The Four Swans

by Winston Graham

  But in June another man came, and his attendance did not bring with it the same warmth and the same joy. His name was Arthur Champion and he was a circuit steward. He preached ably but without the uplifting emotion one expected, and after the meeting he spent the night with Sam at Reath Cottage, eating the bread and jam Sam offered him and sleeping in Drake’s old bed. He was a man of about forty who had been a journeyman shoemaker before he felt the call, and after supper he went politely but firmly into the finances of Sam’s little class. He was interested to know if all the attending members paid their dues, and what record was kept and whether Sam had a good and reliable assistant to keep the money safe. Also, how the little chapel had been raised, what it had cost and what debts had been incurred. Also, whether seats were more expensive at the front of the chapel than at the back, and by how much. Also, who kept a record of the activities of the class, and who planned the weekly meetings. Also, what contribution could be made towards the visits of travelling preachers and full-time workers in the cause of Christ.

  Sam listened with patience and humility and answered each question in turn. Most of the attending members paid their dues when they could, but, poverty in the area being so bad, these payments did not always come in as regular as maybe in a town. ‘I reckon they should, Sam, just same,’ said Champion with a gentle smile. ‘No society’s worth b’longing to that’s not worth sacrificing for, d’ye see, specially one founded as a community that’s discovered salvation.’

  Sam said he had a number of good assistants but he did not bother anyone to keep a record and hold the money safe. He took it down himself in a little black book and the money, when there was money, was kept under the bed that his visitor would sleep on that night. ‘Brave,’ said Champion. ‘You do brave and well, Sam, but I reckon wi’ two or three elders in a group, like, tis desirable to spread the responsibility. Indeed, tis necessary in a well-run society.’

  Sam said the chapel had been raised on ground given by Captain Poldark and the stones to build it had been taken from the ruined engine-house of Wheal Maiden right alongside; the roof’d been made of wreck wood which had washed in on Hendrawna Beach, very timely: and the thatch’d been come by at little cost. All the benches inside had been knocked up local and the altars and pulpit had been made by his brother Drake, who was handy with his carpenter’s saw, out of wood taken from an old library Captain Poldark was having rebuilt. So, as the building had cost almost nothing but men’s time, working as faithful servants for the divine Jehovah, Sam had not thought it proper to ask payment to enter the Lord’s House from those who had built it. ‘Right, Sam, right,’ said Champion gently. ‘Right and proper. But soon, maybe, a small charge, else ye’ll not be able to contribute to the great wide brotherhood to which you now b’long. Much work is being done from the centre, d’ye see, by travelling preachers and those who give their lives fully to God. Tis the widow’s mite from every soul we need, from every soul that’s found salvation.’

  Sam admitted his error and they went on to discuss organization, how the classes should be asked to meet and how mix and what instructions should be given and whether there was another who could act as deputy leader if Sam were ill or away. It was all very necessary, Sam fully understood, and all part of becoming active and permanent members of the great Wesley Connexion. It was no doubt as necessary to have organization as it was to have revelation. Yet he had an uneasy sensation of being brought down to earth. To Sam the spirit that moved within him and the spirit that had moved like summer lightning among the great concourse at Gwennap last year were the very fount of redemption, and, although he was quite capable of being practical in other things, he felt that to be practical in matters so vital to the very soul was like leaping a chasm and then being asked to go back and build a bridge across.

  They talked and prayed together for nearly an hour and then Arthur Champion said:

  ‘Sam, I d’wish to have word with ye on another and more closer matter. I’m certain sure that ye believe all be well twixt you and your Redeemer, for there’s few I’ve met more fully imbued wi’ the joy of salvation. But tis my need and duty to give report to the circuit that all is proper and right, and I would ask ye to search your soul and answer me that ye have no sinful thought nor temptation that ye wish to discuss with me.’

  Sam stared at him. ‘We all need to be purified every moment of our lives, brother. But tedn in me to say as I feel in greater risk today than I did last year or any time since I were saved. If you have cause to suppose that Satan be nigh me, then I would ask you to instruct me in my peril.’

  ‘I refer,’ said Champion, and cleared his throat. ‘It have been told me that you are consorting wi’ a woman who is of ill repute in the neighbourhood.’

  There was silence. Sam loosened his neckerchief. ‘Would ee be meaning Emma Tregirls?’

  ‘I b’lieve that were the name.’

  Sam said: ‘I thought twas part of a leader’s holy task to try to bring lost souls to Christ.’

  Champion cleared his throat again. ‘So tis, brother, so tis.’

  ‘Well then. Where do I err?’

  ‘Mind, I know nought of this myself, Sam. Less than nought. But I’m telled as she is a wicked, sinful woman, but young and of carnal attraction. The evil, I’m telled, has not yet wrought ’pon her face. You too are young, Sam. Purity and impurity d’ sometimes become mixed in a man’s impulses. Therein lie the veriest dangers of Hell.’

  Sam got up and his tall sturdy body blocked off some of the failing light. ‘I seen her five, nay six, times, brother leader. Be she less valuable to the living God ’cause she have erred and sinned like a lost sheep? ’Cause she have followed in her own heart the devices and desires of Satan? There be greater joy in heaven over one sinner that repenteth . . .’

  ‘And do she show sign of repentance?’

  ‘. . . Not yet. But with prayer and with faith I have the hope.’

  Champion got up too, rubbing his stubble of beard. ‘They d’say she have been seen drunk, drunk in the street after leaving an ale-house. And that you went into an alehouse last week in search of her.’

  ‘Christ in his time on earth walked among publicans and sinners.’

  ‘They d’say she be a whore. Horrible, horrible! That she d’flaunt her loose body afore men, offering it to whoever care to beckon.’

  Sam frowned, his mind in some torment. ‘That I don’t rightly know, brother leader. There be rumour; but rumour be a wicked, evil, corrupting thing too. I know naught of that for certain. But if tis true, Christ had such a one at the foot of His cross . . .’

  Champion held up his hand. ‘Peace, brother. I do not come to judge but only to warn. Although we d’follow the Divine Master, we do not have his sublime wisdom. D’ye see? As class leader tis bad for ye to be mixed up wi’ a loose woman. There be many others to save. Christ was so pure that he couldn’t be defiled. There’s none of us so pure as that. So safe as that.’

  Sam bowed his head. ‘I’ll pray about’n. Not’s I haven’t already. Many’s the time. I’d dearly love to bring her to glory.’

  ‘Pray to give her up, Sam.’

  ‘That I could not do! She has a soul, and her soul has the right and the need of the Message—’

  ‘Let others try. Tis not meet that ye should be talked about.’

  ‘That may be, brother. I will pray over that.’

  ‘Let us pray together, Sam,’ Champion said. ‘’Fore we retire. Let us spend a little longer on our knees.’

  IV

  That week George Warleggan left to take his seat in the House of Commons. Elizabeth did not go with him.

  All this year their relationship had fluctuated; sometimes icy, sometimes approaching the cool but companionate marriage of the first few years. George’s success had delighted him; it had delighted all the Warleggans; it had delighted Elizabeth, for she was as ambitious as the next one and to be married to a Member of Parliament, even though one in trade, must raise her prestige. She was ve
ry glad for George because she felt this distinction must help him to throw off the sensation of inferiority which she knew clung to him like a hair shirt in spite of all his successes. From most people he was well able to disguise it, but not from her; though she had scarcely realized it, certainly not the extent of it, when they first married.

  They had dined at Tehidy both before and after the election; Sir Francis had been at his most charming. Later he and Lady Basset had dined with them in Truro; the mayor and mayoress were there and George’s father and mother and, to dilute them, as many people of eminence as could be summoned from the district round. It had been a great success; the house looked better than it had done since the ball celebrating the King’s recovery in ’89. The Bassets had spent the night with them; and George’s pride in his wife had led to his sharing the same bed with her.

  But a week later he had come back with white nostrils and a pinched taut look about his mouth, and from then until his departure there had been no kindness in his heart at all. He had been out to meet Sir Francis to discuss some project for building a hospital in the district, and Elizabeth could not understand what had occurred to change him. Her polite questions brought no response, so in the end she gave it up. There had certainly been talk of her going to London with him; she would have welcomed it for she had not been since she was a girl; but after this date it faded away. He made some excuse of wanting to find his feet, of inadequate lodgings, of taking her next time. She acquiesced, knowing that in this mood there would be little pleasure for her in the trip.

  And George’s unkindness to his son continued. Unkindness, that is, by neglect. Instead of being his pride and joy, Valentine now seemed disregarded. George could scarcely be persuaded to go and see him. It was unnatural and unfair. Even his mother noticed it and gently chided him.

  Elizabeth had no one to confide in. Her mother-in-law was a simple soul whose counsel would be impossible to seek on anything deeper than how to embroider a waistcoat or when to take a rhubarb powder. Her own mother was on the coast at Trenwith, and with one blind eye, one lame leg, and an impediment in her speech, had lapsed into an invalidism little better than her father, who now never dressed at all.

  With a sick feeling Elizabeth realized that her married life was disintegrating, and she shuddered to suppose the cause. So when George left, with a formal kiss on her cheek, a promise to write, and no fixed date for his return, she felt a sense of relief that for the moment at least all her tensions would be allowed to ease. She was now complete mistress of the house, she could make arrangements to play whist with her friends every afternoon, she could chat with them and take tea and go shopping and live a quiet and comfortable town life without having to defer to her husband’s fitful moods.

  About a week after he had left she was in the library one day when she saw her cousin Rowella talking to the librarian and she went across and asked after Morwenna.

  Rowella blinked and moved over to a private corner, a pile of books under her arm.

  ‘She is no better, Cousin Elizabeth; that I can assure you. You saw her at the christening; well, she is no better than that – possibly worse. I was thinking of writing for Mama.’

  ‘I should have been over, but have been so busy with Mr Warleggan leaving . . . I will come this afternoon. Will you tell her?’

  She went about six, hardly bothered now for knowing that George’s servant, Harry Harry, kept distant sight of her all the way. She took tea with Morwenna and then sought out Mr Whitworth, whom she found in church trying out a new crimson velvet cloth with a gold fringe for the communion table.

  ‘Osborne,’ she said, ‘I think Morwenna is very sick. I believe you should consult another doctor.’

  Ossie frowned at her. ‘She’s none too special, I agree, but she’s better in bed. Seems to tire her, this getting up in the afternoon. Eh? Behenna’s been very regular. He’d not like it.’

  ‘Nor did he neither when Valentine had rickets last year. But we could not consider his feelings when it was perhaps life and death.’

  Ossie looked at the cloth. ‘This has just been presented to the church by Mrs Thomas. It’s a thought gaudy for my taste. In this church, that is. We have not enough windows to light it up. There’s no one rich enough round here to give windows. I wonder if—’

  ‘I think you should have another opinion.’

  ‘What? Well . . . Whom did you engage?’

  ‘Dr Pryce of Redruth. And a very good knowledgeable man he was. But he died last winter.’

  ‘Well, then, he’s farther away than Redruth by now, eh? What? Ha! Ha! They say this apothecary who’s set himself up in Malpas has a very good idea of physics. I could ask Behenna about him.’

  ‘Ossie, I think you should ask Dr Enys to come and see her.’

  ‘Enys?’ Ossie’s frown deepened. ‘But he’s a sickly man himself. Maybe married life doesn’t suit him. Doesn’t suit everybody, you know. Had a man in the parish called Jones; farrier; married one of the Crudwells; swealed away like a candle after it.’

  ‘Dr Enys would come if I sent word. I have known him for some years. After all, you went to his wedding.’

  ‘Yes . . . He looked down-in-the-mouth then, if I remember. But I also conceit that Dr Behenna does not at all like him. I recall one or two very slighting remarks Behenna has made. Very slighting indeed. He spoke of a case he had heard of when Enys was called to the bedside of an old man with toothache and Enys dug out the tooth and cracked the jaw and the old man died! . . .’

  The contours of Elizabeth’s face were losing their softness. ‘Osborne, I believe Morwenna is very sick. If you do not send for Dr Enys, I shall.’

  ‘Oh . . .’ He blew out a long breath and tried to stare her down. But Elizabeth was not one of his parishioners. ‘Very well. It’s a matter on which, of course, I feel the gravest concern. Will you write, or shall I?’

  ‘I would like to, if you’ll permit me. But I would like you to add a note.’

  That was on the Wednesday. Dwight rode over on the Friday. Dr Behenna had been told, but refused to be present.

  Dwight sat by Morwenna’s bed for a few minutes talking to her before asking any medical questions. They talked about Trenwith and George’s election and Caroline’s pug dog. He led the talk round to the birth of John Conan and her ailments after, and presently he invited the baby’s nurse to come in while he made an examination. The nurse was shocked at the thoroughness of the examination. Ladies had to have pregnancies, but it was not customary to interfere with them after the child was born. Then the bedclothes went back and the nurse was ushered out.

  So they sat talking for another ten minutes while Morwenna’s flush died and came again and died away, leaving the skin of her face sallow and dark. Then Dwight shook hands with her and went downstairs to where Ossie was talking to Rowella. After Rowella had gone Dwight said:

  ‘I am not at all sure what is amiss with your wife, Mr Whitworth.’ (This preliminary sentence at once damned him in Ossie’s view.) ‘I am not at all sure, but I don’t think your wife is suffering from a puerperal infection of the tissues of the womb, such as has been suggested. Superficial signs may indicate that, but had that been the case I would have expected other and gouty symptoms to develop by now. That they have not is a good foretoken: but Mrs Whitworth is very weak and in a highly nervous condition. One thing I am convinced of is that the loss of blood at the time of her delivery has not been sufficiently made good. If this is due to a morbid condition of the blood then remedies may not avail. But for the time, as an experiment, I would advise no blood-letting and a strengthening, not a lowering, diet.’

  Ossie stood with his hands behind his back looking out of the window.

  Dwight said: ‘She must take at least six raw eggs every day. It matters not how they go down, how she takes them, so long as they be taken. And two pints of porter.’

  ‘Two . . . Two pints of – Heavens, man, you’ll turn her into a toper!’

  Dwight smiled. ‘That is w
hat she said. But many people drink more than that and come to no harm.’

  ‘She is entirely unused to such drink!’

  ‘Let her persevere with it for a month. She may leave it off then, for by then it will have done her much good or no good according to whether my diagnosis is correct.’

  Ossie grunted and flipped his coat-tails. ‘Mrs Warleggan is here; she came ten minutes ago; so you had best instruct her in the niceties of your treatment, since she entertains the notion that she knows best.’

  ‘There is one thing, Mr Whitworth,’ Dwight said, as he put the strap around his bag, ‘and this I may not say to Mrs Warleggan.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I gather that you have resumed marital relations with your wife.’

  ‘Good God, sir, what is that to you! And what right has Mrs Whitworth to mention it to you?’

  ‘She did not mention it. I asked her.’

  ‘She had no right to tell you!’

  ‘She could hardly lie to me, Mr Whitworth. And since I am her doctor it would have been very ill-advised, surely. Well . . .’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘It must stop, Mr Whitworth. For the time being. I would say at least for the month during which she takes this new treatment.’

  The Reverend Mr Whitworth seemed to swell. ‘By what right, may I ask? By what right—’

  ‘By right of the love you bear your wife, Mr Whitworth. Her body is not properly healed. Nor are her nerves. It is essential that she be allowed complete and absolute freedom from any marital claims until they are.’

  Osborne’s eyes strayed to the lanky figure of Rowella as she walked past the window towards the vegetable garden.

  He laughed bitterly. ‘Who is to tell, who is to say, how can it be known, when she is or is not well enough to assume her full duties as a wife? Who, I ask you?’