[Ill.u.s.tration: MARKET PLACE: GERONA.]

"As it need be, for they worked hard enough for their living," she a.s.sured us. "She couldn't tell how it was; no one would think from her size that she never relaxed in her exertions. Do what she would, she could not get thin. As for her husband, she made him eat all the richest bits at dinner; never allowed him to fast; supplied him with eggs and b.u.t.ter and beer _ad libitum_. No; he was obstinate. He _would_ keep thin. The consequence was they were a ridiculous couple. She was the Duomo at Florence, he was the Campanile. However, they made the best of it. Life was too short to grieve over inevitable troubles. Clearly she was an inevitable. When she was a girl, there were five ladies who might be seen walking out morning, noon, and night, and always together. Go which way you would you were sure to meet them. They knew every one, and five perpetual bows were everlastingly see-sawing like a wound-up machine going through its performance. They were called the Inevitables.

No one ever thought of them by any other name. They were quite aware of it and rather liked it. It was something to be in constant evidence.

What other five sisters would live together in such harmony? Well, these five ladies were for ever running in her head. For a long time past she had felt like all five ladies rolled into one. She was one great Inevitable. Fate was a little cruel. Her movements might be compared to those of the elephant. As for her husband, he could still run up and down stairs like a lamplighter--almost pa.s.s through a keyhole--but it took her five minutes to get up a dozen steps. Soon it would take her ten. And then she wanted pulling up in front and pushing up behind. It was quite a ceremony. She had serious thoughts of having a crane and pulley adjusted to her windows, and of being hoisted up and down, but the question was whether a hempen rope would bear her weight, or anything under a cast-iron chain. Was it true that Queen Victoria was carried wherever she went, because she suffered from rheumatism? Ah! it was a great thing to be a queen. No ledgers to post up; no anxiety as to whether the balance would be on the right side at the end of every month. What a blessing to have a good, solid, comfortable margin at one's bankers to draw upon for contingencies, which was only another word for the unexpected. This year it was painting inside, next year painting outside. If there was no painting, it was chairs, tables or linen. The extras went on for ever and swallowed up all the profits."

We thought the old lady, like the extras, would also have gone on for ever, but to our infinite relief a piercing shriek was heard from an upper region. Madame turned pale and mildly echoed the scream.

"My dear daughter!" she cried. "Something has frightened her, or she is suddenly taken worse. She is always being taken worse, though worse from what I cannot possibly imagine. Sometimes I think it is fancy or hysteria. She is really perfectly well all the time."

At this moment the mysterious daughter appeared upon the scene, running downstairs at a speed that testified to the soundness of her limbs, whatever her state of nerves.

"A dreadful mouse," she moaned, throwing herself into her mother's capacious protection. "It ran right over my feet, across the room, and went into my little cupboard."

"Perhaps you have some cake there?" said this sensible mamma.

"A mere fragment," acknowledged the daughter.

"Poor little mouse," said the mother soothingly. "It is hungry, perhaps, and fond of cake. My dear, it will eat cake; it will not eat you."

We caught sight of our industrious host in his garden surveying his possessions, and escaped. The cook stood in his doorway in white cap and ap.r.o.n, a satisfactory object in all hotels. Over the slanting tiled roof grew the fruitful vine, a picture of beauty. Our host, surrounded by his birds and pigeons, was vainly imploring the nightingales to sing.

They only looked at him with their little black eyes, opened their beaks, shook their heads, and said as plainly as possible that the song had left them. It would return with next year's leaves and garlands, more glorious for the rest.

"I should have liked you to hear them," said their proud owner in quite a melancholy voice. "You would have thought yourselves in Italy, as I often do."

"Or on the Rhine, or the Blue Moselle, or the Dauphine Alps, Senor Lasoli, where the nightingales a.s.semble in myriads, and sing and rave night and day through the weeks of spring. We have heard them."

"They are more beautiful near water," said our host. "The song gains volume and vibration by being carried across. But I have chiefly heard them in our woods on the Mediterranean sh.o.r.es. France to me is a sealed book. So, senor, you leave us, and I cannot even wish you to remain.

To-morrow you would not be in your element. Gerona will be out of joint until we settle down again to our normal condition. I trust you will one day return, and that your friend will write an epic poem in honour of our town. It would certainly be translated and might be dedicated to the Senorita Costello. He would be feted on his arrival; fireworks, illuminations, and munic.i.p.al addresses. The hubbub of conscription would be nothing to it. At five o'clock, senor, the omnibus will be at your service."

As we went through the haunted corridors to our rooms, Delormais came up the marble staircase, apparently somewhat hurried.

"We are both on the wing," he cried, "and so I the less regret your going. I thought to have stayed until to-morrow, but sudden news compels me to leave to-night. Summoned to Rome, I must obey. I know that I have a battle before me, and also know that I shall win. Conquering as a humble Vicar of Rheims, I shall not do less as Bishop of X. You will see me dismissed with a Cardinal's hat, an honour I would not cross the road to obtain, so little do I care for the pomps of the world. With such models before me as my father and mother and the good old Abbe, one feels that the only thing worth living for is to do good and cultivate the graces of the spirit."

We were in his room, scene of last night's vigil, where he had sketched an outline of his life and the hours had pa.s.sed unconsciously.

"Another night of vigil, but without companionship," said Delormais. "On the contrary, time will only place distance between us. You go southward, I northward into France, reaching my destination about two o'clock to-morrow afternoon. Would that I might accompany you to Barcelona and gaze with you upon the wonders of that loveliest of cathedrals. Again I say that the Catalonian cathedrals are the glories of Spain. But my own has its charms, and those at least we shall often see together. I have your promise?"

We gave it unconditionally, in this instance not fearing to commit ourselves to a given date. Delormais was a man whose friendship was a privilege and whose sympathy and conversation made all days a delight.

We parted, hoping to meet again.

Not long after this the omnibus rattled out of the courtyard, and our host intimated that time was up.

The sun had set, darkness had fallen when we clattered through the quiet streets. Pa.s.sing the deep, round arcades we looked out for Rosalie, but no light, graceful figure speeding on its errand of mercy appeared. The arcades were again mysterious and impenetrable. We turned on to the bridge and for the last time looked upon the scene as the omnibus rattled on. All down the boulevard booths were on active service.

Torches flared and still the crowd sauntered to and fro. The river flowed on its way, and all the outlines of those wonderful old-world houses were faintly visible. We knew them by heart now, and they were almost as real to us by night as by day.

The station once more. Only forty-eight hours had pa.s.sed since we had struggled across that crowded platform, but we had gone through so many experiences, heard and seen so much, that many days seem to have flown.

When we thought of Delormais it was impossible to realise we had not known him for years, visited his early home, joined in his travels. The father and mother, still the objects of his undying affection, the old Abbe in whom he delighted, had become personal friends by his vivid descriptions.

Reflections were suddenly put to flight as the omnibus brought up with a jerk that almost landed H. C. once more on his knees. The station crowd was small compared with that previous crowd. Again we had a slight adventure with our luggage, and began to fear in earnest that we and it should never reach Barcelona together. They refused to register or have anything to do with it; luggage was never booked to Gerona by the express. One other miserably slow train left in the early morning, and the officials calmly intimated that we might wait for it.

But a worm will turn, and we felt the law must be taken into our own hands. We bade the omnibus conductor leave at his peril, made him carry our baggage through the buffet to the platform, and when the train arrived, the whole, great and small, was put into a carriage. Then we followed and mounted guard. The inspector came up and demanded an explanation, upon which H. C. put on his Napoleon air and shouldered his umbrella. He looked so much in earnest that the inspector quailed, bowed, withdrew, and gave a hasty signal for departure. Away we steamed, masters of the situation.

Then H. C.'s military aspect collapsed. He turned paler than usual.

"What is it?" we asked; for his susceptible heart is subject to spasmodic attacks. The doctors declare they are functional and not organic, and will pa.s.s away with the emotional age. Lady Maria was once terribly frightened and sent post-haste for Sir William Broadbent--though he was not Sir William at that time. The report was encouraging, but Lady Maria had received a shock. "I am sure my dear nephew will never be fit for hard work in this world," she said; "he must be made independent of it." And forthwith she sent for her man of business, and altered the paltry 200 a year she had left him into four th----. Well, well; Lady Maria is still living, and nothing on earth, they say, is certain excepting death and quarter-day. "What is it, H.

C.?" we asked. "Will you take a little of the century-old----"

"No, no," he cried despondently. "I am only thinking that that inspector will be one too many for us. He looked revengeful. At Barcelona we shall find ourselves under arrest. Instead of a comfortable night at the Four Nations, we shall occupy a dark cell in the town prison."

A gloomy prospect indeed--too terrible for reality.

"Calm yourself," we replied. "You played your part too well just now.

The inspector was really alarmed and glad to get rid of you at any price. If he pursued us with vengeance, we might turn up against him, like the eastern slippers. Depend upon it we have seen the last of him."

We looked round comfortably upon our possessions. With nine points of the law on our side all must be well.

CHAPTER XIII.

A WORLD'S WONDER.

Barcelona--H. C.'s anxiety--Mutual salutes--Old impressions--Disappointment--Familiar cries and scenes--Flower-sellers--Perpetual summer--Commercial element--Manchester of Spain--Surrounding country--Where care comes not--Barcelonita--The quays--A land of corn and wine--Relaxing air--Lovely ladies--Ancient element conspicuous by its absence--Historical past--Great in the Middle Ages--Wise and powerful--Commerce of the world--Wealth and learning--Waxes voluptuous--Ferdinand and Isabella--Diplomatic but not grateful--Brave and courageous--Fell before Peterborough--Napoleon's treachery--Republican people--Prosperous once more--Ecclesiastical treasures--Matchless cathedral--Inspiration--Influence of the Moors--Work of Majorcan architect--Dream world--Imposing scene.

We made way without further let or hindrance, and about ten o'clock the train steamed into Barcelona. H. C. gazed out anxiously for a regiment of soldiers with drawn swords, and was relieved at seeing only the usual couple of policemen with guns and c.o.c.ked hats, looking harmless and amiable. He smiled benignly, saluted, and they returned the compliment.

Our hearts beat quicker as we found ourselves in presence of familiar haunts. The very name conjured up a thousand scenes and pictures, every one of them a delightful recollection. From its fair port we had more than once sailed in days gone by for our beloved Majorca, loveliest of islands. Here we had spent days of pleasant expectation, waiting for the island steamer; more than once had returned with a cargo of Majorcan pigs, and after a tug-of-war seen some of the obstinate animals landed at last without their tails. Arriving from the sea was a far pleasanter way of gaining a first impression. The coast views are very fine.

Approaching the harbour, church turrets and towers are outlined against the transparent sky. Pa.s.sing between low reaches, the immense fortress of Montjuich, nearly a thousand feet high, rises like an impregnable rock defying the world.

Approaching to-night by train was less exciting and romantic. Still it was Barcelona, and the porters calling out the syllables in their soft Spanish set our heart beating.

It was a certain disappointment to find our favourite Four Nations--at that time one of the best hotels in Spain--closed. We had to put up with the Falcon, not by any means the same thing. It is pleasant to return to familiar quarters and people who welcome you as old habitues. The atmosphere of the Falcon was also more commercial and had no repose about it. Yet it was on the Rambla, and the next morning we awoke to the well-known cries of Barcelona, the old familiar scene.

A very Spanish scene, with its broad imposing thoroughfare and double row of well-grown trees rustling in the wind, glinting in the sunshine, filling the air with music and flashes of light. As the morning went on, the broad road became more crowded. Stretching far down, under the trees, were flower-stalls full of lovely blossoms. Roses, violets and hyacinths scented the air. It was delightful to see such profusion in November; to find blue skies and balmy airs rivalling the flowers. This land of perpetual summer is highly favoured. If a cold wind arises, turning the skies to winter, it is only for a short interval. Though it be December, summer soon returns, and the sunny clime is all the lovelier by contrast.

Like the Hotel Falcon, the element of Barcelona is, we have said, commercial. It is perhaps the most flourishing and enterprising of all the towns of Spain. There are immense ship-building yards, and all sorts of ironwork is made, but the town itself has no sign or sound of manufacturing. It has been called the Manchester of Spain, yet its skies are for ever blue, the air is clear and untainted: a peculiar brilliancy and splendour of atmosphere not often met with even in the sunny South.

The country for many miles around is beautiful and undulating; beyond the immediate hills it has often a wild and savage grandeur that sometimes reaches the sublime. Year by year the town grows in extent.

Well-organised tramways carry you to and fro through endless thoroughfares. The richer merchants have built themselves streets of palatial residences that stretch away into suburbs. Few cities are so brilliantly lighted. If Spain is a poor country, Barcelona seems to have escaped the evil. There is animation about it, perpetual movement, a quiet activity. For it is quiet with all its business and energy, and so far has the advantage over Madrid, where the commercial element was less evident but the noise infinitely greater. There people seemed to like sound for its own sake. In Barcelona they were intent upon making money, and as far as one can see, gained their object. Everything prospered. It was delightful to go down to the fine harbour and watch the vessels loading and unloading, the flags of all nations vividly contrasting with the brilliant blue sky as they flashed and fluttered in the wind. The port is magnificent. Its waters are blue as the heaven above them, and a myriad sun-gleams light up its surface. Nothing can be more exhilarating and picturesque. The faintest outline of a ship possesses a nameless charm; suggests freedom, wide seas, infinite s.p.a.ce: speaks of enterprise, danger, and courage, yet is an emblem of absolute repose; hours and days and weeks where the world cannot reach you, and its cares and worries are non-existent.

Nowhere is the element found under more favourable conditions than in Barcelona. Few harbours are so well placed. Climb the heights for a bird's-eye view of the port, and the scene is enchanting. Low-lying sh.o.r.es undulate towards the mouth of the harbour; green pastures, glittering sandhills, the blue flashing sea stretch beyond. If your vision could carry so far, you might gaze upon the lovely Island of Majorca, rising like a faultless gem out of its deep blue setting of the Levant. Nothing meets the eye but the broad line of the horizon, broken here and there by a pa.s.sing vessel.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE RAMBLA: BARCELONA.]

On the other side the water, beyond the shipping, lies a small new settlement of houses called Barcelonita. It is not aristocratic and is the laundry of the mother town, where dwell the ladies who undertake to rapidly bleach and destroy one's linen with unrighteous chemicals, and have earned for Barcelona an unenviable reputation. Ship-builders and fishermen alone dispute the right of way with these women of the wash-tub. Turning back to the town, the broad thoroughfare running down a portion of the quays is lined with magnificent palms, giving it an almost Oriental aspect. At one end rises a monument to Columbus; at the other an enormous triumphal arch, combining the Oriental with the cla.s.sical; the former quite the pleasanter. Everything bears witness to the well-being of Barcelona. Its quays are lined with bales of goods.

Men keep tally with the monotonous sing-song one knows so well. Boxes of oranges betray themselves by their exquisite perfume, and the whole year round brings a succession of fruits. In this lovely climate the earth is abundantly productive. It is a land of corn and wine; the warm days of winter more beautiful than those of summer.

Of Barcelona this is especially true. Its climate seemed more relaxing than that of any other Spanish town. Even Valencia, so much farther south, appeared less enervating. Long walks were out of the question.