At about the time Verity was climbing the stairs with a candle to sleep in her new bed, Mark Daniel was taking up his pitch in Wheal Leisure Mine.
With him was one of the younger Martin boys, Matthew Mark, who was there to help him by carrying away the “dead” ground as he picked it and dumping it in a pit in the nearby cave. The air was so bad in there that their hempen candles would not burn properly, so they worked in more than half darkness. The walls of the tunnel streamed with moisture and there was water and slush underfoot. But Matthew thought himself lucky to work for so experienced a man for sixpence a day—or night—and he was learning fast. In another few years he would be bidding for a pitch of his own.
Mark never had much to say when he was working, but he had not spoken a word that night. The boy did not know what was wrong and was afraid to ask. Being only just nine, he might not have understood quite what was gnawing at his companion even if he had been told.
For days Mark had given up trying to believe there was nothing wrong. For weeks he had known in his heart but had said no to himself. The little signs had piled up, the hints from those who knew and did not dare, the sly glances; small by themselves, they had grown like snowflakes on a roof, weight to weight, until the roof crashed in.
He knew, and he knew who.
She had been clever. He had always looked for signs of a man in the cottage but had never found any. He had tried to catch her out, but always she thought ahead of him. Her wits moved quick. The snow leopard was sharper than the black bear.
But in the wet weather of the previous week she had not been so clever. The ground had been so soft that even though she kept to the stony places there were marks here and there of her feet.
He dreaded that week of night work because it would bring him to some climax. The fear he felt in breaking out was because he could not shake his anger free from the clinging strands of his love. They still bound him; he struggled in a mesh with his grief.
The powder for blasting was needed. He could go no farther with the pick. He said as much to Matthew and picked up his great hammer and the steel borer. With ease come from long practice he chose his place in the hard rock, drilled a deep hole in the face of the work, pulled out the borer, and cleaned and dried the hole. Then he took up his case of powder and dropped powder in. Through the powder he pushed a tapering rod like an iron nail and filled up the mouth of the hole with clay, ramming it hard with his boring bar. That done, he puffed out the nail and into the thin hole threaded a hollow reed filled with powder, for a fuse.
He took off his hat, gently blew the smoky handle until it flickered into a flame, and lit the reed. Then they both backed away around the first corner.
Mark counted twenty. Nothing. He counted another twenty. He counted fifty. Then he picked up his can and swore. In the darkness he had planted it against the wall and water had gotten into it.
“A misfire,” he said.
“Have a care, Mr. Daniel,” Matthew said. Blasting was the part of mining he did not like. “Give it a while.”
But Mark had grunted and was already walking up to the charge. The boy followed.
As Mark drew out the reed there was a flash and a rumble and the rocks flew in his face. He put up hands to his eyes and fell back. The wall gave way.
The boy lost his head and turned and ran away, going for help. Then he checked himself and pushed his way through the choking black fumes to where Mark was trying to climb out from among the rocks.
He caught at his arm. “Mr. Daniel! Mr. Daniel!”
“Get back, boy! There’s only a part gone.”
But Matthew would not leave him and they groped their way to the bend in the tunnel.
Matthew blew on his candle, and in the flickering light stared at Mark. His gaunt face was black and striped with blood, his front hair and eyebrows singed.
“Your eyes, Mr. Daniel. Are they all right?”
Mark stared at the candle. “Aye, I can see.” There was another roar in the tunnel as the rest of the charge went off. Black smoke billowed out and around them. “Take heed, boy, an’ a warning that you always use the powder wi’ a greaterer care.”
“Your face. Thur’s blood.”
Mark stared down at his hands. “Tes these.” His left hand was bleeding from the palms and fingers. The dampness of the powder had caused the accident, but it had saved his life. He took out a dirty rag and wrapped it around his hand.
“We’ll wait till the fumes clear, an’ then we’ll see what it’s brought down.”
Matthew sat back on his heels and looked at the blood-streaked figure. “You did ought to see surgeon. He’s proper with wounds an’ things.”
Mark got up sharply. “Nay. I’d not go to him if I was dying.” He turned into the smoke.
They worked on for a time, but he found it hard to use his injured hand, which would not stop bleeding. His face was stinging and sore.
After an hour, he said, “Reckon I’ll go up to grass for a bit. You’d best come too, boy. There’s no good breathin’ this black air if you’ve no need.”
Matthew followed him gladly enough. The night work tired him more than he would admit.
They reached the main shaft and climbed up it; the distance was nothing to Grambler and they were soon sniffing the fresh night air and hearing the rumble of the sea. There was a lovely biting sweetness in filling your lungs as you came up to grass. One or two men were about, and they clustered around Mark, giving him advice.
He had come up to have a proper bandage put on and go below again. But as he stood there talking with the others and let his fingers be tied up, all the old trouble came back and he knew with angry panic that it was the moment for the test.
For a while he resisted, feeling it sprung on him too soon, that he had need to be prepared. Then he turned to Matthew and said, “Run along home, boy. ’Twill be better for me not to go b’low again tonight.”
When Matthew was out and working, he never let himself think of sleep—it didn’t do—but he was overwhelmed. It was a little after midnight. A whole six extra hours in bed! He waited respectfully for a moment to walk partway home with Mark, but another gruff word sent him off in the direction of Mellin Cottages.
Mark saw him out of sight, then briefly bade good night to the other men and followed. He had told them he didn’t know whether to bother Dr. Enys, but, in fact, his mind was quite made up. He knew just what he was going to do.
He walked quietly home. As the cottage showed up in the starlight, he felt his chest grow tight. He would have prayed if he had been a praying man, for his own mistake, for Keren’s trueness, for a new life of trust. He came to the door, reached out for the latch, grasped it, pressed.
The door opened.
He entered clumsily and found himself breathing hard. He couldn’t hold his breath, and it panted away as if he’d been running for his life. He didn’t stop to make a light but passed through into the bedroom. The shutters were closed, and in the dark, with his unhurt hand, he groped a way around the walls of the cottage—his cottage—to the bed. The corner, the rough blanket. He sat on the edge and moved his hand over the bed for Keren—his Keren. She was not there.
With a deep grunt of pain he sat there knowing it was the end. His breath was in sobs. He sat and panted and sobbed. Then he got up.
Out in the night again a pause to rub fingers over his eyes, to look right and left, to sniff, to set off for Mingoose.
The Gatehouse looked in darkness. He made a circle, sizing it up. A chink of light in an upper window.
Stop and stare and try to fight down the pain. It was in his blood, beating through him. The door of the house.
And there he stopped. To hammer to be let in would give warning. Time to think before they opened. She might slip out another way. They both thought so much quicker. They’d brazen it out. He must have proof.
I’ll wait, he thought.
He crept slowly away, his long back bent, until he was just right to watch the front door or the back.
I’ll crouch here and wait.
The stars moved up the sky, climbing and turning on their endless roundabout. A gentle wind stirred and sighed among the bracken and the brake, stirred and moved and then lay down again to sleep. A cricket began to saw among the gorse, and somewhere overhead a nighthawk cried: a ghostly sound, the spirit of a long-dead miner walking sightless over his old land. Small animals stirred in the undergrowth. An owl settled on the rooftop and harshly cried.
I’ll wait.
Then in the east a faint yellow light showed, and there crept up into the sky the wasted slip of an old moon. It hung there sere and dry, climbed a little, and then began to set.
The door of the Gatehouse opened a few inches and Keren slipped out.
• • •
For once she was happy. Happy that it was only the first night of Mark’s night core. Their way—hers and Dwight’s—was still strange, touched with things that had never been in her first thoughts. Possessive and a little jealous, she found herself forced to allow a division of his loyalty. His work was his first love. She had reached him by taking an interest in his work. She held him by maintaining it.
Not that she really minded. In a way she enjoyed playing the role of sober helpmeet. Something like her old part in Hilary Tempest. She sometimes dreamed of herself as his wife—Mark out of the way—wholly charming in a workmanlike but feminine dress, helping Dwight in some serious strait. Her hands, she knew, would be cool and capable, her manner superbly helpful; he would be full of admiration for her afterward, and not only he but all the gentry of the countryside. She would be talked of everywhere. She had heard all about Mistress Poldark having been a great success at the celebration ball, and quite a number of people had been riding over to see her since then. Keren could not think why.
It had gone to her head, for she’d thought fit the previous month to come the lady and drop a hint to Keren about being careful what she did, and Keren had resented it. Well, if she were so successful in society, Keren, as a doctor’s wife, would go much further. She might not even stay a doctor’s wife all her life. There was no limit to what might happen. A big, hairy elderly man, who had been over to the Poldarks’ one day, had met her as she crossed Nampara Combe, and he had given her more than a moment’s look. When she knew he was a baronet and unmarried, she’d been thankful for wearing that flimsy frock.
She plowed through the rough undergrowth on her way back to the cottage. It had been half after three by Dwight’s clock, so there was nice time. As well not to run it too close. A mist had settled on the low ground between the two houses. She plunged into it as into a stream. Things were hung heavy with moisture; the damp touched her face and glistened on her hair. Some moonflowers showed among the scrub, and she picked one as she passed. She groped across the gully, climbed again, and came out into the crystal-cool air.
So as she lay naked in Dwight’s arms, she had encouraged him to talk: about the work of the day, about the little boy who had died of the malignant sore throat over at Marasanvose, about the results of his treatment on a woman in bed with an abscess, about his thoughts for the future. All of it was like a cement to their passion. It had to be, with him. She did not really mind.
The moon was setting as she reached the cottage, and dawn was blueing the east. Back the way she had come the gully was as if filled with a stream of milk. Everywhere else was clear.
She went in and turned to close the door. But as she did so, a hand from outside came to press it open. “Keren.”
Her heart stopped, and then it began to bang. It banged till it mounted to her head and seemed to split.
“Mark!” she whispered. “You’re home early. Is anything wrong?”
“Keren…”
“How dare you come startling me like this! I nearly died!”
Already she was thinking ahead of him, moving to attack and defeat his attack. But that time he had more than words to go on.
“Where’ve you been, Keren?”
“I?” she said. “I couldn’t sleep. I have had a pain. Oh, Mark, I had such a terrible pain. I cried for you. I thought perhaps you could have made me something warm to send it better. But I was all alone. I didn’t know what to do. So I thought maybe a walk would help. If I’d known you was coming home early I’d have come to the mine to meet you.” In the half dark, her sharp eyes caught sight of the bandage on his hand. “Oh, Mark, you’re hurt! There’s been an accident. Let me see!”
She moved to him, and he struck her in the mouth with his burned hand, knocked her back across the room. She fell in a small injured heap.
“Ye dirty liar! Ye dirty liar!” His breath was coming in sobs again.
She wept with her hurt. A strange, kittenish, girlish weeping, so far from his own.
He moved over to her. “Ye’ve been wi’ Enys,” he said in a terrible voice.
She raised her head. “Dirty yourself! Dirty coward! Striking a woman. Filthy beast! Get away from me! Leave me alone. I’ll have you sent to prison, you! Get out!”
A faint light was coming in from the glimmering dawn; it fell on his singed and blackened face. Through the screen of her hands and hair she saw him, and at the sight she began to cry out.
“You’ve been wi’ Enys, lying wi’ Enys!” His voice climbed in great strides.
“I’ve not! I’ve not!” she screamed. “Liar yourself! I went to see him about my pain. He’s a doctor, ain’t he? You filthy brute. I was in such pain.”
Even then, the quick-thoughted lie gave him pause. Above all things he had always wanted to be fair, to do the right thing by her.
“How long was you there?”
“Oh…over an hour. He gave me something to take an’ then had to wait an—”
He said, “I waited more’n three.”
She knew then that she must go and go quickly.
“Mark,” she said desperately, “it isn’t what you think. I swear before God it isn’t. If you see him he’ll explain. Let’s go to him. Mark, he wouldn’t leave me alone. He was always pestering me. Always and all the time. And then, when once I yielded, he threatened he’d tell you if I didn’t go on. I swear it before God and my mother’s memory. I hate him, Mark! I love only you! Go kill him if you want. He deserves it, Mark! I swear before God he took advantage of me!”
She went on, babbling at him, throwing words at him, any words, pebbles at a giant, her only defense. She sprayed words, keeping his great anger away from her, twisting her brain this way and that. Then, when she saw that it was going to avail no longer, she sprang like a cat under his arm and leaped for the door.
He thrust out one great hand and caught her by the hair, hauled her screaming back into his arms.
She fought with all strength in her power, kicking, biting, scratching. He pushed her nails away from his eyes, accepting her bites as if they were no part of him. He pulled the cloth away from her throat, gripped it.
Her screaming stopped. Her eyes started tears, died, grew big. She knew there was death, but life called her, sweet life, all the sweetness of youth, not yet gone. Dwight, the baronet, years of triumph, crying, dying.
She twisted and upset him, and they fell against the shutter, whose flimsy catch gave way. They leaned together out of the window, she beneath him.
A summer morning. The glazing eyes of the girl he loved, the woman he hated, her face swollen. Sickened, mad, his tears dropped on her face.
He loosened his hold, but her beautiful face still stared. He covered it with a great hand, pushed it away, back.
Under his hand, coming from under his hand, a faint gentle click.
He fell back upon the floor of the cottage, groping, moaning upon the floor.
But she did not move.
• • •
There was no cloud in the sky. There was no wind. Birds were chirping and chattering. Of the second brood of young thrushes that Mark had watched hatch out in the stunted hawthorn tree only a timid one stayed; the others were out fluttering their feathers, shaking their heads, sharp with incentive, eyeing the strange new world.
The ribbon of milky mist still lay in the gully. It stretched down to the sea, and there were patches across the sand hills like steam from a kettle.
When light came full, the sea was calm, and there seemed nothing to explain the roar in the night. The water was a pigeon’s-egg blue with a dull terra-cotta haze above the horizon and a few pale carmine tips where the rising sun caught the ripples at the sand’s edge.
The ugly shacks of Wheal Leisure were clear-cut, and a few men moving about them in their drab clothes looked pink and handsome in the early light.
The mist stirred before the sun’s rays, quickened with the warmth, and melted and moved off to the low cliffs, where it crouched in the shade for a while before being thrust up and away.
A robin that Keren and Mark had tamed fluttered down to the open door, puffed out his little chest, and hopped inside. But although the cottage was silent, he did not like the silence, and after pecking here and there for a moment, he hopped out. Then he saw one of his friends leaning out of the window, but she made no welcoming sound and he flew away.
The sun fell in at the cottage, strayed across the sanded floor, which was pitted and scraped with the marks of feet. A tinderbox lay among the sand, and the stump of a candle, a miner’s hat beside an upturned chair.
The moonflower Keren had picked lay on the threshold. Its head had been broken in the struggle, but the petals were still white and damp with a freshness that would soon begin to fade.