The Laughing Cavalier Baroness Orczy (bill gates books recommendations txt) 📖

that a glorious future in his arms would compensate her for all that he had caused her to endure. XXXII A Run Through the Night

That same morning of this fourth day of the New Year found Gilda Beresteyn sitting silent and thoughtful in the tiny room which had been placed at her disposal in the house of Mynheer Ben Isaje, the banker.

A few hours ago she had come back to it, running like some frightened animal who had just escaped an awful⁠—but unknown⁠—danger, and had thrown herself down on the narrow bed in the alcove in an agony of soul far more difficult to bear than any sorrow which had assailed her during the last few days.

A great, a vivid ray of hope had pierced the darkness of her misery, it had flickered low at first, then had glowed with wonderful intensity, flickered again and finally died down as hope itself fell dying once more in the arms of despair.

The disappointment which she had endured then amounted almost to physical pain; her heart ached and beat intolerably and with that disappointment was coupled a sense of hatred and of humiliation, different to any suffering she had ever had to bear before.

A man could have helped her and had refused: he could have helped her to avert a crime more hideous than any that had ever blackened the pages of this country’s history. With that one man’s help she could have stopped that crime from being committed and he had refused⁠ ⁠… nay more! he had first dragged her secret from her, word by word, luring her into thoughts of security with the hope that he dangled before her.

He knew everything now: she had practically admitted everything save the identity of those whose crime she wished to avert. But even that identity would be easy for the man to guess. Stoutenburg, of course, had paid him to lay hands on her⁠ ⁠… but her brother Nicolaes was Stoutenburg’s friend and ally, and his life and that of his friends were now in the hands of that rogue, who might betray them with the knowledge which he had filched from her.

No wonder that hour after hour she lay prostrate on the bed, while these dark thoughts hammered away in her brain. The Prince of Orange walking unknowingly straight to his death, or Nicolaes⁠—her brother⁠—and his friends betrayed to the vengeance of that Prince. Ghosts of those who had already died⁠—victims to that same merciless vengeance⁠—flitted in the darkness before her feverish fancy: John of Barneveld, the Lord of Groeneveld, the sorrowing widows and fatherless children⁠ ⁠… and in their trail the ghost of the great Stadtholder, William the Silent murdered⁠—as his son would be⁠—at Delft, close to Ryswyk and the molens, where even now Nicolaes her brother was learning the final lesson of infamy.

When in the late morning Maria came into the room to bring her mistress some warm milk and bread, and to minister to her comforts, she found her dearly loved jongejuffrouw wide-eyed and feverish.

But not a word could she get out of Gilda while she dressed her hair, except an assurance that their troubles⁠—as far as Maria could gauge them⁠—would soon be over now, and that in twenty-four hours mayhap they would be escorted back to Haarlem.

“When, I trust, that I shall have the joy of seeing three impudent knaves swing on gibbets in the market place,” quoth Maria decisively, “and one of them⁠—the most impudent of the lot⁠—drawn and quartered, or burnt at the stake!” she added with savage insistence.

When Gilda was ready dressed, she asked for leave to speak with Mynheer Ben Isaje. The Jew, obsequious and affable, received her with utmost deference, and in a few words put the situation before her. Mevrouw Isaje, he said, was from home: he had not been apprised of the jongejuffrouw’s coming, or his wife would have been ready to receive her at his private house, which was situated but half a league out of Rotterdam. But Mevrouw Isaje would return from the visit which she had been paying to her father in the course of the afternoon, until that hour Mynheer Ben Isaje begged that the jongejuffrouw would look upon this miserable hovel as her property and would give what orders she desired for the furtherance of her comfort. In the afternoon, he concluded, an escort would once more be ready to convey the jongejuffrouw to that same private house of his, where there was a nice garden and a fine view over the Schie instead of the confined outlook on squalid houses opposite, which was quite unworthy of the jongejuffrouw’s glance.

Gilda did not attempt to stay the flow of Ben Isaje’s eloquence: she thanked him graciously for everything that he had already done for her comfort.

Maria⁠—more loquacious, and bubbling over with indignation⁠—asked him when this outrageous confinement of her person and that of her exalted mistress at the hands of brigands would cease, and if Mynheer Ben Isaje was aware that such confinement against the jongejuffrouw’s will would inevitably entail the punishment of hanging.

But thereupon Mynheer Ben Isaje merely rubbed his thin hands together and became as evasive first and then as mute as only those of his race can contrive to be.

Then Gilda⁠—making an effort to speak unconcernedly⁠—asked him what had become of the men who had brought her hither from Haarlem.

“They spent half the night eating and drinking at the tavern, mejuffrouw,” said the Jew blandly.

“Ah!” rejoined Gilda quietly, “methought one of them had found hospitality under your roof.”

“So he had, mejuffrouw. But this morning when I called him⁠—for I had some business to transact with him⁠—I found his room already empty. No doubt he had gone to join his companions at the tavern. But the rascal’s movements need not disturb the jongejuffrouw for one moment. After today she need never set eyes on