HOW MR. ASHBY MEETS WITH A GREAT SURPRISE AND A VERY GREAT
CONSOLATION.
Ashby was alone in his chamber. His room opened from the lower hall,
and was directly beneath that in which Harry was confined. It was of
the same dimensions in all save height, in which respect it was much
inferior. The room had also a gloomier character, for the high
stonewalls, as they rose and arched overhead, had the aspect of some
cathedral crypt or burial-place. The windows here were narrow slits,
as above, through which the different court-yards might be seen. The
floor was of stone, and at one end there was a huge fireplace, very
similar to the others already mentioned, though not so high.
It had been a long, long day for Ashby. Evening came, and found him
weary and worn out with _ennui_. Without any occupation for his
energies, his mind preyed upon itself, and there certainly was
sufficient occupation for his fancy. His mind was in a whirl, and
speedily became a prey to every variety of conflicting feeling. He
remembered Katie's bright smile, and also the dark glance of Dolores.
He was jealous of the smiles which Katie had so lavishly bestowed on
Harry. He was offended with her for being so gay under such
circumstances. But, in his loneliness, there were other feelings
which were stronger than even this resentment and jealousy. There
were certain strange and indefinable longings after some society; and
the society which now seemed most desirable was the gentle presence
of Dolores. Her last looks remained deeply impressed upon his memory;
her last deep, earnest glance had sunk into his soul. He could not
throw aside this recollection.
Dolores was in all his thoughts, though he had tried to thrust her
aside.
He found himself continually comparing these two. Would Katie be so
glad at seeing him again as Dolores had been at meeting him? Would
Katie take so much trouble for the sake of speaking to him? On the
other hand, would Dolores be so gay, so happy, and so merry when torn
from him? and would Dolores look upon him in his loneliness with such
a smile of indifference and light-hearted mirth? Never! Dolores had a
deeper nature. In the glance of Dolores her inmost soul had been
revealed. At its recollection his nerves thrilled, his heart throbbed
faster. He longed to hear her voice again. And thus, as the hours
passed, the image of Katie faded away, and that of Dolores grew more
strongly defined; the image of Dolores as she had last appeared to
him--pale, sad, anxious, earnest, her eyes fixed upon him with deep,
intense melancholy and profound pity.
"Afar away from thee,
Thy pale face haunts me yet;
Deep yearns my heart for thee,
Thy last sad look and word unable to forget."
These words occurred to him, and he murmured them to himself. It was
to Dolores that he applied them, and naturally too; for how
ridiculously inapplicable to Katie would they be! All else was now
forgotten except Dolores. He felt a longing after her that was like
homesickness. The past all came back. He recalled her as she had been
when he first met her at Valencia. A thousand little incidents in his
life there, which had been for a time forgotten, now revived in his
memory. He had been for months at their house and had been nursed
through a long illness. He had been loaded with kindness and
affection. The aged mother had been his nurse during his illness, and
Dolores had been his companion during his convalescence. He had left
them, expecting soon to return. Circumstances, however, had arisen
which kept him away, and he had forgotten her. Now, however, a
stronger feeling had arisen for her, as Dolores had appeared in more
than her olden beauty, with the additional charm of a strange,
pathetic grace, and a wistful look in her dark eyes that seemed to
speak of something more than ordinary friendship. She had spoken of
the days at Valencia; she had reproached him for forgetting. She
herself had not forgotten those days--the days in which they used to
talk and walk and sing together.
As there was nothing to divert his mind from these thoughts, Ashby
gave himself up to them, and thus became more helpless against them.
It was in such a mood as this that he lay upon his rude couch, unable
to sleep, and wondering what was to be the end of his present
adventure. Should he ever see her again? Was she here now, or had
they let her go? The thought that she might possibly have been set
free, that she might now be far away, was too distressing to be
entertained. If so, then his prison seemed doubly dark. If so, then
what could he do? Even if he should become free, what was he to do?
Upon one thing he was resolved, and that was to seek after her until
he might find her. And Katie? Well, the fact is, Katie was left out
of consideration.
Hours had passed. Ashby could not sleep. His mind was as active as
ever, and still, as ever, his thoughts all gathered about Dolores.
Suddenly, in the very midst of these thick-teeming fancies, his
attention was arrested by a strange sound.
It was only a slight rustle, scarce audible, yet still he heard it,
and under such circumstances it seemed most mysterious. In an instant
he was all attention. He lay motionless, yet listened with intense
watchfulness, peering at the same time into the dark room, where the
moonlight struggled through the low, narrow windows.
After a little while he thought that he heard the sound again. He
listened, without motion.
Then there came a different sound. It was a low whisper--a whisper
which, however, penetrated to his very soul:
"Assebi!"
Was there any other in all the world who would pronounce his name in
that way? It was the well-known, well-remembered, and dearly loved
name as it had been pronounced by Dolores in the old days at
Valencia. Coming thus to him at such a time, it seemed too good to be
true. He was afraid that he had been deceived by his own fancy; he
feared to move lest he might dispel this sweet vision. Yet he hoped
that he might not be mistaken; and in this hope, scarce expecting an
answer, he said, in a gentle whisper,
"Dolores!"
"I am here!" said a soft voice.
At this Ashby's heart beat wildly, and a thrill of rapture rushed
through every nerve and fibre of his being. He sprang up and peered
through the gloom, and moved forward in the direction from which the
voice seemed to have come. At this moment he did not stop to consider
how Dolores could have got there. It was enough that she really was
there, and all other feelings were lost in his deep joy.
"Dolores," he said, "where are you? I don't see you."
Through the room a figure now advanced across the moonbeams. He saw
the figure. In another instant he had caught Dolores in his arms, and
held her strained close to his wildly throbbing heart. But Dolores
struggled away.
"Oh no!" she said, in a tone of distress, speaking in her sweet
Spanish--"oh no, Senor Assebi. This is cruel--when I have risked so
much for you!"
"Forgive me, dearest Dolores," said Ashby; "but you have come to me
like an angel from heaven in my darkest hour. And I have thought of
you, and of you only, ever since you left me at Burgos. I wandered
all through the streets there to find you. I have been in despair at
losing you. I have been wondering whether I should ever see you
again--and now, dearest, sweetest Dolores, I have you again!"
All this was rapidly uttered in a resistless torrent of words, in
which all his long pent-up feelings flowed forth.
Dolores began to sob.
"I didn't think this," she said, "or I should have been afraid to
come. Senor, you are false to your English bride."
"English bride!" cried Ashby, scornfully. "What is she? A doll! I
never wish to see her again. My fancy for her was a whim--a passing
whim! _You_, Dolores--_you_ are the only one that I love! I love
_you_! I love _you_, I adore you! my own--"
"Senor," cried Dolores, tearing away her hands, which Ashby had
seized in his, "I will instantly leave you if you are so
dishonorable. All this is insult to me--yes, to me. Oh, senor, you
will break my heart!"
As Dolores said this, sobs burst from her. She glided away into the
gloom, still sobbing. Ashby gave way utterly.
"Dolores," he cried, in a tone of entreaty--"Dolores, forgive me! I
will never offend again--never--never! Oh, forgive me! Come back,
Dolores! Oh, do not leave me, Dolores!"
At this Dolores relented, and Ashby saw her approaching him again. He
advanced toward her.
"Be calm," she said; "speak low; we are in danger."
"But how did you get here?" asked Ashby.
"I will tell you another time. It is a secret passage."
"A secret passage?"
"Yes. I have come to tell you that I can save you. You may escape."
"Escape?"
"Yes. I know the way out."
"How does that happen?"
"Oh, I have been here before."
"You!--here?"
"Yes. When I was a child I was here. My father lived here. He had a
plantation. But enough; I know the way out."
"But haven't you run too much risk in coming here?"
"I have run a risk," said Dolores, slowly, "but not--too--much."
"A risk?"
"Yes. I went into the wrong room. A man was asleep there. I went to
him and touched him, and whispered in his ear your name."
"Dolores!"
"Hush! be calm, senor. Remember your promise."
"Who was the man?"
"I could not see him. He pursued me, but I escaped."
"But you!--how did you get here?"
"By a secret passage, as I said."
"In what part of the castle are you?"
"Oh, in the story above."
"Do they treat you well?" asked Ashby, in a tone of tender
solicitude.
"I have nothing to complain of."
"Do you feel lonely? I wonder if you have felt as I have?"
Dolores sighed.
"Sometimes," she said, "I have felt lonely."
"And you have come here to save me?"
"Yes--why not?"
"But you are risking much--perhaps your life."
It all burst forth now.
"I don't care," said Dolores, impetuously, "if I can save--you!"
Ashby made no reply. He took the little hand of Dolores gently and
tenderly, without any resistance on her part, and held it in silence.