VI

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, and 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 in 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. I 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 chicken, 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?”

“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 many 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

once 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 the 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, but,

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 lifted 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 put 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 direct 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 friends 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 the 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 as 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.