The Black Moon (48 page)

Then the hatred was plain on both
sides, ion that of the normally
cool, composed
, dignified man, on that of the
wisp of tattered humanity clutching and gasping in the bed. Tears were on her cheeks now, and they were not the perpetual tears of a watering eye.

`If ye do this to me,' she said, and choked and spat to get
the words out, `may ye rot too
and rot I know ye surely will. Aye, you and your clumsy father and your vulture uncle and your -
your stupid clammy mother and your twisted son. Little Valentine! Born under a black moon and twisted already! He'll eat the worms of this world afore he's far gone! I know! I can tell! Born under a black moon! The last of the Warleggans!'

Although her life was far spent, she had sight enough to perceive that for the moment her puny shot was stinging him. She might be going down, but she would continue firing to the end. That shot had told. And one last shot remained.

`The last of the Warleggans, George! Or be he a Warleggan at all?'

George had gone to the door and had -turned to watch her, this puny, smelly, shrivelled old woman. She was a pitiable sight, twisting and choking, her lips blue, some last flush of blood in her cheeks, eyes like slits, lips pendulous, struggling to shout, to bite, to inject him with a last veno
m.

She said: `That wasn't no seven-month baby, George. Nor eight month neither, for the matter of that. I seen
'em
seven month
-
I seen 'em eight month - many tim
es and oft in my life. No nails they have,
see. And skin wrinkled like a
like an apple kept too long and ...' She choked and spat saliva on the sheet. `... and no cry, a p
oor weak cry like a-meader, and
and no hair. That were a full term child! Your precious twisted Valentine were a full term child, I'll lay my oath! So . .
‘

He stared at her, and it was as if he could well have spat back. But he did not. He stood there listening while the last shots were fired, the last injury attempted.

`Maybe ye didn't wait for the wedding ceremony, you and Elizabeth, eh? Maybe that was it. Was that it, eh? . . She showed her gums in a snarl. `Or maybe someone else was riding she afore ever you was wed! Eh? Eh? Your precious Valentine!'

He left the room and the slam of the door shook the old house. Agatha Poldark sank back on her pillows. And the blackbird in the cage by the, window twittered in fright,

And a gentle
breeze lifted the curtains and
told that a current of air had passed,

Four miles away Ross sat with Demelza and his two children on the lawn in front of thei
r house. Except for the thump
and rattle of a tin stamp, which somehow was absorbed and ignored by the ears, there was no untoward sound. On the upper ground of the valley the chimney of Wheal Grace emitted a trickle of cloudy smoke, and a few figures moved among the offices of the mine.

It was unusual for them to sit as a family like this, but the hot day had interfered with their normal intentions. Ross sat with Clowance on his knee and Garrick crunching a bone at his
feet. Jeremy was sprawled on
his stomach making a daisy chain, and Demelza was sprawled on her stom
ach helping him. A contentment
marked them all. After the first shock of k
nowing that his best plans for
Drake could now come to nothing, Ross had deliberately willed himself to think no more of it. Now and then in the night he woke up and remembered George and his rare and galling ability to turn a set-back into a victory, and all the incipient goodwill of the time of his homecoming was gone, again. But he saw well enough that it would be irresponsible to allow this recurrent bitterness in one aspect only of his life to spoil the,
overall contentment. Something
must be done for Drake, and meantime he must forget. Forget George and forget Elizabeth and see only all that he had. For all that he had
,
was all that he wanted. And th
e sun
was shining; and Clowance was dozing gently on his knee, her small head suddenly top-heavy on its frail stalk; and on the grass beside him Demelza and Jeremy were making a daisy chain . . .

And a dozen miles away Caroline Penvenen was watching a groom help Dwight mount his first horse. He accomplished it like an old
man, needing two hoists before
his own muscles would take him up; and when he got there he seemed close to slipping off again. But having settled himself he grinned
in triumph, a paper-white grin
which a week's good food had not yet given enough red blood to, and Caroline smiling beside him was glad they had chosen, her oldest and staidest mare. They had settled on an October wedding, though had not yet decided between Caroline's desire for a big one and Dwight's for a small. Much in his attitude, she suspected; would depend upon how quickly he
recovered his physical health ...

And in Truro the Reverend Osborne Whitworth, restored to perfect mental health, was arguing in a loud voice with his warden about the contributions of the pew-owning families, while Morwenna Whitworth, holding the stocky hand of one of her little step-daughters, looked out across her garden to where the river had just gone down and wondered if it might be better to drown in mud, in real mud, rather than suffocate in t
he mud of physical revulsion.

And in Falmouth Drake Came limped down the main street with Mrs Verity Blarney to meet her husband whose packet the Caroline had but an hour ago dropp
ed anchor in the roads. His arm
was still in a sling but his shoulder was much better, and his hands had completely healed. He was eating enormously, he felt well, and some of the pleasures of life were returning. This was more particularly because Ross, before he left, had let drop that Morwenna was not now, to marry the parson from Truro after all. Even if Morwenna were not for him, this made so much difference to his feelings, for he knew she had no liking for Whitworth. His days were no longer tortured. By now, he thought, she would be in Bodmin. Who knew but that sometime he might walk to Bodmin to see her? Just the sight of her now and again would be enough. He looked no further than that. He asked no more ...

And in Trenwith George walked slowly through the house, with no expression on his face but something in his mien which made servants shri
nk away from him as he passed.
It was such a beautiful day that all the family were out of doors, even the two old Chynoweths.

He had killed his viper. He had given it, he knew, a mortal wound. But as he took his foot from its neck it had turned and bitten him in the heel. And the venom it had left behind was working. After he had completed two circuits of the, house he slowly mounted the stairs and went into his study. He locked the door and took a seat in his favourite chair. For once in
his life he felt
ill and unsure of himself. The spread of the poison was slow but steady. He did not know if he could shake it off.

It might be that he would die of it. It might be that others would die of it. He did not know and only time would reveal the extent of the poison .. .

And at the other end of the house Agatha was fighting for her life, She was quite alone. Lucy Pipe had settled in the
kitchen and would certainly
not stir again until the bell jangled. Only the blackbird twittered in its cage and Smollett, having been disturbed by all the commotion on the bed, had dropped to the floor and was licking one of his back legs near the door.

In spite of years of bible
reading, Agatha had little conv
inced belief in a future life, so she clung to this one with a rare tenacity, trying to marshal the last
ebbing forces and see perhaps
tomorrow. With age one never looked far ahead. The marathon horizons of yo
uth narrowed and shortened into
the hurdles of age. If she could see tomorrow she would have made the next objective. Control was everything; quiet the heart, regulate the breathing, relax the mind. Forget the anger, ignore: the disappointment, concentrate on only one thing, the necessity of the next breath, of simple survival.

But this time she had
gone too far. The shock of the
disclosure, the overwhelming fury which had possessed her, had in a few minutes consumed the last fuel in her old body. This was not faintness; she knew it was something more. It would not do to be taken ill now, for in a few minutes her father would be here to take her to the party. There would be some, dancing later on, and a few tables of whist. She must subdue this nervous stomach; h
er mother said it was time she
grew out of it at seventeen. She must get up. She tried to move her legs and could not. The sensation had gone out of them She whimpered with fright and moved a hand. That at least was still hers.

A coffin was in the room. That sick-sweet smell of decay and flowers. She had seen so many such. Whose was this? They had all looked so composed but so small in death, each one before the lid was scre
wed down; They had fallen about
her all these years.

She lifted her hand up to her eyes and wiped the mist and the coffin away. The warm sunlight flooded' in to the room, the life-giving sunlight that had no life to give back to her. The gentle scented breeze, the shadow of moving leaves, the , flutter of birds; these might all have helped her at another time. Five more days until she was twenty-one, and they were disappointed with her that she had not turned out more pretty. Someone, too, an aunt, had told her she was
lacking in vivacity. But that
wasn't what George Venables had said. George Venables had said many beautiful things. But why wouldn't he let her have her birthday party?

Death came like a rising tide, inch by inch, putting her
body to sleep. Soon there, was no
stomach;
then there was no breathing left.` She did not gasp for breath for she no longer needed air. For the last time, seeing its approaching extinction, her brain came clear again. What had she said? What trouble had she started, and for whom? She had not meant to injure Elizabeth. What had she said?

The bed shook as Smollett jumped on it again. Her head was sinking sideways on the pillow. With a great effort she straightened it. For a moment that was better, But then the light began to go, the warm, milk yellow sunlight of a summer day. The beamed ceiling smeared and blurred. She could not close her mouth. She tried to close her mouth and failed. Her tongue stopped. But one hand still slowly moved. Smollett nudged up to it and licked it with his rough tongue. The sensation of that roughness made its way from her fingers to her brain. It was the last feeling left. The fingers moved a moment on the cat's fur. Hold me, hold me, they said. Then quietly, peacefully at the last, sub
missively, beaten by a stronger
will than her own, her eyes opened and she left the world behind.