Demelza

  Ross looked at him, at the silk ruffles of his shirt stained with splashes of wine, at his broad heavy face, hair growing in tufts in the nostrils and the ears, at the curled black wig worn low over the brow, at his dark purple coat, red silk embroidered waistcoat, and silk knee breeches. He looked him up and down, for Sir Hugh, no less than the others, had had his hand in Jim’s death. The fact that he had been dancing with Demelza was an affront.

  “Have you promised this dance?” Ross said to Demelza.

  Demelza looked up into his cold eyes, sought there for understanding and found none. Her heart turned bitter.

  “Yes,” she said. “Maybe I did promise this to Sir Hugh. Come along, Sir Hugh. I hardly know quite how to dance the gavotte, not properly like, but you can show me. You showed me splendid in that last country dance, Sir Hugh.”

  She turned and would have gone out with the baronet to join the others who were all formed up. But Ross suddenly caught her hand.

  “Nevertheless, I take this by right, so you must disappoint all your friends.”

  Sir Hugh had recognized him. He opened his mouth to protest. “Damn it! It’s late in the evening to show a lively interest—”

  But Ross had gone, and Demelza, furious and desperately hurt, went with him.

  They bowed to each other as the music began. They didn’t dance at all well together.

  “Perhaps,” said Demelza, trembling all over. “Perhaps I’d ought to have asked for an introduction seeing it’s so long since we met.”

  “I don’t doubt you have been well consoled in my absence,” said Ross.

  “You were not concerned to come and see whether I was or no.”

  “It seems that I was unwelcome when I did.”

  “Well, everyone wasn’t so ill-mannered and neglectful as you.”

  “It is always possible at these places to collect a few hangers-on. There are always some such about looking for those who will give them encouragement.”

  Demelza said, with triumphant bitterness, “No, Ross, you do me wrong! And them too! One is a baronet an’ lives at Werry House. He has asked me to tea and cards. One is a clergyman who has traveled all over the continent. One is an officer in the navy. One even is a relative of yours. Oh, no, Ross, you can’t say that!”

  “I can and do.” He was as furious as she was. “One is a lecherous old roué whose name stinks in decent circles. One is a simpering posturing fop who will bring the church more disrepute. One is a young sailor out for a lark with any moll. They come for what they can get, they and their kind. I wonder you’re not sick with their compliments.”

  I’ll not cry, said Demelza to herself. I’ll not cry. I’ll not cry. I’ll not cry.

  They bowed to each other again.

  “I detest them all,” Ross said on a slightly less personal note. “These people and their stupidity. Look at their fat bellies and gouty noses, and wagging dewlaps and pouchy eyes: overfed and overclothed and overwined and overpainted. I don’t understand that you find pleasure in mixing with them. No wonder Swift wrote of ’em as he did. If these are my people, then I’m ashamed to belong to them!”

  They separated, and as they came together again Demelza suddenly fired back.

  “Well, if you think all the stupids an’ all the fat and ugly ones are in your class, you’re just as wrong as anyone! Because Jim had ill luck and died, an’ because Jim and Jinny were good nice people, you seem to think that all poor folk are as good and nice as they. Well, you’re mortal wrong there, and I can tell you because I know. I’ve lived with ’em, which is more’n you’ll ever do! There’s good an’ bad in all sorts and conditions, an’ you’ll not put the world to rights by thinking all these people here are to blame for Jim’s death—”

  “Yes, they are, by their selfishness and their sloth—”

  “And you’ll not put the world to rights neither by drinking brandy all evening an’ gambling in the gambling room and leaving me to see for myself at my first ball and then coming halfway through an’ being rude to them that have tried to look after me—”

  “If you behave like this, you’ll not come to another ball.”

  She faced him. “If you behave like this, I’ll not want to!”

  They found they had both stopped dancing. They were holding up people.

  He passed a hand across his face.

  “Demelza,” he said. “We have both drunk too much.”

  “Would you kindly move off the floor, sir!” said a voice behind him.

  “I don’t want to quarrel,” Demelza said with a full throat. “I have never, you know that. You can’t expect me to feel the same about Jim as you do, Ross. I didn’t know him hardly at all, and I didn’t go to Launceston. Maybe this is commonplace for you, but it is the first time I ever been to anything. I’d be that happy if you could be happy.”

  “Damn the rejoicings,” he said. “We should never have come.”

  “Please move aside, sir,” said another exasperated voice. “If you wish to hold conversation do it elsewhere.”

  “I talk where I please,” Ross said, giving the man a look. The fellow wilted and backed away with his partner.

  Demelza said in a soft voice, “Come, Ross. Dance. Show me. A step this way, isn’t it, an’ then a step that. I’ve never properly danced the gavotte, but it is nice and lively. Come, my dear, we’re not dead yet, an’ there’s always tomorrow. Let us dance together nicely before we fall out worse.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The ball was over but not the night. At midnight they had joined in singing patriotic songs and “God Save the King,” and those belonging to Warleggan’s party left.

  But when they reached the Warleggans’ house, there was little sign of anyone ready for bed. Food and drink were waiting for them: hot pasties, cakes and jellies, syllabubs and fruits, punch and wines, tea and coffee. People quickly settled down to play whist and backgammon and faro, and Sanson pestered Ross into joining him at a table of French ruff.

  Demelza anxiously watched him go. The whole of the assembly had passed off without his knocking anybody down or insulting the lord lieutenant, but he was still in a peculiar mood.

  It had been a hectic evening. The excitement had been faintly unhealthy. Oh, yes, she had enjoyed it, but her pleasure had never been free.

  Nor, though the numbers were down, was she without followers there. Sir Hugh had gotten over his umbrage, John Treneglos had escaped from his wife, and Carruthers had stuck to his guns. Verity disappeared upstairs, but when Ross left Demelza, she was not allowed to do the same. Protesting, she was persuaded toward the faro table, a chair found for her, money put in her lap, advice and instruction breathed in each ear. That she knew nothing about the game carried no weight: anyone could play faro, they said; you just put your money on one of the cards on the table, the banker turned up two cards of his own, and if your card when it came went on one pile, you won, and if it went on the other, you lost.

  It seemed easy enough, and after wriggling in her seat to make sure that Sir Hugh didn’t put his hand back on her bare shoulder, she settled meekly to lose the money she had been lent.

  But instead of losing, she won. Not briskly but steadily. She refused to be reckless. She would not stake more than a guinea on any card, but each time she staked, she found others following her, and when the card turned up to win, there were growls of triumph behind her. William Hick had popped up from somewhere, and a tall, handsome, rather loud-voiced woman named Margaret, whom Francis didn’t seem to like. In the next room someone was playing a piece by Handel on the spinet.

  They had lent her twenty pounds, she had taken careful note of that, and she thought if she ever got to seventy, leaving fifty for herself, she would get up with her winnings and all the kind men in the world wouldn’t stop her. She had reached sixty-one when she heard William Hick say to someone in an undertone, “Pol
dark is losing heavily.”

  “Is she? But I thought the banker just had to pay her.”

  “No, I mean the other Poldark. The one playing with Sanson.”

  Something turned cold inside her.

  She staked and lost, staked again and lost, staked hurriedly with five guineas and lost.

  She got up.

  “Oh, no,” they protested, trying to persuade her to stay, but she would have no argument, for it was not personal choice but an urgent panic need to find Ross. She just had the wit to count out the thirty-four sovereigns belonging to her, and then she pushed her way through and looked about.

  In the corner of the second room a crowd was around a small table, and at it were Ross and Sanson, the fat miller. She drew near them and, careless of danger to her frock, squeezed in until she could see the cards.

  French ruff was played with thirty-two cards, each of the players being dealt five, and the play being as at whist except that the ace was the lowest court card. The hazard and lure of the game lay in the fact that before playing either player could discard and take up from the pack as many new cards as he chose and do it as many times as he chose, at the discretion of the nondealer.

  Demelza watched for some time, trying to understand the play, which was difficult for her. They played quickly, and besides exchanging money at the end of each rubber, they bet in the middle of nearly every band. Ross’s long, lean face with its prominent jawbones showed nothing of all his drink, but there was a peculiar deep-cleft frown between his brows.

  Ross had first played the game with a high French officer in a hospital in New York. They had played it for weeks on end, and he knew it inside out. He had never lost much at it, but in Sanson he had met his match. Sanson must have played it all his life and in his sleep. And he had astonishing luck. Whenever Ross assembled a good hand the miller had a better. Time after time, Ross thought he was safe, and time after time, the freak draw beat him. His luck was out and it stayed out.

  When he had given drafts for two hundred pounds, which was about as much as Harris Pascoe would honor and which was all the ready money he had in the world, he stopped and sent a footman for another drink.

  “I’m finished, Sanson,” he said. “I do not think the luck could have stayed so much longer.”

  “It is hard to predict,” said Sanson, blinking rapidly and rubbing his white hands together. “Give me some surety if you want to continue. It is not late yet.”

  Ross offered his gold watch, which had belonged to his father and which he seldom wore.

  Sanson took it. “Fifty guineas?”

  “As you please.”

  Ross’s deal. He turned up diamonds as trumps, and picked up the nine, ten, ace of diamonds, the knave, ten of spades.

  “I propose,” said Sanson.

  “How many?”

  “The book.”

  “I’ll take two,” said Ross. Sanson changed all his cards for five new ones, Ross threw his spades and picked up the king of hearts and the eight of spades.

  “Propose,” said Sanson.

  Ross nodded, and they again threw, Sanson two and Ross one. He picked up the king of spades.

  Sanson indicated that he was satisfied. “I’ll lay for ten guineas.”

  “Twenty,” said Ross.

  “I’ll take it.”

  They played the hand. Sanson had the king, queen, eight of trumps, and a small club and made four tricks to Ross’s one.

  “The luck of Old Nick,” someone whispered near Demelza.

  In a few minutes the fifty guineas was gone.

  Sanson sat back and wiped a little sweat from around his fat face. He blinked rapidly at the watch.

  “Well, it is a good piece,” he said to a friend. “A little high-priced. I trust it keeps good time.” There was a laugh.

  The manservant came back with the drinks.

  “Bring me a new pack of cards,” Ross said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What do you intend to play with?” Sanson asked, a trifle sarcastically.

  “Assets I can realize,” said Ross.

  But Demelza knew that he meant the Wheal Leisure shares. She had been edging nearer to him, and she abruptly leaned forward and put her thirty-four sovereigns on the table.

  “I have a little loose money, Ross.”

  He glanced up in surprise, for he had not known she was there. First his eyes looked through her, then they looked at her, but that time they were not unfriendly. He frowned at the money.

  “To please me, Ross.”

  The footman came with the new pack. Hearts were trumps and Sanson dealt Ross the queen, knave, seven of hearts and nine, seven of clubs.

  “I propose,” said Ross.

  “No,” said Sanson, refusing the discard. “Ten guineas again?”

  He clearly had a good hand, but his refusal of the exchange meant that Ross’s winnings would be doubled. It was a fair hand he had, and he nodded. It turned out that Sanson had the king, ace, ten of trumps, the king of diamonds, and the king of spades. Sanson ruffed Ross’s first club lead with a trump and led his king. Ross dropped his queen on it.

  It was a bluff, and the bluff succeeded. Sanson thought he was void and led his ace of trumps, which Ross took with his knave. Then he made his seven of trumps and his seven of clubs.

  Everyone seemed pleased, with the exception of Sanson.

  For a time the luck changed, and presently Ross had nearly a hundred pounds before him. Demelza didn’t speak. Then the luck veered back and Sanson picked up hand after hand that was cast-iron. The money went down and disappeared. The watchers began to thin. Somewhere in the distance a clock was striking two. For some time Ross had not been drinking.

  The brandy he had ordered was untouched.

  Sanson wiped his hands and blinked at Ross.

  “Confess you are beat,” he said. “Or have you other jewelry to sell?”

  “I have shares.”

  “No, Ross. No, Ross,” whispered Demelza. “Come away! The cock will be crowing soon.”

  “How much are they worth?”

  “Six hundred pounds.”

  “It will take me a little while to win all that. Would you not prefer to resume in the morning?”

  “I am fresh enough!”

  “Ross.”

  “Please.” He looked up at her.

  She was silent. Then she saw Sanson’s eyes on the ruby brooch Ross had bought her. She drew back an inch or two and instinctively put up a hand to cover it.

  Ross was already dealing again.

  Suddenly she put the brooch on the table beside him.

  “Play for this if you must play.”

  Ross turned and looked at her, and Sanson stared at the brooch.

  “Is it real?” he asked.

  “Stay out of this, Demelza,” Ross said.

  “You mustn’t lose the other things,” she whispered. “Play with this. I give it to you freely—if you must go on.”

  “What is it worth?” Sanson asked. “I am no judge of stones.”

  “About a hundred pounds,” Ross said.

  “Very well. I accept that. But it is late.”

  “Your deal.”

  They played, and Ross began to win. Those who had stayed to watch did not leave. The whist players had gone to bed and the faro table at length broke up. Some of those who had been playing came over to watch. At three o’clock Ross had won back enough to cover his watch. At a quarter after three, Demelza’s winnings were back on his side of the table.

  George Warleggan intervened. “Come, come, this won’t do. Egad, Ross, you must have a little pity on us all. Put a closure after this hand, and then you may begin all over again tomorrow if you choose.”

  Ross looked up as he took a very small sip of brandy.

 
“I’m sorry, George. Go to bed if you want, but the outcome of this game is still too far undecided. Send your servants to bed; we can find our own way.”

  Sanson wiped his forehead and his hands. “Well, to tell the truth, I am overtired myself. I have enjoyed the play, but I did not challenge you to an all-night sitting. Drop it before the luck turns again.”

  Ross did not budge. “Play for another hour and then I will rest.”

  Sanson blinked. “I think our host has the first claim—”

  Ross said, “And let us double all stakes bid. That should expedite a result.”

  Sanson said, “I think our host—”

  “I am not content to leave this game where it stands,” Ross said.

  They stared at each other a moment, then Sanson shrugged his fat shoulders.

  “Very well. One hour more. It is your deal.”

  It seemed that Sanson’s advice had been good, for from that moment the luck changed again in his favor. By half past three Ross had sixty pounds left. At a quarter to four it was gone. Sanson was sweating a good deal. Demelza felt as if she was going to be sick. There were seven watchers only.

  With half an hour to go they began to bargain for the shares in Wheal Leisure. Sanson put all sorts of obstacles in the way of accepting them as a stake. It might have been he who was losing.

  Five minutes had gone in arguing, and four o’clock struck with the position unchanged. At five past four, Ross picked up the king, ten, ace of trumps, and two useless cards. At the first discard he picked up two kings. He bet fifty pounds on it, which meant the actual stake was a hundred. When they played, it turned out that Sanson had the five remaining trumps and made the odd trick.

  Demelza looked around for a chair but saw none near enough. She took a firmer grip of Ross’s chair and tried to see through the mist that was in her eyes.

  Ross dealt himself the seven, eight, and nine of diamonds and the nine and ten of spades. With hearts trumps, it was a hopeless hand.

  “Propose,” said the miller.