The Greatest Works of Emma Orczy. Emma Orczy
eyes searched the recesses of the room for a hiding-place — the cupboard which was too small — the wide hearth which was too exposed — the bed in the wall....
His knees had given way under him, and, as he clutched at her gown, he fell forward at her feet, and remained there crouching, trembling, his circled eyes trying to pierce the surrounding gloom, to locate the position of the door behind which lurked the most immediate danger.
"Hide me, Gilda," he murmured almost audibly under his breath, "for the love you bore me once."
"Gilda!" came in a loud, kindly voice from the other side of the door.
"Yes, father!"
"You are not yet abed, are you, my girl?"
"I have just blown out the candles, dear," she contrived to reply with a fairly steady voice.
"Why is your door locked?"
"I was a little nervous to-night, father dear. I don't know why."
"Well! open then! and say good-night."
"One moment, dear."
She was white to the lips, white as the gown which fell in straight heavy folds from her hips, and which Stoutenburg was still clutching with convulsive fingers. Alone her white figure detached itself from the darkness around. The wretched man as he looked up could see her small pale head, the stiff collar that rose above her shoulders, her embroidered corslet, and the row of pearls round her neck.
"Save me, Gilda," he repeated with the agony of despair, "do not let your father hand me over to the Stadtholder ... there will be no mercy for me, Gilda ... hide me ... for the love of God."
Noiselessly she glided across the room, dragging him after her by the hand. She pulled aside the bed-curtains, without a word pointed to the recess. The bed, built into the wall, was narrow but sure; it smelt sweetly of lavender; the hunted man, his very senses blurred by that overwhelming desire to save his life at any cost, accepted the shelter so innocently offered him. Gathering his long limbs together, he was soon hidden underneath the coverlet.
"Gilda!" came more insistently from behind the heavy door.
"One moment, father. I was fastening my gown."
"Don't trouble to do that. I only wished to say good-night."
She pulled the curtains together very carefully in front of the bed: she even took the precaution of taking off her stiff collar and embroidered corslet. Then she lighted one of the candles, and with it in her hand she went to the door.
Then she drew back the bolt.
"May I not come in?" said Mynheer Beresteyn gaily, for she remained standing on the threshold.
"Well no, father!" she replied, "my room is very untidy ... I was just getting into bed...."
"Just getting into bed," he retorted with a laugh, "why, child, you have not begun to undress."
"I wished to undress in the dark. My head aches terribly ... it must be the spring air ... Good-night, dear."
"Good-night, little one!" said Beresteyn, as he kissed his daughter tenderly. "Nicolaes has just come home," he added, "he wanted to see you too."
"Ask him to wait till to-morrow then. My head feels heavy. I can scarcely hold it up."
"You are not ill, little one?" asked the father anxiously.
"No, no ... only oppressed with this first hot breath of spring."
"Why is not Maria here to undress you? I'll send her."
"Not just now, father. She will come presently. Her chattering wearied me and I sent her away."
"Well! good-night again, my girl. God bless you. You will not see Nicolaes?"
"Not to-night, father. Tell him I am not well. Good-night."
Mynheer Beresteyn went away at last, not before Gilda feared that she must drop or faint under the stress of this nerve-racking situation.
Even now when at last she was alone, when once again she was able to close and bolt the door, she could scarcely stand. She leaned against the wall with eyes closed, and heart that beat so furiously and so fast that she thought she must choke.
The sound of her father's footsteps died away along the corridor. She heard him opening and shutting a door at the further end of the passage, where there were two or three living rooms and his own sleeping chamber. For awhile now the house was still, so still that she could almost hear those furious heart-beats beneath her gown. Then only did she dare to move. With noiseless steps she crossed the room to that recess in the wall hidden by the gay-flowered cotton curtains.
She paused close beside these.
"My lord!" she called softly.
No answer.
"My lord! my father has gone! you are in no danger for the moment!"
Still no answer, and as she paused, straining her ears to listen, she caught the sound of slow and regular breathing. Going back to the table she took up the candle, then with it in her hand she returned to the recess and gently drew aside the curtain. The light from the candle fell full upon Stoutenburg's face. Inexpressibly weary, exhausted both bodily and mentally, not even the imminence of present danger had succeeded in keeping him awake. The moment that he felt the downy pillow under his head, he had dropped off to sleep as peacefully as he used to do years ago before the shadow of premeditated crime had left its impress on his wan face.
Gilda looking down on him sought in vain in the harsh and haggard features, the traces of those boyish good looks which had fascinated her years ago; she tried in vain to read on those thin, set lips those words of passionate affection which had so readily flown from them then.
She put down the candle again and drew a chair close to the bed, then she sat down and waited.
And he slept on calmly, watched over by the woman whom he had so heartlessly betrayed. All love for him had died out in her heart ere this, but pity was there now, and she was thankful that it had been in her power to aid him at the moment of his most dire peril.
But that danger still existed of course. The household was still astir and the servants not yet all abed. Gilda could hear Jakob, the old henchman, making his rounds, seeing that all the lights were safely out, the bolts pushed home and chains securely fastened, and Maria might come back at any moment, wondering why her mistress had not yet sent for her. Nicolaes too was at home, and had already said that he wished to see his sister.
She tried to rouse the sleeping man, but he lay there like a log. She dared not speak loudly to him or to call his name, and all her efforts at shaking him by the shoulder failed to waken him.
Lonely and seriously frightened now Gilda fell on her knees beside the bed. Clasping her hands she tried to pray. Surely God could not leave a young girl in such terrible perplexity, when her only sin had been an act of mercy. The candle on the bureau close by burnt low in its socket and its flickering light outlined her delicate profile and the soft tendrils of hair that escaped from beneath her coif. Her eyes were closed in the endeavour to concentrate her thoughts, and time flew by swiftly while she tried to pray. She did not perceive that after awhile the Lord of Stoutenburg woke and that he remained for a long time in mute contemplation of the exquisite picture which she presented, clad all in white, with the string of pearls still round her throat, her hands clasped, her lips parted breathing a silent prayer.
"How beautiful you are, Gilda!" he murmured quite involuntarily at last.
Then — as suddenly startled and terrified — she tried to jump up quickly, away from him, he put out his hand and succeeded in capturing her wrists and thus holding her pinioned and still kneeling close beside him.
"An angel of goodness," he said, "and exquisitely beautiful."
At his words, at the renewed pressure of his hand upon her wrists she made a violent effort to recover her composure.
"I pray you, my lord, let go my