The Angry Tide

by Winston Graham

  ‘Ye can do no other. It is grieving, Drake, over what cann’t be undone. You are bespoiling your life, grieving, grieving, grieving . . .’

  ‘Oh,’ said Drake. ‘Sometimes I forget.’ He put the wheel down and sighed. ‘It is shameful to me now how oft I forget. No ache, no misery lasts for ever. But to take another woman. That would be more shameful still, and twould not be fair on Rosina. I could never bring to her a full heart.’

  ‘Perhaps you would – in time.’

  ‘And in the meantime what do I say to she? That I would wed her for a convenience, that I need someone to keep my home and breed my children? Is that what I should say?’

  Sam bent to re-tie his boot. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t’ve spoke. Perhaps twas better not to have asked. But I have a concern for ee, brother, and I want the scales to fall from your eyes, the gall of bitterness to be eased and sweetened. For if Christ wills, ye have a long life to live.’

  As Drake passed by he touched his brother’s shoulder. ‘Leave me be yet a little, Sam. If I have a long life to live, then leave me be a little yet.’

  It was one of the few fine days of a second damp month of summer, and old Pally Rogers, his spade beard grizzled in the wind and the sun, rattled down the hill in his cart, raising a hand of greeting as he passed by.

  Drake said: ‘It seem me many folk d’live their lives without any of the trouble that come to we. What of yourself, Sam? You have all this concern for my misfortune, but what of your own?’

  ‘My own?’

  ‘Well, what of Emma Tregirls? Now she’ve left the Choakes and gone Tehidy – miles away. Are you not just the same as me?’

  Sam nodded. ‘Yes, brother. We both have a soreness of the heart. But mine is balmed by the grace of the Holy Spirit. Nightly I pray for Emma. Nightly I pray that she may see and discover the bond of iniquity by which she is enslaved. If that d’happen, then there shall be double rejoicing; rejoicing for a spirit which has obtained an interest in the blood of Christ, and rejoicing that so splendid a human being, while changed from glory to glory by the spirit of the Lord, shall also come to me as my wife, and that we shall cleave and be as one flesh and discover together the liberty of perfect love, carnal and eternal.’

  It was Drake’s turn to look at his brother, the tall fair-haired man with the lined young face, the kind, intent blue eyes, the shambling walk. Sometimes, Drake thought, Sam’s sentiments came out just a little too smooth as if from a sermon he’d prepared. But he knew this not to be so: if the words came a bit too easy, this was from constant teaching of the Bible to his classes; Sam spoke them from the deepest convictions of his heart.

  ‘And you’re happy ’bout that, ’bout leaving Emma go?’

  ‘I have faith,’ said Sam.

  ‘Faith that she’ll come back?’

  A shadow crossed Sam’s face. ‘I didn’t leave her go. She went and I could not stay her. I would have wed her whether or no but she wouldn’t come to me, she said, unsaved and she wouldn’t – or couldn’t – find salvation. I have faith that Jesus will order my life – and hers – in such a way as may be best to further His will.’

  Jack Trewinnard came skidding into the yard with a bucket in one hand and a hoe in the other. When he saw Drake had company he hastily wiped his nose on his sleeve and went out through the stable.

  Drake said: ‘Well, brother, I reckon there is little to be said on either side, is there. I know Demelza feels as you do about Rosina, for twas she in the first place who contrived that we should meet. Rosina, I grant you, is a goodly person, neat and clean and of a nice presence, and she would do her most for any man she was wed to. And I have some taking for her as a person. She’s – kind. And pretty. But . . . it must all wait a while. It is – too soon. If there ever could be anything it is too soon. You must give me leave to live my own life, Sam. Twill be better for all concerned.’

  II

  Drake Carne’s second and more unexpected visitor came right at the end of July. Drake had been out to get a basket of fish from Sawle and had left the young Trewinnards in charge, and he did not at first recognize either the thoroughbred grey horse or the tall handsome young man chatting to his two assistants. The young man turned and saw Drake and let out a shout. It was Geoffrey Charles Poldark, fresh home from Harrow.

  They had not met last year at all. Elizabeth and George had arranged that Geoffrey Charles should spend the summer holidays in Norfolk, and at Christmas the weather had been so bad that the Warleggans had not come out to Trenwith. In the interval a charming, untidy, impulsive boy had, by the influence of schooling and the alchemy of adolescence, been transformed into a pale, carefully dressed, languid young man.

  They shook hands, and then Geoffrey Charles put his hands on Drake’s shoulders and gazed at him quizzically.

  ‘Well, by God, so you are here just as I left you, as if I’d scarce turned my back. And who are these little urchins? More brothers of yours?’ Apart from his turn of speech his voice was quite different: it had completely broken and only squeaked occasionally on a higher note.

  ‘Geoffrey Charles. But you’re some changed. I scarce would’ve known you. Back for some time, are ee? Well, tis real good to see ee after all this while!’

  ‘We came last night, Mother and I. Uncle George is wrestling with some property acquisition and thinks to join us next week. So you are prospering? Damn me, I can see you are.’

  They talked for a while, Drake standing, Geoffrey Charles sitting on the low wall, elegant leg idly swinging. There was constraint between them such as there had not been before. Two years ago they seemed to share the same enthusiasms, now they had nothing in common.

  Presently Geoffrey Charles said: ‘What is amiss with your eyebrow, Drake? It looks like the Greek letter Zeta lying on its side . . . Is this from the wrestling match I hear you had with Tom Harry?’

  ‘No, that was my brother Sam,’ Drake said.

  What, the Methody? Does he wrestle, then? I wish I’d seen it. I’d like to see Tom Harry taken down a peg.’

  ‘Sam lost.’

  ‘Did he? And did you lose too?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking. I was set on by three of them.’

  ‘Three of our men?’

  ‘Twas hard to be sure.’

  Geoffrey Charles stared at his friend and his leg stopped swinging.

  ‘Tell me, Drake. I’m your friend.’

  ‘I’ll not involve you in nothing.’

  ‘I know . . . you did it once, and once is too often. Well . . . a nod and a wink, as they say. I’m a little short of authority yet, Drake. Servants at Trenwith don’t yet flinch at my footsteps. But I will be able to make Master Harry’s life a shade unpleasant for him from time to time, I rather believe. It will be a little contribution to the cause of friendship.’

  ‘Tis over and done long since,’ Drake said. ‘I’ve not seen sight nor sound of any of them for pretty many a day. It should all be forgot. Let’s talk of other things. Your school . . . Your new friends . . .’

  ‘My school.’ Geoffrey Charles yawned. ‘It is a decent enough sort of place now that I am become used to it and now I’m no longer a fag. One does not need to work very hard except to pick up a little Latin and Greek by the way. My tutor for the first year was a noted flogbottomist and brandy drinker called Harvey. “Come forth, sir,” he would bellow, “and let thy breeches down!” I suffered notably under him; but now I have a cheerful old buffer of forty-odd who cares little for my welfare so long as I do not interfere with his. When I go back I shall have a fag of my own.’

  Drake picked up his basket of fish, which was attracting the flies, and carried it into the house. When he came out again his visitor had not moved but was picking at a fancied spot on his green velvet riding jacket.

  ‘And,’ he said without looking up, ‘next term I shall take a mistress.’

  Drake stared. ‘Please?’

  Geoffrey Charles saw the expression on Drake’s face and burst into a broken-voiced laugh. ‘Y
ou know what I mean?’

  ‘I’m not sure as I do.’

  ‘A mistress. A woman. A girl. It is about time.’

  Drake said woodenly: ‘I hoped as you didn’t mean that.’

  ‘Why not? It’s – part of life. And, I’m told, a not unpleasant part. Have you ever had a woman, Drake?’

  ‘No.’

  Geoffrey Charles slid off the wall and patted his friend’s arm. ‘I ask your pardon. I suspect good taste is not part of our curriculum . . . But as for myself . . . Well, it may not be next term; but soon, I hope. I shall look around. Quite a number of the older fellows at the school have their little amours. And it is a tradition in our family to be blooded at an early age . . . I see I have offended you.’

  ‘I’m not my brother’s keeper.’

  ‘Well said, by God! And now we must change the subject again, eh? But to what? I hear that Uncle Ross condiddled Step-Father George out of his parliamentary seat, and Step-Father George will never forgive them for it.’

  ‘Them?’

  ‘Him and Aunt Demelza.’

  ‘What had Demelza to do with it?’

  ‘Well, I only overheard my step-father talking once about it but he seems to think – or has got it into his wooden head – that this agreement between Lord Falmouth and Lord de Dunstanville was reached through some intermediary role played by Aunt Demelza. I cannot imagine how. I didn’t know she even knew either of them!’

  ‘They were visiting last year. But I can’t suppose how she could have had any influence with two such great personages.’

  ‘Well . . . Uncle George believes what he wants to believe. Anyway, tomorrow, before he comes, I shall ride over to Nampara to see them all. I hardly know my two young cousins – or whatever they are. Second cousins, is it?’

  Drake had been hesitating over the question for some time, but now it had to come out. ‘And Morwenna? Did you see her?’

  ‘Briefly. After London Truro seems more than a trifle provincial, and I was at pains to come out to the sea so soon as ever I could prod Mother into moving. She – Morwenna – seemed . . . well. Better than last time. But she was busy entertaining some Rural Dean whom Mr Whitworth had invited.’

  There was silence. Drake bit his lips. ‘The – her baby . . . he is well?’

  ‘Oh, yes, a monster. He is going to be as big as his father. And greatly lacks discipline. Mr Whitworth is a martinet with everyone else, but his son can do no wrong in his eyes, and soon, I suspect, will rule the roost.’ Geoffrey Charles picked at the spot on his coat again. ‘I tried to get a word alone with Morwenna but it was not possible. I’m sorry.’

  ‘No . . . Perhaps tis just as well.’ Drake looked across at Geoffrey Charles’s raised eyebrows. ‘What is the good of trying to prolong something which is long since over? She have her own life to lead, and a busy one tis, as I well d’know. She’s settled, married, a vicar’s wife, a mother. There’s naught but more sorrow in trying to keep alight the old memories. She wouldn’t thank ee to try to do it and I mustn’t want ee to do it. I’ve got my own life here and – and I must think on that. What’s past is past, Geoffrey Charles, bitter though that may be.’

  Geoffrey Charles watched one of the Trewinnards wheeling in a barrow of kindling wood. ‘How d’you tell t’other from which of those two?’

  ‘Jack have a scar on his hand and another on his knee.’

  ‘So that if they both put their heads up over a wall you could not tell?’

  ‘It don’t matter. If I call for one they both come running.’

  Drake, it is good to hear you say this about Morwenna. Now I’m a trifle older I can see how much you were . . . committed in those days – especially during that long dark winter. D’you remember those primroses you used to bring? But it’s gone. All that time is gone. You do well to speak as you have done.’

  Drake nodded. ‘But we’re on a dark subject again. Tell me more ’bout yourself and ’bout London. How long will ee be at Trenwith, do ee think?’

  ‘Till mid-September, I’d suppose. So you’ll be seeing more of me.’

  Drake said: ‘I cann’t be like your schoolfriends, Geoffrey Charles. Tis not in me to – to talk of women the way you do. I think mebbe you have grown out of my world. After all, I’m Methody too, though much lesser so than Sam. I’m here working at my forge – a tradesman making a way for himself. But you are the young gentleman – the next squire – off to school in London and then no doubt to Oxford or Cambridge or such like. You’ll meet many other gentlefolk and many fine young men with ideas fitted to their station. I’m not of that world, nor never shall be.’

  Geoffrey Charles nodded. ‘Agreed. Damn me, I agree with every word you say. My horse is restive, so I must be off. You are right, Drake. By God, you are right. We should be total strangers. But all my life, Drake, I hope to belong to two worlds – the world of eminence and fashion, if it will accept me – and, ecod, if I can afford it! The world of beaus and macaronis and saucy girls and willing ones; and a little gaming here and there, and a little drinking and a little loving . . . But also, also, my God, I belong to this blasted acreage on which my ancestors built Trenwith several hundred years ago; and this world includes St Ann’s and Grambler and tottering Sawle Church and grumbling Jud Paynter and preaching Sam Carne and one-armed Tholly Tregirls and doe-eyed Beth Nanfan the daughter of Char Nanfan, and others and others and others. But among them all, the one from whom I demand the most unremitting friendship and trust is Blacksmith Carne of Pally’s Shop, in the valley below St Ann’s. So there you are. You must take it or leave it. What do you say?’

  He hopped on the wall and mounted his grey, and half unhooked the reins but stayed a moment to see what effects this long speech had had on Drake. Drake did not say anything but reached up his hand and the two hands were clasped for a moment. Then Geoffrey Charles uttered his broken, half masculine laugh and went off up the valley.

  III

  At about the time of this meeting Dwight received a letter. It was signed Daniel Behenna and Dwight stared at it in surprise. Although they were only on rare occasions rivals, Dwight having at his wife’s request confined his practice to the country districts round their home, the approach of these two medical men to their joint profession could hardly have been more different, and their contacts at any time had been little more than icily polite.

  Sir, (said the letter)

  You will no doubt recall the occasion two years ago when for a period you attended a patient of mine, Mrs Morwenna Whitworth, the wife of the vicar of St Margaret’s, Truro. At that time she was suffering from the ill-effects of a prolonged and difficult parturition. Later, as you will remember, the Whitworths dispensed with your services and recalled me.

  Mrs Whitworth is again now ill, but this appears to be a condition of considerable mental disequilibrium, on which I would consider your opinion to be of value. Few of us can begin to plumb those influences of an atmospheric, cosmic or telluric nature which affect the human brain, and I would only say to you that if we could consult together on the symptoms which this unfortunate woman now evidences there might be a happier outcome for her than otherwise appears possible.

  I have the honour to be, sir,

  Your obt. servant

  Daniel Behenna.

  It was an odd letter, Dwight thought. Not Behenna’s natural style – unless his natural style was to write letters out of keeping with his character. It was indefinite – the one failing Dr Behenna never betrayed – and it seemed – perhaps only seemed – to ask for help.

  Dwight replied:

  Sir,

  I have the favour of your letter of the 18th. I shall be pleased to attend on this patient, in a consultative capacity, and I shall be privileged to discuss her condition with you, both before and after my visit. The one stipulation I would make is that when I see Mrs Whitworth it shall be alone.

  If you are able to agree to this, will you kindly arrange a time and date and I will endeavour to meet it.

&nbs
p; I am, sir, your obt. servant,

  Dwight Enys.

  He rode over a week on the following Wednesday, met Dr Behenna in the vicar’s study, where ten minutes of stiff conversation apprised him of the facts; then he was taken to the upstairs parlour where Mrs Whitworth was waiting to receive him.

  This she did as a dear friend, tears welling in her eyes but not falling as she took both his hands, smiled briefly but brilliantly as she sometimes could, and then indicated the chair in which he might sit while they talked.

  They talked for forty minutes. Once Morwenna burst into tears but rapidly stayed them, apologized and blew her nose and turned to him, ready for the next question. He found her more vehement than she had ever been before, and at times her eyes were wild and straying. But she replied to all his questions, even those designed to catch her, with quickness and certainty. When there was nothing more to ask Dwight made an examination, felt her pulse, sounded her heart and chest back and front, pulled back her eyelids, felt the grip of each hand, the thrust of each foot, stared at her fingernails, her scalp, the veins and tendons at the back and front of the neck. Then he shook her gravely by the hand, putting his other hand over hers, picked up his bag and left.

  In the downstairs parlour his colleague and the vicar were waiting for him. This was a very trying occasion for Mr Whitworth. His dislike of Dwight Enys was deep-rooted, and had only been too solidly confirmed when he had attended upon Morwenna before. It had been a great relief when for reasons of his own health Dr Enys had stopped visiting patients as far from his own home as Truro. Ossie had hoped never to see him again, certainly not inside his own house and pronouncing a medical opinion upon his wife. Ossie was very annoyed with Behenna, and had not yet preached his sermon in praise of physicians. Behenna had seen Morwenna three times – for which obviously he would charge – without committing himself to a final opinion either way. He fully saw and understood the gravamen of Mr Whitworth’s complaint; he admitted that Mrs Whitworth was in a very unstable state of mind; but he said he felt himself unfitted to write such a definitive letter as Ossie wanted him to write without the confirmatory opinion of another surgeon.