Stolen Souls Part 3

"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 pa.s.sed 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 hoa.r.s.ely, 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 pa.s.sions 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 _p.r.o.nunciamiento_ 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 antic.i.p.ate, 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 pa.s.sionately. "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 pa.s.sion 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 pa.s.sion 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."