Demelza

by Winston Graham

  There was silence.

  “Not yet,” said Johnson.

  “Well, drot it,” said Trevaunance. “You should all bank with Pascoe, as I do. Then you’d not get into this mess. Get Pascoe’s to take over your amounts.”

  “Easier said than done,” Fox snapped. “Aukett’s right. Pascoe’s want a better security. I was with them and could not get enough free money and I changed to Warleggan’s. So there’s small hope of me being able to change back.”

  Ray Penvenen grunted impatiently. “Well, that’s a matter personal to you. We can’t all start confessing our private difficulties or it will smack of a Methody revival. Let’s get back to this question of the mill.”

  At length it was agreed that the mill should be put up as a separate venture by Penvenen on the site of his own choosing. The Carnmore Company should hold only 30 percent of the shares. Unreality had come to sit among them. Very well for Penvenen with his up-country interests, to dismiss the matter as of no moment. Mines worked on credit, and those were not times for facing its withdrawal. Ross saw the same look on many faces. Someone has let us down. And if three names are known, why not all?

  The meeting closed early. Decisions were taken, proposals went through; the name of Warleggan was no more spoken. Ross wondered how many of the decisions would be put into effect. He wondered if there was any danger of their stiff fight becoming a debacle.

  When it was over, he shook hands all around and was one of the first to leave. He wanted to think. He wanted to consider where the leak might have occurred. It was not until he was riding home that a very uncomfortable and disturbing thought came to him.

  Chapter Forty

  Demelza was in bed but not asleep. When she spoke, he gave up the attempt to undress in the dark.

  “You’re roosting early,” he said. “I hope this is a sign of a reformed life.”

  Her eyes glittered unnaturally in the growing yellow light of the candle.

  “Have you any news of Mark?”

  “No; it’s early.”

  “There are all sorts of rumors about France.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “How did your meeting go?”

  He told her.

  She was silent after he had finished. “D’you mean it may make more difficulties for you?”

  “It may.”

  She lay quiet then while he finished undressing, her hair coiled on the pillow. One tress of it lay on his pillow as he came to get into bed. He picked it up and squeezed it in his fingers a moment before putting it with the rest.

  “Don’t put out the light,” she said. “I’ve something to tell you.”

  “Can’t you talk in the dark?”

  “Not this. The darkness is so heavy sometimes… Ross, I b’lieve we should sleep sweeter without the bed hangings these warm nights.”

  “As you please.” He put the candle beside the bed where it flung yellow fancies on the curtains at their feet.

  “Have you heard anything more of Verity?” she asked.

  “I’ve not stirred from Trevaunance Cove all day.”

  “Oh, Ross,” she said.

  “What is the matter?”

  “I…I have been to Trenwith today to see Francis.”

  “The Devil you have! You’d get no welcome there. And certainly no news of Verity.”

  “It wasn’t for news of Verity I went. I went to tell him he was mistaken in thinking you’d encouraged Verity to elope.”

  “What good would that do?”

  “I didn’t want that blame laid to me, that I’d caused a quarrel between you. I told him the truth: that I’d helped Verity unbeknown to you.”

  She lay very still and waited.

  Annoyance was somewhere within him, but it would not come to a head. It ran away again into channels of fatigue.

  “Oh, heavens,” he said at length, wearily. “What does it matter?”

  She did not move or speak. The news sank farther into his understanding, set off fresh conduits of thought and feeling.

  “What did he say?”

  “He—he turned me out. He—told me to get out and… He was so angry. I never thought…”

  Ross said, “If he vents his ill humor on you again… I could not understand his attitude to me on Monday. It seemed just as wild and unreasonable as you say—”

  “No, Ross, no, Ross,” she whispered urgently. “That’s not right. It isn’t him you should be angry with, it is me. I am in the fault. Even then I didn’t tell him all.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I—that I had passed on letters from Andrew Blamey and sent him letters from Verity ever since the Assembly in April.”

  “And what didn’t you tell him?”

  There was silence.

  She said, “I think you will hit me, Ross.”

  “Indeed.”

  “I did as I did because I loved Verity and hated her to be unhappy.”

  “Well?”

  She told him everything. Her secret visit to Falmouth while he was away, how she had contrived a meeting and how it had all happened.

  He did not interrupt her once. She went right through to the end, faltering but determined. He listened with a curious sense of incredulity. And all the time that other suspicion was beating away. That thing was a part of it: Francis must have realized that Verity and Blamey had been deliberately brought together. Francis had suspected him. Francis knew all about the Carnmore Copper Company…

  The candle flame shivered and the light broke its pattern on the bed.

  It all came around to Demelza. The thing welled up in him.

  “I can’t believe you did it,” he said at last. “If—if anyone had told me I should have named him a liar. I’d never have believed it. I thought you were trustworthy and loyal.”

  She did not say anything.

  The anger came easily. It could not be stemmed.

  “To go behind my back. That is what I can’t stomach or—or even quite believe yet. The deceit—”

  “I tried to do it openly. But you wouldn’t let me.”

  She had betrayed him and was the cause of the greater betrayal. It all fit into place.

  “So you did it underhand, eh? Nothing mattered, no loyalty or trust, so long as you got your own way.”

  “It wasn’t for myself. It was for Verity.”

  “The deceit and the lies,” he said with tremendous contempt. “The continual lying for more than twelve months. We have been married no long time, but I prided myself that this, this association of ours, was the one constant in my life. The one thing that would be changeless and untouchable. I should have staked my life on it. Demelza was true to the grain. There wasn’t a flaw in her—In this damned world—”

  “Oh, Ross,” she said with a sudden great sob. “You’ll break my heart.”

  “You expect me to hit you?” he said. “That’s what you can understand. A good beating and then over. But you’re not a dog or a horse to be thrashed into the right ways. You’re a woman, with subtler instincts of right and wrong. Loyalty is not a thing to be bought: it is freely given or withheld. Well, by God, you have chosen to withhold it!”

  She began to climb out of bed blindly, was out and clung sobbing to the curtains, released them and groped around the bed. Her whole body shook as she wept.

  As she reached the door he sat up. His anger would not subside.

  “Demelza, come here!”

  She had gone and shut the door behind her.

  He got out of bed, took up the candle, and opened the door again. She was not on the stairs. He went down shedding grease, reached the parlor. She was trying to close the door, but he flung it open with a crash.

  She fled from him toward the farther door, but he put down the candle and caught her by the fireplace and pulled her bac
k. She struggled in his arms, feebly, as if grief had taken her strength. He caught her hair and pulled her head back. She shook it.

  “Let me go, Ross. Let me go.”

  He held her while the tears ran down her cheeks. Then he let her hair go and she stood quiet, crying against him.

  She deserves all this and more, he thought. More, more! Let her suffer! He could well have struck her, taken a belt to her. Drunken hind and common drudge. What a foul mixture and mess!

  Damn her for an impudent brat! Verity married to Blamey and all, all that trouble through her meddling. He could have shaken her till her teeth chattered.

  But already his sense of fairness was fighting to gain a word. It was her fault in part but not her blame. At least not the consequences. Verity married to Blamey might be the least of them. Damn Francis. Incredible betrayal! (Did he run too fast and too far? No, for it surely all fit.)

  “Come, you’ll get cold,” he said roughly.

  She took no notice.

  She had already had the quarrel with Francis. That too must have upset her, for she had been very low when he got home. Curious that that should have upset her so much.

  His anger was slowly subsiding, not disappearing but finding its true level. She could not stand his tongue. What had he said? Or how had he said it? The Poldarks were an unpleasant lot when they were crossed. Damn Francis, for all the trouble really lay at his door: the first break between Verity and Blamey, his later obstinate refusal to reconsider his dislike! Demelza no doubt had acted for the best. The road to hell being so paved.

  But she had no right to act so, for best or worst. She had no right. She had interfered and lied to him, and although she was desperately upset, in a day or two she would be happy and smiling again. And all the consequences would go on and on and on, echoing in this man’s life and that.

  She stopped and broke away from him.

  “It’ll be all right,” she said.

  “Well, do not stay down here all night.”

  “You go on. I’ll come in a little.”

  He left her the candle and went back to the bedroom. He lit another candle and walked over to the cot. Julia had kicked off all the bedclothes. She was lying like a Muslim worshipper, her head down and her seat in the air. He was about to cover her when Demelza came in.

  “Look,” he said.

  She came over and gave a little gulping “Oh” when she saw the child. She swallowed and turned her over. Julia’s curly brown hair was like a halo for the innocent cherubic face. Demelza went quietly away.

  Ross stayed staring down at the child, and when he returned, Demelza was already in bed. She was sitting well back among the curtains, and he could only see the pyramid of her knees.

  Presently he got in beside her and blew out the candle and lay down. She did not move to settle for a long time. Extravagant and contrary in all things, he thought, Her loyalties, her griefs. She betrays me, deceives me without a flicker out of love for Verity. Am I to blame her, who know so much about conflicting and divided loyalties? She causes this breach between Francis and me. The enormity of it bringing perhaps failure and ruin.

  “Ross,” she said suddenly. “Is it as bad as all that, what I’ve done?”

  “No more talk now.”

  “No, but I must know that. It didn’t seem so wrong to me at the time. I knew it was deceiving you, but I thought I was doing what was best for Verity. Truly I did. Maybe it’s because I don’t know any better, but that’s what I thought.”

  “I know you did,” he said. “But it isn’t just that. Other things have come into it.”

  “What other things?”

  “Nothing I can tell you yet.”

  “I’m that sorry,” she said. “I never dreamed to make trouble between you and Francis. I never dreamed, Ross. I’d never ha’ done it if I thought that.”

  He sighed. “You have married into a peculiar family. You must never expect the Poldarks to behave in the most rational manner. I have long since given up expecting it. We are hasty—quite incredibly hasty, it seems—and sharp-tempered, strong in our likes and dislikes and unreasonable in them—more unreasonable than I ever guessed. Perhaps, so far as the first goes, yours is the common-sense view. If two people are fond of each other let ’em marry and work out their own salvation, ignoring the past and damning the consequences…”

  There was another long silence.

  “But I—I still don’t understand,” she said. “You seem to be talking in riddles, Ross. An’ I feel such a cheat and—and so horrible.”

  “I can’t explain more now. It is impossible until I am sure. But as for what I said…I spoke in heat. So forget it if you can and go to sleep.”

  She slid an inch farther down the bed.

  She blew out a long breath. “I wish—I shall not be very happy if this quarrel between you and Francis does not quickly heal.”

  “Then I am afraid you will be unhappy for a long time.” Silence fell and that time was not broken. But neither of them went to sleep. She was on edge after the quarrel, desperately unsatisfied and not much relieved by her tears. She felt insecure and much in the dark. She had been told of other reasons for his anger but could not guess them. She bitterly hated anything to be incomplete, especially to leave a trouble unresolved. Yet she knew she could go no further. He was restless and overtired and uneasy. Thoughts ran through his head in endless procession. After a time, she closed her eyes and tried to go to sleep. But he did not even try.

  Book Four

  Chapter Forty-One

  On Christmas Eve Demelza opened a letter from Verity that ran as follows:

  My Dear Cousin Demelza,

  Your welcome letter reached me yesterday morning and I am replying—prompt for me!—to say how pleased I am to learn all are well, with all this sickness abroad. In this Town it is very bad, two or three things rage, and who has not got one takes another. However, thanks to God, we too escape, at Church on Sunday the Pews were but half filled owing to it, and afterward we called on Mrs. Daubuz, the mayor’s wife, to condole with her on the loss of her baby son. We found her very sad but resigned; she is a fine woman.

  I am glad that you have at last had news that Mark Daniel is safe in France—that is if anyone can be safe there at this present. It was a horrible thing to happen and I wish it had never been. I can sympathize with Mark but not condone his act.

  We have been very busy here for a week past. The East India Fleet consisting of three fine ships and a frigate, with two Fleets from the West Indies as well as one from Oporto bound home, are all come into our port except a few from the Leeward Islands, which are gone up Channel. The Harbor is a fine sight with above 200 sail of Vessels in view from our House. The Fleets are very valuable and the Town is full of Passengers from them.

  Well, my dear, I am very happy in my new life. I think age is much how you feel; as a spinster of nearly thirty-one I felt old and sere, but as a married woman I do not at all seem the same. I have put on weight since I came and get no more Catarrh, perhaps it is the softer Climate that suits me, but I think that is not it. Andrew too is happy and is always whistling in the house. It is strange because no one at Trenwith ever whistled. Some things I miss terrible, some of my old work, and often I long to see the old faces, especially when Andrew is away, but so far, my dear, you can claim that your faith in us has not gone Awry. Bless you for all you did.

  I could have wished that this Christmas time could have seen a reconciling of us all, a real gathering of just the six of us, with of course Julia and Geoffrey Charles. That would have been good; alas, I’m afraid Francis will never soften. But I know Ross will, and in the Spring when the weather improves and Ross is less busy, I want you both to come over and spend a week with me. We have quite a number of friends and no one dislikes Andrew who knows him well.

  My dear, I am so sorry that all Ross’s work seems to
be coming to nought; it is too bad and such a Pity, for the industry needs all the help it can get. There are distressed tinners around here and some entered the Town last week and made a disturbance. So far it has been a terrible winter and I hope and pray with so many near starving that nothing will happen here like what has happened across the water. Try not to let Ross take this to heart as sometimes he is inclined to do, feeling that any failure is his failure. If the very worst comes and the smelting works closes it may be only a setback for a few years, and happier times will see a reopening. Captain Millett, one of the Frigate Captains, said yesterday that what we need is another war. A terrible solution, but there were others in the room to agree with him. Better Poverty than that, I say.

  My only regret is that Andrew is away so much. He leaves this evening and will be gone all Christmas and into the New Year. I have thought often to go with him, but he says wait until the summer when the Bay of Biscay will not be so Steep. He loves the sea devotedly but is known throughout the Service as a “driver.” Always when he comes home he seems strained, as if the voyage has tried his nerves; he is easier to cross and a trifle moody. I think too he drinks a little during his time at sea—no wonder, for he needs something to sustain him—but never touches a drop while ashore. It takes me one day of his precious time at home to make him quite content, then soon he has to be up and away.

  I have not met my two “children” yet. That is something of an Ordeal that may be mine about Easter, when The Thunderer with James Blamey on board as a cadet is expected home. Esther Blamey, Andrew’s daughter, is at boarding school and lives with his Sister near Plymouth. It may be that she will come and visit us too in the Spring. Pray for me then! I do so wish to make a home for them here and to make them welcome, if only our relationship will allow. I sometimes think I am such a poor mixer and wish I had an Easy manner, which some people have.

  Our housekeeper, Mrs. Stevens, was taken so ill with pains in the stomach last night that we sent for Dr. Silvey, but he said it was cramp and gave her a piece of roll Brimstone sewed in fine linen to hold near the affected part when she felt the pain. This has been a wonderful cure, but for my part I do not think she takes enough rhubarb.