and I—for ordinary occupations seemed forbidden, and every topic harped
back to the miserable accident which had left the hall without a master.
The servants with lengthened faces, as though attending a funeral,
had dumbly proffered us tea and coffee, and we had drunk them without
considering whether we required them, so welcome seemed anything to do;
and I was seriously considering whether it would appear discourteous
in me to leave the hall and return on the day of the funeral, when a
circumstance occurred which proved more than sufficiently exciting for
all of us.
I had taken the desk, papers, and keys, and delivered them into my
niece’s hands, and I had ventured at the same time to ask whether it
would not be a comfort to her to see Mrs Benson or some other friend,
instead of sitting in utter loneliness and gloom. But Justina had visibly
shrunk from the proposal; more than that, she had begged me not to renew
it. ‘I sent for you, uncle,’ she said, ‘because I needed help, but don’t
let any one make it a precedent for trying to see me. I _couldn’t_ speak
to any one: it would drive me mad. Leave me alone: my only relief is in
solitude and prayer.’
And so I had left her, feeling that doubtless she was right, and
communicating her wishes on the subject to Lady Amabel Scott, who had
several times expressed a desire to gain admittance to her widowed cousin.
Judge, then, of our surprise, equal and unmitigated, when, as we sat in
the drawing-room that evening, the door silently opened and Justina stood
before us! If she had been the ghost of Sir Harry himself risen from the
dead, she could hardly have given us a greater start.
‘Justina!’ I exclaimed, but as she advanced toward us with her eyes
riveted on Lady Amabel, I saw that something more than usual was the
matter, and drew backward. Justina’s countenance was deadly pale;
her dark hair, unbound from the night before, flowed over the white
dressing-gown which she had worn all day; and stern and rigid she walked
into the midst of our little circle, holding a packet of letters in her
hand.
‘Amabel Scott,’ she hissed rather than said as she fixed a look of
perfect hatred on the beautiful face of her dead husband’s cousin, ‘I
have detected you. You made me miserable whilst he was alive—you know
it—with your bold looks and your forward manners and your shameless, open
attentions; but it is my turn now, and before your husband I will tell
you that—’
‘Hush, hush, Justina!’ I exclaimed, fearful what revelation might not
be coming next. ‘You are forgetting yourself; this is no time for such
explanations. Remember what lies upstairs.’
‘Let her go on,’ interposed Lady Amabel Scott, with wide-open, astonished
eyes; ‘I am not afraid. I wish to hear of what she accuses me.’
She had risen from her seat as soon as she understood the purport of the
widow’s speech, and crossed over to her husband’s side; and knowing what
I did of her, I was yet glad to see that Warden Scott threw his arm
about her for encouragement and support. She may have been thoughtless
and faulty, but she was so young, and _he_ was gone. Besides, no man can
stand by calmly and see one woman pitted against another.
‘Of what do you accuse me?’ demanded Lady Amabel, with heightened colour.
‘Of what do I accuse you?’ almost screamed Justina. ‘Of perfidy, of
treachery, toward him,’ pointing to Mr Warden Scott, ‘and toward me.
I accuse you of attempting to win my dear husband’s affections from
me—which you never did, thank God!—and of rendering this home as desolate
as it was happy. But you failed—you failed!’
‘Where are your proofs?’ said the other woman, quietly.
‘_There!_’ exclaimed my niece, as she threw some four or five letters
down upon the table—‘there! I brought them for your husband to peruse.
_He_ kept them; generous and good as he was, _he_ would have spared you
an open exposure, but I have no such feelings in the matter. Are you to
go from this house into another to pursue the same course of action, and
perhaps with better success? No, not if I can prevent it!’
Her jealousy, rage, and grief seemed to have overpowered her; Justina was
almost beside herself. I entreated her to retire, but it was of no avail.
‘Not till Warden Scott tells me what he thinks of his wife writing those
letters with a view to seducing the affections of a married man,’ she
persisted.
Mr Scott turned the letters over carelessly.
‘They are not from my wife,’ he quietly replied.
‘Do _you_ dare to say so?’ exclaimed Justina to Lady Amabel.
‘Certainly. I never wrote one of them. I have never written a letter to
Harry since he was married. I have never had any occasion to do so.’
The widow turned towards me with an ashen-grey face, which it was pitiful
to behold.
‘Whose are they, then?’ she whispered, hoarsely.
‘I do not know, my dear,’ I replied; ‘surely it matters little now. You
will be ill if you excite yourself in this manner. Let me conduct you
back to your room;’ but before I could do so she had fallen in a fit
at my feet. Of course, all then was hurry and confusion, and when I
returned to the drawing-room I found Lady Amabel crying in her husband’s
arms.
‘Oh, Warden dear,’ she was saying, ‘I shall never forgive myself. This
all comes of my wretched flirting. It’s no good your shaking your head;
you know I flirt, and so does every one else; but I never meant anything
by it, darling, and I thought all the world knew how much I loved you.’
‘Don’t be a goose!’ replied her husband, as he put her gently away from
him; ‘but if you think I’m going to let you remain in this house after
what that d—d woman—Oh, here is General Wilmer! Well, General, after the
very unpleasant manner in which your niece has been entertaining us, you
will not be surprised to hear that I shall take my wife away from Durham
Hall to-night. When Lady Trevor comes to her senses you will perhaps
kindly explain to her the reason of our departure, for nothing under such
an insult should have prevented my paying my last respects to the memory
of a man who never behaved otherwise than as a gentleman to either of us.’
I apologised for Justina as best I was able, represented that her mind
must really have become unhinged by her late trouble, and that she would
probably be very sorry for what she had said by-and-by; but I was not
surprised that my arguments had no avail in inducing Mr Scott to permit
his wife to remain at Durham Hall, and in a few hours they had left the
house. When they were gone I took up the letters, which still lay upon
the table, and examined them. They were addressed to Sir Harry, written
evidently in a woman’s hand, and teemed with expressions of the warmest
affection. I was not surprised that the perusal of them had excited poor
Justina’s wrathful jealousy. Turning to the signatures, I found that they
all concluded with the same words, ‘Your loving and faithful Pet.’ In a
moment my mind had flown back to the dying speech of poor Sir Harry, and
had absolved Lady Amabel Scott from all my former suspicions. She was
not the woman who had penned these letters; she had not been in the last
thoughts of her cousin. Who, then, had been? That was a mystery on which
Death had set his seal, perhaps for ever. Before I retired to rest that
night I inquired for my poor niece, and heard that she had Mrs Benson
with her. I was glad of that: the women were fond of one another, and
Justina, I felt, would pour all her griefs into the sympathising ear of
the professor’s wife, and derive comfort from weeping over them afresh
with her. But after I had got into bed I remembered that I had left the
letters lying on the drawing-room table, where they would be liable to be
inspected by the servants, and blow the breath of the family scandal far
and wide. It was much past midnight, for I had sat up late, and all the
household, if not asleep, had retired to their own apartments; and so,
wrapping a dressing-gown about me, and thrusting my feet into slippers,
I lighted my candle, and descended noiselessly to the lower apartments.
But when I reached the drawing-room the letters were gone: neither on
the table nor the ottoman nor the floor were they to be seen; and so,
vexed at my own carelessness, but concluding that the servants, when
extinguishing the lights, had perceived and put the papers away in some
place of safety, I prepared to return to my own room.
The bedrooms at Durham Hall were situated on either side of a corridor,
and fearful of rousing the family or being caught in _deshabile_, I
trod on tiptoe, shading my candle with my hand. It was owing to this
circumstance, I suppose, that I had reached the centre of the corridor
without causing the least suspicion of my presence; but as I passed by
the apartment where the remains of my unfortunate host lay ready for
burial, the door suddenly opened and a light appeared upon the threshold.
I halted, expecting to see emerge the figure of my widowed niece, but
lifting my eyes, to my astonishment I encountered the shrinking, almost
terrified, gaze of the professor’s wife. Robed in her night-dress, pallid
as the corpse which lay within, her large frightened eyes apparently the
only living things about her, she stood staring at me as though she had
been entranced. Her brown hair floated over her shoulders, her feet were
bare; one hand held a lighted candle, the other grasped the packet of
letters of which I had been in search. So we stood for a moment regarding
one another—I taking in these small but important details; she looking as
though she implored my mercy and forbearance. And then I drew back with
the gesture of respect due to her sex, and, clad in her white dress, she
swept past me like a startled spirit and disappeared.
I gained my own room, but it was not to sleep. A thousand incidents,
insignificant in themselves, but powerful when welded into one, sprang up
in my mind to convince me that Justina and I and everybody had been on a
wrong tack, and that in the professor’s wife, the ‘quiet-looking little
lady’ with her Quaker-like robes, downcast eyes and modest appearance, in
the ‘best friend’ that my niece had ever possessed, I had discovered the
writer of those letters, the concealed visitor in Sir Harry’s room, the
‘Pet’ whose name had been the last sound heard to issue from his dying
lips. For many hours I lay awake pondering over the best course for me to
pursue. I could not bear the thought of undeceiving my poor niece, whose
heart had already suffered so much; besides, it seemed like sacrilege to
drag to light the secrets of the dead. At the same time I felt that Mrs
Benson should receive some hint that her presence in Durham Hall, at that
juncture, if desired, was no longer desirable. And the next day, finding
she was not likely to accord me an interview, I made the reception of
the missing letters a pretext for demanding one. She came to her room
door holding them in her hand, and the marks of trouble were so distinct
in her face that I had to summon all my courage to go through the task
which I considered my duty.
‘You found these in the drawing-room last night?’ I said, as I received
them from her.
‘I did,’ she answered, but her voice trembled and her lips were very
white. She seemed to know by instinct what was coming.
‘And you went to find them because they are your own?’ She made no
answer. ‘Mrs Benson, I know your secret, but I will respect it on one
condition—that you leave the Hall as soon as possible. You must be aware
that this is no place for you.’
‘I never wished to come,’ she answered, weeping.
‘I can believe it, but for the sake of your friend, of your husband, of
yourself, quit it as soon as possible. Here are your letters—you had
better burn them. I only wished to ascertain that they were yours.’
‘General Wilmer—’ she commenced gaspingly, and then she turned away and
could say no more.
‘Do you wish to speak to me?’ I asked her gently.
‘No—nothing; it is useless,’ she answered with a tearless, despairing
grief which was far more shocking to behold than either Justina’s or Lady
Amabel’s. ‘He is gone, and there is nothing left; but thank you for your
forbearance—and good-bye.’
So we parted, and to this day, excepting that she is released from all
that could annoy or worry her, I have learned nothing more. How long
they loved, how much or in what degree of guilt or innocence, I neither
know nor have cared to guess at; it is sufficient for me that it was so,
and that while Justina was accusing the beautiful Lady Amabel Scott of
attempting to win her husband’s heart from her, it had been given away
long before to the woman whom she termed her dearest friend—to the woman
who had apparently no beauty, or wit, or accomplishments with which to
steal away a man’s love from its rightful owner, but who nevertheless was
his ‘loving and faithful Pet,’ and the last thought upon his dying lips.
Professor and Mrs Benson never returned to Durham Hall. It was not long
afterwards that I heard from my niece that his wife’s failing health had
compelled the professor to go abroad; and to-day she writes me news from
Nice that Mrs Benson is dead. Poor Pet! I wonder if those scared brown
eyes have lost their frightened look in heaven?
I believe that Justina has made an ample apology for her rudeness to Lady
Amabel and Mr Warden Scott. I know I represented that it was her duty to
do so, and that she promised it should be done. As for herself, she is
gradually recovering from the effects of her bereavement, and finding
comfort in the society of her sons and daughters; and perhaps, amongst
the surprises which I have already spoken of as likely to await us in
another sphere, they will not be least which prove how very soon we have
been forgotten by those we left in the world behind us.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHIT-CHAT FROM ANDALUSIA.
A couple of springs ago, business compelling some friends of mine to
cross over into Spain, I gladly accepted the cordial invitation they
extended to me to visit with them that ‘splendid realm of old romance.’
Our destination was Utrera, a small town situated between Seville and
Xeres, and lying in the midst of those vast plains so often mentioned in
the _Conquest of Granada_.
I confess that I was rather disappointed to find how hurriedly we passed
through Madrid and Seville, and I longed to be permitted to linger for
a little space within their walls; but ours was not entirely a party of
pleasure, and a diversion was soon created in my thoughts by our arrival
at Utrera, which, from a distance, presented a most Oriental appearance.
The houses, many of which are built in the Moorish fashion and dazzlingly
white, stand out clearly defined against the deep blue southern sky;
the tall tower of Santiago, with little perhaps but its unusual height
to recommend it to a stranger’s notice, has, nevertheless, an imposing
appearance; and even a palm tree, which, solitary and alone, rears its
stately head in the centre of the town, puts in its claim for adding in
no small degree to the effect of the whole picture. Notwithstanding,
with all the combined advantages of white houses, tall towers, solitary
palm trees and romantic situations, I would advise no one who is not a
traveller at heart or intent upon his worldly profit to fix his residence
in this primitive little Andalusian town.
We first took up our quarters at the posada, with the intention of
remaining there during our stay, but were soon obliged to abandon the
idea, for, though the best inn in Utrera, it was most uncomfortable, and
noisy beyond description.
We began to look about us, therefore, and were soon installed in a small
but beautifully clean and cool-looking house in a street leading out of
the plaza, and found no reason to be discontented with our abode. It
boasted of a pleasant patio (or inner courtyard) and a wide verandah
or gallery, into which our rooms opened. As the days grew warmer (and
very warm indeed they grew after a while) this patio was our greatest
comfort; for, following the example of our neighbours, we had it covered
with an awning, and spent the greater part of the day, seated with our
books or work, beside its mimic fountain. But if we gained in material
comfort by exchanging the noisy and dirty posada for apartments of our
own, we had also drawn down upon ourselves the burden of housekeeping,
which we found in Spain to be no sinecure. Some friends who had resided
a few months in the town, and acquired a fair knowledge of the language,
manners, and customs of the natives of Utrera, volunteered to send us a
maid, warranted honest and a tolerable proficient in the art of cookery.
But she proved a care-full blessing. To give her her due, she possessed
one good quality, and we found by experience that it was about the only
one she or her sisterhood could boast of: she was very fond of water. The
floors of our new house were formed of stone, partially covered by strips
of matting which were easily removed; and we soon lived in a perpetual
swamp. Antonia was always both ready and willing to ‘clean up,’ and never
seemed happier than when dashing water in all directions, or brushing
away vigorously at the matting with her little short-handled broom.
By the way, I wonder why Spanish women prefer to bend double over their
sweeping, instead of adopting our easier method of performing the same
operation? In vain did I strive to convince Antonia of the advantages
attendant on the use of a broom with a long handle: she only smiled,
shook her head, and went obstinately on her weary way.
The water for our own consumption was drawn daily from the Moorish
aqueduct just outside the town, and brought to us by the aguador, an old
fellow who wore a rusty black velvet turban hat stuck full of cigarettes,
besides having one always in his mouth. He would pour the water from
his wooden barrels into a large butt which stood in the kitchen; but as
we discovered that he (together with all who felt so inclined) dipped
his glass, with the fingers that held it, into the reservoir whenever he
wished to quench his thirst, we speedily invested in a filter.
We soon found that it was utterly impossible to infuse any ideas of
cookery or housework into the head of the fair Antonia. If we showed
her how to lay the tablecloth and place the dishes, she eyed us with
surprise, bordering on contempt, that ladies should perform such menial
offices; and the next day all our instructions were as though they had
never been. It was the same with everything, until we decided that it was
far less trouble to wait on ourselves, and our life at Utrera resolved
itself into a picnic without an end.
Nevertheless, when we arose one morning to find that Antonia (wearied
perhaps of English suggestions) had quietly walked off and left us to
shift entirely for ourselves, we felt inclined to think that we had
undervalued her. But she had received her wages on the day before, and we
learned afterward that under those circumstances it is a common thing
for Spanish servants to quit their places without any warning, and return
home for a while to live at their ease on the produce of their labour.
Our next attendant was Pepa, a bright, dark-eyed girl, who always looked
so picturesque, with a spray of starry jessamine or scarlet verbena
coquettishly placed in her black hair, that it was impossible not to
overlook her misdemeanours. She had such an arch way of tossing her head
and shaking her long gold earrings that there was no resisting her; and
indeed Pepa was but too well aware of the fact herself, and made the best
use of her knowledge.
But the dinners were still our _bêtes noirs_, and in these,
notwithstanding all her prettiness, she could help us little better than
her predecessor. The meat which we procured was simply uneatable, but
happily animal food is little needed in those southern climes, and we had
plenty of game. Hares, partridges, and wild ducks were most abundant;
and a woman used constantly to call on us with live quails for sale,
which she would despatch by sticking one of their own feathers into their
brains.
Of course, everything was more or less spoiled which we entrusted to the
tender mercies of our handmaid; but fortunately there were no epicures
amongst us, and we generally received the goods the gods provided with
contentment if not gratitude, and had many resources to turn to in order
to eke out a distasteful meal. The bread was excellent, and we always had
an abundance of oranges, chestnuts, melons, and pomegranates; so that,
under the circumstances, we were not to be pitied.
But one day Pepa, disheartened by her repeated failures, begged to
be allowed to serve us a Spanish dinner, after tasting which, she
affirmed, we should never desire to eat any other; and having received
the permission of her mistress, she set to work, and at the usual hour
triumphantly placed the national dish of ‘puchero’ upon the table. We
gathered round it rather doubtfully, but after the first timid trial
pronounced it ‘not so bad, though rather rich.’ It seemed to contain
a little of everything—beef, lard, garlic, garbanzos (or small, hard
beans), lettuce, pepper, potatoes, and I know not what besides; and the
mixture had been kept simmering in an earthenware pot for hours. The
next dish served by Pepa was ‘gaspacho,’ or a Spanish salad, which is
mixed quite differently from an English one, and to most tastes not so
palatable. And then she placed before us a large dish of rice, profusely
sprinkled with cinnamon, and various small cakes fried in oil; and Pepa’s
Spanish dinner (which, by the way, was only a sample, I suppose, of the
most ordinary national fare) was concluded.
We were thankful that it had been sufficiently good to enable us to
praise it enough to give her satisfaction, though we were compelled to
adopt more than one ruse in order, without hurting her feelings, to
escape having the same feast repeated every day.
There are not many ‘lions’ in Utrera, but, such as they are, of course
we visited them. The principal one perhaps is in the vaults beneath
the church of Santiago, but we were scarcely prepared for the ghastly
spectacle which met our gaze there. It appears that, many years ago,
while digging for some purpose round the church, the workmen found
several bodies, which, owing to some peculiar quality of the soil in
which they had been buried, were in a wonderful state of preservation;
and, by order of the authorities, they were placed in upright positions
against the walls of the church vaults. The old sacristan, who acted as
our cicerone, pointed out the bodies to us with his lighted torch, and
directed our attention especially to one, evidently that of a very stout
woman, which had still a jacket and skirt clinging to it. Strange to
say, the bodies were all clothed, although in most cases it had become
difficult to distinguish the garments from the remains, for all seemed
to partake of the same hue and texture. It is a humbling sight to look
upon the dead after they have turned again to their dust, and with but a
semblance of the human frame left clinging to them, as though in mockery
of our mortality. We could not bear to see the idlers who had followed
our party down into the vaults jeering at the appearance of these poor
carcases, and touching them in a careless and irreverent manner. Had we
had our way, they should all have been tenderly consigned again to the
bosom of their mother earth, and we experienced a strange sensation of
relief as we turned our backs upon them and emerged once more into the
open air.
The principal object of a stroll in Utrera is a visit to the Church of
Consolation, which stands on the outskirts of the town, at the end of a
long walk bordered with lines of olive trees. At intervals along the way
benches are placed, and here on Sundays and feast-days the inhabitants
congregate as they come to and from the church. The latter is an
interesting edifice, though its architecture is unpretending enough.