Glories of Spain

by Charles W. Wood

To refuse would give her pain; the train was not due for an hour and a half; a cup of Miguella's coffee was not to be despised. She turned with a glad smile, opened her door, and invited us to enter.

It was a surprise to find her cottage the perfection of order, for the Spaniards are not famous for the virtue. She placed chairs, and bustled about her preparations. In a few moments a peat fire with sticks was blazing on the hearth, water was put on to boil, and a brown earthenware coffee-pot was placed on the embers to warm. In her own domain Miguella became a handy, comely old woman, who moved about without noise and must have been a good helpmeet to the husband she had lost a quarter of a century ago. Whilst the water was boiling, she took us into an inner room and showed us her arrangements for making cheese. It was an interesting sight, and the old woman went up still further in our estimation. Everything was spotlessly pure and clean. A grey cat followed her about like a dog and seemed devoted to her.

"She is getting old like me," said poor Miguella, "but she is a faithful animal, and never by any chance puts her nose into a pan of milk. I might leave it all open; nothing would be touched. It is only ewes' milk, señor. Would you like some in your coffee?"

We thought black coffee more stimulating.

She placed it on the table, hot and fragrant. Miguella had not overpraised the cunning of her hand. With a slight diffidence meant for an apology, she took out one of her fresh little cheeses, and with home-made bread, placed it also on the table. The coffee she served in white cups of coarse porcelain, which we duly admired, and she brought forward plates of the same material.

So Miguella, in largeness of heart gave us hospitality, and our simple collation was so perfect that a king need have wished no better. She had put on a white apron to serve us becomingly, and from her chimney-corner, where she added fuel to her fire, surveyed the appreciation of her labours with pride and pleasure. To us, the incident—not an every-day one—had borne a certain interest and charm. We had gone back for a moment to primitive days, "when Adam delved and Eve span." The best of Miguella's nature had come out simply because we had been a little kind to her: and we wisely reflected that too often the greatest enemy to mankind is man.

Our last glimpse of Miguella was of a comely old woman standing in her doorway to watch us depart. The glow of the setting sun was upon her face, which was softened and refined by her abundant neat grey hair. She looked pleased and happy. No doubt she would return to her chimney-corner and cheese-making, and ponder over the day's small adventure. Juan would be no loser. Many a centimo would find its way from her pocket to his, and he would think her more motherly than ever.

On our way to the station we saw the sad funeral procession approaching. Most had dispersed, but some six or eight women were returning with the poor mother, who still looked bowed and broken. As Juan had wisely said, time would lessen the blow, but for the present no silver lining was visible in the heavy cloud overshadowing the life.

We watched them disappear through one of the large round doorways into the home now desolate for ever. Then we went on, and presently the train came up, and Saguntum passed out of our lives, though not out of memory. Miguella and Juan, the ancient ruins and outlines crowning the heights, the quaint streets with their picturesque interiors, the sad procession winding slowly down the long white road, the bowed mourners and the weeping mother: nothing could ever be forgotten.