“It is simple enough. We can go to Spain if we travel third class, and we can’t if we don’t. I want to see Spain more than any country in Europe. I have heard you say more than once that you were wild to see it—the Alhambra and all that—well, anxious, then,” as Mrs. Moulton raised a protesting eyebrow. “I’m wild, if you like. I’d walk, go on mule-back; in short, I’ll go alone if you won’t take me.”
“You will do what?” The color came into Mrs. Moulton’s faded cheek, and she squared herself as for an encounter. Open friction was infrequent, for Mrs. Moulton was nothing if not diplomatic, and Catalina was indifferent. Nevertheless, encounters there had been, and at the finish the Californian had invariably held the middle of the field, insolent and victorious; and Mrs. Moulton had registered a vow that sooner or later she would wave the colors over the prostrate foe.
For thirty-two years she had merged, submerged, her individuality, but in these last four months she had been possessed by a waxing revolt, of an almost passionate desire for a victorious moment. It was her first trip abroad, and she had followed where her energetic husband and daughters listed. Hardly once had she been consulted. Perhaps, removed for the first time from the stultifying environment of habit, she had come to realize what slight rewards are the woman’s who flings her very soul at the feet of others. It was too late to attempt to be an individual in her own family; even did she find the courage she must continue to accept their excessive care—she had a mild form of invalidism—and endeavor to feel grateful that she was owned by the kindest of husbands, and daughters no more selfish than the average; but since the advent of Catalina all the rebellion left in her had become compact and alert. Here was an utterly antagonistic temperament, one beyond her comprehension, individual in a fashion that offended every sensibility; cool, wary, insolently suggesting that she purposed to stalk through life in that hideous get-up, pursuing the unorthodox. She was not only indomitable youth but indomitable savagery, and Mrs. Moulton, of the old and cold Eastern civilization, bristled with a thrill that was almost rapture whenever this unwelcome relative of her husband stared at her in contemptuous silence.
“You will do what? The suggestion that we travel third class is offensive enough—but are you aware that Spanish women never travel even first class alone?”
“I don’t see what that has to do with me. I’m not Spanish; they would assume that I was ‘no lady’ and take no further notice of me; or, if they did—well, I can take care of myself. As for travelling third class, I can’t see that it is any more undignified than travelling second, and its chief recommendations, after its cheapness, are that it won’t be so deadly respectable as second, and that we’ll meet nice, dirty, picturesque, excitable peasants instead of dowdy middle-class people who want all the windows shut. The third-class carriages are generally big, open cars like ours, with wooden seats—no microbes—and at this time of the year all the windows will be open. Now, you can think it over. I am going to invest twenty francs in a Baedeker and study my route.”
She nodded to Mr. Moulton, dropped an almost imperceptible eyelash at Lydia, and, ignoring the others, strode off belligerently towards the Place Bellecour.
Mrs. Moulton turned white. She set her lips. “I shall not go,” she announced.
“My love,” protested her husband, mildly, “I am afraid she has placed us in a position where we shall have to go.” He was secretly delighted. “Spain, as you justly remarked, is the most impossible country in Europe for the woman alone, and she is the child of my dead cousin and old college chum. When we are safely home again I shall have a long talk with her and arrive at a definite understanding of this singular character, but over here I cannot permit her to make herself—and us—notorious. I am sure you will agree with me, my love. My only fear is that you may find the slow trains and wooden seats fatiguing—although I shall buy an extra supply of air-cushions, and we will get off whenever you feel tired.”
“Do say yes, mother,” pleaded her youngest born. “It will almost be an adventure, and I’ve never had anything approaching an adventure in my life. I’m sure even Jane will enjoy it.”
“I loathe travelling,” said the elder Miss Moulton, with energy. “It’s nothing but reading Baedeker, stalking through churches and picture-galleries, and rushing for trains, loaded down with hand-baggage. I feel as if I never wanted to see another thing in my life. Of course I’m glad I’ve seen London and Paris and Rome, but the discomforts and privations of travel far outweigh the advantages. I haven’t the slightest desire to see Spain, or any more down-at-the-heel European countries; America will satisfy me for the rest of my life. As for travelling third class—the very idea is low and horrid. It is bad enough to travel second, and if we did think so little of ourselves as to travel third—just think of its being found out! Where would our social position be—father’s great influence? As for that California savage, the mere fact that she makes a suggestion—”