Warleggan

by Winston Graham

  That was a lesson hard to learn. It was particularly hard for Ross.

  In the afternoon he met Richard Tonkin again and told him the news, receiving his sympathy with a better grace than most people’s because they had once been fellow sufferers together. They had a meal in the Seven Stars, and it was nine before Ross arrived home.

  There had been a faint suggestion of summer heat about the day, and Demelza looked very fresh and cool in the garden in a white ruched bodice and a cream poplin skirt with a little green apron. He got off his horse and she walked with him back to the house.

  ‘You’ve supped, Ross? I thought you must have. I waited until a quarter after eight. Did that heavy shower catch you this morning?’

  ‘No, I had none on the way.’

  ‘Dry both in and out, truly surprising. These bull-horns are something terrible; I suppose it must be all the caudly weather. They eat my flowers and slime my stones; and if I step on them, it makes me feel sick. I have a lady’s instincts where a snail is concerned. Funny, for I can wrap a bad wound or clean a baby or pick up a mouse without distaste.’

  ‘You should train Garrick to eat ’em. Or perhaps if we’re more reduced, we shall do it ourselves. I haven’t seen that before. Is it new?’ He touched her bodice.

  ‘New?’ she smiled.

  ‘Well, I have not seen it, I’m sure.’

  ‘I made it out of two of your old shirts which were far gone for patching. There is good material if you pick out where the wear does not come.’

  ‘When I asked you to marry me, I did not suppose you would be driven to making your blouses out of the tails of my shirts.’

  ‘Not tails: sides. And the lace I got from an old shawl. But I have been in much worse straits.’

  Gimlett was not about, so she walked with Ross round to the stables.

  She said: ‘I’ll unsaddle Darkie. If you go in, I’ll follow so soon as he’s comfortable. There’s two letters for you.’

  ‘Two? Who from?’ Something in the lightness of her tone. ‘No, Gimlett will be in soon, won’t he? Have you read them?’

  ‘The one that is addressed to us both. It’s from Sir Hugh, inviting us to a party at his house next Saturday. He mentioned it when last I saw him. It’s his birthday – I did not dare ask which – and he seems to be planning something to outdo Sir John Trevaunance.’

  Ross thought that he had solved the slight peculiarity of her tone, and so forgot to ask about the other letter.

  ‘I hope you’ll not be disappointed if we answer no.’

  She said: ‘I would have thought it reasonable enough to go, as so many of our neighbours are likely to be there. But it don’t matter if you’d prefer not.’

  He went in, glad that she’d so readily given up the idea and rather surprised that she had. Perhaps she was growing as tired of the man as he was.

  He did not notice that she had not followed him into the house. He went through into the parlour and picked the two letters up off the spinet. The long twilight was ending and the light was very shadowy, so he took the letters to the window. Recently he had seen more of Elizabeth’s writing, on documents and things, than at any other time, and he at once recognized it on the outside of the second one. He broke the seal.

  My Dear Ross [Elizabeth had written],

  I do not know how to write this letter; I do not know where to begin it or where to end it or how to tell you what I have to tell. I know it will upset you, and I, who gave you so much Pain once before, would rather do almost anything than hurt you again, and in the same way. Yet it seems that I must.

  Oh, Ross, my life has been a very frustrative one; it has been an empty one and very cold. Never more so than in these lonely months since Francis died. Perhaps I am the wrong sort of person to be left alone. I seem to need the strength and protection that a man can give.

  I have promised to marry George Warleggan.

  It will be just ten days from now. We are to be married by Licence at St Mary’s Church. At my insistence it will be very private, only our parents and the necessary witnesses. We will live mainly at Cardew, so that from now forward you will see little of me. I feel that is what you will wish.

  Ross, I cannot give you Reasons for marrying George, for Reasons suggest I need justification, and I cannot begin my second marriage by being disloyal even in thought. If Affection has existed between us all these years, between you and me, I pray that you should use it now to reach an understanding of my position. For to understand all may be to forgive all. Or if not that, to excuse in part.

  Your sincere and affectionate friend,

  Elizabeth

  While he read, it had gone dark. Or was the darkness in his heart and in this mind? He listened to the drumming of his own blood. After the first moments of utter incredulity, his brave, civilized thoughts of this morning were gone, completely swallowed up. You could not fight the imponderables of life, he had thought. But was this such? Was this something to be accepted with resignation and a sigh?

  That was as far as recognizable thought went. Beyond was all feeling, all feeling. The thing struck at him two ways together, at his love and at his hate. Either by itself he could have mastered. Together they were overpowering.

  He swung round and out of the room.

  ‘Demelza!’

  There was no answer.

  He picked up his cloak and went through the kitchen, out to the stables.

  ‘Demelza!’

  No answer. Darkie was still saddled.

  Jane Gimlett came hurriedly out of the stillroom.

  ‘Can I help ee, sur? John’ll be back any minute now.’

  ‘No. Tell your mistress—’

  ‘I’m here, Ross,’ said Demelza, coming out from the shadow of the stables.

  Jane Gimlett looked from one to the other. She could see little, but there was that in their voices which made her go quickly indoors again.

  He said: ‘Demelza, I’m going to Trenwith.’

  She had been hiding from him, not because she was afraid of him but because she could not bear to see him receive this news. ‘Do not go tonight, Ross.’

  ‘I must. I have to see Elizabeth.’

  ‘It will be better in the morning.’

  ‘You – know something?’

  ‘Is it about George?’

  ‘How did you guess?’

  ‘Something I heard.’

  ‘You never told me.’

  ‘How could I . . .?’

  ‘This . . . thing . . .’ He found he was still holding the letter. He crumpled it into a ball. ‘This thing must be stopped.’

  ‘How can you stop it? You can’t!’

  ‘You think not. We’ll see.’

  ‘Ross, I don’t want for you to go tonight!’

  ‘Perhaps you don’t want me to stop it at all.’

  ‘I don’t want you to – in the only ways you can,’ she said distressfully.

  New anger grew in him, one wave overtoppling the last. ‘Please get out of my way.’

  For a moment she did not move, watching him, striving to see. ‘Always – always I had thought . . . I had never thought it would be like this . . .’ There was anger within her too, responding to his, striving to form itself. But as yet she would not let it. ‘Don’t you see, Ross, that you cannot go. For if you do . . . Meaning what you do . . .’

  Although she barred his way, her white figure seemed already withdrawn, a little unreal. He tried to force himself to make some move, some affectionate gesture towards her. But for the first time he failed. The spectre of Elizabeth was immovably between them, more real, more tangible to his hurt than Demelza.

  She saw that she could not stop him. He could not stop himself. This was something fundamental. She stepped out of his way. He mounted his horse and clattered out of the cobbled yard.

  Trenwith House was in darkness, except for two lights on the first floor. From his close acquaintance with the house he knew that one was on the landing and one in Aunt Agatha’s room. Eli
zabeth’s room looked out on the inner courtyard, as did Geoffrey Charles’s. The Tabbs slept over the kitchens. He slid off his horse and pulled at the bell beside the front door. Nothing now lingered of the dying day but a bluish tinge in the far west. Stars glimmered brightly, and as he looked a meteor flickered across the sky. The ride had cooled him but not altered his purpose. His resolutions were finer pointed, less unreasoning and impulsive. The ring being unanswered, he pulled the bell again. After another minute or so he rapped at the door with his crop. Then he stepped back and stared up impatiently at the house. The Tabbs were most probably quite out of earshot. If they were asleep, he might ring till morning. And it would be easier to rouse Charles from Sawle churchyard than Aunt Agatha from her room. There was only Elizabeth and Geoffrey Charles.

  He went back to the door and rapped very loudly on it. Was this a diplomatic retirement on Elizabeth’s part? He had not asked what time the letter had been delivered, but perhaps Elizabeth had been expecting a visit from him all afternoon. She could hardly imagine that he would make no move at all. Perhaps as darkness fell she had bolted all the doors and gone up to bed, determined she should not see him tonight.

  Well that was where she might yet be mistaken. He tried the door and found it locked. He stepped away again. The front of the house was impregnable, but he did not suppose it would all be.

  He walked round to the east side, and an owl flitted away before his crunching footsteps. Here was the herb garden, much overgrown but doubly aromatic in the late evening. ‘Larded with sweet flowers which bewept to the grave did go.’ Words running through his head. Something was stirring in the bushes now besides himself, a rat or a stray mongrel, mute as he was mute, no business here.

  Near the house a sycamore tree grew, some of its lesser branches brushing the window which had once been Verity’s. Needed lopping. But it had not been lopped. He tested the lowest branch, then swung himself into the tree. At this stage he unhooked his cloak and dropped it over a bush below him. ‘There’s fennel for you and columbines – there’s rue . . . I would give you some violets but they withered all when my father died . . .’ He went on and up, a shadow moving it seemed with no great care, till he was level with the window.

  A small-paned leaded casement. From below he had thought it an inch open, but this was not so. Only a single tiny pane in the upper part of the window was open, too far from the catch. The one suitable thing he had was the key to the padlock on his own library door. He took this out and rapped against one of the panes until it broke. Then, almost before the glass had stopped falling, he had thrust in his gloved hand and lifted the catch. A minute later he was in the room.

  He had made some noise but distinctly less than at the front door.

  He came out in the east passage. At the end, towards the front of the house, a faint glimmer shivered on the panelled wall. It was the candle on the front landing, just round the corner from the great hall. He went towards it, and was nearly there when a door opened and Elizabeth came out.

  She gave a scream half stifled, stepped back against the wall. They stared at each other. She looked as if she were going to faint.

  ‘Ross! . . .’

  ‘I came to pay my respects.’

  ‘Ross, I thought . . .’

  ‘That I was a burglar. So I am as to means of entry.’

  She continued to stare at him with great eyes in a white face. She was wearing a green velvet frock, an old one and in better light shiny, but it suited her. Everything suited her. That was the trouble. ‘I heard a noise. How did you get in?’

  ‘I came to thank you for your letter.’

  ‘I thought it was Geoffrey Charles. I thought it was strange.’

  ‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’

  She knew him well enough not to be taken in by his even voice. There was no escape for her now, from this interview.

  ‘Yes . . . I’ll get a candle . . .’

  She turned back into the room she had left. Irrationally suspecting she might be going to call someone, he followed her in and closed the door.

  ‘This will do.’

  It was her bedroom, and she lifted her hand from the candlestick. ‘I don’t think . . .’

  ‘There’s no one else to consider. I want to talk to you, Elizabeth, and now.’

  A nice room. The brown draped curtains hung with cord, the gilt dressing-mirror, the rocking horse, the blue slippers, the white lace nightgown over a chair. He had never been in there before.

  He could see the blood coming back to her face, to her lips. And some of the confidence.

  ‘I so much hated sending you that letter, Ross. The last thing I wanted – as I said . . . But you can’t come here like this, now. In the morning . . .’

  ‘The morning’s too late. I want to know tonight.’

  ‘To know what? What I’ve already told you in my letter? Is there anything more to say?’

  ‘Well, yes.’ He moved away from the door, pulled off his gloves and dropped them in a chair, came closer to her. She took a step away. ‘I had a certain impression of how things stood. Tell me, Elizabeth, where I have gone wrong . . . George Warleggan I have long thought of as my greatest enemy. You I have long thought of as my greatest friend. In which particular am I farthest adrift?’

  She flushed. ‘It isn’t like that at all, Ross. But it has been a grievous position for me. Of course I’m happy and proud to think of you as my greatest friend—’

  ‘Well, it was more than that, wasn’t it? How long is it, not more than twelve months, since we met one evening at the Trevaunances? What did you tell me over the dinner table then? That when you turned me down and married Francis you made a mistake which you discovered a few months after and have regretted ever since. It was a – an astonishment and humiliation to you, you said, that you should have made such a mistake. I remember the words.’

  She stretched out a hand to the back of a chair. ‘Your coming like this, Ross . . . The shock has made me feel faint . . .’

  But he was not to be put off. ‘That mistake you confessed to, Elizabeth, was one Francis suffered for all his life. And you suffered for it, and I. What sort of a mistake are you making this time?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘What I told you that night – I’ll not go back on it – though I should never have spoken if I’d thought anything was going to happen to Francis. Please, Ross, understand. I felt that some day I had to tell you, to let you know that if you were unhappy in those early days, it was not long before I was too. I thought it would please you to know that the mistake had been mine and not yours! It was too late, years too late to put things right; but I wanted you to know. As soon as I’d spoken I realized it was wrong to have spoken. And when Francis died . . . then more than ever.’

  ‘It explains nothing. Where does George Warleggan come into this?’

  ‘Not at all at that time, of course. Only now – much later. He’s been so kind, Ross, so good—’

  ‘Do you marry a man out of gratitude?’

  ‘Not alone out of gratitude. But you’re far wrong to think of him as your greatest enemy. I think – I believe – that I can bring you together, that truly you can and will be friends. He has no bitterness—’

  ‘Are you marrying him for his money?’

  She said nothing for a minute, her eyes narrowed in an effort to be calm. So far they had faced each other like adversaries, she content or able only to parry each thrust that he made, and with no time or thought for manœuvre. So far only the situation made the encounter worse than her imagining. She had known how bad it would be; and remembering her expectation of it, she took a grip of herself. She was injuring him, not he her; therefore she must bear his insults, try to lead him to reasonableness and perhaps later friendship again. To evade the issue wasn’t possible. To give him detailed reasons for her decision to marry George was a waste of time. Each one she put up he would demolish in a moment.

  ‘Please, Ross.’ She smiled at him but avoided the searching lo
ok in his eyes. ‘Will you come tomorrow and we can talk more calmly and more properly than here? Believe me when I say I am not marrying George for his money. I have not been very clever with my life. But I’ve tried to be loyal to the people I care for. What may seem disloyalty to you, isn’t really that at all. What would you suggest for me, Ross? Thirty years of widowhood and loneliness? I might well live thirty years. Is that what you ask for the mistakes I’ve already made? Can you offer me anything else to hope for?’

  He was silent, studying the curves of her brow and cheek and mouth.

  ‘I’ll go if you can answer me one thing. Do you love George?’

  The clock struck eleven, accenting the other stillnesses. Far in the distance, communicated to an inner ear, was the sound of the sea.

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  That settled it. He took her by the shoulders, quietly but firmly, so that her eyes flicked up quickly to his in surprise and alarm.

  ‘This is a very similar imposture to the one just after you married Francis. You told me you loved him then, and you didn’t mean a word of it. I was simpler then and believed you. I don’t believe you tonight.’

  She tried to free herself. ‘Don’t, Ross. You’re hurting me.’

  ‘You ask me if I’d condemn you to thirty years of widowhood. The answer’s no. But with your looks you could have the pick of six men. I do not like this betrothal to George Warleggan. I ask you to wait awhile and try again.’

  ‘Let me go! I’m my own mistress and shall please myself! I’m – sorry that you feel like this. But I can’t help it.’

  ‘You never have been able to help anything, have you? It has all been beyond your control. All your life you’ve drifted helplessly down a stream of good intentions. You can’t help this either.’ He kissed her. She turned her face away but could not get it far enough round to avoid him.

  When he lifted his head, her eyes were lit with anger. He’d never seen her like it before, and he found pleasure in it.