Christopher, slightly alarmed, was shown into the drawing-room and was aware of a group of people seated about the room, and a tinkle of spoons and cups.
‘Mr Christopher Coombe,’ said the maid in a loud voice. A tall, majestic woman with a lace cap on her head, and dressed in brown velvet, rose from the chair where she had been sitting.
‘Mr Frisk has told us about you, Mr Coombe. I am pleased you were able to come this afternoon. Won’t you take this chair here beside me. Edith, my love, pour some tea for Mr Coombe. Mr Coombe, my second daughter, Edith.’
Christopher bowed, red in the face, and balanced a slice of bread and butter beside his scalding cup. ‘Thank you very much.’
‘Mr Frisk tells us that you are doing so well in the Post Office, Mr Coombe.’
‘I am doing my best,’ he said modestly, and she bowed her head.
‘Try a morsel of this marmalade cake. My boarders look forward to these Sunday teas because of it.’
A little murmur of polite laughter rose from the crowd.
‘It’s not only the cake, Mrs P., you know,’ said Harry Frisk, with a jocular smile, anxious to show his familiarity with his hostess. He dug Christopher in the back.
‘You just tell Mrs P. about your father in the Navy,’ he suggested.
‘How delightful. I am thrilled by anyone in the Service,’ gushed Miss Edith. ‘There’s such a romantic flavour about the sea, I find.’
‘Hush, my love,’ frowned her mother,‘let Mr Coombe speak.’
To his alarm Christopher found that everyone in the room had ceased from talking, and had formed an audience.
‘The Merchant Service, Frisk, not the Navy,’ he began awkwardly. ‘My father was master of a little schooner, but he’s on the retired list now. I dare say you have heard of Plyn in Cornwall. That is my home.’
Nobody had apparently been aware of its existence until that moment, and he explained that the town was situated on an estuary in Cornwall, the other side of Plymouth.
‘Ah! Plymouth,’ cried Edith. ‘Fancy, the Spanish Armada, mamma, you remember Lord Macaulay’s poem.’
‘Yes, indeed, Drake and the Hoe, he played bowls or something of the sort. Dear me, Mr Coombe, how very interesting. Being a Cornishman, you sing, I suppose?’
‘Well, now, I hardly...’
‘Oh! nonsense, no modesty now.All Cornishmen sing.What a pity that Bertha is not here, is it not, Edith? Bertha is my eldest girl,’ she explained. ‘She is away staying with relatives at Chichester. Dear Bertha has such a talent, and usually on Sunday evenings we have music. Delightful pastime, don’t you agree with me?’
‘Oh! assuredly, madam.’
‘Never mind, when Bertha returns we can promise ourselves such merry little gatherings. I need hardly tell you,’ she added in a lower tone, ‘that Mr Frisk has explained something of your desire to join us in our home. Now that we have made your acquaintance, and you have been formally introduced, we shall expect you, of course.’
‘I’m sure it’s very good of you, Mrs Parkins.’
‘Any friend who is recommended by dear Mr Frisk is welcome. Ladies and gentlemen, I wish to announce that Mr Coombe will shortly be one of us, and I’m sure we all hope he will never live to regret the day he took up his abode at No. 7.’
‘Hear, hear - splendid, how very delightful,’ rose the chorus.
‘Mr Coombe, you must meet all our little group,’ said Mrs Parkins, and she took him by the arm, while Harry Frisk followed officiously in their train. ‘Dear Mr Frisk you already know. No further time need be wasted on him.’ A polite smile from Christopher and a snigger from Frisk.
‘You have met Edith, and this is May, our baby.’ A fat, bashful creature of about nineteen sidled across the room, and held out a large damp hand.
‘This is Mr and Mrs Arnold Stodge, who have been with us for many years.’
Christopher bowed to a thin, melancholy man, with a drooping moustache, and an even more melancholy lady, dressed in deep black with a shawl about her shoulders.
‘Mr Stodge is a retired traveller,’ continued the hostess.
‘Indeed, how interesting. I suppose you’ve been all over the world, sir?’
‘Commercial, you idiot, commercial,’ whispered Frisk, scarlet in the face at his friend’s blunder.
‘Oh! dear - pardon - of course,’ mumbled Christopher, colouring in turn.
‘Here is Miss Davis, who is one of our most ardent musicians. ’ Miss Davis, a pale, earnest young woman with dark eyes, gazed at the young man searchingly, and inquired if he had heard Faust. ‘No - I - I think not,’ began Christopher nervously. What the devil did she mean? ‘Miss Davis teaches music in the daytime, and entertains us in the evenings,’ said Mrs Parkins. ‘This gentleman on your right is the Major - Major Carter.’ A large, pompous individual put up an eyeglass and stared haughtily for a minute, then turned his back.
‘Awful stickler for etiquette,’ muttered Frisk. ‘It doesn’t do to offend him.’
‘On your left we have Mrs Crisp,’ a small waspish little woman, with a pointed chin; ‘Miss Tray, a keen politician,’ a tall, frightening woman bore down upon him with pince-nez and prominent teeth; ‘Mr Wooten, in the wholesale business,’ a red-haired young man twisted his feet and giggled inanely; ‘and Mr Black, in tallow.’ The words suggested a mass of oil and grease, but Christopher shook hands with a stout, bloated old man, red-nosed and watery-eyed, who winked at him when his hostess’s back was turned. ‘And so you have met us all except dear Bertha, which will be a pleasure to come. And now, what about a little reading, everybody?’
In a few minutes the room was cleared and the chairs drawn in a circle. Christopher found himself between Miss Davis and the tallow merchant.
‘We generally read from the poets,’ explained Miss Davis kindly, ‘so as to become accustomed to the beauties of the English language. It is Tennyson this afternoon.’
‘Damned humbug!’ breathed the tallow merchant, ‘bores me stiff. Always go to sleep. Wake me up if anyone reads anything spicy. Get my meaning?’ He put his finger to his nose and winked odiously.
‘Mr Coombe, our custom is just to open a book and read haphazard,’ said Mrs Parkins. ‘Thus we get a fair amount of variation. Edith, my love, will you commence?’
Christopher, too nervous to laugh, bent over the book he was sharing with Miss Davis, and listened with embarrassment to the various members of the group as they read the verses aloud. When it came to his turn, and Mrs Parkins was gazing at him expectantly, he shut his eyes, fluttered the pages, and a little unfortunately opened the book towards the end of ‘Guinevere’. Swallowing bravely, Christopher made a start in the middle of the page.
O imperial moulded form,
And beauty such as never woman wore
Until it came a kingdom’s curse with thee -
I cannot touch thy lips, they are not mine,
But Lancelot’s; nay, they never were the King’s.
I cannot take thy hand, that too is flesh,
And in the flesh thou hast sinn’d; and mine own flesh
Here looking down on thine polluted, cries . . .
Christopher heard a snigger in his right ear. The tallow merchant had wakened up.The young man raised his eyes and noticed the flush on his hostess’s face. She fanned herself nervously and frowned.The other members of the boarding-house moved uneasily in their seats. The two daughters sat with lowered eyes.
Flurried and embarrassed Christopher continued:I loathe thee, yet not less, O Guinevere,
For I was ever virgin save for thee
For love thro’ flesh . . .
‘Yes - well, perhaps that will do for today, Mr Coombe,’ interrupted Mrs Parkins, rising to her feet. ‘Miss Davis, dare I suggest a little music?’
Christopher, feeling he had committed some unforgivable crime, concealed himself in a corner of the room, where he was soon joined by Messrs Frisk and Black.
‘I say old fellow,’ began the first hurriedly,
‘do choose your subject before you read another time. Just glance down the page, if you know what I mean. Frightfully sensitive woman, Mrs P., if you get my meaning. No offence, I hope?’
‘Certainly not,’ said Christopher, ‘really, I’m sure I had no idea . . .’
‘He! he!’ chuckled the tallow merchant, ‘you clever rascal. How on earth did you find that speech? Bless my soul, I’ve searched through the Idylls of the King, and never come across it.Well done, my boy. I can see things will look up now you’re to join us.’ He dug the young man in the ribs.
Christopher listened to Miss Davis’s rendering of the Moonlight Sonata in bewilderment.
When the music was finished, and Christopher was about to leave, his hostess signalled to him to follow her for a few minutes’ private conversation in her boudoir.
‘Quite all right,’ whispered Harry Frisk, ‘this is the custom before a new boarder joins. She’ll ask you what religion you practise and also tell you about something that happened here some years ago. A couple behaved very badly - no need to explain further if you get me. Damn bad form and all that sort of thing.’
Above in the boudoir Mrs Parkins motioned the young man to a seat.
‘Mr Coombe, before you go I must ask you if you are a member of the Church of England?’
‘Well, madam, my mother was a Wesleyan Methodist, but my father was brought up a Churchman. I’ve attended both services in my time.’
‘Ah! well, I think that is quite satisfactory. You are, at least, neither an atheist nor a papist. We never could receive you here if such was the case.’
‘No, madam, I’m sure.’
‘Then, Mr Coombe, I trust, I hope that your morals are above reproach.’
‘Please?’ asked Christopher, a little puzzled.
‘In other words, you are clean-living and clean-thinking?’
‘Oh! exceedingly, Mrs Parkins.’
‘That is well. You see, Mr Coombe, a woman in my delicate position as head of this establishment cannot afford to be too careful. Being a widow - in short, you understand me.’
‘Quite.’ He was lost, but no matter.
‘In fact, because of what I have said to you I feel it my duty to acquaint you with an unfortunate occurrence that took place under my very roof three years ago. It so happened that it came to my knowledge quite by accident, indeed I might never have discovered it but for being obliged to descend down to the lower landing in the middle of the night. Mr Coombe, this is highly distressing to both of us, I’m sure, I found to my horror that two of my boarders, a young man and a - a woman, were’ - she lowered her voice to a whisper - ‘were cohabiting.’
She sank back in her chair and fanned herself.
‘Dear me, how very shocking,’ murmured Christopher.
‘Oh! infamous. They were flung from the building early the next morning, of course. But as the mother of three innocent young daughters, three pure gems, Mr Coombe, imagine my state of mind.’
‘I can, Mrs Parkins.’
‘Since this - this painful incident I have lived in perpetual agony lest it should happen again; I have feared lest my own girls should not escape the contamination. Mr Coombe, I can place my confidence in you and never have it abused?’
‘Certainly, madam, I assure you.’
‘Then I need keep you no longer. Good-bye until next Saturday, and welcome to No. 7. Liberty Hall, Mr Coombe, to those who can be trusted.’
She bowed gravely, and Christopher took his leave.
The tallow merchant was hovering in the passage. ‘He! He!’ he leered, ‘been in the dragon’s den? I’ll walk with you to the end of the road. Believe in an evening constitutional. So she’s been showing you the family skeleton, has she? Thought as much. Don’t listen to a word she says. Perfectly easy for a young fellow like you to have some fun if he feels inclined. Other pair of fools got found out. Their own fault. Used to leave on the gas-light. Showed under the door. Prefer the dark myself. Ha! Ha! bit of a dog in my day.’
Christopher, something of a prude, hastened his steps.What an objectionable old fellow.
‘Here! not so fast. Not as young as I was. Always ready for fun though. We’ll set things humming at No. 7, eh? Worst of it is, such rotten poor material.Virgins every one of ’em, and past their prime. No good to me.What about you, you rogue? Bertha’s the goods. She’s the doings. Cold as ice, though. Made of marble. See if you can thaw her, eh? He! He! Don’t forget to turn down the gas.’
‘Good night,’ said Christopher hurriedly, and crossed to the other side of the street, leaving the tallow merchant on the opposite pavement, waving his umbrella.
3
So Christopher became a boarder at No. 7 Maple Street, Liberty Hall to the favoured, though personally he found little enough freedom there. There seemed to be so many rules and regulations, and such show of etiquette, and this was not the thing, and that showed lack of breeding, and the other showed really deplorable taste. He began to feel he was a very difficult person to suit. He had detested the rough ignorant crowd on the Janet Coombe, his father’s vessel, and longed for people of culture and understanding; now he had found them they were scarcely better, for they were narrow and pretentious, with small hearts and stilted views.
It was certainly a queer circle in which he had found himself, and though he worked hard at the Post Office it was a dry, tedious business, and he often sighed for the fresh air of Plyn, and the sound of the sea. Until, of course, Bertha Parkins returned to the boarding-house. Christopher never forgot the first moment he saw her.
He had returned from his work and entered the drawing-room where the boarders assembled before the evening meal. Mrs Parkins had hurried forward. ‘My dearest Bertha is a stranger to you, Mr Coombe. May I present my eldest daughter? ’
A tall, graceful girl turned from the piano where she had been looking over some music, and bowed distantly. ‘I am delighted you have become one of us, Mr Coombe,’ she said. Christopher gaped at her, blushing to the roots of his hair. Could she possibly be a Parkins? Why, she was beautiful and stately, like a princess. She was a picture, she was the drawing by Mr Marcus Stone in the dining-room, of a lady sitting in a garden dressed in white. How clumsy and awkward she must think him with his country manners and his Cornish accent. Her sisters could not hold a candle to her for looks. Such grace too, or deportment as Harry Frisk would say, and her simple, almost severe dress, her soft brown hair swept away from the high forehead.
Christopher was a curious young man. He was nearing twenty-three, and he had never as yet considered women except in the light of a relative. Now suddenly this cold, stately, utterly beautiful Miss Bertha had made her appearance, leaving him quite bewildered and a prey to a host of new painful and perplexing emotions. Firstly he was tongue-tied in her presence, he found himself unable to utter a word that seemed reasonably sensible or intelligent. At once he was self-conscious, and lost his ease, he was terrified lest he should make some idiotic social blunder, taboo at No. 7, that would cause her pain and displeasure.
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.
&
nbsp; 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?’
The Loving Spirit Page 24
