Ross Poldark

by Winston Graham

  There was a pause. Ross came and stood beside her at the window. The rain of the last few days had freshened up the valley. Some of the trees were turning, but there was hardly a sign of yellow on the elms.

  “The garden needs some renewal of stock also,” he said. “Despite Demelza's efforts.”

  “Gardens are always straggly in the autumn,” Verity said. “But you should order some sweetbriar and tansy. And I’ll give you a cutting of herb of grace. It's pleasant to grow.”

  Ross put his hand on her shoulder. “How much do you want for your expedition?”

  CHAPTER SIX

  l

  SO ON THE FIRST WEDNESDAY IN OCTOBER DEMELZA AND VERITY RODE into Truro to do some shopping, escorted, or rather followed—not from etiquette but because the track was too narrow to ride three abreast—by an interested but disgruntled Jud.

  He was glad of the day off, but had taken some offence at Ross's threats as to what would happen if the two ladies returned to meet him and found him incapably drunk. It was, he felt, coarse and pointless to threaten the skin off his back for a crime he had no intention whatever of committing.

  This was only the fourth time Demelza had been to Truro.

  Underneath she was greatly excited, but once the journey was begun she tried to maintain an outward show of calm. Since she had nothing but her working clothes, Verity had lent her a grey riding habit, which suited her well enough. More than anything else it helped her to see herself as a lady and behave with the dignity of one. When they set off, she watched Verity and tried to copy her poise in the saddle and the straightness of her back.

  It was cattle market day in the town, and as they came down a herd of young bullocks blocked the narrow street and Demelza had difficulty in holding Darkie, whose dislike of steers was deep set. Jud was too far away to be of use, but Verity edged her horse in front of the other animal. People stood to stare, but presently Darkie quieted and they were past.

  “Silly old thing,” Demelza said breathlessly. “She’ll be sending me cat-in-the-pan over her tail one of these days.” They crossed the bridge. “Oo, what a boilin’ of people; us like a fair. Which way do we go?”

  The time for one of the tin coinages was near, and at the end of the main street great piles of blocked tin had been set down ready for the day when the government stamp would be affixed. Weighing up to three hundred weight each, these great blocks were left untended, and glittered darkly in the sun. People milled around them; beggars stood in the gutter; the open market of Middle Row was doing a thriving trade; men and women stood in groups in the street and discussed the business of the day.

  “Where are the stables?” asked Demelza. “We can’t leave the horses here ’mong all these folk.”

  “At the back,” said Verity. “Jud will take them round. We will meet you here at four, Jud.”

  The heavy rain of the past few days had dried the dust without leaving too much mud in its place, so that the streets were not unpleasant to walk in, and the little rivulets at the side bubbled youthfully to join their parent streams. Verity stopped to spend one and sixpence on a dozen sweet oranges, and then they entered Kenwyn Street, where the better shops were. This too was crowded with shoppers and street hawkers, though the throng was not so dense as about the markets.

  Verity saw one or two people she knew, but to Demelza's relief did not stop to speak. Presently she led the way into a dark little shop, stacked almost to the ceiling with antique furniture and carpets and oil paintings and brassware. From the semi-darkness a little pockmarked man with a curled periwig shot out to greet his customers. One of his eyes was malformed by some accident or disease, giving him an odd look of duplicity, as if one part of him was withdrawn from the rest and taken with things the customer could not see. Demelza stared at him, fascinated.

  Verity enquired for a small table, and they were led into a back room where a number of new and secondhand ones were stacked. Verity asked Demelza to choose one she liked, and after a good deal of discussion the matter was settled. Other things were bought. The little shop keeper rushed downstairs for a special Indian screen he had to sell.

  “How much has he given us to spend?” Demelza asked in a low voice while they waited.

  “Forty guineas.” Verity clinked her purse.

  “Forty—Phoo! We’re rich! We’re— Don’t forget the carpet.”

  “Not here. If we get one that is local made, we shall be sure of our values.” Verity stared into a dark corner. “I cannot understand how you keep the time at Nampara. You need a clock.”

  “Oh, we d’ go by the sun and the daylight. That never fails us. And Ross has his father's watch—when he recalls to wind it.”

  The shopkeeper popped up again.

  “You have two agreeable-looking clocks there,” Verity said. “Light another candle so that we can see them. What are their prices?”

  2

  Out in the street the two girls blinked a little in the sunshine. It was hard to tell which of them was enjoying this the more.

  Verity said: “Now you need also bed linen, and curtains for two rooms and some new crockery and glassware.”

  “I chose that clock,” Demelza said, “because it was such a jolly one. It ticked solemn enough like the other, but when it struck, I liked the way it struck. Whirr-r-r - bong, bong, bong, like an old friend telling you good morning. Where do they sell linen, Verity?”

  Verity eyed her thoughtfully a moment.

  “Before that, I think,” she said, “we’ll get a dress for you. We are only a few paces from my own dressmaker.”

  Demelza raised her eyebrows. “That isn’t furniture.”

  “It is furnishings. Do you think the house should be decorated without its mistress?”

  “Would it be proper to spend his money so wi’out his consent?”

  “I think his consent may be taken for granted.”

  Demelza passed the tip of a red tongue round her lips but did not speak.

  They had reached a door and a bow window four feet square screened with lace.

  “This is the place,” said Verity.

  The younger girl looked at her uncertainly. “Would you do the choosin’?”

  Inside was a plump little woman with steel spectacles. Why, Mistress Poldark! Such an honour after so long a time. Five years it must be. No, no, not perhaps quite that, but indeed a long time. Verity coloured and mentioned her father's illness. Yes, said the seamstress, she had heard that Mr. Poldark was mortal tedious sick. She hoped— Dear, said the seamstress. No, she hadn’t heard; very sad! Well, but it was a pretty sight to see an old customer again.

  “I’m not here now on my own account, but on my cousin's, Mistress Poldark of Nampara. On my advice she has come to you for a new outfit or two, and I’m sure you will give her the service you have always given me.”

  The shopkeeper blinked and beamed at Demelza, then adjusted her spectacles and curtsied. Demelza resisted the impulse to curtsey back.

  “How do you do,” she said.

  “What we should like,” Verity said, “is a view of some of your new materials and then we might discuss a simple morning dress and a riding habit something resembling the one she's now wearing.”

  “Indeed, yes. Do please take a seat, ma’am. And you also, ma’am. There, the chair is clean. I’ll call my daughter.”

  Time passed.

  “Yes,” said Verity, “we’ll take four yards of the long lawn for the riding habit shirts.”

  “That at two and six a yard, ma’am?”

  “No, three and six. Then we shall need a half yard of corded muslin for ruffles. And a pair of the dark habit gloves. Now which hat shall it be, Cousin? The one with the feather?”

  “That's too dear,” said Demelza.

  “The one with the feather. It is neat and not ostentatious. Now there's stockings to be considered—”

  Time passed.

  “And for an afternoon,” said Verity, “I thought after this style. It is genteel and
not fashionably exaggerated. The hoops must not be large. The dress, I thought, of that pale mauve silks with the front underskirt and bodice of the flowered apple-green, somewhat ruched. Sleeves, would you say, just over the elbow and flared a little with cream lace. Um—white fichu, of course, and a posy at the breast.”

  “Yes, Mistress Poldark, that will be most becoming. And a hat?”

  “Oh, I shan’t need’n,” said Demelza.

  “You are sure to sometime,” said Verity. “A small black straw, I should say for the hat, with perhaps a touch of scarlet. Can you make us something after that style?”

  “Oh, certainly. Just what I should’ve suggested meself. My daughter’ll start right away on this tomorrow. Thank you. Most honoured we are, and ’ope we shall keep your patronage. Good day, ma’am. Good day, ma’am.”

  The better part of two hours had passed before they left the shop, both looking rather flushed and guilty as if they had been engaged in some not quite respectable pleasure.

  The sun had gone from the narrow street and blazed in red reflection from the first-floor windows opposite. The crowds were no smaller, and a drunken song could be heard from a nearby gin shop.

  Verity was a little thoughtful as they picked their way among some rubbish to cross the street.

  “It will take us all our time to get the business done before four. And we do not want to be overtaken by darkness on the return. I think we should do well to leave the glass and linen today and go direct to buy the carpets.”

  Demelza looked at her. “Have you spent too many of your guineas on me?”

  “Not too many, my dear… And besides, Ross will never notice whether the linen is new—”

  3

  They found Jud gloriously drunk.

  Some part of Ross's threats had stayed with him through his carouse, and he was not on his back, but within those limits he had done well for himself.

  An ostler had got him to the front of the Red Lion Inn. The three horses were tethered waiting, and he was quarrelling amiably with the man who had seen him this far.

  When he saw the ladies coming, he bowed low in the manner of a Spanish grandee, clinging with one hand to the awning post outside the inn. But the bow was extravagant and his hat fell off and went floating down the rivulet which ran between the cobbles. He swore, unsettling the horses with the tone of his voice, and went after it; but his foot slipped and he sat down heavily in the street. A small boy returned his hat and was lectured for his trouble. The ostler helped the ladies to mount and then went to Jud's aid.

  By this time a lot of people had paused to see them off. The ostler managed to get Jud to his feet and covered the tonsure and fringe with the damp hat.

  “There, ole dear; stick it on yer ’ead. Ye’ll need both ’ands for to hold yer old ’orse, ye will.”

  Jud instantly snatched off the hat again, cut to the quick.

  “Maybe as you think,” he said, “because as I’ve the misfortune of an accidental slip on a cow-flop therefore I has the inability of an unborn babe, which is what you think and no missment, that you think as I be open to be dressed and undressed, hatted and unhatted like a scare crow in a field o’ taties, because I’ve the misfortune of a slip on a cow-flop. Twould be far superior of you if you was to get down on yer bended knees wi’ brush an’ pan. Tedn’t right to leave the streets before yer own front door befouled wi’ cow-flops. Tedn’t right. Tedn’t tidy. Tedn’t fair. Tedn’t clean. Tedn’t good enough.”

  “There, there now,” said the ostler.

  “ ’Is own front door,” said Jud to the crowd. “Only ’is own front door. If every one of you was to clean before ’is own front door, all would be clean of cow-flops. The whole blathering town. Remember what the Good Book do say: ‘Thou shalt not move thy neighbour's landmark.’ Think on that, friends. ‘Thou shalt not move thy neighbour's landmark.’ Think on that and apply it to the poor dumb beasts. Never—”

  “’Elp you on yer ’orse, shall I?” said the ostler.

  “Never in all me days has I been so offensive,” said Jud. “Hat put on me ’ead as if I was an unborn babe. An’ wet at that! Wet wi’ the scum of all Powder Street drippin’ on me face. Enough to give me the death. Dripping on me ’ead: a chill you get, and phit! ye’re gone. Clean yer own doorstep, friends, that's what I do say. Look to yourself, and then you’ll never be in the place of this poor rat oo has to assault ’is best customers who is slipped in a cow-flop by danging a blatherin’ wet hat on ’is ’ead from off of the foul stream that d’ run before ’is own doorstep which should never ’appen, should never ’appen, dear friends, remember that.” Jud now had his arm round the ostler's neck.

  “Come along, we’ll go without him,” Verity said to Demelza, who had a hand up to her mouth and was tittering helplessly.

  Another servant came out of the inn, and between them they led Jud to his horse.

  “Pore lost soul,” said Jud, stroking the ostler's cheek. “Pore lost wandering soul. Look at ’im, friends. Do ’e know he's lost? Do ’e know he's for the fires? Do ’e know the flesh’ll sweal off of him like fat off of a goose? And for why? I’ll tell ee for why. Because he's sold his soul to Old Scratch ’imself. And so’ve you all. So’ve you all what don’t ’eed what the Good Book do say. ’Eathens! ’Eathens! ‘Thou shalt not move thy neighbour's landmark. Thou shalt not—’”

  At this point the two men put their hands under him and heaved him into the saddle. Then the ostler ran round to the other side as he began to slip off. A timely push and another hoist and he was firmly held, one man on either side. Old blind Ramoth stood it all without a twitch. Then they thrust one of Jud's feet deep in each stirrup and gave Ramoth a slap to tell him he should be going.

  Over the bridge and all the way up the dusty hill out of the town, Jud stayed in the saddle as if glued to it, haranguing passers-by and telling them to repent before it was too late.

  4

  The girls rode home very slowly, drenched in a fiery sunset, with occasional snatches of song or a rolling curse to inform them that Jud had not yet fallen off.

  They talked little at first, each woman taken with her own thoughts, and content with the excitements of the day. Their outing had given them a much closer under standing of one another.

  As the sun went down behind St. Ann's, the whole sky flared into a vivid primrose and orange. Clouds which had moved up were caught in the blaze and twisted out of shape and daubed with wild colours. It was like a promise of the Second Coming, which Jud was just then loudly predicting in the far distance.

  “Verity,” Demelza said. “About those clothes.”

  “Yes?”

  “One pound, eleven and six seems a wicked lot for a pair of stays.”

  “They’re of good quality. They will last you some time.”

  “I’ve never had a proper pair of stays before. I was afraid they would want for me to take off my clothes. My inside clothes are awful.”

  “I will loan you some of mine when you go in to be fitted.”

  “You’ll come with me?”

  “Yes. We can meet somewhere en route.”

  “Why not stop at Nampara till then? Tis only another two weeks.”

  “My dear, I’m greatly flattered by your invitation, and thank you for it. But they’ll need me at Trenwith. Perhaps I might visit you again in the spring?”

  They rode on in silence.

  “An’ twenty-nine shillings for that riding hat. An’ that handsome silk for the green-an’-purple gown. I feel we didn’t ought to have spent the money on ’em.”

  “Your conscience is very restive.”

  “Well, an’ for a reason. I should’ve told you before.”

  “Told me what?”

  Demelza hesitated. “That mebbe my measuring won’t be the same for long. Then I won’t be able to wear ’em and they’ll be wasted.”

  This took a moment to grasp, for she had spoken quickly. The track here became narrow and uneven, and the horses went into single
file. When they were able to ride abreast again Verity said:

  “My dear, do you mean—?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, I’m indeed glad for you.” Verity stumbled with words. “How happy you must be.”

  “Mind you,” said Demelza, “I’m not positive certain. But things’ve stopped that belong to be as regular as clockwork with me, an’ last Sunday night I was awake all night and feeling some queer. And then again this morning I was as sick as Garrick when he eats worms.”

  Verity laughed. “And you concern yourself over a few dresses! Ross—Ross will be delighted.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t tell him yet. He's—strange that way. If he thought I was sickly, he’d make me sit still all day and twiddle my toes.”

  The brightest light had drained from the sky, leaving the clouds flushed with a rich plum-coloured afterglow. All the sparse countryside stood out in the warm light, the goats pasturing in numbers on the moorland, the scanty ricks of gathered corn, the wooden huts of the mines, the grey slate and cob cottages; the girls’ faces under their wide hats were lit with it, the horses’ noses gleamed.

  The breeze had dropped and the evening was silent except for the sound of their own passing: the clicking of the horses’ teeth upon the bits, the creak of saddle leather, the clop, clop of hoofs. A bit of a crescent moon hung in the sky, and Demelza bowed to it. Verity turned and looked back. Jud was a quarter of a mile away and Ramoth had stopped to crop a hedge. Jud was singing: “And for to fetch the summer home, the summer and the May -o.”

  They came to Bargus. Here in this corner of the dark and barren heath murderers and suicides were buried. The rope on the gibbet swung empty, and had done for a number of months, but the place was unhallowed and they were both glad to be past it before dusk began to fall.

  Now they were on familiar ground the horses wanted to break into a trot, but the girls held them in so that Jud should not be left too far behind.