The Loving Spirit (3 page)

She placed her two hands on his shoulders, and held her face beside him.

‘No matter if ’tisn’ proper, Thomas,’ she told him afterwards, ‘’tis mighty good the feel of it.’

And that is how Janet promised herself to her Cousin Thomas Coombe, of Plyn in the County of Cornwall, in the year eighteen hundred and thirty, he being twenty-five years of age and she just turned nineteen.

Now the mist had lifted, and Plyn was no longer a place of shadows. Voices rose from the harbour, the gulls dived in the water, and folk stood at their cottage doors.

Janet still stood on the hilltop and watched the sea, and it seemed that there were two sides of her; one that wanted to be the wife of a man, and to care for him and love him tenderly, and one that asked only to be part of a ship, part of the seas and the sky above, with the glad free ways of a gull.

Then she turned and saw Thomas coming up the hill towards her. She smiled and ran to him.

‘I fancy that it’s sinful to greet your husband on the mornin’ afore you’m wed,’ she said. ‘It’s in the house I should be, preparin’ for the church, and not here on the hill with my hand in your’n.’

He took her in his arms.

‘Maybe there’s folks aroun’, but I can’t help it,’ he whispered. ‘Janie, it’s terrible strong the way I’m lovin’ you.’

The sheep moved about the field, and the sweet scent of the gorse filled the air.

When would the bells start pealing over to Lanoc Church? ‘It’s queer to think as we shall never be parted agen, Thomas,’ she said. ‘Never at nights no more, an’ in the daytime while you’m workin’, and me fiddlin’ with the house, our thoughts’ll be with one another all the time.’

She rested her head upon his shoulder. ‘Is bein’ wed a mighty serious thing, Thomas?’

‘Aye, sweetheart, but the holy state o’ marriage has God’s blessing, an’ we needn’t mind. Preacher has told me so. He was explainin’ many things to me, ‘cos there were some ways I was afeared to find uneasy an’ hard. But I’ll be good to you, Janie.’

‘There’ll be times when we’ll chide each other, bad, and be short o’ temper I’m thinkin’, an’ then it’s regrettin’ it you’ll be, wishin’ you was single once more.’

‘No never, no never!’

‘Funny to think as all our lives is to be here at Plyn, Thomas. No roaming for you an’ me, same as some folks. Our children’ll grow beside us, an’ they’ll be wed, and their children after them. We’ll be old, and then the two of us at rest in Lanoc churchyard. ’Twill all happen, like flowers openin’ their faces in summer, and birds flyin’ south when the first leaf falls. An’ here we be now Thomas, not knowin’ no reckonin’ of it.’

‘’Tis sinful to talk o’ death, Janie, and life that is to be. Everything is in the hands o’ God, we mus’n’ question it. It’s not our childrun’s childrun I’m wantin’ to be thinkin’ of, but our own two selves an’ us to be wed today. I love you sore, Janie.’

She clung fast to him, looking the while over his shoulder.

‘In a hundred years there’ll be two others standin’ here, Thomas, same as us now - an’ they’ll be blood of our blood, an’ flesh of our flesh.’

She trembled in his arms.

‘You’m talkin’ strange an’ wild, Janie, keep your mind on us, and back from the days when we’ll be dead an’ gone.’

‘It’s not feared for meself I be,’ she whispered, ‘but feared for them as comes after us. Maybe there’s many beings who’ll depend on us - far, far ahead. Standin’ on the top o’ Plyn hill in the morning sun.’

‘If you’m fearful, Janie, seek out the preacher and bid him soothe your mind. He knows best, and it comes from readin’ the Bible o’ nights.’

‘’Tisn’ the Bible, nor the preacher’s words, nor my everlastin’ prayers to God that’ll save us, Thomas; nor even watchin’ the ways of birds an’ beasts, nor standin’ in the sun and listenin’ to the quiet waves and the dear sight of Plyn with her misty face - though these be things of which I’m terrible fond.’

‘What is it then, Janie?’

‘There’s words an’ plenty for folks to talk, but I reckon in my heart there’s but one thing that matters; an’ that’s for you an’ I to love each other, and them as comes after us.’

They wandered down the hillside without a word.

At the house door stood Janet’s mother, waiting for the pair of them.

‘Where you’m been?’ she called. ‘’Tis neither decent nor right,Thomas, to speak with her who’s to be your bride, afore you greet her in church. An’ you, Janet, I’m ashamed of ye, runnin’ up th’ hill in your old gown on your weddin’ mornin’. There’s your sisters up in your room waitin’ for to dress you; and folks’ll be comin’ in an’ you not ready. Be off with you, Thomas, an’ you too, Janet.’

Janet went upstairs to her little bedroom that she shared with her two sisters.

‘Hasty, Janie,’ they cried. ‘Was there ever such a girl for losin’ the time, an’ on a day like this.’

They fingered the white gown on the bed with longing fingers.

‘To think as in two hours you’ll be wed, Janie, an’ a woman. If ’twas me, I couldn’ speak for the thought. You’ll be aside Cousin Thomas tonight, an’ not in here with us. Are you feared?’

Janet thought, and shook her head.

‘If it’s lovin’ a person you are, there’s nothin’ to be scared of.’

They dressed her in her bridal gown, and placed the veil upon her head.

‘Why, Janie - ’tis a queen you look.’ They held up the tiny, cracked mirror for her to see her face.

How strange she looked to herself. Not the old wild Janet, who wandered on the seashore, but someone pale and quiet with grave dark eyes.

Her mother called from the stairs.

‘You’ll be faintin’ unless you’ve some food inside o’ ye. Come away down.’

‘I’m not wishful to eat,’ said Janet. ‘But go down both of you, an’ leave me a while. I’d best be alone at the last.’

She knelt by the window and looked across the harbour. In her heart were many strange unaccountable feelings, and she could name none of them. She loved Thomas dearly, but she knew in her soul there was something waiting for her greater than this love for Thomas. Something strong and primitive, lit with everlasting beauty.

One day it would come, but not yet.

Softly the bells pealed over the hill from Lanoc Church - then louder; ringing through the air.

‘Janie - where are you to?’

She rose from the window, and went away down where the wedding guests were waiting.

2

 

 

I
t was as if a change came over Janet Coombe after she was wed. She was quieter, more thoughtful, and gave over running the hills in the old wild fashion. Her mother and the neighbours took note of this, and talked of the matter with many smiles and wise sayings.

‘’Tis having a man has changed her, and what more natural? She’s a woman now, and wishful for nothing more than to do as her husband bids her. It’s the only way with a girl like Janet, to rid her head of the sea an’ the hills, and all such nonsense. It’s young Thomas has found the way to quieten her mind, an’ waken the rightful instincts in her.’

In a sense they spoke reasonably enough, for indeed with marriage and Thomas there had come to Janet a knowledge of peace and blissful content that she had never known, and could not explain to herself. It was as if he had the power to soothe with his love and care all troublous thoughts and restless feelings.

But this was only the result of the strange new intimacy between them, which would seem to change her for the while, but had done nothing to alter the wandering spirit in her.

For the moment it lay sleeping and at rest, while she gave herself up to her new-found pride and joy. She forsook the hills and the harbour, she ceased watching the ships on the far sea, but busied herself all day in her own house.

It was a pleasant spot that Thomas had chosen for their home, this ivy-clad house standing by itself away from the prying eyes of the neighbours. There was a garden too, where Thomas liked to amuse himself of an evening, with Janet beside him, her work in her hands. There was no more messing with rough boats for her now, but the mending and care of Thomas’s clothes, and maybe curtains for the trim parlour.

She never ceased to wonder at herself, did Janet, for the pride and love she found in her heart for this home of theirs.

She remembered the many times she had mocked and laughed at her sisters, ‘Why I’ll never be a one for marryin’ and wastin’ my time with a house. ’Tis a lad I should ha’ been, an’ sailin’ a ship.’

But now there was scarce a house in Plyn as spick and span as Janet’s and for any wondering questions her sisters might put to her, they got a toss of her head for answer, and a swift reply from her sharp tongue, ‘Aye, you may laugh as you will, but it’s me that has the home of my own, and a husband workin’ for me, while you have nothin’ but soft-spoken lads who walk you along the cliff path o’ Sundays.

‘I can see you,’ says she, ‘yawnin’ at their silly words, whilst I sit at my own fireside with Thomas beside me. And you can mind that.’

Indeed to hear her talk there had never been a house like ‘Ivy House’, with the tidy well-swept rooms, the big bedroom above the porch, the other rooms, ‘for later on, maybe,’ and her own smart kitchen. She was proud of her cooking, too, for she found once she gave a mind to it it, was nearly as fascinating as walking amongst the heather on the hills. Her saffron cake was as good as her mother’s, declared Thomas, his heart swelling with pride for her.

‘Now an’I come to think, Janie, ’tis better altogether.There’s a lightness o’ touch in your cakes like I’ve surely never tasted afore!’

Then she would hide her smile, and glance away from the look in his eyes.

‘You’m forever flatterin’ and makin’ up to me,’ she pretended. ‘’Tis my cakes you like, and not myself at all.’

Then he would rise from the table, and take her face in his hands, and kiss her till the breath nearly left her body. ‘Stop it, stop it, Thomas, I tell you,’ and he would sigh and put her away from him. ‘It’s terrible, Janie, the way I am.’

She would hold Thomas close to her in the darkness, while he slept with his head against her cheek. She loved him for his strength and for his gentleness to her, for his special grave ways when he had the mood, and for the moments when like a clumsy child he’d cling to her, afraid of his own self.

‘You’ll stay mine, Janie, forever an’ ever? Whisper it true, for the words are sweet to hear!’ And she whispered them to him, knowing full well she’d be his loving, faithful wife till death came, but knowing also that there was a greater love than this awaiting her. From where it would come she did not know, but it was there, round the bend of the hills, biding until she was ready for it.

Meanwhile the first weeks passed and they became used to one another, and Janet grew accustomed to the presence of Thomas near her at all times, and his ever-ready wish to be close to her.

She busied herself with the house in the mornings, and if it happened that he was working hard she would take his dinner down to him herself in the yard, and sit beside him the while.

She loved the great trunks of trees, old and well seasoned, that lay waiting to be cut for planks, the sawdust on the ground, the smell of new rope and tar and the rough unformed shapes of boats. The thought would come into her mind that one day these planks would be living things, riding the sea with the wind for company; roaming the wide world over maybe; and she a woman in Plyn, with only a husband and a home. And she strove to banish these thoughts which belonged to the old wild Janet, and were not befitting to the wife of Thomas Coombe. She must remember that she wore a print gown now, and a smooth apron about her waist, and no longer a rough skirt for climbing the rocks beneath the Castle ruin. Sometimes of an afternoon she’d put on her bonnet, and walk up Plyn hill to her mother’s house, where there’d be tea served in the front parlour, and neighbours coming in for cake and talk.

It was strange for all that to be treated by the women as one of themselves, when it was only a bit of a while since she’d been scolded and chided for a mannerless girl. How many times had she put an eye to the keyhole of the parlour, holding her handkerchief to her mouth for fear of laughing, and listening to the chit-chat of the neighbours’ voices? And now she was one of them, sitting as prim as you like with her cup and saucer in her hands, inquiring after old Mrs Collins’ rheumatics, and shaking her head with the rest of them at the evil shocking ways of your Albie Trevase, who’d gotten the girl into trouble over at Polmear Farm.

‘Seems as young folks have no respeck for themselves nor for others these days,’ said Mrs Rogers. ‘’Tis runnin’ and la’fin’ an’ go-as-you-please from mornin’ till night. The lads won’ wait till they’re wed, good an’ proper, nor the gals neither.You should pray God on your knees and thank Him you’m safe, Mrs Coombe,’ turning to Janet, ‘for your heathenish runnin’ by yourself as a gal frightened your mother sore, it did.’

‘All th’ same, an’ thankin’ ye, Mrs Rogers,’ said Janet’s mother, ‘my Janie was never one for havin’ the lads take liberties with her.’

‘No, I didn’,’ declared Janet, with all the indignation of a young bride.

‘Mebbe not - mebbe not, I’m not sayin’ as you did, my dear. You’m wedded now, an’ can do as your husband bids you, without fearin’ the wrath of God. It’s treatin’ him well that’ll keep him, I tell you, an’ if you forget it you’ll find your Thomas slinkin’ after the farm girls, same as young Albie Trevase. An’ you can mind that, Mrs Coombe.’

Janet shook her head in scorn. They could say what they liked against her Thomas, there wasn’t a quieter nor soberer man in all Cornwall for sure.

She kept her mouth shut too, and wouldn’t answer the poking inquisitive questions they put to her. It was a common thing that all Plyn must know their neighbours’ business, and they’d keep it up for hours, worrying the very life out of a poor body.

‘If you feel sick-like in the mornin’ an’ queer, you’ll tell your mother direckly, my dear,’ said one of them, looking Janet up and down, for all the world like a sow on market day.