That evening Jim Carter was sitting in the Martins’ cottage talking to Jinny. With the family of Martins he had become fondly familiar during the winter of his work at Nampara. As his attachment for Jinny grew, he saw less and less of his own family. He was sorry for this, for his mother would miss him, but he could not be in two places at the same time, and he felt more at home, more able to expand and talk and enjoy himself in the easygoing cottage of these people who knew him less intimately.
His father, an expert tributer, had earned good money until he was twenty-six, and then the phthisis with which he had been threatened for years became the master, and in six months Mrs. Carter was a widow with five young children to bring up, the eldest, Jim, being eight.
Fred Carter had gone to the lengths of paying sixpence a week for him to attend school at Aunt Alice Trevemper's, and there had been talk of the child staying there another year. But necessity blew away talk as wind blows smoke and Jim became a jigger at Grambler. This was “grass” or surface work, for the Cornish miners did not treat their children in the heartless fashion of the up-country people. But jigging was not ideal, since it meant sieving copper ore in water and standing in a doubled-up position for ten hours a day. His mother was worried because he brought up blood when he got home. But many other boys did the same. The one and threepence a week made a difference.
At eleven he went below, beginning by working with another man and wheeling the material away in barrows; but he had inherited his father's talent and by the time he was sixteen he was a tributer on his own pitch and earning enough to keep the household. He was very proud of this, but after a couple of years he found himself losing time through ill health and saddled with a thick loose cough like his father's. At twenty, with a deeply laid grievance against fate, he allowed his mother to bully him into leaving the mine, into throwing away all his earning power, into handing over his pitch to his younger brother and applying for work as a farm labourer. Even with the fair wages paid by Captain Poldark, he would earn less in a quarter than he usually made in a month; but it was not only the loss of money, not even the loss of position which upset him. He had mining in his blood; he liked the work and wanted the work.
He had given up something that he wanted very much. Yet already he was stronger, steadier. And the future had lost most of its fear.
In the Martins’ cottage he sat in a corner and whispered to Jinny, while Zacky Martin smoked his clay pipe on one side of the fireplace, reading a newspaper, and on the other side Mrs. Zacky nursed on one arm Betsy Maria Martin, aged three, who was recovering from a perilous attack of measles, while on the other arm their youngest, a baby of two months, grizzled fitfully. The room was faintly lighted by a thin earthenware lamp or “chill,” with two wicks in little lips at the sides of the well. The well contained pilchard oil and the smell was fishy. Jinny and Jim were seated on a homemade wooden form and were glad of the comfortable obscurity of the shadows. Jinny would not go out after dark yet, even with Jim for escort—the only sore point in their friendship—but she swore she hadn’t a minute's peace when every bush might hide a crouching figure. Better here, even with all her family to play gooseberry.
In the dim light only portions of the room showed up, surfaces and sides, curves and ends and profiles. The table had just been cleared of the evening meal of tea and barley bread and pease pudding; a wet circle showed where the ancient pewter teapot had leaked. At the other end was a scattering of crumbs left by the two youngest girls. Of Zacky could be seen only the thick brush of his red-grey hair, the jutting angle of his pipe, the curl of the closely printed Sherbome Mercury, grasped in a hairy hand as if it was in danger of flying away. Mrs. Zacky's steel-rimmed spectacles glinted and each side of her flat face with its pursed whistling lips was illuminated in turn like different phases of the moon as she gazed first at one fretful child and then the other. The only thing to be seen of the infant Inez Mary was a grey shawl and a small chubby fist clasping and unclasping air as if asserting her frail stake in existence. A shock of red hair and a freckled nose slumbered uneasily on Mrs. Zacky's other shoulder.
On the floor Matthew Mark Martin's long bare legs glimmered like two silver trout; the rest of him was hidden in the massive pool of shadow cast by his mother. On the wall beside Jinny and Jim another great shadow moved, that of the tawny cat, which had climbed on the shelf beside the chill and blinked down on the family.
This was the best week of all, when Father Zacky was on the night core, for he allowed his children to stay up until nearly nine o’clock. Use had accustomed Jim to this routine, and he saw the moment approaching when he must leave. At once he thought of a dozen things he still had to say to Jinny, and was hurrying to say them, when there came a knock on the door and the top half swung open to show the gaunt, powerful figure of Mark Daniel.
Zacky lowered his paper, unscrewed his eyes, and glanced at the cracked hourglass to reassure himself that he had not overstayed his leisure.
“Early tonight, boy. Come in and make yourself ’tome, if you’ve the mind. I’ve not put so much as foot to boot yet.”
“Nor me neither,” said Daniel. “Twas a word or two I wanted with ee, boy, just neighbourly, as you might say.”
Zacky knocked out his pipe. “That's free. Come in and make yourself ’tome.”
“Twas a word in private,” said Mark. “Asking Mrs. Zacky's pardon. A word in your ear ’bout a little private business. I thought mebbe as you’d step outside.”
Zacky stared and Mrs. Zacky whistled gently to her fretful charges. Zacky put down his paper, smoothed his hair, and went out with Mark Daniel.
Jim gratefully took advantage of the respite to add to his whisperings: words of importance about where they should meet tomorrow, if she had finished mine work and housework before dark and he his farming… She bent her head to listen. Jim noticed that in whatever shadow they sat some light attached itself to the smooth pale skin of her forehead, to the curve of her cheeks. Light, there was always light for her eyes.
“Tes time you childer was all asleep,” said Mrs. Zacky, unpursing her lips. “Else you’ll be head-in-the-bed when you did ought to be up. Off now, Matthew Mark. And you, Gabby. And Thomas. Jinny, m’ dear, it is hard to lose your young man s’early in the day, but you know how tis in the morning.”
“Yes, Mother,” said Jinny, smiling.
Zacky returned. Everyone gazed at him curiously, but he affected to be unaware of their scrutiny. He went back to his chair and began folding the newspaper.
“I don’t know,” said Mrs. Zacky, “that I holds wi’ secret chatter between grown men. Whispering together just like they was babies. What was you whispering about, Zachariah?”
“About how many spots there was on the moon,” said Zacky. “Mark says ninety-eight and I says an hundred and two, so we agrees to leave it till we see the preacher.”
“I’ll have none of your blaspheming in here,” said Mrs. Zacky. But she said it without conviction. She had far too solid a faith in her husband's wisdom, built up through twenty years, to do more than make a token protest at his bad behaviour. Besides, she would get it out of him in the morning.
Greatly daring among the shadows, Jim kissed Jinny's wrist and stood up. “I think it is about time I was going, Mr. and Mrs. Zacky,” he said, using what had come to be a formula of farewell. “And thank ee once again for a comfortable welcome. Good night, Jinny; good night, Mr. and Mrs. Zacky; good night, all.”
He got to the door but Zacky stopped him there. “Wait, boy. I d’ feel like a stroll, and there's swacks of time. I’ll take a step or two with you.”
A protest from Mrs. Zacky followed him into the drizzling darkness. Then Zacky shut the doors and the night closed in on them, dank and soft with the fine misty rain falling like spider's webs on their faces and hands.
They set off, stumbling at first in the dark but soon accustomed to it, walking with the surefootedness of countrymen on familiar ground.
Jim was puzzled at h
is company and a little nervous, for there had been something grim in Zacky's tone. As a person of “learning,” Zacky had always been of some importance in his eyes: whenever Zacky took up the tattered Sherborne Mercury, the magnificence of the gesture struck Jim afresh; and now too he was Jinny's father. Jim wondered if he had done something wrong.
They reached the brow of the hill by the Wheal Grace workings. From there the lights of Nampara House could be seen, two opal blurs in the dark.
Zacky said: “What I d’ want to tell you is this. Reuben Clemmow's been seen at Marasanvose.”
Marasanvose was a mile inland from Mellin Cottages. Jim Carter had a nasty feeling of tightness come upon his skin as if it were being screwed up.
“Who seen him?”
“Little Charlie Baragwanath. He didn’t know who twas, but from the describing there's little room to doubt.”
“Did he speak to un?”
“Reuben spoke to Little Charlie. It was on the lane twixt Marasanvose and Wheal Pretty. Charlie said he’d got a long beard, and a couple of sacks over his shoulders.”
They began to walk slowly down the hill towards Nampara.
“Just when Jinny was getting comfortable,” Jim said angrily. “This’ll upset her anew if she’d get to know.”
“That's why I didn’t tell the womenfolk. Mebbe some thing can be done wi’out they knowing.”
For all his disquiet, Jim felt a new impulse of gratitude and friendship towards Zacky for taking him into his confidence in this way, for treating him as an equal, not as a person of no account. It tacitly recognized his attachment for Jinny.
“What are ee going to do, Mr. Martin?”
“See Cap’n Ross. He did ought to know.”
“Shall I come in with ee?”
“No, boy. Reckon I’ll do it my own way.”
“I’ll wait outside for you,” Jim said.
“No, boy; go to bed. You’ll not be up in the morning. I’ll tell ee what he advise tomorrow.”
“I’d rather wait,” said Jim. “That's if it is all the same with you. I’ve not the mind for sleep just now.”
They reached the house and separated at the door. Zacky slipped quietly round to the kitchen. Prudie and Demelza were in bed, but Jud was up and yawning his head off, and Zacky was taken in to see Ross.
Ross was at his usual occupation, reading and drinking himself to bed. He was not too sleepy to listen to Zacky's story. When it was done, he got up and strolled to the fire, stood with his back to it staring at the little man.
“Did Charlie Baragwanath have any conversation with him?”
“Not what you’d rightly call conversation. It was just passing the time o’ day, as you might say, till Reuben seized his pasty and ran off with un. Stealing a pasty from a boy often!”
“Hungry men feel different about these things.”
“Charlie says he went off running into the woods this side of Mingoose.”
“Well, something must be done. We can get up a manhunt and drive him out of his burrow. The moral difficulty is that so far he has done no wrong. We cannot imprison a fellow because he is a harmless idiot. But neither do we want to wait until he proves himself the reverse.”
“He must be living in a cave, or mebbe an old mine,” said Zacky. “And living off of somebody's game.”
“Yes, there's that. I might persuade my uncle to stretch a point and make out an order for his arrest.”
“If you thought we was doing right,” said Zacky, “I think twould satisfy folk better if we caught un ourselves.”
Ross shook his head. “Leave that as a last resort. I’ll see my uncle in the morning and get an order. That will be the best. In the meantime, see Jinny does not go out alone.”
“Yes, sur. Thank you, sur.” Zacky moved to go.
“There's one thing that might lead towards a solution so far as Jinny is concerned,” Ross said. “I’ve been thinking of it. My boy who works here, Jim Carter, seems very taken with her. Do you know if she also likes him?”
Zacky's weather-beaten face glinted with humour.
“They’re both bit wi’ the same bug, I bla’.”
“Yes, well I don’t know your view of the boy, but he seems a steady lad. Jinny's seventeen and the boy's twenty. If they were married it might be for their good, and there is the likelihood that it would cure Reuben of his ambitions.”
Zacky rubbed the stubble on his chin; his thumb made a sharp rasping sound. “I like the boy; there's no nonsense about him. But tis part a question of wages and a cottage. There's small room for raising of another family in ours. And for labouring he gets little more than enough to pay the rent of a roof, wi’out vittles for two. I had the mind to build a lean-to to our cottage, but there's bare room for it.”
Ross turned and kicked at the fire with the toe of his boot.
“One cannot afford to pay mining wages to a farm boy. But there are two empty cottages at Mellin, in the other row. They bring in nothing as they are, and Jim could live in one for the repairing. I should ask no rent from him so long as he worked for me.”
Zacky blinked. “No rent? That’d make a difference. Have you mentioned it to the boy?”
“No. It's not my business to order his life. But talk it over with him sometime if you’re so disposed.”
“I will tonight. He's waiting outside… No, I’ll wait till tomorrow. He’d be over to our place, reg’lar as clock work.” Zacky stopped. “It is very handsome of you. Wouldn’t you like to see ’em both together, then you could tell ’em yourself.”
“No, no, I’ll have no hand in it. It was a passing suggestion. But make what arrangements on it you please.”
When the little man was gone Ross refilled his pipe and lit it and turned back to his book. Tabitha Bethia jumped on his knee and was not pushed off. Instead he pulled her ear while he read. But after turning a page or two he found he had taken nothing in. He finished his drink but did not pour himself another.
He felt righteous and unashamed. He decided to go to bed sober.
3
The wet weather had put him out of contact with Trenwith House during the last few weeks. He had not seen Verity since the ball, and he sensed that she was avoiding him so that he should not twit her on her friendship with Captain Blamey.
The morning following Zacky's call he rode over in pouring rain to see his uncle, and was surprised to find the Revd. Mr. Johns there. Cousin William-Alfred, his scrawny neck sticking well out above his high collar, was in sole possession of the winter parlour when Mrs. Tabb showed him in.
“Your uncle is upstairs,” he said, offering a cold but firm grasp. “He should be down soon. I hope you’re well, Ross?”
“Well, thank you.”
“Hm,” said William-Alfred judicially. “Yes. I think so. You look better than when I last saw you. Less heavy under the eyes, if I may say so.”
Ross chose to pass this. He liked William-Alfred for all his bloodless piety, because the man was so sincere in his beliefs and in his way of life. He was worth three of the politically minded Dr. Halse.
He enquired after his cousin's wife, and expressed polite gratification that Dorothy's health was improving. In December, God had given them another daughter, the blessing of another lamb. Ross then asked after the health of the occupants of Trenwith House, wondering if the answer would explain William-Alfred's presence. But no. All were well, and there was nothing here to bring William-Alfred all the way from Stithians. Francis and Elizabeth were spending a week with the Warleggans at their country home at Cardew. Aunt Agatha was in the kitchen making some herb tea. Verity—Verity was upstairs.
“You have ridden far on so unpleasant a morning,” Ross said.
“I came last evening, Cousin.”
“Well, that was no better.”
“I hope to leave today if the rain clears.”
“Next time you’re here venture another three miles and visit Nampara. I can offer you a bed, if not quite the accommodation you have here
.”
William-Alfred looked pleased. It was seldom that he received open gestures of friendship. “Thank you. I will certainly do that.”
Charles Poldark entered, blowing like a sperm whale with the effort of coming downstairs. He was still putting on weight and his feet were swollen with gout.
“Ho, Ross; so you’re here, boy. What's to do: is your house a-floating out to sea?”
“There's some danger if the rain keeps on. Am I interrupting you in important business?”
The other two exchanged glances.
“Have you not told him?” Charles asked.
“I could not do that without your permission.”
“Well, go on, go on. Aarf! It is a family affair and he is one of the family, even though an odd one.”
William-Alfred turned his pale-grey eyes to Ross.
“I came out yesterday not so much to pay a social call as to see Uncle Charles on a matter of outstanding import to our family. I hesitated some time before intruding upon ground which was—”
“It is about Verity and this Captain Blamey fellow,” Charles said briefly. “Damme, I couldn’t ha’ believed it. Not that the girl should—”
“You know, do you not,” said William-Alfred, “that your cousin has become friendly with a seafaring man, one Andrew Blamey?”
“I know that I’ve met him.”
“So have we all,” said Charles explosively. “He was here at Francis's wedding!”
“I knew nothing of him then,” said William-Alfred. “That was the first time I had seen him. But last week I learned his history. Knowing that he was becoming—that there had been a considerable talk linking his name and Cousin Verity's, I came over at the earliest opportunity. Naturally, I was at pains first to verify the information which reached me.”
“Well, what is it?” said Ross.
“The man has been married before. He is a widower with two young children. Perhaps you know that. He is also, however, a notorious drunkard. Some years ago in a drunken frenzy he kicked his wife when she was with child and she died. He was then in the Navy, the commander of a frigate. He lost his rank and lay in a common prison for two years. When released he lived on the charity of his relatives for a number of years until he obtained his present commission. There is, I understand, an agitation afoot to boycott the packet he commands until the company discharges him.”
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