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THE LAUGHING CAVALIER
THE STORY OF THE ANCESTOR OF THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
BARONESS ORCZY
Author of "Unto Cæsar," "The Scarlet Pimpernel," "El Dorado,"
"Meadowsweet," etc.
NEW YORK
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
Copyright, 1914,
BY THE RIDGWAY COMPANY
Copyright, 1914,
BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
CONTENTS
AN APOLOGY
THE PROLOGUE
THE ADVENTURE
I NEW YEAR'S EVE
II THE FRACAS BY THE POSTERN GATE
III AN INTERLUDE
IV WATCH-NIGHT
V BROTHER AND SISTER
VI THE COUNSELS OF PRUDENCE
VII THREE PHILOSOPHERS AND THEIR FRIENDS
VIII THE LODGINGS WHICH WERE PAID FOR
IX THE PAINTER OF PICTURES
X THE LAUGHING CAVALIER
XI THE BARGAIN
XII THE PORTRAIT
XIII THE SPANISH WENCH
XIV AFTER EVENSONG
XV THE HALT AT BENNEBROCK
XVI LEYDEN
XVII AN UNDERSTANDING
XVIII THE START
XIX IN THE KINGDOM OF THE NIGHT
XX BACK AGAIN IN HAARLEM
XXI A GRIEF-STRICKEN FATHER
XXII A DOUBLE PLEDGE
XXIII A SPY FROM THE CAMP
XXIV THE BIRTH OF HATE
XXV AN ARRANT KNAVE
XXVI BACK TO HOUDEKERK
XXVII THENCE TO ROTTERDAM
XXVIII CHECK
XXIX CHECK AGAIN
XXX A NOCTURNE
XXXI THE MOLENS
XXXII A RUN THROUGH THE NIGHT
XXXIII THE CAPTIVE LION
XXXIV PROTESTATIONS
XXXV THE WITNESS FOR THE DEFENCE
XXXVI BROTHER PHILOSOPHERS
XXXVII DAWN
XXXVIII THE HOUR
XXXIX "SAUVE QUI PEUT"
XL THE LOSER PAYS
XLI "VENGEANCE IS MINE"
XLII THE FIGHT IN THE DOORWAY
XLIII LEYDEN ONCE MORE
XLIV BLAKE OF BLAKENEY
XLV THE END
AN APOLOGY
Does it need one?
If so it must also come from those members of the Blakeney family in
whose veins runs the blood of that Sir Percy Blakeney who is known to
history as the Scarlet Pimpernel--for they in a manner are responsible
for the telling of this veracious chronicle.
For the past eight years now--ever since the true story of The Scarlet
Pimpernel was put on record by the present author--these gentle, kind,
inquisitive friends have asked me to trace their descent back to an
ancestor more remote than was Sir Percy, to one in fact who by his life
and by his deeds stands forth from out the distant past as a conclusive
proof that the laws which govern the principles of heredity are as
unalterable as those that rule the destinies of the universe. They have
pointed out to me that since Sir Percy Blakeney's was an exceptional
personality, possessing exceptional characteristics which his friends
pronounced sublime and his detractors arrogant--he must have had an
ancestor in the dim long ago who was, like him, exceptional, like him
possessed of qualities which call forth the devotion of friends and the
rancour of enemies. Nay, more! there must have existed at one time or
another a man who possessed that same sunny disposition, that same
irresistible laughter, that same careless insouciance and adventurous
spirit which were subsequently transmitted to his descendants, of whom
the Scarlet Pimpernel himself was the most distinguished individual.
All these were unanswerable arguments, and with the request that
accompanied them I had long intended to comply. Time has been my only
enemy in thwarting my intentions until now--time and the multiplicity of
material and documents to be gone through ere vague knowledge could be
turned into certitude.
Now at last I am in a position to present not only to the Blakeneys
themselves, but to all those who look on the Scarlet Pimpernel as their
hero and their friend--the true history of one of his most noted
forebears.
Strangely enough his history has never been written before. And yet
countless millions must during the past three centuries have stood
before his picture; we of the present generation, who are the proud
possessors of that picture now, have looked on him many a time, always
with sheer, pure joy in our hearts, our lips smiling, our eyes sparkling
in response to his; almost forgetting the genius of the artist who
portrayed him in the very realism of the personality which literally
seems to breathe and palpitate and certainly to laugh to us out of the
canvas.
Those twinkling eyes! how well we know them! that laugh! we can almost
hear it; as for the swagger, the devil-may-care arrogance, do we not
condone it, seeing that it has its mainspring behind a fine straight
brow whose noble, sweeping lines betray an undercurrent of dignity and
of thought.
And yet no biographer has--so far as is known to the author of this
veracious chronicle--ever attempted to tell us anything of this man's
life, no one has attempted hitherto to lift the veil of anonymity which
only thinly hides the identity of the Laughing Cavalier.
But here in Haarlem--in the sleepy, yet thriving little town where he
lived, the hard-frozen ground in winter seems at times to send forth a
memory-echo of his firm footstep, of the jingling of his spurs, and the
clang of his sword, and the old gate of the Spaarne through which he
passed so often is still haunted with the sound of his merry laughter,
and his pleasant voice seems still to rouse the ancient walls from
their sleep.
Here too--hearing these memory-echoes whenever the shadows of evening
draw in on the quaint old city--I had a dream. I saw him just as he
lived, three hundred years ago. He had stepped out of the canvas in
London, had crossed the sea and was walking the streets of Haarlem just
as he had done then, filling them with his swagger, with his engaging
personality, above all with his laughter. And sitting beside me in the
old tavern of the "Lame Cow," in that self-same tap-room where he was
wont to make merry, he told me the history of his life.
Since then kind friends at Haarlem have placed documents in my hands
which confirmed the story told me by the Laughing Cavalier. To them do I
tender my heartfelt and grateful thanks. But it is to the man
himself--to the memory of him which is so alive here in Haarlem--that I
am indebted for the true history of his life, and therefore I feel that
but little apology is needed for placing the true facts before all those
who have known him hitherto only by his picture, who have loved him only
for what they guessed.
The monograph which I now present with but few additions of minor
details, goes to prove what I myself had known long ago, namely, that
the Laughing Cavalier who sat to Frans Hals for his portrait in 1624 was
the direct ancestor of Sir Percy Blakeney, known to history as the
Scarlet Pimpernel.
EMMUSKA ORCZY.
HAARLEM, 1913.
THE PROLOGUE
HAARLEM--MARCH 29TH, 1623
The day had been spring-like--even hot; a very unusual occurrence in
Holland at this time of year.
Gilda Beresteyn had retired early to her room. She had dismissed Maria,
whose chatterings grated upon her nerves, with the promise that she
would call her later. Maria had arranged a tray of dainties on the
table, a jug of milk, some fresh white bread and a little roast meat on
a plate, for Gilda had eaten very little supper and it might happen that
she would feel hungry later on.
It would have been useless to argue with the old woman about this
matter. She considered Gilda's health to be under her own special
charge, ever since good Mevrouw Beresteyn had placed her baby girl in
Maria's strong, devoted arms ere she closed her eyes in the last long
sleep.
Gilda Beresteyn, glad to be alone, threw open the casement of the window
and peered out into the night.
The shadow of the terrible tragedy--the concluding acts of which were
being enacted day by day in the Gevangen Poort of 'S Graven Hage--had
even touched the distant city of Haarlem with its gloom. The eldest son
of John of Barneveld was awaiting final trial and inevitable
condemnation, his brother Stoutenburg was a fugitive, and their
accomplices Korenwinder, van Dyk, the redoubtable Slatius and others,
were giving away under torture the details of the aborted conspiracy
against the life of Maurice of Nassau, Stadtholder of Holland,
Gelderland, Utrecht and Overyssel, Captain and Admiral-General of the
State, Prince of Orange, and virtual ruler of Protestant and republican
Netherlands.
Traitors all of them--would-be assassins--the Stadtholder whom they had
planned to murder was showing them no mercy. As he had sent John of
Barneveld to the scaffold to assuage his own thirst for supreme power
and satisfy his own ambitions, so he was ready to send John of
Barneveld's sons to death and John of Barneveld's widow to sorrow and
loneliness.
The sons of John of Barneveld had planned to avenge their father's death
by the committal of a cruel and dastardly murder: fate and the treachery
of mercenary accomplices had intervened, and now Groeneveld was on the
eve of condemnation, and Stoutenburg was a wanderer on the face of the
earth with a price put upon his head.
Gilda Beresteyn could not endure the thought of it all. All the memories
of her childhood were linked with the Barnevelds. Stoutenburg had been
her brother Nicolaes' most intimate friend, and had been the first man
to whisper words of love in her ears, ere his boundless ambition and his
unscrupulous egoism drove him into another more profitable marriage.
Gilda's face flamed up with shame even now at recollection of his
treachery, and the deep humiliation which she had felt when she saw the
first budding blossom of her girlish love so carelessly tossed aside by
the man whom she had trusted.
A sense of oppression weighed her spirits down to-night. It almost
seemed as if the tragedy which had encompassed the entire Barneveld
family was even now hovering over the peaceful house of Mynheer
Beresteyn, deputy burgomaster and chief civic magistrate of the town of
Haarlem. The air itself felt heavy as if with the weight of impending
doom.
The little city lay quiet and at peace; a soft breeze from the south
lightly fanned the girl's cheeks. She leaned her elbows on the
window-sill and rested her chin in her hands. The moon was not up and
yet it was not dark; a mysterious light still lingered on the horizon
far away where earth and sea met in a haze of purple and indigo.
From the little garden down below there rose the subtle fragrance of
early spring--of wet earth and budding trees, and the dim veiled
distance was full of strange sweet sounds, the call of night-birds, the
shriek of sea-gulls astray from their usual haunts.
Gilda looked out and listened--unable to understand this vague sense of
oppression and of foreboding: when she put her finger up to her eyes,
she found them wet with tears.
Memories rose from out the past, sad phantoms that hovered in the scent
of the spring. Gilda had never wholly forgotten the man who had once
filled her heart with his personality, much less could she chase away
his image from her mind now that a future of misery and disgrace was all
that was left to him.
She did not know what had become of him, and dared not ask for news.
Mynheer Beresteyn, loyal to the House of Nassau and to its prince, had
cast out of his heart the sons of John of Barneveld whom he had once
loved. Assassins and traitors, he would with his own lips have condemned
them to the block, or denounced them to the vengeance of the Stadtholder
for their treachery against him.
The feeling of uncertainty as to Stoutenburg's fate softened Gilda's
heart toward him. She knew that he had become a wanderer on the face of
the earth, Cain-like, homeless, friendless, practically kinless; she
pitied him far more than she did Groeneveld or the others who were
looking death quite closely in the face.
She was infinitely sorry for him, for him and for his wife, for whose
sake he had been false to his first love. The gentle murmur of the
breeze, the distant call of the water-fowl, seemed to bring back to
Gilda's ears those whisperings of ardent passion which had come from
Stoutenburg's lips years ago. She had listened to them with joy then,
with glowing eyes cast down and cheeks that flamed up at his words.
And as she listened to these dream-sounds others more concrete mingled
with the mystic ones far away: the sound of stealthy footsteps upon the
flagged path of the garden, and of a human being breathing and panting
somewhere close by, still hidden by the gathering shadows of the night.
She held her breath to listen--not at all frightened, for the sound of
those footsteps, the presence of that human creature close by, were in
tune with her mood of expectancy of something that was foredoomed to
come.
Suddenly the breeze brought to her ear the murmur of her name, whispered
as if in an agony of pleading:
"Gilda!"
She leaned right out of the window. Her eyes, better accustomed to the
dim evening light, perceived a human figure that crouched against the
yew hedge, in the fantastic shadow cast by the quaintly shaped peacock
at the corner close to the house.
"Gilda!" came the murmur again, more insistent this time.
"Who goes there?" she called in response: and it was an undefinable
instinct stronger than her will that caused her to drop her own voice
also to a whisper.
"A fugitive hunted to his death," came the response scarce louder than
the breeze. "Give me shelter, Gilda--human bloodhounds are on my track."
Gilda's heart seemed to stop its beating; the human figure out there in
the shadows had crept stealthily nearer. The window out of which she
leaned was only a few feet from the ground; she stretched out her hand
into the night.
"There is a projection in the wall just there," she whispered hurriedly,
"and the ivy stems will help you.... Come!"
The fugitive grasped the hand that was stretched out to him in pitying
helpfulness. With the aid of the projection in the wall and of the stems
of the century-old ivy, he soon cleared the distance which separated him
from the window-sill. The next moment he had jumped into the room.
Gilda in this impulsive act of mercy had not paused to consider either
the risks or the cost. She had recognised the voice of the man whom she
had once loved, that voice called to her out of the depths of boundless
misery; it was the call of a man at bay, a human quarry hunted and
exhausted, with the hunters close upon his heels. She could not have
resisted that call even if she had allowed her reason to fight her
instinct then.
But now that he stood before her in rough fisherman's clothes, stained
and torn, his face covered with blood and grime, his eyes red and
swollen, the breath coming in quick, short gasps through his blue,
cracked lips, the first sense of fear at what she had done seized hold
of her heart.
At first he took no notice of her, but threw himself into the nearest
chair and passed his hands across his face and brow.
"My God," he murmured, "I thought they would have me to-night."
She stood in the middle of the room, feeling helpless and bewildered;
she was full of pity for the man, for there is nothing more unutterably
pathetic than the hunted human creature in its final stage of apathetic
exhaustion, but she was just beginning to co-ordinate her thoughts and
they for the moment were being invaded by fear.
She felt more than she saw, that presently he turned his hollow,
purple-rimmed eyes upon her, and that in them there was a glow half of
passionate will-power and half of anxious, agonizing doubt.
"Of what are you afraid, Gilda?" he asked suddenly, "surely not of me?"
"Not of you, my lord," she replied quietly, "only for you."
"I am a miserable outlaw now, Gilda," he rejoined bitterly, "four
thousand golden guilders await any lout who chooses to sell me for a
competence."
"I know that, my lord ... and marvel why you are here? I heard that you
were safe--in Belgium."
He laughed and shrugged his shoulders.
"I was safe there," he said, "but I could not rest. I came back a few
days ago, thinking I could help my brother to escape. Bah!" he added
roughly, "he is a snivelling coward...."
"Hush! for pity's sake," she exclaimed, "some one will hear you."
"Close that window and lock the door," he murmured hoarsely. "I am
spent--and could not resist a child if it chose to drag me at this
moment to the Stadtholder's spies."
Gilda obeyed him mechanically. First she closed the window; then she
went to the door listening against the panel with all her senses on the
alert. At the further end of the passage was the living-room where her
father must still be sitting after his supper, poring over a book on
horticulture, or mayhap attending to his tulip bulbs. If he knew that
the would-be murderer of the Stadtholder, the prime mover and
instigator of the dastardly plot was here in his house, in his
daughter's chamber ... Gilda shuddered, half-fainting with terror,
and her trembling fingers fumbled with the lock.
"Is Nicolaes home?" asked Stoutenburg, suddenly.
"Not just now," she replied, "but he, too, will be home anon.... My
father is at home...."
"Ah!... Nicolaes is my friend ... I counted on seeing him here ... he
would help me I know ... but your father, Gilda, would drag me to the
gallows with his own hand if he knew that I am here."
"You must not count on Nicolaes either, my lord," she pleaded, "nor must
you stay here a moment longer ... I heard my father's step in the
passage already. He is sure to come and bid me good-night before he goes
to bed...."
"I am spent, Gilda," he murmured, and indeed his breath came in such
feeble gasps that he could scarce speak. "I have not touched food for
two days. I landed at Scheveningen a week ago, and for five days have
hung about the Gevangen Poort of 'S Graven Hage trying to get speech
with my brother. I had gained the good will of an important official in
the prison, but Groeneveld is too much of a coward to make a fight for
freedom. Then I was recognized by a group of workmen outside my dead
father's house. I read recognition in their eyes--knowledge of me and
knowledge of the money which that recognition might mean to them. They
feigned indifference at first, but I had read their thoughts. They drew
together to concert over their future actions and I took to my heels. It
was yesterday at noon, and I have been running ever since, running,
running, with but brief intervals to regain my breath and beg for a
drink of water--when thirst became more unendurable than the thought of
capture. I did not even know which way I was running till I saw the
spires of Haarlem rising from out the evening haze; then I thought of
you, Gilda, and of the house. You would not sell me, Gilda, for you are
rich, and you loved me once," he added hoarsely, while his thin, grimy
hands clutched the arms of the chair and he half-raised himself from his
seat, as if ready to spring up and to start running again; running,
running until he dropped.
But obviously his strength was exhausted, for the next moment he fell
back against the cushions, the swollen lids fell upon the hollow eyes,
the sunken cheeks and parched lips became ashen white.
"Water!" he murmured.
She ministered to him kindly and gently, first holding the water to his
lips, then when he had quenched that raging thirst, she pulled the table
up close to his chair, and gave him milk to drink and bread and meat to
eat.
He seemed quite dazed, conscious only of bodily needs, for he ate and
drank ravenously without thought at first of thanking her. Only when he
had finished did he lean back once again against the cushions which her
kindly hand had placed behind him, and he murmured feebly like a tired
but satisfied child:
"You are an angel of goodness, Gilda. Had you not helped me to-night, I
should either have perished in a ditch, or fallen in the hands of the
Stadholder's minions."
Quickly she put a restraining hand on his shoulder. A firm step had
echoed in the flagged corridor beyond the oaken door.
"My father!" she whispered.
In a moment the instinct for life and liberty was fully aroused in the
fugitive; his apathy and exhaustion were forgotten; terror, mad,
unreasoning terror, had once more taken possession of his mind.
"Hide me, Gilda," he entreated hoarsely, and his hands clutched wildly
at her gown, "don't let him see me ... he would give me up ... he would
give me up...."
"Hush, in the name of God," she commanded, "he will hear you if you
speak."
Swiftly she blew out the candles, then with dilated anxious 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 hands. They were clasped in prayer for
your safety. You slept so soundly that I feared I could not wake you in
order to tell you that you must leave this house instantly."
"I will go, Gilda," he said quietly, making no attempt to move or to
relax his hold on her, "for this brief interval of sleep, your kind
ministrations and the food you gave me have already put new strength
into me. And the sight of you kneeling and praying near me has put life
into me again."
"Then, since you are better," she rejoined coldly, "I pray you rise, my
lord, and make ready to go. The garden is quite lonely, the Oude Gracht
at its furthest boundary is more lonely still. The hour is late and the
city is asleep ... you would be quite safe now."
"Do not send me away yet, Gilda, just when a breath of happiness--the
first I have tasted for four years--has been wafted from heaven upon me.
May I not stay here awhile and live for a brief moment in a dream which
is born of unforgettable memories?"
"It is not safe for you to stay here, my lord," she said coldly.
"My lord? You used to call me Willem once."
"That was long ago, my lord, ere you gave Walburg de Marnix the sole
right to call you by tender names."
"She has deserted me, Gilda. Fled from me like a coward, leaving me to
bear my misery alone."
"She shared your misery for four years, my lord; it was your disgrace
that she could not endure."
"You knew then that she had left me?"
"My father had heard of it."
"Then you know that I am a free man again?"
"The law no doubt will soon make you so."
"The law has already freed me through Walburg's own act of desertion.
You know our laws as well as I do, Gilda. If you have any doubt ask your
own father whose business it is to administer them. Walburg de Marnix
has set me free, free to begin a new life, free to follow at last the
dictates of my heart."
"For the moment, my lord," she retorted coldly, "you are not free even
to live your old life."
"I would not live it again, Gilda, now that I have seen you again. The
past seems even now to be falling away from me. Dreams and memories are
stronger than reality. And you, Gilda ... have you forgotten?"
"I have forgotten nothing, my lord."
"Our love--your vows--that day in June when you yielded your lips to my
kiss?"
"Nor that dull autumnal day, my lord, when I heard from the lips of
strangers that in order to further your own ambitious schemes you had
cast me aside like a useless shoe, and had married another woman who was
richer and of nobler birth than I."
She had at last succeeded in freeing herself from his grasp, and had
risen to her feet, and retreated further and further away from him until
she stood up now against the opposite wall, her slender, white form lost
in the darkness, her whispered words only striking clearly on his ear.
He too rose from the bed and drew up his tall lean figure with a gesture
still expressive of that ruthless ambition with which Gilda had taunted
him.
"My marriage then was pure expediency, Gilda," he said with a shrug of
the shoulders. "My father, whose differences with the Stadtholder were
reaching their acutest stage, had need of the influence of Marnix de St.
Aldegonde; my marriage with Walburg de Marnix was done in my father's
interests and went sorely against my heart ... it is meet and natural
that she herself should have severed a tie which was one only in name. A
year hence from now, the law grants me freedom to contract a new
marriage tie; my love for you, Gilda, is unchanged."
"And mine for you, my lord, is dead."
He gave a short, low laugh in which there rang a strange note of
triumph.
"Dormant mayhap, Gilda," he said as he groped his way across the
darkened room and tried to approach her. "Your ears have been poisoned
by your father's hatred of me. Let me but hold you once more in my arms,
let me but speak to you once again of the past, and you will forget all
save your real love for me."
"All this is senseless talk, my lord," she said coldly, "your life at
this moment hangs upon the finest thread that destiny can weave. Human
bloodhounds you said were upon your track; they have not wholly lost the
scent, remember."
Her self-possession acted like a fall of icy-cold water upon the ardour
of his temper. Once more that hunted look came into his face; he cast
furtive, frightened glances around him, peering into the gloom, as if
enemies might be lurking in every dark recess.
"They shall not have me," he muttered through set teeth, "not
to-night ... not now that life again holds out to me a cup brimful of
happiness. I will go, Gilda, just as you command ... they shall not find
me ... I have something to live for now ... you and revenge.... My
father, my brother, my friends, I shall avenge them all--that
treacherous Stadtholder shall not escape from my hatred the second time.
Then will I have power, wealth, a great name to offer you. Gilda, you
will remember me?"
"I will remember you, my lord, as one who has passed out of my life. My
playmate of long ago, the man whom I once loved is dead to me. He who
would stain his hands with blood is hateful in my sight. Go, go, my
lord, I entreat you, ere you make my task of helping you to life and
safety harder than I can bear."
She ran to the window and threw it open, then pointed out into the
night.
"There lies your way, my lord. God only knows if I do right in not
denouncing you even now to my father."
"You will not denounce me, Gilda," he said, drawing quite near to her,
now that he could see her graceful figure silhouetted against the
starlit sky, "you will not denounce me for unknown mayhap even to
yourself, your love for me is far from dead. As for me I feel that I
have never loved as I love you now. Your presence has intoxicated me,
your nearness fills my brain as with a subtle, aromatic wine. All
thought of my own danger fades before my longing to hold you just for
one instant close to my heart, to press for one brief yet eternal second
my lips against yours. Gilda, I love you!"
His arms quickly closed round her, she felt his hot breath against her
cheek. For one moment did she close her eyes, for she felt sick and
faint, but the staunch valour of that same Dutch blood which had
striven and fought and endured and conquered throughout the ages past
gave her just that courage, just that presence of mind which she needed.
"An you do not release me instantly," she said firmly, "I will rouse the
house with one call."
Then, as his arms instinctively dropped away from her and he drew back
with a muttered curse:
"Go!" she said, once more pointing toward the peaceful and distant
horizon now wrapped in the veil of night. "Go! while I still have the
strength to keep silent, save for a prayer for your safety."
Her attitude was so firm, her figure so rigid, that he knew that
inevitably he must obey. His life was in danger, not hers; and she had
of a truth but little to fear from him. He bowed his head in submission
and humility, then he bent the knee and raising her gown to his lips he
imprinted a kiss upon the hem. The next moment he had swung himself
lightly upon the window sill, from whence he dropped softly upon the
ground below.
For a few minutes longer she remained standing beside the open window,
listening to his footfall on the flagged path. She could just
distinguish his moving form from the surrounding gloom, as he crept
along the shadows towards the boundary of the garden. Then as for one
brief minute she saw his figure outlined above the garden wall, she
closed the window very slowly and turned away from it.
The next moment she was lying in a swoon across the floor of her room.
THE ADVENTURE
CHAPTER I
NEW YEAR'S EVE
If the snow had come down again or the weather been colder, or wetter,
or other than it was....
If one of the three men had been more thirsty, or the other more
insistent....
If it had been any other day of the year, or any other hour of any other
day....
If the three philosophers had taken their walk abroad in any other
portion of the city of Haarlem....
If....
Nay! but there's no end to the Ifs which I might adduce in order to
prove to you beyond a doubt that but for an extraordinary conglomeration
of minor circumstances, the events which I am about to relate neither
would nor could ever have taken place.
For indeed you must admit that had the snow come down again or the
weather been colder, or wetter, the three philosophers would mayhap all
have felt that priceless thirst and desire for comfort which the
interior of a well-administered tavern doth so marvellously assuage. And
had it been any other day of the year or any other hour of that same
last day of the year 1623, those three philosophers would never have
thought of whiling away the penultimate hour of the dying year by hanging
round the Grootemarkt in order to see the respectable mynheer burghers
and the mevrouws their wives, filing into the cathedral in a sober and
orderly procession, with large silver-clasped Bibles under their arms,
and that air of satisfied unctuousness upon their faces which is best
suited to the solemn occasion of watch-night service, and the desire to
put oneself right with Heaven before commencing a New Year of commercial
and industrial activity.
And had those three philosophers not felt any desire to watch this same
orderly procession they would probably have taken their walk abroad in
another portion of the city from whence....
But now I am anticipating.
Events crowded in so thickly and so fast, during the last hour of the
departing year, and the first of the newly-born one, that it were best
mayhap to proceed with their relation in the order in which they
occurred.
For look you, the links of a mighty chain had their origin on the steps
of the Stadhuis, for it is at the foot of these that three men were
standing precisely at the moment when the bell of the cathedral struck
the penultimate hour of the last day of the year 1623.
Mynheer van der Meer, Burgomaster of Haarlem, was coming down those same
steps in the company of Mynheer van Zilcken, Mynheer Beresteyn and other
worthy gentlemen, all members of the town council and all noted for
their fine collections of rare tulips, the finest in the whole of the
province of Holland.
There was great rivalry between Mynheer van der Meer, Mynheer van
Zilcken and Mynheer Beresteyn on the subject of their tulip bulbs, on
which they expended thousands of florins every year. Some people held
that the Burgomaster had exhibited finer specimens of "Semper Augustus"
than any horticulturist in the land, while others thought that the
"Schwarzer Kato" shown by Mynheer Beresteyn had been absolutely without
a rival.
And as this group of noble councillors descended the steps of the
Stadhuis, preparatory to joining their wives at home and thence
escorting them to the watch-night service at the cathedral, their talk
was of tulips and of tulip bulbs, of the specimens which they possessed
and the prices which they had paid for these.
"Fourteen thousand florins did I pay for my 'Schwarzer Kato,'" said
Mynheer Beresteyn complacently, "and now I would not sell it for twenty
thousand."
"There's a man up at Overveen who has a new hybrid now, a sport of
'Schone Juffrouw'--the bulb has matured to perfection, he is putting it
up for auction next week," said Mynheer van Zilcken.
"It will fetch in the open market sixteen thousand at least," commented
Mynheer van der Meer sententiously.
"I would give that for it and more," rejoined the other, "if it is as
perfect as the man declares it to be."
"Too late," now interposed Mynheer Beresteyn with a curt laugh, "I
purchased the bulb from the man at Overveen this afternoon. He did not
exaggerate its merits. I never saw a finer bulb."
"You bought it?" exclaimed the Burgomaster in tones that were anything
but friendly toward his fellow councillor.
"This very afternoon," replied the other. "I have it in the inner pocket
of my doublet at this moment."
And he pressed his hand to his side, making sure that the precious bulb
still reposed next to his heart.
"I gave the lout fifteen thousand florins for it," he added airily, "he
was glad not to take the risks of an auction, and I equally glad to
steal a march on my friends."
The three men, who were leaning up against the wall of the Stadhuis, and
who had overheard this conversation, declared subsequently that they
learned then and there an entirely new and absolutely comprehensive
string of oaths, the sound of which they had never even known of before,
from the two solemn and sober town-councillors who found themselves
baulked of a coveted prize. But this I do not altogether believe; for
the three eavesdroppers had already forgotten more about swearing than
all the burghers of Haarlem put together had ever known.
In the meantime the town councillors had reached the foot of the steps:
here they parted company and there was a marked coldness in the manner
of some of them toward Mynheer Beresteyn, who still pressed his hand
against his doublet, in the inner pocket of which reposed a bit of
dormant vegetation for which he had that same afternoon paid no less a
sum than fifteen thousand florins.
"There goes a lucky devil," said a mocking voice in tones wherein
ripples of laughter struggled for ever for mastery. It came from one of
the three men who had listened to the conversation between the
town-councillors on the subject of tulips and of tulip bulbs.
"To think," he continued, "that I have never even seen as much
as fifteen thousand florins all at once. By St. Bavon himself do
I swear that for the mere handling of so much money I would be
capable of the most heroic deeds ... such as killing my worst
enemy ... or ... or ... knocking that obese and self-complacent
councillor in the stomach."
"Say but the word, good Diogenes," said a gruff voice in response, "the
lucky devil ye speak of need not remain long in possession of that bulb.
He hath name Beresteyn.... I think I know whereabouts he lives ... the
hour is late ... the fog fairly dense in the narrow streets of the
city ... say but the word...."
"There is an honest man I wot of in Amsterdam," broke in a third voice,
one which was curiously high-pitched and dulcet in its tones, "an honest
dealer of Judaic faith, who would gladly give a couple of thousand for
the bulb and ask no impertinent questions."
"Say but the word, Diogenes ..." reiterated the gruff voice solemnly.
"And the bulb is ours," concluded the third speaker in his quaint
high-pitched voice.
"And three philosophers will begin the New Year with more money in their
wallets than they would know what to do with," said he of the
laughter-filled voice. "'Tis a sound scheme, O Pythagoras, and one that
under certain circumstances would certainly commend itself to me. But
just now...."
"Well?" queried the two voices--the gruff and the
high-pitched--simultaneously, like a bassoon and a flute in harmony,
"just now what?"
"Just now, worthy Socrates and wise Pythagoras, I have three whole
florins in my wallet, and my most pressing creditor died a month
ago--shot by a Spanish arquebuse at the storming of Breda--he fell like
a hero--God rest his soul! But as to me I can afford a little while--at
any rate for to-night--to act like a gentleman rather than a common
thief."
"Bah!" came in muffled and gruff tones of disgust, "you might lend me
those three florins--'twere the act of a gentleman...."
"An act moreover which would effectually free me from further scruples,
eh?" laughed the other gaily.
"The place is dull," interposed the flute-like tones, "'twill be duller
still if unworthy scruples do cause us to act like gentlemen."
"Why! 'tis the very novelty of the game that will save our lives from
dullness," said Diogenes lightly, "just let us pretend to be gentlemen
for this one night. I assure you that good philosophers though ye both
are, you will find zest in the entertainment."
It is doubtful whether this form of argument would have appealed to the
two philosophers in question. The point was never settled, for at that
precise moment Chance took it on herself to forge the second link in
that remarkable chain of events which I have made it my duty to relate.
From across the Grootemarkt there, where stands the cathedral backed by
a network of narrow streets, there came a series of ear-piercing
shrieks, accompanied by threatening cries and occasional outbursts of
rough, mocking laughter.
"A row," said Socrates laconically.
"A fight," suggested Pythagoras.
Diogenes said nothing. He was already half-way across the Markt. The
others followed him as closely as they could. His figure which was
unusually tall and broad loomed weirdly out of the darkness and out of
the fog ahead of them, and his voice with that perpetual undertone of
merriment rippling through it, called to them from time to time.
Now he stopped, waiting for his companions. The ear-piercing shrieks,
the screams and mocking laughter came more distinctly to their ears, and
from the several bye-streets that gave on the Market Place, people came
hurrying along, attracted by the noise.
"Let us go round behind the Fleischmarkt," said Diogenes, as soon as his
two friends had come within ear-shot of him, "and reach the rear of the
cathedral that way. Unless I am greatly mistaken the seat of yonder
quarrel is by a small postern gate which I spied awhile ago at the
corner of Dam Straat and where methinks I saw a number of men and women
furtively gaining admittance: they looked uncommonly like Papists and
the postern gate not unlike a Romanist chapel door."
"Then there undoubtedly will be a row," said Socrates dryly.
"And we are no longer likely to find the place dull," concluded
Pythagoras in a flute-like voice.
And the three men pulling their plumed hats well over their eyes, turned
off without hesitation in the wake of their leader. They had by tacit
understanding unsheathed their swords and were carrying them under the
folds of their mantles. They walked in single file, for the street was
very narrow, the gabled roofs almost meeting overhead at their apex,
their firm footsteps made no sound on the thick carpet of snow. The
street was quite deserted and the confused tumult in the Dam Straat only
came now as a faint and distant echo.
Thus walking with rapid strides the three men soon found themselves once
more close to the cathedral: it loomed out of the fog on their left and
the cries and the laughter on ahead sounded once more clear and shrill.
The words "for the love of Christ!" could be easily distinguished;
uttered pleadingly at intervals and by a woman's voice they sounded
ominous, more especially as they were invariably followed by cries of
"Spaniards! Spies! Papists!" and a renewal of loud and ribald laughter.
The leader of the little party had paused once more, his long legs
evidently carried him away faster than he intended: now he turned to his
friends and pointed with his hand and sword on ahead.
"Now, wise Pythagoras," he said, "wilt thou not have enjoyment and to
spare this night? Thou didst shower curses on this fog-ridden country,
and call it insufferably dull. Lo! what a pleasing picture doth present
itself to our gaze."
Whether the picture was pleasing or not depended entirely from the point
of view of spectator or participant. Certes it was animated and moving
and picturesque; and as three pairs of eyes beneath three broad-brimmed
hats took in its several details, three muffled figures uttered three
simultaneous gurgles of anticipated pleasure.
In the fog that hung thickly in the narrow street it was at first
difficult to distinguish exactly what was going on. Certain it is that a
fairly dense crowd, which swelled visibly every moment as idlers joined
in from many sides, had congregated at the corner of Dam Straat, there
where a couple of resin torches fixed in iron brackets against a tall
stuccoed wall, shed a flickering and elusive light on the forms and
faces of a group of men in the forefront of the throng.
The faces thus exposed to view appeared flushed and heated--either with
wine or ebullient temper--whilst the upraised arms, the clenched fists
and brandished staves showed a rampant desire to do mischief.
There was a low postern gate in the wall just below the resin torches.
The gate was open and in the darkness beyond vague, moving forms could
be seen huddled together in what looked like a narrow, unlighted
passage. It was from this huddled mass of humanity that the wails and
calls for divine protection proceeded, whilst the laughter and the
threats came from the crowd.
From beneath three broad-brimmed hats there once more came three
distinct chuckles of delight and three muffled figures hugged naked
swords more tightly under their cloaks.