There was just room for him under the low cover of the sledge; he hesitated no longer now, he felt indeed as if nothing would tear him away from Gilda’s side until she was safely home again in their father’s arms.
A peremptory order: “En avant,” struck upon his ear, a shout from the driver to his horses, the harness rattled, the sledge creaked upon its framework and then slowly began to move: Beresteyn lifted the flap of the hood at the rear of the vehicle and looked out for the last time upon the molens and the hut, where such a tragic act in his life’s drama had just been enacted.
He saw Diogenes still standing there, waving his hat in farewell: for a few moments longer his splendid figure stood out clearly against the flat grey landscape beyond, then slowly the veil of mist began to envelop him, at first only blurring the outline of his mantle or his sash, then it grew more dense and the sledge moved away more rapidly.
The next moment the Laughing Cavalier had disappeared from view.
XLIII
Leyden Once More
After that Gilda had lived as in a dream: only vaguely conscious that good horses and a smoothly gliding vehicle were conveying her back to her home. Of this fact she was sure, Nicolaes was sitting quite close under the hood of the sledge and when first she became fully aware of the reality of his presence, he had raised her hand to his lips and had said in response to a mute appeal from her eyes:
“We are going home.”
After that a quiet sense of utter weariness pervaded her being, and she fell into a troubled sleep. She did not heed what went on around her, she only knew that once or twice during the day there was a halt for food and drink.
The nearness of her brother, his gentleness toward her, gave her a sense of well-being, even though her heart felt heavy with a great sorrow which made the whole future appear before her like an interminable vista of blank and grey dullness.
It was at her suggestion that arrangements were made for an all-night halt at Leyden, which city they reached in the early part of the afternoon. She begged Nicolaes that they might put up at the hostelry of the White Goat on the further side of the town, and that from thence a messenger might be sent to her father, asking him to come and meet her there on the morrow.
Though Nicolaes was not a little astonished at this suggestion of Gilda’s—seeing that surely she must be longing to be home again and that Haarlem could easily have been reached before night—he did not wish to run counter to her will. True enough, he dreaded the meeting with his father, but he knew that it had to come, and felt that, whatever might be the future consequences of it all—he could not possibly bear alone the burden of remorse and of shame which assailed him every time he encountered Gilda’s tear-stained eyes, and saw how wearied and listless she looked.
So he called a halt at the White Goat and as soon as he saw his sister safely installed, with everything ordered for her comfort, and a tasteful supper prepared, he sent a messenger on horseback at once to Haarlem to his father.
Gilda had deliberately chosen to spend the night at the hostelry of the White Goat because she felt that in that quaint old building with its wide oak staircase—over which she had been carried five days ago, dizzy and half fainting—the blackened rafters would mayhap still echo with the sound of a merry laughter which she would never hear again.
But when the sledge finally turned in under the low gateway and drew up in the small courtyard of the inn—when with wearied feet and shaking knees she walked up those oaken stairs, it seemed to her that the vivid memories which the whole place recalled were far harder to bear than those more intangible ones which—waking and sleeping—had tortured her up to now.
The bedroom too, with the smaller one leading out of it, was the same in which she had slept. As the obsequious waiting-wench threw open the door for the noble jongejuffrouw to pass through she saw before her the wide open hearth with its crackling fire, the high-backed chair wherein she had sat, the very footstool which he had put to her feet.
It seemed to her at first as if she could not enter, as if his splendid figure would suddenly emerge out of the semidarkness to confront her with his mocking eyes and his smiling face. She seemed to see him everywhere, and she had to close her eyes to chase away that all too insistent vision.
The waiting-wench did not help matters either, for she asked persistently and shyly about the handsome mynheer who had such an irresistible fund of laughter in him. Maria too, in her mutterings and grumblings, contrived—most unwittingly, since she adored Gilda—to inflict a series of tiny pinpricks on an already suffering heart.
Tired in body and in mind, Gilda could not sleep that night. She was living over again every second of the past five days: the interview with that strangely winning person—a stranger still to her then—here in this room! how she had hated him at first! how she had tried to shame and wound him with her words, trying all the while to steel her heart against that irresistible gaiety and good humour which shone from him like a radiance: then that second interview in Rotterdam! did she still hate him then? and if not when was hatred first changed into the love which now so completely filled her soul?
Looking back on those days, she could not tell. All that she knew was that when he was brought before her helpless
