The Stranger from the Sea: A Novel of Cornwall, 1810-1811

by Winston Graham

  ‘What was there to explain?’

  ‘You know what there was to explain. Look, Clowance, I thought you were an honest girl…’

  The sand here was pitted, ridged and corrugated just below the afternoon high-tide mark. Clowance frowned and patted some of the ridges flat with her foot, then went on.

  He said: ‘I explained to Jeremy. I didn’t like to break in on you that night, that first night I came back, with me not knowing your father. And when I came to the bonfire you were chatting and laughing all the time with that fellow Carter. And looking at him. And looking at him … So I went to go home, back to Will Nanfan’s to get an early night, and I just met Violet Kellow. She was mad to see the bonfire, though she’d got a fever and a cough on her that would have affrighted most girls. She was gay, hectic-like, headstrong. I felt sorry for her. I went along with her. She’s a lively girl and pretty in her way. But she means naught to me. No more that that stone, there! You’re the one I care about!’

  Clowance did not like the picture she was presenting to herself, of a jealous girl stalking away, head held high, while the man followed. Yet to stop and have it out with him here on the beach was impossible.

  She did stop.

  ‘You ask me to believe that story!’

  ‘It’s God’s truth!’

  ‘And you expect me to care?’

  ‘Well, of course you care, otherwise you’d not be angry! If it didn’t matter twopence to you who you saw me with you’d – you’d just show you didn’t care. You’d just be as friendly as when I left. Don’t you see, you give yourself away?’

  Clowance stared back at the lanterns being lit now about the mine. They flickered and winked against the cliff and the darkening sky. She looked towards them and drew comfort from them. They represented calmness, normality, friendship, an absence of pain. Similarly in the house ahead, her mother and father and sister were sitting down to supper. A known and loving family; no conflict, no distress. Between them here she was with this man, in a situation where cross-currents of emotion could sweep her off her feet. As if the tide had risen and was racing in. All sorts of anguish gripped her. Yet it was not all anguish or she would have turned and gone. She wanted at the same time to hurt him and to heal him.

  Her own hurt was so strong. She said: ‘All right, Stephen, I do care. You do mean something to me. How much I don’t yet know. But something, yes. You tell me I mean something to you –’

  ‘Everything.’ He took a step towards her but she backed away.

  ‘You say you care for me. Whatever your story about meeting Violet Kellow – whatever is the truth of it – it is not the way I should have behaved. If I cared – if I cared for you, and was coming back after a long absence and had not yet seen you, d’you think I should have gone off with the first man I met and spent all the dark of the night walking with him – on beaches and in graveyards? D’you think I should have shown how much I cared by doing something like that!’ Her anger rose as she spoke, struggling to express the fierce, bitter distress in her heart.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘No. You’re certain right. And I’m sorry, sorry. And maybe I don’t deserve anything better than the cold shoulder. But I assure you, twas not meant that way. I – I do things on impulse, like, on the spur of the moment. She came out, and I said “Hallo, Miss Violet,” and then I was saddled.’

  ‘Was she saddled too?’ Clowance asked, surprising herself.

  ‘Now, now, you don’t want to think anything like that! I was no more’n friendly! Why, curse it, a sick girl, you couldn’t lay hands on her! It wouldn’t have been fair…’ Having heard whispers about Miss Kellow, Clowance doubted this reassurance. Indeed, she was not sure about something in his voice which, because it was too soothing, abraded her sharp senses. Unfortunately for her cooler judgment, his close presence had a trancing quality that undermined reason. His teeth were good but there was one broken eye tooth which always caught her attention when he smiled. His hands were short-fingered and strong but not big, the nails cut close, kept clean in spite of his labouring work. His throat above the open neck of his shirt was columnar. The tawny hair curled about his ears like fine gold wire. The high cheekbones, firm warm mouth above a cleft chin; the blue-grey eyes, almost the colour of her father’s but more open, the experience in that face, reflecting so much that he had seen and done, together with her knowledge that he desired her …

  ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘it is all so petty … A petty quarrel over a petty adventure. I am not only angry with you but ashamed for myself. Let us leave it for a time. If you are staying…’

  ‘Gladly, me love. Gladly I’ll leave it, and, more than that, I’ll forget it…’

  He put his hands on her shoulders and drew her to him, kissed her, his lips moving sensuously over hers.

  ‘You know there’s no one but you – could never be anyone but you…’

  ‘Why should I know that?’

  ‘Because I tell you so. Don’t you feel it to be so?’

  He put his hand to the bow at the neck of her frock. She slapped his face.

  He drew back, putting the back of his hand across his cheek. It had all been too fast, he saw that now, and cursed himself for making a wrong move. But his own temper was roused.

  He said: ‘That’s something more for me to forget, eh? You’ve got strong arms, Miss Clowance.’

  ‘I’m sorry if it is different with other ladies you have known. Do none of them have a mind of their own?’ He took his hand away and looked at the back of it, as if expecting blood.

  ‘Strong arms … One day, Miss Clowance, I’ll kiss them. And bite them. And lick them. That is, when you belong to me. When we belong to each other. I think it will happen. Don’t you?’

  He turned and left her, stalking silently and angrily away over the sand. She watched him until he disappeared.

  While they had been talking the twilight had faded and it was dark.

  Chapter Seven

  I

  Bereft of their womenfolk for three weeks, the Poldark household went along much as usual. The summer was a fair one and the wheat and the oats were cut early. Hay was ricked. Potatoes were drawn and stored. The apples and the pears and the quinces were filling and ripening. Turf and furze was cut and stacked for the winter. Altogether a poor time of year to be away from the farm – not to mention the hollyhocks – and Demelza had almost cried off at the last moment.

  ‘No,’ said Ross. ‘This is the time to test the training you have given ’em. Everyone depends too much on you for the ultimate decision; and much more beside. Let ’em do it by themselves for once. And if the worst comes to the worst I shall be here to make sure the roof does not fall in.’

  ‘Really it is two hands short. Clowance is as busy as I am in the summer.’

  ‘All the more reason for you both to take a holiday.’

  Demelza thought of the two trunks lying packed upstairs. ‘And we have spent so much! It doesn’t seem right – just for two weeks – when we are no longer so well off as we used to be.’

  ‘No, it’s a disgrace,’ said Ross.

  She eyed him carefully. ‘But you told us to!’

  ‘Would you have your daughter go into society dressed like a balmaiden? And as for you – could you possibly be allowed to look like a poor relation?’

  ‘… The more reason for me not to go.’

  ‘Anyway, Caroline has lent you both so much. Shawls, fans, reticules, favours.’

  ‘And a veil, a parasol, a French watch, a capuchin cloak, a turban bonnet. That is quite disgraceful, what we have borrowed from her! Her drawers and cupboards must be empty!’

  ‘She has enjoyed doing it. You know that. She is taking a vicarious pleasure in the whole trip. You must both try to enjoy it for her sake, if not for mine.’

  ‘Oh, we’ll try,’ said Demelza. ‘I promise we’ll try.’

  With both the women gone and only little Isabella-Rose to lighten their way Ross had more time alone with Jeremy. His son was out a
nd about early and late, full of energy and enterprise, riding here and there on matters to do with Wheal Leisure; but it was all powered by some other fuel than the high spirits with which it had begun. Several times he thought to tell Jeremy of his conversation with John Treneglos riding home on the afternoon of Midsummer Day. But he felt it might seem that he was trying further to blacken the Trevanions and by implication Cuby in Jeremy’s eyes. He remembered once as an eighteen-year-old boy when he had fallen in love for the first time, with a young girl from Tregony, that his father had tried to give him a bit of sage advice and how utterly he had hated it. Even his father mentioning the girl’s name was like a foot bruising a lily. The very words destroyed the delicacy of the relationship they were offering counsel on.

  Not, of course, that his father had been the most tactful of men. But was he? It seemed that he was out of step with Jeremy all along the line. And didn’t all young persons resent their parents’ involving themselves, even merely interesting themselves, in their love-affairs? Particularly a broken one.

  Out of step with Jeremy? It still was so somehow, in spite of the decision to open the mine together. Nothing overt, certainly. Their day-to-day contacts were frequent now and not unfriendly. Ross had said nothing about the fishing trips, feeling it was Jeremy’s responsibility to tell him. Jeremy still said nothing. Perhaps he intended never to say anything. Did he not suppose that Ross would be curious as to how he had acquired so much knowledge? And why the subterfuge, for God’s sake? Were his father and mother ogres that he had to do this all by stealth? Or fools, to be so ignored?

  Yet was this not the time, now, while they shared the house more or less alone, to have it out, to find out what was behind it all?

  After supper on the first Tuesday Jeremy gave him an opportunity of a sort by making a passing reference to Caerhays.

  Ross said: ‘Horrie’s father was rather in his cups the day we rode home from signing the agreement. I mentioned the name of Trevanion to him, saying you’d been over there, and he began to talk about them. Did you know they were related?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The Trenegloses and the Trevanions.’

  ‘No.’

  So Ross repeated most of what had passed. When he had finished – and what was to be said could be said quite briefly – he waited, but Jeremy did not comment. His face expressionless, he helped himself to a glass of port.

  ‘I thought you should know,’ Ross said. ‘For what good it is … This perhaps makes Major Trevanion’s attitude more understandable – if no more admirable … I should have guessed something of the sort.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, money counts everywhere these days, particularly among the landed gentry of Cornwall, where by and large there is so little of it. Family is a consideration but fortune is a much greater one. It’s the more regrettable in this case that people with so much property as the Trevanions should be in such a plight. It is not ill-fortune that has beset them but overweening pride, the pretentiousness of one man in building such a place.’

  ‘You say it makes Trevanion’s attitude more understandable. I don’t think it does Cuby’s.’ A rictus of pain crossed Jeremy’s face as he spoke the name. But at least he had spoken it, seemed prepared to discuss the matter.

  ‘Trevanion’s much older than she is. Eleven or twelve years, is it? For long enough he must have taken the place of her father. If her mother agrees with him it would be difficult for a gently-born girl to go against their wishes.’

  Jeremy gulped his port. ‘You haven’t met her, Father…’

  ‘No,’ said Ross peaceably. ‘Of course not.’

  Jeremy poured out a second glass and looked across the table. Ross nodded and the port bottle came into his hand. There was a long silence, not a very friendly one.

  ‘In what way should I revise my opinion?’

  Jeremy said reluctantly: ‘Oh, I don’t know…’

  ‘She’s very young, isn’t she?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Doesn’t that have a bearing?’

  ‘She’s young, but I do not believe she would be persuaded – even brow-beaten – into accepting their plans for her … unless she were willing.’

  ‘She has an elder sister?’

  ‘Yes. A sweet girl.’

  ‘I mean…’

  ‘I know what you mean, Father. But Clemency’s very plain. I don’t think she would attract rich men.’

  ‘Even Cuby yet may not,’ Ross said. ‘However pretty and charming. Pray don’t take that wrong. But there’s a great dearth of young men in the county – or even old men – with large fortunes. Remember it is usually the other way round – the men who are the fortune-seekers. Trevanion will have to find someone not only with a considerable fortune but also willing to lend a substantial part of it to him, or to take over the house, or make some such arrangement. It won’t be easy.’

  Jeremy finished his port again. ‘Are you trying to comfort me?’

  There was anger in his voice, sarcasm.

  ‘Well, it may be that now we know the true objection we can at least assay the situation afresh.’

  ‘Find me a fortune and all will be well.’

  ‘Ah, there’s the rub.’

  ‘But will it be well? If I went to India and came back a rich man, should I be enchanted to marry a girl who was marrying me only because I was the highest bidder?’

  After a moment Ross said: ‘You must not think too harshly too soon. As I said, there are family pressures, even on the strongest-minded of young girls. And it remains a fact that she is not married to anyone else yet, nor in any way attached. The best laid plans…’

  Jeremy got up from the table and walked to the open Swindow where the plum purple of the night was stained by the lantern shafts of Wheal Grace. A moth batted its way into the room, flying drunkenly from one obstacle to another.

  ‘But I do think harshly.’

  ‘Not more so, surely?’

  ‘Yes, more so.’

  ‘Then I’m sorry I told you … I think you’re wrong, Jeremy.’

  ‘You’re entitled to your view, Father.’

  ‘Of course.’

  There was another taut silence. Ross was determined not to let Jeremy’s anger affect him.

  ‘There may even be a change in Trevanion’s fortunes.’ The moth had reached the candle and, having singed itself, lay fluttering on the table, beating one wing and trying to become airborne again.

  ‘And now,’ Jeremy said, ‘I think I will go to bed.’

  Ross watched him cross the room, pick up an open book, find a spill to use as a bookmark. This was probably as unpropitious a moment as there could be for going on to the other subject, yet he chose to do so.

  ‘Perhaps you will spare me a moment longer.’

  ‘Father, I’m not in a mood to discuss this any more.’

  ‘No. Nor I. It’s essentially your own affair, and I mentioned it only because I thought you ought to know what John Treneglos had said. Something else.’

  ‘We’ve both had a long day…’

  ‘That day I was talking to John Treneglos he said something more to me. He said that these fishing trips you have been taking for so long were all a mask, a deception as it were for other ends. Those ends being regular visits to Harvey’s of Hayle to learn the practical side of engineering and the properties and potentials of high-pressure steam.’

  Jeremy put the book down again, closing it over the spill.

  ‘Is it true?’ Ross said.

  ‘Yes, that’s true.’

  ‘What was the particular object in the subterfuge?’

  ‘Does it matter?

  ‘Yes. I think it does.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it seems you have gone out of your way to hide this from me all along. And from your mother too. Your study of the theory of steam and steam engines, the books you’ve read, the letters you’ve written and received – and more particularly, the practical experience you’ve been
gaining. You even told Dwight not to mention the books he was lending you. Don’t you think I’m entitled to an explanation?’

  Jeremy was a long time before he spoke again. ‘You thought all such experimentation dangerous,’ he muttered.

  ‘When? Did I say so?’

  ‘Yes. And you have never believed in the possibilities of strong steam.’

  ‘I don’t yet know what the possibilities are. Perhaps no one does. Certainly there are dangers.’

  ‘So, when I showed an interest you told me to keep away from it.’

  ‘Did I? … Yes.’ With the corner of his spoon Ross lifted the moth, and it began to flutter around again. ‘Yes, on recollection, I did. So you thought, what the eye does not see, the heart does not grieve. Is that it?’

  ‘I had not thought of it in perhaps those disagreeable terms. But yes.’

  ‘I suppose you realize it has put me in a false position?’

  ‘I hadn’t realized, no.’

  ‘Well, as you’ve grown up, come to manhood, you have seemed to me to have too little purpose … interest, direction.’

  ‘Does Mother feel the same?’

  ‘Should she not? Of course your mother – like most mothers – tends to see only the best. I tried to. I told myself I was expecting too much too soon. But sometimes your way of treating things came to irritate me. In spite of efforts to the contrary. You may have noticed.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sometimes I have shown – or at least felt – less than admirable patience with what you have had to say. I don’t think I’m altogether deficient in a sense of humour … but this – this aimless flippancy…’

  ‘It’s just a different sort of humour,’ Jeremy said.

  ‘Maybe. But you see, however flippant, it wouldn’t have seemed aimless if … I find my judgments – opinions of you – call them what you will – were built on wrong information – or rather lack of information. Few things are more galling than to feel one has been … made a monkey of.’

  ‘I see what you mean. If it’s my fault I’m sorry.’

  ‘Perhaps it does not matter that you don’t sound it.’