Mary saw him stare hard at the black pony that had belonged to Squire Bassat; he went up to him, and bent down and felt his legs. Then he whispered something in the ear of the loud-voiced man. Mary watched him nervously.
"Where did you get this pony?" said the dealer, tapping Jem on the shoulder. "He was never bred on the moors, not with that head and shoulders."
"He was foaled at Callington four years ago," said Jem carelessly, his pipe in the corner of his mouth. "I bought him as a yearling from old Tim Bray; you remember Tim? He sold up last year and went into Dorset. Tim always told me I'd get my money back on this pony. The dam was Irish bred, and won prizes for him up-country. Have a look at him, won't you? But he's not going cheap, I'll tell you that."
He puffed at his pipe, while the two men went over the pony carefully. The time seemed endless before they straightened themselves and stood back. "Had any trouble with his skin?" said the lynx-eyed man. "It feels very coarse on the surface, and sharp like bristles. There's a taint about him, too, I don't like. You haven't been doping him, have you?"
"There's nothing ailing with that pony," replied Jem. "The other one there, he fell away to nothing in the summer, but I've brought him back all right. I'd do better to keep him till the spring now, I believe, but he's costing me money. No, this black pony here, you can't fault him. I'll be frank with you over one thing, and it's only fair to admit it. Old Tim Bray never knew the mare was in foal--he was in Plymouth at the time, and his boy was looking after her--and when he found out he gave the boy a thrashing, but of course it was too late. He had to make the best of a bad job. It's my opinion the sire was a gray; look at the short hair there, close to the skin--that's gray, isn't it? Tim just missed a good bargain with this pony. Look at those shoulders; there's breeding for you. I tell you what, I'll take eighteen guineas for him." The lynx-eyed man shook his head, but the dealer hesitated.
"Make it fifteen and we might do business," he suggested.
"No, eighteen guineas is my sum, and not a penny less," said Jem.
The two men consulted together and appeared to disagree. Mary heard the word "fake," and Jem shot a glance at her over the heads of the crowd. A little murmur rose from the group of men beside him. Once more the lynx-eyed man bent and touched the legs of the black pony. "I'd advise another opinion on this pony," he said. "I'm not satisfied about him myself. Where's your mark?"
Jem showed him the narrow slit in the ear and the man examined it closely.
"You're a sharp customer, aren't you?" said Jem. "Anyone would think I'd stolen the horse. Anything wrong with the mark?"
"No, apparently not. But it's a good thing for you that Tim Bray has gone to Dorset. He'd never own this pony, whatever you like to say. I wouldn't touch him, Stevens, if I were you. You'll find yourself in trouble. Come away, man."
The loud-voiced dealer looked regretfully at the black pony.
"He's a good-looker," he said. "I don't care who bred him, or if his sire was piebald. What makes you so particular, Will?"
Once more the lynx-eyed man plucked at his sleeve and whispered in his ear. The dealer listened, and pulled a face, and then he nodded. "All right," he said aloud; "I've no doubt that you're right. You've got an eye for trouble, haven't you? Perhaps we're better out of it. You can keep your pony," he added to Jem. "My partner doesn't fancy him. Take my advice and come down on your price. If you have him for long on your hands you'll be sorry." And he elbowed his way through the crowd, with the lynx-eyed man beside him, and they disappeared in the direction of the White Hart. Mary breathed a sigh of relief when she saw the last of them. She could make nothing of Jem's expression; his lips were framed in the inevitable whistle. People came and went; the shaggy moorland ponies were sold for two or three pounds apiece, and their late owners departed satisfied. No one came near the black pony again. He was looked at askance by the crowd. At a quarter to four Jem sold the other horse for six pounds to a cheerful, honest-looking farmer, after a long and very good-humored argument. The farmer declared he would give five pounds, and Jem stuck out for seven. After twenty minutes' riotous bargaining the sum of six pounds was agreed, and the farmer rode off on the back of his purchase with a grin from ear to ear. Mary began to flag on her feet. Twilight gathered in the market square and the lamps were lit. The town wore an air of mystery. She was thinking of returning to the jingle when she heard a woman's voice behind her, and a high affected laugh. She turned and saw the blue cloak and the plumed hat of the woman who had stepped from the coach earlier in the afternoon. "Oh, look, James," she was saying. "Did you ever see such a delicious pony in your life? He holds his head just like poor Beauty did. The likeness would be quite striking, only this animal of course is black, and has nothing of Beauty's breeding. What a nuisance Roger isn't here. I can't disturb him from his meeting. What do you think of him, James?"
Her companion put up his eyeglass and stared. "Damn it, Maria," he drawled, "I don't know a thing about horses. The pony you lost was a gray, wasn't it? This thing is ebony, positively ebony, my dear. Do you want to buy him?"
The woman gave a little trill of laughter. "It would be such a good Christmas present for the children," she said. "They've plagued poor Roger ever since Beauty disappeared. Ask the price, James, will you?"
The man strutted forward. "Here, my good fellow," he called to Jem, "do you want to sell that black pony of yours?"
Jem shook his head. "He's promised to a friend," he said. "I wouldn't like to go back on my word. Besides, this pony wouldn't carry you. He's been ridden by children."
"Oh, really. Oh, I see. Oh, thank you. Maria, this fellow says the pony is not for sale."
"Is he sure? What a shame. I'd set my heart on him. I'll pay him his price, tell him. Ask him again, James."
Once more the man put up his glass and drawled, "Look here, my man, this lady has taken a fancy to your pony. She has just lost one, and she wants to replace him. Her children will be most disappointed if they hear about it. Damn your friend, you know. He must wait. What is your price?"
"Twenty-five guineas," said Jem promptly. "At least, that's what my friend was going to pay. I'm not anxious to sell him."
The lady in the plumed hat swept into the ring. "I'll give you thirty for him," she said. "I'm Mrs. Bassat from North Hill, and I want the pony as a Christmas present for my children. Please don't be obstinate. I have half the sum here in my purse, and this gentleman will give you the rest. Mr. Bassat is in Launceston now, and I want the pony to be a surprise to him as well as to my children. My groom shall fetch the pony immediately, and ride him to North Hill before Mr. Bassat leaves the town. Here's the money."
Jem swept off his hat and bowed low. "Thank you, madam," he said. "I hope Mr. Bassat will be pleased with your bargain. You will find the pony exceedingly safe with children."
"Oh, I'm certain he will be delighted. Of course the pony is nothing like the one we had stolen. Beauty was a thoroughbred, and worth a great deal of money. This little animal is handsome enough, and will please the children. Come along, James; it's getting quite dark, and I'm chilled to the bone."
She made her way from the ring towards the coach that waited in the square. The tall footman leaped forward to open the door. "I've just bought a pony for Master Robert and Master Henry," she said. "Will you find Richards and tell him he's to ride it back home? I want it to be a surprise to the squire." She stepped into the coach, her petticoats fluttering behind her, followed by her companion with the monocle.
Jem looked hastily over his shoulder, and tapped a lad who stood behind him on the arm. "Here," he said, "would you like a five-shilling piece?" The lad nodded, his mouth agape. "Hang onto this pony, then, and, when the groom comes for him, hand him over for me, will you? I've just had word that my wife has given birth to twins and her life is in danger. I haven't a moment to lose. Here, take the bridle. A happy Christmas to you."
And he was off in a moment, walking hard across the square, his hands thrust deep in his breeches pock
ets. Mary followed, a discreet ten paces behind. Her face was scarlet and she kept her eyes on the ground. The laughter bubbled up inside her and she hid her mouth in her shawl. She was near to collapsing when they reached the further side of the square, out of sight of the coach and the group of people, and she stood with her hand to her side, catching her breath. Jem waited for her, his face as grave as a judge.
"Jem Merlyn, you deserve to be hanged," she said, when she had recovered herself. "To stand there as you did in the market square and sell that stolen pony back to Mrs. Bassat herself! You have the cheek of the Devil, and the hairs in my head have gone gray from watching you."
He threw back his head and laughed, and she could not resist him. Their laughter echoed in the street until people turned to look at them, and they too caught the infection, and smiled, and broke into laughter; and Launceston itself seemed to rock in merriment as peal after peal of gaiety echoed in the street, mingling with the bustle and clatter of the fair; and with it all there was shouting, and calling, and a song from somewhere. The torches and the flares cast strange lights on the faces of people, and there was color, and shadow, and the hum of voices, and a ripple of excitement in the air.
Jem caught at her hand and crumpled the fingers. "You're glad you came now, aren't you?" he said, and "Yes," she said recklessly, and she did not mind.
They plunged into the thick of the fair, with all the warmth and the suggestion of packed humanity about them. Jem bought Mary a crimson shawl, and gold rings for her ears. They sucked oranges beneath a striped tent, and had their fortunes told by a wrinkled gypsy woman. "Beware of a dark stranger," she said to Mary, and they looked at one another and laughed again.
"There's blood in your hand, young man," she told him. "You'll kill a man one day"; and "What did I tell you in the jingle this morning?" said Jem. "I'm innocent as yet. Do you believe it now?" But she shook her head at him; she would not say. Little raindrops splashed onto their faces and they did not care. The wind rose in gusts and billowed the fluttering tents, scattering paper, and ribbons, and silks; and a great striped booth shuddered an instant and crumpled, while apples and oranges rolled in the gutter. Flares streamed in the wind; the rain fell; and people ran hither and thither for shelter, laughing and calling to one another, the rain streaming from them.
Jem dragged Mary under cover of a doorway, his arms around her shoulders, and he turned her face against him, and held her with his hands, and kissed her. "Beware of the dark stranger," he said, and he laughed and kissed her again. The night clouds had come up with the rain, and it was black in an instant. The wind blew out the flares, the lanterns glowed dim and yellow, and all the bright color of the fair was gone. The square was soon deserted; the striped tents and the booths gaped empty and forlorn. The soft rain came in gusts at the open doorway, and Jem stood with his back to the weather, making a screen for Mary. He untied the handkerchief she wore, and played with her hair. She felt the tips of his fingers on her neck, traveling to her shoulders, and she put up her hands and pushed them away. "I've made a fool of myself long enough for one night, Jem Merlyn," she said. "It's time we thought of returning. Let me alone."
"You don't want to ride in an open jingle in this wind, do you," he said. "It's coming from the coast and we'll be blown under on the high ground. We'll have to spend the night together in Launceston."
"Very likely. Go and fetch the pony, Jem, while this shower lifts for the moment. I'll wait for you here."
"Don't be a Puritan, Mary. You'll be soaked to the skin on the Bodmin road. Pretend you're in love with me, can't you? You'd stay with me then."
"Are you talking to me like this because I'm the barmaid at Jamaica Inn?"
"Damn Jamaica Inn! I like the look of you, and the feel of you, and that's enough for any man. It ought to be enough for a woman too."
"I daresay it is, for some. I don't happen to be made that way."
"Do they make you different from other women, then, down on Helford river? Stay here with me tonight, Mary, and we can find out. You'd be like the rest by the time morning came, I'd take my oath on that."
"I haven't a doubt of it. That's why I'd rather risk a soaking in the jingle."
"God, you're as hard as flint, Mary Yellan. You'll be sorry for it when you're alone again."
"Better be sorry then than later."
"If I kissed you again would you change your mind?"
"I would not."
"I don't wonder my brother took to his bed and his bottle for a week, with you in the house. Did you sing psalms to him?"
"I daresay I did."
"I've never known a woman so perverse. I'll buy a ring for you if it would make you feel respectable. It's not often I have money enough in my pocket to make the offer."
"How many wives do you belong to have?"
"Six or seven scattered over Cornwall. I don't count the ones across the Tamar."
"That's a good number for one man. I'd wait awhile before I took on an eighth, if I were you."
"You're sharp, aren't you? You look like a monkey in that shawl of yours, with your bright eyes. All right, I'll fetch the jingle, and take you home to your aunt, but I'll kiss you first, whether you like it or not."
He took her face in his hands. " 'One for sorrow, two for joy,' " he said. "I'll give you the rest when you're in a more yielding frame of mind. It wouldn't do to finish the rhyme tonight. Stay where you're to; I'll not be long."
He bowed his head against the rain and strode across the street. She saw him disappear behind a line of stalls, and so around the corner.
She leaned back once more within the shelter of the door. It would be desolate enough on the high road, she knew that; this was a real driving rain with a venomous wind behind it and there would be little mercy from the moors. It required a certain amount of courage to stand those eleven miles in an open jingle. The thought of staying in Launceston with Jem Merlyn made her heart beat faster perhaps, and it was exciting to think upon it now he was gone and he could not see her face, but for all that she would not lose her head to please him. Once she departed from the line of conduct she had laid down for herself, there would be no returning. There would be no privacy of mind, no independence. She had given too much away as it was, and she would never be entirely free of him again. This weakness would be a drag on her and make the four walls of Jamaica Inn more hateful than they were already. It was better to bear solitude alone. Now the silence of the moors would be a torment because of his presence four miles distant from her. Mary wrapped her shawl around her and folded her arms. She wished that women were not the frail things of straw she believed them to be; then she could stay this night with Jem Merlyn and forget herself as he could forget, and both of them part with a laugh and a shrug of the shoulder in the morning. But she was a woman, and it was impossible. A few kisses had made a fool of her already. She thought of Aunt Patience, trailing like a ghost in the shadow of her master, and she shuddered. That would be Mary Yellan too, but for the grace of God and her own strength of will. A gust of wind tore at her skirt and another shower of rain blew in at the open doorway. It was colder now. Puddles ran on the cobbled stones, and the lights and the people had vanished. Launceston had lost its glamour. It would be a bleak and cheerless Christmas Day tomorrow.
Mary waited, stamping her feet and blowing upon her hands. Jem was taking his own time to fetch the jingle. He was annoyed with her, no doubt, for refusing to stay, and leaving her to become wet and chilled in the open doorway was to be his method of punishment. The long minutes passed and still he did not come. If this was his system of revenge, the plan was without humor and lacked originality. Somewhere a clock struck eight. He had been gone over half an hour, and the place where the pony and jingle were stabled was only five minutes away. Mary was dispirited and tired. She had been on her legs since the early afternoon, and now that the high pitch of excitement had died away she wanted to rest. It would be difficult to recapture the careless, irresponsible mood of the last few h
ours. Jem had taken his gaiety with him.
At last Mary could stand it no longer, and she set off up the hill in search of him. The long street was deserted, save for a few stragglers, who hung about in the doubtful shelter of doorways as she had done. The rain was pitiless, and the wind came in gusts. There was nothing left now of the Christmas spirit.
In a few minutes she came to the stable where they had left the pony and jingle in the afternoon. The door was locked, and, peering through a crack, she saw that the shed was empty. Jem must have gone, then. She knocked at the little shop next door, in a fever of impatience, and after a while it was opened by the fellow who had admitted them to the shed earlier in the day.
He looked annoyed at being disturbed from the comfort of his fire, and at first he did not recognize her, wild as she was in her wet shawl.
"What do you want?" he said. "We don't give food to strangers here."
"I haven't come for food," Mary replied. "I'm looking for my companion. We came here together with a pony and jingle, if you remember. I see the stable is empty. Have you seen him?"
The man muttered an apology. "You'll excuse me, I'm sure. Your friend has been gone twenty minutes or more. He seemed in a great hurry, and there was another man with him. I wouldn't be sure, but he looked like one of the servants from the White Hart. They turned back in that direction at any rate."
"He left no message, I suppose?"
"No, I'm sorry he did not. Maybe you'll find him at the White Hart. Do you know where it is?"
"Yes, thank you. I'll try there. Good night."
The man shut the door in her face, glad enough to be rid of her, and Mary retraced her steps in the direction of the town. What should Jem want with one of the servants from the White Hart? The man must have been mistaken. There was nothing for it but to find out the truth for herself. Once more she came to the cobbled square. The White Hart looked hospitable enough, with its lighted windows, but there was no sign of the pony and jingle. Mary's heart sank. Surely Jem had not taken the road without her? She hesitated for a moment, and then she went up to the door and passed inside. The hall seemed to be full of gentlemen, talking and laughing, and once again her country clothes and wet hair caused consternation, for a servant went up to her at once and bade her be gone. "I've come in search of a Mr. Jem Merlyn," said Mary firmly. "He came here with a pony and jingle, and was seen with one of your servants. I'm sorry to trouble you, but I'm anxious to find him. Will you please make some enquiry?"