Part 5

“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.

XI

They arrived at Albacete before nightfall. It was too small a place for the omnibus, but several enterprising boys appropriated the hand-luggage and, without awaiting instructions, made for the one hotel of the Alto. This proved to be so far superior to the hotel of the small American town that it appeared palatial to the weary travellers. It stood, large and white and cool, on the Alameda, whose double row of plane-trees formed an avenue down the middle of the long, wide street. It is true the beds were not made, water appeared to be as precious as at the stations, and the servants as weak of head as of ambulatory muscle; but the rooms were large and lofty and clean, and the supper was eatable. Mrs. Moulton and Jane, after a brief ramble, sought what to both was become the end and aim of all travelling—bed and quiet; and Mr. Moulton, leaving the other two girls in charge of Over, soon followed their example.

“I saw that scoundrel leave the train,” he murmured, as he left Over at the foot of the staircase, “but he has gone off to the diversions of the new town, no doubt, and will be occupied for a few hours at least.”

The girls had wandered to the doorway and were looking out into the dark Alameda. Over exchanged a glance with Catalina and drew Lydia’s hand through his arm.

“Miss Shore is tired,” he said, “but I am sure you will enjoy another stroll. At all events don’t leave me to moon by myself.” And Lydia, flattered by the unusual attention, surrendered with her charming animation of word and feature.

They walked beside the Alameda down to the quaint old plaza, surrounded by white houses of varied architecture, deserted and dimly lit with the infrequent lamp. When Englishmen are diplomatic they are the most subtle and sinuous of mankind, but when they are not they are the bluntest. Over said nothing whatever until he had enjoyed the half of his pipe, and then he remarked, “I say, you must drop that man—send him about his business without any more loss of time.”

Lydia, who had been prattling amiably, stiffened and attempted to withdraw her arm.

“What are my affairs to you?” she asked, haughtily.

“For this trip I am your big brother. I should not merit the friendship of your father if I did not make this affair my own. Brothers are always privileged to be rude, you know: you are not only playing a silly game, but a dangerous one. That man will try to kidnap you—he is only one degree removed from a bandit.” Lydia’s eyes flashed, and he hastened to rectify a possible misstep. “How would you like to live in the side of a hill with your lord—to escape taxes—and cook his frijoles three hundred and sixty-five days of the year? If he didn’t beat you, he certainly would not serenade you; and even in a country where water is more plentiful than in Spain—suppose you induced him to emigrate—it is doubtful if he would ever take a bath—”

“You are a brute!”

“Merely practical. He would insist upon having his beans flavored with garlic, and he doubtless smokes all night as well as all day. He may be a good enough sort in the main, but there is no hope here for a man to rise above his station in life. If there were a revolution he would probably be in the thick of it and get himself killed; and if he followed you to America—failing to kidnap you—he would probably open a cigar-shop on the Bowery.”

He had expected tears, but Lydia drew herself up and said, coldly: “I don’t think I am in danger of being kidnapped. Strange as it may appear, I feel quite well able to take care of myself, and if with you on one side and father on the other I can’t vary the monotony of life with a little flirtation—well, if you were a girl, surrounded by goody-goody people as I have always been, you might be tempted a little way by something that had the glamour of romance.”

“Girls must find life rather a bore,” said Over, sympathetically. “And I only wish your hero were worthy of you, but, take my word for it, his romantic picturesqueness is only skin—clothes deep. No man is romantic, if it comes to that. I met a long-haired poet once, and when we got him in the smoking-room he was the prosiest of the lot.”

“There is no such thing as romance, then?” asked Lydia, with a sigh.

“Not when you are ‘up against it,’ to use a bit of your own slang.”

As the radiating streets were dark they paced slowly about the plaza. For a time Lydia was silent, and Over drew thoughtfully at his pipe. Finally he asked, curiously:

“Do you women really get any satisfaction out of that sort of thing—talking with your eyes and exchanging an occasional note? I mean, of course, unless you have a definite idea that it is going to lead to something?”

“We like any little excitement,” said Lydia, dryly, “and the littlest is better than none. I suppose you are too masculine—too British—to understand that!”

“Well, yes, I am, rather. I fancy what is the matter with girls is that they don’t have to work as hard as boys—don’t have so many opportunities to work off steam. As for this Johnny, he must be a silly ass if he is content with singing and sighing and rigging himself out. If he isn’t—there lies the danger. He’ll rally his friends and carry you off. Nothing could be simpler.”

“I should be quite like Helen—or Mary, Queen of Scots!”

“Good Lord!”

She flushed under the lash of his voice, but in a moment raised her eyes softly to his. “You are so good,” she murmured. “Really like a brother, so I don’t mind telling you that I am fearfully interested—but not so much in the mere man as in the whole thing. It has all _seemed_ so romantic, at least. I don’t believe an American girl ever had such an experience before. However, I will set your mind at rest—since you are so good as to take an interest in poor little me—I haven’t the slightest desire really to know the man. I should be disenchanted, of course, for I could not stand commonness in the most beautiful husk. But—there is something in one quite independent of all that—of one’s upbringing, one’s prejudices, of common-sense—can’t you understand?—the primeval attraction of man and woman. I have been quite aware that all this could come to nothing, but it has been something to have felt that way for once in a well-regulated lifetime; to have been primal for a fleeting moment _is_ something, I can assure you.”

Over groped in the depths of his masculine understanding. “Well, I suppose so. But what of the man? It is a mere experience to you, but it may be a matter of life and death to a poor devil who is nine-tenths fire and sentiment.”

“He, too, has something to think about for the rest of his life.”

“And you fancy that will satisfy him?”

“It will have to.”

“You might have spared him.”

“There can be no romance without a hero.”

“Upon my word, you are the greater savage of the two!”

“I told you I enjoyed being a savage for once in my life.”

Over made no reply, and if Lydia’s glance had not dropped to the uneven pavement, she would have seen his eyes open wide with incredulous amazement and then flash with anger. As it was, she wondered why he hurried her back to the hotel and then practically ordered her up to her room. He stood on the lower step of the stair until he heard her greet Jane; then he left the hotel and walked rapidly down the street again. In a moment he met Catalina.

“Oh,” he said, with an awkward attempt at masculine indifference, although his eyes were blazing. “Are you out—alone—as late as this? Isn’t it rather risky?”

“I’ve been walking with Jesus Maria,” she replied, coolly. “What a baby you were to walk off through these lonely streets with Lydia! I supposed, of course, that you would talk to her in the hotel. Don’t you know that man would have been mad with jealousy if he had seen you? Then there would have been a fine rough-and-tumble if he hadn’t got a knife into your back first. He came along with that everlasting guitar under his arm just after you left, and I told him that Lydia was ill, and asked him to take a walk with me. We’d better give him the slip as soon as possible; he’s off his head about her.”

“What a little brick you are! What did he have to say?”

“I explained to him that he could never hope to marry Lydia, and elevated the family to the ancient aristocracy of America. It made no impression on him whatever. He expressed contempt for the entire race, barring Lydia, whom he takes to be an angel. I concluded that disloyalty was the better part, and told him that Lydia was nothing but a little American flirt trying to have a sensation. That made even less impression on him—he believes that she is ready to fly with him at a moment’s notice. I did more harm than good, and I shall speak to Cousin Lyman to-night.”

Over stared hard at her. “That was very brave of you. Aren’t you afraid of anything?”

“Not of greasers!” replied the Californian. “I’ve dealt with them all my life. I treated this one as an equal, and made him forget Lydia in talking about himself. He’s a revolutionist, hates the queen because she doesn’t go to bull-fights, despises the king, anathematizes all monarchies and aristocracies, and talks like a Fourth-of-July orator about the days when Spain will be a republic, and one of his own sort—possibly himself—will be president. I never heard so much brag in America. But he’s full of pluck. Now, you go and call Cousin Lyman out into the hall, and we’ll have a consultation.”

XII

The upshot of the conference was the decision that on the following morning the Moultons should conspicuously enter a third-class carriage of the train bound for Baeza, and while Captain Over, on the platform, talked with Catalina in the doorway, they should slip out of the opposite entrance, cross the track, and take the train for Alcazar. The Alcazar train, the landlord assured them, left two minutes earlier than that for Baeza, so that Catalina, in the confusion of the last moments, could join her relatives unobserved. It was the habit of Jesus Maria to saunter down late, and even then to engage in conversation on the platform. Catalina had told him they intended to spend the following night at Baeza, and he was under the impression they were bound for Seville. Captain Over would take Catalina’s place in the doorway, covering her retreat, and await the rest of his party in Baeza.

It was a programme little to the taste of any of them, but Over heroically proposed it, and it seemed to be the only feasible plan.

In Spain there is apparently no law against crossing the tracks, nor in leaving a train on the wrong side. On the following morning Catalina, having reserved a first-class compartment on the train for Alcazar, the six members of the party, portmanteaus in hand, filed down to the station and entered a third-class carriage on the southern train. In a few moments Over descended leisurely and lit a cigarette. Catalina leaned forward to chat with him, then stood up, her bright, amused glances roving over the country people who were bound for a fair in a town near by. The peasants were interested in themselves and contemptuously indifferent to strangers. The Moultons, including the mystified and angry Lydia, descended and crossed the track unobserved. Catalina, one hand on her portmanteau, was ready to make a dash the moment she heard the familiar drone, “Viajeros al tren.” It might be expected within the next five minutes, and it might be belated for twenty.

“There he comes!” she murmured. “If he should take it into his head to enter the train before it starts! We will tell him the others are late. What a pity you don’t speak Spanish; you could engage him in conversation! He is looking—glowering at me! Do you suppose he suspects?”

“It is not like you to lose your nerve,” began Over, but at the same moment his glance moved from the Catalan’s face to hers, and he smiled. She looked, if anything, more impassive than usual. “My knees are shaking,” she confided to him, “and my heart is galloping. It is rather delightful to be so excited, but still—thank Heaven!” Jesus Maria had met an acquaintance. They lit the friendly cigarito and entered into conversation.

“They are walking down the platform,” said Catalina, anxiously, a moment later, “and the other train is not so far back as this; however, Cousin Lyman will no doubt keep the door shut. There, he’s turning. I’d better make a bolt. Good-bye. Au revoir—”

“Tell me again exactly what I am to do. I don’t want to run any risk of missing you.”

Catalina glanced over her shoulder. There was such a babble, both in the car and on the platform, that it would not be difficult to miss the singsong of the guard. The other train was still there.

“Do not go to the town. It is miles from the station; there is sure to be an inn close by. If we don’t arrive to-morrow night, of course, you will have a telegram; in any case, don’t wait for us, but go on to Granada. You can amuse yourself there, and we are sure to turn up sooner or later. Have you that list of Spanish words I wrote out?” He looked forlorn and homesick, and Catalina laughed outright. “Better go straight to Granada,” she said.

“Viajeros al tren!”

“Take my place—quick!” whispered Catalina. She let herself down on the other side, dragged her heavy bag after her, and ran. She had a confused idea that the northern train was closer than it had been, but did not pause until she came to the first-class carriages. Then she saw that the train was empty. At the same instant she heard a whistle, and glancing distractedly up the track saw a train gliding far ahead.

There was not a moment to be lost. It was the guard of the southern train that had sounded his warning cry, and she ran back, dragging the heavy portmanteau—it held the day’s lunch, among other things—and almost in tears. It had been an exciting morning, and she had slept little the night before.

She stopped and gasped. The train was moving—slowly, it is true, but far too rapidly for a person on the wrong side with a heavy piece of luggage. She dropped the portmanteau and, drawing a long breath, called with all the might of lungs long accustomed to the ranch cry:

“Captain Over! Captain Over!”

The door of a carriage was opened instantly. Over took in the situation at a glance, leaped to the ground and ran towards her, caught up the portmanteau, and, regaining his compartment, flung it within. Catalina followed it with the agility of a cat, and in another moment they were panting opposite each other.

Catalina fanned herself with her hat; she would not speak until she could command her voice.

“How was any one to know they would run another train between?” she said, finally. “Poor Cousin Lyman! He must be frantic. Cousin Miranda, no doubt, is delighted. It is my fault, of course—no, it is yours; you should not have engaged me in conversation at the critical moment.”

“I will take the blame—and the best of care of you, besides.”

She was looking out of the window at the moment, and he glanced at her curiously. She was quite unembarrassed, and what he had dimly felt before came to him with the force of a shock. With all her intellect and her interest in many of the vital problems of life, she was as innocent as a child. She might not be ignorant, but she had none of the commonplace inquisitiveness and morbidness of youth, and he recalled that she had grown up without the companionship of other girls, had read few novels, and little subjective literature of any sort. She had never looked younger, more utterly guileless, than as she sat fanning herself slowly, her hair damp and tumbled, the flush of excitement on her cheek. Over felt as if he had a child in his charge, and drew a long breath of relief. He knew many girls who would have carried off the situation, but their very dignity would have been the signal of inner tribulation, and made him miserable; with Catalina he had but to have a care that she was not placed in a false position; and, after all, the time was short, and they were unlikely to meet any one who even spoke the English language.

She met his eyes, and they burst into laughter like two contented and naughty children.

“I’m so happy to get rid of them I can’t contain myself,” announced Catalina. “So are you, only you are too polite to say so. I could have done it on purpose, but am rather glad I failed through too much zeal. Do you understand Lydia?” she asked, abruptly.

“I don’t waste time trying to understand women,” he replied, cautiously.

“I thought perhaps she confided in you last night. She has tried to unbosom herself to me, but I have not been sympathetic. I don’t understand her. I am half a savage, I suppose, but I could go through life and never even see a man like that.”

“I can’t make out if she loves him.”

“Oh, love!” Catalina elevated her nose the higher as the word gave her a vague thrill. “You can’t be in love with a person you can’t talk to—outside of poetry. Would you call that sort of thing love?”

“No. I don’t think I should.”

“I fancy it is a mere arbitrary effort to feel romantic.” She stood up suddenly and looked over the crowded car, then turned to Over with wide eyes.

“He is not here!” she said.

“Doubtless he is in the next car, or he may have jumped off when he discovered the exodus.”