‘Eighty-one,’ said Ross. ‘Thirteen. It seems a century. I knew only that you’d gone to sea. You’ve been away all this time?’
‘Till last year. Then I lost this.’ He lifted his hook. ‘So they’d have me no longer. Old Tholly was done for, by God. I been back in the country a year, though not recent in these parts. Can I sell ye a bull pup? I breed ’em for baiting. That and all else I can lay hands on. Young Cap’n, by God. Your father be dead, I suppose?’
‘Eleven years.’
They talked for a few minutes, and then Ross took the other man to a nearby tent and they drank Geneva and sat on a bench. Mixed feelings for Ross. Bartholomew Tregirls came of a world he had forgotten, or at least of a world which rarely came to mind. The days of his youth seemed to belong to some other person. The dividing line was his time in America. They had been the formative years. He had gone out a wild youth and came back a mature man. Although he no more conformed when he came back than before he went out, his youthful scrapes now seemed ridiculous, frivolous, childish, without good cause except the waywardness of a spoilt boy. In those early days Bartholomew Tregirls, in age halfway between himself and his father, had been the high priest of mischief, off with old Joshua on wild jaunts in which Ross was allowed no part or playing ringleader to the boy when they came home. After his wife died Joshua had been bereft for two years, then he had broken out into all his worst habits, and no woman who lifted an eye to him had been safe. Tregirls, a big handsome young man then, already asthmatic but with all the nervous vitality of the kind, had been his partner. It was an outraged father in St Michael who had attacked him with a meat knife and nearly put his eye out. But his spoiled looks hadn’t affected his appeal for women, and he had gone on until, involved in a robbery which, if he had been caught, would have carried the death penalty, he had slipped away one night, leaving his wife and two young children destitute.
An age had passed. Ross had some affection for this big powerful man sitting beside him, but an ambiguous feeling of distaste at being reminded of his existence. And the years had changed Tholly – changed him in fact and also in the eye of the beholder. He looked seedy, battered, and reduced in size and importance.
‘You’re wed, my son, I s’pose? Wed long since, I s’pose, with a growing family? How’s the old place? D’ye still go line fishing? D’ye still wrestle? D’ye still run over to Guernsey for a drop of spirit? How’s the rest of ’em? Be Jud still alive? Jud and that great cow Prudie?’
‘Yes, they’re still alive, though they’ve left me, live now in Grambler. Yes, I’m married, with one son. No, I wrestle no longer, have not done for ten years – except now and then in anger.’
Tholly laughed loudly and then caught his breath. ‘God damn my chest, tis playing me up this morn. Oh, I wrestled regular till last year when I lost me arm . . . Got me bones still with me.’ He rattled a linen bag dangling from his waist and looked at Ross smiling. ‘I hear that Agnes be dead. D’you hear aught of Lobb or Emma?’
His children. ‘They’re both near by. Lobb is a tin streamer in Sawle Combe. Emma is a kitchen maid at the Choakes’. Agnes lived but three years after you left.’
‘Poor soul. She was ever a patient palched little wranny and by God, young Cap’n, she had to be patient with me!’
Even the phrases were out of a long-dead life. Long before Ross had ever fought with the 62nd Foot he had been known as ‘Young Cap’n’ to a select few, to distinguish him from ‘Old Cap’n’, his father. Joshua’s title had not been earned by any military service but by his having opened Wheal Grace; thus he had become a mining captain, something of more importance than a military title to the Cornish mind.
‘Some day I’ll go see them,’ said Tholly. ‘Do they take for me or for she, d’ye reckon?’
‘Lobb is like his mother. Emma I’d say more like you. A tall good-looking girl. Twenty she’ll be now? Or twenty-one?’
‘Nineteen. Lobb’ll be twenty-five. Either of them wed?’
‘Lobb is. I do not know his wife but they have five children. Emma is not yet, so far as I know.’
In the silence that fell again between them the two bells of St Mary’s church began to ring. The cadence floated over the little town, over the murmuring muttering fields of the fair-ground, not wholly chiming but coming of a more leisurely, more gracious and more melodic world. The shrill cries of urchins, the lowing of a cow, the distant shout of a showman, were overborne by the drifting sound of the church bells.
‘Some day I’ll come and see you, my son,’ Tregirls said. He smiled through a shambles of decayed teeth. ‘If so be as I be welcome. Since I left the sea I’ve not had the luck of all the world. I buy and sell and make do. Can I not sell ye something now? Something to take home to the little wife?’
‘Is that your stall? What do you have?’
‘Everything you’ve the mind to conjure of. I’ll sell ye anything ye want save maybe this.’ He lifted his hook. ‘That I use on the women now. I put it round their little necks so’s they cannot wriggle away.’
‘The same old Tholly. Well, I want no bull-pups. It is not a sport I enjoy. I had an eye open for a likely horse, but I am in no hurry about it—’
Tholly Tregirls thumped down his mug. ‘I have the very thing for ye, my boy.’ He moved his hook to pat Ross’s arm with it and then refrained. ‘There’s two splendid mares behind the stall, and one could be yours at the right price. The better-most be a fine young skewbald no more’n three year old and scarce broke. Judith is her name. Let me show you. Let me show you. Though you’ll pardon me if we keep our voices lowered, as I hold no licence for the trade.’
Judith was thin and ill-kempt, though an attempt had been made by some nefarious means to give a gloss to her coat. Skewbald was an exaggeration, for she was brown, with only three insignificant white patches. She had bruises on her knees and a rolling eye. However, she suffered Ross to examine her teeth without a protest.
‘This is not a horse, it’s a pony,’ said Ross.
‘Ah, she’ll grow yet awhile. She’s of fine stock, I can tell ye that, young Cap’n.’
She had a gentle mouth, that was one thing, and her rolling eye might be nerves rather than ill-temper.
Ross released her mouth. ‘Women you can deceive me on, Tholly, but not horses. She is six or seven years old if she’s a day. Look at those central incisors. You should know better than to cheat an old friend.’
Tregirls hunched his shoulders and coughed loudly into the air. ‘You was ever one with an eye, my boy, whether for women or horses. I’d be glad to welcome ye in partnership . . . But thirty-five guineas and you can have her. I’ll make nothing on that – indeed will lose on it – but I’m short of cash, and will make the sacrifice for old times’ sake.’
‘Increase the sacrifice a small matter and I might be interested.’
As they wrangled it occurred to Ross that by buying from this man he was likely getting a bad bargain. Many things might be wrong, all sorts of tricks being played. But undermining his good sense was the comfortable feeling that this amount of money no longer mattered to him. He was helping an old friend; if the worst happened it could not be a total loss; the mare could be used as a mine pony.
So the bargaining was only half-hearted on his side, and presently twenty-six guineas changed hands. Bartholomew Tregirls appeared impervious to any change that had occurred in the younger man in thirteen years: he was ready to resume precisely the same old relationship, avuncular, the dominant character of the two. Ross did not undeceive him. Tregirls was no fool and would learn or be taught if the occasion came. But this was a chance encounter that might never be repeated, a brush between two people – sometime friends who had long since gone their own way. Ross did not think Tregirls would return to his old haunts. He had not been popular in the villages, particularly among the married men.
Chapter Six
Although she had never lived farther than twelve miles from the sea, Morwenna Chynoweth had seldom visited
it and had certainly not been aware of its presence as she was at Trenwith. Her father, a serious man of a Puritan turn of mind with a consequent leaning towards the lower church, had not taken his religion lightly and he did not consider jaunts to the seaside appropriate for even his youngest children. As for the eldest daughter, she was too busy helping her mother about the house, with the other children or with social and charitable works, to have time for riding for pleasure or visiting friends. Four times in her early teens she had gone with her father when he had preached at sea-coast parishes, but on these occasions she had had little chance to enjoy or admire the coast.
Here it was different. A girl as serious in some ways as her father, with religious ideals and a strong sense of duty, she had come to this appointment sorrowing as much at the parting as her sorrowing family but resolved to be everything a worthy governess should. However, in spite of the loss of prestige in her new position, she found she was beginning to enjoy herself much more than in her old life. Geoffrey Charles was wayward and intelligent, but it was no harder controlling or teaching him than it had been her own sisters; Mr Warleggan, if a little frightening, was gracious enough in his impersonal way; Cousin Elizabeth had been kindness itself and went out of her way to alleviate any feelings of a discomfort or shame she might feel in her new position; and there were servants all the time to do the really menial work. Furthermore, not for pleasure but in the interests of her duty, she could take Geoffrey Charles any number of fascinating trips – into the countryside, on the cliffs, along the beaches. And she had a pony always available.
They were little more than a mile from the sea at Trenwith, but where Trenwith land abutted on the sea it was all sharp raw cliffs with one or two seaweedy coves only accessible by narrow and dangerous paths. A mile to the left (if you were looking out to sea) the land dropped towards Trevaunance Cove with the village of St Ann’s beyond. A mile or a little more to the right was Sawle village with its shingly inlet which rose again in a short sharp cliff before reaching the property of Captain Ross Poldark. There was fine sand at Trevaunance and at Sawle when the tide went out; there were tantalizing glimpses of untouched golden sand in mainly inaccessible points; but by far the best sand and the best beach anywhere was Hendrawna, just beyond Captain Ross Poldark’s land and almost into Treneglos property; four miles odd if you went direct, five or six if you skirted round.
Morwenna had not yet learned the causes of the estrangement between the two houses but she knew of its existence. That is to say, the Ross Poldarks were seldom mentioned; and on the one occasion when Geoffrey Charles had brought up the name in company he was effectively squashed. She could not tell quite where the point of enmity existed, what injury, real or fancied, had been committed and on whom and how. When the subject was approached, George was suddenly dangerous, touchy, given to sarcasm; but it was not directed at all against Elizabeth. She was equally touchy, cold; they saw eye to eye in their dislike. It was a strange situation to Morwenna who, whatever the shortcomings of her home life, had always been on terms of immediate and loving friendship with every cousin she ever met. Clearly the Ross Poldarks had done something unforgivable. It was difficult to imagine what. Naturally she was curious; but she shied away from asking the one person likely to tell her. She felt no repugnance for Aunt Agatha; too often she had been in the company of very old and dying people; but she could not bring herself to shout the questions into the whiskery ear; it was a confidence to be sought in a murmur, not shouted like a naval broadside.
No actual prohibition from Elizabeth that their walks were not to come near Nampara land, but Morwenna felt she would be erring in the spirit of her instructions if she took Geoffrey Charles there; so whenever they went on Hendrawna it was by making a detour, leaving their ponies tethered to a granite post in the sandhills and coming on the beach where the undulant sandhills gave way to a buttress of low cliff on which the mine, Wheal Leisure, was working. Where they came out they could just see the chimneys of Nampara House about a mile and a half away.
Late June set fair, with easterly airs so light that they were only just perceptible. Morwenna and Geoffrey Charles went quite often to this beach – with, of course, a groom; but him they left with the ponies. Geoffrey Charles had discovered the joys of paddling, and they would both walk along, thrushing their feet through the water as it licked its slow way in. They would occasionally meet people, who would give them good afternoon as they passed; scavengers looking for anything of possible value that the tide might bring in: women bent double in premature age, ragged ex-miners with ominous coughs, underfed waifs, mothers with a straggle of children at their heels; now and then a working miner down from the mine taking a quiet stroll or emptying refuse for the tide to eat. But the numbers of such were few, especially on calmer days when the sea was too quiet to bring anything in. The groom did not like letting them go off alone, but, as Geoffrey Charles rightly said, the horses were a far more valuable property to steal than they were, and anyway from where Keigwin stood he could usually keep them in sight. Once to begin with they had galloped on the beach, but getting the ponies on the beach and off again at this point was a hazardous process with a steep little drop to negotiate.
On a Wednesday at the beginning of July they saw a man coming towards them and Geoffrey Charles recognized him as one of the youths they had surprised carrying the ship’s timber across their land. As they came nearer he too recognized them and came trotting across the damp sand towards them and touched his hand to his head.
‘Why, Master Geoffrey. And Miss Chynoweth. This is a rare surprise! Day to ee both. Proper weather this, eh?’ They exchanged a few words, then he said: ‘Going for a stroll? Might I walk along with ee for a few paces?’
He fell in without waiting for their consent. He was bareheaded and barefoot, drill trousers rolled up above the knee and tied there with hemp. Morwenna knew she should not tolerate his free and easy manner, but there seemed no actual lack of respect, and with Geoffrey Charles so clearly welcoming it was difficult for her.
‘Oft times I d’come on this beach for a stroll just so soon as I may get an hour off. The finest beach ever I been on. I’ve not seen you before. Ride over or walk, did you? Maybe you know it all far better’n me.’
Geoffrey Charles wanted to know about the building of the cottage, whether the beam had fitted and how they had secured it. Construction of any sort fascinated him. Drake tried to explain the problems they had had to face. Mr Geoffrey must come and see it some time. It was back over the hill only a mile or so from here. If Miss Chynoweth would not mind. Geoffrey Charles said of course he would come and of course Miss Chynoweth would not mind.
Drake said then: ‘Have ye seen the Holy Well? But then you will’ve. I’m the stranger on the scene . . .’
Geoffrey Charles had heard of a holy well but had not been to it.
‘Well, tis better part of a half-mile along here over along towards the Dark Cliffs. Ten minutes and you’ll be there. See that there buttress of cliff standing out?’ He moved nearer to Morwenna and pointed it out to her.
‘Yes, I see. But it is too far for today.’
‘Oh, no,’ said Geoffrey Charles. ‘We’ve only been on the beach ten minutes, Wenna! We haven’t even paddled yet. We can do it easily. Keigwin will not mind. I’ll run and tell him what we are going to do.’
‘I don’t think your mother would wish us to wander so far from him—’
‘I’ll see ee come to no harm, Miss Chynoweth,’ said Drake, looking at her in respectful admiration. ‘Twill take little or no time if Master Geoffrey would like it, and tis hard to find the well without someone to guide you the way.’
Geoffrey Charles went rushing off to tell the groom and the two young adults began walking slowly towards the cliffs.
‘I hear tell you’ve not been in this here parts much longer than brother and me, Miss Chynoweth.’
‘About four months.’
‘Tis almost the very same. My name’s Drake Carne, Mi
ss Chynoweth. I hope you’ll excuse the liberty of me suggesting to walk with you . . .’
Morwenna inclined her head.
‘You’ve not, I s’pose, met my sister yet, Mrs Ross Poldark?’
‘No . . .’
‘You don’t b’lieve she’s my sister?’
‘Oh, yes . . .’
‘She’s a rare sweet soul. Brave and clever. I’d like for you to meet her.’
‘I don’t often come this way, except riding with Geoffrey Charles.’
‘Well, he’s her nephew, like. By marriage. And she’s not seen him for over three years.’
She said: ‘I do not think the feeling between the two houses is of the best. As a newcomer it is not my place to ask why. But until it improves I cannot bring Geoffrey Charles to Nampara. Indeed, I am not sure whether his mother would approve of his walking on this beach.’
‘Don’t tell her, please.’
‘Why not?’
‘Then I should never – we shouldn’t – it is the best beach around.’
Morwenna looked at him with her dark serious eyes. It was a pity that in a man of her own class all he had said could be considered gracious and polite, whereas from such as him, it could only be an impertinence. It was a pity that he was the most beautiful young man she had ever seen. ‘If you will show us this well, Mr Carne; that I’m sure will be a kindness.’
Geoffrey Charles caught them up, panting, and ran right past them. Then he stood, hands on hips as they caught him up. ‘I wish I was dressed like you, Drake. That’s your name, isn’t it. I wish I was dressed like you. These clothes, I’m always afraid of soiling them. They are suitable for a party, not for a country tramp.’
‘They’re suitable for your station, Mr Geoffrey,’ Drake said. ‘But if you d’take care you’ll not hurt them. Tidn more’n a short climb.’
‘A climb?’ said Morwenna. ‘You did not say that.’
‘Well, tis scarce above thirty feet, and that some easy.’