Jeremy Poldark

by Winston Graham

“Easy to talk,” said Unwin like a sulky giant. “Neither would give way, and the crowd was howling outside. We had to give ’em some result or they would have wrecked the place. As it was, when Michell and Lawson went to the window together I thought they would be stoned.”

  “Michell’s returns were sent straight off?”

  “Yes, by post rider. But so were Lawson’s.”

  “It’s important which the sheriff has in his hands first. There’s no reason in it, but a greater regard is usually taken of the first in.”

  They were at the reception following the election dinner. It had been decided after hurried consultation to go ahead as if there had been a full-scale Tory victory. The Boscoigne faction was doing the same and at the Guildhall reception which followed the dinners there was an intermingling of the rival parties. Both judges were present and several people of rank in the county who had not been concerned in the election.

  “There’ll be pressure on me to stand aside,” said Unwin viciously. “There’s a smell of it already. Without me Chenhalls and Corrant can occupy the seats comfortably. If I have to go, Basset will hear of it.”

  “There’s no question of your stepping aside.” Sir John chewed his bottom lip. “In fact, since you’re second in both polls, you’re really the only one who’s fully elected.”

  A set dance was in progress, and Unwin watched Caroline’s tall graceful movements as she danced in a square with Chenhalls and some cousins of the Robartes. “Well we are three members for two seats. That will not pass.”

  “It’s only a question of time,” said Sir John, staring at a dark young woman talking to one of His Majesty’s judges. “When the plea is heard before the Chancery Court, Lawson’s mayoralty will be declared illegal, there’s no doubt. That will automatically make his election figures invalid. Anyway, they smack of fraud. Whoever heard of a Whig mayor returning one candidate of the other colour when there are two of his own?”

  “It suggests impartiality.”

  “Nonsense, it suggests fraud. But in any case, if this should not be thrashed out before Parliament reassembles, don’t hesitate to claim your seat. There have been similar occurrences in recent years at Helston and Saltash. Daniell reminds me that at Saltash two rival electoral bodies have existed for a very long time, and different committees of appeal have held first one body to be legal and then the other. More than that, Unwin. In an election to fill a single seat four or five years ago, the rival electoral bodies each elected a member—and both have taken their places in the Commons.”

  “Yes, I heard something of it in the House.”

  “Well that was in ’85 or ’86. And Daniell assures me that in spite of petitions and counter-petitions both elected members continue to sit. If that can happen, there’s no reason to be despondent about the present result. I believe it to be most important that you regard yourself as reelected and act accordingly.”

  The dance came to an end and was politely applauded. Without looking towards the Trevaunances, Caroline drifted off with Chenhalls in the direction of the supper room. Relations between the lovers had not been of the sweetest today. She had insisted on attending the hustings—much against all his advice. Then, suddenly bored, she had slipped out in the most obvious way when Unwin couldn’t possibly leave to accompany her, and had sent his servant scuttling back when he told him to follow. After all that she’d arrived back in the hall just as the results were given, and had snapped his head off when he asked the cause. When I am your husband, he thought, looking towards her as she stood in the doorway…Her shoulders gleamed whitely even in this subdued light. If I am your husband; and that was a disturbing thought. This election had been more expensive than ever. Doubts as to the results made his position much more unstable—whatever John said. And there were mounting debts in London. He started towards her, but Sir John clutched his arm.

  He looked at his brother impatiently, expecting more sage but unwelcome advice. But Sir John was staring the other way.

  “Tell me…who’s that with Wentworth Lister? That woman—talking to him.”

  Unwin frowned his cleft frown. “Demelza Poldark, it looks like.”

  “Cod, well…” Sir John swallowed. “I thought so. So she wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

  “What d’you mean?”

  The other said expressively: “How the devil has she got in here? Who could have introduced her? And now she’s talking to Longshanks Lister—just as she intended! God’s my life, she’ll hang her husband if she’s not careful—and go to prison for contempt of court herself! She’s playing with fire!”

  “I’ve seen her about with Hugh Bodrugan.”

  Sir John took out a handkerchief and mopped his face. “Well, I had no hand in it, that’s one thing! Hugh always was a lecherous fool; she’ll have had to pay her forfeits there. Well, I wish her luck of the encounter. She’ll need it.”

  Unwin said: “I told you the first time I set eyes on her that she was a dangerous woman.”

  ***

  Demelza was well aware that she was playing with fire. As soon as she saw the tall cadaverous judge at close quarters she knew this was going to be the hardest meeting of her career.

  She had put on her pale mauve silk with the half-length sleeves and the flowered apple-green bodice and underskirt. It was the one Verity had chosen for her three years ago.

  Sir Hugh Bodrugan did not know Lister, but had got Mr. Coldrennick, the MP for Launceston, to introduce them. Then, grunting and hairy, he had gone off with Coldrennick and left Demelza with her quarry, as promised.

  The Hon. Mr. Justice Lister was about sixty years of age, six feet tall, with long tapering legs, slightly bowed, and an austere lined face stamped by forty years of courtrooms. He was not enjoying himself in this reception because he was a shy man when away from his work, and had no interest in the powder and patch of fashionable assemblies. He had come because the accommodation in the judges’ lodgings was so cheerless that he had dined out every night—and now could not refuse the organizers, who had been his hosts.

  When he met this young woman he fully expected her to ask him a few inane questions and simper at him and move on, as other young women had done. He had no interest in women, except that they appeared as the motive power behind a good many of the felonies which came under his scrutinizing eye. He was a bachelor and a pessimist.

  But this young woman had lingered longer than most. At the moment she had asked him a question and he had not caught it. He lowered his head.

  “What did you say?”

  “Does your lordship dance?”

  He shook his head. “But don’t let me deter you. No doubt you have partners enough waiting to claim the privilege.”

  “Oh no, my lord. I should better prefer to watch. I believe it is the onlooker who most enjoys the dance.”

  He put out his bottom lip. “I am of an age, madam, when the spectacles of others in effort is more rewarding than the effort itself. I should not have imagined you were.”

  “But what has age to do with it?” Demelza asked. “Isn’t it wise to—to keep out of the crush sometimes so as we may see what we look like when we’re in it?”

  He glanced at her a little more keenly. “If you observe that rule in matters of more serious import you will make a good deal of your life.”

  “In matters of more serious import,” Demelza said, “life don’t always give you the choosing.”

  “Every subject’s soul is his own,” said Lister. “How he uses it is no one else’s responsibility.”

  “Oh yes, my lord, I believe you truly. But sometimes tis like a bird in a cage. It can sing never so sweet but being dropped down a well will not put an end to it.”

  He smiled dryly. “You argue with a ready wit, ma’am.”

  “Your lordship’s too kind. Of course it is a pre-presumption on my part. I am really so ignorant about all
these things. You know so much.”

  “We know what we are allowed to know,” said Lister. “Conscience is nearer judgment than knowledge.”

  “I wonder,” she said, “if that ever worries you?”

  “What?”

  “Judgment, I mean,” she went on hastily at his look, “isn’t it hard to judge to perfection unless you, d’know to perfection? Forgive me if I don’t understand.”

  “My dear madam there is room for improvement wherever we look. Infallibility exists in divine creation, not elsewhere.”

  …In the refreshment room Unwin said: “In what way have I offended?”

  “In no way, my dear,” said Caroline, her fingers travelling over her hair. “Why should you have?”

  “That I don’t know. I lay myself out to please you all ends, incurring the disapproval of my party to get you to the hustings—but tonight you ignore me for Chenhalls or any other middle-aged beau who comes along. I’m surprised you’ve not danced with Bodrugan yet.”

  “Thank you, dear, I prefer bearbaiting out of doors.” Caroline’s sweet voice had a touch of ice. “But why should I not dance with the middle-aged beaux if they give me pleasure? I’m not yet tied to your apron strings—and thankful too, for they would be gloomy tiresome sulky depressing apron strings tonight, and hardly to be borne.”

  Unwin took a grip on himself and smiled. “I’m sorry, Caroline. It is this accursed election—pray forgive me. As soon as the situation is cleared up I shall be better company, I promise. I should be now, given half a chance.”

  “Always it was ‘when the election is over.’ Now apparently it is not over. Oh, John! John!”

  “Yes?” said the elder Trevaunance acidly. He disliked being called by his Christian name by this wand of a girl. He bore it only for his brother’s sake.

  “Do you know a physician who lives in or around Sawle by the name of Enys? Dwight Enys, I believe.”

  “M’yes. Lives on Poldark land or just on the Treneglos estate. Young feller. Know nothing about him much. Why?”

  “He is in the town, I believe to give evidence at tomorrow’s assize. Has he private money, I wonder?”

  “Why? Have you met him?” Unwin asked suspiciously.

  “By chance he was the man we called in to see Horace. I told you about him. And very stiff-necked at being summoned to attend a pet dog.”

  “Infernal impudence. Had I been there I should have told him so.”

  “Oh, I told him so. But impudence is not so grave a sin, Unwin. Do you think? It shows a certain resilience and spirit…”

  …In the ballroom conversation had shifted a little away from the dangerous subject. Wentworth Lister was staring at the dark girl with narrowed eyes. “Modesty, a Greek philosopher once said, is the citadel of beauty and of virtue; the first of virtues is guilelessness, the second the sense of shame. It is a precept which has helped me in my estimate of women over many years.”

  “And your estimate of men?” said Demelza.

  “Yes, and in that too.” The dance came to an end and the judge glanced slowly round the room. It was warm in here, and he was sorry he had put on his third pair of stockings.

  “Pray do not let me detain you longer,” he said rather resentfully. “I’m sure you must have other and more pleasant claims upon your time.”

  Demelza moistened her lips. “Judas; I was thinking I was trespassing on yours.”

  To this he had to give a polite denial, and she in turn glanced quickly about. Though there were plenty of people moving around them, none just at that moment seemed bent on disturbing the tête-à-tête. The judge was not an attractive figure.

  “I wish they would play something softer next time,” she said. “It is hard to be heard. They make too much use of the flute and the pipes.”

  He said: “You play yourself, perhaps?”

  “Only a very little.” She smiled at him with sudden brilliance. “And sing—when I’m alone, like.”

  “I agree with you in a preference for the violins and the viols. As for singing, there is none worth hearing today.”

  Something in his tone caught her animal-sharp ears. It was a single breath of feeling among the dry rushes of his character.

  “The Cornish do a rare lot of singing.”

  His lips smiled. “They put their voices together. No doubt that is what you mean. The church choir on Sunday.”

  “Of course—it is not maybe like what you get in London.”

  “There is little in London either. Little that is uncontaminated by modern tendencies. Frivolous and insipid glees. Italianate pasticcios and simpering artificiality. To catch the pure stream one must go back two hundred years—or more.”

  Lister closed his mouth sharply and took a pinch of snuff. Having dusted away the powder with a lace handkerchief, he clasped his hands behind his back and stared across the room as if determined not to be lured into further expressions of opinion.

  Demelza said desperately: “What’s wrong with the church music, my lord? I don’t rightly follow you.”

  “Ha!” said Lister.

  The Trevaunances had reappeared out of the supper room. Caroline’s flame-coloured head just topped Sir John’s, and was little below Unwin’s.

  Demelza said: “It is the first church I have heard with one of those organ pieces. There is one in Truro, but I never heard it. It is a grand sound, but I rather prefer the older way when it is well done.”

  The judge sniffed and dabbed. “You are fortunate that your ear is not entirely ruined by modern tendencies. No doubt you have never heard of singing in organum?”

  “No, my lord. It is not singing with the organ?”

  “It is certainly not with the organ…”

  …Sir Hugh Bodrugan had talked out the implications of the electoral position with Mr. Coldrennick and wanted something more to drink. He was sick and tired of Bodmin and would be glad to get home tomorrow to his dogs and his horses and Connie with her curses, and room in his great ramshackle house to stretch and sprawl and belch. This was all too confined for him. Only bright thing in his visit was meeting Demelza Poldark, who was always sharp-witted enough to keep him awake and freshen things up.

  He stared across at her where she was still talking to the tall spindly judge. She was damned elusive, that was the trouble. A bit of angling was all part of the fun, he knew that; he didn’t want his fish landed too easy; but so far he’d only kissed her twice—but once on the mouth—and squeezed her a couple of times in interesting places. A damned tantalizing long-legged minx. It was time he was getting back to her.

  He said just the last part to Mr. Coldrennick, breaking in on some dull observations about burgage tenures.

  “Yes,” said Mr. Coldrennick, “I suppose so. Must confess I’ve seldom known the learned judge so conversational. Young Mrs. Poldark has a way with her.”

  “Oh, she’s a way with her,” said Bodrugan grimly. “Damme, yes. It’s the will that’s lacking.”

  As they got near they could hear the judge’s voice. “My dear young lady, no harmony, even of the most primitive kind, existed in the church until the tenth or eleventh centuries. Plainsong was begun then by higher and lower voices singing at a distance of a fourth or a fifth instead of in unison. It was no doubt years before it was found that thirds and sixths instead of being more were less discordant and infinitely more melodious and variable in effect. There is a Scottish hymn—ah—to St. Magnus…”

  “Hrrm-hm!” said Sir Hugh Bodrugan.

  The Hon. Mr. Justice Lister raised his head and gave the interrupter a look he usually reserved for malefactors. At sight of it Coldrennick would have sheered away, but Bodrugan was not to be intimidated by anything.

  “Ha, there, it’s time for a bite of something more to eat, m’dear. There’s such a shindy of people that I need you to steer me across in the right directi
on. Your lordship’ll pardon us, no doubt.”

  “I’m not at all hungry, Sir Hugh,” Demelza protested. “Perhaps twould be possible to wait awhile. His lordship was talking about church music, an’ it is a rare instruction I should like to go on with.”

  “Nay, it will wait until another occasion, won’t it, my lord. Church music, ecod! That’s a subject for election night.”

  “A subject for any night,” said Lister, “if you have the disposition to grasp it. There are those, plainly, who have not.” He was going to add something more from between his tight-held lips, but two ladies came up from the direction of the supper room, and there were others approaching. He said to Demelza: “There is also certain Elizabethan music, madam. Byrd and Tallis are names to remember. And—in a lighter and different fashion—Thomas Morley.”

  “I’ll remember them,” she said, and thanked him in her most careful style. Bodrugan was waiting to move away, and the other women now spoke to the judge. But after a moment he turned again to Demelza. There was a faint glimmer of approval in his deep-set eyes as he looked her up and down.

  “I don’t recall your name, madam, or whom I’ve had the pleasure of addressing.”

  “Poldark,” she said, and swallowed. “Mrs. Ross Poldark.”

  “I am obliged to you,” he said, and inclined his head. The name clearly meant nothing to him—yet.

  Chapter Nine

  After dark the streets reached their peak of noise and drunkenness, and Dwight’s first intention was not to go out again. Caroline would be at the ball, but he had no invitation, and in any case no evening clothes. After supper he sat for a while in his bedroom reading a medical book, but the wilful Miss Penvenen and her doings kept intervening. She existed at the corner of his eye, in the depths of his ear, in the back of his mind. He remembered the rustle of her silk dress like something new and heard for the first time, he saw the tip of her tongue once when she licked her lips, he heard her voice, cool and irritating but as unforgettable as a line of music. Eventually he threw the book on the bed and went down to the taproom for a couple of drinks, but it was noisy and overcrowded, so, for lack of something better to do, he decided to stroll up the hill to the tiny hospital, which was under the charge of a Dr. Halliwell. Bodmin was one of the few towns progressive enough to have such an accommodation—mostly, if you were injured, you died in the street or in your own bed—and he thought it might be interesting to compare this tiny provincial establishment with the great institutions which flourished in London.