The Angry Tide

by Winston Graham

  ‘When I make a promise I make it. Don’t you love me enough to believe that?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘why have you come here today?’

  She stared at him.

  He said patiently: ‘Was it not because ye wanted to see me?’

  She nodded.

  He said: ‘There’s more to life than carnal love, isn’t there?’

  ‘Yes . . . oh, yes, but—’

  ‘Be honest. Do you not really want to be with me? With me more than anyone else in the world?’

  She hesitated a long moment, then nodded again.

  ‘But—’

  ‘Then be that not the most important thing of all? Being together. Working together. Talking together. Walking together. There’s so much to love – even if it be not the love you mean. The sunrise, and the rain and the wind and the cloud, and the roaring of the sea and the cry of birds and the – the lowing of cows and the glow of corn and the smells of spring. And food and fresh water. New-laid eggs, warm milk, fresh-dug potatoes, home-made jams. Wood smoke, a baby robin, bluebells, a warm fire . . . I could go on and on and on. But if you enjoy them wi’ the one you love, then it is enjoyment fourfold! D’you think I would not give all my life to see ye sitting smiling in that chair? What is life if you live it alone?’

  ‘Oh, Drake,’ she said, tears suddenly running down her face and over the hand across her mouth and on to the other hand. They splashed on to her frock where it was already wet with the rain. ‘Oh, dear – I was – I was – afraid of this . . .’

  ‘Ye cann’t be afraid of having what you most want in life.’

  ‘No . . . Afraid of my own weakness. Afraid I should never convince you. I love you, of course. I have said it so often to myself in the night. Often it has been like an anthem – giving me strength. But that doesn’t mean I am a whole woman any longer. Drake, I am – damaged – and crippled . . . inside . . . in my mind!’

  ‘There now,’ he said. ‘See, I’m not going to come nigh you, not even to wipe away your tears.’

  Chapter Eleven

  I

  Parliament adjourned on the 20th November, and was not to reassemble until the 21st January. Those members who returned for the next session would come back into a new life, a new century.

  With two months to kill, the Warleggans decided to return to Cornwall after all. Elizabeth was set on it now, and George made no objection. At the moment he seemed to have little interest in her, or the disputed child who travelled with them. Nor did he seem to care much about the child she now so obviously bore. Although their return was not hurried, there was none of the leisurely, triumphant progress of the journey up. If the coach jogged her, it jogged her, if the length of the stages tired her, they tired her, if the bedrooms were draughty, they were draughty. They reached Truro on Sunday the 1st of December, but there was so much sickness in the town that Elizabeth said she would prefer to move to Trenwith. George said she must do as she pleased, he had business to attend to. (He had indeed, for some of the tenants at St Michael were being obstinate and refusing to move.) Elizabeth drove to Trenwith on the 5th, taking Valentine with her.

  Ross saw Caroline on the 21st, and she said could he wait a few days for her and they would travel down together? Her maid would be with her, she pointed out, so they would be fully chaperoned, unlike his wife and her husband. Ross had been helping John Craven tidy up Monk Adderley’s estate and to settle up some of the debts he had left, so he agreed. If he were yet to be visited and questioned, well, it would happen – another day or two would not make the difference – he had become fatalistic about it. But as each day followed the other there was still no summons, no knock upon the door from anyone representing the Crown. Once he called on Andromeda Page, but she had already taken up with a young earl recently down from Cambridge and had little time to waste on a lost lover. Thus passes away the glory of the world . . .

  On Saturday the 30th November on the same coach, departing from the Crown and Anchor in the Strand at seven o’clock in the morning, Ross and Caroline and her maid left for Cornwall. In spite of the pretence to the contrary that he kept up even with himself, he was relieved to be away . . . When he came back, if he came back, the thing would surely be too far in the past.

  On the 6th of December Demelza received a message delivered by one of the Trewinnard twins, and she at once rode to Pally’s Shop. Drake met her at the gate. His face told her everything.

  ‘Is she . . .?’

  ‘Inside. I said I’d asked ee to come.’

  As he helped her off her horse he held her hand a moment longer than necessary. ‘Sister . . . treat her kind.’

  Demelza smiled. ‘Do you think I should not do?’

  ‘No . . . That’s why I sent. But I think—’

  ‘Think what?’

  ‘That if anything goes amiss she’ll just flee again. Just go . . .’

  Morwenna was in the upper room peeling potatoes. She stood up at once and took off her glasses. Demelza smiled at her and she half smiled back and smoothed down her apron, looking tall and uncertain and out of place.

  ‘Mrs Poldark . . .’

  ‘Mrs Whitworth.’

  ‘Please – sit down.’

  ‘I think,’ Demelza said, ‘it would be better if we used our first names.’

  They sat down, Morwenna employing the bowl and the knife and the basket almost as a line of defence.

  Demelza looked round the shabby little room. After a moment she said: ‘Drake badly needs someone to look after him.’

  ‘Yes . . .’

  ‘He says he wants you to look after him.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you want that, Morwenna?’

  ‘I think so . . . It is just that I don’t know if I am fit.’

  ‘Are you ill?’

  ‘Oh, no. I’m strong. Physically I’m strong.’

  ‘Then . . .?’

  Drake came in with the inevitable tea and for a few minutes they sat drinking it and not talking much. Then Drake, with considerable tact, edged Morwenna round to repeating some of the conversation that had passed last night.

  At the end of it Demelza said quietly: ‘Drake has been very miserable, Morwenna, ever since you left – all these years. He’s only been half a person. Now you have come back to him, do you not think it a pity to separate again?’

  ‘Yes . . . But—’

  ‘You have told him how you feel about marriage, and he fully accepts that if you marry him now his marriage shall not be a full one – unless you should ever change. He swears he will respect your wishes.’

  ‘Yes, he does.’

  ‘Do you believe him?’

  Morwenna looked at Drake.

  ‘Yes . . .’

  ‘So will you marry him?’

  Morwenna looked round the room, her eyes half seeking some escape. At length she licked her lips and said: ‘I know I only want to be with him for the rest of my life . . .’

  ‘I don’t think,’ Demelza said, ‘that there can be a much better reason for marriage than that.’

  Morwenna said desperately: ‘So long as he understands. I’m not normal any longer. I’m not! I’m not!’

  Drake said to Demelza: ‘I explained to her last night. Just being with her is better’n anything else that could be.’

  Demelza said: ‘You’ll excuse me for mentioning this, but being a blacksmith’s wife is that different from being a vicar’s wife. There’s no social position, like, and there may be work – hard work with the hands. Drake could not afford to keep a servant. You have thought on that?’

  ‘That!’ said Morwenna contemptuously. ‘I was the eldest of a family of girls. And my mother was never strong. I was the strong one. So I learned to cook and to look after a house. Of course we had servants, but they didn’t do all . . . These last years I’ve lived the life of a lady – cooked for, waited on, treated as a person of importance. So little have I had physically to work. But in my mind and
soul I have envied the tween maid, the gardener’s daughter, the beggar at the door; I would rather have swept the streets than been in my position! Do you think I would not work now?’

  ‘To be with Drake?’

  She hesitated again. ‘Yes.’

  ‘You could wash his clothes – scrub his floors?’

  ‘No need for that,’ said Drake.

  ‘Of course,’ said Morwenna. ‘It’s nothing – nothing.’

  Demelza nodded. ‘And you will not mind if your mother is upset?’

  ‘I’m near twenty-four,’ said Morwenna harshly. ‘It is not anything any relative would say that would make the difference.’

  So young, Demelza thought, and glanced from one to the other. Morwenna looked much older than that, much older than Drake. That was what suffering did. But who knew what happiness might do? Demelza had been against this match almost from the first. Not on personal grounds but on the grounds of Morwenna’s unsuitability, her genteel upbringing, her connection with the Warleggans. Yet . . . Drake’s eyes. A difference here from yesterday.

  ‘So you’ll marry him, Morwenna?’

  ‘I thought I had answered.’

  ‘Not yes.’

  ‘Then . . . yes.’

  It had taken a time to reach this word, as if Morwenna had had to plough through fields of reservations and restraints to reach it. Drake stirred and let out a low breath.

  Demelza said: ‘I’m that glad for you both.’

  ‘How soon can we be wed?’ Drake asked.

  ‘It will take a while. Morwenna, why do you not come and stay with us at Nampara? We should be happy to have you.’

  ‘I’d better prefer she stayed here,’ said Drake.

  Demelza smiled. ‘It’s for Morwenna to say. If you are going to go on living in this district, maybe you should consider what people will say.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ Morwenna said.

  ‘I can get Mrs Trewinnard to come in and sleep,’ said Drake. ‘If need be I can sleep in the Trewinnards’ cottage.’

  ‘Whatever you say, Drake,’ Morwenna said.

  ‘It should be Morwenna’s decision,’ Demelza insisted.

  Morwenna hesitated. ‘I’m sorry. Sometimes I have difficulty in concentrating . . . I’ll stay, Demelza. Thank you. I’ll stay here.’

  Demelza kissed her. ‘When you are married, and Drake knows you’re safe caught, then I hope he’ll bring you to Nampara and you can meet Ross – properly and to get to know – and we can have – other happy times together.’

  She went out. After a moment Drake came after her and laid his cheek against hers.

  ‘Bless you, sister. Bless you, and can ye do something more this morning?’

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘Come with me to Parson Odgers. Tis some awful to think we must wait three weeks! Is there no way to cut the waiting short?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘I’m scared for her,’ he said. ‘It’s just the way you said – safe caught. She’s not yet safe caught – not till we’re wed. I’m scared something may happen. I’m scared she may just change her mind and move on.’

  II

  Mr Odgers said: ‘Well, Mrs Poldark, ma’am, I would be happy to oblige you if there were a way within the canon laws of the church, but as you know, ma’am, there is none. It is Friday now. In order to convenience you I can call the banns for the first time on Sunday, though strictly speaking one needs more notice. But beyond that . . .’

  The little clergyman had been flushed from the kitchen where he had been helping his wife salt a piece of pork. His manner was ingratiating but his feelings mixed. In fact he was deeply shocked. Being a fair man, he would if pressed have been willing to admit that it did not amount exactly to blasphemy that this dean’s daughter, the relict of his ex-vicar, on whom he had been accustomed to lavish all the courtesy and deference her station deserved, should now be about to throw the whole of her position away and marry a common smith, and a dissenter at that, but in his view it came very near.

  Had that been all, Drake’s welcome would have been of the coldest. However, that was not all. Accompanying him was Captain Poldark’s wife, and Captain Poldark was a member of Parliament with the ‘ear’ of Viscount Falmouth, and now that the living had again, unexpectedly, even providentially, become vacant, there was still just one more chance, one very last chance, that it might be offered to Mr Odgers. So he could not afford to offend in the smallest way Captain Poldark’s wife.

  Captain Poldark’s wife wrinkled her brows and said: ‘Isn’t there something, Mr Odgers, I’ve heard about or read about called a special licence?’

  ‘Ah, yes, ma’am. That is only obtainable from the Archbishop of Canterbury. But a licence, ma’am, a licence as distinct from a special licence, can be obtained from the Archdeacon of Cornwall, or from his representative, his officer in the county.’

  ‘And who would that be?’

  Mr Odgers scratched under his horsehair wig. ‘The Archdeacon normally, I believe, lives in Exeter, except when he is on one of his – er – visitations. But his court is in Bodmin. I believe if you were to go there, if the young man were to go there—’ He couldn’t bear to address him by name – ‘and someone were to go with him to swear a bond, then, I believe, ma’am, a licence might be granted, and then I could perform the wedding soon after receiving it.’

  Demelza looked at Drake. ‘That would be about five-and-twenty miles. Fifty there and back. Would you wish to go so far?’

  Drake nodded.

  ‘What do you have to do?’ she asked.

  ‘You would have to swear an affidavit that there are no lawful impediments. Or he would, ma’am. And take a witness that he is resident in this parish. He is in this parish, is he? Yes, just.’ Mr Odgers admitted this resentfully. ‘He would need money. I think it is two guineas, but I am not sure. And the person accompanying him would have to be prepared to be jointly bonded with him in some considerable sum.’

  ‘Can a woman act in such a way?’

  ‘Oh, yes. But not his – not his intended . . .’

  ‘I was thinking of myself.’

  ‘Mind,’ said Mr Odgers, ‘you had best wait till Monday, to make sure of finding him in. The clergyman, I mean, who acts as the archdeacon’s surrogate. Week-ends and Sundays are busy times, and he might be away.’

  Outside again in the windy morning Demelza said: ‘Well, that’s the best we can do.’

  ‘You’d lend me a horse?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘And come yourself?’

  ‘I think I’d be better than Sam. Being married to Ross gives me a sort of . . .’

  ‘I know.’ He kissed her. ‘I’ll not forget this.’

  It would be good to get away for a day; it would be some activity. This waiting for Ross was pulling unbearably at her nerves.

  ‘By the way,’ she said, ‘does Sam know yet?’

  ‘Not yet. Could you tell him? I think, I reckon you’d do un better’n me.’

  III

  Torrential December rain flooded the road near Marlborough, and Ross and Caroline’s coach was held up for a day. Sunday the 8th they spent in Plymouth and knew that tomorrow they’d be home.

  They had dined together each day and supped together pleasantly each evening and had talked of many subjects from the insanity of the Czar to the tax on horses; but they had kept off personal issues. Ross found Caroline an agreeable companion, witty when she talked but economical of speech. She didn’t have Demelza’s small conversation.

  They were sleeping at the Fountain Inn, and dining in one of the comfortable boxes with the red plush seats and walnut tables; and eventually it was Ross who for the first time drew aside the polite veil that had existed between them. He reminded Caroline of the meeting he had contrived between Dwight and herself at this inn. It was scarcely more than six years ago, in fact.

  ‘It seems half a lifetime,’ said Caroline. ‘And must seem more still to Dwight, covering as it does not mere
ly his captivity in France but four years of marriage to me!’

  ‘I have often wondered,’ Ross said, ‘at my arrogance in bringing you together almost by force, at my supposing I knew better than you and he whether you should become husband and wife.’

  ‘The trouble is, Ross,’ she said, ‘that you’re an arrogant man. Sometimes it is a great virtue and sometimes not.’

  ‘Well, which was it on that occasion?’

  She smiled. She had changed for supper into a gown of cool green velvet, her favourite colour, because it contrasted with her auburn hair and brought out the green in her eyes, which could often with other colours look plain hazel or grey.

  ‘A virtue,’ she said. ‘Dwight is the only man I’ve ever wanted to marry . . . Though perhaps not the only man I’ve ever wanted to bed.’

  Ross cut up a piece of the mutton on his plate and added some caper sauce.

  ‘I don’t think that makes you unusual,’ he said.

  ‘No . . . we all look elsewhere from time to time. But then we glance away.’

  ‘Usually . . .’

  She ate a little, picked at her meat.

  She said abruptly: ‘Dwight and I, you and Demelza; do you realize how moral we are by the standards of today?’

  ‘No doubt.’

  ‘No doubt at all. So many of my friends in London . . . But forget London. This county we live in. Add up the number of affairs that are going on, some secret, some blatant, among our friends, or their friends. And the same, though perhaps to a different pattern, among the poor.’

  Ross took a sip of wine. ‘It has always been so.’

  ‘Yes. But also there has been always a small core of real marriages existing amongst the rest – marriages in which love and fidelity and truth have maintained their importance. Yours is one and mine is one. Isn’t that so?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Caroline took a long draught of wine, half a glass as against Ross’s sip. She leaned back against the red plush. ‘For instance, Ross, I could lie happily with you tonight.’

  His eyes went quickly up to hers. ‘Could you?’

  ‘Yes. In fact I’ve always wanted to – as perhaps you know.’