Glories of Spain

by Charles W. Wood

It was a sight worth seeing. The room was large and airy, quaint and old as the rest of the house. Light came in through large casements with latticed panes that bore the unmistakable seal of time. The room itself was in perfect and spotless order. In a large alcove stood the bed, neatly draped and curtained. What furniture the room contained matched its surroundings. There was an utter absence of any commonplace element about it.

But it was not all this that distinguished it so singularly. It was the figure of a little old woman seated near the latticed panes in an arm-chair. The evening light, still strong in the west, fell upon her. As we entered she did not move, but turned her sightless eyes towards us, with the intent, listening look that is so pathetic. She was very small, and looked almost like a fairy-queen. Her hair was white as snow, but still abundant and faultlessly arranged. The face was small and refined, and possessed all the beauty of age, just as in years gone by it must have possessed in a very marked manner all the beauty of youth. It had the placid look the blind so often wear, was delicately flushed, and without line or wrinkle. This was very strange in one who must have had, to some extent at least, a hard and laborious life, with many anxieties. Her dress was neatness itself; an old dark silk probably given to her by a rich visitor whose turn it had served; and it was worn with the air that seemed to betoken one who had been a lady. But her whole appearance and bearing was gentle. It was a perfect and faultless picture, charming to look upon.

We turned to the old man in wonder. His eyes were fixed upon his wife with an intensity of admiration and reverence almost startling. It was evident that the love of youth had survived every trial, all life's rough lessons. So far he could have nothing to regret. The folly of which he had been guilty—and it was an undoubted folly and mistake—had been condoned and excused by the after life.

"We no longer marvel that you deserted the ranks of the army for those of a sweeter service," we said, looking from one to the other and feeling that we gazed upon a wonderful idyll.

"Was she not worth it—even all I renounced!" he cried. "Nerissa, I have told these gentlemen all my boyish folly and indiscretion—all you made me give up for your bewitching eyes."

Almost a youthful flush passed over the old lady's face as she smiled rather sadly in response.

"It was indeed much to renounce for me," she said, in a very sweet voice. "I was not worth it; no woman could be worth it. I ought never have permitted it, and the thought has been one of the lasting sorrows of my life. But we act first and think after. Though after all, what I renounced was also great."

"We are quite sure you would do it all over again. You do not in the least regret it, and your life has been a very happy one."

Again the youthful flush passed over the old lady's face. She put out her hand—a small, delicate hand—as though searching for her husband's. He had soon clasped it.

"Nerissa, you do not regret anything," he said. "You know quite well you would do it all over again if we could go back to the beginning of life."