Meanwhile, the father must have patience. Joseph was now fifty, and had not yet wearied of the sea or of his ship. 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 pass 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 ship 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’ fishing 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 shore 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, cocksure 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 ship 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 grass, 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 ship . . . 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, wishing 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, hell, 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 blushing 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 prickly brambles and one thing an’ another.’
‘There now, what a pity!’ she sighed.The golden curl slipped a little down her cheek.
‘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. Damn 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 distinguishing 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?’ an
d 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 passed 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 glass and watch him from her window; while he saw nothing of the houses he passed, nor the neighbours, nor the ships 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.
The Loving Spirit Page 17