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 forever, 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 tonight.” 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
