So she scarcely listened to what he said; she closed her ears and prepared to pull the bell to have him turned out. Then a sentence here and there began to impinge. She held up a hand.
‘Are you suggesting – are you daring to suggest that this – this persecution you speak of is the work of our servants?’
‘Well, yes, ma’am. I’m that sorry to bother you, but I firmly believe that it must be quite unbeknown to you. If—’
‘Unbeknown to me? And are you then saying that these things occur on the instigation of Mr Warleggan?’
‘I cann’t say that, ma’am. Maybe someone else have instructed Mr Coke to buy the farm above me and cut off my water supply. And Tom Harry, and Michael Kent and Sid Rowe, those that beat me and kicked me so that I quammed off into a faint. And this eyebrow, ma’am. And this side of my nose I can’t breathe through now—’
‘And what were you doing when you say they caught you?’
‘Walking up the drive, ma’am, hoping to see you and offer never to see Master Geoffrey Charles again, if so be as I could be left to live my life in peace and quiet.’
Elizabeth went stormily to the window. She still wanted to have this young man turned out; she badly wanted to deny his every word and have him branded as a liar. But her difficulty lay in her not being certain that he was. She knew of George’s resentment at this boy being given the blacksmith’s shop, and his resentment, almost jealousy, at Geoffrey Charles’s continuing passionate friendship. George thought, or affected to think, that Drake had been deliberately installed where he was as an irritant and a challenge. She also knew that the gamekeepers had been instructed to be hard on anyone they found trespassing.
But not walking innocently up the main drive to see her! She wondered how far she could trust Drake Carne’s account. He might be here as a mischief-maker. After all, he had had the effrontery to call regularly at their house two winters ago when only Morwenna and Geoffrey Charles were at home. Impertinence must not be encouraged. She turned and looked at him, met his eyes. How far was her own son a judge of character? This was the young man Geoffrey Charles found more desirable company than any boy in the county of his own class. Carne did not look an arrogant liar. How could one judge?
‘Tell me again,’ she said. ‘Everything from the beginning. When do you pretend that these persecutions started?’
So he told her all again.
‘And what proof have you?’
‘Aunt Molly Vage – up the hill from me – she say she saw men scat my fence abroad when I was from home – Trenwith men, she say; she know by their clothes. Jack Mullet say tis common knowledge, what I repair Trenwith men’ll break again. No one seen – no one saw Tom Harry and Sid Rowe and Michael Kent that day, but I’ve got marks that’s proof of a sort, ma’am. If you’d excuse me, ma’am, tis near on three weeks since it was done but you’ll see from my face and if you’ll excuse me, ma’am . . .’
He opened his jacket and pulled at his shirt, showing the fading black of heavy bruises about his ribs.
‘Enough,’ Elizabeth said, short of breath. ‘That is enough. I think you presume—’
‘What is this man doing here?’ George Warleggan demanded from the door.
Drake flushed and drew his jacket across his dishevelled shirt.
George came a step or two farther into the room and then stood with his hands behind his back.
Elizabeth said: ‘This is Drake Carne. He asked to see—’
‘I know who he is. By what right was he admitted to this house?’
‘I was about to tell you. He asked to see me and I thought it proper to discover what he wanted.’ She nodded to Drake. ‘I think you should go.’
‘Most certainly he will go,’ George said, ‘and I shall leave instructions that if he sets foot in this house again he is to be thrown out.’
‘Go now,’ said Elizabeth.
Drake licked his lips. ‘Thank you, ma’am. I meant no disrespect . . . I’m sorry, sir. I never meant to upset or distress no one.’ He walked slowly to the door, passing close by George. He looked tall and strong and thin and, even in this situation, not without dignity.
‘Wait,’ George said.
Drake waited. George pulled the bell. After a few moments a servant came.
‘Put this man out,’ George said.
III
After he had gone George followed him from the room without saying another word to Elizabeth. They did not see each other again until supper time. George’s face was stony, but by the time the meal was half through he observed that Elizabeth’s face was stonier. George had ordered a post-chaise for eight a.m., so final packing had to be done today. Eventually when the servants were temporarily out of the room, he asked his wife if all her arrangements were complete.
Elizabeth said: ‘Since this forenoon I have done nothing at all.’
‘Why is that?’
‘Because I will not be spoken to in front of anyone the way you spoke to me before Drake Carne.’
‘I scarcely spoke to you at all! But Carne should never have been admitted.’
‘Allow me to be the judge of that.’
George raised his eyebrows. He perceived now the extent of Elizabeth’s anger.
‘What had the young upstart to say?’
‘That you had been attempting to drive him out of his shop.’
‘Do you believe that?’
‘Not if you tell me it is untrue.’
‘It is not altogether untrue. His presence there is a deliberate affront. And, as you see, it has enabled him to maintain his friendship with Geoffrey Charles.’
‘Must you then resort to – to pressures, such as cutting off his water supply – damaging the fences he had put up, threatening the village people who patronize him?’
‘Good God, I know no details! I leave the details to others. They may well have exceeded the verbal limits I gave them.’
She dabbed her mouth with her napkin, considering her own pent-up resentment, only partly trying to contain it. ‘If you are too big for details, George, are you not also too big a person to descend to petty devices to intimidate a young man who has happened to cross you?’
He said: ‘I see Demelza’s brother has a persuasive tongue.’
His use of the name was deliberate, challenging her old dislikes, reminding her of so much.
‘And must you also,’ Elizabeth said, ‘must you also have hired bullies on our estate who will beat a young man senseless and disfigure him, perhaps for life?’
He took a short-cake, broke it and put a corner in his mouth. ‘Of that I know nothing. As you must be aware, I am not a believer in brutality. What is the story you have been told?’
She repeated it, watching him.
He said: ‘Of course he was up to no good. That’s the truth of it. It was he who brought the toads back to our pond, you know.’
‘Has he said so?’
‘Is it likely? But there’s evidence enough. I have no doubt he was bent on some illicit matter when Tom Harry caught him. He’s a plausible young upstart and no doubt made out a good case for himself to you.’
‘But even if he were poaching, Harry has no right to treat him in that way.’
‘If it’s true, he’ll be reproved.’
‘Is that all?’
‘What else would you have?’
‘He should be dismissed.’
‘On that fellow’s evidence?’
‘It should all be enquired into. I think you are making a terrible mistake, George.’
‘In what?’
‘I . . . I have lived at Trenwith for nearly half my life. I was not happy with Francis, as you know; but the Poldarks had been there for two hundred years; they maintained a reputation for – for having a care for the village folk. Your way is different. I don’t quarrel with your wish for greater privacy, for better-defined boundaries, for putting a greater distance between us and the village people. That is your way. I am your wife, and so that is my way too. But .
. . you cannot wish surely to inspire dislike, to inspire hate – and this is what Tom Harry and his bullies will do for you if you don’t get rid of them. You only see them when we spend holidays there. How do they behave when we’re not there? How have they behaved to Geoffrey Charles’s friend? Can you imagine what Geoffrey Charles will feel if he hears of this? What sort of a friendship can you and he build up, how can I hope to restore a friendship between my son and my husband if this can happen – if not on your instructions, at least with only mild expressions of disapproval from you afterward? Tell me that, George. Tell me that!’
He was prevented from telling her that by the arrival of a servant to snuff the candles and another to serve the brandy. They sat in tense angry stillness opposite each other, their gaze bisected and made tangential by the flickering lights. The servants seemed to be in the room in endless progression, one coming in as another went out. Elizabeth refused brandy and rose. George rose with her, politely standing until she left the room. Then he reseated himself and put his hands about the glass, warming the brandy and allowing it to move around so that the aroma of it was released. He was aware that a crisis in his relationship with Elizabeth threatened.
IV
It was resolved in her bedroom. He came in and found her brushing her hair. It was a nightly routine which she would leave to no maid. She brushed it gently, rhythmically; it had some soporific effect on her, preparing her for sleep. She always complained that her hair came out; every night fine strands of it clung to her brush when she had finished; but such was the new growth that the thickness of her hair was never less. Nor yet had it lost much of its colour.
He said with controlled politeness: ‘Your cases are still incomplete. Polly says you have not given her enough instructions to finish it for you.’
‘No. No, I haven’t.’
‘May I ask why?’
‘Because I doubt the wisdom of coming with you tomorrow.’
He closed the door and took a seat in a chair, crossed his legs, slightly hunched his shoulders in that formidable manner he had when there was a conflict on his hands. From this position she had her back to him but they could each see the other’s face through the mirror.
‘What virtue would there be in your staying behind?’
‘Only that we seem to be drifting farther apart – in behaviour, in sympathy, in understanding – so perhaps it is more suitable that we should stay apart in fact.’
‘Does this all – all this state you find yourself in – does it all derive from the visit of a vindictive boy?’
‘No,’ she said slowly. ‘But one straw – do you know – one straw, the last one.’
‘You find his view of things more acceptable than mine?’
‘Not at all. But his coming, what he has to say, points the – the differences, the divisions that have grown between us.’
‘Explain to me a little more. You are suggesting that our life is foundering on the type of servants I employ, the disciplines I set them, the restrictions I impose upon the free and unbridled access for all and sundry to my – to your – property. That is the present cause of your offence. Now tell me the rest.’
She stopped brushing, lowered her eyes to the dressing table, then raised them to meet his through the glass.
‘I believe our married life is foundering on suspicion and jealousy.’
‘Now it is an attack on me, not on my servants.’
‘Oh, George! . . . your servants are but a symptom. Are they not? You must admit that or we have no common ground even for argument. This dislike of Drake Carne . . . I know all there is to say against him. I do not like the young man and want nothing better than to be rid of him. But this – this petty persecution – and worse – does it not really stem in your heart from the fact that he is Demelza’s brother – and so Ross’s brother-in-law?’
‘Ah,’ said George, and uncrossed his legs. ‘I wondered when we were coming to that.’
‘To what?’
‘You say that my dislike of young Carne stems from the fact that he is Ross’s brother-in-law. Doesn’t your belief in what he has told you, your championing him against my servants, spring from the same source?’
Elizabeth put down her brush. Her heart was beating as if it had to pump some more viscid fluid than blood.
‘I said our life together was foundering on suspicion and jealousy. Have you not this very moment confirmed it?’
‘You think I’m suspicious of Ross, jealous of him?’
‘Of course. Of course. Aren’t you? Isn’t it eating you up, corroding all your success, poisoning your family life, turning everything you achieve to gall?’
‘And are all my suspicions unfounded?’
She turned to face him, her hair about her shoulders.
‘Tell me what they are and I will answer.’
His whole body gave a shiver of anger. ‘I believe you still love Ross.’
‘That’s not all! That’s not all you think.’
‘Isn’t it enough?’
‘It’s more than enough! That I suppose is why you have me followed when I’m in Truro, spied on by your creatures as if I were some criminal suspected of a grievous crime but the evidence as yet insufficient! Lest I should meet Ross in some dark corner! Lest I should be plotting some love tryst with him! That’s certainly enough.’ She got up; her voice had a break in it; she held her throat as if seeking some extra control. ‘But it’s not all! Do you wish me to – to prompt you to say the rest?’
At this last moment his native caution, his mercantile common sense prompted him to hold his ground but to go no farther. He was not prepared to voice his worst suspicions at the cost of losing her. The situation was slipping out of control. He was not used to emotions having their way. One knew instinctively how to deal with an ordinary crisis of affairs, but not this. Not this crisis with a woman. It was like being in a tide race.
He got up. ‘Enough.’ He spoke with command in his voice. ‘We’ve said enough. We can talk again in the morning when we are more ourselves.’
‘No,’ she said, with equal decision. ‘If there is anything to be said it must be said tonight.’
‘Well, I’ll make a bargain with you,’ he said. ‘Come with me tomorrow as arranged, and I’ll write to Tankard before I leave instructing him that any and all harassments of Carne must stop forthwith. Other problems, other contentions, can be dealt with later.’
‘No,’ she said again. ‘There is no later, George. This is the latest it can ever be.’
He walked towards the door but she stood in his way. Her lips were blotchy with lack of colour. His good intentions sliding down to hell, he raised his hand as if to strike her. She did not flinch.
She said: ‘Why do you treat your son as if he were not your son?’
‘Valentine?’
‘Valentine.’
He licked his lips. ‘Is he?’
‘How could he be any other man’s?’
‘You have to answer me that.’
‘And if I do?’
‘If you do?’
‘Will you believe me? Will you for one single solitary second think that what I’ve told you is the truth from my heart? Not at all! That’s why I say jealousy is eating you up! That’s why I say our life together has become impossible! It must end. It is going to end tonight!’
He dropped his hand, stared at her with all the lowering intent of a goaded bull.
‘You must tell me, Elizabeth. You must tell me! You must tell me!’
She hesitated, swung on her heel and went into her dressing room, hair floating in the wind of her own movement. For a moment he thought she was ending the scene, had done with him and was going to leave him, his most prized possession lost for ever. But she came back as quickly as she had gone. In her hand was a bible. She came up to him, set the bible on a table.
‘Now,’ she said. ‘Listen to this, George. Listen to it, I say! I swear on this bible, as a believing Christian and in the hope of my ultimate
salvation, that I have never, never given my body to any man except to my first husband, Francis, and to you, George. Is that enough? Or do you consider even my sworn oath insufficient to convince you?’
There was a long moment of silence.
‘Now,’ she said, tears beginning at last to stream. ‘I have done. I know already that even that is no use, a waste of time! I will leave for Trenwith in the morning. We can come to some arrangement – some separation. I can live with my parents. You can do what you please. This is the end . . .’
He said thickly: ‘We mustn’t let this get out of hand. Elizabeth, listen to me.’ Quicksands moved in him. ‘If I have been in error—’
‘If! . . .’
‘Well, yes. Well, yes. If what you say . . . You must give me time to think . . .’ He coughed, trying to clear the phlegm that had gathered.
‘To think what?’
‘Of course . . . I accept what you say – naturally I accept that. I suppose I have been a little misguided – perhaps a little crazed. Suspicion and jealousy, as you say, have been at the bottom of it . . .’
She waited.
He said: ‘But you know . . .’
‘What do I know?’
‘Suspicion and jealousy – you may condemn them – and rightly – but they indicate, in however distorted a way, a measure of my regard. It’s true. You may not think so but it is true. Love – love can be very possessive when it thinks itself threatened. Especially when what is threatened is – is dearer than life itself. Oh, yes,’ he hastened on as she was about to speak, ‘it’s simple to argue that one does not show love by lack of trust. But human nature is not so uncomplex . . .’