Ross Poldark (37 page)

R
OSS WOKE LATE. IT WAS SEVEN BEFORE HE WAS STIRRING.

When he got up he had a nasty taste in his mouth. It had been poor stuff at the Fighting Cock's Inn.

Demelza… Stiff old silk of the dress… The hooks. What had got into her? He had been drunk, but was it with liquor? The expense of spirit in a waste of shame is lust in action… past reason hated—how did it go? He had not thought of
that
sonnet last night. The poets had played him false. A strange affair.

At least there had been an expense of spirit…

And the whispering shrews of three villages had only anticipated the truth. Not that that mattered. What mattered was Demelza and himself. What would he find her this morning: the friendly drudge of daylight or the silk-mouthed stranger he had imagined through the summer night?

She had had her way and at the last had seemed to fear it.

The acme of futility was to regret a pleasure that was past, and he had no intention of doing so. The thing was done. It would change the very pith of their per sonal ways; it would intrude on their growing friendship, distorting every act and image and introducing false values.

His rejection of her in the parlour had been the only sane course. Prudish if you liked, but how far were prudery and restraint confused in the mind of the cynic?

His reasoning was all questions and no answers this morning.

Whichever way one looked at it, a recollection of last night held something distasteful: not Demelza's fault, not his, but arising out of the history of their association. Was this nonsense? What would his father have said? “High-flown claptrap to explain a thick head.”

He struggled into his clothes. For a time he allowed his mind to slur over the outcome. He went down and swilled himself under the pump, glancing from time to time at the distant cliff line where Wheal Leisure could be seen.

He dressed again and had breakfast, waited on by a backbent muttering Prudie. She was like a fisherman angling for sympathy. She got no bites this morning. When he had finished he sent for Jud.

“Where is Demelza?”

“Dunno. She belong to be somewhere about. I seed en pass through the ’ouse an hour gone.”

“Are the Martin children here?”

“In the turmut field.”

“Well, Prudie and Demelza can join them when she is ready. I shall not be going to the mine this morning. I’ll help you and Jack with the hay. Time it was begun.”

Jud grunted and ambled out. After sitting a few minutes, Ross went out to the library and did half an hour's work on the business of the mine. Then he took a scythe from the farmshed and set about giving it a keener edge on the grindstone. Work as a solvent for the megrims of the night. The expense of spirit in a waste of shame… Last night before the final episode he had reflected that the day had begun in frustration and ended in frustration. This morning all the old restraints were rising to persuade him that the judgment still held good. Life seemed to be teaching him that the satisfaction of most appetites carried in them the seeds of frustration, that it was the common delusion of all men to imagine otherwise.

The first principles of that lesson had ten-year-old roots. But then, he was not a sensualist so perhaps he couldn’t judge. His father had been a sensualist and a cynic; his father took love at its face value and took it as it came. The difference was surely not so much that
he
was frigid by nature (far from it) but that he expected too much.

The sense of separateness from others, of loneliness, had not often been so strong as this morning. He wondered if in fact there was any true content in life, if all men were as troubled as he with a sense of disillusion. It had not always been so. His childhood had been happy enough in the unthinking way that childhoods are. He had enjoyed in a measure the roughness and dangers of active service. It was since he returned home that the evil eye of discontent had been on him, making empty air of his attempts to find a philosophy of his own, turning to ashes whatever he grasped.

He put the scythe on his shoulder and tramped over to the hayfield, which lay on the northeast side of the valley beyond the apple trees and stretching up to Wheal Grace. A large field unenclosed by walls or hedges, and the hay in it was
a good crop, better than last year, yellowed and dried by the last week of sun. He took off his coat and hung it over a stone at the corner of the field. He was bare-headed and could feel the warmth of the climbing sun on his hair and open neck. Natural enough that in the old days men were sun worshippers; especially in England, where the sun was elusive and fitful and always welcome, in a land of mists and cloud and drifting rain.

He began to cut, bent a little forward and using the body as a pivot, swinging in a wide semicircle. The grass toppled reluctantly, long sheafs of it bending over and sinking slowly to the earth. With the grass went patches of purple scabious and moon daisies, chervil and yellow buttercups, flowering illicitly and suffering the common fate.

Jack Cobbledick appeared, climbing the field with his high-stepping stride, and then Jud, and they worked together all through the morning while the sun rose high and beat down on them. Every now and then one or another would stop to sharpen his scythe upon a stone. They spoke little, all preferring to keep their own thoughts tight and tidy and untouched. Two larks remained with them most of the morning, fluttering dots in the high sky, singing and diving and singing.

At noon they stopped and sat in a group amongst the slain grass and took long drinks of buttermilk and ate rabbit pasties and barley cakes, Jack Cobbledick meantime remarking in a voice as slow and drawling as his walk that this here weather made you that dry you wanted to drink down more than you could rightly hold; and he’d heard tell the marrying next month at Mingoose was to be the biggest party for years: all the tip-top folk, and he’d seed old Joe Triggs last forenoon and he’d said it was a mortal shame for Jim Carter to lie in prison while Nick Vigus went scot-free, and there was many folk of the same mind; and it was said as Carter was being sent to Bodmin Gaol, which they did say was one of the best in the West Country and fever was not so prevalious there as Launceston or the Plymouth hulks. Was that true, did Cap’n Poldark know? Ross said, yes, that was true.

Jack Cobbledick said it was common belief that if Cap’n Poldark hadn’t stood up in court and preached to the magistrates, Carter would have been sent for seven years’ transportation, and folks said as the justices was fair mad about it.

Jud said he knew a man who was sent to Bodmin Gaol for next to nothing, and the first day he was there he got the fever and the second day he was dead.

Cobbledick said folk were saying that if more of the gentry was like Someone They All Knew there wouldn’t be all this distress and closing down of mines and crying out for bread.

Jud said the fever was that bad at Launceston in ’83 that the gaoler and his wife was strick down with it the same night and was both cold before the light of day.

Cobbledick said the Greets and the Nanfans were for getting up a crowd of men to drive Nick Vigus out of the district but that Zacky Martin had said they mustn’t do nothing of the shape; two wrongs didn’t make a right, nor never would.

Jud said it was his firm belief that Jim Carter's third child would be born posthumorously.

Presently they were up and off again. Ross soon forged ahead of his companions, driven on by private necessities of his own. As the sun declined, he stopped again for a few minutes and saw that they had nearly done. His forearms and back were aching with the exercise, but he had worked some dissatisfaction out of himself. The regularity of the sweeping scythe, the pivoting movement of the body, the steady advance round the edge of the field, eating into the grass and gradually approaching the centre, had helped to lay the uncomfortable ghosts of his discontent. There was a faint north breeze stirring, and the heat of the sun had become a mellow warmth. He took deep breaths and mopped his brow and stared at the other men behind him. Then he glanced at the dwarfed figure of one of the Martin children coming towards him from the house.

It was Maggie Martin, aged six, a cheerful child with the family red hair.

“If ee plaise, sur-r,” she piped in her singsong voice, “thur be a leddy to see ee.”

He put a forefinger under the child's chin. “What manner of lady, my dear?”

“Mistress Poldark, sur. Over from Trenwith.”

It was months since Verity had been to see him. This might be the beginning of a resumption of their old friendship. He had never needed it more.

“Thank you, Mag. I’ll come at once.”

He fetched his coat, and with this and the scythe slung over his shoulder went down the hill to the house. She had come by horse this time, it seemed.

He put the scythe at the door and, swinging his coat, entered the parlour. A young woman was seated in a chair. His heart gave a lurch.

Elizabeth was in a long dark brown riding habit with fine Ghent lace at the cuffs and throat. She wore a three-cornered felt hat trimmed with lace which set off the oval of her face and crowned the bright sheen of her hair.

She extended a hand with a smile that hurt him with a memory of things past. She was a lady and very beautiful.

“Why, Ross, I thought we hadn’t seen you for a month, and since I was passing this way—”

“Don’t make excuses for your coming,” he said. “Only for not having come before.”

She flushed and her eyes showed a hint of pleasure. Her frailty and charm had not been altered by her motherhood. At every meeting he was surprised afresh.

“It's a hot day to be riding,” he said. “Let me get you something to drink.”

“No, thank you, I’m quite cool.” And she looked it. “First tell me how you are, what you have been doing. We see so little of you.”

Conscious of his damp shirt and ruffled hair, he told what he had been doing. She was a little ill at ease. He saw her glance once or twice round the room as if she sensed some alien presence, or as if she was surprised at the comfortable though shabby nature of the furnishings. Her eyes went to a bowl of wood anemones and hart's tongue ferns on the window seat.

“Verity told me,” she said, “that you were not able to get your farm boy a lighter sentence. I am sorry.”

Ross nodded. “A pity, yes. George Warleggan's father was chairman of the bench. We parted in mutual dislike.”

She glanced at him from under her lashes. “George will be sorry. Perhaps if you had approached him it might have been arranged. Though it is true, isn’t it, that the boy was caught red-handed?”

“How is Uncle?” Ross changed the subject, feeling that his views on the Carter episode might offend her.

“He grows no better, Ross. Tom Choake bleeds him regular, but it brings him only a temporary relief. We had all hoped that this fine weather would put him on his feet again.”

“And Geoffrey Charles?”

“Doing splendid, thank you. We feared last month that he had taken the measles after escaping all the epidemic, but it was no more than a teething rash.” Her tone was controlled but something remained in it to give him a twinge of surprise. He had not heard that snuffed possessive inflexion before.

They chatted for some minutes with a sort of anxious agreeableness. Elizabeth asked about the progress of the mine, and Ross went into technical details which he doubted if she understood and was sure she could not be as interested in as she seemed. She spoke of the forthcoming wedding taking it for granted that he had been invited, and he had not the heart to correct her. Francis wanted her to go to London this autumn, but she thought Geoffrey Charles young for the
journey. Francis did not seem to understand that Geoffrey Charles could not be left behind. Francis thought, etc… Francis felt…

Her small composed face clouded at this stage, and she said, pulling at her gloves:

“I wish you could see more of Francis, Ross.”

Ross politely agreed that it was a pity he had not more time to spend in visiting his cousin.

“No, I do not mean quite in the sense of an ordinary visit, Ross. I do wish somehow you could have worked together. Your influence on him—”

“My influence?” he said in surprise.

“It would have steadied him. I think it would help to steady him.” She glanced up painfully, then looked away. “You will think it strange my speaking in this way. But you see, I have been worried. We are both so friendly with George Warleggan, have stayed in Truro with him and at Cardew. George is very kind. But he is so wealthy, and to him gambling is just a pleasant recreation. Not so to us now, not so to Francis. When one plays for higher stakes than one can afford… It seems to have a hold of Francis. It is the breath of life to him. He wins a little and then loses so much. Charles is too ill to stop him and he has control of everything. We really cannot go on as we are doing. Grambler is losing money, as you know.”

“Do not forget,” Ross said, “that I lost money myself before I went away. My influence might not have been so good as you think.”

“I should not have spoken of it. I hadn’t intended to. I have no right to burden you with my troubles.”

“I take it as a true compliment.”

“But when you mentioned Francis… And our old friendship… You were always one to understand.”

He saw that she was genuinely distressed, and turned towards the window to give her time to recover. He wanted to justify her faith in him; he would have given a lot to have been able to put some suggestion to ease the distress from her face. His resentment of her marriage had quite gone. She had come to him.

“I wondered if I should tell Charles,” she said. “I’m so afraid it would make him more ill—and that would not help us at all.”

Ross shook his head. “Not that. Let me see Francis first. God knows, I am not likely to succeed where—where others have failed. What I cannot begin to understand—”

“What?”

But she sensed something of what he left unsaid. “He is reasonable in so many things, but I cannot influence him in that. He seems to take my advice as an interference.”

“So he will certainly take mine the same. But I will try.”