The Mountains of Spring Read Free Page A

could not, in her stockinged feet, have been more than four feet eleven inches tall, and everything about her, from her tiny be-ringed fingers to her dainty Paris-shod feet, was reminiscent of some exquisite china doll, lovingly designed in every detail by the sort of craftsman who died out a long time ago. Her hair, which was silvery, was beautifully ordered, and her skin had that delicate pearly pallor which only the most fortunate of Spanish women possess when they are old. Even her nose was small and straight and aristocratic, and her magnificent dark eyes were the eyes of an Andalusian.
    Caroline attempted to stand up as the older woman approached her, but she was not allowed to do so, for the Senora gave a small sign, and her grandson placed a hand upon the guest ’ s shoulder to restrain her.
    ‘ You are Miss Ashley? Miss Caroline Ashley? ’ The old lady ’ s English was very good, and her beautifully modulated voice had an old-fashioned gentleness about it.
    ‘Y es , senora . ’
    Not offensively, but quite deliberately, the beautiful brown eyes studied her, obviously taking in and considering every tiny detail of her appearance. A pale English wraith, with fine, gleaming ash-blonde hair swinging to her shoulders and big blue eyes that just now were clouded with exhaustion; soft, creamy skin that at this particular moment was a little too pale, and an alarmingly bandaged forehead. The child looked, Senora Rivel decided, rather like an amazingly attractive apparition.
    ‘ You are hurt, senorita ,’ she said, moving towards Caroline and lightly touching the bandage, ‘ and you are tired. You will be pleased to go to bed, I think. ’
    Caroline made one more attempt at a protest.
    ; But, Senora Rivel, I can ’ t possibly impose on you like this ...’
    The Spanish woman smiled and patted her shoulder. ‘ Never mind, never mind. You do not impose. I am most pleased to have you here. In the morning, if you are better, we will talk, but not to-night. ’ She pressed an electric bell, and when, as if from nowhere, a uniformed maid appeared, she gave some rapid instructions in Spanish.
    ‘ Manuela will look after you, ’ she told Caroline, still smiling with the amazing serenity that made the whole thing seem strangely dream-like. ‘ You will go with her, please. ’
    Obediently, Caroline stood up, and Manuela, a middle-aged Mexican woman of decidedly forbidding appearance, took her arm and propelled her towards the staircase.
    As they passed him, Diego Rivel bowed slightly. But he did not return Caroline ’ s small, hesitant smile, and he did not bid her good-night either in English or in Spanish.

 
    CHAPTER II
    When Caroline awoke the following mor ning the first thing that impressed itself upon her was the realization that, apart from possessing a slight headache, she felt almost completely recovered from the effects of her accident. And the second was the recollection that she had absolutely no right to be where she was.
    She sat up in bed, and looked around her at the room which had been allotted to her. It was a very large room, and it was expensively and luxuriously furnished—not in any traditional Mexican or Spanish style, for it was extremely modern , but everything in it had been selected with skill and a good deal of taste. Thick white fur rugs were scattered across the highly-polished golden floorboards, and there were comfortable-looking armchairs upholstered in a rosy shade of pink. Cascades of snowy net hung beside the wide windows—which just now were hidden by Venetian blinds—and more white net adorned the dressing-table. Everywhere there were silk-shaded table-lamps and attractive items of gleaming modern furniture, and on the walls had been hung one or two small, rather clever paintings, the principal ingredients of which appeared to be plenty of brilliant, forceful colour.
    Despising herself for doing so, Caroline yielded to the temptation to relax once more against her pillows, and in