The First of the English: A Novel
“God bless you! Though you are your father’s daughter—God bless you! I
know a man that can do it. There is a ship even now waiting for him.”
“Whom?”
“A debauchee, gambler, blackleg—who’s in the next room. If he’s not too
drunk he can get my daughter out of Antwerp. Speak to him, command him,
he’ll obey the daughter of Alva. He’s one of your father’s
officers—Major Guido Amati.”
“Good heavens, what an introduction!” shudders Guy, his hair rising up
as he mutters curses with white lips. If Bodé Volcker wishes revenge
upon the spy who has caused his heart to flutter with fear of loss of
life and loss of money, could he see the debauchee Guido Amati, he’d
know he had it now.
Then the clanging of the door closing shows Niklaas has gone to his
daughter.
A moment after there is a sigh, faint on the air, tender, almost
despairing, and the rustle of soft silks and laces, as if a woman in
agony had sank down bowed by mighty sorrow.
Blessing God for these sounds of agony and love, Guy Chester opens the
door and looks into the office of Bodé Volcker. She is there, her head
in her white, slender hands, suffering because she thinks him
worthless. It is a sight of pleasure, not of pain. Did she not care for
him would her beautiful form be convulsed with anguish at his
debauchery? Did she not love him would she grieve if Guido Amati were
roué and libertine?
With this thought Guy, with light steps, crosses the room and locks the
door. He will have five minutes for explanation—for love!
Crushed by grief, the girl hears him not, but at the sound of clicking
lock starts to her feet, and drawing her fair body up, puts haughty
nose into air and remarks in cutting voice, though her white hands
tremble and clench themselves: “Finishing the two months’ carouse with
which you christened your new commission, Major Guido Amati de Medina?”
then jeers in sneering tone: “Probably you’ll not grace your commission
long. Desertion from your post at Middelburg in the face of the enemy,
by which it is now attacked, without leave of absence—”
“Without leave of absence,” interjects Chester, “why do you think
that?”
“I know it! I’ve had word from the Lord de Beauvois, Governor of
Middelburg, that no leave of absence shall be granted to Major Guido
Amati.”
“Then it’s to your influence,” mutters Guy, “the influence of the woman
I once thought loved me, that Beauvois has constantly kept me within
garrison and prevented me from coming where my heart called me. You
feared my presence by your side in Brussels.”
“Only after word was brought to me that you had forgotten me.”
“It was a lie.”
“A lie?”
“Yes, a lie; the same as all the other reports circulated about me, the
same as that base one told you two minutes ago—that I was a drunken
debauchee, too drunk to do anything you asked me. Do I look drunk now?”
She gazes at him. His handsome face bears no signs of dissipation. His
eyes blazing, indignant, fiery but loving, gaze at her. He stands
haughty and erect, and she cries: “No, no, you are fit to do any
woman’s bidding.”
“Then if I’m sober now, when he said I was drunk, I was sober in
Middelburg when they told you I was a dissipated roué. It was a lie, a
lie furnished by some rival. Who is my rival? Is it Noircarmes?” and he
strides up to her. “Tell me, have you had word of love with him, with
my ring on your finger?” Then looking down, he starts and sighs: “Good
God! it is not there!” next bursts out at her: “By this sign I am truer
than you!”
And Guy, holding the blazing ruby up before her, she droops her eyes
but looks so infinitely lovely that he could crush her to his breast.
These orbs that sink before his, yet gaze on him, are not the eyes of
the picture of the Madonna he has gazed upon, or of the miniature by
which he has tried to assuage his hungry heart these many months, but
passionate dazzling, real eyes—the eyes of Hermoine de Alva.
It is not her placid form upon the canvas he is gazing on, but the live
loveliness of real flesh and blood and vivacious womanhood.
“I am the judge now, not you!” he cries. “Answer!” for she is blushing
and paling and fluttering like a guilty one: “Forgive me!”
But knight of jealous heart answers “No!”
And princess of love and grace cries: “You shall!”
“And why?”
“For this.” Her tones are pleading now and very sad. “I believed—I
admit it now, my Guido, falsely believed that you were unworthy of me.
When I, the Viceroy’s daughter—”
“Penalty!” cries Guy, almost from force of habit, and in a rush the
pride of Viceroy’s daughter and the wounded heart of Hermoine de Alva,
go down together before the decree of love. He has her lips again, the
lips that he has longed for, her soft arms cling to him—the arms he
prayed for. And at this moment Guy Chester, surrounded by his enemies,
feels that he will win, and no more dreads the hatred of the father,
for he has the love of the daughter.
“Pish,” cries the girl, struggling from him, “what logic is in you! You
call me faithless, and you will not let me open my mouth to defend
myself.”
“What’s logic to your true eyes,” whispers Guy, “I want kisses from
those lips, not words.”
“Not another kiss until I have explained.”
“Why not?”
“Because, though you kiss me as if—as if you loved me,” answers the
girl, blushing very red, “still there’s jealousy in your eyes, and I’ll
have no jealousy, my Guido, for you have cause for none. You went away
bearing my heart with you. You had my present, my picture. Within one
week after reaching Brussels it was rumored about the town so that it
could not fail to reach my ears that instead of living so as to gain
the rank that would make me thine, you had forgotten I—I had given my
heart to you, and lived—not as—as a gentleman, but a spendthrift, as
worse than that, as one who cared not for my love. What everybody
said—I had only known you two days—made me doubt. Then I—as well as a
young lady could about a young gentleman she was not supposed to know
much of—caused inquiries to be made, and it was the same tale—“You were
brave, you were reckless—your life was an insult to my love.” The eyes
are blazing now, but very sad. “Then I, by my influence, got word to
the Governor of Middelburg no leave of absence for Major Guido Amati,
that he might not come to Brussels to again win me over and make me
forgive—as you have done now! Holy Virgin, Guido! if you have deceived
me; then....”
“May I never win you,” cries Guy. “But I am true to you, have been true
to you. Great heavens! do you think that I could forget such loveliness
as this within a week, within a month, within a year—within my life?
You are the daughter of a Viceroy—”
“Penalty!” laughs the girl, but blushes and almost runs away from him.
“Oh, I’ll pay it, ten times over.” He has her in his arms again.
Here suddenly she says to him, her cheeks growing pale: “You’re without
leave of absence once more.”
“Yes, thanks to you!” He says carelessly, but starts as he sees the
stab he has given.
She murmurs with white lips: “Desertion from the army, with Middelburg
surrounded by enemies—it will mean not the loss of your rank—but the
loss of your head. My father is a disciplinarian.”
“What did I care for that,” answers Chester, “was it not my only hope
of seeing you?”
This tortures her cruelly, but shows how much she loves him, for she
grows pale and falters. “For my sake you have risked your life. Promise
me you will never risk it thus again. Promise me to return to your post
to-day,” then adds, “I have a commission for you. While seeking safety
yourself, give safety to this poor merchant’s daughter. He tells me
there is a ship which is at your service.”
“As I am also at your service with my life!” answers Chester. “Leave
this matter in my hands. Without your request I would have saved from
degradation the sweetheart of my friend.”
He cuts himself short at this, not wishing to discuss Oliver, but
Hermoine, taking up his word, says: “Yes, this traitor was your
friend!” then asks with anxious lips: “How was it you were so intimate
with one untrue to Spain?”
“Your father trusted him, why shouldn’t I follow Alva’s lead,” returns
the Englishman with ready tongue; but adds sadly: “I am sorry that
after this my duty will compel me to run this Oliver through the body.”
Then with lie on his lips Guy turns suddenly away, for the
Burgomaster’s rap is heard on the door. Opening he speaks hurriedly to
Bodé Volcker in a tone so sober that the old man stares at him in
wonder and surprise.
“At the request of Doña de Alva I have taken your daughter’s safety
into my hands. Send order for your twelve cases of goods to be put on
board the Esperanza instantly.”
“It is already done,” mutters Bodé Volcker, gazing with astonished eyes
on Chester; then he falters: “You’re—you’re quite sure you’re sober
enough for this business?”
“Diablo! sober enough to bleed you,” mutters Guy, remembering his rôle
of spendthrift and blackmailer. “Send down sufficiency of money with
your daughter to the ship to pay her expenses—and mine too!”
And this bringing to the merchant’s mind the character of this Spanish
officer, Amati, his reputation as a roisterer and libertine, Niklaas
clasps his hands together and murmurs piteously: “I’m putting her in
your charge. She is the daughter of my heart. For God’s sake remember
you have my money, my life, if you want to denounce me, but spare her.
Were it not for my desperate strait do you think I’d place my lamb in
your wolf’s charge?”
At this complimentary remark Guy grinds his teeth and assuming the
hauteur of hidalgo, claps his hand upon his sword and mutters:
“Maldito! Have I not sworn to her, the daughter of the Viceroy, to
deliver your wench in safety wherever you wish her sent? At what town
declared for Orange and occupied by Dutch garrison do you want your
daughter delivered? Name the place, and it is done.”
“Haarlem!” mutters the old man, “I have friends in Haarlem,” and in
after months could have cut his tongue out for these words.
“It is done,” remarks Guy. “Bring your daughter to me at once.”
“I will. Mina is packing.”
“Packing, idiot! Do you suppose she’ll need fine raiment if they have
her in the Spin-House? Fly, and save your daughter’s white back from
the scourge. Quick!”
In terror at this picture the Burgomaster runs away, while Guy, chewing
his mustache, knows he has shortened an interview he would prolong
though life and death are on its very brevity. He turns and takes a
look at Hermoine de Alva.
She has her back to him, and in graceful pose and with twistings of
lithe limbs is striving, without the loosening of bodice or stomacher,
to clutch something that eludes her—some article she must treasure as
it lies close to her beating heart.
As Guy closes the door she gives a little cry of success, and a moment
after is in his arms again, murmuring: “That poor Bodé Volcker will be
here in a moment, then you must go. Ay de mi! the time is very short.
But I have this, now, upon my hand by which to remember you.” With
rapture Guy sees again his brilliant upon the delicate finger of his
love.
“Whatever they tell you,” he whispers, “swear to remember me by it as
thy true knight.”
“Yes,” says the girl, “if it is whispered to me that you are untrue, I
shall whisper to myself, ‘It is a lie.’ If they say you are a drunkard,
as that old idiot Bodé Volcker told me,” she flashes indignant eyes
against the door where the Burgomaster has made his exit, “I shall say,
‘My Guido proved it a lie once, it is a lie again.’ But,” her tone is
piteous now, “you’ll come back to me. I know you must go to your
command. There is but one place when war is raging against the flag of
Spain for the affianced of Alva’s daughter, and that is where the