Glories of Spain

by Charles W. Wood

H. C. chanced to have one in his pocket-book, which he had once put aside for the Madrid houri who married the Russian nobleman. This he presented with much grace to the enraptured Sibyl. Their heads were very close together at the moment; there seemed a clinking sound in the air. We happened to be consulting the time, and on looking up, the Sibyl's face seemed flushed and conscious, and H. C.'s poetically pale complexion had put on a delicate pink. This was a little too suspicious—even to our unsuspecting mind—and with a hasty bow to the interesting assembly, and wishing them all good appetites and fair fortunes, we went on our way. Looking back once, the charming Sibyl was still gazing towards us with a very sentimental expression, whilst H. C. for the next ten minutes fell into silence.

The day wore on to evening. We watched the shades of night gathering over the vast valley and distant hills. Everything grew hazy and indistinct, and finally gave place to a world of darkness and mystery. The outlines of Mons Serratus loomed upwards against the night sky. The stars came out flashing and brilliant as they travelled along in their awful and majestic silence. The great constellations were strongly marked. Here and there lights twinkled in the monastery, and in the various houses of the settlement. Where the gipsy party had encamped, silence and solitude now reigned. A black mark told where the tripod had held the kettle and betrayed what had been. The whole encampment had returned to the lower world by the evening train. We had watched them enter a special carriage, which they filled to overflowing. Their spirits had not failed. As the train moved off they sent up a shout which echoed and re-echoed in many a gorge and cleft. Presently, when the stars had travelled onwards, we felt it was time to disappear from the world for a season. We were taking a last look at the Gothic arches, through which the sky and the stars shone with serene repose. The night was solemn and impressive; a strange hush lay upon all. It might have been a dead universe, only peopled by the spirits of the dead-and-gone monks and hermits roaming the mountain ranges. Throughout the little settlement not a soul crossed our path; doors and windows were closed; here and there a light still glimmered. We caught sight of another wandering light far up a mountain path, held by some one well acquainted with his ground—perhaps a last surviving hermit taking his walks abroad, or a monk contemplating death and eternity in this overwhelming darkness. We wondered whether it was Salvador, our musical monk, seeking fresh inspiration as he climbed nearer heaven.

As we passed out of the arches we came upon our funny little monk, who, having ended all his duties, was going to his night's rest. He caught sight of us and gave a brisk skip.

"Welcome to Montserrat," he cried once more. "I am delighted to see you." From long habit he evidently used the form unconsciously—it was his peculiar salutation. "You are about to retire, señor. Let me conduct you to your rooms. I should like to see you comfortably settled for the night."

From his tone and manner he might have been taking us to fairyland; beds of rose-leaves; a palace fitted up with gold and silver, where jewels threw out magic rays upon a perfumed atmosphere. He swung back the great gates of the Hospederia. We passed into an atmosphere dark, chilling, and certainly not perfumed. Mysterious echoes died away in distant passages. The little monk lighted a lantern that stood ready in the corridor, and weird shadows immediately danced about. One's flesh began to creep, hair stood on end. In this huge building of a thousand rooms we were to spend a solitary night. It was appalling. As the monk led the way passages and staircases seemed endless: a labyrinth of bricks and mortar. Should we survive it: or, surviving, find a way out again?

At last our rooms. Small candles were lighted that made darkness visible. We should manage to see the outline of the ghosts that appeared and no more. The little monk skipped away, wishing us pleasant dreams. Pleasant dreams! Never but once before—and that in the fair island of Majorca—did we spend such a night of weird experiences. If we fell asleep for a moment our dreams were troubled. We awoke with a start, feeling the very thinnest veil separated us from the unseen. The corridors were full of mysterious sounds: our own particular room was full of sighs. Ghostly hands seemed to pass within an inch of our face, freezing us with an icy cold wind that never came from Arctic regions. Once we were persuaded an unearthly form stood near us; to this day we think it. We were wide awake, and when we sat up it was still there. The form of a monk in cloak and cowl. A strange phosphoric light seemed to emanate from it, making it distinctly visible. The face was pale, sad and hopeless. Large dark eyes were full of an agony of sorrow and disappointment. It was evidently the ghost of a monk who had repented his vows and learned too late that even a convent cell cannot bring peace to the soul. A strange thrill passed through us as we gazed, yet of fear or terrors we felt nothing. The sadness and beauty of the face held us spell-bound. We found courage to address it. "Spirit of the dead and gone, wherefore art thou here? Why wander in this unrest? Can we do aught to ease thee of thy burden? Will our earthly prayers and sympathy avail thee in thy land of shadows?"

No doubt there was a slight suspicion of rhythm in the words that would have become H. C. rather than our more sober temperament; but they came of their own accord, and we did not wait to turn them into better prose. We listened and longed for a reply, but none came. Nothing but a deep-drawn sigh more expressive of sorrow than all the words that ever were coined. The singular part of it was that whilst the apparition was visible, all the mysterious sounds and echoes in the passages ceased, and began again when it disappeared.

As disappear it did. No word was spoken; no sign was made. For one instant a mad thought had passed through our brain that perhaps it was about to conduct us to some buried treasure: some Aladdin's lamp, whose possession should make us richer than Solomon, more powerful than the kings of the earth. But the strange light grew faint, the outlines shadowy, until all faded into thin air. The room was once more empty; and we held no treasure. It was a long and troubled night. Rest we had none. Yet next morning H. C.—whose poetical temperament should have made him susceptible to all these influences—informed us that he had slept the dreamless sleep of the just. He had heard and seen nothing. This seemed unfair, and was not an equal division of labour.

Before daylight we were up and ready for our pilgrimage. It required some courage to turn out, for the world was still wrapped in Egyptian darkness. In the east as yet there was not the faintest glimmer of dawn. In the house itself a ghostly silence still reigned. Apparently throughout the little settlement not a soul stirred. Nevertheless it was the end of the night, and before we were ready to sally forth there were evidences of a waking world. We went down through the dark passages carrying a light, which flickered and flared and threw weird shadows around.