“Disprove that!” He half smiled.
“Ay! A villain may throw mud at a saint,” said Jacob de Witt, answering his son’s meaning of lofty contempt,—“but if it is not removed it leaves a smirch; no saint even may disregard these things. What hath the Republic come to that any should dare what this man hath dared?”
He struck the paper, and his dim eyes flashed fiercely.
The Grand Pensionary put his hand to his brow and pushed back the soft hair.
“My life hath been entirely open.… My money hath been invested entirely in the public funds—with the fortune of Holland, my fortunes fall—every one knows this. Can I stoop to defend myself against party lies?”
“Your silence will not disarm their implacable resentment—you must turn on them.”
“Ah, I have so much else to do, my father, so much.…”
The light had faded from the garden and lingered only in the tops of the trees and on the roof of the modest house. It was quite warm; the pigeons flew up through the golden air, in among the leaves of the limes, and back again to the bright grass.
“I think there will be war,” said John de Witt suddenly, and with a terrible note in his voice. “I would God would let me give my life to avert it—war, in this rich and prosperous country, war against overwhelming odds,” he stared straight before him with narrowed eyes—“war provoked by base tyranny of the French and baser tyranny of the English—what have I to do? For they hate me—how can I serve them when they hate me?”
“There are those who are faithful.” Jacob de Witt grasped his son’s hand.