She took a breath that stifled the vomit in her throat. ‘Never come back, Drake. Never come back . . . if what you want is . . . Drake, it ended years ago. It can never begin again. I’m sick, sick, sick. It’s over. It’s over, finished, done with! Go away and forget me! Leave me, leave me, leave me alone!’
His hands began to tremble, and to control them he clenched them; half turned back towards the window and then stopped again.
‘Morwenna, we can’t part like this—’
The door opened and an ugly, powerful old woman with pouched eyes and a tight mouth came into the room.
‘Who?’ she said, and stopped. ‘Who are you? Morwenna, who is this person?’
Morwenna put a hand up to her eyes. ‘Someone – someone I used to know. He’s – just going. Will you – will you get someone to show him out.’
Chapter Eight
I
The burning of Pally’s Shop created a greater scandal than Drake’s disappearance. Breach of promise might be a wicked thing, but arson was crime. If it was arson, and nobody knew, but everyone believed so. The forge fire had been allowed to go out on Saturday. There was nothing to cause an untoward spark forty-eight hours later.
Sam came to tell Demelza early on Tuesday morning, and she had Judith saddled, lent Sam another pony. There was a small crowd around the smouldering shell. The cob walls survived, but the roof had gone and most of the furniture. They went in, picking their way through the wreckage.
‘So it gets worse and worse,’ said Demelza, ‘one thing leading to another. Oh, God, I don’t know what to do!’
‘There’s little to do, sister,’ said Sam, ‘except pray for the forgiveness of sins and sinners.’
‘Do we sin by looking for happiness – by seeking happiness for others? This has happened – the way it has happened – it’s as if fate has been working against us! Do human beings, can human beings deserve even less than they are given?’
‘We do not sin by seeking happiness for others,’ Sam said slowly. ‘Maybe we err in supposing in our ignorance that we d’know what is best for others – or best for ourselves. Only our merciful Father know that.’
‘Sometimes it seems . . .’
‘What, sister?’
‘Oh, no matter.’
‘It is best to say it.’
‘Sometimes it seems as if our Father is not concerned with human happiness at all.’
‘He may not always be concerned with earthly happiness,’ said Sam, looking into his own heart. ‘But if you give yourself to Him you will find a greater happiness in looking towards the – the summits of eternity.’
There was silence for a while. Demelza stirred a tin plate with her foot.
‘D’you think he will come back, Sam?’
‘Drake? He must sometime – surely, sister.’
‘He could hardly come back with – with Mrs Whitworth, as a new widow. If something – if they still want to be together, then maybe it would be better if they went right away from this district.’
Sam was feeling the walls, which were still warm. ‘Twould not cost so much to re-build if twas done gradual. Timber and thatch, that’s all tis. And thongs and nails and a few sticks of furniture. Drake have money in the bank, sister. And this is a proper little trade, regular and good. If God wills, he would do best to stick it out.’
‘With her?’
‘Ah . . . that I don’t rightly know. I never met her. Did you?’
‘Two or three times, but only to say a word. I have no idea . . .’
A small figure limped in behind them.
‘Rosina . . .’
‘I had to come see ma’am. Isn’t it some awful. What a wicked thing t’happen.
‘Wicked indeed,’ said Demelza. ‘I do not see how it could have been an accident.’
Rosina’s colour rose. ‘No, ma’am, nor me. But I do think I cann’t think nor suppose twas on account o’ me. Reely, I cann’t.’
‘I seen Vage, the constable,’ said Sam, ‘but twould need the justices to move afore he could. And where do he look? It would be fruitless to search the villages, for whoso was so far gone in iniquity as to fire the house would be little moved by remorse to admit of it.’
Rosina was looking at Demelza: ‘Ma’am, I truly do not b’lieve twas my father, nor none of his friends. My father were in the greatest of a passion and swore to beat Drake black and blue, but there be a power of difference twixt that and burning down his house.’
Demelza said: ‘Did Drake give any idea of what he planned to do?’
‘I do believe he had no plans. He came to me looking so ill I could have cried for him, and he said, he told me what had happened and said he had to go because of what he called his – his “prior love”.’
‘Rosina, I am that sorry – that sorry for you.’
‘Tis funny, ma’am. I dearly cared for Drake, and had built up – all sorts o’ dreams about our life together. Tis funny to see it all snatched away in a single day. By now, if this had not happened, we should have been wed. Even if it had happened but one week later we should still have been wed. And then Drake would never’ve left me, I know that.’
II
When Demelza got home, which was much later, for she looked in at the mine, Sir Hugh Bodrugan had called. It was not a propitious time, for she was feeling lonely and worried and very upset, and the thought of putting on a bright front to entertain this lecherous old roué did not appeal. But, in spite of herself, she had come to have a mild affection for Sir Hugh, as one does for almost any nuisance if it persists long enough. They had known each other upwards of ten years; he had lusted after her through thick and thin, as you might say, and had never yet had more than a brief kiss and a squeeze when he had manoeuvred her into some inescapable corner. Once or twice he had been useful to her and done her good turns, and always she had meanly refused to repay him in the only currency he was interested in. And there was a certain good-temper about his lust; if the hand on her knee or the fingers trying to slip the blouse off her shoulder were evaded or rebuffed, he seemed to bear no ill will but simply shifted his dispositions ready for the next move.
She went in and found him sprawling stertorously in their best chair, with a present for her in the shape of a large bunch of broom which had been forced into early flower in his conservatory. She thanked him gratefully – nothing pleased her, as he knew, more than winter flowers – and perched on a chair a fair distance from him, whereupon he did not return to the big chair but took one near to her.
They talked in a friendly but peripatetic fashion for a while. He commented on the latest moves in the war – not that he seemed very interested in them – that that fellow Buonaparte had now invaded Syria and was fighting the Turks there – appalling cruelties on both sides – there was talk of him trying to seize Acre, where a Turkish garrison was supported by a small English force. No holding him. A new chap called Wesley – nothing to do with that preacher fellow – was doing well in India, fighting the Frenchie’s allies in Mysore. Demelza answered, yes, and no, and made the excuse of arranging the broom in two vases when it was necessary to keep him at a respectable distance, so that little yellow flakes decorated the carpet – the bunch had been half shaken to pieces on Sir Hugh’s saddle in a strong wind.
Sir Hugh said Mrs Fitzherbert was living openly with the Prince of Wales again, and there was talk that the Pope was going to recognize their marriage . . .
Sir Hugh made a short sharp move and slid his arms round her. ‘Got you!’ he said, with a trumpet of satisfaction in his voice.
Demelza looked up at him, and tried to get an arm free to push the hair out of her eyes. He kissed her neck.
‘No, Sir Hugh,’ she said. ‘It is not good for the digestion in the forenoon.’
‘Nor is it ever for you, little madam,’ he said, as she gave a preliminary wriggle. ‘Don’t I know how you tempt and tease me, eh? Got a face and figure as saucy as a doxy, but you behave as if there were some dangerous ill to be caught from a litt
le lively pleasuring from time to time. Your better half’s away, ma’am, and you’ve seen no sight nor sound of him for weeks. You don’t need to stick as close to your marriage vows as if you was a piece of sealing wax!’
‘That’s a compliment,’ said Demelza. ‘A rare compliment. Light me at one end and I congeal upon a piece of paper. You’re too kind.’
‘Of course I’m too kind.’
‘Any moment, I should warn you, someone will come in.’
‘Let ’em. They do it among themselves.’
‘We should set an example. That’s what I was taught.’
‘You was taught wrong.’ He became aware that any moment her not inconsiderable strength would be exerted to break the clinch. ‘I’ll make a bargain with you, m’dear. Give me a kiss – a proper one – no chicken picking at a morsel of grain – a proper kiss and I’ll tell you a secret.’
‘What about, Sir Hugh?’
‘What about, Sir Hugh? Don’t it sound pretty on your lips. Well . . . it is something I came to tell you – to warn you of – but damn me, I’ll go away with my confidences locked away unless you agree to unlock ’em.’
‘Afterwards, maybe. After you’ve told me. If I think it’s important.’
‘Ah, no – you’ve cheated me often enough that way, madame minx. It is cash on the counter today.’
She looked at him. His big coarse face was much too close. The hair in his nostrils and his plumy eyebrows were still black in spite of his age.
‘It is to do with your husband, Captain Poldark.’
‘In what way?’
‘A hint. A warning. Something I heard.’
‘He isn’t here.’
‘Never mind. You can write and tell him. Maybe you should act on his behalf?’
‘How act on his behalf?’
‘Because it may be necessary.’
She hesitated. Sir Hugh was one of those men who often ‘heard’ things – he had the capacity that some people have for picking up information ahead of the rest.
‘Well . . .’ she said.
He needed no further invitation but fastened his big mouth on hers. She endured it for a few moments, and then as his intentions became more aggressive she freed herself, turning away to hide a shiver of distaste.
‘Damn me!’ he said, licking his lips. ‘Damn me! That’s as good as I’ve tasted for many a day. Well, well. Damn me. Twas not dislikeable, mistress, I swear it wasn’t to you. Tell me it wasn’t.’
She smiled at him through her hair and went to look out of the window.
‘Damn me!’ he said.
She said: ‘When you have damned yourself often enough, Sir Hugh, tell me what I am buying.’
‘Ah.’ He sat down in the big chair again and stretched his legs. ‘Ah, yes, well, I suppose I must inform you now . . .’
‘I think you must.’
‘Well, then . . . well, I was in Truro yesterday on business to do with the bench. I don’t know why I bother with the bench, nor why anyone does. Hang a half dozen sturdy rogues at Bargus every week, and there’d be little need of justices and all that hot air. Just see ’em dandle – it has a salutary effect on the rest!’
‘It’s not having a salutary effect on me, Sir Hugh.’
‘Madame minx. By God, you taste good.’
‘Not of sealing wax?’
‘You will have your joke. So, well, I was in Truro yesterday and there was much whispering going on. Among ’em as knew, as you might put it. In the know, as it were. You remember old Nat Pearce?’
‘The notary? Ross’s solicitor? Yes?’
‘Did ye know he’d just gone around land? Died? Well, he has. And there’s much talk that he has left his affairs in a serious bad state. Peculations. That’s the word. Many people affected in Truro. Poldark have any recent dealings with him?’
‘Not that I know.’
‘Lucky for that. There’s going to be a crash. People taken in this way and the other. And they say – and this is what I came to tell ye of – they say Pascoe’s Bank’s involved.’
Demelza turned from the window. ‘How? Why?’
‘Don’t ask me, m’dear; I’m no financier. I know little of how these things work. But there was much whispering yesterday – and among those who knew, mark you – that Pascoe’s may no longer be a safe place to keep your money, nor will his notes be worth their value neither. Doesn’t Poldark bank at Pascoe’s?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, then. I’m a good neighbour, ye see, as well as being your old suitor. I thought it was only fair to warn you.’
Demelza’s stomach was cold. ‘I can do nothing without Ross.’
‘Yes, you can. You can withdraw your balances. It is the safest thing to do. Bring the money home or spread it among the other banks. You’ve nothing to lose by doing that, have you. Better to be safe than sorry.’
III
Drake stayed in the neighbourhood of St Margaret’s vicarage for the rest of Tuesday and for the whole of Wednesday, living rough, sleeping under a hedge in the bitter cold, buying a little food from an old woman in a cottage by the river. He could not bring himself to leave. He hung about the graveyard, within sight of the house, hoping to catch a glimpse of Morwenna again. He simply could not believe that it was all over, that she had changed so utterly from the girl he had known and loved. He appreciated that his arrival so soon after Osborne’s death and the nervous tensions of the funeral must have startled her; he should have waited longer, perhaps have written first, anything to ease the shock. His coming upon her in the way he had, still surrounded as she was by relatives, perhaps – who knew? – still grieving in some perverse way for the solid comfort of her lost husband . . . might she not impulsively have rejected him, while an hour or two, a day’s reflection, would bring a different feeling to her heart?
But there had been such fear, such open hostility in her gaze. Whence had come that? How did you excuse or explain that? Or the cold, trembling disgust in her voice. He might have been someone who had once done her a mortal hurt, instead of being someone she had once loved.
Yet he hung on, still hoping, hardly able to admit to himself that now everything was dust and ashes. Twice he almost went to the house again, but felt he could not risk being turned away. So all through Wednesday.
On the Thursday morning, which was dry and less cold, he saw her come out of the house with two little girls – presumably her step-daughters – and walk slowly towards the river. She was wearing her veil but it was thrown back from her face. She walked so slowly that she might have been ill. He hesitated, afraid now that the opportunity was on him to put it to the test.
He decided he must not come on her by surprise. He skirted round the edge of the garden, got down to the river and by splashing through the muddy shallows was able to appear among the trees that she was approaching. He stood there, plainly to be seen.
One of the little girls saw him first and said something to Morwenna. Then she saw him and stopped dead. He saw her face. She stood quite still for perhaps five seconds, then she swung on her heel and walked swiftly back into the house . . .
After that he knew it was the end. He turned blindly away and stumbled out of the garden, across the churchyard and began to walk up the hill.
He walked all day, not quite knowing what he was doing but gradually making for home. His stomach was empty but he couldn’t eat, his mouth dry but he couldn’t swallow the water he scooped up in his hands.
About half way home he realized he had lost his way and had come round in a circle. He sat for a while, wondering what to do. Then he set off again. Then he was very tired and went to sleep in a clump of pine trees. It was dark when he woke, and he was shivering, but his mind was clearer and he knew where he had gone astray. He began to walk again.
The night was clear and cold, moonless but lit with stars. The wind had dropped and there would be a touch of hoar frost before morning. In some of the dips fog had collected, and here and there it was so shallow th
at he waded through it, his feet scarcely visible but his head clear. On some of the fields it lay like white smoke. Goats and sheep stirred among it, ghosts of themselves.
He came at last to St Ann’s and through it, the little church town sleeping; only one light glimmered for a sick man; and a solitary cat blinked its slit eyes at the stars. Then down the hill to his own shop. It took a time for him to see that something was wrong. The light was just enough to show up the gaunt walls, a frame of roof standing, but he did not at first take it in. He leaned against the gate, under the bell, took a breath, stared again. Then he walked into the yard, stumbling over the debris.
His front door gaped wide, hanging by one hinge. He tried to go in, but a fallen rafter barred his way. He tried to force it back but seemed to have no strength in his arms. He leaned his head against the drunken door, unable to go on.
Someone touched his arm. It was Sam, who had been sleeping in an outhouse each night, for just such a contingency as his brother’s return.
‘Well, Drake, well, Drake. How are ee? Come home at last, have ee.’
Drake swallowed and licked his lips. ‘What – is it? This . . .’
‘An accident,’ said Sam. ‘It happened while you was away. There’s no cause ’tall to worry. We’ll have him fixed in no time.’
‘Sam,’ Drake said. ‘She wouldn’t . . . She’s changed . . .’ He sagged at the knees.
‘Come along, old love,’ Sam said, supporting him. ‘We’m going home to Reath Cottage. Just for a while, just while things be straightened out; you and me got two ponies in back – Demelza lended them – so twill take no time at all to get home. Come along, my old love. I’ll give ee a helping hand.’
IV
The following afternoon a constable with an assistant called at Reath Cottage. As soon as Drake left the vicarage Lady Whitworth had sent a servant to report that a suspicious person had forced his way into the house and had attempted to engage her daughter-in-law in loose conversation. Her daughter-in-law refused any knowledge of his name, but by urgent inquiry Lady Whitworth had succeeded in identifying him, and the constable was dispatched to discover what culpability he might have in her son’s death.