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Authors: Winston Graham
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plop-plopping into the water.
They had climbed a few feet and were almost free of water. Ahead was a glimmer of light. Climbing still, they reached an air shaft, one of the numerous winzes driven down to make working conditions just supportable. Like the main shaft, this went deeper; it was full of water to within a few feet of them and was crossed by a narrow bridge of planks.
There was no ladder up this shaft.
They peered up at the small circle of daylight above.
“Where is this?” said Ross. “It must be the one beside the track to Reen-Wollas—”
“Or that at the edge of the sand hills. Look, Ross, I wished to explain. When I first met Elizabeth this spring past, there was no thought in my head of coming between her and you. It was like a stroke from the blue. Both she and I—”
Ross turned, his face high-strung and dangerous. “In the devil's name! Isn’t it enough to—”
Such was his expression that Francis stepped back upon the wooden bridge crossing the shaft—the bridge broke to pieces like a biscuit and he was struggling in the water.
This happened so quickly that for a moment nothing could be done. Ross thought: Francis cannot swim.
In the semidarkness he came to the surface anyhow, an arm, fair hair, and the hard hat floating, his clothing a help before it became waterlogged. Ross fell on his stomach, leaned over the edge, nearly overbalanced, could not reach; a despairing face; the water was viscous. He pulled at a piece of the rotten bridge; it came away; he swung it down and a big iron nail caught on the shoulder of his cousin's coat; pulled and the coat tore; a hand grasped the end of the wood and Ross pulled again; before the wood crumpled they made contact.
Ross tensed his muscles on the slippery rock floor and hauled his cousin out of the shaft.
They sat there in silence for some moments, Francis gasping and spitting out the foul water.
“By God! What was your reason to flare up so?” he said in anger.
“By God, why don’t you learn to swim!” Ross said.
There was another silence. The accident had released emotions within them; these for a time hung in the air like a dangerous gas, impossible to name but not to be ignored.
While they sat there, Francis took sidelong glances at his cousin. That first evening of Ross's return he had expected and understood Ross's disappointment and resentment. But in his casual, easygoing way he had had no idea of the extent of the emotion behind the fine drawn expression of his cousin's face. Now he knew.
He also sensed that the accident of his fall had not been the only danger in which he had stood… in which perhaps he still stood.
They had both lost their candles and had not brought spares. Francis glanced up at the disc of light high above them. Pity there was no ladder here. It would be an unpleasant journey back all the way they had come, groping in the dark…
After a minute he shook some water off his coat and began the trip back. Ross followed him with an expression which was now half grim, half ironical. For Francis the incident might have betrayed the extent of his cousin's resentment— but Ross felt it should also have shown him its limitations.
It had done that much for himself.
CHAPTER FOUR
1
I N THE WEEK BEFORE THE WEDDING ROSS LEFT HIS PROPERTY ONLY ONCE: TO visit Sawle Church.
Joshua had expressed a wish to be buried in the same grave as his wife, so there was little to see.
Sacred to the memory of Grace Mary: beloved wife of Joshua Poldark, who departed this life on the ninth day of May, 1770: aged 30 years. Quid Quid Amor Jussit, Non Est Contemnere Tutum.
And underneath Charles had had carved: Also of Joshua Poldark, of Nampara, in the County of Cornwall, Esqr., who died on the eleventh day of March, 1783, aged 59.
The only other change was that the shrubs Joshua had planted had been uprooted and the mound was thinly grown over with grass. Beside this on a small headstone adjoining was: Claude Anthony Poldark,
They had climbed a few feet and were almost free of water. Ahead was a glimmer of light. Climbing still, they reached an air shaft, one of the numerous winzes driven down to make working conditions just supportable. Like the main shaft, this went deeper; it was full of water to within a few feet of them and was crossed by a narrow bridge of planks.
There was no ladder up this shaft.
They peered up at the small circle of daylight above.
“Where is this?” said Ross. “It must be the one beside the track to Reen-Wollas—”
“Or that at the edge of the sand hills. Look, Ross, I wished to explain. When I first met Elizabeth this spring past, there was no thought in my head of coming between her and you. It was like a stroke from the blue. Both she and I—”
Ross turned, his face high-strung and dangerous. “In the devil's name! Isn’t it enough to—”
Such was his expression that Francis stepped back upon the wooden bridge crossing the shaft—the bridge broke to pieces like a biscuit and he was struggling in the water.
This happened so quickly that for a moment nothing could be done. Ross thought: Francis cannot swim.
In the semidarkness he came to the surface anyhow, an arm, fair hair, and the hard hat floating, his clothing a help before it became waterlogged. Ross fell on his stomach, leaned over the edge, nearly overbalanced, could not reach; a despairing face; the water was viscous. He pulled at a piece of the rotten bridge; it came away; he swung it down and a big iron nail caught on the shoulder of his cousin's coat; pulled and the coat tore; a hand grasped the end of the wood and Ross pulled again; before the wood crumpled they made contact.
Ross tensed his muscles on the slippery rock floor and hauled his cousin out of the shaft.
They sat there in silence for some moments, Francis gasping and spitting out the foul water.
“By God! What was your reason to flare up so?” he said in anger.
“By God, why don’t you learn to swim!” Ross said.
There was another silence. The accident had released emotions within them; these for a time hung in the air like a dangerous gas, impossible to name but not to be ignored.
While they sat there, Francis took sidelong glances at his cousin. That first evening of Ross's return he had expected and understood Ross's disappointment and resentment. But in his casual, easygoing way he had had no idea of the extent of the emotion behind the fine drawn expression of his cousin's face. Now he knew.
He also sensed that the accident of his fall had not been the only danger in which he had stood… in which perhaps he still stood.
They had both lost their candles and had not brought spares. Francis glanced up at the disc of light high above them. Pity there was no ladder here. It would be an unpleasant journey back all the way they had come, groping in the dark…
After a minute he shook some water off his coat and began the trip back. Ross followed him with an expression which was now half grim, half ironical. For Francis the incident might have betrayed the extent of his cousin's resentment— but Ross felt it should also have shown him its limitations.
It had done that much for himself.
CHAPTER FOUR
1
I N THE WEEK BEFORE THE WEDDING ROSS LEFT HIS PROPERTY ONLY ONCE: TO visit Sawle Church.
Joshua had expressed a wish to be buried in the same grave as his wife, so there was little to see.
Sacred to the memory of Grace Mary: beloved wife of Joshua Poldark, who departed this life on the ninth day of May, 1770: aged 30 years. Quid Quid Amor Jussit, Non Est Contemnere Tutum.
And underneath Charles had had carved: Also of Joshua Poldark, of Nampara, in the County of Cornwall, Esqr., who died on the eleventh day of March, 1783, aged 59.
The only other change was that the shrubs Joshua had planted had been uprooted and the mound was thinly grown over with grass. Beside this on a small headstone adjoining was: Claude Anthony Poldark,
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