DOLORES.
The villa occupied by the Countess van Renslaer stood a little
distance from the Hague, on the Ryswick road, amid a large
pleasure-garden in the old Dutch style, a marvel of prettiness, with
its meandering walks, fantastically-cut parterres, box borders,
pyramids of flower-pots, and tiny fish-pond where the carp and perch
were often fed by the white hands of Dolores.
It had more than one rose-bowered _zomerhuis_ hidden among the
shrubbery, and admirably adapted for contemplation or flirtation. It
was the month of May now, when the tulips and hyacinths, potted in
_jardinières_ full of light sand, were in all their beauty--flowers
for which, in the days of the _tulip-mania_, a hundred florins had
been paid for a single bulb.
Around, the country was intersected in every direction by canals and
trees in long straight avenues, the level surface dotted with farms
and summer-houses; an occasional steeple, the old castle where the
famous Treaty of Ryswick was signed, and the sails of many windmills
whirling slowly in the evening breeze, alone broke the flat monotony
of the Dutch horizon.
In the deep recess of a window that opened to the garden sat Dolores,
watching and expectant. But only that morning, after parade, Lewie
Baronold had talked to her of love--his love and hers--in the recess
of that window--talked so sweetly of his adoration of her own
charming self. So Dolores had thought to sit there again, with eyes
half closed and smiling lips, to think it all over once more, while
fanning herself with one of the large fans of green silk then in
fashion, while the Countess, her mother, had fallen asleep over
'Clélia,' one of Monsieur de Scudery's five-volume folio novels, in
the drawing-room beyond.
Dolores was taller, more lithe and slender, than Dutch girls usually
are, for she had in her veins the blood of more than one ancestor who
had come with that scourge of the Low Countries, Ferdinand of Toledo,
_el castigador del Flamencas_; hence her graceful figure, the stately
carriage of her beautiful head, her rather aquiline and oval
features, her dark hair, and the darker lashes that shaded her soft
eyes that were 'like violets bathed in dew,' and hence her peculiar
name of Dolores.
She had the bloom of Holland in her cheek, and the grace of Spain in
her carriage and bearing. An exquisite costume of pale yellow silk
became the brunette character of her beauty well; creamy lace fell
away in folds from the snowy arms it revealed; perfume, brilliance,
and softness were about her.
There was a step on the gravel; her colour deepened.
'Morganstjern--Cousin Maurice!' she muttered with a tone of
annoyance, as he approached her with hat in hand.
Would this creature, so incomparably lovely and winning, ever belong
to him, and lie in his bosom? he was thinking as he surveyed her; was
she not rather drifting away from him, and would soon, unless he took
strong and sure measures with yonder accursed Schottlander, be lost
to him and his world for ever?
'Always becomingly dressed, Dolores,' said he, stooping over her;
'but this costume especially suits your style of loveliness.'
'You must not say such things to me,' she replied with some asperity.
'How--why?'
'I mean such pretty or complimentary things, Maurice Morganstjern;
because if you do----'
'What then?'
'I shall think that I have forfeited your friendship.'
'Friendship!' said he gloomily; 'how long will you seem to
misunderstand me?'
Try as she might, Dolores could not feel kindly or well disposed
towards her cousin Morganstjern, and her replies to him always
sounded cold and formal, or taunting even to herself; and the face
that bent over her was, she knew, not a good one, but sinister, and
expressive of a bad and evil spirit within.
And now, as a somewhat palpable hint that his conversation wearied or
worried her, she took up her flageolet, and putting the ivory
mouthpiece to her rosy lips, began to play a sweet little air, while
his brow became darker, for this now obsolete instrument (which had
silver stops like the old English flute) had been a gift of Lewie
Baronald's, who, in the gallantry of the day, had inserted a copy of
verses addressed to herself, and which, of course, would only be
found when the instrument was unscrewed to discover what marred its
use.
Anon she paused; Maurice Morganstjern then glanced towards the
Countess, and perceiving that she still slept, drew nearer to
Dolores, and lowering his voice, said:
'Can you not love me a little, cousin?'
'Not as you wish,' she replied.
'Why?'
The musical voice of Dolores broke into a soft little laugh as she
fanned herself, and said:
'Simply because one cannot love two persons at once.'
'Meaning that you love this--this accursed Schottlander?' he hissed
through his set teeth.
'Oh, Maurice! how can you be so rude as to speak thus of any visitor
of mamma's!'
'Listen to me, Cousin Dolores,' he resumed, making a prodigious
effort to be calm.
'Well,' asked the girl, with something of petulance.
'I am probably to be sent to Paris.'
'Indeed--for what purpose?'
'In the interests of the patriots here.'
'And against the Prince of Orange?'
'Yes--of course.'
'You are unwise to say this to me even, cousin.' said she, looking up
now.
'But you, Dolores, are my second self.'
'What will you do when I go?'
'Much the same as I did before you honoured the Hague with your
presence.'
'To me it seems that you care little whether you see me or not.'
'What then?--and it may be so. Cousin Maurice, you are always
annoying me by love-making, or by scowling and taunting me about
gentlemen visitors.'
'May I hope, however, that you will pay me the compliment of feeling
my absence--of missing me a little?'
'That,' replied the provoking beauty, as an arch expression stole
into her face, 'may depend upon what amuses or interests me. Oh,
pardon me, Maurice--I am so rude!' she added, on perceiving the
sombre fury expressed by his sinister face.
'Whatever you think, only say that you will be sorry when I go,' he
urged.
'If you do go--which I don't believe--I will be sorry of course,
Maurice,' she replied, as she saw the necessity of temporising a
little; 'I am always so when I lose anyone or anything that has
become familiar to me. Do you not remember how I wept when my poor
Bologna spaniel died last year?'
'I do not expect you to weep for me. It would be too much for
Maurice Morganstjern to expect to be raised to the level of your
spaniel.'
'How sarcastic and unpleasant you are!' exclaimed Dolores, expectant
of Lewie Baronald's arrival, and now half dreading that event. 'I
wish you would be as faithful as that poor animal was, and as
unselfish in your love.'
'Could you look into my heart, you would find but one word--one idea
stamped there.'
'And that is----'
'"Dolores"--meaning sorrow and lamentation if you love me not.'
She laughed merrily again, and again the sombre look came into his
face; so she dropped her fan and held out two small white hands as if
to deprecate his wrath, for she had an energetic way with her, so he
instantly caught them in his own.
She was quite occupied in trying to release them when a familiar rap
was heard on the knocker of the street door, an enormous lion's head
of brass, with a huge ring in its jaws.
'Oh, I keep your hands prisoners,' said he: 'pardon me,' he added, as
he stooped and kissed them; and she had barely time to wrench them
away when a liveried valet ushered in Lewie Baronald, and in spite of
herself and the presence of her cousin she could not conceal the joy
with which his presence inspired her.
'Welcome,' she said, and held forth her hand. Oh, what a hand he
thought it--small, plump, and white--so slim and shapely!
There was neither shyness, coquetry, nor embarrassment in the girl's
manner, for in their assured position with each other both she and
her lover were long past anything of the kind; but the latter and her
cousin bowed rather grimly to each other, and mutually muttered:
'Your servant--Mynheer.'
Lewie Baronald now crossed the polished floor of the drawing-room to
greet the Countess, who rose to receive him, and who looked so young
and so pretty that she might have passed for an elder sister of
Dolores; and stooping low he kissed her hand, looking, as he did so,
with his sword at his side under the stiff square skirt of his coat,
and his hat under his arm, with his ruffles and cravat of fine lace,
a model of those stately manners that lingered in Europe when George
III. was King--in Scotland, perhaps, longer than anywhere else.
Of Morganstjern's privileges as a cousin, Lewie Baronald was never
jealous in the least; but on this occasion, after the recent
fencing-bout, the interview with his uncle, and the threat of service
in the Dutch West Indies, his brow was rather cloudy, and he longed
intensely to be with Dolores alone.
The rough sword-play that had been forced upon him, the risk he had
run, and the treachery of Morganstjern, had certainly exasperated
him; but courtesy to Dolores and the Countess made him dissemble, and
he treated his rival and enemy, if rather coldly and haughtily, as if
nothing remarkable had occurred between them, and the conversation
became of a general kind. But Morganstjern, in the waspishness of
his nature, could not help referring to the 'armed neutrality,' as it
was termed, a vexed and then dangerous political subject for a Briton
and a Hollander to discuss.
This was an alliance, offensive and defensive, which had been formed
by some of the northern powers of Europe; and some violent disputes
between Britain and the States-General, which seemed advancing to a
direct rupture just then, caused the position of the Scots Brigade in
their service to become somewhat peculiar and critical.
From the commencement of the disturbance with America, the Dutch had
maintained a close correspondence with the revolted colonists,
supplying them with all kinds of material and warlike stores; and
after the interference of France and Spain, the selfishness and
treachery of the Dutch became more glaring and apparent.
'The States-General of Holland are free, independent, and can do
precisely as they choose,' said Morganstjern haughtily, in reply to
some condemnatory remark of Lewie Baronald.
'Their Highnesses,' replied the latter calmly, 'have no right to
leave their ports open to the King's rebels, in disregard of
friendship and honour, and in defiance of the remonstrances of his
ambassadors.'
'Permit me to dispute your right, as a soldier in the service of
their Highnesses, to censure them.'
Baronald's nether lip quivered at this retort, and the Countess and
Dolores exchanged glances of uneasiness; for politics had become so
embittered by the American Squadron, which had recently captured
H.M.'s ships _Serapis_ and _Scarborough_, having taken them into the
Texel, and when General Yorke claimed those ships and their crews,
the Dutch refused to restore them, and soon after Commodore Fielding
fired upon their squadron under Count Bylandt, and took him into
Portsmouth; so war was looked for daily, while the Scots Brigade were
yet serving under the Dutch colours.
'Do not let us think or speak of such things, Cousin Maurice,' said
Dolores imploringly; 'I tremble at the idea of Britain invading us,
if this sort of work goes on. What have we to do with her colonists
and their quarrels?'
'Invade us, indeed!' said Morganstjern, with angry mockery; 'if our
swords fail us we can open the sluices, as we did in the days of
Louis XIV., and drown every man and mother's son!'
'But how should we escape ourselves?' asked the Countess.
'Good generalship would take care of that; and then how about your
Scots Brigade?' asked Morganstjern, turning abruptly to Baronald.
'The Bulwark of Holland, we have never failed her yet,' replied the
latter haughtily; 'but to draw the sword upon our own countrymen is
certainly a matter for consideration.'
'In Holland, perhaps, but not in America.'
'Let this subject cease,' said the Countess imperatively, while
fanning herself with an air of excessive annoyance; and now
Morganstjern, beginning to find himself _de trop_, bowed himself out,
and with vengeance gathering in his heart, withdrew to an estaminet,
or tavern, where he knew that he would find his friend the Heer van
Schrekhorn, and whither we may perhaps follow him.
To Lewie Baronald, who was naturally destitute of much personal
vanity, it had hitherto seemed rather strange that the Countess had
permitted his attentions to her daughter at all, though he was known
to be the heir of his uncle; and now that he had all the joy of
knowing himself to be her accepted lover, his soul trembled within
him at the prospect of having to announce General Kinloch's utter
hostility to the mother.
Lewie had more than once observed that the Countess always smiled, or
laughed outright, when his uncle the General was spoken of, as if she
considered him somewhat of a character--an _excentrique_.
'You have seen the General, I presume, since you were here last?'
said she.
'Yes, madam,' replied Lewie, painfully colouring.
'And told him of your love for Dolores--of your engagement to her, in
fact?'
'Yes, madam; he seems to have suspected it for some time past.'
'Suspected--that sounds unpleasant.'
Lewie played with the feather in his regimental hat, and his colour
deepened, when the Countess said:
'Then he is coming to wait upon me, I presume?'
'Alas--no, madam.'
'Indeed--why?'
'He is averse to the society of ladies.'
'In fact, is a woman-hater, I have heard.'
Lewie smiled feebly, and felt himself in a foolish predicament; so
the Countess spoke again.
'He had some disappointment in early life, I believe, and never got
over it.'
'Yes, madam.'
'Poor fellow! and of Dolores----'
'He will not hear me speak with patience.'
'How grotesque!' exclaimed the Countess, laughing heartily.
'Ah, could he but see her!' exclaimed the young man, regarding the
upturned face of her he loved with something of adoration.
'Your uncle the General is very cruel, Lewie,' said Dolores; 'he is a
veritable ogre!'
'He is the king of good fellows, but----'
'But what?'
'He has never seen you.'
'And never shall,' she said petulantly, opening and shutting her fan.
'Nay, dearest Dolores, do not say so.'
'The ogre, or worse!' exclaimed the girl, with a pout on her sweet
lips.
'Nay--no worse--only a man,' said the Countess, laughing excessively;
'he thinks of us only as women, but to be shunned--avoided--dreaded.
It is very droll!'
And looking down, she played with the _étui_ and appendages that hung
from her girdle, her tiny watch with the judgment of Solomon embossed
on its case; and as she did so, Lewie thought her hand as white and
dimpled as that of Dolores.
To him it certainly seemed strange that the opposition of his uncle
seemed only to provoke--not the pride or the indignation of the
lively Countess--but her laughter and amusement.
'And if he gets me banished on foreign service to the Dutch West
Indies!' he urged rather piteously.
'My poor Lewie,' said she, patting his cheek with her fan, 'I must
see what can be done; meantime, we must be patient and wait. From
all I have heard and know, an early disappointment at the hands of
one he loved only too well, has shaken his faith in human goodness
and integrity, and now he is soured, suspicious and sarcastic.'
'But only so far as women are concerned.'
'True; and I suppose he is like a French writer, who says that "of
all serious things, marriage is the most ridiculous;" but men are not
infallible, especially men like your uncle the General--_errare
humanum est_. Let us be patient a little, and all will come right in
the end.'
But Dolores and her lover would only sigh a little impatiently as her
hand stole into his, and the twilight of evening deepened around them.