The Angry Tide

by Winston Graham

  ‘Excuse me, Mama,’ Garlanda said. ‘But Morwenna is feeling faint. If I might take her to her room . . .’

  ‘Of course.’

  The limping, staggering girl was led out, and a silence fell as they heard her retching in the hall.

  ‘And what do you think, Mr Warleggan?’ asked Lady Whitworth. He was the only person in sight to whom she was prepared to defer.

  George stared at her unemotionally, taking in the coarse, heavily powdered skin, the button eyes, the dewlaps. ‘My interest, Lady Whitworth, is purely a contingent one, deriving as you know from my wife’s cousinship. Clearly we shall want to have more details of your son’s debts before we can be sure what is left for his widow and children to live on.’

  ‘Debts?’ said Lady Whitworth, bristling. ‘I doubt if Osborne was a man to incur debts.’

  ‘He had a number of substantial ones when his marriage with Morwenna was arranged.’

  A little wrangle broke out, with Mr Pardow and Amelia Chynoweth involved.

  George thought: Elizabeth is looking older this year; her hair is losing some of its lustre; yet those few extra lines at the side of the eyes have an attraction, give her face more strength and character; she’ll still be beautiful even in ten more years. It’s for her that I sit in this stuffy untidy parlour listening to this hard-faced old sow grunting about her lost, dead piglet. As if I cared for any of them. What I care about is that James Scawen has at last been persuaded to sell me enough of his property in the borough of St Michael and in measurable months I shall own a controlling interest in the borough. Two parliamentary seats. I shall get rid of Howell at once and take his seat next autumn; I shall buy Wilbraham out too, install someone who will do my bidding – who? – must look about me – here or in London – someone like Monk Adderley who cares nothing for how his vote shall go so long as he has a seat and enjoys the privileges. Pity the Warleggan family has bred so sparsely. Sanson is dead and his son a drunkard. Cary’s never married. All Cary will ever marry is an accommodation bill.

  Garlanda returned with news that Morwenna was lying down and the children’s nurse was with her. She’d go up in a few minutes again. George caught sight of his servant in the doorway and flicked his fingers at him.

  ‘We must go, my dear,’ he said to Elizabeth, and rose. ‘I have business to attend to.’

  The meeting broke up with general expressions of concern and affection. Amelia Chynoweth looked with alarm on the imminent departure of the Warleggans, for she saw herself spending the rest of her time here dominated and almost eaten up by Lady Whitworth. Only George’s presence had maintained a sort of balance.

  But there was no stopping them. Off they went, clattering on their fine horses up the hill towards the main road, followed by their groom.

  At the small road-crossing and clearing Elizabeth reined in her horse and looked about. ‘This is where it happened, I believe. There are overhanging branches, but it is strange that so reliable a horse should take fright. I cannot help but feel there was something exceptional.’

  George grunted. ‘For once in his life, perhaps, he was drunk.’

  ‘Where had he been? To see old Mr Pearce?’

  ‘Miss Pearce said he stayed with the old man but twenty minutes. None of the inns or brandy shops had seen him. But does it matter? You were never attached to him. And of late nor was I.’

  ‘It is just – very strange,’ said Elizabeth. ‘I have thought much about it . . . But certainly it was an unhappy marriage . . .’

  ‘Of my arranging,’ said George.

  ‘Well . . . you could not have known.’

  As they went on George thought that one of the great virtues of Elizabeth as a wife was that she never reproached him. She would always close ranks behind him, even if in private she had argued the unwisdom of the course he was taking. He had come more and more to appreciate how unlikely his suspicions had been of her association with Ross Poldark. The poisoned barb inserted by Aunt Agatha with her dying breaths had at last worked its way out. Or almost. Certainly this was a happier marriage than he had ever believed possible two years ago. He had not told her of all his ambitions yet. But he knew she would welcome the return to London, and he knew this time that his extra ambitions were such as would please her. It might be the sort of prize – if and when achieved – to offer a woman on her birthday . . .

  As they clattered through the streets of Truro they passed near St Clement Street, and Elizabeth made some remark about ‘poor Mr Pearce’. George did not reply. Now that Nat Pearce was finally dead Cary would be on the move. Cary on the move was not a pretty sight. Elizabeth had never got on with George’s uncle. They each thought the other ‘a bad influence’ on George. George knew that Elizabeth would disapprove of Cary’s manoeuvrings, and wondered whether to put a stop to them before it was too late. If he could, which was doubtful. Cary had a lot of money of his own in the bank and would be a hard man to turn off course. George and his father might just together, but was it worth the row to prevent Cary from doing, in a not too respectable way, what all three of them would like to do in their hearts – bring down Pascoe and clip Ross Poldark’s wings at the same time?

  His manoeuvrings, Cary’s manoeuvrings, had nearly achieved the first of these objectives in the nationwide crisis of two years ago. Then it had been partly with George’s approval, and it had come to nothing because of last-minute support of Pascoe’s Bank from Basset, Rogers & Co., the other Truro bank, and as a result of that, of the alienation caused by that, the growing co-operation between Basset’s and Warleggan’s had come to a sharp stop, and the discord between George Warleggan and Lord de Dunstanville had begun, setting in motion events which had lost George his seat in Parliament to Ross Poldark.

  A long and tortuous chain of cause and effect. But it showed that Cary’s behaviour could be harmful to the Warleggan good name, and even to Warleggan ambitions. The point was, in this case, would Cary’s manipulations come to light? If they did, they would bring the Warleggan name into some disrepute. Need that happen? Could not all the blame be pinned on Mr Pearce and his misappropriations? It was necessary to be sure of this. George resolved to see his uncle that evening. It was short-sighted for a man of his, George’s position and eminence to allow himself to be seen to be connected with the exercise of dubious financial pressures upon a rival bank.

  They reached the Great House and were handed down by liveried servants who came running out. George followed Elizabeth into the house, watching her kid shoes under the grey velvet skirt, with the occasional lick of white underskirt showing. He turned before he went in and looked out at the leaning walls and crooked roofs of this small town in which he had made his career and begun his fortune. Life was good.

  II

  Jacka Hoblyn had been drinking steadily for two days.

  There had been a terrible scene in his house on Sunday morning when he was told. He had thumped his wife and hit Rosina across the head, as if they were to blame; then he had rampaged off to find Drake and beat the skin off him with his belt. But Drake was nowhere to be found, the blacksmith’s shop empty, the fire in the forge glimmering low, and only one scared young boy of twelve to answer his bellowing questions. Smith Carne had gone. Didn’t know when he’d be back. No one did. No one home. Brother’d been a-searching for him. But Smith Carne had went off last night and not been seen since.

  In his frustration Jacka had kicked over a couple of pails and left, to be met half way home by Art Mullet also seeking Drake. They had turned into Sally Tregothnan’s kiddley and spent the rest of the day drinking there. Like Jacka, Art was for doing something to punish the skunk who had let Rosina down, but how punish him when he was not there? True, his Bible-thumping brother was still about, but even their gin-fuddled sense of justice could not rationalize the beating-up of one man for another’s sins, on the strength of a blood relationship.

  Also, they were annoyed to discover a mixed reaction to the news at Sally Chill-Off’s. Everyone agreed that
Drake had behaved bad, and though one or two reckoned he’d gone off to sniff round that wench in Truro who’d just been newly widowed, others thought he’d changed his mind about Rosina at the last moment and cleared off for a few days while the fuss died away. It was a crying pity it had to be Rosina, who had been so bad let down a few years ago by Charlie Kempthorne: a nicer purtier girl than Rosina never breathed, and she deserved better of life than to have her heart broke twice, poor maid – not that she ever cared for Charlie Kempthorne, they shouldn’t wonder – but . . . but, though she’d been left at the church – or as near as made no difference – no one claimed that Drake had took any advantage of her; which was something to be said these days. All right, Jacka, we know what you d’mean – but there’s advantage and advantage; and though he may have broke his word, no one’s accusing him of having soiled the goods afore he bought them, no one’s accusing him of having a finger in the pie afore it were put on the table. You got to say something for them Carne brothers, they be open and above board in all that they do do.

  ‘’Bove board!’ said Jacka. ‘I’ll splinter him like a board if so be as I ever lay hands ’pon him!’

  There were some, of course, who took Jacka’s side more openly, but it was not at all unanimous. Demelza’s fear that her brothers were regarded as strangers was true enough, and they would be till they died – five miles was the absolute outside radius of ‘belonging’ – but that they were her brothers and therefore Ross Poldark’s brothers-in-law carried much weight. If they had been unpleasant, grasping, contentious characters this would have been quite a different matter; Poldark or no Poldark they would have been soon shut out. But no one in his right mind could accuse them of any of these things. It so happened unfortunately that one of them had just let a nice good girl down. The tendency of the majority was to mutter and say, well, well, twas all a great, great pity.

  By Monday Art Mullet’s anger had also lost its edge. He had his goats to tend and his nets to see to. Couldn’t spend all day and every day breathing threats over a gin. But Jacka’s resentment was fed by his drink, which again needed more drink to appease it. As night came on he went into a kiddley at the top of Sawle Combe, known as Doctor’s, and found in there Tom Harry and Dick Kent, both gamekeepers from Trenwith. The Warleggan men were generally unpopular, Tom Harry and Dick Kent being particularly disliked, and none of them ever ventured into Sally Chill-Off’s, where their reception would not have been kindly. Doctor’s, however, run by a mouse-faced man called Warne, was not so particular, and over the last few years it had become the drinking place for the Trenwith men when they had time off.

  Jacka Hoblyn had now reached the stage beyond ordinary drunkenness where he had become sober again, waveringly, grimly, soakingly sober; and he took no notice of the company and retreated with his drink to a stool in the corner. Tom Harry nudged Dick Kent and went over to Jacka, sat down on the next bench and began to talk. Kent was beckoned to join them.

  Here at last Jacka found a full and understanding sympathy. He didn’t normally like these men any better than his friends did; but he realized he had misjudged them. They saw Drake as he saw him, as a coward, a liar, a deceiver and as a casual breaker of innocent hearts. A man who cared nothing for his promises, a stinking fitcher, a cheating finaiging villain, a worm not worthy to be left to crawl on the earth, a disgrace to the name of Sawle. A disgrace to the name of Hoblyn.

  ‘If I had my way,’ said Jacka, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, ‘I’d beat the life out of him. With a whip. With a horsewhip. I’d do him, I can tell ee that, and that’s for certain!’

  ‘’E’s back,’ said Tom Harry.

  ‘Back? When? Where? I never seen him! Where’s he to?’

  ‘Back at his forge, I ’eard tell,’ said Tom. ‘Not ’s I’ve seen ’im, mind. But I ’eard tell. Edn that so, Dick?’

  ‘Well . . . I dunno,’ said Kent. ‘Did ee hear that, Tom? Ah . . . Well, mebbe . . . Ais, I reckon.’

  Presently the three men left the kiddley and tramped off towards Pally’s Shop. It was a long, steep descent, with one or two lights winking in St Ann’s on the other hill. No light at Drake’s. As they got down Tom Harry went up to the door and hammered on it. No reply.

  Jacka spat. ‘Forge’s out. There’s no one here.’

  ‘Reckon I ’eard tell he were. Maybe ’e’s skulkin’ indoors afeared to show ’is face. Eh, Jacka? Eh, Jacka? Let’s go’n see.’

  The door to the house was locked, but it was a flimsy lock and burst at their third shove. They lumbered in, Jacka first, stumbling over a chair and cursing.

  ‘Gor damme, tes black as a tinker’s sack. If I had my way—’

  ‘Are ee thur?’ shouted Tom Harry. ‘Come out, Drake Carne! We want t’ave word with ee! Come out, you.’

  They stumbled in the dark again, and then Dick Kent struck flint on tinder and they lit a candle. The simple kitchen showed up, some bread on the table; a leg of rabbit beginning to mould. A jug of water, a tin mug full of tea. Harry gave the table a kick, overturning it with a mighty clatter.

  ‘’Ere, ’ere,’ said Kent nervously. ‘Folk’ll think there’s a war.’

  ‘So there es,’ said Jacka, glowering round like a bull goaded by flags and not sure which way to charge. ‘But the damned skunk bain’t here to fight.’

  ‘Well, we can spoil ’is love nest!’ said Tom Harry, shouting from the tiny parlour a few steps up. ‘’And me that candle, Dick!’

  ‘’Ere, ’ere, take care what you’m doing! Tes dangerous wi’ that flame!’

  ‘I’d burn un to ground,’ said Jacka through his broken teeth, swaying. ‘By God, I’d burn un to ground, so I would.’

  ‘Les do ’im,’ said Tom Harry. ‘Tes no sort of trouble ’tall. Les do ’im, then. Come on, Jacka, you be the one to think on it. Les see if your bite’s so good as your bark!’

  The candle wavered and guttered as it was put into Jacka’s hand. He cursed as the hot grease ran over his fingers. Shadows ducked and dipped about the room, and then he thrust the candle at one of the cheap curtains. It caught quickly, went out, caught again.

  ‘’Ere, I’m ’avin’ none o’ this!’ said Kent. ‘Ye can leave me out o’ this. Tedn going to be none o’ my business!’ He stumbled out of the house.

  Jacka was staring at the licking flame, half scared, half defiant.

  ‘Now, then,’ said Tom Harry. ‘Make a job of ’im. Finish ’im off. Down wi’ skunks and cheats and liars. Eh, Jacka? Eh?’ He thrust a cloth at the other man, and when the candle nearly fell he steadied it with his other hand until the cloth had caught alight. Then he carried it up to the small parlour and laid it where it would lick planking below the thatch.

  They stayed another couple of minutes, making sure it caught. Dick Kent had already gone. Then they stumbled out after him and climbed the hill towards Sawle. At the top of the hill they sat down, panting for breath. Looking back, they could see that Pally’s Shop was no longer quite in darkness. A yellow glow was rising and falling in one of the windows. They thought it better not to stop and watch for more.

  III

  Morwenna first saw Drake on the Tuesday afternoon. She had been ill all night, living with and trying to escape from monstrous nightmares. Ossie was constantly beside her bed in his winding sheet. ‘Let us first say a little prayer,’ he kept urging her. ‘Let us sow in corruption, let us be as the beasts of Ephesus, let us indulge in evil communication; the first man Adam was made a living soul, the last man Adam was made a quickening spirit; but let us quicken the flesh by the indulgence of flesh! Come, Morwenna, let us say a little prayer, and then you shall show me your feet . . .’ Twice she had found herself out of bed and trying to find a door that did not exist in a wall that bricked her in with the living corpse of Ossie. Twice she was sick with fright and fear. As day came Garlanda had crept in from her own room and shared her bed. It was Garlanda who finally prevailed on her to get up and face the intolerable day.

  Drake came in
through the french doors that had blown ajar, dripping out of the rain.

  ‘Drake!’ she said, her voice breaking.

  ‘Morwenna!’

  She stared at him, wide-eyed, wild-eyed, scared, scared of him, scared of what he stood for. After a moment he made a move towards her. She shrank back.

  ‘Don’t . . .’

  ‘Morwenna. I been here – here and around ever since Sunday. I tried to see ee but there was always folk about—’

  ‘Drake,’ she said. ‘Don’t . . .’

  ‘Don’t what?’ He picked the wet hair off his forehead.

  ‘Touch me. Come near me. I – I can’t bear it!’

  ‘My dear, I know how ee must feel—’

  ‘Do you?’ She laughed harshly. ‘No, you don’t! Nobody does. Nobody does. All I know is that what has happened to me has con-con-contaminated me. I’m not for you. Not for anyone. Ever again.’

  ‘My dear—’

  ‘Keep away!’ She shrank as he made another half movement. ‘And please go!’

  He stared at her, and she looked back at him wildly, with wild hostility in her eyes. He could not believe what he saw. She was a stranger and she was looking at him as if he were an enemy.

  ‘I came,’ he said, stumbling now with his words, cold dread in his heart where minutes ago there had been nothing but high hope. ‘I came so soon as ever I heard. A – man told me Saturday morning. I went to see Mr Odgers to see if twas the truth. I’m sorry – was sorry that it happened; but when I knew you – when I knew you must be on your own I dropped everything and came.’ He put a hand again to his hair, trying to straighten it. ‘I – been sleeping rough, Morwenna, so you’ll – I beg ee to excuse how I d’look. I’ve tried to see ee alone every day but there’s been so many folk . . . I thought I – could help. Perhaps – later – if so be as you’re still too upset . . . I can come back.’