He went out, shutting the door behind him with a wall-shaking clack.
He left silence behind. Then Rosina to try to break the tension began again to wrap up the cakes. Clowance sat down, her knees weak.
Sam said: ‘I do not know what was abroad, but perhaps tis as well I came. What did he mean, Rosina?’
‘It was as well you came, Sam,’ Clowance said. ‘It was nothing to do with Rosina at all – only with me, as you might have guessed. Rosina, I think – I will – take tea with you – after all.’
Chapter Two
I
A week later Clowance, receiving further reassurances from her mother and upset by the encounter with Stephen, left for Flushing. The morning after she left Demelza fainted in the kitchen and was carried upstairs by John and Jane Gimlett, who were the only people in the house. Dwight was summoned and arrived at the same time as Ross, who had been over at Wheal Grace. Dwight made a thorough examination and came swiftly down.
‘She seems quite restored now and is asking for you. The baby is alive and – kicking. There has been no haemorrhage or discharge of waters. I don’t believe the child is quite due yet. It seems simply a passing faintness, a fainting fit. Fortunately she fell lightly and only bruised her arm.’
‘But what is amiss with her, Dwight? What has gone wrong?’
Dwight hesitated. ‘If medical science were further advanced perhaps I could tell you. There is a toxic condition in the blood which I believe is at the root of all these disquieting symptoms. But the cause of the toxicity and the cure for it are quite unknown to me.’ He looked at Ross, who was scowling and tapping his boot. ‘I think you have to remember that until now Demelza has been the perfect mother. All the children have been born very easily, very quickly, and after the first month or so of pregnancy she has been in the finest health all through. Often she has joked with me and said that it is because she comes of peasant stock. This time – well, generally the more children women have the easier they produce them – except that as they themselves grow older it weighs a little more heavily upon their own constitution. It may be the case here – just that, no more. She is ten years older, and therefore there is just that little more strain on her. God forbid that I should be complacent; but neither should one allow this to become magnified out of its true proportion. Just now, when I left her, she was joking with me as if she had not a care in the world. And wanting to get up.’
‘Wanting to get up!’
‘All the same, I do not think you should discourage her from all exercise, so that it be light. A little walking. She certainly intends to get up to supper.’
‘Do you know what I think of?’ Ross said.
‘No?’
‘Elizabeth.’
Dwight let out a breath. ‘Forget it. Forget Elizabeth. That was quite different.’
‘How different?’
‘It – was. She died . . . well, you know how she died.’
‘I can never forget it. Not as long as I live. So . . .’
‘Yes, but there can never be any similarity between the two conditions.’
‘Why not?’
They stared at each other.
Dwight said: ‘Take my word for it, Ross.’
‘But I want to know why.’
‘I can’t tell you.’
‘Because you don’t know or because what you know may not be repeated?’
Dwight lowered his eyes. ‘Look, old friend; forget Elizabeth and accept my assurance that there can be no similarity. What do you wish me to do here? Call in Dr Behenna for a second opinion?’
‘God forbid that too!’
‘Or there is a new man in Redruth who has taken Dr Pryce’s place. They say he worked in one of the Plymouth lying-in hospitals and has a good reputation.’
Ross made a dismissive gesture. ‘There is no one in Cornwall and few in England who know more about these things than you do. Do you suppose I’d rather trust her to some self-opinionated surgeon who subordinates all his clinical observations to a pet theory? Who would put her on some outlandish diet of raw meat and snail water . . .’
‘These would not be such ill ideas,’ said Dwight. ‘She needs iron.’
Two days later when Dwight called Demelza was out. He strolled about the house for a few minutes, and then met Ross who had been busy in the library.
‘How is she this morning?’ Dwight asked.
‘Should I not be asking you that?’
‘You should if I could find her.’
‘Well, where in Heaven—’
‘Apparently she told Jane that she would be taking a short walk.’
‘With Jane?’
‘No, no, on her own, I think.’
‘Damn the woman! She ought to know better.’
‘How was she yesterday after I left?’
‘Oh, better than Wednesday. Better spirits. And this morning when she woke.’
‘A little walking will do no harm, provided she feels up to it.’
‘Jeremy!’ Ross called to his son, who was just about to go on the beach with Farquahar at his heels.
Jeremy came back. ‘Hullo, Uncle Dwight. I have a couple of books I must return to you.’
‘Dwight has come to see your mother,’ Ross said, ‘and no one knows where she is.’
‘I think she was going over to see Jud and Prudie.’
‘Oh, God in Heaven!’ Ross exploded. ‘Has she no sense? Did you not try to dissuade her?’
‘Yes, I did. I said “that bug-ridden place”. But you know what Mama is when she takes an idea into her head.’
‘It is much too far,’ said Ross. ‘Is it not too far, Dwight?’
‘Yes,’ said Dwight. ‘Of course had I come direct from home I would have seen her.’
‘Would you like me to go after her?’ Jeremy said. ‘I was off to the mine but that can wait.’
‘Thank you. I think it would be – very acceptable to me. Bring her back.’
Jeremy wrinkled one eyebrow. ‘Only you could be certain to do that, Father. But I’ll use my wiliest persuasions.’
Ross watched him run off whistling up the valley, the spaniel gambolling close behind. He said to Dwight: ‘He’ll do it more tactfully than I could. She gets strangely irritable with me at this time. It has always been a matter of pride between us that we do not get irritable with each other. Her – her personality seems to be changing.’
‘That will pass,’ said Dwight. ‘That at least I can promise you.’
II
The object of their joint anxieties had got very little further than the crest of the rise beyond Wheal Maiden where the land began to fall away in a moorland scrub towards the village of Sawle. There she met Emma Hartnell, who had been to see her father, old Tholly Tregirls, who was recuperating after a vicious bout of asthma.
As Emma Tregirls, tall, dark, handsome and pale, and as noisy and as brash as they come, she had worked as a parlour-maid at Fernmore when the Choakes were there, and there had fascinated Sam Carne, Demelza’s deeply committed Wesleyan brother. The chaste affair had run its course with Sam as much devoted to saving her soul as to possessing her in carnal love, and she apparently in love with him but all too aware of her reputation and the effect such a marriage would have on Sam’s painstakingly collected flock. After much stress on both sides Emma had come to see Demelza one late summer afternoon when she and Jeremy and Clowance were picking blackberries and had asked for advice.
Shortly after, Demelza had been able to get Emma a new position at Tehidy House, ten miles or more away, and had proposed that she and Sam should separate for a year and then meet again and see if they could come to a more definite decision. Within the year Emma had married Ned Hartnell, the second footman.
Since then Demelza had had a conscience about her own part in the affair. In her youth and in the ebullience of her own love for Ross, she had wanted everyone to marry and be happy, and she felt that her advice on this occasion had been over-staid, over-cautious. Who was to say
that these two people should not have come to live in amity with themselves and with the outside world, and let bad reputation and religious conscience go hang?
Emma was wearing the same style of dress as that day in the Long Field fifteen years ago; a white straw hat perched on her gypsy-black hair, a white dimity frock, black boots and a long scarlet cloak. Innkeeper, housewife, mother of two children, prosperous now in a small way, she seemed little different in herself except perhaps a little more ordinary. Some of the startling bloom had gone.
Demelza asked how her father was.
‘Oh, some slight. You wonder how a man d’come to fight for breath so long.’
‘There’s little choice, I conceit.’
Emma looked her over. ‘How long be it now, Mrs Poldark?’
‘A few days. Maybe a week.’
‘Do you want for a girl or for a boy?’
‘Oh, it does not matter. I believe my husband has a fancy for a boy. But either will be a joy to us.’
‘Aye indeed.’ Emma held her hat against the wind. ‘But don’t some folk act strange, unnatural . . .’
‘What is that?’
‘The way my father behaved to we when we was little. Twas unnatural like, to leave my mother with her brood, to care nothing, not the toss of a button for we. Ned and me, why we cann’t do ’nough for our two lads! Tis a rare pleasure to care for ’n.’
Demelza watched a shower skating across the sea. With luck it would miss them. ‘You have settled down at the Bounders’ Arms?’
‘Oh yes, mistress. I reckon we’ll never make a fortune there, but twill serve.’ Emma laughed.
‘Do you see – do you ever see Sam?’
‘Once or twice we’ve spoke. He be just the same as ever, edn ee. Dear of ’im. But . . . he’ve got a good wife. Maybe twas all for the best.’
‘I hope so.’
‘Fair gone on him I was. Didn’t seem natural to me then, feeling like that. Never felt like that afore; nor never since. Ned . . . he’s a pretty husband. We fight but rarely. I reckon I’m well pleased wi’ what I got!’
Demelza glanced at the handsome young woman, some of whose black hair, uncontained by the hat, stranded across her face as she spoke. Was there a hint of an attempt at self-conviction?
‘That advice you give me that day . . .’ Emma laughed again. ‘I reckon all told twas the best advice I could’ve had. We could’ve had. We was in a cleft stick, Sam and me.’ She shrugged her cloak around her. ‘Anyway, tis all over and past . . . We see a fair measure of Mr Jeremy these days. Comes in two, three times a week. Along of Mr Carrington and Mr Kellow.’
‘Yes, he tells me.’
‘I think tis more my line, bearing the ale in for Ned Hartnell than reading the prayers for Sam!’
Demelza smiled back at her and moved to go on. Standing made her dizzy these days.
‘They reckon there’s some big vict’ry,’ said Emma.
‘Oh? Where?’
‘Stephen Carrington put his head round the door this morning. Forgot about it till mentioning his name. War and peace: it don’t mean much to me, so I don’t bring to mind the names or the notions.’
‘In Spain, you mean?’
‘No, twas Russia or Poland.’
‘Stephen told you?’
‘Yes. He’ve heard it from some ship’s captain just put in at Penryn from some place I can’t mind the name of. But tis rumour on rumour these days. Ned never said there was naught in the paper last Sat’day.’
Demelza glanced back the way she had come and saw Jeremy taking long lanky strides up the valley in her direction. She sensed that he was coming for her.
‘Well, goodbye, Emma.’
‘Goodbye, Mrs Poldark.’
Demelza began to walk down the hill, and for a few paces Emma continued with her.
‘Stephen Carrington be much upset because of him not being able to wed Miss Clowance, Mrs Poldark.’
‘I think she is upset too.’
‘He’s a matter of a wild man. Twould not be for a quiet life that anyone would wed him.’
Demelza said: ‘I don’t suppose Miss Clowance had those thoughts in her head when she broke off the engagement.’
‘Oh no. Oh no. Maybe she was lucky to draw back in time. Like me! Only all the other way round, like!’
Jeremy was gaining on them. Demelza had some wandering pains which she carefully ignored.
‘When they come in the Arms,’ said Emma, ‘they always go in the private room. Mr Jeremy, Mr Paul and Stephen Carrington. I come on them sometimes all talking serious – just like they was planning a war of their own . . .’
Farquahar caught them up, leaping round Demelza, licking her hands, gambolling about her skirt.
‘Planning a war of their own?’ she said. ‘How very strange.’
‘Oh, twas just a figure of speech, Mrs. I expect they’m really setting the world to rights, the way young men belong to do.’
When Jeremy reached his mother Emma was bobbing off in the direction of the Bounders’ Arms, one hand to her hat as the wind tried to snatch it away.
Jeremy said: ‘What man of you, having an hundred sheep, if he lose one of them, doth not leave the ninety and nine and go after that which is lost, until he find it? And when he hath found it he layeth it on his shoulders and beareth it home rejoicing.’
‘I should be a thought heavy for you,’ said Demelza ‘considering what I bear too. Did your father send you?’
‘Concern for your well-being, woman, is not confined to one man. The whole family shares it. Think if you were taken queer at Jud’s. I wouldn’t wish a brother or sister of mine reared among Prudie’s ducklings!’
He had taken her arm and they had stopped.
Demelza looked up at him. ‘The Devil can cite scripture for his own purpose. I never imagined you were so well read.’
‘Ah, another mother who doesn’t know her own son!’
‘I thought it was all to do with engines.’
‘Nearly all, yes.’
Demelza found herself facing the way she had come. ‘I still have a sense of direction,’ she said.
‘All the same . . .’
‘All the same I want to see Prudie. I gave her no money last week.’
‘I’ll take it. This very afternoon, I swear to you. Let me tell you about my engines. Let us stroll back in genteel style and I will tell you about this whim engine I am now going to build for Wheal Leisure.’
‘This is why you were at Harvey’s last week?’
‘Yes, the preliminary design has been agreed.’
‘All right, then tell me about it.’
‘Instead of the horse whim to draw up our ore, such as we now have both there and at Wheal Grace, we shall do it all by steam. We shall build the engine round the Trevithick boiler that I intended to have used for a road vehicle. It will – the boiler will now of course have to be bolted down to the floor. The crankshaft will be sited under the cylinder end of the boiler in much the same way as in the steam carriage. The fly wheel will run in a semi-circular slot let into the floor. We intend to put up a separate small house to contain it, with the drum behind on which the cable winds, and another chimney – oh, of brick probably – twenty-five or thirty feet high. Do you follow me?’
‘More or less.’
‘Now that the Trevorgie workings have been uncovered it is worth the extra expense to have the kibbles drawn up by mechanical power. I am going again tomorrow when William West is at Hayle. The Harveys have invited me to stay the night, so . . .’
‘Why do you not make it two?’
‘Oh, as near as that, is it?’
‘I did not say so.’
‘Well, a nod is as good as a wink. I know when I’m not wanted. Though I shall not be at all happy to be away from it all.’
‘It is a horse whim of mine,’ said Demelza.
‘Oh, my dear Mama, now I know you are not feeling well!’
They had returned to where a few scattered stone wal
ls marked all that was now left of Wheal Maiden. A shaft of sunlight – the first visible that day – provoked a rainbow to emerge briefly in the wake of the passing shower. A single giant black-backed gull hovered overhead: it looked as big as a goose. Demelza perched herself on a wall.
‘Do you see just so much as ever of Stephen, Jeremy?’
‘A modest amount. Has she been telling you?’
‘It only came out in talk. Does he say much of his plans?’
‘Only that he will not stay here after the end of the three months – that is, when he leaves the Gatehouse. That is, of course if . . .’
‘If Clowance does not forgive him.’
‘It is not forgiveness, Mama, as you know. Clowance is not so pious as to see it in those terms. She said to me it was that in some respects they did not seem to mean the same things when they used the same words. With her I think it has been cumulative, over the months, a slow realization that his ways are not, and never will be, her ways. She has rejected something just before it became too big for her. Something was wrong. The fight – the quarrel over Ben only brought it to a head . . . Of course, Stephen is furious.’
‘Furious?’
‘Yes. You see, to him the causes of the break were at the best flimsy. He had got into a temper waiting an hour at the mine, and had had a rough and tumble with poor Ben. That was all. He has written to her a sort of apology and now is furious that she has not accepted it. You see, dear Mama, he has his pride, he has his dignity. His pride is not in what he possesses, not his name or his reputation or his manners, but in himself as a man. He knows his own worth as a man. He knows how other women look at him. He’s old enough and experienced enough to know what they see in him. He loves Clowance – I believe he loves Clowance dearly. And he knows that he would be marrying above his station. But he has a very distinct awareness of – of the value of himself, so to say. This is what he would bring to the wedding: good looks, good health, strength, experience, manliness – out-manning most people around here. He’s – he’s a frigate, armed to the teeth, well-found, in perfect condition, wishing to board the beautiful white schooner. But – but, now they have exchanged gunfire, he is no more prepared to strike his colours than she is.’