Ramblings, erratic and obsession-dogged, had taken me to Bagneres de
Luchon, over the snow-capped Pyrenees by the Porte de Venasque to
Huesca, thence to quaint old Zaragoza and Valencia, and in returning
from Madrid I found myself idling away a few days at San Sebastian, that
gay and charming watering-place which somebody has termed "the Brighton
of Spain." The month was July, the town was filled with Madrileftos
attracted by the excellent bathing, and glad to escape the stifling heat
and dust of the Castellana or the Calle de Alcala, while the shell-like
Concha, or bay, was given up to the _campamento_ of bathing-tents.
From my seat in the porch of the Fonda de Ezcurra I gazed upon the
beautiful Bay of Zurriola, with its twinkling lights, crowded with a
thousand fantastic shadows; I heard the creak of the row-locks and the
plashing of oars, and the laughter of girls; and in the deep gloom not
far away the faint music of violins and mandolines trembled in the air.
So still was the night that the regular throbbing of paddle-wheels from
a steamboat not yet visible formed a rumbling undertone to all the other
sounds, and the summer moon bathed all things in its mystic light,
throwing far out over the water into the Bay of Biscay a bright, shining
pathway.
Across this path boats glided from time to time; on the asphalte walk at
the edge of the beach fair flirtatious little dames in graceful
mantillas passed to and fro, and as I lit a cigarette, I dreamed and
dwelt upon the future.
Presently a neat-ankled waiting-maid came out and handed me a telegram
which she said had arrived during dinner, and I rose, sauntered over to
where the great light was placed above the door, and opened the
dispatch. It gave me satisfaction, for it was an order from the journal
I represented to remain there, and transmit by telegraph daily what
fresh intelligence I could gather with regard to the political crisis
through which Spain was at that moment passing. By reason of the
Queen-Regent, the young King, and the Court having left Madrid for San
Sebastian a week earlier, the _locale_ of the crisis had been removed
from the capital, and among those staying at my hotel were Senor Canovas
del Castillo, the Conservative leader, Senor Novarro Reverter, Minister
of Finance, and Senor Villaverdi, ex-Minister of the Interior, besides
several members of the Cortes. In these circumstances the prospect of a
week or two at one of the most charming of European health-resorts was
by no means distasteful, especially as I saw that I should experience
but little difficulty in obtaining such information regarding the
situation as I required. A rigorous censorship had been established by
the Government over all telegraphic messages sent out of the country,
therefore it would be necessary for me to cross the frontier into France
each day, and send off my dispatch from Bayonne.
Thrusting the telegram into my pocket, I lit a fresh cigarette, and
lounged away down the Avenida de la Libertad to the Calle del Pozzo; the
fine tree-lined promenade behind the Casino, where the life and gaiety
of the town had assembled. Under the bright electric rays crowds of
well-dressed promenaders were strolling slowly up and down, listening to
the strains of a military band, and ever and anon, when the music
paused, the chatter and laughter mingled in a din of merriment with the
jingle of the many gaily-lit cafes in the vicinity. Carried to and fro
the length of the asphalte by the ebb and flow of promenaders, I spent a
pleasant hour watching the life around me, and enjoying the cool air
after the heat and burden of the glaring day. San Sebastian is noted
for the beauty of its female population, and, indeed, I am fain to admit
that I saw more beautiful women during that brief hour than it had ever
been my lot to meet at Vichy, Etretat, Royat, Arcachon, Biarritz, Nice,
or any of the other favoured spots where Dame Society allows her
world-weary children to disport themselves at certain seasons. Spanish
women know how to dress, but the women of San Sebastian rely not upon
the manipulation of the fan nor the arrangement of the mantilla to
attract; they are naturally graceful in gait and fair of face.
Two figures in that crowd riveted my attention, but, alas! only for a
moment. I gazed upon them, but next instant they were gone, swallowed
in that ever-shifting vortex of laughter-loving pleasure-seekers. Both
were attired in black, one an elderly lady with white hair, upon whose
refined face care had left deep furrows; the other a tall, graceful
girl, scarcely more than nineteen, evidently from the South, whose calm,
serious face was even more strikingly handsome than those of the many
beauties about her. The _chevelure_ had evidently been arranged by a
maid of the first order; the mantilla she wore, graceful in every fold,
gave to her clear olive complexion an essentially soft and feminine
look; her dark eyes were large and languishing, and there was that
peculiar grey tint upon the skin that when natural in women of the South
is so unusual and so artistic.
For a second, unnoticed by her, I gazed in admiration, but she passed on
and was lost. Turning a few moments afterwards, I sped back in the hope
of overtaking her and again feasting my eyes upon her incomparable
beauty, but though I searched the crowd for fully half an hour, I was
compelled to relinquish my self-imposed task, turning at last into the
Casino, where, over cigarettes and coffee, I sat chatting to a
loquacious old captain of artillery upon the political crisis until the
musical carillon of San Vicente chimed the midnight hour. Then, wishing
my companion "_Buenas noches_," I rose and strolled back to my hotel,
haunted by the sad, sweet face that had passed and vanished like a
shadow.
But I had work before me. The relations between England and Spain were
strained, and diplomatic negotiations regarding some incidents in
Morocco and in Cuba had been rendered more difficult on account of the
unexpected overthrow of the Ministry. The British Government was more
interested in the affairs of Spain than it had been for many years, so
the British public were eager for the latest intelligence; therefore,
when I retired to my room, I was compelled to sit far into the night,
writing by the light of a guttering candle all I knew, and recording
every rumour anent the complex questions.
Those who have wandered over the yellow sands of San Sebastian well know
how picturesque is the view across the Bay of Zurriola. It was upon
this scene I gazed on opening my windows on the following morning.
Beyond the broad Plaza, lined on three sides by handsome houses, the
sunlit waters of the Bay of Biscay rolled in upon the shore, wave after
wave of transparent emerald breaking in long lines of snowy foam. White
villas gleamed from among the foliage on the hillsides, and high brown
cliffs rose from right and left, against which the rollers, roaring and
surging, dashed and went up in columns of spray.
Swallowing my coffee, I went out--not, however, before I had made a
gratifying discovery; namely, that the room next mine, communicating by
a locked door, was the private sitting-room of Senor Canovas del
Castillo, the statesman upon whose political actions the eyes of Europe
were at that moment centred. Success in journalism depends a good deal
upon luck, and to accidental incidents I attribute any good fortune I
have enjoyed in obtaining exclusive and reliable information in various
holes and corners of the Continent where I have had to compete with the
resident correspondents of Reuter's, the Havas, and the Central News
agencies. I had walked across the Plaza de la Constitucion, wondering
how I could best turn this fortuitous circumstance to account, when
suddenly I found myself before the grey facade of Santa Maria, and
almost involuntarily I entered. The air was heavy with incense, and the
church was in semi-darkness--a chiaroscuro that was exceedingly striking
and effective. There was, however, little of interest beyond the
heavily-gilded and somewhat tawdry altars, which are the feature in most
Spanish churches, and I was just about to leave when the silence was
broken by loud sobbing close to me. I had believed myself alone in the
place, but on gazing round in surprise, I saw within a few yards of me,
half hidden by one of the great stone columns, a female figure kneeling
before one of the altars, with her face buried in her hands, sobbing as
though her heart would break. I was turning away, leaving the lonely
worshipper to her grief, when the dress, the softness of outline, and
the flawless complexion seemed strangely familiar. Next instant I
recognised her as the girl I had passed in the crowd, and whose beauty
had so impressed me.
Upon the stones she was kneeling in abject despair. In her dark hair
she had placed a crimson rose, and her delicate white hands, upon which
some bright gems glistened, were wet with bitter tears.
My feet fell noiselessly upon the matting, and she was unaware of my
presence, until, placing my hand lightly upon her shoulder, I bent,
exclaiming in French:--
"Mademoiselle is unhappy! Is there no assistance I can render?"
She started, raising her pale, pensive face to mine in surprise. Then
in sorrow she shook her head.
"M'sieur is very kind," she answered, in a voice that betrayed a
poignant grief. "Words of sympathy may lighten one's burden of sorrow,
but nothing can heal a broken heart."
"It mainly depends on how the fracture was caused," I answered, smiling,
and, grasping her tiny hand, assisted her to rise.
She brushed the dust from her dress, dashed away her tears, and, turning
to me, said--
"I have heard that gaiety is efficacious--sometimes."
"Until I know the cause, I cannot prescribe for the effect," I replied,
as I held open the door and she passed out into the sunlight.
"Ah, m'sieur," she sighed bitterly, her beautiful eyes still full of
tears, "woe is my heritage! The brightness of each dawn jars upon me,
showing me how gloomy life is, and how utterly hopeless and lonely is
the sea of despair upon which I am drifting. I welcome each night with
joy, because--because it brings me one day nearer--nearer to _death_."
"You are young and fair; you have joy and life around you. Surely you
are joking?"
"No, m'sieur. Ah, you do not know!" she sighed. "If you were aware of
my secret, you would, I assure you, not be surprised that, even though
surrounded by friends, I desire to die."
"But it is so extraordinary!" I said, walking beside her and chatting
as if we were old acquaintances. "Have you never tried to unburden
yourself by confiding your secret to some friend?"
"_Dieu_! No. I--I dare not."
"Dare not?" I echoed. "Of what are you afraid?"
"Afraid?" she repeated in a strained voice, speaking like one in a
dream, with her eyes fixed straight before her. "Yes, I--I am a
wretched, miserable coward, because I fear the punishment."
"Is your crime of such a flagitious character, then?"
"My crime?" she cried, turning suddenly upon me with flashing eyes.
"What--what do you know of my crime? What do you insinuate?"
"Nothing, mademoiselle," I answered, as politely as I could, though
amazed at her sudden change of manner. "Your own strange words must be
my excuse for inquisitiveness."
"Then let us change the subject. To you my private affairs can be of no
concern whatever."
I was not prepared for this stinging rebuff. We passed the front of the
Casino, strolling through the shady gardens facing the Concha, and when
we had rested upon a convenient seat, pleasantly sheltered from the sun,
she grew communicative again. While I had been telling her of my
journey over the Pyrenees to Madrid, her grief had been succeeded by
gaiety, and when I related some amusing _contretemps_ that had befallen
me at a wayside _posada_ in the Sierra de Guara, she laughed lightly.
At length at my request, she drew out a silver case, and, in exchange
for my card, gave me one bearing the name "Doroteita d'Avendano."
Then, with an ingenuousness that enhanced her personal charms, she told
me of herself, that she was the only daughter of the Count Miguel
d'Avendano, who had represented Castillejo in the Senate, but who had
died a year ago. The widowed Countess--who had been her companion on
the previous night--had let their mansion in the Calle Ancha de San
Bernardo at Madrid to a wealthy foreigner, and since that time her
mother and herself had been travelling, spending the winter at Cannes,
the spring at Seville, and coming to San Sebastian for a few weeks
previous to going north to Paris. She pointed out their villa from
where we sat, a great white house with a terrace in front, standing out
against a background of foliage on the side of the hill overlooking the
bay. The Count, her father, had, I knew, been one of the most
celebrated of Spanish statesmen. Referring to many well-known
personages at Court as her friends, her observations regarding their
little idiosyncrasies were full of dry humour. With a versatility of
narrative she told me many little anecdotes of the Queen-Regent and the
infant monarch, the knowledge of which betrayed an intimacy with the
domestic arrangements of the palace, and for fully an hour gossiped on
pleasantly.
"And amid this life of gaiety and happiness I find you kneeling in
yonder church, abandoned to melancholy!" I observed at length, half
reproachfully.
The light died out of her face.
"True," she sighed. "Sometimes for an hour or so I manage to forget,
but sooner or later the sorrow that overshadows my life recurs to me in
all its hideous reality, and when I am alone it overwhelms me. To the
world I am compelled to appear _chic_, happy, and thoughtless. Few,
indeed, who know me are aware that my feigned laughter is but a bitter
wail of lamentation, that beneath my smile lies a broken heart."
"And your lover? Was he faithless? What of him?"
"What of him!" she gasped hoarsely, rising from the seat with her hands
clenched. "I--I know nothing of him," she added, with a strange look in
her eyes.
She laughed a hollow laugh, and as she drew on her long _suede_ gloves,
the bells of San Vicente announced the noon.
"I have been out too long already," she added, hurriedly rising. "We
must part."
"May I not accompany you towards your home?" I asked.
"No, m'sieur," she answered firmly, holding out her hand.
"And when shall we resume our chat?" I asked.
She hesitated, gazing away to the misty cliffs across the bay. I half
feared she would refuse to meet me again.
"If you are not bored by my wretchedness and bad temper," she said at
last, with a sad smile, "I will be here to-morrow morning, at eleven."
"I shall not fail to keep the appointment," I said, delighted.
"Meanwhile try and forget your secret; try and be equally happy with
those around you, and remember that at least you have one sympathiser,
even though he is almost a stranger."
Tears welled in her beautiful eyes as I clasped her hand.
"Thank you," she said in a low voice, trembling with emotion. "I--I
appreciate your sympathy. _Au revoir, m'sieur, sans adieu_."
For an instant our eyes met, then, turning towards the Concha, she
walked away, and was, a few seconds later, hidden by a bend in the path.
I strolled back to the Ezcurra, utterly mystified. Women's ways are as
many and as devious as "luck's lines" on one's hand, but the Senorita
Doroteita was an enigma. I was not one of those "minor lovers" whose
petty passions could be caged in a triolet, for her marvellous beauty
and exquisite grace now held me in fascination.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
No solution of the political crisis presented itself. In those agitated
and troublous times under which Spain was labouring, I was compelled to
make a daily journey to Bayonne, a distance of thirty-four miles, in
order to dispatch my telegram to London. The Carlists were active; the
various political parties were holding conferences incessantly; in
military circles dissatisfaction was being openly expressed, and there
were sinister rumours of a projected _coup d'etat_. With Senor Canovas
del Castillo, Senor Romero y Robledo, and Senor Navarro Reverter I had
had short interviews, the substance of which had been transmitted to
London; and spending the brilliant sunny mornings in strolling with my
enchanting senorita, the afternoons in writing, and the evenings in
travelling to and fro across the frontier, the days glided by, and I
took no count of them. In the course of those charming morning rambles
we had visited Los Pasajes and Monte Igueldo, we had strolled along the
Paseo de Ategorrita, and ascended Monte Orgullo to enjoy the view of the
Pyrenees, and each hour I spent with her increased my admiration. She
had discarded the mantilla, and was always dressed in gowns and hats
that were unmistakably from the Rue de la Paix. Patrician refinement
was stamped upon every line of her handsome countenance, and her
conversation was always bright, witty, and delightful. One day, while
we were walking along the Paseo de Ategorrita, beside the sea, outside
the town, I explained to her how, as a newspaper correspondent, I was
exceedingly anxious to obtain reliable information regarding the
situation, and the earliest intimation as to the formation of the new
Cabinet.
Then, as she expressed herself interested in journalism, I related in
reply to her questions some of my adventures in pursuit of news. She
was, I found, quite an enthusiast in politics, for she gave a critical
opinion upon the probable policy of the various parties, declaring that
the day of revolutions by _pronunciamiento_ had not gone by, adding
emphatic arguments that would have done credit to any member of the
Chamber. I told her of the details I had already sent to London
describing the efforts of Senor Canovas del Castillo to form a new
Cabinet; but, after hearing all I had ascertained regarding a probable
solution of the crisis, she shook her head, and, laughing, said--
"I believe your information has somewhat misled you. Although the
deadlock is even more serious than you anticipate, yet matters may be
temporarily adjusted at any moment."
"And when they are, I shall, alas! be compelled to bid you adieu," I
said sorrowfully. "The memory of these few bright, happy days will
dwell always within me."
In silence she gazed for a few moments away upon the broad expanse of
green sunlit sea. Then she exclaimed--
"And you will return to London--and--and--forget me!"
"No, never, Doroteita," I said passionately. "I shall always look upon
these as the happiest hours of my life!"
Her breast rose and fell. As we walked together, I held her small,
well-gloved hand in mine, breathing into her ear the tender passion that
had overwhelmed me. I scarce know what words I uttered, but she heard
me patiently in pensive silence until I had concluded. Then,
withdrawing her hand slowly but firmly, she replied in a voice that
betrayed emotion--
"No, no. Our relationship can never be closer than that of friends.
Our lives lie so very, very far apart."
"Ah, I know!" I cried in disappointment, stopping and gazing straight
into her great liquid eyes. "If I were wealthy, I might dare to ask for
your hand. As it is, Doroteita--as it is, may I not entertain hope?"
Slowly and sadly she shook her head.
"But I love you."
"That I do not doubt," she said huskily, sighing heavily.
"You do not reciprocate my affection sufficiently," I hazarded.
"I did not say so," she replied quickly, raising her dark lashes for an
instant. "Perhaps I may even love you with as fierce a passion as you
yourself have betrayed. Yet, though that may be so, we can never
marry--never!"
"May I not know the reason?" I asked.
"No," she answered, with her eyes fixed seaward. "Soon I shall die--
then perhaps you will ascertain the truth. Until then, let us be
friends, not lovers."
I was sorely puzzled, for the mystery was so tantalising. Times without
number I sought by artfully concealed questions to penetrate it, but she
frustrated every effort, and when we parted outside the Casino at noon,
my bewitching senorita grasped my hand in farewell, saying--
"We are true friends. Let us trust each other."
"We do," I answered, bending with reverence over the hand I held. "Our
friendship will, I hope, last always--always."
Her heart seemed too full for further words, for her luminous eyes were
filled with tears as she disengaged her hand and turned slowly away with
uneven steps.
Again and again we met, but on each occasion I spoke of love, she
requested me kindly but firmly to refrain from discussing the subject.
"It is enough," she said, one morning, while we were strolling in the
Calle Santa Catalina--"enough that, in idling away a few hours each
morning, we do not bore each other. Let us live for the present,
enjoying to the full the few pleasant rambles that remain to us. Then,
when we have parted, only pleasant memories will remain."
Sometimes I met her driving in the afternoon, or walking along the
Concha in the evening with the Countess. Then she would smile a
graceful recognition, but, being only a chance acquaintance, I was not
introduced, neither was I invited to the Villa Guipuzcoa.
Late one afternoon, a fortnight after our first meeting, I returned to
the Ezcurra from a long walk, having parted from her as usual, outside
the Casino, when Senor Cos Gayon, a well-known member of the Senate,
told me that Senor Canovas del Castillo had that morning had an audience
of the Queen-Regent, and had at last undertaken to form a new Cabinet.
This was an important piece of intelligence, inasmuch as it showed that
the Conservatives would again hold office, and that, the loyalty of the
military thus being assured, all fear of revolutionary troubles was at
an end. Having spent an hour chatting with half a dozen politicians
staying at the hotel, I ascended to my room to write a long dispatch
descriptive of the situation.
The afternoon seemed too bright and balmy for work, therefore, before
sitting down to my correspondence, I went out upon the balcony, and
there smoked and dreamed until the shadows lengthened and over the broad
waters of the Bay of Biscay there hung a glorious golden haze. A cool
wind at last sprang up, and, returning into my room, I sat down and
commenced to pen the latest intelligence for publication in London on
the following morning. After writing about a quarter of an hour, voices
in the adjoining room attracted my attention. Then suddenly I
remembered that it was the Conservative leader's sitting-room. With the
names of well-known politicians falling upon my ear, I crept noiselessly
across the polished floor to the locked door that divided the two
apartments. Then, placing my ear close against the door, I stood on the
alert.
My heart beat quickly, for in a few moments I ascertained that a meeting
was in progress to decide upon the formation of the Cabinet. I
recognised the voice of Senor Canovas, who acted as president, and there
must have been fully eighteen or twenty of the most prominent members of
his party present. With paper and pencil in hand, I listened to the
discussion, as each name was submitted for the eight principal offices
of State, Senor Canovas himself being, of course, President of the
Council. The first business was the acceptance of the chief of the
Ministry of Foreign Affairs by the Duke of Tetuan, and it was agreed
without a single dissentient that Senor Romero y Robledo should become
Minister of Justice. Senor Bosch and Senor Castellanos accepted office
as Ministers of Public Works and the Colonies respectively; but a
discussion lasting nearly an hour took place regarding the Ministry of
Finance, until an agreement was at length arrived at that to Senor
Navarro Reverter the portfolio should again be allotted. Protracted
discussions also ensued regarding the appointment of the Ministers of
Marine, War, and the Interior, and it was not until nearly seven that
these appointments were made. Then Senor Canovas read a complete list
of the newly-formed Cabinet,--each member of which was present, and
expressed his acceptance of office,--afterwards stating that the crisis
was at an end, and that at noon on the following day he had arranged to
place the list in the hands of the Queen-Regent.
Little did the President of the Council dream that the list he had read
out had been carefully noted by an eavesdropping journalist, and that
even while his colleagues were congratulating each other upon the
amicable solution of the crisis, the correspondent was busy preparing a
list of the new Cabinet, which would be published in London in the
morning, and known throughout England many hours before it became public
in Spain.
Congratulating myself upon my good fortune, I finished my dispatch,
waited until all the politicians had left the President's room, and then
descended to the _table d'hote_. Opposite me sat Senor Romero y
Robledo, the new Minister of Justice, but in reply to my
carefully-veiled inquiries he gave no sign that a Cabinet had been
formed. The decision was, I knew, a profound secret until the Queen had
given her assent. While idling over dessert, with just an hour to catch
my train to Bayonne, the waitress handed me a note, stating that a
man-servant awaited a reply.
On the envelope was a great gilt crest, and the address was written in
an unfamiliar angular hand. As I tore it open, a breath of sweet
perfume greeted my nostrils, and the words I read in French were as
follows:--
"Villa Guipuzcoa, _July 22_.
"_My brother Luis has returned unexpectedly front Cuba, and mamma and I
are leaving with him for Madrid by the mail to-night. Will you not call
here to wish me farewell; or shall we never meet again? Give bearer a
verbal reply, and come at once if possible_.
"Doroteita."
With satisfaction I recognised that it gave an opportunity for an
introduction to her family, yet I was nevertheless doubtful about being
able to get to Bayonne. Having, however, glanced at the time-table, and
ascertained that there was another train at a quarter-past nine, by
which I could get over the frontier at midnight, and finding I should be
able to spend about an hour at the villa, I decided to respond to the
invitation, and gave the girl an answer to that effect. Several times I
read the brief, sweetly-scented note, then, finishing my wine, I rose,
and, after a "brush up," entered a cab and told the man my destination.
As I alighted before the great handsome house on the hillside
overlooking the bay, the door was thrown open by a servant in livery,
who conducted me across a wide square hall, in which a fountain was
playing, and ushered me into a small but luxuriously-furnished room.
Taking my card upon a salver, the man returned almost immediately,
saying--
"The Senorita Doroteita will be with you in a few moments, Senor."
Then he withdrew, and almost before I had had an opportunity of
inspecting the pretty room, which was evidently a boudoir, the door
again opened and Doroteita entered.
"I'm so glad you have come," she exclaimed, with a bright smile of
welcome, as she grasped both my hands. "I thought perhaps you would be
compelled to go to Bayonne to-night."
"So I am," I said. "Nevertheless, I could not part from you without
just one brief word of farewell."
Sinking into a low wicker chair, she motioned me to a seat beside her,
and told me how her brother, an army officer, who had been for four
years in Cuba, had returned that afternoon, and the Countess, on account
of some family matters, had resolved to accompany him to Madrid, where
he was compelled to report himself on the morrow. She looked absolutely
bewitching in a low-necked gown of some dove-grey clinging material,
that disclosed her delicately-moulded chest and arms, while in her
blue-black hair was a single crimson flower that gave the touch of
colour necessary for artistic effect. It was a blossom I had never
before seen, almost waxen, and similar to a camellia, but larger and of
richer colour.
When we had been chatting some time, each expressing regret that the
hour of parting had come, and hope that we should meet again ere long,
she suddenly asked--
"Is it absolutely imperative that you should cross the frontier
to-night? We go by the Sud Express at eleven-fifteen, why not remain
and see us off?"
"I cannot, Doroteita," I replied. "It is most important that I should
go to Bayonne to-night--for the last time."
"Then the crisis is ended?" she exclaimed, suddenly interested. "Has a
new Ministry been formed?"
"Yes," I replied. "My work is finished."
Her brows contracted for a second as if a sudden thought had occurred to
her; then she shivered slightly, and, rising, crossed the room, and,
drawing the heavy silken curtains across the window, shut out the
extensive view of the moonlit bay.
"Our wanderings have been so pleasant and unconventional that I am loth
to leave," she said, as she slowly sank again among her cushions.
"Nevertheless, I hope some day before long to be in London. Then
perhaps we shall be able to spend a few more pleasant hours together."
"I hope so," I said earnestly, rising and taking her hand. "I must,
alas! go, or I shall not catch my train."
But she would not hear of my departure, declaring that by the road on
the other side of the hill I could reach the station in ten minutes,
and, assuring me that she would send one of the servants with me as
guide, urged me to resume my seat. Just as I was about to do so, there
entered a tall slim man about thirty-five, wearing the uniform of a
cavalry officer, and my pretty hostess, rising, introduced him as Luis,
her brother.
He was a good-looking fellow, dark and sun-tanned, but when he smiled,
cynicism lurked in the corners of his mouth, and instinctively I
disliked him. Not that he was supercilious--on the contrary, his
greeting was quite effusive. He declared himself much attached to his
sister, and any friend of hers was likewise his friend. He regretted
that he had to leave for Madrid, but military orders could not be
disobeyed. Together we sat chatting, Doroteita ordering some wine,
which was served almost immediately by the man who had admitted me.
Luis d'Avendano proved a brilliant conversationalist and entertaining
companion, but somehow I could not help regarding him with a curious
indescribable suspicion. Once I caught the pair exchanging significant
glances, and this increased my vague mistrust. Yet his sister lolled in
her chair, with a great cushion of yellow silk behind her head, fanning
herself slowly, and chatting with that light coquetry that had so
charmed me.
A little clock chiming on its silver bells caused me to spring to my
feet.
"Nine o'clock!" I exclaimed. "You must excuse me, otherwise I really
shall not catch my train."
"Must you go?" asked Doroteita, in a tone of regret, closing her fan
with a snap and rising also.
"Yes," I said. "This is my last train. I must wish you _au revoir_, in
the hope that we may meet again at a date not far distant."
"Aren't you going to exchange tokens of friendship?" Luis suggested,
laughing in his careless, good-humoured way. "Give my future
brother-in-law your flower, Doroteita."
She laughed and blushed, then taking the crimson blossom from her hair,
handed it to me. I was about to inhale its fragrance when the strange,
fixed look in her eyes fascinated me, and as I placed it in the lapel of
my coat with a murmured word of thanks, I confess I was startled by the
sudden transformation of her countenance.
"Good-bye," I said, taking her hand.
It was cold, limp, and trembling.
"Adieu," she answered huskily.
I turned to shake hands with her brother, but before I could do so, he
had pounced upon me from behind, holding my arms powerless, crying--
"No, no, my friend, you will not escape so easily!"
"What--what do you mean?" I gasped in abject amazement.
"I mean that you do not leave this place alive," he hissed in my ear.
Though I could not see him, I could feel his hot breath upon my cheek,
and struggled violently to free myself, but in his iron grip I seemed
powerless as a child.
"Now, quick, Doroteita!" he commanded. "Remember, we have no time to
lose. Don't stand staring there!"
"Do you mean to kill me?" I cried, clenching my teeth and struggling
with all my might to free my arms.
"Curse you, woman! Don't you hear me?" he yelled at Doroteita, who
stood transfixed, with face ashen pale and hands clenched in
desperation. "Remember what we have at stake! You have trapped him--
finish your work, or--or I'll kill _you_!"
In a second she sprang forward, and, snatching from my buttonhole the
flower she had given me, held her handkerchief over my mouth with one
hand, while with the other she pressed the flower against my nostrils.
It seemed damp with some evil-smelling fluid, and though I struggled,
she held my face with such determined force, that the leaves of the
blossom were forced into my nose, and I was compelled to inhale the
disagreeable perfume they emitted.
The odour was strange, and in a few seconds produced a curious giddiness
such as I had never before experienced. My brain became paralysed and
my limbs assumed an unaccountable rigidness. I tried to speak, but was
unable. My jaws seemed to have become suddenly fixed, as if attacked by
tetanus. A thrill of horror ran through me, for I could not breathe,
and the pang of pain that shot through my eyes was excruciating.
Feeling myself utterly helpless in the hands of those who had so
cunningly plotted my murder, I wondered in that brief instant whether
Luis was Doroteita's lover, and whether on discovering our friendship,
he had planned this terrible and merciless revenge. My enchantress's
handsome face, now hideously distorted by mingled fear and passion, was
close to me, her eyes riveted to mine, and as she pressed the strange
flower against my face, her white lips moved as if speaking to me. But
I was deaf. My senses had been destroyed.
Next second, though I fought against the sudden faintness that crept
over me, my head swam, and my surroundings grew indistinct. I felt
myself falling. Then, by a sudden darkness that fell upon me, the
present became blotted out.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
On opening my aching eyes, they became dazzled by a bar of golden
sunlight that strayed in between the closed curtains.
Amazed, I gazed around from where I lay stretched upon the floor. Then,
in a few moments, the recollection of the strange events of the previous
night returned to me in all their grim reality. The woman I had adored
had, from some motive utterly incomprehensible, enticed me there to
murder me! Feeling terribly weak and ill, I managed to struggle to my
feet. I looked for the fatal flower, but could not find it. Then my
eyes fell upon the clock, and I was amazed to discover it was past three
in the afternoon.