The Loving Spirit (28 page)

‘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 damned liar - you.’ The ideas fled hopelessly through Joseph’s mind, jumbled, huddled, tearing at his brain, leaving no clearing, no space 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 God 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 ship 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 space 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 passed 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.

‘You’re like an angel,’ he said,‘standing at the gates of Heaven before the birth of Christ. It’s Christmas, and they’re singin’ the hymn in Lanoc Church.’

‘Fifty years or a thousand years it’s all the same,’ said Janet, ‘our comin’ here together is the proof of it.’

‘You’ll never leave me again, then?’ he asked.

‘Never no more.’

He knelt and kissed her footprint in the frost.

‘Tell me, is there a God?’

He looked into her eyes and read the truth.

They stood for a minute and gazed at each other, seeing themselves as they never would on earth. She saw a man, bent and worn, with wild unkempt hair and weary eyes; he saw a girl, young and fearless, with the moonlight on her face.

‘Good night, my mother, my beauty, my sweet.’

‘Good night, my love, my baby, my son.’

Then the mist came between them, and hid them from one another.

 

 

There were no thoughts now in Joseph’s mind, no knowledge of what had happened before. He went quietly down the hill, his memory and his reason gone, and let himself in to Ivy House without a sound, creeping silently to the old room he had lived in as a boy, which had remained empty since Christopher had departed.Then he undressed, and lying down on the bed, he fell asleep. He heard nothing of Annie’s low moaning, nor the soft weeping of Katherine, he was not even disturbed by the arrival of the doctor, and the general movement about the house.

He slept until late the following morning, Christmas Day. When he awoke he rose and dressed himself, and descended to the kitchen. He found something to eat, and sat himself down by the empty grate. People came in and bothered his quiet reflection, he bade them leave him alone, and let him sit there in peace. No, he would not move, he would not go out. Would they please let him rest there in peace? He would do no harm.

There was a girl weeping by the doorway, her apron to her eyes. He offered her some of his bread, for he was sorry to see these tears. Then her face crumpled up, and she moved away. He wondered who she was, and why there were so many folk coming and going about the house.

A man came to him, saying he was a doctor. Well, he wanted no doctor. There was nobody ill. Someone took hold of his arm, and told him that his wife and new born child were dead.

He shook his head and smiled.

‘I am not married, I have no child - you have made a mistake.’

Then he turned his back on them, and spread his hands to the empty fireplace. ‘Would someone light a fire, perhaps?’ he suggested. ‘The mornin’s are cold this time of the year.’ But they went away and left him. They must have forgotten. It may be he had been dreaming all the while. Never mind though, he would lay the fire himself. This he did, and when the cheerful blaze crackled and burnt he rubbed his hands, and laughed. He hummed to himself, remembering snatches of old tunes.

He found the rocking chair from the parlour, and brought it into the kitchen. Now he could rock backwards, forwards - backwards, forwards. He could watch the bright fire, listen to the clock, listen to his own voice singing. That was very nice, that was very pleasant. Did somebody say it was Christmas? Well, fancy that, who would have known?

Backwards, forwards - backwards, forwards. Someone looked in at the door.

Joseph waved his hand. ‘Merry Christmas - Merry Christmas,’ he called.

There were no days, no nights. . . .

 

 

Philip Coombe was seated at his desk, his head bandaged, and his wrist bound. He was reading aloud a postcard.

‘This Tamlin is a male nurse, who will act as an escort,’ said Philip, laying the card on the desk.

Samuel and Herbert Coombe nodded, their expressions grave, their eyes sad.

‘Is it really necessary to remove Joseph?’ began Herbert.

‘Can’t you see for yourself?’ exclaimed Philip impatiently. ‘Hasn’t he killed his wife, his poor child, not to mention his deliberate and vicious assault on myself? The man is dangerous - a raving madman, I tell you. Let there be no mulish sentimentality among you, brothers. Joe is to go to Sudmin this morning. I have wired to the asylum, and they are expecting him. My word is final.’

They groped for their hats and took their leave.

At noon a trap was waiting outside the door of Ivy House. There were little knots of people clustered in the roadway. At the sight of Philip Coombe they moved away, alarmed at his stern face and authoritative manner.With him was a big burly man, a stranger to Plyn. They went into the house together. The sun was shining in a cloudless sky, the blue harbour water flickered, and on the branch of a tree a robin sang. Children’s voices sounded on the beach below the quay.

A tug-boat was steaming slowly in past the entrance, with a schooner in tow. The sun caught the topsails in a patch of colour, before they were furled on the yard.There were shouts from the deck, and the rattle of halyards as the mainsail was lowered. Then the clanking of the anchor chain. The figure-head stood out white and distinct on the bows of the ship. The
Janet Coombe
had returned to Plyn.

Ten minutes later Philip Coombe and the male nurse came out from Ivy House, holding Joseph between them. He made no attempt to struggle or break away, he allowed himself to be placed in the trap, and his coat buttoned up to his chin. He blew on his hands to warm them, he smiled with pleasure at the restive horse. Then he sat still, a big hunched figure, dumb and unresponsive, heedless of those around him. Philip and the keeper were talking in low tones; Katherine was weeping in the doorway.

Joseph looked over his shoulder to the harbour below him. The keeper climbed into the trap with Philip, and the driver took his place. The little party moved away down the hill, and through the street of the town.

As they passed the quay Joseph saw the schooner in mid-harbour, anchored safely and her stern to the buoy. She was standing in a patch of sun. For a moment the light flickered in his eyes, shone strong and true, a recognition of love and beauty; then he shivered and the light was gone, leaving a heavy, cold haze instead. The houses shut the harbour from sight, and the trap sped away along the road to Sudmin.

14

 

 

F
or five years Joseph Coombe was an inmate of Sudmin Asylum. He would probably have remained there for the remainder of his life had it not been for the efforts of his sister, Elizabeth Stevens, and her son Fred to have him released.

In October 1895, Fred Stevens, passing through Bodmin, suddenly decided to call at the asylum and demand to see his uncle, on chance. To his surprise he was admitted, and on inquiring after Joseph’s health, he was informed that the patient was doing very well, that in fact he could have been released three years ago, but that his family preferred to keep him in the care of proper authorities, and paid handsomely for doing so.

Fred knew at once that the ‘family’ was Philip. He was taken upstairs to the ward where Joseph was seated before the open window.

The nephew was greatly shocked at the devastating change in his uncle’s appearance. His hair and beard were white, although he was but sixty years of age, and the whole contour of his face had altered.The cheeks were sunken and the brown eyes dimmed.

Fred went over to where he was sitting and took his hand. ‘Uncle Joseph,’ he said gently, ‘have you forgotten your nephew Fred?’