Ross Poldark Read Free Page B

to a walking pace up the stiff hill, the other man looked up from his book and their eyes met.
    “You’ll pardon me, sir,” said the clergyman in a sharp, vigorous voice. “Your features are familiar, but I find it hard to recall where we have met. Was it in Oxford?”
    The young man was tall and thin and big-boned, with a scar on his cheek. He wore a double-breasted riding coat cut away short in front to show the waistcoat and the stout breeches, both of a lighter brown. His hair, which had a hint of copper in its darkness, was brushed back and tied at the back with brown ribbon.
    “You’re the Revd. Dr. Halse, aren’t you?” he said.
    The little clerk, who had been following this exchange, made an expressive face at his wife. Rector of Towerdreth, Curate of St. Erme, Headmaster of Truro Grammar School, high burgess of the town and late mayor, Dr. Halse was a personage. It explained his bearing.
    “You know me, then,” said Dr. Halse with a gracious air. “I usually have a memory for faces.”
    “You have had many pupils.”
    “Ah, that explains it. Maturity changes a face. And—hm. Let me see… is it Hawkey?”
    “Poldark.”
    The clergyman's eyes narrowed in an effort of remembrance. “Francis, is it? I thought—”
    “Ross. You will remember my cousin more clearly. He stayed on. I felt, quite wrongly, that at thirteen my education had gone far enough.”
    Recognition came. “Ross Poldark. Well, well. You’ve changed. I remember now,” said Dr. Halse with a glint of cold humour. “You were insubordinate. I had to thrash you at frequent intervals, and then you ran way.”
    “Yes.” Poldark turned the page of his book. “A bad business. And your ankles as sore as my buttocks.”
    Two small pink spots came to the clergyman's cheeks. He stared a moment at Ross and then turned to look out of the window.
    The little clerk had heard of the Poldarks, had heard of Joshua, from whom, they said, in the fifties and sixties no pretty woman married or unmarried was safe. This must be his son. An unusual face with its strongly set cheekbones, wide mouth, and large, strong white teeth. The eyes were a very clear blue-greyunder the heavy lids which gave a number of the Poldarks that deceptively sleepy look.
    Dr. Halse was returning to the attack.
    “Francis, I suppose, is well? Is he married?”
    “Not when I last heard, sir. I’ve been in America some time.”
    “Dear me. A deplorable mistake, the fighting. I was against it throughout. Did you see much of the war?”
    “I was in it.”
    They had reached the top of the hill at last and the driver was slackening his bearing reins at the descent before him.
    Dr. Halse wrinkled his sharp nose. “You are a Tory?”
    “A soldier.”
    “Well, it was not the fault of the soldiers that we lost. England's heart was not in it. We have a derelict old man on the throne. He’ll not last much longer. The Prince has different views.”
    The road in the steepest part of the hill was deeply rutted, and the coach jolted and swayed dangerously. The baby began to cry. They reached the bottom and the man beside the driver blew a blast on his horn. They turned into St. Austell Street. It was a Tuesday afternoon and there were few people about the shops. Two half-naked urchins ran the length of the street begging for a copper, but gave up the chase as the coach swayed into the mud of St. Clement's Street. With much creaking and shouting they rounded the sharp corner, crossed the river by the narrow bridge, jolted over granite cobbles, turned and twisted again, and at last drew up before the Red Lion Inn.
    In the bustle that followed, the Revd. Dr. Halse got out first with a stiff word of farewell and was gone, stepping briskly between the puddles of rainwater and horse urine to the other side of the narrow street. Poldark rose to follow, and the clerk saw for the first time that he was lame.
    “Can I help you, sir?” he offered, putting down his belongings.
    The young man