This was nonsense in Osborne’s opinion, coming from the self-opinionated man it did, and the name of the doctor who should be invited to endorse that opinion was so distasteful that the vicar almost threw the whole idea overboard. Only his feeling as to the rightness and justice of his cause made him persist.
So now it had come to this: two surgeons and a husband gravely standing among the tall clerical furniture discussing the mental condition of the tall dark distressed girl in the room above.
Dwight said: ‘Dr Behenna, Mr Whitworth, since you are both here I assume you’d wish me to address you both. I have examined Mrs Whitworth and talked with her. I would have preferred to have spent longer, but I don’t suppose this would in any substantial way have affected the outcome. I find your wife, Mr Whitworth, in a very nervous, highly emotional and uneasy condition. She is quite clearly suffering from prolonged strain, and I would not like to predict that at some future time she could not become – at least emotionally – unstable. But to me she seems – at this present – entirely sane. I have done my best in the short time at my disposal to discover any symptoms of hallucination, catalepsy, folie circulaire, morbid melancholia, inhibitory mania, inability to concentrate, or other indication that she is losing her reason. I have found none.’
The only sound in the room was Ossie’s heavy breathing. ‘And is that all you have to say?’
‘No. Not all. In my opinion she is in better physical health now than she was two years ago. Physical, that is. But quite clearly, Vicar, you have a wife who suffers from certain neuroses, and in that sense must be regarded as delicate. Possibly she always will be. I cannot say. But clearly she needs – care . . . kindness . . . consideration . . .’
‘Are you suggesting she does not receive this?’
‘I’m suggesting nothing. The fact that she is in better physical health than two years ago may imply that your care for her welfare is not all in vain.’
Dr Behenna took out his handkerchief and blew his nose.
Ossie said: ‘And what of her threats to murder our son?’
Dwight stared out on the garden where the trees hung heavy over the river.
‘She has never made any move to hurt him?’
‘Did she deny she had made these threats?’
‘No . . .’
‘Well, then!’ Ossie said.
‘I appreciate your dilemma, Mr Whitworth, and I sympathize with it. But do you not think this is the sort of threat she would be unlikely to carry out?’
‘How do I know? The very existence of this threat is proof enough to me that she is insane, that in fact she is an evil woman. I would remind you, as I reminded Dr Behenna, that the church looks on insanity as God’s judgment upon the wicked. Christ rebuked the unclean spirits and drove them out. No good man or woman should be prone to such a visitation.’
Dwight said: I’m not in a position to argue theology with you, Mr Whitworth, but I’d remind you that that theory has recently been much shaken by the illness of the King and his becoming mentally distressed to the point of being put in a strait-jacket. From this I understand he has now happily recovered. But I believe it would be considered a treasonable doctrine to argue that the King’s insanity had been brought on him by his own evil ways.’
Ossie swelled in the silence.
Behenna, feeling that his own future as family doctor to the Whitworths was at risk, said: ‘The problem, Dr Enys, as you no doubt know, is that Mrs Whitworth is refusing Mr Whitworth the exercise of his proper conjugal rights by uttering this threat every time he attempts to claim them. Neither legally nor morally has she any sort of excuse to do this. They are bound together as man and wife by the sacrament of the church. No man shall put them asunder. And no wife can deny her husband what she has promised him at the time of their marriage.’
Ossie licked his lips. ‘Exactly!’
Dwight glanced at him, and his glance was not polite.
Ossie said: ‘You use these words, these words – neuroses and the rest. Can you suppose I am not suffering at the same time? It is against the will of God that such a situation should continue!’
Behenna said: ‘I must agree with you on that, sir.’
Dwight said: ‘Dr Behenna, I don’t deny the problem. Nor would I attempt to minimize it. But is this a problem that we can take any professional steps to solve? We are asked if we will write a letter confirming Mr Whitworth’s view that his wife is non compos mentis and may therefore be put away. My answer is no, as yours surely must be. Though over-strung, Mrs Whitworth is as sane as most women I attend daily – and altogether more charming. It is not our province to pronounce upon the success or failure of a marriage – thank God, for I see many in disarray. Sir,’ he said to Ossie, ‘I can’t help you. Nor would I if I could in this respect. Perhaps I come of a different persuasion, but my view is that if a husband cannot win his wife by kindness, sympathy, little attentions and a show of love, then he should go without her. If that is not your view, then I cannot alter it. But it is a dilemma that you must solve yourself.’
He picked up his bag and inclined his head at the two other men. ‘I see that my horse is waiting, so I’ll not keep him any longer.’
He left. Dr Behenna left five minutes later. Mr Whitworth never preached his sermon on the excellence and worthiness of physicians.
IV
At about this time, unknown to the people of Cornwall, but more important to their destinies than the Ross Poldarks or even the Lord de Dunstanvilles of their world, two men were active in the Mediterranean. One of them, a French general, had just led his troops to land at Alexandria, had taken the city, routed the Mamelouks and was now master of Cairo. A small man in a badly fitting and ill-kept uniform, with hair falling thinly and untidily across his brow as if he had just been wakened from sleep, a man with a powerful bony nose, a fierce mouth and piercing eyes, whose sallow complexion was more often than not disfigured with a skin complaint and whose French accent was markedly Corsican; a man whom his army adored and would follow to the ends of the earth. The other was an English admiral, a man of frail and sickly constitution, with lank sandy hair turning grey, who had lost an eye four years ago and an arm last year, who now had to have his food cut up for him and frequently waved the stump of his arm about when excited or angry, who had just after numerous mishaps and misdirections arrived back in the vicinity of Alexandria for the second time, to observe the masts of the French fleet at the mouth of the Nile in the roadstead alongside the island of Abakir; a man whom his shipmates adored and would also follow to the ends of the earth. These two men, or a part of the forces under their command, were about to do battle, and on the outcome would depend the future of most of Europe and North Africa, and Asia beyond.
Chapter Eight
I
There were few men in Great Britain who more frequently preached the virtues of self-control than the Reverend Osborne Whitworth, and no area in which he more sternly applied it to himself than in the control of his own self-critical faculties. Charles II had once said: ‘My words are my own and my actions are my ministers’.’ Ossie would have agreed with this but made sure he was presiding over an acquiescent cabinet.
Yet even he had taken a time in finding a justification for resuming his meetings with Rowella Solway. She had been so wanton, had deceived him and tricked him so basely, had cheated him of money and had ruined his relationship with his wife, which until then had been a thoroughly harmonious one. She had trailed her vile feminine lures in front of his eyes when he was suffering the voluntary deprivation of carnal satisfaction because his wife had given birth to a son and was ill thereafter, she had enticed him up to her room and there had taken off her bodice before him, exposing herself in wanton wicked nakedness, and then, when in the overmastering grip of accumulated passion, he had fallen into her trap, she had virtually blackmailed him into a continuation of the liaison under threat of exposing him to her sister – and later, much later, most dastardly trick of all, had pretended
she was with child by him and so forced him – yes, forced him, her vicar and her brother-in-law – to pay her an enormous sum of money in order that she might marry a worthless, gutter-bred librarian – with whom, no doubt, Ossie would not be surprised to learn, she had been carrying on all the time.
At the time of this marriage and later, Ossie, had he been a Catholic, would have been prepared to pronounce anathema on her, and as a Protestant rather of the High than of the Low school he would have been very willing to consign her to the nethermost parts of Hell. And, though a man of sedentary habit, he would have been glad to take an energetic hand with the stoking.
So it had gone on for many months; but his estrangement from Morwenna, the necessity of seeking solace elsewhere – a very difficult operation in so small a town without setting the tongues wagging – the infrequency with which he could safely do so, and often the unsatisfactoriness of it all when it took place, had turned his mind reluctantly to that slut who had so enticed him and then so entranced him. First it had been the concoction of dire punishments that should befall her – that she might catch all the poxes on earth and her teeth drop out and her nose fall off; that she should be bitten by a mad dog and run foaming through the streets until she twitched herself to death in a muddy gutter; that abscesses should form in her ears or lightning paralyse half her body; that . . . And then, unfortunately, his mind had turned upon punishment he might inflict on her himself: that he should tie her down and beat her with rods; that he should hang her up by her arms and stick pins in her . . . But this, most unfortunately, was the wrong sort of fantasy, because it led to other fantasies in which he played a more integral part.
And then one day he had accidentally met her and, instead of the usual lowering of eyes and heightening of colour, with the hurried frou-frou of skirt and flopping of low-heeled slippers to take herself as quickly as possible out of his sight, she had very briefly met his eyes and as briefly smiled. And thereafter on the rare occasions when they met she had smiled shyly at him; almost forgivingly – forgivingly, mark you! – and once or twice the smile had held a hint of provocation. So to the letter on his return from Tregrehan, and a month later, provoked out of his natural hostility and caution, he had called to pick up the books.
And nothing could have been more proper than her behaviour then. She had produced the books, which had been ready waiting and parcelled on the window ledge. She had inquired most anxiously about Morwenna and the baby. She had told him of her own life and her desire to do a new translation of Seneca’s Commentaries, of Mr Solway’s ambition to enlarge and improve the County Library and his desperate shortage of funds. She meant, of course, she said, funds for the library. As for themselves, they were very poor, as Mr Whitworth must observe. Mr Solway’s salary of £15 a year had recently been increased to £16, but even so he worked every evening at home doing copy-work for a notary – that was every evening except Thursdays when he spent the evening with his father and mother. Of course, she said, without the vicar’s generous gift to set them up and the income from it to support them, they could not have lived at all. She remembered him, she said, every night in her prayers. Every night, she said; and somehow the way her eyes squinted down her long nose and her lower lip trembled subtly transformed her statement from a religious to a secular one.
And Ossie found himself breathing deeply and thereafter quickly took his leave. But not before he had promised to try to bring Morwenna to tea on the following Thursday; and if not, if she would not come, to come alone. And he had come alone, and again conversation had been circumspect until, quite suddenly, in the middle of the talk, Rowella had exclaimed: ‘Oo, my shoe is hurting me,’ and had pushed each slipper off by pressing the heel against the floor. She was not, as it so happened, wearing stockings, and her feet as she flexed the toes looked like small white animals arching their backs to be stroked. Ossie had stared at them with the greed of a starving glutton being offered a plate of his favourite food; and had thereupon suggested that he might perhaps call again next week, but this time in the evening.
So it began. Rowella was not a ‘nice’ girl like Morwenna; nor was she a woman who saw respectability as the main object of life, like her mother; she had the intellectual talents of her father without his religious convictions; and deep inside her like a hidden source of misdirected energy pulsed the blood of her grandfather, Trelawny Tregellas, who could never resist a speculation and had gone bankrupt more often than any other man of his day. Grandfather Tregellas walked the tightrope of monetary hazard, and the risk seemed part of the attraction. Granddaughter Rowella, being a woman, was developing a talent for risks of another kind.
As for the vicar of St Margaret’s, his was the greater hazard. Yet he suggested to himself, and persuaded himself, that it was not so. First of all, this was a temporary measure. Along with the hope that his wife might soon be committed to a place of correction went the conviction that a suitable ‘housekeeper’ could then be found who would look after his children and his house and not be averse to looking after his own comforts too. This would make Rowella no longer a necessary figure in his life.
When, however, medical sanction for such a move was not forthcoming he re-thought the whole situation and began to make different plans. If he were doomed to go on living with his wife, then she must take the consequences. Whatever her insane aversions might lead her to think, she still possessed the same beautiful body she had always had, and sooner or later she would have to provide for him. He began to inquire for a suitable nurse for John Conan Osborne Whitworth. If he could not employ a housekeeper then he would look for a nurse. For her, looks would not matter, he decided. She must be strong, strong and utterly reliable, and so devoted to her charge that she would not leave him night or day. When he found such a woman and found she was wholly to be trusted, then he would call Morwenna’s bluff. It was not a wholly unpleasant thought.
So this was still a temporary measure – this renewal of an old aberration – and as such less dangerous than venturing among the dockside cottages where the town whores lived. As a clergyman there was nothing suspicious about his visiting a former parishioner who was also his sister-in-law. Far worse to be surprised coming away from those dreadful derelict cottages. Also there was no risk of disease. Also it was infinitely, a hundred times more exciting. Rowella was like that. Half the time he could have strangled her, but night and day he thought about her. And if she had a baby this time, there was no risk of his being called the father.
Of course it was more expensive – a major drawback – although Rowella was careful not to set her demands too high. Arthur Solway was delighted to receive a gift for his library from the vicar of St Margaret’s of £20 ‘for books’. He also noticed that Rowella had several new pairs of shoes. And she had had made for herself two new nightgowns that were really, almost not quite nice, being of a sort of soft woollen material printed like a tiger skin and only reaching just to the ankle. Arthur enjoyed his young wife both in bed and out, but his was a limited capacity for enjoyment, limited almost as much by his careful, tidy mind as by his physique. But since her knowledge of money matters was so much more extensive than his he was content that she thought them able to afford these little extravagances.
Once a week, then, every Thursday, Mr Whitworth visited Mr Pearce, who, although pronounced to be dying, clung obstinately to his life and his life’s secrets. Morwenna was surprised at her husband’s attentiveness to the old man, but Ossie explained that although Mr Pearce was bedridden they were able to play French ruff together, and occasionally piquet. In fact he timed his arrival at the notary’s office for just before sunset and left as soon as it was fully dark. It was only three minutes’ walk, then, and there were few people about in the cobbled streets. A glance up and down the hill, a discreet knock at the door, and presently the door would open with four slim fingers grasping it so that it should squeak the less. Arthur Solway always stayed with his family until ten, so Rowella made sure that her guest should b
e up and away again by nine fifteen.
II
Things at Wheal Grace were moving to adapt to the new situation: as each setting time came round tributers were abandoning the less profitable pitches they had been working on the south lode and striking bargains for ground on the north lode. Tut-workers like Sam Carne and Peter Hoskin, after being on timbering and cross-cutting for a year, were back on shaft-sinking and driving to link up with the old Wheal Maiden workings. No one was laid off: there was work for all; but Ross was glad he had not expanded as he had been tempted to do in the first flush of enthusiasm, especially as the price of tin had not risen as much as people had expected with the continuance of war.
He shared the summer with Demelza and the children; and sometimes the old companionate laughter broke through. There were abrasive moments – sudden sharp jagged rents in their composure that showed the dangers still latent, but nothing irritable, nothing petty. Ross sometimes wondered if there had ever been a couple who got less on each other’s nerves than they did. There might possibly be outright war – never skirmishing.
As September came in he began to look with distaste at the thought of returning to London. Of course there was no obligation for him to attend the Commons regularly. Most MPs, unless they were place men nominated by the government, drifted in and out of London much as they chose, calling in at the House as one would call at one’s Club, discussing the government of the country with their friends, and voting here and there on issues that personally concerned them. But it was easier for most of them than it was for Ross. Three-quarters of the Cornish MPs were not Cornish at all and lived in and around London. Two at least boasted they had never been to Cornwall. If you lived in Twickenham or Guildford or Tunbridge Wells it was much easier to be casual about it, coming up to Westminster one day and, if it suited you, home the day after the next. For Ross it was five days’ hard travelling there and five back; expensive and vastly tedious. The Lords Falmouth and de Dunstanville and others of their calibre owned their town houses and migrated with their families to London for a part of each year. Ross couldn’t take Demelza and the children into furnished rooms – or if he could he didn’t want to. Nor did he fancy asking Demelza to come and leave the children at home.
The Angry Tide Page 10
