The Loving Cup

by Winston Graham

  ‘God’s my life, what are we to do with her?’

  ‘Just let her sing. She’s young. Tis lovely, I think.’

  ‘Not at six o’clock in the morning.’

  ‘It is much past that. You forget it is December.’

  He put his hand out to reach his watch but she stayed him. He rubbed his nose against her arm.

  She said: ‘Yours is cold too . . . Ross, we must discuss all this very seriously. How long before we have to make up our minds?’

  ‘I expect France will settle down and that will make up our minds for us. In any event, I have agreed to wait on Lord Liverpool in early February with my reply. So we have weeks before any decision has to be reached. Let us enjoy Christmas first.’

  Chapter Seven

  I

  A few days later, a terrible storm struck England and lasted nine days without a break. The British Queen, a packet boat, was lost on the Goodwin Sands with sixteen drowned, another nine died in a wreck off Folkestone, a brig and a galliot were torn to pieces at Dunkirk. The city of Bristol came to a standstill with five feet of snow in the streets, Dartmoor became a waste land of isolated farmers and dying sheep. Mail coaches were overturned and children froze to death.

  Cornwall suffered with the rest, and there was the usual rash of small wrecks around the coast, though nothing to approach the tragedy of the previous January when the Queen transport came to shelter from a south-easterly gale in Falmouth, parted her cables, was dashed upon Trefusis Point, to sink in twenty minutes with a loss of more than 200 lives. Indeed this December the entire West Indian fleet of near 300 sail was able to make the protection of Falmouth in time and rode out the succession of heavy gales with insignificant damage. The Chasse Marée, carrying timber and granite for the new harbour at Porthleven, was embayed and eventually ran aground at Mullion and nearly became a wreck; only the desperate efforts of her crew saved her.

  So Christmas came and with unwelcome speed was gone. Those who could enjoyed it. The newly married Warleggans gave a party and were themselves entertained, at Nampara and at Killewarren. Only Trenwith was dark. The newly married Poldarks were to have spent several days at Nampara, but even though the weather relented, Stephen pleaded work on the Chasse Marée, and sent his wife in company with the Blameys for the celebrations.

  Jeremy too was absent. Demelza had hoped against hope that he would turn up on Christmas Eve just as he had done for the wedding. For her it was the one thing missing.

  Yet he did come, and in the most timely way possible, on New Year’s Eve, and with the best possible news.

  After the paroxysms of the middle of the month, the weather had fallen into a fit of idle good behaviour, with an easterly breeze, cloudless skies, and a globular sun like a Chinese lantern appearing and disappearing through the winter mists. The sea lumbered and thundered unceasingly on the hard beach, throwing up its wild heads but no longer amounting to much when the tide came in.

  Ross was walking back from Wheal Leisure when he saw a figure dismounting at the door and at once recognized the black cloak, the red tunic, the lanky shape. Jeremy saw him at much the same time and instead of knocking at the door vaulted the enclosing wall of Demelza’s garden and ran to meet his father. They clasped each other, putting cheek to cheek.

  ‘Wel-come. So you have come to bring in the New Year! You’re looking well, boy. Flanders must suit you!’

  ‘Not so much as coming home! Or the news I bring! Have you heard it, Father? Have you heard it?’

  ‘No? What news? What has happened?’

  ‘Peace with America!’

  ‘What!’

  ‘It is in the paper I bought in Truro! They signed the preliminary treaty on Christmas Eve! It waits to be ratified but that is surely only a formality!’

  ‘By the Lord, that is – is good!’ Ross took his son by the shoulders again. ‘Of course peace was only a matter of time, for we have little to dispute over; but men and governments are so pig-headed, I had feared perhaps another twelve months. And once pride and prestige are engaged . . .’

  ‘I know . . . Incidentally the next war we engage in must be in Brittany, for the journey home this time was outrageous. Half my leave has gone!’

  ‘We must tell your mother. Instantly. I believe she is at Caroline’s.’

  ‘And the children?’

  ‘Bella is walking with Mrs Kemp and pushing Harry. I don’t know which way they went but they are liable to explode upon us at any moment.’

  Jeremy took his father’s arm. ‘Let us go to Killewarren. It will only take you a moment, won’t it, to saddle a nag?’

  ‘Less than a moment.’ Ross turned and ran round to the stables.

  So soon they were off up the valley, leaving Jeremy’s pack dumped in the hall as notice that he had arrived. And they found Demelza and Caroline playing with a new pug puppy Caroline had just bought called Horace the Third. The women squeaked with delight, and Jeremy hugged them both, and apologized for his bristly chin but he had been in such haste to get home he had not paused to shave.

  ‘Half my leave has gone!’ he complained again. ‘We were in Ostend a week waiting for the gales – one week wasted and—’

  ‘Does it matter with the news you’ve brought?’ Ross said. ‘Where is Dwight? We must tell him as soon as possible.’

  ‘I must be back by the seventeenth and no excuses—’

  ‘It does not matter now,’ said Demelza, hugging him.

  ‘Sophie and Meliora are brave, I hope?’

  ‘Brave and well,’ said Caroline, smiling.

  ‘Brave and well as we all shall be now!’

  He looks different, thought Demelza. Or may be it is just that I think he looks different now. But he has filled out, grown stronger in the shoulder and the thigh, more of a soldier, with that long hair, more like his father; yet totally different from his father. Ross would never have . . . Ross’s nature is less oblique, less devious – is it my family that has brought this complexity to Jeremy? God knows I was not aware of it; but then there was Joshua Poldark. Thank God the last final war is over. Now if he stays in the army for a while . . . But perhaps he will come home. He must come home.

  They arranged a party for that evening, to celebrate the peace and to let in the New Year. Could anything be more fitting? In six hours they did celebrate it, in Nampara library, with Bella singing her songs and Demelza playing her piano, leading them all in communal singing. All the indoor staff were invited to join in: John and Jane Gimlett, Mrs Kemp, Betsy Maria Martin and the rest. The evening did not break up until 3 a.m. when Dwight, much recovered over the autumn but pleading an early rise, dragged Caroline and his sleepy daughters away. Even then talk and jollity went on in the family until the crisp, half frosty dawn of January the first, 1815 was not far away.

  II

  Jeremy slept late, as he was entitled to after his arduous journey, and when he came down at eleven all the others had gone about their business. In the dining room he ate a plate of porridge, two eggs and some cold ham, part of a rabbit pie; with a pint of small beer. The newspaper he had brought with him had been much read by the others and he opened its two sheets at the centre page, where the leading article was to be found.

  It was headed ‘Peace’ and ran,

  The sword being now unanimously sheathed, we may reasonably look forward without complaining to a considerable diminution of our burdens. We have borne much and we have suffered much in the way of privation – our struggles have been long and our exertions unremitting. The result has been happy, and we therefore confidently hope that in a short time our shoulders will be eased from a considerable part of the weight beneath which we have bent so long, and that a series of years of Peace and Plenty will repay the unexampled expenditures of the last astonishing contests.

  ‘The Name of the Lord is a strong Tower,’ and to that we have fled, and there we have been safe.

  A slightly less elevated and more cynical note was struck by the actual news item which beg
an: ‘To the disappointment of some, the gratification of many, and the surprise of all, a provisional treaty of peace with America was signed at Ghent on Christmas Eve.’

  Jeremy was about to turn over to the back page when his eye caught something on the sideboard. He got up, picked it up, stared at it, twisted it round, read the inscription.

  As he was about to put it back, Demelza came in.

  ‘Morning, my lover. I trust you slept well. Jane has been looking after you?’

  He kissed her. He had flushed at being found holding the piece of silver, and he looked closely into her eyes as if seeking the answer to a mystery. He did not find it. Demelza could be as disingenuous as anyone when she chose, and her eyes were as clear as undisturbed pools.

  He said: ‘I slept well. By God, it is good to be back; I wonder I ever left.’

  ‘I wonder too.’

  ‘Perhaps I was trying to escape from myself, and you can’t ever do that, can you.’

  ‘I have never tried . . . But we are being too serious! A Happy New Year to you again!’

  ‘Thank you, Mama. It should be.’ He flipped the newspaper. ‘And shall be. You have lost weight since I was last home.’

  ‘It is nothing. I’m brave. We have a lot to tell you. And a lot to listen to – I hope!’

  ‘Well, a soldier’s life is not one of great variation – except when he is fighting – and they have kept me out of that! But I will try.’ He looked down at the little cup he was holding. ‘What is this? Is it new?’

  ‘I found it,’ Demelza said.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘On the beach.’

  ‘Do you mean – just loose, lying there?’

  ‘No, it was in a small sack.’

  ‘At the tide mark?’

  ‘Thereabouts.’

  He turned it round again. ‘I wonder how it came there.’

  She did not speak. A cow was lowing behind the stables.

  ‘Was it like this?’ he asked.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Well – bright and shiny.’

  ‘No, I cleaned it up.’

  ‘It’s pretty. This inscription. Amor gignit amorem. Do you know what it means?’

  ‘Love creates love, I believe. It is a – a loving cup, they say.’

  ‘Who says?’

  ‘Oh, only your father and Uncle Dwight.’

  ‘Have you shown it to anyone else?’

  ‘Who is there to show it to?’

  Jeremy nodded.

  ‘It is very small. I thought a loving cup was bigger.’

  ‘I have never seen one before.’

  ‘Is it silver?’

  ‘Oh, yes. The mark underneath will tell you where it was made and when.’

  He put the cup back on the sideboard. The flush was still in his face, would not go.

  ‘Mother . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Someday, sometime – not now – perhaps when we are both a few years older – I would like to talk to you.’

  She smiled at him. ‘Don’t leave it too late.’

  III

  Jeremy spent almost all the first day at Wheal Leisure. The engine was working satisfactorily, all parts shiny and well-tended, but the engine house could do with a thorough clean out: there was too much greasy deposit on the non-working parts, and too much coal dust in crevices of wall and floor. Of course, steam engines of their nature were not clean to work; but one should make an effort. He said nothing at the moment, being occupied with other thoughts as well as the welfare of engines.

  Ben Carter went over the mine with him, and he greeted the miners and chatted to them as he went by. The producing levels were mainly on the 30 fathom, 45, and a new 80, all of which were yielding well. The 30 – that which led to and consisted of the old Trevorgie workings – was still the most profitable, but the 80, which had only been begun in June, was already into high-grade copper ore.

  In the afternoon Jeremy went for a walk on his own along the cliffs. In the early evening he called on the Kellows at Fernmore. At first there were the family greetings, during which Daisy was noticeably and understandably cool; but later Paul walked back with him in the total blackness of a cloudy moonless December night.

  Jeremy said: ‘When were you last down Kellow’s Ladder?’

  ‘Oh . . . it must be six or seven weeks ago.’

  ‘And what did you find?’

  ‘How d’you mean, find?’

  ‘Well, was it the same as when you were there before?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. Why?’

  ‘I went down this afternoon. The entire cave has been cleaned out.’

  ‘Cleaned out? Do you mean the sacks?’

  ‘Everything. The sacks, the tarpaulin. Everything has gone.’

  ‘Well, there was nothing of value left, was there. Perhaps Stephen has been.’

  ‘Nothing of value. But what was left? What was there when you were there last?’

  ‘Well, you took everything belonging to you in May – you told me. I cleared mine in September. Stephen long before that. When I was there last there were just the sacks and a few papers—’

  ‘Papers? What sort?’

  ‘Oh, a few deeds, a tin cheque or two, letters of credit. Nothing of any importance. I had them in my sack and thought to burn them.’

  ‘But you did not?’

  ‘No. Sorry. After all they were worthless.’

  ‘And the loving cup?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You remember, the silver cup.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Did Stephen have it, or was it yours?’

  ‘We never decided. But it was taken to the cave, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes . . . Oh, yes, I’m sure of that.’

  ‘Well, it has now turned up on the sideboard in our dining room.’

  ‘What?’ Paul stopped and tried to see his companion’s face. ‘How in God’s name? . . .’

  ‘Quite so.’

  ‘How did it come there?’

  ‘My mother says she found it on the beach. In a sack. At high water mark.’

  They stumbled on a few steps further.

  Paul said: ‘Well, it could have happened. Some drunken old tramp . . . perhaps he dropped it. Perhaps he fell down the ladder as well.’

  ‘Maybe he gave it to my mother and told her where he found it.’

  ‘Does it matter? She could never know, never guess.’

  ‘I am never sure with my mother, what she can guess. She has a sixth sense.’

  Paul said: ‘She would have to have twelve senses to connect a little silver cup found on a beach – or in a cave – with a robbery that took place two years ago – and then connect it with us.’

  ‘Yes . . . yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘You don’t sound totally convinced.’

  ‘No . . . I wish you had burned those papers.’

  Someone passed them quite close by in the dark and said ‘Good night,’ in a high-pitched voice. They responded because it was the tradition, a means of recognition in the dark, a satisfaction of curiosity.

  ‘Who was that?’ Jeremy asked.

  ‘Music Thomas. I wonder why he’s abroad. They say he pines for some girl who won’t have him, and I’m not surprised. Jeremy . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Talking of pining. You know Daisy still has this great taking for you.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘If you ever had a thought to speak, it would be a kindness to speak this time, while you are on leave. You would make her very happy.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose I would.’

  ‘You have, you know, in the past given her much reason to hope.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jeremy, and said no more.

  They reached the battered pine trees and the chapel, and the remains of Wheal Maiden. The chapel, for once, was dark.

  Paul said: ‘I have reason to suppose that Daisy, even at this late stage when you have done so much to affront her, would still look favourably—’

  ‘P
aul,’ Jeremy said, ‘do you remember our talking once and your saying you almost envied me the ability to feel as deeply as I did? I remember you said that to you most things happened, as it were, behind a fine sheet of glass. You observed them, took a degree of pleasure or displeasure from them but seldom – or even never – became entirely engaged.’

  ‘Yes, yes, it is true. But—’

  ‘Well, it is not true of me. It was not true of my impulses that led to the coach robbery. It is not true of my impulses now. Were I to marry Daisy I would no doubt attempt to make her a good husband. But, wretchedly, I should not succeed. If I have trifled with her feelings, then I am bitterly to blame. But it were better to be blamed for the smaller rather than the greater wrong. Daisy is very attractive. I find her very attractive. There is nothing wanting in her face, her personality, her body, nothing that I do not admire, nothing that I could not easily desire. But married to her I should be behind the glass screen, for I do not love her and could not bring myself to love her. It would be a splendid solution, to wed the sister of an old friend. It would suit us all so well. But it would be a hollow and desperate mistake.’

  IV

  Whatever he might have betrayed to Paul, Jeremy said nothing to his mother or father during the next few days. On the Tuesday he left at dawn and rode over to Wheal Abraham at Crowan and was gone all the daylight hours observing Wolff’s new double cylinder engine in action. Thursday he spent at Porthleven where the new harbour was being built. The Chasse Marée had been refloated and was back in Penryn, so he did not see Stephen and Clowance until the Friday. He did not call on Valentine. He did not call on Goldsworthy Gurney.

  On Saturday the seventh a sea fog came down, and Jeremy spent the morning with his father, first going over every level of Wheal Grace, and then in the counting house examining the cost books and discussing whether there was any way out of a closure of a spent mine. They came to the conclusion there was not, and it simply remained to decide how best it might be effected, how gradually, how many of the men working there could possibly be re-employed at Wheal Leisure, whether any new venture might be attempted in the neighbourhood to absorb the rest.

  They walked home together, father and son, in sympathetic accord; there had never been a greater friendliness between them.