Glories of Spain Part 42

At the moment we felt a distinct mental wrench. Tarragona was indeed over. To our right was the harbour with its little crowd of fishing-boats; out on the sea lovely white-winged feluccas glided to and fro. The whole journey was one of extreme beauty. Very soon we had the sea on our left, and often the train skirted the very waves as they rolled over their golden sands. The coast was broken and diversified, now rising to hills and cliffs, now falling to a level with the sh.o.r.e.

Where we pa.s.sed inland the country was rich and fruitful, showing more and more the luxuriance of the South.

Many of the towns had historical interests or remains to make them remarkable. At Hospitalet we found ourselves on the site of a House of Refuge for pilgrims from Zaragoza who in the Middle Ages were wont to cross the mountains in caravans after visiting the scene of some miraculous pillar or image. Near this we skirted a fishing village, where the train was almost washed by the sea that, blue and flashing, stretched far and wide. The little fleet was moving out of the small harbour as we pa.s.sed, each followed by its shadow upon the water.

Picturesque Amposta was the centre and atmosphere of the lost centuries.

It existed long before the Romans, who, on taking it, made it one of their chief stations. Here came Hercules, and after him St. Paul, who did much work and ordained a bishop to carry on his labours. Later came the Moors, when it reached the height of its glory. In 809 Louis le Debonnaire, son of Charlemagne, besieged it, was repulsed, returned in 811 and conquered. The Moors quickly retook it, but the disorganised inhabitants had become nothing better than pirates. So in 1143 the Templars came down upon them, and inspired by the late victory at Almeria, aided by the Italians, conquered in their turn: only to be turned out again the following year by the inevitable Moors.

Everywhere the eye rested upon a lovely scene of river, sea and land, intensely blue sky and brilliant sunshine. In our carriage we had a very interesting bride and bridegroom. She seemed to worship the very ground he trod upon, and both were evidently in paradise. At the same time he accepted the worship rather too much as his due--gracefully and graciously, but still distinctly his right. They were in the mood to admire lovely scenery, and undertones of delight were frequent.

Presently an old priest entered the carriage, sat himself down beside us, and they quickly fell under his eye. He looked on with a smile of amus.e.m.e.nt at the silent unmistakable worship. We thought he drew his conclusions as one who observes a scene in which he has no part or lot.

"Love's young dream," he said to us under cover of the rattle of the train. "My experience tells me it is only a dream, varying in length according to the constancy of the dreamers. You think I have no right to give an opinion? Then, senor, I should tell you that, like the world in general, you judge by appearances and judge too hastily. That is the difference between impressions and appearances. Of first appearances beware; of first impressions be a.s.sured. They have never failed me."

We agreed with the old priest, but made no remark.

"You think I have no business to judge of these matters?" he continued with a smile; "and you are mistaken. I was not always a priest clad in black robe and beaver hat, separated from the world by the barrier of the Church. In early life I took up law, pleaded, and generally won my cause. Then I pleaded my own cause with a beautiful woman, won her and married her. I, too, dwelt in my fool's paradise; thought the world all sunshine, the hours all golden. I was young and in those days handsome.

Never can I reconcile the ugly, grey-headed man one becomes in age, with the charm and elegance of one's youth. But time has no mercy. However, the fact remains that in those days I was young and handsome."

The old priest was handsome still; but again we were silent.

"Then one fine morning I awoke to realities," he went on. "The angel with the flaming sword had come and driven me out of my paradise. Yet I had not transgressed. It was the woman, whom I fondly hoped heaven had given me as a life-long companion. She was beautiful; there was an indescribable charm about her; but she was frivolous and inconstant. She left me one day with one whom I had thought my friend. He was rich and free to roam. I heard of them in other countries: wandering to and fro like spirits ill at ease.

"Finally they went to Rome. Was it a judgment upon the wife who had proved faithless to her husband, the man who had betrayed his friend?

Both took the fever at the same time and died within a week of each other. They were buried side by side in a small cemetery near to the Eternal City. Some years after I went to Rome. I had lived down my life's tragedy and could gaze upon their graves with calmness. As I did so, and realised the certainty of retribution, I prayed that I might judge in mercy. They had blighted my life, but looking on those nameless graves I felt for the first time that I could forgive. Yes, the graves were nameless, for no stone had been placed over them. This I did. By way of inscription I merely recorded the initials on each: and the text 'Forgive us our trespa.s.ses as we forgive them that trespa.s.s against us.'

"That very same day I was wandering about the English cemetery in Rome, and came upon the text 'Here lies one whose name was writ in water;'

doubtless the expression of one whose life had been a failure or disappointment. 'My friend,' I thought, 'you are not to be pitied half so much as those whose names are writ in Sin.'

"It was about this time that I determined to enter the Church. Since that terrible blow I had grown to hate the world, withdrew more and more from society. I had no near ties on earth. Again and again I thanked heaven that no child had been born to me. As soon as I had made the resolution I put it in force, and cannot say that I ever regretted it.

Gradually all morbidness left me. I lead a busy life; I delight in society; people consider me a very jovial old priest. But I never lift a finger to promote a marriage; I never solemnise one without a sigh and a wonder as to what will be the end of it. And let me tell you a secret. I never hear in the confessional that love is on the wane between husband and wife, without pouring out upon them the sternest vials of my wrath, threatening them with all the terrors of purgatory if so much as a breath of inconstancy of mind or thought is whispered. Oh, if I were not pledged to silence, what Romances of the Confessional could I not tell you!"

We had listened without interruption. Sitting side by side it was easy to talk without being overheard. The train clattered and beat and throbbed on its way. The happy pair were at the other end of the carriage. H. C., who sat opposite to us, instead of giving his undivided attention to the scenery, was composing a sonnet to the fair lady, which he headed, "To Eve in Paradise"--a questionable compliment.

Tortosa, with its narrow streets and gloomy palaces, its strong walls, ancient castle and bridge of boats, all visible from the train, had pa.s.sed away. One lovely view gave place to another.

"It is indeed a rich country through which we are travelling," said the priest, "the very Garden of Spain, which appears to me to find its culminating point round about Valencia. Our whole progress is marked by historical footsteps. I never visit Tortosa without thinking of St.

Paul, and a little of his amazing energy seems to fall upon me. He becomes a real presence to me. An influence he must and will be in all places and in all ages. Then comes Vinaroz with its crumbling walls--one of the loveliest spots in the whole province. I always think its people are like mermen, neither one thing nor the other. They fish the sea and plough the land by turns. Both occupations yield them good fruit, so perhaps they are wise. The fish are abundant, the lampreys excellent. It was here the Duc de Vendome died from a surfeit of fish, of which he was pa.s.sionately fond. But for this, Philip V. would probably never have entered upon his long and eventful reign. Look at those white-winged boats gliding upon the blue waters! Where is there another sea like the Mediterranean? It is the very cradle of history and romance; scene of half the mighty events of the world. Were I an idle man I would spend my life upon its surface."

"What is that distant object?" indicating an enormous perpendicular rock some five miles away, that stood a picturesque, castle-crowned islet, round which the sea was breaking in faint white lines.

"We call it Gibraltar of the West," replied the priest. "An interesting place to visit, and larger than you would imagine, with its 3000 inhabitants. They are curious people: in some things almost a race apart. It is neither an island nor yet part of the mainland. You cannot gain entrance by water, though surrounded by the sea. The only pa.s.sage to it is a narrow strip of sand reaching to the sh.o.r.e. It was here that Pope Benedict XIII. took refuge after the Council of Constance had p.r.o.nounced against him. And here comes Benicarlo with its old walls," he continued, as the train drew up at the small station. "The ancient town is worth a visit. Its people, poor and wretched, might be flourishing and well-to-do, for the neighbourhood is wonderfully productive. The vineyards are amongst the best in Spain; the luscious wines are sent to Bordeaux to mix with inferior clarets, which find their way to the English market. Ah! the English little know what adulterated articles are sold in England that the French would never look at."

At this moment our fair Eve, who for the last few minutes had come out of paradise, looked attentively at the priest, hesitated a moment, then spoke.

"From the singular likeness," she said, "I think you must be related to the Duke de Nevada in Madrid? Forgive me if I am mistaken."

"Senora," replied the old priest with a polite bow, "Juan de Nevada is my elder and much-loved brother, though we seldom meet--for Madrid is the one place I never visit. I am gratified that you see in me the least resemblance to that truly n.o.ble and great man."

"Have you never heard him speak of the Senor de Costello?" continued the lady.

"Without doubt," returned the priest. "They are neighbours in Madrid. I have heard him mention a very charming daughter, and also very charming cousin who lives in Gerona."

"I am that charming daughter," laughed the fair Eve; "but the term applies much more correctly to my lovely cousin. Her beauty has created a furore in Madrid. We are great friends, and she stays with us part of every year. She has just become engaged to your brother's eldest son, and therefore some day will be d.u.c.h.ess de Nevada--though I trust the day is far distant. You have doubtless heard of the engagement?"

"Indeed, yes," returned the priest. "Only last week I wrote my nephew a long letter congratulating him upon his good fortune. But how comes it, madame, if I may be so indiscreet, that my fair travelling companion should not herself eventually have become Madame de Nevada?"

"For the excellent reason that sits opposite to me," quickly replied this lovely Eve, laughing and blushing in the most bewitching manner.

Upon which she introduced her husband to the priest as Count Pedro de la Torre.

The name explained what had puzzled us for some time. We were haunted by a feeling of having met this young man in a previous state of existence, but now discovered that we had really met him in Toledo. He was amongst the group who had sat that first night of our arrival at the other end of the table, smoking and drinking wine and coffee. He it was who had come forward to speak to the man in the sheepskin, and then handed him a b.u.mper of wine. He had left the very next day, and we had seen less of him than of the others.

We recalled the circ.u.mstance to his memory.

"I recognised you at once," he said, "but thought you had forgotten me.

That man in the sheepskin was my father's head huntsman, a privileged being who was born and brought up on the estate, gave us our first lessons in sport and looks upon us as his own children. My father's place--my own, I fear, before long--is near Toledo. If you ever visit it again we should be delighted to show you hospitality. We live with my father when not in Madrid. He is old, in failing health, and could not bear the idea of my leaving home. On my part I was too glad to remain in the dear old nest."

"And we see that we have to offer you our congratulations," bowing as in duty bound to his lovely partner.

De la Torre laughed. "You make me your debtor," he replied. "But however profound your congratulations, they can never equal those I offer to myself. I am indeed far more blest than I merit."

"Wait until I show you my true character," laughed madame, "take the reins of government into my own hands, and leave you with no will of your own--a henpecked husband. At present I tender you a velvet hand; presently it may turn into----"

"If it changed into a cloven foot," he interrupted gallantly, "I should still say it was perfect."

"Ah, you are in paradise," cried the old priest with a sigh; "in paradise. Try to remain there. Do not summon the angel with the flaming sword. Be ever true and tender to each other. Talk not of cloven feet.

Let it ever be the velvet hand, the glance of love, the gentle accents of forbearance. You have every good gift that heaven and earth can give you. Be worthy of your fate."

We interpreted as gently as possible to H. C. the sad news of the engagement of the beauty of Gerona, the lovely Senorita de Costello. It was a great shock. He turned deathly pale and remained for a time staring at vacancy. Then with a profound sigh he tore up his half-finished sonnet, "To Eve in Paradise," and began another self-dedicated, "To Adam in Hades." He keeps it in a sacred drawer, enshrined in lavender and pot-pourri.

"All this rencontre is very a propos," said the old priest. "Again the world is smaller than it seems. And we are getting on. Here is Castellon de la Plana already, with its fine fruit and flower gardens and picturesque peasants. Alas, we see less costume everywhere than of old.

The taste of the world is not improving."

Very pleasantly pa.s.sed the remainder of the journey, through a country beautiful and fertile. Everywhere we saw traces of vineyards and cultivated lands. Here and there oxen were ploughing. Often we saw them thrashing out the rice. Many an old and picturesque well stood out surrounded by trellis-work covered with vine-leaves. But the vines were not festooned after the picturesque manner of North Italy, where you walk under the trellis and pluck the grapes that hang in rich cl.u.s.ters.

Here the vines are trained on sticks or grow like currant bushes, and as in Germany, lose their beauty.

A single field will produce at the same time fruit-trees, almond or olive, corn and grapes, all mingling their beauty and perfume. We pa.s.sed a mult.i.tude of orange and lemon groves with all their deep, rich, sheeny verdure. Nuts and olives, almonds and carobs abounded. Many a palm-tree added its Oriental grace to the landscape. The whole country seemed to revel in sunshine and blue skies. At Saguntum, that town of the ancients, the heights were crowned by walls, fortresses and castles, imperishable outlines grey with the lapse of centuries.

As it chanced we were all bound for Valencia. Our interesting bride and bridegroom were staying there one night and continuing their journey the next day. The priest was to spend a week there.

"I have a proposal to make," said de la Torre, as we neared the capital.

"We telegraphed for rooms and ordered dinner in our sitting-room. You three gentlemen must join us. It will only be adding three covers--an effort the chef will be equal to."

"Let me add my persuasions," added Countess de la Torre graciously and gracefully. "Remember we have been united a whole week and are quite an old married couple. You would give us great pleasure."

But this, strongly supported by de Nevada the priest, we felt bound to decline. It would have been cruel to intrude so long upon a tete-a-tete which just now must form the delight of their existence.

"I must be obdurate," said the priest. "In the first place your delicate paradise food--which no doubt consists of crystallised fruits and b.u.t.terflies' wings--would be wasted upon three hungry travellers dwelling without the enchanted gates. But let us compromise. We are all staying at the same hotel. We three unappropriated blessings will dine together, and after that we will come and take our coffee and Chartreuse with you, remaining exactly one hour by the clock: not a moment more."

So it was settled.

Soon after this all the church towers and steeples of Valencia came into view. Across a stretch of country, we saw the blue sea sparkling in the evening sunshine. In the air, above the rush of the train, there was a sound of ringing bells.