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 “goodbye.”
We made much of him, as was natural,
