The Angry Tide

by Winston Graham

  ‘Do I?’

  They looked at each other.

  ‘I think so. I believe you could take me as few other men could take me – matching my arrogance with your own.’

  There was a silence between them.

  ‘But . . .’ she said.

  ‘But?’

  ‘But it could not be. Even if you were willing. I have the instinct of a wanton but the emotions of a wife. I have too much love for Dwight. And too much love for Demelza. And perhaps even too much love for you.’

  He raised his eyes and smiled at her. ‘That’s the nicest compliment of all.’

  The colour in her face came and went. ‘I am not here to pay you compliments, Ross, but only – I’m only trying to say some things that I think you should hear. If we got rid of Ellen – as we easily could – and spent all night making love, and if then the first time I went to Nampara I told Demelza about it, do you think she would be hurt?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So do I. But I am a good friend of hers now. We are deeply attached to each other. Perhaps in time she would forgive me.’

  ‘What are you trying to say?’

  ‘I’m trying to say that if I told her what had happened between us she would be hurt. But no more so, I believe, than you hurt her in London.’

  Ross put down his knife. ‘I don’t understand that at all.’

  ‘You killed a man because of her. Oh, I know it was his challenge. And I know the quarrel was about some seat in the House. And I know you disliked each other from the start. But it was really because of her that you killed him, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Partly, yes. But I don’t see—’

  ‘Ross, when you fought Monk Adderley, it was not really him you were killing, was it.’

  ‘Wasn’t it?’

  ‘No . . . it was Hugh Armitage.’

  He took a gulp of wine this time. ‘Damn you, Caroline, it was a plain straightforward duel—’

  ‘It was nothing of the sort, and you know it! You killed him because you couldn’t kill Hugh Armitage, who died anyway. But Hugh was a gentle, virile, sensitive man – the only sort Demelza would ever have, could ever have felt deeply drawn to. You must have known from the beginning that she wouldn’t have spared so much as a thought for a wild worthless rake like Monk Adderley.’

  ‘Sometimes one doesn’t think these things out.’

  ‘Of course one doesn’t think them out – that’s the trouble! Yours was a totally emotional act. But you were fighting the wrong man just the same.’

  Ross pushed his plate away and put his fingers on the table.

  ‘And don’t get up and leave me,’ she said, ‘for I should consider that a piece of very ungentlemanly behaviour.’

  ‘I have no intention of getting up and leaving you. But I can listen better to your lecture if I am not eating.’

  ‘The lecture is over; so you may enjoy the rest of your supper in silence.’

  ‘After that I’m not sure that I want to enjoy my supper either in silence or in seasonable conversation.’

  ‘Perhaps I should not have spoken.’

  ‘If you believed it, then you should. I am trying to think hard of what you’ve just said, to be – rational about it instead of emotional. D’you know you’re the second person in two weeks to accuse me of making emotional decisions. You’ll never guess who the first was. But so be it. Let me think . . .’

  She toyed again with her meat for a few moments, broke a piece of bread with her long fingers but made no move to eat it.

  He said: ‘There may be some truth in it. How am I to be sure? Certainly I’ve felt a lot, and thought a lot, about Demelza and Hugh these last two years. When I first found out about Demelza it was as if I had lost some belief – some faith in human character. It was not so much her I blamed as – as something in humanity. You must not laugh at me for sounding silly and pompous.’

  ‘I’m not doing so. But if—’

  ‘It was like finding an absolute flawed. If something has driven me of late, there may be jealousy in it, but it is not just jealousy. At times I have discovered a new lowness of spirit, a new need to revolt, to kick against the constraints that a civilized life tries to impose.’ He stopped and regarded her. ‘Because what is civilized life but an imposition of unreal standards upon flawed and defective human beings by other human beings no less flawed and defective? It has seemed to me that there is a rottenness to it that I have constantly wanted to kick against and to overset.’ He stopped again, breathing slowly, trying to marshal the complexities of his own feelings.

  ‘And this has all come – this has derived from your estrangement from Demelza?’

  ‘Oh, not in its entirety. But one and the other. One and the other. You called me an arrogant man just now, Caroline. Perhaps one aspect of arrogance lies in not being willing to accept what life sometimes expects one to accept. The very feeling of jealousy is an offence to one’s spirit, it is a degrading sensation and should be stamped on.’ He tapped the table. ‘But so far as Demelza and Monk Adderley were concerned, I think you do me some injustice. Demelza did give him encouragement, of a sort. She was always exchanging asides with him, making another appointment – or at least permitting him to. And she allowed him to paw her—’

  ‘Oh, nonsense!’ Caroline said. ‘It is Demelza’s way to be friendly – to flirt a little out of sheer high spirits. Whenever she goes out, as you well know, some man or another is always attracted by her peculiar vitality and charm. When she is enjoying herself she can’t resist giving off this – this challenging sparkle. And men come to it. And she enjoys that. But in all innocence, Ross, for God’s sake! As you must know. Are you going to challenge Sir Hugh Bodrugan to a duel? He has made more attempts on Demelza’s chastity than any other two men I know. What will you fight him with – walking sticks?’

  Ross half laughed. ‘You must know that jealousy flares only when there is risk.’

  ‘And do you seriously think that Monk Adderley constituted a risk?’

  ‘I . . . thought so. It was not as simple a choice as that. And in any event he challenged me, not I him.’

  Caroline shifted her position, and stretched. ‘Oh, that coach has tired me! . . . One more day and we shall be home.’

  The waiter came and took away their plates but left the knives and forks for use again.

  Ross said quietly: ‘Yes, I could sleep with you.’

  She smiled at him.

  He said: ‘And for the same reasons will not.’

  ‘Thank you, Captain.’

  He said: ‘You’ve always been my firm friend – from so long ago. Almost before we knew each other well at all.’

  ‘I believe I fancied you from the beginning.’

  ‘I believe it was something more important than that, even then.’

  She shrugged but did not speak as the waiter came back. When he had gone again she said: ‘Perhaps I have been hard on you tonight, Ross . . . What a thing to say! Hard on you! Strange for me to be in this position I’ve never before dared! Well, I understand – a little – how you must have felt about Hugh and Demelza. It has been – irking, festering in your soul for two years. And the rest too, if you will. I don’t deny that a single disillusion, if deeply felt, can lead to a general disillusion. Well . . . But now the blood is let. Even if it be the wrong blood. Let us not discuss any more the merits or demerits of your quarrel with Monk Adderley. It is over and nothing can revive it. Well, so is your quarrel with Hugh Armitage. So should be your quarrel with humanity. And so should be your quarrel with Demelza. She has been desperately affronted by what happened in London. The rights and wrongs of it do not matter so much as that you killed a man because of her, and that you risked everything, your life, her life – in a way – for a senseless quarrel which to a well-bred person may seem the ultimate and honourable way of settling a difference, but to a miner’s daughter, with her sense of values so firmly and sanely earthy, looks like the petulance of a wicked man.’

  ‘Go
d,’ said Ross. ‘Well, I will keep that in my heart and let that fester a while.’

  ‘You spoke to me straight six years ago,’ said Caroline. ‘I speak to you straight now.’

  ‘Out of love?’ he asked.

  She nodded. ‘Out of love.’

  Chapter Twelve

  I

  Early on the Monday morning Demelza and Drake left for Bodmin. Morwenna stayed at Pally’s Shop. Mrs Trewinnard had been spending each night in the cottage; during the day the Trewinnard twins were there to answer the bell. Morwenna had shown no desire to go out, being content to sit and sew or to help with the cooking or the housework. She and Drake had talked little, being content to exchange the occasional commonplace, each a little shy of the other. She was like a wounded wild animal he was trying to tame: he made no sudden move or attempt to touch her lest she take fright. At first he had thought her unwell, in spite of her denials, but she was not. Her spirit, he decided, was clouded and needed above all time to recuperate and rest.

  They had not even been beyond the fences that marked the five acres that he owned. He showed her these with pride, and she asked him about his work, and when he was working watched with seeming interest. Sometimes she was downstairs when people brought things to the smithy, but she did not come out. They had not been to church yesterday, but at Demelza’s suggestion the banns had been called for the first time. It did not matter that the news was out, and it was safer not to miss a week in case there should be some hold-up at Bodmin.

  On Saturday Sam had come to see them, and had been much taken with Morwenna’s quietness and modesty, also by his brother’s obvious elation. Drake knew he could not object to the wedding but had feared the qualifications in his voice and manner. They were not there. Indeed Sam at once perceived in this silent, quietly elegant girl potentially suitable material for conversion to his own flock. Admittedly, her all-too-close connections with the church proper put her provisionally out of reach of the sort of Christian Message Sam brought; but she had suffered as a result of her first marriage, and might now very well not only prove to be a brand ripe to be snatched from the burning but a means of returning Drake to full membership of the Connexion.

  Anyway that was in the future. For the present Sam looked on his brother’s face and saw that it was good, and praised the Lord for something that was both a carnal and a spiritual joy. It was selfish and unworthy, he knew, to feel a little twist inside him as he tramped away to think how good it would have been if he could have had Emma too.

  Monday was fine but heavily gusty. John Gimlett, who fancied himself a weather prophet, said there would be rain later, once the sun got round to the butt of the wind. What he should have noted was the way, far out in the distance, the sea tramped, glittering in the sun. Sea birds were coming inland.

  Drake and Demelza left at eight, at about the time Ross and Caroline were passing through Liskeard. At eleven Elizabeth called to see Morwenna.

  She was upstairs working on the curtains that Drake had inelegantly hemmed when one of the indistinguishable Trewinnards put his beak round the door and piped: ‘If ee plaise, ma’am, thur be a laady to see ee.’

  Elizabeth came up the steps. Morwenna flushed, rose defensively, looked around as if seeking a way of escape and, finding none, accepted the kiss. Elizabeth was her dearest cousin, who had connived at her marriage with Ossie. Although the chief pressure had come from George, Elizabeth had connived. However, over the last year or more Elizabeth had shown real sympathy. And after John Conan was born she had been the one to insist that Morwenna was not being treated properly by Dr Behenna and that Dr Enys be called in. She had also helped in whatever way she could after Ossie’s death.

  In the hostile life of the vicarage Morwenna would have greeted her as a friend. In this warm quiet retreat where, cocoon-like, Drake was hiding her, Elizabeth represented the enemy.

  Elizabeth said: ‘But the banns were called yesterday! How could I not know? Is Drake not here?’

  ‘No, he’s out. Will you sit down?’

  They seated themselves and looked at each other, Morwenna’s eyes not really seeing anything. After a few moments she remembered herself and said:

  ‘Can I get you something – tea or hot milk? I’m afraid there’s nothing stronger.’

  ‘No, thank you. Though I shall be glad to rest a few minutes. The wind is so blustery.’

  Morwenna looked at her cousin’s figure. ‘You did not, surely, walk, now you are—’

  ‘Of course. It does me good.’ Elizabeth unbuttoned her dark fawn cloak and allowed the hood to fall back. She tried to arrange her hair. ‘It is not very far to Trenwith, you know. Scarcely two miles. Perhaps you did not come this way when you lived there.’

  ‘Sometimes. Though I scarce remember this part. Most often it was the other way. Geoffrey Charles so often wanted . . .’

  ‘I know, my dear, I know. That is all over and done with. It was a very sad period in our relationship. We did not know. We did not understand.’

  Morwenna thought how much older Elizabeth was suddenly looking. But perhaps it was the pregnancy tiring her, bearing her down.

  ‘And now,’ Elizabeth said, ‘you are to marry Drake after all. And you are to live here?’ She looked around. ‘Are the Poldarks pleased?’

  Morwenna flushed: ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Have they not said so?’

  ‘Captain Poldark is still away. I hope they will never have any reason to feel ashamed of me.’

  ‘That I would have thought very unlikely. And Lady Whitworth?’

  ‘She was not pleased.’

  Elizabeth smoothed her frock to conceal the bulge that was there. ‘It must have been so very trying, living with her. One of the most formidable of old women . . . But you just told her you were leaving and left?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And – John Conan?’

  Morwenna winced. ‘Yes also.’

  ‘You did not mind leaving your own son?’

  ‘Yes . . . and no. Please do not ask me any more!’

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t wish to distress you.’

  ‘No . . .’ Morwenna folded the curtain and put it down. ‘You see, I never felt he was really my child, Elizabeth. He was Ossie’s child. Ossie’s son. And I am convinced he will grow up exactly like his father!’

  Outside someone was ringing the bell for attention. The wind leaned against the cottage and made it creak.

  Elizabeth said: ‘You could never accept Ossie, could you. I’m – when I got to know him better I felt I could understand that. But I never liked to ask more personally at the time. If you ever want to talk about it . . .’

  ‘No.’

  Elizabeth said: ‘But it must have been a great sacrifice to leave your only child . . . You did not think to bring him?’

  Morwenna stood up. ‘Elizabeth, in what ever way I cared for him as a baby – and of course I cared then – I do not want him now! He is a Whitworth!’

  Elizabeth stared out of the small window at the tossing trees. For no very good reason except the bitterness in Morwenna’s voice, a reflection of something else seemed to show in the defective pane. It was a bottle of cloudy brown medicine that had come in the coach all the way from London, jogging in her luggage but not breaking. It had become a symbol, a bitter symbol of the disintegration of her own marriage. He is a Whitworth! He is a Poldark!

  ‘You will not, of course, stay here all the time until you marry?’

  ‘There is a woman comes in every night I am – chaperoned.’

  ‘No, no, Morwenna, you must stay at Trenwith! It is only proper. You could have your old room.’

  ‘No, no, thank you!’

  Elizabeth frowned, a little offended. ‘You were married from Trenwith last time. Why not this?’

  ‘And have Mr Warleggan give me away?’

  Elizabeth looked up at this sarcasm from so gentle a creature.

  ‘Mr Warleggan is in Truro and like to remain there. He may come for Christm
as. Shall you be able to be married before Christmas?’ Elizabeth counted. ‘Yes, just. What day is Christmas Day – Wednesday? You could be married perhaps Christmas Eve.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Morwenna could not bring herself to explain where Demelza and Drake had gone today. Elizabeth would say, what is the hurry, you are both still young; after waiting all this time, where is the haste? She might even persuade Morwenna. That was the worst danger – that her opinion would prevail.

  Elizabeth said: ‘I had hoped to see Drake. Will he be long?’

  ‘Quite a time, I fear.’

  ‘I wanted to meet him again so that there should be no hard feelings between us.’

  ‘I don’t think there is,’ said Morwenna. ‘I think he admires you. For what you did for him once.’

  Elizabeth coloured. ‘I had forgot that . . . It was little enough.’ She rose. ‘So I must see him some other time, for I think we’re in for a storm and I should not want to be caught in it. Morwenna . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Would you not come to Trenwith sometime? My mother and father are both still there and are both much devoted to you. They’re very frail now, but I’m sure they would want to see you before your marriage – just to wish you well.’

  ‘Of course.’ The two women kissed, with a slightly greater warmth, at least on Morwenna’s side, than when they had met.

  They went down into the kitchen and Morwenna opened the door. It was torn from her grasp and flung back on its hinges. The wind gulped its way into the kitchen, knocking over a bottle and a pair of scales.

  ‘My dear!’ said Elizabeth. ‘It has doubled in force since I came. Fortunate that it will not be entirely in my face as I go home.’

  ‘Wait a while. This is perhaps a brief violence and will subside.’

  ‘I’ve lived too long on this coast to believe that! It may well blow for twelve hours. No, I can manage.’

  ‘You might fall. In your condition . . .’

  ‘Would it matter?’

  Morwenna drew a little back to look at her cousin. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  Elizabeth tried to cover the slip. ‘I mean I think it would do me no harm.’