‘Demelza did?’
‘Yes. She wrote to Lady de Dun – whatever tis now – we always d’call her Basset still.’
‘But what had Demelza to do with it?’
‘Emma went to see her and asked for advice. Then Emma come see me. Then she went back see Demelza, and Demelza say, why not separate for a year, go further away so’s your paths are not always crossing? A year from now, if so be as Emma still wish it and I still wish it, Sister will arrange for us to meet – see how it come out – see if there be any change.’
Sheridan, impatient, thrust his head over Ross’s shoulder and clicked his bit.
Ross said: ‘I hope there will be.’
‘Thank, ee, Brother. I pray for Emma every day. I pray every day for the miracle.’
Ross said: ‘So I have two brothers-in-law crossed in love. I wonder if Drake, too, prays for a miracle.’
Sam looked up sharply, as if that thought had not occurred to him and he found it vaguely shocking.
He said: ‘Well, Brother, tis warming at least to know that you and Sister are so happy wed together. Tis a shining pleasure to me every time I come near your house. Even if tis not gladness in Christ, tis the gladness of two good people knit together in godly and compassionate love.’
‘Thank you, Sam,’ Ross said, and patted Sheridan’s nose and walked off quietly and thoughtfully down the valley.
II
Lights burned in the old parlour but not in the new library. Generally speaking they still tended to live in the old part of the house and to keep the library for ‘best’. Gimlett heard him coming and trotted round the house to take Sheridan.
‘Is the mistress in the parlour?’
‘No, sur, she went out two hours agone.’
‘Out?’
‘Yes, sur.’
He found Jeremy and Clowance in the parlour playing some very untidy game with Betsy Maria Martin, a pretty girl now of sixteen, who always blushed when she saw Ross exactly as her elder sister had done so many years ago.
‘Sorry, sur. Twas supposed to be a game of moving furniture—’
Her explanations were drowned by the noisy welcome the two children gave their father. He swung them up and kissed them and teased them while Betsy hurriedly began to put the chairs and table to rights.
‘Mistress is out, I hear?’
‘Yes, sur. She went soon after dinner.’
‘Did she say where?’
‘No, sur. But twas not riding. I thought she’d be back before dark.’
Ross saw a crumpled note on the mantelshelf. He picked it up and read: ‘My dear Mrs Poldark, It is with grief that I have to tell you . . .’ and at the bottom ‘Frances Gower’. While Clowance bubbled in his ear he thought: Well, she cannot have gone there, not walking. Where could she have gone? Anger welled up in him that was half anxiety.
‘Did she leave a message?’
‘Who, mistress? Nay, but she told Jane to see for the supper.’
‘Did she say she would be back for supper?’
‘I dunno, sur. Not to me she didn’ say nothing.’
After a while he went upstairs to their bedroom. Her blue cloak had gone, nothing else. No scribbled message, as normally there was. He went down again and walked slowly round the outhouses. The two piglets, Ebb and Flow, already grown to substantial size, occupied their own special box next to the horses. But they were still pets and were let out to roam about the yard most days. They greeted him with snorts and snuffles of recognition and he gave them each a chunk of bread he had brought for the purpose. Sheridan, being just fed, was content with a pat and a stroke, as was Swift, though Swift, you could see, was restive for lack of exercise.
In the kitchen Jane Gimlett’s head was over a pot of soup and Ena Daniel was cutting up some leeks. Screams of laughter and bangs on the stairs indicated that Jeremy and Clowance were making a slow way to bed. He went back into the parlour. It was all tidy again, except for a few things the children had dropped. He picked these up and put them in the basket behind the big arm-chair, poured himself a glass of brandy and drank half of it. Then he drew the curtains. A fire was flickering, almost lost in the great hearth, and he shovelled more coal on and watched the smoke balloon up the chimney.
The brandy had gone down like raw spirit, burning deep into his stomach; but it did not touch the other rawness within him. He was conscious of ever growing anger against his wife. There might or might not be good reasons for such anger, but this was not a rational thing. It sprang from deeper and more primitive sources. It seemed to him that all his rawness, all his distress, all his sense of disillusion and frustration and emptiness sprang from her. Together they had had everything and she had flung it all away. Almost without a thought to what she was spoiling and soiling for ever. Demelza, whom he had dragged up and loved and worked for devotedly: a man had come and smiled at her and held her hand and she had weakly, sentimentally and wantonly fallen in love. Almost without a token resistance. From the moment Hugh Armitage set eyes on her she had been ready to melt into his arms. And had made no secret of the fact, even to Ross. ‘Ross,’ she had more or less said, ‘this beautiful young man is after me and I like it. I can’t help it. I’m going to give myself to him. A pity about our home, our children, our happiness, our love, our trust. Such a pity. A shame. Too bad. Goodbye.’
All the rest too, this involvement in parliament, the now unbridgeable and final breach with George, the . . . He swallowed his brandy and poured another.
And now Hugh was dead and now she was gone. Where the hell could she have gone? Perhaps she would not come back. Perhaps it was better that she should not. He could manage the children, Betsy Maria and Jane Gimlett could manage the house. To hell with her. He should have known better than to drag her out of the gutter, make a sham lady of her.
He gulped the second glass. He was strangely tired, an uncommon feeling for him. The day had been exacting in the wrong ways, the farce of the election, the stupid trumpery celebration dinner. He had eaten little at it and now felt hungry, yet had not the stomach to eat. He could be bothered with nothing.
As he finished the second glass of brandy a footstep at the door.
Her face was ashen, her hair blown as if it were windy out. They stared at each other. She dropped her cloak on a chair. It did not catch and slid slowly like a snake to the floor. She looked down at it.
‘Ross,’ she said in a flat voice. ‘I’m sorry. I hoped to be back for you.’
‘Where in hell have you been?’
She bent and picked up her cloak, smoothed it with a slow hand. ‘Have you supped?’
‘No.’
‘I’ll tell Jane.’
‘I don’t want it.’
After a moment she shook her head as if trying to clear it. ‘You know?’
‘About Hugh? Yes. I saw Lord Falmouth in Truro.’
She sat quietly in the chair, cloak on her knees. ‘It was last night.’
‘Yes.’
She put a hand up to either cheek and stared round the room. She might have lost her way.
‘Demelza, where have you been?’
‘What? Now? To – to see Caroline.’
‘Oh . . .’ That somehow did not seem so bad. ‘You walked?’
‘Yes . . . It – it was something to do. The – the exercise did me – it helped.’ Her eyes went to the glass in his hand.
‘You’d best have some of this.’
‘No.’ She shook her head again. ‘I don’t think so. I should only sick it up.’
Outside an owl was hooting in the dark.
He said: ‘It’s a long walk. You’d best have something.’
‘No . . . thank you, Ross. But I went – I went in the wrong shoes. I forgot to change them.’
He saw she was wearing her house slippers. They were badly scuffed and the back of one was broken.
He went to pour himself another brandy.
She said: ‘I went to see Caroline only because – because I thought sh
e would know how I felt, how – how . . . She is so . . .’
‘And did she?’
‘I believe so.’ She shivered.
He poked the fire, coaxing a reluctant blaze from the smoking coal.
‘Did you – have a good day in Truro?’ she asked.
‘So-so.’
‘How did you see Lord Falmouth?’
‘He was at a meeting.’
‘Did he seem upset?’
‘Yes, very.’
‘It’s such a – such a waste.’
‘Perhaps if Dwight had continued . . .’
‘No. At least he said not. Perhaps he was being modest.’
‘Was Dwight there when you talked to Caroline?’
‘Oh, no. Oh, no.’
Ross stared at his wife and then went to the cupboard under the old bookcase – where she had once hidden from her father – and took out a pair of shoes she sometimes used on the beach, canvas and flat and comfortable. He brought them over and she made to take them from him.
‘Look,’ he said roughly, and knelt and took her slippers off, one after the other, and put the other shoes on. Her stockings were holed and her feet were bruised, and stained here and there with blood.
‘You’ll do well to wash them presently,’ he said.
‘Oh, Ross . . .’ She put her hands on his shoulders, but he stood up and her hands fell back to her lap.
He said: ‘The cattle sale was poor. People are trying to get rid of their thin cows for the winter, and no one wants to buy.’
‘Yes . . .’
There was another long silence. She said: ‘The little Treneglos girl came over today – just to call to invite Jeremy to a party. She is badly marked. They have used rotten-apple water but it seems to have done little for her.’
He did not reply.
‘I – had to talk to someone,’ she said, ‘so I went to Caroline. Although she is so different from me I know no one closer, more truly a friend.’
‘Except me.’
‘Oh, Ross.’ She began to cry.
‘Well . . . was it not so? Until this happened, was it not so?’
‘It was so. It is so. You . . . I talk to you always, with nothing between us. No one has ever been so close. Never. But in this—’
‘Until this.’
‘But in this – over this, it is too much to ask – of me – of you. It has to be another woman. And even then . . .’
He said: ‘Well, you have no need to confide in me more than you want. Just say what you want to do – now – tell me what you want, no more, no less.’
‘Want?’ she said. ‘I want nothing.’
‘Nothing?’
‘Nothing more than I have.’
‘Had.’
‘As you please, Ross. It’s just as you say.’
‘No, my dear, it’s just as you say.’
‘Please, Ross, don’t . . .’
‘Stop crying, you fool,’ he said roughly. ‘It solves nothing.’
She wiped her sleeve across her eyes, sniffled and looked at him through a mixture of hair and wet lashes. He could have killed her because he loved her.
She said: ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Leave or stay, just as you wish.’
‘Leave?’ she said. ‘I don’t want to leave. How could I possibly go away from here – from all, all that we have together?’
‘Perhaps you should have thought of it before.’
‘Yes,’ she said, standing up. ‘Perhaps I should.’
He bent again to stab at the fire.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘if you want me to go I will.’
The words rose to his lips to agree that she should leave but they would not come out. They choked in his throat and congealed in a greater anger.
The door came open. Only Clowance stood there. She had become a stout little girl this year. Her great good health and contentment had given her a face with fat cheeks and arms with fat wrists, and the shape of her face was as broad as it was long. Her fair hair curled about her shoulders and a sort of fringe had grown unchallenged and stood out from her forehead. She was wearing a long white flannel nightgown.
She said: ‘Mama! Where you was?’
‘Yes, my love, what is it?’ It was Ross who answered.
‘Mama promised.’
‘What did she promise?’
‘To read me that story.’
‘What story?’
Demelza incautiously raised her head. ‘It was the – I’ve forgot the title – in that book—’
Clowance took one look at her mother’s face and immediately let out a howl of intense anguish. The door from the kitchen opened and Betsy Maria came out.
‘Oh, beg pardon, I didn’t know—’ She picked up the howling Clowance. Demelza had turned quickly and was hiding her face by letting her hair fall about it as she bent over Ross’s glass.
‘Take her up,’ Ross said. ‘Tell her her mother will be up in a few minutes. Stay with her till then. Is Jeremy asleep?’
‘I b’lieve so, sur.’
‘Tell her she’ll come to read the story in a few minutes.’
The door closed.
Demelza wiped her eyes again and gulped some of Ross’s drink. Ross picked up her ruined slippers and dropped them in the children’s basket, took up her cloak a second time, folded it. It was not an instinct of tidiness.
‘Tell me how you feel,’ he said.
‘You mean you don’t want me to leave?’
‘Tell me how you feel.’
‘Oh, Ross, how can I? How dare I?’
‘Indeed. But try.’
‘What have I to say? I never intended. This crept on me unawares. I never thought – you must know I never thought . . . I am so sad. For – for all things.’
‘Yes, well . . . Sit down here a minute and tell me.’
‘What more is there to say?’
‘Tell me what you feel about Hugh.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
She used her sleeve again. ‘How can I say truthfully, when I am not sure myself? I tell you, it came on me unawares. It was the last thing I ever sought. Now my heart feels broken . . . But not in the way – not like at Julia’s death. Now I weep tears, tears, tears, for so much youth and love buried into the ground . . . When Julia died I had no tears. They were internal – like blood. Now – now they stream down my face like rain – like rain that I cannot stop. Oh, Ross, will you not hold me?’
‘Yes,’ he said, doing it.
‘Please hold me and never let me go.’
‘Nor shall I, if you give me the chance.’
‘Not till we die. Ross, I could not live without you . . . These – these are not the tears of a penitent – I may have reason to be penitent – but this is not that. I cry – it sounds silly – I weep for Hugh and – and for myself – and for – for the whole world.’
‘Set some tears aside for me,’ Ross said, ‘for I believe I need them.’
‘Oh, they are all yours,’ she said and then choked completely and clung to him with great shaking sobs.
They sat for a while, crouched in an awkward attitude that neither noticed. Now and then he would free a hand to thrust it impatiently across his own nose and eyes.
After a long time he said: ‘Clowance will be waiting.’
‘I’ll go in a minute. But first I must wash my face.’
‘Drink this.’
She took a second gulp from his glass.
‘You are very good to me, Ross.’
‘Good for you, no doubt.’
‘To me . . . Forgiving . . . But forgetting? I don’t know. Perhaps it’s a mistake to forget. All I know is that I love you. I suppose that’s all that really matters.’
‘It’s what matters to me.’
She shuddered and put a hand to each eye in turn. ‘I’ll wash my face and then go and read, and then if you want you can have a bite of supper.’
‘I think,’ said Ross, ‘I’ll co
me and read a while with you.’
THE FOUR SWANS
The sixth Poldark novel
Winston Graham was the author of forty novels, including The Walking Stick, Angell, Pearl and Little God, Stephanie and Tremor. His books have been widely translated and his famous Poldark series has been developed into two television series shown in twenty-four countries. A special two-hour television programme has been made of his eighth Poldark novel, The Stranger from the Sea, whilst a five-part television serial of his early novel The Forgotten Story won a silver medal at the New York Film Festival. Six of Winston Graham’s books have been filmed for the big screen, the most notable being Marnie, directed by Alfred Hitchcock. Winston Graham was a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature and in 1983 was awarded the OBE. He died in July 2003.
ALSO BY WINSTON GRAHAM
The Poldark series
Ross Poldark • Demelza • Jeremy Poldark • Warleggan •
The Black Moon • The Angry Tide • The Stranger from the Sea •
The Miller’s Dance • The Loving Cup • The Twisted Sword •
Bella Poldark
Night Journey • Cordelia • The Forgotten Story •
The Merciless Ladies • Night Without Stars • Take My Life •
Fortune Is a Woman • The Little Walls • The Sleeping Partner •
Greek Fire • The Tumbled House • Marnie • The Grove of Eagles •
After the Act • The Walking Stick • Angell, Pearl and Little God •
The Japanese Girl (short stories) • Woman in the Mirror •
The Green Flash • Cameo • Stephanie • Tremor
The Spanish Armada • Poldark’s Cornwall •
Memoirs of a Private Man
First published 1976 by William Collins Sons & Co. Ltd
This edition published 2008 by Pan Books
This electronic edition published 2011 by Pan Books
an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited
Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR
Basingstoke and Oxford
The Four Swans Page 49