Ross Poldark (19 page)

“What are ee going to do, Mr. Martin?”

“See Cap’n Ross. He did ought to know.”

“Shall I come in with ee?”

“No, boy. Reckon I’ll do it my own way.”

“I’ll wait outside for you,” Jim said.

“No, boy; go to bed. You’ll not be up in the morning. I’ll tell ee what he advise tomorrow.”

“I’d rather wait,” said Jim. “That's if it is all the same with you. I’ve not the mind for sleep just now.”

They reached the house and separated at the door. Zacky slipped quietly round to the kitchen. Prudie and Demelza were in bed, but Jud was up and yawning his head off, and Zacky was taken in to see Ross.

Ross was at his usual occupation, reading and drinking himself to bed. He was not too sleepy to listen to Zacky's story. When it was done, he got up and strolled to the fire, stood with his back to it staring at the little man.

“Did Charlie Baragwanath have any conversation with him?”

“Not what you’d rightly call conversation. It was just passing the time o’ day, as you might say, till Reuben seized his pasty and ran off with un. Stealing a pasty from a boy often!”

“Hungry men feel different about these things.”

“Charlie says he went off running into the woods this side of Mingoose.”

“Well, something must be done. We can get up a manhunt and drive him out of his burrow. The moral difficulty is that so far he has done no wrong. We
cannot imprison a fellow because he is a harmless idiot. But neither do we want to wait until he proves himself the reverse.”

“He must be living in a cave, or mebbe an old mine,” said Zacky. “And living off of somebody's game.”

“Yes, there's that. I might persuade my uncle to stretch a point and make out an order for his arrest.”

“If you thought we was doing right,” said Zacky, “I think twould satisfy folk better if we caught un ourselves.”

Ross shook his head. “Leave that as a last resort. I’ll see my uncle in the morning and get an order. That will be the best. In the meantime, see Jinny does not go out alone.”

“Yes, sur. Thank you, sur.” Zacky moved to go.

“There's one thing that might lead towards a solution so far as Jinny is concerned,” Ross said. “I’ve been thinking of it. My boy who works here, Jim Carter, seems very taken with her. Do you know if she also likes him?”

Zacky's weather-beaten face glinted with humour.

“They’re both bit wi’ the same bug, I bla’.”

“Yes, well I don’t know your view of the boy, but he seems a steady lad. Jinny's seventeen and the boy's twenty. If they were married it might be for their good, and there is the likelihood that it would cure Reuben of his ambitions.”

Zacky rubbed the stubble on his chin; his thumb made a sharp rasping sound. “I like the boy; there's no nonsense about him. But tis part a question of wages and a cottage. There's small room for raising of another family in ours. And for labouring he gets little more than enough to pay the rent of a roof, wi’out vittles for two. I had the mind to build a lean-to to our cottage, but there's bare room for it.”

Ross turned and kicked at the fire with the toe of his boot.

“One cannot afford to pay mining wages to a farm boy. But there are two empty cottages at Mellin, in the other row. They bring in nothing as they are, and Jim could live in one for the repairing. I should ask no rent from him so long as he worked for me.”

Zacky blinked. “No rent? That’d make a difference. Have you mentioned it to the boy?”

“No. It's not my business to order his life. But talk it over with him sometime if you’re so disposed.”

“I will tonight. He's waiting outside… No, I’ll wait till tomorrow. He’d be over to our place, reg’lar as clock work.” Zacky stopped. “It is very
handsome of you. Wouldn’t you like to see ’em both together, then you could tell ’em yourself.”

“No, no, I’ll have no hand in it. It was a passing suggestion. But make what arrangements on it you please.”

When the little man was gone Ross refilled his pipe and lit it and turned back to his book. Tabitha Bethia jumped on his knee and was not pushed off. Instead he pulled her ear while he read. But after turning a page or two he found he had taken nothing in. He finished his drink but did not pour himself another.

He felt righteous and unashamed. He decided to go to bed sober.

The wet weather had put him out of contact with Trenwith House during the last few weeks. He had not seen Verity since the ball, and he sensed that she was avoiding him so that he should not twit her on her friendship with Captain Blamey.

The morning following Zacky's call he rode over in pouring rain to see his uncle, and was surprised to find the Revd. Mr. Johns there. Cousin William-Alfred, his scrawny neck sticking well out above his high collar, was in sole possession of the winter parlour when Mrs. Tabb showed him in.

“Your uncle is upstairs,” he said, offering a cold but firm grasp. “He should be down soon. I hope you’re well, Ross?”

“Well, thank you.”

“Hm,” said William-Alfred judicially. “Yes. I think so. You
look
better than when I last saw you. Less heavy under the eyes, if I may say so.”

Ross chose to pass this. He liked William-Alfred for all his bloodless piety, because the man was so sincere in his beliefs and in his way of life. He was worth three of the politically minded Dr. Halse.

He enquired after his cousin's wife, and expressed polite gratification that Dorothy's health was improving. In December, God had given them another daughter, the blessing of another lamb. Ross then asked after the health of the occupants of Trenwith House, wondering if the answer would explain William-Alfred's presence. But no. All were well, and there was nothing here to bring William-Alfred all the way from Stithians. Francis and Elizabeth were spending a week with the Warleggans at their country home at Cardew. Aunt Agatha was in the kitchen making some herb tea. Verity—Verity was upstairs.

“You have ridden far on so unpleasant a morning,” Ross said.

“I came last evening, Cousin.”

“Well, that was no better.”

“I hope to leave today if the rain clears.”

“Next time you’re here venture another three miles and visit Nampara. I can offer you a bed, if not quite the accommodation you have here.”

William-Alfred looked pleased. It was seldom that he received open gestures of friendship. “Thank you. I will certainly do that.”

Charles Poldark entered, blowing like a sperm whale with the effort of coming downstairs. He was still putting on weight and his feet were swollen with gout.

“Ho, Ross; so
you’re
here, boy. What's to do: is your house a-floating out to sea?”

“There's some danger if the rain keeps on. Am I interrupting you in important business?”

The other two exchanged glances.

“Have you not told him?” Charles asked.

“I could not do that without your permission.”

“Well, go on, go on. Aarf! It is a family affair and he is one of the family, even though an odd one.”

William-Alfred turned his pale-grey eyes to Ross.

“I came out yesterday not so much to pay a social call as to see Uncle Charles on a matter of outstanding import to our family. I hesitated some time before intruding upon ground which was—”

“It is about Verity and this Captain Blamey fellow,” Charles said briefly. “Damme, I couldn’t ha’ believed it. Not that the girl should—”

“You know, do you not,” said William-Alfred, “that your cousin has become friendly with a seafaring man, one Andrew Blamey?”

“I know that I’ve met him.”

“So have we all,” said Charles explosively. “He was here at Francis's wedding!”

“I knew nothing of him then,” said William-Alfred. “That was the first time I had seen him. But last week I learned his history. Knowing that he was becoming—that there had been a considerable talk linking his name and Cousin Verity's, I came over at the earliest opportunity. Naturally, I was at pains first to verify the information which reached me.”

“Well, what is it?” said Ross.

“The man has been married before. He is a widower with two young children. Perhaps you know that. He is also, however, a notorious drunkard. Some years ago in a drunken frenzy he kicked his wife when she was with child and she died. He was then in the Navy, the commander of a frigate. He lost his rank
and lay in a common prison for two years. When released he lived on the charity of his relatives for a number of years until he obtained his present commission. There is, I understand, an agitation afoot to boycott the packet he commands until the company discharges him.”

William-Alfred finished his unemotional recital and licked his lips. There had been no animosity in his tones, a circumstance which made the indictment worse. Charles spat through the open window.

Ross said: “Does Verity know?”

“Yes, damme!” said Charles. “Would you believe it of the girl? She's known for more than two weeks. She says it don’t make any difference!”

Ross went to the window, bit his thumb. While he had been concerned with his own day-to-day affairs, this had been happening.

“But it must make a difference,” he said, half to himself.

“She says,” William-Alfred observed judicially, “that he will touch no drink now at all.”

“Yes, well—” Ross paused. “Oh yes, but—”

Charles exploded again. “God's my life, we all drink! Not to drink is unnatural in a man. Aarf! But we do not become murderous in our cups. To kick a woman in that condition is beyond forgiveness. I don’t know how he got off so light. He should have been hanged from his own yardarm. Drunk or sober makes little difference.”

“Yes,” said Ross slowly. “I’m inclined to agree.”

“I do not know,” said William-Alfred slowly, “if marriage was his intention; but if it was, can we let a gentle girl like Verity marry such a man?”

“By God, no!” said Charles, empurpled. “Not while I am alive!”

“What's her attitude?” Ross asked. “Does she insist on wanting to marry him?”

“She says he has been reformed! For how long? Once a drunkard always a drunkard. The position is impossible! She's in her room and will stay there until she sees reason.”

“I’ve been very friendly with her this winter. It might help if I saw her and we talked things over.”

Charles shook his head. “Not now, my boy. Later perhaps. She's as pigheaded as her mother. More so, in truth, and that's saying volumes. But the association's got to be broke. I’m mortal sorry for the girl. She's not had many admirers. But I’ll not have any wife-kicking skunk bedding with my flesh and blood. That's all there is to it.”

So for the second time that spring Ross rode home from Trenwith having done nothing that he had set out to do.

He felt restless and uneasy at the thought of Verity's misery. Very well for Charles to say “that's all there is to it”; but he had come to know Verity better than her own father and brother did. Her affections were slow to take and hard to break. He was not even sure that this one would be broken by Charles's veto. It might be that she would defy everyone and marry Blamey, and that only then would the affection break.

That was the worst prospect of all.

E
VERYTHING ARRANGED NOW, JIM?”

It was a week later and they had met in the stable. Jim Carter's gratitude was dumb. Two or three times before he had struggled with his tongue, but it wouldn’t move. Now at last he got out:

“ ’Tis what I d’ want more than anything. I’d not thought to hope for it, hardly begun to. An’ I’ve to thank you for it.”

“Oh, nonsense,” said Ross. “Don’t owe your happiness to anyone. Tell Zacky tonight that the warrant for Clemmow's arrest has been issued. As soon as he is located, we can put him away for a space to cool his head.”

“It is the cottage I have to thank ee for,” Jim persisted, now that he was at last launched. “That d’ make all the difference. You see, if we had no hope for that—”

“Which have you decided on?” Ross asked to cut short his thanks. “Reuben's or the one next door?”

“The one next door, the one next to Joe and Betsy Triggs. We reckoned, sur, if twas all the same to you, that we’d not go into Reuben's cottage. It don’t seem too comfortable, if you follow me. And the other's clean ’nough after five year. Smallpox have gone long since.”

Ross nodded. “And when are you to be married?” Jim flushed. “Banns will be called for the first time next Sunday. I can’t hardly… We’re startin’ repairing the roof tonight if the weather clears. There's little enough to do. Jinny would dearly like to come and thank you herself.”

“Oh, there's no need of that,” Ross said in alarm. “I’ll call and see you when you are nicely settled.”

“And we’d like,” Jim struggled on, “if we d’ get on, to pay you a rent… just to show—”

“Not while you’re working for me. But it's a good thought.”

“Jinny d’ hope to stay on at the mine, at least to begin. With my two brothers
doing well for theirselves, Mother hasn’t the same need of my help… So, I believe twill work—”

A sneeze attracted Ross's attention and he saw Demelza crossing the yard with a pile of logs held in her pinafore. It was raining and she was without a hat. Behind her Garrick, grown tall and ungainly in mid-puppyhood, black and tailless and sparsely curled, gambolled like a French poodle. Ross wanted to laugh.