The First Sir Percy - Baroness Orczy (fastest ebook reader .txt) 📗

allowed you to come. Violence to you⁠—though you may not believe it⁠—would be repellent to me. But, having got you both here, I had to rid myself of him, using what violence was necessary.”

“And why, I pray you, had you, as you say, to rid yourself of my father? Were you afraid of him?”

“No,” he replied; “but I am compelled to put certain matters before you for your consideration, and did not desire that you should be influenced by him.”

A quick sigh of satisfaction⁠—or was it excitement?⁠—escaped her breast. Fretful of all these preliminaries, which she felt were but the opening gambits of his dangerous game, she was thankful that, at last, he was coming to the point.

“Let us begin, mejuffrouw,” Stoutenburg resumed, after a moment’s deliberation, “by assuring you that the whereabouts of that gallant stranger who goes by the name of Diogenes are known to me and to your brother Nicolaes. To no one else.”

He watched her keenly while he spoke. Shading his eyes with his hand, he took in every transient line of her face, noted the pallor of her cheeks, the pathetic droop of the mouth. But he was forced to own that at that curt announcement, wherewith he had intended to startle and to hurt, not the slightest change came over her. She still sat there, cool and impassive, her head resting against the velvet cushion of the chair, the flickering light of the candle playing with the loose tendrils of her golden hair. Her eyes he could not see, for they were downcast, veiled by the delicate, blue-veined lids; but of a surety, not the slightest quiver marred the perfect stillness of her lips.

In truth, she had expected some such statement from that execrable traitor. Her intuition had not erred when it told her that, in some subtle, devilish way, he would use the absence of her beloved as a tool wherewith to gain what he had in view. Now what she realized most vividly was that she must not let him see that she was afraid. Not even let him guess if she were hurt. She must keep up a semblance of callousness before her enemy for as long as she could. With her self-control, she would lose her most efficacious weapon. Therefore, for the next minute or two, she dared not trust herself to speak, lest her voice, that one uncontrollable thing, betrayed her.

“I await your answer, mejuffrouw,” Stoutenburg resumed impatiently, after awhile.

“You have asked me no question, my lord,” she rejoined simply. “Only stated a fact. I but wait to hear your further pleasure.”

“My pleasure, fair one,” he went on lightly, “is only to prove to you that I, as ever before, am not only your humble slave but also your sincere friend.”

“A difficult task, my lord. But let me see, without further preamble, I pray you, how you intend to set about it.”

“By trying to temper your sorrow with my heartfelt sympathy,” he murmured softly.

“My sorrow?”

“I am forced to impart sad news to you, alas!”

“My husband is dead?” The cry broke from her heart, and this time she was unable to check it. Will and pride had been easy enough at first. Oh, how easy! But not now. Not in the face of this! She would have given worlds to appear calm, incredulous. But how could she? How could she, when such a torturing vision had been conjured up before her eyes?

For a moment it seemed as if reason itself began to totter. She looked on the man before her, and he appeared like a ghoulish fiend, with grinning jaws and sinister eyes, the play of light behind him making his face appear black and hideous. She put her hands up to her face, closed her eyes, and, oh, Heaven, how she prayed for strength!

None indeed but an implacable enemy, a jealous suitor, could have seen such soul-agony without relenting. But Stoutenburg was one of those hard natures which found grim pleasure in wounding and torturing. His love for Gilda, intensely passionate but never tender, was nothing now but fierce desire for mastership of her and vengeance upon his successful rival. The girl’s involuntary cry of misery had been as balm to his evil soul. Now her hands dropped once more on her lap. She looked at him straight between the eyes, her own still a little wild, lit by a feverish brightness.

“You have killed him,” she said huskily. “Is that it? Answer me! You have killed him?”

He put up his hand, smiling, as if to soothe a crying child.

“Nay! On my honour!” he replied quietly. “I have not seen that gallant adventurer these three months past.”

“Well, then?”

“Ask your brother Nicolaes, fair one. He saw him but a few hours ago.”

“Ay, yesterday,” she retorted. “When he tried to assassinate him. I saw the murderous hand uplifted; I saw it all I tell you! And in my heart I cursed my only brother for the vile traitor that he is. But, thank Heaven, my lord was only hurt. I believe⁠—”

She paused, put her hand up to her throat. The glance in Stoutenburg’s eyes gave her a feeling as if she were about to choke.

“You are quite right, mejuffrouw,” he broke in drily, “in believing that the intrepid Englishman who, for reasons best known to himself, hath chosen to meddle in the affairs of this country⁠—that he, I say, was only hurt when your brother interposed yesterday betwixt him and the Stadtholder. The two ragamuffins who usually hang around him did probably save him from further punishment at the moment. But not altogether. Nicolaes will tell you that, half an hour later, that same intrepid and meddlesome English gentleman did once more try to interfere in the affairs of our Sovereign Liege the Archduchess Isabella. This time with serious consequences to himself.”

“My brother Nicolaes,” she murmured, more quietly this time, “hath killed my husband?”

“No, no!” here broke in Nicolaes at last. “The whole thing, I vow,