XV

For two days Catalina disappeared. Mr. Moulton, distracted, appealed to

the police. He knew that his wife had been severe, but the wicked words

of her utterance were never repeated to him. But Mrs. Moulton, although

spiritually debased, loved Catalina none the better for her condition,

and protested that no one was so well able to take care of herself, even

demanding that they move on and leave her in charge of the consul. To

this Mr. Moulton would not hearken, and he and the equally disquieted

Englishman patrolled the streets and haunted the headquarters of the

police. The day of the fête dawned and nothing had been seen or heard of

Catalina.

Over was alone when he saw her. The narrow streets were packed with

people, and, turning aside to make way for a religious procession, he

had become separated from the Moultons. He walked slowly, his head

thrown back, gazing at the gay and beautiful sight above him. From every

high window and balcony costly brocades and tapestries, embroidered

shawls and Oriental carpets depended. The brown old houses, craggy as

their high perch itself, warmed into life with the flaunting color. In

the balconies were aristocratic men and women, the latter wearing the

mantilla, held high with a comb, caught back with a rose. It was an

enchanting sight; and above all was the dazzling blue and gold of the

sky. Through the chatter of the good-natured crowd wandered the strains

of solemn music, and his was the only alien face.

He was staring upward at a little balcony from which hung a magnificent

blue silk shawl, embroidered and fringed with white, and admiring the

mantillas and roses, the languid fans and fine eyes above it, when

Catalina came through the window behind and looked down upon him. She,

too, wore a mantilla, the white mantilla of Spanish lace he had watched

her buy in Barcelona. A red rose held it above her left ear, and in her

hand she carried her fan. She had also assumed the lofty dignity of the

Spanish woman of high degree, and she had never looked so beautiful. For

a moment she returned his gaze stolidly, and he fancied she meant to cut

him; then she bowed, said something to one of her companions, pointed to

the stern, brass-bound door below, and disappeared.

A moment later the door opened and he was shown into the patio, a

shadowy retreat from the glare and noise of the street, full of palms

and pomegranates, roses and lilies, with a cool fountain playing, and

many ancient chairs of iron and wood.

Catalina was standing by the fountain looking as Spanish as if these old

walls had encircled her cradle. She shook hands with him cordially.

“I have had a bad time,” she said, “and hated you, as well as the

Moultons, but it was unreasonable and I am over it. You were as nice and

kind as possible, and I shall always remember it. Don’t ask me what that

dreadful woman said. I shall forget it, but I shall never speak to any

of them again, and I should be glad if you would tell them so, and that

I shall remain here until they leave.”

His mind grasped at once the substance of Mrs. Moulton’s diatribe; he

had given the subject no thought before. He turned hot and then cold,

and involuntarily took a step nearer to the girl, with a fierce instinct

of protection. Catalina may have understood, for a spot of color

appeared on her high cheek-bones, but she continued, calmly:

“Of course you want to know where I have been and what I am doing in

this house. When I left the hotel I went directly to the archbishop and

told him as much as was necessary, using as passport a circular letter

the fathers of the mission of Santa Barbara had given me. He brought me

here at once. The Señora Villéna has this beautiful house, but is

poor—and so kind. I have enjoyed the change, I can tell you.”

“You certainly are more in your element. I am glad it has turned out so

well. I have been very uneasy.”

“Have you? Did you think I had thrown myself into the Tagus, or was

wandering about roofless with my big grip in my hand?”

“It was my knowledge of your good sense, familiarity with the language,

and winning manner—when you choose to exert it—that permitted me to go

to bed at night. Nevertheless, you are not the woman to travel alone in

Spain. What are your plans?”

“What are the Moultons’ plans?”

“They have had enough of Spain—of travel, for that matter—and they are

still in dread of Jesus Maria. They will go from here to Barcelona, take

a boat for Genoa, and remain there until their steamer arrives. They say

that Italy will feel like home after Spain.”

“Then I shall go from here to Granada. Perhaps I can persuade some one

to chaperon me, but if not I shall go alone. Nothing shall cheat me out

of Granada.”

“If you find no one else I shall go with you.”

The red spots spread down to her throat, but she lifted her head higher.

“No,” she said, “I suppose it does not look right.”

He cursed Mrs. Moulton for shattering the serene innocence of the girl;

nevertheless, something even more captivating had replaced it. “I shall

go,” he repeated, “unless I can persuade you to return to America with

your relatives. Then my mind will be at rest. But as long as you are

alone in Spain I shall do my best to protect you. If you forbid me to

travel with you, well and good. I shall merely follow—that is to say, be

your companion on the trains. In the towns we need not meet unless you

wish it. You can always put yourself under the protection of the woman

of the house and employ a duenna. But do adopt me as a brother and

dismiss all nonsensical ideas from your mind.”

For the first time her eyes fell before his. She turned away abruptly.

“You are very good,” she said. “Come up-stairs and meet the señora and

her daughter. They are charming people.”

A few moments later, as they were standing on the balcony, she said to

him: “They are taking me to the bull-fight this afternoon. Shall you

go?”

“Possibly. But I am surprised that you wish to go. It is a beastly

exhibition and no place for you.”

“I am going,” she said, imperturbably. “It is a part of Spain, and I

should as soon think of missing a religious festival like this. Besides,

I have seen bull-fights in southern California. You may as well come

with us. Of course, Cousin Lyman is not going.”

“Probably not. Very well, I will go with you, if your friends will have

me. I must lunch at the hotel with the Moultons and set their minds at

rest; but it is an hour until then. Would you care to walk about the

streets and see the crowd?”

The Señora Villéna was very large and the day was warm, but she amiably

consented to walk as far as the cathedral in the wake of her guest.

“I have not been out alone since I came to her,” said Catalina, with a

sigh, as she walked beside Over up the street. “At Granada I know of a

pension, and liberty will be sweet again.”

Over’s eyes twinkled as he looked at the face between the soft edges of

the mantilla.

“Your new rôle is vastly becoming. I had no idea that two days of

Old-World discipline could effect such a change. You look as if you had

always walked with a duenna at your heels.”

“So I have, nearly always. I never was on the street alone in my life

until my mother died. You think me improved?” she added, quickly.

“I did not say that.”

“I have always thought your bluntness the best thing about you—I like

the short skirt and covert coat best,” she said, defiantly.

“They do very well to disguise you on the train; but if I never saw you

again I should prefer to remember you as you are now—or as you were that

night in Tarragona. You hardly deserve your beauty, you know.”

And then, in a new spirit of coquetry, born perhaps of the mantilla,

into whose silken mesh many a dream no doubt had flowed, she lifted her

chin, dropped her eyelashes for a second, flashed him a swift personal

glance. Before he could adjust himself to the new phase, however, she

had dismissed it and remarked that she hoped not to meet the Moultons;

and, unaccountably perturbed, he replied that they were sure to be

fatigued and resting for luncheon.

It would have been easy to avoid them in the dense crowd packed into the

plaza before the cathedral, waiting for the procession to pass. Over and

Catalina paused a few moments to look at the superb gobelins with which

the façade of the cathedral was hung, and then ran the gamut of the

beggars and entered the cloister.

“I shall go into the Chapel of the Incarnacion and pray,” said the

Señora Villéna, “and meet you here in half an hour—no?”

The Cathedral of Toledo is one of the world’s treasures, and all the

world should see it; but for those who would or must read the sights of

Europe a hundred descriptions of this vast, complex dream in early

Gothic and late Renaissance and baroque have been written; and the best

is forgotten at the end of an hour’s visit.

It was almost deserted, and Over and Catalina walked slowly towards the

Capilla Mayor, through the rich brown silence of the nave, whispering

occasionally, but overpowered by the forest of shafts uplifting an

immensity of vaulting before which the eye reeled. The centuries of

carving, as various as the peoples that had come and gone, crystallizing

even the broken voice of the Moor, melted into a harmony comparable

only, said Catalina, to the wonders of a Californian mountain-forest—of

redwood and pine, madroño and oak, and giant ferns as delicate as the

lace of her mantilla. There were high vaultings, too, where the sun

never ripened the moss on the earth, and endless cryptograms wrought

before the hand of man had taken the message of the gods.

Over replied, promptly: “I don’t believe half you have told me about

California. Next year I shall obtain leave of absence and visit it—that

is, if you will be my cicerone.”

“Why not this year?”

“Shall I?”

“It is all the same to me, but I may not be there next year. I need

Europe. Of course, I know that I am a sort of cowboy.”

“Ah!” He hardly knew whether to be gratified or not. “Don’t desert your

ranch altogether—nor surrender all the individuality it has given you.

If you should be the great lady in Europe and ranch-girl at home—what a

fascinating combination!”

“Well, I can be anything I choose, and on five minutes’ notice, too.”

“I am sure of it—but which is the real you? I think I know—then I am all

at sea.”

She gave him another swift, upward glance, but she replied, sedately:

“The worst, of course. That is what people always decide when a person

suddenly reveals himself in a bad light. Twenty other sides may have

been exhibited, but it is the revelation of the worst that always

inspires the phrase, ‘At last he has shown himself in his true colors.’”

“Then you are too philosophical to condemn Mrs. Moulton utterly?”

“She has taught me the extent of my philosophy, so I forgive her—and

ignore her existence.”

He made no reply, for he saw the Moultons not three yards away. They

were in the Capilla Mayor, their necks craned in a vain attempt to

register a permanent impression of the gorgeous coloring, the phalanxes

of saints, the riotous beauty of carving on wall and arch and tomb.

While he hesitated, Mr. Moulton brought down his tired eyes and they

rested on Catalina. He gave a sharp exclamation of pleasure and hurried

forward, his hand out-stretched. Catalina had included him in her wrath,

but she forgave him instantly, and simultaneously conceived a stroke of

revenge. Mrs. Moulton and Jane retreated, but Lydia ran to Catalina and

kissed her.

“Where have you been?” she cried. “We have been just wild. How perfectly

sweet you look in that mantilla!”

Catalina explained, and Mr. Moulton drew a long sigh of relief. “I shall

never worry about you again, my dear child. And now tell me what you

wish to do. I trust you will become reconciled—”

“I shall remain in Spain perhaps for some months—I have cancelled my

passage. But I shall like to see _you_ again. Will you come to the Casa

Villéna immediately after luncheon? I have a little plan to propose to

you.”

“Certainly I will—but is your decision irrevocable?”

“Quite. Perhaps I shouldn’t keep you now. And my duenna must be waiting

for me.”

She nodded and turned away, but Lydia followed and took her arm.

“I can go back to the hotel with Captain Over,” she said to her father,

and the two girls walked down the nave with heads together, oblivious of

the half-amused, half-sulky man in their wake.

“Well, what of Jesus Maria?”

“I have given up all hope of ever seeing him again.”

“Hope? Do you want to?”

“I do and I don’t. Of course, it had to end sooner or later, but—well—I

_was_ fascinated! And there is so little to look back upon! However, it

was great fun imagining what things might happen, and all the while to

be quite safe under the paternal wing. I suppose if I had seen him alone

I really wouldn’t have kissed him—I probably should have run away in

disgust—but I enjoyed it all in imagination. Now, I shall be rather

relieved when I am safely out of Spain, for I know that he was quite

serious. When we were running away from Albacete and then from Alcazar,

I felt as serious as he did—I was really romantic and love-lorn—but I

took myself in hand when I arrived here, and now I am quite sensible

again.”

“What a tangle! Is that the way people fall in love—and out again?”

Catalina felt puzzled and depressed. Life suddenly seemed commonplace,

love a sort of cap-and-bells, to be worn now and again when convenient.

“Well, I wish you good luck,” she said. “Write me when you are really

engaged, and I’ll send you a lot of jewels from our California

mines—tourmalines and chrysoprases and turquoises and garnets and

beryls. I have jugs full of them.”

Lydia’s eyes expanded. “Jugs full! They cost frightfully in New York.

Will you really send me some?”

“Dozens.”

“What a fairy princess you are! I am only beginning to appreciate you,

and now you are throwing us over—for good and all!”

“Good-bye,” said Catalina, kissing her. “At two, Captain Over, and don’t

forget to bring Cousin Lyman. And make no confidences,” she murmured.