The Greatest Works of Emma Orczy. Emma Orczy
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at parting, just such a look as dwelt in the dark depths of this girl's eyes now.
The old cripple on the bed had fallen into a torpor-like sleep. Diogenes cast a compassionate glance on him.
"Thou canst take him to better quarters in a day or two," he said, "and mayhap give him some good food.... Dondersteen!" he exclaimed suddenly, "what art doing, girl?"
She had stooped and kissed his hand. He drew it away almost roughly, but at the timid look of humble apology which she raised to him, he said gently:
"By St. Bavon thou'rt a funny child! Well? what is it now?" he asked, for she stood hesitating before him, with a question obviously hovering on her lips.
"I dare not," she murmured.
"Art afraid of me then?"
"A little."
"Yet there is something thou desirest to ask?"
"Yes."
"What is it? Quickly now, for I must be going."
She waited for a moment or two trying to gain courage, whilst he watched her, greatly amused.
"What is it?" he reiterated more impatiently.
Then a whispered murmur escaped her lips.
"The lady?"
"Yes. What of her?"
"Thou dost love her?" she stammered, "and wilt abduct her to-night because of thy love for her?"
For a second or two he looked on her in blank amazement, marvelling if he had entrusted this vital business to a semi-imbecile. Then seeing that indeed she appeared in deadly earnest, and that her great, inquiring but perfectly lucid eyes were fixed upon him with mute insistence, he threw back his head and laughed till the very rafters of the low room shook with the echo of his merriment.
"Dondersteen!" he said as soon as he felt that he could speak again, "but thou truly art a strange wench. Whatever did put that idea into thy head?"
"Thou dost propose to abduct her, I know that," she said more firmly. "I am no fool, and I understand I am to be the decoy. The dark passage, the lonely spot, thy presence there ... and then the occurrence, as thou saidst, that might surprise or frighten me.... I am no fool," she repeated sullenly, "I understand."
"Apparently," he retorted dryly.
"Thou dost love her?" she insisted.
"What is it to thee?"
"No matter; only tell me this, dost thou love her?"
"If I said 'yes,'" he asked with his whimsical smile, "wouldst refuse to help me?"
"Oh, no!"
"And if I said 'no'?"
"I should be glad," she said simply.
"Then we'll say 'no!'" he concluded lightly, "for I would like to see thee glad."
And he had his wish, for quite a joyous smile lit up her small, pinched face. She tripped quite briskly to the door and held it open for him.
"If thou desirest to speak with me again," she said, as he finally took his leave, "give four raps on the door at marked intervals. I would fly to open it then."
He thanked her and went down stairs, humming a lively tune and never once turning to look on her again. And yet she was leaning over the ricketty banisters watching his slowly descending figure, until it disappeared in the gloom.
CHAPTER XIV
AFTER EVENSONG
Jongejuffrouw Beresteyn had spent many hours in church this New Year's Day, 1624. In spite of the inclemency of the weather she had attended Morning Prayer and Holy Communion and now she was back again for Evensong.
The cathedral was not very full for it. Most people were making merry at home to celebrate the festival; so Gilda had a corner of the sacred building all to herself, where she could think matters over silently and with the help of prayer. The secret of which she had gained knowledge was weighing heavily on her soul; and heart-rending doubts had assailed her all night and throughout the day.
How could she know what was the right thing to do? — to allow a crime of which she had fore-knowledge, to be committed without raising a finger to prevent it? or to betray her own brother and his friends — a betrayal which would inevitably lead them to the scaffold?
Her father was of course her great refuge, and to-night through Evensong she prayed to God to guide her, as to whether she should tell everything to her father or not. She had warned Nicolaes that she might do so, and yet her very soul shrank from the act which to many would seem so like betrayal. Cornelius Beresteyn was a man of rigid principles and unyielding integrity. What he might do with the knowledge of the conspiracy in which his own son was taking a leading part, no one — not even his daughter — could foresee. In no case would she act hurriedly. She hoped against all hope that mayhap Nicolaes would see his own treachery in its true light and turn from it before it was too late, or that God would give her some unmistakable sign of what He willed her to do.
Perplexed and wretched she stayed long on her knees and left the church after every one else. The night was dark and though the snow had left off falling momentarily, the usual frosty mist hung over the city. Jongejuffrouw Beresteyn wrapped her fur-lined cloak closely round her shoulders and started on her homeward walk, with Maria by her side and Jakob and Piet on in front carrying their lanthorns.
Her way took her firstly across the Groote Markt then down the Hout Straat until she reached the Oude Gracht. Here her two serving men kept quite close in front of her for the embankment was lonely and a well-known resort for evil doers who found refuge in the several dark passages that run at right angles from the canal and have no outlet at their further end.
Jongejuffrouw Beresteyn followed rapidly in the wake of her lanthorn bearers and keeping Maria — who was always timorous on dark nights and in lonely places — quite close to her elbow. Every footstep of the way was familiar to her. Now the ground was frozen hard and the covering of snow crisp beneath her feet as she walked, but in the autumn and the spring the mud here was ankle-deep, save on one or two rare spots in front of the better houses or public buildings where a few stones formed a piece of dry pavement. Such a spot was the front of the Oudenvrouwenhuis with its wide oaken gateway and high brick walls. The unmade road here was always swept neatly and tidily; during the rainy seasons the mud was washed carefully away and in the winter it was kept free from snow.
Beyond it was a narrow passage which led to the Chapel of St. Pieter, now disused since the Remonstrants had fallen into such bad odour after the death of Olden Barneveld and the treachery of his sons. The corner of this passage was a favourite haunt for beggars, but only for the humbler ones — since there is a hierarchy even amongst beggars, and the more prosperous ones, those known to the town-guard and the night-watchmen, flocked around the church porches. In this spot where there were but a few passers-by, only those poor wretches came who mayhap had something to hide from the watchful eyes of the guardians of this city, those who had been in prison or had deserted from the army, or were known to be rogues and thieves.
Gilda Beresteyn, who had a soft heart, always kept a few kreutzers in the palm of her hand ready to give to any of these poor outcasts who happened to beg for alms along the embankment, but she never liked to stop here in order to give those other alms, which she knew were oft more acceptable than money — the alms of kindly words.
To-night, however, she herself felt miserable and lonely and the voice that came to her out of the darkness of the narrow passage which leads to the Chapel of St. Pieter was peculiarly plaintive and sweet.
"For the love of Christ, gentle lady," murmured the voice softly.
Gilda stopped, ready with the kreutzers in her hand. But it was very dark just here and the snow appeared too deep to traverse;