MARION WYATT
As calmly as he had ever gone into battle, or--as he had told
Laurent--had fought his way through the Duke of Holstein-Pleon's men
at Entzheim, he prepared to find out who was the occupant of the room
from under the door of which that ray of light emerged.
He began by doing what he had before thought of in the garret above,
and would have done but for the fear of rusty nails or other things
which might wound his feet. He took off his boots. Then, carrying them
in his hands, creeping as softly as a mouse in spite of his great
size, and holding the scabbard of his sword tightly, so that no clank
of it should arouse the sleepers below, he made his way towards where
the light streamed forth from under the door. Yet, as he went, he cast
ever an eye over the balustrade towards those sleepers, and observed
that none stirred.
Soon he was close by that light; it shone upon his stocking feet--the
moment had come for him to discover, if possible, what was beyond that
door. Whether the inhabitant was the woman he sought--or--? Was it De
Bois-Vallée himself?
That supposition had already arisen in his mind. It might be--probably
it was!--he. What then? What next to do? He thought he knew--nay, he
did know! His determination was already taken. His soul revolted
against the necessity for creeping as he had done into another man's
house, although that man was his enemy and a scoundrel: if it was De
Bois-Vallée, another five moments should see him on the inside of that
door, or the owner of the house outside it, and their swords crossed.
And then--and then! Well then the servitors below might rush up to
their master's assistance, plunge their daggers and knives into his
body--only, first, he would make sure of the man who had broken
Philip's life and sent him to his grave. He would make sure of him!
Ere the men could mount those stairs the last owner of this gruesome
fortress should be dead. But was it he behind the door? He must know
that! Possibly his task was not yet near its accomplishment.
He bent down to the keyhole, as he had done three nights before when
outside the great main door, but this one offered him no opportunity
of seeing through it. The key stood in the hole and blocked all chance
of his peering into the room--he must find some other way.
So, next, still as soft as a mouse, he brought his great form level
with the floor and endeavoured to see under the door; but again he was
foiled. The gap was not large enough; he could observe nothing. Then,
suddenly, as he pondered what to do next, there arose voices from
below. Had they discovered his presence above? In a moment he was able
to give himself the answer. Not yet. Though it seemed likely that ere
long they must do so. They were going to their beds--would they mount
to where he was?
"He will not come to-night," he heard Beaujos say, recognizing at once
the voice that had roared at the sleeping servitors three nights back;
"no need to watch longer. Get you all to bed, all, that is, except
Brach. As for you," doubtless he was now addressing the one so called,
"sleep you here, yet sleep light. If he comes, best be wide awake on
the instant, or beware the Vicomte's anger."
Were they speaking, Andrew wondered, of their master, for whose return
they might be waiting, or of him--the man who had disturbed them so
before; the slayer of the hound. Yet, no matter which it was, he must
not be caught here should they mount the stairs. He must hide himself
till they had retired for the night, and, thinking this, he stole
softly back to the garret above.
Half an hour later, and all in the house was again as still as death.
The men who had been ordered off to bed were gone and Beaujos with
them, and, fortunately for Andrew, and for them also--since he had
resolved to slay the first who should discover his presence
above--they had not mounted the stairs. Instead, they must have
betaken themselves to some room leading out of the hall: must have
done so since, to the watcher above, no sound of a footfall on the
stairs had come. All were gone except the one addressed as Brach, and
he, Andrew could see by once more stealthily glancing over the
balustrade, was already asleep again, this time in Beaujos' great
chair.
Through the silent house he made his way a second time to the door
from under which the light streamed; again he reached it and sought
for some means whereby he might discover who was in that room. Not De
Bois-Vallée, he felt sure now, since, almost for certain, had he been
there the servitors--Beaujos, at least--would have come to him for
their last final orders for the night and the next morning. Therefore
it must be she--and guarded, perhaps, by the woman of whom the peasant
had spoken--the woman who had loved the Vicomte's father.
As he mused thus, wondering also how it could happen that anyone
within that room should remain so quiet for the time he had been in
the neighbourhood of it--since, with the exception of once hearing the
logs of a fire within fall together with a dull crash, no sound had
issued from that chamber--another ray of light caught his eye. A ray
so tiny that, at first, he thought he was subject to some illusion
produced by the excitement of his mind. For it was close to him as he
stood outside the heavy, rude, oak door; so close that it seemed to
shine straight into his eye--a ray no bigger than a pin's point! He
looked at it again, and steadily put up his hand in front of his face,
when, lo! it was gone; put next his finger out towards it and touched
the spot whence it proceeded, and found that, set in the door at about
the height of an ordinary man, was a little wicket an inch or two
square, with a sliding cover running in an upper and lower groove. A
spy-hole for those outside to gaze through upon the inmate of the
room, which, by accident, had been left unclosed the smallest
fraction.
His finger moved it still another fraction, and the interior of the
room was visible at last!
It was a large apartment hung with tapestry and handsomely furnished;
a great table in the middle of it; upon that table a lamp giving a
bright light, also a vase containing some brightly-coloured autumn
leaves and flowers. In the far corner of the room, a bed with the
clothes turned down for the night; by the table, a great lounge on
which a woman lay sleeping--a woman whose face was so pale and white
that, in truth, she might have been dead and yet no paler.
Her hair, of a golden hue, was all undone, and, being thick and long,
hung over the head of the couch so that it reached almost to the
thickly-carpeted floor; one hand as white as marble hung over the side
of the couch, also: her dress, a _robe de chambre_, was likewise
white, and added to the general ghastliness of her appearance. And
Andrew, peering in at her, wondered if he had come too late; if he was
gazing into a death chamber instead of the apartment of a living
being!
Yet, in a moment he knew such could not be the case--the woman lying
there turned the slightest degree possible in her sleep, and sighed
once. Then slept again--if she had, indeed, awakened.
But, now, he was face to face with a difficulty which, although he had
considered it more than once before, presented itself more forcibly
than ever to him. That difficulty was how to open communication with
her; how to arouse her and make his presence known without causing her
so much alarm that she should shriek or call out, and, by doing so,
spoil all. How? How?
At last he decided. Poor plan though it was, it was the only one--it
might answer. Especially might it answer since he had made sure she
was alone, and that the other woman of whom he had heard was of a
certainty not in that room also. His eyes had taken in everything in
the chamber; whoever her custodian was, at least she was not there
to-night.
He went back swiftly, therefore, to the garret above, recognizing that
no time must be lost, since, at any moment, that pale ghastly figure
might arise from the couch and prepare for bed--and, when there, he
lit once more his lanthorn. Next, he took hastily from his breast a
small set of tablets which he carried--they had been Philip's once,
and bore upon the case his name and their family crest--and hastily
wrote:--
"Make no noise. Philip Vause's brother is here. To save you if need
be. It is the truth, I swear. If you believe and wish to escape, open
the door. To-night the chance is yours. Perhaps to-night only!--ANDREW
VAUSE."
As quickly as he had come he went back to the door of the room, peered
in once more through the slit of the little lattice, and, seeing that
still the woman slept upon her couch, bent down towards the space
where the light streamed out.
Then, his nerves tingling, for on the next few moments, and the
woman's actions during them, depended all--his life, perhaps hers!--he
pushed the tablets under the door, gave them a fillip with his hand
which sent them a couple of feet into the room, and struck once upon
the oak. Struck a sharp, quick blow, loud enough to awaken her, he
thought, yet not loud enough to startle any others asleep in the dark
and silent house.
He waited now for what should happen.
Nor had he long to do so ere he knew that the rap he had given had had
its effect. He had re-closed the lattice tightly after he had come
back from the garret, fearing to alarm her either by looking through
it or by letting her find it open; he relied, therefore, upon his
hearing. That hearing told him now that the woman had awakened--he
heard a rustle of her garments, heard her feet touch the floor as she
rose from the couch; heard, too, that she came swiftly towards where
the tablets lay, the whiteness of the ivory catching, doubtless, her
eyes as she arose.
In the silence that reigned in the house he could hear those tablets
being picked up by her, almost hear the grating of the hard leaves
against each other; did, without doubt, hear a gasp as his message was
perused. Then silence--or a silence broken only by rapid,
quickly-caught breathing. But no noise, no word from the woman on the
other side of the door!
At last, however--when he himself could scarce restrain the breath
from coming in great gusts from his lungs, so terrible was the
suspense--he knew that she had moved again, was close against the
door. Then a soft, low voice said--
"As you are a man and I a helpless, unhappy woman, is this true?"
"Before God and as a soldier, it is true."
"You swear you are Philip Vause's brother?"
"I swear it."
The key turned in the lock; then, a moment later, the voice within
spoke again.
"I am a prisoner here. The door is fast on your side also. There is a
bolt above."
He raised his hand as she spoke, thrust back the bolt quietly--it
making no noise as it left the staple--and when this was done the door
opened from within, and Andrew entered the room.
Seeing the great form before her, regarding with amazement--perhaps
alarm--the bronzed face and long black hair of Andrew; observing also
that the clothes he wore were torn and smirched by the efforts he had
made in crossing the chasm and reaching the roof above; noticing, too,
his unbooted feet--the woman raised her hand involuntarily to her
breast and exclaimed, though in a whisper--
"You! You Philip's brother!"
"In truth, lady, I am. And you? There can be no mistake. You are
Marion Wyatt."
"Unhappily." Then she said, still gazing up at him, "I have waited
long for this release to come. Prayed night and day for it--feared at
last that he would never follow nor seek me out. And now, even
now, he comes not himself, but sends you. Oh, sir! why has Philip not
come--or--or"--and she paused, but continued a moment later. "It
cannot be that he thinks----"
"Madame," said Andrew, regarding her steadfastly--it had never dawned
on him until now that she could not possibly know that Philip was in
his grave--"Madame, this is no time for explanations. They will
suffice when we are outside this house." And because, even as he
spoke, he wondered if he knew all there was to know in connection with
this woman, he added, "It is your desire to quit it, I imagine? You
have no--no wish to remain?"
"To remain! Here! My God!" and now she lifted her eyes and looked him
straight in the face, he seeing as she did so that they were large,
grey, truthful-looking eyes. "To remain here! In this villain's house
Oh! have I not tried to escape more than once--almost succeeded;
should have done so, but that they found me by aid of the dogs----"
"The dogs!" Andrew exclaimed. "The dogs! They set them on you. Ha!
Since that is so I regret no longer they are dead."
"Dead!" she exclaimed in her turn. "Dead! Was it you, then, who slew
the first one?"
"It was I. You know of that?"
"I know it. They thought it was some _braconnier_ stealing about the
place, or some enemy of his. And it was you!"
"I came here to find a way to you--to save you, if might be," Andrew
replied. "To find some entrance to this house. I have found it.
Madame," and his voice was very grave and serious as he continued,
"being here we must not tarry. This is our chance--to-night. By dawn
it may be gone. It is not well to lose time."
"How to go?" she asked. "How escape?"
He told her of the rope and of Laurent watching on the other side of
the chasm; made light of any danger there might be--which he assured
her was but imaginary--told her that when across and safely on the
slope her liberty was assured.
"For," he said, "once there, none dare to harm you or me. Nor to
attack us. I beseech you, delay not; I beseech you come."
At first she shivered with fear, said she knew of the distance between
the house and the slope; that she would rather live there a prisoner
for life than venture on so terrible an escape. Yet, also, at last she
yielded to his persuasions, nay, his threats almost, that, if she came
not now he must leave her and seek his own safety. She would go, she
decided.
"So be it," Andrew replied. "It is best. There can be no other chance.
I will go prepare the peasant. Be ready, I pray you, when I return."
And, pointing out of the window of the room, to which he had stepped,
he said, "See, madame, the mist and fog are gone, the stars shine
forth--it will not be so dark and terrible. And, as I have said, it is
nothing. From the roof you will glide swiftly across the gap--'tis not
far--a moment later you will be drawn up. Courage! Courage! I go to
prepare Laurent," and he turned towards the door.
"I must be muffled, blindfolded," she whispered, "then I shall be
brave. But, if I saw what is below, my courage would fail--I should
draw back at the last moment."
"It shall be so," Andrew said, removing the last objection she was
likely to make. "I will muffle you." Then a thought struck him
suddenly, and he said, "there is a woman attends to you. Where is
she?"
"In heaven's mercy away for the night. Her father, an old man, is ill
at Gerardmer hard by; she has gone to him. She will return at
daybreak. Oh!" she added, "you do not know how I am watched. When I
tell Philip all he will weep for me."
"'Tis well she is away," Andrew replied, ignoring the latter part of
her remarks. "To-morrow she may return, and welcome. The bird will be
flown. Again I say, courage, madame. Courage, and be ready at my
return. 'Twill be immediate."
Swiftly he passed to the garret and, from it, to the roof, lighting
his lanthorn for an instant, so as to avoid the shaft beneath the
ladder that mounted to the leads; then, having drawn on his boots once
more, he climbed up and stood again upon the roof. As he had said, the
fog and mist were gone now, the wind had changed and blown them both
away, the stars were shining brightly above; across the chasm he could
see dimly the trunk of the tree round which the further end of the
rope had been wound by him and Laurent.
The night, too, was very still, nothing broke the silence--or only one
thing. Far off as yet, though drawing nearer every moment, it seemed
to his trained ears as though there was the sound of a horse's hoofs
beating with regularity upon some road. Yet, he remembered, there was
but one road near of which he knew; the road from Remiremont to
Bois-le-Vaux. He must be mistaken! It was some other sound which, in
the stillness of the night, resembled that made by a swift oncoming
horse.
He whistled once, gently, yet loud and clear enough to reach the
watcher on the other side; but no reply came. And again he whistled
soft and low, but still the result was the same.
"Heavens!" he muttered, under his breath. "To sleep at such a time!"
And, having arrived by now at the great chimney to which he had
attached his end of the rope, he grasped at and jerked it violently so
as either to arouse Laurent--if he was in truth asleep--or to attract
his attention if awake.
As he did so, his hair seemed to stand on his head in horror!
For, in the moment when he tugged at the rope, he felt that the other
end was loose--was no longer attached to the tree across the brink.
Loose and hanging down over the side of the house on the roof of which
he stood.