When she first heard of the projected ball to be given in honour of Don
Diego's birthday Dominica pleaded her mourning state, and said that
she could not be present. She had a suspicion that this ball, surely
unsuitable for a man's anniversary, was planned to lure her from her
fastness. Maybe it was to serve as a prologue to her betrothal. She
would not be present.
This decision drew a sigh from Doña Beatrice. "My dear, you are very
teasing," she complained. "In Spain girls do not say I will, and I will
not to those set in authority over them. Do me the favour to give way
with a good grace."
"You cannot think it seemly, señora, for me to be dancing so soon after
my father's death."
"I do not think it at all seemly for you to stay moping in your
chamber," replied Doña Beatrice. "We will set all in train to have a
new gown made for you. There is naught so enlivening to the spirits as
a new gown, believe me. But I do not think you should wear colours yet.
A cut velvet might do very well."
"I do not mean to be present," repeated Dominica.
"Or a pure white taffeta," mused Doña Beatrice. "We must consider it."
"Aunt!"
"Well, child? Oh, are you still tilting your chin at me? I take it very
unkindly in you then. Oblige me by being present on this one occasion,
and let us say no more about it."
"I am sorry that you think me unreasonable, señora," Dominica said
stiffly. "But if I obey you in this, you will expect me to obey you
in--other things."
"Marriage," nodded her aunt. "It makes no odds, my dear. Whether you
come to the ball or not I am still desirous to see you wed. You cannot
suppose that the care of a niece is at all pleasing to one of my
indolence."
"Show me, then, another suitor!" flashed Dominica.
Doña Beatrice picked up her fan. "Now I had thought you cleverer than
that," she said. "How should we benefit by another suitor for you?"
The brown eyes looked sternly. "In a word, aunt, you covet my
possessions. And so we have the truth at last!"
"Naturally, child. What did you suppose?" said Doña Beatrice,
unruffled. "We find ourselves in deplorably straitened circumstances,
and you come as a gift from heaven, one would say."
Dominica looked round at the opulence of the room. "One does not
immediately perceive your poverty, señora."
"Certainly not," said Doña Beatrice. "We all maintain a good
appearance. But show me the man who is not impoverished to-day for all
his outward pomp!"
"I think," said Dominica forcibly, "that Spain is a hateful country,
and the people--corrupt!"
"Very corrupt," agreed Doña Beatrice. "An age of loose-living. I
remember when I was a girl a Spanish lady was the model of decorum. It
is all very different now, and much more amusing. I believe that we
become a byword."
"I wonder, señora, that you are content to be so!"
"To be a byword? What odds? As for our corruption, what would you,
when the King keeps his grandees away from the affairs of state, and
encourages them to waste their substance?" She shrugged. "I observe,
and I am content to smile."
"So it seems," said Dominica. "Yet you can leave smiling to lend
yourself to an odious scheme to marry me to my cousin. Well, I will not
wed him. Never! You will see, señora, that I mean what I say."
"I don't doubt it, my dear. You are a very charming girl, and you have
wit--a little. But when you put your wit against mine you must lose."
"When you find, señora, that my wits have won the day----"
Her aunt rose. "I shall have a lively respect for you, my dear. Cut
velvet and your pearls. I will see to it."
Well, in the end Dominica gave way, and not quite from a sense of
duty. Her aunt's attitude had given her pause; that placid, smiling
dame frightened her: there was no gainsaying it. She guessed that
she was required to appear in public to give the lie to a world that
might possibly be saying that the Carvalhos kept her cooped up against
her will. There was her uncle on the mother's side, one Miguel de
Tobar, who had two likely sons of his own, and might conceivably have
designs upon her himself. One suitor was as distasteful as the other,
but it might serve to play off Tobar against the Carvalhos, Dominica
thought. She began to scheme and ponder, weaving her toils. She was
afraid of Doña Beatrice, ay, but she would fight her for all that, and
find joy in it. She put a finger to her lips, bit the rosy tip, and
looked this way and that, frowning at fate. Policy dictated an end
to her seclusion. She must go out into the world, and nose about for
a deliverer. Tobar would serve to alarm the Carvalhos; she had very
little intention of carrying it further than that. She had had letters
from him, guarded enough, to be sure, but sufficiently plain in their
purport to tell her that she might call on him and find a ready answer.
An end to this moping, then. She got up briskly, with a little toss of
the head, as though she would be free of a curbing rein. She would go
to this ball, but dance she would not. She would wear what was put out
for her to wear, and show herself a martyr to tyranny.
But velvets and love-knots, pearl-sewn lace, and the fashioning of a
corsage must necessarily interest a young lady, and when tailors were
busy she abandoned the attitude of martyr and asserted herself. She
would have the neck cut so, and the kirtle of such a silk, and there
should be crystals sewn on her ruff. She harried the tailors, and sent
her maid--not Maria, now, who had left her to marry a hopeful young
groom, but an older woman, sour-faced and silent--bustling to find a
certain point-lace that was laid by.
When the day came she was secretly glad that she was to be at the ball.
A maid cannot weep for ever, and to say truth, she was heartily sick of
her seclusion. The new gown pleased her; her pearls looked remarkably
well about her slim neck, and her hair under its silver net was dressed
to her satisfaction. It was a pity her cheeks were so pale, but she
would have none of her aunt's rouge-paste. Let the whispering world see
her pale and wan, and draw what conclusions it liked. Nor would she by
any means carry a very pretty fan of pink feathers, sent to her with
her cousin's compliments.
"This trifle," says my lady, mighty haughty, "this fan, which pleases
me not at all, you may have, if you like, Carmelita. I do not want it."
"Señorita, it is the fan Don Diego gave you," old Carmelita reminded
her.
"Is it so?" Dominica held it up and turned it this way and that. "I do
not like it. Take it if you will, or give it to your niece." She tossed
it aside, and would have no more to do with it.
She went downstairs presently, a snow-maiden, trying to look sadly
martyred. She found her aunt in the great hall, with Don Rodriguez at
her side.
He was ready to take Dominica's hand and fondle it. He could never be
at ease in her presence. Her large eyes looked too straightly, nor
would she ever give him any help. She thought him a poor creature, and
despised him accordingly. If he were to play the villain, then a' God's
name let him play it boldly, and put a brave face on to it! A villain
who was yet a man would not infuriate her near so much as this man who
was a villain against his kinder nature.
He complimented her now, and said that he was glad indeed to see her
amongst them, and looking so beautiful.
Doña Beatrice, almost overpowering in apple-green silk, with pink
embroideries, and an ornate headdress, looked her over critically.
"Yes, you are very well," she said. "We shall have serenades beneath
your window, I suppose."
One could not be proof against such flattery. Dominica dropped a
demure curtsy, and said she was glad she pleased her good aunt.
There came an interruption to drive the dawning smile out of her eyes.
Don Diego came into the hall from the ballroom, and bowed with great
flourish.
Dominica looked at him with warm indignation in her face. Whether of
intent or not, and she was very sure that it was of intent, he had
chosen to array himself in white to match her. He wore pearl-coloured
Venetian hose, embroidered cunningly with pale pink and a paned doublet
to go with them. His points had silver aiglets; his ruff was stitched
with silver, and was so large that it looked like a dish through which
he had stuck his head. He had a rapier with a jewelled hilt at his
side, a single ruby drop in one ear, and he carried a pure white rose
in his hand.
Dominica looked him up and down, and gave the tiniest of sniffs. Her
aunt's soft laugh sounded behind her. "What a pretty caballero!" said
Doña Beatrice. "Where, oh where could one find a prettier?"
Don Diego chose to ignore this tribute. He came up to Dominica with
the smile she so much disliked, and kissed her hand. "Fairest cousin!
I salute you! In my honour, this ball? Nay, rather in yours, the
loveliest lady in Spain." He released her hand, and held out his rose.
"A white rose to match you, sweet cousin."
"I should be loth to deprive you of it, cousin."
He came closer. "Only give it me again when the ball is ended. I shall
wear it next my heart then. Let me pin it on your bosom. Roses should
bloom together."
She drew her skirts away. "Keep your rose, cousin. You tease me to no
purpose."
He lowered his voice. "Still so cruel? Still so cold? You who set
hearts flaming!"
"God send a shower to quench them," she said, and moved away to her
aunt's side.
She stayed there for a long hour while guests arrived and were
announced. All were strangers to her; she had to be presented again
and again. To her annoyance Don Diego stood upon her other side. It
must look as though they were betrothed already, she thought, and was
careful never to turn in his direction.
The hall became crowded; already they were dancing in the ballroom
beyond. Dominica's foot tapped the floor involuntarily. Diego saw it,
and came possessively close. "Dare I hope for the honour of leading you
out, sweet cousin?" he murmured.
"I hope you dare not," she answered smartly. "I do not dance to-night."
She made a movement as though to bid him stand further off. "Pray go
and lead out some other lady," she said.
Above the sound of the rebecks, above the subdued chatter of guests
gathered in the hall, sounded the steward's voice. There was a stir at
the door. "M. le Chevalier de Guise!" called the steward, and bowed in
this late arrival.
Dominica looked towards the door, wondering who the Frenchman might be.
A knot of gentlemen gathered there parted to let the newcomer pass.
There was a quick, decided step; no Frenchman came in, but Sir Nicholas
Beauvallet, as though upon his own quarterdeck.
Dominica almost let fall her fan; the breath caught in her throat; she
stood staring, first pale, and then red, and through the mad riot in
her brain ran only the one clear thought: He has come! He has come! He
has come!
Across the hall he came, with that graceful, careless step she knew so
well. He was brave in silk and velvet, with a neat, small ruff such
as he had always worn clipping his throat about. He had a hand laid
lightly on his sword-hilt, and his eyes looked straight at Dominica.
She saw them fearless, with a kind of mocking challenge in their blue
depths, as though they would signify "Well, did I not say that I would
come?" Everything in her responded to the daring of him. Ah, what a
man! Ah, what a lover for a girl! what a brave, laughing lover!
He was close now, bowing to her aunt.
"Ah, so you have come, Chevalier," said Doña Beatrice, giving him her
hand. "We shall talk a little, but later on. Let me present you to
my niece, Doña Dominica de Rada y Sylva. This gentleman, my dear, is
a Frenchman strayed by some good chance into Spain. The Chevalier de
Guise."
Dominica, still hardly daring to trust her eyes, saw his hand held out,
and knew his gaze to be upon her. She put out her own little hand, and
his long fingers closed over it. She looked down at his black head
as he bent to kiss her hand; she thought if she spoke her voice must
betray her agitation.
It was a real kiss pressed on her hand, no formal brush of the lips.
He stood straight again, and released her slight fingers. "Señorita, I
am enchanted," he said. "But Doña Beatrice is wrong: I did not come by
chance into Spain. I had a set resolve to journey here."
Her long lashes fluttered downwards. She knew herself to be blushing.
"Indeed, señor?" she said faintly.
"Such an odd resolve!" commented Doña Beatrice. "What can you hope to
find here to amuse you?"
Dominica looked up to see his eyes crinkle at the corners. He addressed
himself to Doña Beatrice, laughingly. "Oh, I come on a quest, dear
señora," he said. Then he seemed to become aware of Don Diego, upon
Dominica's other hand. "Well-met, señor! I give you joy of your
anniversary." The mockery in his eyes deepened. "But you are bridal,
señor! bridal!"
Don Diego stiffened, but a moment after shrugged slightly at this
deplorable lack of formality. "My attire does not like you, Chevalier?"
he said disdainfully.
"On the contrary," said Sir Nicholas gaily, "it reminds me of my own
nuptials, which draw close."
Dominica's hand, slowly waving her fan to and fro, faltered a little.
What a game to play with fire! Oh, he was mad indeed, divinely mad!
"I felicitate you," said Don Diego. "Permit me to find you a partner
for the _coranto_."
Sir Nicholas turned. "I shall crave the hand of Doña Dominica," he said.
Don Diego spoke before she could reply. "My cousin does not dance,
señor."
"How foolish!" said Doña Beatrice, turning her head. "Let the Chevalier
lead you out, my dear. There are no men to rival Frenchmen at dancing."
"If you will dance, cousin, let mine be the honour of leading you out,"
said Don Diego.
Sir Nicholas had taken her hand; the pressure of his fingers was
insistent. "Ah, but I was before you, Don Diego," he said.
Don Diego looked angrily, and took a quick step forward, as though he
would snatch Dominica's hand from its resting-place. His rose dropped
unheeded to the ground. "Cousin, I understood you would not dance!"
"You have let fall your pretty flower," Sir Nicholas pointed out gently.
Don Diego turned with an ugly look in his face, forgetting his duty to
a guest. His angry stare met an amused glance from cool blue eyes that
did not waver. Sir Nicholas still held Dominica's hand, but one eyebrow
was quizzically raised, as though to say: "Do you wish to quarrel? Say
but the word!"
Doña Beatrice interposed to put an end to an awkward moment. Her fan
brushed Dominica's shoulder. "Be advised by me, my dear, and go with
the Chevalier. Resolutions are made to be broken only."
Don Diego seemed to recollect himself. He recovered his _sosiego_ and
bowed. "I am less fortunate than the Chevalier, cousin. I shall ask for
your hand later in the evening."
"As you please, cousin." Dominica sent a fleeting glance upwards to
Beauvallet's face, and dropped her eyes again. Obedient to the pull on
her hand she went with him across the hall to the ballroom.
"God pity me, I have borne a fool!" sighed Doña Beatrice. "You do not
go well to work, my poor son."
"She did it to flout me!" he said hotly.
"If she did it promises very well," she replied. "But when a man like
the Chevalier craves a boon there are few women will not grant it. For
where he craves he might take, look you."
"He is insufferable!" Diego said. "My sword itches to taste his blood."
Doña Beatrice smiled more broadly. "I dare say the Chevalier has some
skill with swords," she said. "I do not think--no, I do not think that
you would be well advised to send him a challenge."
Don Diego stayed glooming a moment. "One would think you wanted her to
go with him," he complained.
"I did," said his mother imperturbably. "The girl saw a very personable
man, with more charm in his lightest smile, my poor son, than any other
here to-night. She was tempted to be forsworn, and I bade her go. Had I
intervened for you she would not have danced at all. Now you are sure
of her, for she cannot refuse, having danced once."
In the ballroom Dominica had little opportunity to speak to Sir
Nicholas. She dreaded lest some overheard phrase might betray him; for
the first few steps of the dance she could only look up eloquently into
his face. They drew together a moment, and she whispered:--"You have
come! How could you dare?"
"Had you not my word, little doubter?"
They drew apart again; another couple was too close to allow them to
say more. The music stopped; Sir Nicholas was bowing, and Don Diego was
possessively at Dominica's elbow.
She lived through another hour in a fret. Don Diego stayed close at
her side; she could only watch Beauvallet across the room, and long
to be alone with him. It seemed she would never find the opportunity,
but presently her cousin's attention was claimed, and he had to lead
another lady out to dance. Dominica cast a quick look round, saw her
aunt at the other end of the room, and drew back behind the ample form
of a portly dowager. She slipped along the wall then to where heavy
curtains hung, shutting off a small ante-chamber. Knowing Beauvallet's
eyes to be upon her she went through, and stood breathlessly waiting.
The curtains moved; he was before her. She went to him in a little run,
with both her hands held out, and her eyes full of happy tears. "Oh, to
see you again!" she whispered. "I never thought it possible!"
He gathered her hands in his, and held them clasped against his breast.
"Softly, my heart! This is dangerous work." His voice was quick and
decisive for all he spoke so low. "I must have speech with you alone.
Which way looks your chamber?"
"To the garden. Ah, Nicholas, I have wanted you!"
"My fondling!" His hands pressed hers closer. "Does your woman sleep
with you?"
"Nay, I am alone." She looked wonderingly up at him.
"Set a lamp in your window when you judge all to be asleep, to give me
a sign. Can you trust me?"
"Ah, you know! You know I can trust only you. What will you do?"
"Climb up to you, sweetheart," he answered, and smiled at her face of
amazement. "What windows look out that way?"
"My woman's--my cousin's closet--some servants."
"Good." He kissed her hands. "Expect me then when you show a light.
Patience, my bird!"
He released her, and stepped back. The curtains parted for a moment,
and he was gone.
The rest of the evening passed in a bewildered haze for her. She was
conscious only of Beauvallet's presence, but he did not come near her
again. Her cousin besought her to dance with him again, and when she
would not, stayed by her, teasing her ear with his soft speech.
"Who was the Frenchman?" she asked. "The Chevalier. Is he of the
Ambassador's court?"
"De Guise! No, my dear cousin, the Ambassador owns him not. Some idle
traveller swaggering abroad. I trust he will soon be gone from us. It
was no wish of mine that he should be invited here to-night. A trifler,
no more."
"You do not like him, cousin?" she said, looking sideways.
He raised those expressive shoulders. "An arrogant Frenchman who bears
himself as though he would snap his fingers in one's face! No, I do not
like him, cousin."
A gleam of mischief shot into her eyes. "It is to be hoped he will not
snap his fingers in your face, cousin," she said demurely.
"I should have but one answer, Dominica." He touched his sword-hilt. "I
do not think the gay Chevalier would return to France."