At his mother’s side Don Diego learned with little surprise but considerable annoyance that she could not remember to have inquired for him. She seemed amused when she heard how he had been sent off. “The rogue!” she said, and chuckled.
“This cousin of mine who will not think of espousals!” said Don Diego. “She is willing enough to have that French ruffler whisper honeywords in her ear. Mark you that!”
“Of course she is,” agreed Doña Beatrice. “I have no doubt he is very adroit. If you were more of his complexion, my son, you might make better speed with her.”
Don Diego made what speed he could next day, when he offered Dominica his hand and his heart, and spoke his piece in passionate terms. She saw her opportunity in this, and was quick to seize on it. Don Diego was bidden take both hand and heart elsewhere; he pressed his suit more ardently, dared to attempt a kiss. She whisked herself out of his hold, flew into a royal rage, and flounced away to find her aunt.
Doña Beatrice was confronted by Flaming Indignation in a charming form, and blinked at it.
“Señora!” broke out Dominica, panting over it. “I have to complain of my cousin! I thought you had understood me very well when I told you that I had no mind to wed with him, yet today I am to be teased, it seems, by his demanding of my hand, and more beside! Ah, more indeed!” Her eyes flashed sparks, her tongue darted its rage. “Your son, señora, dares to lay hands on me! I am to be mauled like any kitchen-wench! I! I say it is not to be borne, señora, nor will I bear it. This is no way to go to work with me. You must learn, señora, and your son with you that I am not to be so entreated, no, not I! And if you will not learn, then my uncle of Tobar shall hear of it. What, am I—Rada y Sylva!—to have easy kisses thrust on me, hateful fondlings, unmannerly hugs? No, señora, no!” Her cheeks flew storm signals; she had her hands clenched hard at her sides.
Doña Beatrice put by the book of poems she had been reading, but continued to fan herself. She watched closely under her weary eyelids. “Well, you are in a great heat,” she remarked. “But what is all this to the purpose? If you do not like Diego’s kisses my advice to you is that you wed him with speed, for if he is at all my son he will very soon cease to want what he may have for the mere asking.”
Real anger leaped up; my lady seemed to grow taller with it, a very goddess. “This is to insult me! Nasty talk, señora! Shameful talk! Well, my uncle is coming to town, as I hear, and in a good hour! Do you think, señora, that he will approve your plans for me? Do you think it indeed?”
“I do not,” said Doña Beatrice patiently. “I think he has some little plans of his own for you, my dear, but, believe me, they differ in only the one particular from mine, that he would change the name of your bridegroom.”
“Señora, be assured of this, that any bridegroom were less distasteful to me than your son!” said Dominica.
“You have not seen young Miguel de Tobar,” her aunt reminded her. “I concede you Diego is not a Chevalier de Guise, my dear, but he is far preferable to Miguel.”
“The Chevalier de Guise!” cried out Dominica hotly. “What is the Chevalier de Guise to me? You do not put me off so, señora! I will have a plain answer from you: will you seek another bride for my cousin?”
“I thought we understood one another better, my dear,” complained Doña Beatrice. “Of course I shall not.”
“Then my uncle shall hear of it, señora. You force me to it. If he thinks that I am content to serve the interest of Carvalho he shall know that it is not so.”
Doña Beatrice went on fanning herself; her smile broadened. “How foolish of you to warn me, my dear!” she remarked. “You should not let yourself be in such a passion. You show me your defences, which is quite ridiculous of you. I fear you will never win in a battle of wits with me. Now had you curbed your temper, my dear, you would have carried out this plan of yours in secret, and discomposed me sadly. I should certainly have respected you.” She picked up the book of poems again, and began to find her place in it. “Of course you will be away from Madrid by the time Tobar enters it.”
Dominica knew those sleepy eyes watched her still. There was no saying what Doña Beatrice suspected, what traps she might be laying. The girl let her eyes fall, bit her lips, moved a hand amongst the laces at her bosom as though she were agitated. Her wits against her aunt’s? She was very content to set them up for a battle; played her little comedy better even than she knew. “Aunt!” She pretended to seek for words, put her hands together as though she would clasp them, moved them apart again. Her eyes lifted; she tossed up her head. “And I will still find means to let him know how you use me!” she cried. “You may do as you please, señora, but you will not induce me to wed with Don Diego!” She judged that to be enough: there had been sufficient childish petulance in her voice to satisfy her aunt. She flung round on her heel, and ran out.
Doña Beatrice went on reading her poems. At dinner, some hours later, she spoke to her husband in a slow, lazy voice, and with a glance of amusement at Dominica. “I find, señor,” she said, “that these heats tax me too much. Madrid becomes insupportable.”
Don Rodriguez was all
