‘That’s me,’ said Jennifer. ‘Typing, shorthand, and the rest of it. I’d be very obliged if you’d give me a trial at least.’
‘I’d like to be fair, of course,’ he answered smiling. ‘Your name, by the way?’
‘Coombe - Jennifer Coombe.’
‘Oh!’ He looked rather taken aback. ‘Are you any relation to Mr Coombe?’
‘I may be some distant connexion,’ said Jennifer carelessly. ‘It’s a common enough name in Cornwall, isn’t it?’
‘Quite so - quite so. The old gentleman has many relatives of course, but I think he sees none of them. He is very retiring, you understand.’
Two days later Jennifer came face to face at last with her Uncle Philip.
It happened that she had overstayed her time in order to finish a heap of letters. Her companions, the other clerks, left the office at five o’clock as usual and Jennifer imagined she was alone in the building save for the caretaker, who lived on the premises. She finished her letters at a quarter to six, and was about to leave when she noticed the door of her uncle’s room, the private room, was half open.
Curiosity proved too much for the great-granddaughter of Janet Coombe, she walked along the passage and pushed open the door, and then stood, a little surprised at the figure that met her eyes.
Seated at his desk was an old man, his pale face heavily lined and wrinkled, his body bent and crouched with age but pitifully thin like the skeleton of a human being, his hands clasped together seemed the trembling claws of a bird, and the extreme pallor of his face and the white sparse hair stood out strongly against the drab black of his clothes.
Was this Uncle Philip? Was this weary, crumbling old man her father’s enemy?
‘Philip Coombe,’ she said softly. He looked up, and saw standing in the doorway of his office the figure of a girl, her hands clasped to her breast, her chin tilted in the air, her dark hair brushed away from her face and her brown eyes fixed upon him.
He made no answer, he caught at the sides of his chair with his trembling hands, and stared back at this vision which had come to him out of the buried past. There were no more years, no time, no grim and satisfying death; this was Janet herself who stood before him, Janet who flamed in the bows of her vessel, Janet as he had seen her in his dreams as a boy, Janet who had preferred Joseph to himself.
And Philip looked upon the figure shrouded by the shadows in the doorway.
‘Why have you come?’ he said. ‘Is this Joseph’s revenge, long waited for and planned?’
‘Why do you speak of Joseph,’ asked Jennifer, ‘have you forgotten Christopher his son?’
‘I had no quarrel with the son,’ cried Philip, ‘he deserved all that came to him. Am I to be held responsible for the poorer members of my wretched family, for the failures?’
Jennifer saw the sneer on her uncle’s face, and was angry.
‘You call Christopher Coombe a failure, do you? A failure because he lived simply, spending his time with the people in the cottages, the labourers in the farms, the fishermen. He was a failure because he was loved by people, loved, respected, and mourned. And you - you call yourself a success? What have you ever done for anybody in the world? You’re hated by everyone in Plyn, you’re only left alone because you’re an old man, useless and feeble, too helpless to be of value.’
Philip leaned forward in his chair, breathing heavily, his eyes narrowed.
‘Who are you, in God’s name?’
Jennifer smiled.To think that people had been afraid of this trembling old man. He didn’t even seem to know who she was.
‘Who do you think I am?’ she asked contemptuously. ‘A ghost, someone out of your past? Look at you, shaking with fear in case I touch you.’
He rose unsteadily, leaning on his stick, and walked slowly towards her, peering into her face.
‘Who are you?’ he whispered. ‘Who are you?’
She threw back her head and laughed as Janet had done, as Joseph had done, as Christopher had laughed before her.
‘I’m Jennifer Coombe,’ she said. ‘I’m the daughter of Christopher your failure.’
He looked at her strangely, still uncertain, still wandering in his mind.
‘Jennifer - I knew no Jennifer. Did Christopher have a daughter?’
She nodded, puzzled, struck by his behaviour.
‘Yes,’ she told him, ‘I am Jennifer. I’ve been working in your office for two days. I had some curiosity to see the man who ruined my father and my grandfather.’
Once more Philip was master of himself.
‘I must congratulate you on your fine performance then, no doubt,’ he said. ‘You should have been an actress. May I ask who gave you the permission to come into this room?’
‘If you think you can frighten me you’re making the biggest mistake of your life,’ answered Jennifer. ‘I don’t care if you’re the head of this firm or not, you happen to be my great-uncle and I’m not at all proud of the fact. Now, naturally, you’ll dismiss me, but I expected it. I only took the job to have things out with you. Now I’ve met you I realize you’re not worth it, that’s all, just not worth the trouble. Good-bye, Uncle Philip.’
She turned and walked out of the room.
‘Stay,’ he cried, moving after her. ‘Stay, come back.’
‘Well - what do you want?’
He stroked his chin and looked at her.
‘I have enjoyed this interview,’ he said slowly, ‘enjoyed it very much. I was in need of a little mental amusement. So you are my great-niece, are you? Not at all proud of the fact. What a pity. Well now, supposing you do me the extreme honour of dining with me tonight.’
‘Dine with you?’ Jennifer considered the matter. ‘What! in that awful old house in that dreary terrace?’
‘Yes - I’m sorry it does not meet with your approval.’
‘Well - I might. I don’t see why not.’
‘That is decided then? I shall expect you at eight o’clock punctually.’
‘All right. I’ll be there. See you later.’
Jennifer left the building extremely surprised at the state of affairs. She had expected fury, or at least dismissal, instead of which he had calmly invited her to dinner. ‘He’s probably potty,’ she thought to herself.
She put her head in the back sitting-room of the shop.
‘Uncle Philip has asked me to dine at his house,’ she told them.‘I thought it only genial to accept, though it rather bores me.’
The two old women stared at her aghast.
‘Philip Coombe has asked you to his house? You’m jokin’ of course, Jenny.’
‘No - honest I’m not. I was surprised myself. I told him a few home truths and he asked me to dinner. Personally I think he’s mad. I’m not in the least afraid of him.’
‘But there’s no one ever goes to his house, Jenny - he’s never asked no one. He’s got somethin’ up his sleeve, depend upon it. I wouldn’t go, my dear.’
‘Of course I shall go. Good evening, I won’t be late.’
Jennifer walked up the hill in high spirits. This was something of an adventure. She rang the bell of a grey and gloomy house, and was shown into a fair sized, barely furnished room.
A small fire was burning in the grate. From the way it was smoking Jennifer guessed it was many years since it had been last lit.
Her uncle was standing in front of the fire. To Jennifer’s amusement he had changed into a dinner jacket, of very old-fashioned cut, probably taken from some fusty cupboard, and unworn since the last century.
‘Good Lord - I didn’t know you were going to cope,’ she said. ‘I haven’t brought any evening dresses down here.’
‘What you are wearing is delightful,’ he told her, and she supposed he was making her some sort of compliment.
The dinner was better than she had expected. They started with fish, and went on to a vague hash, flavoured with onion, followed by what he termed ‘steam pudding’.
Afterwards they had coffee, and he handed her cigarettes, obviously bought for the occasion. ‘I never smoke myself.’ he told her. They talked a little while of various matters of Plyn and of the clay industry, and then after a slight pause he cleared his throat, and rubbing his hands softly together and avoiding her eyes, he began to speak once more.
‘I must admit to you I have an object in asking you here this evening. The idea came to me very suddenly. I am an elderly man as you see. I may have few years, or only a few months in which to live. It is lonely here at times for an old man like myself. Now this is what I propose. That you live here with me for good - in fact - I propose to adopt you, become your guardian - what you will.’
‘You must be crazy,’ said Jennifer. ‘Why, you don’t even know anything about me. Besides, after the way you treated my father and my grandfather to calmly turn round and adopt me - whatever for?’
‘My reasons are my own. Possibly they may be connected with what you have just said. My treatment of your father and your grandfather.’
Jennifer grasped something of his meaning, and was filled with contempt. In some mysterious way she had frightened him down at the office, she had shaken his faith in himself, and now he wished, not for any fondness of herself but for his own sake, to make some amends to her, daughter of Christopher, granddaughter of Joseph, in case there was any truth after all in the legend of existence after death. In case there was immortality. By adopting her he would acquit himself of what had been. She would be his means of salvation. From no love, no real atonement, but from a hidden terror. That was his reason. He wished to use her as a screen to his fear.
Jennifer thought rapidly.
‘Would I be free to do as I wished?’ she asked. ‘Could I change this drab, gloomy house and try and make something out of it?’
He considered the matter for a moment. Jennifer knew he was thinking of the expense.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, you can be completely free. As to the house, you may alter it as you wish.’
‘In that case,’ said Jennifer slowly, ‘in that case, Uncle Philip, I’ll say yes. But I want you to understand that I come to look after your house. I refuse to treat you as my guardian, or for you to call me your adopted daughter.There must be no question of it.’
‘So that is a bargain, eh?’
‘Yes - Uncle Philip - we’ll call it a bargain.’
She shook hands with him for the first time.
10
N
ews travels fast in a town such as Plyn. The following day it was all over the place that Christopher Coombe’s daughter, a girl fresh arrived from London, had met with her great-uncle Philip, the terrible, dreaded Mr Coombe of Hogg and Williams, and she was to live in Marine Terrace with him as his companion.
The theory was that this Jennifer Coombe was nothing more nor less than a common fortune-hunter making up to the old man who had ruined her dead father; she expected to be made his heiress.
Over in his shipbuilding yard word came to John Stevens of the amazing happenings in Plyn, but he was too busy with his yachts and his plans for the future to be greatly interested. When old Thomas Coombe told him the news with much excitement and shaking of his head, John, who was busy over some blueprint in his office, took his pipe out of his mouth and smiled.
‘After his money, is she? She’ll be a clever girl if she gets it. I don’t see Philip Coombe parting with a halfpenny.’
‘Why, John, it’s the truth I’m tellin’ you. There’s that there house up to Marine Terrace all painted already, new curtains in t’window, an’ the gal orderin’ him about from pillar to post.’
‘She must be an unholy terror, unless the old chap’s in his dotage at last. Is that the child who used to live at Ivy House? Harold and Willie’s young sister?’
‘That’s her, John. Bin educated in London - quite a young lady my sister was tellin’ me. They took to her seemingly, but I don’t know - sounds a queer sort o’ concern to me.’
‘Well, Cousin Tom, we haven’t time for young women of fashion making up to disagreeable old gentlemen, though I dare say it’s all very intriguing. D’you mind coming and casting an eye over this print?’
So he dismissed the matter from his mind.
At twenty-four, John Stevens was a very strong-minded and resolute young man. The dreamy boy had grown into one of the most efficient and enterprising of people; he had set out to build up a business and to make it well known through the whole of the west country, and he was succeeding. In a year or two his name would be among the best yacht-builders of the day, challenging the big firms on the north and the south coast. John had few thoughts for anything but his work, and he had long got over his old habits of dreaming and star-gazing, of seeing into the future, of feeling disaster and death.
John the boy had lain on the hills watching the sea, John the man wrote in his office or stood in his yard directing his workmen. John the boy had climbed aboard the wreck
Janet Coombe
and dreamt of the past, his eyes fixed on the little white figurehead in the bows, John the man waved aside sentimentality and possessing now the entire rights of the vessel, Philip Coombe being weary of the whole concern and selling his share for a small profit, he was considering breaking up the ship when he could spare men to the task. So it happened one Sunday afternoon in the middle of the summer, towards the end of June, this downright determined John Stevens was distinctly annoyed to find a recurrence of his old boyish symptoms, in other words the urge came upon him to leave his plans, to go from his office, and to walk across the hills to Polmear creek. From time to time the ship made claims upon him such as this, and John resented these claims. He resented any suggestions of weakness.That a figurehead should possess any powers over him at all was preposterous.
Janet Coombe was a decided nuisance. She was always bent on telling him what to do. Of course it had been she who had suggested starting the ship-building yard, but now that this was accomplished he was hanged if he would listen to her any more. It was all his imagination anyway, she was only a bit of painted wood.