Daphne Dumorier Fullscreen Restaurant Jamaica (1936)


They bound my hands and feet down on the shore, and tied sacking over my mouth so that I could not scream.

I saw the ship come through the mist, and I could do nothing — alone there in the wind and the rain.

I had to watch them die."

She broke off, her voice trembling, and she turned on her side, her face in her hands.

He made no move towards her; he sat there silently on the bed beside her, and she felt him far from her, wrapped in secrecy.

She was lonelier then than before.

"Was it my brother who hurt you most?" he said presently.

She sighed wearily.

It was all too late and did not matter now.

"I've told you he was drunk," she said. "You know, better than I perhaps, what he can do then."

"Yes, I know." He paused a moment, and then once again he took her hand. "He shall die for this," he said.

"His death will not bring back the men he killed."

"I'm not thinking of them now."

"If you're thinking of me, don't waste your sympathy.

I can revenge myself in my own way.

I've learnt one thing at least — to rely on myself."

"Women are frail things, Mary, for all their courage.

You are best out of this business now.

The issue lies with me."

She did not answer him. Her plans were her own, and he did not enter into them.

"What do you intend to do?" he asked.

"I have not made up my mind," she lied.

"If he leaves tomorrow night, you have little time to decide," he said.

"He expects me to go with him, and Aunt Patience as well."

"And you?"

"That will depend upon tomorrow."

Whatever she felt for him, she would not hazard her plans into his keeping.

He was still an unknown quantity, and above all else an enemy to justice.

It came to her then that by betraying her uncle she might also betray him.

"If I ask you to do something, how would you answer me?" she said.

He smiled then for the first time, mocking and indulgent, as he had done in Launceston, and her heart leapt to him at once, encouraged at the change.

"How can I tell?" he said.

"I want you to go away from here."

"I'm going now."

"No, I mean away from the moors, away from Jamaica Inn.

I want you to tell me you won't return here again.

I can stand up against your brother; I'm in no danger from him now.

I don't want you to come here tomorrow.

Please promise me you'll go away."

"What have you got in your mind?"

"Something which has no concern with you, but might bring you to danger.

I can't say any more.

I would rather you trusted me."

"Trust you?

Good God, of course I trust you.

It's you who won't trust me, you damned little fool." He laughed silently, and bent down to her, putting his arms round her, and he kissed her then as he had kissed her in Launceston, but deliberately now, with anger and exasperation. "Play your own game by yourself, then, and leave me to play mine," he told her. "If you must be a boy, I can't stop you, but for the sake of your face, which I have kissed, and shall kiss again, keep away from danger.

You don't want to kill yourself, do you?

I have to leave you now; it will be daylight within the hour.

And if both our plans miscarry, what then?

Would you mind if you never saw me again?