The First Sir Percy, Baroness Orczy [most important books to read TXT] 📗

wench’s senses⁠—it could be nothing more⁠—were still under the thrall of that miserable adventurer who, thank Beelzebub and his horde, had at last been rendered powerless to wreak further mischief. There could be, he argued to himself, no aversion in her heart for one who was so ready to share prosperity, power, and honour with her, to forgive and forget all that was past, to raise her from comparative obscurity to the most exalted state that had ever dazzled a woman’s fancy and stormed the inmost recesses of her soul.

She was still infatuated with the varlet, and that was all. A wholly ununderstandable fact. Stoutenburg never could imagine how she had ever looked with favour on such an adventurer, whose English parentage and reputed wealth were, to say the least, problematical. Beresteyn had been a fool to allow his only daughter to bestow her beauty and her riches on a stranger, about whom in truth he knew less than nothing. The girl, bewitched by the rascallion, had cajoled her father and obtained his consent. Now she was still under the spell of a handsome presence, a resonant voice, a provoking eye. It was, it could be, nothing more than that. When once she understood what she had gained, how utterly inglorious that once brilliant soldier of fortune had become, she would descend from her high attitude of disdain and kiss the hand which she now spurned.

But, in anticipation of that happy hour, the Lord of Stoutenburg felt moody and discontented.

II

Nicolaes’ voice, close to his elbow, roused him from his gloomy meditations.

“You must be indulgent, my friend,” he was saying in a smooth conciliatory voice. “Gilda had always a wilful temper.”

“And a tenacious one,” Stoutenburg retorted. “She is still in love with that rogue.”

“Bah!” the other rejoined, with a note of spite in his tone. “It is mere infatuation! A woman’s whimsey for a good-looking face and a pair of broad shoulders! She should have seen the scrubby rascal as I last caught sight of him⁠—grimy, unshaven, broken. No woman’s fancy would survive such a spectacle!”

Then, as Stoutenburg, still unconsoled, continued to stare through the open window, muttering disjointed phrases through obstinately set lips, he went on quite gaily:

“You are not the first by any means, my friend, whose tempestuous wooing hath brought a woman, loving and repentant, to heel. When I was over in England with my father, half a dozen years ago, we saw there a play upon the stage. It had been writ by some lowborn mountebank, one William Shakespeare. The name of the play was The Taming of the Shrew. Therein, too, a woman of choleric temper did during several scenes defy the man who wooed her. In the end he conquered; she became his wife, and as tender and submissive an one as e’er you’d wish to see. But, by St. Bavon, how she stormed at first! How she professed to hate him! I was forcibly reminded of that play when I saw Gilda defying you awhile ago; and I could have wished that you had displayed the same good-humour over the wrangle as did the gallant Petruchio⁠—the hero of the piece.”

Stoutenburg was interested.

“How did he succeed in the end?” he queried. “Your Petruchio, I mean.”

“He starved the ranting virago into submission,” Nicolaes replied, with an easy laugh. “Gave her nothing to eat for a day and a night; swore at her lackeys; beat her waiting-maids. She was disdainful at first, then terrified. Finally, she admired him, because he had mastered her.”

“A good moral, friend Nicolaes!”

“Ay! One you would do well to follow. Women reserve their disdain for weaklings, and their love for their masters.”

“And think you that Gilda⁠—”

“Gilda, my friend, is but a woman after all. Have no fear, she’ll be your willing slave in a week.”

Stoutenburg’s eyes glittered at the thought.

“A week is a long time to wait,” he murmured. “I wish that now⁠—”

He paused. Something that was happening down below on the quay had attracted his attention⁠—unusual merriment, loud laughter, the strains of a bibulous song. For a minute or two his keen eyes searched the gloom for the cause of all this hilarity. He leaned far out the window, called peremptorily to a group of soldiers who were squatting around their bivouac fire.

“Hey!” he shouted. “Peter! Willem!⁠—whatever your confounded names may be! What is that rascallion doing over there?”

“Making us all laugh, so please your lordship,” one of the soldiers gave reply; “by the drollest stories and quips any of us have ever heard.”

“Where does he come from?”

“From nowhere, apparently,” the man averred. “He just fell among us. The man is blind, so please you,” he added after a moment’s hesitation.

Stoutenburg swore.

“How many times must I give orders,” he demanded roughly, “that every blind beggar who comes prowling round the camps be hanged to the nearest post?”

“We did intend to hang him,” the soldier replied coolly; “but when first he came along he was so nimble that, ere we could capture him, he gave us the slip.”

“Well,” Stoutenburg rejoined harshly, “it is not too late. You have him now.”

“So we have, Magnificence,” the man replied, hesitated for a second or two, then added: “But he is so amusing, and he seems a gentleman of quality, too proud for the hangman’s rope.”

“Too proud is he?” his lordship retorted with a sneer. “A gentleman of quality, and amusing to boot? Well, let us see how his humour will accommodate itself to the gallows. Here, let me have a look at the loon.”

There was much hustling down below after this; shouting and prolonged laughter; a confused din, through which it was impossible to distinguish individual sounds. Stoutenburg’s nerves were tingling. He was quite sure by now that he had recognised that irrepressible merry voice. A gentleman of quality! Blind! Amusing! But, if Nicolaes’ report of yesterday’s events were true, the man was hopelessly stricken. And what could induce him to put his head in the jackal’s mouth, to affront his triumphing