Jeremy Poldark

  In spite of all the precautions Demelza’s heart thumped alarmingly; and as soon as supper was over she went back to the spinet and drowned the noises outside. The Gimletts had been given sufficient information to guess the rest, so they sat quietly in the kitchen and did not stir from the house. Once or twice Ross lifted his head from his book and glanced at Demelza. Once or twice his thoughts wandered to the informers, and he asked himself if the whole operation would go through without mishap. Mr. Trencrom had assured him that every effort would be made to keep the landing secret and that only twenty riders would be used as against a larger number usually. Watchers would be posted all along the cliffs and valley so that decent warning might be given of any gaugers about. But many must know of the run. If there was an informer, he must know that the cutter had been gone some days and was due back. Did he know where?

  At ten the sounds began to taper off, and by eleven all was peace again. At midnight they went to bed, but both slept restlessly, imagining from time to time they heard noises around the house. No caller, however, came to disturb them, and just before dawn Ross got up and went down to the cove.

  A restless white fog moved over the land, and he thought it lucky it had not come down to impede progress last night. Great care had been taken to remove any signs of the operations. Above high-water mark the sand had been rolled or scraped with flat boards so that no one could tell the amount of disturbance there had been. Horse tracks all the way down to the cove in the soft ground could not be so easily hid, but a day’s rain would wash them away. It smelt like rain. The undergrowth had been crushed down in places. A curlew was crying in the colourless dawn light.

  He walked across to the cave where the dinghy was kept. It was a buoyant little craft he had bought in St. Ann’s just before last year’s collapse to replace the one in which Mark Daniel had made his escape. As he bent over it a footstep sounded on the dry seaweed behind and he turned swiftly to find that Demelza had followed him. Her face looked small, detached, like a sculpture, framed in its dark hair on the pedestal of her dark cloak.

  He said: “You shouldn’t have come out so soon. The air is chill.”

  “I like it. I feel I’ve been behind those drawn curtains for a week.”

  “Our visitors have been very careful. Nothing scarcely to show. I think they have moved this boat—they or someone else. When I left it on Thursday it was farther up the cave.”

  “Was it, Ross?” Why do I not tell him that I was out in it myself yesterday, that for the first time I managed without Gimlett and caught eight mackerel and a dab? Because I know he would stop me and I don’t want to be stopped. Ross could not have been more thoughtful for her, but sometimes all the restrictions and prohibitions oppressed her and made her feel caged and constricted. The Gimletts were faithful watchdogs; too faithful. Oh, she was comforted and warmed by Ross’s consideration—yet he had not altogether convinced her. It seemed to her that on the night of their return home after the trial he had spoken from his heart. Since knowing there was actually a child on the way he had spoken out of a confusion of feeling and a kindness of disposition. It might be she was wrong, but that was how it seemed to her.

  “It’s good to feel last night is over,” she said.

  “It’s good to feel we’re that much better off.”

  “I’m still afraid. Promise you’ll not go on with it a minute longer than we really need.”

  “Well, I’ve no real fancy for commercializing our little cove. Are you well or ill this morning that you’re up so early?”

  “Well if other things are well. The brume is lifting, look.”

  The shallow fog was smoking in the widening light, as if someone had lit a bonfire for a mile or so upon the sea. Out of the darker mist the sun already threw premonitory beams; and across the swept-clean upper sky a single smear of cloud was lit a brilliant cadmium yellow. They watched the fog grow luminous along its higher reaches; then familiar landmarks began to jut out with startling clearness, like stage scenery unveiled. The sea licked quietly at the sand, uncommunicative, saying nothing of the night.

  Ross stirred. “Did you know Ruth Treneglos was safely delivered of a baby daughter early yesterday?”

  “No! At last. Are they well?”

  “Well except in temper. I hear they’re monstrously disappointed it’s a girl after all this delay. They say old Horace is so furious at not having a grandson that he’s refused to speak to John since.”

  “Poor Ruth!”

  “I should save your pity for the baby, who may deserve it.”

  “Who told you, Ross?”

  “Dwight. He was not there, of course, but is almost on their doorstep.”

  Full dawn had crept round them hardly noticed so that suddenly, instead of being unobserved figures discussing the night, they had become the observed, focused by the absence of darkness, conspicuous under the rose-flushed sky. With a common instinct they drew back into the mouth of the cave.

  Ross said: “I’ve been talking to Dwight about Francis.”

  “Oh?”

  “Dwight tells me that Francis’s quarrel with George Warleggan was over me.”

  “How does he know?”

  “They shared a bedroom in Bodmin. Francis wanted to do away with himself. It all bears out what Verity wrote in her letter—and much more besides.”

  She said: “I’m glad we made it up at Christmas.”

  “So am I—now.”

  As they turned to plough across the sand she said: “I’d like to put my feet in the water.”

  “It would freeze your vitals at this hour.”

  “My vitals feel peculiar enough,” said Demelza. “Perhaps I’d better leave them be.”

  That day Ross went to Truro and heard that the shares had sold. They had been bought by Mr. Coke, and had fetched their price. The newcomer, the unknown Mr. Coke, was now the largest shareholder in the mine. It was a wrench at the last, hearing they had irrevocably gone. On his way home he made a detour to call at Trenwith.

  He found Francis beside the lake, sawing up a tree. The occupation came strangely to him. Fate would never make Francis anything but what he had been born.

  “I always dislike the burning of ash,” Ross said as he dismounted. “One feels it has grown for better things.”

  “Perhaps that’s why it resents the saw,” said Francis, whose face had coloured more at sight of Ross than from the exertion. There was no ease between them yet. “Elizabeth’s indoors, I think, and will be glad of a visitor. I’ll follow in two or three minutes.”

  “No, it’s you I want to see. We can talk here.”

  “Any excuse to stop.” Francis wiped his hand. “How is Demelza?”

  “Well enough, thank you. Better than last time.”

  “What can I do for you, Ross?”

  Ross tethered Darkie to a sapling and sat on a piece of the fallen tree. He picked up a thin branch and began to trace thoughtful squares and circles in the sandy gravel of the path.

  “Have Ellery and Pendarves found you buried treasure yet?”

  “…Hardly so much as that. There’s a likely place where my land abuts on the head of Sawle Combe. But it would be right on Choake’s front door, and he would squeak at that. Also the signs are for tin and I’ve a special attachment for copper.”

  “I’m opening Wheal Grace,” Ross said.

  “What? You don’t mean it? That’s cheerful news! What made you change your mind?”

  “Circumstances. We hope to start in three months. It’s a gamble, of course.”

  Francis put on his coat. “You’re going to follow the Trevorgie workings?”

  “Henshawe and I have been down several times. God knows who did all that work but the place is honeycombed. It’s mostly shallow but even so the lower level is flooded and we haven’t been able to explore it. So we expect to put up an engine. We
reckon there’s enough ore in the shallow levels to make the venture worth while.”

  “Who is investing the money?”

  “I am. I’ve sold half my shares in Wheal Leisure and can realize six hundred pounds.”

  Ross began to pull off his gloves. They had both been carefully mended by Demelza, and for a moment he looked at them with distaste at the thought of the necessity for darning.

  “D’you see anything of George these days?” he asked.

  “I haven’t seen him since September. Our quarrel was not the sort that is likely to be made up.”

  “Not ever?”

  Francis looked at him. “I can’t answer for what may happen in heaven.”

  “This feud,” Ross said carefully, “between George and me is one which it can be to nobody’s advantage to join. It would be particularly to your detriment to take up more than—say—a neutral attitude. Although he’s made no move against you up to now, he could do so any time.”

  “My dear Ross, my attitude has gone far beyond the neutral. You may not welcome me as a fellow standard-bearer, but I’m afraid there’s no choice.”

  Darkie stamped her foot and whinnied.

  “You’ve told me more than once,” Ross said, “about this money you’re saving to invest in a mine. How much was it: six hundred pounds or thereabouts?”

  There was a sharp silence.

  “Thereabouts.”

  “With twelve hundred pounds we could do a great deal.”

  “Yes?”

  “It could be.”

  “You’re suggesting—we should go into partnership?”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s nothing at all I’d like better. But—it’s rather taken my breath away. Are you sure you want that?”

  “If I’d not wanted it I shouldn’t have suggested it.”

  “No…God, it’s a strange world.” Francis wiped his forehead again, put the handkerchief away, wriggled the saw out of the half-sawn log.

  “It may be a fight,” said Ross. “You would do better to keep out. George has a long arm.”

  “To the devil with George.”

  “If this prospers, then I want no outsiders who can dispose of their shares just as and when they please. But you may well lose your money.”

  “I like a gamble…But if anyone had told me six months ago…”

  “One can gamble on a man as well as on a mine.”

  Francis stirred the shavings with his foot. “I can’t guarantee the mine…”

  “If you feel like that, that’s all that matters.”

  “Feel like that…”

  “Forget the past,” Ross said. “Take this proposition or leave it on its merits.”

  “I take it, of course. Come up to the house and we’ll seal the contract in a glass of good brandy.”

  As they walked along they did not speak at all. Ross’s proposal had astonished Francis and excited him; but he was not easy in his mind. Two or three times he glanced at his cousin, and almost at the door of the house he stopped.

  “Look, Ross, I…”

  “What?”

  “Don’t think I don’t want this. It—could mean a lot to me. But before we—go any further there’s something it’s necessary to tell you. If it were not for your offering this—this thing it wouldn’t be in me to blurt it out. But now…The proposition shouldn’t go forward until you know…”

  Ross stared at his embarrassed face.

  “Is it something that is past?”

  “Oh, God, yes. But all the same—”

  “If it’s past, then forget it. I don’t think I want to hear what you may be going to tell me.”

  Francis flushed. “If that’s the case, I don’t think I want to hear it myself.”

  They stared at each other.

  Francis said: “The Poldarks, then.”

  Ross nodded slowly.

  “The Poldarks.”

  Chapter Nine

  Widow Tregothnan’s kiddley in Sawle was crammed to the doors.

  Two unmistakable signs that a cargo had been successfully run in the neighbourhood were a relaxation in the tension of day-to-day living and an increase of drunkenness. Money was temporarily easier, and gin and rum were cheap. The little subwave of prosperity ran right through the villages, beginning among the men concerned in the run and losing its height and momentum the further it spread from them.

  Sally Tregothnan—a loud, laughing woman of forty-odd—was herself behind the counter that served as a bar, and giving as good as she got. The four public houses in the village were enjoying their fair share of trade, but Widow Tregothnan’s was the meeting place of the choicer spirits. The widow was often known as Sally Chill-Off. She was not supposed to sell anything stronger than beer, but there had never been a moment in the village’s history when she had not been prepared to add a little something to her ale “to take the chill off,” even when her customers were on their beam ends. So prosperity brought her a roaring trade. Among those present tonight were Ned Bottrell, Jud Paynter, Charlie Kempthorne, Paul Daniel, Jacka Hoblyn, and Ted Carkeek. Men like Pally Rogers and Will Nanfan, though they were ringleaders in the trade, frowned on drink for themselves as contrary to their Methodist principles.

  Jud Paynter was at his happiest. He had gin at his elbow, gin in his stomach, and an audience.

  “Now then,” he said, “now then, if you d’want to know what tis like to stand up in a court o’ law an’ speak the words o’ truth an’ have the judge an’ jury an’ all the lawyers listening openmouthed, I’ll tell ee. There they was, jury row on row like sparrows on a branch, lawyers in their black nightshirts like they was ready to leap into bed, fancy doxies wi’ parasols, the whole darned, danged, blathering boiling of ’em, mured together cheek to cheek. Twas some handsome sight, I tell ee.”

  “Go on,” said Sally Tregothnan. “Go on.”

  “Tes true. Without a word of a lie. When first I stood up there and looked around, I was sweatin’ like dung. But when I got goin’ I give ’em a fair proper talking to, as if I was the shepherd and they was the sheep. Damme, twould’ve done ye all a power o’ good to have ’eard’n.”

  “Reckon you did oughter have been a preacher,” said Charlie Kempthorne, winking at Ned Bottrell.

  Jacka Hoblyn drained his glass and looked at Jud from under his heavy brows. “I’m sick and tired of hearing all this spudder. Tis over and done with these pretty many months and there’s no more to it. Who knows what you was like in the court when there’s nobody but you to tell us?”

  “I’m tellin’ ee,” Jud said, showing his two teeth indignantly. “If ye’ve got ears to hear, I’m telling ee. Here was I, say this pot, and there was Judge, say Paul Daniel, but not grinning like a ram’s cat; and there was Ross Poldark in the dock, say Jacka Hoblyn, but not squattin’ down like a hen wi’ the cluck; and Judge says to me, ‘Mester Paynter,’ he says, says he, ‘did this man do wrong or no?’ an’ I says to him I says, ‘Judge,’ I says, ‘this man once done wrong by me but I aren’t one to carry a grudge where it don’t belong to be carried, for who d’know betterer’n Jud Paynter what the Good Book d’say, which is if the Lord do strike thee upon one eye turn thou the other and let’n ’ave a good clunk at that too. So tis fair to say that I’m speakin’ the honest truth an’ no word of a lie when I d’tell ee this man Jacka Hoblyn, Ross Poldark I d’mean, is as innocent as a new-dropped babe in its first wettels. Grudge,’ I says, ‘I’ve no judge against ee or any man living or dead. I b’lieve in all as tes written for all to read. Thou shalt not move thy neighbour’s landmark. Nor shalt thou covet thy neighbour’s wife, nor his mate, nor his hoss, nor his axe, nor any think that is his. ’”

  “Here, mind where you’re sweeping wi’ your great hands!” said Sally Tregothnan.

  “So I goes on till nigh every soul to be seen has melted into
hot tears, hardened sinners and doxies alike. Then the grudge turns to the court an’ opens up his arms like a huer that’s seen the pilchards an’ ’e says, ‘My friends, my friends, my friends, my friends, my friends, my friends…’” Jud paused and groped for his glass, found it, and carried it along a winding lane to his lips.

  “Stuff an’ nonsense,” said Jacka Hoblyn in a disagreeable voice. “No judge never said nothing of the sort.”

  “’Old hard, me dear,” whispered Paul Daniel. “Give ’im a bit more rope an’ who knows but what he’ll ’ang hisself.”

  But Jud had lost track of his remarks. He tried hard to put his glass down until at length Sally took it from him. He mopped his forehead with his coat sleeve and looked round with a glassy eye. He began to sing in a broken quavering tenor.

  “There was an old couple an’ they was poor. Tweedle, tweedle, go-twee. They lived in a sheep shed without any door. By the side of an elmin tree.”

  “Dear Jakes, it is more than I can stomach,” said Hoblyn. “Sitting up there like an Aunt Sally at a Christmas fair.”

  Charlie Kempthorne coughed as he moved surreptitiously nearer to Jacka. Smoke and drink still touched up his chest at times. “I seen Rosina out this morning,” he said confidentially. “She’s growing away into a ’andsome girl.”

  “Eh?” said Jacka, staring at him suspiciously.

  “She’ll be wedding soon, I suppose? Though maybe there’ll be some as is put off like wi’ that leg, on account of ’er walking lipsy.”

  Jacka grunted and finished his drink. Charlie blinked and glanced at the other man’s heavy brow.

  “I wouldn’t do for ’er to live an’ die a maid just on account of being clecky in one leg.”