The Black Moon

by Winston Graham

  Ross said: ‘I appreciate your thought and the thought of your friends in inviting me; and in refusing I trust I shall not incur a risk of being considered either ungracious or sanctimonious. But I cannot bring myself to judge my fellow men.’

  ‘One simply interprets the laws of the land.’

  ‘Yes, but that involves passing judgment. And although I now try to abide by the law, and hope to continue to do so, there have been occasions in the past when I have challenged its validity – and there may be occasions in the future when I shall do so again. Not perhaps on my own behalf. I do not personally expect to be without a roof, or to work in life-destroying conditions, or to become crippled with phthisis at thirty, or to see my wife starve or my children crawling naked on the floor of a hut. I do not expect to be subjected to the temptation of stealing firewood to keep warm or a hare to warm my family’s belly. But often in these cases the law makes no allowances for the circumstances in which the crime was committed. It did not where my servant was concerned, and so he went to prison for two years and there died. I am no revolutionary in the Jacobin sense. I believe in the laws of property. I do not like thieves. But the sentences are too severe. If a man came before me accused of trespass and trapping rabbits on someone’s property, I would be unable to avoid asking myself if, in his circumstances, I should not have done the same. And if I should have done the same, how can I condemn him?’

  ‘All justice is not blind and brutal.’

  ‘By no means.’

  ‘You would not presumably feel this way about a man who kills another, or who rapes a girl, or who sets fire to a hayrick—’

  ‘Certainly I do not, but they are matters more often dealt with by the higher courts.’

  ‘So for the smaller offences which came before you you could perhaps temper justice with leniency.’

  ‘And fight all my fellows on the bench? Could I see eye to eye with Hugh Bodrugan on sentencing a poacher? It would be the start of another civil war!’

  Daniell bit his lip and looked up at the tall rather gaunt man by his bookcase. ‘Serving as a magistrate, as you’ll appreciate, is not all sitting in judgment on one’s fellows. A magistrate wields power in the country both for good and ill. He has much to do with rates and taxes and the uses they are put to. Building roads, repairing bridges, dredging canals. Much of the administration of the country. An energetic man such as yourself would have many opportunities for service. It would be a pity to turn down the opportunity of doing so much good for fear of doing a little harm.’

  Ross shook his head and smiled. ‘You argue very graciously, Mr Daniell. I wish I could be as gracious in my refusal. If I thought that the men with whom I would be sharing the bench were in any way like-minded or even open to argument I might think otherwise. If the laws of the land were becoming more liberal and more lenient I would be happy to try to interpret them. But just now, under the threat of what happened in France, we are going ever backwards. The very talk of leniency, of liberal ideas, of reform, of bettering the conditions of the poor, is tantamount to treason. One is stamped a Jacobin and condemned as a traitor. Last week a man was hanged in London for taking £1.15.0 out of a shop. Now there is imprisonment without trial. If we speak too forthright in public, none of us is free of the risk. Oh, I know,’ he went on, as Daniell was about to speak, ‘I know very well the excuse, and in some measure I understand it and condone it. But already it has gone too far, further I think than is justified by the public good or in consideration of public safety. In order to defeat a tyranny overseas I believe we are in danger of creating a tyranny ourselves. Do you not see that, holding these opinions as I do, it would be a grave mistake on my part to accept your offer?’

  Daniell sighed and stood up. ‘I understand your reasons. I still think they are not adequate reasons. It is for men of liberal ideas to try to interpret the law and to help to run the country, not to withdraw and leave it to the harsher spirits. These emergencies will pass. The good governance of the country must continue. However, so be it. Shall we rejoin the ladies? I see them coming up from the river.’

  They walked out together, through the hall and on to the terrace. No one was there yet, except a servant setting another table for tea. In this river valley they were sheltered from the wind, and a great peace brooded over the scene. The three women made a colourful splash of heliotrope, ochre and rose-pink against the green background. Demelza had taken off her jacket, and her silk blouse glinted in the sun.

  ‘Of course you know,’ said Ralph-Allen Daniell. ‘Or perhaps you do not. Perhaps it is something I should say at this stage . . . tell you. Since the need for a new man in your district is really somewhat urgent, a new man will be found. Certainly the other name will now go up. That is if, as I assume, you are quite adamant in your decision . . .’ He waited but Ross did not speak. ‘We shall have to offer this seat on the bench elsewhere, and the most obvious, indeed the only other candidate of appropriate standing, is George Warleggan.’

  Demelza waved her scarf. Ross did not wave back.

  ‘An admirable choice,’ he said, his voice betraying only a little of his feelings. ‘Warleggan has all the qualities that I lack.’

  ‘And lacks many of the qualities that you have. I think it a pity, Captain Poldark . . . Well, my dears, did you enjoy your stroll?’

  They stayed until nine, drinking tea and munching biscuits and sweet cakes and talking amiably of this and that. Daniell offered them a bed, apologizing for not having included this in his invitation, but they politely refused, and after a pleasant leave-taking rode back up the valley and joined the turn-pike road to Truro. They were in the Red Lion Inn by eleven, where Gimlett had already arrived bearing clean sheets and to make sure the room was clean and properly prepared for them and that there was adequate service and accommodation for their horses. Except for ticketings, it was the first time Ross had been in the inn since the occasion of his brawl with George three years ago, when in a last flicker of anger he had pushed the innkeeper to the ground as well; but the little man was clearly pleased to see his important client and to let bygones be bygones. Ross tried to be as gracious as he could over their light supper, but he was somehow not quite in the mood to unbend convincingly. Demelza, who had thoroughly enjoyed her day, could not understand him, and it was not until they were alone together in the bedroom that he told her of the offer Ralph-Allen Daniell had made and of his reply.

  ‘Oh, Ross,’ she said.

  ‘What do you mean? Oh, Ross!’

  ‘Well, I know how you feel and I’m glad that’s how you feel; but it do seem such a pity.’

  ‘A pity that I have these feelings?’

  ‘No. A pity that you had to refuse because of them. I think . . . tis wrong that you should not mix more with your own folk and – and be a person of importance among them. This was a chance to be . . . I want you to have the respect you are entitled to.’

  ‘Which you think I now don’t receive. Thank you.’

  ‘Ross, don’t get teasy with me. I am sorry if what I’ve said is not pleasing to you. Of course whatever you think is best for yourself, I accept that. But a person has a rightful place in the world, and yours is – is in some such position. You are by birth a squire and – and seeing to the law is what squires do. It grieves me that you had to refuse.’

  ‘You’d think better of me if I were some pot-bellied liver-grown stinking old lecher like your bed-friend Hugh Bodrugan who drinks himself under the table six times weekly and has a ready hand for any woman’s skirt or blouse which happens to be conveniently within reach. You’d admire my position in the world then? You’d think this showed me to be a person of importance?’

  ‘No, Ross, it would not; and you know I did not mean that. And you know too that Hugh Bodrugan has never been my bedfellow. Nor has my skirt or blouse ever been conveniently in reach for him.’

  ‘Would you like me to be a hypocrite, fawning on people who have power so that a little may come my way? So that I may st
rut and crow on my own little dunghill? Would you like me to be pompous, arrogant, blown up with my own conceit, seeing myself as a little god dispensing judgment on other lesser creatures? Would you like—’

  ‘Please, Ross, unfasten this button. My blouse has been tight all day. I think, I believe I shall not be able to wear it again until after November.’

  He looked at the back of her neck, at the wisps of hair curling on the pale skin. He undid the three buttons and turned in furious irritation away. They spoke no more until they were both undressed and in bed. Ross put out two candles and left one burning. It was smoky, and the smoke curled upwards like a wisp of her hair. He tried to control his unreasoning resentment.

  ‘So you think I did wrong,’ he said.

  ‘How can I say? How can it be wrong to do what you believe is right?’

  He had not told her of the man likely to be appointed in his place.

  ‘It was a splendid party,’ she said. ‘But that Frenchman . . .’

  ‘Ralph-Allen Daniell is to be High Sheriff of Cornwall next year. Did you not hear them say it at the dinner table?’

  ‘No. What is that? It sounds that impressive.’

  ‘Maybe they were vetting us – seeing how you could behave and that I did not wear a tricolour as a cravat. Valletort is the Lord Lieutenant’s son, you know. Old Mount Edgcumbe. Did you like him?’

  ‘I hardly spoke to him – I liked his wife. If that is high society, then I think I liked it, Ross. Better than what I’ve seen before.’

  ‘Yes, it is a cut above the Assembly Ball. There is a stage at which the possession of money justifies itself by enabling its possessor to become urbane, cultured, refined and elegant. When this happens there is probably no better society in the world.’

  ‘I hope . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That we shall be in it again sometime.’

  ‘I do not imagine my refusal of this office will endear me to them. Those we met today are the progressives, who in better times would be the reformers, who pride themselves on openness of mind. But I suspect that at this juncture even they will tend to reason that who is not for them is against them. It is a tendency in time of stress and war. At present the landed gentry of England are seeing bloody revolution behind every drawn shutter.’

  ‘Oh, well . . .’ She gave a little philosophic shrug. ‘. . . we have so much to be thankful for. It is not important. You have brought the list of what we are going to buy tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes. It is a foot long.’

  ‘Good. Then let us think of that. Good night, Ross.’

  ‘Good night.’

  He snuffed out the final candle. The only light then was from the lantern in the passage slanting in under the ill-fitting door. From downstairs came a loud murmur, occasionally interspersed by shouts, from the tap-room.

  They both lay quiet, thinking their own thoughts. And both knew that, however much they bought tomorrow, however extravagant in their purchases they became, the events of today had taken the savour out of it.

  Chapter Nine

  George received the invitation in September by letter, and, after a suitable delay, replied saying he would be pleased to accept the Lord Chancellor’s appointment.

  He had hoped for something like this but had thought it probable that he would have to wait until either Horace Treneglos or Ray Penvenen died. He had only been living at Trenwith a year; nor was he permanently in residence, though he had stayed deliberately longer here than convenience dictated. He had wanted to be accepted in the district, but often he had fancied himself cold-shouldered by people like the Bodrugans and the Trevaunances. This appointment was an important evidence of acceptance. Money talked. Money would soon talk before breeding.

  It was the more pleasing because three years ago his father had tried to get him elected a Capital Burgess of the city of Truro and had failed. His father was both a burgess and a magistrate, and had been of real value to the town; he had also been a constant, ready and vocal supporter of Viscount Falmouth, in everything that that gentleman projected; but when George’s name came up to fill a vacancy his lordship had put someone else forward, and that was that. However hard the Warleggans tried to be nice to the Boscawens, the Boscawens were never quite nice enough in return. The reason was perfectly clear, though the Warleggans only partly perceived it. Lord Falmouth controlled the borough and the corporation. As an aristocrat with enormous landed possessions he was used to the deference of people like Hick and Cardew and the other members of the corporation. Such men did not presume to friendship. But it was not so easy to extend the same sort of patronage to a man who owned five hundred acres and a house nearly as big as Tregothnan, as well as the biggest house in Truro, and had such substantial banking, smelting and mining interests as to put him among the richest in the county. So Lord Falmouth had decided that one Warleggan on the corporation was sufficient for the time being.

  This success in a country district, therefore, where prejudices and cliquishness among the older families were at their strongest, was a signal advance. And it owed nothing to his commercial power in Truro. It warmed him through.

  Of course he hid his pleasure from Elizabeth, telling her casually at supper one night, saying he had quite forgotten to mention it before.

  She said: ‘Oh, I’m glad. Francis used to complain of it as a nuisance, but I used to think an interest in other people’s affairs took him out of his own.’

  Her tone, as casual as his but genuinely so, nettled him. Naturally to her and her like it did come as a matter of course. Jonathan had become a magistrate when his father died: there was no achievement in it, it was simply the boring duty of a gentleman.

  ‘Yes, well, they will have to do with me when I am here. They must know we shall be in Truro a large part of the winter.’

  ‘Have you yet settled on a date to return?’

  ‘We have nothing social until the 5th October. I would have thought the end of this month, if that is convenient to you.’

  ‘I shall be glad of the change.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why?’ She looked up at him. ‘Should I not be? The weather has broken and shows no sign of picking up. Last year, being with child, I was not able to enjoy things in a normal way. Now I look forward to seeing my friends – and yours – the concerts, the card parties, the balls. It is a change of scene.’

  He bent to his meal again, satisfied by what she said. Ever since they married he had felt some reluctance in her to stay at Trenwith, and he had often wondered if there were more behind it than he knew. Of course before they married he had promised her a life at Cardew, but when it came to the point his father had not been prepared to vacate the house. In his effort to convince her that marriage to him offered everything she wanted, George had been guilty of one or two exaggerations, of which this was the greatest. Elizabeth had tried to hide her disappointment, but it was more evident now since Valentine was born. George always suspected that this desire to leave Trenwith was in fact a desire to put more distance between herself and Ross Poldark.

  This was their only meal alone. Two years of marriage had seen subtle changes in the relationship which the birth of Valentine had accentuated. George had deeply desired only one woman in his life, and his achievement of this end had brought him immense gratification. He had taken Elizabeth with all the passion in his nature, and to his particular delight had found her responding in a similar way; for he was not to know that there was more reactive anger than genuine passion in the response. The immediate consequence was that both put out more emotion than it would have been their normal nature to do, and fusion was exceptional for them both. But Elizabeth’s early pregnancy had been an excuse to descend from these summits, and they had never been scaled again. George in his nature was cold, and Elizabeth no longer had to prove anything to herself. Since Valentine’s birth she had not refused him, but it was a proposal and an acquiescence, not a mutual need.

  They were both aware of this. Ge
orge knew what happened to some women temporarily after they had borne a child. He knew how it had been between her and Francis after the birth of Geoffrey Charles. That it had not been so after the birth of Valentine gave him satisfaction. In any case for the time being he was content. The possession of Elizabeth was almost enough on any terms. The emotional demands upon himself were the less. And Elizabeth was content with this damping down of a relationship she was not sure she had ever wanted.

  But in spite of this cooling in a physical sense, there was little lack of amity in their daily dealings. From the very first days of their marriage George had been gratified by the degree to which Elizabeth was prepared to identify her interests with his – even in her hostility towards the Poldarks of Nampara. When he married her he had thought her as frail and beautiful as a butterfly; marrying her ministered to his protective as well as his possessive instincts. But while he still saw her as both physically frail and beautiful, he had found her possessed of a good brain, a common sense as level as his own, an ability to manage a household without his assistance and an interest in his career which never failed to surprise him. It was not an accident that she had survived for nearly two years as a widow and run this big house with no help, no man and no money.

  The only point at issue between them of late had been as usual Geoffrey Charles. Elizabeth expected him to spend the autumn with them in Truro, but George argued that if he were likely to go away to school in a year or so it would be better for him to learn to be without his mother for periods of time. Leaving him at Trenwith in the charge of his governess and his uncle and aunt would be a gentle way of severing the tie. Personally Elizabeth saw no reason to sever the tie as yet – she saw no reason in fact why he should ever go away to school – but after a good deal of rather tight argument, in which much was felt but little said, she eventually yielded.

  So Geoffrey Charles was to stay. After supper that night Elizabeth came on Morwenna sewing in the winter parlour.