The First of the English: A Novel

But in our freebooter’s way, I have directed Corker to tally every bag and store every coin on the Esperanza. We’ll divide it at Flushing. But you get it out. You’re better at this business than I am.” And in truth Bodé Volcker is, for his whole soul is in the transaction, while Guy has only half his heart in it, the best half being at Sandvliet with Alva’s daughter. So the matter is arranged; the men are to carry out all the gold into the cellar during this night, then the iron doors in the gallery are to be closed again, all of them, and during the day Bodé Volcker is to transfer the treasure done up as sailors’ bedding on board the Esperanza. This his facilities as merchant permit him to do with little chance of suspicion. The next night with fresh men they are to bring out the silver from the vault to the cellar of the house and get it away in the same manner during the daytime, also the box containing jewels. “When we have the gold I think we’ll have the main value of it,” says Bodé Volcker. “Meantime I’ll commence to put cargo into the Esperanza, to give commercial reason for the vessel sailing from Antwerp again.” “You are commercially correct about this,” says Chester. With this he orders Corker when the gold comes on board to store it under the cabin in the place where the smuggled arquebuses had been concealed on their previous visit to Antwerp. Then turning away and looking at his watch he mutters with a start: “By heaven, eight o’clock! I can’t get through the gates of the town. I shall break my appointment.” “Ah! At Sandvliet?” chuckles the merchant to him. “Yes.” “I thought so. But I can get you out of the gates now. Spanish troops no longer guard them. We have our civic guards on duty. Lieutenant Karloo, at the main port, is a friend of mine. I’ll go with you.” At the city gate Guy finds very little trouble when vouched for by Bodé Volcker, as the Spanish garrison has been so reduced in Antwerp by drafts on it for the war in Holland that it is now only enough to properly man and guard the Citadel itself. The Fortress dominates the town and could prevent any rebellion or uprising, but the policing of the place is left entirely to the burghers themselves. This also makes it easier, Guy thinks delightedly, to pass the gold through the gates and load it on his ship; there not being that discipline among the civic guards as prevails among the veteran soldiers of Alva. So it is with a light heart that Chester once more sails down the Schelde for the landing-place at Sandvliet, cogitating: “Now I’ve handled the daughter’s dower, I’m ready for Miss Hermoine herself!” CHAPTER XX. “PAPA’S COMING! I’LL—I’LL DO IT!” “It is fully ten o’clock—but better late than never,” thinks Guy—as he springs on the landing, flies up the stairway, and traverses with hasty feet the little path at Sandvliet. “Egad! She’s not gone to bed yet, anyway,” he laughs, noting that the apartments in which Hermoine had received him before are brilliantly lighted. He sounds the bronze knocker at the door. This is instantly opened by Alida, who is apparently waiting. She whispers hastily: “Her Excelentisima is expecting you.” “She is alone?” “Yes, Señor Coronel.” Drawing aside the draperies of the door Chester steps in to be enchanted by the beauty that bursts on his eyes. The room is lighted by hanging lamps of perfumed oil, adorned with flowers in vases of Venetian glass, but standing with a savage little pout upon her coral lips is the goddess of this fair domain. She is robed in lightest evening dress of floating gauzy tissue of palest amber. This soft floating stuff is thrown about her in great masses, giving an almost cloud-like effect, from which her round arms and beautiful bosom and shoulders rise ivory like, gleaming under the lights as if issuing from some floating summer cloud just tinged by the sun’s rays. Above the white column of her neck posed in a piquant grace is her exquisite face, covered by the soft and wavy tresses of her dark hair, to which flowers give a soft effect, and lighted by indignant eyes that flash now with brightest brunette gleam. Thus she stands looking the fairy of a fairy scene. She has apparently been very eagerly and savagely discontented, for a little foot that peeps from under a petticoat of Malines’ lace is beating a drum solo on the polished floor, and her eyes, though scintillating, are teary as Guy enters. These light up now with radiant happiness and joyous sparkle, and she is at his side murmuring welcome. A second after she whispers: “I thought you were never coming. You could not have been very eager!” “I had business.” “Business? What business has a lazy dandy of the army on sick leave?” and Doña Hermoine puts doubting nose into the air. “Business getting my fortune in such shape that I can make proper showing to your father when I demand your hand from him,” answers Guy, telling for once the truth; but adding another link in that strange chain which leads up to the wonders Providence holds in her hand for him. “Oh, you needn’t have thought of that,” cries the girl. “I have money enough for both. Do you suppose I marry you for your money, Guido, when I have princely estates in Italy that are to be all yours, my lord?” And she courtesies before him, then mutters pleadingly: “You’ve only kissed me once!” “How could I when you had your nose in the air?” “That brought my lips nearer to yours,” she laughs. But during the evening she has no reason to complain of this neglect again; for Guy has been gazing on her beauty, that seems to him more wondrous than ever, and drinks it in as a man does strong wine that almost makes him lose his head. “You seem en fête,” he murmurs into the pink ear that is so close to his lips. “But only for you; you remember my lord commanded me no guests.” “And you obeyed me?” “Yes—are you not to be my lord?” “You heed my behests as well as you would your father’s?” laughs Chester. “Oh, much better! Papa says that I’m his tyrant and the real Viceroy of the Netherlands, but that isn’t true,” says the girl intensely; then sighs: “If I were this would be a different land”—next cries out harshly: “But don’t talk of it. Keep me from brooding over what has caused me so many tears. Let me only remember we are here together—happy! And I’m going to make you very happy to-night, my Guido.” “Impossible to make me happier than I am,” whispers Chester, looking in rapture at the beauty he now thinks so nearly is his own. “Oh yes I can. You don’t know what I’ve prepared for you. It seemed to me we didn’t entertain you properly last evening. I would have spoken to the Countess de Pariza had she come to-day, and had rebec players from Antwerp to give us music floating on the water outside the windows. That would have been romantic as the troubadours and Venetian night, would it not, my Guido?” “That shall be my business next time,” mutters the enraptured Chester. “But still I’ve done the best I can for you. My Moorish girls shall play and dance for you later—at present I will amuse you myself. I feared from your remark last night you thought I had no accomplishments. Listen!” And despite Guy’s protests that he would sooner do nothing but make love, his sweetheart, seizing from a near-by chair a mandolin with which she has apparently been passing the time until he came, sits down and looking in his face, plays a pretty little prelude. Then the voice that the Dutch Sea Beggar said was like the angel’s tone in the organ at Amsterdam, sings for him a Moorish melody, soft, tropical, languid, with that grace and lightness that only belong to sunny Italy and Spain. This emphasized and made piquantly charming by languid yet impassioned glances, puts Guy beside himself, and the song finishes with a little gasp of surprise; for the last note, though intended for his ear, is deposited right in the long drooping mustache of her betrothed, and shortened in a way unknown to scientific music. “Madre mia!” laughs the girl, “one would think that you were the composer of this song. You have destroyed my great high note.” “Let me continue it!” This comes in a harsh, rasping voice from behind them. And the two starting up, confront Hermoine’s duenna, the Countess de Pariza, who stands glaring at them and in defense of outraged etiquette bursts forth: “I had expected, Doña de Alva, to join you this afternoon, but was detained by errands in the city. I come to find that I should not have gone away. I am surprised that one brought up under my charge should have entertained a cavalier alone.” “Not when that cavalier is my affianced husband, Colonel Guido Amati. You saw him before, you remember, at the merchant Bodé Volcker’s. You—” Just here with rolling eyes and wildest shriek her duenna cries: “Guido Amati! the man that was killed! Oh heaven, a ghost! Holy Virgin, save me from the ghost!” and sinks down uttering Latin prayers before them. But Hermoine breaks in laughing: “No. Not dead! He needn’t be exorcised! This is flesh and blood, feel him, feel his lips!” At this Chester whispers: “No, no!” “Yes, yes, kiss her hand. She likes the homage of gentlemen; kiss her hand! I’ll give you permission. I shan’t be jealous, Guido mio.” And following her directions Guy laughingly places a kiss upon the mature fingers upraised in prayer. This touch seems to sooth her, and seeing he is not a ghost, the Countess de Pariza rises up, becomes a duenna again, and says haughtily: “Then Colonel Guido Amati not being a ghost, I must request the gentleman to discontinue his visits here until I have informed my lord of Alva of his pretensions to your hand.” “The gentleman will not discontinue his visits to my house!” answers Hermoine, a defiant light in her eyes. “You forget you are speaking to your duenna.” “Remember I am Doña de Alva!” “Very well, in that case I shall send letter to your father at once.” “You will make no mention of this to my father. I will tell him in my own way at my own time.” “Won’t I!” breaks out the duenna. “Won’t I! Do you think I could bear your father’s anger?” “Then take MINE!” cries the girl, and walking up to her duenna, a great flash in her haughty eyes, she says: “Dare to breathe word of this to any one until I give you my orders to that effect, and I tell my father that four years ago, when I was too young for you to think I noticed the affairs of State, you, for two thousand crowns in hand, gave warning to young Brederode so that he escaped from Brussels and arrest and execution!” “What proofs have you of this?” gasps the Countess. “Only Brederode’s letter thanking you for giving him warning, and stating that he had paid you enough and would give you no more. I have it locked up. Do you suppose that I would have let you stay here by me unless I knew that I could dominate you when I pleased?” jeers Hermoine. “I—I had such need of money,” stammers La Pariza. “Dost think that will save you from the punishment—you know what my father decrees to any one assisting an escape—first the rack—and then the fagots!” This awful doom comes from the girl’s lips cool as from an iceberg; and gazing at her, Chester knows his betrothed is Alva’s daughter. “No—no! Mercy!” sobs the Countess. “Then down on your knees and swear to me by the cross of Christ that you will not breathe of my betrothal to living thing. Swear it—down on your knees and swear it!” cries Hermoine in awful voice. “I—I swear,” gasps the duenna. “On your knees and with the cross upon your lips. Down! Swear it by the Seven Saints of Christendom, by the Twelve Evangelists, by the Four Apostles, by all the sacraments of the church, by the body of our Lord