The First of the English: A Novel
painter, apparently by no means pleased at the idea.
“You’ll go, I presume, Freule Bodé Volcker?” suggests Guy,
persuasively. “Your dance, I believe, is much admired.”
“Of course,” murmurs the young lady, nonchalantly.
“Of course not!” cries the Flemish father with the air of a Roman one.
“Papa!”
“Verdomd! Do you suppose I’ll have you, my young lady, keep my carriage
horses out again as you did last night, so that they went to sleep in
the goods van this morning! The Countess of Mansfeld’s yesterday and
the Duchess of Aerschot’s to-morrow and you not up until dinner to-day.
My servants eating me out of house and home; you haven’t kept your
household accounts for a week! Don’t answer me, miss, I have looked at
your market book, not written up—not written up—no commercial ideas!
But let me tell you,” adds the old gentleman, “if this happens again,
down you come at eight in the morning and attend to women customers in
the wareroom,” he points toward the commercial end of the house.
“Remember that!”
And bottling up his wrath, Papa Bodé Volcker makes adieu to Guy and
Oliver, remarking that he must attend to business if none of the rest
of the family do, but dragging off the snickering boy Jakob.
“Papa is very eccentric. This sort of discussion always begins with the
tenth penny tax,” remarks the young lady solemnly. Then she half sighs,
half laughs: “We have this every week or two, though not generally in
public. He’ll be coming back again in a minute,” giving a little
horrified snicker as the old gentleman fulfils her prophecy by popping
his head in at the door and crying:
“And that French jumping-jack, who teaches you to sling your feet
about! I flung him out, waistband and neck ruff, this morning!”
But this news is too much for the fair Wilhelmina’s complacency. She
springs up with a scream of horror, “Oh, papa! Poor, dear little
Monsieur de Valmy!” and there are tears in her eyes.
“Yes, and the music master, that spinet playing fellow, goes also. No
more flipping the heel and raising the toe; no more semi-quavers and
high Italian screeches,” jabbers the ex-burgomaster. “Remember the
tenth penny tax! Some day I will be a music teacher myself,” and with
this extraordinary prophecy Bodé Volcker darts for his counting room.
But this astounding prediction is too much for every one. They go into
laughter, which Miss Wilhelmina leads, ejaculating: “A music teacher,
indeed! Screeches and semi-quavers!”
Tossing herself into a chair in front of a near-by spinet, she gives
out smilingly a little Provençal chançon with such unaffected ease and
grace that both Guy and Oliver declare it would be a shame if the music
master should be suppressed, tenth penny tax or no.
This seems to put them all at their ease, Miss Bodé Volcker regaling
the gentlemen with an account of the grand fête of the Countess
Mansfeld in honor of Doña de Alva the night before, mentioning the
names of the Signeurs de la Noircarmes, D’Avila, Mondragon, Gabriel de
Cerbolloni, and other officers and nobles as being present, as well as
the younger Countess Mansfeld, the aristocratic Baroness d’ Ayala, and
the beautiful Doña Anica de la Medrado, just come with the latest
Madrid fashions. “I was the only one from the town,” she adds
innocently, “but my dancing was greatly admired.”
A moment after they have proof of this.
There is a clatter of hoofs in the courtyard and four prancing Spanish
mules come clattering in dragging a coach of state, their outriders and
lackeys in the glittering liveries of Alva.
A second after Doña Hermoine, robed in priceless furs, her glorious
head shaded by jaunty Spanish hat and long white plumes, her face
brilliant with brunette radiance, her eyes growing, perchance, more
brilliant, as they look upon Guy Chester’s well-knit form, enters the
apartment. Behind her comes the attendant Countess de Pariza,
duenna-like aspect on her formal face.
Though Guy and Oliver rise quickly to greet rank, title and beauty,
Miss Bodé Volcker is before them at the door welcoming the ladies who
do her and her house so much honor.
“It is so condescending of you, Doña de Alva, so kind of you, Countess
de Pariza,” she murmurs, “to honor me in my own home,” and courtesying
to the ground, kisses Hermoine’s hand, which that young lady, daughter
of the Viceroy of Spain, courteously permits,—then steps immediately
across the apartment to allow the two gentlemen, bowing before her, the
same privilege.
The Countess de Pariza does not extend her formal, thin, severe hand,
as the daughter of the ex-burgomaster courtesies to the floor before
her, but says rather brusquely: “We have called, Juffrouw Bodé Volcker
to see you dance again. It pleased me greatly last night.”
“To see me dance—here?” says the young lady, pouting, as the Countess
uses to her Juffrouw, the title of the middle classes, with little more
ceremony than she would to a serving girl. “I—I am not in costume.
Besides, these gentlemen—.” Miss Bodé Volcker looks embarrassed, as the
request has the form of a command, that will make her seem more like a
dancing girl than a young lady of society to Captain Guido Amati.
“To be sure. You can put on your costume. Run upstairs, and deck
yourself at once. Those pink silk stockings become you,” replies Señora
de Pariza. “As for these gentlemen,” she turns her argus eyes upon
Chester and Oliver, who are in conversation with Doña Hermoine, though
as her father’s under-secretary, Antony has stepped slightly behind the
Englishman, who is a military swell under his title Captain of
Musketeers, “they must be relatives, you converse with them alone,
Juffrouw Bodé Volcker. It’s a very bad habit for girls of your age to
adopt. Lines of propriety are drawn at brothers; cousins are very
dangerous. So trip upstairs and put on the costume of Hungary, which
became you so well last night. I will call in one of my Moorish girls
who plays the spinet.”
With this the duenna would stride to the door to summon an attendant,
but Doña Hermoine, noting the embarrassment the order causes the
aspiring Mina, with that unaffected condescension which very great rank
permits the potentates of this world to make those below them in
station easy and happy, suddenly cries;
“Dancing, Countess? then I’m your young lady!” and tossing off with one
graceful gesture her furry wraps, with another sweeps up a trailing
silken skirt and stands a picture before them, laughing: “Castanets,
and I am an Andalusian gipsy!”
But the duenna, suddenly drawing herself up, utters a horrified
ejaculation: “Before these gentlemen, Doña de Alva?”
“Why not, if I can dance well enough to please them? Captain Guido has
placed me last night under obligations that permit me to do anything
for his benefit and pleasure, and Señor Oliver is one of my father’s
household, and as such very near to me.”
Here Oliver winces. He could betray the tyrant father, but the thought
that this being of goodness and kindness will one day think him a
traitor and ignoble brings with it twinges of remorse.
“Dance! The daughter of the Viceroy tossing her feet about?” ejaculates
the duenna.
“Pooh!” laughs the girl archly. “Have I not posed for Señor Oliver’s
Madonna—in bare feet too. Some day I am to make Señor Antony
celebrated, or, rather, he will make me worshiped by his genius and his
altar piece.”
“You posed for your foot” murmurs Guy, casting an enraptured glance at
the exquisite member the girl displays as she still holds the Gitana
attitude.
“Yes, I hope he painted them small enough to please you,” laughs the
young lady. “But sit down at the spinet, Señorita Mina, and play for me
so that I may enrapture the Countess de Pariza by dancing,” adds Doña
Hermoine, looking archly at her duenna, who seems to have lost her
appetite for Terpsichore.
To this, the dragon says sharply: “Since Juffrouw Bodé Volcker is
indisposed to repeat for me the pleasure of last evening, I will go
into her father’s shop and see if there are any bargains to-day in
Lyons silks and velvets and the lace of Venice.”
“There should be,” remarks Oliver, suggestively. “Great bargains! The
damage from the flood must have cheapened everything.”
“Bargains! Come, let me see,” and La Pariza would call her two Moorish
attendants, but Guy, who has been wishing her God-speed in his heart
ever since she has entered, very politely opens the door for her
departure across the courtyard to the warerooms of the merchant.
Doña Hermoine has apparently not come on a shopping expedition, at
least not for laces and dress goods; she does not accompany her duenna,
but remains standing, a picture of grace, in the attitude she has taken
for the dance.
“You don’t care for new costumes, Doña de Alva,” remarks Guy dreamily,
the beauty of the girl’s pose enchanting him, as well it may, for the
young lady wears some soft clinging costume of southern Spain with
Moorish effects in it, that outlines her lithe graceful beauty in every
curve, and, swept up by one dainty hand, permits a suspicion of ankle
so exquisite in proportion and symmetry that poets would dream over
it—but this audacious sailor simply loves it.
“No, why should I? I have dozens I never use, and papa would give me a
thousand if I were foolish enough to want them,” replies Doña Hermoine,
resigning Gitana attitude and sweeping her Moorish jupe upon the floor
again. “He gives me everything I ask for.” Then she remarks naively:
“You have discovered my name—that I am the daughter of the Viceroy,
Captain Guido Amati. You—you see I have discovered your name. Or rather
I should say, Major Guido Amati.”
“Major?”
“Yes; promoted since noon!”
“But your father—?”
“Oh, I told him nothing about it. You are absent without leave. Neither
did I tell Sancho d’Avila, who is colonel of your regiment in the
absence of Romero in Spain. But there was a vacancy, and it was easily
granted to Captain Guido Amati, who, I am informed, is the bravest
officer in the army, or one of the bravest. That is all that can be
said for any man under Alva.”
“Major in Romero’s foot!” gasps Guy, who, during this speech, has been
gazing at her in a dazed, startled way.
“Yes, I took the muster-roll of the regiment myself, and saw that
Captain was altered to Major.”
“The muster-roll!” murmurs Chester, not believing his ears.
“Yes, there are duplicates at the Citadel.”
“The muster-rolls at the Citadel,” he stammers, stunned by surprise.
Then suddenly it flashes through him that amazement will betray him,
that gratitude is the only way he can receive this astounding
communication; a gratitude that is very pleasant to him. Taking
advantage of the young lady’s position, for she has extended a hand
toward him in happy, gracious gesture, he imprints one kiss of
obligation upon it and two more of rapturous love, and Miss Brunette’s
lilies become roses.
This is effected without undue publicity, as Oliver has taken the fair
Mina into the next room, and is whispering into her ear: “Look in Doña
Hermoine’s eyes. Don’t you see a request, you foolish girl? She saved
you from the embarrassment of the dance; do something for her. Please
your father. Go in and be a saleswoman. Show the Countess de Pariza
every bargain in your store. Furthermore, make them bargains. Cut the
price of everything in half.”
“Cut prices one-half! Great heavens, my father!”
“I’ll pay the balance, or rather Captain Amati will.”
“Oh, I see,” laughs the girl. “But what will her father, the awful
Duke, say?”
“He’ll never know if you give Countess de Pariza bargains enough to
keep her busy. Do it—for me.”
“Oh, you—!”
For the painter has emphasized his “for me” by a lover’s salute.
Thus urged, and catching Hermoine’s bright eyes with a request in them,