Ross Poldark (22 page)

In the gathering darkness he lit a storm lantern, and this time left the house by the front door, making a circuit of the building to reach the stable. Better not leave the man too long or he might do some hurt to the horses.

Quietly he drew the bolt of the door and waited for a gust of wind to die before lifting the latch. Then he pushed the door wide, entered, put the lantern down just out of the draught, and stepped away into the shadows of the stalls.

Darkie whinnied at his sudden entry; wind blew in, disturbing the straw and leaves; a bat fluttered away from the light; there was silence. The iron bar had gone.

“Reuben,” Ross said. “Come out. I want to talk to you.’

No reply. He hadn’t expected one. You could hear the fluttering of the bat's wings as it circled in the darkness. He went on into the stable.

As he reached the second horse, he thought he heard a move behind him and turned swiftly, his gun up. But nothing stirred. He wished now he had brought the lantern farther, for its feeble light did not reach the deeper shadows.

Squire moved suddenly, stamping his hoofs on the floor. All the horses knew there was mischief about. Ross waited five minutes, tense by the stall, knowing that now it was a test of patience, of whose nerve would stand the longest. He was sure of his own, but as time passed he found that sureness urging him to go on. The man might have gone back to the loft with his weapon. He might be cowering there, prepared to see the night through.

Ross heard Jud come out of the house and tramp across the cobbles. He thought at first he might be coming here, but heard him enter the earth closet next door. Presently he went back to the house and the door was shut. Still no movement in the stable.

Ross turned to go back for the lantern, and as he did so there was a hum of air behind him and a crash as the jumper was swung and hit the partition where he had been standing. Wood splintered and he turned and fired straight into the figure which came up in the darkness. Something hit him across the head
and the figure was making for the door. As the man was outlined he pulled the trigger again. But this time the touch powder did not ignite; before he could pull back the cock Reuben Clemmow was gone.

He ran to the door and stared out. A figure moved beside the apple trees and he discharged the second barrel at it. Then he wiped a trickle of blood from his forehead and turned towards the house, from which Jud and Prudie and Demelza were just issuing in alarm.

He was angry and frustrated at the man's escape, even though there was every likelihood of his being found in the morning.

It would be very difficult for him not to leave a trail.

H
E WAS OUT AT DAWN FOLLOWING THE BLOODSTAINS WHICH CLEMMOW had left behind; but just before they reached Mellin, they turned north towards the sand hills and he lost track of them. In the days that followed nothing more was heard of the man, and the most reasonable conclusion was that he had lain down somewhere in that waste of sand and died of weakness and exposure. It was well to be finally rid of him, and nobody asked any questions. The fact that he had ever reappeared became a secret kept by the four members of the Nampara household and Zacky, whom Ross told.

During all the months of that summer the house of Nampara was seldom without flowers. This was Demelza's doing. She was always up at dawn and, now that the dread of being kidnapped and taken home for a thrashing had left her, she wandered at will in the fields and lanes, the lolloping Garrick trailing at her heels, to return with a big bunch of wildflowers, which found their way into the parlour.

Prudie had tried to break her of the habit, since it was not the duty of a kitchenmaid to brighten up the house with her gleanings; but Demelza went on bringing in the flowers, and her obstinacy and Prudie's inertia won the day. Sometimes it was a bunch of meadowsweet and ragged robin, sometimes an armful of foxgloves or a posy of sea pinks.

If Ross ever noticed these, he made no comment.

The child was like a young animal which had spent fourteen years in blinkers, narrowing her gaze to the smallest domestic circle and the most primitive purposes; the first nine years linked closely to her mother in a succession of illnesses and ill treatment and poverty and childbirths, the last five facing all except the last alone. It was not surprising now that she expanded in body and in
mind. She grew an inch in four months, and her interest in flowers was a symbol of her widening outlook.

She had taken to combing her hair and tying it back, where it sometimes stayed, so that her features had come out into the open. She was not an ill-looking girl and had a good clear skin and a quick mobility of expression; her eyes were intelligent and very frank. In another couple of years some young miner like Jim Carter would be courting her.

She was a very quick learner and something of a mimic, so that she began to add words to her vocabulary and to know how to pronounce them. She also began to lose some. Ross had consulted Prudie—always a flattering way of approach—and Prudie, who could outswear a trooper when she chose, found herself committed to the reduction of Demelza's curse words.

Sometimes, faced by Demelza's probing questions, Prudie felt as if she were in a trap. Prudie knew what was right and proper, and Demelza did not. And it might be possible to teach some girls to behave themselves without taking care of your own behaviour, but Demelza was not one of them. She was much too quick in her conclusions; her thoughts raced ahead and met one on the rebound.

So the process became not merely the willing education of Demelza but the unwilling regeneration of Prudie. It was not possible, she found, even to get drunk decently these days.

Ross looked on with amusement. Even Jud was not immune, but he bore the situation less graciously than his wife. He seemed to consider it an added grievance that she had not hit him with a broom handle for more than two months.

It was not a question of their being reformed by contact with the pure and lovely spirit of a child, for the child had as much original sin as they had.

If Demelza grew and developed, Garrick was a bean stalk. When he came he had been more of a puppy than anyone thought, and with proper food he enlarged so rapidly that one began to suspect the sheep dog in his ancestry. The sparse black curls of his coat remained, and his lack of tail made him curiously clumsy and unbalanced. He took a great fancy to Jud who couldn’t bear the sight of him, and the ungainly dog followed the bald old rascal everywhere. In July Garrick was pronounced free of parasites and admitted to the kitchen. He celebrated his entry by bounding across to Jud at the table and upsetting a jug of cider in his lap. Jud got up in a flood of cider and self-pity and aimed the jug at the dog, which scuttled out again,
while Demelza fled into the dairy and covered her head with her hands in a paroxysm of laughter.

One day, to Ross's surprise, he received a visit from Mrs. Teague and her youngest daughter, Ruth.

They had ridden over to Mingoose, Mrs. Teague explained, and thought it sociable to call in at Nampara on the way home. Mrs. Teague had not visited Nampara for nearly ten years and was so interested, she said, to see how Ross was managing for himself. Farming was such an engaging hobby, Mr. Teague had always said.

“More than a hobby with me, ma’am,” Ross said. He had been mending the fence which bounded part of his land, and was dirty and dishevelled, his hands scarred and soiled and rusty. When he greeted them in the parlour the contrast with Mrs. Teague's over-bright riding costume could not be ignored. Ruth too was got up to kill today.

Looking at her while they drank the cordial he ordered for them, he saw what it was that had taken him at the ball: the latent prettiness of the slightly rouged mouth, the unusual oblique set of her grey-green eyes, the lift of her willful little chin. With some last despairing effort Mrs. Teague had put a vitality into her youngest daughter that the others lacked.

They talked prettily about this and that. They had really been to call at the invitation of Mr. John Treneglos, the eldest son of Mr. Horace Treneglos of Mingoose. John was master of the Garnbarrow Hunt and had expressed supreme admiration for the way Ruth rode. He had invited them over so often that at last they felt impelled to gratify his request. What a noble house Mingoose was, was it not? The Gothic style and so very spacious, said Mrs. Teague, looking round. Mr. Treneglos was a most charming old gentleman; one could not help but notice how frail he had become.

How disappointing that Captain Poldark did not ride to hounds! Would it not do him a great matter of benefit, the mixing with other people of his own station and the thrill of the chase? Ruth always rode; it was her abiding passion; not of course that she was not highly accomplished in the gentler arts; one had to taste her syllabubs to know their richness; she had always believed, Mrs. Teague said, in bringing up her children to be accom plished about the house; this piece of lace which she wore as a fichu had been made entirely by Ruth and Joan, though Joan had not the industry of her younger sister.

During all this Ruth looked uncomfortable, pouting her mouth and glancing obliquely about the room and tapping her riding whip against one of her small well-shod feet. But when her mother was otherwise occupied, she found the opportunity to send him some knowledgeable and inviting looks. Ross thought of the few hours of daylight left and realized he would not complete the repair of the fence today.

Did he see much of the rest of the family? Mrs. Teague asked. There had not been a single Poldark at the Lemon ball. Of course, one could not expect Elizabeth to go about so much as usual, now that she was expecting a confinement. Ruth blushed, and a sharp stab of pain went through Ross.

Was it true, Mrs. Teague wondered, that Verity was still meeting that man, that Captain Blamey, somewhere in spite of her father's veto? One heard the rumour. No, well, of course, Ross wouldn’t know, with being so much out of touch with the world.

At five-thirty they rose to go. They thanked him but would not stay to supper. It had been agreeable seeing him. Would he come over to visit them if they wrote fixing a day? Very well, one day at the beginning of next month. He had made Nampara most comfortable again. One felt, perhaps, that the touch of a woman's hand was needed to set it off, to give it graciousness and gentility. Did he not ever feel that way?

They moved to the front door, Mrs. Teague chatting amiably, Ruth sulky and sweet by turns, trying to catch his eye and re-establish the flirtatious companionship of the ball. Their man-servant brought their horses forward. Ruth mounted first, lightly and easily. She had the grace of youth and of the born horsewoman; she sat in the saddle as if made for it. Mrs. Teague then mounted, satisfied with his approving glances, and he walked with them as far as the boundary of his land.

On the way Demelza passed them. She was carrying a basket of pilchards from Sawle, where the first catch of the season had just been landed. She was in the better of her two frocks of pink printed dimity and the sun shone on her tousled hair. A child, a girl, thin and angular with a long-legged stride; and then she raised her unexpected eyes.

She blinked once, curtsied awkwardly, passed on.

Mrs. Teague took out a fine lace handkerchief and flicked a little dust from her habit. “I heard you had—um—adopted a child, Captain Poldark. That is she?”

“I have adopted no one,” Ross said. “I needed a kitchen wench. The child is old enough to know her own mind. She came. That is all there is about it.”

“A nice little thing,” said Mrs. Teague. “Yes, she looks as if she would know her own mind.”

The affairs of Verity and Captain Blamey came to a head at the end of August. It was unfortunate that this should occur on the day Ross had accepted Mrs. Teague's invitation to return her call.

Verity had met Andrew Blamey four times at Nampara during the summer, once each time he was ashore.

Ross could not bring himself to dislike the seaman, for all his history. A quiet man with no small talk, a man with self-possessed eyes offset by an unusual modesty of bearing; the word one would instinctively choose to describe him was “sober.” Yet sober was the last thing he had once been, if one merely accepted his own confession. Sometimes it was possible to sense a conflict. He had the reputation, Ross knew, for being a driver aboard his ship; and in the deliberate self-control, the self-containment of all his movements, one caught the echo of past struggles and guessed the measure of the victory won. His deference and tenderness towards Verity were obviously sincere.

If there was anyone he could dislike, it was himself and the role he was playing. He was abetting the meeting of two people whom common sense would emphasize were better apart. If things went wrong, he would be more to blame than anyone else. One could not expect clear sightedness from two people deeply in love.

Nor was he at all comfortable about the progress of events. He was not present at their interviews, but he knew Blamey was trying to persuade Verity to run away with him, and that so far Verity had not brought herself to the point of agreement, still hoping that there might be a reconciliation between Andrew and her father. She had, however, agreed to go with him to Falmouth sometime soon and meet his children, and Ross had a suspicion that if she went she would not return. One could not go so far in a few minutes and be back without anyone being the wiser. This would be the thin end of defiance. Once there he would persuade her to marry him rather than come back and face the storm.