The Loving Spirit (24 page)

Annie started, and shook her head. ‘No, he never did. He gives me things now an’ again, an’ visits us too, but he’s never did nothing that wasn’t proper.’

‘I’m not talking of anything proper or improper,’ said Joseph impatiently. ‘All that matters is that he fancies himself in love with you. Did you know of this?’

‘No - I don’t think - I can’t say. He’s always very attentive. ’

‘Listen, child; did you know he was going to ask you for yourself?’

‘Oh! Captain Joe - really . . .’

‘In marriage, Annie, in marriage. He wants to make you his wife.’

The girl’s eyes opened wide in astonishment. ‘Mr Coombe wants to marry me?’ she exclaimed. ‘I can’t believe it. Why, he’s quite the gentleman.’

‘You like that, do you, eh? You like him for it, you’re pleased, I can see. You fancy yourself in a lace dress and a flunkey to wait on you. That’s it, is it?’

‘No, Captain Joe, don’t flummox me so - I can’t think at all, I can’t. I’ve never given a thought to Mr Coombe.’

‘Ha! you say that, do you? Well, you must have been pretty fresh and easy with him to make him talk as he has done. So you’re goin’ to marry him, then, an’ become a fine lady, with a carriage of your own?’

‘I never said so.’ The girl was nearly in tears. ‘Mr Coombe is polite an’ kind, but I’ve never fancied him for a husband. Besides, I don’t want to wed yet awhile.’

‘Ah! you’ll keep him danglin’, will ’ee, like a poor fish on the end of a line, until you’ve made up your mind what material you’ll have for a weddin’ dress. Then when he hires enough servants to kneel at your feet, you’ll give in, eh, and make a present o’ yourself to him for all he’s done for you?’

‘Oh! stop it, Captain Joe, I’ll lose my wits in a minute, with you going on at me so.’The tears began to roll down her face. ‘Oh! dear - oh! dear, what a fuss an’ a pother, I scarce know where I am.’

Seeing her tears, Joseph lost control of himself, and seizing her in his arms he laid her across his knee, and kissed her hungrily and angrily, until her hair broke from its band, and fell about her shoulders, and she lay still, with her face pressed in his shoulder weak and helpless.

‘You’d go to him, would you,’ whispered Joseph, ‘him with his parson’s face an’ his parson’s ways, just for the sake of a pretty dress an’ a fine house.You’d go to him without knowin’ anythin’ of the meaning of love, an’ never learnin’, an’ never carin’.You’d go, where I couldn’t hold you like this - and this - and this . . .’

‘No - no—’ cried Annie. ‘You mustn’t, oh! Joseph, what’s come to me - I love you - yes I do - indeed I do.’

He kissed her again and again, exhausting her, stirring in her a flood of misery and pleasure and emotion that she did not understand. Then he pushed her away from him, and she found she could scarcely stand, and her legs were trembling beneath her, while her heart was throbbing in her breast. Her hands shook as she arranged her dress and her hair, and there was a queer, gnawing pain inside her.

He watched her, his eyes narrowing.

‘Well, are ye goin’ to tell him you’ll be his wife? Run then, don’t lose him, he’ll be gone unless you’m quick.’

‘I don’t want to marry him, you know I don’t. Why are you trying to make me so miserable?’

‘He’ll make you a fine husband an’ give you a tidy home, with everythin’ in the world you need. You’ll be a fool to refuse him.’

Poor Annie was ready to burst into tears again.

He kissed her once more, and she leaned against him, unable to walk, unable to do anything but what he asked her. She had no will, no strength left in her, only a wish to be held next him and loved.

‘Philip must have his chance fairly,’ said Joseph. ‘I’m not goin’ to sneak in behind his back. This afternoon you’ll have to come down with me to the office, and choose between us. You’ll have to speak the truth to his face. Do you promise, Annie?’

‘Oh! I promise - I promise.’

‘Well then, now go along to your dinner, an’ don’t worry your little head about things. We’ll fix it between us.’

So poor Annie stumbled away to her home, filled with emotion and swaying like a sleepwalker after this first experience of physical love, while Joseph tramped across the cliffs with no thought of food or repose, trying to quieten the restless longing that had got the better of him, and which would not rest for all his bidding.

That afternoon the pair of them went down to the gloomy building next door to the Post Office, where Philip lodged.

Annie was left in the hall, while Joseph knocked on the parlour door.

Philip was lying on a hard-backed sofa, with a handkerchief over his face. Joseph smiled. His brother evidently believed in taking care of himself.

Philip flung away his handkerchief and rose to a sitting position, his smooth, sandy hair rumpled for once, his mouth open in surprise.

‘Where have you sprung from, Joe, and what did you mean by running away like that this morning? Is anything wrong?’

‘I should certainly say there is,’ replied Joseph, pulling forward a chair for his own use.

‘Look ye, Philip, I’m not agoin’ to mince matters, I believed in plain speakin’ an’ plain dealin’.You can’t marry Annie Tabb, the girl belongs to me.’

The brother stared incredulously; then hardly aware what he was doing he drew his handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped his hands slowly. ‘If this is your idea of a joke, Joe, it’s in exceedingly poor taste, I’d have you know.’

‘Cut out this gentleman stuff, Philip, I’ve got no time for it. It’s not my way to joke about something of such deadly importance, you fool. I tell you I’ve been courtin’ that girl this last fortnight or so, an’ I mean to have her, whether you like it or not.’

Every vestige of colour drained from Philip’s face. He looked shrunken and wizened, like a fair rat. He clutched at the arm of the sofa, never taking his eyes off his brother’s.

‘Say that again.’

‘I say I’m goin’ to have that girl, an’ she’s promised herself to me. I’m very sorry to break up your happy schemes, old fellow, but I’d no idea that my Annie was your intended. If you’d only be a little more open, an’ not so mighty secretive about your affairs, there’d be none of this springin’ things on you now. I reckon there’s nothin’ more that I can say, except the position is an embarrassin’ one for both of us, an’ the sooner we put an end to it the better.’

Philip sat motionless on the sofa, then he began to speak slowly and softly.

‘You damned swine,’ he said. ‘So that was your idea, was it? To slink behind my back and make love to the woman I wanted for my wife; to deliberately steal her from me . . .’

‘Hold fast, brother,’ shouted Joseph. ‘I never knew until this mornin’ when you showed me her likeness that Annie was the girl you had a fancy for. Do I look like a thief?’

‘What difference does that make? All I know is that you’ve chosen to step between me and Annie Tabb, you, a middle-aged sailor with a grown-up family.’

‘Curse your insultin’ tongue. Bain’t ye only four years younger’n me, Philip? Where’s the difference, eh - show me the difference? You’ll not get Annie for all your flimsy fortune an’ your boastful talk. She’ll have none of you. Annie,’ he called, ‘Annie, come here an’ tell him so.’

‘Good God, you’ve had the impudence to bring her to this house?’

‘I have that.’

Annie appeared in the doorway, very flushed and confused.

‘Now, Annie,’ said Joseph, ‘I can’t get my brother to understand you refuse to marry him. Do you mind tellin’ him so yourself?’

‘Oh! dear - I don’t know - what can I say? - I never . . .’

Philip rose from his sofa and went towards her.

‘Miss Annie,’ he said, ‘this is perhaps the most important moment of your life, and you must think carefully. You have known me for some months, a great deal longer than you have known my brother Joseph. I have made no attempt to frighten you or to rush you into an engagement. I had decided to speak to you early next week, and ask you to be my wife. You would, by accepting me, hold a high position in Plyn, and I should be able to offer you anything you wanted. You would never regret taking such a step. And now you intend to throw this aside, with not so much as a thought, because my brother, a rough sailor, has chanced to throw his eye over you, and has amused himself by telling you things he will forget in a few weeks’ time.’

‘Pay no heed to his smooth words, Annie,’ said Joseph, seizing her hand.‘You’re too beautiful an’ too young to be content with the things he promises. I tell you they’re empty an’ cold, the gifts he’d fling on you, makin’ you a pretty stuffed doll for his own pleasure with no care for your natural feelin’s. You’m born for love, Annie, an’ beauty, an’ the blessed things of this earth. He’d sit you in a high chair with a jewel at your throat, and your body starvin’ the while; while I’ll give you no fancy trinkets but hold you in my arms next my heart. Come to me.’

‘Oh! deary, Oh! deary,’ cried Annie, ‘what can I say, when there’s none to counsel. It’s terrible hard for a girl, who’d no wish to be wed yet a while, to be plunged like this i’ the midst of trouble, till she’s nigh borne off her feet with the flurry o’ words.’

‘Think, child, think,’ said Philip. ‘I’ll not hasten you, nor worry you. I’ll make you one of the richest ladies in Plyn, which Joseph can never do, remember that.’

‘Don’t you want to be loved, Annie, don’t you, eh - don’t you?’ whispered Joseph.

‘Oh! please, please, let me think by myself,’ said the girl, with tears in her eyes. ‘I’m certain I do love you, Captain Joe, but I must think it out alone as Mr Philip says. Let me go now, an’ after the holiday I’ll give you my answer, I promise.’

‘Come, that’s fair enough, I reckon,’ laughed Joseph. He had no doubt that he could win her. ‘What do ye say, brother?’

Philip walked to the window, his hands behind his back.

‘I’ll break even with you, one day.This is something I won’t forget. Now go out of this house, and take her with you. I want to be alone.’

‘Good day, Philip,’ said Joseph, and he strode from the building with Annie following close behind him. ‘So you needs must think by yourself, my girl?’ he asked, frowning down on her. ‘Well, don’t you take too long over it, that’s all I plead. An’ one thing more.There’s no slippin’ away from me Monday night at the fair, eh? No more harsh words then, but a quick forgettin’ of all this business.’

So he turned on his heel and left her.

10

 

 

A
ll day long the sun had shone on the merrymakers of Plyn, for it was Whit Monday, and a great holiday. The harbour had been alive with pleasure boats to watch the racing up the river and back.

At last evening was come, and many of the people pulled for home, but the younger and more restless ones made for the excitement and the crowds of the town quay, before the old ‘King William Inn’.

The fair had come to Plyn.

There were booths huddled close together on the cobbled square, there were coconut shies, and Aunt Sallies, and dart-throwing, and ‘Try your weight’, and numberless little stalls for sweets and refreshment.

The centre of the attraction was the merry-go-round. Here gathered the thickest of the crowd, sailors from off their ships, foreigners some of them, and boys and girls escaped from home, lovers making the most of their time. And the barrel organ squeaked out the rollicking popular tune, ‘Champagne Charlie is my Name’.

The night was dark and windy, loose clouds blew across the sky, hiding the stars. The lanterns flickered, and folk lost one another now and again amongst the throng. ‘Where are you, Nancy Penrose?’ ‘Has anyone seen my Jan?’

The air was filled with excitement and adventure, whispers in the dark, and the touch of hands.

Round and round staggered the painted horses, the wretched fellow sweating as he turned the handle.

Oh! you girls, you naughty young girls,
Why don’t you try to be good, be good?
Why will you flirt with so many young swells,
And not with the men you should, you should?

The barrel organ thumped and trilled, while folk rode the horses, swaying in time to the music.

Joseph sat astride his horse, with Annie propped up before him. Christopher was away the other side of the quay, flinging darts with a young Danish sailor.

So Joseph swayed to the lively tune with Annie’s hair blowing about his face, and his mouth nearly touching her mouth, and she half drunk with the night and the flaring lights, caring not at all what should become of her.

Round and round they went, laughing, singing, joining in the riotous clamour of sound.

Oh! you girls, you naughty young girls,
Why don’t you try to be good, be good?
Why do you flirt with so many young swells,
And not with the men you should, you should?

Joseph drew Annie closer to him, burying his face in her hair. ‘Sweetheart, I love you - I love you, come away now, now at once. I can’t wait for you no longer.’

‘No - Joe, I mustn’t. Oh! I can’t.’

‘Yes.’

‘No - don’t ask me.’

‘Yes - I say.’

‘Oh! Joe, how can we? Where would we go? We mustn’t.’

‘Yes - come away, now, over the water, to my ship. Darling, I can’t go on without you - come.’

‘Joe, please . . .’

‘Annie, my beautiful Annie, I love you, quick, down into the boat waitin’ at the steps, and over to the ship.’

Protesting, half afraid, half excited, Annie allowed herself to be pulled away by Joseph from the thick pressing crowd, and handed into the little boat. The water was dark and rough, and the careless wind tossed at her hair and her skirts.

‘Joe, let’s go back.’

‘No, I say. Annie, it’s so wonderful, so wonderful.’

The boat shot away into the darkness, over the tumbled harbour water, towards the black ship anchored at the far buoy. Joseph pulled like a madman, his face wet with the spray, his heart thumping, his eyes shining.