The Angry Tide (52 page)

Dr Behenna was not a little put out after his long and tiresome journey to be told that the child was already safely deliv
ered and that mothe
r and child were doing well. He was still more put out by George's refusal to allow him to
see
the patient. In most households he would of course have tramped straight up and into the bedroom; but with the Warleggans and their
nouveau riche
insistence on their own importance in the world he had to go more carefully.

And when Mr Warleggan eventually condescended to come down Mr
Warleggan
was adamant. His wife had successfully borne her child and now must sleep. Miss Odgers was with her and would summon them if the need arose. George knew that Behenna was one of those men mentally incapable of tiptoeing into a bedroom, so for the time being he must be confined to the ground floor.

To assuage him he led him into the dining-room where the old Chynoweths were dozing over their brandy and port, and the kitchens were alerted to serve a late dinner for two hungry men.

Mrs Chynowe
th was naturally delighted to learn that she had a granddaughter, and like Dr Behenna took umbrage that she was not immediately allowed upstairs. Mr Chynowcth was too
far gone to rejoice, and presentl
y laid his head on the table and snored through the rest of the meal. It was a large table and they were able to eat at the other end.

George was never a great talker, and Dr Behenna was still nursing his grievance, so the dominating voice at the table, often the only one, was the aristocratic but thick-tongued and slurred voice of t
he grandmother, Mrs Joan Chynoweth - nee Le Grice
, as she pointed out - one of the oldest and most distinguished families in England.

'Rubbish,' Jonathan Chynowe
th was heard to exclaim under his breath, having caught enough of this through his drunken doze. 'Very or-ordinary sort of family.
Cam
e
from Normandy only a couple of centuries ago. Very ordinary.'

His wife went into lengthy speculations as to a suitable name for the child. George ate on, remembering the previous occasion, after Valentine was born, when there had been a similar conversation as to what
he
should be called. Only then it had been his own father who had been here; and curled in an armchair like an ancient crone, putting in her asp-like suggestions from time to time, had been that evil, festering harridan, Agatha Poldark.

George was not a superstitious man, but he recalled his mother's dread of the old woman; in an earlier age Agatha would have been one of the first to face the ducking-stool and the fire. Well deserved, for no black succubus could have done more to harm him. Even his father's bronchitis had seemed to stem from that night when the fire had smoked
as if the draught had been supe
rnaturally reversed. He had been a cursed fool himself to have taken heed of the vile old woman. Even on the day of Valentine's birth she had pointed out that he had been born at a moon's eclipse and therefore would be unlucky all his life.

Of course from the very beginning she had hated George - before even he had begun to notice or to hate her. As the living embodiment of the four generations of Poldarks she had outlived, she had above all resented the arrival of this upstart - allowed here
at
first on suffer
ance because he was a schoolfrie
nd of Francis - she had witnessed his insignificance and gradual growth to significance: she had watched and come to detest his progress until he became first the owner of Francis and then the owner of this house. It had been just as intolerable for Agatha to witness as it had been stimulating and satisfying for George to experience.

Although the edge of pleasure wore blunter with repetition - as all pleasures did - he still knew the satisfaction of coming into this gracious Tudor manor house and gazing round and remembering his visits here as a boy and as a youth, unpolished, unsophisticated, unlearned in the nicer manners. Then the Poldarks had seemed immeasurably superior to him, and immensely secure in their position and their property. Charles William, Francis's father, fat and impressive in his long vermilion coat, with his belches, his unstable humours, his patronizing friendliness; and Charles William's widowed sister, Mrs Johns; and
her
son and daughter-in-law, the Rev. and Mrs Alfred Johns; and Francis's elder sister, Verity; and Ross, Francis's other cousin, the dark, quiet, difficult one, whom George had also known at school and had already learned to dislike; and the relative who was always absent, Ross's father, because he had got into so many disreputable scrapes that he was not mentioned in the house. Over them all Aunt Agatha had presided, half doyen, half neglected maiden aunt, but embodying some watchful spirit to which the family paid tribute.

Now all, all had gone. Verity to Falmouth, the Alfred Johns to Plymouth, Ross to his own lair, the rest to the grave. And he, the rough unlearned youth, owned it all. As he now owned so much in Cornwall. But
perhaps th
is estate was the property he valued most highly.

'Ursula,' he said, thinking aloud.

'Eh?' said Mrs Chynoweth. 'Who? What do you say?'

'That is what she is to be called.'

'The th-child? My granddaughter?'

'Elizabeth wishes it. And I like it well.'

'Ursula,' said Jonathan, raising himself an inch or two f
rom the table. 'Ursula. The littl
e she-bear. Very good. I call that very good.' He laid his head peaceably to rest.

Mrs Chynoweth dabbed
at
her one good ey
e. 'Ursula. That was the th-name
of
Morwenna
'
s grandmother. She was Elizabeth's
-
godmother. She died th-not so long ago.'

George stiffened but did not say anything.

'Not that I cared for her so vastly,' said Mrs Chynowcth. 'She thought th-too much about the rights of th-women. My - my father once th-said - my father once th-said: "If a woman do have blu
e stockings she must th-contrive
that her petticoat shall hide 'cm."
She
didn't. She never - never hid them.'

'I'll trouble you to pass mc the mustard sauce,' said
Dr
Behenna
.

'Why do you say "the
little she-be
ar"?' Geor
ge asked Jonathan, but his fathe
r-in-law answered with a snore.

'I believe that is what the name means,' said Dr
Behenna
. 'Do I understand, Mr Warleggan, that you are offering me hospitality for the night?'

'The little she-bear,' said George. 'Well, I have no objection to that. And the name Ursula
Warleggan
runs very well.' He looked coldly at the doctor. 'What was that you said? Well, yes, of course. Naturally you shall stay the night. It is not a ride you would wish to undertake in
the
dark, is it?'

Behenna
bowed with equal lack of warmth. 'Very well. But as I have so far been prevented from seeing my patient I wondered whether you wished to avail yourself of my services at all.'

George said impatiendy: 'God's life, man! The child has been born scarce more than three hours. Dr Enys gave my wife a draught and they are now both sleeping. Of course you may see them when they wake! Until then I would have thought it simple medical sense to allow them to rest.'

'Indeed,' said Behenna pettishly. 'Just so.'

'Even I have th-not been allowed to see them,' said Mrs Chynoweth. 'And after all th-a grandmother should have certain rights. But th-dear Mr Warleggan will decide
...
You decide most things, th-George, and upon my soul, that is the way it should be in a th-properly conducted th-household.'

George reflected that it had never been so in his mother-in-law's household, where she had always held the reins over Jonathan. Nevertheless at Trcnwith she had a proper view of the importance of her son-in-law in her world today. Without him they would both have long since mouldered away at their old home, Cusgarne; here they lived in comfort and idleness, warmed and fed and waited on, and they would d
o so till they died. Mrs Chynowe
th had never been a woman to ignore the practical realities of a situation.

All the sam
e, he well knew that Mrs Chynowe
th would once have been horrified at the thought of her beautiful young porcelain daughter forming anything so degrading as a union with the common Warleggan boy.

So time had moved on and values shifted and changed.

Elizabeth slept right through until after supper, when she woke feeling much refreshed, and all the people who were waiting to see her were permitted to see her. Ursula was also inspected and admired. Dr Behenna restricted his examination to the briefest and professed himself satisfied. At midnight they all retired to rest. At three a.m. Dr Behenna was wakened by Ellen Prowse, who told him that her mistress was suffering severe pain in the arms and legs.

It was not until the Thursday morning that George sent for Dwight. Caroline, feeling neighbourly, was at that time just pinning on a hat to call on Elizabeth and admire the baby. She now unpinned it and let Dwight go alone.

Dr Behenna was with George in the hall, but they were not speaking to each other.

George was pale and had not slept. 'Mrs
Warleggan
is in great pain and has been now for thirty-six hours. I should be glad if you will go
up
and
see
if you can aid her.'

Dwight looked at Behenna, who said stiffly: 'The premature labour has brought on an acute gouty condition of the abdominal viscera which is manifesting itself in severe cramp-like spasms of the extremities. All that can be done is being done, but Mr Warleggan feels that, since you delivered the child, you should be brought in for further consultation.'

Dwight nodded. 'What have you prescribed?'

'Some bleeding. Infusion of the leaves
ofairopa belladonna.
Salt of wormwood and ammoniac. Light purges to reduce the excessive pressure of the nerve fluids.' Behenna spoke with keen annoyance -
one did not usually give away the details of one's treatments to a rival - and Dwight was surprised that he was being so frank.

An old woman came out of one of the rooms and limped across the hall; Dwight hardl
y recognized her as Mrs Chynowe
th.

He said to Behenna: 'Would you lead the way, sir?'

When he got in the bedroom Dwight stared
at
Elizabeth in horror. She had aged ten years, and her face was thin and etched with pain. Dwight sniffe
d slightl
y as he came into the room. Then he went to the bed.

'Mrs
Warleggan
. This is a sad change. We
must get you well soon.'

'Of course we
will get her well soon!' Behenna was right behind him.
He despised doctors who let the
ir patients know how ill they looked. 'A few days and you will be about again.'

'Now tell me, what is it? Where is your pain?'

Elizabeth moistened her lips to speak, and could not. She stared up at Dwight. Dwight bent his head close to her mouth. She said: 'My - my feet. All my body -
aches
-
I
have never felt so ill - or felt such
pain.'
Her tongue, he saw, was swollen and coated with a dark reddish stain of blood.

'You have given her opiates?' Dwight asked Behenna.

'Some, yes. But it is more important at this stage to increase the elasticity of the veins and to clear the effete matter rioting in the bloodstream.'

'So
cold,'
whispered Elizabeth.

Dwight glanced at the fire blazing in the hearth. Lucy Pipe was sitting beside it gently stirring the cot. He put his hand on Elizabeth's brow and then felt her pulse, which was very rapid. The fingers of one hand were blue and swollen.

He said: 'Perhaps I might examine you, Mrs
Warleggan
. I will try not to hurt you.'

He pulled the bedclothes gently back and pressed light fingers on her abdomen. She winced and groaned. Then he pulled the sheet further back and looked at her feet. He closed his hand on the right foot. Then he looked at the left foot. Then he stroked each leg
up
as far as the knee.

He straightened up and the bedclothes were put back. He knew now why Dr Behenna had been so frank about the details of his treatments. They were doing no good.

A faint cry came from the cot.

He snapped: 'Get that child out of here!'

'Oh,' said Elizabeth, suddenly more alert. 'Oh, why? Why? Why?'

'Because you must have perfect rest and quiet.' Dwight said gently. 'Even the smallest noise must not disturb you,'

George had come into the room and was staring down at his wife with the concentrated frown of one who fears he is being bested at some game of which he does not know the rules.

'Well?' he said.

Dwight bit his lip. 'First I will give you something stronger to case the pain, Mrs Warleggan. Dr Behenna is correct in supposing it to be a condition of the blood. He and I must work together to help alleviate this condition.'

'What is the cure for it?' George demanded.

Dwight said: 'We must take one step at a time, Mr
Warleggan
. Let us aim first a
t the alleviation. Afterwards we
can attempt - the rest. I shall give her a strong opiate at once, and then we must try to bring greater warm
th to the limbs. But in the gentl
est possible way. Are you thirsty?' 'All
...
all the ti
me.'

'Then lemonade - as much as she can drink. She must have warm bricks to her feet and her hands rubbed lightly. But only
warm
bricks, changed
hourly. Above all we
must try to restore her body heat. It is of the utmost urgency. I want the fire built up and the window a little open. You will be staying, Dr
Behenna
?'

'I have patients in town, but they must wait.'

Dwight smiled at Elizabeth. 'Have patience, ma'am, we will try to help you as quick as possible.' He turned. 'Then we must wait, Mr
Warleggan
. There is nothing more wc can do at this stage. Dr
Behenna
, may I have the favour of a word with you in private?'

Behenna grunted and inclined his head. The two men went off into Elizabeth's dressing-room, with its pretty pink hangings and elegant lace table covers.

Behenna shut the door. 'Well?'

Dwight said: ‘I
take it you don't
believe
this to be a gouty condition?'

Behenna grunted. 'The excessive excitability of the nerve fluids suggests a severe gouty inflammation which may well pre
dispose towards the symptoms we
are now observing.'

Dwight said: 'You have clearly not ever been in a prisoner-of-war camp, sir.'

'What do you mean by that?"

Dwight hesitated again. He dreaded even formulating the words. 'Well, it appears plain to me. Can you not smell anything?'

‘I
must agree there is a very slight disturbing odour which I did not notice until this afternoon. But
that
. . .'

'Yes,
th
at.
Though God in His Heaven only knows what may have brought her to such a condition!'

'Are you suggesting, sir, that my treatment is in some way responsible?'

‘I
am suggesting nothing -'

‘I
could as well suggest to you, sir, that had I been here to deliver the child this condition might not have supervened!' Dwight looked
at
the
other man.

'We're both physicians, Dr
Behenna
, and I believe equally dedicated to the succour and cure of human ills. Our treatments may differ as widely as two languages, but our aims
are
similar and our integrity, I trust,
is
not in question. So I'd suggest to you that there
is
nothing I could have done in delivering a child in
an
uncomplicated birth, or anything you could have done in prescribing the treatments that you have described to me, which would or could produce the symptoms Mrs
Warleggan
is now suffering from.'

Behenna paced about.

'Agreed,'

Dwight said: 'Contraction of the arteries, restricting and then inhibiting the blood supply. This is what appears to be occurring. Particularly and most dangerously restricting the blood supply to the limbs. There appears to be no
reason
for it! The birth, as I have told you, was unexceptional: premature but otherwise only distinguished by the fact that the uterine spasms were very rapid and over-emphatic. But I took that to be a characteristic of the patient - after all, a woman I delivered last week gave birth to a child in fifty-five minutes from having complained of th
e first pains. It was that, I th
ought, or an outcome of the fall she had had and not indicating any pathological complications. Now this
...
the cause is obscure; the disease hardly so.'

Behenna said: 'You're going too fast and too far.' He glanced at Enys.

'I pray I am. Indeed I do. We shall know soon enough.' 'I trust you do not intend to publish your suspicion to Mr
Warleggan
.'

'Far from it. In the meantime, though you may doubt my diagnosis you do not, I trust, dissociate yourself from my treatment?'

'No
...
It can do no harm.'