A Castle in Spain Part 44

"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.

CHAPTER XXVII.

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 b.u.t.terfly; but Dolores, with her intense nature, her pa.s.sionate 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.