Warleggan

  I hope Ross is prospering. I need hardly be told the effect Elizabeth’s marriage to George Warleggan will have had on him, and now that they are coming to live beside you it will be an added Offence. Pray be patient with Ross at this time. I have not seen Elizabeth since the day of the wedding, but have had one letter from her. We went, of course, to the wedding, Andrew and I; for Elizabeth’s sake we could not well refuse; she had Few enough of her own people about her. From the start I do not think I liked greatly the thought of this Union. I have no feud such as Ross has to support me, and I have nothing against the Warleggans because they are new rich. Most of our aristocratic families were founded by successful traders at one time or another. But George has never quite carried his money Rightly. None of them do, and when you see them in Aggregate, it is specially noticeable.

  The wedding was a very brilliant Affair; St Mary’s Church decked with lilies regardless of cost, a splendid Crimson Awning outside, and crimson carpet all the way up the aisle to walk on. The Revd Dr Halse performed the ceremony, and he used just the same voice that he uses on the Bench for malefactors. You will want to know what Elizabeth wore. Well, it was a gown of heavy cream satin, with a crepe train decorated with small bouquets of white and purple lilac and a wide sash with a thick silver fringe. She told me afterwards when I admired it that it took twenty-six yards of material. Old Jonathan must have had a long stocking somewhere. But you will know without me to tell you that she looked very beautiful in it – like a queen – yet nervous, ill at ease, inclined to flush up and go pale at the least thing. George of course was unruffled by anything, even when his great friend Paul Boscoigne dropt the ring; he was very smart in a rich gold-laced coat and a scarlet waistcoat with broad gold lace.

  Andrew is due home on Wednesday. Only one packet, the Trefusis, has had trouble as yet – what can a single ship do if she finds herself attacked by five? I ask myself that sometimes, in the night.

  Is it true, do you know, that Elizabeth is with child? She makes no mention of it in her letter, but Mrs Daubuz tells me that her mother had been saying so. It will be strange to have a family of Warleggans founded in the home of the Poldarks.

  My dearest love to you both, and a special hug for Jeremy.

  Your loving cousin,

  Verity

  Demelza did not show this letter to Ross. She had her own reflections on parts of it, but she thought it better he should not share them. As it happened he came home that day more than ever pre-occupied, though earlier than usual. It was Lobb’s day, but he did not even ask if there were any letters. Demelza began to feel she could not stand his silences much longer. They dined in silence and Jane cleared in silence. Demelza stuck on, determined not to be frozen out, and more and more certain that a conflict must come. At length, her heart swelling, she said suddenly:

  ‘Ross, if this is to go on you will have to eat alone! For days now you have scarce spoken and today has been the worst of all! I know why you are like this and cannot help you to a solution. Perhaps there is no solution any more. But there can be one for us. If I stay, if you want me to stay, then let us behave like human beings. But if you want for me to go, then say so, for go I shall if this be the way you expect us to live!’

  Ross looked up, and the surprise in his face was a surprise to her. ‘Has it been as bad as that?’ He laughed. She did not remember when he had laughed before. ‘I’m sorry. I hadn’t realized. I should explain—’

  ‘Is that necessary?’

  ‘Very necessary, considering I have not been thinking about Elizabeth and George this evening at all.’

  She stared at him. ‘Is there some other bad thing then?’

  ‘No, good rather. I was hesitating yet whether to say anything of it because so often before . . . I hadn’t realized my face naturally set into such morose lines that—’

  ‘What good thing?’

  ‘But of course you’re right – I have been in a mood all this week, and for that I . . . My feeling about Elizabeth’s marriage need not be gone into now. That’s something I’ve had to think out – fight out in my own way. But George’s coming to stay at Trenwith and showing signs of remaining, that’s a – a crowning indecency. Trenwith is part of the Poldark family! It is our home, if you understand! I cannot accustom myself at all to the idea of its belonging to George. I really can’t, Demelza. It’s – unnatural, a monstrous perversion of the right – or so it seems to me. That has been my trouble all this week. But today . . .’

  ‘Today?’

  ‘It is the mine. I thought it wiser not to tell you as yet. I have been almost afraid. The lode has split today. One half of it, the best half, is twice the size of the old lode. It appears to be over twelve feet thick. The first assays are very rich too. Henshawe says he has never seen richer ground.’

  Demelza felt confused, as if she had braced herself to fight something that wasn’t there. ‘But – why not tell me? Why sit there . . .’

  ‘I’m sorry. I was so preoccupied, calculating . . . Why not tell you? Because we’ve grasped at so many false hopes. I can’t help having them, but I thought of saving you.’

  ‘That I b’lieve is something you need not save me from. But will it mean so much? The mine is already paying its way, you said.’

  He stared back at her and his face was no longer set in the old lines. She perceived that she had mistaken the tensions behind it.

  ‘Let’s wait,’ he said. ‘Let’s hatch the chickens first.’

  They waited. Ross kept his head down and would not allow his thoughts to progress beyond the day’s work. Only Henshawe, with his more detached mind – having so much less at stake – would allow himself a jubilant tone. After another week Ross told Demelza that she need not worry about a debt settlement at Christmas. One month’s work at this rate would pay all the interest. Two months would see part of the debt gone. They could already see two months ahead.

  Demelza said: ‘Do you mean – in any case?’

  ‘In any case. The assay is as rich as the ground. It can’t help but pay! There’s little skill now in this part. We just have to get it up and dress it and sell it.’

  ‘I can’t hardly believe that.’

  ‘No more can I.’

  The flaw for them both was that success had been too long in coming. This venture had raised so many hopes before and then dashed them. It no longer seemed entitled to become a valuable property. Had mineral been found eleven months ago, it could have saved them dramatically from immediate bankruptcy. Thirteen months ago it would have saved Francis’s life. Now, when hope deferred had made the heart sick, when everyone had grown past the stage of expecting anything any more, when bankruptcy was not quite so immediate a danger – though still existent – when a bare living from it was as much as anyone felt entitled to expect, now suddenly it began to give off riches.

  Riches. That was the queer thing. Not just an income, not just a business return, but riches. This was quite different from Wheal Leisure, where cost books were still balanced and profits still calculated. The profits were here in lump sums. The money was here in lump sums. The gamble had come off. Ross felt he had to handle the coin sometimes. It was all very well to accept tin cheques and the rest, but gold and silver in bags was what he needed.

  He also needed Demelza to help him savour it, for success after long tribulation can only be fully enjoyed if it is shared. They tried conscientiously to share it; but in that they failed. The division between them was too deep.

  In late October, Dwight received a letter from Dr Matthew Sylvane of Penryn. It ran:

  Sir,

  One of my patients, Mr Ray Penvenen, of Killewarren, near Chasewater, has for some weeks been suffering from a wasting condition which has not responded to accepted medical treatment. After due consideration I have thought it desirable to have a Second Opinion, and Mr Penvenen has mentioned your name as a physician with some former knowledge of his physical condition.

  Should you be willing to be called in Consultatio
n, I suggest that you meet me at his house on Friday the Eighteenth at or about Five o’clock, when we can discuss the Symptoms privately before proceeding to examine the Patient.

  Perhaps you will favour me with a Reply by the hand of my groom who has instructions to wait.

  I am, sir, your obedient servant,

  M. Sylvane

  Dwight wanted to send word that Mr Penvenen could turn yellow and rot before he would enter his house again; but after a struggle he replied accepting the invitation. He had never met Matthew Sylvane, but knew of him as a man with small private means, like Choake, who practised among the gentry. At ten minutes to five Dwight rode in at the gates of Killewarren. Such a pang at the mere entrance, the gateposts. The droop of the pine trees, the long thatched house, even the servant who came to the door . . .

  Dr Sylvane was in the big upstairs parlour over the stables. He was a narrow adenoidal man of forty-five or so who seemed to do nothing without the help of his nose. Dwight would have preferred to see Mr Penvenen first, but Sylvane was having none of that nonsense. The young fellow must enter the sickroom armed with the theories and observations of an experienced apothecary. Mr P. had gone down in the first place about ten weeks ago with what was clearly a spasm of the common gall duct, creating a low fever and slowing the circulation of the blood, dissolving the tissues and affecting the elasticity of the fibres. From that a wasting and possibly tumorous condition had sprung. The primary symptoms had given way to treatment: a little bleeding and a suitable draught: salt of wormwood and ammoniac, ginger powder, sugar candy, oil of cloves; jellies and broths to eat, beef teas, minced veal. No fish. Fish in this close weather smelled very quickly; Dr Sylvane was against giving it to sick people, who smelt already.

  But Mr P. had never lost his appetite. When the fever was brought off, he began to eat like a horse – still did. And white wine. Down it went, bottle after bottle, quite astonishing. There was slight pulmonary congestion of an edematous nature, and plenitude of urine; not surprising really. Bleedings, blisters, potions, he’d tried ’em all; but the patient remained very inert and was losing strength. A second opinion was really unnecessary, but sometimes a confirmatory diagnosis gave the patient confidence . . .

  Scarcely listening, his mind on earlier visits, Dwight followed his colleague along the passage to Mr Penvenen’s bedroom. It was all horribly reminiscent. But his memories left him when he saw Ray Penvenen in bed, crouching like an injured weasel, grey-faced and dry. He had never been handsome but now . . . The skin was in folds on his face and hands.

  As Dwight came up to the bed, Penvenen said in his precise voice: ‘I do not believe we parted very good friends, Dr Enys. I am the more obliged to you therefore for coming.’

  Dwight bowed slightly but didn’t speak. The man should have his attention but nothing more.

  ‘I insisted on its being you, in spite of your youth, because I believe you have the courage not to be influenced by what other people say. Dr Sylvane has done his best, but his best does not appear to be good enough—’

  ‘Well, Mr Penvenen, what I have done—’

  ‘It is the first time for a great many years, Dr Enys, that I have been really sick. I have a feeling that unless something is quickly done it will be the last.’

  ‘I trust not.’ With a stiff face Dwight bent to examine him.

  Certain symptoms at once. ‘There’s no fever now, Dr Sylvane.’ ‘No, as I told you, it has responded to treatment.’ ‘It did so nine weeks ago, Dr Enys. I have never had none since.’ That acetose smell on the breath. He was almost too weak to turn himself. ‘You drink a great deal, Mr Penve-nen?’ ‘To excess. Nothing strong; a light canary.’ ‘Water?’ ‘Yes, even water sometimes.’ ‘And eat?’ ‘And eat. Enough for four, yet I have become as thin as a shotten herring. Hitherto I have thought the gluttony of my neighbours a trifle disgusting.’

  After a thorough examination Dwight allowed the curtain of the bed to fall and walked to the window. No Caroline today in her black riding habit and her flame-coloured hair. No little yapping pug. No Unwin Trevaunance with his great lion head. Only a sick man, sick to death.

  ‘I have also considered,’ said Dr Sylvane, following him nasally, ‘the possibility of a cestoid worm in the alimentary canal. This ravening hunger. But I have examined the stools and have been unable to find any evidence—’

  ‘And the urine?’

  ‘Unusually sweet to the taste. But with all that unfermented wine . . . Then again I have considered a tuberculous infection of an atmospheric-cosmic-telluric nature induced by the moist heavy weather in a county teeming with metals and minerals. There’s a natural malignancy to the mineral effluvia, and folk here are hectic and consumptive at the best of times. Do you know, sir, it is fortunate there are few large towns in this county. Do you know, sir, that three thousand men living within an acre of ordinary ground make an atmosphere of their own steams seventy-one feet high. How much more dangerous then, in a county—’

  ‘It is surely the sugar sickness,’ said Dwight.

  ‘Ah?’ Sylvane breathed out through his nose, a thin reedy sound. ‘Ah.’

  ‘A man – I’ve forgotten his name – Willis was it – years ago. And more recently . . . And all these other symptoms, the hunger, the wasting, the sour breath—’

  ‘Polydypsia,’ said Sylvane warily. ‘I had thought of it. It could be considered; but there are contradictory indications. The fever—’

  ‘There has been no fever for nine weeks, he says. I believe it to be a mistake to consider it as a symptom now.’

  ‘There is a gouty condition. And the pulmonary congestion—’

  ‘Very typical and very dangerous.’

  ‘I have not found it so.’

  Dr Sylvane squinted suspiciously along his nose at Dwight, but Dwight was not giving way. ‘I believe there is no other diagnosis.’

  ‘Mr P. is fifty-seven. So sudden an onset in a man of his age . . .’

  ‘It does occur. Anyway, that is my belief.’

  ‘You cannot intend to tell him your views. It will be a serious shock. I’ll not be answerable for the consequences.’

  ‘I’ll not be answerable if he goes on as he is.’

  ‘How else can he go on? You do not suppose he will recover if that is his complaint!’

  They talked for a few minutes in low tones, then Dwight turned back to the bed. Ray Penvenen watched his approach with red-rimmed eyes.

  ‘Well, Dr Enys, is it to be the knife?’

  ‘No, sir, no knife. I think possibly we can do something for you. And you can help yourself.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By giving up most of the things you eat and drink. The wine especially.’

  ‘But that is the only thing which relieves me! How shall I quench my thirst?’

  ‘By cold water and some dilute milk. And you must eat very much less. I would urge the strictest possible diet. It will not be an easy treatment, for I know how hungry you will be.’

  ‘You don’t know how hungry I’ll be for you’ve never felt as I feel! It’s very well to prescribe these things. D’you mean I am to starve?’

  ‘Not starve, though it may well seem like it. I’d also suggest warm baths and a greater amount of air in your room.’

  Dr Sylvane was heard to mutter something under his breath, but when Mr Penvenen glanced up at him he was sniffing the perforated end of his gold-headed cane.

  ‘You don’t agree with this treatment, Dr Sylvane?’

  Sylvane shrugged. ‘We have talked over it at length, and I regret to differ from a colleague – I positively cannot accept responsibility for a lowering treatment on one in such a weakened condition as yourself.’

  ‘I am in an extremely weakened condition,’ said Mr Penvenen, ‘in consequence of twelve weeks’ illness and ten weeks of your treatment of me. That suggests I am in need of a change of treatment. Can you cure me, young man?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Mr Penvenen blinked and passed a tong
ue over his lips. After a moment he said: ‘Well, that’s honest anyway.’ He motioned to his servant, who was standing by the bed, to pour him another glass of wine from the decanter. Then with a continuing gesture he stopped him. ‘On second thoughts no, Jonas. The doctor advises me to take water.’

  Chapter Two

  Dwight had no patience with the view that because raw meat turned putrid when exposed to the air human beings necessarily did the same. And he was as much a crank in matters of food and drink. Fasting and fresh air had done good in several cases of bilious fever and the tertian ague, and he had tried a similar treatment on Charlie Kempthorne with his consumption of the lungs. Miraculously it had worked on him. Not on many others, but one success was something in a disease notoriously fatal. Then he had experimented with gout, to the annoyance of his few substantial patients.

  Now Mr Penvenen. As a physic he prescribed Theban opium after each meal. It was all a shot in the dark and likely to kill or cure.

  Mr Penvenen began to come round.

  On his fifth visit he found his patient sitting up in a chair muffled in rugs and cloaks before a window open more than half an inch to the mild afternoon. After the usual examination Mr Penvenen said dryly:

  ‘You said you could not cure me, Dr Enys, but you seem well on the way to having me out and about again. I’m very much in your debt.’

  ‘It is partly your own doing.’ Dwight had never unbent in his attitude. ‘Without your will to deny yourself . . .’

  ‘The effort has been considerable. How much longer am I to deprive myself of the ordinary pleasures of life?’

  ‘If by ordinary pleasures you mean ordinary food and drink, I should say for many months yet. Perhaps for the rest of your life.’