The First of the English: A Novel
Mina runs away under Oliver’s promptings to make a bargain counter of
her father’s whole store, and to cut prices in such a way that would
rouse the old Bodé Volcker to madness were he present; but fortunately
Heer Bodé Volcker has gone down to the quay to see about the unloading
of a ship.
A minute later Oliver has sauntered to the extreme end of the great
banqueting room. Though theoretically he is present, practically he
sees nothing, hears nothing, and the daughter of the Viceroy and Guy
Stanhope Chester are alone together.
“You see,” says the young lady, archly, “I’ve been inquiring about you.
Oh, don’t be afraid. No one knows that you are here—absent from duty.
They wouldn’t have made you Major, perhaps, if they had. But it has
been whispered to me that you are even more than Major Guido Amati. You
are Major Guido Amati de Medina, son of Hernandez de Medina, once
Viceroy of Hispaniola, and have sworn never to assume your exalted
family name until you are a general, which you soon must be.”
Then she cries out suddenly, clapping her hands, “Why, since you’re a
Medina, you must be a cousin to the Duke of Medina Cœli.”
“Only—only third cousin,” stammers Guy, who thinks his ears are playing
him false, though he knows his eyes are doing very good work, indeed.
“Well, anyway, you have the blood of the grandees of Spain, and as such
your family is equal to mine,” murmurs the girl, a curious emphasis on
the last remark. “As such, of course, you may sit by my side,” and the
young lady sinking upon a Turkish sofa, a dream of vivacious grace,
motions Guy to the familiarity of equal social station.
As she looks on the Englishman a great wave of color flies over
Hermoine de Alva’s face, and in response Chester’s heart gives a big
jump or two as he sees what must have been the drift of the girl’s
mind.
“I am glad that you know so much about me,” he says, laughingly, then
goes on grimly: “Glad that what you have learned has not displeased
you.”
“Oh, I don’t know altogether that,” remarks the young lady; then she
says, archness in her tone, but a quiver on her lip: “It was also
whispered that Captain Guido Amati was a very wild young man. I hope
that Major Guido Amati will be more circumspect. But still, they said
you were the bravest officer in the army.” And the girl looks at him
joyously, radiantly, proudly.
She has apparently been conjuring up some dream, some vision of her
imagination, the center of which has always been Guido Amati; it brings
a light into her eyes that adds even to her beauty, for at times were
it not for womanly graces, vivacity and emotion, her brilliant
intellect would, perchance, give too great coldness to Hermoine de
Alva’s exquisite face.
But, fired by the latent romance of her nature, her delicate face is as
inspired—it would put glow into a saint: but with a sailor—.
And what she says gives golden opportunity. She has held up the ruby
ring and whispered, “You returned this to me?”
“Only that I might see you again,” and Guy is seated beside her.
“Then if you wish to see me once more, take the ruby from me—quick!”
“Never!”
“Never?”
“Never, unless on your finger, you wear this, one of my spoils of
Hispaniola.” And the Englishman has taken from a chain about his neck a
ring bearing a single brilliant.
“Oh, Santos! What are you doing?” falters the girl.
He has got possession of her fair hand now, and her eyes look into his
for one great glance, then turn from him, and droop; their long lashed
lids falling upon flaming cheeks. The next instant the diamond sparkles
on the taper finger and Hermoine de Alva, the daughter of Spain’s
Viceroy is only woman—loving woman—before this man, who has not wooed
her heart, but has seized it.
“Take the ruby—now you’ve given me the diamond,” she murmurs. “You—you
know what this means?”
“Please God, I do! You are my plighted bride. Mine—mine now forever!”
And his audacious lips give lover’s greeting, not as the night before,
the kiss of hasty mistletoe effect, but the long rapture of clinging
hearts.
“Beware! I—I am the Viceroy’s daughter,” murmurs the lady. She hangs
her head, then suddenly raises her eyes to his and goes on firmly,
distinctly: “My Guido, you are audacious!”
“Yes,” he whispers, “Were you the Queen of Spain, I’d love you.”
“Then you could not win me!”
“But as, thank God, you are Hermoine de Alva,” answers Guy sturdily, “I
will win you and wear you, daughter of the Viceroy though you be, for
my beloved wife. You hear the term!”—for she gives sudden start at this
new title. “Wife! And every time you say to me, ‘I am the daughter of
Alva,’ or ‘Beware the Captain General of the Netherlands!’ your lips
that do the deed shall pay the price, two for each word.”
“Madre Mia! How impulsive you are,” cries the girl panting and
struggling under the penalty exacted. For Guy Stanhope Chester is half
mad with love and rapture, and though he respects this captive of his
masculine bow and spear, still he woos her in a free and easy sailor
manner which enthralls but astounds this daughter of the Viceroy. “Holy
Virgin! you—you are so—so different.”
“From whom?” cries Guy in jealous tones.
“From—from the other suitors, who come bowing to the earth, mincing
compliments and fawning for the honor of my hand.”
“And they have dared?” snarls this gallant, who now regards all this
brunette loveliness, these drooping, melting eyes, these lily and rose
tinted cheeks, these ivory shoulders, this exquisite form, half girl’s,
half woman’s—in short Hermoine de Alva—as his very own.
“Dared!” pouts the young lady; then laughs, “Why not? Am I so very
ugly?”
“No, no! too beautiful.”
“Then why should not grandees of Spain and generals in the army and
Hidalgos of twenty-four quarterings aspire in humble tones and modest
manner for an honor you take, my audacious Guido, as if heaven had
given you title to me, the daughter of a Viceroy!”
“And so it has, and love likewise, thy love,” and Guy has her in his
arms again, murmuring: “You spoke the words ‘the daughter of a
Viceroy!’ Beware the penalty.”
“Take it, tyrant,” whispers the girl, and with this name that women
love to give to those whose domination commands their love, she puts
her soul upon her lips and gives it to him.
And this game might go on indefinitely, the two seeming to like to play
it very well, did not the sound of Oliver’s rapid footsteps announce
his coming from the banqueting room.
He steps to them, and bowing before the young lady says: “Doña de Alva,
I have the honor, as your father’s herald, to announce his coming!”
“Papa! Here!” and with these words the girl is up.
“Yes, the Duke’s cavalcade is already in the Shoemarket, doubtless he
is in search of you. I will tell the Countess de Pariza.”
As Oliver on his errand closes the door Guy knows his time is very
short, for Hermoine is dallying with her furs and whispering: “Away
from your garrison without leave, papa had better not see you. I will
meet him in the street.”
Then as Guy is wrapping the cloak about her, each touch a caress, she
adds significantly; “I shall spend a month or two in Brussels, but if
Major Guido Amati de Medina asks for leave from the Middelburg
garrison, he will doubtless get it. Though don’t, for sight of me,
neglect the duties of your post. Remember, my Guido, that every step
you take in the army brings you nearer to the church door where a bride
awaits you—whom you have made forget she is the daughter of a Viceroy!”
“Penalty!” mutters Guy, and takes this kiss very solemnly, for already
the murmur of the approaching crowd tells of the coming father.
At this the young lady says, with a delicious moue: “How doleful! One
would think you an unsuccessful suitor! But your message by Oliver
spoke of danger,” and there is a tremor in her voice.
“Yes, I must have the word of the night to pass the sentries. I must
leave this evening.”
“Of course to be in Middelburg when your commission arrives. I have
thought of that and brought it with me.” With this she hands him a
little paper.
It reads:
THE WORD IS “SANTA CRUZ.”
COUNTERSIGN “DON FREDRICO.”
As he glances at this, she smiles in his face: “I’ve half a mind not to
give it to you—not to let you go. What brought my rash young officer to
Antwerp without leave?”
“You.”
“Oh!”
“And for you I’d come again a thousand times. I was going to the
Drowned Lands duck shooting, when, by the blessing of God, I saved you
from the Beggars of the Sea, my own—my prize.” And knowing that every
chance of this earth is against his wearing as his bride this
sweetheart he has won, Guy’s face is drawn and contorted with the agony
of a parting that is to him like death. Sadness is catching as well as
love, and the girl gets to sighing and sobbing under his farewells that
are so solemn—though she can’t guess why.
But Oliver, with rattling door-latch, cries: “The Countess de Pariza is
already in the carriage. Quick!”
Then Guy, seeing his time has come, though his sweetheart would linger
longer, and begins to cling to him with little sighs of love, hurriedly
assists her to the carriage and puts her in.
Half turning round, his affianced holds up her white finger to him.
Upon it glistens the ring of his love.
The postilions crack their whips, the state vehicle flies through the
arch, and all that he has to remind him of the woman who was but now in
his arms, is the memory of her kisses, her ruby ring upon his finger,
and a little document that bears the talisman that will make him safe
from her father’s sentries at the gates.
CHAPTER VIII.
“THE UNGAINABLE!—BUT I’LL GAIN HER!”
“Look,” says the painter, leading the way to a window opening on the
street.
And Guy, from the curtains of Bodé Volcker’s house, sees the man of the
death’s face, before whom the crowd cower and tremble, bow to his
saddle-bow before the coach of his daughter, his face illuminated by
the proud eyes of father’s love.
“Egad! I think I’ve run up my account with him,” mutters the
Englishman. Then he turns suddenly to Antony and says: “A word with
you. On my first visit here, for my safety you invented for my use the
name of Captain Guido Amati, of Romero’s foot. There is another living
Guido Amati, Captain of Romero’s foot.”
“Certainly there is,” returns Oliver, and astounds Guy. “I took the
name from the roster of Romero’s regiment. It was then quartered in
Friesland, two hundred miles from here, the most distant of all the
Netherland provinces, and I thought it better to give you a name that
could be verified. But what does this matter?”
“Matter!” replies Chester glumly. “Only this, that I have just learned
that Guido Amati has been promoted on my account to Major in his
regiment; that Captain Guido Amati of Romero’s foot has been behaving
in some wild, reckless kind of manner, apparently with ladies, and that
Major Guido Amati has just been severely cautioned to behave himself
from this time forth most circumspectly. Zounds!” he goes on savagely,
“if this gentleman I am christened after doesn’t take good care he’ll
have an account to render to me, who have now his sins on my
shoulders!”
Then he bursts into a laugh in which Oliver joins, and says more
complacently: “But I’ve also got the reputation of being the bravest
man in the army. Besides, I am the third cousin of the Duke of Medina
Cœli, and, I imagine, entitled to keep my hat on in the presence of
Philip II. of Spain.”
“Very well, my grandee,” returns Antony smiling. “Here is the bill the
Countess de Pariza has run up against you—two hundred guilders! That’s
your half of the affair. If his Highness of Alva hadn’t chanced along I
imagine she’d have bought all in Bodé Volcker’s warehouses.”