Catalina threw on her dressing-gown and leaned far out of her window.
The very air felt as if it had been drenched by the golden shower of the
morning sun, and so clear it was, it glittered like the sea. Across the
narrow way was a stately white house, doubtless the “palace” of a rich
man, and behind it, high above the street, was a beautiful garden, at
whose very end, in an angle of the stone wall, stood a palm-tree. Beyond
that palm-tree, so delicate and graceful in its peculiar stiffness, was
a glimpse of blue water. Far below was a cross street in which no one
moved as yet, and beside her were the balcony and garden of the hotel
and the vines hanging over the wall.
Catalina sang, in the pure joy of being alive, a snatch of one of the
Spanish songs still to be heard in Southern California.
“Buenas dias, señorita,” broke in a low and cautious voice, and
Catalina, turning with a start and frown, saw that Captain Over was
looking round the corner of the balcony.
“If you will come out here,” he continued, “I will make you a cup of
coffee, and then we can go for a walk.”
Catalina nodded amiably, and, hastily dressing herself, opened her long
window and joined him. He had brought his travelling-lamp and
coffee-pot, and the water was simmering. With the exception of a man who
was cleaning harness in the court below, they seemed to be the only
persons awake. The air was heavy laden with sweet scents, and the garden
in the fresh morning light was a riot of color. The Mediterranean was
murmuring seductively to the shore.
“This is heaven,” sighed Catalina. “Why can’t one always be free from
care like this—the Moultons, to be exact. Let’s you and I and Lydia run
away from the rest.”
“When I run away with a woman I shall not take a chaperon,” said Over,
coolly.
Catalina could assume the blankness of a mask, but upon repartee she
never ventured. “Am I not to do any of the work?” she asked. “I am sick
of being waited on. At home I often make my own breakfast before my lazy
Mexicans are up, and saddle my horse. I do a great deal of work on the
ranch, first and last, for I believe in work—and I didn’t get the idea
from Tolstoï, either. I don’t like Tolstoï,” she added, defiantly. “He’s
one of those gigantic fakes the world always believes in.”
“Well, I’ve never read a line of Tolstoï,” admitted Captain Over, who
was carefully revolving his coffee-machine, “so I can’t argue with you.
But work! This is all the work I want.”
“Don’t you love work?”
“I don’t.”
“But you do work.”
“At what?”
“Oh, in the army and all that.”
“My orderly does the work.”
“You are so provoking. There is all sorts of work you must do yourself.”
“Well, why do you remind me of anything so painful, when I am doing my
best to forget it? You are not an altruist or a socialist, are you?”
“I’m not anything that some one else has invented. I believe in work,
because idleness horrifies me; some primal instinct in me wars against
it. The civilization that permits idleness in the rich and in those with
just enough to relieve them from work, with none of the responsibilities
and diversions of great fortunes, is no civilization at all, to my mind.
Of course, I believe in progress, but I believe in hanging on to the
conditions which first made progress possible; and when I saw those
carriage-loads of ridiculous women and finery in Paris I wanted to go
home and till the soil and restore the balance. How good that coffee
smells!”
He poured her out a steaming cup. He had raided the kitchen for cream
and bread, and he carried sugar with him. No orderly had ever made
better coffee.
“What women?” he asked, smiling into her still angry eyes. They were
seated at a little table close to the railing and the vines hung down in
her hair. Her theories might be crude and somewhat vague, but at least
she thought for herself.
She described the morning in the Rue de Rivoli and the procession of
American butterflies.
“What can you expect in a new republic of sudden fortunes?” he asked.
“Some one must spend the money, and the men haven’t time.”
“Then are your women something besides nerves and clothes—your leisure
women?”
“I don’t wish to be rude, but they are. I am, of course, only comparing
them with your idle class. I have had no chance to meet any other until
now. But I have met scores of rich American women and girls in London
and at country-houses, and I’ve come to the conclusion that what is the
matter with them—aside from lack of traditions—is that their men leave
them nothing to do but spend money and amuse themselves. With us rich
women and poor are helpmeets, and what saves our fast set from being as
empty-headed as yours is that they have grown up among men of affairs,
have heard the great questions discussed all their lives. Then, of
course, they are far better educated, and often extremely
clever—something more than bright and amusing. Many of them are pretty
hard cases, I’m not denying that; but few are silly. They have not had
the chance to be, and that is where ancestors come in, too—serious
ancestors. Personally, I have never been sensible to the famous charm of
the American woman, and although there are exceptions, naturally—I am
only generalizing—they strike me in the mass as being shallow, selfish,
egotistical, nervous. I suppose the fundamental trouble is that they
have so much that an impossible ideal of happiness is the result, and
they are restless and dissatisfied because they can’t get it. Possibly
in another generation or two they may develop the sort of brain that
makes the women of the Old World well balanced and philosophical.”
“Weren’t you ever tempted to marry an heiress?”
“I never saw one that would look at me, so I’ve been spared one
temptation, at least.”
Catalina had finished her coffee. She leaned her chin on her hands and
gazed at him reflectively. “I should think you could get one,” she said,
quite impersonally. “If you weren’t such a practical soul you’d be
almost romantic looking, and you’re quite the ideal soldier, besides
being a guardsman and well-born. I think if you came to Santa Barbara I
could find you a rich girl. Quantities come there for the winter, and
they are always delighted to be asked to a ranch.”
“All women are match-makers,” he said, testily. “A poor fellow I left
out in South Africa got off just one epigram in his life—‘There are two
kinds of women, living women and dead women.’ I believe he was right.
Shall we go and see if they will let us into the archbishop’s palace?”
X
“Quien quiere agua? Quien quiere agua?”
The shrill cries of the water-carriers smote upon grateful ears as the
dusty, sun-baked train paused at Fuente, a little station on the zigzag
between Valencia and Albacete. They were young, misshapen girls, the hip
that supported the gourd at least three inches higher than the other,
with a corresponding elevation of shoulder. All along the train, hands
were waving encouragingly, accompanied by cries of “Aqui! Aqui!” and the
glasses were rapidly filled and emptied. But few ran over to the
_cantina_ where the wine of the country was sold; and the amount of
water that is dispensed at every station in Spain should encourage those
whose war-cry is temperance and who are prone to believe that the
southern races are lost. But water is precious in Spain, and must be
paid for. At every station old women are waiting with buckets to catch
the discharge from the engine—not, it is to be hoped, for traffic.
Even the Moultons, who had exhausted Captain Over’s aluminum bottle and
had prejudices against uncertified water, passed out their own cups and
drank thirstily. No one was in his best temper. Valencia is a dirty,
noisy, ill-mannered city, and after two sleepless nights they had been
forced to rise early or remain another day. Moreover, the handsome
peasant had followed them with a melodious persistence that was causing
Mr. Moulton serious uneasiness. It was impossible to appeal to the
Guardia Civile, for the man did nothing that was not within his rights;
for the matter of that the stranger in Spain is practically without
rights. The man—his name, it was now known, was Jesus Maria—a name
common enough in a land without humor—never even offered them the usual
courtesies of travel. Nevertheless, he managed to make his presence felt
in a hundred ways independently of his voice and guitar, as well as the
subtle intimation that for the stern frown on Mr. Moulton’s brow he
cared nothing.
“I don’t wish any trouble, of course,” Mr. Moulton had said to Over that
morning, “but I am seriously considering the plan of continuing the
journey to Granada in a first-class carriage. Lydia has already begun to
suffer from the annoyance, and it is abominable that a refined,
carefully brought up girl should be subjected to such an experience. The
marquis was bad enough—but this! Even when her back is to him I am sure
she feels his rude stare. I can assure you, Over, a pretty daughter is a
great responsibility; but although I have had to dispose—diplomatically,
of course—of several undesirable suitors, I never even anticipated
anything like this. It is preposterous.”
“The first-class idea is not bad; it would emphasize the difference
between them; it is rather a puzzle to him, I fancy—he is a Spaniard,
remember—that we travel in his own way and yet regard him from a
superior plane.”
Captain Over, as he stood with Catalina at a booth on the platform
buying substantial tortillas made of eggs, meat, and potatoes, repeated
the conversation. “He thinks they have never communicated in any way,”
he added. “What is the best thing to do? I don’t fancy telling tales,
but it seems to me Mr. Moulton should be warned.”
“Oh, Lydia can take care of herself,” said Catalina, carelessly. “She is
a little flirt and quite intoxicated with what she calls an intrigue. It
is the first time she has ever done any thinking for herself—you can see
what Cousin Lyman is; he’d feed us if we’d let him. If we were Moultons,
we’d be taking a little fling ourselves. Here she comes.”
Lydia found a place beside them in the crowd that was clamoring for the
old woman’s hot tortillas.
“Mother says there is not enough bread,” she said. “Jane is afraid of
the beggars and father has disappeared, or I suppose I should not have
got this far alone. Talk about the freedom of the American girl! I’d
like to write a book to tell the world how many different kinds of
Americans there are.”
“You can’t deny that you are a spoiled child, though,” said Over,
banteringly, and then he scowled. The young peasant had joined the group
and was quietly demanding a tortilla. He no longer wore his peasant
blouse, but the gala costume he had bought or borrowed in Tarragona. He
was a superb figure of a man, and every woman on the platform stared at
him. He looked haughtily aloof, even from Lydia, but Over saw her hand
seek her little waist-bag and suspected that a note passed.
“He certainly is a man,” he said to Catalina, as they walked back to the
train; “looks more of a gentleman, for that matter, than a good many we
dine with. Still, it can’t go on; so set your wits to work, and we’ll
get rid of him between us.”
But for Jesus Maria the afternoon would have been delightful. They were
ascending, and the air was cooler; the great plain of La Mancha was
studded with windmills, and its horizon gave up the welcome and lofty
ridges of the Sierra de Alcatraz. But the cavalier—when not smoking the
eternal cigarito—strummed his guitar and sang all the love-songs he
knew. Mr. Moulton coughed and frowned and ordered Lydia to turn her
back; but open remonstrance might have meant the flashing of knives,
certainly the vociferating protest of female voices, for the car was
crowded and the peasants were delighted with the concert. At Chinchilla,
however, there was a diversion, and love moved rearward.
A man leaped into the train. He wore a belt of three tiers, and each
tier was stuck full of knives. Mrs. Moulton screamed; but he was
immediately surrounded by the peasants, who snatched at the knives and
bargained shamelessly. In a moment he thrust them aside, and, making his
way to the strangers, protested that he had reserved his best for them,
and flourished in their faces some of the finest specimens of
Albacete—long, curved blades of steel and long, curved handles of ebony
or ivory inlaid with bits of colored glass and copper. Catalina and
Captain Over bought several at a third of the price demanded. The
Catalan had followed the huckster, and under Mr. Moulton’s very nose he
bought the longest and most deadly of the collection. After several
playful thrusts at the vender, and severing a lock of his hair, he
thrust it conspicuously into his sash, and with a lightning glance at
poor Mr. Moulton returned to his seat. Here it was evident that he
related deeds of prowess; once more he flourished the knife, and his
audience uttered high staccato notes of approval.