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Travelling Thirds

<h2 class='c007'>VI</h2></div> <div class='c005'> <ANTIMG class='drop-capi' src='images/i-p057.jpg' width-obs='150' alt='' /></div> They were to have remained in Barcelona a week, but Mr. Moulton, alarmed at the impassioned devotion of Zuñiga to Lydia, decided to leave on the morning of the fourth day. “That will be just six hours before Zuñiga is up, so you need not worry about giving him the slip,” said Captain Over, who thought that Lydia would be well out of the young Spaniard’s way. “If Miss Shore will join me in the morning we can do the shopping for the family. She speaks Spanish, and I have done this sort of thing before.” Mr. Moulton, who looked upon Over as his personal conquest, and, despite his good looks, never thought of him in the light of a marrying man, gave his message to Catalina, 58and pattered down the hall to break the news to his family. He was nervous but determined. Mrs. Moulton had seen all of Barcelona that was necessary for retrospect and conversation. Jane immediately began to pack her portmanteau. Lydia shot him a glance of reproach, flushed, and turned away. “I won’t have any decadent Spaniards philandering round my daughters,” said Mr. Moulton, firmly. “If you were going to marry a Spaniard I had rather it were a peasant, for they, at least, are the hope of the country. This young Zuñiga hasn’t an idea in his head beyond flirting and horse-racing. He has no education and no principles.” “I’ve talked with him more than you have,” said Lydia, with spirit, “and I think him lovely!” “Lovely? What a term to apply to any man, let alone a dissipated Spaniard! Have I not begged you, my love, to choose your adjectives—one of the first principles of style?” “I don’t write,” retorted Lydia, who was 59in a very naughty mood. “I have no use for style.” “I should never be surprised to see your name in our best magazines,” said Mr. Moulton, with his infinite tact. “Make this young man the hero of a story if you like. A clever Englishwoman I met yesterday, and who has lived in Spain for many years, told me that the Spanish youth is the brightest in the world, but that when he reaches the age of fourteen his brain closes up like the shell of an oyster and never opens again; the reason is that at that age he takes to immoderate smoking and various other forms of dissipation, the brain from that time on receiving neither nourishment nor encouragement. I intend to write an essay on the subject. It is most interesting. And I thought out a splendid phrase this afternoon. I’ll write it down this moment before I forget it.” He whipped out his note-book. “‘The only hope for Spain lies in the abolishment of bull-fights, beggars, and churches.’ First of all there must be a revolution in which the most worthless aristocracy in Europe will disappear forever. 60I would not have them beheaded, but driven out. Now, pack before you go to bed, my love, for we must be up bright and early—we have not seen the cathedral. Shall I help you?” Jane had finished. Lydia sulkily declined his assistance. He kissed them both, and went off to his nightly jottings and to pack the conjugal portmanteau. Lydia continued to brush out her golden locks and to frown at her mirror. She longed for sympathy and a confidant, but knew that Jane would agree with her father, and recalled that Catalina had barely taken note of Zuñiga’s existence. “But if he has any sand,” she informed herself, “he will follow me up. And I’ll marry whom I please—so there!” The next morning, having seen the rest of the party off to the cathedral, Catalina and Captain Over started down the Rambla Centro in high good-humor; they shared the exhilaration of moving on, and enjoyed the novelty of the new housekeeping. They packed a hamper with cold ham and roast 61chicken, cake, and two loaves of bread. Then Catalina bought recklessly in a confectioner’s and Captain Over visited a coffee-shop. When they had filled the front seat of their cab, Catalina, after a half-hour of sharp bargaining, bought a white lace mantilla and a fine old fan. “These are two of the things I came to Spain for,” she announced to the bewildered Englishman, who had shopped with women before, but never with a woman who was definite, concentrated, driving hard in a straight line. As they went out with the precious bundle he ventured his first remark. “I had an idea you were indifferent to dress.” “I am and I am not. I had rather be comfortable most of the time, and I hate being stared at, but when I dress I dress. I may never wear this mantilla, but it is a thing of beauty to possess and look at.” “I hope you will wear it, and here in Spain. Are you part Spanish, by-the-way?” “No, Indian.” “Indian?” He looked at her with renewed interest. “Do you mind?” 62“No, I don’t. It’s a good excuse for a whole lot of things.” “Ah, I see. Well, it certainly makes you different from other people. You like that and you may believe it.” Lydia was profoundly thankful to leave Barcelona while her marquis still slumbered; she was too young and curious not to be glad to travel on any terms, but to say farewell in a third-class carriage to a member of an ancient aristocracy was quite another matter. She accounted for Captain Over’s willingness to travel humbly by the supposition that he was in love with Catalina, and did not believe for a moment that it was his habit. But Captain Over was not in love with Catalina. He was still half an invalid, and constitutionally indolent, as are most men who are immediately attractive to women. She interested and amused him, was a good comrade when in a good-humor, and as full of pluck and resource as a boy. He liked all the family, including Jane, who was charmed with him, and enjoyed Mr. Moulton’s 63many good stories. It was a pleasant party and he was glad to join it, but if he had been summoned hastily back to England, or been sure that when the journey was over he should never see these agreeable companions again, he would have accepted the decree with the philosophy of one who had met many delightful people in many country-houses and sat by many delightful women at many London dinners, whose very names he might forget before he saw them again. It was a part of his charm that he appeared to live so wholly in the present, without retrospect or anticipation, and Catalina concluded it was the result of being a soldier, whose time was not his own, and who was ready and willing to accept the end of all things at any moment. The cool, open car in which they moved out of Barcelona had an aisle down the middle and was new and highly varnished. Even Jane condescended to remark that in hot weather in a dusty country such accommodations were preferable to upholstered seats which, doubtless, were not brushed 64once a month. Then she retired to her Pater, and the rest of the party hung out of the windows and gazed at the tremendous ridge of Montserrat cutting the blue sky like a thousand twisted fingers petrified in their death-throes. It is the most jagged mass of rock in Europe; Nature would seem to have spat it out through gnashing teeth; and surely no spot more terrifying even to the gods could have been selected for the safe-keeping of the holy grail. Then once more the train ambled through vineyards and silver olive groves, past old brown castles on their rocky heights, glimpses of Roman roads and ruins, the innumerable tunnels making the brown plains more dazzling, the sea in glimpses like a chain of peacock’s feathers. To-day for the greater part of the trip their companions were a large party of washing-women, brawny, with shining, pleasant faces. They wore blue cotton frocks and white handkerchiefs pinned about their slippery heads. On the capacious lap of each was a basket of white clothes. They gossiped volubly and paid no attention to 65the Americans, who, indeed, in a short time, were so dusty that the varnish of civilization was obliterated. They were a gay party. As the day’s trip was to be short, Mrs. Moulton concluded not to feel tired, and while they were in the tunnels Captain Over made her a cup of tea under the seat, regardless of the Guardia Civile who were honoring the carriage with their presence. These personages looked very sturdy and self-confident in their smart uniforms, and quite capable of handling the always possible bandit. Catalina audibly invoked him. She was possessed by that exhilaration which a woman feels when in the companionship of a new and interesting man with whom she is not in love. The great passion induces an illogical depression of spirits, melancholy forebodings, and extremes of sentimentalism, which are the death of high spirits and humor. Catalina had some inkling of this, having experienced one or two brief and silent attacks of misplaced affection, and rejoiced in the spontaneous and mutual friendship. Outwardly she looked as solemn as usual, 66but, perhaps, even hidden sunshine may warm, for on no day since they left Lyons had the party been so independent of material ills. Even Lydia came forth from the sulky aloofness of the morning, and Jane laid Pater to rest, when, after the excellent luncheon, Catalina produced a large box of bonbons. By this time there was no one in the car but the Guardia Civile and a young peasant, a brawny, handsome Catalan, who might have been the village blacksmith and a possible leader in the anarchy of his province. He had the haughty, independent manner of his class, and, although his eye was fiery and reckless, the lower part of his face symbolized power and self-control. Lydia, having carefully washed the dust from her face, in a spirit of mischief and breathless in her first open act of mutiny, left her seat abruptly and offered the box of sweets first to the military escort, who arose and declined with a profound bow, then to the young peasant. She had stood before the guards with downcast eyes, but when the peasant turned to her she deliberately 67lifted her long brown eyelashes, and the blue shallows sparkling with coquetry met a wild and eager flash never encountered before. A blue silk handkerchief was knotted loosely about her dishevelled golden head, she wore a blue soft cotton blouse, and her cheeks were pink. Dainty and sweet and gracious, what wonder that she dazzled the rustic accustomed to maidens as swarthy as himself? “Madre de Dios!” he muttered. “A dulce, señor?” said Lydia, with the charming hesitation of the imperfect linguist. Then the peasant rose, and with the grace and courtesy of a grandee possessed himself of a bonbon. But he did not know, perhaps, that it was intended to go the road of black bread and garlic, for he fumbled in the pocket of his blouse, brought forth an envelope, rolled up the sweetmeat, and tenderly secreted it. Lydia gave him a radiant smile, shook her head, and still held out the box. “Eat one,” she said; and as the man only stared at her with deepening color, she 68put one of the bonbons into her own mouth and motioned to him to follow suit. This time he obeyed her, and for the moment they had the appearance, and perhaps the sensation, of breaking bread together. “Dios de mi alma!” muttered the man, and then Lydia bowed to him gravely and turned slowly, reluctantly, and rejoined her panting family. Mrs. Moulton’s face was scarlet; she was sitting upright; the air-cushions were in a heap on the floor. Mr. Moulton’s bland visage expressed solemn indignation, an expression which he had the ability to infuse into the review of a book prudence warned him to condemn. “Lydia Moulton!” exclaimed her mother. “I am grieved and ashamed,” said her father. “Why?” asked Lydia, flippantly. “It is the custom in Spain to share with your travelling companions, and last night you said you had rather I married a Spanish peasant than a Spanish gentleman.” “I am ashamed of you!” repeated Mr. Moulton, with dignity. “Are you looking for a husband, may I ask? If so, we will go 69direct to Gibraltar and take the first steamer for America.” Lydia colored, but she was still in a naughty mood, and, encouraged by a sympathetic flash from Catalina, she retorted: “No, I don’t want to marry, but I do want to be able to look at a man unchaperoned by the entire family. I haven’t had the liberty of a convent girl since I arrived in Europe. I feel like running off with the first man that finds a chance to propose to me.” Mrs. Moulton, whose complexion during this outburst had faded to its normal gray tones, the little lines of cultivated worries and invalidism quivering on the surface, turned her pale gaze upon Catalina. She stared mutely, but volumes rolled into the serene, contemptuous orbs two seats away. Mr. Moulton, in his way, was a rapid thinker. “My dear,” he said, gently, to the revolutionist, “if we have surrounded you it has not been from distrust, but because you are far too pretty to be alone among foreigners for a moment. At home, as you know, you often receive your young 70friends alone. I am sure that when you think the matter over you will regret your lapse from dignity, particularly as you have no doubt disturbed that poor young man’s peace of mind.” Lydia seldom rebelled, but she had learned that when her father became diplomatic she might as well smite upon stone; so she refrained from further sarcasm, and, retreating to a seat behind the others, stared sullenly out of the window. She was not unashamed of herself, but longed, nevertheless, to meet again the fiery gaze of the Catalan—“the anarchist,” she called him; it sounded far better than peasant. Zuñiga dwindled out of her memory as the poor, artificial thing he no doubt was. At last she had seen a blaze of admiration in the eyes of a real man. She was not wise enough to know that it was nothing in her meagre little personality that had roused the lightnings in a manly bosom, merely a type of prettiness made unconventional by the setting and the man. But the impression was made, and had she dared she would have sent an occasional demure glance towards 71the young peasant behind her; as it was she adjusted her charming profile for his delectation. They entered the long tunnel which the train traverses before skirting the bluffs of Tarragona. Spain does not light its railway carriages before dark. Lydia had thrown her arm along the seat. Suddenly she became aware that some one, as lithe and noiseless as a cat, had entered the seat behind her. She was smitten with sudden terror, and held her breath. A second later a pair of young and ardent lips passed as lightly as a passing flame along her rigid hand. “Dueño adorado!” The voice was almost at her ear. Then she knew that the seat was empty again. Her first impulse had been to cry out; she was terrified and furious. But she had a quick vision of a mêlée of knives and pistols, the Guardia Civile and peasant, reinforcements from the next car, and the death of all her party. It was the imaginative feat of her life, and as the train ran out of the tunnel she congratulated herself warmly and put on her hat as indifferently 72as Jane, who had never known the kiss of man. She swept past her admirer with her head high and her lids—with their curling lashes—low. <div class='chapter'> 73 <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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