CHAPTER XXI

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THE END OF AN IDYLL.

Days of chivalry not over--In the evening light--Night porter grateful--Dragon in full force--Combative and revengeful--Equal to the occasion--Gall turns to sweetness when H. C. appears--Last night in Lerida--Bane of our host's life--Mysterious disappearance--Monastery of Sigena--Devout ladies--Returning at night--Place empty and deserted--Birds flown with keys--Quite a commotion--"The senor is pleased to joke"--Was murder committed?--Mysteries explained--Probably down the well--Drag for skeletons--Host's horror--"We drink the water"--A tragedy--Out in the quiet night--Discords--Lerida cafe--Create a sensation--Polite captain--Offer declined--Regrets--Final crash--Paradise or Lerida--Deserted market-place--Trees whisper their secrets--El Sereno at the witching hour--Hard upon the angels--Not a bed of roses--Alphonse--End of a long life--Until the dawn--Acolyte and priest--"We must all come to it, senor"--El Sereno disappears for the last time--Daybreak--In presence of death--Alone, but resigned--Surpassing loveliness--Sacred atmosphere.

So the days of chivalry and devotion were not over: could never be over as long as there are Alphonses and Nerissas in the world. As we went back to the hotel in the evening light, the whole town seemed full of romance. One by one the outlines faded and died out, and when we entered the fonda the stars were beginning to shine.

The night porter was standing in the doorway, though his reign had not yet begun. He made us a low bow.

"Senor, allow me to thank you for not complaining of me this morning to the padrone. I am still full of remorse for having locked you out last night, but it is seldom any of our visitors trouble the dark streets of Lerida at midnight. Most of our guests are commercial travellers, who have no eye for the ancient and picturesque, and are generally glad to get early to bed."

Again assuring the worthy man of our good will, we passed up the shabby old staircase. At the top we came into contact with the Dragon striding along with bare arms and flourishing a rolling-pin. She looked the picture of fiery indignation and we wondered what had gone wrong.

After some difficulty we managed to gather that the waiter, in spite of her want of beauty, in spite of her being an appropriated blessing, had offered her a chaste salute. In return for the affront, the rolling-pin--it was a _washing_ pin, by the way--had come into sharp contact with his skull, which, fortunately for him was a hard one. Since then the Dragon had been marching up and down with threatening weapon and flashing eyes, brandishing her rolling-pin like another Communist, mouthing voiceless words.

As soon as she caught sight of H. C., however, her gall turned to sweetness; she marshalled him to our rooms, threw wide the door, and beamed on him one of her most cavernous smiles. That a chaste salute from him would have been very differently received was evident.

It was our last night in Lerida. The landlord still attended us at dinner, for the waiter was nursing his wounds in the kitchen. A violent headache had come on, and he was vowing vengeance against the Dragon, declaring she had imagined the whole thing.

"But for the servants, my life would be happy," said our host. "If they keep the peace with me, they are disputing amongst themselves. The last waiter and chambermaid I had, after quarrelling like cat and dog for six months, suddenly went off one day together, and we never heard of them again. It was a Sunday, and madame and I had gone off with some friends by train to Sarinena--a long day's excursion, for we were going to the Monastery of Sigena, near Villanueva. Has the senor visited the famous monastery?"

We had never done so.

"It is to be regretted," returned the landlord, as he busily changed the plates and poured out the wine. "The monastery is the most interesting in our neighbourhood; and people come from far and wide to see it. In situation it is most romantic, standing near a lovely stream full of fine fish. The nuns, however, don't fish; the very thought would be sacrilege. They are devout ladies, some of them very handsome; a pity so much beauty should be wasted. They are of the order of St. John of Jerusalem, which I have heard dates as far back as the twelfth century, but I am not learned in those matters. I have seen the nuns at mass in their chapel, and they looked like a vision of angels. But I was saying. We had left the hotel in charge of the waiter and chambermaid. As it happened, there were no guests staying here. When we came home at night, we found the place locked and empty. Both servants had flown, and to add insult to injury had taken the keys with them. Fortunately the glass doors in this very dining-room had been left open, and by means of a ladder, and climbing over walls at the risk of one's life, I managed to get in, took the duplicate keys out of my desk, and admitted madame. It caused quite a commotion."

"And had the enterprising pair taken nothing but the keys?" we asked. "Was your gold plate safe, and madame's diamonds?"

"The senor is pleased to joke," laughed the landlord. "My gold plate is pewter, and madame's jewelry is false, excepting her wedding-ring and the few things she happened to have on that never-to-be-forgotten day. No; they had taken nothing. But they had made a first-rate meal, and had tapped and emptied three bottles of my very best Chambertin 1868 vintage, and consumed half a bottle of Chartreuse."

"But you have no proof that they went off together," we suggested. "It may be that murder was committed. The dead body of the chambermaid all this time may be crumbling to dust and ashes in some hole or corner of your cellar. Have you a cellar, or any other place in which a murdered body might be concealed?"

"Santa Maria!" cried our host, turning pale. "The idea never occurred to me, but I shouldn't wonder if you are right. It would explain a good deal that has remained a mystery. We have a deep well out in the yard; so deep that we do not know the bottom, which is supposed to communicate with the river. The man might easily have murdered the woman and thrown her down. And we drink the water!"

"That is hardly the solution that suggests itself. After drinking your three bottles of Chambertin and your half-bottle of Chartreuse, depend upon it their heads began to go round; they felt the world coming to an end, and determined to be beforehand with it. It is clear as daylight: they both threw themselves down the well, and there you will find the skeletons. You had better have it dragged and give them decent burial, or you will certainly be seeing ghosts in the house."

By this time the landlord was trembling with horror; his eyes, grown large and round, would almost have matched the Dragon's. He was no longer in a fit state to pour out wine or change plates.

"And we drink the water," he murmured half a dozen times over. "We drink the water. This accounts for my queer symptoms. But, after all, the bodies cannot be there. They must have communicated with the river, and so floated out to sea. I dare say they will some day turn up in the Panama Canal or on the shores of New Zealand. Senor, I am quite certain this is the true state of the case. I never could understand why those two should go off together. They were always quarrelling, and seemed to hate each other like poison, and I dare say they even disputed as to which should go first down the well. But when all's said and done, it is three years ago, and they will never come back to trouble me."

"Not even as ghosts?"

He shivered.

"I never saw a ghost, senor, but I suppose there are such things. I shouldn't care to see one. Nevertheless, I will have the well dragged--quietly, not to raise a scandal. I can pretend to have dropped in a diamond ring belonging to a client. If the skeletons turn up we must hush up the matter as well as we can, and so dispose of the ghosts. They would never walk after decent burial. Ah, senor, what a tragedy you have opened up! And all the time I was accusing the wretched pair of I know not what!"

Fortunately for us this conversation took place towards the end of dinner, or we should have fared badly. We left the landlord in his dining-room. He had dropped into a chair and was gazing on vacancy, evidently in deep thought as to how he could have the well dragged without creating a scandal to the detriment of his hotel.

We went out into the quiet night, making sure the night porter was on duty and would keep there. The streets were as dark, quiet and ill-lighted as ever, and we took care to avoid Pandemonium. The market-place, so full and lively this morning, was now empty and silent. From the cafe already alluded to streams of light and strains of music were flowing. We turned in out of curiosity. Half a dozen musicians at the further end were making unearthly discords: shrieking and wailing instruments set one's teeth on edge and went down one's back like cold water. The room was fairly full, the atmosphere heavy with smoke; such smoke as only the Catalonians know how to produce.

Our entrance created quite a sensation. We were recognised as English, and the English who visit Lerida are few and far between. Was our visit friendly or the opposite? Their glances plainly asked the question. Then one in military uniform came up, and, with a military salute ventured to sit down near us. We thought it a singular proceeding, but decided to take it in good part. He proved to be a captain of the regiment stationed at Lerida, and a really friendly and polite man.

"I perceive, sirs, that you are strangers," he said. "Can I be of any service to you in a place where I am very much at home?"

To which we replied that our stay was drawing to a close, and we had probably seen the best of the town. "There is nothing you can do for us, though we are grateful for your good intentions. But if you would induce those in authority to grant their passes into the fortress with less restriction, you would confer a favour upon any who may come after us."

"A senseless restriction indeed," replied our new friend, "and we all feel it so; but until some disappointed visitor of consequence appeals to the Queen or the Madrid Government, the thing will go on. There is absolutely no reason why all the world should not be admitted."

At this moment the musicians finished up with a crash. The sound was horrible. H. C. made an excruciating grimace and our captain shook with laughter.

"Do you call that music?" we asked.

"_I_ do not," he returned, "because I have spent much time in Paris, where barbaric music would not be tolerated. But these frantic discords just please the people of Lerida, who have not been educated to anything better. It is over for the night, and now everyone will depart. They have drunk their coffee or wine or spirit, sat a whole evening in a clouded, heated atmosphere, listening enraptured to the strains which have set you quivering, and are going home feeling that if this or paradise were offered to them they would not hesitate to reject paradise. Such is their life."

We got up to depart also.

"I am sorry that I can be of no use to you," said our polite captain; "but if you are leaving Lerida to-morrow, time certainly runs short. I can, however, give you my card, and place myself and all I have at your disposal. If ever you visit Lerida again, and I am quartered here, I hope you will find me out. I will at least promise you a pass into the fortress; and there are a few things you would not be likely to see without the open sesame of one of ourselves."

Upon which he shook hands, gave us a military salute, "wrapped his martial cloak about him," and passed out into the night.

We listened to his quick receding footsteps and then turned away. The silence was only broken by the distant cry of a watchman proclaiming the hour and the weather. "El Sereno," as we called the old guardians of the darkness in Majorca, where many a time we wandered with them in the dead of night amidst the old palaces and watched them light up the wonderful old Moorish remains with their swinging lanterns.

[Illustration: ENTRANCE TO POBLET.]

It was a very dark night, though the stars flashed overhead. We found ourselves on the empty market-place, where trees whispered together. In the morning, when fruit and flowers and a hundred stalls and a crowd of noisy people called for all one's attention, the whispering trees were neglected. Now it was their hour, and they told each other their mighty secrets, and one felt that they were wiser and greater than mankind in its little brief authority. We stood and listened, but they talked in an unknown tongue. Almost as mysterious and full of meaning seemed the outlines of the gabled houses on the hill slopes crowned by that splendid semi-religious fortress, the tall tower cleaving the sky.

From this in days gone by the bells had rung the people to church, and hastened the steps and shortened the breath of many a fat old canon who, purple and panting, crept into his place before the altar after service had begun. But those days are over. For nearly two hundred years the bells have been silent. The sober cassock of the priest no longer haunts the precincts. Sentries with gun and bayonet now rule, and signs and symbols of warfare fill up the ancient aisles and desecrate the sacred pavement.

Gazing upon the faint outlines in the darkness of night, the gleam of a distant lantern coming up a narrow side street caught our eye. It was a watchman, and instinct told us he was none other than our Burgos _Sereno_.

He waved his lantern more energetically than usual, as though expecting to find the inhabitants of Pandemonium lurking in secret corners. As he walked, his staff struck the ground "in measured moments," keeping time with his footsteps. "It is twelve of the night," he cried, "and the night is fair. _El sereno._" We gradually approached him, knowing well we were in his mind. The rays suddenly flashed upon us, and the lantern had peace.

"Senor, instinct told me you were still in Lerida. Midnight seems your hour for walking. In truth it is far better than midday, for the world is sleeping and we have the stars in the sky. I hope that wily porter does not mean to play you the same trick to-night. To-day fifty people have asked me if the town had been bombarded, declaring they expected to see the place in ruins. Have you seen his wife, senor? She is not the angel she looks----"

"Are you not rather hard upon the angels, _Sereno_?"

"I don't think I quite meant to put it that way," he returned, with a laugh that seemed to come from great depths. "No, she does not look an angel--and she is not one either. It is said that when her husband misbehaves, she beats him with her washing-pin; and it is also said that more than once she has held it over the landlord himself. It may be a fable, but when a woman has no voice she is bound to find some other way of venting her spleen. I don't think the porter sleeps on a bed of roses, though his wife is named Rose, and he tries to make the best of his bargain."

"How did you leave Burgos?" we asked, feeling speculations on the porter's domestic relations unprofitable.

"Just the same as ever, senor. There was no change anywhere. The everlasting bells chime out the hours and the quarters, and the voices of a half a dozen watchmen take up the tale. The hotel grows rather worse and more unpopular, if that be possible, and for want of a good inn the town is neglected. No one ever goes there a second time. In that respect one is better off in Lerida."

We were standing near the new cathedral in the market-place, when suddenly we saw a quiet figure hurrying towards us. Even afar off we knew it well. It was our Boot-cleaner in Ordinary.

At once we felt something was wrong; the figure, in spite of quick footsteps, was tragic in its bearing. We went up to him. He grasped our hand and his face told its own tale.

"Oh, senor! the end has come, the end of a long life. Who would have thought it would be so sudden? My poor Nerissa! My life's partner, and my life's blessing! Two hours ago the heart suddenly failed. The doctor gives her until the dawn. But she is quite ready and quite resigned. 'Think what it will be, Alphonse,' she said to me just now. 'To-morrow morning I shall see once more.' Senor, I am broken-hearted. And now that she is being taken from me, I feel that I have not prized her half enough."

"You have been her joy and happiness on earth, and have an eternity of happiness to look forward to. For you and for her life is only beginning. The end of a long and happy life is a matter for rejoicing, not for sorrow."

We had no need to ask a reason for his presence there. He passed on to fulfil his mission.

[Illustration: OLD CATHEDRAL: LERIDA.]

Presently a small door was opened and there issued forth in the stillness of the night an acolyte bearing a lighted lantern, followed by a priest carrying the Host. Alphonse had gone before, and we felt that the greatest kindness was to let him return alone, unhindered. The small silent procession was full of mysterious pathos and solemnity. It told of a soul about to take its solitary and awful journey to the unknown and the unseen. Seldom, we felt, would extreme unction have been administered to a soul so pure as that of our little fairy-queen. El Sereno went down on one knee as it passed, and bared and bowed his head. With arm outstretched resting on his staff of office, he looked quite solemn and picturesque.

"We must all come to it, senor. But I often ask myself what consolation even extreme unction can bring to a badly spent life."

We watched the little procession cross the great square, their footsteps scarcely echoing. The sacred hush and atmosphere that surrounds the dying seemed to go with them as they walked. Fitful gleams and shadows were thrown out by the lantern--they might have been shades of departed spirits. In the dark night, under the silent stars, and in that solemn moment, we seemed brought into touch with the unseen world. We felt deeply for Alphonse, who was passing through the great sorrow of his life. His own silver cord would now loosen, and no doubt he too would quickly follow into the unseen. His wife would take with her all his hold upon life.

After this solemn incident we could only make our way back to the fonda. El Sereno accompanied us to its threshold. We walked down the avenue between the trees, that were still whispering their mighty secrets to each other. Now they seemed laden with immortal mysteries: their burden was of souls winging their flight to realms where no torment touches them. They were in communion with the stars overhead shining down with a serene benediction.

Our portal to-night was open and the night porter was at his post, watching for his tardy visitors! wondering why they tarried. What to him was that tragedy that was passing at the other end of the town?

We inquired for Rose. She had put up her washing-pin, and forgiven the erring waiter; the sun had not gone down upon her wrath. Had her spouse also forgiven the gay Lothario, or had they arranged for coffee and pistols?

The senor was joking. Such manner of dealing was for gentlefolk. For his part, if he owed any one a mortal grudge he would avenge himself by the short Corsican way: a stab in the dark. A short reckoning and a long rest. But he had never quarrelled in his life; never owed any man a grudge. Life was too short; he was too lazy. He thought it a good plan to let things take their course. If any one cared to embrace his wife, they were welcome to do so. He had no jealousy in his composition. She was now sleeping the sleep of the just: and for all he knew and for all he cared, her dreams were of gay Lotharios whom she was chastening with her washing-pin.

We said farewell to El Sereno, who lamented our departure on the morrow, and feared he might see us no more.

This was probable. Lerida, for all its quaint streets, old-world nooks and splendid outlines, was hardly a place to come to a second time. He moved away rather sadly, for he had his duty to perform, and the moments would not stand still.

We watched him receding in the dark night; a stalwart figure; an honest man, with much that was good in him, though his lines were not cast in grooves where influences for good are strong. At the end of the avenue he called the hour and the night; then passed up out of sight into the market-place once more. There in due time would return that quiet, solemn procession of two; the acolyte bearing the lantern, the priest with his bent back and the weight of years upon him bearing the Host: their mission accomplished: the last rites administered: the pure soul perhaps already far on its long journey.

The night passed on to dawn and daybreak and sunrise: a new day, a new world. Was Nerissa still lingering here, or, as she had said, had her sightless eyes opened to the world beyond? It was impossible to leave Lerida without ascertaining how it fared with this couple that we had found so interesting and exceptional. Though it delayed us some hours, it must be done, the visit paid.

We breakfasted, attended by the erring waiter, who looked pale and brooding and revengeful, as though he meditated drowning the Dragon in her own soapsuds. Then, in the clear early morning, we went forth.

The way was familiar by this time. We knew its every aspect: all the outlines were old friends. We passed up the avenue and through the crowded market-place, where people laughed and talked and bought and sold, as if life were one long joke and would last for ever, and there was no such thing as death and decay. Down the long narrow street where we again saw the men pressing the grapes, and noted the stain of the rich red juice, and smelt the luscious perfume of the muscatel--for they have red grapes here with the muscatel scent and flavour. Onwards into a quiet side street and the quaint old house that now had upon it the dark grey shadow.

We mounted the fine broad staircase with its carved oak balusters and panelled walls. There was not a sound to be heard. At such moments sympathy is quick to respond, and the awful messenger makes the weight of his errand known.

The door was slightly ajar. We pushed it gently open and entered, feeling ourselves in the presence of death. Peace had fallen upon the house.

There in the quiet room was the vacant chair near the latticed window, where so recently we had seen that wonderful embodiment of beauty in age. It would never be seen again. Near the bed Alphonse was seated, holding the hand of his dead wife, his other hand up to his face. He looked the picture of sad despair. The aged form, so recently still endowed with life and vigour, was now bent and bowed under the weight of sorrow.

As we entered he glanced up, and stronger than all the evident grief we were surprised to see an unmistakable look of resignation. Quietly placing the cold hand that never would move or clasp his own again, he rose and came towards us.

"Oh, senor, this is kind. You come to me in my loneliness. It is all over. The sightless eyes are closed, the beautiful voice is still. I have often prayed that I might be the last to be taken. Heaven is merciful, and has answered me. As the dawn broke in the east her spirit went. Raising her hand as though pointing to some unseen vision: 'Alphonse,' she said, 'I am called. You will soon join me, beloved.' Then a glory seemed to pass over her face, and she was gone. Senor, come near and look upon that beautiful face once more."

He approached the bed and with reverent hand drew down the sheet.

We were almost startled by the beauty disclosed. The face seemed to have gone back to the days of its youth; it might have been that of a young woman of surpassing loveliness. The rapt expression the old man had spoken of was still there. It was impossible but that some divine vision had been seen at the last by those eyes closed to mortal things. It spoke of intense happiness, of a joy that was to be eternal.

"Alphonse, how can you look upon that face, which has the divine image upon it and the divine glory, and be sad?"

"Senor, I have lost my all. I am very lonely. Yesterday I was rich; I knew not how rich; to-day I am poor and stricken. Yet I am resigned; and I am happy in the thought that in a few days--I verily believe in a few days--my body will rest with hers in one grave, and our spirits will be united in Paradise. I am not sad; only intensely lonely. Senor, you gave her almost her very last pleasure. After you had left, she said that for years our little room had not seemed so bright. You brought her a breath from her old world and she declared that she felt her youth renewed. Was it not the spirit telling her in advance how soon her youth should indeed return to her? Oh, Nerissa, my life's joy, my best beloved, in what realms is your pure spirit now wandering? Surely you need me to perfect your happiness?"

We stayed awhile with him, and before leaving found the forlorn attitude, the despairing droop had departed. As we said good-bye we quietly placed money in his hand.

"To buy flowers," we explained. "Place them gently in her coffin. The fairest flowers you can find. They will still be less fair than she."

"Ah, senor," he returned, "it is a long farewell. I shall look upon your face no more. But when I meet her again we will talk of you. And do not think that you leave me to utter solitude. I have many friends about me, and though humble they are good. For my few remaining days I need have no thought, and I have no fear."

We departed. The little episode was over. But it would be ever associated in our mind with Lerida, enshrouding the town in a peculiarly sacred atmosphere.

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