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Travelling Thirds

<h2 class='c007'>XIV</h2></div> <div class='c005'> <ANTIMG class='drop-capi' src='images/i-p141.jpg' width-obs='150' alt='' /></div> During the journey to Toledo Catalina stared sulkily out of the window or slept with her head against the side of the car. She ignored Over’s attempts to converse until, with chilling dignity, he retired to the opposite end of the compartment and wondered how he could have thought of love in connection with a bad-tempered child. He was delighted at the prospect of reunion with the orthodox Moultons, and understood something of their serene contempt for originality. It is true that Catalina asleep, with the deep vermilion on her cheeks, her tumbled head drooping, looked so innocent and lovely that she set him to wondering regretfully why there was no such thing as perfection in woman; and from thence it was but a step 142to imagine Catalina with the qualities and training that would make her the ideal of man. There was no harm in indulging one’s self in idyllic imagining, by way of variety, Over concluded; doubtless it was good for the soul. Whatever the motive, his imagination performed unaccustomed feats during the drowsy afternoon, while his companion slept and the other occupants of the car, few in number, smoked and said little. It pictured Catalina ten years hence; she would then be thirty-three, an age he had always found sympathetic in woman; she would have seen the world, have adapted herself to many new conditions, and in the process learned self-control, pared off the jagged edges of her egoism, and supplemented her beauty with a distinction of manner and style that would compel the homage of the best societies of the world. He had seen what she was capable of, and he suspected that she was ambitious. It was her love of solitude and dislike of mere men and women that had swathed her so deeply in her crudities; but if she carried 143out her intention of living for some years in England and Europe, and cultivated the right sort of people, the transformation was almost certain. Perhaps it would be worth while to ask his mother to take care of her in England. Lady “Peggy” Over was a clever, warm-hearted woman of the simple, old-fashioned aristocracy, who offered her sons no assistance in choosing their wives, and had the broadest tolerance for the vagaries of young people. With her lively mind and humor she would win upon Catalina at once, and her complete honesty of nature would finish the conquest of a girl whose hatred of sham was almost fanatical. Catalina opened her eyes upon him, half awake, and he asked her, impulsively: “What is your ambition? What do you want?” She answered, sleepily, but without hesitation, “To have four children.” He was too astonished to speak for a moment; then he asked, feebly, “Is that all?” “No,” she said, now quite awake. “I want to meet all the most interesting people in the world, and read the most interesting 144books, and show a lot of other people what frauds and useless creatures they are; but I love children as much as I detest most people, and I’ll never be contented till I have four. I don’t see why you look so dumfounded! What is there so remarkable in wanting children?” “Oh, nothing,” he said, soothingly. “Perhaps we can see Toledo in a moment.” Mr. Moulton met them at the station. His face was flushed and his manner perturbed, but he shook their hands cordially and protested that he had never been so glad to lay eyes on any one. “Let us walk up,” said Catalina, and she strode on ahead. The men followed, Mr. Moulton talking with nervous volubility. “Of course I did not blame you, my dear Catalina,” he reiterated. “Such a contretemps in Spain is easy enough. Mrs. Moulton is still a little upset, but you know what—er—invalids are, and I beg you to be patient—” “It won’t worry me in the least. But 145why this change of front? Why didn’t you come to Baeza?” “That wretched peasant saw us as I was craning my neck looking for you, and reached the train in three bounds. Of course, we were safe in the first-class carriage, and at Alcazar I had a brilliant idea. We drove to the hotel, as usual, with all our baggage, and that mountebank—I shall never pronounce his impious name—supposed we were settled for the night. After dinner I told the landlord—through the kind medium of a Frenchman who spoke both English and Spanish—that, being much annoyed by this creature, we had determined to change our itinerary and go direct to Madrid where we could call upon our minister to protect us. We then took the night train and were under way a good hour before it was time for the man to appear with his guitar. I even bought tickets for Madrid, and as we changed cars at midnight we were practically unobserved. We are very comfortable, and are in time for a grand fête.” “How is Lydia?” Catalina asked, dryly. “The poor child is very nervous, but most 146thankful to be rid of the man. By-the-way, I telegraphed as soon as I arrived in Toledo.” “This is Spain,” said Over. The hint of Mrs. Moulton’s displeasure had fallen on heedless ears. They were crossing the Alcantara Bridge that leads through the ancient gateway of the same name up to one of the most beautiful cities to look upon in the world. Toledo, the lofty outpost of the range of mountains behind the raging Tagus, is an almost perpendicular mass of rock on all sides but one, its uneven plateau crowded with palaces and churches, tiny plazas and narrow, winding streets, a mere roof of tiles from the Alcazar, which stands on its highest point, but from below a wild yet symmetrical outcropping of the rock itself. Founded, so runs the legend, by a son of Noah, certainly the ancient capital of the Goths and the scene of much that was terrible and romantic in their history, a stronghold of the Moors, who left here as elsewhere their indelible imprint, and later of the sovereigns of Castile, equally inaccessible from the vega and the defile of the Tagus, it was one of the most impregnable cities in history so long 147as a man was left to dispute the gates on the steep road rising from the plain. It is to-day a sarcophagus of ancient history, compact, isolated, little disturbed by the outer world, yet with an intense and vivid life of its own. Catalina hung over the bridge and stared down into the rocky gorge where the river had torn its way, and soldiers of every nation of the ancient world had been hurled, cursing and shrieking and praying, from the beetling heights above. Impervious to Mr. Moulton’s kindly hints, she led them through the old streets of the Moors, streets so narrow they were obliged to walk like stalking Indians, but with beautiful old balconied houses on either side, and glimpses of luxurious patio within; not pausing before the broad gray front of the hotel until the trio of cousins had awaited her some fifty minutes. Mrs. Moulton was so far the reverse of a cruel and vicious woman that she had been, for the good of her soul, too amiable and self-sacrificing for at least thirty years of her life. Not fine enough to have developed loveliness of character, there had, perhaps, 148been too few opportunities for reaction, or, if occurring, they had been conscientiously stifled. A good woman, but not of the most distinguished fibre, the effacement of self for the few she loved had been but a higher order of selfishness, and when for the first time in her life a positive hatred possessed her it found her without that greatness which ignores and foregoes revenge. Catalina, it must be confessed, would have tried the patience of far more saintly characters than Mrs. Moulton, and when to a natural antipathy was added the daily jarring of long-tried nerves the wonder was that the crisis did not come sooner. But Mrs. Moulton was accustomed to self-control and to the exercise of the average amount of Christianity. Moreover, she had her standards of conduct, and held all exhibitions of feeling to be vulgar. Therefore, in spite of her growing and morbid desire to humble Catalina, she might have forborne to force an issue, and perhaps, had circumstances favored the alien, have grimly, however unwillingly, triumphed once more over self. 149But these last days had unravelled her nerves. To passionate sympathy for her pale and persecuted daughter, misled in the first instance by the daily example of a barbarian, had recently been added a night of hideous discomfort, when, not one of the four speaking a language but their useless own, and without the invaluable Baedeker, they had fled from a ridiculous peasant, changing trains at midnight, waiting hours at way-stations, arriving at Toledo in the gray, cold dawn, hungry, worried, exhausted, to find neither omnibus nor cab at the station. As Mrs. Moulton toiled up the steep road through the carven gates of terrible and romantic memory, she had heartily wished that modern enterprise had blown up the rock with dynamite or run an elevator from the Tagus. It was then that her hatred of Catalina—who at least with her knowledge of foreign languages had been an acceptable courier—became an obsession, and she could have shrieked it out like any common virago. The emotional wave had receded, but left a dark and poisonous deposit behind. 150It was easy to convince herself that Catalina had lost the train at Albacete on purpose. When her husband had received Captain Over’s telegram she had assumed that the Englishman had persuaded the girl to return, eager, no doubt, to be rid of her. She was not prone to think evil, and had one of her daughters or the approved young women of her circle been left with a young man at a way-station for two days and nights, she might have given way to nerves but never to suspicion. But as the crowning iniquity of the author of her downfall, it gave her the opportunity she had coveted, and she burned to take advantage of it. When Catalina finally announced herself, Mrs. Moulton was standing in the middle of her bedroom and Jane was reading by the window. The latter nodded as the prodigal entered, and returned to her book. “Well,” said Catalina, amiably, “how are you all? I am glad you are rid of the peasant at last. Where is Lydia?” She paused, blinking under the cold glare of Mrs. Moulton’s eyes. “What is the matter?” she 151asked, haughtily. “Cousin Lyman said you were angry, but you must have known how I was left. I am sorry you didn’t have Baedeker with you.” This was an unusual concession for Catalina, but something in the bitter and contemptuous face made her vaguely uneasy. “You were left on purpose,” said Mrs. Moulton, deliberately. Catalina made a quick step forward, the breath hissing through her teeth. She looked capable of physical violence, but Mrs. Moulton continued in the same cold, even tones: “You remained behind in order to be alone with Captain Over for two days and nights. You are not fit to associate with my daughters. You are a wicked, abandoned creature, and I refuse—I absolutely refuse—to shelter your amours. If you appeal to my husband I shall tell him to choose between us.” Catalina fell back, staring. Innocent she might be but not ignorant. It was impossible to mistake the woman’s meaning, and in a flash she understood that by the 152evil-minded evil might be read into her adventure. It was then, however, that she showed herself thoroughbred. Her anger left her as abruptly as it had come. She drew herself up, bowed impersonally, and left the room. Mrs. Moulton, trembling, sank into a chair, and Jane, protesting that her parent had behaved like an empress, fetched the aromatic salts. But Mrs. Moulton, having unburdened her hate, had parted with its sustaining power, and was flat and cowed in the reaction. “Does it pay?” she demanded again and again. “Does it pay?” <div class='chapter'> 153 <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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