Du Maurier, Daphne (5 page)

Mary guessed that her own small room had been in much the same condition, and that she owed it to her aunt that it was now furnished at all. Into their room, along the further passage, she did not venture. Beneath it, down a passage that ran parallel to the one above, long and in the opposite direction from the kitchen, was another room, the door of which was locked. Mary went out into the yard to look at it through the window, but there was a board nailed up against the frame, and she could not see inside.

The house and outbuildings formed three sides of the little square that was the yard, in the centre of which was a grass bank and a drinking trough. Beyond this lay the road, a thin white ribbon that stretched on either hand to the horizon, surrounded on each side by moorland, brown and sodden from the heavy rains. Mary went out onto the road and looked about her, and as far as her eyes could see there was nothing but the black hills and the moors. The grey slate inn, with its tall chimneys, forbidding and uninhabited though it seemed, was the only dwelling place on the landscape. To the west of Jamaica high tors reared their heads; some were smooth like downland, and the grass shone yellow under the fitful winter sun; but others were sinister and austere, their peaks crowned with granite and great slabs of stone. Now and again the sun was obscured by cloud, and long shadows fled over the moors like fingers. Colour came in patches; sometimes the hills were purple, inkstained, and mottled, and then a feeble ray of sun would come from a wisp of cloud, and one hill would be golden brown while his neighbour still languished in the dark. The scene was never once the same, for it would be the glory of high noon to the east, with the moor as motionless as desert sand; and away to the westwards arctic winter fell upon the hills, brought by a jagged cloud shaped like a highwayman’s cloak, that scattered hail and snow and a sharp spittle rain onto the granite tors. The air was strong and sweet smelling, cold as mountain air, and strangely pure. It was a revelation to Mary, accustomed as she was to the warm and soft climate of Helford, with its high hedges and tall protecting trees. Even the east wind had been no hardship there, for the arm of the headland acted as a defence to those on land, and it was only the river that ran turbulent and green, the wave crests whipped with foam.

However grim and hateful was this new country, however barren and untilled, with Jamaica Inn standing alone upon the hill as a buffer to the four winds, there was a challenge in the air that spurred Mary Yellan to adventure. It stung her, bringing colour to her cheeks and a sparkle to her eyes; it played with her hair, blowing it about her face; and as she breathed deep she drew it through her nostrils and into her lungs, more quenching and sweeter than a draught of cider. She went to the water trough and put her hands under the spring. The water ran clear and icy cold. She drank some, and it was unlike any water she had drunk before, bitter, queer, with a lingering peat taste like the smoke from the turf fire in the kitchen.

It was deep and satisfying, for her thirst went from her.

She felt strong in her body and emboldened in spirit, and she went back into the house to find Aunt Patience, her appetite sharp for the dinner that she hoped awaited her. She fell to with a will upon stewed mutton and turnips, and, her hunger appeased now for the first time for four-and-twenty hours she felt her courage return to her, and she was ready to question her aunt and risk the consequences.

“Aunt Patience,” she began, “why is my uncle the landlord of Jamaica Inn?”

The sudden direct attack took the woman by surprise, and for a moment she stared at Mary without reply. Then she flushed scarlet and began to work her mouth. “Why,” she faltered, “it’s—it’s a very prominent place here, on the road. You can see that. This is the main road from the south. The coaches pass here twice a week. They come from Truro, and Bodmin, and so on, to Launceston. You came yourself yesterday. There’s always company on the road. Travellers, and private gentlemen, and sometimes sailors from Falmouth.”

“Yes, Aunt Patience. But why don’t they stop at Jamaica?”

“They do. They often ask for a drink in the bar. We’ve a good custom here.”

“How can you say that when the parlour is never used, and the guest rooms are stored with lumber, fit only for rats and mice? I’ve seen them for myself. I’ve been to inns before, smaller ones than this by far. There was an inn at home, in the village. The landlord was a friend of ours. Many a time Mother and I had tea in the parlour; and upstairs, though there were only two rooms, they were furnished and fitted up in style for travellers.”

Her aunt was silent for a moment, working her mouth and twisting her fingers in her lap. “Your uncle Joss doesn’t encourage folks to stay,” she said at length. “He says you never know who you are going to get. Why, in a lonely spot like this we might be murdered in our beds. There’s all sorts on a road like this. It wouldn’t be safe.”

“Aunt Patience, you’re talking nonsense. What is the use of an inn that cannot give an honest traveller a bed for the night? For what other purpose was it built? And how do you live, if you have no custom?”

“We have custom,” returned the woman sullenly. “I’ve told you that. There’s men come in from the farms and outlying places. There are farms and cottages scattered over these moors for miles around, and folk come from there. There are evenings when the bar is full of them.”

“The driver on the coach yesterday told me respectable people did not come to Jamaica any more. He said they were afraid.”

Aunt Patience changed colour. She was pale now, and her eyes roved from side to side. She swallowed, and ran her tongue over her lips.

“Your uncle Joss has a strong temper,” she said; “you have seen that for yourself. He is easily roused; he will not have folk interfering with him.”

“Aunt Patience, why should anyone interfere with a landlord of an inn who goes about his rightful business? However hot tempered a man may be, his temper doesn’t scare people away. That’s no excuse.”

Her aunt was silent. She had come to the end of her resources and sat stubborn, as a mule. She would not be drawn. Mary tried another question.

“Why did you come here in the first place? My mother knew nothing of this; we believed you to be in Bodmin; you wrote from there when you married.”

“I met your uncle in Bodmin, but we never lived there,” replied Aunt Patience slowly. “We lived near Padstow for a while, and then we came here. Your uncle bought the inn from Mr. Bassat. It had stood empty a number of years, I believe, and your uncle decided it would suit him. He wanted to settle down. He’s travelled a lot in his time; he’s been to more places than I can remember the names. I believe he was in America once.”

“It seems a funny thing to come to this place to settle,” said Mary. “He couldn’t have chosen much worse, could he?”

“It’s near his old home,” said her aunt. “Your uncle was born only a few miles away, over on Twelve Men’s Moor. His brother Jem lives there now in a bit of a cottage, when he’s not roaming the country. He comes here sometimes, but your uncle Joss does not care for him much.”

“Does Mr. Bassat ever visit the inn?”

“No.”

“Why not, if he sold it to my uncle?”

Aunt Patience fidgeted with her fingers and worked her mouth.

“There was some misunderstanding,” she replied. “Your uncle bought it through a friend. Mr. Bassat did not know who Uncle Joss was until we were settled in, and then he was not very pleased.”

“Why did he mind?”

“He had not seen your uncle since he lived at Trewartha as a young man. Your uncle was wild as a lad; he got a name for acting rough. It wasn’t his fault, Mary, it was his misfortune. The Merlyns all were wild. His young brother Jem is worse than ever he was, I am sure of that. But Mr. Bassat listened to a pack of lies about Uncle Joss, and was in a great way when he discovered that he’d sold Jamaica to him. There, that’s all there is to it.”

She leant back in her chair, exhausted from her cross-examination. Her eyes begged to be excused further questioning, and her face was pale and drawn. Mary saw she had suffered enough, but with the rather cruel audacity of youth she ventured one question more.

“Aunt Patience,” she said, “I want you to look at me and answer me this, and then I won’t worry you again: What has the barred room at the end of the passage to do with the wheels that stop outside Jamaica Inn by night?”

As soon as she had spoken she was sorry, and, like many a one before her who has spoken too hastily and too soon, she yearned for the words to be unsaid. It was too late, though, now. The damage had been done.

A strange expression crept upon the woman’s face, and her great hollow eyes stared across the table in terror. Her mouth trembled, and her hand wandered to her throat. She looked fearful, haunted.

Mary pushed back her chair and knelt by her side. She put her arms round Aunt Patience, and held her close, and kissed her hair.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Don’t be angry with me; I’m rude and impertinent. It’s none of my business, and I’ve no right to question you, and I’m ashamed of myself. Please, please forget what I said.”

Her aunt buried her face in her hands. She sat motionless and paid no attention to her niece. For some minutes they sat there in silence, while Mary stroked her shoulder and kissed her hands.

Then Aunt Patience uncovered her face and looked down at her.

The fear had gone from her eyes, and she was calm. She took Mary’s hands in hers and gazed into her eyes.

“Mary,” she said, and her voice was hushed and low, scarcely above a whisper. “Mary, I can’t answer your questions, for there’s many I don’t know the answer of myself. But because you are my niece, my own sister’s child, I must give you a word of warning.”

She glanced over her shoulder, as though she were afraid that Joss himself stood in the shadows behind the door.

“There’s things that happen at Jamaica, Mary, that I’ve never dared to breathe. Bad things. Evil things. I can’t ever tell you; I dare not even admit them to myself. Some of it in time you’ll come to know. You can’t avoid it, living here. Your Uncle Joss mixes with strange men, who follow a strange trade. Sometimes they come by night, and from your window above the porch you will hear footsteps, and voices, and knocking at the door. Your uncle lets them in, and takes them along that passage to the room with the locked door. They go inside, and from my bedroom above I can hear the mutter of their voices through the long hours. Before dawn they are away, and no sign left that they have ever been. When they come, Mary, you will say nothing to me or to your Uncle Joss. You must lie in bed, and put your fingers to your ears. You must never question me, nor him, nor anyone, for if you came to guess but half of what I know, your hair would go grey, Mary, as mine has done, and you would tremble in your speech and weep by night, and all that lovely careless youth of yours would die, Mary, as mine has died.”

Then she rose from the table and pushed aside her chair, and Mary heard her climb the staircase with heavy, faltering feet, and go along the landing to her room, and close the door.

Mary sat on the floor beside the empty chair, and she saw through the kitchen window that the sun had already disappeared behind the furthest hill, and that before many hours had passed the grey malevolence of a November dusk would have fallen upon Jamaica once again.

Joss Merlyn was away from home for nearly a week, and during that time Mary came to know something of the country.

Her presence was not required in the bar, for no one came to it when the landlord was from home, and, after giving her aunt a hand with the housework and in the kitchen, she was free to wander where she pleased. Patience Merlyn was no walker; she had no wish to stir beyond the chicken run at the back of the inn, and she had no sense of direction. She had a vague idea of the names of the tors, for she had heard them mentioned by her husband, but where they were, and how anyone found them, she did not know. So Mary would strike off on her own at midday, with nothing but the sun to guide her and a certain deep-grained common sense which was her natural inheritance as a countrywoman.

The moors were even wilder than she had at first supposed. Like an immense desert they rolled from east to west, with tracks here and there across the surface and great hills breaking the skyline.

Where was their final boundary she could not tell, except that once, away to the westward, after climbing the highest tor behind Jamaica, she caught the silver shimmer of the sea. It was a silent, desolate country though, vast and untouched by human hand; on the high tors the slabs of stone leant against one another in strange shapes and forms, massive sentinels who had stood there since the hand of God first fashioned them.

Some were shaped like giant furniture, with monstrous chairs and twisted tables; and sometimes the smaller crumbling stones lay on the summit of the hill like a giant himself, his huge, recumbent form darkening the heather and the coarse tufted grass. There were long stones that stood on end, balancing themselves in a queer miraculous way, as though they leant against the wind; and there were flat altar stones whose smooth and polished faces stared up towards the sky, awaiting a sacrifice that never came. Wild sheep dwelt on the high tors, and there were ravens too, and buzzards; the hills were homing places for all solitary things.

Black cattle grazed on the moors beneath, their careful feet treading the firm ground, and with inborn knowledge they avoided the tufted, tempting grass that was not grass at all, but soggy marsh that sighed and whispered. When the wind blew on the hills it whistled mournfully in the crevices of granite, and sometimes it shuddered like a man in pain.

Strange winds blew from nowhere; they crept along the surface of the grass, and the grass shivered; they breathed upon the little pools of rain in the hollowed stones, and the pools rippled. Sometimes the wind shouted and cried, and the cry echoed in the crevices, and moaned, and was lost again. There was a silence on the tors that belonged to another age; an age that is past and vanished as though it had never been, an age when man did not exist, but pagan footsteps trod upon the hills. And there was a stillness in the air, and a stranger, older peace, that was not the peace of God.