"That you will not try to visit me. That would be dangerous. Others are with me."
"I will not; I promise—except, of course, in cases of the greatest necessity."
"If you do," said Dolores, "I shall think that you have not come for me; I shall think it is for the English maiden. And now, come; I will show you the way."
Once more Dolores appeared through the gloom.
CHAPTER XXVIII. — IN WHICH "HIS MAJESTY" FALLS IN LOVE.
Mrs. Russell's position was a very peculiar and a very trying one. From the remarks of "His Majesty" she had reason to believe that her beloved, yet unfortunate, husband had been found guilty of treason against that august monarch, and had been executed. At the same time, "His Most Sacred Majesty" had evinced what appeared to be a devoted attachment to her humble self. Now, what was a high-toned woman to do under such circumstances? Mourn over the departed one? Most certainly; that she would ever do. But what about "His Majesty" and the royal attentions? Should she turn a deaf ear to that too, too eloquent tongue, dash down the crown of Spain, and busy herself in unavailing regrets for the lost one? Before doing so it would be well to pause.
And then there were other considerations. It was not the man who must be considered, but the King. It was not her own feelings which she must regard, but the well-being of Spain, the good of Europe, and the interests of humanity. Would it not be better that the throne of Spain should be filled by a virtuous Englishwoman than by some frivolous Continental princess? Would it not be better that the Queen of Spain should emulate the domestic graces of a Victoria than the corrupt follies of an Isabella? Should she now, out of selfish private grief, deprive Spain of such an inestimable boon? Would Spain forgive her? Would England? Nay, would the world? Could she forgive herself?
"Nay, nay," she said to herself, "this is not a time for weakness. My heart must ever lie entombed in the grave of my dear lost Johnny; yet State reasons compel me to bestow my hand. I cannot resist the cry of stricken Spain. Yes, thou royal wooer! take my hand—it is thine; and my only sorrow is that I cannot yet give thee all this stricken heart. Yet patience, fond one; it may all be thine in time—all—all."