By the time they had stabled their horses St Mary’s church was nearly full, for the ordinary populace were allowed in at the back, but they found two seats together and knelt in prayer. Ross wondered if either of them was really saying anything: Dwight, he thought, had perhaps more faith than he had, but neither of them had much room for orthodoxy, particularly in the person of the Reverend Dr Halse, who was to preach the sermon. Ross knew plenty of clerics who were admirable men, but the two who had occupied the Truro livings were two of his aversions. Even this hard-visaged, ambitious man was to be preferred to the late vicar of St Margaret’s. Ross wondered if there were pluralities in Heaven; if so Ossie had by now no doubt put in an application.
Dr Halse chose as his text Job, Chapter 7, verse 13: ‘My bed shall comfort me, my couch shall ease my complaint,’ and proceeded to wring the withers of his audience by describing the conditions that the new hospital was designed to alleviate. ‘It is beyond the power of language,’ he went on, ‘to describe a more afflicting scene of human misery than that which too often presents itself in the wretched hand of some indigent creature who lies languishing on the hard and uneasy pallet of sickness and drags out his wearisome life, either wasted by slow and intermittent fevers or racked by excruciating pains, or writhing under the anguish of festering wounds – devoid of all medical skill and assistance, wanting even the necessaries of life, much more the comforts; unfriended, unaided, unpitied; they feel the pinching gripe of poverty under its most frightful form, and at last expire with the heartrending reflection that a wife and helpless children, now robbed of their only prop, are left heirs to this misery, destined in due time for a similar fate! And will justice, will gratitude, will any consideration that ought to influence social beings, suffer us to be careless spectators of such pitiable distress?’
It was splendid powerful stuff, and Ross, who disliked the old man for his harshness, acknowledged that on occasion he could pull out the right stops. It was the sort of things that would go well in the House.
But, he wondered, were these exactly the right stops? To be good to the poor, to be benevolent to the poor, to be generous to the poor, to build them a fine new hospital where they might be treated free under the most modern conditions: all these were admirable aims and deserving of high commendation. Now abideth Faith, Hope and Charity, and the greatest of these is Charity. But what about Hope? All these people gathered here today were kindly people bent on alleviating distress. But how many thought of trying to prevent the distress? Not to give money to the poor but to create conditions in which the poor could earn money for themselves. Was that asking something altogether different?
In the congregation, listening to this powerful sermon, it so happened that there were three Chynoweths, though all now bore different names, and for other and more personal reasons they sat in different parts of the church. Elizabeth Warleggan was in the front row with her husband. On the left side of the main aisle, towards the back, Rowella Solway also sat beside her husband. Her bruised and beaten face and body had not quite healed, and except for a missing tooth which only showed when she smiled broadly – a rare occurrence – she looked as good as new. Hers was always a difficult face to read, and had been more so of late; but Arthur’s discovery of her perfidy, and his utterly violent reaction, seemed to have cowed her, to have made her realize the error of her ways. Indeed, once she had finally decided to speak to him again, once she had forgiven him for the terrible assault upon her inviolate body, she had assumed her old intellectual supremacy – without claiming as yet a return to a moral one. Once in the night – two weeks after that terrible night – when there had been the first shift towards a reconciliation between them, she had explained to him the evil way in which Mr Whitworth had first seduced her while she was living at the vicarage and had drawn a graphic picture of the way in which he had since pestered her – almost blackmailed her – into resuming their association. All the same, Rowella had ardently declared, it was only Arthur’s neglect of her, his physical neglect of her, his failure to be a husband to her in the most absolute sense, that had finally driven her to give way. Arthur was flabbergasted, angry over again, and as ardent in his own declaration that, far from lacking in the physical and sensuous virtues, he had often restrained himself out of consideration for her. Since then he had done much better. Sometimes these days, he had to admit, he found the long hours at the library more tiring; but recently he had been taking a medicine called Balsamic Corroborant or Restorer of Nature, and it had benefited him a great deal.
Neither of them after that time ever referred to Osborne Whitworth or to his untimely death. The carved stave found beside the clergyman’s body might, Rowella thought, be not dissimilar to the one that had disappeared from their kitchen; but she did not ask to see it, nor to see the constables who were conducting the inquiry. Although she thought her husband’s brutality towards her outrageous, she appreciated that it was not altogether without provocation, and, once in a while, as the incidents receded and became part of the past, she allowed herself to warm towards him for the unexpected violence of which he had found himself capable. He was after all a man of passion, carefully though he generally hid it.
The third Chynoweth, who had been widowed by that same carved stave, was in church on the other side with her pachydermatous mother-in-law. She was equally inscrutable, but whereas no one had ever known precisely what Rowella was thinking since she was old enough to think at all, Morwenna in her teens had been as open as the day, warm in immediate response, ingenuous and impulsive; and only life since her marriage had altered her nature. Now her eyes were no mirror of her soul; they were filmed, vacant, uninterested. The quicksilver had come off the back of the mirror. Since Mr Whitworth’s death she had become completely dominated by her mother-in-law. She did what she was told, listlessly but obediently, as she had come to this service today. It mattered not. Only one thing mattered. Mr Whitworth’s return to her room that last month had not been without result. She was again with child. Another little Ossie was on the way.
II
After the service was over, the general congregation dispersed, but the governors and subscribers were to attend a dinner at the Red Lion Inn, which was to begin at 3.30. Dwight said he could not stay, and Ross was for going too, but Basset had so far given him no indication of any banking decision and he felt he must remain. So Dwight changed his mind and stayed with his friend. It was fortunate he did, for he was placed next to Elizabeth, with Ross opposite but one place down, and George on Elizabeth’s right, almost within speaking distance. Ross had Miss Cathleen Basset, Lord de Dunstanville’s sister, on one side and a man called Robert Gwatkin on the other. However, in doing justice to all the dishes served, and in having to talk above the hubbub of voices, there was little time for enmity or constraint, and the meal passed well enough. The difficulty came at half past five when the ladies – what there were of them – retired, leaving gaps, which here and there men moved to fill, and the port and brandy went round and now and then brief silences fell as the wine circulated and was poured, and repletion halted talk.
In one of these pauses Gwatkin said: ‘I hear you’re returning to politics, Mr Warleggan.’ It was difficult to tell, in the present company, whether the remark was mischievous or innocent.
George turned his head an inch or so. ‘I shall represent St Michael when Parliament reassembles.’
‘Has Wilbraham resigned, then?’
‘No, Howell.’
‘I hadn’t heard.’
‘It has not occurred yet.’
Gwatkin circled his brandy in the glass. ‘It’s good to know more local gentry are to represent us. Too often folk are nominated and sit in our name when they know nothing of Cornish needs.’
‘I believe these pocket boroughs are very expensive to maintain,’ said the man on Gwatkin’s other side. ‘Tisn’t just the expense of buying ’em, sir; the voters band themselves together and demand this, that and the other before they’ll elect yo
ur man. Then, bi God, if you’re not careful there’s an appeal to the Commons and you have your election made void because of bribery!’
‘ – What Burke said,’ a voice came across the table, cutting their exchange. ‘What Burke said, sir! He said that Republicanism in France will be killed by a popular general’s sword! And it may not be long afore that happens. Now Buonaparte’s failed at Acre he’ll not be content to stay long in Egypt. There’s matters in France he’ll want to attend to!’
‘To say nothing of attending to Josephine,’ came the reply. There was a general laugh.
‘ – But the Presbyterians are all in Belfast,’ came another fragment. ‘And they’re republicans to a man. And the reason they keep the Catholics down is not because the latter are heretics but because they support despotism!’
‘The Ulster men are not republican in a French way—’
‘I never said that – I never said that. But they don’t like being under the English heel and they don’t like corruption in politics. No taxation without representation is their cry. And we know where that came from!’
Gwatkin said: ‘And you, Captain Poldark, how have you enjoyed your first year at Westminster?’
‘Enjoyed,’ Ross said slowly. ‘That is not an appropriate word. I think I have learned a little. Yawned a little. Thought I was of use and then thought again.’
‘Do you find it corrupt?’
‘What is not?’
‘Oh dear! This cynicism, sir!’
‘Politics are of their nature unclean,’ said the other man.
Ross drained his glass, dabbed his lips. ‘I don’t know that there is much to choose between politics and other forms of power. Westminster has everything, from the highest ideals to the lowest. What has this town got except the same? In lesser quantity but not in lesser degree.’
‘Well, sir, if you refer to politics here—’
‘Politics or business. I was thinking then of business.’
‘ – three million of ’em,’ said a voice. ‘I tell you, sir, there are three million Catholics in Ireland, or nigh on that, and all but a small favoured minority, all reduced lower than the beasts in the field!’
‘Heretics to a man!’
‘Oh, yes, agreed, but I tell you there’s not a negro in the West Indies who has not more to eat in a day than some of those people in a week.’
‘That could be said of English labourers. You don’t need to go overseas.’ This was Ralph-Allen Daniell. ‘The war has brought the extremest poverty, so that many a man has to choose between crime and starvation.’
‘Oh dear,’ said the first man, ‘now I do not know whether we speak sedition or patriotism!’
Gwatkin said to Ross: ‘You talk of business in the town, sir? Do you suppose it to be corrupt? And if so, in what way?’
Ross hesitated, accepted the port decanter as it was passed round, helped himself and handed it on to Dwight. ‘This bank failure which has occurred. It was not a failure caused by any improvidence on the bank’s part but was induced from outside by corrupt power, corruptly employed. Creatures usually hidden under stones emerged to bring this about. Venom is attributed to snakes; but human venom when evidenced in this way makes the rattlesnake seem as blameless as a blind worm.’
Ross felt the warning pressure of Dwight’s foot as Dwight handed the port across the empty space to George. Gwatkin was looking startled.
‘I live a little out of town and therefore am perhaps out of touch. But I don’t understand. Whom are you referring to?’
‘ – But he was murdered!’ said a voice. ‘Quite clearly, in my opinion. A sedate and sober young cleric like Whitworth! He could never have come off his horse unaided! And a stick in the clearing and a torn cloak! . . . All the same I’m not sure I agree with you, Daniell, on the causes for the increase in crime. I believe much of it would cease if more of the rogues were strung up!’
‘I feel sorry for the young widow. She’s pretty enough, but I doubt she’ll find a husband again with three children to rear and little money to recommend her.’
‘There’s money in the family – his family – though I imagine tis well tied up.’
With an effort Ross said: ‘I refer to those amongst us on whom the obloquy rests. If you do not know their names, Mr Gwatkin, I suggest you ask among the traders of this town; and they will tell you – unless they should be too afraid lest lying anonymous letters may be circulated about them.’
George Warleggan said: ‘Egad, it all seems to me very much a storm in a tea-cup. This trying to find scapegoats for a perfectly normal business failure. I appreciate your loyalty to a friend, Ross; but as often happens with you, it has blinded you to the facts.’ He yawned, putting a hand back to his mouth. ‘And the facts are Harris Pascoe was a silly old man who had no business to have charge of large sums of money belonging to others. If he had ever been capable of it he was long past it, for he allowed Nat Pearce to embezzle large sums of trust money that—’
‘You lie,’ said Ross.
There was a moment’s pause. Fortunately few had heard, for other talk was still proceeding. But before George could reply or Ross could say more a manservant coughed – and coughed again – behind them.
‘Begging your pardon, sirs. Dr Enys, sir. Begging your pardon, Mr Warleggan.’
George whirled round and stared at him. ‘What is it?’
‘Begging your pardon, sir. It’s Mrs Warleggan. She’s fainted.’
III
A month passed. Summer light flowed in the sky, and the hay at last was got in. Here and there a few fields still stood and waited, cut and stooked round the edges but not yet to the centre, so that they looked like embroidered handkerchiefs. Seagulls called, standing on gateposts, or walked in the fields like ungainly aldermen, the wind ruffling their tail coats. Summer clouds drifted like bruises across the sky.
The French were reeling back everywhere. The Austrians, with a re-constituted army, had defeated them at Magnano, and now came word that the Russians, under the brilliant, eccentric Suvarov, had swept the French before them and entered Milan. The population greeted him with acclaim: a deliverer to save them from their deliverers. A Russo-Turkish fleet had recaptured Corfu. The French abandoned Naples and began a slow retreat north. All Buonaparte’s great conquests were at hazard.
Men’s thoughts were turning full circle – from the prospect of a French invasion of England to the prospect of an English invasion of France – or one of her subjugated allies. Few if any more armies were to be sent to garrison the West Indies and to die in their thousands of the tropical plagues – negro regiments were to be raised for that, with emancipation as the ultimate reward for recruits: this in the teeth of bitter opposition from the planters. The young British army was to train and stay at home, ready for more local and more important adventures.
Elizabeth’s fainting fit had been unfortunate for her plan. But worse was to follow, for she developed regular morning sickness; and although she had lied to Dwight when he asked her the obvious question, she could not conceal her sicknesses from George, who had Behenna in daily until, to save further examinations and inquiries, she confessed her condition. George of course was as delighted as she thought he would be. He too wanted a girl (which comforted her, for it showed he had finally accepted Valentine). More than ever she became the prized possession, to be looked after, to be guarded, for she carried the sacred seed.
Her disappointment at not being able to cheat him over dates was not long-lived, for George was so completely at ease with the situation that she forgot her doubts and fears. Indeed he accepted her being with child as a natural bloom upon his present good estate. David Howell had applied for the stewardship of the Chiltern Hundreds and a new member would have to be found for one of the seats at St Michael. Mr George Warleggan had so presented himself, and the writs would soon be cried. Almost certainly he would be returned without the necessity of an election. George had already taken a house in King Street, Mayfair, for the win
ter months. Elizabeth might even have her child in London.
Only one occurrence in late June clouded his horizon.
IV
It had been a long time coming, and it had only come as a result of delicate negotiation and an almost endless weighing of the advantages and disadvantages. Twice Ross had been called to Tehidy, on the last occasion when the rest of the banking partners were present. Twice he had visited Basset uninvited. In the intervals he had ridden about the county a great deal, assembling his own forces, gauging their weight – or lack of it – careful never to bluff – swallowing the occasional snub or rejection in a manner quite foreign to his nature, tenaciously refusing to accept defeat when defeat seemed most likely, taking obstacles as they came and taking time to overcome them. Demelza had never seen him so determined or so resolute.
On the last Friday in June the Mercury carried an announcement which was later repeated in a series of handbills circulated throughout the business community of central Cornwall. It was to the effect that as from July 1, 1799, Basset Rogers & Co., Bankers, of Truro, incorporating Pascoe’s Bank, of the same town, would change its name to The Cornish Bank and would trade as before. Partners in the new bank were listed as Baron de Dunstanville of Tehidy, Mr John Rogers, Mr H. Mackworth Praed, Mr Henry Stackhouse, Mr Harris Pascoe and Captain R. Poldark.
The final name had been added virtually at the last minute, but, since the suggestion came from Lord de Dunstanville, nobody disagreed. Even Ross, to whom it came as much of a surprise as anybody and who certainly had his doubts, did not voice them. As John Rogers said to Mr Stackhouse, who had not been at the very last meeting:
‘Of course he’ll bring no money. Nor never will. He’s not the type to – accumulate. But it’s a good name to have. And he’s becoming a personality in the county. One never knows quite why this happens, eh? Not so much what a man does. More a matter of character.’
The Angry Tide Page 30