"Mr. Bassat left for Launceston this morning," answered the man. "He was called away hurriedly, and he has not yet returned."
This time Mary could not control herself, and a cry of despair escaped her.
"I have come some way," she said, in an agony of feeling, as though by her very distress she could bring the squire to her side. "If I do not see him within the hour something terrible will happen, and a great criminal escape the hands of the law. You look at me blankly, but I am speaking the truth. If only there was someone I could turn to—"
"Mrs. Bassat is at home," said the man, stung with curiosity. "Perhaps she will see you, if your business is as urgent as you say. Follow me, will you, to the library. Never mind the dogs; they will not hurt you."
Mary crossed the hall in a dream, knowing only that her plan had failed again, through chance alone, and that she was powerless now to help herself.
The wide library, with its blazing fire, seemed unreal to her, and, accustomed as she was to the darkness, she blinked at the flood of light that met her eyes. A woman whom she recognised immediately as the fine lady from Launceston market square was sitting in a chair before the fire, reading aloud to two children, and she looked up in surprise when Mary was shown into the room.
The servant began his explanation in some excitement. "This young woman has very grave news for the squire, madam," he said. "I thought it best to show her in to you directly."
Mrs. Bassat rose to her feet at once, dropping the book from her lap.
"It isn't one of the horses, is it?" she said. "Richards told me Solomon had been coughing and that Diamond would not take his food. With this undergroom anything may happen." Mary shook her head. "Your household is not in trouble," she said gravely. "I bring news of another kind. If I could speak to you alone—"
Mrs. Bassat appeared relieved that her horses were not affected, and she spoke quickly to her children, who ran from the room, followed by the manservant.
"What can I do for you?" she said graciously. "You lock pale and frightened. Won't you sit down?"
Mary shook her head impatiently. "Thank you, but I must know when Mr. Bassat is returning home."
"I have no idea," replied his lady. "He was obliged to leave this morning at a moment's notice, and, to tell you the truth, I am seriously concerned about him. If this dreadful innkeeper shows fight, as he is certain to do, Mr. Bassat may be wounded, in spite of the soldiers."
"What do you mean?" said Mary swiftly.
"Why, the squire has set out upon a highly dangerous mission. Your face is new to me, and I conclude you are not from North Hill, otherwise you would have heard of this man Merlyn who keeps an inn upon the Bodmin road. The squire has suspected him for some while of terrible crimes, but it was not until this morning that the full proof came into his hands. He departed at once for Launceston to summon help, and from what he told me before he went, he intends to surround the inn tonight and seize the inhabitants. He will go well armed, of course, and with a large body of men, but I shall not rest until he returns."
Something in Mary's face must have warned her, for she turned very pale and backed towards the fire, reaching out for the heavy bellpull that hung on the wall. "You are the girl he spoke about," she said quickly, "the girl from the inn, the niece of the landlord. Stay where you are; don't move, or I'll summon my servants. You are the girl. I know it; he described you to me. What do you want with me?"
Mary put out her hand, her face as white as the woman's by the fire.
"I won't hurt you," she said. "Please do not ring. Let me explain. Yes, I am the girl from Jamaica Inn." Mrs. Bassat did not trust her. She watched Mary with troubled eyes and kept her hand upon the bell rope.
"I have no money here," she said. "I can do nothing for you. If you have come to North Hill to plead for your uncle, it is too late."
"You misunderstand me," said Mary quietly. "And the landlord of Jamaica Inn is a relative to me by marriage only. Why I have been living there does not matter now, and the story would take too long in the telling. I fear and detest him more than you or anyone in the country, and with reason. I came here to warn Mr. Bassat that the landlord intended to leave the inn tonight, and so escape justice. I have definite proof of his guilt, which I did not believe Mr. Bassat to possess. You tell me that he has already gone, and perhaps even now is at Jamaica Inn. Therefore I have wasted my time in coming here."
She sat down then, her hands in her lap, and stared blankly at the fire. She had come to the end of her resources, and for the moment she could not look ahead. All that her weary mind could tell her was that her labour of the evening had been purposeless and in vain. She need never have left her bedroom at Jamaica Inn. Mr. Bassat would have come in any case. And now, by her secret meddling, she had blundered into the very mistake she had wished to avoid. She had stayed away too long; and by now her uncle would have guessed the truth and in all probability made his escape. Squire Bassat and his men would ride to a deserted inn.
She lifted her eyes once more to the lady of the house. "I have done a very senseless thing in coming here," she said hopelessly. "I thought it clever, and I have only succeeded in making a fool of myself and of everyone else. My uncle will discover my room is empty and guess at once that I have betrayed him. He will leave Jamaica Inn before Mr. Bassat arrives."
The squire's lady let go of the bell rope now and came towards her.
"You speak sincerely, and you have an honest face," she said kindly. "I am sorry if I misjudged you at first, but Jamaica Inn has a terrible name, and I believe anyone would have done the same had they been confronted suddenly with the landlord's niece. You have been placed in a fearful position, and I think you very brave to come here tonight, all those lonely miles, to warn my husband. I should have gone mad with fear. The question is this: what would you have me do now? I am willing to help you in any way you think best."
"There is nothing we can do," said Mary, shaking her head. "I must wait here, I suppose, until Mr. Bassat returns. He won't be overpleased to see me when he hears how I have blundered. God knows I deserve every reproach…."
"I will speak for you," replied Mrs. Bassat. "You could not possibly know my husband had already been informed, and I will soon smooth him down if he needs it. Be thankful you are here in safety meanwhile."
"How did the squire learn the truth so suddenly?" asked Mary.
"I have not the slightest idea; he was sent for very suddenly this morning, as I have told you already, and he only gave me the barest details before his horse was saddled and he was gone. Now, won't you rest yourself, and forget for the time the whole hateful business? You are probably famished for want of food." Once more she approached the fireplace, and this time she pulled the bell rope three or four times, For all her worry and distress, Mary could not help seeing the irony of the situation. Here was the lady of the house offering hospitality, who a moment ago had threatened her with seizure by the same servants who would now bring her food. She thought also of the scene in the market square when this same lady, in velvet cloak and feathered hat, had paid a high price for her own pony, and she wondered whether the trickery had been discovered. If Mary's own part in the deception should come to light, Mrs. Bassat would hardly be so lavish with her hospitality.