Warleggan

by Winston Graham

  ‘They would not have suited me so well,’ she said. ‘Are you quite recovered now from your wound? It is late to ask, but—’

  ‘Quite recovered. Look.’ He stretched his arm. ‘It’s as good as new. And the wound was worth the having. Just because of meeting you.’

  They came to the end of the terrace and stopped. She moved to turn, but he did not. She thought, this is the first choice. He’s bending his head to kiss me. Well, I’ve asked for it. I’ve often wondered what it was like, those moustaches . . . now I know . . . Is this me, looking up at a strange man’s hair, with his hands and lips on me? This is the moment to turn back; Judas, this is a long kiss, I like it and dislike it both at the same time. Oh, no, this isn’t really me; I’m home by the fire with Jeremy asleep upstairs, and Ross . . . Ross is in Elizabeth’s arms . . .

  When at last he released her, she leaned back against the balustrade and glanced round rather belatedly to see if anyone was watching. But the night surrounded them. She took a breath, which was overdue, put a hand uncertainly to her hair. He was a big man, perhaps not as tall as Ross but heavier, stouter. And he was no beginner.

  ‘Ever since I first met you,’ he said, ‘ever since that first time years ago, I’ve wanted to do that. Och, it is a very great thrill to me.’

  ‘Och,’ she said, ‘I’m glad you enjoyed it.’

  ‘Madam minx. But it is always the way with humankind, Demelza; the realization of an ambition leads on to greater ambition and greater ambition, until—’

  ‘Until there is none left. What then, Malcolm?’

  ‘What then? Why, then one achieves fulfilment of the most desirable kind. Were ye suggesting futility? It hasn’t been my experience. And I am sairtainly convinced it would not be so in this case.’

  ‘And for me?’

  ‘I’d not be a disappointment. Do ye think it likely?’

  Their heads were still close, within six inches of each other. The conversation had got completely out of hand, had run suddenly amok. Momentarily she did not know how to control it.

  ‘I think we should go in. I think, I b’lieve, it is very warm out here and would be cooler in the ballroom.’

  ‘Will you not give me a word of encouragement before we go?’

  ‘It seems to me that there have been many words of encouragement. Or I don’t know how else you would call them—’

  ‘Encouragement yes,’ said McNeil confidently. ‘But will you not fulfil the promise of your looks, my darling? Perhaps later. Later tonight. Which is your room? Demelza . . .’

  Well, what was she waiting for? Was this not why she had come to the ball? Was this not the only way of getting back at Ross? Had she not a few hours ago been bitterly reflecting that no eligible man existed? Sir Hugh, in such a connection, filled her with repugnance. So did John Treneglos. But here was McNeil, off tomorrow, personable, quite attractive to her, eager and loving. What more could she ask? Unless the whole of her rebellion, the whole of her protest, was the empty breath of so many angry words, words spoken within herself and never seriously meant. A windbag, pretending to be daring. Bolstering herself up on glasses of wine so that she might reach the ultimate peak of wickedness by allowing someone to kiss her. How many casual carnal kisses had Ross given, not only to Elizabeth but to that bold coarse creature stalking about indoors? Margaret Vosper. Margaret Cartland, Margaret Poldark. Demelza Poldark. Demelza McNeil.

  She lowered her head and said in a low voice: ‘I am not well acquainted with this house.’

  ‘I am. I have lived here many weeks.’ His lips touched her ear, his hand on her arm. ‘Thank you, my sweet, thank you . . .’

  When she got to her room much later that night, the conductor’s coattails were still swinging. A few of the energetic younger couples were making the most of the emptying floor, but the majority of the guests had departed or were beginning the process of retiring for the night. Constance Lady Bodrugan had long since left them to it and was feeding her animals. Sir Hugh was drinking a last rum toddy with Lord Devoran, and Robert Bodrugan was making heavy going of a flirtation with Miss Tresize.

  Demelza shut the door behind her and went across to the window and parted the curtains to look out. The heavy evening clouds had lifted and it was less dark. The silhouette of the trees bloomed against the lighter night sky. Light flooded out from the ground-floor window underneath her, reflecting back upon the ivy-covered walls. What she thought was a gargoyle on the turret of the porch suddenly came to life and flitted silently past her window: a barn owl looking for prey.

  She let the curtain fall and turned to warm her ice-cold hands at the single thick candle which burned like a beady yellow eye on the table. She was now in process – in rapid process – of becoming what her father would have described as a whore-bird. She only wished she knew how whore-birds generally behaved. Did one wait in one’s gown, presenting the exact picture which had enticed the man in the first place, but with all the hazards of a spoiled and crumpled frock? Did one undress first and put on one’s morning coat, which was not one quarter so attractive but which had the merits of accommodation? Or did one get into bed in one’s night shift – or even without it – and pull the sheet up to one’s chin?

  She wished now she had allowed herself to become a little drunker. If one felt dizzy and silly, it was all so much easier – one simply let him make the running and probably giggled one’s way into infidelity. She had never felt less like giggling in her life. Of far more use to her now than wine was the mental picture she had of Elizabeth, with her pale fey face and golden hair flowing, lying in Ross’s arms. The picture was extraordinarily vivid, as if it were painted and hanging on the wall of the room.

  She wished her hands were not so cold. It was the only outward sign of nerves. She wished it all was not to happen so much in cold blood. He should have carried her off while they were on the terrace – got it over, like having a tooth out. No, that was unfair to him. It would all be better when he came. He was attractive, handsome, ardent. She should be flattered by his attentions, was indeed. She must think hard about him. It helped. It helped a great deal.

  She decided that the morning coat was the thing and began hasty contortions to remove the frock. Eventually it slithered down in a beautiful shimmering heap, and she stepped out of it, long-limbed and black-stockinged and white. Well, if he came in now! She grabbed the morning coat and struggled into it. As she tied the cord, there was a just perceptible knock on the door.

  Only just in time! She picked up the gown and laid it hastily on a chair, then tiptoed to the door. In a moment Malcolm McNeil was inside.

  Dressing-gowns evidently were the correct thing. He looked bigger than ever in his, more down to earth, more real. Absolutely frighteningly real. And rather fat.

  ‘My sweet, I was afraid I might have picked the wrong door and flushed some antique dowager. How adorable you look! How old are you, eighteen? If I did not know to the contrary, I should not suppose it to be more.’

  ‘I’m forty-seven,’ she said, playing for time with her own brand of humour, opposing it to her temporary sense of shock. ‘’Tis the light in here which is so becoming, Malcolm. I should not suppose you a day over twelve. Though, in truth, the candle has had a thief in it and has guttered half away. Did anyone see you come?’

  ‘No one. The maids have gone to bed, and the guests that are left are yawning their heads off. But for us, my darling, the night is young—’

  ‘What time do you leave tomorrow?’

  ‘I catch the noon coach from Truro as it passes the gates—’

  ‘And shall I then not see you again?’

  ‘You shall if you wish! Only write me at Winchester . . .’

  He put his arms round her, still talking, and kissed her several times with great energy, allowing one hand to slip inside her coat and rest on her shoulder. I’m supposed to be enjoying this, she thought. What’s the matter? Has it come too sudden, or doesn’t he attract me so much as I believed? Am I liking being
kissed like this? Not now. Not this way. But it will pass. I will try to forget everything. I wish I was drunk. Dear Malcolm; how he wants me. Soon I’ll want him. Just surrender yourself up. It’s naught but shyness that makes me all curled up and cold. Or am I really, truthfully, a prude and shocked at myself? . . .

  ‘Malcolm,’ she said, when she could get her mouth free.

  ‘Yes, my angel,’ he said, and gave her no time to reply.

  For the moment at least she was able to keep his endearments within bounds, and while doing so she stormed at herself. Ross is unfaithful! Ross is unfaithful! He is gone from me as a lover for ever. Elizabeth has won him. He has even been with that terrible woman downstairs. What an insult, a humiliation! Ross has gone, I tell you. There is no more of him, nothing but desolation, and this: the furtive appointment in the bedroom; Malcolm is kind, upright, sincere, so much more than I might have expected, even if a little fat. I wanted him to make love to me; I almost asked him! Now am I not satisfied? Keep to your bargain. In a few minutes you will be enjoying it. It is just the beginning that seems so strange, so foreign, as if one had never been made love to before. Foreign, that was the word. Being seduced by a foreigner.

  His endearments were becoming progressive.

  ‘Malcolm,’ she said breathlessly, part breaking away from him. ‘Are you kind?’

  ‘Kind? You will find me so,’ he said, following her slowly backwards. He had exhausted his finesse downstairs.

  ‘Then, Malcolm, I want you to listen to me. Please. Just for a moment or two. I – I want you to be kind and understanding. I want you to understand why I led you to suppose . . . You see it is because of Ross. I thought because of what he has done that I wished to do the same. And of all the men I could have preferred to have chosen . . . you were here . . . And it was not until this moment – a few moments ago – that I have begun to wonder—’

  ‘Och, yes, darling,’ he said. ‘I quite see what you wonder. It is not an uncommon feeling at the last . . .’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Hear me out, please. It is of great moment. I—’

  ‘Of course. Of course. No one is denying it. Have I told you how beautiful you are? I’ve rarely seen a woman so beautiful as you tonight . . .’ She could retreat no farther. She had her back against the wall.

  Up to that moment there had been a strong element of doubt in her feelings. The terrible sick hurt within her goaded her on in spite of these very peculiar feelings which were attacking her now, which swept over her, wave after wave. Hurt pride and all the other things were working hard on Malcolm’s behalf. But she knew then that she must have a breathing space, still a little time to relate one emotion with another, so that there should still be an ultimate freedom of choice, a rejection or an acceptance within her heart. Had he been a subtler man and given her time, she could have done this. But he did not give her time, and so the new feelings grew stronger than the old and his compliments slid past unheeded.

  He stood smiling over her, a hand on either side of the wall, not touching her but about to. And suddenly, abruptly, knowing him and liking him, she breathlessly began to try to explain. Perhaps it was a lost cause but she went on, telling him of Ross’s misconduct, of her own decision to come tonight, of his personal charm which had led her to the point where she was willing to do this thing; and then of her sudden humiliating recognition but a few moments ago that she could not go on. It was something quite fundamental, within herself, primal and entirely unrecognized until now, an adherence to one man however he might neglect her.

  She did not use those words but she did her best, groping around to explain feelings as yet only half acknowledged. She had never felt so debased in her life, she said, not because of what had been proposed but because of the way she was behaving now. Only her absolute certainty that she could do nothing else gave her the courage to seem such a cheat and a prude. She didn’t suppose he would like what she was saying; but they were not strangers; in a manner of speaking they were old friends, and she threw herself upon his friendship now, begging him to appreciate her position . . .

  She said these things at considerable length and hoped and prayed that he understood; and then she looked into his eyes and realized with a sense of shock that he wasn’t listening.

  ‘I quite appreciate your feelings, my angel. It does you cr-redit to be so scrupulous. But think of me a moment, who’s been looking to this rendezvous as to a mortal’s taste of heaven. I well know your tender heart. It would not, I know, deny me the privileges it has promised. Ye have two duties now, my angel; not one alone to your faithless husband. The first is to me . . .’

  He took her and began to kiss her again. She struggled, turning her head away, but not with great vehemence, hoping that her obvious reluctance would make an impression. It did not. He got hold of her morning gown and began to pull it off. She bit him.

  He stepped back a moment, and she slid along the wall out of his reach. The look in his eyes changed. He glanced at the teeth marks in his wrist. The blood was beginning to come.

  He said: ‘Well, that is a pretty way of showing affection. I confess it surprises me in a lady. But perhaps it is the way you like it.’

  ‘Oh, Malcolm, please, don’t you understand . . .?’

  He came after her and captured her in a corner of the room. They struggled desperately for a minute or two. Then she broke away again, leaving a sleeve of her gown in his hands. They faced each other across the room. Her breath was coming in great gulps.

  He took a deep breath himself. His intention had been so predetermined when he came into the room that no words of hers would have been sufficient to turn him from it. Nor would a solitary act of resistance. But this last struggle had shown him how much in earnest she was. And for all her slenderness she was as strong and lithe as a young animal. Of course he could still have his way if he chose. It was simple enough: you hit her just once on her obstinate little chin. But he was not that sort of a man.

  He slowly rolled the sleeve of the gown into a ball and mopped his hand. Then he dropped the material to the floor.

  ‘I like to think of myself as civilized,’ he said; ‘so I give you best, Mrs Poldark. I hope your husband appreciates such fidelity. In the peculiar saircumstances I do not. I like a woman who makes up her mind and has the courage and grace to stick to it. I thought you were such a one. My mistake . . .’ He walked slowly to the door and gave her a last glance. ‘When admiration turns to contempt, it is time to go.’

  He went out. At the last moment she almost spoke to him again, making a final effort to bring him to understand something of her feeling, so that, even though he might condemn, he would not despise. But as he moved she just did not dare to open her mouth.

  And when he had gone, when the door had closed and she was alone again, she walked trembling to the bed and sat on it. All the tension of defence was moving out of her. She couldn’t quite believe in her own vehemence. Every muscle in her body ached. Her arms and shoulders were bruised. Her teeth ached.

  She didn’t cry, but she put up her hands to her face. ‘Oh, God, I want to die,’ she said. ‘Please, God, let me die . . .’

  Chapter Nine

  About half an hour later, as the big clock in the hall was striking three, when the band had finally worked itself out and peace was settling on the house, when those still up began to move more quietly for fear of disturbing those already retired, a short stocky man came slowly up the stairs and turned towards the east wing. It was Sir Hugh Bodrugan himself, and the exaggerated stealth of his movements showed not only that he was on illicit business but also that the spirits he had drunk had had the effect of making him abnormally sober.

  Wine had been spilled down his red hunting coat, and the lace of one cuff had been torn in a skirmish, but that was all the obvious damage, and he was sure the ball had been a great success and that everyone had enjoyed themselves. Now to put the cap on the evening he was bent on enjoying himself in another way. He’d cunningly given Marga
ret the slip, and she no doubt was still pacing about in the library waiting for him. Presently she would get tired of waiting and would swear roundly and go to bed. That was as it should be. He was going to bed, he hoped, but not with her.

  There were few guests in the east wing, and that naturally made his purposes easier, although the confounded floor creaked and moaned all the way. His choice of bedroom for the lady had not been undesigning, in case she should give him any encouragement. It was therefore with surprise and indignation that as he neared the door in question he saw another figure move towards it out of the shadows and peer at the handle as if to make certain of his bearings. As this figure stretched out a hand to open the door, Sir Hugh said:

  ‘Hi, there! What the blazes . . .’

  The other man straightened up sharply. It was John Treneglos. He said: ‘Hullo! What?’ and blinked. ‘Oh, it’s you, my friend! Is this my bedroom, did you say? I remember ’twas on the right-hand side as you turned up the stairs. This wandering great house of yours, it’s worse than my own. Look ee—’

  ‘You’re not so foxed as that, sir,’ said Bodrugan sternly. ‘Oh, dear no, sir. One may make a mistake by a room or two, sir, but not by half a house. That’s your way, straight down the corridor; and I should be obliged if you’d take it.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Treneglos. ‘Is that so? Yes, I see where I went wrong now.’ He made a move and then stopped. ‘Yes, I suppose ’twas all the jigging in the dance that put my bearings out. Thank ee.’

  He waited. They both waited. Sir Hugh said: ‘Well, good night to you.’

  ‘Now, Hughie,’ said Treneglos. ‘Don’t be a damned spoilsport. I never thought to think you a damned spoilsport.’

  ‘You may think what you please, sir. That’s your way to bed. This is Demelza Poldark’s room, and well you know it!’