‘The Miller’s Dance!’
People were calling to the band: ‘The Miller’s Dance! The Miller’s Dance!’
‘It is a perfect way to end the night for me,’ said Tom quite emotionally, but not talking of the dance. ‘But must it end yet? If you are tired, let us go and sit out somewhere. There’s wine and food still available in the library, Valentine tells me.’
‘The Miller’s Dance!’ they were shouting.
‘Oh, I am not tired!’ said Clowance. ‘Why ever should I be tired? I’m come alive! . . . what are they calling for?’
‘It is an old farmhouse dance,’ said Paul Kellow, coming up beside them. ‘D’you not know it, Clowance? It is just an excuse for a noisy lark. “There was an old miller who lived by himself, He ground his corn and taxed the sun.” Come on, let us make a circle, two by two, holding hands. Valentine! Valentine!’ he shouted, ‘you go in the middle to start it off!’
The violinist, a rotund little man with a purple face and a white wig, was talking to his two companions. Presently he swung his bow a couple of times and then drew it long and resonantly down across the strings, creating a deep echoing note such as is heard before a Scottish reel. Then he was off and away.
Of the twenty-odd people on the floor not a dozen knew what to do, but eventually the dance began to organize itself, although one of the features of it was that it was at best a mêlée. Two by two the dancers proceeded in a circle round a solitary man, who was kneeling on, supposedly, a sheaf of corn. In this case it was a cushion. The others danced side on to him, tripping in a courtly style but faster, and while they tripped to the music they sang:
‘There was an old miller who lived by himself,
He ground his corn and taxed the sun.
The money he made he put on a shelf,
But when he came to count his wealth:
One . . . two . . . three . . . it was gone!’
At the word gone everyone had to change partners, and the miller in the middle was expected to seize a temporarily spare lady if he could before she was grabbed by someone else. If the same man remained in the middle three times he was pelted with anything to hand, bottle corks, decorations off the cakes, paper balls, even an occasional shoe if someone had lost one and could not reclaim it in time.
It was, as Paul said, an excuse for a noisy lark, but the heavy beat of the music and its peculiarly melancholy rhythm had the same effect as some of the other old Cornish tunes, building an emotion by its endless repetition and conjuring up superstitions and practices which could not so easily survive the light. One wondered if at some time in the past the miller, or whoever occupied the sacrificial centre, had been stoned.
But tonight all was the most strident jollity; young people and older pushing and thrusting and grabbing and shouting with laughter, then, when they had all paired off again, prancing and tripping and hopping and skipping to the catchy, thumping, echoing, ghostly, melancholy tune.
Clowance was caught and released, grabbed and linked, hot hands clutching. (Different from Bowood, she thought!) Her partners were Valentine and Paul and Tom and Horrie and old Lord Devoran, puffing and grunting, and Tom and the militia officer and two men she didn’t know and Tom and Valentine and Tom.
When it was nearly over and one or two were falling by the wayside out of exhaustion Clowance had a strange sudden sensation, as if the music had been communicating something to her which had been taken in by her psychic self rather than consciously through her ears. This was the Miller’s Dance. The Miller’s Dance. And the Miller, her miller, was somehow here among them, like an unshriven spirit. A vigorous, brash, fascinating man, a man of hair and muscle and sinew, reared to fight and always ready to fight, to grab, to claim, to lie, to steal if necessary, to demand what he thought to be his, charming, dominating, ruthless.
He was there somewhere among it all; he was by her side. And she knew, almost with a sensation of dread, that he always would be. It was like being in a period of health – almost having forgotten one’s ill health – and then suddenly recognizing a stirring of pain again, a pain which one knew to be incurable, deep down, reminding one in the midst of happiness that for some complaints there is no cure.
Chapter Four
I
Jeremy spent two nights with the Harveys, a third with Andrew Vivian. Over the last few months the Harvey Foundry had run into serious difficulties, being the subject of a lawsuit in the Chancery Court in London. In September the Lord Chancellor had ordered the closing of the works until his judgment was made known, and this closure had endured until early December when the court had at last found in favour of Mr Henry Harvey. Though the suit had been the result of a split between partners, Mr Harvey was very bitter against the Cornish Copper Company, their obnoxious rivals, for having played a leading part in stirring up the brew. Sir George Warleggan was now a partner in the Cornish Copper Company.
For three months the coal yard, the granary, the forges, the ancillary shops and both sea-going vessels had been idle, and Mr Harvey was now struggling with many debts and intense shortage of capital. He therefore more than welcomed an advance payment of half the cost of the whim engine, an offer which Jeremy brought with him. (It would also, Jeremy thought, make his order come in for the highest priority.)
Though Mr Harvey lived with his sister, Foundry House was abounding with children, orphans of Henry’s sister Anne and her husband, both of whom had died a few years back; and Jeremy found his social time full. He was disappointed not to meet Mr Trevithick, and the night he spent with Andrew Vivian he remarked on his disappointment.
‘They may be close tied by marriage but they seldom see eye to eye,’ said Vivian. ‘It is not at all that they mislike each other; it is a question of temperament. Henry is careful, conscientious, businesslike, a true mercantile adventurer who is never afraid to take a risk if it can be justified in his own logical mind. Richard is a great innovator, a genius in the true sense of the word, a man whose mind takes wings and does not think kindly of being told that a brilliant idea must be pursued cautiously and painstakingly to its last decimal point. I am rather coming to the belief that Henry will in the end find more in common with Arthur Woolf who, though not the genius he thinks he is, has a splendidly inventive brain.’
All the same, Jeremy used his time well, having further meetings with William Sims and William West. Then Andrew Vivian took him to meet a Captain Joel Lean, who had just accepted a new position funded by various mines to issue yearly tables on the amount of work done and the efficiency of the mining engines of Cornwall. This showing up of the capabilities and work of the engines would be bound to settle many arguments and also to set the engineers themselves on their mettle.
One half-day Jeremy spent with his steam carriage; but, until he could devise and have built an entirely new boiler on the lines laid down by Mr Trevithick at their last meeting, it was hardly worth continuing to work on the rest.
It had not been at all absent from Jeremy’s mind during all this technical talk that events might – and almost surely were – occurring at home; and when he finally left Hayle he would have wished to ride back by the shortest route. But during the days before he left Nampara he had managed to get a wisp of Clowance’s hair, a curl of Isabella-Rose’s, and, with no difficulty at all, a sample of his own. These he had taken in to Truro to Solomon, the silversmith, and had bought a silver locket for £8 and had asked the old man to fit these pieces of hair into the inner compartment of the locket, leaving room at a later stage for a fourth sample. He hadn’t quite known what to buy his mother at this time.
So he made a detour by way of Truro to pick it up, and had to admit that it was worth while. Solomon had done the work with elegance and taste, thinning the original samples by about half but leaving enough of them to be clearly definable: Jeremy’s own a sort of coppery dark not unlike his father’s, Clowance’s glowingly fair, and Bella’s as black as a gypsy’s; much more unredeemably black than her mother’s, which ofte
n caught lights and seemed to reflect the company it was in.
Solomon’s little shop was in St Austell Street, and immediately opposite it was Blight’s Coffee House. Knowing he would be too late for dinner at home, he went in there and ordered pigeon pie.
It was a partitioned place, so that customers could be quite private one from another. Jeremy ate and at the same time read the special editions of the newspapers available there. He had heard something of the Russian victories but not seen it in black and white. It was overwhelming. Could it be the beginning of the end? US privateers, he read, were active in the narrow seas . . .
‘Good day to you, Jeremy Poldark,’ someone said, and thumped into the seat opposite.
It was Conan Whitworth.
Since the musical evening at Caerhays last year Jeremy had identified this boy, whom he had not been sure of then.
‘Ah, Conan . . . Good day to you,’ Jeremy said, trying to be polite.
The boy solidly occupied the other side of the table watching him. After a few moments Jeremy went on with his meal. The waiter came.
‘That’s good?’ Conan asked, pointing at Jeremy’s plate.
‘Very good.’
‘I’ll have that then. And quick about it.’ When the waiter had gone Conan said: ‘My grandmother’s at Miss Agar’s. She sent me out, but not for food. I need a snack, though.’
‘Oh,’ said Jeremy. He turned a page of the newspaper.
‘I get pimples.’ said Conan.
‘What?’
‘I get pimples, See them? Discharging too.’
Jeremy stared at the boy’s blotched face. His skin was pallid and looked as thick as peel, as if it would be hard to puncture. But yes, one could count pustules enough . . .
‘There is a deal of smallpox in Truro,’ Conan volunteered, making a fuss of his spectacles, taking them off, rubbing them, putting them back. ‘A lot of it down by the river.’
‘I suppose it’s the season.’
‘Grandmother says it is because the lower orders won’t be vaccinated and get inoculated instead. Grandmother says this is spreading the disease, not stopping it.’
‘That may well be.’
Jeremy took a last mouthful of pie.
‘Wish that waiter would hurry,’ said Conan. He opened his mouth as if to laugh, but no sound emerged. ‘I made a mistake.’
‘What?’ Jeremy said irritably, as his reading was interrupted again.
‘Made a mistake. Grandmother sent me out for a lotion. “Solomon’s Abstergent Lotion for Eruptions of the Skin.” Four shillings and sixpence a bottle. She gave me a half-sovereign. I thought I’d take this snack and tell her the price of the lotion had advanced to five and six. See?’
‘So what of that?’
‘Well, I went into Solomon’s opposite. Solomon’s Lotion; Solomon’s shop. You’d think so, wouldn’t you? Solomon’s Lotion; Solomon’s shop. But he’s a silversmith. It was round the corner in St Clement’s Street – at Harry’s – where they sold it! The apothecary’s!’ Conan laughed again, and as silently.
‘The best quality wheat on Truro market is selling for 38/- to 40/- a bushel,’ Jeremy read. ‘But millers are asking 50/- to 52/-. This is gross profiteering and the Ministers of the Crown should intervene to prevent it.’
‘D’you think that’s true?’ Conan asked.
‘What?
‘About the defeat of the French. Everybody believes it, don’t they.’
‘Yes, I think it’s true.’ This boy’s mother had been Geoffrey Charles’s governess, and Jeremy remembered her as a shy, gentle, withdrawn creature to whom his cousin had become much attached and with whom his Uncle Drake had fallen irretrievably in love. How could she have bred such a boy?
The waiter brought a slice of pigeon pie. Conan took his spectacles off to see the better and fell upon it with the anxiety of a starving man. Jeremy paid his score and began to roll the newspaper.
Conan said something with his mouth full that Jeremy could not catch.
‘What?’
‘Big party at Cardew. Tuesday night. Went on near all night. Everyone was decks awash. Uncle George was mad. Wasn’t he mad!’
‘What do you mean? What are you talking about?’
Conan looked across at Jeremy as he chewed. It was being borne in upon him that his company was not appreciated. It was not an uncommon experience for him but he still resented it.
‘Valentine came home from Cambridge on Sunday. Wanted an excuse for a party. This defeat of the French. Uncle George was persuaded by Lady Harriet. Valentine sent out invitations everywhere. A crowd. Seventy or more. Wonder you weren’t there.’
‘I’ve been away.’
‘Your sister was there.’
‘Clowance? Oh, she’s been staying in Flushing.’
‘So was Mr John Trevanion there. So was Miss Trevanion. And her sister, Miss Cuby.’
Jeremy put the newspaper back in the rack. On the other side of the aisle two shepherds were sitting opposite each other wolfing pies and swilling them down with ale. They both wore hats, maybe to keep their hair out of their food, for they ate with their fingers, disdaining the knives provided, noses close to table like animals at a trough. Conan was in good company.
‘Mr John Trevanion,’ the boy said slyly. ‘He’s skinned for money, isn’t he.’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Gambles his money away, they say. Gambles on his horses.’
‘Well, that is his own business, isn’t it.’
Conan again mumbled something through the pastry.
‘What?’
‘They say he should never have changed his name, don’t they. They say he shouldn’t ever have changed his name from Bettesworth to Trevanion, don’t they.’
‘I have no idea what you are on about.’
‘Well . . . Bettesworth. He bet his worth. See? That’s what they say. He bet his worth.’ A mass of partly chewed food showed as Conan opened his mouth to laugh.
Jeremy got up. ‘Well, I’m glad you enjoyed yourself at this party.’
‘Oh, I did, I did. At two o’clock Valentine danced on one of the tables. Fell off and we thought he’d broke his neck. But not at all. All he did was sit up and shout for more wine.’
‘I wonder you were invited, being so young.’
‘Oh, not so young, Jeremy Poldark. Seventeen next birthday. Anyway I go anywhere my grandmother goes.’
‘Was she invited?’ Jeremy asked pointedly.
Conan stuffed in another piece of pie.
‘I found something out. It’ll interest you.’
‘Tell me next time we meet.’
‘Uncle George never misses a chance to do business, does he. Even when it is a jolly party and most people are decks awash.’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘It may interest you,’ said Conan, munching; ‘what I have to say may interest you, if you are still heartsmitten on Miss Cuby.’
Jeremy stood there resisting a temptation to seize the boy by the scruff of the neck and shake him till he choked on the crumbs.
‘Who says I am?’
‘Well . . .’ Conan pushed his spectacles along the table. ‘I just thought. Seeing you at the musical evening. I just thought. And then at the races. And there’s been talk here and there.’
‘There’s always talk. Goodbye, Conan. Commend me to your grandmother.’
‘So it can’t matter, then?’
‘What can’t matter?’
‘I mean it can’t matter to you that Miss Cuby is going to marry Valentine Warleggan.’
II
Jeremy reached Nampara soon after four. Although mid-December it was still full daylight. The setting sun had edged its way behind an escarpment of cloud, and the upper sky was ethereal, a thousand miles high, as if you were looking up at Heaven. In the distance gulls were wheeling and screaming, wings shadowed and glinting as they performed their lonely rituals. Smoke rose straight, and there was a hint of frost.
He
didn’t bother riding round to the stables but hitched Colley over the old lilac tree and tiptoed in. Jane Gimlett was just about to carry a candelabra of lighted candles upstairs.
‘Oh, Mr Jeremy! You give me a fright!’
‘Where . . . How is . . .?’
‘The master and Miss Clowance are in the library. The mistress is better today, and—’
‘What has happened?’
‘Oh, you haven’t heard! We have a boy!’
‘God’s my life! . . . And are they both well?’
‘Yes, well. Mistress has been some slight but is feeling better today.’
‘Thank Heaven! That’s good news! Is she awake?’
‘Mistress? Yes, yes, she’s just asked for these.’
‘And – the baby?’
‘Sleeping, I b’lave.’
‘Go up. Tell her I’ll follow.’
When he went in Demelza was sitting up hastily brushing her hair. She looked very thin but her eyes were brilliant.
‘Well, my son.’
He bent and kissed her. ‘Not the only one now.’
‘Your rival is over there.’
‘Bother him. How are you?’
‘Brave.’
‘The fever has gone?’
‘Yes.’
‘Let me feel your pulse.’
She hid her wrists. He picked up the brush she had dropped.
‘Were you expecting visitors?’
‘Only you. When Jane told me . . .’
‘You decided you must put on your best bib and tucker, eh? For a visitor of such importance. What a strange woman you are!’
‘Oh, I know,’ she agreed. ‘And getting stranger.’
His eyes roved to the cot and then came back. ‘You don’t look like a matriarch.’
‘Why not?’
‘Not fierce enough. Not old enough.’
‘Just at the moment,’ Demelza said, ‘I feel very young.’
‘You look it.’ She did look exhilaratingly young, but frail, as if she were recovering from a grave illness.
‘Where are Papa and Clowance?’
‘In the library, I’m told. Moving furniture, I conject. Though for what purpose I have no idea.’