CHAPTER XLIV
BLAKE OF BLAKENEY
While Maria completed a hasty toilet, Gilda's instinct had drawn herback once more to the open window. The light from the room below wasstill reflected on the opposite wall, and from the tap-room the buzz ofvoices had not altogether ceased.
Cornelius Beresteyn was speaking now:
"Indeed," he said, "it will be the one consolation left to me, since youdo reject my friendship, sir."
"Not your friendship, sir--only your money," interposed Diogenes.
"Well! you do speak of lifelong parting. But your two friends haveindeed deserved well of me. Without their help no doubt you, sir, firstand then my dearly loved daughter would have fallen victims to thatinfamous Stoutenburg. Will a present of twenty thousand guilders eachgratify them, do you think?"
A ringing laugh roused the echoes of the sleeping hostelry.
"Twenty thousand guilders! ye gods!" exclaimed Diogenes merrily."Pythagoras, dost hear, old bladder-face? Socrates, my robin, dostrealize it? Twenty thousand guilders each in your pockets, old compeers.Lord! how drunk you will both be to-morrow."
Out of the confused hubbub that ensued Gilda could disentangle nothingdefinite; there was a good deal of shouting and clapping of pewter mugsagainst a table, and through it all that irresponsible, infectiouslaughter which--strangely enough--had to Gilda's ears at this moment acurious tone, almost of bitterness, as if its merriment was only forced.
Then when the outburst of gaiety had somewhat subsided she once moreheard her father's voice. Maria was dressed by this time, and now at aword from Gilda was ready to go downstairs and to deliver thejongejuffrouw's message to her father.
"You spoke so lightly just now, sir, of dying in a ditch or palace,"Cornelius Beresteyn was saying, "but you did tell me that day in Haarlemthat you had kith and kindred in England. Where is that father of whomyou spoke, and your mother who is a saint? Your irresponsiblevagabondage will leave her in perpetual loneliness."
"My mother is dead, sir," said Diogenes quietly, "my father broke herheart."
"Even then he hath a right to know that his son is a brave and loyalgentleman."
"He will only know that when his son is dead."
"That was a cruel dictum, sir."
"Not so cruel as that which left my mother to starve in the streets ofHaarlem."
"Aye! ten thousand times more cruel, since your dear mother, sir, hadnot to bear the awful burden of lifelong remorse."
"Bah!" rejoined the philosopher with a careless shrug of the shoulders,"a man seldom feels remorse for wrongs committed against a woman."
"But he doth for those committed against his flesh and blood--hisson----"
"I have no means of finding out, sir, if my father hath or hath notremorse for his wilful desertion of wife and child--England is a far-offcountry--I would not care to undertake so unprofitable a pilgrimage."
"Then why not let me do so, sir?" queried Cornelius Beresteyn calmly.
"You?"
"Yes. Why not?"
"Why should you trouble, mynheer, to seek out the father of such avagabond as I?"
"Because I would like to give a man--an old man your father must benow--the happiness of calling you his son. You say he lives in England.I often go to England on business. Will you not at least tell me yourfather's name?"
"I have no cause to conceal it, mynheer," rejoined Diogenes carelessly."In England they call him Blake of Blakeney; his home is in Sussex and Ibelieve that it is a stately home."
"But I know the Squire of Blakeney well," said Cornelius Beresteyneagerly, "my bankers at Amsterdam also do business for him. I know thatjust now he is in Antwerp on a mission from King James of England to theArchduchess. He hath oft told Mynheer Beuselaar, our mutual banker, thathe was moving heaven and earth to find the son whom he had lost."
"Heaven and earth take a good deal of moving," quoth Diogenes lightly,"once a wife and son have been forsaken and left to starve in a foreignland. Mine English father wedded my mother in the church of St. Pieterat Haarlem. My friend Frans Hals--God bless him--knew my mother andcared for me after she died. He has all the papers in his chargerelating to the marriage. It has long ago been arranged between us thatif I die with ordinary worthiness, he will seek out my father in Englandand tell him that mayhap--after all--even though I have been a vagabondall my life--I have never done anything that should cause him to blushfor his son."
Apparently at this juncture, Maria must have knocked at the door of thetapperij, for Gilda, whose heart was beating more furiously than ever,heard presently the well-known firm footsteps of her father as herapidly ascended the stairs.
Two minutes later Gilda lay against her father's heart, and her handresting in his she told him from beginning to end everything that shehad suffered from the moment when after watch-night service in theGroote Kerk she first became aware of the murmur of voices, to that whenshe first realized that the man whom she should have hated, the knavewhom she should have despised, filled her heart and soul to theexclusion of all other happiness in the world, and that he was about topass out of her life for ever.
It took a long time to tell--for she had suffered more, felt more, livedmore in the past five days than would fill an ordinary life--nor did shedisguise anything from her father, not even the conversation which shehad had at Rotterdam in the dead of night with the man who had remainednameless until now, and in consequence of which he had gone at once towarn the Stadtholder and had thus averted the hideous conspiracy whichwould have darkened for ever the destinies of many Dutch homes.
Of Nicolaes she did not speak; she knew that he had confessed his guiltto his father, who would know how to forgive in the fullness of time.
When she had finished speaking her father said somewhat roughly:
"But for that vervloekte adventurer down there, you would never havesuffered, Gilda, as you did. Nicolaes...."
"Nicolaes, father dear," she broke in quietly, "is very dear to us both.I think that his momentary weakness will endear him to us even more. Buthe was a tool in the hands of that unscrupulous Stoutenburg--and but forthat nameless and penniless soldier whose hand you were proud to graspjust now, I would not be here in your arms at this moment."
"Ah!" said Cornelius Beresteyn dryly, "is this the way that the windblows, my girl? Did you not know then that the rascal--the day after hedared to lay hands upon you--was back again in Haarlem bargaining withme to restore you to my arms in exchange for a fortune?"
"And two days later, father dear," she retorted, "he endured insults,injuries, cruelties from Stoutenburg, rather than betray Nicolaes' guiltbefore me."
"Hm!" murmured Cornelius, and there was a humorous twinkle in his eyesas he looked down upon his daughter's bowed head.
"And but for that same rascal, father," she continued softly, "you wouldat this moment be mourning a dead daughter and Holland a hideous act oftreachery."
"Hush, my dear!" cried the old man impulsively, as he put his kindprotecting arms round the child whom he loved so dearly.
"I would never have followed the Lord of Stoutenburg while I lived," shesaid simply.
"Please God," he said earnestly, "I would sooner have seen you in thecrypt beside your mother."
"Then, father, hath not the rascal you speak of deserved well of us? Canwe not guess that even originally he took me away from Haarlem, onlybecause he knew that if he refused the bargain, proposed to him by mineown brother, Stoutenburg would have found some other means of ensuringmy silence."
"You are a good advocate, my girl," rejoined Cornelius with a sly winkwhich brought the colour rushing up to Gilda's cheeks. "I think, byyour leave, I'll go and shake that vervloekte Keerl once more by thehand.... And ... shall I tell him that you bear him no ill-will?" headded roguishly.
"Yes, father dear, tell him that," she said gently.
"Then will you go to bed, dear?" he asked, "you are overwrought andtired."
"I will sit by the window quietly for a quarter of an hour,"
she said,
"after that I promise you that I will go peaceably to bed."
He kissed her tenderly, for she was very dear to him, but being a man ofvast understanding and profound knowledge of men and things, thehumorous twinkle did not altogether fade from his eyes as he finallybade his daughter "Good night," and then quietly went out of the room.