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.' G.o.d! 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 m.u.f.f 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 pa.s.sed a further examination in the Government Postal Department, I shall feel ent.i.tled 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 G.o.d 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.

I often think out of so many Coombes I am the only one who has wandered to London, and settled down, but let me advise them that the cost of living is high, and it is not such a grand place as folk would make out, very dirty and noisy.

Well, dear Father, I have told you all the news I can think of.

I must draw to a close, wishing you good health, and fond love to all from Bertha and myself.

I remain, Your loving son, Christopher Coombe After the honeymoon and the settling down in the new house, with her mother constantly at her elbow to advise her, Bertha retained, successfully she considered, her gentle state of pa.s.sivity and her notion of privacy, causing through her ignorance an insurmountable barrier, with Christopher a barred and lonely spirit on the other side.

The influence of mother and sisters kept Bertha from responding to Christopher's need of her.

Left to herself, and Christopher as her only companion, she would probably have outgrown the customs and habits of the boarding-house, but the tenacity of the Parkins was too strong, and her upbringing and environment vanquished over her own scarcely perceptible emotions.

One of the first proofs, observed by the hitherto unenlightened Christopher, as to his wife's limited range of vision, was obtained in a very cursory manner, in a discussion on the Parnell-O'Shea divorce case. He had laid aside the evening paper and remarked how wretched it must be for a man of public character to have his private life drawn into the light, and used as a weapon against his career.

'Oh! Christopher, how can you say such a thing,' exclaimed Bertha. 'I am surprised at you for defending a man like Mr Parnell, who appears to be entirely lacking in moral sense.'

'That's as may be, dear heart,' he replied.'I know little of him, except what people say, and that he seems an able politician and a leader of his party. But that his destiny, and maybe his country's, should crash because he has lived with this lady out of wedlock, seems to me highly unjust.'

'But Christopher, none of his party could possibly wish to follow him, or to place their trust in him, after he had done so terrible a thing. Their faith would die instantly.'

'Why, Bertha - just because the man has loved a woman?'

'Not because he loved her, though that is wrong in itself, seeing she was not at liberty, but that he gave in to this improper feeling and sinned in the doing of it.'

'Dearest, he must have had a very strong affection for this Mrs O'Shea, possibly he could not exist without her, she may have been necessary to him in every way.'

'Oh! nonsense, love, a man of strong will should control pa.s.sion.'

'But I dare say the pa.s.sion, as you call it, was only part of his feeling for her, bound up in a hundred other emotions, all equally deep.'

'Why, Christopher, they lived in sin - that is immoral and wicked. I wonder the papers dare print anything of it.'

'Yes, dear, I know the law of the thing is wrong, and must not be condoned. But after all, they only did without the benefit of Clergy or State, what you and I do - and if we love each other why . . .'

'Christopher - how can you?' She rose to her feet, scarlet with confusion, her eyes ready to fill with tears.

'Why - Bertha - my Bertha, what have I said to hurt you?' he asked, holding out his arms to her.

'Oh! I've never felt so - so humiliated in my life,' she sobbed, and rushed from the room.

Like every lover faced with his first quarrel, if it could be so called, Christopher was ready to blow his brains out, if by doing this he could make amends.

He was prepared for her to descend with her hat and wrap, declaring she would return to her mother, when half an hour later she entered the room, her tears dried and her manner calm, and asked him meekly if he had washed, as supper was waiting. Christopher told himself that he did not understand women.

Before the birth of his son Harold in the early autumn of 1891, he had many instances of his wife's difference from himself. Bertha's condition was shrouded in the utmost mystery by herself and her family, and to her husband, accustomed to the healthy, open atmosphere of the homes of Plyn, this was quite inexplicable. In Plyn, such matters were discussed continually before company.

Christopher never forgot one evening returning home, very excited and pleased with life and the thought of the future, and carrying in his pocket a small woollen cap he had seen in some fancy shop.

He entered the parlour to find his wife, her condition obvious to the denset of persons, seated beside the tea table, surrounded by her mother, her two sisters and two ladies from the boarding-house, discussing the latest fashions.

He listened for a while, joining in now and again, and then when there came a pause he suddenly remembered his purchase.

He dived his hand into his pocket, and produced the miniature woollen cap. 'Look,' he said, smiling, holding up the cap for all to see, 'won't the little chap look a picture in this?'

There was a moment's horrified silence. Bertha flushed all over her face, the friends gazed steadily at their plates, while Mrs Parkins, rising to the occasion, stretched out her hand to the teapot.

'I am sure you would like another cup, wouldn't you, Christopher?' she asked brightly. Hastily he replaced the cap in his pocket. 'Thank you,' he said in an awkward voice, and tried to hide himself behind a slice of bread and b.u.t.ter.

What a stiff, unnatural atmosphere, and how difficult it was to know how to behave, according to the Parkins's ideas of decorum and good taste. Still, he must consider himself a lucky man to have married anyone with such high standards, and with such superior breeding.

The child was born in due course, and received the usual amount of praise and attention, and generally causing much fuss and commotion. The little Harold was closeted for hours with his mother and grandmother, while the father, an outsider of course, was treated with lofty scorn as one who had had no hand in the creation whatsoever.

In the summer Christopher sat for his further examination in the Government Postal Department, and failed to satisfy the requirements of the board.At first he was greatly concerned and upset, blaming himself severely for not having studied sufficiently, previous to the examination, but on thinking the matter over he decided it was just as well, and that this provided an excuse to leave Postal work altogether.

The Coombes managed to exist comfortably enough on Christopher's savings, through the summer and autumn, but the year closed dismally for him, for like many other people of his cla.s.s he had amused himself that autumn by taking in financial papers, and had hoped to add to his savings by a clever piece of investment. He had, accordingly, placed some of his capital in the Liberator Building Society, and was preening himself on the thought of the approaching dividends, when suddenly there came the news of its failure and of the inst.i.tutions known as the 'Balfour Group'.

He then wrote the following letter home.

My dear Father, As it is such a long time since I wrote to you no doubt the right and proper thing to do is to ask you to forgive me for being so neglectful.

I do trust that you are quite well and comfortable at home, and that your health will be spared for many years and that the remainder of your days will be free from worry and trouble. I am extremely sorry for keeping you so long without a letter and I hope you do not worry yourself concerning us up here, and I am convinced that if you could only look in here sometimes and see my dear wife and boy you would have a good opinion of both her and the child. I kept putting off writing, since I have done so many times without receiving a reply, hence my carelessness.

I hope my brothers and sister and my stepmother are well, and getting on in their different vocations.

I am sorry to say just at present I am out of work. I failed in my Postal examination, but cannot say this worried me considerably, as my health for the past six months has not been too good, though I stuck to my work as long as I could for my wife's and the boy's sake. I would like to get something in the open if possible, even if the money is a little less, but you must know from experience it takes a good bit to provide for a family, let one be as careful as one can be, and it doesn't pay to be idle long. I am pleased to say since I have been at home I feel a good deal better and hope soon to be quite myself again. I think I told you our boy was taken ill early in the year, but I am glad to announce he is a strong healthy lad now, and a great joy to his mother.

No doubt the country papers have been full about the great failure of the 'Balfour Group' concern, it has caused a lot of misery for the working cla.s.ses, myself being affected also. I've never seen such a wicked thing, for in these times one cannot help speculating a trifle and I had the bad fortune to lose a certain amount of my savings. Now dear Father, this has made me very worried, and I cannot help thinking that it would be wiser if I left London, and came home again to Plyn, to settle down there for good and all. I have said nothing to my wife, but will await your reply to this, before telling her my decision.

I have been just over four years away from home, and not one reply have I had from you, and I must say I feel it very much. I do ask you most humbly to answer this letter, as to whether you approve my suggestion of returning to Plyn.

I know it is useless to keep worrying and grumbling over my family affairs, but just a few lines from you will make all the difference in the world, and may alter the whole course of my future life, and of those depending on me.

If you ignore this wretched demand as you have my others, then it grieves me to say that this will be my last letter home to you and I will have to say good-bye.

From your loving son, Chris Christopher Coombe waited four weeks for an answer, and when it did not come he went to his wife and told her that he had failed her as a husband, for they had very little money left, and his family could not see their way to help him.

She immediately sent for her mother, and Christopher stood with meekness and humiliation while the full torrent of Parkins's wrath was poured upon his head. The upshot of it was, that the house was abandoned, enough money having been sc.r.a.ped together to pay off the rent due, and the couple with the little boy were lodged at the boarding-house until the bread-winner had found work.

From this time onwards he obtained various temporary situations, but it seemed impossible for him to remain anywhere for any length of time. Another son was born in the summer of 1893, and much controversy had been caused over his name. Christopher had wished for Joseph after his unforgiving father, Bertha had declared for George, owing to the marriage that month of the Duke of York to Princess May; but finally the grandmother got her way and the boy was named Willie after the late lamented Mr Parkins.

So while Joseph Coombe languished in Sudmin Asylum, his son Christopher toiled and struggled in the City of London, his life made something of a burden to him by his in-laws, but remaining singularly attached to his cold wife and to his two little boys.

Thus Christopher Coombe, at the age when his father Joseph had obtained his Master's Certificate and became the proud skipper of his own vessel, was an a.s.sistant in a large drapery store, and the friendless inhabitant of a stiff boarding-house.

5.

My dear Sister, It is now eight years since I wrote home, and I said then it would be my last letter to Father and Plyn, but of late I have been sorely troubled with the longing to know that all is well with you and those whom I have never ceased to love.

I feel that I should have made greater allowances for Father, for his approaching age, and indeed the very affliction of his blindness should have caused me to think less harshly of his treatment of me. These years have been long and difficult, and at times I was well nigh stricken to the ground with despair that I should fail to provide for my dear wife and two boys. Then I remembered my father's own indomitable will, and his tenacity of purpose, these things had not failed him when he fought for the safety of his vessel at sea, nor had he shown cowardice when the doctor at Plymouth gave to him the realization of many years of blankness and dim horror. That my father had triumphed over the bitterness of frustration and the curtailing of his life of glory, I have never for one moment doubted; in my mind's eye I can see him standing upon the Cliffs of Plyn, a bold upright figure of great strength and beauty, facing with true courage and unfailing endurance, whatever Fate might hold in store for him.

The thoughts of him, Katherine, have been something of a banner to your wretched brother, during those evil times now happily ended; he was like a star set in the heavens that the old mariners would follow in the vanished days, bringing them through danger and desolation to a quiet haven and safe anchorage. I resolved I would not break faith with his past proud trust in me, however little he might think of me in the present. So with this to guide me, and the continual presence of my young sons, real Coombe lads, every inch of them, and the reproachful, wistful shadow in my wife's eyes, I did not withdraw from the struggle, but managed after some little time to attain to a certain position, which enabled me once more to offer them a home. Before then we had existed mainly on the charity of my mother-in-law, which was a bitter blow to my pride, as you may easily imagine.

When all this trouble with the Boers started, I at once thought of dear brother Charlie, and trusted that though he did his duty to Queen and Country, he would be permitted to pa.s.s unscathed, returning finally to you all quite safe and sound.

The idea of breaking my silence did not occur to me until a few days since, when having occasion to enter the docks of London to transact some matter of business for my firm, I chanced to glance at the many vessels being at anchor, or pa.s.sing down the river. Then to my astonishment I perceived a schooner in ballast, that a tug-boat had in tow, making her way down the centre of the stream; it was none other than the Janet Coombe. I was profoundly moved, and would have given ten years of my life to have spoken to those on board, but it was not to be. I shall never forget the shock of mingled joy and pain that came to me, when I saw in the distance the brave little figure-head, so much beloved by my father, and whom I forsook so heedlessly those twelve years ago. I resolved there and then that I would write to Plyn again at the first opportunity, but I was prevented from doing so by being sadly disheartened, as most of us were here in London, and no doubt you in the country as well, by the fresh losses to our armies overseas.

Then two nights ago Bertha and I were amongst those present at some musical gathering, a concert given in Queen's Hall. Once more my old longing rose unsuppressed in my heart, as I listened with tears in my eyes to some plaintive Irish song, whose sad verses recalled my dear absent home. It seemed to me that I was indeed looking upon the peaceful harbour waters, and hearing the hungry clamour of gulls; the sea was at my feet and the hills behind me, and through the air I could hear the chimes of Lanoc Church. For all I knew you believed me dead and forgotten, or travelled far away into some distant land. I left the building in a dream, my wife holding to my arm; and there in the streets we beheld a striking emotional scene, the whole population of London gone crazy apparently, with flags waving and men shouting like children for joy, while the newsboys ran amongst them crying that Mafeking had been relieved.

The tumult and rejoicing had swept us too, and this seems the first moment since, that I am free to be able to write to you. Fancy, you were a girl of sixteen or seventeen years when I last saw you, and now I take it you are a young woman of nine and twenty, married perhaps, with children of your own.

I write to you because I expect Albie to be at sea, and Charlie at the war. Father I dare not approach after my last unanswered efforts, but I enclose letters from the children to him, hoping that this may move him. They are strong, healthy boys, and a great joy to me and my dear wife. Now, Katherine, should this not reach you, of which I cannot but entertain doubts, I shall think most seriously of taking the train to Plyn and risking the consequences. If, on the other hand, you do receive this safely, then I shall be eternally grateful for an early reply. If you could but fathom half the deep and earnest longing I have in my heart to look upon all your dear faces again, you would find it not difficult I believe to grant me this desire. Well, no more at present, and I will now close with my fond love to you, Father and all members of the family, remaining as ever your affectionate brother. Christopher In this letter were enclosed the following notes from the two boys: Dear Grandfather, I dare say you will be pleased to get a letter from us and to hear how we are getting on. I am very glad to tell you we are all very well at present and hope this letter will find you the same.

I am sorry to think of Uncle Charlie fighting the Boers and you must miss him sadly, we would not like our Dad to be away from us long, but I think Uncle Charlie must have an exciting time being a soldier all the same. I shall be a soldier when I grow up too, but if there is not a Boer left to fight I will come to Plyn and help in the yard.

Dad has told us about Plyn.

Last week Willie and I took our lunch to Regent's Park by the lake and pretended it was the harbour, I am sure you would smile if you saw the big bag of food we took for we are strong and hearty, Mother says, with good appet.i.tes.

Well, this is all I think and I will send my love to Auntie Kate, and Uncle Albie if he is at home, from your loving grandson.

Harold Coombe (eight years last September) Dear Grandfather, i am rather small to write letters but i will do my best to write as well as Harold does i am rather good at lesons Mother says so you will be proud of me i expect wont you. Dad gave me a nice present of a fine ship in a bottle i must try and keep it safe to show to you when i see you. i would like to see you and Uncle Albie and other aunties and uncles and some day i will. Wud you like a photo of me i will try and find one for you i am to be a sailor when I grow up how is the Janet Coombe, now dear grandfather i must close hoping you are well and fond love from your loving grandson Willie Coombe (six years last July) A few days later to Christopher's wonder and delight an envelope came for him with the Plyn postmark. Not trusting his emotion at the breakfast table he withdrew to his room and read his sister's long letter. Katherine had not spared herself, she had written clearly and fully a truthful account of everything that had taken place since her brother's departure thirteen years ago.

For some time Christopher Coombe sat dumbfounded by the shock of this letter, and the news that it contained. That he, seemingly, had been the means of driving his father to acts of unprecedented cruelty and then to ultimate insanity was a thought of such horror and desolation that he knew he would never recover, never be able to pay back onefold of the peace which he had deliberately robbed, but must live the remainder of his days with the burden of another soul upon his, and go to his grave guilty of murder and the causing of misery to many lives. There was no punishment heavy enough to meet his case; those years of hard work, toil, and the threat of poverty, were as nothing compared to the vast suffering of his father.

On Friday evening Christopher sat in the corner of a third cla.s.s carriage of the jolting train that was bearing him swiftly to Plyn.

The weather had been fair enough when he left Paddington but as the night advanced and the train sped towards the west an angry shower struck the carriage window, the wind howled, and he gathered from these signs that a sou'westerly gale would greet him on arrival at Plyn.

He s.n.a.t.c.hed a few moments of sleep during the night, and then woke, pallid, unrefreshed, with a tremulous heart and shaking hands, as the train drew into the junction for Plyn. It was about seven-thirty in the morning, and the porter shouldered his box and placed it in the Plyn train. He was a young man, a stranger to Christopher, but the sound of his pleasant, west-country accent was like music to the ears of one who had not heard it for twelve years. Christopher Coombe, the wanderer who returned to his home.

The train shunted and groaned, the station-master whistled, and they were off.

The wide river stretching and turning away, the first sight of Truan woods fresh with their young green, the banks of yellow primroses cl.u.s.tered in the low valleys, and a glimpse of a blue carpet spread beneath the shivering trees, a carpet of bluebells and soft violets. The flaming gorse waved in the high hills, a lark hovered in the air, and the figure of a farmer with his team of horses paused for an instant on the skyline to watch the pa.s.sing train.

Then the broad river widened, they were past the saw-mills now, past the farmhouse at the head of the creek, they were turning the bend and the white jetties swung into view, the tall dangling cranes, the masts of ships - sailing-vessels, steamers, dusty with clay. The rough harbour water, the weather-beaten horse-ferry making its way across to the farther hamlet, the sight of grey houses, grey smoke, wet shining roofs glistening in the morning sun - Plyn - home - home again once more.

The tears running down his face Christopher threw down the carriage window. The wild wind tossed at his bare head, he breathed in the pure, salt-laden air, he caught a whiff of the open sea beyond the point.

Forgotten was London, forgotten were the long dreary years of toil and strife, of love, bitterness, desire, and frustration, these were things that had never counted, that had served as some evil dream to tear him from this place that was part of him.

He was home again, home to Plyn where he belonged, where he had always belonged before birth, before creation; Plyn with her lapping harbour water; her forest of masts, her hungry wheeling gulls, her whisper of peace and comfort to a lonely heart; Plyn with her own grey silent beauty.

Home; he tore open the carriage door and stepped upon the familiar platform. n.o.body recognized him. He had been a careless boy of twenty-two when he sailed away, and now he was a man nearing thirty-five, who had suffered much and worked hard, a man whose fair hair was growing thin on the top, whose forehead was lined, and whose shoulders stooped. No, there was n.o.body here who knew him, no one he knew himself. There was a woman standing on the platform, with eyes red from weeping, and her mouth working strangely. She held her coat up to her chin. He did not know her though, and would have pa.s.sed her by if she had not looked up at him oddly, with a half-glance of recognition.

She put out her hand timidly and touched his arm. 'Is it - is it you, Christopher?' she asked.

It was his sister Katherine.

'Why, Kate!' he started, 'I didn't recognize you, I wasn't thinking . . .'

At once she burst into a torrent of weeping.