The riders hedged Dominica closely about, and struggle as she might
there was no withstanding the insistent drag on her bridle. She fought
desperately to rein in her horse, but the bridle was wrenched from
her straining hands. A cut across the quarters made the frightened
animal bound forward. Dominica leaned forward in the saddle to strike
passionately at the man who led her. He laughed, bade her be still, and
pressed on.
She was sobbing with rage, quite powerless, but ready almost to fling
herself from the saddle rather than be carried on thus ignominously.
"Who are you?" she panted. "What do you want with me? Answer me, you!"
No one replied to her question; she looked round wildly at the masked
faces: the blank gauze told her nothing. She looked ahead then, to note
the way they went, and found that they had left the road, and were
pressing on up a slight hill, towards wooded country.
They had to check their pace; there were boulders in the way, and
overhanging tree-branches above their heads. A rough track led through
the forest; as far as Dominica could ascertain they were striking
north, towards Vasconosa.
A man pushed forward, and came to ride on her other side. Dominica
stared at him, saw an elegantly gauntletted hand upon the rein, and
smelled the sweet scent of musk. It was not fear that seized her then,
but a cold fury that almost bereft her of speech. She struggled for
words, rejected what came, and said at last in a voice redolent of
scorn:--"You may unmask, my heroic cousin. I have your measure now."
He gave a slight laugh, and put up his hand to remove the mask.
"Fairest cousin, well-met!" he said, and bowed to her over the
saddle-peak.
She spoke through shut teeth. "Unless I am much mistaken, señor, you
will not say so for long."
"I am sure you are much mistaken, sweet cousin," he returned, and
laughed again.
She pressed her lips together, and rode on in silence. After a while
Don Diego leaned towards her, and took her bridle from the man who held
it. "Let me be your escort, child."
"I appear to have little choice, señor."
They rode on ahead of the troop. "You drove me to it, Dominica," Don
Diego said softly.
She gave a short laugh at that. Now she could despise him to the full.
A man who would apologise for his villainy, whine at it! "Holy Virgin!"
she ejaculated. "Is that your excuse, cousin?"
"My love for you!" he said, flushing at the contempt in her voice.
"A rare love, by my faith!"
"It brooks no hindrance. I am desperate for you. You shall not think
harshly of me."
"I shall not think of you at all," she replied. "You are of no account."
His brows drew close over his nose. "I shall show you otherwise,
Dominica."
She yawned.
"You scorn me," he said, "but I love you. You have flouted me, given
me sharp words, and cold looks, but I have you now by the strong hand."
Her eyes flashed; her lip curled. "The strong hand! Yours!" She flicked
at it with her glove. "My God, I could match you a strong hand which
would put yours to shame!"
He coloured. "You betray yourself, Dominica. Was Beauvallet's hand so
strong then? Did it keep him from capture, and will it keep him from
the stake?"
She looked disdainful. "You rave. You are ridiculous. Mother of God,
but you sicken me!"
"You will not long say so," he answered.
"What, am I to be rid of you then? I give thanks for a happy
deliverance."
He sneered at her. "Who shall deliver you, señorita? Your fine
Beauvallet, so neatly caught and prisoned? You will grow weary of
waiting for him, believe me."
"I do, very easily, señor," she returned lightly. "But I make no doubt
the Chevalier de Guise would be happy to serve me were he free."
"Very clever," he said, "but I sprang your secret the night he was
taken. Why persist in this pretence?"
She shrugged. "If you have a maggot in your brain, cousin, I see no
reason why I should share it." She turned her head. "I suppose this to
be a plot of my aunt's?"
"Dear cousin, give honour where it is due. The plot is mine alone."
"You amaze me, señor, I had not thought you possessed the stomach for
so hardy a deed."
"I am not so spiritiess as you think, perhaps," he said quickly. "If
you are happy to be with freebooters you should like this exploit."
"Given any other man to be the abductor, señor, I might," she conceded.
He jerked his shoulder up. "You gain nothing by such talk, cousin."
They rode on in silence, further into the forest to a ride Dominica
recognised. She was being taken to the old hunting-lodge belonging to
the Vasconosa estate. It seemed to her a crowning insult that he should
dare to take her to a house not five miles from where her aunt lay. She
fairly gnashed her little teeth over it, and her cheeks flew colours of
rage.
They drew up before the door. He lifted her down from the saddle, and,
looking round, she saw that the troop had dispersed, only one man
remaining to take their horses. Ignominy upon ignominy! She guessed the
men to be hildings employed upon the estate, and could imagine what
chuckles and sly looks were passing between them at her expense. Anger
consumed her; there was no room for fear.
Luis, Don Diego's valet, had come out, bowing to them. He held the door
wide; she hesitated a moment, and then brushed past him into the hall
of the lodge.
Diego, following her close, found her tapping her foot by the table.
"Dearest cousin you are surprisingly beautiful when you are enraged,"
he told her. "There is a chamber prepared for you upstairs. I regret I
have no tirewoman to offer you, or any change of raiment. But you will
find such things as you need, and you have only to call, and Luis will
bring you what you ask for."
"Your consideration passes belief, cousin," she said. "I do not
purpose to make a long stay, I thank you. I shall be glad to know what
you intend by me."
The valet went discreetly away to the kitchens. Dominica was left
facing her cousin, straight and stiff in the middle of the hall.
"I intend marriage, child, as I think you know."
"Is this the way you woo in Spain, señor?"
He came closer. "It is the only way to use with such a wild maid as
you, Dominica."
"You are doomed to disappointment, señor. It is no way to use with me."
He smiled. "You are tired from your long ride, and these alarms you
have sustained. Come, child, cry a truce, and let me lead you to your
chamber! When you have reposed yourself a little we will talk."
She ignored his outstretched hand, but turned towards the stairs. She
had need to collect herself, to marshal her defences. She saw that she
stood in great danger; she would need all her wits about her to evade
it, and she was indeed shaken. Moreover, while he thought her safe
upstairs she might contrive to escape, she thought. Doña Beatrice might
stand back and allow her son to do his worst, but Dominica was fairly
sure she would not take a more active part in this villainy. If she
could win to her side she would be safe enough.
This hazy idea of flight was soon put to rout. Don Diego, ushering her
into a chamber upstairs that gave on to the little garden at the back
of the lodge, displayed a key. "You will forgive the discourtesy, dear
cousin, but I must lock you in. I will come to fetch you to dinner in
an hour, if it please you!"
She would not trust herself to speak; her breast heaved. She turned
sharply on her heel, and walked into the room.
The door was shut behind her, the key grated in the lock.
She stood still until she heard the stairs creak under Don Diego's
retreating footsteps. Then she went in a little dash to the window, and
flung it open, and looked out. It was unbarred, and for a sufficient
reason. There was no need of bars, for the wall of the house fell sheer
to the ground some twenty feet below. No friendly creeper afforded a
foothold, nor even a drain pipe. To jump from the window would mean
broken limbs, and maybe worse. She stayed panting by it, her fingers
gripping the ledge till the nails showed white. It was of no use though
to rage, and grind her teeth. Escape did not lie that way.
She turned away from the window, and came back into the room, and took
stock of her surroundings. A great bed stood out from one wall, hung
with curtains of red damask; arras of tapestry covered the walls; there
was a chest, a chair, an escabeau, a table with carved legs, a mirror
hung above a second chest, whereon stood a basin and an ewer of silver.
The mirror showed a tempestuous lady, wrath in her face; her hair
dishevelled under the French hood, her habit dusty and disordered.
Dominica poured water into the basin, and bathed her face and her
hands, slowly, abstractedly. A cake of soap was to hand, delicately
scented, a towel. She stood rubbing her fingers dry, and looking at her
reflection in the mirror, thinking, thinking.
An hour later, Don Diego scratched on the panel of the door. A cool
voice bade him enter; he found his cousin seated by the window, her
hands folded in her lap, the picture of maidenly resignation. But he
knew her too well to suppose her resigned; it did not need the steely
flash in her eyes as she raised them to tell him that his cousin was
prepared to give battle.
He bowed to her. "Dearest cousin, supper awaits you. May I lead you
down?"
She rose at once, and came to the door; she even allowed him to take
her hand. They went in silence down the stairs and across the hall to a
smaller parlour, panelled with mulberry wood. Covers were laid upon a
draw-table; Luis stood deferentially waiting behind one of the chairs.
She was handed to it, and sat down with what composure she could
muster. The curtains had been drawn to shut out the fading daylight,
and a cluster of candles on the table lit the room. Outside the silence
of the country seemed to enfold the house. Dominica felt very alone,
and had to fight down a rising wave of panic.
"Rude fare, dear cousin, I fear me, but you will forgive it. Luis is an
unaccustomed cook."
She inclined her head. The food was well enough; she supposed this was
Don Diego's way of telling her that there was no one but herself and
him and Luis in the house. Superfluous information, she thought.
He poured wine into her glass. "Will you take some of this wine of
Alicante, cousin?"
She looked up quickly, puzzled and searching. The words were oddly
familiar, stirred a chord of memory. Her mind flew back; she stared at
Don Diego, but she saw instead a laughing face, with eyes of deep,
wind-swept blue....
"Do you suppose, señor, that your daughter will take wine from my
hands?..."
A tremor shook her. Her eyes shut for a moment, as though to hold the
brief vision. She opened them again, and the _Venture's_ stateroom slid
back into the past. "I thank you, cousin," she said quietly, and picked
up the cup with a steady hand.
She ate sparingly, drank less, and answered in monosyllables Don
Diego's easy flow of talk. Sweetmeats were at last set on the table,
and some ripe pomegranates from the south. Luis withdrew, and they were
alone.
She pushed back her chair a little way from the table, and turned her
gaze towards Don Diego. "Cousin, I await your explanation."
He lifted his cup in a silent toast. "It is contained in the one short
phrase, my dear. I love you."
"You have an odd way of showing me, señor, that you love me. May I not
rather suppose that you love my possessions?"
He frowned at that; he had not his mother's frankness. "They are as
nothing beside your charms, Dominica."
"I fear you flatter me, cousin."
He leaned towards her, stretched a pleading hand across the table. "Let
us not bandy idle words to and fro, Dominica. Believe I am mad for you!"
"It does not strain my credence to believe you mad, señor."
"I am mad, yes, but for love of you. No, let me speak! You do me wrong
when you think me anxious only to possess your wealth. I do not deny
that was my first thought. But I did not know you then; you had not
cast your divine spell over me. I would wed you were you penniless."
He saw that she was about to break in on this, and hurried on. "There
seemed to be no way but this. I took the straight, swift road to my
desires. You shall not blame me for that. You are angry now, outraged;
I see your eyes flame. Think but a little and you will pity me,
understand my seeming madness!"
"I might pity your folly, señor, but pity will not work on me to wed
with you," she said.
"Dominica!" He tried to take her hand, but it was swiftly withdrawn. "I
should be loth to use force. You shall learn to love me, even if you
hate me now. Put this English pirate out of your head----"
"Oh, God's mercy, señor, still harping on that fairy tale?" she
exclaimed. "You put me out of all patience!"
"He is sped," he insisted. "There is no escape for such as he. Set him
aside; forget him."
She looked at him fully now, almost sternly. "Señor cousin, you talk
without meaning, but if the Chevalier de Guise were my lover, and he El
Beauvallet, I would be faithful to him though he died and I faced death
because of him."
An ugly look leaped into his eyes. "You speak very strongly, cousin.
There are some things harder to face than death."
This was coming to grips at last. Battle was joined, and she was glad
to have it so. Anything were better than his love-making. "Cousin,"
she said, clenching her hand on the table. "I am no milk and water
maid for your ravishing. I tell you again that there is no power under
heaven will make me marry you."
He leaned back in his chair, nonchalent, keenly watching her. "Bethink
you of your fair name, Dominica," he said gently.
"I care nothing for it."
"No?" He smiled. "Brave words, but you have not thought on it yet,
sweet cousin. You show me no mercy, no kindness. Should I then show you
any?"
"I make no doubt you would not," she said swiftly. "But if you think to
wring consent to marriage out of me by such means, you are mistaken,
and have not my measure."
He lifted the wine-cup to his lips, sipped, and held it still, his
elbow on the arm of his chair. "I can ruin you, my dear," he said. "If
you go from here unwed you can never show your face abroad again."
"Do you not think, señor, that if I had to choose between marriage with
such as you and a cloister I would not choose the cloister?"
It was plain that he had not thought of that. He set the cup down with
a snap, staring at her from under suddenly frowning brows. After a
moment he hitched up his shoulder in the way he had, and gave a short
laugh. "Idle words!"
"Try me, and you will see, señor."
He poured more wine, but he did not drink. "You think I do not know
what heretical notions you hide," he taunted her.
She kept her countenance. "All that is past. I am a true daughter of
the Church, nor could you prove me other. The Church would receive me,
and my wealth too, be you very sure."
"You do not know what you say." He drank deep, and set the cup down.
"This is to work on me, no more."
"You live in a fool's paradise, cousin. There are no lengths to which
I would not go for the purpose of frustrating your foul designs. Why,
what does the world hold for me that I should cling to it? I am alone,
amongst enemies, for such you and my aunt have shown yourselves to be."
"There is El Beauvallet," he said, and looked intently to see whether
she would change colour.
She cast up her eyes, but answered patiently. "I humour your whims,
cousin. If the Chevalier de Guise were El Beauvallet, and my lover,
what would be left to me now but a cloister?"
He sneered at that. "Oh, methought he could burst all bars and bolts,
this famous pirate!"
"I suppose you thought so indeed, cousin, since you fled Madrid in such
haste," she said tartly.
He showed his teeth a moment. "Do you imagine these holiday terms serve
you, señorita? I would be gentle with you, but you drive me to harsh
measures. You are besotted; you do not know in how dire a state you
stand. The hour grows late already, my cousin, and there is only Luis
in the house. I warrant you he will not hear a cry for help."
She was afraid, desperately afraid, but no sign of it appeared in her
face. "You will let your desires ride you to your own undoing, cousin.
Work your will on me: you will lose my substance."
He sprang up. "By God, woman, you are shameless!" he said violently.
"Is this the bold spirit the New World breeds? Do you hold your honour
of so small account? Out on you, I say!"
"Do you then hold my honour in so great account?" she asked
contemptuously. "Was it your care for it induced you to bear me off
to-day?"
He began to walk up and down the room, kicking a joint-stool out of
his way. She sat still, watching him, and courage soared high. He was
irresolute. She knew herself to be the stronger of the two; she could
hold him off for a while yet.
His thoughts raced; he shot a quick look at her as he passed in his
impatient stride. She was sitting straight in her chair, hedged about
by a flaming barrier of resolve. She was strung up; events had marched
too swiftly to allow her girl's imagination to sap her courage. In a
dim way he realized this. Stealing yet another look at her rigid face,
and the dark eyes that burned in it, he could picture her very clearly
following out her threat. He had her in his power; he could work his
will on her, but some instinct told him that she was in too exalted a
mood to capitulate.
He was honestly shocked by the attitude she chose to take up. It had
been unforeseen; it took him so much by surprise that he was thrown out
of his stride. She sat like a goddess, fearless and invincible. So much
he could see.
He went on with his pacing, biting his finger-nails now, as he always
did when he was put out. He knew something of women; he had had
dealings with a-many and a-many, but this girl was out of his ken.
He reflected. Her uplifted mood could not last; she was no goddess,
but a girl strung up to a pitch of abnormal excitement that would die.
He made up his mind to wait, to allow anticipation to wear down her
courage.
He came to a halt opposite her. "We will see how you feel in the
morning, my cousin," he said. "Let the night bring sager counsel. You
are over-wrought, and I would not hurry you, nor do I wish to constrain
you by force. But mark me well! To-morrow night, if I have not your
promise to wed with me, you will not find me so gentle. If you will not
have me with the Church's holy tie you shall have me without it. You
have a night and a day to make up your mind whether you will be wife or
mistress, but one or the other you shall be. That I swear!"
Some of the tension went out of her. She let her eyes fall that he
might not see the relief in them. Much might happen in a night and a
day; there was hope still.
She rose. "Then I desire to retire to my chamber, señor, with your good
leave," she said.