Blind Corner and Perishable Goods

by Dornford YIates

  When George drove to Lass, to seek Rachel, that afternoon, he fetched from the inn what few belongings we had left there against our return, and, giving out that Mansel had crushed his foot and lay in a peasant’s cabin in danger of losing his leg, sowed the seed of a story for Rachel to tell. Him we took back to a junction some miles below Lass and promised to meet him there at ten the next day.

  The bookseller flatly refused to let us convey him at all, maintaining that it was to our interest that he should go as he came and so be forearmed to affirm that, if there was trouble abroad, it was not at the Castle of Gath. His housekeeper, a notorious gossip, was aware that he had intended to visit the castle that day; any perilous rumours, therefore, were sure to be brought straight to him, and, if he was able to disclaim an acquaintance with strife, he would be able to crush them once and for all. His one appearance in the car could be explained well enough; Hanbury had met him at the cross roads, in some distress, and he had offered to show him the surgeon’s house.

  The debt we owe to that man can never be paid. He had a heart of gold. Most brave, discreet and understanding, he threw himself into our venture, as though it had been his own, and would, I think, have cheerfully gone to the stake, rather than have spoken one word to our embarrassment. We had purchased the surgeons’ silence, as well as their skill; the caretakers went in fear; but the bookseller held his tongue and gave of the best he had because he liked us and without, I am sure, any thought of any reward.

  By dusk some sort of order had been set up. Rooms had been cleaned and prepared for Buchinger and Adèle; and each of us had his quarters and his particular charge.

  That night a note went to Poganec.

  I am free and safe and sound—at a terrible cost. Jonah has been wounded and lies at the point of death.

  Adèle

  And there he lay for three days, as Buchinger had said, in the room that Adèle had once used in the southwest tower.

  Then the mists parted, and they said he would live.

  “I think,” said Buchinger, “that he will recover fast. If all goes well, he can leave his bed in a fortnight, and in another week you may drive him home. But not before that. To-morrow morning I shall return to Innsbruck, but shall visit him twice in each week until he is well. No doubt you will kindly convey me in one of your cars. Dr. Rachel must still attend him twice a day; but, when a week has gone by, once in the day will do. I have told Miss Adèle that now his servant may very well take the night watch, and, if you do not want another patient upon your hands, I recommend you to insist that this is done.”

  Here something touched his leg, and we both looked down to see Tester wagging his tail.

  “Ah, you monkey. Yes, that is all very well. I come to save your master, and you fly in my face. You are carried off, breathing threatenings and thirsty to drink my blood. And now I have done it in your teeth, I am your very good friend and must be noticed and honoured—”

  Tester rolled over and put his paws in the air; and, when the surgeon stooped, jumped up to lick his face.

  I never saw the dog so use any other stranger, and he would not look at Rachel, for all his zeal. With this blunt discernment all his conduct was of piece. We had set a box for him in the “gallery of stone,” and there he had lain, like a mouse, since the day on which Mansel was hit, never going further than the terrace, the door to which stood open for him to use. He never sought to enter the sick-room, but always rose and listened, whenever the door was opened by day or night, and anxiously scanned the faces of such as went. So for those three black days. After that he went out and about and took his ease and only kept his box when we went to bed. Then came the day when Mansel asked for him; and, when I went to the door, to go and find him, there he was, standing on the threshold, with one paw raised and his eyes seeking confirmation of what he believed to be the truth.

  I do not seek to magnify his instinct, but, well as we knew him, these things astonished us all, and, if speech was denied him, he had, I think, another and finer faculty.

  There seemed little doubt that, so far, our secret was safe. We drew our supplies, not from Lass, but from towns in other directions from twenty to fifty miles off; since the day of Mansel’s wounding, we had not been seen in Lass, and we fetched and carried Rachel by devious ways; when we left the drive, we did so with great circumspection, the castle gates were kept shut, and no lights were shown in the building or on the cars.

  George had visited Poganec, had told the most of our story and had explained our case. The question of the Pleydells’ coming had naturally arisen at once, but, after a while, they determined to stay where they were. Captain Pleydell could not be moved, because of his leg; and the others decided that, till Mansel was in a condition to be not only prepared for their coming, but satisfied that this move was entailing no risk, their appearance would only concern him and would do no manner of good. So soon, however, as Mansel began to mend, we were to fetch Daphne Pleydell, while it was dark, to spend a day in the castle and go back the following night; a day or so later Major Pleydell would come, and, when these two visits were over, Adèle would visit her husband in just the same way.

  That all this precaution was needful, there is no doubt. Lass was big with rumour, and, though much of the gossip was wild, we were astounded to find how close some approached the truth.

  Rachel maintained his story that Mansel had crushed his leg, and the bookseller quietly diverted suspicion from Gath; but neither could shut the eyes or stop the ears of the town whose sleep was seldom broken by anything more stirring than a chimney afire or an instance of petty theft.

  The bookseller wrote to us daily, always directing his letter to a different village or town, from which we posted our answer, telling how Mansel did.

  I cannot do better than make the first letter he wrote us speak for itself.

  Sirs,

  You shall please take great cares. Your fetchings of Dr. Rachel cannot be too secretly made. It is said here that a priest is led into the mountains and there destroyed; that one man has met him to appointment in a house of the alley over against my shop and would lead him into the mountains, where three more men were lying ready to kill; that the priest was to seek a woman who had his love and was not of her own mind because she loved him so dearly; that the woman is lying still in his murderer’s arms and that these had a great motor-car in which they drove themselves; that such car is now in Welsa, under the village’s police, who wait for it to be demanded, but all in vain, because the murderers are afraid; that you came after the priest, to save his life, and are encamped in the mountains until the murderers shall move; that they are shut themselves in one of the castles, but you do not know which, and because of your friend’s misadventure, you are at a deadlock. And other things was said, that the woman wears the clothes of a man, that the priest is hanged to death, and many other untruths; but those of above will show upon you how clean you must pick your way.

  All this, I learn, was said for two or three days, but was not come to my ears, because I sit still with my books; but, when I return from Gath, I find myself well awaited, and I am glad I was ready with my tale.

  I trust and believe your friend is surviving his wound.

  Your obedient servant

  H.S.

  Still the days went by, and no one troubled us; the visits were paid, and the world seemed none the wiser; our curious heritage became a pleasant habit; and Mansel grew steadily better under the love of Adèle.

  * * *

  I was sitting on the terrace one morning, on a cushion of one of the cars, looking at the exquisite prospect and finding much virtue in sloth, when a hand came to rest upon my shoulder, and there was Adèle.

  Care and her vigil had left her a little pale, but this only gave her beauty a delicate look which suited it very well.

  Without a word, she sat herself down beside me, propped herself on an arm and tilted her chin.

  “Have you drunk your milk?” said I.

  “Yes
,” said Adèle. “Beautiful, fragrant milk—straight from the cow. Who travelled all night to get it—and drinks canned milk himself?”

  “George Hanbury,” said I.

  Adèle sighed.

  “I wonder,” she said, “I wonder if ever a woman was so well served.”

  “You must thank yourself,” said I.

  “So Jonah says,” said Adèle; “but I can’t see why.”

  “You must take our word,” said I, “for it’s gospel truth.”

  And so it was. Without any thought of favour, we delighted to serve Adèle. I am not quite certain why. It was not because she was more bodily and mentally attractive than any girl that I have ever seen; it was not because of her dignity or because of her natural grace. She had a way with her. This was a royal way, and—it was the way of a child. She was full-grown, she was worldly, she was wise; but, with it all, she had never lost that golden flush of childhood which makes its way directly into the hardest heart. I have often wondered how Rose Noble could have used her so harshly, but I think that he had no heart, and the others, I suppose, had no choice but to follow his monstrous lead.

  “Do you remember,” she said, “a question you asked me not very long ago?”

  “Yes,” said I. “‘What about going back?”’

  She nodded.

  “That’s right. I think you saw better than I how very hard it would be. It would have been—awfully hard. But Fate’s very wise. They say God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb. I’m sure he does—in His mysterious way. I’ve often wondered how such a thing could be done; but now I know. So soon as the lamb is shorn, he lets the wind blow for a moment with ice in its breath; and that moment’s so dreadful that ever after that the lamb doesn’t feel the wind . . . And that’s our case. It would have been awfully hard. But that half-hour was so dreadful that now the rest seems easy, and I’m not a bit afraid. It’s the old question of contrast. I’ve lifted the load that I might have had to carry. It crushed me—for half an hour. And then for three days and nights I stood waiting to know my fate.” She drew a deep breath. “Can you wonder, William, that, after that experience, the future weighs no more than this necklace around my neck?”

  “Thank God for that, Adèle.”

  For a little while she sat silent, smiling into the distance as though there were something there which I could not see.

  “I’m very lucky,” she said. “My love-affair’s been so perfect—from first to last. I was taken because he loved me, and then he came in his strength, to pull me out. I shared the rough with him; and, whilst we were under the shadow, he slept with his head in my lap; when he was hurt, I was there; and alone I’ve had the glory of helping him back to life. And it’s all been out of the world: we’ve never had to use the back stairs, or whisper, or put out the light. There’s been nothing sordid about it, and nothing cheap. And, when it’s finished, it’ll go, like a painting, into the quiet gallery of which you and he and I have the only keys .”

  “I shall often walk there, Adèle.”

  She nodded gravely.

  “I like to think that you will.”

  There was another silence.

  Presently she knitted her brows.

  “I’m upset about Boy,” she said. “You can’t get away from the fact that I’m letting him down. He is so good to me, and I love him so much. He’s so proud of me and of Jonah, and he plays such a splendid game. When you took me to Poganec, he was so glad to see me, but they hadn’t told him I was coming, because they knew he’d say that I mustn’t leave Jonah’s side. You can’t beat that, can you?”

  “As I live,” said I, “I believe that he’d understand. Of course, you can’t possibly tell him; but, if you did, I believe that he’d understand. So don’t be upset, Adèle. It was nobody’s fault. It was the most natural thing that ever happened.”

  Adèle turned a glowing face.

  “William, tell me. All the world would say that Jonah and I were doing a rotten thing. How is it you don’t think so? How is it you understand?”

  “There’s no one like him,” said I.

  “I know, but—”

  “And, then—there’s no one like you.”

  “Oh, William . . . . ”

  “The page and the lady,” said I. “It’s often happened before. And I shall survive.” I rose to my feet. “But that, I think, is the reason why I understand. I can look at him with your eyes, and I can see you with his, and— well, Kings and Queens go together, and, oh, my dear, I’m so glad I shall have that key.”

  Adèle put out a slim hand, and I lifted her up.

  I would have loosed her fingers, but she left them in mine.

  “You’re a lot like him,” she said quietly. “Rowley told me who fetched the milk.”

  Then she put her hand to my lips.

  On the last day we spent at the castle, the bookseller came, by arrangement, to bid us “good-bye.”

  We made much of him, as was natural, but, when we had talked for a while and he had broken his fast, he begged us to let him ramble from room to room, “for my great desire,” he said, “was to make my guide pages more full, and never again shall I have an occasion like this.”

  So we showed him the trick of the table—which afforded him infinite delight—and then let him go his way, to discover and speculate to his heart’s content. Ere it was sundown, he had a great book full of notes, and his voice was trembling with pleasure as he told over his hoard.

  Then Mansel took him apart and did the delicate business of making him rich. I do not know what he said or how he said it, but, when it was over, the poor old fellow was quite unable to speak, and, though he shook hands with us all a number of times, and though George and I went with him as far as the porch, he never once opened his mouth, until the wicket stood open and he was about to step out.

  Then—

  “Sirs,” he said shakily, “to some friendships there is no farewells.”

  Then he clapped his hat on his head and went his way.

  We watched him pass up the spur, but, though we stood ready to wave, he never looked back, and at last the wood swallowed him up and we saw him no more.

  When the dusk came in, George, with Bell and Rowley, went off with Punter and Bunch, to take them to Innsbruck, purchase their tickets for London and see them go.

  The latter gave no trouble, comported themselves most humbly and touched their hats to their warders, if ever they spoke. Such piety suggested that their recent bodily affliction had chastened their souls; but Rowley, who was watching to see that they took the train, reported that, when they did so, Punter was burdened with a suitcase and Bunch with a dressing-bag, and, since, when they left the car, they had had no luggage and neither had upon him the price of a glass of beer, I fear that they were incorrigible and that honesty was, so to speak, beyond their element.

  George was not to return to the castle, but to meet us at midnight at a point between Lass and Villach, some twenty miles from the hog’s back from which we had scanned the country a month before. So, when we had dined and the terrier had had his supper, Carson and Tester and I went the rounds for the last time.

  No sign of our occupation was anywhere to be seen.

  The damage we had done in the antechamber had been repaired, the bullet-holes in the Dining-room had been stopped and such window-glass as was broken had been replaced. The rooms had all been cleaned, the floors shone like glass, the beds had been stripped; the caretakers had such linen as had been used, and this the woman would wash and return to store; what rubbish and litter there was had been taken the night before and sunk in a river we knew of ten miles away.

  When we had finished our inspection and found all well, I sent Carson down, with Tester, to finish loading the Rolls, and walked by myself on the roof for half an hour.

  The night was lovely, and, though October was in, the air was as still and gentle as that of a summer’s eve. A fine moon was riding a cloudless sky and shedding enough pale light to lend the towers an
d bulwarks a fanciful air and all the world I could see the look of a fairy-tale.

  I do not believe in Enchantment; but, if there be such a thing, it stood at my shoulder that evening upon the ramparts of Gath. Castle, spur and thicket, mountains and forests and the flesh of the water below seemed all “such stuff as dreams are made,” and I could not shake off the feeling that we were about to quit a fantastic country which, search for it as we might, we never should see again.

  When it was ten o’clock, I made my way to the courtyard. There all was in order: what luggage we had was in place, and the rugs and cushions for Mansel were piled in the back of the car.

  Then I went to the terrace, as they had asked me to do, to tell Adèle and Mansel that it was time to be gone.

  They had left the chairs, set for them, and were standing together up to the balustrade; his arm was about her, and her head was against his shoulder, and the two threw a single shadow upon the flags.

  For a moment I stood, irresolute, at the head of the steps. Then I went heavily down . . . .

  They did not turn at my coming. Only Adèle stretched out a little hand.

  I came and stood beside her, and her arm went about my shoulders and held me close.

  So we stood, all three together, looking unto the hills . . . .

  Mansel was speaking.

  “The very elements respect you,” he said. “Was ever a night so lovely, to round a dream?”

  “Our dream,” breathed Adèle. “Our beautiful, shining dream. You gave it us, darling. By keeping my letters, you gave it. And your strength has been its glory, your gentleness its life.

  “You wrote the letters,” said Mansel. “Because of that, I loved them so very much. I never thought I should bum them . . . But then I never thought that, in their place you would give me something—something that won’t go into words, Adèle, that all the ages must envy me, and that no thieves can steal.”

  Adèle’s arm left my shoulders and came to rest upon his.