OLD ACQUAINTANCES.
Port and harbour--Sunday and fresh air--In the market-place--De
Nevada protests--A curse of the country--In the days gone by--On
the breakwater--Invaded tramcar--De Nevada confirmed--Another
crusade needed--Plaza de Toros--In Sunday dress--Domestic
interiors--When the play was o'er--Bull-ring at night--Fitful
dreams--Fever--Maitre d'hotel prescribes--Magic effect--Depart for
Saguntum--Before the days of Rome--Primitive town--Days of the
Greeks--Attacked by Hannibal--Rebuilt by the Romans--Absent
guardian--The hunchback--Reappears with custodian--Doors
open--Moorish fortress--Fathomless cisterns--Sad
procession--Weeping mourners--Key of Valencia--Miguella--Time heals
all wounds--Proposes coffee--Proud and pleased--Scenes that
remain--In Barcelona--Drawing to a close--Sorrow and regret--Many
experiences--Our Espluga friends--Loretta's gratitude--In the Calle
de Fernando--A last favour--Glories of Spain--Eastern benediction.
Our first visit to the port and harbour was on a Sunday. Labour was
suspended, and vessels of all countries were flying their flags. From
the end of the long breakwater we breathed freely. Before us stretched
the wide shimmering sea, blue as the sky above. A very few white-sailed
boats were gliding about--only in summer are they found in large
numbers. On such a day as this, hot, glowing, glorious to us of the
North, the soft-climed Valencians would not venture upon the water. An
occasional fishing-boat strayed in and out, but all else was at peace.
The whole place was deserted. There was a strange calm and quiet upon
everything; almost an English "Sabbath stillness" in the air.
We wondered, but soon discovered the cause. This might have dawned upon
us had we called to mind yesterday's experience.
We were walking through the market-place with de Nevada the priest,
when a large placard caught our eye, announcing a bull-fight for the
next day, Sunday: the last of the season.
"I have never seen one," said H. C. "We must go to it."
"Surely you would not visit the barbarous exhibition?" said de Nevada.
"In this matter I have nothing of the Spaniard in me. I hold bull-fights
as a curse of the country; training up children to cruelty and laying
the foundation of a host of evils."
But his words had no weight with H. C.
"I think everyone should see a bull-fight at least once in their lives.
If I know nothing of its horrors, how can I join in a crusade against
them? Once seen, I will write a scathing poem on the entertainment which
shall be translated into Spanish. All my graphic power of description
shall be exerted, and it may go far to put down the evil. I might also
appeal to the people's superstition, which seems almost the strongest
element in their nature. You will come?" turning to us.
But we had had our experience once for all years before, in the
bull-ring at Granada, accompanied by eight naval officers whose nerves
were in excellent order. When the play was half over, and men shouted
and women shrieked and waved, and there was universal applause and
uproar, sick of the horrors, we left the building: to the surprise and
no doubt contempt of the assembly.
Thus H. C.'s appeal fell upon deaf ears.
And when it came to the point he also would not go. So it fell out that
we were both sitting on the breakwater, gazing upon the shimmering sea,
revelling in the serene stillness of the atmosphere.
The scene changed. We had to return, and seeing an empty tramcar, found
ourselves enjoying the world from a solitary elevation: a short-lived
pleasure. From a side-street there suddenly poured forth a crowd of men,
who swarmed in and out and up the sides: and stillness and solitude were
over.
They were mad with excitement, and being already late, feverishly
anxious to make way. One might have thought them intoxicated, but it was
excitement only. They raved and shouted; their eyes flashed and
glistened; they anticipated the horrors of the bull-ring; speculated as
to how many bulls would be killed, whether the toreador would escape.
For the moment they were as wild animals, and de Nevada's protest in the
market-place wanted no better confirmation.
H. C. shuddered. His poetical mind had received a shock in coming into
contact with this coarse and savage element.
"I am glad I decided not to go," he said. "De Nevada is right.
Bull-fighting should be put down, even though the people rose up in
revolt. It needs a Crusade as much as ever the cause for which the
Templars went eastward."
The Plaza de Toros was thronged with a crowd of men, women and children,
who could not pay the fee or were too late for admission. If unable to
enter, it was something to look upon the outer walls, whilst the
thunders of applause helped them to realise the scene.
The tramcar waited some twenty minutes, and we remained studying the
crowd of eager faces that surged to and fro. From the bull-ring--one of
the largest and finest in Spain--arose that constant roar and tempest of
voices.
We were almost prisoners, wondering how we should escape, when a city
tramcar came up, stood side by side with ours, and we made the exchange.
This slowly moved through the crowd and turned into a quieter
thoroughfare, and the raving followed us far down the road.
The car travelled slowly round the town, through the Cathedral Square,
in and out of ancient gateways. Street after street, comparatively
deserted, wore its Sunday dress. Flowers abounded. We were on a level
with first-floor windows, and from many an open casement came a glimpse
of domestic interiors: the scent of roses; fair ladies dressed in
rustling silks and sheeny satin; ripples of laughter and conversation;
occasional streams of melody from a fair performer. Absorbed, we did not
observe the car gradually getting round to its starting-point, until we
once more found ourselves in the centre of the crowd outside the
bull-ring.
They had not moved an inch. The spectacle was just over, the great doors
were thrown open, and a cortege passed out: cart after cart with dead
horses and bulls, the latter decorated as if for a prize show. A
deafening roar, louder than ever, went up from the people. Finally came
the vehicle with the toreadors and matadors dressed in all their fine
colours, flushed with their performance, calmly taking the hurrahs. The
very horses seemed maddened as they tore out of sight. Then the crowd
began to disperse. Strolling out after dinner, we found ourselves once
more in front of the bull-ring, looking in the darkness like a second
Roman Coliseum. The square was deserted, its crowds having gone home to
live the horrors over again in their dreams. Silence reigned. But the
time would come round for fresh spectacles and more horrors.
And so it goes on from one generation to another.
That night our own dreams were fitful and broken. We had watched the
sunset from the tramcar, full of splendour and colouring. As the sun
went down, a chilliness had risen upon the air, and suddenly we
shivered. Then it passed away, but there was no rest on retiring. Fever
came on, and in semi-delirium we imagined that we were taking part in a
bull-fight; warring with infuriated animals. There was no repose and no
escape. Deafening shouts rang in our ears, but still the combat went on;
seemed to have gone on for years, and must go on for ever.
The agony was terrible. Molten lead coursed through our veins. We tried
to rise, but chains bound us down. The night passed. In the early
morning the fever abated, and presently we awoke from a short,
unrefreshing slumber; rose as one who has gone through a long illness.
When H. C. appeared and said it was time for the flower-market and the
Lonja, he went alone.
Our maitre-d'hotel, who felt he could not be sufficiently attentive to
friends of de Nevada and the de la Torres, brought us strong tea; and on
hearing an account of our night, suddenly departed, to reappear with a
white powder procured at a chemist's.
"A touch of the fever, senor, caught last night at sundown," he
remarked. "It is taken in a moment, but seldom shaken off so quickly.
This powder will go far to put you right."
We took it in faith, and found it chiefly quinine. The effect was
excellent. Though still weak, we were capable of an effort, and when H.
C. returned with hands full of roses, carnations, orange-blossoms, sweet
verbena--for which he had extravagantly paid threepence and made the
flower-woman's heart sing for joy--we were able to carry out our
programme and start for Saguntum.
A short railway journey landed us amidst the ruins of this ancient city,
where we were in the very atmosphere not only of Rome, but of days and
people long before.
The small, primitive town at the foot of the height was full of quaint
outlines. Large circular doorways led to wonderful interiors; immense
living-rooms in semi-obscurity; rich dark walls whose colour and tone
were due to smoke and age. Here women were working and spinning and
sometimes bending over a huge fire, deep in the mysteries of cooking.
Beyond these dark rooms one caught sight of open courts or gardens,
where orange and other trees flourished. Some of the women were busy
making cheese, which here is quite an article of commerce and goes to
many parts of the country. We had the place to ourselves. The women
stopped their cheese-making and spinning to assemble in groups of twos
and threes and stare after us. Human nature is curious and inquisitive
all the world over.
But the charm and attraction of the place are the ruins that crown the
heights; walls and towers now crumbling and desolate, witnessing to the
strength and power of Saguntum in ages gone by. It was founded nearly
1400 years before the Christian era by the Greeks of Zante, when the
Phoenicians were still monarchs of the land. Why they permitted the
Greeks to erect this stronghold does not appear. When a wealthy frontier
town allied to Rome, it was attacked by Hannibal. The defence was brave,
determined and prolonged; but Rome would not come to the rescue, and the
town perished amidst frightful horrors. This chiefly led to the Second
Punic War, by which Saguntum was revenged and Hannibal and his armies
were routed out of Spain: reverses they never recovered. In time it was
rebuilt by the Romans, and in the course of centuries fell under the
dominion of the Goths and the Moors.
Saguntum--Murviedro, as it is often called--is now a magnificent ruin.
The climb to the castle is long, steep and rugged, and on reaching the
gates we found them closed. There was no guardian to admit us; the ruins
were uninhabited. After our feverish night, a return to the town for
the keys and a second long climb seemed too much of a penance. Yet the
interior must be seen.
Fortune favoured us. We found a man near the gates cutting away the rank
grass and weeds: a strange uncanny creature; terribly hump-backed; with
a pale long-drawn face from which a couple of dark eyes looked out upon
you with a strange inward fire that seemed consuming him. He was almost
a skeleton, as though he and starvation were close companions.
We made known our trouble, offering a substantial bribe if he would go
down and bring up the keys. The man's eyes sparkled. Without hesitation
he laid down his great shears and put on the coat he had placed under
the walls.
"If the keys are to be had by mortal power, senor, I will not return
without them," he said; his voice was shrill with the sharpness of
habitual suffering.
"Go, then, and success attend you. We await you here."
We sat down between the great gates and the ruins of the Roman theatre,
and watched our messenger's long thin legs rapidly flying over the
ground. Then he disappeared behind the houses.
We waited and wondered. Presently he reappeared followed by an old woman
dangling great keys. His eloquence had prevailed. Perhaps he had
promised to share the bribe, or hoped it might be doubled. Panting and
breathless, they reached us.
"Ah, senor, this is unheard-of," said the old woman. "No one enters
without permission from the commandant. If he knew, it would be as much
as my place is worth--not that it is worth much. But he is away to-day;
gone to Valencia to the marriage of a friend. So I have some excuse; and
he will never know. I will admit you. The times I have opened these
gates! I am sixty-five, senor, and have been up and down, through summer
and winter, through storm and tempest, ever since I was fifteen. Pretty
near the end now."
Inserting the great key into the rough, rusty old lock, the rude doors
opened and admitted us.
[Illustration: RUINS OF SAGUNTUM.]
We found the fortress distinctly Moorish and very interesting. The
old woman, well up in her work, knew the history of every portion.
Amidst the ruins of the castle were some Moorish cisterns she declared
to be bottomless, where blind fish for ever swam. Below what was once
the governor's garden, she led us to gloomy dungeons where heavily
chained prisoners were confined for life, and she described many a
horror that had taken place in the past. Everything testified to the
strength of Saguntum of old.
From the walls the views are magnificent. Stretching across the wide
plain, one caught faint traces of Valencia and the shimmering sea; at
our feet was the little town, and beyond it the hills rose in gentle
outlines.
As we looked we observed a procession set forth upon the long white
road. Harsh, discordant music from brass instruments rose upon the air.
Then we saw that it was a funeral. The coffin was being slowly borne on
men's shoulders to the cemetery. The latter was near the town, enclosed
in high walls, above which appeared the dark pointed tops of the
melancholy cypress. A group of mourners followed the coffin; women bowed
and weeping, men subdued: quite a long stream of them. Near us stood our
curious messenger.
"Who is it?" we asked.
"A sad story, senor. A youth of seventeen, who caught the fever and
died. A week ago he was as well as you or I: full of energy and
enterprise: talking of what he wanted and what he would do in the
future. His ambition was to emigrate, and for long he had been trying to
get his parents' consent. But he was their only child, and they were
loath to part with him. Ah! he has taken a longer journey now; emigrated
to a more distant country. And there will be no coming back to
Murviedro."
"And the parents?"
"Poor things! They are heartbroken. There goes his mother, supported by
two women friends. One can almost hear her weeping. Oh that horrible
music! It goes through my spine as if it would tear it asunder. When I
am buried I hope they will have no music. I think I should turn in my
coffin. Is it not a splendid view, senor? This fortress may well be
called the key of Valencia. The key of the province, you understand,
not of the town. We command the best of the country. You should see it
in summer, when every tree is in full leaf and every flower in bloom,
and the branches droop with the weight of their fruit. A land of
abundance, is it not, Miguella?" turning to the old woman, who stood
looking at the sad cortege with weeping eyes.
"Ay, Juan, it is so," she returned with tearful voice. "Abundance of
everything. But fate is cruel, and strong youth must die, and old people
like you and I who half starve, for all the abundance, must still cumber
the earth."
"Speak for yourself, Madre Miguella," returned the man sharply.
"Whatever you may be, I am not yet old and I don't see that I take the
place of a better man. I shall be forty-one next New Year's Day. A hard
life I have of it; few pleasures and little food. I am not formed as
other men; no woman looking at me would take me for her husband. For all
that, I am not tired of life, and have no desire to be in the place of
that poor lad. It will come soon enough, Madre Miguella, without wishing
oneself there before the time."
"Santa Maria! what a clucking about nothing!" retorted Miguella. "If I
called you an old man it was only a form of speech. I had in my mind's
eye the strong lusty youth who has gone to his burial. Compared with him
I should call you old and of little worth. After all, I was only
thinking of the uncertainty of human life. You won't deny that, friend
Juan."
"I suppose I can't," replied the contrite hunchback. "Poor lad! I could
almost have found it in my heart to die for him. He was always good to
me; never mocked at me; gave me many a centimo from his little hoard;
often shared his dinner if I met him on the road. I have lost a friend
in him."
Miguella was shedding tears afresh at the recital of the lad's virtues.
"Poor boy!" she cried. "But he's better off. He hadn't time to grow hard
and wicked. The angels make no mistake when they come for such as him. I
wish his poor mother could see it in that light."
"Give her time, give her time," returned the hunchback. "If you lost
your leg, you would not all at once grow reconciled to a wooden one.
Nature doesn't work in spasms, Miguella.
[Illustration: BARCELONA.]
By-and-by, the poor mother will come to see mercy in the blow, but she
can't do that whilst the sound of her boy's voice rings in her ears, and
she still feels the clasp of his arms round her neck. She wouldn't be a
mother if she did."
Time was on the wing. The sun was declining, the shadows were
lengthening when we turned from the ruins and once more stood outside
the walls. Miguella locked the doors with a firm hand and possessed
herself of the keys. We took care the bribe should not be halved. It was
a gala day for them, poor creatures. Juan's face lighted up with
infinite contentment.
"Lucky for me that I came up weeding, senor. For a whole week I need
feel no hunger, and may give my poor body a little repose."
"But life is not quite such hard lines with you, Miguella?"
"Not quite, senor, though hard enough. Yet I have many mercies. I earn a
little money by making cheeses; and in summer, when visitors now and
then come to Murviedro, I take a trifle and put by a peseta for a rainy
day. Heaven be praised I have never been in actual want; and Juan knows
that he has never in vain asked me to lend him a centimo. Though I find
his accounts very long reckonings," she quaintly added with a smile.
"Miguella, you have been as good as a mother to me," returned Juan. "I
never knew any other mother; have ever been a waif on the earth, without
kith and kin either to bless or ban."
We all went down the rugged steep together. At the bottom, Juan bade us
farewell and turned to the left towards his humble cottage. Miguella
escorted us up the quaint, quiet street. We passed through a picturesque
gateway, and just beyond this was her small house.
"Senor, if you would allow me to make you some coffee to refresh you for
your journey, I should be happy," she said. "I am famous both for my
cheese and my coffee."
To refuse would give her pain; the train was not due for an hour and a
half; a cup of Miguella's coffee was not to be despised. She turned with
a glad smile, opened her door, and invited us to enter.
It was a surprise to find her cottage the perfection of order, for the
Spaniards are not famous for the virtue. She placed chairs, and bustled
about her preparations. In a few moments a peat fire with sticks was
blazing on the hearth, water was put on to boil, and a brown earthenware
coffee-pot was placed on the embers to warm. In her own domain Miguella
became a handy, comely old woman, who moved about without noise and must
have been a good helpmeet to the husband she had lost a quarter of a
century ago. Whilst the water was boiling, she took us into an inner
room and showed us her arrangements for making cheese. It was an
interesting sight, and the old woman went up still further in our
estimation. Everything was spotlessly pure and clean. A grey cat
followed her about like a dog and seemed devoted to her.
"She is getting old like me," said poor Miguella, "but she is a faithful
animal, and never by any chance puts her nose into a pan of milk. I
might leave it all open; nothing would be touched. It is only ewes'
milk, senor. Would you like some in your coffee?"
We thought black coffee more stimulating.
She placed it on the table, hot and fragrant. Miguella had not
overpraised the cunning of her hand. With a slight diffidence meant for
an apology, she took out one of her fresh little cheeses, and with
home-made bread, placed it also on the table. The coffee she served in
white cups of coarse porcelain, which we duly admired, and she brought
forward plates of the same material.
So Miguella, in largeness of heart gave us hospitality, and our simple
collation was so perfect that a king need have wished no better. She had
put on a white apron to serve us becomingly, and from her
chimney-corner, where she added fuel to her fire, surveyed the
appreciation of her labours with pride and pleasure. To us, the
incident--not an every-day one--had borne a certain interest and charm.
We had gone back for a moment to primitive days, "when Adam delved and
Eve span." The best of Miguella's nature had come out simply because we
had been a little kind to her: and we wisely reflected that too often
the greatest enemy to mankind is man.
Our last glimpse of Miguella was of a comely old woman standing in her
doorway to watch us depart. The glow of the setting sun was upon her
face, which was softened and refined by her abundant neat grey hair.
She looked pleased and happy. No doubt she would return to her
chimney-corner and cheese-making, and ponder over the day's small
adventure. Juan would be no loser. Many a centimo would find its way
from her pocket to his, and he would think her more motherly than ever.
[Illustration: COURTYARD OF AUDIENCIA: BARCELONA.]
On our way to the station we saw the sad funeral procession approaching.
Most had dispersed, but some six or eight women were returning with the
poor mother, who still looked bowed and broken. As Juan had wisely said,
time would lessen the blow, but for the present no silver lining was
visible in the heavy cloud overshadowing the life.
We watched them disappear through one of the large round doorways into
the home now desolate for ever. Then we went on, and presently the train
came up, and Saguntum passed out of our lives, though not out of memory.
Miguella and Juan, the ancient ruins and outlines crowning the heights,
the quaint streets with their picturesque interiors, the sad procession
winding slowly down the long white road, the bowed mourners and the
weeping mother: nothing could ever be forgotten.
* * * * *
Some days after this we were walking in the streets of Barcelona. We had
said good-bye to Valencia and our present sojourn in Spain was drawing
to a close. With sorrow and sighing we remembered the motto of the wise
king: THIS ALSO SHALL PASS AWAY. Oft quoted before, it is ever present
with us and we quote it once more. We had gone through many experiences,
made many acquaintances who had become friends. In imagination a small
crowd of companions surrounded us, every one of them with a special
niche in our heart and memory. Sauntering through the now long familiar
streets, we had wandered instinctively into the neighbourhood of the
cathedral. As we stood in the courtyard of the Audiencia, admiring for
the fiftieth time its pointed arches, clustered columns and fine old
staircase, two people entered, breaking upon our solitude. Their faces
were radiant with happiness. At the first moment we hardly recognised
them; the next we saw that it was Loretta and Lorenzo.
"Still in Barcelona! How is this, Loretta?"
"Senor, we have prolonged our stay. There was no special reason why we
should not do so. Work is provided for, and the donkeys are in good
keeping. We shall never again have such a holiday. It comes only once in
our lives."
"It is quite unnecessary to remark that you are happy, both of you."
"Senor, I ask what I have done that heaven should have bestowed such
favour upon me," returned Loretta, her face glowing with fervour. "I
feel as though I could take the whole creation under my wing and love it
for the sake of the love that is mine. I tell myself that I have not
half cared for my dumb animals, though harsh word to them never passed
my lips."
"Loretta, we have found your clock," passing from the sublime to the
commonplace. "Come both of you and see it."
It was in the adjoining Calle de Fernando, not many yards from where we
stood. We were just in time: the clockmaker was about to pack up and
despatch it. Its design might have been made to order. A clock of white
alabaster, pure as the heart of Loretta. Cupid with bow and arrows slung
behind him struck the hours on a silver bell. The hour-glass was
missing, it is true, but the sands of Loretta and Lorenzo were none the
less golden. So the clock instead of being forwarded to Espluga, was
sent to their address in Barcelona.
"My happiness is now complete," cried Loretta. "Yet one thing is still
wanting. I would that you, senor, should come as speedily as possible
and ride Caro to Poblet, and that Lorenzo and I should wait upon you.
Ah, do not delay."
* * * * *
"One of the most romantic episodes I ever heard of," cried H. C., as
Loretta and Lorenzo walked away arm in arm in their great happiness, and
we turned to contemplate once more the magic interior of the cathedral
that has no rival.
"It is indeed. And if these dream-churches and ancient towns are her
glories, does Spain not possess yet other glories in the exalted lives
of Rosalie and Anselmo, the simple hearts and annals of yonder couple,
and all who resemble them? May their shadows never grow less and their
faces never be pale!"
"Amen," answered H. C., as the happy pair in question turned a corner
and "passed in music out of sight."
LONDON:
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED.
STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.
FOOTNOTES:
[A] The rose.
[B] If the reader feels any interest in Sebastien, he will be glad to
hear that a petition sent to the landlord in the form of a letter proved
as effective as the proposed deputation. He was promoted to the dignity
(and fees) of second waiter in the dining-room: and on the first of last
May was united to his beloved Anita. The sun shone and the skies were
blue; the world smiled upon the young couple. The bride in her white
veil and pale silk dress (the gift of her late employer, Madame la
Modiste) must have appeared ravishing; and few bridegrooms in Manresa
could have looked handsomer or more manly than Sebastien. We imagine how
his face beamed, his eyes sparkled, his heart overflowed. His
master--not to be outdone by Madame la Modiste--gave them a wedding
breakfast, and the walls rang with the shouts that went up when the
health of the happy pair was drunk. One can only wish them the serene
bliss and success they deserve.
[C] The following letter from the old canon, one of many, may be
transcribed for the benefit of the reader:
"You will be anxious to hear how our patient has been progressing since
I last wrote to you. Better and better. There is nothing but good news
to send you. I think I may almost affirm that Eugenie is now 'clothed
and in her right mind.' The cure is effected. For many months she has
not looked upon the wine cup, and declares that all desire for it has
left her. I believe it has. As you know, the very day after our first
and last evening together I sought her out, told her I was her father's
friend, explained to her the atonement that was in her power. The poor
creature, overcome with misery, sorrow and remorse, burst into such
tears as I have never seen shed, and yielded without a murmur to my
wish. I would give her no time for reconsideration, and that very day
she took up her abode in my house. She never leaves it except in company
with Juanita or myself. There has been no trouble from the beginning. It
almost seemed as though the calm and peaceful atmosphere of our little
household at once exorcised the evil spirit within her. Her better
nature has triumphed, and I am persuaded that she will not fall away
again. I do not intend that she shall. As long as I live this is to be
her home. She asks nothing better; declares that for the first time in
her life she has found peace and happiness. Her gratitude to you is
unbounded. If I only mention your name, tears spring to her eyes. I
believe she would lay down her life for you. She begs that you will one
day come again to see, not the old Eugenie who accosted you in the
church; she is dead and buried; but the new Eugenie who lives and has
taken her place. She wonders what influence gave her courage to speak,
and declares it was some unseen spirit or power which compelled her to
go forward whether she would or no. The moment she saw you this spirit
took possession of her and she was passive in its hands. Never before
had such a thing happened to her. I put it down to other and higher
influence. These things do not happen by chance. Heaven may spare my
life for some years. During that time Eugenie's home is assured. She is
now as a daughter to me; shares my modest repasts; occupies herself in
the affairs of the house; spends much of her time with Juanita. She
reads much, and is studying science with me. Her intelligence is of a
high order, and she has a wide grasp of mind. By-and-by she may outrun
me. Truly it is a pearl of price we have rescued from the fire. And I
too have my reward. The house is brighter since she came to it. Even
Juanita, who once only smiled, now laughs on occasion. She has taken a
great affection for Eugenie, and when I am no longer here will transfer
her services to our protegee. Heaven be praised, I am able to leave them
independent of the world. And I have enlisted my nephew's sympathy in
the matter. Eugenie is to be much with them when I go hence, but this is
to be her home; hers for her life. Yet who can tell? She is young. If
you thought her beautiful then, what would you say now to that calm,
radiant face, those clear, steadfast eyes? One day she will probably
marry again; and in a second and more worthy choice find all the
happiness and protection that she missed in her first terrible and
headstrong mistake.
"And now, the old question. When are you coming? Juanita bids me say
that all the resources of her simple art are waiting to be put forth in
your favour. She declares she never was happier than that evening when
she waited upon us and dispensed her simple luxuries. Eugenie says she
shall never be at perfect rest until you have witnessed her
transformation. For myself, I have a new work on Natural Philosophy to
show you. I long once more to pace together the aisles of our beloved
cathedral. At my age I live from day to day, grateful to heaven for each
new day in this bright world. But it behoves me to sit loosely to all
things. The end may come at any hour, it cannot be very far off now. The
old man longs to welcome you yet once again. Deny him not."