“And your lover? Was he faithless? What of him?”
“What of him!” she gasped hoarsely, 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 suède 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 Señorita Doroteita was an enigma. I was not one of those “minor lovers” whose petty passions 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’état. With Señor Canovas del Castillo, Señor Romero y Robledo, and Señor 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 señorita, 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 Iguëldo, 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 pronunciamiento 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 Señor 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 anticipate, 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 passionately. “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 passion 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 passion 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 señorita 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.”
Her heart seemed too full for further words, for her luminous eyes were filled with tears as she disengaged her hand and turned slowly away with uneven steps.
Again and again we met, but on each occasion I spoke of love, she requested me kindly but firmly to refrain from discussing the subject.
“It is enough,” she said, one morning, while we were strolling in the Calle Santa Catalina – “enough that, in idling away a few hours each morning, we do not bore each other. Let us live for the present, enjoying to the full the few pleasant rambles that remain to us. Then, when we have parted, only pleasant memories will remain.”
Sometimes I met her driving in the afternoon, or walking along the Concha in the evening with the Countess. Then she would smile a graceful recognition, but, being only a chance acquaintance, I was not introduced, neither was I invited to the Villa Guipuzcoa.
Late one afternoon, a fortnight after our first meeting, I returned to the Ezcurra from a long walk, having parted from her as usual, outside the Casino, when Señor Cos Gayon, a well-known member of the Senate, told me that Señor Canovas del Castillo had that morning had an audience of the Queen-Regent, and had at last undertaken to form a new Cabinet. This was an important piece of intelligence, inasmuch