The ghost of Charlotte Cray, and other stories
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.
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 noires_, 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