CHAPTER XI
Anita started to follow her mother to the telephone, but went back after a moment's agitated uncertainty. Was it Señor Garriguez who was calling? Had he news of Pepé? She sat down, clasping her hands tightly, but after a moment started up suddenly and began to pace the floor. Finally she went out into the entry and peeped over the balustrade. Her mother was just hanging up the receiver in the hall below. Anita ran to the head of the stairs to meet her. "What news?" she asked excitedly. "Was it Señor Garriguez?"
Her mother's lips moved but she seemed unable to make any sound.
She grasped Anita's hand and hurried her to their own room. Anita turned on the electric light. "You look so pale, mother dear," she said. "Is it bad news? Is he—is he——" She paused, unable to give voice to the dread which possessed her.
"I am very foolish," said her mother, recovering herself. "Yes, it was news of Pepé, but not what we hoped to hear. Mr. Garriguez has discovered that he worked at a certain factory; I think it was a cotton mill; up to a year and a half ago he worked there, then suddenly left. The proprietor could not say where he went. He left of his own accord. He does not know where he is now, but he had the address of his boarding place. Mr. Garriguez gave it to me. I have written it down." She held out a piece of paper.
Anita took it and scanned the address. "We shall go there, of course."
"Of course. We shall go to-morrow."
"But mother, dear, this is good news. Why are you so overcome by it?"
"It brings him so near. Only a year and a half, eighteen months ago, he was here, in this city. For the first time I can feel his actual presence. I can believe he is here, near me."
"What does Mr. Garriguez say?"
"He thinks we shall find him. He advises us to go to this place where he boarded, and to follow up whatever clue we may be able to get."
This news put all thoughts of serenades and dances out of Anita's mind. She and her mother gave themselves up to speculations, to planning what they would do when they found Pepé, and the next morning they started off early to the factory suburb of Sans where the address led them.
It was a more decent place than that which they had first visited, though plain enough, a house for the lodging of the mill hands, sufficiently near the factory to be convenient. The woman, who kept it, a sharp-eyed rough-voiced individual, remembered Pepé very well. "Because of his violin it was," she told them; "always the violin. He had gone, yes, oh, yes, some time ago. An Ingles became interested in him and took him away with him. He might have been an American, she did not know, but at all events, he was attracted by the boy's playing and took him into his employ as guide or courier, or chauffeur or something of that kind."
"Did she know the name of the Englishman?"
"No, she did not know if she had ever heard it. He might be in the city. Yes, he might well be. No, she didn't think he had many intimate friends. He did not like the ways of the mill hands. They were too rough for him. The young people called him thecaballero, for he was so aloof, so finnikin, and they made fun of him. He cared more for his violin than for sweethearts or jolly comrades, and they called his violin his señorita. No, she hadn't an idea where he had gone. He had never been back, which was not strange when one considered the kind ofjovenhe was. The woman was communicative enough and good-hearted enough, in spite of her roughness, but they could get no more than this from her.
"It is something," said Anita as they turned away.
"It is a great deal," acknowledged Mrs. Beltrán, "yet, it will be harder to find him. He has disappeared and leaves no trace behind. We will go to see Mr. Garriguez."
This excellent gentleman, quiet, dignified, but greatly interested withal, lent an attentive ear to their report. He sat thoughtfully drumming on his desk with his lean brown fingers, after the tale was ended. "We must investigate further," he said at last. "We must discover who is this Ingles. There must be some way of doing this. I will consider, and then we will use such means as are possible. This is a hopeful clue, señora, and we shall follow it up vigorously. Go home and rest in tranquillity. I will report when there is news. No, do not say these words of thanks. I am enjoying myself. It is a plot, a novel in which I am a part, a very small part. It is a relief from the more sordid life of every day. I repeat that I enjoy this."
So again they took their leave to await events and to feel consoled by the calm and practical coadjutor who was so ready to take all responsibility upon his own shoulders.
"I think he is the dearest man," said Anita as they turned down the crooked street which led from the bank to the cathedral. "Dear old Weed is just as good, but he is not so attractive as this nice Señor Garriguez. He reminds me of Don Quixote, he is so lean and brown and socaballero. When he talks in that quiet, polite way he makes me feel absolute confidence in him and I come away just as satisfied as if he had really promised to send Pepé to us some time to-morrow."
Her mother smiled. "I must say that he inspires confidence in me, too, and I am thankful, indeed, that Providence led us to him."
They rarely missed a visit to the cathedral whenever they were anywhere in the vicinity, and to-day they followed their usual inclination and entered the dark, dignified, solemn place about noon. Only a few persons were within, kneeling women with rapt, expressive faces, a few tourists tiptoeing around with Baedeker's in their hands, and one or two men in worshipful attitude before the altars. As mother and daughter paused before a sculptured tomb, Anita suddenly touched her mother on the arm, and directed her attention to a kneeling figure at the altar nearest them. It was the young man, their opposite neighbor whom they had so often heard called Don by his older companion. He was evidently absorbed in prayer, his hands clasped rigidly, his eyes uplifted towards the Holy Mother to whom he was directing his petitions. In passing him they were obliged to go so near that Mrs. Beltrán's dress swept the lad's feet. They could not forbear a glance at the smooth broad brow, at the fair skin, the waving brown hair. They left him there and went out with a feeling of having intruded upon an acquaintance.
"I have always thought they were Scotch," remarked Mrs. Beltrán, as the mother and daughter were descending the long flight of steps leading to the street. "I have called him Donald in my mind and we know he calls his uncle Bruce. It is unusual to see a Scotchman anything but Presbyterian."
"Perhaps he is. Perhaps he wanted to make a prayer and didn't see why he should not. One does feel very religious and solemn in the old cathedral. They are houses of God and I do not see why any Protestant should not use them."
"I feel that way myself," her mother admitted, "so perhaps our young friend does, too. He is a dear lad. I wish we knew him."
"We might change our boarding place and go to that in which he and his uncle lodge," said Anita with sudden inspiration. "We could still take our meals at Doña Carmen's."
"We are very comfortable where we are," returned Mrs. Beltrán, "and I should not like to offend Doña Carmen when she is so good to us. Perhaps some accident will throw us in their way."
But the very next day Anita, watching from the window, saw the departure of these interesting neighbors. "Oh, mother," she called, "come here. The Ingleses are going. Uncle Bruce is there with the bags and there comes Don with the violins. They are getting into a cab."
Mrs. Beltrán came to the window. "Oh, dear me," she said, "but I am sorry. I shall miss them. I felt so at home with them, and there will be no more music to cheer us. I am sorry."
Anita went out on the balcony to watch the cab out of sight. "Good-bye, Uncle Bruce," she said under her breath. "Good-bye, Don. I hope you will come back soon."
"I have been thinking that perhaps they have only gone off for a short trip," said Mrs. Beltrán, as Anita came back into the room. "We must find out. Doña Carmen will ask Doña Dolores. It is strange that one should feel so concerned about absolute strangers, but I suppose it is because they are my own countrymen."
"I'd like to find out the name," said Anita; "it would make us seem a little better acquainted with them."
"We will ask Doña Carmen to find out."
Doña Carmen was appealed to and brought them back the news that the Ingleses had gone back to England; they might return in six months, a year, who knows? "Hay no remedia," said Doña Dolores. She regretted to part with them for they were considerate and good tenants. Their name was Abercrombie. Doña Dolores had written it down on a piece of paper, for Doña Carmen found it impossible to remember or indeed to pronounce. The nearest she could come to it was Ahbair-cr-r-ombéeay, with a strong accent on the penultimate. "Never shall I try to say this word," she declared, laughing. "I have done with it. It is too difficult. I cannot see why one should have such name as this. It is savage."
"I am more than ever convinced they are Scotch," Mrs. Beltrán said, after Doña Carmen had reported. "Could anything be more so? Bruce Abercrombie, Donald Abercrombie. Well, dear, they have been a source of interest and pleasure whether we ever come across them again or not. Now we must settle down and set our hopes upon Señor Garriguez. It may be months before he learns anything of use to us, so we must make ourselves contented."
The autumn moved toward winter; winter was aging when the next news came, and in the meanwhile Anita busied herself with her Spanish lessons, learned one or two pretty dances, did much sightseeing, grew very weary of Don Manuel, and probed the very shallow depths of Imogene Ralston, discovered that she was superficial and vain, that she resented an attention paid to any but herself, could be spiteful and malicious, yet always outwardly sweet and smiling. Don Manuel did not in the least see through her and continually lauded her sweetness, her brilliancy, her talents. Her brilliancy was due to a ready wit, a good memory and a faculty of appropriating the cleverness of others. Her sweetness was always to the fore when a masculine was present. Her talents consisted in making the most of what she professed to accomplish in the way of copies of the old masters. She was desperately jealous of Anita, and so schemed and contrived that it was not long before she had won the young student back to her allegiance, to Anita's relief and the satisfaction of her mother.
The kindly Perlitas lingered on, always declaring that they were departing the next week, yet never going. Their chief fault, which was more a weakness than a fault, was that constant striving to appear many years younger than they were. They spoke of themselves as girls. They wore wonderful transformations from which after a hurried toilet on certain occasions one perceived the gray locks beneath. They powdered; they painted; they walked jauntily, but they were so innocent, so guileless and unsuspicious, so generous and gentle that the most that their childish vanity provoked was an indulgent smile. "Tryin' to be old Miss Young, Parthy would say," was Anita's comment.
With Christmas came many reminders of the old days. Letters and cards, forwarded by the faithful Weed. By this time it had leaked out that Nancy Loomis was no more, but her old friends, while pronouncing themselves astonished by the facts, declared themselves to be always her devoted friends. The young people especially, spoke of envying her such a romantic life and looked upon her as a rare heroine. They gave her many bits of news. Pat Lippett was engaged to Betty Page Peyton; the Tom Lindsays had moved away; old Mrs. Abijah Brown was dead; Dr. Plummer had been thrown out of his motor car but not seriously hurt, although the car was. There had been lots of dances and they missed Nancy—she would always be Nancy to them—and wasn't she ever coming back?
All these little bits of gossip brought hours of homesickness to Anita. She thought of the Christmas holidays she had spent with her adopted mother, of the shining faces of Parthy and Ira on Christmas morning when they waylaid her with cries of "Crismuss gif', Miss Nancy." She thought of that one blessed day in the dawn of her acquaintance with Terrence Wirt, when she hoped and feared and half suspected that he loved her, and when coming home together from the church on Christmas Eve, where they had been helping with the decorations, he had said something which sent the blood racing through her veins, although it was not till a month later that he had really spoken openly of his love.
She had left the letters scattered upon the floor and had crept into her mother's arms to whisper sobbingly: "Oh, I am so homesick and miserable. I want to see Parthy and Ira. I want them all. It has all come back. Please love me. Please love me very much."
Because of these too poignantly sweet memories both she and her mother were glad when Christmastide was over, and the present only absorbed them.
The Russian took his leave before the New Year, "without dropping a bomb in our midst," Anita whispered to her mother when they heard he had gone. Another student took his place, a sallow, unprepossessing person upon whom Miss Ralston's blandishments had no effect and from whom none but the Perlitas were ever able to evoke a remark.
The married couple came or went as business or pleasure swayed them. Señor Lopez was a travelling man, and when he was away upon his trips his wife took occasion to visit relatives. Their place was sometimes taken by transients whose coming would cause a ripple in the otherwise quiet household, and so the days went on till March brought the first encouraging word from Mr. Garriguez.
"Your son has gone to England," came the information. "I have spoken to one who saw him go. I have asked this person to call upon you and tell you all he knows. His name is Tito Alvarez."
The next day the stout maid brought up word that one calling himself Tito Alvarez desired to see the Doña Catalina Beltrán. Would she descend to thesalaor should he be brought up.
"I will go down," decided Mrs. Beltrán, "unless there are others in thesala."
"There are no others," she was informed, "and Doña Carmen will not permit intruders."
So down mother and daughter went to see a tall, awkward young workman awaiting them in much embarrassment. He had expected the mother and sister of his former comrade to be of his own class, and he knew not how to meet them. Mrs. Beltrán, however, soon put him at his ease, made him sit down, and began her interrogations. He was not a Catalan, he said, and this was evident enough by his speech. Perhaps that is why he and Pepé were friendly. Both were from the country, werepaisanoswho had worked in the fields and had experiences in common.
"Had you known my son long?" inquired Mrs. Beltrán.
"Only a few months, señorita"—he addressed her as the peasants do their superiors—"but we worked side by side. I came to the mill after Pepé, but I had worked elsewhere. When he found that I, too, was Asturiano he was more friendly with me than with others. He was proud, this Pepé, and many did not like him because he was socaballero. I understand now why he was so," said the young man after a moment's hesitation.
"Will you tell me why he went away, and with whom?"
"He went because his chance had come. He was always waiting for this chance, was Pepé. He did not intend, he said, to spend his life in a mill. Some day the chance would come and he would take it. It came, señorita."
"And how was this?"
"A Señor Ingles heard him playing the violin one day when strolling about. He stopped and listened. 'You play well, my friend,' said this Ingles. 'Who was your teacher?' 'Myself,' said Pepé, with that fine air of his. The Ingles smiled, 'You deserve a better teacher,' he said. Then he looked very hard at Pepé. 'Are you Catalan?' he asked. 'No, I am of Asturias,' Pepé told him. 'Bueno!' cried Señor Ingles. 'Can you read? Can you write?' Pepé said 'yes.' 'Show me,' said the Ingles and whipped a newspaper out of his pocket. He was a great reader, this Pepé, always he would read when he was not working or playing upon his violin, and he was able to prove his words. 'Write your name,' said the Ingles, and he watched while Pepé wrote in fine smooth letters José Maria Beltrán."
Mrs. Beltrán drew a quick sigh but said, "Go on, please; this interests me very much."
"Then, señorita, every day after this would come the Ingles in the evening when we had left the mill. For a week he did this, then suddenly he asked Pepé if he would like to come to him as a clerk, an assistant. 'I do not get along with this Catalan,' he said. 'You know it and the Castilian, also.' I like you. I like your music. I will give you better pay than you are now getting, and when I leave if you are willing I will take you to England with me."
"Pepé accepted, of course, at once," said Anita, breaking in.
"Of a truth, señorita. He did not hesitate, and I saw him no more for a week, two weeks, then he came to tell me that he was going to England with his friend. I went to the train and saw him go. He was dressed like a gentleman and was very glad and happy, veryalegro, señorita."
"You do not know where he went?"
"He told me, but I have forgotten."
"Was it to London?"
"I do not think so. It may have been. He would see great sights, I remember he said."
"And the name of this Englishman."
"That I do not know. He always called him 'my friend the Englishman.'"
"But did he not write to you? Did you not correspond?" asked Mrs. Beltrán, eagerly.
"He sent me one post-card, but almost immediately I left Barcelona. My father was ill. I was needed in the fields. I go at once, and have but now returned. I am again at the mill. Here I am told one day that Señor Garriguez wishes news of Pepé. I am sent to this señor. He tells me that the mother and sister of Pepé are here seeking news of him. They wish to see me and I come. I bring with me the post-card. I am nothing of a writer, señorita. I make a poor fist at it. I can sign my name and but little more, but I brought the card." He produced a picture post-card carefully wrapped in a bit of paper.
Mrs. Beltrán took it eagerly. "Nita, Nita, see!" she cried. "It is something tangible at last. A piece of his own handwriting." She gazed at it fondly. "His name, his dear name as he writes it. And this place—what is this place?" She held the card to the light that they might both make out the name of the place which the picture represented. It was the cathedral at Chichester. "I am well and I like England. I have seen this cathedral. It is not much like Santa Cruz," were the words written.
"Chichester! In Sussex! My own county, Anita," cried Mrs. Beltrán. "It is there that we must go. He may have been only passing through, yet it is a straw to snatch at. I thank you. I cannot say how much I thank you for bringing this." She turned to the young man at the same time tendering him the card.
"Will you not keep it, señorita?" he said.
"Oh, but—No, I couldn't think of depriving you of it. I know you prize it."
"Nevertheless, señorita, I would be made happy if you would keep it."
It was a precious token to Mrs. Beltrán and she longed to accept, but felt it would be ungenerous to do so till Anita spoke up: "If you will give us your address we will each send you a card from England, and when we find Pepé we will send this back to you, and will see to it that he writes you another, too. We will consider that you have merely lent us this."
Such a solution was highly satisfactory to all concerned, so it was left in this way. Mrs. Beltrán took down Tito's address, and he made a deliberate and solemn departure, leaving them in a flurry over plans for their next move.