The First of the English: A Novel
which the safety of the realm perhaps depended—something that brought
me to Antwerp four hours ahead of my time! Take word to the captain of
the provost guard to arrest De Guerra at once. I will speak with him in
prison when he recovers his senses—this fool, this drunkard, this
wine-bibber. And yet—I wonder what he had to tell me? Forward,
gentlemen!”
And the Duke rides on, leaving the painter standing almost as
breathless as the corpse inside the Painted Inn; for Oliver knows the
hand of death has been almost as near to him as to the dead, and
mutters, as he rejoins Guy; “Ehu! truly the lion’s jaws had nearly
closed!”
CHAPTER VII.
LOVE—BY A COUP DE MAIN.
“Yes, just in time,” whispers the Englishman, drawing a long breath
also. Then he takes a hasty look at the tall Dutch clock ticking lazily
away in the wine room.
Noting this the painter laughs. “The sight of the father makes you
impatient for the daughter, eh? But you’ve another half an hour to
wait, my impulsive gallant. Besides, I haven’t eaten to-day. The
provost marshal must wait until I get a bite. Join me in—in my dinner.”
So giving order to an alert serving man, the two sit down to a very
hasty, yet comfortable meal, seasoned by peace and contentment, for
these young men are so accustomed to danger that any little breathing
spell in their struggle with sudden death seems to them a calm, quiet
and contented time.
As he eats and drinks Guy looks lazily up and down the street; crowds
of people are passing along the Shoemarket. This throng is made
picturesque by a smattering of the costumes of most of the nations of
the earth; for at this time Antwerp is the mart of Northern Europe, and
the greatest commercial emporium of the age.
Ships are taking cargo at its river front for the Indies, East and
West, for even the distant coasts of Peru and the Cape of Good Hope,
and others are unloading from the Baltic and the Mediterranean:
consequently seamen and visitors from all known portions of the globe
increase the vivacity of the scene.
Curiously enough, there are no English walking the streets of Antwerp
to-day, for since Elizabeth stole Alva’s eight hundred thousand crowns,
the Duke has forbidden any commerce with Great Britain, and has
sequestered all English property and driven out all English merchants
living or doing business in Antwerp, of which before this there have
been a great number, the English wool trade being one of the great
sources of revenue of the city. Just now Antwerp is at its very zenith,
from which it is about to go down under the exactions, taxes and
tyranny of the Spaniard into a fourth-rate commercial town.
But the burghers, though gloomy and oppressed, do not anticipate, and
the merchants still laugh lightly upon the street, thinking themselves
princes upon the throne of a commerce that can never be destroyed.
This absence of English blood and English feature would make Guy
conspicuous, were not several Danish officers of De Billy striding
about the street, and some of these have fair hair, blue eyes and Saxon
blondness.
“Now I must carry Alva’s orders to the provost marshal. Fortunately his
office is not far from here. Wait for me, I will return in quarter of
an hour. You need not look so impatiently at the clock,” remarks
Oliver.
But Guy is not looking at the clock. His eyes are fixed upon a man in
the costume of a South Zeeland trader who is carefully wiping a pair of
tortoise-shell rimmed spectacles and inspecting the placard offering
reward for the head of the “First of the English.” As the Zeelander
turns the Englishman knows that he has seen him before.
A moment after Chester thinks this man recognizes him, for, though he
turns away his head, he keeps one eye upon this gentleman, and notes
this gentleman has one eye on him.
“Take me to the provost marshal’s with you,” he whispers to Oliver.
“You—want to go there?” gasps Antony, opening his eyes very wide.
“Yes,” returns Guy. “There’s a gentleman here who recognizes me, and
has also made himself acquainted with the value of my head. If he
follows me I’ll astonish him.”
As the two rise, Oliver’s face very serious at this, they are joined by
little De Busaco, who comes striding up to them to be rather effusively
welcomed by Chester, who thinks that apparent intimacy with Spanish
officers may remove the suspicions of the man who is watching him.
“You’re in good company, I see, Amati,” says the little ensign.
“Introduce me to the honor of the acquaintance of the Duke’s
under-secretary.”
And this being done the young Spaniard says: “Where are you going?”
“To the provost marshal’s office.”
“Then I’ll go with you,” remarks De Busaco. “I’ve business there
myself. I wish to get leave to remain in the town this evening. A
little Flemish girl, you understand!” he strokes his mustachios
knowingly.
As they walk along the street together, De Busaco, who apparently has
joined them for this purpose, goes to questioning and pumping Oliver as
to what prospect there is of a near pay-day for the garrison of
Antwerp; if he knows anything of the Duke’s plans; how the tenth penny
tax comes on, etc., etc., his losses at the drinking bout having
apparently made him anxious on this subject.
Guy, however, pays little heed to this. Eye and ear are intent to
discover if he is followed by the Zeeland trader. The Shoemarket is so
well peopled that this is difficult to determine, but after they have
walked from it to Kammer street, past the Inn of the Red Lion, and
turned into the network of narrow alleys that lead to the main
watergate of the town, where the provost marshal’s office is situated,
the crowd grows less and Chester, turning slightly, catches sight of
the man whom he fears.
This personage dogs them straight to the city gate, but stands gaping
in astonishment as Guy and Oliver, accompanied by the young Spanish
officer, enter the office of Alva’s provost marshal, the very door of
which is placarded with the reward of three thousand Carolus guilders.
“De Busaco,” remarks the Englishman, pausing at the door, “do you see
that man in South Zeeland dress?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want something that will save you anxiety about your back pay?”
“Santos! yes!”
“Then take a couple of men and get him. He lives in the disaffected
provinces at Flushing. I think the Council of Troubles are looking for
him.”
“A reward!” cries the little Spaniard, then flying into the guard room
and unheeding military etiquette he calls out, “Some men with me,
quick—there’s money in it!”
Two Spanish soldiers, springing up at his bidding from the crowd
lounging about the guard-room, he starts with these hurriedly for the
street, and is soon in hot pursuit of the trader from South Zeeland,
crying: “Heretico fugitivo!” and other words of rage and fury which
make that gentleman quicken his steps to so good a purpose that
apparently knowing the town well, he dodges into some of the blind
alleys in this densely crowded portion of the city, and escapes from
the little Spaniard, whose jack boots are not conducive to extreme
fleetness of foot.
“I couldn’t catch him,” remarks De Busaco, five minutes afterward,
returning breathless, “but I’ll keep my eye open for him.”
“Very well, his reward will make you forget your back pay,” remarks
Guy, as Oliver returns from the inner office, where he has been
closeted with the captain of the guard, and says the necessary orders
have been given for the arrest of De Guerra.
“I don’t think,” laughs Chester, as he and Oliver walk along the street
together (for they have left the ensign at the provost marshal’s) “that
that gentleman from South Zeeland will be anxious to report himself at
any of the guard-houses of this town to give information about me. And
now, after danger—” the look on his face tells his meaning to the
little painter, who murmurs: “Love!”
So the two stride up Kammer street again, and along the Shoemarket to
the Place de Meir, where the great house of Bodé Volcker is situated,
and going in, find themselves very shortly en rapport with the family
of a merchant of that day.
As they reach the arched passageway leading to the courtyard, seeing no
signs of equipage, the corner of Guy’s mouth droops.
“Don’t be impatient; it is better to be first, then I can arrange our
little scheme of bargains before the arrival of the duenna Countess and
her charge,” says the artist.
Leading the way with the familiarity that denotes a friend of the
house, Oliver raps upon a side door situated at the further end of the
courtyard, and almost immediately is admitted by the servant girl of
the evening before; the lady’s maid, Wiarda, she of the haughty nose,
apparently being engaged elsewhere.
They enter directly into what is the living room of the house. Here the
family of Bodé Volcker, consisting of himself, Jakob, a boy of sixteen,
who has just left school for the counting room, and the daughter,
Wilhelmina, whose soft blonde curls and merry blue eyes have induced
Oliver not only to put her upon his canvas but in his heart, are
apparently engaged in a family discussion that is becoming highly
flavored.
The old gentleman, an energetic but fat Fleming, with commercial
expression and commercial eyes, is evidently excited. His cheeks are
red and angry. The young lady’s blue eyes are equally angry, though
they are slightly dimmed by latent tears, and one of the corners of her
dear little mouth is twitching nervously. The boy, like most cubs of
his age, is seemingly enjoying some dispute between papa and sister,
for his blonde German face has a suppressed snicker in it. If he dared
he would laugh.
“Ah, Oliver,” cries the merchant, rising with outstretched hands, “back
from Brussels! A short trip,” and welcomes the painter with the easy
familiarity of a friend of his house.
Miss Wilhelmina, on the contrary, greets Antony in haughty Spanish
style, extending white fingers for her sweetheart to kiss.
The cub merely snickers; “Hoe maakt je ’t?”
“I’ve taken the liberty of bringing a friend, Captain Guido Amati, of
the Middelburg garrison,” remarks the painter.
“A friend of yours, Oliver! Welcome—welcome to everything in my house,”
says Niklaas with Flemish hospitality, giving Guy cordial greeting.
“Captain Amati is known to the Doña Hermoine, and as the Duke’s
secretary—”
It is unnecessary to say more; at mention of the Viceroy’s daughter
Miss Wilhelmina most affably seconds her father’s hospitality and
extends her white fingers for Spanish welcome. These Guy, making no
mistake this time, kisses, perhaps lingering a shade too long over the
soft, fair hand for the pleasure of his friend Oliver.
Then the merchant cries out suddenly with Flemish primitiveness:
“Chairs, Wilhelmina; chairs for the gentlemen!”
“Father!” remarks the young lady haughtily, “you forget we have lackeys
in the house,” and, ringing a hand bell, orders the serving man to
place seats for the cavaliers.
“Oh, ho! more foreign airs!” jeers the old gentleman snappishly,
apparently taking up a discussion that has been dropped. “Don’t forget
Flanders simplicity, my daughter. Though your father is called a
millionaire, perhaps he won’t be a millionaire long, with that accursed
tenth penny tax,” adds Niklaas, grinding his teeth.
“You come from Brussels, Señor Antony,” interrupts the young lady,
adopting the Spanish style of address. “While there I presume, as the
Duke’s under-secretary, you met the Duchess of Aerschot. She arrives in
Antwerp to-day, and gives an entertainment to-morrow evening. You will
be there, I presume, Captain Amati, also Señor Oliver?”
“Unfortunately I leave Antwerp this evening,” answers Guy.
“And under-secretaries and heralds are not invited,” remarks the