The Loving Spirit (27 page)

The name of Christopher was never mentioned, whatever the son’s reasons were for leaving the ship, the father never knew. Letters arrived, but were put away by him, the seal unbroken.

The atmosphere of Ivy House changed, it became heavy and unbearable. Joseph was the stern master whose word was law. There was no laughter, no gaiety.

Albert and Charles were only too glad to escape, Albert to his ship, Charles to his regiment. Annie and her stepdaughter were left to care for this dragon of horror that had once been Joseph. If their natures had been stronger, if they had been possessed with some grain of courage and light, they might have succeeded in bringing him back to himself. But they were timid, cowed; they ran hither at his bidding, and bowed their trembling heads before him. He forbade them to wander from the house unless it was to shop, and then they must be back at a certain fixed hour. If they were a minute late he would wait for them on the doorstep, his watch in his hand, his mouth ready to open and curse them.

They were permitted to visit relatives once a week, but no one was invited to the house, no neighbours could have the pleasure of their company. Katherine was forbidden to speak to young men; she saw that her chances to marry were remote and nigh hopeless. No one had the courage to seek her out for fear of Joseph. She saw herself doomed to a lonely, bitter spinsterhood, beside this terrible father.

Annie he treated as a slave, as a wretched servant; slowly her health and youthful spirits dwindled, her eyes became wan and lustreless, her cheeks pale and thin.

They had no boy now at Ivy House for the rough work, they were obliged to do it all themselves.

Too frightened to complain or to withstand his tyranny, they scrubbed the stone floors and carried the coals from the cellar, while he stood over them, watching, laughing at their feeble efforts. He would drag Annie to the looking-glass, and show her the thin, tired reflection of herself.

‘Twenty-three? You look forty. No man would sigh for you now, I reckon.’

He never touched them or beat them, his cruelty was more refined than this, more subtle. They dreaded the meals alone with him, when they were obliged to hearken to his words, and listen to the tales of horror he told them.

And all the while he gazed before him with his cold, blank eyes that seemed to hold no knowledge of their presence, eyes that looked into what unknown depths of desolation, they dared not know.

Most of all Annie feared the nights by his side, when sometimes he would walk up and down till dawn talking aloud to her, preventing her from sleep, and at other times he would torture her with his questions as to her doings and thoughts on the previous day, leaving her no privacy.

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 passed 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 passing 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 God 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 damned 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 ship 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 passed, 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 hardship, 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 noble, 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 shining 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 passed 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 God’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.