As the clock struck seven we rang the bell. The drooping handle was in itself an object of art: a wonderful specimen of iron work cunningly wrought. We were not privileged to use the hidden spring, which moreover we could not discover. The bell was immediately answered by Juanita in grey hair, placid face and black silk gown; a picture of high respectability. She greeted us with a serene smile and assured us that we were welcome: tones and manner a reflection of her master's: the fruits of long and faithful service. Hers was a face to be taken on trust.
As we entered, the canon came out of his dining-room.
"I like this punctuality," he cried, "and you are doubly welcome. As our frugal dinner is not ready, I will take you through my little house whilst a glimmer of daylight lasts. Let us first lay siege to Juanita's regions—my good old housekeeper who has been with me or mine for fifty years—ever since she was a maiden of ten. We will explore the mysteries of her preparations for our benefit. I always feel like a child when gazing upon her handiwork."
A long passage panelled in old dark oak led from the dining-room to the kitchen. Here, indeed, we found ourselves in fairyland. The room was far larger than the dining-room. Latticed windows looked out upon a small courtyard, half conservatory, where bloomed a profusion of sweet-smelling flowers. The kitchen itself was a picture; walls were panelled, the ceiling was of oak; everything bore the unmistakable tone of age. Facing the windows were hooks and shelves bearing the brightest of brass pots and pans. The latticed windows, the flowers beyond all, here found their reflections multiplied. Every brass implement was of the most artistic description. At right angles with this, other shelves bore a small but special dinner-service of old Spanish ware, the only example of its kind we had ever seen. Below this was an old dresser on which the silver used by the canon was displayed, with here and there an artistic water-pot and cooler.
In the centre of the spacious kitchen was a large, solid, substantial oak table. At one end lay some work at which Juanita had evidently lately been busy. At the other end was a small pile of the curious Spanish-ware plates, evidently on their way to the dining-room.
Under one of the latticed windows was Juanita's help-mate: a young woman busily engaged in preparing a dish of olives. One could have lived in this room with the greatest pleasure, and never asked for anything more artistic or luxurious. A savoury smell, as of frying of eggs with sweet herbs, was in the air; yet were there no signs of stove or cooking. A huge chimney-place there was, in which half a dozen people might have comfortably found seats; but nothing was to be seen excepting a couple of old-fashioned dogs on which some lighted wood and peat sparkled and crackled, whilst the blue smoke went curling up the wide opening.
"Wonderful!" we cried, taking in the incomparable effect of the whole room. "This is a house of magic."
"Very simple magic," laughed the old canon. "I fear that in sleight of hand Juanita and I would be failures. Her magic lies in preparing simple dishes."
"But where are they prepared?" we said. "There is neither sign nor sound of cooking here."