I've ever seen,' he whispered. 'Do you love the sea and a s.h.i.+p so well?'

She placed her hands on his shoulders, and drew him to her.

'It's something that's stronger than myself at times,' she said to him. 'Like in olden days when a woman felt the call upon her from G.o.d, to forsake all, her home, her life, an' maybe her lover too, for the sake o' givin' herself into His keeping, secure from the world within a convent's walls; the like of it comes to me, to wander forth from Plyn an' you an' our children, an' to sail away in the heart of a s.h.i.+p, with only the wind an' the sea and my dreams for company.'

He held her close, caressing her timidly with shy, nervous hands.

'You'm not unhappy, Janie, you'm not regrettin' we're wed, an' these few blessed years we've had together.'

'No, dear lad, nor never will.'

'Maybe I haven' been by your side as often as I should, these last times, since the business has been all my care. It's been over-much in my thoughts, I reckon. But Janie, my own dear wife, you're the light o' my eyes an' the sweet of my heart - I love you for your dear strange thoughts an' ways though I can't understand them; you wouldn' leave me altogether for your dreams, promise me you wouldn', and take yourself where I'd not be touching you no more.'

'Would you be lonely for me, lad?'

'Why, Janie, don't you reckon how I'd hunger for the feel o' you at nights, your blessed tender body which belongs to me, an' the touch of your hand on my heart, you in the house, your care for me an' the childrun - you, the livin' breathin' thing which means home to me.'

'No - I'll never roam from you i' the flesh, Thomas - I know as Janet Coombe belongs to her man, an' her childrun, an' Plyn itself. I'm rooted there like the trees in the shelter of Truan woods, an' nothin' can tear me from you.'

He leant his head against her, content with her answer, and Janet saw him resting against her in death as he did now, like a child asleep, while her restless spirit haunted the deep, flying with the gulls, and the song of the sea on her lips.

The captain appeared down the companion-way, and glanced into the cabin.

'You're welcome to turn in here an' make yourselves at home, you know. We shan't be in Plyn afore one or two i' the mornin', with this wind, but there's no danger an' you can sleep in peace till I calls you.'

Janet rose to her feet.

'Let's take one look at the sea, Thomas; I'm hungry for the feel of the air on my face.'

Together they climbed on deck and watched the scene around them. The wind had s.h.i.+fted more to the west, and the rain had ceased. The night was black save for the light of the stars. The s.h.i.+p plunged her way through the seas, happy and alive. No sign of land - nothing but the sea and the sky, and the sound of the wind in the sails. Janet stood in the bows of the s.h.i.+p, her cap streaming out behind her, her dark hair wild and tossed.

She looked like the figurehead of a s.h.i.+p.

Thomas caught his breath as he looked at her. She moved with the sway of the vessel, as though she were part of it. Thomas stood by her, and was aware of himself, troubled by her beauty. 'Janie,' he whispered, 'Janie.'

Beyond him, beyond the s.h.i.+p, beyond the sea she heard someone call, loud and triumphant, out of the darkness - like the voice of the wind.

'It's now that I'll come to you, NOW - NOW.'

She held out her hand, and felt Thomas beside her. 'Janie,' he was saying, 'Janie.'

She turned away from the sea, and drew his hand to her lips.

'Love me tonight.'

They went from the deck, and the s.h.i.+p plunged on through the darkness, one with the wind and the sea.

7.

In the latter part of the spring there were several bad gales off the Cornish coast, and many fine vessels foundered. Thomas Coombe, being s.h.i.+pwright as well as boat-builder, was busier than he had ever been in his life. He engaged more men to work under him, and there was never a moment when some vessel was not lying on the beach beside the yard slip.

Little Samuel, who was now five, spent most of his time watching his father and the men at their work. He was given an old blunt tool to play with, and was nimble enough with his fingers, for all his lack of years.

Sister Mary had already pa.s.sed her second birthday, and toddled about after her mother, with fat unsteady legs.

Janet blessed them for the lack of trouble they gave her, she feeling giddy and ill at times now, with another baby on the way. Both her sisters had married that year, and three weeks after the wedding of the youngest, old Mrs Coombe had died.

Janet said little to Thomas about her health. He was proud at the thought of another addition to his family, but his work at the yard prevented him from looking after his wife, and he was never in the house, except for his evening meal, and then straight to bed to sleep like a log.

Never before, either with Samuel or with Mary, had Janet felt so weak and tired in the early months. She was more concerned for the child than herself, and was afraid it would be born prematurely and die. The feeling of peace and security she had known before the birth of the two other children was not with her this time.

Her old wild, restless longings rose within her, and she wanted only to leave the house and her family, and take herself away into some silent far-distant place.

She no longer sat in the rocking chair, her work in her hands, content with the peace and warmth of her home, she would wander restlessly about the house, miserable at her weak state.

When the summer came, and the days were warm and long, Janet would leave the house and taking the children with her, climb laboriously to the top of the high cliffs above Plyn, and sit there for hours, watching the sea.

She longed for freedom as she had never longed for it; a throb of intense pain shook her being when she saw a s.h.i.+p leave the harbour of Plyn, her sails spread to the wind, and move away like a silent phantom across the face of the sea. Something tore at her heart to be gone too.

As the months slowly pa.s.sed this feeling became stronger and more vital, not a day pa.s.sed when Janet did not find some moment or other for making her way to the cliffs, and turning her head to the wind and listening to the sound of the sea. More than ever in her life she felt the urge and the desire to use her strength and to move swiftly, then she looked at her ugly misshapen body and bowed her head in her hands for shame that she had been born a woman.

Her nerves, usually calm and unruffled, were jagged and on edge.

The house seemed empty to her, she found no peace within its walls - it gave her nothing. She was short with Thomas and hasty with the children, they were all part of the chain that bound her to Plyn. Back to the cliffs she would roam, restless and miserable, searching for what was not; frightened at solitude yet craving it withal - her soul as sick as her body, and alone.

So the summer months drew into autumn, the early mornings were chill and drowned in a white mist, while at nights came the sharp frosts, heralding the approach of winter. Truan woods and the trees round Plyn were a riot of colour, and then the first leaves fell, s.h.i.+vering, rustling, a pale covering for the earth.The seaweed broke away from the rocks, and floated dull and heavy on the surface of the water. The rich brown and yellow autumn flowers became sodden with the soft autumn rain, and drooped their heads upon lean stalks.

Harvest was gathered in, the apples stripped from the orchards and stored in the dark lofts.

The birds seemed to have vanished with the summer sun, only the everlasting gulls remained, wheeling and diving for fish in the harbour, the long-necked solitary s.h.a.g, and the stout busy little puffins.The river was silent, save for the whisper of the trees when the leaves dropped to the ground, and the weird mournful cry of the curlew as he stood at low tide on the mud banks, searching for food.

Dusk came early, soon after six o'clock, and the people of Plyn closed their doors and their windows against the cold damp mist, leaving the night to wrap its shrouded blanket about their sheltered homes, heedless of the weeping sky and the lonely baleful owls.