CHAPTER XIII.
“GOOD HEAVENS! WHAT AN INTRODUCTION!”
“This is a curious errand, Doña de Alva,” returns the old man, bowing to the earth. “Why do you wish my daughter out of Antwerp?”
“Because the order is even now speeding from Brussels to seize upon and confine your daughter in the Spin-House.”
“The Spin-House! Lieve Hemel! An honorable confinement there might do the minx good,” says the old man severely. “She has been headstrong and willful lately. Has she made some careless breach of city regulation. Perchance she has worn train longer than burghers’ daughters are permitted. We sometimes, Doña de Alva, send our headstrong daughters and even the wives of our bosom to the wholesome silence of the Spin-House in Antwerp.”
“Not the part of the Spin-House I mean.”
“Great heavens, you don’t mean—the place for abandoned women—the harlots of the town?” gasps Bodé Volcker.
“YES.”
“Merciful God! With the fearful scourging of welcome and farewell they give to those poor creatures?”
“Yes.”
“My Mina!” shrieks the old man. “My Mina!” wringing his hands in despair. Then he cries: “For what crime?—for what crime do they send my daughter to be disgraced and tortured—what crime?”
“She is the affianced bride of Antony Oliver, the traitor.”
“Oliver, your father’s under-secretary?”
“Yes. It is thought she must have known his sedition. Oliver fled from Brussels yesterday. Get your daughter out of Antwerp. I won’t have a woman, innocent or guilty, so degraded and debased,” goes on Hermoine, almost desperately herself, for the old man is sobbing and wringing his hands, and seems incapable of action.
But this stings the Flemish father into rage. His tears vanish. His eyes blaze. He rises before the beautiful daughter of the man who would degrade his child and mutters: “But your father who does this thing, Alva, the tyrant, the coward, the oppressor—”
“You forget, burgher, you are speaking of the Viceroy to the Viceroy’s daughter.” The tone is commanding but sad. “I pardon your treason, for you know not what you say. But do not dare to criticise my father’s policy of State. In that even I do not interfere, though I am sick—sick of the blood, sick of the butcheries each day’s report brings from the army or the execution shambles in the Horse Market. Each day I pray to the Virgin to make my father’s heart more merciful. Each night I pray ‘No more blood.’ God knows I have importuned him to spare, but he will not. He says it is the policy of the government, that he is as merciful as God, the church and his King will permit him to be, and goes on executing. Every time I see a woman in black I fear it is my father’s doings. I am here to save your daughter. Get her away! If you cannot, I WILL.”
Seeing the old man appears so overcome that he can hardly walk, she cries out eagerly, “Get a boat—a ship, quick! It’s the only chance. Get her to some town or country where my father does not rule. Do you suppose he’ll forgive any one connected by love or by blood with this Oliver, who had his private ear, who ate the bread of his household, and who betrayed him? QUICK, GET YOUR DAUGHTER OUT OF ANTWERP! Stay, it is better that I do it. I shall be safe, you might be punished for saving your own child. Bring your daughter here. What your trembling limbs refuse to do I’ll do for you.”
Here sudden inspiration seems to come into the old merchant. He sobs: “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 battle flags are waving! There you may win rank high enough and glory great enough to claim my hand.”
“Don’t doubt me, I’ll be where the fighting is,” mutters Chester grimly, “and it’ll be you I fight for, though perhaps Alva will not appreciate my efforts.”
“My father always rewards bravery and conduct, remember that, Major Guido Amati de Medina—bravery and conduct. You may have the courage of a Paladin, but it will not give you promotion without brains. You have plenty of both, I think,” she laughs, smoothing away the curls from Guy’s determined forehead, then cries excitedly: “Why, you have the head of a chess player!”
“Yes, the game in which the knight takes the queen,” whispers Guy.
“Then he must be very gallant and tender and discreet to the captured lady,” cries the girl, blushing, though there is languor in her drooping eyes. For the knight at his word has taken possession of the queen of his soul in a mad, delirious kind of way, as into his mind for one brief second has come the thought of carrying her off instanter by some wild coup.
A moment’s consideration shows Guy that now he has no time to press his suit or make arrangements to that effect, or even to persuade Hermoine, for he would not take her unwillingly or bring discredit on the name of her he honors most upon this earth, and the Burgomaster is now rapping at the door.
“Remember—”
They both speak this same word at once, and each one’s lips prevent the other’s uttering more. It is their last lingering, torturing, farewell embrace.
Then, with the decision of the man of war and the man of affairs, Chester throws open the door and Niklaas enters, followed by Juffrouw Wilhelmina, who is in piteous plight and dressed hastily as daughter of a middle-class burgher, with none of her old-time finery about her.
There are traces of tears upon her cheeks that have grown very pale, but her eyes flash with nervous terror and excitement that give a strange, pathetic beauty to her face.
“Hurry! there’s a carriage at the door for you,” mutters the Burgomaster. “I’ve sent what little luggage could be gathered up in haste to the vessel. A maid servant goes with you.”
But this is broken in upon by Mina. She strides up to Hermoine de Alva, who is gazing at her sadly, and mutters brokenly: “Tell me of him!”
“Him—whom?”
“My Oliver. Is he safe?”
“For the present, yes.”
“Thank God!”
“Yes, the traitor Oliver fled from Brussels late last night. This morning word was brought us that with eight men he had captured Mons.”
“Eight men! Ah! That was a gallant deed. Eight men capture a garrison. But Louis of Nassau is doubtless hurrying in his men-at-arms from France into the city. Your hero is safe now, little Mina!” cries Guy, forgetting his rôle of Spanish officer, in enthusiasm for his friend’s valor and glory.
“Yes, he’s safe, for the present,” murmurs Hermoine. “He is a gallant man and a great painter. I will look after his altar piece. But, oh misericordia!” she puts her eyes up to heaven and says piteously: “I pray God my father may never capture him alive.” Then turning to Mina she says very solemnly: “If you ever have word with your lover again, pray him as he fears the pangs of Hades, not to be captured alive! It is a pity so gallant a spirit ate my father’s bread and yet betrayed him. Still, Major Guido Amati, I charge you, by your word of honor as a gentleman, to save this poor girl from my father’s wrath.”
“Quick, put her in the carriage,” mutters Guy to Bodé Volcker.
And the Burgomaster, taking his daughter out, Hermoine de Alva whispers: “See, I have faith in you. How little I believe that you are libertine and roué. This girl is beautiful. I have placed her in your hands, for I believe in you as maiden did in knight of old.”
“By Saint George and the Dragon! you may trust me.” Then Chester, bending his knee, puts his lips upon the lips held up to him, for he hears Bodé Volcker’s crying: “Haste!”
Passing out, the last look that Chester receives from the beautiful eyes of the lady of his heart is one of ineffable trust, and he knows that through good report and evil report Hermoine de Alva will believe in Major Guido Amati de Medina, of Romero’s foot, as her knight and champion.
At the carriage door the Burgomaster presses the Englishman’s hand and whispers: “Every arrangement has been made, drive straight to the ship,” then falters, “You have her in your hands. As you do by my Mina may God do by you. Quick! the tide is now just on the first ebb.”
Driving hastily to the Esperanza Guy, boarding the vessel, finds Olins ready with the clearance papers of the ship. Then exhibiting his charter to a custom house officer in waiting, and it being approved, the vessel casts off hastily from the dock and spreading every sail to the breeze, for time is very precious now, the ebb tide bears them down the Schelde.
About an hour and a half after this the Esperanza has put the Fort of Lillo behind her and is making for the open ocean, upon which the sailors of Holland claim dominion over the mercenaries of Alva.
As he gazes over his quarter at the grinning bombards and culverins of the Spaniard, Chester draws a long breath of relief. He has escaped again from Antwerp; the treasure of the Duke is yet unscathed—though he has gained a hundred kisses—for every one of which he would have risked his life a hundred times. But his men have had no kisses, and guessing they have also gained no treasure, are disposed to grumble.
Soon after this to Chester comes the daughter of the merchant, and whispers: “God bless you, for saving me from degradation and the scourge.”
“You have perfect confidence in me, I hope?” murmurs the Englishman, looking at the beautiful girl, the fresh sea breeze having brought the roses back to Mina’s cheek.
“Yes! You are the friend of Oliver; you would not betray him. You are”—here Miss Wilhelmina stammers, but smiles—“the—the sweetheart of one to whom no one could be untrue.”
“Par Dios! who is she?” says Guy, biting his lip.
“Doña Hermoine de Alva. Dost remember the bargains I gave to her duenna, Major Guido Amati de Medina?” And the girl laughs quite merrily, though not being accustomed to the sea, laughing is just now becoming a hard matter to her.