HOW MR. ASHBY AND MISS DOLORES GARCIA CARRY ON A VERY INTERESTING
CONVERSATION.
Ashby stood thus, holding the little hand of Dolores, and was
overcome by the strongest emotions. He was in a very trying position.
Her presence filled him with joy, yet she would not allow him to
express that joy. Being bound to another, he was forced by Dolores to
respect that bond. And yet, what must her feelings be toward him,
since she had come here to see him, venturing so far and risking so
much? Who else in the world would do this for him? Would Katie? The
idea was too absurd. Katie was a mere butterfly; but Dolores, with
her intense nature, her passionate self-devotion, was formed out of
that stuff from which the heroine is made. Katie could lose all she
loved best, and still go on smiling and smiling; but Dolores could
lay down her life for her friend. (Such were the sentiments of Ashby
on this occasion, and need not be considered as by any means a fair
estimate of the real character of the young lady in question. Katie
has yet to speak for herself.)
So Ashby felt himself debarred from making any strong demonstration
of feeling either by word or act. He was afraid that Dolores might
resent it. She might even fly from him as mysteriously as she had
come. He was bound, therefore, to set a watch upon himself, and
repress his feelings most strongly. It seemed to him a great
concession on her part that she permitted him even to hold her hand.
This was of itself most sweet, even if he could say nothing of those
thoughts that were swelling within him.
"How did you manage to hide yourself so at Burgos?" he asked, after a
long silence.
"I did not hide," said Dolores. "I went to that house where my
friends were; and on the following morning they took me to a hotel
where they said there was an English family. These were the Russells,
and they consented to let me travel with them as far as I was going.
Your English maiden is very beautiful, senor."
Dolores spoke these last words in a tone full of pathos.
"She is a pink-and-white doll," said Ashby, sharply. "Tell me about
yourself, Dolores. Do you know"--and he bent down low over her--"do
you know how I tried to see you? I was up at four, and from that
until ten I paced the streets in all directions, hoping to get a
glimpse of you. Did you know that I was looking for you? Then at last
I saw you with that beast of a tailor, and I was in despair."
"What! could you not join their party? I wondered why you did not
come to speak to--to me," said Dolores, "and I felt hurt--because I
thought I might never see you again."
"Dolores," said Ashby, taking her hand in both of his, and drawing
nearer to her, "I swear that at that time I'd have given my right arm
to speak to you. But that devil of a tailor is my bitter enemy; and
you saw the quarrel we had in the railway station at Madrid."
"Then you did not purposely--avoid me?" said Dolores, in a faltering
voice.
"Oh, Dolores!" said Ashby, in a reproachful tone. He tried to draw
her nearer, but Dolores would not allow it.
"I thought that I should like to say good-bye, and it seemed sad to
have you appear to avoid me."
"By heavens, Dolores!" cried Ashby, "I had made up my mind to leave
the train and follow you to Pampeluna."
Dolores sighed.
"You could not have left your English maiden," said she.
"I could--I would!" cried Ashby. "By heavens, I would! She is nothing
to me--nothing better than a kitten. The moment you came, I
understood all my feeling for her. It was nothing. Beside you, she
sinks into utter insignificance. You, Dolores, are everything to me.
I tell you, you are infinitely dearer to me than that--"
"Hush, senor," said Dolores; "I will not--I will--will--will not
listen to one single, single word of this."
"But, oh, dearest, sweetest Dolores, will you not let me tell you how
I love you?" said Ashby, drawing her closer to him.
Dolores shrank away.
"Oh no--no, no!" she said. "I will not listen--never--never--never!"
"I tell you, Dolores," continued Ashby, "since I have seen you I have
discovered that all the world and everything in it isn't worth a
straw to me unless I have you. I swear to you that when you left me
at Burgos all the light of life went out, and all the joy and
sweetness of life left me. I'd rather stand here in this prison with
you than be a king outside without you. And I'm glad that these
devils of Carlists have captured us."
As Ashby spoke these words in a low, fervid, excited whisper, he held
Dolores tight in his arms, pressed to his quick-throbbing heart; nor
could she draw away from him, in spite of her shrinking back. In
fact, the poor little thing did not seem to have the will to get away
from him, for the end of it was that her head fell down helplessly on
his breast, and she began to cry:
"I--think--it's--cruel," she sobbed, "cruel in you!"
Ashby pressed her more closely to his heart in the same "cruel"
manner, and kissed away her tears.
"You're not kind to me at all," sighed Dolores.
To this observation Ashby made no reply, thinking, perhaps, that at
that moment words were of no particular use.
"It's very cruel," repeated Dolores, "and I did not think you would
be so unkind--"
To this Ashby's answer was, as before, by acts that were more
eloquent than words.
"Dolores," said he, as soon as he was able to express himself
coherently, "if you had not come, I really think I should have killed
myself."
"Did you really feel so badly?" asked Dolores, in a tender voice.
"My heart ached," said Ashby; "it ached for the sight of you. Do you
know what heartache is, darling? Do you know what it is to hunger
and thirst and long and yearn after some one?"
Dolores sighed. She said nothing, but her head rested more closely on
Ashby's breast, and one little hand stole timidly up and was laid
lightly on his shoulder.
"Do you know anything about such feelings, Dolores?" persisted Ashby.
"All," said Dolores, in a scarce audible whisper, "all--all--all! But
tell me," said she, looking up as though trying to see his face in
the gloom, "who was it?"
"Who was it? What a question! You! you, darling! you, Dolores!"
"Not the English maiden?" she asked.
"She!" said Ashby, contemptuously; "she is a doll--a butterfly--a
kitten! She is nothing--a poor creature with no brains and no heart!
Even her beauty is mere prettiness. There is no soul in her face, no
lightning in her glance."
"And who has soul in her face and lightning in her glance?" asked
Dolores, shyly.
"Who? You! you, my darling, dark-eyed Dolores! you, with your deep,
unfathomable, glowing, soul-lit eyes that pierce to my inmost heart,
and make me thrill at the recollection."
"And won't you say that all again?" said Dolores; "and won't you say
that about the English maid? I love to hear you call her names."
Dolores said this with the innocence and frank simplicity of a child.
"She is a baby!" said Ashby; "the English maiden--a mere baby! She
can only smile, and smile, and be silly. Her only desire is to find
some one who will pet her. She can only live in the sunshine. She is
a butterfly! She has no heart, no soul! She is a doll to be looked
at, but she can give no return. She is a kitten that thinks of
nothing but play. But as for me, I give all my heart and all my love
to a girl I know, who is no mere fair-weather friend, but one who has
clung to me when others were false, who has come to me in my darkness
and my despair, so that my dungeon has become a heaven, and this dark
night is the brightest time of my life. And this girl--this, my
Spanish girl, is my idol and my deity. I adore her, for I know that
she stands ready to give up all for my sake, and to lay down her very
life for me. Never--never in all my life have I known anything like
the deep, intense, vehement, craving, yearning, devouring love that I
feel for her. It even makes me smile to think how feeble and
contemptible other feelings have been in comparison with this. I want
no other occupation than to spend all my hours recalling all that my
darling love has ever said--in recalling the days at Valencia, before
I knew she was so dear, and the highest bliss of life I have now. I
could be willing to die, and could even die gladly, my darling,
darling Dolores, if I could die with your hand in mine."
Ashby was going on farther in this pleasing strain, when suddenly,
and without a moment's warning, Dolores gave a spring and vanished.
Ashby stood confounded. Then he stared all around. Then he called
another,
"Dolores! Dolores! Don't leave me!"
A voice came back through the gloom:
"H-s-s-s-h! I must not stay any longer."
"But shall I never see you again?"
"Certainly; I will come soon, and show you the passage-way."
"Where are you?"
"Never mind--good-night!"
"Oh, Dolores, wait--one word more."
"Be quick!" said Dolores, and her voice now sounded nearer.
"You will see me again?" said Ashby, in tones of entreaty. "You will
not fly and leave me all alone? You will not leave me in this way? I
may be taken away from this room, Dolores, or you may be taken to
another room; and then how can you get to me? Show me how you came
here. You might do that much for me. Only think what dangers there
are."
Dolores paused a moment.
"Well," said she, "only promise one thing."
"What?"
"That you will not try to visit me. That would be dangerous. Others
are with me."
"I will not; I promise--except, of course, in cases of the greatest
necessity."
"If you do," said Dolores, "I shall think that you have not come for
me; I shall think it is for the English maiden. And now, come; I will
show you the way."
Once more Dolores appeared through the gloom.