The Loving Spirit

by Daphne Du Maurier

  Joseph pushed his glass away. The face of a girl stared up at him over the shoulder of a man. A girl with dark hair and eyes, and a provocative tilted nose. She moved well, and Joseph could picture the lines of her body. Suddenly she shook her shoulders and laughed, calling out something in German to a woman who passed. Just for a fraction of a second she reminded him of someone - of something; she was like a clue to an invisible secret, and then it was gone again. He noticed the tight bodice drawn across her full breasts.

  Then Joseph knew that he wanted this girl. She moved with her companion to the table by his side, and he saw that the man was the Portuguese.

  Joseph rose, and laid his hand upon the girl. No matter if the lights rocked a little above him, or the floor sloped like a deck beneath his feet. The Portuguese shouted an oath and seized a knife. Joseph swung his fist into the man’s face, laughing as he did so. The Portuguese crumpled at his feet, his face smeared with blood. ‘Come on,’ roared Joseph, ‘have ye had enough?’ He wanted to fight, to seize the tables and chairs and swing them across the room, to break the limbs of other men and trample their skulls beneath his feet. Then the girl laid a hand on his arm, she laughed up at him. People crowded round him threateningly. Joseph shook himself free, and pushed his way out into the street with the girl hanging at his heels like a dog. He stood unsteadily on the pavement and looked into the girl’s face.

  Five o’clock in the morning.The girl lit a gas jet, which spluttered feebly and cast a sickly yellow glow about the dark room. This was reflected on the carpet, on the smeared window pane, on the face of the girl, as she moved about the floor treading heavily. She poured some water into a basin. Joseph sat on the edge of a chair, his head in his hands. He reached for his coat and fumbled in the pocket, from whence he took his pipe and pouch of tobacco, and a handful of change. He laid the money in a heap beside a photograph of a child on the mantelpiece. The girl’s back was turned to him, he saw nothing but a bent figure encased in ugly stiff corsets, drawing on a pair of long black stockings. Joseph lit his pipe and moved towards the door.

  Groping his way down a dingy staircase he opened the outer door, and let himself into the street.

  Joseph felt the longing rise in his heart for Plyn. He wanted to look upon the quiet waters of the harbour, and the little cottages clustered about the hill, with the blue smoke curling from their crooked chimneys. He wanted to feel the cobbled stones of the old slip beneath his feet, where the nets were spread to dry in the sun, and where the blue-jerseyed fishermen leaned against the harbour wall. He wanted to hear the sound of the waves, splashing against the rocks below the Castle ruins, and the rustle of the trees in Truan woods, the movement of sheep and cattle in the hushed fields, the stirring of a rabbit in the high hedges that bordered the twisting lanes. He longed once more for the faces of simple folk, for the white wings of the crying gulls, and the call of the bells from Lanoc Church. Joseph stood on the side of the dock and saw the sharp outline of his ship, her two masts pointing to the sky. He raised his lantern and flashed it on the figurehead in the bows. The light fell upon her face. Her white dress was in shadow, and her two small hands folded upon her breast.

  And as he watched, it seemed to Joseph that she smiled upon him and whispered in the air, ‘Did you think that I’d forsaken you. Did you think I was crumblin’ to dust in the churchyard? My son, my beloved, I’ve been at your side always, always - here, part of the ship, part of yourself, and you didn’t understand. Open your heart, Joseph, an’ come to me. There is no fear, no ugliness, no death - only the white light of courage and beauty and truth. I’m alive an’ free, an’ lovin’ you as of old - Joseph - Joseph.’

  He felt warmth steal into his cold heart and strength return to his spirit. The grim spectre of loneliness faded away.

  For a moment Joseph was drawn into the light, beyond good and evil, beyond the flesh to the high places - and he opened his blinded eyes and looked upon the living Janet.

  A passing sailor saw a man, with a lantern raised, scanning the empty face of a weather-beaten figurehead.

  3

  ‘Well, Joe, you’re not greatly changed for all your travels, an’ we’re right pleased to see you back amongst us again.’ Samuel smiled at his brother, while Mary poked the parlour fire into a warm blaze.Thomas Coombe sat in his usual place in the armchair, with the inevitable Bible on his knee. The other brothers and their wives had joined the circle, and were looking proudly at their sailor relative.

  The curtains were drawn, the supper was cleared away, the hymns had been sung, and the clock ticked as slowly as ever on the wall.

  Joseph stretched out his legs and sighed. It was good to be back. He gazed at the dear, familiar faces, and asked for all the Plyn gossip.

  ‘Sammie’s twin girls are a picture o’ health,’ said Mary, loyal as ever though secretly a little jealous of Posy. ‘The’m raisin’ ten now, you know, an’ doin’ splendid at school. Take after their father somethin’ extraordinary.’

  Samuel blushed proudly.

  ‘Then little Tom is more delicate, but a dear boy for all that, an’ his brother Dick is taller than him already.’

  Funny to think that dear, sober Samuel was the father of four children, while quiet, painstaking Herbert, seated with his wife near the harmonium and beaming at Joseph, had been married scarce seven years and had already three boys and two girls, and it seemed that dark-haired Elsie, his wife, was expecting again.

  Philip had dropped in at Ivy House to take a look at Joseph and to discuss the bills for the Janet Coombe. He was now second clerk at Hogg and Williams, and was inclined to take the business side of the family ship into his own hands. The brothers and sisters were a little afraid of him, he was so superior, ‘quite the gentleman’ they said amongst themselves.

  Lizzie was courting Nicholas Stevens, and Joseph at once took a liking to this bluff genial farmer, with his blue eyes and his hearty handshake.

  Why had he sometimes despised this little crowd, thinking them narrow and foolish? After all, they were part of Janet as he was himself. She had been the mother of them all. They none of them resembled her, though, unless it was Lizzie with her black hair like his own, and her large eyes. He was fond of Lizzie, and glad that she would make a home with her handsome farmer, for all the difference in age between them.

  ‘The girls o’ Plyn are in a ferment that you’re back again,’ laughed Mary. ‘You’ll have them chasin’ you about the place lest you take care.’

  ‘I should think Joe wants a rest from women when he comes home,’ remarked Philip dryly. ‘Besides, they must seem poor enough compared to the ladies of the Continent.’

  Joseph glanced at his sandy-haired, narrow-eyed brother. Queer chap he was, with that strain of bitterness. Nothing of Janet in him.

  ‘Why don’t ye give the wild ways a miss, Joe,’ suggested Samuel. ‘You’re old enough now to have had a good time, and seen all ye want. If I was you I’d find some nice girl in Plyn an’ settle down, same as me an’ Herbie has done. It ‘ud do you all the good i’ the world to have a wife, an’ childrun of your own.’

  Thomas looked up from his Bible and peered at Joseph over his spectacles.

  ‘As ye sow, so shall ye reap,’ he said firmly. Nobody quite knew what he meant, but they were used to their father’s ways by now.

  ‘There’s no need for you to leave the sea, Joe,’ put in Mary, who was an ardent matchmaker. ‘You can remain Master of the Janet Coombe, but Samuel’s right about you marryin’. It’s a wife you need to steady you, an’ a neat tidy home o’ your own.’

  Joseph smiled and shook his head. ‘I reckon I’m not the marryin’ sort,’ he said. The idea clung to his mind, however, and though he professed to laugh at the suggestion, he thought it over when he was alone. What was against it anyway? He knew that he would never be able to love a woman. His heart and his soul were given to Janet - Janet and the ship. But he could feel affection and tenderness, he could experience that warm, contented sensation
that someone was waiting for him in a lighted cottage, that he was not entirely unwanted, that someone perhaps might give him comfort and a home, and a kindly devoted nature. It would be grand, too, to see boys growing up around him, his own boys. Janet’s boys. Funny - queer. Yes, he must think about it.

  Joseph spent these first days quietly enough at Plyn. He went for long walks about the country, looking up the old haunts where he had rambled as a boy, when Janet had been by his side. It was still winter, and there was no sign of spring in the air as yet. He liked to trudge over the wet fields and the desolate hills, with the soft rain blowing about his face, and the squelching mud soaking his boots. Often he stood in the corner of Lanoc Churchyard, where Janet’s grave lay sheltered in the long grass, beside the thorn hedge and the elm tree. Could it be true that she lay beneath the soaking earth, heedless of him and of his need for her, or was his vision of beauty the real truth, when he stood on the dock-side at Hamburg and looked into her face? He clung to the stupendous grandeur of this thought. Meanwhile his own personal life stretched out before him, days and nights that must be faced with courage, and he knew too well how often he would fail. So Joseph turned away from the silent grave, and made his way down to the busy world of Plyn, with the noise of the jetties and the ships, and the voices of folk who called from their cottage doors. Mary would welcome him with a kind smile, and push him a chair next his father’s on the hearth; but more than ever Joseph began to think of the idea of a wife and home of his own, where he could feel himself at perfect liberty on his return from the sea.

  Ivy House was still too full of memories. He could not look up to the ivy above the porch, because it was her room. Her voice echoed on the landing, and in the kitchen. He could not sleep in his bed without turning his head towards the door where she should come, softly on tiptoe, a candle in her hand. Memories that tugged at his heart, and weakened his strength. Unconsciously he missed, too, all the little attentions which she had made so dear to him. She had cared for his clothes and his food, giving him always the best of everything, and making him aware of love.

  Mary was a loyal affectionate sister, but she gave him none of these things. To her he was just one of the family, and must shift for himself.

  Joseph was lonely in a hundred ways. Parts of him that had never grown up called out for sympathy, understanding, and care.

  Perhaps he would find this in marriage. He would not take any of these laughing pretty girls, who watched him walk up Plyn hill with a blush on their cheeks and a glance from their lowered eyes; but a woman with a brave and loving heart, who would know how to calm his restlessness, who would give him a home, and not a haunted dwelling. He would be good to her and respect her, she would be the mother of his sons. So Joseph reasoned as he gazed upon the harbour from the garden at Ivy House, and as he watched the movement on the water he saw that the Francis Hope was anchored off the Town Quay. He had missed Captain Collins at Hamburg, and now he would be able to make up for it, and they would have a chat on old times.

  Joseph seized his hat, and made his way along the street to the house where the Collinses lived. Sarah, the captain’s wife and Janet’s former friend, was ill, it appeared, and in bed. This was told him by the boy who opened the door. ‘Grandfather’s upstairs with my Grannie, Captain Joe,’ said the boy, ‘but Auntie Susan is in the parlour and will give you a cup of tea. Grandfather’ll be down directly, and glad to see you for certain.’

  Joseph entered the house and wiped his feet on the mat. He remembered being brought to tea here as a lad, and playing with the young Collinses. The boys were all grown up now, sailors like himself, and the child who had let him in must be a son of one of them. Susan he could recollect but vaguely. She was the eldest daughter, three years older than his own brother Samuel, and had not entered much into their games in the former days. She must be thirty-five now. Strange how the years fled without your reckoning them.

  ‘Come on, do, Captain Joe,’ called a voice from the parlour, ‘the kettle’s on the boil and I dare say you’d like warmin’ up after this dirty weather. Terrible it’s been now all the month, an’ father arrived home to find our poor invalid upstairs. Sit right down, and put yourself at ease.’ So this was Susan. A kind, motherly woman with patient hazel eyes, and quick capable hands that moved swiftly about the tea table, laying the cups and saucers.

  ‘Why, you’m wet, I declare,’ she said, pointing to his streaming boots. ‘Let’s have ’em off right away, and put to dry in the kitchen. Give me your coat as well. That’s better, isn’t it? Was there ever such foolish, careless creatures as men?’

  He laughed up at her, and his eyes followed her as she moved about the room, her trim, rather plump figure, the twist of her humorous mouth, and the brown hair that curled beneath her white cap. He stretched his feet to the fire, and drank his tea. He felt well, comfortable, and he liked this woman who showed no sign of embarrassment at the rough sailor in his shirt-sleeves, with his stockinged feet stuck in the fender.

  She was no beauty, neither was she young, but there was something appealing about her for all that, and her voice was soft and low. He was content to be there in this house, and see her bend over the fire, and laugh at some remark of his, and then brush her hair away from her brow with an impatient gesture.

  It reminded him of someone - something - No, he didn’t remember. Must have been an idle fancy.

  After a while Captain Collins came down, and two of the sons came back from their work in Plyn, so the parlour was filled. When at length Joseph rose to go Susan Collins went with him to the door, and helped him on with his dried coat. ‘Now keep out o’ mischief, an’ don’t go catchin’ any chills,’ she warned him laughingly.

  ‘I’ll know where to come if I do,’ he told her, and he was pleased to see the colour come into her cheeks, and a dimple show at the corner of her mouth. ‘Good evenin’,’ she said, shy for the first time.

  Joseph returned to Ivy House and found the fire out in both the rooms, his father and sisters having gone to Samuel’s for the evening. His supper was waiting for him in the kitchen, cold and unappetizing. He wished himself back in the cosy parlour at the Collinses’ house; and hastily swallowing his supper he climbed to his cheerless bedroom, and after reading for a while, he dropped off early to sleep.

  After that day Joseph found himself often calling in to have a chat with Captain Collins. This was the excuse he made for going there, but more often than not the old man would be above in his wife’s bedroom, and Joseph would find nobody about but Susan.

  Thus it happened that many times now Joseph would sit by the fire in the kitchen, while Susan baked her cakes and her bread, and saw to the needs of her household.

  In a month’s time Joseph would be sailing again, so he made the most of his days while he could.

  One afternoon he arrived and went round to the back door as usual. He tapped softly on the window, ‘Where are you to, Susan?’

  ‘You must let yourself in, Joe,’ she called, ‘for it’s bakin’ day an’ I’ve my hands all messed with the flour, an’ the yeast.’ He went into the kitchen, and she raised her face from the stove, rather hot and red, while her hair fell in curling untidy wisps about her forehead. Her sleeves were rolled up, and he noticed the full white arms with a dimple in the elbow.

  ‘O’ course you would choose now the moment to come in,’ she reproached him, ‘wi’ me in such a state. Why don’t you take yourself off with one o’ the gay girls up the hill, instead o’ laughin’ at me and idlin’ by the fire, takin’ me mind off the work.’

  She pommelled at her bread, kneading it and punching it with her capable fists.

  ‘Mother’ll be up agen in a day or two,’ she told him, ‘an’ I’ll have finished wi’ all this, unless she feels the need o’ me.’

  ‘Well, if she does, I reckon Cathie can help her,’ said Joseph, watching her closely.

  ‘But I like it,’ exclaimed Susan, wiping a spot of flour from her chin. ‘I’m not young enough t
o care for gallivantin’ about Plyn, this is when I feel happy an’ at ease.’

  ‘You can continue till the end o’ your days,’ said Joseph, gazing at her arms, ‘but you won’t be doin’ it here.’

  ‘Why ever not, pray?’ scoffed Susan, wringing the dough from her fingers.

  ‘Because you’re goin’ to marry me an’ do it in your own kitchen,’ said Joseph, and he rose to his feet and put his arms round her, and kissed the white flour marks away from her mouth.

  ‘Why, bless me,’ began Susan weakly, and struggled to get free. ‘What’s marryin’ got to do wi’ the likes o’ me, you wild ridiculous lad.’

  ‘Everything in the world, my dear,’ laughed Joseph, ‘and I will not let you go until you promise to be my wife, and quickly too, because I want a week of married life before I sail.’ And that was how Joseph Coombe proposed to Susan Collins in the year 1865.

  So it was arranged, and before the night was passed the news was all over Plyn that Joe Coombe was going to marry Susan Collins, whom nobody ever thought would find a lover, with her homely face, and she past thirty-five.

  ‘’Twill never last,’ declared the pretty girls of Plyn. ‘To think o’ Joe bein’ tied to a dull quiet body like Susan Collins. Why, she’s five years older’n him, an’ maybe more.’

  Nevertheless, Susan, flustered and overwhelmed by her impatient lover, made haste to see to her clothes and be ready in time. Joseph found a house close to the Methodist Chapel. He too was busy with his ship Janet Coombe, for she was to sail to St Michaels a week after his wedding day.

  Thus the days passed like a flash of lightning, and on the 17th day of March, Joseph and Susan were married in the little grey Methodist Chapel, for old Captain Collins was a staunch Wesleyan and would not have his daughter wed in church.