The Loving Spirit

by Daphne Du Maurier

  ‘I hardly think Horace Tupton would do that, Mamma. He is very serious-minded, and must be well over fifty.’

  ‘How ignorant you are, Bertha. That’s just the age men become foolish with young girls. I shall never forget a most unpleasant occurrence that happened to me years ago in a railway carriage, and I was married too. However, that is not the point. The point is, I wouldn’t trust Jennifer at all. She may have introduced this horse-breeding subject and led Mr Tupton to believe heaven knows what.’

  ‘Oh! dear, so you really think so? I shall certainly tell her to be more careful in the future.’

  ‘If we want to see Jennifer married, Bertha, I must confess she is not setting about it in the right way. No nice-mannered man would dream of proposing to a girl who showed such a familiarity with the facts of life. He would be repulsed at once. He might suspect almost anything. Horse-breeding, indeed, what nonsense.’

  At that moment Jennifer walked into the room. She was smiling, and carrying her hat in her hand.

  ‘Hullo!’ she said, ‘I’ve got a job.’

  Bertha started from her chair in astonishment.

  ‘Jenny - what on earth do you mean?’

  ‘She’s got what, she’s got what? I can’t hear a word you say.’ Grandmamma leaned forward angrily, her chin wobbling with emotion.

  ‘I’ve got a job,’ repeated Jennifer. ‘I start tomorrow morning at nine o’clock.’ She balanced herself on the arm of a chair and watched their faces.

  ‘I don’t think it’s at all nice of you,’ said Bertha immediately. ‘And I simply don’t understand your attitude. To go off calmly on your own and arrange your plans as though you were twenty-one and independent, while Grandmamma and I sit here worrying over you and wondering what’s to be done, and . . .’

  ‘Yes, but Mother, listen a minute. You and Grandmamma sit here and worry but you don’t do anything. After all, why should you? So I just went out and did it for you.’

  ‘But there’s no need for it,’ persisted her mother. ‘Grandmamma sees you have everything you want, I’m sure. Why, that pretty hat you have, that was new three weeks ago. The whole thing reflects on me, it looks as though I didn’t want you here in the daytime. Jennifer, you have hurt me very much.’

  ‘Mother, please don’t make a scene. There’s nothing scandalous in getting a job surely. Why, everybody does something nowadays. Quite rich girls who live on big allowances - they’re all doing it. I know it wasn’t considered the thing years ago, but you said the other day the war had changed everything.’

  ‘What does she say, Bertha?’

  ‘Oh! dear, oh! dear. Jennifer says although it was considered shocking years ago quite rich girls think nothing of doing it now. She says everybody does it.’

  ‘Doing it? Doing what? I never heard of such a thing! What a wicked, immoral statement. Can’t they wait until they are married, good gracious, why I ...’

  ‘No, no, Mamma. Jennifer says all girls have jobs since the war. I don’t know what to think about it. If only poor Christopher was alive - I wonder what he would have to say.’

  ‘Daddy would be pleased,’ said Jennifer hastily. ‘I know he would, so it’s no use shaking your head like that, Mother. And anyway, I’ve got the job, and I’m going tomorrow morning at nine o’clock, so why must we go on talking it over. Nothing you say will make me change my mind.’

  ‘You are a hard, obstinate girl, Jenny. I had no idea you would grow up so callous to my wishes. I wish I knew where you get that horrid, wilful streak from - your daddy was never like it, nor the two boys. I shall begin to think you take after your cruel, disagreeable grandfather.’

  ‘Who’s talking about her grandfather?’

  ‘Not Papa, dear, I was referring to poor Christopher’s old father who treated us all so shamefully.’

  Jennifer slid off the arm of her chair. ‘I don’t seem very popular so I’ll go upstairs.’

  ‘Wait, Jenny, you haven’t told us what it is yet, this precious job.’

  ‘Yes, Jennifer. Come now and confess, unless it’s something you are too ashamed to admit.’

  ‘Oh! it’s nothing to be ashamed of. I’m going to be an assistant to a vet - a sort of kennel maid.’

  There was a moment’s horrified silence. Jennifer slipped quietly from the room.

  ‘A kennel maid,’ Bertha gazed helplessly at her mother.‘Can you imagine anything more appalling? She might pick up fleas or anything. Messing about all day with unhealthy animals. I have never been so worried in my life. Really, sometimes I wonder if I ought to take Jennifer to see a doctor, she may be the smallest bit peculiar. Oh! Mamma, what are we going to do about this business?’

  ‘Peculiar? What nonsense, of course she isn’t peculiar. I’m wondering what sort of aged man he is, this vet of hers . . .’

  The following day Jennifer, in a white overall, was helping a sad-faced middle-aged man, also dressed in a white coat, while he made an injection in the side of a pitiful screaming cat that had been run over two minutes before.The man asked her if she could stand it.

  ‘Yes,’ said Jennifer, clenching her teeth.

  She put out her arms for the whimpering, bleeding cat, and held it close to her, with calm, accustomed hands.

  For eight months Jennifer was an assistant to Mr Macleugh, the veterinary surgeon in Baker Street, but at the end of that time he was obliged to give up the work because of his health.

  Her mother and grandmother realized by now that it was hopeless to argue with her, she went her own way. It took them many weeks before they became used to her job as kennel maid.

  When Jennifer’s career as a kennel maid came to an end she looked about her for something else. She returned home one day with the news that she was selling stockings behind the counter at the Army and Navy Stores. Bertha looked at her painfully. ‘Sometimes I think you behave like this only to hurt my feelings. After your splendid education, to go and sell stockings in a shop—’

  ‘I never learnt a thing at school,’ said Jennifer, ‘except that it didn’t pay to tell tales. I can’t remember the names of the rivers in China or the exports of India, or how to parse a sentence, or what was the Reform Bill. Since I’ve left, I’ve learnt what to do if an animal is in pain, which is surely more use than all the rest put together.’

  ‘But where is all this leading to? That is what Grandmamma and I want to know. I dare say it is very nice to be useful with animals, but really - for a girl with your upbringing, to be selling stockings behind a counter.’

  ‘Daddy used to be a shopwalker in the old days when you lived in London, you told me so once.’

  ‘That’s rather different.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Your poor Daddy started life in rather humble circumstances, you know that perfectly well. You cannot remember your relatives at Plyn, but they were all rather - well - rough country people. I felt it a great deal at first. Your Daddy was superior to them in every way, that was why he ran away from sea. But as a young man he had very little money, and he was obliged to better himself as best he could. Unfortunately he was never very strong. Besides, there were not the opportunities open for young people in his day. It’s quite another matter for you.You’ve been brought up as a lady, and you do nothing but throw your chances away. Look at the people you must mix with in this shop.’

  ‘Oh! I don’t know, Mother - the girls are very jolly, most of them. And I don’t feel a bit ladylike - what a ghastly expression anyway, like commence.’

  ‘Commence? I don’t understand, what do you mean?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  After two months at the Army and Navy Stores, Jennifer became sick of stockings, and amused by the advertisements of ‘Nippy Chocolates’, she spent three weeks as a waitress in Lyons, only to be dismissed for her number of breakages. This distressed her not at all, and her next job was that of sales-woman or advertiser to a firm who were about to launch a new type of carpet-sweeper upon the market. Jennifer was obliged to go
from house to house with a small dispatch case filled with leaflets, a note-book, and a fountain pen, and after ringing the front-door bell engage the bored householder in a sparkling conversation as to the merits of the ‘No-Dust’ carpet-sweeper, without which no home is complete.

  Unhappily the ‘No-Dust’ sweeper failed to make an impression in the homes of England, and Jennifer was once more without a job. She had saved money enough now to indulge herself in some way. Her mother suggested a good, serviceable fur coat, and Grandmamma a leather-bound edition of the works of Sir Walter Scott, but Jennifer had no particular wish for either. In a moment’s madness she nearly bought the model of a full-rigged ship, displayed in the window of a curiosity shop, and then closing her eyes and hurriedly walking away she found herself opposite an office with a brass plate on the door - ‘Typing and Shorthand Taught. Private Lessons.’

  Jennifer went inside, and arranged to take the full course which included book-keeping and accounts. This would give her something to do until Easter.

  In spite of this she was not happy. Always there was something lacking. It seemed to Jennifer that there must be more in life than the things she had known, there must be more than this occasional laughter, these little sorrows, this common irritation, that evidence of good-will - the dull or funny incidents of day to day. There was no depth of satisfaction in them, no real comfort.

  Depression hung heavily upon her and the sensation that she belonged nowhere. She had no corner in the atmosphere of the boarding-house, she could not adapt herself to that way of thinking and living.

  London was still the bleak city she had hated as a child, the boarding-house was still the cheerless shell of a home that held no welcome.

  It seemed to her that there was no way of escape.

  After Christmas a newcomer arrived at No. 7 Maple Street. He was a man of about sixty, whose profession was vaguely understood to be ‘something in the City’. His manners were almost too faultless, his choice of expressions correct to the last degree of verbosity, and he became the brightest and most glorious feature of the boarding-house. His name was Francis Horton. Jennifer loathed him at first, but soon decided he was too ridiculous to be of any consequence, and watched with amusement the approval he met at headquarters.

  ‘Such a distinguished person,’ said Grandmamma, ‘quite comme il faut, my dear Bertha. Really one of the old school.’

  He was soon admitted into the intimate sanctity of the boudoir.The evenings were not complete without Mr Horton sitting between the two women, while Jennifer crouched in a rocking-chair by the bookshelf. His manner towards them was at once deferential and familiar, eager to assure them of his infinite respect, yet mingled with the spice of male superiority.

  ‘Well, ladies,’ he would begin in his smooth, silken voice, too carefully modulated to be natural,‘and how have you spent your day? Mrs Parkins, allow me to arrange that cushion for you - h’m? No trouble at all, I assure you, a positive pleasure. Well now, here we are, all assembled. Tell me what you have been doing.

  ‘Oh! it’s been very quiet as usual, Mr Horton,’ said Bertha.

  ‘I do my best, you know, that everything shall run like clockwork. ’

  ‘I am sure you do, Mrs Coombe. You think of everybody before yourself. What pretty work this is - can a mere male be permitted a glimpse?’ He bowed gallantly towards her, and fingered the piece of embroidery in her hands.

  Bertha laughed, and pulled it away, a new note of affection in her voice.

  ‘Really, the curiosity of you men . . .’

  Jennifer glanced from her book, noticed her mother’s silly gesture and the bold, rather swimming expression in Mr Horton’s pale blue eye.

  She lowered her head, hot and uncomfortable, wishing she had not seen.

  ‘What’s that? What’s that? What did Mr Horton say?’ Grandmamma leaned forward in her chair.

  ‘I perceive that Mrs Coombe is an excellent needlewoman, dear lady. So rare an accomplishment these days. “A stitch in time,’ h’m? You know the old saying. And what is Miss Jennifer about? What is our silent one doing in her secluded nook? I fear your daughter is a great book-worm, Mrs Coombe.’ He shook his head in mock reproof.

  ‘It’s no use trying to make Jenny sociable, we have long given up that hope,’ sighed her mother. ‘There are no manners in the younger generation. Put down that book for once, dear, and make yourself agreeable.’

  ‘Yes, come along Miss Jennifer, and join our cosy little circle. “All work and no play,” h’m? You know the rest?’ He over-laughed, and flushed slightly at the temples.

  He disliked Jennifer. He was afraid she considered him a middle-aged fool.

  ‘I am always alarmed, Mrs Parkins, that your granddaughter will take down my remarks with this shorthand of hers.’

  ‘Take down your . . . with her hands? What’s that, Mr Horton? What’s that?’

  ‘You misunderstand Mr Horton, Mamma. He was afraid Jennifer will write our conversations in shorthand.’

  ‘Oh! I see, of course. Yes, what nonsense it is, this typing and the rest of it.’

  Her misunderstanding had caused a little flutter in the circle. Jennifer stared straight before her, biting her cheeks to contain her laughter. Mr Horton was once more bending towards her mother, twisting his absurd moustache.

  ‘Isn’t it marvellous how time flies - but really, really marvellous? Do you know, I have already been amongst you five weeks today?’

  ‘What’s that? What’s he been doing with you for five weeks?’

  ‘I have been your resident, Mrs Parkins, dear lady, nothing more nor less than your proud resident. I was just saying so to Mrs Coombe. Delightful, quite delightful. À propos - excuse my poor French - à propos I am in favour of making some small celebration. I propose a little party, just us four, you know, and a visit to the theatre.’

  ‘Theatre? Nonsense, nonsense, I’m not up to going to a theatre, Mr Horton. Actors don’t speak clearly these days.Take Bertha, Mr Horton, take Bertha.’

  ‘Mrs Coombe, would you honour me?’

  ‘Oh! delicious. Jennifer, you will come too, of course.’

  ‘Thanks, terribly, but I’d rather not. I - er - I think I’m getting a cold. Such a nuisance.’ Jennifer lowered her eyes.

  ‘Then it will be you and I alone, Mrs Coombe? You have no objection, I hope.’

  Jennifer saw that her mother was blushing. She felt a little sick. She pushed back her chair, and moved once more towards the bookcase.

  ‘Ah! Miss Jennifer, you don’t approve, I see.’ The silken voice followed her across the room.

  ‘I promise you I will take great care of your dear mother; she will be a very precious trust, and she will be all the better for a little amusement.’

  ‘As long as she’s amused,’ said Jennifer brightly, ‘it’s not my affair.’

  As she left the room she heard his voice continuing: ‘What kind of piece would you care to see? I enjoy a humorous performance myself. I always appreciate clean, healthy humour.’

  As time went by the celebration became a weekly event. Jennifer was never asked again. Day by day she watched the intimacy gradually increase between her mother and Mr Horton. She watched his effort at gallantry, and her self-conscious acceptance of it. She noticed his methods of singling her out for especial attention, and her change of manner whenever he entered a room. She saw the beginning of his air of proprietorship, the authority that crept into his voice, and her way of asking his opinion on any subject, of relying upon his advice.

  She was an unwilling witness of their glances and of their conversations. She could scarcely bear to sit in the same room when they were together for the embarrassment and the boredom that they caused her. Her mother must be a fool to feel any affection for this man. She made herself out a martyr too. Jennifer overheard her.

  ‘My life has been full of ups and downs,’ she had said. ‘My poor husband never understood the sacrifices I made for him. I gave him the best years of my life. He gamb
led away our early savings, and I knew years of great wretchedness. Then he was a little more fortunate, and offered myself and the boys some sort of a home. We spent twelve years, as you know, buried in the depths of Cornwall. I never grumbled, because I believe in making the best of everything always. The people were kind in their fashion, but of course they were an entirely different class, you understand.’

  ‘You poor, dear thing,’ he said, taking her hand.

  ‘My happiness was wrapped up in Christopher and the children, to see that they were content prevented me from thinking of myself.’

  Jennifer hurried away. It was beastly, nauseating. She could not bear it.

  How could Mother speak about Daddy in that careless, off hand way, when he had slaved and toiled for her. Given him the best years of her life! What about Daddy? He had given her nothing apparently. He had stood by making no attempt to understand her.

  Poor darling - poor darling, and all she could remember was a fair head on a pillow, and a figure raising his arm to wave to her from the bottom of a hill. . . .

  Daddy . . . Harold . . . Willie. All gone, all forgotten as though they had never been, and Mother mouthing at this stranger with his silly sheep’s eyes.

  Perhaps she was hoping to marry again. After all, why not? Nobody forced her to remain a widow.

  Obviously that was what was going to happen. She would become Mrs Horton, the wife of this fool. Her mother who was fifty-five. Revolting, horrible picture . . . How could women, after they had loved one man, ever think, look, at anybody else? Even if their husbands had been dead for years they must remember. It was sordid, unattractive. She tried to imagine what the future state of things would be like. Perhaps they would move to another part of London. Mr and Mrs Francis Horton, and she, Jennifer, his stepdaughter. Odious sense of familiarity. ‘Your mother and I have decided, my dear ...’ The three of them sitting round the breakfast table.