"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," said Ashby. "You know, when I fell ill at Valencia, where you saved my life by your tender care, I was on my way to Barcelona. When I left you I resumed my interrupted journey. Then I went to Marseilles and Leghorn, then to Cadiz, and finally to Madrid. I've been in Madrid three months."
"And you didn't think it worth while to write to us in all that long time?" said Dolores, with a reproachfulness in her tone which was now very marked.
"Write?" said Ashby; "why, I wrote twice—once from Marseilles, and once from Leghorn."
"We never heard," said Dolores, sadly, "not once."
"But I wrote," said Ashby, earnestly. "Don't you believe me, Dolores?"
"Believe you, señor? What a question! It was the fault of the post-office in these times of trouble—that was all. And, señor, I am very glad to know all, for I did not know what to think about it."
"And am I forgiven, Dolores?" Ashby asked.
Dolores replied with a sweet smile, and held out her hand, which the young man took and pressed tenderly, not caring to let it go.
"I did not know," said he, "there was anything against me to be forgiven; but this is a sign that you are the same Dolores that you were a year ago."
"Always," said she, "always the same;" and then she withdrew her hand.
"And now, señor," said she, with a perceptible effort, as of one who approaches a disagreeable subject, "this beautiful Inglesa—who is she?"
Ashby's eyes fell before the fixed and profound inquiry of those of Dolores's, who watched him close, and lost nothing of his change of features.
"This lady?" said he, and hesitated.
"Yes," said Dolores, gently.
"She is a—a—Miss Westlotorn."
"And she loves you very, very, very dearly and tenderly," said Dolores, in a quick, breathless voice; "and you are going to be married to her, and she will soon be your wife."
Ashby said nothing, but sat looking strangely embarrassed.
"You never mentioned her to us at Valencia," continued Dolores.
"No," said Ashby.
"And why not?" asked Dolores, who saw his confusion, but was eager to know the truth.
"I had not seen her," said Ashby.
"You had not seen her," repeated Dolores. "Ah!"—she hesitated for a moment and then went on—"so you saw her afterward. And she loves you!"
These last words were spoken with indescribable tenderness and mournfulness. "And—she—loves—you," she repeated, in a voice that had sunk almost to a whisper; "and she is to be your wife—the English girl!"
"Well," said Ashby, making an effort to overcome his embarrassment, "it is—it is about time. The fact is, I—I did ask her to—to be my wife."
"And she?"
"She? Well—she said she would, I think," said Ashby, evasively.
"You think!" exclaimed Dolores.
"Well, you see, there's a difficulty."
"A difficulty?"
"Yes. Her guardian will not consent."
"But that is nothing," said Dolores, in an animated tone. "You must take her, and run away with her."
Ashby looked at Dolores with a strange, eager, hungry gaze.
"But there's another objection," said he.
"Objection? What is that?"
"I don't want to."
"What?" asked Dolores, in surprise.
Ashby hesitated for a moment, and then said, with an effort,
"I thought before we left that I loved her; but since I have seen you again—I feel—that