mind, and that was that she could come back here when she wished.
The night was fine; the dark clouds of the early evening had passed away, and the sky was ablaze with stars. Mary sat beside Francis Davey on the high seat of the dogcart, wrapped in a greatcoat with a top collar of velvet. This was not the same horse that he had been riding when she met him on the moor; this was a big grey cob who, fresh from his sojourn in the stable, went like the wind. It was a strange, exhilarating drive. The wind blew in Mary's face, stinging her eyes. The climb from Altarnun had been slow at first, for the hill was steep, but now they were upon the highroad, with their faces turned to Bodmin, the vicar pricked the cob with his whip, so that he laid his ears flat to his head and galloped like a mad thing.
His hoofs thundered on the hard white road, raising a cloud of dust, and Mary was flung against her companion. He made no effort to rein in his horse, and, glancing up at him, Mary saw that he was smiling. 'Go on,' he said, 'go on; you can go faster than this'; and his voice was low and excited, as though he were talking to himself. The effect was unnatural, a little startling, and Mary was aware of a feeling of discomfiture, as though he had betaken himself to another world and had forgotten her existence.
Seated where she was, she could observe him for the first time in profile, and she saw how clear-cut were his features, how prominent the thin nose; perhaps it was the peculiarity of nature's creating him white in the beginning that made him different from any man she had ever seen before.
He looked like a bird. Crouched in his seat, with his black cape-coat blown out by the wind, his arms were like wings. He might be any age, and she could not place him at all. Then he smiled down at her and was human again.
'I love these moors,' he said. 'You have had a bad introduction to them, of course, so you can't understand me. If you knew them as well as I do, and had seen them in every mood, winter and summer, you would love them too. They have a fascination unlike any other part of the county. They go back a long way in time. Sometimes I think they are the survival of another age. The moors were the first things to be created; afterwards came the forests, and the valleys, and the sea. Climb Rough Tor one morning before sunrise and listen to the wind in the stones. You'll know what I mean then.'
Mary kept thinking of the parson at her home. He was a cheerful little man with a long string of children exactly like himself, and his wife made damson cheese. He preached the same sermon always on Christmas Day, and his parishioners could have prompted him anywhere. She wondered what Francis Davey said in his church at Altarnun. Did he preach about Rough Tor, and the light on Dozmary pool? They had come to the dip in the road now, where a cluster of trees made a little valley for the river Fowey, and in front of them stretched the climb to the high, unsheltered ground, Already Mary could see the tall chimneys of Jamaica Inn outlined against the sky.
The drive was ended, and the exhilaration went from her. The old dread and loathing for her uncle returned. The vicar stopped his horse just short of the yard, under the lee of the grass bank.
'There's no sign of anyone,' he said quietly. 'It's like a house of the dead. Would you like me to try the door?'
Mary shook her head. 'It's bolted always,' she whispered, 'and the windows are barred. That's my room, over the porch. I can scramble up there, if you let me climb on your shoulder. I've managed worse places than that at home. My window is open at the top; once on the porch, it will be easy enough.'
'You'll slip on those slates,' he answered. 'I won't let you do it. It's absurd. Is there no other way of getting in? What about the back?'
'The door of the bar will be bolted, and the kitchen too,' said Mary. 'We can slip round, if you like, and make certain.'
She led the way round to the other side of the house, and then she turned to him suddenly, her finger to her lips. 'There's a light in the kitchen,' she whispered. 'That means my uncle is there. Aunt Patience always goes up early. There are no curtains to the window; if we pass by he will see us.' She leant back against the wall of the house. Her companion motioned her to be still.
'Very well,' he said, 'I will take care he does not see me. I am going to look in at the window.'
She watched him to the side of the window, and he stood there for a few minutes gazing into the kitchen. Then he beckoned to her to follow, that same tense smile on his face she had noticed before. His face looked very pale against his black shovel hat. 'There'll be no argument tonight with the landlord of Jamaica Inn,' he said.
Mary followed the direction of his eyes and pressed forwards to the window. The kitchen was lit by a single candle stuck sideways into a bottle. It had already burnt down halfway, and great blobs of grease clung to the side of it. The flame itself wavered and spluttered in the draught from the door, which was wide open to the garden. Joss Merlyn sprawled at the table in a drunken stupor, his great legs stretched out on either side of him, his hat on the back of his head. He stared before him at the guttering candle, his eyes glazed and fixed like a dead man's. Another bottle lay with its neck smashed on the table, and beside it an empty glass. The peat fire had smouldered itself to nothing.
Francis Davey pointed to the open door. 'You can walk inside and go upstairs to bed,' he said. 'Your uncle will not even see you. Fasten the door after you, and blow out the candle. You don't want a fire on your hands. Good night to you, Mary Yellan. If you are ever in trouble and need me, I shall be waiting for you at Altarnun.'
Then he turned the corner of the house and was gone.
Mary tiptoed into the kitchen and closed and fastened the door. She could have slammed it had she wished, it would not have roused her uncle.
He had gone to his kingdom of heaven, and the little world was lost to him. She blew out the light beside him and left him alone in the darkness.
Chapter 8
Joss Merlyn was drunk for five days. He was insensible most of the time and lay stretched out on a bed in the kitchen that Mary and her aunt had improvised between them. He slept with his mouth wide open, and the sound of his breathing could be heard from the bedrooms above. About five in the evening he would wake for half an hour or so, shouting for brandy and sobbing like a child. His wife went to him at once and soothed him and settled his pillow. She gave him a little weak brandy-and-water, talking to him gently as she would to a sick child, holding the glass to his lips; and he stared around him with glaring bloodshot eyes, muttering to himself, and shivering like a dog.
Aunt Patience became another woman, showing a calm coolness and a presence of mind that Mary had not believed her capable of possessing. She gave herself up entirely to this nursing of her husband. She was obliged to do everything for him, and Mary watched her change his blankets and his linen with a sick feeling of disgust in her own heart, for she could not have borne to go near him. Aunt Patience took it as a matter of course, and the oaths and screams with which he greeted her did not appear to frighten her. These were the only times when she had the controlling of him, and he would let her sponge his forehead with a towel and hot water without a protest. Then she would tuck the fresh blanket under him, and smooth his mat of hair, and in a few minutes he would be asleep again, his face purple and his mouth wide open, with his tongue protruding, snoring like a bull. It was impossible to live in the kitchen, and Mary and her aunt turned the little disused parlour into a dwelling room for themselves. For the first time Aunt Patience became something of a companion. She chatted happily of the old days in Helford, when she and Mary's mother had been girls together; she moved swiftly and lightly about the house, and sometimes Mary would hear her humming snatches of old hymns as she passed backwards and forwards to the kitchen. It seemed that every two months or so Joss Merlyn would have these bouts of drinking. The times used to be further apart, but now they were becoming more frequent, and Aunt Patience was never quite certain when they would occur. This present one had been caused by the visit of Squire Bassat to the inn — the landlord had been very angry and upset, she told Mary — and when he came back from the moors at six in the evening he went straight to the bar. She knew then what would happen.
Aunt Patience accepted without question her niece's explanation of losing herself on the moors. She told her she must beware of the bogs and left it at that. Mary was greatly relieved. She did not want to give details of the adventure, and she was determined to say nothing of her meeting with the vicar of Altarnun. Meanwhile Joss Merlyn lay in his stupor in the kitchen, and the two women spent five comparatively peaceful days.
The weather was cold and grey and did not tempt Mary from the house, but on the fifth morning the wind
