Mary pictured Joss Merlyn running out of the doorway here as a child, his mat of hair falling over his eyes in a fringe, with the gaunt, lonely figure of his mother standing behind him, her arms folded, watching him with a question in her eyes. A world of sorrow and silence, anger and bitterness too, must have passed beneath the roof of this small cottage.
There was a shout and a clatter of hoofs, and Jem rode up to her round the corner of the house, astride the black pony. "This is the fellow I wanted you to have," he said, "but you're so close with your money. He'd carry you well, too; the squire bred him for his wife. Are you sure you won't change your mind?"
Mary shook her head and laughed. "You'd have me tie him up in the stable at Jamaica, I suppose," she said, "and when Mr. Bassat calls again he wouldn't be likely to recognize him, would he? Thanking you for your trouble, but I'd rather not risk it all the same. I've lied enough for your family, Jem Merlyn, for one lifetime." Jem pulled a long face, and slid to the ground.
"You've refused the best bargain that you'll ever have offered to you," he said, "and I won't give you the chance again. He'll go to Launceston on Christmas Eve; the dealers there will swallow him up." He clapped his hands on the hindquarters of the pony. "Get on with you, then"; and the animal made a startled dash for the gap in the bank.
Jem broke off a piece of grass and began to chew it, glancing sideways at his companion. "What did Squire Bassat expect to see at Jamaica Inn?" he said.
Mary looked him straight in the eyes. "You ought to know that better than I do," she answered. Jem chewed his grass thoughtfully, spitting out little bits of it onto the ground.
"How much do you know?" he said suddenly, throwing the stalk away.
Mary shrugged her shoulders. "I didn't come here to answer questions," she said. "I had enough of that with Mr. Bassat."
"It was lucky for Joss the stuff had been shifted," said his brother quietly. "I told him last week he was sailing too close to the wind. It's only a matter of time before they catch him. And all he does in self-defense is to get drunk, the damned fool."
Mary said nothing. If Jem was trying to tap her by this exhibition of frankness he would be disappointed.
"You must have a good view from that little room over the porch," he said. "Do they wake you out of your beauty-sleep?"
"How do you know that's my room?" Mary asked swiftly.
He looked taken aback at her question; she saw the surprise flash through his eyes. Then he laughed, and picked another piece of grass from the bank.
"The window was wide open when I rode into the yard the other morning," he said, "and there was a little bit of blind blowing in the wind. I've never seen a window open at Jamaica Inn before."
The excuse was plausible, but hardly good enough for Mary. A horrible suspicion came into her mind. Could it have been Jem who had hidden in the empty guest-room that Saturday night? Something went cold inside her.
"Why are you so silent about it all?" he continued. "Do you think I'm going to go to my brother and say, 'Here, that niece of yours, she lets her tongue run away with her'? Damn it, Mary, you're not blind or deaf; even a child would smell a rat if he lived a month at Jamaica Inn."
"What are you trying to make me tell you?" said Mary. "And what does it matter to you how much I know? All I think about is getting my aunt away from the place as soon as possible. I told you that when you came to the inn. It may take a little time to persuade her, and I'll have to be patient. As for your brother, he can drink himself to death for all I care. His life is his own, and so is his business. It's nothing to do with me."
Jem whistled, and kicked at a loose stone with his foot.
"So smuggling doesn't appall you after all?" he said. "You'd let my brother line every room at Jamaica with kegs of brandy and rum, and you'd say nothing, is that it? But supposing he meddled in other things--supposing it was a question of life, and death, and perhaps murder--what then?"
He turned round and faced her, and she could see that this time he was not playing with her; his careless, laughing manner was gone, and his eyes were grave, but she could not read what lay behind them.
"I don't know what you mean," said Mary.
He looked at her for a long time without speaking. It was as though he debated some problem in his mind and could only find solution in the expression of her face. All his resemblance to his brother vanished. He was harder, older suddenly, and of a different breed.
"Perhaps not," he said at length, "but you'll come to know, if you stay long enough. Why does your aunt look like a living ghost--can you tell me that? Ask her, next time the wind blows from the northwest."
And he began to whistle again softly, his hands in his pockets. Mary stared back at him in silence. He spoke in riddles, but whether it was to frighten her or not she could not say. Jem the horse-stealer, with his careless, impecunious manner, she could understand and allow for, but this was a new departure. She was not sure whether she liked it as well.
He laughed shortly, and shrugged his shoulders. "There'll be trouble between Joss and myself one day, and it's he that'll be sorry for it, not I," he said. And with that cryptic remark he turned on his heel and went off onto the moor after the pony. Mary watched him thoughtfully, her arms tucked into her shawl. So her first instinct had been right, and there was something behind the smuggling, after all. The stranger in the bar that night had talked of murder, and now Jem himself had echoed his words. She was not a fool, then, nor was she hysterical, whatever she was considered by the vicar of Altarnun.
What part Jem Merlyn played in all this it was hard to say, but that he was concerned in it somewhere she did not doubt for a moment.
And if he was the man who crept so stealthily down the stairs behind her uncle--why, he must know well enough that she had left her room that night, and was in hiding somewhere, and had listened to them. Then he, above all men, must remember the rope on the beam, and guess that she had seen it after he and the landlord had gone out onto the moor.
If Jem was the man, there would be reason enough for all his questions. "How much do you know?" he had asked her; but she had not told him.
The conversation had cast a shadow on her day. She wanted to be off now, and rid of him, and alone with her own thoughts. She began to walk slowly down the hill towards the Withy Brook. She had reached the gate at the bottom of the track when she heard his running footsteps behind her, and he flung himself first at the gate, looking like a half-bred gypsy with his growth of beard and his filthy breeches.
"Why are you going?" he said. "It's early yet; it won't be dark till after four. I'll walk back with you then as far as Rushyford Gate. What's the matter with you?" He took her chin in his hands and looked into her face. "I believe you're frightened of me," he said. "You think I've got barrels of brandy and rolls of tobacco in the little old bedrooms up above, and that I'm going to show them to you, and then cut your throat. That's it, isn't it? We're a desperate lot of fellows, we Merlyns, and Jem is the worst of the pack. Is that what you're thinking?"
She smiled back at him in spite of herself. "Something of the sort," she confessed, "but I'm not afraid of you; you needn't think that. I'd even like you if you didn't remind me so much of your brother."
"I can't help my face," he said, "and I'm much better-looking than Joss, you must allow me that."
"Oh, you've conceit enough to make up for all the other qualities you lack," agreed Mary, "and I'll not deprive you of your handsome face. You may break as many hearts as you please. Now let me go; it's a long walk back to Jamaica Inn and I don't fancy losing myself on the moors again."
"And when did you lose yourself before?" he asked.
Mary frowned slightly. The words had escaped her. "The other afternoon I was out on the West Moor," she said, "and the fog came on early. I wandered some time before I found my way back."
"You're a fool to go walking," he said. "There's places between Jamaica and Roughtor that would swallow a herd of cattle, to say nothing of a sli
p of a thing like you. It's no pastime for a woman anyhow. What did you do it for?"
"I wanted to stretch my legs. I'd been shut in the house for days."
"Well, Mary Yellan, next time you want to stretch your legs you can stretch them in this direction. If you come through the gate you can't go wrong, not if you leave the marsh on your left-hand side as you did today. Are you coming to Launceston with me on Christmas Eve?"
"What will you be doing over to Launceston, Jem Merlyn?"
"Only selling Mr. Bassat's black pony for him, my dear. You'd be best away from Jamaica Inn that day, if I know anything about my brother. He'll be just recovering from his brandy-bed by then and looking for trouble. If they're used to you gallivanting over the moors they'll not say anything at your absence. I'll bring you home by midnight. Say you're coming, Mary."
"Supposing you are caught in Launceston with Mr. Bassat's pony? You would look a fool then, wouldn't you? And so would I, if they clapped me into prison alongside of you."
"No one's going to catch me; not yet awhile, anyway. Take a risk, Mary; don't you like excitement, that you're so careful of your own skin? They must breed you soft down Helford way."
She rose like a fish to his bait.
"All right then, Jem Merlyn, you needn't think I'm afraid. I'd just as soon be in prison as live at Jamaica Inn anyway. How do we go to Launceston?"
"I'll take you there in the jingle, with Mr. Bassat's black pony behind us. Do you know your way to North Hill, across the moor?"
"No, I do not."
"You only have to follow your nose. Go a mile along the high road, and you'll come to a gap in the hedge on the top of the hill, bearing to the right. You'll have Carey Tor ahead of you, and Hawk's Tor away on your right, and if you keep straight on you can't miss your way. I'll come half of the distance to meet you. We'll keep to the moor as much as we can. There'll be some traveling on the road Christmas Eve."
"What time shall I start, then?"
"We'll let the other folk make the pace and get there in the forenoon, and the streets will be thick enough for us by two o'clock. You can leave Jamaica at eleven, if you like."
"I'll make no promises. If you don't see me you can go on your way. You forget Aunt Patience may need me."
"That's right. Make your excuses."
"There's the gate over the stream," said Mary. "You don't have to come any further. I can find my own way. I go straight over the brow of that hill, don't I?"
"You can give the landlord my respects, if you like, and tell him I hope his temper has improved, and his tongue also. Ask him if he'd care for me to hang a bunch of mistletoe on the porch of Jamaica Inn! Mind the water. Do you want me to carry you through the gate? You'll wet your feet."
"If I went up to my waist it wouldn't hurt me. Good afternoon, Jem Merlyn." And Mary leaped boldly across the running brook, with one hand on the gate to guide her. Her petticoat dipped in the water, and she lifted it up out of the way. She heard Jem laugh from his bank on the other side, and she walked away up the hill without a backward glance or a wave of her hand.
Let him match himself against the men from the south, she thought; against the fellows from Helford, and Gweek, and Manaccan. There was a blacksmith at Constantine who could twist him round his little finger. Jem Merlyn had little to be proud about. A horse-thief, a common smuggler, a rogue and a murderer into the bargain, perhaps. They bred fine men on the moors, it seemed.
Mary was not afraid of him; and to prove it she would ride beside him in his jingle to Launceston on Christmas Eve.
Darkness was falling as she crossed the high road and into the yard. As usual, the inn looked dark and uninhabited, with the door bolted and the windows barred. She went round to the back of the house and tapped on the door of the kitchen. It was opened immediately by her aunt, who seemed pale and anxious.
"Your uncle has been asking for you all day," she said. "Where have you been? It's nearly five o'clock; you've been gone since morning."
"I was walking on the moors," replied Mary. "I didn't think it mattered. Why should Uncle Joss ask for me?" She was aware of a little pang of nervousness, and she looked towards his bed in the corner of the kitchen. It was empty. "Where has he gone?" she said. "Is he better?"
"He wanted to sit in the parlor," said her aunt. "He said he was tired of the kitchen. He's been sitting there all the afternoon at the window, looking out for you. You must humor him now, Mary, and speak fair to him, and not go against him. This is the bad time, when he's recovering... he will get a little stronger every day, and he'll be very self-willed, violent perhaps. You'll be careful what you say to him, won't you, Mary?"
This was the old Aunt Patience, with nervous hands and twitching mouth, who glanced over her shoulder as she talked. It was pitiable to see her, and Mary caught something of her agitation.
"Why should he want to see me?" she said. "He never has anything to say to me. What can he want?"
Aunt Patience blinked, and worked her mouth. "It's only his fancy," she said. "He mutters and talks to himself; you mustn't pay any attention to what he says at times like these. He is not really himself. I'll go and tell him you're home." She went out of the room and along the passage to the parlor.
Mary crossed to the dresser, and poured herself out a glass of water from the pitcher. Her throat was very dry. The glass trembled in her hands and she cursed herself for a fool. She had been bold enough on the moors just now, and no sooner was she inside the inn than her courage must leave her, quaking and nervous as a child. Aunt Patience came back into the room.
"He's quiet for the moment," she whispered. "He's dozed off in the chair. He may sleep now for the evening. We'll have our supper early, and get it finished. There's some cold pie for you here."
All hunger had gone from Mary, and she had to force her food. She drank two cups of scalding tea, and then pushed her plate away. Neither of the women spoke. Aunt Patience kept looking towards the door. When they had finished supper they cleared the things away silently. Mary threw some turf on the fire and crouched beside it. The bitter blue smoke rose in the air, stinging her eyes, but no warmth came to her from the smoldering turf.
Outside in the hall the clock struck six o'clock with a sudden whirring note. Mary held her breath as she counted the strokes. They broke upon the silence with deliberation; it seemed an eternity before the last note fell, and echoed through the house and died away. The slow ticking of the clock continued. There was no sound from the parlor, and Mary breathed again. Aunt Patience sat at the table, threading a needle and cotton by candlelight. Her lips were pursed and her forehead puckered to a frown as she bent to her task.
The long evening passed; and still there was no call from the landlord in the parlor. Mary nodded her head, her eyes closed in spite of herself, and in that stupid, heavy state between sleeping and waking she heard her aunt move quietly from her chair and put her work away in the cupboard beside the dresser. In a dream she heard her whisper in her ear, "I'm going to bed. Your uncle won't wake now; he must have settled for the night. I shan't disturb him." Mary murmured something in reply, and half consciously she heard the light patter of footsteps in the passage outside, and the creaking of the stairs.
On the landing above, a door closed softly. Mary felt the lethargy of sleep steal upon her, and her head sank lower into her hands. The slow ticking of the clock made a pattern in her mind, like footsteps dragging on a high road... one... two... one... two... they followed one another; she was on the moors beside the running brook and the burden that she carried was heavy, too heavy to bear. If she could lay it aside for a little while, and rest herself beside the bank, and sleep...
It was cold, though, much too cold. Her foot was wringing wet from the water. She must pull herself higher up the bank, out of the way... The fire was out; there was no more fire... Mary opened her eyes, and saw that she was lying on the floor beside the white ashes of the fire. The kitchen was very cold, and the light was dim. The candle had burned low. Sh
e yawned and shivered, and stretched her stiff arms. When she lifted her eyes she saw the door of the kitchen open very slowly, little by little, an inch at a time.
Mary sat without moving, her hands on the cold floor. She waited, and nothing happened. The door moved again, and then was flung wide, crashing against the wall behind it. Joss Merlyn stood on the threshold of the room, his arms outstretched, rocking on his two feet.
At first she thought he had not noticed her; his eyes were fixed on the wall in front of him, and he stood still where he was, without venturing further into the room. She crouched low, her head beneath the level of the table, hearing nothing but the steady thump of her heart. Slowly he turned in her direction, and stared at her a moment or two without speaking. When his voice came, it was strained and hoarse, hardly above a whisper. "Who's there?" he said. "What are you doing? Why don't you speak?" His face was a gray mask, drained of its usual color. His bloodshot eyes fastened themselves upon her without recognition. Mary did not move.
"Put away that knife," he whispered. "Put it away, I tell you."
She stretched her hand along the floor and touched the leg of a chair with the tips of her fingers. She could not hold onto it unless she moved. It was just out of reach. She waited, holding her breath. He stepped forward into the room, his head bent, his two hands feeling the air, and he crept slowly along the floor towards her.
Mary watched his hands until they were within a yard of her and she could feel his breath on her cheek.
"Uncle Joss," she said softly. "Uncle Joss..."
He crouched where he was, staring down at her, and then he leaned forward and touched her hair and her lips. "Mary," he said, "is it you, Mary? Why don't you speak to me? Where have they gone? Have you seen them?"
"You've made a mistake, Uncle Joss," she said; "there is no one here, only myself. Aunt Patience is upstairs. Are you ill? Can I help you?"