The Four Swans

  ‘The things of this world—’

  ‘Yes, ye’ve telled me, and no doubt tis true, but it don’t change my heart. If Satan’ve got me, then he’ve got me, and he be too strong to fight. Leave me be, brother, you have other souls to save.’

  So Sam had let him be. For a few weeks Drake had lived with his sister and brother-in-law at Nampara, and Demelza had told him that he need not leave; but presently he had moved back into Reath Cottage with Sam. For the first time it was an uneasy relationship. Ross brought it to an end in the January of ’96.

  Drake was still working on the rebuilding of the library, and one day in early December he was summoned into the parlour of the house.

  Ross said: ‘Drake, I know you have been wanting to leave the district for long enough. I know you feel you can never settle here after what has happened. But, however bad you feel about that, neither Demelza nor I are content to watch you waste your life in vain regrets. You are a Cornishman with a good trade to your name, and there are better prospects for you in an area where we can help you than up-country where you would have to take menial work to survive at all . . . I have said all this to you before, but I say it again now because there is a prospect just come to my notice – a reasonable prospect – of setting you up in business on your own.’

  He picked up the latest copy of the Sherborne & Yeovil Mercury & General Advertiser and offered it to the young man. It was folded with the back page outwards, and an advertisement had been marked. Drake frowned down at the printing, still only just able to spell out the words. He read:

  To be sold by Auction on Wednesday the ninth of December at the King’s Arms Inn, Chacewater. That Blacksmith’s Shop, House and Land, situate in the parish of St Ann’s, property of the late Thos. Jewell, consisting of: House of four rooms, brew house, bake house, barn; Commodious shop with contents thereof, to wit: 1 anvil, 1 pair bellows, hammers, tongs, 2 doz. new horse shoes, Stable with 1 mare, 1 colt, one parcel of old hay. In all six acres including one acre and a half of winter wheat, two and a half acres ploughed, 6 store sheep. Book debts £21.

  For sale thereof a survey will be held, preceding auction.

  When he had finished Drake moistened his lips and looked up. ‘I don’t rightly see . . .’

  ‘There are advantages and drawbacks,’ Ross said. ‘The chief of the drawbacks is that St Ann’s is no more than six miles from here, so you would be only “getting away” to a minor degree. Also you would be even nearer to the Warleggans, when they are in residence at Trenwith. And two of the four mines at present working in the district are Warleggan owned. But it is the most important village along this piece of coast; trade generally is recovering, and there might be opportunities for later expansion – for someone who worked hard and had initiative.’

  Drake said: ‘I’ve two pound two shilling in all the world. I reckon with that I could buy the horse shoes!’

  Ross said: ‘I don’t know what it would cost, but you know well I could afford to buy this on your behalf. If you agree, that’s what I propose to do. In July on our adventure in France you suffered a serious wound that near killed you. Although you have denied it, I believe you incurred it at least partly in an attempt to save my skin. I don’t like being in debt – especially to someone young enough to be my son. This would be a way of discharging it.’ He had spoken without warmth, hoping to head off equivocation or thanks.

  ‘Did Demelza—’

  ‘Demelza has had nothing to do with this idea, though naturally as your sister she approves it.’

  Drake fingered the newspaper. ‘But this here says six acres and . . . it would be a big property.’

  ‘So we shall have to pay for it. It’s fortunate that the chance has come up, for such shops and smallholdings most often descend from father to son. Pally Jewell, who died last month, was a widower with two daughters, both married to farmers. The girls want the money to divide.’

  Drake looked at Ross. ‘Ye’ve asked about it?’

  ‘I’ve asked about it.’

  ‘I don’t rightly know what to say.’

  ‘The auction is on Wednesday week. The survey will be the same day; but I think we should ride over before. Of course it is a matter for you to decide.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘You are still scarcely twenty. Maybe it’s too much for you to tackle. You have never been your own master. It would be a responsibility.’

  Drake looked out of the window. He also looked over the grey vista of his own heart, the lack of zest, the long years without the girl he loved. Yet he had to live. Even in the darkest hours suicide had been outside the scope of his consideration. The project he was now being offered was a challenge, not merely to his enterprise and initiative but to the life force within him.

  ‘Twould not be too much for me to tackle, Cap’n Poldark. But I’d dearly like to think it over.’

  ‘Do by all means. You have a week.’

  Drake hesitated. ‘I don’t rightly know whether I could accept all that. It don’t seem right. Twill be too much for ee to pay. But tis not for lack of appreciation . . .’

  ‘From reports I have, the place will likely fetch two hundred pounds. But allow me to decide about that. You decide your own part. Go home and talk it over with Sam and let me know.’

  Drake went home and talked it over with Sam. Sam said it was a great opportunity which God had been pleased to put in his way. While the bonds of this temporal life still contained them they had every justification for trying to improve themselves materially as well as spiritually. Serve the Word in all things, but be not idle or slothful in work or business. It was right to pray for God’s blessing on any enterprise undertaken in honesty, charity and humble ambition. Who knew but that through such industry the black cloud on Drake’s soul might not be lifted and that he would once more find a full and abiding salvation?

  Drake said, supposing he went to see this property and supposing Captain Poldark bought it for him – or loaned him the money to buy it, which seemed to him something he could more properly accept – then would Sam come with him and enter into a partnership so that they could work together and share in any trials or prosperity the enterprise might bring?

  Sam smiled his old-young smile and said he had thought he might be so asked and was glad he had been so asked, but he had been thinking about it while they had been talking and he felt that his duty must keep him here. With the divine inspiration of Christ’s love working through a poor sinner such as himself, he had re-created new men and women around him and brought many to the throne of Grace. He had just been appointed Class Leader here; the new Meeting House was almost completed; his work was coming to blessed fruition; he could not and must not leave it now.

  Drake said: ‘I still don’t rightly know if I should take this from Cap’n Ross. It seem to me too much.’

  ‘Generosity be one of the noblest of Christian virtues and it should not be discouraged in others. Though it be more blessed to give than to receive, yet tis noble to know how to receive with a good grace.’

  ‘Yes . . . yes . . .’ Drake rubbed his face and his chin rasped. ‘Tis a poor living and a hard one you make, brother. And ye’d be little more’n six mile off. Many d’walk that far to work. Why not to pray?’

  Sam said: ‘Later maybe. If . . .’ He stopped.

  ‘If what?’

  ‘Who’s to say in a year or more when ye’re stablished there you may not best to alter your condition in life? And then not wish for me.’

  ‘Don’t know’s I follow.’

  ‘Well, by exchanging your single state for a wedded one. Then you’d be raising your own family.’

  Drake stared out at the dank driving rain. ‘Twould not be in me, as you well d’know.’

  ‘Well, that’s as mebbe. I pray for ee every night, Drake, every night and day, that your soul should be relieved of this great burden. This young woman—’

  ‘Say no more. Ye’ve said ’nough.’

  ‘Aye, mebbe.
’

  Drake turned. ‘D’ye think as I don’t know what other folks d’think? And d’ye think as I don’t know as they may be right? But it don’t help. It don’t help here, brother.’ Drake touched his chest. ‘See? It don’t help! If . . . if twas said – if twas said as Morwenna had passed away and I knew I should never see her the more it would be hard, hard, hard. But I could face’n. Others have lost their loved ones. But what I cann’t face up to and never shall face up to is she being wed to that man! For I know she don’t like him, Sam. I know she can’t abide him! Be that Christian? Be that the work of the Holy Spirit? Did Jesus ordain that a man and a woman should lie together and be of one flesh when the woman’s flesh d’turn sick at the man’s touch? Where be that in the Bible? Where do it say that in the Bible? Tell me, where do God’s love and mercy and forgiveness come in?’

  Sam looked very distressed. ‘Brother, these are only thoughts you d’have about the young woman’s prefer-ences. Ye cann’t know—’

  ‘I know ’nough! She said little, but she showed much. She couldn’t lie to me over a thing like that! And her face could not lie! That is what I cann’t bear. Understand me, do you?’

  Sam walked up and stood beside his brother. They were both near tears and did not speak for a few moments.

  Sam said: ‘Mebbe I don’t understand it all, Drake. Mebbe some day I shall, for some day I shall hope with God’s guidance to choose a wife. But tis not hard to see how you d’feel. I can only pray for you as I’ve done ever since this first ever happened.’

  ‘Pray for she,’ said Drake. ‘Pray for Morwenna.’

  II

  Pally’s Shop, as it was called, was in a small deep valley on the main track from Nampara and Trenwith to St Ann’s. You went down a steep winding hill to it, and had to climb a steep winding hill on the other side to reach the little sea town. There was about a mile and a half of flat stony fields and barren moorland separating it directly from the sea; with one of the Warleggan mines, Wheal Spinster, smoking distantly among the gorse and the heather. Behind the shop the land rose less steeply, and here were the fields representing the six acres for sale. The property was separated from anything else actually belonging to the Warleggans by Trevaunance Cove and the house and land of that elderly bachelor, Sir John Trevaunance. On the hill going up to St Ann’s were a half dozen cottages in ruinous condition, and the only cluster of trees in sight sheltered the blunt spire of St Ann’s church just visible over the brow of the hill.

  Demelza had insisted on riding with Ross and Drake to see the property, and she darted about and examined everything with far greater zest than either of the men. To Ross the purchase of this would be the discharge of a debt, a satisfactory good turn, the sort of use to which money could healthily be put. To Drake it was a dream that he could not relate to reality: if he came to possess this he became a man of property, a young man with something to work for, a skilled tradesman with a future. It would be blank ingratitude to ask to what end. But Demelza went over it as if it were being bought for her private and personal use.

  A low stone wall surrounded a yard inches deep in mud, with an accumulation of old metal, bits of rusty ploughs and broken cart shafts littered around it. Behind that was the ‘shop’, open to the yard, with its central stone post for tethering horses, its forge, its pump emptying into a water barrel, its anvil and its wide chimney. Horse dung was everywhere. Backing on the shop was the cottage, with a narrow earth-floored kitchen and two steps up to a tiny wood-floored parlour with a ladder leading to two bedrooms in the roof above.

  Demelza had everything to say on the way home, how this should be cleared out and that repaired and the other improved; what could be done with the fields and the barn and the yard, and how Drake could employ cheap labour to have the place cleared and done up. For the most part the men were silent, and when they reached home Drake handed her down, squeezed her hand and kissed her cheek, smiled at Ross and then went striding away to his cottage.

  Ross watched him go. ‘He says little. The place has possibilities, but he needs bottom to shake himself out of that mood.’

  ‘I think “the place”, as you call it, will help, Ross. Once he owns it he cannot let it go to pieces about him. I can see so much that can be done with it.’

  ‘You always can. I suppose I’m gambling that he is sufficiently like you.’

  So two days later Ross and Drake rode over to the King’s Arms Inn at Chacewater and stood among twenty other people and presently Ross nodded for the last time and Pally’s Shop was knocked down to him for £232. And seven weeks later Drake Carne left Reath Cottage for the last time, giving his brother a hug and a kiss, and mounted the pit pony lent him for the occasion, and with another pony following behind carrying panniers stuffed with all the food, utensils and spare furniture and curtain material Demelza had been able to gather together, he rode off to take possession of his property. It was going to be a lonely life to begin, but they had arranged for a widow from the nearest cottage to go in once in a while to prepare a meal, and two of her grandchildren would work for him in the fields when work got out of hand. He would never need to be idle himself while the light lasted; but at this time of year dark fell early and lasted late; and Demelza wondered sometimes if it had all been wisely timed. Ross said: ‘It’s no different from what I went through thirteen years ago. I don’t envy him. It’s an ugly way to be when so young. But he must work it out for himself now.’

  ‘I wish Sam had gone with him.’

  ‘I expect Sam will go over often enough.’

  Sam went over often enough throughout those early months, and sometimes when the weather was bad spent the night there; but his own flock made many claims on him. And those outside his flock too. It was necessary, in Sam’s view, always to practise what you preached. One must follow Christ by ministering to the sick of body as well as of soul. And although this winter was benign compared to last, conditions in some ways were worse. The price of wheat was 110 shillings a quarter and still rising. Half-naked children with tumid bellies sat crouching in fireless dripping windy hovels. Hunger and disease were everywhere.

  One morning, a brilliant clear cold morning of late February, Sam, having slept at Pally’s Shop, left with an hour to spare to reach Wheal Grace in time for his core, so he stopped in Grambler at an isolated and run-down cottage where he knew almost all the family was ill. The man, Verney, had worked first at Grambler Mine, then when that closed at Wheal Leisure, on the cliffs. Since that too closed he had been on parish relief, but Jim Verney had refused to ‘go in’, which meant separating from his wife, or to allow any of his boys to be apprenticed as paupers, knowing that that could mean semi-slavery.

  But this morning Sam found that the fever had separated them where man could not. Jim Verney had died in the night, and he found Lottie Verney trying to get her man ready for burying. But there was only the one room and the one bed, and in the bed beside the corpse of his father the youngest boy lay tossing and turning, sick with the same fever, while at the foot the eldest boy was lying weak and pale but on the way to recovery. In a washing tray beside the bed was the middle boy, also dead. They had no food, nor fire, nor help; so although the stench was unbearable, Sam stayed with them a half-hour doing what he could for the young widow. Then he went across the rutted track to the last cottage in the village to tell Jud Paynter there were two more for the paupers’ grave.

  Jud Paynter grunted and blew through his teeth and said there were nine in this one already. One more and he’d fill it in whether or no. Leave it too long and the gulls’d get in, spite of the lime and spite of the boards he plat down acrost the hole. Or dogs. There was a dirty hound been on the gammut these last weeks. Always sniffing and ranting around. He’d get him yet. Sam backed out of the cottage and went to leave a message with the doctor.

  Dr Thomas Choake’s house, Fernmore, was back on his tracks barely a half mile, but one moved in that time from desperate poverty to quiet plenty. Even ten paces from the fo
etid little shack made all the difference; for the air outside was biting clear and biting cold. There had been a frost in the night but the sun was quickly thawing it. Spiders’ webs spangled the melting dew. Seagulls screamed in the high remote sky, partly in control of themselves, partly at the behest of the wind. Surf tumbled and muttered in the distance. A day to be alive, with food in your belly and youth in your limbs. ‘Glory be to the Lord Jesus!’ said Sam, and went on his way.

  He knew of course that Choake did not concern himself much with the poor, but this was a neighbourly problem and such dire distress merited some special attention. Fernmore was little more than a farmhouse but it was dignified by its own grounds, its own drive, its group of wind-blown and elderly pine trees. Sam went to the back door. It was opened by a tall maidservant with the boldest, most candid eyes he had ever seen.

  Not at all abashed – for what had shyness to do with proclaiming the kingdom of God? – Sam smiled his slow sad smile at her and told her what he wished her to tell the doctor. That two people, two of the Verneys, were dead in their cottage hard by, and that help was much needed for the youngest, who ran a hectic fever and coughed repeatedly and had blotches about the cheeks and mouth. Would surgeon have a mind to see them?

  The girl looked him over carefully from head to foot, as if assessing everything about him, then told him to wait while she asked. Sam pulled his muffler more tightly round his throat and tapped his foot against a stone to keep warm and thought of the sadness of mortal life but of the power of immortal grace until she came back.

  ‘Surgeon says you’ve to carry this back, and he’ll come see the Verneys later in the morning. See? So off with you now.’