A Wedding Trip

by condesa de Emilia Pardo Bazán

“That is enough,” said the landlord, taking from a drawer in the counter the precious article and delivering it without demur to its lawful owner. The latter, without stopping to examine it, slung it hastily over his shoulder, plunged his hand into his waiscoat pocket and drawing out a handful of silver coins, scattered them over the marble counter, saying, “For the waiters.” The action was so rapid that some of the coins, rolling about, danced around for a moment over the smooth surface and then fell flat on the marble with a ringing sound. Before the silvery vibration had ceased, Miranda was hurrying to the train. In his confusion he missed the door.

“The train is going to start, Señor,” cried the waiters. “This way—this way!”

He rushed excitedly toward the platform; the train, with the treacherous slowness of a snake, began to move slowly along the rails. Miranda shook his clenched hand at it and a feeling of cold and impotent rage took possession of his soul. In this way he lost a second, a precious second. The progress of the train grew gradually quicker, as a swing set in motion describes at every moment wider curves and flies more rapidly through the air. Precipitately and without seeing where he went, Miranda jumped to the track to make his way to the first-class carriages which, as if in mockery, defiled at this moment past his eyes. He tried to leap on the steps, but missed his footing and fell with violence to the ground, experiencing, as he fell, a sharp and sudden pain in the right foot. He remained on the ground in a half-sitting posture, uttering one of those imprecations which, in Spain, the men who most pride themselves on their culture and good-breeding are not ashamed to borrow from the vocabulary of thieves and murderers. The train thundered past, majestic and swift, the black engine sending forth sparks of fire that seemed like fantastic sprites dancing about among the nocturnal shadows.

A few moments after Miranda had left the train to go in search of his satchel, the door of the compartment in which Lucía was asleep was opened and a man entered. He carried in his hand a portmanteau, which he threw down on the nearest cushion. He then closed the door, seated himself in a corner and pressed his forehead against the glass of the window, cold as ice and moist with the night dew. In the darkness outside nothing could be seen but the indistinct bulk of the platform, the lantern of the guard as he walked up and down, and the melancholy gas lights scattered here and there.

When the train started, a few sparks, rapid as exhalations, passed before the glass against which the newcomer was leaning his forehead.

CHAPTER IV.

The latter, when tired of looking out into the darkness, he turned his gaze on the interior of the compartment, thought it strange enough that the girl who lay sleeping there before him, so much at her ease, should have come here instead of going into one of the compartments reserved for ladies. And to this reflection succeeded an idea which contracted his brows with a frown and curved his lips in a disdainful smile. A second glance which he cast at Lucía, however, inspired him with more charitable thoughts. The light of the lamp, whose blue shade he drew aside in order to obtain a better view of the sleeping girl, fell directly upon her, but the flame flickered with the motion of the train, now leaving her form in shadow, now illuminating it brightly. The light brought into relief the salient points of her face and her form. The forehead, white as a jasmine flower, the rosy cheeks, the rounded chin, the slightly parted lips giving egress to the soft breath and disclosing to view the pearly teeth, gleamed, as the strong clear light fell upon them; one arm supported her head in the attitude of an antique bacchante, the whiteness of the hand contrasting with the blackness of the hair, while the other hand, also ungloved, hung by her side in the abandonment of sleep, the veins slightly swollen from the posture, which caused the blood to flow downward, the wedding-ring gleaming on the little finger. Every time the form of Lucía came within the luminous zone, the chased metal buttons cast forth golden gleams, flashing red over the maroon cloth of the jacket; and here and there, beneath the pleated flounce bordering the skirt, could be caught glimpses of the lace of the petticoats and of the exquisite bronze leather shoe with its rounded heel. From the whole person of the sleeping girl there exhaled an indescribable aroma of freshness and purity, a breath of virtuousness, as it were, that could be perceived leagues away. This was not the bold adventuress, the low-flying butterfly in search of a light at which to scorch its wings; and the traveler, as this reflection passed through his mind, wondered at this young creature sleeping tranquilly here alone, exposed as she was to the risk of insult and to all sorts of disagreeable accidents, and he recalled to mind a picture he had once seen in a magnificent copy of illustrated fables representing Fortune awakening the careless boy sleeping on the brink of the well. It suddenly occurred to him that perhaps his traveling-companion was some English or American miss who carried in her pocket as escort and attendant a six-barreled revolver. But although Lucía was as fresh and robust as a Niobe—a type very common among Yankee girls—in certain details the Spanish type was so plainly visible that, as the traveler contemplated her, he was constrained to say to himself, “She does not bear the remotest resemblance to a foreigner.” He looked at her for some time longer, as if seeking in her appearance the solution of the mystery, then, slightly shrugging his shoulders as if to say, “After all, what does it matter to me,” he took a book from his portmanteau and began to read; but the wavering light making the letters dance on the white page at every jolt of the carriage, he soon closed the book again. He then pressed his forehead once more against the cold window-pane and thus remained, motionless and lost in thought.

The train hurried forward on its course, swaying and leaning to one side occasionally, stopping only for a moment at the stations, whose names the officials called out in gutteral and melancholy tones. After each stop the train, as if it had gathered fresh force from the momentary rest, hurried forward with greater speed than before, like a steed that feels the spur. Owing to the difference of temperature between the outer air and the air of the carriage, the window-pane was covered with a lace-like mist, and the traveler, becoming tired perhaps of dissolving it with his breath, devoted himself anew to the observation of the sleeping girl and, as the slow hours passed, yielding to an involuntary feeling which appeared ridiculous to himself, he grew more and more impatient, indignant, almost, to see the unruffled serenity of this insolent sleep; and he could not help wishing, in spite of himself, that his fellow-traveler might awake, if only to give him some opportunity of gratifying his curiosity concerning her. Perhaps there was no slight degree of envy mingled with this impatience. What delightful and desirable sleep! What beneficent repose! It was the untroubled sleep of youth, of innocent girlhood, of a tranquil conscience, of a rich and happy temperament, of health. Far from being disfigured, far from showing that cadaverical hollowness, that contraction of the corners of the mouth, that species of general distortion, which betrays in the countenance whose muscles are no longer carefully adjusted to an artificial expression, the corroding cares of sleepless hours, in Lucía’s face shone the peacefulness which forms so large a part of the charm of sleeping childhood. Once, however, she softly sighed. The cold night air penetrated through the crevices of the closed windows. The traveler rose, and without observing that there was a bundle of shawls in the rack, opened his own portmanteau and taking out a fine Scotch woolen plaid spread it gently over the form of the sleeping girl. The latter turned slightly, without wakening, her head remaining in the shadow.

Outside, the telegraph posts looked like a row of specters, the trees shook their disordered locks, agitating their branches that seemed like arms stretched out in supplication; here and there a gray house rose solitary in the landscape, like the immense head of some granite sphinx—all confused, vague, blurred in outline, shifting as the clouds of smoke from the engine that enveloped the train like the breath of the fiery dragon enveloping his prey. Inside the carriage reigned unbroken silence; it seemed like an enchanted region. The traveler drew the blue curtain before the lamp, leaned back in a corner, closed his eyes and stretching out his legs rested his feet against the seat in front. In this way station after station was passed. He dozed a little and then, astonished at the prolonged sleep of Lucía, rose, fearing lest she might have fainted. He went forward and leaned over her, and, having convinced himself of the peaceful and regular breathing of the young girl, returned to his seat.

A diffused and pale light began to shed itself over the landscape. Already could be discerned the shapes of mountains, trees, and huts. Night, retiring, swept away in her train the trembling stars, as a sultana gathers up her veil broidered with silvery arabesques. The slender circle of the waning moon grew pale and vanished in the sky, whose dark blue changed to the opaque blue of porcelain. A chill ran through the veins of the traveler, who pulled up the collar of his overcoat and instinctively stretched his feet toward the heater in whose metallic bosom the water danced with a gurgling sound. Suddenly the door of the compartment was opened and a morose-looking man, wearing a hat with a gilt band, and carrying in his hand a sort of tongs, or punch, entered hastily.