Thomas came beside her and held her arm.

'Feelin' faint, love?' he asked kindly.'Don't 'ee start worryin' over the lad, he'll soon find his feet, I reckon.'

She shook her head silently, unable to speak, she put her hands over her ears.

'It's them bells,' she cried suddenly. 'Won't they never cease, never?'

The children were looking at her curiously.

'Come to church, mother dear,' said Mary, 'and we'll all pray that Joe is returned safe and sound to us.'

Thomas pulled out his watch.

'We ought to be startin',' he began awkwardly.'Us has never been late in our lives as far as I can remember.'

They waited on the slip, a kind, hesitating little group, unequal to the occasion.

Janet drew her cloak about her, and fastened it at the neck.

'No - we mustn't be late.'

They walked back along the slip, and turned up the hill. The bells were hushed for a moment, and now another sound rose from the harbour; the hauling and rattling of chains. It was the Francis Hope weighing anchor.

The Coombes walked hurriedly to the stile that led across the fields. They tried to speak easily and naturally, but all were aware of their mother's silent grief. Poor Thomas blundered tactlessly, meaning to cheer and to comfort.

'Ah! well, we'll miss the lad's voice about the house for sure. 'Twill seem a different place without him.'

The bells started once more, screaming and insistent.

Janet tried to shut her mind to the sound, to put away every thought from her. It was autumn, the time of the year that she and Joseph loved the best. The ripe corn was cut, and the rough edges that were left were short and p.r.i.c.kly stubble to the feet. The hedges were bright with hips and haws, and in the gardens in Plyn drooped the scarlet fuchsias. Down in Polmear Valley below Lanoc Church the golden bracken was waist-high and soft lichen clung to the branches of the trees.The farms smelt of manure, and of the bitter wood smoke that rose from the bonfires of the fallen leaves. The swollen brook murmured loudly over the flat grey stones.The evening was grey and cold, the air hinting of mists arising from the river banks. In the elm tree by the church a thrush sang of the autumn, his note sweeter and more plaintive than in spring.

By the gate the family turned, and looked towards the harbour. Already the ship was clear of the land, and every sail set. Her bows were turned to the horizon, and Plyn lay behind her. Soon the land would be astern like a dark smudge in the coming dusk, and the lights would be swallowed up in the darkness.

'Well, there goes the last of Joseph,' sighed Thomas.

The ship slipped away like a bird upon the surface of the still water.The bells ceased ringing. Janet Coombe led the way into the church, followed by her husband and her children. She sat through the service dumb and unresponsive.

The setting sun caught the western windows in a beam of light. She knew this same beam would cross the path of the ship that sailed away.The little church was hushed and peaceful. Centuries old, it still held the presence of those folk who had knelt there in years gone by. The stones were worn with the knees of humble people, now in their graves, their names long buried and forgotten.Those who worshipped there beside Janet would one day in their turn come to the same unbroken silence and rest.

Their voices murmured in prayer now, as they responded to the preacher. Joseph in his ship thought of them kneeling there in Lanoc Church, and of his mother's pale face turned to the lattice windows.

The Francis Hope plunged on, with her stern lifting to the sea, and the fresh wind hissing in the flattened sails.

In Lanoc Church the voices sang loud and true, resounding in the old rafters, and with them the plaintive organ rose and fell.

Jesu - lover of my soul

Let me to Thy bosom fly,

While the nearer waters roll,

While the tempest still is high.

Hide me, O! my Saviour, hide,

Till the storm of life be past,

Safe into the haven guide

O! receive my soul at last.

Janet sang with the rest, but her heart stole away from the sound of the hymn and from the voices of the people, beyond the bowed heads and the quivering candles; all she saw were the stars of heaven, and the lights of a ship upon a lonely sea.

12.

During the months that followed, Janet tried to accustom herself to Joseph's absence. At first it was as though all mortal feeling had left her. She felt as if she herself were dead, and that some mechanical being had taken hold of her limbs and her mind, to continue her life in the same narrow channels as before. Her body was like an empty husk, the nerves and the senses were departed. Outwardly there was no perceptible change, save that her head was carried somewhat higher; she wrapped herself in a cloak of pride to mask her grief.

For all her declaration and her cert.i.tude that a physical separation could mean nothing to her and Joseph, she was torn and shattered by the very longing for his presence. Wherever she walked in Plyn it seemed to her that she was treading in his footprints.

The hills and the cliffs resounded with his clamour, the marks of him were in the wet sand beneath the rocks, and in the breaking of the waves upon the sh.o.r.e.Wherever she turned she found herself searching for some sign of him, as though there was some double torture for her in the places where he had been that gave to her a bitter comfort.

The nights were long and tedious. Janet would be awake hour after hour, with Thomas slumbering heavily at her side, and she would turn her head to the c.h.i.n.k of air that came through the curtained latticed window, and watch for the white star in the dark blanket of the heavy sky. She tried to send herself through s.p.a.ce to the ship upon distant waters, and to stand beside her beloved as he watched through the night on the silent deck. She knew that his thoughts and his soul were with her, but these were not enough for her pitiful human wants. She cursed the weakness of her flesh that hungered for his nearness and his touch, she fought against the demand of her eyes to dwell upon him. To touch his hands and his body that was part of herself, to smell the familiar scent of sea and earth and sun that clung to his clothes, to taste the salt spray that washed from his skin, all these she claimed; but they were taken from her, leaving her half-asleep and a shadow of a woman.

The home she had made for him was hollow and denuded of warmth, it lacked the one reason for its existence.

At times the want of him gripped her like the pain she had suffered in the bearing of him, and she would leave the house and her children and climb once more the hill to the Castle ruins. No sound came from her, she made no gesture of despair. Her cheeks were free from the queer comfort of tears. All that she did was to stand with her back against the wall, her head uplifted, her eyes fixed on the hard grey line where sea and sky meet.

At home in Ivy House new events took place, were recognized and pa.s.sed into the natural scheme of daily life.

Samuel began to wait at the garden gate of Silas Trehurst the coastguard on Sunday afternoons, and at half past three the coastguard's daughter Posy came down the path, and after chatting awkwardly for a while, the gate would click and slam, and Miss Posy would be walking up the hill on Samuel's arm.

The faithful Herbert aided his brother in the very difficult composition of love notes, and often in the evening the pair of them would sit in the corner of the parlour, with pens, paper, and ink, and Samuel would frown heavily and struggle with his writing, while Herbert encouraged him and searched for words in the dictionary.

Mary did not bother herself about the young men of Plyn, she preferred to busy herself in Ivy House, and to attend to the wishes of her father and mother.

One day Philip arrived for dinner and announced his intention of becoming an office boy in the shipbroking firm of 'Hogg and Williams' in Plyn.

His father stared at him in amazement.

'Don't ye want to be joinin' your brothers down to the yard?' he asked, bewildered at his son's decision.

'No, thank you,' said Philip quietly. 'I've been an' seen Mr Hogg myself, an' he's quite willin' to take me. The pay is not much to begin with, but I'll be gettin' a rise later on if I suit him.'

'Well, I'm blessed!' said his father, leaning back in his chair. 'Goin' off by yourself an' arrangin' things.' He was secretly proud of his son's independence.

'What d'you say, Janet?' He turned to his wife.

'I think Philip knows what he's about right enough,' answered Janet.'I reckon as he'll always go his own way through life, and get what he wants. Whether 'twill make him happy or not is another matter.'

She glanced curiously at her youngest son, with his sandy hair and his narrow deep-set eyes. Philip looked up at her and down at his plate again. Janet was aware of a strange mute antagonism to herself and all she loved. Doubt and a little seed of fear were planted in her heart by her own child. She looked, with uncertainty and a grain of horror, into the very distant future. Then she turned her mind back into the present, and gave her thoughts to Joseph, far away upon the sea. She wondered whether he would be back in time for her birthday in April. Always it had been his delight to spend this day alone with her. They made it the excuse for the first picnic of the year.

Surely Joseph would return to Plyn in the spring? From time to time she had news from him, from the great scattered ports in America, and she would walk with his letters held close to her, because they were something of himself. They were strange pa.s.sionate letters, breathing a love of the sea and an enthusiasm for the life he was leading; telling of his hardships, of the harsh weather, of the ceaseless toil from morning till night which scarce left him time for reflection; the fight they had with a storm in mid-Atlantic when his companions feared that the end had come, and he himself, though wet, exhausted, dog-weary, and aching in every limb, was filled with a zest and worship that would not be denied, for the rough and dangerous calling he had chosen. In spite of it all, he felt the lack of her by his side every minute of the day and night. He worked hard, he said, throwing himself with ardour into every branch of knowledge, so that he should become a skilled seaman. Captain Collins was teaching him something of navigation, he was sure it would not take him long to acquire a second mate's ticket, but that he must serve four years as apprentice first apparently, according to the rules of the Board of Trade. He must try not to become restless and impatient waiting for it. No new scene pa.s.sed before his eyes but he thought of her, and he was filled with a longing that she should be with him to share these things. He looked for the star at night which he judged to be above her head in Plyn, and he bade this star keep watch over her, and save her well and unchanged for when he should return.

So Janet waited during the first months of the year in hope and expectation for a letter to say he would be home by April. At last one came, uncertain of the date of return, but he added in post-scriptum: 'There is a calendar in the fo'c'sle, and I have marked with a red cross the 10th of April. The men here inquired of me the reason for doing this, and I told them that on that day I must be back in Plyn, for I had a tryst with the woman of my heart, and that the gales of the Atlantic could not gainsay me in the keeping of it.'

This was the last letter that Janet received, and then the month of March drew to a close. At any day now the Francis Hope was expected in Plyn, and every evening Janet climbed to the Castle ruin, and shading her eyes with her hand she waited for the first sight of a white sail emerging on the rim of the horizon.

Sometimes Lizzie came with her, or one of the boys when they could spare time from the work in the yard, and once Thomas stood by the side of his wife, a proud important figure with a new telescope under his arm, which he had bought specially for the occasion. And still no sail appeared.

On 9 April Janet climbed with a sick and weary heart to the top of the hill, and for two hours she waited there against the walls of the ruin, with the east wind blowing her hair and her skirts and a green white-edged sea thundering and breaking on the rocks below.

These would mean head winds for a ship coming up-Channel, and a hard beat against it to make Plyn. She waited there until the sun set like a wind-swept ball of fire behind the short flaked clouds, and the smoke rose from the chimneys and the lamps were lit, and dusk crept upon Plyn, blotting out the sea.

And the Francis Hope came not. So Janet turned away, and walked down the steep hill where the dogs ran about the gutters sniffing for food, and children played and screamed, and peaceable comfortable folk stood at their doors with no care upon their shoulders, and no wrinkles beneath their eyes.

The lights showed through the curtains of Ivy House, and the cheerful smoke curled from the chimney. Her husband and her children were waiting for her, the supper laid upon the table.

The clock ticked on the wall, and all was as it had been. She watched their kindly happy faces gathered round the fire, chatting with unconcern, content and unaware.

'They are of me,' she thought, 'and I belong to them. But my heart lies in the bows of a swaying plunging ship, and my thoughts are in the keeping of my beloved.'

The evening wore away, the firelight dimmed, and the candles shrunk into themselves. The children went to their rooms, and Janet lay once more beside Thomas in the bed they had shared for nearly twenty-five years. She saw herself once more a bride, held close to his heart and her arms about his neck, and now he was nearly fifty and his face looked lined and worn on the pillow beside her.

Perhaps there was no end to a living moment, and even now her young self slept secure in the arms of Thomas, on some other plane of time, like the undying ripple on the surface of still water.

A soft wave of tenderness for him swept her, and she took hold of his hand and held it to her heart.

But he grunted and moved uneasily, turning his back to her and breathing heavily in his sleep. Then Janet laid aside his hand gently, and watching for the c.h.i.n.k of light through the curtain she saw the star, and it seemed to lighten her heart; thus she was comforted and so fell asleep.

Just before daybreak she awoke, startled by the sound of something striking against the window pane. She sat up in bed and saw the grey dawn steal into the room, and a flat round pebble lying at her feet.

In a moment she was leaning from the window, heedless of the cold still air, her two dark plaits hanging about her like a young girl.

He stood there in the shadow of the house, his hand upon the thick strong ivy, his face upturned.

'Joseph,' she whispered. 'Joseph.' For a moment he gazed at her, saying nothing, watching the light that was aflame in her eyes.

'Thought I'd be forgettin' your birthday?' he called softly. 'Didn't I vow we'd drop anchor in Plyn harbour before the sun rose over Polmear Hill, before the gold rays lit the tower of Lanoc Church? The Francis Hope 'as been safe an' snug an hour since; we creepin' in with the break o' dawn to the sleepin' harbour, an' you forgetful in your bed.'

He mocked at her, laughing, and then when she shook her head and a tear rose in the corner of her eye, he seized hold of the thick ivy branches that clung to the face of the house, and swung himself up, hand over hand, to the ledge of the window where she waited motionless.

And that was how Joseph returned to Janet in the spring of the year, as he had promised her.

13.

There were many partings after that first one, and many returnings.

Joseph's boyhood lay behind him, and it was too late now for him to go back on the calling which he had chosen. Not that the wish ever came across him, for it seemed to him that he was predestined for the sea and he knew that there was no other life which would suit him so well; but he could see the suffering that lay behind Janet's eyes every time he went from her, and on his return the hollow marks in her cheek and the shadows told their own tale.

If only it were possible to take her away with him. If he learnt his trade with all the energy and the force in his brain, he would rise steadily to the highest position, and there would be nothing to prevent him from laying his Master's certificate in Janet's hands, and welcoming her aboard their own vessel.

He whispered these ambitions to her when on his brief holidays at Plyn, and she watched his eyes and trusted him, knowing no power could gainsay his dream.

They spoke together of the ship that should be built for her, of the strength of her timbers, made from the very trees in Truan woods.The family ship, that would carry the Coombe fortunes. The time had not yet come, perhaps in six, ten years she would be built by his father and his brothers, and then Janet would be the soul of her and Joseph her master. Meanwhile they visioned her in their minds, they drew pictures of her with the stub of an old pencil, they calculated her size, her cargo capacity, her rig, the cut of her sails. Thomas and the sons were told of the scheme and they were filled with delight at the thought of a Coombe ship, commanded by a Coombe, to bring them wealth and glory from foreign parts. Thomas made a model in his workshop, and exhibited it with pride to the fond gaze of his family. Part of the wealth that Thomas had saved and was to be distributed among his sons at his death, was to be used for the building of the ship. This was solemnly agreed to one Sunday at Ivy House, when Janet and all her children were present, and Thomas concluded with a moving prayer to G.o.d that at some future date, when work was not pressing on their hands, he and his sons should build the ship, and that she should be named after their dear mother and his beloved wife.