The First of the English 7 – Gunter · Verses Across
Literature · Romance
The First of the English 7Book 1 · Love—by a Coup De Main
18
Literature · Romance
The First of the English 7
Book 1 · Love—by a Coup De Main
GunterEnglish
“Yes, just in time,” whispers the Englishman, drawing a long breath also. Then he takes a hasty look at the tall Dutch clock ticking lazily away in the wine room.
Noting this the painter laughs. “The sight of the father makes you impatient for the daughter, eh? But you’ve another half an hour to wait, my impulsive gallant. Besides, I haven’t eaten to-day. The provost marshal must wait until I get a bite. Join me in—in my dinner.”
So giving order to an alert serving man, the two sit down to a very hasty, yet comfortable meal, seasoned by peace and contentment, for these young men are so accustomed to danger that any little breathing spell in their struggle with sudden death seems to them a calm, quiet and contented time.
As he eats and drinks Guy looks lazily up and down the street; crowds of people are passing along the Shoemarket. This throng is made picturesque by a smattering of the costumes of most of the nations of the earth; for at this time Antwerp is the mart of Northern Europe, and the greatest commercial emporium of the age.
Ships are taking cargo at its river front for the Indies, East and West, for even the distant coasts of Peru and the Cape of Good Hope, and others are unloading from the Baltic and the Mediterranean: consequently seamen and visitors from all known portions of the globe increase the vivacity of the scene.
Curiously enough, there are no English walking the streets of Antwerp to-day, for since Elizabeth stole Alva’s eight hundred thousand crowns, the Duke has forbidden any commerce with Great Britain, and has sequestered all English property and driven out all English merchants living or doing business in Antwerp, of which before this there have been a great number, the English wool trade being one of the great sources of revenue of the city. Just now Antwerp is at its very zenith, from which it is about to go down under the exactions, taxes and tyranny of the Spaniard into a fourth-rate commercial town.
But the burghers, though gloomy and oppressed, do not anticipate, and the merchants still laugh lightly upon the street, thinking themselves princes upon the throne of a commerce that can never be destroyed.
This absence of English blood and English feature would make Guy conspicuous, were not several Danish officers of De Billy striding about the street, and some of these have fair hair, blue eyes and Saxon blondness.
“Now I must carry Alva’s orders to the provost marshal. Fortunately his office is not far from here. Wait for me, I will return in quarter of an hour. You need not look so impatiently at the clock,” remarks Oliver.
But Guy is not looking at the clock. His eyes are fixed upon a man in the costume of a South Zeeland trader who is carefully wiping a pair of tortoise-shell rimmed spectacles and inspecting the placard offering reward for the head of the “First of the English.” As the Zeelander turns the Englishman knows that he has seen him before.
A moment after Chester thinks this man recognizes him, for, though he turns away his head, he keeps one eye upon this gentleman, and notes this gentleman has one eye on him.
“Take me to the provost marshal’s with you,” he whispers to Oliver.
“You—want to go there?” gasps Antony, opening his eyes very wide.
“Yes,” returns Guy. “There’s a gentleman here who recognizes me, and has also made himself acquainted with the value of my head. If he follows me I’ll astonish him.”
As the two rise, Oliver’s face very serious at this, they are joined by little De Busaco, who comes striding up to them to be rather effusively welcomed by Chester, who thinks that apparent intimacy with Spanish officers may remove the suspicions of the man who is watching him.
“You’re in good company, I see, Amati,” says the little ensign. “Introduce me to the honor of the acquaintance of the Duke’s under-secretary.”
And this being done the young Spaniard says: “Where are you going?”
“To the provost marshal’s office.”
“Then I’ll go with you,” remarks De Busaco. “I’ve business there myself. I wish to get leave to remain in the town this evening. A little Flemish girl, you understand!” he strokes his mustachios knowingly.
As they walk along the street together, De Busaco, who apparently has joined them for this purpose, goes to questioning and pumping Oliver as to what prospect there is of a near pay-day for the garrison of Antwerp; if he knows anything of the Duke’s plans; how the tenth penny tax comes on, etc., etc., his losses at the drinking bout having apparently made him anxious on this subject.
Guy, however, pays little heed to this. Eye and ear are intent to discover if he is followed by the Zeeland trader. The Shoemarket is so well peopled that this is difficult to determine, but after they have walked from it to Kammer street, past the Inn of the Red Lion, and turned into the network of narrow alleys that lead to the main watergate of the town, where the provost marshal’s office is situated, the crowd grows less and Chester, turning slightly, catches sight of the man whom he fears.
This personage dogs them straight to the city gate, but stands gaping in astonishment as Guy and Oliver, accompanied by the young Spanish officer, enter the office of Alva’s provost marshal, the very door of which is placarded with the reward of three thousand Carolus guilders.
“De Busaco,” remarks the Englishman, pausing at the door, “do you see that man in South Zeeland dress?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want something that will save you anxiety about your back pay?”
“Santos! yes!”
“Then take a couple of men and get him. He lives in the disaffected provinces at Flushing. I think the Council of Troubles are looking for him.”
“A reward!” cries the little Spaniard, then flying into the guard room and unheeding military etiquette he calls out, “Some men with me, quick—there’s money in it!”
Two Spanish soldiers, springing up at his bidding from the crowd lounging about the guard-room, he starts with these hurriedly for the street, and is soon in hot pursuit of the trader from South Zeeland, crying: “Heretico fugitivo!” and other words of rage and fury which make that gentleman quicken his steps to so good a purpose that apparently knowing the town well, he dodges into some of the blind alleys in this densely crowded portion of the city, and escapes from the little Spaniard, whose jack boots are not conducive to extreme fleetness of foot.
“I couldn’t catch him,” remarks De Busaco, five minutes afterward, returning breathless, “but I’ll keep my eye open for him.”
“Very well, his reward will make you forget your back pay,” remarks Guy, as Oliver returns from the inner office, where he has been closeted with the captain of the guard, and says the necessary orders have been given for the arrest of De Guerra.
“I don’t think,” laughs Chester, as he and Oliver walk along the street together (for they have left the ensign at the provost marshal’s) “that that gentleman from South Zeeland will be anxious to report himself at any of the guard-houses of this town to give information about me. And now, after danger—” the look on his face tells his meaning to the little painter, who murmurs: “Love!”
So the two stride up Kammer street again, and along the Shoemarket to the Place de Meir, where the great house of Bodé Volcker is situated, and going in, find themselves very shortly en rapport with the family of a merchant of that day.
As they reach the arched passageway leading to the courtyard, seeing no signs of equipage, the corner of Guy’s mouth droops.
“Don’t be impatient; it is better to be first, then I can arrange our little scheme of bargains before the arrival of the duenna Countess and her charge,” says the artist.
Leading the way with the familiarity that denotes a friend of the house, Oliver raps upon a side door situated at the further end of the courtyard, and almost immediately is admitted by the servant girl of the evening before; the lady’s maid, Wiarda, she of the haughty nose, apparently being engaged elsewhere.
They enter directly into what is the living room of the house. Here the family of Bodé Volcker, consisting of himself, Jakob, a boy of sixteen, who has just left school for the counting room, and the daughter, Wilhelmina, whose soft blonde curls and merry blue eyes have induced Oliver not only to put her upon his canvas but in his heart, are apparently engaged in a family discussion that is becoming highly flavored.
The old gentleman, an energetic but fat Fleming, with commercial expression and commercial eyes, is evidently excited. His cheeks are red and angry. The young lady’s blue eyes are equally angry, though they are slightly dimmed by latent tears, and one of the corners of her dear little mouth is twitching nervously. The boy, like most cubs of his age, is seemingly enjoying some dispute between papa and sister, for his blonde German face has a suppressed snicker in it. If he dared he would laugh.
“Ah, Oliver,” cries the merchant, rising with outstretched hands, “back from Brussels! A short trip,” and welcomes the painter with the easy familiarity of a friend of his house.
Miss Wilhelmina, on the contrary, greets Antony in haughty Spanish style, extending white fingers for her sweetheart to kiss.
The cub merely snickers; “Hoe maakt je ’t?”
“I’ve taken the liberty of bringing a friend, Captain Guido Amati, of the Middelburg garrison,” remarks the painter.
“A friend of yours, Oliver! Welcome—welcome to everything in my house,” says Niklaas with Flemish hospitality, giving Guy cordial greeting.
“Captain Amati is known to the Doña Hermoine, and as the Duke’s secretary—”
It is unnecessary to say more; at mention of the Viceroy’s daughter Miss Wilhelmina most affably seconds her father’s hospitality and extends her white fingers for Spanish welcome. These Guy, making no mistake this time, kisses, perhaps lingering a shade too long over the soft, fair hand for the pleasure of his friend Oliver.
Then the merchant cries out suddenly with Flemish primitiveness: “Chairs, Wilhelmina; chairs for the gentlemen!”
“Father!” remarks the young lady haughtily, “you forget we have lackeys in the house,” and, ringing a hand bell, orders the serving man to place seats for the cavaliers.
“Oh, ho! more foreign airs!” jeers the old gentleman snappishly, apparently taking up a discussion that has been dropped. “Don’t forget Flanders simplicity, my daughter. Though your father is called a millionaire, perhaps he won’t be a millionaire long, with that accursed tenth penny tax,” adds Niklaas, grinding his teeth.
“You come from Brussels, Señor Antony,” interrupts the young lady, adopting the Spanish style of address. “While there I presume, as the Duke’s under-secretary, you met the Duchess of Aerschot. She arrives in Antwerp to-day, and gives an entertainment to-morrow evening. You will be there, I presume, Captain Amati, also Señor Oliver?”
“Unfortunately I leave Antwerp this evening,” answers Guy.
“And under-secretaries and heralds are not invited,” remarks the 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, 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.
