Three hundred feet.
I wiped the sweat from my brow.
I had arranged with Palin that, if we were not in by nightfall, a light should be shown in some window that faced the north: with this and the water to guide me, I had but little fear of missing my way, but I could not forget how rough a passage we had when we descended the mountain on the night that we stole the car, and I did not see how I could possibly subject Olivia to such a strain. Yet dusk was upon us, and up to this point there had been no sign of a path.
There was nothing to do but go forward as fast as we could, making the most of the twilight and trusting to make such progress that we should be close to the castle before the darkness came in.
The going was now much more level, for the dell was sunk in a plateau which lay like a sloping step perhaps a hundred feet from the mountain’s top. As the water passed to the right, so I proposed to pass to the left of this peak, but distance is deceptive and, besides, I might have remembered that water will always choose the shortest way.
Half an hour went by before we had surmounted the shoulder and so had begun to descend, and darkness was upon us before I dared bear to the right.
And here a new fear beset me, for, though I could have sworn that now we stood on the southern face of the mountain, I could not hear the rush of the water which was to be our guide.
“That,” said Olivia, “may be due to the shape of the ground. There’s probably still some spur between us and the fall. And now I must rest for five minutes, whatever you say.”
I took off my coat, to put it about her shoulders: she protested, of course, but after a little she let me have my way. Then I went on a few paces, to prove the ground we must tread.
To my delight, before I had taken ten steps I suddenly heard the cascade quite loud and clear. Without stopping to consider the reason, I imprudently quickened my pace and an instant later I stepped clean over some brink into mid-air.
My fall was broken by bushes some twenty feet down, and though I was thoroughly frightened, I was not hurt, for I fell upon a network of briars, which received me rudely enough but were too stout and too many to let me down.
As I got to my feet, trembling, and hardly daring to hope that I had broken no bones, I knew that I must have fallen over the very cliff I had been at such pains to avoid and that Hohenems lay directly below me, although because of the leaves I could see no light. This was good to be sure of: what was less pleasant to realize was that I was cut off from Olivia as though by an arm of the sea.
Climb up the cliff I could not: it was too smooth and sheer.
I dared not shout, for, though she might have heard me, because of the sound of the water she could not have distinguished my words and would have been sure to make straight for the edge of the cliff.
I could rejoin her only by making my way round the cliff—a manoeuvre which in the darkness might take me as long as an hour.
An hour. Meanwhile . . .
All my previous fears were as nothing to the torment of apprehension I now endured. I felt quite sure that, when I did not return, she would set out to seek me as best she could: and that would be disastrous, for if she did not herself fall over the cliff, once she had moved from the spot at which I had left her, whether we met would depend upon nothing but chance. The thought of her stumbling alone over ground which the hardiest peasant would have been glad to avoid, concerned at my disappearance and presently chilled to the bone, was agonizing enough, but the thought of her falling, as I had, but not escaping, as I had, some serious hurt, not only tore at my heart-strings, but, because it was so likely, became an expectation which fed, like some fire, upon my nerves. I saw myself searching, yet not knowing where to look nor even where I was looking, because I was lost myself: I saw myself struggling to save her, when already the mischief was done: I heard myself shouting ‘Olivia,’ and yet, because she was past hearing, shouting her name in vain: and I saw myself, frantic, plunging down to the castle to summon a belated assistance which I knew in my heart that only the dawn could give. . . .
A prey to these horrid reflections, I fought my way, like a madman, away from the sound of the fall, for my one idea was to come to the end of the cliff, which like some relentless wall, was blocking my way: but the progress I made was shocking, for again and again I missed my footing and fell and, because the slope was so steep, when I fell I fell down the mountain and had then to climb back to the cliff before I went on. At last, in desperation, I seized the trunk of a fir-tree which was growing beside the cliff and started between the two to hoist myself up, now using some niche as foothold and now the stump of some bough: all the time I was horribly troubled in case I should find in a moment that I had been wasting my time, for I was as good as blindfold, and for all I knew the fir-tree was leaning away from the cliff.
And, in fact, it did lean away.
The higher I climbed, the more apparent this grew, until I could only just straddle the gap between. Yet, though I could have climbed up the fir-tree, I dared not abandon the cliff: and this I could not climb up, without the help of the fir-tree, because the rock was too smooth.
I suddenly found that I was praying under my breath. . . .
It is strange how much a desperate man may achieve.
When, later on, I surveyed the spot by daylight, I could hardly believe that any man could have done what I did that night: and I think the truth is that I succeeded because I could not see where I was going or what I was attempting to do.
Be that as it may, after scrambling for three or four minutes, my frantic fingers encountered the edge of the cliff, and with one final, frenzied effort I flung myself off the fir-tree on to the sloping terrace from which I had taken my fall.
For an instant I thought I had failed, for the edge gave way beneath me and all the weight of my body was in mid-air, but I managed to drag myself forward and then to get to my feet. As the roar of the cascade faded, I called Olivia’s name. . . .
“What is it, John? What is it?”
I began to tremble. Her voice came from behind me . . . from a little to my left and behind me. And I was only six feet from that deadly brink.
Somehow or other I got out the vital words.
“Stand perfectly still. I’m coming.”
“What is it, John?”
As I caught her outstretched hand—
“N—nothing,” I stammered. “I—I lost you I was afraid you might fall.”
I set her arm beneath mine and led her away from the brink.
“But you’re shaking, John. What’s the matter? Where have you been?”
I tried to steady my voice.
“I fell down,” I said. “There’s a cliff. And at first I couldn’t get back. And I was afraid that when I didn’t come back, you’d come to by and find me—and do the same. You were very . . . close to the edge.”
“Was I?”
“T—two or three feet, Olivia.”
I was suddenly aware that my hand was covering hers and that my arm was pressing hers into my side.
“I’m sorry,” I said, and released her. “You see, I felt so helpless. If I’d called, you’d have come towards me, and, because of the roar of the water, you couldn’t have heard what I said.”
“You say you fell down. Are you hurt?”
“Oh, no. I’m all right. I was lucky. I fell on a bush. But you might not have. And then when I found you so close, it shook me up.”
With the sleeve of my shirt I wiped the sweat from my face.
“You’re very—very solicitous for me,” said Olivia. “Naturally,” said I. “You’re not cold?”
“I’m warm—in your coat.”
“Then let’s get on,” said I. “It’s not very far. Once we can get round this cliff. . . .”
By my direction, she set a hand on my shoulder before we moved: but when we started, she could not keep it there, for the going was very rough and we did not move together, as we could have done on a road.
“Half
measures are useless,” said I. “I must put my left arm about you and you must put your right round my neck.”
Without a word, she did so: and though we went but slowly, the arrangement worked very well, for she was so light that I was hardly hampered and yet was able to lift her over the broken ground.
I shall never forget that journey, which, perhaps because Fortune was smiling, exacted no great effort and took us little more than an hour: but I was so proud and so happy to be holding her close to my heart that I could, have gone on for leagues and would have dropped down in my tracks before letting her go.
Indeed, when I saw before us the light from the castle window thrusting between the leaves and knew that in two or three minutes our adventure would come to an end, I felt as though I were leaving some pretty garden which I should not enter again.
The thought startled me, and I felt suddenly cold.
“What is it, John?”
“Nothing,” said I, halting. “See. There are the stables before us, between the leaves.”
“What was it?” said Olivia.
I have said that my arm was about her and that hers was about my neck. Her face was four inches from mine. It was turned towards me, and I felt the breath of her lips. The scent of her was in my nostrils—and there was the wall of the coach-house but twenty paces away.
I—I’m sorry it’s over,” I stammered. “I like being alone with you. But I won’t let you down,” I added hastily. And then, “It’s been a great day.”
“It has, hasn’t it?” breathed Olivia. “Our—our wedding day.”
For an instant my brain seemed to stagger, and my senses thrilled as strings before some exquisite touch.
The next moment I had myself in hand.
“I’ll never forget it,” I said thickly.
Then I let her go and caught her little left hand.
As I kissed the ring I had given her, I think that she touched my hair. . . .
And then I was hailing Stiven, who was keeping watch on the roof.
One minute later a ladder came sliding down.
I set my foot against it and handed her up. When she had taken two steps, I saw her look round and down.
“Has Hubert told Stiven?” she said.
“I expect so,” said I. “If not, I’ll tell him myself.”
“That it’s—it’s only a game?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t think I should,” said Olivia. “Gertrude knows a little English, and if he got talking to her he might give it away.”
“All right,” I said slowly. “Then—then you’re not going to tell Gertrude?”
“How can I?” said Olivia. And then, “Would you rather she knew?”
“Good Lord, no,” said I. “But that’s different. I mean, it’s a matter for you. I’m sailing under false colours.”
“So am I,” said Olivia.”
“Oh, my dear . . .”
Olivia gave a light laugh. Then she set her face to the coach-house and made her way up to its roof.
The order we found in the castle did my heart good.
Lights were burning, a servant was at the front door, Olivia’s maid was waiting at the foot of the stairs: fires were blazing in the gallery, footmen were about their business, the dining-room table was laid. Nor was that all. The bedrooms were swept and garnished, the water was piping hot, and within half an hour of our entry an excellent dinner was served. There can be no doubt that, because he had but eight men, the steward had had to make shift, yet this was in no way apparent and nothing which could add to our comfort seemed to have been left undone. Indeed, I can only say that out of our tribulation we seemed to have come into some Arabian Night.
At length the cloth was drawn and the servants withdrew.
“And now,” said Olivia, “tell me. My uncle, of course, has gone. I don’t suppose he gave you his blessing, but the terms upon which you parted would interest me no end.”
Seated upon her left hand, my cousin fingered his glass.
“I fear they were bad,” he said. “At half past five, when the servants on foot had arrived, we visited him in the stables, restored his watch and his purse and advised him to make for the cross roads without delay. We pointed out that his car would be there at six. and that, since he had three miles to go, unless his chauffeur was patient or he himself walked pretty fast, he would almost certainly spend a second night out, Then we told him in so many words that if he was wise he wouldn’t return to the charge, for the leniency which we had shown him would never be shown him again. He heard us quietly enough. Then he looked at his watch and his purse and asked for his breviary.” He paused there and looked at Palin, who was frowning upon the board. “In reply, I gave him the truth—which was that I couldn’t find it . . . I don’t know where you put it, my lady, but I looked for it high and low. I was going to add that I’d have it sent to him as soon as I could, but before I could get out the words he let himself go.”
“In fact,” said Palin, “we were forced to the painful conclusion that his reverence did not believe what Hubert said. More. So demoniac was his manner and so uncharitable his speech that it began to dawn upon us that he set upon his breviary a value quite out of proportion to its intrinsic worth. And then we saw in a flash why it was that Hubert couldn’t find it. . . . Upon my soul, Olivia, I give you best.”
I looked from him to my wife. Her eager face was fairly alight with an excitement which she made no attempt to suppress.
“I don’t understand,” said I.
“You wouldn’t,” said Palin, shortly. “Your powers of comprehension are of another sort.” Olivia covered her mouth. “All the same, it’s very simple. Your—your better half had the idea. Alexander the Sixth used his breviary to cover his secret notes. It occurred to Olivia that her—your uncle might have possibly done the same. But she was too wise to say so. She simply hid the book and went off, leaving Hubert and me to play the hand she had dealt. We did so in all innocence—there’s nothing like innocence for getting the wicked man’s goat—with the happy result that the darling lost his temper and gave the whole show away.”
“Then his share of the parchment—”
“—is probably burned,” said Palin. “But its burden is in his breviary. You know. Letters or words underlined, or something like that. We may have to work to find it, but I’ll lay a monkey it’s there.” He returned to Olivia. “When he left, he was fairly gibbering—couldn’t get his words out right. His threats wouldn’t construe. His curses couldn’t be parsed. The word ‘sacrilege’ gave him peculiar difficulty: and when I offered him ‘impiety,’ he tried to spit in my face. And that, of course, was the end. We led him over the drawbridge and pushed him off, and he went down the road in a series of short rushes, as though he were out of his mind. He’d run like mad for twenty steps or so: then he’d bring himself up all standing and throw up his arms and rave. I must confess I enjoyed the spectacle. At the same time I found it sinister. I don’t know what he can do: but he’ll take a lot of stopping, when once he’s made up his mind.”
“He’ll get a lot of stopping,” said Hubert. “Without an explosive you can’t break into this place and I’ve arranged with the steward to have a man up all night. At the very first scent of danger, he’ll sound the fire-alarm. We’ve thirteen men, and between us we’ve got six pistols and three scatter-guns. We’ve unlimited water, and food below for two months. And if we should have to withdraw, thanks to John’s prevision, the Rolls is over the way. I don’t suggest for one moment that we should put up our feet: but I can’t help feeling that the others are up against it—closer up against it than we were five days ago. So much for our security. As for the work to be done, thanks to Olivia’s brain-wave, we now hold two-thirds of the clue. And if, with that and the plans, we can’t get home . . . In fact, as I’m the only one who has done nothing at all, I think I can say without boasting that, all things considered, we’ve had a pretty good day.”
“Oh, wonderful,” said Pa
lin. “Quite—quite spectacular . . . thanks to John’s prevision.” He looked mournfully at Hubert. “Of course we missed the best part, you and I. And I do so love throwing confetti. But, you see, I couldn’t get away. I had to get them some servants.” He turned to me. “You’re sure you haven’t made a mistake? When you say you were married, you’re sure you don’t mean ‘baptized’?”
“I paid for a marriage,” I said.
“Dear, dear,” said Palin. “I do hope they didn’t charge you too much. Who told you you’d have to have a ring?”
“I’d read it somewhere,” said I.
“If you ask me,” said Palin violently, “you’d read the whole blasted thing. I suppose you heard the bells saying ‘Turn again Ferrers, Thrice lord and master of Haydn.̕,” Hubert, sitting on my right, began to shake with laughter. “Of course that priest ought to be unfrocked.”
I glanced at Olivia, who was facing me and was seated on Palin’s left. But her head was laid against the back of her chair, and her eyes were fast on the railing, on which was painted some brave Olympian scene.
“I acted,” said I, “for the best. And I’d do it again to-morrow. At least, Olivia’s safe.”
“Oh, the self-sacrifice of him!” said Palin.’ He expired with great violence. “You know, I despair of chipping the scales from your eyes. Wedlock is an estate, not a fox-trot. It’s even more momentous than musical chairs. And if you were to cut the name Haydn out of the Almanack de Gotha, you’d have to reset half the book. But I expect these long words are too hard for you. Let me give it you with a spoon.
“We’re in a garden, we three—considerably troubled about a beautiful flower. There is . . . no other flower like it in all the world. And we are afraid that a naughty man, called Harris, may do it some harm. So we take what precautions we can and go our ways. The next thing we know is that you’ve picked the flower. Stuck it up in your button-hole. . . . And while we’re still wondering whether we see aright, you calmly explain that you did this to save it from Harris, and that when he’s out of the way, you’re going to put the bloom back.”
Safe Custody and Laughing Bacchante Page 16
