A Castle in Spain. James De Mille

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ

      For about half an hour the situation remained unaltered, and then at the end of that time the lady made a readjustment of her mantilla, which exposed all her head and face. The hands which were raised to perform this act were soft, round, plump, and dimpled, and might of themselves have attracted the admiration of one less preoccupied than Ashby; while the face that was now revealed was one which might have roused the dullest of mortals. It was a dark olive face, with features of exquisite delicacy; the eyes were large, lustrous, and melting, fringed with long lashes; the eyebrows delicately pencilled; the hair rich black, glossy, and waving in innumerable ripples. Her cheeks were dimpled, and her lips were curved into a faint smile as she sat with a demure face and watched Ashby. It may have been a certain mesmerism in her gaze, or it may only have been that Ashby had at last grown weary of his own thoughts, for suddenly he looked up, and caught her eyes fixed thus on him. For a moment an expression of astonishment filled his face; then the smile of the lady deepened, and her eyes fell.

      At this Ashby jumped from his seat.

      "By heavens!" he exclaimed. "Dolores! Oh, Dolores!"

      He uttered these words with a strange intonation, yet there was joy in his eyes and in the tone of his voice, together with the wonder that had been at first displayed. As he spoke he seized her hand in both of his, and, holding it fast, seated himself in the place immediately opposite. After a moment Dolores drew away her hand with a light laugh.

      "Ah, señor," said she, "you do not seem very quick at recognizing your old acquaintances."

      She spoke with the purest Castilian accent, and the rich and mellow tones of her voice were inexpressibly sweet.

      "I—I—had no idea—no idea that you were anywhere near. You were the last, the very last person that I could have expected to see. How could I expect to see you here, Dolores? I thought that you were still at Valencia. And are you alone?"

      "Yes—just now—from here to Burgos. I am on my way to visit my aunt at Pampeluna. She is ill. Mamma could not come with me, for she is ill too. So I have to travel alone. The good Tilda came with me to Madrid, but had to return to mamma. There was no time to seek another companion. Besides, it is only from here to Burgos."

      "Oh, Dolores, little Dolores!" cried Ashby, "how delightful it is to see you again! What a lucky chance!"

      "But it was not altogether chance," said Dolores.

      "How?"

      "Why, I saw you.

      "Saw me?"

      "Yes; I was watching you. You see, I was in the station waiting for the train, and saw you come in. I then watched you all the time till you entered this carriage, and then I came here too. Now, sir!"

      Saying this, Dolores tossed her pretty little head with a triumphant air, and smiled more bewitchingly than ever.

      "You see," she continued, in the frankest and most engaging manner, "I was so veiled that no one could know me, and when I saw you I was very glad indeed; and I thought I would follow you, and speak to you, and see if you had any remembrance left of poor little me."

      For a moment there was a shade of embarrassment on Ashby's face, and then it passed. He took her hand and pressed it fervently.

      "Dolores," he said—"dear little friend of mine, I can never forget you as long as I live, and all that was done for me by you and yours. This sudden meeting with you is the most delightful thing that could possibly have happened."

      Dolores laughed, and again drew her hand demurely away.

      "But oh, Señor Ashby," she said, "how absent you were in the station!—and here—not one look for the poor Dolores!"

      "Oh, Dolores!" said Ashby, in a tone of tender apology, "how could I imagine that it was you? You were veiled so closely that no one could recognize you. Why did you not speak before?"

      "Ah, señor, young ladies in Spain cannot be so bold as I hear they are in England. Even this is an unheard-of adventure—that I, a young lady, should travel alone. But it is a case of life and death, you know, and it is only from here to Burgos, where I shall find friends. And then I wanted to speak to you once more. And you, señor—are you going to England now?"

      Again there came over Ashby's face a look of embarrassment. His present journey was a delicate subject, which he could not discuss very well with Dolores.

      "Well, no," he said, after a brief pause. "I'm only going as far as Bayonne—on business. But how long it seems since I saw you, Dolores! It's more than a year."

      "And have I changed, señor?" she asked, sweetly.

      "Yes," said Ashby, looking at her intently.

      Dolores returned his look with another, the intensity of which was wonderful to Ashby. He seemed to look into the depths of her soul, and the lustrous eyes which were fastened on his appeared as though they strove to read his inmost heart. Her manner, however, was light and bantering, and it was with a merry smile that she went on:

      "Ah! so I have changed? And how, señor—for the better?"

      "No, and yes," said Ashby, drinking in her dark, deep, liquid glances. "In the first place, you could not possibly be better or more beautiful than you used to be; but, in the second place, you are more womanly."

      "But I am not yet seventeen, señor."

      "I know," said Ashby, of course.

      "And you have not yet asked after the dear one—the mamma, who loves you so," said Dolores, in rather an inconsequential way.

      "I was thinking of you, so that all other thoughts were driven out of my head."

      "That's pretty," said Dolores; "but do you not want to hear about the dear mamma?"

      "Of course. I shall love her and revere her till I die. Did she not save my life? Was she not a mother to me in my sorest need? And you, Dolores—"

      He stopped short, and seemed somewhat confused and agitated.

      "Yes," said Dolores, in a tone of indescribable tenderness; "yes, she loved you—the dear mamma—like a mother, and has always talked about you. It is always, Dolores, child, sing that song that Señor Assebi taught you; sing that beautiful, beautiful English song of 'Sweet Home;' sing that sweetest, loveliest, most mournful Scottish song of 'Lochaber.'"

      And here, in a voice full of exquisite tenderness and pathos, Dolores sang that mournful air, "Lochaber," with Spanish words. The tender regret of her voice affected herself; she faltered, and her eyes filled; but the tears were instantly chased away by a sunny smile.

      "And so, señor," said she, "you see that I have forgotten nothing of it—nothing."

      "Nor I," said Ashby; "nor I—nothing. I have forgotten not one thing."

      His voice was low and tremulous. There was a strange, yearning look in his eyes. With a sudden impulse he held out his hand, as though to take hers, but Dolores gently drew hers away.

      "And have you been in Madrid ever since?" she asked, in a tone that seemed to convey something of reproach.

      "No," СКАЧАТЬ