Out of the confused hubbub that ensued Gilda could disentangle nothing definite; there was a good deal of shouting and clapping of pewter mugs against a table, and through it all that irresponsible, infectious laughter which—strangely enough—had to Gilda's ears at this moment a curious tone, almost of bitterness, as if its merriment was only forced.
Then when the outburst of gaiety had somewhat subsided she once more heard her father's voice. Maria was dressed by this time, and now at a word from Gilda was ready to go downstairs and to deliver the jongejuffrouw'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 Haarlem that you had kith and kindred in England. Where is that father of whom you spoke, and your mother who is a saint? Your irresponsible vagabondage will leave her in perpetual loneliness."
"My mother is dead, sir," said Diogenes quietly, "my father broke her heart."
"Even then he hath a right to know that his son is a brave and loyal gentleman."
"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 of Haarlem."
"Aye! ten thousand times more cruel, since your dear mother, sir, had not 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."