The Loving Spirit Part 19

The two girls clung together in the daytime, and asked in despair what possible consolation he received from his way of living and his utter negation of life. There was no answer to this. The flickering spark of sanity that lingered yet in Joseph asked himself this question, in self-loathing and utmost horror, and then backed away from itself, leaving him a prey to the waiting demons who dragged him apart. He could not stop himself now, he must go on inevitably to whatever end fate held in store for him.There was no backward path, nor returning.

A year pa.s.sed thus, and then began the start of another.

He had no knowledge how long this existence of his would last, he only knew that he must wait until the end should come.

In the spring of 1890, Annie knew that she was to have another child, and she summoned up what little courage she had to tell her husband.

As he listened to her he watched her with his cold, heavy eyes, and then when she had finished, and murmured some pitiful appeal that he would show a sign he was not angered, he turned his back on her and shrugged his shoulders.

'Why should I be angry? Go away, Annie, an' let me be. I'll not say anythin' to the child I reckon, when it comes. I care for none of these things.'

Nevertheless when she had crept from the room his eyes followed her, and he had half a mind to call her back and give her a tender word. But she had gone upstairs, and he would not have her return, and think she had won him by her news.Yet something had stirred within him at the thought, something of the old blind idealism that lay crushed beneath his dead heart. Another son to replace the lost son. Something of himself that had not gone astray, but remained as a light of hope and as a promise of past beauty.

He said little to his wife, but he was less harsh now as the months drew on.

It was about this time that Annie became friendly with Philip Coombe once more. She was pa.s.sing his office one afternoon on her way to the shops, and he came out of the door and stood before her. He had avoided her since her marriage, and this was perhaps the first time he had come against her, face to face. Annie lowered her eyes and would have walked on, but he spoke to her and she had not the heart.

'Annie,' he said, 'let me speak to you.' He held out his hand which she took nervously, glancing over her shoulder as she did so, murmuring something about her husband.

'Don't be afraid. Come inside.' He led her inside the office and shut the door.

Annie burst into tears, and covered her face with her hands.

'Don't give way,' said Philip, 'that won't help you now. Besides, I am not going to blame you for your wretched marriage. I warned you at the time, but you were too young and too ignorant to understand.'

Annie rocked backwards and forwards in her chair, the tears flowing fast.

'There's none save my stepdaughter Kate as known what we've been through,' she choked. 'How we've survived it I can't tell. These last two years - Mr Philip, what have I ever done that I should be so punished? Maybe it's the wrath of G.o.d on my head from havin' acted so wanton with Joe before we was wed. Oh! dear, I was a bad girl, now I thinks it over cool. I was swept off my feet, I never thought . . .'

'Of course you were not to blame. It was that d.a.m.ned brother of mine, who deserved every ounce of misery that has come his way.'

'Well, Mr Philip, I would feel wrong to blame him entirely. Poor Joe was greatly lowered in spirits when his eyes failed, an' then the trouble over Chris comin' on top o' that. He's never recovered from the blow of it.'

'I suspected as much, Annie. The s.h.i.+p returns regularly, but he does not as much as pull up the harbour to look at her.'

'That's so, Mr Philip. And at one time he thought of little else but his precious old schooner, neglectin' me for it even; I used to feel hurt an' sorry, but I've learnt my lesson now.'

'Does Christopher Coombe ever write?'

'Ah! he writes to his brothers, an' he's written to his father many a time, but Joe leaves the letters unread. He's cruel an' hard-natured is Joe, Mr Philip.'

'I had rather see you dead, Annie, than unhappy with him. Why don't you leave him?'

'Where would I go, Mr Philip? A woman can't leave the man she's wed, and I couldn't somehow, for all the misery he's caused. He's helpless with his eyes, too.'

'Sentimentality, ridiculous sentimentality. Why, you're but five-and-twenty, you must not waste your life. There is no need to leave Joe helpless, the proper place for him in Sudmin, and you know it.'

'Oh! Mr Philip - not the asylum? Oh! how terrible. You surely don't mean the asylum?'

'I'm afraid I do, Annie. My brother is not responsible for his actions, and I'm in favour of having him placed in the care of authorities, where he can do no damage.'

'No, Mr Philip. We must not think of it. Joe is strange and cruel in mind, but he has done me no bodily harm. There would be no just reason to shut him up.'

'He will become worse.'

'I think not.'

'What makes you say that?'

'He is better already, Mr Philip, there's somethin' of his old self returning since I told him my news.'

'What news?'

'There's to be another child at Christmas.'

Philip rose from his chair beside her and went towards the window, turning his back. He stood in silence.

'I want you to look upon me as your friend, Annie, always; and to come here whenever you wish. The next months will not be easy ones for you; please have no hesitation in coming to me if you are unhappy. Will you promise?'

'Yes, Mr Philip.'

'And call me Philip - we are friends, are we not?'

'Thank you - Philip. And now I must go.'

'Good afternoon, Annie.'

So the summer pa.s.sed, and autumn fell once more, the days shortening and the weather becoming cold and wild. Joseph spent most of his time in front of the little kitchen fire at Ivy House. He clutched feebly to the hope that the arrival of this child would prove his salvation. He found his mind wandering at times, losing the thread of his thoughts, and then the blackness would threaten to engulf him. He would bury his head in his hands, and press his fingers into his temples.

He had no idea of his wife's visits to his brother's office. She went there now regularly, sometimes twice a week, and had come to look forward to these hours as the only bright moments of her life. Slowly and subtly Philip planted in her the longing to be free once more, the longing to leave Ivy House and her husband.

All through those long months of cruelty and hards.h.i.+p, the thought of deserting him had never come to her mind, and now that he was showing himself more gentle towards her, the wish took birth, whispered by Philip. Joe would never recover, the presence of a baby could not fail to irritate him; things might even become worse than they had ever been, and Joe savage. No, Philip perhaps was right, although it seemed hard. Joe would be better in Sudmin Asylum. Better for himself, and better for his family. She had promised to trust in Philip, and she would. He was her dear friend, her true friend. He was always so n.o.ble, so unselfish. When Joe was put away in Sudmin, properly attended to by nurses and doctors, far happier and more comfortable than at Ivy House, so Philip had said, then this dear friend would do everything in his power to make her happy.

October drew into November, and November to December. The child was expected during Christmas week.

Annie was very weak these last weeks, no doubt the result of the wretched preceding years. Katherine was anxious, and the doctor looked grave.

'She must be kept very quiet, and free from any irritation or worry,' he told the stepdaughter. 'I don't like the way things are turning out. Should she experience any shock at this critical time, the result will be disastrous.Yes, she may get up, and walk a little. That will do her no harm, rather the reverse. But see that she is not worried in any way.'

On Christmas Eve Annie felt strong enough to walk down to Plyn to see Philip, leaving Katherine at home, and her husband off visiting his sister Lizzie. She made her way slowly down the hill, through the town, to the large house on Marine Terrace where Philip Coombe lived, entirely alone save for his housekeeper and a manservant, husband to the woman.

This day Annie lay on the sofa while Philip poured out the tea, and she stayed until after six o'clock, when she feared Joseph might be starting back from the farm; so she went, Philip kissing her hands gently and bidding her be of good cheer.

Neither of them noticed that she had left her handkerchief in the corner of the sofa, a gift to her from her husband on the first anniversary of their marriage.

Joseph did not leave the farm until half past ten. It was a fine clear night, with a full moon s.h.i.+ning over the water, and frost in the air. There were groups of people about the street, excited at the thought of the next day's festivities, and most of them preparing for the midnight service at Lanoc Church across the fields. Later the bells would start to peal, and they would trudge away up the hill and along the path, swinging their lanterns in their hands.

As Joseph pa.s.sed down the road below Marine Terrace he saw a light in the end house, and the figure of his brother pacing up and down before the window. And as he watched the pacing figure it came to Joseph that the night was Christmas Eve and in a few days his son would be born. His life would be changed from thenceforward, he would put aside from him rancour and hatred.

Joseph stood for a moment uncertain and then climbed the steps of the house and rang the bell.

A sleepy manservant answered. 'I'm Mr Coombe's brother; I've come to bid him a Happy Christmas,' said Joseph softly, and he pushed the man aside and opened the door of the room where he had seen the figure. Philip started with a cry of surprise at the sight of his brother. His thoughts at once leapt to Annie.

'What in G.o.d's name brings you here, brother, at this hour? Something has happened at your home? Your wife?

Joseph smiled and shook his head. He sat down on the sofa. 'I've come o' my own accord, Phil. I've come to say I ...' then his eyes fell on the handkerchief in the corner at his side. The words fled from his mind, and he sat there, staring stupidly, pointing.

'What's Annie left her handkerchief there for?' he began in a dull voice, and then his brain reeled, and he began to tremble. 'Annie's been here, Annie's been in this room. Tell me the truth - speak, or by Jesus I'll wring it from you.' Philip paled, as his brother stumbled from the sofa, and made towards him.

'Have a care, Joe, or you'll be sorry.'

Joseph paid no attention, he leaned over Philip, his eyes blinking.

'How long has Annie been i' the habit o' visitin' you?' he shouted.

Philip shrugged his shoulders and smiled scornfully.

'Oh! so you've come for a scene, have you? Well, you won't have it. Clear out of my house.'

'How long has Annie been friendly with you?' repeated Joseph, his fists ready to swing, the longing rising in him to smash this man's face, smash it to a pounding, pulping jelly. Then tread on it, crush it, see the blood run swiftly . . .

Philip moved to the other side of the room.

'Annie has been my dear friend for some months,' he said softly, 'since you took to treating her like an animal I have been doing my best to make up to her for it.'

'Annie's come here for months, you say - Annie has dared to deceive me? . . .'

'Of course she has deceived you, you dirty brute, with your swine's ways. Annie has never loved you.'

'You d.a.m.ned liar - you.' The ideas fled hopelessly through Joseph's mind, jumbled, huddled, tearing at his brain, leaving no clearing, no s.p.a.ce for him to think.

'Don't you know Annie's with child?' he said.

Then Philip laughed; Joseph watched the grin spread over his face, watched the teeth spread in a lifeless mask.

'You ask me that? You have the courage to ask me that? You're mad - you're insane - you're only fit for the asylum. Joe, deceived all these months, Joe the wronged husband.You're mad, I tell you - mad.'

Something crashed in Joseph's brain at the words, he swung his fists and smote his brother in the eyes. Philip fell to the ground and lay still, like a dead thing.

Then Joseph stumbled from the building, he ran up the hill towards Ivy House, seeing nothing, the black specks dancing before his eyes.

The bells were pealing for the midnight service at Lanoc Church, he heard them not, the folk were making their way towards the fields, he saw them not.

He flung open the door of his house, and climbed the stairs to the bedroom over the porch.

'I'll get you now,' he called. He lit a candle and bent over his cowering wife.

'Kate,' she screamed. 'Kate, run for help - quick - quick.'

The girl rushed into the room in her nightgown. 'Father,' she called, 'Father, what are you doing-? Remember the doctor - oh! Father have a care.'

Joseph held the light above his head. 'So you've deceived me have you? You've been to Philip, you've gone with Philip.'

'Oh! Joe, dear, I meant no harm, I swear to you. He's been so kind I ...'

'You've deceived me, eh? Bain't that enough?'

'Forgive me, Joe, forgive me. Yes, I have deceived you, but let us talk of this another time. Oh! Kate, dear, I feel so ill - so ill - run for the doctor.'

'So you don't love me, eh - Annie? You've never loved me - that's what he said - well, is it true?'

'Oh! Joe, let me be - let me be. I can't tell you all now, forgive me - I did wrong but I was weak - please Joe.'

'Deceived me, did ye - deceived me - by G.o.d I'll make you suffer for it.'

Annie stumbled from the bed and crouched against the wall, covering herself with her hands.

'Go on then - go on then,' she cried, 'murder me an' your own innocent child. I'll not stop you. But before I die I'll tell you this, I hate you - yes, I hate you, an' I'll curse you for what you're doin' to me now. You'll know no rest nor peace after this - you'll come to a greater loneliness than ever before. Folks'll shun you worse than now.You're hated and feared in Plyn, an' always have bin. There's once I lived for the glamour of your eyes, but I've never loved the cold proud heart of you-'

Joseph swayed on his feet, and dropped the candle to the floor.

'Janet,' he cried - 'Janet' - 'Janet'. The house rang with his cries. 'Janet,' he called, 'Janet, come to me.'

Then he ran from the house and climbed to the Castle ruin on the cliffs.

He knelt on the hard, frosted ground, bowed in grief. And suddenly there came to him the touch of a hand upon his head, and the living presence of one beside him. He raised his troubled eyes, and saw his beloved beside him, not as he had known her, but young and slim, no more than a girl. She held him to her and murmured words of love. Then he knew that she belonged to the past, when he was unborn, but he recognized her as his own.

'Hush, my dear love, hush, and cast away your fear. I'm beside you, always, always an' there's none who'll harm you.'

'Why didn't you come before?' he whispered holding her close. 'They've been tryin' to take me away from you, an' the whole world is black an' filled with devils. There's no truth, dearest, no path for me to take. You'll help me, won't you?'

'We'll suffer an' love together,' she told him. 'Every joy and sorrow in your mind an' body is mine too. A path will show itself soon, when the shadows clear away from your spirit.'

'I've heard your whispers often, and hearkened to your blessed words of comfort. We've talked with one another, too, alone in the silence of the sea, on the decks of the s.h.i.+p that is part of you. Why have you never come before to hold me like this, and to feel my head beside your heart?'

'I don't understand,' she said. 'I don't know where we come from, nor how the mist was broken for me to get to you. I heard you callin', and there's nothin' kept me back.'

'They've been long weary days since you went from me, an' I've not heeded your counsel, nor deserved your trust in me,' he told her. 'See how I'm old now, with the grey hairs in my head and beard, and you younger than I ever knew you, with your girl's face and your tender unworn hands.'

'I have no reckoning in my mind of what is past, nor that which is to be,' said she, 'but all I know is there's no s.p.a.ce of time here, nor in our world, nor any world hereafter. There be no separation for us, no beginnin' and no end - we'm cleft together you an' I, like the stars to the sky.'

Then he said - 'They whisper amongst themselves I'm mad, my love, my reason's gone and there's danger in my eyes. I can feel the blackness creepin' on me, and when it comes for good I'll neither see nor feel you - and there'll be nothin' left but desolation and despair.'

He shuddered as a cloud pa.s.sed over the face of the moon, and it seemed to him he was a child in her arms, crying for comfort.

'Never fear, when the black fit seizes you I'll hold you as I hold you now,' she soothed him. 'When you can neither see nor hear, an' you're fightin' with yourself, I'll be at your side, strivin' for you.'

He threw back his head and watched her as she stood, white against the sky with a smile on her lips.