Clash of Arms: A Romance

by John Bloundelle-Burton

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.