Chapter XVIII

The Weiss Haus lay that night beneath heavy black clouds that rolled up from the west in threatening masses, and, of a surety, foretold rain ere morning. Also there was the feeling in the air of coming rain, of some storm that was swiftly approaching, or rather was close at hand. The earth of the flower beds exuded a damp, moist odour, the perfume from the flowers themselves--many of them tropical plants brought from far-off Dutch possessions--was now a faint, sickly one which spoke of what was near, while the leaves of the trees, after hanging lifeless for some minutes, would then suddenly rustle with a quivering noise as a cool, wet wind swept through them.

But now, gradually, the clouds, edged with an opal shade which hinted that, from afar off, the late moon was rising behind them, banked themselves into thicker and thicker masses, while from them fell some few drops of rain--the heralds of a coming deluge. At this time, too, the darkness all round the square, white house became more profound, so that the mansion looked like some great, white stone gleaming in a setting of ebony. Under the trees which bordered a great drive that swept round the Weiss Haus the darkness was still more impenetrable, and was so dense and thick that here nothing could be perceptible against the deep obscurity unless it, too, was white or gleaming.

Yet one thing there was that nevertheless glinted occasionally from out the gloom--a thing that only those accustomed to deciphering such signs would have recognised as the startled glare of an eye; and that not the eye of a human being, but of an animal--an animal made more nervous than was natural to it by the presence of the approaching storm and also by the deep muttering of the thunder.

"She will neigh in a moment," a man holding the creature's bridle said to himself, while drawing off his cloak as he did so, and whispering soothingly to La Rose, since it was she. After which he placed the cloak over her head. "That must not be," he continued. "This house is deserted by everyone. A horse's presence here would tell any who might be about that something strange is happening."

Bevill led La Rose now towards where he knew the stables were placed--towards where, also, he knew a door would be open, since Sylvia had told him an hour or so ago that the old servitor had been warned of what was to be done; and, in spite of the mare shivering all over in her nervousness at the approaching storm, he managed to induce her to enter them. Arrived there, his hands told him that the manger was full of fodder and the rack above well filled with hay, as was also the bucket with water; and then, having eased her of the saddle and bridle and replaced the latter by a halter, he pondered as to whether he should leave her or not. The key was in the stable door, he had discovered, so that he could secure the mare from harm--if harm should threaten--yet, should she neigh in terror at the storm, her presence would be known, and, perhaps, his also.

Suddenly he came to the determination to remain with her until the storm had passed. The night was cool now, it was true, yet the stable was warm, and it was well littered down. In his earlier campaigning days he had slept in worse places than such as this. To resolve his doubts, at this moment there came a vivid flash of lightning, a terrific crash of thunder broke over the spot, and a moment later he heard the rain falling in a deluge, while La Rose whimpered and moaned and gave signs of neighing.

Standing by her head, stroking her soft muzzle, whispering to her, he contrived, however, to soothe the creature so that, at least, she did not neigh, while, staying by her till at last the storm had rolled away, he contrived to reduce her to calmness--such calmness, indeed, that at last he felt her neck drooping over the manger and knew that she was feeding.

"But still I will not leave her," he reflected. "Who can tell but that another storm may follow swift upon the one now gone; also, if by any chance I have been tracked from the 'Gouden Leeuw,' if it is known that I am here, what would an enemy's first act be? To prevent my further progress! To injure the one thing that can carry me to safety, that can alone enable me to assist Sylvia and the Comtesse."

Whereupon, since the precautions that he, with every soldier, had long learnt to take as regards his charger were well remembered, he lay down now upon the straw in the next stall--so that he might be well out of the reach of La Rose's heels should she become again excited--and prepared to pass the night there, knowing that his voice would be sufficient to soothe her.

In spite, however, of the fact that the mare was now quite tranquil, except that once he heard her hoofs stamping in the straw and once observed that she was drinking from her bucket, he could not sleep, his thoughts being much occupied with two out of many things. The principal of which things was that, by the blessing of heaven, it might be granted to him to lead this girl in safety back to their own land; another the love that had sprung into his heart for her; while still there was a further thought, a thought that was truly a fear--the fear that, much as he had now come to love Sylvia, there might be no respondent love in her heart for him.

"Gratitude, yes!" he said to himself. "That is already there; also, it may be, a tender hope, a gentle dread for me and of my successful issue out of the conditions I have surrounded myself with. But--love? Ah! how shall I know? Her calmness, her dignity will give no sign that will help me on my way to the knowledge I desire; while, when the time comes for me to speak, what will her answer be? 'Tis well that that time is not yet, not now, since were it so my fears of failure would so much unnerve me that I should also fail in all else I have to do."

One other thought arose, however, in his mind and set him wondering at a subtle change that had taken possession of him--a change caused by a great desire that now triumphed over what he could not but deem at this time a lesser one.

He recognised that, strong as had been his hopes that his present undertaking should lead him back to the calling from which he had been wrongfully cast out, those hopes were now but secondary, even if as near as secondary, to a greater, a more supreme one--the hope that he would win the love of Sylvia Thorne, win her for his wife.

And as he so thought it may be that he reproached himself. For he was a man, and, being one, knew that he should set his career, his honour in the world's eyes, before a woman's love!

As thus be became immersed in such reflections as these--reflections that, he doubted not, had driven away all hope of slumber for the present--an incident occurred that instantly dispelled those musings, that stirred him once more into a man of action.

Upon the deep tranquillity of the night--since now the storm had quite passed and, as he could see through the mica panes of the stable window, the late risen moon was shining clear in the heavens--he heard a door close violently within the Weiss Haus--close violently while sending out into the silence a heavy, dull thud such as a noise made in a shut-up house sends forth. As that noise reverberated he heard La Rose's halter shaken suddenly as by a start, and a tremulous whinny issue from her.

Quieting her with a gentle word as he rose from the position in which he had been lying, and going towards her as he spoke, Bevill's attention was still strained to the utmost for any further sounds. Yet, now, all was still, the night was undisturbed by any noise. Even from the warehouses some three hundred yards off, which were filled with French troops, there came nothing to tell of their presence.

"Can my ears have been deceived?" Bevill mused. "And if not deceived, how has that door closed thus? Ere I brought the mare from under the trees I had made sure that the one at the back of the house was closed, though unlocked, and it was not that door which shut so violently, but one within. Why did it so? The wind has died down long since; no current of air through any open window--if there were any such, which is not to be supposed--could have closed it. What is best to do?"

An instant later he had determined on his action. He would enter the house and discover what had caused so strange an occurrence on a night that was so perfectly calm as this one was now. It might be, it was true, an occurrence for which he would be able to discover an absolutely plain explanation; but if it were not so, then it were best he determined the cause of it.

He spoke a few words to La Rose even as he drew his sword, intending to carry it bare in his hand, and while hoping that Providence might see fit to prevent her becoming frightened and, by her fears, calling attention to her presence. Then he went forth from the stable door, locking it behind him and dropping the key into his pocket.

As he did so, he heard the clock in the Abbey church strike three, as well as the sound of the other clocks striking one after the other, and, also, the chiming of the carillons on the calm night air.

"It is the time," he said to himself, "when those who break into the houses of others seek to do so. It may, in truth, be some such as they, or else an enemy, seeking me. Well," through his teeth, "it it be Francbois, he shall find me--only, when he does so, let him beware. If 'tis he, no _botte_ shall save him this time; and there is no Comtesse now to help him."

A moment later he stood outside the door at the back of the Weiss Haus--the door of which he had said to himself a moment since that "it was closed though unlocked."

But now he discovered that it was no more closed than locked. Some hand had opened it to enter the house, since even the wind could not lift a latch--the hand of someone who had entered the house and forgotten to shut the door behind him. Unless it had been purposely left open, thereby to afford a means of easy exit!

"And still it was not this door that shut with such a report," Bevill reflected, "but one above," and slowly he made his way into the interior of the house, while resolving to discover and make sure of who the intruder was. Because all shutters had been close fastened ere Sylvia left her house, and, discharging her servitors for a time at least, gave afterwards the care of the place into the hands of old Karl, the darkness was intense.

Bevill did not know, therefore, where he was, though guessing by aid of his knowledge of the mansion that he was now in the domestic offices. Consequently he decided that, should he be enabled to progress further without interruption from closed doors--or from an enemy--he would ere long reach the hall. And then his way would be clear before him. He knew the manner in which the stairs mounted to the floor above.

He went on now, running his hand along the wall of the room he was in while touching on various shelves the ordinary array of utensils used for preparing meals--dishes, jars, and so forth--and at last his fingers lighted on another door, a door that, like the first, was open an inch or so.

"Whoever 'tis," Bevill thought now, "he leaves the road clear for his return, for his escape. Yet that shall not be, or not, at least, until I know who and what this lurking midnight intruder is." Whereupon he drew the key of the door forth from the inner side of the lock and, taking it with him, made fast the door on the other side when he had felt for and found the key-hole; after which he went on, after putting the key in his pocket.

He discovered now that he was in a long, narrow passage, one having, as his touch told him, doors on either side of it, all of which were locked, and with no keys in the locks; but as he still progressed, doing so gently on his tiptoes, he saw ahead of him a patch of gleaming light, and he understood what that light was. He knew that it was the moonlight on the marble-tiled hall, and that the moonlight had found its way in from the great window on the first floor, the window that served to light the hall by day, and by night, too, when there was a moon.

"I shall be upstairs," Bevill said to himself, "ere many moments are passed. If you are there, my enemy, we should meet."

His sword in hand, he lifted with the other the heavy brocade that curtained off the passage from the hall, and, observing carefully the portion of it that was outside the great splash made by the moonbeams, went on through the deepest shadow towards the lowest stair. Then, keeping to the side of those stairs that was itself free of the rays, he mounted to the first floor.

"Now," he thought, "we are near close quarters, if it be not the wind that has played at tricks with me. Above this floor is nought but the servitors' quarters; short of being driven up by fear, Francbois will not attempt them."

At this moment Bevill saw that, suddenly, the great patch of moonlight below was fading, and also that the light was obscured on the side of the house that a moment before had been touched by it. Glancing up through the roof-window, he observed the rim of a dense black cloud passing beneath the moon.

"The house will be in utter darkness again ere long," he said to himself. "Ah, well! if I cannot thereby find my enemy, at least he cannot see me. And I can return and wait for him at the door I have but now made fast, if I find him not up here. There, he will not foil me."

As thus Bevill mused a step fell on his ear--a soft footfall, almost a shuffling, halting one--a step that, in its creeping oncoming, caused even creepiness to one so brave as he--a footfall that seemed ghostly in its lagging progress towards where he stood. Yet, as the sound of it approached nearer and nearer, he knew that, for the present, it was not to his interest to obstruct whoever it might be that drew near, but rather to watch, to follow, and at last bring to bay this nocturnal intruder.

The night itself aided him even as he drew back against the wall, for now the darkness was profound and, also, the rain beat down pitilessly on the great window; while the wind, risen once more, was again howling round the Weiss Haus. But ever still he heard--or did he feel?--that footfall drawing stealthily nearer and nearer to him.

At last Bevill heard something also--something he could not understand, something the meaning of which he could in no wise comprehend.

He heard a sliding noise upon the wall in a line with the spot where his face reached, and he fancied that it was varied now and again by something else which sounded like the light touch of fingers tapping on that wall.

"Whoe'er it is," he said to himself, suddenly recognising what that scraping sound, interrupted by an occasional touch on the wall, was, "he feels his way carefully. Let me be ready to greet him--ah!" he ejaculated, lunging out straight before him with his sword, though piercing nothing. "Ah!"

Fingers had passed across his face: an instant later something long and hairy had swept across his left hand, even as he lunged with his right: still a moment later the sound of a figure springing down the wide staircase fell on his ears; and, ere another moment had elapsed, he was springing after it.

But, even as he did go, he muttered to himself:

"This is not Francbois! He had no beard. Who, then, is it? Ah! Sparmann perchance!"