The Loving Spirit

by Daphne Du Maurier

  ‘I hardly know - forgive me, I must have been mad. You advise me to propose to Miss Parkins, to offer her marriage?’

  ‘Certainly, old fellow. Damn bad form to do anything else.’

  ‘Oh! of course - of course. She is the soul of honour, I - really - phew! old man, I am in a regular state.’

  ‘Well, think it over. You can scarcely remain here without making a declaration. She must expect it.’

  ‘Impossible. She cannot have the slightest suspicion.’

  ‘I’m not so sure. Anyway, don’t lose heart over it. Pull yourself together if you get my meaning. No offence?’

  ‘Oh! None. Thanks, Harry.’

  The weeks passed and Christopher Coombe had not yet summoned up enough courage to speak his mind.

  Things might have gone on like this indefinitely had it not been for the return of Stanley from Africa on 26 April. Bertha had expressed a wish to join the crowd at Victoria Station and catch a glimpse of London’s idol, and her mother had refused until Christopher timidly offered his escort. This, of course, was another matter; Mrs Parkins smiled approval, and her daughter flushed with pleasure. Instantly there was an electric feeling in the boarding-house that the great moment was approaching. Black, the tallow merchant, took an extra glass of wine at dinner, and tried to hold Miss Tray’s hand under the table, much to that lady’s indignation; effeminate Mr Wooten summoned up sufficient virility to play cat’s cradle with May Parkins, and Mr Arnold Stodge read Ouida’s new novel aloud to his wife.

  Christopher and Bertha took up their usual positions by the piano to sing duets, while Miss Davis fluttered the music nervously.

  ‘It is a wonderful thing how your voice, Mr Coombe, and Bertha’s harmonize,’ she murmured daringly.

  Bertha lowered her eyes and Christopher’s heart leapt in his breast.

  Did it mean, could she possibly . . .?

  Miss Davis struck the opening bars, and Christopher’s light baritone joined Bertha’s clear soprano.

  O! that we two were maying,

  What feeling the young man put into his voice, what passion into the words! If he had not the courage to propose, he could at least declare himself in song. Bertha was smiling at him over the top of Miss Davis’s head.

  He felt that until this moment nothing in his life had held any value at all. Plyn, the country, his father, the ship, none of these had existed, he had been born merely to look into Bertha’s eyes and to read the answer to the question he dared not ask. He was swept with an affection for the boarding-house, for everyone in it, even old Black himself was a good fellow. And it was spring and he was twenty-three, and he was taking her tomorrow to see Stanley return; they would drive round Regent’s Park afterwards in a hansom cab - they would, if he threw himself in the Canal afterwards.

  O! that we two were maying

  Down the stream of a soft spring breeze

  And like children with violets playing

  In the shade of the whispering trees.

  ‘Charming, charming,’ said Mrs Parkins, feeling for her handkerchief.

  With hot trembling hands Christopher propped another sheet of music on the stand before Miss Davis.

  ‘Play the last verse slow and very soft,’ he muttered fiercely, and she nodded in sympathy, her heart beating.

  With his eyes aflame, and tremor in his voice, he plunged once more into song—

  I will give you a fine silken gown,

  Madam, will you walk,

  Madam, will you talk.

  Why must she shake her head in such determination. Could not she see that he was laying his very life at her feet?

  Miss Davis pressed heavily upon the soft pedal, her fingers scarcely touched the keys.

  With doubled ardour, his voice cracking with emotion, Christopher sang the last verse.

  I will give you the keys of my heart,

  And we will be married till death us do part,

  Madam, will you walk,

  Madam will you talk,

  Madam, will you walk and talk with me?

  The following evening Christopher and Bertha were packed tight in the crowd gathered outside Victoria Station.

  They caught one glimpse of the celebrated traveller, guarded from the cheering masses by a cordon of police, and then he was gone.

  ‘What a splendid figure of a man,’ exclaimed Bertha, her eyes shining. ‘Don’t you agree with me, Mr Coombe?’

  ‘I scarcely saw him, Miss Parkins, but I take your word for it of course.’

  They climbed into an omnibus that would take them in the direction of home. Christopher’s brain was afire with plans. It was impossible to return at once, the opportunity of being alone with Bertha could not be wasted thus.

  Presently they descended from the bus at the top of Baker Street, and Bertha was preparing to change into the next, when Christopher seized her arm.

  ‘Miss Parkins,’ he said hurriedly, ‘surely there is no need to be so pressed. It is a fine evening; would you consider it very improper if I suggest we took a little turn in Regent’s Park in a hansom?’

  ‘Oh! Mr Coombe - I hardly think - perhaps - it certainly would be very delightful.’

  ‘Then you don’t object? Hurrah! Pardon my excitement, dear Miss Parkins, I scarcely know what I am about. If we walk along we shall soon pick one up, in passing.’

  Ten minutes later, Christopher Coombe and Bertha Parkins were inside a hansom, driving briskly round the outer circle. Christopher glanced at his companion, muffled in her fur stole although it was April, and her hands hidden in her muff. Her veil was fastened tight to her hat. Forgetting himself, entirely losing his head, he stretched out his hand and took one of hers from the shelter of the muff. To his wild delight she did not remove it. She sighed, and drew her fur closer to her chin. Feeling that the world would crash for all he cared, Christopher said not a word, and they proceeded round the outer circle in silence. This was pure heaven; never, never had he known such ecstasy of bliss.

  He rose, and tapped on the ceiling. The cabbie lifted the trap and peered down. ‘Once more round the Park, please,’ cried Christopher firmly.

  He sat down again, and nerved himself for the ordeal in front of him.

  ‘Miss Parkins,’ he began, ‘Miss Bertha - I - can I call you Bertha?’

  A soft pressure of her hand was his answer.

  ‘You will hate me, despise me, for what I am about to say,’ he continued, ‘I have no right to weary you with my foolish notions. I’m not fit to touch the hem of your skirt let alone anything above.’

  Good God - what was he saying? This was not what he meant at all.

  ‘No - No - at least, not that - what I mean to say is - Oh! Bertha, would you rather - perhaps - shall we go home?’ He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket, and mopped his brow.

  ‘What are you trying to tell me?’ she said gently. Modesty forbade her to go further than this.

  ‘That’s just it - I’m not sure - confound it. Bertha, dear Bertha, forgive my expression. I do not know what I want to say - what I am longing, burning to say in fact. For months I have struggled with myself but in vain. I am convinced that I am now going to earn your distrust of me for ever, that this is the moment when my future agony will begin, never to end.’

  He paused, while she moved, ever so slightly, towards him.

  ‘Bertha, could you ever, could you possibly look upon me without - could you ultimately learn to—’ he choked, swallowed, blew his nose, and feverishly drew her hand to his lips.

  ‘Mr Coombe - Christopher - what do you mean?’ she murmured.

  ‘Bertha - I - I am asking you to be my wife.’ God! He had said it! For three minutes there was a pause, while Christopher cursed his brutish lack of tact. Then he drew her other hand from her muff and placed it upon his.

  ‘Christopher,’ she whispered, ‘how did you guess?’

  Guess? Guess what? He peered into her face.

  ‘That I am yours,’ she said, and hid her face in confusio
n. A wave of madness surged through Christopher. It could not be true. He had misunderstood. He . . . but no, she sat close to him and pressed his hand. His head swimming, he put his arm around her waist. Decorum fled to the winds, manners were forgotten, the ‘genteel’ ways he had learnt in the boarding-house existed no more.

  ‘Put up your veil,’ he whispered. She obeyed. Christopher struck his fist at the trap-door.

  ‘Drive half a dozen times round the Park, and slow about it,’ he roared.

  Then he took Bertha in his arms . . .

  And that is how Christopher Coombe declared his love for Bertha Parkins, in the year eighteen hundred and ninety.

  4

  —22nd, 1890 32, York Road,

  Nr. Camden Town

  My dear Father,

  I have been thinking of home all day, and felt that I must write and acquaint you with my great happiness, since I have been married.

  I received no letter from you in reply to mine, telling you of my engagement, and fear it may have gone astray.

  I enclosed with my letter a photograph of my betrothed, and was anxious to know that it had given satisfaction.

  I must confess that had I searched London throughout I could never find a better partner nor a more respectable family than hers. I shall leave you to judge my last sentence by the photo that will follow this, which includes her two younger sisters who were bridesmaids, and who were pleased to escort her from the altar after the ceremony. I need hardly mention they were taken in their bridal array.

  My wife and I intend to have our photo taken together shortly, which we will send to you. Our wedding took place on the twenty-sixth of August at Holy Trinity, Marylebone, and Bertha and I spent a very enjoyable honeymoon at Harrogate; this I need hardly say was her choice, for I would have dearly loved to return to Plyn and show her to you all, but, alas, it was not to be. I hope that this will be a pleasure to come, and when I have passed a further examination in the Government Postal Department, I shall feel entitled to a holiday. Should I not succeed, however, I will quit postal work, and turn my brains to something else. It is a tiring tedious business. You will wonder why my wife and I were not married sooner no doubt. Well, her mother was most particular on a four months’ engagement, and we carried this out to the very date, as you will observe.

  We have now been married nearly three months, and talking it over last night we decided that it seemed but three weeks, so you can well imagine our happiness. I quite understand my wife’s desire to live so close to her family, but I would greatly prefer to have her more to myself, which seems difficult, with the sisters and the friends from the boarding house running in and out. Still, I suppose this is natural enough. Bertha would not leave London for the world, so I could not dream of tearing her away. I so often long for the sight of Plyn, but it seems fated to be otherwise. I have given up the thought of hearing from you, and Albert and Charlie, you may tell Albie straight from me that he is no man and no brother for I have written to him many times asking after you, and I have never received an answer. Neither from him, nor from the others. I have done what I believed to be my duty and asked your forgiveness, but you seem to have hardened yourself against me. Please God in time I will prove to you that I am no weakling as you seem to consider, but an honest hardworking man, with a dear wife, and the hope of raising a family who will not be ashamed to bear the name of Coombe. Of course these are early times to predict as yet, and you will naturally think I have reasons for saying so, which is quite correct, I have but I must leave it until I write again when I will give you particulars. My suspicions may be unfounded, but I think not.

  I often think out of so many Coombes I am the only one who has wandered to London, and settled down, but let me advise them that the cost of living is high, and it is not such a grand place as folk would make out, very dirty and noisy.

  Well, dear Father, I have told you all the news I can think of.

  I must draw to a close, wishing you good health, and fond love to all from Bertha and myself.

  I remain,

  Your loving son,

  Christopher Coombe

  After the honeymoon and the settling down in the new house, with her mother constantly at her elbow to advise her, Bertha retained, successfully she considered, her gentle state of passivity and her notion of privacy, causing through her ignorance an insurmountable barrier, with Christopher a barred and lonely spirit on the other side.

  The influence of mother and sisters kept Bertha from responding to Christopher’s need of her.

  Left to herself, and Christopher as her only companion, she would probably have outgrown the customs and habits of the boarding-house, but the tenacity of the Parkins was too strong, and her upbringing and environment vanquished over her own scarcely perceptible emotions.

  One of the first proofs, observed by the hitherto unenlightened Christopher, as to his wife’s limited range of vision, was obtained in a very cursory manner, in a discussion on the Parnell-O’Shea divorce case. He had laid aside the evening paper and remarked how wretched it must be for a man of public character to have his private life drawn into the light, and used as a weapon against his career.

  ‘Oh! Christopher, how can you say such a thing,’ exclaimed Bertha. ‘I am surprised at you for defending a man like Mr Parnell, who appears to be entirely lacking in moral sense.’

  ‘That’s as may be, dear heart,’ he replied.‘I know little of him, except what people say, and that he seems an able politician and a leader of his party. But that his destiny, and maybe his country’s, should crash because he has lived with this lady out of wedlock, seems to me highly unjust.’

  ‘But Christopher, none of his party could possibly wish to follow him, or to place their trust in him, after he had done so terrible a thing. Their faith would die instantly.’

  ‘Why, Bertha - just because the man has loved a woman?’

  ‘Not because he loved her, though that is wrong in itself, seeing she was not at liberty, but that he gave in to this improper feeling and sinned in the doing of it.’

  ‘Dearest, he must have had a very strong affection for this Mrs O’Shea, possibly he could not exist without her, she may have been necessary to him in every way.’

  ‘Oh! nonsense, love, a man of strong will should control passion.’

  ‘But I dare say the passion, as you call it, was only part of his feeling for her, bound up in a hundred other emotions, all equally deep.’

  ‘Why, Christopher, they lived in sin - that is immoral and wicked. I wonder the papers dare print anything of it.’

  ‘Yes, dear, I know the law of the thing is wrong, and must not be condoned. But after all, they only did without the benefit of Clergy or State, what you and I do - and if we love each other why . . .’

  ‘Christopher - how can you?’ She rose to her feet, scarlet with confusion, her eyes ready to fill with tears.

  ‘Why - Bertha - my Bertha, what have I said to hurt you?’ he asked, holding out his arms to her.

  ‘Oh! I’ve never felt so - so humiliated in my life,’ she sobbed, and rushed from the room.

  Like every lover faced with his first quarrel, if it could be so called, Christopher was ready to blow his brains out, if by doing this he could make amends.

  He was prepared for her to descend with her hat and wrap, declaring she would return to her mother, when half an hour later she entered the room, her tears dried and her manner calm, and asked him meekly if he had washed, as supper was waiting. Christopher told himself that he did not understand women.

  Before the birth of his son Harold in the early autumn of 1891, he had many instances of his wife’s difference from himself. Bertha’s condition was shrouded in the utmost mystery by herself and her family, and to her husband, accustomed to the healthy, open atmosphere of the homes of Plyn, this was quite inexplicable. In Plyn, such matters were discussed continually before company.

  Christopher never forgot one evening returning home, very excited and pleased wit
h life and the thought of the future, and carrying in his pocket a small woollen cap he had seen in some fancy shop.

  He entered the parlour to find his wife, her condition obvious to the denset of persons, seated beside the tea table, surrounded by her mother, her two sisters and two ladies from the boarding-house, discussing the latest fashions.

  He listened for a while, joining in now and again, and then when there came a pause he suddenly remembered his purchase.

  He dived his hand into his pocket, and produced the miniature woollen cap. ‘Look,’ he said, smiling, holding up the cap for all to see, ‘won’t the little chap look a picture in this?’

  There was a moment’s horrified silence. Bertha flushed all over her face, the friends gazed steadily at their plates, while Mrs Parkins, rising to the occasion, stretched out her hand to the teapot.

  ‘I am sure you would like another cup, wouldn’t you, Christopher?’ she asked brightly. Hastily he replaced the cap in his pocket. ‘Thank you,’ he said in an awkward voice, and tried to hide himself behind a slice of bread and butter.

  What a stiff, unnatural atmosphere, and how difficult it was to know how to behave, according to the Parkins’s ideas of decorum and good taste. Still, he must consider himself a lucky man to have married anyone with such high standards, and with such superior breeding.

  The child was born in due course, and received the usual amount of praise and attention, and generally causing much fuss and commotion. The little Harold was closeted for hours with his mother and grandmother, while the father, an outsider of course, was treated with lofty scorn as one who had had no hand in the creation whatsoever.

  In the summer Christopher sat for his further examination in the Government Postal Department, and failed to satisfy the requirements of the board.At first he was greatly concerned and upset, blaming himself severely for not having studied sufficiently, previous to the examination, but on thinking the matter over he decided it was just as well, and that this provided an excuse to leave Postal work altogether.