She stood quivering and watched him while he bent to pull on his boot, angrily offered to buckle it, jerked upright and stood again silently watching him while he picked up his stick and made ready to go.
She walked with him, two paces ahead of him to the bridge, and then he stopped again.
“You’ve nought much to say,” he observed, eyeing her again. “Tedn’t like ee to be so silent. Have you still enmity and uncharitableness in your heart?”
“No, Father,” she said quickly. “No, Father. No.”
He swallowed and sniffed again. Perhaps he too felt a strangeness in talking this flowery language to the child he had been wont to order and bully around. In the old days a grunt and a curse had been enough.
He said slowly and with an effort: “I forgive ee fully and altogether for leavin’ me when you did, and I ask forgiveness, God's forgiveness, fur any wrong I did ee with the strap in my drink. There’ll be no more o’ that, dattur. We’ll welcome you among us like the lost sheep back to the fold. Nellie too. Nellie’ll be a mother to ee—what you’ve lacked this pretty many year. She's been a mother to my flock, and now God's giving her her own.”
He turned and stumped off across the bridge. Standing on one leg and then the other, she watched him go up slowly into the young green of the valley and prayed urgently and angrily—was it to the same God?—that he should not meet Ross on the way.
2
“They calves want feeding,” said Prudie. “An’ my poor feet is tryin’ me something bitter. Sometimes I’d like to saw off me toes one by one. Saw ’em off I would, wi’ that old garden saw.”
“Here,” said Demelza.
“What's that?”
“The carving knife. Chop ’em off and then you’ll be settled. Where's the meal porridge?”
“Well to jest,” said Prudie, wiping her nose on her hand. “Iggerance always jests. You wouldn’t jest when the knife were gratin’ on the bone. And I’d do it if twere not for considering what Jud would do without un. In bed he says my feet are as good as a warmin’ pan; nay, betterer, for they don’t cool down as the night goes on.”
If she went, Demelza thought, there was no need to go so soon. August, he had said. Tomorrow was the last day of May. She need not stay more than a month; then she could come back here to her old duties.
She shook her head. Things would not turn out like that. Once home she stayed home. And whether the ruling force was the leather strap or religious zeal she had a feeling that her job would be the same. She tried to remember what the Widow Chegwidden had looked like behind the counter of her little shop. Dark and small and fat, with fluffy hair under a lace cap. Like one of those little black hens with red combs that would never lay their eggs in the box, but always hid them away and then before you knew where you were they were sitting on a dozen and had gone broody. She had made Tom Carne a good wife; would she make a good stepmother? Plenty worse, maybe.
Demelza didn’t want a stepmother, nor a father, nor even a spawn of brothers back. She was not afraid of work, but there she would be working in a home where no kindness had ever been shown her. Here, for all her ties, she was free; and she worked with people she had grown to like and for a man she adored. Her way of seeing things had changed; there were happinesses in her life she had not understood until they were on her. Her soul had blossomed under them. The abilities to reason and think and talk were new to her—or they had grown in a way that amounted to newness, from the gropings of a little animal concerned only for its food and safety and a few first needs. All that would be stopped. All these new lights would go out; snuffers would be put on the candles and she would see no more.
Not heeding Prudie, she slopped the meal porridge into a bucket and went out with it for the six calves. They greeted her noisily, pushing at her legs with their soft damp noses. She stood there and watched them eat.
Her father, by asking if there was any sin between herself and Ross, meant of course exactly the same as those women at Grambler and Sawle who sometimes would turn and stare after her with greedy curious eyes. They were all thinking that Ross…
Red-faced, she gave a little half-scornful titter in the shadows. People were always thinking things; it was a pity they couldn’t think up something more likely. Did they think that if she… that if Ross… would she then be living and breathing as an ordinary servant? No. She would be so filled with pride that everyone would know the truth without having to whisper and peer and pry.
Ross Poldark lying with the child he had befriended and swilled under the pump and scolded and taught and joked with over the pilchards in Sawle! He was a man, and maybe he wanted his pleasures like any other man, and maybe he took them on his visits to town. But she would be the last person he would turn to, she whom he knew so well, who had no strangeness, no pretty dresses, no paint and powder, no shy secrets to hide from him. Fools people were with their double-damned, soft-silly imaginings.
The six calves were fussing round her, rubbing their heads against her body, sucking at her arms and frock with their wet mealy mouths. She pushed them away and they came back again. They were like thoughts, other people's and her own, pressing upon her, worrying her all at one time, sly and impossible and suggestive, importunate and friendly and hopeful.
What a fool her father was! With the sudden adultness of a growing wisdom she saw that for the first time. If there was anything between herself and Ross, like he suggested, would she even for an instant have listened to him asking her to go back? She would have said: “Back? I’m not coming back! This is where I belong!”
Perhaps it was. Perhaps Ross would refuse to let her go. But there was no proper feeling for her on his part, not beyond a kindly interest. He would as soon become used to her not being in the parlour as he had to her being there. That was not enough, not near enough…
One of the calves trampled on the bucket and sent it rolling to the back of the stall. She went after it, picked it up, and in the darkness of the shed, in the corner right away from the light, she came up against the most terrible thought of her life. It startled her so much that she dropped the bucket again. The bucket clattered and rolled and was still. For several moments she stood there holding to the partition, her mind cold and frightened.
Madness. He would think her drunk and turn her out of the house, as he had threatened her after that fight with Jud.
But then she must go; by any reckoning she must go… There would be no loss. But she would have to take his contempt with her. A big price to pay. Even if she succeeded, she might still earn his contempt. But she would not go. She picked up the bucket again and gripped it with whitening knuckles.
The calves came again, pushing at her frock and hands. Her mood wilted. It was not the right or the wrong that troubled her. It was the fear of his contempt. The idea was bad. Put it away. Lose it. Bury it.
She pushed the calves impatiently aside, let herself out and walked across the cobbles to the kitchen. Prudie was still there rubbing her flat bunioned feet on a dirty towel.
The kitchen smelt of feet. She was still grumbling, might never have noticed that Demelza had been away.
“One o’ these days I shall go off like a snip o’ the finger. Then folk’ll be sorry for driving of me. Then folk’ll be sorry. But what good will that do me, an? What good do it do to shed bitter tears over a cold corpse? ’Tis a little more kindness I want now while the breathin's still in me.” She glanced up. “Now don’t tell me you’ve caught a fever. Don’t tell me that.”
“There's nothing wrong wi’ me.”
“There must be. You’re sweating awful.”
“It's hot,” said Demelza.
“An’ what’re ee doing bringing that bucket sloppering in ’ere?”
“Oh,” she said. “I forgot. I’ll leave it outside.”
CHAPTER SIX
l
HE WAS NOT BACK. SHE COULD NOT MAKE UP HER MIND WHETHER TO WISH for his coming. The clock showed eight. Very soon both Jud and Prudie would be in
bed and asleep. It would be right for her to stay up and see to his supper. But if he did not come soon, he would be staying in Truro overnight. Zacky and Jinny were back. Jack Cobbledick had seen them and the news was about. Everyone was sorry for Jim, and feeling ran high against Nick Vigus. Everyone was sorry for Jinny and the two children. No man was the same when he came out of prison.
Demelza looked at the frock and bit her lip and looked at it again. Then she hastily threw bed linen over it as she heard Prudie flip-flopping laboriously up the stairs.
“I’m going to bed, dear,” said Prudie, a bottle of gin in her hand. “Ef I don’t I shall come over faint. Many's the time when I was a girl I used to swoon off without a breath o’ warning. If me mother knowed what I ’ave to bear now she’d stand up in ’er grave. She’d walk. Many's the time I’ve expected of her to walk. You can see for his supper, an?”
“I’ll see for it.”
“Not that he's like to be home tonight. I said so much to Jud, but the ole mule says, no, ’e’ll wait five and twenty minutes more, so wait ’e will.”
“Good night,” said Demelza.
“Good night? It will be a shock if I get so much as a wink.”
Demelza watched her through to her room, then turned back the linen to stare again at the frock. After some moments she covered it and went downstairs.
In the kitchen there was a savoury smell of pie. Jud was sitting before the fire whittling a piece of hard driftwood into a new poker for raking out the burnt furze from the clay oven. As he whittled he quietly muttered his song:
There was an old couple and they was poor, Tweedle, tweedle go twee—
“It's been a handsome day, Jud,” she said.
He looked at her suspiciously.
“Too ’ot. All wrong for the time o’ year. There’ll be rain soon. Swallows is flying low.”
“You shouldn’t sit so near the oven.”
“What did Fathur say?”
“He wanted for me to go stay with them for a few weeks.”
Jud grunted. “An’ ’oo's to do your work?”
“I said I couldn’t go.”
“Should think as not. Start o’ the summer too.” He lifted his knife. “That a horse? Reckon it's Mr. Ross, just when I’d given un up.”
Demelza's heart gave a lurch. Jud set down the stick and went out to take Darkie to the stables. After a few seconds Demelza walked after him through the hall.
Ross had just dismounted and was untying from behind the saddle the parcels and goods he had bought. His clothes were thick with dust. He looked very tired, and his face was flushed. He glanced up as she came to the door and smiled briefly but without interest. The sun had just set over the western ridge of the valley and the skyline was lit with a vivid orange glow. All round the house the birds were singing.
“… extra feed,” he was saying. “The meal they gave her was skinny. Wugh, there's no air tonight.” He took off his hat.
“Will you be wanting me again?” Jud asked.
“No. Go to bed when you wish.” He walked slowly to the door and Demelza drew aside to let him pass. “You also. Serve my supper and then you can go.”
Yes, he had had a drink; she could tell that. But she could not tell how much.
He went into the parlour where the table was set for his meal. She heard him struggling to pull off his boots and silently entered with his slippers and helped him to be rid of the boots. He looked up and nodded his thanks.
“Not an old man yet, you know.”
She went out to take the pie from the oven. When she returned, he was pouring himself a drink. She set the pie on the table, cut him a piece, put it on his plate, cut him some bread, waited without speaking while he sat down and began the meal. All the windows were open. The furnace glow over the hill had faded. High in the sky a ruffle of cloud was saffron and pink. Colours in the house and in the valley were flaunting themselves.
“Shall I light the candles?”
He looked up as if he had forgotten her.
“No, there's time enough. I’ll do them later.”
“I’ll be back and light ’em,” she said. “I’m not goin’ to bed yet.”
She slipped out of the room, went through the low square hall into the kitchen. So the way was open that she might return. She didn’t now know what to do. She wanted to pray for something that she knew the Widow Chegwidden's God disapproved of. She knelt and stroked Tabitha Bethia and went to the window and stared across at the stables. She chopped up some odds and ends for Garrick and by that means lured him into an outhouse and locked him up. She returned and raked out the fire. She picked up Jud's wooden poker and slipped a shaving off it with his knife. Her knees were weak and her hands ice cold. She took a bucket to the pump and drew fresh water. One of the calves was crying. A group of seagulls were winging their way slowly out to sea.
This time Jud followed her back into the kitchen, whistling between his two big teeth. Darkie was fed and watered. He put away the knife and the stick.
“You’ll not be astir in the morning.”
She knew very well who was not likely to be astir in the morning, but for once did not answer him. He went out and she heard him climbing the stairs. She followed. In her room she stared again at the dress. She would have given anything for a glass of brandy, but that was barred. If he smelt anything on her breath, that would end it. There was nothing for it but a cold, hard face, or else to run like a badger to her hole. The bed looked fine. She had only to shed the decision with her clothes and drop into it. But tomorrow would come. Tomorrow offered nothing to hope for.
She took out her broken bit of comb and went to the square of mirror she had found in the library, and began to tug at her hair.
2
The frock was one she had found at the bottom of the second tin trunk, and from the outset it had enticed her as the apple did Eve. It was made of pale blue satin, the bodice cut low and square. Below the tight waist the gown billowed out at the back like a blue cabbage. She thought it an evening gown, but really it was one Grace Poldark had bought for a formal afternoon. It was the right length for Demelza, and other alterations she had contrived on wet afternoons. There was a thrill in trying it on, even though no one would ever see her wear it…
She peered at herself in the half light and tried to see. Her hair she had combed up and parted at the side and drawn away from the ears to pile it on top of her head. At any other time she would have been pleased with her looks and preened herself, walking up and down peacock fashion to hear the rough-rough of the silk. But now she stared and wondered and stared. She had no powder, as a real lady would have; no rouge, no scent. She bit at her lips to redden them. And this bodice. Ross's mother might have been made different, or perhaps she had worn a muslin fichu. She knew that if the Widow Chegwidden saw her she would open her tight little mouth and scream the word “Babylon!”
She stiffened. She had set to go. There was no more to do, no drawing back.
The flint and steel were clumsy in her hands, and she was hard put to it to light the candle. At last a flame flickered, and the rich blueness of the gown showed up more vividly. She rustled as she moved to the door, then slowly, candlestick in hand, went down the stairs.
At the door of the parlour she paused, swallowed something foreign in her throat, licked her lips, went in.
He had finished his meal and was seated in the half darkness in front of the empty fire grate. His hands were in his pockets and his head was down. He moved slightly at her entry but did not look up.
“I’ve brought the light,” she said, speaking in a voice unlike her own, but he didn’t notice.
Slowly she walked round, conscious of the noise her skirt was making, lit the two candle sconces. With each candle she lit the room grew a shade lighter, the squares of the windows a shade darker. All the sky over the hill was an ice blue, bright and clear and empty as a frozen pool.
He stirred again and sat more upright in his chair. His voice came as a
shock to her ears. “You heard that Jim Carter has gone to prison for two years?”
She lit the last candle. “Yes.”
“I doubt if he’ll survive it.”
“You did all you could.”
“I wonder.” He spoke as if he were talking to himself rather than to her.
She began to draw the curtains over the open windows.
“What else could you’ve done?”
“I’m not a good pleader,” he said; “being too infernal conscious of my own dignity. The dignified fool, Demelza, gets nowhere beside the suave flattering rogue. Gentle obsequious compliments were the order of the day, and instead I tried to teach them their business. A lesson in tactics, but Jim Carter may pay the bill with his life.”
She pulled the last curtain. A moth came fluttering in, wings beating the green figured damask.
“No one else’d ’ve done what you did,” she said. “No other squire. It was none of your fault that he went poaching and was caught.”
Ross grunted. “To be frank, I don’t think my interference greatly altered the situation. But that is no matter for—” He stopped. He stared. This was the moment now.
“I haven’t brought the other candles,” she got out. “We was short and you said you’d get some today.”
“Have you been drinking again?”
She said desperately: “I’ve never touched nothing since you told me. Honest. I swear to God.”
“Where did you get that dress?”
“From the library—” Her ready lies were forgotten.
Ross Poldark Page 26