The First of the English 20 – Gunter · Verses Across
Literature · Romance
The First of the English 20Book 3 · Chapter 20
18
Literature · Romance
The First of the English 20
Book 3 · Chapter 20
GunterEnglish
“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 to hold, despite anathema and dispensation both—swear!”
And sinking to the floor the Countess de Pariza, affrighted, takes the oath prescribed by Alva’s daughter, who places the crucifix upon her lips.
“What need of such long testament?” asks Guy, who has looked upon the scene astonished, Miss Hermoine, giving him new views of her character.
“Because I don’t trust her,” answers the girl. “It will be cunning priest that will get her out of that. Break it and your soul flies straight through purgatory to unending torment, Countess de Pariza.”
“I—I always thought you loved me,” gasps the duenna, rising from her knees.
“Loved you?” ejaculates her charge, a strange light in her eyes. “Dost think I have forgotten when I was twelve years old you slapped my ears? Don’t think I fear you, though! Let that be for your Moorish slave girl who goes to your dressing closet as to the torture chamber. I heard her shriek under your scourge the other morning. But don’t dare, with coward nature, to revenge yourself on her. Beware of me, I hate cruelty! I am Alva’s daughter!”
At this astounding conjunction Guy bites his lips, fighting down a smile and Doña de Pariza gives out a half-smothered chuckle.
But the girl steps up to her and cries: “Don’t dare to look as if you jeered my father’s name; don’t dare to accuse him of cruelty. He has always been good to me as an angel. I’ll not hear it from your lips—or YOURS EITHER!” for a little of Guy’s smile has escaped from him, and she comes walking up to her lover with haughty face, saying: “Remember, I am a Viceroy’s daughter.”
“Penalty!” laughs Chester.
“Oh yes—oh—oh—I forgot! Yes, my lord!” and making obeisance to him. As he exacts the forfeit she whispers: “Oh Santos! you are awful—you kiss me every chance you get.”
At this scene Duenna de Pariza glares astounded, and mutters to herself: “God be praised, Miss Spitfire has at last found her master! This worthless, dissipated Guido Amati will make her dance to his fiddling, I warrant you!” then goes to her chamber, leaving the two alone, at which they are nothing loath.
Could La Pariza gaze in upon them one moment later she would be even more astounded, for she would see Colonel Guido Amati giving Miss Hermoine a little lecture upon the advantages of keeping both temper and tongue well in hand.
To this the girl listens attentively with downcast eyes in a manner that rather astonishes but intensely delights Guy, as he has now made up his mind that there is only one way to gain this lady of his love—that is to carry her off; and to do that he feels he must dominate her completely, entirely.
But continuing this lecture a little too long, she suddenly cries: “Bug-a-boo! Bug-a-boo! Viceroy’s daughter!” and dances up laughing. And he, pursuing her, to exact penalty; they have a merry race of it about tables and chairs and over divans, Hermoine gathering up her long court train and fleeing with dainty feet and agile ankles before him, until at last he catches her at the third curtained arch of the room, one whose drapery he has never yet seen raised.
Here she, as he holds her in his arms, grows very serious and whispers: “Don’t scold me; if you say the word I’ll do penance, my Guido, for being haughty with you, but not with her. In here I’ll say ten Ave Marias for you to-night.” Then drawing aside the curtains she shows him the chapel of the house, illuminated, behind whose burning tapers stands the picture painted by his dead friend, the masterpiece of Oliver, and murmurs: “Here is where I pray for you!”
“Yes,” responds Guy, pointing to the lovely Madonna, “I worship at that same shrine myself.”
“Hush, don’t jest,” answers the girl solemnly. “This is the chapel in which we will be married.”
This idea puts Chester’s thoughts into a horrible jumble, and he makes a fearful mistake, over which they have their first real discussion, for he suggests very deftly the plan of secret marriage.
At this she says haughtily: “Unknown to my father, without his consent, he who loves me? Never!” and becomes distant to her Guido for four or five minutes.
But he, deftly withdrawing from the matter, and pleading it is only his wild love for her, Hermoine forgives him and finally sends him away very happy, more wildly in love than ever, but now knowing that he has a very ticklish business before him—to kidnap this young lady and yet keep her affection.
The interview with the Countess de Pariza shows him that speed is now vital to his success, and that any long delay in the matter will probably be fatal to his scheme and perchance his life.
But the girl has her plan of action also and a courier arriving the next morning with letters from Holland, she claps her hands in glee at some sudden idea that has entered her vivacious brain and murmurs: “Papa’s coming. I’ll—I’ll do it! Hurrah! I’ll do it!”
