The Loving Spirit (32 page)

He began to go to church regularly on Sundays, he read the same authors he found in the hands of his divinity, in order to exchange opinions concerning them, and then when she turned to him with an encouraging smile and asked him a question, he was covered in confusion and stammered something perfectly unintelligible.

Gradually, of course, his feelings became stronger. He found to his amazement that Miss Bertha was not above entering into conversation, accepting small bunches of flowers for her room, bunches which grew larger as his sentiments grew bolder; that she was willing to walk home with him from church on Sundays, exchange books and discuss Mr Gladstone without animosity.

Gradually Christopher realized he was in love. There was no use in denying it, he could not withstand this strange thing that had come upon him. He loved Bertha Parkins. He was miserable and unhappy when not in her company, his long days in the Post Office seemed interminable, until the evenings brought him back to her again.

Had the other inhabitants of No. 7 noticed his emotions, he wondered? They had. Mrs Crisp muttered her suspicions to Mrs Stodge, Miss Davis sighed sentimentally as she dreamed some waltz on the piano. Miss Edith and Miss May whispered in corners, and Mr Black the tallow merchant listened at keyholes. He was the first to inform Christopher that the entire household was waiting for him to take steps.

‘Here, Coombe,’ he said in his familiar manner, ‘this sort of thing can’t go on. Doing yourself no good, nor the girl neither. Go and get her.’

‘I don’t know what you mean, Black,’ said Christopher stiffly, ‘nor to whom you are referring.’

‘He! He! - you can’t fool me, you dog. I’ve watched you. Can’t contain yourself when a certain nameless one is present. She’s not made of ice either. Soon melt, if you teach her the trick. By George, wish I were twenty years younger.Teach her myself.’ Christopher turned his back. He would box the fellow’s ears if he said another word. To drag Miss Parkins in the mud like that. It was at this moment that Harry Frisk came to his aid.

‘I say, old chap, no offence, but - what are your intentions regarding a lady known to us both?’

Christopher swallowed and took a grip of himself.

‘What do you mean?’ he said faintly.

‘Well, only it’s devilish awkward for me. I mean, the girls have no father and no brother, and I sort of hold myself responsible. Mrs P. trusts me. What are you going to do?’

‘I - I - what can I do?’

‘Well, declare yourself, old boy.’

‘I’m sorry, but I honestly haven’t the courage. I’ve never thought of such a thing. She’s far too good for me, why . . .’

‘Oh! I don’t know.You’re smart enough.You’ve got a good position at the P.O. You could support a wife, I dare say.’

‘A wife - good heavens, you suggest I should ask Miss Parkins to become my wife?’

‘Why, yes. What do you think I meant?’

‘I hardly know - forgive me, I must have been mad. You advise me to propose to Miss Parkins, to offer her marriage?’

‘Certainly, old fellow. Damn bad form to do anything else.’

‘Oh! of course - of course. She is the soul of honour, I - really - phew! old man, I am in a regular state.’

‘Well, think it over. You can scarcely remain here without making a declaration. She must expect it.’

‘Impossible. She cannot have the slightest suspicion.’

‘I’m not so sure. Anyway, don’t lose heart over it. Pull yourself together if you get my meaning. No offence?’

‘Oh! None. Thanks, Harry.’

The weeks passed and Christopher Coombe had not yet summoned up enough courage to speak his mind.

Things might have gone on like this indefinitely had it not been for the return of Stanley from Africa on 26 April. Bertha had expressed a wish to join the crowd at Victoria Station and catch a glimpse of London’s idol, and her mother had refused until Christopher timidly offered his escort. This, of course, was another matter; Mrs Parkins smiled approval, and her daughter flushed with pleasure. Instantly there was an electric feeling in the boarding-house that the great moment was approaching. Black, the tallow merchant, took an extra glass of wine at dinner, and tried to hold Miss Tray’s hand under the table, much to that lady’s indignation; effeminate Mr Wooten summoned up sufficient virility to play cat’s cradle with May Parkins, and Mr Arnold Stodge read Ouida’s new novel aloud to his wife.

Christopher and Bertha took up their usual positions by the piano to sing duets, while Miss Davis fluttered the music nervously.

‘It is a wonderful thing how your voice, Mr Coombe, and Bertha’s harmonize,’ she murmured daringly.

Bertha lowered her eyes and Christopher’s heart leapt in his breast.

Did it mean, could she possibly . . .?

Miss Davis struck the opening bars, and Christopher’s light baritone joined Bertha’s clear soprano.

O! that we two were maying,

What feeling the young man put into his voice, what passion into the words! If he had not the courage to propose, he could at least declare himself in song. Bertha was smiling at him over the top of Miss Davis’s head.

He felt that until this moment nothing in his life had held any value at all. Plyn, the country, his father, the ship, none of these had existed, he had been born merely to look into Bertha’s eyes and to read the answer to the question he dared not ask. He was swept with an affection for the boarding-house, for everyone in it, even old Black himself was a good fellow. And it was spring and he was twenty-three, and he was taking her tomorrow to see Stanley return; they would drive round Regent’s Park afterwards in a hansom cab - they would, if he threw himself in the Canal afterwards.

O! that we two were maying
Down the stream of a soft spring breeze
And like children with violets playing
In the shade of the whispering trees.

‘Charming, charming,’ said Mrs Parkins, feeling for her handkerchief.

With hot trembling hands Christopher propped another sheet of music on the stand before Miss Davis.

‘Play the last verse slow and very soft,’ he muttered fiercely, and she nodded in sympathy, her heart beating.

With his eyes aflame, and tremor in his voice, he plunged once more into song—

I will give you a fine silken gown,
Madam, will you walk,
Madam, will you talk.

Why must she shake her head in such determination. Could not she see that he was laying his very life at her feet?

Miss Davis pressed heavily upon the soft pedal, her fingers scarcely touched the keys.

With doubled ardour, his voice cracking with emotion, Christopher sang the last verse.

I will give you the keys of my heart,
And we will be married till death us do part,
Madam, will you walk,
Madam will you talk,
Madam, will you walk and talk with me?

The following evening Christopher and Bertha were packed tight in the crowd gathered outside Victoria Station.

They caught one glimpse of the celebrated traveller, guarded from the cheering masses by a cordon of police, and then he was gone.

‘What a splendid figure of a man,’ exclaimed Bertha, her eyes shining. ‘Don’t you agree with me, Mr Coombe?’

‘I scarcely saw him, Miss Parkins, but I take your word for it of course.’

They climbed into an omnibus that would take them in the direction of home. Christopher’s brain was afire with plans. It was impossible to return at once, the opportunity of being alone with Bertha could not be wasted thus.

Presently they descended from the bus at the top of Baker Street, and Bertha was preparing to change into the next, when Christopher seized her arm.

‘Miss Parkins,’ he said hurriedly, ‘surely there is no need to be so pressed. It is a fine evening; would you consider it very improper if I suggest we took a little turn in Regent’s Park in a hansom?’

‘Oh! Mr Coombe - I hardly think - perhaps - it certainly would be very delightful.’

‘Then you don’t object? Hurrah! Pardon my excitement, dear Miss Parkins, I scarcely know what I am about. If we walk along we shall soon pick one up, in passing.’

Ten minutes later, Christopher Coombe and Bertha Parkins were inside a hansom, driving briskly round the outer circle. Christopher glanced at his companion, muffled in her fur stole although it was April, and her hands hidden in her muff. Her veil was fastened tight to her hat. Forgetting himself, entirely losing his head, he stretched out his hand and took one of hers from the shelter of the muff. To his wild delight she did not remove it. She sighed, and drew her fur closer to her chin. Feeling that the world would crash for all he cared, Christopher said not a word, and they proceeded round the outer circle in silence. This was pure heaven; never, never had he known such ecstasy of bliss.

He rose, and tapped on the ceiling. The cabbie lifted the trap and peered down. ‘Once more round the Park, please,’ cried Christopher firmly.

He sat down again, and nerved himself for the ordeal in front of him.

‘Miss Parkins,’ he began, ‘Miss Bertha - I - can I call you Bertha?’

A soft pressure of her hand was his answer.

‘You will hate me, despise me, for what I am about to say,’ he continued, ‘I have no right to weary you with my foolish notions. I’m not fit to touch the hem of your skirt let alone anything above.’

Good God - what was he saying? This was not what he meant at all.

‘No - No - at least, not that - what I mean to say is - Oh! Bertha, would you rather - perhaps - shall we go home?’ He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket, and mopped his brow.

‘What are you trying to tell me?’ she said gently. Modesty forbade her to go further than this.

‘That’s just it - I’m not sure - confound it. Bertha, dear Bertha, forgive my expression. I do not know what I want to say - what I am longing, burning to say in fact. For months I have struggled with myself but in vain. I am convinced that I am now going to earn your distrust of me for ever, that this is the moment when my future agony will begin, never to end.’

He paused, while she moved, ever so slightly, towards him.

‘Bertha, could you ever, could you possibly look upon me without - could you ultimately learn to—’ he choked, swallowed, blew his nose, and feverishly drew her hand to his lips.

‘Mr Coombe - Christopher - what do you mean?’ she murmured.

‘Bertha - I - I am asking you to be my wife.’ God! He had said it! For three minutes there was a pause, while Christopher cursed his brutish lack of tact. Then he drew her other hand from her muff and placed it upon his.

‘Christopher,’ she whispered, ‘how did you guess?’

Guess? Guess what? He peered into her face.

‘That I am yours,’ she said, and hid her face in confusion. A wave of madness surged through Christopher. It could not be true. He had misunderstood. He . . . but no, she sat close to him and pressed his hand. His head swimming, he put his arm around her waist. Decorum fled to the winds, manners were forgotten, the ‘genteel’ ways he had learnt in the boarding-house existed no more.

‘Put up your veil,’ he whispered. She obeyed. Christopher struck his fist at the trap-door.

‘Drive half a dozen times round the Park, and slow about it,’ he roared.

Then he took Bertha in his arms . . .

And that is how Christopher Coombe declared his love for Bertha Parkins, in the year eighteen hundred and ninety.

4

 

 

—22nd, 1890 32, York Road,

Nr. Camden Town

My dear Father,

I have been thinking of home all day, and felt that I must write and acquaint you with my great happiness, since I have been married.

I received no letter from you in reply to mine, telling you of my engagement, and fear it may have gone astray.

I enclosed with my letter a photograph of my betrothed, and was anxious to know that it had given satisfaction.

I must confess that had I searched London throughout I could never find a better partner nor a more respectable family than hers. I shall leave you to judge my last sentence by the photo that will follow this, which includes her two younger sisters who were bridesmaids, and who were pleased to escort her from the altar after the ceremony. I need hardly mention they were taken in their bridal array.

My wife and I intend to have our photo taken together shortly, which we will send to you. Our wedding took place on the twenty-sixth of August at Holy Trinity, Marylebone, and Bertha and I spent a very enjoyable honeymoon at Harrogate; this I need hardly say was her choice, for I would have dearly loved to return to Plyn and show her to you all, but, alas, it was not to be. I hope that this will be a pleasure to come, and when I have passed a further examination in the Government Postal Department, I shall feel entitled to a holiday. Should I not succeed, however, I will quit postal work, and turn my brains to something else. It is a tiring tedious business. You will wonder why my wife and I were not married sooner no doubt. Well, her mother was most particular on a four months’ engagement, and we carried this out to the very date, as you will observe.

We have now been married nearly three months, and talking it over last night we decided that it seemed but three weeks, so you can well imagine our happiness. I quite understand my wife’s desire to live so close to her family, but I would greatly prefer to have her more to myself, which seems difficult, with the sisters and the friends from the boarding house running in and out. Still, I suppose this is natural enough. Bertha would not leave London for the world, so I could not dream of tearing her away. I so often long for the sight of Plyn, but it seems fated to be otherwise. I have given up the thought of hearing from you, and Albert and Charlie, you may tell Albie straight from me that he is no man and no brother for I have written to him many times asking after you, and I have never received an answer. Neither from him, nor from the others. I have done what I believed to be my duty and asked your forgiveness, but you seem to have hardened yourself against me. Please God in time I will prove to you that I am no weakling as you seem to consider, but an honest hardworking man, with a dear wife, and the hope of raising a family who will not be ashamed to bear the name of Coombe. Of course these are early times to predict as yet, and you will naturally think I have reasons for saying so, which is quite correct, I have but I must leave it until I write again when I will give you particulars. My suspicions may be unfounded, but I think not.