Safe Custody and Laughing Bacchante

by Dornford Yates

  “If ever you had to, you could always get out on foot.”

  “And walk to Robin—a matter of twenty-five miles? I think we should be well advised to keep the Rolls hidden somewhere outside the danger zone.” Olivia made no answer, and one minute later I saw the main road ahead. . . .

  I slowed up and waited for Palin, who was driving the second car.

  As he drew alongside—

  “D’you need your map?” said I.

  “No,” said he, handing it over. “There’s a village five miles to the right and another three miles to the left. The servants are at one or the other—probably both. If I can, I shall bring the steward back in the car: but he may want to see you first, so be as quick as you can.”

  With that, we went our ways—he to the nearest village, and Olivia and I to the cross roads en route for the inn.

  As she spread the map on her knees—

  “Tell me,” she said, “what it is that you want to know.”

  “Find Hohenems and then the cross roads,” said I. “We shall pass them almost at once.”

  As we went by—

  “I have them,” she said.

  “Imagine you are standing at the cross roads. How close can you drive to the castle without using the road we’ve just left?”

  She studied the map in silence.

  At length—

  “To within two miles,” she said. “Perhaps a mile and a half. There’s a road just behind the mountain on which the castle stands.”

  “Good,” said I. “How far is that point from the cross roads? By road, I mean.”

  “About ten miles.”

  I nodded my head.

  “I must go there to-day and look round. If we can cross the mountain, we’ve got what we want. Harris can watch the postern and block the drive, while we come and go, if we have to, by way of the coach-house roof. There ought to be a farm thereabouts where we can garage the Rolls.”

  “Here’s generalship,” said Olivia. “And I can stay at the farm.”

  “No, you don’t,” said I. “If you’re not inside the castle, you must be right out of range. Salzburg’s too near for my liking. I think you should be out of the country.”

  Olivia sighed.

  “There are times when you’re rather trying. I gave you my word, and I’ll keep it. I’ll do as you say in reason. But this is out of reason, and I shall stay where I please.”

  “Then I shall stay with you,” said I. “The ‘vestments’ can wait.”

  “Stay with me?”

  As once before, the words flamed.

  “That’s right,” said I, shortly. “And go wherever you go—until you promise to leave the danger zone. I told you Harris was dangerous, and so he is. I didn’t say ‘dangerous to you,’ but that’s what I meant. I’ve had that definite feeling for twenty-four hours. I had it first yesterday morning, when you were up at the window and I was down in the yard. Over your shoulder I seemed to see Harris face. And I won’t disregard that instinct. Even if you went to London, I shouldn’t sleep sound until I saw you again.”

  “You flatter me,” said Olivia. “But I’m not made of egg-shell china. People who cross me, don’t often cross me twice.”

  “There’s a phrase,” said I: “a saying. It comes in the Bible somewhere—I think, the Psalms. ‘The power of the dog.’ To tell you the truth, I can’t get that out of my head. ‘Deliver my soul from the sword—’ ”

  And there I stopped abruptly, for I had forgotten the context, but now that I had begun, the whole came back to my mind.

  I am not quick by nature. To be quite honest, I am most deadly slow. Others can read my emotions more swiftly than I. I have to be told things right out—to stumble upon hard facts, if I am to know they are there. So it was in that instant of time. The quotation told me the truth. I had stumbled upon the fact that I loved Olivia. . . . Had loved her from the moment I saw her three days before.

  ‘Deliver my soul from the sword: my darling from the power of the dog.’

  The fierce light of this revelation and all that it meant, the perception of my blindness of heart and the blunt betrayal which my tongue was about to commit—these things together made me feel rather dazed.

  “Go on,” said Olivia, quietly.

  I swallowed desperately.

  “It’s out of the Psalms,” I said. “ ‘Deliver my soul from the sword: my neighbour from the power of the dog.’ And it—it worries me. It may be foolish, but I can’t get it out of my head.”

  To my relief, she made no answer, and five or six miles went by, before she opened her mouth.

  “Will Salzburg do?”

  “I suppose so,” I said, wretchedly, staring upon the white road. “The honest truth is this. If you are not in the castle, I shall be worried to death. I don’t know how I shall stand it. I want you under my eye.”

  “But, John, be reasonable. How can I stay at Hohenems? Don’t you think I want to be there? D’you think I shall sleep at Salzburg—while you and Hubert and Andrew are fighting to find the ‘vestments,’ while my uncles and Harris are hammering at your gates? What d’you think it’ll mean to me to be out of this show? To be reading and going to concerts, while the secret I’ve dreamed of for ages is actually coming to light? While you three are trying to read it and facing a combination which is going to stick at nothing to bring you down?” She stopped there, twisting her hands. “I don’t know if I can stand it, and that’s the truth."

  “We shall be safe enough. Harris—”

  “But you are so thoughtless,” cried Olivia. “Look at this morning. Look at the risk you took. That blackguard almost killed you, and it wasn’t your fault that he missed. You promised me you’d be careful: and then you go and lie there like—like a trusting lamb. We hadn’t seen the position, and so we supposed it was safe. But the moment you saw it you ought to have seen the danger and come right in. And you talk about fearing for me.”

  “You’re worse than. I am,” said I. “I didn’t see the danger. But you would have seen it and stayed here—you know you would. You must see that Salzburg is dangerous, and yet you mean to stay here. Say that we get some servants and fairly dig ourselves in. Your uncles and Harris will be frantic—ready to use any weapon, however foul. Then somebody sees you in Salzburg . . . and the news filters through to Haydn—that’s natural enough. Why, Harris would leave for Salzburg within the hour.”

  “Do you imagine,” said Olivia, “that I’m going further away? A hundred and fifty miles is bad enough. Day after day, and no news. How can you write?”

  “Don’t rub it in,” said I. “I feel exactly the same.”

  “It comes to this,” said Olivia. “We both want me to be at Hohenems. You’ve some crazy idea that Harris is going to eat me. You want to protect your ‘neighbour from the power of the dog.’ And I shan’t have an easy moment while I’m away. Not one. Yet, as I told you this morning, if I were to do such a thing my name would be dishonoured for the rest of my life. It’s very stupid, of course: but when convention is backed by tradition, you’ve got to watch your step. A married woman can do whatever she likes. But I’m a jeune fille, my good John, and, to tell you the truth, a chaperon ought to be with me—here in this car.”

  I said no more, but sought to put the matter out of my mind. This, of course, was hopeless, for, for one thing, she was sitting beside me, and, for another, all things seemed now unimportant except the light in her eyes.

  ‘My darling from the power of the dog.’

  The saying seemed inscribed upon my brain. Yet, in spite of its warning, I was to let her go . . .

  This beautiful, peerless creature, whose presence, because I loved her, had come to enchant my world, was presently going to leave me—put out the light and leave me, to walk alone in the shadow cast by a peril which her amity for us had raised. We could not so much as communicate—for fear, of course, of disclosing that she was without my walls. Days and weeks would go by, but I should know no more how she was faring than if
I lay in some prison behind the enemy’s lines.

  I had, of course, no personal hope at all. More. I felt sure that if she dreamed that I loved her, the friendship which she had extended would be withdrawn. But, though I might hide my love, I could not conceal the disquiet which the prospect of her going aroused. At this, however, she could hardly take offence. It belonged to the natural relation between two friends. It occurred to me suddenly that all my solicitude for her had been founded on love, that the pictures she made had been limned by the love in my eyes . . .

  I pulled myself together, determined to view the case calmly, as her dispassionate ally and not as a lovesick fool.

  Was there danger in her staying at Salzburg? Or had I, because I loved her, conjured up some bogey which common sense would dispatch?

  After careful reflection I decided that the peril was real.

  Avarice knows no law. Because she had told us the secret, her uncles would both be itching for vengeance of any kind: if we could perceive that she would make a good hostage, the point would scarce escape Harris, whose acquaintance with evil was very much closer than ours: if she was well known at Salzburg—and of this there could be no doubt—Haydn would hear she was there within forty-eight hours.

  I started to try to consider whether she would not be safer if she remained at the inn . . . whether it would not be better . . .

  And here my brain began to rebel against me, calling up visions of Olivia beset by Harris and bringing out the sweat on my face.

  Meanwhile the minutes were passing, the furlongs were sliding by. And every one was bringing nearer the parting which I was dreading, which she herself did not want. I felt as though we were driving out of the sunlight into some cheerless region of cold and fear—and all because we could not discover the trick of going about.

  “No way out, John?”

  I knew she was smiling that gentle, half-mischievous smile.

  I set my teeth.

  “Not yet,” I said grimly.

  It was she that smoothed my way when we came to the inn, for even had I known German, it would have been hard for me to break to the kindly people the news that we should not return. As it was, to our great distress, the hostess burst into tears which we could not dry, while the host made up such a bill as I was ashamed to pay. By the time I had packed up our things—and this, I may say, I did as a man in a dream—Olivia’s maid was seated in the back of the Rolls, and nothing remained to be done but partake of the lavish refreshment which our friends had prepared in the place of a stirrup-cup. Upon this we wasted ten minutes, because we had hurt them enough: then we got into the car and, promising faithfully to visit them very soon, we left the two honest souls in the mouth of the inn, the woman weeping, with her apron over her head, and the man with his arm about her, trying to lend her a comfort he did not know.

  We took the road for Mittal, whence a train would leave for Villach soon after midday. Olivia would alight at Villach, to take-up the trunks she had left there two days before, and from there she would travel to Salzburg by the evening express. Since she was to go, it was best that she went at once: and though I implored her to let me drive her to Villach, I knew in my heart that I had not the time to spare.

  “My dear, don’t be fantastic,” was all she said.

  I had not the heart to talk, though the miles went by: and she, beside me, said nothing, although, indeed, there was so much to be said.

  We were less than three miles from Mittal before she opened her mouth.

  “Will you give me your cigarette-case?"

  I took it out of my pocket and put it into her hand.

  She took the parchment slip from her dress and slid it carefully under the cigarettes.

  “Did you see what I did?”

  “Yes, Olivia."

  She closed the case and offered it to me again.

  As I took it, I touched her cool fingers . . .

  I shall always believe that that contact taught me the way—released that extravagant notion which flamed in my brain for an instant and then took shape as a definite, desperate idea.

  I glanced behind me. The glass partition was up. “Olivia,” I said. “Do you really want to stay in the castle?”

  “Don’t tempt me,” she said. “I’m doing the hardest thing that I’ve ever done in my life.”

  “Listen,” I said. “By the grace of God, I’m a Catholic, and so are you. Marry me at Mittal—instead of taking the train. You’ll be my wife on paper. In the sight of Carinthia—the world, you’ll be my wife. But not in my eyes—I swear it. Nor Hubert’s, nor Palin’s, nor Stiven’s—they’ll know the truth. And when we’ve found, I’ll help you to get an annulment to set you free.”

  I dared not look at her, but I felt her gaze on my face. I went on doggedly.

  “It’s asking you to trust me a lot, but I—I won’t let you down. And, as I live, I can think of no other way.”

  “D’you know what you’re saying?” said Olivia. Her tone provoked me. I was a desperate man.

  “Yes,” I said. “If you didn’t hear, I’ll say it all over again.”

  A mile went by in silence.

  Then—

  “I suppose you mean well,” said Olivia.

  “I suppose so,” said I.

  “Ought I to feel honoured?”

  “I don’t see why you shouldn’t,” said I. “Ferrers is quite a good name.”

  Another mile passed—before, I suppose, Olivia could trust her voice.

  Then—

  “What possessed you to make this suggestion?”

  “I want you within the castle,” said I.

  “ ‘My neighbour from the power of the dog’?”

  “That’s right,” said I. “I’m afraid of Harris.”

  “You’re rather quixotic, aren’t you?”

  “No,” said I. “Only desperate.”

  “I might as well marry Hubert.”

  I hesitated. It had not occurred to me that any one of us three could serve the turn.

  “Just—just as you please,” I stammered.

  “I’m much obliged,” flashed Olivia. “You actually give me my choice.”

  As before, her tone provoked me.

  “No, I’m damned if I do,” I cried. “I take it back. You marry me or no one. And if you’re going to do it, you do it now. I’ve told you that you can trust me and that when the game is over I’ll set you free. I know it’s a strange proposal, but I’ve—I’ve got my back to the wall.”

  There was a little silence.

  “I suppose you know,” said Olivia, “that annulments are sometimes refused.”

  “I have given my word,” I said coldly, “to set you free. And there’s Mittal, down in that hollow. Am I to drive to the station, or drive to the church?”

  As I spoke the outrageous words, I braced myself for the lash. With the tail of my eye I could see my proud companion deciding how to lay on. Then—

  “I’ll see you, John,” she said gently. “Drive to the church.”

  As may be expected, our marriage created a stir.

  The Rolls was well known to Mittal, but the name of Olivia Haydn was a household word. The priest himself knew her to speak to, and when she made known her wishes, appeared bereft of his wits, while Gertrude, Olivia’s maid, who was to attend her mistress, was in such a flutter of excitement that Olivia sent her away to cool her heels in the church. It was, indeed, thanks to the verger, that we were married at all. He had been hastily fetched from his cobbler’s shop and at once took charge of the matter, taking particulars from us and telling us what we must do and presently robing the priest and tolling the bell. Though we had given no notice, this point was waived, and, if there were others, Olivia and he between them swept them aside. I wed her at half-past twelve with my great-uncle’s ring, wondering very much what Hubert and Palin would say and feeling very thankful that I had shaved and changed when I got to the inn. That these were not all my emotions I have no doubt, but the others I cannot recal
l, for I remember the ceremony just as I remember a dream. I know it took place: I remember its beginning and ending: but its detail is erased from my mind. Only one thing stands out, and that is that when it was over, I turned and smiled at Olivia, and she smiled back—a steady, magical smile, quite different to any that I had seen on her face. The sheer warmth of it thrilled me: before it the blood seemed to leap and dance in my veins: the world around me seemed misty, and I could see nothing but the glorious light in her eyes. Her hand was in mine, and I put it up to my lips . . .

  We signed the register, and I feed the priest and the verger with Hubert’s notes. Then my wife and I left for Hohenems, leaving Gertrude to take train to Villach and come back that evening to Mittal, bringing her mistress’ trunks.

  As we passed under the archway, I saw at once that Palin had not returned. This I found ominous, for it was long past one.

  Presently Hubert appeared.

  When he saw Olivia, he started.

  Then—

  “I hope this means,” he said, “that you’ve changed your mind. I was going to curse John to blazes for being so late, but if he’s won you over, the time he took to do it was very well spent.”

  “Thank you,” said Olivia, smiling. “As a matter of fact, you’re quite right. He thought of a way, and it took some time to—to follow. And now what about my uncle? Did you search him again?”

  “Yes,” said Hubert. “In vain. I knew from his demeanour that there was nothing to find. I mean, he didn’t resist.”

  Olivia knitted her brows.

  “Can’t be helped,” she said. “Where did you put what you found when you searched him last night? The plans and his watch and things? I’d like to go through them again.”

  When my cousin had told her, she nodded and left us at once.

  “And her maid?” said Hubert.

  “Gone to Villach,” said I, “to pick up her trunks.”

  “That’s right,” said my cousin. “How did you bring her round?”

  I braced myself.