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 antechamber. 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 tonight. 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.”
XII
It seemed an age before the house was quiet, and all lights put out. Dominica sent her sleepy tirewoman away as soon as she came up from the ball. The woman made little resistance, she could hardly keep her eyes open, and was glad to be sent back to bed. Dominica let her unlace her gown, and put away her jewels. She put on a loose wrapper, and laid another log on the fire. As ill-luck would have it her aunt came in to bid her good night, and stayed to talk over the ball. She professed herself thankful that the affair was over; it had been very dull, she thought, and the Chevalier de Guise was the only relief she had had from utter boredom. Dominica, very much on her guard, stifled a yawn, and allowed the Chevalier to be well enough.
“Do not lose your heart to him, my dear,” remarked her aunt lazily. “Frenchmen are sadly fickle, and I believe this one is betrothed already.”
“Yes, so he said,” Dominica answered. An imp of malice prompted her to add:—“So my cousin need not be jealous of him, señora.”
“Diego is too much in love with you to forbear jealousy of any man who looks twice at you,” said Doña Beatrice, a hint of cynicism in her voice.
“Or is he in love with my money?” asked Dominica sweetly.
“Very much, my dear. We all are.” Nothing, it seemed, could disturb Doña Beatrice’s composure. She got up out of her chair, and tapped her niece’s cheek. “No more of this seclusion, child. You will show yourself abroad a little, and remember that we shall soon leave this tiresome town for a little quiet and peace.”
Dominica’s eyes were cast down, but the breath was stayed in her throat. “Very well, señora,” she said submissively. “But do we leave Madrid indeed?”
“Shortly, my dear. We shall go north to Vasconosa as soon as may be, and we will hope that Diego in the country will like you better than Diego in town.”
Dominica dropped a curtsy. “I don’t think it, señora.”
“No? But you can try to, my dear.” Doña Beatrice went out with her slow tread, and a minute later a door shut in the distance.
Dominica sat down by the fire to wait.
