The Miller's Dance

by Winston Graham

  Careful and cautious to the extremest degree, as soon as he became engrossed with Lady Harriet, he had employed his friend and lackey, lawyer Hector Trembath, to make due inquiries not merely into Lady Harriet’s life but into the life of her antecedents. Trembath had exceeded his instructions by going far back into the history of the Dukes of Leeds, but he had come up with some very piquant items. For instance, that the family fortunes of the Osbornes had been founded by a poor apprentice clothworker who had jumped off London Bridge into the Thames and saved his employer’s daughter from drowning, subsequently marrying her and inheriting the clothworker’s money. Or, for instance, that the first Duke of Leeds had been a highly dislikeable man, described as an inveterate liar, proud, ambitious, revengeful, false, prodigal, corrupt, and covetous to the highest degree, the most hated minister, some said, that had ever been about King Charles II.

  When nettled by her little sarcastic darts he had been very tempted to mention some of this to her – pointing out that not all of her family for all their eminence were above the criticism that they cared for money and power. Now he was very glad he had held his tongue. It was not the spirit in which to enter into the marriage contract.

  Besides, if the occasion arose, the information could be utilized at some later date.

  II

  On the same day, March 5, another marriage was being discussed.

  Ross said gently: ‘And you have just come to this conclusion?’

  ‘About two weeks ago, Papa. But I have been waiting for – for a favourable opportunity. You have been in Truro, and then to Tehidy, and . . .’

  ‘Does your mother know?’

  ‘Not for certain – I’m sure she suspects.’

  ‘So you came to me first?’

  ‘I told Stephen I would.’

  ‘Should he not be here? Surely it is his duty to ask for your hand.’

  ‘Yes. He’ll do that, of course. But I felt I wanted to speak to you first – break the news . . . which may not be good news for you and Mama.’

  ‘Why should it not be?’

  ‘Well, Stephen is – has no money; and as you know, he has no proper employment. He . . . has no pedigree – oh, I know you don’t want that as such – you and Mama are above that – but if I had a daughter I should want to know something of the parents of the man she was going to marry. Stephen himself knows little. I think you all like him in a way. But perhaps not enough to wish him to become one of the family.’

  ‘But you love him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then surely is that not sufficient?’

  ‘You’re very sweet, Papa. Is that how you truly feel? Is that how you will be to him?’

  Ross glanced away from her earnest gaze. Flicking through his mind, like the scenes of his life before a dying man, went memories of twenty years of fatherhood: the ineffable trust, the endearing love, the family squabbles, the uninhibited laughter, the intimate but sometimes prickly comradeship. And now she was in love – with a stranger. Not merely a stranger to the family, for anyone she married would be that, to begin at any rate (the closer one’s family was, the more it risked in disruption), but a stranger from a distant county whose views and opinions from now on would automatically rank as more important to her than all the ties and loyalties of childhood. Was there even this evening a hint of hostility in her? – as if nature demanded a cleavage at this point, a clean fresh break between the old and the new, like an insect, a butterfly breaking away from its chrysalis. Something inherent in nature: one forced one’s way out from the enclosing confines of family, turned one’s back, marched on.

  ‘If I am being sweet to you,’ he said, ‘as you say I am – then you cannot expect me to be as sweet to him. You are my eldest daughter, much beloved; I must test him in any way I can to be sure that he cares as you care. If I light a fire under him it will be for your good. I must know, be positively convinced, about the way he regards you and how he is going to maintain you.’

  She was silent, still looking at him. ‘What could he say that would convince you?’

  ‘I don’t know. I shall wait to hear.’

  Clowance got up, picked up a primrose that had fallen out of a bowl, replaced it. She wanted to say much more, talk to her father, explain, argue with him, tell him everything she could, if necessary in an emotional outburst. His quiet acceptance of the news, though a vast relief, left her with not enough to say. There was a sort of vacuum. She wanted to fight Stephen’s battles for him.

  ‘He’s thirty,’ she said sternly.

  ‘And you’re not yet eighteen . . .’

  ‘Papa, he’s the only man.’

  ‘The only one you have seen so far.’

  ‘I believe,’ Clowance said, ‘Mama was not yet eighteen when she married you. And I do not believe all her life she has ever looked elsewhere.’

  ‘But once,’ said Ross.

  ‘Oh?’ Clowance was suddenly alert.

  ‘And then but briefly. It was unimportant.’

  ‘Well, then. That is what I mean.’

  ‘It does not follow. But it could follow. I would be happy – happier – if I felt sure of him; not of you.’

  ‘These silly lies that are spread about him . . .’

  ‘I hadn’t heard them.’

  ‘Any woman – any man – takes a risk in marriage. It’s the risk we want to take.’

  Ross got up and began to draw the curtains. ‘Well, I suppose it can be a while yet.’

  ‘Not long, if you will permit it, Papa. We have waited already.’

  ‘Waited!’

  The sudden steel in his tone made her jump. ‘Well, it seems so to us. There was the first few months he was here when you did not see him at all. And then there has been another eight months now. I . . . have tried to be sensible. Have I not? You must admit it! I think it was first sight with us both. But I went to London with Aunt Caroline a year last January – and then to Bowood this last July. Both times I tried to see it as a way of proving to myself whether I loved him or not. Both times it was the same.’

  ‘He came here to supper twice while you were away in July.’

  ‘Yes, he told me. It was kind of you to ask him. But was it because . . .’

  ‘Yes, mainly. Though he is Jeremy’s friend and might have come anyhow.’

  ‘It was then that he invested in the mine, wasn’t it?’

  ‘In spite of my warnings. He’s a very personable young man, intelligent, a quick thinker. It seems he should have done more with his life. Opportunities, of course, do not come easy when one has no connections. Perhaps when – if – he has a stabilizing influence, a different kind of ambition . . .’

  ‘When can you see him?’

  ‘See him? Not tomorrow. Any time Thursday. In the forenoon would be best. Tell him to come to the library. We shall be undisturbed there.’

  Clowance moved across and kissed him. ‘You will tell Mama?’

  ‘Of course!’

  ‘I mean tonight.’

  ‘Certainly. We have few secrets from each other, and this is the last subject . . .’

  Clowance smiled. ‘That is the way I wish it to be between Stephen and me.’

  ‘Tell him to wait on me at eleven.’

  II

  ‘What was she?’ asked Ross. ‘A schooner?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Tops’l. Quite small.’

  ‘How small?’

  ‘About eighty ton.’

  ‘And commanded by?’

  ‘A Captain Fraser. Out of Bristol.’

  ‘Had you been with him long?’

  ‘Twas our second voyage. He was a Scotsman, hard, red-haired, not the type to cross.’

  ‘But not a very good sailor?’

  ‘Why d’you say that, sir?’

  ‘Running his vessel aground on Gris Nez. Even if there was a storm at the time.’

  ‘No, sir, the cannon shot that killed Captain Fraser carried away our foremast, and the whole mass of yards and stays and shrouds came cr
ashing down, so that the vessel yawed and near went on her beam ends afore they could be cut away. We did our best to claw up into the wind, but in trying to escape from the Frenchies we’d closed the land, and sea and tide was too much for us.’

  ‘You never heard in Bristol of any of the others being saved?’

  ‘No. I think they was all lost.’

  ‘How old are you, Stephen?’

  ‘Thirty.’

  ‘You’ve been at sea all your life?’

  ‘Nay, I worked on a farm when I was a lad. Then for a short while I was a coachman to Sir Edward Hope, who lived just outside of Bristol. That’s when I first saw the sea and the ships. I walked the docks, narrowly missed being pressed and instead got away in a brig sailing for Canada. After that—’

  ‘Why did you leave Sir Edward Hope’s service?’

  ‘It was not for me.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Little chance for promotion. And I thought one day to be me own master.’

  ‘But you haven’t become that?’

  ‘Tisn’t easy, as you yourself have said, pulling yourself up wi’out influence.’

  ‘Are you for an indoor or outdoor life?’

  ‘Outdoor, for preference. I always have been. Couldn’t stand going down a mine. But I’m – just keen to get on – for every reason.’

  Ross walked to the window. It was raining again.

  ‘You are thirty, Stephen. You must have had attachments such as this before.’

  Stephen looked at his questioner warily. ‘Attachments I’ll not deny. Never one such as this. Never one to be deep in love.’

  ‘Have you ever heard of Charles Dibdin?’

  ‘Not so far as I know.’

  ‘He writes popular songs of the sea. They were much in vogue in London a few years ago.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I remember one in which a sailor is supposed to be singing. The words are: “In every mess I find a friend. In every port a wife.” Has that ever applied to you?’

  Stephen flushed. ‘As God’s me witness! That’s unfair!—’

  ‘Why is it unfair? Might it not have been natural—’

  ‘D’you think I’d come here asking for your daughter’s hand if I was already wed?’ His tone was rough.

  Ross said: ‘You might have been married and your wife died. These things can happen. If you consider you have the right to ask for my daughter’s hand, I consider I have the right to inquire.’

  Stephen swallowed, ran a hand through his hair. For a moment he had looked a big formidable man, the muscles and veins of his neck tightening.

  ‘I’m sorry, Captain Poldark. You have a right. The answer’s no. I don’t have a wife in any other port, and never have had.’

  ‘Good . . . Tell me, if supposing you were to marry Clowance, how would you expect to support her?’

  ‘Somehow, wi’ me own hands. All me life I’ve never lacked for work. Just now, as ye know, I’m part time at the mine, and I’m two days a week at St Ann’s helping repair the quay. Tis all a pittance, of course, but I’ll find something different. Give me a little time.’

  Ross said: ‘I must tell you, Stephen, I’m not a rich man although it may seem so to you – by comparison, that is. I have a number of interests here and there in the county but they are all small. On my mining interests my prosperity – or lack of it – largely depends; and of the two mines I own, one is just paying expenses and liable to do less than that soon; the other is not yet in operation.’

  ‘Next week, is it?’

  ‘Next week?’

  ‘For opening Wheal Leisure.’

  ‘Yes, I expect so.’

  ‘May that bring luck to us all!’

  ‘Indeed.’

  Silence fell.

  ‘I wouldn’t look for charity from you . . . I’ve always supported meself, and, God willing, I can support Clowance too . . . Maybe not the way she’s used to living but she says she don’t mind that.’

  ‘Nor, I imagine, would she,’ Ross said drily. ‘Clowance has ever been one to live simply.’

  ‘Then can I expect you to say yes?’ Stephen asked.

  Ross moved to the side table and poured two glasses of French wine, recently run in from Roscoff. He brought one across to Stephen, who was on the point of refusing it and then changed his mind.

  ‘I think I must consult Clowance’s mother before we go so far. I think there is no need to rush anything. We’ve known of course for some time of your attachment for Clowance and hers for you, but the idea of an early marriage is quite new. To us, if not to you. Let us talk of this a while before making any precipitate promises. Come to supper tomorrow. Let the matter be in the air, so to speak, for a week or two. I will talk to Clowance again . . . Taste this wine. It has been kept in barrel, they say, for three years.’

  Stephen tasted. He would have liked to stand up to this tall bony limping man and tell him his day was past, that he and his wife and people of their age were all back numbers, that the present and the future belonged to folk like himself and Clowance, that he was going to have Clowance whether or no, her whole body – every pale, firm, curving inch of it – and her whole mind, so that what he said she believed and that everything he did was right – and even her soul if need be. That if her father and mother put obstacles in their way they would be brushed aside like ornaments on a mantelpiece, splintering into little bits of china on the parlour floor. That he only had to crook his finger and beckon and Clowance would follow him anywhere, and to hell with the consequences.

  He tasted the wine and held his tongue. He knew the strength of the Poldark ties, and he didn’t want to snap them if it was not necessary. He genuinely loved Clowance and wanted her to be happy, and he sensed that she could not be totally happy if she married without her parents’ approval. So in all ways it was better to conform, so long as they agreed to the marriage. Captain Poldark had great status in the county, if not all that much money, and he pleaded poverty too easily. To become the son-in-law of a Member of Parliament and a banker must sooner or later open doors. He, Stephen, wanted to be nobody’s lackey or errand boy, and nothing would please him better than to make an entirely fresh start – and a home – for his wife independent of any help or favour. But if not, then the help or favour would probably be forthcoming, sooner or later.

  So long as the wedding was sooner and not later.

  IV

  ‘Oh no!’ said Clowance, a week later. ‘I’m not eighteen till November!’

  ‘It will come,’ said Ross.

  ‘Oh, Papa, that is impossible!’

  ‘Why?’ Demelza asked.

  ‘Don’t you see? I know I am young, but this – this has come upon me. It is not something . . .’ she lowered her head . . . ‘it is not something that can be contained so long as that!’

  Demelza eyed her tall blonde daughter, and it was in her mind to tell her that she was so ineffably young she might well wait two years and come to no hurt, leave alone a mere eight or nine months. But the memory of her own early life with Ross was still too sharp in her mind, too vivid to ignore. How could she reprimand or lecture from such a base?

  Ross said: ‘Let us just go through it again. Tom Jonas having just died, Wilf is looking for an assistant at the mill. This will be hard, heavy work, but it will be local and outdoors, and as Wilf is childless it may lead to better things. At least it is the most suitable employment I can suggest at the moment. I am, as you know, against the idea of a son-in-law taking work with his wife’s father: it leads to friction . . . even if I had anything to offer. The one thing I can offer is the Gatehouse. Where Dwight Enys once lived before he married Caroline. That is a pleasant small house and will do very well for you both—’

  ‘I know, Papa, and thank you—’

  ‘But if Stephen begins with Wilf Jonas next month – and I think that can be arranged – he can go into the Gatehouse on his own and see how he fares as a miller. By November he will have had a chance of getting the h
ouse in order – for it is in poor shape at present. Milling is a profitable business, and even one who is merely employed there – to begin – will not be badly paid. By November Stephen will have been earning seven or eight months. He will have a home ready for you to go to, and at least just enough money to maintain you. If need be, I can then add something to it to help you set up a home of your own . . .’

  Clowance stood there, firmly planted between them, young, graceful, vulnerable, supremely honest.

  ‘I do not know what Stephen will say . . .’

  ‘What can he say?’

  She did not answer her father’s question, though she knew the answer. If Stephen chose not to see the reason of her parents’ conditions and made it a condition of his own that he could not wait that long, then she would give herself to him – not in holy wedlock but in the mildewed dusty grimness of Geoffrey Charles’s old bedroom, with the spiders and the wood fire and the damp sheets warmed by their nakedness. That was what she knew would happen, but she could not explain this to them, either as a reason or as a threat. Whatever had happened to them when they were young, it was too far away to have any relevance to the present.

  She said: ‘Could it be midsummer instead?’

  ‘Why midsummer?’

  ‘That would be a year since he returned. It would still give him time to establish himself in the Gatehouse, to have been working with Wilf Jonas for several months. It is not so – so horribly far away as November.’

  Ross looked at Demelza. Demelza said: ‘Why do we not see how Stephen feels about working for Jonas? The rest of the suggestions too. If he agrees, let us see how long it will take him to get settled. In the end we might all be agreeable to some compromise – say late August? Or perhaps after the harvest? I was at the Gatehouse last November, took the key, looked around. It is in very poor shape. There is rot in the floors, and many slates have gone. All this would have to be done before you could go to live there. Even Stephen might prefer to continue to live with the Nanfans for a while. But it would give him an incentive, both of you an incentive, to repair and prepare. September, I think, would be a good time.’