“Oh, Jonah—my love, my darling.”
Mansel held her close, looking down on her upturned face.
“I love you,” he said. “I love the stars in your eyes and the breath of your lips. I love your hair and your temples and the pride of your exquisite mouth. I love all your peerless beauty. But, most of all, my queen, I love your darling nature and the finest, bravest heart that ever closed a book at the end of one golden chapter—and put it back on the shelf.”
He kissed her steadily, and I covered my eyes . . . .
Adèle turned to me and put her arms round my neck. “Dear William,” she said, “you saw the beginning, and now you see the end. You’ve been with us in light and in shadow; you’ve given us freely the best that a man can give; and I can only tell you that the love that you have shown us is part and parcel of our dream.” With that, she put up her lips to be kissed, like a little child, and I kissed them a little fearfully, for my clay is common, but she and Mansel were spirits of another sort.
Then she returned to her lover, and I left them to the rustle of the water and the pale splendour of the moonlight and the motionless plumage of the opposing hills . . . .
Very soon they came up to the “gallery of stone,” and I shut the door behind them and followed them down to the courtyard, without a word.
Five minutes later the Rolls stole up the spur and into the wood.
On the following day George Hanbury and I would have returned to Villach, if not to Town; but this Mansel would not hear of, and, when he discovered our proposal, Adèle and his cousins rose up in pleasant indignation against our leaving their roof.
We could not withstand such goodwill, but, while George was glad to give way, I was reluctant, and, indeed, I shrank from the visit, I think, with cause.
I need have had no fear.
We stayed at Poganec until October was old; every day was of summer, and, though the leaves changed colour, they did not begin to fall. But things other than the season were cordial, and the weeks I had dreaded so turned to my relief that, when we drove back to London, I was in higher feather than I had been for months.
Adèle and Mansel took up the thread of life as though they had never let it fall. If ever they made believe, I never saw it; and, when I was alone with either, neither by word nor look was any reference made to what had passed between them at the Castle of Gath. Indeed their passionate adventure might never have been. The old, easy relation was back in its seats; they were content—happy, for all the world to see; they avoided no ground, because to them it was tender; where others’ fancy took them, thither they went, riding so straight and unconcernedly that I, behind them, caught something of their courage and found the formidable fences of no account.
I think this will show how very fine was their temper, how brave and notable their style. Handsome in all they did, in this supreme ordeal they gave full measure, and I like to think that with that same full measure it shall one day be measured to them again.
Not for some days did I remember that we had never replaced the stone slab which had sealed the entrance to the Closet from the archway below.
This will be found one day, where it lies beneath the King’s bed; and one day the coverlet will be drawn, and men will find the blood-stain upon the quilt.
What curious interest will not these things arouse? The name of Maximilian will be in every mouth. Old annals will be re-read, old narratives revised and legends brought to bed of fine new tales of wrath and mischief and murder saved or done. And yet I cannot think that, for all their bravery, they will compare with the truth.
This I am never weary of recalling, and many a winter’s night I have sat at Maintenance, looking into the fire of logs and giving my memory rein.
Our desperate drive to Poganec, and the red of Mansel’s taillight flicking into and out of sight; the roar of the waterfall, and the high-pitched laugh of the rogue that played with Mansel and lost his game; my perilous journey upon the roof of the car, and the first, stupendous survey of the Castle of Gath; our stealthy entry into the King’s Closet, the ominous creek of the floorboard and then the frantic pounding upon the door; Rose Noble at the head of the table, and Mansel’s lightning move, and the crash of the shots; our vigil by the open window, and the enemy’s hideous laughter floating into the night; Casemate’s halting footfalls, and Mansel asprawl upon the terrace, with the rope by his side; and, then, the death of Rose Noble, and Mansel on his knees in the passage, with Adèle, aghast and piteous, holding him up . . . .
The remembrance of these things is precious to me, for I had my part in them, and the tapestry they make belongs to that quiet gallery of which Mansel and Adèle and I have the only keys.
The End
Blind Corner and Perishable Goods Page 40