The Loving Spirit Part 13

6.

A daughter was born to Joseph and Susan in 1871, and this completed their family.

Susan was seriously ill at the birth of Katherine, and the old doctor warned her that she must be very careful in the future if she wanted to be sure of her life. Suspecting that she would say nothing to her husband, and would in all probability keep the matter to herself, making light of his words, the doctor determined to tackle Joseph himself.

Joseph returned to Plyn three weeks after his daughter had been born, and was amazed to see the man's long face, and that he still visited Susan and the baby every day.

'Why, she'll be up and about soon, surely,' he said. 'The house is very uncomfortable with a woman hired in to do the work, and to only give an eye to the children now and again. My wife is strong and healthy, isn't she?'

'Your wife is past forty, Joe,' said the doctor seriously. 'She's borne four children now, and this one has all but killed her. Unless she takes very great care of herself from now on, I won't answer for the consequences.'

'Thank you, doctor,' said Joseph slowly, and turned into the house. He supposed he had been selfish and inconsiderate, but all said and done he did not consider he had been entirely to blame. After all, Susan had never complained, she had never said a word to him about weakness in health. He could not be expected to guess this sort of thing, when he was away at sea for nearly eight months in the year. Supposing something happened to Susan and he was left with this young family on his hands. What in the world would he do with them? And Lizzie was married, no possible hope in the thought that she would come and live in the house.

Susan would always be something of an invalid in the future. What a hopeless outlook it was going to be. She would just act as his housekeeper and bring up the children. No more than this.

'Doctor says you've been worse than poorly this time, my dear,' he began awkwardly. 'Somehow I didn't come to realize things, bein' away so much, and then just at home for short whiles now an' agen. I ought to have known that . . .' He broke off in confusion, afraid to hurt her by alluding to her age. He had always made a point of ignoring it. 'I reckon that men don't figure matters out the same as women do,' he went on, trying to be as gentle in his words as possible. 'Sailors, too, are a selfish, careless crowd, seldom givin' a thought to others. I've been as bad as any o' them. We'll start things different in future, an' you must get well quick an' get out in the air, 'twill pull you together in no time.'

'That's what's been the worryin' of me up here,' cried Susan fretfully, 'to know as you're back an' I can't look after you. I know the house'll be all upside down, an' nothin' like comfortable for you. The place not clean nor tidy, in all likelihood, and the boys runnin' wild. You'll be that irritated you'll be wantin' to go off to your ship again. Oh! dear - oh! dear.'

'There, there, dear,' said Joseph, taking his wife's hand. 'Everythin' is in perfect order, all shipshape an' Bristol fashion. I'm perfectly happy an' content, an' the boys no worry. Susan, my love-' He was stumbling to tell her how sorry he was for bringing her to this state, how he cursed himself for a selfish blind ruffian, and that in the years to come, from now onward, he would love her devotedly and selflessly, protecting her and caring for her. Perhaps it was not too late to start some sort of companionship, nothing physical nor pa.s.sionate, but a deep understanding born of mutual trust and affection. This poor tired-eyed woman was his wife, Christopher's mother; who had slaved and worked for him while he had grumbled and groaned that she could not share his dreams.

'There now,' she choked, blowing her nose, 'now you're vexed with me for givin' way, and quite right an' proper too, for you to feel like that. I'm a stupid selfish woman, who gets silly little fads into her head, an' you're too good to say you mind the house upside down, though I know well you hate it. Never mind, dear, I'll be up soon, and all will go on as before.'

Joseph rose and stood above her helplessly. She had misunderstood him again, and another fresh ideal had flown to the winds. He realized that there could never be anything permanent or truthful about their relationship. Husband and wife. Queer. Had Janet lived thus with his father? No, he believed there had been moments of beauty between them.

He looked at the baby girl whom his wife was trying to soothe. Poor little thing, with her blue eyes like a kitten. Why could he feel no sort of emotion towards his children, except - Christopher. And Chris was a shy sensitive boy, who didn't seem to understand.

'I've made a mess o' things, somehow,' he thought, but aloud he said to his wife, 'Don't take on, dear, you'll soon be better now, an' the little girl is a dear, I can see.'

Then he went downstairs and sat alone in the stiff parlour.

Joseph was nearly a month in Plyn before sailing again, and he enjoyed this holiday ash.o.r.e more than he had ever done since Janet had died. As Susan had feared, the house got upside down, and this was what appealed to her husband, though she never had any idea of it. It amused him to take off his boots in the fender and put his feet on the mantelshelf. He left the parlour, and spent his time in the kitchen when he was not out-of-doors. The meals were late and badly cooked by the woman who came in daily.Time did not matter, and he could wander in to one of these sc.r.a.ppy suppers and smoke all the time, with an old wet jacket on his back, and a newspaper in his hand.

He started to make a great pet of Christopher, and would take him off for walks alone, leaving Albert and little Charles to play together in the garden. He crammed the lad's pockets with fruit and pennies, he went to the shops and bought him buns and sweets. The boy was quick to see the favour shown to him, and soon lost his early fear of his father. He saw that he had only to express a wish for something, and he was immediately given it.

Joseph imagined that by giving in to him like this and winning his affection, he was paving the way to the wonderful companionship of the future, the dream of which clung to his mind. Christopher would understand him as Janet had done.

Already the boy ran to him with a smile on his face, and told him his troubles and his wishes.

Once a dog barked loudly in the street, and the little fellow flung himself against his father with a cry of fear, clutching at his knee, burying his head against his trousers.

'There, there, Chris sonny, father has you. He won't let the brute harm you,' said Joseph, running his hand through the child's curls, lifting him up and kissing his cheek. 'My boy mustn't be afraid of animals. Stop cryin', sweetheart, an' we'll go and buy you some sweets.'

The crying stopped instantly.

'Can't ye keep the dog under control?' shouted Joseph angrily to the owner. 'My son is a nervy little chap, an' this sort o' thing is enough to make him ill.'

The boy snuggled his head in his father's shoulder.

'Can I 'ave pepp'ment?' he whispered.

'Bless you, you can have the whole shop,' said Joseph.

He had never imagined he could feel like this, just because the boy was next to him, and asked him for something.

Joseph sailed next time happier than he had been for years, feeling that now at last there was somebody who mattered to him, somebody who would welcome him on his return with a solid depth of love in his heart, and who as he grew older would become his one reason for living, apart from the ship and the sea.

It was during these years that the fruit trade was at its height, and the Janet Coombe was one of the many schooners who raced from St Michaels or the Mediterranean back to the Thames or the Mersey with this perishable cargo. Sometimes freights ran as high as 7 a ton, and there would be numbers of schooners alongside Joseph's ship near London Bridge, waiting to discharge. Pa.s.sages were made as far as Smyrna and other eastern ports, where the cargo would be currants.

Sometimes the Janet Coombe would be out to St Michaels and back in seventeen days, for Joseph was a desperate carrier of sail, pressing his little vessel under every rag he could set; and when other ships would be held up by a westerly gale he would thrash his way down Channel, hanging on to his canvas until the last possible moment.

It was a hard life and a rough life, and through his men sometimes cursed him for a driver, they were proud of him right enough; and when they arrived at St Michaels and found the stores full of fruit and scarce another vessel in port, they could afford to laugh at the caution of the other skippers, hove to or brought up somewhere till the gale moderated, while the slippery-heeled Janet Coombe had nipped in and got the best of the market.

When the steamers began to capture the fruit trade and freights became scarce for a sailing ship in the western isles, the Janet Coombe loaded with salt or clay for St John's, Newfoundland, and after fighting her way across the Atlantic she would fill with salt fish and travel down to the Mediterranean ports with her cargo, sometimes taking only sixteen days for her pa.s.sage back.

During these races, and the battles against wind and sea, Joseph forgot Plyn, and Christopher, and lived only for the zest of this life, which needed all his strength and endurance, and a keen mind alert to danger and unforeseen disaster. The old quiet days at Plyn were nothing but a dim memory, this was the life for which he had been born, he, and this ship that was part of him.

These were the days when Joseph was conscious of really living, and not merely eking out a solitary existence as he did on sh.o.r.e, try though he might to forsake loneliness and cleave to his family. Here on the ship Janet was with him, but at Plyn he found her not. Christopher was only a boy, and though in the years to come he would be an ever-present joy and consolation, yet at the moment it was impossible to make him understand everything, for all his affectionate ways.

When Christopher was twelve, there came an incident that was like a sharp blow to his father, and though Joseph reasoned with himself and pretended it was just childish nonsense, he was aware after this of a queer bitterness that clung to him, and a disappointment in his heart half sorrowful, half afraid. It happened that in the spring of that year the Janet Coombe made the record for the fastest pa.s.sage from St Michaels to Bristol, and the ship remained there for the s.p.a.ce of a few days to unload, after which she was to return to Plyn in ballast.

Susan's sister Cathie had married a shopkeeper in Bristol town, and there Joseph lodged for his visit. Cathie had been spending a little while with her sister in Plyn, and was returning in time to look after her brother-in-law. It was then that Joseph suggested that Cathie should bring back Christopher with her to Bristol, so that he should be able to sail with him on the Janet Coombe to Plyn.

During the few days at Bristol Joseph wondered rather that Christopher did not show more interest in the unloading and the life of the quayside. If he himself as a boy had been given the chance of a visit to Bristol, he knew it would have been impossible to drag him away from the shipping and the wharves, and that he would have gone hungry rather than miss the sight of a barque leaving the port, or the entrance of a full-rigged ship.

Christopher, though exceedingly affectionate and pleased to see his father at meal-times, seemed perfectly content to be taken by his aunt to look in the shop windows of the town, and to carry her basket for her, never once suggesting that he should change his walk in the direction of the harbour.

Again, nothing seemed to please him better than to be allowed to stand behind the counter in his uncle's own shop, and be permitted to help serve the customers.

At last the boy bade farewell to his uncle and aunt, and stepped aboard the Janet Coombe with his father. It was fun running about the deck and talking to the men, also it was a fine morning. After a day, though, the ship seemed a trifle cramped. It started raining, and Christopher, who hated getting wet, went below to the cabin. It was so small and stuffy, and such a squeeze too at night, sleeping in the poky bunk alongside of father.

He didn't fancy the food much, though he was too polite to say so. Joseph appearing for a moment down the companionway roared with laughter at his small pinched face.

'Feelin' her roll?' he said, bringing an atmosphere of wet oilskin into the close cabin. 'We're in for a dirty night, so I reckon you'll be a bit squeamish-like. Never mind,'twon't take long afore you have your sea-legs. Lie down in my bunk an' take it easy, though speakin' for myself, I got over it as a boy by climbin' on deck an' layin' my hand to some work. You'll find me on deck should you want a breath o' air.'

Christopher had no intention of going on deck. He lay on the bunk groaning and sniffing; every lurch of the little vessel was agony to him. Being in ballast of course the Janet Coombe pitched much worse than if she had been carrying a cargo, and they were reaching that part of the ocean where the Atlantic meets the Channel, and there was a heavy cross sea. All night it continued thus, with poor Christopher below. It wasn't fair, he ought to have been told sailing was like this. Father was mean and unkind to bring him.

Early next morning, when still dark, the ship had cleared the rough and tumble of Land's End, and was now well advanced in the Channel with the Lizard lights ahead, and a stiff sou'westerly breeze and a big following sea.

The movement of the ship was changed, and she frisked along now like a mad spirit, kicking her heels at the weather astern. Joseph wanted to see his boy beside him and hear his glad shout of delight. He went to the head of the companionway and yelled to his son.

'Come up, Chris, and watch the night. Now the motion's easy you won't feel ill no more. Come up, lad, when I tell ye.'

The boy was shivering in his bunk. He had got over his sickness for the moment, but he did not want to leave the warm cabin for the cold cheerless weather on deck. He wanted to be home in bed or in the shop at Bristol.

However, the habit of obedience was too strong for him, and he climbed out of the berth and struggled up the companionway.The night was pitch dark.The gale was howling in the rigging, it tore at his legs and thrashed him in the face with a stinging blow, and the bitter rain blinded his eyes.

'Father - father,' he screamed in terror. Joseph made a dive for him and held him tight by the arm. He was smiling, and shook the spray from his streaming oilskin. His beard was wild and tangled, his face rough and hard with the clinging salt. To the boy he seemed mad and reckless, bringing them to a frightful death.

'Look,' shouted Joseph pointing astern,'baint that the grandest and most wonderful sight my Chris has ever seen? Tell me you'm happy, son, tell me you're a real proper sailor an' proud of the ship that belongs to us both?'

The lad peered over his father's arm, and to his horror he saw a terrible black sea like a dark falling cliff rising in the air, and making towards them.

They were going to be drowned - they were going to be drowned.

'Take it away,' he screamed, 'take it away - I hate it, I hate the sea. I always have. I'm afraid - I'm afraid.'

'Christopher!' cried Joseph,'what are you sayin', son - what d'ye mean?'

'I don't want to be a sailor,' sobbed Christopher. 'I hate the sea and I hate the ship. I'll never go again. Oh! Father - I'm afraid - I'm afraid.'The boy tore himself from his father's grasp, and scrambled once more down the companionway, screaming at the top of his voice in rage and fear.

Joseph watched him stupidly, and held out a trembling hand to the rail. He was stunned, unable to think.

And the Janet Coombe sped on, one with the wind and the sea.

7.

For the first time, in the forty-three years of his life, Joseph knew shame and humiliation.

Better to land the boy in Plyn and send him up to his mother without another word, and he himself to shake clear of the lot of them for ever, and sail away, out of the sound and hearing of them, alone with his ship and the spirit of Janet.

These were the first bitter thoughts of Joseph. Later he stole softly down to the cabin where the boy was sleeping, and he watched the tear-stains on the pale handsome little face with mingled sorrow and compa.s.sion, swearing by the love he bore for his ship to forget his son's words and to love him as before. Then suddenly the lad opened his eyes, and a flush of shame came over young Christopher for the look he noticed on his father's face, which meant he was sorrowful and distressed. For a moment he longed to jump from the berth, and fling his arms around his father's neck and ask him to help him to conquer his distrust of the sea, but he thought his father would push him away with a frown, and bid him not be a child.

And Joseph looked down on Christopher, and stifled the nigh overmastering impulse to kneel beside the boy and ask him to place all faith and trust into his keeping, but it came to him that the boy might feel shy and embarra.s.sed to see his father act in such a way.

Thus a minute pa.s.sed, waiting for the chance to unite father and son in a bond which would be close and unbreakable, but the minute pa.s.sed in vain, never to return, and from henceforward Joseph and Christopher Coombe walked apart with a wall between them, a wall which could not be surmounted because of the pride of Joseph and the weakness of his son.

So the ship anch.o.r.ed in Plyn with the words of union unspoken.

Four years pa.s.sed, with Joseph Coombe pa.s.sing a few months here and there on sh.o.r.e, before he set sail again.

The harbour resounded with the hammers of shipwright and builder, and the noise of the clay-loading at the jetties. Samuel and Herbert Coombe were never still down at the yard, and they were joined now by their own grown-up sons: Thomas, Samuel's eldest boy, and James, the first of Herbert's youngsters to grow up, in a family of twelve, with five more yet to come.

Samuel's second son, d.i.c.k, a strong hefty young man, was now second mate under his uncle Joseph, and proving himself a fine sailor. Joseph was fond of his nephew, but he longed for his own boy Christopher to be in his place.

In September of 1882 Joseph Coombe dropped anchor in Plyn harbour, after discharging his cargo at London. He was content with the thought of a few weeks at home before going away again. As he watched his men making all snug, below and aloft, he glanced over the bulwark and saw Christopher and brother Herbert Coombe pulling out towards him in a boat. This had never happened before, and he knew at once that something was amiss. Thank G.o.d, Christopher was safe, that was his first thought. He remarked the boy's pale, unhappy face, and Herbert's grave expression.

In a few moments they were both on the deck beside him.

'Prepare yourself, dear Joe, for bitter and melancholy news,' said Herbert, his eyes filling with tears. 'And grieved indeed am I that it has fallen on me to break it to you.'

'Out with it quick!' said Joseph gruffly.

'Your dear wife, Susan, has left us yesterday,' said Herbert gently. Christopher at once burst into tears, and walked away. 'She was took bad just after tea, and though the boys ran at once for the doctor, and came to me and Samuel, she pa.s.sed away by six o'clock. Oh! brother, this is a wretched homecoming for you.'

Joseph wrung his hand without a word, and going over to Christopher, he kissed the boy's head. Then he climbed into the boat, and the others followed him.

As he gazed down upon his wife's face, now white and silent for evermore, Joseph was possessed with a great pity that she should be gone from her children, but for himself he felt no emotion.

He had never really loved her; he had used her as a way of escape from his own loneliness. And now she had fled beyond him, seeking her own salvation, and not at his side. Poor Susan, she had given him seventeen years of affection and care, and now it was over. She had given him Christopher. . . . He turned away, and as he went down the stairs he wondered what would come to the home and the children without her.The boys would soon be able to fend for themselves, but Kate was merely a child.

The problem was happily solved by his two nieces, Mary and Martha, now tall and strapping young women of twenty-six, suggesting that they should come and keep house for him. Thus, the matter was lifted from his mind.

Another surprise was in store for Joseph on his return, besides the sad hearing of his wife's death. He went down to the broker's firm on the afternoon of his arrival home, and found brother Philip seated at the desk in the office which had always belonged to the senior partner.

'Why, Philip,' exclaimed Joseph, 'what in the name of thunder are you doing here?'

'Merely sitting at my own desk in my own room,' replied Philip. 'I'm sorry to hear of your wife's death; I'm sure she will be a very great loss to you. However, Time the great healer will perhaps - hum . . .' he pretended to sort his papers.

'Listen, Philip, I don't seem somehow to get the hang o' this,' said Joseph frowning, 'what's come to Mr Hogg?'

'The old man died a month ago, and I have bought up the partnership.' Philip leant back in his chair and watched his brother's astonished expression with cool enjoyment. 'You see, Joe, while you and my brothers have spent your time marrying and raisin' large families, I have quietly put by with no one but myself to keep, and here I am, aged forty-two, a partner in this business and a moderately rich man, and my own master in the bargain. Samuel and Herbert are already middle-aged men, and you, I suppose, make some sort of existence on the family vessel?'

'No need to sneer, Philip,' said Joseph quietly.'I've no reason to be ashamed of my calling, which is the finest in the world, and a man's job, what's more. You can be the gentleman of the family for all I care, and welcome to it if it brings you any satisfaction.'

'Thank you,' said Philip, with a superior smile. 'Incidentally, I suppose you are aware that the remainder of the family have sold their shares of the ship? You and I are joint holders now.'

'But that's goin' agen the original agreement,' cried Joseph, smashing his fist on the desk. 'We was all to share equal, an' everyone to have a benefit.'

'Perhaps so, but the others being, I imagine, in the need of ready money, compet.i.tion is fierce, you know, in Plyn, were only too willing to hand over their rights to me. Any objection?'

Joseph had no reply to this. The procedure was entirely legal, but he mistrusted Philip.

'No,' he said, shortly.

'By the way, how's that eldest son of yours shaping?' inquired Philip carelessly. 'He's old enough to go to sea, I suppose?'

Joseph rose from his chair and seized his hat. He longed to hit his brother in the face, with his sneering att.i.tude, and his hints against Christopher. 'My boy will be ready when I want him an' not afore,' he said and made for the door.

'Well, Joe,' called Philip as a parting shot, 'I gather you are a happy man with this big growing family of yours. However, I'm glad I've been single and free during the best years of my life. No ties or anything. Now I have an established position though, I may look around me and choose some beautiful young thing to share my home. I'm still a comparatively young man, you see. Good day to you.'

Joseph laughed as he left the building. So that was why Philip had lived so much in retirement all these years. He would control much of the shipping in future, he supposed, if he was buying up shares in this manner.Well, he could hang himself for all Joseph cared.

The next few weeks in Plyn Joseph spent much of his time up at Nicholas Stevens' farm, where his sister Lizzie was always pleased to welcome him and give him a meal. He liked the happy, friendly atmosphere of this place, and the obvious mutual devotion of Lizzie and her kind husband. They were three in the family, two girls and a boy. Joseph found himself much attracted to this lad, Fred, who though only twelve or so was a keen, intelligent youngster, with ready answers and a lift to his chin which reminded him of Janet.

Thomas Coombe was now seventy-seven, a frail tremulous old man, who could just manage to creep down the road to the yard now and again, to see how things were going.

He would sit on a bench and puff at his pipe, making some remark from time to time which n.o.body would notice, and follow with his eyes his namesake and grandson, Thomas, Samuel's eldest son, in whom he liked to see himself all over again. And then Mary would appear to fetch him home, a stout middle-aged woman whose expression and character had changed very little in all these years; she had still the same affectionate self-effacing character. Joseph's heart always beat faster when he approached the path to Ivy House. At times he was a boy again, playing in the front garden with his eye on the kitchen window, from which Janet would peep, waving to him, taking her mind off her work; and at other moments he was a young man, returning from the sea, knowing that she was there waiting for him. He could never look at the room above the porch without remembering his first homecoming from the Francis Hope, when she appeared with her girl's plaits at the window, and he had climbed up to her, hand over hand, by the thick-branched ivy. Nearly thirty years ago.

One afternoon Mary met him at the door with a worried expression on her face.